Travel

Hanny Hieger
Wien
Österreich
Interviewer: Tanja Eckstein
Datum des Interviews: Oktober 2002

Hanni Hieger empfängt mich in ihrer in altrosa gehaltenen hübschen kleinen Wohnung im 14. Bezirk. Sie ist sehr gepflegt und bietet mir nach kurzer Unterhaltung das Du an. Wir unterhalten uns so intensiv über Politik und Kultur, Österreicher und Deutsche, daß ich gar nicht dazu komme, mein Tonbandgerät einzuschalten und mit dem Interview zu beginnen. Sie sieht wesentlich gesünder aus als sie ist, sie hat eine Bypassoperation hinter sich und sie hat gesundheitliche Probleme. Beim zweiten Besuch klappt es dann, ich bekomme mein Interview, aber es werden hoffentlich noch viele Besuche folgen. Im März 2003 stirbt ihr Bruder Fritz Spiegl in England.

Meine Familiengeschichte
Meine Kindheit
Während des Krieges
Nach dem Krieg
Glossar

Meine Familiengeschichte

Mein Urgroßvater väterlicherseits hieß Simon Spiegl. Meine Urgroßeltern müssen in Gattendorf gelebt haben. Ich habe auf dem Friedhof in Gattendorf das Grab eines Simon Spiegel gefunden, es ist durchaus möglich, daß das mein Urgroßvater ist. Die Urgroßmutter hieß Sally. Vor einigen Jahren war jemand hier, der einen Stammbaum für einen Parndorfer, der Markhauser hieß, zusammengestellt hat. Er hat den Stammbaum seiner Enkelin zur Bar Mizwah geschenkt. Er ist durch die Lande und Kontinente gefahren und hat Spuren gesucht und ist draufgekommen, daß meine Urururgroßeltern um 1700 in Gols, in Westungarn geboren wurden. Heute ist Gols ein sehr bekannter Weinort. Wahrscheinlich haben die Urgroßeltern vom Getreidehandel gelebt. Das war damals üblich, Getreidehandel und wahrscheinlich auch Pferdehandel.

Mein Großvater väterlicherseits hieß Fritz Philipp Spiegl, wurde 1848 in Gattendorf geboren, das gehörte zu dieser Zeit auch zu Westungarn. Ich besitze die Fotokopie seiner Geburtsurkunde. Später ist die Familie dann nach Zurndorf übergesiedelt. Meine Großmutter wurde in Wien geboren, hieß Johanna Spiegl und war eine geborene Tauber.

Mein Großvater hatte eine Ausbildung als Kaufmann und war Sodawasserfabrikant. Mein Vater hat sich immer damit gerühmt, daß mein Großvater in seinem ganzen Leben keinen einzigen schriftlichen Vertrag aufgesetzt hat, sondern, daß jedes Geschäft mit den Bauern mit Handschlag abgewickelt worden. Der Handschlag war so gut wie ein schriftlicher Vertrag. Meine Großvater richtete für seine acht Kinder Existenzen ein. Ich bin mir sicher, meine Großeltern haben die hohen Feiertage gefeiert, aber viel mehr weiß ich nicht. Der Großvater starb 1921 in Zurndorf. Ich bin 1923 zur Welt gekommen, ein Jahr später, als ursprünglich geplant war, denn meine Eltern hatten alles für die Hochzeit vorbereitet, aber da starb mein Großvater und meine Eltern haben das Trauerjahr berücksichtigt. Die Großmutter starb 1923.

Mein Vater hatte sieben Geschwister: Onkel Wilhelm Spiegl war Kaufmann und heiratete Felicitas Fischer. Sie hatten drei Kinder, Judith, Andreas und Margarete. Alle konnten in die USA emigrieren.

Onkel Nathan Spiegl hatte eine Fleischhauerei und heiratete Gisela Tauber, die seine Cousine war. Sie hatten zwei Kinder, Kurt und Trude. Alle vier konnten sich vor dem Holocaust in die USA retten.

Onkel Louis Spiegl war Kaufmann und heiratete Helene Wengraf. Sie hatten einen Sohn Fritz. Alle drei konnten sich vor dem Holocaust in die USA retten.

Tante Fanny, geborene Spiegl heiratete einen Herrn Barany. Sie hatten zwei Kinder, Ernst und Alice. Alle vier konnten sich in die USA retten. Tante Fanny starb an Krebs.

Tante Emma, geborene Spiegl heiratete den Kaufmann Hugo Rosenfeld. Sie hatten keine Kinder und starben vor 1938. Sie liegt auf dem jüdischen Friedhof in Gattendorf begraben. Sie ist jung gestorben, sie war vielleicht 43 oder 44 Jahre alt.

Tante Emma und Tante Josefine erbten, bevor sie heirateten, von ihrem Vater eine Gemischtwarenhandlung und das elterlichen Wohnhaus.

Tante Josefine, geborene Spiegl heiratete Max Steiner. Sie starb im Kindbett. Tante Josefine ist in Gattendorf auf dem jüdischen Friedhof begraben, die war 41, als sie an Krebs starb.

Mein Vater Rudolf Spiegl erbte von seinem Vater die Sodawasserfabrik und verkaufte außerdem landwirtschaftliche Maschinen.

Mütterlicherseits habe ich nur meinen Großvater Max Geiringer gekannt. Er wurde in Stampfen geboren, war Kaufmann und starb Ende der 20er Jahre.

Die Großmutter, Fanny, geborene Weinberger starb 1925 oder 1926, ich war noch sehr klein. Eine Geschichte wurde mir aber erzählt: Als ich 18 Monate war, hatte ich eine doppelseitige Lungenentzündung und Keuchhusten. Meine Großmutter kam, um meine Mutter zu unterstützen, weil meine Mutter mich Tag und Nacht gepflegt hat. Aber wenn meine Mutter sich mal hingelegt hat, und meine Großmutter hat meinen Kinderwagen geschoben hat, hab ich das angeblich sofort gemerkt und hab gesagt: Nicht Omama hutschen, Mama hutschen. Der Großvater hat in Wien gelebt und ist im Sommer immer zu uns ins Burgenland gekommen. Mein Bruder hat ihm einmal ein Hufeisen auf die Zehen fallen lassen, und er hat eine blaue Zehe gehabt, daran erinnere ich mich. Und ich erinnere mich genau an seine Morgentoilette: Er hatte einen aufgezwirbelten Schnurrbart und der wurde jeden Morgen mit Bartwichs gekämmt. Dann band er eine Schnurrbartbinde um, die um die Ohren gewickelt wurde und so hat er sich rasiert. Er muß auch sehr bald darauf gestorben sein. Aber ich sehe ihn noch vor mir.

Mein Vater war in dem heutigen Sopron beim Militär. Meine Mutter, Josefine Spiegl, geborene Geiringer wurde am 27.1.1890 in Wien geboren. Sie lebte in Wien und war Direktrice in der größten Seidenhandlung von Wien, dem Seidenhaus Kari am Lugeck. Da hat sie gearbeitet, bevor sie meinen Vater geheiratet hat. Wo sich meine Eltern kennengelernt haben, weiß ich nicht, aber es war keine besprochene Ehe, wie es damals üblich war, sondern sie haben sich wirklich ineinander verliebt. Meine Mutter war sehr aktiv im Brigittenauer Frauenverein. Das war eine Wohltätigkeitsorganisation, denn sie war schon als junges Mädchen sozial tätig. Auch meine beiden Tanten, die jüngeren Schwestern meiner Mutter, haben abwechselnd in der sozialistischen Leihbibliothek Dienst gemacht. Meine Mutter hatte sechs Geschwister:

Meinen Onkel Ignatz Geiringer habe ich nicht kennengelernt. Er starb als Soldat im I. Weltkrieg.

Meine Tante Elisa Geiringer habe ich nicht kennengelernt. Sie starb 1918 an der Spanischen Grippe.

Mein Onkel Willi war Fürsorgerat. Onkel Willi ist sehr früh gestorben. Im Zusammenhang mit Onkel Willi habe ich das erste Mal meine revolutionäre Gesinnung zur Schau getragen. Ich kann nicht älter als sechs Jahre gewesen sein, weil Onkel Willi starb, als ich sieben war. Wir waren wieder einmal in Wien in den Ferien, und ich wurde in den Augarten geschickt, weil es da, so wie heute, ein Kinderfreibad gab. Das war 1929/30 und war von den Sozialisten finanziert. Man mußte seine Sachen zu einem Packerl zusammen legen und mit einer Schnur umwickeln, und diese Schnur hatte eine Nummer. Und die gleiche Nummer wurde den Kindern um den Hals gehängt. Ich kam vom Baden zurück und hab mein Packerl bekommen, aber die Schuhe haben gefehlt. Ich war ganz entsetzt, daß ich ohne Schuhe mein Packerl wiedersehe. Ich hab gesagt: "Ich will meine Schuhe haben." Da hat die Angestellte gesagt: "Du bist sicher ohne Schuhe gekommen." Ich hab gesagt: "Das gibt es nicht, meine Mama läßt mich nie barfuß gehen", was ja auch gestimmt hat. Aber die hat gesagt: "Du hast keine Schuhe gehabt." Und da hab ich die Wut gekriegt und hab gesagt: "Wenn Sie mir nicht gleich meine Schuhe geben, sag ich's meinem Onkel Willi, und an diesem Baum wird er Sie aufhängen." Ich sehe mich noch ganz genau. Sie hat gesagt: "Mäderl, wer ist denn Dein Onkel? Und dann hab ich gesagt: "Mein Onkel ist der Herr Willi Geiringer, und der ist Fürsorgerat." Die Fürsorgeräte waren die heutigen Sozialarbeiter. Damals gab es große Arbeitslosigkeit und die Leute waren schrecklich arm. Onkel Willi war verheiratet mit Irma, geborene Löffler. Sie hatten vier Kinder: Alfred, Martha, Erich und Trude. Onkel Willi hatte ein Caféhaus. Und nachdem er, statt zahlende Gäste heranzuziehen, die halben Obdachlosen und armen Leute bei sich beherbergt hat, sind natürlich die Gäste weggeblieben und er hat mit diesem Caféhaus Pleite gemacht. Er hat das ganze Geld verschenkt, Obdachlosen und Bedürftigen Essen und Trinken und vor allem Wärme gegeben. Damals hat man zu Hause kaum heizen können und das Caféhaus war gut geheizt. Onkel Willi hat das wohl in erster Linie seiner armen Kundschaft wegen getan, weil er Mitleid hatte. Das Cafehaus war Ecke Rauscherstraße und Wasnergasse im 20. Bezirk. Da ist heute eine Wäscherei. Er ist 1930 Anfang 40jährig an einer Herzkrankheit gestorben. Seine vier Kinder konnte studieren, und was das damals für eine Witwe geheißen hat, vier Kinder studieren zu lassen, das war also schon allerhand. Meine Mutter hat dann Tante Irma und vor allem die zwei Neffen und zwei Nichten unterstützt. Die haben wohl gearbeitet, waren sogenannte Werkstudenten, aber sie haben trotzdem ihr Studium vorangetrieben, und meine Mutter hat das sehr unterstützt. Alfred wurde Journalist, und hat die Hilfe meiner Mutter honoriert, indem er 1938 meinen Bruder und mich nach England geholt hat. Tante Irma Geiringer, Alfred, und Erich konnten sich vor dem Holocaust nach England retten. Meine Cousinen Martha, die am 28.8.1912 geboren wurde, und Trude flüchteten nach Belgien. Martha war eine sehr begabte und kluge Frau. Sie hatte in Wien Biologie studiert und arbeitete im Vivarium 1. Sie hatte aber auch Soziologie studiert und arbeitete an vielen bedeutenden Studien mit. Nebenher machte sie Häkelarbeiten, weil sie wenig durch ihre Forschungsarbeiten verdiente. Trude flüchtete weiter nach England und Martha bekam ein berufliches Angebot von den Philippinen. Sie war schon auf den Philippinen, hatte aber eine sehr gute Freundin in Belgien zurück gelassen. Deshalb fuhr sie dann doch zurück nach Belgien, wurde dort denunziert, in das Internierungslager Malines gesperrt, am 15.1.1943 nach Auschwitz deportiert und ermordet.

Vor ein paar Monaten kam die jüngere Tochter meines Cousins Alfred, Susan, also eine richtige zweite Cousine, nach Wien. Sie hat nach dem Tod ihres Vaters erfahren, daß er in Wien Verwandte hat. Er hat sowohl seine jüdische Herkunft wie auch seine Wiener Herkunft vor seinen Kindern geheim gehalten. Er hatte eine Engländerin geheiratet, die hieß Margret und war die Tochter eines sehr bekannten liberalen Zeitungsmannes. Alfred selbst wurde auch Journalist und hatte einen guten Posten bei der Nachrichtenagentur Reuter. Er hat ein Stipendium ausgeschrieben, hatte eine Stiftung ins Leben gerufen für junge österreichischen Journalisten, damit sie ein Jahr in Oxford studieren können. Dieses Stipendium wurde von der APA ausgeschrieben und trägt seinen Namen, das "Alfred Geiringer Stipendium". Das zeigt, daß er trotz Verleugnung seiner Herkunft doch eine gewisse Bindung zu Wien hatte.

Alfreds Bruder Erich Geiringer hat Medizin studiert, ist nach Neuseeland und hat dort weiter studiert. Ich glaub, er war dreifacher Doktor. Er hat eine Ärztin geheiratet, eine Gynäkologin, und hat dort als Arzt gearbeitet, war furchtbar verfemt und verrufen, weil er in diesem viktorianischen Ambiente das Wort "Sexualität" in den Mund genommen hat und im Radio Vorträge über Sexualität gehalten hat. Und das war dieser Gesellschaft in Neuseeland einfach zuviel. Aber er war sehr bekannt, und als ich in Neuseeland war, von Wellington nach Auckland gefahren bin, hat mich der Buschauffeur gefragt: "Was macht eine Österreicherin in Wellington?" Und da hab ich gesagt: "Ich hab meinen Cousin besucht." Hat er gesagt: "Den Erich Geiringer?" Also er war bekannt wie ein bunter Hund. Als er starb, hat er einen Teil seiner Asche in Wellington ausstreuen lassen, einen Teil in Schottland, wo er Medizin studiert hat und einen Teil im Augarten in Wien. Und das zeigt diese ambivalente Haltung vieler Emigranten.

Onkel Josef Geiringer war Bankier und heiratete Paula Klein. Sie hatten ein Tochter, Alice, Lizzi genannt. Alice emigrierte mit einem illegalen Transport über Budapest mit einem Schiff nach Palästina. Dort war sie in der englischen Armee und war auch in Alexandria stationiert, wo sie ihren Mann, einen Engländer kennenlernte. Mit ihm ging sie nach dem Krieg nach England, wo sie noch heute leben. Mit Alice, die sechs Wochen älter als ich war, verband mich eine enge Freundschaft. Ich lebte auch einige Zeit bei ihr und ihren Eltern und wir bekamen immer gleichzeitig neue Mäntel, Kostüme oder Kleider. Am 12. März 1938 sollte unsere erste Tanzstunde in der Tanzschule in der Werdertorgasse sein. Die hat Hitler mit seinem Einmarsch nach Österreich vereitelt. Onkel Josef und Tante Paula flüchteten nach Shanghai.

Meine Tante Katharina Geiringer emigrierte nach England. Sie hat bei meinem Bruder und mir während der Emigrationszeit die Mutterstelle übernommen. 1941 lebte ich mit ihr in einem Zimmer in einem Heim für politische Flüchtlinge. Ein halbes Jahr lebte ich mit Tante Kitty in einem Zimmer in diesem Heim und wir waren dort als Putzfrauen angestellt. Tante Kitty heiratete nach dem Krieg Fritz Gutter. Meine Tante Else Geiringer heiratete Leo Schulzer, der am 16.9.1892 geboren wurde. Sie hatten keine Kinder. Sie starb 1933 und ihr Mann Leo Schulzer wurde am 20.10.1939 nach Nisko deportiert.

Meine Kindheit

Ich wurde als Hanny Spiegl am 27. Juni 1923 in Wien geboren. Mein Bruder Fritz Spiegl ist genau zweieinhalb Jahre jünger und wurde am 27.1 1926 in Zurndorf geboren..

Ich bin in Wien geboren, weil ich das erste Kind war, Zurndorf war ein kleiner Ort und meine Eltern haben darauf geachtet, daß ich einen richtigen Gynäkologen und eine richtige Geburtsstation bekomme. Ich wurde im Sanatorium Lucina in der Stromstraße im 20. Wiener Bezirk geboren. Dort sind alle "besseren Kinder" zur Welt gekommen. Nach 14 Tagen ist meine Mutter mit mir nach Zurndorf gekommen, und meine Tante Emma, die Schwester meines Vaters hat in meine Wiege geschaut und gesagt: "Was? Und wegen der habt ihr euch so viel Sorgen gemacht, um die wär' kein Schad' gewesen." Daraufhin hat mein Vater seine ältere Schwester hinausgeschmissen und nie wieder ein Wort mit ihr gesprochen. Wir wurden angehalten, Tante Emma zu grüßen, aber das war's dann auch.

Ich hatte eigentlich eine schöne Kindheit, aber es gab einen Makel, wir waren Juden. Ich wußte, ich bin anders, weil ich jüdisch bin.

Bis 1933 wohnten Medizinalrat Dr. Michael Wollner mit seiner Frau Leontine in Zurndorf, aber wegen des Antisemitismus übersiedelten sie nach Wien, wurden 1938 deportiert und ermordet. Dann gab es die jüdische Familie Steiner. Sie waren arme Juden und wurden von anderen jüdischen Familien unterstützt. Sie hatten eine Tochter Julia, die nach Kanada auswanderte und von dort noch Familienmitgliedern zur Flucht verhalf. Frau Steiner und Herr Steiner starben vor dem Holocaust. Ich kann mich auch noch gut an die "Schnorrer" erinnern, die von den wohlhabenden jüdischen Familien unterstützt wurden, so daß auch sie nicht im Elend leben mußten. Zwei Brüder und zwei Schwestern meines Vaters lebten in Zurndorf. Mein Vater und die Onkeln sind nicht in Wirtshäuser gegangen und wir Kinder haben nicht auf der Straße barfuß gespielt. Man hat ein behütetes Leben geführt. Innerhalb dieses behüteten Lebens war es sehr nett, weil wir Cousins und Cousinen hatten und immer mit Gleichaltrigen zusammen waren. Aber durch die Ausgrenzung war es keine so schöne Kindheit. Ich wurde viel von anderen Kindern geärgert, wir waren eben anders.

Ich durfte nicht in den Kindergarten gehen, weil es ein katholischer Kindergarten war und man mich nicht genommen hätte. Es wäre für mich schön gewesen, in den Kindergarten zu gehen. Mein Cousin Andy, der jetzt in Amerika lebt, hat dann mit uns Schule gespielt. Wir hatten eine Tafel, er war der Lehrer und es gab eine richtige Pause, für die meine Mutter Eier gekocht und Brote gemacht hat. Wir haben dieses Spiel sehr ernst genommen, mit dem Resultat, daß mein Bruder mit vier Jahren Lesen und Schreiben konnte und dann von der richtigen Schule nach Haus gekommen ist und gesagt hat, da geh ich nicht mehr hin, das kann ich schon.

Dadurch, daß meine Mutter aus Wien war und ihre Geschwister in Wien hatte, und Cousins und Cousinen meines Vaters auch in Wien lebten, sind wir öfter nach Wien gefahren. Ich erinnere mich, das erste Ballett, das ich sah, war die "Puppenfee". Ich erinnere mich auch, daß ich mit meinem Bruder ins "Theater in der Josefstadt" gegangen bin, und er hatte Hunger und ich hab eine Wurstsemmel gekauft und die schwesterlich geteilt. Ich weiß sogar noch, was er angehabt hat und ich weiß, was ich angehabt hab. Ich habe zu diesem Zweck das obligate dunkelblaue Samtkleid mit einem rosa Spitzenkragen getragen, und mein Bruder hat einen sogenannten "Mozartanzug" getragen, das war elegant.

Wir sind auch zum Kinderarzt nach Wien gefahren. Es gab in Zurndorf den Dr. Braci, der war also ein richtiger Landarzt, aber man ist lieber in Wien zum Kinderarzt gegangen.

Meine Eltern hatten die Sodawasserfabrik, da wurde auch Limonade erzeugt. Für die Limonade nahm man richtige Fruchtsäfte und die mußten aufbereitet werden. Das hat meine Mutter überwacht. Aber meine Mutter hatte Dienstpersonal. Es war nicht so, daß sie schwer arbeiten mußte, sondern sie hat ihrem Mann geholfen, und mein Vater hatte ja zusätzlich noch die Vertretung von landwirtschaftlichen Maschinen und war ziemlich viel unterwegs. Es gab drei Leute mit Autos in Dorf, und einer davon war mein Vater. Der andere war der Bäckermeister, und der dritte war ein großer LKW, der gehörte einem Gastwirt. Das war auch schon ein Sonderstatus, ein Auto zu fahren. Für meinen Vater war das Auto wichtig, weil er ja durch seine Arbeit im gesamten nördlichen Burgenland damit herumgefahren ist.

Am Yom Kippur haben meine Eltern gefastet, das war sehr lustig. Zurndorf ist von Gattendorf vielleicht 4 km entfernt. Man ist im Gänsemarsch zu Fuß nach Gattendorf gegangen, weil da die Synagoge war. Die Männer und die Erwachsenen haben gefastet. Es wurde ein Dienstmädchen mitgenommen, damit die Kinder auch genügend zu essen haben, und das Essen wurde in großen weißen Servietten verpackt, und zwar war das meistens Huhn und Challe und Obst, und wir wurden dann versorgt, während die Eltern in der Synagoge waren und gebetet haben. In Gattendorf trafen sich Juden aus der ganzen Umgebung, sogar aus Bratislava und Budapest, die man ewig nicht gesehen hatte. Wir Kinder sind mal in die Synagoge rein und wieder raus, wie das halt so üblich war. Der Rabbiner war gleichzeitig der Schächter. Rabbiner waren damals ja nicht sehr gut gestellt, und er kam regelmäßig nach Zurndorf und schächtete das Fleisch für die Umgebung bei meinem Onkel Nathan, dem Bruder meines Vaters, der eine Fleischerei hatte. Wir haben nur rituell geschlachtetes Fleisch gegessen, das gehörte bei uns zur Tradition. Das war etwas teurer, weil der Herr Jelenko ja dafür was bekommen hat, aber man hat gleichzeitig eine Mitzwe getan, indem man eben das koschere Fleisch gegessen hat, damit der Herr Jelenko was verdient. Der Rabbiner Jelenko hat sich, wie viele Juden, selber seine Gesetze gemacht. Meine Mutter wollte einmal ein Stück koschere Kalbsleber. Und da hat der Herr Jelenko uns eingeredet, wir wussten ja wenig vom Judentum, es ist ein Gesetz, daß die Kalbsleber dem Schächter gehört. Und wir haben das natürlich geglaubt, und viel später sind wir dann draufgekommen, daß das sein eigenes Gesetz war, weil seine Frau gerne Kalbsleber gegessen hat. Vor dem Fasten am Yom Kippur wurde immer das gleiche Essen gegessen. Das war Tradition. Es war das einzige Mal im Jahr, daß mein Vater beim Essen einen Hut aufgesetzt hat. Es gab Nudelsuppe, Huhn mit Selleriesauce und Kartoffeln, danach Zwetschken- und Apfelkompott. Und zur Krönung des Ganzen gab es einen Mokka, und mein Vater hat die letzte Zigarette geraucht.. Dann haben die Feiertage begonnen. Beim Onkel Nathan gab es genau das gleiche Menü und beim Onkel Willi gab es auch genau das gleiche Menü. In Zurndorf haben wir zuerst Religionsunterricht bei dem Rabbiner Friedjung, einem alten Herrn, gehabt. Bei ihm habe ich Hebräisch lesen gelernt und er hat uns viele Geschichten erzählt. Dann lernten wir beim Rabbiner Jelenko, und wenn wir schwänzen konnten, haben wir geschwänzt.

Es gab kein Kulturleben in Zurndorf, so luden sich meine Eltern Besuch aus Wien ein oder fuhren nach Wien. Einmal kam zu uns ein Japaner zu Besuch. Er hieß Yoshiokondo, er war ein Studienkollege meiner Cousine Martha. Er ist in Wien in der Straßenbahn gefahren und hat das Wort "Kiritag" gehört. Im burgenländischen Dialekt sagt man "Kiritag" statt Kirtag. Das hat so japanisch geklungen, und da hat er die Martha gefragt, was "Kiritag" ist. Dann hat sie ihm das erklärt und hat ihn eingeladen, den "Kiritag" bei uns zu verbringen. Das war natürlich eine Sensation im Dorf, daß ein Japaner im Dorf ist. Damals gab es bei uns im Dorf noch Kommunikation in Form eines Trommlers. Wenn irgendwelche Verlautbarungen, neue Gesetze oder Vorschriften waren, ging zweimal am Tag der Trommler durch Dorf. Er hat sich an verschiedenen Stellen aufgestellt und getrommelt. Dann sind die Leute zusammengelaufen und er hat zum Beispiel gesagt: !Es wird kundgemacht, daß die Gänse Morgen schon um halb sechs auf die Weide geführt werden und die Kühe erst eine halbe Stunde später, damit die sich nicht ins Gehege kommen. Die Milchabgabe erfolgt heute um 14 Uhr." Das waren die Nachrichten, die er getrommelt hat. Und dann hat er den Japaner gesehen und hat gesagt: "Wos is' der?" Und er hat unseren Gast gefragt: "Bist du a Chines' oder bist Du a Japaner?" Und meine Eltern haben geantwortet: "Das ist ein Japaner." "Des sind die ganz G'fährlichen. Erst schluckt's China, und dann kommen wir dran," hat unser Trommler gesagt. Das war im Jahr 1935. Und fünf Jahre später haben die Japaner China geschluckt. Also irgendwie von einem einfältigen Bauern eine weise Voraussicht.

Die vierte Volksschulklasse habe ich in Wien absolviert. In Zurndorf in der Schule gab es schon antisemitische Strömungen, und ich hab sehr unter dem ausgegrenzt werden gelitten. Meine Eltern haben mich darauf hin zu den Eltern meiner Cousine Alice geschickt. Alice Vater war der Bankier Josef Geiringer, der Bruder meiner Mutter. Später habe ich auch bei einer Cousine meines Vaters gewohnt.

Ich hab jedes Jahr die Schule gewechselt. Ich war in ganz gewöhnlichen Schulen, aber ich hatte immer jüdischen Religionsunterricht, der war ja obligat.

Während des Krieges

Mit 12 Jahren hatte ich in Wien meine Bat Mitzwah zusammen mit meiner Cousine Alice und meiner Freundin Inge Bräuner. Die Bat Mitzwah fand in der Synagoge in der Tempelgasse im Zweiten Wiener Gemeindebezirk statt. In der Tempelgasse Nummer 5 im Zweiten Wiener Gemeindebezirk stand die "Große Synagoge", die zwischen 1853-1858 in maurischem Stil erbaut wurde. Sie war der größte Tempel Wiens. Am 9. November 1938, in der Reichspogromnacht, wurde sie in Brand gesteckt und zerstört. Nach den Feierlichkeiten in der Synagoge, an der meine Familie und Alices Eltern, Onkel Josef Geiringer und Tante Paula teilnahmen, gingen wir in ein Restaurant in den Prater. Ich weiß noch, daß ich ein Buch über Paula Wessely geschenkt bekam, weil ich sie sehr geliebt habe.

Mein Bruder hat die vier Klassen Volksschule in Zurndorf absolviert. Da gab es den Sohn eines Tierarztes, der hieß Fritz Tauscher. Fritzi Spiegl und Fritzi Tauscher sind in eine Klasse gegangen. Fritzi Tauscher saß hinter meinem Bruder, und mitten im Unterricht ist mein Bruder aufgestanden und hat dem Fritzi Tauscher eine verpaßt und hat sich wieder hingesetzt. Das Ganze hat sich wortlos abgespielt. Der Lehrer hat gesagt: "Fritzi Spiegl, was hast du gemacht? "Bitte, ich hab ihm eine runter gehauen." "Und warum hast du das getan?" "Bitte, weil er hat Saujud zu mir gesagt hat." "Fritzi, dann mußt Du es mir sagen und dann werde ich ihn strafen." "Bitte Herr Lehrer, wenn ich es Ihnen sag', sagen Sie nur: Du, Du, Du Fritzi, das darfst Du nicht mehr sagen. Und das hat er bestimmt gleich vergessen. Aber die Ohrfeige merkt er sich." Mein Bruder muß vielleicht damals acht oder neun Jahre alt gewesen sein, der wußte sich zu wehren. Er ist dann ins Gymnasium nach Eisenstadt gekommen. Das hieß Bundeskonvikt, aber er hat nur zwei Jahre diese Schule besucht und ist dann 1938 rausgeschmissen worden. Er hat dann in Wien das Chajes-Gymnasium besucht. Das war damals Anfang 1938 noch ein jüdisches Gymnasium im 20. Bezirk, und genau gegenüber haben wir gewohnt. Wenn die erste Glocke geläutet hat, ist mein Bruder aus dem Bett gestiegen. 1938 mußten wir weg aus Zurndorf, mein Vater war verhaftet worden, und wir sind zur Tante Kitty, der Schwester meiner Mutter nach Wien gegangen. Mein Vater wurde im März 1938 wurde im Landesgericht in Wien festgehalten. Er wurde als Jude verhaftet und außerdem ist ihm der Ruf vorausgeeilt, er sei Kommunist, weil wir einen tschechischen Wagen, einen "Tatra", besaßen und mein Vater oft nach Bratislava gefahren ist. Das war aber immer nur eine halbe Stunde, um das Auto warten zu lassen oder einfach um Kaffee zu trinken. Das war damals so kleiner Grenzverkehr. Und die Bauern haben gesagt, er hat von Bratislava aus mit Moskau Funkverkehr. Im Sommer wurde er entlassen, unser Besitz wurde arisiert. Einige Dorfbewohner schämten sich und brachten anonym meiner Mutter, die nichts mehr besaß, Lebensmittel und Geld. Als meine Großeltern in den 20er Jahren starben, hat man gefragt, ob die Familie etwas dagegen hat, wenn die Kirchenglocken läuten. Und als die Särge von Zurndorf nach Gattendorf transportiert wurden, haben den ganzen Weg über die Kirchenglocken geläutet. Das war schon ein Zeichen von Achtung und Akzeptanz. Aber das hat sich dann mit der Zeit immer mehr verändert. Zurndorf war als Nazigemeinde bekannt. Zurndorf und Gols waren die beiden Hochburgen der Nazis im nördlichen Burgenland. Dazu kam noch, daß diese Gemeinden, und das ist auch symptomatisch, in erster Linie protestantisch waren. Dadurch waren für mich Protestanten lange Zeit Nazis.

Zu der Tante Kitty in Wien kam eine Nachbarin und hat gesagt, sie muß die Wohnung räumen, sie kann aber ihre Wohnung haben. Das war eine Zimmer-Küche- Wohnung mit Toilette und Wasser am Gang. Und dann sind wir da eingezogen, Tante Kitty, meine Mutter, mein Bruder, und ich, und dann, als mein Vater aus dem Gefängnis entlassen wurde, auch mein Vater. Auch nach Wien bekamen wir noch Lebensmittelpakete ohne Absender aus Zurndorf.

Als ich die Schule verlassen mußte und meine Mutter beschlossen hat, daß "das Kind was lernen muss, um sich auf die Emigration vorzubereiten", hab ich im Modesalon "Hilda & Loni" eine Schneiderlehre begonnen. Der Salon war Ecke Liechtensteinstraße/Thurngasse. Wir haben im 20. Bezirk gewohnt, und ich bin in der Mittagspause immer nach Haus gegangen. Einmal wurde ich bei der Grünentorgasse von ein paar SS- Leuten gefangen und in die Schule in die Grünentorgasse gebracht. Das war eine SS-Kaserne. Und da mußte ich sauber machen und danach mußte ich "Spiegel", diese Pajetten, die man an der Uniform hat, annähen. Ich weiß nicht, wie lange ich da war, dann hat einer gesagt, ich soll Kohlen aus dem Keller holen und ist mit mir die Treppe runter mit zwei Kohlenkübeln. Ich hab seitdem Angst vor Kellern. Dann ist der mit mir in den Keller gegangen, hat laut geschimpft, hat die Kohlen in die Kübel gefüllt, hat sie bis zur Treppe getragen und dann erst hat er sie mir übergeben. Danach hat er mich nach Haus geschickt.

Im November 1938 ist mein Vater in Wien verhaftet worden. Er war auf der Rossauerlände und dann im Landesgericht eingesperrt. Eines Abends war furchtbares Gepolter an der Haustür. Wir sind zu Haus gesessen und haben gezittert. Da kam ein SS-Mann die Treppe rauf, hat an die Tür gepoltert und hat Einlaß verlangt. Und dann hat er gesagt: Ich wollte Ihnen nur sagen, Ihr Mann ist auf der Elisabethpromenade, und es geht ihm gut. Wollen Sie ihm irgendwas schicken? Es gab eben auch solche Geschichten.

Meine Mutter hat dann verschiedene Leute, so auch den bolivianischen Konsul, versucht zu bestechen, um irgendein Visum zu bekommen. Sie hat ihm erzählt, daß mein Vater der größte Agrarexperte der Welt ist und die bolivianische Landwirtschaft ohne das Know-how meines Vaters nicht existieren könnte. Ich weiß nicht, ob mein Vater den Unterschied zwischen Gerste und Weizen und Hafer gewußt hätte. Wir sind zwar auf dem Land groß geworden, aber er hat mit der Landwirtschaft herzlich wenig zu tun gehabt. Aber das hat dann funktioniert. Dann ist meine Mutter zur Gestapo am Morzinplatz zum Eichmann oder Hoess gegangen und hat gesagt: "Wenn Sie meinen Mann frei lassen, garantiere ich Ihnen, daß wir innerhalb von kürzester Zeit das Land verlassen. Das war 1939, nachdem mein Bruder und ich nach England emigriert waren. Ich bin im Februar 1939 nach England, mein Bruder ist im März 1939 nach England emigriert. Ich war gerade 16 Jahre alt.

Eichmann und Hoess waren für die burgenländischen Juden zuständig. Hoess hat traurige Berühmtheit unter anderem dadurch erlangt, daß seine Frau Ilse, die ebenso wie er zum Tod verurteilt wurde, aus Judenhaut Lampenschirme hat herstellen lassen.

Ich war 16 Jahre alt, aber für die Behörden war ich 15, damit ich noch mit dem Kindertransport der Kultusgemeinde fahren durfte. Am 20. Februar 1939 um 20.00 Uhr mußte ich mit einem Gepäckstück am Westbahnhof sein. Die Abschiedsszenen waren schrecklich. Wir älteren halfen den jüngeren Kindern. In London wurden wir in einer Kirche in der Church Hall empfangen. Ich hatte Glück, weil mein Cousin Alfred mich dort abholte, mit mir in das "Lyons Corner House", einem Treffpunkt der Emigranten ging und mich dort bewirtete. Er hatte eine Familie für mich gefunden.

Es gab viele Kinder, die kein Glück hatten und die da in den Hallen gesessen sind. Es war Februar und es war kalt und es war neblig und es war unwirtlich und ungastlich, wie es in England ist. Und die, die schon eine Adresse hatten, wo sie hin konnten, wurden abgeholt. So wurde ich von meinem Cousin Alfred abgeholt. Aber andere Kinder sind einfach dagesessen, und dann sind die Familien gekommen und haben ausgesucht. Das war wie ein Markt. Das war furchtbar. Es war ganz schlimm, mit einer Tafel um den Hals. Da hat einer gesagt: "I take that one. No no no, I take that one." Und Buben wollten sie nicht, sondern eher Mädchen. Und die, die dann übrig geblieben sind, die hat man in irgendwelche Heime gesteckt.

