Travel

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

Mieczysław Weinryb ma 89 lat i jest inżynierem budowlanym. Urodził się w Zamościu, ale jeszcze przed wybuchem wojny przeniósł się do Warszawy. Wojnę przeżył w Związku Radzieckim. Zawsze był syjonistą, jednak nigdy nie udało mu się emigrować do Izraela. W czasie naszych rozmów często przytaczał długie fragmenty z Biblii, które niekiedy przeplatał krytyką zbyt ortodoksyjnej religijności. Spotkaliśmy się czterokrotnie w warszawskim mieszkaniu jego syna, który pracuje na Uniwersytecie w Yale. Wspólnie odtwarzaliśmy historię pana Weinryba i historię jego rodziny, oglądaliśmy rodzinne zdjęcia. Wiele z nich ocalało dzięki temu, że siostra pana Weinryba zabrała je przed wojną do Palestyny.

Rodzina
Dzieciństwo
Lata wojny
Lata powojenne

Rodzina

Nie pamiętam moich dziadków – zmarli zanim ja się urodziłem. Najstarsze osoby, które pamiętam w rodzinie to moi dwaj wujkowie. Brat mojej mamy miał dwie córki i syna. Nie pamiętam jego imienia oraz jego córek. Syn natomiast na imię miał Awigdor. Mieszkał w Lublinie. Brat mojego taty, Szalom Weinryb, miał syna Chaima Mojżesza i córkę Itę. Wuj był właścicielem młyna w Grabowcu, położonym 20 kilometrów od Zamościa. Okolica była żyzna, plony obfite, więc żyli dosyć dostatnio. Pomiędzy Zamościem a Grabowcem kursowały wtedy wozy, które - tak jak cygańskie - miały płócienne dachy. Przewoziło się nimi zarówno ludzi jak i różne towary. Na takich właśnie wozach jeździliśmy odwiedzać wuja i jego dzieci.

Mój ojciec miał także siostrę, Leę, która mieszkała w Kowlu. Po mężu nazywała się Rejder. Jej mąż był zarządcą w dużym młynie.

Mój ojciec nazywał się Eliasz Winryb. Urodził się około 1880 roku. Jego rodzina pochodziła z Zamościa. Nasi przodkowie, którzy przybyli do Polski kilka wieków wcześniej, należeli do Żydów sefardyjskich (sefardyjscy Żydzi osiedli się w mieście już pod koniec XVI wieku, ze względu na jego dobre położenie przy ważnym szlaku handlowym łączącym Warszawę, Lublin i Lwów). Ojciec prowadził sklep galanteryjny – sprzedawał swetry, wełnę, mufki, rękawiczki. Przychodzili do niego różni ludzie. Pamiętam, że ojciec zimą otwierał sklep w soboty po zmroku. Wszyscy tak robili, bo zimą szabas kończył się wcześnie; wtedy zawsze ktoś wpadał, ktoś czegoś potrzebował, na przykład kamasznicy przybiegali po nici. Sklep miał też swoje stałe klientki – żony oficerów z miejscowego garnizonu.

Ojciec był syjonistą. Zakupił nawet w Izraelu małą działkę z funduszu Keren ha-Jesod, ale ziemia nie była w za dobrej lokalizacji. Ojciec ubierał się po europejsku - nie nosił pejsów ani jarmułki. Zawsze miał krótki szczeciniasty zarost. Ojciec był dla nas bardzo dobry, czuły. Czasem się oczywiście denerwował. Miał zresztą sporo powodów do tego. Był kryzys gospodarczy, szczególnie 1929 był ciężkim rokiem.

Ojciec modlił się w sztiblu (w jidysz jest to mały dom modlitewny) z Żydami reformowanymi, takimi jak on. [od redakcji: w Zamościu wówczas żadna z żydowskich organizacji nie była oficjalnie uznawana przez Państwo. Życie religijne Żydów skupiało się wokół kilku mniejszych społeczności: Żydów ortodoksyjnych, reformowanych oraz chasydów. Żydzi ortodoksyjni mieli do swojej dyspozycji jedyną synagogę w mieście, podczas gdy reformowani oraz chasydzi modlili się w prywatnych domach modlitwy]. Pewnego dnia poszli całą grupą do synagogi ortodoksyjnej, ale zostali stamtąd przepędzeni.

Ojciec wraz ze swoimi przyjaciółmi działał na rzecz rozwoju edukacji. W 1921 roku wspólnie założyli w Zamościu szkołę Tarbutu, zwaną „Kadima”, co oznacza „naprzód” (była to prywatna szkoła żydowska uznawana przez Państwo). „Kadima” była szkołą czteroklasową. Fundusze na jej budowę pochodziły częściowo z wkładu własnego jej fundatorów, a częściowo ze zbiórek pieniężnych wśród mieszkańców Zamościa. Sam budynek był jednopiętrowy. Potem w Zamościu powstało gimnazjum żydowskie, ale z jego budową mój ojciec nie miał już żadnego związku.

Moja mama miała na imię Chana i urodziła się około 1880 roku. Pochodziła z Lublina. Jej rodzina mieszkała na słynnej ulicy żydowskiej – Lubartowskiej [była to ulica w samym sercu przedwojennej dzielnicy żydowskiej. Ulica ta często pojawia się we wspomnieniach lubelskich Żydów]. Nazwisko rodowe mojej mamy brzmiało Sztern. Rodzice poznali się prawdopodobnie przez swatów. ponieważ rodzina dziadków była ortodoksyjna. W ogóle to było bardzo ciekawe, obserwować jak wszystko się zmieniało. Nasze domostwo było już inne chociażby w odniesieniu do kwestii małżeństwa. Co prawda rodzice doradzali moim siostrom, jakiego męża wybrać, ale o szadchenie [swacie] nie było już mowy. Mniej więcej kiedy osiągnąłem wiek pełnoletniości, matka przestała nosić perukę. Nie oznacza to, że w piątki nie zapalała świec, to byłoby niedopuszczalne. Mama pomagała w sklepie, ale głównie zajmowała się prowadzeniem domu. Podobnie jak ojciec matka była syjonistką. Bała się jednak podróży przez morze. Wówczas do Palestyny emigrowało się najczęściej nielegalnie, statkami włoskimi albo przez Rumunię. Pewnie w końcu udałoby się ją przekonać, ale wybuchła wojna i rodzice nie zdążyli już wyjechać.

Miałem trzy siostry: Margolię, Sarę i Rywę oraz jednego brata – Mojżesza. Margolia była najstarsza. Urodziła się około 1902 roku. W Zamościu uczyła się w gimnazjum państwowym. Pod koniec lat 20. XX wieku wyjechała na studia do Warszawy. Skończyła tam Wolną Wszechnicę Polską, wydział przyrodniczo-matematyczny. Uczyła potem w szkole Tarbutu przy ulicy Nalewki 2. Nie zdążyła wyjechać do Palestyny, bo ją ciągle w tej szkole zatrzymywali prosząc, by została jeszcze trochę dłużej. Margolia miała najłagodniejszy charakter ze wszystkich moich sióstr. Zawsze się mną opiekowała. W rodzinie mówiło się nawet, że nigdy nie wyszła za mąż, bo poświęcała mi zbyt wiele czasu i uwagi. Była dla mnie jak druga matka.

Losy dwóch moich młodszych sióstr - Sary i Rywy - były podobne. Obie wyjechały do Palestyny w latach 20. XX wieku. Obie należały do Ha-Szomer Ha-Cair. W Zamościu przechodziły hachszarę. Był tam taki wykształcony w tym względzie agronom, który posiadał ogród warzywny i duże sady. On uczył szomrowców jak uprawiać ziemię.

Rywa urodziła się w 1906 roku. W Zamościu skończyła 6 klas gimnazjum. Ona pierwsza z naszej rodziny wyjechała do Palestyny. To było około 1925 roku. Na początku pracowała w prywatnym gospodarstwie u Arabów. Żyli tam w ciężkich warunkach. Panowała malaria. Nie mieli domów, tylko szałasy. Dopiero potem udało im się utworzyć kibuce. Rywa zamieszkała w kibucu Ein Harod.

Jeszcze w Zamościu moja siostra miała takiego, można powiedzieć, narzeczonego, nazywał się Szalom Luksemburg. On też przygotowywał się do wyjazdu, ale zwlekał z tym cały czas i w końcu Rywa pojechała bez niego. W Palestynie poznała swojego przyszłego męża. Nazywał się Josif Jawnai i pochodził z Litwy. Wcześniej nazywał się Slept, ale po przyjeździe do Palestyny zmienił nazwisko na hebrajskie. Był bardzo oczytany a przy tym również bardzo pracowity. Pamiętam, że posyłałem mu książki z Polski. W ogóle muszę przyznać, że miałem bardzo porządnych szwagrów. Z czasem Rywa i Josif usamodzielnili się. Zaczęli od hodowli kur, potem uprawiali sady, aż w końcu zaczęli hodować krowy. To bardzo poprawiło ich sytuację materialną. Przenieśli się z kibucu do miejscowości, która nazywa się Kfar Vitkin.

Sara była dwa lata starsza od Rywy, urodziła się w 1904 roku. Kształciła się w kierunku pedagogicznym. Potem pracowała jako wychowawczyni w sierocińcu w Kobryniu, pod Bydgoszczą, a potem gdzieś w okolicach Łodzi. Do Palestyny pojechała trochę później – po koniec lat 20. XX wieku. Sara, podobnie jak Rywa, wyszła za mąż już po przyjeździe do Palestyny. Jej mąż też miał na imię Josif. Josif Szifeldrin pochodził z Niemiec. Mieszkali w kibucu Kwucat Schiller obok Rechowot. Sara spędziła tam 70 lat. W kibucu pracowała jako wychowawczyni zajmując się dziećmi. Powodziło im się zupełnie dobrze - mieli swój dom otoczony kwiatami. W tym kibucu na początku wszyscy zajmowali się rolnictwem, a potem otworzyli fabrykę gumy, która dosyć dobrze prosperowała. Produkowali również na eksport, wysyłali swoje produkty nawet do krajów arabskich, ale oczywiście bez oznaczenia miejsca pochodzenia produktu.

Jeżeli chodzi o moje siostry, to muszę powiedzieć, że każda z nich różniła się od siebie, miała inny charakter. Jak już mówiłem Margolia miała najlepszy charakter. Była bardzo oddana. Rywa, która była najmłodsza, musiała wiele przejść, zanim do czegoś doszła. Kiedy wyjechała do Palestyny musiała nauczyć się żyć w skrajnie ciężkich warunkach. To odbiło się na jej charakterze. Była zahartowana. Uważała, że nie można zbyt wiele oczekiwać od życia. Sara, która wyjechała kilka lat później, nie miała już takich problemów jak Rywa. Od razu zamieszkała w kibucu, miała swój dom. I to też wpłynęło na jej usposobienie - nie miała w sobie tej surowości, która cechowała Rywę.

Mojżesz urodził się około 1909 roku. Uczęszczał do gimnazjum żydowskiego. Pewnego dnia, na wiosnę, kiedy grał z kolegami w piłkę nadepnął na gwóźdź. Został zawieziony do Lublina do szpitala, ale zmarł od gangreny. Miał wtedy 15 lat. Dziś wystarczyłby jeden zastrzyk, ale wtedy nie było jeszcze penicyliny. Rocznica śmierci Mojżesza wypadała w okolicach święta Pesach. Pamiętam, że każdego roku, kiedy ojciec czytał opowieść o tym jak Bóg ukarał faraona śmiercią wszystkich pierworodnych w Egipcie, zawsze bardzo płakał. Ta historia przypominała mu śmierć jego pierworodnego syna, którą bardzo ciężko przeżył.

Dzieciństwo

Urodziłem się 8 lutego 1915 roku w święto Purim. Imię dostałem po dziadku, który tak jak bohater historii purimowej [Megillat Ester] miał na imię Mordechaj. Byłem najmłodszy w rodzinie. Właściwie można powiedzieć, że jestem dzieckiem wojny [I wojny światowej]. Pamiętam, jak podczas bombardowań mama brała mnie na ręce i schodziliśmy wszyscy do piwnicy. Kiedy trochę podrosłem i zacząłem bawić się na ulicy, widziałem jak do miasta weszli żołnierze Gen. Hallera – znieważali Żydów, zatrzymywali ich i obcinali im brody, śpiewali „Żydku, dawaj brodę”, itp. Później kiedy przez Zamość przechodzili rosyjscy jeńcy wojenni, to my dzieci biegaliśmy za nimi. Oni robili różne zabawki, ptaszki z drewna i tego typu rzeczy. Oddawali je nam za bułkę.

Nigdy nie chodziłem do chederu, żeby „klepać” abecadło. Czasami z ciekawości zaglądałem tam przez okno. Nauczyciel miał swojego pomocnika. Do chederu chodziły takie małe trzy- czteroletnie dzieci, więc trzeba je było odprowadzać i przyprowadzać do szkoły. One tylko się uczyły „klepać modlitwy”, ale nic z nich nie rozumiały [od redakcji: rodzice Pana Weinryba nie byli zadowoleni z tradycyjnej formy edukacji w chederze, dlatego posłali syna do nowoczesnej szkoły syjonistycznej]. Kiedy miałem 6 lat zacząłem się uczyć w żydowskiej szkole podstawowej „Kadima” - tej samej, w której otwarcie zaangażowany był między innymi mój ojciec. Mieliśmy tam język hebrajski, no i oczywiście polski oraz inne przedmioty. Byłem pierwszym rocznikiem, który ukończył tę szkołę. Potem chodziłem do gimnazjum państwowego.

Miałem też swojego nauczyciela od religii, który przychodził do domu i przygotowywał mnie do bar micwy. To jest oczywiście tradycja. Chłopiec kiedy kończy 13 lat staje się mężczyzną. Prowadzi się go do synagogi, jednak wcześniej uczy się on specjalnej modlitwy i tak dalej. On musi umieć coś odczytać, zrozumieć. Więc ze mną też tak było. Miałem nauczyciela, który przychodził do domu i uczył mnie tego wszystkiego. Moja bar micwa wypadła na wiosnę. Pamiętam ten dzień, wszystko odbywało się w wielkiej synagodze. Gdy wyczytano moje imię miałem podejść i przeczytać fragment Tory. Serce trochę mocniej biło mi ze strachu czy wszystko dobrze pójdzie, no ale jakoś się udało. Potem przy modlitwie zakładało się tefilin – na rękę jedno pudełko a na czoło drugie - gdzie wewnątrz napisane jest dziesięcioro przykazań. Zakładałem tefilin może rok, może dwa, potem coraz rzadziej, rzadziej aż w końcu w ogóle przestałem. Tak samo jak moi koledzy.

Jako prezent na bar micwę dostałem trochę pieniędzy, za które mogłem sobie coś kupić. Nie mogłem się jednak zdecydować: rower czy radio? Myślałem nad tym i myślałem, a pieniądze powoli się rozchodziły na drobnostki i w końcu ani radia ani roweru sobie nie kupiłem. A jeżeli już o rowerach mowa to trzeba powiedzieć, że mieliśmy w Zamościu dwie żydowskie wypożyczalnie. Zamczer wypożyczał takie stare graty, u niego było dużo taniej i tam wypożyczali wszyscy, którzy dopiero zaczynali się uczyć jeździć. A drugi – Pekler - wypożyczał drożej, ale rowery miał porządne.

W 1930 roku pojechałem do Lublina, do rodziny, żeby zobaczyć otwarcie jesziwy „Chachmej Lublin” [od redakcji: jesziwa została założona z inicjatywy Agudat Izrael; jego rektorem i założycielem był M. Szapiro. Była to jedna z największych akademii talmudycznych w tamtym czasie. Jej otwarcie w dniu 24 czerwca 1925 roku było bardzo uroczyste i podniosłe. Z wielu miast dowożono ludzi specjalnie na to wydarzenie]. Miałem wtedy 15 lat. Rodzice nie mogli jechać razem ze mną. Wsadzili mnie więc do samochodu, który kursował na trasie Zamość – Lublin, a wujek odebrał mnie na miejscu. Pamiętam, że wtedy pierwszy raz w życiu jechałem samochodem. To była ciężarówka przystosowana do przewozu ludzi – z tyłu na przyczepie wzdłuż boków ustawione były ławki. Otwarcie jesziwy było bardzo uroczyste. Był ogromny tłum ludzi, więc w sumie niewiele zobaczyłem. Zresztą to było tak dawno temu, że nie pamiętam już żadnych szczegółów.

Kiedy wyjeżdżaliśmy na wakacje zawsze któreś z rodziców musiało zostać w domu. Trzeba było pilnować sklepu – wtedy zabiegało się o każdego klienta. Jechaliśmy zwykle do Krasnobrodu. To jest mniej więcej 20 kilometrów od Zamościa. Tam były wspaniałe lasy. Nie tak jak teraz, ale piękne bory. Drzewa były tak stare i gęste, że zatrzymywały światło. Wynajmowaliśmy od lokalnych chłopów pokój z kuchnią. W Krasnobrodzie były też pensjonaty, ale tam mieszkali ludzie, którzy przyjeżdżali na dzień, dwa. Ojciec budził mnie rano i zabierał na dalekie spacery do lasu. Zbieraliśmy grzyby, poziomki, jeżyny. Pamiętam też, że przyglądałem się jak chłopi robili gliniane naczynia. One były ładnie malowane, poza tym dobrze trzymały chłód. Mnie najbardziej interesowały jednak gwizdki z gliny. Wszystko to chłopi sprzedawali potem za grosze na jarmarku.

W Zamościu przed wojną było około 25 000 ludzi, w tym około 15 000 Żydów. Podobnie jak moja rodzina, większość Żydów zamojskich była sefardyjczykami. Do naszych czasów nie przetrwała jednak ich obyczajowość ani język. Ludzie obchodzili te same święta i ubierali się tak samo jak aszkenazyjczycy. Wszyscy mówili w jidysz. Oczywiście jidysz mówiony w Zamościu różnił się trochę od tego z Lublina czy Wilna. Miał swoje niuanse. Można więc powiedzieć, że z całej kultury sefardyjskiej nic w Zamościu nie pozostało, zachowała się jedynie pamięć o pochodzeniu naszych przodków.

W mieście była jedna wielka synagoga a poza tym były liczne sztible. Synagoga miała wystrój tradycyjny, z bimą na środku oraz zdobioną Arką [Aron ha-kodesz]. Wokół drzwi do Arki znajdowały się ornamenty. Były tam wyrzeźbione dwa lwy i dwa jelenie a wokół nich napis „Gibor keari, rac kecwi” [hebr. „silny jak lew, szybki jak jeleń”]. Mój ojciec chodził do sztibla, do synagogi rzadko. Ja chodziłem razem z nim kiedy byłem mały i jeszcze przez jakiś czas po bar micwie. Mama nie chodziła do sztibla – w ogóle kobiety nie przychodziły się modlić do sztibli, tam spotykali się mężczyźni. W ważniejsze święta i czasami w piątki chodziła do synagogi, w której było specjalnie wydzielone miejsce dla kobiet. Do synagogi przychodziliśmy też ze szkołą, na przykład kiedy odprawiano nabożeństwa za prezydenta Rzeczpospolitej.

Wśród Żydów zamojskich poza kupcami byli także rzemieślnicy różnego rodzaju. Byli stolarze, blacharze, kowale, cieśle, malarze, kamasznicy, szewcy. Byli też biedni nosiwodzi. (tak, bo nie było wtedy bieżącej wody w domach). Więc oni nosili tą wodę ze studni, która stała na rynku; najbardziej cieszyli się, jeśli ktoś robił pranie, bo wtedy potrzebowano więcej wody i zarobek był większy. Pamiętam jeszcze, że w zamożniejszych domach były służące – też Żydówki. To były młode dziewczyny z okolicznych miasteczek. Zbierały zarobione pieniądze na posag. Zdarzało się i tak, że którejś nie udało się wyjść za mąż; wtedy z zaoszczędzonych pieniędzy fundowały Torę dla synagogi.

W Zamościu mieszkali ludzie o różnych poglądach: byli i syjoniści i bundowcy. Byli także komuniści. Ludzie zamożni i inteligencja byli najczęściej syjonistami. Komuniści mieli wielu zwolenników wśród ludzi biednych. To wynikało z tego, że oni mieli sprawną propagandę [egalitarna idea komunizmu przyciągała ludzi ubogich w ogóle, nie tylko ze względu na propagandę]. Komuniści mówili o tym, że wszyscy będą mieli pracę i będą równi między sobą, nie obrażali Żydów.

Oczywiście w Zamościu byli również chasydzi. Pamiętam, jak zaprosili do siebie cadyka, żeby zamieszkał z nimi. Najpierw była długa wymiana korespondencji. Zdaje się, że on pochodził z Góry Kalwarii. Cadyk przyjechał do Zamościa pociągiem. Na stacji czekały na niego tłumy. Byli tam nie tylko chasydzi, lecz również inni Żydzi a nawet Polacy. Ja pobiegłem tam razem z grupą moich kolegów. To było wielkie wydarzenie w Zamościu. Wielu ludzi przyszło z ciekawości – zobaczyć, jak to będzie wyglądało.

Chasydzi wynajęli wszystkie dorożki w mieście. W pierwszej, najładniejszej, zaprzężonej w białe konie posadzili cadyka. Zawieźli go do domu przy ulicy Lubelskie Przedmieście, który uprzednio przygotowali dla niego. Wzdłuż całej drogi były rozciągnięte kolorowe lampki. Mniej więcej 100 metrów przed domem chasydzi wyprzęgli konie i sami pociągnęli dorożkę. Potem zjeżdżali się do niego w piątki i soboty po błogosławieństwo. Pamiętam to, bo często chodziliśmy tam i zaglądaliśmy przez szybę. Widziałem, jak cadyk brał chałę błogosławił ją i potem drobił na kawałki i jego wyznawcy brali to, bo to było takie poświęcone. Widziałem, jak tańczyli i cieszyli się – tak modlili się do Pana Boga.

Niecodzienne wydarzenia, jak przyjazd cadyka, były atrakcją dla mieszkańców takiego miasta jak nasze. Ludzie chętnie przychodzili, żeby popatrzeć na niezwykłe rzeczy. Kiedyś rozeszła się wiadomość, że w pobliskiej wsi jest lunatyk. Ja wtedy tam nie poszedłem, bo byłem za mały, ale mnóstwo ludzi się zebrało żeby go zobaczyć. Była letnia, księżycowa noc, wszyscy stali na ulicy i uciszali się wzajemnie, żeby tylko go nie zbudzić kiedy z wyciągniętymi rękami chodził po dachach domów.

Mieszkaliśmy przy samym rynku. Nasza rodzina była średniozamożna - nie można powiedzieć, że byliśmy bogaczami, ale nie można powiedzieć także, że cierpieliśmy głód. Mieszkaliśmy w kamienicy, której okna naszego mieszkania wychodziły na rynek. Cały rynek w Zamościu otoczony jest podcieniami, więc w czasie deszczu można go obejść dookoła bez parasola. Na parterze naszego domu mieściła się żydowska piekarnia. W kuchni stał piec chlebowy, w którym piekło się chałę i różne ciasta: z serem, z makiem, z miodem, pierniki, no i oczywiście zwykły chleb. Pamiętam, że był taki okres, kiedy trudno było dostać mąkę, ale nam posyłał ją stryj, który w Grabowcu miał młyny.

Mieliśmy też służącą, młodą dziewczynę, Żydówkę. Pochodziła z biednej rodziny z jakiegoś małego miasteczka. Ona gotowała i sprzątała. Pracowała i jednocześnie uczyła się jak prowadzić dom, bo u siebie w miasteczku to nawet nie miałaby z czego gotować. Chodziła też do rabina pytać, czy na przykład dana kura jest koszerna, czy nie; mama nie miała na to czasu.

W pokoju stał piec kaflowy. W zimowe wieczory graliśmy w loteryjkę. To była taka gra: rzucaliśmy kostką i zależnie od wyniku kładliśmy numery na specjalnych kartonach. Grało się też w domino i w szachy. Ojciec grywał u znajomych w karty. Mieszkanie oświetlane było przy pomocy lamp naftowych. Później w latach 20. XX wieku pojawiła się elektryczność. To było w 1926 lub 1927 roku. Pamiętam ten dzień, w którym u nas pojawiło się światło elektryczne – jak nagle wszystko się rozjaśniło!

Kiedy zbliżał się piątkowy wieczór po ulicach chodzili szamesi z kołatkami w ręku i krzyczeli: „Zamykać! Zamykać te sklepy, szabas nadchodzi!”. Mężczyźni czyścili sobie buty, dziewczyny myły włosy. Nie było wtedy szamponu, więc brały sobie jakąś naftę, a często myły głowy czymś w rodzaju barszczu. To był jakiś wywar z buraków, ale nie wiem, z czego dokładnie się to robiło. W każdym razie mówiło się na to „barszcz”.

W szabas wszystko musiało wyglądać ładnie. Wieczorem mężczyźni udawali się na modlitwę a w domu gospodyni modliła się i zapalała świece. Potem następował posiłek: obowiązkowo kołacz, chałka i ryba faszerowana. Te kołacze były robione z drożdżowego ciasta. Splatało się je z 12 wałeczków, które symbolizowały 12 plemion Izraela. Chała to była taka wysoka bułka. Potem leżały obok siebie – kołacz i chała. A tego smaku ryby faszerowanej to już się dzisiaj nie spotyka. Nawet w Izraelu robią jakieś takie rybne kulki, ale to już nie jest to samo. U nas zazwyczaj używano do tego dania karpia. Ci, których nie stać było na karpia przyrządzali gefilte fysz z małych rybek. Karpia kroiło się na dzwonka, wycinało mięso z wewnątrz, które następnie mieliło się z bułką, z jajkiem, pieprzem i solą do smaku a następnie takim farszem wypełniało się z powrotem rybę. Nie jestem w stanie dokładnie powiedzieć jak się przyrządzało tą rybę, bo ja nigdy tego nie robiłem - ja tylko ją jadłem.

Przed Paschą organizowało się pomoc dla biednych. Zgłaszali się ochotnicy, którzy dostawali mąkę, wodę i zagniatali ciasto na macę. Wtedy wypiekało się mace okrągłe – nie tak jak dzisiaj prostokątne. Potem rozdawano je ubogim.

Pascha była jednym z najbardziej uroczystych świąt. Cała rodzina zbierała się razem przy stole, na którym były piękne naczynia i wyszywane kolorowymi nićmi „przegródki” na macę – każda dla kogoś innego: jedna dla Izraelitów, jedna dla Lewitów, a jedna dla Kapłanów [od redakcji: na talerzu sederowym znajdowały się trzy kawałki macy, które czasem umieszczane były w specjalnie przygotowanej na tą okazję torbie z trzema „przegródkami”]. Byłem najmłodszy w rodzinie, więc to ja zadawałem cztery pytania, a ojciec – jako głowa rodziny -odpowiadał. Były różne ciasta i wino. Mówiło się też: „Kto pragnie przyjść i być gościem naszym niech wejdzie, niech przyjdzie”. Wielu gości przychodziło do nas na święto. Ja sam, później kiedy byłem w wojsku, również byłem zapraszany na Paschę przez różne rodziny. Zawsze przygotowany był kielich dla proroka Eliasza. Otwierało się drzwi i czekało aż przyjdzie. Pytaliśmy rodziców, dlaczego nie widać, żeby w kielichu dla proroka ubywało wino. – Bo on upił tylko troszeczkę – odpowiadali.

Obchodziło się także i pozostałe święta: Jom Kipur, Rosz ha-Szana i inne. Na Purim odczytywało się w synagodze Megilę [Megillat Ester]. My dzieci mieliśmy specjalne grzechotki i na słowo „Haman” krzyczeliśmy i robiliśmy wielki hałas. W końcu dorośli zaczynali krzyczeć na nas, żebyśmy już przestali, a my nie chcieliśmy i taka to była zabawa. Były też przedstawienia purimowe. Król Achaszwer siedział na tronie w papierowej koronie na głowie, przychodził do niego minister i coś mu tam meldował. Potem pojawiała się piękna Ester i mówiła: „Dlaczego chcesz wymordować mój lud?”. Król zmieniał zdanie, a na koniec była taka scena, że Haman już leży w ziemi, a na jego miejsce jedzie Mordechaj na koniu. W Purim przyjęło się jeść takie trójkątne ciastka z makiem; a trójkątne dlatego, że miały przypominać czapkę, którą nosił Haman. Te ciastka nazywały się humentaszn.

Świętowaliśmy też Chanukę na pamiątkę wydarzenia, które miało miejsce w Jerozolimie. Podczas oblężenia miasta obawiano się, że zabraknie oliwy do podtrzymania w świątyni wiecznego płomienia, ale jednak jakoś jej wystarczyło do końca. My też mieliśmy w domu taką menorę na oliwę [od redakcji: rozmówca najprawdopodobniej miał na myśli hanukiję].

O stosunkach polsko-żydowskich należy powiedzieć, że układały się różnie. To bardzo złożony problem. Na przykład Jan Zamojski sam zaprosił Ormian i Żydów do Zamościa [sprowadził ich w XVI wieku]. Nie było to oczywiście bezinteresowne działanie – dzięki nowym przybyszom w mieście rozwinął się przemysł i handel. Żydzi pożyczali królom pieniądze. Były też sławne rodziny, jak na przykład Kronenbergowie, którzy stworzyli kolej warszawsko-moskiewską. Pod koniec XIX wieku w Rosji pojawiły się insynuacje, jakoby Żydzi wykorzystują krew do wyrobu macy i tak dalej [oskarżenie o mordy rytualne]. W latach międzywojennych z jednej strony mieliśmy endeków, z drugiej natomiast trzeba pamiętać, że Polska miała problemy gospodarcze. Żydzi doświadczyli wówczas wielu trudów, w szczególności ci religijni, co wiązało się na przykład z kwestią uboju rytualnego. Niby chodziło o ochronę zwierząt.

Trzeba także powiedzieć, że w całej tej sprawie niemało zawinił kościół katolicki. Znamy historię: inkwizycja – palenie Żydów i czarownic... Kościół nie starał się dążyć do pojednania. Zresztą może było mu to potrzebne, żeby utrzymać wiarę. Mówiono, że Żydzi zamordowali Jezusa i muszą za to odpokutować. Dopiero teraz papież zmienił podejście do Żydów i szuka pojednania, ale i tak są to tylko powierzchowne działania. Z drugiej strony trzeba dodać, że Żydzi zawsze trzymali się niejako w odosobnieniu, tworzyli własne getta [od redakcji: w zasadzie to w czasach średniowiecza Żydzi zmuszani byli przez ludność nie-żydowską do przeniesienia się do gett – specjalnie wydzielonych dla Żydów dzielnic, często otoczonych murami. Z drugiej strony należy dodać, że pod wieloma względami taki rodzaj „osadnictwa” sprzyjał żydowskim interesom]. Dopiero przed wojną zaczęło się to zmieniać. Mieliśmy sławnych pisarzy żydowskiego pochodzenia tworzących po polsku – Tuwima, Brzechwę, Leśmiana. Młodzi ludzie uważali, że sytuacja musi ulec zmianie, że trzeba dążyć do wspólnego zbliżenia.

Jeżeli o mnie chodzi to miałem dwóch polskich kolegów. Oni byli bardzo mili, spędzaliśmy razem dużo czasu. Wspólnie chodziliśmy nad rzekę i na rowery. Pamiętam, że do szkoły chodziły także dzieci okolicznych właścicieli ziemskich. Oni uważali się za lepszych od innych. Jeden z nich podjeżdżał przed szkołę powozem, a stangret, mimo że starszy od niego, schodził z kozła, zdejmował czapkę i mu się kłaniał. Pamiętam, jak pewnego razu na lekcji rysunków jeden z tamtych chłopaków zaczął się skarżyć: „Panie profesorze, bo od niego śmierdzi czosnkiem!”. Nauczyciel nie skarcił go, tylko zwrócił się do wskazanego żydowskiego chłopca mówiąc: „Słuchaj, następnym razem postaraj się nie jeść czosnku przed przyjściem do szkoły”. Nic nie pomagało kiedy tamten mówił, że przecież nie jadł żadnego czosnku. Można więc powiedzieć, że różnie to bywało. Ja miałem grono kolegów, znajomych zarówno wśród Żydów jak i Polaków. Byliśmy dobrymi uczniami, trzymaliśmy się razem. Z drugiej jednak strony w szkole panował antysemityzm.

Moi rodzice również utrzymywali kontakty z Polakami. W naszym sklepie głównie kupowali Polacy, stałe klientki często przychodziły i opowiadały o swoich sprawach; do sklepu zachodziła też właścicielka naszej kamienicy – pani Namysłowska. Przychodziła opowiadać, że musi córkę wydać za mąż, ale że to duże wydatki i tak dalej.

Kiedy skończyłem gimnazjum moja siostra Margolia namówiła mnie, żebym przyjechał uczyć się do Warszawy. Mieszkała tam już kilka lat, pracowała jako nauczycielka, więc mogła mnie utrzymywać. Przyjechałem do Warszawy w 1933 roku i zamieszkałem u siostry. Zacząłem się uczyć w Państwowej Szkole Budownictwa. Po skończeniu tej szkoły można było od razu wstąpić na drugi rok Politechniki Warszawskiej.

W roku 1937 zostałem powołany do wojska. Wielu Żydów unikało wtedy służby, ale ja poszedłem. Mój ojciec też sobie tego życzył. Mówił, że nauczę się walczyć i że to może mi się przydać później w Palestynie. Służyłem we Włodzimierzu Wołyńskim, w 23 pułku piechoty. Potem przeniesiono mnie do Pogórska pod Baranowiczami. Tam budowano poligon, a ja miałem wykształcenie budowlane. Stawialiśmy drewniane baraki dla żołnierzy i pomieszczenia gospodarcze. W tej okolicy było bardzo dużo wilków. Pamiętam, jak pewnego razu nasz kucharz poszedł do miasta po mięso. Tereny były bagniste, trzeba było chodzić po specjalnych drewnianych kładkach. Kiedy wracał usłyszał, że wilki się zbliżają - kucharz ocalał, ale nasze mięso przepadło.

Po wyjściu z wojska w 1938 roku wróciłem do Warszawy. Mieszkałem wtedy w wynajętym pokoju. Chciałem zacząć pracować, żeby nie być już na utrzymaniu siostry ani rodziców. Miałem też plany związane z dalszą nauką na Politechnice. Zacząłem pracować w dwóch firmach budowlanych, jedną z nich prowadził Halber a drugą Krajterkraft. Obydwie firmy były żydowskie. Dostawaliśmy zlecenia na projekty kamienic czynszowych. Ja przygotowywałem te projekty, wprowadzałem poprawki. Od czasu do czasu wykonywałem także zlecenia od architekta Goldszmita. Tak pracowałem aż do wojny.

W tym czasie obracałem się w dość mocno lewicującym środowisku. Byliśmy rozczarowani sytuacją w Polsce. Ja na przykład mogłem pracować tylko w żydowskich firmach. Na uniwersytetach wprowadzane były ograniczenia. Byliśmy naiwni. Wydawało nam się, że wystarczy zmienić ustrój, żeby zmienić tą sytuację. Wszystko to wiązało się jeszcze z buntem przeciwko religii. Ja nie należałem do żadnej partii. Najczęściej moi znajomi należeli do Organizacji Młodzieży Socjalistycznej „Życie” albo do Komunistycznego Związku Młodzieży.

Lata wojny

Kiedy wybuchła wojna miałem bilet mobilizacyjny wyznaczony na siódmy dzień. Jednak zanim zdążyłem się zgłosić, wojsko już zostało rozbite. Nie było jednostek, do których moglibyśmy się dostać. Skierowano nas na wschód. Szedłem wraz z grupą kolegów z wojska w tłumie ludzi, którzy uciekali przed Niemcami. Ludzie w pośpiechu zabierali ze sobą co im wpadło w ręce. Potem widząc, że nie mają siły nieść tego wszystkiego, porzucali różne rzeczy jak ubrania czy buty – pełno tego leżało w rowach.

Kiedy przekroczyliśmy rzekę Bug zaczęliśmy spotykać Ukraińców – uzbrojonych, na koniach. Zatrzymywali nas, chociaż byliśmy w cywilnych ubraniach. W końcu trafiliśmy do Kamienia Koszyrskiego, a stamtąd po kilku dniach wyruszyłem do Kowla. Liczyłem na to, że spotkam tam rodziców i siostrę, bo w Kowlu mieszkała siostra mojego ojca, ciotka Lea. Cała ta droga zajęła mi ponad tydzień – miałem do pokonania kilkaset kilometrów [w rzeczywistości Kamień Koszyrski znajduje się zaledwie 100 km od Kowla]. Było nas w sumie kilku, spaliśmy gdzie się dało. W wioskach było dużo opuszczonych budynków, bo ludzie bojąc się uciekali z domów. Czasem udało nam się złapać jakąś zabłąkaną kurę, znaleźć garnek i rozpalić ogień. Chcieliśmy tę kurę ugotować, ale byliśmy tak głodni, że najczęściej zjadaliśmy ją od razu zanim kura zdążyła się ugotować.

Moje przewidywania spełniły się i ku mojej radości zastałem najbliższych w Kowlu. Okazało się, że kiedy wybuchła wojna rodzice kupili dosyć duży wóz, załadowali na niego cześć towaru ze sklepu i oczywiście własne bagaże i pojechali na wschód, do ciotki Lei. Margolia przyjechała razem z nimi, ponieważ w dniu wybuchu wojny była jeszcze w Zamościu, gdzie spędzała swoje wakacje. Potem w Kowlu żyli z tego, że wyprzedawali towar ze sklepu. Udało im się nawet wynająć mieszkanie.

Jeżeli o mnie chodzi to zaraz po przyjeździe do Kowla zobaczyłem ogłoszenie, że poszukują chętnych do robót budowlanych w garnizonie, który Rosjanie przejęli po Polakach. Zgłosiłem się i dostałem tam pracę. Odpowiedzialny byłem za prace remontowe. Jako osoba zatrudniona w radzieckim garnizonie dostałem od urzędu miasta przydział na kawalerkę. Zakwaterowali mnie w prywatnej kamienicy. Pamiętam, że płaciłem właścicielowi jakiś czynsz. Dzięki pracy w tym garnizonie mogłem nawet trochę pomagać rodzicom, bo stamtąd zawsze udawało się wynieść trochę węgla czy drewna na opał.

Gdy Niemcy zbliżali się do Kowla, na stacje zaczęły przyjeżdżać pociągi ewakuacyjne. Ludzie tłumnie wyruszali na wschód. Udałem się do moich rodziców i Margolii i próbowałem ich przekonać, że powinniśmy uciekać wszyscy razem, lecz oni nie chcieli tak po prostu porzucić całego swojego dobytku. Nie mieli pojęcia, co może się wydarzyć. Rodzice byli starsi i Margolia chciała zostać razem nimi. Przekonali mnie, że nic się nie stanie, jeśli pakowanie potrwa kilka dni. Byłem młodszy. Przeczuwałem, że coś się wydarzy. Postanowiłem wyruszyć wcześniej, wierzyłem jednak, że zdążą i wkrótce się spotkamy. Niestety nie udało im się.

Nigdy nie dowiedziałem się, co dokładnie się z nimi stało. Nigdy nie spotkałem nikogo, kto opowiedziałby mi, jaki los ich spotkał. Najprawdopodobniej byli w getcie w Kowlu, gdzie zostali zastrzeleni oraz pochowani w masowym grobie w lasach na przedmieściach Kowla. Po wojnie próbowałem znaleźć jakieś informacje o nich. Liczyłem na to, że może skontaktują się ze mną. Ale nic takiego się nie stało. Wróciłem do Kowla dwa lata temu, mając nadzieję na odnalezienie jakiejś wskazówki. Odwiedziłem masowy grób – wszystko, co tam zastałem to niewielki pomnik. Nie znalazłem żadnych informacji. Na żydowskim cmentarzu w Warszawie, na ulicy Okopowej, jest cała ściana upamiętniająca ludzi, którzy zginęli podczas wojny. Umieściłem tam tablicę pamiątkową z imionami osób z mojej rodziny.

W każdym razie trafiłem do pociągu ewakuacyjnego. Jechaliśmy na południowy wschód, wkrótce zaczęły się naloty niemieckie. Zostałem ranny, kiedy bombardowali pociąg. Trafiłem do jakiegoś wojskowego samochodu, do jakiegoś szpitala. Ponieważ nikt nie miał czasu się mną zająć, w ranę wdała się gangrena i w końcu amputowali mi część ręki. Potem wyruszyłem w dalszą drogę, w nieznane; znowu jechały pociągi. Dotarłem w ten sposób do Władykaukazu. Piękne miejsce u stóp gór. Prowadziła tam prosta droga, na horyzoncie której widoczne były ogromne góry, ze szczytami spowitymi we mgle.

We Władykaukazie zgłosiłem się do magistratu, żeby dali mi pracę. Przyjechałem bez niczego - nie miałem co jeść ani gdzie mieszkać. Praca dała mi szansę na przydział mieszkania, racji żywnościowych, no i jakieś pieniądze. Zostałem zatrudniony w Dyrekcji Kolei. Znowu nadzorowałem prace budowlane. Często byłem wysyłany z pracy na delegacje; byłem na przykład w Groznem w Czeczeni, w Baku w Azerbejdżanie. Wiele się wtedy naoglądałem. Pamiętam różne sceny z tamtych miejsc – muzułmanina, który zrobił awanturę na targu, bo sprzedawca położył mu mięso baranie na tej samej szali, na której przed chwilą ważył wieprzowinę. Pamiętam też, że na targu sprzedawali niedźwiedzie łapy, bo tam w górach było dużo niedźwiedzi. Albo jak kiedyś przywiozłem z delegacji olbrzymiego arbuza. Był tak wielki, że ledwie mogłem go utrzymać, no i oczywiście ten arbuz rozbił się w ostatniej chwili, kiedy wchodziłem do domu.

Miałem tam dwóch kolegów, jeden z nich – Latyszew był Rosjaninem, a drugi – Zinenko Ukraińcem. Kiedy zorientowali się, że na nich nie doniosę, zaczęli mi opowiadać o tym, co dzieje się w Związku Radzieckim, o tym, co Stalin robi z ludźmi [podczas tak zwanego Wielkiego Terroru]. Zarabiałem marnie, 350 rubli miesięcznie – tyle kosztował kilogram mięsa. Była też stołówka, w której podawali coś w rodzaju kaszy, którą polewano syntetycznym olejem. Codziennie serwowali to samo. W tym okresie bardzo schudłem, często chodziłem głodny.

Front się zbliżał i Niemcy podeszli pod Rostów nad Donem. Wtedy dyrekcja zarządziła ewakuację wszystkich pracowników razem z rodzinami. Wsiedliśmy do pociągu i rozpoczęliśmy podróż donikąd, która trwała następne osiem miesięcy. Kierowaliśmy się na południe. Czasem pociąg stawał na kilka godzin, a potem ruszał dalej. Wychodziłem wtedy kupić coś do jedzenia, popatrzeć na morze. Stać mnie jeszcze było, żeby kupić u miejscowych coś pożywnego do jedzenia. Kupowałem też chleb, który wcale nie przypominał chleba – to była taka papka z ziemniaków. Nawet próbowałem to dopiekać, ale w dalszym ciągu nie smakowało to jak chleb. Pewnej nocy położyłem się spać na górnym łóżku [w przedziale sypialnianym] bo tam było lepsze powietrze. W nocy zaczęło się bombardowanie, obudziłem się i myśląc, że jestem na dole zsunąłem się z łóżka. To był dosyć poważny upadek.

Dyrekcja Kolei starała się cały czas panować nad swoim obszarem. Z tego pociągu utrzymywaliśmy łączność z całym rejonem – kierowaliśmy pociągi towarowe na front i tak dalej. W końcu Niemcy wycofali się i wróciliśmy do Władykaukazu.

W 1943 roku moi przyjaciele z Warszawy dowiedzieli się gdzie jestem i przysłali mi list, zapraszając mnie do Baszkirii, gdzie wówczas przebywali. Tam było sporo Polaków [w zasadzie polskich Żydów], zostało powołane nawet Towarzystwo Patriotów Polskich co dawało jakąś szansę, że będzie można wrócić; postarałem się więc, żeby pozwolono mi tam wyjechać. Musiałem w tym celu trochę nakłamać w dokumentach. Napisałem, że przyjaciele są moją rodziną więc pomogą mi się utrzymać w Baszkirii, gdzie będę miał też pracę. Z dyrektorem Kolei byłem w dobrych układach, więc on też wydał mi pozwolenie na wyjazd. Było w tym wszystkim trochę ryzyka, bo nad całą procedurą czuwało NKWD, ale udało się. Znowu jechałem pociągami towarowymi, tym razem na Ural.

Towarzystwo Patriotów Polskich w przeważającej części składało się z Żydów. W Baszkirii spotkałem inżyniera Słobodkina, architekta z Warszawy, oraz innych znajomych. Zostałem kierownikiem produkcji w warsztatach wytwórczych Towarzystwa Patriotów Polskich. Szyliśmy ubrania oraz robiliśmy buty. Przez jakiś czas mieszkałem u jednej z rodzin, potem miałem własny pokój. Tam był bardzo ostry klimat. Nosiliśmy filcowe buty. Czasem nadchodził buran, burza śnieżna, podczas której nie można było wyjść z domu, bo można było zamarznąć – coś jak ściana lodu i śniegu leciała na człowieka.

Przez cały ten czas, odkąd wyjechałem z Kowla, nie miałem żadnych informacji o tym, co się stało z moją rodziną. Nie wiedziałem też co się dzieje na zachodzie. Korespondencja zza granicy nie dochodziła, nie spotkałem też nikogo, kto by mi przekazał jakieś wiadomości. Dopiero pod koniec 1944 roku można było wysyłać listy. Napisałem więc do sióstr w Izraelu, gdzie jestem i co się ze mną dzieje. Liczyłem na to, że i rodzice do nich napisali. Od sióstr dostałem jednak tylko paczkę pełną mydła. To był dobry pomysł, bo sprzedałem to mydło i dzięki temu miałem na jakiś czas pieniądze. Niestety nadal jednak nie miałem żadnych wiadomości.

Pod koniec wojny zaczęły dochodzić do nas wieści z Polski. Niektórzy wyjeżdżali. Kiedy wracali, pytaliśmy ich – „No jak tam jest z chlebem, jaki jest przydział?”. Mówili, że nie ma przydziałów, że towary leżą w sklepie na półkach i można brać, ile kto chce, że nawet ciastka tam są. Ale my już na tyle przyzwyczailiśmy się do tamtej rzeczywistości, że nie chcieliśmy im wierzyć, nie mogliśmy sobie tego wyobrazić. Wyjechaliśmy stamtąd jesienią 1945 roku. Po paru tygodniach spędzonych w pociągach towarowych przyjechałem w końcu do Lublina.

Lata powojenne

W Lublinie nie spotkałem nikogo z mojej rodziny. Później dowiedziałem się, że przeżył Awigdor (syn wujka) i jego dwie siostry. Zaraz po wojnie wyjechali do Izraela. Potem przeprowadzili się do Kanady, skąd kuzynki wyjechały do Stanów Zjednoczonych, do Bostonu. Jakiś czas temu urwał się z nimi kontakt.

Po powrocie ze Związku Radzieckiego zacząłem pracować w szkole żydowskiej przy Komitecie Żydowskim. Uczyłem języka polskiego. To była niewielka szkoła, było w niej tylko około 30 uczniów. Pamiętam, że mieliśmy takiego żydowskiego chłopca, którego matka odebrała z klasztoru. Problem polegał na tym, że chłopiec był bardzo mały, miał kilka lat, więc przywiązał się bardzo do tych sióstr w klasztorze, zapominając zupełnie o mamie. Wszyscy starliśmy się jakoś pocieszyć tę kobietę, ale ona ciągle płakała i tuliła swojego synka.

Pod koniec roku szkolnego w 1947 roku wyjechałem do Warszawy. Tutaj spotkałem swojego przyjaciela Weinera, który przyjechał z Paryża, inżyniera Słobodkina, z którym byliśmy razem w Baszkirii i wielu innych. Pracowałem w Centralnym Komitecie Żydowskim na stanowisku technika budowlanego. Pierwszy dom, który odbudowałem znajdował się na Pradze [dzielnicy Warszawy]. To był pożydowski dom, więc kiedy skończyliśmy prace zamieszkały w nim żydowskie rodziny. Później część lokatorów wyjechała z kraju a część wyprowadziła się. Odbudowałem także kamienicę przy ulicy Jagiellońskiej 28. To było również zlecenie CKŻP. W tej kamienicy na parterze znajdował się sklep, w którym sprzedawano koszerne mięso. Nie pamiętam, kiedy został zamknięty.

Na początku lat 50. XX wieku zostałem członkiem spółdzielni „Budometal”. W 1955 roku poszedłem na kurs inżynierski i uzyskałem dyplom na Politechnice Warszawskiej. W pracy wszyscy wiedzieli, że jestem Żydem. Zaczęły się sugestie, żebym zmienił imię. Wielu zmieniało nawet nazwiska, ale ja nie chciałem, więc przynajmniej zmieniłem to imię. Jeszcze przed wojną wołali na mnie Mieczysław, Mietek więc tak już zostało - imię Mordechaj wykreśliłem z dokumentów.

Nadal wykonywałem prace zlecane mi przez instytucje żydowskie, tyle że były one organizowane przez spółdzielnię. Tak było najłatwiej. Wielokrotnie remontowałem elewację synagogi Nożyków. To były zlecenia Gminy, fundusze na ten cel pochodziły z pomocy zagranicznej. O ile dobrze pamiętam – z Jointu. Zaraz po wojnie zbudowaliśmy też w tej synagodze wytwórnię macy. Urządziliśmy ją na babińcu, ustawiliśmy maszyny do mieszania ciasta i piece elektryczne i tam się piekło macę na Pesach. Wytwórnia macy funkcjonowała tam kilka lat. Potem zaczęli przysyłać nam macę z zagranicy. Wyremontowałem również budynek gminy żydowskiej na ulicy Twardej 6. W latach 50. XX wieku prowadziliśmy także na zlecenie Gminy prace porządkowe na cmentarzu żydowskim. W czasie wojny cmentarz ten został zdewastowany. Aleje były zasypane ziemią, pomniki poprzewracane. Uprzątnęliśmy więc główną alejkę. Odłamki macew wmurowaliśmy w specjalną ścianę. Kilka lat później dobudowaliśmy również przy wejściu pomieszczenia gospodarcze.

W latach 50. i 60. XX wieku było jeszcze wiele ludzi religijnych. Właściwie było trochę jak przed wojną – byli bundowcy i syjoniści. Była też spora grupa działaczy komunistycznych. Przez Joint przychodziła dosyć duża pomoc amerykańska. Były też żydowskie zakłady: „Solidarność”, gdzie uczono różnych zawodów, a Słobodkin – ten, z którym byłem w Baszkirii - prowadził ORT. Gdyby nie 1946 rok, pogrom w Kielcach, a potem Gomułka, który powiedział, że obywatele Polski nie mogą mieć dwóch ojczyzn, to pewnie tak dużo ludzi by nie wyjechało.

Na początku lat 50. XX wieku poznałem Izabelę, moją przyszłą żonę. Ona pracowała wówczas w związkach zawodowych, jako księgowa. Jej ojciec, Wacław Tłuchowski, walczył w Powstaniu Warszawskim i nigdy nie powrócił do domu. Ma nawet pomnik postawiony na cmentarzu na Powązkach. Izabela jest Polką, więc uczyła się w katolickiej szkole. Pobraliśmy się i w 1955 roku urodził nam się syn. Daliśmy mu na imię Eligiusz, ponieważ przypomina imię mojego ojca – Eliasz; czasy, w których się urodził nie sprzyjały nadawaniu typowo żydowskich imion.

Eligiusz ukończył z wyróżnieniem fizykę na Uniwersytecie Warszawskim. Zrobił też doktorat i habilitację. Teraz pracuje na różnych uniwersytetach. Obecnie przebywa na Uniwersytecie w Yale. Jest tam członkiem zespołu badawczego zajmującego się problemami fizyki teoretycznej. Czym jest dla niego tradycja żydowska? Eligiusz utrzymuje kontakty ze swoją rodziną w Izraelu. W Stanach chodzi na spotkania żydowskie. Interesuje się tradycją żydowską. Jest agnostykiem.

Izabela pochodzi z katolickiej rodziny, ale do kościoła nie chodzi i mam wrażenie, że ma do tego wszystkiego negatywny stosunek. W każdym razie nie jest praktykująca. Oczywiście nigdy jej nie zabraniałem kultywować religii. Ja z kolei do synagogi zawszę chodzę w Jom Kipur, kiedy odmawiana jest modlitwa za zmarłych. A poza tym to do synagogi nie chodzę. W domu nie obchodzimy właściwie żadnych świąt. W te żydowskie chodzę na te uroczystości, które organizowane są przez głównie przez Towarzystwo Społeczno-Kulturalne Żydów.

Izrael? Żydzi od wieków marzyli, żeby powrócić do Izraela. Każdego roku podczas święta Paschy życzyli sobie: „Ba-szana ha-ba be-Jeruszalajim”. Przez setki lat nie było to możliwe – Turcja, Arabowie, protektorat brytyjski [Mandat Brytyjski]. Wychowałem się w syjonistycznej rodzinie; moi rodzice również pragnęli, aby powstało państwo żydowskie.

Wiele razy myślałem o przeprowadzeniu się do Izraela. Zawsze jednak były różne przeszkody, które mi to uniemożliwiały. Przed wojną najpierw chciałem skończyć szkołę, potem zostałem powołany do wojska. Później, kiedy pierwszy raz byłem w Izraelu, w 1956 roku, miałem już nawet zapewnioną pracę. Jednak tu, w Polsce, moja żona miała zobowiązania – musiała opiekować się swoją matką.

Pamiętam swój pierwszy pobyt w Izraelu. Miałem duże trudności z otrzymaniem pozwolenia na wyjazd, ale w końcu się udało. Kiedy nasz statek dopływał do portu w Hajfie na nabrzeżu stała już cała rodzina. Przyjechałem do domu Rywy i Josifa, którzy wówczas zajmowali się hodowlą kur. Nie mieli jeszcze nawet kuchenki gazowej. Mój szwagier miał osiołka – zaprzęgał go do wozu i woził mnie, żebym mógł sobie popatrzeć na morze. Teraz, kiedy przyjeżdżamy z rodziną wszystko wygląda zupełnie inaczej. Ostatnio byłem w Izraelu w 1999 roku. Każde z nas miało osobne pokoje. W ciągu dnia kąpaliśmy się i opalaliśmy. Rano była kawa, herbatka i jeszcze mleko do tego oraz kakao. I dużo jarzyn, bo tam przez cały rok są jarzyny – nie tak jak u nas, tam jest wszystko.

Czy coś się zmieniło w Polsce po 1989 roku? No oczywiście, że się zmieniło. Teraz jest większa demokracja, wtedy byliśmy ciągle ograniczani. Jak pracowałem w tych różnych instytucjach to pamiętam jak na 1 maja trzymali nas w pochodach godzinami. Stało się i stało, tylko po to, żeby parę osób z góry mogło nas oglądać. A w ogóle to było takie nastawienie – Stalin to, Stalin tamto. Miałem zawsze krytyczny stosunek do tego, co się wówczas działo, bo słuchałem BBC. Natomiast miałem znajomych, nawet w Izraelu, którzy wpadli jakoś w te tryby komunistycznej propagandy i oni święcie wierzyli w Stalina. Nie wiem, ja nawet się dziwiłem, bo to byli ludzie na poziomie, wykształceni. Dla mnie to było niewytłumaczalne, jak oni mogli w coś takiego wierzyć.

Jeżeli chodzi o gminę warszawską i dzisiejsze środowisko żydowskie to wydaje mi się, że oni dużo robią „na siłę”. Na przykład szkoły języka jidysz. Nie uważam, żeby język żydowski miał przyszłość. Jidysz jeszcze istnieje ze względu na starszych ludzi. Ale żeby go „wskrzeszać”? Ja nie widzę takiej potrzeby. Może tylko dlatego, że w jidysz powstała wspaniała literatura autorstwa Szolema Alejchema, Pereca, An-skiego.

Tak samo jest w gminie żydowskiej. Jest trochę młodych ludzi, ale ich cała działalność opiera się, jak sądzę, na pomocy finansowej z zagranicy. Zresztą trudno się na ten temat wypowiadać. Ja nie jestem uprzedzony. Może ludzie znajdują w judaizmie jakiś sposób na swoje życie. Niedawno czytałem w gazecie artykuł o młodej dziewczynie, która skarży się, że w Polsce bardzo trudno jest kupić koszerną żywność. Nagle pojawiły się takie problemy! A tu były całe lata, kiedy nikt nie przychodził do synagogi. Ludzie wyjeżdżali do Izraela podejmując tym samym słuszną decyzję.

Nie korzystam z żadnych funduszy rekompensacyjnych, bo ja nie byłem w żadnym getcie. Ale jestem członkiem Stowarzyszenia Kombatantów Żydowskich. Wraz z innymi członkami tego stowarzyszenia trzy lata temu byliśmy w Niemczech. Zaproszono nas tam z ramienia Fundacji Kolbego [Maximilian Kolbe Werk – fundacja działająca na terenie Niemiec, której celem jest niesienie pomocy byłym więźniom obozów koncentracyjnych]. Osobiście odbieram to ze swego rodzaju zażenowaniem. Kolbe był w obozie i oddał życie za innego więźnia – to prawda, ale przed wojną był antysemitą. Wydawał nawet takie antyżydowskie broszurki. O przedwojennej działalności Kolbego w ogóle nikt nic nie wie. Życie przynosi nam różnego rodzaju niespodzianki i ludzie zmieniają także swoje poglądy, ale żeby od razu nazywać fundację jego imieniem? W każdym razie, otrzymaliśmy od nich zaproszenie po niemiecku i pojechaliśmy na spotkanie. Mieliśmy tam wizyty w różnych szkołach. Na spotkaniu było około 1000 uczniów oraz nauczyciele. Pewnego razu poproszono mnie, żebym przeczytał im coś po żydowsku, żeby mogli porównać czy ten język jest rzeczywiście podobny do języka niemieckiego. Więc im przeczytałem coś z Sutzkewera.

Obecnie należę i do Towarzystwa Społeczno-Kulturalnego Żydów i do Gminy. Należę również do Komitetu Społecznego, którego celem jest remont pawilonu w Szpitalu Wolskim [w okresie międzywojennym mieścił się tu szpital żydowski]. Chcemy tam urządzić dom dzienny dla starszych osób. Prawie codziennie odwiedzam gminę. Korzystam z tutejszej stołówki, ponieważ moja żona jest bardzo schorowana i nie ma już siły gotować. Jestem członkiem Klubu Seniora przy gminie wyznaniowej. Spotykamy się kilka razy w tygodniu. Czasem mamy prelekcje dotyczące tematyki żydowskiej, ale najczęściej po prostu opowiadamy sobie swoje losy.

Ruvin Gitman
Chernovtsy
Ukraine
Interviewer: Ella Levitskaya
Date of interview: August 2002

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

My family background

The history of my family, as far as I am aware, goes back as far as my paternal great-grandfather, Iermiuya Gitman. I don't know where he was born or when, or when he died. But I do know that when he became an adult, he settled down in the village of Koryshkov, in Kopaygorod district, Vinnitsa province. He married a local woman, but I don't have any information about mye great-grandmother. My great-grandfather was a farmer. So, my father's ancestors came from Koryshkov and were farmers.

My paternal grandfather, Isroel Gitman, was born in Koryshkov in the 1860s. My father's mother, Hana Gitman, also came from Koryshkov. I don't know how they met, but I know that they had a traditional Jewish wedding. My grandfather Isroel was a farmer. When he was a boy he helped his father with farming. They grew grain of high quality, and sold it by auction. After getting married, my grandfather kept working with his father, although he lived separately.

In 1904-1905, during the Russian-Japanese war my grandfather served in the cavalry. Religious beliefs were highly respected in the Russian [tsarist] army. I believe that my grandfather had every opportunity to observe his religious traditions. He was awarded Georgian Crosses, the highest awards of the Russian Empire, for his bravery. This award was given to very few members of the military and it was a great honor. There was an amusing story associated with these awards that was often told in our family. Koryshkov was a large village of about 1,000 houses, but there were only 12 Jewish families living there. There was no synagogue in Koryshkov. My grandfather went to the synagogue in Kopaygorod, the district town, not far from Koryshkov. He went there only on important Jewish holidays. After returning from the war my grandfather went to the synagogue in Kopaygorod at Rosh Hashanah. He was wearing his medals. The local Jews had never seen Georgian Crosses before, and got very angry with my grandfather. They couldn't believe that a Jew would come to the synagogue wearing Christian crosses on his chest. They wouldn't allow my grandfather to enter the synagogue. Then the rabbi came to ask what it was all about. The other attendants told him that they believed my grandfather didn't respect the faith of their ancestors since he came to the synagogue with all these Christian crosses on his chest. The rabbi explained to them that these were the tsar's military awards that my grandfather had earned at the front for shedding his blood. Afterwards, of course, he was allowed to enter the synagogue as a man of honor.

My grandfather and grandmother had four sons besides my father. Their oldest son, Mordekhai, perished at the front during World War I. He was a soldier in the tsarist army. My father, Wolf Gitman, was the second son. He was born in 1894. The next one was Berl, followed by Shmil-Leib, and Moshe, the youngest. I don't know their exact birth dates, but there was not much of an age difference between them.

My grandfather had a big house in the village. Tsar Nicholas also granted my grandfather 12 hectares of farmland, the monopoly for the vodka trade and a tavern with an inn in the village. So, my grandfather's family was very wealthy. My grandmother kept a cow. They also had a big garden and a kitchen garden. My grandmother managed all the housekeeping. Their sons worked in the fields with my grandfather.

My grandparents were very religious. They observed all the Jewish traditions in their home and celebrated the Sabbath and all the Jewish holidays. All of their sons were raised as Jews. They didn't go to cheder. There was no cheder in Koryshkov and my grandfather didn't want to send his children to Kopaygorod, as it was too far away. Teachers came to teach the children at home. My father and his brothers were good at Hebrew, Yiddish, Russian and arithmetic.

My grandfather, my father and his brothers prayed at home every single day. They prayed three times a day: before meals in the morning, in the afternoon, and in the evening, performing the ritual of washing hands before meals. They took their tallit and twiln tefillin to the field to pray in the afternoon [the interviewee is talking about the evening prayers, the Maariv]. On holidays the whole family went to the synagogue in Kopaygorod. Isroel had a friend in Kopaygorod who was a shochet. My grandfather's family stayed in this man's house and spent the holidays in Kopaygorod. Every member of the family had his own seat in the synagogue.

My grandfather and grandmother wore old-fashioned traditional Jewish clothing. My grandmother wore a wig and covered her head with a shawl when going out. My grandfather wore a long black jacket or a black suit, and a vest with a silver watch chain hanging from its pocket. He wore a black hat and a little black cap underneath it. At home my grandfather always wore a yarmulka. My grandfather only wore light cotton pants and shirt to do work in the field, but he still wore his yarmulka.

Koryshkov was a quiet village. There were no Jewish pogroms before or after the Revolution of 1917 1. Koryshkov village was not beside any railroad or main roads. During the Revolution a gang was passing by the village. The gang members were about to rob the 12 Jewish families residing in the village, but the Ukrainian farmers stood against them saying: 'They are our zhyds [Jews]. We do with them what we want, but we won't allow you to take one hair from their heads'. They then chased the bandits away. This was the only time such a gang came to the village.

My mother's family lived in Kopaygorod. I knew my mother's father, Moshe Perelman. He was a vendor. He was born in Kopaygorod in the 1870s. My grandmother died long before I was born. I don't even know her name. My grandfather didn't remarry and raised his children alone. When my mother grew up she acted as mother to the younger children. The Perelmans had fourteen children, but only seven of them survived to adulthood. The rest of them died in infancy. I knew five of my mother's siblings, four of her brothers and her sister Haika. My mother's sister Bluma moved to America in the 1920s, before I was born.

I don't know the date of birth of these aunts and uncles. They were all born in Kopaygorod. My mother, Brukha Perelman, was born in 1905. Only her brother Itsyk was older than she. The next brother was Elik, then came Bluma, Psakhe, Haika and Ide-Leib. Their family was religious. All the children got a religious education. The boys went to cheder and the girls were taught at home. They could all read and write in Hebrew and Yiddish, and studied the Torah and the Talmud. The family observed Jewish traditions and celebrated the Sabbath and Jewish holidays. They communicated in Yiddish, but they all spoke fluent Ukrainian. They remained deeply religious people until old age. None of them had any special education. Uncle Itsyk held various jobs. He was logistics manager at the school and was also a businessman. Uncle Elik was the director of a store. Uncle Psakhe was a financial specialist. Aunt Haika was married and was a housewife. Ide-Leib moved to England in the 1930s and lived in London. They all died, but I don't remember when.

I don't know how my parents met, but I think it might have happened during one of the visits of my father's family to Kopaygorod. My parents married in 1922. They had a traditional Jewish wedding. They had a wedding ceremony with a chuppah at the synagogue in Kopaygorod, and they had a huge wedding party. The whole town was invited to the wedding: Jews and Ukrainians. The newlyweds moved to Koryshkov and had another wedding party there arranged by my father's parents. They settled down in Koryshkov. My grandfather gave three hectares of land to each of his sons who married. So my father worked on his own land after he married, and my mother was a housewife. At first, my parents rented a house until my father had enough money to buy one. I remember this house very well. We lived in it before the war. It was an ordinary Ukrainian house with a thatched roof and clay floors. The house had three rooms and a kitchen. We had a shed in the yard where livestock and hay for the winter were kept. We had a cow, 10 sheep and numerous chicken and geese. We also had two horses.

Growing up

I was born on 20th August 1924. I was my parents' first child. According to Jewish tradition the mother gives a name to the first child. I was named Ruvin after my mother's grandfather. My parents had another son in 1926. He was named Iermiuya after my father's grandfather. Iosif was born in 1929 and my little sister Masia was born in 1934.

My parents worked from morning till night and all the children helped them. I shepherded geese when I was five, and then, after I grew older, I began to shepherd the cattle. My father grew grain of high quality and vendors eagerly bought his crops. My father was a very good farmer. His cows produced at least three buckets of milk each. My mother milked cows three times a day. My father was a good gardener, too. We had a nice orchard and a kitchen garden. In the autumn my father hired employees to help him with the harvesting. He paid them well.

Our family was very religious. My parents observed all the religious traditions and taught us to do the same. My mother didn't wear a wig, but she always covered her head with a shawl. My brothers, my sister and I received a religious education. We studied Hebrew, and read the Torah and the Talmud with our teachers. I can still remember when and what prayer one needs to say. I also remember the prayers. However, during Soviet times I didn't have the opportunity to deepen my knowledge of Judaism.

We spoke Yiddish in the family, and Ukrainian and Russian with our Ukrainian and Russian neighbors. The Jews in Koryshkov visited each other and kept in touch. They often got together for dinner. They also socialized with their Ukrainians neighbors., etc. Ukrainians knew that they were not expected at Sabbath and left us alone on this day. People were very tolerant towards each other's faith. There was no anti-Semitism.

Our family always celebrated the Sabbath and Jewish holidays. My mother always cooked bean or carrot tsimes 2, chicken broth, chicken and fish. My mother baked challah, cookies and pies with cottage cheese or meat. We had separate dishes for meat and dairy products. The rules of kashrut were strictly followed. The shochet in Kopaygorod killed chicken and geese. If there was a calf or lamb to be slaughtered, the shochet was invited to come to our house before major Jewish holidays or family celebrations.

I liked to visit my grandfather Isroel on Saturdays. He prayed at home on Saturdays. My grandmother had all the meals prepared for Saturday. She cooked cholent in a big ceramic pot. She capped the pot with dough and put it in the oven to keep it warm for Saturday. My grandmother also cooked pitcha - chicken necks, legs and chicken giblets boiled with garlic, vinegar and eggs. This dish is supposed to be eaten cold. She also made stuffed fish and two freshly made challot covered with a nice embroidered towel. After my grandmother lit the candles and said her prayer, she turned her face to us. The door to the room was open and we always said 'Shabbat Shalom', greeting the coming in of Saturday. Then my grandfather recited Kiddush, blessing the wine. The wine was poured into a big wine glass. After my recited Kiddush he took a sip from the glass and gave it to my grandmother. She took a sip and then handed the glass to me. My grandfather also recited Kiddush over the challah. He poured himself a little cup of vodka, recited Kiddush over the challah and drank the vodka. Then he asked my grandmother to give him a bite of something to eat. She put a cookie in his hand. Each of us took a small piece of challah and ate it, dipping it into salt.

My mother's father lived in Kopaygorod. We spent Yom Kippur and Rosh Hashanah there. We stayed with my grandfather Moshe and my grandfather Isroel stayed at his friend's home. We all had our own seat in the synagogue and went there to pray. We all fasted on Yom Kippur, even the children, from an early age. My relatives and I have always fasted, except during the years of army service.

We celebrated Pesach at home. The first seder lasted until morning, until we read the whole Haggadah in Yiddish. We started preparations for Pesach long before the holiday. We made matzah at grandfather Isroel's home. He had all the necessary tools to make the matzah . He kept them in the attic.

Other Jews also came to Isroel's home to make their matzah . They usually made it from one or two pounds [32 kilos] of flour. There was not to be a crumb of bread in the house at Pesach. . My grandfather had a special big kosher board used only for rolling out the dough for the matzah, a special bowl, rolling pin and a wheel for making holes. Stiff dough was made from water and flour, then holes were made and in about 15 minutes the dough was to be put in the stove. The freshly baked matzah was placed on a special white sheet.

.There were people in town who made a special kind of wine from raisins. My father went to Kopaygorod to get some wine. My mother made a special beetroot drink (kvass) for the Pesach borsht. All baked goods were made from matzah flour. The matzah was crushed and then sieved. My mother made traditional stuffed fish, chicken broth, boiled chicken and beygelakh, little bagels made from matzah flour. My mother also baked keyzelakh from matzah flour, eggs and boiled potatoes with geese cracklings. My mother also made pancakes and strudels with jam, nuts and raisins. The house was always very clean. We brought out fancy dishes from storage in the attic. On the eve of Pesach we searched for breadcrumbs to burn.

On the first day of Pesach my mother covered the table with a snow-white cloth. In the center of the table there was a dish with six symbolic foods: zroa - a piece of fried meat with a bone, maror - horseradish, beitsah - hard-boiled egg, charoset - ground apple with wine and nuts, karpas - greens or vegetables with salted water in a saucer, and matzah on a plate. After the prayer it was necessary to dip the greens in the salted water and eat them to feel the bitter taste of slavery of our ancestors in Egypt. We all drank the Pesach wine. There was always an extra glass poured for the prophet Elijah. According to Jewish legend, the prophet Elijah visits every home on the first day of Pesach and drinks from the cup that has been poured for him. He is invisible, but he can see everything in the house. The door is kept open for the prophet to come in and honor the holiday with his presence.

At Purim my parents arranged Purimshpilen, holiday performances in the village. They were lots of fun. At Purim my mother always made hamantashen, and gave them to all of our family members. At Chanukkah we were given money. Mother lit the central candle on the first day of Chanukkah and recited a blessing. Then she lit one candle from it, and then each member of the family lit one candle in a beautiful silver chanukkiyah every night for 8 days. Every morning the whole family said a prayer. At Sukkot my father made a sukkah in the yard and we had lunch and dinner there. It was often cold or it rained, but we still had to stay in the sukkah and my father used to say that it was the Lord reminding us about the sufferings of the Jews.

We celebrated all holidays and followed the fasting. I don't know what my parents and grandparents thought about the Revolution of 1917, but I know what they thought about collectivization 3. When the decree on collectivization was issued, my grandfather called all his sons and told them to submit their applications to the collective farm 4 on the following day. They tried to tell him that they wanted to work on their own land. But my grandfather explained to them that if they wanted to live with their families peacefully in their houses they had to join the collective farm. My father and his brothers obeyed their father and were the first to submit their applications. All the rest of the Jews decided to go along with the collectivization. The youngest brother, Moshe, was appointed chairman of the village council. Berl became a foreman of the collective farm. Shmil-Leib became director of the store, and my father became chief of logistics.

Regardless of their official posts my father and his brothers remained very religious. However, they didn't go to synagogue openly. They went secretly and only on important holidays. They went early in the morning while people were asleep, and afterwards went to work. But they celebrated the Sabbath and all the religious holidays at home. My parents often went to celebrate holidays with my mother's parents. Many farmers refused to join the collective farms. They were declared to be kulaks 5 and were sent with their families into exile in Siberia. They were not allowed to take any luggage with them into exile. I can still see this picture and hear the screams and crying of women forced to leave their homes. About one third of the Ukrainian population of Koryshkov was deported.

My school years

I went to school in 1931 when I was 7. I attended the Ukrainian secondary school in Koryshkov. There was a Jewish school in Kopaygorod and my grandfather Moshe wanted me to go there and live in his house. My mother told him that Jewish schools had no perspectives and that I was to study where I lived. My mother turned out to be right. I studied all subjects in Ukrainian. My Ukrainian was fluent so I had no problems in this regard. There were a few other Jewish children in my class and at school. I studied successfully. I had an excellent memory and I was fond of all subjects. I knew literature and history, physics and chemistry and algebra and zoology very well. The world was opening up to me and I tried to absorb everything I learned.

We celebrated Soviet holidays at school. We had meetings in the morning where the school director and the schoolteachers greeted us. This was an official function. Then we went to the village cultural center where our parents were invited, too. We performed concerts, sang Soviet songsd, danced and recited poems. We liked these holidays very much and we enjoyed the applause.

