Travel

Petr Weber
Brno
Czech Republic
nterviewer: Zuzana Strouhova
Date of interview: May - July 2005

Petr Weber is a former president of the Brno Jewish community, and is still an active functionary. He was born to Jewish parents in a concentration camp in Poland, but when he was two years old, a group of fellow prisoners managed to get him out of the camp and transport him to the then Slovak State 1. He thus virtually never knew his parents, as they remained there and later died. He grew up in a Czech Christian family, which however supported his Jewish upbringing. He worked as a nuclear systems designer for Skoda Pilsen, which he had to leave for political reasons, and subsequently worked as a programmer. He is currently retired. He lives in Kyjov with his wife.

My family background
Growing up 
During the war
After the war
Glossary:

My family background

I’d say that my life story is a bit on the blurry side. It’s not even completely clear to me, because I got it from various places second-hand, and that only much later. I found out a lot from my uncle, Schlomo Königsberg, who was the brother of my mother, Lola Königsberg, married name Preiss, and from her sisters Toshka and Esther. These three were the only members of my original family to survive. I later met up with them in Israel. I’m also in touch with Tommer Brunner, who’s Toshka’s grandson. From him I got copies of photographs that indicate another branch of the family, a certain Hersh Leib Forman from New York, the son of Rivka Dorman, née Kellman. Likely somewhere in that generation of grandmas, one from the Königsberg family married into the Kellman family, but I don’t know anything about it for certain. Someone by the name of Yehuda Schlomo Kellman is there, apparently the brother of Zissl Königsberg, who was probably my grandmother, the mother of Lola Preiss. So her maiden name would then have been Kellman. According to the same source of information, my mother’s grandmother was named Chana Kellman, née Weiser. Apparently she died in 1929. So that’s perhaps how both families are related. Both families lived in the same small town, Bochnia in Poland, near Krakow.

Growing up

This is how it is, more or less: in 1942, when I was born, my parents Lola Preiss and Aaron Preiss – both Polish Jews – were already imprisoned in the concentration camp in Bochnia. It wasn’t an extermination camp, but likely a certain type of ghetto where local Jews were concentrated before being sent to the places of “final solution”, like Auschwitz and other camps to the east. So that’s where I was born. We were all together until 1944, when a certain group of people managed to escape from that camp, among which was also my uncle [Schlomo Königsberg], at that time a young lad of seventeen. And they took me, a two-year-old child, with them. My parents stayed there. On the way through the Slovak State, my uncle left me in the care of one Jewish family in Liptovsky Mikulas, that was in 1944. There I was discovered by the daughter of my later adoptive parents. My adoptive father was 50 years older than I. That’s why I don’t know much about my grandparents, neither my own nor my adoptive ones.

I know almost nothing about the parents of my real mother and father, not even their names. My grandmother, my mother’s mother, was perhaps named Zissl Königsberg, but I’m not sure of that. She died before the war, in 1931. My grandfather was perhaps Josef Moshe Königsberg, I’ve got a couple of his photographs and a photograph of his sister, Chana Königsberg.

Similarly with the parents of my adoptive mother, Marie Weberova, there I don’t know much either. Perhaps only that her father was something like a government official. He worked, I think, for the police, still during the time of Austro-Hungary, and that they lived in Prague in a rented co-op apartment. Already back then there were co-ops. On the side of my adoptive father, Josef Weber, it’s also hazy, we’re dealing with stories about people that lived 70 or 80 years ago, which is a huge gap in time. I’ve of course got only very, very sketchy memories of it all. My father was from a farming family from around Pilsen. They were farmers, but in a region that is agriculturally very poor. They grew what was normally grown in that region. All four cereal crops. As far as animals go, they certainly must have had a cow, and pigs were also a matter of course. A goat, that I don’t know, and for sure they didn’t have horses. They lived on this little farm, drew water from a well, and in those days there wasn’t any electricity there either.

It’s hard to tell from such a distance how well off both families were, both my father’s and my mother’s. Probably a little below average. Not that they were beggars, but neither were they well-off people. For sure they didn’t have servants. My father’s family must have read a lot; I found entire volumes in boxes. Back then that was literature of very high quality. It was a standard Czech book collection, but my attention was captured by collected volumes of Vilimkovy Humoristicke listy, which in those days was something like Reflex [a weekly magazine dealing with current issues and interesting personalities of our times – Editor’s note], but back in the days of Austro-Hungary. They were this family, bookish as people used to say. Meaning a family with lots of books. They were definitely well-read. What daily papers they read there, whether any at all, that I however don’t know.

My real parents were from Poland, as I’ve mentioned. Their mother tongue was Polish and also Yiddish, because they lived in an Orthodox Jewish environment. I myself don’t know Polish, or more precisely, I know it, or rather I understand it, like every Czech who isn’t illiterate. I don’t know anything at all about my real father, that’s an absolute black hole. All I know is his name, Aaron Preiss. The only information about my real relatives is from my mother’s side, there thanks to being in touch with her siblings I have certain clues, some names.

My real mother was named Lola Königsberg. She was, I think, one of seven or nine siblings, most of which were girls. My mother was the oldest of them all, so she actually brought them all up. She lived with her husband in Bochnia, Poland. Years later, my uncle Schlomo Königsberg, my mother’s brother, told me the address where we used to live, and I even went there to have a look. I can’t say whether my parents dealt mainly with others from the local Jewish community, but one can assume this to be so. It was a traditional Jewish environment, it’s hard to imagine that they’d somehow differ from the rest. But it’s not impossible for them to have had closer friendships with non-Jews as well. I have no clue as to how, where and when they died. As I’ve said, when I was two, my uncle escaped with me and some other people, and I then grew up with adoptive parents, and had no information about the fate of my real parents. My connection to my original family are my mother’s siblings, Uncle Schlomo, who got to the Palestine via the Slovak State, and two of my mother’s sisters, Toshka and Esther, who moved to what was back then the Palestine still during pre-war times, probably around 1935, and thus survived and became this bridge between me and my past. They lived in Tel Aviv. So from the entire Königsberg family, only these three survived, Toshka, Esther and Uncle Shlomo. My mother and her other sisters, by this I mean Dina, Lea, Bracha and another brother David, all those died during World War II.

I was in touch with my uncle regularly, by mail. And then, when there was that short period when things let up, around 1966, 1967, I also traveled to Israel for the first time, to go see him, because his was the only name that I knew. But another two aunts were also there to greet me, so there I found the remainder of my family. But all three of them are dead now. I don’t know of any other relatives that would be this close.

I of course have a few pieces of information about my uncle, but it’s again not all that much. He lived in Jerusalem, and then in Tel Aviv. He was, as I’ve mentioned, a deeply devout, strictly Orthodox Jew, and so also had that sort of family, meaning large. He had at least seven children. His children were of course also religious, so he’s got at least two rabbis in his family. His daughter married a rabbi in England, his son is in New York, and he then moved there to live with him, where he was until the end of his life. But I don’t know any more than that about his children. His wife died a while back, about 4 or 5 years ago, and about a year ago he died as well. He most likely met his wife in Israel, but I’m not certain of that. I don’t even know what nationality she was. But she was definitely a Jew, deeply religious. My uncle was a watchmaker. He made a living more with the repair then with the sale of clocks. He had little shop about the size of this small room (ca. 3 x 2 m). He was never in the Czech Republic, he was back in Poland at least once to have a look, and I’ve got this feeling that he lived with that one daughter in England for some time. But he probably lived most of his life in Israel, except for those final years, that is.

As far as my aunts Toshka and Esther go – definitely the former and perhaps both – after their arrival in Israel they worked in a kibbutz. Then they were both housewives, both of them got married. Ether’s married name was Fleisher, and Tonka’s was Brunner. Her grandson, Tommer Brunner, is very interested in the lives of his ancestors. He still lives in Israel, and his parents live there too; his father is the son of Auntie Toshka. Toshka had a daughter and two sons. As for Esther Fleisher, she’s got two daughters in Israel, both are still alive. One of them is still single, so is still named Fleisher. The other one is married and is named Darewski. She’s a private music teacher. And he, her husband that is, I don’t know, he’s got some sort of managerial job I think. Neither of my aunties is alive anymore. Esther died at home, and died, I don’t remember anymore, sometime between 1993 and 1997. Toshka died in a senior citizens’ home a year and a half ago. Both of them in Tel Aviv.

So that’s about all that I know as far as my real relatives are concerned. My adoptive parents, whom I’m named after, Weber that is, were already of a quite advanced age when they took me in. They must’ve been married sometime long before the war, I don’t know exactly when. They were a Christian, Catholic family, but one can’t at all talk about any great degree of religiosity. I don’t know anything about my adoptive parents’ political opinions, that wasn’t something that was the subject of conversations at home.

During the war

My father Josef Weber was born in a small village by Pilsen named Chalupy, and to this day it’s still a mere hamlet. He was born in 1892, and was 50 years older than me. He had a vocational college education, and worked as a technical clerk. He worked for Skoda in Pilsen. There, he was I’d say a very good, maybe even excellent worker. I recall, for example, his  considerable skill and cleverness in the manufacture of various things, a washing machine for example. After the war washing machines were scarce, but he made one himself. As far as hobbies are concerned, he was a passionate stamp collector. My father worked at the Skoda Works, as the company was then officially named, in the cannon manufacture department, and then worked for a Skoda branch plant in Slovakia, in Dubnice nad Vahom. Skoda was at that time starting up the plant there, and it continued even under the Germans [meaning during World War II – Editor’s note] . My father had already been working there before the war, and also worked there during World War II, which was relatively rare, because as is known, after the Slovak State was declared in March 1939, all Czechs had to leave Slovakia 2. After 1945 he left Slovakia to work for a short time back in Pilsen, and then retired. As far as I know, at one time between the two world wars he lived in Yugoslavia, where he’d been sent by the company, again it was to do with the manufacture of cannons, in Kragujevac. Otherwise he lived mainly in Pilsen, after the war quite certainly only there, and finally he returned to his native village. That’s where he also died, in September of 1959. When he died, only the two of us remained, so I buried him. He was cremated and buried in Prague, the same as my adoptive mother.

My father was relatively strict, pedantic in fact. And very, very clever and skilful. He demanded work and order of me. We didn’t do much together, we didn’t go on trips much, neither did we go fishing, or things like that. I don’t even remember him or my mother reading me fairy tales or something. It was more a case of me reading by myself, and very early on at that. But I don’t remember much of it. But you have to take into account that huge age difference, age-wise he was more my grandfather then my father. I shared his fondness for collecting stamps a bit, as a boy I also collected them, so yes, I guess there was some sort of my father’s influence there. Unfortunately my father’s collection was lost, today it would perhaps even be quite valuable. He concentrated on Czechoslovak stamps. I don’t really know how exactly he came by them. Back then I don’t thing there were trading exchanges back then. He was probably a member of some club, because he used to get those stamps as a normal subscription, that yes, but whether he traded them, bought and sold them, that I don’t know.

His brother, Jan Weber, also lived in his native village, he was older and died before him. As the oldest of the siblings, his brother Jan ran the farm he’d inherited, he was a small-time farmer. He likely had some sort of basic education, but I don’t know any more than that about him.

My adoptive mother’s maiden name was Marie Faloutova. She was born in Prague, in 1896 I think. I think she had a basic education. I don’t know exactly when she married my father, nor where all they lived after that, but I have the feeling that they didn’t move around much, just the places I’ve already mentioned. She never actually held a job anywhere. After the war, when they were let’s say living modestly, economically speaking, she worked as a seamstress at home. She sewed things for factories. She also died in that little village by Pilsen, in Chalupy, in March 1958.

She had both brothers and sisters. I don’t recall much about her brothers. Her sister lived in Prague, she was younger, a lot younger than she was, and survived her by many years. I think that she died sometime after 1970. She was named Bozena. As far as her employment or education are concerned, I don’t know anything. She was married, her husband died before her. They had a daughter, Vera.

As far as my siblings are concerned, I don’t know of any real ones. As I’ve mentioned, when they took me in, my adoptive parents had an already adult daughter, Anna, who was about 25 or 30 years older than I was. So she became my stepsister. I don’t know that much about her, she was born in Prague, her mother tongue was Czech. If I remember correctly, she had only a basic education. After finishing school she went through several jobs. She worked as an office clerk, a saleslady. Most of the time she lived with us in Pilsen, and then in that village, in Chalupy. Just one time, when she got married, which was sometime after the war, she lived in Karlovy Vary 3. She worked there as a clerk for CSAD (Czechoslovak Bus Lines). I don’t know any more about that. We had a very good relationship, she was sort of like my younger mother to me. Back then I even once went to stay with her during the holidays, for about a week or ten days. That was my first encounter with Karlovy Vary.

That was an incredible experience for a young boy, a city like that. I was around 12 or 13 at the time. What captivated me the most there? You know, Karlovy Vary is a nice place in every respect. I for example remember excellent whipped cream ‘rakvicky’ [‘little coffins’, sponge-biscuits with whipped cream] at Elefant, which was and is a renowned coffee and pastry shop in Karlovy Vary. Since that time, this is what reminds me of Karlovy Vary. And especially of that Elefant pastry shop. We used to sit there, though not really regularly, as it was expensive, but we were definitely there several times. The coffee shop is still there, it’s been stylistically renovated, because it’s something akin to Sacher in Vienna. Karlovy Vary wafers,  they’re in  the colonnade, but this is somewhere else. When you walk from the old colonnade and pass through this place where it narrows, by the spring, then a bit past it, about 20-30 meters to the right, is one of the best places in Karlovy Vary, as far as desserts are concerned, the Elefant coffee shop. We also of course made the rounds to see the local sights, from Jeleni Skok, to the springs, the Russian Orthodox church and so on.

But then my sister got divorced, sometime in the mid-1950s, and moved back again, and lived the rest of her life in the village. I actually don’t know anything about her husband, not even what kind of work he did. They didn’t have any children together, she didn’t ever have any children at all. She married only once, after the divorce she lived only with us, and didn’t even have any other partner. She died in that village by Pilsen around 1955, when I began attending high school. She wasn’t very old, though she was already over 40, my whole adoptive family were already older people.

As far as my life is concerned, I was born, as I’ve already mentioned, in a little town in Poland named Bochnia. Bochnia is located by Krakow, which is a region known for salt mining. When I was in school they were still teaching about the Bochnia and Wieliczka salt mines. My date of birth, well, right off the bat there’s the first thing that’s all tangled up. Officially, in my documents, I’ve got 1st march 1942. But because my life, as I’ve already mentioned, is a bit convoluted – I’m actually a wartime foundling, they discovered me at the age of about two – so the doctors, when they were setting the my official date of birth, set it to the date I mentioned. After many and many years, I found out that they’d been mistaken by roughly a month, which I think is not such a bad result. So my real date of birth is March 29th. I got this information from my relatives, whom I got in touch with after the war. My own parents were understandably not alive anymore then. They died early on, in Poland. And I myself of course don’t remember anything from my childhood in Bochnia.

So when I was about two, my uncle took me away with that group that managed to escape from the concentration camp in Bochnia. The whole group went through Slovakia, through the Slovak State, on to the Balkans and to the Palestine, where they, including that uncle of mine, managed to finally get to. They left me, a small child, for reasons that today I can only guess at – perhaps they were afraid, for themselves, for my life, it’s hard to say – in any case, they left me back there in Slovakia. In the hands of Jews, in a Jewish family, which – in 1944 Jews in Slovakia were also in difficult circumstances – at that time was living in one of the collection points before the deportations, namely Liptovsky Mikulas.

A Christian girl used to visit that family to see her love, her boyfriend. That’s where she first saw me, that’s where I apparently first caught her eye, and she took me from that family and brought me to her own family. I don’t know anything about that Jewish family, neither their names nor their employment and so on. That girl, my future stepsister, then found another boyfriend, because this one died. I don’t even know whose idea it actually was to take me in. And why did that Jewish family actually give me to a Christian one? They were in danger, at that time they must have already known... They were actually already interned. So it was exactly the other way around, no that they gave me up, but that she was a way to save me.

My new family was Christian, they were Czechs who had by chance remained in Slovakia, which is a story in itself, because Czechs had to leave Slovakia in 1939. They stayed there because my later adoptive father, thus also the father of the girl that found me, worked in the arms industry and apparently as an expert had an exception and could stay there. So they took me into their family and during the remainder of the war pretended I was a nephew from Prague. For this purpose a cousin from Prague used to even come visit for these camouflage visits, which also wasn’t exactly a simple matter. My adoptive parents knew of my origins – they had my relatives’ trail, as they knew who had left that child in Slovakia. Who he’d been with and where he’d continued on to. So they knew roughly what the deal was.

After the war

After the war, I don’t know exactly when, but for sure very soon after its end, my uncle was looking to re-establish contact, which he succeeded in doing, and tried very vehemently to have me handed over to him, so I could go to the Palestine. But the husband and wife kept the child and then adopted it. So they became my parents. I never knew my real parents, my biological parents. It’s likely that some sort of tension developed between my adoptive parents and my uncle regarding my being handed over, I don’t know, but the family probably simply didn’t want to, they’d already gotten used to the new child. I myself couldn’t have had much say in who I’d be with, at the end of the war I was only three years old. I found out that I was adopted very early on, as soon as I had a brain, as they say. It was completely natural, without any drama or secrecy, it was simply common knowledge. My new parents even supported my Jewish upbringing.

For some time we still lived in Dubnica nad Vahom. That’s a time from which I already have these faint memories. I remember things, like cannon fire, our garden, shelling and things like that, when the front was passing. But that’s already the end of the war, then there are you typical post-war things. So I can’t have my own personal experiences, they’re only second-hand and let’s say gleaned.

After the war my father returned to Pilsen – because he’d been sent to Slovakia from the parent Skoda plant in Pilsen – and worked in the factory until his retirement in 1948. And so we lived in Pilsen for some time. There I also began attending school, which was in 1948. Before and also afterwards, only my mother took care of me, she didn’t have any helper. In 1949, when my father was already retired, we returned from Pilsen to his native village of Chalupy, which is also in the Pilsen region, about 30 km away from the regional city.

It’s a very small village. It’s not an independent municipality, but a mere hamlet. About 40 houses, for example ours had only an outhouse in the yard. The village already had electricity, but during that time there was no running water, only wells. Everyone had his own water. We, for example, lived in this little house on a little bit of a hill, and the well, the town well, was at the bottom. When I was living there, there wasn’t even a paved road, only this better dirt road. And of course, I was also the only Jew there.

While in Pilsen I attended a big school, here in Chalupy I attended a one-room schoolhouse my first year. It was in the closest village, about two kilometers away. Every day we’d walk there. I wasn’t so terrible, but as a six or seven-year-old kid... well, it is a bit of a trudge. I still remember the crackling fire in the stove in the winter, they still heated with coal. The next year, they closed the one-room schoolhouses and put us all into a larger school in a different town. There we were already transported by bus. But the closest stop was again in that village two kilometers away. I then attended high school, one with eleven grades, in a district town, in Stod near Pilsen.

I liked going to school. I was a good, if not excellent student. I liked almost all subjects, but mathematics and physics, those were definitely my hobbies. And that wasn’t anything very common among students back then, and isn’t to this day, as I’m convinced. Among my least favorite subjects were music and art, for reasons of clear lack of talent. I have absolutely no musical hearing, as far as art goes it’s not all that great either, and due to the fact that otherwise all my marks were excellent, this was an irritating blot. So I understandably didn’t participate in any music clubs, nor sports; in any case such things didn’t even exist at our school. On the other hand, I did take German lessons, and quite early on. In the town where the school was, there was this one retired teacher who used to give private lessons. So I can speak decent German, but also English, a very little French and of course Russian, because I studied in the Soviet Union, where I graduated from university as a nuclear systems designer.

As far as hobbies go, already as a child I had this peculiar deviation, I liked to read a lot. Anything and everything. I grew up on everything that was being published back then, especially stories by Verne [Jules Verne]. Balzac [Honoré de Balzac] too, him for example I read quite early on, but I don’t know exactly when anymore, whether already in elementary school. For me the best Christmas present was a book, I used to get 15-20 books under the tree. It’s hard to pick a favorite one, but I think that it could have been Dumas’s Three Musketeers, with beautiful illustrations. And also stories by Verne. I also pored over Jirasek [Alois Jirasek], but that was more because I had to. Jirasek’s Collected Works, which we subscribed to at the time, took up about two meters on our bookshelf. But I liked reading very much, and that’s how I spent most of my spare time during childhood. I also read books from libraries – back then even villages had them – and it’s stayed with me into adulthood. But we had, as far as I remember, our own quite rich book collection. It was my father who mainly read, my mother I’d say for one less and for another a different sort of books, that lighter women’s genre. So we also had some romance novels at home. As far as magazines go, not very much.

I of course also used to have ambitions in sport, but little talent for it, so I used to try running a bit and so on, but it was more of the sort to be doing at least something. I liked short track running the best. As far as ball games, it was soccer, that’s something a village boy always gets around to playing. Surprisingly, back then ponds still used to freeze over, so we also used to like playing hockey. I very much regretted not doing any skiing in childhood, though I had always very much wanted to. And so later – in high school and university – I had a very hard time catching up during ski trips.

So that’s how I mostly spent my free time as a child. Our parents never took us anywhere on trips, neither to go see sights nor into nature. That wasn’t our custom and neither did our financial situation permit it very much. One child, that is I, was in school, so they concentrated mainly on what was necessary from this standpoint. There was no television back then, villages don’t have exhibitions, a mobile cinema used to come around, so that yes, that was an attraction. And I remember for example, when television began in 1953, the one and only television receiver was at the school superintendent’s in the school in the neighboring village. We kids used to go over there to watch it. That was also an attraction. I don’t really remember much of what we used to do on Sundays, most likely  I was running around somewhere outside. And what’s more, don’t forget that our hamlet was a remote hole. Which did have a pub, but didn’t even have a store. So to do some sort of cultural activities there... there wasn’t anywhere to go, even if you wanted to. And the nearest bus stop was, as I’ve said, in the next village. True, occasionally we went to visit relatives, we were in Prague a few times at my mother’s sister’s or in Pilsen. I of course couldn’t go to my grandparents’ during vacation, they weren’t alive anymore. My older sister, who got married and moved to Karlovy Vary, was partially usable as a destination for family visits, but she had a job.

The Pioneer movement 4 already existed at that time, but I didn’t go to any camps. Scouting was stopped I think in 1949 or 1950, and wasn’t restarted until after 1990. So I missed out on that too. What’s more, for me vacations always meant work. Because we had to – or I had to – help pad out the family budget. And so I spent my vacation in the forest picking everything there was, mushrooms, blueberries, cranberries and so on. We would then sell the results at a collection point. That was hard-earned money. I remember that I’d leave for the forest early in the morning, almost crying. I’m not saying that I spent all of summer vacation like that, but certainly a good half fell to that.

As far as friendships from those times go, I’ll mention one thing: recently we had an elementary school reunion – which is in itself quite unusual. Usually people have high school reunions, so it quite surprised me. The reunion was organized by classmates that stayed in the village, who actually during that whole time never got out into the world. They put in the work and effort and invited us all, repeatedly even, as since then the reunion has taken place twice. I of course hadn’t seen anyone during those fifty and more years, but despite that we didn’t have problems picking up the conversation there where we’d interrupted it those many years ago. Even if sitting here was someone who was now a professor, beside him a doctor, across the table a farmer and beside him a caretaker. This didn’t play any role, and I guess that it’s not a bad result. Otherwise I always based friendships more from my working life than my student days; a few friendships also lasted on the basis of my Jewish origin, from the ranks of young Jewish people in Pilsen and later in Prague.

I lived in Chalupy near Pilsen up to my high school graduation in 1959. Our years were affected by the shortening of school attendance, so we graduated when we were already 17. The I went to study in Prague. By coincidence when I was 16 my adoptive mother died, then when I was 17, three months after graduation, my father. So I started my university studies as a youngster of 17, and a complete orphan. A double one, actually. At that time my relatives on both my father’s and mother’s side were of course still alive, but I remained alone and lived alone. I had an orphan’s pension and a scholarship. And I lived at the university dorm. In Prague I studied at the then (today as well) prestigious Faculty of Technical and Nuclear Physics (FTJF), design of nuclear power systems, which was during the years 1959 to 1961. But after two years I left on a scholarship for the Soviet Union, to Moscow, and there I then finished my studies in 1965. I left for there not even so much because I didn’t have anyone here anymore, but because it was a very enticing offer. At that time the Soviet Union was at the forefront of my field.

In Prague I also went through a half year of military service for university graduates, back then I was one of the last ones to manage to still do only a half-year term. I served with the anti-missile defense. We didn’t go to the army to learn something. We were being prepared for officer positions, so we arrived there as deputy officers, not as regular soldiers. And it was quite funny that I, though having basic service rank (they didn’t give us one star and the rank of second lieutenant until we were in our last month), I was one of the platoon commanders and the other commanders were career officers. Many times it happened that I would be signing leave for soldiers that were even of higher rank than I was. Well, but otherwise it was a waste of time, which is a frequent opinion of basic army service to this day.

When I was still in Prague, local young Jewish people themselves approached me, you can say that they found me. And pulled me into the Jewish community of that time, this was during the 1960s. In the Soviet Union I of course also met up with Jews. But general contact was minimal. I was in the synagogue in Moscow several times during holidays, but I didn’t establish wider contacts.

If I was to compare my studies in Prague and Moscow, one could say that what I studied here was more of an academic nature. That is, what I began to study, because right in first year they transferred us from Charles University to CVUT [Czech Technical University]. The studies were more theoretical, even though in the first couple of years that’s hard to discern. Well, and in the USSR I then switched to a purely practical, engineering direction. Plus I’d say that the studies here in Prague were more difficult. Even though again it’s hard to compare, because starting school is always difficult. So from this standpoint, after the initial break-in period, let’s say one year, when language difficulties subsided, it wasn’t anything especially dramatic. And as far as life itself goes, in that there was of course a huge difference, because back then the Soviet Union was at a significantly different point as far as standards go. For example living standards. I lived in a dormitory like all other students, sublets didn’t exist. There were dozens of nationalities studying there with me, Europeans, Africans and Asians. There were also Chinese, Koreans or Vietnamese, a varied international society. But we don’t keep in touch at all anymore.

Back then, we of course traveled around the Soviet Union as much as we could. During vacation I and other students, Czechoslovaks or a lot of Germans too, tried to go on various trips. As far as it was of course possible, it wasn’t at all a simple matter. And so besides Siberia and the Far East, and of the Baltic countries Estonia, we visited all its interesting corners. Back then Estonia was a strategic region, it was simply out of the question. And for many reasons. The conditions in the Soviet Union were a little different, and we had to get used to them. For example – just for interest’s sake, today this is something utterly incomprehensible for us – we didn’t have a visa for the Soviet Union. We had a visa for Moscow. For Moscow and 50 kilometers around Moscow and that was it. Whenever we wanted to travel further on, we always had to have special permission. And getting it was complicated. You had to report it, you had to arrange it. Of course it was possible to embark on a trip even without it, it’s not as if they checked at every station. But if they did find out that you were traveling without a permit, you’d have problems. These trips used to be organized, so they had to be prepared long in advance. The exact route had to be defined, for example. And we of course had a guide with us, a local one. We weren’t allowed to go anywhere by ourselves.

After my return from the Soviet Union in 1965, I got a job in Pilsen. I again worked for Skoda, like once my father had. The company was at that time named the V.I. Lenin Works (ZVIL) and I got placed into nuclear research (Nuclear Power Station Works – ZJE). Thus I participated in the construction and commissioning of the first Czechoslovak nuclear power station, in Jaslovske Bohunice in Slovakia. I was at Skoda for only a short time, a couple of years, so I didn’t work for that long in my original field. I left in 1971, officially because I was laid off because of redundancy. I don’t think that it was due to my Jewish origin, more likely it’s got to do with 1968 5 and what followed 6. Back then the situation progressed differently at different levels, my position was cancelled and the position that was offered to me – because they had to offer me a position – was such so that I would refuse it, or so that I would at least be humiliated as much as possible. I don’t remember anymore what exactly they offered me, something like a warehouse worker, but from a university graduate’s position it was several levels down, so for workers with a basic education. Well, and when I didn’t accept it, I got dismissed. I was unemployed for a long time, about a year and a half. I even decided to take the Skoda syndicate to court, and was even partly successful. Only slightly, but successful. I charged them with unjustified dismissal, and back then I was awarded about three months’ severance pay. The court acknowledged that the dismissal really was invalid on the date that it was issued, and that it wasn’t valid until a later date. I’ve even got an official document that confirmed that I was officially unemployed, so they couldn’t even jail me for parasitism, as was the custom under Communism. Unemployment today and back then are in general “about something different”, as they say today with that ugly modern Czech.

It wasn’t unemployment of the type “lost a job”. It was of course political persecution. While today unemployment isn’t anything unthought-of, it’s a common thing, it isn’t in general demeaning, it can happen to anyone and has happened to many, or happens, back then it was almost a crime in society’s eyes. It wasn’t only about the fact that I’d lost my job, and for me it wasn’t just a job, for me it was a profession that I had myself chosen, which I considered to be a mission and a calling. Because from one day to the next, I found myself at the edge of an economic abyss. A person has to support himself somehow. I may have been alone, I wasn’t yet married, but I had to buy food, pay the rent, take the train... But the fact that I didn’t have a family was an advantage. Maybe it was my only luck, one could say that if I had one, everything would have been much harder. But even so it wasn’t anything simple. I didn’t even have parents, no one. Back then I dealt with it by working under the table for some kind people. But of course work in my field was out of the question, I helped bricklayers and so on. It’s hard to say if I thus learned something new that’s since been useful to me, probably only in a very limited way.

But then I by chance got to a little different profession, in the field of computers, and for the majority of my productive life, actually from 1971 until the end of the century, I spent among computers. That was already in Moravia. Not in Brno, but in Kyjov – I joined my future wife in Kyjov, where we live together to this day. After all, I got my job precisely thanks to her and her friends. As the saying went back then: when will life be good all over the world, well of course when everyone will have connections everywhere. I learned my new profession on the job, I never attended any computer school, everything was self-taught. We did economics calculations, that was still the era of so-called punch cards. I worked as a programmer in Hodonin, in the Computer Technology Company (PVT), which engraved itself into people’s consciousness especially during the coupon privatization of the early 1990s. I was there until 1995, then I underwent a heart operations and after recuperating I left. I worked for another several years in the same field somewhere else, in Veseli nad Moravou. Well, and then began “sweet” retirement.

How I met my wife, that’s a story. I met my future wife because of a trip to Israel. At the time I was going there to meet my one and only relative, real relative. It was my first trip to Israel, and basically also my first trip to the “West”. When I was getting ready for the trip – which was combined, by train to Greece, from Greece by ship – I got a message from one old lady from Prague that she was going on the same ship, and whether we couldn’t travel together. So I said, why not. We met in Prague at the train station, got on the train and traveled to Vienna; in Vienna we were supposed to continue on in the evening by express  - even in a sleeping car – all the way to Athens, to be more precise to the port of Piraeus. The train from Prague was arriving at Franz Joseph Bhf, the train to Greece was leaving from Süd Bhf, we had a bit of a delay and before we transferred to the other train station in Vienna, all we managed to do was to wave goodbye to the last wagon and our expensive sleeping car. And the next train wasn’t until the next day.

My fellow traveler had some friends there in Vienna, and could sleep over at their place. I wasn’t worried about where I’d sleep, I took my suitcase and went to lie down in the park. I did fall asleep beautifully on a bench, but around 4:00 a.m. someone tapped on my shoulder – a Vienna policeman – and courteously, decently but uncompromisingly sent me away. Well, I waited it out somehow, the next day got on the same train, but no longer into a sleeping car, but into a normal compartment, and in the next compartment over there was this group of interesting people. A group of Polish Jews were traveling from Warsaw to Israel and with them a black-haired nurse from Moravia, who’d left Czechoslovakia a day later. And so we met, there on that train. She was also going to Israel for the first time, to visit friends. I was a ripe old 26, she a touch older. We all traveled together, I was the only one who could mangle a bit of English, and so was their tour guide and interpreter in Greece, we slept over one more night in a harbor hotel before setting sail. The next day we then got on a ship to Haifa, and after traveling for a one and a half days, we disembarked and went our separate ways to see friends and relatives. So then we really first met, exchanged addresses and as they say, sparks flew. For some time we were friends, then we lived together, and finally we were married. we had a civil wedding, not in a synagogue.

My wife’ name is Vera, née Baderova, and is Jewish. She was born in Brno in a maternity hospital, but lived her whole life in Kyjov, if we leave out the period during the war when she was in Terezin. Her mother tongue is Czech. She’s a graduate of nursing high school, she’s worked her whole life as a nurse, initially at an ophthalmological ward and then as a scrub nurse during surgery. She’s retired now.

She had only one brother, Jirka [Jiri], who died during the war, the same as her father, Max. Only she and her mother survived. Her brother was older than she, but I don’t know exactly what year he was born, I think around 1930. He died in Auschwitz. When, that would be possible to search out in the transport documents, evidently in 1944. They transported him to Terezin in January 1943, their whole family, and he later went with his father to Auschwitz. At that time he was still a young lad, of school age. Their father was the owner of a store. Back then they called it a wholesaler’s but basically it was a store with mixed goods of all types.

The mother and daughter survived, then lived in Kyjov, and never ever moved anywhere. My wife’s first husband was also of Jewish origin. He was a career soldier, then left the army and worked as a dispatcher at CSAD (Czechoslovak Bus Lines). He then became seriously ill, he had cancer of the pancreas, and died of this disease. My wife divorced him, sometime around 1970. She’s got a son, Jiri, from that marriage. The two of us were married much later after we met. We had a simple civil wedding, with only witnesses, in 1976, after knowing each other for almost ten years.

Her son Jiri from her first marriage is actually my only son, thus my stepson. The two of us never had any children together. Jiri is of course named Süss after his own father, and got his first name in memory of his deceased uncle. He was born in Kyjov on 22nd April 1956. He’s a high school graduate, he studied at economics high school in Hodonin. He held various jobs, both in Hodonin and in Kyjov, but unfortunately the past while he’s been unemployed. As a stepson, he accepted me well, there wasn’t any problem there. There’s a 14-year age difference between us, when I married my wife he was already 20. He’s married, since 1989, and his wife is named Lenka, née Hyskova. She was born in Hodonin. She herself isn’t Jewish, but that’s not a problem. Even as a young boy, Jirka didn’t seek out partners among Jewish women, you see, he didn’t even have the opportunity, there aren’t any girls like that in our town and its surroundings. He and his wife have two children, a boy, Jan, who’s 15, and a girl, Gabriela, who’s 12.

As a family we used to go on vacations more in the winter than in the summer, mainly skiing. Now I go to the mountains only sporadically. Skiing is one of my favorite activities, both cross-country and downhill, I more or less managed to catch up in it. I also like bicycle riding. We weren’t too much into trips around the country, say on weekends, into the countryside or sightseeing. We mostly spent weekends at home. We’ve got a house, a relatively large one, with a garden – that’s actually non-stop work. Occasionally we go to the theater, but not so much to the movies. When I was in university I of course used to go to the movies, especially things that were a little exceptional, a film club and so on. And I used to go to the theater whenever possible. I studied in Prague, and our favorite stage was Semafor.

During Communism I maintained written contact with my relatives in Israel on the whole without problems. I’m sure our correspondence was monitored, but I didn’t worry about it. I don’t know of any problems stemming from it, and otherwise it didn’t worry me. I didn’t travel much to the “West”, one could say almost never. I went on one business trip to London in 1968. So there were no opportunities for problems. I of course listened to Free Europe, the English BBC broadcasts or the Voice of America 7, back then they were the only sources of independent information and by the way an excellent opportunity to learn foreign languages. I wasn’t too familiar with samizdat 8 writing, it didn’t come around to me. I never had the feeling that it was necessary to hide my Jewish origins.

When the year 1989 9 arrived, a fundamental change in our lives was the return of my wife’s house, which was former family property, confiscated by the Communists. That certainly influenced our life in a significant way, and in a good way. During the Velvet Revolution, everything was interesting, but I’ve got a rather guilty feeling that I participated in it only as a spectator. I was no longer able to find the courage and strength to participate in it. I didn’t go to any demonstrations, but that was never something that I gravitated towards. As far as employment goes, I kept working in the same place even after the revolution, and my wife didn’t change jobs either.

My adoptive parents were, as I’ve said, Catholics, but not very religiously active, more lukewarm. Their own parents, a generation back, especially living in a village, certainly must have been religious and attended church. It was unthinkable for it to be otherwise. Religion, the concept of God or so on, wasn’t even a subject of conversation in our home. Nevertheless, my adoptive parents very sincerely supported my religious upbringing, as far as they could, and I’m glad of it. They never hid my origin from me, and themselves kept close and continual contact with the Jewish community in Pilsen, and with my uncle in Israel. I used to go to Pilsen for Jewish religion lessons and I also had my bar mitzvah [bar mitzvah - literally “son of the Commandments”, a ceremony absolved by a Jewish boy that has reached the age of thirteen. In the synagogue he is first called to the Torah, and from that point onwards he is eligible to be part of a minyan, a group of at least 10 men that are allowed to pray, and has all the rights and responsibilities of a devout Jew. This day is considered to be a family holiday – Editor’s note] there. I’d say that it was very noble and considerate behavior on my parents’ part. Due to their non-religious orientation, I didn’t get the roots of upbringing the way others would have, but I’m grateful to them for making it possible for me to live in contact with the Jewish world. That’s probably the main thing. As far as my parents are concerned, my being Jewish probably didn’t have any influence on them. I don’t know why they actually supported my Jewish upbringing, whether the wishes of the Slovak Jewish family played a role, or of my uncle, who must have contacted my adoptive family very soon after the end of the war. That’s something that of course can’t be proven now, none of them can say anything anymore. Abut I think that they felt that they had – and now I’ll say it a very not nice way – that they had something sort of borrowed. A thing for which they were responsible. And with which they couldn’t do completely what they wanted, but had to respect where that thing was from, right? Be it that I’m allowed to talk like that about myself, I’d never dare to designate another human being as a thing.

Pilsen, where I used to go to the Jewish community, was about 30 kilometers from our village via this three-stage method of transportation... first on foot, then by bus, and finally by train. We used to go there for the main Jewish holidays, most certainly at least once a year. Well, and then when I was preparing for my bar mitzvah, I used to go there to study. The lessons lasted several months, and I used to go there once a week. I was of course obliged to learn to read and understand Hebrew prayer texts, but I’ll admit that I learned it primarily phonetically. And since then I’ve again successfully forgotten it. So today I don’t know Hebrew.

My participation in Jewish holidays during my childhood didn’t only take the form of my parents for example taking me to Pilsen, waiting, and then returning back the Chalupy with me. There weren’t again that many of those holidays, that was really usually only that one time a year, Yom Kippur [The Day of Atonement. The most celebrated event in the Jewish calendar. – Editor’s note]. For that holiday were the guests of the Jewish community at their expense, and were put up in at a hotel, because it of course lasted until the evening. So my parents were with me the whole time, that’s self-evident, and as guests they also participated in the celebrations.

Back then the Jewish community in Pilsen still had over a hundred members, but after the war there were only four of us children, with the age difference between the youngest and the oldest being almost 14 years. I was of course the youngest. There was for example a girl about two years older them me, they used to put us together even later, and we’re good friends to this day, though we rarely see each other. At that time I was the only boy of that age, plus an orphan, being brought up in a Gentile family. All this contributed to making the celebrations back then an utterly exceptional event. I would get tons of presents, everyone congratulated me, for a while I was like the child of the whole community. After the service in the synagogue, we’d then all go for a gala supper at a hotel, at the largest hotel in Pilsen, and as a 13-year-old boy, albeit chaperoned, I found myself in a bar for the first time. Later I didn’t absolve any additional Jewish upbringing, that which I know and feel is from my own studies, listening and watching.

I don’t know anything about the religious behavior of my real parents. It’s of course hard to judge from such a distance and through others. My uncle, who survived, was a very deeply religious, Orthodox Jew, however whether from the very beginning or only later, that I don’t know. Both aunts that arrived in Israel still before the war, were on the contrary very liberal, I’d say. And their husbands as well. So both forms of approach to religion exist or existed in our family.

Since childhood, Yom Kippur has been among my favorite holidays, and to this day it’s for me the most significant of all Jewish holidays. But favorite is perhaps not the right expression. It’s the biggest holiday, the main holiday, sort of the innermost one. It’s a day where you do an annual balancing of deeds, when the believer should come to terms with his friends as well as those others. It’s a day of fasting, a day of contemplation and all-day prayers. So that’s why it’s the biggest holiday. That’s how it’s decreed by the Torah. And when I take it personally, it was so unforgettable precisely because it was so demanding. So from this standpoint it was the first and only one with which I became familiar in early childhood. The one I observed, or at least tried to observe. I had this awareness that it was necessary, that it was proper, that it was right. The rest is this maybe yes, maybe no. But this here for sure yes. For example, already from childhood I observed the prescribed fast. And at first sight that looked very difficult, but on second sight already as a child I had this feeling that I was doing the right thing. And surprisingly, which of course I realized only later, it’s also healthy.

Today my wife and I observe the main Jewish holidays, sometimes we also go to synagogue. Most certainly, without any sort of doubt, the most important for us is the celebration of the Jewish New Year [Rosh Hashanah] and the holiday of atonement [Yom Kippur]. We also celebrate the holiday of crossing, Passover. But in first place I put the holiday of atonement, the traditional time of fasting. The nature of the others is of more joyous holidays, they can but don’t have to be observed, now I’m talking for our family. We’re aware of them, but it doesn’t mean that we’d have to do something special right on that day. We don’t observe the feast of lights, Chanukkah, much in our family, but try to pass its tradition on to the next generation, to our grandchildren, but only moderately, soberly. We don’t observe Christian holidays, though we do accept a brief invitation for Christmas Eve because of the grandchildren.

Our son Jiri is another step further along in the sense of more tolerant, more liberal behavior, so he celebrates holidays even much less. On his own, from his own impetus, I’d say, he doesn’t celebrate anything, plus his wife isn’t Jewish. But while his grandma and grandpa were still alive, the traditions were observed more. We don’t observe kosher regulations in any particular fashion, but as far as his grandparents were concerned, they tried to not commit significant offences. In short, let’s say that pork wasn’t served. So our son Jiri was brought up in a Jewish manner when possible. He’s circumcised, had a bar mitzvah. And for the High Holidays the family regularly visited the synagogue. Grandma, my wife’s mother, who after the war remarried and again married a Jew, a devout Jew, she kept the Sabbath relatively strictly. My wife and I less so, I’d say almost not at all.

Our grandchildren are also aware of their Jewish origins, they of course know about them. They both very much like to for example come here to the Jewish community, but it’s more got to do with the fact that they feel a certain importance here, that their grandfather works here and so on. They also come here during the biggest holidays and for memorial ceremonies. I’ve never had a problem due to my Jewish origin. People already knew about it in elementary school, but no one ever looked at me in any negative way. Neither in school nor at work.

Another fundamental change that the revolution brought, this time as far as being Jewish is concerned, was that I was pulled into being a functionary and later also elected president of the community in Brno. I myself would never have thought, not even in my wildest dreams, that something like that could happen. I was of course always in contact with the Brno Jewish community here, but as a regular member, more on the passive side. Well, and back then the head cantor, still alive at the time, the recently deceased Mr. Arnost Neufeld, approached new, until then “unused” functionary cadres, and so invited me to do this work. At the complete beginning I began helping during last farewells for our members, ritual cleansing [the tahara ceremony, which is by the way one of the most honorable “mitzvot”, obligations in Jewish society – Editor’s note], funeral oration, and similar things. Thus I slowly “sunk in my claws” and in the end I ended up with everything.

I commenced this type of public service in 1996, and do it to this day. I didn’t run directly for the post of president, according to our rules a body is elected, that means a group of functionaries called the presidium, and then it picks a president from among itself. I ran for the presidium voluntarily, and more than anything else let myself be talked into the function, there wasn’t and isn’t any excess of candidates, which is too bad. How did they convince me? I don’t know. Objectively, though considerably immodestly put – I was probably the most suitable from the existing “portfolio”. So I agreed, with a heavy heart, but agreed.

Well, and when they elected me in the next electoral period as well, I said that it’s the last time, that if I was to be elected one more time, I’d consider it to be a personal failure, that I didn’t manage to find and prepare a suitable successor. This I more or less adhered to, even though I was still “left with” the function of vice-president. I was president for 8 years before that. My family didn’t look at my presidency very positively, and doesn’t. For one for reasons of time, thanks to it I’m very often away from home and that at the most varied times, and for another my wife has a markedly different opinion from me on a number of things in the affairs of the Jewish community.

I myself felt already back then, and feel to this day, that my work at the Jewish community is a bit like the repayment of an old debt. But it’s hard for me to evaluate something myself. What’s more, it’s also a certain enrichment for me. Perhaps primarily in that a person sees at least some sort if tiny furrow plowed behind him. That yes, let that be my reward. But it’s terribly hard, hard because working with people is hard. And a person perceives that only once when he’s in an executive function and has to make decisions. And he’s got to decide against this person and for this one, and next time the other way around. Truly, especially complex decisions? Certainly there were. And not in all of them am I convinced that I decided correctly. But there’s another thing that’s worse than to decide incorrectly, and that’s to not decide at all.

I visited Israel several times. I was there twice, thrice to see my family, once I stayed with my wife with friends, once I was there on business. Everything in Israel captivated me. Especially on my first visit. And that was right upon entering the harbor, where the passport official addressed me in flawless Czech: “Welcome, Mr. Weber, and you’ll remain here with us, won’t you?” None of my relatives in Israel of course spoke any Czech. But I didn’t experience any long questioning at the border back then, that didn’t exist there yet, in 1966 it as something completely different than today. And then, you know, a young person, who was in the “West” for the first time, gaped with eyes wide open at everything. At gas stations, at roads, at beverages, at advertisements, at nightlife, at food, at whatever. Everything was new, everything was unsoiled, un-shabby, everything was different. I of course also saw the main Israeli sights, I took some tours, I was taken somewhere by one aunt, somewhere by another. Including the Dead Sea, Masada, Eilat, Jerusalem, that especially. It’s hard to say if something there took me aback or if I didn’t like something, definitely positive impressions were the rule during my first visit.

During my first visit I considered very seriously whether I should stay in Israel, but I didn’t find the courage. Mainly I was afraid of the language barrier. Not even later, already with my wife, who doesn’t have relatives there but friends, did we consider it.

My relationship with Israel is of course highly emotional and positive, it’s my second homeland, even though I’ve never lived there. As far as the current political situation is concerned, it’s of course a somewhat different question, that certainly isn’t something open and shut. Like every state, Israel can be criticized, not everything is exemplary there. But as far as I know, none of my relatives had serious problems, neither my uncle not my aunts.

Glossary:

Iosif Gotlib

Date of interview: October 2003
Interviewer: Ella Levitskaya

Iosif Gotlib lives in a three-bedroom apartment in a new district of Lvov. His wife Antonina, daughter Lilia and Lilia’s son Anton, their grandson, live with him. They have standard 1970s style furniture in their apartment. One can tell that they enjoy doing things with their own hands: they’ve taken a lot of effort to make their dwelling comfortable and cozy. They did repairs in their apartment and Iosif’s wife Antonina placed her embroidery patterns on the walls. Iosif made shelves and stands for pot plants. Their apartment is very clean and bright. There are many pot plants and there are photographs of Iosif and his wife, their children and grandchildren on the walls. Iosif is a man of average height, thin. He was ill and it affected his speech, but he willingly agreed to give this interview and said a lot about his life and family. Although he doesn’t go out, he takes a vivid interest in everything happening around him.  He reads a lot and likes to discuss what he has read.  

I didn’t know my father’s parents or any members of his family. Since my father’s patronymic was Mikhailovich [the customary polite address in Russian is by first and patronymic name, which consists of one’s father’s name and a suffix: –ovna for women and –ovich for men], I can guess that my paternal grandfather’s name was Moishe which is Mikhail in Russian [common name] 1. I don’t know anything about my grandmother. My father Abram Gotlib was born in the town of Sudhza [250 km from Moscow] Kursk province in Russia in 1888. All I know about my father’s childhood or youth is that he became an orphan young. Somehow he moved to St. Petersburg where he entered the medical Faculty of the university. I don’t know where my father studied before he entered the university.  Although my father was a Jew, and at that time there was a Jewish admission [five percent] quota 2 in Russian higher educational institutions, my father was admitted. My father was a very talented and educated man. He knew 5 European languages: English, French, German, Italian and Romanian; he could draw well and play the piano. After finishing his studies he was trained in a hospital for a year where he obtained qualifications as a surgeon. My father worked in this hospital until the beginning of World War I. When Russia entered the war my father was recruited to the tsarist army. He was a surgeon in a frontline hospital.

I know a little bit more about my mother’s family. My maternal grandfather David Levandovskiy and grandmother whose name I don’t know lived in Voyutichi village in 13 km from Sambor town of Lvov region [600 km from Kiev], in the Russian Empire. I don’t know their birth date or place. I remember a portrait of grandfather David that we had at home. My grandfather had a big gray beard and had a black suit and yarmulka on. I remember my grandmother a little. She was short, fat and very kind. She spoke drawlingly and always smiled and wore long dark clothing and a black kerchief. She has a silk shawl with fringes that she wore to the synagogue. The grandparents spoke Yiddish at home, but they all knew Polish and Russian.  My mother told me that her parents were religious. They always celebrated Sabbath and Jewish holidays at home. My grandfather went to the synagogue on Saturday and Jewish holidays and my grandmother only went there on Jewish holidays.

My grandfather was a cabinetmaker and my grandmother was a housewife, as was customary with patriarchal Jewish families. Their children were born in Voyutichi. Haim was an older son and then Shymon was born. I don’t know their dates of birth. My mother Dora was born in 1896, and her younger brother Leizer was born in 1898. My mother was still a child when the family moved to Lvov [510 km from Kiev]. It’s hard to say why they decided to move. My mother told me that there was no anti-Semitism at the time when she was young. It appeared after World War I when even Jewish pogroms in Russia 3 happened, but Lvov was a big town and there were no pogroms in it.  They happened in smaller towns where they were not afraid of facing any resistance. In Lvov there were no national conflicts. There were synagogues and Jewish schools. Jews also owned trade. There were Jewish teachers, doctors and lawyers, but of course, the majority of the Jewish population were poor craftsmen.

My maternal grandparents rented an apartment from a Jewish owner in Lvov. He owned a 4-storied house that he leased. He also owned a store on the first floor of this house. The owner and his family lived on the 2nd floor and had tenants in remaining apartments. There was a small hut in the yard of this house that my grandfather also rented from him and had his carpenter shop there. They manufactured furniture, doors and window frames in this shop. My grandfather had his shop closed on Saturday. His two older sons also worked with him. Leizer, the youngest son, died during flu epidemic in 1913. Grandfather David died in 1915. They were buried in the Jewish cemetery in Lvov. After grandfather died his sons inherited his shop.  

My mother’s brothers studied in a Polish school and cheder. My mother also finished 8 grades of a polish school. Girls didn’t go to cheder and my grandfather made arrangements with a melamed to give my mother classes at home. He came every other days and taught my mother to read and write in Yiddish and read in Hebrew and taught her prayers. My mother was very talented and wanted to continue her education, but there were very limited opportunities for women at that time. There was a choice of going to Froebel school 4 training governesses or becoming a medical nurse. After finishing school my mother went to study at 1-year school of medical nurses in Lvov. After finishing this school in 1915 she and other graduates were sent to a hospital at the front where my future parents met. They worked in the same hospital. They fell in love with each other and got married in 1917. They didn’t have a Jewish wedding, but registered their marriage. When in 1917 a revolution 5 took place in Russia and the Russian Empire fell apart, new borders were established. The Western Ukraine was annexed to Poland 6. There was famine and war in Russia. My mother’s family lived in Poland and my mother convinced him to move to her mother in Poland.

After they moved to Poland my father’s life was hard. Poland didn’t recognize his Russian doctor’s diploma. He had to take exams in polish, but he didn’t know it. He tried to work illegally in Lvov, but it was dangerous.  My parents moved to Biskovichi village Sambor district Lvov region [580 km from Kiev] also belonging to Poland. My mother’s family helped them with money, and they bought a house. My father worked as a veterinary. My mother didn’t work after getting married.  Their first baby David was born in 1917. He was named after my mother’s father. In 1919 my older sister Sima was born. After Sima Moishe, named after my father’s father, was born in 1921. I was born in November 1922 and named Iosif-Leizer. My sister Haya was born in 1925. Shmil was born in 1928, and in 1930 Eshiye, the youngest boy, was born.

Our house was rather big. It was built from thick beams faced with airbricks. It was divided into two parts. There was a fore room and there was a door to two small rooms serving as my father’s veterinary office. The living quarters were on the right. There were four rooms: my parents’ bedroom, boys’ room, girls’ room and a living room. There was a big kitchen where we had meals on weekdays. On Sabbath and Jewish holidays we had meals in the living room. There was a wood stoked stove in the kitchen. It heated the kitchen and my mother cooked on it. There were smaller heating stoves in the rooms. We had household chores to do. However small we were, we fetched water, sawed wood and the girls washed dishes and cleaned the house. There was a small orchard in the backyard, few trees, a woodshed, a toilet and a small well. My father worked from morning till night. Sometimes his customers brought their animals to him and sometimes he had to go examine them at their places. Villagers mostly paid him with food products. My mother often helped my father in his office.

My parents were religious. My mother and father observed Jewish traditions. We always celebrated Sabbath at home. My mother baked challahs on Friday morning and cooked food for two days. She put cholnt with meat, beans and potatoes and a big pot with two big chickens boiling in it into the stove. In the evening my mother lit candles and she prayed, then father blessed the meal and we sat down to dinner. My father didn’t work on Saturday. He read the Torah and told us, kids, stories about Jewish life and Jewish religion. We spoke Yiddish and Polish at home. There was no synagogue in Biskovichi. There were three other Jewish family in the village besides us. The rest of the population was Polish, Ukrainian and there were few Russians. Neighbors got along well and helped each other. On Saturday our polish neighbor came to stoke our stove, boil water for tea, heat food and light the lamps. My mother always gave her some money or some treatments. On Jewish holidays another neighbor rode my mother and father on his wagon to the synagogue in Sambor in 8 km from Biskovichi. Our neighbor took care of us, children.

I remember when my father had to do his job as a surgeon. There was no doctor or assistant doctor in Biskovichi. A midwife came to help with childbirth. She witnessed almost all children of Biskovichi born to this world. There was a wealthy Polish villager in Biskovichi, I don’t remember his name now. He had 250 cows, farm fields and a big forest area. His wife had problems at labor and the midwife couldn’t do anything to help her. The woman was dying and this farmer came to ask my father for help. My father refused at first saying that he had no right to operate on her, but the farmer begged him to rescue his wife and baby and my father agreed. My father warned him that if authorities heard about it he would have to pay a big fine and the villager promised that he would pay it if it came to it.  My father went to his home and then he sent for mother. They made Cesarean section and the woman and her baby survived.  They named this boy Kazimir and he became a close friend of my younger sister Haya and brother Shmil. His father was grateful to my father. Every winter he supported our family with vegetables, flour and meat. 

My mother’s distant relatives Shpringers lived in Sambor. They didn’t have children and convinced my parents to let them adopt their older son David. David moved in with them and they gave him the last name of Gotlib-Shpringer. My brother David lived with his adoptive parents and occasionally visited us. 

There was one 4-year Polish school in Biskovichi. My older sister Sima and brother Moishe went to study there. I also went to this school in 1929. I was doing well at school. I was the only Jew in my class, but I didn’t face any bad attitudes due to my nationality. I had few Jewish, Polish and Russian friends. We didn’t think about who was of what nationality. 

In 1930 there was a big fire in Biskovichi. Few houses in our street including our house burnt down.  Our neighbors offered us to live in their houses while my father was to build a house for us, but my father decided otherwise. My father received compensation from the municipality for his burnt house and managed to buy a house in Sambor for this money. Sambor was a small town, but it seemed huge to me compared to Biskovichi. The majority of population was Jewish, but there was also Polish, Russian and Ukrainian population. There were few synagogues, Jewish schools and even a Jewish grammar school. Jews mostly dealt in trade and craftsmanship in Sambor. They owned all stores and all shoemakers, fur dealers, tailors, joiners and barbers were also Jews. Jews mainly resided in the center of the town. Land was more expensive in the center and the houses stood very close to one another. My father bought a house in the central street. It was a brick house with 3 rooms and a kitchen. My parents lived in one room, sons in another and the third room was for the girls. There was a big kitchen with a storeroom and a spacious fore room. There was only space for a small wood shed in the yard. There were wood stoked stoves and a well in a nearby street. 

After we moved to Sambor it was difficult for my father to find a job. Veterinarians were not in such big demand in town as they were in a village and on the other hand, my father was not allowed to work as a doctor.  He was good at drawing and woodcarving and he chose to do this to earn his living. My father carved wood sculptures. He didn’t learn carving anywhere before, but he somehow happened to do it well. Wealthier people used to decorate their gardens with them. He also made stucco decorations on ceilings and building facades. All of a sudden his works happened to be in demand and my father began to earn a lot. My mother began to work as well. She was a very good cook and began to do this to earn her living. She cooked at weddings or other celebrations in wealthy families. Of course, it had to be kosher food and her clients wanted to be sure that their cook followed kashrut at home. My mother followed kashrut strictly. She did not only have special dishes for meat and milk products, but also, plates, spoons and even dish wash sponges for meat and dairy products. My mother soon became a very popular cook in Sambor and she even had to refuse from orders since she was busy in other houses on those days when they wanted her to cook in their houses. Cooking usually took a week before a party. Mother baked strudels, honey cookies and other pastries and one day before a party she cooked other dishes.  My mother had two Jewish assistant ladies preparing food products for cooking and washing utensils. My mother did the cooking herself, she didn’t let anyone else to do it. She had a notebook where she put her orders for months ahead.

At home my sisters were helping mother with cooking. My mother taught Sima and Haya everything she knew herself. She said the girls would always be able to earn their living if need be. Of course, we began to have a wealthier life. Shortly after she went to work, my mother bought a piano that she had long dreamed about. She had wonderful hearing. She didn’t know notes, but she played tunes by ear. I remember that we gathered in our parents’ room on Saturday and sang Jewish songs that we knew many and my mother accompanied for us and sang too. Later my parents bought my older brother Moishe an accordion and he often played with my mother. Later he began to teach me to play. Our family was very close and I often recall those happy hours.  

My father went to the synagogue in our street on Saturdays and Jewish holidays. It was a small synagogue and there was no room for women in it. The boys went to the synagogue with our father after they turned 7, it was a custom in Sambor that children started going to the synagogue at this age. My father didn’t have a beard or payes. He only had small moustache.  He wore a hat to go out and a yarmulka to the synagogue. He put it on inside the synagogue and they took it off to go home. We, boys, also took our yarmulka to the synagogue and didn’t have our head covered elsewhere. Of course, when it was cold we wore caps or hats. I remember that my older brother and I usually went to play football with other boys after the synagogue. My mother went to a bigger synagogue in the neighboring street also on Sabbath and holidays. My mother didn’t take her daughters with her. My mother didn’t wear a wig. She had a long plait. When my mother went out she clipped it on the back of her head. My mother only wore a kerchief to go to the synagogue and at home on Sabbath or holidays. 

We celebrated Sabbath and Jewish holidays at home. Before Pesach we cleaned the house. Everything was shining with cleanness. No breadcrumbs were to be found anywhere. After the cleaning all breadcrumbs or pieces of bread were taken to the yard to be burnt. We also took away our everyday kitchen utensils and took down a box with special Pesach dishes from the attic. There was crockery and kitchen utensils – casseroles and frying pans - stored in the box. My mother also kept her dishes for making matzah separately. She had a bowl for dough for matzah, a rolling pin and even a wheel to make holes on matzah.  My mother baked herself. Sometimes our neighbors joined her and they made matzah for together for their families. My mother always cooked a lot before holidays. She only baked her pastries from matzah flour. My older brother and I took turns to crash matzah in a copper mortar and then sieved it. My mother made strudels, honey cakes and Pesach cookies with raisins from sieved matzah. Mother always made chicken broth with dumplings from matzah flour, a chicken neck stuffed with fried flour and chicken liver and gefilte fish at Pesach. I’ve never tried such delicious forshmak as my mother made. There was a white tablecloth with embroidered lions and quotes from the Torah on it for seder at Pesach. In the evening the family got together for seder. My father sat at the head of the table. He recited a prayer and then broke a piece of matzah into three pieces and put away the middle part. It was called afikoman and we had it to finish the seder. One of the children had to find the afikoman and give it back to the father for a redemption. When I did it I asked my father sweets or toys in return. Then I asked him traditional four questions in Hebrew. My father answered me. The front door was open to let Prophet Elijah 7 in. There was a big wine glass with wine for him on the table. We bought wine for Pesach at the synagogue, red and very sweet. During seder each of us had to drink four glasses of wine. Children drank wine from small glasses. After answering questions my father recited a prayer and we sang Pesach songs. Nobody went to bed until seder was over. Younger children happened to fall asleep sitting at the table.  My mother or father didn’t work through 8 days of Pesach. We visited our parents’ acquaintances and they visited us.  

At Rosh Hashanah my parents went to the synagogue in the morning. In the morning my mother put a dish with apple pieces and a bowl of honey. When our parents came back from the synagogue we dipped apples in honey and ate them. There was Yom Kippur 10 days later. On this day children above 8 years of age had to fast from the morning till the lunch time. After bar mitzvah we fasted all day long. A day before my mother made a hearty dinner. We had to finish our meal before the first star when fasting began. Frankly, I never fasted.  Of course, my parents didn’t know about it since I didn’t eat at home. There was a Ukrainian family living nearby and the boys from this family were my friends.  During the fast I ran to their house and they gave me something to eat. My parents stayed at the synagogue a whole day on Yom Kippur.  They came back home in the evening and we sat down to a festive dinner.

On Sukkot my father made a sukkah in the backyard. There was a table inside and we prayed and had meals only in the sukkah. I also had two other favorite holidays: Chanukkah and Purim. On Chanukkah all our visitors gave children some money. My parents had many acquaintances and before evening I collected quite a sufficient sum. I spent this money buying sugar candy and ergots. There were dark brown hard and very sweet ergots sold in stores. We liked chewing them and my sisters made necklaces from their seeds. Purim was a merry holiday. There were performers in costumes coming to houses. My mother made lots of pastries at Purim.  There was a tradition to take pastries to relatives and neighbors and children were running around with trays of treatments and they brought us theirs.  In every house we went we got something sweets or some coins in return.

In Sambor we also went to a Polish school. My brother and I studied at school and cheder. There were religion classes at school for Catholic children. Their teacher was a Roman Catholic priest.  Children with different faith could go home. I had a good voice and ear and I sang in a school choir.  After finishing school Sima and Moishe went to a Jewish grammar school and so did I later. My parents had to pay for the grammar school, but they could afford such expenses at that time. We studied all general subjects in Yiddish. We had two religious classes twice a week. A rabbi came to conduct these classes. Some children skipped classes of religion. It was allowed and in their school records book they had a dash instead of a mark for this class.  It didn’t take me long to understand that it was more fun to play football than sit in class and I began to skip these classes along with other children. Of course, my parents didn’t know about it. I had all excellent marks in all other subjects. 

I turned 13 in 1935 and became of age. I had a bar mitzvah at the synagogue that my father attended. A melamed from the cheder prepared me for bar mitzvah. I don’t remember any details, but I remember that on Saturday after my birthday I went to the Torah stand at the synagogue and read a section from the Torah, there is a special section for a boy to read on his bar mitzvah. On this day I had a tallit on for the first time in my life. It was quite a ceremony and everybody greeted me. My father brought a bottle of vodka and lekakh to the synagogue and after bar mitzvah the attendants enjoyed the treatments. In the evening my mother arranged a special dinner for the occasion. My mother’s brothers came from Lvov. They visited us on almost all Jewish holidays. Haim was married and had two sons, a little older than me. He always came with his family. My cousins and I were friends. Shymon didn’t have a family.  

Sometimes we visited my mother’s relatives in Lvov. In 1936 my grandmother, my mother’s mother died. She was buried near my grandfather according to the Jewish tradition in the Jewish cemetery. I remember that on my grandmother’s funeral a woman approached my mother and me and tore up our clothes. I didn’t understand why she did this and my mother explained that it was a sign of the mourning. Haim, an older son, recited the Kaddish at the funeral. I don’t know whether any of my mother’s brothers recited Kaddish or sat shivah after grandmother, but we went home. My mother’s brother Haim perished tragically in an accident in 1940. He was buried near his parents. Shymon died of typhus in evacuation in the 1940s. After his death I lost contact with Shymon’s family.

In 1937 our quiet family life came to an end. My father was making stucco molding on the facade of a building and fell from scaffolds. He had a severe cranium injury. He was taken to hospital and after he recovered his doctors didn’t allow him to continue doing any physical works, particularly working on elevation. My father returned home, but he couldn’t work any more. He suffered from headaches and dizziness. My mother was the only breadwinner in the family. We were hard up and Moishe had to quit grammar school. Moishe became an apprentice in a railcar depot and I became an apprentice of a joiner. I studied 2 years and in 1939 I was to take my specialty exam and obtain a certificate of qualification, but this didn’t happen after the fascist Germany attacked Poland. In August 1939 German troops came to Poland and the Great Patriotic War 8 began. My older brother David Gotlib-Shpringer was mobilized to the army.  

Before German intervention there was no anti-Semitism in Poland. There were routinely incidents, but they were rare. We didn’t see Germans in Sambor. We read in newspapers and heard on the radio about intervention of Soviet troops. We had a radio at home. By the way, there were newspapers issued during the war. Of course, they were not delivered to people’s homes, but they were sold at post offices. We didn’t know anything about the Soviet Union before. When Soviet troops liberated Poland from fascists Sambor and Lvov districts were annexed to the USSR [annexation of Eastern Poland]. They became a part of the Ukrainian SSR. We were very happy about it. We thought that the USSR was a country of justice and equal possibilities for all nations and that it was a country where there was no anti-Semitism. There were many newcomers from the USSR. They were holding high official posts. The Russian language was introduced everywhere and it took me no time to pick it up. I liked Soviet girls very much. I remember once telling my mother that I would only marry a Russian girl and she jokingly threatened me with her rolling pin. Soviet authorities began their struggle against religion 9. They began to close temples of all religions and conduct anti-religious propaganda. Moishe and I became convinced atheists and my mother and father were distressed by it. They kept observing Jewish traditions and we were telling them that they were holding to vestige of the past.  

During the Soviet regime private shops became the property of the state. The owner of the joiner shop where I was an apprentice was also taken away from my master. I failed too obtain my certificate of qualification.  However, the railroad depot of Sambor employed me as a joiner. In the first months of my employment I joined Komsomol  10.  There was a Jewish chief of the training department of the depot. His surname was Shluze. He suggested that I attended training classes for locomotive operators after work in the evening. I studied there 6 months and I was a successful trainee. I had a medical examination and there were no restrictions. I passed all exams and obtained a certificate of qualification to work as assistant locomotive operator of freight and passenger trains. I took my first trip in June 1940. Since then I worked as assistant locomotive operator and I earned well. My older brother Moishe worked as track foreman in this same depot. The younger children went to school.  Since Moishe and I went to work the material situation in our family improved.  

I could play few musical instruments: piano, accordion, saxophone. I took part in an amateur club of the Sambor depot. There was a brass orchestra that often performed at concerts. I was a saxophone player, a dancer, master of ceremonies and a soloist singer. So I went on trips according to the schedule to be able to attend rehearsals. In January 1941 our orchestra went to a contest of amateur performers in Moscow. After a concert organizers of this contest approached me and offered to move to Moscow and join the Lazar Kaganovich  11 ensemble. They promised that I would be able to obtain a certificate of locomotive operator in Moscow. I said I had to think it over and talk about it at home. When I came to Sambor and told my mother about this offer she asked me to work in Sambor till my younger sister and brothers finished school. The family needed my earnings. I agreed with my mother and wrote to Moscow that I would join them a couple of years later. 

At 6 o’clock in the morning of 22 June 1941 I was to take a trip to Germany as an assistant locomotive operator. I came to the depot at 5 o’clock in the morning to obtain documents and do the final inspection of the locomotive before departure. I was surprised that there were no lights in the depot and there were many people in military uniforms  on the platform. The depot radio announced that all depot employees had to stay in the depot and if they left it they would be executed.  I didn’t understand what happened. At about 10 o’clock one of militaries announced that Germany attacked the Soviet Union without an announcement and that we were at war. I climbed my locomotive and saw another operator incinerating his documents: a Party membership card, certificate and something else. Then we were ordered to drive the locomotive to a train. When we drove there I saw that the train consisted of platforms for cattle transportation with hastily made plank sides and roofs. There were women and children crowding on the platform. It turned out that we were to evacuate families of the Harrison of Sambor. We headed Stryi and then Gusiatin. The train was bombed on the way, but it wasn’t damaged, fortunately. We stopped in Gusiatin for passengers to get water and food and members of the locomotive crew could rest. I fell asleep and when I woke up I saw that the locomotive operator was dead. He was killed with a shell splinter. There was no replacement operator available in the depot in Gusiatin. They provided an assistant and I had to drive the locomotive. We reached Kharkov [430 km from Kiev], our point of destination. Went to the depot office to get a job task. There was a military sitting there. He looked at my documents and gave me an application form to fill up. I wrote in this form that I studied German in a grammar school and when he saw it he told me to wait aside. There were few others in the group waiting. We boarded a truck and it left. We had no idea where we were going. We drove for few days. We were taken to a camp where they took us to take a bath and then we were given military uniforms. We didn’t know where the camp was located. Only later it turned out that it was in Moscow region. Few days we learned to shoot and crawl and studied service regulations. Then we were distributed to military units. I joined an intelligence unit as an interpreter, my major duty was to interpret interrogation of German captives. The regiment was deployed near Moscow. This was September 1941. There were no actions near Moscow and we moved to Byelorussia. I went scouting with the unit several times.

We lived in trenches for the most part. We excavated wider and deeper trenches and placed planks on top. We had branches of the ground floors and slept on our overcoats. Of course, these were unbearable conditions. Everything was difficult: washing and even combing. Combs and razors broke and there was nowhere to get new ones. We shaved with sharp blades or knives: whatever we had. For this reason many frontline men grew beards and moustache, though the service regulations didn’t allow it. In a short time we all got lice.  There were happy moments when we could stay in village  houses and got an opportunity to wash and put ourselves in order. There were no men, only elderly omen, in villages. All men of 18 through 50 years of age were at the front. Village women sympathized with us and gave us better food, though they didn’t have enough either. We could wash in a public bathroom when there was one in villages, but unfortunately, it didn’t happen often. 

There was a field kitchen moving with our regiment. Food product supplies were delivered from the rear. There were delays during combat action, but then we had dried bread and tinned meat.  It was hard for smokers. There were delays with tobacco delivery and then they smoked dry leaves and dried rind.  Tobacco served as currency: one could exchange anything for it. 

I didn’t stay long at the front. In January 1942 I was wounded in my arm and head. Our regiment medical unit provided first aid and then sent me to a rear hospital in Karaganda, Kazakhstan, in 2500 km from home, where I stayed for almost two months. When I was released from hospital I went to a military registry office to request them to send me back to my unit. The military commandant looked at my documents and said that there was a railroad crew formed in Karaganda and  that he was sending me there. There were 3 columns formed and I joined the 28th locomotive column. There were 10-15 crews in each column, 12 members in each: 2 locomotive operators, 2 assistants, 2 stokers, 2 chiefs, 2 escort men, 2 foremen: those were 2 crews.  We worked two shifts on trips: one crew taking a rest, another one working. There was a railcar carriage for crews to take a rest. There were plank beds and an iron stove where we could make something to eat. Chiefs and escort members were officers and the rest were privates. We hauled military force and military loads. We drove at night to avoid raids. When we transported weapons, especially rockets for ‘Katyusha’ units [Editor’s note: The Katyusha Rocket ‘Multiple Rocket Launcher’ BM-21], we attached those shipments in the middle of a train so that Germans couldn’t recognize their location. We hauled people, tanks and planes – anything. As a rule our destination points were near the frontline so that people or equipment could reach it promptly. There were frequent air raids. Almost in every trip there were losses of staff: crewmembers were wounded or killed. We looked death in the eyes every day. Of course, it was scaring, but not at work. During the shift I was calm and concentrated. 

Only during my short service in the intelligence unit I didn’t face any anti-Semitism. When I was in the column they often called me zhyd [Editor’s note: ‘Zhydy’ (kike) – abusive nickname of Jews in the Soviet Union] in my absence or even looking me in my eyes. At first it was a shock for me and I tried to hit the counterpart, but then I tried to explain that it wasn’t nationality that mattered I don’t know which of these worked, but I didn’t suffer abuse again. But who knows what they were saying when I wasn’t there… They also awarded Jews so reluctantly and only when they couldn’t help doing it.

In 1944 I submitted my application to the Communist Party. Two locomotive operators of our column gave me recommendations. There was one-year term of candidateship before they admitted to the Party. I believed that to be a Party member was an honorable and responsible thing and that a communist had to be an example for all. 

In March 1945 we already began to drive trains in the direction of Germany.  In late March 1945 our crew was awarded with orders. A locomotive operator of my crew was awarded an Order of the great Patriotic war of the 1st grade and I was awarded the same order of the 2nd grade.  I was also awarded medals ‘For Courage’ for fighting for various towns. [Editor’s note: There are orders and medals awarded to him for his combat deeds and labor achievements on his jacket, including the Order of Great Patriotic War, Order of Glory, medal for Defense of Stalingrad.]

In late April 1945 our train was running in the vicinity of Berlin, about 30 km.  We didn’t reach Berlin, though. I remember a funny incident  at a big station. A Soviet colonel came to the train and asked for a locomotive operator. I responded and he asked me to follow him. We came to the station and I saw a beautiful shining car there. This colonel said: ‘Start this car’ and I replied that I was a locomotive operator, not a car driver. He grew mad, called me stupid and told me to go away.  He thought that everything that could move operated in the same way.