Danach setzte mich Alfred in einen Zug zu meiner Gastfamilie. Einen Penny hat er mir noch in die Hand gedrückt. Mein Cousin Alfred war selber ein Emigrant, der hat auch nichts gehabt. Englisch konnte ich fast überhaupt nicht, das war schlimm. Ich hab mich in die Ecke gedrückt und hab die Augen ganz fest zugemacht und hab geweint, in der Hoffnung, daß man mich nicht sieht, wenn ich die Augen zu habe. Das Abteil war voll mit Leuten und sie wollten mir helfen. In Crewe mußte ich auch noch umsteigen. Und kalt war's und geregnet hat's und ich war schrecklich allein. Als ich in Cheadle Hulme ankam, hätte mich mein Ziehvater, ein Mr. Jones, ein Universitätsprofessor, abholen sollen. Da hat so ein Gaslampe gebrannt und alles war finster und es hat geregnet. Das Einzige, was ich hatte, war ein Zettel, da stand drauf: Mr. Jones, Cheadle Hulme, nicht einmal eine Adresse. Ein Bahnhofsbeamter hat sich der ans Telefon gesetzt und hat alle Jones's angerufen, und Jones ist kein seltener Name. Endlich hat er den Richtigen gefunden, der gesagt hat, ja, wir erwarten ein Refugee-Kind. Die Mrs. Jones hat ein bißchen Deutsch gesprochen. Bei der Familie Jones mußte ich arbeiten, die dachten, ich bin ein Dienstmädchen. Aber ich war noch zu jung für ein Dienstmädchen. Ich habe aber Dienstmädchenarbeit verrichten müssen, das hat mich nicht gestört. Ich hab meiner Mutter geschrieben, sie soll mir bitte das Rezept für Apfelstrudel schicken. Ich hab mich dort durchgesetzt. Mr. Jones hat aber nicht nur gedacht, daß er ein Dienstmädchen kriegt, sondern auch gleich ein jüngeres Spielzeug. Da hab ich jeden Abend alle meine Kraft zusammengenommen und hab das Bett vor die Tür geschoben. Die haben geglaubt, ich mach' das, weil ich Angst hab, daß die Nazis kommen. Ich hab mich aber auch nicht getraut, irgend jemand was zu sagen, weil ich ja Angst hatte, daß die mich dann zurückschicken. Und ich wußte ja auch, wenn ich jetzt zurückgeschickt werde, daß meine Eltern dann nicht weg können. Das war eine ziemlich miese Situation. Bei Mr. Jones hab ich jeden Dienstag Nachmittag frei gehabt. Jede Woche bekam ich nur Sixpence Taschengeld. Die Fahrt nach Manchester hat einen Shilling gekostet. Wenn ich das Auto gewaschen hab, hab ich einen Penny und zwei Briefmarken bekommen. Die Briefmarken hab ich gebraucht, aber wenn ich dann einen Shilling und einen Penny hatte, bin ich nach Manchester gefahren, dort in die Bibliothek gegangen und hab gelesen. Gegenüber am Albert Square war das Quäker Meeting House, dann bin ich da hingegangen, hab einen Tee getrunken und einen Bun gegessen. Danach bin ich spazieren gegangen, hab mir die Geschäfte angeschaut. Das war mein Dienstag, mein freier Nachmittag.

Dann langsam hab ich Leute kennen gelernt, Österreicher. Und dadurch ist es mir ein bißchen besser gegangen. Dann habe ich Leute vom "Young Austria" kennengelernt und jemand vom Komitee hat gemerkt, daß mit mir irgendwas nicht stimmt. Ich hab dann über Mr. Jones erzählt und kam als Kindermädchen zu einer Familie in den nächsten Ort. Als der Krieg ausbrach, ist der Mann sofort zum Militär gegangen, und die konnten sich kein Kindermädchen mehr leisten. Dann bin ich in ein Jugendheim gekommen und hab schon in Fabriken Uniformen genäht.

Mit meinen Eltern hatte ich ab und zu Kontakt und wußte, daß sie sich nach Bolivien gerettet hatten. Mein Vater war Leiter der Wäscherei und hat Indios unter sich gehabt. Damals hat man in den Hotels noch die Wäsche mit der Hand gewaschen.

Zu meinem Bruder hatte ich wenig Kontakt. Er war bei der Familie Margesson, die die Kinder in die Schule geschickt haben. Da war ein ganz berühmter Verleger in Wien namens Neurath. Dessen Sohn Walter und seine junge Frau wurden auch nach England gebracht, und dieser Captain Margesson war Minister im Kabinett Chamberlains. Er hat ein Haus zur Verfügung gestellt für die Neuraths mit der Auflage, daß sie drei Refugee-Kinder mit aufnehmen müssen, er ist für alles aufgekommen. Einer davon war mein Bruder. Dann war da noch ein Mädchen namens Ruth und ein Bub namens Stefan. Die haben sich dort kennen gelernt. Die Ruth war damals acht, Stefan war zehn oder zwölf Jahre alt. Fritz war zwölf Jahre alt. Die Ruth und der Stefan sind ein Paar geworden und haben geheiratet.

Mein Bruder schrieb am 8. März 1942 in einem Brief an meine Eltern, in dem Brief lag ein Foto auf dem unsere Tante Kitty, ich und mein Bruder zu sehen sind: "Liebe Eltern! Dieser Brief gilt der Mama zum Muttertag. Also alles, alles Gute, Mama! Es folgen noch mehr Bilder. Ich hab gute Nachrichten für euch. Mein Chef hat mir nach Ablauf der Probezeit vorige Woche gesagt, daß er mich anstellen will und das ich ein Pfund per Woche bekomme. Die Arbeit freut mich sehr. Mein Bruder hat eine Lehre und Anstellung als Grafiker bekommen. Er zeichnet und schreibt sehr gut, ist sehr talentiert. "Ich schreib euch noch mehr ausführlich in einem anderen folgenden Brief. Ihr könnt am Bild sehen, wie ich gewachsen bin. Ich hab beim Fotografieren nicht gemogelt und mich auf die Zehenspitzen gestellt. Im Gegenteil, die Füße gespreizt ein wenig. Recht viele Bussi. Fritz." In einem anderen Brief: "Liebe Eltern, danke für euren Brief vom 20.2.1942, den wir vorgestern am 20.3.1942 erhielten. Auch für die zwei Bilder, mit denen wir uns sehr freuten. Also ich arbeite schon seit 3. Feber als Reklamezeichner. Das heißt, ich arbeite, während ich lerne. Ich bekomme ein Pfund per Woche bezahlt. Ganz schön, glaub ich. Die Arbeit freut mich riesig. Mehr darüber in gewöhnlicher Post." Heute Sonntag, waren wir, Erich, Trude, Käthe und ich bei der Matthäus- Passion von Bach im Konzert. Unheimlich schön. Wir sind noch ganz betrunken von der Musik. Ich hab seit gestern eine neue Flöte. Sehr groß, 3/4 m lang. Sie hat 30 Schilling gekostet. Von eigenem Ersparten, aber die Käthe hat was beigesteuert. Meine Kleine, die eine Oktave höher spielt, habe ich der Trude geborgt. Wir haben grad nach Noten das erste Duett gespielt. Sehr klass. Viele Bussi. Fritz."

Das ist deshalb so interessant, weil er mit 16 Jahren bereits begonnen hat, sich für die Musik zu interessieren und vier Jahre später an der Royal Academy of Music ein Stipendium bekommen hat. Also deshalb ist es so interessant, daß er mit 16 bereits die Matthäus-Passion so empfunden hat. Das war der Beginn einer Kariere meines Bruders als Musiker und Autor. Er wurde erster Flötist im Liverpool Philharmonic Orchester, Gründer und Dirigent des Liverpool Wind Ensembles, Kolumnist und Autor zahlreicher Artikel und hat eine eigene Radiosendung in der BBC. Mit seiner zweiten Frau Ingrid lebt er in Liverpool.

Am schlimmsten dran waren die, die zwischen 1922 und 1925 geboren wurden. Die hatten bereits die Pflichtschule absolviert, und da ist es vom Verständnis der Zieheltern abgehangen, ob sie weiter studieren oder ob sie eine höhere Schule besuchen dürfen oder ob sie arbeiten müssen.

Es war gedacht, daß wir nur kurze Zeit in England bleiben und dann zu den Eltern nach Bolivien gehen. Aber da kam der Krieg dazwischen, und dann war Bolivien abgeschrieben. Meine Eltern wollten zuerst einmal, daß wir nach England gehen und dort eine Schule besuchen, denn Bolivien war ja ein schwarzer Fleck auf der Landkarte. In Bolivien gingen Polizisten zu dieser Zeit noch barfuß, und wenn es ganz kalt war, dann haben sie Autoreifen zerschnitten und sich die als Sohle um die Füße gebunden. Auf der Straße sind die Indios gesessen und haben ihre Kinder gelaust und die Läuse aufgefressen. Das kann man sich wirklich nicht vorstellen. Bolivien und Kolumbien ist eigentlich erst durch die Emigranten aufgeblüht.

Argentinien, Brasilien und Uruguay waren schon etwas weiter. Die hatten eine Mittelschicht, was die anderen ja nicht hatten.

Bei "Young Austria" habe ich begeistert mitgearbeitet. Da hat es sich dann so langsam entwickelt, daß wir nach Österreich zurückgehen sollten, um mitzuhelfen, daß eine Demokratie entsteht. Das hat sich dann als Trugschluß herausgestellt, es hat in Wirklichkeit kein Mensch geschert, ob die Emigranten zurückkommen, im Gegenteil. Es wäre den Österreichern wahrscheinlich lieber gewesen, wir wären weg geblieben. Ich hab in England Franz Czechmann, einen politischen Emigranten kennen gelernt. Man hat mich ununterbrochen wegen meiner bürgerlichen Herkunft ein bißchen scheel angeschaut, und da hab ich mir gedacht, wenn ich einen Proletarier heirate, dann werde ich zur Proletarierin. Aber das ist ein Irrtum. Wir haben geheiratet und am 22.2.1944 kam unsere Tochter Marion in London zur Welt.

Nach dem Krieg

Am 22. September 1946, also ein Jahr und ein paar Monate, nachdem der Krieg zu Ende war, kamen wir nach Wien zurück. Meine Familie gab es in Wien nicht mehr.

Die einzigen, die in Wien waren, waren die Eltern meines damaligen Mannes, und sein Bruder. Zuerst haben wir bei den Schwiegereltern gewohnt, und dann hat uns die Partei eine Wohnung zugewiesen. Das war ein Zimmer mit drei Türen und einem Fenster. Ein Bett, ein Tisch und ein Stuhl standen in dem Zimmer. Das Bett hatte einen Strohsack, nicht einmal eine Matratze. Da haben wir mit dem Kind gehaust.

Meine Mutter ist Ende der 40er-Jahre sehr krank geworden und hat vorgeschlagen, daß ich zu ihr nach Uruguay komme, um meinen Eltern zu helfen.

Von meinem Mann hatte ich mich scheiden lassen. Die Ehe war von Anfang an ein Blödsinn. Wir waren zu verschieden, ich war noch minderjährig und hab die Erlaubnis meine Eltern aus Bolivien gebraucht, das hat ewig gedauert, bis die kam, und als die kam, hatte ich es mir eigentlich schon überlegt und wollte gar nicht mehr heiraten. Aber er hat gedroht, er bringt uns um, wenn wir nicht heiraten. Und wer will schon mit 19 Jahren sterben? Und da hab mir gedacht, so schlimm kann's auch nicht sein.

Das uruguaysche Gesetz besagte, daß Kinder ihre Eltern anfordern dürfen. Aber nicht Eltern ihre erwachsenen Kinder. Meine Tochter Marion war Engländerin und hatte einen englischen Paß. Engländer brauchten kein Visum, weil sie bei den Alliierten waren. Wir sind nach Italien gefahren, meine Tochter hat ein Visum bekommen und ist zu meinen Eltern nach Uruguay gefahren. Dann hat sie durch Beziehungen, die meine Eltern hatten, mich angefordert. Und ich bin dann am 1. Februar 1951 nach Uruguay gefahren.

Da hab ich meine Eltern das erste Mal wieder gesehen. Meine Mutter war damals schon in einem sehr schlechten gesundheitlichen Zustand und wollte auch noch meinen Bruder sehen. Sie ist dann nach England gefahren, hat in England einen Herzinfarkt bekommen, ist aber gerettet worden und ist wieder zurückgekommen. Sie starb September 1953. Wir hatten noch eineinhalb Jahre miteinander. Mein Vater ist dann 1954 zurück nach Wien, und ich war, ehrlich gesagt, zu feige, nach Wien zurückzugehen, nachdem ich mit fliegenden Fahnen nach Uruguay gegangen bin. Das ist etwas, das ich nie wieder gutmachen kann, denn ich hätte, wenn ich Anfang 1950 nach Wien zurückgegangen wäre, noch irgendein Studium beginnen können. Damals gab schon die ersten Studienbeihilfen und die Möglichkeiten zu studieren und einen Abschluß zu machen. Ich hab aber trotzdem einige Jahre bei den Vereinten Nationen gearbeitet und mich dann entschlossen, meine Tochter ist nach England gegangen, nach Österreich zurückzugehen, weil ich nicht mehr in Südamerika bleiben wollte. Ich hab gemerkt, daß ich doch dem europäischen Kulturkreis zu sehr verhaftet.

Meinen zweiten Vertrag bei den Vereinten Nationen habe ich gekündigt in der Hoffnung, daß ich einen dritten Vertrag irgendwo bei einem europäischen Projekt bekomme. Das war der politischen Umstände wegen kaum möglich, denn ich war in der Administration und bei Feldprojekten, und die waren meistens in Krisengebieten. Ich hab dann durch Zufall einen Posten im Außenministerium bekommen und bin wieder nach Südamerika, um vier Jahre an einer österreichischen Botschaft in Südamerika zu arbeiten. In Südamerika lernte ich auch meinen zweiten Mann kennen, von dem ich mich aber nach einiger Zeit scheiden ließ. Nach fünf Jahren hab ich mich wieder nach Österreich versetzen lassen in der Hoffnung, noch einen anderen Posten irgendwo zu bekommen. Ich hab in der Zwischenzeit von der DDR gehört und gelesen, und es hat mich doch sehr gereizt, weil ich der Meinung war, daß das ein Land ist, das meinen Idealen entspräche. Kein Faschismus, kein Antisemitismus und eine wahre Demokratie. Als ich's geschafft hatte, dorthin versetzt zu werden, hat's nicht lang gedauert, bis ich gemerkt habe, daß mein Ideal nicht dem entsprochen hat, was ich mir vorgestellt hab. Und ich habe dann begonnen, meine Arbeit in eine Art Hilfe umzuwandeln, weil ich mich mit den Opfern identifiziert habe. Es hat mich gestört, wenn ich mit Leuten zusammen war, die nicht einmal einen Kilometer weiter nach Westberlin konnten. Ich habe mich immer geschämt, daß ich diese Privilegien hatte. Ich bin auch dort in die jüdische Gemeinde gegangen und habe mich vorgestellt und habe Herrn Dr. Kirchner kennen gelernt. Und Herr Dr. Kirchner hat mich behandelt, als ob ich eine Bittstellerin wäre. Es war kurz vor Seder, und ich habe gefragt ob es möglich wäre, am Seder teilzunehmen. Und Herr Dr. Kirchner hat gesagt, das wäre leider nicht möglich, denn es gäbe keinen Platz mehr. Und dann hab ich eines Tages Herrn Dr. Kirchner ziemlich direkt meine Meinung gesagt: "Ich weiß es nicht, wie viel Sie vom Judentum wissen. Ich weiß wenig, aber das Wenige, das ich weiß, ist noch immer viel mehr als das, was Sie wissen. Ich habe noch nie erlebt, daß man einen Juden, wenn er von auswärts kommt, nicht an den Sabbattisch oder am Sederabend teilnehmen läßt. Das ist im Judentum, das ich gelernt habe, nicht üblich."

Eigenartigerweise spüre ich einen sehr latenten traditionellen Antisemitismus. Zum Beispiel: Man muß doch einmal vergessen können, oder: Wir haben Juden geholfen. Meinem Vater hat unser Nachbar die Koffer zur Bahn getragen, - ob er sich nachher an dem Mobiliar, das zurückgeblieben ist, bereichert hat, wird wohlweislich verschwiegen. Oder: Was wollt ihr denn? Es geht euch doch schon wieder gut! Das stört mich. Es gibt eine gewisse traditionelle antisemitische Mittelschicht. Die gab's und die gibt's und die wird's immer geben. Wobei sie sich nie als Antisemiten deklarieren würden, sondern das sind so hintergründige Bemerkungen, die aber unüberhörbar sind.

Glossar

 1. Vivarium: Diese biologische Forschungseinrichtung wurde im Kontext des Wiener jüdischen Groß- und Bildungsbürgertums gegründet und zum Zentrum von Innovationen auf einer Reihe von Wissen(schaft)sgebieten. Das Vivarium wurde im Zuge des "Anschlusses" 1938 geschlossen, seine Forscher/innen vertrieben oder in der weiteren Folge ermordet. Aus dem Internet.

Faina Khorunzhenko
Kiev
Ukraine
Interviewer: Zhanna Litinskaya
Date of interview: November 2001

Family background
Growing up
During the War
After the War
Glossary

Family background

I remember my grandfather, my father's father, very well. His name was Pinkhus Yakovlevich Levinson. He was born in the middle of the 19th century, and died at the age of 77, in 1927. I never knew my grandmother - my father's mother - because she died at a very young age. My grandfather was a very good tailor. To the full measure of his abilities he was trying to provide his children with education. My grandfather lived with our family - my mother, my father and me in Novoukrainka [at that time it was Odessa region, today it is Kirovograd region]. My grandfather was very religious. He went to the synagogue every day, spoke Yiddish and kept all Jewish traditions.

He had six children: the oldest brother Yakov, my father Lev and his brother Yevsey. His brother Yakov died tragically. His friend was a gun maker, and they played with his guns, and he said, 'I'll shoot you now', being absolutely confident that the gun was empty. He shot and killed him. A young widow and a two-year-old child were left behind. The middle brother, Yevsey, served in the Soviet Army. He selected horses. He was also in the Soviet Army during World War II, and he lived in Novoukrainka after the war.

My father was born in Novoukrainka in 1885. He graduated from the College of Commerce. His sisters, aunts Sonya, Lyuba and Manya, received an education, which was considered very good for women. They graduated from something like a pro-gymnasium, a junior course, because it was very hard for Jewish children to get accepted into a school, even a private one. That's all I know about them.

I never knew my grandparents on my mother's side because they died before I was born. My grandfather was called Moisey Zamb. He died at the beginning of 1916, while grandmother Pesya died back in 1911. They lived in what today is the town of Pervomaisk. It used to be called Golta. This city consists of three parts - Golta, Bogopol, and Olveopol. My mother was born there. My grandfather had his own house. They were quite rich because my grandfather - even though it sounds strange for that time - was a manager for a rich landowner and industrial businessman. They had a large family - seven children.

Their oldest daughter was Tanya; I don't know when she was born. Her husband, Mikhail Kizman, fought in the Russian-Japanese war. He was involved with the Social Democrats. One officer in Manchuria [China] warned him that if he did not hide, he would be arrested and judged by the military tribunal for agitating against the war. Mikhail managed to escape. I don't know how, but his first stop was New York. Somehow he let his relatives know that he was still alive. Then he moved to Argentina, where aunt Tanya and her two little children also moved in 1906. Aunt Tanya wrote to us. Despite the fact that they lived a good life, and their children received a very good education, my aunt was obviously nostalgic. She missed her motherland for the rest of her life. We lost contact with her during the war.

The second sister was Dina. Aunt Dina died in 1924 or 1925 of cholera, which was the only case in the little town near Odessa, where she lived. She left three children behind: two daughters, Sonya and Zhenya, and a son, Bentsion. My mother also had brothers - Mikhail, Grigory, and Ruvim. She also had a sister. I don't remember anything else.

My mother was the youngest. She was born on December 12, 1890. Her name was Olga Zamb. After the death of my grandfather, my mother's older brother, Grigory (who fought in World War I and was demobilized in 1916 due to a wound, after which he found a job in Pervomaisk), took my mother into his own family. But my mother didn't like it there because Grigory's wife Asya had no love for her. Then the husband of her sister Sonya, Bentsion Brodsky, took my mother to Novoukrainka, where she lived from 1916. I don't know any details, she only said that she didn't like living there.

It was there that she met my father. My father, Lev Levinson, was five years older than my mother. He courted her for a very long time - more than a year and a half. They married, and lived with grandfather, and then I was born on 1st May 1920. We didn't have our own house, so we always rented houses or apartments. I remember our last flat: it was big, with three rooms and two kitchens - a warm one and a summer one; there was a dining room, my parents' bedroom, my grandfather's room, and the smallest room for me.

Growing up

During the Soviet times my father worked as an economist in the system of central work cooperatives. Our financial situation was not bad: there were no super incomes, but it was enough for us to live on. I had a good fur- coat for winter, and many different dresses - woolen and velvet. My mother also had very good clothes, and my father was even called a dandy. He was very elegant.

Back then people bought everything in private stores. It was the New Economic Policy 1. Lenin introduced it after 1921. Private capital was allowed in commerce and light industry but not in heavy industry. My mother didn't work anywhere; she was a housewife. In the morning she made breakfast for my father and saw him to the door; then after feeding my grandfather and me, she took me for a walk or shopping. We had no servants, so she did all the housework herself.

My grandfather and my father were very religious. We kept every Jewish holiday in our house; I especially remember Passover. My grandfather always wore a yarmulka; he also had a beard and small payes. He was religious, but not fanatically. He observed the Sabbath, on this day he prayed and wore a tallit. My father and my mother went to the synagogue. I don't remember how often they did that, but they definitely did. There were a lot of Jews in Novoukrainka, which is why they had a synagogue there. They had no special Jewish streets: Jews, Ukrainians, and Russians all lived in one neighborhood, and were on good terms. My parents had a lot of friends, both among the Jews and other nationalities.

In general, relations between the different nationalities were complicated. I would like to tell you one story. It was in the south of Ukraine, and during the Civil War [1918-1921] there were a lot of atamans there. [Ataman is a Cossack chief; Russian term for the leader of an armed band.] I knew the family of Kolya Medvedev. I went to school with him. His grandfather and father were bakers. His grandfather had another son, who was 18 during the Civil War. So, as usual, at such an age, heads were hot. Once ataman Grigoryev sent somebody to gather gangs together to pogrom the Jews in Yelisavetgrad. He decided to go with him, but got drunk, couldn't get on the train and fell under it. People rescued him, but both his legs got cut off. So later, when all kinds of gangs would attack that town, people said the doors of Medvedev's house would open widely for the Jewish families with children to run there and hide. Old man Medvedev would take an icon and his handicapped son, stand in the doorway of his house and tell the gangs, 'First, beat up this icon, then beat up me and my son, and only then will you enter my house'. Thus he saved as many Jews as he could. But I cannot tell you if everyone acted like him.

During the Civil War, my father's neighbor betrayed him, and my father had to spend two days at the camp of Denikin 2. Then they took him to be shot. I don't know why, but there was another man, a Russian, who was about to be shot as well, Vladimir Ivanov. Denikin's gang was retreating - the troops of Kotovsky attacked them. [Kotovsky was a famous Red Army commander.] My father crawled to the house, called, but my mother could not open the door, because it opened to the outside. My father fell in front of it, and his body wouldn't allow the door to open. Anyway, she opened the door somehow, stepped over my father, and ran to get a doctor. The doctor, Mikhail Mikhailovich Mikhailovsky, lifted my father up and helped him come to his senses. As he was leaving, my mother asked him, 'What's wrong with Lyova?' He hugged her and said, 'Daughter, he has the heart of a 100-year- old man'.

After that, my father only lived for seven more years. I can say that I received his last breath. I went to school at the time, in 1927, because my father knew that he was dying and he really wanted me to study. So he asked his good friend, who was a school director, to accept me earlier than they usually did. On that day I stayed at home - for some reason my mother didn't let me go to school. My father was in bed, and I was sitting in another room, drawing. Suddenly he called me and said, 'My dear daughter, let me kiss you'. I gave him my lips, and he said, 'Do not kiss me on the lips for they are already dead'. He kissed my forehead, and was gone... It was 3 p.m. on 5th October 1927. I saw my father when he was wrapped in his tallit, if I'm right, but I wasn't present when he was being taken out of the house. I only know and remember that my mother sat on the floor and slept on a carpet for seven days, just as she should...

My grandfather said, 'Lyova, you will not stay there alone for long, I'll join you soon'. And six weeks later he also died. I didn't attend his funeral, because he had sent my mother and me to his sister in Pervomaisk, having said, 'They've had enough deaths and funerals'. Before his death he made my mother's sister promise that if my mother wanted to get married again, she should be allowed to do so. But even with this oath, my mother could never forget her husband and never married again. From the age of 27 she remained a widow. I had no brothers or sisters.

Being a widow, my mother studied medicine, graduated and worked as a medical assistant to a surgeon for nearly fifty years. After the death of my father and grandfather, my mother and I lived with her sister and her sister's husband. They had no children and loved me as their own daughter.

I continued to go to school. It was a Ukrainian school. There were a lot of Jews in our class, but we really never thought about who was who. It was simply not on our minds. There was a Jewish school in town, and when we were in the fourth grade we, the Jewish kids, were almost transferred there by force. We didn't want to go there because we didn't know the language and didn't want to be bad students.

In the family, I always spoke Russian, even with grandfather and father; I understood Yiddish, but it wasn't enough. Back then I began to take German classes with a tutor outside school; I knew that language pretty well. I liked going to school very much. I was a true Soviet child. We celebrated all kinds of holidays in a beautiful way; we had special sports parades, and 1st of May and October Revolution Day 3 demonstrations. By the way, we didn't only celebrate Soviet, but also other holidays; for instance, we had a very nice celebration of the Paris Commune Day. I was dressed as Marianna, a symbol of the French Revolution, and older boys carried me in their arms, while I held a flying French flag in my hands.

In the summer of 1934, we moved to Sumy for good. It happened because uncle Mikhail, with whose family we lived, had been transferred to Sumy for work. In Sumy I also went to a Ukrainian school; there were no Jewish schools there at the time. I was certainly a young pioneer, and, later a Komsomol 4 member. At our school we had a wonderful drama course. I studied there for three years and received a certificate on graduation. It meant that I could continue my theatrical career. But none of my friends from the studio took advantage of this opportunity. We staged both classical and modern repertoire. With great enthusiasm we marked the 100th anniversary of Alexander Pushkin's death by staging one of his plays. Very often we gave concerts and performed plays during the lunch breaks in workshops of big factories.

There were many Jewish boys and girls, approximately one third, in our class in Sumy. But I only started to think about it as a grown-up; we never paid attention to any nationalities back then. Everybody gathered at our house. My mother was never interested in politics, but she was a true patriot, loved her country and her people and did her noble job of helping people as much as she could.

There was a synagogue in Sumy. My uncle and aunt went there, but my mother did not. On Passover, when we could not buy matzah in Sumy, my aunt made it herself. Our family celebrated big traditional holidays, both before and after the war.

I finished school in 1938. But as they said, we were unlucky, because in 1937, the Stalinist repression started, and many teachers of our school were arrested. [The interviewee is referring to the Great Terror.] 5 We could never get the whole picture and believed everything we were told. All the teachers of the basic subjects at our school had been arrested. Somebody put 'B's' into all our high school certificates, so that we would have some grades, but not be able to get special golden medals [for graduation with honors from high school], which would have enabled us to enter institutes and universities without exams. But in general, all the students who studied well entered institutes, including Jews. Moreover, when I was already a student of the Sumy Teachers' Institute, I was rewarded with Stalin's scholarship, which was introduced in 1939 in honor of Stalin's 60th birthday. This scholarship was worth 700 rubles, while the regular one was only worth 250 rubles.

I was always interested in history, and I studied at the history department of my institute. At the end of the 1940s we already knew about Hitler's rise to power: mostly from the case against Georgy Dimitrov 6. Besides, we watched two wonderful movies - The Oppenheim Family and Swamp Soldiers. Back then we knew about Hitler's attitude towards Jews, about destroyed stores, persecutions and concentration camps. [Editor's note: It is unlikely that they already knew about concentration camps at the time, so the remark is probably a retrospective memory.] And when the Molotov- Rippentrop Pact 7 was signed we all supported it, and even now I believe it was necessary.

In general, our family feared the war back in 1939. My mother was first called up in September 1939, when our troops entered Poland. I was on my way from a health center in Odessa at the time, and outside Kremenchug all passengers were taken off the train, because all the trains were supposed to serve the military. We all had to get home on other trains. When I came home, my aunt met me in Sumy, because my mother had been called up by that time. It was around September 14. They said there were no victims in that campaign. I don't know about the dead, but there were many wounded for sure.

During the War

I remember the day when war broke out [on 22nd June 1941]. I was preparing for an exam on the history of the Ukraine and was reading Grushevsky's book - a big volume with a leather cover. Now people say that Grushevsky was banned in the Ukraine, but back then we all studied his books. I was sitting on the porch, holding the book on my knees. The window was open towards the porch, and I could hear the radio. Suddenly, I heard the word 'fascists'. I did not react because I thought I had misheard something. And then I heard 'they attacked...', and it was already Molotov's address. I jumped up, and the book fell on my feet - I had two bruises on my feet for a long time afterwards. The building of our institute was immediately transformed into a hospital.

On 23rd June my mother was called up again; her passport and military ticket were taken away from her, and she was sent to set up the hospital. I passed my exams, then went to the hospital chief, Grigoriy Isaakovich Kanevsky, and told him, 'I will help you'. He ordered me to set up the hospital library. Soon, the first wounded soldiers began to arrive. I helped to admit them and with everything else that was needed. Thus, I began to work as a librarian, first on a voluntary basis and then as a staff member; later I worked as the chief of the hospital club. But the hospital did not stay in Sumy for long: it was evacuated on 12th August 1941.

It was a long ride. At the Kharkov railway crossing we were heavily bombed. We were kept in a heated goods van. But thanks to our hospital chief, we were not hungry, because he brought enough food along. We came to the town of Gorky and got settled in the House of Councils. We all lived in one room, slept on mats, ate on mats, made tables of mats, so we lived with 'soft furniture'. Then the hospital was moved to the town of Semenov, not far from Gorky. Later, my job as a hospital librarian was reduced, and the district committee of Komsomol sent me to another place as a free secretary. There I joined the Communist Party.

In October 1943, after Sumy was freed from the fascists, I wrote a letter to my institute. I got a reply from its director, Zaitsev, who wrote that the history department was in operation. And, in October 1943, I returned to Sumy. My mother who was subject to the draft, my uncle and my aunt remained in Semenov.

When I came back to Sumy, I learned that the Germans had shot all Sumy Jews - a total of 186 people. The rest managed to evacuate from their homes. There was no special evacuation for Jews, they left on their own. Then Jews from the whole Sumy region were evacuated, and after the liberation of Sumy the remains of everyone who was found were buried in the cemetery, and a large tombstone was put on top of the grave.

Our family lost my uncle, the husband of my father's younger sister - he perished in the battle of the Dneper River. At the Leningrad front my favorite cousin Moiseika Shakhnovsky was killed. My cousin's husband, Leonid Savitsky, was killed outside Moscow, and the fascists shot my cousin's youngest son in Kirovograd. He was 12 years old, and was sent there for vacation with his grandparents; he died with them.

After the War

After the war, I graduated from the institute and continued to work there at the Marxism-Leninism chair. In 1947, following the decision of the bureau of the district party committee, I was transferred to work as a senior teacher at the Sumy Medical College. It was there that I met the teacher Dmytry Khorunzhenko. We married in 1949. My husband was Ukrainian and had deep respect and love for all my relatives, and Jews in general. When his mother, a simple woman, introduced me to her brother, she told him, 'Tisha, do you see that she happens to be a Jew?' Tisha Makarych, her brother, hugged me in reply and said, 'Motya, this is God's chosen people, from whom the Lord God gave us His Son'.

When anti-Semitic campaigns blossomed, the following situation took place in Moscow during the Doctors' Plot 8. An officer approached my husband and asked him, 'Dmytry, why do you need a Jewish wife? It isn't good timing for that...' To this, my husband replied that he had married a person rather than a nationality, and would appreciate it if no one interfered with his private life. There was another case, when the director of a school in the Komintern district of Moscow, where I was sent to work, looked at my documents and said, 'Oh, but you're an alien!' In his presence, I called the secretary of the party district committee, Yekaterina Furtseva, who later became the Minister of Culture in the Soviet Union. She asked me to pass him the phone, and when she began to talk to him, he turned pale, murmuring, 'I didn't mean quite that...'

My husband and I traveled to many cities: Leningrad, Murmansk and Tbilisi. We were sent to Hungary after certain events there. [Editor's note: The interviewee is referring to the Hungarian revolution of 1956 which was suppressed by the Soviet Army, which had been stationed in the country since World War II.] By the way, there was a most wonderful synagogue in Budapest, where we bought matzah for Passover. We celebrated both Jewish and Christian holidays, and of course the Soviet ones, with the same kind of joy. On Soviet Army Day 9, 1st of May and October Revolution Day we invited my husband's friends for the family party, sharing meals, singing and dancing together.

When the State of Israel was formed, my husband and I expressed full support of it. My husband realized that those were the Jewish lands, and that Jews needed a strong state of their own.

By the time we came to Kiev we were quite old. Unfortunately, my husband is dead. Now, I receive great moral and material aid from the Jewish community of Kiev and from the Hesed charity center. There are two synagogues in Kiev these days, and a lot is being done for the revival of the Jewish nation. I believe our Jewish organizations are doing the right thing when they don't separate purely Jewish families from mixed marriages. For it doesn't matter who belongs to which nation; the most important thing that people need to understand is that they are all human and that they should value one another.

Glossary

Sophia Abidor
Uzhgorod
Ukraine
Interviewer: Ella Levitskaya
Date of interview: April 2003

Sophia Abidor and her husband Grigori live in a standard two-bedroom apartment in a new district in Uzhgorod. It's a small apartment, but very clean and bright. The furniture was bought in the middle of the 1970s, but it's still in good condition. There are photographs of Sophia's relatives on the walls. Sophia has been confined to bed for over six months now due to a fractured neck of femur. She has gone through a lot of pain and suffering, but she stoically bears the hardships of her life. Regardless of her age and illness Sophia is still a beautiful woman. She has long black hair without a single gray hair. The interview was a tiring process for her and we had to make a break every now and then for her to rest. During those breaks her husband Grigori talked about their family. One can tell they have deep affection for each other from their smiles when their glances meet, from the way they touch one another and from how they talk to each other. One cannot help admiring this couple that has never had an argument in 60 years. Grigori takes care of his wife in a very touching way.

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

My family background

My parents' families lived in Odessa. Odessa is my favorite town, the place where I spent my childhood and youth. Odessa is a big port on the Black Sea in the south of Ukraine. Odessa was founded in the 18th century on the grounds of the Tatar settlement of Khadzhi-Bei. [Editor's note: In the 14th century, the site where Odessa is today became a Crimean Tatar fortress and trade center called Khadzhi-Bei. In 1764 it passed to the Turks, who built a fortress to protect the harbor. It was taken by the Russians in 1789.] In the 19th century Odessa became the second biggest port in Russia after Saint-Petersburg and a big resort town. Its population constituted over 400,000 people. Odessa was also a cultural center in tsarist Russia. Novorossiysk University, one of the first universities in the south of Russia, opened in Odessa. The building of the Odessa Opera Theater is still one of the most beautiful in Europe. There were Russians, Ukrainians, Greeks, Turks, Bulgarians, Italians and people of other nations in Odessa. Jews constituted a large part of the population. The Jewish community in Odessa was the second biggest community in tsarist Russia. Most of the merchants of Guild I & II 1 lived in Odessa, probably due to the fact that Odessa was a port town. Jews owned big stores, factories and shops. There were Jewish doctors, lawyers and musicians. However, as in any other town, the majority of Jews were poor people. Richer Jews lived in big houses in the town center. Poorer Jews settled down in Moldavanka 2 and Peresyp 3, and near Privoz, the biggest market in Odessa. Jews worked as cab and cargo drivers that were called bindyuzhniki. [Editor's note: Bindyuzhniki is a Russian jargon word, derived from the word 'bindyug', which was used in Odessa for cargo cab drivers. Currently it is a slang word describing excessively strong and rough people. It is a word only used in Odessa, in all other areas people of this profession were called cargo cab drivers.] They were mainly big and strong men on horse-driven carts. Sons took over this profession from their fathers. The writer Isaac Babel 4 magnificently described Jewish life in Odessa.

The different nationalities living in Odessa had no conflicts throughout the ages. Cultures and languages were mixed. Even today Odessa residents have a very specific dialect containing Russian, Ukrainian and Jewish words and accents. In any other place one would recognize someone from Odessa.

There were seven big synagogues and about 50 prayer houses and smaller synagogues in Odessa. There were several cheders in town. During the Soviet rule, when the authorities waged a struggle against religion 5, the synagogues were closed or destroyed. The same happened to the numerous churches, cathedrals and temples in Odessa.