While in the 3rd grade, I became a pioneer. I was eager to become a pioneer. I believed in communism and the promised happy future. Although my parents were religious people they didn't have any objections to my becoming a pioneer. My father said: 'Do it, if you have to'. At that time pioneers were called upon to struggle against religious prejudices and make their parents atheist. But I was of two minds concerning this. I listened to what I was told at school and accepted those ideas, but also enjoyed meals at Sabbath and other holidays at home. I remember coming home after school one day and saying to my father that our teacher had told us that there was no God and that it was all a false belief devised by people. He answered, 'You'll answer your teacher following her words. However, I taught you the Ten Commandments, and they will be your guidelines all your life'. I have always done as he told me.

In 1932-33 there was a terrible famine in Ukraine 6. Our cow saved us from starving to death. There were only three cows left in the whole village, and ours was one of them. During collectivization, only cows and chickens were left with their owners. Everything else was made public property. We didn't let our cow go to pasture. It would have been slaughtered by starving people. My father mowed grass and fed the cow in our yard. The cow stayed overnight in the anteroom of our house. My father slept beside it at night with an ax in his hands to defend himself from thieves if they came at night. In the morning my mother milked the cow. This bucket of milk was for our family, my grandfather and my father's brothers. During the afternoon milking hungry people came to our yard, and my mother poured each of them a cup of milk until it was finished. My mother never took any money for the milk. During the evening milking she also gave milk to people. We also ate corn that had been stored in our attic for a few years. We dried and ground the corn manually and boiled it. Milk and corn was our only food for two years. Our large family survived, but many other people didn't. Many people were dying; there were often no survivors in a family.

In 1933 my mother's father Moshe starved to death. He didn't tell us about his miserable physical condition. He was afraid he would be an unbearable burden on us. He knew that things were difficult for us, too. He lived in Kopaygorod. He was buried according to Jewish tradition in the Jewish cemetery. My father's parents also died some time later. My grandmother Hana died in Koryshkov in 1936 and my grandfather Isroel died in 1938. They were buried according to Jewish tradition in the Jewish section of the cemetery in Koryshkov. The rabbi from Kopaygorod came to their funeral.

The synagogues in Kopaygorod - there were several of them - were open until 1936. When the struggle against religion 7 intensified they were closed. The Christian church was also closed. In those years it was not safe to go to synagogue. There was only one synagogue left of the 300 existing in Kiev before the Revolution of 1917.

The arrests during the Great Terror 8 didn't touch our family. My father instructed me not to speak with strangers and to answer any and all questions that people asked with 'I don't know'. I was a sociable boy and my father realized that any person could be a KGB informer and that any of my revelations could work against him. I could inadvertently give away information; even saying that we celebrated religious holidays at home, or anything else might become a basis for further accusations. My father knew that people could be found guilty of espionage or anti-Soviet activities, even though they might be innocent. We didn't turn on lights at home until we secured the windows with blankets, and we spoke in whispers; even the most innocent words could be interpreted voluntarily, although my parents didn't have any anti-Soviet discussions.

The school director and deputy director were arrested. We were told that they were public enemies and that they were teaching works by Soviet authors who had been declared public enemies. We were just children and believed what we were told. But we couldn't imagine how these kind, nice people could be public enemies. We kept silent and didn't comment on anything.

In our free time we played football and went swimming in the summer. I read a lot. I mainly read books that glorified the Soviet power. My favorite book was How Steel was Tempered by Nikolay Ostrovsky. It is about dedicated Komsomol members of the post-revolutionary period. I idolized Pavel Korchagin, the main character of this book. I was eager to become a Komsomol 9 member. I entered the Komsomol before finishing school.

In 1933 Hitler came to power in Germany. My parents and our fellow villagers were common people who didn't give much thought to the situation in Germany at that period. They didn't have any presentiment of the war. The propaganda of those years was very strong. We were convinced that we were the strongest people in the world and could beat any enemy. There was also another factor. Many Jews, including my father, who knew Germans during World War I said that Germans were educated people and wouldn't do any harm to the Jews.

I finished school with honors. Our class was the first graduation class in our school. We had a school prom on 19th June 1941. It was a big event for schoolchildren and their parents. It started with an official part that turned into a party. There was a brass orchestra playing dance music. The next day I mailed my school certificate to the Faculty of Law of Kiev State University. I had the right to be admitted without having to take the entrance exams.

During the war

On 22nd June my friends and I had a party to celebrate our obtaining of school certificates. Many of us were going on to study in other towns. We partied all night. When I came home on the morning of 22nd June 1941 my parents were not home. They had gone to the market in Kopaygorod. I sent my younger brother and sister to play in the yard so that I could have a good sleep. I slept like a log until I woke up hearing someone knocking on the door and on the windows. It was my schoolmate. I asked him why he was knocking as if a house was on fire. He said, 'Worse than that. The war has begun'. That was my memory of the beginning of the war. There was an announcement on the radio. Kiev had been bombed.

We failed to evacuate. We lived too far from the railroad and failed to reach it. In about a month and a half Vinnitsa region was occupied by German and Romanian troops. We were under occupation. The occupiers established a Jewish ghetto in Koryshkov. This area was under the jurisdiction of Romania. There were many Jews from Chernovtsy and Romania in the ghetto. The village was fenced in with barbed wire and a gendarme post was built. The first group of people to arrive at the ghetto was accommodated in the pigsty and spent the whole winter there. There was no heating there, not even a small stove. They all died. The newcomers were accommodated in public facilities. They were overcrowded and dirty.

We lived in our house, but we occupied only one room. Other rooms were given to newcomers to the ghetto. My mother voluntarily took them to the house to help. I cannot say exactly how many people there were in the ghetto. There were six to eight thousand people before the war when each family lived in their house. During the occupation there were four or five families in every house. Life was very hard. It was impossible to get a wash, do the laundry or change. We had a garden and a kitchen garden that helped a little with the food situation, but we were still always hungry. My mother always shared whatever we had with the others. When we ran out of all food we starved along with the others.

We were convoyed to work at the collective farm. We didn't get any food. People were shot for the slightest violations. If a person stole something to eat, he would be whipped to death. We couldn't cross the boundaries of the village. One could get shot for leaving the village. There were no mass shootings in the ghetto, but people were starving to death, and dying of diseases, hard work and tortures. There was a swamp near the river. Romanians did not take horses to the river. They didn't want them to get their hooves dirty. They harnessed strong Jewish men to the carts to bring water from the river for their horses. They whipped those that lagged behind the others.

There was a Jewish council [Judenrat] 10 in the ghetto. Its members were people that volunteered to serve the Romanians. But they were trying so hard to gain favor with their masters that they made the lives of the other Jews even more difficult.

Regardless of all the hardships of the ghetto, we tried to keep our Jewish traditions. We got together every Friday and on holidays to pray. We couldn't celebrate the Sabbath or other holidays, but traditional fasting came very naturally. We starved most of the time, anyway.

There was no medical care in the ghetto. There were nurses and doctors among the inmates, but they didn't have any medications. The community in Kopaygorod received some medications from the Red Cross and sometimes we could get some from them. Hundreds of people died of typhoid in the ghetto. We lived through all kinds of hardships. So, while the Germans were just shooting the Jews, the Romanians persecuted them through hunger, anti- sanitary conditions and epidemics, which caused the mass extinction of the Jewish population. It's difficult to say what was worse, but I know that there were more survivors under Romanian occupation than under the Germans. That's all; I've had enough of reminiscences related to this period.

The Soviet army liberated us from the ghetto in March 1944. I was 20 years old. I remember the first Soviet tanks bursting into the ghetto. Romanians had left the night before. The hatch of the first tank was open. A soldier was standing there repeating one word 'Free!' We were afraid to believe it. Many people had tears in their eyes. I volunteered to go to the military registry office and was sent to the front with the units of the Soviet army that liberated us. My family stayed in Koryshkov. I was at the front for about a year and a half. I entered the Communist Party and became a communist. It wasn't like I needed it. I grew older and could analyze things. I remembered collectivization and the arrests in the 1930s. I understood that it was the intentional extermination of the people under the slogans of the Communist Party. But I understood that it was necessary to join the Communist Party to make a career.

I served in the infantry during the war. I was a good soldier and my comrades treated me with respect. I wasn't the only Jewish soldier, but at that time there was no national segregation of people. We had other criteria. Shortly before Victory Day I was severely wounded near Prague. On Victory Day I was in a hospital in Cracow. Before I was wounded I took part in the liberation of Ukrainian areas, the Carpathians, Ivano-Frankovsk and the region around it, Czechoslovakia, Poland and Hungary. When the war was over I was sent to serve in the reserve regiment. This regiment was sent to the Far East to fight in the war with Japan 11. Our military unit was based in Khabarovsk. After the war with Japan was over, I was sent to study at the Aviation School in Khabarovsk. I studied there for a year and then the school was disbanded a month and a half before our graduation. We were given qualifications as aircraft mechanics. Upon graduation I served at the air units in North Korea and China. We were fighting to liberate China, Korea and Manchuria from Japanese occupation. We lived in a military neighborhood that was a confined area with its own supplies and health services. We were not allowed to go into town. We were told that the situation in town was complicated and that provocations were possible. We worked at the aerodrome and lived in the barracks. We received newspapers and letters. I never went outside our military neighborhood. I was given the rank of sergeant during my service.

Post-war

In 1948 my father died. I decided to return to Koryshkov. My commander was trying to persuade me to stay, promising me promotion to lieutenant technician, but I refused. In March 1950 I demobilized from the army. I returned to Koryshkov and got a job at the district industrial association in Kopaygorod. At that time I faced anti-Semitism in my daily life and on the state level as well. I couldn't obtain employment in Koryshkov for a long time, for doubtful reasons. They told me that their management was away and they were not authorized to hire personnel, or they didn't know whether this or that vacancy was still open. I was insistent. Besides, I was a party member and a war veteran, so I was employed. As for anti- Semitism in my daily life, I often heard the word 'zhyd' [kike] applied to me.

After I returned home I got married. My wife was the same age as I and came from Kopaygorod. Her name was Raissa Perelman. Her Jewish name was Rachel. My wife didn't have a professional education. She finished Ukrainian secondary school in Kopaygorod. After we married she became a housewife. After we moved to Chernovtsy, Raissa worked as assistant accountant at the Trembita Factory, but she quit and returned to housekeeping. We just had a civil wedding ceremony. It was no time for parties. I wanted to continue my studies, but I couldn't leave my family. I had to earn a living.

I remember Stalin's death in March 1953. It was a blow for most of the people I knew, but it was a relief for me. I remembered the collectivization and the arrests of the 1930s [during the so-called Great Terror]. I knew that Stalin was aware of these. Therefore, the Twentieth Party Congress 12 where Khruschev 13 spoke about the denunciation of the cult of Stalin wasn't a shock for me. I believed that everything they said at the Congress was true, but it was a drop in the bucket compared to what really happened in the country during Stalin's regimen.

In 1952 my brother Iosif moved to Chernovtsy. He wanted to study and find a good job and he understood that there were more opportunities in a bigger town. My mother and sister soon joined him. My brother Iermiuya and his family settled down in Zhmerinka. In 1957 my wife and I also decided to move to Chernovtsy. We rented an apartment for some time. I went to work as a mechanic at the Trembita Garment Factory. In a short while, I received an apartment. I understood that I had to get some professional education. In 1957 I entered the Faculty of Sewing Industry at the Kiev University of Light Industry. I studied there by correspondence. In 1963 I obtained the diploma of production engineer of the sewing industry. I worked at the Trembita Factory for 32 years until I retired.

My mother continued to observe all Jewish traditions after we moved to Chernovtsy. She celebrated the Sabbath and Jewish holidays and went to synagogue. There was one synagogue in Chernovtsy at that time. It is still there and is the only one in town. My brother and I visited our mother with our families on holidays, but we didn't celebrate Jewish holidays in our families. If the authorities had found out, our careers would have been over. But anyway, we continued to fast on Yom Kippur. We were communists and couldn't follow the Jewish traditions. We celebrated Soviet holidays and got together with our friends and colleagues. All Soviet holidays were days off and we were glad to relax and meet friends.

In the 1970s many Jews were moving to Israel. I sympathized with them. My brother Iosif and his family and my sister Masia with her husband and children also left. My mother died in 1970. I didn't want to leave because. I believed that my motherland was here, however difficult life in Ukraine could be. My wife agreed with me.

My present-day life

I don't want to talk about the latest period of my life. It is my private life, not history. That's why I'll be brief. My brother Iosif died in Israel in 1983. My brother Iermiuya died in Zhmerinka in 1978. My sister Masia died in Israel in 2002. I have nephews, but we are out of touch with them. I don't even have family photographs. My brother and sister took them to Israel and I don't know whether they still exist there.

My first wife, Raissa, died of a disease in 1994. In 1995 I married for the second time. My wife, Ludmila Gitman [nee Artischeva], , was born in the town of Chesny, Kazakhstan in 1932. Her family came from this town and she lived there before the war and for some time after the war. She graduated from the Kazakh Polytechnic University. She was a design engineer. Upon graduation, Ludmila lived and worked in Chernovtsy. We are pensioners now. My wife is Russian, but a few generations of her family have practiced Judaism. Her ancestors accepted Judaism back in the 17th century. Many Russian families converted to Judaism. It is hard to say why it happened so. My wife knows the Torah and Jewish traditions and rituals as well as I do. We have no children.

Jewish life in Ukraine has livened up recently. Jewish public organizations have opened in Chernovtsy. Hesed provides assistance with food packages, medications, good medical care and so on. We also receive Jewish newspapers and magazines. I always read them with interest. There is a big library in Hesed. We also celebrate the Sabbath and all Jewish holidays there. At Purim there was a Purimshpil at the theater in Chernovtsy. My wife and I observe Jewish traditions. We fast on Yom Kippur. We celebrate Pesach, Rosh Hashanah and other holidays. I also take an active part in the activities of the Ghetto Inmates Association and the Association of Veterans of the Great Patriotic War 14. We put in order an abandoned Jewish cemetery in Chernovtsy. We search for the locations of mass shootings and the burial of Jews during the war to install monuments in these locations. The latest monument was inaugurated on Ukrainian Independence Day in the village of Mileyevo near Chernovtsy on 24th August 2002. Over 100 Jewish inhabitants of Mileyevo were killed there. We need to remember those who perished to keep further generations informed about the horrors of war. Let people remember and preserve peace on Earth.

Glossary

Sarah Zauer
Kohtla-Jarve
Estonia
Interviewer: Alexandr Dusman

The thugs especially liked to rip open pillows and featherbeds. After the
pogrom, we were up to our knees in feathers.

UNCLEAR WHAT IS MEANT BY FOLLOWING LINE IN ANECDOTE, INTENDED TO SHOW
HUMOR, IN TEXT: One day she said: "If God wants to punish somebody, he
bereaves him of his mind."

To begin my story I would first remember Mmy mother's grandfather Meir
Yasinover. He was a legendary person, because he kept both his faith and
his language although he served in the czarist army for 25 years. It took
much courage. When he returned home after the army, he married and lived
with his family in Balta, near Odessa.

His son Haim Yasinover, my grandfather, was born in 1855 and, after
finishing cheder, he lived with his family in Ananyev, near Odessa.
Grandfather did not serve in the army. His wife, Ester, my grandmother, was
uneducated. She took care of the household. They brought up nine children.
The native tongue in the family was Yiddish.

My grandfather and grandmother were very religious. As a regular visitor of
the synagogue, Grandfatherpa even had his personal place there. They kept a
kosher household. Shabbat was sacred. On Shabbat, the extended family - --
children, then grandchildren - -- gathered in their house. Grandmother
cooked perfectly the traditional Jewish dishes: kugel, latkes and kreplach.
But those dishes were prepared only on holidays, because the family was led
a very poor life and barely made ends meet.

My mother remembered that in Ananyev they had a small cob workhouse covered
with straw. Stoves were warmed with pressed dung. There were hens and ducks
in the yard. We gathered their feathers and made pillows and featherbeds.

My grandfather had some horses. He was a carter and took goods to the
merchants. Grandfather engaged some workers when his business ran well.
When the eldest sons grew up, they helped him. I think all the children
went to cheder.

But soon life became absolutely intolerable. At the beginning of 20th
century, Jewish pogroms began in Russia. As Mother told me that , there
were three or four pogroms every year. It was very terrifying. All of a
sudden, a crowd of infuriated people appeared on the street - who were
armed with axes, sticks, iron rods. They rushed into the Jewish houses,
plundered, broke and destroyed everything - except for the portraits of the
emperor and empress - beat and killed adults and children. If the thugs
were natives, they never harmed Grandfather's house. They cried: "Here
lives Haim;, his father waged war for the czar." But when strangers came to
make a pogrom, they had no mercy. Ukrainian neighbors hid children; adults
hid on their own. The thugs especially liked to rip open pillows and
featherbeds. After the pogrom, we were up to our knees in feathers.

During one pogrom, Motherum,, who was 13 then, didn't have time to escape
and she hid under a bed. The drunken Cossacks saw the Jewish girl under a
bed. They began to "have a good time" - -- to thrust their saberes into
her, piercing and cutting her legs. Her wounds didn't heal for a while. The
local authorities, to cover their responsibility, sent her for medical
treatment to Odessa, at their own expense. The next year she had to walk on
crutches. But one leg remained misshapen for the rest of her life.

The pogroms did not stop, and because of the intensifying anti-Semitism,
Haim Yasinover decided to leave Russia. In 1910, he went by rail to Harbin,
China. One year later, the rest of his family followed him. After tryhaving
tried different jobs, Haim became a real estate broker. Although Haim's
income was not very high, the family was materially secure. At that time,
Harbin could be considered a Russian town; Russian was the most widely
spoken language. The Jewish community in Harbin was quite large, and there
was a synagogue there, as well. The Jewish traditions in the Yasinover
family didn't change, but younger children didn't get a religious
education, only a secular one. In Harbin, they went to Russian schools and
gymnasia.

I remember Aunt Zina and Uncle Grisha the best. Zina was the youngest
daughter and the favorite of our family. She was born in Ananyev and she
finished the Russian gymnasium in Harbin. She was very attractive and had a
nice, strong voice. She took singing lessons. Aunt Zina always took part in
Jewish parties for charity. She married Joseph Robinson, who worked in a
bank. They had a daughter, Tanya. Their family was one of the first to feel
the negative changes in Harbin, and they left for Shanghai. Robinson
started his brokerage there. Tanya went to a prestigious French school. She
was good at English and French. Their family was a member of the French
club. Tanya married a young man from a well-to-do Jewish family, and they
moved to Canada. At the beginning of the 1950s, Aunt Zina and her husband
left for the United States.

Uncle Grisha had a printing house, which the communists nationalized. He
was married a few times but he did not have any children. Later he lived
alone. His business was his main interest in his life. He took the loss of
his printing house very hard. Later we got a letter from Uncle Geisha's
housekeeper. She wrote that Uncle Grisha was ill. He was sent to a nursing
home in Denmark, where he died at the beginning of the 1960s.

Ester Yasinover, my grandmother, died in Harbin at the beginning of the
1940s. After World War II, Haim left for Israel to settle with his son, and
he died there at the age of 95.

My mother, Anna Yasinover, was born in 1893 in Ananyev. She only had an
elementary education. She married Israel Liberman in Harbin. Before getting
married, she worked for in a milliner and in a sewing workshop. After her
marriage, she was a housewife. She spoke Russian and Yiddish.

My father , Israel Liberman, was born in 1898 in Bialystok, Poland, in an
Orthodox Jewish family. I don't know much about his family, because they
lived pretty far away, in Poland, and we had never seen them. But I do know
that they spoke Yiddish. My father had a traditional Jewish education and
spoke both Yiddish and Polish. Later, in Harbin he learned Russian and a
little bit of English.

My father was a well-educated person. He studied in cheder for three years,
and he finished secondary school. I'm not sure what language they used in
school, but I think it was Polish. I remember that in China my father
wrote articles for American newspapers and he received an honorarium for
that. My mother was proud of her husband. In Poland, my father used to work
in a printing house and had a command of different some skills. He could
work as a printer, typesetter and proof-reader. I don't know where he
learned the printing trade.

In 1920, Father decided to go from Poland to America - not in the most
common way, but via Russia and China. But he had to stop in Harbin because
he lacked the money to go on. He met my mother there, and they got married
in 1920. Father worked as a printer in a printing house. In one year, he
saved enough money to open his own print shop. He bought the equipment on
credit. He started to work first with Mother, and later he was able to
engage workers - -- printers, typesetters, book-binders. They printed
advertisements, office books, theatre programs for theatre, etc. My mother
printed visiting cards, using a small printing machine. The print shop was
in the same building in which we rented an apartment. The print shop was on
the first floor, and we lived on the second floor.

In 1937, Father received an order from the Polish Embassy in China to print
an advertising catalogue. Poland wanted to recover trade with Japan and
China. Father went to Poland, Japan and all over China to collect
advertising. These catalogues were published in 1937 and 1938. In 1938, the
family left for Shanghai because fascist organizations appeared in Harbin
in 1936-1937. There were fascists with anti-Semitic slogans in the streets.
We waited to leave for the USA. Preparing the 1939 edition of the
catalogue, Father went to Poland again. It was in August 1939. At the
Polish Embassy, they warned him about the danger of staying in Poland. But
Father did not want to let down the advertisers, and maybe he did not
understand how serious the situation was in Europe. He was in Warsaw on
September 1, 1939. He had time to transfer money to his family; after this,
there was no message from him. In 1940, he sent a strange letter, without
his signature, from Brest. He wrote that he was working in a printing
house. This was the last letter from him.

In 1963, Dov Lutskiy, Father's nephew, who was living in Tel Aviv, found
me. He wrote that his parents' family from Bialystok and my father had been
lost in a German concentration camp during the Holocaust.

With the money that was sent by Father, Mother bought a big apartment and
rented out rooms. Jews - -- refugees from Austria, Germany, Poland - --
lived there. During the war, on demand of the Germans, the Japanese
authorities created a Jewish ghetto in the area where Jews - refugees - --
lived. Mother remained in the ghetto too, since her apartment was there.
But no Jew was subjected to repression by the Japanese.

The ghetto looked liked this: All Jewish refugees had to live together in
the same district. Refugees rented rooms or flats there. The Red Cross
organized the camp for the indigent refugees. The indigents lived and were
fed there.

The permanent inhabitants of the district - the Chinese, Russians, Jews -
stayed in their flats. They had a pass with a red stripe, and Jews had a
pass with a yellow stripe. There was a curfew for refugees. The commandant
was a Japanese officer. During the military actions, when the Americans
bombed Shanghai, some bombs fell on the refugee camp. There were many
victims. The Americans never bombed residential areas, and this was an
accident.

My name is Sarah Sussana Liberman. I was born in Harbin in 1923, and I was
an only child. I lived there until 1938 and went to the English school. My
parents spoke Yiddish among themselves and Russian and Yiddish with me. We
had a very cozy, comfortable four-room flat - -- with a bath, hot water, --
nice furniture, a piano, radio and a Chinese servant who helped my mother
keep house. We read newspapers in Russian, English, and my father dad read
in Yiddish. We went to the public library. My parents had a few friends who
came to visit us. They were all Jews; my girlfriends were Jewish, too. My
childhood passed in peace and love.

My parents, especially Ffather, went to synagogue, but the family was more
secular than religious. Still, we ate kosher food at home and on Friday we
lit the Shabbat candles. On Friday evenings, we were at home or at
Grandfather's house. On Saturdays, we had lessons at school, so I had to
carry my books myself, read and write. We had only Sundays free. Of the
Jewish holidays, we celebrated Purim and Passover.

I was a happy child. On Sundays, I spent my time with my parents. We went
for a walk, to the cinema, we visited children's parties, and had dinner at
a restaurant. In the evening, my parents went to the theatre or to a
concert.

My father was a musical person. He played the harmonium. Sometimes he
arranged a concert for my mother and me - -- he sang Jewish songs in
Yiddish, popular songs in English, and Polish songs.

I was taught to play the piano. I had music lessons at home. My father
dreamed that I would graduate from the Academy of Music and become a
pianist. But that was in vain. I had three girlfriends - -- Galia, Frida
and Sarah - -- who were my schoolmates. They often came to see me. We went
together to cinema, theatre, sports competitions, and on bicycle rides. In
the summer, I went to a summer resort with my mother for three months. In
Harbin, there was a big river called Sungary, and on the other side of the
river there were bungalows. We liked being there.

In Harbin, I was a member of the Zionist youth organization Betar. It
prepared the youth for the future Jewish State. The state didn't exist yet,
and the activists of the Zionist movement did not expect an easy life in
Israel. That's why they grew strong, healthy youth. Boys were engaged in
boxing, wrestling and jujitsu. For girls, it was gymnastics, track and
field athletics, games. We had a uniform: a brown skirt (or trousers) and
shirt, yellow tie and a field cup with a menorah on it. When we met, we
sang the anthem of Israel, "Hatikvah," and other songs in Hebrew. Many
members of Betar then left for Palestine.

In 1933 or 1934, there was a procession for some Japanese holiday in
Harbin. A column of marchers from Betar went near a column of fascists -
black shirts. The Zionists carried a white and blue flag with the "Magen
David," and the fascists carried a flag with a black swastika. And all sang
the Japanese anthem in Japanese. At that time, we did not know yet what
fascism was, but the first understanding came very soon. In the house next
to us there was a German family. I was friendly with their son Erich. He
was also a member of a children's organization, but a fascist one. He told
me that they sang songs, too, played sports and wore uniforms. He spent one
summer in the children's fascist camp, and when he returned he told me that
I could not even approach him because I was a Jew and he was Aryan, the
representative of a supreme race. Then he said Jews did not have any right
to exist at all. I felt insulted and terrible.

I finished school in Shanghai. It was the Jewish school, but the classes
were conducted in English. I have no memories about my schools in Harbin
and Shanghai. I only remember that my school was very far from our house
and that we had to travel on a double-decker bus and ride for about one
hour. During our trip to school we could repeat our lessons. Sometimes we
went to school on a rickshaw. After finishing school, I completed a
shorthand and typing course and worked as a secretary in an American firm.

We were waiting for permission to go to the USA and we got it at the end of
1939. My father was not with us at that time. But my mother believed he
would return. She was afraid that Father would not find us if we left for
the USA, so we stayed in Shanghai. We ran a boarding house and it helped
maintain our family. I worked as a secretary-typist, then as a bookkeeper.
It was wartime and many firms closed. It was difficult to find a job.

I met my future husband, Paul Zauer, in 1942 in an outdoor café where I
went with my girlfriend. Paul was Russian; he came with his mother from
Russia in 1922. He was an independent person by this time, six years older
than I. He worked as a foreman at a Swiss steel mill and took
correspondence courses at the London Architectural College. He spoke
Russian and English.

My relatives did not like it that he was Russian, and his relatives did not
like it that I was Jewish. TAs for us, it did not matter. We were going out
for almost two years, and our parents accepted it in the end. It was war
time, so our wedding was very modest - -- just the registration and a
festive party for the relatives. My husband and I were married for 44
years. The national question was never a cause of quarrel or difference of
opinions between us.

Now I must return to 1943, when the Soviet club was opened in Shanghai.
Paul and I were active members. It was a very interesting and merry place.
There were parties, concerts and lectures about the USSR. I took part in
the performances. We sang Soviet songs, saw Soviet films. Representatives
from the Soviet Embassy came and told us about the position at the front.
They showed orders and medals. We listened to the Soviet radio.

After the victory in Germany, later in Japan, the prestige of the Soviet
Union grew, especially among the Russian-speaking population of China.

At last in 1948 a Shanghai Russian newspaper published a decree of the
Soviet Government that all interested Russian-speaking people could depart
forto the USSR. We decided to go to this remarkable country, which defeated
fascism, where all people had equal rights and all people were heroes. We
were not afraid of the difficulties. We were glad that our son, who was
born in 1946, could grow up in this wonderful country. To tell the truth,
my mother did not want to go there but we persuaded her. About 10,000
people wanted to go to the USSR. Russian immigrant newspapers frightened
us: "You will be deported to camp in Siberia. Change your mind! Where are
you going?" But we did not believe them. My mother sold our flat and my
husband left his well-paid job.

We gave back our passports and at the end of 1948 we moved from Shanghai to
Vladivostok. We traveled for three days, but instead of Vladivostok our
ship arrived in the port Nakhodka. At that time there were camps with
watchtowers, which were enclosed with barbed wire. We lived there in a
barrack for one month. Before us, Japanese captives had lived there. There
were people of different nations among us. There were some Jewish families,
too. In Shanghai we were told that we could choose where we would live. We
chose Ukraine or the Caucasus. In Nakhodka we were told: "Choose! Siberia
or the Urals." We were afraid of Siberia and we decided to go to the Urals.
We were put into vans used for heated goods, and were given food. We
traveled for one month.

At last we arrived in the North Urals, at a town called Krasnoturinsk. We
were given one room in a barrack. We collected a stock of firewood; we
sawed and chopped wood ourselves. Around our town, there were only camps of
political and criminal prisoners. The main population of the town was
former prisoners and exiles. They did not have a right to leave there.

We worked at the camp. I worked as a timekeeper in the political prisoners`
camp. I had to check the time the workers came to work and the time they
left. Most of the workers were prisoners; their team-leaders came to me and
we checked their work time. Paul worked as a building master in the
criminal prisoners`' camp. There were many interesting people in the town:
engineers, professors, the military (they came back from captivity), former
Polish officers. Paul had difficulties because the criminals did not want
to work and he could not command. In this situation, he became depressed
and we were very afraid for him. We lived through this period thanks to my
mother. She went shopping, stood in lines, bought food, sold our things -
our clothes, porcelain - prepared meals, looked after my child, and
encouraged us with Jewish humor. One day she said: "If God wants to punish
somebody, he bereaves him of his mind."

After one year, life became easier for us. We got a room in a house with
modern conveniences. We got jobs in the municipal economy. I worked as a
secretary-typist and Paul worked as an engineer. I always dreamed about
theatre. There was an amateur theatre in the cultural centre in
Krasnoturinsk. I took part in two comedies, and they were a success. The
third performance was about war time. I had the main role --- of a Russian
secret agent. When I appeared on the stage, there was an exclamation from
the front rows, where the authorities sat: "Jewish!" After this, the
performance was halted and my career as an actress was finished.

Our neighbors were Estonians. They had been deported from Estonia - -- rich
people whose property was confiscated. They were nice, intelligent people.
They helped our family assimilate to the new conditions of our everyday
life. We were very grateful for their help.

At the end of 1952, we felt we had come to the attention of the KGB. They
came to our neighbors at times and asked about our family. It was the time
when all people who came from abroad were suspected of being spies. We were
lucky enough not to be arrested, because Stalin died in 1953. After the
amnesty in 1953, our Estonian friends went back to Estonia. They said we
should go live there. From 1953, we too could move wherever we liked,
except the capital cities. So we found ourselves in Estonia, in the town
Kohtla-Jarve, where I have been living since 1953.

At first we had difficulties in finding accommodations and jobs, but these
were solved. My husband worked as an operator in a chemical plant until he
retired. He died in 1988. I finished a bookkeepers' training course,s and
worked as a bookkeeper in the phone company and local trade union committee
until retirement.

We spoke Russian at home. We would probably be fully assimilated by now, if
it were not for my mother. She lived with us until her death in 1962. She
kept the house, and helped us bring up our son. She didn't let us forget
that we were Jews. She told our son about her family, Jewish traditions and
holidays; she cooked Jewish dishes. Thanks to my mother, my son and his
children realized that they are Jews.

There was no synagogue in Kohtla-Jarve, but at home we tried to keep Jewish
holidays. My husband also took part in our celebrations, and my son with
his family did, too. My husband and I tried to keep as far away as possible
from anything political - -- no Communist activities, no unpaid social
work. They were taboo for us. Sometimes we went to the May 1 demonstrations
just for fun, not for politics.

After Stalin's death, we were allowed to send correspondence to China. At
last, we could learn something about our relatives. My mother's brother
stayed in China. The others left - -- some to the USA, others to Israel. We
were afraid to write to them. But when we decided to write, nobody
answered. Maybe they changed their address.

In Kohtla-Jarve, our son, Anatoly, finished school, then the Technical
College. He got married and his family left for the town of Narva. His wife
is from a mixed family; her father is a Jew, her mother is Russian. Anatoly
worked as an operator of turbine at an electric power station.

In 1989, the Jewish Community was restored in Estonia. After my husband's
death, it was my salvation against loneliness. I found many new friends. I
have been actively taking part in all events of the Jewish community. I
also am the bookkeeper of our community. After restoring our community, all
our members were euphoric that we could call ourselves Jews, listen to and
sing Jewish songs, have Jewish holidays. The youth rushed to Israel.

Our grandson Boris studied at Tartu University, at the Faculty of Medicine.
He and his Jewish friends dreamed about Israel. Our family - -- meI, my
son, Anatoly, his wife, Lyudmila, their children, Boris and Anna - began to
obtain the documents necessary to emigrate. Lyudmila and Anna began to
study Hebrew seriously. But Fate managed otherwise. During the Chernobyl
accident, Boris served in the Soviet Army not far from Chernobyl. Some
years later, his health started to deteriorate and we lost him in 1992. It
was a very terrible blow for us. Soon after that, Anatoly had a heart
attack. Our move to Israel was canceled. Now Lyudmila is the head master of
the Jewish Sunday school in Narva. She also teaches Hebrew there. My
granddaughter Anna took a correspondence course at the Jewish University in
Moscow for two years. She left for Israel in 1997. She is a nurse. She
lives and works in Jerusalem. She married a French Jew, and the native
language for them became Hebrew. This is how our family came back to its
Jewish roots.

Életrajz

Fazekas Magda közepes termetű, ősz hajú, szelíd tekintetű, halk szavú asszony. Németországban él lányainál az 1990-es évek derekától, de egy-két évente visszajön Marosvásárhelyre, fölkeresi az itteni családi házat, nagyobbik lányával elmegy a hitközséghez, és ellátogat a temetőbe is. Szédervacsorán találkoztam vele, készségesen fölajánlotta, hogy mesél az életéről. Marosvásárhelyen egy tágas, emeletes ház van a család tulajdonában, a ház történetéről is mesélt. Stílusos, még a szülőktől és testvérektől örökölt bútorokkal van berendezve. A ház mögött hangulatos, sövényes, füves udvar található.

Az édesapám szülei Gyergyótölgyesen éltek [Gyergyótölgyes – kisközség volt Csík vm.-ben, 1891-ben 2800 magyar és román, 1910-ben nagyközség 3900 magyar, román és német lakossal, a járási szolgabírói hivatal székhelye volt. Trianon után Romániához került, 1920-ban 3500 lakosa volt. – A szerk.]. Én 1920-ban születtem, és azt hiszem, hogy mikor már olyan korba jutottam, hogy kérdezősködhettem volna, nem tudom, miért, de valahogy nem kérdeztem soha. Nem emlékszem, hogy kérdeztem volna édesapámat az ő szüleiről, mert valószínű, hogy már nem éltek. Az édesapám édesapját Struhl Paskelnek hívták. A nagyapámnak fűrésztelepe volt, fás volt, ezzel foglalkozott. Erdős vidéken éltek. Gyergyószárhegyen, ahol mi laktunk, mindig úgy szólították édesapámat, hogy Paskel úr. Édesapámat úgy hívták, hogy Struhl Arnold, és mégis a falusiak mindig úgy szólították, hogy Paskel úr. Nem tudom megmondani, hogy honnan vették a Paskel nevet, fogalmam sincs.

Édesapámnak is, hogyha jól emlékszem, hét testvére volt, mi is heten voltunk. Én kétszer voltam gyermekkoromban [Gyergyó]Tölgyesen, mert ott még élt az apámnak két testvére, de az édesapám testvérei sosem mondták, hogy menjünk a temetőbe. Hát azok meg kellett volna nekem mutassák, hogy hol vannak eltemetve a nagyszülők. De soha nem esett erről szó.

Azt hiszem, apám, Arnold volt a legidősebb. Az egyik fiútestvére Bernád bácsi volt. Struhl Bernád bácsi nagyon vallásos volt, szakállt viselt. Apám is viselt, de nem olyan nagyot, mint ő. Bernád bácsi abban az időben, amikor Monarchia volt, Debrecenbe költözött. Kereskedő volt, nem tudom, milyen kereskedő, mert sosem voltam Debrecenben. Nem tudom, hogy hívták a feleségét, volt két gyermeke, Andor és Nelli. Zsidó volt a felesége. Bernád bácsi minden évben visszajött Romániába, de csak ő jött, a családja nem. Valamennyi időt nálunk töltött és a testvéreinél, akik Romániában éltek. Úgymond, látogatóba jött. Nelli egy orvoshoz ment férjhez, és egy kislánya volt. Andor jogot végzett, de nem tudott a zsidótörvények miatt Magyarországon elhelyezkedni [lásd: zsidótörvények Magyarországon], és Franciaországba ment. Ő elmenekült. Nellit, Bernád bácsit és a feleségét deportálták. Andor Franciaországban az idegenlégióba ment, amikor elment Magyarországról. Az idegenlégióval Afrikába került, és Szenegálban megismerkedett Szenegál kormányzójának a lányával. Összeházasodtak. A feleségét ugyanúgy hívták, mint a testvérét, Nellinek. Az ő életük érdekes sztori, egy egész regény.

Volt apámnak még egy fivére, azt Aiziknak hívták. Aizik bácsinak tragikus sorsa lehetett, nem tudjuk. Eltűnt. Sose derült ki. Valamilyen problémája lehetett, ilyen tudathasadásos betegsége, skizofrénia. Izsák bácsi elvált volt, volt neki is két gyereke, de pontosan nem tudom, hogy hol éltek. Ezek régebbi történetek, amikor én még gyermek voltam. És nem beszéltek róla, nem tudom, miért.  Tabu téma volt a családban.

Volt egy Cecília nevű testvére is: Cecil néni. Cecil néninek a férjét Hirschnek hívták. Hirsch Herman. [Gyergyó]Tölgyesen jómódú családnak számítottak, egy nagyon szép, nagy kertes házban laktak. Arra emlékszem vissza most, hogy volt egy nagyon nagy gyümölcsöskertjük és rengeteg ribizlifa. És én úgy szerettem a ribizlit, máig nagyon szeretek szedegetni ribizlit. Cecil néni végtelenül szelíd teremtés volt. Gyermektelen házaspár voltak. Herman bácsi bűbájos ember volt. Emlékszem, hogy olyan jól éreztem magamat náluk. Cecíliának és a férjének nagy üzlete volt [Gyergyó]Tölgyesen. Az mindig úgy volt, hogy az üzlethelyiség a családi házban volt. Mindeniknek [a testvérek közül] saját háza volt. Cecíliáéknak szép nagy családi házuk volt. Komfort abban az időben nem létezett. Például olyasmi nem létezett, hogy vízvezeték, még olyan artézi kutak sem voltak abban az időben, a szabadban. Csak rendes kutak voltak, amikből úgy kellett felhúzni a vedret.

Apámnak a másik lánytestvére az Etelka. A férjét Löbl Arnoldnak hívták. Etelkáék is nagyon jómódúak voltak, két gyerekük volt, Hédi és Jenő. Hédike négy évvel fiatalabb volt, mint én, de sokat játszottunk együtt. És náluk is nagyon-nagyon jól éreztem magam, mert Etelka néni nagyon jól főzött, és finomakat ettünk nála, arra jól emlékszem. Rendkívül pedáns volt, olyan tisztaság volt, hogy nem is lehet azt elmondani, és nagyon-nagyon ügyes volt. Etelka pont ellentéte volt Cecil néninek, mert Etelka magas volt, és nem volt kövér egyáltalán, Cecil néni pedig alacsony volt és kövér. Na, ezt kell tudni a két lánytestvéréről. Etelkáék olyan jómódúak voltak, hogy zongorát vettek Hédikének. Azt hiszem, a faluban nem is volt másnak zongorája, csak nekik. Ez már Romániában volt, az 1930-as években lehetett, mert már tíz éves lehettem vagy ilyesmi.

De még van egy másik lánytestvére is, a Lina néni, aki Brassóban lakott. Lina néni férjét Izrael Jenőnek hívták. Nagyon gazdag emberek voltak. Lina néni már egyszer férjnél volt. Az első férjétől elvált, és másodszor ment férjhez Jenő bácsihoz. Volt két gyermekük, Edit és Laci, mind a kettő már meghalt. Edit volt a nagyobb, Laci volt a kisebbik. Lina néni minden évben eljött hozzánk, [Gyergyó]Szárhegyre, de azt is tudom, hogy az apám nem ment vele, csak Lina néni egyedül ment [Gyergyó]Tölgyesre, a sírhoz. És nem is emlegette, én nem emlékszem, hogy emlegette volna a szüleit. Még azt sem tudom megmondani, hogy nagyanyámat hogy hívták. Lehet, hogy furcsa, de ez így van. [A neveket különböző családi iratokból sikerült kideríteni. – A szerk.]

Róza néni férjét Majer Móricnak hívták. Nekik három gyerekük volt: Majer Jenő, Majer Marci és Majer Ibolya. Móric bácsi és Róza néni Gyergyószárhegyen lakott egy ideig, ahol mi is. Nagy üzletük volt. Úgy mondták ezekre az üzletekre, hogy szatócsboltok, mert minden volt bennük. Mivel ők vállalkozóbb szelleműek voltak, mint az apám, elköltöztek Brassóba. Az üzletet felszámolták akkor, mikor elköltöztek. Brassóban már nem tudom, mivel foglalkoztak. A két fiú meg a lány is fogtechnikát tanult, ha jól tudom. Jenőnek volt ott Brassóban rendelője, és az Ibolya csak mint technikus, mellette dolgozott. A Marci pedig Sepsiszentgyörgyre költözött, megnősült. Jenő nem volt megnősülve, de Marci megnősült, és a feleségével Sepsiszentgyörgyön élt. Valószínűleg neki is volt ilyen fogászati rendelője ott, nem tudom ezt pontosan, mert én egyszer sem voltam náluk [Sepsi]Szentgyörgyön. De Jenőnél későbben voltam párszor Brassóban.

Jakab volt a legkisebb a fiúk közül. Jakabnak nem tudok korábbi dolgairól sok mindent, csak a későbbiről. Vénlegény volt, későn nősült. Egy kicsit különc volt. Voltak ilyen bogarai, hogy nagyon kényes volt, mindent megtörölgetett például. A kockacukrot is megfújta, mielőtt betette a kávéba, és nagyon pedáns volt. Az volt a szokása, mivel neki nem volt üzlete, és idős volt, de még nem volt családja, mindig ment egyik testvérétől a másik testvéréhez. Így mindig kicsit vendégeskedett itt-ott. Későbben aztán megnősült. Marosvásárhelyen laktak, a feleségének érdekes neve volt: Noszai Piroska. Deportálás után, ami maradt Jakab bácsi után, azt mi örököltük. Maradt egy ház és valami berendezés a házban.

Édesapám csak elemi iskolába járt. Egyik gyermek sem volt elmenve a faluból [tanulni]. Ott nevelkedtek, és abban az időben gimnáziumba nem küldték őket, mert ott ilyesmi nem volt. Talán hét osztályos volt az iskola abban az időben, később lett nyolc, úgy tudom, a kötelező elemi iskola [Fazekas Magda édesapja még az Osztrák–Magyar Monarchia idején született és járt elemi iskolába. A tankötelezettség az elemi vagy népiskola hat osztályára terjedt ki. Lásd: elemi iskola / népiskola. – A szerk. ].

Az én édesapám katona volt az első világháborúban, mint katona be volt híva, de nem volt a fronton. Amikor volt az első világháború, akkor a családdal kimenekültek Budapestre [Ott született egy gyereke, Struhl Jenő, de aztán visszatértek. – A szerk.].

Szárhegyen [= Gyergyószárhegy] laktunk [Gyergyószárhegy – nagyközség volt Csík vm.-ben, 1891-ben 3600, 1910-ben 4800, túlnyomórészt magyar lakossal, akik agyagipart űztek mint háziipart. Trianon után Romániához került. – A szerk.]. [Gyergyó]Szárhegy, Gyergyótölgyes is, Ditró is, ez mind egy völgy, ez mind Gyergyó[i medence] volt. Valószínű, hogy ezeknek a szárhegyieknek is volt erdőtulajdonuk, mert az én nagyapám a szárhegyiekkel kapcsolatban volt, és akkor azt mondták ezek a szárhegyiek, hogy mivel nincsen egy rendes bolt Szárhegyen, hát a nagyapámnak fiai vannak, és az egyik fiát legalább miért nem Szárhegyre küldi el, hogy csináljon ott üzletet. És így került az apám [Gyergyó]Tölgyesről Szárhegyre. Legénykorában nyitotta az üzletet, még mielőtt megnősült volna. Ötven évig volt Szárhegyen apámnak az üzlete. Ez az üzlet olyan volt, hogy nem csak fűszerkereskedés volt, hanem ruhaneműt is árultak. Mindenféle ruhaneműt, textilárut, méteráru is volt, készruhák is abban az időben. De nem az elején, amikor apám csinálta az üzletet, hanem úgy fokozatosan nagyobbított mindig.

Nem tudom, hová valósi volt az első felesége. Szüléskor halt meg. A kislányát Fridának keresztelték [Nyilván nem keresztelték meg, hanem a Frida nevet kapta. Lásd: névadás. – A szerk.], 1901-ben született. Mi úgy hívtuk mindig, hogy Friduska. Úgy öt éven belül újraházasodott az édesapám. Friduskát édesanyám nevelte fel tulajdonképpen. Friduskának mindig, kicsi gyermek korától beteges természete volt.

Friduska fiatalon férjhez ment, így elkerült Szárhegyről. Egy fia született a házasságából, Mikinek, Miklósnak hívták a kicsi fiát. Hirsch Izidor volt a férje, marosvásárhelyi volt, de Brassóban laktak. Azt tudom, hogy hozománnyal ment férjhez. Izidornak volt [Maros]Vásárhelyen egy szép családi háza, nagyon-nagyon úri gyerek volt ez az Izidor, mást nem mondok róla, lehet, hogy elkényeztetett fiú volt otthon, nem tudom. Mindenesetre ő, amikor volt a bécsi döntés [lásd: második bécsi döntés], akkor [Maros]Vásárhelyen volt, nem ment vissza Brassóba. Friduska a fiával, Mikivel Brassóban volt, ő életben maradt a gyerekkel, Izidort pedig eldeportálták. Miki először fogtechnikát tanult. Nagy sportoló volt, tornászbajnok is volt. Egyszer gondolt egy nagyot, és feliratkozott az egyetemre, elvégezte, tornatanár lett belőle. Valamikor az 1970-es években Friduska a fiával kiment Izraelbe. Kint, Izraelben Miki már mint tornatanár működött, nyugdíjazásáig. Friduska nagyon sokat kínlódott [betegeskedett]. Kilencvennégy éves volt, mikor Izraelben meghalt.

Több mint való, hogy abban az időben a házasságok mindig közvetítéssel jöttek létre. Voltak akkor ilyen házasságközvetítők. Édesanyám nagyon fiatal volt, alig tizennyolc éves, amikor a nem édes mamája sürgette, hogy menjen férjhez. Nagyon hamar férjhez adták. Húsz év korkülönbség volt a mamám és az apám között. Gondolom, mindkét esküvő vallásos kellett legyen [lásd: házasság, esküvői szertartás], és volt hivatalos [azaz polgári esküvő] is.

A mamám édesapját, a Piatra Neamţ-i nagytatát nem ismertem, nagyon korán meghalt [Piatra Neamţ – város volt az Aranyos-Beszterce mellett (Neamţ megye, Moldva), 1913-ban 19 000 lakossal, elsősorban a Kárpátokból leúsztatott fával kereskedtek. – A szerk.]. A mamámat Pascal Fanninak hívták, és nagytatámat úgy hívták, hogy Michel Pascal. Ahogy nagypapámról mesélték, egy nagyon joviális ember volt. Gazdagok voltak, jómódban éltek. Gabona- és terménykereskedő volt, és exportőr, úgyhogy nem csak benn az országban kereskedett, hanem szállított külföldre is Piatra Neamţ-ról. Elmesélte nekem a nővérem, Dórika, aki volt Piatra Neamţ-on, hogy nagyon jó anyagi viszonyok között éltek. A mamám volt a legidősebb testvér. Az édesanyja meghalt, és akkor újranősült az édesapja. Az új feleségtől, a második házasságából született három gyerek: két fiú és egy lány. A az idősebbik fiút Izidornak hívták, a kisebbet Filipnek, a lányt pedig Catynak.

Édesanyám nem tudott egy szót sem magyarul. És egy ilyen környezetbe került, ahol senki nem tudott románul. Édesapám sem nagyon. Édesanyámnak nem lehetett könnyű beilleszkedni. Városi lány volt, és a Francia Intézetben tanult Galaţi-on [Galaţi – város volt a Duna mellett, a Szeret és Prut torkolata között, 1911-ben 66 200 lakossal, nagy kikötővel. A városban a „Les Soeurs de Sion” nevű rend tartott fenn zárdát és iskolát. A rendet 1843-ban alapította a francia, asszimilálódott zsidó családból származott Ratisbonne testvérpár. Az alapító eszméje a keresztény és zsidó vallás kölcsönös megismerése és az egymás hite iránti tisztelet elősegítése volt. – A szerk.], úgyhogy a mamám franciául tudott és románul, de nem tudott jiddisül. Apám nem beszélt más nyelveket, csak magyarul és jiddisül. Úgyhogy nem volt éppen olyan megfelelő házasság. De azért édesapám aktív férfi lehetett, akinek hét gyereke született egymás után. Mit mondjak? Szép volt a mamám…

Én egyetlenegyszer voltam édesanyámmal Piatra Neamţ-on, de olyan kicsi gyerek voltam, arra nem tudok visszaemlékezni. Csak az maradt meg, hogy lovas kocsival mentünk. Akkor nem volt más utazási lehetőség, csak lovas kocsi, nem volt autó vagy vonat. A híd, ahogy mentünk keresztül, mesélte a mamám, majdnem beszakadt, csak hajszálon múlt, hogy nem estünk be a patakba. Még egy dolgot mesélt a mamám – abban az időben úgy látszik, már volt ott mozi –, mondta, hogy elvitt a moziba, némafilm volt. És én állandóan kérdeztem, hogy „Mama, mit mond?”. Zavartam a közönséget. Ezen kívül anyám nem sokat mesélt. A Monarchiában úgy volt, hogy nem volt határ, lehetett utazni külföldre is, akárhova mehettek. Mesélte édesanyám, hogy mentek fürdőre, nem kellett útlevél. Azután már megváltozott a helyzet, mert mikor Erdélyből Románia lett [lásd: trianoni békeszerződés], nem mehettek csak úgy.

Édesanyám unokatestvérét, aki Galaţi-on élt, úgy hívták, hogy Amelie, a férjét pedig Isak Katznak. Exportőr volt Galaţi-on, nagyon gazdagok voltak, egy utcasor ház volt a sajátjuk. Amelie az édesanyja részéről volt unokatestvére édesanyámnak, ezt tudom biztosan. Amikor elvitt a mamám Amelie-ékhez, és bevitt a szalonba, hát én, a szárhegyi leányka, elképedtem, hogy hogy néz ki egy gazdag ember lakása. Bennem csak ez a szalon maradt meg, hogy nagy volt. Elképesztő volt. Egy falusi házhoz képest egy ilyen szalon – mert nem volt nekem mikor és hol lássak hasonlót – nagyon-nagyon nagy volt. Csak arra emlékszem, hogy a szőnyegek nagyon nagyok voltak. Amelie egy olyan finom jelenség volt, még a neve is olyan szép volt, azóta is mindig szeretem ezt a nevet. A férje alacsonyabb volt, mint ő. Ez a nagynéném akart engem örökbe venni. Nem volt gyerekük. De mamámék nem akarták, hogy elmenjek otthonról. Aztán Amelie egy másik testvérének a lányát vette oda, Clarisse-nak hívták, és akkor már nem volt aktuális, hogy ott maradjak. Azt tudom, hogy Amelie nagyon el volt keseredve, mert ez a Clarisse, akit örökbe vettek, beteg volt.

A legnagyobbik nővérem, Dóra Galaţi-on volt egyszer Amelie-éknél egy egész télen át. Mindig mesélte, hogy milyen felejthetetlen idő volt az neki, amit ott töltött, mert nekik nagy társaságuk volt. És ebbe a társaságba bevezették a nővéremet, és egész télen bálozás volt, egyik helyről a másikra mentek szórakozni. Csak szórakozásból állt az életük. Még a purimi bált is ott töltötte a nővérem Amelie-nél. Mesélte, hogy jelmezbe öltöztek Purimkor. Ő a nagybácsinak, Amelie férjének a szmokingját vette fel. A nagybácsi kis növésű volt, és a nővérem sem volt magas, és pont jó volt neki a ruhája. Volt ott egy barátnője, Szilviának hívták, akivel azután a barátság olyan mély barátsággá alakult, hogy levelezett vele hosszú-hosszú ideig. Különben ennek a nővéremnek csodálatos írása volt, mint a gyöngyszem, olyanok voltak a betűi. Mindig csodáltam, elolvastam egy-egy levelét, és nagyon szépen fogalmazott. Azt is mondtuk neki mindig, hogy tulajdonképpen ő író kellett volna legyen, amilyen fantáziája volt. De nem tudott egyetemre menni, nem volt lehetőség rá.

Galaţi-on franciául és románul beszéltek. Én nem nagyon tudtam románul. A mamám, mivelhogy piatrai volt, tudott franciául, de nem franciául beszéltek, hanem románul. Dórika tudott franciául, de nem olyan jól. Ő Kolozsváron járt, Antal Márknak volt ott egy iskolája, a Tarbut Zsidó Líceum [lásd: Kolozsvári Tarbut Zsidó Líceum]. Nem tudom, hogy a Tarbutban milyen nyelvek voltak kötelezők, de Dórika önszorgalomból tanult nyelveket. Angolul is tudott, franciául is tudott. Szilvia is nagyon művelt lány volt, akivel barátkozott. Románul leveleződtek. Szilvia aztán elment Csernovicba, nem tudom, hogy férjnél volt-e vagy sem.

Izidor, a mamám egyik féltestvére Bukarestben élt. Két fia volt, Felix és Mihai. Nem tudom, Izidor mivel foglalkozott, de azt tudom, hogy Izunak – úgy becéztük, hogy Izu – a nagyobbik fia, Felix nagyon okos fiú volt, és három egyetemet végzett. Jogot, matematikát és testnevelést tanult. Végül nagy sportember lett, edző is volt. Nagyon okos és szellemes, rendkívül vicces ember. Még él Izraelben, úgyhogy tartjuk a kapcsolatot, telefonon is beszélgetünk. Felixnek most, szeptemberben [2007-ben] lesz a nyolcvanadik születésnapja. Mihai pedig színészetet végzett, de nem mint színész működött Bukarestben, hanem mint rendező. A felesége pszichológus. Őket is Pascalnak hívták. Mihaiéknak nem volt gyermekük, Felixéknek sem. Felix felesége kémikus volt. Izu Bukarestben halt meg, azt tudom. Amikor Dórikával Izraelben voltunk, a Pascal családból találkoztunk Mihaijal. Akkor Felixék még Bukarestben laktak.

Catynál volt valami probléma. Nem tudok sokat róla. Ő Piatrán élt az édesapjával. Filip Dorohoiban élt, neki egy lánya volt. Nem tudom, hogy Dorohoiban halt-e meg, vagy kivándorolt, de azt tudom, hogy a lánya Izraelbe ment.

Egy dolog biztos, hogy apám nagyon féltékeny volt, és mindig félt, hogy a mamám megcsalja. Hát erről szó sem volt, de a mamámnak mindenki [udvarolt], az biztos. Eredetileg, lány korában vörös haja volt. Na de gondolta, hogy falun egy ilyen vörös haj feltűnő. Hogy Szárhegyen hogy volt alkalma megfesteni a haját feketére, nem tudom, de én már mamámat csak fekete hajjal ismertem, mindig gyönyörű szépen fésülködött. A mamámnál soha nem létezett az, hogy valaki őt meglássa nem szépen megfésülve. Fodrásznál nem volt, én nem is tudom, hogy is tudta megfesteni. Az unokáim – a lányom két lánya – mindketten vörös hajúak, azok örökölték tőle. Nem az én gyermekeim örökölték a vörös hajat, hanem a két unokám. Mind a kettő egyformán vörös hajú. Azt mondja a kicsi unokám, hogy ő azt veszi észre, hogy ő is hasonlít a nagymamára. Hogy gyermekszemmel milyen volt a mamám, arra nem tudok visszaemlékezni, csak azt tudom, hogy felnőtt szemmel még mindig szép volt.

Mi szintén heten voltunk testvérek, volt még egy féltestvérem is, Friduska, apám első házasságából, és mi heten a második házasságából. Jóska bátyám 1907-ben született, akkor Friduska hat éves volt.

Szárhegyen szép nagy kertes házunk volt. Elöl volt a bolt, és hátul laktunk. Volt egy szép nappali szoba, a nappali szobából nyílt az ebédlő, és az ebédlőből a hálószoba. És a nappali és a konyha között volt még egy szoba, amelyiknek nem volt direkt ablaka, csak egy üveges ajtó nyílt egy nagy üveges verandára. Onnan kapta a világítást, mert a többi ajtók nem voltak üvegesek, sem a konyha felől, sem a nappali szoba felől nem jött fény. Fürdőszoba, komfort semmi.

A mosakodást úgy oldottuk meg, hogy két szomszédból hordtuk a vizet Az egyik szomszédtól, amelyik közelebb volt, a kút vizét nem lehetett használni csak mosakodásra. A másik szomszédból hordtuk azt a vizet, amit főzésre használtunk, meg ivásra. Kútvíz volt, nagyon finom, hideg volt és tiszta. A mosást úgy oldottuk meg, hogy hordtunk jó sok vizet, volt egy olyan nagy edény, amit meg lehetett tölteni, és volt egy asszony, aki – azt hiszem – egyszer egy hónapban jött, és az összegyűjtött szennyes ruhát kimosta. Teknőben mosta, fából volt a teknő csinálva. Előző nap beáztattuk a ruhát, és amikor jött, akkor reggel elkezdett mosni, hát persze egy napig mosott. A mosóasszony, Anna néni, emlékszem a nevére, egy idős székely asszony volt. Megmondom őszintén, hogy mindig sajnáltam szegény Anna nénit, hogy hogy tud annyi ruhát kimosni egy nap. Mert eléggé sok összegyűlt. Én mindig segítettem neki, mikor már nagyobbacska voltam.

Akkor még úgy volt, abban az időben, hogy a fehér ruhát, az ágyneműt – mert csak fehér ágynemű volt akkor, nem volt színes – egy nagy mosófazékban kifőztük a konyhai kályhán. Más mosószer nem volt akkor, csak mosószóda. Utána pedig a patakon kitisztáltuk. A ház előtt is és az utca másik felén is patak volt. Elég gyorsan folyt a víz, csináltunk egy nagyobb bemélyedést a patakba – úgy mondtuk ott Szárhegyen, hogy gübő –, hogy a ruhát benne ki lehessen rázni, és minthogy folyóvíz volt, állandóan cserélődött a víz. Hófehér tisztára lehetett a ruhát mosni.

Utána pedig kékítettük és keményítettük a ruhát. Úgy hívták, hogy „kékítő ultramarin”, ilyen kis üvegekben árulták. Az asszony tett vizet a tekenőbe, belecsepegtette az ultramarin kékítőt, és beöntötte a keményítőt, amit előzőleg feloldottunk. A keményítő darabokban volt, nem porban. Biztosan az édesapám boltjában is lehetett kapni. Érdekes formájú darabok voltak a keményítők. Összevegyítettük a kékítőt, a keményítőt, a vizet, és lett egy olyan világosabb kék víz, és abba belemártogattuk a fehér ruhát, az ágyneműt meg az abroszokat. Csak fehér abroszt használtunk az étkezéshez abban az időben, mert akkor csak az volt. Akkor azt kicsavartuk, és teregettük a padláson, ahová nagyon nehéz volt felmenni a ruháskosárral, mert meredek lépcső vezetett fel. Főleg az volt a legnehezebb, mert tettem egyik lépcsőről a másikra a ruhát, és amikor eljutottam odáig – már előzőleg kinyitottam a padlásajtót, hogy mikor odaérek, tudjam a kosarat egyenesen betenni –, és utána beléptem én is a padlásra. Kihúzott drótok voltak a padláson, és oda teregettem a ruhát. Emlékszem, hogy amikor már nagyobbacska voltam, leginkább én vittem a ruhát a padlásra (mint a József Attila mamája).

Ahonnan a jó vizet hoztuk, az ivóvizet, ott a jegyző lakott, még arra is emlékszem, hogy Zakariás Jenőnek hívták, és a felesége rendkívül antiszemita volt. Lenézett minket, „a zsidóék” – csak úgy beszélt rólunk. A szemben lévő szomszédokat, akik előtt az a patak folyt, ahol a ruhát öblítettük, azokat Bartiséknak hívták. Bartis Ignác volt a férfi. Végtelenül rendes emberek voltak, akármikor mehettünk oda vízért, soha sem éreztük azt, hogy zavarjuk. Mindig azt mondták, hogy minél többet merjük a kutat, annál jobb a víz. Így oldottuk meg mi a mosakodást. Más lehetőség nem volt, mint hogy megmosakodtál derékig. Csak a konyhában lehetett mosakodni, a tálban. És hogyha már akartál volna, mondjuk, fürödni, akkor a mosóteknőben lehetett fürödni.

Abban az időben ilyeneket lehetett nálunk az üzletben kapni, mint például szentjánoskenyeret. A gyermekek odavoltak érte. Én láttam szentjánoskenyérfát Izraelben. Persze nem láttam rajta szentjánoskenyeret, ami ilyen hosszukó volt, és kemény volt belül, de ha beleharaptál, akkor belül olyan, mint a méz, egy olyan massza volt, és egy kicsi mag. Hogy ez honnan jött, azt nem tudom, de zsákszámra jött, zsákban [A Földközi-tengermellék keleti felében elterjedt vadon növő örökzöld szentjánoskenyérfa (ceratonia) hüvelyes termése sok nádcukrot tartalmaz, ember és állat egyaránt eszi. A háború előtt édességként fogyasztották a szegényebb gyerekek. – A szerk.]. Abban az időben a kávé is így jött, jutazsákokban [A juta nevű, Keleten honos növény rostjából készült a jutazsák. – A szerk.], és a füge is. Arra most már nem tudok emlékezni, hogy édesapám tulajdonképpen honnan szerezte be az árut. Mert úgy volt, hogy az üzletnek volt a fűszerrészlege, és volt a textilrészleg, ahol méteráru volt. Nagy volt az üzlethelyiség. Mindenféle fűszeráru volt nálunk.

Az üzletben a polcoknak voltak kis rekeszei, és ezekben a rekeszekben volt például a dió, a füge, megint másikban a kávé. A kávé nem fogyott nagyon, mert ott nem volt rá vevő. Azt hiszem, csak mi ittunk a faluban kávét, a mamám pergelte [pörkölte] a kávét, és olyan jó illat volt. De én soha nem ittam kávét, nagy koromig nem ittam. Mamám tanulta otthonról, úgy volt megszokva, tatám részéről nem volt úgy szokás, hogy kávézzanak. Mamám volt a regáti, ő kávézott egyedül.

Nem voltak zsidó szomszédaink, sok zsidó család nem volt ott a környéken. Apámnak a testvére, Róza néni a férjével és a gyerekeivel szintén Szárhegyen lakott, ugyancsak kereskedők voltak, de nem a szomszédban voltak, hanem a falunak egy másik részében.

Szárhegyen egy fűrészgyár volt, aminek a tulajdonosa nem lakott Szárhegyen, csak a gyár volt ott. A tulajdonos Gyergyószentmiklóson lakott. Úgy hívták a gyárost, hogy Székely, a társát meg Margitainak. „Székely és Margitai” – ez volt a fűrészgyár neve. És ott dolgoztak zsidó családok, akik Máramarosból jöttek oda. Ott is lakott az egész család, a férfiak csak a gyárban dolgoztak, és abból éltek. Szegény emberek voltak, el lehet képzelni. Nálunk vásároltak az üzletben, hitelbe, mindig csak fizetéskor fizettek. Volt egy könyv, úgy hívta apám, kontós könyv. És ebbe a kontós könyvbe írta be a vásárlást, és fizetéskor fizettek. Ez teljesen bizalom kérdése volt. A munkás tudta biztosan, hogy csak annyit fog fizetni, amennyit vásárolt. Lisztet is árult az édesapám, volt még konkurenciája is, de apám azzal tudott többet eladni, hogy mindig bánáti lisztet árult. Lehetett venni lisztet Szászrégenben is, mert ott is volt egy malom. De az nem a bánáti gabonából készült liszt volt, minőségi különbség volt. Apám mindig valamivel olcsóbban adta a lisztet, úgyhogy jöttek, nagyon jöttek, a liszt minősége is jobb volt, és az ár is kedvezőbb volt. Ez így volt akkor.

Sok gyerek volt ezeknél a gyári munkásoknál, legalább három vagy négy. A lányokkal nem nagyon barátkoztunk, csak a fiútestvéremnek volt ezek közül a fiúk közül barátja. Andor, az öcsém játszott ezekkel a gyerekekkel. Ez olyankor volt, amikor otthon volt vakáción.

A házban nem volt más, csak petróleumlámpa, azzal világítottunk. De egyedül nekünk volt a faluban egy úgynevezett Aladdin-lámpánk, ami száz gyertyafény világítással volt egyenlő. Így mondták a szüleim, hogy száz gyertya fénye van ennek a lámpának. Ez a lámpa, ha meggyújtották, legtöbbször a nappali szobában égett. És olyan fénye volt, hogy ha nem húzták el a rolettát este, akkor kivilágított az utcára. A lámpa nagyon szép volt, nem porcelánból, hanem fémből volt. Valószínű, hogy ez is petróleumlámpa lehetett, csak volt egy olyan része, amit rá kellett helyezni. Azt mondták arra, amit rátettek, hogy olyan vékony, érzékeny valami, hogyha nem jártál vele óvatosan, összeroppan. Úgy nevezték, hogy harisnya, amit rátettek [Valószínűleg gázlámpáról van szó. A 18. század végén állítottak elő először kőszénből világítógázt (légszeszt). Később kőszén helyett olajból is állítottak elő világítógázt. A gáz ún. gázharisnyákban elégve árasztott fényt. A gázvilágítást – elsősorban persze a városi lakásokban – a 20. század elején kezdte fölváltani a villanyvilágítás. – A szerk.].  És amikor meggyújtottad a lámpát, az adta azt a nagy fényt. És persze nem olyan volt, mint a villanykörte, amit olyan sokáig lehet használni, amíg kiég. Ez, miután már használtad, elhasználódott, és összeesett. Ezért nem mindig gyújtottuk meg, hogy ne menjen tönkre. Inkább ritkábban, vagy ha vendég volt, vagy ünnep volt. Persze hogy gyertyákat is gyújtogattunk ünnepkor, és rendes petróleumlámpát is használtunk.

Bükkfával fűtöttünk. Fenyőfát nem nagyon vettünk. A fát mindig édesapám hozta. Volt, akitől lehetett bérelni lovas kocsit, és azzal átment a szomszéd faluba. Gyergyószárhegyet több falu környékezi: Gyergyóalfalu, Gyergyócsomafalva egyik felé, és a másik felé Gyergyóditró meg [Gyergyó]Tölgyes [Gyergyótölgyes 41 km-re fekszik Gyergyószárhegytől, tehát nem teljesen a közvetlen közelében. – A szerk.]. És úgy tudom, kilenc községből áll ez a Gyergyói-medence [A Gyergyói-medence Hargita megyében fekszik, a Maros felső folyásánál, a Görgényi-havasok és a Gyergyói-havasok között, az egyik leghidegebb hely Erdélyben. Települései: Gyergyószentmiklós, Gyergyóditró, Gyergyóremete, Gyergyószárhegy, Gyergyóalfalu, Gyergyóújfalu, Gyergyócsomafalva, Vasláb, Kilyénfalva, Tekerőpatak és Marosfő. – A szerk.]. Apámnak addig a faluig kellett menni, amíg megtalálta a megfelelő fát. Mert az nem volt mindegy, hogy milyen fát veszel, mert ha bogos a fa, nem hasad úgy, ahogy kell. Megvettük a fát, ölbe. Az öl egy mérték: két méter erre, két méter felfele [A Magyar Értelmezőszótár szerint az öl a tüzelőnek való hasábfából 4 m3. – A szerk.]. Nem tudom, hány öl fát vett apám. Itthon fogadott egy favágót, cirkulának [körfűrész] hívták akkor azt a gépet, és az felvágta darabokra a fát. Aztán mi felhasogattuk. Még én is tudtam fát hasogatni jó éles fejszével. A színbe beraktuk szépen a felvágott fákat, és azután egyenként szedtük ki onnan, és vágtuk aprófára, majd behordtuk a lakásba. Minden szobában volt egy fásláda a kályha mellett, azt megtöltöttük, és onnan fűtöttünk. Vettünk azért egy kevés fenyőfát is, de fűtésre csak bükkfát vettünk, és a konyhai kályhába főzéshez fenyőfát.

Minden szobában öntött[vas] kályha volt, a konyhában olyan falusi, két karikás, leres [sütős] kályha [sparhelt] volt, nem nagy. Az a régi kályha sok éves volt, és szerettünk volna egy újat. Csináltattunk is újat a deportálás előtt Gyergyószentmiklóson egy kályhásnál, és kicseréltük azt a régi kályhánkat a konyhából egy szuper kályhára; két lerje [sütője] és négy melegítője volt. Nagyon nagy és nagyon vagány kályha volt, de csak nagyon rövid ideig használtuk, mert aztán jöttek a bajok.

A hálószoba világos sárga volt, az akkori szokásos két nagy szekrény volt benne. Volt két ágy egymás mellett, és volt egy toalett-tükör, fiókos, nagyon szép volt. Az ágyterítő nagyon szép volt. Mamám gyönyörűen horgolt csipkét, és az ágyterítő közepén volt egy csipkebetét és sok fodor. A függönyök ugyanolyan csipkebetétesek voltak, mint az ágyterítő. Középen volt egy nagy szárnyas ajtó, amelyik kivezetett a hálószobából, és volt egy külön bejárat, egy dupla ajtó az udvar felé. És az ajtó fölött volt a drapéria ugyanúgy, de csak fodorral, mert oda nem tudott csipkét tenni. Mamám rengeteg csipkét, nagyon szép kézimunkákat csinált. Nemcsak csipkét, hanem gyönyörű perzsaszőnyeget is készített otthon. Rendes perzsaszőnyeget, mert az eredeti perzsa minta megvolt, és a mamám ezt meg tudta csinálni otthon. Összekötő szőnyegnek lehetett használni. Egy ilyen perzsánk volt, kézi perzsa, amit a mamám csinált. És kelimet [kilimet] csinált falvédőnek, rojtos kelim falvédőt. A kelim is egy nagyon értékes kézimunka [A kelim / kilim mintázat a torontálihoz hasonlít. – A szerk.], és ez is nagy. Én nem tudtam megtanulni, nekem nem volt semmi érzékem a varráshoz. Mamám hihetetlenül sokat kézimunkázott, amellett, hogy annyi gyermek volt. Nem mamámék aludtak a hálószobában, hanem a gyermekek. A mamámék ott aludtak mindig a középső szobában.

Az ebédlőben a székek hajlított lábakkal voltak, bordó kárpittal. Hat szék volt, és az ebédlőasztal. Volt még egy kisasztalka két karosszékkel. Ott volt a vitrin, nálunk nem volt divat a csecsebecse, nipp, csak ezüst vagy kristály volt benne. Egy gyertyatartó, nyolcágú hanuka gyertyatartó [hanukija], ezüstből volt, és megvolt a nyolc gyertyának a helye. Valami dombormű volt a hátán. Tál is volt a vitrinben, meg két másik ezüst gyertyatartó. Az ebédlőben ott volt még a komód. Volt patefonunk [régi típusú gramofon], sok lemezünk, inkább operaáriákat hallgattunk.

A nappali szobában volt egy nagyon szép dívány, piros plüss. De nem csak egyszerű dívány volt, hogy csak egy háta volt, hanem volt fa része is, még oldalt is. Volt még ott egy tükrös szekrény, és ott is asztal, székek. A másikban, abban a sötét szobában volt egy nagy-nagy ebédlőkredenc. Valami nagyon sötét fából volt. És abban az ebédlőkredencben voltak az összes porcelánok, amiket használtunk mindennap.

A pészahi edényeket egy ládában tartottuk külön, a padláson. Húsvétkor felmentünk a padlásra, és a ládából kiszedve a becsomagolt porcelánokat, összeszedtük, egy kosárba tettük, és lehoztuk. És miután vége volt a húsvétnak, visszavittük. Jaj, azok nagyon szépek voltak. Volt egy csésze, amiből csak egy volt. Az valami nagyon szép volt. Mindenik gyerek abból akart inni. Akkor kisebbek voltunk, hát a nagyok nem csináltak cirkuszt. Azért a csuporért, emlékszem, az öcsémmel vitatkoztunk: „én akarom”, „én akarom a csészét”. Mindenesetre nagyon szépek voltak az edények, mert újak voltak. Minden évben egyszer használtuk őket. Azok nem voltak elhasznált edények, szépek voltak nagyon. Arra emlékszem, hogy inkább világos színűek voltak. Biztos poharak is voltak, húsvéti poharak.

Apám szigorúan megtartotta a Pészah és a széder hagyományt. Egy dolog van most is előttem, ahogy apám egymásra rakta a maceszt, és le volt takarva a macesztakaróval. A macesztakaró szép hímzett volt [Szédereste három, kendővel külön-külön betakart macesz van a széderadó családfő előtt (a három macesz Izrael három részét jelképezi: Kohént, azaz Áron ivadékait, Lévi leszármazottait és Jiszráélt, azaz Izrael többi gyermekét). – A szerk.]. Kétféle eszcájgunk volt: alpakka [Az alpakka vagy kínaezüst réz, nikkel és cink ezüstfehér ötvözete. – A szerk.], és volt ezüst, de nem volt külön húsvéti eszcájgunk. Csináltak egy gödröt kint az udvaron, és ide betették az eszcájgot, és kóserolták, rátöltötték a forró, lobogó vizet. Aztán ebből a forró gödörből kiszedtük, és akkor az már használható volt az ünnepeken is.