I met my wife in this locomotive column. In late 1944 our column was stationed in Nida, a Byelorussian town. Many girls came to work in the depot at Komsomol assignment. They sent a young girl from Pskov to work as a stoker with me.  Antonina Fomina was born in Pskov in 1926. Her parents were farmers. Antonina had 3 brothers and 2 sisters. She was very industrious with her work. At first I didn’t take much notice of her. Later she told me that she noted my accuracy. Some operators had their cabin dirty or there was coal near the stove, but they didn’t care. I liked to keep my work place clean and orderly and then it felt better to work. I shaved every day and washed my uniform. She liked it and took a closer look at me. I was seeing Galina, a Jewish girl working in the depot. We went for walks and went dancing at he club. Once we went dancing and Galina refused to dance with me saying that she was tired, but almost right away she went for a dance with another guy. Of course, I felt hurt and told her that we would not be meeting any more. She jerked at me angrily: ‘Maybe you’ll marry your stoker girl?’ I replied: ‘That’s a good idea of yours!’ It was a joke then, but I took a closer look at Galina: she was a nice girl.  Hardworking and pretty and I could see that she liked me. I invited Antonina to dance and then we began to take walks in the town after work. Shortly afterward I asked Antonina to be my wife. Since we were both assigned as military we had to obtain permission of chief of headquarters Stepanov and  column commissar Natanin to get married. They signed our request and on 12 January 1945 we went to a registry office in Grodno, the nearest Byelorussian town where we got married. We had a wedding party at our work. There were tables set in the dining hall and chief of the column made us a wedding gift: few bottles of vodka. There was another gift: we were allowed 10 days of leave.

In the middle of 1944 I met with my family. I didn’t even know whether they were alive before. From Sambor they evacuated to the Ural and returned to our house after liberation of Sambor. My older brother David perished at the front in 1943 and the rest of my family survived. My parents couldn’t even imagine that I would marry a non-Jewish girl. Of course, I told my mother that I had my wife to meet her. My mother asked me to not tell my father that I got married. Even my sisters and brothers told me off for marrying a non-Jewish girl. I told them that I wouldn’t give up my wife for anybody. My future life showed me that I was right.  When they met Antonina they got to liking her, even my mother. My father never knew that Antonina was my wife, he thought that she was just my friend. We stayed few days with them and then left for our unit.

We were near Berlin on Victory Day 12. Everybody was happy that this terrible war was over. People greeted and hugged one another. There were fireworks in the evening and orchestras playing in squares and streets.  My wife and I were looking forward to demobilization, but we were told that our column was staying in Germany. We transported the military, military shipments and food.  Only in October 1945 our column returned to Nida in Byelorussia. Only 19 of 300 who were initially in our column survived. We were awarded Stalin’s award letters. In this letter they thanked us for outstanding labor during the war on Stalin’s behalf and wished us success in peaceful labor. 

I demobilized in early 1946. Railroad men from the Baltic Republics often came to Nida and they invited young locomotive operators to come to work there. They promised us lodging and good salaries, but I wanted to go back to Sambor where my family was. I didn’t know that my parents and siblings emigrated to Israel in late 1945. Only my older brother Moishe stayed in Sambor. But we didn’t meet with him: Moishe perished in early 1946. I didn’t know about it for a long time. They wrote me, but I didn’t receive their letter. My wife and I arrived at Sambor and went to my house: and there were strangers there.  They told me that my family moved out. I felt distressed and bitter about it. I didn’t know that I could claim my house to be returned to me and nobody told me there was this opportunity. My wife and I were accommodated in the hostel of the railroad depot. I went to work there as a locomotive operator.  In November 1946 our son Pyotr was born.

There were people who still remembered me in the railroad depot of Sambor. I submitted my application to the Party again and obtained recommendations. Chief of depot authorized me to organize an amateur club. I spent a lot of time organizing a choir and an orchestra.  We began to perform at parties and in contests. My wife didn’t like it that I spent there my time that I could spend with my family. Later she confessed that she was jealous. Whatever, but she posed an ultimatum: a family or an orchestra. I chose a family, of course, but I had to give up my orchestra.  When the Party bureau was reviewing my application, they blamed me that I didn’t accomplish my Party task: that I gave up this amateur activity. They didn’t admit me to the Party. I became a member of the party only in 1956. I was a convinced communist and a convinced atheist. Religion has been alien to me.

In 1950 I was sent to work in a depot of Lanovtsy station  [360 km from Kiev] where I became chief of the depot. My wife and son stayed in Sambor till I received a lodging.  In April 1951 our daughter Lilia was born in Sambor. In 1952 I received a dwelling in Lanovtsy and my family moved in with me.  Antonina didn’t go to work. She was to stay with our baby daughter till she turned one year of age. Then our son went to a kindergarten and our daughter was sent to a nursery school.  My wife went to work in the depot.

After the war anti-Semitism grew stronger. Cosmopolite processes 13 began. This period didn’t affect my family or our surrounding and I sincerely believed that the party was denouncing its enemies. Another round of anti-Semitism started after the Doctors’ Plot 14 in January 1953. And again I believed it was true that many Jews happened to be enemies and saboteurs of the soviet power. Of course, I didn’t tie Stalin’s name to the growth of anti-Semitism. When on 5 March 1953 Stalin died, it was a big blow and horror for me like for the majority of Soviet people.  I remember, the railroad issued an order for all locomotives to stop on all stations with their horns on at 13 hours on 5 March. My locomotive stopped at Drogobych station and the horn was on for 5 minutes. 

After Khrushchev’s 15 speech on the 20th Party Congress 16 my eyes opened. At first I believed him in disbelief. The thing is, we didn’t know what was happening in the USSR before 1939 when we lived in Poland. And later we didn’t have enough information. Gradually I began to think about it and compare things. I got to know that there were trains prepared to deport Jews to Birobijan 17, Siberia. From Khrushchev’s speech I understood that the ‘doctors’ plot’ and other ‘plots’ were organized specifically to strengthen anti-Semitism to justify deportation of Jews to Siberia. I understood that Stalin eliminated all Party officials and military leaders because they presented a threat to him, not because they were plotters and spies, as we were told. However, all Stalin’s followers were also destroying the country, each in his own way. But I understood this only later. 

Locomotives were gradually replaced with electric locomotives. I finished a locomotive school with honors and they sent me to a depot in Chanyzh station [460 km from Kiev]. My family moved to Chanyzh with me. Our children went to school and my wife and I went to work. I liked spending my weekends with the family. We went for walks, to the cinema and theater. We didn’t celebrate any Jewish or Russian religious holidays at home.  We celebrated birthdays and Soviet holidays. In the morning we went to a parade and then Antonina arranged a festive dinner at home.   We often invited friends and colleagues. We traveled on our summer vacations. I could have free railroad tickets for the family and we traveled a lot across the country.  We traveled to the south and north of the USSR and we liked tourist trips.  

In 1966 I was transferred to the depot in Uzhhorod [700 km from Kiev], in Subcarpathia. This was a bigger town compared to where we lived before. We received a small 2-bedroom apartment called ‘khruschovka’ 18 and said it was to be our temporary dwelling and that we would receive another apartment. We lived in this ‘temporary’ dwelling for 12 years and only recently we got a comfortable apartment. 

My wife decided to go to study. She finished a medical school and went to work as a lab assistant in a dermatovenerologic dispensary clinic where she worked until retirement.

My children studied well at school. They were ordinary Soviet children. They became pioneers and then Komsomol members. They didn’t face any anti-Semitism. They had my typical Jewish surname of Gotlib, but my wife and I decided to change their nationality to their mother's to avoid problems in the future, in the passport they are written down as Russian. My son liked my job very much. After school he often came to the depot where he helped me and asked questions. After finishing school he decided to enter the Locomotive faculty in a Railroad School in Lvov.  He passed his entrance exams successfully and was admitted. My son studied well and received wonderful recommendations after every training session. After finishing this school Pyotr received a mandatory job 19 to the locomotive depot of Lvov. He worked there 3 years. In 1967, when his 3-year job assignment was over, Pyotr got a transfer to Uzhhorod depot.  Back in Lvov he married Tatiana Yakovenko, a Ukrainian girl. My first grandson Pyotr was born in 1968, and my granddaughter Svetlana was born in 1976. Pyotr received a 2-bedroom apartment in Lvov. He worked at the depot until retirement. Locomotive operators retire at the age of 55. Pyotr has grandchildren. My grandson Pyotr’s daughter Kristina Gotlib was born in 1993, and Svetlana’s son Saveliy Andriyanov was born in 1992. Pyotr and Svetlana have non-Jewish spouses. This has never been a matter of importance in out family. What mattered was that they were nice people and loved our children.   

My daughter Lilia finished school with a silver medal. She entered the Faculty of Electronics of Uzhhorod University. Upon graduation Svetlana got a job assignment to work as an engineer at Uzhhorod instrument making plant. She lives with us. Her private life never worked out.  Her son Anton Gotlib was born in 1985. Now he is a 2nd-year student of Uzhhorod university. After perestroika the plant where Svetlana worked closed down.  She went to work as an accountant at the department of railway passenger and freight transportation. She works there now.

From 1946 I’ve tried to find my family. I sent requests to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and tried to search them through the Red Cross.  They replied that they had no information about them. Later I gave up those efforts: for a citizen of the USSR it was dangerous to have relatives abroad 20. Besides, I was a Party member. They found me after we moved to Uzhhorod in the late 1970s. I received a letter from my younger sister Haya. She wrote that she wanted to come to the USSR to see me, but they didn’t issue her an entry visa.  She went to Hungary. It was easier for residents of Subcarpathia to obtain a Hungarian visa compared to the rest of the USSR and I went to Budapest to meet with my sister. Of course, we were so happy to see each other. We didn’t even hope that we would meet again. My sister told me about my dear ones. After returning from the front my older brother Moishe worked in the depot of Sambor. He perished in 1946, he was smashed between two trains. He was married, but they didn’t have children. My father died in Israel at the age of 67 in 1955. After he died my mother lived with Sima and her family.  Sima married a Jewish man in Sambor before they moved to Israel. She didn’t work after getting married.  She has a son, but I don’t remember his name. Haya married a Jewish man from the USSR in Israel. Her family name is Strikovskaya. She finished an accounting school in Israel and worked as an accountant till she retired. Haya and her husband have two daughters: Tsviya and Esta. They are married to Jewish men and live in Haifa. I don’t remember their marital surnames. My younger brother Shmil finished a Construction College in Israel and worked as a construction superintendent. He is married and has a son and two grandsons. He named his son Abram after our father.  Shmil and his family have lived in New York, USA, for over 20 years. The youngest, Eshiye, finished a construction school and made stucco decorations. Eshiye got married in Israel. His wife’s name is Sarra. They have no children. In 1966 Eshiye moved to New York, USA. Eshiye and his wife loved each other, but unfortunately, they had no children. Eshiye was the best at music in our family. He could play any instrument and had wonderful voice. Regretfully, my brother died too early. He had throat cancer. He had few surgeries, but they didn’t help. Eshiye died in New York in 1972. I couldn’t go to his funeral due to strong iron curtain 21, separating the USSR from the rest of the world. We couldn’t even imagine traveling abroad on a visit. Later, in 1982 my sister could come to Uzhhorod and we met again.

When in the 1970s Jews began to move to Israel, I didn’t want to go. I love my wife so and I was afraid she would face this prejudiced attitude as Jews face here. Also, my children were not considered to be Jews according to Jewish laws because their mother wasn’t a Jew. According to the Jewish law, there are two ways someone can be a Jew. You can either be born a Jew, which means that your mother is Jewish, or you can convert. A convert is called a ger which literally means stranger. Being born a Jew means that if your mother is Jewish then so are you, if she isn’t then neither are you. It doesn’t matter whether your father is Jewish or not. Besides, I didn’t hope to find a job at my age and I didn’t want to be a dependent receiving welfare. However, I sympathized with those who decided to leave and wished them to be happy with their new life. 

I became a pensioner in 1977, but I continued to work in the depot.  Firstly, it was hard to live without working. It seemed to me I would die if I quit my job. Besides, it was hard to live on a pension. I had to support my daughter. I got a job of a track dispatcher. It was an interesting and responsible job and I liked it.  I worked in the depot until 1992. Only after I had my first stroke my family talked me out of going to work. 

When perestroika 22 became I thought that Gorbachev’s 23 promises were idle. Whatever hadn’t they promised on behalf of the Party… But then there were notable changes. The dead wall separating the USSR from the rest of the world, fell down. Soviet people got an opportunity to travel to other countries and invite their relatives and friends from abroad. In 1991 I visited my relatives in Israel. It happened a year before, in 1990, that my wonderful and beloved mother died. She lived 94 years and until her last days she was in sound mind and she remained kind.  I never saw her. I only managed to visit her grave in a Jewish cemetery in Rishon LeZiyyon. My mother and father were buried nearby and according to Jewish rules, of course. 2 months of my stay in Israel flew by like one day.  I met with my family and saw my friends who had moved there long before. Israel is a beautiful country and I am happy to have visited it at least at my old age. Of course, perestroika gave me this opportunity. However, I think perestroika took away from much more than it gave. During perestroika our society divided into the rich and the poor. I still think they shouldn’t have allowed this.  In the end perestroika ended in the breakup of the USSR  [editor’s note: Breakup of the USSR: Yeltsin in 1991 signed a deal with Russia's neighbours that formalized the break up of the Soviet Union. The USSR was replaced by the Commonwealth of Independent States (CIS).]. Life became harder. I was an ace, the best locomotive operator, I have over 20 awards for my work, but now I am a beggar. 

After declaration of independence the rebirth of the Jewish life in Ukraine began. Before Hesed was established in Uzhhorod in 1999 the Jewish community began its activities in Uzhhorod. People began to go to the synagogue freely and stopped hiding their Jewish identity. I’ve never attended the synagogue.  I’ve been an atheist, though I believe in some superior force supervising us.  My wife Antonina began to attend a women’s club at the synagogue. We joke at home that Antonina is more Jewish than me. At least, it was her initiative to celebrate Jewish holidays at home. We do not celebrate Sabbath. On Jewish holidays Antonina cooks traditional Jewish food. We always have matzah at Pesach.  However, we also have bread at home at Pesach since my grandson doesn’t think it necessary to refuse from it. As for my wife and I, we do not eat bread at Pesach. My wife insists that I do not fast. She doesn’t think my health condition is fit for fasting. I’ve never strived to it, but I’ve got adjusted. Almost all of my wife’s friends are Jewish ladies.  They taught her to cook traditional Jewish food and my wife cooks for holidays. Only my mother could make as delicious gefilte fish as my wife. My wife and I read Jewish newspapers and magazines Vek (Century), and Yevreyskiye Vesti (Jewish news) that we receive in Hesed and then we discuss what we’ve read. Of course, Hesed helps us to survive. They used to bring us meals from Hesed, but my wife and I decided we would have them brings us food packages rather than cooked meals. Not because their meals were not good. It’s just that I, like any other man, think that my wife can cook better. Hesed provides medications and makes arrangements for a stay in hospital, if necessary. When my grandson Anton was at school he went to Jewish summer camps. He is much closer to Jewish life than me. Unfortunately, after my illness I cannot go to meeting or concerts in Hesed.  I hardly ever leave my home, but we constantly feel Hesed’s care. This is how it should be: if Jews hadn’t supported each other, they wouldn’t have survived and wouldn’t remain a nation through centuries.

Glossary:

Golda Osherovna Gutner
Kiev
Ukraine
Interviewer: Yelena Tsarovskaya
Date of interview: November 2001

My family backgrownd

Growing up

During the war

After the war

My family backgrownd

My name is Golda Osherovna Gutner I was born on August 15, 1916, in the town of Konotop, Ukraine.
Let me start with my grandfather, my mother’s father. I don’t know where he came from. I only know that he was born into a very poor Jewish family. His name was Boruch Lurye. He was a tinsmith and owned a workshop with work-hands in Konotop. The buckets and other articles they made they took to fairs. Mother told me that as a young man my grandfather was a solider. At that time soldiers were to serve in the army for 25 years. He got very sick in the army. According to my mother, the doctors told my grandfather that he should go to St. Petersburg, to the tsar himself, and get a release from the army. I don’t know who received him in St. Petersburg in reality, but he took his documents about kidney disease there; he was transferred to the reserve and returned to Konotop, to his wife. Grandfather died at the age of 48, in 1905, from his kidney disease. In those times young people created families. Grandfather was around 17 years old when he married my grandmother, Fruma-Tsivye. (I don’t know her maiden name). She was around 16 years old. She was a housewife. They had 14 children, but only six of them survived: three sons and three daughters. The eldest child was Soreh-Liba, born in 1875. Then Meishko was born 1888, then Rakhil and Avram were born, and Shlemka was born in 1899. I have practically no memories of my grandmother Fruma-Tsivye, because she died at the end of 1918-1919, when I was too young.
Keeping order around the house of such a large family and feeding the workers of – all of these duties rested on the shoulders of my grandmother Fruma-Tsivye. They also had cows. Their children certainly helped the parents. Everyone was working. They owned nothing but the workshop. Aunt Soreh-Liba, for instance, soldered together with her father’s workers.
Soreh-Liba, the eldest daughter of my grandparents, married a worker from grandfather’s workshop – Vengerov. They were in love with each other; when he was in the army, she waited for him. After grandfather’s death Vengerov owned the workshop. Brothers Meishko, Avram and Shlemka first worked for Vengerov. But Vengerov had a difficult character, and the brothers organized their own workshop. They were great friends. Unfortunately, Meishko was a sportsman and died at the age of 37 because of a heart disease. Then Avram and Shlemka began to provide for his family (two daughters and wife Beilya). Soon, Avram got sick with leukemia. He died either in 1932 or 1933. He left son Boris (named in honor of grandfather), daughter Fruma (named in honor of grandmother), and the wife. So, Shlemka alone provided for his own family and the families of his brothers. My father said that his ancestors came from Austro-Hungary. His grandfather was a rabbi (I don’t know his name). He was somebody special – he was buried in a crypt, with a lamp always burning in it. That rabbi had three sons. One of them was my grandfather, Ele Gurevich. His brothers came to visit us from Kharkov in 1920-s. I was named in honor of father’s grandmother. My mother said that my great-grandmother Golda came to visit us too. She liked to drink tea very much, so she always carried her own kettle with her and asked people to boil tea for her only in this kettle. As she was drinking tea, she always said in Yiddish, “Grandmother Golda loves tea”. Grandfather Ele Gurevich was a watchmaker, and his wife, grandmother Sima – a housewife. Besides my father, they also had daughters: Fanya, Liza, Gita, and son Shura (Mulya). They lived in the town of Radul, Belarus. During the Civil War there was a White Guard gang, so around 1921-1922 they moved from Belarus to Konotop (because life was quieter here). In the beginning, they lived with us, and then uncle Meishko found a flat for them and a little store where they opened a coffee-shop. All of this was during NEP∗.
Grandmother Sima was a brunette, but already grey, while grandfather was blond. He had a beard with grey hairs in it. My father looked like grandfather, but he was brunette; and I look like my father. I have the same form of the nose like my grandfather. Grandmother was a tall thin woman, who always wore long skirts, reaching her heals. Nobody else dressed like this in Konotop. She never wore any wigs, and I don’t remember anybody else in our town who would wear a wig. My grandfather wore regular clothes. On his head he always wore a yarmulke, but I remember he always wore a cap on top. When he came to us, he took off the cap, but left his yarmulke on. Grandfather visited us often. He liked playing with us. We played cards a lot. I remember when I was young and played him, if I lost, he always hugged me and laughed heartily. Grandfather died around 1928, but grandmother Sima died first. I think she died because of pneumonia. When grandmother was buried grandfather got sick. He was rushed to the hospital. I remember visiting him there, bringing him food, and he looked very content. Around 3 weeks after grandmother’s death he also died. I remember his funeral very well. He lied on straw and was buried without a coffin. His grave was covered with wooden boards. Then we took off our shoes, which is called “siveh” [this Jewish rite of farewell with decedent- seven days of mourning], and sat on the floor for the whole week (I exactly not litter what it is. Know only that was beside Jews such tradition). Gradually, these traditions died away. When my grandparents died, special white shrouds (“takhrikhim”) were sewn. Special people sewed them by hand. But afterwards there were no such people any more. However, when in 1957 my father died because of cancer, such a “takhrikhim” was sewn for him, and he was wrapped in a taleth (a special cover for Jewish men during prayer), and a costume was put on top of it. By the way, we took this taleth to evacuation with us.
My father, Osher Isaac Elevich Gurevich, was born in 1883 in Belarus. There he got his education. I think he finished a cheder and then learned Russian on his own, this was it is required for life and work. He was a very good tailor. My father sewed clothes for men: coats, special costumes, and military coats for officers. After the revolution, father worked in an artel for some time, but he did not like it there. So, he began to work alone and pay taxes. Before the war, in 1930-s, he got some additional training and began to sew for women, because, he said, women always ordered more than men. When he was young he never sat at one place for a long time, but lived and worked in different places, and in the beginning of the 20th century he found himself in Konotop. Father grew up near the Dnepr River. He was a good swimmer and an oarsman. In Radul, their house stood almost over the river. When revolutionaries had their meetings, my father helped them cross the Dnepr. He was huge and was often standing on duty for them. Right before the October Revolution, father rescued some revolutionary in Konotop. He put that man among the workers of his workshop, and the tsarist police did not find him.
My mother, Chaya Lurye, rented a small store and traded in various small articles there. In that store she met my father. Then my father met mother’s brother Meishko. They became good friends. Brothers liked sports very much – there was a “cult of muscles” in the family. Every time a guy would come to ask for my mother’s hand, Meishko, as her brother, would always try that guy’s jacket on. If the jacket was small for him, it meant the guy was not developed physically enough (this was general jacket, Meishko wanted that husband daughter's was physically strong person, either as this himself). Gurevich’s jacket was too big for Meishko. My parents married in autumn 1907. I not know was beside them wedding. My father was a raven-head with black eyes.
He was not a party member, but he sympathized with revolutionists. Probably due to being a good tailor, he had to work for his boss (when I was born he already had his own workshop with hire-hands). But he always said, “A boss is a boss”.
My mother, Chaya Borukhovna Lurye, was born in 1885 in Konotop. She was not tall; she had blue eyes and blond hair. I think she finished cheder, because she was quite literate in Yiddish. I also think she learned Russian on her own. Just like everybody else in the family, she was quite religious; she had a special seat in the synagogue. When she went to the synagogue, she wore a special outfit. I remember she had a scarf, which was beautiful. Mother always celebrated all Jewish holidays. She was a fanatic before the war, but not after the war. We never ate pork at home. We always prepared to every holiday. In autumn she bought geese and fed them well until Passover. Before Passover, no matter what the weather was, she hired somebody to whitewash the whole house. Then she cleaned the house of all “khumyts” (leaven; according to the Jewish tradition, there should be nothing made of leaven in the house on Passover). We had special crockery for Passover. We always made special Passover wine of cherry. My mother made huge jars of such wine. My grandparents would come to the first Passover seder. We all sat around a big table, and there were a lot of delicious things on the table – so many that I don’t even know how people could eat all of them! There was stuffed fish and other delicious things. Foods for the whole Passover week were cooked on geese fat only. My mother also had a lot of pans and she cooked things with fat, with flour, with poppy, and with matzos. Special people (I not know who were these people, but think that they worked in synagogue) baked matzos for Passover. At the seder, my father sat on special pillows, and brother Boris asked the four traditional questions (he studied in cheder for some time, but there were no cheders after the revolution). For the whole evening people would sit there, eat and tell interesting stories. All of this was done in Yiddish. We all spoke Yiddish at home. Yiddish was the native language for all of my relatives. I also remember there was a holiday when a chicken was rotated over head. Mother would give us all chickens, then she would put them in a basket and I went through the town to shoichet (Jewish ritual butcher). Mother told me how a chicken’s head should be put under the wing so that there would be no blood. She trusted me with money to pay the shoichet, even though I was only ten years old. But we were very independent at that age; mother taught us to do everything: clean the flat, wash windows (every ten days), clean the dust, and wash every leaf of the plants we grew (she liked them). We baked bread every week. She bolted flour and made dough, and I had to knead dough with my fists. I once asked her, “How long should I be doing this?” and my mother answered, “Until beads of sweat appear in the other corner of the room. Every Friday we did a major cleaning of the house.
Mother was a housewife.  She only hired a babysitter when she gave birth to two twins. When I was born there was no babysitter. There were no water pipes, and when we had to wash we brought water from the well. In summer we carried water ourselves, but in winter we hired a special man. In winter we washed clothes in the river in ice-holes. We carried things on slides. We always were clean. We also washed in bath once a week.
Mother had very good music ear – she sang and danced well. When she was young she was invited to Jewish weddings that it there sang. In Konotop she’s all knew and much liked to listen as she sings.She liked both Jewish and Ukrainian songs. Aunt Soreh-Liba’s son once said, “When aunt Chaika comes, no actors are needed – people will be listening to her alone”.  My father could not sing, but he liked singing. He even sang in a choir.
In 1908 my mother and father had twins: Boris, named in honor of grandfather Borukh, and Ida. For some reasons they were always ashamed of admitting that they were twins. Eight years later I was born. At that time our family stayed at the house of a rich Jew, Kozlovsky. His house was located downtown. It was a two-floor good house made of bricks with a big yard. It also had two courtyard houses. I remember horses in the yard. The main house had two big good rooms. My father’s workshop was located in one room, so workers were sitting there. But during the Civil War, the military occupied the whole house. My mother found a place for us to live on the outskirts. We settled in Yarkovskaya Street. It was an absolutely Ukrainian street, with only a few Jewish families. There was no anti-Semitism in Konotop prior to the war. My mother had Ukrainian friends, whom she knew from her youth, and they spoke fluent Yiddish with her (they little knew Yiddish, therefore that always veins amongst Jews). Among the Jewish families was the family of Tsitovskies.. Their son, Chaim, born in 1920, was awarded the title of the Hero of the Soviet Union for crossing the Dnepr during the Second World War. I think he is the only Hero of the Soviet Union who was born in Konotop. The museum of Konotop has his portrait and a memorial board. My mother’s brothers with their wives often came to visit us. We had a large hall where we all played and ran after each other. They had families, but they still ran after each other like kids. There were no TV, radio or lights then, so it was the only entertainment. Sometimes we also played cards. My father liked to eat sunflower seeds when he talked to somebody.
There was a club of handicraftsmen in Konotop. Jew Topkin was in charge of that club. My father always attended this club in winter and took me with him. Topkin delivered lectures. There was also a good drama theater in this club. They staged various plays. I also recited a poem on Lenin’s death in that theater and was awarded Lenin’s portrait for this. The Jewish theater of Zaslavsky came to Konotop. They showed “Tevye Tevel” by Sholom-Aleichem all this occurred indoors club. My parents took me with them to watch it. Some other famous actors came to our town. I think it was in the middle of 1920-s.
Konotop was a small town, but there were a lot of Jews there. There were 4 synagogues in it. The Jews were chiefly found in the center of the town. There were many tailors and shoemakers among them; also there were those who fixed bicycles. The division into rich and poor was very strong. The rich had their own stores and two-floor houses, but the rich ones often helped the poor ones. We were quite poor (life was better only right before the war). The most difficult years were the 1931-1933-s. In order to survive we sold articles made of precious metals and bought some foods instead.
At home we spoke only Yiddish before the war. My brother even went to cheder before the revolution. When I was young, there were Jewish schools in Konotop, but I went to a Russian school (even though most of the students in my class were Jewish). I finished 7 classes. I also learned music for 6 years (parents bought a piano from our neighbor). After school I finished a one-year accountancy school and since 1932 I was working as an accountant in a flax-storing company.
All Konotop boys, just like my brother Boris, were trained in Vengerov’s workshop. My brother studied metalwork in this workshop for several years. Then he said he wanted to continue his studies. Vengerov supported his idea, considering him very smart. My brother dreamt of studying in Moscow, but my mother did not like Moscow for some reason, and in around 1929 my brother Boris went to study in Kharkov, to aunt Rakhil. In Kharkov he worked at a plant as a tool-maker and simultaneously studied at the Workers’ Department . Then he entered the Heavy Engineering Institute. My parents could not help him financially, for these were the difficult 1930-s. He lived in a dormitory on his scholarship. He was a good student. He graduated around 1936. He was sent to work in Sverdlovsk (now Yekaterinburg) to the “Uralmash” plant. From that plant he was sent to Leningrad, to the Higher Military Academy, where he studied for another two years. From there he was sent to Kramatorsk, where he worked as an engineer up to the beginning of the war.

Growing up

In 1933, my sister got married and moved to Kiev. I also wanted to live in a big city. In March 1937 I moved to Kiev. I lived with my sister and worked as a bookkeeper at a paintwork base. But I did not work there for long; I moved on to another organization, “Spetstorg”, where I also worked as a bookkeeper. This organization serviced exclusively the military. This organization sent me to Lvov in February 1940. I liked Lvov very much. (Just like other western regions of Ukraine, Lvov was part of Poland until 1939. In 1939, these lands were annexed to the Soviet Republic of Ukraine). I rented a room from a landlady, who treated me very nicely. I was young, I was not even 24 years old. I would go to different places, like dances, and I had many acquaintances. One of them was a military man. There is a wonderful park in Lvov – Stryisky. He and I spent June 21, Saturday, in that park. The next day he invited me to the Opera Theater to a ballet. In the morning next day I woke up from a sound of thunder. I thought to myself, “Oh, if there is thunder, it means it is raining, so how will I go to the theater?” I opened my eyes and saw the son shining. So, where did the thunder come from? Then I heard the landlady crying, “German has attacked us!” They called “Germans” – “German”.
Her husband left the day before and went to another town. They had two boys, Monek and Manek. It was a good Jewish family. The landlady was begging me to take them with me. I began to cry. I wept a lot on that day. That military man came to me and said, “Leave everything and flee immediately. Our men left in nightgowns, with only wives and children”. I spent that night in a shelter. I was the secretary of the Komsomol organization, so I was naturally waiting for some instructions. But my chief accountant, Natan Markovich Fridman, was a very good man. He told me, “Pack immediately and we will leave together”. We went to the train station. It was impossible to get on the first train, because its doors were locked. Our coworker Ostrovsky went to see us off. He found an open window in the second train, even though the doors were barricaded by suitcases. He opened the door to let people get on. We also took the sister of our chef; they came from Leningrad. Thus we left: no tickets, no money. Natan Markovich was a decent man. We could have gone to any canteen that belonged to our organization and taken some money. But neither he nor I did that. We left Lvov on June 23, in the evening, and arrived in Kiev on June 27. We stopped at every station; there were a lot of people. The train was overcrowded. People even sat on the floor. When we reached one more station, we saw that train that we could not get on – it was totally bombed and destroyed. Our train was also bombed. During the bombings we would run out of the train and lie down on the ground. In Kiev we stopped not at the central station, but in Darnitsa. I went to my sister’s house across the town, at night, in total darkness. When my sister saw me, she passed out – everybody was convinced I was already dead. 
Kiev was also bombed. From Kiev, my sister and niece (sister’s husband was at the front) we moved to Konotop, to our parents. We began to get ready to further evacuation. Father sewed big bags. He also bought a pair of horses and a large cart (father could drive horses very well. Back after the civil war he drove to a village to exchange clothes for foods).  All our belongings, even old clothes, we put on this cart and moved eastward. Roads were heavily bombed. Two weeks later we reached Voronezh. Only there we got on a train. In the middle of October we reached Pugachevsk, which is behind the Volga River, in Saratov region. It was already cold. We found a small room to rent, but when its landowner heard my parents speaking in Yiddish, she immediately exclaimed, “I don’t want to have any Jews here!” So, we had to look for another place. We settled with a family: a couple with two children, a 14-year-old boy and a 12-year-old girl. Their house was very poor; they had absolutely nothing there. Even in the villages in Ukraine I have never seen such poor families. In Ukrainian villages people at least have trees and flowers around their houses, but here they had nothing. My father found some wooden boards and made us trestle-beds. He could do everything with his own hands. My mother and I slept on a big trestle-bed, while he slept in a smaller one; for my sister and niece we found a real bed somewhere. It was good that we had brought bed sheets with us. But the bad thing was that our neighbors behind the wall quarreled and swore all the time. We never heard such words before. That is why mother sought and found another flat, and in spring we moved to live with a woman, whose husband was killed at the front. I quickly found a job as a bookkeeper at a mill department. Mother and sister did not work. My sister got money for her killed husband (he was killed in the first days of the war; we only got one postcard from him). At the work I was given a small land plot, but the soil there was like rock. My sister, mother and I worked hard on that land. We planted melons, water-melons, and pumpkins. My father sewed things.

During the war

When the war broke out, my brother Boris volunteered to go to the front. But at the military enlistment office he was told that specialists like him were needed in the rear. So, he was sent to Kuibyshev. We knew nothing about him. From Pugachevsk, from evacuation, we wrote to every institution we could; we had a whole folder with correspondence. Finally, with great difficulty, we found him. He was working at the aircraft-building plant in Kuibyshev.
Kuibyshev was located 150-200 km away from Pugachevsk. Sister Ida went to see him in Kuibyshev. When she came to his dormitory, none of his friends believed it was his real sister: he had blond hair and blue eyes, just like our mother, while she was a brunette with dark eyes. Due to his appearance, many people thought my brother was Russian. But he never changed his name or patronymic. Kuibyshev was in famine. My brother had to work hard; sometimes he even slept at the plant. They were building the plant and putting out products at the same time. It was very cold, and their hands froze to the metal. Everyone worked for the front back then. They put out armor. My sister met his girlfriend, Katya, whom brother married after the war. But I will tell you later about this.
From Pugachevsk, I was sent to work in Moscow, to the metro-building company. I worked as a bookkeeper. I lived outside Moscow, in a horrible dormitory with rats and no heat. At the same time I studied at the Red Cross courses and worked at a hospital. I felt ill with furunculocis. As soon as Kiev was liberated (November 6, 1943), I began to pursue return to Kiev. It was impossible for the evacuated to simply return to the places they wanted. My parents returned to Konotop in June, 1944, but I was pursuing permission to go back to Kiev. On my way to Kiev I visited parents, and on September 1, 1944 I came to Kiev. I had no problems with finding a job. I began to work as a chief accountant at a small plant. Its director and most of its workers were Jewish. We found that the room my sister used to live in before the war was occupied. A bad man settled there: he did not live in Kiev before the war, but he was a lawyer, and he knew all ways in and out. Then a wonderful law was issued that one could fight for his/her own flat if one had registration in Kiev and a flat. We had all of it because we settled with our far relative Murochka (her husband was repressed in 1937 and died; she was arrested, but returned home). When the court made the decision that our former flat belonged to us, this lawyer made the court terminate its decision; he gave false testimonies and even bribed the court. The chief of the registration office knew us before the war (I even remember his name – Klimov), but he told the court he knew nothing. With great difficulties, through different court institutions, we could finally get back our flat two years later (despite the fact that my sister had every right to have it, because her husband was killed at the front).
Immediately after the end of the war, my brother Boris married that Katya, whom he met in Kuibyshev and about whom my sister Ida told us. He brought Katya to Konotop. Boris was 37 then. Boris and Katya loved each other very much. My mother was certainly very concerned that her daughter-in-law would be Russian, but my father told her not to talk about this. So, mother received them very well. My brother remained to live in Kuibyshev for the rest of his life, together with Katya and his children.
In 1945, when the war was over, I found out that I had no winter coat. My father found some fabric to make coats for me and my sister. It was hard to get vacation at that time, so I went to Konotop on October Revolution holiday. The Vengerov family settled with my parents after the war. And before the war they lived next door to the family of my future husband. They were great friends. My aunt Soreh-Liba nursed my future husband, young Benyumchik. He was treated like their own child. So, on the October Revolution holiday in 1945, Benyamin Gutner had a leave from the military. He came from Germany to see his parents and came to visit my parents and the Vengerovs. He came, wearing a naval uniform. He was happy to see me. We sat and talked for a while. He found out when I was going back to Kiev and said he would be going together with me. Before the war he worked in Kiev and had friends there. He wanted to see these friends and walk the streets of Kiev. He still had time to do that. His mother gave him a whole suitcase of food. So, he took his suitcase and my bag and we got on the train. When we came to Kiev, my sister was happy to see him alive. In the morning I went to work, and in the evening, my sister said that he had asked her whether I would refuse to marry him should he make a proposal.
Benyusik and I went to the theater. In the break he went to the buffet and bought me a bar of chocolate. It cost 100 rubles then! I told him I would not eat it at the theater but at home, together with my sister Ida. It was a rare occasion when somebody could eat chocolate, because it was right after the war.
So, then he mastered up boldness and made me a proposal. He had to serve some more and then he wanted to marry me. I said I was worried about being 29 years old and two years older than he. To this he said that he wanted to have a quiet and good wife. And with that he left. At the same time a client came to my father, a good Jewish guy, who also was interested in me. His father was a hat-maker – “kifner” in Yiddish. But by that time Benyusik had written a letter to my parents. So, I rejected that other guy. Benyusik and I had no correspondence.
We had not no  wedding ceremony: we simply had a dinner at my parents’ house and invited close relatives. My aunt, his parents and cousins came. After the wedding we returned to Kiev. Almost immediately after moving to Kiev he became very ill. During the war he had a leg injury. But when he was fighting he forgot all about that wound, and only in Kiev he began to feel sharp pains in his leg. He also had high fever. X-ray could be done only privately. He could not walk – I almost had to carry him. He had to undergo a surgery. He had a surgery in November 1946. His bone was drilled and pus was taken out of it. But after the surgery the wound would not heal. The New Year was close, but he was still in the hospital. My mother came to visit us and suggested that he should go see a very good doctor in Konotop – a close friend of my father. His wound was open till spring and no X-ray showed anything. In April my pregnancy leave began, and we went to Konotop. The city hospital was ruined; they had nothing there, we had to bring bed sheets with us (just like now!). But the main thing was that I trusted the doctor. Another operation was made and the doctors saw that the previous surgeon left a cotton ball in his wound, and he had that cotton ball for six months. Our doctor assured us that on May 1 he would even dance. It all took place in April.

After the war

On May 9 we returned to Kiev. And on May 19, 1947, my daughter Sima was born. She was named in honor of my father’s mother. My husband certainly wanted a son, but he was happy to have a daughter too. Our second daughter, Bella, was born four years later. She was named in honor of my husband’s grandmother, Beile. After the birth of my second daughter I did not work for 16 years until my children became more or less independent.
Prior to the war we sensed no anti-Semitism at all, but after the war our children and us felt it all the time – at school and especially in entering university. Sima finished school with honors, and in her written exam in mathematics (in entering the Kiev Polytechnic Institute) she received an excellent mark, but at the next oral exam she was given a poor mark. She was able to enter the correspondence department of the Aviation Institute only a few years later, when she was already working. Bella also had problems with entering university. But even though we had problems with anti-Semitism, I’m sure I would have never endured emigration.
After my father’s death in 1957, we took mother from Konotop to Kiev. First she lived with the sister, then with me. Soreh-Liba died in Kiev too, in 1963. She also moved to live with her children – she had four of them. The youngest, Rakhil, died in 1936 in Kharkov. She had three children. Neither Soreh-Liba nor Rakhil worked outside the house after getting married.
My mother and her brother Shleimka, unlike other relatives, lived for a long time. Mother died in Kiev in 1978 at the age of 93. Shleimka also died being older than 90. His last years he lived in Minsk at his son’s.
My husband was a worker, and most of his life he worked as a plumber at construction objects. He died in Kiev in 1998.
I would like to tell you some more about my brother, Boris. He spent all his life at that plant in Kuibyshev. His and Katya’s elder daughter was born in 1946, but when she was 12 years old she died because of leukemia. Then they had two more children – Alla and Mikhail. Their children never changed their last name or patronymic.
My brother was the chief constructor. But during the Soviet Union’s fight against cosmopolitism, in early 1950-s, a Jew, Gurevich, could not remain the chief constructor. So, the plant’s director made him a teacher in the plants’ technical school and put him in charge of a desigh bureau. Of course, after Stalin’s death he could work better again. But he never shared about the nature of his work. I only know that he spent months in Moscow in business trips.
In 1978, I received tragic news about his death. He died from stomach cancer. It was hard for me to think that I would burry my brother. My children stayed with my mother, while my husband and I went to Kuibyshev. The whole plant expressed great honor to him. The cemetery (this was common town, not Jewish graveyard) was far from the town, and there was a truck covered with carpets (it was in March when it was still cold). But the workers did not put the coffin on the truck – they carried it to the cemetery in turns. They made a great funeral banquet for him. I know that Jews do not do such things, but at that place people did that. The tables of the plant’s canteen were covered, but not everyone could fit in. So again, people took turns. Many people spoke about him, shared how he taught, how he treated students, what a wonderful and honest person he was. In 1985 I went to Kuibyshev to visit Katya and her children. Katya invited me to the plant’s museum, which speaks a lot about Boris. It even has his big portrait. We came to the museum when a tour was held for children. The director of the museum told them how my brother started that plant with the first nail and what difficulties he faced. After the tour, the director invited me to his office and sadly said that he had asked Boris many times to write about himself and the plant, but Boris was a very modest person, so he wrote nothing.
My sister Ida always lives and worked in the Kiev. We with her were very friendly, children grow together. After the death of Boris, in 1989, she with the family emigrated to USA. Regrettably we can communicate on the telephone only and much seldom. I know that beside them there all well.
Praise God, we had a good life. My husbands was working, and on top of his salary he always tried to find some part-time work, for instance, fix something for the neighbors. I went to the sewing courses and after a year of studies I began to sew everything for myself and children. I did not want to pay somebody else to sew for us. When I was sewing, some things I knew exactly, other things I tried to understand. My children also learned sewing from me. Then I bought an electrict sewing machine and began to take orders from other people. It was hard at that time to buy decent clothes at the store, so I sewed for anyone who ordered and never denied help to anyone.
I’m now living with my youngest daughter, Bella. Being old is certainly not a happy thing. I need to buy medicine and food, while my pension is small. I would be in despair if there were no Kiev charity fund “Khesed Avot” that helps us a lot. It helps us not only with foods and medicines, but also with care and warm words to us. I really appreciate them very much.
I do not approve of emigration.
You see, when you come to Israel, you realize that you are a foreigner there. It’s in my nature. When I was leaving Moscow, my friends would beg me to stay, promised to provide a room for me, warned about ruins in my native town where I was going. But I told them, “It’s my home”. When I came to Konotop and walked into the town, the road was full of my tears. I saw that it was mine, my home. Once we wanted to go to Germany, but then I said, “No, I’m not going. I can’t go there. I can’t hear that language. I can’t live there. I’m not going”. My husband agreed with me that it would be better for us to stay home. I know people are moving to America, to Germany. Well, we paid too much for moving to Germany – we paid with rivers of blood. I can’t imagine how Jews can live in Germany, in that situation. The Germans hate us!

Irena Wygodzka
Warsaw
Poland
Interviewer: Zuzanna Schnepf
Date of interview: May – July 2005

Mrs. Eni (this is the first name she prefers to use) Wygodzka returned to Poland from Israel three years ago. She lives in a new apartment building in downtown Warsaw.

Just like the modern building, her apartment is simple and functional. We spent many hours there, talking, often long after the voice recorder had been turned off.

Mrs. Wygodzka treated me to Italian panettone, Israeli sesame paste and kosher broth with noodles – just like her mother used to make before the war. Going back to distant events from the past was not easy. 

Mrs. Wygodzka would often say with regret: ‘I don’t know,’ ‘I don’t remember’ and explained: ‘I was only a child then,’ ‘so much happened later.’

The impressive collection of photographs – Mrs. Wygodzka’s real treasure - was very helpful. The photographs miraculously survived the Holocaust: saved in a camp barrack and discovered years later by family in Israel.

• My family background
• Growing up
• During the war
• After the war
• Marriage and later life
• Glossary

My family background

My name is Eni Wygodzka, nee Beitner. Erna was the name used in documents, in the identity card, but both my friends and family always called me Eni. One of my cousins used to call me Koziula [from the Polish word ‘koza,’ meaning goat], because I was kind of wild and restless, skipping around on one leg.

Irena, that was only after I returned to Poland, in 1947. The [communist] authorities explained that first and last names should be Polish, not Jewish, so I changed my name to Irena 1. That’s how it has stayed – Irena. I somehow got used to this name, only my close friends and family call me Eni.

My maiden name was spelled differently, depending on who was writing it down, what official. Sometimes they’d spell it with ‘ay’ – Baytner – sometimes ‘ei’ and sometimes ‘aj.’ My grandparents and Father’s brothers spelled their names with ‘ei’ [Beitner], like my father.

I don’t remember anything before my grandparents [Mrs. Wygodzka doesn’t know anything about her great-grandparents’ generation]. Father’s family came from Dabrowa Gornicza [approx. 65 km west of Cracow] and Mother’s from Bedzin [approx. 70 km west of Cracow].

I only remember one grandfather from my father’s side. [His name was Ajzyk Beitner, he was born on 20th April 1857 in Bedzin – information from an album prepared on the basis of documents found in the archives of Andrzej Maskalan, Mrs. Wygodzka’s cousin’s son.]

I don’t have any memories except for one meeting with Grandfather, maybe because he was so sick then. He was in bed, in some dark room, his legs were hurting. I think he had diabetes and died shortly afterwards in Dabrowa Gornicza. I only remember that when they told me, I cried a lot.

I think he died in 1928 [probably in 1934 – according to A. Maskalan’s album], because I was at school then, it could have been first grade. I don’t remember his wife at all. [Her name was Zofia Beitner, nee Weksler, born on 4th September 1857, a daughter of Herszlik and Cwetla, married Ajzyk on 21st February 1877 in Przyrow, approx. 80 km southwest of Cracow – according to A. Maskalan’s album].

My grandparents had a hardware store, one of their sons who was living in Dabrowa, Nachman, operated that store. It must have been a family business. My grandparents were living in some one room shack, in a non-Jewish district, a mixed one.

And that’s where the hardware store was located, next to the house. I remember the kitchen – there was a table, a cupboard and a stove, for cooking, with removable eyes [cast-iron rings, closing the holes in the stove plate, where pots are placed.]

This was all small, small windows overlooking the street, yes. The store was large, with an entrance from the street. I remember the counter and drawers, all kinds of nails, screws, nuts, hammers, all kinds of equipment for building works, maybe even machine parts were sold there.

Uncle Nachman, Father’s brother, lived near my grandparents’ house and so did Father’s sister, Aunt Rozia [Jewish name: Rajzla]. They must have been taking care of Grandpa somehow. They lived in this small single-family house, as you’d call it today.

I visited this Uncle Nachman and Aunt Rozia in Dabrowa several times. They had children and we were more or less the same age. This Nachman and his wife Rywcia [Rywa] had a daughter named Chawa, or Ewa, and a son, Jankiel. Jankiel survived the war, as the only one from the family in Dabrowa. There were three children at Rozia’s: the daughters’ names were Zosia and Jadzia [Jochewet] and there was also a boy.

There were seven sons in Father’s family: Jakub, Szlomo [Hebrew; Yiddish name: Szlama], Tobiasz, Chaim, Herman – my father, Abram and Nachman, and two sisters: Rozia and Ida. It was a traditional family, with many children.

They were all religious. Except for my father and Uncle Nachman they all had beards and side-locks and went to the synagogue. They dressed normally; I don’t think they wore those kapotes.

Nachman was living in Dabrowa Gornicza where all the people knew each other, so he was religious, too, but he didn’t wear a beard, so he must have been kind of rebellious. There was also one brother in America; I only met him in Israel.

His name was Abram. He must have emigrated before I was born. He also shaved. Father and his siblings spoke Yiddish. So did my grandparents. They probably knew Polish, German, but spoke Yiddish to each other. We [Mrs. Wygodzka and her cousins] spoke Polish to each other.

I don’t know what year Father was born in. [Herman Beitner was born on 30th September 1890 in Bedzin – according to A. Maskalan’s album.] I’m sure Father and his brothers went to cheder. I’m also sure Father graduated from public school.

I don’t think he had more schooling. I think no one in my father’s family studied at university, no. Life was hard, difficult, you had to make money, you had to learn something: either to trade or do something else to earn a living. So no one had time for studying.

My mother’s maiden name is Londner. Her parents died early, I didn’t know them at all. Mother’s father had a store in Bedzin, also a hardware store, that’s all I know. Mother’s mother must have died, because Grandfather remarried and had three more daughters with his second wife.

My mother – Bala was from the first marriage, there was also Mania, Regina, who was in Palestine, and I think one more daughter, who was in America. These three half-sisters of my mother’s were Hela, Frania, she was a bit of a hunchback, Hela was pretty, and there was also Jadzia, she was pretty as well.

They lived in Bedzin, I think. I only remember how their mother was a stepmother to her – that she was not good to her and her full sisters. Mother never wanted to talk badly about her; she didn’t want to talk about bad things.

I supposed Mother’s family was religious, because Mother used to light candles, say this Friday prayer, celebrated the holidays. That’s how she was taught at home and that’s what she did. I remember that even during the war, when she was very depressed, she used to say you have to believe in God, that he’d get us out of it.

It’s very likely that the families of my parents met through business – these hardware stores. There was a double marriage between two families [two marriages]. First Tobiasz, my father’s brother, married Mania, Mother’s sister.

And at this wedding my mother must have met [Tobiasz’s] brother. They must have fallen in love, but somehow Mother never talked about it. Those were families who hardly made ends meet. That’s what I think.

I remember how Mother told me that she waited seven years, because during World War I Father was in the German Army 2. He only married my mother after he was discharged from the army. So he was in the army between 1914 and 1918 3, and I think they got married in 1919, because my brother, Natan, was born in 1921 and I was born in 1922.

I don’t know where they got married, I don’t remember any photographs from my parents’ wedding. It wasn’t then like it is now, you didn’t invite hundreds of guests and throw huge parties. It was all more modest.

After the wedding my parents went to Magdeburg [approx. 125 km southwest of Berlin]. There was a painful [economic] crisis [in Poland] and that’s why Father went to Germany looking for work. I think it must have been 1920. He worked at his sister’s store. She had a shoe store.

Her name was Ida Oppenheim, her husband, Natan Oppenheim, was, I think, a German Jew. Or maybe he was from Poland? I don’t know where they met, but I do know they only spoke German to each other. They were more progressive, reformed. We were both born in Magdeburg: my brother Natan and I.

Ida had two sons, Heinz and Herman, and two daughters, Cili und Mary. The Oppenheim family left Germany when Hitler came to power. They went to Palestine 4. I later met Mary in Israel, she told me about how she took me for walks, I was in a stroller.

One son, Heinz, lived in Germany [after WWII], but both daughters and Herman lived in Israel. Cili had a hat store in Israel and sold hats to, for example, Golda Meir 5 and other important people.

Growing up

When I was two years old my parents returned to Poland. We went to Katowice [75 km west of Cracow]. That’s where my two sisters were born, Zosia and Jadzia [Jadwiga]. In Katowice, Father was a real estate manager. 

Private owners would ask him to manage their tenement houses. Probably at first Father was only managing one or two houses, for example the building at 10 Slowackiego Street, which belonged to my father’s brothers Tobiasz and Chaim. Later the owners started trusting him more and all in all he had 14 buildings in his care.

We had an apartment in one of these buildings. Father’s office was in our apartment. There were five rooms there, Father had one room for himself, but it was also the dining room. Father learned about management all on his own. He went from one house to another collecting the rent.

Some things had to be fixed. Light bulbs exchanged, they were sometimes stolen by thieves. He met with people of different heritages, because there were all kinds of people living there: Jews, Poles, Volksdeutsche 6. There were quite a few so-called Silesians 7 in Katowice.

[Editor’s note: When Mrs. Wygodzka refers to Volksdeutsche she mostly means Silesians who became Volksdeutsche during WWII.]

Father didn’t only work for Jews. For example, Mrs. Rabsztynowa, at whose building we had our apartment, was not Jewish, but Polish.

Father had help, this [girl called] Hadasa who worked for us for very many years. She could do bookkeeping. She was schooled in trading. Hadasa would sit at the typewriter and serve all the people who came there.

Her maiden name was Manela. She lived in Bedzin, next to the market square, with her mother. She took a tram to work every day. [A tram ride from Bedzin to Katowice took from 20 to 30 minutes]. Hadasa also had a brother.

They were both Zionists, but rather religious ones: they were probably members of Mizrachi 8, not of the Zionist Organization 9. We were great friends with Hadasa. She sometimes went on holiday with us. Abram Manela would also go with us. He was Hadasa’s nephew. I later met him in Israel, he married a Hungarian and had two sons.

Father used to go to court hearings, because some people wouldn’t pay [the rent] and there were evictions. Once, during such an eviction, my father didn’t go there on purpose [to the apartment he was supposed to evict the family from], because he didn’t want to evict that man, who was poor, had a wife and several children.

He was a Jew who lived on Mariacka Street. One of the richer Jews, Mr. Krakowski, owned that building and ordered this man to be evicted. Mr. Krakowski went there to evict him. When he knocked on the door, that man came out with a knife and stabbed him [Mr. Krakowski]. And then there was this headline in the newspaper, in block letters ‘Jew killed a Jew.’ This was a horrible ordeal for Father. And this was just before the war, I remember.

Father was calm, he was good, not talkative, very liberal towards his children, towards the world. He had blond hair, blue eyes. He had a very friendly face. He wore a suit. He had to dress properly, because he went to courts, for those hearings.

He really liked photography. He took pictures whenever he could. At outings, holidays, at home. He had a camera, he had a darkroom. It was some corner, maybe the servants’ room. The camera – one of the more popular ones at the time, Zeiss or Leica [Zeiss – the first single-lense small-picture Exacta camera, invented in 1936 in Drezno, Leica – a 35 mm small-picture camera, invented in 1925].

There was this man, his name was Salpeter, he was going to Palestine as a tourist and he asked Father to lend him that camera. He was an acquaintance, from the same town. He had a store with ties, scarves and umbrellas.

It was 1939. Mr. Salpeter took that camera with him and stayed in Palestine. That’s how my dad lost the camera. Father used to collect scissors of all types; there was this album where he, kind of, arranged these scissors.

Mother’s name was Bala, but officially, in documents – Bajla, I think. But she’d also sign her name Balbina. ‘Balcia,’ I remember that’s how my father called Mom. When they were speaking Jewish to each other Mother would call Father ‘Herszel,’ but when they were speaking Polish – Herman.

Mother was born in Bedzin. She was about as old as Dad, even, I think, a year older. She was pretty, a brunette, I think. She had short hair, somehow tied, but it wasn’t a bun. She wasn’t tall, she wasn’t plump. She was calm, kind. They loved each other, Father and Mother, yes, I remember this. They were very gentle with each other. But Mother felt that Father wasn’t energetic enough with us, or with the work he was doing.

Mother was always worried that she didn’t have enough money. As I remember it, it wasn’t so bad, because we used to go on holidays in the summer with our entire family, there was a piano in the house, I used to learn how to play it.

That didn’t last long, because I was lazy and didn’t have good musical hearing. But I remember that my parents always talked about being in debt. Father used to borrow money, possibly from his brothers Tobiasz and Chaim.

Mother dressed very modestly. She may have had one better dress, for outings. I remember Mom’s shoes, laced up, with heels, narrow, gray. Sometimes my parents would go to Bytom [approx. 85 km west of Cracow] to buy clothing.

That’s where the border was and there were Germans there. You could buy something a lot cheaper, but the Germans didn’t permit for anything to be taken out [of the country]. So I would leave my worn out shoes in a trash can and put the new ones on. But I remember that once my parents bought some oranges and it was forbidden to take those oranges [to Poland] and Father was so angry that he smashed them into a wall.

I was in Bytom once with my parents and brother. And I bought this dress, a woolen one, pink, even my sister, six years younger than me, wore it later on. And even Jadzia, who is eleven years younger, wore it during the occupation.

I remember that Mom was always busy with work. And she wasn’t that strong. She had some health problems, she couldn’t sleep. I think she went to Naleczow once [a popular health resort in eastern Poland, approx. 20 km from Lublin].

I don’t think it was a longer stay, because that would have been too expensive. Mother took care of the house, there were four children, so there was a lot of work. Once every week or two the bed linen had to be changed, the washing would be done in a tub and the servant did the washing on a washboard, the wet things would be dried up in the attic.

Everything was washed at home, we never took anything to a laundry. Everything was so primitive, simple. I didn’t help with the cleaning and cooking. I was studying, taking care of my younger sisters: taking them for walks, playing, reading to them. There was no nanny or governess. There were no luxuries.

There was one servant. She was always a Pole. The servants would come and go, for different reasons. They came from the countryside. I remember one who was very pretty. She used to wear an apron, I remember, Mom came up to her and said, ‘What do you have in your pocket?’

And it turned out that she had stolen eggs. I was devastated that she’d stop working for us, because I really liked her. She had a nice name, but I don’t remember what it was. Of course, she stopped working for us.

Every day we’d eat potatoes, broth with noodles – that was typical, grated carrots, raw, we had that every day, compotes, we’d eat chicken, sometimes a piece of meat, noodles, rice, groats, barley groats. The servants cooked and Mom did, too.

I remember that from time to time Mother would make so-called tsimes, chulent, kugel. I really liked milk, cheese, eggs, dairy products. Mother would bake cakes with poppy seeds, with cocoa. Yeast cake. Not some fancy kind, the simplest one, delicious. I really liked sweets.

There was a bakery, a kind of confectionery called ‘Martike,’ on 3 Maja Street. There were beautiful cakes on display, frogs with open mouths, different cookies – these colorful mushrooms, fancy, pretty. And I really like halvah. So many kinds, this fresh, wonderful halvah!

Father was a member of the General Zionist Organization. He was the treasurer there. My parents wanted to move to Palestine, but they never had enough money for the tickets, to go with the entire family. So we never left.

Zionist views were popular among Father’s brothers. Uncle Tobiasz and Uncle Chaim bought some land in Palestine, but somehow they didn’t manage to leave on time, because if they had, they would have probably survived [the Holocaust].

That’s how their oldest brother, Jakub, survived. He died there. One of the sisters in my mother’s family also left for Palestine, but I don’t think it was for ideological reasons. She simply got married to someone who took her to Palestine and that’s where she lived until she died. Her name was Regina Cytrynbaum. Mother wanted us to leave, but she wasn’t a member of any Zionist organization.

My brother Natan was smarter and more talented than I. I kept arguing with Natan all the time. We would fight over everything, but he was very chivalrous. I remember how once, when I was supposed to get a spanking for something, he stood in front of me and didn’t let Mom or Father spank me.

We were later very close, we liked each other very much. Natan kept to himself. He was involved in his technical things. He was tinkering all the time, electrical equipment. For example he built some radios. I remember he also took pictures with Father’s camera and he took this one picture of our cousin in a bottle. 

At first he took a picture of a bottle, then he placed [the image of] this cousin on the same film. He went to the Berek Joselewicz Public School in Katowice, I later graduated from the same school.I remember some names of my brother’s friends, girls: Fela Frejlich, Mici Meler, Hanka Urbach.

My brother had some friends, boys, but I don’t remember him having a close friend, no. I remember how he was getting ready for his bar mitzvah. There was this Hebrew teacher [in the public school]. His name was Winer and he prepared my brother.

After he graduated from seven grades of public school, when Natan was 13 or 14 years old, my parents sent him to an agricultural school in Helenowek near Lodz [approx. 30 km northeast of Lodz]. My parents were probably thinking about going to Palestine and wanted Natan to learn about farming, so he’d have a job there.

The school in Helenowek was directed by the ‘king’ of Lodz, Rumkowski 10. My brother only spent several months in that school. I remember that I went there to visit him with my parents in the fall and Natan was back in Katowice shortly afterwards. I think he didn’t like it much.

In Katowice he was admitted to a technical school, which didn’t accept Jews at all. It was the Silesian Technical Research Plant [The Silesian Technical Research Plant opened a school in 1931, the second largest institution of its type in Europe].

It was a very high-standard technical school, which is probably still in existence [the school is now located in a building at 26 Sokolska Street]. Natan tried to get in three times. Each time he passed the exams easily, but they didn’t want to admit him. But he was stubborn and they had to finally admit him [1938].

So there were a thousand students in all and two Jews: my brother Natan Beitner and one boy from Bedzin – Dudek Naparstek, that was his name, as I recall it now. My brother didn’t graduate from this school. Natan didn’t want to go to Palestine, like my parents and I [wanted]. He didn’t have anything to do with Zionism, he was more of a communist.

Natan had a crush on Hadasa, who was my father’s employee. She was older than him, some 10 years older. She had a crush on him as well. They didn’t hide their feelings from our parents much, because it was, how should I put it, a platonic story.

They weren’t a couple. In his notes, before he died, Natan wrote that he loved Hadasa, but that some other girl could have replaced her for him. I would say he was very realistic about this.

I remember the birth of my sister, Zosia [in 1928], because my mother gave birth at home. She didn’t go to the clinic, like she did with Jadzia. It happened then, I was in first grade, that the servant came to get me from school.

On the way, as we were walking, we saw lots of people. Everyone was saying something: ‘What happened, how did it happen?’ It turned out that my brother had just been run over by a car. So we came home and we told Mother that Natan had been run over by a car and that’s when she went into labor.

Natan was taken to the hospital, examined. It wasn’t anything serious. We later saw the man who stopped that car at the last moment, because the car would have backed up and smashed my brother’s heart. It turned out it was a German, his name was Doctor Aronade. He was a physician, a pediatrician. Anyway, that’s when Zosia was born, after seven months of pregnancy.

Zosia was really tiny – Mother used to say ‘she’s as large as a knife,’ I remember they put her in cotton, because there were no incubators then. And later, several days after she was born, this same Doctor Aronade saved Zosia, because the baby started dying.

The bed was near the furnace, carbon monoxide must have been coming out of it; coal was used for fuel then. I remember that Doctor Aronade took two bowls, one with hot water, one with cold water and kept moving the baby from one bowl to the other and that’s how he saved her.

Zosia went to a Jewish preschool, which was operated by my mother’s friend, Mrs. Schif. It was a private preschool, but it wasn’t expensive. Mrs. Schif taught the children some Hebrew, sang with them. The activities always took place at our apartment, in the nursery.

Zosia was very close to Natan. She adored him and he was nice to her, good and kind. Not like I was to her. I remember that I once took her hand and put it on a hot light bulb. Zosia annoyed me, because I had to take her everywhere with me.

When I went to the Organization [Mrs. Wygodzka used to belong to the Zionist Youth Organization Akiba], I had to drag her with me. I think she was later a member of this organization as well, but this was already during the war, in Sosnowiec [approx. 65 km west of Cracow]. Zosia also managed to go to the Berek Joselewicz school for some time. When she was ten years old, the war broke out.

Jadzia was the youngest of all the siblings. She was born in 1933. I loved Jadzia. She was so sweet and pretty. I called her ‘Jadziulka.’ Before the war Jadzia didn’t manage to start attending school, so she had no schooling. My little sister was six years old when the war broke out.

We lived in downtown Katowice. The city wasn’t so big, that’s how I remember it. It was close everywhere, you could walk on foot. Katowice was clean, there were nice stores, houses – not very tall, some three or four stories.

Maybe even taller in some new buildings which they started building right before the war. The streets were paved, there was electricity and running water in the houses. At first we lived at 10 Slowackiego Street. It was actually a side street of 3 Maja Street, which was the main street in the city.

The building on Slowackiego Street belonged to Uncle Tobiasz and Uncle Chaim and my father managed it, it was large. Then our family grew, because Zosia was born, that was still at 10 Slowackiego Street. We moved to an apartment at 21 Slowackiego Street and that’s where we stayed until the war.

In addition to five rooms, there was a kitchen, a small room for the servant, a bathroom with a bathtub and running water. There was a separate toilet, even two. There was Father’s office, the parents’ bedroom and our, the children’s, bedroom.

We always rented out one room, sometimes even two, because we had enough space, but we needed the money. One of our boarders was this pianist, a Pole. There was also a German with his wife and he yelled at her horribly, because she didn’t make scrambled eggs like he liked them.

He threw those scrambled eggs at her. I also had an aunt, but not a real one, Nysele, she lived with us for a longer period of time. And she had a son who was robbed and murdered somewhere in the forest, probably for anti-Semitic reasons. Perhaps he was carrying something, trading something? It happened before the war, I heard about it as a child.

The balcony door was in the kitchen, my father made this special contraption which opened the ceiling of the balcony for Sukkot. The balcony would become a booth and that’s where the holiday of booths was celebrated.

This balcony is not there anymore, I was in Katowice some two years ago and saw that it has been disassembled. After such a long absence I came back to that house, which is really run down. What I remembered were the stairs, which are still the same. Wooden stairs. I used to sit there, with my girlfriends from school, do our homework, play.

The furniture in the apartment was large and heavy. The curtains were very nice, I remember kilims [decorative rugs, usually woolen, hand-woven, often placed on walls to adorn them] … There were furnaces, used for heating, for example in the nursery. There was a telephone in Father’s office, number 990.

There was also a Keren Kayemet 11 can. You’d put money in there, from time to time young people would go around collecting the money. With this money Jews used to buy land from the Arabs in Palestine. A portrait of Uryshkin, this Zionist, was on the wall. [Uryshkin, Mendel Menakhem, (1863 – 1941): a member of a Zionist Organization, one of the leaders of Russian Zionism]

There were two entrances to our apartment [at 21 Slowackiego Street]: the front entrance – from the main gate, and the back entrance. There was one hallway from the street, with entrances to all the apartments and three hallways from the back. One of them led only to our apartment. Although there were other apartments above ours, these back stairs went up only to our apartment. When you entered our apartment from the back, there was a small storage room on the left of a small hallway, there were glass jars with good stuff there.

We were living on the first floor. I think the house had three floors. Mrs. Rabsztynowa was living above us. She was very nice. There was a caretaker, who took care of the house, cleaned and so on. I think this caretaker was a Volksdeutsche [she was probably a Silesian and signed the list of loyal citizens of the Third Reich during the occupation], her name was Chudasz.

She lived on the ground floor, from the back, in the hallway opposite the gate. There were also two Jewish women living in that building. Their last name was Krysztal, they lived right next to us. Both, the mother and the daughter, died of cancer.

There was one more Volksdeutsche living there: Erika Pietruszka, I remember her name. She was a blond, living with her fat mother. Erika Pietruszka was my age, maybe a year older. The neighbors in our building were all right. [Mrs. Wygodzka means that there were no anti-Semitic conflicts with the neighbors].

Katowice was this Polish-German city 12. There weren’t many Jews and they were mostly progressive. I don’t remember any Jews with beards, side locks. Orthodox Jews, if there were any, lived in Sosnowiec, Bedzin, in that area. There was no Jewish district in Katowice. Jews were scattered throughout the city, they lived where they wanted.

There were different Jews in Katowice, rich ones and poor ones... There were days when the poor ones went around collecting money. I know that my parents always gave alms. There were Jewish stores; rather poor ones, with vegetables, fruit, somewhere downstairs, almost in the basement, but with entrances from the street.

This girl came to us, her name was Langer, she was pretty, she brought us eggs, milk. There were stores on this main street, there were elegant goods there. I remember Wasserman’s textile store. There were rich Jews as well, who dealt with trade. 

I knew several girls from school whose older brothers went to France to college. I suppose they must have had their houses there as well. For example Edek, Marysia Zukierman’s brother, studied at Nancy [approx. 275 km southeast of Paris].

There was also this Stasiek Zimmerman, who went abroad to study. I knew him, because he was in the Hanoar Hatzioni 13 Zionist Organization which I was also a member of for some time. Stasiek had a sister named Lala and a younger brother called Janek, who died in the uprising in Sosnowiec [in the summer of 1943 members of Jewish self-defense groups in the Srodula ghetto in Sosnowiec stood up to the Germans, several hundred Jews were shot then].

Sztrochliz was rich, his father had a printing house. There was Marysia Grajcer, her parents had an iron factory. There was this Marysia Szolowicz, whose father, I think, owned some real estate. These girls, egoists, used to buy ice-cream for themselves and would never let you have a lick. 

In Katowice people used to drive their cars to the synagogue for the holidays. [The synagogue was located on Mickiewicza Street, it was built in 1900, later destroyed by the Germans in 1939, it was the second synagogue in Katowice, the first one was built in 1862.]

This was a western fashion, you could say German. Their religiosity was not very strong. Even those who were not religious celebrated the holidays, because that was the tradition. It was a reformed synagogue. I think there was no mikveh in the city, no talmud torah or cheders.

I remember the synagogue was very beautiful, large. I think the women had their own separate part, upstairs. There were also services on Polish national holidays, for example on the 3rd of May 14. In addition, when Pilsudski 15 died, there was a service, we all cried.

The service was in Polish and the rabbi talked about the Marshal. There was singing, ‘Boze, cos Polske’ [Polish, ‘God, you protect Poland,’ a song from 1816 considered to be one of the Polish national anthems]. The entire school gathered in mourning, everyone.

We had two rabbis [in Katowice]. One was called Doctor Vogelman. The second one was Doctor Hajmades, who had a beautiful wife and he was, in general, very European, with a small beard, elegant. And Doctor Vogelman was more traditional, with a longer beard.

I sometimes went there to ask him whether a specific hen was kosher, my mother would send me. He lived very close to us, on 3 Maja Street. I was really ashamed to do this, I was shy and going to the rabbi was a huge event for me.

Mother’s food was kosher. Kosher meat was bought in a store, I think it was called ‘Fiszer.’ It was on Szopena Street, nearby, two minutes from home. Near the synagogue as well. And Pola Fiszer, the daughter of these owners, attended the vocational gymnasium with me [Gymnasium of the Polish Women’s Association in Katowice].

She left for Australia in 1947, maybe 1948. My parents celebrated the traditional holidays: Pesach, Chanukkah, Purim. Mother lit candles on Fridays. When she lit the candles, she’d say the prayers, but she didn’t pray in other situations. She didn’t go to the synagogue much, she was no religious fanatic.

Father went to the synagogue, but only on holidays, not on Fridays. Not every week, like those religious Jews. He didn’t wear a beard, he was more progressive. I know that when we were later in Lwow he ate ham, other things, too. 

We didn’t do anything on Sabbath. That’s when guests would come visit. We sometimes listened to the radio. There were these programs, I remember Korczak 16, these talks, songs: ‘O czym marzy dziewczyna gdy dorastac zaczyna? Kiedy z paczka zamienia sie w kwiat.’ [Polish: ‘What does a girl dream about when she starts to grow up? When she changes from a bud to a flower.’]

But I don’t think we obeyed all those restrictions. We cooked, we turned the lights on, but I don’t think we traveled. We weren’t allowed to eat ham, but my friends and I would often buy a ham sandwich and eat it at the gate.

I was never religious. I remember I attended the synagogue only on high holidays and we played in the gardens around the synagogue. My parents were inside and we were romping, running around, talking in the gardens around the synagogue.

We only went inside for a second. I remember my brother debated religious issues with Father and tried to prove to him that God didn’t exist, that it had all been made up by people. And we, girls, didn’t care much about religion. Later, when I was older, I didn’t go to the synagogue on my own.

I liked Pesach best of the holidays we celebrated at home, because everyone gathered and we had good things to eat. Dumplings were made from matzah flour: just matzah, eggs and water. Mother prepared all the dishes in the kitchen: there was challah, egg in salt, and, of course, matzah.

And for the Pesach holiday Mother also changed the dishes. We’d read the Haggadah and Father put on a white robe and ate in a half-reclining position. For Pesach Father would sometimes bring some Jewish soldier home for supper.

That was customary there, because Polish soldiers 17 were quartered somewhere nearby and, because they came from all over the country, they didn’t have any relatives there, so locals would take them in.

We also celebrated Kuczki [Sukkot]. We would sit down and eat on the balcony, we opened this roof of the balcony. The balcony would be beautifully decorated with paper. It was like a booth. And we’d sit there and sing. I don’t remember these songs now.

On Yom Kippur you had to fast. My parents fasted, but I didn’t. Children didn’t have to. We also went to the synagogue on Yom Kippur. I think candles were lit at home for Chanukkah. We played with a dreidel and received Chanukkah gelt [Chanukkah money].

We didn’t dress up all that much for Purim, sometimes we painted our faces a bit, but I don’t remember any parades of dressed up children on the streets. There were also these ringers, which we used to make noise in the synagogue, I think also at home. Nothing much happened on New Year’s. If anything, perhaps Father went to the synagogue.

We spoke Polish at home. My parents also spoke German and Yiddish. We, the children, spoke Polish and German. German and Polish were the official languages in Katowice. Actually, I think that until I turned six, until I went to school, I only spoke German.

The only book which I remember we had at home was in Polish. It was Tolstoy 18, I remember, it was bound in these red covers, but not leather, it was in my father’s study. My parents didn’t read much. They didn’t have an intellectual education, no needs.

They were simple people. Among themselves they spoke about family, business, that there wasn’t enough money. I’m sure they didn’t talk about politics. I remember that before the war there started to be talk about whether there’d be a war. They were afraid. Mother thought we should have left for Palestine.

We sometimes went to the theater, mostly with Mother. It was a Polish theater on Teatralny Square [probably the S. Wyspianski Teatr Slaski, located at Rynek 2, created in 1907, still in existence], very nice. Seats in the first rows cost more, in the back rows – less. I didn’t go there often, but when I did, I usually had tickets for those cheaper seats.

The Jewish theater came once, for a guest performance. I went to the play. It was ‘Madame Iks’ with Ida Kaminska 19, or maybe with her mother 20. I remember that Korczak came with a lecture on how to love children. I went to listen to that, my mother took me. Father used to buy the daily paper, it was called ‘Haint’ 21. I remember he would read that.

My parents’ friends were Jews. We didn’t have any close relations with Poles. The three nationalities in the city: Poles, Jews and Germans were not close. Jews met with Jews, and the others probably with their own. Some Jews who were friends of my parents had a printing house on the main street, I think it was Pilsudskiego Street.

They were both called Sztrochlic, because they were brothers. They had children our age. One of them was short and fat and the other one was tall and very handsome, he had a wife and a pretty daughter named Gusta and a son. The short one also had a short fat wife and a daughter – also Gusta, but she was fatter. Both Sztrochlic brothers were living on Graniczna Street. We’d go there for their birthdays. 