After World War I the Black Hundred 6, raging anti-Semites that arranged Jewish pogroms 7, came to town. They didn't start pogroms in the town center because they were afraid of the police so they went to the overpopulated outskirts of Odessa. They robbed and killed residents. Fortunately, our family didn't suffer from pogroms. After the Revolution of 1917 8 the pogroms ended. After that there was no anti-Semitism in the USSR until the Great Patriotic War 9.

I know very little about my father's family. I never met any of his relatives. They weren't mentioned in our family for some reason. My paternal grandfather's name was Chaim Burda. I have no information about my grandmother. My father, Semyon Burda, never told me what my grandfather did for a living, but I know that his family was very poor. They lived in Odessa, but I don't know if they came from Odessa originally. All their children were born in Odessa. I don't know the date of birth of my father's brothers and sister. Simkha was the oldest followed by Yakov. My father was born in 1898. Riva, his sister, was the youngest. My father was religious and knew all prayers by heart. I don't know if my father or his brothers studied at cheder. When my father turned 10 he became an apprentice to a tailor. Later he worked as a tailor.

My father and his sister Riva stayed in Odessa when they grew up. Their brothers moved to other places and disappeared. Riva got married and had a daughter. I only have bits and pieces of information about Riva's family. Riva and her family were in evacuation in Tashkent [Uzbekistan] and stayed there after the war. I don't know when she died because we didn't keep in touch with her. My father's older brother Simkha went to Tashkent in the 1920s. He was single. He worked as a clerk in an office. Simkha died in 1946. Yakov worked in an office. He had a son, who became a military doctor, and a daughter, whom I have no information about. Yakov died in Mariupol in 1949. I don't know whether any of them was buried in a Jewish cemetery.

My mother's parents came from Odessa. My grandfather Abram Magner was born in Odessa in 1864 and my grandmother Sima Magner in 1868. I don't know my grandmother's maiden name and never met any of my grandparents' relatives. My grandfather was a joiner. He had his own shop before the Revolution. It was expropriated by the Soviet authorities [nationalization] 10 and my grandfather continued working there as an employee. My grandmother was a housewife.

My grandfather and grandmother were very religious. I remember my grandfather praying at home every day wearing his tallit and tefillin. He never replied if someone addressed him during a prayer. My grandparents went to the synagogue. They went there on Jewish holidays, arm in arm and dressed up. My grandfather was a slim man of average height. He had a small gray beard, but no payes. He always wore a kippah and a hat outside. He wore casual clothes that were no different from anybody else's outfits. My grandmother was a big woman of average height. She was very beautiful, even in her old age. She always wore a kerchief and casual clothes.

My mother's parents spoke Yiddish at home. They spoke Yiddish with their children and Russian with a Jewish accent with their grandchildren.

There were five children in the family: Marcus, Leiba, Dora, Keilia and Isaac. I only know the birth date of my mother. As for the rest of the children, I only know their names and who was younger or older than my mother. Marcus was the oldest child. Then came Leiba, who was called Leonid in the family. My mother Dora was born in 1900. Her Jewish name was Dvoira. The fourth child in the family was Keilia, who was called Ekaterina in Russian manner. Isaac was the youngest child.

My mother didn't get any education. She was the older daughter and therefore had to help her mother about the house and with raising the younger children. Her father believed that education was of no use to girls. They had to learn how to be good housewives. My mother was illiterate. After the Revolution of 1917 she finished a likbez. [11.] My mother never told me whether they were raised religious.

My mother's brothers and sister got education, and they probably studied after the Revolution like my mother. Only Marcus, the oldest, was religious. The rest of them were atheists. Marcus was a handsome man with slender features. He had a small beard, but no payes. Marcus wore dark suits and a dark hat. He had a beautiful voice and sang very well. He liked singing Jewish folk songs and Russian ballads. Marcus was married and had a daughter called Rosa. His wife Maria came from a merchant's family and finished the Russian grammar school in Odessa. She often helped me to do my homework when I was in my senior classes. I was surprised that she remembered so much. Marcus and his wife perished in Odessa in 1941 when Germans occupied the town There were shootings of Jews that lasted several days at that time. Marcus' daughter survived. Marcus had an acquaintance who was a Christian priest. He issued a certificate of baptism to Rosa and took her to a village. Rosa lived with the family of a villager and worked in the field during the war. I don't know anything about Rosa's life after the war.

My mother's brother Leonid finished the Higher Party School in Odessa. [Editors note: Party schools were established after the Revolution of 1917. Major subjects were social, economic and political disciplines. Those schools trained party activists from agitators and propagandists to party leadership] After finishing school Leonid got an assignment to work with the railroad. He was a party organizer at Odessa railroad until he retired in 1963. Leonid married a Jewish woman called Anna, but they had no traditional wedding. They just had a civil ceremony in a registry office. Leonid's wife was a doctor. They had two children: a daughter called Anna and a son called Michael. Leonid died in Odessa in 1965.

My mother's older sister Ekaterina also studied somewhere. She worked as a clerk at the railroad department in Odessa. Ekaterina got married in her 40s but had no children. I didn't know her husband. Ekaterina died in Odessa in 1950.

Isaac moved to Moscow in the 1920s. He was a clerk in an office. He was single. Isaac was at the front during the Great Patriotic War and returned to Moscow after the war. He was wounded at the front and maybe that's why he came to an untimely end in Moscow in 1950.

My parents lived in neighboring houses and had known each other since their childhood. They got married in 1920. My father was religious. My parents had a traditional Jewish wedding with a chuppah. A rabbi conducted the wedding ceremony. My mother didn't tell me any details about their wedding. After the wedding my parents lived in my mother's room. My father worked as a tailor and my mother was a housewife.

Growing up

Our family rented an apartment in a three-storied house in the center of Odessa. The owner of the house leased apartments before the Revolution of 1917. There were four big apartments on each floor. After the Revolution the house became the property of the state and the big apartments were turned into communal apartments 12 with a large number of tenants. The entrance door of each apartment led into a long hallway with about 20 doors to rooms. My mother's brothers and sisters lived separately from their parents at the time. My grandparents lived in one room and my mother and our family lived in another room. There were no comforts in this house. We fetched water from the pump in the yard. The toilet was in the next yard and there were always people standing in line there. There were many small tables in the kitchen with a primus stove on each table. The room was heated with a Russian stove 13. Wood was bought at the market. There was a long shed with many doors in the yard. Each family had a shed where they stored wood.

I was born in 1922. I was named Sophia and that name is written in all my documents. My sister Zina followed in 1925. My parents divorced six months after my sister was born; I don't know why. We stayed with my mother and my father left us. He had a room in a communal apartment in the same street where we lived. He gave my mother some money to support his children, but it wasn't enough. My mother had to go to work to support us. She went to work at the confectionery factory. She was a smart woman. Of course she would have had a different life if she had had an opportunity to get education, but since she had no education she had to work as a laborer all her life. She worked very hard and got tired. My mother was a beautiful woman, but she always had this tired expression that made her look older. I don't think she ever had enough sleep or rest. She came home late from work and had to do the housework such as cooking and washing. Early in the morning she ran to buy food at the market. She didn't spend much time with us. Sometimes our grandmother looked after us and sometimes we went to our father's place. We always kept in touch with our father. Most of the time my sister and I played in the yard or in the street and went home to have a snack. We learned to take care of ourselves at an early age.

We lived in a 50 square meter room. There was a wardrobe with a curtain next to the door to the hallway. This created a small hallway in our room; the rest of the room was our dwelling. There was a sofa that served as a bed for my mother, two small iron beds, a table and four chairs in the center of the room where we had meals and where I did my homework. My mother's parents had a similar room, only that it was furnished better because her parents had some old pieces of furniture.

Before my parents' divorce we celebrated Jewish holidays at home. My mother was an atheist, but my father was religious and observed all traditions. I was 4 when they got divorced, but I remember a little how my father conducted the seder on Pesach. I can't remember preparations for Pesach, but I remember the seder. My father sat at the head of the table wearing a white shirt and his tallit. We moved the table to the sofa and sat on the sofa. There was delicious food on the table. My father said a prayer. Adults had some wine, which was poured into silver cups. My sister and I had water mixed with a little bit of wine. There was a glass of wine in the middle of the table that wasn't meant for anyone. My father told me that it was for Elijah the Prophet 14, who came to every Jewish house to bless the family on Pesach. My father sad a prayer, helped me to say my words and then spoke himself. I didn't understand a word since he spoke Yiddish and we only spoke Russian at home. That's all I remember.

After their divorce my mother didn't celebrate any Jewish holidays. My grandparents, however, observed all traditions strictly. They always celebrated Sabbath and Jewish holidays. My grandmother followed the kashrut. She had special utensils and crockery for meat and dairy products. She also had special crockery and utensils that she only used for Pesach. It was stored in a big wooden box in the hallway for the rest of the year. Those were hard years, but my grandmother always tried to cook plenty of delicious food on holidays. They always had matzah and no bread on Pesach. On Jewish holidays the whole family got together at our grandparents'. Isaac, who lived in Moscow, didn't come, but all other children and their families, who lived in Odessa, came to celebrate holidays at my grandparents'. My mother and we [children] went there as well. On Pesach my grandfather conducted the first seder for the whole family. I don't remember any details, though.

I didn't know Yiddish. Adults switched to Yiddish when they didn't want me to understand the subject of their discussion. I went to the 1st grade of a Ukrainian secondary school in our neighborhood in 1929. My sister Zina went to the same school two years later. There were many Jewish children in my class and school. It seems to me that the majority of my schoolmates were Jews. There were also Jewish teachers, but nobody cared the least bit about nationality at that time.

History and literature were my favorite subjects at school. All teachers believed I would continue to study humanities. I became a Young Octobrist 15, a pioneer and a Komsomol 16 member at school. I wasn't too fond of any public activities. I liked to read. All those pioneer and, later, Komsomol meetings were a sheer waste of time for me. At such meetings we were usually told about the scheming of the world bourgeoisie against the Soviet regime. Those meetings were dull and boring. I preferred to skip them whenever I could and read a book instead. However, I understood that I had to attend them to avoid a prejudiced opinion towards me. I read all kinds of books, but my favorite books were Russian classics. Later I began to read books by Jewish writers in Russian translation and foreign authors. We didn't have any books at home. My mother couldn't afford to spend money on books. I borrowed books from the library at school and, later, from a district town library. I studied well at school.

1932-33 was a period of famine in Ukraine 17. The official press declared it was due to bad harvests. Today we know that it was a planned action in order to suppress villagers that were against the policy of forced collectivization 18. At that time we believed the official propaganda, of course. Our family didn't suffer from the famine. The situation in towns wasn't as bad as in villages. Our family was poor, and we were used to living from hand-to-mouth. In 1933 my mother's parents died: my grandfather first and my grandmother shortly afterwards. They were old and sickly and didn't have enough food. They were buried in the Jewish cemetery in Odessa according to all Jewish traditions. Although all their children except for Marcus were atheists, they weren't against a Jewish funeral. Marcus recited the Kaddish over their graves.

In 1936 arrests began [during the so-called Great Terror] 19 and lasted until the Great Patriotic War. I knew that many people were arrested. Once my favorite teacher, our history teacher, didn't come to class. We were told that he had been arrested. I noticed that too many 'enemies of the people' were arrested, but we were blind back then and believed the propaganda. We didn't give much thought to what was happening around us. People did their own things. I thought about my studies. The parents of some of my classmates were arrested, but we treated them like before. We understood that they were our friends and weren't to blame for anything. We never had any pioneer or Komsomol meetings where we discussed children of 'enemies of the people' or expelled them from pioneer or Komsomol organizations. I think it gave credit to our teachers, who didn't contract a feeling of fear that suppressed people's will. Our family didn't suffer during that period. I didn't face any anti-Semitism because there wasn't any before the war. We didn't even think about the nationality of our friends.

We didn't celebrate any holidays at home. Apart from being short of money our mother neither had the time nor the means to arrange for celebrations. Even on Sundays she tried to do overtime or replace other employees at work to make some extra money. We celebrated Soviet holidays at school. We usually came to school in the morning and went to a parade with slogans and flags. Then we returned to school and had a meeting and a concert at which schoolchildren performed. Sometimes we went to the seashore or to a park on 1st May. This was called 'mayovka'. [Editors note: This word is derived from the name of the month May when people organized picnics with friends and families. Schoolchildren, students and adults used to arrange such outings enjoying the food and drinks.] We took some food from home and arranged a picnic. We had a meal and played hide-and-seek or ball, and we sang songs. We enjoyed ourselves; it was a lot of fun.

I finished school in 1939. My father insisted that I studied at a Medical University and promised to support me. There was a great competition: ten applicants for one position. Odessa Medical University was very popular in the former USSR. Many outstanding professors lectured there, and there were many applicants from other towns or other republics eager to enter this university. There were eleven entrance exams. I passed all exams successfully and was admitted to the General Faculty of Odessa Medical University. There were quite a few Jewish students from Odessa and other towns in my group. There were also many Jewish lecturers. I had Jewish and non-Jewish friends - it didn't matter to me. I studied well at university.

My future husband, Grigori Abidor, was a 2nd-year student of the Heat Engineering Faculty at Odessa Industrial College. Grigori had come to Odessa from Khmelnitskiy [a district town in Vinnitsa region, 300 km from Kiev]. Grigori and two other students rented a room from a janitor on the 1st floor in our house. We met by chance and began to see each other. Less than a year later Grigori proposed to me and I agreed to be his wife. I got married in 1940 after finishing my 1st year at Odessa Medical University. We didn't have a wedding party. We just had a civil ceremony at a registry office.

Grigori was born in Goloskovo in 1919. His Jewish name was Gersh. His father Moisey Abidor, born in 1890, was a joiner. His mother Maria Abidor, nee Golovanevskaya, born in 1894, was a dressmaker and worked at home. Her father Mendel Golovanevski was a blacksmith and my mother-in-law worked at her father's forge before she got married. Maria was a tall and very strong woman. My husband's family wasn't religious. Apart from Grigori, they also had two daughters. Golda, the older one, was born in 1917 and Beba, the younger one, in 1926. In the 1930s their family moved to Khmelnitskiy. Grigori finished secondary school there and left to study in Odessa.

My husband and I shared our room with my mother and sister. We partitioned off a corner of the room with a curtain and that was our first dwelling. We were poor, but we were used to it. My husband and I received a stipend that we shared with my mother and sister. My father sent me monthly allowances keeping his promise to support me while I studied at the Medical University. Grigori had additional earnings by unloading railcars at the railway station at night. Many students made extra money with that kind of work.

During the war

I remember 22nd June 1941, the first day of the war. At noon I went to the post office to send a parcel with fabric and laces to my mother-in-law. She was planning to sew everything necessary for our future baby. There was a big black radio in every street. All of a sudden I heard an announcement on the street radio, 'This is an urgent announcement. The war began.' My husband was at the library preparing for his exams. He was finishing his 3rd and I was finishing my 2nd year. On the next day an air raid began when we walked in the street. My husband and I stood in the street and watched bombs falling on people's houses destroying the town and people's lives. This was how the war began for us. On the first days of the war Grigori volunteered to enter artillery school. The cadets left Odessa on foot. They went as far as Nikolaev [150 km from Odessa] where they boarded a train to go to where they were to take accelerated training. We stayed in Odessa.

Our son Iziaslav was born in Odessa during the war. I went to a maternity hospital during an air raid on 9th July 1941. My mother and friends came to pick me up from hospital. My husband was in the army. My father was recruited to the army at the end of July. For the first time in my life I got the feeling that Jews were differentiated from other people. My co- student told me that my family had to evacuate as soon as possible. I asked him why he didn't hurry in evacuation, and he replied that he was Russian and that Germans weren't after him, but he didn't tell me any details. We didn't know anything about the extermination of millions of Jews in German- occupied areas.

Evacuation from Odessa began at the beginning of the war, but when I started to think about it after my son was born, it was difficult to arrange for it. Germans were firing at the town, killing people in the streets. I evacuated at the end of August or beginning of September when Germans surrounded Odessa and cut off the water supply. People fetched water from a stream. We were hiding in bomb shelters most of the time. It was impossible to leave Odessa by train. I went to the regional party committee to ask them for a ticket to leave Odessa. The regional party secretary saw me holding a baby and asked, 'Kid, what do you want?' I told him that my husband was at the front and that I didn't know what to do. He gave me boat tickets for myself, my son, my mother and my sister. We managed to board the last boat to Sevastopol [a big port in the Crimea, 250 km from Odessa]. I took some children's clothes and food with me.

Germans occupied Odessa on 10th October 1941. [Editor's note: Odessa fell on 16th October after a 2-month siege.] On the way to Sevastopol the boat was attacked by a German plane that dropped a firebomb. The boat caught fire, but, fortunately, its crew managed to put it out. When we arrived in Sevastopol the Germans were very close and we couldn't stay there. The boat headed on to Kerch [about 270 km from Sevastopol], but the situation there was the same. There was nowhere we could get to by boat. We were taken to the railway station where we took a train to Rostov-on-Don [about 400 km from Kerch]. I was approached by a young man at the railway station in Rostov-on-the-Don. I don't know how he recognized me, but he asked me if I was the wife of Grigori Abidor. I said that I was, and he told me that Grigori was missing. The train with cadets, my husband among them, had been bombed at Marganets station. Today there's a monument honoring cadets that died in this train at Marganets station. I had no hope that my husband had survived. Later it turned out that only two railcars had been hit by bombs and that the rest of the train had remained intact.

I decided to go to Buturlinovka village, Voronezh region, in Russia [about 800 km from Rostov-on-Don and about 500 km south-west of Moscow]. My husband's older sister Golda had graduated from Odessa Pharmaceutical Institute before the war and got a job assignment in this village. When we came to Golda's house my husband's parents were already there. They had received a letter from Grigori and told me that he was all right. We lived there for half a year until Germans began to attack Voronezh. In spring 1942 my husband's parents, Golda and her family, my mother, my sister and I moved to Tashkent, Uzbekistan [about 3,000 km from Voronezh].

Evacuated people were accommodated in the houses of local people, Uzbeks. They were waiting for trains at railway stations. An Uzbek woman took us to her home. They had a big yard and a house divided into two parts: one for men and one for women. My mother, my sister, my son and I were accommodated in a room in the women's part of the house. We were glad to have a roof over our head. There was no electricity in the house so we made and used an oil lamp. I became a 3rd-year student at Tashkent Medical University. My sister passed the entrance exams to Tashkent Credit Economy College and was admitted to the Faculty of Industrial Economy. My mother went to work as a laborer at a tank plant. I had classes in the morning, and my sister started at 3 in the afternoon. We took turns looking after the child. In the evening our mother looked after the boy, and we could do our homework.

We didn't have enough food. My sister received dependant's coupons for 400 grams of bread per day and my mother received a workers' coupon for 600 grams of bread. When my husband got to know our address he sent us his officer's certificate, which enabled us to receive some additional food. Our co-students helped and supported us. They gave us their coupons for a meal at the students' canteen even though they didn't have enough food themselves. Sometimes we sold bread at the market to buy corn, which was cheaper than bread, and boiled it. I remember my three-year old son when he came home and told me that he had seen a boy eating bread and butter. This was an inaccessible delicacy for my son. I consoled him saying that we would be able to eat bread and butter when his father returned from the front. I finished my 3rd and 4th year at Tashkent Medical College. Most of the students were Uzbek. There were many evacuated students and Jews among them. I didn't face any anti-Semitism during my evacuation. Local people sympathized with us and tried to help where they could. They understood how hard it was to be a refugee forced to leave everything behind.

Tashkent was a beautiful and very special town. I had never been in Middle Asia before and everything was unusual for me. There were mostly one- storied buildings; only in the center were there a few four and five- storied houses. There was high clay fencing, separating houses from streets. There were orchards close to the houses. Only a few streets in the center had cobblestone pavements while the rest were mud roads. There were a few trees in the streets. There were aryks - irrigation channels - alongside the streets. When the heat was unbearable in summer, children used to bathe in them. Uzbek families had many children. Uzbek people were friendly to us. During the whole period of our stay in this town I never faced any hostility.

I corresponded with my husband. In December 1941 he finished artillery school. There were 40 of his former fellow students in this school. Two months before their graduation an order by Stalin was issued. It stated that all students that had finished three years of studies at higher educational institutions were to be sent back to college in order to finish their studies. None of those 40 students returned from the front. They believed it was their duty to defend their motherland. After finishing artillery school my husband was sent to a military unit. During his time in the army my husband became a member of the Communist Party. He was wounded for the first time in 1943. I got to know that he was in hospital in Kislovodsk [3,000 km from Tashkent] and went to see him there. I wanted it to be a surprise and didn't notify him. When I came I was told that he had been released a day before and left for his military unit. It was sad to go back to Tashkent without having seeing him.

On 10th April 1944 we heard that the Soviet army liberated Odessa. It was such good news! I was waiting for my husband to contact me via a letter, but I didn't hear from him. One day I met him in the street. He had distinguished himself in combat action and his commandment offered him a choice between receiving an order or a month's vacation. Of course, Grigori preferred a month's vacation. He got it along with some money and a travel pass and came to Tashkent. He stayed with us for a month. He finally met his son and often visited his parents. Then he had to return to the front. In summer 1944, after Khmelnitskiy was liberated, Grigori's parents went home. I stayed in Tashkent to graduate from college.

In November 1944 Grigori was wounded for the second time in battles near Koenigsburg. He had multiple missile wounds on his head, eye and left arm. He stayed in a field hospital near Koenigsburg. He had a bullet removed from his arm, but the wound developed into gas gangrene. He had to have his arm amputated. He was put into a tent with 21 other patients with gas gangrene. He was the only survivor. He was sent to a hospital in Smolensk, Russia [300 km from Moscow] where he had a splinter removed from his head. Another splinter was removed from his eye in Kiev Regional Hospital in 1948. My husband finished the war with the rank of Captain of Artillery, an invalid of grade 1. After he was released from hospital in Smolensk he went to his parents in Khmelnitskiy. My son and I went there, too. My mother and sister stayed in Tashkent. My sister was a student, and my mother didn't want to leave her alone. We stayed with my husband's parents. This was in 1945.

I remember 9th May 1945, Victory Day 20. My husband met his childhood friend and we were having a chat with him when, all of a sudden, we heard shooting. My husband and his friend ran outside telling me to stay inside. It turned out that there was an announcement on the radio about the victory over Germany and everyone demobilized from the army came into the streets and were shooting into the air. We were overwhelmed with joy. People came into the streets crying, singing and hugging one another. We couldn't believe that everything horrible was in the past.

Post-war

My father demobilized in 1945 and returned to Odessa. He didn't remarry. He worked as a tailor in a shop. We corresponded with him. Sometimes we went to Odessa on vacation with children. He loved his grandchildren and they responded to his affection. My father died in Odessa in 1982 at the age of 84. He was buried in the town cemetery since there was no functioning Jewish cemetery in Odessa. We buried my father according to Jewish tradition as he had wished. A rabbi conducted the funeral. My husband and I and my sister Zina and her husband were at the funeral. Zina's husband recited the Kaddish.

My sister Zina graduated from Tashkent Credit Economy College and got a job assignment as an economist at a mine in Pavlograd, Donets Basin [about 400 km from Kiev]. When she went to Pavlograd, my mother decided to return to Odessa. She died of a heart attack on the train near Odessa in 1952. My husband and I went to Odessa. We buried my mother in the town cemetery. She was an atheist and had an ordinary funeral.

My sister made a career and was promoted to head of the planning department. She married a nice Jewish man. I don't remember his first name, but his last name was Ermann. They had two children: a son called Evgeniy, born in 1952, and a daughter called Svetlana, born in 1956. My sister and I corresponded with each other. Sometimes she came with her family to spend her summer vacation with us. We enjoyed these reunions. Sometimes Zina and I chatted all night long. Our husbands and children were also friends. In 1992 Zina's husband died. She suffered a lot from losing her husband. When her children and their families decided to move to Israel in 1995 my sister chose to go with them. She lives in Israel now. In her letters she writes that she likes Israel and that it has become her second home. She is very content with her life.

I finished four years at the Medical College in Tashkent, but I left in a hurry and didn't take any documents from there with me. It took me two years to have my documents sent to Ukraine from Uzbekistan. It was a very complicated process. I had to repeat the 4th year. Life in Khmelnitskiy was hard. My husband's parents' house was small and several families lived in it. The houses of their friends and relatives had been destroyed and many of them stayed in Grigori's parents' house after they returned from evacuation. There wasn't enough food and we starved. We couldn't decide what to do next. At that time one of Grigori's fellow soldiers came to see him. He settled down in Uzhgorod after his demobilization. This was in the center of the Subcarpathian region. Before 1918 Subcarpathia 21 belonged to Austro-Hungary and then it became part of the Czech Republic. In 1939 Subcarpathia was occupied by Hungarians again. After the war, in 1945, it joined the USSR. Grigori's friend told us that it was a magnificent town and that life was good there. Grigori obtained a work permit from the military registration office and we went to Uzhgorod.

We have lived here since 1946. I liked Uzhgorod immediately and felt at home here. It's a beautiful and cozy town. Before the war the borderline of the town was the Uzh River. After the war the town expanded and now the Uzh River divides it into two parts: the old town and the new town. There were many Jews in Uzhgorod after the war. They were the local population and some came from the USSR - they were called 'Eastern people'. The older generations were religious and observed all Jewish traditions. There was a synagogue and a Jewish school in town. We grew up during the Soviet regime and seeing people going to the synagogue on Saturdays and Jewish holidays was new to us. However, men didn't have payes and men and women were casually dressed. The prevailing language spoken in the streets was Hungarian. In addition to Jews there were Ukrainians, Hungarians and Czechs in Uzhgorod. People of various nationalities came from the USSR to live in the town. Even after the war there was no anti-Semitism among the local population. Anti-Semitism was brought to the area by residents of the USSR.

I became a 5th-year student at the Medical Faculty of Uzhgorod University. My husband was appointed to work at the Voentorg [Editor's note: An exclusive co-operative organisation which runs shops, restaurants, laundries, and tailoring and boot-making establishments for officers.] Although my husband was an invalid, received his pension and was allowed to stay at home, he preferred to go to work.

Our daughter Zhanna was born in 1946. We lived in Uzhgorod, but I went to my husband's parents in Khmelnitskiy to have the baby. My husband worked a lot and could be of no help to me. I took our son with me. My husband's parents were very happy to see their grandchildren. I returned to Uzhgorod after a few months. Grigori received a two-bedroom apartment in Uzhgorod shortly after we moved there. We lived in that apartment for almost 40 years.

In 1948 the campaign against 'cosmopolitans' 22 began in the USSR. Neither my husband nor I suffered from it, but it still affected our lives. A course of genetics was a subject in the last year of my studies at university. This course was cancelled in 1948. Mass media and radio called genetics a 'venal wench of imperialism'. It wasn't acknowledged as science until the 1960s, and there was a statement that the author of this theory was a Jew. Soviet scientists proposed a theory that there was no heredity and that nothing but environment had its effects on the development of a living being. There was so much nonsense spread at that time!

In my last year at the Medical Faculty I specialized in venereal and skin diseases. Upon graduation I got a mandatory job assignment 23 in a small town called Perechin, 40 km from Uzhgorod. This wasn't that far and I could travel to work and back home on the bus. I worked there for four years before I returned to Uzhgorod. I got a job at the regional clinic of venereal and skin diseases, and I was the director of the polyclinic at this clinic for 25 years.

I faced anti-Semitism in Perechin once during the time of the Doctors' Plot 24 in 1953. My colleague, a doctor at the Perechin clinic, said in my presence that she couldn't understand patients that came to seek treatment from me, a Jewish woman. I got so mad that I almost threw an inkpot at her. My colleagues prevented me from doing it. From that moment on I never greeted her again. This was the only case of anti-Semitism that I faced. As for others, I witnessed several cases, especially during the period of the Doctors' Plot. Once a patient complained to me that he didn't want a Jewish nurse to give him injections because he had heard that Jewish doctors were killing their patients. I replied that I was a Jew, but he didn't refuse to be my patient. He just didn't reply. Perhaps, there were discussions of this kind elsewhere, but never again in my presence. The director of the clinic in Perechin, a Hungarian man, was a very nice person. He didn't fire any Jewish doctors and didn't conduct any meetings to abuse Jews. I heard about these kind of meetings taking place in other hospitals. My family and I didn't suffer from anti-Semitism.

On 5th March 1953 Stalin died. I remember that I cried a lot. We had a normal life and Stalin did nothing bad to our family. I couldn't imagine how the Soviet Union could exist without Stalin. It was scary and the uncertainty of the situation was painful. Later, when Stalin's villainy became publicly known, life seemed even scarier. When Nikita Khrushchev 25 spoke about Stalin's crimes at the Twentieth Party Congress 26 I believed at once that what he said was true. Somewhere, deep in my mind, I remembered the arrests of 1936 and the following years. I recalled my history teacher at school. I had only tried to hide these thoughts throughout all those years just like the majority of the Soviet people. We were like an ostrich hiding its head in the sand, but in our memories we preserved such things and they confirmed that what Khrushchev said was true.

My daughter got married and soon we had two granddaughters, Marina and Ludmila. There were too many of us in our two-bedroom apartment. In 1986 my husband and I received a two-bedroom apartment in a new district of Uzhgorod and moved there. My daughter and her family stayed in our old apartment.

My husband became the director of the Uzhgorod Brick Plant. Later he was appointed deputy chief engineer of the Regional Industrial Union. Grigori was a front man, a war veteran and communist and that helped him to make a career. I insisted that he completed his education. Grigori entered the Mechanic Extramural Department of Lvov Forestry Technical College. Although he had finished three years of his studies before the war, he had to start anew because he had forgotten a lot. Grigori graduated from college with honors in 1963. He went to work at Uzhgorod Pribor Plant [an instrument manufacturing plant] where he was the superintendent of the repair shop. He worked there for 27 years. My husband retired in 1991 at the age of 72. As a pensioner he was invited by the plant to train workers.

My husband and I had many acquaintances. It happened that our friends were Jewish. We didn't consciously make friends with Jews, but we were probably subconsciously drawn to them. We often got together with our friends. We celebrated Soviet holidays: 1st May, 7th November [October Revolution Day] 27, Victory Day, birthdays and New Year's. We also took advantage of any other occasion to have a gathering. I made dinner and we bought good wine for our guests. We listened to music, danced and sang. For me, 9th May, Victory Day, was the most important holiday. We had all survived and my husband and father returned from the front - I was so happy about it. On Victory Day war veterans met in the Central Park in Uzhgorod. They wore their war awards and town people came to greet them and give them flowers. My husband and I went there as well. We didn't celebrate Jewish holidays. First because we grew up in atheist families and second because my husband was a member of the Party and we couldn't take the risk to celebrate Jewish holidays because it might have jeopardized his career.

Our children grew up to become nice and kind people. I remembered my hungry childhood days and did my best for my children to have a happy childhood. My husband and I spent a lot of time with them. They were the most important part of our life. They studied well at school. I believe that my children didn't face any anti-Semitism. At least they never told us that anything of this kind happened to them, and we always had open discussions with them. Our children weren't religious and didn't observe Jewish traditions. However, they always identified themselves as Jews and never concealed the fact of their Jewish origin. In the evenings we got together to share the news or events of the day. Even when our children grew up we continued this tradition. We liked to go to a park or the bank of the river at weekends in summer and went skiing in the outskirts of Uzhgorod in winter. When my father was still alive we went to visit him in Odessa in summer. After my father passed away we spent our summer vacation in a village in Subcarpathia. It's a picturesque area with woods and mountains. We either rented an apartment from local residents or stayed in a recreation center.

After finishing school our son Iziaslav decided to continue his education in Moscow. My husband and I were sad about his departure, but we understood that it was better for him. He was very fond of physics and took part in many contests and Olympiads. He entered the Faculty of Physics and Chemistry of Moscow Chemistry College and graduated with honors. When biophysics, a new branch of science began to develop in the USSR, he decided to explore that field. He worked at the Oncology Scientific Research Institute in Moscow. He defended his post graduate and, later, his doctor's thesis. He became a professor. Iziaslav attended and held a speech at an international seminar and had a job offer by the US Academy of Sciences. In the late 1980s he moved to America with his family.

He was very happy in his personal life, too. He married Valentina, a Russian girl, before he turned 30. We saw that they loved each other and didn't talk him out of marriage. My husband and I love our daughter-in-law. She's the best in the world! Their daughter Elena was born in 1968. Valentina finished her postgraduate studies and defended her candidate thesis. She is a candidate of physical science. My son and his wife had a very good life. Everything was fine until some medical examination determined that he had cancer of the stomach. He worked at the Institute of Oncology in the USA and had surgery there. The doctors said that the surgery was successful. A year later he had metastasis. In his last letter our son wrote, 'You've founded a good family and gave your children everything possible and even more'. Our son died in 1992.

His wife and daughter returned to Moscow. Our daughter-in-law is an external trade manager. Valentina calls me at least twice a week. She always sends us money and medication. She has become my daughter. Our granddaughter is also a candidate of science. She defended her thesis in America. She got married in America and returned to Moscow with her husband. Her last name in marriage is Ernandez-Chimenez. In Moscow she began to work at a scientific research institute, but the salary she got was just enough to pay for commuting to work and kindergarten for her daughter. She quit and began to publish the Cosmetic and Medicine journal. She was awarded a 'Golden Badge' for it.

Our daughter Zhanna entered the Mechanic Faculty of Uzhgorod University after finishing school. When I heard that my daughter was seeing a Russian man I got concerned. I don't know why because my son's marriage didn't worry me. Perhaps, it was because my son didn't get married for a long time or, probably, I was just more worried about my daughter than my son. However, my husband and I didn't stop Zhanna from her plan. Her boyfriend's parents were eager to see them getting married. My husband and I remembered a sad experience of a family we knew. The parents didn't allow their daughter to marry a Russian man and she remained single. I told my daughter that I didn't want her to marry that man, but if she insisted she should do as she wished. After a few years I understood that my negative attitude towards him was unjustified. My daughter's husband is a very nice man. He's very supportive and helps her with everything.

When my daughter finished her 2nd year at university her husband graduated from college and got a job assignment in the Ural. She followed him there and graduated from the Polytechnic College in the Ural. She is a mechanic engineer. Zhanna's last name in marriage is Ivanova. She has two daughters: Marina, born in 1972, and Ludmila, born in 1977. After her younger daughter was born Zhanna and her family returned to Uzhgorod.

Marina graduated from Kharkov Credit and Economy Academy and worked as chief accountant at a company in Kharkov. Marina married an Arab man. I don't remember his last name because it was difficult to pronounce. He studied in the Faculty of Aviation Medicine of Kharkov Aviation College and finished his studies with honors. Marina's husband has a Russian citizenship. They met when they were students in Kharkov and got married. Some people say Arabs are no good, but I like this man. He's nice and caring. When Marina got pregnant she quit her job in Kharkov and came to Uzhgorod. They have a nice boy, my great-grandson Misha [Mikhail]. Marina's husband signed an employment agreement for a job in Saudi Arabia. The baby couldn't get adjusted to the climate there, so Marina and her baby returned to Uzhgorod. Her husband sends her money every month and writes her e-mails every day.

Ludmila moved to Israel after finishing school. She graduated from a college there and works as a mathematician and programmer. The company she works for has affiliates in many countries all over the world. Ludmila travels to England, Austria and other countries. Right now she's on a business trip in Brazil. She's very happy and has all she wants. She doesn't want to return to Ukraine.

Of course, we didn't blame our friends and acquaintances who were moving to Israel. We wished them a happy life. We decided to move to Israel when a close friend came to visit us from Israel. He told us many wonderful things and my husband and I plunged ourselves into preparations for our departure. We obtained all the necessary documents and found a buyer for our apartment. We also went for a medical check. The doctor diagnosed that my husband had cancer of the stomach. I thought, 'My God, why would I go to Israel? To be alone? No. I shall stay here'. Then the doctor diagnosed that I had breast cancer. They recommended us to stay because of the climate. Our doctor told us that we could do without a surgery saying that when it comes to old people a tumor took a long time to develop. We started a course of chemotherapy and took medication for five years and the medical examination after five years showed that we had no tumors. We were happy to be alive and had no thoughts about moving to Israel any more.