Szép nagy udvar volt ott Szárhegyen, mamám imádta a virágokat és a kertet. Meggyesről jött egy kertész, és mint ahogy a parkot csinálják, megcsinálta a virágoskertet: a közepén volt egy nagy kerek grupp, a közepében egy tuja volt. A gyep szélén párkány volt, és ezekbe a párkányokba voltak ültetve a rózsafák. És közben kavics a szárhegyi bányából. Nagyon szép volt. Ez volt elöl, és hátrafele volt a zöldségeskert, egy fakerítéssel volt elkerítve. El volt ugyanúgy kerítve egy jó nagy udvar, ahol majorságokat tartottunk. Főleg kétféle majorságot tartottunk, csirkéket és rucákat. Mindig otthon költöttek ki a tyúkok. Nekem a legnagyobb élmény volt, mikor keltek ki a kicsi csirkék. Akkor ott ültem végig, amíg egy kicsi csirke kibújt a tojásból, hát ez nagyon szép élmény. Apám nagyon szerette ezeket gondozni. Reggel korán mindig ő volt az első, aki felkelt, elmondta az imáját, utána kiment, és kiengedte a csirkéket, mert volt olyan ketrecük, ahová be voltak zárva. Emeletes ketrec volt, a csirkéknek volt egy létrájuk, amin fel tudtak menni a felső ketrecbe, mert ott volt az ő alvó helyük. Lent voltak a rucák, mert azok nem tudtak felmenni. Mivel előttünk patak volt, a rucák mindig tudták, hogy ha a kaput kinyitjuk, akkor ki lehet menni, végig lehet menni a ház mellett a patakra, és a kicsi rucák, miután kinyaralták magukat, visszajöttek. Nem kellett őket hajtani se ki, se be.

Mindig házi majorságot ettünk, de a tyúkokat nem. Valamelyik falusi háznál vett mindig egy-egy tyúkot hétvégén, mert ami otthon volt, azt nem vágtuk le. A mamám mindig elment a faluba, és a tyúkokat a sakternél vágatta le. A házi tyúkokat sajnáltuk, mert tojtak, és akkor volt mindig friss házi tojás. Egy idő után biztos, hogy levágtuk, csakhogy mindig nagyon sajnáltuk azokat a tyúkokat. A csirkékkel még nem volt probléma, de a tyúkokat már nem engedtük ki, mindig csak benn voltak az ő udvarukban, mert elpiszkították a járdát, a bejáratot.

Én is jártam a sakterhez. Mindig volt szolgáló, de a sakterhez nem lehetett elküldeni egyedül, mert féltek. Az egy olyan látvány, amit nem éppen üdítő dolog látni. Én nem néztem oda, csak akkor, amikor már jött, és hozta. Én kinn megvártam. A sakter nem lakott ott. Egy olyan kis faépítmény volt, és aztán úgy volt, ha jól emlékszem, hogy amikor elvágta, ott egy olyan gödörféle volt, ahol ő dolgozott, és a vér abba folyt. És azt hiszem, hogy ott víz is kellett legyen. Minden héten vágattunk le valami majorságot, csütörtökön levágattuk, hogy pénteken lehessen főzni belőle. Nem volt jégszekrény, csak pince. Nekünk a ház alatt pince volt, és ott nagyon hűvös volt. Egy-két napig lehetett tartani ott a húst.

Több ideig is szolgált egy-egy ilyen lányka – a szomszéd helységekből voltak, de volt olyan is, aki helyből volt –, de annyit loptak, hogy nagyon. Mindenesetre megelégelte apám ezeket a szárhegyi lányokat, és akkor máshonnan jöttek. A szüleim elmentek, és kerestek szolgálólányt. Megfogadták a szülőktől, megbeszélték, hogy mennyi bért fognak fizetni, és akkor elhozták a leánykát. Egyszerre egy szolgálólány volt. Volt egy olyan édes lányka, lehetett olyan tizenöt éves – ilyen korban adták oda ezek a falusiak szolgálni, hogy egy kicsit tanuljanak. Abban az időben nem iskolába, egyetemre jártak, mint most, hanem odaadták, hogy tanuljon a zsidóknál egy kicsit főzni, legyen fogalma valamiről. Egy szombati napon jött hozzánk egy öregebb munkás, aki a gyárban dolgozott, szakálla volt. Mikor meglátta ez a lányka, hogy jött oda hozzánk ez az öreg – nem is tudom, miért jött, lehet, hogy kért pénzt, vagy mit tudom én –, nem mondott semmit, reggel hűlt helye volt, összepakolt, és hazament gyalog. A szülei hozták el szekérrel, és gyalog hazament, mikor meglátta ezt az öreg zsidót. Kétségtelenül megijedt. Úgy elment, hogy nem szólt semmit, csak összepakolt. Úgy jöttek ezek a leánykák, egy nagyobb kendőbe volt betéve a kicsi holmija, amit hozott, össze volt kötve, ez volt az ő csomagja, nem több. És a cipő, ami a lábán volt. Megijedt, ki tudja, milyen mesékkel tartották abban az időben. Gondolta magában, hogy a zsidó nem tudom, mit csinál neki. Voltak a vérvádak [lásd: tiszaeszlári vérvádper], amiket a zsidók ellen terjesztettek, hát ennek a leánykának is biztos otthon teletömték a fejét, hogy húsvétra a zsidó a keresztény vérrel süti a maceszt. Ilyeneket terjesztettek.

A családunk nem volt túl vallásos. Apám a vallásról nem is sokat beszélt, és mivel egy igazán magyar, székely községben éltünk, úgy mi is valahogy asszimilálódtunk, nem voltunk olyan vallásosak, egyedül az apám. Mamám már nem, ő megette volna történetesen a tréflit is. De nem nagyon került rá sor, kóser háztartást vezettünk.

Péntek este volt bárhesz. A mamám pénteken húslevest főzött, este húslevest ettük. A húslevesbe vékony laskát [metéltet] tett. De még mást is csinált mamám. Nem tyúkból, hanem rucából csinált egy olyan különleges ételt, ami regáti, nem erdélyi étel volt, és akkor péntek este abból vacsoráztunk. A ruca aprólékából készült, ez egy becsinált leves volt. A szószt a mamám egy nagyon világos rántásból csinálta, a szószban citromkarikák voltak és mazsola. Szombaton sült volt, a tyúk egy részéből sültet csinált a mamám. A krumplit már megfőztük pénteken héjában, és szombaton csak megmelegítettük a cikkekbe vágott krumplit, és beletettük a tyúksült szószába. Az nagyon-nagyon finom volt. És volt savanyúság, akkor is biztosan uborka volt. Mert mamám, emlékszem, nagy üvegbe tett el mindig, de nem ecetes uborka volt az, hanem „vizes uborka”. Évike, a lányom mondja, hogy azt az ízt, azt a vizes uborkát soha többet nem találta sehol sem, mert nincs.

A vizes uborkát úgy kellett csinálni, hogy betetted az uborkákat üvegbe, alulra tettél meggyfalevelet, kaprot, csombort [borsfű, borsikafű] és tormát. Akkor tetted az uborkát, sót, megízesítetted. Én az uborkát nem lefektetve tettem, mindig felállítva tettem úgy sorban egymás mellé, egészen megtöltöttem, és akkor jött rá megint a csombor, kapor, torma, és úgy megtöltöttem az üveget, és díszítésnek tettem karikára vágott murkot [sárgarépát] cikkcakkozva. Nagyon jól nézett ki. Azokat a felállított uborkákat mindig úgy válogattuk, hogy egyformák legyenek. Felül is volt meggyfalevél. Felfőztem a vizet, tettem bele szemes borsot, az üveg alá széles élű kést, és akkor a forró vizet ráöntöttem. Másnap, mikor kihűlt, újra leszűrtem. Újra felfőztem a vizet, újra leforráztam, és akkor rögtön dupla celofánnal lekötöttem. Ez az uborkalé akkor szép tiszta volt, betettem a kamrába, és figyeltem. Láttam, hogy nap mint nap kezd zavarosodni a vize. Egypár napig zavaros volt, lehet, hogy egy hétig is tartott, és utána kezdett megtisztulni. Olyan kemény volt az uborka, mint a kő, nem lágyult meg. Ez volt a vizesuborka-recept. És hát az ecetes ugyanez volt, csak ecet is volt a vízben, de olyan jó enyhe savanyú. Ezt tettünk el télire, és még céklát. Az is nagyon finom savanyúság, tormával. A céklát karikára vágod, vagy lehet úgy, hogy nagy reszelőn megreszeled, és a tormát közéje kened, ecetet és egy kicsi cukrot teszel rá. Nagyon finom savanyúság.

Péntek este volt gyertyagyújtás [lásd: péntek esti gyertyagyújtás], de csak ennyi. Menóránk nem volt, csak két különálló, rendes gyertyatartónk volt. A mamám nem tett kendőt a fejére, nem imádkozott, csak meggyújtotta a gyertyákat. Nem volt vallásos, otthonról nem úgy jött. Édesapám mondott áldást az ételekre. Péntek este, amikor édesapám vágta meg a bárheszt, én még most is hallom, valahogy így szólt az, amit mondott: „Báruh átá ádonáj, elohejnu meleh ha-olam.” Ennyire emlékszem, ennél nem volt sokkal hosszabb, akkor az asztalon volt a sótartó, és mindeniknek egy szeletet leszelt a kalácsból, bele a sótartóba, és ez volt a péntek este [rituáléja]. Szombat este, mikor kimegy az ünnep, volt a kétféle innivaló, erős és likőr, és volt tészta [sütemény]. Akkor az apám elmondta a szombat esti imát, koccintottunk, és megettük azt a tésztát, amit a mamám erre az alkalomra mindig sütött. Ez volt a szombat esti sütemény, a szakerli. Ez egy olyan böjtös tészta volt, ami nem volt se vajas, se zsíros. A zsidóknál úgy van, hogy ha ettél húsost, akkor nem ehetsz utána tejest, de ha ettél tejest, utána ehetsz húsost [A húst és a tejfélét a kóser háztartásban szigorúan elkülönítik, hús és tejnemű fogyasztása között el kell telnie bizonyos időnek. Hogy mennyinek, az helyenként változó („Minden folyónak megvan a maga sodra” – áll a Talmudban, vagyis minden vidék kövesse a maga szokását): a bölcsek hat órát írtak elő a húsfogyasztás utáni tejes ételig; a németországi és franciaországi rabbik már három óra elteltével is engedélyezik a tejes étel fogyasztását húsos étel után. A tejes ételek után (a kemény sajt kivételével) – mivel azok hamarabb megemésztődnek – fél órával, a szájöblítést követően következhet húsos étel. – A szerk.].

Ha jól emlékszem, úgy készült a szakerli, hogy liszt, tojás, olaj és egy kis sütőpor lehetett benne, és ezt meggyúrta. Csinált egy olyat, mint egy rúd, és azt felvágta a mamám vékony szeletekre, mondjuk, ujjnyira vagy talán egy kicsit vastagabbra, és belenyomta kristálycukorba. És ahogy ellapult ott a cukorban, úgy megsütötte. Ahogy úgy rásült a kristálycukor, hát nagyon finom volt. Mindig nagyon szerettem a szakerlit. Mamám ezt a receptet is biztos onnan hozta, Piatráról.

A mamám nagyon finomakat csinált. Csinált olyant, hogy fals hal [false fis (hamis hal) – lásd: halételek]. A fals hal úgy készült, hogy a tyúk mellét megdarálta, beletett sót, borst, tojást és zsemlét – fehér kenyeret vagy valami ilyesmit áztatott. A kenyeret, ha tulajdonképpen nem vagy kóser, akkor tejbe áztatod, nem vízbe, de a kósernél vízbe áztatod, és akkor jól kicsavarod azt a kenyeret, beleteszed a húsba, és tojást, borst és sót, és akkor összekavarod. Aztán megcsinálod a szószt, amiben megfőzöd ezt a húst. A szószhoz a fehér hagymát megvágod nagyon finom apróra, és megdinszteled, felengeded vízzel. Teszel bele sót, citromkarikákat. Akkor a húsból veszel, és prézlit teszel a kezedbe, és formálsz egy kicsi hosszúkó formát, és megfőzöd a szószban. Ez a falcs hal. Nagyon-nagyon finom, én úgy szeretem. És akkor csináltuk azt, ami mazsolával volt, ruca aprólékból. És még egy van, amit a mamám csinált, az is egy hús összetételű dolog fehérborban, borzaccban. Nagyon finom volt ez a fehérborszósz.

Édesapám péntek este mindig imádkozott. De nem csak pénteken, ő hétköznapokon is, reggel felkelt, magára tette a tfilint és a tálesz ruhát, és azzal imádkozott. Nagyon korán kelt, öt óra, fél hatkor, hogy az imát tudja elmondani. De én apámat nem láttam ezzel. Nem láttam, mert mire mi felkeltünk, tatám már minden imádságon túl volt. Apám ezt minden reggel megcsinálta, és utána ment, és engedte ki a majorságokat. De még csinált apám mást is, mert nálunk volt zöldségeskert is, akkor szedett zöldet hátul a kertből, megvágta apróra, puliszkaliszttel összekeverte, azt adta a kicsi majorságoknak. A nagyobbaknak kukoricát dobott. Ezt ő reggel korán elrendezte mindig.

Lehet, hogy édesapám ott imádkozott abban az üveges előszobában, a verandán, az zárt volt. Volt ott egy asztal és egy karosszék. Könyvből imádkozott [Az imákat mindig könyvből kell elmondani a szövegtévesztés elkerülése okán. – A szerk.]. Én nem tanultam meg a héber betűket, nem tudok imádkozni. Nekem magyar nyelvű imakönyvem van, a Mirjám. Volt mamáméknak olyan imakönyve is, amelyikben az ima héber és magyar szövegben is volt.

Jó, hogy falun éltünk, de azért az ünnepeket nagyon-nagyon megtartottuk. Arra emlékszem, hogy mindig nagyon szép ünnep volt. Összegyűlt a család, nagyon szép volt. Ünnepi asztal volt, és mindig volt gyümölcs. A gyümölcs nagyon fontos, különösen ünnepkor. Minthogy azon a vidéken szőlő nem terem, hoztak mindig a regátiak szőlőt, ládákban árulták, ünnepkor édesapám mindig vett egy láda fehér szőlőt és egy láda kék szőlőt. Én most is nagyon szeretem a szőlőt. Az ünnep tényleg azért volt ünnep, mert a család összegyűlt akkor.

A nők inkább csak hosszúnapkor, Jom Kipurkor mentek az imaházba. Arra emlékszem, hogy mamám is ment a templomba, de mi nem. Jom Kipurkor böjtöltünk. Én már egész kis koromtól kezdve böjtöltem egészen nyolcvanöt éves koromig. Én mindig szigorúan megtartottam az egész napos böjtöt. Aztán akkor a lányom mondta, hogy ebben a korban nem kötelező. A böjt a gyermekekre nem vonatkozik, hát biztos csak tizenkét-tizenhárom éves koromban kezdtem el [Böjtölnie csak akkor kell az embernek, ha ez semmiben sem veszélyezteti az egészségét. A gyerekeknek a bár micvójuk / bát micvájuk után kell a felnőttekhez hasonlóan egész nap böjtölniük, addig fél napot böjtölnek. – A szerk.]. Csak akkor nem böjtöltünk, amikor deportálva voltunk, akkor mindennap böjtöltünk, mert nem volt mit együnk.

A családban mindenki megtartotta a böjtöt, mert édesapám elvárta a gyermekektől, hogy megtartsák, de egyébként nem voltunk olyan nagyon buzgó zsidók, még édesapám sem. Ő imádkozott, neki ennyiből állt a vallásossága. De nem ettünk össze-vissza, hogy a tejest és a húsost összevegyítsük, amit nem szabad a zsidó törvények [lásd: étkezési törvények] szerint. Jom Kipur előtti estén volt egy bőségesebb étkezés, ez így szokás, de azt tapasztalatból tudom, hogy minél többet ettél este, annál inkább megéheztél. Későbben ezt a bőséges vacsorát redukáltam mindig. Mindig húsleves volt. Ez is hagyomány volt, hogy akkor húsleves, és aztán a böjt, majd mikor a böjt eltelt, akkor már nem húslevest ettünk, hanem csak sültet. És arra is emlékszem, hogy mindig méz [lásd: méz] volt ezeken az ünnepeken, és természetesen kalács [bárhesz].

Péntek este [lásd: szombat], mikor elmondta apám az áldást, akkor egy darabka kalácsot belemártottunk a sóba. De őszi ünnepkor, Ros Hásánákor, újévkor mézbe mártottuk, hogy édes legyen az év, ami elkövetkezik.

Ünnepkor mindenféle finomság volt, tészta, amit mamám csinált: mézes torta, strudli – bizonyára németből jön ez név, azt hiszem, úgy nevezik magyarul, hogy „édes tészta” [A „strudelről”, vagyis a rétesről van szó. – A szerk.]. Ez nagyon vékony tészta, amit addig nyújtott egy nagy asztalon, egy fehér abroszon, amíg olyan vékony lett a tészta, mint a papír. Aztán bespriccelte egy kis libazsírral, utána dióval, és a dióra mézet csurgatott, aztán felgöngyölte. Ezt csinálják almával, túróval és káposztával – különböző strudlik vannak.

Mi nem csináltunk sátoros ünnepet. Akkoriban még az volt sátoros ünnepkor, hogy a rokonokkal összeültünk, odajöttek hozzánk. Így ünnepeltük meg mi, de a hagyomány szerint sátort kellett csinálni, feldíszíteni, és ott étkezni. De nem tudok olyant a faluban, aki ezt csinálta volna. Minthogy nagyon kevés zsidó is volt, és akik még voltak, szegény gyári munkások voltak. Úgyhogy nem nagyon tartották a vallást.

A Hanuka, az emlékezetes. Azonkívül, hogy a gyertyát gyújtottuk mindig, volt egy olyan játék, amit csak akkor játszottunk, mikor volt a Hanuka. Egy ilyen pörgető volt, és nagyon szerettük mint gyermekek ezt a játékot. Karamellában, cukorkában játszódtunk, pénzben nem. A pörgettyűt trenderlinek hívták, és valószínűleg fából volt. Megpörgettük, aztán az vagy pörög, vagy eldől. Biztos időben volt számítva, hogy ki pörgeti meg jobban, kinek forog tovább.

Akkoriban a legnagyobb csemege a savanyú cukorka volt. Narancsos és citromos, cikk[ely] formában volt a cukorka, csak kicsiben. És volt még olyan kiskocka, stollwerk – a Stollwerck csokoládégyár terméke –, ez egy csemege volt, amit rágni kellett. Nagyon finom karamella volt, kiskockákba volt becsomagolva, és ahogy rágtad, elolvadt a szádban.

Azt már nem tudom, hogy mit ajándékoztak a Hanuka alkalmával, de mivel a Hanuka legtöbbször egybeesik a karácsonnyal, biztos, hogy kaptunk ajándékot. A keresztényeknél is akkor voltak a nagy ajándékozások, akkor biztos, hogy mi, a gyermekek is kaptunk valamit. Nekem nagyon nagy vágyam volt a karácsonyfa, és akkor én próbáltam magamnak egy kicsi karácsonyfát varázsolni, de már nem is tudom, mire aggattam fel pár szaloncukrot, hogy úgy magamnak legyen egy kicsi karácsonyfa, de nem úgy, hogy édesapám lássa. Nekem nagyon fájt, hogy láttam más gyerekeknél otthon a karácsonyfát.

Ott a faluban zsidó család nem nagyon volt. Volt még a Májer család, apám testvére volt a Májer Róza néni, akik aztán elköltöztek Brassóba. Még volt egy Izrael nevű család, akik szintén elköltöztek a faluból, nem tudom, hova. És akkor volt a gyáros, de azok nem laktak ott. A gyárban volt két tisztviselő, a könyvelő és valami műszaki vezető, Grünstein. Ő ott nősült Szárhegyen, elvett egy keresztény lányt, Oláh Zsófit, nekem osztálytársam volt az elemi iskolában. Grünsteint deportálták, a felesége egy gyerekkel ott maradt. A felesége, Zsófi meghalt a bombázásban. Grünstein visszatért a deportálás után, özvegyen maradt. A gyerek is megmaradt, a fiúcska. A másik, aki könyvelő volt, Mét Ferenc, az családostól élt Szárhegyen, és volt egy lánytestvére, aki nagyon jó barátnője volt Dórikának, a nővéremnek, és az édesanyja is. Valószínű, hogy őket deportálták. Mét Ferenc életben maradt, és háború után elvett szintén egy szárhegyi keresztény lányt.

Nem volt zsinagóga ott a helységben. Egy imaház volt, de oda csak nagyünnepekkor gyűltek össze. Az imaházban összegyűltek a férfiak és a nők is. Két szoba volt, az egyikben voltak a férfiak, a másikban a nők. Egymásba nyílt a két szoba. Tulajdonképpen egy zsidónak a vendéglője vagy ilyesmije lehetett. Ez a két szoba nem volt állandó jelleggel imaház, csak ünnepkor. Csak nagyünnepkor volt istentisztelet, szombaton soha.

Édesanyám csak kendőt tett, mert parókája nem is volt. A családban nem volt parókás. Vallásosak voltak, de nem olyan nagyon. Különben apám nem szegte volna meg a sábeszt. Mesélte nekem itt valaki [Maros]Vásárhelyen, aki varrónő volt, és varrt nekünk, hogy mikor ő gyermek volt Szárhegyen, apám adott neki cukorkát: „Gyere, gyújtsd meg a kályhában a tüzet, gyere, gyújtsd meg a lámpát” [lásd: szombati munkavégzés tilalma]. Ezt elmesélte nekem, de erre én már nem emlékszem, hogy így volt, mert én tudom, hogy mi gyújtottuk meg. Lehet, hogy ez az előtt volt, hogy én születtem. Én és az öcsém, aki nemrég halt meg, mi voltunk az utolsó két gyermek. Sokan voltunk testvérek.

Szombaton nem dolgoztunk, nem főztünk, mert már pénteken megvolt, és csak melegítettük az ennivalót. Szombaton nem varrt az ember, nem csináltunk semmit szombaton. Ha jó idő volt, akkor kiültünk a virágoskertbe, volt pad, beszélgettünk, olvastunk, mert olvasnivaló könyvek voltak. Járt nekünk a „Brassói lapok”, újságot olvastuk. De keresztrejtvényt már nem fejtettünk, mert írni már nem volt szabad. Szerettem keresztrejtvényezni, be is küldtem a „Brassói lapok”-hoz, voltak rejtvények minden héten egyszer.

Sétáltunk is egy kicsit, nem volt ott egy kimondott sétány, hanem nagyon közel volt az erdő. Ott volt egy nagyon szép út, amelyik felvezetett a ferencesek kolostorához. Azt nagyon szerettük. Ott fel lehetett sétálni, az egy szép séta volt. Többször is volt, hogy felsétáltunk, csak mi, gyerekek, és ott fent a kolostor előtt volt pad. Elég hosszú volt az út a kolostorig felmenni. Ha felsétáltunk odáig, akkor leültünk a padra, és néztük a kolostort, volt vagy két barát ott. Hallottam, hogy azelőtt több barát volt a kolostorban. Volt egy nagyon kedves fiatal fiú, volt, hogy kijött a kolostor udvaráról, és leült ő is a padra. És el lehetett vele beszélgetni. Nem volt olyan szigorúság, hogy ne érintkezzenek az emberekkel. A testvéreimmel nagyon szerettünk a természetbe járni. Minthogy közel volt, mászkáltunk az erdőben. Volt ott egy elég magas hegy, úgy is nevezték, hogy „hegyes hegy”. Mint gyermekeknek az nagy dolog volt, hogy fel tudtunk menni egészen a csúcsára. Volt egy forrás is, Hidegkút volt a neve, elég messze, de az is nagy dolog volt, ha el tudtunk odáig menni. Mikor az ember járja a hegyeket, és van egy forrás, az olyan nagy dolog, hogy ihatsz abból a friss vízből.

Nekünk nem voltak magyar klasszikus sorozataink, de volt egy pár orosz regény Tolsztojtól, Dosztojevszkijtől. Jóska bátyám jobban szerette az oroszokat olvasni. Én is már gyermekkoromtól nagyon szerettem, hát nem pont Dosztojevszkijt vagy Tolsztojt, de olvasni. Akkoriban inkább könnyebb regényeket olvastam, voltak ilyen sorozatok, mint a „Pengő” sorozat. És volt Courths-Mahler, egy német író, én akkor nem gondoltam, hogy az írónő [Hedwig Courths-Mahler (1867–1950) – német írónő, a szórakoztató irodalom világszerte elismert művelője, több mint 200 regényt írt. – A szerk.]. Ponyva volt ez, de sikeres volt. Hát most tudtam meg a „Nők Lapjá”-ból, hogy Courths-Mahler nő volt. Romantikus történetek voltak benne, és mindig happiend volt a vége. Legtöbbször kölcsönkaptuk valakitől, aki jött, és hozott könyveket valahonnan. Ezek a lányok, akik szolgáltak valahol egy nagyobb városban, ellopkodták ezeket a könyveket. Hazajöttek a faluba, mindig hoztak ilyen olcsó könyveket. Aztán voltak nekünk ilyen Brehm [Alfred Brehm (1829–1884), aki „a szabad természetben, teljes élettevékenység közben ismerkedett meg az állattal”, főműve, „Az állatok világa” nemzedékeknek volt családi könyve. Maga Brehm az eredeti, hatkötetes kiadást (1863–69) tízkötetesre bővítette (1876–79), ez a változat Magyarországon 1901–1907 között jelent meg, és megjelent egy egykötetes „sűrítmény” is, az ún. „Kis Brehm” Rapaics Raymund átdolgozásában. – A szerk.], természettudományos könyvek, azt inkább Jóska bátyám olvasgatta, „Szerelem az élők világában”, ez megvolt [Wilhelm Bölsche: „Szerelem az élők világában. A szerelem fejlődéstörténete és földi vándorútja” c. kétkötetes  munkája 1912-ben jelent meg magyarul az Athenaeumnál. – A szerk.].

Abban az időben hét elemi osztály volt [A trianoni békeszerződés előtti Magyarországon a hatosztályos népiskola elvégzése volt kötelező, az idősebb testvérek ezt végezték el; Romániához lásd: oktatási reformok a két világháború között Romániában. – A szerk.]. Ott, Szárhegyen elvégezték az elemi iskolát, és utána mindenik lánytestvérem Gyergyószentmiklóson, a zárdában az apácáknál, katolikus iskolában tanult. Ez nem gimnázium volt, hanem négy polgári [Gyergyószentmiklóson a Páli Szent Vince női apácazárdában működött egy katolikus leány polgári iskola, amely 1892-ben nyitotta meg kapuit.  – A szerk.]. Négy polgári iskola volt abban az időben, és ott jártak. Ők, az idősebbek elvégezték ott az iskolát. Dórika nővérem aztán Kolozsváron járt tovább, a Zsidó Líceumban, a Tarbutban, ott érettségizett. A többiek nem, ők maradtak a négy polgárival. Abban az időben nem mentek egyetemre, és azért a négy polgári iskola egy alapiskolázottságnak számított.

Andor nemcsak hogy ott járt a gimnáziumba, Gyergyószentmiklóson [A városban 1908-tól működött gimnázium. – A szerk.], hanem ott is volt kvártélyban Kati néninél, az egy egyszerű magyar asszony volt, akinél mindig volt kiadó szoba diákoknak. Előbb ott lakott a nagyobbik testvérem, a Jenő, utána ott lakott nála Andor. Még emlékszem valamennyire Kati néni arcára. És még arra is emlékszem, hogy ott, Kati néninél – most már nem tudom, kije volt, de – volt egy olyan borzasztó-borzasztó öreg néni, én még olyant nem láttam. A néni rémesen nézett ki, azt hiszem, nem volt normális.

Én már nem mehettem oda, mert jött egy rendelkezés, hogy nem vettek fel zsidó származásút abba a katolikus iskolába. Így Gyergyószentmiklóson a fiú líceumba kérvényeztük meg, hogy tegyem le a vizsgákat, hogy nekem is legyen valami végzettségem. Otthon, magánúton tanultam, és ott vizsgáztam, abban a líceumban. A fiúk, Andor és Jenő is ott tanultak. De Jóska bátyám már máshol tanult. Nem tudom, miért küldték el, ha jól tudom, Bánátban van ez a Lippa, ott járt gimnáziumba [Lippa – nagyközség volt Temes vm.-ben, 1910-ben 7900 román, német és magyar lakossal. Trianon után Romániához került, lakosainak száma 1920-ban 6600 fő volt. – A szerk.]. Én ennyit tanultam, a négy gimnázium tananyagát és nyelveket. Mindezt egy szárhegyi tanár tanította, Ferenc Jóskának hívták, magyar ember volt. Betegsége miatt nem dolgozott mint működő tanár, hanem otthon volt a szüleinél, és elvállalta az én felkészítésemet, ő tanított. Mindig hazajött hozzánk, és otthon készített fel. Ez volt a lehetőségem, így ugyanannyit csináltam, mint a nővérem a polgárival. A többi testvéreimtől eltérően nem iskolába jártam, hanem magánúton tanultam. Tanultam franciául és egyéb tantárgyakat, ami kötelező volt. 

Mikor az elemi iskolába jártam, akkor első tanuló voltam. Úgyhogy biztos meg lett volna a tehetségem ahhoz, hogy elvégezhessek egy líceumot is, sőt… De nem volt a szüleimnek módja, hogy valahova elküldjenek. A közelben nem volt más, mint Gyergyószentmiklóson a katolikus iskola. Ahhoz, hogy tovább tudjak tanulni líceumban, vagy Brassóba, vagy Marosvásárhelyre kellett volna menjek. De az úgy van, hogyha nem vagy iskolában, nincs az a fegyelem. Olyan is volt, hogy mikor tanultunk, és fontos volt, mert kellett vizsgázni, éppen keltek a kicsi csirkék, hát én azt nem akartam elmulasztani, de pontosan úgy adódott, hogy éppen órára jött Jóska, úgy volt ő nálunk a házban, mint egy barát. És akkor restellte mondani, hogy „Magdika, most ne menjen a csirkéket nézni, hanem üljünk le nyugodtan, és tanuljunk”. De nekem az egy olyan élmény volt, hogy nem akartam elmulasztani. Én már nagy leányka voltam, és nagyon udvarias volt. Amit nagyon sajnáltam, ez a Jóska meghalt a bombázásnál Budapesten. A szüleivel is nagyon jó barátságban voltunk. Közel laktak hozzánk.

Jóska bátyám építész lett, ő Csernovicban járt egy hároméves építészeti iskolát. Dórika otthon maradt annak ellenére, hogy ő tovább kellett volna tanuljon egyetemen, mert rendkívül okos volt, a legokosabb volt a családban. Zseniális fogékonysága volt. Otthon maradt, minthogy édesapám olyan idős volt, nem volt már képes arra, hogy tovább vigye otthon az üzletet, Dórika vette át. Otthon maradt, és feláldozta magát, ezt így lehet értelmezni, amikor egy ilyen okos ember, mint amilyen ő volt, tovább kellett volna tanuljon, és ehelyett egy ilyen helyen maradt. Hát nem azt mondom, hogy elmaradott kicsi hely volt, mert mondjuk, Szárhegy egy elég nagy község volt, de mégis áldozat volt a részéről. Apám csőd szélén álló üzletét felvirágoztatta és fellendítette, hogy úgy mondjam. A csőd széléről megmentette, fizetésképtelen volt, kiegyezett a hitelezőkkel, és vállalta, hogy nem tudom, mennyi időn belül kifizeti. Utána egy jól menő üzlet lett belőle.

Amikor én még kicsi gyerek voltam, nagy üzletünk volt. De minthogy édesapám rengeteget hitelezett, a vevőknek adott el, és nem fizettek, apámnak is volt adóssága, mert az árut kapta hitelbe, de hogyha eladta az árut hitelbe, és nem fizették meg, akkor nem volt apámnak, hogy honnan fizesse meg a tartozását, úgyhogy csőd szélén állt apám, de Dórika megmentette. Először is nem hitelezett tovább, csak pénzért adta el az árut. Azonkívül bevezette a „kurrenst”. A kurrenshez azok a dolgok tartoztak, amiket inkább kerestek, igyekezett, hogy az mindig legyen, és főleg mindig valamivel olcsóbban árulta, mint más. Állandóan utazott és beszerzett, nagyon-nagyon tevékeny volt, így aztán helyrehozta a boltot. A deportálás előtt már egész jól összeszedtük magunkat.

A [második] bécsi döntés után, 1940-ben jöttek ezek a törvények, hogy zsidó nem lehet kereskedő, nem lehet üzlete [A zsidótörvényeket 1941. március 26–27-én terjesztették ki az 1920-ban aláírt trianoni békeszerződés értelmében Romániához csatolt Észak-Erdélyre, amelyet az ún. második bécsi döntés értelmében 1940. augusztus 30-án csatoltak vissza Magyarországhoz. – A szerk.]. Akkor az üzletet átadtuk egy örmény kereskedőnek, nem az üzletet magát, hanem csak az üzlet tartalmát vette át. Az árut úgy, ahogy volt, mindent átvett. És bezártuk az üzletet. Volt a faluban két örmény kereskedő, a kettő közül az egyik vette át az apám üzletét.

Mikor Hermin kezdő varrónő volt, Gyergyószentmiklóson dolgozott. Egypár év után Bukarestbe ment, mert ott volt egy nagynéném, aki hívta, hogy jöjjön, mert nagyon kiváló varrónő, nem vidéki városba való. A két lánytestvérem, Hermin és Margit együtt ment Bukarestbe. Hermin testvérem volt a szalon főnöke, és Margit dolgozott vele, de ő csak varrt. Hermin szabott és próbált a saját szalonjában, több lánnyal dolgozott. Bukarestben éltek egészen a [második] bécsi döntésig. 1940-ben visszajött Hermin Szárhegyre, mert nem akarta, hogy határ válassza el a szüleitől. Mert már azt megelőzően Margit férjhez ment. Margit férjét Glück Mátyásnak hívták. Mielőtt megnősült volna, a vendéglátóiparban dolgozott Brassóban. A Matyi szülei is ott éltek, Brassóban. Párizsban élt hosszú éveken keresztül, de aztán hazajött. Tulajdonképpen az ő eredeti foglalkozása aranyműves, ékszerész volt, az volt az alapmestersége. Abban az időben Bukarestben voltak vasgárdista [lásd: vasgárda] megmozdulások, és Margitnak a férje kommunista, illegalista volt, és félt, nehogy a vasgárdisták elfogják, az következményekkel járhatott volna. Akkor ők elmenekültek Bukarestből, elmentek Csernovicba. Azt hitték, hogy ott biztonságban lesznek. De a következmények őket is utolérték.

1940-ben, amikor bejöttek a magyar hatóságok, átvették itt Erdélyben a közigazgatást, akkor kezdték el a fiúkat [a fiútestvéreket] üldözni. Azért értek inzultusok, mert hát uszították őket [a hatóság a lakosságot]. Betörték az ablakainkat, ilyesmik történtek. És még személyi támadás is ért, nem engem, hanem a nővéremet. Aztán a fiúkat Szárhegyről elhurcolták a csendőrök, mert megbízhatatlanoknak voltak elkönyvelve, hogy a kommunizmussal szimpatizálnak. A testvéreim nem voltak benne semmilyen politikai szervezetben, de az üzletben egy ládára azt írta [egyszer] a kisebbik testvérem, Andor, hogy „Éljen a kommunizmus!”. Hát gyermek, tizennégy éves volt [Azaz a dolog 1936 körül történhetett. – A szerk.]. És ha ő ezt ráírta, akkor biztos, hogy a másik fiú is szimpatizáns, ugye? Ott, Szárhegyen volt olyan csendőr, aki eljött hozzánk, és azt mondta, hogy holnap el fogják a fiúkat hurcolni. Megmondta. És a nevét sem felejtettem el, Tóth Zoli. Ez a fiú olyan érző ember volt. Annyiszor gondoltam, hogy valahogy ezt meg kellett volna keresni, ezt a Zolit, magyarországi volt, de Szárhegyen volt katona, mert mikor a magyar katonaság elfoglalta Erdélyt, akkor a csendőrök is mind onnan jöttek, magyarországiak voltak.

Miután a csendőrök elhurcolták őket Gyergyószentmiklósra, a nővérem, a Dórika elment, és beszélt ott az érdekükben, hogy a fiúkat ne küldjék kényszerlakhelyre. Magyarországi jegyző volt, magyarországi bíró volt, és minden ilyen pozíciókba a magyarországiak jöttek Erdélybe. Dórika ment, és intézkedett a fiúk ügyében, hogy mi lesz velük: bezárják őket, megölik őket? Dórika olyan diplomata volt, amilyent ritkán látni. Szép is volt, okos volt. Az egyikkel nem lehetett olyan jól szót érteni, de a másik kedves volt, meghallgatta – Dórika úgy tudott kérni, könyörögni nekik, hogy ne bántsák ezeket a fiúkat –, és a végén azt mondta, hogy „gondoskodom arról, hogy a fiúk jó helyre kerüljenek”. Így kerültek Tolnatamásiba, a Dunántúlra. Ott volt egy zsidó család, a Révaiék, és volt egy lányuk, Zsuzsi. Nem mehettek sehova, csak abban a helységben mozoghattak, de ezzel a Révai családdal egész jól összebarátkoztak, és befogadták őket ebbe a családba. Persze nem úgy, hogy ott lakjanak, mert nekik meg volt szabva, hogy hol legyenek. Már nem emlékszem vissza pontosan, hogy volt a szállásuk. De ezek a Révaiék nagyon támogatták őket, sőt még egy nagy love story is volt itt Zsuzsi és Andor között. Később megkapták a behívókat a büntetőszázadba [lásd: munkaszolgálat (musz)], de csak Andort vitték el, először Ukrajnába, aztán még tovább, Oroszországba. Jenő kórházban volt ezalatt, Budapesten. Mikor a kórházból kijött, akkor egy másik munkaszázadba osztották be, Hajmáskérre. Amikor Hajmáskérről ki akarták vinni őket Németországba, megszökött, felvett egy hamis nevet, és úgy bujkált Magyarország területén. Győrben volt hosszú ideig, Bitai néven, azt a nevet vette fel, és azt mondta, hogy magyar katonaszökevény, Romániából szökött meg. És nem derült ki, nem gyanakodtak.

Miután bejöttek a magyar hatóságok, akkor megkezdődött Szárhegyen a mi üldözésünk. 1942-ig még megengedték, hogy ott maradjunk. Még nem voltak sehol a németek, és 1942-ben nem német felszólításra, hanem az akkori hatóságok Szárhegyről minket kiutasítottak. Télnek idején, decemberben két hetet adtak arra, hogy felszámoljuk az otthonunkat. Nagy részét a dolgainknak elprédáltuk. Akadtak olyanok, akik egy ilyen helyzetet kihasználtak, és jöttek, megvettek dolgokat, igazán csak éppen valamennyiért. Egy részét a dolgoknak Marosvásárhelyre próbáltuk menteni, mert ott élt a fivérem, Jóska, aki építész volt, a családjával. Azzal indokolták, hogy el kell mennünk, hogy határszél, de hát távolról sem voltunk határszél, a határszél egyáltalán nem volt a közelben. Ami a legközelebbi határ lett volna hozzánk, az Piatra Neamţ, az Gyergyótölgyeshez volt közel, ahol laktak az én rokonaim. Persze azokat is kiutasították, de azok valóban ott a határszélen laktak, a Herman bácsi, Cecil néni meg Etelka és a Löbl család. Őket még korábban kiutasították, mint Szárhegyről minket, és akkor ők még el tudtak Marosvásárhelyen helyezkedni. És onnan deportálták őket, Marosvásárhelyről. Mi meg elmentünk a Dunántúlra, Kaposvárra.

Azt már nem tudom megmondani, hogy írásban értesítettek-e, vagy pedig hívattak a községházára. Annyit tudtunk, hogy el kell menni. El kell menni, nincs fellebbezés, nem lehet semmit sem csinálni. Erdély területén nem tudtunk sehol sem megkapaszkodni. Marosvásárhelyen sem, Kolozsváron sem, sehol. Végül a Dunántúlra mentünk, mert ott volt szolgálatos a két fiútestvérünk, a közelükbe akartunk kerülni, hogy tudjunk majd találkozni, és úgy is volt. Nekünk megjelöltek egy kényszerlakhelyet, Kaposváron. Andor és Jenő ott voltak nem messze, amíg megkapták a munkaszolgálatra való behívót.

Mindenkinek volt egy batyuja az ő holmijával, nem volt bőrönd, nem volt kézitáska. Szárhegyről 1942. decemberben ki lettünk utasítva. Télvíz idején, ahogy mondják, el kellett hagyni az otthonunkat. Apám ötven évig élt ebben a faluban. Ez másfél évvel a deportálás előtt volt. Nekünk kétszer kellett elhagyni az otthonunkat, először 1942-ben, majd 1944-ben. Akkor elmentünk Kaposvárra, mert Erdélyben sehol sem lehetett letelepedni. Marosvásárhelyen lakott a Jóska bátyám, az építész, az értékesebb bútordaraboknak egy része, az ebédlő, ide, [Maros]Vásárhelyre lett elhozva, és ami nem volt olyan értékes, azt a falusiak megvették. Jóska bátyám aztán elhelyezte valahová. Abból, amit [Maros]Vásárhelyre sikerült elhozni, megtaláltuk az ebédlőbútort, a karosszékek és a kisasztalka nélkül, csak a nagy asztalt és a hat széket. Talán egy tükrös szekrényt is. Jóska bátyám nem jött vissza a deportálásból. A bútor, ami ebben a szobában van, az íróasztal, szekrény, a hozzá tartozó kihúzható kanapé ugyancsak a Jóska bátyám bútorához tartozott.

Amikor tudtunkra adták, hogy el kell költözni Szárhegyről, akkor tehát Kaposvárra mentünk. A fivérem, aki munkaszolgálatos volt, ott volt közel Kaposvárhoz. Ő ott már járatos volt, és ismert egy családot, akik tudtak nekünk szerezni egy lakást. Két ruhásszekrényt küldtünk el oda, teherszállítással, vonattal. A tehervonaton szállíthattál bármit, lehetett bútort is szállítani. Ez még nem a deportálás volt.

Ahová beköltözhettünk, az egy zsidó fiatalasszonynak volt a lakása. Frisch Juditnak hívták, a férje munkaszolgálatos volt. Kiadott nekünk egy szobát, egy üveges előszobát, konyhahasználattal, fürdőszoba nem volt. Már nem tudom, hogy voltak a fekhelyek, mert egy szoba volt. Az üveges előszobában volt egy dívány, én ott aludtam, a többiek abban az egy szobában. Ötön voltunk ott a családból: édesanyám, édesapám, Dórika volt ott, Hermin és én. Hetvenhat éves volt akkor az apám, a mamám ötvenhat.

Hermin egy varrógéppel jött vissza Szárhegyre Bukarestből, és azt a varrógépet Kaposvárra is elszállították a két szekrénnyel együtt. Úgy-ahogy el volt csomagolva ládába a húsvéti edény, azt is elküldtük Kaposvárra. Egyéb edényt nem, csak a húsvéti edényt. Ez volt minden, amit magunkkal vittünk. De nem emlékszem, hogy a széderedényeket elővettük-e Kaposváron. Azt tudom, hogy ott a lakás végében volt egy raktárféleség, mikor odamentünk, oda tettük be azt az edényes ládát. De azt hiszem, ott nem tartottuk meg a húsvétot.

Jutka édes kicsi asszony volt, huszonkét éves. Gyönyörű hangja volt neki is, az anyjának is, énekeltek mind a ketten a zsinagógában. Kaposváron nagyon szép zsinagóga volt [A kaposvári zsinagógát az 1860-as évek első felében építették, majd Baumhorn Lipót tervei alapján 1906-ban fölújították, 1980-ban pedig lerombolták, pontosabban: fölrobbantották. Az épületből mindössze a tetején, 12 méter magasságban álló, két és fél méter magas bronz kőtábla maradt meg többé-kevésbé, rajta a Tízparancsolat kezdő soraival. – A szerk.], és rabbi is volt. Mi is jártunk a templomba nagyünnepkor. A rabbi szép beszédet mondott, és prédikált magyarul is, de imádkozott héberül is. Fiatal rabbi volt.

Kaposvárra 1942 decemberében érkeztünk meg, kezdetben sokat zaklattak. Jöttek a rendőrök [Valószínűleg: csendőrök, hiszen Kaposvár nem volt törvényhatósági joggal fölruházott város, ahol a csendőrség nem intézkedhetett. – A szerk.], hogy mi mit keresünk itt, miért jöttünk ide. Mi megmagyaráztuk, hogy ez nekünk kényszerlakhely, nem jöttünk mi jószántunkból. Nekünk el kellett onnan jönni. Akkor azt mondták, hogy naponta kell jelentkezzünk a rendőrségen, mindannyian. Aztán lecsökkentették, hogy csak hetenként jelentkezzünk. Belátta aztán a rendőrség, hogy nem vagyunk mi olyan veszélyes emberek, és minek kell őket zaklatni, hogy jöjjenek mindig és jelentkezzenek – aztán békén hagytak. Nem voltak egyáltalán rosszindulatúak. Egészen addig, ameddig a deportálás bekövetkezett. Másfél évet voltunk Kaposváron, 1942 decemberétől 1944. július hetedikéig. Mi voltunk az utolsó transzport.

Kaposváron nem csinálhattunk semmit azon kívül, hogy valami kézimunkával vagy valami ilyesmivel próbálkoztunk. Minthogy Hermin nővérem varrónő volt, a kicsi asszonyka, akinél laktunk, szerzett neki kuncsaftokat, akiknek varrjon. Nem zsidók voltak. Meg is fizették, mert olyan hihetetlen szép dolgokat tudott csinálni, tudott modelleket is tervezni, nem csak kivitelezni. És tudta mindig, hogy az adott formára mi talál, és mi nem talál. Mindenesetre volt munkája. Persze, akinek dolgozott, az meg is kérdezte, hogy mi honnan jöttünk, hogy kerültünk ide, és mikor elmesélte, akkor sajnáltak. Aztán amellett, hogy megfizették rendesen a munkáját, még mindig felpakolták.

Dórika megtanult fonni. Akkor nagyon divat volt az angóra, a nyúl szőre. Azt először persze meg kell tanulni tökéletesen, nem megy az egyből. Nagyon sok zsidó élt Kaposváron. Legtöbb zsidó orvos volt, de voltak iparosok is, például szabó meg órás. Volt egy kedves nő, ő is zsidó volt, és azzal foglalkozott, hogy angórát font. Ő megtanította Dórikát, és ő aztán egész nap font.

Én is próbáltam valamit csinálni, egyszer beprotezsáltak egy családhoz. Persze abban az időben zsidót nem lehetett alkalmazni. Egy nagyon előkelő család, a férfi a cukorgyár igazgatója volt, és a feleségével volt két kisgyerekük. A felesége szülte a harmadik gyereket, és akkor kellett valaki, aki a két nagyobb gyerekkel foglalkozzon. Hát nem sokáig maradhattam ott, mert ez a két gyermek elviselhetetlen volt, az valami őrület, hogy milyenek voltak. A hajamat tépték… Én voltam a legkisebb gyerek a családban, de el nem tudtam volna képzelni, hogy léteznek ilyen gyermekek. Elkényeztetett gyerekek voltak, a fiúcska és a leányka. Nem tudtam sehogy sem zöld ágra vergődni velük, nem tudtam, hogy kell az ilyen gyerekekkel foglalkozni. Abban az időben úgy volt, hogy mikor valaki vezérigazgató, akkor az méltóságos úr, hát ceremóniás volt minden [„Hivatalosan” valószínűleg nem illette meg a „méltóságos” cím a kaposvári cukorgyár igazgatóját (lásd: megszólítások, címzések a két világháború között Magyarországon), de persze elképzelhető, hogy környezete informálisan mintegy előléptette. – A szerk.]. Én megmondom őszintén, hogy nem tudtam ebbe a miliőbe beilleszkedni, két hét után mondtam, hogy nem tudok jönni. Ők is tudták, miért vagyok én akkor ott, merthogy el lettünk űzve az otthonunkból, és akkor ők is mindennel felpakoltak.

Az ottani divat szerint a falusiak olyan pruszlit, kis horgolt lájbit viseltek [Pruszlik, lajbi – női mellény. – A szerk.]. Ahol laktunk, az egy bérház volt, a házigazdát Satlernek hívták. Több család lakott az udvaron. Az egyik néni már bedolgozott abba az üzletbe, ahol ezeket a pruszlikat árulták, és mondta, hogy szerez nekem is munkát. Megtanultam pruszlit horgolni. Én is kerestem egy kicsi pénzt, Dórika font, és ő is keresett, de Hermin nővérem kereste a legtöbbet. Még volt egy kicsi pénzünk, amit eladtunk holmit, ott a falusiak megvették, volt egy kicsi tartalékpénzünk, úgyhogy volt miből éljünk addig, amíg el nem deportáltak. Ez volt a kaposvári intermezzo.

Hallottuk már, hogy mindenhonnan eldeportálják a zsidókat. Aztán Kaposváron is összegyűjtöttek. Az utca, amiben mi laktunk, a Berzsenyi Dániel utca a gettóban volt. Elég sok zsidó lakott ebben az utcában, és a város többi részében lakó zsidókat is idehozták. 1944 márciusában jöttek be a németek Magyarországra, azt hiszem, huszonegyedikén [1944. március 19-én következett be Magyarország német megszállása. – A szerk.]. Ez után deportáltak minket, azt biztosan tudom, hogy júliusban.

A zsidóságnak nem volt szabad kimenni a gettóból. Az utcából sem volt szabad kimenni, és még ott is sárga csillagot kellett hordani. Nem tudom, hogy mások honnan szerezték a csillagot, de azoknak, akik ebben az udvarban laktak, a hét családnak a nővérem varrt. Volt nekünk sárga anyagunk, valamilyen szatén anyag, azt felszabta, és mindenkinek adott egy csillagot, hogy tegye fel. A nővérem, szegény, már akkor nagyon le volt gyengülve. Beteges volt, ízületi bántalmai voltak, azonkívül érzékeny is volt, mindig hajlamos volt a hűlésre, köhögött. De azért sokat dolgozott Kaposváron. Állandóan volt munkája, mindig hívták házakhoz, és el is ment. A megalázás és egyáltalán, az a bánásmód a zsidókkal, az egy döbbenetes dolog volt. Benne volt a levegőben a félelem, hogy valami rettenetes dolog fog jönni. De azt, ami jött, azért nem gondoltuk.

Volt két fiatalember, lehet hogy civil rendőrök voltak, minden esetre a rendőrségtől voltak. Őket az elejétől ismertük már. Ezek párszor eljöttek még hozzánk. Valószínűleg sajnáltak is. Jöttek, egy kicsit maradtak, és mi mindig megkínáltuk őket. De nekünk feltűnt egy kicsit, hogy ezek miért is jönnek egyszer-másszor úgy hozzánk, hogy egy kicsit elbeszélgessenek velünk… Ők valahogy fel akartak készíteni rá, hogy tudjuk, hogy most már ez bekövetkezik, de nem mondtak semmit. Egy nappal azelőtt, hogy összeszedtek volna, az egyik odajött, de nem mondott semmit, hogy másnap el kell menni. De odajött. Gondolom, hogy tetszettem neki – én voltam a huszonvalahány éves, valószínűleg ilyen szemmel nézett rám –, gondolta, hogy megmentene. Mert ő tudta, hogy valami következik. Akarta volna, és nem tudta mondani?

Úgy volt, hogy összeszedtek. Minden házba beszóltak, hogy pakolj, és megyünk. Nem volt hova elmenekülni. Akik gazdagok voltak, a nagy gyárosok, a milliomosok, azok megvették a szabadságukat. A kaposvári lovardába voltunk összegyűjtve. Más városban téglagyárba gyűjtötték össze, mi Kaposváron a lovardában voltunk. Nagy volt a lovarda, de menekülésről szó sem lehetett onnan. Egy édesanya kimenekített onnan két leánykát, mert az édesapjuk zsidó volt, és ő keresztény. Egy udvarban laktunk velük. A két leánykának az édesapja vagy meghalt, vagy munkaszolgálatos volt. Nem tudom, hogy intézte el az édesanyjuk, hogy onnan, mikor már össze voltunk gyűjtve, ezt a két kislányt kiengedték. De így elmenekülni nem, sem azelőtt, de miután összegyűjtöttek, akkor már biztosan nem lehetett elmenekülni

Az alatt, amíg a gettóban voltunk, volt olyan, hogy megkínoztak embereket – de mi nem voltunk azok között, akiket megkínoztak –, hogy mondják meg, hová tették, vagy hol vannak az ékszereik. Nem a csendőrök kínozták, hanem voltak erre alkalmas emberek, mert nem mindenki tudta ezt csinálni. Ezek verőlegények voltak, arra voltak kiképezve, hogy embereket kínozzanak. A csendőrök között voltak szelídek is.

Amikor már az állomáson voltunk, láttuk, hogy volt egy vagon, ahova a Mittelmann gyógyszerészt tették fel, aki milliomos volt. Felismertünk egy másikat is, akiről tudtuk, hogy szintén nagyon gazdag. Mi szegény emberek voltunk. Mikor minket bevagonéroztak, akkor én láttam, hogy ezeknek a gazdag embereknek egy külön vagon volt, ahova csak ők mentek. Ezek az emberek azért tudtak megmenekülni, mert a vagyonukat a németek elvették. Egyezkedtek a németekkel, meg lehetett őket vásárolni.

Mikor aztán elindultunk, mentünk a sötétben. Csak egy kicsi ablak volt, onnan nem is lehetett kilátni, és ebben a vagonban százketten voltunk. Ember ember hátán, csak úgy tudtál leülni, hogy a lábadat össze kellett húzni. Ritkán állt meg vonat. Akinek jutott, az ivott, mert nem állt annyit a vonat, hogy mindenki tudjon inni. Egyszer megálltunk hosszasan, nem csak hogy egy kicsi vizet kapjunk, és akkor tudtuk, hogy most lekapcsolták azt a vagont [ahol a gazdagok voltak]. Ez magától értetődő volt, hogy miért álltunk és álltunk. Mert lekapcsolták a vagont, és minket vittek tovább. [A szakirodalomban nem találtunk utalást arra, hogy ez az eset így megtörtént volna. – A szerk.]

Azt tudom, hogy mikor visszamentem Kaposvárra rögtön a háború után, még 1945-ben, akkor bementem a patikába, és ott volt ugyanúgy, mint azelőtt, Mittelmann, a gyógyszerész. Hogy aztán a többiekkel mi lett, nem tudtuk meg, biztos mind megmenekültek, csak nem maradtak ott, mert legtöbb ezek közül vagy Amerikába, vagy Izraelbe ment el. De Mittelmann gyógyszerész Kaposváron maradt továbbra is. Örvendett ő is, hogy látott, de ez egy olyan dolog, hogy az ember nem kérdezhette meg, hogy hol volt lágerben, vagy hogy szabadult meg.

A vagon szigorúan zárva volt, csak akkor nyitották ki, amikor egy kicsi vizet beadtak, és amikor kidobták a holttesteket. Akik őriztek minket a határig, magyar csendőrök voltak. Azt mindig mondták, hogy ha van valami ékszerünk, még van valami gyűrű, adjuk oda. Nem tudom most már, hogy milyen kifogással kérték, hogy adjuk oda az ékszert, biztos nem mondták, hogy „mert most már visznek titeket”. Már nem is nagyon lehetett az embereknél semmi.

Mikor egy vagonba százkét ember van összezsúfolva, és csak azon a kicsi ablakrésen jön be egy kis levegő, akkor el lehet képzelni, hogy abban a vagonban milyen szagok lehettek. Egy veder volt, amibe elvégezhetted a szükségedet. Nem is tudom, hogy ennyi ember elvégezhette volna, hogy ne teljen meg. És nem álltak meg olyan gyakran, hogy ezt ki lehessen üríteni, vagy ki lehessen önteni, hát akkor el lehet képzelni, milyen szag volt. Azonkívül meleg nyár volt, július, izzadtságszag volt, és minden egyéb. Elviselhetetlen volt az út, amíg oda megérkeztünk, három és fél napig. Az egész család fenn volt a vagonban, együtt voltunk. Az apám hetvenévesen [Apja 1868-ban született, 1944-ben tehát már 76 éves volt. – A szerk.]. Milyen szenvedés volt már ez az út, amíg megérkeztünk…

Nem mondtak semmit, hogy hova szállítanak. Azt sem tudtuk, mikor fogunk megérkezni, vagy hogy most hol vagyunk. A cseh–magyar határnál biztos már a németek kezdték őrizni a vonatot, mert már nem voltak magyar csendőrök.

Auschwitzba a megérkezés borzasztó volt. A vasútvonal egészen az auschwitzi láger bejáratáig meg volt csinálva. Egy ilyen három és fél napos út után, amikor végre kinyitják az ajtót, akkor ahelyett, hogy friss levegő csapta volna meg az orrunkat, a krematórium füstjét, büdös, perzselt szagot éreztünk. Akkor már nem tudtál többet gondolkozni. Láttad, hogy füstölnek a kémények. Már nem is tudtál semmire sem gondolni. Akkor már nem gondoltunk arra, hogy még megmenekülhetnénk.

Ahogy leszálltunk, mindjárt különválasztották a férfiakat és a nőket. És ezek a lengyelek, akik már évek óta ott voltak, mert őket deportálták legelőbb, ezek ott már otthon voltak, csíkos ruhában. Volt nekik karszalagjuk, hogy már fontosabb valakik voltak. Azok mindjárt az elején mondták a kisgyermekes nőknek, hogy adják oda az öregeknek a gyereket, mert azok jobb ellátásban lesznek. Hát volt, aki nem adta oda, inkább vitte magával, és aki vitte magával a gyerekét, az is odakerült a gázkamrába. De az a fiatal anya, aki odaadta az öreg édesanyjának, az még kerülhetett azok közé, akik megmaradtak, az öreg a gyerekkel krematóriumba került.

Akkor apám még ott volt, és ott volt a háztulajdonos fia is, mert azok először kivételezettek voltak, mert az édesapjának nem tudom, milyen keresztje volt az első világháborúból, valamilyen nagy kitüntetése volt [lásd: mentesítések a zsidótörvények hatálya alól]. Nekik nem kellett sárga csillagot viselni. De aztán elvették tőlük a kivételezettséget, és ott voltak ők is velünk egy helyt. Odaszóltam a háztulajdonos fiának, hogy „Vigyázz édesapámra” – erre még jól emlékszem. Nagy férfi volt, nem is tudom, miért volt otthon, mert tulajdonképpen már házas férfi kellett volna legyen, de nem volt családja. A szüleivel volt otthon. A nagymamáját kidobták útközben, mert meghalt, nyolcvanvalahány éves volt. És akkor az édesanyja velünk jött, ő meg az apjával ment, ezért kértem, hogy vigyázzon az én apámra – de ki gondolta… Akkor még nem gondoltam, hogy megölik őket, de nem volt semmi jó érzésem.

Aztán úgy álltunk fel a sorba, hogy Dórika, én, a nővérem, és a mamám volt közben. Aztán volt a szelektálás, és akkor válogattak: minket hárman meghagytak, az édesanyámat meg elráncigálták. Mi már többet nem láttuk… nem láttuk többet édesanyámat, hogy mi lett vele. Azt tudom, hogy ott volt ez a Mengele, azt később tudtuk meg, hogy ki volt ő. Ő válogatott, mindig ő szelektálta azokat, akik megérkeztek. De aztán még bejött a lágerbe, ahol voltunk, egy gyönyörű fiatal szőke SS katonanővel ketten jöttek. Egyik szebb volt, mint a másik. Az egy szőke szépség volt, az a katonanő, ő meg egy férfi szépség volt. Magas barna, szép férfi. Nem gondoltad volna, hogy ilyen kegyetlen. Mamámat elráncigálták, és minket engedtek tovább, ennyi volt. Nem emlékszem, de biztos nem egyedül volt. Az megmaradt az emlékezetünkben, hogy Mengele hogy nézett ki, mert többször megjelent ott a lágerben.

Miután elválasztottak, akiket jobbra tettek, azok mentek a gázkamrába, és akiket balra tettek, azokat vitték zuhanyozni a fürdőbe. Rögtön utána, ahogy elválasztották, akiket életben hagytak, fürdeni vittek, szabályos zuhanyfürdő volt, és még szappant is adtak. Mindent elvettek, ami volt rajtunk, amiben jöttünk, csak a cipőt hagyták meg. Előbb a hajvágás volt, azt hiszem, és azután a fürdő. Mindenhol, mindent, a test minden szőrzetét levágták. A szappan, amit adtak, kocka formájú volt, szürkés színű. Durva, szemcsés. És rá volt írva: RIF, Reiche Jüdische Fette. Ez azt jelenti, hogy tiszta zsidó zsír. Akkor nem tudtuk, hogy mit jelent ez a monogram. Még aztán is kaptunk ilyen szappant, és akkor sem tudtuk [RIF – két, egymásnak ellentmondó vélemény létezik „szappan-kérdésben”: az egyik szerint az emberi zsírból készült szappan egy – félreértelmezésen alapuló – legenda. A német megszállók a lengyel gettókban „Rif” feliratú szappanokat osztogattak. A Rif betűszót a gettóbeli zsidók úgy oldották fel, hogy „Rein jüdisches Fett”, azaz „tiszta zsidó zsír”, és ennek alapján terjedt el az a hiedelem, hogy a koncentrációs táborokban a zsidó holttestekből szappant készítenek. A RIF valójában azt jelenti, hogy „Reichstelle für Industrielle Fettversorgung” (Birodalmi Ipari Zsíradékellátási Hatóság). – A szerk.]. Utána rögtön kaptunk egy szál vászonruhát, mondjuk azt, hogy se nem fehér, se nem szürke. Csak egy vászonruhát, alatta semmi.

Aztán felállítottak sorba. Mindig négyen voltunk egy sorban. Akkor is négyen, mikor szelektáltak. Köves úton kellett menjünk a fürdő után, olyan darabos kövek voltak, nem aprók. Megmondták mindenkinek, hogy melyik számú barakkba kell menjen.

Egy ilyen barakkszoba lehetett, harminc-negyven négyzetméter. És több mint százan voltunk bezsúfolva. Úgyhogy nem volt annyi hely, hogy ha lefekszel, ki tudjál nyújtózkodni, hanem úgy, mint a szardíniák, ahogy a dobozba be vannak téve. Semmi nem volt a földön, egy szalma vagy valami, semmi, csak a csupasz föld. És akkor a cipőmre feküdtem, az volt a fejpárnám. Ketten voltunk Dórikával, Hermin más szobában volt. Hogy ez miért volt így, hogy ő nem volt velünk, azt nem is tudom. Mi akartuk volna, hogy együtt legyünk. Meg volt számolva, hogy ide mennyit, és ők belökdösték az embert, és aztán nem lehetett változtatni, hacsak nem cseréltél, hogy egy odamenjen, és ő idejöjjön, hogy az a szám egyezzen. Szóval ilyen furcsa dolgok voltak.

Amikor megérkeztünk ide, a barakkba, kiosztottak nekünk egy kenyeret, ami olyan tégla formájú volt, nem tudom, miből volt, de semmiképpen nem úgy nézett ki, mint a kenyér. Kenyeret úgy kapott mindenki, hogy az egy hétre szól. Szürke volt, nem volt kenyér színe, de ez kenyérnek volt adva. Letettem a kenyeret, tudtam, hogy hol volt a helyem, hát azt hittem, ha oda visszamegyek, ott lesz az a kenyér. De nem volt a kenyér sehol. Mikor visszajöttem, és nem volt ott az a kenyér, és láttam, hogy a másik eszik, nekem nem volt mit enni… A Dórikáét is elvették. Hát akkor éheztem, mert nem volt kenyerem. Akkor, legelső nap ellopták a kenyeremet, és többet nem kaptunk egy egész kenyeret. Utána annyit adtak, amennyi egy napra való volt.

Reggel még sötét volt, amikor kiabáltak, hogy fel kell ébredni. Ki kellett menni, és fel kellett sorakozni, és órákig ott azon a kövön állni, órákig, amíg jöttek ezek, hogy megszámoljanak. Annyi ember volt egy helyiségben összezsúfolódva, hogy akkor ott nem fáztál. Az egy olyan hely volt, hogy nappal negyven fok körül volt a meleg, hogy felhólyagosodott a bőr attól a nagy hőségtől, reggel pedig fagytál meg abban az egy szál ruhában, és álltál azon a prizmán. És akkor összebújtunk, egymást melegítettük, mert fagytunk meg. Majdnem zéró fok volt éjszaka. És ez így volt mindennap. Reggel jöttek, és megszámoltak. De hogy ezt miért csinálták, ezt csak ők tudják.

Miután vége volt ennek, adtak egy olyan híg valamit, kávénak nevezték, de annak semmi köze nem volt a kávéhoz. Nem volt kávé íze, egy lötty valami volt reggel. Az volt a reggeli. Volt nekünk edényünk. Valamilyen, nem tudom, honnan összeszedett, mindenféle szedett-vedett, rossz kisedények voltak, mondjuk, kislábas vagy egy kis fazék. Mindenkié más volt. Rozsdásak, undorítóak voltak azok az edények, de nem volt más. Látszott, hogy valami eldobott, kiszuperált edények, nem tudom, honnan hordták oda. És akkor adtak ebédre, úgy hívták, hogy gemüze [lásd: dörgemüze]. Azt jelenti, hogy főzelék. Mint ahogy a szénának van a szénapora, hát valami olyasmi lehetett, mert az nem volt semmilyen növényi főzelék. Ránézésre is olyan undor fogott el, hogy na nem… Mikor először megkóstoltad, azt gondoltad, hogy azt soha nem fogod tudni megenni. Aztán a végén csak megettük, abban adták, azokban a ronda edényekben. A legtöbben ott, Auschwitzban már mindjárt egy-két nap után hasmenést kaptak, és annyira legyengültek, hogy már nem tudtak élni, nem tudtak létezni. Nem mondhatom azt sem, hogy az én gyomrom bírta, az volt a legborzalmasabb, amikor ki kellett menni éjszaka, de hasmenésem nem volt. Ez egészen érdekes. És így éltünk hét hétig, ilyen körülmények között.

Nem tisztálkodtunk, mert nem volt hogy. Egyszer egy hónapban mosakodhattál, zuhanyozhattál, nem volt fehérneműd, nem volt higiénia, és mégsem volt egyszer sem, hogy valami kiütés lett volna a testemen, vagy nem volt olyan, hogy tetves legyek. Tetves nem voltam egyáltalán, egész idő alatt. Meg voltunk kopaszítva teljesen, de megnőtt, aztán olyan szép hajunk nőtt, hogy hihetetlen. Sokkal szebb nőtt az után, hogy meg voltunk kopaszítva, mint amilyen volt eredetileg. Auschwitzban egy idő után megállt a menstruáció, úgy mondták nekünk később, hogy bróm volt abban az ételben, amit adtak [Nyugtató adagolására (brómozásra) semmilyen konkrét bizonyíték nincs, bár nagyon sokan, különböző helyekről állították, hogy brómozták a foglyokat. De valószínű, hogy nem is volt szükség a brómra: a kevés ennivaló, a verés, a hideg vagy éppen a forróság, a kevés alvás, a szörnyű munka stb. nagyon gyorsan kiszívta a foglyok erejét, megtörte az ellenállásukat. – A szerk.]. Mi akkor nem tudtuk, hogy miért nincs, arra gondoltunk, hogy ez a táplálkozás miatt van, de tulajdonképpen nem tudtuk, csak örültünk, hogy így van, hogy legalább ezzel nincs gond. Ez jó volt, hogy ezt csinálták, a sok rossz mellett.

Ez alatt az idő alatt, ez alatt a hét hét alatt a nővérem, Hermin megbetegedett. Volt egy úgynevezett fektető, revírnek nevezték, ahol azok voltak, akiket még, mondjuk, meg lehet gyógyítani. Neki egy kiütéses betegsége volt, azt a betegséget orbáncnak hívják. A nyakán kezdődött, és lehúzódott a vállára, és akkor benn feküdt egy ilyen fektetőben, ahol egy lengyel orvosnő látta el, aki éppolyan fogoly volt, mint mi.

Egyszer kaptam verést Auschwitzban, mikor a testvérem beteg volt, és bent volt a fektetőben. Víz nem volt, és egyszer egy nap egy ekkora tábornak hoztak egy ciszterna vizet. És abban volt egy olyan kő víztartány. Azt nem volt szabad megközelíteni, oda senki nem mehetett. Amikor ez a ciszterna ment el, akkor én szaladtam utána, mert még csepegett belőle a víz, és én akartam egy kicsi vizet felfogni onnan, hogy vigyem be a kórházba a testvéremnek. Akkor aztán elvertek, mert még ezt sem volt szabad. Akkor ütött, ütött…

Az volt még, hogy megegyeztünk, hogy lehetőleg beszélni sem fogunk, mert a beszélgetés is fáraszt, energiát veszítesz azzal, és hogy azt a kicsi energiát is spóroljuk meg. Úgyhogy sokszor napokig szótalanok voltunk, így teltek el azok az auschwitzi hetek. Arra gondoltunk érdekes módon, hogy van még egy reménysugár, hogy megmenekülünk: ha elmegyünk munkára. De féltünk a szelektálástól, hogy Hermin nővéremet elveszítjük. Amikor annyira javult, kiengedték a fektetőből.

Hét hete volt, hogy itt voltunk, Auschwitzban. Ez tulajdonképpen Auschwitz-Birkenau. Lehetett jelentkezni, válogattak munkára, akiket innen elvisznek, de amíg a nővérem bent volt a fektetőben, addig persze mi nem mentünk, hogy együtt mehessünk a szelekcióra. Mikor kijött, akkor jelentkeztünk. Ez idő alatt egymás után haltak meg az emberek, naponta nem tudom, hányan, és jött a nagy autó, volt olyan is, aki még élt, de már halnivaló volt, még lélegzett, még mozgott, mikor feldobták erre az autóra, élőket a holtakkal együtt. Mikor erre gondoltál, akkor azt mondtad, hogy mindenképpen el kell menni innen. Azért jelentkeztünk, mikor kijött a nővérem. Ez a lengyel orvosnő volt ott a szelektálásnál, és visszaemlékezett, megismerte, hogy ő az, aki ott volt. Már majdnem átengedték, de visszaráncigálták onnan. Dórikával kerültem onnan tovább.

Ott Dórika beszélt az egyik kápóval – úgy hívták ezeket. Ismerte, mert varrt neki egy ruhát. Ő hozott mindent, anyagot, cérnát, tűt. És ott, a birkenaui lágerben megvarrt ennek a kápónak egy nyári ruhát. Még most is emlékszem, hogy egy mintás, szép anyag volt. Olyan szép fiatalok voltak ezek, szépek voltak. És úgy megütötte Dórikát, hogy leesett, mikor kérte, hogy csináljon valamit, hogy próbálja áthozni Hermint azok közé, akik már ki voltak válogatva.

Rettenetes lelkiállapotban mentünk tovább, nagyon sírtunk, mert szomorú érzés volt, hogy Hermin ott maradt. Ő egész életében nagyon ügyes volt, nagyon értette, amit csinált, olyan értelemben önálló ember volt. De mindig kellett valaki vele legyen. Amikor a húga a férjével elmenekült, magára nem maradhatott [Bukarestben], mert egy kicsit olyan félénk volt. Egyedül nem szeretett lenni. Mi ezért nagyon búsultunk, hogy ő most összeroppan, nem fogja bírni. Amúgy is mind meghaltak az emberek. Azt sem tudom, hogy Hermin testvérem mikor halt meg, miután elválasztottak ott minket a szelektáláskor. Azt sem tudjuk, hogy még élt egy napot vagy kettőt vagy többet… Szegény, hogy mit szenvedhetett, még rá gondolni is rossz, az ilyesmit az ember haláláig nem felejti el…

Volt még egy újabb szelekció, itt még egypár embert kiválogattak, lehet, hogy itt megint kiválogatták volna Hermint. Bevagoníroztak, és elvittek minket tehervonattal egy feljavító lágerbe, Ravensbrücknek nevezik ezt a helységet. Szeptemberben mentünk el Auschwitzból. Ahogy visszaemlékszem, egypár hétig voltunk itt feljavítás miatt. Itt már, mondjuk úgy, emberibb körülmények között éltünk. Emeletes ágyakban voltunk elhelyezve, és jobb élelmezést kaptunk. Valószínűleg meg is erősödtünk az alatt az idő alatt, amit ott töltöttünk.

A ruhára kellett a számot felvarrni. Nekünk nem volt nevünk, csak szám. Most már nem tudom fejből a számomat, de rajta van a papírjaimon. Tetoválva mi már nem voltunk, mert mi már az utolsó transzporttal jöttünk [Fazekas Magda és családja nem az utolsó transzporttal érkezett Auschwitzba. Július 7-én ugyan a kormányzó leállíttatta a deportálásokat (a döntés előzményeiről lásd: Horthy Miklós, vitéz nagybányai), de például a soproni zsidókat (az oda koncentrált környékbeli zsidókkal együtt), több mint 3000 embert július 7-én deportálták; július 8-án éjszaka a békásmegyeri HÉV állomásról indult egy deportáló vonat, amelyen a budakalászi téglagyárban „koncentrált” kispesti, pestszenterzsébeti és újpesti zsidókat vitték Auschwitzba; ugyanígy elszállították a pünkösdfürdői HÉV állomáson, illetve a monori téglagyárban összegyűjtött budapesti és vidéki zsidókat július 6-án, 7-én és 8-án Auschwitzba, valamint a Csepelen összegyűjtött fővárosi ügyvédeket és újságírókat is; július 19-én (kijátszva a deportálások leállításáról szóló kormányzói rendelkezést) Budapestről, a Keleti pályaudvarról Eichmann még elszállíttatta a kistarcsai internálótábor 1050 és a Rökk Szilárd utcai kisegítő toloncház (a Rabbiképző) 500 zsidó foglyát. – A szerk.], már nem tetováltak. Akik korábban jöttek, azoknak be van a szám tetoválva [lásd: tetoválás].