We lived at number 10 and the ones who lived at number 21 were, I think, the Zajdlers. I don’t know what they did. I think we invited them for birthdays, they invited us. We would organize birthday parties German style, with cocoa, chocolate and whipped cream, there was ‘Kartoffelsalat’ – potato salad. There was a movie projector at their house. They showed us films, for example ‘Tiny Tim,’ in German. We’d sing songs in German.

I still remember them: ‘Hänschen klein, ging allein, in die weite Welt hinein./ Stock und Hut, stehn ihm gut, ist auch wohl gemut./ Aber Mutter weinet sehr, hat ja nun kein Hänschen mehr./ Da besinnt sich das Kind, läuft nach Haus geschwind./ Lieb Mama, ich bin da, ich dein Hänschen hoppsassa./ Glaube mir, ich bleib hier. Geh nicht fort von Dir.’

[English: ‘Little Johnny/Went alone/In the wide world,/ tick and hat/Suit him well/He’s cheerful!/But Mother weeps much,/Now she has her little Johnny no more,/So, the child thinks it over,/He goes back home./Dear Mother, I’m here,/Your Johnny tra la la,/I’m by you,/I stay by you.’] Polish was spoken at the Zajdlers and at the Sztrochlices.

Almost every year we’d go on vacation. We’d leave the city for at least a month, or two. We’d take all our stuff. We’d go near Katowice, to Bystra [Bystra Krakowska and Bystra Slaska – towns south of Bielsko-Biala – 86 km west of Cracow], to Cyganski Las [forest in the southern part of Bielsko-Biala], sometimes to Rabka [approx. 40 km south of Cracow], always to southern Poland, Silesia. I never went to the seaside [Baltic Sea, in the north of Poland] before the war.

Our more distant family would go with us too and we’d spend time there together. We’d rent cottages from peasants. I remember this hotel in Zakopane. We’d live there and eat there. It was a Jewish hotel. The owners were Jewish, the guests were mostly Jewish too.

We met a young married couple during one of those vacations, they were staying in that hotel with us. And then we hiked in the mountains together. We’d hike mostly in the valleys with the little sisters, we’d climb the Gubalowka [a peak on the outskirts of Zakopane, 1,120 m above seal level], never too high. We were not professional [hikers], I didn’t have any special clothing, I hiked in my school coat. 

Most often we’d meet with Aunt Mania, that is Mother’s sister, and her husband Tobiasz, my father’s brother. They had one daughter – Estusia [Ester]. We were also in touch with Chaim, that is Father’s brother and his entire family.

Chaim and Aunt Cesia had several children. Four sons: Abram, Herman [Herszlik], Nachman, Aronek [Aron] and one daughter – Netka [Natalia]. We didn’t have any family in Katowice. They all lived in Sosnowiec.

Tobiasz and Chaim lived in Sosnowiec, on Deblinska Street, near the train station, they had nice apartments. They were wealthier than the rest of the family. Tobiasz and Chaim operated a currency exchange office in Katowice, at 10 Slowackiego Street, in a house which was owned by them. It was a small, private corporation.

Chaim also had a clothing store in Sosnowiec, on Modrzejowska Street. Modrzejowska was a street where almost all the stores belonged to Jews. There was no Jewish district. There were streets where mostly Jews lived, but they were in no way separated. [The Jewish religious community was founded in Sosnowiec in 1899.

Jews lived mostly in the commercial district – a square delimited by present day streets: Warszawska, Malachowskiego, Sienkiewicza, Koscielna. According to the census of 1931 Jews constituted 19% of the population of Sosnowiec.]

Szlomo, another one of Father’s brothers, also lived in Sosnowiec. He had a colonial goods store. He was alone, his wife was dead, that’s what I remember. He had a daughter Jadzia – Jochewet, a nice, pretty, blond girl. We used to call her Jochcia.

She used to talk a lot and very loudly. I remember I was ashamed to walk on the street with her. She was a bit older than me and died in the camp in Lichtenwerden [Svetla Hora, Czechoslovakia, an ‘Aussenkommando’ of Auschwitz, inmates worked in the arms industry in a yarn factory (G.A. Buhl und Sohn) and clearing the rubble after bombings, liquidated in February or March 1945]. Jochcia had one brother, his name was Pesach, he was in Peru.

He had emigrated before World War II, he was an upholsterer by trade. Jochcia also had some more brothers, sisters, whom I don’t remember. I met this one from Peru in Israel, when he came there in the 1970s and died shortly afterwards. He was some 10 to 15 years older than I.

We also used to meet with Rozia and Heniek Oksenhendler. They had two daughters: Fredzia and Renia. Rozia was Aunt Cesia’s sister, Aunt Cesia was the wife of my father’s brother, Chaim. I think that Rozia was also some relation of my father’s, because Cesia and Rozia had one more sister: she lived in Czestochowa and her name was Miriam Bruk, I know that she was also a cousin of my father’s. [Chaim Beitner married his cousin Cesia, the daughter of Aron Weksler, who was the brother of Zofia Weksler, Chaim Beitner’s mother – according to A. Maskalan’s album.] Miriam Bruk also used to go to on vacation with us.

Estusia was my favorite cousin. Her father [Tobiasz] was my father’s brother and her mother [Mania] was my mother’s sister. We loved each other very much. I remember how once I went with her and her mother to Krynica [Krynica Gorska, approx. 90 km southwest of Cracow].

We were there in the summer, in a hotel called Tel Awiw. Krynica Gorska was a health resort. Estusia was some ten years older than I. She graduated from a gymnasium in Sosnowiec. I don’t remember if it was a Polish of Jewish one. She wasn’t married.

Estusia was a charming, intelligent girl. She was self-taught and she was very radical, progressive. Progressive – I mean her father was very religious, he had this long beard, but she sympathized with the communists.

She didn’t belong to the party [Communist Party of Poland] 22, but she had a whole group of friends with whom she met and discussed political issues. Her leftist views were well known in the family. Her parents were pious Jews, but they didn’t mind [her communist views.]

Politics didn’t play any role in my friendship with Estusia. She was the one with communist sympathies, I was a member of a Zionist organization. She didn’t try to convert me to communism. My brother Natan, yes, she did. She had influenced him, but I was too stupid, too naïve. I was a child. Estusia died in Auschwitz. Together with her parents, she was deported from the ghetto in Sosnowiec 23.

My second cousin Netka was also a communist. She was Uncle Chaim’s daughter. She organized a strike in her parents’ store on behalf of the employees. She may not have been a member of the party, but she was definitely a communist and they always spoke quietly about her.

Netka survived the war. She was in the USSR. She married a Russian of Polish origin and they followed the line of the front together, they reached Berlin. [Most likely they were in Berling’s Army, formed from Polish refugees in the USSR in 1943.

Berling’s Army took part in the capturing of Berlin in April 1945.] Right after liberation they settled in Warsaw. Her name was Natalia Maskalan and she had this son, Andrzej [Andrzej Maskalan, the author of the Beitner and Weksler family album, quoted above].

Natalia’s mother’s sister, her name was Nadzia Lesko, was also a communist, and she was also not talked about, because she was in prison for communism. [Communist activity was illegal in Poland in the interwar period.]

In the 1930s she went with her husband to the homeland of communism [Soviet Union], because she was in trouble in Poland. And that’s where Nadzia’s husband was murdered and she was sent to a camp for ten years 24.

Netka’s oldest brother was named Abram, then there was Herman, Nachman and Aronek. The oldest ones went to Palestine even before the war. I think Abram left in 1933 and Herman in 1934. Nachman, we called him Nacek, left in 1936 or 1937. He died there several years ago.

Their father, Chaim Beitner, stayed in Poland. Of course, he died [in the Shoah] and his youngest son, Aronek, died with him. They were sent from Sosnowiec to Auschwitz. [Transports of Jews from the ghetto in Sosnowiec began in May 1943, the last one departed from Sosnowiec in January 1944].

From my mother’s side I met her three step-sisters: Hela, Frania and Jadzia. And this Hela had a son, I remember. Her name was Hela Frydrych, she was not quite normal. And Frania and Jadzia didn’t get married before the war. We did not have a close relationship with Frania, Hela and Jadzia. They would sometimes come to Katowice. Only Frania survived the war, no one else was left. And this Frania went to America after the war, got married, had a son. 

I was in Bedzin two or three times, but when I went there I would always sleep at Hadasa’s house [Father’s employee]. I remember there was this huge bed with a feather quilt. There was only one room there, they were not rich people.

Hadasa’s mother used to bake yeast chocolate cake – it was delicious. Hadasa would sometimes bring it to us, to Katowice. I visited this Helcia [Mother’s stepsister] maybe once or twice. I don’t know what she or her husband did. They had something on the market square in Bedzin. I only remember Mother used to say he was primitive.

Hela lived outside of the Jewish district. There was a Jewish district in Bedzin, it was called ‘Zimna Dupa’ [Polish, literally: ‘Cold Ass’; most Jews in Bedzin lived in the area of: Zaulek, Zawale, Rybna, Berka Jozelewicza, near the old walls of the city, near the castle.] I don’t know the origin of this name. Only poor people lived there. I was there only once, it was near Gora Zamkowa [Castle Hill].

Mostly German was spoken at the preschool which I attended in Katowice. It was a private preschool, German, I think. Children of all ethnic backgrounds went there. My mother used to walk me to the preschool. I don’t remember if I went there with my brother or not.

I was six years old when I started attending the Berek Joselewicz Elementary School. It was very close to our home, on Stawowa Street, I think. There was one Jewish school in Katowice. It was organized by the Jewish religious community.

The school had a lot of pupils, there were boys and girls together in the classes, the building was quite impressive too, maybe three stories high, with a large schoolyard. The principal’s name was Dligacz. The classes were taught in Polish.

Winer taught Hebrew, but it was very basic. Our homeroom teacher was Miss Londner, who taught Polish. Her name was the same as my mother’s, but they were not related. There was Miss Apter, I think she taught history, Mr. Szapiro, who taught Polish.

I really liked Ms. Sara Diler, who taught us drawing. Marlena, that’s how we called her, she had beautiful legs, like Marlene Dietrich. Sara Diler was very  shapely, nice, intelligent. We met in Israel, many, many years after the war and talked about the days in Katowice. It had turned out that before the war she was a friend of my future husband, Stanislaw Wygodzki 25.

There was gymnastics [at school] and in the Zionist sports organization which we belonged to. I think it was called Maccabi 26, or perhaps the name was different? We did exercises on all kinds of equipment. There were competitions too.

The gymnastics classes at school took place in the girls’ gymnasium on 3 Maja Street [Municipal Girls’ Gymnasium, located at number 42, on 3 Maja Street, created in 1922, currently M. Sklodowska-Curie High School number VIII.]

I had the greatest problems with Mr. Neumen, who used to throw me out of physics and mathematics lessons, because I didn’t know anything and disturbed the class. Well, I wasn’t such a good student.

I was lazy and only once, in 5th grade, did I have all As and Bs. Once I even had to repeat a grade, 6th grade. Yes, I failed mathematics and physics. I remember that it really hit me hard. My parents didn’t punish me at home.

They were sorry, just like I was. I told them I wouldn’t study at all, that I’d go to work. Of course, I couldn’t find a job. So I repeated 6th grade and graduated from that elementary school after eight years, because there were seven grades in all.

I had several friends at school: there was Mala Lobel, Hanka Urbach, there was Rutka Reichman, Mina Schif, Hela Hass. All of us, with the exception of Mina, were in love with this boy from our class. His name was Natan Rozenzweig.

He was charming, nice, intelligent, wise. I think I even made out with him somewhere in the park. Those were very immature feelings, but they did bind us, because we stayed in touch for a long time. Natan was in the ghetto in Warsaw 27, he wrote me that he was sick with typhus. I even sent him a typhus vaccine. He died in the ghetto.

Most of my friends were in Akiba 28 – a Zionist youth organization, so I also joined it. I was in touch with my girlfriends for many years. My best friend Hela [Hass] was in Siberia 29 during the war. We sent packages to her from Vilnius, from the kibbutz, pictures and greetings. She survived, got married, she was in Israel and died a few years ago. 

Mina Schif also survived, she is in Israel today. She’s very sick with Parkinson’s disease. Mina Schif’s father was a member of the Zionist Organization. I think he operated a Singer franchise [a company producing sewing machines]. He had bicycles, sewing machines there.

My other friends died during the war. Mala Lobel, Rutka Reichman. When we were in gymnasium this Rutka was really in love with Franek Goldsztain. We were very young, maybe 17 years old and it wasn’t popular then for young people to carry on like that, they were like a marriage.

But nobody condemned them much. She later died, he survived. I know, because he sent me a letter in 1946 and his picture from Karlstadt [a city on the River Main, east of Frankfurt am Main]. We later lost contact, I don’t know what happened to him.

When we were children, and later teenagers, we used to go to Kosciuszki Park. There was this special sledding trail there. It was quite far away from the center [of the city]. Fairs [of industrial products] took place in Kosciuszki Park from time to time.

There was also Bugla [an outdoor swimming pool, opened in 1927, still operating at 26 Zeliwna Street], where we used to go to swim. There was a skating rink, where we went skating. We also played ball. I used to go to the cinema with my brother.

It was a huge expense for us, but there was this one teller, who let us in without tickets. There were some cowboy movies, I also went to see ‘Ben Hur’ [American silent movie from 1926].

I was nine years old [1931] when I joined the Zionist organization and I was a member until the end. My friends encouraged me to do it. My parents didn’t have anything against it. I remember that my father said, ‘You can join anything, but the Betars 30.’

Because Betar was an organization whose members looked like fascists, almost like the ‘Hitlerjugend’ 31: they had uniforms, brown shirts and these military belts. They also had this idea to take Palestine by force, which my father didn’t like.

I joined Akiba, but I wasn’t always there. I was also in Hanoar, but later returned to Akiba. Which organization I was in, depended on where my friends were at the time. There were probably some ideological differences between those two organizations, I don’t remember exactly. I only know that they were more pious in Akiba: they made us pray, organized religious celebrations. There was also Hashomer Hatzair 32 in Katowice. It was a socialist organization.

In Akiba we’d meet, learn Hebrew, sing some songs in Hebrew. It was quite fun. We wanted to leave for Palestine. Studying, discussions, camps – all of this prepared us for emigration. When I was some 15-16 years old I wanted to go to Palestine and work on a farm, like I was taught in the organization.

They told us about Palestine, what was happening there, what life was like, about how land was being conquered, about how everything was being built, how difficult it was there. They talked to us a lot about morality, pride, love of Israeli land.

There were discussions about current events, political and sexual issues. Those discussions made me conscious [of sexuality]. I was very young then, 12-13 years. What did we know then? Nothing. Our parents didn’t tell us anything.

It was all organized very well in Akiba: there were these units, platoons, kind of like in the army. They all had names: ‘Sharon,’ ‘Degania’ – named after places in Israel [then Palestine]. For example I was in ‘Blyskawica’ [in English ‘Lightning’]. Later in others, because that would change.

We had this ‘kfucovy,’ that is a leader, male or female. There was this Zyga Halbreich and his brother Paul [Halbreich], there was Edi Goldberg, there was Rakower, Bronek, there was Mania Walner. Some of them would later go to Palestine.

For the older ones – you had to be 15-16 yeas old – there was the so-called haksharah [Hebrew: preparation, strengthening], this preparation for emigration to Palestine, it took place at a farm. I never went there. I was too young.

I didn’t date. I didn’t fall in love easily, well, even if I did, it was platonic. There was this Moniek Fajner. He was from Bedzin. His father used to come to Katowice, I knew him. Moniek Fajner had a brother, Karol, who ran away to the Soviet Union during the war and was deported to Kolyma [Kolyma Lowland, where the gulags were scattered].

He was in Magadan [a city in the Asian part of Russia, since 1939 the largest Gulag transfer point, transports of prisoners were sent off to camps from there.] And he labored there, in a mine [there were gold, zinc ore, tungsten, coal and lignite mines].

He labored there in very harsh conditions. He came to see me after he got back from Russia – without hair, eyebrows and eyelashes. And Moniek Fajner left for Palestine in, I think, 1937. He wrote letters to me, he was in love with me, but I didn’t write him back.

When we were children and then teenagers, we used to go around Jewish homes and collect money for Keren Kayemet, in those blue cans with a star of David, for the purchase of land in Israel. There was a youth Zionist organization in Chorzow [a city approx. 3 km northwest of Katowice] and we went to meetings with youth from that organization. It was a five to six kilometer walk: from Katowice to Chorzow or Krolewska Huta, as it was called then [in 1934 the name of the city was changed from Krolewska Huta to Chorzow]. And from there [from Chorzow] they would walk to Katowice to visit us.

When I was 12, 13 years old I went to camp for the first time. I went to camps with Akiba, perhaps once with Hanoar. With Akiba I used to go to Banska Wyzyna, near Zakopane [approx. 9 km north of Zakopane]. My parents didn’t like this very much.

They had to pay, it was expensive. But I always somehow managed to convince them. Once, I don’t think they let me go, so I ran away. We went hiking in the Tatras [the highest mountain range in Poland, in the southern part of the country.]

I remember we would always go to Zakopane at night and then hiking in the mountains. We practically slept while walking, we were so tired. Each hike would always last several days. We ate whatever was available, mamalyga [a dish prepared from corn flour or cooked groats], we slept wherever we could, on some straw.

I once climbed Kasprowy Wierch [one of the highest peaks in the Tatra Mountains, 1,985 meters above sea level.] I climbed using these buckles and chains. Well, there were also these raids of the Polish scouts. And we would raid their camp as well.

We kept watch, guarded our camp in Zywiec [approx. 100 km southwest of Cracow.] We were afraid that these scouts would take our flag [capturing another troop’s flag was a custom based on the capturing of the enemy’s banner in the military.]

I started attending gymnasium when I was 14 years old [1936]. It was a vocational gymnasium of the Polish Women’s Association in Katowice. An all girls’ school. We learned sewing, corsetry. I didn’t want to work in that profession, but my parents sent me there.

Because I wasn’t such a great student they sent me to a vocational school, so I’d learn a trade. There was also a public girls’ gymnasium [in Katowice.] But I wasn’t a good student, so perhaps those general subjects would have been too difficult for me? I didn’t like studying.

My friends from elementary school and from Akiba went to the gymnasium with me, for example Mala Lobel. There were some who attended the Hebrew Gymnasium in Bedzin. It was called the Firstenberg Gymnasium [opened in 1930, currently High School #2.] Classes were taught in Polish there. There was also a Jewish trade school in Bedzin.

My gymnasium was very decent: there were quite a few students, the building was very nice. It was in the Silesian Technical Research Plant, where there was a technical school for boys. We were in a separate part of that building.

There were practical classes and general subjects. We learned German and French. But the study of foreign languages was not very serious. I remember one professor – Mrs. Fik. A great teacher of Polish. I think she must have been a communist. There were also [Christian] religion classes at the gymnasium. I left the classroom for religion classes. Jewish teachers didn’t work there.

There weren’t many Jewish students. There were few of us in the class: this friend of mine [Mala Lobel], me, Pola Fiszer and one more – she commuted from Dabrowa Gornicza. We didn’t feel anti-Semitism at the gymnasium.

There was also this Aniela Gora, a Pole. I was friends with her. She lived on 3 Maja Street. I used to go to this Aniela’s house and she’d come and visit me. But usually there weren’t that many close relationships between Polish and Jewish girls.

I attended the gymnasium for three years, until the war broke out. I graduated from the gymnasium. It was called the semi-final exam [an exam after four years of gymnasium; secondary school consisted of a four-year gymnasium and a two-year lyceum.]

During the war

After Hitler came to power 33, it was in the 1930s, there were lots of anti-Semites 34. This happened when I started to be able to understand certain things, I could have been 10 or 12 years old. I don’t know how it was before.

Usually, there weren’t many serious anti-Semitic incidents. I remember that yes, they used to shave off the beards of Orthodox Jews, who came to Katowice from Sosnowiec or Bedzin. This uncle of mine, Tobiasz, when he came to Katowice from Sosnowiec, he was attacked and his beard was cut off.

I remember that my uncle and my parents were all shocked. But when there were such attacks, they wouldn’t rob you, they wouldn’t take your money. It was the Hitlerjugend that did this [Mrs. Wygodzka is probably referring to the Jungdeutsche Partei für Polen (JDP), 1930-1939, a national Nazi party of the German minority in Poland.]

Those young people [from JDP] dressed just like the Hitlerjugend: in those gray shoes, white knee-high socks, shirts. They were behind all those anti-Semitic incidents. But I don’t know exactly whom they represented, I didn’t know them. Those were German influences. I don’t remember if there was Endecja 35 in Katowice.

In nineteen thirty-something my father had some problems. Some Volksdeutscher must have ratted on him – but I don’t know what exactly, because my father wasn’t doing anything illegal. I remember how they came to our house, the Polish police.

Mother told me and my brother to go out to the park. And she dressed us nicely. That is she had me wear a two-part dress, red, polka-dot. And she told us not to come back until she came to get us. And we walked and walked around this park, until finally Mother came to get us, it turned out they had searched the house. They took Father’s scissors, those he had been collecting for the album.

And I remember this story when I was playing hopscotch at 21 Slowackiego Street, the house on the other side of the street was number 10 or number 12 Slowackiego Street. It was a corner house. Suddenly a boy came out of that house and slapped my face, then went away.

I cried horribly and went to my mother and told her everything. Mother went to talk to that boy’s mother, but she didn’t care – nothing. That was an anti-Semitic incident. It was in the 1930s, that’s what the atmosphere was like. After the Germans came [in 1939], all the Silesians immediately became Volksdeutsche. One of them was shot on the very first day when the Germans entered. On the street, because he was out there, overjoyed that they had come, so they shot him. He was a barber on 3 Maja Street. I don’t remember what his name was.

The last camp was organized [by Akiba] in 1939. Several hundred people went hiking in the Tatras, because young people from all over Poland gathered there. I didn’t take part in that hike, I must have been feeling ill. It was a tragic hike, because lightning struck a rock and seven people, including the guide, who was a very handsome boy, fell off the cliff, into the precipice.

He lived in Nowy Targ [approx. 20 km north of Zakopane]. His name was Heniek Jaffe, he was slim, tall, blond, he had blue eyes. I remember the despair of those parents who were waiting at the train station in Cracow. It was August, we had just gotten home when the war broke out on 1st September and the tragic camp was forgotten.

I wasn’t there when the Germans entered Katowice, I didn’t see how happy they [the Silesians] were to greet them. Perhaps a day before the war broke out we ran away from Katowice, because we were afraid of the Germans. We knew Katowice would surrender immediately. We took some wagon and ran away [to the east]. Everyone was running away, not just Jews 36. But no one was counting on how soon they’d catch up with us.

We were somewhere near Olkusz [approx. 40 km east of Katowice], Wolbrom [approx. 55 km northeast of Katowice]. The Germans starting bombing the fields, people were hiding in the grain fields.

The Germans told everyone to get off the wagon, only I was left there, because they asked ‘You’re the servant, aren’t you?’ I was blond, blue-eyed, they didn’t think a Jew could look like that. Even that servant [a Pole] had to walk.

And I sat on the wagon and the driver took me home, to Sosnowiec, to my mother’s sister [Mania] and my father’s brother [Tobiasz], that is to my closest relatives. Only later did my family get there, to Sosnowiec, on foot. And that’s where we stayed, with Mania and Tobiasz. 

And then this horrible occupation 37 started. It drove me crazy, because Uncle Tobiasz controlled my every move and didn’t allow me to do anything. I was a rebellious girl, so I decided to run away. I didn’t tell my parents anything. And my brother and I, we decided to go to Lwow, to the Russians 38. This was still in September 1939.

So we left home, we walked and walked, sometimes we’d get a ride on some horse-drawn wagon. We reached Cracow. It turned out we didn’t have any money. So my brother bought himself a kilogram of salt and went back to Sosnowiec to sell the salt and earn some money. He returned with Father [from Sosnowiec to Cracow].

Father had decided that he had to run away too, because he was the manager of those tenement houses where so many Volksdeutsche lived and, although he was a very decent man, he still had enemies among those Germans. And from then on we traveled together.

My mother and sisters stayed in Sosnowiec, with that Uncle and Aunt. The children were small: six and ten years old. It seemed at the time that the war would end soon and that we’d all be back. I don’t remember the Germans stopping us on our way to Lwow. It was still quite easy, it was just the beginning.

I think they must have approved of this running away, yes. [In September 1939 the Germans deported several hundred Jews from Sosnowiec and forced them to cross the German-Soviet border. Polish lands incorporated into the Third Reich were supposed to be ‘Judenrein’] 39. We passed Przemysl [243 km southeast of Cracow], we swam across the River San [a tributary of the Vistula] at night, crossed over onto the Soviet side and went to Lwow.

So I spent the first few months of World War II in Lwow. At first I’d call the situation dramatic. There were lots of refugees from Poland. People were unhappy, wandered around Lwow not knowing what to do with themselves. There were no means for living. Mina Schif with her family was also in Lwow.

Mina’s mother knitted some scarves and my brother took them to an arcade to sell them. I was living in a school dorm, because I was supposed to start going to school in Lwow. I don’t remember what kind of a school it was, perhaps I wanted to graduate from a regular high school? Father finally rented a room from the Seweryns.

It was a mother with a son and a daughter. They were Poles. Very nice and decent people. Father lived there with Natan, but he couldn’t get a job either. He later started working in some wood and coal storehouse.

Natan wanted to enroll in a technical secondary school, but they didn’t want to admit him, because he was a ‘biezeniec,’ [from Russian, refugee] that is a refugee from the German zone. He couldn’t come to terms with the fact that he couldn’t study.

He saw what real communism was like in Lwow and he came to understand that it had all been falsified, not true. He kept to himself, he didn’t have any friends. When I left [Lwow for Vilnius] he was practically all alone. He didn’t have a good relationship with Father. Natan committed suicide in 1940.

I went to a kibbutz in Vilnius 40 in December 1939. My brother walked me to the train station. I didn’t tell Father that I was leaving, because I was afraid he wouldn’t let me go. It was horrible! I crossed the border to Vilnius when the temperature was 40 degrees below zero [Celsius], so I remember this.

When I was in Vilnius one of my friends from the organization said: ‘What?! You didn’t say goodbye to your father, you didn’t tell him? Write him, he must be worried!’ So I wrote him and Father somehow forgave me.

I went to the kibbutz, because I wanted to leave for Palestine, but I was one of the youngest in the kibbutz. Well, it was the older ones who got to go first. It was all quite illegal, papers were arranged in Russia. There were all kinds of organizations in the kibbutzim in Vilnius: leftist, rightist, all Zionist. 

We were in these former army barracks on Subocze [a street in Vilnius, leading from the center of the city to the suburb of Poplawy]. It was horribly cold [in the winter of 1939/40]! There were no toilets in the building. You had to go out into the yard.

And to get there you’d slip on [frozen] pee. There were hundreds of people there and lice. We used to go to the so-called ‘banya,’ the baths, and those lice were crawling on the walls, on the tiles. It was a horror, this first period. But then we broke up into groups and each organization tried to somehow function independently.

There were more or less 90 of us in our organization, Akiba. I knew some of the people from before the war. For example there was this Fryda whom I knew from a camp organized by Akiba before the war. We settled in a very nice house with a porch from the yard.

It was somewhere near Ostra Brama [a city gate in the southern district of Vilnius, erected before 1514]. The street was called Beliny. We’d be assigned jobs and then paid for doing them. The money was collected in one cash box and then used to buy what was needed to survive.

I was the nanny of three children, I think it was a Jewish family. Later I worked in a printing house, I chopped wood, I cleaned apartments; there were always lots of windows to be washed.

In the spring of 1941 I received a letter from Mom, sent from Sosnowiec to Vilnius. The letter arrived in the mail, normally. Mom wasn’t clear about it, but she wrote that she was sorry she would never see Natan again. How did she know what happened? I think Father must have written her something. And Father hid Natan’s death from me, because he wrote that he had been sent to Siberia.

So I thought: ‘If Natan is in Siberia, then Mom shouldn’t think that she’ll never see him again. After all, the war will finally be over, he’ll come back from Siberia.’ When I got this letter I asked my friend Dudek Goldberg, who was going to Lwow, to find out exactly [what happened]. Then he brought me the news that Natan had committed suicide.

That’s when I went back to Father, to Lwow, it was May 1941. The war between Germany and Russia 41 broke out a month later. Dudek Goldberg also went to Lwow. He was my first love: Dudek Goldberg from Radom [approx. 100 km south of Warsaw.] I met him in Vilnius, in the kibbutz.

We were together in Lwow for a short time. Later the war broke out and he was conscripted into the Soviet army. C’est tout – that’s all. He died in the army. Everyone knew: they sent them all to the front without any kind of training, as cannon fodder.

After I returned from Vilnius I settled with my father in that room at the Seweryns’. A month after the Germans came in [the Germans captured Lwow on 30th June 1941], a pogrom of Jews took place, to honor Petliura 42. The Ukrainians organized a pogrom of Jews 43.

That’s when my father died. First they took everyone to nearby forests, outside of Lwow. They forced them to dig their graves and shot them. I was also in that pogrom [Mrs. Wygodzka was arrested during the pogrom].

I managed to get out of the prison on Lackiego Street because I showed them the document I had. The German looked at me, I was young, blond, blue-eyed, maybe I didn’t look like a Jew to him. Anyway, he read ‘place of birth: Magdeburg’ and said, ‘you shouldn’t waste your life,’ and asked them to lead me out of the prison, along with two other girls.

I was all by myself, after Father died in that pogrom. I was living in Lwow, at the Seweryns’. I had to go to the Germans, because I was looking for a job, I didn’t have anything to live off. They gave me a job cleaning windows, later in a laundry. It was an army unit.

The airmen who went off to bomb the Russian part of Poland [the Soviet occupation zone], or even further, came back dirty, they had lice. We’d get food from them, lunch, bread. I used to divide this bread among my friends, because there was such horrible hunger in Lwow.

Linka, my friend from the organization was in Lwow, as was Joziek, another friend form the organization. I don’t remember if I paid Mrs. Seweryn for the room with bread, too. It’s possible, I don’t remember.

When they started setting up the ghetto 44, I ran away from Lwow. I was afraid of the ghetto, because I knew if they built a wall around us, or surrounded us with wire, then they’d have control over us. I decided to go to my mother, to Sosnowiec.

The only document I had was my gymnasium school-leaving certificate. I had this special ink which I used to erase all the data from the document and filled in a new name: ‘Emilia Dutkowska, Religion: Roman Catholic.’ I only left ‘born in Magdeburg.’ And with that document I set on my way from Lwow to Sosnowiec [in December 1941].

I stopped horse-drawn wagons, today this is called ‘hitchhiking,’ they offered me rides. I remember that I made the sign of the cross each time we passed a cross, so the drivers wouldn’t think I was Jewish. I was extremely careful...

I stopped in Sanok [approx. 220 km southeast of Cracow] along the way, where I had some friends with whom I was exchanging letters. Awrumek Gurfein and Marta, I don’t remember her last name, they were in the same organization as I was, in Akiba.

Before the war we used to meet at summer camps. I wanted to see them, because nobody knew what the following day would bring. I was depressed after my father’s and brother’s deaths, I wanted to cry on a friend’s shoulder. I was in Sanok for one day. Marta gave me her picture as a keepsake, in the picture she’s holding her little sister. Both Marta and Awrumek didn’t survive the Holocaust.

I reached a settlement, I think it was called Zloty Potok [approx. 20 km southeast of Czestochowa]. It was Christmas by then, it was December 1941. I could see the lights of a local recreation hall from far away. I entered that hall and there was some boy sitting there and decorating it.

I told him I was Jewish and didn’t have any money. I asked him if he could lead me to the Reich [Polish lands incorporated into the Third Reich – for example Sosnowiec and Katowice], because I knew that the border was nearby [border between the General Governorship and the Third Reich], but I didn’t know exactly where I could cross it.

And he agreed, no money, nothing, he didn’t want to rape me, he was decent and very kind. He guided me across the border. We were walking at night, it was very cold. At some point he said: ‘Here, on the other side, it’s the Reich.’ I said goodbye to him and kept on walking.

I remembered I had some distant relatives in Olkusz and I went there. They gave me money, so I could have it for the bus and train fares. I bought a ticket and went to Sosnowiec. I didn’t know it was after curfew [at the beginning of the occupation the curfew, the ban on walking out on the street, was enforced between 7pm and 5am].

I reached Deblinska Street number 13, where Estusia was living with her parents. Out on the stairs someone said to me, ‘The lights are not working.’ I looked and it was Estusia. We hugged each other and cried very much. She opened the door and I saw that my mother was there and both my little sisters. I was very, very sad, because I had left with my father and brother and came back alone.

The Germans had a detailed list of everyone who crossed from the General Governorship to the Reich, because all those people had to apply for a ‘Kennkarte’ 45. The Germans summoned them to a meeting point. I received an order to show up there.

We, the young ones, were sent to a labor camp. There were women, some very young ones, some with children, who were immediately sent to Auschwitz. But we didn’t know about it then. So in February 1942 I was already at the Oberaltstadt camp 46.

Today it is called Horejsi Stare Mesto, near Trutnov [a city approx. 100 km northeast of Prague, near the Polish-Czech border] in the Sudeten Mountains. At first it was a labor camp. We were taken to a flax factory, it was called Kluge.

The factory produced thread. The work hours were, for example, from 2.30am to 2.30pm. And then you had to clean the camp, scrub the floors, do all kinds of things, peel the turnips. Turnips – the kind you give to cows, that’s what we ate. We lived in horrible barracks, full of bugs. There were some 16 girls to a room. The rooms were small, double beds.

There were only girls at the camp. I became good friends with some of them. For example there was this Lunia Kronental, I think. She was from Bedzin. She gave me her picture as a keepsake with the inscription: ‘Eni, I want us to be able to recollect these times soon, or maybe forget – which would you prefer?

To my friend from factory times. Lunia.’ Lunia survived the war. After the war she lived on those conquered lands [so-called regained territories, which used to belong to Germany before WWII, incorporated into Poland after the war]. She got married to a simple tailor, she later went to Canada with him. That’s where she died.

It was a camp only for Jews, but around us [probably in surrounding camps] there were Russians and Frenchmen and English soldiers from Africa [most probably POWs from the African front]. There were Belgians, who, I think, volunteered for that labor. They were not Jews, they were normal people. I don’t know where they [other, non-Jewish workers in the factory] were living, because we only saw them at the factory.

English soldiers would, from time to time, throw cigarettes to us and out of gratitude I’d throw them pictures of myself and my family, so they wouldn’t think we were some criminals, but that normal people had been rounded up at that camp.

Those English and French soldiers showed great solidarity with us. Once this Zosia’s head was shaved, because they found out that she had been writing a letter to some Frenchman or Englishman. And as a sign of solidarity they all shaved their heads.

We were allowed to write letters once a month at the camp, we could also receive letters. Estusia used to write to me, all the letters were in German. We had arranged a kind of code, so we could tell each other things.

I found out that a ghetto had been created in Sosnowiec in the following months, after I had been sent to camp. The ghetto was in Srodula, between Sosnowiec and Bedzin. [Editor’s note: Srodula was incorporated into Sosnowiec in 1914.] My family was moved into the ghetto.

I remember that I kept writing about how horrible the camp was and my Estusia would write me back saying that I should be glad and should not complain, but she didn’t tell me about Auschwitz. Fewer and fewer letters came to the girls at camp. Only when a transport from Auschwitz arrived, did we find out what was happening. That was in late 1943.

I was thinking that as long as the Germans needed our work they would keep us there. So I started thinking about getting my mother and sisters to the camp. There were a thousand of us at the camp and all of the others looked at me like at some idiot.

I went to the ‘spiennmajster’ [German: Spinnmeister], the technical manager at the factory, and I asked him for a requisition [allotment of work] for my mother and sisters. I said that I would put my hands into the machine if he didn’t give it to me, because I couldn’t live there without my mother and sisters. And he wrote such a requisition for me, I sent it to Mother.

This ‘Lagerführer’ [camp commander] of ours once went to bring some more girls to the camp. I asked her then to bring my mother and both my sisters. I gave her a tablecloth which I had from home. She accepted the tablecloth, went there and brought Zosia.

She told me she couldn’t run a kindergarten or a retirement home at the camp. Zosia was 13 then. That was the best age. Of course, Zosia for many years felt offended that I greeted her: ‘What, only you?!’ – that I wasn’t happy enough. But she later forgave me.

Meanwhile Mother kept walking around Sosnowiec begging to be taken to the camp. Finally, someone got bored with her and put her on some transport. They managed to reach me before the final deportations from the ghetto in Srodula. All the other family members: Uncle Tobiasz and Aunt Mania, Estusia, Uncle Chaim and his wife, Aunt Cesia, they were all taken to Auschwitz and they all died.

I was at the camp with my mother and sisters until the end of the war. And we all survived. My sisters worked very hard at that camp. Even the little one, Jadzia, she had to push these heavy carts with the cotton spools, she cleaned the toilets.

Mother worked on the machine for some time and later this ‘Lagerführer’ allowed her to work in the kitchen. It was easier, because she didn’t have to go to the factory and there was one more plate of soup.

Doctor Mengele [Mengele, Josef (1911 - ? in hiding), a member of the SS, a doctor, performed criminal medical experiments in the Auschwitz extermination camp] came once and there was a selection then. I hid Jadzia on the top bunk.

Even this ‘Lagerführer’ didn’t turn her in. We had to march naked in front of them, several people from the SS. Mother somehow passed. They didn’t bother her [because of her age]. Several girls were sent to Auschwitz then, the sick ones. 

We were lucky that our camp was not evacuated, because during evacuations many people died of exhaustion, diseases 47. Almost all the surrounding camps were evacuated. At the end we had to dig trenches before the Russians came.

We were there until 8th May [on 8th May 1945 Germany signed the act of unconditional surrender], even a little bit longer, because we didn’t know where to go. The Czech locked up this ‘Lagerführer’ and those SS-women. There were all put on trial later in Czechoslovakia. I even testified in the trial of our ‘Lagerführer,’ her name was Hoffman.

After the war

After we left camp I went to Salzburg [Austrian city, near the border with Germany, some 250 km from Vienna] for some time. Together with my mother and sisters, because we didn’t know where to go, we wanted to go to Israel.

In Salzburg we lived in stables which were adapted for sleeping. [Mrs. Wygodzka was in a ‘DP’ – ‘displaced persons’ camp, for persons taken to the Third Reich for forced labor and liberated from concentration camps, who did not return to their countries after the end of WWII.]

From Salzburg we went to Germany. We were in the French zone [the area of defeated Germany was divided into 4 occupation zones: British, American, Soviet and French], in Jordanbad [approx. 100 km south of Stuttgart].

The nuns were running a house for DPs there. It was a very old place, very beautiful. It was called Knajp Kur. Hadasa contacted us and invited us there. She got married to Motek Krzesiwo.

He had survived together with her using false South American documents 48. Hadasa and Motek were interned as foreigners in a special camp. They survived the camp, they survived the occupation. In Jordanbad Hadasa gave birth to her first son. I was there when he was born.

I met my husband in Germany, still in 1945. I was at the camp in Oberaltstadt with his wife, Rena Domb. We were friends with Rena. She told me about him, about her family. And right after the war ended, Rena went to Poland and I stayed.

In Jordanbad I found out about Wygodzki, that he was in hospital. I went there to pass on Rena’s greetings. He was in hospital in Gauting [approx. 5km southwest of Munich], sick with tuberculosis. That’s how we met. Well, and we fell in love.

My husband was from Bedzin. His name was Szyja. Stanislaw was his pen name before the war. His parents were Icchak and Rywa-Brajndla, nee Werdiger. I know that Rywa-Brajndla’s brother, Samuel Werdiger, was living in Paris with his wife Anii and daughter Luci.

My husband also had other relatives in France: some male cousin. My husband had three younger brothers, their names were: Lejb, Leon and Aronek. When someone asked Rywa-Brajndla how she was doing, she’d answer: ‘My husband is a Zionist, my four sons are communists, how can I be doing?’

Stanislaw was a leftist. He was expelled from school two months before his high-school final exams. It was the Firstenberg gymnasium. He was sent to prison for promoting communist literature. So he had no education.

He was self-taught. But he was a man of great knowledge. He translated from German, from Yiddish. Until the outbreak of the war he was working as a bookkeeper at a zinc white factory in Bedzin. He started writing in the 1920s.

His first book was published in 1935 in Moscow, it was poetry [the ‘Apel’ (‘Assembly’) volume of poetry was published in Moscow in 1933]. Later more volumes of poetry were published in Poland [‘Chleb powszedni’ (‘Daily Bread’), Cracow 1934]. He cooperated with leftist literary journals [publications in ‘Miesiecznik Literacki’ edited by Aleksander Wat, numbers 11, 9, September 1930].

The name of my husband’s first wife was Anka. They had a small, beautiful daughter, Inka. They lived in Bedzin. During the war they were deported from the ghetto in Srodula: his father, mother, wife, daughter, two of his brothers.

My husband had earlier arranged some luminal [luminal – an anti-seizure medication, causes drowsiness, here: luminal as poison]. And he gave it to his wife and child and took some himself. They arrived at Auschwitz.

The wife and child were dead, but the dose must have been too low for him and so my husband survived, they tattooed him while he was still sleeping. Everyone else from his family was murdered in Auschwitz. He was in the sick ward first.

They later gave him a job, carrying out dead bodies. He was evacuated to other camps. He was in Auschwitz, Oranienburg 49, Sachsenhausen 50, Dachau 51, Freiman [Editor’s note: a camp with this name has not been identified] – he was liberated there in 1945, he was sick with tuberculosis, taken to hospital.

Marriage and later life

We got married on 11th March 1945, when he was dismissed from hospital. In Germany, in Feldafing near Munich [approx. 35 km southwest of Munich]. It was a civil marriage. My husband’s acquaintances, who were with him at the camp, organized a party at their house, in Feldafing.

We stayed at Knajp Kur until 1947 when my husband was well enough to return to Poland. Both my sisters and my mother went to Palestine straight from Germany. Zosia left with a youth group in 1945 or 1946. It was called Aliyah Noar 52.

It was the last transport for Palestine, the next one went to Cyprus. The British were not admitting anyone any longer 53. Mom went with Jadzia. They left in 1947 legally, with papers, and they got there without problems.

I wanted to go to Palestine, too, but my husband, because he was a Polish writer and a communist, believed his place was in Poland. He had fought for this socialism all his conscious life and when it came in Poland, he wanted to keep on building it.

When we were getting married my husband put forward this condition – that we would go back to Poland. And I agreed, because I loved him. People were leaving for Palestine, for America, going to all kinds of places.

Nobody was going back to Poland, because they knew there was anti-Semitism there. I found out about the Kielce pogrom 54 in Jordanbad. They talked about it, but not that much. And in spite of the Kielce pogrom, my husband decided to return to Poland. So we arrived in Warsaw.

When we arrived in Poland in 1947 we were forced to change our personal data. The authorities explained that first and last names should be Polish and not other. Other meant Jewish. There was even an ordinance about this.

My husband changed his name to Stanislaw and I – to Irena. As the names of my parents I put: Barbara and Henryk Lewicki, instead of Beitner, and of my husband’s: Barbara, nee Balicka, and Ignacy. My place of birth was changed from ‘in Magdeburg’ to ‘in Sosnowiec.’ It was all falsified like this in all documents. Only now did I manage to change the data through the court, it took me two years.

In Warsaw at first we lived with my cousin, Natalia Maskalan. When we arrived, she helped us. She was living with her husband in some house in Mokotow [a southern district of Warsaw]. By the end of 1947 we received a room in a building belonging to the Ministry of Culture.

My husband started working for the Ministry of Culture then. When Ewa was about to be born, that was in 1955, we got an apartment in a building belonging to LOT [Polish Airlines] at number 9 Warynskiego Street. We were there until the end of our stay in Poland.

My husband was working at the Ministry of Culture for some time, later only at home. All he’d do was write. I don’t remember when he stopped working at the Ministry. He wrote by hand, later typed it on a typewriter. He asked me to proofread his writing, I did the editing, later typed it on the typewriter.

And after he submitted it at the publishing house, I’d do the subsequent revisions, which he checked. He usually agreed with me. I often threw out lots of things, because he sometimes repeated some things.

At first I worked at ‘Przeglad samochodowy’ [‘Automobile Review’ – a supplement of ‘Przeglad Techniczny,’ a technical-scientific journal, published since 1866, since 1945 as a weekly]. I collected materials about automobiles in the office.

I later worked at ‘Ksiazka i Wiedza’ [‘Book and Knowledge’ publishing cooperative, established in 1948], doing technical revisions, after all I didn’t have a proper education [to write texts by myself].

I worked until the birth of my son. In 1952 I gave birth to Adam. Later to my daughter, Ewa. She is three years younger than Adam. Almost to a day. They’re all born on the 13th of January. My husband on the 13th, Ewa on the 13th, Adam on the 14th.

I wasn’t involved politically. I wasn’t in the Party 55, but I didn’t rebel against the authorities either. I didn’t go to all those discussions at the writers’ club. That was my husband’s domain. My husband was in the Party.

After Khrushchev’s 56 declaration at the Twentieth Party Congress 57 his eyes were opened. He didn’t return his party membership card, but he openly spoke his mind during meetings. He wrote the book ‘Zatrzymany do wyjasnienia’ [‘Detained until explanation,’ novel published by ‘Kultura’ in Paris in 1968 and in London in 1979]. It was also translated into Hebrew [Israel, 1968, Maariv publishing house] and into German [Germany, 1969, Piper Verlag].

After the events in Hungary 58, after Nagy 59 was murdered, we submitted the paperwork necessary to get permission to go to Israel for good, but they refused.

But I always received a passport [in communist Poland one had to receive permission for each trip abroad – one would then receive a passport which had to be turned in to the authorities after returning to Poland] when I used to go to Israel as a tourist, to visit my mother and sisters. Before emigrating there, I went there some five or six times. I never had any problems, I would go alone or with my children.

Mother died in 1966. All those years I was in touch with my mother and sisters. Both sisters got married. Their husbands were born in Israel, but their parents were from Poland. My sisters didn’t visit me often in Poland. Jadzia came once in 1958.

She only visited me again recently, a month ago. Zosia came here several months ago for some celebrations. She was also in Katowice for the opening of the monument of the Katowice synagogue [a monument with the inscription: ‘to honor the memory of Jews, the residents of Katowice – murdered by the German occupant in 1939-1945’ was opened between Mickiewicza and Skargi Streets in Katowice in July 1988].

In 1963 my cousin from Israel, Fredka [Rozia Oksenhendler’s daughter] visited us. She had run away from Poland during the war, to Hungary 60 and later went from Hungary to Palestine. She came for the 20th anniversary celebrations [20th anniversary of the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising] 61.

At that time you could already sense anti-Semitic feelings 62, the number of people who were allowed to come for the celebrations from Israel was limited. But there was a delegation from Israel. It included Gideon Hausner [Hausner, Gideon (1915-1990): main prosecutor in A. Eichmann’s trial in 1961], Eichmann’s 63 prosecutor, Rabbi Goren, people from the Israeli Embassy. I went to Auschwitz with them. It was the first time I was in Auschwitz.

My husband and I never concealed our identity. My husband wrote about Jewish issues, about the Holocaust. Everyone knew he was a Jew. Our friends were also Jewish, but we were in touch with some Poles as well. My husband was in the [Polish] Writers’ Association, so he knew lots of writers. We talked about the Holocaust with our friends. Whatever we talked about, we’d always go back to the war.

I wasn’t a traditional Jewish housekeeper. I brought my children up in a secular manner. I told them about their heritage. I even remember this conversation with my son, who was five or six years old at that time, when one of his friends told him he was a Jew.

He came home and asked what a Jew was. So we explained to him that he was a Jew and that we were Jews. And because he had listened to our conversations, which he was not supposed to hear, he asked whether he and his sister would have been gassed, too, if they had lived during Nazi times. That was his question.

Even before 1967 64 they [communist authorities] spied on us. We’d be invited to the Israeli Embassy, for example for Chanukkah or something. They’d always follow us. Once they even came to our apartment.

They asked my husband about his relationship with, I think, the secretary of the Israeli Embassy. And my husband said that all he was interested in was literature. And indeed that’s how it was.

My husband never wanted to go to Israel, but in 1967, he decided to go. Anti-Semitism knew no limits then. We left in 1968, in January. The entire period preceding our departure was horrible. We were followed, our phone was being tapped.

Even our son wanted to leave, because he had experienced anti-Semitism at school, for example children would write in his notebooks: ‘Go away to Israel.’ My daughter experienced anti-Semitism, too.

There was fear [in 1967] like during the occupation. I was afraid to go to the Dutch Embassy, because I thought they’d arrest me. There was no Israeli Embassy by then, because they had been chased away [in June 1967 Polish authorities broke off diplomatic relations with Israel, following the example set by the USSR].

I decided to go to Vienna to learn at the Israeli Embassy whether they were admitting Jews from Poland and, if they were, whether my husband would be able to get a job there. They only told me they couldn’t promise anything. We went to Vienna by train.

At the airport they [representatives of the Polish opposition] wanted my husband to talk about what was happening in Poland for Radio Free Europe 65, but he didn’t want to. The same evening we were on a plane to Israel.

In Israel, Jadzia, who was living near the airport, took us in. We stayed with her for some two months. And then we went to Ulpan [school of Hebrew, founded in 1951, still operating] near Netanya. It was a Hebrew school together with accommodation, food, everything.

So we didn’t have to worry about cooking, shopping, especially since we didn’t have any money. We didn’t have to pay for accommodation, for food. We spent some five months there. I was in the same class with my son, so I had to try hard not to embarrass myself.

My husband’s car accident, which happened while we were still at Ulpan, was a huge problem for us. My husband went to a meeting to Kfar Saba [city in Central Israel, north of Tel Aviv]. My husband was the most seriously injured of those who were in the car.

There was also this doctor, Dawid Lazar, a journalist from ‘Maariv’ [evening paper, published since 1948], Efraim Sten, a radio journalist, who was driving and my son, Adam, who luckily wasn’t injured. My husband was in hospital for a long time afterwards, he kept shouting ‘moja noga, moja noga’ [Polish, ‘my leg, my leg’] and in Hebrew ‘noga’ means ‘planet,’ so the doctors didn’t understand what was going on.

We were also allotted an apartment then. And immediately after our arrival, we didn’t yet have time to settle down, we received notification that we have to pay back the credit. It was very difficult for us financially. We borrowed money from one sister, then from the other one and then we paid it back.

Our apartment was in Givataim [a city east of Tel Aviv, a part of the Gush Dan metropolis]. We liked it best, because it was closest to my sister, Jadzia. There were six buildings there, built for new immigrants, who came from everywhere: Africa, England, France, Morocco, Poland, Russia, Lithuania.

It was the only apartment we had in Israel. We were very pleased with it. When we started living there, there was no road, just sand. But a beautiful city was built later on. We later bought this apartment, because it was possible to pay some small sum and the ownership of the apartment was transferred to us.

In Poland my husband used to earn money in one specific way – he published books. But in Israel you wouldn’t receive much even for writing that was published. We had to get by somehow, so I studied for nine months at a school for beauticians in Tel Aviv.

It was very difficulty for me, because all those terms were in Hebrew, I didn’t understand them, so I had to learn them by heart. But I somehow passed the exam and received my certificate. I took out a loan and purchased all the equipment necessary to open a beauty salon at home.

At first I waited for a long time, almost for a year, for my first customers. I worked very hard, I had learned how to work hard in Poland. I had lots of customers later. They were government employees, some executives’ wives, storekeepers. They were very nice and it was thanks to them that I learned how to speak Hebrew, because the language had still been foreign to me before.

We spoke Polish at home, until the end, always. And with my sisters, after some time, I started speaking Hebrew. Not always though. When Jadzia visited me recently we spoke Polish, so she would remember it, because she was only a child during the occupation. But when Zosia calls me from Israel we speak Hebrew, because it’s easier for her.

My husband used to write a bit. Mostly for ‘Maariv.’ His book ‘Zatrzymany do wyjasnienia’ was also published. And he started working for Yad Vashem 66. He prepared definitions for Encyclopedia Judaica for them, he also edited memoirs.

My husband was displeased with many things in Israel: their attitude to Arabs and those Orthodox people, their power in the country. When there were elections we always used to vote for the Labor Party [Israeli Labor Party, created in 1968, social-democratic, leaders: I. Rabin, Sh. Peres, E. Barak].

My husband missed Poland very much, he missed his friends and his past. He never really belonged anywhere, he didn’t go out. He rarely went to those meetings of the Writers’ Association, because he decided that all those people keep talking about themselves and not about some topics which could interest him. He got kind of sidetracked in life.

We were friends with people from Poland. They were from the previous waves of emigration. There was a Polish bookstore in Tel Aviv. So Mr. Neustein with his wife, Ada [the owners of the bookstore], organized some parties at their house for interesting people, for writers who came from around the world.

My husband had one cousin in Israel, who emigrated in the late 1920s. His name was Wygodzki too and he lived in Petach Tikvah [a city in central Israel, north of Tel Aviv-Yaffa], nearby. We met from time to time, not too often. He was religious. When he visited us he’d never eat anything, just drink water. He had a wife, two daughters. He was a calm, very nice man. He worked in a health insurance company, I think. And then they all died.

And from my side, I have a large family in Israel. In addition to my sisters, there are lots of male and female cousins, their children, the second, third generations born there. Bar and bat mitzvahs were always and experience for me there, because I would meet my family.

I was in close touch with some of my cousins. They were: Abram, Cwi – Herman, Nachman or Nacek [Chaim Beitner’s sons], Fredka [Rozia Oksenhendler’s daughter], Fredzia and her brother Kuba [Miriam Bruk’s children].

Fredia Rappaport, nee Bruk. Her husband, Frycek, was a charming boy. He came from Bielsko [today: Bielsko-Biala, 86 km southwest of Cracow] from a family which made wool. The name Rappaport has something to do with wool. My cousins didn’t change their names to Hebrew ones. They’re still called Beitner. And the women took their husband’s names.

My daughter was 12 when we got there from Poland. She went to elementary school in Israel, it was near our house. And my son was at boarding school. It was called Hadsim, near Natanji. He was 16 when he came to Israel.

He graduated from high school and had to go to the army. There were two types of army duty: regular and kibbutz. So he chose the other kind and he was in a kibbutz. It was in Golan [Golan Hills – a mountainous area between Syria and Israel] and they guarded Israel’s borders there.

It wasn’t tough duty. My son would come home from time to time, I’d go and visit him. Adam took part in the Yom Kippur War 67. He was seriously wounded. He was almost dying. After he was wounded he stayed in the kibbutz for some time.

Then problems with the children began. They were in a different world, climate, mentality, everything was foreign to them. Although they tried to plant their roots there, it wasn’t working out. My daughter graduated from gymnasium and attended the Michlal LeMorim LeOmanut higher school of painting in Tel Aviv for three years, because she was quite talented. It was a painting school for teachers. But she didn’t graduate from that school.

Meanwhile my son had decided to leave Israel for good [in 1975 or 1976]. He married a Swiss girl [in 1985]. They traveled all over the world. They were in India, New Zealand, Jamaica, South America. Their daughter, her name is Sunshine, was born in New Zealand.

My husband followed everything that was happening in Poland closely [the 1980s, the period of democratic opposition in Poland, the creation of Solidarity] 68. He was a communist. That’s how his life was. He only realized that he was on the wrong side when it was too late.

We were very happy when communism fell in Poland 69. My husband additionally disliked communists, because his brother, Leon, who was a communist, had been murdered by Stalin. Leon and his wife, Genia, also Jewish, left Poland for the Soviet Union before the war. That’s where their two sons were born: Seriorza and Roman. Leon was murdered in 1936 or 1937 when there were so-called cleansings in Russia 70.

After some time in Spain, my daughter met a Frenchman whom she married. They’ve been living in the south of France for ten years now. They have two daughters. Satia is now 13 and Lotus is two years younger, so she’s eleven.

Both are beautiful, talented, they paint, they’re excellent students. They’re very cheerful, charming.  My daughter’s husband is very kind, everything is going well for them. They have an ecological farm: goats, chickens, vegetables. They have a greenhouse. My daughter also paints when she finds the time.

My son has remained a traveler. During one of his stays in India he decided to teach himself magnetic biotherapy. My son and his family have been traveling all their lives. Sunshine, who is today 20 years old, is in Martinique. And my son with my daughter-in-law are in France. They spent half a year in Poland. They’ll probably come again this winter.

My husband died in 1992, on 8th May, on liberation day [anniversary of the end of WWII]. He died at night, in hospital. I stayed in Israel for many years afterward. Finally, I decided that if I wanted to keep in touch with my children, I should go to Europe. I decided I’d never return to Israel.

In 2000 I decided to go to my daughter. But it turned out I wasn’t feeling well there. They live in the countryside, I had no acquaintances. I didn’t know the language. I could speak Hebrew to the children, because Ewa had taught them Hebrew.

But the four of them were a kind of closed unit and I didn’t want to interfere. So I decided to go to Warsaw, see how it would be here, whether life would be possible, because I had never imagined I’d return to Poland after I left [in 1968].

So I got here, here I am and I’m not doing too badly. Not good, because I don’t feel ties to Israel, Poland or France. I’m somewhat suspended, neither here nor there. I am an Israeli citizen, I don’t have a Polish passport.

Polish citizenship was taken away from me [in 1968 Jews emigrating from Poland were deprived of Polish citizenship, they only received so-called travel documents, without the right of returning to Poland]. I could try to regain it 71, but I’m not sure if it’s worth it. I’m also put off by the same things I was put off by in Israel. For example fanatics, who are the same everywhere.

So this is all difficult, especially since I’m alone. I know I don’t have much time until the end, so I’m happy every time my son or daughter come and visit me. My daughter will visit me soon, in the fall, with her family. Adam has been here twice since I came to Poland.

I also have relatives here. There is the son of my cousin, the closest one, Natalia [Maskalan]. I don’t impose myself on them, because they are young people, the same age as my children, they have their own joys and sorrows, their own families.

There are quite a few people I can talk to from time to time. For example from literary circles. I don’t participate in the life of the Jewish religious community in Warsaw. I never have. I don’t see why I should begin now.

I’ve been to the Jewish theater, Grynberg [Grynberg, Henryk (born 1936), writer and poet, the theme of the Holocaust dominates his writing] came, so I went to a meeting with him. I read a lot. Mostly about the Holocaust. I somehow can’t leave the past behind.

Glossary

Henryk Umow

Legnica

Poland

Interviewer: Jakub Rajchman

Date of interview: July 2004

Henryk Umow is 86 years old, and he grew up in Lomza, where many Jewish families lived before the war. During our two meetings in his apartment in Legnica, Mr. Umow told me about Jewish life in Lomza and about his experiences of Polish-Jewish relations in Jedwabne 1, where he spent some time in the mid-1930s. Mr. Umow doesn't want to talk about the Holocaust period; he lost his mother and two sisters in the Lomza ghetto, and still finds it too painful to speak about. His story is interesting and full of insight into the difficult relations between Poles and Jews in Poland.

My name is Henryk Umow. Before the war my name was Chaim Umowa, but when the Russians entered Lomza in 1939 they registered me as Umow, because, they said, Umowa is feminine. [In both Russian and Polish, nouns ending with ‘a’ are usually feminine.] And then after the war I changed my first name to Henryk to make it more Polish. But my sister [Zlata] always called me Chaim, even after the war.

I was born in Kolno, a little town near Lomza, on 17th May 1917. In 1920, during the Polish-Bolshevik War [see Polish-Soviet War] 2, my family moved to Lomza. My father said that bullets where whizzing over our heads as we rode to Lomza in the cart. Which means I survived the Polish-Bolshevik War – everyone in the family says I was at the front!

My father’s name was Icchak Umowa. He already had two children from his first marriage: my brother Benzir was born in 1908, and my sister Zlata was born in 1910. Later, besides me, he had two more daughters with my mother – my younger sisters: Leja was born in 1920, and Esterka in 1922. My mother’s name was Dowa Umowa, nee Friedmann.

I don’t remember any of my grandparents, either on my mother’s side or my father’s. I don’t know where either family came from, or how they came to be in Kolno, where I was born. We never talked about it. I didn’t know anyone at all from either family, except for my mother’s brother, who was a shammash in the Jewish community in Jedwabne, and whom I lived with for a while. But I don’t even remember his name. Also, I know my brother and sister from Father’s first marriage had some family in Warsaw, but that was his late wife's family. There was an aunt too – Mother’s sister, I think – she married one of the owners of a carbonated-water plant. Wirenbaum was his name, but they emigrated to the US. I only remember that like us they lived in Lomza on Woziwodzka Street.

I remember Father well, even though he died before I was nine. He was tall – I came up to his shoulders, like Mother. I know he was a tailor by trade, but he didn’t work. He stayed home; I didn’t know exactly what he did – I was too little. He said he was a middleman, in horses or wood or whatever – it was always a bit of extra income. I remember that Father never hit us. When I’d done something wrong he sat me down and gave me a talking-to. And when I started to cry he’d ask why I was crying, since he wasn’t hitting me. But I would have rather be thrashed, and I’d tell him to do it. But he said that if he beat me, I’d just cry a while and then do something bad again. I had to sit and listen – he thought that was the best way to raise a child. I remember that, and I did the same with my own children.

Mother wasn’t tall – about the same height as me. She was my older siblings’ stepmother, but they respected her and called her Mother – she was like a real mother to them. Mother was a hosiery maker – she had a machine, and she made new stockings and repaired the runs in old ones. Sometimes she’d make new heels or toes for socks. Having them repaired was worth it to people – it was cheaper than buying new ones and they saved a few groszys that way. The best season for her was spring – that’s when the most young ladies would come to have runs repaired. My mother was a very good cook. Actually my favorite dish has always been every single one; I’ve always said there’s just one thing I won’t eat for love nor money: what we don’t have! And when Mother would ask if something she’d made tasted good, I always told her that if I’m still alive, that means it tasted good. I figure Mother was most likely born in 1895 or 1896. I used to have a picture of her from before she was married, but it got lost.

My brother Benzir was ten years older than me. We called him Bencak, and then later, after the war, he changed his name to Bronislaw. He was a shoemaker by trade – he made new uppers for shoes, and also patched holes when necessary. I don’t remember much about him from before the war, because when Father died, he and Zlata went to Warsaw, to live with their late mother’s family. I know he got married there in Warsaw, to the daughter of a master shoemaker that he worked for. His wife’s name was Roza; her maiden name was Pomeranc. I only visited them once before the war, for a few days. Mother sent me to find work in Warsaw. I remember I went there by car – by truck – some driver took me. I was there about three days, but there was no work to be had, so I went back to Lomza.

My sister’s name was Zlata – in Polish Zofia. Here in Legnica, after the war, after she died, when there are memorial prayers in the synagogue, I asked them to refer to her as Golda. Some people asked who in my family was named that. You see, Zlata means ‘gold’, and in Yiddish that’s Golda. She was eight years older than me. She was a communist, a member of the SDKPiL 3 and then the KPP 4, and she got in trouble for that. I’ll never forget how one time I took a job guarding an orchard, to earn a little money. There were two of us, and the other boy had the night shift, but he went to sleep in the shed, and that’s when there was a break-in and something was stolen. Some guys from the secret police came to ask questions. And as soon as they heard my last name, they asked me how I was related to Zofia Umow. When I said she was my sister, they asked right away whether I fooled around with communism too. I managed to wiggle out of it somehow, but they kept an eye on me for a long time after that. All the time they thought I was collaborating with my sister. I remember she never got married. There was a man who hung around her and I think he even wanted to marry her, but she didn’t have time, because she was put in jail every time she turned around. And that lasted up until the war.

My two other sisters, Leja and Esterka, were younger than me – Leja was two years younger, and Esterka four. I was always spanking Leja, because she was beating up little Esterka. Leja was such a practical joker. On 1st April – April Fool’s Day – I remember she told a couple to meet each other in two different places, the woman in one place, the guy in another, telling each of them that the other had asked to meet them there. Or she’d send a midwife somewhere where no one was having a baby. I used to have a picture of her with me in the park in Lomza, but it got lost.

In Lomza we lived on Woziwodzka Street at first, on the corner of Szkolna [Street], and then on Krotka [Street], which was later called Berek Joselewicz [Street]. On Joselewicz [Street] we had an attic apartment, a kitchen and two little rooms. I remember my youngest sister, Esterka, was still in the cradle. There were these skylights there, and once a pigeon got in through them, and Mother had Bencak catch it and made pigeon soup, and my brother and sister ate the meat off the bones.

I was a very sickly child. I remember that my parents kept goats specially for me, so that I could have goat’s milk, because it’s healthy. We were poor, but Mother made sure our food was kosher. She did all the cooking for the holidays herself, and on Sabbath there was cholent. I remember that once I was in one of the rooms eating a non-kosher sausage I’d bought for myself as soon as I’d earned a bit of money, and it smelled really good. Mother called to me from the kitchen, asking me to give her a piece of it; she didn’t know it was pork. So I told her I was very hungry but that I’d go buy another one for her. Mother cared about keeping kosher and I didn’t want to upset her. So I dashed to the shop and bought a kosher sausage. Something similar happened with Leja: she saw me eating ham once, and she kept looking at me – she wanted me to give her some. I told her I wouldn’t give her any, but that she could take some herself. Because that way it would be her own decision to sin – I didn’t want to encourage her to sin.

Not every street in Lomza had plumbing in those days; on our street they still sold water by the bucket. There were lots of Jews living in Lomza. Almost everyone in the building where we lived was Jewish. I remember there was one woman who made wigs – we called her ‘Szejtel Macher’, which means wig-maker. The assistant rabbi also lived there; I don’t remember exactly who he was and what he did for a living, but that’s what everyone called him. And the owner of the whole building lived on the second floor; he had a butcher shop. I met his son after the war – he had a butcher shop here in Legnica. He gave me meat for free many times. The only Pole in the building was the caretaker. And I remember that I’d play with all kinds of kids – Polish ones too – in the courtyard of the building. Once I heard how they kept saying ‘fucking hell’; I didn’t know what it meant and I repeated it over and over. I went home and asked Mother, and she said it was a dirty word. And I go back to the courtyard and keep on repeating it. I remember that – Mother must have come up with a very deft ‘explanation’ of what it meant. I didn’t understand it until later.

Our family wasn’t too religious. Father went to the synagogue on Fridays and Saturdays, but he didn’t have payes. He took me with him on Saturdays. I had to go – Father wouldn’t put up with any dissent. We had electric lighting and we used it on Saturdays as well – we didn’t ask anyone to turn on the lights for us. Some people asked Poles to do that, I remember. During Pesach we definitely didn’t have bread – Mother always made sure of that. Every crumb had to be cleaned out, just like you’re supposed to. Some of the pots were made kosher: we poured in water and threw in a red-hot stone and scalded it that way. Other dishes were kept separate, used only during Pesach – plates, spoons and so on – after all, you’re not going to make kosher a plate!

We had matzah too: we went to a bakery, where the women rolled out the dough, and one guy made the holes in it and then it went in the oven. But I’d always keep a couple of groszys in my pocket to buy rolls on the side – I wanted to see what a roll tastes like during Pesach. But I never spent that money, because every time I left the house to buy that bread, I was so full that I didn’t want to buy anything to eat. I don’t recall any seder, because when Father was alive I was still too little, and later there was no one to lead it: Father had died, my brother had left, and I was too young. We just had a normal supper. And on normal days Mother also made sure our food was kosher. When she bought a chicken, she’d have me take it to the butcher so that the ritual was carried out. And when she bought meat, it had to be thoroughly soaked and salted.

The synagogue in Lomza was on the corner of Jalczynska and Senatorska [Streets]. There was also a prayer room a little further down on Senatorska [Street], and another not far from our apartment. I don’t remember any others. You had to pay for your seat in the synagogue. I remember that Father had bought a place, to the right of the bimah, I think. It was a beautiful synagogue, with the signs of the zodiac painted on the ceiling, all twelve signs. That was the main decoration. I remember there was a balcony where the women stood. There was a mikveh too; I was there just once, with Father. That was one Friday, just before Sabbath. I had to go into the water three times – we said in Yiddish ‘taygel machen’ [to take a bath]. That’s the only time I was there; normally we washed at home, using a basin.

We spoke Yiddish at home, and I could read Yiddish too. There was a series of books called Groschen Bibliothek [the Penny Library] – these little booklets, published in Yiddish. I read Spinoza, and The Spanish Inquisition, about Torquemada [Tomas de, first Inquisition-General (c1420-98), a Dominican monk whose name has become a byword for cruelty and severity] and how Jews were burned alive, and about the Dreyfus trial. [Dreyfus, Alfred (1859-1935): central figure in the Dreyfus case, which divided France for four years. An officer of Jewish decent in the French artillery, Dreyfus was accused and convicted of having betrayed military secrets. He was sentenced to life. He was finally proven innocent and pardoned in 1906.] They were just little booklets, but what stories! I remember I left tons of those little books behind when I left Lomza.

Father died in 1927. He was 57, and he had a lung disease. I was in the hospital at the time, because I was also very sickly. I remember that my brother came to get me, but the doctor didn’t want to let me go, because it was the second time that year that I’d been hospitalized for rheumatism. The first time it was my groin, the second time it was my knees, and the doctor didn’t want me to have to come back a third time. It was in April, just before Pesach, and it was cold and wet. And if I’d come down with the same thing for a third time, it would have become chronic. But Mother begged him to let me come home. She had to sign a declaration that I wouldn’t go to the funeral, but I had to see him! And I saw Father laid out at home, and I began to sob. When they took his body away for the funeral, they left me with some neighbors who kept an eye on me to make sure I didn’t go out anywhere, not even out in the courtyard.

When Father died, Bencak and Zlata went to Warsaw to live with their late mother’s family. They knew Mother wouldn’t be able to support them. Even with just the three of us children it was hard. Mother arranged for me to live in the Jewish orphanage. That was lucky, because it meant she could take care of my sisters, Leja and Esterka. The orphanage was on Senatorska Street, in a nice building of its own. That building is still standing. On the ground floor there was a room where they had prayers, and a dining room, kitchen and storage room. On the second floor there was a playroom and the office, and the sleeping quarters were on the third floor. I remember there was a Jewish school on the same street, and between the school and the orphanage was a hospital.

Life in the orphanage was nice. The house-father was nice. Everything was done Jewish-style, and in accordance with the religion. In the morning when we got up we had to wash, then off to the prayer room for morning prayers. Then afternoon prayers and evening prayers – we had to pray three times a day. We ate all our meals together in the dining room. And the cooks had some trouble with me, because I kept finding hairs in my soup. After I pointed it out a few times, it stopped happening – apparently they started wearing headscarves. On the big holidays we got together with the children from another orphanage and celebrated them together.

I went to the cheder, which was right next door. I was very inquisitive in school – I was always asking: ‘why?’ But in religion the dogma is what it is and you can’t ask why. So the teacher was always sending me to stand in the corner – that was my turf. He said I was a big free-thinker, and that I could learn everything if I wanted to, but I didn’t always want to. They even wanted to send me to a yeshivah for rabbinical studies, but I didn’t want to go. But I often feel that orphanage did me a lot of good. I don’t know how Mother arranged for me to live there, and if she hadn’t, I would have turned into a street kid. Being a boy, it would have been easy to run wild, but in the orphanage there was discipline and order. And I saw my mother and sisters often – I went home for dinners, usually on Saturday, because during the week I didn’t have time, what with the cheder, and after classes there was homework to do.

I had my bar mitzvah ceremony in the orphanage as well. I remember there were several of us 13-year-old boys and we all had our bar mitzvah ceremony together. And after that, when I didn’t want to study anymore, I had to leave the orphanage and start working. While I was still in the orphanage they apprenticed me to a tailor. That was a first-class craftsman! But I didn’t take to that line of work, and he got rid of me. Then they turned me over to another one. I learned fast there; after a month I was better than the other boy, who had been there a whole year. But instead of teaching me, the craftsman sent me shopping with his wife, to carry the bags, so I ran away from there. But I had to go back home – I was about 14 or 15 then.

When I returned home, Mother gave me 25 zlotys. That tided me over for a while, but I had to start working. First I went to work for a cap-maker – a craftsman who made caps, partly by hand and partly by machine. I helped him make caps for veterans of World War I and the Polish-Bolshevik War. But later he didn’t have any more work for me, so I was unemployed again. Finally one of the orphanage board members – a shoemaker by trade – needed to hire a boy, and he hired me, and taught me the trade. I worked as a shoemaker up until the war. First for that craftsman, and then for another one, whose workshop was in a building that had a plum-jam factory in the basement. And that’s why I don’t like plum jam – I saw too much of it being made. Exactly what he did with those plums I don’t know, because I didn’t look inside, but I remember to this day all those plums lying on the street.

In 1935 I got very sick. It turned out to be pneumonia. I remember that Mother didn’t allow them to use cupping glasses on me , and I don’t know the reason, but the doctor said later that that saved my life. I was very weak and had to stay in bed. And this was in July, the time of year when everyone went swimming. I always went swimming in the Narwia [the river that flows through Lomza] at that time of year, but that year I couldn’t. At one point I started coughing up blood. Mother was working in the other room, and I called her, and she sent for the doctor right away. When he came he said I was out of danger, that now I’d get better. And not long after that I was on my feet again. And I quietly got dressed one day and went to my aunt’s house – the aunt who married Wirenbaum. I was still very weak, but I wanted to go somewhere. So Mother went hunting for me, and when she found me she yelled at me, because I hadn’t let her know where I was. That was a serious illness, but somehow I managed to pull through.

Not long after that I went to live with my uncle – my mother’s brother, who was a shammash in the Jewish community in Jedwabne. There was a job waiting for me there. I worked and had meals at the master craftsman’s place, and slept at my uncle’s. I was in Jedwabne for a few months. I don’t remember the town itself very well; I know there was a synagogue, but a much smaller one than in Lomza – more like a prayer room. I didn’t have much contact with the Jewish community; I went back to Lomza for holidays, except once, when the boss and his family went out of town for Yom Kippur and he asked me to keep an eye on his apartment. I don’t remember my uncle very well anymore either. I don’t remember his first name; his surname was Friedmann. He had a short beard, trimmed to a point. He didn’t have payes. His son studied at the yeshivah , and I remember that once he spent a few days with us in Lomza, and I saw how he shaved. He made lather from some special powder that burned the hair, then he spread it on and removed it with a little stick, because he wasn’t allowed to use a razor.