In the late 1980s perestroika began in the USSR. I was far from politics and skeptical in the beginning. However, some time later I realized that it was something more important than any another propaganda campaign. The slogans of perestroika, 'liberty and glasnost', became true. Books were published and mass media became more open. Of course, the changes were evident. In addition to positive developments there were also problems. The standards of living became very low for many people. Prices went up and salaries didn't keep pace with the prices. It all ended with the fall of the USSR. Our great country turned into a bunch of small and miserable countries, however independent they proclaimed themselves to be. If the USSR had remained, the USA wouldn't behave like a 'world gendarme' today: they would have stayed away from Yugoslavia and Iraq.

When Ukraine became independent, Jewish life began to revive. Many of our acquaintances and friends turned to Jewish religion and began to go to the synagogue. My husband and I didn't have a real urge to do so and didn't want to be hypocrites. We were happy about the rebirth of Jewish culture, which had been suppressed throughout all the years of the Soviet regime. We are also happy that not only older but also young people take part in it. Probably young people are even more willing to lead a Jewish way of life.

In 1999 Hesed opened in Uzhgorod. There are Yiddish, Ivrit and many other clubs for people. We celebrate Sabbath and Jewish holidays with Hesed. These celebrations are always very interesting. My husband and I have lived a long and happy life. We've been together for 63 years. We never had any arguments or even raised our voices. My husband is the person closest to me. He's having a hard time now. A year ago I fell and had a fractured neck of femur. I cannot have a surgery, but without a surgery I'll never be able to walk again. Since that time I've been confined to bed and my husband does everything about the house. However, the Lord sent me a nice visiting nurse from Hesed in addition to a good husband. She cleans, does the laundry and ironing, goes to the market and does many other things. My husband and I like her a lot. Regardless of my suffering, I'm grateful for what I've been given in life.

Glossary

Leon Lazarov
Sofia
Bulgaria
Interviewer: Leontina Israel
Date of interview: July 2003

Leon Lazarov is a pensioner. He lives with his wife Stella in a large apartment in the center of Sofia. The walls of their apartment are all covered with family photos in which their children are smiling, as well as with posters for the forthcoming concert of their elder son, an electronic music composer, along with his students from the New Bulgarian University. There are also paintings of one of their grandsons - an artist, whom they are both very proud of. Leon Lazarov's wife is very hospitable and she spread all kinds of delicious sweets on the table in order to make us feel more comfortable during the interview. She takes care of her husband also, as he is partially immobilized. Nevertheless, he has preserved his lively spirit and good sense of humor despite the circumstances. He has a large press clipping on the choirs he has participated in, carefully arranged in a notebook, which is extremely valuable to him. He eagerly follows the inflow of new editions on Jewish history and in Ladino, and regularly buys them. There are several wooden, plastic art works in the living room, as well as a table, wood-carved by Stella Lazarova's father. Leon Lazarov's most vivid memories are connected with his childhood years. His life is connected with music which he considers his true vocation. The Lazarovs have two parrots. Leon gladly spends his time with them, as they make him very happy, and he treats them like his own children. At the time of the interview there was a calm and pleasant atmosphere in the house, complemented by the melodious hourly ringing of the old-time clock on the wall.

My family history
Growing up 
Going to school 
During the War
After the War
Glossary

My family history

I was born on 8th February 1918 in Kjustendil [a town in Western Bulgaria]. It's a beautiful town at the foot of the Rila Mountain where some 15,000 citizens lived at that time. It was like a garden and we all loved it very much. Not only that it was our hometown, but it was one of the most picturesque spots in Bulgaria. I haven't been there for a very long time, but people say that it's still a very pretty place. I remember the period when the fruit-trees would bloom - there were lots of apples in Kjustendil - and the whole town was covered with white blossoms, and we - the children - used to climb Hissarluka [a hill near town] - to gaze at the unspeakably beautiful, colorful spring landscape.

There were some 1,000 Jews in Kjustendil at that time. We didn't live in a separate quarter though, unlike the Sofia Jews, for example, who inhabited Iuchbunar 1. Actually there was something like a Jewish quarter - it was more like a place inhabited principally by Jews. It was called Kainarluk and was close to the marketplace. I guess the reason it was a 'Jewish' place was the fact that most of the Jews, who lived there, were tradesmen. The rest of them spread all over town. Bulgarians and Jews lived very, very harmoniously. People used to be tolerant and well-meaning.

Our kin, the Lazars, as our family was known at that time, is a very old Kjustendil family. We used to live in a house with my paternal grandparents. My paternal grandfather's name was Aron Solomon Lazar, but everybody used to call him Bohor and that's how it remained [in Ivrit: bechor - the eldest, first-born son]. My grandfather was the oldest person in the entire Jewish community in Kjustendil and he was treated with due attention and respect. Many of the Jewish families gathered at our place during the biggest Jewish holidays. Usually some 30 people would gather in the small entrance hall of our house. My maternal grandparents used to join us as well, as they lived in a village, in order to visit the synagogue and spend the holidays with us.

My father's grandfather Solomon, my great-grandfather, lived in Sovoleno near Kjustendil, and he was well-known for having a bakery, in which he roasted blue plums with walnuts. When I was a kid we used to visit him during the season of plums and bake them in the bakery, known as 'Diado Solomonovite' bakeries [The bakeries of grandfather Solomon].

My paternal grandfather Aron Solomon Lazar was born in 1860 in Kjustendil. I don't know if he ever attended school, but he was very talented and was a very respected man. He had a small shop in Kjustendil, in which he used to work with my father and his other son. At home he used to speak with granny and us only in Ladino. He had three brothers - Yosef, Ruben and Yako - but I don't remember anything about them. I don't even recall having met them. I remember one of them coming to visit, but for what reason and from where - I don't know. I was very young at that time.

My paternal grandmother's name was Sara Lazar, nee Mevorah. She was born in Kjustendil, too. I hardly remember her. In my memories I see her with a checkered dress. My maternal grandparent's family was an example of a good family. I think she had an older sister called Lialu. My granny and my mom took care of the house. When I moved to Sofia along with my mother, my father and my brother, my paternal grandparents remained in Kjustendil.

My father Nissim Bohor Lazar was born in June 1888 in Kjustendil. He had two brothers - Mordehai and Efraim - and three sisters - Oro, Sofi and Viza. They were all born in Kjustendil. My father was a very strict and just man. I had respect for him. I remember when I was a child he used to give me two levs in order to buy some sweets. Although, instead of buying sweets I used the money to gamble. There was a special place where one could play roulette, and I usually laid down all the money I had. It was a smallish sum but it often happened that I lost all of it. When my father realized this, he became angry about it and made me promise him that I would never ever gamble again. I did promise him this and so it remained. Even today I wouldn't play cards and I have never regretted that.

Mordehai Bohor Lazar, one of my father's brothers, was born in 1894. He was a doctor. He married a Romanian Jew. During World War I, my uncle went to Vienna in order to study medicine. Later he moved to several other countries so as to finish his studies depending on where it was cheaper for him to do so. I don't know exactly where he met his wife - whether in Romania or at some other place. His wife's name was Bliumeta and we, the kids, used to call her 'Bliumeta-who-knows-100-languages'. She had a gift for learning languages. She learned Ladino in a few months only and she spoke it like a native [Iuchbunar] woman. They didn't have any children. My uncle Mordehai was a very respected doctor. He lived with his wife in Kjustendil. Sometimes they used to travel to Romania to visit her family there. He was a very nice man - he often treated people completely free of charge because he knew how poor they were, yet how much they needed his care.

My father's youngest brother was Efraim Bohor Lazar, with whom my grandpa and my father used to work in the little shop they had in Kjustendil, and later in Sofia. He was born in 1900, his wife's name was Buka. They have a daughter called Selina Alfandari, nee Lazar and a son called Hari Lazar. Like most of the men from our family, Hari is a musician as well. He played the piano. When he grew up, he became a composer and moved to Argentina, as far as I can remember.

My father's eldest sister Oro Bohor Samokovliiska was born in 1885.. Her husband's name was David Samokovliiski. I have four cousins, their children: Buka, Albert, Isak, Josef. I think originally their family name was Cohen, but given the town he used to live in [Samokov], he became Samokovliiski. I remember that on some holidays during a prayer in the synagogue, the chazzan warned the Cohenims and the Levits to stay outside excluding just one person who would be designated to read the prayer. My uncle David usually was the chosen one. There was such a tradition.

My father's second sister Sofi Bohor was born in 1897. Her husband's name is Sabetai and they have two sons: Nissim and Hari, who live in Bulgaria and are doing pretty well.

The youngest sister Viza Bohor was born in 1903. Her husband's name was Rahamim, and their children are Mati and Motzi. At that time women didn't have a job, but took care of the house and the children.

My father's brothers graduated from high school in Kjustendil. His sisters had probably finished junior high school, although none of them worked. We kept close relations with my paternal relatives. We always gathered on holidays; I grew up together with my cousins. None of us was very religious. We observed all the traditions without being fanatic.

I guess my father's childhood wasn't an easy one. He graduated from junior high school and at the age of 13-14 he had to start working. His father, my grandpa Aron, participated in the wars - World War I and the First Balkan War 2 and he was even wounded, so my father had to support the household. As far as I know they observed all the Jewish traditions like we continued to do when my paternal grandparents were old and my father became head of the family.

My mother's kin is also from Kjustendil. Her parents and my maternal grandparents, Chelebon Bohor Sarafski and Amada Sarafska, lived in a village in Kjustendil district called Granitsa. My maternal grandfather was one of the few Jews who worked in agriculture. At that time Jews dealt mainly with trade, by tradition I suppose, and you would rarely come across a farmer of Jewish origin. My grandpa was born in Kjustendil on 29th December 1876. He had one brother - Menahem Bohor Sarafski, who was also born in Kjustendil. I don't know anything else about him, though. There was a place - it might have been inherited - near Granitsa, where he used to visit, wearing his fur cap, his belt, his leggings. There he used to plough, sow and grow fruit-trees. I remember the vacations when my brother and I along with a company of friends went to that village, five to six kilometers away from Kjustendil and we had a wonderful time there. At that time, in the area around Granitsa, there were some vineyards - perhaps they also belonged to my grandfather because they are still known as 'Sarafskite lozia' [the Sarafski vineyards] They were named after my grandfather. I don't know whether they still exist today. Nowadays everything is so rapidly changing, and I haven't been there for a very, very long time, yet I do remember that people used to call the area like that.

My maternal grandmother Amada Sarafska died very early and I have almost no memories of her. I know she was buried in the Jewish cemetery in Sofia, where all of them rest in peace together - my father, my uncle David, and my granny Amada.

My mother's name was Sara Chelebi Lazar, nee Bohor. Everyone used to call her Buka though, in Ivrit - bechurah - 'first-born daughter'. She was born in Kjustendil on 20th December 1894. My mother was an extraordinarily beautiful and patient woman. I still recall, even today, how she examined me on my droshe [bar mitzvah speech]. The speech was written in Ivrit in an elevated style and I couldn't understand a single word of it. It was written by a cousin of my granny. I had to learn it by heart, and that wasn't easy at all. My mother spent hours with me in order to help me, with all the patience only a loving mother can show.

She had two brothers - David Chelebi Bohor, born on 31st December 1905, and Isak Chelebi Bohor, born in 1908. David was a trader and I remember that when he moved to Sofia, he owned a delicatessen store on Targovska Street [Trader's Street], as it was named at the time. His wife's name was Ana. Isak's wife was Estrea. Isak was a trader.

My mother also had two sisters: Sofi Chelebi, born in 1894, and Liza Chelebi, born in 1903. They moved to Israel after the end of the war [WWII].

Growing up

I have no idea how my mother and my father met. They must have been friends; they are from one and the same town, which is not so big, after all. They got married around 1914. Like all Jews at that time, they had a religious marriage. Before my birth they had another child, whose name was Aron. I suppose those were very hard times. My father took part in all the wars: the Balkan War, the Inter-Allied War [see Second Balkan War] 3, and World War I, and my mother was home alone. Their son died only a few months old and it was a great tragedy. Then I was born in 1918, and a few years later, in 1923, my brother Solomon followed.

There was a wonderful synagogue in Kjustendil, one of the oldest in Bulgaria. It was built before the Sofia synagogue [see Great Synagogue] 4 There was a chazzan, who performed all the functions in the synagogue. Later he became chazzan in Plovdiv. We didn't have a rabbi. At that time there was only one rabbi in the country - Daniel Zion 5, who was in Sofia. Sometimes he used to come to Kjustendil and there was always a big celebration on that occasion. Daniel Zion was the person who led the protest manifestation on 24th May 1943 6.

Our chazzan was a very interesting person. He had a grinder's workshop near the synagogue, where he used to work, when he wasn't engaged with the synagogue. He also had two crossed swords hanging on the wall. He had chosen five to six children, including me, who were supposed to accompany him and sing during the services in the synagogue. The other children weren't very serious about this, therefore finally only his son and I remained as singers. Thus I learned all those beautiful songs and I still love listening to them and I still feel inspired by the songs that I, myself, used to sing once. Sometimes the chazzan added the words of one song to the melody of another one, and the result was very interesting. He had a talent for that and people loved him. His son and I were raised with these melodies. For us children, there was a special place in the back of the synagogue and after the Friday prayer we used to go and kiss the hand of the oldest person, and that was usually my grandpa. We had a shochet, who provided kosher meat for us. When he passed away, the chazzan's son became our shochet - he was called a 'religious slaughterer'. I was of the same age and we kept very close relations.

My family wasn't very religious, yet we observed the traditions - everything was done the way it had to be done! We kept kosher very strictly. My mother and my granny used to cook very deliciously! They prepared all kinds of Jewish delights - pastels and so on. They also cooked zelnik. I don't know how they made them - with spinach, cabbage, onion, or whatever, but they were really tasty. We used to go to the synagogue on holidays because I used to sing in the choir and I had to be present there in order to perform my duties. We didn't observe Sabbath, because Saturday was a market day in Kjustendil and we had to work in the shop we owned. We couldn't afford losing our clients exactly on this day, because the clients on Saturday were the greatest in number and the most regular ones. We simply had no choice. My father, my grandpa and my uncle took turns working on Sabbath, so that there could always be one of them present in the synagogue.

We celebrated Pesach at home. Lots of guests used to come, as my grandfather was the oldest among the Jews. They all came and brought everything they had prepared for the holiday, and that is how the table was always covered with various dishes. We gathered around 30 people in a small room in our house. When I grew up, I went to Kjustendil to see my father's house and I was honestly surprised how we managed to gather so many people in such a small room! I don't remember us feeling uncomfortable or anything like that. These are some of my best memories. My grandfather used to read the Haggadah, and all the boys, as it had to be, wore kippot. In the evening we were sent to gather some grass, which we brought to our grandpa and he covered our heads with it, in order for us to grow like it. That was a beautiful tradition!

Rosh Hashanah is in fall and we used to gather when the weather was nice. Moreover, at that time of the year there was always something to harvest in the yard. Especially for this holiday my mother used to prepare a sweet meat 'Cieti Cielos' - in Ladino 'Seven Heavens' - and all the children dreamt of it impatiently. We were spoiled by having any kind of sweets prepared at home, yet, that one was the most special ones. I don't know how they made it, but it was absolutely delicious.

Purim was one of the most joyful holidays for us children. We disguised ourselves and went about the houses of our friends and relatives. We carried small pouches and everyone used to drop small coins in them. We spent our money on sweets. The idea was that no one was supposed to recognize us under the masks but, of course, everybody did. Then we ate mavlach - a special cake typical for this holiday.

Las Frutas [Fruitas] 7, the holiday of fruits, was also a wonderful one. We went from one house to another, like at Purim, but this time with larger bags, in which people used to put fruits, not money. People dropped whatever fruit they had in their gardens - some would drop walnuts, others would drop a pear, an apple, a plum, even hazelnuts were already ripe. In our yard especially there was a large variety: peaches, apricots, etc.. There was always something to pick.

During the Bulgarian holidays there was something very interesting happening indeed. We were on very friendly terms with our Bulgarian neighbors, lived in togetherness and complete harmony. At Easter, for example, as it usually coincides with Pesach, our neighbors used to give us painted eggs and Easter cake, and in exchange we gave them our Jewish brown eggs for Pesach and burmoelos 8. We exchanged them right through the fence. In my childhood years and even later, I never experienced any kind of anti-Semitism. Often, as we grew older, my friends from Kjustendil, who weren't only Jewish, but Bulgarian also, and I used to go on short excursions to the mountains. I had never gone to the sea though, not until the time I came to live in Sofia and became a student. Until then we had only heard of places like Varna and Bourgas [Bulgarian port cities on the Black Sea].

My grandpa, my father and his younger brother Efraim had a small shop in Kjustendil. It was a little place, perhaps only ten square meters, but we sold everything there. It was a grocer's. We sold salt, pepper, rice, etc., and in the remaining part of the narrow space we sold clothes. There were for example 'shamii' - kerchiefs that the villagers used to cover their heads with, while working on the field. In summer those kerchiefs were white and in winter black. Red belts that men used to wear around their waist at that time and dress materials for women were also sold. My father, my grandpa and my uncle provided the shop very regularly with all the necessary stuff in order to keep their clients. It was a universal shop so to speak - from a grocer's to a textile shop.

In Kjustendil the market day was Saturday. And you could always tell when it was market day! Villagers came to the town to sell their products - liubenitsi [water melon], cabbage, eggs, cucumbers, etc. When they managed to collect a little money, they came to our shop to buy some necessities - salt, rice, clothes and sweets for their wives and children. Everyone knew my grandpa - not only in Kjustendil, but in the whole region. The Bulgarians used to call him Bore. I guess, it sounded more familiar to them in this way, as it resembles the name Boris, which is popular in Bulgaria. Not only clients used to come to our shop but also people who just wanted to chat with my grandpa. Everything was sold per kilo, and the textiles - per meter. It was a great pleasure for me when my grandpa allowed me to measure the salt on the scales. There were three or four employees there and practically this little shop fed several families. Things changed in 1929 when the big crisis of the 1930s 9 began. A lot of traders went bankrupt then. People were very honest at that time and I remember cases when traders who weren't able to pay their debts committed suicide. It is really amazing how worthy and upright people were then! And it wasn't an isolated case. Those years were quite hard for us also - after World War I some of the Bulgarian territories [Bosilegrad] became Serbian [see Bulgaria in World War I] 10, and Kjustendil practically lost its most regular clients. Then my grandpa and my father realized that the shop wouldn't work any longer and were forced by the circumstances to move to Sofia along with their families.

Our house in Kjustendil was at a very picturesque place - right at the foot of Hisarluka hill. It was a very quiet and calm place. The house wasn't a large one. All of us lived together in it - aunts, uncles, granny and grandpa. There was a ground floor, something like a basement, where there were two big rooms adapted for living, inhabited by part of the family. The more representative part of the house was the top floor because it was more comfortable for living and better arranged. We never envied each other. Whatever was bought for the house was common. There was also a room especially made for gathering during the holidays. We also had a small yard where we grew cucumbers, tomatoes, spinach and peppers. There was always something to pick from there. We also had a large wild plum tree, another plum tree and a cherry one. All of us took care of the garden, but mostly my mother and granny. There was a lot of work to do - to sow and harvest the crops. In the neighboring yard, where a Bulgarian family used to live, there were apricots, and we had a peach tree. When the peaches ripened we often exchanged fruit. We gave them peaches and plums and they gave us apricots and whatever they had in their yard in return. We lived in togetherness. There was no envy, no hatred among us. We lived in peace and understanding.

My mother and my granny mostly took care of the house, yet when there was some harder work to do, we usually hired a maid-servant. We had several ones. But I remember only two of them - Liuba and Fida. They were Bulgarians, who came from the village. They became a part of the family. I remember that long after they had stopped working for us and already had their own families, upon every visit to Kjustendil on a Saturday market day, they came to see us. They practically grew up with us, they learned to read and count. There were lots of illiterate people in the villages at that time. In those times it was natural to have a maid-servant at home. They started working at the age of 15 or 16. I even recall that Trapezitsa Square in Sofia was something like a maid-servants' market. Everybody could go there and choose one, take her home, see what kind of a person she was, how she worked and in case they mutually disliked each other, make another choice. We paid her some 200 levs monthly and gave her a 'saya' [woman's dress, folk costume]. Our maid-servants even learned Ladino as we spoke mostly Ladino at home.

I remember that at first, when I was a little boy, we used to get water from a fountain in our neighborhood, as we still didn't have running water, but very soon after that our town was supplied with a water-main and drainage.

I grew up with my brother Solomon playing many games with him. I remember many hours spent with the children from the neighborhood. In winter we usually went sledding from Hisarluka hill nearby Kjustendil. In summer we burnished the sledges with glass-paper so that they would slide better in winter and waited impatiently for winter to come. The sleds were large and heavy and in order to reach the hill's peak, from where we used to coast down, we had to push them all the way up. And that was all for the sake of those five minutes of pleasure while coasting down. Yes, we were restless. When we were down, at the foot of the hill, we went straight up again pushing the sleds, and that were five to six kilometers, to the top! When we were little kids, not all of us had sleds, so the older children let us coast down next to them. Later each one of us had his own sled. Yet, one had a choice - if you didn't want to push your sled to the top, you could stay at the foot of the hill and play.

There was a tradition in Kjustendil whenever such winter toboggan-slides were organized [for children and adults], at the foot of the hill a small orchestra was performing. So you either push the sled, or you play at the bottom. I often chose the latter and played the violin. Usually it was so cold, that I had a special task - every half an hour or whenever it became too freezing for us, I gathered five to six musicians and I brought them home to warm up for a couple of minutes, and then we continued playing. In another half an hour, I took another group home, and so it went during the whole day. The orchestra comprised around 30 people, 15 to 16-year-old students mostly. We played jolly melodies that people could cheer up with - polkas, marches. I beat the drum. It was nice!

They used to call our neighborhood 'the musical neighborhood', as all of us happened to be 'musical people' there. I played the violin and was the oldest among the cousins. They learned playing the violin along with me, and some even became pianists. Two boys used to live opposite us - one of them was a contrabass player and the other one was a cellist. In the house next to them there was a violinist and a flutist and another contrabass player. There were many people interested in music in our provincial town at that time. We played in an orchestra in school. There was a small room in Kjustendil we used to rehearse in. The violinists played their own instruments while the wind instruments were state ones. Sometimes we gave concerts on the main square in Kjustendil. I was surrounded by music in my childhood and that fact determined my whole professional and personal life to a great extent.

Going to school

In Kjustendil there was a Jewish elementary school, in which I studied till the 4th grade. The school was very good. When we finished the 4th grade, we already knew several languages. We studied Ivrit very intensively. All of us spoke Ladino at home and sometimes we used to speak it at school as well. And we also studied Bulgarian. So, upon finishing the 4th grade, we already spoke three languages. They were most concerned with our Ivrit. In fact we were obliged to speak mostly in Ivrit. Unfortunately now I have almost completely forgotten it. Not only did our teachers observe us when we spoke in Ivrit, but we got used to examining each other as well. Sometimes the fact that we spoke so many languages resulted in funny sentences. I remember that one winter, when we had climbed Hisarluka to coast down with our sleds, one of the boys addressed the other one, whose sled wasn't moving smoothly, telling him, 'Yojko, Yojko, ba sheina [yesh klinetz].' It was very funny as my friend actually wanted to say that a nail was lodged in Yojko's sled, but the words came to him in different languages: 'sheina' [sled] and 'klinetz' [nail] in Bulgarian, yesh - [there is] in Ivrit. Of course, we all knew what he wanted to say. Sentences like that were quite a common practice for us.

I loved going to school. I knew that going to school was useful for me - I could learn something. Our head teacher was called Kiurkchiev. We deeply respected him, moreover he was a very authoritative man. In our second grade he retired. We didn't have any idea what this would mean for us and we cared a lot about him. The only thing that we realized was that he wouldn't be our teacher anymore. Another teacher, who became the chief one, replaced him - Yosif Yakov. Naturally, later we loved him, too. We had another teacher in Ivrit. I didn't have any favorite subjects, because I loved them all. I remember that we carried our textbooks in special bags made out of metal, similar to suitcases. They were very practical because our notebooks got neither creased nor wet.

We had very intensive music lessons. Later, when I started junior high school, which was no longer a Jewish school, I continued to indulge in music. My voice teacher in junior high school was Bliznakov. Once he told my parents that we were going out in order to choose a violin for me. It was then when I bought my first violin from Kjustendil. And I still have it. I have played it everywhere, all over the place - such as at weddings. As early as my childhood I dreamt of having a violin and that was always my first wish for a present. When a relative of mine was about to travel to another city or went on holidays, I usually asked him to get me one. Once my Romanian aunt Bliumeta did bring me a violin, but I couldn't play at that time and I lost it somewhere.

At that time every high school had its symphony orchestra and a brass band. There was a three-year course at junior high school aimed at preparing us for the high school orchestra. I passed the course in one year instead of three, and the teacher, who didn't know what to do with me, sent me to the high school orchestra teacher with the request that he enroll me there. And so it happened that I started playing both in the symphony orchestra and the brass band of the older students. I remember that in order to play there you had to wear long trousers, and I had only short ones at that time. It would have been a great shame to go on stage with the others from the orchestra in short trousers! And so proper long trousers were sewn for me!

Once on a holiday, it was probably 24th May 11, the orchestra was supposed to play, but the drummer didn't turn up. We used to call him Chushkata - the pepper. The head of the orchestra became panic-stricken. I was sent to his mother to look for him, yet the night before he had drunk too much and wasn't even able to crawl out of bed let alone beat the drums. I don't know how I learned to play the drums, but suddenly I decided that I would replace him. I took the drum from his mother and when the head of the orchestra saw me, he was about to faint. He was so certain that I couldn't beat the drum, yet in the end he was wrong. And that's how I became the orchestra's drummer. Once they gave me the kettle-drum score, but I hadn't seen such an instrument before. The first time I saw kettle-drums was at high school in Sofia, where I later went to study.

There were several Jewish 'chitalishtes' 12 in Bulgaria, but the oldest one was in Kjustendil. Its name was 'Dobro Budeshte' [Good Future]. There was one in Dupnitsa also. It was called 'Suglasie' [Agreement]. Ours was set up in 1906 and was housed in an annex especially built for the Jewish school at which I studied. [Actually the community center in Dupnitsa was called 'Consciousness' and it was set up in 1902, which means that it's older than the one in Kjustendil, which was set up in 1906. It existed until 1941.] There was a library in that community center. Its main activity was to organize celebrations of different Jewish holidays. For example, a Purim night was organized. On that occasion several children from the Jewish school were invited to sing. I took part in these choirs also. I still recall the songs. We sang traditional melodies only, but religious fanaticism wasn't present. We also had a costume ball for Purim. We used to prepare the masks a whole month before the event and everyone did his best.

When my father realized that the business with the shop in Kjustendil wouldn't last, he moved to Sofia. First he had a timber-yard on Alexander Stamboliiski Street [which was then called Klementina Street] and Paisii Street in Iuchbunar. He dealt with timber. Soon after he moved to Sofia he brought the rest of us there as well. My granny and grandpa stayed in Kjustendil.

I remember that the store had a large yard in which a mulberry tree used to grow, and my brother and I would climb it all day long to pick mulberries. My father quickly gave up that timber-yard; perhaps it wasn't profitable enough, I don't know. Then he opened a textile factory, which was on Vazrazhdane Square, at the crossing of Nishka Street [now Naicho Tsanov Blvd.] and Antim I Street [outer streets of Iuchbunar]. It was quite a presentable workshop, in which some 40 to 50 people were employed. Thus the factory provided for many families - Bulgarian and Jewish, with whom we still keep in touch, even now.

The company was called 'Bratia Nissim & Efraim Lazarovi' [Nissim & Efraim Lazarov Bros.] because my father worked with my uncle again, his younger brother. It was a well-organized workshop. There were sewing machines and looms, and we made an annex there also, designed for needlework. And so, we had a workshop for the textile production then - a dressmaking and tailor shop, and later we opened a shop on Pirotska Street . Thus we 'went full circle'. We did pretty well. We had a good reputation. People were constantly applying to work for us. Our production was well accepted and had good reports in the marketplace. A lot of people wanted us to expand the business, but we knew what the market demands were and we concluded that no more trade expansion would be necessary. Until recently the building that housed the workshop was still in its place, but finally it was demolished. Actually after 9th September 1944 13 it was nationalized. Initially my father had taken the house so that the family could settle there, but when it was turned into a workshop, we had to leave it. Then my father bought this house where we still live. [a large apartment in an apartment building in the center of Sofia].

I had to enroll in high school in Sofia. We still lived in that house, which later became a workshop, and the closest school for me was ??? boy's high school, but as my friends were in I boy's high school, I enrolled there. My closest friend since earliest childhood was Haim Oliver 14. Haim was exactly one month older than me. We used to play together as kids in Kjustendil. Later he also moved to Sofia and we were together again. Unfortunately he has already passed away but I still keep in touch with his sister and his wife. Another high school friend of mine was Jacque Baruh, who later became a doctor.

The interesting thing was that we were three people with one and the same name in our class: Leon Lazarov. The first one was me - Leon Nissimov Lazarov; the other two had absolutely identical names: Leon Bohorov Lazarov. When the teachers examined us, they always addressed us with family names. And so, when they said 'Lazarov', the three of us stood up. When the teacher added 'Bohorov' I sat down, but the other two were still standing. We usually roared with laughter and always played that trick when a new teacher came, who still didn't know us. It was such a mess! Finally they became Leon Bohorov Lazarov I and Leon Bohorov Lazarov II - with numbers, like the patriarchs.

Our teachers were very good and just people. They always encouraged us to participate in the class work. I don't remember cases of punishment. They got us to study by way of their personal example. I used to spend my spare time playing. You have to put in a lot of effort if you really want to be a good musician, a lot of hard work and perseverance. I always sat in the first row, as I couldn't see well. Sometimes professional practice exams were held in our class, and the examiners used to sit next to me. Once they examined a student for a German teaching degree and while he was talking, the examining professor, sitting next to me, leaned over and asked me how, in my opinion, was the student's presentation so far. I said, 'Excellent!'. And I was so proud that I could give my 'competent' opinion on that matter. I rested during my holidays, of course. I used to go to Kjustendil, which was a spa and had a lot of visitors during summer. I also spent my holidays in Vladaya and Gorna Banya resorts near Sofia.

Life was so nice in Sofia then. The population was only about 250 to 300,000 people. I remember that there was a synagogue close to our place - not the main one but a smaller one, which now no longer exists. [This synagogue was destroyed during WWII and never restored again. Currently there are other buildings in its place.] I had a friend called Fabricant. Once, during Yom Kippur he went to the little synagogue. He used to keep taanit [means fast in Ivrit] very strictly, and as he had been staying in the synagogue all day long, some friends and I went to pick him up from there, in order to cheer him up. He came with us and we walked along the street. When we passed by the fire station, cold water was pouring down from fountains and hoses and Fabri was so thirsty that he ran there, completely forgetting that he had to restrict himself on that day. After slaking his thirst, he suddenly realized what he had done and I remember he started crying like a little child and blaming it on us for having cheated him. We did want to have fun with our friend, yet we didn't expect him to respond like that. We told him that he could now already start eating which made him even angrier. He was mad at us for quite a long time after that.

After I finished high school in 1936, I became a university student. About four years later I graduated from university. At first I worked as an accountant in my father's textile factory, while still a student. That was the time when the war started and Jews were expelled from all universities in 1940 [see Law for the Protection of the Nation] 15. I even wanted to study abroad but the war ruined my plans. Meanwhile I was taking lessons with Prof. Torcharov in preparation for the entrance examination for the Royal Military Orchestra, but it was again the war which ruined my attempts to apply there. At that time Sasha Popov conducted the orchestra.

Right then Mario Brontsa, the Jewish Symphony Orchestra's conductor, was looking for musicians. He hired practically every Jew who was able to play any kind of instrument. He had worked with great musicians - the distinguished violinist Leon Surujon [well-known Bulgarian violinist and pedagogue], Miki Baruh, Fidel Baruh. Most of them had other professions and music was only a hobby for them. Albert Baruh had studied dentistry in Leipzig. He was from Kjustendil, a neighbor of mine. I started working with the Symphony Orchestra in 1939. This orchestra was a real phenomenon. We daringly formed it right before the persecution of Jews had begun.

In 1936 I started working as an assistant conductor of the Jewish People's Choir 16 at the Jewish People's community center 17. At that time the choir was conducted by Israel Aladjem [a musical pedagogue and a conductor of the Military Orchestra]. It was an exceptional choir! We performed songs in four languages that had nothing to do with each other - in Ladino, Bulgarian, Ivrit and Yiddish. We had one beautiful song in Ladino - 'Alta, alta es la luna', and another one in Yiddish - 'Yojke, Yojke, put the nag to'. The choir consisted of 80 people and our repertoire was some 6,000 songs. We also sang a Jewish traditional folk song, which is called 'The Town is Burning'. It tells the story of the anti-Jewish pogroms in Russia. We sang Bulgarian traditional folk songs as well. There was another Jewish choir, conducted by Menahem Bensusan. The high point of it was on the 12th of March 1939 when it gave a remarkable concert in the 'Bulgaria' hall [the largest concert hall at the time in Bulgaria] - the 'Saul' oratorio by Handel. The concert was broadcast live on radio Sofia. The event was darkened by an attempt of the anti-Jewish organization of the Ratniks 18, who started throwing tomatoes and eggs at people upon their coming out of the concert hall. I was in the audience and we managed to leave the hall through the back entrance, however this incident was extremely ugly and it indicated the beginning of the persecution against us. It was the first 'signal lamp'. This was one of the last performances of the Jewish choir. After that incident, Menahem Bensusan left for the USA.

Israel Aladjem enlisted me as his assistant to the choir at the Jewish People's community center, which after 9th September 1944 merged with the Jewish Choral Society. The two choirs - The Jewish Choral Society and The Jewish People's Choir at the Jewish People's community center, where I was assistant conductor - formed one choir under the conductorship of Israel Aladjem. Besides being his assistant conductor, I also helped him with the violin lessons he used to give. He was repeatedly mobilized when the war started, even though he was a Jew. Then I taught his 15 students. Thus I received very good practice as a pedagogue. Moreover, when he was absent I was in charge of the choir. I worked in that choir till the end of its existence, around 1960. We had a great jubilee concert at that time on the occasion of its 50th anniversary. It had a very rich program and received good press reviews. I still have some of the articles.

During the War

At the beginning of the war when the laws against us started coming into force, but still before being sent to forced labor camps 19, in order to keep the Jewish spirit high, we set up several musical bands and went about playing at different places. Jews couldn't attend concerts, as they had a curfew. I remember that some of the concerts at 'Bulgaria' hall were given at daytime, and it was clear that people were doing it for Jews. The hall was full of Jews at such concerts. We also gave special performances, organized by Jewish musicians, at which information was exchanged concerning the current war situation and how far the Germans had advanced. The ones who managed to escape from the camp, which happened quite often, listened to radio programs and kept us informed. I used to play the violin in this orchestra, and I remember that Mati Pinkas [a famous opera singer in those years] used to sing there, too. This all lasted until Jews were interned from Sofia, which was a great tragedy indeed!

First I was sent to forced labor camps in 1940. I spent four years of my life there in hard living conditions. Initially I was sent to Tserovo, a village in the district of Sofia. There I spent six months and I remember that it was extremely difficult for us. I remember that we were given uniforms and also that we set up an improvised band with the workers. In Tserovo camp the attitude towards us was very humane. In order to set up the orchestra, we received permission from major Rogozarov, who was a battalion commander. The members of the orchestra were relieved of obligations and therefore, when we decided to form a choir, over 100 volunteers applied. Some of them couldn't sing at all. I chose 20 people from all the candidates. Among the participants in this band there were prominent musicians, who had leading positions in the Musical Theater and in famous orchestras before the war started. Yet, after the promulgation of the anti-Jewish laws, they were fired everywhere and after 1940 sent to different forced labor camps all over Bulgaria. That was my destiny, too.

Bitush Davidov, for example, was together with me in Tserovo. He used to be a soloist of the Musical Theater and he became our soloist, too. Anyone who had ever touched any kind of musical instrument and was eager to play was welcome in our band. I made the arrangements and edited the notes according to everyone's musical skills. We used to rehearse in the school gym in Tserovo. The violinists played their own instruments, while the wind instruments were owned by the state. We used to play on every occasion or even without a special reason in front of an audience. I remember one case - we played on the occasion of a soldier's oath when being sworn in to the Tserovo unit. We, the Jews, naturally weren't sworn in. Only Bulgarian soldiers in regular army service had an oath-taking ceremony. I was authorized by major Rogozarov to form a choir of 100 people and sound the retreat with a brass band, as it had to be done properly and solemnly. Besides the Jewish choir I auditioned the choir of the Bulgarian companies, and thus we formed a mixed choir. I was very worried as all of them were amateurs and could make a mistake any minute. Bitush Davidov accompanied us on the piano and I was the conductor. And so, two Jews were in charge of a whole choir and a brass band consisting of Bulgarians during the war. The ceremony was held in Svoge [a town in Western Bulgaria]. Finally we were rewarded with ten days off.