Aztán elvittek Neustadt bei Coburgba, Buchenwald volt a központja ennek a lágernek. Ez egy munkásláger volt. Itt már egészen más barakkok voltak, mint Auschwitzban. Itt vízvezeték volt a szobában, lehetett tisztálkodni. Volt egy olyan hosszabb kagyló, és ott meg lehetett mosakodni. Volt a szobában kályha is, akkor még nem kellett fűteni, de későbben nagyon fáztunk ebben a szobában. Adtak egy munkaruhát, egy szürke overallt, jó erős vászonból. A karján volt egy piros jel, ami jelezte, hogy fogoly vagy. Ki volt vágva, és az anyag be volt applikálva. Ha rá lett volna varrva, le lehetett volna venni. Így, hogy ki volt vágva, és be volt applikálva, ha megszöksz, azt nem tudtad eltüntetni. Nem volt semmi fehérneműnk. A ruhát nem lehetett kimosni, mert nem tudott megszáradni, nem volt meleg a barakkban. Koszosban jártunk. Tisztálkodni igazából, azt hiszem, egyszer egy hónapban lehetett, úgy, hogy egy zuhanyzóban, ahol meleg víz folyt, mert nálunk ott, a helyiségben csak hideg víz folyt. Nem tudom most már, egyszerre hányan mehettünk be. A barakkban az arcunkat megmostuk a kezünkkel, és még meg is tudtunk mosakodni, de rendes tisztálkodás tetőtől talpig egyszer volt egy hónapban, úgy emlékszem.

Abban a szobában negyvenketten vagy negyvenhárman voltunk. Volt egy idősebb néni, Novák néni, még a nevére is emlékszem, akkor negyvenkét éves volt, az már öreg néninek számított. Ő egyedül volt, aki negyvenkét éves volt. A többiek mind fiatalabbak voltak. Én huszonnégy éves voltam, és a többiek sem voltak idősek. Volt egy francia orvosnő, aki Novák nénivel egykorú volt, és mivel gondolta, hogy neki túl fárasztó tizenkét órát dolgozni egy hétig nappal és a másik héten éjszaka, ezért mindig adott neki igazolást, hogy lázas, és azért nem tud menni dolgozni. Így Novák néni mindig hiányzott. Őt egy napon azért vitték el, mert összeszámolták, hogy milyen sokat hiányozott. Szegény, nem gondolta, hogy ez lesz a vége.

Kaptunk egy kenyeret, ami már jobb kenyér volt, mint az auschwitzi, ehetőbb kenyér volt. És azt az egy kenyeret nyolc szeletre kellett vágni, nyolc személynek kellett elosztani. Tehát úgy volt, hogy kiválasztottunk egy személyt a szobában, aki a kenyeret felvágja és elosztja. És egy kocka margarin volt a reggeli. Egy szelet kenyér, az volt a napi adag. Volt délben fehérrépából leves, amihez adtak héjában főtt krumplit. Meg volt számolva, hogy mindenki kap négy-öt krumplit, az volt az ebéd. Mindig ugyanabban az időben, délben két óráig, vagy ameddig lebonyolódott. És jött a karácsony, azt mondták, hogy akkor lesz különleges karácsonyi ebéd. Vártuk a karácsonyi ebédet, hogy ki tudja, mi lesz. De nem volt az különleges, nem volt semmi karácsonyi, csak ugyanaz. Minden nap ugyanazt a répalevest és főtt krumplit adták, semmi változatosság nem volt. De az a főtt krumpli, az valami eszményi finomság volt akkor ott nekünk, éhes embereknek. Kenyeret is úgy ettél volna még egy kicsit, de nem ehettél, mert be kellett azt osztani egész napra.

Jött a tél, adtak valami ócska holmit, biztos azokból a dolgokból volt, amiket elvettek, és aztán ezeknek a munkáslágereknek elosztogatták. Én is kaptam egy kabátot, elég hosszút, majdnem a bokámig, de nagyon jó volt télen, mikor hideg volt. Bár nem volt nagyon messze a munkahely, de hóban mentünk. A cipőmet még Auschwitzban ellopták. Akkor én is loptam egy cipőt. Az én cipőm nyári cipő volt, és egy száras cipőt loptam. Egész idő alatt, amíg Auschwitzban voltam, az volt a félelmem, hogy akitől elloptam, meg fogja ismerni a lábamon azt a száras cipőt, de nem.

A munkatáborban eleinte meg kellett tanulni a szakmát, hogy úgy mondjam. Ez egy kábelgyár volt, a Siemensnek volt a gyára, kábelt javítottunk [KALAG (Kabel- und Leitungswerke AG)]. Megkérdezték, ki tud németül, Dórika jelentkezett, és akkor ő nem a munkapadhoz került, hanem oda, ahol ellenőrizték a munkát, amit végeztünk. A hibás kábelek meg voltak jelezve egy szalaggal, hogy ott van a hiba, és azt kellett megjavítsuk. De ahhoz, hogy tudjuk, hogy kell megjavítani, meg kellett tanuljuk. Legalább két hétig tartott, amíg beletanultam. Eleinte nem tudtam elképzelni, hogy ezt fogom tudni csinálni, de aztán csak megtanultam. Tizenkét órát dolgoztunk. A szállásról a gyárba mindig kísértek az SS-nők.

A felügyelők civilek voltak, két öreg volt, akik a gyárban a munkát és a csoportot felügyelték. Az egyik öregnek emlékszem is a nevére: Herr Rentsch, úgy hívták. Egyszer megvert az egyik felügyelő, mert elbújtam ott, ahol felakasztottuk a kabátokat télen. Már nem bírtam, éjszaka volt, gondoltam, egy kicsit alszom ott. Megtalált, és persze megvert. Hát nem úgy vert meg, hogy összetörte a csontomat, hanem csak jól megpofozott. Aki megvert, aki megtalált a kabátok mögé bújva, az egy kicsi öregember volt.

Én nem voltam lelkes munkaerő, szabotőrnek is neveztek. Az úgy volt, hogy minden kábelnél meg volt jegyezve, hogy ki csinálja, nem úgy volt, hogy aztán el lehet kerülni a bajt, ha adódik. Mert mikor betették a kábeleket, ellenőrizték, hogy ki lehet-e küldeni a frontra azokat vagy nem. A készülék, amin nézték, jelezte, ha valamelyik nem volt jól megcsinálva. Én persze nem voltam lelkes, aztán azt mondta az egyik SS-mérnök, hogy már a harmadik eset, hogy az én kábelem nem jó, nem megfelelő a munkám, azt mondta, hogy elvihetnek, kész. Aztán Dórika, minthogy egész életében mindig segített, akkor is… Nem gondoltam arra, hogy következménye lehet. Akkor nagyon féltem, hogy nem fognak nekem megkegyelmezni. Kétszer volt ilyen eset, hogy meg kellett engem menteni a haláltól, mert biztos halál várt rám.

A másik, az sokkal súlyosabb volt, az életemmel játszottam akkor is. A kábeleket bevonták lécekkel és bőr szíjjal. És minthogy nekünk nem adtak fát, hogy fűtsünk a szobában, habár kályha volt, én gondoltam, na, vigyünk haza ilyen fát… Elvágtam a szíjakat, és a lécek kiestek. Csináltunk jó meleget. Igen ám, de hiányoztak ezek a dolgok, kezdték keresni, hogy miért hiányzik, mert nem úgy jönnek vissza a frontról, hogy hiányosak, akkor annak meg kell lenni. És keresték. Pont rajtam volt egy ilyen kábel, magamra tekertem, és ráhúztam a blúzt… Jött a nagy ellenőrzés, hogy lássuk, hol vannak a kábelek, kinél van a kábel, és ki viszi el azt, amivel bevonják. Hát mit csináljak? Akkor úgy leeresztettem magam mellé a földre. Akkor az az SS-nő, aki megtalálta ott mellettem a kábelt, nem vert meg, csak kiabált. Gondoltam, hogy ilyesmiért biztosan nem kegyelmeznek, mert már egyszer volt egy nagy bűnöm, a szabotázs. És ez volt a lopás, hát akkor már nem volt mit reméljek. Ha kihoztál valamit onnan, az már lopásnak számított. Csak én egyedül csináltam ilyen marhaságot – utólag gondolkoztam. De akkor legalább egy hétig a szememet nem tudtam lehunyni, mert mindig féltem, hogy jönnek, és elvisznek. Mindennap, amikor eltelt egy nap, gondoltam, hogy ma nem jöttek, de jöhetnek másnap. Egy hétig reszkettem éjjel-nappal, és nem jöttek. Nem tudom, hogy menekültem meg. Ez pont olyan volt, mint a szelektálásnál is, hogy a halál torkából menekültél meg, ez most már a harmadik volt, hogy a halál torkából menekültem meg. Megmenekültem, és megértem ezt a kort.

Volt úgy, hogy légiriadó volt, akkor kiürítették a gyárat, óvóhelyre vittek minket, és ezek az SS-nők ott kétségbe voltak esve, halál sápadtak voltak, hallottad azt a sok-sok repülőt. És útközben, mikor mentünk, jaj… jöttek a bombázók. Félelmetes volt, hát jól lehetett látni őket. Lefeküdtünk a földre, amíg elrepültek, de mindig azért féltünk valahol, hogy fentről látják-e, hogy mi milyen szerencsétlen alakok vagyunk, hogy nem kell minket lebombázni. Ezüstmadaraknak neveztük a repülőket. Bombázáskor lent voltunk az óvóhelyen, és ezek az SS-nők is lejöttek velünk, persze még ott sem hagytak magunkra. Úgy féltek, féltették az életüket, fiatalok voltak. Mi nem féltünk, mert gondoltuk, hogy vége az éhezésnek, jön a bomba, és legalább… Nem volt nagyon életkedvünk.

Aztán eltelt a tél, és jött a tavasz. Áprilisig dolgoztunk, akkor már nagyon közeledtek az amerikaiak, úgyhogy kiürítették a gyárat.

SS-nők voltak ott a táborban, és volt két férfi is. Az egyik SS-férfi egy fiatalabb ember volt, a másik idősebb, akit mi bácsinak neveztünk, egy Wehrmacht-katona volt, aki nagyon jóságos, jóindulatú ember volt, soha senkit nem bántott. A másik sem vert meg úgy kifejezetten senkit, de volt eset rá, hogy mérgesen ráütött valamiért egy-egy fogolyra. Egy napon feltűnt egy másik katona, nem tudtuk megállapítani, milyen rangja van, de egy magas rangú idősebb tiszt jött oda, és benézett ezekbe a szobákba, mint akit érdekel, hogy hogy vagyunk. Mondták, hogy mindenki csomagolja össze a holmiját. Mindenkinek egy kis batyuja volt, de még ezeknek az SS-nek is volt, akik kísértek minket. Egy ilyen szekérféleségbe kerültek a dolgok. Úgyhogy aki akarta, oda tette, aki nem, az vitte magával.

Már nem tudom, mennyi ideje mentünk, ez a menetel két hétig tartott étlen. Ezek a tisztek és a többiek, akik kísértek, hol vagy mikor ettek, azt nem tudom, de ez a magas rangú tiszt még olyat is csinált, hogy segített tolni a szekeret, mert nem lovas szekér volt, hanem húzták a foglyok a szekeret, egy olyan targoncaféle volt. Ez nekünk valami olyan volt, hogy nem tudtuk, hova tegyük. Persze, ők már tudták, hogy itt hamarosan valami történni fog. Kiderült a végén, hogy kinézett magának egy szép lányt, mert ugye sokan voltunk, nagy volt ez a láger, csak nők, nagyon sokan… Ez egy máramarosi lányka volt, mind ott sündörgött, mind jött oda, mert ezek tudtak jiddisül, és a jiddis nagyon hasonlít a némethez, és tudtak értekezni. Egyszer, mikor megálltunk pihenni – egy erdőben mentünk –,volt ott egy kis tó, és látjuk, hogy az egyik tiszt leveszi a puskáját, a másik is leveszi a puskáját, és bedobálják a tóba. Na, gondoltuk magunkban, most már nem kell félni, puska nincs, nem tudnak lelőni minket. Ez nagyon jó jel volt, ez már azt jelenti, hogy most már itt a szabadulás.

Mentünk tovább, de nagyon-nagyon éhesek voltunk. Hát volt úgy az út szélén, hogy több tejeskanna le volt téve, biztos úgy volt megszervezve, hogy azokat kiteszik, aztán elszállítják onnan. Megérkeztek ezek az éhes emberek, és persze senki sem tudott abból inni, mert mindenki akart inni, nekirontottak, és felborult a kanna, kifolyt a tej, senki sem tudott végül hozzájutni. Így van az éhes emberrel. Akkor mentünk tovább, és nyolcan – most már nem tudom, pontosan, hogy ki volt ez a nyolc – lemaradtunk az erdőben, mert gondoltuk, hogy ha már ezek a katonák is eldobták a fegyvereiket, akkor már nincs mitől félni, akkor már nyugodtan ebben az erdőben lemaradhatunk, mert nincs veszély. És lemaradtunk, a transzport meg továbbment.

Egy nagyon szomorú emlék nekem, ha visszagondolok, hogy mikor mentünk ezen a kéthetes transzporton, volt, hogy még más transzport is jött, de hogy mi ne lássuk, betereltek minket az erdőbe. És amikor ezek mentek el, mi az erdőben nem voltunk olyan nagyon mélyen bent, ők észrevették, hogy ott vagyunk. És bekiabáltak nekünk, hogy debreceni vagyok, a másik mondta egy másik város nevét, ez megmaradt örökre az emlékezetemben. És láttuk, amikor mentek, hogy hozzák egy szekéren a holttesteket, egyiknek a feje lógott le, a másiknak a lába, egymásra voltak dobálva, és húzták a szekérrel. De azok a csontvázak húzták azt a szekeret tele holttesttel, és ezt mi láttuk onnan az erdőből. Miután elmentek, még hallottuk a fegyverropogást, és mikor kihajtottak az erdőből, ahogy mentünk az úton, nem láttál egyebet, csak agyvelőt, kiloccsant agyvelőt az úton. Mikor már nem bírták húzni azt a szekeret, az útszélen ástak nekik gödröt, és ott eltemették. Mikor mi felszabadultunk, volt olyan, hogy megtalálták ezeket az elásott holttesteket, és jöttek, hogy nézzük meg – én persze a világért sem mentem volna. Szegény bátyám is, József egy ilyen transzportban lehetett, és ki tudja, hol temették el, mert ő sem élte túl.

Amíg odáig jutottunk, hogy a katonáknál láttuk, hogy mi történik [eldobják a fegyvereiket], addig mindig megszámoltak minket. Amikor mi lemaradtunk, a transzport továbbment. Csehszlovákia felé mentek. Mi behúzódtunk az erdőbe. A németországi erdők nem olyan sűrű erdők, hogy az ember el tudjon rejtőzködni, mert ha elmentünk, mondjuk, a Görgényi-havasokba vagy a Kelemen- havasokba, hát ott olyan sűrű erdők vannak, hogy az embert nem nagyon találják meg. Mégis megtelepedtünk, és az egyik közülünk, aki tudott jól németül, Wittmann Magdának hívták, magyarországi lányka volt, bement a faluba. Az erdőben egy ösvény volt, és gondolta, hogy ez az ösvény vezet valahova, elindult, és egy faluba jutott. Ottan adtak neki nyers krumplit, gyufát, de azt már nem tudom, honnan volt nekünk egy edényünk. Csináltunk tűzhelyet kövekből, és volt fa az erdőben, száraz ágacskákból tüzet raktunk. Meg akartuk főzni a krumplit. Persze nem főtt meg a krumpli, mert ahogy meggyújtottuk a tüzet, nagyon közelről kutyaugatást és hangokat hallottunk. Azt gondoltuk, most észrevették, hogy az erdőben füst lett, felfedeztek minket, és jönnek, hogy elfogjanak. Rögtön eloltottuk a tüzet, nagyon-nagyon megijedtünk. De ahogy hallottuk közeledni azt a kutyaugatást és a hangokat, úgy távolodott is a hang. Nem minket kerestek, csak valahol arra vezetett az útjuk. Sosem tudtuk meg, kik voltak azok, akik ott elmentek. De az elég volt, hogy mi olyan nagyon megijedjünk. Olyan ijedtség volt, hogy többet nem mertük a tüzet meggyújtani. Akkor még nem mentünk el, hanem ott az erdőben összebújtunk, és úgy aludtunk vagy nem aludtunk, de eltelt valahogy az éjszaka, mint ahogy eltelt a többi éjszaka. Most már nem tudom, hányadik napja lehettünk ott. Azon éjszaka havazott.

Ahogy ott feküdtünk a földön, éhesen, rongyosan, megfagyva, milyen állapotban lehettünk… Dórika lába csupa vér volt, mert a cipője a hosszú gyaloglás alatt feltörte a lábát. Nem volt, amivel tudjuk kezelni vagy bekössük. Nem volt semmink, amit elszaggassunk, és bekössük a lábát. Akkor elhatároztuk, hogy itt most már nincs mit maradjunk az erdőben, mert nincsen se mit igyunk, se mit együnk, és megfagyunk, ha ez az idő tovább tart. Elindultunk, lesz, ami lesz, úgyis most már olyan állapotban vagyunk, ha itt maradunk, meghalunk éhen. Mind gondolkoztuk, hogy most merre menjünk, mert nem is tudtunk tájékozódni. Mentünk, ahogy mondják, amerre a szemünk látott. És ahogy mentünk az erdő szélén, jött szembe velünk egy biciklis, és mondta, hogy közel van a falu. Nem féltünk már tőle. Beértünk egy faluba, de már messziről láttuk, hogy a házakon fehér zászló van. Akkor már nem volt mitől félni. Ha fehér zászló van kitűzve, az azt jelenti, hogy itt csak német lakosság van, katona nincs, és már nem fognak el.

Bementünk a faluba, a falusi gazdák főzték a krumplit az állatoknak, éreztük a szagát, hogy krumpli fő, és az emberek látták, hogy ezeken segíteni kell. Adtak tejet és krumplit, hát hogy az mit jelentett nekünk… Nem is hittük, hogy ez igaz. Nem tudtuk, hogy álmodjuk, vagy ez igaz. Aztán azt mondták, hogy maradhatunk a szénapadláson, de csak egy feltétellel, ha senki sem pisil oda, mert akkor azt az állatok nem ehetik meg. Mi azt megígértük, hogy aztán történt valami vagy nem történt, nem tudom, de mindenesetre akkor már tudtunk egy éjszakát a szénában aludni. Nyolcan voltunk. Erre nagyon jól emlékszem. Reggel is adtak nekünk tejet, és elindultunk.

Elindultunk, és egyszer csak feltűnt egy dzsip…, feltűnt még egy dzsip. És jöttek. Mi mentünk szembe velük, és megálltak. Amerikai katonák voltak. Mondták, hogy menjünk csak tovább, mert bejutunk egy városkába, és ott van a parancsnokság, az amerikaiak. Oda bementünk, ők aztán gondoskodtak rólunk, szállást és élelmet adtak nekünk, csomagot. Sok finomságot kaptunk az amerikaiaktól. Abban mindenféle volt, amit a szem-száj megkíván. És kaptunk olyan szállást, hogy mindenkinek jó helye volt. A szállás egy templom mellett volt. Lehetett tisztálkodni, aztán adtak valamit, hogy ezeket a szörnyűségeket, a rongyokat le tudtuk venni, és fel tudtunk rendesen öltözködni. Nem minden volt jó, amit kaptunk, de ahogy ott tovább maradtunk, már meg is tudtuk igazíttatni a holmit, amit kaptunk, hogy találjon. Egy német varrónő csinálta meg. Nagyon jóindulatú volt, és ezek [az amerikaiak] persze segítettek olyan értelemben, hogy mi nagyon el voltunk látva, de Németországban, a háború miatt nagyon-nagyon szűken volt minden. Mondjuk, a falusiaknak volt, mert azok tudtak maguknak mindent [termeszteni], de a városi emberek nagyon nehezen tudtak élelemhez jutni, minket pedig bőségesen elláttak. Például annak a varrónőnek, aki nekünk valamit megvarrt, ebből az amerikai dolgokból még tudtunk juttatni.

Az amerikai csomagban konzervek voltak, és amit a legjobban szerettem, csokoládé volt benne, kekszfélék és búrmogyoró [földimogyoró], de nem a héjában, hanem kibontva, és azon kívül ilyen amerikai mogyorókrém [mogyoróvaj]. Nagyon szeretem, nagyon finom zsemlére vagy veknire, teszel először egy kicsi vajat, és utána ráteszed ezt a mogyorókrémet. És nagyon finom dzsemet adtak, de nem úgy adták, hogy üvegben vagy dobozban, hanem legalább öt kiló dzsem volt. Annyit ehettél, amennyit akartál. Nem tudom, miből volt, de azt nem tudom elfelejteni, milyen finom volt. Viszont hiába volt olyan sok élelem már akkor nekünk, mi azért nagyon óvatosan ettünk, hogy ne együk túl magunkat. De volt olyan, aki amiatt, hogy olyan nagyon legyengült, nekiesett – vagy volt olyan is, hogy mérgezett kenyeret ettek, ott találták a raktárakban a felszabadulás után –, és meghaltak.

Ebből a helységből aztán áttettek egy másikba. Az előbbi helység, ahol voltunk, azt Mitterteichnak nevezték, és ahová másodszorra kerültünk, ez Tirschenreuth [Mindkét helység Bajorországban van, a cseh határtól légvonalban 20-25 kilométerre. – A szerk.]. Volt ott egy nagy porcelángyár. A háborúnak semmilyen nyoma nem volt ezekben a helységekben. Nem volt itt semmiféle rombolás. Mikor átmentünk ebbe a másik helységbe, már elég sokan voltunk, egy gasthaus volt, egy vendégház. Magyar menekültek is voltak ott, de kirakták őket onnan valahova, nem tudom, hol kerestek nekik helyet, és nekünk adták át. Ezek olyan keresztény magyarok, fasiszták voltak, vaj volt a fejükön, és elmenekültek Németországba már a háború befejezése előtt, mert ugye szövetségesek voltak ők. Jöhettek, mert a németek befogadták őket. Elmentek aztán Amerikába, ki hová ért, vagy ott maradtak Németországban.

Egy több szobás vendégház volt. Ott voltunk egészen szeptemberig. Itt kaptunk valami segélyt, és tudtunk venni magunknak élelmet. De jól emlékszem, hogy ennek a vendégháznak lent volt étterme is, ott lehetett enni, ha akartál. De egyre gyűltek ide mások, akik ugyanúgy, mint mi, bizonyára megszöktek, és aztán úgy megszaporodtunk. Még lengyelek is voltak, akik nem tudom, honnan kerültek oda, úgyhogy elég sokan összegyűltünk. Olaszok is voltak, franciák is voltak, de ezek férfi foglyok voltak, nem nők. Aztán lassanként elmentek, haza tudtak menni, és mi is hazajöttünk. Ott voltunk szeptemberig, akkor megszervezték a hazatérésünket. Kaptunk igazolványt, amivel, amikor hazajöttünk, tudtuk igazolni, hogy deportálva voltunk, és hol voltunk.

Dórikával úgy jöttünk haza, hogy meg volt szervezve. Prágában voltunk bizonyos ideig, kaptunk élelmet az állomáson, és mentünk tovább. Budapesten is ugyanúgy volt, és aztán hazaértünk. Vonattal utaztunk. Nekünk nem volt egyéb papírunk, mint amit az amerikai hatóságok adtak, mikor felszabadultunk. Budapesten többet maradtunk, mint Prágában, de már nem tudom pontosan megmondani, hány napot. Nekem nem volt senki, akit felkeressek Budapesten. Akikkel együtt jöttünk a vonaton, mindenki arra ment, ahová valósi volt. A másik hat személlyel nem is tudom, mi történt. Azok közül egyetlenegyre emlékeztem, egy magyarországira. A többiekre már nem tudok visszaemlékezni, soha semmilyen kapcsolatot azokkal nem tartottunk.

Mikor megérkeztünk Romániába, akkor a román határon adtak valami pénzt is. Curtici-on [Kürtös], Aradon keresztül jöttünk. [Maros]Vásárhelyre jöttünk, és ott helyeztek el, ahol mostan a bőrgyógyászat van, azt régebben szanatóriumnak nevezték. Sorra jöttek vissza a túlélők, olyanok, akiket mi nem is ismertünk, akikkel mi nem voltunk együtt. Ott voltunk egy ideig, nem is tudom, mennyi ideig gondoskodtak rólunk az elején, aztán mindenki kellett maga gondoskodjon, keressen lakást, próbálkozzon. Mi nem voltunk [maros]vásárhelyiek. Nekem a Jóska fivérem élt itt [Maros]Vásárhelyen, és mi akartunk volna az ő lakásába menni lakni, de már persze nem volt üres, mert mikor elhurcolták őket, akkor elfoglalták mások a lakásukat.

Jóska bátyámat Marosvásárhelyről deportálták a családjával együtt. Gyurika, a kicsi fiuk hat éves volt, amikor elvitték. A felesége és a gyerek el lettek rögtön gázosítva. Jóskát úgy, mint ahogy minket is, még életben hagyták. Az unokatestvérem, Löbl Jenőke, aki szintén megmaradt – a szüleit elpusztították, nővérével, Hédikével ketten megmaradtak –, együtt volt Jóskával Auschwitzban, ő mesélte el, miután felszabadultak, hogy ő nagyon elkeseredett volt, és Jóska bátyám vigasztalta mindig. Ott a szögesdrótkerítések villamosítva voltak, és aki megfogta, az meghalt. Volt, hogy öngyilkosok lettek ott, ez az unokaöcsém is meg akart halni, mert nem bírta már, és Jóska bátyám biztatta, hogy ne és ne. Aztán elkerültek, ez az unokaöcsém valahová munkáslágerbe került, mint ahogy mi is. De hogy Jóska bátyám hova került, azt nem tudom, valószínű, hogy ő is így járt, mint ahogy láttuk azt a transzportot, ahogy ezek a kiéhezett emberek nem bírtak már menni… Amikor látták, hogy már rogyik össze, akkor lelőtték, hát biztos, szegény, ő is így végezte, de hogy mikor és hol, nem tudtuk meg soha. Ez az unokaöcsém megmaradt, és visszajött, most Kanadában él a családjával. Bukarestben éltek, neki hármas ikrei vannak.

Margitéknak szomorú a történetük. Bukarestből elmenekültek Csernovicba, és onnan menekültek tovább a németek elől. Hogy pontosan hol történt, nem tudom, egy állomáson leszállt a férje, hogy vegyen valami élelmet, és lemaradt a vonatról. Elment Margit a vonattal egyedül tovább, és Szibériába került. A férjét elfogták a németek, és Auschwitzba vitték… Nem tudott semmit a férjéről, és a férje sem tudott semmit róla. Margit hat évig volt Szibériában. De aki valami mesterséget tud, az mindig tud magán segíteni. Ő ott Szibériában is varrt. Egyszer az ujját megszúrta valahogy, és az megfertőződött, és kialakult a flegmona [Phlegmone – gennyes gyulladás. – A szerk.]. Nagyon beteg volt, az egy súlyos, vérmérgezésszerű dolog volt, negyvenfokos lázzal járt, és egyedül volt. Szerencséjére volt ott egy gyerek, egy tizenöt-tizenhat éves fiatal fiú – úgy mesélte –, az gondviselte őt ez alatt az idő alatt, amíg súlyos láza volt. Túlélte, hazakerült. Hat év után került vissza. Brassóba jött vissza, mert ott voltak rokonaink, és oda jött a Lina nénihez, az apám testvéréhez. Lina néni ott, Brassóban egy nagyon gazdag gyárosnak a felesége volt. Segítette, magukhoz vették, mikor visszajött Oroszországból. A férje is visszakerült, ő is megszabadult Auschwitzból. Előbb került vissza a férje, mint a nővérem, Margit.

Margitnak gyermekparalízise volt gyerekkorában, és emiatt neki volt egy beteg lába. Nagyon bicegett, nem tudom, hányszor volt operálva. Mozgássérült volt. És a férje gondolta, hogy biztos, hogy ott Szibériában nem élte túl azt a hat évet, mivel nem kapott semmi hírt. Volt egy nő, akinek a férje szintén nem jött vissza. Abban az időben úgy volt, hogy a magukra maradottak próbáltak társat találni maguknak. És mikor a nővérem, Margit visszajött, akkor neki volt ez a társa már. Aztán visszajött a nőnek a férje, hosszú idő után az is visszakerült, és akkor a nő visszament a férjéhez. A nővérem férje visszament hozzá, Margit visszafogadta, mit csinált volna. A háború után pár évvel kivándoroltak Izraelbe. Született egy kislányuk még Brassóban, Zsuzsika. Mikor elmentek, még egész kicsike volt.

Margit mindig varrt, Szibériában is varrt, és visszakerülése után Brassóban is varrt, és aztán Izraelben is. Valami hihetetlen, úgy is mondtuk, hogy arany keze van, mert nem is lehet elképzelni, hogy mindenhol feltalálta magát. Izraelben Haifán laktak, nagyon szép, a tengerre néző lakásuk volt. A férje kalandor típus volt, amíg ott voltak Izraelben együtt, egy hajón dolgozott, de nem mint matróz, hanem valamilyen alkalmazott volt. A hajó Izrael és Kanada között közlekedett. Szállodamenedzser volt, valami szervező volt. Nyugtalan ember volt, nem tudott ülni egy irodában. Elég okos fiú volt különben, csak egy kicsit kalandor. Egyszer gondolt valamit, és elvitte a nővéremet is a kislánnyal Kanadába, és azt mondta „Ti maradjatok itt, mert itt nagyobb jövője lesz a családnak, és én majd jövök utánatok”. A nővérem a gyerekkel ott maradt, és amit ő olyan keservesen Izraelben megteremtett, az alatt az idő alatt, amíg Matyi ki tudott jutni Kanadába, elúszott, mert hát ilyen volt ő. És akkor a nővérem meg kellett teremtse Kanadában mindazt, amit otthagyott Izraelben. És hogy kapjanak Kanadában letelepedést, meg hogy a férje is ott meg tudjon lenni, ezt mind ő egyedül, ezzel a beteg lábával és egy kicsi gyerekkel együtt érte el. Ez egy nehéz sors volt, nagyon nehéz sors.

Végül kiment a férje is, Kanadában a nővéremnek akkorra már volt egy kialakult kuncsafti köre, és addig is, amíg a férje el tudott helyezkedni, ő el tudta tartani a családot. Aztán férjhez ment a lánya. A zsidó tradíciót nem nagyon tartották. A férje különösen nem, nem volt egyáltalán vallásos. Aztán olyan tragikus, hogy a férje meghalt gyomorrákban, Montrealban van eltemetve a zsidó temetőben, úgy vették meg a sírhelyet. Margitot is oda temették. A lánya férjhez ment, és elvált. Aztán férjhez ment még egyszer, és a férje öngyilkos lett.

A háború után, az elején nagyon nehéz volt itt, [Maros]Vásárhelyen, mert nem volt megfelelő lakásunk. Egy unokahúgom, Hédike, aki előttünk visszajött, és a Kossuth Lajos utcában volt lakása, odavett minket magához. Aztán a Jóska fivérem lakásában sikerült kapni egy szobát és közös konyhát. Közben Jenő is hazajött. Ő a munkaszolgálatból megszökött, és bujkált, nem élte meg azokat a borzalmakat, mint mi. Próbált lakást szerezni, mert a ház nem volt a mienk, ahol laktunk, így kerültünk Dórikával és a Jenő bátyámmal Léderer Mártuskához – úgy hívták a ház tulajdonosát –, aki később a bátyám felesége lett.

A brassói nagybátyám, Lina néni férje gyáros volt, nagyon gazdag emberek. A vaspaszta- és cipőkrémgyár volt az ő tulajdona, vaspasztát, cipőkrémet és parkettpasztát gyártottak. Jenő bácsi adott egy összeget, amiből üzletet nyitott a Jenő bátyám, mert ő megtanulta a kereskedőszakmát, Brassóban tanult. És nyitottak Dórikával együtt egy üzletet az Albina téren. A Főtérhez közel volt ez a nagy üzlethelyiség, zsidó tulajdonban volt a ház. Naftali néni volt a házi néni, és ő kiadta a helyiséget Jenő bátyámnak és Dórikának. Abban az időben nagyon nehezen lehetett kapni árut, de Jenő bátyám mindent beszerzett mindenhonnan, ahonnan csak lehetett. Elutazott Brăilára, Galaţi-ra és beszerezte a gyarmatárut: borsot, teát, kávét, citromot. Ezek mind olyan cikkek voltak, hogy az egész városban sehol sem lehetett kapni a háború után. Nagy hiány volt. Volt ott még papíráru, a vaspaszta, a cipőkrém, ezeket ugye a nagybátyám küldte, nem is kellett megfizetni. Nagyon jól ment az üzlet. Ketten dolgoztak, néha besegítettem én is, de én inkább a háztartást vezettem, főztem, beszereztem a piacon mindent, nekem ez volt a feladatom, ők meg dolgoztak az üzletben. Pár éven belül már egész jól ment az üzlet.

Volt még a két unokatestvérem, Hédike és Jenőke, akik visszajöttek, és a nagybátyámnak az volt a kívánsága, hogy mind egyformán részesüljünk ennek az üzletnek a jövedelméből. Igaz, hogy ők nem dolgoztak benne, igazság szerint, mert csak mindenik kivette a részét, én viszont a háztartást vezettem, az is egy feladat volt. Ez az unokatestvér aztán banktisztviselő lett később, úgyhogy hárman maradtunk. A jövedelemből megvettük először ezt a házat. Először négyünké volt. Az öcsém, Andor még fogságban volt Oroszországban. Andor csak hat év után került haza. Tehát mikor hazajött, ez a ház már megvolt. Úgy volt, hogy négyünké a ház.

Aztán jött az, hogy nem lehet magánkereskedelem – már a kommunizmusban. Nem államosították, hanem be kellett zárni, egyáltalán nem működhetett. Már pontosan nem tudom, mikor volt, de akkor már megvette volt Jenő bátyám azt az emeletes házat a mostani Márton Áron utcában, de tele volt lakókkal. Így én Dórikával maradtam ebben a házban, mi mindig együtt laktunk. Az öcsém, Andor, minthogy nem tudott beköltözni a másik házba, ő is velünk lakott itt. Közben megnősült, neki volt egy szobája az emeleten és egy kicsi konyhája, a fürdőszoba közös volt.

Miután a deportálásból visszajöttünk, Brassóban voltam a nagynénéméknél az unokatestvéremmel, a Hédikével, Dórika itt maradt, [Maros]Vásárhelyen. Egyszer csak jött egy üzenettel egy fiatalember, akire én emlékeztem, mikor jöttünk vissza a deportálásból, Budapesten már láttam egyszer. Meg is lepődtem, mikor odajött a nagynénémékhez, de már pontosan nem tudom, miért jött oda. Ő is egy fiatalember volt, a nagynénémnek, Lina néninek volt egy fia meg egy lánya, vele egykorúak. Mi, a fiatalok összegyűltünk ott, és Lina néniék feldobtak mindent, amit lehetett, hogy jól érezzük magunkat, mi, akik ilyen borzalmas dolgokat éltünk át. Majdnem minden este olyan nagy vendégeskedés volt, mert Lina néniéknél nem számított, nagy volt a lakás, saját gyönyörű nagy házuk volt Brassóban. Én akkor azt hittem, hogy Hédike miatt jött a fiatalember. Hédike négy évvel volt fiatalabb, mint én, szép, kék szemű, szőke, nagyon édes lányka volt. De aztán kiderült, hogy nem. Mikor jöttünk [Maros]Vásárhelyre Brassóból, még nem lehetett személyvonattal jönni, hát tehervonatba pakolódtunk fel. Lina néniék adtak egy szőnyeget, egy plédet, meg nem tudom, még miket adtak, úgyhogy fel voltam én jól pakolva, de ez az egész dolog nem bőröndben volt, hanem volt egy nagy csomag csinálva. Már nem tudom pontosan, mibe volt csomagolva, lehet, hogy valami vászonba. A tehervonatban arra a csomagra ültem, és ez a fiatalember, aki nálam három évvel volt fiatalabb, mellém akart ülni a vonatban. És észrevettem, hogy mind meg akarta fogni a kezemet. Egyszer csak ott, a sötétben, ahogy ültünk a marhavagonban, jöttek, most már nem is tudom, hogy orosz katonák voltak, vagy kik. Bevilágítottak, ahogy a szemünkbe sütött az a fény, valahogy az ijedtségtől felálltunk, és mikor le akartam újból ülni, már nem volt mire. Az ajándékot, amit a nagynénéméktől kaptam, ellopták ezek a banditák. Nagyon sokan voltak, akiket kiraboltak. Ez a fiatalember akkortól kezdve nem tágított mellőlem. Majdnem négy évig tartott ez a kapcsolat.

Akkor kezdte el a medicinát tanulni. Érettségi után volt, de még nem próbálkozott egyetemre menni, kereskedelmiben tanult, és kellett csináljon egy különbözeti vizsgát, mert a medicinára nem lehetett bejutni, csak annak, aki líceumot végzett. Ugyancsak [Maros]Vásárhelyen tanulta a kereskedelmit, az Andor öcsém feleségével volt kolléga. Egyetemre együtt mentünk, nem is tudom, hogy hogy is volt nekem szabadidőm, hogy el tudtam menni vele, mikor ment jelentkezni legelőször. A Bolyai egyetemre nem kellett felvételizni akkor, be lehetett iratkozni. Okos, kedves fiú volt, de nem volt hozzám való. Először is, nem volt hozzám való külsőleg sem, azt mondták, milyen szép lány vagyok, és nem is tudják, hogy én hogy is tudtam vele olyan nagyon összebarátkozni, mert nem volt ő magas… Most már én sem vagyok magas, de akkor magas, csinos lány voltam.

Mindig náluk voltunk összegyűlve, aki később a férjem lett, őt is ott ismertem meg náluk. Bagyi [a későbbi férj] akkor már orvos volt, de az udvarlóm még csak kezdő diák volt, és ott dolgozott mellette az intézetben. Így Bagyi már régóta ismert engem. Az udvarlómnak csak az édesapja élt, vele együtt jött vissza. A húga később jött vissza. Vele is nagyon jóban voltunk. Az édesapja is nagyon kedvelt, sokszor összeültünk ott náluk, nagy élet volt. Akkor igazán az emberek azért éltek, hogy felejtsenek, hogy valahogy tudjanak erőre kapni. Az édesapja tudta, milyen nagy jövedelmünk van, hogy két házat tudtunk venni, hát gondolta, hogy én jó parti vagyok. Egy alkalommal, mikor mondta, hogy jönnek a rokonai Brassóból, és hogy készülnek, várják a rokonokat, nekem volt egy új ruhám, azt vettem fel, nyári ruha volt. Gondoltam, elmegyek, hogy a rokonokkal is ismerkedjek meg. Hát aztán olyan rideg volt a fogadtatás. Éreztem, hogy itt nincs miért maradjak, és elmentünk. Attól kezdve mindig arra gondoltam, hogy valahogy ezt a dolgot be kell fejezni. De nem tudtuk befejezni, mert ő is nagyon ragaszkodott hozzám, és én is hozzá. Aki visszajött, összekerült valakivel, akkor úgy egymáshoz voltak kötve. Ő az édesanyját vesztette el, én a szüleimet. Nagyon jól megértettük egymást.

Akkortól kezdve mind csak gondolkoztam és töprengtem, mit csináljak, mert Dórika nagyon ellenezte ezt a barátságot az elejétől fogva: „Ő nem hozzád való, hozzád már más korú ember való.” Aztán el is mentem Brassóba, Margit testvérem Brassóban lakott akkor még, nem voltak elmenve Izraelbe. És mondták, hogy van valami ismerősük, akivel össze akarnak hozni. Akartak nekem ajánlani egy fiatalembert. De aztán nem lett belőle semmi. Nem tudhatta meg az udvarlóm, hogy mikor jövök haza, vissza [Maros]Vásárhelyre, de valahonnan megszimatolta, és várt az állomáson. Láttam, hogy mégis annyira ragaszkodik hozzám.

Aztán volt egy bál, az orvosok bálja. Az apja és a lánytestvére, aki ugyancsak egyetemen volt, már kiszemeltek neki valaki mást. Én ezt megtudtam. A bálban ő a rendezők között volt, nem nagyon tudott leülni, én meg ott ültem a Bagyi mellett, mert ő nem volt olyan nagyon táncos fiú, nagyon komoly volt. Nem is gondoltam volna, hogy ebből valami lesz. A barátnőm, aki orvosfeleség volt, ő maga gyógyszerész docens volt az egyetemen, hozott egy üveg finom likőrt, és iszogattunk, és ha már iszik az ember egy kicsit, akkor már másabb. Mondtam a barátnőmnek, hogy „Éva, most itt hagyunk téged, és elmegyünk táncolni”. Hát persze, Bagyi olyan szolid fiú volt, olyan félős, nem egy társasági valaki … Aztán táncoltunk, és bennem volt valami dac, mert nem vele mentem a bálba, hanem a másik fiúval. Aztán mondtam, na, most itt az idő, és elmentünk a bálból, anélkül, hogy az udvarlóm észrevette volna. Aztán persze, keresett. Mondta neki a barátnőm, hogy elmentek, nekem sem mondtak semmit. Bagyi hazakísért. Pár nap múlva színházba mentem, hát mit ad Isten, ott van együtt a két fiú és a társaság, és én egy rokonommal ültem lent. Mikor vége volt a színháznak, a ruhatárnál összefutok, és kérdezte, hogy hazakísérhet-e. Elmentünk, a színház után egy nagyot sétáltunk, és akkor azt mondta nekem, hogy eljöhet-e hozzánk. Hát hogyne jöhetne. Akkortól már tudtam, hogy vége.

A bál után a volt udvarlóm elment az unokatestvéremhez, Hédikéhez, hogy közvetítsen, hogy valahogy béküljünk ki, de akkor már nem volt esély. A bál januárban volt, és március vége fele azt mondta Bagyi, hogy neki komoly szándékai vannak, de még egy kicsit meg akar ismerni. Így megismerkedtünk még jobban, és házasság lett belőle. Júliusban összeházasodtunk. Mikor sétáltunk a színház után, olyasmiket mondott, hogy ahhoz, hogy egy lányt jól megismerjen, ahhoz idő kell. És az idő csak ennyi volt. Februártól júliusig. Akkor megesküdtünk, polgári esküvőnk volt. Nem voltunk egyházilag megházasodva. Volt egy vendéglő, az Elekes, ott voltunk vacsorára, ott volt az esküvő utána a vacsora.

Életemben egyszer voltam bálban, 1949 januárjában, amikor ez a bál eldöntötte a sorsomat. Itt dőlt el, hogy kihez fogok férjhez menni. Akkor kerültem össze a férjemmel, aki a férjem volt közel hatvan évig – ötvenhét évet tartott [a házasság]. Azután derült ki, hogy ő első perctől vonzódott hozzám. Őt már négy éve ismertem. De hát neki is volt akkor egy partnere. Itt nem volt családi probléma, csak vallási különbség volt. Az előbbi kapcsolatom zsidóval volt, ő meg keresztény volt. De az ő apja részéről nem volt semmiféle fenntartás, egyáltalán nem merült fel ez a kérdés.

A férjem kolozsvári, de nem Kolozsváron született, hanem Magyarszarvaskenden, az valahol Kolozsvár közelében van, de pontosan nem tudom, hol [Magyarszarvaskend (korábban: Szarvaskered) – kisközség volt Szolnok-Doboka vm.-ben, 1910-ben nem egészen 500 főnyi magyar és román lakossal. Trianon után Romániához került. – A szerk.]. Az édesapja kereskedő volt. Ő református vallású volt, az édesapja az egyházban tevékenykedett. Nem volt édesanyja, csak nevelőanyja, tizenkét éves korában meghalt az édesanyja egy műtéti hiba következtében. Az édesapja részéről semmiféle ellenkezés nem volt, hanem volt neki egy öccse, aki azt mondta, hogy nem vagyok hozzá való. Nem is tudom, honnan vette ezt, mert nem is ismert engem, nem volt honnan véleményt vagy képet alkosson rólam. Csak azt tudta, hogy a testvére egy olyan visszahúzódó, és aki őt kilendíti ebből, az biztosan egy rafinált valaki. Ezt mondta neki az öccse, hogy „Vigyázz magadra, hogy nehogy egy rafinált nő karmaiba kerülj”. Na hát én voltam az a rafinált nő, közel hatvan évig éltünk együtt, és ápoltam, gondoztam. Gondos felesége voltam, legalábbis úgy gondolom, hogy az voltam.

A férjem testvérét Tibornak hívták, két diplomája volt, közgazdasági egyetemet végzett és katonai akadémiát. Pilóta volt, Kolozsváron élt. Volt családja, de viharos a családi múltja. Az egyik testvér csendes fiú volt, a másik egy ilyen nőcsábász.

Ideköltözött a férjem, de abban az időben, mikor megvettük [a testvérekkel] a házat, nem volt üres. Az emeleti részben egy zsidó család lakott, akik elmentek Izraelbe. Úgy volt abban az időben, hogy ha valaki egy lakást átadott, akkor kapott lelépést, így mondták, pénzt kért a lakásért, hogy lemondjon róla. De ez a zsidó család semmit nem kért, hogy beköltözhessünk, mert a sajátunkba kellett költözzünk. Átadták a felső részt, és lent lakott egy özvegyasszony a lányával. Aztán a lánya férjhez ment, és egyedül maradt az öreg néni, a két szoba lenti részben. És egy szobát jószántából átadott, az udvari szobát, és megmaradt neki a nagyszoba. De azt nem tudtuk megkapni, kértük a nénit, és ígértünk is neki pénzt, hogy költözzön a lányához, de nem tudtuk meggyőzni. Nehezen lehetett aztán megkapni azt is úgy, hogy az egész a miénk legyen. Annyi per és minden volt, a férjem ment mindig a lakáshivatalba, szóval nagyon nehezen, de végül is meg tudtuk szerezni a lakást.

A férjemet behívták katonának, és húsz hónapig volt katona. Ez alatt az idő alatt én kiadtam a szobát a hitközség mostani elnökének, Ausch Sanyinak. Közben Ausch Sanyi megnősült, és elköltözött. A férjem akkor még mindig el volt menve, és nekem egy árva jövedelmem nem volt, és jött a gyerek. Így ahogy elmentek Auschék, én tovább kiadtam egy fiatal párnak, orvos volt, és ismerős is. Időközben megszületett Juditka. A férjem húsz hónap után jött haza. Juditka azt mondta neki, hogy Bagyi, nem mondta neki, hogy tátá. Egész idő alatt, amíg katona volt, egyszer volt szabadságon, Fogarason volt katona. Nem fizettek semmit, és semmit nem ismertek el, hogy rangot adjanak, mint egy diplomás embernek, hanem közkatona volt. Nem adtak csak pár lej zsoldot. Akkorra már Andorék is elköltöztek innen.

Ez idő alatt Dórika segített végig minket. Neki nem volt tulajdonképpen kereskedelmi végzettsége, de rendkívül okos, talpraesett valaki volt. Én nem voltam életrevaló ember, mint a testvéreim, akik varrodát nyitottak, meg a többiek, a fiúk, a legkisebb voltam, és el is voltam egy kicsit kényeztetve.

Dórika jelentkezett, mert kerestek a közegészségügyi intézetben főkönyvelőt. Nem volt könyvelői felkészültsége, de elvállalta. Ilyen bátorságot, egy ilyen intézetnek a főkönyvelői állását elvállalta… És nemcsak hogy megállta a helyét, de mindig voltak ismert könyvelő barátok, akikkel valamit meg tudott beszélni. Aztán kitüntették, az ország összes közegészségügyi intézete közül ő volt az első. Kapott egy kitüntetést, egy diplomát, és egy szaklapban is szerepelt a neve dicséretképpen.

Ő nem ment férjhez. Az egész életét, ahogy az iskolából kijött, a családnak áldozta, hogy megmentse apám becsületét. Amikor elvállalta ezt az állást a közegészségügyben, nem volt könnyű, reggel korán felmenni, legtöbbször nem autóbusszal, hanem gyalog ment olyan messzire. Azt hiszem, három kilométer volt az út odáig, télben, nyárban, fagyban. Egy minisztériumi rendelettel megszüntették a közegészségügyi intézeteket mindenhol [átszervezések történtek], egész Romániában. A következő munkahelye a Sanepid volt, ott volt főkönyvelő [Sanepid – a román közegészségügyi intézet neve. – A szerk.]. Innen kifúrták. Akkor a Vöröskeresztnél volt főkönyvelő, ahol a főnöke egy gonosz ember volt. Annyira kiszekírozta a lelkét, hogy Dórika beteg lett a szívével. Mire nyugdíjba ment, akkor már ki volt készülve egészségileg. Együtt voltunk [Maros]Vásárhelyen végig, 1991-ben halt meg, nyolcvankét éves korában. A zsidó temetőben van eltemetve, és oda van temetve most az öcsém is, Andor.

A férjem [Fazekas András] orvos volt, kórszövettanász. A kezdetén kórboncnok volt, amikor megismertem. De itt is volt egy politikai dolog, jött egy átszervezés. Abban az időben még ott, a kórbonctanon működött, de kirúgták. Kicsik voltak még a gyerekek. Csíkszeredába helyezték. De hát Csíkszereda messze van, és Dórikának, aki akkor már ott dolgozott a közegészségügynél, voltak kapcsolatai, már ismert valaki volt, és el tudta intézni, hogy nem Csíkszeredába, hanem Szászrégenbe kellett menjen. És akkor Szászrégenben elfoglalta az állást a kórházban, de ott nem a szakmájában, hanem mint általános orvos dolgozott. Három évig volt [Szász]Régenben, hétfőn ment, és szombaton hazajött. Akkor szombaton is dolgoztak. De volt úgy, hogy nem tudott hazajönni. Egy zsidó családnál lakott – pont egy zsidó családot választott, mert már valahol benne volt egy zsidó családban –, de olyan szobája volt, hogy nem volt fűtve, csak engedték be a meleget. Akkor nagyon meghűlt, és attól kezdve már rosszul hallott.

Aztán Szászrégenből valahogy, nagy nehezen visszakerült [Maros]Vásárhelyre, ezt is nehezen lehetett elérni, de sikerült. De nem volt a kórbonctanon állás, nem volt hely, nem tudott oda visszajönni, hanem a belgyógyászatra. E miatt a három év miatt, amíg [Szász]Régenben volt, annyira romlott a hallása, hogy már nem tudta vizsgálni a betegeket, hallgatni. Aztán el kellett jöjjön a belgyógyászatról, és hogy ne legyen az utcán, elvállalt egy körzeti orvosi állást. Már érzékeny volt. Biciklivel járt a körzetbe, még kevés autó létezett abban az időben, és meghűlt, megint beteg volt, és akkor a végén már azt sem tudta csinálni. Fizikailag nem volt képes. Sokat volt beteg.

Valahogy, nem tudom, hogy lett egy hely a kórbonctanon. Visszakerült, de olyan állásba, ahonnan kezdik a szakmát. Ő már tanársegéd kellett volna legyen, de közben jöttek ezek a dolgok, Szászrégen, azután a belgyógyászat, azután a körzeti orvosi hányódás, hát tulajdonképpen tönkrement. És akkor egy ilyen állásba került vissza az eredeti szakmájához, hogy a legkisebb fizetése volt, de annak is már örvendtünk. De nekem volt egy támaszom, mert Dórika úgy állt mellettünk, mint egy anya. Tehát valahogy mégis megvoltunk. Én aztán nem álltam munkába, nem kellett dolgozzak, mert Dóri mindig segített, úgyhogy nekünk azért olyan szempontból nagyon jó volt, a gyermekeket imádta.

A férjem mehetett volna főorvosi vizsgára, Bukarestben kellett vizsgázni, de nem fogadták el, mert valami kevés hiányzott ahhoz, hogy mehessen, valami csekély, vagy két hónap, és már amiatt nem engedték. És ettől az utolsó vizsgától csak nyolc év múlva hirdettek főorvosi vizsgát. És addig azon a kicsi fizetésen éltünk. Aztán letette a főorvosi vizsgát. Akkor a szövettani laboratóriumba került mint szövettanász. Mikor boncolt, akkor ő kellett megállapítsa, hogy tulajdonképpen miért halt meg, akit felboncoltak. Ezt csinálta pár évig, azután pedig a laboratóriumban a diagnózisokat csinálta. Nagyon nehéz munkája volt, mert felelősség is, ha például egy nőnek kimetszettek a melléből, hogy megállapítsák, hogy rosszindulatú vagy nem rosszindulatú daganata van, ezt ő el kellett eldöntse. És soha egyetlenegy tévedése nem volt. Elismert szakember volt. Hetvenkét éves koráig dolgozott, mert nem engedték nyugdíjba. Az intézet főorvosa volt. Elment reggel, és este tíz órakor, fél tizenegykor került haza. Mert azon kívül, hogy lelkiismeretes volt, sosem tévedett, nem volt, hogy egy téves diagnózis kiment volna az ő keze alól… Mindig dolgozott. Most már nem tudom pontosan megmondani, hány évig élveztük a főorvosi fizetést, de biztos nem olyan sok évig. Hetvenkét éves koráig dolgozott, mikor mehetett volna hamarabb is nyugdíjba.

1949-ben házasodtunk össze, és 1950-ben született Juditka, 1955-ben született Évike. Juditka volt a legjobb gyermek, akit csak el lehet képzelni. Elég nagy távolság volt a két gyermek között, és én Juditkát a harmincadik évemben szültem. Amikor megházasodtunk, a férjem azt mondta, hogy három gyermeket szeretne, de mivel a második gyermek harmincöt éves koromban született, akkor már eléggé ki voltam az időből, úgyhogy a harmadik gyermek elmaradt.

Mind a két gyerek a Papiuban [líceum] kezdte, akkor az vegyes iskola volt, lányok is jártak oda az elején. Aztán az Unireában [líceum] fejezték be az iskolát. Román iskolában tanultak mind a ketten. Jól végezték a dolgukat, mind a kettő. Juditka, a nagyobbik lányom Brassóba felvételizett egyetemre, a faipari egyetemre, Évike, a kisebbik az orvosira, és ez nagy örömére szolgált a férjemnek, mert követte az ő pályáját. Annyira imádta azt a leánykát, hát nem lehet elmondani.

Évikének az egyetemen nem volt problémája, első felvételin bejutott az egyetemre. Évfolyamtársa volt a férje, Frank Albertnek hívják, nagykárolyi születésű, orvos az édesapja. Nagyon jó fiú, nagyon jó férj. Két gyermekük van. A nagyobbik lányka Ivonne, ezzel a névvel nem is hezitáltunk, mert már szerettük ezt a nevet korábban is. Én is nagyon szerettem, hogy ezt a nevet adták. A második Klára, azt is nagyon szeretem. Azon kívül, hogy nagyon szeretem az unokáimat, a nevüket is nagyon szeretem.

Jutka is az egyetemen ismerte meg a férjét. Incze Ferencnek hívják. Brassói születésű, az édesanyja szintén brassói, az édesapja Zágonban született [Zágon – nagyközség volt Háromszék vm.-ben, 1891-ben 4600, 1910-ben 5100 magyar és román lakossal. Trianon után Romániához került. – A szerk.], de Brassóban élt. Juditka nagyon szép volt, olyan típus volt, mint Sophia Loren, nagyon hasonlított rá. Az egyetemi évek alatt a kollégák Sophikának is hívták. Aztán Feri elment Horvátországba egy diákkirándulásra 1974-ben, és egy másik kollégájával, egy román fiúval nem jöttek vissza. Ausztriában kötöttek ki. Ausztriában először átmeneti lakhelyen voltak, amíg tisztázták mivoltukat. Mivelhogy Feri a német származását tudta igazolni – az anyjának volt német származása –, átmehetett Németországba.

Miután Feri elment, Juditka Zilahra került. Úgy volt abban az időben, hogy repartícióval ment Zilahra [Azaz kötelezték arra, hogy az egyetem elvégzése után azt a konkrét állást foglalja el. – A szerk.]. De nem volt sokáig, mert szeretett volna [Maros]Vásárhelyre kerülni, és meg is pályázott egy tanári állást [Maros]Vásárhelyen, a faipari iskolában. Meg is kapta, mi nagyon örültünk, hogy itthon volt, és nem volt egyedül távol. Akkor a kapcsolat persze cenzúrázott kapcsolat volt. A levelek, amik jöttek Németországból, és azok is, amik mentek, cenzúrázva voltak, mert felismertünk egy nagyon apró jelet, ami mindenik borítékon megjelent. Látszott valami két vonal, az mindig ugyanúgy megjelent a borítékon. Nem volt feltűnő, de mégis felfedeztük. Ez a levelezés öt évig tartott. Mindig megjöttek a levelek. Később Feri hazajött Németországból, és megvolt itt a polgári esküvő. Már egész idő alatt úgy szerepelt, mint vőlegénye, már úgy ment el. Volt gyűrűje Juditkának, egy kis ezüstgyűrű volt, és rajta egy kis láncon egy kis szív. Eltelt az öt év, és akkor kellett egypár hónapig várni a házasságkötés után, amíg megengedték, hogy elmehessen. Juditnak a gyermekei ott születtek, Németországban. Mind a két gyerek születésénél ott voltam. Péter, a nagyobbik fiú huszonhét éves, András huszonöt.

Évikééknek elég komplikált volt az elmenetelük. Judit már kint volt Németországban, de Éviék nem mehettek el úgy, hogy Németországba mennek, hanem Évike, zsidó édesanyja lévén, feliratkozhatott Izraelbe. Előbb itt, [Maros]Vásárhelyen tanultak héberül. Volt itt egy ügyvéd, aki nagyon jól ismerte a nyelvet, és elvállalta. Várni kellett, beadták a kérést, hogy ki akarnak menni, és persze ilyenkor a securitate azokat, akik feliratkoztak, nagyon figyelte. Nem tudom, mennyi idő telt el addig, amíg megkapták, hogy elmehetnek Izraelbe. Az egy nagyon fájdalmas elválás volt, mert itt született a nagyobbik leányka, Ivonne-ka. Itt laktak nálunk, egész idő alatt, az udvari szobában, és a kicsi szoba, a fürdőszoba és a konyha az övék volt. Dórika, szegény, akkor már nyugdíjas volt, és mikor nyugdíjba ment, akkor ő főzött. Én beszereztem mindent, segítettem, de tulajdonképpen együtt csináltuk. A kislányka, Ivonne két és fél éves volt, nagyon édes, szép kicsi leányka volt, már tisztán beszélt. Úgy volt, hogy vonattal, hálókocsival mentek Bukarestbe, onnan repültek Izraelbe. Ott egy rokonunknál voltak. Azok is, szegények, egy kis lakásban voltak, és nekik is volt két kicsi gyerekük. Amikor megérkeztek, akkor még nem mehettek oda az unokatestvéremhez, mert meg volt már szervezve, hogy rögtön elhelyezik őket héber [ivrit] nyelvtanfolyamra, az ulpánba. És ott biztosítanak lakást is és mindent. Aztán mondták, hogy ők nem mennek az ulpánba, mert nem maradnak Izraelben. Azért választották Németországot, mert Albi [azaz a vő] édesanyjának a testvére volt ott a családjával. Azok már régebben ott voltak. Hát botrány épp nem volt, de volt ott valami… Elég hosszú ideig tartott a dolog Izraelben, aztán elengedték őket, hogy menjenek, de kötelezték magukat, hogy visszatérítik Izrael költségeit, mert Izrael megfizetett minden embert, aki kiment. Akit engedett Ceauşescu, hogy elmenjen, azért nagy pénzt fizettek. Nem tudom, mennyi lehetett az összeg, Albi nagybátyja térítette meg Izraelnek ezt a pénzt, és akkor elengedték őket [Izrael és Németország fejkvótát fizetett Romániának minden kivándorló után. A fejkvótát a kivándorlók képzettsége és Romániában betöltött pozíciója alapján állapították meg. Egy egyetemi diplomával rendelkezőért többet kellett fizetni, mint egy szakiskolai végzettségű emberért. Az 1960-as évek végétől átlag 3000 dollárba került Izraelnek egy-egy romániai zsidó „kivásárlása”. – A szerk.].

Németországban egy évig voltak nyelvkurzuson, akkor kaptak valami segélyt is a németektől, mindjárt az elejétől fogva. Először kórházban dolgozott Albi is és Évike is. Évike egy plasztikai sebészeti kórházban kapott helyet, Albi pedig belgyógyászati kórházban. Ő aztán mégis radiológus lett. Ivonne most fogja a huszonötöt tölteni novemberben, és Klárika is betöltötte a tizenhetet májusban.

A Klárika születésekor is ott voltam. Dórika olyan áldozatkész ember volt, így most utólag tudom, de akkor nem gondoltam, hogy ez nem természetes dolog, hogy elvállalja akár három hónapra, mert annyi időre adtak akkor útlevelet. De ha öt hónapra adtak volna vagy hatra útlevelet, akkor is azt mondta volna, hogy menj el, legyél a gyermekekkel. Én akkor nem gondoltam arra, hogy mégis nagyon nagy áldozat. Mert szegény az idejét tölthette volna valahol máshol is… Nem volt probléma a hatóságoknál, mindig megkaptam az útlevelet, egyedül mentem a lányokhoz. A férjem dolgozott, egyszer sem mentünk együtt Németországba. Dórika életében egyszer volt Németországban, Évikééknél is és Juditkáéknál is volt. Németországból Juditkáék jöttek haza látogatni, mert Ferinek a szülei Brassóban voltak, már azért is inkább jöttek ők.

1968-ban voltam Dórikával Párizsban, akkor találkoztunk Andor unokatestvérünkkel, aki Franciaországban élt. 1977-ben mentünk el Dórikával Izraelbe, ott összetalálkoztunk Margittal, aki Kanadából jött akkor oda. Együtt meglátogattuk a rokonságot, kirándultunk is sokat együtt. A férjemmel együtt csak ilyen ONT-s kirándulásokat csináltunk. Voltunk Oroszországban, én egyszer voltam, ő volt még egyszer egyedül, Leningrádban. Amikor ketten voltunk, akkor voltunk Moszkvában, voltunk Szibériában, voltunk a Bajkál-tónál. Ott, Szibériában az Amur folyó választja el Kínától, a másik oldalon már Kína van, olyan messzire elmentünk. És voltunk a tajgában, az egy nagyon élménydús kirándulás volt, és nagyon jó társaság volt, főleg kollégák voltak, professzorok az egyetemről. Nagyon szép volt.

A férjem imádta a természetet, és én is szerettem, nagyon szerettem. A kertészkedést, ilyesmiket nagyon szeretem, és rengeteget jártuk a természetet. A Fogarasi-havasokat, tehát nem kis túrák ezek, nem voltak nekem valók, de muszáj volt vele menjek, mert egyedül nem ment el. És mikor már Juditka akkora volt, hogy ő is elmehetett, akkor voltunk először a Fogarasi-havasokban Juditkával, és mikor már Évike is felcseperedett, tizenhárom éves korában körülbelül, akkor elmentünk még egyszer. De én már akkor elég idős voltam, közel ötven éves. A Retyezátot, a Nyugati-Kárpátokat, a Bucegi [hegységet], Brassóban a Cenket, ezeket mind bejártuk.

Megtartottuk a keresztény ünnepeket is, mind a húsvétot is, de templomba járás a férjem részéről nem volt. Ő nem volt vallásos egyáltalán, református vallású volt, az édesapja vallást tartó, hívő ember volt, de a férjem nem, ő nem volt vallásos. Ilyen szempontból nem volt probléma, hogy én milyen vallású vagyok, vagy ő milyen vallású.

Mindig volt karácsonyfa állítva. Ha nem lett volna Dórika, nem lett volna semmi a karácsonyfa alatt. Mert én nem voltam olyan természet, én sosem szerettem vásárolni, és ez a természetem megmaradt. Hogyha ő nem unszol, hogy „menjünk, vegyünk neked egy cipőt”, sosem vettem volna magamnak. Németországban is erővel vitt el Évike, hogy menjek el egy áruházba. Nem szerettem, ilyen természetem volt mindig, és megmaradt.

Hitközségi tag vagyok máig is, azóta, hogy idekerültem, [Maros]Vásárhelyre. A férjemet a református egyháznál jelentettem be, hogy legyen ő is egyháztag, hogyha el kell temetni, a papnál legyen nyilvántartva mint a református egyház tagja. Oda fizettük az egyházi adót, én meg itt, a zsidó hitközségnél fizetem a mai napig. Az öcsém, Andor, Isten nyugtassa, mindig kifizette a hitközségi adót értem is. Évike azt mondta, hogy „Azért, mert eljöttél, maradj meg hitközségi tagnak”. Hozzájárultunk a holokauszt-szobor felállításához is. Adományoztunk, Évike is, én is. Nem tudom, hogy Juditka adományozott-e, de mi biztosan tudom, hogy adtunk márkát.

Húsvétkor nem volt semmi zsidó étel készítve, de pászkát mindig vettünk a hitközségtől. Ami otthon volt a szüleimnél, azokat a húsvéti ételeket nem készítettük el. Csólentet csináltunk, azt nagyon szerettük. Sőt, azt csinálja még máig is mind a két lányom, nagyon imádják a gyermekek, és a férfiak is nagyon szeretik, Évike férje is nagyon szereti, és Feri is nagyon szereti.

Kaptam Hédikétől két gyertyatartót, azzal a kéréssel adta nekem a gyertyatartókat, hogy „minden péntek este gyújtasz gyertyát”. De nem volt ez nálam, nem volt ez a péntek esti gyertyagyújtás. Imádkozni csak a templomban imádkoztam, amikor a szüleimmel mondtuk a mázkirt, ez az ima a halottakért van a templomban. Minden évben csak a szülőkért imádkoztam. Csak a mázkir imát mondtam el, amit a szüleimért mondtam, nem voltunk különösebben vallásosak. És mivel vegyes házasságban éltem, az ünnepet csak olyan értelemben tartottuk ünnepnek, hogy ünnepi ételeket csináltunk, de a férjem templomba nem járt.

A zsinagógába istentiszteletre csak nagyünnepen mentem, Dórikával együtt, ha Ros Hásáná volt és a Jom Kipur. Jom Kipurkor Dórikával böjtöltünk, gyertyát ezeken az ünnepeken mindig gyújtottam, két gyertyát a sábesz gyertyatartóban. És megtartottam a böjtöt nyolcvanéves koromig.

Dórika hirtelen halt meg. Nagyon szerette a Teleenciclopediát, az mindig szombaton volt [A természeti, technikai és egészségügyi témájú Teleenciclopedia műsort a román közszolgálati tévécsatorna, a TVR 1 sugározza 1965 óta, minden szombat délután, hat órakor. – A szerk.]. Szombaton délután ültünk a teraszon, ott volt egy kicsi asztalka két székkel, és pucoltuk a ribizlit, amit akkor szombaton szedett a férjem. Akkor azt mondta nekem Dórika, hogy többet ilyesmit szombaton nem fogunk csinálni, ez az utolsó, hogy ezt csináljuk. Szegénynek az utolsó is volt… Bement megnézni a Teleenciclopediát, engem is hívott, és egyszer csak azt mondja, hogy „jaj, nagyon rosszul vagyok”. A férjem a fürdőszobában volt. És mire jött, meg volt halva, a kezeim között halt meg, sosem láttam meghalni embert. Borzasztó volt.

Dórika 1991-ben halt meg. Én akkor összeroppantam. Elmentem Németországba a lányaimhoz, de hát akkor én nem is gondoltam… Az öcsém és a menye vállalták, hogy gondoskodnak a férjemről, hogy én elmehessek a gyermekekhez. A reggelit és a vacsorát ő el tudta rendezni magának. Akkor derült ki tulajdonképpen a betegsége, amikor a szobából a nagy cserép fikuszt ki akart tenni a teraszra. Megemelte a nagy edényt, és összeroppantak a csigolyái, meg három bordája tört el. Mert már ezek a csontok betegek voltak, tele daganatokkal…

1995-ben mentünk ki Németországba, Évikéék felajánlották, hogy náluk lehetünk, és ők gondozni fogják a férjemet. És milyen a sors, hogy egy lányka született [annak idején], nem fiú – pedig ő [Fazekas Magda férjéről van szó] fiút szeretett volna –, és ez a leányka volt neki évekig a lelkiismeretes gondozója. Ezt egyszer meg is mondtuk neki, hogy látod, milyen a sors, hogy egy lányka született, azért, hogy öreg napjaidra nyugodt legyél, hogy ne legyen semmire sem gondod, hogy csak nyugodtan nézegetheted a tévét, lapozgathatod az újságot – mert minden héten a négy legnagyobb Németországban megjelenő lapot hozta el neki.

Tizennégy éven keresztül ápoltam a férjemet. 2006 augusztusában halt meg Regenstaufban, a Házsongárdi temetőben, Kolozsváron van az urnája elhelyezve a családi sírban. Nagyon sokat ültem mellette, az volt a baj, hogy ő nem hallott, már nagyon régóta a hallásával baj volt, még akkor, Szászrégenben lett beteg a fülével, és fokozatosan elveszítette a hallását. A beszélgetés nagyon nehéz volt. Az utóbbi időben, ha már semmiképpen nem értette meg a szájmozdulatokból azt, amit mondtam, akkor leírtam, hogy mit akarok mondani, és a válaszokkal nem volt probléma, így tudtunk beszélgetni. De amíg élt, az életem mellette volt, és együtt néztünk különböző műsorokat a tévében. Ő például nem szerette az ilyen könnyebb műfajú mozi- és zenés műsorokat. Én szerettem az operettet, szerettem a szép látványos dolgokat, de ő ezt nem szerette, egy kicsit idegesítette, de néhanapján mégis megnézett valamit. Őt a sport érdekelte. Rendkívül érdekelte. Fiatalkorában sokat sportolt, teniszezett, volleyballozott, úszott, és ezeket a sportokat nagyon szerette nézni a tévében. Szenvedélye volt a tenisz. Úgy ismertük ezeket a világhírű teniszjátékosokat, mintha hozzánk tartoztak volna, mindenkinek megvolt a kedvence.

Mikor ezelőtt tíz évvel itthon voltunk, [Maros]Vásárhelyen Juditkával, akkor négy országon keresztül ő vezetett, most is visszagondolok, hogy milyen izgalmas volt. Akkor el akartunk menni [Gyergyó]Tölgyesre, mert jött velem Hédike, az unokatestvérem, aki [gyergyó]tölgyesi. Hédike most Németországban él, nyolcvan éves. Elhatároztuk, hogy elmegyünk megnézni Hédike házát, és a temetőbe is elmegyünk, hogy ennyi év után megnézzük a [gyergyó]tölgyesi temetőt, hogy a nagyszüleim, az apám szülei hol vannak eltemetve. Ezt akartuk. De aztán valami rossz időjárás vagy mi volt, és mégsem mentünk el. Ezt nagyon-nagyon bánom, hogy akkor megadatott nekem, hogy elmenjek [Gyergyó]Tölgyesre, életemben harmadszor lett volna. Elmehettem volna, hogy megkeressem a nagyapámék sírját. Ezt nagyon bánom. Most már nem tudok elmenni [Gyergyó]Tölgyesre, az már biztos.

A zsidó identitás Juditkában van inkább, Évikében nem annyira. Tulajdonképpen mindig tudták a gyermekek, hogy ők zsidó származásúak anyai részről. A holokausztról például Klárikának [unokája Éva lánya részéről] csak tizenöt éves korában meséltem. A nagy leánykának én erről nem meséltem, mert a nagy leánykával, Ivonne-nal a kapcsolatom egész más volt, mint a kicsivel. Mikor odamentünk hozzájuk, ő már egy serdülő gyerek volt, és már nem nagyon érdekelte. A kicsi Klárika öt éves volt, mikor kimentünk, és velünk nőtt fel.

Ezeknek a nagyobb gyermekeknek nem meséltem. Évikének és Juditkának, a lányaimnak nem. Amit megtudtak, azt mástól. Nem meséltem nekik. Nem akartam. Klárikának inkább azért meséltem el, mert őt még nem vitték el ilyen helyre. Mert viszik a német gyerekeket Auschwitzba, elviszik Dachauba. Évikéék Bajorországban laknak, ott olyan koncentrációs táborba viszik el, ami oda közel van. Klárika általában olyan volt, hogy mindig szeretett velem lenni. Úgyhogy elmondtam neki, és azt mondta akkor, hogy „Most, ha elvisznek egy ilyen helyre az iskolával, én egész más szemmel fogom nézni, mint a többi gyerek”.

Azt el kell mondjam, mindig szidnak érte, én kóros álmatlanságban szenvedek. Azóta, hogy visszajöttünk a deportálásból, én nem tudok aludni. Egy éjszaka legalább ötször-hatszor felkelek, és szenvedek. Ez fiatalkoromtól fogva, a házasságban is így volt, és nem aludtam a férjemmel, mert én nem tudok aludni, és akkor mindig felkeltem. Azért mindig külön ágyban aludtunk. Na ezt anyósom nem tudta megérteni. Mert azt mondta, hogy „ilyent, hogy nem alszol a férjeddel!”. Hát, mondom, hogy aludjak vele, ha én mindig fel kell keljek, neki el kell látnia a munkáját, akkor nem tud pihenni.