The one thing about Jedwabne that has stayed in my memory is the anti-Semitism. When I was going back to my uncle’s from work I had to go through the town square. And there were Polish kids sitting on the steps there. Once when I was passing, they threw a cap at me. It landed by my feet, so I kicked it and kept going. And the next thing I knew I was surrounded. I didn’t stop to think, just punched one of them in the mouth and started running away. Then they started throwing rocks at me. So I picked one up and threw it at them, and ran to the other side of the street so their rocks wouldn’t hit me. And then one of them saved me. I don’t remember his name – I know his brother was a communist. He calmed the others down. Then they demanded that I hand over my knife – they thought I’d wounded one of them with a knife. I showed them my hand with a bleeding finger that I’d cut when I punched the guy in the mouth, and I told them that that was my knife. They calmed down then. But there was a lot of anti-Semitism in the town. [Editor’s note: Following the publication of Jan Tomasz Gross’s book ‘Neighbors’, which revealed that Poles had carried out a pogrom on the Jewish population in July 1942, Jedwabne was stigmatized and has become a sort of symbol of the cruel anti-Semitism of provincial Poland.]

When father had died and I’d come back home after four years in the orphanage, we lived on Dluga Street in Lomza. That was our last apartment – we lived there until the Nazis drove us out. It was on the ground floor, in an annex; we had a very small room and a kitchen. I remember that when we had a houseguest – for example my sister or brother from Warsaw – I’d sleep under the table so they could have my bed. After all, I wasn’t about to share a bed with my mother or my sisters! It wasn’t what you’d call luxurious.

I had a few friends in Lomza, and sometimes we’d get together for a drink, to celebrate something, for example new tailor-made clothes. I remember that two friends – also Jews – and I all had new clothes made at about the same time, and we wanted to celebrate. And since they lived on the outskirts and I lived in the center of town, we celebrated at my place. I remember that was the first time my sister Leja ever drank vodka – and she downed a whole glass at once! And she wasn’t drunk; she just laughed at us. I was about 20 years old then, and she was about 18.

There were other ways of having fun too. There were two movie theaters in town, and we went to the movies. Most of them were in Polish, but there were Yiddish films too. I remember a movie called Ben Hur – that was in Yiddish. The first time I went to the movies my brother took me. That was just after my father’s death, but before my brother went away. I was about nine years old then. My brother was working in Lomza then. I don’t remember the title, but it was some kind of war film – some soldiers with pikes came on the screen, and I got scared and hid under the seat. And I told my brother we were lucky there was a pane of glass [between us and the soldiers]. I didn’t know they couldn’t see us from there. And he laughed and said it was called a screen. But it was my first trip to the movies! There was also a friend called Aaron Ladowicz – I'll never forget him until the day I die. His father was a shoemaker, and he worked with my brother. Right after a movie, he could always sing all the songs from it perfectly. What a memory he had!

There were also various Jewish youth organizations in Lomza. For example the ‘shomers’ – Hashomer Hatzair 5. They had their get-togethers in a separate building – it was open almost every day from 5pm. They had different lectures, Jewish ideas, but also dances and parties. I signed up as a member there, to stay off the streets. I remember that was where I ended my career as a caretaker. I was supposed to make sure everything was cleaned up and so on. And in the basement of the building, some fruit dealer had a warehouse, and there were apples in it. Everything was behind a grate, but we got ourselves a stick and put a nail in the end of it. And every day he lost two or three apples.

I met my fiancee at the ‘shomers’. Her name was Judis Fuchs and she had beautiful eyes – blue ones. I still remember her eyes – to this day I’ve never seen any like them. She was younger than me – born in 1920 or 1921. Her father was a porter: he hung around the town square with all his ropes waiting until something needed hauling. My mother didn't like it, but I wanted to marry Judis. I promised her we’d get married, but only after I got out of the army, because a man who hadn’t been in the army was nothing but a jerk-off.

I didn’t take much interest in politics. I didn’t belong to any party, just – I don’t remember who talked me into it, but I joined Hahalutz 6. That was a leftist organization. But just before the war broke out I resigned from it, because they were getting ready to go to Israel [Palestine], and I didn’t want to. I had a girlfriend here, and we were engaged, and anyway I couldn’t leave my mother alone with just my sisters.

I remember that I liked to work out. In Lomza there was a Jewish athletics club called the Maccabees [see Maccabi World Union] 7 and there were training sessions there every day. They were run by a sports champion who had even been in the Olympics – I’ve forgotten his name. They weren’t professional training sessions, just simple exercises. I was stopped pretty often by the Polish secret police then, because I would leave the house in the evening with a little package, and they thought my sister had come and that I was handing out some sort of illegal communist leaflets. Then I started taking a different route, in order to avoid them, but it was too far to go, so I thought: ‘so let them check me.’

The Maccabi club in Lomza was quite good, especially in soccer. When there was a match with the Maccabees and the LKS – the Lomza Sports Club, in which only Poles played – the stadium was always full. Because the Jews were playing the Poles. And the Maccabees frequently won. I remember they had some good players – three brothers named Jelen. The youngest of them ran so fast his feet barely touched the grass. Once during a half-time he heard that the Poles wanted to rough him up good to eliminate him from the game, and that the coach was going to take him out of the game just to protect him. So he ran out onto the field and rested there during the half-time, so that the coach wouldn’t replace him. And his brother – I don’t remember if it was the oldest or the middle one – once kicked the ball so hard that the goalkeeper slammed into the goal along with the ball. When a match was held on a Saturday, there were always Hassidim [see Hasidism] 8 standing at the [stadium] gates in their payes trying to stop Jews from going to the game, because it’s not permitted on Saturday. But hardly anyone listened to them. I remember the stadium was on the road into Lomza from Piatnica, a village north of Lomza. It was a really beautiful stadium.

Everywhere we lived, both before and after my father’s death, it was always the same: all Jews, except for a Polish caretaker. Most of the Jews were traders or craftsmen. I remember that one family had a windmill; that was on the way to Lomzyca. On Senatorska Street a Jew named Golabek had a mill, but an electric one, not a windmill. One Jew also had a sawmill; one had a brewery, another a textile factory. Then there was the Mirage Cinema – the owner of that was a Jew too. There were lots of Jewish shops. And on Sundays Jews sometimes did some stealthy business in their shops, by the back door, since they couldn’t open officially. [Working on Sundays was prohibited by law to accommodate the Christian majority.] Even Jews told a joke about how one Jew asks another: ‘How’s business?’ The other tells him that he loses money every day. So the first one is surprised – how come he hasn’t gone bankrupt?! The shopkeeper explains that he has to close on Sundays, so he doesn’t lose money then, and it all comes out even.

Relations between Poles and Jews varied. When there was some kind of holiday, for example Corpus Christi Day and there was a procession, Jewish kids were kept at home. [On Corpus Christi Day Catholic churches traditionally organize a street procession, during which prayers are said at four altars set up along the route.] And I think that was right, because they only would have gotten in the way. But there was a lot of anti-Semitism at times. There were two movie theaters in Lomza: the Mirage, which was Jewish, and the Reduta, which was owned by a Pole. But Jews went to both and made up the majority of the audience. Then the NDs [National Democrats, see Endeks] 9 set up a picket line around the Reduta and only let Poles in. And the place was full of empty seats. The cinema owner had to bribe them – 2 zlotys for philanthropic purposes – to get them to stop the picketing so that Jews could go in again.

Another time they stood in front of Jewish shops and didn’t want to let Poles go in. Their motto was ‘stick with your own kind’. It was a market day, and a lot of country people came after they’d sold their own wares, and they wanted to buy something: because they knew a Jew wouldn’t cheat them, and that they’d get better goods cheaper, and even get things on borg [Yiddish for credit] sometimes. But the NDs didn’t want to let them in. So the farmers went to their wagons and got their T-bars and drove the NDs off. It was the same when the NDs formed a picket not far from a company that a Jew owned, but where only Poles worked. They sorted old second-hand clothes there and packed them up for alterations. And all these workers came to that Jew and said they wanted a short break to straighten something out. So he let them go, and they went and beat up those NDs, and that was the end of it.

I had some adventures myself. Once I was walking down the street and a Jewish guy tells me not to go further, because some NDs are hanging about. But I kept going and they didn’t recognize me as a Jew, because I didn’t look at all Jewish, mostly because I was blond. Another time I was walking with a Hasid dressed in Jewish clothes, and we saw some Polish country boys sitting a little way off. I told him not to say anything, and we kept going. They were saying to each other: ‘Look! That Jew-boy is walking with one of us!’ And they didn’t touch us. I was thinking to myself: ‘You fuckers, it’s not one Jewboy, it’s two!’ Another time I was walking along the sidewalk by myself, and there were two guys on the other side. I heard them arguing about whether or not I was a Jew. And a moment later one of them ran up to me from behind and tried to kick me in the butt. I didn’t see him, just felt that he was behind me, and I instinctively reached out and grabbed his leg. And he fell down – could have cracked his skull open. And then the other one said to him: ‘I told you he’s one of us!’

When Hitler had come to power and the war was near, people talked about it. The NDs were on his side. But then some of them came to their senses and said that Hitler had used the Jews to distract them, and armed himself and now he was going to kill them. But I thought to myself: ‘You were on Hitler’s side, so now you’ve got what’s coming to you.’ By 1939 anyone who had a radio was listening to it and talking about it. I spent time at Hahalutz – they had a radio, so I heard Hitler bellowing sometimes. Then in August I came up for army recruitment. I was glad, because after the army I was going to marry my fiancee. I went to the commission and they gave me a check-up. I weighed 48.2 kilos then, but I was healthy. The doctor listened to my chest and I was classified as Category A. [Category A is the highest, indicating full fitness for active military duty.] I remember there was a rich guy’s son with me – he had a lung condition.

I chose the infantry, and I knew that in April of the next year I’d be on active duty. So I went back to work. But that was August [1939], and the newspapers were already saying that there might be a war. Then there was some sort of provocation – they wrote about that too. And one day – I think it was a Friday – I was at work as usual. We didn’t have a radio there, but I went home for dinner and someone said the war had started. I had something to eat at home, and went back to work, and the boss said ‘there’s no work anymore – there’s war’.

When the Germans were close to Lomza, I ran to the barracks and said I was a recruit. They told me the Germans were close and that I should escape, and that if need be they’d find me and induct me. So I escaped to Bialystok. Some very distant relatives of ours lived there – some kind of cousin of Mother’s. I never knew them at all – that was the first and last time I ever saw them. I spent a few days there and moved on. I remember that the Germans chased me all the way to Suprasl [10 km northeast of Bialystok]. I went back to Lomza, where my mother and sisters had stayed. The Germans were in Lomza for ten days and then our ‘allies’ came [see Annexation of Eastern Poland] 10.

I nearly wound up in the Russian police force. I was asked to join, but I thought I didn’t know Polish well enough, and besides, how could I boss around the old [Polish] authorities? So I escaped again, heading toward Bialystok. And then when the Germans came back, we all wound up in the Lomza ghetto. But I don’t want to talk about that. I lost my mother and two sisters there, and it’s too hard for me to talk about it. Too painful. I only know that when the ghetto was liquidated [The ghetto that was formed in July 1941 was liquidated in November 1942, and the surviving residents were transported to Zambrow (20 km south of Lomza) and from there to the camp at Auschwitz-Birkenau], I managed to escape and I hid in the home of a communist in the village of Zawady [3 km south of Lomza]. And that’s where I hung out until the liberation.

The only ones who survived the Holocaust were my brother Benzir and my sister Zlata, from Father’s first marriage. Zlata was in prison just outside Warsaw when the war broke out, and when the fighting drew near, the prison staff unlocked the criminals’ cells so they could escape. But they broke down the doors of the political prisoners’ cells and they all escaped together. My sister managed to walk all the way to Warsaw, which still hadn’t been surrounded. Then – I don’t know how – she and my brother both managed to escape to Lithuania. And they lived through the whole war there.

The rest of the family died. Mother and my two other sisters, Leja and Esterka, died in the ghetto. I don’t know what happened to my uncle from Jedwabne – I reckon he was burned in that barn along with the others. The only others left were the ones who had emigrated to the USA before the war. That uncle – I don’t remember his name – sent me a letter right after the war, asking me to describe the political and economic situation in Poland, and I was so stupid that instead of writing back to him, I turned the letter over to the authorities as attempted espionage. [Editor’s note: In the early years of the communist regime in Poland, every attempt at contact with people abroad, especially in the US, was likely to be regarded as attempted espionage.] And just think – he might have arranged for me to come and live with him.

I stayed on in Zawady for a bit after the liberation, and then headed west, to the Recovered Territories [see Regained Lands] 11, because I no longer had any home or family. And that's how I got to Legnica. That was in 1946. I remember that there were a lot of Jews here. Later on, during the Sinai War 12, there was a joke going around about Nasser threatening that if Israel didn’t stop fighting he’d bomb the world’s three biggest Jewish towns: Legnica, Swidnica and Walbrzych. There was a Jewish committee, and I went there first, because where else was I supposed to go? That committee, it was like all the Jewish organizations – whoever was involved most closely with it got the most out of it. There were various gifts from abroad coming in – clothes, materials, money. They’d sort through it and keep the best stuff for themselves and give the worse stuff away to whomever they wanted. I never got anything. Once, I remember, they sent me to Wroclaw to pick up some kind of parcel. It was a great big package, with all kinds of things in it. And the train was so crowded I had to ride on the roof with that package, and every time we went under a viaduct I had to lie flat to keep my head from being knocked off. And I brought the package to the committee, and they didn’t give me anything! But I didn’t care. I had some clothes to wear, and enough money to feed myself.

At first, just after I arrived, I worked for the Russians, in a tank factory [some Soviet military industry were moved after the war to Poland]. That’s what we called it, but really it was a repair service that had been at the front and then, after the war, remained in Legnica. I didn’t want to work as a shoemaker anymore, because there was work only in the fall and spring. I pretended I was an electrician and they believed me. And I became an electrician due to that ‘ailment’ of mine – just one look and I get the hang of things. [Mr. Umow likes to joke about his inborn ability to learn.] My son and my uncle have that too. I became the staff electrician. At work I often talked with one Russian who had been at the front when Lomza was captured. He told me they had huge losses, and I asked him which side they’d taken the city from. When he told me it was from the north, I told him it would have been far easier from the south, the way Lomza was taken in World War I – that’s what older people in Lomza had told me. He said it was too bad I hadn’t been there with them, because I would have been a hero. Later on they wanted to put me on a pay-per-job system, and I quit – as a staff electrician I was mostly waiting for something that needed doing, and how much would I earn for spending five minutes to change a fuse?! Then they came to my house a few time and wanted me to come back to work – they’d put me back on salary and even give me a raise. But I thought: ‘The Russians are here today, but they’ll be gone tomorrow, and I’ll lose my job then anyway.’

I found another job almost immediately. A vacancy had just come up at a vinegar plant and I went to work there as an electrician. Then they merged the vinegar plant with a winery, and the chief engineer told me to go to the winery, because it was bigger. When I looked at those apples lying on the ground and pouring down the flue onto the production line, it reminded me of that plum-jam factory from before the war that made me stop liking jam. The same thing happened with apples. I worked there for a little while, then went to work for the police. I’d rather not say how that came about. I was in the secret police, in intelligence. I was trained in Wroclaw, and then worked in Legnica. I didn’t wear a uniform – I could only put it on on a superior’s orders. Later they wanted to transfer me to Wroclaw. I agreed on the condition that I be given an apartment. They gave me a transfer, but no apartment. I didn’t earn enough to have two homes, so I commuted to Wroclaw. Fortunately one decent officer told me to submit a petition and that they’d transfer me back to Legnica. And I wound up working in the office in charge of identification cards, and that’s where I ended my career.

For a long time I had almost no contact with the Jewish community. While I was working, I didn’t have time to go to the community or to the TSKZ 13. Anyway it was a long way from my home. It was only after I retired that I started attending both. Because I didn’t feel like cooking, and I could always have dinner at the Jewish community, and chat a bit. And at the TSKZ there were sometimes concerts or other events.

In the 1960s I thought about going to Israel. But my wife messed that up for me. There were these two Jewish merchants that I used to borrow money from frequently. I always paid them back, so they were happy to lend to me. And without saying anything to me, my wife turned them in for gambling. And she came to my office, saying I was going to get a reward. I bawled her out for butting into other people’s business. I wanted to get it all straightened out, but it was too late, and they put them both in prison. As soon as they got out they emigrated to Israel. And – well, I was afraid to go there, because I was sure they thought that it was me who had turned them in, and if I ran into them there, who knows what might happen. So I stayed in Legnica. And I still owed one of them 200 zlotys. I still haven’t paid him back.

I never personally experienced much anti-Semitism in Legnica. When someone tried making comments, I’d just shut his mouth for him. Only one time, when I was in Walbrzych visiting a woman and went to church with her, I heard a sermon where some bishop – I don’t remember where he was from – said that when Jesus was asked if he was a Jew, he had said no; but a week later the church was celebrating Jesus’s circumcision [Mr. Umow is referring to the celebration of Jesus being presented in the Temple on the eighth day after his birth.] And I didn’t personally experience anything when those events in 1968 took place [see Gomulka Campaign] 14. Just one Pole asked me why I didn’t leave the country. And he even proposed that we exchange ID papers, so that he could leave in my place. Another Pole told me that in the art school in Legnica, one of the teachers locked the Jewish students in a room and kept watch to make sure nothing happened to them. That was his duty as a human being. And I also heard about one Jew who left the country then – he came back to Poland later and wanted to put flowers on Gomułka’s grave, to thank him for kicking him out. Because he’s doing very well now.

I didn’t belong the PZPR 15. There was a time when everyone had to belong, but then they threw me out, and took away my membership card. I don’t want to talk about how that came about. Later they told me to submit a petition and they’d take me back in, but I didn’t want to. Once when I was sitting in the army canteen two Russian soldiers sat down with me, and I explained to them that I agree with communism but don’t belong to the Party. Why? Because when the committee secretary or some other member steals things, and I have to call him ‘comrade’ – if he’s a thief that makes me one too. I’d rather call him ‘mister’. I remember that those two looked at each other, bought me a shot of vodka and left, saying I should forget they’d ever been there. I understood – I knew that just for hearing something like that they could end up in Siberia.

I met my wife here in Legnica, while I was working for the police. She was Polish. I found out her life story too late – I should have left her sooner, but as it was our daughter had already been born and I didn’t want to abandon her. My wife had told me that a German had lived in her family’s home, which was in a town near Tarnowo called Mosciki. I sometimes said to her: ‘what, he couldn’t live anywhere else?!’ And later it turned out that she’d lived with that Nazi! I got a divorce in the end, but far later than I should have. Anyway I’d rather not rehash it.

My daughter Grazyna was born in 1951, and my son Bogdan two years later. Both of them grew up knowing they have Jewish ancestry. My son didn’t and still doesn’t have any contact with the Jewish community, but my daughter keeps in touch with it. She goes there for dinners, sometimes helps out when it’s needed. Sometimes when there’s a holiday she helps get everything ready. She never takes any money for it, and of course they have to pay the cooks and so on. My daughter lives on her own; she has three children, and two of her sons are away from home. She’s on public assistance and has a hard time too. My son lives here with me. After he married and he and his wife moved in, they lived in the little room; now I’ve given them the big one and live in the little one myself.

My brother and sister, Benzir and Zlata, stayed on in Warsaw after the war. I used to go there on vacation pretty often; I even had a picture of us together not long after the war, at the unveiling of the monument to the ghetto heroes. But that picture’s lost too. My brother had a daughter named Lila – a very pretty girl. She was born just before the war, in 1939. He sent her to Israel when she was a teenager, and then he and his wife emigrated to Australia. And right away he arranged for his daughter to come there too, because he didn’t want her to serve in the army, and in Israel if a girl is 18 and single she goes to the army. [In fact marital status is not a criterion. Only girls from Orthodox Jewish families do not serve in the army.] It was at the beginning of May 1963 that they left the country. And my sister died that same month.

My sister worked for the Russians after the war – she was always hanging around those little Red sweethearts. She even wanted my daughter to come and live with her in Warsaw, but my wife wouldn’t agree to it and I didn’t insist. Now I regret that – maybe she’d be better off now. Back then in May 1963 when Zlata died – I remember I came [to Warsaw] on the 3rd to say good-bye to my brother. Zlata was already in the hospital then; I remember that she didn’t want me to kiss her, because she had jaundice and was worried about my children. And that was my last conversation with her. On 16th May I was at home, and the doorbell rings. I open the door, and it’s a telegram [informing Mr Umow of his sister’s death]. I remember it was 5:05pm. When I read it I started bawling like a child. I didn’t have any family left. When my sister died, I got a letter from my brother, written in Yiddish. And my wife – a Pole – mislaid it somewhere and I couldn’t even write back, because the address was lost. And I haven’t heard anything [from him] since. My sister’s medals were left to me – a bronze service cross and a Work Banner Second Class [order of merit awarded by the state], the documents as well as the medals themselves. When I worked for the police some guy told me that I could wear those medals on national holidays. I told him no – I could wear what I’d earned myself, but I wasn’t going to parade around in my sister’s medals for her accomplishments.

And so I live from day to day. Every day I’m prepared for it to be my last. I’m 86 years old already, working on 87. I can barely see anymore, not even my own writing. I’ve already got a plot waiting for me in the Jewish cemetery in Legnica; all that’s left is to move in. But I don’t mind, because the one thing I’m sure of is that I’ll live until I die.

Glossary:

Interviewee: Jan Sokal

Lodz

Poland

Interviewer: Judyta Hajduk

Date of interview: March 2006

We met with Mr. Jan Sokal in his home on Gandiego Street in Lodz, where we talked for many hours. Mr. Sokal is 91 years old. In spite of his slight stature he is a very vivacious and active man. He does housekeeping by himself and takes care of his wife who is a blind person. Our first meetings went on in the atmosphere of limited confidence. Mr. Sokal was very particular about text authorization just after the first draft. As time went by and the succeeding biography versions were completed, our relations became more and more friendly. During one of the meetings Mr. Sokal confessed he had been dreaming about writing a 'Saga of the Sokal Family' and because of that he agreed for the interview. Mr. Sokal often digresses, develops sideplots with pleasure, frequently does not finish sentences or skips subjects, and this is a reason for so many editor’s notes in the text.

Mr. Sokal didn’t want to let us publish the present pictures of him and his family, but with pleasure he made his prewar pictures accessible to us. He hopes that thanks to Internet someone of his friends from the old days will contact him in Lodz.

I rather didn’t know my [grandparents] from my father's, Natan Sokal [1860-1938] side. Some gentleman used to come, a short Jew, bearded, and his name was Fuks. Where he [used to come] from I don’t know, probably, I suppose, from somewhere in Rawa Ruska [small town, ca. 100km north-east of Przemysl, today in Ukraine], since Father was from there. [There] was such a custom that a freeholder [of the land] would give family names. [And my father's family was given the name] Sokal. [That name] is not popular. Here in Lodz, [there is] one, some doctor. [I know that, because] I used to receive his mail for a certain period of time. [But I] have never spoken to him.

My father probably came from somewhere in [the vicinity of] Rawa Ruska. I can only suspect he was born in 1860. No one in our family was keeping such a calendar, right. He was a normally shaved, cropped man. [He did not wear a beard]. I have never seen him [having a beard]. Father was a townsman. He worked until year 1928. He was a hired employee in a certain beer wholesale firm, right. He was a collector. He would travel with a carter and a load of beer and would distribute it [the beer] to restaurants, and it was his job. During those times it was a relatively well paid [job]. I suppose [so], but having such a big family wasn’t easy. And later, during that time when our family went into financial troubles, he lost his job. Father, I remember, liked to smoke a lot. [He kept smoking] until the end of his life. He apparently [started to smoke] before the war, when he was [working] in a propinacja [archaic Polish: a nobleman's monopoly, sales of alcohol beverages] of vodkas. [Father] was not a drunkard, right. No! But he did not scorn from alcohol. When he used to work, I remember him, he would return [home] frozen in winter, in the kitchen he had such ‘tens’, small [liquour-glasses, 10ml], like a thimble, [and he would drink one].

[Father] was a good expert in the history of the Jewish nation and religious matters. He had [knew] a rabbi, and Father attended his services. The rabbi's name was Herszel. When I was very young I was there [with my father] several times, lead by the hand. It was just an apartment, and people used to come there. There was a man who had rabbinical, national knowledge. And Father was respected by him, too. Because my father was strong [in that knowledge]. He knew it through and through, right. That’s how we used to say, in our family. And he used to live in accordance to that religious knowledge. All the holidays that existed [he would go to pray]. I remember, as long as I was at home, since later I flew away too, he was observant of that, [but] he was normal. As normal civilized people are dressed, [same about him] he did not distinguish himself. [Mr. Sokal wants to emphasize his father was 'civilized', in other words that he was not fanatical, not a Hasid; pious, but a progressive man]. He knew the Polish language very well. He died probably in 1938. I was already in Cracow back then.

[I do not remember my grandparents from my mother’s side].  Simply, I have never seen them in my life. I only heard some stories about them. My mother Bronislawa Sokal [?-1933] came from the Schorrs, exactly the Przemysl Schorrs. [See: Mojzesz Schorr]2. The whole family from my mother’s [side] came [from Przemysl] [town ca. 400km east of Cracow]. Grandfather's name was Ben Cijon. That was his name. My grandmother's name… [I don’t remember].

I knew my uncles [from my mother’s side]. They were my mother's brothers. They used to come to us [to the house] until the Soviet-German war broke out [1941]. They also lived in Przemysl. Their family name was same as Mom's maiden name, Schorr. They were rather intelligent people, accountants by occupation. I knew my uncle Dawid by name. The eldest. I remember another uncle, his name was Jozef [Schorr]. [He] was a kind of a story-teller. He used to reminisce about the war time [WWI], because he did his military service in the Austrian [Austro-Hungarian] forces. He could talk about the history quite vividly. There was probably a lot of fiction in it, but [I listened to it willingly]. And he lived for a long time. I still saw him in 1943 in Lwow. I had one more uncle. His name was Oskar Schorr. When I was a little boy, he was already a lawyer, right, and he was a very respected man. His story is a bit convoluted. I know Mom was very unhappy [because] of him. That is, because of the life he led. Because he married some lady, a girl, who came somewhere from tsarist Russia. She was a refugee from the Bolsheviks. And it was something terrible for my mom [who] came from such a traditional family. [My mom's family] was very national-Jewish by ancestry. Mom was raised according to this spirit, [filled with] this faith. [To her] it was a shock. How could it be? He's from such a noble [traditional, Jewish] home, and she's from some tsarist, not-Jewish one. Terrible sin! I know, when my mother learned about that, she was trying to find him in order not to allow for that misalliance, right. This was a tragedy in her life. I also knew Fajga, my mother's youngest sister, a beautiful girl. She got married late, to Mr. Lewski. A handsome man. He was a trade agent. [They had] a little boy [son]. [He was] a beautiful boy. They all perished [in Holocaust].

[My mother’s first name was] Bronislawa. Broncia, Bronia, something like that. She was slim, slender. She didn’t wear a wig, [she had] long hair. [She used to dress] normally, in a middle-class manner. She did housekeeping and looked after the children. It seems Mom's cooking was kosher. I suppose so. But I can’t characterize it. [She used to cook] very tasty. I fed only on that cuisine. [Mom worked] till late, I remember. And she was doing everything herself. Such a martyr. As the girls [my sisters] were growing up, they were surely helping her, they were involved, forced to do that. I know that as a young boy I also had my duties, because I was strong enough. I used to carry water. From a well, of course. I carried water since early childhood. I carried two buckets normally in hands. And it was not that I carried it from a building to home, but it [was] a good bit of the way, half a kilometer at least. And a lot of water was used. [Especially] when washing took place. Mother was an amazing [woman]. Good. Loving. Knowing how to raise [children]. Not old-fashioned, absolutely not. If I came to blows with someone, she used to say: 'Your fault, if you take up with such bounders, it's all right. Don’t go barging over there'. Something like that. She was an angel, not a human being. She died probably in 1933, I don’t remember exactly. She had a lot of problems, those life experiences related to certain matters that afflicted our home.

 [My parents] were not politically engaged. Absolutely not. They had no interest in that. Well, Father sometimes looked at the [socialist] literature my brothers had. But [my father] was a man who had broader horizons. Parents didn’t really lead a social [life]. I don’t remember them having [many friends]. Whereas, each of us [their children], had friends, boys and girs. And obviously we kept in touch within the family. I had many cousins in Przemysl, with the same last name Schorr, because all of them lived here [in Przemysl] with us.

This town of mine, [Przemysl], was not that big. In the pre-war times, it was also not that small, because it was a town with a population of 65 thousand citizens, right. Located beautifully. In Lwow province. Przemysl is about 100 km from Lwow. And even nowadays Przemysl is a border city. Over there, not too far from Przemysl, about 3-4 kilometers there is the Ukrainian border [Editor’s note: the border is ca. 10km from Przemysl]. Lovely foot-hills land, with water. There is the San River. I learned to swim in that San, in early childhood.

A modern city. There were, I remember, big factories. Tools and agricultural machinery factory, for example the 'Field Factory'. It was its name. The owner was a Jew, Klagsbald. [The biggest factory in town. Established in 1925 as 'Field Machinery Factory and Iron Foundry Joachim Klagsbald & Sons'. Located on Zyblikiewicza Street,  produced agricultural machinery, sewing machines, bicycles etc. In 1938 the ‘Field Factory’ employed 150 workers. Joachim Klagsbald was an active member of the Zionist organization.] And the second one, big for Polish conditions back then, the Rindeg's [factory]. It was a kind of a home factory. Of children's toys. [Also] Jewish. [Most probably 'Minerwa', producing mainly mechanical toys. Established by Jozef Reiner, Town Council councilor. In 1938 it employed about 100 people.] Furthermore there was a Gorlinger sawmill [Gorlinger & Gottfried Sawmill]. I remember since a brother of one of my friends used to work there.

There were two synagogues [in Przemysl] [Editor’s note: There were four big synagogues in Przemysl before WWII]. I knew them. [Located] fairly close to my place of living. One of them about ten houses ahead. The one [on Slowackiego Street] is still there to this day. And that was the Szynbach's [Editor’s note: Scheinbach’s or New Synagogue, at 15 Slowackiego Street, erected in the years 1910-1918. In 1960-1961 turned into a library.] Beautiful, modern. A big building. It wasn't really radical. There were children choirs and cantors. Young boys, 14 [years old], [who] had beautiful voices, used to sing there. Young folks used to go there regularly. Beside that there was the so called ‘Templum’. [Located] next to San. That ‘Templum’ [was] beautiful. [It looked like] a big hall. Very progressive people [used to go] there. [‘Tempel’, on Jagiellonska Street, erected in the years 1886-1890 as an initiative of the group of so called progressive Jews, demolished by the Germans during WWII.] However, there were [also] a couple of prayer houses, [that] my father loved. I knew the one [Father used to go to].

[From Przemysl I remember] a Jewish cemetery that exists to this day, but it’s a ruin now. [Mr. Sokal most likely refers to the cemetery on Slowackiego Street. Established in 19th century, with a cemetery gate and about 200 tombstones preserved.] I have been there several times, just after the war. [Last time] I was there probably ten years ago. A part of the cemetery with an iron gate was used after the war. It was brought into use. The mazevot were grown over. It would be necessary to dig everything up. My deceased parents lie there, [but] nobody can [tell me where].

On Basztowa Street, somewhat far from the centre of town, at the border of some district, [there was] a Jewish hospital. [Editor’s note: Mr. Sokal most likely means Staszkiewicza Street with a hospital that had been there since 1900. The hospital was supported by the Jewish religious community and the Society of Friends of the Jewish Hospital.] I have a kind of a memento [related to it]. It was an accident. I broke my leg once, when I was a child. [I broke it] when doing sports. I was 10, 12 years old. Obviously, my parents took me to the hospital. They [the doctors] set the bones on that leg back, but not properly. It was in a cast only up to the knee. I didn’t pay any attention to it; I lay in the hospital until it healed up. Friends used to come, look at my leg and laugh: 'What a crescent roll you’ve got here!' Because that leg was kind of like that. I brought it to my parents attention and I lodged a complaint. Indeed, they repeated everything, broke the leg with no anesthesia and put it together again. I was a strong boy, so I could [endure] it all.

Somewhere on Tarnawskiego Street or Dworskiego Street there was a Hebrew gymnasium. [The Hebrew gymnasium organized by the Hebrew Educational Institute in 1927. The school’s first location was in a rented house at 4 Gorna Street (today Grottgera Street). The opening ceremony of the new school building at 15 Tarnawskiego Street took place on 14th October 1928.] I don’t know who supported it. For sure it wasn't a public gymnasium. Young people used to attend it normally and [it was] a school of high standards. My girlfriend used to go to that gymnasium. She was a nice girl. A beautiful blonde, hundred percent. Petka Pater. Yes, it was such a youthful love. Those was early times, even very early. [We were both] in our teens. Maybe 17. For a certain period of time we were very close to each other, right. She completed that gymnasium. And later her history was such that during the war the fate sent her probably somewhere to Asia. After the war I got [information] from my friend that in Trybuna Ludu [‘The People's Tribune’, daily 1948-1990, an official newspaper of the Polish United Worker’s Party] there was a list of people who were looking for their families. Press advertisement. And she [was] among those people. She was searching for [her relatives], she gave her parents’ last name, address. I got interested [in it], took advantage of that opportunity, and sent a letter to her. She came back to Poland after the war. She was with her husband. He was a printer.

Various types of celebrations were organized in town. Each Sunday an orchestra used to play on the market square. Usually military orchestras. There was a lot of greenery there, right, trees [grew] around, nice atmosphere. [I know that since] as a young boy I used to go there with pleasure. Mostly young residents liked [to go there]. I don’t recall those to be any rallies [in a patriotic sense].

I think it’s worth to mention some persons [from Przemysl]. Those were important people who counted [in the town] and in the country. They were Jews by origin. The ones I am mentioning here I knew personally when I was a child. They were [all] excellent professionals, prominent physicians. For example there was Dr. Lieberman [Herman Lieberman (1870-1941), socialist, member of Polish parliament]. He was a noble man. He represented left-wing political opinions. Great, famous activist. A politician on a national scale, parliamentarian from PPS [See Polish Socialist Party]3. Yes, he was very respected by people. Workers were very fond of him, they adored him. Dr. Zustwain was a pediatrician [Editor’s note: most likely Dr. Julius Susswein, one of the most meritorious activists of the Health Preservation Society – TOZ] The Society came into existence in 1927. There were always [a lot of] people ready to join it. He was popular in the Przemysl community, regardless of his nationality. There was also doctor Sohn [one of most meritorious activists of TOZ]. [He] was a physician, an activist. I used to be treated by him. There is even a monument of him in Przemysl, [in] that undestroyed part of the [Jewish] cemetery. Uberal was an excellent dentist. In general he was a nice person and he was popular because of that. All ladies, regardless their date of birth [age], used to go [to him]. Doctor Tirkel was a director of a Jewish hospital in Przemysl, an excellent surgeon. Then, a major socialist activist, also from PPS, was Dr. Ludwik Grosfeld. A lawyer, a counsel for the defense in all those left-wingers’ cases. Moreover, during the war, he was a member of the Polish government in exile. I think he was the Minister of Trade in the Polish government in London. [Editor’s note: 1943-1944 Ludwik Grosfeld was the Minister of Finances in the Polish Government in Exile] And he was also a true-born Przemysl citizen. Sztrudler: a young industrialist in his prime. He was probably about 50 years old. He had a quilt factory. And he was a member of Bund, too. [Editor’s note: most likely Jozef Strudler, an active member of the Jewish Musical-Dramatic Society Juwal, the organization promoting Jewish culture, music, arts, theater. Almost all Jewish intelligence of town was centered around that organization.] There were also several others from Bund.

The Jewish community [in town] was diverse. It consisted of a several shades. A lot of intelligence. Generally, quite a large Jewish intelligence. For example Herszdorfer, a wealthy man, he had a large insurance company. Both his sons were sympathizers of left-wing, of communism, right. [They were men] of Zionist political opinions. I belonged to Zionist youth, Hashomer Hatzair 4. I remember that organization very fondly, because it was my school of maturation. There were a lot of shoemakers, tailors. A lot of noble men, whom I remembered, whom I knew, right.

When it comes to Hasidim, there was the Tajcher family in our house. He [was] a rather venerable gentleman. He had one daughter, if I remember correctly. Later, after she got married, she used to live in Drohobycz [town ca. 200km south-east of Przemysl, today Ukraine]. Beside that the Hirszows were also orthodox Jews. The parents observed tradition; wives wore wigs on their heads. There were also the Frenkls, the Kielcs families. The Kielcs family was poor. There were, at the same time, children, two daughters and a wife. I knew the daughters. One of them was Rozia and the other one was named something else. Lajka, something like that [probably diminutive for Lea]. And he [Mr. Kielc] was a furrier, a craftsman on his own. So there [in an apartment] he had a workshop and he tightened and cut those leathers.

There were rabbis in Przemysl. But I wasn’t familiar with those matters. Over there, where my father used to go [to the prayer house] I knew [the rabbi] by name. [His name was] Herszl. There were such men who used to kill poultry. They were butchers, specialists. They had kosher meat shops. Opposite of our house the Frost [family] [lived]. They were bakers. We often used to buy [from them]. I used to do errands at that shop. During a certain period of time we used to buy bread on credit. I used to go to the shop, he wrote down how much we were due, and so on.

During my life there were no pogroms, no disturbances. Yes, there were some town sections, [like] Pralkowce [Editor’s note: actually a village near Przemysl], where there were hooligans, but one rather did not go there. So personally [I did not experience] any harm.

Some Ukrainians also used to live [near us]. They had their beautiful, representative house. It means a national house. It was a well known house. And their various events [used to take place] over there. And probably meetings [too]. It was located in the right side of the town. I’ve never gone there, but I know something like that existed, and Ukrainian intelligentsia used to center around that. Similarly [there was] a Polish [house]. Located at the other side of San. This was the Workers' House. [It was] owned by the Polish Socialist Party. Mr. Zigman was an administrator there.

[We lived] at 3 Slowackiego Street. And this house still exists. This is a two-storey building, in the centre of Przemysl. [There] was electricity, a sewage system [too], only toilets [were] out on the porch. Each family had access to their own toilet. They took care of it. How many tenants were there [in the building], I’m not certain. Four families on each floor. With us [on the first floor], the landlord lived, the Frenkl family - they had an ironmongery hardware store, wealthy people, the Kielcs – a poorer [family], and we used to live on the first floor, too. And [everyone had] more or less two rooms. So it was a pretty big house. Obviously, on the ground floor, there were shops. Various ones. I remember, the owners of this house were the Schechter family. Their sons-in-law lived on the first floor, next to us, right. [Their last name was] Trajbec, and they had a big store downstairs with newspapers [press], stationery, etc.

My family [occupied] two big rooms and a kitchen. In the kitchen, first of all, there was a big stove. A cupboard was there for sure, a table, but we didn’t use to eat there. And a small room [a pantry] where the housewife used to store all the things necessary for housekeeping. The wash-tub was huge. When laundry was being done, all that took place in the kitchen. Some fat lady [used to come]. [But I] didn’t know the details. Beside that we had no house-maid. During my life, everyone had some kind of chores. No one had an entire single room [for themselves]. I never had a bed of my own. There was no such convenience. During that period of time, I remember, I usually [slept] together with my brother Bernard.

Our home was very progressive, with a fully formed outlook upon life, of left-wing opinions, right, and this often caused trouble for the whole family. Only the Polish language was used at home. Except my father, who knew Hebrew and Yiddish perfectly, I have no doubts, none of my brothers [spoke these languages]. Maybe the older brothers [knew some] because they went through all the periods necessary for that [cheder, grammar school, gymnasium]. Probably, I don’t know that for certain, my parents also spoke Yiddish. Somewhere, it came to my ears. I really doubt other homes knew Polish and used it to such an extent as it was at the home in which I was born.

[At home we would read] lay books, belles-lettres, all contemporary [writers]. And everyone knew [them]. Boys and girls lived to read. It was normal. Nowadays [it is] a special virtue, [but back then] nobody could imagine [otherwise]. My brother Bernard used to eat his dinner with a spoon and read.

There was [also] foreign and Polish [press], that was a rarity not everyone could put their hands on it. It was delivered [by order]. [For example] 'Imprekor' [Inprekor, a trockist, Polish-language paper of 4th International, issued in the 1880s], about the world upper class, criticizing mutual relations between people, right, in different countries. Kind of  left-wing. Uncles used to come [to us] and often read it.

Tradition was [present] all the time regardless of [the home being] progressive. During those early years, holidays were legalized [observed]. Obviously, all holidays, Easter time, when you don’t eat bread, only those matzot, right, and so on. Mostly on Saturdays [Father used to go for prayers]. He really abode by it during holidays, but he never forced us to celebrate it. Such a custom it was and that's it. I don’t know, but it was applied probably because of religious reasons. I don’t remember if anyone deviated in these matters When my parents could afford it, there was that traditional fish [gefilte fish], too. There was [also] a crisis time, [when] [there were no] such fancy dishes. We just couldn’t afford it. Mostly because of those reasons I don’t have such [recollections].

We were four brothers and four sisters [Editor’s note: five sisters; Mr. Sokal doesn’t count the sister who died in her youth]. A typical [Jewish], large, numerous family. Exactly as God told: 'Procreate and give birth.' We kept very close together. These memories of those young family years are still alive in me. Maybe it’s my weakness.

The oldest one at home was probably [my sister]. Her name was Andzia [from Anda]. But she died when she was 21 years old. I don’t even remember her, very foggy. She died of meningitis. The oldest brother's name was Abraham. He was born in 1905. He was a wise man. He was in Poland until 1930. [Abraham] practically directed upbringing at home. He infected us with opinions that the whole family well accepted. Leftist opinions. Where did such opinions come from? I don’t know. He probably died tragically. I don’t know the details of his death. I don’t have specific information and I will never have it in my life. [The next one] was another [sister], who also died in her youth. I cannot even recall her name. Then there was another brother, Bernard [1909-1939]. He was a gymnasium student. I don’t know if he completed [the gymnasium], but he was an educated druggist. Not a pharmacist but a druggist. He [used to sell] hygienic articles [in] a drugstore. The story of his life was also very complicated, right. He got into a lot of trouble. He was sent to prison because of his opinions, because of his activity. It was such radically leftist [activity]. He was severely punished, right, eight years in prison. He didn’t survive the war. He didn’t even return home. He died in 1939 on the way. This I know specifically. Next the twins. My sister Fryda and my brother Emanuel. Both were born in 1910 [or 1911]. Bernard was probably two or three years older then them. [Emanuel] started to attend the gymnasium. Fryda was the same age as him, so she probably [also] began going to school. Emanuel served five years [in prison because of his opinions]. Fryda probably died when the Germans entered Przemysl. In 1941, 1942 I suppose, something like that. Emanuel died after the war in 1951 in the Dzierzynski Antituberculotic Sanitarium in Otwock. I already lived in Glucholazy then. His grave is at the Jewish cemetery in Cracow. [Emanuel used to live in Cracow]. There is a tablet with his [particulars].

Next there was Eugenia. A very nice, beautiful girl. She was always regarded as very [attractive]. Tadzio [Bilan's] wife, right. His family used to live on Zasanie [the part of Przemysl on the left bank of the River San]. [They were]  non-Jews. But it was a healthy, beautiful family. Athletic, all [boys] were football players. And my brother-in-law was a good football player too, he used to play for good clubs. And what is characteristic, they had very Aryan opinions. National ones.

And it’s her [my sister Eugenia’s] correspondence with her husband from the pre-war times that I’ve got. It used to arrive to our home address until 1939. At 3 Slowackiego Street. My entire knowledge, wisdom, traces from the back-then world, [all that] [came to me] [thanks to] my brother-in-law’s brother. One day [after the war], when I was already working on the western territories [in Glucholazy], Leszek [brother of my brother-in-law Tadeusz Bilan] probably brought this treasure of mine to me. Their family also tragically died. [Genia] spent the entire occupation in Poland. She went through [survived] both [occupations]. She probably wasn’t in the ghetto. Genia [from Eugenia] died in Cracow in 1945. In June or July, something like that. There was one more sister, Minka, Mina. Born in 1913 or 1914. Minka was a nurse. She died probably in 1940, something like that. I was born in 1915.

My siblings at home were educated differently. My eldest brother went up to a [Polish] gymnasium. I've got a photo of him dressed in that gymnasium uniform. He normally passed the high-school final exams, and I think he started to study law. At some state university, Polish, but I don't remember where exactly. Maybe in Lwow, because it's close to Przemysl. Minka [for example] completed a co-educational school in Przemysl. Apparently, I suppose, Father could still afford it then. [Later] It was recession, family status did not allow to achieve that luxury.

I never belonged to a political party before the war. I didn't want to, because I knew [what could come out of it]. My two brothers served in prison [because of their opinions]. Bernard and Emanuel. [Yes], I was fascinated by that. I made some attempts, but I was never a member [of any party]. I believed it had [already] ruined our home terribly.

I was sent to a [cheder] to learn Jewish. [The cheder was] not far from my place. Only 10 minutes to the left [from my house]. Several steps [further] to the right Mickiewicza Street [began], Franciszkanska Street to the left. And that cheder was on Slowackiego Street, on that even [side of] the street. The cheder was in an apartment. Those were private issues. I [even] remember the rebbe's surname: Rispler. He was not a rabbi, but a rebbe and he used to teach that [Hebrew] alphabet. A, b, c. He taught in that way. He always showed majesty. And if something was wrong, he’d pinch one's ear. He was a rather venerable man, bearded, and you had to pay him some, because it wasn’t free back then [he accepted children for lessons]. The hours were fixed. I remember, I don't know how old I was [when I attended his lessons], 3, 4 years old. But I didn't stay there long.

And later [at 6 years old] I went to a grammar school. [It was] a normal grammar school.
There was no typical Jewish grammar school over there [in Przemysl]. I used to go
[to a school] on Wodna Street. Again, it was a good bit of a way [from home]. It was a 7-grades school. And what is characteristic, I already learned a foreign language - Ukrainian in that school. [If] the town had, assuming 100 [as the whole population], then the Przemysl community consisted of approximately 30 percent [of each] nationality: Jews, Poles, Ukrainians [Editor’s note: according to the 1931 census there were 63% of Polish, 30% of Jewish and 7% of Ukrainian population in Przemysl]. And it was because of that, I understand, such a requirement. That language [Ukrainian] was common in Przemysl. Religion was [also] at school. I remember, in the grammar school, the religion teacher's name was Weksler. Later, in higher grades, it was professor Gotesman. There was Polish [language], there was mathematics. I completed [the grammar school] and it was my entire education before the war. To my mind, I was not a good student. Kind of average. My school report card [was rather poor].

[I have] very pleasant memories of the school. I had a lot of friends, but I was close [mainly] with Jewish children. I had nothing against [was not biased against] Ukrainians, Poles. Absolutely not. Kids always jerk and hit one another [but] nobody ever told me: 'You Jew'.

As a child I used to go to summer camp. Those were [summer camps] for poorer Jewish children, so called 'two-pennies'. Jewish social organizations took care of it. [Most likely the Health Preservation Society, or Society 'Two Pence']. In the town we’d get onto the rack carts, padded with straw, and they took us 40, 50km away to particular villages. Those were not summer camps with some propaganda. We just simply knew we were a group of Jewish children that went to recover their health. There was healthy food and games of various kinds there. Such children's [games].

I had many weaknesses in my life. Since early childhood I wanted to ride [a bicycle]. But it was a pipe dream. I was not in such an environment where a kid would have a bike. But I liked to ride. [Rebbe's] son, Mr. Rispler, had a bicycle workshop vis-à-vis our apartment. At the same time [there] was a bike rental place and people used to come, pay per hour [and rent]. So [I] used to go there, to that shop, I would clean up those bicycles, and later Mr. Rispler in return would loan me a bike, and I would ride it. It was my whim.

I also liked to ride round on a carousel. The carousel was located somewhere near San.
It was always crowded over there. A barrel organ used to play polkas, mazurkas.
At the bottom of the carousel there was a mechanism. Boys my age pushed it at the
bottom and it would spin around. Children sat down in the saddles on the carousel,
the boys would push it and earn some. Actually they did not earn [money], instead they could later ride for free. [It was] dangerously over there. There were scamps, thieves, such an 'aristocracy'. Parents didn't know [I used to go there]. I was 8, 12, then. But a young person was curious about it then.

Beside that I had another fondness. I wanted to learn to swim, [so] I would go
several kilometers out of town, and over there, on the San River, I would pick up some reed, tie it with a belt to fasten it firmly. I would put it on the water, [there was] a strong current, and I’d let myself downstream. Later I swam up to the town, to Przemysl. That’s how I learned to swim. It doesn't mean I was a master swimmer. But, at any rate, I was not chicken-hearted, and so I learned. Over there [on San] my friends had boats and a canoe rental place, and I was also eager for that. Whenever I had some time, I would learn to paddle a canoe on San. I was probably 14 years old then.

San was my favorite place, where I would find an outlet for my energy. [Near San]
there was Gora Parkowa. There was a castle [Kazimierzowski Castle] over there, [in which] an amateur theater [functioned]. In that castle there was a Fredreum auditorium. Polish theater. [Dramatic Society Fredreum came to existence in Przemysl in 1869. It is the oldest amateur theater in Poland and most likely also in Europe. During the first
several years plays were produced in actors-amateurs' private houses. In 1865-1867 an antique Kazimierzowski Castle of Przemysl was renovated, and in 1884 a big part of it was assigned to the theater.] [I also] used to go there to see those performances. There
was some payment for that but [I don't remember] the details any more.

[Beside that] I used to play soccer. I was probably 15 years old then. I used to go to
a club. Hagibor [Hagibor Przemysl] was its name. It was a 2nd class Jewish
[sports] club. Not the 1st class - record-seeking, but a 2nd class. They assigned [players] to groups according to strength, [play] level. I [was] in the 5-th [or] 6-th group. Over there I got shoes, [special] ones, and we would kick.

We had leather balls. [We’d play] with rag balls somewhere out at courtyards. The older boys, who played there, taught us. They taught us to kick and say: penalties, fouls. I ran well, was able to kick, but it doesn't mean I was a soccer player according to present-day understanding. It's a fantasy. And I, even when I was already working, I had to be at work at 8:30am, I would leave home at 5am and literally run, not walk, I’d run beyond the town to the soccer field. Later [after the training] [I’d] run back to work. It was a great satisfaction for me, because I was quite involved in that.

[Beside that] I was brought up in a Hashomer Hatzair environment. It was a Jewish youth organization. They taught us orienteering. A type of scouting. Beautiful young people [belonged to it], very progressive, very noble people, the most gifted, the most honest people. I grew up in there.

After the 7th grade there were no funds [at home] for further education. They came to the conclusion that I should get a profession fast. Very good, that's fine with me. All the same. I had judicious parents. They were not formally educated, but they wanted to do something for these children. And when I was 13, they sent me for training, to learn to be a dental technician. This was a private apprenticeship.

The apprenticeship, what does that mean? During a day I had to work normally. In the morning I would come in and clean up the dental office. I tempered cement, I tempered
plaster, right, for those secondary tasks for the doctor. And later [if] I had spare time, I would go to the room at the back and there was technology. [The office] looked very well, as it looks nowadays. There was nothing different, except, auxiliary technology is probably different today. And in that room there was a cabinet with tools and dental accessories, those phials, those tools for tooth extraction, for drilling. Big leather dental chair, or leather-like, it doesn't matter. And over there on the dental chair, there was a container for water for patients to rinse their mouths. There was a machine there, with a foot pedal. I stepped on it, while the doctor was repairing teeth. I worked [in that office] for one full year. It was a very good occupation. Splendidly [paid]. [But] Father was dismissed in 1928. [World economic recession; In Poland, year 1935 can be recognized as the end of the recession]. We were badly off at home and we couldn’t afford [to pay for the apprenticeship] any longer. Father used to pay $5 per month for the apprenticeship. It was such an agreement with the owner of the office. Besides, that was hard currency. It was a lot for our conditions. And then I had to do something.

I ended up in a [clothes] store, a very elegant men's clothing salon, not far from my home. Firm Lette [was its name]. Mr. Jozef Lette was the owner. Mainly aristocracy and [especially] Polish [aristocracy] used to dress over there. [Mr. Lette] was a very noble man, very refined. He had a rich past. During the war [WWI] he was in a Russian servitude. I know that since he used to tell [about that] sometimes. He was a lover of cars, but he couldn’t afford to buy a car. On free Sundays he used to hire taxi-drivers [who] parked not far from his store. He would make an appointment on a free Sunday afternoon and would drive [by himself] with them. He was married, his wife was an excellent dressmaker. They used to live on Slowackiego Street, only a couple houses away [from us], right.

First [I] was his trainee. Next, I [worked] in that field. So there was continuity. I got the experience in the clothing trade. Besides, I’ve made use of it in my life. I think he [Mr. Lette] [finally] went bankrupt. [The firm] disappeared, [but] since we were in touch with a firm from Rzeszow, they produced clothes [over there], at the same time they had a big salon, [so] I got a job in Rzeszow in 1936.

Mr. Samuel Tanz was the owner [of the salon]. After one year Mr. Tanz sent me

[back] to Przemysl for some time. He opened a store in Przemysl, I returned there and
managed it for him. I lived [in Przemysl] until a certain year and later went to Cracow. Yes, it was a kind of promotion for me. I was in a big city and Cracow was an interesting town. [Besides,] I wanted to be close to somebody from my family, since my sister lived in Cracow, that Bielan [Tadeusz Bielan's wife, Genia]. [At the very beginning] I stayed with Sister for some time. She helped me find the firm Sztrasberg in Cracow. Over there I also [worked] as a salesman in an elegant [clothes] store.

I remember exactly the moment, when Hitler came to power. I was [already] an
adult man. And just [then] the Family's tragedy began. My brothers were a political
threat for the then-authorities, so as a result they served in prison. Moreover, even before then something began to happen. They alluded that the situation was tense a little. My cousin, related to the Przemysl Schorrs [family], used to live in Germany and they evicted her to Poland in 1933 [or] 1934. And she returned 5.

[I] was in Cracow. The war found me over there 6. [Father] lived in Przemysl. In 1939 Przemysl was divided. The left side of Przemysl, the Germans quartered there, but the right [side of the town] was occupied by the Soviets. At that time the Soviets were on relatively good terms with Poland. They occupied whatever they wanted and they [didn't go] any further. Father lived on that Soviet side. After some time he had to leave [our] apartment because it was too expensive. There was an owner, [so] we had to give it back. [Since that time] he stayed somewhere at private people's accommodations. What  happened over there [with that apartment and its tenants] later, I don't know. All the owners probably died.

In 1939 there was a disaster. Besides the general disaster, that there was the war,
the additional hardship was that the Jewish people were [persecuted]. Fortunately,
the fate somehow spared me. I had another history. I joined the army early, set off into the world and survived the war.

On 1st [September 1939] I was going to work and two airplanes flew by over [my] head.
[People were saying:] 'Ours are flying, ours are flying '. I was on Zwierzyniecka Street, and not far from there, there is a bridge, the Debicki Bridge. And they started bombing that bridge. [I] worked close to there, I was outside and I [saw] that. It was 8 [in the morning]. And this is how the war started for me. I realized it [was] already bad, right. I even didn't go to my sister then. I went to the house of my friends' from Rzeszow [Roza Horn and Fawek Auerchan] and said: 'Listen we have to escape'. I let my sister know I was leaving home [getting out of town]. Because there was nothing there to wait for. It was already a mess.

Along with Roza and her boyfriend we decided to get on our way [to Rzeszow]. Roza's family lived over there. At one time I lived [with her]. When I worked in Rzeszow I found accommodation with them. She was an excellent expert, an accountant. A very serious [girl]. He [Fawek] didn’t have any specific profession. They were not married then. In one little town on the way, Fawek came to conclusion [that] he they will for certain draft him to the army. He was a young, healthy fellow, right. 'I will [marry Roza], so that she’s [married], just in case'. And they came to an agreement. In one of Jewish apartments, they just used to marry couples. They had a chuppah on a rod and so on. But he [Fawek] was a smoker. And he went out for a cigarette. I stayed with Roza. Such a bad luck, a trifle, they call her, him, but he's out smoking somewhere. So I went instead of him and that’s how I happened to replace him]. Well, does it really matter? All of this [was done] in a rush. The family name was right. He got a certificate immediately, that [on that day he married Roza].

It was a long, long way from Cracow to Rzeszow. The road was difficult and it wasn't so that we [would move] as punctually as a train would. It was war time. There were no such directors that one would plan and get a first class voyage. [We moved] on foot, by cart, by train. Whichever way was possible. In the end, together, we reached Roza's home in Rzeszow. All [family members] were still alive then.

At their home there were: Roza, Chana, Mania, son Donek, brother Janek – an engineer with leftist opinions. It so happened, that he, all exhausted, [came  back] from jail [on that day]. He managed to come out of the prison safely. He sat, I remember as if it was today, keeping his legs soaking in some container. Later his story went on beautifully. For a certain period of time he was an important person in Poland. He was an educated man, a Voivodship Committee Secretary. However, his name [back then] was not Horn but Rogowski. [Roza's] Father was a Jew, bearded, but a wonderfully fine Polish scholar. He had beautiful handwriting. He earned his living by writing court applications for people. He was a ‘vinkel shrayber’ [Yiddish, literary ‘corner writer’], as we used to say.

But over there, in Rzeszow, [the war] just began. The Germans already administered everywhere. They raided [people] on streets. Once, I was in a group that was taken away into barracks to tidy them up. To clean up, to sweep. They led [the group] and called up such people as me on the way. I was well dressed. I [wore] such a new, nice jacket. I was experienced enough to wear all of that. When they caught me and I joined the group, they striped of my jacket, gave me something of their own, and took me into those barracks out of town. I already knew that something bad [was going to happen] here, and I shouldn’t expect anything good. [Finally] they released us with no consequences. I saw things were heating up in Rzeszow. There was nothing more to seek over there. We [Mr. Sokal, Roza and Fawek], without saying much, set off from there. We managed to bid [Roza's] parents goodbye and we were refugees again. We left Rzeszow.

We were on the way for several days. In the meantime, some time in September, the Soviets and the Germans signed an agreement that the Soviets would liberate the Ukrainians. For us, it was a surprise from that side. They had attacked [our country]. This is a simple name for it 7. Then, since Przemysl was free, I decided to take the opportunity to return home. The right side of Przemysl, where I used to live, was ruled by the Soviets. Then we parted. [Roza and Fawek] could not return to Rzeszow, [because the town] was occupied by the Germans.

In Przemysl, the Soviets used to say to young people: 'We can take you to Donbas. Over there, young folks who want to learn more [will have the conditions]'. Yes, it impressed me and in December of that year, 1939, I agreed and went to that Donbas in Ukraine. But it was a big mistake in my life. I let them deceive me. That was no chance to learn. I lived in such a collective barrack. There were tens of men over there. And I worked normally. They initiated me into a storehouse of cement, buildings material, I remember. I used to unload bricks, cement from carts. I was young, I could stand it pretty [well]. We were there for quite long. I don't remember exactly how long, a year or two. But I was not satisfied with that. I knew I went there to make self-improvement, to make up for my lost time, but there were no prospects over there, so I broke away from there. Me, a restless, uneasy soul. I couldn’t agree with all that. [I was] to learn, to go to college, I always used to dream about that. But it was only a dream.

Where to go to? [I decided] do go to Lwow, because I had an Uncle [Jozef Schorr] in Lwow, right, and, as it turned out, my sister [Minka], that nurse, worked at a hospital in Lwow. And again, my trip to Lwow, that was an experience.

Before I got on the train to Lwow, I was in Kiev. I camped on a street. I just wandered around. I rested to get on the train. I slept near the station, somewhere out on a street. Empty wagons stood on train tracks, so I would get into the wagons at night and would sleep there, right. I didn’t have anything, just a coat; I sold it at the station. Some thieves would come there. Those little boys, homeless, would wander about, sneak something away from you. And I had such an incident there. I bumped into a friend from Rzeszow. Hirsz. That was his name. I don’t know if he’s still alive, I don’t think so. I said: ‘Listen. I haven’t got a single grosz [Polish equivalent of a cent] to go any further.’ And I borrowed some money. And I somehow managed to get on the train to Lwow.

I arrived at Uncle’s, because I knew his address. [Then] I called my sister [Minka]. My sister was surprised: ‘You got all the way here. What happened? What all of the sudden?’ I was still in shock: ‘Don’t ask me about the details, there’s no point. We won’t talk about that.’ I stayed there, in Lwow, for a short time, I knew they couldn’t support me, right. And I went back to Przemysl.

Przemysl was in the same Soviet district as Lwow. I stayed at my sister Fryda’s. I took on various jobs, to have something to live off, right. I remember, I went to some grocery store and worked there for some time. I’ll keep it short, there’s no point to talk more about that.

All those games ended [quickly]. The Germans attacked the Soviets 9 whom they had formally been friends with since they had signed a pact with them. And the war began again. I was always unlucky. There was a new escape from Przemysl. I couldn’t be there any more. We talked, we had a family meeting. My sister Fryda, and my brother Emanuel were there. And she says: ‘Where am I to go to? Uncles [Dawid, Chaskiel] are here in Przemysl. It won’t be that bad, the Soviets will get [Przemysl] back. It’ll all be good.’ They were convinced everything would be so. [The Soviets] convinced everyone their army was unbeatable. They were as good strategists as me. They knew nothing about that. I convinced my brother [Emanuel]: ‘Listen, we have to leave. We have to!’ We weren’t ready [for the trip]. [They only thing we had] was a small sack of sugar. Maybe 5kg, maybe 3kg. So we brought it along and left on foot. We knew the area. We went through a forest, through fields.

We walked and walked, but that was just the beginning of the Gehenna. All the way to the Soviet border? To that old border, in Rowne [a city in the western part of Ukraine, the capital city of the district. It’s located on the main road between Warsaw and Kiev, about 200km from today’s Polish border.] Somewhere on the way to Dobromil [a town in Ukraine located in the Lwow county], fortunately, we met a group of ladies from our town. Glansberzanka, Wilner’s wife, with a small child in her arms, and some other [woman was with them]. Three of them. And my brother says: ‘Listen, you sit down here, I’ll walk them off the main road for a bit and then come back.’ I said: ‘Good’. I sat down. What difference does it make? Sitting or walking. I sat there until late at night. [Finally] I said: ‘There’s no point for me to stay here. He must have stayed with them.’ And I decided to go on. Without him. I can see a ‘tachanka’ coming, Russian  vehicles. Those were some kolkhoz 8 men, I ran after them and wanted to get on. I ran up, jumped on at the back [of the ‘tachanka’], and they lashed me with a whip: ‘Hola, kuda, kuda [Russian: where]?’, but I gave them such a speech, such an interpretation, that they understood.

And we drove and drove, I don’t know how many days, nights. I was hungry, simply hungry. Why not? I always had a good appetite. And I had nothing there. That sugar [only], [but] I don’t know what happened to it, did I leave it out [on the road] there, did my brother take it? Well? I ride with them and see that they’re eating. They had provisions, butter in a barrel, food. And they were bored and didn’t like they had a freeloader on board. ‘Listen, you can’t be like that. You’ll be driving the horse.’ ‘Not a problem.’ At first those horses did whatever they wanted with me. I had never driven a horse carriage [before], and they kept scorning me for it. And finally we got somewhere to Rowne. I remember it more or less. And they went to a military point there.

I can see they’re murmuring there on me, I think, that I’m a who-knows-what. And they took me for questioning, for a conversation. Fortunately I had a passport on me. But, if I had known what I know today, that I had a wrong passport, because I had a note in it that I have a sister abroad. [My] sister, Minka, when she wanted to go home [to Przemysl] from Cracow, she had to cross the border. And they must have noted that somewhere there. And later, when I got a Soviet passport, I also had a note [in it] that I have a sister abroad. [So they asked me] if I had anyone abroad. They always asked whether you had anyone on the other side of the ‘kordon’ [Russian: border]. So I say: ‘Yes, my sister is abroad, in Cracow.’ ‘All right.’ And they started talking to me [in Russian]. Fortunately I was able to talk to them. They spoke [Russian], I spoke some similar language and we managed to communicate. ‘OK, you can go’ and they left me alone. All right. Off I went.

Where to? To a train. Besides, it wasn’t far from a train station. What kind? A cargo train. Cars were divided with wooden planks, upstairs and downstairs, so that more [people] could fit in. [And] there [on the train station] entire Soviet families, with children, were running away home. Excellent, whichever way was good for me. On larger stations, since it was still the Soviet side at the time, the trains would stop. They [the Soviet families] we unhappy because they had money, but nothing to eat. They would ask to get them some groceries. [So] they’d give me those rubles, I’d jump out of the train whenever it stopped to buy food. And so I rode with them, buying them food, eating at the same time, right. We went together, but I don’t know how long because it was still on the cargo train. First we got to Turkmenistan, later all the way do Ashkhabad. That’s the capital city of Turkmenistan, on the Caspian Sea. It wasn’t far to Iran from there.

It was 1941. Over there, on the road, of course a new ‘proverka’ [Russian: control], that is a check-up, control. They talk to everyone, [ask] where they’re from, their family, brothers. So I say I have an older brother, right. He’s somewhere in the Soviet Union, I don’t know where, I can’t say, but he’s a soldier in the army. I lied, I knew there was something wrong going on with him. I told them what my education was, 7 [grades]. And they accepted me, somehow trustfully, because I could communicate in their language. I wasn’t any big expert in Russian, but I spoke ok. Actually, Ukrainian as well. That helped me everywhere.

In Ashkhabad I lived with my friend Kestenbaum, from Przemysl. Siunek Kestenbaum, that was his name. We met on the train to Ashkhabad [and since then] we were practically [together]. We always slept somewhere near town. Because it’s Asia, plains. There were no brick houses. We didn’t have an address. We borrowed a rack [bed] somewhere, and we slept like that. They [the Soviets] offered me, to my surprise, without knowing me, [a job in trade]. Can you imagine, such a surprise? They must have liked me, because they offered me a managerial position in a grocery store. I was well off. I had everything [during that time]. All the good food: butter, honey. And the working conditions were good, very good. And I worked well, nobody had any complaints.

[The Soviets] necessarily wanted to recruit me, they had a hook on me. But not rudely or something.  The head manager of the wholesale firm, [who dealt with] assigning [food to stores] was a Russian man, I don’t know his last name. After some time it turns out I’m supposed to go to a school. There was going to be a man in a classroom, on the first floor, and he [will] talk to me. He wants to meet me. All right. Siunek knew I was going there, but he accompanied me, so that I wouldn’t get lost, and so that he didn’t lose me. We were always afraid for one another. Nobody knew what was going to happen. And that man talks to me. Again, he’s asking about my life history, how I’m doing, whether I’m happy with my job. I say that yes, indeed, I know [how to do] it, and I think others are happy with me as well. ‘Well, you know, but…’ he begins: ‘Because we can see you’re our patriot, we can count on you. You, an intelligent, wise man, shouldn’t be wasting yourself in a store, should you? We have another suggestion for you.’ He doesn’t want me to go to some other business or something, but he’s got a better, respected job. I say: ‘Unfortunately I can’t do it, I don’t have life experience in those matters. You’d have big problems with me, and I’d have worries. If you want to, take me to the army. I feel healthy, I can join the army. Give me a placement. I’ll do it happily.’ ‘No, you can still stay with us, the time for that will come later. We will find you, we’ll take you to the army [later].’

And how did I know [what it was all about]? [That man when] he was talking to me, wore civilian clothes. A coat. But you could see [decoration on a uniform] underneath. A uniform top gave him away. Besides, I could tell what he represented by the character of the conversation. We parted in peace, all was good, I went back to my job. It didn’t last long, soon after that they fired me, because I’m not suitable. Too bad. [It was] a good job, an excellent job for conditions back then, [but, well, too bad]. [I went] to the head manager, [and] he says: ‘We have to make some cuts’. I understood what that ‘cutting’ was.

I was looking for a job. I learned there was an Ashkhabad Kinostudio. A movie factory, a film company in Ashkhabad. There were artists, among them a Pole, Krasnowiecki [Wladyslaw Krasnowiecki (1900-1983), Polish actor, director, theatre manager. Since 1918 he acted mainly in theaters in Lwow and Cracow. During WWII he was associated with the Polish Army Theatre. After 1945 he was a manager of theatres in Lodz, Katowice and Warsaw.] And Wohl, that famous, huge movie expert in Poland after the war. He played a huge role in the making of a Polish movie [industry]. [Stanislaw Wohl (1921-1985) a film operator and a director. In 1930 he co-founded an Artistic Movie Enthusiast Association ‘Start’. During WWII he worked for the Russian cinematography in Lwow, Kiev and Ashkhabad. In 1945 he organized technical bases for the Polish cinematography in Cracow and Lodz.] And two more operators. I don’t remember their names right now, [but] they were Jews. And I went there for a year, as a physical worker. ‘All right. What am I supposed to do?’ ‘Whatever there is to do. You’ll drive trucks, load bricks, sand, whatever is needed.’ I was strong enough to be able to do that. And I worked there. During that time, I remember perfectly, they were filming a movie. The director of that movie was a Russian Jew, Mark Donskoy, that was his name. [Mark Semyonovich Donskoy (1901-1981), director.] I don’t know how long it took. Did they leave me alone for even a year? And they came up with another idea. They invited me again for a talk, but not there [to the school] any more, but they gave me some address. It turned out it was the security [The Security Agency]. [People, when] they walked by, they tried to go around [avoid] that building. There was no sign to inform what was in there. They only let specific people in.

 [Again] that friend [Siunek Kestenbaum] went with me. And indeed, they were already waiting for me. I gave them my name. They let me inside. All those additional impressions. That silence in the building made a horrible impression, like in a sanatorium. [They led me] over such plush carpets, you walk quietly, there’s nobody in sight. They tell me to go up on the first or second floor, I don’t remember. I sat there and waited. I waited and waited, until I fell asleep. After some time somebody came and [led me] into a large room, beautiful, with luxurious armchairs. And they talk to me again. He’s suggesting again, but this time seriously, and he’s pushing me. He tells me what kind of a job it is. I said I had already had a similar conversation. I had one and I rejected it, because I really don’t think I can do it, I don’t know how to do ‘such a job’. ‘Please send me to the army’, I keep saying the same thing. But they had a different idea. But it was a polite conversation, very reasonable. They didn’t threaten me. Finally I got out of there.

 [I] didn’t like [what was going on] [anymore]. We knew we were losing ground and we decided to leave there [with Siunek]. We went to Uzbekistan. It’s a pretty country. We tried to find a job somewhere there. On a station there, a regular train station, they were looking for kolkhoz workers. Oh well. All right, let’s go to a kolkhoz. We were young and determined, we didn’t want to just travel around. I thought that kolkhoz, that there will be a normal possibility for work and some life. But there were no buildings there. Some shacks, you can’t see any movement. So we left. How? On foot, we jumped on trucks, however we could

We arrived at another station. Ziyadin, near Buchara. A busy, junction station. And we lived there for some time. I lived at some people’s. A very religious Jewish marriage, older people. They were poor, [but] whenever they cooked for themselves, they always gave me something, right. We worked, each one of us in whatever we could. You could only trade there. Fabrics, they [Uzbekistan inhabitants] were impressed. They looked for fabrics, because there was nothing else there. And that lasted for a while. I don’t remember how long I spent there. About a year, until they wanted to make me happy again and recruit to a ‘stroy-batalion’ [short for ‘stroityelniy batalion’; Russian: construction battalion]. It was a work battalion. They were building something, somewhere, they needed young people. They didn’t [ask]   whether I wanted to go or not, they just drafted me in.

I don’t remember what was the town’s name. It was also out in some field. A house was in such a deep hole, in a dugout. People there weren’t too attractive, only Uzbekistani. After a few days I said: ‘We’ve got nothing to look for here. It’s not a job with some perspective.’ And we knew that there was an army recruitment point near by. An army office, where they drafted people [to the army].  I said: ‘I want to go to the army.’ ‘Oh yes? Very good. The 1st army [Editor’s note: actually the 1st Kosciuszko Infantry Division] is already formed 10, but now they have another drafting. I’m sure they’ll accept you. You’re young, agile.’ A few of us went. They gave us a formal document for the train. And they also gave us some little money to do some shopping. All in all, they helped us leave.

It was already 1943. Probably 13th October. They drafted me into the 4th Regiment. It was the 2nd Division [2nd Henryk Dabrowski Infantry Division]. It was a regular army. Military exercises, everything. When I was an older soldier, I was moved to the 3th Regiment. When 4th Division, 10th Infantry Regiment was created, they directed me there. And that was my career. I already had my provision and all. At first they placed me in a unit of Regiment Armature, as an office chief.

They knew I could write some. My responsibility was to equip my unit with ammunition and weapons in suitable amounts, right, and then write reports on that. A normal, plain job. I didn’t have problems doing that. And I had that function almost until the end of the war.

I kept moving with this regiment, this unit. They kept moving us into various disasters. There were air raids on trains. I didn’t really have any difficult experiences. I was lucky not to ever get wounded. And we kept going towards our country, right. [In the end] we arrived in Lublin.

It was 1944 already when they pushed us [out of Lublin] further, towards Warsaw. It was peaceful for us there, because the Germans didn’t attack there. We were here [there] during the Warsaw Uprising 11. One of our units, some battalion of our regiment, was sent to help. Unfortunately nothing could be done. The uprising authorities back then were certain they could deal with liberating Warsaw by themselves. [Besides], political matters probably decided that they didn’t want the Soviets to free them. They were being slaughtered there, [and] we heard all that. [But] we kept sitting on this bank until the offence moved on 17th January 1945. Thankfully, there was beautiful weather when we marched through Warsaw. [In the city] there was still war equipment laying around, corpses; [we saw on the way] lots of destruction.  Wherever we went, it was unimaginable what we saw. Warsaw was destroyed.