During the second year they sent me to the village of Trunska Klisoura [near the Serb border]. We had to walk all the way until we reached the village - about a hundred kilometers. We didn't wear uniforms there. We wore whatever we could find, and in addition we had to wear a yellow piece of cloth on our arms as a distinctive mark. The third year we were somewhere near the town of Krichim - in the village of Vetren. This isn't far from Pazardjik. We were a student's group and I got acquainted with a lot of people there. I was together with Adolf Fabricant, a good friend of mine, Rafael Arie, the famous singer, who later sang in Italy. There was an old man there, who used to be our superintendent while we were working. He wasn't an evil person, he only kept telling us, 'Work, work, work...', and I remember that Rafael Arie, while resting on his spade, used to tell him, 'Mr. Lieutenant, the time will come when you will be the one to pay money for listening to me!' And so it happened. Later Rafael became one of the most famous opera singers in Bulgaria. I remember that no matter where we were, we always succeeded in finding ways to keep ourselves well informed about the front line situation.

I had another interesting experience in the camp. While we were working close to the railway line, a train passed by and I saw someone waving his cloth cap and shouting, 'Lazarov, Lazarov!' The train quickly went past before I was able to spot the guy who was shouting at me. Later the others told me that it was my uncle David, the younger brother of my mother, who was traveling to a labor camp in Haskovo [a city in Southern Bulgaria]. He knew that I was working in that region, and when he saw the Jewish laborers, he started shouting and waving his cap, hoping that I'd be able to see him. Just for a greeting! This was so touching!

In the fourth year we were somewhere in Kjustendil district. Upon our arrival there we had no idea where exactly we were located. Nobody told us. The day we arrived at our new destination some villagers passed by and we asked them where we were. They told us that we were close to Bozhitsa. This is a village near Kjustendil, in which my uncle was a civilian doctor. I asked the people whether they knew him and it turned out that they knew him very well because he treated the whole village. Although it seemed to me quite impossible that they would tell him that I was close to the village, I still asked them to inform him and to my greatest surprise, already on the next day my uncle came to see me along with the village teacher. It was a very exciting meeting.

My brother was also in the forced labor camps. He missed the first year as he was still a student, but as soon as he turned 18, they also took him away. First he was sent somewhere in the Aegean region; they separated us. Not until I was sent to Lovetch [a town in north eastern Bulgaria] in 1944, my brother joined me in the camp. That was already at the end of the war and we somehow anticipated that soon it will be over and we will be free at last. Therefore I decided to escape from the camp in Lovetch. I asked my brother whether he would come with me, but he refused and I left all by myself. My brother came after ten days, as all Jews were liberated.

The first evening I remained in Pleven [a town in Central Bulgaria]. It wasn't safe at all. I traveled with some old documents attesting that I was ill. I stayed at the house of relatives. They sheltered me and only they know for the sake of what! They must have been very worried, I assume. In the morning I caught another train and with several changes from one train to another I reached Kjustendil. As early as 8th September speeches were given on the square, semi-illegally, of course, on behalf of the Communist Party, the Agrarian Union [see Bulgarian Agrarian National Union] 20. Kimon Georgiev 21 gave a speech also appealing to the establishment of the people's power. Then we realized that it would be much easier to breathe.

During the war my family was interned from Sofia [see Interment of Jews in Bulgaria] 22. Every family got instructions with the internment destination. Ours was Kjustendil. We had seven to eight days left to prepare the luggage and say good-bye to our relatives. My father refused to leave and he was punished by being sent with my mother and my brother to Lom [an important Danubian port town]. That was a very bad thing because according to rumors if they sent you to Lom, the next destination would be nothing but the death camps. I managed somehow to arrange our internment to Kjustendil, where we had relatives at least. I found a connection with the secretary of delegates of the Committee of the Jewish Affairs - her name was Liliana Popova or Vassileva. I still don't know how they let us go to Kjustendil. I was sent to a forced labor camp and my family was interned after that. My brother was sent later as he had to finish school first. I remember the nightmare in my home then - the ground floor was already crowded with other families, interned there and we remained squeezed on the first floor. We were some 14-15 people - the whole family boxed up into two rooms. During the war the number of Jews in Kjustendil climbed to 4,000 from 1,000 because of all the people interned from Sofia.

At the time of the anti-Jewish laws my name was changed twice. From Leon Nissim Lazarov I became Yeuda Nissim Bohor. The suffix 'ov' in our names wasn't allowed as it was considered too 'Bulgarian', and our names had to sound in a different way. I don't know how they fabricated that name, but during the regular roll-call in the camps I often didn't respond to my new name, because I couldn't get used to it at all. Four years you had to wander from one camp to another, not being certain whether you'll be able to survive until tomorrow! And live for the day! My true name was Lazar. Actually that was my name until I enrolled in junior high school, where they registered me as 'Nissimov Lazarov', I don't know why. But that's how it remained. Now in all documents I'm registered with that name.

Right after 9th September I was asked by the partisans, who wanted to sing guerrilla songs, to set up a choir in Kjustendil made up of the partisans who were already coming down from the mountains. I was a UYW 23 member since 1938. I began working with that choir, yet I did want to return to Sofia as soon as possible. In about two weeks I managed to get away and leave Kjustendil.

Meanwhile I met my future wife, Stella Beny. She is from Sofia and she graduated from high school in 1943. She was born on 18th October 1924. Her family was interned to Kjustendil, though she remained in Sofia to finish her studies. Then she received a letter from her father in which he warned her that there would be new deportations and she should join them in Kjustendil. I have seen this letter. It was all smeared with tears. Obviously her father had cried while writing it. Thus she came to Kjustendil and we got acquainted. When we came back to Sofia, we continued seeing each other. I remember how once my friend [Haim Oliver] arranged a meeting for us. He was a librarian at the Jewish People's community center and had invited both of us, as though accidentally. With Stella we gradually became close friends and on 29th December 1946 we got married. We had a civil marriage at the District Council on Dondukov Street, and everybody was freezing cold. Everything was so destitute, as after the war there was nothing but poverty.

Nissim Beny, Stella's father, was one of the oldest wood-carvers in Bulgaria. He graduated and was the first alumnus from the High School for Applied Arts. He did some of the wood-carvings in 'Alexander Nevski' Cathedral [the largest Eastern Orthodox Cathedral in Bulgaria]. Stella and I have kept a wood-cut table and some other carvings as well - 'The Rebec- Player' and a couple of others, too. I remember him constantly cutting with the burin. He had a small shop on Solunska Street [a trading street in the center of Sofia]. He loved his work very much. Stella has a brother, Albert Beny, born in 1922. He was a distinguished public worker. He was younger than me, but unfortunately he passed away in Israel, where he had moved to. I don't remember the year. Their father also died in Israel. Stella also has a sister, Greta Beny, born in 1932. Currently she lives in Israel with her family.

Upon my return from Kjustendil, after 9th September 1944, I met my friend Haim Oliver. He had returned from Haskovo [a town in the Eastern Rhodope Mountain], where he was interned. He became a partisan there. We went to a place where lots of people, lots of intellectuals, had gathered, willing to revive the culture of the country. I had heard on the radio that something was happening on Slavianska Street and we immediately left for there. The house was a rich one, but the owners had run away and abandoned it. There were many people there, who later became distinguished public and cultural figures - Angel Vagenshtain 24, Donka Chakova, Sima Ivanova, Nikola Krastev [intellectuals and cultural figures at that time]. They were both Jews and Bulgarians. We set up the Front Theater there in 1944 and we went about the frontline giving performances.

We had four troupes - three of them were staying near the frontline and one was performing in the rear. We had special uniforms. Many great actors began their career in that theater. This Front Theater had a little improvised choir, conducted by me, which used to sing before every performance. I remember our soaking wet shoes, usually the best ones we could find, yet we were very enthusiastically accepted everywhere. We used to sing before the local organizations of the Fatherland Front 25, and the local Communist Party organizations in the countryside. When the war ended we were in a process of demobilization and this lasted for about a year - until 1945. At that time Mario Menashe Brontsa invited me to the Jewish Symphony Orchestra, which was re-instituted after the war. I had a military rank at that time, therefore I couldn't afford spending much time on rehearsals, though I took part in a few concerts. I was always recognized by my military uniform, which I used to wear in the Front Theater, while everyone else wore suits.

After the War

After the war we lived in the apartment I still live in now, but with the difference that at that time we were obliged to have lodgers. Until then Sofia had about 250-300,000 citizens, but in the post-war times the population had suddenly increased to more than a million and people had nowhere to live. There was a constant flow of students here, and they still continued visiting us later on. There was a guy called Milcho Dekanarov. He was a choir singer in the choir conducted by me, and later came to live with us. There were others also: Avram Natan, Mois Natan and more. After 9th September 1994 a law was passed according to which each person was allowed to live in a space of several square meters only. Therefore the larger apartments had to accept lodgers. They were chosen arbitrarily by the municipality and sometimes three families lived in one apartment. The lodgers were usually very poor or from the countryside, and they paid a symbolic rent to the owners. It was rather inconvenient, bearing in mind that all the families used common bathrooms. The apartments weren't accommodated specially to such purposes, and the co-existence sometimes lasted for years, until the lodgers could buy their own flat or find a separate lodging.

After the end of the war my brother also came to Sofia. He graduated in Chemistry [from Sofia University], he has a son called Anri, born in 1954. His family maintains the Jewish traditions although his wife is non-Jewish. Her family name is Abazova.

I have a degree in economics. I couldn't finish my studies before the war because all Jews were expelled from university. I had also enrolled in the Faculty of Law, but I couldn't graduate from any of them. After the war was over, Jews were allowed to continue with their education. First I enrolled in the Institute of Economics, where they signed and sealed my student's card, they certified that I had taken all the exams and they recognized my academic degree. Then I changed to the Faculty of Law, where to my surprise, they also recognized my four years of studying, although I hadn't passed any exams. Obviously after the war everything was quite messed up. And so, I have two specialties. I had to take some equalizing exams for the second one, but because of the choirs I was involved in, I didn't have enough time to cope with that.

Since 1945 I have also been a conductor of the 'Liliana Dimitrova' amateur choir. Upon the end of the war, many amateur choirs were created, some of them at the chitalishte. It was a choir consisting of very experienced and talented singers. We did a very precise selection in order to make it a really representative choir. We traveled around Bulgaria with it. I had two or three assistants to replace me whenever I was absent. In 1947 the choir participated in the World Festival in Prague. After a careful selection we included another ten people from different choirs all over Bulgaria along with ours, which had 60-70 members. The first prize wasn't awarded but the second one was awarded to us. This was a great recognition and honor for us! It stimulated the careers of many of the choir singers. The composer Jules Levi made his name in that choir [a conductor, talented composer, author of symphonic, chamber and choral music; among his most popular works are the symphony 'A Matter of Life and Death', the ballet 'A Fair in Sofia' and the opera fairy-tale 'Tsar Kilimar'].

Upon my return from Prague, I had to face the tragic news about the death of my father, who had passed away while I was abroad. When I was leaving for Prague, I was aware of his illness though I never expected that the worst could happen. He had a sick heart and suffered from myocarditis. My mother waited for me at the station with the bad news. He was young, he was only 59 years old. And he didn't live to see any of his grandchildren. I remember how strong he was! He carried, by himself, sacks weighing some 100 kilograms to the shop. I wasn't present at his funeral as I was on my way to Bulgaria. He was buried in accordance with the Jewish tradition in the Jewish cemetery in Sofia. When I saw him last, he was waving at me from the window, wishing me a nice trip to Prague. And that's how he lives on in my memories - waving goodbye from the window. After his death I wasn't in a mood to do anything new and thus I continued my activities with the 'Liliana Dimitrova' choir. My mother stayed with me. At home all of us had great respect for her. She took care of the household.

Meanwhile I was also conducting the choir at the Planning Committee [committee for the approval of the economic plan for the country's development].

At the end of the war plenty of choirs were formed, yet still there was no class for conductors at the conservatory. Therefore I and the composer Georgi Dimitrov [a popular Bulgarian composer] initiated a course for choir conductors. The most prominent Bulgarian conductors became lecturers there: Philip Koutev, Svetoslav Obretenov, Kroum Boyadjiev. Choirs are named after those people today. We ourselves had the drive to know more. And in this way we had the chance to study together with our students and learn more.

In 1945 I started working at the State Planning Committee. I worked as an economist. I dealt with the textile industry, I did organizational work, I went about various enterprises. It was at the corner of Dondukov Street and Serdika Street. Then I was sent to Prague to the Council for Mutual Economic Assistance [CMEA], where I worked as an expert. Those were wonderful years - the ones that I spent in Prague [1965-1969]. I learned the Czech language and I had the chance to get acquainted with the rich culture of the people. The building I used to work in was a former palace with a magnificent garden. There was a hall where symphonic music was performed. Whenever I wanted to indulge in music, I could go downstairs and listen to it. The members of the orchestra got used to me. We were people of eight nations there: a Hungarian, a Polish, a German, etc. My work had nothing to do with my musical interests, but I didn't miss music because I took my violin there and played it whenever I could.

In 1948 my elder son Simo was born, and in 1953 the younger one, Emil. When I was sent to Prague from the State Planning Committee, my whole family joined me in the Czech Republic [Czechoslovakia at that time] and that fact had a good influence on both of my sons. They had the opportunity to get in touch with the Czech culture, which was a valuable experience for them. There wasn't a single concert or theater performance unseen. Simo graduated from high school there, and Emil from junior high school. Emil founded a family there. His wife is Czech.

In 1969 I came back from the Czech Republic and began to work in the Ministry of Light Industry as a chancellor to the minister at the time, Dora Belcheva. It was a good job - responsible, yet pleasant, and without fixed working hours. We had to work till late in the evening and I didn't have spare time for anything else, therefore when I was offered to resume work in the Planning Committee in 1976, I had no doubts whatsoever. I worked there until my retirement in 1978.

Stella and I tried to raise our children in the spirit of the Jewish traditions. My sons didn't have a bar mitzvah. We didn't celebrate Sabbath, but we always mentioned the high holidays - we observed the traditions, connected with them, we did taanit. They not only consider themselves Jews but they stand up for that. My elder son Simo left for Israel with his family a couple of years ago. He has a son Valentin and a daughter Emilia. She is married to a Bulgarian Jew. His name is Ricky and I already have a great-grandson. They live in Tel Aviv. Valentin graduated in musical pedagogy in Bulgaria and is currently working in that field. Emilia is an economist, but she has a different job in Israel.

My son Simo graduated from the Technical University in Sofia, but he has always been strongly attracted to music. Now, along with his students from the New Bulgarian University, he is dealing with electronic music and sometimes gives concerts in Sofia and in Israel. He has several albums out already. He is a lecturer in computer music compositions.

My younger son Emil lives in the Czech Republic and has a private company. He has a degree in automatization of production, as far as I can remember, but his career is completely different now. He has two sons, Victor and Martin. Victor has already got a master's degree and is currently studying in his second specialty. The topic of his research paper was the saving of Bulgarian Jews during World War II. He defended it at the Faculty of Humanitarian Sciences of Karlovy University [in Prague], which is the oldest one in Central Europe. Martin is an artist; he graduated in conservation and restoration [of art works, this is a specialty in the Art Academy] in Prague. He loves his work very much and is very talented. All of them have played various instruments; Music taught them discipline. They often call and visit us as soon as they are able to come. My wife Stella and I constantly talk about the professional achievements of our children and grandchildren, and we are very proud of them.

I used to keep relations with the Jewish community in Bulgaria, but I'm quite disconnected now, as I don't leave my home. Stella goes to different meetings sometimes, but I already don't remember when I last visited the place. I regularly buy and read recently published books in Ladino or some connected with the Jewish community and its history. We celebrate the Jewish holidays in the proper way. We try to follow the traditions. It's so nice when the whole family gets together. This year my grandson Valentin married a Bulgarian Jew in the Sofia synagogue. The ceremony was wonderful. All Jewish wedding traditions were kept. It was a nice and joyful marriage, at which more than 400 people - Jews and Bulgarians - were present.

I have been to Israel once. I think it was in 1999. I liked it very much there. It was much calmer than now. Stella and I visited our son Simo. We saw Tel Aviv and Jerusalem. A cousin of ours took us to Haifa. I have never wanted to live in Israel. I have always had a good job here, in Bulgaria, and the idea of leaving it never occurred to me. I was never in need of finding a job. It always happened that as soon as I left a work place, another one was offered to me. I was lucky, I guess. I think that my children would have never been able to obtain the culture that they had the chance to 'absorb' in Bulgaria and in the Czech Republic, if they had lived in Israel.

I have never felt anti-Semitism: neither among my friends, nor at my work place. I have always worked at prestigious institutions.

Glossary:

Edit Kovacs
Budapest
Hungary
Interviewer: Eszter Andor and Dora Sardi

Family background

Growing up

During the War

After the War

I was born on September 13, 1919, in Budapest, Hungary. My father, Arpad
Halasz, was born in 1889 in Kiskunfelegyhaza. That is a small town not far
from Kecskemet, which had a lively, progressive Jewish community at the
time. He was brought up by his grandparents after the death of his mother,
Gizella Klein. (His father remarried, and he had a half-brother, Ferenc,
and a half-sister, Sara. Sara married someone in Romania and they made
aliya in 1938-40.)

Family background

My father graduated from commercial high school and worked as chief
storeman in the state-owned local train company (HEV). He magyarized his
name from Fischer to Halasz in 1916. (Editor's note: state employees were
advised to "magyarize" their family names-change them to ones derived from
the Hungarian language. It was impossible to go beyond a certain position
in the hierarchy with a non-Hungarian name.) He married my mother, Katalin
Friedner, in 1917. Their wedding was in the famous Dohany Synagogue in
Budapest. He was not drafted during World War One because the HEV, a public
transportation company, could ask government exemptions for its employees.

In 1925, he was fired because of his Jewish origins and was unemployed for
two years. I remember how difficult these times were because he had been
quite well-paid as an employee of a state company, and we had led a
comfortable life. My father started to trade in clothes and underwear on
the market, and my mother helped him.

My mother, Katalin Friedner, was born in a derelict district of Budapest
densely populated with petty bourgeois Jews. She was quite uneducated,
having only gone to elementary school for three years. She later learned
the hat making trade. She worked in a hat maker's workshop as an assistant
until my sister was born. She was at home until my father was fired and set
up his clothes business at the market. They took on a servant girl who had
to sleep in the kitchen because we had only two rooms.

I remember my maternal grandparents quite well. My grandfather, Mor
Friedner, worked as a waiter in a cafe. He was somewhat happy-go-lucky,
spending a lot of money on billiards, while his wife, my grandmother, was
sick at home with tuberculosis. He had a brother who was a captain on the
police force, which was rather rare for Jews. My grandmother, Riza Krausz,
came down with tuberculosis after the birth of my mother's little sister,
Ibolya, but lived another 17 years with it, dying at the age of 59 in 1929.
They were very religious and I recall how my grandfather put on tefillin
every morning. They kept a kosher household until they became completely
impoverished and dependent on their children bringing them something to
eat. Mor lived to experience the Holocaust. He was hidden by some distant
relatives and was deported with them at the age of 84.

My mother had an older brother named Ignac Friedner, who disappeared in
1919, possibly during the Hungarian Soviet Republic or the White Terror;
and three sisters, Szeren, Aranka and Ibolya. Ibolya died at the age of 20
of tuberculosis. Szeren's husband, Ferenc Sarkadi, was a dealer in men's
clothing. They were immensely rich, living on Andrassy Avenue-which was one
of the fanciest areas of Budapest at the time-in a huge flat. They were
relatively religious; every Friday night, he sang in the synagogue. Szeren
was deported and witnessed the shooting of her husband. She died in
Auschwitz. Their daughter, Klara, hid in Budapest with false papers stating
that she was Christian. She left Hungary in 1956 for Australia. I have no
relationship with her because she "does not want to socialize with Jews."

Growing up

I attended a state elementary school and then a middle school (editor's
note: this type of school oriented the graduates towards commerce, crafts
and administrative jobs). I was a good student in school, but I was so
uninterested in religion that even though I attended religious instruction
in school, I never even learned the Hebrew letters. In the elementary
school, there were only two or three Jews in my class, so most of my
friends were Gentiles. This was not a problem in my family. In middle
school, I made friends mostly with Jews and every Friday we used to go to
the synagogue together. I had a very close friend, Zsofi Lieberman, whose
family was so observant that her father would not let me into the flat with
a salami sandwich. I had to eat it on the doorstep.

I started working after graduation in 1933 and worked in three needlework
shops until they had to close down because of the anti-Jewish laws. I was
first an assistant, then a salesgirl and finally a shop manager. In all
three shops, the proprietor was Jewish and half the employees were too. On
the high holidays, the Jewish employees did not have to work, but we did
not have to close the shop because our Christian colleagues were ready to
keep the business going.

Religion was not very strictly observed in my family either. Although we
celebrated the high holidays and my father would not smoke on Rosh Hashanah
or Yom Kippur, we did not go to synagogue regularly and we did not keep a
kosher kitchen. Still, when we were kids, they would light candles for us
on Friday night. This practice lasted until about 1926-27, that is, not
long after my father was dismissed and we experienced financial
difficulties. My father went to the market for half a day on Sabbath as
well, but at home, religion had to be strictly observed. We were not
allowed to work, write or light a fire. Even though my parents were not
strictly religious, when I came home with my first suitor, who was not
Jewish, my father did not allow him into the flat.

During the War

I married my first husband, Vilmos Weisz, an apprentice electrician, in
June 8, 1941. The marriage ceremony was held in the Neolog synagogue on
Pava Street. Vilmos was born in 1909 in Jaszbereny. This is a mid-size town
in northeast Hungary with a relatively large and traditionalist Jewish
community. He was drafted into a forced labor battalion in 1942. At first
he worked in the Weisz Manfred Steel Factory (which had also been Jewish
before its confiscation) in Budapest.

His parents were good Neolog Jews. They were rather religious as long as
they lived in the countryside, but when they moved up to Budapest around
1930, they became lax in their observance. The family was very poor because
they had three other siblings beside Vilmos. Vilmos's parents were the only
ones from the family who survived the Holocaust, and they made aliya
(emigrated to Israel) after the war. I regarded them almost as my parents
after my husband died, and I kept up correspondence with them until they
died in the mid-1950s.

Vilmos and I had one daughter, Maria. She was born in August 1942. My
husband had already been drafted into forced labor in June 1942, but he was
allowed to come home to see his newborn baby. He saw her only a few more
times before he was killed in 1945. He was beaten to death in a camp in
Balf, near Lake Ferto, in early 1945, because he stole one small potato.

During the war, in June 1944, my daughter and I, my mother and my sister,
and my sister's little son, who was the same age as Maria, were together in
a yellow-star house in Nepszinhaz Street. We were crammed into a three-room
flat with a dozen other people. The men were in forced labor battalions. In
July, the women and children were taken to a stadium from where we would
have been deported. A decent Arrow Cross (Hungarian Fascist) man-because
there existed such people as well-told me that everybody with a child under
the age of two should try to sneak away, while they would be looking the
other way. My family and I went back to the yellow-star house and we were
left in peace until the German occupation on October 15, 1944.

A week after that, the Arrow Cross people came again and collected all the
younger women and set them off on foot on a death march towards the
Austrian border. My sister and I managed to escape and arrived back in
Budapest in early November. In the meantime, my mother had been taken to
the ghetto together with the children, but we managed to find them when we
got back. My father also managed to escape from the Austrian border and he
found us in the ghetto. We pulled through the ghetto times somehow. On the
day before Liberation, in February 1945, I went out of the cellar where we
had been hiding during the bombing to get some food. I was injured by
shrapnel and I was left lying on the street for some days and got blood
poisoning, so my right leg had to be amputated below the knee (the
operation was done in the Jewish Hospital). This marked me for the rest of
my life.

After the War

After the war, we got back our flat, where we all lived together until my
sister Gizella left for Canada with her son Gyuri and her daughter Erzsi,
who was born in 1950. I bought a one-room flat in the same house where my
parents lived. We have kept up a very close connection with Gizella and I
visited them more than a dozen times. And my nephew Gyuri calls me once
every three weeks even today.

I married again in 1948. My second husband, Jozsef Schwarz, was born in
1911 in Nadar, Szatmar county (now in Romania). I know nothing about his
family and very little about his life before and during the war. I know
that he was in a forced labor battalion during the war in Poland. He was
not religious at all, but I think that he came from quite a religious
family, because when I asked him to come with me to synagogue on the high
holidays, he would always say: "I would do anything, absolutely anything
for you, but I am not going to the shul (synogogue) because I have been
through such horrible things that I have already expiated all the wrongs I
have done." He died four years after we got married in 1952, and I felt
that such a man should be buried in a kitl as any good observant Jew. I got
married a third time in 1984-I was not so young then-but he died three
years later. He was not Jewish.

My daughter did not know that Jozsef was not her real father. I asked him
to magyarize his surname to Varnai so that I could change my daughter's
name, Weisz (after her father, my first husband), to Varnai, and I could
allow her to believe that Jozsef was her father. Jozsef agreed to it
readily. But after his death a "friendly" neighbor told my daughter that
Jozsef was only her stepfather. When she asked me why I had never told her
this, I replied: "Jozsef loved you as if your were his own child, and
anyway, the last time you and your father saw each other was when you were
six months old. Even though you are his daughter inside, you needed, and
you received, a father for your life."

After the war, I could not work because of my leg injury. So I first
started working after Jozsef's death. I took up a position as a cashier in
a big state-owned dress making company and I was promoted to the position
of a shop manager after four years. My daughter graduated from an economic
high school and worked first in a ministry and later in social services.
She has two sons, Tibor and Zoltan. Tibor married a Gypsy girl and became a
peddler. They have one daughter, Anita, who is 10 years old. We do not
really keep in touch with them. Zoltan is now 36 years old and works as a
cook. He married a Bulgarian girl and they have a child, Sandor. They live
with me in my flat. I am painfully conscious of the fact that everybody in
my family married Gentiles, and I feel as if I were the only Jew left in
the family.

But I believe that it does not matter whether somebody is Jewish or
Christian, all that matters is that they should be good and kind-hearted.
Still, I feel proud to be a Jew, I would never deny it, and I used to go
regularly to the synagogue up to quite recently. Now I am too old and
frail.

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

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

My family background

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Growing up

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

During the war

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Post-war

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Married life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Translated by Atanas Igov

Glossary

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

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

Familia mea
Copilăria mea
Al Doilea Război Mondial
După Război
Glosar

Familia mea

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Copilăria mea

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Al Doilea Război Mondial

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

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

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

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

După Război

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Glosar:

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

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

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

My family story

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Growing up

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

During the war

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

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

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

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

After the war

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Glossary

Richard Kohn
Wien
Österreich
Interviewer: Tanja Eckstein
Datum des Interviews: Oktober 2003

Ich erfuhr von meinem ehemaligen Interviewpartner Aron Neumann über Richard Kohn. Sie waren einander in der Tagesstätte des Maimonideszentrums, dem jüdischen Seniorenheim, begegnet und Freunde geworden. Herr Kohn wohnte während der Zeit meines Interviews mit seiner Tochter Rita, deren Ehemann und drei Enkelkindern, ein Enkelsohn ist schwer behindert, in Wien - Stammersdorf, einem Teil des 21. Bezirks. Richard Kohn sitzt im Rollstuhl und freut sich, seine Lebensgeschichte erzählen zu können. Später bezieht er ein sehr schönes Zimmer im Maimonides-Seniorenheim im 19. Bezirk, in der Bauernfeldgasse, ganz nahe dem Haus, in dem seine Geschichte beginnt.

Meine Familiengeschichte
Meine Kindheit
Während des Krieges
Nach dem Krieg
Glossar

Meine Familiengeschichte

Mein Großvater väterlicherseits hieß Jacob Kohn. Er wurde im Jahre 1856, wahrscheinlich in Wien, geboren. Über Geschwister meines Großvaters weiß ich nichts. Er besaß im Stadtbezirk Döbling, in der Hardtgasse, eine kleine Schlosserei.
Meine Großmutter väterlicherseits hieß Caroline Kohn und war eine geborene Schwartz. Ich weiß weder, wo meine Großmutter geboren wurde, noch ob sie Geschwister hatte.
Die Großeltern hatten sieben Kinder, vier Söhne und drei Töchter: Adolf, Emanuel, Theodor und Alfred, meinen Vater, Teresa, Resi genannt, Rosa und Adele, die ich merkwürdigerweise nur unter dem Namen Ida kannte.
Wir wohnten mit den Großeltern zusammen in einer Wohnung. Die Großmutter kümmerte sich um die Familie und erledigte die Hausarbeiten. Bereits im Jahre 1923 starb sie, da war ich gerade drei Jahre alt. Trotzdem erinnere mich an sie als eine warmherzige Großmutter.

Meinen Großvater habe ich sehr gut gekannt. Bis zu seinem Tode, im Jahre 1929, wohnte er mit uns, und meine Mutter kümmerte sich um ihn. Er wurde 73 Jahre alt, das war in dieser Zeit ein hohes Alter. Seine Werkstatt hatte der Großvater meinem Vater übergeben. Der Großvater war ein strenger, unnahbarer Mensch. Er lächelte kaum und verstand keine Witze. Immer las er Zeitungen und dachte sehr viel nach. Er beschäftigte sich nie mit mir, wie man sich mit einem Kind beschäftigt, aber ich respektierte ihn, und ich hatte ihn sogar lieb. Vielleicht deswegen, weil er mir viele, sehr kluge Antworten auf meine Fragen gab.

Mein Onkel Adolf Kolm, er hatte seinen Namen Kohn in Kolm geändert, wurde 1895 geboren. Er war Chauffeur beim Gerngross [Kaufhaus in Wien] und mit Tante Teresa, einer Christin, verheiratet. Sie hatten einen Sohn Hans. Onkel Adolf war ein begeisterter Kommunist. Mein Onkel überlebte den Holocaust in Shanghai. Tante Teresa und ihr Sohn Hans überlebten den Krieg in Wien. Nach dem Krieg kam Onkel Adolf nach Wien zurück. Teresa hatte die vielen Jahre auf ihn gewartet. Er hatte sieben Jahre in Shanghai gelebt, war dort an Malaria erkrankt und herzkrank. Er starb am 5. Juni 1970 in Wien und liegt am vierten Tor, auf dem Zentralfriedhof, begraben. Hans starb vor langer Zeit.

Onkel Emanuel Kolm, auch er hatte sich von Kohn in Kolm umbenannt, war Ingenieur und arbeitete mit Metall. In zweiter Ehe war er mit Tante Sofie, die am 9. September 1886 geboren wurde, Pianistin war und am Konservatorium in Wien lehrte, verheiratet. Tante Sofie war Jüdin, aber seine erste Frau war keine Jüdin. Sie hatten einen Sohn Friedrich, der 1910 geboren wurde. Mit seiner zweiten Frau, der Tante Sofie, hatte er eine Tochter Eva, die 1924 geboren wurde. Onkel Emanuel war auch Kommunist, aber er war auch ein Funktionär in der Israelitischen Kultusgemeinde. Meine Cousine Eva entkam rechtzeitig dem Holocaust mit einem Kindertransport 1 nach England. Sie lebt heute in London, hat mit ihrem ersten Mann Cyril Erik Williams, der 1909 in Kalkutta geboren wurde, zwei Töchter, Rebekka Williams, die mit Aharon Avner aus Tel Aviv verheiratet ist und Ruth Alexandra Williams, die ledig ist. Alle leben in London. Eva war nach dem Tod ihres ersten Mannes noch einmal verheiratet, aber auch ihr zweiter Mann Giogio lebt nicht mehr. Friedrich, heute Frederik Ludwig Kolm lebt mit seinen Söhnen Claude und Cary Kolm in den USA, in Los Angeles. Onkel Emanuel und Tante Sofie überlebten den Holocaust in einem KZ, ich weiß aber nicht in welchem. Onkel Emanuel starb am 9. November 1951 in Wien und Tante Sofie am 3. November 1986 im jüdischen Altersheim in Wien. Sie wurde 100 Jahre alt.

Onkel Theodor Kohn war mit Tante Gisela verheiratet. Tante Gisela war keine Jüdin. Onkel Theodor starb bereits im Februar 1924. Sie hatten drei Kinder, Gretl, Lotte und Ludwig. Alle überlebten den Holocaust. Nach dem Krieg hatte ich noch kurzfristig Kontakt zu Gretl, die mit einem Albert, Bertl, verheiratet war. Ich erfuhr, dass Lottes Mann Gießer in einer Fabrik in Atzgersdorf war und dass Ludwig Kriminalist war. Dann riss der Kontakt ab, und ich weiß nicht einmal, ob es Nachkommen gibt.

Tante Adele, die komischerweise nur Ida genannt wurde, war mit Hieronymus Herzog, einem Bahnhofsvorsteher, verheiratet. Sie wohnte im 14. Bezirk, in Hietzing, und war schon in jungen Jahren Witwe. Sie lebte von der Witwenpension. Einmal in der Woche, bis zu ihrem Tod, besuchte sie uns in Döbling. Sie gab mir dann oft Unterricht in französischer Sprache. Selber kinderlos, liebte sie uns Kinder sehr. Sie starb im April 1932 an einer Vergiftung, mehr weiß ich nicht.

Tante Rosa Kohn war mit Josef Somlo verheiratet. Rosa und ihr Mann hatten zwei Töchter, eine wurde Häschen genannt, mehr weiß ich nicht. Ich habe die Tante Rosa ein einziges Mal gesehen, den Onkel Josef sah ich nie. Die Tante Rosa war sehr reich. Ich kann mich erinnern, dass sie nach Wien kam, meiner Schwester eine goldene Halskette mitbrachte, und mir gab sie zehn Schilling. Oh, das war viel Geld, ein Lehrjunge bekam drei Schillinge in der Woche. Ich weiß gar nicht mehr, was ich mit dem Geld gemacht habe. Ich wusste, dass Josef Somlo ein Filmproduzent in Berlin war, aber mehr wusste ich nicht. Jetzt weiß ich, dass Josef Somlo ein sehr erfolgreicher Filmproduzent in Berlin war. Hermann Fellsner und Josef Somlo gehörte die Produktionsgesellschaft' Felsom-Film GmbH Fellner & Somlo, Berlin'. Es entstanden unter anderem im Jahre 1931 die Spielfilme 'Drei Tage Liebe' mit Hans Albers und Käthe Dorsch in den Hauptrollen und 1932 'Mädchen zum Heiraten' mit Wolf-Albach Retty. Nach der Machtergreifung Hitlers in Deutschland im Jahre 1933, emigrierten sie nach England. Bereits ab 1939 produzierte mein Onkel in Großbritannien wieder Filme. Ich habe aber nie wieder von Tante Rosa und Onkel Josef und ihren Töchtern gehört.

Tante Teresa war mit dem Filmproduzenten Albert Heymsen verheiratet. Auch sie lebten in Berlin, hatten aber keine Kinder. Ich hatte geglaubt der Onkel Somlo und der Onkel Heymsen wären Kompagnons gewesen, aber ich weiß das nicht. Auch sie emigrierten nach England. Nach dem Krieg hatte ich noch Kontakt mit meiner Tante Teresa. Sie hatte ihren Unmut vor dem Krieg Ausdruck gegeben, dass ich in Hirschbach als Jugendlicher eine nichtjüdische Freundin hatte, und als ich meine Frau heiratete, schrieb sie mir in einem Brief: 'Mit großen Freuden höre ich, dass du eine Jüdin geheiratet hast.' Leider weiß ich überhaupt nicht, was aus meiner Tante und ihrem Mann wurde.

Mein Vater Alfred Kohn wurde am 19. September 1886 in Wien geboren.

Der Großvater mütterlicherseits hieß Theodor Augusta. Er war nicht jüdisch. Der Großvater war Theatermaler in Wien. Der Vater meiner Großmutter Sofie liegt auf dem jüdischen Friedhof in Zwettl begraben. Meine Großmutter Sofie Augusta, geborene Herlinger, wurde im Waldviertel, in der Nähe von Zwettl bei Gmünd, eventuell in Hirschbach geboren, wo ihre Familie ein kleines Geschäft besaß. Als meine Großeltern heirateten, hatte meine Großmutter bereits einen Sohn, der Robert Herlinger hieß und am 16. Mai 1894 in Wien nicht ehelich geboren war.