Éjszaka rosszul alszom, reggel felkelek, összeszedem magamat, és akkor reggeli után – Németországban Évikééknél is mindig úgy volt – mindig a teraszon sétáltam. Az elején, mikor még a férjem annyira jól volt, hogy ki tudott jönni ő is sétálni, egy rövid időt mindig sétáltunk együtt. Ez volt nekem a programom. Akkor mindig segítettem a lányomnak, főztem. Megfőztem az ebédet, utána délután egy kicsit lefeküdtem, de nagyon nem mertem hosszasan, mert lehet, azért nem tudok aludni, ha lefekszem egy kicsit délután. Ez volt ott a programom.

Most Juditkánál ugyanez a programom, nála is segítek ebédet főzni, mert Juditka szereti, ha én megcsinálom az ebédet, és szeretek neki még rendet csinálni a konyhában. Máshoz úgy soha nem volt tehetségem, hogy kézimunkázzak, mint más idősek, hogy köt, varr vagy hímez. De a többi testvérem mindenik nagyon… Dórika amellett, hogy nagyon okos volt, és olyan életrevaló, talpraesett valaki, még nagyon szépen kézimunkázott is, mamám szintén. Most, mióta itt vagyok Juditkánál, nagyon egyedül vagyok, mert ők annyira elfoglaltak. Én belátom, és igyekszem minél kevesebbet zavarni őket. Elvonulok, nézem a Duna tévét, nagyon szeretem az ismeretterjesztő műsorokat.

Érdekes, egyszer sem csináltam fals halat [hamis hal – lásd: halételek], mióta itt vagyok Németországban. Amikor Regensburgban voltunk Évikével, ők Regensburghoz közel laknak, az ottani zsidó hitközséghez mentünk máceszt venni. Pont előkészület volt a húsvéti ünnepre. Nyitva volt az ajtó, és benéztünk Évikével, és láttuk a nagyteremben a megterített asztalt… És fals hal volt előkészítve előételnek.

Életemben bár micvót először Németországban láttam. Most, ahol Judit lányomnál vagyok Obersulmban, egyetlen zsidó sem él a helységben. De egy közeli helységben, Affaltrachban van egy zsinagóga, ami megmaradt, nem rombolták le, mikor az összes zsinagógát lerombolták és felgyújtották a Kristályéjszakán. Közel voltak a gazdasági épületek, és féltek, hogy a tűz átterjed, és minden leéghet, hát meghagyták. De kirabolták ezt a zsinagógát is. Húsz évvel ezelőtt létesült egy egyesület a zsinagóga megmentése érdekében: Freundeskreis ehemalige Synagoge Affaltrach, azaz Egykori Affaltrach-i Zsinagóga Baráti Köre. Ennek az egyesületnek a lányom is tagja. Helyreállították, és szépen rendbe is tették, úgy, ahogy volt, de nem istentiszteletekre használják, minthogy zsidó és rabbi egyáltalán nincsen, hanem csak múzeum, és koncerteket rendeznek. Voltam én is négyszer koncerten ebben a templomban. Van egy német evangélikus pap, Helmut Krause, ő az egyesület vezetője, és mikor vannak a koncertek, ő mindig ott van. A lányom múzeumi szolgálatot végez, ott mindenki önkéntesen tevékenykedik.

Most nemrég, 2007 tavaszán az utolsó esemény egy bár micvó volt, de Stuttgartból hozták oda a gyereket a szülők. Ez a bár micvó volt az első vallásos szertartás, amióta a templomot restaurálták. Eredetileg a szülők amerikaiak, és az apa mint katona teljesít szolgálatot Németországban. A rabbi is Amerikából jött, aki az istentiszteletet tartotta. Nagyon érdekes esemény volt. Sajnos nem értettem semmit az egészből, mert héberül imádkozott, de közben magyarázott is a publikumnak, aminek nagy része amerikai volt. A papa katona volt, jöttek a katonák is, színes bőrűek is jöttek, hát nagyon érdekes volt. Azok is a családjukkal jöttek, ha volt feleségük, azzal, és ha volt gyerekük, azt is hozták. Nem voltak lenn a férfiak és fenn a karzaton a nők, hanem mindenki egy helyen volt. Mi csak azért mentünk fel a karzatra, mert fentről jobban láttuk a ceremóniát. Ezeknek az amerikai katonáknak minden van: iskola, kórház. A stuttgarti katonáknak, akik ott teljesítenek szolgálatot, a hébertanáruk egy nő volt, és ő is segített a rabbinak az istentisztelet alatt. Én a lányommal a karzatból néztem, csak az volt szomorú, hogy nem értettem még azt sem, amit magyarázott, mert angolul magyarázott. Fordították németre is, hogy értsék meg, a bár micvó miért van, mi az értelme. Igaz, hogy nagyon hosszú ceremónia volt, de megérte nagyon. Imádkoztak, aztán kivették a Tórát, a tekercset kinyitották, és bizonyos szakaszokat olvasott fel a Tórából. A rabbi mellett mindig ott volt a gyerek is, a szülők is, és a két kislány is, a két lánytestvére. Szóval nagyon érdekes volt ez az egész. 

Magda Fazekas
Marosvasarhely
Romania
Interviewer: Ildiko Molnar
Date of interview: August 2007

Magda Fazekas is a woman of average height with gray hair, a gentle look and a quiet voice. Since the middle of the 1990s she has lived at her daughter's place in Germany, but every year or second year she comes back to Marosvasarhely: she visits the family house they have there, she goes to the Jewish community with her elder daughter, and she visits the cemetery as well. I met her at a seder dinner; she immediately offered me to tell me about her life. In Marosvasarhely the family owns a large, storied house; she told me the story of the house as well. It is furnished with fine furniture inherited from the parents and brothers. Behind the house there is a nice grass-covered courtyard with a hedge.

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

My family background

My father's parents lived in Gyergyotolgyes [in Romanian Tulghes]. I was born in 1920, and I suppose that when I had reached the age when I could have asked questions, I don't know why, but I never did. I don't remember asking my father about his parents, because they were probably no longer alive. My father's father was called Paskel Struhl. My grandfather had a sawmill; he was trading with timber, that was his occupation. They lived in a wood region. In Gyergyoszarhegy, where we lived, people used to call my father Mr. Paskel. My father's name was Arnold Struhl, yet the villagers always called him Mr. Paskel. I don't know why they called him by the name Paskel, I really have no idea.

If I remember well, my father too had seven siblings; we were seven as well. In my childhood I was in Gyergyotolgyes twice, because two of my father's sisters still lived there then, but they never told us to go to the cemetery. Well, they should have shown me where the grandparents were buried. But it never came up.

I think my father, Arnold, was the eldest. One of his brothers was Uncle Bernad. Uncle Bernad Struhl was very religious, he was bearded. My father was bearded too, but his beard was not so long. In the time of the [Austro- Hungarian] monarchy Uncle Bernad moved to Debrecen. He was a merchant, but I don't know what kind, because I never went to Debrecen. I don't know his wife's name, but I know that she was Jewish. They had two children, Andor and Nelli. Uncle Bernad came back to Romania every year, but only he came, his family didn't. He spent some time with us and with his siblings who lived in Romania. He paid a visit, so to speak.

Nelli married a physician, and had a daughter. Andor graduated in law, but because of the anti-Jewish laws 1 he couldn't find a job in Hungary and went to France. He fled the country. Nelli, Uncle Bernad and his wife were deported [during WWII]. After he left Hungary, Andor joined the Foreign Legion in France. He got to Africa with the legion, and in Senegal he met the daughter of the governor of Senegal. They got married. His wife was called like his sister, Nelli. Their life is an interesting story, a romance.

My father had one more brother, who was called Aizik. Uncle Aizik must have had a tragic life, but we don't know anything about it. He disappeared. It never came to light under which circumstances. Presumably he had some sort of problem, a mental disorder, schizophrenia. Uncle Aizik was divorced, he had two children as well, but I don't know precisely where they lived. These are old stories from the time of my childhood. And they didn't talk about him, I don't know why not. His person was a taboo in our family.

He had a sister too called Cecilia, or Aunt Cecil. Aunt Cecil's husband was called Herman Hirsch. In Gyergyotolgyes they were considered a wealthy family, as they lived in a very beautiful, large house with a garden. I remember they had a huge fruit-garden and lots of currants. And I liked currants so much; even today I enjoy picking currants. Aunt Cecil had an extremely gentle character. They were a childless couple. Uncle Herman was a charming man. I remember having such a good time at their house.

Cecilia and her husband had a large shop in Gyergyotolgyes. The shop used to be within the family house. All of them [the siblings] had their own house. Cecilia had a nice and big family house. Comfort didn't exist at that time. For example no such thing like water pipes existed; at that time there weren't even artesian wells outdoors. There were only traditional wells, where one had to draw up the water from.

Another of my father's sisters was Etelka. Her husband was called Arnold Lobl. Etelka's family was also very well-off. They had two children, Hedi and Jeno. Hedike was four years younger than me, but we played a lot together. And I felt very-very good at their place too, because Aunt Etelka was a great cook, and we had delicious meals at hers, I remember that well. She was extremely thorough, the house was so clean, one couldn't even describe it, and she was very clever as well. Etelka was the opposite of Aunt Cecil, because Etelka was tall, and she wasn't fat at all, and Aunt Cecil was small and fat. Well, this is what you should know about the two sisters. Etelka's family was so wealthy that they bought Hedi a piano. I think nobody else had a piano in the village, only them. This was already in Romania, it must have happened in the 1930s, because I was around ten at the time.

My father had yet another sister, Aunt Lina, who lived in Brasso. Aunt Lina's husband was called Jeno Izrael. They were very rich people. Aunt Lina had been married before. She had divorced her first husband, and got married for the second time to Uncle Jeno. They had two children, Edit and Laci [Laszlo], both are dead by now. Edit was the elder, Laci was the younger.

Aunt Lina visited us every year in Gyergyoszarhegy. I also know that my father didn't go with her [when she went to the cemetery]; Aunt Lina went alone to see the grave of her parents. And he didn't mention them; I don't remember him talking about his parents. I couldn't even tell you what my grandmother's name was. It might sound strange, but that's how it is. [Editor's note: Centropa managed to find out the names from various family documents.]

The husband of Aunt Roza was called Moric Majer. They had three children: Jeno Majer, Marci [Marton] Majer and Ibolya Majer. Uncle Moric and Aunt Roza lived for a while in Gyergyoszarhegy, where we lived. They had a big shop. These shops were called chandleries, because one could find everything there. Since they were more enterprising than my father, they moved to Brasso. They wound up the shop when they moved away. I don't know what kind of business they did in Brasso.

The two boys and the girl too studied to become dental technicians, if I remember correctly. Jeno had an office in Brasso, and Ibolya worked with him as a dental technician. Marci moved to Sepsiszentgyorgy, and he got married. Jeno didn't get married, but Marci did, and he lived in Sepsiszentgyorgy with his wife. It is likely he had a dentist's office there too; I don't know this for sure, because I never visited them in Sepsiszentgyorgy. But I did visit Jeno a few times in Brasso.

Jakab was the youngest of the brothers. I can't tell much about his early life, only about his later years. He was a bachelor for a long time; he only got married at an advanced age. He was somewhat of an eccentric person. He had whims, he was very peculiar about everything, for example he wiped everything. He even blew on the lump of sugar before putting it into his coffee, and he was extremely meticulous. As he didn't have his own shop, and he was old, but didn't have a family yet, he had this custom of always going from one brother to the other. So he stayed for a while here and there. Later he finally got married. They lived in Marosvasarhely; his wife had an interesting name: Piroska Noszai. After his deportation [and death during the Holocaust] we inherited what Uncle Jakab had left behind: a house and some furniture.

My father only finished elementary school. None of the children left the village [to study]. They grew up there, and at that time they weren't sent to high school, because there wasn't such a thing. I think one had to finish seven grades at that time, only later one had to finish eight, if I remember correctly. [Editor's note: Magda Fazekas's father was born and went to elementary school at the time of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. The compulsory school attendance was six years of elementary or public school.]

My father was a soldier in World War I, he was enrolled as a soldier, but he didn't go to the frontline. At the time of World War I the family fled to Budapest. [Editor's note: One of his children, Jeno Struhl, was born there, but afterwards the family returned.]

We lived in Gyergyoszarhegy [in Romanian Lazarea]. Gyergyoszarhegy, Gyergyotolgyes and Ditro constituted the same valley, the Gyergyo [the Gyergyo, in Romanian Gheorgheni Basin]. It is likely that people from Gyergyoszarhegy owned some woods, because my grandfather was in contact with them, and these people from Gyergyoszarhegy said that since there wasn't a proper shop in Gyergyoszarhegy, well my grandfather had sons, so why shouldn't he send one of his sons to Gyergyoszarhegy to open a shop there. And that's how my father got to Gyergyoszarhegy from Gyergyotolgyes.

My father opened the shop when he was still a young man, before getting married. He ran his shop in Gyergyoszarhegy for fifty years. This shop was that sort of store which wasn't only a grocery, but they were selling clothes too. All kind of clothes, textiles, there was drapery as well, off- the-peg clothes at that time. But not from the beginning, when my father opened the shop; he enlarged it gradually.

I don't know where my father's first wife came from. She died at childbirth. Her daughter was given the name Frida, she was born in 1901. We used to call her Friduska. Some five years later my father got married again. In fact, Friduska was raised by my mother. Friduska was always sickly, from her early childhood on.

Friduska got married at a young age, so she left Gyergyoszarhegy. Her husband was Izidor Hirsch, he was from Marosvasarhely, but they lived in Brasso. I know she had a dowry when she got married. They had one boy, who was called Miki, or Miklos. Izidor had a nice family house in Marosvasarhely. This Izidor was a real gentleman, I won't tell anything else about him, maybe he was spoiled at home, I don't know. However, at the time of the Second Vienna Dictate 2 he was in Marosvasarhely, and didn't go back to Brasso. Friduska and his son, Miki, were in Brasso, she and the child survived, and Izidor was deported.

Miki first studied to become a dental technician. He was a great sportsman; he was even a champion in gymnastics. Once he had this daring idea, and enrolled at university, finished his studies, and became a gym teacher. Sometime in the 1970s Friduska emigrated to Israel with her son. There Miki worked as a gym teacher until his retirement. Friduska suffered a lot because of her poor health. She was ninety-four years old when she died in Israel.

It is true that at that time all marriages were concluded through mediation. There were matchmakers. My mother was very young, only about eighteen years old, when her stepmother urged her to get married. She was married off very early. There was an age difference of twenty years between my mother and my father. I presume both weddings must have been religious weddings, and they had an official [civil] one too.

I didn't know my mother's father, my grandfather from Piatra Neamt, he died very early. My mother was called Fanni Pascal, and my grandfather's name was Michel Pascal. According to others, my grandfather had a very jovial character. They were rich; they lived a life of ease. He was a grain and crop trader and an exporter, so he didn't trade only within the country, but he transported goods from Piatra Neamt to foreign countries as well. My sister Dorika, who visited them in Piatra Neamt, told me that they were really comfortably off.

My mother was the eldest among the siblings. Her mother died, so her father got married again. The new wife gave birth to three children: two boys and a girl. The elder boy was called Izidor, the younger was called Filip, and the girl's name was Caty.

My mother didn't speak Hungarian at all. And she got into an environment where nobody spoke Romanian. My father didn't really speak Romanian either. It must have been hard for my mother to adapt. She had lived in a town, and had studied in the French Institute in Galati, so my mother spoke French and Romanian, but she didn't speak Yiddish. My father didn't speak any other language but Hungarian and Yiddish. So it wasn't a truly appropriate marriage. However, my father must have been a lively man, who had seven children, one after the other. What can I say? My mom was a beautiful woman...

I was in Piatra Neamt only once with my mother, but I was so little, I can't remember that. I can recall only the fact that we went there in a horse-drawn carriage. There weren't other means of transportation then, only the horse carriages, there weren't cars or trains. My mother told me that the bridge we had to drive across nearly gave away; it was touch-and- go that we didn't fall into the creek.

Mother told me one more thing: It seems there was already a cinema there back then, and she told me she took me to the cinema, and we watched a silent film. And allegedly I kept asking her, 'Mother, what are they saying?', and bothered the public.

At the time of the monarchy there weren't borders, one could travel abroad too, one could go wherever they liked to. My mother told me they used to go to health-resorts, they didn't need any passport. Later all this changed, because when Transylvania became part of Romania 3, they couldn't travel as they pleased.

The cousin of my mother, who lived in Galati, was called Amelie; her husband was called Isak Katz. He was an exporter in Galati, they were very wealthy; they owned a whole street of houses. Amelie was my mother's cousin on her mother's side, I know that for sure. When my mother took me to visit Amelie's family, and led me into the drawing room, I, a girl from Gyergyoszarhegy, was astonished of how a rich man's home looked like. I remember only this drawing room, that it was big. It was amazing. Comparing to a village house such a drawing room - since I hadn't had seen anything similar before - was quite something. I can only remember that the carpets were very huge.

Amelie was such a gentle woman, and even her name was so beautiful, I've always liked this name since then. Her husband was smaller than her. This aunt of mine wanted to adopt me. They didn't have any children. But my parents didn't want me to leave our home. Then Amelie adopted the daughter of another sibling, she was called Clarisse, and so it was inappropriate to stay there. I only know that Amelie became embittered, because this Clarisse they adopted was ill.

Once my eldest sister, Dora, spent an entire winter in Galati with Amelie's family. She always told me how unforgettable the time she spent there was, because they had a large society. And they introduced my sister into this society, and there were balls all winter along; they went from one place to the other to spend time there. Their life consisted of nothing but entertainment. My sister spent even the Purim ball at Amelie's. She told me they put on costumes at Purim. She wore a dinner jacket of Amelie's husband. The uncle was of small stature, and my sister wasn't tall either, and this outfit suited her perfectly.

My sister had a friend there, she was called Szilvia, and this friendship was so deep that they corresponded for a very long time. By the way, this sister of mine had marvelous handwriting, her letters were like pearls. I always admired her, I used to read some of her letters; she could express herself so nicely. We used to tell her that, in fact, she should have become a writer, given the imagination she had. But she couldn't enroll at university, the family didn't have the means for that.

In Galati they spoke French and Romanian. I didn't speak much Romanian. Mother, since she was from Piatra Neamt, spoke French; however, they didn't speak French, but Romanian. Dorika spoke French, but not so well. She went to school in Kolozsvar, Mark Antal ran a school there, the Tarbut Jewish High School 4. I don't know which languages were compulsory in the Tarbut, but Dorika learned languages unasked. She spoke both English and French. Szilvia was also a highly educated girl, I mean the girl my sister was friends with. They corresponded in Romanian. Later Szilvia went to Csernovic [Chernivtsi]; I don't know whether she was married or not.

Izidor, one of my mother's half-brothers, lived in Bucharest. He had two sons, Felix and Mihai. I don't know what Izidor's occupation was, but I know that Izu's - that was his nickname - elder son Felix was a very clever boy, and finished three universities. He studied law, mathematics and gymnastics. Finally he became a great sportsman, he was even a trainer. He is a very intelligent and witty, an extremely funny person. He still lives in Israel, so we are in contact, and we talk on the phone too. Felix will soon celebrate his 80th birthday, in September [2007].

As far as Mihai is concerned, he studied to become an actor, but he didn't work as an actor in Bucharest, but as a director. His wife is a psychologist. Their family name is Pascal. Mihai didn't have any children, nor did Felix. The wife of Felix was a chemist. Izu died in Bucharest, I know that. When Dorika and I were in Israel, we met Mihai. At that time Felix and his family still lived in Bucharest.

There was some problem with Caty. I don't know much about her. She lived in Piatra Neamt with her father. Filip lived in Dorohoi; he had a daughter. I don't know whether he died in Dorohoi or emigrated, but I know that his daughter left for Israel.

One thing is certain: my father was very jealous, and he was always afraid that my mother would cheat on him. Well, nothing of the kind happened, but everybody was infatuated with my mother, that's for sure. Originally, before she got married, she had red hair. But she thought red hair would be too prominent in a village. How she had a chance to dye her hair black in Gyergyoszarhegy, I don't know, but I knew her only with black hair, and she always used to do her hair marvelously. It was simply out of the question for my mother to be seen when her hair wasn't done nicely. She never went to the hairdresser; I can't imagine how she could dye it herself.

My grandchildren - my daughter's two daughters - both have red hair; they inherited it from my mother. My children didn't inherit the red hair, but my two grandchildren did. Both have the same red hair as my mother. My little grandchild says that she noticed that she resembles her grandmother. What I thought about my mother as a child, I can't remember, I only know I still considered her beautiful when I became a grown-up.

Growing up

We were seven siblings, I had a half-sister too, Friduska, from the first marriage of my father, and seven of us were born from his second marriage. My brother Joska was born in 1907, at that time Friduska was six years old.

In Gyergyoszarhegy we had a nice, big house with a garden. In the front there was the shop, and we lived on the backside. There was a nice living room; the living room gave onto the dining room, and the dining room onto the bedroom. And between the living room and the kitchen there was one more room, which didn't have its own window, only a glassed-in door opening onto a large glassed-in porch. This room was lit through that porch.

We had no bathroom. Washing was organized in that we brought water from two neighbors. The well-water of the neighbor who was closer could be used only for washing. From the other neighbor we fetched the water we used for cooking and drinking. We had well-water, it was very delicious, cold and clean. The laundry was washed in a big vessel; and there was a woman, who - I think - came once in a month, and washed all the dirty laundry. She washed it in a tub, it was made of wood. The day before we soaked the laundry, and when she came, she started to wash in the morning, well, she was washing the whole day long. The washerwoman, Aunt Anna her name was, was an old Szekler woman. I tell you honestly I always felt sorry for her having to wash so much laundry in one day. I always helped her, once I had grown up a little.

Back then the practice was that we boiled the white laundry, the bed-linen - as at that time there was only white bed-linen, we didn't have any colored ones - in a big washing pot on the kitchen stove. We didn't have any other detergent, only washing-soda. After that we rinsed it in the streamlet. There was a streamlet in front of the house, and there was one on the other side of the street too. The streamlet had a quite speedy course, we made a dip into the streamlet, so that the laundry could be shaken there, and since it was running water, the water was replaced continuously. One could wash the laundry so well there that it turned snow- white.

Then we blued and starched the laundry. It was called washing-blue ultramarine; one could buy it in small bottles. The woman put water into the tub, added a few drops of the ultramarine washing-blue, and then she poured in the starch we had dissolved previously. The starch was available in pieces, not as a powder. Certainly one could buy it in my father's shop too. These pieces of starch had an interesting shape. We mixed the washing- blue and the starch with water, and we got light blue water, and then we put the white clothes, the bed-linen and the table-clothes into that. At that time we used only white table-clothes at meals, because we didn't have any other.

Afterwards we wrung it out and hung the laundry in the loft. It was very difficult to go up with the laundry basket, because a steep stair led up there. This part was the hardest. I was dragging the laundry basket from one step to the other, and somehow I arrived up there - I had opened the loft's door previously, so that when I got there, I could put in the basket directly before entering myself. Wires were put up in the loft, and I hung the laundry there. I remember that when I was a little older, it was rather me who carried the laundry up to the loft, like Attila Jozsef's mother. [Attila Jozsef (1905-1937) was one of the most outstanding Hungarian poets of the 20th century. His mother was a poor washerwoman, who died when he was only 15. He immortalized the image of her in his classic poem, 'My Mother (Anyam).']

The notary public lived in the court from where we carried the good water, the drinking-water. His name was Jeno Zakarias, and his wife was an extreme anti-Semite. She looked down at us, 'the Jews' - that's how she called us in a derogatory way. The other neighbors, in front of whose house the streamlet ran, where we rinsed the laundry, were called Bartis. The man was called Ignac Bartis. They were extremely decent people, we could go there for water whenever we wanted to; we never felt we bothered them. They always used to say that the more we draw water from the well, the better the water gets.

At that time you could buy in our shop, for example, carob-bean. Children loved it. I saw carob trees in Israel. Of course I didn't see carob-bean on it, which was elongated, and it was hard inside, but if you bit into it, it was like honey inside, it was this mass, and a little seed. Where this came from, I don't know that, but it came in sacks. [Editor's note: The pod of the evergreen carob tree (Ceratonia), which grows wild in the eastern part of the Mediterranean sea-cost, contains much sugar; both humans and animals consume it. Before WWII poor children ate it as sweets.]

Back then coffee was transported in the same manner, in burlap sacks. [Editor's note: The burlap sack is made of jute fibers, a plant growing in Asia]. I can't recall anymore from where my father got his merchandise. The shop had a part which was the grocery, and then there was the textile section, where one could buy drapery. The shop was spacious. We had all kind of groceries.

In the shop the shelves had little compartments, and in these compartments were, for example, nuts, figs, in another coffee and so on. The coffee wasn't really selling, because there wasn't a market for it. I think it was only us in the village who drank coffee; Mother was roasting the coffee, and it had such a nice smell. But I never drank coffee, I didn't drink it until my adulthood. Mother learned this at home, she was accustomed to it, but it wasn't customary on my grandfather's side to drink coffee. Mother was from the Regat [Romanian Old Kingdom]; she was the only one to drink coffee in our family.

We didn't have Jewish neighbors; there weren't many Jewish families in the environs. My father's sister, Aunt Roza, her husband and their children also lived in Gyergyoszarhegy, they were merchants as well, but they didn't live in our neighborhood; they lived in a different part of the village.

There was a sawmill in Gyergyoszarhegy, its owner didn't live in Gyergyoszarhegy, only the mill was there. The owner lived in Gyergyoszentmiklos [in Romanian Gheorgheni]. He was called Szekely, his partner was called Margitai. 'Szekely es Margitai' - that was the sawmill's name. Jewish families who came from Maramaros worked there. The entire family lived there, but only the men worked in the factory, and they lived on that. They were poor people, as you can imagine.

These people did the shopping in our shop, on credit; they always paid when they got their wages. There was a book, my father called it the 'book of the accounts.' And he wrote in this book what they had bought, and they paid on the day they got paid. This was completely a matter of trust. The worker was sure he would pay only the amount he had bought goods for.

My father was selling flour too, he even had competitors, but my father could sell more because he was selling flour from the Banat. One could buy flour from Szaszregen [in Romanian Reghin] too, because there was a mill there too. But it wasn't flour made of the grain from Banat, there was a difference in quality. My father always sold the flour at a somewhat lower price, so many people came [to buy it]; the quality of the flour was better, and the price was better too. That's how things were then.

These factory workers had many children, at least three or four. We didn't really mix with the girls, only my brother had friends among these boys. Andor, my little brother, played with these children. This happened in summer, when he was spending his holidays at home.

At home, we only had a kerosene lamp, which we used for lighting. But it was only us in the village who had a so-called Aladdin's lamp, which equaled the light of a hundred candles. That's what my parents used to say, that this lamp had the light of a hundred candles. When lit, this lamp usually was placed in the living room. And it had such a strong light, that if the shutters weren't put up, you could see it shine out on the street. The lamp was beautiful; it wasn't made of porcelain, but of metal. It must have been a kerosene lamp, it just had a part which had to be placed upon it. They said that the piece to put upon it was so thin and sensitive, that if you didn't handle it with care, it could crack. They called it mantle, the thing they put on it. [Editor's note: The interviewee is most likely talking about a gas lamp.] And when you lit the lamp, it gave such a great light. And of course it wasn't like a bulb. After being used, it went flat. Therefore we didn't use it all the time, so that it didn't get spoiled. We lit it rarely, mostly if we had guests or on holidays. Of course we lit candles too on holidays, and we used a standard kerosene lamp too.

We heated with beech wood. We didn't buy much pinewood. It was always my father who purchased the wood. There were people who rented out horse-drawn carriages, and he went to the neighboring village like that. There are several villages around Gyergyoszarhegy: Gyergyoalfalu [in Romanian Joseni], Gyergyocsomafalva [in Romanian Ciumani] on one side, Gyergyoditro [in Romanian Ditrau] and Gyergyotolgyes on the other. [Editor's note: Gyergyotolgyes is situated 41 km from Gyergyoszarhegy, so it isn't in its immediate vicinity.] And as far as I know the Gyergyo Basin consists of nine villages. [The Gyergyói/Gheorgheni Basin is in Hargita/Harghita county, at the upper course of the Maros/Mures River, between the Gorgenyi/Gurghiului and Gyergyoi/Gheorgheni Mountains; it is one of the coldest places in Transylvania. Its towns and villages: Gyergyoszentmiklos/Gheorgheni, Gyergyoditro, Gyergyoremete/Rimetea, Gyergyoszarhegy, Gyergyoalfalu, Gyergyoujfalu/Suseni, Gyergyocsomafalva, Vaslab/Voslobeni, Kilyenfalva/Chileni, Tekeropatak/Valea Stramba and Marosfo/Izvorul Muresului.]

My father had to go all the way to this last village I mentioned to find the appropriate wood. It wasn't all the same what kind of wood one bought, because if the wood is knotty, it doesn't crack well. We bought the wood by stack. I don't know how many stacks my father bought.

At home he hired a woodcutter, the machine was called circular saw, and he cut up the firewood into pieces. Then we chopped it up. Even I could chop up the firewood with a sharp axe. We piled up the wood nicely in the shed, then we took it out from there one by one, cut it into small pieces, and carried them into the house. There was a chest for firewood in every room near the stove. We did buy some pinewood too: for heating we bought only beech wood, but for cooking in the kitchen we used pinewood.

In each room there was a cast-iron stove; in the kitchen there was a rural stove with two plates and an oven, it wasn't big. That old stove was many years old, and we wanted a new one. Before deportation we had a stove- setter make a new one in Gyergyoszentmiklos, and we replaced the old kitchen stove with a super stove; it had two ovens and four plates. It was a very big and fine stove, but we used it only for a short time, because then the troubles began.

The bedroom was light yellow; there were two big wardrobes, as it was the custom at that time. There were two beds, one next to the other, and there was a dressing-table with drawers, which was very nice. The bedspread was very nice too. My mother could crochet lace marvelously, and in the middle of the bedspread there was a piece of lace and many ruffles. The drapes had the same type of lace like the bedspread. In the middle of the room there was a big folding door witch gave out, and there was a separate door, a twofold door, opening onto the yard. And there was the same type of drapery above the door, but only with ruffles, because my mother couldn't put lace there.

My mother made a lot of lace, she did very nice needlework. She made not only lace, but a Persian carpet too. A real Persian carpet, because she had the original pattern. It could have been used for a joining carpet. We had one such Persian carpet, a handmade carpet, made by my mother. And she made kilim for wall-hangings, a kilim with fringes. Kilim is also very precious needlework. [Editor's note: Kilims are tapestry-woven carpets or rugs They can be purely decorative or be used as prayer rugs.] I couldn't learn it, I didn't have any feeling for needlework. Mother did an incredible amount of needlework, besides the fact that there were so many children to take care of. By the way, it wasn't my parents who slept in the bedroom, but the children. My parents always slept in the middle room.

The chairs in the dining room had bent legs and claret covers. There were six chairs and the dining table. There was a smaller table too with two armchairs. There was the glass-case, but we didn't fancy knock-knacks, figurines, we kept only silver or crystal in it. We had a chanukkiyah, it was made of silver, and it had place for eight candles. It had a relief on its back. There was a platter too and two other silver candlesticks. Then there was also a chest. We had a gramophone and many records; we mainly listened to opera arias.

In the living room there was a very nice couch with red plush. It wasn't just a simple couch with a back, but it had a part made of wood, even at its sides. There was a wardrobe with a mirror, and a table and chairs. In the other one, in the dark room there was a big sideboard. It was made of very dark wood. And all the porcelain we used daily was in that sideboard.

We kept the Pesach dishes separately in a chest in the loft. At Passover we went up there, took out the porcelain from the chest, put it in a basket and brought it down. And when Passover was over, we brought it back. Oh, those were very nice things! There was this one single cup, which was extremely nice. All the children wanted to drink from this one cup. We were little then, and, well, the elders didn't make any scene. I remember my brother and I quarreled because of that cup: 'I want it.' 'No, I want that cup.' In any case those dishes were very nice, and they always looked new, as we used them only once a year. I remember they were rather light colored. Certainly we had glasses, Passover glasses, as well.

My father observed Pesach and the seder tradition rigorously. I can still recall one thing: my father was putting the matzah one upon the other, and covered it with the matzah cloth. [Editor's note: On seder night there are three pieces of matzah covered with separate cloths in front of the head of the family conducting the seder. The three matzot represent the three parts of Israel: Kohen, that is the descendants of Aaron, the descendants of Levi and Am Israel, the rest of the children of Israel.] The matzah cover was embroidered nicely and we had silver, but we didn't have separate Pesach cutlery. We made a hole out in the yard, put the cutlery there, and koshered it by pouring hot, boiling water over it. Then we took it out from this hot hole, and this way the same cutlery could be used on holidays as well.

There was a nice and large yard in Gyergyoszarhegy. My mother adored flowers and the garden. A gardener came from Meggyes, and in the same way parks are set up, he made our flower-garden: in the middle there was a big round flower-bed with a thuja in its center. At the edge of the grass there was a border, and the rose trees were planted there. And between there were pebbles from the mine in Gyergyoszarhegy. It was very nice. This flower- garden was in the front, and in the back there was the vegetable garden, which was separated by a wooden fence.

In addition there was another big fenced yard, where we kept poultry. We mainly kept chickens and ducks. For me it was the greatest experience when the little chicks hatched. I was sitting there all the time watching the little chicks hatch. My father liked looking after the chickens. It was always him who got up first; he recited his prayer, then went out and let the chickens out, as they had a coop where they were locked in. It was a storied coop, the chickens had a ladder they could use to get up to the upper coop, because their sleeping place was there. In the lower part were the ducks, because they couldn't go up. Since there was a streamlet in front of our house, the ducks knew well that if we opened the street door, they could go out, they could go all the way from the house to the streamlet, and after spending a good time there, the little ducks came back. They didn't need to be driven out or in.

We used to eat our own poultry, but not the hens. On weekends my mother always bought a hen from a villager, because we didn't slaughter those we kept at home. Mother used to go out, and had the hens slaughtered at the shochet's. We felt sorry for the hens we were keeping, because they were laying eggs, and so we always had fresh eggs. After a while we did slaughter them, I suppose, but we always felt sad about it. There weren't problems with the chickens, but we didn't let out the hens, they were always within their yard, because they dirtied the sidewalk, the entrance.

I went to the shochet as well. We always had a servant, but she couldn't be sent to the shochet alone, because she was afraid. It's not a pleasant sight after all. I didn't watch when the shochet was slaughtering the hens; I waited outside. The shochet didn't live in the place where he slaughtered the hens. It was a small building made of wood, and if I remember correctly, there was some kind of hole, and when he slaughtered the poultry, the blood flowed into that hole. And I think water had to be put in there too. We had poultry slaughtered every week, on Thursday, so that we could cook it on Friday. We didn't have a fridge, only a kind of cellar under our house, and it was cool there. Meat could be kept there for one or two days.

These girls served for longer periods - they were from the neighboring villages, but we had servants from our village too - but they were stealing a lot. In any case my father had enough of these girls from Gyergyoszarhegy, and so they came from somewhere else. My parents left to look for a servant girl. They asked her parents, settled the wage they would pay her, and brought the girl back home.

We had this one sweet little girl, she must have been around fifteen - the villagers sent their children to serve at this age, so they would learn a little. Back then they didn't attend schools or universities like today, but they were sent to learn at Jewish families, to learn how to cook, to have some idea about things.

One Saturday an old worker, who was working in the factory, came to us; he was bearded. When this little girl saw this old man coming to our house - I don't know why he came, maybe he came to ask for some money or something - she didn't say a word. In the morning she was missing, she had packed up and gone home on foot. Her parents had brought her by cart, and she went home on foot, when she saw this old Jew. Undoubtedly she got frightened. She left without a word.

These young girls came with a shawl, all their small stuff was packed in that, it was tied together, that was her pack, not more. And the shoes she had on her feet. She got frightened, who knows what tales she was told at that time. She might have thought that the Jew would do I don't know what to her. There were blood libels spread about Jews; well, surely this little girl was stuffed at home with stories like Jews baking the Pesach matzah using Christian blood. Such things were being circulated.

Our family wasn't too religious. My father didn't even speak much about religion, and since we lived in a real Hungarian, Szekler community, we were assimilated somehow, we weren't very religious, only my father was. Mother wasn't, she would have eaten treyf too. But this wasn't the case, as we kept a kosher household.

On Friday evening we had barches [challah]. Mother made meat soup on Friday; we had meat soup for dinner. She put pasta in the meat-soup. But Mother made something else too. She cooked a very special meal, a duck dish, which originated from the Regat, it wasn't a Transylvanian dish, and Friday night we ate that. It was made of the giblets of the duck, it was a stewed soup. Mother made the sauce of a very light roux, slices of lemon and raisins were put in the sauce. On Saturday we had roast, Mother made roast from a part of the hen. We cooked the potatoes in their jacket on Friday already, and on Saturday we just warmed up the potatoes, cut them into slices, and put them in the roast chicken sauce. It was very good. And we had pickles; I suppose we had cucumber then too. I remember that Mother pickled it in big jars, but it wasn't vinegary, but 'watery cucumber.'

Watery cucumber was prepared in the following way: cucumber was put in the jar, in the bottom you had to put sour-cherry leaves, dill, savory and horse-radish. Then you put the cucumber, salt, you seasoned it. I didn't lay the cucumbers, but I put them vertically one next to the other, I filled the jar completely, and then put savory, dill, horse-radish again, and I decorated the top with carrots cut in slices and zigzagged. It looked very nice. We selected the cucumbers put in vertically so that they would be of the same size. Sour cherry leaves were put on top too. I boiled the water, I put pepper in it, I placed a knife with a large edge under the jar [so the jar wouldn't break], and I poured the hot water in.

The next day, when it had cooled off, I filtered it again. I boiled the water again, I poured it over once more, and I covered it immediately with double cellophane. The fluid was clean originally. I put the jar in the larder, and I observed it. I saw the water getting cloudier day by day. It was cloudy for a few days, maybe even for a week, and then it started to clear up again. The cucumber was hard as a stone, it didn't become softer. This was the watery cucumber recipe. And the pickled cucumber was the same, but there was vinegar in the water too, so it was slightly sour.

That's what we preserved for winter, and we did the same with beet too. It also makes very good pickle, with horse-radish. The beet must be cut in slices, or it can be grated with a bigger grate, and the horse-radish must be put between, vinegar and a little sugar must be added. It's very good pickle.

On Friday evening we lit the candles, but that was it. We didn't have a menorah, only two standard candlesticks. Mother didn't put a kerchief on her head, she didn't pray, she only lit the candles. She wasn't religious, that's how she was raised. My father recited a blessing over the dishes. On Friday evening, when my father was cutting the barches, I can still hear it, it was something like this he said: 'Baruch atah adonai, eloheinu melech ha'olam.' That's what I remember, it wasn't much longer than that; the salt-cellar was placed on the table, and he cut off one slice for everybody, dipped it in salt, and this was the Friday night [ritual].

Saturday evening, when the day of rest was over, we had two sorts of drinks, brandy and liquor, and we had cakes. My father recited the Saturday night prayer, we clinked glasses and ate the cake my mother had baked for this occasion. This was the Saturday night cake, the 'szakerli.' This was a fasting cake, which wasn't buttered or fatty. For Jews it is a rule that if you eat meat, you mustn't eat dairy food afterwards, but if you eat dairy food first, you can eat meat after that. [Editor's note: Meat and dairy is strictly separated in a kosher household, a certain length of time must pass between the consumption of meat and dairy food. The length of time varies ('For each river has its own flow' - says the Talmud, that is to say every region should follow its own habit): the wise men determined that six hours must pass between eating meat and dairy food; the rabbis in Germany and France permit the consumption of dairy food three hours after eating meat. One can eat meat half an hour after eating dairy food (with the exception of hard cheese) and after rinsing one's mouth, since dairy products can be digested in a shorter time.]

If I remember well, 'szakerli' was prepared in the following manner: flour, eggs, oil and a little baking powder was in it, it had to be kneaded. She shaped it like a rod, and cut it into thin slices, let's say an inch thick or maybe somewhat thicker, and dipped it into granulated sugar. And as it flattened out in the sugar, she baked it. As the sugar got baked on it, well it was very delicious. I always liked 'szakerli' a lot. I suppose Mother learned this receipt there, in Piatra Neamt.

My mother was a great cook. For example she prepared false fish. She minced the chicken breast, she put salt, pepper, egg and roll in it - she soaked white bread or something like that. If you are not kosher, in fact you soak bread in milk, not in water, but the kosher way is to soak it in water, and the bread must be squeezed well, you put it together with the meat, and mix it with the egg, pepper and salt. Then you prepare the sauce in which this meat must be cooked. Onion must be cut into small pieces for the sauce, you steam it, pour water over it. You put salt, lemon slices into it. You take some from the meat, you put breadcrumbs on your hand, and you shape a longish form, and boil it in the sauce. This is the false fish. It is very good, I like it very much. And we made that one with raisin, from the giblets of the duck. And there is one more which Mother prepared, it is also with meat cooked in white wine. This white wine sauce was very delicious.

My father was praying on every Friday evening. And not only on Fridays, but on weekdays as well; he got up in the morning, he put on the tefillin and the tallit, and prayed. He got up very early, at five or half past five to be able to recite the prayer. I didn't see my father doing this. I didn't see him, because by the time we got up, he had already finished all his prayers. My father performed this every morning, and after that he went and let out the poultry. But he did more, because we had a vegetable garden, so he picked some green plants, cut them up, mixed it with corn flour, and that's what he fed the little chickens. He threw maize for the bigger ones. He always did this early in the morning.

Perhaps my father prayed in that hall with a glassed-in door, in the porch; it was closed. There was a table and an armchair. He prayed from a book. [Editor's note: Prayers must always be recited from a book in order to avoid making a mistake.] I didn't get acquainted with Hebrew letters, I can't pray. I have a prayer book in Hungarian, the Mirjam. My parents had a prayer book that contained the prayers both in Hebrew and Hungarian.

Though we lived in the countryside, we strictly observed holidays. I remember holidays were always very nice. The family gathered, so it was very nice. We had a festive meal, and we always had fruits. Fruits are very important, especially on high holidays. Since vine can't grow in that region, producers from the Regat used to bring grapes, they sold them by the box, and on holidays my father always bought a box of white grapes and a box of blue grapes. I like grapes very much, even today.

Women went to the prayer house rather only on Yom Kippur. I remember my mother going to the prayer house, but we didn't. On Yom Kippur we kept the fast. I kept the fast from my early childhood until the age of eighty-five. I always rigorously observed fasting for the entire day. Then my daughter said that at this age it isn't compulsory. Fasting doesn't apply to children. Well, I suppose I started it when I was twelve or thirteen. [Editor's note: One has to keep the fast only if fasting does not endanger one's health by any means. Children have to keep the fast all day like adults after their bar mitzvah, until that they fast for half a day.]

Each member of our family observed fasting, because my father expected the children to do so; otherwise we weren't such devout Jews, not even my father. He was praying; that's what his being religious consisted of. But we didn't eat at random, that is, we didn't mix dairy products and meat, which one must not do according to the Jewish laws. The night before Yom Kippur we had a more abundant meal, that's the custom, but I know by experience that the more you ate for dinner, the hungrier you got. As of late, I've reduced this abundant dinner. We always had meat soup. This was a custom, to have meat soup, then keep the fast, and when fasting was over, we didn't have meat soup again, but only roast. And I also remember that we used to have honey on these holidays, and of course barches [challah].

On Friday night, when my father said the blessing, we put a piece of barches into the salt. But on fall holidays, on Rosh Hashanah, the [Jewish] New Year, we dunked it into honey, so that the year to come would be sweet.

On holidays we had all kind of delicacies, cakes made by my mother: honey cake, 'strudli' - surely this word comes from German. [Editor's note: This is strudel.] It is a very thin dough, which she rolled so long on a big table, on a white table-cloth, until the dough became as thin as paper. Then she squirted it with a little goose fat, then put nuts on it, poured honey over the nuts, and then she folded it up. This can be made with apple, curds and cabbage - there are different types of strudel.

We didn't celebrate the Feast of Booths [Sukkot]. In those times at the Feast of Booths we met our relatives, they came to us. That's how we celebrated, but according to the tradition one had to set up a booth, decorate it and take meals in it. But I don't know anybody in the village who did this, since there were only very few Jews, and those who lived there were poor factory workers. So they didn't observe religion much.

Chanukkah is memorable indeed. Besides lighting the candle, there was a game we played only at Chanukkah. It was this spinning top, and we liked this game a lot when we were children. The stake was toffee, candy, not money. The spinning top was called 'tenderli' [dreidel], and presumably it was made of wood. We twirled it, and it either twirled, or tumbled over. I suppose the time counted, who could twirl it better, and for whom it twirls longer.

In those times the greatest delicacy was lemon drops. It was orange or lemon flavor, in the shape of a slice, but little. And we had those small cubes, 'Stollwerk' - a product of the Stollwerck chocolate factory - it was a delicacy one had to chew. It was a very delicious caramel that came in small cubes, and as you chewed it, it melted in your mouth.

I can't recall now what presents were given at Chanukkah, but since Chanukkah most often falls on the same period as Christmas, we certainly got presents. For Christians too it was a time for great presentations, so we, children got something for sure. A Christmas tree was a great desire of mine, and I tried to make myself a little Christmas tree; but I don't know anymore of what. I put a few fondant candies on it, so that I had a small Christmas tree of my own, which my father wouldn't see. It hurt me so much to see the Christmas trees in other children's home and not having my own.

In that village there weren't many Jewish families. There was the Majer family; Aunt Roza Majer was my father's sister, they moved to Brasso. There was a family called Izrael then, they also left the village, I don't know where they went. And there was the factory owner, but that family didn't actually live there.

There were two clerks in the factory, the bookkeeper and a works manager, Grunstein. He got married in Gyergyoszarhegy to a Christian girl, Zsofi Olah, who was my classmate in elementary school. Grunstein was deported, his wife was left behind with a child. His wife, Zsofi, died during the bombings. Grunstein returned from deportation, he remained a widower. The child, a little boy, survived too.

The other one, the bookkeeper, Ferenc Met, lived in Gyergyoszarhegy with all his family, and he had a sister, who was a very good friend of Dorika's, my sister. It is possible they were deported. Ferenc Met survived, and after the war he married a Christian girl from Gyergyoszarhegy.

There wasn't a synagogue in that village. There was a prayer house, but they gathered there only on high holidays. In the prayer house men and women got together. There were two rooms, one for men, and the other for women. There was communication between these two rooms. In fact it must have been the restaurant or something like that belonging to a Jew. These two rooms weren't a prayer house all the time, only on holidays. They kept service only on high holidays, but never on Saturdays.

My mother wore only a kerchief, because she didn't even have a wig. Nobody wore a wig in her family. They were religious, but not very much so. However, my father wouldn't have broken Sabbath. Somebody told me here in Marosvasarhely - she was a needlewoman and did sewing for us - that when she was a child in Gyergyoszarhegy, my father gave her candies: 'Come and make fire in the stove, come and light the lamp.' She told me this, but I can't recall this being so, because I know we made a fire ourselves. Perhaps this happened before we were born, that is, me and my younger brother, who recently died; we were the last two children in the family.

On Saturday we didn't work, and we didn't cook, because it had been done on Friday already, we just warmed up the food. One didn't sew on Sabbath, we didn't do anything on Sabbath. If the weather was fine, we went out to the flower garden, there was a bench, where we sat down and we were talking, or reading, because we had good books. We took the 'Brassoi lapok' along and would read that newspaper. But we didn't solve crosswords, because writing was forbidden. I liked solving crosswords, I even sent the answers to the 'Brassoi lapok'; they published crosswords once in a week.

We took short walks too; there wasn't any promenade, but the forest was very near. There was a very nice road, which led to the Franciscan monastery. We liked it a lot. One could walk up there, it was a nice walk. We walked up there frequently, just we, children, and there was a bench in front of the monastery. It was quite a long walk to go up to the monastery. When we went up there, we sat down on the bench, and we watched the monastery. Two monks lived there. I understand there had been more monks before. There was a very nice young boy, sometimes he came out of the monastery's yard and sat down. And we would have a conversation with him. There weren't such strict rules that they couldn't communicate with people.

My brothers and I enjoyed nature a lot. As it was close, we wandered around the forest. There was a quite high mountain, it was called 'sharp mountain.' For us, children it was a great deal to walk up to its top. There was a spring too, it was called Hidegkut, it was quite far, but it counted a lot if we managed to reach it. When you're walking in the mountains, and you know there's a spring, it's a challenge to get there and drink some of that fresh water.

We didn't have any series of Hungarian classics, but we had a few Russian novels by Tolstoy 5 and Dostoevsky 6. My brother Joska liked the Russians better. I liked to read too, in my childhood, well not exactly Dostoevsky or Tolstoy, but to read in general. At that time I preferred reading light novels; there were series like the Pengo series. And there was Courths-Mahler, a German writer, back then I didn't know the writer was a woman. [Hedwig Courths-Mahler (1867-1950): German writer, internationally acknowledged author of romantic fiction, she wrote more than 200 novels.] It was pulp fiction, but it was successful. Well I've just found out from the 'Nok lapja' [magazine] that Courths-Mahler was a woman.

The series contained romantic stories, and it always had a happy ending. Usually we borrowed these books from somebody who came and brought books from somewhere. These girls, who served somewhere in a bigger town, stole these books. They came home to the village and they always brought such cheap books.

Then we had books by Brehm. [Alfred Brehm (1829-1884): German zoologist and writer, whose main work, 'Life of Animals' was a popular family book for generations. Brehm himself extended the original edition of six volumes (1863-69) to ten volumes (1876-79); this version was published in Hungary between 1901 and 1907, and a single 'concentrated' volume was also edited, the so-called 'Short Brehm,' revised by Raymund Rapaics.] These were books of natural science; it was rather my brother Joska who read these, for example 'The Love Life in Nature', we had that one too. [Editor's note: A work in two volumes by Wilhelm Bolsche, 'Love Life in Nature. The Story of the Evolution of Love,' published in Hungarian in 1912 by the Athenaeum publishing house.]

My school years

Back then elementary school was seven grades. [Editor's note: In Hungary before the Trianon Peace Treaty one had to finish the six-grade public school. In the case of Romania cf. 7.] My sisters finished elementary school in Gyergyoszarhegy and after that all of my sisters attended the convent, a Catholic school in Gyergyoszarhegy. It wasn't a gymnasium, but four grades of public school. [Editor's note: In Gyergyoszentmiklos, in the Saint Vincent de Paul convent, a Catholic higher elementary school for girls opened in 1892.] In those times children finished four grades of public school, and they attended that one. They, my elder siblings, finished their studies there. Then my sister Dorika pursued her studies in Kolozsvar, in the Jewish High School, the Tarbut, she graduated there. The others didn't, they were left with those four grades. In those times people didn't really go to university, therefore four grades of public school counted for a basic education.

Andor attended the gymnasium in Gyergyoszentmiklos [established in 1908]. He lived in lodgings at Aunt Kati's; she was a simple Hungarian woman, who always let out rooms to students. First my elder brother, Jeno, lived there, and then Andor. I can recall to a certain degree Aunt Kati's face. And I can also remember that there, at Aunt Kati's was an awfully old woman. I don't know who she was to her. I have never seen such an old woman. This auntie looked dreadful, I think she wasn't sane.

It was not possible for me anymore to study there, because an order was introduced, and they didn't admit any persons of Jewish origins in that Catholic school. Thus we submitted an application in Gyergyoszentmiklos, in the high school for boys, so I could take the exams in order to have some qualification. I was studying at home, privately, and I sat for the exams in that high school. The boys, Andor and Jeno, attended that school too. But my brother Joska went to another school. I don't know the reason why they sent him away; if I remember correctly, they sent him to Lippa [in Romanian Lipova] in the Banat [region]. He went to a high school there.

That's all my education, the curriculum of four grades of gymnasium and languages. A teacher from Gyergyoszarhegy taught me all this, he was called Joska Ferenc, he was Hungarian. Due to his illness he didn't actually work as a teacher, but he was at home, at his parents', and he accepted to prepare me, he was teaching me. He used to come to our house, and prepared me at home. This was my possibility, thus I had as much education as my sister with her four grades of public school. As compared to my brothers, I didn't attend any school, but studied privately. I studied French and other subjects that were compulsory.

When I attended elementary school, I was the best pupil. So certainly I would have had the skill to finish a high school, even more... But my parents didn't have the means to send me somewhere else. There wasn't anything else in the surroundings, just the Catholic school in Gyergyoszentmiklos. In order to pursue my studies in a high school, I would have needed to go to Brasso or Marosvasarhely.

It is true though that if you're not in school, discipline is defective. It happened that when we were studying, and it was important to do so, because I had to undergo exams, the little chickens were just hatching. Well, I didn't want to miss that... So Joska arrived to make sure I keep studying; he was like a friend to our family. And he felt ashamed of saying, 'Magdika, don't go to watch the chickens now, let's sit down and study.' I was a big girl, and he was a very polite man. I was very sorry that this Joska died during the bombings in Budapest. We were on friendly terms with his parents too. They lived near us.

My brother Joska became an architect; he attended a three-year school of architecture in Csernovic. Dorika stayed home in spite of the fact that she should have studied at a university, because she was extremely clever; she was the cleverest of our family. Her susceptibility was remarkable. She stayed home, for my father was so old, he wasn't able to run the shop anymore, and Dorika took it over. She stayed home, and sacrificed herself, that's how this can be interpreted, when such an intelligent person should have continued her studies, but instead remained where she was. Well, I oughtn't to say it was a backward, insignificant place, because Gyergyoszarhegy was quite a big village, but it was a sacrifice of her anyway. She transformed my father's shop, which was close to failure, into a prosperous and booming business, so to speak. She saved it from the edge of bankruptcy, it was insolvent, but she came to an agreement with the creditors, and she assumed to pay within a certain period. Later it turned into a flourishing shop.

When I was a small child, we had a large shop. But since my father gave people a lot of credits, he also ended up having buyers who didn't pay. And my father had debts too, because he got goods on credit, but if he sold them on credit, and they didn't pay for them, my father didn't have means for paying his debts. As a result, he was close to bankruptcy, but Dorika saved him. First, she didn't sell goods on credit anymore; she sold the merchandise only against cash. Besides she introduced the 'currents.' Currents were things that were much in demand; she made every endeavor to have these on stock all the time, and above all she sold them a little cheaper than others. She was traveling and purchasing things all the time, she was extremely busy, and thus she improved the business. Before deportation we had managed to recoup the losses quite well.

During the war

After the [Second] Vienna Dictate, in 1940 these laws were introduced, saying that a Jew can't be a trader, can't own a shop. [Editor's note: Anti- Jewish laws were extended to Northern-Transylvania on 26th-27th March 1941; the territory had been annexed to Romania, according to the Trianon Peace Treaty of 1920, and had been re-annexed to Hungary on 30th August 1940 according to the Second Vienna Dictate.] So we gave the shop to an Armenian trader, who took over not the shop as such, but the merchandise. He took over all the merchandise as it was. And we closed the shop. There were two Armenian traders in the village, and one of them took over my father's business.

When Hermin started to become a sewer, she worked in Gyergyoszentmiklos. After a few years she went to Bucharest, because we had an aunt there who invited her to come, because she thought Hermin was a much too excellent sewer to work in the country. My two sisters, Hermin and Margit, went to Bucharest together. My sister Hermin was the head of the showroom, and Margit worked with her, but she was only sewing. Hermin tailored and tried on dresses in her showroom; she employed several girls. They lived in Bucharest until the [Second] Vienna Dictate.

In 1940 Hermin came back to Gyergyoszarhegy, because she didn't want to be separated from her parents by a borderline. Margit had married before that. Margit's husband was called Matyas Gluck. Before getting married, he worked in the catering trade in Brasso. The parents of Matyi [Matyas] also lived there, in Brasso. He spent many years in Paris, but then came home. In fact he was a goldsmith, a jeweler by his original profession; that was his basic trade. In those times there were Iron Guard 8 actions in Bucharest, and Margit's husband was an illegal communist, and he was afraid of being caught by the Iron Guard, as that would have had consequences. So they fled Bucharest and went to Csernovic. They thought they would be safe there.

In 1940, when the Hungarian authorities came in, they took over public administration here in Transylvania 9, it was then when they started to pursue the boys [the interviewee's brothers]. We suffered insults, because they were instigated [the population by the authorities]. They broke our windows, these kind of things occurred. And we suffered personal mistreatment, not me, but my sister. Then the gendarmes took away the boys from Gyergyoszarhegy, because they were pronounced to be unreliable for sympathizing with communism. My brothers didn't enroll in any political organization, but once my younger brother, Andor, had written on a box in the shop: 'Long live communism!' Well, he was a child, he was fourteen. [Editor's note: Therefore this must have happened around 1936.] And if he wrote that, then certainly the other boy must be a sympathizer too, right?

There, in Gyergyoszarhegy, was a gendarme who called on us and said that the boys would be taken away the next day. Yes, he told us. And I didn't forget his name either: Zoli [Zoltan] Toth. This boy was such a sensitive person. I thought so many times that we should have tried to find this Zoli. He was from Hungary, but he was a soldier in Gyergyoszarhegy, for when the Hungarian army occupied Transylvania, all the gendarmes too came from there, they were from Hungary.

After the gendarmes had taken them away to Gyergyoszentmiklos, my sister Dorika went there and tried to arrange for them not be taken to a forced domicile. The notary public was from Hungary, the judge was from Hungary - all these posts in Transylvania were taken by people from Hungary. Dorika went there and took steps to see what would become of them: would they be imprisoned, would they be killed? Dorika was such a diplomat, one rarely sees. She was both beautiful and clever. She couldn't get along with one of them so well, but the other was nice, he listened to her. Dorika could ask, beg them so nicely not to do any harm to these boys, and at the end he said, 'I will take care that the boys will be taken to a convenient place.'

That's how they got to Tolnatamasi, to Transdanubia. There was a Jewish family, the Revai family, and they had a daughter, Zsuzsi. They were forbidden to go elsewhere, but they could move within that place, and they became friends with this family, and they were accepted into it. Not as to live there, of course, because it was settled for them where to stay. I don't remember precisely where they had accommodation. However, this Revai family supported them a lot; moreover there was a great love story between Zsuzsi and Andor.

Later they got their call-ups to the labor battalion 10, but only Andor was taken, first to Ukraine, then further on to Russia. In the meantime Jeno was in hospital in Budapest. When he was released from the hospital, he was assigned to another work battalion in Hajmasker. When they wanted to bring them from Hajmasker to Germany, he escaped, assumed a false name, and hid in Hungary. He spent a longer period in Gyor under the name Bitai; he took up that name, and he said he was a Hungarian deserter, that he had escaped from Romania. And the truth never came to light; people didn't have suspicions.

After the Hungarian authorities entered Gyergyoszarhegy, our pursuit began. Yet, until 1942 they allowed us to remain there. The Germans were still far away, and in 1942 the authorities of that time expelled us from Gyergyoszarhegy, but not in the pursuit of a German order. In winter, in December, they allowed us two weeks to wind up our home. Most of our belongings we gave away for next to nothing. There were some who made use of such a situation, and came and bought things, for next to nothing. We tried to save some of the things by sending them to Marosvasarhely, because my brother Joska, who was an architect, lived there with his family. They [the authorities] sent us away on the grounds that we lived near the border with Transylvania, but, in fact, we were far from being on a borderland, the borderland was not even in the surroundings.

The nearest border to us would have been Piatra Neamt, it was close to Gyergyotolgyes, where my relatives lived. Of course they were ordered out too, but they really lived on a borderland: Uncle Herman, Aunt Cecil and Etelka and the Lobl family. They were ordered out even earlier than we were expelled from Gyergyoszarhegy, and so they could find a place in Marosvasarhely. And they were deported from there, from Marosvasarhely. As for us, we went to Transdanubia, to Kaposvar.

I can't tell now whether they sent us a written notice, or just summoned us to the parish hall. In any case, we knew we had to go. We had to go, we couldn't appeal, we couldn't do anything about it. We couldn't find a place in Transylvania to go to. Neither in Marosvasarhely, nor in Kolozsvar, nowhere. Finally we went to Transdanubia, because our two brothers did work service there, we wanted to be near them to be able to meet them, and that's how it was. We were assigned a forced domicile in Kaposvar. Andor and Jeno lived nearby until they got their call-ups to work service.

Everybody had a bundle with their things; we didn't have suitcases or handbags. We were expelled from Gyergyoszarhegy in December 1942. In the depths of winter we had to leave our home. My father had lived in this village for fifty years. This happened one year and a half before deportation. We had to leave our home twice, first in 1942, then in 1944. So we went to Kaposvar, because there was no place to settle in Transylvania.

In Marosvasarhely lived my brother Joska, the architect. Some of the more valuable furniture, the dining room's was brought here, to Marosvasarhely, and the villagers bought what wasn't of great value. Joska placed them somewhere. From the things that we could bring to Marosvasarhely, we found the dining room furniture without the armchairs and the small table; we found only the big table and the six chairs. Perhaps a mirror wardrobe too. My brother Joska didn't return from deportation. The furniture of this room, the desk, the wardrobe with the sofa-bed also belonged to the furniture of Joska.

So when they let us know that we had to move from Gyergyoszarhegy, we went to Kaposvar. My brother, who did work service, was near Kaposvar. He was already acquainted with the place, and he knew a family, who could get us an apartment. We sent there two wardrobes by freight train. One could transport no matter what by freight train, even furniture. This wasn't about deportation yet.

The apartment we could move into belonged to a young Jewish woman. She was called Judit Frisch, her husband was doing work service. She let us a room, a glassed-in vestibule, we could use the kitchen, but had no bathroom. I can't recall how we organized beds, because we had only one room. There was a couch in the glassed-in vestibule, I was sleeping there, the others in that single room. We were five there from the family: my mother, my father, Dorika, Hermin and me. My father was seventy-six years old then, my mother fifty-six.

Hermin brought a sewing-machine from Bucharest to Gyergyoszarhegy, and it was transported to Kaposvar together with the two wardrobes. Somehow we managed to pack up the Pesach dishes, we sent those to Kaposvar as well. Not any other dishes, only the Pesach ones. This was all we brought with us. Yet I don't remember whether we used the seder dishes in Kaposvar. I know, however, that there was a kind of storeroom in the back of the apartment, and when we got there, we put the box with the dishes there. But I presume we didn't observe Pesach there.

Jutka was a nice little woman, she was twenty-two. Her voice, just as her mother's was marvelous, they were both singing in the synagogue. There was a very nice synagogue in Kaposvar. [Editor's note: The synagogue in Kaposvar was built in the first half of the 1860s; it was restored according to the designs of Lipot Baumhorn, but in 1980 it was demolished, more precisely blown up. Only part of the two and a half meter high bronze table situated 12 meters high, on the top of the building was left, with the starting lines of the Ten Commandments.] And there was a rabbi too. On high holidays we went to the synagogue as well. The rabbi delivered a nice speech, and he spoke in Hungarian too, but he prayed in Hebrew as well. He was young.

We arrived in Kaposvar in December 1942; in the beginning we had a lot of trouble. Policemen came [Editor's note: presumably gendarmes came, since Kaposvar wasn't a municipal town] to inquire what we were doing there, why we went there. We explained to them that for us it was a forced domicile, we didn't come on our own free will. To this they said we had to present ourselves daily at the police station, all of us. Later they reduced this obligation so that we only had to go weekly. The police acknowledged that we weren't that sort of dangerous people, so why should they bother us to make us go there and call on us. Then they didn't bother us anymore. They weren't evil-minded at all. Until the very moment when deportation began. We spent one year and a half in Kaposvar, from December 1942 until 7th July 1944.

We weren't allowed to do anything else in Kaposvar besides trying to do some needlework or something similar. Since my sister Hermin was a sewer, the woman we lived at got her clients for whom she could sew. These weren't Jews. They paid well for it, because she could make such unbelievably nice things, she could design patterns too, not only execute them. And she always knew what would suit a certain shape, and what would not. In short she had work. Of course the person she worked for asked her where we came from, how we had gotten there, and when she told them, they pitied us. So besides paying her work well, they packed her up with food and things.

Dorika learned how to spin. At that time Angora wool, was very fashionable. First one had to learn it properly; one cannot succeed in it at once. A lot of Jews lived in Kaposvar. Most of the Jews were physicians, but there were craftsmen too, for example tailors and watchmakers. There was a kind woman, she was Jewish too, and she was engaged in spinning angora. She taught Dorika, and so she was spinning the whole day.

I tried to do something as well; once I was recommended to a family. Of course in those times Jews couldn't be employed. It was a very distinguished family, the husband was the director of the sugar works, and they had two little children. His wife was about to give birth to the third child, and so they needed somebody to take care of the two elder children. Well, I couldn't stay there for long, for these two children were unbearable, they behaved dreadfully. They were tearing my hair... I was the youngest child in my family, but I couldn't have pictured that such children could exist. They were spoiled, the little boy and the girl. I couldn't get on with them at all; I didn't know how such children should be treated. Back then a director general used to be called milord, everything was so formal. [Editor's note: Presumably the title of 'milord' wasn't 'officially' due to the director of the sugar works of Kaposvar; yet it is conceivable that his milieu promoted him informally.] I tell you honestly, I couldn't fit in this milieu, after two weeks I told them I could come no more. They knew too why I was there, and so they packed me all kind of things.

According to the local fashion villagers wore 'pruszli,' a crocheted bodice. It was an apartment building where we lived, the host was called Satler. Several families lived in that yard. One of the women used to work for the shop where these bodices were sold, and she said she would get a job for me too. I learned how to crochet bodices. So I earned some money too, Dorika was spinning, and she earned some, but my sister Hermin earned the most. We had some money, the villagers had bought some of our belongings we had sold, and we had some savings, so we had something to live on until they deported us. This was the Kaposvar intermezzo.

We heard that Jews from everywhere were being deported. Then they gathered us from Kaposvar too. The street where we lived, Daniel Berzsenyi Street, was in the ghetto. Quite a lot of Jews lived in this street, and they brought here the Jews who lived in other parts of the town. The Germans came to Hungary in March 1944, I think on the twenty-first. [Editor's note: Germany occupied Hungary on 19th March 1944.] They deported us after that; I know for sure it happened in July.

Jews were prohibited from leaving the ghetto. They were not allowed to leave the street where they lived, and there too, they had to wear a yellow star 11. I don't know from where others acquired the star, but for those who lived in this yard my sister sewed them. We had yellow material, some satin, she cut that out, and she gave everybody a yellow star to put on. My poor sister had already become weaker. She was sickly, she had pain in the joints, besides she was sensitive too, she was always prone to get a cold, she had a cough. Yet she worked a lot in Kaposvar. She always had work to do, she was called to families all the time, and she did go. The humiliation and all that treatment against Jews, that was astonishing. One could feel it in the air that something horrible would come. Yet what did come, we would never have thought of.

There were two young men, maybe they were civil policemen; in any case, they were from the police. We knew them from the beginning. They came to us a few times. Presumably they felt sorry for us. They called on us, stayed for a while, and we always offered them something. But it made us wonder about why they were coming to us now and then to have some talk with us... They wanted to prepare us somehow, so that we knew this would ensue, but they didn't say a word. The day before we were gathered, one of them had called on us, but didn't tell us we would have to go the next day. However, he came there. I suppose he liked me and maybe he thought he could save me. Because he knew something would happen. But in the end he didn't say a word.

So the way it happened was that they gathered us. They came into each house and told us: pack up and let's go. We had nowhere to escape. Those who were wealthy, the great manufacturers, the millionaires, bought their freedom. We were gathered in the riding-hall of Kaposvar. In other towns they gathered them in brick factories, but in Kaposvar we were gathered in the riding-hall. It was large, but one couldn't think of escaping from there. A mother saved two girls from there, because their father was Jewish, and she was Christian. We lived in the same yard with them. The father of the girls was either dead, or doing work service. I don't know how their mother arranged for them that they let out these little girls from there, where we were already gathered. But after they gathered us, one had no chance to escape at all.

While we were in the ghetto, it occurred that people were tortured - but we weren't among the tormented - in order to make them tell where they had put their jewels. Not the gendarmes tormented them, but there were persons fit for this, for not everybody could do this. These were bouncers; they were trained for torturing people. There were gentle people too among the gendarmes.

When we were already at the railway station, we saw a wagon where they put on Mittelmann, the pharmacist, who was a millionaire. We recognized another person too, whom we knew was also very wealthy. We were poor. When we were put into wagons, I saw there was a separate one for these rich people, where only they would go. These people could survive for the Germans seized their fortune. They negotiated with the Germans, who could be bribed.

When we finally set off, we traveled in the dark. There was only a small window, one couldn't look out from there, and we were a hundred and two persons in this wagon. Crushed together, you could sit down only if you pulled up your legs. The train stopped rarely. Those, who could get at it, drank some water. You see, the train didn't have enough so everybody could have drunk some water. Once we stopped for a longer time, not only to get a little water, and we knew that wagon was uncoupled [the part where the wealthy people were]. So it was obvious why we stopped and remained still. Because the wagon was uncoupled, and they transported us further. [Editor's note: Centropa didn't find any reference to such an occurrence in the specialist literature.]

All I know is that when I returned to Kaposvar just after the war, in 1945, I entered the pharmacy, and Mittelmann, the pharmacist was there just as before. What had happened to the others, that we didn't find out. Certainly they all survived, but didn't stay there, since most of them left either for America, or for Israel. But Mittelmann, the pharmacist, stayed in Kaposvar. He was glad too to see me, but it was such a delicate matter that I couldn't ask him in which concentration camp he had been, or where he was set free.

The wagon was strictly locked; they opened it only when they gave us some water, and when dead bodies were thrown out. Those who guarded us until the border were Hungarian gendarmes. They kept on saying that if we had jewels, if we had a ring left, we should give it to them. I don't know anymore what their pretext was for requesting us to give them our jewels; certainly they didn't say 'for you are being taken away.' It was not likely, however, that people had anything on them.

When a hundred and two persons are crowded in a wagon, and air can get in only through that small window, one can image what smells were in that wagon. There was one pail you could use to relieve yourself. And they didn't stop frequently enough to be able to empty it, so you can imagine how it stank. Besides it was a hot summer, July, it smelled of sweat and all the rest. The traveling was unbearable until we got there, three and a half days later. All the family was up in the wagon, we were together. My father being seventy. [Editor's note: The interviewee's father was born in 1868, therefore in 1944 he was already 76 years old.] Alone the traveling until we got there was already such suffering...

They didn't tell us anything about where they would be taking us. We didn't know where we would arrive either, or where we were. At the Czech-Hungarian border certainly Germans took over the guarding of the train, because there weren't Hungarian gendarmes anymore.

The arrival at Auschwitz was terrible. The railway was laid down just until the entrance to the Auschwitz concentration camp. After such a journey of three and a half days, when they finally open the door, instead of getting fresh air, we smelled the smoke of the crematorium, a stinking, singed smell. By this time you could think no more. You saw the chimneys were smoking. You could think of nothing anymore. We didn't think of surviving anymore.

As we got off, they separated men from women immediately. And these Poles, who were there for years, because they had been deported first, they were at home there already, in striped dress. They had arm ribbons, for they were people of some significance. They told women with little children at first to give the child to the elderly, because they would get a better supply. Well, there were some who didn't give them their children, they chose to take their children with them, and those who took their children with them, got into the gas-chamber. That young mother, who gave her child to her old mother, had the chance to get among those who survived, while the old mother went straight into the crematorium with the child.

At this moment my father was still there. The son of the householder was there too, because first they were exempted, as his father had I don't know what cross from World War I, he had some important decoration 12. They didn't have to wear yellow stars. But then the right to be exempted was taken away from them, and they were together with us. I told the householder's son, 'Take care of my father' - I recall this well. He was a grown-up man, I don't know why he was at home, because in fact he should have been a married man, but he didn't have a family. He lived at home with his family. His grandmother had been thrown out on the way, because she had died, she was eighty-something. And so his mother came with us, while he went with his father, that's why I asked him to take care of my father. But who would have thought that... I didn't think yet they would kill them, but I didn't have any good feelings.

Then we lined up as follows: Dorika, me, my sister, and mother between. Then selection followed: they let the three of us there and snatched away my mother. We didn't see her again... we never saw my mother again. I know that this Mengele was there, we found out consequently who he was. He performed the selection, it was always him who selected among those who arrived. [Editor's note: Historians generally agree that since more than 450,000 Hungarian Jews were sent through Auschwitz in a three month period, it is highly unlikely that Josef Mengele himself divided up tens of thousands of Jews each day.]

Later he came into the concentration camp where we were, he came together with a beautiful, blond, young SS woman-soldier. They rivaled in beauty. That woman-soldier was a blond beauty, and he was a male beauty. A tall, brown-haired, handsome man. You wouldn't have thought him so cruel. Mother was pulled away, and they let us go further, that was all. We preserved in our memory what Mengele looked like, because he showed up several times in the concentration camp.

After we were parted, those who were put on the right side went into the gas-chamber, and those who were put on the left, were taken to the bath to take a shower. Right after they were separated, those who were let to live, were taken to the shower room, and they even gave you soap. They took away everything we had on us, what we wore, they let us keep only our shoes. First they cut off our hair I think, then came the shower. Everywhere, everything, they shaved all our body hair.

The soap they gave us was cube-shaped, grayish. Coarse, grainy. And it was written on it: RIF, 'Reiche Jüdische Fette.' This means 'pure Jewish fat.' We weren't aware then what this monogram meant. Later we got such soap again, and we ignored it then too. [Editor's note: There are two conflicting views concerning the 'soap-issue.' According to one the soap manufactured from human fat is a legend based on a misinterpretation. The German occupiers distributed soaps bearing the 'Rif' inscription in the Polish ghettos. The Jews of the ghetto interpreted the acronym RIF as 'Rein jüdisches Fett,' which means 'pure Jewish fat,' and this was the basis of the belief that soaps were made from the Jewish corpses in the concentration camps. In fact RIF stands for 'Reichstelle für Industrielle Fettversorgung' (National Center for Industrial Fat Provisioning).] Right after that we were given a simple linen dress, it was neither white nor grey. Only a linen dress, nothing to wear underneath.