[Later] through the Polish territory, through Grudziadz, we went that way to Germany, until we got close to Berlin. We ourselves, our unit didn’t fight for Berlin, but the war goes on. And my commander tells me: ‘Listen, we’re all good here, we’ll go to the country soon, home, to Poland. [But first] we’ll go to Berlin, to Reichstag. We’ll look around there.’ [And Reichstag] was all destroyed. Each [soldier], it was such a soldier manner, would go there and write his name, with a piece of coal or chalk on a wall there. First name, last name, the regiment. Just for personal satisfaction. A few days later we arrived in Poland.

And in Poland, it was fall 1945, in October, I think, demobilization. They were laying of those older people. To tell you the truth, they were trying to convince me not to go, because it was going to be good. The chief of the general headquarters tells me: ‘Janek, kuda? Ostay sye. Poyezhday ku nas.’ [Incorrect Russian: ‘Janek, where are you going? Stay. Come with us.’] ‘We respect you. You’re our man.’ I really felt good in that unit. I was much respected. Not for any special accomplishments. I had more luck than brains. [But] I said: ‘But I really want to go to Przemysl. I hope to find my family.’ Indeed, I still had hope. I knew what went on there, but somehow everybody had hope.

I don’t share a common opinion here that in Poland everybody was waiting to give the Jews up to the Gestapo. Not everyone was like that. And for example I can say that I have a few letters, correspondence between my brother-in-law in Auschwitz and my sister who lived in Cracow during that time. [That correspondence] was [sent to] a Cracow address where she used to live before the war broke out. I used to go there, slept there several times, [even my] brother [when] he came out of jail also slept there. Those tenants who had [their apartments] there knew they were a mixed family and nobody told on them. And the correspondence went back and forth between them for several years. I’m looking at it objectively. That’s the way it was. Well, not everyone was that brave to want to help, take a risk. [But] I can’t generally be upset at everyone because of that.

After the war I got a job in the western region, in Glucholazy [town ca. 360 km south-west of Warsaw, near today’s Polish-Czech border], in the position of a general manager of a company. I was supposed to organize it from the basics. Glucholazy is a beautiful town, near Nysa, between Nysa and Prodnik. There was almost no war there. The place was intact. They introduced me to the party 12 there. I was involved in my professional career, but not only, I also did some communal work. I was active in the community. They would send me here and there. Those were units of the the official government that did some community service. But I wasn’t really involved. I paid my member fees. Everyone knew about it. I’m not hiding it. It was a legal party. In the end it turned out the party accomplished nothing. I don’t regret it. I won’t change my beliefs. I had such views and I don’t feel guilty, as nobody suffered because of me.

I worked in Glucholazy for 6 years. We had a very good life there. The conditions were better than I would have dreamt up. First I had an elegant 2-storey house. With a bathroom like this room, with tiles. There were 3 rooms, I think, or 4, and a kitchen on each floor. Then they moved us, [because I] was the only one in Glucholazy that didn’t live in a villa. That was their ambition. They did me a favor. I was on a business trip somewhere, I came back, [and] my wife tells me they had come with a car and moved her to a villa. A beautiful villa, with a garden, fish.

I met my wife in Glucholazy in 1947. And we became friends there. Her first name is Malgorzata, maiden name Rademacher. She was born on 11th December [1911]. She comes from a coal-miner’s family, she was born in Katowice-Szopienice. She came to Glucholazy looking for a job. She met with a mayor who she had known before the war.  [And] because he knew I was working on something, he sent her to me: ‘Go there, he’s a decent man.’ And that’s how we met. We got close, we liked it, and we’ve been together ever since. The wedding was very modest. We got married in 1949, but I don’t remember it exactly. Malgorzata isn’t of the Jewish origin. [She is a Catholic], but she’s never been practicing, thankfully. I [also] never had a need [to practice my religion].

Nowadays my wife is unhappy. It’s been 10 or 15 years since she lost her eyesight and she can see almost nothing. She’s losing the iris. We went with my wife to [many] doctors and they [all] told her the same thing. Unfortunately… She can find her way around the house perfectly, she remembers where everything is, but that’s all. And my wife practically raised both Grandsons. Daughter didn’t have time, and [because of that] they adore their Grandmother, they really do.

My daughter was born in 1950, in January, [in Glucholazy]. She wasn’t raised in the Jewish tradition. She always knew everything [about my past]. We didn’t have any problems [with her].  She had good grades. [When] she was at a university, they pressured her a lot. Some major [wanted] her necessarily to join ZMS [Socialist Youth Union, a youth organization founded on 3rd January 1957 in Warsaw by joining Revolutionary Youth Union and Peasant Youth Union]. Since December 1957 ZMS was idealistically, politically and organizationally subordinate to PZPR. The main goal of ZMS was getting its members ready to join PZPR] and to the party [PZPR]. But she kept saying she didn’t feel like it, she wasn’t interested in it. And it didn’t interfere with anything, entry exams to the university, and she never had problems at the university. She’s a good specialist in her field. She is a doctor, a psychiatrist. She has worked for many years. She has decided to retire.

I, by the way, decided to leave [Glucholazy and go to Lodz] because of my daughter’s birth. Because, I said, what am I going to do here? [Lodz] is a big city. [I] had never been in Lodz, but I knew it, I had contacts there. So, everything has its own reason. In 1951 they called me up to the ministry. I was taking oral high school final exams then. [I remember] I asked them to let me take the exams earlier, because I had to go to Warsaw to a personal meeting with a minister. I had a letter, showed it to them, and I went. Over there, during the meeting, they suggested I move from Glucholazy to Lodz, because I did all there was to do: ‘We don’t want to waste your time. You’ll have a unit with 35 people. You’ll do fine. We know you will…’ ‘But, Minister, here, in Glucholazy,  I didn’t learn much’, I said. ‘That’s all right’ ‘But I have one condition. I have a beautiful apartment in Glucholazy, a perfect one. I don’t want anything better, as long as the conditions [are] good.’ ‘There’s a key to your apartment.’ That’s it. That’s good. It impressed me.

Starting in July [1951] I was employed in Lodz. I was moved to the Central Office of the Textile Industry Union. [Central Office of the Textile Industry Union in Lodz (CZPO) was founded in 1948.] I became the general manager of the Dr Prochnik Textile Industry Institute [Dr Prochnik Textile Industry Institute was created in 1948, by nationalization of the Martin Norenberg Krauze Partnership textile factory existing in Lodz since 1939.] Prochnik was a multi-factory corporation. The headquarters were in Lodz, a plant in Poddebice, new plants in Rawa and Uniejow. Al those factories exported [clothes] to most developed western coutries: America, England, Holland, Switzerland. I introduced those plants onto western markets.

Probably in 1957 [I started] a few years of studies here [in Lodz]. At first it was the Evening University of Marxism and Leninism at the Lodz Committee. It was political-economical education. Very valuable for managers and other head positions. But I had ambitions to finish formal studies. [Later] I took 3 year long vocational studies in the department of Economics at the Lodz University. Those were extramural studies. Saturday afternoons, because we used to work Saturdays, and Sundays from morning until 4pm [I had my classes during that time]. All that while working, having so many responsibilities, I don’t know [how I did that], [but] all went well. I graduated with very good results. The defense was in 1967. In the same year when I finished my studies, my daughter began medical studies.

[I] never had [any problems with anti-Semitism], [but] it turns out that in 1968, during my absence, somebody from the Committee came, some activist. He gathered a few [employees] and appointed one for a position of a general manager, because that was my position from the beginning. I came back and found out about it. I called that candidate for a general manager and [asked] how things were in the company. He was an educated man, with higher education, right, an excellent employee, a great specialist. He was a bookkeeper. I talk to him, ask him what the results for the last months are. [He says] the results are good, there are no problems. I say: ‘Good. So, how was it during that meeting?’ I ask. ‘I don’t know anything.’ ‘So, I’ll remind you. But you know what, let’s do it this way, why talk about it just the two of us, why don’t you call the crew up, on my behalf, to the common room and we’ll all talk. I understand you, maybe it won’t be nice, but we’ll talk to each other with the others present.’ ‘But, director, Sir, I’ve got nothing…’ he talks like that. ‘So, let’s turn things around. I will call up the crew to the common room.’ There were always about 500 people on a shift. Because there were always 1,000 people in one unit of the factory. Altogether I had a staff of 4,500 people in Prochnik. Regardless of that I was the boss of some additional people. I had over 11 thousand of them in the field, since they added that co-operation. Co-operative Institute of Men’s Clothing, to that. I said: ‘So, I will call that meeting, but I would like you to be there, because I want to talk to people. What am I supposed to talk to them about without you.’ He says: ‘I don’t know anything, I don’t want to.’ Not even three days passed, the guy is called off by the Union. They needed a vice director at Wolczanka [a clothing factory, well known manufacturer of men’s shirts] and they moved him, so that he disappears. [There was] a secretary of the basic organization in the company and she went [together] with the [entire] board of directors [to the Committee and said]: ‘Commrade, don’t do anything. If you remove Mr. Sokal from the position, the entire staff will stand up. They’ll go on streets.’ That’s what they said. I don’t know if it would ever come to that, maybe so, since I had no troubles with [people] in those factories. There were some arguments about finances, they happened, but [all problems could be resolved] reasonably.

My [employment] with Prochnik was dissolved in 1977, and I finished working in 1998. Even when I was retired, I still worked in the same Union, part-time. I used to be involved in exporting to capitalist nations. I used to go to America, to England and other western countries. And without knowing English. Because they would always give me a translator. One from the embassy. Also because I don’t believe there is something you can’t accomplish in life. It depends on people. I needed [work] for a living, life on retirement isn’t pleasant.

I have two grandsons. Adas [from Adam] is 30 [years old]. He lives in Warsaw. He does well. He works in the movie-business. He’s not an actor, he is a technician. The second one, younger – Mateusz. He’s 24. He graduated from the Musical Academy in Lodz. He is a musician, he plays double-bass. He works for the Lodz orchestra. He lives in Lodz. [Both of them], whenever they have a spare day, they still drop by, come to visit.

[My grandsons] know everything [about me, about my family]. They don’t brag about it, I suppose. [They don’t flaunt it.] It’s their business. [My daughter] is of mixed origin, she’s not Jewish. Her husband is 100 percent Polish. It doesn’t matter. It never mattered in my family. Never! Because it’s not something to show off, brag, or worry about. In my opinion, it isn’t. Yes, during the occupation there were some worries, but thankfully, I somehow never had deal with those.

I am very happy. Whatever happened there and however the society thinks, I personally think that the last governing party [was very good]. [Mr Sokal refers to Ariel Sharon and the Likud Party.] I consider him a wise, reasonable man. [But] it’s just my personal opinion about this man. Let everyone have [their own beliefs], but [one person must] govern a country. [On the other hand], those in charge must have the wellbeing [of the country and its citizens at heart]. This is how I worked. They didn’t teach me that at a university. [Simply] life taught me that. I never went [to Israel] but I would like to [go]. I would have no problems with going to Israel.

I keep in touch with the Jewish Community in Lodz. I used to even go there during the cadence of previous group, Mr. Minc and his helper. I used to go [only] on some Saturdays, listen to [the prayers]. I worked in Prochink then. They knew what my beliefs were. [But] they tolerated me the way I was. And nowadays I’m [also] never questioned. Symcha Keller [the president of the Jewish Community in Lodz], he does a lot for religious matters. During his term, they treat [people of non-Jewish origin] very liberally.  I can often see people [there] who I never knew and still don’t know, who come, listen. Some got quite comfortable there and they always come. Most likely they have some connection to Judaism. But it doesn’t really matter.

It’s unfortunate that here, in Lodz, there aren’t many Jews. That’s a problem. They are [people] from mixed marriages, [but] they come to services. Once I read in Midrasz [Jewish monthly social-cultural magazine in Polish, treating about life of Jews in Poland and abroad], there was a discussion: Ronald Lauder, some rabbis [took part in the discussion] and they talked about that work, so unfortunate, because there are no prospects, there are no live people, right. [Symcha Keller] really did something very valuable for the commune. [He caused] some institution to exist, but there are few people, it has few members.

Now I don’t go anywhere, I spare myself. I go [to the commune]. I go there, but it doesn’t mean I’m practicing. I was never a practicing Jew. Before the war I had no opportunity or need. After the war I [also] never [practiced]. Those are such individual matters. I’m not a specialist in these matters, but I willingly, with pleasure, whenever I can, I go [to the commune] on holidays. I usually [go] to those services and I listen.  I even have a Polish-Hebrew prayer book. I never learned Jewish [Hebrew] and now I have no patience, but if you know Polish, you can easily navigate [the text]. I actively pray in the sense that I read [what’s written in the prayer book].

And, whenever I can, I mainly do my own groceries. To get imperishable goods, larger groceries, I even go once a week to a supermarket.  And for everyday stuff – here, [not far from home]. Somebody has to do it, right. I do try, within possibility, move about by myself. It’s for my health. I don’t want to brag, not at all, [but] I’ve never been idle in my life and I’m happy with it.

Why did I agree for this interview? Simple. Because it’s not just my personal matter. I want something to be left of me. And because my hope to have a real saga of the Sokal family didn’t work out, I thought to at least tell a short story.

GLOSSARY:

Isaac Rotman
St. Petersburg
Russia
Interviewer: Ksenia Senkevich
Date of interview: July 2005

I met Isaac Leybovich Rotman in his cozy one-room apartment in one of the new district of St. Petersburg. A lot of arduous trials fell to his lot: revolution, starvation, arrest of his father, war which he went through from the very first till the very last day. But despite of it Isaac Leybovich in his venerable age is more ready to laugh than to scold; he is very sociable and interested in outward things. His listener feels his sincere optimism and is surprised at accuracy of his memory, when Isaac Leybovich remembers past events.

My family background

Growing up

During the war

After the war

Glossary

My family background

Unfortunately I can tell you almost nothing about my great-grandmothers and great-grandfathers. My paternal great-grandfather’s name was David Rot. My paternal grandmother was Mina. She was born in Novgorod region in 1851, and died in 1922. Both my grandmother and grandfather spoke only Yiddish. Grandmother did not wear a wig and did not cover her hair. I know that they had a large family: 11 children. You should take into consideration that many children died at a very young age. I never saw any of them.

My maternal great-grandfather was named Abram Tush. His son (my mother's father) was Moske Tush, his wife’s name was Hayke. My maternal grandmother and grandfather lived in Staraya Ladoga. I used to spend time at them several years running. My grandfather was an owner of bakery, he made bread and sell it. Soviet authorities liquidated his bakery and grandfather himself, too. I do not remember details, but grandmother came to Petersburg soon after the Revolution 1 and lived at us. She spoke poor Russian, did not tell fairy tales. On the whole she did not become a grandmother for us in full sense of this word.

They had a nice small wooden house. There was no electricity supply, they used kerosene lamps. They heated their house with Russian stove 2, they also cooked food in it. They had no water supply, and brought water (by the way, very tasty water) from the well in the court yard. There were some furniture pieces inside (certainly), but we used to sleep on the floor. The town was very small; grandfather's shop was situated in its center, near the market building. We used to help him to bring bread from the bakery to the shop.

The house was surrounded by a small garden, full of old apple-trees. They produced poor crops. My grandparents had neither cattle nor domestic animals.

They had no assistants about the house. But in grandfather’s bakery, someone helped him for sure: otherwise he would have not managed.

My grandmother and grandfather were religious people. Grandfather wore kippah, grandmother bound her head by a kerchief, but she did not wear a wig. They always celebrated Sabbath and all holidays. They ate only kosher food. They visited synagogue, but I can't say with certainty how often. I guess not every day: their life was hard, it was necessary to work all day long.

I remember nothing about political views of my grandfather, but I know for sure that he was not a member of any political party. He was interested only in his work: he worked hard and loved to work hard.

He was not an educated person. I guess that he had finished two classes of cheder, not more.

And it goes without saying that my grandmother and grandfather never thought about going somewhere for vacation.

I can say nothing neither about their relations with neighbors, nor about their brothers and sisters.

I still keep a certificate given to my father which reads that he descended from a soldier's family. Therefore I make a conclusion that during some period of his life my grandfather served in the army.

I was born in St. Petersburg in 1912. It happened in the apartment near Fontanka River. Later when our family became larger, we moved to another apartment, situated nearby, in Voznessensky prospect. Till now I like to come there, to stand in the street and recollect my childhood and youth. We lived on the 3rd floor of the big stone building. It was surrounded by lots of trees. The pavement was made of wooden blocks. During the flood of 1924 all pavements went up and moved together. It was very terrible.

Several times I watched our tsar Nikolas II 3 passing by along our street to the Winter Palace. [Winter Palace was built by the architect B. Rastrelli as a residence for Russian tsars; nowadays it is one of the buildings occupied by the State Hermitage museum.] All passers-by stopped, men took of their headwear and shouted welcoming the tsar.

In my early childhood all transport was animal-drawn. In the streets there were carts, carriages, etc. In the Alexandrovsky market situated not far from our house, there was a special place where they sold everything necessary for horses and carts. When a child I liked to go there very much: all those things seemed to me an embodiment of beauty. Many people from the neighboring villages came there to buy goods. I always went to school through that market. I saw there many different things. I liked to lounge about the open second-hand goods market (they called it a flea market).

In Petersburg there lived many Jews. Our house was situated next door to the synagogue, and I often observed crowds of people which the synagogue hall could not seat.

It was a pleasure to watch the way Jews communicated with each other in the yard of the synagogue: endless conversations, atmosphere of total amiability and togetherness. All that impressed me greatly.

I guess that before the Revolution in Petersburg there were many synagogues and meeting-houses. I can judge from a meeting-house situated five minute’s walk away from the synagogue. But soon after the Revolution their number began to decrease promptly. There were also mikves, shochetim, and everything other necessary.

There were no special Jewish places of residence, Jews lived all over the city, but for some reason they often appeared to live within call. For example, in our house there lived several Jewish families.

There were no special occupations typical for Jews. Among them there were many tradesmen, but a lot of doctors and lawyers, too. And my uncle was a worker, a founder.

In the city there was electricity and water supply, but stove heating. People kept fire wood in special sheds near their houses.

I remember that my father went to synagogue. He took his children with him. I studied in cheder at that synagogue. I think that my father wanted to teach us. But Revolution came and (though during the first years under Soviet power there was no state anti-Semitism) they started struggling against religion. The synagogue was closed, cheder too. It happened approximately in 1920. And before that we celebrated all holidays in the synagogue, built sukkah in its court yard. My grandmother told us many-many times (until her death) how to celebrate holidays correctly. Till now I remember challot for Sabbath.

I have a hazy recollection of the Revolution of 1917. Our street witnessed interminable demonstrations. My basic memoir is big noise, shouts, singing out of tune. In 1924 I became a pioneer. I idolized Lenin 4. When he died, I sobbed violently several days without a break. My adoration was akin to unction. I was a permanent participant of demonstrations on May Day and during October holidays 5. It was very cheerful! We sang much. It is strange that I have forgotten all revolutionary songs of that time. I do not remember any manifestations of anti-Semitism. I still think that the main anti-Semites are not people who persecute Jews, but those Jews who betray their Jewish nature, changing their surnames and names to more harmonious in local style.

We did not go to the market: there was no need. All shops were situated near to our house. And I went to market for entertainment.

Political events did not concern us. But possibly parents did not want to discuss it with their children. As for me, I sincerely consider our country (the USSR) to be the best one in the world, I thought that I was extremely lucky to be born here.

My father’s name was David-Leyb Abramovich. You see that he had 2 names, therefore his children had different patronymics: Davidovich and Leybovich. They chose patronymic they liked more. He was born in 1880 in the Novgorod region. He was a very serious person, always very strict with his family members. He was a man of indisputable authority. He liked to talk with his friends: they came to us and held endless conversations about politics, trade, about everything. They seldom joked, spoke seriously and in details.

My father used to press his children (especially boys) very close. If only a girl complained of something trifling (for example, one of us had pulled her hair), we could not avoid punishment. Sometimes (and it often happened) he whipped us.

He finished only an elementary school. I think that his mother tongue was Yiddish, but his Russian was very perfect.

My father was an antiquarian. He mastered that profession himself and was an owner of an antique shop. Soon after the Revolution my father was arrested. Mum showed herself as a real hero: she visited some important persons, among them was Gorky 6. She also went to some ambassadors, who were father’s customers. Authorities liberated father after a year, but his shop had been already confiscated. He became an appraiser of antiques, but nobody was sorry for it, because it was clear that the point was to save his life. Father still had reputation of a high class expert, therefore he was invited to work as a member of the state commission for appraising residuary things after liquidation of palaces. It was he who made a decision: to put a thing up for sale or to keep it in a state museum. Father worked as an expert-appraiser all his life long.

Mum was born in 1891 in Staraya Russa. Her name was Sara Moskevna (after the Revolution Moisseevna). My Mum was all kindness. She used to shout to father ‘Do not touch him; at least do not hit him on his head.’ She was uneducated: to my mind she spent only several years at school. Her mother tongue was Russian, but she knew Yiddish well.

At first she was a housewife, and later started assisting father in his shop. After we forfeited our property she became a seller of outer clothing. Later she worked at a jeweller's.

Mum was the second wife of my father. First he was married to Ghevsha Kukoy. This is all I know about her. She died, and our family members never spoke about it. Somehow I got to know that she jumped out of the window after she had given birth to her son. And my mother lost her parents when she was very young, she met my father in Petersburg, married him and took care of his 3 children. They married in 1908 in Petersburg. Wedding ceremony was arranged in the synagogue (chuppah etc. according to tradition). Father was 10 years older than Mum. In contrast to my father who died at the age of 54, Mum lived a long life. She died in 1978 at the age of 86. In her declining years Mum walked using a walking-stick. One day she got her walking-stick caught in something, fell down and fractured her thigh. She was placed into a hospital, where she died from pneumonia.

My parents never dressed traditionally. They wore ordinary clothes (according to time). Daddy wore dark suits, and Mum preferred light ones: she was very cheerful and liked light in color.

Our family was well-to-do. But it was true only for the time of my early childhood. And then Revolution happened. When they arrested father, we almost died from starvation. All of us, except my elder sister were sent to a village. There lived a milkwoman, who used to bring us milk when we lived better. There we ate potatos and drank milk: that was the way they saved our lives. So you see now that our family managed to get through different financial situations: from prosperity to poverty.

In 1922 father was discharged. He started working as an expert-appraiser, got quite good salary. And it was a real relief to us.

We lived in a four-room apartment. There was a big pantry with a window. We had nurseries for boys and girls, parents’ bedroom and a sitting-room. We used pantry as a room for visitors. The kitchen was very large. There was water supply and stove heating. Near the house there were beautiful old trees. When a sister got married, parents put a room at her disposal. As a result (after my 3 sisters got married), all the rest of the family crowded in the last room. When my brother married, he could not remain at home and left somewhere together with his wife.

As I told you already, my father was an antiquarian, therefore we had a lot of ancient furniture in our apartment. Mahogany suite of furniture was in the sitting-room. I remember a small cupboard with porcelain-figures, and a bureau. Our furniture was beautiful. In the nurseries furniture was not so beautiful: it was intended for studies (comfortable desks, bookcases, and a wardrobe).

At our place there always lived cats and dogs. We (children) were always together with them and loved each other.

When children were little, parents hired a nurse, an ordinary Russian woman. Most time of her was devoted to children, but sometimes she helped Mum about the house. As for me, I felt hurt when my younger sister was born: the nurse began to take care of her, instead of me. I loved my nurse very much.

At our place we had few books. I do not know whether there were religious books among them (I did not see them). I grew up reading books of secular contents. I read in Russian, knowing no other language. I liked to read fairy tales very much. It is strange, but I do not remember my parents reading. I guess they had no time for it. They never gave us advice regarding reading. Father read newspapers regularly. He was very much interested in politics. Shortly before his death he was going to become a member of some party. Nobody from our family was a library reader.

Parents celebrated all holidays and observed traditions. We had a special trunk with plates and dishes for Pesach (it was always locked). Till my father’s death we ate only kosher food at home. When father was alive, all members of our family visited synagogue on holidays. After his death, all traditions and customs were forgotten. Children lived separately, mother lived in the family of her daughter, and I was a lonely student. Father united all of us: he died and our family fell apart.

My parents were far from religious problems. As they say, my parents stood on a communist party platform. Basically, it coincided with my father’s views, but my mother always supported him. It is hard to say if my father was sincere or he considered it necessary to take such position. Nevertheless they were members of no party or organization. I know nothing about military service of my father, though I remember my parents talking about his military service before 1914.

I already told you that shortly before he died, my father decided to become a party member. That desire of him caused his death. To tell the truth, party itself was not guilty in it (contrary to usual). Here I’ll tell you about it. My father was very serious regarding party membership. He studied at some courses, where they taught all interested persons bases of political literacy. Something was not clear for Daddy and he went for explanation to his elder daughter Rahel. She was a party member, and father respected her opinion very much. So one day in winter (at dusk) father went to her to ask for explanations. He was caught in a snowstorm. When crossing a street, he was hit by a bus (he did not see the bus because of the snowstorm). He fractured base of the skull and died without regaining consciousness.

Our neighbors were mainly Jews. Relations were the most kind. There was a dentist, who treated medically all members of our family. My parents were on friendly terms almost only with Jews. Their first and main friends were their relatives. Most friends of theirs appeared before the Revolution.

My parents went to have a rest separately. Father often went to sanatoria 7 and Mum was often invited by her acquaintances. When children were young, our family moved to a rented dacha in summer. Mum lived there with children, but it was before the Revolution. During the first years after Revolution we had no idea to go to dacha.

I know about relatives of my parents very little. I remember Mikhail, my mother's brother. He was a worker. I also heard about her brother Abram. He lived in Paris, and we had no information about him. Mum also had a sister Anna (we called her Nusha). She was a seamstress. I keep a photo of my mother's brother Alter. On the reverse side of it my mother wrote that the picture was taken in Siberia. Unfortunately I know nothing more about him; I only know that he died in 1940.

My father had 3 brothers and a sister. Two of his brothers Isaac and Grigory had families, each of them had 3 children. Isaac was a tailor, and Grigory was a mechanic.

My parents were good friends with Nusha, they often visited each other. She lived in our house and made clothes for all our family. We also had good relations with brothers of my father, we often went to see them on different occasions: holidays, birthdays and weddings (when children grew up). But to tell the truth, we preferred to celebrate holidays in the bosom of our family.

As I already told you, I was born in Petersburg in 1912. In 1918 I went to school. It was my ‘coming-out’: up to that age I used to stay at home with my Mum and my nurse. Sometimes Mum and my elder sisters managed to buy somewhere goods (for example salt or fabrics) which were inaccessible for village citizens. Then they brought them to the near village and bartered for products.

Growing up

As for me, I was never bored at home. Mum used to say ‘If you are satisfied with food, you may go out.’ It concerned only sons. We didn't have to be asked twice and immediately ran out. There we played with other boys, got up on to the roof, played hide-and-seek and other games. Girls helped Mum about the house and later also left home to have a walk. They spent outdoor not so much time as we did, but they behaved themselves.

My school was named Labour School no.25 8. I liked subjects connected with nature: geography, natural sciences. I spent at school only 5 years. I loved my first teacher. She was young and seemed to me very beautiful. She treated children kindly, with true affection. The last person in my scale of rank was the old teacher of history. All the time she grumbled and often came angry with us. And when she became angry, her detachable jaws jumped out. She seemed to us to be an embodiment of the tsarist regime, while we felt already Soviet. Mainly because of her I did not want to continue my studies. Almost all our teachers started working as teachers already before the Revolution, there were no Soviet teachers at that time yet. At school I never came across any manifestations of anti-Semitism, never heard words ‘a dirty Jew’. Besides school I was engaged in nothing.

All my school friends were Russian, but I did not choose them on purpose: there were not many Jews around. And in the College it was vice versa: there studied many Jews, and my friends were mainly Jews. Among my friends in our court yard there were a lot of Jews. Next to us there lived a Jewish family, and I made friends with 4 boys of that family. At school I had a friend: we were together since the 2nd form. He lived near Sennoy market. [Sennoy (Hay) market is one of the oldest markets of Petersburg. The most undesirable persons used to gather there. Scenes of many novels of Dostoevsky (1821-1881), a famous Russian novelist were laid around the Sennoy market.]

His house was surrounded by warehouses. During the flood of 1924 Sennaya square and the territory around it were running with water. Together with my friend we found some boards and made a raft. We started on navigation, and I narrowly escaped drowning. We had to spend a lot of time sun-drying our clothes before we took the risk to go home. When I became older, a friend of mine (a Jewish boy Margolin) dragged me to the Maryinsky theatre. [Opera and ballet Maryinsky theatre was open in 1783 in St. Petersburg. There worked outstanding masters of Russian opera and ballet art.] He wanted me not to be a spectator, but to take part in crowd scenes. I liked Maryinsky theatre very much, especially (to tell the truth) girls - ballet dancers. Together with Margolin we used to visit each other, played checkers, and sometimes cards.

I forgot to say that at school I was a pioneer, and even not an ordinary pioneer, but an assistant of the pioneer leader. [All-Union Pioneer Organization named after Lenin was a mass communist organization of children and teenagers at the age of 10-15.]

This public work took a lot of time. They involved me in the process of convincing careless pupils to hit the books. I tried to do my best bettering one girl and we fell in love with each other.

Once I saw a poster. There I saw a worker (standing near his lathe) and a shower of sparks from under a cutter. At that very moment I ardently wished to become a turner. It happened in 1932. I was extremely stubborn: it was impossible to make me change my mind, so parents sent me to master turning to Shorshtein, an owner of a turning workshop. His workshop performed the orders for factories. I did not manage to work there for a long time, because workers at that place were men of the old school, and I did not like it. They taught me in the old way, believing that a pupil had to begin with the most dirty work. ‘Remove shaving, clean the floor!’ I disliked it. So after a year I decided to find a youth collective. Simultaneously I studied at rabfak 9.

You know, in my life turning appeared to be the most interesting job. But director of rabfak persuaded me to enter a college. I had no objection to enter the Military Mechanical College, but they required 3 recommendations from the Communist Party members. My sister who was a party member had no right to recommend me, because she was my relative. I also had a friend - a communist party member, but his experience was not enough. My Mum decided to assist me and began to search for recommendations. She found 2 persons, but while she was searching for the 3rd one they returned me my documents, explaining that I was not right for them. I was very much upset and decided not to go to any other college. I got fixed to job of the chief of broadcasting center at Passage Department Store. [Passage Department Store was one of the largest department stores of Leningrad.]

I spent my days off together with my coevals. Later when I became a College student I made friends with girls from the Medical College. You see, I was always very much interested in girls. We went for a walk to Neva embankment or to Nevsky prospect, we often visited museums. My college friends were mainly Jews. Our crew was very good, we discussed different topics: both theatre and science, and politics. Our relations were respectful and trusting. I was always striving after educated people.

Being a teenager, I spent not enough time with parents, but sometimes I accompanied Mum when she went for a walk. And Mum always looked very young. She told me proudly that our neighbors used to say “What an interesting young man you found!’ Father seldom went for a walk, and he always walked alone. I usually spent my holidays alone in sanatorium. I never went to pioneer camps.

My first trip by car happened when I was 2 years old. During the trip the car door suddenly opened, and Mum strongly clasped me in her arms. Probably I keep in mind that trip because of my mother's fright. We went by train every year (to the country). We never visited restaurants with parents. Later I went there with girls, and I did it with great pleasure.

I had very close relationships with my brothers. When children, we did not know that we were not full brothers and had different mothers. We got to know about it when we were already adults.

At home there was mezuzah on every door. As for me, I never kissed it. Mum did it sometimes, and father did it always. Parents arranged bar mitzvah for all their sons. Usually they tried to date the ceremony for some holiday. My bar mitzvah coincided with Purim: I was born in March. Father put on tefillin, but his children never did it, and father never insisted. In general I assimilated no Jewish traditions. I never visited synagogue of my own free will. Sometimes father took my hand and went to the synagogue. That was the moment when I had to follow him. But when I became adult, I sometimes went there voluntarily. Now I understand that I fell under strong influence of Soviet propaganda. The main tradition of our family was respecting parents, especially father. We never began eating without him. Mum always gave the first plateful of meals to father.

My favorite holiday is Pesach. First, I liked matzah very much. Second, I was always bewitched by the mystery of Pesach night.

When I studied at rabfak, I worked at a factory. It was difficult for me to combine work and study, therefore sometimes I cut work. They fired me as a shirker. After that it was difficult to find a new place, and father took me to his commission shop where he worked as an appraiser. I was engaged in the process of electrifying antique chandelier. One day a customer came to the shop and for some reason got me into talking. He asked me what I would like to be occupied with in future. I confessed that most of all I would like to become a turner. Without saying a word that person (he appeared to be a representative of some Ministry) took an official form out of his bag and wrote out a direction for me to the Pneumatic factory. I worked there while studying at rabfak. After I finished rabfak, I decided to leave the factory and find some other work, but the factory managers did not want to let me go. Again I left without permission. That was the moment when I got my job in the Passage department store. And after that I entered Radio faculty of the Telecommunication College named after Bonch-Bruevich. [Telecommunication College named after Bonch-Bruevich is one of the oldest colleges of the country, it was founded in 1930.]

So I studied there 4 years. When I became a student of the 5th course, it was time to write my degree work. But the process of job assignment 10 was held before presentation of a thesis. They informed me that I was directed to Blagoveshchensk. I refused to go there. In one or another very complicated way we managed to change the place of my assignment to a small town near Latvian border. There I worked as a chief of broadcasting center. That work was some sort of predegree practice. Basing on experience received there, I had to write my degree work. I worked with enthusiasm, my degree work was almost written. Soon I had to return to Leningrad both to make presentation and become an engineer, but my destiny ordered otherwise. I’ll tell you about it a little bit later.

At my work places I never had conflicts connected with my nationality. I was never fired. On the contrary, usually they did not want to let me go.

I was always in good relations with my colleagues. But Zelik Sheiman, my childhood friend always remained my best friend. We called him Zhenya. His father was a watchmaker. Zelik had many good toys. When we were teenagers, we were less close, but when I began to work we became very close friends. It was he who persuaded me to enter a college. We parted very silly and through my fault. When I divorced, I was very nervous and said rude things to Zelik. At that time I thought that I meet with no sympathy from him. Shame on me! And when I returned from Israel (I’ll tell you about it later) I found out that he had already died.

I cannot say that I appreciated only national ideas choosing friends, but to tell the truth, that idea was not alien to me. You see, there is more spiritual affinity between Jews, than between Jews and representatives of other nationalities.

Before the war burst out we lived with Mum and celebrated all holidays. Of course we did not follow all the rules. And when Mum moved to the family of her elder daughter, the chest for Pesach dishes became the chest for winter clothes.

Before the war I never came across manifestations of anti-Semitism. And during the war in my military unit nobody ever let me know that sort of insulting. My brother-soldiers were much more offended by the fact that I did not drink vodka. In compare with that my defect, my nationality seemed to them an absolute trifle. Both before the war and during the war I was awarded diploma and medals without regard to my nationality. So I think that I was very lucky from that point of view.

My father was taken into prison, and I do not know whether it was related to anti-Semitism. Perhaps it was, but indirectly: they took persons who were engaged in commerce, and they were Jews in a majority. At the same time when my father was imprisoned, they deported many of our neighbors - Jews.

During the war

When the war burst out 11, I worked in a small town near the Latvian border. After the attack of fascists people pushed the panic button there, and everyone who was able to, ran away. I had not many things with me, but on my way I lost most of them, including my degree work (almost finished). Approximately 2 weeks later I reached Kalinin and immediately went to the military registration and enlistment office. Taking into account my education, they directed me to serve in a signal battalion. So I went through the war as a signalman. I occupied some sort of exclusive position, because I was an educated person and they had nobody to replace me. When the battalion commander shouted at me using offensive words, I answered him the same way. In my battalion I was much elder than almost all others. By the beginning of the war I was already 30, and my commander was only 22.

At first I worked in a special car for radio intercept. Later I became a field signalman. A field signalman is a person who crawls, runs, walks - in a word, moves along a battlefield with a telephone tube and telephone wire in hands. At present when I watch films about war and see field signalmen, I am really puzzled how I managed to survive. Probably I live so long because I had survived in such a terrible war. It is interesting for me to live and I will never get tired of life. I saw burnt villages, sites of fire, people died on the gibbet. Despite of all horrors of the war, that time was not only awful, but also very fine. I knew for sure what I was fighting for, and people I met there were for the most part good and noble. I was never wounded, only once during severe bombardment I was slightly shell-shocked. The war was finished for me in Germany not far from Berlin on May 9. After the victory day our battalion was moved to Hungary. There we served together with Soviet, i.e. occupational armies.

As times goes by, it becomes harder and harder for me to recollect war time. I’m afraid that my heart will break if I recall its details.

And my Mum and sisters were evacuated right at the beginning of the war, therefore I managed to reestablish connections with them only at the end of the war.

During the war my elder brother was in Leningrad and nearly died from dystrophy. My other brother pressed for his evacuation and saved his life.

My younger brother also was in the army, but we knew nothing about each other.

During the war my elder sister died in evacuation in Omsk region. She was ill with tuberculosis and did not survive severities of the wartime. She was buried there.

After the war

I came back home in December 1945. They made us get off rather far from the city center, so I had to walk about 3 hours to reach my house. When I saw the first houses of the city, I embraced them and kissed. The city was very dark, there were many ruins, and great tragedy was in the air. I went to my sister: I knew that Mum should be there. Our meeting was very joyful. When I returned to our apartment after the war, I found it absolutely empty, only my old bicycle was hanging on the nail. For some reason marauders were not able to take it down. Not all our belongings fell a prey to marauders: my brother sold many things or exchanged them for bread. That day I saw nobody of our neighbors.

I stayed at my sister and went to a military registration and enlistment office to inform that I got demobilized. They suggested me to work in LENGAS. [LENGAS is an Organization in charge of gas facilities of Leningrad and later St. Petersburg.] I considered myself to be overeducated for work in LENGAS, that was why I wanted to get another work. But the military registration and enlistment office could not give me any other work. And it was impossible to survive without work or studies, because we still had food cards. Therefore I decided to go for studying on the last course of my former College. Legally I had the right to do it, because before the war I had not defended my thesis. It was necessary to take examinations in the subjects I did not study at that time. I was glad: it seemed to me that examinations will awake my brain. So I passed missing examinations and began preparing for new diploma. If you remember, I lost my degree work (almost ready) in the beginning of the war. I was suggested a new topic: High-Powered Broadcasting. I started working on it. For that purpose I went to Moscow region to have practice at local high-powered radio station. I recollect that time with great pleasure. It seems to me that it was there, where I learned to use my brains. At the beginning it was hard, but I forced myself to sit at the table. Step by step I got a taste for it and since then I have been in good condition.

I graduated successfully and became a professionally qualified expert. I got job at the Komintern factory. [Komintern factory was one of the oldest factories in Leningrad, in 1932 they started producing first Soviet TV sets.] There I worked 25 years and retired. At first I was a laboratory assistant, later I became a senior engineer. When a student, I got married.

When I retired I considered my pension to be not enough for living. Besides at that time I moved to a new apartment without a telephone. To get a telephone I had to stand in a very long line. But I knew that people who worked at a telephone exchange, could get telephones out of turn. That was why I went there to work and worked there as an electrical engineer for 20 years. So finally I retired at the age of 80. A young 20-year-old guy came to my place. One day I dropped in and asked telephone girls how were things going without me. And they said ‘Without you, Isaac Leybovich, it is not work, but a lasting disorder.’ You see, even after the end of the war I had no conflicts connected with my nationality.

At that time I heard nothing about emigration of Jews. Nobody around me left anywhere. As for me I did not think about emigration at all: I was quite pleased both with my life and my work. My political views were Soviet, at that time a person like me was called a non-party Bolshevik (now it makes my gorge rise). I trusted Stalin implicitly.

I made friends with my fellow workers, but we were not very close. My main friends were friends since youth.

I cannot say that I chose only Jewish friends, but for some reason it happened of itself. When I was young I went around with different people whom I did not like (I did not like unwarranted simplicity of relations between boys and girls). I never appeared in such companies for the second time. It resulted in the following: most of my friends were Jewish.

I got acquainted with my wife in one of such companies before the war. We understood that we love each other, but did not manage to say about it: I left for practice, then for front line, and Vera together with her parents was evacuated to Kazakhstan. After the end of the war we met and got married.

My wife’s name was Zabezhinskaya Vera Markovna, her Jewish name - Dvoyre Mendelevna. She was born in 1922 in Leningrad, and her parents came from Belarus. Her mother tongue was Russian, she did not know Yiddish. All her life she worked as a pediatrist. We have got 2 daughters, they both were born in Leningrad. Alla was born in 1947, and Lubov - in 1955. When the younger daughter was about 1, my wife with both daughters went to Latvia to have rest. There they got acquainted with a very kind woman. She was Russian, lonely and very poor. So they returned to Leningrad all together. That woman became a nurse for my children. She lived with us many years and became a member of our family.

Alla graduated from the College of Telecommunications. In 1991 she left for Israel. She has 2 children. She became an orthodox Jewess, she does not work, but does something at a synagogue.

Lubov graduated from the Medical College, she lives and works in Petersburg. She has a son.

Together with my wife we told children about Jewish holidays, but not much. Occasionally we reminded them that they were Jewish. As for me, I sometimes visited synagogue, but I did not take children with me (to tell the truth, they would not go). I changed my life style after Perestroika 12 and openly spoke about it after 1985-1987. I tried to tell my daughters about the war, but they were not much interested. My grandchildren also don’t like to listen to me. Certainly we never celebrated either Pesach or Christmas. But we always had a New Year’s tree in our apartment.

In 1975 we divorced. It was not easy for me, it still hurts when I speak about it. Despite the fact that my children got no Jewish education, my elder daughter (as I already told you) left for Israel in 1990. In 1994 I decided to go to her. I hoped to find a soul mate there: I was very tired to live alone. I settled in Haifa where my daughter lived with her family. But in Israel I could not fit in: I did not speak Hebrew and understood that I would never master it. I also was not lucky with women: they all seemed to me too self-interested. But most likely I missed Petersburg. In a word, after 2 years of my life in Israel I returned and never regretted it.

It is interesting that now in my native city I receive that Jewish components of life which I lacked unconsciously all my life. I am grateful to the Hesed Welfare Center for it. But I’ll tell you about it a little bit later.

By now I have not many friends and relatives left. Most of them died. I made friends with my former neighbor. But all my coevals (few in number) keep indoors, we speak to each other only by telephone. I also made new friends in Hesed Center. Of course they are Jews.

My life was always quiet and stable, at any case it seemed to be quiet and stable. There was no swing of the pendulum. I liked to live that way. I did not feel any dictatorship manifestations in the country, I also did not notice its decrease in 1950s. I never felt any pressure and considered myself to be absolutely free. I always thought that if you work honestly, everything would be fine in your life.

Wars waged by Israel excited me the way a war could excite a person who knew about it not through hearsay 13. And severance of diplomatic relations with Israel also distressed me very much. You see, it turns out that I was a slave of the Soviet propagation not always, and I could not treat Israel the way Soviet ideology dictated.

I do not think that I or my children were deprived of something because of their Jewish origin.

I had no relatives abroad, but I know that it should have been dangerous to be in touch with them.

It was not easy for me to accept Perestroika. I guess that many Soviet citizens (me first of all) were not able to think normally. It was necessary to study thinking anew, and it is not easy, especially at my age. But I managed step by step. And when the Berlin wall fell down, I said ‘Gorbachev, well done!’ 14 You see, my second self always thought that the Iron Curtain was something unnatural.

Stalin's death made me very sad. At that time I thought that nobody was able to replace him. Regarding the Hungarian events 15 and the Prague spring 16: my opinion did not differ from the official one I read in Soviet newspapers. The only case when I dared to doubt correctness of the state policy was Doctors’ Plot 17. At that time I was really scared, I felt that pogroms could be started, and authorities would rather add fuel to the fire than extinguish it.

In 1998 I got to the Hesed Center for the first time 18. I clearly realized that I was Jewish and should be Jewish. At present I visit Hesed very often. I go to the library and sometimes visit doctors. But my great pleasure is to visit the Day Time Center. [Day Time Center is one of the Hesed programs.] Once a week they send a car to my house and bring me to Hesed. For me it is double pleasure: to visit the Day Time Center and make a trip round my favorite city. In the Center I spend all day long. We listen to lectures and visit interesting exhibitions, but the main thing is certainly the opportunity to communicate with each other. In Hesed we celebrate Jewish holidays. They also bring us food packages for holidays. I never got any help from Austria or Switzerland. 

There is one more thing I still want to tell you. Let these people from the Centropa project know that it’s a good deed and not only because young people will know about life of Jews in the USSR and other countries. It is extremely important for us (old people) to sound off, it is a pleasure for us when people come and listen to us attentively. You know what our relatives usually think about stories of old men. And it is very pleasant to feel that you and your life are really interesting to someone!

Glossary:

Raisa Gertzevna is a person of amazing energy, who, despite her advanced years, has preserved her lively mind, sense of humor and self-possession. Notwithstanding her ailment – approaching deafness and blindness, blood pressure problems and two broken legs – Raisa Gertzevna looks very good, takes care of herself and maintains an interest in life. Since her mobility is now limited, she suffers from a lack of communication, as she can’t go to Hesed 1 as she did before. She walks with the help of a cart, which she pushes in front of her and leans upon; she spends all her time at home and tries to read with the help of a magnifying glass. Her granddaughter is a very busy person and can’t spend much time with her. Raisa’s pension is minimal and she lives very modestly. We became friends in the course of our meetings and are quite close. I often tell her, ‘You are at such an age that you have to think more of yourself and take care of yourself.’ And she replies, ‘All my life I’ve lived for other people. That’s the way I was brought up.’

My family background

Growing up

During the war

After the war

Glossary

My family background

I was born in 1912 in the town of Slutsk in Belarus. This town is located near the Polish border. All my relatives came from there. My paternal grandfather’s name was Bentsian Naumovich Shulyakovsky. I know that there is a village named Shulyaki in Slutsk district and Grandfather Shulyakovsky’s ancestors came from that place. I don’t know whether they were religious or assimilated Jews, since they lived close to the Russians. We had no passports until 1932, so there was no indication of nationality 2.

My paternal grandfather was called Bentsian ben melamed in Hebrew, because he was a teacher. He taught arithmetic and Yiddish in a cheder. He wore a big beard and payes. He was very religious, ate kosher food, observed all Jewish traditions, attended the synagogue and prayed every day. Shulyakovsky was fanatically religious [Raisa means very zealous]. He was married twice. His first wife was my paternal grandmother. I don’t know her first name. Her maiden name was Repina. She died very early, when my father was very young. That is why I don’t know anything else about her. She had a brother, who was a lawyer. I can’t remember his name. We were friends with him, he came to visit us. After Grandmother’s death, Grandfather married for the second time. His second wife must have died too. I don’t know anything about her either. She had four children with my grandfather, two sons and two daughters: Grigory, Naum, Hanna, and another daughter, whose name I can’t remember.

Grandfather lived alone when I knew him. He owned a house in Slutsk. He was reserved, had few friends and communicated mostly with people at the synagogue and with his family: with us and his children from his second marriage. Grandfather Shulyakovsky died before the war in 1934.

My father, Gertz Bentsianovich Shulyakovsky, was his elder son from his first marriage. We were great friends with one of my father’s brothers, Grigory. When I studied in Leningrad [today St. Petersburg] between 1931 and 1937 and lived in a dormitory, he visited me and supported me financially. Later Grigory lived in the Crimea [today Ukraine] with his family. He had tuberculosis and he was advised to change climate. He wrote to me from that place during the war, ‘The weather is spoiling,’ in order not to write directly about the war beginning. Later he wrote, ‘We are planning to leave,’ and then he disappeared. My cousin [from Grandfather’s second marriage] lived in Leningrad. She was ten years younger than me, she died already. She was a physician and worked at a polyclinic.

My maternal grandfather, Abram Kulakovsky, lived in Baslovitsy, a Russian village in Slutsk district. He was a peasant. He had a little house with small windows, earthen floor and a straw roof. He had seven daughters and a son. I can’t tell you anything about them. The eldest daughter was my Mom. Grandpa lived in the village and not far from him lived the landowner, Volzhinsky. The landowner noticed that Grandpa managed to achieve proper crop rotation on a small plot of land and was able to feed his family. So he recommended him to another important landowner for the position of manager.

Later Grandfather Kulakovsky owned two houses: the old small one and a new nice big one. When Grandpa lived in Slutsk he sometimes took us to the village to show us the small house where they’d lived before, and we also saw his new house with a wooden floor, good roof and big windows. It was before the Revolution 3. There was neither electricity nor a water supply system in the village. They kept a cow. Grandpa Kulakovsky didn’t wear a big beard, all in all, he could be called a secular man. Certainly he observed the traditions, but not to the extent my other grandfather did; he just celebrated the holidays.

Almost all of Grandfather Kulakovsky’s daughters had Russian husbands. There was a blacksmith in that Baslovitsy village, a Jew named Pocherk, he was the only other Jew there. There was no national friendship [i.e. no relations were kept with other Jews]; they communicated as much with Belarusians. I remember how Grandpa brought me and my sister to the village, suddenly my sister started crying and I also began to cry. He asked her, ‘Why are you crying?’ and she replied, ‘I want to go back home.’ He asked me, ‘Why are you crying?’ and I said, ‘Because Nina is crying.’ Grandpa said, ‘I will bring toothies to you.’ And I thought, ‘What toothies?’ ‘Toothies’ were this Jewish blacksmith’s children, they both smiled and showed their teeth. So we stopped crying.

My grandparents didn’t have servants at home, but there were girls from the village, who sometimes helped them about the house. But it was short-term. It was a custom at that time. Later there was a ‘period of housemaids’ in this country, approximately in the 1920s-1930s. My sister had a housemaid at home because she was at work all day.

During the Soviet times Jewish kolkhozes 4 were organized on landowners’ land. A Jewish kolkhoz 5 was set up on landowner Volzhinsky’s land and Grandpa Kulakovsky was invited to be chairman. A long time after I had grown up, the Kulakovsky family moved to Slutsk, I don’t remember what year it was exactly. They had a nice country house with several rooms. We lived there for some time, because we had no house of our own. I don’t really know what money they lived on. I have a picture of my grandfather with my sister Nina, his granddaughter. The picture was taken for no particular reason; she must have come to Slutsk and decided to have their picture taken. They didn’t go to a photo studio; I think someone took the picture at home.

The Kulakovsky family as well as the Shulyakovsky family spoke ‘jargon’ with each other and with their children. ‘Jargon’ is something that is now called Yiddish – a little German, a little Russian. Grandfather Kulakovsky said about his age, ‘70 are mine, the rest is given by God.’ I couldn’t tell you his real age. He perished during the Holocaust, as did my Dad. When Slutsk was occupied in 1941, all old people, especially Jews, of course, were eliminated immediately.

I don’t remember much about Grandmother Sarah Kulakovskaya. Her maiden name was Utekhovskaya. It is most probable that Grandpa Abram and Grandma Sarah were proposed to each other, because my mother’s marriage was also arranged. Grandma brought up eight children. She was a very sick woman, she had emphysema, which my mother inherited, she was suffocating. She wore ordinary clothes for that time. She didn’t wear a wig, but always wore a headscarf. She was just a regular grandmother. Our family didn’t live with the elder generation, only for a short time, when I was little that is why I can’t tell you more. Grandmother died at the age of 60 [in the 1920s].

My father was born in 1881 in the town of Slutsk. Dad’s mother tongue was Yiddish. He also spoke Russian as well as Hebrew and later he learnt German on his own; he was a very talented man. Everyone else in our family also spoke Russian. Dad had only elementary education. He left home approximately at the age of 15 and continued his studies. He went to cheder as a child, as all Jewish kids did. Later he became an accountant and worked at the forestry. When a Jewish kolkhoz was set up on landowner Volzhinsky’s land and Grandpa Kulakovsky was invited to be chairman, Dad worked as an accountant there and my mother worked as a milkmaid, so this was where they met.

My mother, Esther Abramovna Shulyakovskaya, nee Kulakovskaya, was born in 1888. Mom grew up in a village and she was used to the countryside labor. Mom also had only elementary education. She was taught by a village teacher at home. She didn’t go to cheder, there weren’t any in that village. She was proposed to my father as a wife. Most likely it was her parents’ idea and it was a custom in those times. Mom was the eldest daughter in her family. She was married off at the age of 17. Mom never told me about her wedding. I was her fourth kid when she was 24 years old. She was married off because there were seven daughters in the family [it was hard to feed such a big family]. Before her marriage she worked as a milkmaid in the kolkhoz, later she kept her household. During the war in 1941-1944 6 she was with me in evacuation in Sverdlovsk. After the war Mom lived with us, she was sick a lot of the time and died in 1952.

My parents got married in 1905. I don’t know what kind of wedding they had. They lived in Slutsk at first. They had four kids: Yefim, Lev, Nina and me, Raisa. My elder brother Yefim was born in 1907. He started to work as a tutor at the age of 13 or 14, as his teachers recommended him to pupils who lagged behind. He visited them at home, taught them, received payment and gave it all to Mom. Grandpa Shulyakovsky told him, ‘Never become a teacher.’ Grandpa had experienced this work; he worked as a teacher all his life.

We had a seven-year education system at that time and there were evening courses, for those who wanted to complete nine-year education. Yefim finished such evening educational courses and left for the district center to work as a teacher. Later he became the Head of the Rayono [District Educational Department]. Then he moved to Minsk [today capital of Belarus], graduated from university and worked at school as a teacher and a headmaster simultaneously. Later he took a post-graduate course in Leningrad. He worked at the post-graduate department of the Device Construction Institute and taught history. After he graduated from the post-graduate department, he was assigned to Sverdlovsk [today Yekaterinburg] 7. He married Yefrosinia Ivanovna [Frosya], a Russian woman. She graduated from the Pedagogical Institute. They didn’t observe Jewish traditions in their family.

When the war broke out, Yefim worked at Sverdlovsk University. He wrote me a letter, ‘I am leaving for the frontline as a volunteer.’ As head of the Sub-faculty [of History], he had the right not to go to the frontline, but he volunteered. Later he wrote, ‘Mom and Nina must have perished, so you should better come and live with Frosya.’ When Mom found me we left for Sverdlovsk together. He was on training near Sverdlovsk. Mom talked to him on the phone and told him, ‘Kill these Fascists without sparing yourself.’ Yefim started as a common secret service man, but he had a very good command of both Polish and German. He finished the war as head of the Division Reconnaissance Department in the rank of colonel. He took part in action and was slightly wounded. He wrote to us that his colleague was at the hospital in Sverdlovsk, they had been together, but that guy was wounded, so we should visit him. Later Yefim was assigned to Voronezh. He died there at the age of 77, in 1984. His two sons and their wives came to my 90th birthday celebration [in 2002].

My other elder brother Lev, born in 1908, was a hydrologist-oceanologist. He graduated from the Agricultural Institute, the Melioration Faculty, became a doctor of sciences 8 and a professor. He worked at the Hydrometcenter [in Moscow] during the war, provided the army with information about the freezing of rivers and oceans. He wasn’t at the frontline. He wasn’t married. He didn’t observe any Jewish traditions. He died in 1976.

My elder sister Nina was born in 1910. She was a candidate of medical sciences, taught pathological anatomy first at the Minsk Institute, later in evacuation in Sverdlovsk. In 1943 she wrote to Moscow, her professor invited her there, thus since 1943 she was in Moscow 9. They had a four-year study period at the Medical Institute at that time. She entered it even a little bit earlier than it was allowed, because there were no passports [i.e. nobody knew her age]. She defended her thesis in Moscow already at the age of 24 and studied for three years at the post-graduate department. Her family didn’t observe Jewish traditions either. Nina died at the age of 70 in 1980.

She had a daughter, Nelya [Nelly], who came to visit me on my 90th birthday celebration. Nelya is 67 years old now. She graduated from the Geology Faculty of the Moscow University. She also worked at the Moscow University. She is retired now. Six people came to visit me on that date without invitation: my nieces and nephews. My sister’s husband was subject to repression because he was a Pole 10. We cut his face out of the family picture, such was the time. I remember when I was a student, a female student was taken away by a ‘black raven’ and we all destroyed her pictures. [Editor’s note: The ‘black ravens’ were black colored vans, which took people away to the NKVD 11 – and most of them never came back home after that.]

Growing up

I was born in Slutsk in 1912. At the time, my parents were renting a house on Shkolnaya Street in Slutsk. In 1915 Dad left for World War I. When Dad was at the frontline, Mom worked somewhere. I was three years old at that time. He was a common soldier. I have a picture which Mom sent to Dad during World War I. Dad made a note on the picture: ‘In memory of World War I. Received on 18th June 1916.’ He came back from the war in 1918. I remember how I got scared. He entered from the back entrance. I stood there and suddenly a man with a beard walked in.

I don’t remember the Revolution, but I remember how some celebration was organized in the square: first the Tsar [Nokolai II] was ‘overthrown’ and then he was ‘murdered.’ I recall just separate episodes and overheard conversations, though I didn’t understand anything. I remember the occupation, first Polish and then German. The Germans were very good, not like the Poles. The Poles had a very bad attitude to Communists and Jews, and could treat you to a whip. Two of my cousins were Communists and they were searched for. It was a very uneasy time.

I remember how during the Civil War 12 the Reds 13 were on one side of the street, and the Whites 14 were on the opposite side. We peeped through a crack and saw the Whites on the opposite side. Suddenly there was a knock at the door. My brother said, ‘We have to check, maybe it’s the Reds.’ We opened the door, looked into the observation window and saw that it was our lot, one of the Reds. He came to ask for something, we gave him some bread, as much as we had. The second episode, which I remember: there was nothing to eat and then we found some potatoes. As soon as we boiled them and sat at the table, our neighbor came in and said, ‘Why are you sitting here, the Poles are retreating, they are cutting all the cables and setting everything on fire, we have to leave.’ So we left the food, Mother took a bundle and we went into the field behind the houses and waited there until they [the Poles] retreated. We could hear the screams in the city.

I went to the first grade of school. Then we had no money to pay for my studies, and my brothers and sister continued to teach me. They taught me everything according to the school program, preparing me for school. We had nothing to pay with and nothing to wear. The school had to be paid and pupils brought logs for the fire to school. My sister wasn’t allowed to go to school either, as we had no money and nothing to wear, but she was stubborn and went anyway. She put on Mom’s thick plush jacket, Mom’s shoes and went to the first grade. Thus she ‘fought her way through.’

Then, approximately in 1927, I passed exams for the fifth grade and went to school. I could write essays on one and the same subject both on my own behalf and on behalf of my friend who couldn’t write any. My cousin told me that when he wrote a composition [an essay] in Belarusian, he got ‘very bad’ marks. When I wrote them for him he got ‘very good’ marks. I went to the seven-year school starting from the fifth grade, there were seven-year schools at that time. When the eighth grade was introduced, I wrote a composition. The teacher who taught at my brothers’ gymnasium returned the composition to me and told me, ‘Your brothers also wrote good ones.’ [Raisa wrote for all of them, that’s why the teacher praised them].

There was no difference between children at school – whether they were Jews or not. Such difference was introduced later by Stalin. There was no anti-Semitism. Later my daughter told me that they asked about your nationality at school. I had a friend from among old Petersburg intellectuals, whose last name was Chastovich. She told me, ‘When I went to school, no one asked about your nationality, we only knew who attended the God’s Law classes [religion].’ Only Russians attend the God’s Law classes. We certainly didn’t have this subject as we studied in the Soviet time 15.

I finished eight grades in Slutsk, there was no ninth grade. I passed the ninth grade exams without attending lectures in a small district town. When my elder brother left to work as a teacher, my second brother, my sister and myself rented a room, while he worked and paid for our room. Then our second brother left and my sister and I remained. In summer we lived in the village and came to the town for studies. When my sister left, I remained alone and in 1931 I left for Leningrad to enter university. There were no exams to enter university, if one had a certificate of nine grades of school and an appropriate social status [i.e. working class]. I wanted to enter the Chemical Technological Institute, but they didn’t provide a dormitory and I applied for an institute with a dormitory. Thus I entered the Textile Institute.

I remember how the coercive collectivization 16 was carried out. We, the Komsomol 17 members from our town, were ordered to carry out propaganda for kolkhozes. In 1932 town citizens were issued [internal] passports and the village citizens didn’t get any, so that they wouldn’t escape from kolkhozes.

Our parents didn’t tell me, my sister or my brothers much about Jewish culture. They didn’t really observe the traditions, only for appearance’s sake. Mom cooked gefilte fish, tsimes and matzah. There were separate utensils for meat and dairy products; also separate Pesach utensils. We celebrated the holidays though, especially Pesach. There was matzah and no bread products. The Pesach seder was held. It was all very solemn and beautiful. Everything was tidied up and it was a very festive occasion. We weren’t taught to pray, at least my sister and I weren’t. My parents went to the synagogue and I also went there several times. All Jewish holidays were celebrated in our family until my elder brother joined the Komsomol. He turned everything upside down with that. From then on Jewish holidays and ceremonies were not celebrated in our family.

We lived poorly, Dad couldn’t provide for our family properly. Mother sewed very well and when Dad was at the front line, people said, ‘Doesn’t she think about her husband, who is in the war, look what clothes she wears and how she dresses her kids!’ White scarves were very fashionable: she made them from gauze and trimmed them with old lace. She sewed pleated dresses from gauze bandages. I wore such a dress in summer when it was warm, when I was in the first grade. She could make other clothes as well.

After the war they rented an apartment in Slutsk. Dad worked as an accountant and Mother was a housewife. Dad had friends of various nationalities in Slutsk. He had two friends, who worked as teachers. My parents read all sorts of books; we had a cultural, literate and intellectual home. We read Dostoevsky 18, Gorky 19 and a lot of classics. Dad read to my brothers and recommended them what to read. I was small at that time. Maybe we had literature in German, because Dad knew German.

Our parents didn’t subscribe to newspapers, but sometimes they bought them, Dad read them. Our parents spoke Yiddish to each other, but with us they spoke both Yiddish and Russian. Our parents had very good relations with each other, they were very close. Dad was a quiet person, not practical. Mom did all the work, both men’s and women’s. Mom could sometimes shout at the kids, but Father never did that. He spent evenings with his children. Mom and Dad never went anywhere for a holiday, because we lived poorly. The apartment which I remember had several rooms; Mom even let one room out to some cadets. She cooked for them too. Then the landlord came and threw himself on my mother with a knife, because we weren’t paying for the apartment.

So we had to move to Grandpa Shulyakovsky’s place. Later on Grandpa also asked us to leave because my mother didn’t observe all traditions on Friday. On Friday the stove had to be heated, and the stove door had to be pasted over with rags and not touched until Saturday. It was a Jewish tradition, which meant that nothing could be done after that. One had to clean everything in advance, everything had to be shiny and no work could be done on Sabbath. Mother didn’t observe this rule. Grandpa lived alone in his own house and his daughter lived in the neighboring house. He had three rooms and a kitchen in his house. I was around six or seven years old at that time. There was ordinary furniture in the house: a table, a cupboard, a wardrobe. There was nothing on the walls.

In 1925 we left for our second grandfather’s – not the religious one, but the Soviet one –in the kolkhoz, in the village of Podliptsy in Slutsk district. We left for this kolkhoz during the NEP 20 times, when one had to know how to live, so ‘non-shifty’ people joined the kolkhozes. We lived in a landowner’s house, which was like a dormitory and we got a room there. There was no synagogue in the village.

Mom and Dad lived in the kolkhoz approximately between 1925 and 1932, but we, the children, only lived with our parent until leaving to study. Later they moved back to Slutsk and rented a small house there. Dad worked at the MTS [machine-tractor station] in Slutsk as an accountant.

Between 1932 and 1941 my parents lived on their own in Slutsk. In 1941 World War II began. At that time my mother, my sister Nina and her daughter were in Poland in a resort called Druskininkai [today Lithuania]. My sister had been there before and she wanted my Mom to get some treatment there.

They stayed in Druskininkai for seven days and on the eighth day the war broke out. People staying at the resort, said, ‘It’s not possible to sleep because of the training maneuvers starting at four in the morning!’ But it wasn’t maneuvers. At noon it was announced that the war had started. They were provided with a train. When the ‘Air!’ command sounded [bombing started], they were supposed to leave the train and lie down on the ground. Then the retreat was beat, they got back on the train and continued the trip.

When they reached Minsk, the train was bombed. My sister lived in Minsk at that time. They were not able to get into her apartment; they left their suitcases and joined the retreating army on foot. Sometimes they were given a lift by passing cars. Later on the three of them were pushed into a train. They didn’t know where they were going. The train came to Leningrad. I had a neighbor at that time 21 and we were taught not to open the door: ‘Don’t open the door to anyone, there are a lot of spies.’ The door bell rang at night. My neighbor asked me not to open, but I heard Mom’s voice. Thus Mom found me in Leningrad and stayed with me. We were evacuated from Leningrad in September 1941. My brother Yefim wrote to me from Sverdlovsk and asked me to join his wife Frosya, so I left together with Mom for Sverdlovsk.

My Dad remained in Slutsk. My sister’s friends, physicians, who were delivered to guerillas by plane, talked to our friends. One woman saw Father sweep the streets in the ghetto. In 1943 a German officer was killed and after that the ghetto was burnt down. Dad perished there. The ghetto was set up in Slutsk. I found out about it in the course of the war,. Later on after the war my brother organized a trip to Slutsk and went there together with our sister. In the middle of the square there stood a small obelisk in memory of those who were burnt alive in the ghetto. My brother was very much upset, when he saw goats grazing right near it, there was no order and the obelisk was small.

As a first-year student I was a ‘komsorg’ [Komsomol organizer] and my husband-to-be was a ‘partorg’ [Communist Party organizer]. Later he was accepted to Frunze College according to the party enlistment. It was possible to enter a military-navy college at that time based on party or Komsomol enlistment. So he was accepted there after his first year of studies. My husband’s name was Fyodor Petrovich Shevyolkin, a Russian, who came from a village, a common fellow from Vologda region, born in 1907. My husband was a naval officer, he was a commander. I was a technologist-engineer by profession.

We got married in 1935, when I was a fifth-year student. We had a common wedding in Krasny ugolok, danced a little bit and that was all. [Krasnyred is derived from the old-Russian word ‘krasivy’ [beautiful], thus Krasny ugolok means the most beautiful place in the house. This phrase acquired an ideological meaning during the Soviet time. Krasny ugolok in the house could be a separate room, or a separate place in the room, decorated with red flags, stands dedicated to the Revolution heroes, production pace-makers etc. Party meetings and other ceremonies mostly took place in Krasny ugolok.] There were no guests, only our closest friends. We weren’t registered [i.e. there was no formal wedding], every open marriage [cohabitation] was considered legal. He submitted documents to the college, or rather wrote in the papers that he had such-and-such wife and they believed him. We didn’t need to register at that time. If a man left for the war, he wrote that he had a wife and everybody believed him, people were honest.

After we got married, we got a room in the dormitory. He lived at the college, I lived in the dormitory but we got a room on Krasnaya Street, in the Textile Institute dormitory. After the institute I could do without an assignment, as I was a wife of a military man. But we had our ideological principles and I agreed to be assigned. I was assigned to Chernigov, to the Kotoninnaya factory. The factory produced short spinning fiber, a chemical one, it’s not produced anymore. I worked less than a year and left for Vladivostok where my husband was assigned to. I found a job as head of laboratory at a plywood plant. A very stupid profession, but I had university education, so I could work. I was accountable to the Leningrad Laboratory.

During the war

My daughter Alvina was born in Vladivostok in 1937. I left Vladivostok when Alvina was six months old. I ‘wanted to go to Europe,’ as it was called there, and left for Minsk. That was in 1938 and in 1939 I came back to Leningrad. I stayed at home with my child and lived at first with my sister and later with my Mom. After some time my husband came back. He worked near Leningrad and I lived in Peterhof [suburb of Leningrad]. Later we moved to Leningrad. The building where I live now was constructed in 1940. We got a room there. At the time my husband worked on a ship under construction. He stayed on this ship in the course of the war. In 1941 the war broke out. Everybody waited for the action to begin. Some sailors came in the morning; they were called ‘krasnoflotsy,’ and called for him. He said, ‘This must be some training in case of war, I’ll be back soon.’ But he went directly to the front, he served near Leningrad. He came back in 1944.

But during the war, in 1944 it was all mixed up, whether a man was married or not, and there appeared a notion of PPZH [acronym for camp-field wife]. Then a law was issued stating that only a registered marriage was considered legal. After the war I went to the district ZAGS [department of registration of acts of civil condition] together with my husband and our daughter. My daughter was our witness, she was seven years old, and we got registered, but I didn’t change my last name. None of my friends or relatives changed their names. Some, who wanted, changed names after the registration. When my husband was at war, I got money based on a certificate, only because I said that I was his wife. He was a career officer and I got some money.

I didn’t feel anti-Semitism before the war. It began, I think, in the course of the war and continued after the war. It came from Stalin. We had a neighbor family. The woman fell sick, something was wrong with her mentally, she was a student of the Architecture Faculty at the Construction Institute. She just passed an exam in Marxism-Leninism. They called a psychiatrist for her and it was necessary to take her to hospital. She wanted me to accompany her. So I did. In the car she told me, ‘Stalin and Hitler are the same, they are of one kind.’ She was Russian and she was a very clever woman, she could draw very well.

When in 1941 the war broke out I decided that I shouldn’t have another baby, my daughter was small, she was three years old. Abortions were prohibited. So I had to find a person secretly who helped to force a miscarriage and then I went to the hospital. It wasn’t possible to confess at the hospital that it had been done on purpose; I had to say that it had happened accidentally, as one could have been jailed for that. The person who performed that would have been imprisoned, but not me. I didn’t even know her, someone recommended her to me, she came, did her job, and left.

I was in Sverdlovsk during the war. We left Leningrad in August and the blockade began in September 22, but when I was still here, everything was relatively quiet. When I was going to Sverdlovsk, my mother told me that she didn’t need anything, only not to see the war. She told me, ‘Imagine, a young soldier is lying and begging: ‘Please, finish me off, I cannot suffer anymore.’ And we can’t do anything.’ So she said, ‘The main thing is not to see the war, let’s leave, we don’t even have to take anything with us, we just have to go.’

In Sverdlovsk, when my daughter was four years old, she was told that she shouldn’t have gone to the dormitory, because Jews lived there, who were bad people. But I told her that I was a Jewess also and she said, ‘That’s not true, you are different,’ and then she understood that we were all different and everything depended on the person.

We returned to Leningrad in 1944 when the blockade was completely lifted. I worked at the Geophysical Observatory as a senior technician. Then Alvina went to school. I told her, ‘When you get your passport, write anything you want to be’ [indicate any nationality]. Stalin decided to ask schoolchildren about their nationality when they came to study. She came home happy and said, ‘We will get passports soon, I think.’ She was in the first grade then. I asked why. She replied, ‘We were asked about our nationality.’ I asked her, ‘What did you say?’ She replied, ‘Russian.’ One of the girls replied that she was a Jewess and blushed. This was how anti-Semitism was propagated.

The Main Geophysical Observatory where I worked was far away from home. People didn’t get fired at that time, so I had to lie, and my husband sent a reference note stating that I had to move to Tallinn [today capital of Estonia] where he served at that time. Since he was a military man, I was released. Then I got transferred to VNIIM [All-Union Scientific Research Institute of Meteorology], it was across the street from the Technological Institute and closer to our home. It was my last place of work, until I was fired. All Jews were fired from that place later on 23. After that I didn’t work, Mom told me that I shouldn’t work while she was alive. It was in 1950. There was a Russian Party secretary at my work place, who decided to get rid of all Jews in our organization and only one Jewess remained.

After the war

After Stalin’s death in 1953 nothing changed in my life. When the ‘Doctors’ Plot’ 24 occurred, we understood that it was a provocation. Matusovsky [a Soviet poet] wrote, ‘We trusted you so much, Comrade Stalin, as we may not have trusted ourselves.’ Almost everyone cried when he died. When Khrushchev 26 exposed him 27, I thought about what my neighbor told me, when I saw her off to the hospital, ‘Stalin and Hitler are the same.’

My daughter Alvina didn’t get married for a long time, until she was 27 years old, she turned everybody down, and finally she married a fellow from Vologda, similar to my husband. Her neighbor invited her to a party at the institute, where a guy approached her and saw her off home. He asked her to give him her phone number. She gave him the number and confused him with the entrances to the building, lied to him. Later she went to another student party, and a soldier ran up to her, just like in a movie, and said, ‘I was running around the block, looking for you, but couldn’t find you, and I couldn’t reach you on the phone.’ And she liked him in the soldier’s uniform. And his student friend put on his uniform, not a soldier’s one, but a suit, and she didn’t like him in that suit. But then she began to like him and she started going out with him, I mean, with this friend of that guy, whom she lied to about the entrances to the house.

Before she invited him home, I told her, ‘You wanted to find someone who is your intellectual equal.’ And she replied, ‘Well, he absorbs everything like a sponge, I will educate him.’ She bought him books on rhetoric, which taught him how to talk. He spoke about me at my 90th birthday celebration, about how I taught him a lot. A very nice man. He spoke very kindly about me, normally they don’t say such nice things about mothers-in-law.

Alvina graduated from the Medical Institute [in Leningrad] and worked on the artificial kidney project. She was very talented and spoke English fluently. She died in 1985. My daughter had a bad heart. She got sick in the third grade. The doctor stated a diagnosis and my mother, who was experienced with her kids, told him, ‘She’s got diphtheria.’ The doctor said, ‘She was vaccinated.’ ‘Still she’s got diphtheria, you’ve got to take a smear.’ They did take a smear and it appeared that she had advanced diphtheria, which later developed complications for her heart. When she fell ill, she felt very bad, and the ambulance didn’t come for a long time. When they came, it wasn’t possible to save her. Later they explained to me that some connection failed to function and they didn’t hear our calls.