Die Großeltern lebten im 18. Bezirk in einer Zweizimmerwohnung. Meine Großmutter bekam noch zwei Kinder, meine Mutter Franziska Kohn, geborene Augusta, geboren am 12. November 1898 und ihren Bruder Friedrich Augusta, geboren am 21. Juni 1900. Bereits im Jahre 1905 oder 1906 starb mein Großvater Theodor an einer Vergiftung. Es hieß, er habe oft an seinem Pinsel geleckt und starb durch eine giftige Farbe.

Meine Großmutter war sehr wichtig für mich, ich habe sie sehr geliebt. Da der Großvater so früh gestorben ist, war es schwer für die Großmutter, ihre Kinder aufzuziehen. Sie lebten in ziemlicher Armut. Die Großmutter lebte immer in ihrer kleinen Wohnung zusammen mit ihren Söhnen und der Ehefrau ihres Sohnes Fritz, die Frida hieß. In dem großen Zimmer wohnten Fritz und Frida, in dem ganz kleinen Zimmer wohnte sie mit ihrem Sohn Robert, der nicht verheiratet war, und ich glaube, eine zeitlang als Heizer in einem Hotel arbeitete.

Frida war eine fromme Jüdin, und es war das einzige Mal, dass ich eine jüdische Hochzeit erlebte. Als sie heirateten war ich vielleicht zehn oder zwölf Jahre alt. Die Hochzeit fand im Währinger Tempel statt. Ich kann mich schon nicht mehr erinnern, ich weiß nur, der Oberrabbiner Dr. David Feuchtwang traute sie. Tante Fritzi wurde sie genannt und weil ihre ganze Familie fromm war, brachte mein Onkel eine Mesusa 2 an der Wohnungstür an.

Meine Großmutter war eine sehr fleißige Frau. Sie arbeitete in der Garderobe im Konzerthaus, wo jetzt meine jüngere Enkelin und mein Enkel arbeiten. Sie verdienen sich dort ihr Taschengeld, aber für die Großmutter war das damals der Hauptverdienst. Onkel Friedrich war Verkäufer in einem Stoffgeschäft irgendwo am Stephansplatz. Ich glaube drei, vier Jahre bevor die Faschisten kamen, wurde er, wegen dem Konkurs seines Unternehmers, arbeitslos. Onkel Friedrich wurde nach dem Einmarsch der Deutschen zum Arbeitsdienst kommandiert und am 20. Oktober 1939 von Wien nach Nisko 3 deportiert. In Nisko musste er, um nicht von den Deutschen erschossen zu werden, in einen Wald nach Russland fliehen. Seine Frau Frida wurde am 6. Mai 1942 von Wien nach Maly Trostinec 4 deportiert und ermordet. Onkel Robert Augusta wurde am 23. November 1941, zusammen mit meiner Großmutter Sofie, ihrer Schwester Julie Schulz, meiner Mutter, meinem Vater, meiner damals 16jährigen Schwester Hildegard und meinem damals erst sechsjährigen kleinen Bruder Erich von Wien nach Kowno 5 deportiert und alle wurden in Kowno am 29. November ermordet.

Wie und wo sich meine Eltern kennerlernten, weiß ich nicht. Da ich am 18. September 1920 geboren wurde, nehme ich an, dass meine Eltern 1919 heirateten. Ob meine Eltern im Tempel heirateten, weiß ich nicht.

Meine Kindheit

Meine Mutter hatte an einer Fachschule Näherin gelernt, arbeitete zu Hause als Näherin und kümmerte sich um den Haushalt. Solange die Großmutter Kohn lebte, half sie ihr dabei und sie kümmerte sich um mich. In einen Kindergarten bin ich nie gegangen. Jedes Jahr im Sommer fuhr ich für drei Monate zusammen mit meiner Großmutter Sofie nach Hirschbach ins Waldviertel. Für einen Monat kam auch meine Mutter hinaus, die andere Zeit musste sie sich um den Haushalt kümmern, weil mein Vater sie brauchte. Er arbeitete in der Schlosserei, und sie hat gekocht und die Wäsche gewaschen. Jedes Jahr kam mein Vater für zwei Tage nach Hirschbach. Dann ging er sehr viel spazieren, ruhte sich aus und ich habe wenig von ihm gesehen.

Die Großmutter hatte in Hirschbach eine alte Freundin, das war die Frau Pscheid. Bei dieser Frau Pscheid wohnten wir während der Ferien. Im Haus gab es kein elektrisches Licht, da gab es nur Petroleumlampen. Ich besitze eine Petroleumlampe, die ist hundert Jahre alt und ein Andenken an meine Großmutter. Die hat mir die Enkelin von Frau Pscheid gebracht. Als ich in die Schule kam, bat meine Mutter jedes Mal den Direktor meiner Schule, mich einige Zeit vom Unterricht freizustellen, weil die Ferien keine drei Monate lang waren, und nie hatte er etwas dagegen. Wahrscheinlich deshalb nicht, weil ich nicht so schlecht lernte, also etwas besser als andere Kinder.

Ich war an den kleinen Ort in Hirschbach sehr gebunden. Dort lebten 700 Einwohner. Die meisten waren arme Bauern. Die mussten schwer arbeiten, reden konnte man mit denen nicht, dafür hatten sie keine Zeit. Die Kinder mussten den Eltern helfen, das war ein hartes Leben. Pferde besaßen vielleicht drei, vier Bauern. Die Wagen wurden von den Kühen gezogen und wenn ein Bauer ein Pferd besaß, galt er dort als wohlhabend. Einem Baron von Fischer gehörte ein Wald und eigentlich durfte man da nicht hinein, aber dort gab es wunderbare Schwammerln. Natürlich trauten sich viele nicht hinein, aber wir Jungens habe immer die Schwammerln gestohlen. Ich war mit den Jungen sehr befreundet und ging sogar oft mit ihnen in die Kirche. Die Jungens gingen alle in der Früh in die Kirche, und ich wollte nicht allein bleiben. Einmal, ich war ein ganz kleiner Knirps, schlief ich in der letzten Reihe ein und fiel schlafend aus der Bank. Da begann ich natürlich schrecklich an zu schreien und das während der Messe. Man rief meine Großmutter, und sie trug mich hinaus.

Meine Schwester Hildegard war fünf Jahre jünger als ich. Sie wurde am 9. April 1925 in Wien geboren.

Unsere Wohnung bestand aus zwei Zimmern und einem großen Vorzimmer. In einem Zimmer wohnten meine Mutter, mein Vater und ich und ab der Geburt meiner Schwester, auch meine Schwester. Im anderen Zimmer wohnte bis zu seinem Tod der Großvater. Das Waschbecken und die Wasserleitung waren am Gang, wo sich die Nachbarn trafen und tratschten. Die Toilette war in der Wohnung, aber es war kein WC. Manches Mal, was nicht angenehm war, je nach Wetter, roch es nicht gut in der Wohnung. Der Staub aus den Decken wurde auf die Gasse geklopft.

Ich will nicht sagen, dass ich ein ausgezeichneter Schüler war. Mathematik und Physik hatte ich nicht gern, aber in den Gegenständen Geografie, Geschichte und Biologie war ich immer ausgezeichnet, das hat mir gefallen. Aber in den Gegenständen, die mir nicht gefielen, war ich zufrieden, wenn ich einen Zweier oder Dreier bekam. Der Deutschunterreicht gefiel mir auch sehr gut. Ich kann noch immer ohne Fehler schreiben, genauso gut, wie in der russischen Sprache.

Wenn der Pfarrer den Religionsunterricht für die katholischen Kinder abhielt, in meiner Klasse waren wir drei jüdische Kinder und zwei protestantische Kinder, gingen wir fünf während des Unterrichts spazieren. Einmal hatte ich eine vielleicht nicht so gute Idee. Aber ich wollte nur einen Scherz machen. Ich wusste, dass die Mädchen dem Pfarrer immer nach dem Unterricht die Tür aufmachen und sich, während er das Klassenzimmer verlässt, vor ihm verbeugen. Also hielt ich die Tür von außen zu. Und als man von innen an der Tür riss, ließ ich los. Die Tür ging auf und der Pfarrer saß auf dem Boden. Er war ein großer und etwas dicker Mann. Er stand auf, putzte sich ab und schaute mich mit wütenden Augen an. Dann lief er zum Direktor. Der Direktor kam zu mir und gab mir eine Einladung für meine Eltern. Mein Vater ging hin und als ich an dem Nachmittag nach Hause kam, hörte ich meinen Vater in der Küche lachen. Er erzählte die Geschichte meiner Mutter und lachte. Und mir fiel ein Stein vom Herzen, weil mein Vater sehr streng zu mir war, aber dieser grobe Scherz gefiel ihm.

Mein Schulfreund Konrad, mit dem ich viele Jahre in einer Bank saß, war der Sohn eines Kommunisten und Konrad war in der kommunistischen Jugendbewegung. Mein Vater war damals noch Sozialdemokrat und ich noch ein sozialdemokratischer Jugendlicher. Konrad lachte oft über uns: 'Ihr nennt's euch Rote, ihr seit doch keine Roten, wir sind Rote.'

Meine Mutter liebte ich sehr, sie war eine sehr liebe Frau und sie war eine gute Hausfrau. Überall wurde sie geachtet. Sie hatte zu vielen Leuten freundschaftliche Beziehungen. Meinen Vater sah ich selten. Er arbeitete tagsüber und kam abends müde nach Hause. Manches Mal gab er mir einen guten Klaps, wenn ich mich nicht richtig benahm. Aber es war sehr schwer für mich, mich richtig zu benehmen, oft habe ich etwas gesagt, was ich gar nicht wollte, und er hatte dafür überhaupt kein Verständnis. Mein Vater sprach nur von der Politik. Zuerst war er Sozialdemokrat, ein verbissener, und dann, nach dem Putsch im Februar 1934, wurde er Kommunist. Ich war zuerst ein illegaler jugendlicher Sozialdemokrat und dann ein illegaler kommunistischer Jugendlicher. Ich verteilte Zeitungen und nahm an Demonstrationen teil.

Meine Schwester Hildegard war ein Mädchen, deshalb war ich weit von ihr entfernt. Ich war noch zu jung, um zu verstehen, und ich ahnte nicht, wie wenig Zeit wir miteinander verbringen durften. Meine Schwester war ein eher ruhiges, nachdenkliches Kind. Beim Einmarsch der Deutschen im Jahre 1938 war sie dreizehn Jahre alt und erlebte in der Schule den offenen aggressiven Antisemitismus. Das war schrecklich für sie, und sie versuchte, alles für sich zu behalten und zog sich sehr in sich zurück. Als ich in die Schule ging, erlebte ich keinen Antisemitismus, und nach dem Einmarsch der Deutschen war meine Schulzeit bereits beendet.

Für Kultur fehlte in meiner Familie das Geld. Wir mussten mit der Wirtschaftskrise sehr schwer kämpfen. Für uns war Essen wichtiger als Kultur. Aber ich ging mit meiner Mutter ins Kino. Mein Vater hatte gern einen guten Wein, sogar meine Großmutter trank manchmal ein Gläschen Wein, aber das war alles. Klassische Musik oder Opern hörte ich nie in meiner Kindheit. Wir besaßen auch kein Radio, aber ein Grammophon mit Schallplatten. Der Vater hatte das Grammophon bei einem Lotto gewonnen. Jetzt habe ich großes Interesse an schönen Opern. Aber es gibt Opern, die mir nicht gefallen, zum Beispiel 'Eugen Onegin'. Es sind manche Sachen von Mozart, die mir nicht gefallen, die sind sehr langweilig, sogar die 'Zauberflöte' ist für mich nichts. Ich liebe italienische Opern und klassische Musik.

Mein Bruder Erich wurde am 18. März 1934 in Wien geboren. Er war ein Nachkömmling und wurde von allen geliebt. Er war ein sehr schöner kleiner Junge mit blonden Locken. Meine Mutter war so glücklich und mein Vater drohte uns sogar, dass wir ja immer gut auf ihn aufpassen sollten. Ich war ja schon 15 Jahre alt, als er geboren wurde, aber sonntags, wenn ich frei hatte, ging ich gern mit ihm und meiner Schwester in den Park. Die Leute blieben stehen und schauten ihn an, weil er so ein schöner und lieber Junge war. Ich kann nicht verstehen, dass man so ein Kind umgebracht hat, nur weil er Jude war. Ich kann und will mir seine letzten Minuten nicht vorstellen. Ich kann bis heute nicht verstehen, dass man meine Eltern und meine Geschwister erschossen hat. Mein Vater war immer so ein Optimist. Er glaubte, wenn Hitler kommt wird das Leben für die Juden schwer werden. Wir lasen auch über die Judenverfolgung in Deutschland, aber auch wenn mein Vater kein Optimist gewesen wäre, wo sollten wir denn hin? Niemand wollte uns und wir waren arme Leute.

Ich muss sagen, dass ein Großteil meiner Familie, so auch meine Eltern, überhaupt nicht religiös war. Ich ging nur innerhalb des Religionsunterrichts in den Tempel; wir hatten ja jede Woche einmal zwei Stunden Unterricht. Deswegen war ich im Tempel jede Woche, aber im Gottesdienst war ich niemals. Es hat mich auch nicht interessiert, ich wurde eben nicht religiös erzogen.

Meine Großeltern wurden am Döblinger Friedhof begraben, und ich hörte von Theodor Herzl 6 und ich war an seinem Grab. Ich wunderte mich, warum man Steine auf seinen Grabstein legt. Und ich sah Juden dort, orthodoxe Juden. Damals hörte ich, dass es einen Zionismus gibt und dass irgendwo die Juden richtig zusammen in einem Land leben und einen eigenen Staat gründen sollten. Mir gefiel diese Idee gut. Das war noch vor 1938. Später erführ ich, dass Herzl nach Israel überführt worden war.

Nach der Schule machte ich eine Schlosserlehre bei meinem Vater, aber einmal in der Woche musste ich in eine Berufsschule um Stenografie, Korrespondenzen und Buchhaltung zu lernen. Anfangs beschäftigte mein Vater drei Arbeiter, dann zwei und dann arbeiteten nur mehr wir zwei in der Schlosserei. Es ging den Menschen wirtschaftlich sehr schlecht, und sie hofften, der Hitler würde ihnen Arbeit geben, wie er es versprach; Arbeit und Brot bringen. Besonders die Arbeiter hofften auf den Hitler.

Ich hatte nur einen jüdischen Freund, der hieß Paul Operer. Er wohnte auch in Döbling, und er war der Sohn des Besitzers eines kleinen Kaffeehauses. Seine Mutter kam aus Polen, der Vater war ein Wiener. Die Familie war ganz komisch. Sie waren Nudisten und liefen mit dem Paul immer nackt in der Lobau herum. Paul zeigte mir Fotografien, da waren sie nackt zu sehen. Na gut, jeder spinnt eben ein bisschen, die waren Nudisten und mein Vater und zwei seiner Brüder waren Kommunisten. Pauls Familie bereitete sich rechtzeitig darauf vor, nach Amerika zu fliehen, und sie lernten Englisch. Daran kann ich mich noch erinnern. Ich habe keine Ahnung, was aus Paul wurde.

Während des Krieges

Nach dem Einmarsch wurden die Juden aus ihren Geschäften geworfen, und man nahm ihnen alles weg. Auf einmal gab es Wohnungen und Arbeitsplätze für die Nichtjuden. In Österreich waren damals ungefähr 200 000 Juden. Und fast alles wurde geraubt, die Geschäfte wurden geplündert und Juden wurden zum Freiwild erklärt.

Ein blinder Nazi warf uns aus unserer Wohnung. Er lebte bei uns als Untermieter, gab einen Bericht ab, und binnen drei Monaten mussten wir weg. Mein Vater hatte einen Ausweis, dass er Kriegsteilnehmer [1. Weltkrieg 1914- 1918] war, und er besaß einen Brief von einem Offizier, dem er das Leben während eines Gasangriffs der Italiener gerettet hatte. Deshalb durften wir noch drei Monate in unserer Wohnung bleiben. Dann fanden wir eine Wohnung in der Peter Jordan Straße Nummer 19, eine ehemalige Schneiderei, die sich im Keller befand. In dieser Wohnung wohnten dann meine Eltern, meine Geschwister und ich, meine Großmutter mit ihrer Schwester und mein Onkel Robert Herlinger, der aber nicht durchgängig zu Hause war, weil er zum Arbeitsdienst eingezogen war.

In der Pogromnacht 7, am 10. November, 1938 holten die SS Leute meinen Vater und mich aus unserer Wohnung. Wir wurden in die Wachstube der Polizei gebracht. In der Wachstube waren schon viele Juden versammelt. Von dort wurden wir in die Bauernfeldgasse zum Tempel geführt und dort bekamen wir Hacken und Stangen aus Eisen, und dann mussten wir alles demolieren. Es waren alte Juden, die sehr fromm waren dabei, die sehr weinten.

Nach einigen Tagen ließ man meinen Vater und mich nach Hause gehen. Die Lebensmittel waren knapp, die Wohnsituation sehr beengt und so beschloss ich, wodurch ich davon erfahren habe weiß ich nicht mehr, mich auf die Ausreise nach Palästina vorzubereiten und auf Hachschara 8 zu gehen.

Anfang März 1939 ging ich auf Hachschara nach Fischamend, aber nach ungefähr drei Monaten wurde die Gruppe unter Aufsicht der SS nach Niedersdorf gebracht. Ein SS Mann tat sich besonders hervor und beschimpfte uns während der Fahrt als Saujuden. In Niedersdorf mussten wir Zwangsarbeit leisten. Ich arbeitete auf dem Feld, schleppte Säcke mit 60 Kilo Getreide zu einer Mühle, lud Zuckerrüben am Bahnhof aus, denn im Ort war eine Zuckerfabrik. Die Arbeit war sehr schwer. Man hatte uns alle Papiere und alles Geld weggenommen. Eines Tages erfuhren wir durch die jüdische Gemeinde über eine in Polen entstehende jüdische Kolonie. Ich setzte mich mit meinem Vater in Verbindung und bat ihn um seine Zustimmung, am Entstehen der Jüdischen Kolonie mitzuarbeiten und er willigte ein.

Ich durfte nach Wien fahren, konnte mich von meiner Familie verabschieden, musste mich aber sofort, ich glaube, auf der Polizei melden. Ich war sehr hoffnungsvoll und sagte zu meinen Eltern: 'Wenn es mir gut geht, schreibe ich euch, dass es mir sehr gut geht. Wenn ich schreibe, dass es mir gut geht, heißt das, es geht mir schlecht.' Mein Vater bekam durch meinen Onkel Emanuel, der ja Funktionär bei der israelitischen Kultusgemeinde war die Erlaubnis, mich in Wien zum Bahnhof zu begleiten. Auch die Vorsteher der israelitischen Kultusgemeinde waren am Bahnhof. Von welchem Bahnhof wir losfuhren, weiß ich nicht mehr. Wir verabschiedeten uns voneinander, und das erste Mal in meinem Leben sah ich meinen Vater gefühlvoll, ich sah eine Träne.

Der Zug wurde von SS Männern mit Gewehren bewacht. Wir fuhren mehr als einen Tag. Wir durften nie unseren Waggon verlassen. Es war schon kalt, es war im Oktober 1939. Deutschland hatte Polen schon überfallen und der 2. Weltkrieg hatte begonnen.

Auf dem Gebiet im eroberten Polen ließen die Deutschen ein Lager bauen. Als wir ankamen, wurden wir vom Lagerleiter, der auf einem Pferd saß, angeschrieen: 'Maurer, Schlosser, Tischler, Spengler auf die linke Seite, Juristen, Ärzte, Musiker, Journalisten auf die rechten Seite. Nachdem wir unsere Positionen eingenommen hatten, sagte er zu den Intellektuellen: 'Wer sich in fünf Minuten noch in Schussweite befindet, wird erschossen.' Er begann zu zählen. Die Menschen ließen ihr Gepäck stehen, viele hatten ihre wertvollsten Dinge eingepackt und begannen zu laufen. Sie liefen zu dem nahe gelegenen Wald.

Wir, die Arbeiter, wurden ins Lager geführt. Es war noch nicht fertig, aber überall war Stacheldraht. Das Lager befand sich östlich von Nisko, am Fluss San. Die Stadt Nisko konnten wir nicht sehen. Wir schliefen in einer Scheune mit Heu. Es war kalt, und wir gruben uns tief ins Heu. Ich traf sogar Bekannte aus Wien, es waren die Brüder Kurt und Erich Stein aus dem 2. Bezirk. Ich war früher auch bei ihnen zu Hause, das waren sehr arme Kerle. Der Vater war Jude, der gestorben war, und die Mutter war Katholikin. Sie hatten sich auch freiwillig gemeldet, um nach Nisko zu fahren.

Am Morgen gab es für uns nicht einmal die Möglichkeit, uns zu waschen. Sofort begann die Arbeit. Das Bauen von Baracken fand unter Aufsicht von SS Männer statt. Sie schrieen und behandelten uns sehr schlecht. In der Früh wurden wir geweckt, standen in einer Reihe und bekamen einen schwarzen Feigenkaffee und schwarzes Brot, das war alles. Mittags gab es Suppe mit Brot. Einmal gab es sogar etwas Fleischiges, das waren Gedärme, aber für uns war das ein Feiertag.

Ursprünglich gab es über den Fluss eine Brücke, aber die war zerstört. Unsere Aufgabe bestand auch darin, ein Floss mit Kriegsmaterial für den Angriff auf die Sowjetunion, zum Beispiel kleine Panzerautos, die unter Decken lagerten, von einem Ufer zum anderen zu ziehen. Auf jeder Seite zogen 15 Gefangene das Floss hinüber und herüber. Das war sehr schwer. Die Gegend dort war schrecklich. Es gab fast überhaupt keine Wege. Wenn es regnete, konnte man nicht nur nicht mehr fahren, sondern auch nicht gehen.

Im Lager hatte uns ein Pole gesagt, es seien 75 km bis zur russischen Grenze. Eines Tages hatten wir am äußersten Rand des Lagers zu tun. Wir mussten Baumstämme schleppen, und ich und ein deutscher Kommunist nutzten die Gelegenheit, in den Wald hinein zu laufen. Zuerst war er mir verdächtig, aber dann gewöhnte ich mich an ihn, er war ein ganz guter Kerl. Es gab im Lager zwei Hunde und vor denen hatte ich große Angst. Das waren wahrscheinlich die schrecklichsten Minuten in meinem Leben. Wir liefen und liefen, was sehr schwer war, weil soviel Kot auf den Wegen lag, aber andererseits beruhigte es mich, denn durch den Kot konnten die Hunde uns nicht so leicht finden.

Es ging schon auf den Abend zu, und es wurde dunkel, das hat uns geholfen. Wir liefen in Richtung Sowjetunion, in den Teil, der vor 1918 Galizien war. Wir liefen und liefen und es wurde Nacht, und wir kamen in eine kleine finstere Stadt. Wir wussten nicht, wohin wir gehen sollten, da sahen wir einen Tempel. Ich dachte, wenn hier ein Tempel steht, wohnen daneben bestimmt Juden, die müsste man fragen. Wir klopften ganz leise. Und dann sahen wir durchs Fenster ein Petroleumlicht. Plötzlich hörten wir eine ängstliche Stimme, die fragte: Kto tam [Wer ist dort]? 'Machen Sie bitte auf, lassen Sie uns bitte herein.' Er sagte auf Jiddisch:

'Nein, nein, wer seint ihr?' Ich antwortete: 'Wir sind Juden aus dem Lager.' Er hatte Angst, er glaubte mir nicht, weil ich nicht jiddisch sprechen konnte, aber nach einiger Zeit öffnete er die Tür. Er war ein orthodoxer Jude mit einem Bart, und er stand zitternd mit der Petroleumlampe vor uns. Ich sagte zu ihm: 'Haben Sie keine Angst, wir sind Juden! Wir sind aus dem Lager geflohen.' Da es keine Lagerkleidung gegeben hatte, trugen wir unsere Zivilbekleidung. Er ließ uns herein, und ich erzählte ihm alles. Er hörte mir genau zu und verstand. Dann brachte er ein sehr großes Stück Brot und etwas Honig. Wir aßen mit großem Appetit. Er wollte wissen, was wir vorhätten, und ich sagte, wir wollten nach Russland. 'Hier ist Russland', sagte er. Es war das Gebiet Polens, das die Sowjetunion durch den Hitler-Stalin-Pakt 9 im Sommer 1939 erobert hatte.

In derselben Nacht brachte er uns zu einem Polen, der in der nächsten Nacht einen Juden mit seiner Mutter zur Grenze führen sollte. Die Mutter war schwerkrank, sie lag auf dem Pferdewagen, und er war ein großer Jude mit einer Kippa auf dem Kopf. Wir sprachen miteinander und er erzählte, dass ein ganzer Zug mit Deutschen in die Luft geflogen sei. Er sagte: 'Das ist Emes.' Ich verstand ihn nicht. Jetzt verstehe ich jiddisch und etwas hebräisch. Emes heißt: Es ist wahr, es ist wirklich wahr!

Am nächsten Tag, in der Früh, sagte der Pole, der Jude übersetzte für uns, dass nicht weit entfernt ein kleiner Bach sei und auf der anderen Seite des Baches schon das Territorium der Sowjetunion. Es war ein Wald, ein sehr dichter Wald mit Gebüsch. Wir gingen neben dem Pferdewagen. Der Pole bekam von dem Juden Geld, aber wir hatten kein Geld. Der Jude schleppte seine kranke Mutter, und wir verabschiedeten und trennten uns. Wir gingen und wollten einen Bach überqueren, auf einmal sahen wir auf einer Erhöhung russische Soldaten. Sie saßen auf Pferden, und einer hielt das Gewehr auf uns und sagte: 'Dawai iditje nasad!' Das waren die ersten russischen Wörter, die ich hörte. Das heißt: Schnell geht zurück! Wir verstanden: wenn wir weiter gehen, werden wir erschossen. Wir gingen zurück, was sollten wir machen? Als es dunkel wurde, wir hatten nichts zu essen und waren sehr hungrig, gingen wir wieder los. Schön langsam, schön langsam!

Wir trafen einen alten und einen jungen Mann, die trugen eine Hacke und eine Säge und wollten von uns Geld, damit sie uns über den Bach bringen. Wir hatten kein Geld, und sie ließen uns stehen. Nach ungefähr 20 Minuten begegneten wir zwei deutschen Soldaten. Die schrieen: 'Halt, wer da?' Wir blieben stehen. 'Wer seid ihr?' Ich sagte: 'Juden!' 'Woher kommt ihr?' Ich sagte nicht, dass wir aus dem Lager geflohen waren, sondern: 'Aus Wien!' Einer war Österreicher und fragte: 'Sag mal, ist Wien noch ganz?' 'Ja, Wien ist noch ganz' sagte ich, aber ich wusste ja gar nichts über Wien seit ich nicht mehr dort war. 'Meine Mutter wohnt nämlich in Wien. Wohin geht ihr?' 'Zum Nachbarn' antwortete ich. 'Also geht,' sagte er 'aber wenn ihr zurück kommt, werden wir auf euch schießen.' Wir gingen durch den Bach. Am Rand war hohes Schilf. Wir krochen durch das Schilf, kamen hinaus, kletterten die Böschung hinauf. Auf einmal sahen wir sechs Rotarmisten, die Patrouille mit dem Bajonett liefen. Wir warfen uns hin und warteten eine halbe Stunde. Wir waren ganz nass, und wir froren furchtbar. Als sie weg waren, liefen wir in den Wald.

Der Deutsche war mir sehr dankbar, gab mir die Hand und sagte: 'Ich gratuliere dir! Wir sind in Russland!' Wir kamen zu einem kleinen Dorf mit drei, vier Holzhütten. In den Hütten wohnten Menschen, die waren so furchtbar arm, so etwas hatte ich noch nie gesehen. Ich sagte nur: 'Schlafen!' Einer brachte uns in eine Scheune mit Stroh und Heu. Unsere Sachen wurden nicht trocken, und wir zitterten die ganze Nacht. Am nächsten Tag bekamen wir Brot und Molke. Uns schmeckte das sehr gut, so hungrig waren wir. Dann gingen wir weiter. Die Sonne schien und wärmte uns ein bisschen.

Wir waren frei! Da kamen zwei Juden mit Gewehren. Sie trugen Hüte mit roten Bändern. Einer sagte uns in gebrochenem Deutsch: 'Seid herzlich Willkommen! Ihr seid in Sowjetrussland!' Aber er warnte uns auch vor den russischen Soldaten, weil wir illegal die Grenze passiert hatten. Wir kamen zu einem Markt, dort waren Ukrainer, Polen und Juden. Man kaufte und verkaufte. Wir halfen einer alten Jüdin Kartoffeln nach Hause bringen, die sie gekauft hatte, und sie lud uns zu Tee und Gebäck ein. Wir durften bei ihr übernachten. Sie hatte keine Angst vor uns, und wir waren ihr sehr dankbar. Am nächsten Tag gab sie uns Brot auf den Weg, und wir gingen mit anderen Leuten zusammen in eine Stadt, und fuhren mit dem völlig überfüllten Zug nach Lemberg.

Lemberg war die Zentralstelle für alle Flüchtlinge. Lemberg hatte ursprünglich 360 000 Einwohner, und als ich dort lebte, waren es 1 ½ Millionen. Wir kamen am Abend des 11. November 1939 in Lemberg an und setzten uns auf eine Bank. Leise und bedächtig fiel Schnee, es war sehr schön. Ein Milizionär führte uns in eine Schule, Menschen lagen auf der Erde und schliefen. Wir übernachteten dort und bekamen Läuse. Ungefähr zwei Monate schlief ich dort. Jede Woche wurden wir zur Entlausung geführt, aber das war sinnlos, solange wir dort schliefen. Außerdem zogen wir nach der Entlausung wieder unsere schmutzigen Sachen an.

Mein Onkel Friedrich Augusta, der Bruder meiner Mutter, wurde nach dem Einmarsch der Deutschen in Wien zum Arbeitsdienst eingezogen. Am 20. Oktober 1939, also noch vor mir, fuhr er nach Nisko, wovon ich aber nichts wusste. Er gehörte zu den Intellektuellen, die in den Wald getrieben wurden. Nachdem er sich nach Lemberg durchgeschlagen hatte, lebte er in einem Keller mit einem jüdischen Zahnarzt aus Wien, einem jüdischen Ingenieur aus Wien und einem jüdischen Jugendlichen aus dem Burgenland. Sie schliefen auf Strohsäcken. Es war ein sehr großer Zufall, dass wir uns in Lemberg begegneten.

Mein Onkel verkaufte chirurgische Geräte an Ärzte. Ich weiß nicht, wo er die her hatte, ich weiß auch nicht, ob er wusste, dass er das nicht durfte, denn die Sowjetregierung behauptete, für jeden Arbeit zu haben, und wer keine Arbeit hatte, bekam Schwierigkeiten. Aber eigenständiges Kaufen und Verkaufen war verboten. Als ich meinem Onkel begegnete, nahm er mich sofort mit zu sich in den Keller, und so war ich der Fünfte der dort Schlafenden. Er sagte mir, dass, falls ihm einmal etwas passieren würde, er ein klein wenig Geld gespart hätte, das liege in einem Etui zusammen mit seinem Stammbaum, der ihm nichts genutzt hatte. Nach einigen Monaten, die wir zusammen verbrachten, wurde er von der russischen Polizei verhaftet und mit ihm alle, die in dem Keller wohnten. Ich war nicht da, als mein Onkel und die anderen Bewohner des Kellers verhaftet wurden. Ich konnte noch das Etui mit dem Geld und dem Stammbaum retten, aber meinen Onkel sah ich nie wieder und niemand weiß, wie und wo sein Leben endete.

Ich hatte unbedingt arbeiten wollen und intensiv gesucht, aber eine Frau, die deutsch konnte, sagte zu mir, dass sie mir keine Arbeit geben dürfe, weil ich kein Sowjetbürger sei. Aber dann wollte sie wissen, was ich kann. Ich sagte, ich sei Schlosser. Sie hätten mich brauchen können, aber sie durften mich nicht nehmen. Ein Pole, ein Herr Finster, Pani Finster, wie er genannt wurde, nahm mich trotzdem. Er fuhr mit mir zu einem Pferdestall, in dem 24 Pferde standen. Auf Hachschara hatte ich mit Pferden gearbeitet, und nun war es meine Arbeit, die Pferde zu betreuen. Ich putzte jeden Tag 24 Pferde. Die Fuhrmänner waren sehr dankbar, sie konnten eine Stunde länger schlafen, und jeder brachte mir Essen, Kleidung oder Zigaretten. Sie waren mit mir zufrieden, ich putzte die Pferde und schmierte ihre Hufe. Nach der Verhaftung meines Onkels und der anderen Bewohner des Kellers, blieb ich im Stall und schlief im Futtertrog. Mit einem Pferd befreundete ich mich. Es war ein Wallach, der Nuri hieß und sehr zärtlich war. Ich sprach mit ihm deutsch, kratzte ihn, und er küsste mich auf die Ohren.

Natürlich musste ich mich vor der Geheimen Staatspolizei, dem NKWD, verstecken. Es gab Razzien auf den Strassen, sie fingen die Leute, und wer illegal in Lemberg lebte, kam ins Lager, und in den Lagern war es furchtbar. Die Menschen, die zum Beispiel aus Nisko verjagt wurden, wurden zum Teil von Räubern beraubt, die bereits im Wald auf sie warteten, und dann wurden sie in Lemberg von der russischen Polizei gefangen. Ich hatte gesehen, wie man die Juden fing, wie sie flohen in die Häuser, um sich zu verstecken und wie die Polizei die Häuser untersuchte und sie herausholte. Bei den Russen ging das schnell, die hatten auch keine Gefühle, so wie die Gestapo. Auf dem Bahnhof in Lemberg standen schon die Viehwaggons bereit, und so wie die Deutschen die Juden in die Vernichtungslager transportierten, transportierten die Russen die Juden in die Arbeitslager, in die Gulags 10. Überall litten die Juden!

Ich arbeitete drei Monate und schlief mit den Pferden im Stall, aber dann wurde ich Schmiedgehilfe. Der Schmied war ein Ukrainer. Er sprach perfekt jiddisch, weil seine Frau Jüdin war. Ich sprach mit ihm deutsch, er mit mir jiddisch. Er war mit meiner Arbeit sehr zufrieden. Ich bekam vom Schmied sogar ein kleines Gehalt, und ich war glücklich. Aber nach wie vor schlief ich im Pferdestall, weil auch in der Schmiede die Polizei auftauchte, um illegale Ausländer zu verhaften. Und dann kam ein Kunde, der sehr einflussreich war. Er war der Chef einer großen Firma, und damals bereits Besitzer einiger Autos. Er besaß auch Pferde, die er bei dem Schmied beschlagen ließ. Er sah mir beim arbeiten zu, sprach mit dem Schmied auf Russisch, und der Schmied forderte mich auf, mit dem Kunden zu fahren. Die Kutsche hielt vor dem Gebäude der Geheimen Staatspolizei. Der Chef der Firma hatte sehr gute Beziehungen zum höchsten Leiter des ganzen Gebietes, und ich bekam einen Zettel, der an Stelle eines Passes für mich ausgestellt wurde. Ich war frei und brauchte keine Angst mehr zu haben.

Ich blieb in Lemberg und bekam bald einen Pass mit meiner Fotografie. In dem Pass stand, dass ich in Wien geboren wurde und der Pass in Lemberg ausgestellt worden war. Nachdem ich das Papier hatte, bot ein Arbeiter mir einen Schlafplatz an. Der war ein Nachtwächter. Ich wohnte bei ihm und seiner Frau, gab ihnen Geld und wurde bekocht. Alles war wunderbar. Ich bekam ein besseres Gehalt, und ich konnte mir sogar einen Anzug und einen Hut kaufen. Ein normales Leben begann für mich, ich hatte eine Freundin und ging tanzen. Meine Freundin war ein polnisches Mädchen, die Fridja hieß. Sie war keine Jüdin. Ich fand das Leben dort sehr interessant, es war international und mir fehlte die jüdische Tradition nicht, weil ich nicht mit ihr aufgewachsen war, obwohl ich immer sagte, dass ich Jude bin, immer im Vorhinein. Damals sah ich gar nicht jüdisch aus, erst als ich schon über fünfzig Jahre alt war, veränderte sich mein Gesicht, und ich sah plötzlich sehr jüdisch aus. Insgesamt lebte ich 1 ½ Jahre in Lemberg.