Then they lined us up. We were always four in one line. Four when they selected us. After the shower we had to walk along a stony road; they were larger stones, not small ones. They told everybody in which barrack they had to go.

Such a barrack was around thirty to forty square meters large. And we were crammed in there, more than a hundred persons, like sardines. There was nothing on the ground, straw or anything, only the bare ground. And so I laid down on my shoes, those were my pillow. I was together with Dorika; Hermin was in another room. Why she wasn't with us, that I don't know. We would have liked to be together of course. It was settled how many would go here, and they pushed people in, and then it couldn't be changed, unless you made an exchange, arranged that one would go there, and the other come here, for the number would be the same. That did occur.

When we arrived here, in the barrack, they portioned us out one loaf of bread, which was brick-shaped; I don't even want to imagine what it was made from! In any case, it didn't look like bread at all. Everybody got bread for a week. It was gray, its color wasn't that of bread. I put it down at my place. Well, I thought if I went back there, the bread would be still there. But the bread was not to be found. I came back, and the bread wasn't there, and I saw the others eating, and I had nothing to eat... Dorika's bread too was taken away. Thus I was starving, because I didn't have any bread. On the very first day they stole my bread, and we never ever got an entire loaf of bread again. After that they only gave you enough for a day.

In the morning it was still dark when they shouted that we had to get up. We had to go out and line up, and stand there on the stony ground for hours, until they would come to count us. There were so many people crowded in one room, that you weren't cold there. It was such a place, where at daytime it was around forty degrees, so the skin got blistered because of the extreme heat, but in the morning you were freezing in that dress, as you were standing there waiting. And we huddled up, we warmed each other, because we were freezing. The temperature was almost zero at night. And this was the same every day. They came in the morning and counted us. Why they did this, that I don't know.

After this was over, they gave us some thin liquid, they called coffee, but it had nothing to do with coffee. It didn't taste like coffee, it was a slop we had in the morning. This was breakfast. We had some kind of dish; we got all kinds of mangy dishes acquired from who knows where, let's say a small pot or casserole. Everybody had a different one. Those dished were rusty, disgusting, but we didn't have any other. One could see that these had been thrown away, I don't know from where they collected them.

For lunch they gave us something called 'Gemüse.' It means vegetables. Well, it was a bit like hay covered with dust; it had nothing to do with vegetables. Just looking at it, I was overcome by such disgust, that I didn't even want to try it. When you first tasted it, you thought you'd never be able to eat it. Finally we did eat it. And they gave it to us in those repugnant dishes. Most of the people got diarrhea after one or two days, and became so weakened, that they couldn't live on, couldn't exist. I wouldn't say my stomach resisted, the most awful was when I had to go out in the night, but I didn't have diarrhea, interestingly enough. And that's how we lived for seven weeks, under such circumstances.

We didn't wash ourselves, because it was not possible. Once in a month you could take a shower. We didn't have any underwear, hygiene was lacking, yet I didn't have a rash on my skin a single time. I didn't have lice either. Not once. Our hair was closely cropped, but it grew, and later we had unbelievably beautiful hair. We had much nicer hair after being shaved than we had had before.

In Auschwitz after a while we stopped having menses, we were told later that the food we were given had bromide in it. [Editor's note: There is no actual evidence of dosing sedatives (bromide), though many people from different sources stated that prisoners were given bromide. Yet it is possible that bromide was needless: little food, beating, cold or on the contrary, heat, little sleep, terrible work conditions etc. wore out prisoners in a very short time, all this bore down their resistance.] Back then we didn't know the reason for it, we thought that it was because of nutrition, but in fact we didn't know, we were just rejoicing over it, so we didn't have to worry about that at least. This was good, that they did this, among all that evil.

In the meantime, during these seven weeks my sister Hermin fell ill. There was a so-called sick-bay, it was called 'Revier,' where they put those who could be, let's say, healed. She had an eruptive illness, it is called erysipelas. It started on her neck, and went down to her shoulders, and so she was in a sick-bay, where she was taken care of by a Polish woman doctor, who was a prisoner like we were.

I got beaten in Auschwitz once, when my sister was ill and was in the sick- bay. There was no water, and one day they brought one cistern of water for such a huge camp. And there was a stone tank in it. It was forbidden to approach it, nobody was allowed to go there. When this cistern was taken away, I ran after it, because water was still dripping out of it, and I wanted to get some water to take it to my sister in the hospital. So they trashed me, because even this was forbidden. They hit me and beat me...

Something else I recall was that we agreed not to talk, if possible, because talking too makes you tired, you loose energy, and so we decided not to talk and save some energy. Thus we remained silent for days, and that's how those weeks in Auschwitz passed. It is interesting that we thought we had a slight chance to survive: if we went to work. But we were afraid of selection, and that we would loose my sister Hermin. When she got better, she'd be let out from the sick-bay.

We were in Auschwitz for seven weeks. In fact this was Auschwitz-Birkenau. You could present yourself, they selected people for work, to take them away from there, but as long as my sister was in the sick-bay, we didn't go, of course. When she came out, we presented ourselves. In the meantime people were dying one after the other, I don't know how many daily. And the big car came. There were people who were still alive, but they were dying, they were still breathing, still moving, when they were thrown onto this car, the living together with the dead. When you thought of this, you thought you had to get away from there by all means. That's why we presented ourselves, when my sister was released from the sick-bay. This Polish woman doctor was there at the selection, and she remembered my sister. She was almost let through, but then they pulled her away. I got away from there with Dorika.

Dorika spoke to a kapo [concentration camp inmate appointed by the SS to be in charge of a work gang] - that's what they were called. She knew her, because she had made her a dress. She had brought everything: material, thread, needle. And there, in the Birkenau concentration camp 13 she had sewed a summer dress for this kapo. I recall even today that it was a nice, patterned material. And now, when Dorika asked her to try to do something in order to get Hermin over to those who were already selected, this kapo hit Dorika so hard that she fell down.

We went further in a dreadful state of mind, we cried bitterly, because we were sad about Hermin having been left behind. She was very skillful all her life, she was very competent in what she was engaged in; in that sense she was an independent person. But she needed somebody next to her, company, all the time. When her sister fled with her husband, she couldn't stay [in Bucharest] by her own, because she was a little shy. She didn't like to be alone. Therefore we were grieving, because we felt that she would break down, that she wouldn't be able to stand it. I don't even know when my sister Hermin died. My poor sister, it is even hard to imagine what she might have been going through before she died. One does not forget such things until death...

There was one more selection, when a few more people were selected, perhaps Hermin would have been selected at this point as well. They put us into wagons, and took us by freight train to an 'improvement' concentration camp; the place was called Ravensbrück 14. We left Auschwitz in September. As far as I remember, we were there for a few weeks in order to 'improve.' Here we lived under, well, let's say, more human conditions. We were placed in bunks, and we got better food supplies. It is likely that we recovered our strength a bit while we were there.

The number had to be sewed on the dress. We didn't have names, but numbers. I don't know my number by heart anymore, but it is on my papers. We didn't get tattoos, because we were the last transport. They didn't tattoo us anymore. Those who arrived earlier had the number tattooed on their arms. [Editor's note: Magda Fazekas and her sister didn't arrive in Auschwitz with the last transport. Though the regent 15 stopped deportations on 7th July, Jews from Sopron (together with Jews of the surroundings gathered there), that is more than 300 persons were deported on 7th July; in the night of 8th July a deportation train left the HEV station of Bekasmegyer, which transported Jews from Kispest, Pestszenterzsebet and Ujpest 'concentrated' in the brick factory in Budakalaszi; in the same way were transported to Auschwitz on 6th, 7th and 8th July Jews from Budapest and from the country gathered in the HEV station of Punkosdfurdo and the brick factory of Monor, alike lawyers and journalists of the capital gathered in Csepel (evading the order of the regent providing for the ceasing of deportations). Yet Eichmann had 1050 inmates of the concentration camp of Kistarcsa and 500 inmates of the prison on Rokk Szilard Street (the Rabbinical Seminary) transported from Budapest East.]

Then they transferred us to Neustadt near Coburg, the center of this concentration camp was Buchenwald 16. This was a work camp. There were completely different barracks than in Auschwitz. Here the room was provided with water-conduit, one could wash. There was a long wash basin, and one could wash there. There was even a stove in the room, heating was useless though, and later we were very cold in this room.

They gave us work clothes, a gray overall made of strong linen. It had a red sign on the arm, which meant you were a prisoner. It was cut out, and the material was applied to it. If it had been sewed on, one could have taken it off. But as it was cut out and applied to it, if you escaped, you could not conceal it. We didn't have any underwear. The clothing couldn't be washed, because it wouldn't dry, there wasn't any heat in the barrack. We wore it dirty. In fact, I think we could have a wash once a month under the shower with hot water. In the barrack we had only cold water. I don't know anymore how many of us could go in at once. In the barrack we washed our face with our hands, and we could wash somehow, but a thorough washing from head to foot we had only once in a month, as far as I can remember.

We were forty-two or forty-three in that room. There was an elder woman, Aunt Novak, I still remember her name; she was forty-two then and regarded as an old woman. She was the only one to be forty-two. The others were all younger. I was twenty-four, and the others weren't much older either. There was a French woman doctor of the same age as Aunt Novak, and since she thought it was too exhausting for her to work twelve hours a week in daytime, and then the next week in the night, she used to give her a certificate, saying she had a temperature, and therefore couldn't go to work. Thus Aunt Novak was always missing. One day she was taken away, because they had counted how many days she had been missing. The poor woman, she wouldn't have thought that would be the end for her.

We were given one loaf of bread, which was better than that in Auschwitz; it was more edible. And that single bread had to be cut into eight slices, eight people had to share it between themselves. So we chose a person in the room to cut and distribute the bread. And breakfast was a cube of margarine. A slice of bread, that was the daily portion. At noon we had soup made of turnip, and they gave you baked potatoes with it. They were counted so that everybody would get four or five potatoes. And that was lunch. Always at the same time, at noon, until two o'clock, or until it was over.

Then Christmas came, and they said we would have a special Christmas lunch. We were waiting for the Christmas lunch, for who knows what it would be. But it was nothing special; it wasn't Christmas-like, but the usual. Each day they gave us the same turnip soup and baked potatoes; it didn't vary at all. Yet the baked potatoes were an extraordinary delicatessen for us, hungry people. We would have liked to eat some more bread too, but we couldn't, because it had to be apportioned for the whole day.

Winter came, they gave us some shabby clothes, certainly they came from those things that were taken away from the people in the concentration camps, and were later passed on to these work camps. I got a coat too, a quite long one, it almost reached until my ankles; which was good in winter, when it was cold. Though the workplace wasn't too far, but we went there through the snow. My shoes had been stolen back in Auschwitz. So I stole a pair of shoes too. My shoes had been summer shoes, and I stole boots. All the time while I was in Auschwitz I feared that the person from whom I had stolen them would recognize the shoes, but it didn't happen.

At the beginning we had to learn the trade in the work camp, so to speak. This was a cable factory, the factory of Siemens [KALAG (Kabel- und Leitungswerke AG)], we repaired cables. They asked who could speak German, Dorika presented herself, and so she didn't get into the line, but to the place where they checked the work we were doing. Deficient cables were marked with a band to show the deficiency, and we had to repair them. But in order to be able to repair them, we had to learn how to do so first. It took at least two weeks until I learned it. First I couldn't imagine I would be able to do this, yet I managed to master it in the end. We worked twelve hours a day. The SS women escorted us from the barracks to the factory.

The supervisors were civilians, two old people, who oversaw work and the group in the factory. I can recall the name of one of them: Herr Rentsch, that's what he was called. Once a supervisor beat me, because I hid in the place where we used to hang the coats in winter. I couldn't stand it anymore, it was night, I thought I would sleep there a little. He found me, and of course, he beat me. Well, he didn't beat me so hard as to break my bones, just slapped me in the face. The person who beat me, who found me hidden between the coats, was a little old man.

I wasn't a very keen worker, I was even called a saboteur. It was marked on each cable who was working on it, so one couldn't avoid trouble, if it came about. For when they packed up the cables, they checked if they could send them to the frontline or not. An appliance indicated if a cable wasn't mended right. Of course I wasn't enthusiastic, then an SS-engineer said it was for the third time that my cable wasn't good, my work wasn't acceptable, he said they could take me away, that was it. But Dorika, for she helped me out all her life, then too did... I wouldn't have thought it could have consequences. At that moment I was very afraid they wouldn't have mercy on me. It happened twice that I had to be saved from death, because certain death was in store for me.

The other case was much graver; I trifled with my life then too. The cables were covered with laths and leather belts. And since they didn't provide us with wood to heat the room, though there was a stove, I thought let's take home some wood... I cut the belts, and the laths fell out. We heated up the room well. That was all very well, but these things were missing, they started to search for them: why would these be missing, they didn't come back deficient from the frontline, so they must be somewhere. And so they searched for them. I happened to have such a cable on me, I wound it around my body, and I put on my blouse to hide it... The great searching began: let's see where the cables are, who has them, and who takes what they are covered with. What was I to do? I let it slide down next to me on the ground.

The SS-woman, who found the cable next to me, didn't beat me, just shouted at me. I thought they wouldn't spare my life for such an incident, because I had already committed another great sin, the sabotage. And this was stealing, so I had nothing to hope for. If you took out something from there, it was regarded as stealing. It was only me to do such nonsense - I was thinking only after the deed was done.

However, I couldn't even close my eyes for one week then, because I was always afraid they would come and take me away. Every day that passed, I thought: well, they haven't come for me today, but they might come tomorrow. I trembled for a week, day and night, but they didn't come. I don't know how I could escape this. This was the same as during selection, you had a narrow escape from certain death. And this was for the third time that I escaped certain death. I survived, and I lived to see this age.

Sometimes we had air raids; they emptied the factory, they took us into an air-raid shelter, and these SS-women were desperate, they were deadly pale, you could hear so many airplanes. And on the road, while we were walking, oh... bombers were coming. It was frightening, one could see them well. We were lying on the ground while they flew away, yet we were always afraid somehow, whether they could see from the above how wretched we were and that they should not bomb us. We called the airplanes silver birds. During bombings we were down in the shelter, and these SS-women came down with us, of course they didn't let us alone there either. They were so afraid, they feared for their life, they were young. We weren't afraid, because we thought starvation was over, a bomb would come, and at least... We didn't really have a joyful life after all.

Then winter passed, and spring came. We worked until April; the Americans were approaching, so they emptied the factory.

There were SS-women in the camp, and there were two men too. One of the SS- men was a young man, the other was elder, we called him uncle; he was a Wehrmacht soldier 17, who was a very gentle, well-meaning person, he never hurt anybody. The other didn't actually beat anybody either, but it did occur that he stroke angrily at a prisoner for some reason. One day another soldier showed up, we couldn't ascertain his rank, but an officer of higher rank came there, and he took a look into these rooms, as if our condition interested him. They said everybody should pack up. Everybody had a small bundle, even these SS, who escorted us, did. The stuff was put on a kind of cart. So whoever wanted to, put it there; and who didn't, would carry it.

I don't know for how long we were walking; this march lasted for two weeks without any food. I don't know when these officers and the others who escorted us ate, but this high-ranking officer even helped pushing the cart; for it wasn't a horse-drawn carriage, but the prisoners pulled it, it was some kind of pushcart. We didn't know what to think about all this. Of course they knew already that something was going to happen. Finally it turned out he had chosen a nice girl, for we were many, this camp was big, only women, and a lot... This was a girl from Maramaros; he kept on hanging around, because she could speak Yiddish, and Yiddish is very similar to German, and they could communicate.

Once when we stopped to take a rest - we were walking in a forest - there was a small lake, and we saw that one of the officers took off his gun, the other took it off too, and they threw it into the lake. Well then, we thought, we have no reason anymore to be afraid, they have no guns, they can't shoot us. It was a very good sign, this meant liberation was near.

We kept on walking, but we very extremely hungry. Well, it occurred that milk-cans were placed on the edge of the road, I suppose it was organized this way, that they were put out there, then transported to various places. These hungry people arrived, and of course nobody could drink of it, because everybody wanted to drink; they dashed against it, and the can fell over, the milk flew out, nobody got any of it in the end. That's how it goes with hungry people.

So we walked further, and eight of us - I can't recall anymore who these eight women were - dropped behind in the forest, because we thought if the soldiers have thrown away their guns, we have no reason to fear anything, we can stay in that forest, because there isn't any danger. And we lagged behind, and the transport went on.

It is a very sad memory for me, when I think back, that when we were on this two-week walk, it happened that another transport came; but so that we wouldn't see it, they drove us into the wood. And as they were passing by, we weren't so deep in the wood, they saw us there. And they shouted for us, I'm from Debrecen, the other said the name of a different town; I will always remember this. And we saw as they were walking away that they carried corpses on a cart, one's head was hanging down, another one's leg; they were thrown one upon the other, and they pulled them on the cart. Those skeletons pulled the cart filled with corpses, and we saw this from the wood.

After they left, we could hear the rattle of firearms, and when they drove us out of the wood, as we were walking on the road, you could see nothing else but brain, brain splattered out on the road. When they couldn't pull the cart anymore, they dug a hole on the roadside, and buried them there. After we got liberated, they found some of these buried bodies, and they asked us to take a look at them - I wouldn't have done it for anything in the world. My poor brother Jozsef must have been part of such a transport, and who knows where he was buried.

Until we saw what was going on among the soldiers [that they dropped their guns], they kept on counting us. When we lagged behind, the transport moved on. They went towards Czechoslovakia. We withdrew to the forest. Forests in Germany aren't dense enough for hiding; for if you went, for example to the Gorgenyi or Kelemen Mountains, there are such thick forests, that you can hardly be found there. However we settled, and one of us who spoke German well, she was called Magda Wittmann, she was a girl from Hungary, went to the village. There was a path in the forest, and she thought it would lead somewhere, she departed and made it to a village. There she was given uncooked potatoes, matches, and I don't know how, but we also got a pot somehow.

We made a fire and wanted to cook the potatoes. Of course the potatoes didn't get cooked, because as we lit the fire, we heard barking and voices nearby. We thought now they've noticed the smoke in the forest, they've perceived us, and they would come to catch us. We extinguished the fire immediately, we were very frightened. But they moved away. They didn't search for us, they were just passing by. We never found out who these people passing by were. But it was enough to get us scared. We were so afraid that we didn't dare to make a fire anymore. We didn't leave yet, but huddled up and slept or didn't sleep; in any case, the night passed somehow, and other nights passed too. I can't recall anymore for how many days we were there. I remember, it snowed that first night.

As we were lying on the ground, hungry, ragged, frozen, we must have been in a really bad state... Dorika's foot was covered with blood, because her shoes had blistered her feet during the long walk. We didn't have anything to treat or dress it with. We had nothing to tear to pieces and dress her feet. Then we decided there was no reason to stay in the forest, because we had nothing to drink or eat, and we would freeze to death if the weather stayed the same.

We departed, thinking: come what may, we are in such a deplorable condition anyway, if we stay, we will die from hunger. We were thinking a lot about where to head to, because we couldn't orient ourselves. We chose our direction at random. And as we were walking by the edge of the forest, a cyclist was coming towards us, and said that there was a village nearby. We weren't afraid of him anymore. We reached a village, but we had seen from afar that white flags were on the houses. There was no more reason to be afraid any longer. If a white flag was set up, it meant that only German inhabitants were there, no soldiers, and we wouldn't be caught.

We went into the village; the local farmers were cooking potatoes for the animals, we could smell it, and people saw that assistance was needed. They gave us milk and potatoes, and you can't imagine what that meant to us! We couldn't believe it was true. We didn't know whether we were dreaming it, or it was true. Then they said we could stay in the hayloft, but on the condition that no one would pee there, because animals can't eat hay that has been peed on. We promised we wouldn't; and so we could sleep one night in the hay. We were eight. I remember this very well. They gave us milk in the morning too, and we set off.

We set off, and then a jeep appeared...and one more jeep appeared. We were walking towards them, and they stopped. They were American soldiers. They told us to keep walking, because we would reach a small town, and the headquarters would be there, the Americans. We went there, and they took care of us, they gave us accommodation and food packages. We got a lot of delicacies from the Americans. There was everything one could desire. And we got such good accommodation. It was near a church. We could wash, then they gave us clothes, so we could take off these awful things, these rags, and dress up properly. Not all of the things fit us, but as we stayed longer there, we could adjust the clothes we had gotten to fit us.

A German sewer did that for us. She was very kind, and they [the Americans] helped us of course, meaning that we were supplied very well. Due to the war in Germany everything was in short supply. Let's say it wasn't the case with the villagers, because they could produce everything themselves, but people in the towns had a hard time getting food, while we were supplied abundantly. For example, we could give things to this sewer who sewed us things from the stuff given to us by the Americans.

There was canned food in the American packages we got, and what I liked most was the chocolate, biscuits and peanuts, and besides American peanut- butter. I like it a lot, it is very delicious spread on a roll or piece of bread: first you put some butter, then you spread on this peanut-butter. And they gave us very fine jam, too, but it wasn't canned in bottles or boxes, there were at least five kilograms of jam. You could eat as much as you pleased. I don't know what it was made from, but I can't forget how good it was. Although we had so much food, we were eating carefully so as not to eat too much. However, it occurred that a person, for having weakened so much, fell over the food too eagerly - or it happened that they ate poisoned bread, they found in warehouses after liberation - and they died.

Later they transferred us from this town to another. The first one was called Mitterteich, and the second one was Tirschenreuth. [Editor's note: Both places are in Bavaria, 20-25 km from the border with the Czech Republic.] There was a big porcelain factory. There wasn't any trace of war in these places. There wasn't any kind of destruction. When we went to this other place, we were quite many. There was a 'Gasthaus,' a guest-house, where they put us up. [Editor's note: The German word 'Gasthaus' actually means restaurant, inn. However, many of these inns also offer accommodation.]

There were Hungarian refugees too, but they were sent away from there, I don't know where they found a place for them, and we were given their places. These were Christian Hungarians, fascists, they were in trouble, and they had fled for Germany before the war was over, for they were allies, you see. They could come here, because the Germans accepted them. Later they went to America, if they could, or stayed in Germany.

It was a guest-house with several rooms. We were there until September. We were given some aid, and we could buy food. But I remember well that this guest-house had a restaurant on the ground floor, you could eat there if you wanted to do so. But people kept on coming there, who, like us, had certainly escaped, and in the end we were too many. There were even Poles, I don't know where they came from. There were Italians, there were French too, but these were male prisoners, not women. Then little by little they left, they could go home, and we went home as well. We were there until September, when they organized our return home. We were given certificates we could use when coming home to certify that we had been deported, and the place where we had been.

Dorika and I could go home, it was organized for us. We were in Prague for a while, we were given food at the railway station, and we traveled on. The same happened in Budapest, and then we got home. We traveled by train. We didn't have any other papers, but those the American authorities had given to us when we were liberated. We stayed longer in Budapest than in Prague, but I couldn't tell for how many days. I didn't have anybody to visit in Budapest. Everybody we traveled with on the train went where they originally came from. I don't even know what became of those six people we traveled with. I remember only one of them, one from Hungary. I can't recall the others anymore; we didn't keep in touch with them.

When we arrived in Romania, they gave us some money at the Romanian border. We came via Curtici [in Hungarian Kurtos], Arad. We came to Marosvasarhely, and we were placed where the dermatology is today, back then it was called sanatorium. Survivors kept returning, people we didn't know, we hadn't been together with them. We were there for a while, I don't even know for how long they looked after us. Then everybody had to look after themselves, look for accommodation, try to provide for themselves. We weren't from Marosvasarhely. My brother Joska had lived in Marosvasarhely, and we wanted to stay in his apartment, but of course it wasn't empty anymore, because when they had been taken away, other people had occupied their apartment.

They deported my brother Joska from Marosvasarhely, together with his family. Gyurika, their little son was six years old, when he was taken away. His wife and the child were sent to the gas chamber immediately. Joska, just like us, was left to live. My cousin, Jeno Lobl, who survived as well - his parents were killed, he and his sister Hedike survived - was together with Joska in Auschwitz, he told us after liberation that he was in deep despair, and Joska kept comforting him. The barbed wire fences were electrified, and whoever grabbed it, died. Some people committed suicide there, this cousin of mine wanted to die as well, because he couldn't stand it anymore, and my brother Joska encouraged him not to do so. Then they were transferred, my cousin got to a work camp, like us.

I don't know where Joska was taken; it is likely that the same happened to him as what we saw, that transport, those starving people, who couldn't walk anymore... When they saw people dropping, they shot them, well certainly my poor brother died in a similar way, but when and where, that we never found out. This cousin of mine, Jeno, survived, and came home; now he lives in Canada with his family. They lived in Bucharest before, he has triplets.

Margit and her family have a sad story. They fled from Bucharest to Csernovic, and from there they were fleeing further from the Germans. I don't know where it happened, her husband got down in a railway station to buy some food, and he missed the train. Margit went away on that train alone, and she got to Siberia. The Germans caught her husband, and took him to Auschwitz... She knew nothing about her husband, and her husband didn't know anything about her.

Margit spent six years in Siberia. But one, who is skilled in a profession, always can get on. She was sewing in Siberia too. Once she pricked her finger, it got infected, and she got phlegmon. She was very ill; it was very serious, similar to blood poisoning, it meant forty degrees fever, and she was alone. Luckily there was a kid, a young boy of fifteen or sixteen - that's what she told me later - and he took care of her while she had such a high temperature.

She survived, and she came home. She got home after six years. She came to Brasso, because we had relatives there, and she went to Aunt Lina, to my father's sister. Aunt Lina was the wife of a very rich manufacturer in Brasso. She helped her; Margit could stay with them, when she returned from Russia. Her husband came home too, he was liberated from Auschwitz. Her husband came home earlier than my sister, Margit.

Margit had poliomyelitis as a child, and as a consequence she had an ill leg. She was limping, she was operated on her leg I don't know how many times. She was disabled. And her husband thought that certainly she didn't survive those six years in Siberia, for he didn't get any news of her. There was a woman whose husband didn't return either. In those times people who lost their partner tried to find a new one. And when my sister Margit came back, he already had this partner. Later the woman's husband came back as well, and so the woman went back to her husband. My sister's husband went back to her, Margit took him back, what else was she supposed to do? A few years after the war, they emigrated to Israel. They had a daughter in Brasso, Zsuzsika. When they left, she was very little.

Margit was sewing all the time, she was sewing in Siberia as well, and after her return she was sewing in Brasso too, then in Israel. It was something unbelievable; we even used to say she had golden hands, because one can't imagine how well she could get on everywhere.

In Israel they lived in Haifa, they had a very nice apartment facing the sea. Her husband was the adventurer type. While they were together in Israel, he worked on a ship, but not as a sailor, he was some sort of employee there. The ship was sailing between Israel and Canada. He was a hotel manager, he was a kind of organizer. He was a restless man, he couldn't stay in an office. Otherwise he was quite a clever boy, just an adventurer.

One day he had this idea, and took my sister and the little girl to Canada, and told her, 'Stay here, because the family will have a better future here, and I will follow you.' My sister remained there with the child, and all she had so hardly saved in Israel, was gone, only so that Matyi could go to Canada, for he was this sort of man. And so my sister had to procure in Canada all she had left behind in Israel. And in order for them to get a residence permit in Canada, so that her husband could make a living there - it was all her who achieved this. And that with her bad leg and small child. Hers was a very hard lot, a very hard one.

Finally her husband emigrated as well; in Canada my sister already had a circle of clients, and until her husband could find an employment, she could support the family. Later her daughter got married. They didn't observe Jewish tradition much. Especially her husband, he wasn't religious at all. And it is so tragic that her husband died of cancer of the stomach; he is buried in the Jewish cemetery of Montreal, they bought a burial lot there. Margit was buried there too. Her daughter got married and divorced. Then she got married again, and her husband committed suicide.

Post-war

After the war it was very hard at the beginning here, in Marosvasarhely, because we didn't have a proper apartment. A cousin of mine, Hedike, who had come back before us, and had an apartment on Lajos Kossuth Street, accepted us in her place. Then we managed to obtain a room and a shared kitchen in the apartment of my brother, Joska. In the meantime Jeno came home as well. He escaped from work service and was hiding, he didn't go through all those terrible things we did. He tried to find an apartment, because the house where we lived wasn't ours, so that's how we got to Martuska [Marta] Lederer with Dorika and Jeno - that was the name of the owner of the house, later she became my brother's wife.

My uncle from Brasso, the husband of Aunt Lina was a manufacturer, they were very well-off. He owned an iron paste and shoe cream factory, they produced iron paste, shoe cream and parquet cream. Uncle Jeno gave my brother Jeno a certain amount for him to open a shop, for he had learned trading, he had studied that in Brasso. And he opened a shop on Albina Square together with Dorika. This large shop was near the center, the house was owned by a Jew. The owner was Aunt Naftali, and she let out the premises to Jeno and Dorika.

Back then it was very hard to purchase goods, but Jeno acquired everything, from everywhere he could. He traveled to Braila, Galati, and purchased colonial goods: pepper, tea, coffee, lemon. These were all goods that one couldn't find in the whole town after the war. Many things were out of stock. There was stationery too, the iron paste, shoe cream, these were sent by my uncle; Jeno didn't have to pay for these. The shop was very prosperous. The two of them worked, sometimes I helped a little too, but I rather did the housekeeping, I was cooking, I bought everything at the market. This was my task, while they worked in the shop. After a couple of years the shop was thriving.

I had these two cousins, Hedike and Jenoke, who came back, and my uncle's wish was that we all had the same share of the income of this shop. It is true though that they didn't work in it, because everybody only took out its share, in turn I was doing the housekeeping, it was a task too. This cousin later became a bank clerk, so three of us were left. First we bought this house from the income. At the beginning we were four owners. My brother Andor was still a prisoner in Russia. Andor got home only after six years. So when he came home, we already had this house. It was settled that the house belonged to the four of us.

Then private commerce was prohibited - this was already during communism. The shop wasn't nationalized, but it had to be closed, it didn't make any profit at all. I don't know precisely when this was, but Jeno had already bought that storied house on Aron Marton Street, which was full with tenants. Thus Dorika and I stayed in this house, we always lived together. My brother Andor since he couldn't move to that other house, also lived with us here. In the meantime he got married; he had a room on the first floor and a small kitchen, and we shared the bathroom.

After we came home from deportation, I was in Brasso at my aunt's together with my cousin, Hedike; Dorika stayed here, in Marosvasarhely. Once a young man brought a message, I remembered him, for I had seen him once in Budapest, when we were coming home from deportation. I was surprised though when he called on my aunt's, but I don't know anymore the precise reason of his visit. He was a young man, my aunt Lina had a son and a daughter of the same age as he. We, the young gathered there, and Aunt Lina made sure we had a good time, we, who had gone through such awful things. Almost every night there was a great party, because it didn't matter to Aunt Lina, the house was spacious, they had their own beautiful big house in Brasso. I thought the young man came because of Hedike. Hedike was four years younger than me, she was a pretty, blond, very sweet girl with blue eyes. But it turned out that no.

When we came to Marosvasarhely from Brasso, one couldn't travel by train yet, so we got on a freight train. Aunt Lina gave us a carpet, a rug, and I don't know what else they gave us, but all this stuff wasn't in a suitcase; instead they made a big package. I don't know anymore what it was packed in, perhaps in some sort of linen. I sat down on this package in the train, and this young man, who was three years younger than me, wanted to sit next to me. And I noticed he was trying to hold my hands.

As we were sitting in the dark in that wagon, once some people came, I don't know if they were Russian soldiers or not. They flashed, and as the light disturbed us, we stood up frightened, and when I wanted to sit down again, there was nothing to sit on. These gangsters had stolen the present I had gotten from my aunt. There were many people who were burgled. From this moment this young man wouldn't let me alone from this moment, first to protect me, and later we became a couple. This relationship lasted for almost four years.

Then he started to study medicine. He passed the final exams, but he didn't try yet to enroll at university; he studied in a high school of commerce, and he had to pass a special exam, because you couldn't enroll at the University of Medicine unless you'd finished high school. He attended the high school of commerce in Marosvasarhely, he was a fellow student of my brother Andor's wife. We went together to the university; I don't know how I could spare time to go with him, when he went there for the first time to enter. There wasn't any entrance examination at the Bolyai University 18, one could simply enroll. He was a clever, nice boy, but he didn't suit me. First he didn't suit me because of the appearance, people said I was such a pretty girl, they couldn't imagine how I could get on so well with him, because he wasn't tall... Now I'm not so tall any more either, but back then I was a tall, pretty girl.

We used to gather at their house, I met the man who later became my husband at their house. Bagyi [my husband] was already a doctor, while my suitor was a young student, and he worked next to him in the institution. Thus Bagyi knew me for a long time. My suitor had only a father who survived, they came back from the war together. His sister came back later. We were on very good terms with her too. His father liked me a lot too, we gathered at their house many times, we had a great time. In those times people lived in order to forget, to recover somehow.

His father knew what a big income we had, that we could buy two houses, so he thought I was a good match. Once when he said his relatives would come from Brasso, and they were preparing, waiting for the relatives, I had a new dress, I put it on, it was a summer dress. I thought I would go to meet the relatives. But the reception was so cold. I felt I had no reason to stay there, and we left. From that day on I always thought I should put an end to this. But we couldn't break it up, because he was much attached to me, and so was I to him. Whoever came back and met somebody, they were stuck to each other. He had lost his mother, I had lost my parents. We could understand each other very well.

After that I kept on thinking and brooding about what to do, because Dorika was against this relationship from the very beginning: 'He doesn't suit you, a person of different age would suit you.' Then I went to Brasso, my sister Margit still lived in Brasso, they hadn't left for Israel yet. And they said they had an acquaintance they would like me to meet. They wanted to recommend a young man to me. But nothing came of it. My suitor couldn't have possibly found out when I was to come back to Marosvasarhely, but he did somehow and was waiting for me at the railway station. I could see his attachment to me.

Then we had a ball, the doctors' ball. His father and his sister, who was also studying, chose someone else for him. I found out. At the ball he was one of the organizers, he couldn't sit down much. I was sitting next to Bagyi, because he wasn't a great dancer, he was so serious. I wouldn't have thought something would come of it. My friend, who was the wife of a doctor, and she was an associate professor of pharmacology at the university, brought a bottle of fine liqueur, and we were drinking, and if one drinks a little, one changes a little, opens up a little. I told my friend, 'Eva, we'll leave you alone now, we'll go to dance.' Of course Bagyi was such a steady character, so shy, not a sociable person at all... Then we danced, and I felt this certain obstinacy, for I hadn't come to the ball with him, but with the other guy, my suitor. Then I said now is the time, and we left the ball without my suitor noticing it.

Of course he was looking for me. My friend told him we were gone. Bagyi took me home. After a few days I went to the theater, and what do I see, both guys are there together and with company, and I was sitting in the stalls with a relative. When the performance was over, I came across him [Bagyi] at the cloakroom, and he asked me if he could take me home. We left, we took a long walk after the performance, and then he asked me whether he could visit us. 'Of course he could, I said.' At this moment I knew it was over with my suitor.

After the ball my former suitor called on my cousin, Hedike to ask her to mediate, so that we'd be reconciled, but there wasn't any chance for that anymore. The ball was in January, and at the end of March Bagyi told me that he had serious intentions, but he wanted to get to know me better first. So we got to know each other better over the next few months, and our relationship resulted in marriage. We got married in July. When we were walking together after the ball, he had said things like: 'It takes time to get to know a girl well.' Yet it was only a short time: from February to July. Then we got married, we had a civil wedding. We didn't have a religious wedding. There was a restaurant, the Elekes, we had dinner there; we organized a dinner there after the wedding.

I was at a ball only once in my life, in January 1949, and this ball determined my fate. It was decided there whom I should marry. I met my husband there, and he was my husband for almost sixty years - the marriage lasted fifty-seven years. It turned out later that he had been attracted to me from the very first moment. I had known him for four years before we got married. But he had a partner too at that time. We didn't have any family problems, just the religious difference. My previous relationship was with a Jew, and he was Christian. But his father didn't have any objections; this issue never came up at all.

Married life

My husband is from Kolozsvar, but he wasn't born in Kolozsvar, he was born in Magyarszarvaskend [in Romanian Cornesti]; it is somewhere near Kolozsvar, but I don't know where exactly. His father was a merchant. He was a Calvinist, his father was an active member of the church. He didn't have a mother, just a foster-mother, his mother died when he was twelve because of a surgical error.

His father didn't have any objections with regards to our marriage, but he had a younger brother, who said I didn't suit him. I don't know why he said that, for he didn't even know me, he didn't have any grounds for having an opinion on me or forming an image on what kind of person I was. He only knew his brother was such a reserved person, and whoever changes that, must be a cunning person. His brother told him, 'Take care of yourself, not to get into the clutches of a cunning woman.' Well, I was that cunning woman; we lived together for almost sixty years, and I nursed him and took care of him. I was a good and caring wife, at least I think I was.

My husband's brother was called Tibor; he had two degrees, he finished the University of Economics and the military academy. He was a pilot, he lived in Kolozsvar. He had a family, but his family life was obscure. One of the brothers was a quiet boy, the other a womanizer.

My husband moved here, but when we bought the house, it hadn't been empty. A Jewish family lived on the upper floor, and they left for Israel. Back then if somebody passed an apartment to somebody, they got key money for the apartment in order to give it up. But this Jewish family didn't ask anything for letting us move in. They gave us the upper part, and below a widow lived with her daughter. Then the daughter got married, and the old woman was left alone, downstairs in the two rooms. And she gave us on her own choice one room, the room which was facing the yard, and she kept the bigger room. But we couldn't get that one room; we asked the old lady, we offered her money to move to her daughter, but we couldn't convince her. It was hard to get the entire house, in order to own the whole place. We had so many meetings and talks and everything, my husband went to the housing department many times. So it was very hard, but finally we did get the house.

My husband was called up, and he was in the army for twenty months. During this period I let out the room to Sanyi [Sandor] Ausch, who is now the president of the Jewish community. In the meantime Sanyi Ausch got married and moved. My husband was still gone, and I didn't have any income, and I was pregnant. After the Ausch family left, I let it out to a young couple, he was a doctor and I also knew him.

In the meantime Juditka was born. My husband came home after twenty months. Juditka called him Bagyi, she didn't call him daddy. During all that long time while he was a soldier, he had leave only once; he did his service in Fogaras. They paid him nothing, and recognized nothing, he was a regular. They gave him only a few lei for pay. By that time Andor moved from here as well.

During this time Dorika helped us. She didn't have any actual qualification in commerce, but she was an extremely clever, capable person. I wasn't as resourceful as my sisters, who opened a sewing workshop, and the others, the boys; I was the youngest, and I was spoiled too a little.

Dorika applied for a job, because they wanted a chief bookkeeper at the public health institution. She didn't have any qualification in accounting, but she accepted the job. Such courage! She took on the chief bookkeeper's job at such an institution... And not only that she could cope with it, but we always had friends who were bookkeepers she could discuss certain issues with. Then she was rewarded, she was the first one from all the public health institutions in the country. She was given a reward, a diploma, and her name was mentioned in a specialist journal, where they praised her.

She didn't get married. She dedicated all her life, as she left school, to her family, to save my father's honor. When she took on this job at the public health institution, it wasn't easy, she had to go there early in the morning; most often she didn't take a bus, but walked all the way. I think the way there was three kilometers, and she walked in summer and in winter, when it was freezing. Then a ministerial act dissolved all the public health institutions [reorganizations were carried out] in all Romania.

Her next job was at the Sanepid, she was chief accountant there [Editor's note: Sanepid - the name of the Romanian public health institution]. They elbowed her out of there. Then she was chief accountant at the Red Cross, where her boss was a vicious man. He gave her such a hard time that she developed heart problems. By the time she could retire, her health had already deteriorated. We were together to the very end in Marosvasarhely, she died in 1991 at the age of eighty-two. She is buried in the Jewish cemetery, and my brother Andor is buried there too.

My husband [Andras Fazekas] was a doctor, a cytopathologist. At the beginning, when I met him, he was a pathologist. But there too a political matter intervened, reorganization was carried out. Back then he worked there, at the pathological department, but he was kicked out. Our children were still little then. He was transferred to Csikszereda [in Romanian Miercurea Ciuc]. But Csikszereda is far, and Dorika, who already worked in public health, had connections, she was a known person, and she managed to arrange that he would be placed not in Csikszereda, but in Szaszregen [in Romanian Reghin]. And in Szaszregen he took on the job in the hospital, but he worked there not in his profession, but as a general practitioner.

My husband worked three years in Szaszregen; he left on Monday, and came home on Saturday. In those times people worked on Saturdays as well. But it even happened that he couldn't come home. He lived with a Jewish family - he chose a Jewish family, because he was already part of a Jewish family - but he had a room that wasn't heated. He caught a bad cold, and after that he didn't hear well.

Finally he could come back from Szaszregen to Marosvasarhely somehow; with difficulties, but in the end we succeeded. Yet they had no job at the pathology, there wasn't a vacancy, he couldn't go back there, but to the internal medicine department. Due to these three years he had spent in Szaszregen his hearing deteriorated so much that he couldn't examine and listen to patients anymore. Then he had to leave his job at the internal medicine department, and in order to avoid unemployment, he took on a district doctor's job. He was sensitive already. He used to go to the office by bike; there were only a few cars back then, and he had a cold, he was ill again, and finally he couldn't do that job either. He wasn't able to due to his physical condition. He was ill many times.

Somehow, I don't know how, there was a vacancy at the pathology. He went back, but to a position where one starts the profession from. He should have been an assistant lecturer already, but these things intervened, Szaszregen, then the internal medicine department, after that drifting as a district doctor. Well, in fact he was broke. And he got back to such a job within his original profession, where he had the smallest salary; yet we were pleased with that nonetheless. And I had a support, because Dorika assisted us like a mother. So somehow we could get on. I didn't have any job, I didn't have to work, because Dori always helped us, so from this point of view we were all right; she adored our children.

My husband could have undergone a head physician exam; he was supposed to take the exam in Bucharest, but he wasn't accepted. Little was missing enabling him to go, some trifling, maybe two months of experience in the field, but because of this he couldn't go to take the exam. And after this last exam they announced a head physician exam only eight years later. And until then we lived on that small salary. Finally he took the head physician exam. Thus he became a histologist in the histological laboratory. When he was dissecting bodies, he had to find out why the person had died. He was doing this for a few years, then he was setting up diagnoses in the laboratory. He had a hard job, because it implies responsibility; for example if they cut out a piece of a woman's breast to establish whether she had a benign or a malignant tumor, he had to decide about it. And he made not one mistake. He was an acknowledged specialist.

He worked until the age of seventy-two, because they didn't let him retire. He was the head physician of the institution. He left in the morning, and came home at ten, half past ten in the evening. For besides he was conscientious, he was never mistaken; it never happened that he made a wrong diagnosis... He worked all the time. I couldn't tell anymore for how many years we could enjoy the head physician's salary, but certainly not for many years. He worked until the age of seventy-two, though he could have retired earlier.

We got married in 1949, and in 1950 Juditka [Judit] was born, in 1955 Evike [Eva]. Juditka was the best child one could imagine. There was quite a big difference of age between the two children. I gave birth to Juditka when I was thirty. When we got married, my husband said that he wanted three children, but since my second child was born when I was already thirty- five, I was out of time, so we dropped the idea of a third child.

Both children started school in the Papiu [high school]; at that time it was a mixed school, girls attended it too at the beginning. Then they finished school in the Unirea [high school]. Both went to a Romanian school. They studied well, both of them. Juditka, my elder daughter, enrolled at the University of Timber Industry in Brasso, while Evike, the younger one, studied at the University of Medicine, and my husband was delighted with it, because she pursued his profession. He adored that girl so much, it's beyond description.

Evike didn't have any problems at university; she was accepted following the first entrance examination. Her husband was her classmate, he is called Albert Frank, he was born in Nagykaroly [in Romanian Carei], his father was a doctor. He is a very good boy, a very good husband. They have two children. The elder is Ivonne; we didn't hesitate about this name, because we had liked it before. I was glad too that they gave her this name. Their second child is Clara; I like this name as well. I love my grandchildren very much.

Jutka too met her husband at university. He is called Ferenc Incze. He was born in Brasso, his mother is also from Brasso, and his father was born in Zagon [in Romanian Zagon], but lived in Brasso. Juditka was very pretty, she looked like Sophia Loren, she resembled that actress a lot. During her university studies her colleagues called her Sophika. Later, in 1974 Feri [Ferenc] went to Croatia on a students' journey, and he and a Romanian colleague didn't come home. They got to Austria. There they first had a provisional residence, until they clarified their identity. Since Feri could certify his German origins - his mother had German origins - he could go to Germany.

After Feri left, Juditka got to Zilah [in Romanian Zalau]. According to those times' practice she got to Zilah following placement [Editor's note: meaning that after finishing her studies she was compelled to take on that precise job]. But she wasn't there for long, because she wanted to come to Marosvasarhely, and she applied for a teacher's job in Marosvasarhely, at the school of timber industry. She did get it; we were very happy that she was home, and she wasn't so far and alone any more.

In those times relationships were of course censored. The letters which came from Germany, and those which were sent there, were censored, because we noticed a very little sign, which appeared on every envelope. One could see two lines, the same appeared on the envelopes. It wasn't striking, yet we discovered it. This correspondence lasted for five years. We received each letter.

Later Feri came home from Germany, and they had their civil wedding here. He was her fiancé all the time, he left as her fiancé. Juditka had a ring, it was a small silver ring, and a little heart on a chain hanging on it. Five years passed, and they had to wait a few months after the wedding, until they let Juditka go. The children of Judit were born there, in Germany. I was there at the birth of both children. Peter, the elder boy is twenty-seven years old, Andras is twenty-five.

It was quite complicated for Evike and her family to leave. Judit was already in Germany, but Evike and her husband couldn't just simply go to Germany. However, Evike, her mother being a Jew, could apply for going to Israel. First they studied Hebrew here, in Marosvasarhely. There was a lawyer here, who spoke the language well, and he accepted to teach them. They had to wait; they submitted the application for emigration, and of course the Securitate 19 kept under surveillance those who applied for emigration. I don't know after how much time they got the permit to go to Israel.

It was a very painful parting, because her elder daughter, Ivonne, was born here. They lived with us until the end, in the room which faces the yard, and they had the small room, the bathroom and the kitchen. Dorika, my poor sister was already retired, and after retirement it was her who cooked. I bought everything, I helped them, but in fact we did it together. The little girl, Ivonne was two and a half years old, she was a very sweet, nice little girl, she could already speak clearly.

They traveled to Bucharest by train, in a sleeping-car, and they flew to Israel from there. There they stayed with a relative. That family, poor them, lived in a small apartment, and they had two little children as well. When they arrived, they couldn't yet go to my cousin, because it was already organized that they would immediately be sent to a Hebrew language course, to the ulpan 20. And they would have given them lodging and everything there. They said they wouldn't go to the ulpan, because they wouldn't stay in Israel.

They chose Germany, because the brother of Albi's [the son-in-law's] mother lived there with his family. They had been living there for a long time. Well, it didn't result in a scandal, but there was something... The matter dragged on for quite a long time in Israel, but finally they let them go. However, they assumed the obligation to repay Israel the expenses, because Israel paid for every person who emigrated there. They paid a considerable amount for a person Ceausescu 21 let go. I don't know what the exact amount was; Albi's uncle refunded the money for Israel, and thus they let them go. [Editor's note: Israel and Germany paid a certain amount to Romania for each emigrant. This amount was established on the basis of the emigrant's qualification and the position they had in Romania. They had to pay more for a person who had a university degree, than for a person who finished a professional school. From the end of the 1960s it cost Israel 3000 USD on average to 'buy' a Romanian Jew.]

They attended a language course in Germany for one year, and they got some aid too from the Germans, from the very beginning. First both Albi and Evike worked in a hospital. Evike got a job in a hospital for plastic surgery, and Albi in a medical department. Finally he became a radiologist. Ivonne will be twenty-five this November, and Clarika turned seventeen in May.

I was there when Clarika was born too. Dorika was such a helpful person; I've realized this by now, but back then I didn't even think of it - even if it was only for three months, for passports were issued for a period of three months. However, if they'd have given me a passport for five or six months, she would have said, 'Go, be with your children' as well. Back then I didn't think it was a huge sacrifice. But my poor sister could have spent her time somewhere else too...

I didn't have problems with the authorities, I always got my passport. I visited my daughters alone. My husband was working, so we never went to Germany together. Dorika was in Germany once; she visited both Evike's and Juditka's family. From Germany Juditka and her family came home visiting, because the parents of Feri lived in Brasso, so it was rather them who'd come.

In 1968 I was in Paris with Dorika; we met our cousin Andor, who lived in France. In 1977 Dorika and I went to Israel, where we met Margit, who came there from Canada. We visited together the relatives, we went on a lot of trips together. My husband and I were only on ONT excursions [that is, organized by the Oficiul National de Turism/The National Tourism Department] together. We traveled to Russia, I was there once, but he was there once more alone, in Leningrad. When we were there together, we visited Moscow, Siberia, we saw Lake Baikal. There in Siberia the Amur River borders it from China, on the other side it's China, we traveled that far. And we were in the taiga, it was a very exciting trip, and we had very good company, mainly colleagues, professors from the university. It was very nice.

My husband adored nature, and I liked it too, I liked it a lot. I enjoyed gardening, things like that, and we ventured out into nature a lot. To the Fogarasi [Fagarasi] Mountains for example, so these weren't short outings, I wasn't fit for them, but I had to go with him, because he wouldn't have gone alone. And when Juditka was big enough to be able to go, then we took her for the first time to the Fogarasi Mountains, and when Evike grew up too, when she was around thirteen, we went there again. Yet I was quite old already, almost fifty. We were in the Retyezat [Retezat] Mountains, the Western Carpathians, the Bucegi Mountains, in Brasso on the Cenk Peak.

We observed Christian holidays too, Easter, but my husband didn't go to church. He wasn't religious at all, he was a Calvinist. His father was a believer who observed religion, but my husband wasn't religious. From the point of view of what religion I had or he had we didn't have problems.

We always had a Christmas tree. Without Dorika we would have had nothing under the tree. For I wasn't that kind of character, I've never liked shopping, and I've remained like this down to the present day. If she hadn't pressed me, 'Let's go and buy you a pair of shoes', I'd have never bought one myself. In Germany too Evike took me by force to a shopping center. I didn't like it, I was always like this, and I haven't changed in that respect.

I am a member of the Jewish community even today, ever since I moved to Marosvasarhely. I registered my husband at the Calvinist church, so that he would be a member of the church too, for when he must be buried, he would be included in the records, as member of the Calvinist church. We paid the church fee there, and I pay the Jewish community even today. My brother, Andor, may he rest in peace, always paid the community tax for me too. Evike told me, 'Even if you leave, remain a member of the community.' We contributed to the installation of the Holocaust statue. We donated, both Evike and I did. I don't know whether Juditka donated something, but I know for sure we gave them German marks.

At Pesach we didn't prepare any Jewish food, but we used to buy matzah from the community. We didn't prepare those Pesach meals we had had at my parents'. We made chulent, which we liked a lot. Moreover, my two daughters make it even today, the children like it a lot, and the men like it too, I mean Evike's husband likes it, and Feri likes it as well.

Hedike gave me two candlesticks; she gave them to me with the request: 'You should light candles each Friday night.' But I didn't practice this; I didn't light candles on Friday evening. I prayed only in the synagogue, when we recited the 'mazkir' [yizkor], this is a prayer for the departed recited in the synagogue. Each year I prayed only for my parents. I recited only the 'mazkir,' which I said for my parents; we weren't particularly religious. And since I had a mixed marriage, we observed holidays meaning that we prepared festive meals, but my husband didn't go to church.

I went to the synagogue to services only on high holidays, with Dorika, on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. On Yom Kippur Dorika and I were fasting, I always lit candles on these holidays, two candles in the Sabbath candlestick. And I observed fasting until I turned eighty.

Dorika died suddenly. She liked the 'Teleenciclopedia' very much, it was always on Saturday. [Editor's note: The program Teleenciclopedia presenting issues of natural science, technology and health has been broadcasted by Romanian Television 1 since 1965 on each Saturday afternoon, at six.] On Saturday afternoon we were sitting on the balcony, we had a small table there with two chairs, and we were cleaning currants picked by my husband that day. Dorika told me we would never do this again on Saturday, that this was for the last time we were doing this. It was for the last time for my poor sister indeed... She went in to watch the 'Teleenciclopedia,' she invited me to join her, and all of a sudden she says, 'Oh, I feel so bad.' My husband was in the bathroom. And by the time he came out, she was dead, she had died in my arms, I never saw anyone dying before. It was terrible.

Dorika died in 1991. I had a breakdown then. I went to Germany to see my daughters, but I wouldn't have thought that... My brothers and his daughter- in-law undertook to look after my husband so that I could go to my children. He could provide for breakfast and supper for himself. It turned out what illness he had, when he wanted to put out a ficus on the balcony. He lifted up that heavy pot, and his vertebrae cracked, and three of his ribs broke. For these bones were already full of tumors...

We left for Germany in 1995; Evike offered that we could stay with them, and they would look after my husband. How interesting is faith, for a girl was born back then, not a boy - though he [Magda Fazekas's husband] would have liked a boy - and this girl turned out to be his caring keeper for years. Once we even told him, 'You see how faith is, for a girl was born, so that you can have a peaceful old age, you don't have to worry about anything, you can watch TV and read the newspaper peacefully' - She brought him the four biggest newspapers published in Germany every week.

I took care of my husband for fourteen years. He died in August 2006 in Regenstauf; his urn is placed in the family tomb in the Hazsongard cemetery in Kolozsvar. I sat a lot with him in those last years of his life, the problem was that he could not hear, he had problems with his hearing for a very long time, he had fallen sick back then in Szaszregen, and he became deaf gradually. It was very hard to talk to him. In the last years, if he couldn't understand what I said by watching my lips, I wrote him down what I wanted to say, and him answering wasn't a problem, and that's how we could talk.

While he was still alive, I led my life next to him, and we watched all kind of programs on TV. For example he didn't enjoy these lighter movies and musical programs. I liked operetta, I liked nice and spectacular things, which he didn't like at all, it even made him a little nervous, yet sometimes he watched a little of it. He was interested in sports. He was very much interested in it. He went in for sports a lot when he was young, he played tennis, volleyball, he swam, and he liked watching sports on TV. He had a passion for tennis. We knew these famous tennis players, as if they belonged to us; each of us had a favorite.

When ten years ago we came home to Marosvasarhely with Juditka, she was driving across four countries; I still remember how exciting it was. We wanted to go then to Gyergyotolgyes, because Hedike came with me, my cousin who is from Gyergyotolgyes. Now Hedike lives in Germany, she is eighty years old. We decided to go to see Hedike's house, and to go to the cemetery as well, to see after so many years the cemetery in Gyergyotolgyes, where my grandparents, my father's parents are buried. That's what we wanted. But finally it was bad weather or what, and we didn't go. I'm so sorry for that, I had the opportunity to go to Gyergyotolgyes for the third time in my life. I could have gone to look for my grandparents' grave. I regret it a lot. Now I can't go to Gyergyotolgyes anymore, that's certain.

It is rather Juditka who had something of a Jewish identity, Evike doesn't really. In fact my children always knew they were of Jewish origin on their mother's side. For example I told Clarika [Evike's daughter] about the Holocaust when she was fifteen. I didn't tell the elder girl anything about this, because I had a completely different relationship with the elder, Ivonne, than with the little one. When we moved to them, she was a teenager, and she wasn't interested in it. Little Clarika was five years old when we emigrated, and she grew up next to us.

I didn't relate anything to these elder children. Not to Evike and Juditka, my daughters. What they found out, they learned from somebody else. I didn't tell them. I didn't want to. I told Clarika because she hadn't yet been taken to such a place. For you see, German children are taken to visit Auschwitz, Dachau 22. Evike's family lives in Bavaria, children are taken to concentration camps which are nearby. Clarika was that type in general, that she enjoyed my company. So I told her stories, and she told me, 'Now, if they take me to such a place in school, I will see it completely differently than the other children.'

I have to tell you, people reprove me for this all the time, I suffer from pathological insomnia. Ever since we came home from deportation, I haven't been able to sleep. I get up at least five or six times during the night, and I suffer. This was the same when I was younger, in my marital life, too, and I didn't sleep in the same room as my husband, because I can't sleep, and I always used to get up. Therefore we used to sleep in different beds. Well, my mother-in-law couldn't understand this. She said: 'How can you do such a thing, not to sleep next to your husband!' Well, I told her, 'how can I possibly sleep next to him, when I have to get up all the time; he has work to do, and this way he can't rest.'

I have restless nights, I get up in the morning, I compose myself, and after breakfast - in Germany, when we stayed at Evike's, I did the same - I used to walk up and down on the balcony. At the beginning, when my husband was well enough to be able to come out for a walk, we walked together a little. This was my schedule. I used to help my daughter, I did the cooking. I cooked lunch, then I lay down a little in the afternoon, but I didn't dare to sleep long, because I may not be able to sleep at night if I lay down a little in the afternoon. This was my schedule.

Now at Juditka's my schedule is the same, I help her too by preparing lunch, because Juditka likes me to make lunch, and I also enjoy making order in the kitchen. I never had talent for anything else, to do needlework, like other old people, who knit, sew or embroider. But all my siblings were like that... Besides being so clever, resourceful and capable, Dorika did very nice needlework, just like my mother. Now, since I've been here at Juditka's, I'm very much alone, because they are so busy. I can see this, and I try to bother them as little as possible. I withdraw, I watch the Duna Television; I like popular science programs a lot.

It's interesting, I never made false fish, since I've been here in Germany. When we visited Regensburg with Evike, they live near Regensburg, we went to buy matzah at the local Jewish community. They were just preparing for Pesach. The door was open, and we looked in, and we saw the laid table in the assembly room... And they had prepared false fish for starter.

The first bar mitzvah I saw in my life was in Germany. In Obersulm, where I live with my daughter Judit there aren't any Jews. But in a neighboring place, Affaltrach, there is a synagogue, well what is left of it; they didn't demolish it, when during the Kristallnacht 23 all the synagogues were demolished and set on fire. The farm-buildings were near, and they were afraid the fire would spread, and everything would burn down, so they didn't destroy it. However, they robbed this synagogue as well.

Twenty years ago an association was established in order to save the synagogue: 'Freundeskreis ehemalige Synagoge Affaltrach' that means the Society of the Former Synagogue of Affaltrach... My daughter is a member of this association too. They restored it and renovated it nicely as it was, but they don't use it for keeping services in it, for there isn't any Jew or rabbi, but only a museum, and they organize concerts there. I was four times at concerts in this synagogue. There is a German Lutheran priest, Helmut Krause, he's the president of the association, and he's always there when they perform a concert. My daughter undertakes duties at the museum; everybody is a volunteer there.

Recently, in spring 2007 the last event was a bar mitzvah; the parents brought the child there from Stuttgart. This bar mitzvah was the first religious event, since the synagogue was restored. The parents are in fact from America, and the father does his military service as a soldier in Germany. The rabbi who conducted the service also came from America. It was a very interesting event. Unfortunately I didn't understand a word of it, because he was praying in Hebrew, but in between he was also explaining to the public, which was mostly American. The father was a soldier, so soldiers came too, colored people as well, it was very interesting. They also came with their families, if they had a wife, then with her, and if they had children, they brought them too. It wasn't arranged for men to be on the ground floor and women up in the gallery, everybody mingled. We went up to the gallery only because we could see the ceremony better from there.

These American soldiers have everything: school, hospital. The Hebrew teacher of the soldiers who are on duty in Stuttgart was a woman, and she assisted the rabbi during the service. I watched this from the gallery with my daughter, but the only sad thing was that I couldn't understand even what they explained, because they did so in English. They translated it into German too to make people understand what bar mitzvah was for, what its meaning was. Though it was a very long ceremony, it was worth to see. They prayed, then they took out the Torah, they opened the scroll, and he read certain parts of the Torah. Next to the rabbi there was all the time the child, the parents too, and the two girls, his two sisters. So this whole thing was very interesting.

Glossary

Alla Kolton
St Petersburg
Russia
Interviewer: Inna Gimila
Date of interview: March 2002

• Family background

• Growing up

• During the War

• After the War

• Glossary

Family background
 

I was born in 1937 in Leningrad. It so happened that my whole childhood was spent with my daddy's parents. I didn't even suspect then that there were also mother's parents. 

In 1946 mum took me for a trip to the town of Chernovtsy to visit our relatives where my mother's mother Sheiva Peisakh and mother's sister Sonya lived. 

Only then did I find out that I had another grandma. I saw Grandmother Sheiva only about four times in my life. Even during those rare meetings we communicated
with her very little - she was in many respects a strange person. My mother suffered very much because of it, and was she never very close to her mother.

Sheiva and her husband Aizik Peisakh first lived in the town of Beltsy in Bessarabia 1. I never met my grandfather Aizik; neither did I see any photo about him. Mother told me that he was bald, very short-sighted and always wore glasses. He was a respected person. All their lives Aizik and Sheiva were engaged in charity, spending a lot of money on helping the poor. How they managed to come into such fortune, I don't know. Mother's parents had four children, all of whom were born in Beltsy: two daughters, Haya, my mother, and Sonya, and two sons, Munya and Usher. It so happened, that of all Sheiva's and Aizik's children only my mother had her own kids. Mother's parents were well-off people and could afford to send their daughter, my mother, to study abroad. Each of Sheiva's and Aizik's four children received a higher education.

Mother's eldest brother Usher Peisakh, born in the 1900s, was a very good chess player; he worked as a pharmacist in a drugstore. Usher suffered from acute bouts of depression and was periodically treated in a psychiatric clinic. In his last years he corresponded with my mum. He was not married, he lived and died a lonely man in Peru in 1967. I know this little about him from the stories of mother's younger brother Munya Peisakh, who was a very close friend of our family. Munya had no kids of his own, only adopted children, and who his wife was, I don't know. Munya emigrated to Israel with his wife in 1950. We even received parcels from him: Munya helped his mother Sheiva, and Sonya, who lived with her in Chernovtsy, and used to send part of the packages to my mother. When he died in Israel in 1965 there was nobody left of his family.

At first Sonya lived with Grandmother Sheiva, and worked as a gynecologist. When Sonya got married her husband nearly divorced her because of Sheiva's strangeness. Pavel, Sonya's husband, was a Jew from a noble family, a very erudite man. He worked as a safety insurance engineer at a factory. He was a well-known person in Chernovtsy because he had higher education and was a professional in his field. Both of them worked and lived well financially. I don't know whether Sonya and Pavel had a Jewish wedding, probably not because everyone was atheist then and was brought up according to the ideas of Marx and Lenin. During World War II they found themselves in Romania, spent the war there and survived. They had a unique collection of books on art, which they took to Israel in 1967 when they emigrated right after the Six-Day-War 2. Sonya liked me a lot and always considered me her heir. She and Pavel didn't have children, and Sonya wrote me into her will in Israel. We 'missed' that will then, because daddy was afraid that correspondence with relatives abroad could do us harm. Later Sonya fell ill and ceased to write to us. After her death in 1976 the unique library and everything that I was supposed to inherit was lost.

My mother Haya Peisakh was born in 1910 in Beltsy in Bessarabia, which until 1918 belonged to Russia, and in 1918-1940, to Romania. I know about mother's childhood thanks to her certificate from the grammar school. The certificate was given to mother as a pupil of a private Jewish grammar school in Beltsy. She entered the grammar school in August 1918 and completed her studies in July 1928. In this certificate we can find her grades - they are mostly 'good' and 'very good' - and the subjects that she studied: Tannakh, Hebrew, Romanian language, Latin, French, German, Jewish history, mathematics, physics, chemistry, cosmography, natural science, history of Romania, general history, geography of Romania, general geography. For all foreign languages mother received a 'very good, except for Romanian and Hebrew, for which she only got a 'good.' Probably, she knew Romanian worse than Romanians. She also studied philosophy, law, hygiene, economy (national economy), accounting, singing, drawing, needlework, and physical culture. You can see when the diploma was issued, and there is a signature in Hebrew. We have a copy of the same certificate in Romanian. The director of the grammar school and all the undersigned were Jews. The document is certified by the notary.

In her youth mother had a close friend Ida Vulykh. She graduated from a conservatory in Romania. Aunt Ida compiled huge bibliographic volumes on musical composers of the whole world. It was a very hard job. When she told me about her years of friendship with my mother she always mentioned that my mother was a very clever girl. My mother was a modern woman with a European education.

Right after graduation from the grammar school in 1928 mother went to Belgium and entered the University of Liege. She studied chemistry there. We have a certificate of the Ministry of Science of Belgium, stating that mother passed entrance examinations to the university. In spite of the fact that mother was from a well-to-do family and her parents could pay for her studies, my mother earned additional means as a governess, an occupation that was quite common among students. That was the time when she acquired her skills in cooking, sewing and housekeeping for her future life. Mother could do almost any work, and wasn't afraid of any challenges in her life. She studied well, but the emigrants had no right to participate in revolutionary activity. She studied in Belgium for two years, from 1928 to 1930, and then was expelled for participation in students' disturbances. In France the regulations were similar at that time, but she still decided to go to France. Mother entered the Chemistry Faculty of the University of Lyon and finished it in 1934. We have her diploma as well. My parents met and fell in love with each other in 1932 in France.

My grandfather on father's side, Mordukh Sasonko was born in 1879. He was a craftsman, he soldered, brazed utensils and saucepans. Unfortunately, I know nothing about his ancestors and about the family name of Sasonko in general. Neither do I know about grandfather's brothers or sisters. His family lived in Bobruisk in the Jewish Pale of Settlement 3. Bobruisk was considered a poor town and my father's parents were needy people. Grandfather Mordukh and his wife Grandmother Golda, were certainly religious in thier youth. Grandfather knew Hebrew well. In Bobruisk all Jewish religious traditions were strictly observed. They celebrated all the holidays. On Saturday it was prohibited even to light a match. A Russian woman would come and light a fire. But I can't tell you about the details.

After 1917 [the Russian Revolution of 1917] 4 when Jews were given the right to live outside the Pale of Settlement, the family gradually started to move to Leningrad and by 1919 they had all moved there. All father's relatives lived in Leningrad then, and they always maintained good relations with each other.

My grandmother Golda Sasonko, nee Rubina, was born in 1883. She was a beautiful woman. She could communicate very well with people and everybody liked her. I don't know how my grandparents got acquainted, or whether they got married under a chuppah. Nobody told me that. Golda was literate. She had probably received a home education, but I don't know the details. All her life Golda was a housewife. Grandmother Golda had three sisters: Gita, Khantsa and Mariana, and a brother, Alter. During the war grandmother was with us in evacuation in Kazakhstan. Grandmother Golda suddenly died of cancer at the age of 66 in 1949, before Grandfather Mordukh, who died in 1951.

Golda and Mordukh Sasonko had four children. Three daughters, Guta, Bella and Ida, and my father, Samuil Sasonko. Bella drowned in 1929 at the age of 19 in St Petersburg. I heard that they suspected suicide therefore she was buried near the fencing of the Jewish cemetery, rather than in the cemetery. Ida died as a very small girl due to some illness. Only Guta and my father remained living.

Father was born in Bobruisk in 1902. I know little about his childhood. He studied in a cheder from 1909 to 1913, and that's where he mastered Hebrew. Daddy, according to Guta, his sister, with whom we were always on good terms, was a talented man. In imperial Russia only a very restricted number of Jews were admitted to state grammar schools and institutes, no more than 3% of the total number of students. That percentage, adopted by Alexander III, only changed after the Revolution of 1917. Daddy was, probably the only one in their district who was admitted to the Russian grammar school in 1913. Jewish grammar schools didn't exist. That was the reason why the Jews rushed into the Revolution: they were deprived of many rights in imperial Russia. In general Jews were very naive in their enthusiasm towards socialism. Even in Palestine they arranged kibbutzim, socialist communities.

The family was proud of my father. Aunt Guta and Daddy had advanced views, in contrast with those of their religious parents. They left home early, both Guta and daddy, because they disagreed with their parents and their religious conviction. Their parents believed that Jews could only marry Jews, and aunt Guta married a Russian. Guta finished the Gertsen Pedagogical Institute in Leningrad and married a muscovite Grigory Kozlov. I don't know how she met her husband. She left for Moscow to live with him. Grandmother and grandfather didn't communicate with Aunt Guta for a long time after she married Grigory. Grandfather Mordukh didn't even want to meet Grigory at all, and wouldn't permit him to come to his home. So Grigory, without telling Guta, once arrived in Leningrad on business in 1939 and came to Grandfather Mordukh's house and introduced himself. Grandfather couldn't bring himself to drive him out. On a party assignment Grigory was sent to a village in Pavlodar region - on the boundary between Siberia and Kazakhstan - in 1939 and was appointed director of a state farm.

In total Grigory and Guta had four children. When the war began in 1941 our entire family left Leningrad for Pavlodar region and lived there all through the war in a barrack in the state farm of which Grigory was director. Grigory left for the front, just like my father, but was later considered indispensable in the rear and was demobilized from the front in 1942 and transferred to Alma Ata [Kazakhstan]. In due course he became Deputy Minister of Agriculture in Kazakhstan.

Daddy left home with a friend Zyama in 1919. Zyama later lived in Moscow and frequently visited us. He was friends with father until the end of their lives. He was 17 years old, and together they ran away from Bobruisk to Palestine and lived there for a few years. Zyama and father knew foreign languages after grammar school and wanted to see the world. There was disorder in Russia at that time. They got on a train and hid under a shelf. They crossed the border of Russia and somehow reached Palestine in 1919. Before he ran away father had entered an institute in Bobruisk and the family thought that he had gone to study. When they understood that he'd given up his studies and run away grandmother and grandfather were very worried until they received a message from him.

Later daddy told me how he and Zyama had survived in Palestine: they found a job - they took turns watering orange gardens each night. During the day it was impossible to water because of the heat. One night father was on duty, another night, Zyama. They earned a little money, and then relaxed and had fun with girls. Once daddy fell asleep and the running water washed off the trees, and they both got fired. Zyama and father traveled all over Palestine, slept in the open air because it was so warm. In summer you could only sleep with your feet dipped in the sea, otherwise it was impossible to fall asleep: the heat was so unbearable. So they traveled, not having any specialty or means for living. They lived only on casually earned money. This went on until daddy came into a more mature age. When father and Zyama got tired of this 'fooling around,' they decided to return to Europe, since it was already impossible to return to Russia. Around 1923 they passed through Italy, then Belgium, and decided to stop in France. Daddy lived in Paris for a very long time. In his archive there is a photo of a Parisian synagogue. That synagogue is still there. Father was an atheist and a communist, but when he buried his parents, he made a Jewish funeral in accordance with the Jewish tradition, despite his communist beliefs.

Daddy had not received a higher education. He settled in Toulouse in France, and worked there at a telephone factory, where they produced automatic telephone stations. He joined the Communist Party there. At that factory a local newspaper was published. He participated in the publishing of that newspaper and was almost the chief editor. Besides that, he became chairman of MOPR 5, he was engaged in revolutionary activity, read the Soviet newspapers. They trusted everything that was written in our newspapers, they were so naive.

In 1930, when mother arrived in Toulouse, which was not far from Lyon where she studied, she came over to the branch of MOPR in Toulouse, which was supervised by father, to get some help. She had absolutely no means of existence. That's how they met. Daddy used to say that the only person whom he really helped through MOPR was my mother.

Immigrants in France had no right to take part in political activity. Father was arrested there once, put in prison and informed about his possible expulsion. When father was caught for revolutionary activity a second time, in 1932, he was deported from France by order of the prefect of police, Pier Laval. We have the document of his expulsion from 13th January 1932. It is a direction from the Ministry of Internal Affairs of the French Republic to security services. The graph for nationality says 'Palestinian' because he arrived in France from Palestine. The paper is signed by Pierre Laval. Later on Laval became famous as prime minister of France during the German occupation, but eventually he was executed for his cooperation with Germans. Father was sent away from France twice, and this is the document according to which he was finally expulsed, because he obliterated the first document. Daddy was taken to the border with Belgium. He passed the frontier, reported to MOPR in Belgium and asked for help. They asked him who he was, where he came from and where he wanted to go. Neither daddy nor his friend Zyama had received any citizenship - neither French, nor Belgian. The Belgian MOPR contacted Russia through Germany, and Russia agreed to accept father. In 1932 father returned to Leningrad. On the border they took away his party membership card. He saw Russia and was very surprised by what he saw.

Mother was finishing her education at the University of Lyon, and in 1934, after graduation, father invited mum to come to Russia, to Leningrad. The time when people were put in prison for no reason hadn't yet arrived in Russia. [The interviewee is referring to the so-called Great Terror.] 6 Besides father didn't fully realize the insidiousness of the Soviet regime. If he did, he probably wouldn't have made her come at all. But she wanted to join him. Mother arrived in Leningrad in 1934 on father's invitation. During that period there was no obligatory registration of marriage, so they lived in a free civil marriage. Nobody needed a certificate for marriage then, and if you didn't want to you didn't have to change your surname. My parents were officially registered in ZAGS [state bureau for registration of marriages, births, etc.] only after the war - maybe in 1956 or 1957. It simply became more convenient to have one family name, and it was better for my brother and me to have the same surname as both mum and dad.

Mother and father were very interesting people, very independent, and had their own vision of life. They always had many friends from Palestine and France, a large company. Mother was very hospitable. She was a modern, emancipated and well-educated woman. In character she was very quiet and restrained. Daddy, on the other hand, was always a quick-tempered man.