Alvina didn’t speak Yiddish. When we were in evacuation, I spoke Yiddish with Mom, but Alvina learnt just several words. She mixed Russian and non-Russian words: ‘Wo ist der kettle?’ I told both her and my granddaughter about Jewish traditions. But my granddaughter Tatiana turned to the Russian Orthodox religion. My husband was very upset that she plunged into Orthodoxy, icons were hanging everywhere, but he wasn’t against it. Everyone may live as they want. When someone said anything against the Jews, my husband asked, ‘Do you believe in Jesus?’ He said this because Jesus and all twelve apostles were Jews.

Sometimes I told my husband, ‘If you didn’t know me and my family, you would be as anti-Semitic as everyone around.’ But he never agreed with me on this. My granddaughter Tanya [Tatiana] worked at a pedagogical college after finishing school. One of the teachers was a ferocious anti-Semite, and my granddaughter defended the Jews. So that woman saidm ‘You and your mother must be Jews.’ But Tanya replied, ‘My mother and I are Russian’ and continued to defend Jews. My daughter Alvina said, ‘Must be the genes.’ And I said, ‘Not the genes but the upbringing.’ She saw her Russian father, his relatives, and our relatives and judged about each person according to their virtues and her upbringing. My granddaughter Tanya has two children.

One of my relatives left for America and died there. We were of the same age. She wrote to me that her only consolation was the Russian radio. I know nothing about Jewish traditions in her family. I never ever had thoughts about leaving, either for Israel or for America. Russia is my motherland.

I get lunches from the Jewish community and papers every Monday. I’m not shy to say that I am a Jewess. I keep up with events in Israel. I constantly get literature from Hesed though my sight is bad and I’d better not read. However I can’t say anything, I’m not a politician. 

Unfortunately, I have no relatives and no friends anymore, they all departed for the better world. My husband died in 1997. I keep contact only with my granddaughter and a woman who is my neighbor.

Glossary:

Milka Samuel Ilieva
Ruse 
Bulgaria
Interviewer: Patricia Nikolova 
Date of interview: September 2004

Milka Samuel Ilieva is a cordial, sociable and calm person. Her restless spirit, however, was a witness to stormy and contradictory political and life turning events. Her sense of humor as well as her natural kindness have saved her many times from the despair that awaited her at every single step. So many nuances of the Jewish character and Jewish spirit are reflected in her life story, that it looks more like a screenplay than real life. That’s why her words are wise, precise and sincere. Her jokes keep hidden a lot of unarticulated grief and hidden bitterness. 

I’m a descendant of a Jewish family from the Sephardi 1 branch that came from Spain more than five centuries ago. As is well known, most of the Jews expelled by the Spanish Queen Isabella in the 15th century settled on the Balkan Peninsula 2. My ancestors had a similar fate. Unfortunately, I know almost nothing about my grandparents, because they died before I was born. And what’s more, I made the mistake of not asking my parents for details about them. However, I know that my parents, Ventura Samuel Mashiakh and Samuel Moshe Mashiakh, were born in Nis, Macedonia [Editor’s note: Nis is in today’s Serbia and Montenegro.]. They met in Nis and then the two families, Shamli and Mashiakh, decided to move together to Sofia. So it was in the Bulgarian capital that my parents got married, in 1910.

We were a merry big family of ten members. Eight of us were only the kids: five sisters and three brothers. Mois was the first, born in 1911, followed by Ester in 1913, then Albert in 1915, Nissim in 1917, Sara in 1920, Venezia in 1922, Jina in 1925 and lastly I was born in 1928. We lived poorly, I would say, but our life was very spiritual and amusing despite this. What’s for sure is that we never lacked a sense of humor.

My father was very religious, but we, the kids, didn’t manage to preserve this religious spirit. Our life made us atheists. Maybe this was because we lived in poverty and everyone in the family had to start working at a very early age. Our life was hard; we saw all the injustice around us and that provoked a strong social sense in us rather than a religious one. But at least when we were young we observed all the Jewish holidays with my father. He used to tell us a lot about them. We strictly observed the kashrut at home on Pesach, and on the eve of this great holiday, all of us used to help my mother with the big cleaning up. [Editor’s note: She probably means that they had a traditional kosher meal for Pesach and maybe other holidays too but didn’t observe the ritual rules for the rest of the year.] Nobody was allowed to bring bread home during Pesach. As a matter of fact, there were no religious books in Ivrit [Hebrew] at home. I have also no information on whether my father was a member of a Zionist organization, although he must have been a convinced Zionist. What’s more important, the Jewish rituals observed on high Jewish holidays made our family really united.

I’ll never forget how we used to celebrate Purim. There was a very nice song for Purim of whose origin I know nothing. The specific point about it was that every new stanza began with a letter in accordance with the order of the Hebrew alphabet. My sister Sara sang it marvelously. On Purim my father would always tell her, ‘Sarika, please, kerida… [‘dear’ in Ladino] and she would start singing. The feeling was remarkable. I remember visiting Sara in her kibbutz during my last journey to Israel in 1990. I cannot recall the name of her kibbutz. Her job was to patch up clothes on a machine and the people loved her. So we, the three sisters, went to see her. I remember she lived in a small neat room; she also had a toilet and office in her room. Well, I went to her and asked her, ‘Sister, please, sing the first stanza of our favorite Purim song.’ She was 80 then. When she started singing something happened to me. I rushed out of the room in tears; I just couldn’t stop crying. I remember we were a very warm, united, extraordinary family.

After my mother gave birth to me, she got paralyzed from rheumatism. She sat on a chair and was no longer able to stand up. Then they decided to ‘sell me’ to some rich relatives of my mother, her cousins. In those days it was routine for the poor and fertile Jewish families to give one of their children, usually the youngest one, to a relative childless family. In exchange, the well-off family offered financial support to the poor one. As far as I know they were trading with clothes. Since my mother was paralyzed, a woman had to come to wash and swaddle me. My brother Nisso [Nissim] helped her do that. He was eleven years old then. Once he came back from school and saw a car in front of the house. Let me mention that it was 1928. Automobiles weren’t a usual thing to see even in the capital. Right at this moment, they were preparing the baby’s napkins at home to give me to these people.

My brother entered and shouted, ‘Mother! What’s that car doing here?’ Are you going to separate us? Don’t give Milka away! I’ll fill my pockets with pebbles and I’ll break this car’s windows, mind you…’ And he started filling his pockets with pebbles. And it was exactly what my mother had waited for, ‘We will not give her, go away, that’s it!’ That’s how she abandoned her decision.

Another curious fact is that all the children from my family studied in Bulgarian schools. It was only me who studied in the Jewish school, because my parents had decided firmly to send me to Israel, where my father’s sister planned to adopt me. It was a normal thing in the Jewish families then; if some of the relatives are childless, the next of kin, who have many children, give one of theirs to them so that the childless family may bring it up as their own. I was the youngest and because of that, they decided to give me to my father’s sister. This never happened, though.

My maternal grandparents were Avram Shamli, and I don’t know my grandmother’s name. I know really nothing about them. Most probably, they were poor. My paternal grandparents, however, Moshe and Venezia Mashiakh were well off. I know that they set up a sugar processing plant when they emigrated to what was then Palestine in 1930. They produced chocolate sweets there. That’s all I know about them.

My mother was something like a martyr for me. She took great care of us, but we were eight children in the family. Although she was illiterate she always knew how to be kind to us, how to bring us up, what to feed us, so that we would be healthy. She was strict about cleanliness despite the poverty in which we lived. It was easy for an infection to spread, as we were many people in the family. She would take us to public baths at least two times every week, either to the one on Slivnitsa Boulevard in our district, or to the central public baths near the city’s central market hall. Wednesdays and Fridays, just before Sabbath, were the bath days. We had to wash our hands, legs, necks and faces every time we entered the house. My sister Sarika [Sara] often bathed us in a washtub in the yard on Wednesdays. My mother had her do this and she took it as a very important obligation. She used to rub us to death, as if we were as filthy as pigs. That raised bursts of laughter. 

I remember market days in Sofia very well. On the eve of Sabbath, on Fridays, I would always accompany my mother when she set off to the market. I’m speaking of Georgi Kirkov 3 market that’s still functioning in the [then] Sofia residential district Iuchbunar 4. [Today this market is called ‘zhenskia Pazar,’ meaning ‘woman’s market.’ It is the central open market of Sofia.] For me it was the greatest pleasure in the world. My mother liked shopping for long hours; she also loved bargaining with the sellers. Then I helped her bring the products home. All the sellers were my favorite. The mere abundance of vegetables, oranges, tangerines, and everything made me feel happy. 

As I’ve already mentioned I can’t recall anything about my father’s parents. I only know that when they moved from Nis to Sofia they built a huge house for my parents. So, the whole family – the eight kids, my parents, and my father’s parents, lived together in this house. Our house was situated in the poor Jewish district Iuchbunar near Bet Am 5 and the [Great] Synagogue 6. We lived on Odrin Street, while the Jewish school was nearby, at the corner of Osogovo and Bregalnitsa Streets. The yard of our house was also big. We didn’t breed animals but we had a bungalow there that we let out. My eldest brother lived there for some time when he got married, just before the Law for the Protection of the Nation 7 was introduced. Our house was really big, according to the criteria of the time. If we look at it now, it’s just a normal two-storey building.

There were three rooms on the ground floor, and a wooden staircase led to the upper floor where there were two rooms: a bigger and a smaller one. All the eight kids slept in the big one. The smaller one was for my parents. My parents slept in one bed, my brothers in two beds and we, the four sisters, had two mattresses, each of us had a special place one after the other according to our age. Directly on the floor. My place was at one of the ends of the mattresses, since I was born last. And because it was difficult for me to get sleep, I often crept into my parents’ room and I slept underneath their bed. Usually, everyone got up early in the morning, and began to look for me. Finally, they understood I liked sleeping underneath my parents’ bed. I must have been five or six years old then.

I remember that we used to read a lot at home. And we always sang when we went to bed, when we got up, when we felt bad, when we were happy – we always sang. We had arranged our own family choir; there were ten of us after all. We sang in two parts. The second part was of course for men, and we, the women sang the first part. I remember, for example, that my eldest brother was a tenor. My sister Sara was an incredible soprano and could have had a professional career in music, if she had had the opportunity. The others were altos. My parents also took part in our singing. So, without any exaggeration our choir sounded beautiful.

I remember that in our yard a big and picturesque willow grew. During summers, my family used to install a table below the tree and we had our meals there every day. And when we finished with the food, we cleared the table and started singing the most beautiful songs we knew. We sang in Ladino and in Bulgarian. We sang [Bulgarian] folk songs: ‘Kito, girl’ and the now so-called ‘old city songs’ which were in fact modern Bulgarian chansons, called ‘Bufoon’s song.’ We also sang traditional [Ladino] Jewish songs: ‘Adio kerida’ [Goodbye darling], ‘Ande stavne amor?’ [Where are you my love?], ‘Nigna sos de basha djente’ [Girl, you are of an inferior birth], ‘Ken me va tomar a mi?’ [Who is going to marry me?], etc. Of course, my mother knew many songs in Ladino. Mind you, my parents were from Nis, so they knew also many Macedonian songs. [Editors note: Nis is located in Serbia, not in Macedonia.] From Macedonian ones, my favourite was ‘Zapali se Shar Planina’ [The Shar Mountain Started Burning], especially when my mother sang it.

These days I have discovered a hidden, inherited talent in me. I need to hear a song only once to remember it. Every spring, when Pesach was nearing, my mother used to beat out all the carpets, brush and wash everything. She had the furniture taken out, leaving only a table and a chair in the house so that she may reach the ceiling more easily. And she herself painted it. From as young as I can remember, I used to stay around to help her. I carried a bucket of paint, dipped the brushes and then handed them to her. And she would sing all the time. I would remember all her songs. She used to sing as much in Ladino as in Macedonian dialect.

This talent of mine was, however, as much an advantage as it was a disadvantage. I remember Uncle Avram who liked playing tricks on the people around him. He earned his living by making flypapers. Uncle Avram knew that I remembered every song from the first hearing and once decided to play a trick on me. He called me to teach me, say, a very beautiful song. I was quite small and quite enthusiastic about all that. I was eight or nine years old then. He started singing a ribald song and I didn’t know what it was about, ‘Lies down Lola under the quilt, what to say I know not of.’ I came back home and still being at the door I started singing it, content that I had just learned it. My brother, who had never beaten me all my life, slapped me in the face immediately. I got scared and started crying, ‘What’s that for? Why are you beating me?’ And he said, ‘You shouldn’t sing everything you hear from Uncle Avram!’ And he was right. At the same time, my sister Vinka [Venezia] sang an old chanson, it was a popular tune of the time, ‘I live to lo-o-o-ve…’ - very popular it was. And so I started singing it at the top of my voice the following day, ‘I li-i-i-i-ve to lo-o-o-ove.’ It was ridiculous.

The songs I knew in Ivrit I’d learned in Hashomer Hatzair 8. We used to sing a lot there, too. There was a very nice song. It began with, ‘O, ani-i-i itayavti, itaya-avti-i-i…’ We were taught to sing polyphonic music so that it sounded really beautiful. We were divided into two groups. When the first group, consisting of boys, started singing alone the whole first stanza and in the moment when they began the second stanza with a slightly different melody, the second group joined, starting from the beginning and singing simultaneously with the first one. And it always turned out very nice. I remember us singing songs like: ‘Ine ma tov uma naim shevet achim gam yachad’ [literally from Ivrit: ‘how nice and cozy it is, brothers, staying together’], or: ‘Sham baerev…’ [From Ivrit: ‘There, in the evening…’], and so on. It was a wonderful time.  

It wasn’t by chance that I mentioned Hashomer Hatzair. When I was as young as seven, I was a member in this Jewish youth organization. I remember very clearly that as early as 1935 Hashomer Hatzair looked after the poor kids, among whom I was, too. We were all from the poor Jewish neighborhood of Iuchbunar. Our fathers were workmen. We studied at the Jewish school where we received free coats and shoes because of our poverty. We were supported economically there, while in Hashomer Hatzair the help was spiritual. And this was more important. They helped us grow up as personalities. This organization gave a meaning to my life. They not only recommended us what to read, I’m speaking of literature with very high artistic values, but also excellently entertained us with games stimulating the sense of unity in our community. Besides, the older boys and girls played the violin for us, so that we could get acquainted with music. For example, the well-known musician Klara Pinkas often played the violin for us.

We studied astronomy as well. And when we turned twelve we started studying Horel’s ‘Sex Question’ [It was then the most popular and highly respected reading for adolescents.] and let me say, not in separated groups of boys and girls, but all together. To put it in other words, they taught us to be friends, and to be united. It often happened that we gathered all our money, about a lev or two per child, and ‘ahot’ [sister in Hebrew] Karola, the girl who was looking after us, she had to make sure we observed the required discipline and she also taught us, distributed them: ‘This is for cinema, this for sweets, and this is for ‘Shkembe Chorba’ [tripe-soup, non-kosher].’ We all loved this Oriental meal.  

All my friends then were Jewish girls, whom I was with at the Jewish school and Hashomer Hatzair: Mati Yomtov, Sarika Shamli, Dora Benvenisti and others. Afterwards they left for Israel and since then we have met by chance, well advanced in years, and we have even made out who was who. But back in my childhood years, I was always with them. We had a favorite game called ‘semanei derekh’ [literally from Ivrit: ‘traffic signs’]. We walked in Borisova Garden, the big park in Sofia’s suburbs [today this park is in the city center] separated in groups. The first group had to start before the second one, they walked and from time to time they had to put some signs, for example arrows made out of twigs, to show the direction, or they made some kind of a funny obstacle. Or they improvised a swastika, again made of twigs that meant ‘danger.’ And the ‘danger’ turned out to be a puddle for instance. Or they drew a square and a number in it with chalk. If the number was ten for example the second group had to seek for something hidden at a distance of ten steps from the square. We sought, sought and finally found pink sweets wrapped in a paper.

We often went to the Byalata Voda area, which is on Vitosha [a mountain near Sofia]. We were scouts there. We were separated into two groups: boys and girls. And we arranged fantastic competitions. We ran with our legs in sacks. Liko [Eliu] Seliktar was irreplaceable as an organizer of these games. We were taught how to light a fire in open nature, how to cook and so on. My childhood was absolutely calm. Up to the moment when the Germans invaded Bulgaria and the Law for the Protection of the Nation and the Law for the Protection of the State were introduced.

My father was a brush-maker. He made special shoe brushes and brushes for clothes. In fact, he did the hard work of the brush-making handicraft. When I was a child, I often saw him drilling holes in a board with a drill, where the threads were to be fixed after that. And this board was very thin and delicate and a single false movement could have broken it. But he was a master. I know that the owner of the workshop for brushes on Nis Street, where my father worked, was called Persiodo [Precious]; he was а Jew, too, but I can’t remember his first name now. That’s why he paid my father a substantial amount. His daily wage was 100 levs. Every day at lunchtime, when I was back from school, I carried to my father the meal that my mother had prepared for him. I took home the empty dishes and he would give me his wage to take home to my mother and always gave me a lev. These simple things made every day a holiday for me.

Apart from being a great master, my father was also a very good man. He never slapped any of his children. And he sang beautifully. I adored him. Every day when he came back home I used to wait for him with a basin filled with hot water, because he worked standing all day long and his legs got swollen. I always expected him eagerly and when I saw him approaching with five loaves of rye bread in his hands I rushed and gladly grabbed the bread. After that we used to go to my parents’ room on the second floor. There my father dipped his legs into the hot water and I washed them for him. I was a young child then. This procedure was repeated every single day. I loved him very much, and he loved me, too.

I lost my father very early. He died on 31st December 1939. The reason for his death was that he had a lot of stress then. My sister Ester was to get married. She had match-makers who had found her a boy. In those days, however, it was a big problem for Jewish girls to get married. Every Jewish girl had to have a trousseau, a big trousseau, let me say. But a girl also had to have dowry. And we were poor. My father loved my sister so much that he bought her a ‘Singer’ sewing machine [a very popular one for its time; German sewing machine], he made her a big trousseau and gave her 30,000 levs in dowry, which was a huge amount of money then. And that brought him to ruins. He had taken a loan from ‘Geula’ bank and when the policies started to arrive, he got sick. They threatened to throw out our belongings into the street, take our house and so on. His anxiety created a tumor in his stomach. They told him it was non-malignant, but he had to undergo an operation. And he didn’t want to. So that’s how he passed away. When my father died and the policies continued coming, my sister exchanged her wedding ring at a pawnshop for some money to pay at least the first policy. From then on we lived in complete poverty, especially during the Law for the Protection of the Nation, but somehow we stoically coped with everything. 

I remember very well the Sofia Jews’ demonstration in protest to the government’s decision for interning us 9. It was on 24th May 1943 10. At that time I was already 15 years old, but I was not a member of the Union of Young Workers 11, in contrast to my sister Jina, who was. Well, on this day I was just walking down Klementina Square with my sister Jina when we met acquaintances from the Jewish community. They informed us that they were going to organize a manifestation addressed to King Boris III 12 and against his decision for our internment. After that, the whole Jewish community gathered in the synagogue. And our procession started from there to Klementina Square. We reached Father Paisii Street, near Bet Am. And suddenly mounted police appeared in front of us. A severe scrimmage followed while we, the kids, fled away in all directions. I remember that I started running from Father Paisii Street and I stopped as far as Osogovo Street, in the Jewish school. Then I hid with a friend of mine. The police started visiting the Jewish families, from house to house, and they arrested all the Jewish men. Not before long, they interned us. 

Our internment was painful. We were each given the right to carry with us only 30 kilograms of luggage. We left for the railway station in order to catch the train to Shumen, where we were to be interned. It was my mother, Vinka, Jina and me. The other two sisters, Ester and Sara, had already been married: in Stara Zagora and in Sofia respectively; while my brothers were sent to forced labor camps 13. When we arrived in Shumen, several hundreds of Jews, we among them, were accommodated at the local school’s gym-hall. And a commune cauldron of food was installed there.

In that confusing situation, we were sitting desperately, my mother, my sisters and I, in the gym-hall’s crowd, when Vinka, who was 20 then already, took the initiative and said, ‘Mum, we won’t live here.’ And we started asking for lodgings. So we came across some Turks who lived near the Tumbul mosque [the main mosque in Shumen, built in 1744, also the largest in the Balkans]. It was just opposite the local Jewish school. Well, these Turks told us they could accommodate us in one of their rooms upstairs. We were six of us in that room: my mother, we, the three sisters, and one of my mum’s cousins with her daughter. We immediately started looking for jobs. We had to dig, wash, clean and all that stuff. We quickly registered ourselves at the Jewish community in the town, where they prepared a list of people like us who wanted to work. So, through the Jewish community we were sent to a ranch of 200 hectares of land. It was situated in the village of Panayot-Volovo. The owner was Ivan Praznikov. Both my sister Jina and I worked there. We dug, harvested and did all kinds of agricultural work there. My elder sister became a seamstress.

After 9th September 1944 14 we finally came back to Sofia. Then I was already 17 years old. We lived in absolute poverty. We found our house overgrown with weeds and grass. The doors and windows were levered out. The furniture had been robbed. A gaping house. We looked at each other and started crying frantically. We were only the three of us. As we were crying, Vinka said, ‘There’s no use in crying. Let’s get things moving.’
We started tearing up the weeds. We cleaned the yard, but the problem was where we were going to sleep for the night. My mother had brothers in Dorbunar [literally from Turkish: ‘Four wells’. ‘Dort’ stands for four, while ‘bunar’ means well, but in every day life people usually don’t pronounce the ‘t’.], a residential district neighboring Iuchbunar. They had come back to Sofia from their internment before we did. And they told us, ‘Until you submit the documents to have the house restored and get help from the municipality, come and stay with us.’ We stayed for a while with our uncles. The house got restored quite quickly in fact; doors and windows were installed. We whitewashed the house, disinfected, cleaned everything and moved in. We gathered our entire luggage in a single corner, because we didn’t have any furniture, we didn’t even have beds. We slept on quilts on the floor.

Just before our internment, my first and second sister, Ester and Sara, who already had their own families, had been working hard. There was a special kind of home-employment for women then. My third and fourth sisters worked for a textile factory. I worked with them. I sewed buttons on shirts, a multitude of shirts every day, so that eventually I didn’t even look at the button’s holes; I knew them by heart. I could finish 60 shirts a day. My third sister got married in Ruse. Vinka’s husband Shlomo was in a forced labor camp during the internment, but he fled to Shumen, where he met my sister and they got married after 9th September 1944.

My brothers succeeded in getting married to the women they loved. In contrast to my sisters, let me say. My elder brother married Olga; his love from the school years. In the beginning, they lived with us. My second brother’s wife’s name is Ani; she lives in Israel. Her father was a grocer; they lived in the Jewish neighborhood, near our place, at the corner of Opalchenska Street and Stamboliiski Boulevard. My younger brother married the girl he loved, also from his childhood. They lived in a bungalow attached to our house in Iuchbunar in Sofia.

Shortly after 9th September 1944 I got married, too. It happened that I had an arranged marriage with an ex-political prisoner; his name was Sason Panizhel. He was a nephew of my sister’s mother-in-law. Once he went to visit his aunt and then he happened to see me there. They arranged a marriage for us and I accepted only because I wanted to get rid of that poverty. My co-existence with him lasted for three years [1945-1947] and it turned out to be real hell.

He took me to Ruse. Yet during the first week, I realized what I was in. But I was still an innocent child brought up with books. I idealized everything. I cried all the time; I just couldn’t stop. Soon my daughter Tinka was born in 1947, and because of her I managed to put up with this nightmare for three years. Our house in Ruse shared the same yard with Dragomir Assenov [a well-known Bulgarian writer of Jewish origin]. Besides, we lived with my husband’s mother, Estel Panizhel, who was close to my mother. His sister was a friend of my sister’s; in Sofia we lived near each other. I lived with him and was in incessant fear. He had acquired some habits in prison that I couldn’t stand. 

Sason’s mother was a martyr. And his father wasn’t a good man. I remember him as a very perverted person. And he had passed his perversion to his son. For him, a woman was just a tool for satisfying primary instincts. I was disgusted. Besides, he even reached out his hands to harm me. During that time his cousin, Luna Djain, and I became friends. She often told me, ‘How can you put up with him?’ and I answered, ‘What can I do? Where can I go?’ My parents and my sisters and brothers had all immigrated to Israel by then. And I had nobody in Sofia. Where could I go? Then Luna said to me, ‘You can come and stay with me.’ We lived close to her place then. And one evening when the situation became extremely unbearable, I decided to run away. Just as I was: in a nightgown.

Of course, the situation worsened. At first, he didn’t want to get divorced. He used to go to the kindergarten to pick up our kid. He used it as a lure to make me come back. I was terrified and I let my daughter stay at their place, but I tormented myself with this. I would go to him to ask for my kid, he would let me in, lock the door, beat me, and then chase me away bleeding. Of course, the kid witnessed these scenes and also got disgusted with her father. Luna asked me, ‘Leave him, leave him alone for three days and you’ll see, he can’t handle it with this kid. Why are you going there? Want to get beaten again?’ I was obstinate, though. And everything happened again and again. One day I decided to listen to Luna’s advice. I went there neither the first day, nor the second, and on the third day he came shouting, ‘Take this tag with you, it’s yours!’ That’s what I wanted to hear. And it was over. Afterwards I lived in an even worse condition with my daughter, in complete poverty. We had only my salary as a typist for a living, which was not high at all. At least, I always had some butter to spread on a slice of bread for her.

In 1952 I met my second husband, Georgi Iliev. The same year I found a job with the Regional Council. Georgi worked there, too. He was single and I was in the process of getting divorced. What I liked about him was that he was serious and modest. We got married in Ruse in 1953. Some very big troubles followed on the part of his relatives. The reason was that I was divorced and had a child. His relatives had the mentality of villagers and couldn’t put up with this. Even his father, who had been sent to Germany as a very qualified professional, he worked in the local locomotive plant, said after he came back, ‘It doesn’t matter if she’s divorced; she has a child. But she’s a Jew!’ However, I knew what a wise Jew should do. I stayed silent and waited. I thought this was their viewpoint. I couldn’t press my position on them.

Many years passed before we went to visit them. Until the day my husband’s uncle, who was studying law in France, came back to Bulgaria. He came to visit us. Our son was still a baby then. We sat at the table and started talking, and we talked for long hours, we talked sincerely to each other. He told me a lot of things about France. I don’t know what he said to his sister, my husband’s mother, but after two days she rang the doorbell. I invited her as if we had last met two hours ago. So, step by step they started to invite us to visit them. 

Years passed and my mother-in-law died. She didn’t suffer for long; she passed away within a day. It was 1963. The old man remained alone. My father-in-law sold his house and he had to come to stay with us until we had an apartment built. My father-in-law was born in one of the neighboring villages to Ruse, Chervena Voda, which was very riotous after 9th September 1944. In that village the local inhabitants started to make fun of him. They used to tell him, ‘Well, well, Ilia, what happened at the end? A Jewish daughter-in-law, and God knows what else, but a Jewish daughter-in-law is going to look after you, as it turns out.’ And he said, ‘I hadn’t known her. She’s decent. She’s not like us.’ That’s how he spread the fame of me in that village. I looked after this man for 20 years.

My daughter Tinka has two daughters: Rossitsa and Tanya who suddenly decided to leave for Israel after 10th November 1989 15. After my granddaughters immigrated to Israel, my daughter also went there. She has been there for ten years already and lives in Bat Yam. Her second daughter moved to Tel Aviv, while her elder daughter came back to Bulgaria. Rossitsa’s children are called Adam born in 2003 and Maya in 1997. Her husband’s name is Zoar, an Arab Jew, and an intelligent boy.

My son Iliycho [Ilia] Georgiev Iliev was born in 1953 and finished his secondary education at the Ruse music school. We knew he had the talent for music, but we didn’t expect that he would get addicted to music. This way he outlined his own fate. After that, he graduated from the Conservatory [in Sofia], specializing in violin. There he met his wife, Svetla Nikolaeva Toteva, who was also born in Ruse. She’s a cello player. Between 1980 and 1992 they were both members of the [Ruse] Opera orchestra. Then a Brazilian impresario came to the Ruse Opera; I don’t know how he persuaded them, but in 1992 twelve members of the orchestra decided to leave for Brazil to strengthen their orchestra there. Off they went and it’s now twelve years I haven’t seen them. That’s what I feel heavy at heart about. In fact, Iliycho went first and two years after him, his wife and two children, Milena and Nikolay, went to join him. They gave birth to a third child there: Victor. 

I have been to Israel seven times. The first time was in 1982 when I went alone. My second visit took place in 1986. From 1989 on, I have traveled to Israel once every three years. I’m impressed that it becomes more and more beautiful there. I like the people, too. My brother-in-law is a Sabra. [Literally cactus fruit in Hebrew, Sabra became the name for the native Jewish inhabitants of Israel. The self perception of Israelis is of the cactus fruit, that is rough and thorny outside and warm and sweet inside.] A wonderful person. Every morning he smiled at me, saying, ‘Miluka kerez kadiyko? Uno Kadiyko? [From Ladino: Milka, would you like a cup of coffee? A coffee?] And he prepared for me a special coffee from selected sorts. His name was Herzel Karmel. He was my sister Jina’s husband. I married before her, even though according to the tradition it was her turn to get married since she was elder than me. He was head of the municipality’s transport department. He was our cousin; his and our fathers were brothers. However, as we know, marriages between Jewish cousins are allowed. As a matter of fact, his surname was Mashiakh. But the people in Israel made fun of this so much that he decided to officially change his surname to Karmel. [‘Mashiach’ means ‘Messiah’ in Hebrew.]

I have experienced every possible misadventure: internment, ghetto, poverty, anti-Semitic regulations, disgraceful yellow star 16, curfew, and so on. So I celebrated 9th September 1944 as liberation. However, I can’t say I accepted 10th November 1989 as liberation, too. Before this date, there were a lot of things I liked. For example, there was more freedom to speak of your ethnical origin; at least, this is my opinion. Less antagonism. More economic safety and social stability. Before, there was a certain category of people, ‘active fighters’ against fascism. They received this date with hostility. Before that, they felt themselves as aristocrats, but this date dispelled their halo. I have never been an ‘active fighter.’ And I didn’t feel any hostility. I can’t say conditions of life changed for me, because I was already a pensioner when the democratic changes in Bulgaria took place. 

I retired in 1983. Until then I worked in the Human Resources Department at the Agriculture and Mechanical Engineering Institute in Ruse. I was at a very good self-dependant position and after that I started receiving a nice pension. I had another 15 years length of service before that. So my total length of service runs to 35 years, although I started working as young as a child during the Law for the Protection of the Nation.

The events that took place in Bulgaria after 10th November 1989 didn’t fascinate me. I’m for the tolerance. I never argue with friends in the organization [Milka is speaking of the local Jewish organization in Ruse called ‘Shalom’]: if one supports the Union of Democratic Forces or the Bulgarian Socialist Party, I’m simply not interested in that. Just the other way about. I try to respect other people’s opinions. My sister, who came back to Bulgaria for a while after 10th November 1989, listened to what people were commenting then and told me, ‘Milka, the people here are mad!’ Herzel and I vote with different bulletins. He’s for the conservatives and I’m for the liberals. But should we argue about that at home?’ I think this is the right way of thinking.

Glossary 

Ignac Neubauer
Uzhgorod
Ukraine
Date of interview: October 2003
Interviewer: Ella Levitskaya

Ignac Neubauer is a lean agile short man with thick gray hair. He speaks Russian with a noted Hungarian accent and often uses Hungarian words. Though Ignac is a severely ill man, who has had two infarctions and few surgeries, he is very sociable and willingly agreed to give this interview and tell the story of his family. Ignac lives with his younger daughter’s family in a three-bedroom apartment in a modern house in a new district of Uzhgorod. After his wife died he feels it very important to be needed in his family. Ignac buys food products and likes cooking. He spends much time with his grandson Robert and they share love and affection to each other.  

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

My family background

My paternal grandfather Israel Buchbinder was born in the 1860s. I don’t know my grandfather or grandmother’s birthplace. I think my grandmother (nee Neubauer) was the same age with my grandfather. I don’t know my grandmother’s first name. I didn’t know anybody of my grandparents’ families. My father’s family lived in the Ruthenian village of Dubovoye [It is 135 km from Uzhgorod, 580 km from Kiev] Tyachev district in Subcarpathia 1. I don’t remember Dubovoye village. My father and I visited it twice during my school vacations, but I have no memories of these short visits left.  I don’t know what my grandfather did for a living. My grandmother was a housewife that was customary for Jewish families.  

Before 1918 Subcarpathia belonged to Austro-Hungarian Monarchy. The state language was Hungarian. There was no anti-Semitism in Subcarpathia. Jews could have their businesses, study and serve in the army. Everyday anti-Semitism was rare. There were generations of multinational population in Subcarpathia and people respected each other’s religion and traditions. In 1918 Subcarpathia was annexed to Czechoslovakia [First Czechoslovak Republic] 2. That was the heyday of Subcarpathia. Czechs were very friendly toward Jews. Jews had the right to hold official posts. Czechs patronized Jews believing them to be initiative and hardworking people.   

There were four sons and two daughters in my fathers family. I remember being surprised at the thing that some brothers and sisters’ surname was Buchbinder and some – Neubauer. My father explained that at that time Jewish didn’t register marriages in the town hall, but only had religious weddings with a chuppah and a rabbi issued a ketubbah, a marriage contracts, to them. [Civil marriage was introduced in Hungary as late as 1895.] Therefore, it happened that the children had their father or mother’s last name given to them. The first baby was given his father’s surname, the second one – his mother’s, etc. My father oldest brother’s name was Moric Buchbinder, Moishe-Gersch in Jewish. Then there was a sister, whose first name I don’t remember. Her surname was Neubauer. My father brother Haskl’s surname was Buchbinder. My father, born in 1899, had the surname of Neubauer. His name was Adolf and his Jewish name was Avrum.  Then there was my father’s brother Menyhert, his Jewish name was Mendl and his surname was Buchbinder, and there was a younger sister. I don’t remember her first name, but her surname was Neubauer.

My father’s family spoke Yiddish at home. Of course, they also spoke fluent Hungarian and Ruthenian [The language of the Subcarpathian Ruthenians, it is also spoken in some parts of Slovakia and Romania. Some consider it a dialect of the Ukrainian other as a separate Slavic language.]. My father said his parents were very religious, but I don’t know any details, unfortunately. My father and his brothers got religious education in cheder. The children went to cheder at the age of 3. I don’t know whether any of them had any secular education. It wasn’t mandatory at that time.  A Jew was supposed to know Hebrew to read a prayer and get a profession to support a family. My father’s parents sent my father to learn the farrier’s craft. Farriers were in demand in villages where farmers kept livestock. My father loved and understood animals and worked with them his whole life. Though he didn’t have a veterinary diploma he selected and trained horses for the army.  

I hardly know anything about my father’s sisters. They lived somewhere in Central Hungary after they got married. I’ve never seen them. All I know is that they had children and were housewives.  My father’s older brother Moric Buchbinder lived in Kosice (in Slovakia now). He was a tailor.  Moric was married and had three children. I don’t remember his wife or children’s names. After WWII Moric returned home from a camp, but his wife and children perished. After the war Moric lived in Kosice, Czechoslovakia. After the soviet regime came to Subcarpathia in 1945 our contacts terminated. My father’s brothers Haskl and Mendl lived in Dubovoye. They were married and had children. I don’t remember their names. I don’t remember what Haskl was doing for a living.  Mendl owned timber storages. He was the wealthiest of all brothers. He had four sons from his first marriage. During WWII both brothers were drafted in work battalions and taken to the front in the Ukraine. Haskl perished in 1943 and Mendl returned home after the war. His wife and sons perished in a concentration camp.

My mother’s family lived in the Subcarpathia village Malaya Dobron, Kisdobrony during the Hungarian rule. This village exists no longer. There was a bigger village of Velikaya Dobron [30 km from Uzhgorod, 680 km from Kiev], nearby and these two villages merged after the war. Now it is one settlement of Velikaya Dobron.  My mother’s father Moishe Preis was born in the Ruthenian village of Rakhov (it is a town now) in the 1870s.  My grandmother Etel Preis was born in 1875. I don’t know my grandmother’s place of birth or maiden name.  

Malaya Dobron was a small village. There were about 150 families living in the village and 30 of them were Jewish. Jewish families were big. There was a big synagogue in the village. On Sabbath and Jewish holidays men and women went to the synagogue. There was a big yard in the synagogue and there was a shochet shop in the yard and farther in the backyard there was a mikveh. There was a cheder in the same street as the synagogue. There were over 200 Jewish families in the neighboring village of Velikaya Dobron. It was a big village. There was a Jewish cemetery in the village and in Malaya Dobron there was a Jewish sector in the village cemetery.

Grandfather Moishe was a shoemaker. My grandmother was a midwife. My grandfather served in the Hungarian army in his youth. Even when I knew my grandfather he had a military bearing. He was average height, slim and straight. He didn’t have payes or a beard. He had a big curled up moustache. My grandfather wore high boots of soft shining leather and a jacket cut in military fashion.  He always had a military type cap on his head. He wore a kippah to the synagogue. His fellow villagers called my grandfather Moishe the Soldier. My grandmother was a short fat woman. She had quick moves and looked young.  She had no wrinkles on her face and always smiled. She was a very kind and smart woman. She wore long skirts and long-sleeved blouses with high collars like other women in the village. My grandmother wore a wig to go out and at home she covered her head with a kerchief.  

My grandparents lived in a small house made from air bricks, a mixture of clay and cut straw.  Many houses in Subcarpathia were built of air bricks that were inexpensive, rather strong and warm. It is used in construction even nowadays.  There were three rooms, a kitchen and a small annex building where my grandfather had his shop. My grandfather worked alone and when his sons were growing old enough they began to help their father in his shop. There were no other employees in the shop working for my grandfather. He mainly fixed shoes, and this work didn’t cost much. I don’t think my grandfather’s family was wealthy. Perhaps, this was why my grandmother had to work, which was not customary with married Jewish women.

My grandparents had eight children. I only know my mother’s year of birth, but I will name the others according to their seniority. My mother’s sisters and brothers were called by their Jewish names in the family, and I don’t know their Hungarian names. My mother’s sister Elka was the oldest. The next one was their brother Pinchas. My mother was born on 4 August 1900. Her Hungarian name was Fanni, and her Jewish name was Faige. After my mother her brother Lajos was born. His Jewish name was Laib. Then came brother Lipe, sister Rivka and brother Bernat.  

They spoke Yiddish in my mother’s family and Hungarian to their non-Jewish neighbors. My mother’s parents were religious. They celebrated Sabbath and Jewish holidays at home. On Saturday and on Jewish holidays my grandmother and grandfather went to the synagogue. My grandfather took his sons to the synagogue when they reached the age of 3.  All children got Jewish education. The sons went to cheder in Malaya Dobron. Girls went to the cheder in Velikaya Dobron in about 2 km from Malaya Dobron twice a week. The children also finished a 4-year Hungarian elementary school. After bar mitzvah grandfather began training his sons in his business. They all became shoemakers. 

My mother’s older sister Elka married Gersch Scher, a local Jewish man. He was a timber dealer. Elka and her husband had 3 children. Pinchas was married. His wife’s name was Baila. They also had eight children. Lajos’ wife Blanka was a housewife. They didn’t have children. Lipe was married. His wife’s name was Lea. They had four sons. Rivka’s husband Wolf Steinberg was a cabinetmaker. Rivka was a housewife. They had 6 children. Bernat had two children. He was a shoemaker and his wife was a housewife. My mother’s sisters and brothers were religious. They observed Jewish traditions, went to the synagogue on Sabbath and Jewish holidays and celebrated Sabbath and Jewish holidays at home. They all lived in Malaya Dobron.

I don’t know how my parents met. I think their marriage was prearranged by matchmakers, which was a customary thing at the time, when parents asked a shadkhan to find a match for their son or daughter. Usually parents of a couple made all necessary wedding arrangements and the couple only met before a chuppah.  In towns, though, young people could meet by themselves, but in villages traditions were stronger. My parents got married in 1922. They never told me about their wedding, but I’m sure it was a traditional Jewish wedding.

Growing up

After the wedding the newly weds moved to Velke Kapusany village [30 km from Uzhgorod] in present-day Slovakia. They rented a house. My father was employed to prepare horses for the army. He was to determine whether a horse was fit for the army. Many Jews kept horses selling them to the army for good money. My mother was a housewife. I was born in Velke Kapusany on 2 March 1924. My Hungarian name was Ignac, and my Jewish name was Nuns-Laib. In 1926 my father’s job was over and my parents decided to move to Malaya Dobron to be close to my mother’s parents. The rest of my parents’ children were born in Malaya Dobron. There were six of us. In 1925 my brother David was born. In his birth certificate he had his Hungarian name of Dezso, if my memory doesn’t fail me.  Mordechai, Marton by his birth certificate, was born in 1927. Then came Haim-Shmil, Sandor, born in 1929. In 1930 the first daughter Hermina, Haya-Tsire in Jewish, was born. Helena, the youngest, Haya in Jewish way, was born in 1934.

We lived in the house that my parents rented few years. It was a small house made from air bricks. There were two rooms, a kitchen and a storeroom. There were few fruit trees near the house and a shed and a small chicken house in the small yard. There was a big Russian stove 3 in the kitchen where my mother cooked. This stove heated the kitchen and a room and there was another stove to heat another room. My father worked as a veterinary on calls in Malay and Velikaya Dobron. My mother was a housewife. We were not wealthy. My parents were saving some of my father’s earnings to build a house. Their dream came true in 1936, when they started construction, and we moved into our new house in 1937. This house was also made from air bricks. There was one bigger room in it, two smaller rooms and a kitchen. The house was built not far from where  my mother’s parents lived.

My parents were religious and observed Jewish traditions. My mother wore a wig to go out after she got married. All married Jewish women wore wigs. At home my mother wore a kerchief. My father had a big beard, but no payes. He wore a kippah at home and a dark hat to go out.  We, boys, wore caps to go out and kippahs at home and in cheder. We celebrated Sabbath and Jewish holidays at home and my mother followed kashrut. She kept special crockery for dairy and meat products and she taught us to follow the rules as well. I was the oldest, and my mother always sent me to take a chicken or a goose to the shochet to slaughter. The shochet also determined whether the poultry was kosher. If he said that it was not kosher it had to be given to non-Jews.  On weekdays my father prayed at home. He had a tallit, a tefillin and a prayer book. When my father was praying he was not to be distracted. He explained that when he was talking to God he didn’t care about anything else. All Jews in Malaya Dobron prayed at home. When a Jewish man, for example, was not at home, when it was time for a prayer, he had his tefillin and tallit with him to stop and pray. Nobody was surprised, when a Jew put on his tefillin or tallit to pray in a train or at a railway station. They were so used to it that nobody paid any attention.

On Friday morning my mother started preparations for Sabbath. She made dough for to bake bread. On Friday my mother made bread for a week and challah bread for Sabbath.  There was a Jewish bakery nearby. My mother formed bread and challot, put them in a big basket and I took the basket to the bakery. Later in the afternoon I went back there to pick the order. Meanwhile my mother made chicken broth, made noodles for the broth and for puddings and made gefilte fish. When it was ready, she put a pot of cholnt into the oven for the next day and went to the mikveh.  There was one mikveh in Malaya Dobron. Women went there in the afternoon, when men were still at work, and men went to the mikveh in the evening. When my mother returned from the mikveh she set the table. My father came back from the mikveh, put on his fancy suit and went to the synagogue with his sons over 3 years of age. Boys went to cheder at this age and were big enough to go to the synagogue. When we returned from the synagogue, my mother lit candles. She had her fancy dress on. She covered her face with her hands to not see the candle light and prayed over the candles. Then we all sat down to festive dinner. Once a funny incident happened: my father and the children returned from the synagogue, and only at the table we discovered that my younger brother Sandor was not there. He happened to fall asleep during the prayer at the synagogue. The synagogue was already closed, and my brother slept there all night. Early in the morning my father went to the synagogue and brought Sandor home. After the candles were lit no work was allowed to be done. Our Ukrainian [Ruthenian] neighbor came to our home to light the lamps and start the oven. She also took out the cholnt from the oven. [shabesgoy] Next day we all went to the synagogue, but my sisters. My mother was upstairs, and my father and the boys were downstairs with other men. Then we returned home and had dinner, and after dinner my father read a Saturday section of the Torah to us and told us stories of Jewish history. The children visited our grandmother and grandfather on Saturdays. All of my mother’s brothers and sisters lived in Malaya Dobron. On Saturday about 40 grandchildren got together at my grandmother’s house and she had a chocolate or a kind word for each of us. In the evening my father conducted the Havdalah ritual, separation of Saturday from weekdays.  The family got together at the table. My father lit candles and said a blessing. Each of us had wine. The children had a little wine, just enough to wet their lip. Everybody sipped some wine, then my father poured some wine into a saucer and put down the candle in it. This was the end of Sabbath and another week began.

Preparation to Pesach began long before the holiday. There was a general clean up of the house, everything was cleaned and washed. The rabbi inspected the Jewish bakery for chametz. After such inspection the rabbi gave his permission to bake matzah. Each family ordered as much matzah as they needed. Matzah was delivered to homes. My mother took boxes with matzah to the attic where she kept our Pesach crockery. It was not allowed to keep matzah in the kitchen till there was any chametz or even bread crumbs left. On the eve of Pesach all bread was removed from the house. The house was searched even for the smallest pieces of bread and bread crumbs that were burnt then. Then my father continued a symbolic search for chametz. We washed our everyday crockery, packed it in boxes and stored in the storeroom, and then it was time to take down matzah and fancy crockery from the attic. My mother started cooking for Pesach. We always looked forward to holidays. We were poor, and the children never had too much food, except on Sabbath and holidays, when we had sufficient delicious food. My mother cooked traditional food: chicken broth with dumplings, stuffed chicken neck, gefilte fish, potato puddings, baked strudels from matzah flour with jam, raisins and nuts. My mother cooked everything on goose fat. This fat was also prepared separately, when there was to be no bread in the kitchen. My mother began to prepare it long before the holiday and stored it in a can in the attic where the  Pesach crockery was kept. She had to cook food for two days before Pesach. Then Hol Amoed started. No work was allowed to do on the last two days of Pesach. In the morning all went to the synagogue.  On the first day of Pesach my father conducted seder. Besides everything else, there were greeneries, horseradish, ground apples with honey and cinnamon, hard-boiled eggs and a saucer with salty water. And there was also matzah. We bought red wine at the synagogue for Pesach. On the first seder all, including the children, were to drink four glasses of wine. There was a big and fanciest wineglass for Prophet Elijah in the center of the table. The front door was kept open for Elijah to come into the house. My father wearing white clothing was sitting at the head of the table. This outfit is called kipr. Men wear it on Pesach and Yom Kippur. My father reclined on cushions supporting his back and the sides. We ate greeneries dipping then in salty water. Then my father broke matzah into three pieces and hid the middle side under the cushions. This piece of matzah was called afikoman. One of the children was to find it and then my father offered redemption for it. I asked my father traditional questions. When my brothers began to attend the cheder, they also asked my father questions. We posed questions in Hebrew and my father answered in Hebrew. Then my father started telling us about Exodus of Jews from Egypt. This story he told in Hebrew [haggadah], and then repeated each phrase in Yiddish. When he was telling about the retributions that God sent on Egypt, we were to drop wine on the saucer after he mentioned retributions. Then my father gave each of us a piece of afikoman. We all sang Pesach songs. Younger children fell asleep at the table before the seder was over. I was older and next morning, when they woke up I teased them a little saying that while they were asleep Elijah came in and I saw him.  On Pesach we visited my mother’s relatives and invited them to visit us.

A month before Rosh Hashanah, New Year, they blew the shofar at the synagogue.  The shofar is very loud and strident and it was heard across the village. We went to the synagogue and when we returned home, we ate apples and challah dipping them in honey.

Yom Kippur started with the Kapores ritual on the eve of Yom Kippur. There were white rosters bought for the father and the sons and white hens for the mother and sisters.  The rosters were to be turned around the head saying in Hebrew: ‘May you be my atonement”. Then the chickens were slaughtered and my mother cooked them in the morning. Before Yom Kippur we only ate chicken broth and chicken meat a whole day. It was the rule to have 3 meals cooked from these Kapores chickens. The dinner was over before the first star appeared in the sky. From this moment and until the next evening the family fasted. Children fasted half a day after they turned 8 and after bar mitzvah – a whole day like adults. In the morning all went to the synagogue. Men wore white kitel outfits and women wore their fancy dresses. Everybody brought a candle. People stayed at the synagogue a whole day. When the first star appeared in the sky, all went to their homes to have dinner.

After Yom Kippur children began to make decorations for the sukkah. They made them from color paper and everybody tried to make the best decoration. The sukkah was placed in the yard. There was a frame made from pre-manufactured lath planks, then branches were entwined in it and the roof was also covered with branches. The sukkah was decorated with flowers and paper decorations and ribbons. There was a table taken into the sukkah and we had meals and prayed in the sukkah through all days of the holiday. It was customary to eat fruit on Sukkot. Children had the ‘rozhok’ –fruit that grow in Israel [etrog]. They were flat, brown and very sweet. The children bit on them and then played with stones that these fruit had inside.   

For Purim children rehearsed songs, dances and little performances. Children, and sometimes adults, went from one house to other showing their performances and for this they were given small change. The more houses you visited the more coins you got. I remember a joke of this time. A rich Jew wanted his daughter to get married. He talked to shadkhan who said that there was a bridegroom, who could earn 10 pengos [Hungarian currency in the interwar period] per day. 10 pengos was a lot of money at that time. The rich man was very happy, and the wedding took place. A month passed. The rich man came to the shadkhan and said that this guy hadn’t worked a day and hadn’t earned a single coin. The shadkhan convinced him to wait another month. Nothing changed a month later. Another month passed, and the rich man came to the shadkhan again. The shadkhan said: “Be patient, there is not long to wait until Purim, and then your daughter’s husband will earn this 10 pengos”. There was also shelakhmones taken to houses at Purim. It was taken to relatives, friends and neighbors. Children ran from one house to another with trays with sweets on them. Returning the tray, the mistress of the house put coins on it for the children. After Purim children bought toys, sweets or something else.   

We, children, also liked Chanukkah. On this holiday every guest gave children money. This money was supposed to be spent on gambling, but we preferred to spend it on what we believed was right.  On Chanukkah children traditionally played with whipping tops that we made ourselves. There were wooden forms with carved letters where we poured melted lead and waited till it solidified. The top was divided into four sectors with a letter in each sector. Winning depended on the letter that the top fell on. On Chanukkah my mother lit a candle each day. Actually, there were no candles since they were very expensive. My mother cut off the bottom of a potato and cut out its inside, poured in oil and put a wick inside. These candles lasted a while. My mother added another potato on each day of Chanukkah.  

I went to cheder at the age of 3. My younger brothers also went to cheder at this age.   In the 1st and 2nd forms there was a rebe and he had an assistant, who was like a nanny for the kids, but in the 3rd form we were quite handy to manage ourselves. Our classes started at 7 o’clock in the morning. In winter and autumn we got up, when it was still dark outside.  My mother woke me up and I cried and wanted to stay home. We had classes till lunch. Then the rebe let us go home for lunch and then we came back to cheder.  Our classes ended at 7. We had to do homework at home. I went to school at the age of 8 and had no free time left, whatsoever. There were 2 general schools in Malaya Dobron: a Czech and Hungarian one. My parents sent me to the Hungarian school for some reason, though the state language was Czech at the time.  My brothers and sisters went to the Czech school. There were more Jewish children in the Hungarian school than in the Czech one. This was a school for boys and girls. I went to cheder in the morning. We prayed and had classes. Then I ran home for breakfast and ran to the Hungarian school. After classes I went home for lunch and then went back to cheder where we studied till 8-9 o’clock in the evening. When we returned home, we had to do the homework for school and for cheder. Some parents only cared about their children’s successes at the cheder, but my father believed that I had to be good at both.  This was a difficult task and I often studied till late at night. 

In 1935 my grandmother Etel, my mother’s mother, fell severely ill. She was taken to the Jewish hospital in Uzhgorod where she died. This happened before Rosh Hashanah. I still remember how my mother cried and lamented for her. My grandmother was only 60 years old, while at that time it was quite common that people lived to be 80-90 years old. She was buried in the Jewish cemetery in Uzhgorod in accordance with Jewish traditions. My mother’s brother Pinchas recited the Kaddish after my grandmother. My mother and her sisters sat shivah after my grandmother since my mother’s brothers had to go back to work to support their families. My mother’s younger sister Riva and her family moved in with my grandfather.

Boys studied at cheder till the age of 13. The rebe prepared them for bar mitzvah. In 1937 I became of age according to Jewish traditions. I turned 13 years old. On Saturday the rabbi called me to the torah to read a section from it. I had a tallit on for the first time in my life. My parents brought honey cakes and vodka to the synagogue. After the bar mitzvah all attendants of the synagogue had treatments. In the evening my mother made a dinner for the family and relatives. They greeted me and it was quite a holiday for me. After finishing cheder those parents who could afford it sent their children to yeshivah, but I couldn’t even dream about it. We were poor and since I was the oldest son I had to support the family. My father began to have health problems – he happened to have a serious heart disease. It was hard for him to work and he needed money to buy medications. From time to time he had to stay in hospital in Uzhgorod where he had medical treatment and received some medications to take home with him, but when he ran out of them, he had to buy them. I finished school in 1938. My brothers were still at school and I became the only breadwinner in the family. I didn’t have a profession, but I couldn’t go to study since there was nobody to support the family through this time. I began to sell food products to Jewish families in Uzhgorod and soon I had my clients there. My mother kept poultry: chickens, ducks and geese. I bought eggs, chickens and veal from other villagers to sell them in Uzhgorod and later I also took my mother’s poultry to sell there. The shochet slaughtered them and on Monday I took 20-25 chickens to Uzhgorod. My clients ordered about 50-60 chickens for Sabbath. Later Jewish café owners began to order chicken from me. My father had a horse that he used to ride to his calls when he was working. I harnessed the horse to ride to Uzhgorod. So I earned our living. Of course, this was hard work, but we were not starving and managed to buy everything necessary for the family.  Many other villagers earned their living in this way. There were also wealthy Jews in our village. One Jew whose last name was Weinberger had 300 hectares of land, many cows and horses. He also had equipment and tractors. Those who had land could feed their families by farming.

During the war

In 1938 Subcarpathia became Hungarian again. [Hungarian troops occupied Subcarpathia in March 1939. The western part where Malaya Dobron/Kisdobrony is was attached to Hungary as early as the 2nd November 1938, together with Southern Slovakia as a result of the First Vienna Decesion.] Though we had a good life during the Czech rule, many were happy that the Hungarians were back, especially older people. All children spoke fluent Czech, but older people didn’t know it. My mother, despite living 20 years under the Czech rule, never learned this language. She spoke Yiddish and Hungarian. At the beginning everything went well, but in 1938 persecution of Jews began, though we didn’t suffer from it since it was directed on wealthier people. In 1939 anti-Jewish laws 4 were issued. Under these laws wealthier Jews were to give away their shops, farms or stores to non-Jews or the state expropriated their property, if they didn’t. One way or another, Jewish owners didn’t get any compensation, but when they left their property with non-Jewish owners, they could at least keep the job, though their new masters paid them little.  When the state expropriated the property, their former owners lost everything and were thrown into the street. Jews were not allowed to study in higher educational institutions [Numerus Clausus in Hungary] 5 or serve in the army.  This was open state-level anti-Semitism and they didn’t even make an effort to camouflage it. When Germany started a war in 1939, life became even more difficult. Hungary was Germany’s ally in this war. There were food cards introduced. People in towns were starving. We didn’t suffer so much in villages. There were bread and sugar cards and what we got per cards was sufficient. However strange it may seem, my life became easier when Subcarpathia became Hungarian.  I could do my business in Uzhgorod and in Hungarian towns. I took my products to the Hungarian town of Kisvarda, 30 km from Malaya Dobron. I brought back salt, sugar and spirit that people drank with water. When drought happened in Velikiy Bereznyy [35 km from Uzhgorod, 650 km from Kiev] in summer farmers failed to make hay stocks and my acquaintance offered me to buy cows from them. We went there and bought cows for 40 pengos. We sold these cows in Kisvarda 100-120 pengos each. We had 3 cows left that we had to take them back. On our way back I got very hungry. My parents taught us that we couldn’t eat anything from non-Jews. I remembered this well and when I went into a farmer’s house and asked him to sell me some food I didn’t even want to buy bread from him. I bought 3 apples and this was all I had till we reached Chop where my mother’s sister Elka and her family lived. They moved to Chop in 1939, when Elka husband’s trade business was expropriated. So only at my aunt’s house I finally had a meal. We made few more trips to Velikiy Bereznyy to buy cows to sell them in Kisvarda. This was a long trip. From Velikiy Bereznyy we went to Perechin, 25 km from Velikiy Bereznyy. There we took a rest and then walked 20 km to Uzhgorod.  From there we walked 30 km to Chop and from there - 25 km to Kisvarda. This trip took us about a week. We also had to let the cows pasture so they didn’t have exhausted looks, when we reached Kisvarda or we wouldn’t have sold them. From Kisvarda we brought home 2-3 bags of flour, kosher goose fat and cereals.

Jews served in Hungarian work battalions.  In March 1942 I was to turn 18, but already in January 1942 I was called to the draft board examining recruits for work battalions. However, they released guys of 1923 - 1924 from service. They began to recruit my year of birth, when we were taken to ghettos, but I was not allowed to leave the ghetto.  

Before Pesach in 1944 I was in Uzhgorod, but I came home for the holiday. I always celebrated all Jewish holidays at home and couldn’t imagine otherwise. I was planning to go back to Uzhgorod after the holiday. On the last day of Pesach they placed a poster on the building of the village council announcing that all Jews were to come to the village council on Sunday. We were to have food and clothing not to exceed 10 kg of weight with us. All Jews of Malaya Dobron came there. Our family, my mother’s sisters with their families and grandfather Moishe, my mother’s father, went there, too. We were taken to Uzhgorod on horse-driven wagons. The ghetto in Uzhgorod was at the former brick factory owned by Jew Moshkovich formerly.  There were 16 thousand Jews from Uzhgorod district in the ghetto. There were also people taken from villages and few days later they began to take people from Uzhgorod to the ghetto. Since there was no space left, they were taken to another ghetto in a big timber storage facility owned by Jew Blick before the Hungarian rule.  We lived in the open air, though it was still rather cold at night. Some families tried to stay in brick sections with furnaces for brick baking, but there was no ventilation and it was stuffy. So they couldn’t stay there whatsoever and had to stay in the open air with their small children. When we ran out of food that we took from home we began to starve. Then younger Jews were ordered to work. We sorted out furniture, household goods, clothing and shoes in the Jewish houses whose owners were taken to the ghetto. All Jewish houses were sealed. There were many valuable things left in the houses: pictures, china, and jewelry. Gendarmes broke the seals and we came into the houses to sort out everything there was there. The gendarmes searched the walls for money in hiding place. We loaded the things on trucks that drove the loads to the Hasidic 6 synagogue on the embankment of the Uzh River. This synagogue houses a Philharmonic now. I don’t know what happened to these loads. When we found food in the houses, the gendarmes allowed us to take it with us, but when we came to the ghetto they took it away and sent it to the kitchen that made food for inmates of the ghetto. There was also a Jewish kitchen on the embankment near the Hasidic synagogue where they also made food for inmates of the ghetto, but was it possible to feed 16 thousand people?! Those who had money could buy food. There was the family of Weinberger, a rich Jew from Malaya Dobron in the ghetto. I knew the town well and went to work every day. Weinberger gave me money to buy cookies and sausage for them. I remember bringing him sausage once and he invited me to eat with his family. I thanked him and said I wasn’t hungry, but the reason was that I didn’t want to eat non-kosher sausage, just couldn’t force myself to take a bite. This was how we were raised at home.

There were no Germans in the ghetto. Once some Germans came to the ghetto to do some inspection. There were Hungarian gendarmes in the ghetto and they were very rude with the inmates, but not all of them. I witnessed one incident that happened to my uncle, my mother’s brother Bernat. Once we were at work sorting out things, when my uncle found vodka. He gave us a little and drank the rest of it. He got drunk. The Hungarian soldier who convoyed us to this house saw my uncle. He silently picked some things and took my uncle to a tavern in the end of the street.  The soldier gave the owner of this tavern those things he took from the house and asked him to put my uncle to sleep. When it was time for us to go to the ghetto in the evening, he went to the tavern to pick my uncle who had sobered by then. So they happened to be human to Jews, but rarely, of course.

On 24 May 1944 we were ordered to gather near the gate to the ghetto. There was a railroad spur to the brick factory. There was a train with open platforms for brick transportation taken to the spur and gendarmes ordered us to board those platforms. They were narrow platforms. There were 100-120 people on each of them. Many were standing close to one another. When we reached a station we changed a train, but this was not a passenger train, but one with freight railcars, there were only small barred windows near the ceilings, but after those platforms these railcars seemed heaven to us. It was warm already and the steel railcars were overheated. The windows were closed and there was no air to breathe. We didn’t have water. There were no toilets. There were holes in the floors. At first people endured it as long as they could, but then we stopped caring. At first there were talks that they were going to keep us in those railcars till we died from the heat and thirst, but others said that we were moving to work camps. Then these talks faded out, we were all in a half-fainted state. The heat and stinking was the hardest on older people and children. The train stopped at a station and we were given one bucket of water for all of us. Everybody ran to the bucket trying to drink without thinking about the others. Thinking about it now I don’t believe this was happening to us. People just couldn’t turn into animals so fast, but this happened indeed. We arrived at Auschwitz. The train stopped at the platform where there were German soldiers and people in white robes, doctors, as we got to know later. They sorted us out sending old people and children to one side and those who were stronger – to another. Mothers were told to give their children to grandmothers and grandfathers and step to another side. Many women didn’t want to leave their children and went with them to the gas chamber, as we learned later. My brothers Dezso, Marton and Sandor were sent to the right where other young men and women gathered. My father, grandfather and younger sister Helena were sent to the left. I left the train after my father and wanted to follow him, but the officer pulled me by my sleeve and told me to step to the side where young people gathered. My mother held Hermina by her shoulders and they were sent to the women’s group. When we were separated, my mother shouted to me: ‘Don’t forget, you are the oldest and you are responsible for your brothers!’. Later I got to know that my father and grandfather were exterminated right away. I stood beside my brothers. Dezso and Marton were standing beside and I was holding Sandor, the youngest, by his hand. A soldier told me to let go of my brother’s hand. I didn’t and he hit me on my head with his gun butt so hard that I fell and fainted. When I recovered my senses, a man of average age, whose face was familiar to me from the ghetto in Uzhgorod approached me and said: ‘Sonny, you are not at home, you have to obey here’. We marched to the bathroom.  When we finished washing and came outside, our clothes were gone and there were striped robes waiting for us. We got dressed and then a barber shaved our heads. My brothers and I tried to stay together. We lined up and marched to the Auschwitz work camp in 5-6 km from the central camp. There were big barracks with two-tier plank beds in them. We were given thin striped blankets from the same fabric as our robes. We were also given pieces of cloth with numbers imprinted on them. We were to saw them on our clothes on the chest and on the back. My camp number was 66, Dezso’s – 67, Marton – 68. We were ordered to line up in front of the barrack and they gave each of us a piece of bread and sausage. My brother Dezso was the biggest of us. He went in for sports, track-and-field events. In 1942 he won the first place in a district contest. Dezso was always hungry and pounced on the food. I only ate bread and couldn’t even look at the sausage. It was disgusting: there were pieces of pork fat in it. The same man, who talked to me in the central camp, approached us again and said that we had to eat what we were given here. God will forgive me this sin and I will need all my strength in the camp. I still couldn’t force myself at that moment an gave my piece of sausage to my brother, but some time later I really began to eat anything eatable without thinking whether the food was kosher or not.  

There were Jews from Hungary, Poland, France, Italy, Greece and Yugoslavia in our barrack.  Almost all of them spoke Yiddish so we could understand each other well. There were also few German criminals in the barrack. We were taken to the camp just for being Jews, but they were taken to court and sentenced to different terms of imprisonment. The senior man of our barrack was a German man sentenced to 25 years of imprisonment for killing a whole family. He was a murderer, but he was a senior man and he did whatever he wanted and there was nobody to complain to. He hit one Jewish man so hard that he died. We met my mother’s brother Pinchas in the camp. His situation was a little better than of the rest of us. He didn’t have to go to work. The Germans got to know that he was a shoemaker and gave him a place to work in the camp. He fixed and made boots for Germans. The Germans liked what he did and began to bring him leather to make shoes and boots for their wives and daughters in Germany. Sometimes Pinchas shared some food with us, when Germans gave him food for his work.  

Then we began to go to work. We were to arrange road beds for construction of new roads: we did wood cutting and grubbing, grading with spades and placing gravel. Our morning started with breakfast. We got a piece of bread and a mug of surrogate black without sugar. Then we lined up, they counted us and convoyed to work. In the afternoon we had lunch break. Thermos bottles with soup and bread were delivered from the camp. Of course, it’s hard to call this turbid liquid with half-rotten potato pieces in it soup. Sometimes we could puck a piece of carrot or a cabbage leaf there. We got 300 grams bread for lunch. After lunch we went back to work and in the evening we were convoyed back to the camp. When Germans saw that somebody was too exhausted to work they killed him right there.  In the evening the ‘funeral crew’, as we called them, they were also Jews, came to bury the dead in the wood. When back in the camp, we got our dinner: same soup as in the afternoon, but no bread. After dinner we went to sleep. We got so tired during the day that we fell asleep and had no dreams. We worked every day. We were not allowed to leave the barrack after retreat. There were armed guards of the camp and at night there were strong patrol dogs let loose in the camp. They were trained to attack people in striped robes.  

My brother Dezso was gone in the camp. He was always hungry. We were no allowed to come to the kitchen. Once Dezso said that he couldn’t believe there was no food in the camp and left the barrack. My brothers and I tried to tell him to stay and that it could end up in something bad, but he left anyway.  He never came back and we never found out what happened to him.

In January 1945 American troops began to attack. Krakow was liberated and the front was on the right from Krakow. [Krakow was liberated by the Soviet Army. He probably refers to the American bombardment of Krakow.] There was a road sign near our camp and there was an inscription in German: ’90 km - Krakow’. In late January evacuation of the camp began. There were 100 thousand of those who could walk. They shot all those who were weak and ill. My brothers, uncle Pinchas and I were among those, who could walk. The frost was severe. We were ordered to board the open platforms of a train. My brother Marton happened to be in another railcar. Only my younger brother Sandor was with me in the railcar. We could only stand close to one another in the railcar, so overcrowded it was. People were dying, but there wasn’t even space to fall and they remained standing supported by the others. We were starved and suffered from thirst. If somebody peed the others put their mugs to him to have at least something to drink. My brother Sandor died in this railcar. I didn’t notice when it happened, but one morning he was not there any longer. Probably somebody pushed him off the railcar, when the train stopped. 9 days later we finally arrived at the Gleiwitz camp. When we got off the train, many of us began to pounce on the snow – so dehydrated we were. I saw my brother Marton there. He was swollen and dark blue – it was horrifying to look at him. I, probably, looked no better. We were sorted out on the platform. The weaker and older inmates were exterminated. My uncle Pinchas perished there. My brother and I went to a barrack. The next morning we were taken to a hospital barrack.  Three days later my brother died in this barrack. I was recovering. Our senior man in this barrack was good. He told me to be in no hurry to leave this barrack. I was afraid of staying in this barrack. Many patients were dying every day. We had sufficient bread and food, but people were still dying. The patients were saying that doctors were using people for their medical experiments.  I didn’t know whether this was true, but I was scared. When I felt better, I asked them to discharge me. The senior man told me to take food and bread with me. I thought there was food in the camp. When I came out of the hospital barrack I bumped into starved inmates begging for food. Before I reached my barrack, my food that I had with me was all gone and there were only two slices of bread left. I put them under my mattress, but in the morning they were gone.

We didn’t have to go to work any longer. We were allowed toile on our plank beds all day long. Each of us got 2 potatoes boiled in their jackets and 100 grams tea with no sugar. Every day inmates were dying and the others managed to receive their ration of food. Later Germans discovered what was happening and before giving food to us they ordered us to go outside and gave us food letting us inside one after another. We knew that if we were not sent to work this meant that this was a death camp. We were waiting for the end of it. My birthday was on 2 March. Early in the morning a German officer came into our barrack and asked who wanted to go to work. He selected 40 stronger men. We lined up on the square yard and they told us that we would go to a very good camp where work was not too hard and we would get more food. We were given 200 grams bread and 20 g margarine and told us that we would not get any food on the way and we had to keep this piece of bread till we got to the place, but what was this 200 grams of bread? An hour later nobody had even a bread crumb left. We walked to this camp. It was a small camp. There were few barracks for 400 people. Later we got to know that this was just one sector of the camp and there were two other sectors for 400 inmates each. One was a central sector and another one was about 15 km from our camp. There was a kitchen there and a tractor delivered food to us in our sector. We were given half loaf of bread and a jar of soup each. They told us to find vacant beds and take them. We got up at 5 in the morning. There was no breakfast. We went to work. We had to walk for about 8 km and we walked to work every day. We worked at the construction of the railroad connecting the central camp with two others. People were exhausted. We had one meal after we returned to the camp in the evening. We were given one liter of soup per day and twice a week we got a little piece of bread to have with soup. We understood that Germans calculated everything. They knew that we wouldn’t have to work long and there was no need for us to keep strong. We worked very hard and had to cover 16 km each day. Since about 5 April English and American planes began to fly over our work site. On the next day we didn’t go to work. We were taken to the central camp. There was also another column marching there – 400 inmates from another camp. The central camp had barracks for 400 inmates, when there were already 1200 of us. We had to find a place to sleep at night. We were not allowed to come into the yard due to air raids and bombings. 2-3 inmates slept on one bed, the others slept on the floor ad in the aisles. A bomb hit one barrack. Many inmates perished. 2 days passed. On the 3rd day they ordered us to line up in the yard. The Germans sorted out stronger inmates from weaker ones. There were trucks near the gate. We were ordered to go through the gate one after another. Each was given 2 cigarettes. This was like a miracle for us.  When I came to the gate they ran out of cigarettes. I said that since there were no cigarettes left, I wasn’t going. I decided: be what might, and returned to the camp where weaker inmates stayed. There were about 200 of us. I understood they were going to be shot, but I also knew it was going to happen to me sooner or later.  So why wait?… We waited standing. The trucks left. We talked among ourselves that now there was more space in the barracks, but deep in our hearts we didn’t believe that there was hope for us to survive left. However, we were ordered to go back to the camp. There were few German military left in the camp. We were ordered to take food from the storeroom and cook by ourselves. We stayed in the camp few days and then we were taken to the railway station where we were ordered to board a train. The railcars were stuffed with people. Our trip lasted about 2 days. Then the train stopped, but the doors were kept closed. Through small windows near the ceiling we could see barracks and people walking. 4 or 5 we were kept in those closed railcars. Only when those, who were taken from our camp in trucks, arrived, the doors were opened. We ran to barrels with water to drink. Then we were ordered to line up again and board railcars again. There were more railcars now and there was more space inside. There was an armed German guard in every railcar. The door of our railcar was kept open. The guard sat by the door. He put his gun on his side and said that we would be all right soon, but that Germans would not be doing so well since American and Soviet troops were close. We didn’t talk back to him, but we liked what we heard. We arrived at a station. A German officer ordered everybody to get off the train since Americans were to start bombing soon.  We were ordered to go to the wood near the station, as if to hide from bombing there. Soldiers with automatic guns convoyed us, but we were so used to armed convoys that we paid no attention to them. We were ordered to line up in the woods. German soldiers walked along the line shooting at people. I don’t know how I happened to survive. I don’t remember soldiers approaching me or how I fell into the pit from a bomb. I probably fainted from fear. When I recovered my consciousness I was in the pit wet from the rain and somebody else’s blood.  There were corpses on top of me and underneath. I got out of the pit and ran away. I didn’t know where I was running. Then I heard somebody calling me in Yiddish. A guy in a camp robe came out of the bushes. I recognized him. He was a Polish Jew; we were in the same railcar. His name was Janec, but I don’t know his surname. He said he was waiting for a survivor for about half hour. He didn’t see where the Germans went.  We didn’t have anywhere to go so we went though the wood till we came to the edge. We saw a village in about 2-3 km from there and there was a battle going on there. There were explosions and firing and we were scared.  We went back to the wood. It was rather warm and there was grass growing. We walked in the wood and ate grass and roots. Few days later we bumped into four Germans running from the edge of the wood. Janec told me to keep my mouth shut and remember the only thing that we were not Jews. He was Polish and I was Hungarian. He spoke German and English. The Germans asked us what we were doing in the wood. Janec replied that we worked for Germans and then they let us go and that we had nowhere to go and kept wondering in the woods. The Germans began to discuss what to do with us. One said that we had to be shot. Another replied that we were still children and why should they kill us. We were short and thin and looked young for our years. The Germans went away, but the one who suggested to shoot us kept looking back.  We were so scared that we couldn’t walk.  We stayed in the wood a whole day and at night it began to rain. We decided to get to the village for any Price. We ran across the field. There was a road behind the fields and we saw military trucks driving there. We hid away not seeing whose trucks they were. When they passed we ran to the village. We came into the first house. There were no villagers left. I saw some military through the window and told Janec that Russians were coming. He replied that there could be no Russians there and that this was an American front. I came out of the house and the soldiers saw me. I didn’t know who they were. One of them asked me in German how many of us were there.  I said there was another man in the house and they told me to come inside with them. I went first and they followed me. I spoke louder when we came nearer to the house for Janec to hear me and run away, but he heard them speaking English, came out of the house and spoke English to them. They were American soldiers. They gave us tinned meat and bread. When we finished eating they took us to the commander’s office in a village house on their truck. There were German prisoners in the house. The Americans took us to the cow shed. There was an attic with straw in the shed and they left us there. They gave us cigarettes, cookies and cocoa. We were both exhausted. I weighed 32 kg. Americans kept us there few days. We washed ourselves and they gave us clean American uniforms and took us to a hospital. They cordially bid ‘good bye’ to us and gave us cookies and chocolate. I was unconscious for few days. When I recovered my consciousness I discovered that I had no clothes or food left. Everything was gone. I stayed in hospital for about a month. The doctors said I had severe dystrophy and I had to be patient. When the doctor came to examine me, he asked me in German where I came from. I said I was from Subcarpathia and he began to smile and spoke Hungarian to me. I was shocked: an American speaking Hungarian! He explained that he was born in the USA, but his Jewish parents moved there from Subcarpathia and they spoke Hungarian at home. This doctor treated me as one of his family. He brought me food and medications. Most patients were Ukrainian, all from one camp. There were wooden barrels with technical spirit left in the camp and its inmates drank it when Germans left the camp. They were severely poisoned. Every day 50-60 patients died in the hospital.  I stayed there for a month and then was taken to a recreation center near Berlin.