An einem Sonntag hörten wir in der Nacht Panzer rollen. Die ganze Straße bebte. Ich hatte Samstagnacht das Mädchen nach Hause geführt und stand bis um zwei Uhr mit ihr am Tor. Dann ging ich nach Hause. Um vier Uhr weckte mich die Hausfrau und sagte: 'Entweder es ist ein Manöver oder es ist Krieg!'

Ich sah die Panzer und die Soldaten, ging aber trotzdem zur Arbeit. Der Schmied forderte mich auf, auf einem Lastwagen in die Stadtmitte zu fahren um zu erfahren, was los sei. Während der Fahrt sah ich auf einmal, wie der Himmel vor Flugzeugen dunkel wurde. Dann fielen die Bomben. Ich befand mich genau unter den Flugzeugen. Ich sah eine zerbombte Kirche und ein zerbombtes Postamt, nur noch die Hälften standen da. Plötzlich zitterte der Boden, und einige hundert Meter von mir entfernt war ein großes Loch. Ich hielt mir die Ohren zu bis ein Mann mir auf die Schulter klopfte und sagte, dass alles vorbei sei. Was ich sah, war furchtbar! Die Drahtseile der Straßenbahn hingen herunter, sehr viel war zerstört. Tote sah ich nicht. Als ich zurück auf meine Arbeitsstelle kam, wussten alle schon: Es ist Krieg! Diese Nacht ging ich nicht in mein Quartier. In der Früh hörte ich, dass die Deutschen schon in Lemberg sind.

Ein Ukrainer bot mir an, mit ihm und seiner Tochter zu fliehen. Ich hatte keine Zeit, irgendetwas mitzunehmen, ich floh so, wie ich war. Wir flohen mit einem Pferdefuhrwerk, auf einmal pfiffen Kugeln an uns vorbei. Ein Westukrainer, das waren furchtbare Leute, sie trugen Hüte mit Federn, schoss auf uns. Als unser Wagen kaputt ging, spannten wir die Pferde aus und spannten sie vor einen Wagen, der neben einem Haus stand.

Wir kamen zur früheren Grenze des ehemaligen Galizien nach Russland. Eine Wache sah in meinem Pass, dass ich Österreicher bin. Somit war ich ein feindlicher Ausländer, und sie ließen mich nicht durch die Grenze. Der Ukrainer und seine Tochter durften weiter fahren, ich blieb allein.

Zwei Nächte schlief ich bei einem Chassiden 11. Der hatte aber Angst mich wegen der russischen Behörden zu sich nach Hause zu nehmen, weil ich ein Flüchtling war. Ich schlief im Heustall, es war warm, denn es war Sommer. Als ich mich am nächsten Tag nach Brot anstellte, standen ungefähr hundert Leute vor mir. Drei russische Flugzeuge kamen geflogen, und ich sah deutlich das SSSR auf ihrem Rumpf geschrieben. Plötzlich begannen sie, das kleine Städtchen zu bombardieren. Das waren Deutsche, die die Flugzeuge erobert hatten. Als die erste Bombe herunter fiel, gab es einen Krach, und mehr als die Hälfte der Leute lief weg. Als die zweite Bombe fiel, liefen fast alle weg, aber ich ging ins Geschäft. Die Verkäufer waren auch weg, und ich nahm mir Brot. Als ich hinaus lief, fiel die dritte Bombe. Ich setzte mich auf eine Wiese und begann das Brot zu essen. Diese Nacht schlief ich in einem Tempel. Der Rabbiner sperrte mich und andere Flüchtlinge im Tempel ein, wir waren ungefähr zehn Leute. Ich verteilte mein Brot und aß selbst auch noch einmal.

Am nächsten Tag hörte ich, dass die Deutschen Lemberg eingenommen hatten und näher kamen. Natürlich hatte ich große Angst, was wird sein? Plötzlich öffneten die Russen die Grenze für alle Flüchtenden. An der Grenze verlor ich den Stammbaum von Onkel Fritz. Ich muss ihn aus Versehen heraus gezogen haben, und er fiel zu Boden. Als ich die Grenze bereits überquert hatte, kam plötzlich ein russischer Soldat auf einem Motorrad gefahren. Er zeigte mir den Stammbaum und fragte, ob ich ihn verloren hätte, aber auf dem Stammbaum waren Stempel mit Hakenkreuz und ich verneinte. Also war der Stammbaum für immer verloren.

Ich schloss mich einer Gruppe von flüchtenden Polen und Juden an. Auf jedem Bahnhof gab es kostenloses Essen. Das hatten die Russen sehr gut organisiert. Mit Emaillekübeln trug man gute russische Suppen und Brot zu den Zügen, und jeder durfte essen, soviel er wollte. Ich wusste nicht, wohin der Zug fuhr, aber es war egal, ich wollte weg, nur weg, weit weg von den Deutschen. Dann hieß es, es wäre gut nach Kuibyschew [heute Samara: Russland] an der Wolga zu fahren, dort gäbe es Arbeit. Einer sagte, man solle nicht nach Kuibyschew fahren, dort wäre es sehr kalt. Wir fuhren in Viehwagen, auf Plattformen der Züge, und mit Zügen, auf denen ganze Betriebe aus den Grenzgebieten vor den Deutschen gerettet wurden, zum Beispiel Stahlgießereien. Bevor die Deutschen das Land eroberten, wurden auch die Felder angezündet. Das Korn war schon reif, es wäre eine gute Ernte geworden. Die Deutschen wollten bis zum Ural. Darum mussten die wichtigen Werke evakuiert werden. Hinter dem Ural wurden die Werke wieder aufgebaut. Ich schlief zum Beispiel auf einer Drehbank oder in einer Kiste. Es war auch sehr kalt in den Nächten, ich besaß nur meine Sommerkleidung, die ich am Körper trug. Als wir in Kiew ankamen, es war noch warm, schlief ich im Park. Kiew wurde bombardiert und im Park fühlte ich mich am sichersten. Man sagte, im Park ist es sicherer, weil die Bombe in der Erde verschwindet. Die Bomber in der Luft zu sehen, war unheimlich.

Am nächsten Tag fuhren wir nach Donbass [Ukraine]. Ein deutscher Flieger beschoss den Zug mit einem Maschinengewehr. Der Zug blieb stecken und es gab Verwundete und Tote, darunter auch Kinder. Wir beerdigten die Toten und die Verwundeten verließen den Zug an der nächsten Station. Nach einigen Stationen hielten wir an einem Bahnhof und ich ging auf Wassersuche. Plötzlich gab es eine solche Explosion, dass mittags um 12 Uhr das Licht verschwand; man sah die Sonne nicht mehr. Von meinem Zug blieben nur Skelette übrig.

Zwei Kilometer weiter stand ein anderer Zug, und mit dem fuhren wir nach Astrachan [heute: Russland] an der Wolga. In Astrachan an der Wolga fand ich Arbeit als Gehilfe eines Schmiedes. Er war Georgier, ich war Österreicher. Wir arbeiteten gut zusammen. Das Schmieden ist eine internationale Sprache mit dem Hammer. Ich arbeitete dort knapp zwei Monate, dann kam ein Polizist, verhaftete mich und setzte mich in ein kleines Motorboot, in dem schon ein Wolgadeutscher 12 saß. Er hieß Friedrich, war aus Leningrad und sprach deutsch, richtiges Deutsch. Aber wir durften nicht deutsch miteinander reden. Das Motorboot brachte uns zu einem Hafen am Kaspischen Meer. Ich erfuhr, dass alle Deutschen aufgefordert worden waren, innerhalb weniger Tage die Wolgadeutsche Republik zu verlassen, die auch sofort aufgelöst wurde. Die Wolgadeutschen wurden nach Kasachstan und Sibirien deportiert. Sie galten als nicht vertrauenswürdig.

Wir fuhren bis Kasachstan. Kasachen erwarteten uns mit Pferdewagen. Dann fuhren wir einige Tage, ich weiß nicht mehr wie viele, durch die Wüste. Ohne Ende ist das Russland! Irgendwann tauchten Jurten [zeltartige Behausung] auf. Wir wollten mit den Kasachen sprechen, aber die sprachen weder deutsch noch russisch. Dann fuhren wir in ein Hochland. Kasachstan war in etliche große Gebiete eingeteilt, und die großen Gebiete sind in kleine Gebiete eingeteilt, die sich autonom verwalteten. Die Leute dort waren fast alle Kasachen. Es gab nur einige Russen, aber viele Wolgadeutsche. Der Sekretär der Kommunistischen Partei war natürlich ein Russe. Der Chef der Polizei war ein Kasache, ein hoher, großer Kasache. Der lud mich gleich ein und wollte wissen, woher ich käme. Dann nahm er mir meinen Pass weg.

Es war Winter, und es war kalt. Ich war umgeben von ärmlichen Hütten, ich war sehr mager, hatte nicht genug zu essen und habe gefroren. Im Winter fiel das Thermometer dort auf Minus 50 Grad, ich befand mich neben der chinesischen Grenze. Ich bekam gleich Arbeit als Schlosser und wohnte bei einer Frau mit ihrem Sohn in einem Holzhaus. Der Mann der Frau war zur Armee eingezogen. Im Vorzimmer schliefen ein Ungar, ein deutsches Mädchen, die nur ein Auge hatte und ich, jeder in einer Ecke auf einem Strohsack. Vom Brunnen holte man das Wasser, es war gutes Wasser.

Dann zog ich zu einem Wolgadeutschen und seiner Familie. Essen gab es nicht, das musste ich mir selbst besorgen. Ich bekam jeden Tag ein halbes Kilo Brot, mehr nicht. Für die Arbeit bekamen wir ein wenig Geld, aber es gab kein Geschäft, wo man hätte etwas kaufen können. Vielleicht gab es doch ein Geschäft, aber ich konnte mir sowieso nichts leisten. Ich besaß nur zerfetzte Schuhe, aber man hatte mir Filzstiefel geschenkt. Alles was ich am Körper trug, war mir geschenkt worden.

Noch während des Winters rief man mich in die Armee. Da ich keine Papiere hatte, bekam ich Militärpapiere. Dort waren Russen und Koreaner, warum die dort waren, weiß ich nicht. Es wurde geschrieen: 'Stillgestanden!' Alle standen und ich hatte die Hände in den Taschen, es war kalt und ich besaß keine Handschuhe. Der Offizier schrie mich an: 'Kannst du nicht russisch?' Sagte ich: 'Nein!' Er schickte mich weg. Darüber war ich sehr glücklich. Zweimal insgesamt wurde ich einberufen und jedes Mal wieder weggeschickt. Acht Monate war ich in diesem Nest.

Es kam der lang ersehnte Frühling. Mir wurde warm, sogar ums Herz. Ich hatte mich mit einem Mädchen bekannt gemacht, einer Russin, und sie brachte mir manchmal etwas Hirse und manchmal etwas Fleisch. Im Sommer wurde ich das dritte Mal, zusammen mit etlichen Russen und vielen Deutsche einberufen. Sogar von der Arbeit wurden sie beurlaubt, um an die Front zu gehen. Und man wusste wieder nicht, was man mit mir machen sollte. Ich war kein Deutscher, also hätte ich mit den Russen an die Front gehen müssen. Aber ich war ein Ausländer. Man schickte mich hin und her, weil die Russen zu mir Ausländer kein Vertrauen hatten. Endlich blieb ich bei den Deutschen. Die Russen wurden mit Lastwagen zu dem Fluss Irtysch gefahren und wir 'Deutschen' gingen 30 Kilometer zu Fuß.

Spät abends kamen wir in Krasnojarsk [heute: Russland] an, wo wir etwas zu essen bekamen; Brot und Rübenmarmelade. Ich aß soviel ich konnte und trank heißes Wasser dazu. Danach mussten wir ein Schiff mit Hirse und Maissäcken beladen. Bekommen haben wir dafür nichts, obwohl man es uns versprochen hatte. Dann fuhren wir auf einem Schiff in eine Stadt, die Ust-Kamenogorsk [heute: Kasachstan] heißt. Wir mussten einen ganzen Monat Steine hacken und Steine tragen. Es wurde das Fundament einer Glasfabrik gebaut. Wir bekamen gutes Essen, sogar Fleisch, und wenn man etwas schwindelte, konnte man zweimal essen. Meine letzten, schon zerrissenen Schuhe gingen vollständig im Steinbruch kaputt. Wir verdienten ein bisschen Geld. Da ich vorher, in dem kasachischen Dorf, viele Zündholzschachteln gekauft hatte und Zündhölzer sehr begehrt waren, tauschte ich dort Zündhölzer gegen Wurst. Die Wurst bestand aus verschiedenen Innereien, aber das war völlig egal. Für eine Schachtel Zündhölzer bekam ich ein großes Stück Wurst. Das war sehr wichtig und half mir sehr.

Dann ging es mit dem Schiff weiter und wir kamen in die Stadt Semipalatinsk [Kaschstan]. Dort waren wir etliche Tage. Und dann kamen wir in die Hauptstadt vom Altai, und man sagte: Liebe Genossen! Einerseits braucht die Armee Soldaten, andererseits brauchen wir Kohlen, um Stahl für Kanonen zu gießen. Ihr werdet alle nach Karaganda gebracht. Da sind Kohlenbergwerke, und dort werdet ihr in den Kohlenbergwerken arbeiten. Es war eine Zwangsarbeit, wir sind nicht gefragt worden.

Es waren noch zwei Juden mit mir zusammen. Einer war aus Litauen, und woher der andere kam, weiß ich nicht. So kam ich in die Stadt Karaganda. Die ganze Stadt bestand aus Baracken und Hütten. Man schlug vier Pfosten ein, vernagelte sie mit dünnem Holz und verschmierte alles mit Lehm. Die erste Nacht schlief ich in einer Baracke, die ein Büro war, auf dem Bretterboden.

Den nächsten Tag führte man mich mit der Eisenbahn eine Station, und dort wurden wir bei Leuten zum Schlafen eingeteilt, was denen nicht sehr gefiel. Aber sie konnten nichts gegen die Macht der Partei machen. Aber dort blieb ich nur eine Nacht, weil mich die Wanzen zerbissen haben. Am nächsten Tag bin ich zur Kohlengrube gegangen, ich war froh darüber, weil ich endlich eine Arbeitsstelle haben wollte. Es gefiel mir in der Kohlengrube, ich war mager, aber stark.

Mein Problem war, dass ich keine Schlafstelle hatte. Nach der Arbeit bin ich in den Raum geklettert, in dem sich die Arbeiter in der Früh versammelten haben, um den Tag zu besprechen. Dort habe ich geschlafen. Ich nahm meine Brotration für den Tag und für den nächsten Tag mit, und am Morgen war mein Brot weg. Zwei Tage hatte ich nichts zu essen. Die russische Sprache konnte ich nicht, aber etwas kasachisch hatte ich bereits gelernt. Einen Monat quälte ich mich, schlief irgendwo. Dann bekam ich ein Bett in einer Baracke, wo bereits zehn Leute schliefen. Ich habe jeden Tag etwas von meiner Ration Brot verkauft, und das Geld für Schuhe gespart, denn mein eines Paar war zerfetzt. Pantoffeln mit Holzsohlen bekamen wir umsonst. Aber man konnte ja nicht gehen mit diesen Pantoffeln, das war furchtbar. In einem Monat hatte ich das Geld für die Schuhe zusammen.

Eines Tages kam ich in der Nacht nach Hause, ich hatte die zweite Schicht. Wir bekamen zweimal am Tag im Speiseraum das Essen, eine Suppe, manchmal auch Lebertran. Danach bin ich schlafen gegangen, und als ich aufgewacht bin, waren meine Schuhe weg. Ich wollte aber keinen Fehler machen, denn wenn ich nicht zur Arbeit gegangen wäre oder mich verspätet hätte, hätte ich 200 Gramm Brot weniger bekommen. So bin ich barfuss in zur Kohlengrube gegangen. Unser Leiter hat gesehen, dass ich barfuss war und hat mich mit einem Zettel zu seiner Frau geschickt, die mir ein paar Schuhe gab. Er war ein großartiger Mensch und ich hatte ihn sehr gern. Er war Russe, seine Frau war Jüdin. So arbeitete ich täglich im Bergbau, und dann kam das Ende des Krieges.

Ich lernte meine Frau Bella Tischler kennen. Sie war ein jüdisches Mädchen aus der Ukraine, aus dem Ort Kamenez Podolski. 1924 war sie in der Ukraine geboren. Ihre Familie war sehr arm und sie war nur fünf Jahr in eine jüdische Schule gegangen.

Ihre Mutter hieß Hannah, ihr Vater hieß Chaim Tischler. Der Vater besaß einen kleinen Laden. Dann aber wurde er krank und verlor den Laden. Die Mutter war hilflos, denn meine Frau hatte sechs Geschwister, drei Schwestern und vier Brüder. Die Schwestern meiner Frau hießen Sarah und Genia und die Brüder hießen Grischa, Josef, Menasche, und wie der vierte Bruder hieß, habe ich vergessen, der war der Jüngste. Ein kleines Stückchen Brot haben sie teilen müssen. Der Vater hat leere Flaschen gesammelt, damit er Brot kaufen konnte. Als während des Krieges die jungen Leute aufgerufen wurden Schützengräben zu graben und die Deutschen den Ort angegriffen hatten, lief sie davon. Sie kam bis nach Taschkent. Ihre Eltern und ihre Geschwister wurden von den Deutschen erschossen - neben der Stadt gibt es ein Massengrab. Die älteste Schwester Genia, verheiratete Pawlotskaja, überlebte den Krieg. Sie hatte vier Kinder, aber ihr jüngstes Kind starb vor Hunger in ihren Armen. Drei Kinder konnte sie retten: Nina, verheiratete Biermann, Dora, verheiratete Luzenko und Shenja, verheiratete Hopka leben in Israel. Genia starb in der Ukraine. 1959 war ich in der Ukraine, aber da, wo sich das Massengrab befindet, war ein Militärlager, und ich durfte nicht dorthin.

Nach dem Krieg

Als ich Anfang März 1946 in der Kohlengrube meinen Fuß verlor, kam Bella nach der Operation ins Krankenhaus, auch sie hat im Kohlenbergbau gearbeitet, denn auch Frauen mussten im Kohlenbergbau arbeiten. Sie sagte zu mir: 'Du brauchst dich nicht fürchten, wenn du aus dem Krankenhaus entlassen wirst, kommst du gleich zu mir.' Bella schlief in einem Durchgangszimmer, hatte dort ihr eigenes Bett, der Besitzer der Hütte war nett zu mir.

Meinen Pass, der mir in Lemberg ausgestellt worden war, hatte mir der Kasache, der Polizeikommissar in dem ersten Ort in Kasachstan, wo ich als Schlosser gearbeitet hatte, abgenommen. Als ich in der Kohlengrube arbeitete, las ich auf einmal einen Befehl: Wer keinen Pass hat, bringt zwei Fotos und drei Rubel und bekommt einen Pass. Da bin ich hingegangen, bezahlte drei Rubel, gab zwei Fotos und dann sagte man - das war dort so eine Ordnung - solange man arbeitet, bekomme man den Pass nicht in die Hand. Als ich den Fuß verlor, bekam ich meine Dokumente, auch den Pass. Aber der Pass war befristet, jedes halbe Jahr musste er verlängert werden. Solange ich gearbeitet hatte, hatte ich damit nichts zu tun. Aber nun musste ich mich selber darum kümmern, die Frist war schon abgelaufen. Ich bekam einen anderen Pass. Meine Freundin war schwanger, und ich wollte sie heiraten, aber ohne Pass ging das nicht. Am 18. September 1946 habe ich einen sowjetischen Pass bekommen, und sofort meine Freundin geheiratet.

An einen Rabbiner und eine jüdische Hochzeit war gar nicht zu denken. Ich hatte als Ausländer sowieso keine Rechte. Niemand gratulierte uns, nicht einmal die Frau, die uns traute, also uns als Ehepaar registrierte, denn mehr war das nicht. Das war eine Zeit, in der es viele Tränen in der Sowjetunion gab. 27 Millionen Sowjetbürger waren im 2. Weltkrieg ums Leben gekommen. Das ist so furchtbar, und es geht weit über unsere Vorstellungskraft hinaus. Wir hatten kein Geld, aber auch wenn wir Geld gehabt hätten, man hat kaum etwas kaufen können, weil es nichts gab. Wir bauten uns eine Hütte aus Lehm. Balken wurden in die Erde geschlagen, und die Balken wurden miteinander durch dünnes Holz verbunden. Sogar Nägel waren zu teuer. Dann wurde das alles mit Lehm verschmiert. In ein Loch, das wir in die Erde gegraben hatten, mussten wir mit den Füssen so lange trampeln, bis der Lehmboden weich wurde und man ihn verschmieren konnte. Wenn der Lehm dann getrocknet war, wurde die Hütte mit Kalk geweißt. Innen war ein Zimmer, das durch eine kleine Mauer abgeteilt wurde, damit wir auch eine Küche hatten.

Fenster und Türen bestellten wir bei einem Tischler. In der Küche wurde ein Kohleherd geheizt und so wurde die Hütte warm. Die Kohlen haben wir uns einfach genommen. Wir waren sehr arm, das Leben war sehr schwer. Alle hatten so wenig zu essen und ich glaube, die deutschen Kriegsgefangenen waren besser ernährt als wir.

Unsere Tochter Nina wurde 1947 geboren und unsere Tochter Rita wurde 1952 geboren. Nach der Geburt unserer zweiten Tochter schrieb ich nach Österreich: Ich bin österreichischer Staatsbürger, ich möchte nach Österreich zurückkehren! Bitte schicken Sie mir einen österreichischen Reisepass. Es dauerte nicht lange, und ich bekam aus Österreich meinen Pass. Mit meinem Pass ging ich zu den Behörden und sagte: 'Ich will nach Haus fahren!' 'Wohin?' 'Nach Österreich!' 'Du willst aber viel! Du hast doch einen Sowjetpass, also bist du ein sowjetischer Staatsbürger!' Sag ich: 'Nein, ich hab die sowjetische Staatsbürgerschaft nicht angenommen!' 'Aber du hast doch den Pass bekommen!' Ich bejahte. Daraufhin nahmen sie mir meinen russischen Pass weg, nach Österreich ließen sie mich nicht fahren, und ich war wieder Ausländer. Jetzt musste ich jeden Monat stempeln gehen und durfte die Stadt nicht verlassen.

Nach Karaganda sind nur Leute auf Befehl Stalins gekommen: Deutsche, Tschetschenen, Inguschen, die fast so wie die Tschetschenen sind, viele Tscherkessen usw. Stalin hatte Angst vor denen, sie waren Feinde der Russen und wollten Souveränität, eigene Republiken. Hitler ließ Flugblätter abwerfen, darauf wurde ihnen ihre Souveränität versprochen. Die meisten dieser Leute kamen durch Stalin in die Lager, in die Gulags, wo sehr viele umgekommen sind. Aber auch Verbrecher, die gesessen hatten, kamen nach Karaganda in die Verbannung. Mein Nachbar konnte ohne weiteres ein Ukrainer sein, der während des Krieges Juden erschlagen hatte. Aber auch viele Intellektuelle, Professoren und Wissenschaftler, die Stalin als Gegner seiner Macht verurteilt hatte, lebten dort; auch sie waren in die Verbannung nach Karaganda geschickt worden.

1952 kam es zum Ärzteprozess in Russland. Es wurden elf Ärzte verhaftet, alles Juden, denen vorgeworfen wurde, sie hätten Stalin ermorden wollen. Das war schlecht für die Juden. Man schrieb überall: 'Schlagt die Juden, rettet Russland!' Jidow, das ist auf ukrainisch Jude. Aber der Russe, wenn er 'Jid' sagt, ist das eine Kränkung, ein sehr ordinärer Ausdruck für den Juden. Meine Frau ging in ein Geschäft hinein und die Verkäuferin sagte: 'Was machst du denn hier, du willst Lebensmittel kaufen? Für dich Jüdin gibt es nichts.' Das passierte ihr mehrere Male. Die Juden erlebten viel Schlimmes in dieser Zeit. Aber der Sekretär der Partei trat auf und sagte: 'Wenn man ein Brot mit Schimmel hat, schneidet man den Schimmel heraus, aber wirft nicht das ganze Brot weg.' Er war ein Freund der Juden.

Stalin starb am 5. März 1953. Die Zeit unter Chruschtschow 13 hieß die 'Zeit der Erwärmung' in Russland. Er entließ alle politischen Gefangenen, weil er sagte, es gäbe in der Sowjetunion keine Feinde des Kommunismus mehr, jeder hätte eingesehen, dass der Kommunismus die beste Lebensform für die Menschen sei. Er rehabilitierte auch die jüdischen Ärzte, alle waren unschuldig. Der Direktor von unserem Kohlenbergwerk war Jude. Er lud daraufhin alle Schichtleiter ein und trank mit ihnen Wein, sonst nahm er nie einen Schluck Wein. Ich erinnere mich, manche Leute schämten sich, uns in die Augen zu schauen. Antisemitismus habe ich nur in der Zeit des Ärzteprozesses 14 erlebt.

Ich habe in der Kohlengrube gearbeitet, aber nicht mehr unter Tage. Ein anderer Offizier, der meinen Pass abstempelte, nach wie vor jeden Monat. Er war Russe und sagte eines Tages: 'Ich will Ihnen ehrlich sagen: Nach Österreich kommen Sie sowieso nicht. Man wird Sie nicht hinaus lassen. Ich rate Ihnen, nehmen Sie die sowjetische Staatsbürgerschaft an. Sie werden ein besseres Leben haben, sie werden eine bessere Arbeit bekommen. Jetzt bekommen Sie Groschen, aber wenn man Vertrauen zu Ihnen hat, werden Sie ein besseres Leben haben.' Das habe ich mit meiner Frau besprochen und sie hat gesagt: 'Weißt du, du bist hier vogelfrei, aber wenn du eine Staatsbürgerschaft bekommst, wirst du eine bessere Arbeit bekommen, und wir werden mehr Geld haben, und wir können etwas besser leben. Nach Österreich lassen sie dich sowieso nicht.' Einen Monat später habe ich meinen Antrag auf Staatsbürgerschaft eingereicht. Ich brauchte Bürgen, aber das war für mich kein Problem, ich kannte viele Menschen, und ich war sehr beliebt.

Jeden Monat gab es einen Zirkel, ein kleiner Kurs mit dem Sekretär der Parteiorganisation unserer Kohlengrube. Die Genossen der Partei wurden geschult. Viele waren nicht sehr gebildet, sie hatten nur vier oder fünf Jahre eine Schule besucht und wenn einer das Technikum beendet hatte, dann konnte er schon Direktor werden. Ich war kein Parteimitglied, aber ich besuchte diese Schulungen, denn ich wollte die russische Sprache hören und lernen. Russisch war ja die Hauptsprache, nur zu Hause sprachen die Kasachen kasachisch.

Ich ging zu den Kursen und dann wurde ich sogar ein Vortragender. Ich sprach über viele Dinge, über die internationale Lage, darüber warum Österreich neutral ist, und ich erzählte über Wien. Man wollte mich sogar in die Partei aufnehmen. Ich hatte russische Zeitungen, die 'Volksstimme', das war oder ist die kommunistische Tageszeitung aus Wien und die 'Berliner Zeitung' aus der DDR. Ohne Zeitungen kann ich nicht leben. Vom Parteisekretär bekam ich ein Empfehlungsschreiben und nach einem halben Jahr war ich russischer Staatsbürger. Ich habe daraufhin meinen österreichischen Pass nach Österreich zurückgeschickt und geschrieben: 'Leider kann ich den Pass nicht benützen, weil man mich nicht heraus lässt.' Das war im Jahre 1953. Jahrzehnte später half mir der Pass dann aber sehr.

Nachdem ich die sowjetische Staatsbürgerschaft erhalten hatte, sagte der Parteisekretär zu mir, er hätte eine andere Arbeit für mich, und ich wurde Leiter eines Kulturklubs. Im Kulturklub wurde getanzt, gesungen und politische Propaganda für den Kommunismus gemacht. Also habe ich auch viel lügen müssen. Aber unsere Kumpel aus dem Kohlengebiet kamen mit ihren Frauen zum Tanz, und das Leben dort war sehr hart, und im Kulturklub hatten sie ein wenig Abwechslung. Der Klub hieß 'Klub der Arbeiter' und ich habe diese Arbeit sehr gern gemacht. Ich hatte sehr guten Kontakt zu den Leuten, und sie fragten mich viele Dinge, weil ich klüger war. Ich organisierte eine gute Unterhaltung. Die Zeitungen schrieben über meine Arbeit im Klub, und ich wurde sehr gelobt. Nach Stalins Tod im Jahre 1953 durften wir sogar Tango und andere westlichen Tänze tanzen, was vorher verboten war. Niemand hat mich angegriffen, weil ich Jude bin. Alle haben es gewusst, weil ich es nie verschwiegen habe. Ein jüdisches Leben lebten wir aber nicht, das wäre gar nicht möglich gewesen.

Lange Zeit lebten wir unter Tschetschenen. Das sind wilde Leute. Man muss ihnen zeigen, dass man sie akzeptiert, und man darf nicht zeigen, dass man sie fürchtet. Feige Männer werden von ihnen verachtet. Ich habe gesehen, wie sie Hochzeiten feiern. Ich hab auch gesehen, wie einer auf den anderen mit einem Messer losgegangen ist. Die können den andern erstechen, wie man Schweine schlachtet. Wenn die in Wut sind, ist alles egal. Es sind Leute, die ihre Schwester erstechen, ihre frühere Frau erstechen, wenn sie glauben, einen Grund dafür zu haben. Ich habe viele solche Sachen gesehen.

Nachdem endlich unter Chruschtschow die Hütten, in denen wir sehr armselig hausen mussten abgerissen wurden und Häuser gebaut wurden, bekamen wir eine Zweizimmerwohnung.

Meine Frau war die ersten Jahre bei unseren zwei Töchtern. Nach fünf Jahren wurde ich zum Parteisekretär der Stadt geladen. Man lobte meine Arbeit, und ich wurde zum Leiter von 27 Lichtspieltheatern in 27 Orten ernannt. Ich wollte das nicht, aber ich musste die neue Arbeit annehmen. Bis zu meiner Pension blieb ich auf diesem Posten. Ich bekam einen Dienstwagen, einen Jeep mit Chauffeur, obwohl ich als Invalide 1959 ein Auto bekommen hatte. Der Chauffeur fuhr mich den ganzen Tag von einem Ort zum anderen, ich war ein 'großer Herr'. Also war ich nicht umsonst Bürger des Sowjetstaates geworden. Durch meine Position bekam auch meine Frau eine gute Arbeit in einem Lebensmittelgeschäft als Verkäuferin. Das war eine große Sache, weil wir nun alle Lebensmittel zu Hause hatten. Ich bekam jeden Tag Fleisch und was ich wollte: Tee, Kaffee - das hatten wir dann alles in unserem Keller. Das war ein gutes Leben. Als unsere ältere Tochter Nina ihren Mann Valeri Budzew heiratete, konnten wir ihnen schon helfen, weil ihr Mann noch studiert hat. Nina war schon Buchhalterin. Valeri beendete sein Mathematik - und Physikstudium und arbeitet heute in Israel als Physiker und Mathematiker. Unsere Tochter Rita beendete eine Hochschule, sie ist Diplomingenieur für Maschinenbau und ihr Mann Viktor ist Technologe. Meine Töchter haben je fünf Kinder.

Durch die österreichische kommunistische Tageszeitung 'Volksstimme' hatte ich zwei Briefmarkenfreunde in Österreich, einen in Wien und einen in Linz. Einmal fragte mich der Wiener Briefmarkenfreund, ob ich ihn besuchen will. Natürlich wollte ich ihn besuchen, und er schickte mir eine Einladung. Damit ging ich zu den Behörden und die sagten: 'Das gibt es gar nicht. Sie können nicht nach Österreich fahren.' Als Sowjetbürger konnte ich natürlich in der Sowjetunion herumreisen. Ich war sogar zweimal kostenlos in einen Kurort. Meine Frau und ich machten am Schwarzen Meer Urlaub, wir waren auf der Krim, aber wir durften nicht ins Ausland, nicht ins sozialistische und erst recht nicht ins kapitalistische Ausland. Ich schrieb meinem Briefmarkenfreund über die Absage. Daraufhin schrieb er dem damaligen österreichischen Bundespräsidenten Doktor Rudolf Kirchschläger. Zufällig kam Doktor Kirchschläger nach fünf Monaten nach Moskau zu Besuch. Auf einmal bekam ich Bescheid, ich soll mich noch einmal auf der Dienststelle melden. 'Was wollen Sie denn in Österreich machen', wurde ich gefragt. 'Ich will mich am Grab meiner Verwandten verbeugen. Ich will schauen, wie es in meiner alten Heimat aussieht, Österreich ist ein schönes Land', habe ich gesagt.

Ich musste dann ins Ministerium für Innere Angelegenheiten. Sie wollten wissen, wie meine Verwandten heißen, und ich schrieb alles auf. Nach einer Woche musste ich mit meiner Frau noch einmal ins Ministerium, und wir bekamen die Erlaubnis, nach Wien zu fahren. 'Hören Sie', sagte der Beamte, 'wenn Sie dort bleiben wollen, sagen Sie es gleich, dann muss ich andere Papiere ausfüllen.' Wenn ich das gesagt hätte, hätte er meine Papiere gleich zerrissen, aber ich wollte ja gar nicht in Österreich bleiben. Dann wollte er mir erklären, wie ich mich in Österreich zu benehmen habe. Ich sagte: 'Haben Sie keine Angst, ich weiß, wie man sich in Österreich benimmt.' 'Und noch etwas', sagte er, 'sagen Sie nichts Schlechtes über die Sowjetunion!' Das hatte ich sowieso nicht vor, denn ich hatte mich an das Leben bereits angepasst.

Meine Frau und ich mussten zuerst nach Moskau in die österreichische Botschaft. Aber niemand wollte uns sagen, wo sich in Moskau die österreichische Botschaft befand. Daraufhin übernachteten wir in einem Hotel, was nicht so einfach war, denn es war schwer in Moskau als Inländer ein Zimmer zu bekommen. Aber als ich sagte, ich fahr nach Österreich, und bin auch fast ein Österreicher, außerdem ein Invalide, bekamen wir ein Zimmer. Am nächsten Morgen rief ich im Ministerium für ausländische Angelegenheiten an und die sagten, sie könnten mir die Adresse der Botschaft nicht mitteilen. Meine Frau war sehr aufgeregt, aber dann hielten wir ein Taxi auf der Strasse an. Der Fahrer kannte die Adresse und fuhr mit uns zur Botschaft. Vor der Botschaft in einer Hütte stand ein Uniformierter.

Der österreichische Botschaftssekretär hat sich dann rührend um uns gekümmert. Er übergab uns die Papiere mit der Bitte, ihn nach unserem Fahrkartenkauf noch einmal zu kontaktieren, ob alles geklappt hätte. Das haben wir auch getan. Im Zug haben wir einen hohen Offizier kennen gelernt, der sich meine Lebensgeschichte anhörte, fast einen Liter Wodka getrunken hat, sehr fröhlich wurde und sagte: 'Hoffentlich werden euch diese Schweine in Österreich nicht beleidigen! Das sind Kapitalisten, da muss man vorsichtig sein.' Dann haben wir einige Botschaftsangehörige aus der russischen Botschaft in Wien kennen gelernt, die uns ihren Zigarettenrauch ins Gesicht geblasen haben, weil sie glaubten, wir seien jüdische Dissidenten. Nachdem der hohe Offizier alles klärte, fuhren wir unbehelligt nach Wien.

Wien! Mein Herz schlug schneller. Im Jahre 1939 musste ich Wien verlassen, und nun war das Jahr 1984. Es war Weihnachten, überall waren Lichter. Am Bahnhof erwarteten uns mein Briefmarkenfreund mit seiner Frau, die Enkeltochter von Frau Pscheid, mit der ich in Hirschbach gespielt hatte, und ihr Mann. Noch auf dem Bahnhof gingen wir in ein Lokal und tranken ein bisschen Wein. Dann fuhren wir mit einem Taxi zu meinem noch unbekannten Wiener Briefmarkenfreund, wo wir die ersten Tage wohnten. Er war ursprünglich Kroate, hatte aber nach dem Krieg in Argentinien, Spanien, Italien und Uruguay gelebt. Ich weiß nicht genau, in welchem Jahr er nach Österreich kam.

Kaum waren wir angekommen, sagte er, er hätte für uns ein Treffen in einem Restaurant mit seinem Freund, dessen Frau gerade gestorben sei, arrangiert. Am nächsten Tag fuhren wir mit dem Taxi zu diesem Restaurant. Der Freund hatte eine große Narbe im Gesicht und stechende Augen, aber er war sehr nett. Er zeigte mir ein Familien Fotoalbum und dann sagte er: 'Ich möchte eine Erinnerung an unser Treffen hier, ich möchte Ihre Unterschrift.' Das gefiel mir nicht und ich habe gefragt: 'Was heißt, meine Unterschrift?' Er wollte meine Unterschrift auf ein leeres Blatt Papier. Ich dachte, was ist denn das? Vielleicht ist es genau das, wovor mich die Mitarbeiter des Ministeriums zu Hause gewarnt hatten? 'Was soll ich schreiben? Ein kleines Gedichtchen', habe ich ihn gefragt. 'Nein, nein, nur die Unterschrift als Andenken', sagte er. Ich wusste nicht, wie ich aus dieser Sache herauskommen sollte. Ich konnte ja nicht einfach aufstehen und gehen. Also blieb ich sitzen, der Freund hat immer mehr getrunken und gab auch mir immer mehr zu trinken. Dann habe ich plötzlich gesagt: 'Mir ist schlecht. Ich hab ein schlechtes Herz und brauche meine Spritze, die liegt zu Hause in meinem Zimmer.' Meine Frau hat einen Schreck bekommen, aber ich habe ihr zugeflüstert, dass alles in Ordnung ist. Durch die Begegnung mit dem Herrn im Restaurant habe ich mich in Wien nicht mehr gut gefühlt. Ich war ängstlich und hatte das Gefühl, beobachtet zu werden.

Mein Briefmarkenfreund hat ständig mit mir über den Kommunismus diskutieren wollen. Das wollte ich nicht, denn manche Sachen waren doch im Sozialismus nicht so schlecht. Es stimmt, Stalin hat sein eigenes Volk umgebracht, der Hitler andere Völker. Aber darüber wollte ich nicht diskutieren, ich begann mich fremd zu fühlen und war verkrampft. Dann habe ich mit meinem anderen Briefmarkenfreund in Linz telefoniert. Er verstand sofort, dass es mir in Wien nicht sehr gut geht, und kam am nächsten Tag aus Linz nach Wien, um meine Frau und mich zu sich zu holen. Er war schon in Pension, hatte eine kleine, aber sehr schöne Wohnung und dort fühlten wir uns sehr wohl.

Dann besuchten wir Hirschbach im Waldviertel. Das ist der Ort, wo ich jedes Jahr im Sommer, in meiner Kindheit, drei Monate mit meiner Großmutter verbracht habe. Da habe ich meine alte Freundin wieder getroffen. Das war schön. Ich habe auch ihren Mann kennen gelernt, der war bei der Waffen SS. Ich habe auch ein bisschen über mein Leben erzählt. An einem Nachmittag kam viel Besuch, und der Freund der Tochter schimpfte ständig über die Kommunisten. Für mich war das nicht schön, ich hatte versprochen nichts Schlechtes zu sagen, und ich habe nichts Schlechtes über den Kommunismus gesagt. Ich wusste, dass viel nicht in Ordnung ist, aber ich habe nicht einmal über den Kommunismus geschimpft.

Ich traf meinen alten Freund, der während des Krieges Aufklärungsflieger im Norden der Sowjetunion war. Er hat mir erzählt, er hätte nie geschossen. Ich hab ihm gesagt: 'Weißt du, jeder der im Krieg war, hat nicht geschossen. Alle liefen nur mit ihren Fäusten hin und her, aber keiner hat geschossen! Er sagte: 'Ich sag dir ehrlich, ich hab nicht geschossen, und wir wussten an der Front auch nichts über die Gräueltaten der Nazis.' Ich kann das glauben oder ich kann es nicht glauben, aber sollte ich denen böse sein?

Sie kümmerten sich sehr lieb um uns und als ich später, wieder in Karaganda, im Krankenhaus lag, bekam ich ein Telegramm aus der Steiermark: 'Es tut uns leid, dass du im Krankenhaus bist, wir wünschen dir gute Besserung.' Als meine Frau starb, bekam ich 70 Euro für Blumen für ihr Grab.

Im Maimonides Heim, dem jüdischen Altersheim in Wien, im 19. Bezirk, lebte 1984 noch meine Tante Sofie, die Frau von meinem Onkel Emanuel, der schon 1951 in Wien gestorben war. Tante Sofie wurde 1985, es war Anfang 1985, als ich sie besuchte, 99 Jahre alt. Als wir uns nach 45 Jahren begegneten, umarmten wir uns und weinten. Sie konnte nicht verstehen, dass ich neben ihr stand. Ich habe dann einen Freund aus meiner Kinderzeit getroffen, der war immer gegen die Nazis. Er wurde Professor und ist Verfasser vieler wissenschaftlicher Werke. Dann hatte ich noch viele nette Begegnungen, und es ging mir dann so gut, dass ich bei der russischen Botschaft in Wien um eine Verlängerung unserer Visa bat, und sie auch bekam. Tante Sofie hoffte auf ein Wiedersehen zu ihrem 100. Geburtstag, aber man ließ mich nicht fahren und so sahen wir uns nicht wieder. Sie starb einige Monate nach ihrem 100. Geburtstag.

Ich wollte meine alte Wohnung noch einmal sehen und sie auch meiner Frau zu zeigen. Die Familie, die in meiner Wohnung wohnte, war sehr nett und sie erzählten, dass sie die Wohnung von einem blinden Mann gekauft hätten, also von unserem Ariseur. Ich wandte mich mit Briefen an den Bürgermeister mit der Bitte, mir die Wohnung zurück zu geben. Ich schrieb, ich will zurück nach Wien und die Wohnung hat man schließlich meiner Familie gestohlen, aber ich habe eine Absage bekommen. Wenigstens konnte ich meiner Frau zeigen, wo ich gewohnt hatte. Auf dem Döblinger Friedhof hatte ich Angst, ich würde das Grab meiner Familie nicht finden, weil ich schon viel vergessen hatte, aber ich fand es. In dem Grab liegen meine Großeltern Kohn, mein Onkel Hieronymus und meine Tante Adele Herzog und mein Onkel Emanuel Kolm. Alle liegen zusammen in einem Grab. 1986 kam auch Tante Sofie dazu, aber das wusste ich noch nicht.

Ich bekam viel Gastfreundschaft zu spüren, und ich war sehr dankbar, aber ich fühlte mich nicht wie zu Hause, ich war ein Fremder in Österreich geworden. Mein 'zu Hause' war in Karaganda. Da hatte ich meine Freunde, da lebten meine Töchter. Trotzdem dachte ich über eine Übersiedlung nach Österreich nach, obwohl ich das Gefühl hatte, nie aus der Sowjetunion herauszukommen.

In Karaganda musste ich vielen Leuten erzählen, was ich erlebt hatte. Direktoren von verschiedenen Werken, sogar ein Direktor von einer Bank wollten von mir wissen, wie es in Österreich war. Sie interessierten sich alle dafür, wie man im Ausland lebt. Ich habe ohne große Ausdrücke der Bewunderung erzählt, aber eines sagte ich: 'Das Telefon ist bei ihnen besser als bei uns.' Kurze Zeit nach meiner Rückkehr aus Österreich wurde ich vom Ministerium des Inneren eingeladen. Zwei vom KGB 15 wollten in meine 'Seele' sehen, so ungefähr drückten sie sich aus. Sie wollten über verschiedene Leute etwas erfahren, aber sie wussten sowieso alles. Mich hatte nämlich ein Nachbar ziemlich ausgefragt und denen alles erzählt. Dann haben sie mich um meine Hilfe gebeten. Ich sollte andere Menschen bespitzeln, über Unzufriedenheiten berichten. Und ich sollte von allen Briefen, die mir aus Österreich geschickt wurden, Übersetzungen ins Russische machen und ihnen geben. Also übersetzte ich alle Briefe.

Nach dem zehnten Brief sagten sie, ich soll sämtliche Originale bringen. Dann verglichen sie, ob ich die Briefe richtig übersetzt hatte. Unsere Nachbarn bekamen einen Abhörapparat. Wenn ich den Hörer meines Telefons abnahm, begann bei denen ein Tonband alles aufzunehmen. Es gibt ein russisches Sprichwort: Vertrauen ist gut, Kontrolle ist besser.

Die politische Situation in der Sowjetunion veränderte sich. Gorbatschow wurde im Oktober 1988 Vorsitzender des Präsidiums des Obersten Sowjet und wir durften wieder nach Österreich.

Wir bekamen wieder eine Einladung von meinem Briefmarkenfreund aus Wien. Wir haben wieder bei ihm gewohnt, und dieses Mal fuhren wir 14 Tage in die Steiermark und drei Tage nach Hirschbach. Meine Ansichten über den Sozialismus veränderten sich, ich war nicht mehr so ein Patriot wie vorher. Und als ich in Österreich auf Besuch war, konnte ich schon zugeben: Ja, die haben Recht, die haben auch Recht. Als wir zurückkamen, interessierte sich schon kaum noch jemand für unsere Erlebnisse in Österreich, und der KGB ließ mich auch in Ruhe. Dann fuhr ich noch einmal zusammen mit meinem Schwiegersohn nach Österreich. Meine Frau war krank, sie litt an Parkinson. Wien gefiel auch meinem Schwiegersohn sehr gut. Ich schrieb an den österreichischen Präsidenten, mit der Bitte, um Anerkennung meiner österreichischen Staatsbürgerschaft, aber das klappte nicht.

Das Leben wurde immer schwerer in Russland, ich wollte weg. Es gab nur eine offene Tür: Israel! Und so gingen wir nach Israel, aber ich wollte auch nach Israel. Zuerst allerdings fuhr meine ältere Tochter mit ihrem Mann und ihren fünf Kindern. Einige Zeit danach, im Jahre 1993, fuhren meine Frau und ich nach Israel. Meine Tochter wohnte in der Hauptstadt des Golan, in Kazrin, und so zogen wir auch nach Kazrin. Kazrin ist eine schöne Stadt, und die reinste Stadt in Israel.

Israel hat uns sehr geholfen. Meine Frau und ich haben sofort eine Dreizimmerwohnung bekommen. Wir haben zu viert in Karaganda in einer kleinen Zweizimmerwohnung gelebt, Israel gab mir und meiner Frau eine große Dreizimmerwohnung mit einem sehr großen Vorzimmer. Als Pensionist brauchten wir nur ein zehntel des Mietpreises zu bezahlen. Wir bekamen eine kleine Pension, aber ich bekam auch eine Pension aus Österreich. Außerdem gab uns der Staat Israel zu Anfang Geld und viele Vergünstigungen.

Ich habe sehr schnell Bekanntschaften geschlossen, Juden unter Juden, das ist kein Problem. Man geht irgendwo hin, oder man sitzt auf einer Bank zusammen, und schon beginnen die Gespräche: 'Von wo sind Sie?' 'Aus Karaganda!' 'Oh, dort hab ich einen Verwandten, der wohnt da und da.' Ich hab jetzt noch Freunde in Israel, die ich anrufe. Es ging mir gut. Leider habe ich nie richtig hebräisch gelernt. Drei Monate lernte ich im Ulpan 16 hebräisch. Dann musste ich ins Krankenhaus und wurde operiert. Endlich konnte ich wieder aufstehen, und ich dachte daran weiter zu lernen, wurde ich auf einem Auge fast blind. Ich hatte einen grauen Star, den musste man heraus schneiden. Nach einem Monat konnte ich wieder gut sehen, da fing das andere Auge an. Ich musste noch einmal operiert werden. Dann war ich durch die Krankheit meiner Frau sehr belastet. Sie konnte nur noch mit dem Gehstuhl gehen, und ich musste ihr bei allem helfen. Aber wir bekamen vom Staat umsonst zwei Pflegerinnen. Das ist eine sehr große Sache, was die machen in Israel, das gefällt mir. Dann hatte ich eine Herzoperation, ich bekam zwei Bypässe und eine künstliche Herzklappe.

Einige sephardische Juden mochten uns russische Juden nicht. Die russischen Juden hatten gute Schulen absolviert und konnten in gute Berufe einsteigen. Dadurch hatten viele Angst, ihre Arbeit zu verlieren. In Russland nannte man uns Juden, in Israel waren wir die Russen. Aber in unserer kleinen Stadt war es sehr angenehm, die Hälfte der Einwohner waren russische Juden, dadurch hatte ich keine Sprachprobleme. Und wenn ich jiddisch hörte, verstand ich es auch und konnte mitreden. Wir waren auch einmal in einem Kibbuz, dort wurde nur deutsch gesprochen.

Nach einiger Zeit kamen auch meine jüngere Tochter mit ihrem Mann und ihren fünf Kinder nach Israel. Und weil mein Enkelsohn krank [Down Syndrom] ist, bekamen sie auch sofort eine sehr gute Wohnung. Er ging in eine Schule, lernte sogar reiten und durfte Tiere füttern.

Im Jahre 1995 kam der österreichische Bundeskanzler Franz Vranitzky nach Israel, gestand die Schuld Österreichs am Holocaust ein und wandte sich als erster Bundeskanzler Österreichs nach dem Holocaust an die österreichischen Juden. Jeder vertriebene frühere Staatsbürger Österreichs sollte den Anspruch auf die Staatsbürgerschaft Österreichs haben. Ich bekam einen großen Schein und reichte den Antrag in der österreichischen Botschaft in Tel Aviv ein. Mein Antrag wurde mit der Begründung abgelehnt, ich hätte eine russische Frau und russische Töchter.

Mein Enkel Sergej hatte in Israel zum zweiten Mal eine Universität absolviert und keine Hoffnung auf eine Arbeit. Er wollte mit seiner Schwester Olga und seiner Freundin zusammen nach Wien fahren und in Wien noch einmal eine Universität besuchen, das war im Jahre 2001. Das klappte und sie gingen nach Wien. Sie wohnten bei Frau Barbara Trimmel, einer Priesterin der evangelischen Kirche. Frau Trimmel half auch mir, als ich nach Wien kam. Meiner Frau ging es schlecht in Israel, sie vertrug die Hitze nicht, und mich zog Wien magisch an - es ist eben doch meine Heimat. Ich fuhr nach Wien und im Rathaus bestätigte ein Beamter mein Recht auf die österreichische Staatsbürgerschaft, weil ich ja nicht wirklich freiwillig eine andere Staatsbürgerschaft angenommen hatte.

Mein Enkelsohn Sergej bereitete alles vor, fand eine Wohnung für uns, denn auch meine jüngere Tochter, seine Mutter, mit ihrem Mann und den noch in Israel lebenden Kindern, Shenja und Andrej zogen nach Wien. Mein Enkel Alexander lebt in Chicago. Im Jahre 2002 übersiedelten wir nach Wien. Wir wohnen in einer Wohnung zu sechst am Rande Wiens, im 21. Bezirk, in Stammersdorf. So hatte ich mir das gewünscht, ich wollte in die Natur. Aber ich will doch in das jüdische Altersheim übersiedeln. Es ist schwer für die anderen, einen alten Mann im Rollstuhl zu betreuen. Jetzt bin ich ein oder zweimal in der Woche dort im Tagesheim.

Meine österreichische Staatsbürgerschaft bekam ich nicht sofort, aber ESRA 17 half mir dabei. Ich hatte Glück, man fand meinen Pass, den ich 1953 zurück geschickt hatte. Meine Frau wurde automatisch auch Staatsbürgerin, leider nur für drei Monate. Nach drei Monaten in Wien ist sie gestorben, und ich musste sie begraben.

Mein kranker Enkelsohn Shenja wird jeden Morgen mit dem Auto in Stammersdorf abgeholt und in eine betreute Werkstätte geführt. Er ist der Schlechteste dort, aber er führt sich sehr gut dort auf. Mein jüngster Enkel Andrej ist 16 Jahre alt und geht auf das Zwi Perez Chajes Gymnasium, das ist das jüdische Gymnasium.

Meine Enkeltochter Olga lernt schon das dritte Jahr Deutsch. Meine ältere Tochter Nina lebt mit ihrem Mann und den Kindern in Israel. Ihr Mann hat eine gute Arbeit, er ist ein großartiger Physiker und Mathematiker. Meine Enkeltochter Eva ist in Israel mit einem russischen Juden verheiratet. Alle beide arbeiten, sie hat die Universität beendet. Mein Enkelsohn Jakob promoviert in zwei Jahren. Er lebt in Tel Aviv und ist verheiratet. Meine Enkelin Margarita ist mit einem Musiker verheiratet. Seine Mutter Rina war im Ulpan meine Hebräischlehrerin. Sie leben jetzt in Amerika. Meine Enkeltochter Inga ist verheiratet und hat ein Kind. Ihr Mann Eli, ein sephardischer Jude, betreibt mit seinem Bruder zusammen ein Lebensmittelgeschäft in Kazrin. Inga spricht russisch, hebräisch, englisch, holländisch und fast deutsch. Mascha, die jüngste Enkeltochter, kam vor kurzem aus der israelischen Armee zurück. Sieben meiner Enkelkinder haben in Israel den Armeedienst absolviert. Mascha will zu ihrer Schwester Margarita nach Amerika fahren, weil sie keine Arbeit findet. Es ist eine schwere Zeit in Israel, besonders für die jungen Leute.

In Kazrin sah ich selten jemanden mit einer Kippa herumlaufen, weil die Leute entweder ihren Glauben verloren haben oder in Russland nie die Gelegenheit hatten, ihre Religion zu erlernen und auszuüben. Natürlich achte ich die gläubigen Juden, aber ich kann nicht gläubig sein. Ich lese die jüdischen Zeitungen 'Die Gemeinde' und 'David' von Anfang bis zum Ende. Da bleibt nichts übrig, alles lese ich, alles interessiert mich. Ich habe einen großen Nachholbedarf.

Wenn ich im Tagesheim des Maimonides Zentrum frühstücke oder Mittag esse, gibt es manchmal Diskussionen, weil ich ohne Kopfbedeckung bin. Einige Juden essen mit den Hüten, ich nicht. Sie gaben mir eine Kippa, aber ich lehne es aber ab, beim Essen eine Kippa zu tragen. Daraufhin wurde gesagt: 'Sie sind kein Jude!' Hab ich gesagt: 'Ich bin Jude - von den Sohlen angefangen bis zum Hinterkopf, bin ich ein reiner Jude. Aber ich bin nicht religiös. Mein Volk ist das jüdische Volk, und niemals hab ich mich davon abgewandt, und niemals werde ich mich davon abwenden.

Glossar

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

• Family background

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

• Growing up

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

• During the war

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

• Post-war

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

• Glossary:

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

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

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

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

2 Baltakina: very big mosquito net

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

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

5 Salamandra: big stove for heating the whole house

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Samuel Sukhenko
Kiev
Ukraine
Interviewer: Ella Orlikova

I was born in a very small town called Grigoriopol. The town got this name
in the middle of the 18th century from the Armenians, in honor of Grigory
Potyomkin. Grigoriopol was on the Dnester River in Moldova. The nearest
town on one side was Dubossary; on the other, Tiraspol.

Four nationalities lived in the town - Armenians, Russians, Jews and
Moldavians. The population was about 1,000. However, there was a town
council, one gymnasium and a technical college. The Jews lived in several
small curving streets, in little houses with earth floors. They had an
ancient synagogue there. The Jewish population - about 100 families -
worked in commerce and crafts. Except for domestic crafts, there was no
industry there. There was one steam mill that belonged to a rich Jew named
Borshir. In our small town I never felt any anti-Semitism - we all were one
family.

The Sukhenko family differed from the rest of the Jews in the town because
our family toiled the land and did not live among the Jews. There were four
brothers. My father was the youngest. He was born in 1870; his name was
Kopel-Duvid. We lived among the Armenians. The oldest brother, Joseph, who
was 20 years older, lived among the Moldavians. He had a large garden and
raised bees. The third brother, Shloime, lived among the Russians, while
the fourth, Yankel, lived between the Jews and the Armenians. He died young
from the Spanish flu.

Who are my forefathers? I became interested in this question when I was 16.
Uncle Joseph, who at the time was older than 90, would tell me: "Your
grandfather was Pushkin's contemporary, he was born in the 18th century; he
was arrested and had to serve 25 years in the army under Alexander I. He
took part in three wars and returned home when he was 37. We don't know
whether he converted to Christianity, but he came back with the name of
Sukhenko. For his service he received a big land plot forever and 100
silver rubles." So, my father and his three brothers possessed this land
until collectivization. When my grandfather returned from the army, his
relatives found him a poor girl to marry, and she gave birth to a lot of
children, who were all Jewish.

My father was a farmer. We grew tobacco. My grandfather was a hatter. My
father's mother, Leah, was able to treat our whole village with herbs. My
father served in the military for four years under Alexander III in the
town of Bendery. In 1902, he left for Argentina; he was invited to develop
agriculture there. My father spent five years in Argentina and spoke
Spanish fluently. He also knew Russian, Moldavian, and certainly Yiddish.

My mother, Tsivye, was born in Chisinau; her father was a house-painter.
Most probably, they were artists, and my sisters and I inherited their
artistic abilities. My mother was illiterate, but she had talent. In the
kitchen, we had a small ceramic pot filled with glue. She used to shape it
- into a little dog, a kitten, or a piggy. All these figures were very
expressive - the dog would stand on its hind paws, the kitten would be
stretching itself. Of course, in that uneducated environment, nobody
appreciated it properly.

My maternal grandfather had several sons. The family was very poor, and,
when my mother was 3, she went to live with her aunt in Kamenka. My
mother's mother, also named Leah, lived with us until the end of her life.
She was a very strong woman. Grandmother told us that she married when she
was 14. Her husband kept horses for the post office, and she worked in the
bakery. Grandmother Leah had a big trunk filled with clothes. From time to
time, she used to air them in the yard. Among her things, there was a
shroud that had been prepared for her burial. As soon as she took her
shroud out, I, the wise guy, would wear it and run around the yard. She
would stand in the doorway and laugh - it was a good sign.

My parents had 10 children; four died when they were young. The first boy died when he was 8 days old, from blood poisoning when he was circumcised. Three girls died in the first year. My elder sister Taube (Tanya) was born in 1902. She married when she was very young. Tanya was going to be a painter, but unfortunately, she did not have the opportunity to receive a good education. She began to work as a secretary after the death of her husband. She had no children. At the end of her life, she lived with our
youngest sister, Inna.

I was born in 1908; in 1912, my sister Lena was born. After graduating from the seven-year school, she married. Lena was a housewife and raised two sons. My youngest sister, Inna, was born in 1920. She was single. First, she worked as a theatre designer, then as a book designer in a children's publishing company. My brother, Fima, was born in 1925; he was killed at the front when he was 18.

My parents lived a very good life. We rented a house with five rooms. My two grandmothers lived with us. We had two cows, goats and a large yard. Every Saturday we had a wonderful dinner at home. We always had some poor guest at the Shabbat table. When he left, my mother would give him a chicken and a loaf of bread that my grandmother had baked. Every morning my father would put on a tallit, white clothes and pray. He regularly went to a synagogue. On the way back, the sons always looked in on their mother, who lived near the synagogue. They would drink a toast, wish their mother a peaceful Shabbat and go home.

I remember well our family seder. We arranged some chairs, covered them with pillows so my father could recline on them. There were new plates and glasses on the table; we ate matzah and all sorts of things. Then we opened the doors, Father said a prayer and offered a glass of wine. Children always wondered: Would they see the wine receding in the glass? We believed that somebody really would come to drink it. My parents were fond of singing: both of them had a good ear for music. Every Saturday they used to sing Jewish songs together, and Tanya danced with a walking-stick. I still remember those melodies, although then I was only 9 or 10 years old. This continued until 1920.

Soviet rule began in 1917; first, the Germans came, then Denikin's soldiers. In January 1920, the latter were thrown out, and the Soviet rule began. There were no pogroms. But when 90,000 of Denikin's soldiers passed through our village, they would rob Jewish houses and rape girls. This went on for three days, and I remember every detail of it, even now. All day and all night, by horses and in cars, Denikin's army passed through our village. We lived in a very beautiful house, so my parents, my youngest sister and me moved to our neighbors. It was a small house with an earth floor. A poor Jewish family lived there. Once, five Cossacks burst into the house. They were looking for gold, but those poor people had never seen any gold themselves. Then Cossacks began to threaten to kill them. They told us to stand on the trestle-bed near the stove and said, "Now we'll kill you." My father, who was a military man, whispered to us, "Be quiet, they just want to intimidate us." They heard and began to shout: "Who here speaks, Zhid?" Then they took the neighbor's daughter, stripped her naked, straddled her and prodded her with whips. All the same, where could her parents find gold? Then they took her by force to another room. After some time they went away; the girl was left there. We run away from their house as quickly as possible. I was 11. Denikin's soldiers left, and for a whole week, nobody was in control. Then a small detachment of mounted Red Army soldiers appeared. In front of us boys, they shot a soldier of the White Guard, whose body then lay in downtown for a long time, eaten by pigs.

And then everything began: no job, no money. Special food-confiscation units, for Bolshevik powers, took our cow, grain, horses - everything. Then an American aid society appeared and fed the Jewish children. They gave us rice and cocoa. My aunt had five children. Her husband died from the Spanish flu. What could that poor woman do? My father supported her. We lived in miserable conditions. There were two reasons. First, the food-confiscation units ate all our grains. The next year, we had a poor crop, so when spring 1922 came, we had nothing to plant. The authorities gave us some corn seed, and my father took me to plant it. He chopped a hollow in the ground, and I dropped the seeds. That autumn we had a fantastic harvest, but life still was very hard. Everything was incredibly expensive. For instance, a kilo of corn was 3 millions rubles, while a box of matches was 1 million. However, the same year, 1922, Lenin introduced the New Economic Politics. The next month the market was filled with various goods.

I started my education at the age of 4. My grandmother took me to cheder, which was a 15-meter-long room with a wooden floor and two benches. The rabbi was an old man. I studied there until I was 8. We read stories about the Jewish people. The instruction was in Yiddish. At home, we spoke only Yiddish.

I began to speak Russian at the age of 6, because my sister Tanya went to gymnasium and brought home her alphabet book, which I learned very quickly. When I was 8, my father decided that I needed to know Russian, and he sent me to the parish school. I was the only Jew in that school. I was placed in the second grade because I could read. I had a very clear articulation, and I read from the Gospel. And it was the Gospel that led me to atheism. When I was 10, I began to write poems and short stories. I tried to imitate Yesenin, Bagritsky, and others. My teacher, Nastasia Nikolayevna, insisted that I continue with a literary education, but I realized it was only imitation, which nobody needed.

I was a Pioneer, but before that, I was a Boy Scout. After 1917, our villages were occupied by the Austrians for about a year. The boys were organized, given sticks about 1.5 meters long, and we had to listen to lectures. At our school, we had the portrait of the first British Boy Scout. I was a Pioneer for a very short time. I remember than once we spent some time in the woods while at a summer camp. In 1924, I joined Komsomol, when every young man or woman joined, in connection with Lenin's death.

At 15, I graduated from the seven-year school and went to Tiraspol. I worked as a carpenter in a factory. There were a lot of Jews in Tiraspol. Mainly they worked at the big fruit-processing factory, but also in various crafts. Almost all the shoemakers, bakers and shopkeepers in Tiraspol were Jews, and we didn't feel any anti-Semitism there. In 1926-1927, I lived with a Jewish family. I worked with the husband, and his wife, as was the custom, brought our lunch to the factory.

I realized that I needed to study. In 1929, I left Tiraspol for Leningrad, and began to work at the furniture factory and study at the workers' faculty by correspondence at the same time. In two years, I graduated from the faculty. I entered the Architecture Institute when Komsomol members were invited to enter.

At home I was called Shmilik. My friends called me Milia. In 1936, everybody had to obtain a passport. Passports were written by the students themselves. My colleagues asked, "What name do you want in passport?" I said, "Samuel" - it was the first name that came to mind.

I graduated from the institute in Leningrad with honors in 1936, and immediately began the post-graduate course, studying in the evenings. At the same time, I was sent to a prestigious institution as an architect.

In 1936, something terrible was going on in Leningrad - the destruction of people. When Kirov was killed in 1934, all Leningrad knew that Stalin had killed him. You can't imagine what was going there. All the students came out to see how Kirov's body was carried to Moscow on a carriage, and Stalin himself was standing behind it. Then the Stalinist terror started. Today you could meet your friend, but tomorrow he could be arrested and executed. I wanted to get as far away from that place as possible. My manager at work was a Swedish man named Vigman. He understood what was going on. He sent me on a business trip to the Far East for one year. I had planned to join the Communist Party, but on his advice, I cancelled my registration with the Party in Leningrad. I did not register in the Far East either. I spent one year there, in Khabarovsk, designing one of the districts of that city. I was afraid to go back to Leningrad, so I found some connections in Kiev in the post-graduate course I was taking. I came to Kiev in 1938.

Very quickly I found a job in the Military Designs Institute. We designed the defense line that was built in 1940; we designed military aerodromes, as well. We built dozens of them. Our business trips were carried out in the following way: you were sent there for a month, did a certain portion of the work, returned, and another person was sent. Everything was encoded. I also saw many Jews at the sites building aerodromes, and my heart cried out for them. They wore black plush caps, beards. I thought a lot about them - they most likely all perished there.

I designed two aerodromes on our western border. On the eve of World War II, I was at an aerodrome in Peremyshl. On June 21, 1941, a small plane landed there; I was standing with General Ivanov. The plane brought a commander who said, "War broke out with Germany." I was sent to Lvov on June 22. In the afternoon, German planes began to bomb the city. As soon as they finished bombing, our planes appeared, but the bird had flown. Our planes flew away, while those appeared again - it was the same for some days. At our headquarters, nobody paid attention at me. "You are free," they said. "You can go anywhere you like." All railways were already cut off, so I had to make 30-kilometer rush to the East.

On June 27, I left Lvov and with great difficulties arrived in Kiev a few days later. When we were moving eastward from Lvov, there was a unit that picked up only those it wanted. I saw a lot of Jews who were sent back with the words, "Go back to defend Lvov." At the river crossing - you can't imagine what was going on that bridge! People tried to cross it by car, with cows, while planes flew above their heads.

In Kiev I lived in Proreznyaya Street with my two sisters. While I was away, my sister Lena Nagornaya, who had lived in Trans-Carpathians with two children - 1 and 5 five years old - raced to Kiev. A few days later, Tanya sent her, her children and our younger sister deeper into the country. On July 8, Tanya and I gathered our belongings and went to our offices. On July 9, we were put on a train for the East. We came to the city of Ulyanovsk, and our Military Designs Institute became part of the Volga military command. Three Kiev residents - three Jews - were put in charge of three groups. I was sent to Buzluk to continue to build an aerodrome there; then I was transferred to Chkalov. I did not wear any uniform, I was considered a civilian, but I could not leave that place because of the war-time laws. I designed many aerodromes and roads near the front line.

On November 6, 1943, Kiev was liberated. On November 12, 1943, I was sent to Kiev. The city was bombed every day. Kiev was ruined... Once I ran into a pre-war colleague. He was an engineer. He showed me a narrow green paper with the words of the sadly known instruction: "For all kikes of the city of Kiev..." He was a Ukrainian, and his wife was a Jew. Not far from the street leading directly to Babi Yar, he sensed something, and they turned to the nearest lane. The same day they left Kiev for a village; after some time, they came back. He had a two-room flat, so he hid his wife in the second room, bricked up a door, leaving a narrow hole near the floor. The hole was covered with a carpet. When his neighbors asked, he said his wife had been at Babi Yar. For almost two years, she lived this way, and lost her mind. Moreover, her sister came. She was in the military and escaped. He hid her in the same place. My colleague fed them both, cooking in small portions, for neighbors could suspect nothing. The most dangerous time was when Germans turned out people from Kiev and burned houses. But he decided, "Come what may" - and didn't go anywhere. All of them survived, and later, his wife recovered. That was the first time I heard the words "Babi Yar."

During the war, I was awarded with many medals. The Special Military Command was set up in Kiev, and I worked there until the year 1949.

My house was taken for an official use. I was given another flat, in Vorovsky Street. Tanya, Lena and her children, and Inna moved there, as well. In 1946 I invited my parents to live with us. So, we had eight people living in that one flat; it was a room in a communal flat, and we were cramped.

In 1944, the Military Liaison School moved to Kiev. Its deputy chief, a military man, had a daughter, Nina, who later became my wife. I fell in love with her. The city was empty, and we met one another. She was 15 years younger than me. She was a Russian girl. She had graduated from nine grades of school. Fifty to sixty percent of her friends from school were Jews. My dear Nina taught organization of industry at the Polytechnic Institute in Kiev. Every year, she was supposed to name two young people for the post- graduate course, and she always named Jews. Later she was summoned to the director, who told her, "Listen, we need to raise our national comrades," to which she said: "Right, but they need to have heads on their shoulders, too." They could do nothing with her.

When I got married, my mother said a wise thing: "God has created all people alike." And in her family I was considered a son. My Nina was a better Jew than I was, and she worried a lot. The worst thing in our country was official anti-Semitism. Let me give you an example. I often visited Leningrad. Especially I liked to go to Kazansky Cathedral, which was turned into the Museum of Atheism. First, as a professional, I was interested in its interiors. And second, the exhibition was very interesting. Once I noticed the bust of Spinoza, which had a sign saying: "a famous Dutch scholar." I asked the museum specialists: "Excuse me, I have looked at your exhibition on Spinoza attentively, but still have no idea about his nationality. Who was he? A Dutchman? Or maybe...a Turk?" They were very confused and mumbled, "Don't you see? It is written here - 'a famous Dutch scholar.'" That was the time when a Jew couldn't be called a Jew. One more example: I organized exhibitions for our government. The system was that, first, the exhibition was visited by the government, led by the first or second secretary of the Communist Party of Ukraine, then members of the Council of Ministers came, and so on, and only after that a small group of professionals was allowed to come. Once, an official came for a preliminary inspection. He was delighted with everything, but suddenly he stopped dead. "Comrade Sukhenko, what is this?" "A pedestal for a sculpture," I answered. "But look at its form! It is a hexahedron!" When I asked what was wrong, he said, "This is a Jewish sign." "What Jewish sign? Sorry, but it is a pedestal for a sculpture." "No, it is a Jewish sign," he began to shout. "You are either a cretin or idiot," I said. But he continued to yell, "You are a Jew, aren't you?!" "YES," I said. You won't believe me, but I got away with it, although consequences could be rather serious.

We felt cramped in our flat. I was offered another job, with higher salary and promises of a new flat. I rented a flat at the writers' house, 48 Lenin Street. Famous writers lived there. I rented a room from the widow of a Jewish poet, who had moved from Poland and was killed at the front. Every night, a car would come and take away this or that writer. Once I heard a knock on the door at 2:00 a.m.; somebody came in and said they needed a witness for the arrest of writer Itzik Fefer. I refused, claiming I had a terrible stomach ache. The next day Fefer's sister came to me and asked me to take a parcel to him. I took the parcel, spent eight hours in line and passed it to him. My friends scolded me, "What will happen to you?!" Later I learned that Fefer was executed. How can one be a member of the Communist Party after the death of Mikhoels - a great man, a great humanist? I remember the death of Stalin, how people behaved wildly, like idiots. He was a monster; I can't believe he was born of a woman.

In one year I increased the personnel of our design bureau from 10 to 120 people. A year later, I received a flat in Kreschatik, close to the cinema. We worked with interiors of theaters, cinemas and flats. I took part in many exhibitions and was awarded many medals there. I was living a very good life. In 1949, my daughter Olga was born. She studied at the same school her mother had studied at, and she graduated with honors. She was sent to one of the leading institutions, and now this institution is nothing.

When Nixon was about to come to Moscow I decided to show him the interior of the Yalta conference, the Levadia Palace. I examined the building, but there were no pictures, no descriptions - everything was top secret. Then I realized that there must be people who had seen it before. The one who used to be a lieutenant became a colonel. These people were brought to me and they told me everything they remembered about the building. The building was built in the modernist style. So, I ordered, "Find me chairs in the modernist style." And chairs were found, and I had them renovated. Then I found pictures in the modernist style. And then I called Moscow and reported that the task has been completed, for which gratitude was expressed.

In the most difficult times - in the 1960 and 1970s - when Jews could not find jobs, I used to tell my friends that nobody would touch me: such specialists could not be discharged. My family never discussed emigration. I knew too little about Israel. It is only now that I'm learning more and reading about it.