Growing up

In 1935 a son, Grigory, was born to my parents, and I was born in 1937. My brother Grigory was born when mother and father lived with his parents in a small room in a communal apartment 7. With his birth the family became larger, and I was to appear soon, so the room was getting too small for all of us. My parents had to pay a certain sum to exchange it for a big angular room of 37 square meters in a communal apartment near the main post office. That room was divided into three rooms by partitions. The house and the apartment exist to this day. We moved out from it only in 1965, when the house underwent major repairs. I was born in that room, and the six of us lived there: Grandfather Mordukh, Grandmother Golda, daddy, mum, my brother and I. In total there were 7 families in our apartment. After the war there was even a bed placed in the corridor, so crowded was the flat. The people who came back from evacuation had no place to live, since a lot of houses were destroyed during the war.

Mother couldn't find employment in Leningrad for a long time. They even had to address the party committee. Finally she got a job at a paint and lacquer factory where she worked until the beginning of the war in 1941. So mother worked before the war, and grandmother Golda was ill, therefore my brother and I were looked after by a nurse, but I don't remember her. I was too small. Because father worked at a telephone factory as a communications engineer in France, he got a job here in Leningrad at a telephone factory called Red Dawn, also producing automatic telephone stations, and worked there until the beginning of the war in 1941. He even participated in the publication of the factory newspaper as its editor. It was his public assignment. Daddy knew perfect French, and he knew German too, so at the end of his life he occupied the post of senior scientific employee, even though he did not have a diploma.

Already in pre-war time people understood everything that happened in the country. The majority of father's friends were arrested before the war and were serving their terms in camps and prisons, accused of espionage: some were declared German spies, others, French spies, and so on. Daddy was lucky with his factory situation because his boss, understanding what was going on in the country, and knowing father's biography, regularly gave him half-year business trips to the countryside far from the city to somewhere in the center of Russia. The company was installing a telephone cable there. During mass persecutions he was always sent on business trips. The boss was Russian, and they always respected each other. The people of that generation were internationalists, and we were brought up this way too: there was no difference for us between a Russian, a Jew or an Armenian.

During the War

In 1941 the war began, and our entire family (except for father) - grandfather Mordukh and grandmother Golda, mother, my brother Grigory and I - evacuated to Pavlodar territory in Kazakhstan even before the beginning of the blockade of Leningrad 8. Daddy remained in Leningrad and at first served in the anti-aircraft defense troops. Many people were lost at the beginning of the war because the country was not ready for it, and Stalin sent thousands of people - young men - to the front, and they had nothing to fight with - neither tanks, nor planes, not even rifles - therefore all of them got killed. So if you look at the messages sent by the military command units about the death of soldiers, the majority of people were killed during the first months of the war.

Aunt Alya's husband, our neighbor in the communal apartment, was killed in the first days of war and she was left with children - two twins and a grown-up daughter, Tamara. They hadn't evacuated. Daddy could sometimes come home - when he was released from duty in the anti-aircraft defense troops. During leave he fed Alya and her kids, allowed them to burn our furniture to keep them warm. But all the same, both twins perished. Only Tamara survived. Aunt Alya and Tamara left Leningrad after the end of the blockade in 1943 to join her sister in evacuation.

By the winter of 1941 the most awful period had begun, the period of famine in Leningrad, and soldiers of the anti-aircraft defense troops were ordered to collect corpses in apartments and in the streets. Daddy told me that the most terrible thing was to go to sleep as because of the starvation, not everyone would wake up in the morning; people died in their sleep. Then father was transferred to the front line to defend the Nevsky Spot. [Nevsky Spot is the name of the territories on the outskirts of Leningrad near the town of Kirovsk where vehement fighting took place during the war.]

Daddy was awarded many medals, including the medal for 'Courage.' Later he was transferred from surrounded Leningrad to the active army. It was great luck because, if earlier they were dying of hunger, now they were fed with porridge, but they wouldn't be given large portions at once - after a long starvation they could die of too much food.

During the war daddy developed a stomach ulcer. In the active army he passed through Kaliningrad, Poland and Germany as a communications officer. When our army began to seize the trophy German telephone equipment, daddy became a very useful expert. For example, they got hold of a small telephone station, which was necessary in action, but they didn't know how to use it. Knowledge of languages was a rarity, and daddy read the instructions attached to the equipment, understood it, and trained other soldiers to use the trophy equipment. The soldiers taught him to pronounce the Russian 'r' in return. Father even participated in interrogations of captives. He was employed as an interpreter. He completed service in the rank of senior sergeant in Germany.

Father had always been protected by someone or something. There were two cases when he could have been killed but survived. He had been wounded: a bullet passed a few centimeters from vital organs through the soft tissues of his chin. It left a scar under his lower lip. Another time he had just left the blindage when an artillery shell exploded inside. Everyone who was in the blindage was killed. So, twice in the course of the war he survived by a miracle.

We corresponded with father all through the war. I am not very skilful in letters, but mother always wrote to him. He sent some very beautiful picture postcards with views of places where he was at war. He wrote: 'We will win very soon!' All the messages were full of Soviet patriotism. After the war I asked father: 'You knew what Stalin was. Why did you fight for this country?' Daddy answered: 'We chose the lesser of two evils.' They thought that Hitler was worse. Mother brought cards from Kazakhstan, but they didn't survive. We even received small parcels from father. Soldiers had the right to send things to their families when the Soviet troops entered Germany. The officers used to send whole coaches of trophies: furniture and clothes. Rank-and-file soldiers were only permitted to send small parcels. Father sent us paper. He also sent seven porcelain figures of elephants, bone toys - all kinds of knick-knacks; empty cologne bottles painted with Father Frost pictures. For us it was something unusually beautiful. He had sent pencils, 6 silver teaspoons, which I have kept until now. Father sent all these things from Germany. When he arrived home from the front himself he brought a bicycle and a radio-receiver. After the war it was prohibited to listen to the western radio stations, and in general there were few receivers, but daddy and mum listened to the Voice of America.

In Kazakhstan we lived in a barrack. I remember a long corridor and, along its two sides, an infinite number of doors, behind each of which one family lived in one room. Meals were cooked in the rooms, too. Our neighbors were also evacuated people of different origin, Jews, and non-Jews. Relations were good. There was no anti-Semitism. We had three beds in our room. I remember that I agreed with my brother that we would take turns sleeping in my mother's bed. My brother was older and more artful than I was, and I couldn't count very well yet. He told me: 'We'll sleep in mother's bed two nights each - two for you, and two for me.' And all the time deceived me, saying: 'No, it is not your turn yet, only one night has passed.' It turned out that he slept in mother's bed all the time, and I, very rarely. Mother didn't intercede for me: I was a fretful girl, and Grigory was a kind boy.

I remember aunt Guta, to whom we arrived in evacuation, saying: 'I was afraid, that your mother, the spoiled French, wouldn't know how to behave on a state farm.' But mother was a strong-willed person and adjusted herself very easily to the unusual circumstances. I remember how we worked on the plots of land and planted potatoes. She sawed and chopped firewood. She could do anything. Mother worked as a teacher of mathematics in the senior classes of the state farm school. Aunt Guta was the deputy director of that school and she said that she was never ashamed of mother. There were only old and sick men in evacuation. All the healthy and young were at the front, therefore women had to do all men's jobs. I didn't go to school then.

After the War

After the war we returned from evacuation by train in overcrowded commodity coaches. Everybody was coming back from evacuation. It was possible to return to Leningrad only with a special permit or an invitation from a relative. Daddy sent us an invitation. We traveled for a very long time - several months - because the commodity trains didn't meet the time- schedule. At the same time there was an amnesty for criminal convicts, so we traveled with the former criminals. We went through Moscow where we were met by Ida Vulykh, mother's friend. We had lice in all our linen - we didn't wash. I was scratching all over. When we arrived Ida took us to the bathhouse immediately. If one has lice it is necessary to vapor them out. We came to the bathhouse, and I was scratching badly. The cloakroom attendant asked: 'What's the matter with this girl?' I was warned that I shouldn't scratch, but I was only a small seven-year-old girl and couldn't stand such strong itching. In the underground I wouldn't step on the escalator for anything in the world. And no matter how hard they tried they couldn't make me do it, so they led me down the stairs. That's how afraid I was, being the kind of country girl I was.

From Moscow to Leningrad we went by a normal train, not in a commodity coach. The city looked alien. I didn't see anything beautiful, only strange things. Everything was destroyed. Our room in the communal apartment was sealed and remained ours because father fought in the war. The military people retained their property rights for flats. We had a secret wall-case in our room, and in that case we even found some of our things, and among them my favorite big doll. I wanted to return to Leningrad so much because of that doll! Other things didn't survive because they were burnt to keep warm in the blockade.

Daddy didn't meet us at the station that day. He was on a business trip. Now, after returning from evacuation, I was to go to school. I learned to read in evacuation, but I didn't know the multiplication table. In Leningrad I was admitted to the second grade where all pupils already knew the multiplication table, so I had to study extra hard. My favorite subject at school was mathematics. I can't remember anybody calling me a Jew at school, it hardly happened. In my class I had both Russian and Jewish friends. We paid no attention to nationality and didn't speak about nationality issues. But once, when we children were playing in the courtyard, someone threw a stone at me. I still have a scar. I know that it was not just an accident.

Daddy arrived from his business trip just before the New Year of 1946. Once I returned from school, and there was a completely unfamiliar man sitting at home, I didn't know who he was. I was told: 'This is your daddy!' He brought a basket of slightly rotten apples, and said: 'Eat as many as you want.' I ate and couldn't stop. Since then I don't eat apples at all because I had too many of them during that meeting with daddy. We talked a lot with him. We loved each other but we didn't really show our feelings: we never hugged or kissed; he was always at some distance. We were friends with both mother and daddy but we never had sloppy sentimentality between us. The reason for this was probably the military years that we lived through.

Mother kept the entire household. She was always womanly: she tried to look good, always cut her hair, always plucked her eyebrows and wore lipstick, and she always wore jewelry. She was not extremely beautiful, but she had a sort of piquancy, and you can see it on the photos. Daddy was handsome with a mop of curly hair, and women always liked him. Mother was a quiet person. She was never jealous. She never let others know that she was aware of father's adventures. After the war mother got a job as a bibliographer in the library of the Chemistry Institute and translated texts from different languages, which she knew perfectly, for post-graduate students.

After the war there were many trophy German automatic telephone stations. They were called 'step-by-step' stations. Pick up the handset, press button '?', the operator says: 'Hello', and you say: 'Please, connect me to such and such number'. Daddy was the only man in Russia, who knew that step-by- step automatic telephone exchange system. He was immediately employed at the company Hyprolink and became the head of the group. I met a lot of his subordinates. They said that daddy was a very prominent expert. They wanted to take him away to Moscow, to the Scientific Research Institute of Communications, but he loved his work in Leningrad so much that he refused the invitation.

After the war new arrests began. There were three people keeping watch on father - to see what he said, how he behaved and whether or not he was a spy. Two of those people were his closest friends, recruited by the KGB 9. They were supposed to meet KGB representatives once or twice a week at the Finnish Railway Station and report to them what daddy had said, whom he had met. They couldn't reject that proposal from the KGB. Otherwise they would have been arrested. But none of the three ever told the KGB anything bad about father because he was not arrested. They couldn't hide it from father and told him that they were to 'report' on him. They were even paid for that.

After returning to Leningrad from evacuation our family began to live an ordinary life. Grandfather Mordukh resumed his crafts - soldering and repairing pans. In the neighboring apartment house there was a room in an apartment where Jews gathered regularly, once a week, and prayed. Ten Jews met there - this was called a minyan. Grandfather called it a synagogue. Grandfather sometimes took Grigory. Grigory would just sit beside him and listen to the adults praying. Grigory didn't have his bar mitzvah there. Girls were not accepted. Granddad had a tallit, which he took with him. When grandfather died daddy took all his books and religious accessories there. At home we had two shelves (these books survived the war) with religious books and books on Jewish history in Hebrew with gold stamping. Granddad read them all. Grandmother hadn't read these books, but grandfather did, all the time. There were prayer books, the Bible, the history of the Jewish people. Grandfather was an educated man in terms of religion. He prayed at home; he enjoyed talking about Jewish history, which he knew so well, to my brother and me. But Grigory and I didn't like to listen. The stories seemed boring to us. After the war grandfather spoke about his belief in God: 'I believe just in case. Just in case God exists.' He had his own judgment, his own religious views and apprehension of God. He respected atheists, but couldn't honestly accept their positions. Grandmother Golda always prevented him from preaching to children. He tried to tell us something all the time, but I started to listen to him only after grandmother's death. I was very sorry for him and I spent much time sitting with him. I spent one whole summer with him. He used to say: 'You are going to regret that you didn't listen.'

While grandmother and grandfather were alive we always celebrated Pesach. Of the Jewish holidays in my childhood I remember only Pesach: there was matzah, galushki [noodles], stuffed fish, and that's almost all we had. Grandmother didn't try to force us to observe traditions. She was a secular woman, and my parents were non-believers. Grandfather Mordukh was already decrepit, hunch-backed. He had a long beard, and I thought he was very old. He suffered from no illnesses. He was simply a very exhausted old man. He died of old age in 1951 at the age of 72. He was buried according to Jewish tradition. A prayer was duly recited. In accordance with Jewish traditions, the eldest son is to tear or cut his clothes during the funeral. Daddy's lining was cut a little, and he even read a prayer (he knew how to pray in Hebrew). [Editor's note: The interviewee is probably referring to the Kaddish.] I remember it well because I attended the burial of both grandmother and grandfather. After their death Pesach was celebrated at home only as homage to tradition, instilled by grandfather and grandmother. We celebrated without prayers but always had matzah.

I finished school in 1954 and had no problems entering the Institute of Chemistry and Pharmaceutics. In 1953 when my brother Grigory applied he couldn't enter the college he wanted, and only managed to become a student at the Mining Institute. In 1953 there was already some prejudice against Jews. I studied decently at school and consequently passed my exams well. When I was in my 2nd year I became acquainted with my future husband.

There was a whole story connected with Bronya Selector, my father's cousin. Bronya was the daughter of Mariana Rubina, one of my grandmother Golda's sisters. Bronya was a good friend of daddy's. When Bronya's mother died she was 10 years old. She lived with her father and she didn't get on well with her stepmother. She studied in a vocational school, was a very pretty girl, and some of her admirers helped her get a job in the radio committee. The mother of my future husband Garry Kolton, Alexandra Kolton, worked there, too. Alexandra and Bronya had once been very good friends, but for some reason had a quarrel and didn't communicate for some time. Later, after the war, Bronya began to work as a concertmaster in the Big Hall of the Leningrad Philharmonic Society. In 1956 Alexandra's brother approached her at a concert - he was simply at that concert and wanted to have a word with an acquaintance. After that meeting Bronya visited Alexandra, and they resumed their friendship.

Aunt Bronya had one idée fixe: to get me married. When Alexandra saw me at Bronya's birthday party she liked me very much. She asked Bronya to invite me to the birthday party of her daughter Aida. I was seventeen-and-a-half years old. I said I was not going anywhere, let alone to unfamiliar people. But Bronya did her best to persuade me! And Alexandra herself called me and said: 'I ask you very much to come.' I couldn't refuse, and my brother and I set off to that birthday party. All the family was absolutely unfamiliar to me, but I'd already heard a lot about them from Bronya. I remember how I entered and saw the very charming smile of my future husband Garry. That's how we met.

Having completed my 2nd year, I left for Kiev for summer practice, and Bronya rented a summer house with Alexandra in Zelenogorsk [a resort near Leningrad]. When I came from practice, Bronya immediately told her that I had arrived. Garry was there and didn't show any visible interest in me. He wanted to meet me, but he didn't know how to do it. That time - 1956 - was a period when foreigners were allowed to visit Russia for the first time. There were many tourists coming to Leningrad and it became customary 'to go and look at the foreigners.' I lived near St Isaak's Square and Hotel Astoria [in the center of Leningrad], and there were a lot of tourists walking around. Garry began to show interest in foreign tourists, and then Bronya gave him my telephone number. Bronya didn't believe that Garry really gave me a call until Garry described her what clothes I was wearing. We went for a walk in the center with him.

I married him when I was in my last year at the institute in 1959, and soon our son Leonid was born. I had a very difficult pregnancy, I suffered from a severe toxicosis - I had nausea, I couldn't see or hear, simply couldn't live. We tried to have a second baby later and I was even in hospital for 'preservation,' but we ended up with only one son.

My husband entered the Physics and Mathematics Faculty of the Leningrad State University in 1954. Garry's paternal grandmother was still alive when we got married. She died later. His paternal grandfather had a jewelry store. He was dispossessed, put in prison and tortured, and died during the war. I don't know anything else about them. I saw both my husband's grandmothers here in St Petersburg.

My husband's father Abram Kolton was born in 1914. Abram worked at the Stalin Metallurgy Factory in Leningrad and taught students in an institute. He was a mathematician and mechanic, candidate of sciences, and worked on the theoretical fundamentals for the design of turbines. In 1941 he volunteered to go to the front, but after the Germans demolished the Dnepropetrovsk Hydroelectric Power Station in 1942 he was summoned from the front to restore that station. In 1959 he was awarded the Lenin Prize for designing turbines for Kuibyshev Hydroelectric Power Station. Abram was always a very modest man and disliked wearing his awards. Now he lives in New York, USA, where he joined his granddaughter Eugenia Landman in 1992.

My husband's mother worked as a teacher of mathematics in an ordinary school. My husband had a younger sister Aida. The children of Abram and Alexandra Kolton had unusual names: Aida and Garry. They didn't think properly when they were giving children such names. As a small girl she was called Lyalya, nobody ever liked the name Aida. And Aida called herself Lyalya all her life. In the institute she was known as Lyalya, and only when she came to work at her new job did she introduce herself as Aida. Her colleagues decided that she was deaf because when they addressed her as Aida she wouldn't respond - because she'd gotten used to Lyalya. Aida died at the age of 30 during the summer that I was on vacation in Belarus with my son, Leonid and her daughter Eugenia. We knew about Lyalya's cancer and it was necessary to take the children away. My husband's family was not religious, just like my parents.

My brother Grigory got married in 1958. His wife, Lyusya, was a friend of Guta's daughter. Guta was daddy's sister, who lived in Alma Ata [Kazakhstan]. When Grigory went to Alma Ata they got acquainted there and he began courting Lyusya. She came to Leningrad when he graduated from the institute. They got married and left for Krasnoyarsk. Their son Misha was born in 1959 and their second son Kirill in 1968. Misha married a teacher of mathematics at school, an Armenian by the name of Seda. They have two children who live in St Petersburg. Misha is a businessman. Kirill became a programmer. Kirill now lives in Augsburg, Germany, with his wife and two children. My brother Grigory and his spouse left Russia with them. My brother comes each year and we spend our vacations together. We had a very amicable family in general. Grigory and I call each other every 10 days. I love my nephews. Earlier we spent vacations together, but then, when our children grew up, they started to spend vacations on their own. When the kids were small we traveled to different places: Ukraine and the Baltic countries, including Latvia, and to Rogachev in Belarus. All our relatives were very close friends, and it was very painful for us when they emigrated for good.

It was very hard for me to get a job. From 1959 I worked as an engineer- technologist in the Institute of Chemistry and Pharmaceutics, where I had studied earlier. Then, in 1961, daddy helped me to get employment in the Research and Development Institute of Communications. They had a laboratory there in which I worked until 1971. In 1971 my friend helped me to get a position as technologist in a blood transfusion clinic in the city of Pushkin near Leningrad. I made preparations of blood. Our station was closed in November 1998. And now I am retired. My husband Garry is a professor at the Mining Institute.

When cooperative societies appeared in 1965 we had an opportunity to buy an apartment. There was a big rush for flats then because state-owned and state-distributed flats were put on free-market sale for the first time. Only those who had a per-head dwelling area of less than 4.5 square meters were allowed to buy an apartment. Mother and daddy were 'western' people and knew that sooner or later it would be allowed to buy and sell apartments, so they collected money all the time in order to buy a flat and get Grigory back to Leningrad from Krasnoyarsk.

Daddy was a specialist very much in demand. He worked days and nights and earned well. It was the time of rapid development in telecommunications. Everybody needed automatic telephone stations. He worked so much that he hardly appeared at home. Father died in 1979. He lived alone for 14 years after the death of my mother and didn't marry again because he couldn't find anybody as good as mother, although there were always women around, and candidates were in abundance.

In 1964 Lyusya arrived in Leningrad from Krasnoyarsk with Misha. Later they were joined by Grigory. The Soviet passport system was designed in such a way that a man could only live where he was registered, which was shown by a stamp in his passport. Lyusya was registered in Krasnoyarsk. She pretended to have lost her passport, and when they interrogated her in the militia she said that it had accidentally fallen into a river. So she received a new passport with registration in Leningrad. All through the winter we lived together, and by the summer of 1965 Grigory's apartment was completed. In 1965 mother retired and was diagnosed with breast cancer. Metastasis permeated to her legs. She was sick in bed for a few months. We took her by car to show Grigory's new apartment. She died in December 1965. There were very many people at the funeral. Our house was to be repaired in the winter of 1965, so we found an apartment closer to Grigory's, 15-20 minutes walking distance, also in the Moscovsky district. Our son Leonid was 6 years old then.

Leonid completed secondary school, majoring in mathematics in 1976, and we knew beforehand that he would not be admitted to university, and we couldn't do anything about that. Leonid's school teacher spoke of his abilities: 'Who else should study at university if not Leonid?' Even in spite of the fact that my husband Garry had acquaintances at the university, nobody could help. The custom was to make special lists in advance, with the names of Jewish applicants who should be admitted. Leonid's school teacher had contacts with a man who regulated the number of Jews to be taken to the Faculty of Mathematics and Mechanics: he decided who would be accepted from 'half-bloods' [children from mixed marriages] and who from 'pure blood' [children with two Jewish parents], and the 'pure' were almost never admitted. And Leonid didn't want to enter any other institution except for university. He worked for one year and achieved good results in computer programming.

Leonid's cousin Eugenia Landman was admitted to university that year: she was a 'half-blood', her mother was Jewish. At school Eugenia and Leonid studied in one class and were always on good terms. Leonid won the city mathematics contest and even the All-Russia Olympiad, and Eugenia was the winner of the All-Union Olympiad, and received a gold medal at school: there was not a single year throughout her 10-year studies when she didn't receive an honorary diploma. [School children were awarded honorary diplomas for excellent results at Soviet schools during that period.] Later Eugenia married a mathematician Grigory Bomash. In 1989 they left for the USA and worked as mathematicians there. Eugenia died from a serious disease in 1999. It was a heavy blow to our entire family. Now her husband Grigory and son Ilya Bomash live in Boston. Ilya is a very bright boy, of whom we have high hopes. He studies at Harvard University.

The following year [1977] the person responsible for the reception of Jews into university told us: 'All right, if he gives us his word of honor that he is not going to leave for Israel, let him enter the Department of Mechanics. We will not interfere.' My son passed all his examinations. Leonid married his friend Mary Schwarz, a Jew, in 1985. There were many friends and relatives at his wedding, and we had a party at home after their registration in ZAGS [state bureau for registration of marriages, births, etc.]. They didn't have a chuppah at their wedding. One year after the wedding a daughter, Zoya, was born to Leonid and Mary. In 1991 a son, Semen, was born, and in March 2002, another daughter, Alexandra. Leonid has worked at the charity center Hesed Avraham since 1993, and since 1997 has been head of this charitable foundation.

Democratization and perestroika 10 have influenced me as much as other people: it became much easier in this country to obtain Jewish literature and discuss Jewish problems. It became possible to celebrate Jewish holidays. Leonid and Eugenia went to the synagogue to dance on holidays, and I was there too. It was an interesting experience for me. It was in the synagogue on Chanukkah. I just watched, because we hadn't see anything like that before. At home we never observed Sabbath. I would not object if my grandchildren celebrated Sabbath. But Pesach, for example, I do celebrate. My friends come along, but we don't have any special ceremonies. But I would like it if somebody invited me to a religious celebration. However, I am not a frequent visitor of the synagogue.

I believe that Orthodox Judaism is already a thing of the past, not only in Russia, but also in America. For example, quite recently a cantor performed on tour, a woman singer from Los Angeles. Her singing, in my opinion, is already a blend of Jewish, Moldavian and Russian music, which sound in many ways similar to each other.

I am not indifferent to Israel: I have been there, but I don't emigrate only because my husband and son don't. I would go with them if they went. We went for excursions in Jerusalem, were even in an Orthodox Christian church. We don't have any objections to Jewish traditions in our apartment. There was a mezuzah at the door earlier, but I presented it to Leonid. There is an 'eye' - a souvenir from Jerusalem. It is always pleasant to have something to remind you about your connection to Jewish culture.

Glossary:

Marika Krpez
Subotica
Serbia
Interviewer: Klara Azulaj

I am Marika Krpez (nee Deutsch) and I was born in Subotica on September 5,
1938. My father, Lazar Deutsch, was born in Subotica on February 5, 1906,
and died in Mauthausen, either on April 16 or May 9, 1945. My mother Jelena
(nee Vasic) Deutsch was born in Martonos, on June 10, 1912, and died in
Subotica on September 30, 1985.

Family background
Growing up
During the War
After the War

Family background

My paternal grandmother, Regina Deutsch (nee Holtzer) was the real pillar
of our family. She was born in Szeged on April 20, 1876. I think that she
was very poor, because she married when she was 29 years old. In those days
that was very late. She married a widower, Mor Deutsch, who was 25 years
older than her and who had a daughter, Serena, from his first marriage. I
know that she married in 1930 and went to live in Budapest. We went to stay
with her and her family when Subotica became a part of Hungary (editor's
note: after the German invasion of Yugoslavia in March 1941, northern
Serbia was awarded to Germany's ally, Hungary) . She had two daughters,
Eva and Maria, and a son, Lajos, who was called Lalika, and whom I adored.
He always made me laugh and he loved to entertain me. Unfortunately he did
not return from forced labor when they cleaned up the debris. I saw my Aunt
Serena and her daughters for the last time in November 1943.

My paternal grandfather, Mor Deutsch (in some documents his name appears as
Mozes Moric or Mavar), was born on May 16, 1851. Grandfather Mor worked as
a producer of soda water. He died in Subotica on March 8, 1923.

During her marriage to my grandfather, Regina had two children, my father
Lazar, and a daughter, Klara. They lived in an apartment that had an
entrance into the garden. Grandmother Regina was a housewife. They had a
very difficult life. My grandmother kept a kosher kitchen and in her
kitchen one could always smell garlic. Every afternoon my father, mother
and I would go to visit her. Grandmother Regina was very religious. She
insisted that all the holidays be celebrated in her house, and she went to
great efforts to make sure that everything was according to the laws. I was
two years old and cannot recall all the details about celebrating our
holidays. All the members of the family regularly went to synagogue. My
grandmother liked to knit and to do all other kinds of handicrafts. She
died in Subotica in 1940. Both my grandfather and grandmother were buried
in the Jewish cemetery. My father did not have much money and so he erected
a metal plaque with the basic data for them.

My father's sister, Klara Bohm (nee Deutsch), was born on April 30, 1907 in
Subotica. She was a milliner. She married a man who did not work steadily,
so she was always up to her ears in work to ensure her family's survival.
She worked all day in the workshop where she made women's hats. The shop
was in the Jewish area of the market. My aunt Klara had two daughters: Eva,
born in 1930, and Ana, born in 1934. All three of them were taken to
Auschwitz in 1944 and immediately killed.

My father, Lazar Deutsch, nicknamed Lazi, went to a Jewish elementary
school. He started school during the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and all the
lessons were in Hungarian. In 1918 when Yugoslavia was created, he had to
change to a Serbian school, because, according to the law, Jews had to go
to Serbian schools. He had never learned Serbian and that is why he was a
bad student. But he had nice handwriting.

He went to work in a big wholesale store as an apprentice. He worked there
until 1937 when he married. My mother, Jelena, sold a small parcel of land
that she and her sister had received from the state, and my father used
this money to start his own business. He sold buttons, threads and other
items to tailors in neighboring villages. My mother used to tell me about
how he was such a good man and how he used to give people the goods on
credit. When he came to collect the money, the debtors would prepare a
chicken soup and ask him to be patient, and they would certainly pay him
back the next time he came to collect. Because of this laxity, he was
always on the verge of bankruptcy.

Growing up

Our family was very poor, so we never had our own home, we always lived in
rented apartments. When I was born, we lived in a garden apartment not far
from the center, in a quiet neighborhood called Kert. All the houses there
were family homes with gardens. When I was a year and a half old we moved
to a two-room apartment in a large house with a garden. Then I got a cat
named Marko.

Even though I was very young at the time, I remember my father as very
caring and tender. When I was two years old I came down with whooping
cough. During this illness he was with me all the time, he even held my
head when the coughing made me throw up. He took me to Plinar because they
said that the air there helped reduce coughing. He was always laughing and
frequently carried me on his shoulders. His friends told me that he was the
favorite in their group. He was a good football player and a member of the
Hakoah football club.

My mother, Jelena Deutsch, was not a Jew. She was born in the village of
Martones, 30 kilometers from Subotica. Her father died in World War One and
her mother, Olga Vasic (nee Ziskov), died in 1919 from Spanish fever. My
mother and her sister, Olga, were raised by their grandfather. At age 14 my
mother came to work in Subotica. There she met my father. They dated for
five years but my grandmother opposed this relationship because Jelena was
not a Jew. When my father took ill, my mother took care of him, and only
then did my grandmother relent and agree that her son could marry a shiksa
(non-Jewish woman), as she called her. My mother made a great effort to
learn as much as possible about Judaism. From her mother-in-law she even
learned to cook Jewish food. Quickly, she acquired significant knowledge
about Judaism, and she raised me and educated me in this spirit. She was a
devoted wife and mother. She died in Subotica on September 30, 1985.

During the War

When war broke out in 1941, my father was in the reserves and he managed to
make it to Subotica on foot where the Hungarian troops had already entered
on April 10, 1941. Shortly after that all Jewish males began to be taken
away for forced labor, at first near Subotica to build and fix roads and
train tracks. In 1941, after about two or three months, my father was sent
home for a short leave. At the beginning of 1942 he and all other males
over 18 were taken for forced labor. He went from camp to camp, changing
work camps 15 times. Most of these camps were in present-day Hungary.

Between 1941 and 1943, my father was in a work camp in Transylvania (today
in Romania) and that is where I saw him again. Until the arrival of the
Germans, the Hungarians allowed visits to the camps, and my mother and I
went to see him. In the autumn of 1943, my father had learned that he was
going to be sent someplace far away, and he asked my mother to bring me to
visit him. At that time most men were being sent to Ukraine to clean up the
ruins and to dig trenches. But they did not send him there.

On the 9th of November 1943, my mother and I started out on the visit to
the work camp in Miskolc. We traveled by train. There was an open section
in the wagon where there was a police officer with a feather in his hat-
these officers were well-known for their brutality. The train stood still
and my mother started to get off, not knowing that we had yet to arrive at
the station. At that moment, we suppose the officer pushed her, because she
lost her balance and, together with me, fell onto the tracks. The train
started moving and my left fist was on the track and was run over by the
train. I screamed and a railroad employee ran up to us and helped us get to
the station. Here they gave me first aid. An express train was stopped
which took us to Miskolc. They operated on me immediately. I also had a
concussion. My father found out what had happened to me from the Hungarian
commandant of the camp, and he got permission to come visit me in the
hospital. The last time we saw each other was November 19, 1943, when he
accompanied my mother and me to the station. We traveled to Budapest, where
we stayed with my father's sister, Serena, and from there we continued on
to Subotica. In Subotica, I went frequently to have my hand treated at the
Jewish hospital, which at that time had been forcibly relocated to the
basement of the building.

At the end of 1944, my father Lazar was sent to Mauthausen. He arrived
there on foot and met up with his sister Klara's husband and others from
Subotica, who relayed to us that he died there of typhoid.

Germans occupied Hungary on March 19, 1944, and formed ghettos in three
places in Subotica. A neighbor rescued my mother and me from the ghetto.
She met us on the street and told us not go home under any conditions
because another neighbor had already given our names to the authorities.
From then until the end of the war we were hidden by two Hungarian
families.

The first was the Domsodi family. They were three sisters who lived in a
family house with a big garden in the suburb of Subotica. They were
seamstresses and I recall that they gave me rags and cloth rests to play
with. They were very kind to me, very gentle and understanding. At the same
time, my mother was hiding at the Borosh family's house. It was safer, both
for us and those families, that my mother and I were separated and that we
also changed our hiding places from time to time. In the Borosh family were
three children whom I played with. In their yard was a shelter where we hid
during bombings. In the shelter were only a few things, a bed and an oil
lamp. I stayed with them until the war was over.

After the War

The first Yom Kippur after the war, my mother and I went to synagogue.
Instead of sitting upstairs we sat downstairs. When I opened the drawer
where the prayer books were, I discovered that I was in what had been my
father's place, because there was a small plaque on the seat with his name
on it.

I finished primary school and gymnasium in Subotica. From 1957 to 1961 I
studied English in Belgrade where I met my future husband, Djordje Krpez,
from Zsombor. We married in 1962. We returned to Subotica and on August 11,
1962 I had a daughter, Branka. I worked as a professor until my retirement
in and 1993.

I am very active in the Jewish Council. I was a member of the executive
board for about 20 years. I have been a member of the executive board of
the Jewish Councils' Union since 1996. At the moment I am the second vice
president of the Jewish Council in Subotica. I take part in all activities
and I am trying to give the others as much as I can of my knowledge and
experience.

Clara Foldes
Arad
Romania
Interviewer: Oana Aioanei
Date of interview: February 2003

Mrs. Clara Foldes lives alone in a flat in the center of town. The rooms of the flat are very tidy. She has abstract paintings on the walls. She is a very nice lady. Although she is 83 years old, she looks much younger. We sat and talked in the kitchen. It was warmer there than in the rest of the flat, which made our discussion friendlier. Mrs. Foldes likes to be visited and have someone to talk to.

My family background
Growing up
My school years
During the war
Teaching at the Jewish school
Married life
Post-war
Glossary

My family background

Unfortunately, I don't know anything about my great-grandparents, but I remember things about my grandparents. My mother's parents were called Moric and Vilma Kohn; they lived near Oradea, in Lesul Oradiei [Les]. I know that my grandma Vilma was born there, but I don't know where my grandfather was born; I don't have any documents about it. My mother's parents spoke Hungarian because Oradea was part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire then. My maternal grandparents moved from near Oradea to Sofronea, a small village close to Arad. My grandparents had kind of a restaurant near the railway station in Sofronea. My grandfather Moric died in Sofronea in 1918. He was buried in the Neolog 1 Jewish cemetery in Arad because there was no Jewish cemetery in Sofronea. My grandmother stayed in Sofronea for a while.

My grandparents had three girls, all born in Les: Margareta, my mother, Elisabeta, and Eugenia. My mother, Margareta Grunbaum, nee Kohn, was born in Oradea in 1898; she was eight years younger than my father. Elisabeta lived in Curtici. Her husband was called Iosif Stern and had a textile store and land in Iratosu. They had two children: Marta and Carol. Marta has a son who is a physician and married with two children; they live in Cologne, Germany. Carol died in forced labor near Sighisoara. They made the rocks explode in the mountains and a rock changed its direction during its fall and killed Carol and those who were there. This happened in the 1940s, during World War II. My mother's youngest sister, Eugenia, lived in Timisoara. Her first husband was a Hungarian Jew from Budapest, his name was Sandor Ungar. He died after World War I. Eugenia's second husband was a Romanian called Vasile Simedrea. He wasn't Jewish. She had two children: Ana from the first marriage and Titus from the second.

My mother met my father on the train - they were both going to Curtici. My father was a soldier in the Austro-Hungarian army [see KuK army] 2, and my mother was working as a clerk. My father, Andrei Grunbaum, was born in Hungary, in a village near Debrecen called Konyar, in 1890. My father fought in World War I, but I don't remember where. Both my father and my mother graduated from Commercial High School - my mother in Arad, my father in Debrecen. My parents spoke Hungarian, but my father could also speak Yiddish.

My father's parents lived in Konyar. My grandparents from Hungary spoke both Hungarian and Yiddish and were very religious. They were called Grunbaum. I had the chance of knowing my paternal grandmother. She was a small, thin woman, and she wore a wig. She was very religious. My paternal grandparents had five children, all born in Konyar: a girl, Aranka, and four boys - Marton, a dentist, Pavel, an office clerk, Lajos, who ran the parents' store, and my father, Andrei, who was the youngest.

Financially they did well. They had a textile store and land. They grew corn and watermelons. They also used to hire men who worked their fields. I remember that my grandmother had a large courtyard, where the corn was stored. The watermelons seemed enormous to me. I was four to five years old then and I used to ride on them. Because we lived close to the Hungarian border, we often visited our grandparents from Konyar. I don't remember any animals, but since it was a big household, I guess that she must have had geese and chickens. My grandmother had a big, nice house with two kitchens; one for wintertime and the other for summer. The house had about four rooms, built in line, and a long glass terrace in front of them.

I remember something else about my grandmother Grunbaum. She had a summer kitchen with an oven for bread. The oven was very big and behind it there was a special place where a large pot was kept, where the grease was gathered after the rendering of the scraps. One day I was sitting at the table for dairy products drinking my cup of hot chocolate. I was watching the women working at the other table, the one for meat products, and I noticed that they kept going to the pot behind the oven and poured the grease in there. So I took my cup and poured my hot chocolate in the pot, too. Of course, my grandmother couldn't use the grease anymore. She had to give it away - probably to the personnel, who took it home.

The family was kosher. The men went to the synagogue every day; when they didn't go they said their prayers at home. The women only went to the synagogue on Sabbath. They observed every Jewish holiday. My father's parents, his brothers, and his sisters-in-law were very religious - the sisters-in-law wore wigs.

My parents married in 1919. They lived in Curtici. Curtici was a rich, large village; it became a town later. The Jewish people in Curtici in those times were tailors, merchants, shopkeepers; one of them had a grocery. They also had land, worked by hired laborers.

Growing up

I was born in Arad on 17th March 1920. I had a brother, Gheorghe, five years younger than me, so he was born in 1925. We had no financial problems in Curtici before the war. We did well. We didn't have any land, but we had a big house, which also included our store. My parents had a textile store - they sold material for both winter and summer: buttons, thread, headkerchiefs, and the shrouds needed for funerals. My mother had a helper in the house, Florica, and in the store they had an apprentice.

Our house in Curtici was a large one, U-shaped. I don't remember the number of the rooms of the house. I know that we were using three of them. The rest of the rooms were rented out - we had three tenants. My parents improved the condition of the house: we had running water. From the fountain we pumped water into a large pool placed in the attic - water, which was used in the kitchen and in the bathroom. We, the children, enjoyed doing this a lot. For the heating of the house we used wood. We had ovens made of cast iron. We also had a large courtyard and next to the veranda there was a small garden. It was my mother's; she took care of it. We didn't have any animals.

We had books in the house. My parents were reading the local paper; there was no Jewish paper in Curtici. I was only at home during the holidays, and we spent this time together at home.

We lived on the corner of the market. In the middle of the square was the Orthodox Church and between the church and the buildings surrounding it, was a semicircular empty area for the market. The market days in Curtici were Monday and Thursday. It was a very rich market - with dairy products, eggs, fowls, and a butcher's shop behind the church. We bought dairy products, vegetables and fowls. The shochet was slaughtering it, making it kosher. The butcher was Jewish, but the meat he sold wasn't kosher because there were only a few Jewish families in Curtici.

When I was seven years old [in 1927], my grandmother Vilma moved from Sofronea to Curtici with us. My mother had just had an operation and my grandmother came to help us, and remained with us. My grandmother was sending us to the butcher's, she used to give us 5 lei and tell us, 'Go and buy some meat, so that I can prepare a veal goulash for your father tonight.' We didn't go shopping too often. My grandmother enjoyed doing the shopping herself. She took care of the household, while my mother and father worked in the shop. We didn't buy any pork. In fall we bought geese. After they were stuffed, the best parts were put in pickle brine and smoked. We kept them like this during the winter until springtime. We did the same with veal. The smoked meat was kept in the storeroom. It tasted delicious.

The Jews lived scattered around Curtici; there was no separate Jewish neighborhood. The Jewish community was made up of fifteen families, which meant that we were enough for the prayers. The Jews had a synagogue in a transformed peasant house - there was a room for the men and one for the women. It wasn't a special building but meetings were held on every Friday, Saturday and on every holiday. Being so few, we didn't have a rabbi or other functionaries. My father was the president of the community. My father wasn't a very religious man, but he knew everything. My mother lit the candles, but she didn't wear a wig.

I remember how we used to celebrate Pesach. Most of the time it was during my school holiday, so I could spend it with my family. Matzot were hidden in different places, and we, the children, had to find and steal them. Because my father knew all the customs, this feast was celebrated in every detail.

What I also remember is that Purim used to be celebrated with a lot of cakes. My mother arranged different kinds of cakes on china plates, covered them with a white napkin, and we had to take them to the Jewish families who were our friends. We used to make a lot of shelakhmones, cakes with nuts and poppy-seed.

We met the rest of the family during the holidays. My aunt from Timisoara, Eugenia, used to spend the holidays with us. My mother's second sister, Elisabeta, was married in Curtici and we used to meet her two children, our cousins.

We got along very well with our Christian neighbors. Their daughters and I were very good friends. Our parents were also befriended. We were on good terms with the Orthodox priest, Bradean. He had three daughters and we spent all the time together.

I don't remember celebrating my birthday; we didn't have this custom. I don't even remember being invited to someone else's birthday party, neither to the girls of Priest Bradean, or to the house of teacher Ardelean, with whose daughter I spent time from kindergarten to my graduation in Cluj.

My school years

I went to kindergarten in Curtici, and then to the state school because there was no Jewish school in Curtici. My favorite teacher in elementary school was Elvira Cioara. She was my teacher for the first four school years. My favorite classes were grammar and mathematics. While in Curtici I remember that a teacher from Arad used to come to school and teach me to play the violin. This helped me a lot later, when I became a teacher, because I could help the children during the music classes by playing the violin.

After finishing elementary school my parents paid for my further education. It wasn't very expensive. Everyone could afford it. I went to school for twelve years. So, I spent the first four years of elementary school in Curtici. Then I studied for eight years at a pedagogical school in order to become a teacher. I did the first year in Arad. Because the school was closed here, I was transferred to Lugoj, where I did the second year. The school was closed here too, so I was moved to Cluj, where I studied for the next six years and also graduated.

In Cluj I stayed in a boarding school. Our boarding school was like from a fairy tale. It had its own kitchen. Every meal was like a small feast. Of course the food wasn't kosher because the school wasn't Jewish. The boarding school wasn't like a prison. If someone had relatives or friends in town, they could come and take you out on Saturday afternoons, after classes, but they needed an approval from your parents. The school took good care of us. I had a Christian family who used to take me out - the Cucu family. I came home only during the holidays - at Christmas and Easter and in the summer.

The school was in the same building: on the ground floor were the classrooms, and on the next floor were the dormitories and the study-rooms. We had two uniforms. For every day we wore a black and white one. When we went to concerts, the theater and on other special occasions, we wore a white and light blue shirt, and a navy blue skirt and jacket. During the afternoon break, the educator took us to a compulsory walk in town - we went to the cinema when there was an interesting movie on, or to the theater. On Wednesdays we went to the theater and on Saturdays we went to the Opera, to the matinee performance. I got along very well with my schoolmates. There was no religious discrimination. Nor did the board make any differences. I wasn't the only Jew in this school. I had two Jewish schoolmates, one older than me and the other one younger. One of them was the daughter of a rabbi.

In Cluj my favorite teachers were the headmaster - a very special woman - Ioana Gabor, the French teacher, Jana Casian, and the anatomy teacher. She taught splendidly. She made such expressive drawings with colored chalk, that you understood everything immediately; you didn't even have to study at home. Later we were taken to different faculties, where we could assist at conferences on subjects of interest to us. I remember that a professor said once during a conference, 'Love finds its way through the stomach. We have to take care that the animal is well fed.' He developed this subject scientifically.

I remember going to religious education. Somebody was taking me there on Sundays. Later the rabbi started coming to school and we had our religious education class in the teachers' room. The rabbi was young, very handsome, and married with two children. After telling my classmates about him, they always found different reasons for coming into the room during our class - with the excuse of looking for something or somebody.

The school also had a chapel. I used to go there sometimes. I also sang in the choir of the school. I was singing alto. Many times, especially during the Lent, we were invited to sing at the Orthodox Cathedral. I have a very good ear for music and our teacher insisted that I don't miss because singing alto is more difficult than singing the tune.

While in Cluj I attended a Red Cross nurse course for two years. We were taken to the hospital where we could watch and learn. I still have the diploma.

I started a two months defense course as a volunteer in 1938. I spent the first month in Turda. We had both theory and practical classes. I learned to use a shotgun. There was an officer who trained us. His name was Pitic and he was very accursed. I couldn't finish this course because after the first part Jews weren't allowed anymore, so I was sent home. I cried all the way back home from Turda.

During the war

During the war, when Hitler's regime began, while we were living in Curtici, many Jews from Bucovina who had gone to Germany for studies and had remained there, came back via Budapest-Curtici-Arad, trying to return home. Because they didn't have any documents or visas - just the clothes they were wearing - they had to get off the train in Curtici since Curtici is at the Romanian-Hungarian border. My father, who was the president of the Jewish community during those times, managed to get in touch with some of the frontier guards, and they called him any time another person or group arrived. The guards were rewarded for this. Some of the travelers stayed with us for a few days. They had the chance to take a bath and change their clothes - we bought new ones for them.

There was a man, Iosif Guttman - he died last year in Israel - who helped my father; he was taking the travelers to Arad. The community took care from then on, helping them to return home. They were all very poor. I remember once being on a holiday in Curtici. It was in 1938-1939. One of the refugees, a professor called Sturm, wanted to give me something as a remembrance. He didn't have anything else but a tin opener. I'm still using that tin opener, although I have more modern ones now.

After I graduated in 1939, I returned to Curtici. I didn't work as a teacher in Curtici. I couldn't work in a state school because Jews weren't admitted to state institutions anymore [because of the anti-Jewish laws in Romania] 3, although I had a state diploma in Romanian. The Jewish community in Alba Iulia needed a teacher at their Jewish school, so I moved to Alba-Iulia on 1st December 1939. I stayed there until 31st August 1942. The name of the rabbi of Alba Iulia was Kraus. He had a daughter of my age. The Jewish community in Alba Iulia was a very religious one; I wasn't even allowed to wear a purse on Saturdays. We were two teachers at the Jewish school. The other one was a Hungarian teacher, Gal. He taught in the 3rd and 4th grades, and I taught in the 1st and 2nd grades. The community was a large and very rich one; there were land owners among them. I stayed in Alba Iulia for two and a half years.

In 1941 my parents were forced by a new law to move to Arad. All Jews who lived in villages had to move into towns and Arad was the closest one to Curtici. I was 21-22 years old then. I remember that my father was called to the town hall and he was told that in two hours all the Jews had to leave Curtici. They went to Arad on the 11 o'clock train. Somebody from the Jewish Community expected them and took them to the courtyard of the Jewish school. From there they were sent to different families. Naturally, my grandmother Vilma joined my parents to Arad. She died in 1945 because she was already old. She was buried in the Neolog Jewish cemetery in Arad, like my grandfather.

I couldn't visit my parents because Jews weren't allowed to travel; there was a law passed by the legionaries 4. One day I received a paper from the Educational Inspectorate, saying that I had to bring to the law-court in three days written proof that I had never been sentenced. What could I do? I wasn't allowed to travel to Arad to get proof. But if I didn't bring the paper I was in danger of losing my job. I went to the law-court to see the public prosecutor. I knew what he looked like: a small, thin man. I went straight to him and told him, 'I'm a Jew, you know very well that I'm not allowed to travel. I think that you could help me, by asking the court in Arad for a paper, which proves that I've never been sentenced. You give me this paper and if it proves that I'm not telling the truth, you can cancel it.' He looked at me and asked, 'Is this legal?' I replied, 'I don't know if it's legal, but it's human!' He gave me the paper I needed and I never saw him again.

It was through connections that I managed to go home and visit my parents. During the time of the Iron Guard 5, the laws changed very often. At one time the only way Jews could travel was if they had a medical certificate from the physician of County Alba, which proved that that person needed to do some tests, which could be done, in my case, only in Arad. So I went to this physician, told him that I was a Jew and that I wanted to go home and visit my parents. I was 21-22 years old. I told him that I didn't suffer from any illness, and that I didn't know what he could possibly find because my only problem was that I missed my parents. He examined me and told me to come back to the secretariat the next day and I would find the paper I needed there. I received that certificate and went home.

Teaching at the Jewish school

I think that my parents talked about me to the Jewish community in Arad, saying that I would like to move to Arad. When one of the teachers retired, I was brought here. I taught at the Jewish school in Arad for seven years, from 1942-1948. I taught the Aleph-Bet at the Jewish school because I had learned a little Hebrew in Alba Iulia. The Aleph-Bet was a very good book, with pictures; it was easy for children to learn from it. There were many children in one class at the Jewish school in Arad, some 30 to 35 pupils, most of them Orthodox Jews.

I was the youngest teacher there. I enjoyed organizing festivities. We had one of the celebrations at the State Theater. I remember the first ballet dancer - she was thin and wore a red dress. Her name was Ecaterina Blum and she was a friend of mine, who was in charge of gymnastics and ballet classes at the school. During the war, the Germans needed the building of the school and we had to move into the building where the community had its office. The Jewish School was closed by the Nationalization Law [see Nationalization in Romania] 6 in 1948 - all schools of the minorities were turned into state schools. I was moved to a state school in Arad, the Ghiba Birta School, where I worked for 30 years, until I retired in 1978.

Life during World War II was difficult. Nobody was forced to leave Arad, but the Nazis imposed some restrictions: Jews weren't allowed to enter certain confectionaries, restaurants, the swimming pool. My father had a difficult time finding a job. Our apprentice had remained in Curtici; he took care of our store, and he sent us money from time to time. The Orthodox priest, Bradean, and other villagers also brought us supplies.

During World War II my paternal grandmother was taken to a concentration camp along with her daughter and two of her boys. [Editor's note: Clara's relatives lived on Hungarian territory, and that's why they were taken to concentration camps. Clara, her family and some relatives lived in Southern Transylvania, where Jews weren't deported.]

I don't know how my father's brother Marton managed to escape [Editor's note: maybe because his wife was not Jewish], but two of his brothers - Lajos and Pavel - didn't come back from the camp. Pavel was taken from Debrecen by the Germans with his two sons - they had to go to a mined bridge, but I don't know where. It was mined too well, it exploded. Pavel was there with one of his sons, and they both died. This was in 1944. The other son died somewhere else. When Pavel's wife learned about what had happened, she got mad and soon afterwards she died.

Lajos remained in Konyar with his family, they lived with my grandmother, and they were all deported from there. Lajos perished in Auschwitz. My grandmother returned with her daughter-in-law Berta, Lajos's wife, and her four children; two boys and two girls. Berta pushed my grandmother in a wheelbarrow, but, unfortunately, she died on the way home, after they had already reached Hungary, in 1945. I don't know where she was buried. Berta and her children eventually moved to Israel. She was very religious - she wore a wig, on Sabbath she didn't light the fire or switch on electric power, she didn't talk on the phone, and she walked to the synagogue although she had to go a long way. Their whole family was very religious. One of Berta's sons, Ocsi, used to be the manager of the customs from Israel for some time.

Aranka, my father's sister, who was already married and lived in Mezotur before the war, returned from the camp and emigrated to the United States of America. Marton and his family lived in Budapest; his wife was Hungarian and died in the 1950s. After her death, Marton and his daughter moved to Israel.

Married life

I met my husband Andrei Foldes on New Year's Eve 1943. We met in Arad at a friend of mine, whom I knew from Alba Iulia. I was already a teacher. He was from Arad. I went to that New Year's Eve party with three young men, brothers. Two of them were physicians and the third one was an engineer. They had also been evacuated. But that was the evening when I met my future husband.

Andrei was born in Arad in 1906, when Arad belonged to the Austro-Hungarian Empire. He was older than I was, and he had three brothers. His parents were called Teresia and Adolf Foldes, but they died before I met him. Andrei, along with his brother Geza, had a warehouse for construction materials in Arad. During the war years Andrei helped the community by supplying it with wood for caskets. Andrei's second brother, Iuliu, lived in Timisoara. Iuliu was an engineer, he worked for a German factory, AEG. He was so good in what he was doing, that his employers kept him during World War II. The third brother was called Bela and worked as a chemist in Arad. He was killed by the Hungarian soldiers, when they reached Arad in 1944. He didn't take refuge, thinking that the Hungarians wouldn't do anything to him because he had graduated from Budapest University.

Andrei and I got married in the Neolog Synagogue in Arad on 17th March 1946. The ceremony was without pomp, but our marriage lasted 44 years. It was during the war and everybody had troubles. We didn't have children, although we wished to. We observed all holidays - Jewish and Christian ones because we had many Christian friends. My husband wasn't very religious, but we went to the synagogue on holidays.

I didn't become a member of the Communist party during the communist era, although I was asked to. I was doing my job as a teacher, and I wasn't interested in politics. I was pretty busy - teaching, cleaning the house, doing the shopping. I loved the summertime, when I spent all my free time at the swimming pool.

After my husband's warehouse for construction materials was taken from him, Andrei started working as a clerk in the same warehouse. My dear husband Andrei died 15 years ago [in 1987] in Arad; he is buried in the Neolog Jewish cemetery.

My brother Gheorghe went to the German high school in Arad after finishing elementary school in Curtici. My mother wanted him to learn German. In 1938/39 the headmaster advised her to take him out of this school because of the war, and he didn't want him to be expelled later. My brother was accepted as an apprentice by a very good carpenter. He stayed in Arad during the war, and after the war, he ran away to France with a friend of his. He started working there - carpentry for exquisite furniture. He was very good in his trade. Because of the anti-Semitism there he left France and moved to Holland. While working there as a carpenter somebody from a Jewish organization asked him if he wanted to go to Palestine.

He was going to be taken there by plane, but as a Jewish soldier. I was already married. Gheorghe called me and asked me to call my parents - they didn't have a phone at that time - so that he could talk to them. He went to Israel, where he took part in the Independence War, the Six-Day-War 7 and the Yom Kippur War 8. He had a small factory in Tel Aviv; he did his job as carpenter very well. He got married in Israel to one of my former students from Alba Iulia; her name was Clara Suzana. They adopted a girl, a cousin of ours, the daughter of Marton, my father's brother, who perished in Auschwitz. She lives in Israel, is married, has two children, and works as a physician. Gheorghe died quite young, when he was 53 years old, because of heart problems. Suzana died last year [in 2002].

Post-war

Although the law which didn't allow Jews to live in villages was annulled after the war, my parents didn't move back to Curtici. However, they went there every week and sold textiles. In 1950 my parents moved to Israel, where my father died in 1951, somewhere near Tel Aviv, but I don't know precisely where. After his death, my mother lived in Nahariya for some time. She used to make cakes and sell them. She died in Quiryat Yam in 1989, a few days before the Romanian Revolution 9.

All the Jewish friends I had in my youth left Romania. Most of them went to Israel. I had to make new friends. I remained in Romania for two reasons: first of all because at the age of 29 I was diagnosed with high blood pressure and the climate in Israel wouldn't have been suitable for my condition, and secondly because I can't learn a foreign language. Not being able to learn the language, I couldn't have taught there. The first time I visited Israel was in 1969, and the last time in 1988, a year after my husband died. Israel is a wonderful country.

Before Pesach I work as a volunteer for two weeks at the office of the Jewish community. I used to visit older people, but I have health problems now which don't allow me to do these visits anymore. I like to read a lot - novels, and our Jewish newspaper Realitatea Evreiasca, The Jewish Reality. I watch TV, and I go to the club of our community, where I meet my friends, almost every Monday. On Fridays I enjoy going to the prayer.

Glossary

Életrajz

Popper András egy Maros-parti lakásban él. Minthogy idős, ideje legnagyobb részét bent tölti – tévét néz, és újságot olvas. A nappali szobában több régi bútordarab van, a falakat képek borítják. Az egyiket anyai nagyapja festette, diákkorában.  Az előszoba foteljeiben két sziámi macska nyújtózik. Popper úrnak gazdag képes levelezőlap- és fényképgyűjteménye van – a képeket, az ország különböző helyein ő készítette. Minthogy szenvedélyesen érdekli a történelem, nagyon szeret mesélni. [Popper András 2004 augusztusában meghalt.]

Anyai dédapám, Pollák Ignác Borossebesen lakott, ahol kereskedelemmel foglalkozott [Borossebes – kisközség volt Arad vm.-ben, 1891-ben 1900 magyar és román, 1910-ben 2600 magyar, román és német lakossal (szolgabírói hivatal székhelye, vaskohó, kőbánya, márvány- és mészbánya, hajlítottfabútor-gyár, fakereskedés, téglagyár). 1891 óta a határában található nagy uradalom gr. Wenckheim Frigyesé. Trianon óta Romániához tartozik. – A szerk.]. A sírján ott a neve: Pollák Ignác, utána pedig zárójelben Borossebes, ahonnan származott. Bizonyos [boros]sebesi iratokból megtudtam, hogy tagja volt a hitközség vezetőségének, díszszéke is volt. Valamikor aztán átköltözhetett [Boros]Sebesről Repszegre. A nagymamám, Pollák Matild már az Arad megyei Repszegen született, 1858–60 táján [Repszeg – kisközség volt Arad vm.-ben, 1891-ben 1200 román, 1910-ben 1900 román és magyar lakossal. Trianon óta Romániához tartozik. – A szerk.]. Pollák Ignác Arad központjában, 1870-ben házat vásárolt. Anyám anyai felmenői, a Pollákok Aradon vannak eltemetve.

Anyám apai dédszülei, a Wernerek németországi származásúak. Anyai nagyszüleim egy német családból származnak – a Werner német név. Egy Werner fiú [Werner Jakab] szerelmes lett egy zsidó lányba [Wolf Mária], és az ő kedvéért áttért a zsidó vallásra. A lányt azonban a szülei elűzték otthonról, Németországból, így a pár a tizennyolcadik század végén vagy a tizenkilencedik század elején kivándorolt, és az Arad megyei Szentannán telepedett le, ami akkoriban német falu volt. A Werner dédszülőket, Jakabot és Máriát Szentannán temették el [Werner Jakab és felesége Popper András anyjának dédszülője, Popper Andrásnak magának már az ükszülői generáció. – A szerk.]. A Werner család különböző tagjai idővel Szentannáról Pankotára [Arad vm.], Bélbe [Bihar vm.], Nagybányára költöztek [Szatmár vm.], sokan Budapestre, ahol a nevüket Timárra változtatták. Werner Jakab ükapának és Wolf Mária ükanyának három gyermeke volt – mindhárman Szentannán születtek: Lipót (dédapám), aki 1817 és 1894 között élt, Móric, aki 1823-ban született, és Adolf, aki 1831-ben született. Adolfnak két gyermeke volt: doktor Werner Miksa, aki orvos volt Aradon, agglegény, nem voltak gyermekei, és 1920 körül halt meg Aradon. Adolf másik gyereke Werner Eszter volt, Sándor felesége. Nekik két gyermekük született: Artúr (őneki nem voltak gyermekei) és Lenke, Krauszné, akinek két gyermeke volt: Anna és doktor Krausz Miklós, aki ma Kölnben orvos.

Werner Lipótnak, a dédapámnak kilenc gyermeke volt: Károly (a nagyapám), Adolf, Henrik, Simon, Karola, Cili, Imre, Mária és Józsa [Rózsa?].

Adolf volt az utolsó Werner, aki [Új]Szentannán élt, és ott is halt meg [Újszentanna nagyközség volt Arad vm.-ben, 1891-ben 5600 német és magyar lakossal. Lakói élénk selyemhernyó-tenyésztést űztek. Trianon óta Romániához tartozik. – A szerk.]. Boltos volt, és öt gyermeke volt: Mici, Zeislerné, neki nem voltak gyermekei; Renée egy doktor Wiener felesége volt, van egy fia, doktor Wiener Németországban. Aztán Pál, Lajos és László.

Nagyapám Henrik testvérének nyolc gyermeke volt: Sándor, akinek három gyermeke volt (Márta, Bözsi – neki volt két lánya – és Viktor – ő Németországban halt meg, van egy fia, aki orvos egy katonai kórházban, valószínűleg Kölnben), Frida, Regina, Frigyes (egy fia volt, Sándor), Ede, Karola, Győző, Géza.

Simonnak négy gyermeke volt: Sándor, Jenő, Józsi, Géza.

Karola férje Nussbaum Sámuel volt.

Cilinek három gyermeke volt: Lajos, Béla, Frida.

Imrének négy gyermeke volt: Róza (aki Fodor Adolfhoz ment feleségül), Mária (akinek a férje doktor Deutsch Mihály volt – egy fiuk volt, Lóránt, jogászdoktor, Tel-Avivban halt meg), Olga (Grüner Fülöpné) és János.

Mária férje Grosz Adolf volt.

Nagyapám legkisebb húgának, Rózsának [Józsának?] a férjét Bauer Emilnek hívták, nekik három gyermekük volt: Tuli, Misi és Olga.

Anyai nagyapám, Werner Károly Szentannán született, 1850. május tizenötödikén. Belényesen járt gimnáziumba, egy görög katolikus iskolába [Belényes – nagyközség volt Bihar vm.-ben, 1891-ben 3000 magyar és román lakossal (szolgabíróság, járásbíróság és adóhivatal székhelye). 8 osztályos görög katolikus gimnáziuma volt. Trianon után Romániához került. – A szerk.]. Úgy hallottam, hogy ott kiváló tanárok voltak. Van egy képem, amit ő festett iskoláskorában, a hálószobám falán őrzöm, nagyon szép: egy parasztház egy rónaság közepén, előtte tó, partján egy csónak, két halásszal. Azt mondják, hogy ez egy nagyon értékes kép. Nagymama nem is tudta, hogy nagyapa tudott festeni: a kép létéről csak nagyapám halála után szerzett tudomást. [Werner] Károly nagyapám nem volt túlságosan vallásos. Nem tudom, hol volt katona.

Anyai nagyanyám, Pollák Matild, férje után Werner, háziasszony volt. Volt egy fivére, Ignác és két háztartásbeli húga, Rozália és Fanni.

Pollák Ignácnak volt Aradköviben egy szőlője. Két lánya volt. Az egyik, Margit, férje után Szöllősi, tanárnő volt, illetve iskolaigazgató Aradon. A másik, Terézia doktor Venetianernek, a budapesti főrabbinak volt a felesége [Venetianer Lajos (1867–1922) 1892-ben lett rabbi, 1893-ban Csurgón volt, 1896-ban Lugoson, majd 1897-től főrabbi Újpesten. Teológiai tanulmányokon kívül a zsidók történetéről is írt munkákat. A budapesti Országos Rabbiképző Intézet tanára volt. Fő műve: A magyar zsidóság története (1922). – A szerk.]. Nekik is volt egy lányuk, Váli Ilona (ez volt a művészneve), nagyon ismert budapesti színművésznő. Nem emlékszem, hogy emiatt problémák lettek volna a családban, minthogy nagyon híres művésznő volt.

Rozália [anyai nagyanya egyik húga] Gyorokon lakott, volt egy fia és egy lánya [Gyorok – nagyközség volt Arad vm.-ben, 1891-ben 1600, 1910-ben 2400 magyar és román lakossal. Trianon óta Romániához tartozik. – A szerk.]. A fiú meghalt egyetemi hallgató korában. A lány, Teréz, férje után Székelyné, egy fút szült, Lászlót. Férje állatorvos volt Glogovácon [Glogovác (Öthalom) – nagyközség volt Arad vm.-ben, 1891-ben 4200 német és román, 1910-ben 4700 német, román és magyar lakossal. Trianon óta Romániához tartozik. – A szerk.]. László fiát szintén Lászlónak hívják, és orvos Németországban.

Nagymama másik húgának, Freund Fanninak egy fia volt, aki joghallgató korában halt meg. Fanni megözvegyült, Aradon halt meg.

[Werner] Károly nagyapám és Matild nagymama Simándon élt [Simánd – nagyközség volt Arad vm.-ben, 1891-ben 4500 román, magyar és német lakossal. Trianon óta Romániához tartozik. – A szerk.], aztán 1892-től Aradon. Nagymamám vezette a háztartást. A két nagyünnepen elmentek a zsinagógába – újévkor [Ros Hásáná] és hosszúnapkor [Jom Kipur]. Nagymama nem vitt kóser konyhát, nem volt nagyon vallásos, de azért meggyújtotta sabbatkor a gyertyát [lásd: gyertyagyújtás]. Nagyapám gabonával és bőrrel kereskedett. Az üzlete Aradon volt: a lakás mellett volt a gabonaraktár, a bőrraktár valahol máshol volt. Az első világháború idején az alkalmazottait fölmentették a katonáskodás alól. Aradon Werner nagyapámék a város központjában laktak, a dédszüleim által vásárolt házban. (Egyébként ez volt a legelső ház, amit a kommunisták lebontottak. Amikor a házakat államosították, ezt is államosították, pedig édesanyám volt a tulajdonosa – abban születtem én.) Jól megértettük egymást a nagyszüleimmel – mindkét ágon. Egyiküket sem érdekelte a politika. A szomszédaikkal jóban voltak. Nagyapám halála után Sándor bácsi (édesanyám fivére) naponta meglátogatta Matild nagymamát. Sándor bácsi bőrgyógyász orvos volt itt, Aradon, eléggé ismert. Nagyszüleim mindketten itt, Aradon haltak meg, nagyapám 1916. január másodikán, nagymamám 1936-ban, amikor huszonegy éves voltam.

Édesanyámnak több fiú- és leánytestvére volt, mind Simándon születtek, ebben a sorrendben: Sándor, Ferenc, Irén, József, anyám, Iván, Leopoldina.

Én jobban [Werner] Sándor bácsit ismertem, aki 1883-ban született [Simándon], Aradon volt orvos. Halmágyi Ilona volt a felesége, aki háztartásbeli volt, és két gyermekük volt, Anna és György. Anna meghalt skarlátban, 1928-ban, négy-öt éves volt. György elvégezte az orvosi tanulmányokat, majd a gyakornokságot, és visszatért Aradra. Két évvel később megbetegedett, és fiatalon meghalt – alig huszonnégy évesen. Volt egy kislánya. Gordon Krisztina, aki Kölnbe ment férjhez. Sándor 1936-ban halt meg, György előtt (én körülbelül huszonkét éves voltam), és Ilona újra férjhez ment.

Ferenc fiatalon meghalt, 1884-ben született, és 1902-ben halt meg.

Irén, aki 1887-ben született, háztartásbeli volt, Aradon élt a férjével, Somogyi Józseffel, aki könyvelő volt, és 1925-ben halt meg. Nem voltak gyermekeik. Irén 1969-ben halt meg.

Iván 1892-ben született, kétéves korában halt meg, 1893-ban. A simándi zsidó temetőben temették el. Simándon is van egy igen nagy temető, és a bejárat mellett vannak a gyermekek sírjai. A legkisebb Erzsébet-Leopoldina volt, aki alig született meg, meg is halt, 1896-ban.

Édesanyám, Werner Margit Simándon született, 1890. április tizenegyedikén. Két éves volt, amikor a család felköltözött Aradra. Minthogy Aradon nem volt leánypolgári akkoriban, Temesvárra küldték, a felső leányiskolába [Leány polgári iskola volt a 19–20. század fordulóján, Aradon. Valószínűleg nem polgári iskolába küldték, hanem felsőbb leányiskolába, amely nem négyosztályos iskola volt, mint a polgári, hanem hat osztályos – lásd: leányiskolák; felsőbb leányiskola is volt ugyan Aradon, de nem tudjuk, hogy a kérdéses évben, 1900-ban – Werner Margit 1900-ban végezhette el a négy elemit – is működött-e már. – A szerk.]. Édesanyám háztartásbeli volt, és – hasonlóan édesapámhoz – nem volt nagyon vallásos.

Apai nagyapámat Popper Károlynak hívták, és Alsóbarakonyban született, Arad megyében, 1864-ben [Alsóbarakony (korábban: Barakony) – nagyközség volt Arad vm.-ben, 1891-ben 1800 román, 1900-ban 1900 román és magyar lakossal. Trianon óta Romániához tartozik. – A szerk.]. Volt egy fivére, Samu, aki Csermőben lakott [Csermő – nagyközség volt Arad vm.-ben, 1891-ben 2700, 1910-ben 4000 román és magyar lakossal. Trianon óta Romániához tartozik. – A szerk.]. Volt egy húga is, de nem emlékszem a nevére. Nagyapám biztosan katonáskodott is, minthogy őrmester lett – talán Bécsben. Élt Székudvaron is, ahol boltja volt [Székudvar – nagyközség volt Arad vm.-ben, 1891-ben 4900 román és magyar, 1910-ben 5500 román és magyar lakossal. Trianon óta mindkét község Romániához tartozik. – A szerk.], de 1890-ben, amikor apám egy vagy két éves volt, beköltöztek Aradra.

Apai nagyanyám, Popper Julianna, szül. Werner, az Arad megyei Siklón született, 1867-ben vagy 1868-ban [Sikló – nagyközség volt Arad vm.-ben, 1891-ben 3100, 1910-ben 3400 román és magyar lakossal. Trianon óta Romániához tartozik. – A szerk.]. Nem emlékszem, hogy lettek volna testvérei. Háztartásbeli volt. Miután férjhez ment, Székudvaron élt, majd haláláig Aradon. Apai nagyszüleim háza földszintes volt, a vasútállomással átellenben. Elég sok szoba volt ott, de ők bérelték a lakást. A ház egy nem zsidó agglegényé volt, aki aztán a lippai román ortodox hitközségnek adományozta. Nagyapám 1890-ben költözött Aradra – vélhetően az egyháznak fizette a házbért. Amikor fölépítették a panelházakat, lebontották – 1944-ben vagy közvetlenül a háború után. A háznak elég nagy udvara volt, de nem volt kertje, és nagyszüleim állatokat sem tartottak. [Popper Károly] Nagyapámnak Aradon is elég nagy boltja volt, vegyeskereskedő volt – mindent árult, és a bolton kívül valamiféle kocsmája is volt. A bolt, amit apámnak egy unokatestvére, Popper Jenő festett ki, elöl volt, a nagyszüleim pedig ugyanennek az épületnek a hátsó részében laktak. Nagyon ismerték a vasutasok – ők voltak az állandó vevők, minthogy a bolt és a kocsma ott volt, az állomással szemben.

Sem nagymamám, sem nagyapám nem voltak nagyon vallásosak – olyanok voltak, mint a legtöbb aradi zsidó. Az aradi zsidók boltjai szombaton nyitva tartottak [lásd: szombati munkavégzés tilalma]. Persze, az újév [Ros Hásáná] és a hosszúnap [Jom Kipur] különleges ünnepek voltak, akkor bezárták a boltokat, és mindenki elment a zsinagógába. Péntek este az asszonyok meggyújtották a gyertyákat, de nem szoktak elmenni imádkozni. Ez volt a szokás Aradon. [Popper] Julianna nagyanyám akkor halt meg, amikor úgy tizennyolc éves voltam – 1933-ban, [Popper] Károly nagyapám meg húszéves korom táján, 1935-ben.

Aradon neológ hitközség volt. A nagy zsinagógát 1834-ben építették [helyesebben: akkorra készült el]. Nem volt könnyű dolog. Akkoriban Arad nem volt magyar, sem román, hanem szerb [Aradon mindig jelentős számú szerb nemzetiségű lakosság volt, de Arad nem volt szerb, 1699–1741 között a város és környéke a maros-menti szerb határőrség székhelye volt. – A szerk.]. Bármit építettek napközben, éjjel lerombolták a szerbek [Az építési engedély kiadását a korabeli városi hatóság húzta-halasztotta, végül a zsidók engedély nélkül láttak neki az építkezésnek. Valószínűleg a hatóság tudtával, esetleg felbujtására bontották le valakik éjszaka azt, amit nappal építettek. – A szerk.]. Következésképpen az aradi zsidó hitközség néhány tagja elutazott Bécsbe, és az egész ingatlant a császárnak ajándékozták. Zsandárokat alkalmaztak, hogy őrizzék, és így sikerült befejezni az építkezést. A zsinagógába az udvarról lehet belépni, minthogy a zsinagógát köröskörül épület övezi. Néha hangversenyeket tartanak benne. Igen jó orgonája van. Egy szakember azt mondta nekem, hogy ritkán találni ilyen jó orgonát, de ha elköltöztetik, akkor tönkremegy – az orgonának föltétlenül az épületben kell maradnia. Olvastam valahol, hogy miképpen vásárolták meg és szerelték be: a zsidók rendeztek egy bált 1850-ben, amire az aradi értelmiség minden tagját meghívták, függetlenül a vallásuktól, és a rendezvény teljes bevételét ennek az orgonának a megvételére fordították (az információt Glück tanár találta meg a kolozsvári egyetemi könyvtárban) [Glück Jenő aradi történészről van szó. – A szerk.]. Az ünnepek alkalmával a zsinagóga telis-tele volt. 1940-ig az ünnepekre mindig kibéreltek egy nyári színpadot, ami a Maros partján volt, és ott is tartottak egy szertartást, de azt lebontották 1940-ben. Az első világháború vége felé, talán 1917-ben, megalakult Aradon az ortodox zsidó hitközség is, és 1921-ben megépítették az ortodox zsinagógát is, az építész Tabakovits [Emil] volt, egy szerb, aki a minoriták római katolikus katedrálisát is megépítette. Ismertem, kiváló építész volt.

Apámnak három húga volt (ő volt a legnagyobb): Matild, Ilona és Irén – mindhárom háztartásbeli volt. Fivérei nem voltak. A legnagyobb, Matild Brenner Zsigmondhoz, egy könyvelőhöz ment feleségül. Két gyermekük volt. Zoltán (aki 1969-ben öngyilkos lett), és volt egy lánya, Éva, Brenner Pálné (ők Izraelbe távoztak).  Matild lánya, Edit szintén férjhez ment, Nagyváradon lakott, deportálták, és Auschwitzban halt meg. Ilona Aradon lakott a férjével, Fülöp Frigyessel, aki muzsikus volt. Nem voltak gyermekeik. Irén Havas Samuhoz ment feleségül, aki bőrkereskedő volt. Aradon laktak, volt egy fiuk, László, aki Izraelbe távozott [Izrael Állam 1948-ban alakult meg, 1920–1948 között Palesztina brit mandátumról van szó. – A szerk.], ahol megsebesült, és a függetlenségi háború [lásd: 1948-as függetlenségi háború Izraelben] utolsó napján meghalt.