When I recovered, I was sent to a camp in about 100 km from Berlin. I don’t remember the name of the town. There were about 2000 young girls and 15 guys in the camp. I met my cousin Moishe there, my mother sister Elka’s son. We were given good food: meat, butter and chocolate every day. We were allowed to go to the town. When we went to the town, we got 30 marks each. It was a lot of money in Germany. A jar of jam cost 5-10 marks and a loaf of bread cost 2 marks. Americans were making the lists of those who wanted to move to USA, Palestine, or any other country of the world. They promised assistance to those who wanted to move to USA: with studies, employment and material assistance for the beginning. They also offered contracts for military service to those who wanted to go to the army. I didn’t want to go back home. I understood that my family must have perished and that I was alone. I thought there was nobody to help me at home and that if I went to USA I would have assistance at least at the beginning. They explained that we would stay in a camp for about half a year to learn the language. If we had relatives in USA they would help to find them. And they also promised vocational training and support to become rightful citizens. Then an American officer came to tell us that we had to be ready to depart the following day. He explained when the truck would be there to pick us up. On the morning of departure my cousin offered me to go to the town to buy some food for the road. We had fresh memories about the concentration camp and knew it was better to have some food with us that hope for somebody else to provide food. We bought some bread and sausage and when we returned to the camp it turned out that the transport with those moving to USA had left already. So the two of us stayed in the camp. We registered as Czech citizens. We really believed we were Czech citizens and thought the Hungarians were the occupants. We were sure that Subcarpathia was to become Czechoslovakian after the war.  Few days later we were transferred to Russians and they took us to a Russian camp. The food we got there was no different from what we got in the concentration camp. We were kept there for 2 weeks. One night they woke us up and ordered to board trucks. We were taken to a war prisoners’ camp. The majority of prisoners were German SS officers. From their talks I understood that all inmates of this camp were to be taken to Siberia.  I told Moishe about it in Yiddish saying that this was the end and that we should have better perished in the concentration camp. I didn’t notice that chief of the camp was listening to us. He asked us in Yiddish who we were and where we came from. We replied that we were Jews from Subcarpathia and that we came from Subcarpathia. The next morning our senior man brought us an assignment to work in the sugar factory in another end of the town. It was written there that we were Czechoslovakian citizens. We were accommodated in the hostel of this sugar factory and some time later we were sent to Prague in Czechoslovakia. We were accommodated in the former military barracks. There was a Red Cross canteen at the railway station where former prisoners of concentration camps had meals. There were many from Subcarpathia, particularly from Uzhgorod there and I soon got new friends.  Once I was going back to the barrack from the canteen, when I saw few Czech military. One of them looked at me closely and asked me whether I was Faige Preis’s son. I said that I was, but I didn’t know him. He said he was Mayer, my mother’s cousin.  I heard about him that he married a beauty of a Gypsy woman and the family refused from him.  Mayer lived in Chop before the war where he owned few cabs. He drove one cab and hired drivers for the rest. In 1937 Mayer moved to Bohemia and went to the Czech army. He had the rank of major.  Mayer said that he was in Uzhgorod and heard that my mother and my sister Hermina returned home from Auschwitz. He didn’t see them, but he heard this from reliable people. We said “good byes’ and I returned to the camp. Few days later we were told that we could go wherever we wished. I decided to go to Budapest, before making a final decision. I didn’t know that Subcarpathia became Soviet. We were given tickets, food and money to go. There were few of us from Subcarpathia. When we came to Budapest I met my cousin Dezso, my mother younger brother Pinchas’ son, at the railway station. He began to talk me into going home, but I didn’t agree. I didn’t quite believe that my mother and sister were back home: Mayer didn’t see them and people might have been misunderstood something.  In Budapest we were accommodated in the Jewish girls’ school building, near the railway station. I registered for departure to Palestine. Of course, I wanted the USA more, but Palestine was all right too. Anywhere, but home. There were lists of those who returned from concentration camps updated every day and I went there to check the lists hoping to find my family or acquaintances. I met a girl from Malay Dobron. I didn’t recognize her at once, but she ran to hug me.  She asked me at once why I was still in Budapest, when my mother was home. I asked her how she knew it and she said she was in the concentration camp with my mother and sister.  I went back to the hostel and told my cousin that I was going back with him. We got tickets to Subcarpathia. There were 6 of us. We got to Chop by train. I got off the train and saw a man and a woman standing nearby. The woman looked like mother from distance, but when I came closer, I understood this was not my Mama, but the man hugged me all of a sudden. I asked him to leave me alone, but he didn’t let go of me. He turned out to be my father’s younger brother Mendl. Of course, I didn’t recognize him. He had no beard, wore a short haircut and no head covering. Mendl said he was taking me to my mother right away. We came to a small house and Mendl shouted: ‘Faige, your son is back!’ My mother ran out of the house, pressed me to her chest weeping bitter tears. I shall never forget this meeting. Somebody had told my mother that I was back to Budapest and that I didn’t want to come home. She was afraid we would never see each other again. My younger sister Hermina returned with my mother. They temporarily stayed in Chop. When I returned we moved to Uzhgorod. Mendl told me that his wife and four sons perished in the concentration camp. My grandfather and grandmother, my father and Mendl’s parents, perished in the ghetto in Dubovoye in 1944. Mendl didn’t know anything about his sisters living in Hungary before the war. Haskl perished in a work battalion and his family perished in a concentration camp. Mendl heard that older brother Moric returned to Kosice, but there was no connection with him. We were Mendl’s closest relatives and he got very attached to us and took care of us.

After the war

The Soviet rule was already established in Subcarpathia. Our hopes that Subcarpathia would be returned to Czechoslovakia failed.  We knew very little about the USSR. What we heard was that there were no goods in stores and there were lines in shops to buy anything, but we never gave it a thought before we saw it with our own eyes. Anyway, we couldn’t even imagine anything like that before, but soon we learned what the soviet power was about. Mendl was a wealthy man. When in 1939 suppression of Jews began he spent all his money to buy gold that he buried in the garden near his house in Dubovoye. When he returned home, there was a Hutsul [Ruthenians living in the Carpathian Mountains, traditionally dealing with livestock breeding.] He refused to let Mendl into the house and said he would kill him if Mendl tried to go in. Mendl left and stayed with his acquaintances. At night he went to dig up his valuables in the garden, but the Hutsul saw him and reported to authorities. Mendl was arrested and kept in prison in Uzhgorod for a month without any charges against him. Then he was released and when he came home, he said to my mother that we had to escape since this country was not for us. Mendl was saying that we would not be able to live with the Soviet regime, but my mother was saying that we would get adjusted somehow and that she had no strength to start anew somewhere else. Mendl said that my mother could stay, if she thought so, but that she should give the children, i.e., my sister and me, in his care. My mother began to cry saying that uncle Mendl wanted to take away her children from her, whom the God saved in the concentration camp and that she couldn’t part with us. Mendl felt hurt and left. He never contacted us again. From our common acquaintances we heard that he secretly crossed to Romania and from there left for Israel.  For a long time all we knew about Mendl was what his friend from Dubovoye, with whom he corresponded told us. It was not safe for Soviet citizens to correspond with relatives abroad 7. All correspondence was censored and everybody knew this. KGB 8 was watching the whole process, but this wouldn’t have stopped my mother if Mendl had written us, but there were no contacts with him. Only after my mother moved to Israel in the 1970s, our contacts revived. Mendl was doing well in Israel. He got married and had two daughters.

We got information about my mother’s brothers and sisters. My mother’s older sister Elka and her husband Gersch Scher perished in Auschwitz during sorting out. Of their 8 children four perished in Auschwitz, 2 moved to USA after the camp was liberated by Americans. [Auschwitz was liberated by the Soviet Army.] There is no information about the other two children. Uncle Pinchas was with us in Auschwitz and Gleiwitz. His wife Baila and four younger children were exterminated in the Auschwitz concentration camp. Of four other children only their daughter Zsuzsa [Diminutive of the Hungarian name Zsuzsanna.] returned to Subcarpathia. She lived in Uzhgorod and died in the 1980s.  After Americans liberated the camp, one daughter moved to USA and 2 sons moved to Palestine. My mother’s brother Lajos and his wife Blanka and Lipe with his wife Lea were exterminated in Auschwitz. Lipe’s two younger sons perished with their parents. His two older sons perished in a work battalion in Ukraine. My mother younger sister Riva’s husband Wolf Steinberg perished in a work battalion in 1942. Riva and her four younger children were in concentration camps. Riva perished in Auschwitz in 1944 and the younger children perished, too.  Of her two older sons, who were in a work battalion one perished and one returned to Subcarpathia after the war. In the 1970s he and his family moved to Israel. My mother’s youngest brother Bernat survived in the camps and returned to Subcarpathia. His wife and two children perished in the concentration camp. Bernat married a Jewish woman and they had two daughters. When Jews were allowed to emigrate from the USSR, Bernat and his family moved to Israel. Bernat died in Israel in the 1980s. His wife also passed away. His daughters and their families live in Israel.  

We settled down in Uzhgorod. When we came there, we were told to find a dwelling from where Jews had been taken to a concentration camp and move in there. We found a one-bedroom apartment: one big room, a kitchen and a toilet. The three of us moved in there. I became an apprentice of a tailor in a garment store. I had to support my mother and sister, being the only man in the family. It stimulated me to study well and two years later I became a good tailor. Many people ordered their clothes at garment shops since it was hard to buy anything in shops. I could make any clothes, but I was good at making men’s suits. The town and region’s top men were my clients. Besides my salary I got good tips from my clients, and they also brought me food products that were hard to buy.  

Though the soviet power struggled against religion 9 my mother and we observed Jewish traditions after we returned to Subcarpathia. I didn’t go to the synagogue, though, in fear of having problems at work, but my mother went to the synagogue on Sabbath and Jewish holidays. On Sabbath evening my mother lit candles and made a festive dinner. I worked on Saturday, but my mother tried to do no work on Saturday. We celebrated holidays according to the rules.  We always had matzah on Pesach. My mother baked it at first, but later matzah was brought from Budapest and we could buy it. On all holidays we had chicken broth with dumplings from matzah flour, gefilte fish, puddings and strudels from matzah flour. Of course, kosher food was out of question, there was nowhere to get it, but my mother followed kashrut. She didn’t mix dairy and meat products, didn’t eat pork or sausage and didn’t allow us to have any.    

My mother was relatively young. She dedicated her love and care to my sister and me. We understood that it would have been better for our mother to meet a decent man and get married.  My mother’s close friend introduced my mother to her distant relative Gedale Fixler, a Jew from Subcarpathia.  He was born in 1900 and was the same age with my mother. During WWII he was in a work battalion. He returned to Subcarpathia after the war hoping that at least some of his family had survived, but they all perished in Auschwitz. Gedale finished the Trade Academy in Mukachevo. He worked in trade. He liked my mother and my mother was not indifferent to him. My sister and I kept telling our mother that we were going to have our families soon and it would be good for her to have a caring husband. They got married in 1947. My stepfather had an apartment and my mother moved in with him. Gedale worked and my mother was a housewife. Gedale was religious. He was a very good man, kind and honest. We liked him and he treated us as his own children. My sister and I visited them on Sabbath and all holidays, but also often just dropped by to see them. My mother and he were very happy to see us. My sister and I spent all Jewish holidays with them. We didn’t celebrate Soviet holidays, but there were banquets at work and I attended them since it would have been defiant on my part if I missed them. Of all Soviet holidays the only one that I believed was truly mine was Victory Day 10, 9 May.

Anti-Semitism emerged in Subcarpathia with the soviet rule.  Of course, it was there since 1938, when Hungarians came to power, but at least the situation was clear: Hungary was a fascist country allied to Hitler’s Germany, but the Soviet Union struggling against fascism seemed to be the country where anti-Semitism was impossible. We realized soon that we were wrong about it. When newcomers from the USSR arrived, we could often hear the word ‘zhyd’  [kike] in public transport and in the streets. Nobody had ever been surprised before hearing Jews speaking Yiddish, but it made the newcomers so indignant that they demanded that we spoke Russian, but the biggest surprise for me was that the majority of Jews from the USSR looked at local Jews as if we were enemies and this demand to speak Russian often came from them. (I didn’t study the Russian language, I just listened to others speaking it and gradually began to speak and then read and write in it.) This was terrible and hard to understand. I was surprised since even in the concentration camp we spoke Yiddish to Jews from other countries and German guards didn’t mind it. Jews were always friendly and supported each other, but these Jews from the USSR kind of wanted to separate from us and demonstrate that we had nothing in common. Campaign against cosmopolites 11 that began in the USSR in 1948 were almost unnoticed in our area. The newcomers discussed them, but we had nothing to do with them. We also thought that the ‘doctors’ plot’ 12 that began in January 1953 was a lie. The majority of doctors in Subcarpathia were Jews and we trusted them, but those newcomers could say in a polyclinic: ‘I shall not have a Jewish doctor’. My wife’s sister, a children’s doctor, also said that the newcomers didn’t want her to treat their children. . In some cases, when she came to a house on call, the child’s parents closed the door before her saying: ‘Let them not send a Jewish woman again’. Anti-Semites raised their heads again. There were always meetings at work where employees had to speak against Jewish poisoners, the doctors.  It was compulsory for members of the Party and desirable for others.  

In March 1953 Stalin died. I remember well how grown-up men cried in the streets and were not ashamed of their tears. I didn’t have tears or grief for him, though I didn’t know the truth about Stalin’s crimes that Nikita Khrushchev 13 spoke about at the 20th Congress of the Party 14, but I already knew that those Jews who risked their lives to escape from the fascist Hungary to the USSR were sent to the GULAG 15 without trial or investigation. Some of them returned to Subcarpathia after Stalin died, but not all of them. I knew that those Jews who were liberated from concentration camps by Soviet troops were sent to camps for prisoners-of-war or GULAG. Besides, I couldn’t understand why newcomers were saying that the world was going to collapse after Stalin’s death and life was impossible without him. We lived in Subcarpathia without Stalin for many years and without the USSR and it was a good life. Leaders of the state come and go, but life goes on. Actually, I didn’t bother about the life in the USSR. However, 2 events stirred up my senses. This was invasion of Soviet troops to Hungary in 1956 16 and Czechoslovakia in 1968 [Prague Spring] 17. These were my countries and I was very concerned about the invasion. I understood that it was the policy of the USSR to suppress freedom and exterminate those who wanted changes in the existing regime in the USSR and socialist countries. Subcarpathian troops also took part in those events and people coming back from there told us that it was different from what newspapers wrote about them. The official version was that the government and people of these countries requested the USSR for military assistance, but if it had been true would the people meet their liberators with the slogans ‘Ivan, go back home’, and likewise? Of course, I didn’t speak my mind: I didn’t want to be sent to GULAG after I was in a concentration camp. I knew many people sentenced to 10 to 25 yeas of imprisonment for expressing their unhappiness or telling an anecdote, therefore. I tried to keep my tongue behind my teeth.   

My sister married Ernest Spiegel from Subcarpathia in 1950. During the war her husband was in a concentration camp. After the war he returned to Subcarpathia and settled down in Uzhgorod. His family had perished. We arranged a real Jewish wedding for my sister. Of course, we had to do it in secret. We had a chuppah in the room at home. After the war the soviet power closed most of synagogues in Uzhgorod, but there was one working. My mother asked the rabbi to conduct the wedding ceremony for my sister. We invited few friends and closed ones to the chuppah and my mother cooked a wedding dinner.  My sister and her husband lived in the room and I had a bed in the kitchen. My mother’s husband built an annex to the apartment, a small room and I moved in there in due time. In 1951 Yudita, my sister’s first daughter, was born and in 1958  – her second daughter Erika. My sister and her husband spoke Russian at home. The girls spoke Hungarian and Russian at home, in the street and at school.  

We spent time with other Jewish young people from Subcarpathia. Some of my friends were Hungarians, Ruthenians, Slovaks, all born in Subcarpathia. I had no friends among the newcomers from the USSR. Our views on life were too different. There were many girls in our garment store. They often invited me for a walk or to the cinema. I refused referring to the lack of time. My mother tried to introduce me to Jewish girls, but I didn’t think about marriage. Once a young woman, one of the newcomers, came to our garment shop. We could distinguish them by their pure language. Subcarpathians spoke Russian with an accent.  She asked the tailor to fix something in her dress. He replied with a joke and everybody laughed. I looked at her and she asked me in Yiddish: ‘Why are you laughing, brunette?’ Later we often met in the street and said ‘hello’ to each other. She arrived in Uzhgorod from Savran town in Odessa region [615 km from Uzhgorod, 270 km from Kiev], on her job assignment 18 after finishing the Pharmaceutical Faculty of Odessa Medical College. There were special permits to travel to Subcarpathia at that time since it was near the borders. People living in the USSR thought there were gangs and anti-Semites all around in Subcarpathia. Her father even wanted to bribe some officials to prevent them from sending his daughter to this terrible place. When Anna came to Uzhgorod she saw it was different and she liked it. Even during the Soviet regime the life in Subcarpathia was easier than everywhere else. In 1946-47 – famine in the USSR, she sent her family parcels from here. Then her middle sister Donia finished the Pediatrics Faculty of Odessa Medical College. She got a job assignment to the children’s home for orphan children who had lost their parents during the war in Brest in Belarus. She completed her 3-year assignment and her older sister convinced her to settle down in Uzhgorod. Donia worked as a children’s doctor in the polyclinic. Then her younger sister Lubov Kerzhner finished a Pedagogical College and got a job assignment to a Ukrainian village. Finishing her 3-year assignment Lubov arrived in Uzhgorod. She worked as elementary school teacher not far from my shop. We met every morning on our way to work. At first we just said ‘hello’ to one another, then we stopped to talk once and then began to see each other. The sisters were very close and always listen to one another. The older sister spoke well of me. Lubov was 8 years younger than me. She was born in Savran in 1932. Her Jewish name was Liebe.  Her father Moisey Kerzhner and her mother Meita Kerzhner were religious. They observed Jewish traditions. Their daughters of course, were no longer religious, but they remained Jewish. They knew Jewish traditions, Jewish culture and spoke Yiddish to one another and to their parents.   

My wife’s older sister Anna married a military man who had also arrived from the USSR. In 1948 their daughter was born. In 1955 he died. She never remarried. She worked and raised her daughter. Their sister Donia was beautiful, but she couldn’t find a husband. She couldn’t choose for a long time and lived her life single.    

We got married in 1957. We had a civil ceremony in a registry office on 18 June and when vacations began at school and teachers went on vacation we had a Jewish wedding. We had to keep it a secret. My wife was a teacher, and authorities watched teachers’ ideology very strictly. If her management knew that we had a Jewish wedding she might have been fired with the comment that she ‘was not fit to raise the young generation in the spirit of communism’. It happened so at the time. With this entry in her employment records book she wouldn’t have found another job as a teacher, or even as a cleaning woman. Therefore, we secretly had a chuppah at home. My relatives and Lubov’s sister were with us. Her parents also arrived at the wedding. My mother was very happy that I finally got married and that I had a Jewish wife. They got along well. My mother made challah bread and honey cakes for Sabbath for our family as well. Lubov and I always celebrated Sabbath and Jewish holidays visiting with my mother and stepfather. My mother also often visited us. There was a market, the only one in town, near our house. My mother came by every time she went to the market. In 1959 our first baby was born. We named our son Avrum after my father. We had a brit milah ritual for him. Of course, this was also done secretly, but one of my wife’s colleagues heard about it and my wife had problems. Her director and the town educational department called her and asked her one question: ‘How could you do this?’ Fortunately, it ended just with a reprimand. In 1968 our daughter Marina was born. We gave her the Jewish name of Meita after my wife’s mother, who had died one year before our daughter was born. 

My wife and I spoke Yiddish for the most part. She never learned Hungarian. She thought she didn’t need it. Russian was a state language during the soviet regime. I spoke poor Russian. I still have an accent. Our children knew Yiddish and Russian. My mother helped us to raise our son, but when our daughter was born she was severely ill and our son and my wife’s sisters were helping us with the baby.  Our children studied at school and were pioneers and Komsomol 19 members. I didn’t mid this. They were growing up in this country and it was better for them to be no different from others. Still my wife and I told our children about Jewish traditions and Jewish history, but we also told them to not discuss this with anybody else. We celebrated Jewish holidays at home. I didn’t go to the synagogue, but I prayed at home. I had a tallit, a tefillin and a prayer book.  

The longer I lived in the soviet regime, the more I hated it. There was no freedom in the USSR and we got used to freedoms in Subcarpathia, particularly during the Czech rule. We could speak our minds without suspecting KGB informers in everybody else. Besides, we lived near the border and to travel to another town we had to obtain a permit from militia and have our passports stamped. We couldn’t buy train tickets if we didn’t have a stamp; and there was another stamp to be obtained for each trip. We could only walk in the town with our passport. Before I got married my friends and I often accompanied girls home in the evening. There were frontier guard patrols walking the town. They checked our documents and if the girl lived nearby they let her go home, but we couldn’t walk with her. Even to go to the woods we needed passports. In 1951 I went to get some wood for stoves in the forest and left my passport at home. In the woods a patrol stopped me. I had no documents, so they put me in their vehicle and took me to the militia office. They reported of having captured a spy. I was lucky that their commander was my client who had picked his new suit just the day before. We said ‘hello’ and laughed. He released the soldier. But how was I to go home without documents? I asked him to issue a card stating that they detained me, checked and released me.  He said he didn’t have the right to issue such paper, but he promised to call all posts to tell them to let me go. There were other incidents; it’s hard to name them all. Could one live in this country? It was also hard from the material point of view. There were lines in stores and one had to stand for hours before buying a thing. What is this country like where people are not free and also, are miserably poor! For me to love this country, the country had to love me, but we lived like it was a prison. Sometimes it seemed to me that we had more freedom in the concentration camp.   

When in the 1970s Jews began to move to Israel, I thought about it like it was a miraculous escape from everything I hated that the God sent me. My relatives also decided to emigrate. My mother and stepfather were the first to go. They were pensioners at that time. My mother was severely ill and her doctors were talking her out of emigration telling her that she was not fit for traveling and that the climate in Israel was not good for her, but my mother decided to move there, nevertheless. She lived 7 years in Israel: good medications and qualified doctors… They lived in Bnei Brak. When my father’s brother Mendl got to know that she was in Israel he visited her right away. Mendl supported and visited my mother. My mother died in 1977.  Mendl died in the middle 1980s. My mother’s husband Gedale never remarried. He lived in Bnei Brak and died in 1988. He was buried near my mother. In 1972 my sister Hermina and her family moved to Qiriat Ono. I was eager to go to Israel, but my wife was against emigration. Her sisters supported her. They lived their lives in the USSR and were patriots of their country. They blindly believed the propaganda on the radio and in publications. They never gave it a deeper thought; they just believed what they heard. Their middle sister Donia, the children’s doctor, was particularly stubborn about it. She was telling me that Israel is a capitalist country and capitalists were exploiters and working people had a very hard life there. I was trying to tell her that she had never practiced capitalism while I lived during capitalism and those were the best years of my life, that if a person had a good job, he could make his living and support his family well while with socialism it didn’t matter whether one worked or he didn’t, didn’t matter – he will be miserably poor anyways. Besides, one feels a fool, when working hard he earns the same wages as lazy bones doing nothing.  However, these were mere words for my wife and her sisters that they didn’t make an effort to think about. So it happened that we stayed in the USSR. I didn’t have much choice: emigration or the family and I chose the family.

After finishing school my son entered the Faculty of Biology of Uzhgorod University.  He was fond of biology at school, took part in the Olympiads [There were school Olympiads where children competed in their knowledge of school subjects. The first round was at school, then in the district, region and the final was in the Republican level] and won prizes. Of course, this helped him during admission. Only 1-2 Jews were admitted at one faculty at the University. My son was admitted at his first try. We were happy about it since if he hadn’t succeeded he would have been taken to the army and being a Jew he wouldn’t have had an easy life there. My son didn’t face any anti-Semitism at the university. His lecturers were good to him: my son was a good student. When he was the last year student, my son got married. His wife Maria, a Jew, had finished the Medical Faculty of the university by that time and was working, which helped my son to obtain a free assignment diploma instead of a fixed job assignment upon graduation. However, he couldn’t get a job by his specialty and went to work as a lab assistant. His wife was appointed chief of department in her hospital, but she received a low salary and my son didn’t earn much. Avrum went to work as a taxi driver. He lives with his wife, but we often see each other. On weekend they always come to see me. Unfortunately, they have no children.  

After finishing school my daughter entered the Faculty of Russian Philology of Uzhgorod University. Upon graduation she failed to find a job by her specialty. This didn’t have anything to do with her being a Jew. This was during the period of perestroika 20, when anti-Semitism receded. It was just that there were not so many schools in Uzhgorod and there were no job vacancies. During her studies Marina got married. Her husband Leonid Shyfris, a Jewish man, also works as a cabdriver like my son. Leonid was born in Uzhgorod in 1953, his parents moved to Subcarpathia from the USSR after the war. The only language they knew was Russian. Marina and Leonid speak Russian at home. He graduated from the Lvov Polytechnic University, but an engineer’s salary was too low to support the family. In 1988 my grandson Robert, Marina’s son, was born. Marina and her family live with me. When in 1999 Hesed was established in Uzhgorod, Marina went to work there. She was chief of literature studio there. Now Marina is expecting the second baby. She doesn’t work.

I saw my sister again in 1983, before perestroika began. I could never imagine having an opportunity to visit her in Israel at that time and my sister couldn’t obtain an entry visa to the USSR. We met in Budapest. It was easier for Subcarpathians to travel to Hungary than for other citizens of the USSR. We spent two weeks in Budapest and talked a lot. I was surprised that Hermina became such a patriot of Israel. I asked her whether it was possible to take to loving the country for such short period of time and my sister replied that it was natural for Jews moving to Israel. After we met in Budapest we began to correspond regularly. Before this meeting we wrote each other occasionally. Unfortunately, I never saw my sister again. She died in 1986. In 1987 we had a family reunion with her older daughter Yudita, my niece. She also traveled to Budapest and my wife, my son and daughter and I went there to meet with her. We rented an apartment for two weeks. We took walks in Budapest and I showed them the places I remembered.  When it was time for us to go home, I told my niece to send me an invitation to visit them. Of course, I had little belief that it might happen. In 1987 she sent me an invitation, but I managed to use it only a year later.

My initial attitude to perestroika that started in the late 1980s was the same as to everything else in the USSR – indifferent, but a short time later I realized that I was wrong. Gorbachev 21 truly wanted a democratic society with freedom of speech and press. Gorbachev allowed private businesses, though there were those who didn’t like it. Many of those who had come here from the USSR were saying that we were going to capitalism. For them this word was a curse word, but for me it meant a society where an individual could work to support his family and make a good living.  Religion was allowed. People could go to synagogues and celebrate religious holidays openly. But unfortunately, the Soviet regime broke people of the habit to religion so much that at the beginning we couldn’t even gather 10 men for a minyan. For me it was very important that during perestroika people at last got an opportunity to correspond with their relatives or friends abroad, visit them and invite them to visit them back. In 1988 I submitted my documents for a trip to Israel. At first they refused to accept my documents and I only managed in early 1989. They accepted my documents, but said that they didn’t guarantee that I would have a permission to visit Israel. However, few months later they issued a permit and I spent four months in Israel. I visited the graves of my mother, my sister and uncle Mendl and recited the Kaddish. I have many relatives, friends and acquaintances in Israel and I was happy to see them. Of course, Israel is a wonderful country.  I admired patriotism of its people. They love their country and are proud of it. Service in the army of Israel is not a burdensome necessity that they try to avoid, but an honorary right of an individual. I spoke to young people and they are proud of the possibility to serve in the army and defend their country. Hermina’s older daughter Yudita has two children: son Elan, born in 1977, and daughter Mikhalka, born in 1980. My younger niece Erika has three sons: Galiz, born in 1977, Afir, born in 1982, and Cham, born in 1985. I traveled across the country and they wanted to show me the most interesting places. I was sorry to leave Israel, but I understood that at my age it was too late to move to Israel to start a new life. I keep in touch with my relatives in Israel. My niece has been here several times and my children traveled to Israel.

When after the breakup of the USSR [1991] Ukraine gained independence I was hoping for a better life. Ukraine is a rich country: it has fruitful lands and natural deposits. There are good reserves requiring effective management, but I don’t see it happening. Life is more difficult than it was during the Soviet rule. My heart squeezes when I see comely old women digging in garbage pans looking for food leftovers. Fortunately, Hesed provides assistance to us, Jews. Old people can have free meals in the Hesed canteen and Hesed delivers meals to those who cannot leave their homes. We also receive food packages and clothes. I’ve been invited to this canteen many times, but I prefer my own cooking. It’s not bragging on my part, but many housewives ask me for my recipes of traditional Jewish cuisine. My daughter’s family likes my cooking as well. I’ve had two infarctions and several serious surgeries. Hesed helps me with medications and I can consult a doctor from Hesed. When my wife was ill, Hesed also helped us. A visiting nurse from Hesed came to look after her and we received all necessary medications. Lubov died in 2003. Hesed helped us with funeral arrangements. My wife was buried in the Jewish sector of the town cemetery in Uzhgorod. There was a Jewish funeral.  The rabbi of the Uzhgorod synagogue conducted the ceremony. Hesed takes great efforts to revive the Jewry of Subcarpathia. There clubs where Jews of all ages study Hebrew and Jewish religion and traditions. My grandson also studies there. Besides, he is a member of the club for Jewish youngsters in Hesed. There are clubs of foreign languages, la literature studio, a choir and dance studio. There is a club for older people in Hesed where they can talk, listen to music or watch a film having a cup of tea. This is so wonderful since older people suffer more from solitude than diseases. Besides, there is a Jewish community and I have been chairman at the synagogue for 8 years. I know Yiddishkeit and can help those who are just coming to the religion of his ancestors. We go to the synagogue 4 times a week and people got used to this. Now we finally have a rabbi and this is a big relief for us. Young people begin to attend the synagogue and we are very happy about it.  However, there is still anti-Semitism in Ukraine. Actually, it exists on everyday life level, but it is still there. It is possible to fight open anti-Semitism through court or state authorities, but when a young guy in the street yelled ‘Heil Hitler!’ seeing me, this means that fascism is alive and it can come back in Ukraine. Only if everybody stands against it there can be hope that all those horrors it brought to our country once would never recur.    

Glossary:

Tibor Gohman
Uzhhorod
Ukraine
Interviewer: Ella Levitskaya
Date of interview: October 2003

Tibor Gohman lives with his wife Valentina in a standard two-bedroom apartment in a 1970s 9-storied building in a new district of Uzhhorod.  There is typical furniture of this period in their apartment. It’s old, but well preserved. It is clean and cozy in their apartment. Visitors pay attention to many pot plants in the rooms. They are on the floor, on windowsills and on stands. This is Tibor wife's hobby. They are a loving couple. He is athletic, very tall and taciturn and his wife is short, plump and always smiling. Tibor is laconic and brief and likes to joke. He has thick curly hair with gray streaks and bright young eyes. His age did not wear him out. His favorite outfits are jeans and sweaters and these clothes become him.

My family background
Growing up
During the war
After the war
Glossary:

My family background

My father’s parents lived in Mukachevo [Munkacs - until 1918, Munkacevo - from 1918 till 1939, Munkacs - from 1939 till 1945, Mukachevo - since 1945. 40 km from Uzhhorod, 660 km from Kiev], in Subcarpathia 1. I don’t know whether they were born in Mukachevo, but my grandmother and grandfather were born in Subcarpathia. My grandfather’s name was David Gohman. I don’t know my grandmother’s name. My parents and I called her ‘granny’ and her children called her ‘mama’. I don’t know my grandmother or grandfather’s dates of birth. My grandfather was a neolog 2 shochet and my grandmother was a housewife.  

Mukachevo was a Jewish town. Jewish constituted about 50% or more of its population. There were two streets where only Jews resided: Yevreyskaya [Jewish street in Russian] and Danko Streets. Jews also lived in other streets in the center of the town with neighboring Hungarian, Czech, Ukrainian and gypsy families.  There was a big synagogue and a mikveh at the beginning of Yevreyskaya Street. There was also a fish market and Jewish kosher butcher stores. There were many synagogues in Mukachevo. I don’t know the exact number. There must have been about 20 of them. There was a big central synagogue with a Hasid 3 rabbi Haim Luzer Shpira. Mukachevo was a Hasidic 4 center. Hasidim had their synagogues and cheder. There was a huge Hasidic education complex in Danko Street, a big cheder and yeshivah.  

There were few Zionist organizations in Mukachevo. There was continuous ideological fighting between Zionists and Hasidim. Hasidim believed that Messiah would come and lead Jews to Israel, the Promised Land and all they had to do was praying and waiting for him. Zionists didn’t wait for Messiah to come. They established children’s and young people’s clubs where they involved Jewish children in sport activities and gave them vocational education teaching them professions that were in constant demand in Israel and they supported relocation of Jewish young people to Israel. There was also a secular Jewish grammar school in Mukachevo. They studied contemporary Ivrit spoken in Israel while in cheder schools children studied Hebrew. There was the best football team in town in this grammar school. They only slightly touched upon religious subjects in this grammar school and rabbis were rather unhappy about it.

Almost all craftsmen in the town were Jewish. Jews also dealt in trades. There were few non-Jewish stores, but they were located on the outskirts of the town. On Sabbath all Jewish stores were closed and non-Jews also got adjusted to this. They did their weekend shopping before lunch on Friday. There were also Jewish doctors, teachers and lawyers. There was no anti-Semitism in Mukachevo during Austro-Hungarian or Czechoslovakian rule 5. 

My grandfather and grandmother had 8 children: 4 sons and 4 daughters. My father Ignatz, Itzhok was his Jewish name, was the oldest. He was born in 1898. I don’t know when my father’s brothers or sisters were born. All I can say is that babies wee born every 1.5-2 years.  After my father Aron and Solomon, whose Jewish name was Shmuel, were born. Then four daughters were born. My father sisters’ names were: Frieda, Fanni, Regi, her Jewish name was Reizl, and Eszter. The youngest was son Jozsef.

My grandmother and grandfather were religious. My grandfather didn’t have payes, but he had a small beard neatly cut. He didn’t wear all black clothes like Hasidim. My grandfather wore common dark suits, not necessarily black. He also wore a common hat, different from Hasidic hats.  In my opinion, my grandmother was too religious. She wore a wig and close fitting long black gowns. My grandmother prayed whenever she had free time. She had two books of prayers in Hebrew, one for home and one for the synagogue. I don’t know whether my grandmother knew Hebrew, or just could read without understanding the meaning of words like many women at the time. Of course, they celebrated Sabbath and all Jewish holidays at home, but I don’t know about holidays in my father’s family. We only visited them to greet on holidays. All I remember is that grandmother always treated us to the plenty of food. My grandfather went to the synagogue every day. Probably the shochet had to attend the synagogue regularly. My grandmother went to the synagogue on Sabbath and on holidays, but she prayed at home several times per day. My father’s parents followed kashrut, they were strict about it. They spoke Yiddish and sometimes Hungarian at home. When we visited my grandma and grandpa, they spoke Hungarian with me and my brothers and with my mother and father they sometimes spoke Yiddish and sometimes Hungarian. I don’t know what my grandfather thought about Hasidim.

I don’t know whether my father and his brothers studied at cheder. I don’t know at all what kind of education they got, but they must have studied in cheder. Considering their religious parents it couldn’t have been otherwise. Of course, they also finished a general education school.  I don’t know where my father continued his studies. I don’t remember any talks about my father’s childhood or youth. He was taciturn like my grandfather. My father worked as mechanic at the power plant in Mukachevo. There were big diesel units generating power for the town and my father was responsible for their maintenance. He must have had some special education to do this job.

At the time that I remember, my father’s brothers and sisters had their own families and lived separately from their parents. Daughters Frieda and Fannie and sons Aron and Iosif were single and lived with their parents. Aron was a shop assistant in a garment store. He was chronically ill since childhood. Probably due to his health condition he wasn’t married. Another son Shmuel, Solomon, owned a butcher store.  There was a small sausage shop in this store where they made kosher sausage.  There were 3 employees working in this shop. His wife was Jewish and also came from Mukachevo. I don’t remember his wife’s name. She was a housewife. They had two children. Iosif worked as a shop assistant at a household goods store. My father’s sister Frieda helped grandmother about the house. Fannie was a dressmaker receiving orders at home. Regi married an owner of a confectionary store.  I don’t remember his surname. Regi was helping her husband in the store. She was rather good at baking. Eszter married a Hungarian man. His last name was Szerenti. I don’t know what my grandmother or grandfather thought of her marrying a goy, but later as I remember, they got along well. Eszter’s daughter Anna lives in Mukachevo now. She is 80 years old.

My father and his sisters and brothers were not so religious as their parents. They observed Jewish traditions and religion to some extent, but they only did it at their parents’ insistence. They only went to the synagogue at Yom Kippur. My grandfather didn’t force them to go there, but my grandmother did. The only demand my grandma had was to celebrate Yom Kippur according to the Jewish tradition.

I know very little about my mother’s family. They lived in Mukachevo. I didn’t know my mother’s parents. They died long before I was born. Their last name was Berghida, but I don’t know my grandmother or grandfather’s first names. My mother Eszter, her brother and 2 sisters were born in Mukachevo. My mother was born in 1899, but I don’t know her brother or sisters’ dates of birth. It seems, my mother was the youngest. My mother brother’s name was Yakov, one sister was Frieda, but I don’t remember her second sister’s name. I hardly know anything about my mother’s life or her family before she got married. My mother and her sisters were very beautiful. My mother’s sister Frieda even won the first place at the beauty contest in Paris in 1912, but I don’t know any details about it. My mother loved Frieda dearly and often talked about it. My mother’s sisters got married and became housewives. I also knew stories about my mother brother Yakov’s military accomplishments. He was in the Hungarian army [in the KuK] 6 during World War I. He returned a hero from the war: there were awards all over his chest. Of course, I don’t remember his tales that he told us when we were small, but I remember that we were always eager to hear his stories about the war and listened to him ardently. Brother Yakov worked at a meat factory. My mother worked for a dressmaker before getting married. I don’t know what language my mother, her sisters and brother spoke in their parents’ home when they were children. In their adulthood they spoke Hungarian to one another. They only switched to Yiddish when they didn’t want their children to understand the subject of their discussion.

I don’t know how my parents met. After a traditional Jewish wedding in 1922, and it couldn’t have been otherwise in their time, they rented an apartment. We lived in this apartment until 1944. This was a one-storied house divided into two parts. One part had one room, a kitchen and a storeroom that occupied half of a house.

Growing up

There were three children. Miklos, born in 1924, was the oldest. His Jewish name was Azril-Mayer. I was born in 1928. My Russian name was Tiberiy and Jewish name – Yisruel. My younger brother Adalbert was born in 1934. I don’t remember his Jewish name. We were called by our Hungarian names in the family. We all had brit milah according to the Jewish tradition, but perhaps, this was done to please my father’s parents. We spoke Hungarian at home and only when our parents didn’t want us to understand the subject of their discussion they switched to Yiddish. They didn’t teach us Yiddish. Most of my childhood friends were non-Jewish. It was because there were 1-2 Jewish families in our street, but they didn’t have children of my age. My paternal grandmother, when she visited us, told my mother that she didn’t like it that she allowed us to play with goy children, but my mother had a strong opinion about it: her children should play where she could watch them from a window. Playing in another street was out of the question.

My father’s sisters or his brothers’ wives or my mother didn’t wear wigs or kerchiefs. My mother had lovely hats, but they were a tribute to fashion rather then her desire to have her head covered. My mother only wore a kerchief once a year, at Yom Kippur. She had nice chestnut hair and she made nice hairdos. My mother liked perfume and jewelry. She wore fashionable clothes.  When short skirts were in fashion she wore short skirts, especially in summer and she wore light clothes and high-heeled shoes. My father wore suits with colorful shirts, ties and hats. 

Now recalling my past I understand that our family observed many Jewish traditions, but really they didn’t accentuate their attention on them. For example, my mother always prepared for Sabbath. She baked challahs on Friday morning and cooked food for Sabbath. On Friday evening she lit candles. So we had candles lit on Sabbath and there was a challah for dinner, but it was a usual dinner: no blessing of the food and no prayers. This was the end of Sabbath. [Editor’s note: this was the end of Sabbath in the Gohman family but Sabbath ends on the evening of the next day after the Havdalah ritual.] And the following day nobody thought that they shouldn’t do any work. My father worked on Saturday and had a day off on Sunday. There was one crew working on this day, Sunday, but when there was a need, they called my father to work. My father worked as diesel generator mechanic. This power plant supplied power to the whole town. It was work for the government that was of high value. My father wouldn’t lose this job for the sake of observing all rules on Sabbath. We, boys, were happy that we didn’t have to do our homework, but that was about it.  

For Pesach my mother had special crockery that was kept in the attic. We only took it down before holiday and put away our everyday dishes. My mother bought matzah for all days of the holiday in the store. We didn’t eat bread on Pesach. Everything else was like every day.  We didn’t have seder at home. Of course, my grandma didn’t approve of it and never visited us. We sometimes visited them, but never on the first day of Pesach. We usually went on the fourth or fifth day.  

At Chanukkah my mother lit another candle in a chanukkiyah every day. At Rosh Hashanah we always had honey and apples on the table. I don’t think we did it because my parents had a need in observation of traditions. Knowing my grandmother I would rather think that my mother observed rules on the outside since if grandmother had come unexpectedly on a holiday and saw that something wasn’t done for a holidays there would have been a lot of yelling and lecturing… My grandmother’s daughters and daughters-in-law did the same. They observed rules on the outside and grandmother didn’t look into details.  

Yom Kippur was the only Jewish holiday that our family celebrated according to all rules. There was a kapores ritual before the holiday. My mother bought a white hen for herself and white roosters for my father and her sons.  The hen was to be slowly turned around the head and we had to say: ‘May you be my atonement’. I don’t know what happened to these roosters afterward. Probably we just ate them. Before Yom Kippur my mother cooked a very sufficient dinner. It was allowed to eat before the first star appeared in the sky and then a 24-hour fast began. [Editor’s note: actually it is a 25 hours fast.] We, children, didn’t fast, but our parents strictly observed the fast. I remember my grandfather visiting us at home before Yom Kippur saying strictly: ‘You must be at the synagogue tomorrow!’ My parents spent a whole day at the synagogue and returned home after the first stars appeared in the sky. Then the fast was over and we could eat together with parents.

When I went to the first form, my father sent me to cheder. I studied there two weeks and decided it was enough for me. Probably this was my first personal decision in my life. My mother insisted that I went back to cheder, but my father said that if I didn’t want to study there it was going to be a waste of time anyway.  I remember that he said to my mother: ‘He can live his life without cheder!’ Of course, my grandmother was very angry about it. She blamed my parents that they raised a goy of a boy, but then things smoothed down and I didn’t go to cheder again. My older brother Miklos studied in cheder. 

I went to a Czech school at the age of 6. My older brother Miklos also went to this school. There were few Jewish children in my class and teachers and other schoolchildren had a good attitude toward them. There was no anti-Semitism during the Czech rule and they supported Jews in every way. I was doing well at school, although I wasn’t an industrious pupil. I preferred playing with my friends outside rather than sitting at home with my textbooks. I had Jewish and non-Jewish friends. There was no segregation among us, we were just friends. I sang in our school choir and we sang on all school holidays. I finished three forms in the Czech school.

In 1938 Subcarpathia fell under the Hungarian rule [in Subcarpathia] 7. Residents of Mukachevo accepted this change calmly. Many were born and lived during Austro-Hungarian rule and were sure that it was going to be good with the Hungarian rule. Many older people who had lived under the Czech rule for over 20 years didn’t even learn Czech and spoke Hungarian. My father had fluent Czech being a state employee, but my mother only knew few words in Czech. 

During the war

I went to the 4th form in a Hungarian school. We didn’ face any anti-Semitism for about a year after annexation of Subcarpathia to Hungary. In 1939 they began to introduce anti-Jewish laws 8. There was anti-Semitism on a state level. One of the first laws issued was a ban to buy goods in Jewish stores. Storeowners were ordered to reassign their ownership to non-Jews, but they could stay and work there. Then they began to expropriate other property from Jews: factories and shops. If  Jewish owners were not quick enough to reassign their property the state expropriated it without compensation. Jews were not allowed to study in higher educational institutions and were not recruited to the army, but they served in forced labors.  

Since my father was a qualified employee he avoided service in a work battalion. Hungarian authorities preferred to have my father continue his work at the plant rather than start training a newcomer and let him work at the plant without any previous experience. My father’s brother Aron died of a disease in Mukachevo in 1939. I don’t remember his funeral, but since his parents arranged the funeral, I believe, it was in accordance with Jewish traditions. Brothers Shmuel and Iosif were recruited to forced labor in 1941. Shmuel was sent to Ukraine. I don’t know where Iosif was at first. All I know is that since 1943 he was on the territory of Yugoslavia. Shmuel fell ill with typhus at the front. Typhus was so spread at the front that there was a hospital for patients with typhus from the front opened in Mukachevo. Shmuel was taken to Mukachevo in 1943 and he soon died in hospital. Iosif perished somewhere in a forced labor in Yugoslavia in early 1944. My father sister Regi’s husband and my mother sister Frieda’s husbands  also perished in forced labor.

My brother Miklos couldn’t afford to continue his studies after finishing school. The family of five  of us could hardly manage on my father’s salary. In 1941 Hungarians introduced food cards. Jews received rationed food by these cards. Food was very expensive at markets. Miklos became an apprentice with a tailor. I finished school in 1942 and had to go to work. I became an apprentice of a joiner. I had a one-year training and in 1943 I began to work as a joiner in a shop. In 1943 Jews were ordered to have yellow stars on their clothes, on the chest and on the back. It was not allowed to be outside without stars. Any Hungarian soldier could kill a Jew even without taking them to the commandant’s office.  

In spring 1944 a ghetto was established in Mukachevo. Yevreyskatya and Danko Streets were fenced with barbed wire and they ordered Jews to move therein. It was allowed to take some food and few clothes for luggage. There were many people in the ghetto.  There was at least one family or more living in one room. Then it turned out that this ghetto was too small for all Jews of Mukachevo. Then they made another ghetto near that one. It wasn’t allowed to leave the ghetto or even to go from one ghetto to another, but it was allowed to move within one ghetto, go from one house to another. We were in the ghetto with my father’s parents, his sisters Frieda and Fannie, my mother’s brother Yakov and sister Frieda. Later I got to know that Hungarians did not take Jews who had awards of World War I to ghettos or concentration camps. But this was in Hungary and in Subcarpathia they moved all Jews to ghettos. [Editor’s note: This concession of the 1st and 2nd Jewish law was changed in 1941, when nobody was an exception.] My father’s sisters Regi and her family and Eszter were in another ghetto.

We stayed in the ghetto few weeks. Then near the gate to the ghetto they placed an order for inmates of the ghetto to pack some food and clothes for moving to another place. We were taken to Uzhhorod [40 km from Mukachevo, 680 km from Kiev] to a brick factory. Jews from Uzhhorod and the rest of Subcarpathia were taken there. Jews from a village or a town were grouped in one area. We lived in an open air. There were brick drying chambers, but it was impossible to stay inside. They were ruined and damp and there were broken bricks on the ground and there was no ventilation.  There were other facilities with 3 walls left and no roof. Families tried to find space between those partition facilities. They were no protection from the cold or drizzling rain. Perhaps, all they gave was a relative feeling of protection. There was no food given in the ghetto. We ate what we had with us, but we ran out of food promptly. Occasionally people came from Uzhhorod and threw some food behind the walls. Some came to support their friends or acquaintances, but some of them were angry about this treatment of Jews and wanted to help unknown Jews in ghetto. Just outsiders were angry about this maltreatment of Jews and wanted to support the inmates. The inmates of the ghetto were sent to work. Few crews of the inmates of the ghetto, with Hungarian gendarme supervisors made the rounds of Jewish houses sorting out clothing, furniture, utilities, pictures, etc., and  hauled these to a storage facility. Nobody from our family was taken to do this work.

We stayed about 10 days in the ghetto in Uzhhorod. There was a railroad spur near the brick factory used for shipment of bricks and supplied when the factory was in operation. In April 1944 railcars for cattle transportation arrived at this spur. We were taken to these railcars together, a group of us as we were in the ghetto: 5 of us, my father’s parents, his sisters Frieda and Fannie, my mother’s brother Yakov and sister Frieda. There was no room to lie down, people could hardly find space to sit on the floor. There was a hole made in the center for a sewer. There was no way of going to the toilet in hiding and it had to be done before the eyes of others. We were not given water or food. I don’t remember how long the trip lasted, but it seemed eternity to me. We knew that we were taken to a concentration camp: there were rumors about concentration camps in Mukachevo, but nobody knew those were extermination camps. We were sure those were forced labor camps, something like work battalions.

We arrived at Auschwitz early in the morning. There were German soldiers standing near each railcar. They had machine guns. There were also people in white robes, probably, doctors. People were sorted: old men separately, women with children, young people and middle aged ones – separately.  I was almost 16 and I was strong and big. They separated me and my brother Miklos from our parents. My parents and younger brother were taken to a group guarded by Germans with machine guns. We were in Auschwitz until night and then we were ordered to border a train and taken to Katovice, a work camp of Auschwitz. My brother was taken to another camp. I didn’t know what happened to my dear ones. I didn’t know that my parents and my younger brother Adalbert, my father’s parents, my mother’s brother Yakov and my mother’s sister, whose name I don’t remember with her husband and children and my father’s sisters Frieda and Fannie were sent to a gas chamber when our group was waiting for departure from Auschwitz.. My father’s sisters Regi and her husband and the children and Eszter and her children, who were in another ghetto, also perished in a gas chamber. Only my mother’s sister Frieda survived in the concentration camp. She was very pretty and they probably felt sorry for her and didn’t send her to a gas chamber. She worked somewhere there, but her children perished.

In Katovice we were accommodated in very big plank barracks. There were narrow two-tier plank beds. It’s hard to say how many inmates were in barracks. I think there were about 500 inmates in one. The majority of inmates were Jews, but there were also Polish, Czechs, Slovaks, Austrians and people from other countries. I talked with Hungarians and Czechs knowing both languages.  There was a senior inmate in each barrack. Management of the camp knew those headmen. German soldiers with machine guns and trained dogs guarded the camp. Since it was a work camp Germans gave us food to be able to work. We had three meals per day: in the morning we had a cup of surrogate coffee with bread, then we had lunch at work site delivered from the camp. In the evening we had some boiled cereal and a little soup. Of course, there were bed sheets or pillows, but each of us had a blanket. Every morning after breakfast we marched to work sites. Katovice like other Polish towns was ruined. Almost a whole town was in ruins. We were to remove this debris. We piled bricks and debris to be loaded on trucks hauling it out. So we were cleaning up the town, street after street. We were given spades, picks and crowbars in the camp.  After work we carried our tools back to the camp. We worked without days off and didn’t know the count of days or months. 

In January 1945 Soviet and American troops began to advance. The front line was approaching Auschwitz. We were formed in columns and marched to Mauthausen under convoy having weapons. We were not given any food or water on the way. About 5 thousand people left Katovice, but less than a thousand reached Mauthausen. Many died of hunger. The convoy was shooting those who were too weak to go. They shot them in the head and pushed corpses aside the road. There was a crew walking behind us. They buried the corpses, but later they stopped doing this. It was already cold. It was January. We were in our camp robes, and our convoy allowed us to wrap our blankets around our shoulders. We slept on the ground or sometimes they took us to abandoned stables or sheds. People happened to freeze to death at night.  

We didn’t work in Mauthausen. Occasionally guards chose few inmates to clean up the territory, but we didn’t go to work systematically. We were provided one meal per day: it was some  kind of soup with half-rotten beetroots. There was no bread. We spent almost all time lying on our plank beds. There was no heating in barracks. There were many barracks. There were English prisoners-of-war in one barrack. They were treated a little better. Once per month they were allowed to receive food parcels and they got better meals than we were. In our barracks inmates died of diseases and emaciation every day. We understood that the front line was coming nearer and that the end of war was close. There were rumors in the camp that Germans were going to exterminate all inmates before leaving the camp. We didn’t consider escape. There were guards on towers who shot inmates even when they came out of their barracks at a wrong time. There were patrol dogs running across the camp. They jumped on inmates, bringing them down and tore them to pieces. We were too weak to walk away and we understood it well. We were lying on plank beds shivering from cold. We were weak and knew that death was unavoidable; one way or another we were going to die either from hunger or the guards would kill us. It lasted until 8 May 1945. On this day US troops entered the camp. This was our liberation day.

After the war

I was exhausted and they sent me to a hospital in Hirschwang near Vienna. There was a big aerodrome and a hospital nearby. They brought me to recovery there. I stayed in hospital two months. Americans visited this hospital asking patients where they came from and where they wanted to live. We could change any country. They were trying to convince us to go to USA and promised to help with lodging, study and work. I didn’t know that Germans exterminated almost my whole family and my relatives. I was dreaming of coming home and embracing my dear ones and seeing my friends. When they were making lists I said I was a citizen of Czechoslovakia, a resident of Subcarpathia and said that I wanted to go back to Subcarpathia. The officer making this list told me that Subcarpathia did belong to Czechoslovakia any longer and that it was annexed to the USSR. I knew very little about the Soviet Union. I knew that this country overtook the heaviest burden of the war and that this country struggled against fascism – and this was all. It wasn’t much, but I was eager to go back to Subcarpathia and it couldn’t have changed much. So I stood my grounds. Few other people wanted to go to Subcarpathia. We were taken to Budapest where we were transferred to Russian officers. They gave us tickets and some food to go. We were allowed to stay in Budapest for few days. I decided to go to a public bathroom. Before going into the bathroom I left my clothes and underwear to the laundry. I washed myself and went to pick my clothing, but it wasn’t ready yet.  I was sitting there wrapped in my towel waiting for them to bring my clothes, when all of a sudden my older brother Miklos came in. Of course, he was thin and he changed, but I recognized him immediately. He recognized me, too. We started talking and were afraid to lose the sight of each other even for a minute. We went home together.

We arrived at Mukachevo in July 1945. Our house was locked and the doors were sealed since we were taken to the ghetto. Any belongings were gone. Probably, they took away things from abandoned Jewish houses in Mukachevo like they did in Uzhhorod. Only what seemed to have no value to gendarmes remained in the house. Our neighbors sympathized with us and at the beginning tried to help us as much as they could. We lived in our house. There were many Jews who returned from camps there. After the war, my mother’s sister Frieda returned to Mukachevo. She told Miklos and me about what happened to our family. Frieda settled down alone in her house. She was agonizingly ill and died in 1949. When we returned Miklos went to work as a tailor in a fashion shop.  People wanted to dress nicely. The war was over and it seemed that life was beginning anew. It was hard to buy something in shops: there was one thing about the Soviet regime that we had never known before regardless the regimes: empty shops. Therefore, having a tailor make clothes was the only opportunity. Miklos had many orders and earned well. I went to work as a joiner in a shop. We received Soviet passports and became citizens of the USSR. From Tibor I had the name of Tibor written in my passport and Miklos became Nikolay.

Many people from the USSR, particularly from Ukraine, moved to Subcarpathia. Many of them came to live here being professionals and others were Party activists who were to establish the principles of the Soviet power in Subcarpathia.  It’s hard to say, probably some of them wanted to start a new life. My brother and I began to study Russian. It’s easy to pick up a language when one is young. Besides, Russian has much in common with the Slovak language. Of course, even now I speak Russian with a slight Hungarian accent, but then this accent was much stronger. However, I understood what people wanted to say and they understood me. Those newcomers from the USSR were seemed to have come from a different world. They found it strange that in Subcarpathia even young people were religious. They found this strange and we believed that what was happening when Subcarpathia became Soviet was strange. Soviet authorities began struggle against religion 9 in Subcarpathia. They were closing all religious temples. They treated believers almost like criminals. The USSR didn’t appreciate people having relatives abroad and contacts with them 10. We found it strange, but for newcomers from the USSR it was absolutely natural. My brother and I had somewhat skeptical attitude to this world, but we looked at it with interest. We understood that our past life was over and we had to adjust to life in the USSR. 

All citizens of the USSR were subject to military service after turning 18 years of age.  A military registry office acknowledged that Miklos was unfit for military service, while I was registered for future service. In autumn 1948 they sent me a notification to make my appearance at the registry office where they announced that I was recruited to the Soviet army. All recruits were taken to Byelorussia where they were forming a military unit and from there we moved to Khabarovsk in the Far East, in 7000 km from home. In Khabarovsk I had some training and then was assigned to the Pacific Ocean Navy. It was an electric engineering battalion dealing in installation of electric equipment on aerodromes. Our battalion was sent to Uglovaya station in 30 km from Vladivostok. Although I was the only person in my battalion who was not a Komsomol 11 member they appointed me chief of a logistics platoon. I was in command! A year later I was promoted to the rank of sergeant. We lived in barracks. I was the only Jew in my battalion, but I never faced any anti-Semitism at that period. I had friends of many nationalities, but none of them gave much thought to my Jewish identity. My management also treated me well.

I corresponded with my brother, my only kinship. He wrote that a cotton wool factory was opened in Mukachevo and my brother became its director. He was seeing a Jewish girl in Mukachevo. She was also in a concentration camp. Her name was Fiera, but I don’t remember her surname. In 1953 they got married. Fiera’s parents were religious and observed Jewish traditions.  Even after World War II, during the Soviet period, they spoke Yiddish at home and celebrated Jewish holidays. Fiera’s parents arranged a traditional Jewish wedding for Miklos and Fiera. They registered their marriage in a registry office and had a chuppah at home. Shortly after the wedding the family moved to Uzhhorod. Miklos went to work as a shop assistant in a store. The service term in the Navy was 5 years at that time. I had one 10-day leave plus travel time through this whole period. A trip from Novosibirsk to Uzhhorod lasted over a week and maybe for this reason I wasn’t that eager to travel. 

I met my wife to be when I was in the army. Valentina Novikova studied in the Electric Engineering Technical School in Vladivostok. I occasionally took a leave and went to town with my fellow comrades. We went for walks or to dancing events. Once we went to dance in Valentina’s school where I met her. We spent a whole evening together talking and dancing and decided to meet again on my next leave. Valentina was born in Leningrad 1928. Her mother died at childbirth. Valentina’s father was a professional military and moved from one place to another, so he didn’t have an opportunity to raise his daughter. He left Valentina with her grandmother in Novosibirsk. She raised Valentina. Her father perished at the front. Valentina was Russian, but nationality never mattered to me.  It didn’t matter to her that I was a Jew. That we loved each other was important to us. We were both orphans and cared about our future family and children. I married Valentina in 1953, when I served in the army. We didn’t have money and we couldn’t afford a wedding party. We registered our marriage in a registry office and in the evening I received a 3-day leave that we spent together at Valentina’s home and then I returned to my military unit. 

My life in Czechoslovakia and Hungary was over actually in my childhood, when I was 15.  Then few years in concentration camp, so I would say, I grew up and my personality developed during the Soviet period.  And, whether I wanted it or not, this Soviet power developed my character and my outlooks on life, though, of course, not to the extent that it influenced those who were born and grew up under its rule.  I remember that I was traveling by train to visit my brother on 5 March 1953. The train stopped at the Baikal station. The radio announced that Stalin died and then Beriya 12 said a speech. All passengers were crying and I couldn’t hold back my tears either. Of course, I wasn’t in the state of panic like many Soviet people who didn’t understand their life without Stalin. I understood that life was going on and this was not the end of the world, but his death was also a grief for me. Uncertainty was the most worrying thing: who was to replace Stalin and what was going to happen to us. I didn’t believe in changes for better and as for the bad, there are no limits to it.   

Later, after Khrushchev 13 spoke at the 20th Congress 14, I got rid of my illusions about Stalin. Of course, I believed Khrushchev instantly. I had heard before from my fellow comrades that people had been arrested without any grounds for a word spoken incautiously by someone else’s report. When I served in the army there was a KGB 15 officer in every unit. Our chief of this special department was captain Baranov. Everybody was afraid of him. There was a car mechanic from Mukachevo in our unit. His surname was Dashko. On 5 March, when Stalin died, Dashko was fixing a car lying under it. Captain Baranov came near and asked what he was doing. Dashko replied that he had to fix a car. ‘Haven’t you heard that Stalin died?’  Dashko replied that he was sorry, of course, but what could one do, his time had come… For just this phrase he was sentenced to 25 years in camps. He was released in 1956 after the 20th Party Congress, but he had spent few years in camps, anyway. This was a man I knew in person. I did suspect that there was something wrong about Stalin’s regime.  Then another incident proved my doubts was about Beriya. At the time, when Stalin was in power, Beriya was the second man in the state, but after Stalin’s death he all of a sudden became an enemy of the people, a spy and was executed on December 23, 1953. I gradually came to understanding that a party was associated with constant lies, but this understanding didn’t evolve at once. 

In 1954 I demobilized from the army. My wife finished her college and moved to her grandmother in Novosibirsk. I arrived there after demobilization. When I arrived, all I had included kersey boots, my military shirt and overcoat. My wife and I could only rely on ourselves. There was to be no help from somebody else. I went to work as a car mechanic at an equipment yard and later I became a driver there.  I worked as a driver for the rest of my life. At first we rented a room and then I received a plot of land from my work to build a house. We made a temporary hut and continued construction of a house. 2 years later our house was ready. It was a good brick house with 4 rooms and a kitchen.  I also installed water and gas piping. We moved in with Valentina and her grandmother. Our children also grew up in this house. Our daughter Natalia was born in 1955 and son Victor - in 1956. Valentina quit.her job after our children were born. She was a housewife and took care of the children. During our life in Novosibirsk I never faced anti-Semitism, or heard about anti-Semitic attitudes in Novosibirsk. My children went to school and nobody asked them about their nationality. My wife’s grandma died in 1959.

I didn’t join Komsomol in the army, though they offered me. When I went to work at the equipment yard they insisted that I joined the Party.  This was the eastern part of the USSR that became Soviet in 1917. Generations of people who grew up during the Soviet period believed in communism and sincerely thought that the party was ‘the leading and guiding force’, as they said in newspaper articles. I also partially fell under their influence. We believed in the communism that Khrushchev promised. Communist ideas are good, only they disguised their wrong deeds in them. 

I joined the party in Novosibirsk in 1959. There were three of us joining the party: I, a young driver and chief mechanic of the equipment yard; he was 45 years old. We were invited to the Party town committee for a discussion with old communists. Each of us was invited to an office where they asked us questions. An old general asked most questions. They asked me whether I learned the statute and few simple questions.  Then they asked the young driver and chief mechanic was the last one to be interrogated. The general asked him: why have you ripened so late for joining the party? And he replied jokingly: they watered me poorly and that was why it came so late. We burst into laughter, but the old Bolsheviks didn’t like this answer at all. However, all three of us were admitted. So I became a communist. I understood that this was a reliable way for me to get a promotion. Any doors opened to members of the party.  Yes, it was necessary to work honestly and comply with plans. Communists were the first ones to be questioned when there was a delay.  And I worked honestly and well, but not because this was what the party demanded, but because I had to support my family. I knew that I had to find a well-paid job by all means. So I was promoted being a communist: I was secretary of a party organization and chairman of a shop committee. In a short period I lost my trust in the party and in communism. I wasn’t a communist in my heart. 

I didn’t quite notice the invasion of Soviet troops to Hungary [in 1956] 16; we lived in Novosibirsk then and there was hardly anything heard about it there. As for Czechoslovakian events [which was called Prague Spring] 17, I was taking part in them. I was recruited to the army again working in a militarized equipment unit.  In case of combat action we were recruited automatically. We were sent to Czechoslovakia. I was commander of the equipment unit of a platoon.  We spent there 3 months. Seeing it all with our own eyes we couldn’t believe the version of Soviet propaganda that Soviet troops invaded the country at the request of residents of Czechoslovakia since Germans were supposedly going to occupy Czechoslovakia and had their armies near the border. We were told that we were going to rescue Czechoslovakia from aggression, while actually Soviet armies invaded the country since the Czechs wanted to pull out of socialism and didn’t want to obey to the USSR demands.  Of course, the USSR couldn’t allow a single country to  ‘leave the socialist camp’, or other countries would be on the run, too.  We talked with Slovaks and understood the situation promptly. They were yelling seeing us: ‘Ivan, go home!’ Everybody understood that we hadn’t come there at their request: this was not the way to greet liberators.  We were not rescuing them, but killing… I understood this clearly from the very beginning.

Of course, we didn’t celebrate Jewish holidays at home. We celebrated Soviet holidays: 1 May, 7 November [October Revolution Day] 18, Victory Day [May 9] 19, 23rd February, the Soviet army Day 20 and New Year. For my wife and children those were the holidays they were used to. As for me, I understood that I had to get adjusted to living in this environment. Our friends were my colleagues and my wife’s school friends. There were hardly any Jews among them, but I didn’t care about it. I’ve had non-Jewish friends since childhood.

Unfortunately, I could spend very little time with my family. I had to work a lot to provide well for the family. I often went on trips and stayed away from my family for few days in a row. I worked from morning till night and only came home to eat and sleep. Valentina took care of the household. Fortunately she understood that it was not my caprice, but life’s necessity. When I had days off we tried to spend this time together. We only spoke Russian at home. Valentina didn’t know Hungarian. None of my acquaintances spoke Hungarian either. In the morning  we walked with the children and took them to the cinema. Valentina made more plentiful dinners on such days and we ate and talked with our children. In the evening, when the children went to bed, Valentina and I went to the theater or to visit our friends. Unfortunately, those were rare occasions.

I corresponded with my brother. He and his wife had two children: daughter Ludmila, born in 1957, and son Yevgeniy, born in 1965. When Yevgeniy was born, we went to visit my brother. Miklos and his wife began to tell me that there were only two of us left of a big family and that we were living too far from one another and hardly had any opportunity to see each other. They suggested that we moved to Uzhhorod. One month later, in September 1965, my wife and I sold our house in Novosibirsk and the four of us moved to Uzhhorod. We bought a house near my brother’s place in Uzhhorod. Our children went to school and I went to work as a driver in an equipment yard. My wife went to work as an assembly worker at a tool manufacturing plant. Valentina was having a hard time in Uzhhorod. She was used to living in a big city: there were 1.5 million resident in Novosibirsk at that time, and Uzhhorod seemed like a big village after Novosibirsk. Valentina cried at nights and wanted to go back there. Then she made friends and work and things became easier. Then she was assigned to the position of military electronic equipment testing specialist where she worked until retirement.

After moving to Uzhhorod my family took up skiing.  Uzhhorod is surrounded with picturesque mountains and there are many slopes fro skiing. We liked going hiking in the mountains when I was free on weekends.  In winter we skied and in spring and summer we just walked on the picturesque outskirts. We also liked to spend vacation in a nice spot in Subcarpathia.

By the way, after we moved to Uzhhorod I faced anti-Semitism for the first time in my life. My daughter who was in the 5th grade at school was called zhydovka [kike]. She asked us what this word meant. This was the first time she heard this word and we had to explain about Jews. However, there were no more incidents. After we moved to Uzhhorod I began thinking and listening to what other people were saying about the soviet power or injustice taking place since Subcarpathia became Soviet. In Subcarpathia people were not so much under the influence of the Soviet power and they still thought independently. And I began to get smarter and think about thee USSR more critically.

Our life in Uzhhorod was not much different from how we lived in Novosibirsk. We made new friends at work and besides, I met my old friends who moved to Uzhhorod from Mukachevo.  I met with them often. Such meetings brought back my childhood memories. I spoke Hungarian, the language of my childhood and youth with them. My brother was near me and this was the most important thing. We visited each other every week.

In the 1970s Jews began to move to Israel. Almost all Jews living Subcarpathia before it was annexed to the USSR left the country. My few friends who had returned from concentration camps and forced labors left, too.  I was sympathetic about their decision. I didn’t conifer departure.  My wife cannot bear the heat and she wouldn’t be able to bear the climate in Israel. My brother’s decision to move to Israel was like a blow to me.  I had moved to Uzhhorod to be near him and then he was leaving me. At that time people were leaving for good and contact with them terminated instantly or later. It was impossible to think that one day it would be possible to travel abroad or invite relatives or friends to the USSR that was at that time deadly separated from the rest of the world with an iron curtain 21. My brother and his family left in 1971. They lived in Tel-Aviv, Israel, few years. Then my niece Ludmila got married and moved to Toronto, Canada with her husband. Miklos and his wife followed them to Canada to be near their daughter. My brother and I corresponded. It was dangerous for me, but I decided that since I didn’t hold any official posts they would hardly fire me. If they did, I would find another job: good driver were in demand. Many party members were having problems with district and town Party committees for corresponding with their relatives abroad. I knew that it was true, but they didn’t touch me for some reason.

My children were raised as Soviet children. They were pioneers and Komsomol members. They finished 10 forms of a Russian secondary school. My daughter went to study at a hairdresser’s school. After finishing it she went to work as a hairdresser. In 1974 she got married. My wife arranged a dinner for the newly weds’ friends. We had no relatives left. Natalia’s husband Dmitriy Galushko is Ukrainian. Dmitriy was a nice and reliable man and I knew that my daughter was going to be happy with him. He was a professional military and returned from Afghanistan war 22. After the wedding Dmitriy got a new assignment to Germany and Natalia followed him there. They lived in Germany for 5 years.  Shortly after Natalia and her husband returned to Uzhhorod our house was pulled down to build a new multi-storied building. My daughter received a 3-bedroom apartment and my wife and I received a 2-bedroom apartment. Natalia and Dmitriy’s son Oleg was born in 1980 and daughter Tatiana was born in 1985. Oleg studies in Kiev College of International Relationships and works in Ukrainian Security Service.   He is married. His wife is a student and she is Ukrainian. Natalia’s daughter Tatiana is finishing school this year. 

Son Victor entered the Faculty of Automobile and Tractor Building after finishing school. He had all excellent marks at the university. Upon graduation he got an assignment [mandatory job assiggnment] 23 to my equipment yard.  He got a position of dispatcher. He was smart and had higher education, but he wasn’t getting promotions. He worked as a dispatcher through long years. The others were promoted, but he stayed where he was.  I advised him to join the party referring to my experience. Victor said he didn’t want to join the party. Victor was married a Jewish girl Ludmilla. Her parents had moved to Uzhhorod from the USSR. Ludmila studied with Victor at the university and they met there. They got married when they were last-year students and had an ordinary secular wedding. In 1980 their daughter Yelena was born. After their daughter was born Victor’s wife Ludmila became a housewife. Victor had to support the family. He submitted his application to the party. Almost immediately after my son joined the party his career began. He was promoted to senior dispatcher, then chief of maintenance department and soon he was deputy director of the equipment yard. His earnings were growing, accordingly. Yelena decided to move to Israel after finishing school. She has served in the army and is going to enter a university. My granddaughter is happy with her life. She loves Israel and is going to live her life there. Victor’s son Edward was born in 1997. He started going to school.

I had a good attitude toward perestroika 24 that General Secretary of the Party Mikhail Gorbachev 25 initiated. I liked it when he withdrew the article stating that the party was the leading and guiding force from the Constitution. We got more freedom in life. Gorbachev wanted to turn the USSR to a better and free life. I understand that this bothered the old leaders who were feeling the ground slipping away from under their feet. They interfered and tried to stir up people’s resentment of perestroika, but I supported his policy. 

The ‘iron curtain’ hiding the USSR from the rest of the world for over 70 years finally collapsed.  Soviet people got an opportunity to travel abroad on tours or visits. In 1990 my son Victor and I went to visit my brother Miklos in Canada. He was very ill then. We realized many things in Canada. We saw that workers had a good life without thinking about politics. They just had to work well to have a good life. In the USSR party leaders, deputies and others were called ‘servants of people’. It was a typical newspaper idiom. What kind of a country it is where ‘servants’ live much better than their masters and enjoy privileges that they establish for themselves… When we returned to Uzhhorod, my son and I gave our party membership cards to secretary of the party organization and said that we didn’t want to continue our membership in the party and that we would not come to the party meeting to explain our position. So we terminated our membership in the party, and nothing happened. This took place before break up of the USSR [editor’s note: Yeltsin in 1991 signed a deal with Russia's neighbors that formalized the break up of the Soviet Union. The USSR was replaced by the Commonwealth of Independent States (CIS)].

I felt negative about the break up of the soviet Union at first, but then a hope emerged that if Ukraine had its independence and would make a smaller state than the USSR life might improve.  Ukraine is rich in deposits and fruitful soil. One only needs to manage it in a smart way.  However, it happened to be vice versa.  We became poor, they’ve robbed us. Anyway, this has to do with economy. Independent Ukraine gave a rebirth to Jewish life. People can openly go to the synagogue.  During the Soviet period they could only go there in secret: God forbid if somebody saw it and reported.  Members of the party could be expelled and fired from work and there might have been such an entry about the reason of resignation in the book of employment records that there was hardly any hope left to get another employment. In the independent Ukraine this has changed. There are Jewish newspapers and magazines, Jewish TV programs and Jewish performances in theaters. 

I’ve come to religion unexpectedly. I grew up in a fairly religious family. I wasn’t taught Jewish traditions or holidays. When I returned from concentration camps I became an atheist like the majority of population in the USSR. And, frankly speaking, I didn’t feel any need in religion. My brother Miklos and his family were religious. They observed Jewish traditions, celebrated Sabbath and Jewish holidays and went to the synagogue.  Miklos died few months after Victor and I visited him. His family buried him in the Jewish cemetery according to Jewish traditions. Miklos’s wife Fiera notified me about the funeral and asked me to recite the Kaddish for my brother, but I didn’t know anything about it. I told my friend about it. We were friends back in Mukachevo and he knew Miklos well. I knew that he attended a synagogue. He offered me to go to the synagogue with him.  I went with him for the first time and since then I’ve attended the synagogue regularly. I am a pensioner and have time to socialize with people – why not? When I worked I didn’t have free time. I was on trips days and nights. So I had no time for going out and I didn’t fee like it.  Now it has become a need for me. In the evening I think: tomorrow I will go to the synagogue. In 1990 I became a Jewish religious community in Uzhhorod.  I was elected deputy chairman of the community few years. It’s hard for me to go to the synagogue in the evening. I have poor sight. We get together 4 times a week. Every Friday we celebrate Sabbath at the synagogue. We get together in the evening, light candles and somebody recites Kiddush, blessing over wine then recite a blessing over the challah bread. I have a busy day on Friday.  Everything needs to be ready: coffee on the tables after a prayer, sweets, challah bread, 50 grams of vodka each. And on Saturday there have to be treatments after a prayer. We always celebrate Jewish holidays according to the rules and traditions. I do not celebrate holidays at home, we have better arrangements in the community. My wife goes to such events. 

In 1999 Hesed, Jewish charity fund, was established in Uzhhorod.  I take part in its activities. It is a very good and much needed organization. It provides assistance to the needy. Now many people envy Jews, especially old people. It’s hard to imagine how older people could survive, if it were not for Hesed. They provide food products and deliver meals to the elderly, provide medications and medical assistance. They also take care of the little ones. It’s no secret to all how much money a family needs to spend to take care of a baby. Hesed helps people of all ages, children and old people, to learn about Jewish religion, traditions, history and study the languages. There are dancing, choir and theatrical clubs, there is a computer school and everybody can find what's interesting for him.  There are also pastime clubs for older people. The most terrible thing about old age is loneliness and lack of communication.  They can watch a movie, listen to a lecture or talk to their acquaintances having a cup of tea or coffee and find new friends in Hesed. I work in the social commission of Hesed. Hesed has made a strong presence in our family. My son-in-law Dmitriy Galushko also works in Hesed. He retired at 42. In 1999 he became an employee of the Hesed. He takes care of lonely old people. My life is full thanks to Hesed and community. I have no time for feeling old and I know that I am doing important and necessary work.

Glossary:

LEONID KOTLIAR
Ukraine
Kiev
Interviewer: Roman Lenhovskiy
Date of interview: November 2003

Leonid Kotliar lives with his wife Ludmila Zhutnik in a two-bedroom apartment of a modern many-storied house in a new district on the outskirts of Kiev. The apartment is modestly furnished, but one can tell that they are doing well.  Leonid is a vivid, nice and very friendly man of average height with thick gray hair. He has keen gray eyes and an attractive smile. There are many books in the room: world classics and contemporary writers, Jewish writers, of his favorite are Sholem Aleichem1 and Erenburg2, and books that he needs in his professional activities: literature textbooks, manuals, dictionaries and encyclopedias. Leonid Isaacovich deals in translations and writes memoirs. There are photographs of his relatives behind the glass on bookshelves. There are many pot plants on windowsills and on a number of stands. Ludmila has been a pensioner for many years and now she can dedicate herself to her favorite hobby growing plants.

Leonid brings family albums with photographs of his dear ones and we go back in time. He gladly tells me about the life of his numerous family members. 

My family background

Growing up

The famine

Before the war

During the war

Capture by the Germans

After the war

Recent years

Glossary

My family background

My paternal grandfather Moisey Kotliar was born in Tetiyev town of Kiev province in 80 km from Kiev in the late 1860s. My grandmother, whose name I don’t know, also came from this area. In the early 1890s my grandmother and grandfather got married. They were not poor: my grandfather worked at the mill and was a co-owner of it and my grandmother was a housewife. They had 6 children: their older daughter Bluma was born in the early 1890s, and Leibl was a couple of years her junior. My father Isaac Kotliar was born on 19 December 1897, Manya was born in 1903, Yeva in 1905, and Idel was born in 1912. In those years there were fewer Jews than Ukrainians in Tetiyev and there was also Polish and Russian population in the town. They got along well. Tetiyev was famous for its sugar factories. Trade and crafts were major business activities. 

My grandmother and grandfather were very religious: they went to the synagogue, celebrated Sabbath, ate kosher food and celebrated all Jewish holidays. My father’s older brother Leibl finished cheder. My father also attended cheder where he studied Yiddish, arithmetic and Russian. However, he didn’t finish it since he had to go to work.  In 1912 my grandmother died and grandfather married a Jewish woman shortly afterward.  She had a daughter named Fania, born in 1912, and in 1914 their son Samson was born. The stepmother did her best to make her husband’s children leave their home as soon as possible so that her children could inherit more possessions. Bluma and Leibl moved to America from their stepmother in 1912. They lived in New York. Leibl had his own car. He delivered laundry from laundromat. We received letters from them until the middle 1920s and then correspondence became dangerous3 for our family and we terminated it for good. This is all we know about them.  

By the age of 14 my father learned upholstery and saddle making business and ran away from his stepmother to Kiev. There he became a seat maker’s apprentice in a carriage manufacture shop.  When World War I4 began he was mobilized to work at the big military plant ‘Arsenal’ from where they didn’t recruit workers to the army. My father made horse collars and harness for the needs of the army.

In 1919 a big Jewish pogrom5 happened in Tetiyev. Grandfather Moisey and my father’s stepmother perished. My father’s sisters 16-year-old Manya and 14-year-old and their 7-year-old brother Idel escaped to Kiev. Younger children 6-year-old Fania and 4-year-old Samson were hiding in the attic. They were lucky to find a bag with lump sugar there. They ate sugar and drank their own urine and came down when the pogrom was over.  Somehow they were sent to Kiev where people helped them to find their brothers and sisters.

Furnished rooms were on lease in a garret in the center of Kiev where sailors, prostitutes and likewise public resided before the October revolution.6 After the revolution 28 rooms in the garret became vacant and were spontaneously accommodated by Jews escaping to Kiev from pogroms.  My father and his sisters Manya, Yeva and Fania moved into this garret and their younger brothers Idel and Samson were sent to a children’s home.  Manya and Yeva sold coal in Podol7 and later they bought a knitting machine. They knitted stockings and socks and sold them at the Jewish market near their home. I have dim memories about Yeva. She died in 1933. Manya married Mikhail Zhyvotovskiy, a tradesman, in the early 1920s. They had a son named Yefim.  My father’s younger Fania married Grigoriy Tverskoy, also a Jew, in the 1930s. They had three children: Mikhail, Leonid and a daughter whose name I don’t remember. 

My father met my mother Rachil Risman living in the garret. She and her sister Toibl escaped to Kiev from a pogrom in Makarov town in 50 km from Kiev shortly after the revolution of 1917. My parents got married in 1921. Those were trying times and they didn’t have a wedding party.

My maternal grandfather and grandmother were born in Makarov town of Kiev province in the 1870s. Grandfather Leizer Risman was a tailor and my grandmother Tsyvia Risman was a housewife.  My mother said that grandmother Tsyvia was a beautiful woman with full forms, made wonderful sausage and was a very good housewife. They had four children: the oldest Toibl was born in 1888, then came Moisey, born in 1893, Ruvim was a couple of years younger and my mother Rachil was the youngest. She was born in 1900. Their family strictly observed Jewish traditions, as was customary at this period of time. Ukrainian constituted a major part of the population of Makarov, one third of the population was Jewish and the rest of residents were Polish, Russian and Byelorussian.  Jews dealt in trades and crafts. They owned taverns and inns.  There were a few synagogues, a Jewish hospital, cheder and a Jewish grammar school in the town.  My mother’s brothers finished cheder and my mother studied in the Jewish grammar school. When my mother was finishing grammar school she had a fiancé who loved her very much. I don’t know why they separated. 

World War I began and Moisey was recruited to the Red Army. A few years later Ruvim went to the army.  My mother loved her brothers dearly. She told me that they were very kind and that they were at the front in the Carpathians. They wrote letters from the front. Moisey perished during WWI. Ruvim was wounded in 1918 and sent to a hospital in Kiev. On his way there he fell ill with typhus. Grandmother Tsyvia went to see him and contracted typhus from him. She died in Kiev in 1918. Soon Ruvim died, too.  Grandfather Leizer couldn’t cope with it and died in Kiev in autumn 1919 where he had escaped from pogroms.

Growing up

I was born in Kiev on 28 January 1922. I was named after my grandfather Leizer, but my father registered me by the Russian name8 of Lusia. He liked the way it sounded: my father’s acquaintances in Kiev had a grandson named Lusik. 

We lived in the garret around the perimeter of the house on the fourth floor. My mother, my father, my mother’s older sister Tania (Toibl by her birth certificate) and I were living in a small room. My parents and Tania spoke Yiddish at home, but at times they switched to Russian.  They spoke Yiddish with an accent of provincial Jews. My mother was quick-tempered, but it didn’t mean that she wasn’t kind and nice.

On 20 July 1924 my younger brother Roman was born into this world. He was named after my mother’s brother Ruvim, but he was given a Russian name that sounded alike to not emphasize on his Jewish origin. My parents didn’t observe Jewish traditions: it was a period of struggle against religion9, and authorities tried to develop atheism in us. However, my father told us how they celebrated Pesach, Rosh Hashanah, Chanukkah and Purim in Tetiyev. There were mainly Jews living in our garret, but I don’t remember anybody openly celebrating Jewish holidays. There were 4-5 tenants in each of 28 rooms. There was a long corridor where many children were running to and fro. I remember older children singing rhymes:

‘Away, away with monks, rabbis and priests,

We shall climb heavens and chase away all gods’.

There were two water taps in the garret. Tenants cooked on primus stoves10 in the corridor and there was a toilet in the yard. When I was 12 there was a toilet installed in one end of the corridor and a year later there was another toilet installed. There was an electric bulb in each room and there was a power consumption meter. All tenants paid their fees based on their bulb’s capacity.   The corridor was lighted through glass door windows above the doors and there was some light produced by stoves.  Tenants of the garret hated electric irons, boilers and radios that appeared in the late 1930s since it was impossible to control the power consumption.  

My father joined the Party in 1926. He wasn’t interested in any Party activities, but they said at his Arsenal plant: ‘You are a worker and you must be a member of the Party.’ –My father was also obliged to subscribe to Party editions and study works of ‘classics’ [Editor’s note: by classics here Lenin, Marx and Engels are implied]. Therefore, he subscribed to the Lenin’s library11, an edition of works of the leader of the world proletariat in blue binding, and to the popular daily newspaper ‘Pravda’ [the main newspaper of the Communist party] that had a million’s circulation. My father got up very early. His working day at the plant began at 7 am. He liked staying in bed later on weekends and I liked to climb under his blanket. He used to read Lenin’s articles in bed and I was learning to read by book titles. However, he never finished one Lenin book. He never had enough patience. 

My mother’s sister Tania didn’t have a profession. She worked in a diner and was a housewife.  My mother got cancer and had one breast amputated. Then doctors discovered stomach cancer. She died in 1929. My mother was buried in the Lukianovskoye Jewish cemetery12. As far as I remember, there were no rituals observed. I remember a rabbi reciting a prayer in Hebrew in the cemetery. Aunt Tania replaced my mother to my brother and me. She was very kind to us and a few years later my father married her.

My maternal grandmother’s brother Ieshuah lived nearby. He was a tailor. Once, when my mother was no longer with us, he invited my father, Tania, Roman and me to a seder on Pesach. Ieshuah was religious. He had his tallit and tefillin on, and opened a prayer book to read a prayer. Then he posed four traditional questions in Yiddish: what did the pharaoh do, how did Jews exude from Egyptian slavery? I found it interesting, but I don’t remember any answers. We drank red wine from beautiful crystal glasses used only on Pesach. There was delicious rich chicken broth with matzah. Then we got an invitation to Ieshuah son’s wedding. The bride and bridegroom were standing under a chuppah and a rabbi recited a prayer in Hebrew. Then the newly weds broke their wine glasses ‘for happiness’ and their guests danced the Jewish freilakh.  It was all very interesting, but I didn’t understand the soul of it since we didn’t observe any traditions at home. My friend Aron Babichenko’s father was also religious. He prayed with his tallit on and his tefillin wound around his hairy hands. Aron’s grandmother lit candles on Friday evening and prayed and he laughed saying: ‘Grandmother, there is no God, don’t you understand?’  

I went to school in 1930. Children went to school at the age of 8 then. Minister of education Skripnik thought that children had to study in their national schools. I didn’t want to go to a Jewish school since Jews were always teased and at home there were talks about pogroms.  I faced routinely anti-Semitism: our janitor’s daughter Lida used to shout: ‘Zhydovochka [kike] Rukhlia lost her tuhlia (‘shoe’ in dialect)… There was a Ukrainian boy named Vovka Osichnoy living in our house, his father came from Western Ukraine. He was circumcised due to his health condition and children teased him ‘zhyd’ [kike].  I wanted to go to a Russian school since we spoke Russian in the yard and in the street.  My father decided that I had to choose myself. He went through pogroms and anti-Semitism and wanted Roman and me to assimilate. I had to take tests in a Jewish school. A teacher asked me questions in Yiddish and I pretended I didn’t understand her. Then I out my fingers on the edge of the desk and she yelled in Yiddish: ‘Take your hands off the desk!’ I flinched, but didn’t move my fingers. The teacher knew that my parents were Jews, but since I didn’t understand Yiddish she sent me to a Ukrainian school.

They registered national origin at school and my classmates knew I was a Jew, but nobody disturbed me. We were pioneers and were raised to be internationalists. In the third grade our choir sang a Ukrainian and Jewish songs in an Olympiad.  When in 1936 a war in Spain [editor’s note: Spain between 1936-1939 was the staging ground for Hitler's Blitzkrieg giving General Franco victory over the Republican government. The Spanish Civil War was not only a battle against fascism, but a social revolution. It involved all of Europe and the political forces of the left and the right, in the struggle to defend socialism and democracy from the forces of reaction.] began, we learned a Spanish song. We had a wonderful teacher of the Ukrainian language. Her name was Ustia Leontieva. She liked me very much. My Ukrainian teacher Ivan Lagodynskiy taught me to understand literature correctly.  

In 1931 my father was appointed chief of the town trade department. He had an office with a telephone in Kreshchatik  [Kreshchatik is the main street of Kiev]. It was an honorable position, but my father lacked education and was sent to a training course for district suppliers. Tania was helping him to solve mathematic problems since she had finished a grammar school. In 1932 after finishing his training my father was sent to Kozelets, a small town in 60 km from Kiev where he was chairman of the district trade department, though he was far from any commercial businesses. His main duty was to fulfill directions of the district party committee. My father rented a little room from a sewing machine repairman whose surname was Ruthstein; he was a Jew. My father rarely traveled to Kiev. The town authorities insisted that my father moved his family to Kozelets, but they didn’t provide any dwelling to him. Tania didn’t want to leave the apartment in Kiev. She took my brother and me to Kozelets in spring and we studied there until October holidays. We were cooped in a 10-square-meter room through summer and only in late autumn Tania took us back home.  

The famine

During the period of famine in 193313 there was a special closed food store for Party officials opened, but my father had no permission to buy food in it.  They probably thought that chief of district supplies could have everything he needed. Our family never had one gram of anything from this store. I was only allowed to come there and get some milk, if there was any left. I came there with my bottle and stood in the end of the line. I felt so uncomfortable never knowing whether they would give me any or not. My father supervised a buttery and they accused him of stealing butter. I felt so hurt since we never even saw butter at the time.  

In Kiev in winter 1933 there were dead villagers lying on the snow, those who came to exchange their gold or silver in a Torgsin.14 Some of them were falling near the Torgsin. Our neighbors who went to work early in the morning told us about it since by the time we were going to school the corps had been removed. There were rumors that people were selling chops made from human meat. I was always hungry: we only ate some brown bread and drank tea with no sugar. We were also given a bun per day at school. My father occasionally sent us money from Kozelets, but it was not enough. Tania wound threads from skein to bobbins. She was paid little money for it and bought a glass of corn cereal at the market. She divided the corn into two portions and boiled it for Roman and me. There was no cereal left for her. In winter, when we starved, Tania packed few silver cups and spoons that she got from her mother and went to the Torgsin store. She returned early in the morning ringing 3 kg sugar, same quantity of white flour and 6 loaves of stale corn and wheat bread. This was all she received for a heap of silver!  My father’s sister Yeva died of tuberculosis at that time. 

In spring 1934 we went to Kozelets again. I saw a woman with a child, swollen from hunger begging for food... My father said the situation in villages was bad, but villagers from the nearest village of Beleyki dressed up and walked to a church past our house, so I don’t think the situation in Kozelets district was so desperate. In summer 1934, when potatoes and millet got ripe, our neighbors and we cooked the first kander and this was the first time I ate to my heart’s content. We kept a pig in Kozelets. We slaughtered it by the end of 1934 and Tania made thin sausage. I didn’t know that religious Jews were not allowed to eat pork and my parents didn’t observe rules at the time.

I remember that it was then that comrade Stalin said: ‘We’ve got a better life, comrades, a merrier life!’

Before the war

There were many Jews in Kozelets. There was a synagogue, but we didn’t attend it. I believe it was closed. My friend Shurik Yaroshenko’s father was a janitor in the church. Once Shurik and I went to the temple. I liked the service very much, although I was an atheist like my friend.  

On 27 December 1934 my sister was born. She was named Cecilia after my grandmother Tsyvia. 

In September 1935 there was a Party ‘purge’. Somebody reported on my father that in 1919-20 He shipped sugar in railcars from Tetiyev sugar factories to sell it.  He was accused of concealing it from the Party. But he was working at the Arsenal plant then! Beautiful churches in Kozelets were given to storage facilities and clubs. So this ‘purge’ was in one of these ‘clubs’ that used to be a church. I was very worried. There were many people in the building and I heard the process. There was a district party committee sitting at the table and the first secretary chaired the meeting. My father was telling his biography. I was sure that my father would be all right and go through this ‘purge’ being an honest communist, but they didn’t believe him, expelled him from the Party and fired from work.

Since we had our residential permit to live in Kiev we returned to our room. My father had many friends and week after our arrival he was already making slippers in a shop. Then he went to work as saddle maker in a shop. Then he had an appendicitis surgery and he hardly survived. It became difficult for him to do his job and he went to the district party committee to talk about it. They sent him to work as a house manager.

At about 14 I wanted to change my name Lusik, but it wasn’t allowed at that time. When it was time for me to obtain my passport at the age of 16 I submitted a report that I had lost my birth certificate and signed as Leonid Kotliar. They said in the militia office: ‘We haven’t got your document in our archives’ and sent me for medical investigation. A doctor ordered me to take off and I told them the day of birth 28 January. They issued my new birth certificate where they wrote Tania as my mother since she was my father’s wife.  

My father’s brother Idel riveted tanks at the ‘Bolshevik’ plant. He served in the army and when he returned home he joined the Party. They wanted to involve him in working for NKVD15, but he managed to escape. My father’s brother Samson was not a Party member. He finished a textile College in Kharkov and some educated people explained to him here that Stalin was a bandit. Samson told my father openly in 193716: ‘What is Stalin doing? How many innocent people are in camps?! And all of them are enemies of the people?’17. But my father stood his ground: ‘Yes, there are mistakes, but Stalin must be there, the power must be strong’. Some people reported on their relatives for such talks. Samson told my father: ‘To hell with them for expelling you from the Party!’ But my father wanted to resume his membership. He wrote to the Central Party Committee. In 1938 he resumed his membership and obtained his Party membership card. When it happened I could finally submit my documents for joining Komsomol.18 I couldn’t do it before since they wouldn’t have admitted me as a son of an ‘enemy of the people’. I joined Komsomol and was elected a member of the Komsomol Committee.

At the age of 17 I already knew that ‘Stalin was a bandit’, but I believed that we had to build socialism. My classmates Yura Belskiy and Igor Naumyuk had ‘opened my eyes’ on Stalin even earlier. Yura and Igor called our NKVD ‘Gestapo’ and were not afraid of being reported on... I became Yura’s friend in the 4th grade. He was grandson of Suboch, our Latin lecturer in Kiev University, who taught Latin in Kiev grammar school #1 before the revolution. Yura was a cultured boy and had a rich language. His father was executed as a white guard19 officer before Yura was born. Yura’s mother worked as a typist. Their situation was hard after they lost their breadwinner. When Yura wanted to enter a military special school and join Komsomol there were some obstacles, but he was finally admitted. Before the great Patriotic War20 artillery and pilot military schools were opened. 9-10-grade students could go to study there. Some of my friends went there, but I couldn’t, having lung problems.  

Some of my schoolmates’ parents were arrested in 1937. There was a slogan of the time: ‘A son is not responsible for his father’. Only sons had to repudiate from their father’s at Komsomol meetings, though this didn’t always work either. Minister of education Skrypnik was also imprisoned in 1937. In 1939 our teacher of history Alexandr Vakulenko, Ukrainian, was imprisoned. He returned half year later. And we believed that NKVD was releasing the innocent.

In the 9th grade I got fond of Feuchtwanger21, they published his: ‘Success, ‘Jew Zeus’, ‘Ugly countess’, ‘Jewish war’. Of Russian classics I enjoyed reading Lermontov22, Pushkin23. It was my dream to become an actor and producer and I performed on all parties: I recited Yesenin24, Mayakovskiy25. I was head of a drama club at school and we won the first place at the town Olympiad in the Palace of Pioneers.  We also staged performances in our corridor in the garret. I was scenery and costume designer and an actor. My brother Roman was a wonderful actor. He acted in the school theater. All girls in his class liked him. He was not tall and very charming. 

There was a children’s tuberculosis recreation center in the woods in Budayevka.  I was predisposed to tuberculosis: my father had lug problems and his sister Yeva died of tuberculosis. Chief doctor and director of this recreation center Pyotr Mitselmakher was a Jew. He was an amazing person: everybody believed he was a hypnotist: he looked and people calmed down.  He knew all children. He was loved, respected and feared a little. I met my future wife Ghita Kaplunovich in the recreation center. She was a Jew. We were both 17 and became friends. She studied in a music school in Kiev and was a wonderful pianist already. I had visited her before the war and met her parents. Ghita introduced me to her fiancé Naum, a student of Light Industry College. He often went home in Gaisin and then Ghita and I went for walks.  We had warm friendly relationships.

On 17 May 1940 I finished the 10th grade. I had health problems and director of school released me from graduation exams. I had all excellent marks in my school certificate, but for mathematics. Director of school said: ‘On 1 September you will start work here as senior pioneer tutor and will work until it’s time for you to go to the army’. In spring 1939 a new law on military service was issued: young men of 18 years of age and school graduates were to be recruited to the army. I wanted to enter the theatrical College, but I understood that I was too young to study in the Producers’ faculty and they wouldn’t admit me to the Actors’ faculty due to my being short. I worked at the tuberculosis recreation center as a tutor through that summer. On 1 September I began to work as a pioneer tutor in my school. 

The attitude toward Jews changed before the Great Patriotic War. Our Jewish neighbor Aron Ioselevich, communist, deputy of the town council, said shortly before the war that he was persecuted, that Jews were losing their high positions and that there was a common belief that there were too many Jews.  The ‘Pravda’ cited Goebbels’ speech and quoted his words about Jews in a sympathetic manner. However, there were no comments and it was unclear whether they agreed with Goebbels or not.  

I went to the army on 8 December 1940. Before departure I went to say good bye to Ghita. We boarded freight train railcars with plank beds and hay inside.  This big train arrived in Riga in the Baltics26 that became Soviet. I served in Panevezhis (800 km from Kiev) in a training battery in an artillery regiment.  We received Red Army identity cards where it was said that I was a Jew. There was also a Karaim in our battery. His name was Mishka Sultanskiy. The rest of us were Ukrainian, Russian and Uzbek.  There were over 100 military in our battery.  There were 4 combat platoons in the battery. In the morning we had drilling in the frost and then our political officer or commander of the platoon conducted political classes 3 times a week. We had secondary or higher education and in a year we were to become junior artillery lieutenants. We were instructed: we shall learn the lessons of the Finnish War27, and as soon as the enemy attacks us we shall fire back and move to their territory. The war was inescapable. We expected it every minute and when we were raised at alarm at night we couldn’t help thinking: ‘Is it a training alarm or a war?’  I was senior telephone operator. I followed the azimuth and identified the direction for cable installation.  Once somebody stole my wallet with my Komsomol membership card in it in the bathroom.  It was a serious matter and I reported it to my commander. Shortly afterward in March 1941 during another night-time alarm I fell under the ice, fell ill with pneumonia and was sent to Šauliai (today Lithuania) military hospital. They diagnosed tuberculosis. After the hospital I was released from military service. They wrote in my certificate that I was fit only for non-effective service at wartime. I demobilized and returned home. So I automatically lost my membership in Komsomol. 

I returned to Kiev on 18 May and on 20 May I started working as a tutor at the children’s tuberculosis recreation center in Budayevka. My health condition improved there: I was breathing fresh air in a pine-tree forest and we had sufficient food. I was there when the Great Patriotic War began. I was stunned when Stalin said: ‘Treacherous attack…’ Did he trust Hitler? Molotov28 wrote before the war that there were over 100 divisions pulled to the Polish border. We all knew that the war was inevitable.

During the war

On the first day of the war, on 22 June I came to the military registry office, but they said: ‘You are in category 2 reserves and we will call you’. Our army was retreating, but we believed that it was just a maneuver: that we shall ensnare Hitler, encircle him and then give them a sharp blow.  However, our morale supervisor said to me: ‘It’s a great tragedy. All planes are destroyed on land. Our troops are retreating. It’s not a trap for Hitler, it’s serious'. On 1 July the recreation center was closed and I returned to Kiev.  

A few days before the war began my brother Roman finished the 9th grade. He was to turn 17. In the first days of July all boys from Kiev, born before 1925, were sent to Donetsk region, 500 km east of Kiev, to the mines. We bought Roman and dark blue coat before the war. I bundled it and tied with a belt. I put it over his shoulder and here he burst into tears: he had an inner feeling that we were never to see each other again.

Those boys were taken into a shaft. They took away their passports. They had to work hard and many of them ran away including Roman. He went to work as a tractor operator in a kolkhoz29. In autumn 1941 German troops came near when Roman was asleep. They knew in the village that he was a Jew. Someone woke him up and gave him a white horse. He ran away. He took a train to Tashkent in Central Asia in 300 km from home. He was sitting by a wall in Tashkent being exhausted and starved. An evacuated doctor from Kiev saw him on her way to work. He told her his story and she took him with her. When he felt better he went to the military registry office to be sent to the front. He was so thin that the commission decided he was ill. However, he stood his ground and they sent him to a military school in Ashkhabad (today Turkmenistan).  

My father was very ill before the war and he was assigned to the army a few months later.  He was trying to find Roman: there was a central evacuation search agency in Buguruslan (today Russia), the only one in the USSR. My father wrote there and so did Roman. In 1942 my father was demobilized; he didn’t have sufficient education to serve in the rear. He came to Denau in Uzbekistan where Tania and Cecilia, Manya and Fania and their children were in evacuation. Tania and my father worked in a kolkhoz harvesting cotton. Then my father was demobilized by Party authorities and he served in a deserter search group in the mountains.  

In 1943 my father finally found Roman. They began to correspond. Roman wrote about his school and invited my father to visit Ashkhabad. My father managed to travel there once and Roman told him his story. Roman was promoted to junior lieutenant and in the late fall of 1944 he was sent to the front. Their train stayed in Kiev few days. He stayed with his friends. His classmate girls arranged a farewell party for him. My father arrived in Kiev a few days after my brother left.  

Roman was assigned to 146th rifle battalion. He was a Komsomol leader of the battalion. They were like commissars: they were the first to rise in attack and the others followed them. In early 1945 my father stopped receiving letters from Roman. He wrote his commander and received his reply: ‘On 26 January 1945 he was wounded and left our division. He never returned to our division and none of our military had any contacts with him’.  Roman never wrote anyone: he died from wounds on the way to hospital.

My father’s brother Idel was taken to a fighting battalion in early July 1941. They were to fight landing units. On 17 September 1941 he got in encirclement near Kiev and perished there. My friend Yura Belskiy also perished in this encirclement.  My father’s brother Samson was also mobilized in early July 1941. He was wounded, but returned to his unit after he recovered and was at the front until the end of the war.  

I was mobilized on 11 July 1941, when German troops were approaching Kiev. Our district military registry office formed a unit and we marched in civilian clothes to the east. Then we came to Mariupol [700 km east of Kiev] by train, to a camp from where we were to be sent to the front. We slept on grass and had meals in shifts. There were about one hundred thousand of us in the camp.  They took away our passports, but we didn’t get our Red Army identity cards yet. When military representatives came from the front we were lined up. Each VUS (military recorded profession) had a number and when my number (# 50 — artillery communication operators) was called, I stepped ahead. However, when I showed my certificate issued by the hospital they left me where I was.  All of my friends from Kiev went to the front.  I couldn’t sleep at night. I looked deep into my soul, tore my certificate to smallest pieces and a few days later I was already at the front.

From Mariupol we went to Cossack30 camps near Kherson in 750 km from Kiev. On 3 September in the morning our commander ordered us to line up and said: ‘It is our task to throw Germans out of Kakhovka’.  We marched there day and night. On 8 September in the evening  commander of the battalion sent a few Jews to the battalion headquarters. He was aware that we were getting in encirclement and didn’t want Jews to be captured by Germans. Everybody knew that Germans were killing Jews. Our artillery battalion of 756 rifle regiment was not a core unit and of course our commandment left us a victim of Germans, and the remaining units retreated. After the war I got to know that sergeants of 756 rifle regiment installed a flag on the Reichstag.

Our commanding officer didn’t send me to the headquarters. That night it was my turn to be on duty. On 8 September at 11 o’clock commander of the regiment called me. I was beside my battalion commander in a trench. It was quiet and I heard the voice of our regiment commander on the phone: ‘The division and regiment are retreating. Your task is to back up their retreat’. The battalion commander said to me: ‘Not a word about it!’ He was a brave man, a real commander. He realized that we might get in encirclement. On the night of 9 September we were trying hard to hold on in the bare Pridneprovskaya steppe in 40 km from Kakhovka (450 km from Kiev). The only weapons we had were rifles and grenades. There were Germans on our left and right, driving on trucks and marching. We had small digging tools and the soil was dry and it was hard to dig trenches under the enemy firing.  

Capture by the Germans

About 4 o’clock in the afternoon Germans troops began to fire from mining units and a huge mine exploded nearby. I was deafened for the time being, but I didn’t faint. All of a sudden I heard my commander saying: ‘That’s it, guys’.  I couldn’t believe what I heard. He didn’t kill himself. He believed that we had completed our task, that we backed up their retreat and self-annihilation that military order required from us was not soldiers’ business. He was the first to get up and raise his hands when our platoon was encircled. I saw 6 of us standing with their hands up. I firmly believed that only traitors of their Motherland could be captured, that a military had to fight until his last grenade or bullet and keep the last bullet for himself. This was what we were taught. I couldn’t shoot myself with my rifle, but I had a grenade. I could throw it onto Germans or just drop it where I was. But then Germans would kill my comrades... All these thoughts flew by in a second. I saw my fellow comrades with their hands up... then Germans crawled near us and stood behind. A German soldier grabbed my rifle and then thrust his hands into my pockets where I had grenade fuses. I took them out and threw away. Chief of headquarters Myslyvchenko was also captured. But they shot him with their machine guns. There were 14 of us including our battalion commander. Germans told us to get into a pit. They led away our battalion commander and this is all I know about him. There were two Germans on each side of the pit: one had a slot machine and another had a machine gun. They forbade us to move or talk.  Commander of our unit Bevz whispered moving only his lips: ‘Don’t tell them you are a Jew. The others will not give you away’. I felt easier. He said the same to two other Jewish soldiers Ilia and Beikelman. I quickly took out my Red Army identity card and my school certificate, tore them up and dug under my feet.  

A few minutes later Germans told us to move on and we covered 500-600 meters where other prisoners gathered. I thought I was living the last minutes of my life and that I would never see the sun again.  I was a Jew. I was only 20. I didn’t want to die. An interpreter ordered our commander to line us up in two lines.  Ilia and I were together in the second line. I said: ‘Ilia, we have to stand apart, if we want to stay alive’ Ilia was a dark man with a black beard, a typical Jew or Georgian.  A car stopped in front of our line. There was a German officer standing in it.  He said in distorted Russian that from then on we were to serve the great Germany honestly. After this speech he gave an order: ‘Zhydy [kikes] and communists — 2 steps ahead!’ All of a sudden I looked at a soldier of our battalion (he was from Donetsk). Our eyes met and I understood that he was going to give me away. He breathed in when Bevz standing beside him pushed him with his elbow and said something to him. The soldier kept quiet. On the other side Ilia was called out of the line. My heart squeezed, but then he stepped back.  The only communist among us was Davydenko, commander of a communication platoon, but nobody betrayed him or us, three Jews. Beikelman stepped ahead by himself. He didn’t hope to survive with his strong Jewish accent. There were 6-7 prisoners who stepped ahead of the line. They were taken away and nobody ever saw them again.

We marched to Nikolaev. There was another lining in Berislav and again Germans ordered: ‘Zhydy and communists — come out!’ I stood quiet. Other prisoners pushed 2-3 of their fellow comrades out of the line. They gave them away. Nobody reported on me.  However, there was the fourth time on 12 September: an interpreter and a German officer ordered: ‘Russians, step out!’ The Russians did. ‘Ukrainians, step out!’ Ukrainians did. ‘Byelorussians, Uzbeks, step out!’ Then came Georgians, Tatars, Armenians and Kazakhs... I was thinking of stepping ahead with Ukrainians, but I feared that they would give me away. The line was getting thinner... And then I recalled when my fellow comrades from a mine unit asked me ‘What is your nationality?’ and I replied: ‘You guess’.  They made one effort after another, but failed. And then one of them said I was a gypsy. So I decided to say that my father was a gypsy and my mother was Ukrainian. I didn’t know yet that they were killing gypsies, too. There were two of us left. The other one had a big nose and bulging eyes… The interpreter asked him: ‘You?’ And Ukrainians were yelling: ‘Judas, Judas!’ Germans hit them on their heads with their sticks and they shut up. He answered: ‘We are Mariupol Greeks’. Everybody laughed: ‘ha-hah-ha!’ Again Germans hit them on their heads and there fell silence again. I didn’t wait until they asked me and said in Ukrainian: ‘My father is gypsy and my mother is Ukrainian’. The interpreter translated and the German officer said: ‘Ukrainian’ and the interpreter took me to the Ukrainian group.  Then we were ordered to disperse. The dusk was condensing. We settled down in a clearing in the woods. Then we went to sleep. The rule was simple: if one of us broke into run they would shoot everyone. I knew that I needed a legend of a biography. So I was lying there covered with my overcoat thinking. I decided to take the name of Kotliarchuk with a Ukrainian ending. –When next time they ordered: ‘zhydy, come out!’ one soldier said to me: ‘Why are you silent? You are a zhyd, aren’t you?’, but he looked like a Jew himself. I cursed at him and said: ‘You are a zhyd. Just look at yourself in the mirror’. He got scared and shut up. Nobody took his side. There were 8 or 9 other checks, but nobody gave me away. 

Germans convoyed us to Nikolaev. We covered over 200 km in a week and we never had anything to eat. We ate nightshade berries, corns and sunflower cake that we found beside the road... There were about 20 thousand of us. We were taken to a camp in Varvarovka village and later we went to Nikolaev (400 km from Kiev). There were about 3 dozen 2-storied buildings where workers of a plant used to live. The houses and a nearby stadium were fenced with three rows of barbed wire. We were ordered to complete construction of this camp. There were about one thousand prisoners in one building. It became warmer from our breathing. Later I got to know that in other camps prisoners were sleeping in the mud in the open air. In the morning we were given our balanda soup and then we lined up in the stadium: one thousand prisoners (5 in column, 200 lines). There were about 30 columns. Then prisoners began to die of dysentery, typhus, there were 150-200 prisoners dying every day. Nobody would go to work, but when we left the camp there was an opportunity to get some food. Once 12 of us were taken to wash car wheels in a military air force unit.  Some women gave us borsch and bread from beyond the fence. Germans didn’t stop them. In the evening a German cook brought us meat stew leftovers from their drivers’ dinner. Each of us got 2 pieces of meat and a little gravy.  Once we were taken to work at a plant in Nikolaev where we were given borsch for a meal.  

5-6 thousand prisoners were convoyed to work from the camp. Once our guard took 5 of us to make wood stocks for Germans. Our German guard was about 60, gray haired and with bristles. He gave us smoke breaks, but I had nothing to smoke. During another break he called me behind a shed and asked me in his poor Russian: ‘You are not a Jew, are you?’ – ‘No’. – ‘Tell me, don’t be afraid, I won’t give you away… You look like a Jew very much. Wait here, I will be back in a moment’. He returned with a razor, scissors and hot water. ‘You look like a Jew. I was in your captivity during World War I.  People treated me well and I want to return their kindness’. He cut my hair and I shaved. I left a Ukrainian style forelock according to the fashion of the time, put on a hat that I found during the construction of our camp. The German gave me a looking glass. I looked at myself... and didn’t recognize myself. He said: ‘Oh, now you don’t look like a Jew, good for you!’ And he let me go.

Soon I fell ill with dysentery and couldn’t go to work any longer. I was almost dying. A young soldier from administration of the camp gave me a handful of brown pills. I ate them and felt better next day, but I still wasn’t able to go to work. Ukrainians were standing behind and I stood in their line. One of them said that Ukrainians living on the right side of the Dnieper were allowed to go home. Those who were willing to go had to come to a hut behind the lines. This was Tuesday. I understood that Germans would do the checking, but I was almost dying of dysentery and could die of typhus and I decided to give it a try. On Wednesday morning I stood in a line behind the others and then I went to the hut. There were many Ukrainians there. I came on time since everybody coming later was told to go away. Then we were taken to a white house where the commandant was sitting.  We were lined in fives. I waited there all day. Prisoners went in through the front door, but they didn’t come out going to the camp across the corridor fenced with barbed wire. The interpreter told us that we had to come to the desk with ceremonial step and salute. If a commandant thought you were a poor soldier he would not let you go. It was finally my turn. I came in a saluted.  There was a big map of Ukraine on my right. 2 German majors were sitting at the desk. A German soldier was writing on the left. A major asked me: ‘Your name?’ – ‘Kotliarchuk Leontiy Gavrilovich’. – ‘Where did you live?’ – ‘In Kiev’. – ‘Profession?’ – ‘I finished school and was taken to the army. I have no profession’. I used the legend that I plotted on the way to Nikolaev. I said that I lived with my mother in a hostel and gave him a different address. My father died of typhus. My mother worked in a hospital. When the war began my mother was taken to the front and later I was recruited. They burst into laughter: ‘Ha-ha-ha, Bolsheviks send schoolchildren to the front’.  They nodded to the soldier and he gave a red sheet and said: ‘Come here on Friday. You will get your pass and you will go home’. I put this sheet in my pocket, turned away, salute and hear one German saying to another: ‘He looks like a Jew’. I keep marching toward the door… The interpreter yells: ‘Stop!’. I turn around, make 3 steps, salute, drop my hands and try to have a smile. One German said: ‘No, it’s a mistake’. I turn around and head toward the door. In the end of the barbed wire corridor a Tatar man was waiting for me. He said: ‘Here is 300 grams of bread and a cotton wool jacket. Give me your overcoat. Germans would take away your overcoats anyway and we will need them in winter. They won’t take a jacket’.  I believed him and besides, I was tempted by 300 grams of bread. I ate it. It turned out there were lots of lice in his jacket.  On Friday morning I came to the white hut and stood in line. A soldier made a speech in German. He said that German commandment and Fuhrer and the Third Reich trusted us and had hopes for us. Do you promise to serve the great Germany faithfully? Of course, we promised. He called us by our names and gave us our passes. We got one loaf of bread each and another loaf for five of us. We were walking along the barbed wire corridor and there were hands stretching to us begging for bread. I gave pieces of my bread and left only a piece of 300 grams for myself. A group of us heading to Kiev went on our way. I decided to not go to Kiev, but stay in a village. Everybody in Kiev knew I was a Jew. I took a back road that was safer. I went from one village to another. Once a group of men stopped me. One of them inquired whether I was a zhyd.  I said ‘no’, but he persisted. I said: ‘Germans released me from a camp and gave me a pass. Do you think they are more stupid than you?’ It was strong argumentation and they let me go. 

In Dymovka village I sat on a bench to take a rest and fainted. When I recovered my conscience there were a few women standing beside me. There were Moldavians living in the village, but they spoke Ukrainian. A man invited me to his house. He brought a barber who shaved my head.  When women saw how many lice I head they boiled my clothes and burned my cotton wool jacket. One woman heated some water and I washed myself. They gave me clean underwear, bed sheets, blankets and pillows. They also gave me a dry fruit compot drink and white bread.  I stayed there two days. I told them I was from Kiev. Some girls were going to a camp for prisoners-of-war in Novoukrainka hoping to find their husbands or sons there. My host said: ‘there is a straight road to Kiev from Novoukrainka’. On the morning of 5 November he took me to the kolkhoz yard where this group was gathering. I only had my shirt on and I was freezing.  The horse-driven wagons were already leaving the kolkhoz yard when all of a sudden an old woman came running. ‘Stop, stop!’ — she brought me an old cotton wool jacket. There was a Ukrainian man, a former prisoner, sitting on a wagon. I told him my story on our way and added that I had nobody waiting for me in Kiev. He said: ‘Why would you need this Kiev? You know how many prisoners work in surrounding villages? We shall accommodate you somehow’. We arrived in Malinovka village Yelanets district.  This man had a friend there who was a blacksmith. He decided to shoe his horse. The man asked the blacksmith: ‘Maybe somebody needs a guy?’ He replied: ‘Old man Kiryusha needs a guy’. So I got to this old man who had a bee garden and wanted a night watch.  He was so happy to see me that he didn’t ask any questions. It never occurred to him that I was a Jew. I assisted the old man. We went to get fuel and I fixed his tubs, ladder and rake. The old man doted upon me. He used to say: ‘Well, we shall feed a pig, go to Nikolaev, I will buy you boots and a jacket and you will get married’.

There was a district German newspaper ‘New Life’ hanging in the kolkhoz yard. One article said that the last Soviet plane was destroyed, Leningrad and Moscow were encircled. Another article wrote about how nice it was now to come to a store in the village when ‘no ugly mug of a zhyd was looking at you’. They also wrote that those giving shelter to a zhyd or a partisan would be killed immediately. When I told old man Kiryusha that Germans had destroyed the last Soviet plane and encircled Leningrad and Moscow he replied: ‘It’s a lie. Germans had never won a victory over Russia. They will be running from us’. I lived with my old man until partisans made their appearance in the vicinity and commissar of the village and all prisoners were ordered to submit their passes to the village council.  Then the commissar issued an order for all prisoners to go home.  The old man came home crying: ‘You have to leave tomorrow. 24 hours from now.’ On 18 December I was to leave the village. Next day I took my pass and had lunch.  The old man gave me a bag with food and found me a companion. On 20 December we came to Petrovskiy farm and knocked on the door of the first house. It turned out that there were my fellow country men living in the farm. There was Sak, an old man, a one-legged invalid living in the house, his wife and two sons. One of them Ivan, of the same age with me, returned from captivity three days before. This farm belonged to another district and they hadn’t heard about the commissar’s order yet. Old man Kotsupal came from another end of this settlement. He asked me about everything and then said: ‘you can stay with me. We shall be selling goods. You have education, haven’t you? You must have finished 10 grades.’ I said: ‘No, old man, I can’t do this. I can repair equipment, radio or electric wiring, but not trade’. My boots were torn and old man Sak said: ‘Go see Mykola, he will fix them for you’. It was time to go to sleep. My companion took off in the morning and I stayed at he farm.

In the morning I went to see Mykola. There was a prisoner staying with him. He was a Kuban cossack named Zhorka. There was another prisoner living in the settlement. His name was Ivan Doronin and he was from Leningrad. Zhorka was a master sergeant and Ivan Doronin was junior political officer, an artilleryman. Old man Sak said: ‘You’ll live with Fedora. She has a small girl. Her Ivan died and she needs an assistant.  I went to work in the kolkhoz. Kolkhozes functioned.  They kept threshing grain through the winter delivering it to the station. Old man Kotsupal taught me to make haystacks and was checking what kind of a worker I made. He liked how I made haystacks. In spring, when the snow melted we were finishing to thresh the grain. We were having lunch lying by a haystack, when he said: ‘Remember how I was checking on you? I thought you were a zhyd. How could it occur to me? Zhyds do not like to work and you are hardworking. I saw Germans taking zhyds to execution. They made them sing ‘Guys, start unharnessing your horses’ [Ukrainian folk song]. It was so much fun!’ If I had told him the truth he would have turned me in, even though we were friends.

Germans made Zhora a driver. He was driving a truck and Ivan ordered him to look for partisans.  However, it happened so that partisans could shoot those who came to join them for betrayal of Motherland yielding in captivity.   

I stayed with Fedora for almost a year. In early October 1942 I came from work and Fedora said: ‘There is an order to send you and Ivan to Germany’. On 4 October Ivan and I went to the neighboring village of Nadezhdovka for registration to go to Germany. After showing up in the police office we went to medical check up. Ivan went first and my only wish was to run away since I was circumcised.  Ivan kept telling me that I had to escape on our way there. Where could I run in this steppe? I came in. There was a fatty doctor of about 50 years of age sitting in the room. I took off my clothes and thought: ‘Well, that’s it now’. He looked at me pretending that he didn’t notice. He was a decent man. I put on my clothes and said quietly: ‘Thank you’. He replied: ‘Have a safe trip’.  

Next day at 5 o’clock in the morning a policeman came for us. We threw our bags on the wagon and started on our way to the district town. The policemen followed us holding his gun. From the district town we were sent to Voznesensk where we stayed in a school building sleeping on the floor for three days. Then they put us on a train and we went to a transit camp in Peremyshl.  There we were X-rayed. Then we were taken to a bathroom and they took our clothes for disinfections. We were taken for a medical check up in a big hall. There were Tatar and Chechen men who were also circumcised.  I didn’t dare to come to a doctor for a long while. He was sitting on a stand like a statue wearing rubber gloves. When it was my turn I shrank. He examined me without saying a word and I stepped aside.  

A day later we boarded a freight train in Peremyshl and went across Poland. We saw Jews with yellow stars [Editor’s note: fascists forced Jews to wear yellow stars for Jewish identification in all ghettos and concentration camps] through the windows on the way: exhausted men, women and even children. They were doing earthwork. We didn’t get any food on the way. I had some food that the kolkhoz gave me: a piece of pork fat, a bottle of honey, some bread and sunflower seeds. Few days later we arrived in Germany. We arrived in Nurnberg. There was a huge makeshift toilet built on a platform. Then they gave us food that we ate right there on the platform. They poured me some good pea soup with pasta in my pot. This was the first and the last time when we had a decent meal in Germany. From Nurnberg a train took us to a transit camp in Bittingen stuffed with prisoners. We went through another sanitary treatment and then they began to count us like they would count cattle. We, a group of 300 people, were taken to Stuttgart on 15 December and were put in Sleutwitz camp in a small forest. There were long barracks for Slavic ostarbeiters. There were rooms for 24 tenants with wooden two-tiered beds in two rows and shelves between them. On the morning of 16 December we went to work from the camp. We walked for an hour. My boots fell apart and I walked barefooted. Ivan and I were taken to a joiner shop. I noticed village guys doing earthwork near the shop. I said to Ivan: I don’t want to get wet in the rain. Let’s tell them we are joiners’. He obeyed. Master Gaimsh came wearing a yellow robe, glasses, thin, about 75 years of age with a gray crew cut on his head. There was a joiner test to be done: Master Gaimsh placed a cut of water pipe in a holdfast vertically and gave me a file. I was to level the edges of the pipe. He said: ‘That’s ok’. He turned the pipe horizontally and gave Ivan a hacksaw. Ivan did what he was told and the test was over. Our German supervisor took us to the shop to sort out transmissions. He saw me standing barefooted on the dirty floor and gave me his worn boots on a wooden sole and tarpaulin upper. Soon there was a bell ringing for breakfast. We had nothing to eat and went to the yard. There were French prisoners-of-war sitting there talking cheerfully. I understood one word ‘Stalingrad’. It meant that Germans were retreating and there were combat actions near Stalingrad.  

This was a radiator plant. We received robes with the sign ‘OST’ painted with white paint on the chest. If somebody wanted to wear different clothes they had to sew on this sign. We got up at 6 in the morning. Our working day lasted 12 hours and on Saturday we worked 5 hours. Sunday was a day off, but we were often taken to do various jobs on this day. There were 3 old Germans working in our shop. Gliazer, the youngest, Shachtu, over 70 years of age and Singer, way over 80. I often assisted him since it was hard for him to bend. At first all of them gave me errands, but then Gliazer made me his assistant. We were given a loaf of bread for four of us every day.  They also delivered a few containers of coffee in the evening: it was sweet and delicious and it was still warm in the morning.

There were jokes about Jews told in the barrack: that they like to shoot from rifles with curved muzzles since it was not so scary to shoot from round the corner. Once a week they gave us a free newspaper in Russian. When they introduced shoulder straps in the Red Army there was a caricature in it: ‘Tsyperovich with new shoulder straps’: a general of Jewish appearance looking at his shoulder straps into the mirror. They were not looking for Jews in Germany. They didn’t expect to have any after all filtrations. However, whenever something happened there was an immediate question: ‘And what’s your nationality?’ 

Germans treated us differently. There were evil and cordial attitudes. They kept their distance from us. Our old Germans didn’t humiliate us. Then a German man of about 30 years of age came to the shop. He kept pestering us: ‘Do you know why Germans wear glasses? Because we are smart and we read a lot and it impacts out sight’. He humiliated us and tried to convince us that we were nobody and nothing…

At first we were in a common camp Sleutwitz and our camp fuehrer was Meier, a cruel bandit. He always wore an SS uniform and he started fights. There were guards with Alsation dogs in the camp. One of the guards was a Czech German and the rest of them were German. One old German man came to wake us up in the morning. He once brought me an ointment when I rubbed my foot sore. Another German was a scrapper. In the first two years we were paid 8 [Deutsch]mark per month and then they began to pay 16 [Deutsch]mark.  Occasionally we managed to leave the camp to go to town, but then we had to hide our ‘OST’ badges to not be caught by the police. When we were lucky we could buy some bread or a pack of forshmak from rusty herring. Once some vendors came to the camp. I bought a striped viscose shirt for 1.5 marks. I washed it and wore it on Sunday. Ivan and I also bought trousers from a Serbian man for 8 marks. I wore a jacket that Joseph gave me at work, an old German man from a next-door shop. I dug up his vegetable garden in spring. His wife was a very sympathetic and nice lady.  Their only son was in the army and she suffered a lot for him. Joseph’s wife told me about their son. She said: ‘He looks so much like you’. She gave me a jacket and a vest, a gummed coat, bridges and even a hat. A Polish man came to take photographs. He charged little for his services and I had two photographs made for me. 

The feeling that I was working for Germany oppressed me and I was looking for an opportunity to do some harm. Twice I placed small nuts in the exhaust pipe and the ventilator blade broke.  Both times the shop was closed for two days.

When we came to our barracks in the evening they allowed us to sing songs. Our interpreter Fritz was born in Germany, but his parents were Crimean Germans. They spoke Russian and he learned from them. When in winter 1943 Germans were defeated near Stalingrad he ordered us to line up and said: ‘Listen carefully. You cannot sing for a week. Our Germany is in the mourning. We lost 600 thousand men near Stalingrad’.  Someone shouted: ‘Fritz we are ready to not sing for another week’. He grasped this hint and said: ‘You’ll get from me now!’ However, the time was changing and there were no consequences to this comment. After Germans were defeated in the Kursk battle, the regime in the camp weakened. In early 1944 the air forces of allies struck and destructive blow on Stuttgart. All laborers at the plant were ordered to clean up the ruins of one shop pulled down by blast wave. In spring 1944 air raid warnings were activated several times a day. Enterprises stopped work. There were air raid crews consisting of Germans and 10 ostarbeiters.  In spring 1944 we were taken to a smaller camp that we built. There were no bugs in breezeblock barracks. A group of Polish inmates arrived to the camp. Car engineer Vinogradov had a good conduct of German and he always brought newspapers in German to the barrack.  We learned about the situation at the front from these newspapers. When our troops began to advance Germans began to give us a package of good tobacco once a week. Chief of the camp began to fire us and we had to pay our fines with tobacco and he was selling it. One night in June 1944 the last and the hardest air raid occurred in Stuttgart.  The town was ruining and was on fire and the world was turning upside down. My boss Gliazer began to take me to town to fix the roofs and equipment damaged during air raids. 

After the war

We greeted the beginning of 1945 with confidence that the victory was close. Soon we got to know from the French that the ally troops occupied Strasburg and that they were 100 km from Stuttgart. In March work at our plant was suspended. We were given no food and were not allowed to leave the camp. In April we worked at the construction of fortifications. The town was preparing to defense and street fighting. Soon we were locked in the camp.  On the morning of 18 April the gate was wide open and there were no guards left. American planes were flying low above the roofs during the day. At night on 19 April we fell asleep before the dawn of our Liberation. In the morning the wind of freedom blew us beyond the camp wire fence. There were American troops moving along the streets on trucks. There were German prisoners in them. In the camp we took bread from food stocks and the French prisoners guarding a refrigerator gave us pork. Somebody brought a bottle of alcohol. We feasted in the camp for ten days. 

Officially we were liberated by the first French army supported by American troops and there was French administration. 1 May was coming and I decided to make a parade on a truck. There was a food delivery truck parked near our barrack.  I made a carton poster, drew red stars and wrote ‘USSR’ on the cabin.  Anybody could drive this truck along the streets in Stuttgart singing Soviet songs. On 8 May my compatriot Zhenia found a radio and we installed an antenna on the roof of our barrack. Radio station ‘Freedom’ announced that on 8 May at 23 hours in Berlin the act of unconditional capitulation was to be signed in Berlin. Soon Moscow confirmed the announcement of European radios. Volley firing blasted the quietude in the town: the Harrison of Stuttgart made grandiose fireworks in honor of victory over Germany. I didn’t even try to hold back my tears on this night of victory.

There was a center of repatriation of Soviet citizens established in Stuttgart. 5 former officer prisoners were at its head. In early 1945 they worked at the Porsche plant where Soviet sample cars were designed and manufactured. It was a sensitive plant and German troopers were going to execute the officers, but chief engineer helped them to escape. They reached Paris and came to the office of general-major Golikov [editor’s note: Golikov Philip Ivanovich (1900-80), Soviet commander, Marshall of the Soviet Union (1961). During the Great Patriotic War in 1941-43 he was commander of several armies and Bryansk and Voronezh Front forces, in 1943-50 chief of staff headquarters, in 1958-62 chief of political headquarters of the Soviet army and Navy.] responsible for repatriation at the direction of Stalin.  He gave them documents, uniforms and guns and authorized them to organize a repatriation agency in Stuttgart.  They needed trucks to transport people from all over the place. So the center opened a Soviet car factory on the basis of the Porsche plant where they repaired vehicles found on the roads.  After the victory engineer Vinogradov authorized by the center to manage the plant offered me a job. We repaired broken cars and our guys were drivers, so we made sort of a vehicle yard as it was.  At the beginning I manufactured license plates, but then I became responsible for filing documents. Sasha Pohiteluk, a Ukrainian guy, was our logistic supervisor. I went shopping with him. We lived and had meals at the plant and worked for free assiduously. American suppliers provided us, ex-prisoners, with food. There was a barrel of good non-alcohol beer at the entrance to the diner and for dinner French commandants provided us with dry red wine. I still have a certificate confirming that I worked at this Soviet car repair plant.

Germans were now suffering from lack of food and I decided to surprise Gliazer who had often supported me with a piece of bread or a pair of worn shoes. I gave him a piece of sausage and 3 kg of meat. Gliazer was astonished and thanked me.

There were suits delivered to the Porsche plant and I got a nice suit. It wasn’t new, but it was ironed. I didn’t know at once that these were the suits of Jews who were burned in incinerators. I knew from Polish inmates about death camps and I returned this suit. There were curtains at the plant and I ordered trousers to be made from a curtain. The girls cooking for us didn’t have shoes. German women gave them some clothes, but they didn’t have shoes. I found a shoe factory near Stuttgart. There were Ukrainian employees at the factory. I brought them canned meat and they gave me shoes for our girls. They also offered me apiece of leather and I ordered boots from it. They stole them from me later… In July Americans replaced French administration in Stuttgart.  

I was eager to find out what happened to my dear ones and on 5 August I left Stuttgart. On 7 August our train arrived in the Soviet zone of occupation, at Galle station. All men lined up on the platform. A colonel came: ‘Congratulations on your return to the Motherland!’ His second phrase was: ‘Do you have any weapons? Give up your weapons!’ There were 5 minutes of silence. – ‘Who has weapons, one step ahead!’ 15 minutes passed. He dawdled about, turned around and left. Then a senior lieutenant came, we picked our bags and suitcases and went to Cerbst. There in a filtration camp they divided us into companies, platoons and battalions. A Soviet lieutenant was a company commanding officer. We lived in army tents, doing combat and political training. We went through general filtration check up in the camp. A captain asked general questions and then he began to put down our answers. He was the first one whom I officially told that I was a Jew. He asked: ‘Where are you from?’ – ‘from Kiev’. – ‘Do you have anybody left there?’ – ‘My aunt and a sister’. – ‘Do you know that 125 thousand Jews were shot in Babi Yar?’31 – ‘No, this is the first time I hear about it’. – ‘Do you think they could be executed?’ – ‘Possibly. When I left Kiev, they were at home’. Then he asked me whether Gestapo ever interrogated me. Gestapo didn’t interrogate me. Then he said: ‘Since you are a Jew I have to ask you this. You will serve in the army, demobilize and then you can go to Kiev. But if you want we can send you to Poland. We allow Jews to go to Poland’. I said: ‘Why would I want to go to Poland? I want to go home. I would like to serve in the army’. Later I understood that if I said that Gestapo had interrogated me and that I wanted to go to Poland they wouldn’t take me to the army, but send to Gulag32. Then followed usual questions: ‘When were you recruited to the army?’ ‘How did you get in captivity?’ I talked with this captain like I would with someone dear to me. He asked me kindly about my father and brother and was sympathetic. He filled out a few sheets while talking to me.

After the filtration camp we were transferred to the camp in Bitterfelde near Potsdam. There were comfortable cottages belonging to the aviation plant. Everybody with secondary and higher education were selected to a special training battalion of 185th Red banner rifle division.  They issued our Red Army identity cards and gave us carabines and our service began. They trained us to be junior commanders. When I went to town I was looking for my brother Roman. I believed that he had survived. I wrote to our address in Kiev, but received no response. 

In early February 1946 we started preparations for departure and on February we left Zahna, Germany for the Soviet Union by train. We went across Poland and Slovakia and saw burned crossed the Volga covering 20 km to Pesochniy camp where they trained recruits for the army. They lived in terrible conditions, worse than prisoners. When our division arrived those boys cheered up a little. There were 2 lines of plank beds in the barracks, ground floors and there were barrels used as stoves.  My friend Sasha Kostromov and I started stoves in our company and stayed on duty until morning. In autumn we were assigned commanding officers and we had draftees under our command.  I received the rank of first sergeant. I didn’t want to ask my political officer where I had to write inquiring information about my family. Lieutenant Borisov believed we were traitors and saboteurs. Perhaps, there were others thinking the same, but they didn’t demonstrate it. I thought: ‘I survived and went through a filtration camp and now they begin to ask me why they helped me in a Moldavian village?’ Local people felt sorry for us, prisoners. People didn’t think we were traitors of our Motherland. Perhaps, comrade Stalin was the only person who thought that we were.

On 27 November 1946 we were demobilized. I didn’t know where my father and Tania were. I wrote them, but our neighbors accommodating in our room destroyed my letters. My father couldn’t get his room back, though he had one son at the front and another one perished and he was in the army.  His sister Manya gave shelter to my father, Tania and Cecilia. My father couldn’t get a job without a residential permit.33 His friends made a knitting machine for him: he knitted sweaters and Tania was selling them at the market. Only in summer 1946 my father got my letter. I sent him a photograph to prove I was alive and a certificate issued by my military unit. In June he showed my photo and certificate to chief prosecutor: ‘Here is my son, he was at the front’. Only on 4 December my father moved into his room with the help of a militia officer. On 5 December I knocked on my door. Without waiting for an answer I opened the door: there was no table or chairs, there was a box by the window with a knitting machine on it and my father standing. He turned back. He didn’t recognize me. He thought it was another militiaman. My father looked like an old man. He didn’t have one healthy tooth left. He had suffered a lot thinking that he had lost two sons. 

The next day I went to my school. Director Vasiliy Piymachok was happy to see me, but when he heard that I was in captivity, he was upset, since for official authorities I was an untrustworthy person anyway. He offered me a job of a cashier, gave me a key to the safe with 200 rubles and a pile of school certificate forms. Director issued certificates to all who returned from the war, but lost their certificates. I lost all my documents during the war and so did many others. My family left our home and many houses burned down in Kiev. The archives of Kiev registry office was not damaged and I had my birth certificate reissued to me. Priymachok issued a new school certificate to me. As for my Komsomol membership card I didn’t want to be a Komsomol member any longer.  

My father went to work at the ‘Leninskaya Kuznia’ (‘Lenin’s forge’)  plant manufacturing river and sea boats. He was a leather worker, janitor and transmission fixer at the plant.  Tania knitted clothes on her knitting machine. My father’s sisters Manya and Fania and their children also returned to Kiev. They also made knitwear at home. They died in the 1980s. Manya’s son Yefim Kotliar moved to Israel in the 1990s with his family.  They went to Bat Yam. He often calls me and we correspond. Fania’s sons Mikhail and Leonid Tverskiye and her daughter whose name I don’t remember live in the USA. We keep in touch. My father’s brother Samson returned from the front. Then he moved to Chernigov with his wife and their daughters Ella and Sophia. He worked there as an engineer at the textile factory. In the early 1990s Ella and Sophia and their families moved to Israel.

Shortly after I came to Kiev I went to my mother’s grave, but I couldn’t find it since Germans removed graves in this area.  Later they made Lukianovskoye military cemetery in this location so there is no grave of my mother. Babi Yar where so many of my dear ones perished was an abandoned area where only hooligans were wandering. 

In March 1947 I found my prewar friend Ghita Kaplunovich. Her fiancé Naum was at the front and got in captivity. When prisoners were released he returned home to Gaisin and Germans killed him there. I told Ghita my story and we began to see each other.  In July 1947 we registered our marriage and I moved into her apartment in the center of Kiev where she lived with her parents. On 23 May 1948 our son Yuriy was born. We named him after my deceased friends Yuriy Belskiy. 

Ghita Kaplunovich was born on 14 June 1922 in Kiev. She was very good at music and when studying in her music school she could play the piano wonderfully. Her father Abram Kaplunovich was chief of district health department and her mother Hanna Lopatnik was a housewife. I remember Ghita’s stately grandfather Yakov Lopatnik. Before the revolution of 1917 he was manager of one of Brodskiys’ [editor’s note: Brodski family – Russian sugar manufacturers. They started sugar manufacturing business in 1840s. Organized the 1st sugar syndicate in Russia in (1887). Sponsored construction of hospitals and asylums in Kiev and other towns in Russia, including the biggest and most beautiful synagogue in Kiev.] sugar factories. When the Great patriotic war began he didn’t leave Kiev and perished in Babi Yar in 1941. Ghita’s father went to the front. Ghita and her mother evacuated to Serdobsk in the Ural. Ghita supervised music production in the theater and taught music in children’s homes and schools. They returned to Kiev in 1944 and she entered the Piano Faculty of the Conservatory. She was a wonderful pianist and wanted to be a performing pianist, but there was one obstacle: her fingers did not fit. So she had to go to study at the theoretical department, but there she didn’t get along with one lecturer and she quit the Conservatory after finishing her third year. Ghita convinced me to quit school and go to work at the recreation center for dystrophic children in Vorsel near Kiev. There were 40 children in my group and I worked without weekends through the summer.  In August the doctor said: ‘All right, now you quit your job and go to a college’.  I didn’t want to go to college. I thought I would be persecuted for being a Jew and in captivity and for surviving.  I believed I had to be a worker so that I wasn’t in sight, but Ghita convinced me again: ‘You have a wonderful talent, you can write and be a pedagog’. I entered the Faculty of Literature in Kiev Teacher’s College, a reduced 2-year course. At the entrance exams I made 13 mistakes in my dictation and received a ‘2’ [fail]. When I came to take my verbal exam it turned out that I wasn’t in their lists.  Mikhail Levit, a teacher of the Russian language, said: a ‘3’ would be enough for you; veterans of the war are admitted without competition.  Here is my condition: I give you back your work where I stressed your mistakes, but I didn’t correct them. You will explain and correct them here. If you do it you will get your ‘3’ and will be allowed to take your verbal exam’. I coped with this task. Then I passed geography, history, Russian and was admitted. 

My father, being a Party member, had to indicate that he had relatives abroad in his application forms. Before the Great Patriotic War his brother Leibl used to write him from America, but my father didn’t reply fearing persecution. After the war Leibl was trying to find out whether my father survived and my father responded. For this my father was expelled from the Party again in 1949 during the period of struggle against cosmopolites.34 He swore that he would never again correspond with his brother and he kept his word: my father died for his brother Leibl.  He destroyed his brother’s photographs and letters. Then he resumed his membership in the Party.  

In May 1949, when I was almost finishing my studies, an unpleasant incident happened.  I was going upstairs with other students when chief of Marxism-Leninism department Babenko took me by my elbow: ‘Comrade Kotliar, I know that you take an active part in public activities, but you do not come to our political club’.  ‘I would love to join you, but I have to work. I have a one-year-old baby and my wife is not well. We don’t always have food at home. However, if you do me this honor I would like to come one day’.  He says: ‘I would like you to make a report. Many of our students have been in occupation and we need to pay attention to their political views’.  I replied: ‘I understand how important this is. I’ve also been in captivity and in occupation’. It never occurred to him. A Jew and he managed to survive? 2 days later Babenko made a lot of fuss about my being in captivity and never mentioning it. The thing is I wrote my biography briefly and even the fact that I volunteered to the front didn’t fit in there. However, I had reported on my being in captivity when serving in my special unit. Director of my college got involved in this incident and we talked with him 3 hours behind a closed door. He asked me all kinds of tricky questions, but I said: ‘I’ve been through filtration camp and answered all their questions’. As a result, director stated that he had nothing against me personally, but the circumstances… He couldn’t ignore this Babenko. Usually chief of Marxism departments were from KGB. I passed two state exams in Pedagogics and Marxism with ‘4’ marks, but they expelled me from college. Secretary of the Party committee Pohodzilo decided to help me resume my right to study in the college. He took me to the Ministry of education of the USSR. They allowed me to take other exams and I passed them with ‘5’ marks. In July 1949 I received my diploma of teacher of the Russian language and literature, but they refused to give me my job assignment.35 ‘We do not trust you politically. You’ve been in captivity’ the Ministry of education explained. I complained to the Ministry of State Control.  They protected me, but I received their response to my complaint 2 months later. 

I went to all kinds of offices through the summer and in September, when I visited another office in the Ministry of education I bumped into director of a village school and he employed me. On 24 September I came to school in Varovichi village of Kiev region. I worked in this school until 7 November and was transferred to the school in Seschina village where there was no electricity or radio. However, the wave of anti-Semitism associated with the doctors’ plot36 reached this village in 1952. Chairman of the village council read a letter issued by the district Party committee about criminal activities of Jewish doctors aiming at the destruction of Soviet people by providing wrong medical treatment and poisoning it. Later I heard rumors that Stalin was preparing a trap for Jews, but was going to present it to the world as protection of Jews from the ‘just anger’ of people.   The only way to protect Jews from the ‘just anger’ of people was to deport them to Birobidzhan37 in the taiga. They said that the Soviet Union was going to be cleaned up from Jews and then finally life would improve. Only a miracle could save Jews from another holocaust. And it happened: on 5 March 1953 Stalin died.

Shortly afterward chief of the district department of education assigned me as a district inspector. I didn’t quite like this job. Firstly, I had to run around a lot, and secondly, teaching personnel was weak: teachers could not solve a 3rd grade problem with 3 questions. I worked as inspector for a year and then went back to school. After finishing my teachers’ college I received 10% lower salary than teachers with a diploma of Pedagogical Institute. In 1956 I entered extramural department of the faculty of Philology of Kiev Pedagogical Institute. I finished it in 1959. After finishing this Institute I worked in a school in Kiev several years and then I worked in village schools of Kiev region.  Ghita worked as a concertmaster in schools and clubs.  

In the late 1950s my sister Cecilia married Moisey Dibner, a Jewish man. He worked as electrician in a design institute and my sister worked as a computer operator in this same institute. They had two children: Larisa, born in the early 1960s and Boris, born in 1972.

In May 1965 my district military registry office in Kiev called me to receive my awards. It was warm and we were waiting in the yard. They were calling veterans by a list until there were two of us left in the yard. I asked this other man: ‘were you liberated by Americans?’ He said ‘Yes’. I said ‘So was I’. If we had been liberated by Soviet troops we would have received our awards much earlier. I finally received two medals and sometime later I obtained my certificate of a veteran of the war and an order of the Patriotic War of II grade [editor’s note: There are orders and medals awarded to him for his combat deeds and labor achievements on his jacket, including the Order of Great Patriotic War, Order of Glory, and medal for defense of Stalingrad, medal for Courage, etc.  – perhaps you could put this whole part in the body of the bio, as an editor’s note or just in brackets.].

Our son Yuriy finished school in 1965, but he didn’t enter a college in Kiev: it was next to impossible for a Jew in Ukraine. He entered Cinematography College in Leningrad. In 1970 he finished this college and received a job assignment in Arkhangelsk, 5000 km from Kiev. Yuriy was a sickly boy and they released him from service in the army. He worked in Arkhangelsk for some time, but nobody needed a producer there and in 1972 he returned to Kiev. For 8 months he couldn’t get a job in Kiev and there were no prospects for him.  Soon he married a Russian girl from Siberia. Her name was Yelena Paramonova. They moved to Novosibirsk. He became senior editor of documentaries there and Yelena lectured in Theatrical School. In 1974 my wife and I moved to our son in Novosibirsk. In 1975 my son’s daughter Vlada was born and a year and a half later their son Anton was born. However, Ghita couldn’t live in Siberia due to the climate there and in 1976 we had to leave. When I imagined my problems with the Ministry of education in Kiev due to my Jewish identity I decided to go to Polesskoye (90 km north of Kiev). They remembered me there and offered 5 schools. Ghita went to work as concertmaster in a club. We received a house and a garden and school paid our fees. My son often brought Vlada and Anton to spend their summer vacations with us. 

Recent years

When in 1985 perestroika38 began I supported it for its glasnost’ policy. They began to publish works previously forbidden and reveal information thoroughly concealed before. I translated a poem by my favorite poetess Lina Kostenko39, formerly forbidden in the USSR, into Russian. This book was published.

On 21 December 1986 I lost Ghita. She had congenital heart formation and Chernobyl disaster [editor’s note: Official statistics in the USSR  kept silent about the consequences of Chernobyl power plant disaster, especially the number of dying from oncological  diseases. The doctors had a classified direction to show in the documents that a patient died from other than oncolological disease.] had this impact on her. When we buried her, an old Jewish man came to the cemetery. He said: ‘She is a Jew and there has to be a prayer recited'. He recited the prayer.  Polesskoye is located within the dangerous 30-km zone within Chernobyl. It wasn’t allowed to reside there due to high level radiation, but I couldn’t obtain my permission for relocation for a long time. There was no gas heating. I stoked my stove with wood and breathed in radiation. I lost all my teeth in those years. I can visit the cemetery in Polesskoye on the days of remembrance the deceased. Ghita’s grave is there and there is a gravestone on it. I can’t go there often.  Her father was buried in the Jewish sector of the town cemetery in Kiev. I had Ghita’s name written on a plaque on his gravestone and I go there.  

I remarried in 1988. My second wife Ludmila Zhutnik was born in Kiev in 1926. Her mother is Jewish and her father is Ukrainian. Ludmila finished Moscow College of Economics and taught economics in technical schools in Kiev. She retired almost 20 years ago. I also retired in the late 1980s and joined her in Kiev. I couldn’t imagine my life without working with children, so I was head of an artistic word studio in the district children’s house for many years.

In 1991 residents of Polesskoye left the town: there are empty houses with holes where doors and windows used to be. A bulldozer removed my small house due to high radiation. I received a small apartment in Belaya Tserkov (70 km from Kiev). I lived in this apartment two years and then we exchanged this apartment and Ludmila’s for a two-bedroom apartment in a new district in Kiev. 

In the early 1990s my sister Cecilia, her husband Moisey, son Boris and daughter Larisa and her family moved to Haifa in Israel. Larisa works as a medical nurse there and Boris is an engineer. Both of them have a good conduct of Hebrew. Cecilia and Moisey live on old age welfare. Ghita and I didn’t have money to move to Israel.  We couldn’t afford to live without work for half year. As soon as people applied for departure they were fired.  Cecilia and I correspond. She often calls me.  She wants me to go visit her.

In the late 1990s Germans began to pay ostarbeiters compensation and I needed a certificate to prove that I had been in Germany. My son’s friend Vitia Brentsler living in Berlin now helped me. He applied to the insurance agency in Stuttgart and obtained a certificate confirming that I was an ostarbeiter there.

Yuriy and his family live in Moscow. Yelena is a pensioner and Yuriy works as a scriptwriter. Anton is an actor in Moscow Theater for young spectators and Vlada is an English teacher. I miss them much and often travel to Moscow. 

My wife and I do not go to the synagogue. We’ve remained atheists, but we attend Hesed where we celebrate Jewish holidays. We enjoy learning about Jewish culture. 

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