Apám [Popper Sándor] 1888. január tizenötödikén született Székudvaron, de aztán 1890-ben Aradra költözött a szüleivel. Apám elvégezte a jogot, jogi doktorátust szerzett, és egész életében ügyvédként dolgozott. Budapesten kezdte a tanulmányait – az első két évet ott végezte, aztán Kolozsváron fejezte be, 1908–1909-ben. 1905-ben kezdte az egyetemet, ő volt a legfiatalabb, minthogy ötévesen adták iskolába – ő akart az első lenni, aki doktorátust szerez. A záróvizsgát, ami a joghallgatók legnehezebb vizsgája volt, Magyarországon csak Budapesten és Marosvásárhelyen lehetett letenni. Apám [Maros]Vásárhelyen tette le. Apám nem volt nagyon vallásos. A katonai szolgálatát Aradon teljesítette. Szeretett mindenhol, ahol csak megfordult, különböző alakú köveket gyűjteni – anyámnak hozott egyszer egy szív alakú követ.

Hogy találkoztak a szüleim? Arad nem volt túl nagy város. Apám joghallgató volt, édesanyám meg Temesváron járt iskolába. Gondolom, hogy egyszer hazatérésük után találkozhattak. 1914 júniusában házasodtak össze. Volt egyházi esküvőjük is, a zsinagógában [lásd: házasság, esküvői szertartás]. Másnap, hogy visszatértek a nászútjukról Ausztriából, a hegyekből, kitört az első világháború, és apámnak be kellett vonulnia – az osztrák–magyar hadsereg tisztje lett. Anyai nagyapám minden alkalmazottját mentesítették, apámat is fölmentették volna, de hát ő nem akart otthon ülni, ha háború van. Az Északi Kárpátokban, Lengyelországban volt, ott talált egy követ, amit elküldött édesanyámnak, aki rátétetett egy ezüstlemezkét, rajta a hellyel és a dátummal: Komarno, 1914. szeptember 8. [Komarno kisváros volt Galíciában. – A szerk.]. Ott sebesült meg apám a lábán, aztán hazaküldték Aradra. Utána ismét elment a frontra, és 1914  szeptemberében fogságba került. Szibériába vitték, Vlagyivosztokba, ahol öt évet kellett töltenie, 1914-től 1921-ig .Az érdekes az, hogy a hadifoglyok akkoriban tiszti fizetést kaptak az oroszoktól. A háború végén a Távol-Keleten voltak, az óceán közelében, idővel lassacskán Szibéria keleti részébe vitték őket. Az amerikaiak eljöttek, hogy megmentsék az osztrák–magyar hadsereg tisztjeit. Elvitték őket egy szigetre, ahol igen sok gyermek volt, akiket oda menekítettek. A sziget Szibériától keletre volt. Apámat más tisztekkel együtt dolgozni vitték oda. Az volt a dolga, hogy két kemencére vigyázzon, sohase aludjon ki bennük a tűz. Nagyon jó körülmények között éltek, jó volt az étel. Még egy elismerő oklevelet is kaptak a Vöröskereszttől, egy papírt, amellyel elismerik az elvégzett munkát. Apám másfél évig volt ott, majd hajón hazatért. Itthon, az ügyvédi irodában három irat volt a falon, bekeretezve: a doktori oklevél, az ügyvédi oklevél és harmadiknak a vöröskeresztes munka oklevele.

Én 1915. június huszonkilencedikén születtem, Aradon, az anyai nagyszüleim házában. Egyetlen gyermek voltam. Amikor megszülettem, apám már hadifogoly volt. Minden hónapban lefényképeztek, és a képet elküldték neki Szibériába. Esténként édesanyám velem imádkozott, hogy az Isten hozza haza apukát. Apámat először ötéves koromban láttam. 1921-ben tért vissza a háborúból, és Aradon laktunk 1923-ig, amikor is Körösbökénybe költöztünk – nyolc éves voltam akkor [Körösbökény (korábban: Buttyin) – nagyközség volt Arad vm.-ben, 1891-ben 3000 román és magyar, 1910-ben 3600 román és magyar lakossal (járásbíróság és adóhivatal, kir. közjegyzőség székhelye volt). Trianon óta Romániához tartozik. Aradtól 71 km-re van. – A szerk.]. De nagymama továbbra is Aradon maradt. Édesapámnak az első világháború előtt Aradon volt irodája, mielőtt elment a háborúba. 1923-ban egy ügyvéd átadta [körös]bökényi irodáját egy nagybátyámnak, aki továbbadta apámnak. Több mint ötven község tartozott a [körös]bökényi járásbírósághoz, ahol csak három ügyvéd volt, egyik közülük volt apám.

Ámbár a járás Borossebesen volt [Vagyis a járásszékhely és a szolgabírói hivatal is ott volt az első világháború végéig. – A szerk.], a bíróság [Körös]Bökényben volt. Körösbökényben volt a megye legnagyobb épülete is, a járásbíróság. Valamikor régebben, még sokkal az első világháború előtt, a [körös]bökényi jegyző meggyőzte a parasztokat, hogy küldjenek egy küldöttséget Budapestre, és kérjék, hogy alapítsanak egy bíróságot [Körös]Bökényben is, hogy ne kelljen Borossebesig menniük. Így építették föl a bíróságot 1901 és 1903 között. Az épület ma is megvan, de már nem használják, pedig egy igen szép építmény. Egy éjjel a párt első titkára kiadta az utasítást, hogy a bíróság költözzön [Boros]Sebesre, anélkül, hogy a minisztériummal közölték volna ezt. A kész tények láttán nem tértek vissza a döntésre. Amikor az igazságszolgáltatást átszervezték a rajonok szintjén 1952-ben [lásd: területi átszervezés Romániában 1952-ben], a rajoni törvényszéket [Körös]Bökényben hozták létre.

Ugyancsak itt, Körösbökényben volt az ügyvédi irodája Csemegi Károlynak is. Ő zsidó volt, őrnagy az osztrák–magyar hadseregben. Az 1848-as forradalom leverése után kényszerlakhelyre, Aradra költöztették, itt nyitott ügyvédi irodát. Minthogy az osztrákok üldözték, [Körös]Bökénybe, a román faluba húzódott, ahol nyolc-kilenc évig ügyvédeskedett. Csemegi kiváló jogász volt – Budapesten tanulta a jogot. Az Ausztria és Magyarország közötti béke kihirdetése után, 1870-ben [Popper András nyilvánvalóan az 1867-es kiegyezésre utal. – A szerk.] az igazság-ügyminisztériumba került, majd utóbb királyi tanácsos lett. Legnagyobb munkája a magyar büntetőtörvénykönyv, ami ma is érvényben van, és amit 1946-ig Erdélyben is alkalmaztak – egészen Honctőig, a Maroson Zámig, a Körösön pedig Bihar megye határáig [Csemegi Károly (1826–1899) – büntetőjogász. Vármegyei aljegyzőként a szabadságharc alatt szabadcsapatot szervezett, amelynek őrnagya volt. Emiatt a szabadságharc leverése után bebörtönözték, majd besorozták az osztrák hadseregbe. Ezután Aradon ügyvéd, majd 1867-től az igazság-ügyminisztériumban teljesített szolgálatot, ahol utóbb államtitkár lett. A Magyar Jogászegylet megalapítója és első elnöke (1878). Ő dolgozta ki az igazságügyi szervezeti törvények tervezeteit (1869. évi IV. tc. a bírói hatalomról, 1871. évi XXXIII. tc. az ügyészségi szervezetről), amelynek alapján a bírói hatalom elkülönült a közigazgatástól. Ő készítette el a liberális felfogású büntetőtörvénykönyvek tervezeteit (1878. évi V. tc. és 1879. évi XL. tc.) (Magyar Életrajzi Lexikon). – A szerk.]. A magyar büntetőtörvénykönyv nem volt megírva (csak a második világháború után írták meg), Erdélyben az osztrák polgári törvénykönyvet használták, minthogy a magyar és az osztrák törvénykönyvek fantasztikusan modernek voltak. A román fordítás volt: a Napóleon-féle törvénykönyvet hibásan lefordították olaszra, majd olaszból románra.

Ami a [körös]bökényi zsidókat illeti, az egyik boltos volt, a másik órás, a falu orvosa zsidó volt, és véletlenül még a bíró, doktor Erger is zsidó volt. Érdekes az, hogy emlékszem, hogy gyermekkoromban sok paraszt nagyon szépen írt, és a bíróságon dolgoztak. Arad megyében a nagy nemzetgyűlésnek több választási körzete volt [Popper András minden bizonnyal az országgyűlési választási körzetekre gondol, Arad vm. az első világháború előtt hét választási körzetre oszlott. – A szerk.], ezek egyike Jószáshelyen volt, ami Körösbökény és Honctő között van [Valószínűleg a választási körzet központjára gondol. – A szerk.]. Akkoriban Honctő jelentéktelen hely volt Jószáshelyhez képest [Nincs adatunk a Trianon utáni viszonyokról. Az 1910-es népszámlálás idején Jószáshely mindössze 633 főnyi román és magyar lakossal rendelkező kisközség volt, még saját postahivatallal sem rendelkezett, az utolsó posta Honctőn volt. Honctő lakossága 957 fő volt, volt vasútállomása, posta- és távíróhivatala, telefonállomása, takarékpénztára, hitelszövetkezete és még némi ipara (fűrészmű, cement- és agyagárugyár) is. – A szerk.]. Az ottani földbirtokos zsidó volt, Polacsek, akinek a kastélya ma is megvan. Polacsek az első világháború idején vásárolta meg a birtokot a Purgly nemesi családtól (akiknek Jószáshelyen volt a székhelyük), a lányukat [Purgly Magdolna (1881–1959)] Horthy vette el feleségül. Ismertem a Polacsek családot, volt egy szeszgyáruk, ami ma már nincs meg. Szintén a zsidó földbirtokosokkal kapcsolatban emlékszem, hogy egész Menyháza és a Dézna völgye az első világháború idején a Wenckheim családé volt [Ezen a vidéken a Wenckheim grófi ágnak voltak birtokai. Egyébként pedig a Wenckheim család, amelynek szintén a grófi ága Békés vm.-ben rendelkezett óriási birtokkal, a magyar honfiúsított főrangú családok egyike, és tulajdonképpen frank eredetű (eredeti neve Wenck). Wenck János orvost tudományos érdemeiért Mária Terézia 1748-ban birodalmi lovagságra emelte, és ettől fogva lett a nevük Wenckheim. Wenckheim János fia, József Ágost császári tanácsos feleségül vette Harrucker János békési főispán leányát, s ezzel a gyulai uradalom birtokosa lett. Fiai közül kettőt (Xavér Ferencet és Józsefet), akik altábornagyságig emelkedtek – később ez a két Wenckheim lett magyar honos –, Mária Terézia már 1776-ban báróságra emelt, majd Józsefet I. Ferenc császár 1802-ben gróffá tette. A bárói ág több leszármazottja tüntette ki magát közügyekben, elsősorban Wenckheim József báró és két fia. Wenckheim József (1778–1830): 1825-től Arad vm. főispánja volt, és szerepe volt Békés vm.-ben a vizek és mocsarak lecsapolásában és szabályozásában, valamint a lótenyésztés és a gazdasági egyesülés előmozdítása terén. Wenckheim Béla báró (1811–1879) 1837-től Békés vm. alispánja, 1848-ban főispánja és István nádor főudvarmestere. Részt vett a szabadságharcban, a bukás után emigrált. Amnesztia útján tért haza, 1860-tól bekapcsolódott a politikai életbe, 1861-ben és 1865-től ismét Békés vm. főispánja, 1867–1869 között belügyminiszter az Andrássy-kormányban, 1871–1879 között a király személye körüli miniszter, 1875. március és október között miniszterelnök is volt. Wenckheim László báró (1814–1879) mint az állami vízszabályozások kormánybiztosa tevékenykedett, 1860-ban a Békés megyei Gazdasági Egyesület egyik létrehozója, 1869-től elnöke volt (forrás: Pallas Nagylexikon, Magyar Életrajzi Lexikon). – A szerk.].

Körösbökényben elég nagy zsidó hitközség volt, vagy tizenöt-húsz család. A zsidók nem laktak elkülönülten a többi [körös]bökényi lakostól. Neológ zsinagóga volt, szép, 1924–25-ig. Akkortájt sok máramarosi jött, és a többség ortodox lett. Apám volt az egyházközség elnöke. Nem volt Talmud-Tóra – nemigen voltak gyermekek. Nem tanultam héberül, de a bár micvóm megvolt tizenhárom éves koromban – fölkészített a hákhám [Hákhám, ’bölcs ember’ – (haszid) rabbi]. Rabbi Pankotán volt (Sonnenschein rabbi), Aradon, és volt Honctőn,  Schwartz rabbi, itt az első világháború után egy igen erős ortodox hitközség jött létre, nagyobb, mint a [körös]bökényi.

A nagypiac napja [Körös]Bökényben a péntek volt, aztán később a szerda is, úgy emlékszem. Édesanyám foglalkozott a bevásárlással. A családom nem volt nagyon vallásos. Anyám meggyújtotta a gyertyákat péntek este, és Pészahkor maceszt evett. A szüleim megünnepelték az újévet [Ros Hásáná], a hosszúnapot [Jom Kipur] és a Pészahot, de nem ettünk kósert [lásd: étkezési törvények], nem is használtunk Pészahkor külön edényeket. Emlékszem, hogy voltak otthon könyveink, főleg magyar irodalom. Anyámnak mindig volt segítsége otthon. Akkoriban minden családban volt, mi több, nagytakarításkor vagy nagymosáskor többen is jöttek. A [körös]bökényi házat béreltük, két vagy három szoba volt benne, víz, és fával fűtöttünk.

Ami az iskolát illeti, a szüleim odafigyeltek arra, hogy mindig föl legyek készülve. [Körös]Bökényben magánórákra is jártam meg zeneórára – pár évig zongorázni és hegedülni tanultam, de nemigen szerettem. Magánórát általában az iskolai tantárgyakból vettem, különösen az idegen nyelvekből. A gimnáziumban az első osztálytól kezdve franciát tanultunk, második osztálytól németet is, a harmadiktól pedig latint is. A hatodikban ógörögöt is tanítottak. Engem jobban érdekelt a számtan – a tanárunkat Stan Crişannak hívták. Sok barátom volt az iskolában. Volt vagy két zsidó osztálytársam is. Ha jól emlékszem, hittant a hákhám [rabbi] oktatott. Az első és második osztályt Aradon jártam, harmadikba-negyedikbe [Körös]Bökényen jártam, majd ismét Aradon. Szombaton is volt tanítás, csak vasárnap voltunk szabadok. Amíg iskolába jártam, idegeneknél laktam (nem zsidóknál), pedig a nagyszüleim Aradon éltek. A szüleim azt gondolták, hogy a nagyszüleim túlságosan elkényeztetnek, így aztán már csak akkor laktam náluk, amikor az utolsó osztályt végeztem. [Körös]Bökénybe csak a vakációkra mentem haza, karácsonyra és húsvétra. Nyáron [Körös]Bökényben teniszeztem és fürödni jártam a barátaimmal; nem emlékszem, hogy egyebet is sportoltam volna. 1935-ben érettségiztem. Az érettségi nagyon nehéz volt – száztizennégy diákból csak öten mentek át, én voltam az egyik.

Egészen az első világháborúig több zsidó iskola volt a megyében [zsidó elemi iskolák], nemcsak Aradon, hanem [Körös]Bökényben és Simándon is, amelyek elég nagy zsidó központok voltak. Körösbökényben 1943-ig volt zsidó elemi iskola. A véletlen úgy hozta, hogy az első háború előtt a zsidó iskola igazgatónőjét Poppernek hívták – zsidó volt, de nem volt rokonunk. Apám találkozott a fiával egy budapesti látogatásakor, 1925 körül, és érdekes volt fölfedeznie, hogy mindketten Popperek voltak, ügyvédek és [körös]bökényiek.

A két háború között voltak vasgárdisták is [Körös]Bökényben; emlékszem, hogy a boltokban olyan plakátok voltak, hogy „Tessék kizárólag románul beszélni”, de nem voltak túl komolyak. Gyermekkoromban semmiféle dolgom nem volt az antiszemitizmussal. Nem emlékszem, hogy gyermekkoromban bármi fontos politikai esemény történt volna. Hallgattuk otthon a rádiót, és olvastuk az aradi magyar újságokat.

Jogot végeztem – azért választottam ezt, mert szerettem. Kolozsváron kezdtem 1935-ben, majd 1939-ben több kollégámmal átiratkoztunk Csernovicba, Bukovina fővárosába, mert akartunk nyerni egy évet,. Mind Kolozsváron, mind pedig Csernovicban nagyon jó tanárok voltak. A különbség az volt, hogy Csernovicban volt egy előkészítő év, utána pedig csak három tanulmányi év volt – ezért akartunk átmenni. Ott végeztem el az egyetemet, de az utolsó két évben már nem tudtam levizsgázni, mert 1939-ben az oroszok bevonultak Bukovinába [1940 júniusában vonult be a Vörös Hadsereg Bukovinába. – A szerk.].

Nekem a római jog volt a nagy élvezet. Volt egy tanárom Kolozsváron, Moşoiu volt a neve, nagy élmény volt őt hallgatni, szabadon beszélt, papír nélkül. Mindig nagyon jól megszervezte az idejét. De voltak más ugyanennyire jól fölkészült tanáraink is. Például végeztem egy továbbképző tanfolyamot Bukarestben, már az egyetem után, és emlékszem, hogy ott is nagyon szépen adták elő a legfelső törvényszéket. De hát voltak másféle tanárok is – például a némettanár, jött, fölírt egy szöveget a táblára, nekünk meg szóról szóra be kellett magolni. Egyebet nem is csinált az órán. Ugyanúgy a latintanár sem magyarázott semmit. Akkoriban nem volt inspekció, a tanárok azt tettek, amit akartak.

Nem voltam katona. Amikor a zsidókat elvitték a falvakról [lásd: zsidótörvények Romániában], 1941-ben a szüleim ismét Aradra költöztek, aztán 1944-ben visszatértek [Körös]Bökénybe. A holokauszt idején munkaszolgálatos voltam, 1941-től 1944 júniusáig. Előbb Fogaras megyében, majd Arad megyében, az aradhegyaljai csatornánál (Paulis, Gyorok). Akkor jártam haza, amikor megállt a munka. Jó pár évet vesztettem el, az utolsó vizsgáimat a háború után tettem le, Kolozsváron.

Miután 1944-ben befejeztem az egyetemi tanulmányaimat [Nyilván 1944. augusztus 23. után;  lásd: Románia kiugrása a háborúból. – A szerk.], ügyvédbojtár voltam – az apám vett maga mellé vagy két évre. Én is Körösbökényben laktam 1946-ig, amikor kineveztek bírónak Aradra. Végül aztán 1952-ben a törvényszék elnöke lettem, és az voltam 1968-ig. Amikor kineveztek Aradra bírónak, Irén nagynénémnél laktam, anyai nagymamám házában. Borosjenőn is törvényszéki elnök voltam, hat évig, majd Köröskisjenőn tíz évig. Nem nősültem meg, nem voltak gyermekeim. Apám [Körös]Bökényben halt meg, kereken nyolcvanéves korában, azaz 1968-ban. Anyám Aradon halt meg kilencvenkét évesen – 1982-ben. Mindketten itt, Aradon vannak eltemetve.

Amikor Borosjenőn voltam, ott már nem volt zsinagóga. Romániában, 1945–46-ban a bukaresti Szövetség (Zsidó Hitközségek Szövetsége), kiadta az utasítást, hogy minden olyan településen, ahol már nincsenek zsidók, vagy csak nagyon kevesen vannak, a zsinagógákat le kell bontani. [Boros]Jenőn talán még volt egy-két család. Csermőn a zsinagógát nem bontották le, hanem megvásárolta a baptista gyülekezet, és imaháznak használják. Tudom, hogy [Körös]Bökényben is le kellett bontani a zsinagógát, a telket pedig eladták. Ezt a döntést a Szövetség épp azért hozta, mert nem voltak már zsidók ezeken a településeken. Weisblatt doktor, az egyik legjobb aradi bőrgyógyász elmesélte, hogy a pankotai bútorgyárban, ami egy igen nagy gyár volt, sokan megbetegedtek valamilyen bőrbetegségben, és őt küldték ki hivatalosan, hogy nézze meg, miről van szó. Aztán hallotta Pankotán, hogy egy munkás, aki a zsinagóga lebontásán dolgozott, lezuhant az épületről, és meghalt. Az egész falu azt beszélte, hogy ez természetes, hiszen egy templomot bontottak le. Köröskisjenőn és Csigérszőlősön is lebontották a zsinagógákat. Egyszer, amikor a községházán jártam [Csigér]Szőlősön, a polgármester megmutatta a községháza bútorzatát – a zsinagóga lebontása előtt vásárolták meg, és a polgármester a rabbi székén ült az irodában. Csak Aradon és Szalontán maradtak meg, ha jól tudom, egész Arad megyében a zsinagógák. De pár éve azt hallottam, hogy már a [nagy]szalontai sem létezik.

Hogy nem vándoroltam ki Izraelbe? Hát Aradon születtem, egész életemben Arad megyében éltem, véletlenül Aradra neveztek ki bírónak. Nemigen van jó véleményem azokról, akik hol balra, hol jobbra mennek. Azt hiszem, ha az ember elkezd dolgozni valahol, a legjobb, ha holtáig ott marad. Én a kommunizmus idején is jogászként dolgoztam – 1975-ig voltam törvényszéki elnök. Amikor betöltöttem a hatvanadik évemet, kértem a nyugdíjaztatásomat.

Anélkül lettem párttag, hogy akartam volna. Egy barátom, Lakatos László, aki [Körös]Bökényben volt gyógyszerész, a háború előtt Bukarestben járt egyetemre. Ott került be egy kommunista diákcsoportba, ő is meggyőződéses kommunista lett, pedig magyar nemesi családból származott. 1944. augusztus huszonharmadika után belépett a pártba, és anélkül, hogy megkérdezett volna, engem is beíratott. Részt vettem a kommunisták által szervezett megannyi tevékenységben – hetente kellett gyűlésekre járnom, de nem meggyőződésből lettem párttag, hanem azért, mert nagyon jó barátok voltunk. Nagyon derék fiú volt, igazi úriember. Másokat is megismertem, akiket a párt befogadott a származásuk ellenére. Aradon volt egy bank, Goldschmidt, a tulajdonosa zsidó volt. A fia, aki jóval idősebb volt, mint én, Párizsban tanult közgazdaságtant a második világháború előtt (akkoriban ilyesmit nem lehetett Romániában tanulni, csak Bécsben vagy Párizsban). Párizsban bekerült egy kommunista társaságba, nagy kommunista lett, pedig az apja banktulajdonos volt, és amikor a kommunizmus hatalomra került itt az országban, felelős beosztásba került a minisztériumban, sőt, elküldték diplomatának Magyarországra, minthogy beszélt magyarul.

Sose volt kellemetlenségem a kommunistákkal – keveset ismertem, aki butaságokat tett volna. Csak az első titkárnak volt joga érdeklődni arról, amivel én foglalkoztam, de ő sose ütötte bele az orrát. Ilyen volt az utasítás Bukarestből. A kollégáim rendes emberek voltak, a hivatalnokokkal meg szerencsém volt – rendesen végezték a dolgukat. Zsidó kollégáim is voltak.

Izraelben egyszer jártam, 1968-ban. Igen jó benyomást tett rám. Egy unokahúgomhoz mentem, Brenner Évához, pont a Pészah idején. Az unokahúgom egy Körösbányáról való mócnak [Mócok – az Erdélyi-érchegységben és a Bihar-hegységben élő román népcsoport (Magyar Nagylexikon). – A szerk.] a felesége, Pavelnek, aki egy igen rendes fiú. Ő akart Izraelbe költözni, és a feleségét is meggyőzte. Pavel lakatos volt egy gyárban, Éva pedig hivatalnok. Elég jól megvannak. Amikor náluk voltam, egy hónapon át mindennap elvittek valahova autóval, hogy minél többet lássak – minden nap más várost, más helyeket láttam. Külföldön jártam még a Szovjetunióban egy hajókiránduláson, a Fekete-tengeren (két hétig), meglátogattam Rigát, és egyszer voltam az Északi-tengernél.

Az 1989-es forradalom [lásd: 1989-es romániai forradalom] semmiképpen sem érintett. Úgy látom, hogy semmi sem változott. 1989-ben már nyugdíjas voltam. Miután 1975-ben nyugdíjaztattam magam, egy barátom, aki a megyei tanács főtitkára volt, behívott, és fizetés nélkül dolgoztam a Prefektúra hivatalában vagy két évet, 1978-ig. Azután elhívtak a hitközséghez, hogy segítsek nekik a jogi kérdésekben. A hitközségben huszonhárom évig dolgoztam, amíg aztán meg nem betegedtem, 1977-től 2000-ig. Akkor meg kellett műtetnem magam. Amíg jobban voltam, szerettem sétálni. Most már túl fáradt vagyok ahhoz, hogy bármit is csináljak – otthon ülök, és olvasom az újságot

Zsuzsa Kobstein
Budapest
Hungary
Interviewers: Dora Sardi, Eszter Andor

I was born in the winter of 1920 in a hospital in Budapest. My parents
lived in Pilisvorosvar. It was such a cold winter that my father couldn't
get to Budapest. So, a telegram was sent to him saying, "Zsuzsa is born."

My father was also born in Pilisvorosvar in 1876. He was called Lipot
Maszler. He was an only son. His parents died before I was born. I don't
know anything about them. My father had another wife, but she died in
childbirth in 1916. Some time after that, he went with a friend to a dinner
with my mother's family. My mother and her sisters and brothers and her
parents sat on one side of the table and my father on the other side. My
mother sat across from him. When dinner was over, my father asked my mother
to marry him. They got married shortly after, in Obuda, and moved to
Pilisvorosvar. They lived in the house my father inherited from his
parents.

My mother, Margit Krausz, was born in 1890. She had 10 brothers and
sisters. My grandparents were quite religious, but my grandmother didn't
wear a shaytl. My grandfather had two kosher butcher shops in Obuda, but I
don't know where. I never saw them. One of my uncles also became a kosher
butcher. Sewing runs in the family. Three of my mother's relatives were
tailors or dressmakers, and Mother also loved to sew and do needlework. All
her brothers and sisters lived in Budapest, so they all survived the
Holocaust. We used to get together for big family occasions, but everybody
celebrated Jewish holidays separately in their homes.

Our house was on the main street of Pilisvorosvar. It was nicely furnished.
We had two big rooms, a kitchen and a huge garden. In the winter, we only
used the bedroom where we had heat. But from spring to autumn, we spent a
lot of time in the garden. We used to do our homework there and play with
other children from school and the neighborhood. We had Christian friends
as well. There wasn't this hatred at that time, in the 1920s. We got on
well with the Christians. We met our Jewish friends on Saturday in
synagogue or in the garden of the synagogue. My headmaster came to see
Mother often, and they would chat and my mother would teach her various
tricks in needlework. Our Christian friends invited us and my parents over
at Christmas to look at their Christmas tree, and they would send us a live
chicken for the holidays. My mother would send them matzot at Pesach.

My father worked as a business agent in the local coal mine. His job was to
collect orders from Budapest. My mother didn't work. She looked after us
and kept the household. She had a young Christian servant. Mother did a lot
of needlework, and she made most of our clothes.

My father went to synagogue every Friday, but on Saturdays he had to work.
But if he was free on Saturday, he went to shul and took us along. My
mother made challah on Friday and she taught us how to light the [Sabbath]
candles and what brochas to say. I still remember some of them. My mother
also made cholent, and we girls had to take it to a nearby Christian baker
and bring it home for Sabbath lunch. Many Jews did the same in
Pilisvorosvar. Every Saturday night, somebody from the community went
around to the Jewish families and told them where they could buy kosher
meet. So, the next day my mother would go and buy meat for the whole week
and put it in ice in the cellar to keep it fresh. We raised chickens at
home, and we would take some to the shochet every week.

We didn't go on holiday, but we often went on excursions on the weekends.
Sometimes all of us went, but often only my sister, I and my father went,
and Mother stayed at home. She would do some needlework and socialize with
her friends. My father was on very good terms with the local rabbi and the
Jewish pharmacist, and they would often pop in to chat with him.

My sister and I went to the local elementary school. It was a mixed school,
with Jews and Gentiles alike. We often went on excursions with the class
and we had many friends from school who came to play with us in our big
garden. It wasn't an Orthodox community, so we went to school on Saturday
and even wrote on that day. After elementary school, we went to the middle
school. But I only went for two years. I became very seriously ill and I
spent a long time in hospital and sanatorium.

When I recovered, I learned to sew. I became an apprentice in a little
dressmaking salon in Budapest and I worked there for two to three years.
Then, one day, my mother saw an advertisement in the newspaper from the
Berta Neumann salon. She went to see the owner and asked her to take my
sister and me on as dressmakers. We worked there until the German
occupation of Hungary.

We made beautiful dresses at the Berta Neumann salon, in the center of
Pest, for countesses and famous artists, like Katalin Karady. We had to get
up at 5 every morning and leave at 6. The train arrived in Nyugati station
at half-past 6. From there we took a tram and then walked. We had to change
into our elegant working clothes - a blue gown with a white collar. At 8
sharp, the manager of the workshop said: "Young ladies, it is time to
start." At half-past 9, the first table could take a break for 10 minutes.
Then the next table. We worked until 1 and then we had a two-hour lunch
break. The girls who lived outside Budapest brought their lunch with them.
There was a small stove and we could heat our lunch on it. In the summer,
we went for a walk during the lunch break or we sat in the Gerbeaud, a
patisserie. Then we worked until 6; we arrived home around 7. We envied
those who lived in Pest because they could go to the movies or go out. We
had to go home to Pilisvorosvar.

In 1942, the doctor told my parents that we should get out of the house in
Pilisvorosvar because it was bad for my health. This is why we moved to
Budapest. Mother went to see the rabbi of Obuda and asked him to give us a
flat. We got a one-room flat in the community building, which also housed
the Jewish elementary school. The rabbi arranged for my father to work in
the community. We enjoyed living in Budapest. For the first time since we
started to work in the Neumann salon, we didn't have to get up so early and
we had free time to go to the movies after work.

There were 50 to 60 girls in the workshop, many of them Jewish. But we had
to work Saturday mornings as well. We got our weekly pay at the end of the
workday on Saturday. On my way home, I'd buy candy, and I would give my
salary and the candy to my mother. After the German occupation of Hungary,
and only three days after a fashion show in the salon, it was confiscated,
together with the dresses, machines - everything.

I met my husband, Odon Kobstein, in our building. He and some other Jewish
boys who were in forced labor units were put up there for the night. During
the day they worked in a factory near Budapest. They would often come and
talk with us, and they helped us move to the cellar when there was an air
raid. In July 1944 as we were preparing to celebrate my mother's birthday,
she said to me, "We will make a big celebration, my dear." I asked her why,
and she told me that I would be engaged to Odon. He already had asked my
parents for my hand. I was very happy, but I didn't want to get married
yet, because we had nowhere to go.

When the Hungarian fascists took over the power in October 1944, we were
taken to the brick factory of Obuda. The older people were later sent off
to the ghetto in Pest, and we young people were marched to one of the train
stations, crammed into wagons and sent off to Ravensbruck. We arrived at
the beginning of December and stayed there about 5 weeks. Then those who
were in a condition to work were taken to the Messerschmitt factory. My
sister and I worked in the turnery until the middle of April. Then we were
deported, weak and ill with typhoid, to Mauthausen, and we were already
standing in front of the gas chambers, naked, with the dog tags around our
necks, when somebody came running and shouting, "Hey, Hungarians, we are
liberated!"

After our liberation, we spent three months in a hospital in Guzen. We left
the hospital when the Russians took it over from the Americans. We arrived
home in the summer of 1945. We found our parents in the old flat in Obuda.
My dear husband, my fiancé at that time, visited my parents every Sunday.
We arrived on a Sunday and he opened the door. "Zsuzsa," he said, "Where
have you been?!"

We married in 1947. We did not have a religious wedding, only a civil
ceremony. We moved into a small flat in Budapest and we found a small place
to set up a mechanics workshop. It was never nationalized because it was
small and we had no employees. My husband repaired only three things:
motorbikes, bicycles and sewing machines. At first, I wanted to go back to
dressmaking, but he asked me to help in the shop. So I was there all day,
and I used to sew. When people came in, they asked me if I would make
clothes for them as well. But I told them that I only sew for my husband. I
could never have any children because of the illness I had as an 8-year-old
child. But my dear husband told me that he loved me all the same.

My sister Judit married in 1948. She has a son, Gyuri. When he was at
university, he went to Japan to study Chinese and Japanese, and he never
came back. He lives in Australia. But he comes quite often and he also
calls me.

Dina Kuremaa
Tallinn
Estonia
Interviewer: Ella Levitskaya
Date of Interview: September 2005

I met Dina Kuremaa in the Jewish Community of Estonia 1, but the interview was conducted in the hotel, where I was staying. Dina is a slender, rather short woman. She is very feminine and charming. Dina's hair is curly, of auburn color. She looks much younger than her age, perhaps because she smiles often. Dina likes jokes and laughter. She is very sociable and easy-going.

Family background
Growing up
During the War
After the War
Glossary: 

Family background

My father, Ezekiel Neimark, is from Poland. He was born in 1889 in a small town called Koden [170 km from Warsaw]. I know that my father's birthday was always marked in March. I know nothing about Father's family. All my father's kin remained in Poland and I never saw them. Father said that his family was very religious. They strictly observed traditions and lead a Jewish way of life. Father went to cheder. Besides, he obtained education in a Jewish elementary school. He finished four or five grades, I don't remember for sure. My father's mother tongue was Yiddish.

I don't know why Father decided to leave Poland and his family. He never mentioned it. At any rate, in 1918 he came to Estonia and settled in Tallinn. Here he met my mother. When Father became an Estonian citizen, they entered the name Kissel in his passport. His Jewish name Izekiel was written in the synagogue records. Father's name was also a little bit changed. It was written Naimark instead of Neimark.

Mother's family lived in Estonia, in a small town called Paljasmaa [about 80 km from Tallinn]. My maternal grandfather, Leizer-Ber Aizman, was born in Tartu. Grandmother's name was Ella. I don't know her maiden name. Grandmother was born in Paljasmaa and my grandparents moved there after the wedding. Grandmother was a housewife.

All their children were born in Paljasmaa. The family was large. They had 13 children. I knew only five out of them: Mother and four of her sisters. They lived in Estonia. The rest of the children lived in different parts of the world. Mother's elder sister Ida and younger brother left for America in the 1900s. Other siblings lived in Russia. I knew only Anna, who lived in Leningrad with her family. Mother's sister Reize, Roche and Fanny lived in Estonia. My mother Berta was one of the youngest children in the family. She was born in 1892.

None of the children of the Aizman family obtained a good education. My mother finished three grades of Jewish elementary school. I think that another four children had approximately the same education. The family was religious. Jewish traditions were observed. Sabbath and Jewish holidays were marked at home. Grandfather went to the prayer house on Sabbath and on Jewish holidays. Yiddish was spoken at home.

Grandfather died in the 1910s. There was no Jewish cemetery in Paljasmaa, so he was buried in the Jewish cemetery in Tartu.

The children grew up and flew out of the nest in different directions. All of them had families. Anna married a certain Feitelson. They had one son. Reize married Mayzel. They had two sons, Ber and Abram, and three daughters: Zelda, Raya, and I don't remember their third daughter's name. Both Reize's sons immigrated to Palestine in the 1930s. Rebecca married a certain Dantsig. They had a son, Abram, and a daughter, Dina. Roche Strazh had two children: daughter Dina and son Abram. Fanny married Olei. They had only one child- son Bernchard. Having got married all of my mother's sisters became housewives.

When Mother grew up, she left Paljasmaa and moved to Tallinn to look for a job. Her married friend lived there and Mother moved in with her. Mother didn't have education, so she started working as a sales assistant in a kiosk on the market. She sold buttons, threads and all kinds of small paraphernalia for tailors. One day Father came by to get buttons. That was the way my parents met. Mother was a beautiful girl and Father had a crush on her. Mother was tall and buxom. Father was small and slim. They started seeing each other and in 1919 they got married. They had a traditional Jewish wedding with a lot of guests. It was very mirthful. Mother often told us about it.

When my parents got married they rented an apartment. It was located on Kompasi Street. I don't remember that apartment. After their children were born, my parents moved to a more spacious apartment, consisting of five rooms. We lived there until evacuation. I remember that place very well. It was a two-storied log house. It is no longer there. A multi-storied building is in its place now. There were two apartments on each floor of our house. We lived on the first floor. Our neighbors were an Estonian family. The second floor was occupied by a Jewish family. My parents were friends with them. Each apartment consisted of four rooms, a kitchen and a poky room for the maids.

Growing up

Our family was Jewish and all the children got Jewish names. My elder sister, Ente-Zelda, was born in 1920. She was called Zelda at home. The second sister, Chaya-Miriam, was born in 1921. She was called Miriam. The third sister, Roche-Leya, was just called Roche. She was born in 1924. I was born in 1927. I was called Libe-Dina. I was called Dina at home. In 1933 my brother Zelek-Michl was born. Father was happy to have a son. My brother went through his brit milah. I remember that event as we, children were treated to sweets.

Father had his own shop. He obtained a state patent for private entrepreneurs. His workshop produced half-finished patterns of the upper part of shoes. Shoemakers purchased those materials from Father. Mother was a housewife. My maternal grandmother moved into our place when my parents got married. Grandfather had died a long time ago and she remained by herself. I remember Grandmother very well. She looked beautiful even at an elderly age.

We also had a maid, an Estonian lady called Anna. She was a very good lady. We loved her a lot. Anna mostly took care of children. She cooked hardly anything as Mother didn't let her do that. Mother cooked everything by herself. We only had kosher food, therefore Mother didn't trust the cooking of an Estonian lady. The only thing Anna did in the kitchen was cleaning or warming up dishes on Sabbath. Mother cooked everything on the eve of Sabbath, so the maid had to warm and serve the food.

The children were brought up in a strict way in the family. Of course, we were not chastised. Of course, sometimes when Mother was angry, she could spank someone, but Father's strictest punishment was to tell the disobedient one to stand in the corner. However, it did not happen often. Father never let us be frolicsome at the table and pick favorite dishes. There was a strict order: the whole family got together at the table. When Father finished eating, the meal was over for everybody and Mother started clearing the table. Nobody was allowed to stay at the table.

I remember one incident very vividly. I was not older than five. Father had stomach problems and he underwent surgery. That is why Mother always made oatmeal for breakfast. Not only Father ate it, but everybody else too. I didn't like it very much. I didn't even start eating my oat porridge as I couldn't make myself eat that. Father finished his food, left and Mother started clearing the table. I stayed hungry before lunch. At lunch I was given the oatmeal, which I hadn't eaten for breakfast. After that, I started eating everything Mother cooked. I think that this kind of upbringing was fruitful. All of us were raised to be unpretentious, conscientious and responsible.

We were not very wealthy. My parents didn't pamper us. I was the fourth daughter in the family, and I had to wear hand-me-downs after my sisters. I wasn't given new dresses and I felt very offended with that. My brother was the only boy in the family and they always bought him new clothes of course. They didn't buy any new pieces for me. I got new clothes only after the Great Patriotic War 2, when I started working.

My parents were very religious, especially Father. Mother was not as pious. Still, she strictly observed all Jewish traditions. Maybe she did so because of our father. Father said that one of his relatives in Poland was a rabbi. It seems that Father's whole family was religious. He was raised in a religious spirit since childhood. Kashrut was strictly observed at home. Mother had two sets of dishes: separate dishes for dairy products and for meat. Mother strictly followed that. Once, one of her children confused the dishes and Mother took the cinder from the stove and koshered the dishes with that. There was a shochet in Tallinn. Chicken purchased on the market was taken to the shochet. Once mother took me to the shochet. I still remember how frightened I was. When I saw blood, I was screaming so bad that I could hardly be cooled down.

There was a very beautiful synagogue in Tallinn 3. The Germans destroyed it during the war. Men were downstairs and women were on the balcony. Every year father paid for his seat in the synagogue as well as Mother's and Grandmother's seat. Seats were not to be bought for children as they sat next to the parents. My parents didn't always take us to the synagogue on Sabbath. The whole family went there during Jewish holidays. They even took my younger brother with them. There were a lot of Jews in Tallinn. The synagogue was very large and it was always full of people. There was a very good rabbi in Tallinn, Doctor Aba Gomer 4, and a wonderful chazzan, Gourevich.

Mother didn't bake bread. She bought it. She always baked Sabbath challot, though. On Sabbath she always cooked gefilte fish and carrot tsimes. I remember we didn't really enjoy that as there was a lot of goose fat in it. Mother cooked all food beforehand. Her festive dishes were ready by sun- set. Mother lit candles and prayed over them. Then we sat down at the table. After dinner she didn't do any work about the house. Our maid Anna turned the light on, stoked the stove and washed up.

We observed Jewish holidays with all rules being observed. We bought matzah on Pesach. There wasn't a single slice of bread in the entire Paschal period. We ate matzah at that time. Mother had Paschal dishes, which were kept in the box in the kitchen cupboard for the whole year. It was taken out of the box only on Pesach, when everyday dishes were not used.

Father always carried out paschal seder. I vividly remember him in white attire sitting and reclining on pillows. All rules were observed. Father read from the Haggadah, hid the afikoman - a piece of matzah, which one of the children was supposed to steal and return to Father for redemption. A goblet with wine for the prophet Eliagu was put on the table. The door was kept open for Eliagu to come into the house and bless it.

On Yom Kippur my parents and elder sisters fasted. My brother and I were taken to our neighbors, a Jewish family, living on the second floor. They gave us something to eat. On Yom Kippur my parents spent the whole day in the synagogue and prayed until the vesper. They could have dinner in the evening when they came back from the synagogue. Father contributed money to the synagogue. The Jewish community collected money to help poor families.

My brother and I went to the Jewish kindergarten, though Mother didn't work. We had a maid, who took care of us. The matter is that Father wanted us to go to the Jewish lyceum 5 with teaching in Ivrit. There were two Jewish lyceums in one building. That building is currently occupied by the Jewish community of Estonia and the Tallinn Jewish school. All subjects were taught in Ivrit in one of the lyceums and in the other one - in Yiddish. When my elder sisters were studying in the Ivrit lyceum, most subjects were taught in Russian, and gradually the teaching was being switched to Ivrit. That is why there was no need for them to attend kindergarten where children where taught the rudiments of Ivrit.

By the time when I was supposed to go to school, they began teaching Ivrit since the first grade. My cousin Bernhard, the son of Mother's sister Fanny, was in one class with me. Yiddish was spoken in my kindergarten. At home we spoke Yiddish as well as Ivrit. We took walks, played games, had music, drawing and reading classes. I don't remember how much time we spent in the kindergarten. I don't think it was for the whole day. I think we stayed there until lunch and then went home.

I went to the first class of the Ivrit lyceum when I was seven. I cannot say that I was a very good student, maybe I was a mediocre one. I wasn't good at mathematics. Sometimes I got bad marks. Usually I got good marks and rarely excellent marks. From the 1st till the 6th grade I studied in the lyceum free of charge, and from the 7th grade my parents had to pay tuition.

My elder sisters Zelda and Miriam did not do very well at school. They finished the 6th grade. Father said if they could not study, they should work. He was not going to waste money on them. My eldest sister, Zelda, worked in Father's workshop. In accordance with his patent he could keep one worker and one apprentice. Thus Zelda became his apprentice and then a worker. My second sister, Miriam, worked at the spinnery until evacuation. A Jew was the owner of the factory. The third sister, Rocha, kept on studying in the lyceum.

When I went to lyceum, uniforms were introduced. The everyday uniform consisted of a navy blue dress with a white collar and cuffs and a navy blue cap with a white rim. There was also a festive uniform: a navy blue skirt and white blouse. We wore it on Jewish holidays and Estonian state holidays.

We studied two foreign languages at the lyceum - German and Russian. My father spoke broken Russian, Mother spoke no Russian. I spoke pretty good German, but Russian was hard for me. Many students in our lyceum were the members of children's Zionist organizations. There were three of them in Tallinn: Betar 6, Hashomer Hatzair 7 and Maccabi 8. My elder sisters were members of Maccabi. I didn't join any Zionist organization. I don't even remember why.

There was no anti-Semitism in Estonia. Neither I nor my kin felt anti- Semitism in every-day situations or on the state level. Estonian Jews exercised the same rights as Estonians and it was absolutely natural for us.

In 1936 my father, mother and elder sisters went to Poland to visit Father's relatives. My paternal grandmother wanted to see her daughter-in- law and her grandchildren, whom she had never seen before. She wanted to do that before she died. I and my younger brother weren't taken on the trip. We stayed with Grandmother and our maid Anna. I was so upset that I even cried on the day of their departure. My granny decided to distract me from that and took me and my brother to the photo studio. Such events took place rather rarely in our family, so soon I forgot about my worries.

My parents came back from Poland after a month. They told us about Father's family, the places they visited. I didn't listen to their talks as I must have envied the sisters. Thus, I cannot recall anything they told me about their trip. My grandmother Ella died shortly after they came back. She was buried in the Jewish cemetery in Tallinn according to the Jewish rite, the way it was supposed to.

Each summer Mother and we, the children, left town and went to Nömme. She rented a house there for the entire summer. Many of our acquaintances were on recreation in Nömme with their children. Grandmother, Anna and Father came in the evening after work and on the weekend. We lived in Nömme in summer 1940, when Estonia became a Soviet Republic [see Occupation of the Baltic Republics] 9. Then I was told how Soviet troops entered Tallinn, but I didn't see that myself. I remember only how my mother unexpectedly packed our things and we left Tallinn in early August. I remember I was surprised to see very many militaries in uniforms unfamiliar to me, walking around on the streets of Tallinn.

When the Soviet regime came to power in Estonia, our life changed. Our Jewish lyceum was closed down and remade into a Jewish school with the teaching in Yiddish. All of us became pioneers 10. At that time I didn't quite understand what it was all about. I did what others did and became a pioneer like others. The new-comers from the Soviet Union were housed in the apartments of other people, but it didn't happen with us, maybe they didn't have time for it.

My father's workshop was nationalized and turned into a cobblers' artel 11. Father transferred all equipment to the artel and kept on working there. Strange as it may be our family avoided deportation, carried out by the Soviet regime on 14th June 1941 12. A lot of people who used to own stores and workshops were exiled to Siberia from Estonia within one day. Men were sent to the Gulag 13, and their families were exiled. Now I wonder how come our family was not touched. Maybe several stages of deportation were planned and the unleashed war was in the way of that process.

We got to know that Hitler's troops unleashed war in 1939, when fascists attacked Poland 14. At that time Father was corresponding with his relatives in Poland. They fled to Soviet Ukraine, when the German troops entered Poland. At that time fugitives were let in there. When they wrote to us from Ukraine, Father wanted them to come to us Tallinn. I don't know why they didn't come at once. Then the Germans captured Estonia, and we got evacuated. That was all we knew about Father's relatives. All of them must have perished.

Even when Hitler attacked Poland, there was no fear. The Soviet army crushed the German troops and we believed that Germany would not like to be at war with the Soviet Union. After Hitler's troops having been crushed, a non-aggression pact was signed between Germany and the USSR [the so-called Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact] 15. Everybody hoped that there would be peace when the agreement was signed. We were frightened when on 22nd June 1941 we found out from Molotov's speech 16 on the radio that German troops had attacked the Soviet Union, gone into action in Belarus and Ukraine.

During the War

Father said at once that we had to leave Estonia as soon as possible. Mother always listened to Father, but still we didn't pack as quickly as we should have and we took the last train departing from Tallinn on 9th June 1941. Many people managed to get evacuated, but unfortunately many more Jews stayed in Estonia. After deportations just one week before the war, people feared Bolsheviks 17 more than Germans.

The only thing we knew was that we were heading somewhere far in Russia. Nobody told us about the final destination. As I mentioned we took the last train. It was necessary to cross the bridge over the Narva River in order to leave Estonia. German planes were constantly bombing that bridge. Hardly had we crossed the bridge, was it blown up. My cousin Dina Dantsig worked for the government, and they were evacuated in a ship, since there was no train communication. Their ship was hit by a German bomb, but the passengers were rescued from the sinking ship.

It was a long way to go, and finally we arrived in Kazan [about 900 km from Moscow], wherefrom some people were sent to Chelyabinsk, but our family stayed in Tataria. Kolkhoz people on carts met the evacuees at the train station in Kazan and took them to the kolkhozes 18. Nobody was left in Kazan. The militaries had the lists of evacuees and supervised the allocation. Our family was sent to the kolkhoz Shura, not far from Kazan. One more family of Estonian evacuees went with us.

We were taken to the kolkhoz and housed in a vacated house. There was one room and a kitchen. There was a large Russian stove 19 in the wall between the rooms. It was used for heating the house and cooking. There was no furniture. The chairman of the kolkhoz sent a carpenter to us, who made big bunks along the wall for us. They gave us empty sacks. We put straw in there and used them as mattresses. Mother had brought along pillows and blankets for us. There weren't enough blankets for everybody, so one blanket was used for two people.

We had a hard living. The second family, which came with us, shortly after left Shura and moved to Kirov. Father was not willing to go. Our large family had no place to go. We thought that the war would end in half a year, or in a year in the worst case scenario, and we would be able to go back home. We didn't have many things with us. Mother took winter coats, underwear and a little bit of gold. When a baby was born in our family, Father always gave Mother some golden jewelry: a ring or ear-rings. That gold was of big help for us at the beginning of the war. Mother exchanged gold for products. Unfortunately, we ran out of the gold pieces pretty quickly.

We hardly had any clothes. We had winter coats, but we had neither hats nor boots. Mother exchanged some of the things for secondhand woolen kerchiefs and felt boots, valenki. They were worn out very quickly and we tied the soles that started to come off with ropes. We didn't have stockings, so we used rags instead. The winters were severe, about 40° ? below zero.

Father and my sisters worked in the kolkhoz. Sometimes I also was involved in weeding and mowing. We were not given food cards 20, but got some products for a day of work in the kolkhoz, namely flour and potatoes. After work, Father fixed shoes for local people and they paid him with flour and grain. Life was hard on us. We didn't even think of kashrut. During our stay in evacuation we had forgotten the taste of milk and meat.

The local people were Tartars, Muslims. They treated Father very well, but the rest of us were ignored. All of us starved, but it was the hardest for my father. He often couldn't eat anything, as he had problems with his stomach and he had to be on a special diet. The food we ate was not good for him. Father was getting weaker and in 1943 he died from emaciation. We wrapped his body in the tallit, taken by him into evacuation, and some sheet on top of that. There was no coffin.

Father was buried by local Tartars. They wanted everything done in accordance with their rite. We knew that it was customary for them to bury the deceased in a sitting position. Mother pled that Father should be buried in a lying position, but she could not control whether it would be done that way. My brother came back and said that Father was buried in a lying position. Then a board with Father's name was put on the mound. After the war we went there, intending to set up a monument for him, but could not find his grave.

It was even harder for us after Father's death. Local people cut us dead. Nobody cared whether we were alive or not, whether we had something to eat. When Father was alive, we ate almost every day. When he died, there were times when we had nothing to eat for several days. Then it became easier. We went to the forest, picked berries and roots, and mushrooms, growing on the trees. They were very hard, almost as hard as wood, so we could not just boil or fry them. We peeled those mushrooms, pestled them in a mortar and poured boiling water over that powder. Of course, we cooked all food without salt. We didn't see salt in the four years of our stay in evacuation.

My brother went to the kolkhoz field to pick up remaining frozen potatoes and brought them home. It was impossible to boil them as after heating they turned into mucus. We washed and baked them. It tasted awful, but we didn't pay attention to trifles like that. In any case, this food didn't last very long. The chairman of the kolkhoz was very stringent. Once he nabbed my brother while he was digging potatoes. He called a militiaman and threatened that he would be imprisoned for stealing kolkhoz belongings. The militiaman turned out to be a kind man. He took my brother home and told Mother not to let him in the field. Then he started whispering some things in her ear. Later Mother said that he told her what to do: if going in the field, it should be only at the nighttime out of sight of the chairman. The chairman said if he caught my brother another time, he would sue him in court.

Of course, we were scared, but we had no other way out. My brother and I went in the field at night: he was digging and I was on the vigil. It was funky, but God was protecting us. We were not caught. We didn't have potatoes every day. We drank a lot of hot water every day to quench our starvation, which created the illusion of being sate for a while. All of us looked like skeletons. My mother was stout before the war. She weighed more than 90 kilos when we were leaving for evacuation. Her weight was 48 kilos when we came back. I don't know how we could possibly get over that starvation.

That was the way we lived for a while. Our neighbor, an elderly Tartar, had pity on us. She started stopping by at our place and bringing us food stealthily from her husband. Sometimes, she brought us potato peelings. Mother washed them thoroughly and cooked soup from them. My elder sisters Miriam and Rocha left Shura. Miriam went to Kazan, and found a job there as a spinner at the spinnery. Rocha left for Tambov. She was the only one, who finished school. She entered medical school and began studies to become a nurse.

The four of us stayed - Mother, Zelda, my brother and I. A funny story happened to us. We had playing cards, and sometimes we played at night. Once our neighbor saw cards in Zelda's hands and asked if my sister knew how to read cards. My sister was very witty and replied at once that she could. Of course, she didn't know how to read cards, but she knew all inhabitants of the village, whose relatives were in the lines, and who out of them was alive. She started spreading cards and telling what she knew. Local citizens took it at face value and starting coming to Zelda for her to read cards. My sister didn't take money. They paid her with food. Some of them brought bread, others flour. It helped us a lot to survive evacuation.

My cousin Dina Dantsig, who lived in Chelyabinsk, wrote that she would send an invitation for us to come there. I don't know what was in the way, but we didn't get the invitation.

I spoke broken Russian. I could hardly say simple things, so I didn't go to school. I managed to finish seven grades before evacuation, and I didn't study in the evacuation.

In 1942-43 the situation on the front was very tense, and it affected peoples' attitude to us. We were the only Jewish evacuees, the foreigners. Tartars were looking forward for Germans to come. I don't know what they expected from them, but they constantly were talking about it, and we felt ourselves ill at ease. When Soviet troops started attacking, the air was cleared. It was rather scary before that. There was a radio in the village, where we were constantly listening to round-ups from the front. We followed military actions of the Soviet army: where they attacked, and which cities they liberated. The closer Soviet troops were getting to Estonia, the more optimistic we were about the future.

We scraped through the dreadful year of 1944. In fall 1944 Estonia was liberated, and people started getting back home. We left for home in the middle of November. We were on the road for one month. We didn't have any food with us, and we had no things to exchange at the stations. One local woman gave me a loaf of bread at the station not far from the Estonian border. We cut it in tiny pieces and ate it on our way. When the train arrived in Narva, we were given food straight at the station. It was such an indescribable feast for us.

After the War

We headed for Tallinn from Narva. Mother's sister Rocha and her daughter Dina were already there. Our apartment was occupied by strangers, so we stayed with Aunt Rocha. We came there on my birthday, and I got a pretzel made from rye flour for my birthday. Aunt baked it herself. It was so scrumptious! They boiled a large pot of potatoes for our arrival and we pounced on the food. Aunts Rocha and Dina looked at us with their eyes full of tears and told us to take our time and eat normally as nobody was going to take the food away from us. I still remember that.

Today, my daughter and granddaughter cannot get why my fridge is always filled up, and why I should always have bread. I am 79, and I have never thrown away a single slice of bread. If there is stale bread, I warm it up in the microwave and eat it. I cannot make myself throw away even a crust. I have kept that rule since evacuation. It is hard for young people to understand that, as they didn't go through that.

Almost all of our relatives survived the war and were in evacuation. Only Mother's sister Reize and her three daughters didn't manage to leave. When the Germans entered Estonia, all of them were taken to a concentration camp - I don't remember exactly where, either to Latvia or Lithuania - and were executed there. Mother's sister Anna, who had lived with her family in Leningrad, came to Tallinn after the war. She lost her husband and son during the siege of Leningrad 21. She wasn't willing to stay in Leningrad by herself and settled in Tallinn.

My brother Zelek-Michl survived all horrors of evacuation and died when we came back to Tallinn. We arrived in Tallinn on 15th January and my brother went to school almost right away. On 23rd February, Soviet Army Day 22, his class went to congratulate the veterans of the war. At that time we were living with my aunt, as our apartment had not been returned to us yet. He had to take a train to get to school from Aunt's house. The tram took a turn near school, and slowed down the speed. At that time, the doors to the tram could be opened by people, without the driver's help. My brother decided not to go until the stop, but jump from the tram on the turn to school. He jumped out and was hit by a car, which was moving alongside the tram. Zelek-Michl died at once. He perished on the spot. He was buried in the Jewish cemetery in Tallinn, not far from Grandmother's grave. It took all of us long to get over that tribulation.

We had stayed with Aunt Rocha for less than a year before moving to our apartment. We addressed all authorities and finally we were given two rooms out of our five-room apartment. The other three rooms were occupied by our neighbors. We had no idea about communal apartments 23. Even in evacuation we lived in a separate house, without neighbors. Only walls and a sofa were left from our apartment. That was it.

The parcels sent by American Jews after the war were very handy. All Jews, who returned from evacuation, were given such parcels with clothes, food concentrates and canned products. They were of big help for a while. Gradually we started working, and getting things we needed.

Miriam was the first out of my sisters who got married. Her wedding was in August 1945. She married a Jew, Naum Shpolyanskiy, who came to Tallinn from Ukraine. Eldest sister Zelda married a Lett and moved to his place in Riga. Her married name was Putte. Rocha did not change her maiden name and remained Naimark.

I understood that it was not the right time for studies. I had to work as postwar times were hard. I went into evacuation at the age of 14 and came back when I was 18. I didn't grow up. I was tiny and lean and could easily wear the dresses that I used to put on when I was 14. My cousin Dina Dantsig worked for the Council of the Ministers of Estonia and helped me get a job there. On 25th January 1945 I was employed by the gas and water supply trust by Tallinn Ispolkom 24. In May 1945 I got my first salary and ordered my first dress from a milliner. It was a memorable event for me.

First I worked as an assistant to the secretary, then as an assistant to the accountant, then as a bookkeeper. I didn't work there for a long time, I changed my working place. I went to work for the Ministry of the State Planning. In 1952 I got an offer from the Russian Drama Theater in Tallinn. I worked there all my life: 48 years out of the 50 I was a chief accountant of the theater. Life got my easier when I started working. We received food cards right upon our return. When I got my first salary, we could afford some products from the market. We had enough to eat; we were not famished.

When I came to work for the theater, I already had experience in working as an accountant. I didn't have a specialized education, I learned on spot. People treated me very well, and tried helping me. The theater paid for my education and after work I attended classes at financial college. I studied there for about three years and obtained a diploma of an accountant, a professional secondary education.

Rocha had a diploma of a nurse. She worked for a hospital and entered the evening Pharmaceutical Department of Tallinn University. Rocha was the only one in the family, who got higher education. Upon graduation she went to work as a pharmacist, then she was the head of the pharmacy.

When campaigns against cosmopolitans 25 were held in the USSR, most Estonian citizens learned about them from papers. We didn't feel it. When I was working for the Ministry of State Planning, I didn't remember a single case, when a Jew was fired. There were other things happening in Estonia - recurrent exile of those, who managed to come back after deportation of 1941. In spite of the fact that those people came back on an absolutely legitimate ground, without being in hiding, they were arrested and exiled in the previous place. Of course, we were lucky, as the new leaders of Estonia were loyal to us. My sister Zelda, who was living in Latvia, said that there was tension there and sometimes she had to conceal that she was a Jew.

When the Doctors' Plot 26 commenced in January 1953, Estonian Jews also felt that. Every day there were radio programs, where people were told how Jewish doctors tried to poison Stalin, and we could feel that anti-Semitism was streamlined. We lived in fear. I knew that the management of the theater was given the task to make a list of Jews employees. There were a lot of Jews among the actors as well as among the employees of the theater. The chief producer was also a Jew. Such lists were definitely made in other institutions too. Our HR manager, Scherbatova, came to Estonia from Russia. She got those lists ready. I think if Stalin had not died in March, all of us would have gone to Siberia. We were living in constant fear. We had stocks of tinned food, rusks in case NKVD 27 officers came to us to send us in exile. Thanks God, Stalin died and our stored up things were not needed.

There was turmoil in the theater, when we found out about Stalin's death. We found his bust and put it in the foyer. There were a lot of mirrors and all of them were to be covered with black cloth and flowers put next to each of them. The mourning in the theater lasted for about a week. I didn't take Stalin's death as a grief, on the contrary I felt alleviation - there was no more fear. Aboriginal inhabitants had a different reaction. I remember the HR manager, Scherbakova, was in tears beating her head against the wall and crying, 'How will we be living!' I didn't have thoughts like that. We lived without Stalin, and our life was good. It was not as easy during his reign. We were always scared, were afraid of stooges. There was no fear under the regime of Khrushchev 28, and then Brezhnev 29. We felt more liberty.

Anti-Semitism was displayed under the Soviet regime in Estonia. I never felt it at work. In general, I could feel that people didn't like Jews that much, but it was not coming from the local people, only from those, who arrived from the USSR. They got used to anti-Semitism in the Soviet Union and passed that feeling on here. In fact, they felt themselves the hosts of Estonia. Of course, Estonian was not banned, but Russian was the state language and everything was in Russian, beginning from the documents and up to the street signs.

When Father died, we gradually started speaking Estonian, not Yiddish. Mother spoke Yiddish, and my sisters and I mostly spoke Estonian. Mother kept Jewish traditions. It was hard. There was no place to buy kosher food, we had to stand in a long line even to get ordinary food. There were times, when there was no place to buy matzah for Pesach and we baked it ourselves. Then the municipal authorities gave the community a small wooden house, which was turned into a synagogue or, more precisely, a prayer house. Matzah was sold there.

On Friday Mother always marked Sabbath in accordance with the tradition: lit candles and prayed over them. Mother was the only one who was able not to work on Saturday. At that time Saturday was an official working day and people had to go to work. We tried to mark Jewish holidays the best way we could. Mother loved cooking Jewish dishes and taught me how to cook them. Even now I often cook such dishes as gefilte fish, tsimes, salted beef tongue and others. My family likes them a lot. We always fasted on Yom Kippur. Almost every Sabbath, Mother went to the synagogue. All of us went there on Jewish holidays - my mother, sisters and I.

There wasn't such a tough struggle against religion 30 in Estonia, as it was in the Soviet Union. It was safe only for elderly people to go to the synagogue there. If it was found out that a working person went to the synagogue, he could be fired. Nothing like that happened here. All of us were working and were not afraid to go to the synagogue. I went there, even when I was a party member.

In two years, after I was assigned chief accountant of the theater I had to enter the Party. At that time the Central Committee of the Party of the Soviet Union demanded that people who had leading positions in the company join the Party. The management changed very often in the theater. Our political officer became the director of the theater. He called me and said that I had a choice - to join the Party or to resign. I wasn't willing to quit my job, so I joined the Party. It was a mere formality for me and for the party bureau. I didn't even know the statutes of the Party. The political officer advised me to read today's paper in case someone would ask about global events. I did what he told me and became a party member. When perestroika 31 broke out, I left the Party.

We didn't mark Soviet holidays. They were just extra days-off for us. The only exception was New Year's Day, when the whole family came to Mother. This family reunion was a tradition. Of course, I had to attend demonstrations with other employees of the theater. It was obligatory in Soviet times. People got together in the morning with the posters and with the flags. We marched in lines along the street and went home after the demonstration. In the event we didn't attend the demonstration, we would be reprimanded or deprived of our bonus.

In the late 1940s Mother started working at the market. She bought some things and resold them on the market. When my sisters and I became independent and started making pretty good money, we didn't let our mother work as we could provide for her ourselves. First Mother and I lived together. When I got married, Mother moved to my elder sister Rocha. Our family was on good terms. Everybody helped Mother. My mother died in 1962. She was buried in the Jewish cemetery in Tallinn.

I got married in 1956. I met my future husband, Raymond Kuremaa, with the help of my neighbors, an Estonian family. Raymond was their relative. On 31st December 1945 he came to congratulate his relatives on New Year. He rang the bell, and I opened the door. He looked at me and asked who I was. I said that I had lived there since my arrival from evacuation. He introduced himself and said that he had come to see his relatives. Then my neighbor came up to me and said that Raymond wanted to congratulate me on New Year. That was the way we met. From time to time we saw each other, went for a walk, to the cinema. I had known Raymond for eleven years before we got married. We were just friends. If someone told me about our getting married, I would only laugh.

Raymond was born in a hamlet in Raplass district of Estonia in 1924. His parents owned a farm, cultivated land and bred cows. When Estonia became Soviet, all property of Raymond's parents was taken over by a kolkhoz. Raymond's elder brother, who was 18 in 1941, was in hiding in the forest, when the Germans came to Estonia - he was not willing to join the German army. Then he came home to his parents, and someone told on him to the NKVD. When they came to arrest him, they found a rifle in his house. He was sentenced to 25 years and nobody believed that he was fighting against Soviet troops, and he was given an additional five years for keeping a weapon. He spent almost ten years in the Gulag, somewhere in Kolyma 32. Only after Stalin's death, when the commission on retrial of the convicts' cases considered his case, he was released since there was no corpus delicti. He came back home in 1956 and attended our wedding.

Raymond wanted to become an actor. He came to Tallinn upon finishing school. He became a very good actor. When he finished drama school he worked in drama theater for a while. Then a puppet theater was founded in Tallinn. Raymond found it interesting to start working with the puppets and he went to work for the puppet theater. He worked there all his life. Raymond was considered to be one of the best actors in Estonia. He always took part in the festivals, in the contests. He won prizes.

In 1956 Raymond invited me to spend a vacation with him and go to his parents. There was a group of young people with him, so I didn't mind going. We came to the farmstead. There was a very beautiful forest nearby. We took a walk in the forest. In the evening we made a fire. That evening Raymond proposed to me. I took it as a joke and said that I agreed. When we came back home, Raymond reminded me of taking our applications to the marriage register.

My mother wasn't against our wedding. During the Soviet regime, she changed her outlook, and didn't take the marriage with a non-Jew as tolerantly as it was in prewar times. On 19th August 1956 we submitted our applications in the marriage register and on 8th September we got our marriage registered. We had a very modest wedding party, only for the closest relatives.

Raymond was a very good husband. I've never heard a bad word spoken by him. He respected my observance of the Jewish traditions. On Jewish holidays we always came to my mother for celebration. Our daughter Ruth was born in 1958. When my husband and I were trying to choose her name, we wanted it to be both Jewish and Estonian. Raymond loved our daughter very much and paid a lot of attention to her. Of course, Ruth knew that she was half-Jewish. I never concealed that from her.

Our daughter was raised Estonian. She went to an Estonian school and spoke Estonian. Having finished school Ruth was willing to enter the Polytechnic University, but she didn't get the right score. Then she entered the Tallinn College of Municipal Economy. She did well and finished college with a distinction. She couldn't find a job in her specialty and came to work for the Russian drama theater. She worked there for 25 years. First she was an assistant to the decorator, then she started working as a supplier.

At that time directors constantly changed. I had worked there for 48 years, and there were 12 directors within this period of time. A new director cut the position of a supplier. Every department got the money to get necessary things and then submitted expense reports. The former director of our theater was the director of the Russian cultural center at that time and he offered a job to Ruth. She is currently working there as director of the administrative department. She is loved and valued there. She has a pretty good salary. She is happy with her job.

Ruth's first husband Unts Pegel was an artist. He was much older than Ruth. Their daughter Pirit was born in 1980. When Pirit was four, Ruth and Unts divorced. Ruth got married for the second time. Her second husband, Ronal Ruuk, raised Pirit like his own daughter. Ronald is also much older than Ruth. He was born in Tallinn in 1939. Ruth and Ronald have been together for 21 years and they are very happy. I think my son-in-law is wonderful. Ronald is working in the advertisement business. He is a very smart and capable person.

Starting in the 1970s many Jews left Estonia for Israel. I wasn't going to immigrate, partly because of my husband, but mostly because of my being conservative. It turned out so that I had lived in one street all life long and had worked in one place almost all life long. It is hard for me to imagine that I could change not only the apartment, but the city and the country. Many of my friends left. I was very worried about them and wrote letters. I would definitely like to visit Israel, to see this wonderful country and meet people I love. It would probably remain my dream. I cannot leave for places too far away and change climate because of my health. In 2002 my nephew Charvy, the son of my sister Rocha, left for Israel. He likes it very much. Charvy calls me every month and invites me to come over for a visit.

First I didn't take perestroika seriously. Then I felt how much easier it was for me to live. Maybe it was harder on me from a materialistic point of view, but I felt free. It was officially allowed to go abroad, correspond with people from different countries, to say unfalteringly what you wish in any company. We had feared that for years. We were afraid to tell a joke, speak our minds on the articles we read on events. We have dreaded that since 1940 and it seems to me that we got so used to that we didn't even notice that we were deprived of liberty.

Estonia was revived during Gorbachev 33. Jewish life flourished. Our Jewish community of Estonia was founded when he was at power. I think perestroika has brought a lot of positive into our lives. I don't regret the breakup of the Soviet Union and Estonia becoming independent. Frankly speaking, I didn't have a bad life during the Soviet regime. I was lucky to have a good job and team, to have money, have enough to eat, friends - in a word - there was nothing I lacked. I have lived 50 out of my 79 years in Soviet times and I am really used to all conventionalisms and restrictions that I could not even picture that it might be different. I was just used to this life. Estonia regained its independence in 1991 34. It's a pity it has not happened earlier. I had a happy childhood in independent Estonia, and I am happy that I spend my old years in a free country.

Our Jewish community got stronger during the years of independence. During the Soviet times they didn't let us forget that we were Jews - anti- Semitists were constantly reminding us of that. But still they tried to squeeze out Jewry from us. Now I feel myself a Jew owing to our community.

My husband died in 1993. He had renal cancer. He was operated on, but he died shortly after that, when all his diseases were acute. I felt very lonely after he died. The community filled that void and gave me a chance to communicate with people. The Jewish community treats old people very well and takes good care of us. The needy are given lunches, products free of charge. Some people get partially reimbursed for their utilities and heating payment.

I get enough to get by with my pension. The government classified those who were in evacuation in the category of the repressed. Now I am getting an additional amount of money to my pension. In spite of the fact that our utilities are very expensive I have enough money to buy anything I need. I am even helping my granddaughter. The Jewish school is open again for the first time in postwar Tallinn. It is a pity that my granddaughter is grown- up. I would have talked my daughter into having her daughter study there.

Our state takes care of us. I get the necessary medicine at a discount. Ambulance is free. We just have to pay to see specialized doctors. Now we have benefits and the state pays our medical insurance. We have to pay private doctors though. Recently I was operated on a knee joint in a private clinic. My daughter didn't want me to go home. I live by myself. My daughter is very good, but I want to be independent. My daughter and son-in- law help me a lot. When I couldn't walk for a month after operation, I lived with my daughter. My son-in-law looked after me. There are some sons who wouldn't take such care of their mothers. Now I am OK. My son-in-law doesn't let me carry heavy things. He buys anything I need and brings it to me. I gladly cook something for them. My daughter works for the whole day, but I have a lot of spare time. We are a very closely-knit family.

I don't mark Sabbath at home, but I obligatorily mark all Jewish holidays. My daughter and her husband come to see me on holidays. On Pesach I don't keep bread, only matzah. I fast on Yom Kippur. I started fasting after the war. Now my daughter is trying to convince me not to fast. I have to take pills all the time. I don't think there will be too much trouble if I miss one day. I have to do it stealthily for my daughter not to scold me. I attend the celebrations of all holidays in the community. I was there on Pesach and on Sukkot. It is so good that we have a synagogue and a rabbi. I go to the synagogue twice a year - on Rosh Hashanah and on Yom Kippur.

The Estonian government treats our community fairly. Often the president of Estonia visits our community on Jewish holidays. He even came to the community on Chanukkah and lit the chanukkiyah. Every year we commemorate the Holocaust. We go to the memorial dedicated to the former concentration camp Klooga 35. The president of Estonia comes to Klooga on that day and holds a speech. On our state holiday - Independence Day on 24th February - the president of Estonia gives a reception and invites the chairman of the community, the rabbi and his wife. That holiday is broadcast on television.

When I hear, how Jews are treated lets say in Russia, I cannot even think of such things. Let God every Jew to have such a life like Estonian Jews have here in Estonia. Our community is a member of the council of the president, our opinion is counted. Our chairwoman of the community, Tsili Laud, takes credit for that. She does a great job. Now a new synagogue is being built in the yard of the community, Tsili also takes credit for that. I am trying to help the community the best way I can. I have been elected the chief` auditor for the third time, so I am a member of the audit commission.

My sisters Zelda and Rocha lived to see Estonia independent. They also were members of the community. Miriam died in 1979 at the age of 58. Rocha died in 1993 at the age of 69 and Zelda in 2001, when she turned 81. All of them were buried in the Jewish cemetery in Tallinn. All Mother's sisters were buried there. It is very important for me to be buried in the Jewish cemetery in accordance with the Jewish rite. My parents were Jewish, but to my regret, I didn't live like a Jew during the Soviet regime. I'm not very religious, but I am trying to stick to the traditions. I don't know how long I am to live, but I have my daughter's word that I will be buried in strict compliance with the Jewish rite.

Glossary: