Travel

Ranana Malkhanova

Ranana Malkhanova - maloni, žavi ir gerai apsirengusi ponia. Mes susitikome jos kabinete Vilniuje, kur ji dirba savanore Lietuvos žydų bendruomenėje. Jos šviesios akys spindi gerumu ir susidomėjimu. Mums besikalbant, aš supratau, kad ne dėl madingos aprangos ir šiuolaikinės šukuosenos Ranana atrodo taip jaunai, o dėl savo atvirumo ir noro padėti kitiems. Ranana turi daugybę draugų bendruomenėje, su kuriais mane ir supažindino. Pajutau juos visus jungiančią šilumą.

Šeimos istorija
Vaikystė
Karo metai
Pokaris
Žodynėlis
Šeimos istorija

Gimiau Vilkaviškyje, mažame Lietuvos miestelyje maždaug 150 kilometrų nuo Vilniaus ir 14 kilometrų nuo Rusijos ir Lenkijos sienos. Man buvo vos devyni, kai prasidėjo II Pasaulinis karas [žr. Didysis Tėvynės karas (1)]. Patyriau tokias nelaimes, kad jos praktiškai sunaikino viską, ką iki tol turėjau: vaikystę, nedrumsčiamą laimę ir pan. Todėl menkai prisimenu prieškarinius laikus, bet, nepaisant to, norėčiau papasakoti apie savo giminę.

Žinau, kad mano prosenelis iš mamos pusės buvo rabinas, bet nežinau jo vardo ir kur jis gyveno. Viskas, ką žinau – jis buvo iš Lietuvos. Mano senelis iš mamos pusės, Jakovas Solominas, gimė Vilkaviškyje (pervadintame Pilviškiais 1920-siais) 1870-siais. Mano senelis buvo II gildijos pirklys [žr. Gildija I] 2. Jis turėjo gana didelę statybinių medžiagų parduotuvę Vilkaviškio centrinėje aikštėje, tačiau gyveno seneliai labai mažame miestelyje 22 kilometrai nuo Vilkaviškio. Kaip suprantu, Pilviškiai, kur gyveno mano giminė, buvo tikras štetlas. Namai ten buvo vienaaukščiai, daugiausiai mediniai, labai retai mūriniai, su kiemais ir ūkiniais pastatais. Didžioji gyventojų dalis buvo žydai [žydų bendruomenę sudarė: 4417 žydai 1856 metais, lyginant su 834 krikščionimis), 3480 žydų - 1897 metais (60% bendro gyventojų skaičiaus), 3206 žydai – 1923 metais (44%) ir 3609 žydai – 1939 metais (45%].

Lietuviai sudarė gyventojų mažumą, daugiausiai gyveno miesto pakraščiuose ir dirbo žemę. Sunkiai prisimenu, kaip atrodė mano seneliai ir jų namai. Prisimenu, kad močiutė Yena dėvėjo peruką, tamsų sijoną ir palaidinę, kaip ir visos žydų moterys tais laikais. Senelis viešoje vietoje visada nešiojo arba kipą, arba skrybėlę. Mano senelis turėjo pusę namo Vilkaviškyje. Jo namo dalis paprastai būdavo uždaryta, nes senelis buvo pasiturintis ir jam nereikėjo namo nuomoti. Jis apsistodavo savo namo dalyje, kai vykdavo į Vilkaviškį verslo reikalais. Kartais su juo vykdavo ir močiutė. Žiemą Jakovas ir Yena gyvendavo Vilkaviškyje.

Senelis Jakovas buvo labai religingas. Vilkaviškyje jis kiekvieną rytą eidavo į sinagogą užsidėjęs talitą ir tefiliną. Nors Pilviškiai buvo mažas miestelis, manau, kad jame buvo sinagoga. Senelis visada pradėdavo dieną malda. Jis visą dieną skaitydavo Talmudą. Atradęs kažką naujo, senelis taip susijaudindavo, kad norėdavo pasidalinti perskaitytais dalykais su visais, kas tik jo klausydavo. Prisimenu, kaip kartą jis mėgino kažką paaiškinti man, tik kad aš nieko nesupratau. Močiutė taip pat buvo dievobaiminga žydė. Namuose buvo gerbiamos visos žydiškos tradicijos, švenčiamos šventės ir griežtai laikomasi kašruto. Jakovas ir Yena auklėjo vaikus religine dvasia. Jie turėjo sūnus ir vieną dukrą, mano mamą. Nieko negaliu pasakyti apie mamos brolių religines pažiūras. Kalbant apie mamą, ji nebuvo religinga ir, suaugusi, nesilaikė tradicijų. Mano seneliai žuvo 1941 metais per okupaciją. Manau, jie buvo nužudyti vienos anti-žydiškos akcijos Pilviškiuose metu.

Mano mamos jauniausias brolis, kurio vardo nepamenu, mirė kūdikystėje. Du mamos vyresnieji broliai, Šimonas ir Lipas, gimę 1890-siais, išvyko į užsienį. Lipas įsikūrė Amerikoje, o Šimonas nuvyko į Kanadą. Mes turėjome savo verslą iki sovietinės okupacijos [žr. Baltijos respublikų okupacija] 3. Mano mama susirašinėjo su jais. Po to ji nebepalaikė ryšio, kadangi bijojo persekiojimo [žr. Palaikyti ryšius su užsienyje gyvenančiais giminaičiais] 4. Jos broliai buvo vedę. Nieko nežinau apie jų šeimas. Karui pasibaigus, mamos broliai per kažkokius nepažįstamus žmones siuntė mums siuntinius, kuriuos pasiimdavome Vilniaus sinagogoje. Juose būdavo vaistai, maisto produktai ir drabužiai, tačiau 1960-siais mes liovėmės palaikyti ryšius. Kiek žinau, jie mirė 1970-siais. Dar vienas mamos brolis, Meišelis, gyveno su žmona ir dukterimi Riva kaime netoli nuo Vilkaviškio. Meišelis turėjo mažą krautuvėlę. Aplink gyveno lietuviai. Jis ir jo šeima pateko į okupaciją ir žuvo pačioje karo pradžioje.

Mano mama, Ester Solomina, gimė 1901 metais, kaip rašoma dokumentuose, tačiau ji pati sakydavo, kad gimė 1905 metais. Gal tai buvo jos noras atrodyti jaunesne. Mama gimė Pilviškiuose. Nežinau, į kokią pradinę mokyklą ji ėjo. Prasidėjus Pirmajam Pasauliniam karui, seneliai iš mamos pusės nusprendė laikinai išvykti iš miesto, prie jo priartėjus frontui. Jie išvažiavo į Rusijos miestą Voronežą [1300 kilometrų nuo Vilniaus, 500 kilometrų nuo Maskvos]. Tai buvo didelis Rusijos miestas, kultūros centras, ir Jakovo Solomino šeima gyveno jame kelerius metus. Čia mama įstojo ir pabaigė Rusijos gimnaziją. Turėjusi galimybę gyventi ir mokytis Voroneže su rusų mergaitėmis, mama išmoko laisvai kalbėti rusiškai ir pamėgo klasikinę literatūrą. Mama buvo gabi kalboms. Grįžusi į Vilkaviškį, ji kurį laiką dėstė vokiečių kalbą vietos gimnazijoje.

Gali būti, kad mama pažinojo mano tėvą, Mozę Kleinšteiną, dar paauglystėje. Pirmajam Pasauliniam karui prasidėjus, mano tėvo šeima taip pat išvyko iš Vilkaviškio į Voronežą. Jie susituoke 1923 metais. Nemanau, kad tai buvo sutartos vedybos, kaip žydams įprasta. Mama pasakodavo, kad tėvas ilgai jai piršosi, bet ji buvo išranki. Ester buvo graži ir turėjo pasisekimą tarp vyrų. Nepaisant to, kad abu nebuvo religingi, vestuvės vyko pagal žydiškas tradicijas. Tėvai susituokė po chupa didelėje Vilkaviškio sinagogoje.

Nežinau savo močiutės iš tėvo pusės. Ji mirė 1920-jų pabaigoje, man dar negimus. Tačiau prisimenu savo senelį iš tėvo pusės Jakovą. Jakovas Kleinšteinas turėjo Vilkaviškyje kepyklą, kurioje kepė ir pardavinėjo savo gaminius. Duoną kepdavo kiekvieną dieną. Ketvirtadieniais dėdavo specialių mielių ir kepdavo Šabo chalą. Kepykla buvo centrinėje Vilkaviškio aikštėje, netoli nuo senelio iš mamos pusės parduotuvės. Jakovas Kleinšteinas taip pat laikėsi žydiškų tradicijų, šventė šabą ir ėjo šeštadieniais į sinagogą. Jis nebuvo toks religingas kaip Jakovas Solominas ir auklėjo mano tėvą šiuolaikiškiau. Mano tėvas buvo vienintelis sūnus. Jis turėjo dvi seseris. Neprisimenu jų vardų. Žinau tik tiek, kad jos gyveno su mano seneliu ir tvarkė namus močiutei mirus. Senelis Kleinšteinas ir jo abi dukros žuvo Vilkaviškyje 1941 metais pirmomis fašistinės okupacijos dienomis.

Mano tėvas gimė Vilkaviškyje 1901 metais. Nežinau, ar jis lankė chederį. Jis nieko man apie tai nepasakojo. Manau, kad tėvas gavo tradicinį žydišką išsilavinimą. Jo šeimai grįžus į Vilkaviškį, tėvas nusprendė mokytis toliau, nes jau buvo baigęs gimnaziją Voroneže. Jis įstojo į Lietuvos valstybinę mokytojų seminariją Marijampolėje, 28 kilometrai nuo Vilkaviškio (maždaug 150 kilometrų nuo Vilniaus). Jį priėmė be jokių problemų, kadangi tuo metu Lietuvoje žydai nebuvo žeminami. Tėvas mokėsi labai gerai, džiugindamas dėstytojus savo stropumu ir žingeidumu.

Nežinau, kur tėvas mokytojavo baigęs seminariją, kadangi jo specialybė buvo lietuvių kalbos mokytojas. Savo vedybų metu jis buvo žydų aštuonmetės mokyklos Vilkaviškyje direktorius.

Po vestuvių šeima persikraustė į senelio Solomino namus. Pusė jo namo buvo paskirta mano mamai kaip kraitis. 1924 metais gimė mano brolis. Jis gavo senovinį žydišką Zayevo vardą. Mano tėvas mokėjo hebrajų kalbą ir mėgo senovinius vardus. Netgi šuo turėjo senovinį žydišką vardą – Nadhonas. Kai gimiau, 1932 metų lapkričio 6 dieną, man taip davė senovinį vardą, Ranana.

Vaikystė

Mano vaikystė buvo laiminga, pasiturinčiuose namuose ir apsupta meile. Tėvas turėjo gerą darbą – buvo mokyklos direktorius. Jis buvo gerai žinomas ir gerbiamas žmogus. Kartu su kitais gerbiamais piliečiais, jis buvo miesto savivaldybės narys ir vienintelis žydas. Tėvas taip pat priklausė Šaulių organizacijai [žr. Šaulių taryba] 5. Sprendžiant iš mūsų gyvenimo būdo, tėvas labai neblogai uždirbo.

Menkai prisimenu mūsų namą. Tai buvo gerai pastatytas vienaaukštis medinis namas. Aišku, nebuvo patogumų: kanalizacijos, vandentiekio. Turėjome lauko tualetą. Bet kitais požiūriais, tai buvo tikras europietiškas namas. Jame buvo keturi dideli kambariai – svetainė, tėvų miegamasis, tėvo darbo kambarys ir vaikų kambarys. Prisimenu gražiomis plytelėmis išklotą židinį svetainėje, taip maloniai šildantį namus. Svetainės baldai buvo prašmatnūs – pagal užsakymą pagaminti raižyti juodmedžio baldai. Ant langų kabojo gražios aksominės užuolaidos. Staltiesė buvo tokia pati kaip užuolaidos. Nieko negaliu pasakyti apie virtuvę. Nemanau, kad vaikystėje ten eidavau. Net nesu tikra, ar mano mama joje dažnai lankydavosi. Namuose buvo dvi tarnaitės. Viena tvarkė namus, valė juos. Kita buvo guvernantė: ji mus maitino, prižiūrėjo ir vedė pasivaikščioti. Gal dar buvo virėjas, bet aš niekad jo nemačiau.

Labiausiai man patiko leisti laiką su mama. Mama buvo tikra dama. Ištekėjusi ji paliko mokytojos darbą gimnazijoje. Aišku, ji prižiūrėjo namus, tačiau pati jokio darbo nedarė, tik nurodinėjo tarnaitėms. Jos gyvenimo būdas buvo toks, kaip ir kitų turtingų ponių. Ester nuolat eidavo pas modistę. Jos suknelės tikriausiai buvo pačios madingiausios Vilkaviškyje. Ji turėjo keletą brangių kailinių apsiaustų ir gražių papuošalų. Tačiau mūsų mažame miestelyje nebuvo kur išeiti pasipuošus. Daugiausiai laiko mama praleisdavo gerdama kavą su pyragaičiais su savo rato poniomis. Kartais ji vesdavosi mane pasivaikščioti. Tai buvo laimingiausi mano gyvenimo momentai. Vasarą tėvai vykdavo į populiarius Europos kurortus. Operuotis tonzilių mama važiavo į Kionigsbergą Vokietijoje.

Prisimenu žalumoje paskendusį mūsų vienaaukščių namukų miestelį. Gatvės leidosi prie mažos Šešupės upės, kur vaikai smagiai leido laiką nedideliame pliaže. Man neleido žaisti su jais. Vaikystėje aš beveik neturėjau draugų, leidau laiką su mama, guvernante ir broliu. Brolis buvo aštuoniais metais vyresnis, tačiau aš sugebėjau jį erzinti. Man už tai nekliūdavo, mat buvau tėvo numylėtinė ir jo pasididžiavimas. Anksti pradėjau kalbėti jidiš ir lietuviškai, nes namuose buvo kalbama abiem kalbom. Kai tėvas grįždavo namo po darbo, jis užsikeldavo mane ant pečių ir nešdavosi laukan. Sutikęs pažįstamus, jis mėgdavo pasigirti: „Ranana, sakyk internacionalinis“ ir aš kaip papūga kartodavau žodžius, nė nesuprasdama ką jie reiškia.

Mama ir aš dažnai vaikščiodavome po centrinę aikštę. Tuo metu ji man rodėsi tokia didelė, tačiau iš tikrųjų tai buvo maža aikštė, apsupta vienaaukščių parduotuvių ir namų. Kartais eidavome į senelio Solomino parduotuvę, o kartais – į senelio Kleinšteino kepyklą. Man patiko apvalios minkštos bandelės ir mama nepritariamai purtė galvą, kai aš imdavau bandeles tiesiai iš lentynos parduotuvėje. Vaikystėje aš turėjau prastą apetitą ir beveik nieko nevalgiau. Kartais leisdavau mane pamaitinti braškėmis su grietinėle, apelsinu ar bananu, bet išspjaudavau košę.

Neprisimenu miesto turgaus. Aišku, toks buvo, bet mama niekada ten nėjo ir aš nėjau. Apsipirkti ėjo tarnaitės. Mieste buvo sinagogos, didžioji ir mažoji. Gal buvo ir daugiau, bet mano tėvai jose nesilankė ir manęs nevedė. Manau, kad brit milah (apipjaustymas) buvo atliktas aštuntą dieną po brolio gimimo. Manau, kad seneliai to pareikalavo, kaip ir vedybų pagal žydiškas tradicijas. Brolio bar micva nebuvo švenčiama, kas nuliūdino mano abu senelius.

Tėvai nesilaikė žydiškų tradicijų. Neprisimenu, kas mama degtų žvakes penktadienį, o tėvas dažniausiai dirbdavo šeštadieniais. Nebuvo laikomasi kašruto: mes valgėme kiaulieną, skanias dešreles ir kumpį. Tačiau buvo daug žydiškų valgių: įdaryta žuvis, vištienos troškinys bei sultinys ir cimusas 6. Dažniausiai mama prisilaikė europietiškos virtuvės tradicijų. Žydiškų desertų paragaudavau močiutės Yenos namuose, kai nuvažiuodavau į Pilviškius, arba kai ji atvažiuodavo į mūsų miestą kartu su seneliu. Močiutė kepdavo nuostabius sausainius su aguonomis ir riešutais, štrudelį su uogiene ir razinomis, gamino cimusą iš macos su medumi. Man patiko toks maistas. Jei Chanukos metu jie būdavo Vilkaviškyje, mano brolis ir aš gaudavome Chanukos pinigų.

Prisimenu, kaip per Pesachą mes nuėjome pas senelį sederio. Prisimenu, kad vieną kartą sederį išnešė senelis Kleinšteinas, kitą kartą – senelis Solominas. Pesacho šventimas man nepaliko didelio įspūdžio ir aš tai įvertinau kaip eilinius skanius pietus. Buvo Pesachui skirta maca ir skanūs valgiai, bet tėvai neatlikdavo sederio. Taip pat prastai prisimenu kitas žydiškas šventes, nes mes jų namuose nešvęsdavome. Manau, kad tėvai pasninkavo per Yom Kipurą, tiesiog prisilaikydami žydų tradicijos.

1935-1936 metais Vilkaviškyje buvo pastatyta nauja žydų mokykla ir tėvas gavo erdvų butą prie mokyklos, nes buvo jos direktoriumi. Šis butas buvo netgi geresnį už ankstesnįjį. Jame buvo penki kambariai, ne keturi. Dabar mano brolis ir aš turėjome atskirus kambarius. Antra, jame buvo kanalizacija ir centrinis šildymas. Dar buvo didelis gražus vonios kambarys ir tualetas. Šiame mane mes irgi turėjome tarnaites, kurios prižiūrėjo ir mus, ir namus. Butas buvo mokyklos patalpose. Man patiko stebėti mokinius. Pavydėjau jų uniformų ir kuprinių, kurias jie didžiuodamiesi nešiojo. Pradėjau įeidinėti į klasę, atsisėsdavau į suolą ir klausydavau mokytojų. Tėvas manęs nebardavo. Jis niekad nebuvo pakėlęs balso prieš mane.

Taip atsitiko, kad pradėjau mokytis būdama penkerių. Susidraugavau su žydų mokinėmis ir mano gyvenimas tapo įdomesnis. Nelabai bendravau su broliu. Jis jau buvo jaunuolis ir lankė Vilkaviškio lietuvišką valstybinę gimnaziją. 1940 metų vasarą baigiau antrą mokyklos klasę.

Mūsų gyvenimas buvo ramus ir laimingas iki 1940 metų vasaros, kuri įsirėžė mano atmintyje. 1940-siais daug pasikeitimų įvyko mūsų šeimoje. Raudonoji Armija įėjo į Lietuvą ir į mūsų miestelį. Man sunku pasakyti, koks buvo mano tėvų požiūris į sovietinę armiją, buvau dar per maža. Žinau, kad žydai tikėjosi, kad sovietinė santvarka išgelbės juos nuo skurdo ir priespaudos. Mūsų šeima gyveno gerai, todėl abejoju, kad mes sveikinome sovietus. Pokyčiai prasidėjo pačią pirmą dieną. Žydų mokykla tapo paprasta mokykla su dėstomąja lietuvių kalba. Tėvas buvo atleistas ir mes turėjome palikti mokyklos butą. Mes grįžome atgal į mūsų namą, kuris dar nebuvo nacionalizuotas. Tada jie atėjo mano tėvo. Vilkaviškio savivaldybės knyga su visų narių nuotraukomis buvo išstatyta miesto knygyno vitrinoje.

Nežinau, kas atsitiko su kitais savivaldybės nariais, bet mano tėvas labai nenukentėjo. Jį išsiuntė mokytojauti lietuviškoje mokykloje mažame Lazdijų miestelyje (maždaug 110 kilometrų nuo Vilniaus). Tėvas grįždavo namo šeštadienį ir išvažiuodavo sekmadienį. Mūsų gyvenimas taip pat pasikeitė. Mama atleido tarnaites ir pati triūsė namuose. Ji nenorėjo būti apkaltinta išnaudojimu. Tarybinis karininkas įsikėlė į mūsų namus ir užėmė geriausią kambarį. Buvo vis sunkiau ir sunkiau gyventi. Iš parduotuvių išnyko ne tik mano mėgstami bananai ir apelsinai, bet ir pagrindiniai produktai. Liko tik dvi duonos rūšys, palyginus su 20 buvusių. Iš SSSR atvykę tarnautojai viską šlavė iš parduotuvių. Neliko nieko: dešros, sviesto, maisto, pyragų ir pramoninių prekių.

Deficitu tapo kojinės, patalynė, muilas ir soda. Prisimenu, kaip karininkai tempė didžiulius ryšulius ir dėžes į paštą. Matyt, jie siuntė siuntinius savo šeimoms. Mano senelių parduotuvės buvo nacionalizuotos. Laimei, nė vieno iš mūsų neištrėmė, nors mūsų pavardės buvo tremiamųjų sąraše [žr. Deportacijos Baltijos šalyse 7. Nors žodis „laimei“ čia netinkamas. Praėjo dar vieni metai. Aš toliau mokiausi toje pačioje mokykloje, kuri dabar buvo ne žydų, o lietuvių. 1941 metais mano brolis Zayevas baigė dešimtmetę mokyklą, buvusią gimnaziją, su pagyrimu. Tėvai atsigavo ir pradėjo galvoti apie jo ateitį, bet planams nebuvo lemta išsipildyti.

Karo metai

1941 metų birželio 22-sios naktį miestą pradėjo bombarduoti nuo pusės keturių ryto. Mūsų pafrontės miestelį fašistai [vokiečių naciai] užpuolė vieną iš pirmųjų. Buvo klaiki panika. Žmonės bandė bėgti, kur tik galėjo. Gerai, kad buvo sekmadienis ir tėvas nedirbo. Jis sugebėjo gauti vežimą ir arklį. Mes visi sulipome, pasiėmę tik po mažą lagaminą, ir išvažiavome iš miesto. Mus pralenkė didelis sunkvežimis. Jame sėdėjo mano brolio bendraamžiai. Jie pradėjo įkalbinėti brolį bėgti su jais į Rusiją, bet mama griežtai pasipriešino. Ji manė, kad mes turime laikyti kartu ir nepaleido Zayevo.

Mes nuvažiavome nuo Vilkaviškio tik keletą kilometrų ir pamatėme motociklais priešais atvažiuojančius vokiečius. Tada aš pirmą išgirday jų trumpą „Schnell, schnell!“ (greičiau, greičiau). Mus ir kitus bėglius sustabdė ir liepė grįžti į miestą. Grįžus, mus pirmą kartą atrinko: jaunus vyrus atskyrė ir nuvedė į spaustuvės rūsį. Tėvas ir brolis net negalėjo atsisveikinti su mumis; juos areštavo. Mes su mama nuėjome namo, tačiau ten buvo baisi netvarka. Mama rado kelis žydus, kurių namai per stebuklą išliko sveiki. Neprisimenu, iš ko mes tada gyvenome. Tikriausiai mama pardavinėjo išsaugotas brangenybes. Pirmosiomis okupacijos dienomis buvo išleistas įsakymas, nurodantis žydams dėvėti drabužius su geltona žvaigžde ant rankovės. Nepaklusę įsakymui bus sušaudyti iš karto. Buvo sunku rasti geltonos spalvos medžiagą, bet mama sugebėjo ir išsiuvinėjo žydiškas žvaigždes ant drabužių.

Buvo daugybė draudimų. Komendanto valanda žydams buvo įvesta anksčiau, nei kitiems gyventojams. Mums nebuvo leidžiama įeiti į parduotuves ir vaikščioti šaligatviais. Graudžios žydų figūros slinko pakraščiais, žydai turėjo eiti gatve. Kiekvieną dieną nešdavome maisto, sumuštinių ar duonos, į spaustuvę. Sargybinis buvo lietuvis. Jis žiūrėdavo į kitą pusę, kai mes prisiartindavome prie rūsio. Langai buvo su grotomis ir matėme ištiestas rankas. Mes įdėdavome į jas maisto ir nežinojome, kaip jis būdavo išdalinamas. Negalėjome pamatyti nei brolio, nei tėvo.

Kartą, eidamos iš spaustuvės, aš ir mama užmiršome įsakymą ir užlipome ant šaligatvio. Kažkoks svarbus fašistas, lydimas padėjėjų, ėjo priešais mus. Tai buvo pagyvenęs vyras, apkūnus ir įmitęs. Pamatęs mamą ir mane, fašistas pradėjo trypti ir taškydamasis seilėmis rėkti vokiškai. Kelis žodžius supratau ir supratau, kad jis grąsina visiems žydams sunaikinti ir ištrinti mus nuo žemės paviršiaus. Mama ir aš nulipome ant gatvės.

Tuo metu aš tik vieną kartą mačiau senelį Jakovą Kleinšteiną. Jis gyveno savo name su seserimis. Taip mes gyvenome iki 1941 metų liepos 8 dienos. Keli kaimynai pasakė mums, kad vyrams buvo liepta išeiti iš rūsio ir bėgti į barakus. Daug moterų sekė jiems iš paskos, bet mano mama buvo išsigandusi. Mums pasakė, kad ten buvo visi jauni vyrai ir vaikinai, kurie nespėjo pabėgti. Jiems buvo liepta nusirengti ir palikti brangius daiktus barakuose. Tada jiems davė kastuvus išsikasti sau kapus. Visa teritorija buvo apjuosta spygliuota viela. Nuogus vyrus vertė pralįsti pro vielą. Vienas lietuvis vaikinas papasakojo mamai, kad tėvas atsisakė taip daryti ir buvo partrenktas kastuvu, o po to nušautas.

Po kurio laiko, gyvi likę žydai buvo parvaryti atgal į barakus. [1941 metų liepos 28 dieną prasidėjo sistemingas Vilkaviškio žydų naikinimas. Pirmiausiai buvo nužudyta maždaug 900 vyrų. Likusiems žydams, daugiausiai moterims ir vaikams, buvo įkurtas getas vietiniuose barakuose, netoli sušaudytų vyrų masinės kapavietės. Geto žydai buvo nužudyti kitą dieną po Rosh Hashanah, 1941 metų rugsėjo 24-ą. Tik keletas išgyveno iki išvadavimo.] Nebemačiau savo senelio ir jo seserų. Greičiausiai, jie buvo nužudyti. Barakuose liko didžiulės krūvos daiktų: vyriški kostiumai, marškiniai, batai. Mėtėsi popieriai ir dokumentai.

Mačiau, kaip moterys klykdamos puolė prie tos krūvos. Jos tikėjosi rasti kokius nors savo vyrų, sūnų ir brolių pėdsakus. Mano mama stovėjo kaip sustigus. Nežinau, ar ją graužė sąžinė, kad neleido Zayevui važiuoti su tais jaunuoliais. Mama niekada neverkė man matant ir nieko nekomentavo. Nors prieškario metų prisiminimai jai buvo tokie skaudūs, kad ji net negalėjo apie tai kalbėti. Neprisimenu, kiek laiko mes praleidome barakuose: mėnesį ar pusantro. Tai buvo kaip baisus sapnas. Mūsų pažįstami lietuviai atnešdavo mums maisto. Prisimenu nuolatinio alkio ir troškulio jausmą. Tualetas buvo tame pačiame barako kambaryje, pilname nelaimingų ir išsigandusių moterų, vaikų ir senelių. Smarvė buvo siaubinga. Buvo vasara, o mes neturėjome jokių galimybių nusiprausti.

Iš žydų tarpo buvo atrinkti amatininkai: siuvėjos, laikrodininkai, batsiuviai. Kiti žydai: senukai, moterys ir vaikai buvo nužudyti. Pasirodė, kad mano mama yra apsukri, kas jai ir prieš karą buvo būdinga. Ribinėse situacijose žmogus turi pajėgti padaryti daugiau, nei gali. Ji susitiko su siuvėjų šeima ir sugebėjo pristatyti mus kaip jų giminaičius. Dėl to mūsų niekas nelietė. Rugpjūčio pabaigoje mes visi dar buvome gyvi. Žydų amatininkai būdavo išrikiuojami ir vedami pėsčiomis. Mus lydėdavo vietiniai policajai [žr. Lietuvių policajai] 8. Tie žvėrys bandė įsiteikti (vokiečiams) ir kankino vargšus žmones baisiau nei fašistai: mušė, įžeidinėjo, vertė bėgti be pertaukos. Jie net neleisdavo žmonėms nueiti į tualetą. Kurie atsilikdavo, nušaudavo vietoje. Aš laikiausi šalia mamos ir ji bandė mane raminti.

Mus nuvedė į Pilviškius, mamos gimtąjį miestą, kur gyveno mano seneliai. Jų namas buvo tuščias. Greičiausiai, jie buvo nužudyti vienos iš akcijų Pilviškiuose metu. Mieste buvo daug tuščių namų, nes jų gyventojai buvo nušauti. Mums nurodė, kur gyvensime. Mama ir aš įsikūrėme kartu su siuvėjo šeima. Tokiu būdu, Pilviškiai buvo paversti į mažą getą. Mes ten gyvenome apie tris mėnesius.

Kažkokiu būdu mūsų gyvenimas ėmė palaipsniui gerėti, jei jį galima vadinti „gyvenimu“. Mama daugiausia sėdėdavo namuose. Jai buvo sunku vaikščioti gimtojo miestelio gatvėmis su geltona žvaigžde. Ji padėdavo tvarkytis namuose ir išmoko paprastų siuvimo darbų kaip pameistrė. Neprisimenu, ką mes valgėme. Aš, kurią buvo taip sunku įkalbėti pavalgyti, buvau nuolat alkana. Tuo metu aš jau nebuvau išranki. Valgiau viską, ką gaudavau, ar tai buvo sužiedėjusios ruginės duonos riekė, bulvės ar skysta košė. Mama labai džiaugdavosi, jei gaudavo man stiklinę pieno. Pilviškiuose man buvo visai gerai. Mano plaukai buvo šviesūs ir garbanoti ir aš visai nebuvau panaši į žydę. Laisvai kalbėjau lietuviškai. Todėl lakstydavau po miestą be geltonos žvaigždės ir buvau laikoma lietuve. Man leisdavo laisvai vaikščioti po gatves, mat buvau labai pastabi.

Lapkričio 13 dienos vakarą skubėjau namo, nes buvo ruduo ir anksti temo. Pamačiau, kaip policajai beldžia į namų, kur laikinai glaudėsi žydai, duris ir keikiasi. Keletas senukų, verkiančių moterų ir vaikų buvo varomi į centrinę aikštę. Aš jau nebuvau tas nerūpestingas vaikas, kokia buvau prieš kelis mėnesius. Sunkūs išmėginimai privertė mane suaugti ir tapti pastabia. Iškart supratau, kad prasideda baisiausias ir paskutinis veiksmas prieš žydus. Išlikę žydai bus nužudyti. Parbėgau namo ir sušukau: „Mama, bėgam!” Trumpai pasakiau jai ką mačiau, mama į krepšį sukrovė muilą, rankšluostį ir apatinius baltinius. Apsivilkome šiltus megztinius ir išėjome į niekur. Bandėme įkalbėti siuvėjo šeimą eiti kartu, bet jie atsisakė, sakydami, kad nuo šitų žvėrių nepabėgsi ir nesitikėjo išsigelbėti.

Buvo šalta ir lynojo. Mama ir aš ėjome negrįstu kelkraščiu ir priėjome sodybą. Nerizikavome belstis. Pamatėme daržinę ir patraukėme link jos. Prabuvome ten iki aušros. Aš miegojau, o mama nesumerkė akių. Ryte pasibeldžiau į namo duris. Lietuvis mums atidarė ir įleido. Nebuvo reikalo prisistatyti, nes mama atrodė kaip tipiška žydė. Šeimininkas pasakė, kad mielai mums padėtų, bet kaimynai nėra geri žmonės ir įskūstų mus visus. Jis pasakė, kad galime pasilikti vieną dieną, o paskui turėsime išeiti.

Šeimininkas davė mums iki soties prisivalgyti ir mes visą dieną praleidome daržinėje. Švintant jis atėjo ir pasakė mamai, kur eiti. Dieną jis sugebėjo su kažkuo susitarti dėl mūsų prieglobsčio. Mes nuėjome į mažą bevardį kaimelį. Ten gyveno pagyvenusi lietuvių valstiečių pora. Lietuviai buvo nekalbūs. Niekas nieko neklausinėjo. Jie tyliai davė mums dubenį maisto ir pakūreno pirtį. Mama ir aš ja labai džiaugėmės.

Mane vis dar stebina žmogaus prigimtis: tokiomis rūsčiomis sąlygomis, kai mūsų gyvenimas galėjo bet kada nutrūkti, mes rasdavome kuo džiaugtis. Miegojome palėpėje ant šieno. Prabuvome ten tris savaites, po to vėl pradėjome klaidžioti. Sunku, net neįmanoma, atkurti tų metų prisiminimus. Mes nuolat keitėme vietas. Kartais apsistodavome vienoje vietoje tik keletui dienų, o kartais – keletui mėnesių. Beveik niekas neatsisakė mums padėti. Buvo atvejų, kai žmonės bijojo priglausti mus dėl kaimynų ar policijos, bet jie bandydavo surasti mums vietą ir nurodydavo, kur eiti. Dabar žiūriu atgal ir galvoju, kaip mes kovojome dėl savo gyvybės ir apie fašistinės okupacijos baisumus. Mes neapsistodavome valstiečių namuose ilgam, nes juose trūko vietos ir buvo mums pavojinga. Pastogės, rūsiai, pašiūrės ir daržinės – tai buvo vietos mums slėptis. Mus labai gerai maitino. Žmonės mums davė viską, ką turėjo geriausio. Manau, kad šeimininkai neleisdavo sau papildomo kąsnio, bet mums duodavo pieno, grietinės, pilną dubenį tirštos sriubos ir taukais apteptos duonos riekę.

Kai jau reikėdavo išeiti, šeimininkai duodavo mamai ryšulėlį, suvyniotą į švarią drobę. Prisimenu, kaip slėpėmės kaimelyje lietuvių, pavarde Marma, namuose. Jų namas sudegė iki pamatų ir mes visi miegojome ant šieno daržinėje. Šeimininkė maistą gamino ant ugnies kieme. Mums ji virė atskirai nuo savo šeimos, bet maistas buvo geresnis ir sotesnis. Man padovanojo drabužių. Aš augau ir, be to, klaidžiojant drabužiai nusidėvėdavo greičiau.

Sunkiausiai buvo žiemą. Mano batai suplyšo, o pėda paaugo. Viena lietuve pamokė mamą megzti ir davė jai virbalus bei siūlų. Mama man mezgė kojines, su kuriomis aš ir vaikščiojau po sniegą. Gali pasirodyti keista, bet per tuos klajonių metus nei aš, nei mama nebuvome susirgusios. Net sloga. Valstiečiai stebėjosi mano lietuvių kalba. Jie net kviesdavo giminaičius paklausyti, kaip aš kalbu ir dainuoju lietuviškas dainas. Ankstyvoje paauglystėje aš tikrai mylėjau lietuvius bei jų gerumą. Gėda, kad jų tamsumas įveikė jų tikrai kilnias širdis.

Aš augau ir niekuo nesirūpinau. Man norėjosi tik valgyti ir turėti stogą virš galvos. Dar norėjau skaityti ir išmokti ką nors naujo. Valstiečiai dažniausiai laikydavo knygas pašiūrėse, kur mes turėjome miegoti. Dažniausiai tai buvo knygos apie šventųjų gyvenimus ir kitos katalikiškos knygos. Neturėjau daugiau ką skaityti, todėl perskaičiau visas šias knygas nuo pradžios iki galo ir žinojau visus katalikiškus šventuosius ir jų maldas. Vienuose valstiečių namuose mane netgi pasiūlė įsidukrinti, pakrikštyti ir auginti kaip savo vaiką, bet mama atsisakė ir norėjo palikti tuos namus kaip galima greičiau. Kai mes išeidinėjome, valstietė davė man rožinį ir, slėpdamasi pašiūrėse, aš kalbėdavau rožinio maldas. Geriausia vieta, kurioje gyvenome, buvo lietuvių Štrimaičių šeimos vienkiemis. Jie buvo pasiturintys, turėjo 40 hektarų žemės, o tai buvo daug nedidelei lietuvių šeimai.

Iki to laiko sovietai nebuvo iš jų atėmę žemės. Šeimininkas buvo agronomas. Jis turėjo didelį namą, gražų sodą, kuriame man leido vaikštinėti ir valgyti vaisius. Man patiko žiūrėti į arklius arklidėje. Štrimaičiai jų turėjo daug. Svarbiausia, kad aš dabar turėjau draugę, namų šeimininkų dukrą. Jos vardas buvo Milda ir ji buvo mano vienmetė. Šeimininkas pasakė visiems kaimynams, kad aš buvau jo tolima giminaitė iš Kauno. Sekmadieniais jis vedavosi savo dukrą ir mane į bažnyčią, o mama turėdavo pasilikti daržinėje. Namuose buvo įdomių knygų, kurias aš skaičiau. Štrimaičių šeimoje buvome apsistoję maždaug keturis kartus įvairiomis aplinkybėmis ir kiekvieną kartą gyvenome keletą mėnesių.

Mums sekėsi. Mes dažniausiai sutikdavome gerus žmones. Tik kartą patekome į bėdą. Tai nutiko 1943 metų vasarą. Kaip paprastai, mes ėjome iš vieno kaimelio į kitą. Mums nurodė sodybą, kur gyveno geri pagyvenę žmonės. Mes įėjome į sodybą ir pamatėmevaizdą: pusnuogis jaunas vyras prausėsi vonelėje prie šulinio. Pagyvenusi moteris pylė ant jo vandenį. Mes iškart pastebėjome, kad jaunuolis dėvi uniformines policininko kelnes ir batus. Norėjome išeiti, bet buvo per vėlu. „Ei, žydai!” – jis sušuko. Staiga jis nukreipė į mus pistoletą. Jo motina bandė sulaikyti sūnų, pradėjo verkti ir maldauti jo nedaryti nuodėmės ir leisti mums eiti. Tai truko kelias minutes, bet mums pasirodė amžinybė. „Gerai“ – pasakė jis. „Nuvesiu jus į policijos nuovadą“.

Jis nuėjo apsirengti, o mes laukėme. Nedrįsome bėgti. Jei būtume bandę, jis būtų nušovęs mus vietoje. Jis liepė mums eiti keliu priešais jį. Po kurio laiko kelyje sutikome vyrą. Paaiškėjo, kad tai yra apylinkės seniūnas. Jis paklausė, kas mes ir kur jis mus veda. Jis atsakė, kad norėjo žydes nušauti, bet dėl savo motinos dabar veda mus į policijos nuovadą. Jie pradėjo gyvai kalbėtis eidami keliu. Mes sekėme iš paskos. Kairėje kelio pusėje buvo rugių laukas ir vieną nepamirštamą akimirksnį vyras atsisuko, parodė į rugius ir pasakė „Bėkit!” Mes su mama pasileidome. Neprisimenu, kiek ilgai bėgome, neatgaudamos kvapo ir griuvinėdamos. Kai perbėgome lauką, pamatėme Šrimaičių sodą. Tai buvo antrasis stebuklas tą dieną ir mes vėl buvome gerų žmonių rankose. Jiems buvo sunku padėti mums atsipeikėti po sukrėtimo. Ir vėl mes gyvenome pas juos kelis mėnesius.

Daugiau neprisimenu vietų, kur slapstėmės. 1944 metų vasarą mes vėl buvome pas Štrimaičius. Praėjo trys fašistų okupacijos metai. Žinojome, kad Raudonoji Armija jau išlaisvino Vilnių ir laukėme jos atėjimo. Praleidome paskutines okupacijos dienas miškelyje netoli kiemo. Milda atnešdavo mums maisto. Sutemus grįždavome į namus permiegoti. Kartą, mums būnat miške, išgirdau triukšmą nuo kelio pusės. Nubėgau link kelio ir pamačiau kareivį su man nežinoma uniforma. Supratau, kad atėjo Raudonosios Armijos kareiviai. Nubėgau atgal į mišką ir pasakiau mamai“ „Rusų kareiviai atėjo!” Mama išėjo su manimi, iš pradžių nedrąsiai, kol įsitikino, kad tai tikrai rusų kareiviai. Mes verkėme iš džiaugsmo ir apsikabinome. Man ir mamai karas baigėsi.

Priešakiniai sovietų armijos būriai ėjo priekyje, o rusų karo ligoninė įsikūrė netoli Štrimaičių vienkiemio. Mes su mama dažnai ten eidavome padėti sužeistiesiems. Mama užvedė pokalbį su vienu iš tarnautojų, jis buvo labai nustebęs girdėdamas mamos puikią rusų kalbą. Vienam kariškiui mama papasakojo mūsų tragišką prieškarinę istoriją. Jis mums patarė važiuoti į Vilnių, nes šiose vietose dar gali būti mūšių. Mama nusprendė, kad mūsų niekas nelaukia gimtąjame mieste. Nebebuvo namų, giminių, draugų, o miesto gatvės mums vėl primintų buvusį gyvenimą ir aitrintų žaizdas. Taigi, turėjome vykti į Vilnių ir pradėti naują gyvenimą. Pakeleivinėmis mašinomis nusigavome iki Kauno [maždaug 90 kilometrų iki Vilniaus], iš kur pasiekėme mažą Kaišiadorių miestelį [maždaug 50 kilometrų iki Vilniaus]. Čia buvo geras geležinkelio susisiekimas. Su mama įlipome į prekinį traukinį ir 1944 metų rugpjūčio 24 dieną išlipome Vilniaus geležinkelio stotyje.

Pokaris

Ėjome ištuštėjusiu miestu. Mus supo sugriauti namai, kuriuose žmonės gyveno, planavo, svajojo, mylėjo ir pavydėjo. Galėjome pasiimti bet kurį tuščią butą. Mes apsigyvenome name Georgijaus prospekte, kuris vėliau tapo Stalino prospektu, o dabar vadinamas Gedimino prospektu. Atskirus butus ilgame koridoriuje skyrė durys. Gavome trijų kambarių butą, visiškai apstatytą. Indaujose buvo lėkščių komplektai, o drabužių spintose keletas suknelių. Mums buvo liūdna. Jautėmės tarsi nelegalios įsibrovėlės. Paskui komunalinės tarnybos darbuotojai perėjo per visus butus ir surašė juose buvusius daiktus. Manėme, kad turėsime sumokėti kažkokią sumą už baldus ir indus, bet klydome. Visa tai mums atidavė dykai. Vienas iš vyrų buvo gana malonus. Jis pasakė: „Naudokitės daiktais, kuriuos įsigijo jūsų tautiečiai. Tesiilsi jie ramybėje“. Jis viską paliko mums ir išėjo.

Mama rado kasininkės darbą valgykloje. Rugsėjo pirmąją pradėjau lankyti penktą klasę rusų mokykloje, nors nežinojau nė žodžio rusiškai, bet mokslo metų gale rašiau diktantus geriausiai klasėje. Gyvenome skurdžiai. Tuo metu galiojo maisto kortelių sistema 9. Kartą per savaitę eidavome pasiimti menkų maisto produktų pagal korteles. Dabar, priešingai nei karo metais, mes badavome. Kartą sutikome vieną žydą ir jis pasakė: „Madam Kleinštein, ar pasiėmėte savo siuntinį sinagogoje?“ Nuėjome į sinagogą ir ten paaiškėjo, kad mano mamos broliai ir teta išsiuntė jai dvylika siuntinių iš Los Andželo. Jie kažkaip sužinojo, kad likome gyvos, bet nežinojo mūsų adreso ir nusprendė siųsti siuntinius Vilniaus sinagogos adresu. Daug žmonių taip darė tuo metu.

Sinagoga buvo tarsi informacinis centras. Niekas nebandė mūsų ieškoti, nors beveik visi išgyvenę Vilniaus žydai pažinojo vienas kitą. Mūsų siuntiniai buvo neteisėtai pasisavinti ir mes jų neatgavome. Teisėjas, gyvenęs mūsų name, įtikinėjo mus pateikti ieškinį teisme. Bet mama nenorėjo, taip sakant, viešai skalbti nešvarius baltinius ir bylos nepradėjo. Sinagoga jautėsi įsipareigojusi atlyginti mums už dingusius siuntinius. Jie davė 40 dydžio batus, kai mano koja buvo 35 dydžio, ir kelis tamsiai mėlynus paltus, iš kurių mama man pasiuvo žieminį paltą. Nuo tada pradėjome reguliariai gauti giminaičių siuntinius. Dažniausiai juose būdavo drabužiai, kuriuos mama parduodavo. Ji nebuvo prekiautoja, neišmanė verslo ir parduodavo madingus užsienietiškus daiktus nepadoriai pigiai. Turėjome keletą pastovių klientų. Kalbant apie mūsų materialinį gyvenimą, jis tapo šiek tiek lengvesnis. Mama netgi pasiuvo man mokyklinę uniformą ir tai buvo mano vienintelė suknelė.

Po kelių mėnesių mama susirgo tuberkulioze. Ji buvo ligoninėje kai, nelaimei, aš taip pat susirgau. Man buvo arba gelta, arba dizenterija. Keista, juk klajodamos karo metais nesirgome net sloga. Tikriausiai tomis išbandymų dienomis mūsų organizmai turėjo kažkokį apsauginį mechanizmą. Mamos būklė buvo labai bloga. Jai atsivėrė kavernos ir ji balansavo tarp gyvybės ir mirties. Mamos broliai mums padėjo. Jie siuntė peniciliną, kuris tuo metu Sovietų Sąjungoje buvo deficitas, ir mamos sveikata taisėsi. Žmonės ilgus mėnesius gulėdavo ligoninėje dėl tuberkuliozės.

Mane išsiuntė į vaikų namus. Juos vadino žydų, nes ten gyveno daug našlaičių žydų vaikų. Įstojau į komjaunimą 10 ir tapau jaunesniųjų mokinių, pionierių, vadove [žr. Visasąjunginė pionierių organizacija] 11. Man patiko mokytis, aš siurbiau informaciją kaip kempinė. Dar savo klajonių metu troškau žinių ir man patiko rūpintis pionieriais, mokyti juos dainų ir eilėraščių, žaisti su jais ir padėti mokytis. Mane gana gerai maitino. Buvo šilta ir jauku. Mokytojai labai gerai su manimi elgėsi. Jie užjautė našlaičius. Vaikų namuose praleidau visus metus, kol mama gulėjo ligoninėje. Kai ją paleido, grįžau namo.

Grįžusi, mokiausi toliau. Turėjau tik „penketus“ [aukščiausias balas, lygus amerikietiškam A] ir buvau labai aktyvi komjaunuolė. Buvau nuolat užsiėmusi, organizuodavau išvykas, lankiausi teatre, redagavau laikraštį, padėjau atsiliekantiems moksle ir pan. Pradėjusi mokytis dešimtoje klasėje, sužinojau, kad esu viena iš kandidačių baigti mokyklą aukso medaliu. [Aukso medalis buvo aukščiausias vidurinės mokyklos baigimo įvertinimas Sovietų Sąjungoje.] Tačiau viskas susiklostė kitaip. Iš vienos pusės, buvau rimta mergina, iš kitos – romantikė ir linkusi susižavėti. Nevaikščiojau į šokius, nes tai buvo nerimta mano amžiaus merginoms ir tam nepritarė viešoji nuomonė bei mokyklos vadovai. Kartą draugė įkalbėjo nueiti į šokių paviljoną parke. Tai buvo nelaimė. Parke sutikome du kareivius. Vienas buvo rusas, kitas – buriatas. Žodis po žodžio, šokis po šokio ir Matvejus Malkhanovas, buriatas, ir aš nebegalėjome išsiskirti.

Jis buvo labai įdomus žmogus, eruditas, mandagus ir gerai išauklėtas. Trumpai tariant, mes įsimylėjome ir greitai tapome labai artimi. Iš tikrųjų, tapome vyru ir žmona. Kada Matvejus paprašė mamos mano rankos, ji įsiuto ir nenorėjo duoti sutikimo. Matvejus nebuvo žydas, jo išvaizda buvo keista ir neįprasta. Ne tik mama, bet ir visas žydiškasis Vilnius buvo prieš. Bet niekas nieko negalėjo pakeisti. Kai mes nuėjome į civilinės metrikacijos skyrių, aš jau buvau nėščia. Turėjau pereiti į vakarinę mokyklą ir baigiau ją tais pačiais metais, tik, aišku, be aukso medalio. 1951 metais gimė mano sūnus Aleksandras. Gyvenome su mano mama. Tuo metu ji jau labai pamėgo mano vyrą ir jie paskelbė paliaubas. Jo nebuvo galima nemylėti, jis buvo puiki ir kilni asmenybė.

Matvejus gimė 1928 metais Kačoje, Novosibirsko srityje, Krasnojarske [Rusija, 4000 kilometrų nuo Maskvos]. 1947 metais jis buvo pašauktas į Sovietinę armiją. Jo dalinys stovėjo Lietuvoje. Taip jis atsidūrė Vilniuje. Matvejaus tėvai nematė manęs iki mūsų vestuvių. Jis tik parašė jiems, kad sutiko savo svajonių moterį ir vedė. Po keleto metų mes nuvykome į jo gimtinę. Tėvai sutiko mane kaip savo dukrą. Jie visada labai gerai elgėsi su manimi ir mūsų vaikais.

Praėjo mažiau nei metai ir aš nusprendžiau tęsti mokslus. 1951 metais įstojau į Vilniaus Universiteto rusų kalbos ir literatūros fakultetą. Nesunkiai išlaikiau stojamuosius egzaminus. Nejutau jokio priešiškumo man, kaip žydei. Nenukentėjau tais metais, kai žydus atleidinėjo iš darbo, teisė, netgi skandalingu valstybinio antisemitizmo laikotarpiu [žr. Kampanija prieš „kosmopolitus“] 12, kada siautėjo „gydytojų sąmokslas“. Kai 1953 metais mirė Stalinas, aš verkiau, kaip ir daugelis aplinkinių žmonių. Mano vyras pasakė, kad turėčiau džiaugtis, o ne gedėti, nes jis pažinojo daug tremtinių Sibire, matė siaubingas Gulago 14 stovyklas ir geriau už kitus suprato, kas iš tikrųjų buvo Stalinas.

Mūsų gyvenimas gerėjo. Po demobilizacijos Matvejus nuėjo dirbti į gamyklą raižytoju. Prieš karą jis baigė meno mokyklą Novosibirske [Rusija]. Jis turėjo auksines rankas ir subtilų skonį. Gamykla davė mums kambarį komunaliniame bute 15. Mes dalinomės bendra virtuve su kaimynais. Pradžioje buvo pakankamai sunku. Rytais vesdavome sūnų į vaikų darželį. Aš turėjau mokytis. Mama man padėjo. Naktimis vyras keldavosi prižiūrėti Aleksandrą. Visi sudarė man galimybes studijuoti.

Būdama trečiame kurse sunkiai susirgau. Manau, tai buvo karo metų šalčio ir bado pasekmė. Susirgau pleuritu. Ši liga dažnai komplikuojasi į tuberkuliozę. Gulėjau ligoninėje metus ir atsilikau nuo mokslų. Pasveikusi turėjau pereiti į neakivaizdinių studijų skyrių. 1955 metais įsidarbinau laikraštyje „Tarybinė Lietuva“ [„Sovietskaja Litva“, Lietuvos Sovietinės respublikos laikraštis rusų kalba] korektore. Dirbau tenai du metus. Nemėgau šito darbo.

Tada kitas laikraštis, „Komjaunimo tiesa“, ieškojo vertėjo iš lietuvių į rusų kalbą. [„Komsomolskaja Pravda“ - visasąjunginis jaunimo laikraštis, leidžiamas Komjaunimo centro komiteto. Išeidavo šešis kartus per savaitę. Pirmasis numeris išėjo 1925 metų gegužės 24 dieną. Laikraštis jau nėra komunistinis, bet vis dar populiarus ir tokiu pačiu pavadinimu leidžiamas NVS šalyse.] Aš ir dar viena kandidatė atlikome tekstų vertimus ir abi gavome darbą. Dirbau šiame laikraštyje 23 metus, pradedant nuo 1957-jų. Labai daug verčiau. Ėmiausi bet kokio darbo. Verčiau disertacijas, knygas ir straipsnius. Netgi parūpindavau darbo vertėjams, dirbusiems kituose laikraščiuose.

1980-siais įsidarbinau laikraštyje “Komunistas” [“Komunist” – Lietuvoje leistas laikraštis rusų kalba, įkurtas 1940 metais. Jis išeidavo Vilniuje šešis kartus per savaitę 45 000 egzempliorių tiražu. Buvo uždarytas 1991 metais]. Dirbau šiame laikraštyje dvejus metus ir išėjau. Iki pensijos dirbau spaudos agentūroje “Eta” [informacijos ir spaudos agentūra Vilniuje, įkurta 1964 metais, specializacija – grožinės literatūros, vadovėlių ir žurnalistinio pobūdžio literatūros leidyba].

Mama buvo prisirišusi prie mano šeimos. Ji neturėjo draugų, nevaikščiojo į sinagogą. Mama ir anksčiau nebuvo religinga, o po karo nenorėjo nė girdėti apie Dievą. Net jei būtų buvusi tikinti, būtų praradusi tikėjimą, kai žuvo jos vyras, sūnus ir giminaičiai. Tačiau ji visada laikėsi pasninko per Yom Kipurą ir pirko macus Pesachui. Manau, elgėsi taip, kaip buvo pripratusi. Mama vis labiau ir labiau sirgo ir nebegalėjo man padėti. 1964 metais ji mirė. Jos laidotuvės buvo pasaulietiškos Vilniaus miesto kapinėse, be jokių žydiškų ritualų.

1966 metais pagimdžiau dukrą Ilaną. Po ketverių metų gavome atskirą dviejų kambarių butą. Jis buvo nedidelis, bet mūsų šeima labai džiaugėsi. Pagaliau mes turėjome savo butą. Gyvenome patogiai. Mes abu neblogai uždirbome. Neturėjo automobilio ar “dačios” 16. Nedaug žmonių galėjo tai sau leisti. Paprastai atostogaudavome su vaikais prie Baltijos jūros, Palangoje. Kartą nuvažiavome į Sibirą. Mano vyro gimtinėje praleidome mėnesį. Taip pat atostogų sezonu važiuodavome į Jaltą [Ukrainoje, labai populiari atostogų vieta]. Pripratusi prie šaltos jūros, sunkiai iškęsdavau Krymo karštį. Mano vyras ir aš labai mylėjome vienas kitą. Mūsų gyvenimą rimtai tegadino tik mūsų visai skirtinga išvaizda.

Jaunystėje buvau mėlynakė blondinė, o Matvejaus išvaizda nebuvo įprasta: jo platūs skruostikauliai ir įkypos akys traukė aplinkinių dėmesį. Žmonės net rodė pirštais į jį. Jį tai nervino, o aš bandžiau viską nuleisti juokais. Galbūt tai buvo viena iš priežasčių, kodėl aš niekada nesvarsčiau išvažiuoti su vyru į Izraelį. Dirbau tarp lietuvių. Niekada nebuvau jų žeminama ir niekada negirdėjau blogų žodžių apie save ar žydus. Tačiau Izraelis traukė mane, kaip ir bet kurį žydą, nes tai buvo mano šalis. Pirmą kartą po daugelio amžių, mes vėl turėjome tėvynę. Mudu su vyru buvome bendraminčiai. Kaip gaila, kad jis taip anksti mirė. 1988 metais gavome telegramą, kad mirė Matvejaus mama ir jis skubiai išskrido į Sibirą. Matvejus pasijuto blogai per motinos laidotuves ir mirė tą pačią dieną. Jį palaidojo Kačoje šalia motinos. Aš sugebėjau nuvykti į jo laidotuves. Viskas buvo taip netikėta ir baisu.

Nuo to laiko gyvenu viena. Mano vaikai laiko save žydais, nors formaliai tokiais nėra. Beveik visi jų draugai žydai. Mano sūnus tarnavo armijoje, po to įsigijo techninį išsilavinimą, tapo ryšių darbuotoju. Gana anksti Aleksandras vedė rusų- lenkų kilmės merginą Anną. Jis turėjo du vaikus: Tatjaną, gimė 1978 metais, ir Dmitrijų, gimė 1984 metais. Neseniai sūnus pradėjo savo verslą, kuris jam gerai sekėsi. Prieš trejus metus [2002] įvyko tragedija. Sūnus pasijuto blogai ir po mėnesio mirė dėl smegenų vėžio. Matausi su anūkais, tačiau nedažnai. Beveik nepalaikau ryšių su savo marčia Anna. Ji pradėjo išgėrinėti, o man labai nepatinka žmonės, kurie nori skandinti sielvartą alkoholyje.

Mano dukra Ilana baigė Vilniaus Universiteto Prancūzų kalbos ir literatūros fakultetą. Dabar ji dirba Prancūzų kultūros centre. Ilana ištekėjo už lietuvio ir dabar jos pavardė Subačienė. Mano mylima anūkė Gabrielė gimė 1986 metais ir dabar baigia gimnaziją. Ji norėtų tapti gydytoja ir tikriausiai tęs mokslus užsienyje. Gabrielė laisvai kalba angliškai ir mokosi prancūzų kalbos. Ji save laiko lietuve, bet labai gerbia žydus. Kai grįžau iš Izraelio, ji paprašė susitikti su jos klasės mokiniais ir papasakoti apie šią šalį.

Vyrui mirus, bandau gyventi aktyvų ir pilnakraujį gyvenimą. 1972 metais tapau Lietuvos žurnalistų tarybos nare. Dalyvavau visuose tarybos renginiuose. Mes priimdavome užsienio delegacijas ir rengėme simpoziumus. Mėgau keliauti po šalį ir užsienyje. Pirmą kartą į užsienį išvažiavau dar sovietinio režimo laikais – į Vengriją ir Bulgariją. 1995 metais tapau tikra keliauninke.

Visada laikau širdyje prisiminimą žmonių, kurie išgelbėjo man gyvybę. Ilgus metus palaikiau ryšius su savo gelbėtojais. Dabar tėvai Štrimaičiai ir jų dukra Milda, su kuria vis dar susitinku, buvo pripažinti Pasaulio Tautų Teisuoliais 17 Yad Vashem muziejuje 18. Lietuvių Marmų šeima, ilgai mus slėpusi, buvo sovietinio režimo ištremta. Mes su mama labai stengėmės juos surasti, bet mums nepavyko.

1991 metais [iš tikrųjų, 1990-ais] Lietuva atgavo nepriklausomybę [žr. Lietuvos Respublikos atkūrimas] 19. Visi sunkiai pergyvenome įvykius, susijusius su Rusijos priešinimusi Baltijos šalių nepriklausomybei. Niekada nebuvau komuniste. Gimusi čia ir gyvenusi tarp lietuvių, aš visada palaikiau jų teisę į nepriklausomybę. Dar daugiau, prisimenu kaip puikiai gyvenau vaikystėje, kai Lietuva buvo nepriklausoma. Nors formaliai buvau pensijoje, labai daug dirbau ir netgi verčiau per pirmąjį Lietuvos vyriausybės posėdį.

Gaila, bet ne visos mūsų viltys išsipildė. Daugelis mūsų išrinktųjų nepateisino lūkesčių, bet mes vistiek mąstome pozityviai. Lietuvoje atsigavo žydiškas gyvenimas. Yra puiki Lietuvos žydų bendruomenė. Taip pat yra valstybinė žydų mokykla ir valstybinis žydų muziejus. Aš tapau aktyvia bendruomenės nare. Esu socialinio skyriaus savanorė ir Geto kalinių [Lietuvos] tarybos narė 20. Netapau religinga, bet man malonu grįžti prie žydiškų tradicijų. Dalyvauju bendruomenės žydų šventėse.

Mano darbas bendruomenėje padėjo susirasti naujų draugų Lietuvoje ir užsienyje. Čia susitikau su olandu Fritzu ir jo žmona, lenkų fotografe. Parodžiau jiems Vilnių, Senamiestį. Vaikščiojome buvusio geto gatvėmis. Rūpinausi jais ir mes susidraugavome.

Po metų Fritzas pakvietė mane atvykti į Olandiją. Aš dar du kartus važiavau tenai. Fritzas labai padeda mūsų bendruomenei ir dažnai atvyksta į Lietuvą. Du kartus buvau Izraelyje ir Vokietijoje. Neseniai, 2005 metų gegužę mane ir dar vieną aktyvią narę bendruomenė pasiuntė į Krokuvą [Lenkija] paminėti skaudžią datą: Osvencimo [Auschwitzo] koncentracijos stovyklos išvadavimo 60-sias metines. Paminėdami milijonų nekaltų aukų atminimą jautėme šiuolaikinio pasaulio toleranciją ir tautų draugystę.

Žodynėlis

1 Didysis Tėvynės karas

1941 metų birželio 22 dieną 5 valandą ryto nacistinė Vokietija nepaskelbusi karo užpuolė Sovietų Sąjungą. Prasidėjo taip vadinamas Didysis Tėvynės karas. Vokiečių blitzkrieg, arba Barbarosos operacijai, beveik pavyko per kelis mėnesius įveikti Sovietų Sąjungą. Netikėtai užpultos, sovietų karinės pajėgos prarado ištisas armijas ir daugybę ginkluotės jau pirmomis vokiečių puolimo savaitėmis. Iki 1941 metų lapkričio vokiečių armija užėmė Ukrainą, apsiautė Leningradą, antrą pagal dydį Sovietų Sąjungos miestą, ir grąsino užimti Maskvą. Sovietų Sąjungai karas baigėsi 1945 metų gegužės 9 dieną.

2 I Gildija

carinėje Rusijoje pirkliai priklausė I, II arba III gildijai. I gildijos pirkliai galėjo prekiauti su užsienio pirkliais, kitiems buvo leidžiama prekiauti tik Rusijos viduje.

3 Baltijos respublikų (Estijos, Latvijos ir Lietuvos) okupacija

nors Molotovo – Ribentropo akte sakoma, kad tik Estija ir Latvija priklauso sovietų įtakos sferai Rytų Europoje, pagal papildomą protokolą (pasirašytą 1939 metų rugsėjo 28 dieną) didžioji Lietuvos dalis taip pat buvo perduota Sovietų Sąjungai. Visos trys valstybės buvo priverstos pasirašyti su SSSR “Gynybos ir tarpusavio bendradarbiavimo paktą” leidžiantį įvesdinti sovietų karines pajėgas į jų teritorijas. 1940 metų birželio mėnesį Maskva paskelbė ultimatumą, reikalaudama pakeisti vyriausybes ir okupuodama Baltijos respublikas. Visos trys šalys buvo prijungtos prie Sovietų Sąjungos kaip Estijos, Latvijos ir Lietuvos Sovietų Socialistinės Respublikos.

4 Palaikyti ryšius su užsienyje gyvenančiais giminaičiais

valdžia galėjo areštuoti asmeninę žmogaus korespondenciją su užsienyje gyvenančiais giminaičiais ir apkaltinti jį šnipinėjimu, išsiųsti į koncentracijos stovyklą ar netgi nuteisti mirties bausme.

5 Šaulių taryba

nacionalistinė ir sukarinta organizacija, veikusi Lietuvoje 1930-siais ir turėjusi maždaug 10 000 narių. Vėliau jie kovojo tiek prieš sovietus, tiek prieš nacius, naudodami partizaninės kovos metodus: sprogdino traukinius, žudė karo vadus ir komunistus. Po II Pasaulinio karo sovietų valdžia šią organizaciją uždraudė.

6 Cimusas

troškinys, dažniausiai iš morkų, pastarnokų ar slyvų ir bulvių.

7 Deportacijos Baltijos šalyse (1940 – 1953)

1940 metų birželio mėnesį Sovietų Sąjungai okupavus Baltijos šalis (Estiją, Latviją ir Lietuvą), prasidėjo masinės vietinių gyventojų deportacijos, kaip sovietinio režimo įtvirtinimo dalis. Deportacijų aukomis daugiausiai, bet nebūtinai, tapo režimui nepageidautini asmenys: vietinė buržuazija ir ankstesnio politinio režimo veikėjai. Deportacijos į tolimus Sovietų Sąjungos rajonus nenutrūkstamai vyko iki pat Stalino mirties. Pirma didžioji deportacijų banga kilo 1941 metų birželio 11 – 14 dienomis, kai buvo išvežta 36 000 politiškai aktyviausių žmonių. Deportacijos vėl prasidėjo, kai Raudonoji Armija atsiėmė šias tris šalis iš nacistinės Vokietijos 1944 metais. Partizaninės kovos prieš sovietų okupantus tęsėsi iki 1956 metų, kada paskutinis būrys buvo sunaikintas. Tarp 1948 metų birželio ir 1950 metų sausio, remiantis SSSR Aukščiausiosios Tarybos prezidiumo dekretu, už žemės ūkio darbų vengimą, antisocialinį ir parazitinį gyvenimo būdą iš Latvijos buvo deportuotas 52 541 asmuo, iš Lietuvos – 118 599 asmenys ir iš Estijos – 32 450 asmenų. Bendras deportuotųjų iš visų trijų respublikų skaičius pasiekė 203 590. Jų tarpe buvo skirtingų socialinių sluoksnių (valstiečių, darbininkų, inteligentų) lietuvių šeimos – visi, kas galėjo, ar buvo apkaltinti kaip galintys, pasipriešinti režimui. Dauguma tremtinių mirė svetimoje šalyje. Priedo, maždaug 100 000 žmonių žuvo akcijų metu ir buvo sušaudyti kaip partizaninės kovos dalyviai ir dar maždaug 100 000 buvo nuteisti 25-iems metams lageriuose.

8 Lietuvių policajai

rusų kalboje tai reiškia vietinius lietuvius, kolaboravusius su nacių režimu. Pavaldūs vokiečiams, jie buvo organizuoti kaip policija ir buvo atsakingi už nacių valdžios įtvirtinimą šalyje. Jie buvo pagrindiniai Lietuvos žydų naikinimo akcijų vykdytojai.

9 Kortelių sistema

maisto kortelių sistema, reguliuojanti maisto ir pramoninių prekių paskirstymą, buvo įvesta SSSR 1929 metais dėl ypatingo plataus vartojimo prekių ir maisto produktų deficito. Sistema buvo atšaukta 1931 metais. 1941 metais maisto kortelės buvo vėl įvestos siekiant registruoti ir reguliuoti maisto atsargų paskirstymą gyventojams. Kortelių sistema apėmė pagrindinius maisto produktus, tokius kaip duona, mėsa, aliejus, cukrus, druska, kruopos ir pan. Racionas skyrėsi, priklausomai nuo socialinės grupės ir darbo pobūdžio. Sunkiosios pramonės ir gynybos įmonių darbininkai kas dieną gaudavo 800 gramų (šachtininkai – 1 kilogramą) duonos asmeniui; kitų pramonės šakų darbininkai – 600 gramų. Dirbantys ne fizinį darbą gaudavo 400 ar 500 gramų duonos, priklausomai nuo jų darbo įstaigos svarbos, vaikai gaudavo 400 gramų. Tačiau kortelių sistema apėmė tik pramonės darbuotojus ir miestų gyventojus, kaimo gyventojai negaudavo jokio tokios rūšies aprūpinimo. Kortelių sistema buvo atšaukta 1947 metais.

10 Komjaunimas

komunistinė jaunimo organizacija, įkurta 1918 metais. Komjaunimo tikslas buvo skleisti komunizmo idėjas ir įtraukti jaunus darbininkus ir valstiečius į Sovietų Sąjungos kūrimą. Komjaunimas taip pat siekė komunistiškai auklėti darbininkų klasės jaunimą, įtraukdami jį į politinę kovą, suteikiant teorinių žinių. Komjaunimas buvo populiaresnis už komunistų partiją, kadangi jo šviečiamoji paskirtis leido priimti ir neišprususius jaunus darbininkus, tuo tarpu partijos nariai turėjo turėti bent minimalų politinį išsilavinimą.

11 Visasąjunginė pionierių organizacija

komunistinė organizacija, vienijanti 10-15 metų paauglius (plg. skautai JAV). Organizacijos tikslas buvo auklėti jaunąją kartą komunistiniais idealais, paruošti pionierius stojimui į komjaunimą, o paskui ir į komunistų partiją. Sovietų Sąjungoje visi paaugliai buvo pionieriais.

12 Kampanija prieš „kosmopolitus“

kampanija prieš kosmopolitus, t.y. žydus, prasidėjo straipsniais centriniuose komunistų partijos spaudos organuose 1949 metais. Kampanija pirmiausiai buvo nukreipta prieš žydų inteligentiją ir buvo pirmasis viešas puolimas prieš sovietinius žydus kaip žydus. Rašytojus „kosmopolitus“ kaltino neapykanta Rusijos liaudžiai, sionizmo palaikymu ir pan. Jidiš kalba rašę autoriai, taip pat Žydų antifašistinio komiteto vadovai buvo areštuoti 1948 metų lapkritį apkaltinus juos ryšiais su sionizmu ir Amerikos „imperializmu“. Mirties bausmė jiems buvo slapta įvykdyta 1952 metais. 1953 metų sausio mėnesį prasidėjo antisemitinis „gydytojų sąmokslas“. Per SSSR nusirito antisemitizmo banga. Žydai buvo šalinami iš pareigų ir ėmė sklisti gandai apie neišvengiamą masinę žydų deportaciją į rytinius SSSR rajonus. Stalino mirtis 1953 metų kovo mėnesį pabaigė kampaniją prieš „kosmopolitus“.

13 „Gydytojų sąmokslas“ buvo tariama konspiracinė Maskvos gydytojų grupė, siekusi nunuodyti svarbiausius valstybės ir partinius veikėjus

1953 metų sausio mėnesį sovietų spauda pranešė, kad devyni gydytojai, iš kurių šeši buvo žydai, buvo suimti ir pripažino savo kaltę. Kai Stalinas mirė 1953 metų kovą, daugiau jokio teismo proceso nebuvo. Oficialus partijos laikraštis „Pravda“ vėliau paskelbė, kad kaltinimai gydytojams buvo sufalsifikuoti, o prisipažinimai išgauti kankinant. Šis atvejis buvo vienas iš blogiausių antisemitinių incidentų Stalino valdymo laikais. Savo slaptame pranešime, perskaitytame XX partijos suvažiame 1956 metais, Chruščiovas sakė, kad Stalinas norėjo panaudoti „gydytojų sąmokslą“ aukščiausių sovietinių vadovų pašalinimui.

14 Gulagas

sovietinė priverčiamojo darbo stovyklų Sibiro ir Tolimųjų Rytų rajonuose sistema buvo pirmą kartą įvesta 1918 metais. Iki 1930-jų pradžios kalinių skaičius tokiose stovyklose nebuvo didelis. Bet jau 1934 metais Gulagas, arba NKVD priklausiusi Pataisos darbų stovyklų valdyba, skaičiavo keletą milijonų kalinių. Jų tarpe buvo žudikai, vagys ir kiti kriminaliniai nusikaltėliai, kartu su politiniais ir religiniais disidentais. Gulago stovyklos ženkliai prisidėjo prie Stalino valdymo laikotarpio ekonomikos. Sąlygos stovyklose buvo ypatingai sunkios. Po Stalino mirties 1953 metais stovyklų kalinių skaičius labai sumažėjo, o laikymo sąlygos šiek tiek pagerėjo.

15 Komunalinis butas

po 1917 metų revoliucijos, sovietų valdžia norėjo pagerinti gyvenimo sąlygas nusavindama turtingų šeimų „per didelį“ gyvenamą plotą. Butai buvo padalinami kelioms šeimoms, kiekviena šeima gaudavo po kambarį ir dalinosi virtuve, tualetu ir vonia su kitais gyventojais. Dėl nuolatinio gyvenamosios vietos trūkumo miestuose komunaliniai butai egzistavo ištisus dešimtmečius. Nepaisant 1960-siais pradėtų valstybinių programų, skirtų naujų namų statybai ir komunalinių butų likvidavimui, bendri butai egzistuoja iki šių dienų.

16 Dačia

vasarnamis, mažas užmiesčio namelis ir žemės gabalėlis. Sovietų valdžia nutarė leisti žmonėms užsiimti tokia veikla ir užsiauginti maisto. Didžioji dauguma miesto gyventojų augino daržoves ir vaisius savo mažuose sodeliuose ir ruošė maisto atsargas žiemai.

17 Pasaulio Tautų Teisuoliai

ne žydų tautybės žmonės, gelbėję žydus Holokausto metu.

18 Yad Vashem

muziejus, įkurtas Jeruzalėje 1953 metais, pagerbia ir Holokausto kankinius, ir Pasaulio Tautų Teisuolius, ne žydų kilmės gelbėtojus, pripažintus tokiais dėl savo „atjautos, drąsos ir moralumo“.

19 Lietuvos Respublikos atkūrimas

1990 metų kovo 11 dieną Lietuvos Respublikos Aukščiausioji Taryba paskelbė Lietuvą nepriklausoma valstybe. Sovietinė vadovybė Maskvoje atsisakė pripažinti Lietuvos nepriklausomybę ir pradėjo ekonominę šalies blokadą. 1991 metų vasario mėnesio referendume daugiau kaip 90% dalyvių (dalyvavimas sudarė 84%) balsavo už nepriklausomybę. Vakarų pasaulis galiausiai pripažino Lietuvos nepriklausomybę, SSSR taip pat pripažino 1991 metų rugsėjo 6 dieną. 1991 metų rugsėjo 17 dieną Lietuva prisijungė prie Jungtinių Tautų.

20 Geto kalinių Lietuvos taryba

1988 metais ją įkūrė Lietuvos municipalinė žydų benruomenė. Pagrindinis organizacijos tikslas yra savitarpio pagalba, geto kalinių bei koncentracijos stovyklose kalėjusių žydų vienijimasis, karo prisiminimų rinkimas ir susitikimų su jaunimu bei kita publika organizavimas.

Rifka and Elvira - coming of age in a time of war

Početkom XX. st. u Hrvatskoj i Slavoniji bilo je oko 20 000 Židova, okupljenih u 27 židovskih općina, a najveće, u Zagrebu i Osijeku, imale su po 2000 članova (4% stanovništva Zagreba i 8% stanovništva Osijeka).
Nakon I. svjetskog rata, hrvatske židovske zajednice postale su dijelom šire jugoslavenske židovske zajednice, koja je od 1919. bila okupljena u Savez jevrejskih vjeroispovjednih općina u Kraljevini SHS.
Tridesete godine XX. st obilježio je porast antisemitizma, a pojačao se političkim približavanjem Jugoslavije Njemačkoj nakon 1934.
Skupština Kraljevine Jugoslavije donijela je 1940. dva zakona kojima je bila poništena ravnopravnost Židova: uredbu kojom se zabranjuje rad svim veletrgovinama namirnicama u židovskom vlasništvu i suvlasništvu te numerus clausus, kojim se ograničio broj židovskih učenika i studenata na postotak židovskog stanovništva u ukupnom stanovništvu.
Holokaust i stvaranje države Izrael iz temelja su promijenili sliku hrvatske židovske zajednice. Na području NDH predstavnici Trećega Reicha prepustili su rješavanje »židovskoga pitanja« ustaškim vlastima. Već u travnju i lipnju 1941. ustaška je država stvorila zakonsku podlogu za diskriminaciju i masovne progone Židova. To je bila izravna priprema holokausta. U ustaškim logorima od kojih je najveći bio onaj u Jasenovcu i na ostalim stratištima u NDH od ukupno 39 000 Židova izgubilo je život oko 24 000, a daljnjih gotovo 7000 SS-ovci su uz pomoć ustaša u ljeto 1942. i proljeće 1943. otpremili u smrt u različite nacističke logore, najviše u Auschwitz, što iznosi između 75% i 80% židovskog stanovništva s područja NDH. Preživjelo je približno 8000 do 9000 Židova, najviše u područjima pod talijanskim nadzorom i u partizanima. Od hasidske zajednice (Satmar i Gur hasidi) u zapadnom Srijemu (Vukovar i Ilok) gotovo nitko nije preživio holokaust.
Nekoliko stotina preživjelih zagrebačkih Židova nije se vratilo, već se odselilo, uglavnom u mandatnu Palestinu i Ameriku. Većina privatne imovine, kao i imovina općina, što su ju oduzeli ustaše, nakon rata nije vraćena. Židovska općina u Zagrebu (ŽOZ) 1950. imala 1200 članova, 10% od prijeratnoga broja. Većina predratnih općina nije mogla nastaviti rad nakon 1945., a većina se sinagoga ne koristi. Od 41 predratne sinagoge, u ratu je uništeno njih 20, dok je većina ostalih dobila drugu namjenu.
Od 1945. do 1990. židovske općine u Hrvatskoj nalazile su se pod krovnom organizacijom Saveza jevrejskih opština Jugoslavije – SJOJ, smještene u Beogradu. Raspadom Jugoslavije i uspostavom hrvatske države 1991. one su prestale biti članice SJOJ-a, počele su se nazivati židovskim općinama te su postale autonomnim tijelima, razvijajući pritom odnose i svoj položaj ne samo u novoj državi već i na međunarodnoj razini.

Rifka and Elvira - Coming of Age in a Time of War

It was 1941, and Elvira Kohn had just turned 20 and was working in a camera store in Dubrovnik. Just up the Croatian coast in the port city of Split, 14-year-old Rifka Altarac was still in school and had joined a Zionist youth group. Then the Germans and their allies invaded Yugoslavia and for nearly two years, their cities were occupied by the Italians. But in September 1943 when the Italians left, the Germans were speeding toward Dubrovnik and Split—and Elvira and Rifka knew the time had come to act. Or perish. This is their story.

Frida Palanker

Frida Palanker
Chernovtsy
Ukraine
Ella Levitskaya
June 2002

I am Frida Palanker, nee Veprinskaya. I was born in Kiev on 24 September 1921. 

My father Nusim (Naum) Veprinsky was born in Korostyshev, Zhytomir region, in 1895. My mother Polina Veprinskaya, nee Shapiro, was born in Odessa in 1899.  

My grandfather on my father’s side Meyer Veprinsky was born in Korostyshev in 1859. In 1889 he married my grandmother Doba, nee Sheyer, born in 1862. I have no information about my grandparents’ family or where my grandmother came from.  My grandfather was the youngest son in his family. He was living in his parents’ house. He was a tinsmith and my grandmother was a housewife. They had four children that survived. Three other children died in their infantry. I don’t know their names. I knew two brothers and the sister of my father.  The only daughter in my father’s family was Rahil, born in 1892, and she was the oldest child. My father Nusim was the second child, born in 1895. Yakov, Yankel, born in 1900, was the third child. Their youngest son Simon was born in 1904. 

Their family wasn’t wealthy. The boys studied in cheder and Rahil received education at home. They only spoke Yiddish in the family.

Their family was religious. They observed Jewish traditions. My grandparents went to the synagogue on Saturday, celebrated Sabbath and Jewish holidays. My grandmother followed kashruth. She always wore a shawl when going out.

Korostyshev was basically a Jewish town. Jews constituted the major part of the population. Basically, inhabitants of Korostyshev were handicraftsmen and farmers. All tailors and shoemakers in Korostyshev were Jews. Jews also kept small stores selling food products, clothing and shoes, etc.

There were also Ukrainians in Korostyshev. There were no national conflicts. Ukrainians and Jews got along well. Jews and Ukrainians communicated in Yiddish and Ukrainian. Almost all Ukrainians in Korostyshev knew Yiddish. There was a synagogue and a church in Korostyshev. 

From 1914 and until the end of the civil war gangs used to attack Korostyshev. There were no big pogroms, but the gangs were beating people and they even burnt one house once, although they allowed the tenants to leave it before they set it on fire. Probably the reason was that those were smaller gangs and their main goal was to get food.

My parents used to take my sisters and me to Korostyshev for summer vacations. I remember my grandmother and grandfather – both of them were short, thin, active and very nice. They were hard working and kind people. They wore plain clothes – Korostyshev was a small town and there was no reason to wear fancy clothes. My grandfather used to wear dark trousers with a belt, a light shirt and a sleeveless jacket and a kipah to cover his head. He had a small beard and a moustache. My grandmother used to wear a long dark skirt and a light cotton polka dotted or flowered shirt and a light shawl on her head. They loved to have their grandchildren visiting them. They were so very kind and hospitable. My grandmother always cooked something delicious for us. She cooked Jewish dishes: sweet and sour stewed meat, chicken broth, pancakes that she called “latkes” – this was everyday food. I can’t say what kind of dishes she cooked for Pesach, as we only visited Korostyshev in summer. 

My grandmother and grandfather spoke Russian and Yiddish to us. They knew Russian well, but it was easier for them to communicate in Yiddish. However, they spoke both Russian and Yiddish to us - they wanted us to know our mother tongue Yiddish and made us speak it at home, too. 

I remember their house. They lived in the very center of Korostyshev. They had a big house with few rooms. There was a cellar in the house where they had food storage. There was a kitchen garden and an orchard near the house. My grandmother kept a cow and chicken. I remember the hayloft over the shed and we loved to get into the smelling nicely hay. There was a well in the street close to the house from where they used to take water for the house.

They had a stove where my grandmother cooked food and made baked milk in ceramic pots. This milk had a very delicious goldish skin. There were other stoves to heat the house. In summer my grandmother used to purchase wood to last for the winter. They kept this wood in a shed in the yard. 

My grandfather and grandmother didn’t do any work on Saturday. An Ukrainian woman, their neighbor, came to milk the cow and feed the chicken. On Friday morning my grandmother cooked food for Saturday. On Friday night my grandmother lit candles and prayed. I loved to watch her at such moments. They didn’t force us to pray and I don’t remember any traditional songs or prayers in Yiddish, although I heard lots of them when I was a child.  

My grandmother took me with her to do shopping at the market. We bought kosher products from Jewish vendors at the market. If it was chicken or a goose, we used to take it to the shoihet. He had his shop at the market to comply with kosher food requirements. The farmers were selling their products: eggs, sour cream, cottage cheese and vegetables. Many of them had their customers and they brought food to their homes. 

The children of my grandparents’ sons Yasha and Simon also came to visit them. Zlata, the wife of Uncle Yasha, brought her daughter Raya and son Moisey. Simon lived in Zhytomir and his two sons also visited my grandparents.  We spent time together playing, going swimming in the Teterev river and to the forest. We played “hide and seek”, “diabolo” and skipping-rope. We used to hang hummocks in the wood and sleep in them in the afternoon heat. Korostyshev was in 100 km from Kiev and many people from Kiev used it as a country recreation spot to spend their summer vacation. Many families built small country houses in their yards to let them to the holiday-makers. It was another source of income for the locals.

Aunt Rahil and her husband and children lived in my grandparents’ house in Korostyshev. I can hardly remember her husband and don’t know what he was doing for a living. Rahil was a housewife. She was a very hospitable and nice and kind woman. She had many children, but I only remember two of them: her daughter Doba and her older son Lyova. Lyova wanted to leave a small town for the bigger world and left for the far East when he was 14 or 15. We didn’t hear from him for a long while. When the war began he came to Korostyshev. There were only distant relatives left in town by then. They let us now that Lyova was there and that he had a family in the Far East. Aunt Rahil, her husband and children were killed by Germans in 1941 along with all Jews in Korostyshev. My grandfather died in 1939 and my grandmother died in February 1941.

My mother Polina Veprinskaya was born in Odessa. Her father Haim Shapiro died in 1913. I have no information about him.  After he died my grandmother Sura Shapiro and her two children moved to Kiev. The only information about my grandmother that I have is that she was born in 1861. 

My mother had an older brother Ion, born in 1890. They called him Mutsele, the little one, in the family, because he was very short. In Kiev Ion became a jeweler apprentice and became a skilled jeweler. He had a store in Podol during NEP. The authorities expropriated this store around 1925. He worked at the state jeweler store for some time. He was called several times to the NKVD office. They demanded that he gave away all his gold. This made Ion lose his love to the jeweler’s art. He became an apprentice of the tuner of musical instruments and worked as an engineer at the factory of musical instruments. Ion was married. His wife’s name was Revekka. They were very much in love with one another. From what I know they were not away from one another for one single day. They had four children. Their older son Haim fell ill with flu and died when he was 20. Revekka suffered so much from this loss. They had two sons and a daughter left. His daughter Maria was very beautiful and talented. She lived a long and happy life. Maria finished Acting Department at the Kiev Theatrical Institute. Before the war she was an actress of the Russian Drama Theater in Kiev. After the war Maria was a producer at the amateur theater. Later she graduated from the Department of Journalism at Kiev University and worked as a journalist for a newspaper. She was married to Ostromogilsky, a Jew. He was Hero of the Soviet Union. They had a son Efim. Maria died in 1991 when she was 76 and was buried at the Jewish part of Lukianovskoye cemetery in Kiev near her parents. Grigory (Gersh), the son of Maria and Georgiy, worked at the radio engineering plant in Barnaul during evacuation and stayed there after the war. In due time Grigory became director of this plant. He died in Barnaul in the 1970s. His wife and son live in Kiev. The younger son Iona Israil lived in Kiev and worked at the radio station. His wife Mara died in the  1970s and Israil and his two sons emigrated to America. Uncle Ion died in 1967 and Revekka died one year later.

I knew my grandmother Sura and loved her much. She lived alone in a small room on the first floor in an old building in Podol. She earned her living by baking bread and rolls and selling them. I still remember her delicious little rolls with no stuffing. My grandmother had her big stove in the same room where she lived, she made rolls at home and always had lots of customers in the house. The room was very clean. Her bakeries were very popular. All of her neighbors were her customers. They knew that my grandmother’s bakeries were kosher. She often received orders to bake rolls and pies for family celebrations. When I grew up I often went to visit my grandmother by myself. I took the funicular to get to Podol and from there I walked to her house. My grandmother was very religious. There was a synagogue not far from her house and my grandmother went there almost every day. She had a shelf with a curtain in her room where she kept her Easter dishes. She covered her head with a shawl before going out. I don’t remember her praying at home. On Friday she went to the synagogue after lighting candles and we tried to leave her alone at such moments. Everyone that knew my grandmother loved her. She was very intelligent, kind and honest. She always tried to help and support people before they had to ask her. She also taught me to offer help if somebody needed it, and they would always accept it. My grandmother’ influence in my upbringing was very significant. She worked until the last days of her life, even when she was ill. My grandmother Sura died in 1940. 

In 1915 my father came to Kiev to learn a profession. He became a tailor’s apprentice and then developed into a real good tailor for women’s gowns. He worked as a cutter at the garment factory before the war. My father was a born tailor. Then my father’s brother Yasha came to Kiev and my father taught him the profession of a tailor. Uncle Yasha lived nearby and often visited us. He was a very religious man. 

My parents got married in 1917. I don’t know how they met. My mother told me once that it was love from the first sight. Both of them came from poor families and their wedding party was very modest. But it was still a real Jewish wedding with the huppah and all wedding rituals. My parents got an apartment in Bolshaya Podvalnaya street in the center of Kiev. Our apartment was in the wing of a big 4-storied brick building. There were two rooms, a kitchen, a toilet and a hallway in this apartment.  There was no bathroom and we washed ourselves in the kitchen. There was no running water in the house. We had a pump in the yard and brought water from there in buckets. 

In 1919 my parent had their first baby. I don’t remember his name. He lived less than a year and died in 1919. I was born in 1921. My sister Eva was born in 1924. Genia was born in 1927 and my brother Mark was born in 1934. 

My father was a tailor and my mother was a housewife. She also learned to sew before she got married. She was an apprentice of a tailor and her specialty was making skirts. She didn’t work after she got married, because it was traditional for a Jewish woman to be a housewife. Although the family wasn’t wealthy my mother only made skirts for herself and her daughters. 

My sisters and I lived in one room and my parents lived in another. I remember a yellow leather sofa in our room – it was in fashion at that time. There was a shelf on the high back of this sofa and a mirror above. There were small leather pillows on both sides of the sofa. I slept on it. There was a piano beside my sofa. There was a wider sofa by the opposite wall where my sisters slept. We also had a wardrobe and a bookcase and a desk in our room. 

There was a nickel-plated bed and big mirror above it in my parents’ room. There was also a bookcase with many books in Yiddish and Russian. There was a big dinner table and a cupboard in the kitchen. My mother liked beautiful dishes. She had a set of dishes of blue color and beautiful silver utilities – Ion’s wedding present.  The rooms were heated by the stove tiled with white and pink tiles.

His brother Yasha often came to pick my father up to go to the synagogue together. During WWI Uncle Yasha was at the front. He froze his feet and had his toes amputated on both feet. He had a problem walking, but he still went to the synagogue two or three times a week. Uncle Yasha and his family were in Gorky throughout the WWII. Uncle Yasha’s son perished at the front and the rest of his family returned to Kiev after the war. Uncle Yasha died in 1990.

At Sabbath my mother lit candles and cooked delicious dinner. My father worked on Saturday, as Saturday was a workday. They celebrated Jewish holidays. I remember Papa putting Hanukkeh geld (small change) under his children’s pillows.  At Pesach my parents used to buy matsa at the synagogue. My mother crushed it in the mortar and then sifted the flour to make sponge cakes.  Mama cooked stuffed fish and made chicken neck with liver and fried flour and boiled chicken. We didn’t have bread in the house at Pesach. My mother had Pesach dishes that were used only on this holiday. It was set of dishes for dinner, casseroles and frying pans. My uncle Yasha and his wife and sometimes Ion and his family came to join us for the celebration Uncle Yasha, the oldest man in the family, read a prayer. At Yom-Kipur my father and mother fasted, but my mother made food for us, children, on these days. 

There was a Ukrainian school across the street from our school. I went to school when I was 8. My sisters also went to this school later. Ukrainian was a problem for me at the beginning – I didn’t know it, but I was making a good progress in it. About half of the children in my class were Jews. But there was no national issue at that time.  There were Jews among teachers as well. 

I became a young Octobrist and then a pioneer at school. Admittance to the pioneers was a festive ceremony held at the conference-hall at school. After they tied our neck ties the pioneer leader said “Be ready!” and we replied in chorus “Always ready!” (to struggle for the cause of the CPSU – Communist party of the Soviet Union). My responsibility as a pioneer was to help my classmate with his Russian grammar. He came to my home after classes and wrote dictations. I remember how proud I was when he received his first good mark for the dictation at school.

I liked history and literature, but I wasn’t quite fond of mathematics. When I was in the 2nd form my parents sent me to study at the music school to learn to play the violin. I had classes there twice a week. A piano was a second instrument that I was learning to play. 

1932 and 1933 was the period of horrific famine in Ukraine. I shall never forget this terrible time. There were swollen and half-dressed people in the streets: children, adults and old people. There were dead bodies on the pavements. They were the people coming to Kiev from the surrounding villages. This famine struck the villages basically. People also starved in towns, but to a less extent. We survived due to our father. He made clothes and was paid in food products. My father was the only one working in the family, but he provided for all of us. 

When I was to go to the 6th form a 10-year music school was established at the Conservatory. My teacher of music suggested that I took exams to enter this school. After finishing this school children were admitted to the Conservatory without exams. I passed exams and was admitted to the 6th form. This school was in Kreschatik street near the Conservatory. We studied general and special music subjects: musical literature, solfeggio and harmony. My violin teacher was Professor of Conservatory Bertie. There were many Jewish children in this school.  I remember one girl from the composer class for specifically gifted children. Her name was Didi Rzhavskaya. She was very talented and composed music when she was a child. Of my classmates I remember Yunia Budovsky - he became a concertmaster at the Opera Theater. I also remember Abrasha Shtern. I don’t know whether they are still alive. They were great musicians and laureates of musical contests. We admired them.

There were 10–15 children in one class. I can’t say that we were all friends, but there were no demonstrations of anti-Semitism. 

We celebrated all Soviet holidays. Schoolchildren and teachers went to the parades and carried flags and slogans. There were concerts at school after the parades.  At home we celebrated Jewish and Soviet holidays, because such was a tradition.  We also celebrated New Year and birthdays of all family members at home.  

I spent my summer vacations with my grandparents in Korostyshev. We went swimming and playing with other children. We enjoyed ourselves. My grandfather and grandmother were religious and went to the synagogue, but we, children, were not involved in any of these things. My grandmother cooked deliciously and we didn’t care a bit about whether it kosher or it wasn’t. Besides, there are no holidays in summer.  

We had performances to demonstrate our skills at school and often attended students’ performances at the Conservatory. I tried to attend all interesting concerts at the Philharmonic. We could only afford the cheapest tickets. 

Studying at the musical school took almost all of my time. I didn’t follow any political events or occurrences of that time. Of course, I knew that Hitler came to power in Germany and about the war in Poland, but I didn’t care. 

Repression of 1936 didn’t touch our family or the families of my acquaintances and so, I didn’t know much about them. 

In 1939 my friends and I formed a small orchestra. There were only girls there – the brass and the string group. There was also a singer – she was a student of the vocal class. We rehearsed at school. Our school teacher Magaziner, a Jew, was director of the orchestra. In about half a year we entered into the agreement with the director of the “Chance” cinema on the corner of Kreschatik and Proreznaya about playing in this movie theater.  Movie performances began at 4 and we came after classes and played at the lobby. We had costumes to wear on the stage. They were made from brown cashmere with a white inset on the chest and a bow tie.  We played popular pop songs and received money for our work. I was very happy to give this money to my mother. Mira Shenderovich, the violinist in our orchestra, was my friend. She lived in Podol, not far from where my grandmother Sura lived. We met with Mira after the war also. Later she went to Kishinev, got married and emigrated to Israel with her family. Her daughter lives in Austria now. She is laureate of international contests, violinist and great musician. Mira died in Israel. We were a team of people in the orchestra. We were united by what we were doing and our enthusiasm. Even  after we entered the Conservatory we continued to play in the orchestra.  

In 1940 after finishing school I was auditioned for my skills in playing the violin and was admitted to Kiev State Conservatory. Almost all of my classmates entered the Conservatory, too. My teacher of the violin mastership was the same Professor Bertie that had been my teacher at school before. This was an interesting time. We had students’ performances and all students were to attend them.  It was necessary to attend these performances to share the experience and to learn from the others. I had many friends. I began to meet with Fima Barsky, my classmate’s older brother. Fima was two years older than I. He was a very nice and smart boy. He came from the Jewish family of teachers. I liked him a lot. We were thinking of getting married in a year or two, but the war broke our plans. Fima was mobilized during the first days of the war and perished soon afterward.  

I remember the first day of the war, 22 June 1941. We heard about the beginning of the war from the official speech of Molotov on the radio. But even before his speech there were rumors about bombing of Sviatoshyno and Darnitsa, the outskirts of Kiev. Everything was such a mess and people were crying or panicking. We were confused and didn’t know what to do. My father wasn’t recruited to the army. At the beginning of the war only young men and professional military were summoned to the front and my father was 46 by the beginning of the war. He was left in reserve as well as other men between 40 and 50 years old. The reservists didn’t have a right to leave Kiev. They were supposed to wait for either recruitment to the front or an order summoning them to the labor front. So my father stayed and my mother, my sisters, my brother and I evacuated on 25 July 1941. It wasn’t an organized process. There was an announcement that those that wanted to evacuate were to come to the reserve railroad spur at Pechersk.  We took one suitcase with us and I had my violin with me. Our father took us to the railway station. He was afraid to go with us - he thought he might have been executed as a deserter. We said our good-bye to him and boarded the platform railcars. The trip was very long and people were starving to death or dying from diseases. During bombings we were getting off the train to run away. During the stops we had to get some food. We arrived in Kokand, Middle Asia. From there we were sent to a collective farm. We were accommodated in a little hut made of hay mixed with sheep manure.  There were ground floors in it. We made plank beds to sleep on them. We had a steel sheet on the floor where we made fire to cook and a tripod to hang the pot over the fire.  We put wood and dry branches of saxaul on the metal sheet to start the fire. Acrid smoke was filling the hut. All of us, except brother Mark that was 8 at that time, worked at the collective farm. We got miserable payment for our work that was too little to get sufficient food. We sometimes bought some food or changed our clothes for food at the market, only we hardly had anything to take to the market. Once I met our neighbor from Kiev. She  told me that I could work at the collective farm where she worked and that they were paying with flour and cereals for work. It was located in 30 km from the village where we lived. I went there and got a job. They gave flour, cereals and bread as payment for work. Once a week I went back home to bring them food. Mama was very weak, because she left all food that we had to her children. In spring 1942 my little brother starved to death and a month after him my mother died. My mother and my brother were buried in common graves. I didn’t have money to bury them decently. We didn’t hear from our father. We had no information about him until 1945, and we understood that he wasn’t among the living any longer, because if he had been alive, he would have let us know. When I was in the evacuation I was continuously trying to find out any information about my father, sending requests to the military recruitment office. Their response to me was that his name was not on the lists of the deceased.  That was all information I had about him. My sisters and other orphaned children were sent to a factory school in Sverdlovsk, Ural. The sisters were provided for by the state. Of course, it wasn’t quite sufficient, but they were not starving to death, on the other hand, and had some clothes to wear. Both of them learned to work on lathe units and worked at the plant manufacturing shells for the front.  

In some time I was offered a job in the orchestra of Uzbek theater in Kokand. The Uzbek music is different and I had problems at the beginning. Thus, we received food cards at the theater and it meant 400 grams of bread a day. I knew that Kiev Jewish Musical Theater was evacuated to Kokand. Before the war this theater was located in Kreschatik street. I can’t remember the details, but I met someone that worked at this theater, and they suggested that I went to work in the orchestra of this theater. I was auditioned by the conductor of the orchestra and was admitted. It is written in my employment record book that I was “employed by the theater as a musician at the orchestra. 10 August 1944 ».

I also got accommodation. I had little experience to play their complicated music. A famous Jewish composer Shteinberg composed music for their performances. I was rehearsing and studying a lot. Performances in the theater were in Yiddish. They only had one or two performances in Russian.  If the performance was in Yiddish they explained in Russian what it was about before the beginning for those that didn’t understand the language. There was different public, and they always cheered in appreciation of acting. There were problems related to approval of the repertoire. Everything had to be censored: God forbid if there was any deviation from the official ideology! There was strict selection of plays – they had to comply with ideological requirements of the time.  However, they managed to stage classics of the Jewish literature, like Sholem Alehem’s “Wandering stars”. All actors were from Kiev. I must tell you that I’ve never been in such friendly atmosphere, as was in the Jewish Theater. Of course, we felt togetherness because all of us had to live through the war and we faced the same difficulties and were survivors, but there was more to it than that… 

In the end of 1944 our theater came on a long tour to Fergana. We were told there that the theater was to move temporarily to Chernovtsy until the building of the theater in Kiev was completed. We went to Chernovtsy by train. The train stopped for a while in Kiev. All of us were from Kiev and we went to take a look at our home. I found our house in place, although the neighboring houses were destroyed. 

After I returned to Kiev in 1945 my neighbors told me what happened to my father. Some time before the war a German man moved into our house. He was a very polite and decent person. He changed when Germans entered Kiev. He walked as if he were too important to notice anybody or anything around. He gave away all Jews, including my father. My neighbors were afraid to hide my father. It was dangerous for them and their children. On 29 September a few policemen came for my father. They took him to the Babiy Yar and shot him. This German man left Kiev with the German army.

One evening I went to Kiev Theater of Musical Comedy. People came there to honor victims of the Babiy Yar. It was conducted by Mihoels that came from Moscow. I remember him making his speech holding a big crystal vase filled with ashes from the Babiy Yar. Then a girl that escaped from the Babiy Yar told her story. She was a young girl, no more than 20 years old, but her hair was as white as snow. Her classmate met her in the street and told Germans that she was a Jew. She was captured and taken to the Babiy Yar.  Columns of Jews were going to the Babiy Yar along Artyoma and Melnikova streets. People were shot in groups. They had to undress and their bodies were thrown into the ravine. The next group of people waiting for their turn to be shot buried dead or wounded people. The land was stirring up and breathing… This girl was wounded. She got out of the ravine at night came home. Her neighbors were hiding her for the rest of the war. I remember her story as if she told it yesterday…

Back to my story, we arrived in Chernovtsy in 1945. There were many vacant buildings there. This town joined the USSR in 1940. It belonged to Rumania before. After the war the local population was moving to Rumania and those that returned from evacuation could move into any apartment.  I wanted to live near the theater and I moved into the apartment sharing it with a neighbor. Each of us had two rooms, and we had a common kitchen, bathroom and a toilet. There was no anti-Semitism in Chernovtsy, and the attitude towards Jews was very loyal.

Our theater was called “Jewish Musical Theater named after Sholem Alehem». This was a very good theater with very good actors. One of production directors, Misha Loev lives in New York now. He wrote and published a book about Kiev Jewish Theater. Its title is “The last match”. It is a very detailed story of Kiev Jewish Theater: performances, actors and the true history.  

In 1945 my sisters Eva and Genia came to Chernovtsy. Genia entered a pedagogical college and Eva went to the medical college. My sisters and I were happy to be together.  

In 1946 I got married. I met my future husband at the hairdresser’s where I went to have my hair cut. He was a hairdresser. His name was David Palanker. He came from Rumania. He was born to a Jewish religious family in Bucharest in 1910. His parents were religious people, but David left his family when he was very young. He was an atheist, quite like me, but that’s about all information about him that I have. In his youth he finished a music school and played the clarinet in the orchestra. Later he moved to Beltsy, a Moldavian town.  Moldavia belonged to Rumania then. In 1940 Moldavia joined the USSR and he became a Soviet citizen. David was mobilized to the front at the beginning of the war. He was wounded, but returned to the front afterward. After the war David came to Chernovtsy. It turned out that we had a common acquaintance – Dats, a violinist from the theater. Dats also lived in Bucharest and the two of them were musicians in the same orchestra. David was much older than I. We were seeing each other for a while. To be frank, I wasn’t in love with him. I couldn’t forget Fima. But then I thought to myself that nobody wanted me, a lonely and poor woman.  I had only one dress that I used to wear to the theater. I didn’t even have a coat. I thought it would be easier if there were two of us. We didn’t have a wedding party. We had a civil ceremony. We were far from wealthy. My salary in the theater was low. My husband had a plan for the number of visitors per day. The number of people in this plan was higher than actual number of visitors, but it was his duty to comply with the requirements of the plan. So, he added his own money to the cash receipts of the hairdresser’s pretending that it was his clients’ payments.  

My sister Eva met her future husband Mitia Goltsman in the same hairdresser’s. He was a very strong, handsome, tall and a very nice Jewish man. They fell in love with one another. I tried to keep my sister from getting married. I knew what it was like to be poor and wanted a better life for her. But Eva said that they loved each other and nothing else mattered. They had a civil ceremony. Eva finished medical college and began to work as a nurse at the district hospital. Mitia was a hairdresser. They had 3 daughters: Rosa, Polina and Inna. The oldest Rosa graduated from Pedagogical University in Voronezh. In the early 1970s my sister Eva and her family moved to Israel.  Her husband worked as a hairdresser there and Rosa worked as a teacher at school. Their middle daughter Polina finished medical college in Israel and works as senior medical nurse in the hospital in Rehavot.  The youngest – Inna – got married in Israel, but her husband wanted to live in the USA and they emigrated there. Eva and her husband live in El-Kabot. She couldn’t get adjusted to the climate and started having heart problems. She had a surgery and a heart stimulator implanted. Two years ago she had her stimulator replaced. Her husband had a stroke and is not feeling well. Eva calls me sometimes. Unfortunately, I can’t afford to call her. 

My younger sister Genia finished the pedagogical college. She met Israil Lubovsky, a Jewish man, at this college. When they told us they wanted to get married my husband and I decided to arrange a real Jewish wedding for them.  This was in 1954 and it was not safe to have it at the synagogue or other public place due to the punishment that might follow (get fired from work as a minimum or get arrested and imprisoned for few years as a maximum for the propaganda of religious rituals). We made a huppah on the balcony and the Chernovtsy rabbi conducted the Jewish traditional wedding ceremony. Of course, our neighbors or just passers-by saw us, but they didn't report on us to the authorities. They knew that it was a big holiday for us. After finishing the college Genia and her husband went to Beltsy in Moldavia. Genia had a son. When he grew up a little she went to work at school and study at the Kishinev University of commerce.  She graduated from it receiving the diploma of an economist. Her son was a very talented boy. He finished musical school in Beltsy and then – Conservatory in Kishinev. Genia’s son emigrated to  Israel in the 1970s and Genia and her husband joined him there shortly afterward.  Genia’s son lives in Jerusalem now. He has three children. Genia lives in Ashkelon. Her husband died few years ago. Genia got blind recently and the surgery was no success. But she doesn’t want to return to Ukraine. 

When Eva arrived in Israel she put down our father’s name in the Book of memory at the Yad-Vashem museum. When I was visiting Israel at the invitation of my sisters I went to this museum and saw and turned few pages of this huge and heavy book. We put the necessary information about our father into this book and also wrote that he perished in the Babiy Yar.  It is the only monument honoring the memory of our father. 

I went on tours in Israel, admiring what I saw. I had the feeling of the Jewish history that was all around me.  And, on the other had, it is a very modern and nice country.

My husband and I haven’t been religious people. We didn’t go to the synagogue, pray or follow the kashruth. However, we did celebrate Jewish holidays.  We also celebrated Soviet holidays. We were young and enjoyed having guests for a celebration. Genia and her husband often arrived from Moldavia to be with us at Pesach and the 1st of May. We spoke Russian with them.  Later, when our daughter was born, we switched to Yiddish when we didn’t want her to understand what we discussed.  

In 1948 struggle against cosmopolitism began. The authorities began to destroy the Jewish culture and language. They closed the synagogue and the only Jewish school in Chernovtsy. They were persecuting Jewish writers and musicians. Once we came to the theater and were read the direction to close it. The building of the theater was to be given to house Medical University. Almost all employees were fired. They couldn’t fire me. I was pregnant and if they did, it would have been violation of the law. Therefore I formally remained an employee of this theater throughout the period of its elimination. The last day of existence of the theater is specified in my employment record book: «Resigned due to the elimination of the theater. 1950, 28 February». Later many actors of the theater left for Israel.  In 1948 we heard about the “accident” that happened to Mihoels. He “got in a car accident” and died.  But nobody believed it was an accident.

Our daughter Lilia was born on 11 September 1949. Her Jewish name was Leya. After the theater was closed I couldn’t find a job for some time. I decided to complete my music education. After my daughter was born I entered the Music College in Chernovtsy and got the diploma of violin player. In 1957 I became a violinist at Chernovtsy Ukrainian Drama Theater. I worked there for 41 years. I retired in 1998 working 20 more years after I reached the retirement age.  

«Doctors’ case» that began in 1953 kind of legalized the state anti-Semitism. Jews were fired. People refused to visit Jewish doctors. Nobody in our family suffered from it. Of course, many people understood that this whole process was slanderous. 

Stalin’s death wasn’t a tragedy for me considering elimination of the Jewish theater and the “doctors’ case”.  I did realize that he should have been aware of what was happening around. I didn’t care that he died.

My husband died in 1978. My sisters were calling me to Israel, but I never wanted to go there. I was afraid of the uncertainty that might be waiting for me there.  Young trees may grow well in the new soil, but the old ones may die. I think, I’m too old for moving. Besides, I shall be alone there. People don’t make new friends at this age.

I often went on tours with the theater. We went to towns, villages, even at farmyards or at the plants during their lunchtime. My daughter went to kindergarten. Once somebody hit her on the head, and the trauma resulted in injury of the speech center in her brain.  My daughter stopped speaking and was behind in her development. She could only study at a special school. Her speech habits restored in the course of years, but the consequences of the trauma have their impact even now. My daughter finished a Russian secondary school. In 1973 she married a young Jewish man. He was a relative of my acquaintances in Chernovtsy. He lived in Kiev with his parents and my daughter moved to Kiev, too.  She changed her last name to her husband’s name – Leht.  Her husband was a laborer at the motor-cycle factory in Kiev. In 1974 their daughter was born. She died from pneumonia in her infantry. In 1975 they had a son Vladimir.  After the disaster at the Chernobyl power plant in 1986 they moved to Israel with her husband’s parents.  My daughter divorced her husband. Her son stayed with my daughter’s mother-in-law. Now my grandson, his father and his grandmother live in Los-Angeles. My grandson finished college in the USA and is going to go to the University. My daughter lives in Israel. She doesn’t work and receives a pension.  

At the end of the 1980s the Yiddish language club was opened at the House of Culture. It was headed by a children’s doctor. He knew the language well. I could speak Yiddish, but I couldn’t read or write. I studied in this club for two years. 

In the recent ten years Jewish life in Chernovtsy has become very active. There are Jewish communities and we can read Jewish magazines and newspapers. Chesed and Jewish charity committee support us. They give us food and clothes and we have interesting activities there.  We celebrate Jewish holidays and Sabbath in the community. We can attend interesting lectures and concerts.  One a week I attend literature club, conducted by lecturer of Chernovtsy University. On Monday I attend our communication club. Quite a few people attend it. We have discussions and enjoy spending time together. 

I do some work as well. We have a program on Chernovtsy radio “Das yiddishe Wort”. I am an announcer in this program. It is of great use that I can read and write in Yiddish. We look for interesting materials about life stories of Jews. We receive letters from our listeners.  It supports me to realize that people need me and wait to hear “Good afternoon, my dears. We begin our program”. 

Moshe Burla

Moshe Burla
Thessaloniki
Greece
Interviewer: Stratos Dordanas
Date of the interview: October 2005

The Burla family originates from Volos. Not only my grandfather, but also the grandfathers of our grandfathers all originate from Volos. I don’t know how we fell to Macedonia, what I know is that when we came to Naousa, we found there our grandfather [Moshe Burla] and one of my father’s brothers. We settled in Naousa where we lived together for seven years. Seven years later, due to my father’s gambling habit, which ruined us, as they say, the whole family, completely penniless, went down to Thessaloniki in 1926. My mother was the only one running around and cleaning after other Jewish families to get a piece of bread to feed us, as we were four children.

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

My family background

In addition to the one brother who was with Grandfather in Naousa, my father, Leon Burla, had another brother in Larissa, Minas Burla. He was my father’s youngest brother and he was an upstanding young man. The whole of Larissa, everyone used to talk about him, for his achievements. He was a very generous, good man, he and his wife were very good people.

My father had yet another brother, Daniel Bourla, who wasn’t so close to the family, but he was mostly involved with his son’s life, his only child, who wanted to become famous and in fact he had written some poems: ‘Why is the world joyful’ and ‘Smiling Father’, were two poems by my uncle’s son. He had a special story: he had been taken by the partisans, who had possibly saved him from the forced labor 1 that the Germans were about to take him to. They brought a woman, who turned out to be a German spy, and he fell in love with her and abandoned us and became Christian. In this way he stained the good Burla name and is not a Burla any longer, as he has changed his name.

He was famous for his achievements and until today he lives at a house close to Agia Sofia [Church in the center of Thessaloniki]. I don’t want to meet him because of what he did, and I even said that when he dies I won’t go to the funeral because I don’t accept him as a cousin, as generally I didn’t like his attitude. This was the last part of the Burla family. The mother and the father had given everything to this child and they were taken to forced labor, and never came back.

The eldest son of my grandfather was called David Burla, while my grandfather’s name was Moshe Burla, and I was named after him. I didn’t meet any of my grandmothers. The only woman that I met was my uncle’s wife, who lived in Naousa, and her name was Reina. She was very calm and sweet and nice. She really took care of us like a second mother, she loved us very much. She also had many kids, seven kids, among them a girl, who is the mother of Alberto Eskenazi.

One of her children was in France and we weren’t in contact with him, and he died without us even knowing. She had another son, Minas, who got married in Thessaloniki, the father of his wife was a carter and they worked at the harbor. The whole family was deported and nobody survived.

She also had another son, Jackos, who got married to a woman whose father was a tobacco specialist. He was very well known and everyone respected him among the tobacconists. He didn’t have a great life with his wife, as his wife always asked for more. They divorced and he left for America and he now lives with his second wife.

My uncle David had one more daughter who was older than the mother of Eskenazi and another one, even older, named Sultana, who was married to the son of Colonel Frizis 2. Colonel Frizis had a son exactly the same age; he was an upstanding young man, fearless, but he had a tragic death. While they sent him up the mountain to be saved the people there had found him a small house, a hut. One day the Germans came to the village and they requested all the men to assemble in the square. The villagers told him, ‘you don’t come out, hide at your hunt, no one knows where you are and what you are doing, and you will be fine.’ But he didn’t listen and he went to the square, and as soon as the Germans saw him, this big lusty man being dressed not as a villager, they claimed that he was in charge and took him and he was gone. His children are now old, one son is a rabbi, and there are many other Frizis in Larissa. In Thessaloniki, we have a Doctor Frizi whose mother is in the old people’s home here with us.

We didn’t know anything from my mother’s side of the family, because the marriage of our mother and father came about in such a way that we simply didn’t know. That’s because my father was sent, while serving in the army, to Chios to buy some things for the army, and he fell in love with my mother, dropped out of the army, took my mother and went to Egypt. My mother’s sister lived in Egypt. She took care of them, helped my father to get a job, and we were born in Egypt, three children. We only knew that her father’s surname was Suhami, Esther Suhami, that’s what my mother’s documents said.

My grandfather Moshe Burla was a simple man, and he was religious. There, in Naousa he had made a small room with all his kit and every morning he would get up, put on his tefillin and say the prayer. He made sure to help us, children, as his job was very simple. He had a small loom where he would weave garters for the Evzones; he would deal with needles, thimbles, eggs, with money, with the world. I mean, he was aiming high, to get rich.

When we came to Naousa, his eldest brother, who had many children, helped my father. At the shop that was there, my grandfather opened a studio, put there some fabrics and worked just fine. Us, the children, all the teachers loved us there in Naousa. We had settled at school, we even took part at a school play, I and the mother of Alberto Eskenazi had the leading parts in a Greek play.

Growing up

When we came to Thessaloniki, Grandfather came with us. He suffered a lot because of my father. After Naousa, supposedly, he was a communist and he was hiding, behind and under the beds so he wouldn’t get caught. Before he had been a merchant in Naousa, and now he had become a communist and Grandfather was losing him. He used to tell him, ‘Think like a man, go find a job to make a living for your family and children.’

When he found a job and became a baker, we were pleased. I went every morning and they would give me one loaf of bread and that was food for the whole family. Plus the fish we got from the fishermen. About 400 meters from our house there was a group of fishermen working, and we, the four children, would go there and help them pull the nets with the fish, and they would give us fish that my mother and one of her sisters adored. The main part of our family’s meal was this fish. Besides, we had a maid of a very rich family living next to us, not Jewish, and she loved us, the children, and she would bring the leftovers for us to eat. Well, and this is how we lived.

When we arrived in Thessaloniki, after this place where we lived close to the sea, we went to the ‘151’ neighborhood 3. There, the girls went and signed up for classes at the Greek school. We didn’t know any other language, my father and mother spoke Arabic when they wanted to communicate, but we didn’t know Arabic, we spoke only Greek.

My grandfather wanted me to go and learn Hebrew. Next to our house now, is the kindergarten Agios [Saint] Stylianos, I think, and it is there that the Jewish school of the ‘151’ neighborhood was located, and that’s where my grandfather signed me up for me to learn Spanish 4 and Yiddish. But I was in the fourth grade when my grandfather decided that he wanted me to do all this, I had attended four years, at the Greek lessons I was the first in class, the others didn’t know the alphabet. I spoke with my relatives and I told them about the situation: that I was going to sign up in a Greek school to continue my studies, and if my grandfather, who was religious, wanted to, he could teach me the language after school for me to learn.

We agreed on that, so I went to an elementary school, but not the same one as my sisters: they went to Italia’s road, while I was at the Theagenio [where the Theagenio Cancer Hospital is located today]. My grandfather would grab me at the hair, not the ears, and would sit me down to learn. That’s how I managed to graduate at the age of thirteen, with the help of my grandfather, not my father or anybody else; my grandfather was the only one that sorted it all out.

Everyone in the family spoke Greek, and no one knew Spanish. The Spanish language, we only came across at the ‘151’ quarter where we went and lived with all the other Jews of the area. It is important to say that all our Jewish neighbors thought that we were Christians, because how it is possible that Jews don’t know one word of Spanish?

I have written this in my book: that the other Jewish neighbors took me and my brother and pulled our pants down to see whether we were circumcised. And after that they were convinced that we were Jewish and started treating us as Jews in order for us to pick up a word or two of Spanish, of which we know today, and speak a little.

Besides my mother and father, who had lived in Egypt, when they wanted to say something between themselves, so we wouldn’t understand them, spoke in Arabic. They didn’t speak any other languages.

In the Jewish families it was the French language that was used widely then, , more so among the rich Jewish families. I remember in high school an incident that the French teacher asked me to read and when I took the book, I started spelling out the words. ‘But how is this possible?’ another Jew called out. ‘Sir, he is from a wealthy Jewish family.’ I replied, ‘I come to school wearing my sister’s shoes. I am poor, I cannot be part of the French speaking elite, as all the rest of the Jews of the school.’ You see, in my class there were only two of those. I know both their names, and they both spoke French. They used to live at Egnatia Street or at the large street of Agia Triada, while we were living in a poor neighborhood.

I can narrate something that I admit was tragic in the family. Where I lived with Grandfather, I was the chief of a gang of ten children, from ten to twelve years old. We used to play ball, a cloth ball we used to play with, we would go for a walk etc. My smaller brother didn’t like to give in to my things, he would always put traps and he would get beaten up a great deal by me in return. I remember it was New Year’s Eve and we were out playing, me carefree. When I came home, as soon as I crossed the threshold, my father, who sat at the table, took a bulk of […] and threw it at me. Just imagine, at New Year’s Eve, when the whole family was seated at the table to eat, I was out in the streets playing!

When I saw the situation I ran away. I said to myself, ‘He’s going to kill me.’ And, indeed, he took the knife and came running out into the street. I was shouting for help and he was shouting, ‘Kill him!’ The neighborhood was all Jewish, and all the people were seated at their tables, heard the noise, came out and caught him and told him, ‘What do you think you’re doing on a day like this?’ Upon which my father said, ‘But don’t you know…’ And they said, ‘Whatever happened, he is your child, take him home, to get him cleaned up and sit at the table to eat with everybody, on this holy day.’

My father at that moment forgave me, and we sat down all together to eat. From that day, when the neighbors saw that my father was going to kill his son, the punk, I became a ‘girl,’ so good I became, that I was under my mother’s skirts, helping around the house, helping with the cooking, potato cleaning, the house, etc.

My grandfather’s father I didn’t get to meet. But in Volos, that is at the Community of Volos there was a great big sign that had the names of the Burla families engraved. They were religious people, people of the synagogue. What I know from my mother is that he used make and sell brooms. He lived in comfort and helped his children. He was a person that loved the Jews and made sure that the synagogue blossomed and helped financially with his sales from the grooms.

My grandfather was a peaceful man, religious, and he didn’t have special likings with regards to food, but he liked everything that my mother prepared. He was fond of Mother and loved her very much. And when my father was not treating mother as he should have, because he was fearless, he used to take Mother’s side and told him, ‘You should love the girl, she is the brace of the family, while you are a bum.’ He would say that to him sometimes.

Father really had an unstable life. Later he started working at the security, he became a security henchman, along with one of my cousins, and they caught me too, and beat me up, even though I wasn’t involved, but I was a member of the union of the metal workers. They caught me and blamed me, and in fact my cousin and father threatened me, ‘If you don’t stop we will kill you with our own hands.’

My grandfather was dressed simple, he always tried not to draw attention to himself, he was wearing trousers and a jacket. Only when he went to the synagogue would he wear what they traditionally put on, otherwise he was a simple citizen; he didn’t stand out in any way. He went to Volos, there was a Jewish school there, and all the students studying there were Jewish. They have written about the great work that this school in Volos did, as there was no other school like this, and other students would go to Greek schools.

He kept the tradition as much as he could, all the holidays; he had all the prayer books for each Jewish holiday, and he helped the children from other families that didn’t know of these things, so he helped them out.

He was a regular at the synagogue, every morning. For the preparation of my bar mitzvah at the age of 13, we would go together, every day he took me there, and wore all the accessories until this came to its end. After that, when I came back home there were all the people we knew, the brothers of my father came, my aunts. And after this experience I started avoiding my grandfather. At the time I was more interested in playing games than in religion.

My grandfather learned Greek history from us, from what we were being taught at school and we used to come home and tell him this and that, about the Greeks and the Bulgarians, and the Turks, and he really liked it. He loved it. He wanted to learn the history of Greece, the history of our nation. And he was a real Greek, Jewish but Greek, he loved Greece, he loved the Greek people.

He had friends who he couldn’t invite over, because of the situation. But back in those times, people weren’t involved with politics, my grandfather wasn’t involved, he didn’t read the newspapers, he didn’t know the news, what was happening. What he would hear from others he would simply also say himself. There were many political changes in Greece, one of which was Pangalos 5.

There were many changes that he didn’t follow, as an old man. Only the ones in command, the ones who were involved in the issues of Greece, were the ones that lived through the events. The crowds were simple, and they wouldn’t follow through the political issues, which were many at that time.

I remember that at some point they cut down our money allowance, this and that, then Pangalos came and cut the skirt. The one that was more influenced by this situation, especially the economic changes, was a sister of my father that was deaf mute, Esther. She was a kind person, a person who would spoil all my uncles, once in a while, give them coins, which she kept them aside in her trunk. And when we grew up and started working she used to come and we would give her coins.

One thing that really upset her was that when the Germans came and took all her money to see how much money she had, she opened her trunk and only had enough for half a loaf of bread. Then she started crying and kept saying, ‘Saving all your life for half a loaf of bread.’ She became very emotional over this matter and cried, as all her life she had saved money from her children and grandchildren, and then she just had merely enough for half a loaf of bread.

We don’t remember much from Grandfather’s house because we met him in Naousa. They had previously left Volos so we didn’t know at which house they used to live. We only knew my grandfather’s house in Naousa where he used to live with one of his sons, David, and his seven children. My grandfather’s house was a two-story building, quite big. The houses in Naousa back then were solid, because under the houses, in the courtyards there were running waters, where the lavatory of each house would empty into the river that would pass and take all the dirt from each house’s lavatory.

The houses also had storage rooms, for their wine and ouzo, and all the food provisions for winter were kept there for the winter; the first floor was like a warehouse. I remember the following incident: a neighbor had a barrel of wine, of must, and I stuck my mouth at it, and went to school drunk. This barrel was on the first floor.

This is how the spaces of the house were used at the time: the first floor was a warehouse for the food, and that’s why they built two-story houses then. The second floor of the house was big with many rooms, because, as I mentioned before, he had four daughters and three sons and there was my grandfather and grandmother. This house had five rooms.

The wife of my uncle David was goody-goody; whenever she would speak to a man she would close her eyes, very sweet; with so many children of her own and so many other people in the house, she would still manage. And right below their house, they had a little shop with fabrics, I mean Grandfather did, my fathers’ brother had a donkey, and he used to load it up with fabrics from each side, and go around the village all day and sell fabrics.

As I told you, my grandfather was a merchant, he would sell needles, thimbles and buy eggs, nuts, whatever was on offer. I have written in my book that one day they had spread the nuts up on the roof to dry, and I climbed up there and I ate a whole bunch of nuts and I got sick, my throat felt soar. Luckily the doctors understood straight away that something was wrong with the nuts and gave me the right medicine.

In Naousa the Christian residents of the town appreciated very much the Burla family and used to shop at grandfather’s shop; they had good relationships. He was a peaceful, quiet man who never had any trouble with strangers. Grandfather had friends and wanted to invite them over to our house, but our house was usually used as a gambling club.

My father used to bring his friends around the house to play cards, when there were already six of us. And our mother would go crazy trying to take care of the children and show hospitality to the card players at the same time. Because many times they would stay up until the next morning still playing cards. Grandfather wasn’t forgiving in these occasions, but what else could he do. Father was the Prince. And with this crowd, Father would not only play cards and gamble, but he would also go hunting and do other things with them. They got to know him there, and they took from him all he had.

Besides Naousa, where we stayed for seven years, the city where I grew up was Thessaloniki. I went to the 9th elementary school, close to the Theagenio Hospital, and then went to the 1st Boys’ Gymnasium at Vasileos Georgiou & Agias Triados Street. There I finished school. I was an average student; I wasn’t among the best students. A son of another uncle of mine, who was also called Moshe Burla, went to the same school. I was a bit weak at school, throughout the six years that I attended, I didn’t do well in the ancient Greek class, and I had to sit all summer to study so I could go in September to take exams to pass to the next grade. Every single year, my father and mother used to tell me, ‘You sit for one day and study hard, so you can go to the sea afterwards,’ and I would sit there to study, and I always used to think, ‘What do I need this for?’

From the very beginning when we first came to Thessaloniki, in 1926, I loved the place, it won me. And even after we came back from Russia and I got an offer to return I didn’t. You see, I had friends there, one family, four kids, three were doctors. We lived at their house, they were inviting me over to continue teaching their children, because they came from there, and their children had to go to school and wanted my help. And I told them, ‘Guys, I love your families very much and you, who are my friends and who helped me very much in the years that were difficult, but I cannot leave Thessaloniki, no way.’

I first visited Athens on the days of the occupation. Then father and I, or rather Father worked for a German firm that was buying metal, that is, cases, old iron and such stuff, and he used to collect metal and sell it to the Germans. He used to send me to the villages of Gravia, to the mountain villages where there was fighting going on, and I would pick up the cases in a truck and then bring them to Athens. There, he would take them and sell them to the Germans. That was my experience from Athens. In Athens I was staying for one or two days, the exchange would take place and I would be sent back to the villages again.

Until the last visits, which I wrote about in my book, I met a group of partisans on the mountain and while we where picking up the cases, they told us that what we do is against the people because the iron that we are collecting we could have picked for Greece instead, for the ELAS 6 and not for the Germans. And when I saw it his way, I went to my father and I told him, ‘Listen, I’ll stop doing this work. I don’t want to be involved not only because what I am doing is wrong but I could also get hurt by the partisans because they don’t kid around, and they told me: be careful, don’t carry on with this work, because something bad will happen to you.’ So I quit and went back home. That was all my life in Athens.

Thessaloniki I loved with all my heart and I still love today. Yesterday an Italian was here writing a book about the Jews of Thessaloniki and asked me if I was thinking about any other place to go and settle, if I had Italy in mind, for example. And I replied that Thessaloniki is my pride. I grew up here, and here is where my friends are.

It is very fortunate that after the war we created a team of five, five friends, old partisans, exiles etc, leftists, and every week we gathered at a small tavern to have a glass of wine. This was happening for years. Now, one is ill, the other has his foot hurt, but still something is going on between us, the company remained. We were the five of us, all from Thessaloniki, all residents of Thessaloniki that love the place, feel for it like a homeland. One of them was, in fact, from Chortiatis Mountain [a village near Thessaloniki]. He was a partisan from ELAS and after that he went to the People’s Republic and he died somewhere in Romania, I think.

We moved a great deal. The ten or eleven years that I was in the ‘151’ neighborhood, a Jewish neighborhood, I was playing with other children, who were all Jewish. We were playing, fighting with each other, playing ‘long donkey,’ etc. That was the first ten or eleven years. Then we left and moved to Agios Dimitrios Street, and there I started becoming an adult and Father sent me to work, to learn a craft.

At the beginning he sent me to a shop of a Christian, whose name was Laskaridis, and I didn’t know this at the time, but my father would go every week and give him two coins, and he would give them to me at the end of the week as my pay. So I learned the business. I didn’t know, and closer to the end he told me, ‘You should know that these coins are from your father and not from me, all I give you is my craft.’

After him, I went to another one, because it was more convenient for me, because at the Ifanet factory I had an uncle, who was my father’s cousin and who was an engineer there. He would arrange the order at machine works and I learned many things for my craft. My uncle put me there and told them to take care of me as their own child.

In this factory I really learned many things about my work. In fact, when I went to this factory Axilithioti, a father with two children, was making cars for spraying the roads and I started working as a trainee, but I knew my craft, so I had to be paid as a worker. When we came to terms with the management regarding labor issues, they called him and told him, ‘This man you should pay as a regular worker and not as a trainee.’ After that I got a fair amount of money with which I helped my sisters to get married and have their dowries and I, as a young man felt better, could dress better etc.

With the Jews of Thessaloniki I wasn’t very friendly, because the Community of Thessaloniki, had a group of aristocratic Jews that were giving balls, parties etc. We didn’t have a place there, we were simple folks. All the friends that I had who were Jews were people who went together to the political party clubs of three, we would form clubs of three people. It happened that I was a in a club of three from Rezi Vardar, another neighborhood, that were not people from the city, but of another poor neighborhood.

If you remember the events that happened on 9th May in Thessaloniki, when they were killed, all the names of the Jews are written at the back of the memorial statue. These were people that we were in groups of three with. They got killed and I remained alive, and those are the same youngsters that we spent every day of our political life with. We would go and get coupons for the crowd, for the workers, the factories, when we tried to change something it was all of us together.

The poor Jews, and the majority of them was, lived in big neighborhoods. The Rezi Vardar close to the railroad, the ‘151’ and the number ‘6.’ The middle class of the Jews and the wealthier ones lived between the grounds of the International Fair 7 and here in Depo [neighborhood in the east of the city]. It was mostly the area of Evzonon and Karaiskaki where we lived. At the time after the occupation, when the Jewish Community had moved from Sarantaporou Road, we went and lived there as a family. From there I left and was sent to the front.

There were about sixty synagogues back then in Thessaloniki 8, in many different areas, and that was not because of the Community, but because every family, every group of Jews would build their own synagogue. I remember there was a great synagogue at the road that goes up from the seafront, where a large building stands today, which was built by the Jewish Community and was once a Jewish synagogue.

Of course, the Germans demolished it, and on its spot the Jewish Community built a large building, with a great deal of money. One day I went to the manager of the Community and told him, ‘So many people came to this place to pray. Couldn’t you put up a sign, saying it was a place of prayer, a synagogue?’ ‘Your idea is good,’ he replied, ‘but the times are unstable and we cannot risk it.’ That was the answer of the Community for a synagogue that indeed was once a pride of Thessaloniki, in the wealthiest area.

I didn’t have much to do with the Community. A long time ago they knew that I was a member of the Community, but I wasn’t really, I only started to live the life of the Community when I came back from Russia. I was then in a situation that I had to ask for help, in order to survive. I came back from Russia nearly naked, not alone but with my wife. And when I went to the Community asking for help the chairman, Mr. Benmayor, said that I should write an application, for me to become a member of the Community. The reply was: ‘Now that you have come to apply to be a member of the Community, you will receive your reply within the next six months.’

Meanwhile, as I was waiting, Mr. Benmayor gave me ten drachmas from the cashier’s desk, as a help from the Community. All this time, I had a friend living in Kalamaria area, who supported me, gave me and my wife a room, we went to the street markets, we had then brought some things from Russia and we sold some to get a few coins. We were getting paid rotten fruit from the Modiano market 9.

We reached the point where my wife told me, ‘If you want to die from starvation in your country, fine. I have no intention to, I have my brothers in Russia, and I’m sorry, but I will pay for my ticket and I will leave.’ She abandoned me and left for Russia. We sold all we had, rings, dresses, etc., and she got enough for her ticket and left. And there she didn’t spend a long time with her brothers, as they were Jewish too, and they found her a fine young man, married her again, and today she lives in Haifa, the same city where I used to live. I don’t know her whereabouts.

There were many brothels in the neighborhood of Vardari, and many aristocratic bordellos, were run by women. There where various streets with small houses, and usually at their doors, ladies sat, well dressed, and they used to go for walks etc. with the ones that wanted. There were also better and larger houses, at Irinis Street, again in Vardari, where this area starts and goes all the way down to Agiou Dimitriou Street. This whole street had brothels, the best ones, and the rest of the brothels were spread. They gave a part of the money to the girls and kept the rest for themselves. Thessaloniki had a bad reputation then. In these areas, the pimps used to live, and they got together in large groups with bouzouki, and they would make a lot of noise, the neighborhood of Vardari was getting known.

I can say, that part of the music and the songs of Tsitsanis 10 were from there. We, as children, teenagers, avoided these girls. However, one time my father gave me money so we would go. But I couldn’t, you know, because I didn’t like her breasts. She asked me: ‘What’s wrong?’ and I said, ‘Since your breasts are hanging, mine are hanging too […].’ So I gave her the money and left.

Usually these girls were from villages, from islands, girls that didn’t have a home. Many of them were victims of people taking advantage of them, like pimps. They would make them work and take the money they earned. And because they needed love, to have someone to care for them and love them, they would give all their earnings to their pimps.

There was a lot of trade in the city, especially on streets like Vasileos Irakliou, where the Modiano market is, that street was full of Jews who were advertising themselves, and had a variety of professions. This street was buzzing with Jews. At the start of it, close to Venizelou Street, there were two large bakeries, one belonged to Benveniste and the other to someone else – I’ve forgotten the name – and they were competing with the other bakeries in town and used to lower the prices by one drachma.

Benveniste, for example, had a simple Jew dressed up in white caftan and a funny hat and had him shout, ‘Come and get cheap bread, one drachma cheaper than all the rest.’ This competition lasted a long time, one wanted to outdo the other. Then the Benveniste family left and went to Israel and opened the first bakery in Jerusalem and you still come across their name there. The same ones don’t live any longer today, of course, but their children and their grandchildren are there. The other Jewish baker didn’t want to compete any longer, quit and later he went to forced labor.

In general the Jews at the fish market were old. It was where the Modiano market is today, most of them were Jewish fishermen, and one could go there and find any fish one wanted, certainly at higher prices than in other shops, but there you would buy the best fish.

There were other professions too: there were those that were selling bread rolls, round bread, and those that were selling things from a bucket, like milk for example, and then there were those that were selling bread with a piece of cheese and salami, the so-called ‘hunger doctor.’

So, you see, there were various professions. Many Jews were dealing in fabric. They had in their shops many Jewish youngsters as employees. If you went to Venizelou Street, there were mostly fabric shops there, and you would see the youngsters at the entrances of the shops inviting people to come inside the shop.

Where I lived in Greece we didn’t have anti-Semitism, that is, if you leave out the Campbell events 11, where a whole neighborhood got burned. It was a bunch of punks. These kinds of incidents used to happen in general in the Jewish areas. They threatened the Jews that the same things that happened to Campbell, could happen there too. I remember in ‘151,’ as youngsters, we were armed. One had a large piece of wood; the other had something else, so if anything happened, we could defend ourselves. Thankfully, a street was keeping us apart from the youngsters of Tumba, so that we could get organized and attack them, should they attack us. But in the end we remained calm, and there were no other incidents between the two groups.

From my high school days I remember that we used to take part in parades with the school. What I have to underline is that in the first year of high school I was in the school choir. It was a large choir. Professor Cameliery organized this choir, and it was good, and we always took part in all the contests of the schools of Thessaloniki. In fact one year, we won the first prize with a song for a donkey: ‘A donkey was grazing, he wasn’t asking for anything else, the poor one, than to stay strapped there, the poor one.’ We got the first prize with this song, which became very famous, and Professor Cameliery took the prize and hung it up in the school as a symbol of superiority.

I loved to watch the parades, I always used to go to places where I could see it well, I loved the Greek army, the Evzones, and generally the festive climate, and later, when I was of the age to take part in parades, I was one of the first ones in the row. I was the flag bearer of the ‘dead resistant fighters’ in the Kalamaria area, after the war, because I then lived in Kalamaria.

Even though I was very close with the trade union, we didn’t have any interest for the political parties, apart from the people that we had in the union, who we respected, whether they happened to be communists or not. I was a member of the union of the metal workers, at the Workers’ Center of Thessaloniki, and I was active. We used to go to all the metallurgical factories, we would go around Apostolidis, and other shops that were close to the station, and distribute leaflets and coupons for the union. I was such a close member of the union that when I came back as a partisan to see Thessaloniki, my curiosity dragged me to see the workers union. When I went there, the secretary looked at me and said, ‘It’s impossible, you can’t be Burla, come let’s go upstairs.’ On the third floor, there was a big bulletin board and a photo that I was lost in the war, dead. I replied, ‘Well, this is me.’

My father was from Volos, he grew up in Volos. I lived with him when I was a child, because until then my father had been in the army at Volos, but he was sent on a military mission to Chios Island. As I mentioned earlier, instead of him completing his military mission, he met my mother, took her away from her parents, and they ran away to Cairo together. My mother’s sister lived there, she helped them, found them work etc. We were born there, and there I met my father. From my mother’s side, we knew nothing, since she was taken away from her parents.

My father was born in about 1900. I don’t know when he went to do his military service. They never told us how he ‘abducted’ Mother from her parents. My father wasn’t very educated, he had finished only two classes of elementary school, but he thought that he knew a great deal. As far as the little world of Cairo, Egypt, was concerned, he started socializing with people and he wanted to make something for himself. Since my mother’s brothers where helping him, he also opened a workshop, and was doing really well: he had thirty workers, who he was friends with, Jews and Christians, but unfortunately this company of people led him again to gambling, playing cards, which resulted in the loss of all we had, and so we left Egypt penniless.

My father’s parents didn’t want to hear anything of us since our father was such a bum, who lost all his savings and left his five kids with no home. Before that he had been a merchant and when we came back he became a baker, and he worked for many years making unleavened matzah at the Floka factory. Right next to them was the baker of the Jewish Community. My mother, Esther, was a simple woman. Many said that she had gypsy roots; she had black hair, and when she died she didn’t have one white hair. She was a very good mother, she loved all of us. She loved mostly the boys, me and my younger brother, even though she was teaching the girls what to do in order to become decent ladies.

My mother helped my eldest sister a lot, by teaching her how to sew at one of the best dressmakers of Thessaloniki, who was later taken to the camps. Her customers were the richest women of Thessaloniki. Unfortunately, this woman died in the camp. She was a great woman, a gold mine, who taught my sister the art of sewing.

My second sister was a teacher, I was a turner, and my fourth sister was a worker at a biscuit factory. Her boss was Jewish, his name was Manos, and my sister fell in love with the son of the factory owner, and they left and went to the camp together. This sister of mine has an interesting story. When she was about to be deported, we had organized to leave for the mountains. I arranged things with a friend that worked in the regiment and he went into the ghetto, got her out and said, ‘Let’s go home to see your mother and father.’ When she came, we told her that we were planning to go to the mountain, and that since she was part of the family, she should come with us.

However, my sister wouldn’t hear any of it, left and was deported in the end. She was a very strong woman; my mother used to say that she should have been a man and I a woman. After what happened with my father, I had become a ‘girl.’ My sister survived the camps. Some friends of ours, both her and my friends, saw her. They told us that when they left from the concentration camps and passed through an area which the English had occupied, they got help there, at the English camp. My sister got a lot of food somehow, and she died from over-eating. Everyone knew her as a very strong woman, and she survived all this horror for three years, and then she died of over-eating! She left us with a full stomach.

Of course my mother with six children wasn’t working, but she helped every one of us. When I worked at the metallurgy factory, it was difficult for her to prepare food for me, so I had to come back home in the afternoon to eat: leave from the harbor and go up to Agiou Dimitriou, eat, and be back at work in an hour. That was happening every day because Mother wanted me to have warm food to eat, and not to take the food with me. For me it was very hard to have only an hour break during which I had to get home, eat, and then go back to work.

My father had thirty workers. Except for one or two mechanics, who were helping him, the rest were women, simple women, Jewish and Christian, and they respected him. He was very nice to women, a bit of a womanizer, too, and, of course, when they sensed that something was wrong, that he might lose the business, they didn’t really appreciated it.

My father dressed normally, as they used to dress in Egypt back then. My mother lived like her sister. Her father had a big company of wealthy Greeks that wanted to show off. 

After my mother’s siblings turned us away we came back to Greece with them paying for us. And we came to Greece and didn’t know where to go, and then my father decided that we would go to Naousa where his father and uncle were. So we went to Naousa from Cairo, and lived there for six or seven years. The brother of my father helped us and he opened a small place where he worked as a small dealer.

We changed many houses here because when we left from ‘151’ my father wanted to show off, since all of us where working. Our first house was at the beach, where we had fishermen as friends. Our house was an old horse stable. We cleaned it and lived there. It didn’t even have a toilet, we used to go outside. The whole family lived there. We were leaving the door open so it would get aired out, because there was still the smell of the horses there, and most of our time, weather permitting, we would live in the courtyard. We were helping the fishermen.

After that, this Arabatzis took us and we went to ‘151.’ There where long huts, and in each one there were four families: two families at the sides, where the large rooms were and you could fit more than four people, and two in the middle that were small and could fit two to three people. In the middle there was a kitchen that was being used by everyone. They used to cook there and smoke. We lived there for many years.

When we left from there, we went to Agiou Dimitriou. We all worked by then and thus could take care of the economical matters of the house. The house there was a home. It had two floors; we were on the second floor. We had two rooms and a lounge, where we lived our life. We were very close to each other as a family. Sometimes you would see people where our house was in Agiou Dimitriou, sitting on our balcony, listening to a song we would sing in chorus. It was a good life, and we, siblings, were very close. Each one of us had their own friends.

Mother and Father didn’t read. My father only finished the second year of elementary school, and Mother knew how to read, and she wanted to read, and many times she wanted to help us with our home work, but in the end she didn’t. It was only when I was working at the workers union, that I started buying the workers’ papers, but other newspapers we wouldn’t buy. Makedonia 12 is a very old newspaper, but we weren’t reading it.

Our family wasn’t religious. When my grandfather was alive, my father was forced to keep all the religious holidays, because Father didn’t care about religion, but didn’t want to break Grandfather’s heart. Grandfather wanted the festive table, the gatherings of the family, and so everything was happening as he wished. But my father was not religious. And when my grandfather died all this passed away along with him. Perhaps once a year, on some holiday, we went to the synagogue near the neighborhood where we lived. But we went with Mother; Father wasn’t involved at all.

We didn’t have many friends that were Jewish. Most of our friends where classmates from our school: boys were friends with boys and girls were friends with friends. That was our crowd of people. All my sisters and brothers would sit together and spend the nights together, and on Saturdays we would gather for a glass of wine or a cake and pass the time. Our parents had only Christian friends. I started getting in the company of Jews only when I first asked for help. Until then I had no relationships with Jews; I didn’t really want to know them.

I cannot tell you whether there where political conversations in the house. I had my position at the Union, and there were also the parties. My father was a supporter of the political right. He even had a brother in Larissa who was a fanatic right winger. He came to our house one day and said, ‘Where is the grave of this Venizelos 13? I will go and do my thing there at the grave.’ When he found out that I was a member of the workers union he said: ‘What do you need this communist in the house for? Kick him out.’

So I left the house because of my uncle. My mother lost me, my sisters were looking for me, asking around what had happened and where I was. Then my mother took my uncle aside and told him, ‘Look, you might be right wing, and have your beliefs. Fine! As for my son I want him as he is, and I want him here, not go looking for him out in the streets.’ And after that he left and went to Larissa. My sisters came to the factory where I was working secretly, so that the bosses wouldn’t know that I was working there. I did that to make sure that if my parents came looking for me, they wouldn’t find me. One of my sisters and a friend found me while I was having my lunch at the canteen and took me home, and my mother calmed down, happy that she had found her son again.

That political influence generally came from my father’s brothers: the one that was in Larissa, Minas who was making trunks and quilts, and the one in Naousa. Less so from the one that was here in Thessaloniki, and who was an employee at the town hall. The other three were writing to each other, when one would visit someone, that they should stay joined in the party etc. You could see that they were right wingers. They didn’t like liberalism, Venizelos, who was highly regarded at the time. My father and his brothers always voted for the right. Only the one that was employed at the Town Hall because he was scared to lose his job went and voted for the liberals, because the Town Hall was in the hands of the liberals then.

The brothers wouldn’t go to political gatherings. When we came to Naousa, Father wanted to be called a communist for a while because he was looking for work and it seems that where he went the others were communists and helped him. He became a member of the communist party and he was hiding, scared that he might get caught by the security police. He came from Naousa naked and when he got to the union the others were communists and they told him, if you stay at the party you will be with us and you will work. So he was kind of forced to do that. He was scared and hiding, he knew that they were chasing the communists, and he was hiding.

The political discussions at our home started when Greece got in the war with Italy 14. When Italy started to be openly hostile to Greece, then we took position and shared our opinions in the house as a family. Because apart from me, who was a soldier and fought while serving in the army, all my sisters were working for the army, making woolens for the soldiers. There were teams, groups, of Jewish women and of Christians, that got woolen material to make things for the army.

I remember the following incident: I was an escort at the time, for a car that was bringing food for the military unit that I was serving in. Because of my frostbites, they gave me the position of a driver. We went to a city in Albania to get food to send to the men of our unit, and we found a huge ball of woolens, so we asked for this special bunch of woolens to be sent to our unit. They told us that they had to wait for the committee to come, and they would decide how these woolens would be distributed. Can you imagine how long this situation lasted? People were making woolens for the soldiers, and the soldiers were dying from the cold before the woolens were distributed.

Did we have time for holidays? We had family problems; we didn’t have time for holidays.

My father’s older brother was David, and he could have been born around 1895. They all came from Volos, in Naousa he had his family and his seven children grew up there. David was killed by the Germans, the Germans got him. They were together with a big group of Jews that were hiding in Vermion [mountain range in the Greek region of Macedonia]. Along with Uncle David there was also a sister of his, who was deaf-mute, there was a daughter of his, the sister of the mother of Alberto Eskenazi, the mother of Eskenazi was with the partisans and she had a gun, and another family of Jews that lived in Veroia. They were all hiding in a gorge and the Germans found them and took them, and we don’t even know what happened after that. They found them after September 1943.

As I said, David had seven children: the eldest was Yashim, then came Joseph who was the husband of my eldest sister and went to forced labor, the third one was Minas, Nikos, Sultana, Fani and Sarika. David was a shop assistant at a shop and he was doing a great job. In order to help them, and become independent from my father, he would take his baggage every day and he would go to the neighborhoods with fabric thrown over his forearm, and sell it so that he would be able to make a living of his own.

My father’s second brother was Minas in Larissa, who was a fanatic right-winger. He was making trunks and quilts, he was a good technician, and the whole of Larissa loved him. Until today his name is famous. The women from Larissa worshipped him like a God, he was helping the people a lot, but he was with the right wing. His wife was called Roza; they didn’t have any children of their own. They adopted a poor girl, who they sent to America after the war, and she lives there down to the present day. Every now and then she calls the family and we hear her news. She is called Gratziela. Minas died one year before my father Leon.

The fourth brother, Daniel, lived in Thessaloniki and was working at the Town Hall. He had a son that left with the partisans, with his wife, changed his name and became Christian. His name was Moshe. Daniel died in 1940 or 1941.

I was born in Cairo because my parents had left Chios Island, run away and gone to my mother’s sister. For the first three years of my life I lived there. I cannot tell you many things about Egypt, because I don’t remember. All I remember is that when I was three, I went with my older sisters for a walk along the banks of the Nile. There was a large bridge over the Nile that was a mechanical one, they would raise the bridge for the boats to pass, and then they would lower it again for the cars to cross.

We used to throw stones in the Nile, because we thought that the river was the reason that we had problems with our eyes, and for that reason, we were throwing stones, because of the bad that it was causing us. When we later went to the doctor to ask him about our eye problems, he told us, ‘The problem was not Nile, but the climate, this wet climate of Egypt, and that’s why it would be best for you to go and live in a mountain area.’ That’s probably why my parents decided to live in Naousa, for it to serve as a ‘prop’ for our good health.

The truth is that Naousa became a solid part of our life, with its cold and snow and its frosts. We lived there and we loved it: its frosts, its goodness, its large amounts of water, its springs, its forests, and its fruit. There were a lot of trees, forests of chestnut and walnut trees that were royal property. I don’t know which king these forests belonged to, but the state was guarding them, on the king’s behalf. And when the ordinary people wanted to go and pick some walnuts, they wouldn’t let them. But when the guards left, then the locals got together and were picking walnuts, all together as a team, as a union. They where selling them, and they had a better life.

We, children, loved chestnuts. The roads from Naousa to Agiou Nikolaou where the springs were, is where the chestnut trees had been planted. All the roads were full of chestnut trees. For us, children, it was quite a thing  to pick chestnuts, to fill our pockets, or a little basket with them. Then we would return home happy, to celebrate and eat all these chestnuts, of course not alone, but with our parents.

After we moved to Naousa, we went to a Greek school. When we got to the sixth year, from the sixth to the seventh year, is when we started going to the Greek school; there wasn’t any other way. Together with my sisters and the children of my father’s brothers, my cousins, we had a lively life at school. I remember well when we performed in a Greek historical play: my first degree cousin and I were the leading actors of the play.

We were many: there were four of us older siblings and two younger ones, six all together, and the seven children of my uncle David, so we had a lively company at school and we would hang out together. The Christian children from Naousa loved us; we had made friends with them. I remember well one of my sisters, the one who later became a teacher, had a friend who used to sing a lot, and she was very beautiful. She was called Lisimachus, and everyone was jealous of her beauty. And believe it or not, but she remained an old maid, such a beauty, and yet she never got married!

When we went to my uncle’s in Naousa to spend the summer there, we used to go to visit her. And we would see the beauty, yearning and yet not being able to find a husband. This is how she grew up, and she died without having found her other half, a woman who we envied, not ever finding what she was looking for. Every human being is on this quest in life, to find his/her other half. For many years we used to spend the summer together, for one week or a whole month. We were neighbors as the house of my uncle was next to her house, and we could even speak to each other through the open windows and talk about our life.

In school I loved geography and I wanted to explore the map and learn things. Significant was the time that I wanted to take the exams to go to high school. You see, back then you had to take exams in order to enter high school. The teachers that were there to test us were all together and each one would ask a question. There was a student before me that was being tested in Mathematics and they asked him, ‘Write us a number for five centimeters.’ He forgot, couldn’t write it. So I raised my hand and wrote five fractions by one hundred.

Then the geography teacher came and said to me, ‘You are a Jew.’ I reply, ‘Yes.’ He says, ‘Do you speak Spanish?’ I answer, ‘I speak a little bit of Spanish, which I learned here in Thessaloniki.’ He asks me, ‘What language do they speak in Spain?’ I say, ‘Spanish.’ Upon which he says, ‘Do you know any words in Spanish?’ So I tell him a couple of words. Then he asks me, ‘Do you know the capital of Spain?’ I replied and gave him the correct answer. He continues, ‘Do you know where it is?’ ‘Of course,’ I say and he goes, ‘Show me on the map.’ […] So that passed easily.

The hard part of school was Ancient Greek for me; I didn’t like it. I finished the 1st Gymnasium, all six years, and every year I was referred for Ancient Greek. Every year! So every summer, while I was working, I was reading Ancient Greek in order to pass the exams in September for the next year of school. And many times that would cause trouble at my work-place, because I had to work, because Father didn’t have the capability to feed and maintain us. That’s why in the summer we, the children, used to get a summer job, to earn the money for our books, and to cover some expenses, in one word, to help out.

I remember I used to go to a café that was owned by a Jew, and he would serve coffee to the shops around. It was in the Ladadika area. My job was to get the orders, the coffees and teas on a tray and take them to the customers. That was my job.

I can’t say that I had many friends at school. I had friends in the neighborhood where we used to live, in ‘151.’ There were about ten of us, all between 10 and 14 years old, and I was the captain. They were all Jewish, a company of Jews. We would play with a cloth ball, and other games, and we would so pass our time pleasantly. The only obstacle was my younger brother, who was always against me; whatever I said, he would turn against me, and many times I would beat him up, but he simply wouldn’t change.

There was no problem at school due to the fact that I was Jewish. The problem was that as soon as we came to ‘151,’ my grandfather wanted me to learn Spanish and Hebrew. And they put me in a school that exists even today and is the nursery of Agios Stylianos. This was the school that was right opposite our house. And, because we were so close, my grandfather said, ‘Since you have this chance, go learn something else too.’ Fair enough, but, you see, when we first came to Naousa, I was in the fourth grade. In order to go to the school and learn Yiddish and Spanish, I had to miss out on four years of regular school, and that really hurt me. My sisters were advancing in the Greek classes, and I had to remain behind.

So I decided that I simply have to speak to my father and mother and told them, ‘Listen, this thing is not convenient for me. Can’t you ask Grandfather to retreat from his stance, so I can go to the Greek school like the other children? Instead he could spend the nights with me, since he is Jewish and wants me to learn, and teach me what he wants in Yiddish.’ And in the end we agreed on that.

So I got into a Greek school, but not the same school that my sisters were going to. They were at a school on Italias Street, while they put me close to the Theagenio, the 15th elementary school. It had a very good director and good teachers, who I loved, except the teacher of the geography class. This teacher was a shrew, and she had a stick. She used to say, ‘Lift your hand,’ and then she hit it ten times. She was called Miss Elpida, which means ‘hope,’ but we just used to call her ‘Miss.’ No hope there! Even though she knew that I was one of the best students in class, she was very strict and used to beat me a lot, she would get the stick out and start hitting my hand.

In the ‘151’ neighborhood, there where two clubs. One was called APOEL; I can’t remember the name of the other. In APOEL there was an old boxer, who was Jewish, Dino Zir, [Ouziel] he was named, and I used to go to this place to learn boxing. I remember specifically a friend in Russia that loved drinking. He was calling me ‘Byron,’ which was my pseudonym, and he used to say, ‘What a good build you have, it pleases us to see you walking around.’ I used to tell him that it wasn’t the build, but the boxing that I was learning, because my teacher used to tell us that when a boxer walks by, he should be noticed by everyone.

In this club, teenagers from the age of 20 to 25 used to gather. This was a big part of Jewish life then because many of the members of the club were living in ‘151.’ Apart from boxing, the club also had ballet training for the girls, and other activities such as drawing, mountain climbing. All these things were organized at these clubs. The teachers of these clubs were very nice, they used to live in areas nearby and they took good care of us.

At the time, the Jewish Community didn’t have a summer camp yet. When we were children we didn’t go to a summer camp. Only when we were a bit older we started to go to my uncle’s house in Naousa. I remember vividly what a good time I had there with my sisters and brother.

We spent our time with a great bunch of people and would gather almost every week, Saturday nights, at midnight, at Eptapyrgio [lit. ‘the castle of seven towers,’ built in the 9th century, used as a prison from the end of the 19th century until 1978]. We brought along food, glasses and some tsipouro [Greek pomace brandy] and we would walk up to Chortiatis mountain. This walk would take us about three to four hours, both ways, up and down the mountain. When we reached the top of the mountain in the morning, we drank some hot milk that the villagers would offer us, we would sleep for a couple of hours, and then we would celebrate all day. We used to have a great time.

From this company of people only a few are still alive today: two sisters of a good friend, the one that helped my family during the occupation, a brother and a sister of an old school friend of mine, the sister of another school friend, and a school friend of my sister that we were very close friends with. Generally, this company of people was very close to each other and we remained friends after the war; one of the families, that is, a brother and a sister, visited us and brought us things that we had given them when we were leaving for the mountain.

There was another good friend of my sister, who had taken a big stove that we had then. Her husband didn’t want her to return the stove to us, because by then she was married, and it became an issue in the family: she was saying that they ought to return it, but he was arguing why should they return a piece of furniture like this. In the end they spoke with my father and he said that if it was a matter of money, we will give them some money so they bring back the stove. It was a nice ivory stove that remained in our house as a relic.

My eldest sister Regina was a dressmaker. She had a group of girls that would gather in the house and sew. Of course they knew us, and loved us. I used to tease them when I was at the workshop; I used to say to them, ‘Girls, the one that can shout loudest, will get married first.’ And they would all shout, so they would get married first. Or I would say to them, ‘The one that speaks with the lowest voice will get married first.’ And all of them ‘but what are you talking about?’. We were teasing the girls working for my sister.

This elder sister of mine was the one that got married to a first degree cousin, the son of my father’s brother David, who was in Naousa. They were among those that went to forced labor and never came back. They left with the first train, and as they got there they didn’t even have time to think about going to a ‘lager’ [camp] to work. As soon as they arrived there, they were taken to Auschwitz. My sister left together with her husband. They didn’t have any children.

My second sister was my favorite one, Yolanda. I have picture of her here, the one with the white hair, that’s her. We were very close and the only two of the siblings that resembled each other a little; the rest of the children were like strangers. We were similar, in a way that you could tell that we were of the same parents.

Yolanda helped me a lot with my homework. I remember a year that we had to write an essay on our homeland, and I stayed up until two in the morning and I simply couldn’t think of anything nice to write. She got up and told me that the following day, with a clear mind, I would be able to write something good. I said that I had to write something that night. And we sat together and wrote the essay.

I remember that when I brought it to school the headmaster read it and really liked it, and asked all the classes to read my essay. He said that it was very well written, and was about the homeland, only it had many spelling mistakes. You see, I hadn’t asked my sister to help me on that. Everyone at school thought that the essay was written by the other Moshe Burla, my first degree cousin, the son of Daniel, who was in the same grade, but one of the other children in class said, ‘Mr. Teacher, this is not written by the Moshe of Daniel, but by the Moshe of Leon Burla.’ They were pleased because it was the first time I had written such a successful essay.

In high school I was distinctive in sports. I was doing broad jump, triplex and height. We had a gymnastics teacher who was from Pontos; I think he was called Anastasiadis. He was well built, he was a wrestler, and he was helping me and I was taking part in many school activities. Especially at the triplex that was my weakness they would give me a diploma or praise.

When we were living under the supervision of Grandfather, we would celebrate every holiday because he would organize everything. We knew that every Rosh Hashanah all the family would gather, and we would do the reading that we had to do, eat the things that we were meant to eat, and similarly on Passover when we ate matzah. When Grandfather died everything was forgotten because everyone had their own family, the family gatherings would happen less often and not on religious terms as such. We would rather gather for entertainment than a religious feast.

My grandfather organized my bar mitzvah for me, and it seems now that my grandfather taught me everything that the rabbi teaches: He also taught me how to give a speech about what I was going to do when I was going to grow up. That was after the ceremony in the synagogue, after my bar mitzvah. I went to the synagogue with my father, and all the relatives were there. There was another uncle of mine, the third son of Moshe Burla, and his family also came to my bar mitzvah ceremony.

Anyway, shortly after my bar mitzvah, my family left ‘151’ and we went to live in a house on Agiou Dimitriou Street. We got a two-story house and we were doing well because all of us were working. My older sister had her little sewing business, my sister Yolanda was a teacher, I was a turner, my younger brother made trunks, and Father became a different person than he was before, forgot the gambling and the games, and made sure to keep the family together. We had a good family life because we loved each other and were very close. Sometimes, I remember, people would gather under our balcony to hear us sing all together, the whole family.

In the summer, I used to work as an apprentice at a café. The real work started when I finished high school and got in the metallurgy of Laskaridis, in the harbor area, between 1933 and 1934, in order to learn this craft. Laskaridis was a very good technician but he was mostly involved with machines for the bakery trade, machines for making the dough of the bread, the pots. That was his job. He would pay me every Saturday two drachmas as pocket money, which I later found out that my father was giving to my boss in order to pay me. So in reality, I was working for free.

Later, I got another job in a factory in the center of Kapani, where the vegetable market is today. There, the machine-works of the Ioannidi brothers was located. They were dealing in knitting machines and their best customer was Ifanet. Ifanet was here in our neighborhood, and hundreds of people were working there and all the machines were made at this factory where my uncle found me work. My uncle was a mechanic at Ifanet and he was in charge of all the orders for the machines, so my bosses were nice to him, as they knew that he was giving them the work.

It was there I learned my trade, and when I got to the point that I thought that I was a technician, I went to a larger factory, the one of Axilithioti. We were making street-sweeper vehicles as well as lathes and milling machines. The factory was close to the municipal cemetery, and hundreds of workers worked there.

It got known there that I was a leftist and the Security Police got me. One day they came and asked me to go to the police headquarters. On the way I understood that I was going to have problems, so I bent down to tie my laces, and I swallowed all the coupons that I had form the Workers Party, worth about fifty drachmae. When we got there, my father was already there and he was friends with the Security Police, and one of my first degree cousins was there as well; he was a fascist too. 

They started questioning me, so I told them, ‘Listen guys, let me clear things up. I don’t belong to any political party, I am a metal worker, I belong to the Workers Union and I am an active member. I go to the factories and incite the workers, when we are about to go on strike.’ They started looking here and there, so I said, ‘Ask the municipality where the secretary of the union is, ask the union of the tobacco industries.’ In the end they said, ‘Alright, we will let you go.’ And then this cousin told me, ‘If you carry on being involved in things like that, I will kill you with my bare hands, you will not be on this earth anymore.’

At this factory I was getting paid as a helper and not as a technician, so I had to go with my father to the work inspection. In the end they punished my employer, and made him pay me the appropriate rate from the moment that he had hired me. Then I got a substantial amount of money and had the chance to help my sisters to get enough money for their dowries, and to dress a bit better myself. 

Yes, I did actively participate in this demonstration [in May 1936 in Thessaloniki] 15, which was a big demonstration. We were coming form Vardaris, we passed Dioikitirio [Government House], and then we went down from Dioikitirio to Egnatia Road and further. As soon as we got to the corner of Venizelou and Egnatia, I don’t know why but there were military cars and people were throwing stones. They said that it was the demonstrators that where throwing the stones and started shooting. But the people that were killed were people that were stigmatized from the balconies, because the informers were up there who knew the left wing and the majority of them were Jewish in Thessaloniki.

If you go to the monument of Venizelos you will see at the back that they have written the names of the ones that got killed there, most of the names were those of Jewish youngsters, we were together in teams of three. I was then working in Axilithioti and from there we left all the workers and went to the demonstration.

During the war

My father and I didn’t go to Eleutherias Square [in the summer of 1942] 16. We were hiding at home. We urged others not to go either, but the Jews were following [Rabbi] Koretz, who was telling them, ‘We are Jewish, and we should go.’

Yolanda was a teacher, she remained loyal to her family, and she came up with us to the mountains, to the partisans. She was a very good person. She was baptized in the name of Maria, because we always had a pseudonym. Yolanda came to the mountains with Father, whereas I had gone earlier. That happened because I had a great problem with the rabbi, who had a gathering at the synagogue and was urging people to go, and was saying to people that they were going to live in a different country, get money, new clothes, tools to work, and he was deceiving people to go there. Me and about ten others that could see that this wasn’t the real situation, and had heard about Koretz’s dreams, turned against him that day and we nearly got in a fight with the residents.

The ten of us went to the rabbi’s office on another day and asked him to go and be in charge of the people and leave with them to save them from the Germans and not to chain them down. He treated us really cruelly, telling us, ‘If you don’t get out of here now and leave I’m calling the Gestapo.’ And he had the button in his hand to call them.

We didn’t take his words seriously, but we where kicked out and when we got out, we had to find a way to leave, because they knew us – now that this had happened – the ‘rebels.’ Each one of us had to find his way out separately. I got in contact with the youth organization, OKNE 17 then, and I was getting ready to leave. I had with me all I needed – clothes, shoes, flask, pan, in short, everything that a soldier needs – and my main concern was to go with the rest of the youngsters to all the Jewish homes, to recruit them to go to the mountain. We did a great job, and we visited 56 Jewish houses, where young people were living.

However, the results of our work weren’t so great in the end because the rabbi had done a great job to hook these families in a way that they didn’t want in any way to be separated from each other. Where will Grandfather and Mother go? And why should we go separately? One reason was this: that the families were so close to each other that they didn’t want to separate. The other reason was that these children, in order to leave, had to get the approval of their parents, fathers, grandfathers.

As I said before, we went through 56 Jewish house and we convinced 13 people to come up to the mountain. Three people came back from the mountain alive. I don’t know who they were; they where total strangers to our family.

In fact, when we left, we found a way that the Germans wouldn’t understand where we were going. We got together at a friend’s house, close to here, in Agia Triada, at the end of the line of the tram [on Vassileos Constantinou Street]. We agreed that we would go out 50 meters to the left, and then one of us would follow 50 meters behind, and in this way, the one would watch the others’ back. In case anyone noticed any Germans, he would give a sign and the rest would have time to leave. Thirteen of us got out of the house, and everything went well.

We got to the last guard, and were then sure that we were free citizens. One of the 13 at the last moment turned back. We got him, me and a friend of mine, and told him, ‘Where are you going? We are free citizens now!’ But he said, ‘I’m sorry but I don’t have the guts, so I will return to my parents.’ And he left. So instead of 13 there were only twelve of us who went to the mountain. We had a driver that took us to a village nearby, so we would stay completely out of sight, and he told us to stay there until the evening, when people from the union would come and bring us food and water. It was a summer day, and from there on they would take care of us.

I had a sister, who was younger than Yolanda, Sarika, who also went to forced labor. She had a different problem. She was working at the biscuit industry of Manos, at the Kapani market, and she fell in love with the boss’s son. It was at the gatherings of the Jews where they got them both, and they took them to the military camp that they had here, next to the train station. When I heard about the situation, I had a friend of mine, who was working at the regiment, which was a team of gendarmes,  sneak into the camp to get her out, and bring her to us. She came home and we discussed the situation, and she said, ‘That sounds fine, only that I’ve devoted my life to this person, and with him I will even go to death.’

She got up and left and went back to forced labor. She was one of the strong children in my family; many times my mother would say that she should have been a man and I should have been a girl. All these years that she stayed in forced labor, she managed to stay alive; she was let free, and got out to a camp that was liberated by the English. They were calming them down, gave them more food than they needed, and she died from eating too much. That was my sister Sarika’s fate.

Then there was Dorika, the youngest, who is still alive and lives in Israel. We nicknamed her ‘Tarzan’ because she was climbing up the mountains to look out if any Germans were coming; she was fearless. The last one was my brother, who they called Nikos, even though his real name was Slomo, I named my son after him. He died in one of the last battles with the Germans at Stavros of Veroia. There, about 120 Germans died, 20 trucks were burned; what  I mean to say is that the Germans suffered a great loss.

In the end the forces came and attacked us, and there my brother got killed by a mortar. My father went the next day, and couldn’t find anything, only body parts of people. It was the day of his 20th birthday. He was a fine kid, a good worker, he worked in a factory that was making chests, and he was praiseworthy. He didn’t have many friends, he was more of a family person; he loved all of us.

They came from another route to the mountain. I left earlier with the 13 others, so they wouldn’t catch me, it was February of 1943. This friend of mine that was working at the regiment, when the announcement came out, for the neighborhood where my family was living, on Syggrou Street where the 4th Gymnasium is, when they put up the posters that the Germans would come and everyone should gather the following day at the square, he took a piece of paper saying that this house has been occupied by the Germans and he put up this piece of paper at the front door of the house. The whole family was in the house, my father and mother, my two sisters, my brother, my aunt, the one who was deaf-mute, and my grandfather.

When the Germans conquered the neighborhood, they started confiscating furniture, and pianos, and other things, took all these things from the houses of the poor people, and brought them to their warehouses. They saw the paper and thought that it was a German house, and they left. The second time they came down, my family could hear the noise on the stairs, and they were trembling with fear, but again the Germans saw the paper and left. The third time they saw that the things were still in there and they didn’t come by again. Our family watched time go by, and things got quieter as they were picking up people from neighborhood after neighborhood, until they had picked up everyone. At about three o’clock the whole place was empty. Then this friend went and opened for them and said, ‘You are free but don’t move from this place, leave the piece of  paper on the door, and I’ll arrange to get you out of here.

He didn’t manage to do anything the same day, but the next day he went around with a truck of furniture, got all the family in the middle and managed, with a German admission, to bring them all the way to Naousa. Because in Naousa everyone knew our family, they helped them and took them up to the mountain. That’s why they were in Vermion, while I was at Paiko.

This friend of mine, who saved my family, was called Anastasios Trichas. Until today – it’s been about three or four years that he passed away – his children and grandchildren are very fond of us, every time there is a memorial, they invite us. They would invite me to his son’s house, which is far away in a village, to marriages, and so on. They consider me as part of their family. Every year at the name-day of their mother, annunciation day, the whole family gathers and I am the first one to go visit them.

The Germans at the beginning wanted to show their human side, that they were treating people well; they would even show it sometimes. For example, one time when I was walking from Syggrou to go to Egnatia – it was at the time that they asked the Jews to wear the stars, but I never wore it because I wanted to walk freely, to get in contact with people – I passed by a hotel at the corner of these roads, and a boot fell down from a balcony. I picked up the boot and went to the entrance, where they told me to go upstairs and give it back to the owners. I went up to the fourth floor. A girl came out, I gave her the boot and she told me to wait, and three minutes later she came back with a bag full of fresh and dried fruit. You see, these were years of hunger in Greece, and she gave me such a present! I thanked her in German, ‘Danke, Danke,’ and left.

Or another incident: one night I went with my sisters and friends to celebrate, we were getting ready to go to a tavern. As we went down from Aristotelous Street, before Ermou Street, the Germans wanted something from the girls. I pushed my sisters aside and grabbed one of them by the neck, ready to hit him. Another one got in the scene, there was noise, a crowd gathered, and then the German police turned up, whom I told that family matters were highly regarded in Greece. So the Germans wanted to hurt the girls, and we were well prepared. The German police asked the others standing around and they agreed that we were right. So they took those Germans, put them on the jeep and left. This gave us the impression that we were the bosses and not the Germans.

That was at the beginning. After that they started, not as separate people, but as a German organization, to intrude in Jewish things, confiscating the shops of the Jews, breaking in Jewish houses and taking pianos, televisions, in short, anything valuable that they could find with them. That’s how they slowly started intruding in every neighborhood. Every neighborhood had its own ghetto, and they were gathering them there and from there took them to the trains. This was happening in different places at a time, and one of these places was where we were living.

There were Greeks that helped the Jews and not the Germans. There were also Greeks that were already collaborating with the Germans, from the organizations that the Germans had set up. I remember that afterwards they created order battalions who helped the Germans in any of their actions against EAM 18 or ELAS 19.

They had great power; they covered the entire valley of Giannitsa, and the part that was Turkish speaking. There was also the area of Kilkis that was regarded as blacklisted. They were helping the Germans to do their thing. We from EAM/ELAS would go and disarm whole villages that were theirs, like the villages of Kria Vrisi, around Veroia. We went one night and got all of them with the gendarmes. Some wanted to leave, to be set free, and other gendarmes wanted to come up the mountains and stay with the partisans. They held a good position – helped, and really turned out to be fine men. There were others that followed because they didn’t know what else to do. We carried out many such attacks in villages where we knew people were thinking like that.

I took part in an operation when the Germans wanted to eliminate the people of Paiko, where I got injured by a German mortar. A serious attack by the Germans that took place in 1943. A group of German officers, who were hunters, came up to Paiko to kill wild boars. It seems that they had been told that up in Paiko they would find wild boars. They stopped exactly at the point that I was guarding. When I saw the strangers – in order to give a warning, I couldn’t shout but I had to give a signal – I had to throw a stone, for someone to come and ask me what was happening. After that they organized a team of five men to go and check what was happening.

When the Germans understood that our men were around, they got up and left. There were three Germans and a driver that brought them up. Our men didn’t think of surrounding them but they started shooting from one side, and the Germans started running away. They passed through many villages and they could see them running towards Edessa and our boys running after them to catch them. The only good thing that came out of this situation was that we got the driver and we took him up the mountain to interrogate him.

Coincidently, he was from Pontos and a resident of Ardea just like our captain. He was terrified. They told him that he shouldn’t be afraid because we were all brothers, ‘What we want from you is to help us. You will go to Edessa and tell you friends what we will tell you to say.’ He found the three of them and said that after they left, he got caught and was taken to a camp up at the mountain, where he found the partisans dressed in the best clothes, girls, nurseries and nurses dressed in white coats, food, the best meat, in short, a good life. ‘The partisans have a kingdom up there, with women working in basement workshops,’ he said. They asked him whether they could really believe him, and after his confirmation, they told him to return to his work, and not say a word to anyone.

And immediately the work started for the villages of Arcadia – there were about 40 villages –with the locals: to inform them that there were partisan units and they should support them with food and guns. And really, the villages became the food supplier for the partisans of Paiko. On Easter we even had Easter soup. In the meantime the Germans had decided that they had to eliminate Paiko and they started going to the villages in groups of 100 to 200 and conquering them. From the one side, then from the other, and they slowly started surrounding Paiko. Paiko is a mountain that can be surrounded by four sides, because there are villages all over, starting from the river Axios up to the city of Giannitsa. So they started taking the villages.

We knew that we would have to fight them in a battle one day. As we could see them getting closer to Paiko we knew that this day was drawing closer. They came up with their armor and started shooting. We were over 300 and had many people that didn’t have any armor as they had left their villages because of the Germans, and came to the mountain without anything. We were moving positions so it would seem to them that we were more than 300. This lasted a whole day. They were shooting and we were shooting back, until it became dark and they couldn’t see anymore, so we decided to leave.

Our captain, Captain Petros, commandant of the 10th division of Vermion-Paiko-Kaimaktsalan [mountain range], had a plan. A group of about fifteen Englishmen had arrived with a wireless and it seemed that they were helping the Germans and the Security police. Our captain went to speak with their group leader, who knew Greek well, and told him to call England and ask them to provide us with explosives so we could do our job, and the Germans would find themselves at a dead end in the morning. The captain told us his plan which was that if England accepted we would blow up the springs. So when the Germans would arrive in the morning to get to Paiko, blow them up and the panic that would arise would be for our benefit: to chase them and kick them out to the river Axios. If they agreed it would be a successful move, and all the village people would run and help get the German equipment.

So we were forced to attack at dawn towards the side that we knew that they were weak. We left and passed the valley of Ardaia and went to Kaimaktsalan where we found snow, a very rough mountain, and from there we moved on to Vermion. Vermion is one of the most quiet and easy mountains in Greece, it can be accessed from many sides and its easy to conquer, which is the reason why the Germans were always doing little excursions. So we got together with groups from Vermion and talked about what we could do because Vermion can be easily surrounded and they could reach us at any point.

The good thing was that it was raining all day and all these people, partisans and civilians, were caught in the rain. So the committee got together to decide what to do next. There were unions from villages that showed us a way to leave without getting on the site of the Germans. They took us down the mountain from places that only eagles can reach. Us, others with their rustic shoes, others barefoot. We managed to get out of the encirclement and go towards the valley of Siniatsiko.

It kept raining and most of the unarmed were Jewish. They were victims in the sense that they were human, and they didn’t have the force to fight with the wild animals of nature, but were quieter people. They found a place to sit to find shelter from the rain, fell asleep and when the Germans came, found many skirmished. Only few followed the route to the valley of Siniatsiko to the end. I was the only machine gun shooter in the group. We were drenched, barefoot, and when we got to the foot of the mountain, we started climbing because we knew that the Germans were following us.

We got up and got in our war positions, drenched and full of mud and waited. And the Germans started showing, who were fighters and would fight standing up, which was convenient for us because this way we had clear targets. When they started climbing to the top we were aiming at them. One here, one there, they were dropping down, and I was pleased. I was pleased because I was thinking that here is being judged the luck of the Jews against the Germans. That’s why I was saying, ‘For us the Jews, for Greece, for our homeland.’

At some point I realized that I was running out of ammunition, I told the boss and he told me that I should shoot every now and again and stay put until they bring me some more. And we continued fighting, only that when the ammunition came, I wasn’t in a position anymore to hold a gun as the Germans had shot me with a mortar and hit my finger. The captain saw the situation and told me, ‘Leave, they will take care of you at the surgery.’ They took me there and dressed the wound.

A little further on was a village, where they were accepting all of us that were not active, and they would give us food, hot water, and so on; the women worked there. They took us there, gave us shelter and a blanket, we gave them our clothes to get cleaned, and we had a chance to get dry there and spent the night there.

The Germans suffered a great loss in this battle, even though they had mortars and could shoot. The groups from Siniatsiko managed to surround the Germans and teach them a good lesson. In the history of the partisans this battle counted as one of the most aggressive ones.

Colonel Frizis had a brother that came up the mountain in Vermion. The villagers of Vermion were very supportive to all the Jews that were coming. They would help to find a place to hide, food, a glass of water. When he went to the village they found him a good hiding place, food etc. When the Germans came to the village they asked all of them to gather at the village square. The villagers told him not to come out because he wasn’t dressed as a villager and the Germans would understand that he wasn’t one of them. He didn’t listen and a soon as he appeared, a fine young lad, the Germans saw him and we lost him. We never found out what happened to him.

Then, at a gorge in Vermion, the Germans found out that there was a group hiding there. My uncle David was in this group, my aunt that was deaf-mute, a daughter of my uncle, Fani, and another family of Jews that were from Veroia or Naousa. The Germans saw them and said, ‘You are Jews,’ and took them all. That’s all we know; we never heard anything again, they all disappeared.

In general, the position of the Greeks in Thessaloniki was patriotic, they would help where they could. At least when I was getting ready to go up the mountain, a friend from far away came to find me. He was a pastry cook and during the occupation he was working on the trains. He begged me to let him take me out of Thessaloniki. ‘Michali,’ I said, ‘I thank you very much. I know you mean well, but I’m ready to leave for the mountain.’

When I came back from the mountain, I went to his place. He had a younger sister who was a secretary of EPON 20 of Ifanet, her father was an iron man in Axilithioti, we worked together, him with the red iron and the hammer and me with the turner. They were all good friends.

This is an issue: The Jews didn’t believe the Germans, they believed the ‘chief of Judaism,’ Rabbi Koretz, and he was the reason that they got all the Jews. At this big gathering at the synagogue he was telling them, ‘We will go to another country and live there, and be free. We will have our professions, so take your tools with you. Take good clothing because it is cold there, and take some money to live.’ These were the principles of the rabbi, and it was him that the people believed, the Germans were not in contact with the Jews.

There were people that would go up the mountains as we did, and we were begging them to come, but there were also other families that wanted to stay together, grandfather with grandson etc. These were the two main issues that forced the Jews and this entire Jewish crowd to go where they went. It was the destruction of the Jews in Greece. And this situation with the families being so close to each other, was a big hit for the leftists too, because we were passing house by house to ask people to come with us, but many wouldn’t.

We were supporting the left wing and that’s why we went up the mountains. At the beginning of all this, a man from the youth of OKNE approached me with the request to help to recruit youngsters. This was our organizing work, my group would go from house to house trying to recruit people. The man that gave us a boost was handicapped, walking with two sticks, and he was a fighter. His name was Stergios. One of the guys in our team was a very brave fighter; a little later they sent him to another team that needed people that were educated. He went to Mount Olympus. He was called Benveniste, and he could have done many things for the youth, but he died young. He fought on Mount Olympus and we were fighting on common grounds, until Kilkis; that was the X division.

My family were partisans. My father was a partisan; he used to fight up on the mountain. Mairy and Tarzan were fighters; they were not people that the Germans would catch, because they were partisans. My mother was on the mountain but she was hiding in the villages, no one gave her in and as she was dressed as a villager, she stayed there until the end. Whenever I was passing by Vermion I would go and see my mother, because we had good contact with Vermion from Paiko and Mount Olympus.

With my team we gathered in Oraiokastro, and we were ready to take part in the parade for the liberation of Thessaloniki. That same day I asked the captain if I could go with the rest of the lads down to Thessaloniki by foot and return in the evening. He gave me his permission and I went down, and first thing I went to the police. I asked about a family that lived in the Dioikitiriou area. They replied, ‘Yes, there are two siblings and they are both gendarmes and they are serving at this gendarmerie, and they are well, they are fine.’ I asked if I was allowed to go and visit, and they agreed. I went there with their permission and the kids were not there, but the mother, when she saw me, was so pleased, she went crazy. We had been friends since we were children. ‘We are so pleased to see that you are a partisan, we thought you were a dead man. Don’t worry, our children are fine and we will pass on your greetings.’

Then I went down to the workers union, which was our haunt […] When the secretary saw me he said, ‘Come I want to show you something.’ He took me up to the third floor and there was a big poster, with all the portraits of the ones that had been lost in the war, and a big picture of me. He says, ‘You are not dead.’ So I say, ‘Well, my picture up here implies I am, but I am not. As you can see, I am here.’ He replied, ‘We are glad that you came out alive.’

The same night I met up with my father who had come down to get food, we had a chat, and I went back to my place. We didn’t go to the parade because as we were getting ready to go, an order came that we should walk to Athens. In Athens the war had started between the English and ELAS 21. Scobie 22 had then come to Athens and the war had started against ELAS with boats and planes.

So we had to go and walk all the way to Athens to help our comrades. The road was hard, we got up to Atlanti and a notice arrived that the war had ended, the conclusion of a treaty etc. and the English would remain as bosses, so we took our wet things, and got back to our places.

Exactly after these events, we were caught in a big battle in Kilkis 23. There all the majors and the security chiefs of areas like Giannitsa, Veroia, Kilkis were armed and wanted to become the kings of Greece. They had gathered there and got a mountain that was called Agios Georgios. All the teams from Macedonia got together, from Paiko, Olympus and Vermion. We surrounded them and a battle started. By 4 o’clock in the afternoon we hadn’t managed to catch any of them. Then, and I don’t know how they managed, but they brought us from Olympus four mortars, which saved us: we started to attack the mountain that they were on, with their machine guns, and one after the other they were falling so we knew we could go up. We started going up and we finally conquered the mountain that was called Agios Georgios.

The same night we got many prisoners, except for a big team of Papadopoulos, who was a chieftain then, they managed to leave and go to Yugoslavia. We caught many and held them captive in a village that became a camp, and the next day the court martial was held in that village and they were tried. We partisans went to a village to get some sleep and the next day the captain said to me, ‘You have walked on foot enough, it’s time you go back to the warehouse, where they have all the horses and other animals. Go and make sure you pick a good horse.’

I went and chose a horse but didn’t understand that it had asthma. I managed to ride it, but it couldn’t run a lot because it would get this cough… However, I loved that horse and decided, ‘I’ll keep you. You are mine.’ So we stayed together until the end. I gave it to a villager when we resigned, and told him, ‘With this horse you can plough your land.’ We don’t know what happened to the prisoners of Kilkis. The political leadership of EAM decided what was going to happen to them, we didn’t know as we weren’t involved.

From my family, I was the last one to come back to Thessaloniki. I was the last to return because I went to Naousa, where they had told me that my mother lived, in the house of an old school friend of mine, who was now a major in the army and had come from Egypt; Mr. Oikonomou his name was and he was a captain in Naousa. He was not treating the villagers well, because Naousa was a village of partisans and he was a major of the army.

When I got to Thessaloniki, in the neighborhood of Agia Triada, I got a trolley to put my things in, and I was heading for home. It seems that one of the people that I met while arranging things had nailed me and they came from the Security Police to catch me. They took the trolley, and took me to their main offices. They asked, ‘What have you got here?’ ‘I have some blankets, some bullets and some other things.’ They took the blankets, I had five for the whole family, but they also took other things that had fallen out. And this anti-communist in Thessaloniki, the well-known Koufitsa 24, the head of the secret police said, ‘You see, Burla, everything has come back to us.’ I replied, ‘As time will go by and in the years to come, we will regain what has been taken from us. As soon as he heard that, he and a few others fell on me, and beat me up badly.

Anyway, so I got to the house wounded. When my mother saw me, she was shocked. They all had come down from the mountain, they got a house of an old Jewish family that now lived in Switzerland. This house was left empty, we let ourselves in, us and a few other Jews that later moved to Israel. So that was our haunt. And that’s how the whole family got back together and we started all over again.

The house was in Faliro, on the spot where the monument of King George stands today, to its left. It was a nice, spacious house, with many rooms. It had a nice courtyard looking out on the seaside, where we used to go swimming.

I was never an official member of the Communist Party. When I was with the partisans, I used to say that I was a communist, I would take part in all the meetings, but I never became an official member. I remained in this position because when I was in the Soviet Union and I saw the positioning of the KKE [Communist Party of Greece], it really didn’t make a good impression on me. The KKE were the ones that were taking part of the wages of the refugees from all these countries, Soviet Union, Romanian, Poland, etc. That’s why I didn’t want to become a party member, and that’s why even today I am a member of the Coalition and not of the KKE.

This connection with the left wing [with KKE] was because I was in the metal workers union and all the people around us were communists, so we simply had to be part of this, too, since all the members of the union were communists. Then I joined a group to raise money, they would give me fifty drachmas. The money was raised for the workers union. And when we did find someone that would give us money; we would take it and give him coupons in return. Those were the same coupons that I swallowed when the Security Police came to get me.

When with ELAS, as partisans, we were dressed and ready to go to the parade of Thessaloniki, they took us, and we walked to Athens to fight the English. We thought that ELAS was going to set Greece free, at least Macedonia, that we were going to predominate and that we would have elections for the mass to come out and vote the party. But England got in the way, and ruined it all for the future of the Greeks. For us it was a major hit because after that arrests and deportations started – to camps, Makronisos, Ai Stratis, Ikaria. [Editor’s note: Islands in the Aegean sea that where used mostly during the Greek Civil War (1946-1949) as lands of exile – for deportation of the members and the supporters of the Communist Party of Greece.]

After the war

I was never able to see, what Thessaloniki looked like right after the war, in what condition the Jewish Community found the city, because as soon as we turned up, they started chasing us. I was getting ready for the second time to go to the mountain as a partisan. I got out of the house one day, well dressed and shaved, and an officer from the 2nd Police station – and the officers from there knew us well because the 2nd Police station was the one that was in our area – arrested me. They sent me to a tobacco shop, close to where Avez was, the spaghetti factory, in Agios Dimitrios area, and they shut me in there with others. Many of us were from Azvestohori, others from Thessaloniki. My family didn’t know where I had gone. They started looking for me; my sisters looked everywhere, and no one knew where I was.

They arrested me in May 1945, we passed through the military police and in fact, we were a team that got out on 9th May 1945, liberation day 25. We got out on the streets and started ringing the bells of Agia Triada, and we were calling people to come and celebrate the day of the defeat of the Germans, the day of the victory of the Red Army. We used loudspeakers and sound boxes.

The 2nd Police station was informed and they came and surrounded us in order to catch us. And they took us to the police station. They took us and had us line up in a column to move us close to the White Tower. The union got a note that we had been caught and they sent us their lawyer there. His name was Kefalidis, he was from the party, a good guy, and he came to defend us.

And when he got to the trial he stood in front of all the judges and told them: ‘Gentlemen, I am really sorry to see this happening. The guys were out on the streets to celebrate the liberation of humanity, for Russia that put an end to the German occupation, and put up at the Reichstag the flag of the Red Army. With these men, you should be out on the streets celebrating and not judge them as you are doing today.’ The verdict was that we were innocent, the gendarmes got afraid and left and we left singing, going home to our houses. So that was that.

And after that they caught us and first put us in the tobacco shops and deported us to barren islands. I was sent to Limnos, others where sent to other islands. There I found many good friends: a family from Kilkis, where I did my military service, sisters and brothers and children of the guys that we were at Kilkis with.

I also found someone from the village of Azvestochori, old lime kiln worker that used to make furnaces there, and he said to the committee that he should be the leader to guide the political exiles. My family found out the last minute where I was, and brought me a piece of bread, a blanket, and some other things just before the boat was leaving, so we said our goodbyes and we set off. This was the last stop.

They took us first to Limnos Island and gave us a big school, as a residence. There we didn’t stay long because the people from Limnos were very friendly with us, and started bringing us all kinds of goodies. We had anything we wanted every night. When they saw that the people were bringing us lots of stuff every night, they changed their minds and took us on another boat to Ikaria Island. And from there it went on: from Ikaria to Ai Stratis, then Makronisos, from Makronisos back to Ai Stratis, from Ai Stratis to Israel. And this is how this story of a Jew called Moshe Burla ended.

My younger sister who we used to call Tarzan, Dora, had gone to Israel earlier. She managed to get the attention of the Israeli government and have us detached from the islands that we had been sent to, and bring us to Israel. The consulate of Israel arranged that then. They said that they wanted to take us to Israel to fight against the Arabs, and we stayed there to live for a few years.

I went to Israel in September 1952. Until then I was on Ai Stratis Island. Ai Stratis was the last island for the ones that survived Makronisos. Half of those that came back to Ai Stratis, were partly handicapped, with broken necks, hands, feet, another one with a bandage around his waist, another one in a wheel chair; they where the remnants of the military police in Makronisos. Seven years in exile. I have a friend who I know spent twelve years there.

The worst thing of all, the hardest part of this situation, was that in Makronisos they were asking the deported people to sign a paper saying that they regret. Of course, no one would agree to and that’s where their game started. In all this abuse, I was lucky because one night that they barged in, as they used to do, in the pitch black dark, they would take us to a gorge, and they would do all this [….] It happened that in my position there was a writer who was handicapped. Lountemis he was called, he was in the line to get beaten up. They told him to take his clothes off and the guy from the military police told him, ‘What else can you lose from your body? Your body is already like bad shape 8, there is no part that is balanced.’

When he left and my turn came, I got it for him and me together. That night they hit and wounded my head and left me nearly handicapped. I had to run to doctors and get treated for days to feel a little better. And then the same guy, I mean one of the guys that were after us, came and told me that the best thing to do was to go to the headquarters and tell them that I was a baker’s apprentice so they can send me to the ovens, because by then they had made ovens to send food supplies to Makronisos. I went to the headquarters, I filled in my application, and fifteen days later, when I felt a little better, they sent me there. From there on, my life was calm, I would get my bread, each worker would get one loaf of bread, and we would also eat what everybody else got.

In Makronisos a group of us, six or seven Jews from many different parts of Greece, met up. I have a picture of us in my book here. Two were from Volos, both were called Cohen, one was Salvador Ovadia and the other Zaharias, two were from Thessaloniki, me and Alberto Zahon, whose wife lives here at the old people’s home, one from Kefalonia Island and the last one was Raoul Moslino, who was a photographer and whose wife’s sister lives here with us. After Ai Stratis they sent us to Israel. They got us on a boat to Pireus and from there to boats heading for Israel. They had us chained up on the boats until the moment we were leaving for Israel.

As I mentioned before, back to Ai Stratis came only the ones that had survived the abuse in Makronisos. One had lost his voice, another one his hand, the other one had no leg, all the 1200 people that had come from Makronisos were quite shaken from the situation there. For us Ai Stratis was an infirmary of sorts, for us to recover. Another good thing was that on Ai Stratis life had taken such a pace that it was like a school. We opened classes for accounting, for foreign languages, a workshop for shoe-makers, hairdressers. We had a team to take care of the garbage because the problem was that there were so many of us. We had patches of land to grow our tomatoes. We made many tents; one tent was for 14 people. We made nice complexes, we had educated people working.

We even had a dancing group that Giannis Ritsos was leading. We had the theatrical complex that was nice, and where we staged a play every month, not only for the prisoners but also for the villagers. At the beginning the police would not let them come, but when they realized that the plays didn’t have a political context, they let them. Actually, they weren’t plays, they were rather sketches.

At Ai Stratis we had written songs about how we lived. As one poet wrote: ‘In front of the trough, the doctor questions himself how to start the laundry. The lawyer seated in the corner is trying with the sewing all morning. A teacher messes with the mud, as he works with the trowel. A professor and an old guy lay down from tiredness and the poet instead of writing lines watches people. In exile, everyone learns to be tidy. With sewing and washing you can win a prize […] You laugh in your sorrow.’

And another poet, nineteen years old, a medical student from Thessaloniki, wrote a poem on bean soup. You see, when we came to Ai Stratis the government did take care of providing us with food, but what happened was that they gave us pocket money and we had to go and find food on our own. And, of course, from the land there wasn’t anything to take. There was only a small shop, which we had already ransacked. We got some fish; the villagers would give us the small fish. As for the rest we had to look around to find something. Now, the major of Sykies later went to Limnos for food and he found a large amount of beans, and they took it all and brought it to us, and it became the basic food in Makronisos: white or red bean soup.

Anyway, so this medical student wrote the following poem on bean soup: ‘Oh bean soup how tasty, from the legumes you are the antique and from honey you are sweeter. Either as a soup or as a salad or with tomatoes you are over the marmalade, you have pride, you have mincing, from all foods you are a pearl, bean soup, bean soup.’ This poem has become legendary.

From Thessaloniki they took us to Limnos Island, to a luxurious school, where they gave us milk and nice rooms. But we didn’t stay long on Limnos Island because the people were very  leftist and they all came to bring us the best things in the world. Companies of people would come together from one neighborhood or factory and they would carry all kinds of products and things. The police saw what was happening and thought, ‘Well, are we going to have them well fed now or what?’ Well, of course that was out of the question, so they had to bring a boat to send us to Ikaria Island the next day. We stayed there for a long time and afterwards they took us to Makronisos and from there to Ai Stratis.

We didn’t have any assets, whatever was left from my mother when the family left for the mountain, we gave to friends. At one house they had taken a stove that they didn’t want to return, at another a light bulb; we had given away whatever we had. The furniture was either taken or broken. So we didn’t have property. What we had was what we lived from.

My wife [Matilda Burla, nee Kapon] was a comrade at the party; we got in contact at political meetings at the party. We would meet, she wanted to get married, but I didn’t really like her, and it was not the looks. Even so, the Israeli communist party got in the way and said that this marriage should be happening. And they married us; whether we liked it or not, the got us married.

Well, our life wasn’t calm, especially after the first child was born: my wife wanted him to become a scientist, while I wanted him to be a worker like me, to go out and work. All the problems that occurred in the family made me get up and leave. My wife was called Matilda and she was from the Kapon family, a well known family in Thessaloniki. They were two sisters and a brother. And they were well known in the Jewish Community of Thessaloniki because the brother of my wife had a shop with fabrics and her elder sister was very pretty; Sarah Kapon her name was.

I don’t have anything else to say about my wife. She was a simple woman, she was a bit older than me, she was born in 1916 and that’s why she was in a hurry to get married, and the communist party got in the way and did the job for her. Of course, the political party was sorry for what they had done because I was an activist in the communist party of Israel. I was breaking new grounds where the factories in the city of Haifa were concerned. After Tel Aviv, the industrial area was Haifa, and I was the main link for the workers’ demands for better living conditions. I was arguing with the bosses to get better conditions for the workers’ living conditions and their wages, their rights, even for getting the milk; I was working on these rights, pushing them to change things.

We got married at the beginning of 1953. All her siblings were together in Israel. I don’t know her parents or if any other members of the family were lost in the concentration camps. The eldest sibling, Sarah, was egocentric and a beautiful woman. My wife was a good nurse; she worked in one of the best hospitals in Haifa, the Carmel. There I had my first operation, there my mother died, the sister of my mother, the one that helped my mother go to Cairo. My wife now gets a good pension and helps her grandchildren. When I lived in that area, the whole family would get together at the hospital restaurant to eat. She was jealous because all the nurses would look at me, this good-looking young guy, whereas she was older and fatter.

My sister Yolanda came to Israel when I was already there, with two babies in her arms, and brought with her my mother and my brother-in-law, he had been an old baker’s apprentice, and then he worked with my father at the Kapani furnaces.

This was my first and only marriage. We never got divorced; we are still married. The other day my son wrote to me that he is going to Jerusalem to get my marriage certificate. It is something I need because I have filled in forms from an English company that is involved in getting back compensations from Germany for those who had been wounded. And with this paper, the marriage certificate, I will have all the paperwork done in English. I’ve paid a large amount for the translations of all these documents and with the marriage certificate all the paperwork will be complete now, in order to get the compensation. Now what exactly will happen and when, that I don’t know? I have a neighbor here that has always believed that we will get the compensations. He is just worried about who will get the compensation if this only happens in ten years’ time, if he isn’t alive any more. He will turn 93 soon.

I started working in a company where Greeks used to work, in a village in Israel called Tandura, at the beach of Haifa. All the citizens there were Greeks, I mean Jewish Greeks. They had created companies of fishermen and they took me on as a mechanic on their boat. Our job was to get the nets ready and put them up in the boats, and afterwards we headed out to the sea for fishing. Usually we would go fishing in the night, we would drop anchor where we thought there’d be fish, we would turn on the lanterns, and in the morning we would pick the fish and take them to the company for sale.

As you can imagine, you cannot always be lucky with this kind of job, so we were linked with a company that was paying us a certain percentage, and if we didn’t bring any fish, they would give us a minimum in order for us to have money to live on. And when we had fish, depending on the quantity of the fish we would get our wage. It was hard work, we would be up all night and in the morning we had to spread the nets to get them dried and mend them if they needed mending. Many times, at the moment that we had caught some great fish, a dolphin would appear and ruin everything.

After that, when I felt that this job wasn’t good for me, I went out again as a turner. I worked in many different places there, especially in the industrial area of Haifa that is called Nifratz, which means gulf, that’s the area where most of the factories were located. There I started working as a turner, at one factory, and then at another because as a communist you didn’t last long in any position. They took me on because they had heard that I was a great turner, but as soon as the time came when you’d become irremovable, they’d kick you out and you had to find another job. From a financial point of view, we lived well, as my wife had a job as a nurse at a good hospital and she would get a wage too and so we were doing fine.

Because, as I told you, my wife and I had a few problems, I had to leave Israel and that is how I got in contact with a Russian girl that worked as a librarian. We decided to leave Israel because this woman really looked like a Russian, and in Israel they didn’t have good relationships with the Russians since Russia helped the Arabs in the war. As communists we didn’t stand well either, so we had to pay to the Israeli state a certain part that anyone that gets help from the Israeli state had to pay, plus some percentages. That’s something that we couldn’t imagine to come up with. That’s why we had our papers done and left as tourists.

We went from Spain to France, to Greece, from Greece to Bulgaria and from there to the Soviet Union. It was a long journey: we left in 1957 from Israel and got to the Soviet Union in 1959, after staying in Bulgaria for six months where we had our papers done to be allowed to cross over to the Soviet Union.

The Bulgarians we worked for during those six months were very pleased with us. I worked as a turner and I made order at the factory where I worked, and my wife [Editor’s note: Mr. Burla actually means partner, as they were not married] was working at a shirt company, doing ironing. They didn’t want us to leave. But my wife wanted to get back to Russia because she had her mother there and all her siblings and her whole family. I kept telling her that Bulgaria was better as it had a better climate, a better economy etc. If we stayed there we could go visit them and they could come visit us, and we’d be in contact with her family. In the end we left for her mother’s place. My second comrade/partner was called Valia.

Yes, of course she was a leftist. When we arrived in the Soviet Union one of her two brothers welcomed us; he was an executive at a manufacturing firm. He found work for me and his sister, but he was against us because he had heard that in Israel the communist party had split into two. The party that I was in was against the one that he was in, and he didn’t like that. He always wanted me to follow the Russian line and not the Israeli one. At the beginning I had difficulties to get a position in the factory.

At the beginning we went to Kamensk Uralski, a mountain area. There at the factory 10,000 workers, worked 24 hours, three shifts of eight hours. I got a good position as a turner and I climbed the ladder to the point that a year later my portrait was hanging at the entrance as the best worker of the factory. I could have gone higher, because, for example, I was a blood donor, and the doctor of the factory proposed to me to give me a medal for this. The brother of my wife had told me not to take this medal yet as it was too early, because we didn’t know what party he supported. So I didn’t. But later on I got some smaller medals that they give to the blood donors: at the beginning a copper one and so on… I still have them.

The fact that I was a Jew in Russia made a bad impression. Every now and again someone would say something about the Jews. Generally they respected the Jews, because many that were working in the factory were people of higher education, who knew the tactics of the Soviet Union, the laws, the language.

One time, and that impressed me, when they were coming down from the party’s offices, and I had gone to make an application to become a member, one told me, ‘Don’t even bother, they don’t take Jews now. They know you well in the factory, you are praiseworthy, what else do you need?’ And indeed, I didn’t develop further because I my brother-in-law was against me, and wherever I went he was tricking me, so I wouldn’t climb higher up the ladder.

I took part in many activities such as athletics, the chorus of the factory, and at one time, with the secretary of the party, we were singing in Greek, in Spanish, in Italian. They recognized me there while my brother-in-law was always distant, and with his sister we weren’t getting along well either because she adopted a child that wasn’t normal, a child from an institution that was mentally retarded.

This situation really affected me, it ruined my mood and in the end she died long before her time. I had to become a member of the party and give the child to an institution to develop, because it was bad for his mother and me at work, it stood in our way.

Valia and I didn’t have an official wedding. We just invited a few friends, when we were still in Israel, and we didn’t have a formal wedding. We went to her mother’s and her younger sister. She loved all of them, except one younger brother, who was a former airman with the air force services in Russia. This is where he got his pension from and with the money he got some land close to some natural springs of Russia. And he wasted his life trying to enlarge this patch of land that he had bought. At the beginning it was small. When I met him, he was living there with his wife.

We stayed in Russia for 22 years. I got my pension, but even after that I continued working, until Greek friends that I had in Sohum, down in Abkhazia, convinced me to live with them. Not only just to live closer to them, but because they could see that for me it would be much easier to leave from there and go to Greece than to leave from Russia. The factory where I worked didn’t allow any employees to live outside Russia. I had to finish this career.

One sunny day, I got my things ready, put them on the train, and sent them there. When I went there later my things were already there. When I went to the house, they told me that the mother was working at the train station and she went and declared that these things were hers, and took them without a receipt. This family really stood by my side; there were four siblings, three doctors and an engineer. They kept me going and helped me go on all kinds of excursions.

I started working as a teacher for the Greeks that lived in Abkhazia, not only the children at the school, because they had arranged to go to various schools around the area, in villages where many Greeks lived, so they could start learning the Greek language. Except from the fact that I was working in two villages at the schools, I gave classes to elder students, or parents that were leaving to go to Greece, and I was getting them ready to go. I have many students like that here, who really respect me, and love me, and I have pictures of some women that were among my best students.

I have a picture of a very good friend, from the two groups that I was teaching evening classes; I had a beginners’ group and an advanced group. This girl was attending both groups to learn faster and indeed she became one of the best students. Last summer when I went with some friends to Aggelochori, which is where she lived, I told them, ‘Guys we should go and visit an acquaintance of mine.’ We went and we met her and I said to her, how did you learn Greek so well, and she said that she learned the basics thanks to me.

I came back to Greece on 5th August 1990. My friend, the one that saved my family from the Germans, came to pick me up from the airport with his family. This man helped me, took me to his house.

When I came to Thessaloniki my life was very difficult. I was taken care of by Greeks that had come from there, too, and they had sold their houses and brought their assets with them. I was going to the markets with them, so I’d make a hundred drachma or two to live on. I passed some difficult times. The moment that I started living again as a human being was when the Jewish Community reacted and didn’t want to acknowledge that I was Jewish, and told me that I had to fill in an application and would get my reply within in six months. I filled in this application and waited for six very difficult months.

Thankfully a rabbi, who used to work at the synagogue then, took me as the tenth [for a minyan] and he asked me to go and work there and get a fixed wage. This was my salvation and six months later the reply came from the Community that they have accepted me as a member of the Community and a different life began for me.

They gave me a small pension and they also gave me a small room in the attic of a house that we tried very hard to make it humane because it didn’t have water, tiles or a bathroom. I had started to live a lonely life. I would sit there with friends and eat bean soup that I used to prepare until the time came when they suggested for me to move to the old people’s home.

When I used to hear about old people’s homes I used to shake, and run away, but it happened that I went there a couple of times to see a friend of my father’s, they had known each other since childhood. I sat next to him, we chatted and he offered me a glass of Ouzo and he says: ‘As you can see, we have everything here. Why don’t you come and live here too?’ I went there for a second time and then a third time and I realized that they really did have everything. So I said to myself, ‘Why do I want to stay here where it’s hot in the summer and freezing in the winter? They have a nice life, compared to the roof that I have over my head.’ And I decided to move to the old people’s home.

I had a quarrel with the manager of the Community, because they had given me my old place without me having to pay anything as I didn’t have any income. When the time came to give me the twenty drachma that I was getting as an allowance up until then, in order to have some pocket money, the manager resisted, saying: ‘Mr. Burla, aren’t you asking for a bit too much? At the old men’s home, you have a shelter and food for free. To give you an allowance as well, don’t you think that’s asking a bit too much? Should we send you an accountant too to take care of your financial matters?’ I got very angry, and I raised my hand and slapped him. We started fighting and the employees came to stop us, and they got a few too, that were meant to be for him. In the five years that have passed since then I’ve never ever heard him even say ‘good morning’ to me.

After this once incident in Italy I had sworn myself that I’d never raise my hand again to hit anyone. What happened was the following: the General Headquarters sent me to take prisoners to the headquarters. This was during the war with Albania. I was then wounded by a shell missile and I was recovering when they came to the infirmary and said to me: ‘Since you are a man that we don’t have to take out from the army, and you are a man that knows the weapons, as you used submachine guns, you can do this job by yourself. Take these people with our written approval and bring them to the headquarters. They will sign and you will bring back the paper which says that they have surrendered.’

So we got on the way, me with the submachine gun at the back and them walking in front of me. We would say a word or two to each other in Italian, and I understood that all five of them were villagers. Only one seemed nervous. Suddenly I see him running away, so I get the gun to shoot him, and they say to me, ‘No, wait. We will call him,’ so they called his name and shouted, ‘Come back or you are going to get killed.’ But he kept running. So I got ready to shoot him.

Thankfully, some of our soldiers were coming that way, grabbed him, and brought him to me. I told him, ‘You idiot! Can’t you see how easy it would have been for you to go straight to the ground?’ And I raised my hand and hit him in the face, and by accident I gauged out his eye and as a result he was blind on one eye. So I got an unarmed guy half blind. That taught me a lesson. After that I swore that I’d never lay hand again on anyone, until this annoying general manager came my way.

I can say that my relationship with the Community is good. The president of the Community really appreciates me; there are people that recognize the sacrifices and the honors that they have given me. But this general manager has stayed the same brainless person. He passes in front of me and doesn’t even say hello. Not that it is important to me, I did get my small allowance from the Community that helps me pay my phone bill. I can cover my expenses with the pension I get from OGA, I am doing fine. I don’t need anybody.

When I left Israel my son was twelve years old. My wife insisted to give him all the money that he’d need when he reaches the age of sixteen. I got all my money out, plus 2000 that my sisters gave me, in order to get together the amount that my wife had asked me for my son. So when I finally left Israel there wasn’t anything that was holding me back. Before they wouldn’t let me leave unless I paid the amount that my wife was asking me for. When I left she had put my son in a kibbutz and I was paying for his monthly allowance. When I left and let her pay for him, a Japanese family adopted him, meaning that he was under their protection, and he had a fine time. I had left him my stamp collection, and from this collection he got great prestige, because no one in the area had such a large collection, and he was showing it to people in other kibbutzim

He didn’t learn any Greek and until today doesn’t speak the language. When I ask him, he replies in Greek, I don’t understand a word.’ That’s all the Greek he knows. With my son I speak Spanish, but he knows many languages. He speaks French because his mother was French speaking, he knows Italian and Arabic. That’s why he spent a long time as a tourist guide of Arab or Italian tourist groups; he would show them historical and religious places in Israel. I happened to be there with a group of Italians and we went around the monuments and the Italian women asked me, ‘Why don’t you stay in Israel? Why do you want to leave?’ And I replied, ‘Israel is not my homeland, it is not my country, it is my second country, my homeland is Greece.’

With my son, I never talked about the war until recently when I went to visit him and my four grandchildren. That’s when we first spoke a bit about what had happened. I told him that I had written a book, and he really wanted to read it, but he can’t read in any other language than French or English. I would have been interested to get the book published in another language so that my son can read it, but I didn’t come to an agreement with the publisher.

In my opinion, many kibbutzim are political: the one is leftist, the other one is half-leftist, the other one is rightist. But, of course, there were also kibbutzim that were religious and all the residents were very religious, they would honor the Jewish religion, and there were kibbutzim that didn’t even recognize the religion.

My father is buried here while my mother is buried in Israel. My mother died in Israel; from the time she lived there, she suffered from a disease which the climate of Israel wasn’t helpful for. In fact she died at the time when her sister had come from Egypt. Both sisters died within a week. My mother died in 1969 and my father in 1970, and he is buried at the general Jewish cemetery in Stavroupoli. Every now and again I go there with my sister, we clean the grave and put flowers on it.

When my father died I was in Russia. I got a letter when he died, but it came too late, so for me to leave and go home was useless. The second wife of my father wrote this letter. She was a Christian and he had her convert to Judaism. I have a woman here at the old people’s home that got married to her husband the same day that my father married his second wife. My father was a witness to their marriage and her husband was the witness to his marriage.

The names of my grandsons are Jewish; they have nothing to do with Greek, or my name. They are names that have to do with the nature of Israel: the sun, the air, etc. For example, my son could named one of his sons after my father or my grandfather, but instead he gave his children Jewish names that have to do with nature. His elder daughter is called Edith, his first son is called Ilior, the third child is called Limor and the last one is called Noam, which means ‘spirit.’

My son lives in Jerusalem. He divorced his wife, got married a second time, and now we are expecting the fifth grandchild. My son and his second wife, have big stores with many employees as clients. They give lectures about how they should treat the customers. They go from city to city, from business to business.

With my son and grandchildren I keep contact through my daughter-in-law. Every now and again I send them some pocket money. They respect me and love me a lot. My daughter-in-law and two of my grandchildren came to visit me last year in September. When they came to Greece they wanted to see everything, and I got very tired because they also didn’t speak the language, so I had to translate everything for them. One sunny day I got a stroke and they didn’t know what to do, they lost it and took me to the hospital and then they left for Israel. I stayed in the hospital for ten days because this incident also trigger other side effects […] I’ve been having problems with my ears and with my eyes ever since. I lost my voice for ten days. Everyone in the hospital was calling me ‘the stranger.’

We still haven’t gotten anything as a compensation for the Holocaust, but we believe that we will get something, because in yesterday’s paper it said that they have already discovered the money that the Jewish Community had given to the Germans, and that this money should be returned to the Jews of Thessaloniki. Now when this money will get to us, that I don’t know.

No one asked us about our religion at the last census. On my ID it says ‘Jewish.’

The only relatives left are those of the Burla family that was making wine. Coincidently the father of this family is also called Moshe Burla. One of these days the president of the Community thought that the memorial service for Moshe Burla was for me. But the people from the Community told him that it was for the one that was making wines. We were very good friends with him.

Glossary

1 Forced labor in Greece

In July 1942 all male Jews aged 18 to 45, were registered and dispatched to work sites on the outskirts of Salonica and to the nearby towns of Veria and Katerini where they were used as laborers. The work sites were organized along military lines, each headed by a commander who was a former officer of the Greek army, under the supervision of Greek engineers and German military personnel. Malnutrition, physical abuse and deplorable living condition led to illnesses, epidemics and deaths. After lengthy negotiations, in October 1942, the Nazi authorities and the Jewish Coordinating Committee decided for the buy-out of Jews drafted into Nazi forced labor. The Jewish Community of Thessaloniki would have to pay 2 billion drachmas. [Source: Rena Molho, 'Salonica and Istanbul: Social, Political and Cultural Aspects of Jewish Life' (The Isis Press, Istanbul, 2005), p. 63]

2 Colonel Mordechai Frizis (1893-1940)

He graduated in law from the Athens University, his parents believed he would one day be a lawyer. However, the Balkan Wars of 1912-1913 installed a sense of patriotism in young Mordechai. In 1916, he entered as an officer in training in Euboea. Athens. In the Turkish-Greek war of 1921-1922, Lieutenant Mordechai and his soldiers were captured by the Turks. As a non-Christian officer he was offered his freedom. Mordechai refused, enduring eleven months of captivity with his Greek soldiers. The Greco-Italian War started on 28th October 1940. By now Mordechai was a Major in the Greek army, based out of Ioannina in Epirus, Greece, commanding the Independent Division, his orders to stop Italian attacks from Albania and through the narrow valleys and ravines of Northern Greece. Ioannina. On 4th December 1940 Major Frizis and his men encountered the Italians for the first time. Mordechai never left his men during fighting and always though of their interests; first earning him the strong loyalty of his soldiers he would call them his "boys," they in turn gave themselves the nickname the "Frizaens" or Frizis's boys. His troops would be the first to be captured by Italian soldiers. During the crossing of the Vistritsa River, mounted as always on his horse, Mordechai, led his troops against the Italians and was fatally wounded but refused to dismount, choosing instead to rally his soldiers with the now famous battle cry ‘Ayeras’ (Courage in Greek). Not having a rabbi near a priest was brought over. He placed his hand on Mordechai's head and prayed: "Hear, O Israel, the lord our God, the Lord is one." Colonel Mordechai Frizis, was the first officer in the Greek Army to be killed in World War II. A memorial to him has been erected outside the National Military Museum in Athens. In 2002 the remains of Mordechai Frizis were returned to Greece. They are buried in Thessaloniki's Jewish cemetery today.

3 ‘151’

After the Fire of 1917, the Jewish Community acquired the large No. 151 hospital, which belonged to the Italian army and was located east of the Thessaloniki. 75 wooden structures and many brick and cement structures were subsequently built to house the fire-stricken Jewish population.

4 Ladino

Also known as Judeo-Spanish, it is the spoken and written Hispanic language of Jews of Spanish and Portuguese origin. Ladino did not become a specifically Jewish language until after the expulsion of the Jews from Spain in 1492 (and Portugal in 1495) - it was merely the language of their province. It is also known as Judezmo, Dzhudezmo, or Spaniolit. When the Jews were expelled from Spain and Portugal they were cut off from the further development of the language, but they continued to speak it in the communities and countries to which they emigrated. Ladino therefore reflects the grammar and vocabulary of 15th-century Spanish. In Amsterdam, England and Italy, those Jews who continued to speak 'Ladino' were in constant contact with Spain and therefore they basically continued to speak the Castilian Spanish of the time. Ladino was nowhere near as diverse as the various forms of Yiddish, but there were still two different dialects, which corresponded to the different origins of the speakers: 'Oriental' Ladino was spoken in Turkey and Rhodes and reflected Castilian Spanish, whereas 'Western' Ladino was spoken in Greece, Macedonia, Bosnia, Serbia and Romania, and preserved the characteristics of northern Spanish and Portuguese. The vocabulary of Ladino includes hundreds of archaic Spanish words, and also includes many words from different languages: mainly from Hebrew, Arabic, Turkish, Greek, French, and to a lesser extent from Italian. In the Ladino spoken in Israel, several words have been borrowed from Yiddish. For most of its lifetime, Ladino was written in the Hebrew alphabet, in Rashi script, or in Solitreo. It was only in the late 19th century that Ladino was ever written using the Latin alphabet. At various times Ladino has been spoken in North Africa, Egypt, Greece, Turkey, Yugoslavia, Bulgaria, Romania, France, Israel, and, to a lesser extent, in the United States and Latin America.

5 Pangalos, Theodoros (1878 –1952)

Greek general, who briefly ruled the country in 1925 and 1926. On 24th June 1925, officers loyal to Pangalos, overthrew the government in a coup. Pangalos immediately abolished the young republic and began to prosecute anyone who could possibly challenge his authority. Freedom of the press was abolished, and a number of repressive laws were enacted, while Pangalos awarded himself the Grand Cross of the Order of the Redeemer. Pangalos declared himself dictator on 3rd January 1926 and had himself elected president in April 1926. On the economic front Pangalos attempted to devalue the currency by ordering paper notes cut in half. His political and diplomatic inability however became soon apparent. He conceded too many rights to Yugoslav commerce in Thessaloniki, but worst of all, he embroiled Greece in the so-called War of the Stray Dog, harming Greece's already strained international relations. Soon, many of the officers that had helped him come to power decided that he had to be removed. On 24th August 1926, a counter-coup deposed him, and Pavlos Kountouriotis returned as president. (Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Theodoros_Pangalos_(general))

6 ELAS

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

7 Thessaloniki International Trade Fair

Taking place every September since its foundation in 1926, it has always been a very important economic as well as cultural city event. For the last few years the Fair has been a pole of attraction and the "place" where the political programme of the government is being presented and assessed.

8 Synagogues in Thessaloniki

Before WWII there were 19 synagogues in Thessaloniki, all of which were blown up by the Germans a short time before the liberation. Already the big fire of 1917 had destroyed most of the synagogues and certainly all the historic synagogues, that is those built before 1680. Historian Rena Molho accounts that before the big fire there were about a hundred synagogues out of which 32 were recognized by the chief rabbi, 65 private small synagogues belonging to well known families and 17 small public synagogues. [Source: 1. R. Molho, 'The Jews of Thessaloniki. 1856-1919 A special community,' Ed. Themelio, Athens 2001, pp.65, 121. and 2. Helias V. Messinas, 'The Synagogues of Salonica and Veroia,' Ed. Gavrielides, Athens 1997]

9 Modiano Market

Built in 1926 by the architect Eli Modiano, son of the biggest banker of Salonica, Saul Modiano.

10 Tsitsanis, Vassilis (1915-1984)

Greek songwriter and bouzouki player. He became one of the leading Greek composers of his time and is widely regarded as one of the founders of modern Rebetika. Tsitsanis wrote more than 500 songs and is still remembered as an extraordinary bouzouki player. (Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vassilis_Tsitsanis)

11 Campbell Fire (Pogrom on 29th June 1931)

Responsible for the arson of the poor neighborhood Campbell was the Ethniki Enosis Ellas - National Union Greece, short: EEE also known as the 3E or the 'Iron Helmets.' This organization was the backbone of fascism in Greece in the period between the two World Wars. It was established in Thessaloniki in 1927. The most important element of the 3E political voice was anti-Semitism, an expression mostly of the Christian traders of the city in order to displace the Jewish competitors. President of the organization was a merchant, Mr. G. Cormides, there was also a secretary, a banker, D. Haritopoulos, and chief spokesman Nikos Fardis, editor-in-chief of the newspaper Makedonia. The occasion for the outbreak of anti-Semitism in Thessaloniki was the inauguration of the new Maccabi Hall in June 1931. In a principal article signed by Nikos Fardis, from Saturday, 20th June 1931, it was said that Maccabi of Thessaloniki had placed itself in favor of an Autonomous Greek Macedonia. The journalist "revealed" the conspiracy of Jews, Bulgarians, Communists and Catholics against Macedonia. Two days later, the Ministry of the Interior confirmed the newspaper's allegations despite the strict denial of the Maccabi representatives. All the anti-Semitic and fascist organizations were aroused. This marked the beginning of the riots that resulted in the pogrom of Campbell. Elefterios Venizelos was again involved after the 1917 fire, speaking at the parliament as Prime Minister, and talked with emphasis about the law-abiding stance of the Jewish population, but simultaneously permitted the prosecution of Maccabi for treason against the state. Let alone the fact that the newspaper Makedonia with the inflaming anti-Semitic publications was clearly pro-Venizelian. At the trial, held in Veroia ten months later, Fardis and the leaders of EEE were found not guilty while three refugees were found guilty, but with mitigating circumstances and therefore were freed on the spot. It is worth noting that at the 1933 general election, the Jews of Thessaloniki, in one block voted against Venizelos. [Source: Bernard Pierron, 'Juifs et chrétiens de la Grèce moderne,' Harmattan, Paris 1996, pp. 179-198]

12 Makedonia

Daily newspaper in Thessaloniki, written in Greek and published since 1911. It supported the liberal Party and was strongly distinctive for anti-Jewish article writing and journalism.

13 Venizelos, Eleftherios (1864 - 1936)

an eminent Greek revolutionary, a prominent and illustrious statesman as well as a charismatic leader in the early 20th century. Elected several times as Prime Minister of Greece and served from 1910 to 1920 and from 1928 to 1932. Venizelos had such profound influence on the internal and external affairs of Greece that he is credited with being “the maker of modern Greece.” His impact on modern Greece has been such that he is still widely known as the “Ethnarch.” (Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eleftherios_Venizelos)

14 Greek-Albanian War/Greek-Italian War (1940-1941)

Greece was drawn into WWII when Italian troops crossed the borders of Albania and violated Greek territory on 28th October 1940. The Italian attack of Greece seemed obvious, despite the stated disagreement of Hitler and the efforts of Ioannis Metaxas, who was trying to trying to keep the country in a neutral stance. Following a series of warning signs, culminating in the sinking of Battleship 'Elli' on 15th August 1940, by Italian torpedoes, and all of these failing to provoke the Greek government to react, the Italian Ultimatum was delivered on 28th October 1940, and it demanded the free passage of the Italian army through Greek soil, as well as sole control of a series of strategic points of the country. The rejection of the ultimatum by Metaxas was in line with the public opinion in Greece and led to the immediate declaration of war by Italy against Greece. This war took place mostly in the mountains of Hepeirous. In the Greek-Albanian War approximately 12.500 Greek Jews took part and 513 Greek Jews died fighting. The Greek counter-offensive pushed the Italians deep into Albania and the Greek army maintained the initiative throughout the winter capturing the southern Albanian towns of Corce, Aghioi Saranda, and Girocaster. [Source: Thanos Veremis, Mark Dragoumis, 'Historical Dictionary of Greece' (London 1995)]

15 Strike of 1936

In May 1936, the northern Greek port of Thessaloniki was paralysed by a widespread strike against wage controls. When workers in the tobacco factories took to the streets, the police were called in and opened fire on the unarmed strikers. Within minutes, 30 people were dead and 300 were wounded. (Source: http://revpatrickcomerford.blogspot.com/2008_04_15_archive.html)

16 Eleutherias Square

On 11th July 1942, following the order of the German Authority published by the local press, 6000-10.000 (depending on different estimations) male Jews aged from 18-45 were gathered in Eleutherias Square, in the commercial center of Thessaloniki. The aim was to enlist/mobilize them to forced labor works. Under the hot sun the armed soldiers forced them to remain standing for hours and imposed on them humiliating gymnastic exercises. The Wehrmacht army staff was taking photographs of the scene, while the Greek citizens were watching from their balconies. [Source: Marc Mazower, 'Inside Hitler's Greece' (Yale 1993)]

17 OKNE (Young Communist League of Greece)

the youth wing of the Communist Party of Greece. OKNE was founded on 28th November 1922 and was a section of the Communist Youth International. Nikolaos Zachariadis became the leader of OKNE in 1924. In 1925 OKNE was, along with the Communist Party, banned. In 1943 OKNE was replaced by another youth organization, EPON. (Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Young_Communist_League_of_Greece)

18 EAM (National Liberation Front - Ethniko Apeleutherotiko Metwpo)

Founded at the end of 1942. It was the combating section of the left-wing Resistance. (Source: J. Hondros, Occupation and Resistance: the Greek Agony, New York, 1983).

19 ELAS

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

20 EPON

The United Panhellenic Organization of Youth, was a Greek resistance organization that was active during the Axis Occupation of Greece in World War II. EPON was the youth wing of the National Liberation Front (EAM) organization, and was established on 23rd February 1943 after the merger of ten earlier political and resistance youth organizations. Along with EAM and its other affiliates, EPON was dissolved judicially at the beginning of the Greek Civil War but continued to operate illegally until 1958. (Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/United_Panhellenic_Organization_of_Youth)

21 Dekemvriana (lit

"December events"): The term "December events" is used to describe a series of armed clashes that took place in Athens in December 1944 and January 1945, between the forces of the (communist) left and the forces that belonged to the rest of the political currents from socialist democracy (like the Prime Minister George Papandreou, leader of the "Democratic Socialistic Party") to the extreme right. The British were involved in the fight. The clashes ended with the defeat of the leftist forces. The events of December 1944 in Athens are regarded as the first act of the Greek Civil War that ended in 1949 with the defeat of K.K.E., the Communist Party. (Source: Wikipedia).

22 Scobie, Sir Ronald MacKenzie (1893-1969)

British Army officer. He was commissioned into the Royal Engineers in 1914 serving in WWI. In 1939 Scobie, a brigadier, was Deputy Director of Mobilisation at the War Office. After this he held staff positions in the Middle East and Sudan before being given command of the 70th Infantry Division, which was sent into to relieve the Australian 9th Division in Tobruk. Scobie was in command of the Tobruk fortress from 22nd October 1941 to 13th December 1941, when, as part of Operation Crusader, the 70th Infantry Division led the successful break-out from Tobruk. In February 1942 he became Deputy Adjutant General for GHQ, Middle East. On 22nd March 1943 Scobie was promoted to lieutenant general and made Chief of the General Staff, GHQ Middle East. From 11th December 1943 he was given command of III Corps which was sent to Greece to expel the Germans but ended up becoming involved in the Greek Civil War. He remained in command of British forces in Greece until after the end of the WWII. (Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ronald_Scobie)

23 Battle of Kilkis ( 4th November 1944)

a few days before the liberation of Greece, a battle took place between Greece and the Security Police, meaning whoever was supplied by the Germans in Macedonia. There was a great loss for both sides and the battle stopped the same day with the complete prevalence of ELAS.

24 Koufitsa, Dimitrios

Captain of the gendarmerie of the Security Police of Thessaloniki. He was murdered in 1946 by armed leftists, bringing the political aura of the city to the beginnings of the Greek Civil War.

25 Victory Day in Russia (9th May)

National holiday to commemorate the defeat of Nazi Germany and the end of World War II and honor the Soviets who died in the war.

Yvonne Capuano-Molho

Yvonne Capuano-Molho
Athens
Greece
Interviewer: Vivian Karagouni
Date of interview: May 2006

Mrs. Yvonne Capuano is a particularly intelligent and active woman. She is a microbiologist and her private practice is located on the same floor as the apartment she is living in.

It is located in the center of Athens, at the “Pedio tou Areos” and there she lived for many years with her husband, who passed away in 2003, and her son, who now is married. Today she is living in this apartment with a lady-companion - a house manager.

Mrs. Yvonne Capuano is a tall, impressive and chic lady who obviously is taking good care of herself. She is a modern lady with many abilities.

On top of being a successful professional, she possesses a wider education and high intellect. Her home is decorated by herself with an impressive classic taste.

Among other things in her home one can find framed embroidery, knitted by Mrs. Capuano herself, and even chairs the upholstery of which has also been knitted by her in complex and particularly difficult designs.

She is very polite and attentive and kept on asking me if I was feeling alright or if I needed anything. When we were looking at old photographs I was very impressed with the difficulty and effort she was putting in because as she said, “These are not photographs but cemeteries.”

  • My family background

I am descended from the Spanish Jewish families that came to Thessaloniki in 1492 following their expulsion by Isabella and Ferdinand 1. This was Isabella the Catholic, who was full of hatred and this is why the expulsion started in Spain and continued in Portugal and other countries.

Our Jewish race has always been persecuted. I believe that in every period there is a thorn, every time there is a different excuse, they will always find something. It does not matter, we fly away and we are always back, we are here and we will always be.

I don’t know any stories of myths about my ancestors, what I know is that when they arrived in Greece, which was part of the Ottoman Empire at that period, they adapted to the Turkish way of life.

When the Jews went to Kastoria, which was a big fur center, they learned all about furs; it is said that the treatment of furs first came to Thessaloniki with the Jews. Many of them established their shops in the Copper place, and learned from the local craftsmen the processing of copper-braze.

They also say that when the Jews went to Istanbul to serve the sultan, as accountants, lawyers, doctors etc., the sultan said, ‘I considered Ferdinand and Isabella intelligent and couldn’t imagine that they would expel such an element from their country.’

My fathers’ father, Joseph Molho, worked for the Turks. He was responsible of a big agricultural exploitation [tsiflikas]. The same applied to my father, Raphael Molho. When my grandfather was working for the Turks he was buying a lot of jewelry for my grandmother Esther, nee Ergas.

They even told me that when Grandfather Molho died, my grandmother, who had six sons said, ‘Whichever bride will give birth to the young Joseph will have all my jewelry.’ Well my mother had two daughters, my aunt four daughters, the next aunt two daughters, the other aunt one – only daughters. It was the youngest of all, Uncle Alberto, when he returned from the concentration camps, who got married and had a son, and young Joseph was born. But Joseph came too late.

I remember my grandfather being dressed in beautiful European clothes. He was wearing a frock-coat. Grandmother Esther was also wearing European clothes, I remember she had the lob of her ear torn because once, as she was wearing earrings a young Turk grabbed it and ran away, and thus her ear was torn.

I don’t know to which school my grandfather Molho went but he spoke French, I don’t know whether he also knew how to write it.

One of my grandfather’s brothers was a very educated man. He had attended the rabbinical school [yeshivah] in Istanbul and, I think, also in Vienna. Later he became the rabbi of Kavala.

When the first racist legislation against the Jews was ordered by the Nazis, as there were also Bulgarians and Germans 2 there, they shouted for the Jews to come out and sweep the city. This uncle, the rabbi, was the first that took a broom and started sweeping.

My grandfather had many brothers, but I was very young at the time. I knew some of them but I don’t remember anything else about them.

My grandparents of the Molho side of the family, since my grandfather worked for the Turks, were always living in Turkish houses. The house I remember was located close to ‘Kamara,’ the Arch of Galerius, where many Turkish houses were situated. It had running water and a fountain in the yard, exactly as the Turks used to have.

Within the yard was a heart-shaped pond and water was coming out of it. It also had the Turkish balcony which is a covered balcony extending out of the house. That is where the women were sitting. They were not going out of the house but sitting around on this balcony where they could see what was going on in the street without being seen.

The house had two stories and I remember a big iron door at the entrance. Inside the floor was made of big marble slabs and the furniture was heavy and massive. It had also many square tables with heavy legs and many sideboards. That was what the furniture looked liked in that period. I found the same kind of furniture in the house of my mother-in-law too.

These Turkish houses had the hall and the dining room in one piece and all around were the bedrooms. When a son got married, he didn’t leave the house. He was given a bedroom of his own, and this is how the brides were living in the same house with their mothers-in-law.

My mother was living with her parents, but I remember one aunt that was living with my Molho grandparents. The other aunt was not living with her mother because her parents had left for Israel, then still Palestine.

I don’t remember if the Molho grandparents ever left Thessaloniki to go on vacation or to travel. I remember them already old. All of their children were married and had their own families.

When my grandfather Molho died in 1930, my grandmother with her daughter, Gracia, and her son-in-law went to live in an apartment in the center of the city, on Pavlou Mela Street. They were staying on the third floor; next to the place the Moskov family 3 was living.

My mother’s parents were Leon Moshe and Bienvenida, nee Florentin. My grandmother’s name means ‘welcome’ in Spanish. There were many names like that at that time.

These grandparents were also living in Thessaloniki, but they were traveling a lot. It was due to my grandfather’s job. I heard that in the beginning he had a factory producing wooden door frames, but later, because he got tired, he got a big shop selling wood and stopped producing it. It wasn’t construction wood but a specialist shop selling wood for furniture, and part of his job was to travel and visit exhibitions.

Despite the fact that he had no formal education he was very avant-garde. He was telling us that when he was young he went to school at the synagogue where they were taught to read and write not Hebrew but Ladino 4, or Judeo-Espanol, and writing in Rashi 5. I call this type of writing ‘little pieces of wood.’ At that period all the people in Thessaloniki were speaking Judeo-Espanol, it was our mother tongue.

My grandmother also knew how to write in Rashi, not with the European alphabet. When her daughter, Sylvia, went to live with her husband in Spain – they got married in 1927 and left in 1930 – my grandmother forced herself to learn also the Latin alphabet in order to be able to write letters to her daughter, who was of course speaking Judeo-Espanol, but didn’t know the Rashi writing.

My grandfather, Leon Moshe, didn’t come from a rich family, but he was a hard working man. He was telling me that when he was a boy he did many jobs and he also worked at the railways 6. I don’t know what exactly he was doing there, I never understood.

Anyhow, his supervisor was an Italian and Grandfather learned very well the Italian language. After that, and knowing Italian, he worked in a wooden frames factory belonging to an Italian and this is how he learned this business. At that period Thessaloniki was an ‘open port,’ a free trading zone, and many different nationalities were gathered there with many Italian and French businessmen.

This grandfather was fat when he was young but later this changed. I remember his eyes…  When he looked at you, you were finished…

He was always dressed elegantly. He wore European clothes and so did my grandmother. She was very coquette and fatty as was in fashion at the time. Her dresses were all embroidered and her hats had feathers. My grandfather was wearing a bow-tie and later he walked with a walking-stick. All my family wore European clothes as they were rather progressive. The only person I remember wearing traditional clothes when she left the house was the mother-in-law of the brother of my grandmother, who was visiting wearing a Kofya, a traditional headgear for Jewish women, which was all knitted with pearls.

What my mother told me is that when she was young every Passover, Pesach, and every New Year’s Eve, Rosh Hashanah, my grandfather bought for each of the kids a fez 7. Thessaloniki was the last city to be liberated from the Turks in 1913. When I see on television the recent Turkish series’ and when I visit Turkey I hear many Turkish words that I am familiar with. Words I heard from my grandfather and my father because they lived in the Ottoman Empire. For example, the word ‘kavgas’ which means fight, I thought it was a Hebrew word and recently I realized it is Turkish.

My grandfather Leon Moshe was very hard working and extremely strict. Jews were men dedicated to their family. My grandfather was the leader of his, a real ‘pater familias.’ I was watching this Turkish series on television and saying to myself, ‘This is Memik? That’s the name of the strict traditional grandfather in the series. Well, that’s my grandfather.’ Oh, he was really strict.

My grandmother Bienvenida was very good and open-hearted but also collected in front of the strict grandfather, yet it is impressive how she always managed to do what she herself wanted. My mother would say, ‘Grandmother asked to go to Spain to see Aunt Sylvia. Grandfather will never say yes.’ But of course they went to visit Sylvia in Spain.

Also, every year they went to France. You know, Thessaloniki was a cosmopolitan city, a small Paris, and it was also the Jews that were offering a particular flair to it. All Jews were civilized people; they had not lived in villages. Since they had no country of their own, as Israel didn’t exist then, they always lived in big cities. They had the particular radiation of the big cities.

I always happen to hear from friends, co-students etc., ‘I will go to my village.’ My village! Thessaloniki and later Athens were the only places I knew. And the Jews in Thessaloniki were more numerous compared to the Christian Greeks, a balance, which, of course, later changed. Thessaloniki was a city that shone. For example my grandfather and my grandmother would never go to Athens; they would go to Paris or to Vienna.

My aunt Sylvia, my mother’s sister, suffered from poliomyelitis and was handicapped. My grandfather would do whatever the doctors would tell him. One of them said, ‘Go, early in the morning, to the slaughter house and get the gall-bladder of a cow that’s just been slaughtered.

Bring it home and put the foot of the girl in it.’ They thought that this would make the nerves to operate again. And so Grandfather would take his carriage with the horses, bring the gall-bladder and put it, as a compress, on his daughter’s foot. Later, in 1914, he took her to Vienna to be treated, imagine, to Vienna in that period!

Even grandmother would go for her gynecological problems to Paris every year. Also, Grandfather would always be the first to go to the wood fairs, to Paris, to Germany etc.; he would also take my mother with him since she spoke French.

In our house, all the tapestry had been ordered by grandfather in Vienna. First came the fabric and then the walls were painted in the same color with golden leaves in blue enamel paint.

None of my grandfathers had gone to the army. It was the Turkish army and neither the Jews nor the Christians would go to the Turkish army. They would even tell the following anecdote: When children were born they would say to the local priest, ‘Father, the child is born; shall I declare it younger or older?

If I declare it older it will be too old and will not be taken to the army, if I declare it to young it will be too young to be taken to the army.’ ‘And why don’t declare the exact birth?’ ‘Is that true, can I do that?’

Or, if necessary, they would let the boys attend, for a couple of months, a priest school so that they wouldn’t be called to the army. This, of course, was valid for the Christians only, not for us. Anyhow, neither my grandfathers nor my father went to the army.

The number of Jews in Thessaloniki was quite high, sixty thousands. Jewish people were quite closely connected among themselves. During the very old days, the ones when I didn’t exist yet, the Jews were quite isolated and kept all the religious traditions, despite the fact that they were in the Diaspora. When they left Spain they locked their houses and took the key with them, as they thought they would return.

When Juan Carlos 8 came to Thessaloniki, the president of the Jewish community welcomed him in Spanish and said, ‘We speak your language, which we carried from that time and we still have our keys of those houses of ours in Spain.’

[‘Hablamos vuestra lingua que trajimos con mosotros cuanto mos huimos de España, i dainda tenemos las llaves de muestras cazas ay.’] Even today in Spain there are many names like our Jewish names as we also brought them with us from there.

Before the war, it was a world somehow secluded. Not that we didn’t have contacts with the Christians. On the contrary. You could see partnerships with one Jewish and on Christian name, and at school we were all together. In conclusion, it was a perfect adaptation.

They would even tell me, ‘Yvonne, you know our festivities better than us, and they would add, ‘Dominique, who knows when her name day may be?’ And I would answer, ‘On the 8th of January.’

Schools were closed during the Christian festivities and not ours. In conclusion, the assimilation was exceptionally high. Not that I forgot our own religion, not at all. Even if I wanted to there were my father, my mother, my grandmother etc.

  • During the war

In that period there were many synagogues 9 in Thessaloniki. I remember our synagogue, the Beit Saoul 10. It was located one bus stop away from home. It was a very beautiful synagogue on the main street, but to enter it you had to walk a long narrow yard with trees and flowers on the left and on the right side of it, and when you reached the end of this yard you entered the synagogue.

All these synagogues were destroyed during the war and now there is only one synagogue left, the ‘big synagogue’ as we call it, the ‘Monastirioton’ 11. It is the only one that wasn’t destroyed as it became a Red Cross depot. Today, this synagogue, the ‘big synagogue’ opens only for special events, however in the Modiano market there is the ‘small synagogue’ [the ‘Yad Lezicaron’] which operates normally every day.

Before the war there were many Jewish organizations. I remember the Mizrachi Club 12, which was opposite our house on Cyprus Street. They even had a football team. In its localities they organized marriages, bar mitzvahs and it operated during the big festivities.

I remember the brides, the poor ones, coming, and upon the arrival of the bride by car, and while the people were waiting, one would say, ‘Aide take the bride for another ride with the car, for who knows when will be her next use of a car.’ You see, they were poor girls, servants etc.

Marriages were also held at the Matanot Laevionim 13, which means ‘presents for the poor.’ This was a charitable center that had been erected by my uncle Jacques, my mother’s brother. In the basement they were offering, every day, free meals to the poor children, on the first floor marriages were held.

At this place the engagement ceremony as well as the marriage of my uncle Jacques took place. A very nice marriage with live music, an orchestra and all kind of things…

I don’t know what this place is used for today. However, I remember that even during the occupation, they were offering free meals to the poor people. It was close to the Mizrachi Club. During that time there also existed a mikveh but I cannot recall where it was.

There were also many Jewish schools. There was the Alliance 14, the Talmud Torah for the less wealthy, I think, and also there were the ‘Lycée’ and the private Jewish schools of Altzeh, Gatenio, and Madame Yehode. The Jews were also going to the American College 15, the German school and the Greek private schools of Schina and Valagianni. I don’t remember any other schools.

There was the ‘Association des Anciens Elèves de l’ Alliance Francaise Universelle.’

Also there were many Jewish women welfare organizations because we had a lot of poverty. There were big areas of the city occupied by poor, very poor families. Usually our servants, who were sleeping in our house, came from those areas.

We were very many Jews living in the city, spread all over it. There were no exclusive Jewish quarters. Only the very poor neighborhoods were exclusively Jewish like the ‘151’ 16, the ‘7’… The ‘151’ was located higher than Harilaou, the other was close to the First Army Camps that is higher than Vasilissis Olgas, which was a central avenue.

On top of it was the Army Avenue and higher was an area called ‘koulibas,’ which means huts. Then there was another area next to the railway station [the Baron Hirsch], which during the occupation became the transport center for the trains that took the Jews to Auschwitz. In conclusion, there were many poor Jewish neighborhoods.

One poor Jewish neighborhood called ‘Campbell’ [where approximately 220 poor Jewish families lived] had been attacked by the ‘EEE’ or ‘3E’ 17. I remember that all were scared and it was the only subject of discussion. It was a wave of anti-Semitism.

When Venizelos 18 came, he brought with him anti-Semitism to Thessaloniki. The organization ‘EEE,’ which stands for National Union Hellas, had set the neighborhood on fire 19. They all said that Venizelos was behind it.

I don’t know, but I think that in a country and city where Jews live, giving them an element of civilization, they normally should be well taken care of. Hate is not good. Hate creates hate and violence brings violence. Being soft and good with people brings positive results.

If you behave well towards someone, he will certainly behave well towards you too. We are all together in it. When people are shouting, and someone wants to say something, if he speaks in low tone, immediately the others get silent in order to listen to him. What I mean to say is that people are copying and mimicking what the majority is doing.

The Jews of Thessaloniki covered all possible professions. Many were merchants, others tanners. They were so honest among themselves that it was said they were not asking for receipts. Their word was the receipt. This was said to me by an acquaintance, Mr. Noah, who was a merchant of cotton and wool.

Until once arrived someone who cheated him a big sum, and following this negative experience, he started asking for receipts. He said, ‘I didn’t want to take receipts, it was the others that forced me to.’

Also the Jews were the ones operating the port of Thessaloniki. They worked as porters, loaders, unloaders, etc. and these are the same people that set up the operation of the Haifa port. They had a particular pack-saddle on which they loaded what they transported. They were divided in different specializations. Specialists for carrying strong boxes, others for lighter loads, and specialists for weights over a hundred and fifty kilograms

I have seen pictures of these porters in the book of Yiannis Megas, ‘Memories of the life of Jewish community of Thessaloniki 1897-1917, editions Capon, Athens 1993.’ There you can see this particular saddle they were wearing, as also the traditional dress they used [antari]. I also remember house removals executed by using a long thin cart, very big. All the house furniture was loaded on this cart and it was pulled by one or two work-horses.

I remember that there were a number of cars in the city, not many private cars as compared to the taxis. Many taxis. And tram also, for public transport. And many cobbled streets. The big avenue, Vassilisis Olgas, was cobbled. And as the tram was passing on it, it made a huge noise. There were many other cobbled streets as well as many with earth and mud.

My father, Raphael Molho, was the first of ten siblings. Second was Saoul, who was very intelligent and had a lot of humor. When there was an engagement or marriage they would all gather at the grandparents’ house. Saoul was the clown of the family.

He survived Auschwitz because he behaved the same way with the Germans. He might have said to them, “Count on me on whatever you want,’ etc. He was very funny. He would say to his mother, ‘Mama sew me a button, please.’ ‘Amen, I will sew it, go and get married.’ ‘Mother, should I get married for a single button?’ Saoul got married but left his wife and child in Auschwitz. When he returned to Thessaloniki he remarried.

Then there was Gracia who died in Auschwitz, and so did her husband. They had no children.

The fourth child was Jacques. Jacques got married before the war, to a very beautiful girl called Daisy, and went to live in France. He worked in Grenoble, and they had a daughter.

Then there was Charles who lived in Belgium before World War II. He survived Auschwitz and returned to Belgium. He had no children.

The sixth child was Dario who stayed in Thessaloniki, and was deported and murdered in Auschwitz.

Then came the twins, Lisa and Bella. Lisa died in Auschwitz with her two children, while Bella had left earlier for Israel, then Palestine. She died there in 1980.

The youngest brother, Alberto, survived Auschwitz but left there his wife and two daughters. When he returned he remarried and had a son called Joseph.

There was also Mois, who had committed suicide for romantic reasons, but I know nothing more about him.

Both my father and his brothers and sisters graduated from the German School of Thessaloniki, which was a private school. Out of my uncles four came back from the concentration camps in Germany, because they knew the German language.

Before the war, the Jews of Thessaloniki were very fond of Germany. Most families would get a ‘Schwester,’ that is, a sister/governess, in their houses from Germany. Of course this changed later….

My mother is Erietta, nee Moshe. In her family there were two sisters and two brothers, Jacques, Mario, Erietta and Sylvia. One of my uncles, Jacques Moshe, was very well known as he was the best engineer in Greece. My grandfather had brought to his home a ‘Schwester’ – Gelda was her name I believe – whose husband had died in World War I in 1914, and she was the teacher of the children at my mother’s house.

If there is a reason that my mother got out of the Haidari camp, a prison in Athens – because she was caught – as well as my grandfather, my grandmother and Uncle Jacques, it was because of the knowledge of the German language.

My mother had gone to school at the Alliance. I think that schooling lasted three years at the time. They were taught sewing, housekeeping, and then they arranged to get them married.

My mother was friends with the twin sisters of my father, Lisa and Bella. This is how she got to know my father. My father was working with his own father, and he also had his own big land, ‘tsiflic,’ from the Turks.

My grandfather constructed for my mother’s marriage in 1917 a set of very good furniture. And then came the big fire of Thessaloniki in 1917 20 and all was burned. Of course the marriage wasn’t postponed. So after the marriage my grandfather made new furniture for his daughter.

When they got married they first bought an apartment overlooking the sea like in Venice. Right in front of it, the waters were deep, so my mother used to put us in a rowboat and we were going opposite to Alexander the Great, where the waters were shallow and people were swimming, and we would also swim with our mother.

I was born in the month of June and when I was two months old, Mother must have taken me into the sea to swim. Later both my sister and myself, when we had whooping cough, and as they said that the sea would be good for us, my mother kept on taking us swimming with the boat. At this particular house there was a common yard that we shared with the apartment next door. Jews, very good people. They do not exist any more.

Also, on the other side lived Sonia Petridou, whose origins were from Russia, divorced with two children, who wasn’t on speaking terms with us. I’m not sure whether she was divorced or not, but we never saw a husband. One evening she was very sick, so her daughter Milia, who was the same age as my sister, came to us and called in the night, ‘Mrs. Errieti, Mrs. Errieti, please come.’

And my mother called the doctor and stayed next to her continuously for two days until she got well. After that Sonia told her, ‘I never thought that you Jews were like that.’ She came from Russia and it seems they had anti-Semitism there. Anyhow, after that incident they became good friends.

We left this house when I was six years old because it was very cold and my mother suffered from rheumatism. I remember we didn’t have parquet, that is wooden flooring but tarpaulin, and as the wind, the northern wind of Thessaloniki called Vardaris, was blowing, we could see the tarpaulin pieces moving. So we left that place and went to live at my grandmother’s.

Their house was also close to the sea. First there was the sea, then Queen Olga Avenue, and right after it was Cyprus Street and the Archaeological Museum Street perpendicular to Cyprus Street and Queen Olga Avenue.

The street where we lived started at Archaeological Museum Street and ended at Karaiskaki Street. The area was called ‘Pate – Phaliro’ and where it was situated, I could get out of the house, on the balcony, and see the sea right in front of me.

Cyprus Street was not a big street. It was a residential street. It had nine or ten houses, and in every house on each floor lived one family. In the house next door, which had three floors, lived three families. Only in our house, on two floors, it was just us, while normally it could have accommodated two families. We stayed in this house quite a long time, almost all our life.

The house was facing Cyprus Street, but its back part, the garage where Uncle Jacques was parking his car, was facing the street in the back, Broufa Street. In the front was the good big door, which was the door we used to enter.

However, there was another door, a smaller one, with a corridor that led to the kitchen. This is the door that the grocer used when he was bringing us our shopping.

A characteristic of this house was the quantity of honeysuckle. Honeysuckle covered the two pillars on which the door was hanging, and there was so much that sometimes we had difficulties to fully open this door. The house was dubbed ‘the house with the honeysuckle.’ In the morning, when I was leaving for school, it smelled so intensely and from such a distance that I kept its smell in my nostrils all day long.

Upon entering there was a straight surface, on the left a small garden and the marble escalator with its handrail covered with honeysuckle. The house was full of its smell. One bedroom was facing this small garden and the other two bedrooms were looking at the back port. The kitchen was facing the yard where there was also honeysuckle.

Next to the garage there was a house where some friends of ours lived. They were Jews that lived in the city of Kavala. The father was a tobacco merchant and they would come for a few days and stay at his mother’s house in Thessaloniki. I met these people later in Athens and we became good friends.

With the older brother of this family – he does not live anymore – we were playing together. He died in a car accident. Back then we were playing ball. It was not usual at all, playing ball from balcony to balcony, we could have broken window-panes, of course, so the parents would shout at us, but it was fun.

Also, this home of ours shared a common wall with the home of my grandmother’s brother, which was also a two-story house. Inside our house on the wall, next to the escalator, we had opened a big hole in the wall, like a door, and we could come and go from our home to the home of my mother’s uncle and aunt.

The uncle was called Jacob Florentin, but we called him ‘Pasha,’ which is a Turkish word, because he was very handsome. His wife was Aunt Esterina and they had five children, two boys and three girls. The oldest one, Sylvia got married at the age of 14 in Paris. She only died three years ago.

I loved her very much. The oldest son, Mevo, went to the army and the other son, Leon, was sent to Israel [then Palestine] when he was very young, to the first farm school, during the British Mandate, that was around 1933.

The second daughter, Jeanne, was the same age as my older sister. They were also sharing the same milk as both mothers took turns in breast feeding the two girls. The youngest one, Dolly, was two or three years younger than me, so we were growing up all together.

Each Sunday we were playing ‘tombola.’ I still remember the pieces an when it was piece 22 my uncle would shout, ‘Ducklings, suckling,’ and when it was the 11, ‘Wood nails, wood nails.’ Wood nails were those small thin wooden nails used to repair high quality shoes.

I remember my mother and Mrs. Soli and Mrs. Regina playing cards in the afternoons. Mother had many friends, who she knew through Grandmother, as Grandmother also liked to play cards and they were gathering at her place to play. Father didn’t know and never played cards. Neither did Grandfather. But Grandmother did, she liked it. She was a gambler.

Our house was a family home. Of course, with the many brothers my father had, we organized big dinners on the holidays. It was a custom at those dinners to have ‘uevos enchaminados,’ eggs cooked in the oven. We put them in the oven all night, as today we do with a casserole.

We cover the bottom of the casserole with dry onion leaves, tea, coffee, pepper and salt and then we put a layer of eggs and then again onions etc. and again add some olive oil and we let them boil for six or seven hours.

These eggs come out brown on the outside, and brownish like marble inside and have a special taste. These eggs were normally prepared on the high holidays such as Pesach, Rosh Hashanah, but even on ordinary days, as to some they are irresistible.

Another custom we had on Pesach and Rosh Hashanah was to exchange visits. My father would visit all the family and all the relatives would visit us with their children and we exchanged eggs. We would visit the other homes and return with eggs in our pockets. This was the custom.

I also remember that on Yom Kippur we were supposed to fast. My mother would bring us chestnuts, as it was their season, and would say, ‘Children, if you get hungry eat the chestnuts but do it in secret.’ So my friends Mendi Hassid, myself and Dolly from the next house would sit secretly together, clean the chestnuts, powder them with sugar and eat them. We would call them ‘the grandfather.’ I can’t remember why.

At home the language we were speaking was Spanish, or Judeo-Espanol, but also French and Greek. My parents, however, when they wanted to share a secret would use German, which we didn’t understand.

We also had a servant at home, to help with the housework. The only thing she never did was to cook, as this was the job of my mother and my grandmother. The ladies would cook as they didn’t do much more. They didn’t go out either; they would cook in big stoves like fireplaces with the ash falling down.

In the bathroom we had a water-heater operating with wood and in the winter we would heat the rooms with beautiful wood burning porcelain stoves, which were manufactured in Vienna. We had two such stoves, one of them was very big and you could lift the cover to heat cheese pies and other things.

At that time we would eat mostly pies. The traditional meal, even on Friday evening, was a pie. Cheese pie, eggplant pie, etc. One of these two stoves is now at my niece’s house.

When I was young I was taken care of by my grandmother and my mother. My father was very good but rather strict. As for me, I was very energetic, a monster!

The Jews of Thessaloniki were good husbands and family men. Even now I hear Christians saying, ‘I would very much like a Jew as husband for my daughter.’ The importance of family was highly appreciated by the Jews of Thessaloniki. The men would become good husbands and the women good mothers.

Now, of course, things have changed, as there has been a lot more elastic attitudes, but in that period we were living all together; my grandmother Molho, for example, would certainly pay a visit to our place at least twice a week.

In that period there was no telephone. It is worth mentioning that when Grandmother wanted to pay a visit to a relative, we would have to send a person, usually the grocer who was carrying our shopping, to pass the news for the forthcoming visit. There was no other way.

We installed our telephone at home in 1934. I remember once we called from Thessaloniki to Athens, as my uncle, Jacques, the engineer, also had an office in Athens and was traveling a lot. He had many construction sites in Thessaloniki like the Macedonian Studies building, the Mediterranean Hotel and others, many, many. So once we called Athens – via a telephone center and an operator, of course.

I was eight years old at the time and I remember that all the adults were very impressed. My mother and grandmother would say to everyone, ‘We did it, we talked with Athens.’ The also wrote about this news to Aunt Sylvia in Spain.

What a celebration! At that time, the most someone could do was to send a telegram, and the telegram was mostly used in order to inform people unexpected – of sudden news, like a death, an engagement, etc.

My father, I remember, would read French books. My mother didn’t read very much. They would both go to the Mizrachi club which was opposite our house and would be open for example on Yom Kippur, Rosh Hashanah. As for myself I wouldn’t go with them to the synagogue, we didn’t go very often. I remember going many times to the Beit Saoul synagogue for marriages though.

My parents were not involved with political parties as politics didn’t enter our house. Of course they always were conservatives, never leftists. I believe the only club my father would go is Alliance and this is, by itself, impressive as he had graduated from the German school.

When I was a kid I played a lot. Always with boys. We used to play ‘thieves and policemen’ for example, in our second home on Cyprus Street. I was always playing the policeman and of course my knees were continuously wounded. At the Hirsch Hospital 21, now it’s called the Hippocratio Hospital, they knew me very well as  I was a frequent visitor, once to have the one leg stitched, next time the other etc.

In that period we were frequently going to Aidipsos for baths, since the hot springs there were considered very healthy. We would first go by boat to Volos. The boat would stop at the Volos port for loading and we would go for a walk, using a small train, and then we would return to the boat, when it was loaded, and it would then take us to Aidipsos. There was no other way of going there at that time. Upon arrival there, the porter would come to carry our belongings and we would walk to the hotel.

In Thessaloniki we didn’t go to restaurants, we would normally stay at home, while my parents would rarely go the movies or to an evening party organized by an uncle. It was a rather conservative family life and there were almost no restaurants. I remember one restaurant called ‘Olympus-Naoussa.’

To the movies we were going quite frequently in Thessaloniki. Many cinemas, after the film, would also have theatrical performances. There  was the Apollo [at the eastern port of the city], the Alexander the Great [a music hall – night club by the sea at 62, Queen Olga Avenue]. I only remember these two.

I remember my mother saying to everyone that she would go to the theater to see ‘Dybbuk’ by An-ski 22, and she went to see it twice with my father.

Alexander the Great was by the sea, where we were going to swim. As there was no mixed swimming then, boys were swimming with boys and girls with girls. During the summer, Alexander the Great had also a stage.

Many famous actors and actresses, all the big names, would come to perform, like Hero Hatza and others whose names I don’t remember. When I grew up and came to live in Athens, when I saw them, in local theater performances, I recognized them, as I had seen them before in Thessaloniki, but had not kept their names in mind. Hero Hatzas, [Kyriacos] Mavreas, and many others.

They played ‘Les deux orphelines,’ [by A. Ph. Dennery, 1897]. I was insistent, asking my mother continuously, to take me to see it but she refused. Finally she gave in and took me to see it, and I was crying throughout the duration of the play, as I remember.

In Thessaloniki at that time there were no theatrical groups or actors, but theatrical companies would visit the city as part of their tour. This is happening today too, theatrical tours to Thessaloniki. Mesologgitis would come to play and he would make us laugh very much. I don’t remember other theaters, only these two.

I also remember, Palace 23, at the old quay, which was a cinema, and so was Ilysia. There was also the Pathé, which was very close to where we lived in Phaliron and Constantinidi Street. The street has this name as earlier the Constantinides School was located there. Today the School of the Blind and a baby nursery are in its place.

Very close was also the French nursery school called ‘The children of the Lycée.’ I went there for a year because it was very close to our house at the Constantinidis bus station.

For elementary school I went to the Jewish school in order to acquire the principles. We had various lessons, religion too. We learned about Ruth, the sacrifice of Abraham, the fat and the thin cows. Everything was taught in the Greek language, but two hours a week we also had Hebrew. We also had French every day as this language was spoken as frequently as Greek.

Out of my teachers I remember Miss Paula who was teaching us Greek. Later, when I was in the third or fourth grade, she was appointed by the state and left. We also had house keeping, needlecraft, drawing, painting, things like that. We also had history of the Greek Revolution, Composition and all the other lessons.

Only in the morning we would say our own prayer, ‘Shema Israel.’ I remember our Hebrew teacher, who had a wooden ruler, and when he asked something we didn’t know he hit us with the ruler straight on the nail.

After the elementary school I took exams to go to the gymnasium, the secondary school.

I went to the 2nd Girls’ Gymnasium which was a public school. It was a very good school, not only in terms of teaching. There were many girls from good families, but also poor girls like the daughters of the launderers and others... We had classmates from all sort of origins.

I was a good student and never had problems with my professors. After Rika Coulandrou, I was the second of my class with regards to my academic excellence. Rika is also a microbiologist and now lives in Psychiko. Her marital name is now Constandinidou.

After many years she told me that while at school she had felt anxiety that I would surpass her, because we were almost equal in performance.

I had another classmate, Kate Palaisti, who was a niece of the great singer Marica Palaisti; I remember her very well as she always had a runny nose. This Kate I met many, many years later in New York through my nephew Laki Reccanati, who lives there. It is a long story… And I met some other classmates again too, like Danai, whom I found quite recently, and it was a happy occasion as I remembered the past.

I also remember best friend Vouli, who got married to Bassias, a radiologist in Thessaloniki. Another friend of mine is the daughter of the doorkeeper, not a close friend but a friend. She also got married to a very good doctor in Heracleio Athens, or South Patissia.

We talk on the phone from time to time. This is the right thing to do, that is, to keep in touch and be on ridded neither in your thinking nor on your judgment.

I have to admit that as a trained doctor I never took notice getting into a poor or rich house. I never made a distinction. I always looked at the person, what he or she was never mattered and was left out, and this is how things should be. I did the same thing with my son, exactly as I had been taught by my grandfather.

I remember in first and second grade of the gymnasium we went to the parade. We went next to the beach, where there’s a street for cars now, while at that time it was only for walking – 25th March Street.

We had a pass for the bus, paying half the fare, we would pay for a semester or a whole year, so that we didn’t have to carry money for transport but just had to show our pass to the bus-driver.

Opposite our school was the 5th Gymnasium for Boys and there were many handsome boys there. As for me, I was rather young, but we had the intelligent ones, the ‘vivid’ as we called them. What vivid, it is crap. They were only looking in the eyes, this was the vividness. So as we were passing in front of the boys’ gymnasium and going towards the waterfront the boys would call us, ‘One two, one two. Chest out, the first one, chest out.’

Except for school I was also attending the music school and the English institute. The institute was at Aristotelous Place, where we were going by tram and when we finished we were together going to Flocaki, a patisserie which started in Thessaloniki and today is a chain all over Greece, to eat a pastry. Back then there was the Flocas and the little Floca, the Flocaki as we called it, which was located in a small street, Agiou Minas Street, in the center of Thessaloniki.

remember some particular pastries called ‘Plaisir des Dames’ which were round. Actually it was a roll with chocolate outside and cream chocolate filling. The sweets at Flocas were rather small as compared to other more popular sweet-makers whose sweets were huge.

I was very impressed when I went to the United States, to Astoria, the Greek center, where I got into a pastry shop called ‘The White Tower.’ It reminded me very much those neighborhood pastry shops with pastries as big as a plate, while at Flocas pastries were small and elegant.

The music school was at the grounds of the International Fair of Thessaloniki 24. It was easy to go there on foot. I recall that when I started going there, my mother knew every detail of what I was doing there and I kept wondering how my mother managed to learn everything in detail.

Once, while visiting my Molho grandmother, I saw Aunt Gracia talking to Mr. Karantsis, who was the director of the music school. He was living next to my grandmother and aunt, and then I knew how my mother was so well informed. I was about nine years old at that time. Those years were very good, I also had friends from the music school and my teacher there was Mrs. Emily, who was a Jew.

And later I was a member of the mixed chorus of Mr. Floros and once we sang at the Palace theater house that song which says ‘Alleluia.’ Kaufman sang solo the ‘Ave Maria’ and we accompanied her. At that time there were two piano schools; one was Margarite’s and the other Kaufman’s, who was a German Jew. The Kaufman that sang solo was his daughter. The performance was very beautiful, and I still have vivid memories of it.

We even got an award. Where is this award? Well, we left [during the Holocaust] and what did we find afterwards? Nothing! We had given things to people to hide for us, and when we returned my mother would see the same things at their houses but they would say, ‘There is nothing left, they took everything from us.’ What to say.

The best of all was that we were girl scouts. Every Saturday we gathered at the YMCA. The place where recently, in September 2005, there was a big fire. I was a girl scout and we were all divided in four groups, the leader and the deputy leader. The group I was in was called ‘Amarantos.’ We were six girl scouts and our chief was Lena Zanna, the mother of Samaras, a Greek politician and granddaughter of Delta 25.

How much did I wish for Saturday to arrive. We did a lot of things. We played detection games; we did our good deed every month, carrying flour and sugar to a poor family. Small things, but they wanted to teach to us how to help, to offer help to our fellow humans.

My clover-leaf had the number 124. 124, I was on the second team that Mrs. Zanna, the daughter of Mrs. Delta, was the trustee of and so was Mrs. Syndika. I was always carrying this clover-leaf with me, for it to bring me good luck, in all my examinations at university. The clover-leaf and a teddy bear.

As I mentioned before, my father was strict. My parents didn’t permit me to go to parties. Right opposite our house was ‘Radio Tsiggiridi.’ This was the first radio station in Thessaloniki, once I was invited to a party there by the son of the Tsiggiridi family.

My father refused to give me permission. This same son, Tsiggiridi, I met a few years ago in Athens, at a tea party he had at his place. That’s when I remembered this little episode.

My father also didn’t give me permission to go for an excursion with the girl scouts. They had planned to go to Lake Doirani. I went to bed early and left the blinds open so that the morning sun would wake me up.

However, my father came in at night and shut the blinds. That’s how I woke up late and missed the excursion. You see, we were not going on big excursion at school, so I had been looking forward to this one with very high expectations.

At school we were going for walks, to Aretsou. Once with the girl scouts we even went to Perea. I spent long hours in the sun and got sunburned, I returned home red from the sunburn. I was a very energetic child, a monster; if I had been in my father’s place, I would have been as strict as him.

However, I was permitted to go to the movies. Uncle Dario, who later died in Auschwitz, had a cinema of his own. So he gave me a permit, a ‘passe partout,’ to get in the cinema free of charge.

This way I would take with me a friend and we would get in without paying. At 2 o’clock the screening started. When I could, I would go at 4 o’clock, that is from 4 to 6, but my mother always knew. I had her permission as at that time I was only 14 years old.

I didn’t graduate from the gymnasium in Thessaloniki, as it closed during the war and I came here, to Athens. After the schools opened we covered three school years in three months so that we wouldn’t lose out on time. I really was ‘illiterate,’ all those lessons I read later on my own, and following those three months of schooling I got into the medical school in 1943.

At the declaration of the war with the Italians 26 we were in Thessaloniki. I remember that despite the fact that I was a young girl, I went to the hospital and asked to work there as a volunteer. As I had won the first award of the girl scouts in first aid I had the impression to have won the entire world.

When the doctor saw me, a girl that young, well, what could he tell me? He said, ‘We want volunteers, but for the time being we are not that desperate and when we will really need you we will inform you.’ And I was left in deep sorrow to return home.

I said to myself, now with the schools closed, unemployment etc. what can I do? So I learned how to knit and started going to the rabbi’s wife with another 15 ladies to knit pullovers for the army. In the beginning I knitted straight but later I also learned to knit with five needles for gloves and seamless socks, so that they would be smooth to the skin.

When the Italians declared the war, bombings started. Our houses, which were made of stone, were not that strongly built and couldn’t survive a bombing. So we decided to build an air raid shelter. This shelter was on the lower floor.

It was a corridor that led from the servant’s room to the kitchen, and this door we closed, my uncle put reinforced concrete cement and I don’t know what else. The people living next door were also coming to this shelter. In order to deal with our fear my parents would say, ‘We have no fear because if the bomb falls at the front side of the shelter we will come out from the back side.’ I really think that had a bomb fell upon us everything would have come down. My aunt would not come, as she had moved to a house in front of the sea.

With the bombings we decided to come to Athens in 1941. My grandfather, my mother and myself. Especially since during the summer, while we were at Aidipsos, happened the incident with the navy ship ‘Elli,’ which was bombed and sunk.

My grandmother was already in Athens, at my uncle Mario’s, as she had decided not to go to Paris for her yearly gynecological treatment, but chose Athens instead. She had even taken my sister with her. This way we all met here, in Athens.

When we left for Athens from Thessaloniki, it was during the Albanian war, and the trains were carrying the army, so we took a bus. It was grandfather, my mother and myself. It was an old bus with 16 seats, and we got into it, twenty persons, Jews as well as Christians.

The Germans had not arrived yet. We left early one Tuesday morning in March, and we arrived in Athens on Friday in the afternoon. It took us over three days for such a short trip.

It was then that a small earthquake shook Larissa and our driver almost fell asleep on the steering wheel. They would wake him up and shout at him, so that he wouldn’t fall asleep, but they insisted that he wouldn’t stop at Larissa due to the tremor. Thursday night we slept in Thiva, in a hotel full of bugs and fleas.

Early on Friday morning we heard the sirens as the city was bombarded, and we left and it took us five hours to reach Athens. Can you imagine it, five hours to Athens from Thiva? At the end of our trip we saw the Acropolis and couldn’t believe it in our joy.

And another thing: we had paid four or five golden sovereigns per person for the whole trip, and all during this trip I was traveling on my mother’s knees. I don’t remember how many ‘kokorakia, small roosters’ I swallowed during this trip – this was the word we used for aspirins.

When we arrived in Athens, we were accommodated at my Uncle Mario’s place, who lived on Ploutarchou Street in Kolonaki, from March to September. Uncle Jacques was staying on the top floor, the penthouse, on Kriezotou Street, but it was a very small place. In April the Germans entered and occupied Athens, and they set up camp on Ploutarchou Street.

At that point in time the racist legislation had not been passed yet, so we had no problem. We even talked on the phone with my father in Thessaloniki. He wouldn’t come to Athens. He would say, ‘I have my job to take care of, my brothers too, we will see, I will come later.’

We stayed here, in Athens, and made two big efforts to arrange for my father to come here: once with a boat owner and once with the help of a policeman. Unfortunately he was arrested in a roadblock two hours before departing for Athens. He was taken to Auschwitz and never came back.

In April we rented a furnished apartment at Ypsilantou 41 and Marasli Street, which was very close to my uncle Mario’s on Ploutarchou and Ypsilandou Street. It was a small apartment with an entrance, a bathroom to the right and the sitting room and a dining room.

The kitchen could be shut out and didn’t look like kitchen. It was the first time that I saw such a thing, like a sliding cupboard that would shut the kitchen out. The bedroom that my grandparents were using had a balcony looking out on Ypsilantou Street.

We were the only ones that also had a stove and when it was very cold the neighbors would come to warm up. On the floors there were carpets. In front of my grandparents’ room was a storage space under the floor, where we would put our suitcases etc. In this storage space I was saved later.

My sister had been hiding with the Karounidis family, who were ship-owners, while I went to a house in Pangrati to baby-sit a child. However, I didn’t stay as the man of the family behaved with what we describe today as sexual harassment, and this is why I left within a week and returned home. After I left, I stayed at my aunt’s so that I could be with my cousin May.

This is when my uncle learned about the new racist legislation, so we left and hid in Agia Paraskevi. There, there was a farm, but as we were afraid that the local people had understood that we were hiding, we left and went to stay at Tavros. The house was owned by the aunt of Koula, the Christina fiancée of the son of Nissim, who lived in Paris.

But even there, my uncle recognized somebody working at a neighboring farm, who used to work at a grocery shop in Kolonaki, and so we were forced to move from there too. I went back to our apartment, my uncle hid close to the Acropolis and my aunt with her daughter May, who had finished German studies in Dresden, Germany, found a job as an in-house teacher of German for the child of some lady. As for myself, I once again had to find a place to hide.

My uncle Mario had a friend called Aristotelis Stamatiadis, who was working at the Ionian Popular Bank. He sent me to a friend of his in Ekali, I remember I went in the morning to the bank wearing a scarf and looking down so that nobody would recognize me.

Mr. Stamatiadis took me to Mr. Telemachos Apostolpoulos, the bank manager. He died recently, at the age of 104, and he was included on the list of the Righteous Among the Nations 27 by Yad Vashem 28.

His sister, Toula, was the secretary of the National Bank manager, but she had been transferred to the office of Archbishop Damaskinos 29. Damaskinos was a ‘shelter,’ protecting whatever you could imagine: communists, New Zealanders, who had fought with Australians and Greeks against the Germans, when Germany invaded Greece, Jews etc.

My G-d how much he helped us [the interviewee starts crying]. I put myself in his position and ask myself would I risk as much as Archbishop Damaskinos did or Toula, or Memis, Telemachos. It happened because we were facing the same enemy, or maybe it is because we Greeks are great souls.

This is how I went to live in Ekali and I had with me the Physics books, as this was the only subject left from my first year’s exams. The professors was Mr. Hondros, he was a special man with great courage.

On 25th March, the national holiday, when we were not in hiding yet, he had gathered a group of us, students, and we went to the Hero’s Tomb to crown it, with a garland made of grass and herbs. We also sang the national anthem, and when the Italians realized what was going on they came after us and hit us in order to force us to scatter.

This house in Ekali was a three-story villa belonging to Mrs. Apostolopolou’s daughter who, in order to keep away the Germans, who could have requisitioned it, somehow managed to get a medical diagnosis, saying that she was suffering from psychological neurological problems and that it was me who would be occupied as governess there. There was also a gardener and a young girl for doing small jobs. It was good there.

Opposite there were some houses, where another Jewish family was hiding, with two children, but they weren’t very smart, as every Sunday they had a party. Once I had heard the lady talking in the street to her children and saying, ‘This is not possible, these kids, I am unable to get used to your new names!’ That’s how I knew they were Jews.

However the gardener, who at the same time was like a porter, going from one house to the other, he knew all the details and spilled them out, and he informed us about the party and what sort of meatballs the people next door cooked.

Mrs. Apostolopoulou would always say to him, ‘And what do we care about all these details Kostas?’ And then he informed us that the Antoniadou family were Jews in reality and their last name was Levi and this was a piece of information given to him very confidentially.

Throughout the occupation I very rarely went to see my mother. On 27th January I went to see them. When I visited I would normally sleep at Mrs. Maria Papadimouli’s place, next door.

My family lived at 41 Ypsilandtou Street, while they stayed at No. 39. Mr. Papadimoulis was a pharmacist at the Evagelismos hospital, while Mrs. Maria was making orthopedic corsets. They were good people and neighbors and, as I said, when I was visiting my family I stayed for the night at their place.

On that particular night of 27th January, my mother told me, ‘Yvonne, there is a party in the neighborhood tonight, there will be people coming and going and you will certainly be seen. And of course they will ask why you are here, so why go? You will stay here.’

I went to make my bed and Mother told me, ‘Leave it, we will share the same bed, we will talk and hold each other.’ I agreed. That was the night that the diplomatic relations between Argentina and Germany broke down. My family were Argentinean subjects but with faulty papers. At midnight the bell rang.

The sixth sense of my mother saved us. Had I been on a bed by myself, when the Germans came looking into our house, even if I had had the time to hide, a used, lukewarm bed would have given me away. This way we rushed, opened the storage space under the floor, I hid in it and my mother put the carpet on top.

My family didn’t open the door immediately in order to give me time to hide my belongings. And so, when the Germans came in, who in the meantime had rung many other doorbells, they didn’t find me. I stayed in this hiding place for two and a half hours, and throughout this time I was praying silently.

That night, the Germans had gone to other apartments too. First they went to Admiral Petroheilos, who was new to the block of apartments and didn’t know us. Then they went to Mr. Litsos as Mr. Petroheilos sent them to him. After him they came to us: ‘Are you the Moshe family? You are under arrest as the diplomatic relations between Argentina and Germany have broken down.’

They went into my grandparents’ room, stepping on the top cover of the hiding place I was in, and I could hear their steps: ‘Bam boom, bam boom, made their boots!’ At some moment I heard my grandmother asking, ‘Where will you take us?’ and he replied, ‘Tonight to a palace and tomorrow to Germany.’

This ‘tomorrow to Germany’ was actually the Haidari concentration camp where they stayed for seven months. I also remember the Germans telling them, ‘Whatever you have with you, furs, jewelry etc. take it with you as it is cold out there.’

My mother pretended to wear some gloves and as she was wearing some rings, she threw them into the gloves and saved them, and as she had also her jewelry, she was informing me, and so did my grandfather, in Spanish of what exactly they were doing. ‘Yvonne, here I place some papers’…and this and that… and mother said, ‘All the jewelry is in the little beige bag of mine, and I put it behind the bathtub.’

Anyhow, they took grandfather and grandmother. ‘Ai, Ai,’ I thought to myself, ‘they are going to hit my mother.’ But it was not like that. They had come with a small car, a Fiat 500, so they couldn’t fit in all of them. So they left my mother with the interpreter. This Greek ruffian, the traitor who was speaking Greek!

As my mother got into the room she saw him opening the drawers of a commode. ‘What are you doing there,’ shouted my mother, ‘you didn’t come to search our place, you came to arrest us, so shut it immediately.’

Mother had her own ways, you see. And then I heard mother calling out to the neighbor, ‘Mrs. Maria, the three of us are leaving, so please keep an eye on the apartment.’ Mrs. Maria, of course, knew very well that I was in there. Anyhow, I waited for an hour and I heard steps on the escalator.

It was Mr. Litsos, the landlord, who was coming down … the staircase was wooden. He was fond of Germans as he had studied in Germany and worked for the Germans. He went out to see the German stamp outside the house. Earlier I had heard my mother saying that after stamping the house, they would also cut the power.

I waited, and waited for Litsos to go and came out of my hiding place with great difficulty, as it had been stuck from the Germans walking on it. I came out like a snake and was still scared that they would see me. I got dressed in the dark, because I was afraid there might be a German guard outside the house.

Opposite our place lived a girl whose father was English and her mother was German. This way they had very good relations with both the English and the Germans. So I went to her and told her, “could I please bring you some stuff for hiding”?

My mother had a suitcase, this suitcase had been brought from Thessaloniki and it was full of things, my sister’s dowry, and what not. So I took the suitcase and without opening the door, it was the basement, I got out the window with the suitcase.

Earlier the Germans had insisted to lock the door leading to the balcony as it looked onto Ypsilandou Street and my grandfather had said, ‘I will do it,’ and he locked it and then quickly unlocked it again and said to them, ‘Now the house is properly locked and here is the key, which I give to you.’ And in Spanish he added, for me to hear, ‘The door is open, so you will jump from the balcony.’

So I came out of the kitchen window and went to the girl next door, who had already agreed to accept the things. I left the suitcase and went to bring more stuff and when I returned I found all my things outside, and the girl informing me that her mother was afraid that ‘if the Germans would come to search they will think we are dealers of stolen goods.’,

In short that they cannot accept them. So I responded OK, and took all these thing and gave them to Mrs. Maria. Well, at some point we moved from that place, Mrs. Maria never gave them back to us, what to do.

I stayed at Mrs. Maria’s up to six in the morning and left. I took Ypsilandu Street, then Ploutarchou and wanted to inform my sister that the family had been caught. At Ploutarchou Street, to the right, were the ‘Goblet’ is now, was a bakery that had a telephone. At that period all bakers were very severe. Anyhow I informed my sister and went back to Ekali where I was usually hiding.

My sister was issued with a Christian identity card as [Angelos] Evert 30, the [Athens] police chief, had given to everyone false papers. I don’t know how many golden sovereigns the false papers cost.

Later, when I went to the Fix family I learned details about the location of my mother and my grandparents. All these details we learned from Soeur Hélène, a nun who frequently came to the Fix family as they were helping us. They would send food to the people in hiding etc. and she had been allowed to enter the Haidari camp and this is how she learned that my mother was there.

My mother had learned about me from a friend of my sister. She arranged to escape and leave for the Middle East. Many went to the Middle East at that time. However, the guy who was paid the golden sovereigns to let them go betrayed them so they were caught, taken back to the Haidari camp and finally were sent to Auschwitz where she was killed.

Her name was Daisy Saltiel, and she was married to Carasso. When they first caught them they were taken to Haidari camp. Since Daisy was in touch with my sister, she learned what happened to me and this is how my mother learned it too.

For long months my mother would wait every midnight, when the police van would arrive and she would climb up to look out from the small window high up in her cell to see if they were unloading my sister or me. It also was from Daisy that she learned that I had come out of the hiding place under the floor and was safe.

In the neighborhood where I was staying, there was a guy called Spanopoulos, who had rented a house there and was occupied with gardening and who, during the winter, was occupied with delivering heating carbon. It seems that in February the people next door didn’t have the money to pay for the carbon and he betrayed them to the Germans.

Some day in February, maybe a month after they had caught my mother, they came to knock at my door: a German, a Greek ruffian and a translator. When I opened, the Greek asked me where Spanopoulos stayed. I told him.

Normally I should have recognized the fat guy, as he was the same that had come to arrest my family at our place in Ploutarchou. However, at that moment I didn’t think anything bad, I must have had some sort of peculiar reaction, hit by the February sun, and I thought of nothing bad. I said to myself, they may want to confiscate something.

Five minutes later comes the gardener and tells me, ‘Ioanna, the Germans are at the Levi’s place, they are hitting them and telling them that if they betray the other Jews hiding here they will leave their children alone.’ I cut him short and ask him, ‘And what do I care about it, Kostas?’ The Levi family didn’t betray me; it was the Christian servant who had been taking care of the kids all their lives, who betrayed me.

So I leave the house and go on foot to the other side of Ekali, phoned my sister and asked her to find Apostolopoulos and inform them on what had happened. She didn’t find them and upon returning I found Mrs. Maria out of control: ‘Oh what did my son do to me.’ And things like that and that the Germans are looking for me. I went into the room and when I tried to get out I realized she had locked me in, so I got out through the balcony.

I returned to the same grocery shop with the telephone and called again my sister who had managed to get in touch with Apostolopoulos. She informed me that I should leave immediately. I don’t know where I found the courage, but I returned to the house, collected my belongings and left.

As the night was approaching and the buses were not that frequent, I went through the meadow, after that to the public road and there I asked a passing van to give me a lift to Athens where, supposedly, my sister was giving birth.

So I returned back home and once again they found me another job, not as a servant but as a slave. The husband had lost a big fortune, he was suffering from neurasthenia and he was sleeping with a bayonet in his hand. The house was also rather big, and the work there was very hard. I stayed until May. Then they found me another job as a chambermaid, cook and child minder of two kids.

On 18th May I presented myself to the Fix family, opposite Zapeio, but we immediately left to go to their farm in Magoufana [today Pefki]. I had a very nice time with them and we are still friends. They even gave me a false identity card, from the ones that Evert was issuing. My false name was Ioanna Marinopoulou.

My mother, while she was in Haidari, was a needlewoman. As she knew how to make clothes, all the girls of the Athens high society who were with the resistance, would come to my mother and say, ‘Mrs. Molho, give us something to sew.’ And she would give them a button here, a fastener there.

You see, in the morning, the Germans would empty the Jewish houses from clothing and in the evening they would bring these clothes to Haidari, to be repaired and then sent to Germany to be used by them.

Even my uncle Jacques Moshe was taken to Haidari and immediately made to work as an engineer. My grandfather in 1940 was 65-70 years old, I don’t remember exactly. Since my uncle was an engineer he took his father to work for him as an office hand, to have him close to him as he was old. He took him as an office hand in jail too. They stayed there for seven months and were liberated on 14th September 1944.

I remember that day very clearly. It was the day of the Holy Cross, 14th September, I had taken the kids, two and four years old, to Zapeion for a walk and when I returned home Mrs. Fix told me, ‘Ioanna, please sit down. Your mother and grandfather telephoned.’ ‘Are they alive?’ ‘Of course they are alive. They came out today.

As soon as the Germans left, the gates were opened and they came out. They were all put in a van and they unloaded them at Omonia Square.’ ‘And where is mother?’

The house at Ypsilantou Street had been rented. However, Uncle Jacques had built a block of apartments at Academias and Amerikis Street. Starting from Omonia he went to his place at Kriezotou Street and he put up my family in an apartment in this block of apartments.

I will never forget my first visit to see them there. My mother was wearing some shoes which were not shoes, tied all over with ropes. It was very peculiar, some things here, some small pigtails. My uncle, who suffered from diabetes and while in jail couldn’t keep his diet, his legs were very, very thin like straws. And they all wore short pants. My grandfather wearing short pants! I was shocked. I looked at them and did not recognize them.

The city of Athens was liberated from the Germans in October [Editor’s note: Athens was liberated on 12th October 1944]. I don’t know why they abandoned the Haidari camp in September; thank G-d they didn’t shoot them.

After the liberation, I stayed with the Fix family for quite some time. I wanted to see where I stood. I wanted and liked to stay there, I felt as if I were at home. Later when I restarted the university I left. All my family, except for my grandmother, returned to Thessaloniki. We learned about my father, my uncles, my aunts, their children, two hundred and twenty members of my family had been murdered.

My father had stayed in Thessaloniki because he was saying, ‘I have to collect things, do my job.’ And uncle Jacques, a well known figure in town, arranged for a boat to go and take him. They had a meeting place, there at Phaliro, where the boat would take my father and bring him to Athens.

However, in that period Phaliro was within the limits of the ghetto and a brother of my father, Alberto Molho, with his wife and two children came to stay at our house. So my father said, ‘How can I leave my brother and go?’ The boat owner came to the house and my uncle would tell him that he was afraid: ‘If the baby starts crying in the middle of the night what will I do with the Germans?’ ‘I will give him Luminal,’ said my father but didn’t convince him.

Another ten to fifteen days passed and we found someone else to help him escape. At that time my uncle was very close friends with the police chief and he told him, ‘At six o’clock in the morning I will send a soldier to take your father, dress him like a policeman. At four o’clock in the morning there was a roadblock, the Germans caught my father and that was it.

Later I heard from my uncle that returned from Auschwitz that my father, because he was 50 years old, too old that is, was taken directly to the crematorium.

Out of the big family of my father there was left only a sister, Bella, who lived in Israel, a brother, Charles, who lived in Brussels and survived Auschwitz, another brother, Jacques who lived in Grenoble, France, and two brothers living in Thessaloniki, Saoul and Alberto, who also survived. That is four brothers in all.

This Uncle Jacques Molho, who was married in Grenoble, went to the concentration camp while his wife Daisy and his daughter stayed in Paris. When the command to empty Paris was issued, it applied particularly for the children who were caught. A certain Mr. and Mrs. Simon, at night, brought I don’t know how many children to Spain through the Pyrenees. Now, it seems that among these children was Uncle Jacques’s child.

When my uncle Jacques returned from the camp his wife had died, from a heart attack, and they said that the child had been brought to Spain. So he took a bicycle and went all over Spain looking for his child in all the monasteries, because it is more than certain that the kids were brought to a monastery. He never managed to find his daughter; he returned and got married again, to a very good lady. They both aren’t alive anymore.

Uncle Alberto was the brother of my father who didn’t want to go with the boat owner. He left for the concentration camp with his wife and two children. He was the only one of his family to survive.

Uncle Saoul lost his wife and daughter. She was like a doll, while his daughter was an angel. Aunt Gracia and Aunt Lisa with her two children also died in Auschwitz.

That is where another uncle of mine, Dario, died of typhus at the very end, and next to him was his brother, Saoul, who returned and wrote about his time there. I have here the manuscripts he wrote, he said many things and among others about Uncle Dario. He said that Dario was an electrician in the concentration camp.

You see, the members of my father’s family were very resourceful. They would ask them, ‘Do you know how to play the piano.’ ‘We know,’ they responded. ‘Violin, do you know?’ ‘We know.’ You see they knew everything in order to pass a bad moment!

Well, and there came a German and told him, ‘I want …’ Something, I don’t know what it was. And my uncle responded, ‘In a moment, please wait a little and I will bring it to you.’ Now, how can you say ‘wait’ to a German?

So they hit him hard and left him full of bruises, half dead, and his brothers took care of him, and as they didn’t have compresses they put snow on his face. Uncle Saoul wrote many other things about his time there. He was so good this uncle of mine, Saoul!

Slowly we left from Academias Street and went to Kolonaki. They were hard years. It wasn’t easy at all, my father hadn’t returned, we didn’t have facilities or conveniences but it was OK, it passed.

From 1941 my grandfather Moshe was like a father to me, and he was very, very, very strict. For example, when my sister and myself got engaged and we were going out in the evenings, he wouldn’t permit the groom to enter our place upon bringing us back.

Never, ever. When as a student I was late on returning home, not engaged yet, he would ask my mother, ‘Has Yannakis, little John, come home yet?’ Little John was me; my grandfather was very humorous too.

When I decided to go to medical school to become a doctor, as I had this passion since my childhood, I told him, ‘You know, Grandfather, I will go to medical school.’ ‘You will go with the boys to university? I don’t believe it. Why go to university? To learn? Tell me what books you need and I will buy them for you.’ ‘OK, Grandpa, I will tell you.’

And I went out and took part in the examinations and passed, so I went to the medical school. But it wasn’t easy, at all. Grandfather was very strict and acted accordingly, in order to reinforce his position as the head of the family. But he was also just. I learned very many things from my grandfather, how to respect myself, not to tell lies, to be honest, etc. He taught me all that and most important of all, how to stand in my life.

He made all sort of difficult remarks in order to show me that he was there. For example: ‘Where will you go? When will you return?’ And I was rather old, eighteen or nineteen years old, but who could talk back to Grandfather?

My grandfather Memik, from the TV series, Memik. He was my teacher, he would tell me, ‘You can forgive anything but never forgive the person that wants to accuse you falsely and put intrigues within your family. This person you should throw out. Out, for he/she will never change.’

My grandfather did many things. When I was studying for upcoming exams until up to four in the morning, he would get up and come to check on me, he would open the door slowly and say, ‘Are you still studying? You consume a lot of electricity.

Tomorrow is a new day.’ He would shut the door and I would laugh. You see we ask the children to study more today, while my grandfather advised me not to study that much. But he just wanted to irritate me, really, to tell me, ‘Here I am.’

I also remember my poor Molho grandmother. Whenever I had exams at university she would say, ‘You go calmly and I will be sitting here reading prayers.’ When I returned in the afternoon she would ask me, ‘How did it go?’ ‘Fine, Grandmother.’ ‘Didn’t I tell you? I was reading the prayers and you passed your exams!’

So because of my grandmother I was passing my exams! I still see her, she didn’t have much hair, which we also inherited, and she was wearing a small hat to keep her head warm, and she was sitting there with a book in her hands, reading prayers.

I think about anti-Semitism and have the impression that from my early years there was something in the atmosphere, something anti-Semitic that I wasn’t experienced enough to detect. However, in Athens, after I had attended medical school, as we were coming from a lesson, a classmate of mine, a girl called me ‘dirty Jew.’

She shouldn’t have said it, and I never spoke to her again. I don’t even recall her name. I thought to myself that if for no real reason she said that, she is dangerous, and I cut any contact with her. This is a behavior coming directly from my grandfather.

  • After the war and later years

My family returned to Thessaloniki and Mother went to collect our belongings at our house. There my sister got engaged to the man she was in love with before the war, Raoul Frances, who had survived because he joined the National Resistance in the mountains. This is why I went to Thessaloniki, for my sister’s marriage in 1945.

People from the northern suburbs of the city, Menemeni, from the city of Veroia and some villagers had come to our house and lived there. Everything was in very bad condition, almost destroyed, beds, things etc. all destroyed.

The funniest thing happened to the house of my brother-in-law, Frances, which was also a two-story Turkish house with a fountain and garden. Well, the owner of a chained bear and monkey had come from Menemeni to live there!

And in the basement lived a poor woman, who had lost her husband in Yugoslavia, with her son and daughter, Vouli was her name. This Vouli stayed there for the rest of her life. My sister lived on the top floor.

The brother of my brother-in-law hadn’t gone to the mountain, but stayed in Thessaloniki and got married to an Italian girl called Vetta, who was pregnant. He would go somewhere and secretly, with his friends, would listen to the radio, from London, as the Germans had officially confiscated all the radios. Somebody betrayed them and they came in and arrested them all.

As the woman was Italian she tried to save him and get him out of prison. She would send him food daily; she couldn’t go herself, as she was very close to giving birth. Exactly on the day she was giving birth, the Germans had returned the food and the lady next door decided not to tell her, as she would think that her husband was taken to be executed.

However, right upon giving birth another neighbor said, ‘Vetta, why is your husband’s food still here?’ She gave birth and immediately, maybe from the shock, died. The baby was also called Vetta.

However, her father returned from jail, and since there was no active marriage anymore with a dead wife, he was sent to the concentration camp. He died either in the train or in the camp.

After the occupation this little girl, little Vetta was taken by my sister Nina and her husband and as the Italians had been expelled from Greece, Vetta’s aunt kept on sending letters, particularly when Nina had her first son, Mimis.

The Italian woman wrote, ‘Now that the son has been born, things are different.’ So we responded to her, ‘Dear Anita, the only person to remind us that Vetta is not our daughter is you.’ And that’s when she stopped bothering us, and indeed we all love Vetta very much. Now she has three daughters and six grandchildren.

So my sister had Vetta, then gave birth to Mimi and this Vouli took care of her kids. She had a son of her own, from her late husband. At some stage, Vouli immigrated to Germany, but she didn’t have any luck there and returned.

She also gave birth to a daughter, fathered in Germany by a Greek from Kavala, who was already married, but fortunately he recognized the child. We were the ones to take care of the marriage of this child. Vouli died 15 days after the death of my sister; she was as a member of our family.

Going back to our story: the first thing my sister did was to send away the bear, the monkey and the tambourine; she fixed the house as best as she could and set up the wooden frames factory they used to have. She had to do very many things as everything was destroyed.

The wooden frame factory had been the business of her husband before the war. It is worth noting that in the past my grandfather was a partner of his father. Later, following a conflict, they separated their activities.

Our family house wasn’t easy to get back. My grandmother didn’t want to return there, she would always say, ‘I won’t set foot in Thessaloniki. I will neither find my sister there, nor my family, nor anybody, so why go there? I will stay here, in Athens.’ My grandmother was very insistent and so we stayed in Athens. Of course, I couldn’t go either since I was already studying here.

When I visited Thessaloniki, I saw in our neighborhood that the houses where Jews used to live before the war now had been taken by Christians. However, the Mizrachi club, which was opposite our home, had stayed as it was.

The grandfather who was the guard didn’t live any more but the son returned. I don’t know if he’s still alive, Solomon was his name. There were very few Jewish people left. A minimum, maybe a thousand souls all together. So I went and didn’t find anyone, no friend, no cousins, no one.

Many of the ones that returned from the concentration camps, of the very few that did return, went to Israel. There was an orphanage or something like that, where they were offered free housing and this organization was helping them to go to Israel.

In reality what they did was to help them get away, transport them and leave them at a shore in Israel because they were not permitted to enter the country legally, as it was under British occupation. Of course, this wave of immigrants wasn’t the first aliyah. The pioneers were the ones that had come from Russia on foot and set up the kibbutzim.

There were quite a number, that is, the survivors that left. Some distant relatives of mine went. The place where they kept them was called ‘Hassara’ and we went there every weekend to sing for them and entertain them as they had lost their families and were very lonely.

Do you know what they did in Thessaloniki at that time? The Greek state did something good. Whenever there were no immediate heirs, the state could acquire the buildings. So, due to the condition of the people returning from the concentration camps, which in reality was indescribable, the state decided to give to the Jewish community all the real estates, so that the community could nurse and attend to the needs of the survivors.

So what did our community do? As the first survivors arrived, they started looking for their houses, their relatives, their mothers, their brothers and sisters but did not find anyone, absolutely none. So the community immediately arranged for group marriages. This is terrifying. In order to set up their homes and their families again.

My sister got married at the Monastirioton synagogue. After the marriage we went to Phaliro for an evening dinner but the picture of Thessaloniki was already different. You see, the Jews had always offered an element of civilization, of sociability.

It was an altogether different picture because all the people from the villages around had come to the city. They had come, the bear, the monkey, Menemeni, Chortiatis and had acquired the houses. They had even come from Veroia, Naousa. Who knew them? What did they care?

Of course, the Jews were a different society altogether, they were ‘people of the city.’ You see, Thessaloniki was also rather ‘posh,’ that is, they were somehow ‘stuck up’ as they knew they were good. Even here in Athens they were good, but in Thessaloniki the history was also there, they were descendants for centuries, 500 years. There were many good Jews in Thessaloniki, very good families, different, more civilized.

I finished medical school and in 1954 I got married, but I had not sat my exams for my medical specialization. I became a microbiologist and I studied it at the Evagelismos Hospital. I was a Greek subject while my husband, Richard Capuano, was a Spanish subject. He belonged to one of the approximately two hundred families that were expelled from Spain by Queen Isabella, and the Greek state refused to make them Greeks.

I don’t know the reason. We asked for the Greek citizenship many times. We even had a client at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and another client at the Department of the Interior and their response was: ‘We cannot do anything and we don’t know why.’

We applied and reapplied as my husband wanted very much to become Greek and he wanted our son to go to the army. The final result was negative and my son didn’t go to the army as he is Spanish subject. There are still a number of Spanish subjects in Greece.

Of course I couldn’t have a free profession, and then comes a law that says that a Greek woman can be married to a foreigner but retain her citizenship and therefore can be employed in a free profession. That made us decide to get married.

The family of my husband was known to my family from Thessaloniki. At the Jewish school there was someone who worked there whose son was married to a first cousin of my father in Israel. She was called Saltiel and her husband was Cohen.

He was the one who got me in touch with my husband-to-be. My husband was very open minded so he decided to call me on the phone and asked me to go out with him. We went out for a walk, we started to get acquainted and got to know each other, and we went out a few times and then got married.

I intended for my husband to be a Jew. Do you not see what is happening now’ This has become a ‘mayonnaise’ these days, and with the civil marriage we don’t observe these things. My daughter-in-law is Christian Orthodox; I had no objection.

However, at the time when I got married it was very difficult for someone to change religion. It wasn’t only because of the parents’ reaction, but also because to convert took a lot of time. Of course, you had to study, the women that converted and became Jews know about our religion much more than I do. I don’t know much about religion.

My husband had many commercial representations, medicals and other things too, but most importantly, he was the first importer of cellophane in Greece. He would tell me that when he first brought cellophane to Greece he went to Flocas and asked for the owner.

He knew the family, as they also came from Thessaloniki. ‘Let us have a coffee,’ he proposed to Flocas. ‘Yes, certainly.’ ‘Could you please bring some chocolates.’ And he brought some, wrapped in a golden piece of paper.

My husband had a piece of cellophane in his pocket, took the chocolate and wrapped it in cellophane. ‘What is this that shines?’ ‘Cellophane.’ This is how my husband got his first order before the war.

My husband was born in Thessaloniki. His mother was from Monastir, she was born at the end of the 19th century and her name was Tzogia Beraha. His father, Moses Capuano, was of Italian origins. He was very aristocratic, came from an old family. They say that last names ending in ‘–no’ like Capuano, Modiano, Massarano, etc. were selected families of Spanish origins.

My husband had finished the French Lycée and was very fluent in French. His father had died in 1934 and his mother in 1977. My husband, his brother Jacques and his mother, as Spanish subjects, were arrested and taken to Bergen-Belsen concentration camp 31. However, life in this camp was a different world compared to Auschwitz. In Auschwitz they would have roll-call in the morning, and you didn’t know if you would still be alive by the end of the day.

Lina, who was the oldest child and the third boy, Rene, were collected by the Spanish Embassy here, and were transported to Spain, then sent to Egypt and then to Israel. Finally they asked to be taken to Cairo, where they stayed at the house of the other brother, the second child; the older boy called Joseph was already living there permanently. However Lina’s husband was caught and never came back, while she and her two children survived and went to America. Rene was not married at that time.

My husband received compensation from the Claims Conference of Adenauer but nothing of importance. This organization paid the German compensation, that is 450 million German Marks, distributed to survivors. My husband received money twice but I cannot recall the exact sum. The last time was in 2001, but the previous one was much earlier. I don’t remember. I don’t know and I don’t wish to know. It didn’t interest me.

My husband received his pension approximately in 1980. His mother tongue was Judeo-Spanish and French but also Greek. He could speak English too.

My personal business went very well. I was a very conscious doctor. I was employed as a freelance professional. In the beginning I would work as a replacement at the hospitals Helena and Marika Heliadi in Athens. The manager, Mrs. Pangali was a close friend of mine; she is dead now. This is why I was going there from time to time but that was at the beginning of my career, later I didn’t go any more.

Then I inscribed myself for a PhD, which I started in 1960 and finished in March 1962. I was then pregnant with Maick. The mark I received was ‘excellent.’ The subject was new then, very avant-garde. The two transaminases that have already become routine by now. They are the microbiological examinations of the liver. They control the circulation of the liver and of the heart.

The work was done at the pharmacologists’ with Professor Mr. Nicolas Kleisiouni, a deputy professor, Mr. Constatinos Moiras, and teaching assistant, the next professor of pharmacology, Mr. Dionysios Veronos, who recently passed away. He was a remarkable men, I don’t think there was another professor like him. We became very close friends; I would go there every day to see my rabbits!

I have an allergy to mice; I cannot even pronounce the word mouse. Despite that the professor would tell me, ‘No, you must also do it with mice. We have so many mice and you spend your money on rabbits. They are white little mice, beautiful mice.’ ‘Professor, I can’t, it is impossible for me.’ ‘No, you will also do one mouse.’

Finally, we had a field mouse whose blood was taken by Dionysios Veronas. This is how I managed to run various tests on them too. I have to admit that their blood cells were very strong as compared to the rabbit’s red blood cells which were weaker! I have to admit that looking at the blood specimens was a great experience for me too; I was taking intravenous blood from the rabbit’s ears from their capillary vessels that are extremely thin. I learned, very quickly how to do it without breaking any vessels.

When I did my doctorate thesis I was pregnant and due to a pregnancy anomaly I had to lie in bed. So I sent my assistant, in order for him to phone me and tell me to come there when the time would be approaching; it was planned for seven o’clock.

I had already prepared my black costume so that I would be very formal for the occasion, with all the medicine professors there, and he calls me at five, instead of around seven, telling me that they decided to examine me immediately. I jumped up, like crazy, put an overcoat on top and rushed to the university. Everything was messed up on that day. I had ordered a taxi and the taxi never came, so I arrived there with great agony at the last moment.

In the beginning we stayed in a neoclassic house, which belonged to my husband’s family, on Rethymnon Street. My mother also stayed there, to look after the child, and we also had an in-house baby sitter for the child until the age of four. But later we left that place and came here, where it was more convenient for me and for the child.

The private practice was on the same floor and next door to this apartment. The kid would go to school in the morning and in the afternoon I didn’t work in my private practice, as I wanted to be at home and I wanted the child to see his mother in the house. Whoever wanted me would call and arrange for an appointment up to two thirty or three o’clock at the latest.

My son Mike attended the Jewish school from kindergarten to the third class of elementary school. Every afternoon a French girl, a very nice girl would come to teach him French.

Every summer, after he turned four, I would take Mike to Switzerland. It was to give him the opportunity to speak French, to learn languages. As he was a good pupil, my husband would say, ‘Why worry? He will learn languages. Every language is a different human being.’ And he was right. First he went to Switzerland, twice, the next three summers to France, the next three or four times to England.

He went to Chantilly where there was a chateau, belonging to the Rothschild family that had given it as a donation; it was used as an orphanage for the children that lost their parents in the Holocaust. There I met the manager and the manageress, Mr. and Mrs. Simon, who were the couple that had helped the children escape from Paris to Spain.

Those orphans grew up and the orphanage closed, but for one month every year Jewish children would come from all over the world. It cost 1,000 US Dollars for the month, but the money was not a payment, it was a voluntary donation. For example, the children coming from Canada and whose parents owned factories, gave much more.

Mike went there for three years, and it was very good. One year I went there too. In the first year he was crying. He had not yet finished the first grade of the elementary school. He went together with the oldest daughter of Vetta, my niece Sofie.

One day I called them on the phone. It was very funny. ‘Why are you there at this hour of the day?’ I asked and Mike said, ‘We didn’t go for the walk.’ You see, every afternoon they went for a walk in the woods. ‘And why did you not go?’

‘We cannot, we want to come back home. We are crying and don’t participate in order to save the money, the cost of the walk. If we don’t go they won’t charge us for the walk.’ Charging the cost of the walk, just listen to that!

‘But dear Sofi, what are you saying? You know that the return tickets are at the hands of the teacher there. What are you talking about?’ And so I wrote them a letter, I was just reading it again the day before yesterday: ‘We have sent you there as representatives of Greece, descendants of Kolokotronis, of Manto Mavrogenous and Bouboulina, heroes of the Greek revolution against the Turks in 1821, which eventually resulted in the creation of the first modern Greek state. You cannot humiliate us like that.’

Finally, the children were convinced and Mike also made a good friend there. This boy came from Amversa, and I even went to his bar mitzvah. His father was a jeweler. His mother was from Poland, and had gone to a concentration camp, where she had lost all her family. So they had this son, who was playing the piano exceptionally well.

The two boys got very close, and every summer Mike would go to their place and when the family would go, for example, to London, they would also take Mike with them. One summer Leon came here, to Greece, and gave three concerts: one in the Greek American Union, one at the Jewish camp and one at the ‘Casa d’ Italia.’ At that time he was ten or eleven years old.

For the last grades of elementary school, Mike went to the private school of Andonopoulos. This is contrary to what I did as a kid; I went to public schools and this turned out to be very positive for me, so for high school I decided that my son should do the same. He went to the 5th Gymnasium and all my relatives were against me. However, I still insist that this is what I should have done, as he got in contact with all kind of people and doesn’t make distinctions.

My son received all the lessons necessary for his bar mitzvah. It was held on a Saturday and the rabbi didn’t give his consent to decorate the synagogue with flowers because, as he explained, the magnificence of the day is such that it cannot be beautified more with flowers.

So we introduced a novelty and offered a gardenia flower to every lady in the synagogue, at the place reserved for women only. I will not forget him taking the Sefer Torah. But, how many flower petals did we throw to him!

You see I had gone to the end of Patissia, bought very many flowers and we had pulled out the petals. The petals thrown were like snow. I have his speech recorded on a cassette, it was very good. Afterward, in the evening, what a rain, my G-d what a rain, a true flood! Due to the rain only half of the people we had invited came to the evening cocktail.

After Mike finished high school he went for a year to the Deree College [the private American College of Athens]. Unfortunately at Deree he couldn’t get enough credits to get a degree and so he went to Israel. Despite the fact that he wasn’t a good student he went to Israel in 1980 and didn’t lose any time nor did he fail any subject.

My son studied political sciences and he also speaks seven languages: Spanish, French, English, Portuguese, Italian, Hebrew and Greek. He also worked as a simultaneous interpreter. He sent an application to the European Union and he was employed there. He worked there for four or five months, but in the end he wanted to leave because the Greek cabin, at that time, had very few translators. That was fifteen or sixteen years ago.

So he decided to quit. However, they told him that he cannot leave, as he would have to return all the benefits he had received, plane tickets etc. Mike said, ‘OK.’ They told him to wait, as they were in congress, and told him: ‘We will call you, but we don’t think that you can go.’ He waited outside. After some time they called him: ‘The era of slavery has been over in Europe for many years now. You are free to go.’ And he left.

Before going to Israel, during the period that he was learning Hebrew here, he worked for six months at the Embassy of Uruguay. He does not only speak Spanish, not the Spanish of Spain, the Castilian, he also speaks the South American dialects. He is an impressive child. When he left for Israel I wasn’t worried but I was sorry that he left, as he is my only son.

I remember a particular incident of which I am ashamed. I was at the airport, crying because he was leaving and there comes to me one of the ambassadors of Israel. She tells me, ‘What is it? Why are you crying Mrs. Capuano?’ Because I was a Jew, they knew me as a doctor at the embassy of Israel. ‘I’m crying because my son is leaving and I lose him.’ ‘You won’t lose your son,’ she said, ‘you win him as there he will acquire his personality, you will see.’ And she was right.

There they leave the kids alone, so that their personality can come to the surface. To get control of themselves and become independent. And even after he returned he lived alone of course. He was no ‘child of his mother.’

My son got married in 1999. His wife is called Silia Kapitsimadi. She finished the English Literature department here; she also finished another private American University on Arts and went to finish it up for two and a half years in London. She is a jeweler.

They didn’t have children for a long time. Mike says they were afraid they’d ‘become like him,’, that is, extremely undisciplined. Now, finally, my daughter-in-law is pregnant and we are all very happy about it.

My son now has a representation office; he represents Samos wines and other drinks. He is a very good person; he was always very good with his friends that love him. They try to be with him, he is a very civilized man, open minded. To tell you the truth, when mixed marriages take place, the parents, despite their original reaction, at the end give in. I can assure you I never said a word because he is a very fine person.

They married in a civil ceremony. Silia said that when they will have children she will convert. At their home they don’t celebrate the Jewish holidays, as they come here. A few days ago, on the eve of Yom Kippur, I made an eggplant pie and they ate all of it.

The Christian festivities we celebrate all together at the mother of my daughter-in-law’s: Easter, New Year’s Eve and Christmas. A little later my son has his own birthday and gives a party, as they all do.

Together with my husband we had many friends both from the Jewish community and outside it. We had a group of friends; one of them was an admiral. All of them where people that liked to feast. Giose, Lava, Gionis… we had very nice parties; it was unimaginable to have a party at which there wouldn’t be a piano or a guitar. As I sing correctly I was singing all night. They were very good companions. All this is lost now, nothing is left as most of these people have died.

My husband was also very good at companies. When he first went to America, he went on an ocean liner where they had a dance competition and he won the first prize. And what was the prize? This old lighter, let me show you, so nothing, but he danced well. He liked the entertainment.

Then there was also the Tsatsi family; we were very close with them. Mr. Tsatis was a professor of Pharmaceutical Chemistry and an academic too, a member of the Greek Academy. We were with them when he was accepted at the academy. We went to prepare the sweets and organize the meal that followed. We were friends, brothers, and of course with them we had a whole group of professors we were frequenting like Alexandropoulos, Kascarellis, Tountas etc. All these people we were close friends with don’t exist any more, they are all dead now.

Our companies were including all sort of different types of people, many friends, and we went on cruises, trips etc.

Today there aren’t even relatives left. Uncle Albert, the one that returned from the concentration camp and remarried and had a son, is now dead, while his wife is in Thessaloniki and the son lives here in Athens. I see him from time to time or call him on the phone, or at the synagogue. When my husband died in 2003, he came to the funeral, the Kaddish too.

I also had a sister-in-law who lived in Cairo. Her name was Rena, she was the wife of Joseph Capuano. She was born in Cairo but her origins are from Ioannina. Her father was a pharmacist in Cairo. I loved her very much, but she also died in 2003. She had cancer, a cystis that had not been noticed, and some day she knelt down to tie her shoes, understood there was something wrong, but is was too late.

Here in Athens, I also have a sister-in-law, the wife of Jacques. She has children etc but they are all very busy, they have their own life. So many people around. Sometimes I say to myself, ‘Which friend of mine should I call on the phone and arrange to see?’ And I don’t know, maybe my mind stops, I don’t know.

My mother has been buried in the third cemetery here. My husband too. The same applies to my father and mother-in-law. We brought the remains from Thessaloniki, as on 5th December 1942, the tombs were unearthed; the burial plaques were taken to the university which was built there, on the site of the Jewish cemetery, while the bones were here and there. Now they are all here.

At the beginning it was the first cemetery, which was relatively small as the site was also small. So it closed down. Now it is the third cemetery which will end anytime shortly, as we don’t unearth the remains. All the tombs are there. I guess they will give us another branch.

My sister is buried in Thessaloniki. There it is quite special as all the tombs look the same. There are no mausoleums, a simple tombstone, the same for everyone. I made a simple tombstone for my mother, a simple tombstone like in Thessaloniki. Here at the third cemetery there are only two tombstones like that. One Carasso from Thessaloniki and my mother’s.

We didn’t discuss Israel or other Jewish subjects with our Christian friends. It just didn’t happen. Not that we refused to talk, but they didn’t share the same interests with us.

Right from the beginning we have been following up the creation of the Israeli state 32, its actions and its evolution. We still are well informed of what is going on there. I receive the informative newsletters of the community; it is part of our life. I am even a member of the summer camp committee at the community.

I hadn’t thought of aliyah since I had my parents. I wasn’t all alone in life as the others that went there to start a new life. I had my mother, my people, so why go there? The ones that left had lost everything.

I had an aunt who stayed there, in Israel, before the creation of the state, I had many relatives that went there, all very satisfied with their decision to go there.

If someone immigrates, say a Greek goes to Germany or Australia or Sweden trying to improve his life, he will always feel a foreigner. When they left from here, they found a shelter there. And of course, it was the land of their forefathers. The State of Israel was at that period in the making as it was bound to be. The ones that immigrated there didn’t go to a foreign place, what they really did was go back to their home,. A home that had been occupied by others, but it was always their home, the land of their great-, great-grandfathers. That is where Israel started from.

Once, when I was in America for a health problem, I met an Israeli-German Jew. Before World War II, the German Jews didn’t want to leave Germany. They would say, ‘Why go?’ I am more German than the Germans; I love my county more than the Germans.’

Anyhow this man told me: “When I’m finished with my treatment I’ll leave.’ ‘Where do you live?’ In Israel, in Natania, where I own the best restaurant the “Henry the 4th”.’ ‘Very good and what do you do in Germany?’‘Oh, I have a very big business, real estate.’ ‘Bravo, how can you?

I cannot go to Germany, cannot even listen to German.’ ‘But Germany provides me with the funds to be able to live in Israel. My restaurant is in Israel but in reality it is my hobby. Germany provides me with the money to live in Israel.’ I was very impressed by what he told me.

What I mean to say is that Greece is a pro-Arab country. All the time you hear, there were killed that many Palestinians, that many Palestinians, that many Palestinians. You must be very naïve to believe that in a war in Israel only Palestinians get killed.

Do you know how many young people get killed in Israel? A very high number but what do they do, mourning is not permitted, the only thing permitted is to close the windows and the shutter and not go out wearing black because in that case all Israel would be colored black.

This is why it is so important that they do not retrograde so that they will keep their morale. And here on the TV and in the newspapers they say: “That many Palestinians were killed.’ For G-d’s sake, no Jew has been killed? Buy ‘The Times’ and you’ll see how many Jews were killed.

Or I call my cousins: ‘What’s the news?’ ‘Do not ask, the son of our friends XXX was killed.’ But here, on TV we only see them throwing stones, they don’t have guns. Or we see the wives of those killed who cry and cry and cry. They don’t say, of course, that they only cry when the cameras are there.

Jewish mothers are more dignified, they do not go out in the streets to cry. Their children are hit, because it is usually the children who are the victims and they get hold of themselves so that their husband can go to work, can look after the other children. A child is hit and the whole family is destroyed. And here they say nothing about all that. They don’t even refer to whole cities with hidden arms buried underneath them.

And what happened with all that money they gave to Arafat. He took all that himself and finally it ended up with his heir, his wife, since he didn’t get a divorce. As politics is dirty, huge amounts of money are involved. All the big nations are sending money because they want to sell arms. This is the truth of the whole story.

I have also to mention that there the young ones are continuously in the army. It is not like, ‘I went to the army and finished it.’ It is not like that. They call them every now and then to do ‘melouim,’ that is, going to the frontiers and serve in the army for some more time.

When my son was studying, they would patrol every night, a military man with a jeep and all the others were guarding and my son, wearing a helmet, was looking for hidden bombs. They were patrolling every night.

As for myself I am Greek. My religion is Jewish but as a citizen I am Greek and very much so. Even in the cemetery here there is a monument for the Jews that died in the Albanian war.

I always respected and considered seriously both religions. Let me just tell you something. I was returning from Paris with my son and getting out of the airplane we entered the bus to take us from the plane to the airport. There was an empty seat and I thought to myself, ‘Bravo, they all went to the other side and left this seat for me.’

Well, it turned out there was machine oil there and that was the reason it was empty. I try to go there and I slip, fall down with a triple crushing break of my shoulder. A whole story, the journalists came, I was taken to hospital etc.

Later we took Olympic Airlines to court. Olympic Airlines had tree lawyers to say that it was raining that day and that this was the reason I slipped! My son had to search meteorological archives in order to prove that it wasn’t the rain but the oil, to prove that it wasn’t raining that day.

Finally the president of the court called me and said, ‘Please take the oath.’ And there was the New Testament, so I took the oath on the New Testament, and that moment a young lawyer jumps out and says: ‘Mrs. President, Mrs. Capuano is bad willed.’ ‘How dare you say something like that?’ said the president.

The lady is a doctor and a very respected person.’ Upon that the young lawyer asked me, ‘What is your religion, my lady?’ ‘Jewish,’ I replied, and he goes, ‘But you took the oath on the New Testament. How is that possible?’ I said, ‘Mrs. President, G-d is one, his representatives differ.’

After that the examination of the case continued as nobody said anything else following that statement of mine. And this is what I really believe by the way.

Yesterday I was reading about Alois Brunner 33 who is in Syria. Here there is a law since 1959 that in reality abolishes the prosecution of Germans in Greece, and he killed so many people! Well this is ridiculous. If someone will steal bread they will arrest him and put him in jail.

He, who killed 56,000 people, has his prosecution finished… I’m sorry, but that I can’t understand. What does it mean that his prosecution is finished? These things happen only in Greece.

This Brunner is in Syria and they know who he is and what he did. But in Latin American countries there are all sort of peculiarities. You will see, for example, a mayor called Mr. Weinberg, many Germans who have been completely assimilated.

They changed their hair from blond to black, and they have had all sort of plastic surgeries to change their looks. And they had a lot of money, a whole lot of money. This is the reason they never invaded Switzerland, as the exchange was: we will give you our gold to guard and we will not invade.

A short while ago we visited Auschwitz, as it was the 60th celebration of the liberation. The visitors were coming from all over the world, but this particular year something new happened. The European ministries of education funded many non-Jewish schools, so that the children would have an opportunity to participate in the manifestation of memory.

There were about 30,000 people present, and as I was walking, I heard a group talking in French amongst themselves. I asked them where they were coming from and they told me Lyon, France, and when I asked them if they were Jews they said, no, that they were Catholics.

Here, the Ministry of Education gave 50.000 Euros and only 15 people were interested in coming! The rest of the money was given to schools, students etc. of our community. This is how the ones who wanted to could go. It was a gigantic manifestation, the ‘March of the Living.’ We walked three kilometers to go there and another three to return. I personally didn’t think I would be able to make it, as I have a problem with my legs. I still cannot quite believe how I managed to complete the march.

As we were going around the camps on foot I was crying and crying because it is a different thing to read about it – at home I have two shelves full of books on the Holocaust – than to see it in reality. To put yourself in their place at that moment that they would put in line one after the other in order to see how many a single bullet could kill, penetrating from one to the other etc. Well, this is a different thing all together.

You should see the ‘pieces of cotton,’ or what I thought were pieces of cotton. I asked myself, ‘why do they show these pieces of cotton? Did they take them out of a mattress? But weren’t mattresses here filled with straw?’ So I asked our group leader what those discolored pieces of cotton were all about and she told me, ‘What discolored pieces of cotton, Mrs. Capuano? Can’t you see that it is peoples’ hair?’

They found five tons of it there that were not sent to Germany. They also told me this hair is the raw material for manufacturing a very strong and light cloth that is used to make parachutes. If you do not see and live it you have seen nothing.

Many speeches were given and there came Sharon and we could see him on the big screens that had been installed. It was all very moving and the music they would play would also shake us. Before we started to walk – it was where the rail tracks were, on the spot where the trains were passing – they were giving us little cardboard badges and written on those was, ‘In the memory of my family, my parents, my uncle.’

They would pin those cardboard badges on us. And when we arrived there was a sort of esplanade because the manifestation took place in Birkenau 34, the march started in Auschwitz and ended in Birkenau. Of course, only Auschwitz exists now because in Birkenau there is nothing left since the Germans had the whole camp blown up before they left.

At this esplanade, we were looking at a giant screen and there spoke the prime minister of Poland, a representative of the organization of the Rights of Women and many others. However, the highlight was Sharon who said, ‘I will not speak to you about the Holocaust as what I see is enough. You must talk about it among yourselves, with your children, with your children’s children, as it must never be forgotten.’

Then came Elie Wiesel 35 and said, ‘I was a young child, fourteen years old.’ And I was wondering how he survived as at that young age they were not taking them in the camp, he must have looked much older. He continued, ‘I was holding hands with my father, my mother, my little brother and suddenly, I had no time, they all disappeared. My mother had no time to give me a kiss, neither my father to give me his blessing. I lost them. Why all that?’

Then came the former chief rabbi of Israel whose name is Lau and said, ‘Why did they choose us? We all see the same flowers, we all smell the same flowers. Why did they choose us?’

I went to the gas chambers and prayed my respects and is seems that he people taken in there they were suffocating and dying, but before dying they were hitting the door with their hands, and they were digging the walls with their nails and on one wall it was written ‘n-k-m’ and the rabbi said, ‘I understand it as the Hebrew word “nekama” which means “revenge.”

Certainly revenge but not with violence. Revenge is what I see today. Revenge is 30,000 people present in this manifestation today. Revenge is that they didn’t manage to achieve what they were after. Revenge is every child that is born.’

Only by visiting that place you can really understand it, live it partly, since only the people who suffered there really lived it.

Recently, in 2005, I honored Mr. Fix. I had everything prepared already some fifteen or twenty years ago, but Mrs. Fix didn’t want me to, as she told me, ‘Mr. Fix is dead. Mr. Fix hid you, I had no involvement in it, whatever we did we did it for the best and I don’t want any thank you. For whatever we did let G-d thank us.’

However, I had my dossier ready and last year was the celebration of the Holocaust in Greece for the first time and little Charles Fix, the son, calls me. ‘Ioanna,’ he says – I was called Ioanna Marinopoulou when I lived with them – and asked me, ‘Why did you forget us?’ I told him that I hadn’t forgotten them and that I would expect him at my place the next day. So he saw that I had everything prepared and I told him, ‘Your mother didn’t want it.’ But he said, ‘I do want it.’

It took me only eight months to arrange for it. I telephoned here, I telephoned there, got in contact with Yad Vashem and with Mr. Saltiel, if I recall correctly, and this year we celebrated the sixty year anniversary.

We went to Thessaloniki, because the celebration was held in Thessaloniki. The son, Charles Fix, came as well as my son and Mr. Prokopiou, the only cousin of Charles Fix. He came especially for this occasion and left again the next day in the morning.

I had also prepared a little speech to give but I didn’t in the end, as I was very moved and was crying. And when it was over I turned my head towards Charles, he turned towards me, and we looked at each other and fell into each other’s arms. I can still hear the applause we received.

Imagine, 2.500 people clapping. And when I saw Aliki Mordohai, I told her, ‘Aliki, my child, I’m sorry I wasn’t able to say a few words.’ And her response was that I did very well not to talk as, ‘the embrace and the kiss said it all and it was more than enough.’

Most recently, I’ve been occupied with my autobiography. Some people told me that there wouldn’t be a high demand for these old stories. However, it will soon be published by the Gavrielides Editions. So I am very busy with it.

I don’t go to the synagogue frequently. I only go for the holidays. It does not influence me, I am what I am, whether I am in a religious place or not. When there is a big holiday I like to go there and pray. I also go to the synagogue for memorial services or when they open the temple.

Every night I say my prayer, ‘Shema Israel.’ This is the only prayer I know, I am sorry to know only this prayer, but then again this prayer says it all. There is only one ‘Shema Israel’ but even if you don’t pray, when you say, ‘oh, my G-d, please…’ it means that for you G-d exists.

Describing my life I could say that I lived a ‘bourgeois life.’

I’ve always believed that the Greek Jews but also the Greek Orthodox Christians do no have an aristocracy, there may have been some aristocrats, on the islands of Corfu, Cefallonia, Zakynthos and that it is all.

For me aristocracy is a right and honest house. People well educated, cultured. These are the people that get distinguished. Is it not so? And we do not have aristocracy like the French with the prefix ‘de’, nor dukes nor counts nor Sirs, nothing of the sort. But even if we have, the titles have in reality been bought because today titles are sold. As for me, I consider equal and fully comparable all the correct, civil families with alleged aristocracy.

  • Glossary:

1 Expulsion of the Jews from Spain: In the 13th century, after a period of stimulating spiritual and cultural life, the economic development and wide-range internal autonomy obtained by the Jewish communities in the previous centuries was curtailed by anti-Jewish repression emerging from under the aegis of the Dominican and the Franciscan orders.

There were more and more false blood libels, and the polemics, which were opportunities for interchange of views between the Christian and the Jewish intellectuals before, gradually condemned the Jews more and more, and the middle class in the rising started to be hostile with the competitor.

The Jews were gradually marginalized. Following the pogrom of Seville in 1391, thousands of Jews were massacred throughout Spain, women and children were sold as slaves, and synagogues were transformed into churches. Many Jews were forced to leave their faith.

About 100,000 Jews were forcibly converted between 1391 and 1412. The Spanish Inquisition began to operate in 1481 with the aim of exterminating the supposed heresy of new Christians, who were accused of secretly practicing the Jewish faith.

In 1492 a royal order was issued to expel resisting Jews in the hope that if old co-religionists would be removed new Christians would be strengthened in their faith.

At the end of July 1492 even the last Jews left Spain, who openly professed their faith. The number of the displaced is estimated to lie between 100,000-150,000. (Source: Jean-Christophe Attias - Esther Benbassa: Dictionnaire de civilisation juive, Paris, 1997)

2 German Occupation: in the spring of 1941, Germans defeated the Greek army and occupied Greece until October 1944. The county was divided in three zones of occupation. Thrace and the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia were occupied by Bulgaria, Germany occupied Macedonia including Thessaloniki, Piraeus and western Crete and Italy occupied the remaining mainland and the islands.

Now depending of where the Jews lived, defined both their future luck as also the possibilities of escape. Greek resistance groups, communists or not fought against the occupation in an effort to save Greece but also the Jews living in Greece.

Approximately 8,000 to 10,000 Greek Jews survived the Holocaust, due to the refusal, to a great extent, of the Greeks, as also the leadership of the Greek Orthodox Church, to cooperate with the Germans for the application of their plan to deport all of them. Further more, the Italian authorities up to their surrender in 1943 refused to facilitate or to permit the deportation of the Jews from the Italian zone of occupation.

(Source: www.ushmm.org/greece/nonflash/gr/intro.htm)

3 Moskov, Kostis (1939-1998): Mayor of Thessaloniki, advisor to the Ministry of Culture and Representative of the Greek Civilization foundation in the Middle East. A historian, writer, poet and journalist who had many of his works published.

4 Ladino: Also known as Judeo-Spanish, it is the spoken and written Hispanic language of Jews of Spanish and Portuguese origin. Ladino did not become a specifically Jewish language until after the expulsion of the Jews from Spain in 1492 (and Portugal in 1495) - it was merely the language of their province. It is also known as Judezmo, Dzhudezmo, or Spaniolit.

When the Jews were expelled from Spain and Portugal they were cut off from the further development of the language, but they continued to speak it in the communities and countries to which they emigrated. Ladino therefore reflects the grammar and vocabulary of 15th-century Spanish.

In Amsterdam, England and Italy, those Jews who continued to speak 'Ladino' were in constant contact with Spain and therefore they basically continued to speak the Castilian Spanish of the time. Ladino was nowhere near as diverse as the various forms of Yiddish, but there were still two different dialects, which corresponded to the different origins of the speakers:

'Oriental' Ladino was spoken in Turkey and Rhodes and reflected Castilian Spanish, whereas 'Western' Ladino was spoken in Greece, Macedonia, Bosnia, Serbia and Romania, and preserved the characteristics of northern Spanish and Portuguese. The vocabulary of Ladino includes hundreds of archaic Spanish words, and also includes many words from different languages:

mainly from Hebrew, Arabic, Turkish, Greek, French, and to a lesser extent from Italian. In the Ladino spoken in Israel, several words have been borrowed from Yiddish. For most of its lifetime, Ladino was written in the Hebrew alphabet, in Rashi script, or in Solitreo.

It was only in the late 19th century that Ladino was ever written using the Latin alphabet. At various times Ladino has been spoken in North Africa, Egypt, Greece, Turkey, Yugoslavia, Bulgaria, Romania, France, Israel, and, to a lesser extent, in the United States and Latin America.

5 Rashi alphabet: A Hebrew alphabet traditionally used for Rashi (Rabbi Solomon ben Isaac, 1040-1105) commentaries of the Bible and the Talmud, it is also the traditional alphabet of Judeo-Spanish. The Judeo-Spanish alphabet also used certain characters to denote the Spanish sounds that are alien to the Hebrew phonetics.

Judeo-Spanish religious as well as secular texts were written in Rashi letters up until the introduction of the Latin alphabet, first by Alliance Israelite Universelle after 1860.

6 Railway network of Thessaloniki: In 1871 the city of Thessaloniki was connected to the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia. In 1888 it was connected to Belgrade and the European Railway network.

In 1894 the connection of Thessaloniki with Monastiri was completed, while in 1896 Thessaloniki was also connected with Constantinople, today's Istanbul.

7 Fez: Ottoman headgear. As part of the Imperial Prescript of Gulhane (a westernizing campaign) of Sultan Mahmud II (1839-1876) the traditional Ottoman dressing code was abolished in 1839. The fez, resembling the hat of the Europeans at the time, was introduced and widely used by the Ottoman population, regardless of religious affiliation.

In the Turkish Republic it was considered backward and outlawed in 1925 by the Head Law. In the Balkan countries the fez was regarded an Ottoman (Turkish) symbol and was dropped after gaining independence.

8 Thessaloniki visit of King Juan Carlos: On 27th May 1998 the Spanish Royal couple, King Juan Carlos and Queen Sofia visited Thessaloniki. They were received by the Minister of Macedonia and Trace, Philippos Petsalnikos, and he accompanied them to the Holocaust Monument where King Juan Carlos laid a wreath in honor of the memory of the Jewish martyrs.

9 Synagogues in Thessaloniki: Before WWII there were 19 synagogues in Thessaloniki, all of which were blown up by the Germans a short time before the liberation. Already the big fire of 1917 had destroyed most of the synagogues and certainly all the historic synagogues, that is those built before 1680.

Historian Rena Molho accounts that before the big fire there were about a hundred synagogues out of which 32 were recognized by the chief rabbi, 65 private small synagogues belonging to well known families and 17 small public synagogues. [Source: 1. R. Molho, 'The Jews of Thessaloniki. 1856-1919 A special community,' Ed. Themelio, Athens 2001, pp.65, 121. and 2. Helias V. Messinas, 'The Synagogues of Salonica and Veroia,' Ed. Gavrielides, Athens 1997]

10 Beit Saoul Synagogue: It was set up in ca. 1898 on 43 Vassilissis Olgas Street by Fakima Idda Modiano in memory of her husband Saoul Jacob Modiano.

11 Monastir Synagogue (Monastirioton in Greek): Founded in 1923, inaugurated in 1927 by the Aruesti family who during the Balkan Wars (1912-1913), along with other Jewish families of Monastir (today Bitola), sought shelter in the Jewish Community of Thessaloniki and settled in the city. This synagogue survived the destructions during World War II because it was used as the headquarters of the Red Cross.

12 Mizrachi: The word has two meanings: a) East. It designates the Jews who immigrate to Palestine from the Arab countries. Since the 1970s they make up more than half of the Israeli population. b) It is the movement of the Zionists, who firmly hold on to the Torah and the traditions.

The movement was founded in 1902 in Vilnius. The name comes from the abbreviation of the Hebrew term Merchoz Ruchoni (spiritual center). The Mizrachi wanted to build the future Jewish state by enforcing the old Jewish religious, cultural and legal regulations. They recruited followers especially in Eastern Europe and the United States.

In the year after its founding it had 200 organizations in Europe, and in 1908 it opened an office in Palestine too. The first congress of the World Movement was held in 1904 in Pozsony (today Bratislava, Slovakia), where they joined the Basel program of the Zionists, but they emphasized that the Jewish nation had to stand on the grounds of the Torah and the traditions.

The aim of the Mizrach-Mafdal movement is the same in our days too. It supports schools, youth organizations in Israel and in other countries, so that the Jewish people can learn about their religion, and it takes part in the political life of Israel, promoting by this the traditional image of the Jewish state.

(http://www.mizrachi.org/aboutus/default.asp; www.cionista.hu/mizrachi.htm; Magyar Zsidó Lexikon, Budapest, 1929).

13 Matanot Laevionim: Matanot Laevionim was created in February 1901 with the objective of offering free meals to orphans and other poor students of the schools of the Jewish Community. It operated with funds from the community, the help of Alliance Israelite Universelle and other serious legacies left by the founding members or their wives when they became widows.

These funds were used in order to acquire a building in the suburb of Eksohi. In 1912, Matanot Laevionim offered approximately four hundred free meals a day, while after the big fire of Thessaloniki in 1917 it extended its activities and set up one cook house in each neighborhood.

During the occupation it offered great services to the community, as with the assistance of the Greek and the International Red Cross it managed to distribute daily 'popular meals' and half a litter of milk to 5.500 children. [Source: R. Molho, 'The Jews of Thessaloniki 1856-1919. A Unique Community,' Ed. Themelio, Athens 2001, pp.104-106]

14 Alliance Israelite Universelle: An international Jewish organization based in France. It was founded in Paris in 1860 by Adolphe Gremieux, as a response to the Damascus Affair, with the goal to protect human rights of Jews as citizens of the countries where they live.

The organization was created to combine the ideals of self defense and self sufficiency through education and professional development among Jews around the world. In addition, the organization operated a number of Jewish day schools and has done a lot to standardize the Ladino language.

The Alliance schools were organized in network with their Central Committee in Paris. The teaching body was usually the alumni trained in France. The schools emphasized modern sciences and history in their curriculum; nevertheless Hebrew and religion were also taught.

The Alliance Israelite Universelle ideology consisted in teaching the local language to Jews so they could be integrated to their country's culture. This was part of the modernization of the Jews. Most Ottoman Jews, however, did not take up the Turkish language (because it was optional), and as a result a new generation of Ottoman Jews grew up that was more familiar with France and the West than with the surrounding society.

In the Balkans the first school was opened in Greece (Volos) in 1865, then in the Ottoman Empire in Adrianople in 1867, Shumla (Shumen) in 1870 and in Istanbul, Smyrna (Izmir), and Salonika in 1870s. In 1870, Carl Netter of the AIU received a tract of land from the Ottoman Empire as a gift and started an agricultural school, Mikveh Israel, the first modern Jewish agricultural settlement in the Land of Israel.

The modernist Jewish elite and intelligentsia of the late 19th-century Ottoman Empire was known for having graduated from Alliance schools; they were closely attached to the Young Turk circles, and after 1908 three of them (Carasso, Farraggi, and Masliah) were members of the new Ottoman Chamber of Deputies.

15 American College (or Anatolia College): School founded by American missionaries in Merzifon of Asia Minor, in 1886. In 1924, after the invitation of Eleutherios Venizelos, it was transferred to Thessaloniki. During the interwar period it had many Jewish students.

16 ‘151’: After the Fire of 1917, the Jewish Community acquired the large No. 151 hospital, which belonged to the Italian army and was located east of the Thessaloniki. 75 wooden structures and many brick and cement structures were subsequently built to house the fire-stricken Jewish population.

17 3E (Ethniki Enosi Ellados): lit. National Union of Greece, a fascist nationalist organization, founded in 1929 by George Kosmidis. It had about 2000 members, of whom the majority was immigrants. [Source: J. Hondros, 'Occupation and Resistance: the Greek Agony,' New York, 1983]

18 Venizelos, Eleftherios (1864-1936): an eminent Greek revolutionary, a prominent and illustrious statesman as well as a charismatic leader in the early 20th century. Elected several times as Prime Minister of Greece and served from 1910 to 1920 and from 1928 to 1932.

Venizelos had such profound influence on the internal and external affairs of Greece that he is credited with being “the maker of modern Greece.” His impact on modern Greece has been such that he is still widely known as the “Ethnarch.”

Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eleftherios_Venizelos)

19 Campbell Fire (Pogrom on 29th June 1931): Responsible for the arson of the poor neighborhood Campbell was the Ethniki Enosis Ellas - National Union Greece, short: EEE also known as the 3E or the 'Iron Helmets.'

This organization was the backbone of fascism in Greece in the period between the two World Wars. It was established in Thessaloniki in 1927. The most important element of the 3E political voice was anti-Semitism, an expression mostly of the Christian traders of the city in order to displace the Jewish competitors.

President of the organization was a merchant, Mr. G. Cormides, there was also a secretary, a banker, D. Haritopoulos, and chief spokesman Nikos Fardis, editor-in-chief of the newspaper Makedonia. The occasion for the outbreak of anti-Semitism in Thessaloniki was the inauguration of the new Maccabi Hall in June 1931.

In a principal article signed by Nikos Fardis, from Saturday, 20th June 1931, it was said that Maccabi of Thessaloniki had placed itself in favor of an Autonomous Greek Macedonia. The journalist "revealed" the conspiracy of Jews, Bulgarians, Communists and Catholics against Macedonia.

Two days later, the Ministry of the Interior confirmed the newspaper's allegations despite the strict denial of the Maccabi representatives. All the anti-Semitic and fascist organizations were aroused. This marked the beginning of the riots that resulted in the pogrom of Campbell.

Elefterios Venizelos was again involved after the 1917 fire, speaking at the parliament as Prime Minister, and talked with emphasis about the law-abiding stance of the Jewish population, but simultaneously permitted the prosecution of Maccabi for treason against the state. Let alone the fact that the newspaper Makedonia with the inflaming anti-Semitic publications was clearly pro-Venizelian.

At the trial, held in Veroia ten months later, Fardis and the leaders of EEE were found not guilty while three refugees were found guilty, but with mitigating circumstances and therefore were freed on the spot. It is worth noting that at the 1933 general election, the Jews of Thessaloniki, in one block voted against Venizelos. [Source: Bernard Pierron, 'Juifs et chrétiens de la Grèce moderne,' Harmattan, Paris 1996, pp. 179-198]

20 The Fire of Thessaloniki: In the night of 18th August 1917, an enormous fire, fed by the famous Vardar wind, destroyed the city centre where most of the Jews lived. It was a region of 227 hectares, where 15,000 families lived, 10,000 of them were Jewish families which were deprived of their homes.

The Jews were hit the hardest, since more than two thirds of the property destroyed by the fire was Jewish and only a tenth of that immense fortune was insured. Nearly all the schools, 32 synagogues, 50 oratories, all the cultural centers, libraries, clubs, etc. were annihilated.

Despite of the aid of a sum of 40,000 golden pounds collected from all over the world, the community never recovered from that disaster. The Jewish face of the city that had been there for more than five centuries was wiped out in 36 hours.

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

21 Hirsch [Clara de] Hospital: It was inaugurated in May 4th, 1908, exactly ten years after the donation of Baroness Clara de Hirsch who had died in the meantime. Her condition for the donation of 200,000 golden francs, once off for the construction of a 100-bed hospital and 30.000 francs per year for its maintenance was that an equal amount of money would be given by the Jewish Community.

In order to cover the second part there were many public fund raising efforts and a special committee was formed in order to supervise the details of the construction. The hospital manager was Doctor Misrahee and it employed the most specialized doctors of the city.

During WWI it became a military hospital which was returned to the community in 1919. After the end of WWII the hospital was sold to the Greek State on the condition that the label with the name of Baroness de Hirsch would remain intact. This was respected only during the first decades.

Today the label cannot be seen, while some of the marble plaques where the names of other Jews donators were written, were taken out and others were covered with many layers of paint. (Source: 1. R.Molho, “The Jews of Thessaloniki 1856-1919 A special community” Ed. Themelio, Athens 2001, pp.96-101)

22 An-ski, Szymon (pen name of Szlojme Zajnwel Rapaport) (1863-1920): Writer, ethnographer, socialist activist. Born in a village near Vitebsk. In his youth he was an advocate of haskalah, but later joined the radical movement Narodnaya Vola. Under threat of arrest he left Russia in 1892 but returned there in 1905.

From 1911-14 he led an ethnographic expedition researching the folklore of the Jews of Podolye and Volhynia. During the war he organized committees bringing aid to Jewish victims of the conflict and pogroms.

In 1918 he became involved in organizing cultural life in Vilnius, as a co-founder of the Union of Jewish Writers and Journalists and the Jewish Ethnographic Society. Two years before his death he moved to Warsaw. He is the author of the Bund party's anthem, 'Di shvue' (Yid. oath).

The participation of the Bund in the Revolution of 1905 influenced An-ski's decision to write in Yiddish. In his later work he used elements of Jewish legends collected during his ethnographic expedition and his experiences from WWI.

His most famous work is The Dybbuk (which to this day remains one of the most popular Yiddish works for the stage). An-ski's entire literary and scientific oeuvre was published in Warsaw in 1920-25 as a 15-volume edition.

23 Cinema Palace: The sign post at the front of the cinema was in three languages: French, Greek and Hebrew. Palace was also a theater. Performances were organized there as early as 1935.  On2nd January 1942 the Germans confiscated it, changed its name to “Soldatenbühne” (Soldiers’ Stage) and it was a theater  for German soldiers only.

(Source: Costas Tomanas, “theaters in old Thessaloniki” Ed. Nisides, Thessaloniki 1994)

24 Thessaloniki International Trade Fair

Taking place every September since its foundation in 1926, it has always been a very important economic as well as cultural city event. For the last few years the Fair has been a pole of attraction and the "place" where the political program of the government is being presented and assessed.

25 Penelope Delta (1874-1941)

Greek writer of books for older children.

Her three major novels are: ‘Trellantonis’ (Crazy Anthony; 1932), which detailed her mischievous elder brother's Antonis Benakis childhood adventures in late 19th century Alexandria, ‘Mangas’ (1935), which was about the not dissimilar adventures of the family's fox terrier dog, and ‘Ta Mystika tou Valtou’ (The Secrets of the Swamp; 1937), which was set around Giannitsa Lake in the early 20th century, when the Greek struggle for Macedonia was unfolding.

She committed suicide on 27th April 1941, the very day Wehrmacht troops entered Athens. (Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Penelope_Delta)

26 Greek-Albanian War/Greek-Italian War (1940-1941)

Greece was drawn into WWII when Italian troops crossed the borders of Albania and violated Greek territory on 28th October 1940. The Italian attack of Greece seemed obvious, despite the stated disagreement of Hitler and the efforts of Ioannis Metaxas, who was trying to trying to keep the country in a neutral stance.

Following a series of warning signs, culminating in the sinking of Battleship 'Elli' on 15th August 1940, by Italian torpedoes, and all of these failing to provoke the Greek government to react, the Italian Ultimatum was delivered on 28th October 1940, and it demanded the free passage of the Italian army through Greek soil, as well as sole control of a series of strategic points of the country.

The rejection of the ultimatum by Metaxas was in line with the public opinion in Greece and led to the immediate declaration of war by Italy against Greece. This war took place mostly in the mountains of Hepeirous.

In the Greek-Albanian War approximately 12.500 Greek Jews took part and 513 Greek Jews died fighting. The Greek counter-offensive pushed the Italians deep into Albania and the Greek army maintained the initiative throughout the winter capturing the southern Albanian towns of Corce, Aghioi Saranda, and Girocaster. [Source: Thanos Veremis, Mark Dragoumis, 'Historical Dictionary of Greece' (London 1995)]

27 Righteous Among the Nations: A medal and honorary title awarded to people who during the Holocaust selflessly and for humanitarian reasons helped Jews. It was instituted in 1953. Awarded by a special commission headed by a justice of the Israeli Supreme Court, which works in the Yad Vashem National Remembrance Institute in Jerusalem.

During the ceremony the persons recognized receive a diploma and a medal with the inscription "Whoever saves one life, saves the entire world" and plant a tree in the Avenue of the Righteous on the Remembrance Hill in Jerusalem, which is marked with plaques bearing their names.

Since 1985 the Righteous receive honorary citizenship of Israel. So far over 20,000 people have been distinguished with the title, including almost 6,000 Poles.

28 Yad Vashem: This museum, founded in 1953 in Jerusalem, honors both Holocaust martyrs and 'the Righteous Among the Nations', non-Jewish rescuers who have been recognized for their 'compassion, courage and morality'.

29 Archbishop Damaskinos Papandreou (1891-1949): Archbishop of Athens and All Greece from 1941 until his death. He was also the regent of Greece between the pull-out of the German occupation force in 1944 and the return of King Georgios II to Greece in 1946. 

His rule was between the liberation of Greece from the German occupation during World War II and the Greek Civil War.

(Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Archbishop_Damaskinos)

30 Evert, Angelos: Athens police chief during 1943, ordered false identification cards to be issued to all Jews requesting them.

(Source: http://www.ushmm.org/museum/exhibit/online/greece/nonflash/eng/athens.htm)

31 Bergen-Belsen : Concentration camp located in northern Germany. Bergen-Belsen was established in April 1943 as a  detention camp for prisoners who were to be exchanged with Germans imprisoned in Allied countries. Bergen-Belsen was liberated by the British army on 15th April, 1945.

The soldiers were shocked at what they found, including 60,000 prisoners in the camp, many on the brink of death, and thousands of unburied bodies lying about. (Source: Rozett R. - Spector S.: Encyclopedia of the Holocaust, Facts on File, G.G. The Jerusalem Publishing House Ltd. 2000, pg. 139 -141) 

32 Creation of the State of Israel: From 1917 Palestine was a British mandate. Also in 1917 the Balfour Declaration was published, which supported the idea of the creation of a Jewish homeland in Palestine. Throughout the interwar period, Jews were migrating to Palestine, which caused the conflict with the local Arabs to escalate.

On the other hand, British restrictions on immigration sparked increasing opposition to the mandate powers. Immediately after World War II there were increasing numbers of terrorist attacks designed to force Britain to recognize the right of the Jews to their own state. These aspirations provoked the hostile reaction of the Palestinian Arabs and the Arab states.

In February 1947 the British foreign minister Ernest Bevin ceded the Palestinian mandate to the UN, which took the decision to divide Palestine into a Jewish section and an Arab section and to create an independent Jewish state.

On 14th May 1948 David Ben Gurion proclaimed the creation of the State of Israel.

It was recognized immediately by the US and the USSR. On the following day the armies of Egypt, Jordan, Saudi Arabia, Yemen, Iraq, Syria and Lebanon attacked Israel, starting a war that continued, with intermissions, until the beginning of 1949 and ended in a truce.

33 Brunner, Alois (born 1912, reports of death contested): Austrian Nazi war criminal. Brunner was Adolf Eichmann's assistant, and Eichmann referred to Brunner as his “best man.” As commander of the Drancy internment camp outside Paris from June 1943 to August 1944, Alois Brunner is held responsible for sending some 140,000 European Jews to the gas chambers.

Nearly 24,000 of them were deported from the Drancy camp. He was condemned in absentia in France in 1954 to a life sentence for crimes against humanity. In 2003, The Guardian described him as “the world's highest-ranking Nazi fugitive believed still alive.” Brunner was last reported to be living in Syria, where the government has so far rebuffed international efforts to locate or apprehend him.

(Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alois_Brunner)

34 Birkenau (Pol.: Brzezinka): Also known as Auschwitz II. Set up in October 1941 following a decision by Heinrich Himmler in the village of Brzezinka (Ger.: Birkenau) close to Auschwitz, as a prisoner-of-war camp.  It retained this title until March 1944, although it was never used as a POW camp.

It comprised sectors of wooden sheds for different types of prisoners (women, men, Jewish families from Terezin, Roma, etc.), and continued to be expanded until the end of 1943.

From the beginning of 1942 it was an extermination camp. The Birkenau camp covered a total area of 140 ha and comprised some 300 sheds variously used as living quarters, ancillary quarters and crematoria.

Birkenau, Auschwitz I and scores of satellite camps made up the largest center for extermination of the Jews. The majority of the Jews deported here were sent straight to the gas chambers to be put to death immediately, without registration.

There were 400,000 prisoners registered there for longer periods, half of whom were Jews. The second-largest group of prisoners were Poles (140,000). Prisoners died en mass as a result of slave labor, starvation, the inhuman living conditions, beatings, torture and executions.

The bodies of those murdered were initially buried and later burned in the crematoria and on pyres in specially dug pits. Due to the efforts made by the SS to erase the evidence of their crimes and their destruction of the majority of the documentation on the prisoners, and also to the fact that the Soviet forces seized the remaining documentation, it is impossible to establish the exact number of victims of Auschwitz-Birkenau. On the basis of the fragmentary documentation available, it can be assumed that in total approx. 1.5 million prisoners were murdered in Auschwitz-Birkenau, some 90% of who were Jews.

35 Wiesel, Eliezer (commonly known as Elie) (born 1928): World-renowned novelist, philosopher, humanitarian and political activist. He is the author of over forty books. In 1986, Wiesel was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. Wiesel teaches at Boston University and serves as the Chairman of The Elie Wiesel Foundation for Humanity.

Izia Antipka

Izia Antipka
Kishinev
Moldova
Interviewer: Zhanna Litinskaya
Date of interview: July 2004

Izia Antipka lives in a big apartment in a many-storied apartment block on Izmailskaya Street not far from the center of Kishinev [Chisinau in Moldovan]. It’s an old street with one-storied buildings built in the early 20th century. Izia, a short, slim, baldish man, looks young for his age. Izia’s wife died a year ago. The apartment is nicely furnished: there are carpets on the floors, a Japanese TV set, a good hi-fi. One can tell that Izia is doing well in this respect. Izia gladly and very vividly describes his childhood and tells me about his relatives. Only when it comes to the moment when his grandfather and grandmother died, he lights a cigarette and stops several times during his speech. One can tell how hard it is for him. He is a great cook and talks with inspiration about making Jewish dishes that his mother used to make. He uses her recipes. The next time I visited him, he made cookies for me.

My family background
Growing up
During the 
After the war
Glossary

My family background

I don’t know anything about the origin of my surname: Antipka. They said this surname could have been possibly found among Polish Jews, and my paternal grandfather, Israel Antipka, was born in Poland in the 1860s, only I don’t know the exact location. He had passed away before I was born. My grandfather’s brother, whose name I don’t know, settled in Kiev. My grandfather Israel Antipka settled in Bessarabia 1, in the small village of Flamynzeny, Orgeyev [Orhei in Moldovan] district. Israel married Yenta, a Jewish woman from Bessarabia; this is all I know about my grandmother’s birth place. My grandfather grew corn and grapes, kept livestock and lived his life no different from other Moldovans, trying to earn their daily bread. My grandfather died in the early 1920s. He was buried at the Jewish cemetery in the village.

I knew Grandmother Yenta well. She was about ten years younger than my grandfather. Yenta lived in a nice stone house in Flamynzeny. Yenta was moderately religious. She prayed at home every morning, wore a kerchief, lit candles on Friday evening and prayed over them, followed some of the kashrut rules: I mean, there was never any pork in the house, but she didn’t have separate dishes for dairy and meat products. There was no synagogue in the village and on Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur and Pesach, the main Jewish holidays, my grandmother went to the synagogue in Orgeyev. However, she never gave up work on Saturday. She had to take care of her garden and her livestock: chicken, ducks and geese. She also kept cows, and there was always milk, cottage cheese and cream available for the household.

My parents often sent me to spend the summer with my grandmother Yenta. They called it ‘health strengthening.’ My grandmother was always happy to see me, but she always told me, ‘Izeke, forget about the meat and stew that Mama makes for you, it’s not good for your health, but you can always have chicken and duck.’ My grandmother made perfect food for me. In the morning she made cottage cheese pudding with eggs, saying that there was no such rich milk in the whole town, as the one, from which she made pudding. There were four big rooms in her house. After my grandfather died, my grandmother divided the house into two parts: she and her single son Berl lived in one, and her son Aizek and his family lived in the other.

Israel and Yenta had six children: five sons and a daughter. I have no information about my father’s sister: not even her name. All I know is that after Bessarabia was annexed to Romania 2, she lived with her family on the other bank of the Dniestr in the Soviet Union. My father’s brothers were moderately religious: they celebrated the main holidays and observed some of the traditions.

Isaac, the oldest one, born in the 1890s, lived in a village near Orgeyev. I saw Isaac just a few times. I don’t know what he did: I was small and took no interest in such things. Isaac died in the 1930s. His wife and two children, whose names I can’t remember, evacuated in 1941. After the Great Patriotic War 3 they returned to Moldova. We had no contacts with them, and this is all I know.

My father came next in the family, and after him Aizek was born. Aizek had one leg shorter than the other. He was weak and couldn’t do farmer’s work. Aizek owned a small store, where he sold matches, kerosene, candles and salt that villagers bought from him. Aizek and his wife lived in the second half of my grandmother’s house. Aizek had no children. His wife died in evacuation, in some place in Siberia and Aizek remarried in the late 1940s. He and his wife settled in Orgeyev. Aizek died in the mid-1960s. Aizek’s son Mikhail, born in the late 1940s in his second marriage, lives in Israel. I have no contact with him.

The next son was my father’s brother Moishe. He lived in another village. I hardly know anything about him. He was married, but he and his wife disappeared during the Great Patriotic War. Most likely, they failed to evacuate and perished in the occupied territory.

The youngest one, Berl, born in the 1910s, lived with his mother. Berl worked from morning till night. That was probably why he remained single. There were no other Jewish families in the village and he had no time to look around. My grandmother and Berl were killed by the Fascists in their village of Flamynzeny in 1941.

My father Samuil, Jewish name Shmil, Antipka was born in the 1890s. I don’t know where he studied or whether he went to cheder. Most likely he started his studies with a melamed. Melamed teachers went around villages teaching Jewish children. My father started helping his father about the household at an early age. However, he had other ideas, rather than living his life in the village like his mother and father. When he turned 16, my father moved to Orgeyev, the district town. He went to work at the printing house where he became an apprentice and then a qualified printer. In the tsarist Russia printing workers were the most progressive ones: they read all the new editions, and were well aware of progressive ideas.

After Bessarabia was annexed to Romania, workers established an underground organization involved in Communist propaganda. My father was far from politics and didn’t join this organization, but when the police organized a search at his printing house, he decided to risk it no longer and left the printing house. He became a broker. He arranged food supplies to two big restaurants in Orgeyev. He made deals with farmers and also supplied meat, butter, fruit and vegetables to these restaurants having his interest from those supplies. I don’t know how my parents met. There may have been a shadkhan. They got married in 1924.

My mother came from Orgeyev. Her father, Srul Steinberg, born in the 1860s as was Israel [the paternal grandfather], worked in a ‘monopolka’ store [stores selling vodka which was the state monopoly in the tsarist Russia and Romania, too]. My grandmother Mariam owned a store. My grandmother joked that she managed a ‘gas station.’ There were just two cars in Orgeyev: the main transport means were horses and my grandmother sold food for the horses: oats, bran, etc. Jewish and Moldovan cabmen were Mariam’s customers: they knew and respected my grandmother.

Orgeyev was a truly Jewish town at that time: 80 percent of its population was Jewish. Jews kept almost all stores and shops in the center of the town. Jewish doctors, lawyers and businessmen lived in the central part of the town. There was a number of synagogues, a Jewish hospital, and later the Joint 4 established and supported an affiliate of the Jewish Health Association. My grandmother and grandfather rented an apartment, though it was spacious and well-furnished. Grandfather Srul was very religious. On Friday, Saturday and holidays he went to the synagogue. The synagogues were guild-based: my grandfather Srul went to the nearby synagogue of shoemakers, though there were no shoemakers in our family. It was just the nearest synagogue from where my grandparents lived. There were six children in the family. They were raised to respect and observe Jewish traditions.

Hana, the oldest of all children, born in the 1890s, was a very beautiful woman, but she had one problem: she had a glass eye. She failed to find a decent match and in 1933 she moved to Palestine, following the Zionist ideas of the construction of a Jewish state. She got lucky and married a widower by the name of Lis. I don’t remember his first name. Lis was rather wealthy. He owned a big two-storied house in a small town. On the first floor he arranged a café. Hana ran her household and raised her husband’s children: she didn’t have any of her own. Hana died in the mid-1980s, when she was very old.

The next in our family was Gershl. He moved to Palestine in the 1920s and from there he moved to the USA, because of the continuous troubles caused by the Arabs. He changed his name to Harry, got married and had two children. This is all I know about my uncle. In 1940, when the Soviet regime was established in Bessarabia 5, it became dangerous for the family to correspond with him and it stopped 6. All I know is that he died a long time ago, in the 1950s.

My mother was born between Gershl and Moishe, who came into this world in the 1900s. He was a very gifted person. After finishing a gymnasium with honors he went to Bucharest. Moishe was good at languages. He studied French and German at the gymnasium. In Bucharest Moishe went to work at a company selling Austrian manual knitwear units. Its owner was Arabadjiyev, a Bulgarian man. He valued my uncle for his good work and paid him well. Moishe got married and had two children: his daughter’s name was Dodika and his son’s name was Mikhail. When the Soviet regime was established, Moishe and his family moved to Kishinev: almost all Jews in Bessarabia looked forward to the Soviet days. When the Great Patriotic War began, Moishe and his family evacuated, but disappeared somewhere in Krasnodarskiy Kray [today Russia].

Rachil, Mama’s sister, born in 1904, the smartest of all the girls, studied in a gymnasium. However, she never finished it for reasons that I’m not aware of. Rachil married Musia Averbuch, a Jewish man from Orgeyev. Rachil returned to Orgeyev from the evacuation and later she moved to Kishinev. She died in 1975. Her children Alexandr and Mania moved to Israel in the late 1980s.

My mother’s youngest sister Feiga, born in 1910, followed Moishe to Bucharest looking for a job. Soon she married Marcello Iosifzon, a Jewish man. It’s a Romanian name, but I don’t know his Jewish name. He was a rabbi’s son. They were wealthy and didn’t want to have any children before the war. In 1940 Feiga and Marcello and Moishe’s family moved to Kishinev. During the Great Patriotic War they evacuated to Uzbekistan. Marcello was recruited to the labor army 7. After the war they returned to Kishinev. In 1947 their daughter Sonia was born. Later they had a son named Leonid. In the early 1970s the family moved to Israel where Feiga died at the age of 88. Her children and grandchildren live in Haifa in Israel. I know that they are happy with their life.

My mother, Sarrah Steinberg, was born in Orgeyev in the late 1890s. Like Rachil she finished several years in the gymnasium and then became an apprentice of the best dressmaker in town. Some time later she began to make clothes herself and became even better than her teacher. When she was young, my mother was fond of revolutionary ideas like many other young people in Bessarabia. She joined an underground Komsomol organization 8. My mother’s group was arrested at their gathering in the town park where they were reading the novel ‘Mother’ by Maxim Gorky 9, which was forbidden in the capitalist Romania. My mother was arrested, kept in jail and tortured for a few days. She was beaten with a metal bar and taunted. The young people were released from prison only after Grousgend, a wealthy grain supplier, interfered and paid a bail for them. After she was released, she was introduced to my father. My parents got married in 1924. They had a traditional Jewish wedding with a chuppah at the synagogue. Everything was like it happened in religious Jewish families.

Growing up

I was born on 10th January 1925. I was named Izia [full name Israel] after my grandfather. This name, Izia Antipka, was written down in my birth certificate. In 1930 Mama gave birth to my sister Leya. Later she changed her name to the Russian Lidia, or Lida for short 10 – and I will call her by this name.

I recall my childhood with a warm feeling: this was the time of overall love. My father worked as a broker. He often traveled to nearby villages and towns, buying food products and making deals with farmers. My mother was a first-class dressmaker. She owned a shop and had two employees working for her. Every evening our family got together for dinner and these were the warmest evenings in my life. We discussed events of the day, had delicious food and then Mama put me and my sister to bed and this was wonderful.

We rented apartments and there were three such apartments in my childhood and youth. When I was born we rented an apartment from Reznik, a Jewish owner. Then we moved to another apartment, which we rented from Batuzh, a Moldovan man. Before the Great Patriotic War we rented an apartment from Mishkis, a Jewish owner. I remember this apartment best. It was big: there was a fore room with a coat-stand and a round table, covered with a velvet tablecloth, there was also a small living room, our parents’ bedroom, the children’s room and another room that served as my mother’s shop. There was a big cutting table in it: an oak table with carved legs where Mama cut the fabric. There was also a Singer sewing machine that Mama was very cautious about.

We had a good life, enjoying good food and nice clothes that Mama made for us. However, my parents worked very hard to support the family. Mama also did all the housework herself: we never had a housemaid. She was an excellent housewife. Our neighbors asked her for advice. They brought their dishes for her to try: ‘Madam Antipka, is there anything else to add here? Madam Antipka, is this jam ready?’

We had certain meals on certain days, and I could always guess what we were going to have tonight or tomorrow. Let me tell you starting from Friday night, when Mama cooked Saturday dinner before Sabbath. [Editor’s note: In religious households dinner had to be complete and ready before Sabbath commenced on Friday evening] There was gefilte fish with walnuts – this was a tradition in Bessarabia – chicken broth or chicken stew. Jews used to say that if a Jew didn’t have stuffed chicken neck [the neck stuffed with flour and onions fried on goose fat] on his table on Saturday, he was just not a Jew.

Mama also cooked Jewish beef stew. Real Jewish stew is cooked with beef brisket – no other meat is good for this stew. There has to be a little fat in the meat. It has to be cut in small pieces and fried with onions till the meat and the onions turn dark brown. Then boiling water is added, salt, spices, pepper and laurel and stewed till it’s ready. If there was too much meat, Mama divided it into two portions and made sweet and sour stew. She added tomato paste and cherry jam plus sugar to make it sweet.

Another mandatory Saturday beverage is compote with black plums, and we also treated ourselves to tsimes 11. In Bessarabia tsimes was made with potatoes, beans, carrots, peas and local sweet peas. Peas were kept in water since the previous evening and then boiled a little. Then flour was fried in butter, then a fat chicken tail base was added, onions fried separately and then mixed with peas, sugar was added and that was it: delicious tsimes was ready. Tsimes was to be eaten cold and with white bread. On Saturday we had white bread on the menu. Only Mama didn’t bake it, being very busy with her work. She sent me to buy fresh challah loaves in the store.

Now it’s difficult to recall all the dishes and on which day of the week we had them. I remember that we always had cutlets, fried potatoes and borscht on Monday. In our location Jewish cuisine was affected by the Moldovan cuisine and vice versa. Mama often made mititei, a Moldovan dish that I make myself now. It’s made from beef neck cut into pieces and left at room temperature for three hours. Then the pot is covered with a lid and the meat is placed in the cold – in a fridge and in the past it was kept in a cellar – for 24 hours. Then meat is to be ground with onions and garlic and some water and broth is added. Then sausages [meat balls] are made with this meat with the help of a special set installed on a meat grinder and fried in vegetable oil.

I wouldn’t say that our family was really religious. Mama came from a more traditional family, though she didn’t cover her head like her mother and grandmother, but she tried to observe all Jewish traditions. We always celebrated Sabbath. My father went to the synagogue wearing his fancy suit. Jewish men used to have two suits in Orhei: a casual dark blue and a fancy brown one. My father had a fancy brown striped suit. On Friday Mama cleaned the apartment and cooked everything for Saturday, though on Saturday she didn’t invite Moldovans to help her stoke the stove or serve the food. However, she didn’t take a needle or scissors to work on Saturday. My father took me with him to go to the synagogue of shoemakers. The synagogue was in a small one-storied building, but it was beautiful and had Venetian glass in its windows. Though my father went to the synagogue, he didn’t follow the kosher rules. He liked pork a lot. It’s even sinful to say that on Friday evening he used to send me to the Verbitskiy store to buy delicacies: smoked pork, which I liked with fat streaks and my sister liked the fillet part of it, my father also ate dried pork and fat. We also bought kosher goose sausage for Mama.

We spoke Yiddish to one another, but we also knew Romanian that we spoke to our neighbors. My parents also spoke Russian and often switched to it, when they didn’t want my sister or me to understand what they were talking about, but we understood what they were saying. We celebrated Jewish holidays at home according to traditions.

On Pesach we took special fancy crockery from the attic. My father brought a big basket with matzah from the synagogue. Mama made many delicious dishes with matzah, and I also make them on holidays. She made matzah pudding and nice little pies. Matzah is crushed as fine as flour. For the filling: 300 g lung meat, 300 g liver and 600 g beef, plus fried onions and spices. These pies are to be fried. Besides the [Pesach] dishes required by the Haggadah, we had everything else on the table: the best and delicious gefilte fish, chicken broth, stew and little pies. Mama made a fancy cake for dessert. She made it with 100 nuts. My father conducted the seder reclining on cushions, and I asked him the four questions.

On Purim Mama was sure to cook a turkey that was the central dish on the table. There were also hamantashen filled with nuts, which was also different from the common filling in Belarus and the Ukraine. There was also traditional fluden on Purim. Nuts were mixed with honey and butter plus cookies, this mixture is melt on a small fire and spread on biscuit or waffles. We used to buy waffles in a store. There was also a carnival procession in the town on Purim. There was one even in 1936, when the snow covered the ground.

I often spent summers with my grandmother Yenta. She observed Jewish traditions even with more dedication than my mother. On Friday [evening] we celebrated Sabbath. My grandmother lit candles and the whole family got together at the table: Uncle Berl, Uncle Aizek and his family and I. We also spent some time in the mansion of my father’s friend Bagdasarov, an Armenian man. Bagdasarov was a rich man. There were parquet floors in his mansion. The carpets were taken away in summer since it was too hot. We stayed in a guest house and enjoyed it very much.

At the age of seven I went to a Romanian elementary school. Most of my classmates were Jewish children. There were no prejudiced attitudes toward us and we also got along well. After I finished the elementary school my mother wanted me to go to the gymnasium, but I didn’t quite want to continue to study. I liked doing things with my own hands and I went to the vocational school of the Jewish association Tarbut 12 where students were trained in crafts.

There were many Zionist organizations in Orgeyev like in other parts of Romania and there were also such organizations for young people. I joined the Hashomer Hatzair organization 13, which had a goal to struggle for the establishment of a Jewish state with peaceful methods of negotiations and purchase of land. Each synagogue arranged for collection of contributions for this purpose. We also attended Maccabi 14, a sports organization, the only one that had gyms at its disposal in Romania. They were well equipped for all kinds of sports.

On Romanian holidays: the National Day of Romania, 1st December [Day of Unity, the greatest Romanian national day. On 1st December 1918 the unity of Transylvania and parts of Eastern Hungary with Romania was declared by the Romanian National Assembly in the Transylvanian city of Alba Iulia.] and the National Banner Day, 24th February, [Editor’s note: This national day was introduced in Romania by a governmental decree at the 150th anniversary of the 1848 revolution in 1998. During the interwar period it didn’t exist yet.] Jews made a separate column during the parade: we wore white trousers, dark blue caps and magen Davids, and were the most attractive at the parade. There was also a Jewish brass orchestra in the town. I played the drums in it. There was also a football team. Grousgend, a wealthy manufacturer, sponsored the organization. He paid for uniforms, balls, sports equipment and musical instruments for the orchestra.

The Zionist propaganda was so strong that once the son of a Moldovan policeman, a former apprentice of the Jewish blacksmith Goihman, got so attracted by the idea of the establishment of a Jewish state that he decided to move to Palestine. Despite his father’s efforts to convince him to stay at home, the guy left for Palestine and the whole town came to say good bye to him.

I studied in the Tarbut school for a year before I went to Bucharest to continue my studies. I entered the Jewish vocational gymnasium to study a vocation along with other subjects. This gymnasium also belonged to the Tarbut. Its main purpose was to train professionals for Israel. It was free of charge. It was a boarding school where Jewish guys from different Romanian villages and towns came to study. We had uniforms, were provided meals and had classes.

Of course, I missed home, the warm weather and delicious food. On Friday evenings I visited Aunt Feiga and we celebrated Sabbath. My aunt’s husband Marcello was a real dandy. He had posh clothes and shoes to match each suit he had. Aunt Feiga also enjoyed life. She always treated me to delicious food, even more delicious than my Mama or grandmother Yenta made. I also joined the Bucharest division of Hashomer Hatzair, participated in competitions organized by the Maccabi and played football. There was a small stadium with just two stands for football fans: one for Moldovan and another one for Jewish fans. There were no confrontations between them, but the atmosphere was tense at times.

I took an interest in politics from an early age. I read a lot and followed all events. I knew about the situation in Fascist Germany and was interested in any bit of information about the Soviet Union. Many young Jewish people of Bessarabia were fond of Communist ideas and dreamt of living in the Soviet Union. My father and I often visited my father’s friend Grinberg, a restorer, who had a radio: we held our breath listening to the Kremlin bells [signal of Radio Moscow] tolling at eleven o’clock in the evening [twelve Moscow time].

Mama had cousin brothers and sisters on her mother’s side: Sura and Leika lived in Kishinev and Zigmund and Rachil, members of a Communist organization, decided to cross the border to the Soviet Union. In winter, when the river [Dniestr] froze, they crossed it and got to the USSR. This happened in 1934. In 1937, in the outburst of terror  15 they were arrested and exiled to the Gulag 16 as Romanian spies. They were released in the late 1950s. Zigmund moved to Moscow and Rachil went to Vilnius. They visited Kishinev in the late 1960s for the first time.

In 1938 the Cuzist 17 and legionary [Iron Guard] 18 Fascist parties [organizations] appeared in Romania. This affected Orgeyev immediately. Fascists with swastikas marched along our streets breaking windows in Jewish stores. [Editor’s note: The symbol of the Iron Guard was three horizontal and three vertical green and black stripes. Wearing swastika, the symbol of the German Nazi party, was probably atypical.] Fortunately, this march never developed into a pogrom. In Bucharest where I spent two years I often saw young Fascist people and knew that they would cause much trouble to Jews. In early June 1940 I came to spend my vacation in Orgeyev after passing my exams. That year my father rented 20 hectares, planted soy beans and hired Moldovan workers expecting outstanding crops. He asked me to give him a hand with his work. My sister Lida, who studied in a gymnasium and was on vacation as well, and I often came to work in the field.

On 28th June 1940 the Red army came to Orgeyev! How it was met! Both brass orchestras of Orgeyev marched the streets playing the International [Anthem of the International Worker’s Movement and of the Soviet Union between 1918 and 1943. Originally French, it has been translated into most languages and has been widely used by various Socialist and Communist movements worldwide.] and Soviet songs. Madam Reznik, the wife of a millionaire of Orgeyev, who owned mills, butteries, came out onto her balcony wearing a red satin gown to demonstrate that she was for the Soviets. I also dressed up and marched in a column with the others. We expected to see the well-equipped Red Army, but we were up for the first disappointment, when we saw the first soldiers. This was an Uzbek battalion: they were black, covered with dust, dirty, tired and exhausted. Many faces were affected with smallpox [a common disease in Central Asia], they were far from dashing! They wore wrappings and old boots and they were stinking and sweaty.

The next disappointment was when all food products disappeared from stores: the first ones to disappear were chocolates, caviar and other delicacies. There was no white bread, vegetable oil, flour, sugar, just essential commodities. The only candy was caramel in sugar. Fortunately, we had stocks in the attic that my father had kept for the restaurant. Aunt Rachil brought a bunch of boubliks [round pastries] from Kishinev and we had them instead of white bread. Almost all Jews arrived from Kishinev within the first three days, including Uncle Moishe and his family, Feiga and Marcello.

A few weeks later arrests began. Fortunately, the only harm we suffered was that they took away the soy field. The restaurant owners Blumis and Menis were exiled and so was Reznik and his family: Madam Reznik’s demonstration of their loyalty was of no help. However, Reznik’s children were allowed to stay in Orgeyev. I remember Moishe Frant, who owned a small grocery store, waved his hand to us, ‘We’ll be back,’ getting into the militia car, but none of them ever returned from exile. Being used to a good life many of them died in Siberia. We couldn’t understand the criteria on the basis of which they arrested people. For example, my father’s friend Grinberg, a restaurant owner, escaped an arrest while Gruzgend, a democrat, for whom all of his employees begged, was sent to exile with his family and they all perished in Siberia. We gave shelter to Bagdasarov in our house, but somebody reported on him and he was arrested. My father went to work as supply supervisor in the fruit and vegetable supply office Moldplodoovosch. My sister and I went to the Russian Soviet school. We had no problems with the Russian language hearing it often at home. So a year passed.

During the war

On 22nd June 1941 the Great Patriotic War began. We listened to Molotov’s 19 speech. I insisted on evacuation. My father was against it saying that war would not last long and we would manage staying in the caves near Orgeyev, having food stocks with us. However, my mother shared my point of view and we decided to evacuate. Uncle Musia, my mother sister’s husband, working in the military registry office, managed to arrange a wagon for us. We loaded our belongings: carpets, suitcases, food and even my mother’s sewing machine onto this wagon. In early July our family, Rachil and Musia, Grandmother Mariam and Grandfather Srul left our town.

We reached a village by the [Dniestr] river waiting for our turn to cross it. There were crowds of people, wagons, military, cars at the crossing. The priority was given to battle forces. We decided to move on separately. Uncle Musia had a map and we agreed on the spot where we would meet. My grandmother Mariam, my mother and I, Rachil and my sister crossed the Dniestr, and my father, uncle Musia and my grandfather, who couldn’t walk, stayed on the wagon waiting for their turn to cross the river.

The German troops were not far away from this area. They bombed the road and there were dead people all around. It took us a few days to reach the town of Grigoriopol on the border with Ukraine [on the Ukrainian side] where we rented an apartment waiting for the rest of our family. My father and Musia caught up with us soon. They told us that grandfather Srul had died and they buried him in a field. Grandmother Yenta and Uncle Berl also arrived at Grigoriopol on a wagon. They didn’t stay long. Some military – I think he was a German spy – convinced them to go back home. He said the war wouldn’t last and the Red Army would soon go in attack. Grandmother Yenta and Uncle Berl went back home. After the war we got to know that some villagers gave them shelter, but then their former Moldovan neighbor reported on them. Uncle Berl and Grandmother Yenta were shot by the Fascists at the very beginning of the occupation.

My mother’s brother Moishe, his wife and children also arrived at Grigoriopol. Moishe went back to Kishinev to pick up his younger sister. He brought Feiga and Marcello with him. Later he, his wife and their children disappeared somewhere in the Krasnodarskiy Kray. We tried to find them, but never received any information about them.

We left Grigoriopol on our wagon. We went all across the south and eastern part of Ukraine. We got a warm welcome wherever we arrived. We were accommodated and provided with some food. We also got some food to go, though it was just some salty cheese and dull bread. We stopped in Kirovograd region at the kolkhoz 20, established in the 1930s with the support of Agro-Joint 21. I was surprised to see how different Jewish women looked here, wearing Ukrainian skirts and embroidered blouses and kerchiefs. We were given accommodation.

My father and I went to work at the grain elevator: there was an outstanding crop that year and we worked delivering grain to the elevator. After two-three weeks we had to move on. Fascist landing troops landed in Pervomaysk and the Jewish kolkhoz 22 evacuated hastily. I remember that my mother made dough to bake bread that evening and she put the pot on our wagon when we had to leave. We moved without stopping for a few days. We crossed the Southern Bug and then the Dniepr. There were a few pontoon crossings operating. We had excellent horses. I think they pulled the wagon feeling the threat over us. They never let us down.

We finally stopped after crossing the Dniepr. We were hungry. The dough got sour, but Mama made some flat bread from it on the fire nevertheless. We stayed a few weeks in Mariupol. I liked the town very much: there were big trees, wide avenues, the sea – everything was new to me. Then we went on, crossed the Don and reached Bataysk, Rostov region in Russia [about 900 km from Kishinev]. There were catering points arranged for the evacuating people. We were provided the ration of goat cheese and bread. Papa got some tomatoes and fried crucian carps and we settled for a meal by the wagon. A thin shabby guy approached us and my father recognized the son of our neighbor Reznik. He told us he was on the go just by himself. Mama gave him some food and he left. In Bataysk the military took away our wagon and horses for the needs of the front. They gave us a letter promising to return what they had taken away after the war. We took a train heading farther to the east.

Our trip lasted for about a month. We had no idea where we were going. There was a lot of mess during the trip, some people missed the train, some got on it at the stops. There was a lot of crying, diseases and deaths: people were dying and there was no time or place to bury them. We arrived at the border [area] between Uzbekistan and Tajikistan, the station of Yakkabag Kazakhdarya region [today Uzbekistan], almost 3000 kilometers from home. When we got off the train we were welcomed by Uzbek people wearing their gowns and turbans. My grandmother asked my father in Yiddish, ‘Where are we, in a desert?’

The Uzbek people gave us tea and flat bread. We went to a kolkhoz. I was surprised to see how poor the Uzbek people were. There were clay huts with just holes instead of windows and doors, with just poles covered with clay on the roof. We were accommodated in one hut. It was awfully cold there: the wind was blowing through all the openings. My father decided we should move to the district town of Chirchiq, the word means ‘lamp’ in Uzbek. Papa went to the town and bumped into Moldavskiy, a Jewish man from Odessa 23, who was in evacuation with his wife and son. My father sold his posh brown suit, Moldavskiy also added something and they bought a shabby hut of one room and a kitchen. My mother’s work table was in the middle of the room and we accommodated around it. There were four of us left: Mama, Papa, my sister and I. Aunt Rachil and Grandmother Mariam moved to a nearby village. She died in 1943. She was buried without any ceremony in the village cemetery.

Our life was very hard, the bread that we received by cards 24 was too little. Mama sewed a lot and her clients paid her with food for her work. One woman was a shop assistant selling bread and she brought us a loaf of this sticky bread, which looked like soap. I had to help the family and became an apprentice of a blacksmith: he gave me food for my work. Later my father and Marcello – he and Feiga also lived in Uzbekistan – were mobilized to the labor army [mobilized to do physical work for the army], my father earned well and supported us. My father and Marcello worked near Moscow. Their Uzbek comrades didn’t want to work and starved themselves to exhaustion to be sent back home. My father and Marcello were to escort them. So he managed to visit us a few times, bringing flour, sugar, tinned meat or even sausage.

After the war

In September 1944, when Bessarabia was liberated, my father went to Kishinev and sent us a letter of invitation from there. We went back home. In Tashkent our luggage was stolen, but it was a minor problem, considering that how happy we felt going back home. Rachil, Musia, Feiga and Marcello gathered for a family council and decided it didn’t make sense to go back to Orgeyev. My father said it was only possible to live in a bigger town during the Soviet regime. At least it’s possible to get some food products. There were many abandoned apartments in the town and we moved in one on Kievskaya Street. Our neighbors from Orgeyev told us who had taken our belongings and we went there to pick them, but we only managed to get back my mother’s cutting table.

Life was improving. My father went back to work in the Moldplodoovoschtorg [Moldovan state-owned fruit and vegetable dealer] office. Mama continued with her sewing, but she couldn’t work as much as she did before the war. I finished school, of course, I was over aged, but there many such children at that time.

I was conscripted to the army in 1947. I was taken to the school of junior aviation specialists. After finishing it I served as supervisor at the air field in Balashikha near Moscow. Our commanders were very good to us. Once I was granted a leave home under the condition that I would bring a canister of wine before the New Year. I spent a whole month in Kishinev. In 1948 my commandment ordered me to go to an airfield in Bucharest since I was the only one, who knew Romanian. I had two soldiers with me: Kharitonov, a Russian guy, and Bagdasarov, an Armenian guy. We had no money with us: we only received a food ration. I picked some underwear from the storage, knowing that it was in great demand. On the way to Bucharest we stopped in Iasi [175 km north of Bucharest] where I bumped into my second cousin. This happened to be the Purim holiday and we spent the whole evening with her celebrating the holiday. This was the first time the guys tried hamantashen.

When we arrived in Bucharest I sold the clothes I had with me in a lady’s washroom. Now we had some money. This was a great risk: if we were stopped by a Soviet patrol we would have problems. Besides, we left our luggage and guns in the left luggage and all of this to go to the red-light district [brothels]. I didn’t care, but my comrades insisted that we went there; there was nothing of the kind in the USSR and prostitution was forbidden and strictly punishable. I took them to this street where girls in underwear were sitting before front doors. Seeing handsome Soviet guys they really jumped on us. Bagdasarov got frightened and we escaped. We spent the money we had in street cafes and on street shoe cleaners to polish our boots. We also had our pictures taken as a souvenir. This funny story only proves that I had no problems serving in the army.

Upon demobilization from the army I returned to my parents in Kishinev. Uncle Musia helped me to get a job at the meat grinder repair shop. I became an apprentice, a foreman and later a superintendent and worked at this shop my whole life. I also entered the Dnepropetrovsk College of Railroad Transport, but I never finished it due to my illness. I had psoriasis that acquired an acute form during examinations and my doctors advised me to quit my studies due to the stress this caused. There were mainly Jewish employees in the shop and its director was Moldovan. The anti-Semitism in the early 1950s didn’t affect us, though Jewish chief engineers were fired. I kept working without any problems. Once I visited a tobacco factory, when I was chief of technical supervision. I met Alina Litvak, a Jewish girl, who worked at this factory. I liked her and we began to see each other. Then we fell in love with each other and I proposed to her.

Alina was born in the town of Rybnitsa in 1929. She didn’t remember her father, Ilia Litvak, who died long before the Great Patriotic War, when Alina was just a small child. During the Great Patriotic War Alina and her mother were in the ghetto in Rybnitsa. Her mother, whose name I don’t remember, died in the ghetto. Alina and her sister Fania, who was a few years older than her, survived. After the war Alina lived with her aunt in Kishinev. After finishing a secondary school she went to work as a lab assistant at the tobacco factory. We had a small wedding party with my parents, relatives and a few friends. Of course, it was a common wedding with no chuppah. After the war we didn’t observe Jewish traditions, though we celebrated holidays, particularly Pesach, and my father always brought matzah from the synagogue.

After the wedding we lived with my parents for some time. My sister married Alexandr Goldstein, a Jewish man from Kishinev. Lida was a pharmacist and Alexandr was a railroad engineer. My sister and later I received apartments from his organization. Our parents stayed in their apartment. They lived a long life. My father died in the mid-1980s, and my mother lived 95 years. At the age of 90 she got bedridden and remained in this condition till she died in 1995. We buried our parents according to Jewish traditions, wrapped in takhrikhim, at the Jewish cemetery and the prayer [kaddish] was recited over their graves. 

We lived a good life. I earned well and was promoted to site superintendent in 1955. My wife joined the Communist Party. After about ten years of work she became chief of her laboratory, a forewoman and then shop superintendent. We didn’t have a car or a dacha 25, but we always spent vacations at the seashore or in a recreation center. We bought good food and clothes, often went to theaters and concerts. We celebrated birthdays and always invited friends and relatives. We also got together with friends on Soviet holidays to go to the river bank or to a forest and have a picnic and barbecue. We didn’t celebrate Jewish holidays, but we visited our parents where my mother treated us to all kinds of delicacies: she was an excellent cook.

In 1954 our son Ilia was born. We named him after his maternal grandfather. Ilia studied well. He finished the electromechanical technical school and worked at a plant. He never mentioned to me if he ever faced everyday anti-Semitism. Our family benefited well from perestroika 26. My son managed to use his commercial talent. He started from little and now he owns a big casino. In 1998 Ilia married Inna, a Russian girl, who is much younger than him. In 2003 their son Gera, my grandson, was born. They live their own life. I have little in common with my daughter-in-law, but my son helps me a lot.

My wife Alina, a holy person, a kind soul, with whom I lived a beautiful life together, died in 2003. It’s hard for me to accept that she is not with me any longer. My sister, her husband and their daughter Inna moved to Israel in the early 1990s. My sister died in 2000. My wife and I visited Israel a few times. It’s a magical country created by people’s hands and hard work, but it’s full of sunshine and light. We liked everything there: the warm sea, nice people and delicious cuisine. It’s a paradox that I, a member of a Zionist organization in my youth and a supporter of the establishment of a Jewish state, have stayed here. I always wanted to move there, but at first my wife was against it, later my son didn’t want to go there and then I gave up the thought of it. What would I do there, a  lonely old man, who doesn’t speak the language.

When Moldova became independent, it established all conditions for the development of the Jewish nation. I wouldn’t state there is no routine anti-Semitism and I’ve faced it every now and then, but we have our community, the Hesed 27, and it provides assistance to me as its client, the association of Jewish organizations. I’ve not become religious, but I often attend various events. I join my friends to celebrate holidays at the synagogue or in the Hesed, we share our memories and recipes of the Jewish cuisine: I know many from my mother. I’ve also enjoyed sharing my memories with you.

Glossary

1 Bessarabia

Historical area between the Prut and Dniestr rivers, in the southern part of Odessa region. Bessarabia was part of Russia until the Revolution of 1917. In 1918 it declared itself an independent republic, and later it united with Romania. The Treaty of Paris (1920) recognized the union but the Soviet Union never accepted this. In 1940 Romania was forced to cede Bessarabia and Northern Bukovina to the USSR. The two provinces had almost four million inhabitants, mostly Romanians. Although Romania reoccupied part of the territory during World War II, the Romanian peace treaty of 1947 confirmed their belonging to the Soviet Union. Today it is part of Moldova.

2 Annexation of Bessarabia to Romania

During the chaotic days of the Soviet Revolution, the national assembly of Moldovans convoked to Kishinev decided on 4th December 1917 the proclamation of an independent Moldovan state. In order to impede autonomous aspirations, Russia occupied the Moldovan capital in January 1918. Upon Moldova’s desperate request, the army of neighboring Romania entered Kishinev in the same month recapturing the city from the Bolsheviks. This was the decisive step toward the union with Romania: the Moldovans accepted the annexation without any preliminary condition.

3 Great Patriotic War

On 22nd June 1941 at 5 o’clock in the morning Nazi Germany attacked the Soviet Union without declaring war. This was the beginning of the so-called Great Patriotic War. The German blitzkrieg, known as Operation Barbarossa, nearly succeeded in breaking the Soviet Union in the months that followed. Caught unprepared, the Soviet forces lost whole armies and vast quantities of equipment to the German onslaught in the first weeks of the war. By November 1941 the German army had seized the Ukrainian Republic, besieged Leningrad, the Soviet Union's second largest city, and threatened Moscow itself. The war ended for the Soviet Union on 9th May 1945.

4 Joint (American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee)

The Joint was formed in 1914 with the fusion of three American Jewish committees of assistance, which were alarmed by the suffering of Jews during World War I. In late 1944, the Joint entered Europe’s liberated areas and organized a massive relief operation. It provided food for Jewish survivors all over Europe, it supplied clothing, books and school supplies for children. It supported cultural amenities and brought religious supplies for the Jewish communities. The Joint also operated DP camps, in which it organized retraining programs to help people learn trades that would enable them to earn a living, while its cultural and religious activities helped re-establish Jewish life. The Joint was also closely involved in helping Jews to emigrate from Europe and from Muslim countries. The Joint was expelled from East Central Europe for decades during the Cold War and it has only come back to many of these countries after the fall of Communism. Today the Joint provides social welfare programs for elderly Holocaust survivors and encourages Jewish renewal and communal development.

5 Annexation of Bessarabia to the Soviet Union

At the end of June 1940 the Soviet Union demanded Romania to withdraw its troops from Bessarabia and to abandon the territory. Romania withdrew its troops and administration in the same month and between 28th June and 3rd July, the Soviets occupied the region. At the same time Romania was obliged to give up Northern Transylvania to Hungary and Southern-Dobrudja to Bulgaria. These territorial losses influenced Romanian politics during World War II to a great extent.

6 Keep in touch with relatives abroad

The authorities could arrest an individual corresponding with his/her relatives abroad and charge him/her with espionage, send them to concentration camp or even sentence them to death.

7 Labor army

it was made up of men of call-up age not trusted to carry firearms by the Soviet authorities. Such people were those living on the territories annexed by the USSR in 1940 (Eastern Poland, the Baltic States, parts of Karelia, Bessarabia and northern Bukovina) as well as ethnic Germans living in the Soviet Union proper. The labor army was employed for carrying out tough work, in the woods or in mines. During the first winter of the war, 30 percent of those drafted into the labor army died of starvation and hard work. The number of people in the labor army decreased sharply when the larger part of its contingent was transferred to the national Estonian, Latvian, and Lithuanian Corps, created at the beginning of 1942. The remaining labor detachments were maintained up until the end of the war.

8 Komsomol

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

9 Gorky, Maxim (born Alexei Peshkov) (1868-1936)

Russian writer, publicist and revolutionary.

10 Common name

Russified or Russian first names used by Jews in everyday life and adopted in official documents. The Russification of first names was one of the manifestations of the assimilation of Russian Jews at the turn of the 19th and 20th century. In some cases only the spelling and pronunciation of Jewish names was russified (e.g. Isaac instead of Yitskhak; Boris instead of Borukh), while in other cases traditional Jewish names were replaced by similarly sounding Russian names (e.g. Eugenia instead of Ghita; Yury instead of Yuda). When state anti-Semitism intensified in the USSR at the end of the 1940s, most Jewish parents stopped giving their children traditional Jewish names to avoid discrimination.

11 Tsimes

Stew made usually of carrots, parsnips, or plums with potatoes.

12 Tarbut schools

Elementary, secondary and technical schools maintained by the Hebrew educational and cultural organization called Tarbut. Most Eastern European countries had such schools between the two world wars but there were especially many in Poland. The language of instruction was Hebrew and the education was Zionist oriented.

13 Hashomer Hatzair

‘The Young Watchman’; A Zionist-socialist pioneering movement founded in Eastern Europe, Hashomer Hatzair trained youth for kibbutz life and set up kibbutzim in Palestine. During World War II, members were sent to Nazi-occupied areas and became leaders in Jewish resistance groups. After the war, Hashomer Hatzair was active in ‘illegal’ immigration to Palestine.

14 Maccabi World Union

International Jewish sports organization whose origins go back to the end of the 19th century. A growing number of young Eastern European Jews involved in Zionism felt that one essential prerequisite for the establishment of a national home in Palestine was the improvement of the physical condition and training of ghetto youth. In order to achieve this, gymnastics clubs were founded in many Eastern and Central European countries, which later came to be called Maccabi. The movement soon spread to more countries in Europe and to Palestine. The World Maccabi Union was formed in 1921. In less than two decades its membership was estimated at 200,000 with branches located in most countries of Europe and in Palestine, Australia, South America, South Africa, etc.

15 Great Terror (1934-1938)

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

16 Gulag

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

17 Cuzist

Member of the Romanian fascist organization named after Alexandru C. Cuza, one of the most fervent Fascist leaders in Romania, who was known for his ruthless chauvinism and anti-Semitism. In 1919 Cuza founded the LANC, which became the National Christian Party in 1935 with an anti-Semitic program.

18 Iron Guard

Extreme right wing political organization in Romania between 1930-1941, led by C. Z. Codreanu. The Iron Guard propagated nationalist, Christian-mystical and anti-Semitic views. It was banned for its terrorist activities (e.g. the murder of Romanian prime minister I. Gh. Duca) in 1933. In 1935 it was re-established as a party named ‘Everything for the Fatherland’, but it was banned again in 1938. It was part of the government in the first period of the Antonescu regime, but it was then banned and dissolved as a result of the unsuccessful coup d'état of January 1941. Its leaders escaped abroad to the Third Reich.

19 Molotov, V

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

20 Kolkhoz

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

21 Agro-Joint (American Jewish Joint Agricultural Corporation)

The Agro-Joint, established in 1924, with the full support of the Soviet government aimed at helping the resettlement of Jews on collective farms in the South of Ukraine and the Crimea. The Agro-Joint purchased land, livestock and agricultural machinery and funded housing construction. It also established many trade schools to train Jews in agriculture and in metal, woodworking, printing and other skills. The work of Agro-Joint was made increasingly difficult by the Soviet authorities, and it finally dissolved in 1938. In all, some 14,000 Jewish families were settled on the land, and thus saved from privation and the loss of civil rights, which was the lot of all except for workers and peasants. By 1938, however, large numbers left the colonies, attracted by the cities, and most of those who stayed were murdered by the Germans.

22 Jewish kolkhoz

Such farms were established in the Ukraine in the 1930s during the period of collectivization.

23 Odessa

The Jewish community of Odessa was the second biggest Jewish community in Russia. According to the census of 1897 there were 138,935 Jews in Odessa, which was 34,41 percent of the local population. There were seven big synagogues and 49 prayer houses in Odessa. There were cheders in 19 prayer houses.

24 Card system

The food card system regulating the distribution of food and industrial products was introduced in the USSR in 1929 due to extreme deficit of consumer goods and food. The system was cancelled in 1931. In 1941, food cards were reintroduced to keep records, distribute and regulate food supplies to the population. The card system covered main food products such as bread, meat, oil, sugar, salt, cereals, etc. The rations varied depending on which social group one belonged to, and what kind of work one did. Workers in the heavy industry and defense enterprises received a daily ration of 800 g (miners - 1 kg) of bread per person; workers in other industries 600 g. Non-manual workers received 400 or 500 g based on the significance of their enterprise, and children 400 g. However, the card system only covered industrial workers and residents of towns while villagers never had any provisions of this kind. The card system was cancelled in 1947.

25 Dacha

country house, consisting of small huts and little plots of lands. The Soviet authorities came to the decision to allow this activity to the Soviet people to support themselves. The majority of urban citizens grow vegetables and fruit in their small gardens to make preserves for winter.

26 Perestroika (Russian for restructuring)

Soviet economic and social policy of the late 1980s, associated with the name of the Soviet politician Mikhail Gorbachev. The term designated the attempts to transform the stagnant, inefficient command economy of the Soviet Union into a decentralized, market-oriented economy. Industrial managers and local government and party officials were granted greater autonomy, and open elections were introduced in an attempt to democratize the Communist Party organization. By 1991, perestroika was declining and was soon eclipsed by the dissolution of the USSR.

27 Hesed

Meaning care and mercy in Hebrew, Hesed stands for the charity organization founded by Amos Avgar in the early 20th century. Supported by Claims Conference and Joint, Hesed helps Jews in need to have a decent life despite hard economic conditions and encourages development of their self-identity. Hesed provides a number of services aimed at supporting the needs of all, and particularly elderly members of the society. The major social services include: work in the center facilities (information, advertisement of the center activities, foreign ties and free lease of medical equipment); services at homes (care and help at home, food products delivery, delivery of hot meals, minor repairs); work in the community (clubs, meals together, day-time polyclinic, medical and legal consultations); service for volunteers (training programs). The Hesed centers have inspired a real revolution in the Jewish life in the Former Soviet Union (FSU) countries. People have seen and sensed the rebirth of the Jewish traditions of humanism. Currently over eighty Hesed centers exist in the FSU countries. Their activities cover the Jewish population of over eight hundred settlements.

Henryk Umow

Henryk Umow

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 Ilive 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:

1 Jedwabne

town in north-eastern Poland. On 10th July 1941 900 Jews were burned alive there. Until recently the official historiography maintained that the Germans were the perpetrators of this act. In 2000, however, Tomasz Gross published a book called Neighbors, in which he indicted Poles as the perpetrators of the Jedwabne massacre. This book sparked off a discussion that embroiled academics, politicians and the media alike. The case was also investigated by the Institute for National Remembrance. This was the second such serious debate on Polish involvement in the extermination of the Jews. The Jedwabne debate attempted to establish the number of Jews murdered, to define the nature of the incident (pogrom or Holocaust), and to point out the direct perpetrators and initiators of the crime.

2 Polish-Soviet War (1919-21)

between Poland and Soviet Russia. It began with the Red Army marching on Belarus and Lithuania; in December 1918 it took Minsk, and on 5th January 1919 it drove divisions of the Lithuanian and Belarusian defense armies out of Vilnius. The Soviets’ aim was to install revolutionary governments in these lands, while the Polish side had two territorial programs for them: incorporative (the annexation of Belarus and part of Ukraine to Poland) and federating (the creation of a system of nation states sympathetic to Poland). The war was waged on the territory of what is today Lithuania, Belarus, Ukraine and Poland (west to the Vistula). Armed combat ceased on 18th October 1920 and the peace treaty was signed on 18th March 1921 in Riga. The outcome of the 1919-1920 war was the incorporation into Poland of Lithuania’s Vilnius region, Belarus’ Grodno region, and Western Ukraine.

3 Social Democratic Party of the Kingdom of Poland and Lithuania (SDKPiL)

Workers’ party founded in 1893, active in the Kingdom of Poland and in the Bialystok region. In 1895 it was shattered by arrests, and in 1899 rebuilt. It was a member of the 2nd Internationale (the radical wing). SDKPiL postulated the overthrow of the tsar and the introduction of a socialist system through a socialist revolution by the working class (it considered the peasantry reactionary), and offered a brotherly alliance between free peoples as the solution to the question of nationhood (it perceived no need or way to reinstate a sovereign Polish state). During the 1905-07 revolution it initiated and organized strikes, rallies and demonstrations, and set up trade unions. During World War I it took up an anti-war stance, and in 1917 supported the revolution in Russia. The ideological leader of the SDKPiL was Rosa Luxemburg, and among the leading activists was Felix Dzierzynski. In December 1918 it fused with the left wing of the PPS (Polish Socialist Party) to form the KPRP (Communist Party of Poland).

4 Communist Party of Poland (KPP)

created in December 1918 in Warsaw, its aim was to create a global or pan-European federal socialist state, and it fought against the rebirth of the Polish state. Between 1921 and 1923 it propagated slogans advocating a two-stage revolution (the bourgeois-democratic revolution and the socialist revolution), the reinforcement of Poland’s sovereignty, the right to self-determination of the ethnic minorities living within the II Republic of Poland, and worker and peasant government of the country. After 1924, as in the rest of the international communist movement, ultra-revolutionary tendencies developed. From 1929 the KPP held the stance that the conditions were right for the creation by revolution of a Polish Republic of Soviets with a system based on the Soviet model, and advocated ‘social fascism’ and ‘peasant fascism’. In 1935 on the initiative of Stalin, the KPP wrought further changes in its program (recognizing the existence of the II Polish Republic and its political system). In 1919 the KPP numbered some 7,000-8,000 members, and in 1934 around 10,000 (37 percent peasants), with a majority of Jews, Belarus and Ukrainians. In 1937 Stalin took the decision to liquidate the KPP; the majority of its leaders were arrested and executed in the USSR, and in 1939 the party was finally liquidated on the charge that it had been taken over by provocateurs and spies.

5 Hashomer Hatzair in Poland

From 1918 Hashomer Hatzair operated throughout Poland, with its headquarters in Warsaw. It emphasized the ideological and vocational training of future settlers in Palestine and personal development in groups. Its main aim was the creation of a socialist Jewish state in Palestine. Initially it was under the influence of the Zionist Organization in Poland, of which it was an autonomous part. In the mid-1920s it broke away and joined the newly established World Scouting Union, Hashomer Hatzair. In 1931 it had 22,000 members in Poland organized in 262 ‘nests’ (Heb. ‘ken’). During the occupation it conducted clandestine operations in most ghettos. One of its members was Mordechaj Anielewicz, who led the rising in the Warsaw ghetto. After the war it operated legally in Poland as a party, part of the He Halutz. It was disbanded by the communist authorities in 1949.

6 Hahalutz

Hebrew for pioneer, it stands for a Zionist organization that prepared young people for emigration to Palestine. It was founded at the beginning of the 20th century in Russia and began operating in Poland in 1905, later also spread to the USA and other countries. Between the two wars its aim was to unite all the Zionist youth organizations. Members of Hahalutz were sent on hakhshara, where they received vocational training. Emphasis was placed chiefly on volunteer work, the ability to live and work in harsh conditions, and military training. The organization had its own agricultural farms in Poland. On completing hakhshara young people received British certificates entitling them to emigrate to Palestine. Around 26,000 young people left Poland under this scheme in 1925-26. In 1939 Hahalutz had some 100,000 members throughout Europe. In World War II it operated as a conspiratorial organization. It was very active in culture and education after the war. The Polish arm was disbanded in 1949.

7 Maccabi World Union

International Jewish sports organization whose origins go back to the end of the 19th century. A growing number of young Eastern European Jews involved in Zionism felt that one essential prerequisite of the establishment of a national home in Palestine was the improvement of the physical condition and training of ghetto youth. In order to achieve this, gymnastics clubs were founded in many Eastern and Central European countries, which later came to be called Maccabi. The movement soon spread to more countries in Europe and to Palestine. The World Maccabi Union was formed in 1921. In less than two decades its membership was estimated at 200,000 with branches located in most countries of Europe and in Palestine, Australia, South America, South Africa, etc.

8 Hasidism (Hasidic)

Jewish mystic movement founded in the 18th century that reacted against Talmudic learning and maintained that God’s presence was in all of one’s surroundings and that one should serve God in one’s every deed and word. The movement provided spiritual hope and uplifted the common people. There were large branches of Hasidic movements and schools throughout Eastern Europe before World War II, each following the teachings of famous scholars and thinkers. Most had their own customs, rituals and life styles. Today there are substantial Hasidic communities in New York, London, Israel and Antwerp.

9 Endeks

Name formed from the initials of a right-wing party active in Poland during the inter-war period (ND – ‘en-de’). Narodowa Demokracja [National Democracy] was founded by Roman Dmowski. Its members and supporters, known as ‘Endeks’, often held anti-Semitic views.

10 Annexation of Eastern Poland

According to a secret clause in the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact defining Soviet and German territorial spheres of influence in Eastern Europe, the Soviet Union occupied Eastern Poland in September 1939. In early November the newly annexed lands were divided up between the Ukranian and the Belarusian Soviet Republics.

11 Regained Lands

term describing the eastern parts of Germany (Silesia, Pomerania, Eastern Prussia, etc.) annexed to Poland after World War II, following the Teheran and Yalta agreements between the allies. After 1945 Germans were expelled from the area, and Poles (as well as Jews to some extent) from the former Polish lands annexed to the Soviet Union in 1939 were settled in their place. A Polonization campaign was also waged - place names were altered, Protestant cemeteries were destroyed, etc. The Society for the Development of the Western Lands (TRZZ), founded in 1957, organized propaganda campaigns justifying the right of the Polish state to the territories, popularizing the social, economic and cultural transformations, and advocating integration with the rest of the country.

12 Sinai War

In response to Egyptian restrictions on Israeli shipping using the Suez Canal, in 1951 the UN Security Council passed a resolution calling on Egypt to rescind its ban on Israeli ships using the waterway. Egypt ignored it, and in 1954 seized an Israeli freighter and in 1956 closed the canal to Israeli vessels. On 29th October 1956 Israeli forces attacked Egypt, which lost control over the Sinai Peninsula and the Gaza Strip within a few hours. The united stance of the USSR, the US and the UN forced Israel to withdraw from Sinai in 1957.

13 TSKZ (Social and Cultural Society of Polish Jews)

founded in 1950 when the Central Committee of Polish Jews merged with the Jewish Society of Culture. From 1950-1991 it was the sole body representing Jews in Poland. Its statutory aim was to develop, preserve and propagate Jewish culture. During the socialist period this aim was subordinated to communist ideology. Post-1989 most young activists gravitated towards other Jewish organizations. However, the SCSPJ continues to organize a range of cultural events and has its own magazine, The Jewish Word. However, it is primarily an organization of older people, who have been involved with it for years.

14 Gomulka Campaign

a campaign to sack Jews employed in the Ministry of Internal Affairs, the army and the central administration. The trigger of this anti-Semitic campaign was the involvement of the Socialist Bloc countries on the Arab side in the Middle East conflict, in connection with which Moscow ordered purges in state institutions. On 19th June 1967, at a trade union congress, the then First Secretary of the Polish United Workers’ Party [PZPR], Wladyslaw Gomulka, accused the Jews of lack of loyalty to the state and of publicly demonstrating their enthusiasm for Israel’s victory in the Six-Day-War. This marked the start of purges among journalists and people of other creative professions. Poland also severed diplomatic relations with Israel. On 8th March 1968 there was a protest at Warsaw University. The Ministry of Internal Affairs responded by launching a press campaign and organizing mass demonstrations in factories and workplaces during which ‘Zionists’ and ‘trouble-makers’ were indicted and anti-Semitic and anti-intelligentsia slogans shouted. Following the events of March purges were also staged in all state institutions, from factories to universities, on criteria of nationality and race. ‘Family liability’ was also introduced (e.g. with respect to people whose spouses were Jewish). Jews were forced to emigrate. From 1968-1971 15,000-30,000 people left Poland. They were stripped of their citizenship and right of return.

15 Polish United Workers’ Party (PZPR)

communist party formed in Poland in December 1948 by the fusion of the PPR (Polish Workers’ Party) and the PPS (Polish Socialist Party). Until 1989 it was the only party in the country; it held power, but was subordinate to the Soviet Union. After losing the elections in June 1989 it lost its monopoly. On 29th January 1990 the party was dissolved.

Moris Florentin

Moris Florentin
Athens
Greece
Interviewer: Lily Mordechai
Date of the interview: February 2007

Mr. Florentin is 84 years old. He is a nice man of few words who always smiles and is always willing to help in a kind and calm manner. He and his wife live in a spacious, modern apartment in a nice suburb of Athens, very close to their son and two grandchildren. In their living room they have many different books about Thessaloniki, books with pictures, history books and novels. Mr. Florentin is slim and quite tall; he has expressive eyes and a calm, straightforward nature. He limps when he walks because of a war injury on his right leg. Even so, he is a very active man, he walks a lot, he swims in the summer and he also drives. He retired from his job at the pharmaceutical company La Roche thirteen years ago.

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

My family backgound

My ancestors left Spain, went to Italy and then settled in Thessaloniki. In Italy they stayed in Florence and that is possibly where my last name, Florentin, comes from or at least that’s what they used to say in Thessaloniki. They used to tell me that different relatives of my family must have settled in Thessaloniki at least three or four generations before I was born, but I don’t know if all this is true or not. In fact, we used to go to the Italian Synagogue, it was in Faliro close to the sea opposite the cinema ‘Paté’ and it was called ‘Kal d’ Italia.’

I don’t know much about my great-grandparents, I never met any of them; I only met my grandparents on my mother’s side. My grandfather’s name was Saltiel Zadok and my grandmother’s name was Masaltov Zadok [nee Matalon]. They were both born in Thessaloniki. My grandfather was a carpenter, he specialized in furniture making and he owned the best and biggest furniture shop in Thessaloniki, named ‘Galérie Moderne’ and it was on Tsimiski Street [main road of the interwar period in Thessaloniki].

He also owned a furniture-making factory; as long back as I can remember it was behind Tsimiski Street close to the Turkish Baths, there my grandfather had his workshop and part of the factory. Later in time, the factory specialized in making metal beds and was moved close to the train station. Even so, the shop always sold furniture.

My grandparents didn’t have friends because my grandfather worked a lot, even on Saturdays. In his free time he loved fishing and listening to music. He was an amateur fisherman so he would take the boat and go fishing whenever he could. He would also go to a café that played music and sometimes he took me with him. He sat there and drank his coffee silently; he didn’t talk much, my grandfather, but he was a real music lover. That café was by the seafront close to ‘Mediteranée’ [one of the best known and most luxurious hotels in Thessaloniki], I remember it very well.

Concerning his character he was the silent type, he was a bit reserved and he didn’t make many jokes. He wasn’t religious at all, he never went to the synagogue and he didn’t keep the Sabbath. I never met any of his relatives; I don’t think he had any.

My grandmother, Masaltov didn’t work; she stayed home and didn’t go out much. She took care of the house and the cooking, even though they also had a cleaning lady who stayed overnight. My grandmother had a brother, but I don’t remember his name. He had a wife and two children, a boy and a girl but they were much older than me. He used to go to my grandparents’ house every Saturday to keep my grandmother company. He would go on Saturday morning and leave by noon; I think he lived in the same area.

In general, my grandmother stayed home and took care of her grandchildren. I wouldn’t say she was an introvert but she didn’t have much of a social circle besides her family. My grandmother wanted to be more religious but since my grandfather was not, she was not given the chance to do so. They didn’t keep any of the traditions, the Sabbath or eating kosher food, but I remember that we used to have seder in my grandparents’ house with my uncle’s family as well, Viktor Zadok.

They used to live in an area of Thessaloniki called Exohes [area on the outer part of the eastern Byzantine walls, area of residency of the middle and upper class mainly]. Exohes was the whole area from Analipseos Street until the Depot, the bus stop was by the French Lycée, it was called ‘St. George - Agios Georgios [King George] or Vasileos Georgiou.’ It was a two-story house and my mother’s brother, Viktor Zadok, and his family lived on the top floor.

I remember my grandparents’ house; it had two bedrooms, a living room and a dining room. As you went in from the entrance you could see the living and dining room and then were the bedrooms and the kitchen. They had running water and electricity and the house was heated with what we called a ‘salamander’ [big stove for heating the whole house]. You put anthracite [type of charcoal] and it was very effective. They had a garden, which they shared with my uncle; they grew some vegetables and had some flowers too.

Jewish people mainly inhabited the area they lived in, even though there were some Christians as well. I think that the majority of people my grandparents associated with were Jewish, also their neighbors with whom they got along. Their house was not far away from ours so I used to see them almost every day, at the least I would drop in and say ‘Good morning.’

My grandfather died around 1939, before the Holocaust, my grandmother was taken from Thessaloniki to Auschwitz along with my parents, and they probably died in 1943.

On my father’s side I didn’t meet my grandparents. They were both born in Thessaloniki but they died before I was born. My grandmother’s name was Oro Florentin, I don’t remember my grandfather’s name but I have seen a picture of him. My father didn’t talk about them much.

Thessaloniki had a vibrant Jewish community. There were many synagogues; I think there was a synagogue in every neighborhood. I only remember the central one that still exists today, the Italian one and another one close to my house on Gravias Street. The main Jewish area I would say was Exohes, where we lived, even though there were Jewish people everywhere.

There was also an area where Jews from lower social classes lived; it was called 156 or ‘shesh’ as everyone called it. [Editor’s note: The area Mr. Florentin is referring to was actually called ‘151,’ and ‘6’ is a different neighborhood; there were at least 10 Jewish working class neighborhoods in Salonica]. This area was strictly lower class, poor Jews. I didn’t know anyone nor had any friends from there.

Middle class Jewish people were mainly merchants, they had shops with fabrics or other things but I don’t remember any famous Jewish people being manual workers. The main market was by the White Tower; where we lived there were only a few shops. I think both my mother and my father did the shopping but I don’t remember if they had any favorite merchants. There weren’t many incidents of Anti-Semitism but I’m sure it existed because when you heard of one happening it would stay with you.

My parents’ names were Iosif, or Pepo as everybody called him, and Ida Florentin [nee Zadok]. They were both born in Thessaloniki. Their wedding took place sometime in 1919 in Thessaloniki; I think it was an arranged marriage. My father was a money-changer; it was a common profession among Jewish people. I am not sure exactly what he did but I think he bought, changed or sent money abroad, that kind of thing. It had to do with Greek and foreign currency, for example when somebody wanted to buy golden Sovereigns Liras. But I don’t remember that very well because later on he worked in my grandfather and uncle’s business, in the furniture shop ‘Galérie Moderne.’

My mother didn’t work; she cooked and took care of my brother and me. We had a cleaning lady to help her with the housework but she didn’t stay overnight, she left in the evenings. She did most of the housework but my mother was the one who cooked. I don’t remember the cleaning lady very well, in fact I think we changed a few but what I do remember is that they all came from this village in Chalkidiki called AiVat [poor village in the mountains surrounding Thessaloniki, presently called Diavata.], all the cleaning ladies in Thessaloniki came from that village. They were middle aged, Christian women.

My parents were relatively educated people, they had both gone to school but I don’t know which schools. Their mother tongue was Ladino 1 and they spoke it between them. To my brother and me they spoke French; I think they wanted us to learn. They also knew some Greek but they spoke it with a distinct, foreign accent.

My parents usually read in French. I remember them reading the newspaper everyday; they read ‘L’Indépendant’ 2 and ‘Le Progrès’ 3. They would buy it from the kiosk and I remember specifically that my mother would read them as well. They didn’t read Greek newspapers, I am sure of that, and I don’t remember if there were Spanish ones in circulation, if there were I’m sure my parents read them.

We also had a few books in our house that were mainly novels. They weren’t religious; I mean my father wasn’t religious at all and consequently my mother didn’t practice it much, even though I think that she would have liked to. My father only went to the synagogue on Yom Kippur, Pesach and another one or two of the high holidays. Sometimes he took my brother and me along but my mother never came with us. I think the only reason my father went to the synagogue was because his brother was a ‘gisbar’ [cashier of the Jewish community] in the ‘Kal d’Italia’ and he felt obliged. We didn’t keep the Sabbath or eat kosher food.

My parents like my grandparents, were modern people for their time; they didn’t dress traditionally but I’d say in a more European way. I remember my parents having a social life; they went with their friends and had people over in the house sometimes. Their friends were mainly Jewish; I don’t think they met socially with colleagues or other Christians.

When I was really young we used to go on holiday to Portaria in Pilio, without my grandparents. We would go in August and stay for three weeks. After Ektor [Mr. Florentine’s brother] and I got older we stopped going and we spent our summers in Thessaloniki, but anyway we lived really close to the sea so we went swimming every day.

My father had sixteen siblings but I only met four, three sisters and a brother. The family was kind of torn apart because of their differences, and they were out of touch with each other, that’s why I didn’t meet his other siblings. His brother’s name was Samouil Florentin and he was a ‘gisbar’ in the ‘Kal d’Italia.’ Contrary to my father he was very religious. I think that ‘gisbar’ meant he was a cashier for the synagogue. He was married and had two children Anri [Erikos] and Nina Florentin. They used to live in Agia Triada, a quite ‘Jewish’ area of Thessaloniki, as well.

During the war Nina was saved by a Christian man whose last name was Christou; he literally pulled her out of the line when she was about to board the train for Auschwitz. After the war she married him and moved to Canada. The next time I saw her, after the war, she was Christian and so ‘croyante,’ so religious. I found it very strange! Unfortunately, she died in an air crash flying from Thessaloniki to some Greek island. She had two children, one was called Aristoteli and I don’t remember the other’s name, they live in Canada and they are both married.

I don’t know what Anri, Nina’s brother, did during the war but at some point he left for Israel and became a police officer, then he went to Canada to live with his sister and that’s where he died. When we were young we didn’t play together so much, even though our age was compatible. I think Anri was older than my brother and Nina was a couple of years younger than me.

I also met three of my father’s sisters; I don’t remember them very well because we didn’t see them often. His one sister was called Tsoutsa, she must have been a widow, because I never met her husband, but she had a daughter. Her daughter was a bit mentally weak but I don’t know in what way.

Unfortunately, I don’t remember the other sisters’ names they were widows as well, because I never met their husbands. Anyway, I don’t think my father gave them any money so I guess they had their own. We saw my father’s brother and sisters about three times a year, mainly because he felt it was his duty.

My mother had two brothers, Ludovic and Viktor Zadok. Ludovic lived and worked in Paris but died at the age of twenty-three. I don’t know what he died of, but I think it happened when I was very young because I never met him; my mother said he was a very nice person.

Viktor Zadok lived on the top floor of my grandparents’ house with his family, his wife Adina and his three daughters. Adina was like a second mother to me; she was very nice and took good care of us. Their daughters’ names were Ines, but we always called her Nika, Yvet or Veta, and Keti.

Nika lives in Israel, she was married twice, her first husband was an Israeli Jew, Nisim Levi, and they had a daughter, Donna. Unfortunately, her husband died. Nika got remarried to Moris Nissim or Boubis as we called him. He was a friend of my brother’s, Jewish, from Thessaloniki. After the war he moved to Switzerland to work in the Jewish ‘Discount Bank,’ he got a good position and almost became a manager. When Boubis retired, him and Nika left Switzerland and moved to Jerusalem where he had a house. Unfortunately, he got sick and died. At least, now Nika is in Israel and lives with her daughter and her grandchildren.

Veta married Markos Tabah and they had two daughters: Polina, who lives in Israel, and Adina, who got my aunt’s name. Around 1967 Veta died in a car accident. Her husband and she had gone on an excursion with Freddy Abravanel and on the way back they had an accident. They all came out looking fine but Veta had some internal bleeding and died the next day. After Veta’s death, Keti, her sister, married her husband, Markos Tabah. They had one daughter who they named Veta in memory of the deceased Veta. Keti’s daughter Veta married a Christian and became Christian herself.

I would say that my family had closer relations with the relatives on my mother’s side, my grandparents Masaltov and Saltiel Zadok and my uncle Viktor Zadok and his family. My parents saw Viktor often and we, the children, would see each other probably every day, we were very close especially with Nika.

My brother Ektor Iesoua Salvator Florentin, who we call Ektor, was born in 1921 and I was born in 1923; we were both born in Thessaloniki. I don’t remember going to kindergarten or having a nanny at home, so I guess my mother took care of us when we were young. We did have a French teacher though who came to our house to give us lessons. I spoke French to my mother and father but I spoke Greek to my brother. When we were young I used to play with my brother a lot, but when we grew up we weren’t so close anymore, probably because we had different friends.

Growing up

In the period before the war we moved houses about four times, I remember all of them but I don’t know when or for how long we stayed in each of them. I was born or at least my first memories are from a house on Gravias Street. This was the house of Cohen the dentist, who was quite well known in Thessaloniki at the time. He had four children, three sons and a daughter; two of the sons were about my age: Tsitsos and Morikos Cohen. At the end of this street there was a small synagogue which was very nice but I don’t remember what it was called.

Then we moved to a house on Moussouri Street close to 25th Martiou Street. This was a big house too; we lived on the second floor and below us lived Sam Modiano. This house had a garden but it was overgrown and neglected. The last two were on Koromila Street, the third one had two big bedrooms, a kitchen, a living and dining room and two big verandas; it had no garden and was on the third floor of the building. Our neighbors were a married couple, he was Jewish and she was Russian and they didn’t have any children, my mother was friends with the Russian lady and would go and visit her once in a while. The last place we lived in before we were forced to move to the ghetto was much smaller; it didn’t have a garden and it was on the second floor.

I don’t know why we moved so often but all these houses were rented. We would always take with us our furniture for the living room, the dining room and the bedroom. In all these houses we had running water and electricity and they were all heated with ‘salamanders.’ These houses were all very close to each other and also very close to my grandparent’s house. I remember most of our neighbors being Jewish.

I would say the atmosphere in my family was very good and generally, we were closer to our mother than we were to our father. My father worked a lot. He opened the shop around nine in the morning or a bit earlier, then he would come home at noon, go to work again in the evening and come home around eight or nine in the evening. At noon we all had lunch together. My father’s work was in the center of Thessaloniki, quite far from our house, it was ten stops by tram.

Financially, by the standards of Thessaloniki at the time, we were probably a middle class family, we didn’t own any property but we covered our needs sufficiently. My family didn’t own a car and I don’t remember when the first time I went into one was, but I got my driver’s license after the war, not with the intention of buying a car but just learning how to drive.

Some Sundays we went out to eat by the seaside on 25th Martiou Street, not far from where we lived. There were some ‘tavernas’ by the seafront and we went there, not often but we did. At home I would say that my mother cooked traditional Sephardim dishes, not so much Greek cuisine.

The first school I went to was the ‘Kostantinidis School,’ which was private. When I first went there, they put me in the second grade of elementary school, based on my date of birth. A little in the year they realized I was too advanced, so they promoted me to the third grade, that’s why I finished school a year earlier than other people my age. So apparently I covered the whole first and second grade at home with a teacher. I stayed in that school for two years and for fifth and sixth grade I went to another private school, the ‘Zahariadis School,’ which was very close to our house on Moussouri Street.

I don’t remember my friends from these schools but they both had a majority of Christian students. I know there were a few Jewish people like John Beza in ‘Zahariadis’ but I have no vivid memories.

For gymnasium I went to a public experimental school like the ‘Varvakios School’ in Athens, it was a very good public school. I remember some of my teachers, the Chemistry teacher Menagias and the principle who taught us Physics. He loved me very much probably because Physics was my favorite subject. Every time we had to do homework he would present mine to the class saying it was the best. But I had a secret: I used to study Physics from my brother’s book who went to the French Lycée. You might wonder what the difference was but French books phrased physics differently to Greek ones. In Greek books they start by saying, ‘If you take this, you will observe this will happen’ instead of explaining the main principle first. I preferred the French way, it was more serious and that probably explains the story with the principle.

I got along with both my teachers and my classmates. I remember some of my classmates were Giannis Tzimanis, Thanasakis Flokas, the son of the famous confectioner in Thessaloniki, Stelios Halvatzis and others. There must have been Jewish students in my school but my friends were mainly my classmates who were Christian. On weekends I went out with them, we would go to parties or to the cinema; it was really rare to go to bars at that time especially at such a young age, not like nowadays.

I never experienced Anti-Semitic behavior in school or at least anything that traumatized me. Sometimes someone would say the typical nonsense like ‘Dirty Jew’ but I think people say that sometimes when they are angry, even if they don’t really mean it.

When I was going to school, I didn’t have much free time because the classes were quite difficult or anyway quite intense. I would go in the morning and I was back by two in the afternoon. In the evening I did my homework for the next day. I didn’t have any private lessons, only a few Mathematics classes before my entrance exams for the university. I only had English classes in a British Institute in Thessaloniki. I never did any Hebrew or Jewish history lessons.

I didn’t have hobbies other than sailing in the Sailing Club but even though I was a member, my friends weren’t. With my friends I usually played basketball but we never played any football.

At that time the educational system was different, we finished gymnasium [Greek equivalent of high school. It used to be 6 grades, but nowadays it is 3 years, followed by three Lyceum years.] and got a gymnasium diploma and then whoever wanted to continue with their studies took introductory exams in the polytechnic school or university or any other school they may have wanted. In fact you could take the introductory test for more than one university, like I did. I wanted to study in the Polytechnic University of Thessaloniki to become an engineer but unfortunately I failed the entrance exams. As I still had time I also took the exams for university and I passed in the Agricultural University of Thessaloniki. The university was in an old building on Stratou Avenue, it is not there anymore.

I remember we had some really good professors like the Physics Professor, Mr. Kavasiadis, the Chemistry Professor and this other one, Rousopoulos, who was our Geology Professor. Even though it wasn’t my first choice I was relatively interested in what I was studying and the university was quite demanding. It required attending the classes, being concentrated and studying, not like now where they pass the lessons without going to classes, at least that’s what I see. I don’t think anyone was checking attendance but the system was such that it was necessary to attend classes and everybody did so.

I did three years of university and then, in 1943, during the German Occupation 4, I stopped and left for the mountain. Throughout these years I continued living with my parents and my brother, it was always the four of us.

My brother Ektor went to the French Lycée. When he was finishing elementary school in the French Lycée a law was passed that the Greek nationality was only given to people with a Greek elementary school diploma. So he came to the ‘Zahariadis School’ with me for sixth grade and then went back to the Lycée. That’s why he finished school a year later than he should have. I had a completely different group of friends to my brother probably because we went to different schools. He finished school in the French Lycée, he got the two Baccalaureates and then he started working for Sam Modiano who had an agency office [legal representative of foreign companies].

Ektor didn’t want to go to university so he got this job with Modiano, who was our neighbor in the house on Moussouri Street. This was his only job until he left Thessaloniki around 1943, a little after we moved to the ghetto. He left for Israel with his girlfriend at the time, Nina Hassid, to whom he got married after they got there. I think they left via Evia and then through Turkey. When they got there they stayed in Netanya first and then in Tel Aviv. My brother worked in a diamond-cutting factory and then gradually created his own factory.

They have two daughters, Ada Schindler and Zinet Benderski. Zinet was the name of my brother’s wife’s sister, who she lost: after the liberation she was taken to a Spanish concentration camp because her father was Spanish. Zinet has two children, Sharon and Daniel, who are both married, and Ada also has two children, but they are much younger.

I didn’t know of my brother’s whereabouts until one year after the war when my uncle Viktor told me he was alive. Now we have a very good relationship with him and his family. We don’t go so often but every time they come we see them and also sometimes we arrange to meet abroad. I see my brother every four, five years on average but we talk on the phone every week.

The war was declared on 28th October 1940 5, that’s when I finished school; I was seventeen at the time. I was in Thessaloniki during the bombings in 1941 a bit before the occupation started. The bombs were mainly dropped towards the customs area, which was far away from where we lived, so we didn’t really feel them. Of course we could hear the noise of the bombs but you have to understand that it’s not like today; the airplanes didn’t drop lots of bombs then, so the damage was more limited, or at least that’s what I think. For my family it was scary but not as much as for other people who lived closer, we didn’t really feel much during the bombings.

After I finished school, I went straight to university. We already felt the effects of the war then, there were curfews and it was really hard to find food, we got some food from the villages, just about enough to survive. For me the war started in 1941 with the occupation, when the Germans entered Thessaloniki. They marched in with their typical characteristic discipline, German manner; they had so many trucks and tanks. I remember my parents and me being very scared.

During the war

Officially, the war started in 1940 when Metaxas 6 said ‘No’ to the Italians but the occupation started later and we kind of expected it because we would see, read and hear that the Germans were coming down the north side, they had been to Bulgaria and Serbia and then came Greece’s turn. When the Germans invaded, the Italians headed to the south of Greece; here in Macedonia we were under German Occupation unfortunately. A lot of people headed south then, to Athens or just anywhere in the Italian ruled south.

The first measure the Germans took targeted specifically against Jewish people was when all Jewish men of Thessaloniki had to gather in Eleutherias Square 7. I went with my brother because we were within the age range, around twenty years old. I am not sure about my father; I think he didn’t come because he was considered too old. They made us do humiliating gymnastic exercises under the sun and then they assigned us to different places to do forced labor outside Thessaloniki.

They wanted to build rail tracks for trains; the work was really hard especially with the Germans over your head not letting you rest for even a minute. I managed to avoid the forced labor because I had a Christian friend who took me with him where he was, close to the Agricultural School, I became a member of the forced labor team over there. I did absolutely nothing there, I just sat there from morning to night, but I still had to go every day.

I am not sure how they informed us that this gathering in Eleutherias Square was happening but I think it was through the Jewish Community. During the war I didn’t think that the Jewish Community in Thessaloniki acted in the right way. The chief rabbi then was Koretsch, who was German but that wasn’t important. The problem was that he didn’t give good information to the Community members. He was telling them that it was going to be fine, they would just go to Poland to move there. He didn’t say anything about concentration camps or what might happen when they got there.

I don’t know why he did that but I thought that it was very mean of him because if he had leaked the right information that something bad was going to happen to them then maybe more Jewish people would have tried to save themselves. Some people said he knew the truth all along but I don’t know if that’s true, it might be.

At some point, the Germans emptied all the businesses and shops owned by Jewish people, especially merchants and all their merchandise was being confiscated. Around 1942 a Greek man who was co-operating with the Germans turned my grandfather’s shop ‘Galerie Moderne’ into a restaurant. From then on we were living off our savings and things became even more difficult.

The most important anti-Jewish law was to put all the Jewish people in one area of the city what they called the ghetto 8. The ghetto was between Faliro and Agia Triada and between Mizrahi and Efzonon, in that area. We were forced to move there around the beginning of 1943, between January and February. I don’t know how we were informed we had to move or how we knew where to go in the ghetto, I just remember that one day we left our house on Koromila Street and moved to the apartment in the ghetto.

We were all a bit crammed in that apartment but I guess it was still a roof over our heads. It was a very small place with two rooms and a dining room, I don’t remember if we had heating. All we really took with us was clothes; we left a lot of our furniture in our last house on Koromila Street because the owner moved in when we left. That’s why when the war finished we retrieved some of our furniture.

My father and Viktor Zadok were both looking for a way to move to Athens, Viktor found a solution first and brought my grandmother Masaltov to stay with us in the ghetto; until that point my grandmother was staying with him. Because of my grandmother, my mother and father couldn’t escape from the ghetto and so they had to stay there with her. This is something that really makes me sad because I think it was really selfish on my uncle’s side to leave my grandmother with us like this, my mother was just too nice! So Viktor and his family managed to go to Athens a bit after we moved to the ghetto.

In the ghetto we had real difficulty finding food; my father was in charge of this and most of the times he bought things from the black market or products that came from villages. After three weeks or a month, I left for the mountain 9. At the time I would say that politically I was quite ‘left’ but I wasn’t a member of any political party or group. In my university, EAM 10 was very strong among the students so I heard about their activities in the mountains and I wanted to follow them. They said, ‘Since you are wanted by the Germans anyway why don’t you go to the mountain.’ I thought about it a little while and decided to go.

EAM was an organization that was 90 percent communist; its military branch was called ELAS 11 and there as well most of the members were communists. This organization was created during the occupation. I was sure I wanted to go to the mountain and since my parents didn’t oppose my decision I went, and I left the four of them – my mother, my father, my brother and my grandmother – in the ghetto.

Later on I found out my brother left the ghetto as well and went to Israel. I think my brother didn’t come with me because he had different plans with his girlfriend. As for my parents and my grandmother I am assuming they were deported 12 from the ghetto to Auschwitz were they must have been exterminated, I would think that people their age were sent directly to the gas chambers. The day I left for the mountain was the last time I ever saw them.

It was the 20th or 21st of March 1943 and I left with a friend of mine called John Bezas. He lived really close to our apartment in the ghetto, at some point I told him about what I was going to do and he decided he wanted to come with me. So that day, we wore working clothes and caps, we took the star off and passed the ghetto guards with ease like nothing was going on.

We found our contact and he took us outside Thessaloniki to a place where we could start ascending the mountain. He said, ‘Sleep here tonight and I will bring another fifteen people tomorrow.’ The next day he came back alone and said, ‘Stay here another night, I will come tomorrow with twenty-five people.’ We thought, ‘Of course we will wait, if so many more Jewish people will come as well.’ But then on the third day he showed up alone again. I never understood why no more young people came to the mountain, but I think that they had a hard time leaving their families.

After our two days waiting for the people that never showed up we started walking towards Giannitsa, sometimes we would come across a carriage and they would take us a few kilometers further. I remember on Axios Bridge we found a café and we decided to take a coffee break – John Bezas, our contact and me. As I opened the door to enter the café this guy tells me, ‘You’d better not go in there it’s full of Germans.’ I don’t understand how he realized we were fugitives or that I was Jewish, but he did. ‘You’d better not go inside,’ he said and probably saved our lives with his words.

So we didn’t go in and left in a rush, we got to Giannitsa and from there gradually we climbed up Paiko Mountain, this was our first mountain. Then we went to Kaimaktsalan another mountain close to the borders with Skopje [today Republic of Macedonia], and from there we walked across the whole of Macedonia from the borders with Albania up until the sea. We went from village to village trying to avoid the Germans; we were not ready for confrontations yet.

The ELAS people taught me how to use weapons because I hadn’t been to the army yet. After a while we were full of lice; we went there clean and naturally all the lice came on us, on our hair but also all over our body and clothes. I watched the others trying to de-lice themselves and their clothes; they would sit for hours. I never did that because I figured that I would kill ten and then twenty would come on me; there was no point in trying but it was really, really itchy. I guess that after all a person can get used to anything. I mean the situation on the mountain wasn’t the best but compared to what was in store for us in Germany it was paradise.

The contact left us with an already organized group of people from all over Greece, Kavala, Drama, Serres and Thessaloniki. There were very few Jewish people in my group I only remember one, a tobacco worker from Kavala nevertheless during our moving we crossed paths with maybe another ten Jewish people from different ELAS groups. The groups were all over the place but they all had a leader who was called Capitan Something, for example, Capitan Black etc.

We all had nicknames, I was Nikos and John Bezas was Takis; that was enough, the people on the mountain were not interested in finding out anything more. What I mean is that if you wanted to tell them they would listen but there was no obligation to discuss where you came from or who you were. There was zero Anti-Semitism and I don’t even think I ever heard the word Jewish.

These teams communicated with each other by sending messengers, people that took the information from one group to another. I was a simple soldier, only for a period of two months I was in charge of a sheepfold. As I was supposedly an agriculturalist I was in charge of the project. We found an abandoned village and we gathered all the sheep with one or two locals that knew how to make cheese. They would take the sheep to pasture and make the cheese after.

When I went back to the group my friend John Beza wasn’t there, the English had come looking for people who spoke English so they took him with them. I was a bit upset because if I hadn’t been in the sheepfold I would have been able to go with them, as I spoke good English. On the mountain there were certain groups of the English army that were sent to observe our tactics against the Germans, give us advice on how to act and information about where to go etc. I think it would have been better to be with the English because next time I crossed paths with John he was well dressed, clean with a uniform.

We were almost constantly on the move because of the Germans, sometimes if the village was ‘free’ we stayed in schools and houses, if the village wasn’t free we stayed in the forest without anything, no tents, all we had on us was our clothes and our weapon. In West Macedonia there were certain villages that were ‘free,’ this was the ‘Free Greece’ as it was called but of course there was always the fear the Germans would come so we never stayed long.

In order to find out if a village was free or not, there were certain people that observed and informed us. Sometimes we were welcome and sometimes not, but even then the villagers didn’t have a choice but to give us food. So we ate in the villages but we didn’t take much with us because we couldn’t carry much and we usually found something to eat.

In fact, I don’t think I even lost much weight. Only one time we went eight days without any food or water, it was a really rough time, the Germans had surrounded us and we couldn’t escape from any direction. We stayed in places we could hide without any food of course; we ended up eating the leaves from trees. I don’t remember what happened in the end but we found a way out and then went to a monastery where we ate a lot. We didn’t have connections with the church but in the monasteries they had to accept us.

There was always the fear that we would get involved in a battle, especially after some point that the English started blowing up rail tracks in the Tembi area. They wanted to cut the train connection between Thessaloniki and Athens because the Germans were using the trains for their purposes. So whilst the English were working on blowing up the rail tracks, we would guard the surrounding area. We were their protection; thankfully I never came face to face with them.

The Germans were furious about these damages and they were trying to think up a way to neutralize the English teams or us, the Resistance, to save them the trouble of fixing the rail tracks every time. It was then that we found ourselves in a village called Karia on the north side of Mount Olympus, above Rapsani.

We always set up watching points with binoculars to see what was happening. At some point we saw a German squad from far away, we saw they had trucks and they were about four hundred, we were only eighty men. Even so we were fortunate because the road the Germans were on crossed a little river that had hills on the left and right side, these hills had many trees on them and that’s where we were hiding.

On their way the Germans saw the little river and decided to take off their clothes and start bathing. They knew we were in the village and they were coming for us but they didn’t know we had left the village and that we had positioned ourselves ahead of them, so as to ‘welcome’ them one or two kilometers further down. When we saw their condition we started going down the hills shooting and exterminating them. Many Germans were killed on that day, the rest were so lost that they left leaving their clothes and weapons behind.

As we were coming down the hill I was almost at river level ready to jump in a ditch, at that moment I got shot, the bullet entered my thigh from the front and exited at the back of my leg. Of course I fell down and started bleeding a lot, another soldier came and tried to put me on a mule; in the meantime most of the mules were loaded with guns, weapons and other things the Germans left behind. It was impossible for me to sit on the mule because my leg was completely dislocated. I said, ‘I have a broken bone you can’t put me on a mule, it’s too high.’ He said, ‘don’t worry,’ he put me on the ground, he tied my leg up the best way he could and put a sort of blanket over me, and said, ‘They will come and take you with a stretcher.’

I thought to myself they will never come. It started getting darker and darker and then this German airplane started flying over the area, shooting randomly in case anybody was still there that they could kill. I started putting soil and grass on my blanket to camouflage myself, that was all I could think of doing. Anyway, I don’t know how long I stayed there, I must have fallen unconscious but suddenly people started shouting my name, it was eight villagers and a soldier with a stretcher, they put me on it and took me to the village, which was about three quarters of an hour away on foot. There was an English doctor there who put a dressing on my leg and then we left straightaway because we couldn’t stay in that village any longer.

We moved to another village that had a hospital in the school building. I don’t know if anyone died but four or five of us got injured, the other ones were lightly injured. The most seriously hurt were a man with a similar leg injury to mine and another man who had been shot in the head.

Anyway, that day a doctor, a surgeon, had come to the mountain by the name of Theodoros Labrakis, his brother was the Labrakis that was murdered in Thessaloniki after the war. He had a clinic in Piraeus called ‘White Cross’ and he was an excellent surgeon. He used anything he could find, paring knives, Swiss army knives and saws and operated on the guy with the head injury. Thank God he took the bullet out because until then that man was very violent, swearing, throwing chairs around even assaulting us. Anyway he survived.

In my case the bullet had come out and the bone was in pieces. Another doctor who was there said, ‘We should cut off his leg because we don’t have anti-gangrene treatment and if he gets gangrene he will die.’ Labrakis said, ‘No I will not cut it off.’ Later on, he told me that he had been boiling an axe for three days in a row just in case he had had to cut my leg off. Fortunately I didn’t get gangrene, but I was in so much pain he had to give me morphine. After a few days I started asking for more and he said, ‘Enough with the morphine, I don’t want it to become an addiction.’

So I owe my leg to Dr. Labrakis who unfortunately died one or two years after we came down the mountain. He only treated a few people in that hospital and then he left, he was also moving from place to place.

I got shot on 6th May 1944 and from then on I was being moved from hospital to hospital, we were constantly changing villages because of the Germans. One day, shortly after I managed to keep my leg, we were in a hospital somewhere and we found out that the Germans were coming to that village. Everyone wanted to leave but they didn’t know what to do with us.

They took the three of us, the man with the head injury, me and the other man with the leg injury to a tap of running water outside the village. Of course this was very dangerous but they didn’t know what else to do with us. I think we stayed there for four days, us with the leg injury couldn’t move so the poor man with the head injury would take what we called ‘boukla,’ a wooden bucket for water, and he would bring both of us water to drink. One day the Germans came to the tap, we were totally silent and thank God they didn’t discover us because they would have definitely slaughtered us.

In the meantime my injury had been infested with flies and worms and it was itchy. Four days later I saw the doctor and I told him, ‘Doctor look what’s happened to my leg.’ And he said, ‘Very well, at least they ate up all the puss.’ He cleaned it of course but I couldn’t believe what he had said: ‘They ate away all the puss.’

So I was hurt in May 1944 and until September they were carrying me on the stretcher from place to place. The man with the head injury was fine after some time so I was left with the other man with the leg injury. He was from a village called Aiginio in Macedonia, he was the father of this man who caused trouble in a nightclub and killed someone; I don’t remember his name but I know he is out of prison now. I don’t know if his father is still alive but I doubt it because he was much older than me then.

The time I spent on the mountain we probably walked the whole mountain range of Pindos from the borders of Ipiros to the borders of Serbia and from Albania until the sea, village to village. When I left the ghetto I took nothing with me, I was wearing a pair of black boots but after a while they were completely destroyed. The situation with our shoes was a drama, in fact a lot of the time we were barefoot. I am not sure what we were wearing, I guess things they gave us in the villages and then at some point the English gave us some uniforms.

Looking back I would say that going to the mountain was a good idea. I can’t say that I have kept friends from then because the situation was different up there but still we were all very close to each other, really. Most of the people there were communists, members of the K.K.E. [Communist Party of Greece]; I wasn’t a communist but I didn’t mind them because I do believe there are some good things in this ideology.

I think my most profound experience was that I realized the stamina of the human organism and by saying stamina I mean the way man and nature complete each other and the way the human organism can cure itself. For example there was this guy named Dick Benveniste – he is dead now – who got diphtheria on the mountain – no hospital, no doctor, no medicine, nothing. At that time the Italians had made some kind of agreement and a lot of them came to the mountain. There was this Italian man that took care of him, he would take him out of his tent to do his needs and fed him, any way he could because Dick couldn’t even open his mouth. In the end he recovered, he went back to Thessaloniki, he married and had children. He died not so long after the end of the war but still this showed me how much the human body can endure.

I remember I never even got a headache or a fever, if we wanted to wash we would go to the river which was freezing cold but it didn’t bother us. I stayed with the same group almost from the beginning to the end. There weren’t any women in my group but occasionally, when we were on the move, I saw a few, not many though.

When the liberation finally arrived everybody came down from the mountain but it didn’t happen all at once, it happened in segments from the south to the north, I think Thessaloniki was liberated in October 1944. But places like Kozani and Lamia had been liberated before so a lot of Resistance soldiers came down the mountain from there.

I guess what the Liberation meant for us was that the enemies had left, someone took over from there and there were elections but I was out of it because I was in the hospital. We found out about the liberation from the villagers and after certain areas were free, I was taken to the hospital of some big village. I think it was in October 1944 they took me to Thessaloniki, to this hospital in Votsi after the Depot, it was a makeshift hospital in the palace of a pasha. The first thing they did was to de-lice me, the English had some machines and I don’t know what they put on me but all the lice were gone from my body and my clothes.

As my injury didn’t heal I had to stay in that hospital until February 1945, almost ten months. Of course, back then there were no surgeries to put screws and metal in the leg so what they did was that they put concrete to open the leg so that it stuck back by itself. The human organism is a very strong thing and even though my leg stuck back, it got stuck differently to what it should have and it became six centimeters shorter than the other one.

I didn’t have to pay anything to the hospital, everything was free: my stay, the food. At some point I got anchylosis on my leg and there was a nurse there, her name was Eleni Rimaki – I remember her clearly – and she said, ‘We need to break it, you can’t stay like this.’ It sounded easy in theory but the pain was unbearable. The other guy with the same injury as me stopped trying after a week he couldn’t bear it. I did it for a month and a half. It was not like physiotherapy or massage, it was practically breaking the knee but I’m happy I did it because now I can even ride a bike.

One time I was in Italy visiting an old friend and he said, ‘I will take you to this surgeon to examine your leg.’ The surgeon said, ‘I can lengthen your leg if that’s what you want but I see you’re walking very well with your orthopedic shoe.’ So I didn’t do anything. It never hurt me, and now sixty-four years later, it just started hurting. Now I went to this doctor who said, ‘You have osteoarthritis and we need to do joint plastic surgery. We’ll cut the bone and we’ll put a plastic one to lengthen it, we’ll see what happens.’

After the hospital I stayed in Thessaloniki with Miko Alvo, his brother Danny and an elderly aunt of his. When we found each other after the war we arranged a meeting and he said, ‘You will come and stay with me.’ I agreed and I was very grateful because I didn’t have anywhere to go.

For two years, between 1945 and 1947, I was working for the Greek English Intelligence Center in Thessaloniki and living with Miko. I was doing translations because I knew English. My supervisor there was a man called Stahtopoulos, later on he was charged of something – I am not sure what – and he ended up in prison.

After I came out of the hospital I had an intense feeling of happiness because I got myself out of this situation and I could walk. We created a group of friends and we went out and drank our ouzo in such a happy way, like we were saying, ‘Finally the occupation is over and we can enjoy certain things.’ In that group of friends there were both Jewish and Christian people: Mimis Kazakis, a lawyer, Takis Ksitzoglou, a journalist, Klitos Kirou and Panos Fasitis, both poets, Nikos Saltiel and the girls, Anna Leon and Dolly Boton.

At some point soon after the end of the war I went to get a passport so I could visit my brother in Israel and the officer said, ‘You can’t have a passport.’ I asked him, ‘Why?’ He said, ‘You can have a passport only if you denounce communism etc.’ I asked him again, ‘Why? I am not a communist, I don’t have anything to denounce’ ‘You are.’ ‘I am not.’ And then he said, ‘No passport’ and I said, ‘I don’t want one.’

Six months later an officer came to my office and said, ‘If you file an application for a passport we will give it to you.’ Nothing else. And he left. I was a bit shocked that an officer had come all the way to my office to tell me that, but I filed the application and got my passport. Around 1949 or 1950 that was, and I went to Israel to see my brother after all of this, it was a very strong experience.

After the war 

After World War II, there was the civil war 13, basically all the resistance communists from the mountains had hid their guns, which was exactly what their opponents, the government party feared. After the civil war came the great exodus of the communists and they went to places like Yugoslavia, Georgia, Taskendi, which is in Georgia, Kazakhstan etc. A lot of them stayed for good but some of them returned later on.

As for me, politically I had no involvement but my beliefs were left then and are left now. We felt the civil war in our daily lives because there was turmoil in Athens, nothing was functioning properly, to the extent that there were battles in Sidagma [very central area in Athens]. Emigrating never crossed my mind but I know a lot of people who did and went to Israel but also Canada, Italy, the USA.

When I was working for the Greek English Intelligence Organization I met a couple of English Jewish officers including a man named Shapiro. At the time I was walking with a stick because the wound hadn’t healed properly, I still had a band over it that I changed every day and occasionally little bones would come out of it. The doctor had said not to worry because the wound would heal after all the bones came out. After ten or fifteen little bones had come out the wound truly healed.

However, Shapiro said he would put me in an English hospital because at the time penicillin had just been discovered. So I went and got a shot of it. There was this Scottish nurse there who would go around saying, ‘I can’t believe we are giving this expensive drug to Greeks.’ Everyday the same thing, she annoyed me very much, to the extent that I regretted going. In fact, I thought English people were weird because they had a little bucket where they did everything; they washed their hands and their face, as well.

Anyway I got the penicillin shot but it didn’t do anything to me, as I didn’t have any bacteria for it to kill. In the meantime I got in touch with my uncle Viktor Zadok, who was in Israel, and he said, ‘What will we do with the shop?’ I am not sure how my uncle tracked me down but I should assume it wasn’t very difficult.

The shop was there but the merchandise was gone and it wasn’t in a very good condition. My uncle went to Israel like my brother and then, after the liberation, he went back to Athens. Then he came to Thessaloniki to see the state of the family business, and finally he settled in Athens. Viktor tried to make ‘Galerie Moderne’ work but he couldn’t and shortly after, he gave up and left for Athens.

In 1948 my uncle said, ‘Come to Athens and work for me.’ I had nothing left in Thessaloniki so I did. I didn’t have any property but my uncle Viktor had the house my grandparents and he used to live in before the war, and it was in a good condition when he found it. After the war the family members I kept in contact with were my uncle Viktor Zadok, my brother and my uncle Viktor’s daughters, especially Veta. I used to see her a lot socially, probably about every two weeks until her tragic death in 1962.

I moved to Athens and I was working for my uncle from 1948 until 1953 when I opened my own business. I had an agency office that imported floor polish, wax and plastic domestic utensils. I lost a lot of money because the plastic utensils I imported were expensive compared to the Greek ones in the market. I ran my own business for four years and then my wife continued it for quite a few years after I left.

My next job was in Hoffman – La Roche, Pavlos Aseo had the company’s representation in Greece at the time. I didn’t know much about pharmaceuticals but I learned the job quite quickly. Later on the company La Roche made its proper branch – La Roche Hellas – in Greece and I continued working for them. I became commercial manager for the vitamin section of the company until my retirement in 1993.

I never faced any problems with the fact that I was Jewish in any of my jobs. When my wife was in charge of the business the manager of the company we were importing from wanted to visit from England, he did, we met him and it all went well. The next year the owner of the company wanted to come so I took him out for lunch to Kineta. We ate in the only ‘taverna’ that was open, which was not a luxurious one. Anyway we sat down and there was a picture on the wall of the greatest Resistance Capitan.

As we were eating he said the word ‘andartis.’ [Editor’s note: Greek expression for one who revolts or, one who resists, but after WWII it was codified to mean resistance fighter.] I asked him, ‘Where do you know that word from?’ He said that during the war he had been sent by the English, by parachute, to Mount Olympus. He said his real job was a doctor but his father insisted on him working for their company.

We started talking about when, where, how he was there and we found out that on 6th May 1945 the English doctor who treated me first was him. His name is William Felton and I will never forget it. He came to Athens again later on and tried to convince me to import another product of his but I didn’t buy it in the end. He had five children and later on he became General Director of ‘Hallmark,’ the company that makes greeting cards.

My wife’s name is Ester Florentin [nee Altcheh] but everybody calls her Nina. She was born in 1932 so we have nine years of age difference between us. She speaks Greek, Hebrew, French, English and Ladino. She lived in Thessaloniki with her family until 1943, then they moved to Athens and hid in Iraklio [suburb of Athens], in the house of a Christian family. That family wanted to keep Nina as their own child and so betrayed the rest of my wife’s family – her mother, her father and her brother. They all went to Auschwitz.

Nina stayed with the Christian family during the war but after the liberation she left for Israel, she must have been about thirteen at the time. She went to Israel with one of these boats that took Jewish people there, she had no money and stayed in a kibbutz for a year. Then she went to school in Jerusalem for five years and now she speaks perfect Hebrew. In Greece she had to stop going to school after the sixth grade of elementary school.

Her father and brother died in the concentration camps. Thankfully, her mother Kleri Atcheh returned after the war; she weighed just thirty-six kilos then. Her mother went to Israel to find Nina, imagine that they saw each other after such a long time. After a short time in Israel her mother returned to Greece, Nina stayed there a little longer in one of her aunts’ house.

When Nina came back to Greece in 1950 she was seventeen years old. That’s when we found ourselves in the same group of friends; they were Viktor Messinas, Sam Nehama, Markos Tabah, Veta Tabah, my cousin, Nina and another friend of hers that is in Israel now. So, I met her in 1950, we became friends, we loved each other and then we got married in 1951. When we married she was nineteen years old and we have been married for fifty-two years.

I didn’t know Nina before the war but I knew her mother very well. She really wanted us to get married and since things were going in that direction anyway, she was very happy for us. I wasn’t looking for a Jewish girl to marry; I would have married her even if she had been Christian but since it happened naturally I didn’t mind. Now I am happy she is Jewish because from what I have seen from my son, who is married to a Christian girl, things are easier for a couple if they have the same religion, even if that is agnostic. I am not religious at all but my wife is more than me; I think it’s because her family, when she was growing up, was very religious.

We got married in the synagogue here in Athens, we had a rather small marriage because we didn’t have much money at the time. Of course, we invited all our friends and family but we didn’t have a reception or anything. We celebrated alone in a hotel in Paleo Faliro. Until then I was living alone in an apartment on Aiolou Street in the center of Athens. When we married we moved to Kipseli on Eptanisou Street. I was making some money working for my uncle, I don’t know if Nina was taking any money from her mother but we were just about getting by the first years.

After two years we had our first child, our daughter Ida, she was probably a bit rushed but it doesn’t matter now. I don’t remember my wife’s father’s real name, I never met him because he died in Auschwitz. After the war, my mother-in-law married Alfredo Beza. He was a very nice man and we were very close to them. For about forty years, every Saturday, we had lunch in their house, in the beginning just my wife and me, then with my children and even more recently with my grandchildren. Unfortunately, Kleri died five years ago.

I would say that my wife cooks traditional Sephardic dishes I like the pies very much and my favorite sweet dish is ‘sotlach’ which is a kind of sweet pie with milk and syrup. My favorite food though is Greek and it’s ‘fasolada’ [typical Greek bean soup].

We have two children a girl, Ida Nadia Florentin, named after my mother Ida, and a son, Iosif Tony Florentin, Iosif like my father. They were both born in Athens, my daughter in 1952 – she will be 54 at the end of the year – and my son in 1956 – now he is 51 years old. When Ida was born we were living at my mother-in-law’s house on Kalimnou Street in Kipseli. When Tony was born we had moved into our own house, which was very close to my mother-in-law’s.

Their mother tongue is Greek but they had extra-school English classes in a ‘frodistirio’ [foreign language school] and private French lessons. They also heard a lot of Ladino because of their grandparents and then at some point my son decided to also learn Spanish and went to the Cervantes Institute for two or three years. My wife and I always spoke Greek in front of them and also between us. They didn’t go to the Jewish school because I don’t think it existed back then but even if it had we wouldn’t have sent them there.

Growing up, the children had a very close relationship with their grandparents, my wife’s mother and her stepfather Alfredo. Alfredo was a real grandfather to the children and he loved them like his own. We never had disagreements on their upbringing and we would see each other almost every day. The children loved their grandmother and grandfather very much. Nina did the cooking in our house but every Saturday we would have lunch at my mother-in-law’s house.

The children grew up in a not very religious environment. Of course, they knew they were Jewish straightaway but as I am not very religious, I didn’t explain much to them. Their mother and grandmother taught them a few things about Judaism; my father-in-law wasn’t very religious. The Jewish holidays like the seder night [Pesach] we used to spend with the children’s grandparents. We didn’t really celebrate other holidays, for example Rosh Hashanah we exchanged some presents and that was it.

My children didn’t have many Jewish friends because they both went to Greek schools. I would say their upbringing was quite liberal, they brought their friends home and went out with them. We had no problem with that. We used to go on holiday for fifteen days in August to Tsagarada in Pilio, to a hotel; now we have a summerhouse in Porto Rafti [place on the outskirts of Athens] but we bought that twelve years ago when our children were already much older.

They also used to go to a summer camp for a while in the summers so we got sometime for ourselves. I don’t remember sending them to the Jewish camp but they went to various other ones like the Moraitis Summer Camp in Ekali [northern suburb of Athens].

I was always interested whether they had problems in school because of their religion so I asked them a few times and they both said they hadn’t faced any problems. We talked to them about the war and what had happened when they were much older; I think their grandmother talked to them more than us because she was more ready to talk about her experiences. My wife couldn’t because she was reminded of her brother who died, and I never really talked to them about my injury and my time on the mountain. Now they know everything, at some point I wrote my story down and they read it, but I didn’t talk about it much.

When the children were young I was very busy so I didn’t really have time to read the newspapers. I only used to read Greek newspapers, ‘Eleftherotipia,’ when it came out and before that ‘Vima.’ Also, the first few years we avoided going out with our friends a lot, but by the time we moved to the Androu Street house in Kipseli [densely populated area in Athens] the children were old enough to be left alone. We went out with our friends to the cinema, to ‘tavernas’ to eat, to the theater. They were mainly other Jewish couples. Of course we had some Christian friends but we didn’t see them as often.

With our Jewish friends, especially in the beginning we always talked about the war, later on we still talked about it, but not so much. With our Christian friends we didn’t really initiate discussions on Jewish topics but if they wanted to ask something we were very open to answer to them. That’s not to say that there were topics I felt embarrassed to discuss with them, I just didn’t choose to a lot of the time.

We also traveled a lot; we have been to England, Switzerland, France, Belgium, Czechoslovakia, Cyprus, Turkey and Israel. We used to go as part of organized tours for pleasure, usually it was only my wife and I. I think with the children we only went to France together once, for a marriage or something because we have some family there. For business I only went to Switzerland and I used to go alone on these trips.

My daughter Ida was born at a point when our financial situation was terrible and we had to struggle for a while but, thankfully, by the time my son was born things were better. I have a very vivid memory of Ida’s childhood because when she was born and for a few months after she was very sick, to the extent that our pediatrician said, ‘If she is meant to die she will die.’ That was not a good thing for a doctor to say to a mother and a father.

Anyway a while after, she started getting better and then she relapsed again. We took her to a doctor, a professor named Horemis, and he said it was tuberculosis so he started treating her for that. Thank God there was another doctor, a very good one, Saroglou, who said, ‘I disagree with the professor.’ He took all his books down and he was telling me, ‘All I am doing is spending time on your daughter.’ He discovered that it was a disease called ‘Purpura’ where you get this red rash in certain places so he said stop all the tuberculosis medicine and give her this.’ A little while later she recovered and now she is perfectly healthy

That was a really rough period for my wife and me. Ida and Tony went to kindergarten and elementary school in a private school named ‘Ziridis School.’ Then for gymnasium Ida went to ‘Pierce College,’ the American College of Greece. She studied in the Pharmacy University of Athens for four years and came out with a pharmacist degree. Then she went to Paris to do her master’s in molecular biology for another three years.

When she returned she got a job in a drug warehouse and then in the National Research Institute. She quit her job a year ago and she did a degree in London on the Montessori technique for kindergartens. This year she didn’t manage to find a job but she is still looking. She is not married and she doesn’t have any children.

Tony had his bar mitzvah. He studied with the rabbi of Athens at the time whose name was Bartzilai, he said his words very well even though he was a bit stressed. It took place in the synagogue of Athens in the morning, we had invited a lot of people and then at night we had a party in our house where he invited his friends and we invited ours.

From Tony’s childhood there is one incident I remember very vividly. He was a boy scout from the age of six and then one day, when he was sixteen, they went walking from Athens to Parnitha [a mountain close to Athens]. That day it snowed a lot and we lost their tracks for a while. Anyway they made it back but we were really scared for a while.

For gymnasium, Tony went to the ‘Varvakios School,’ which is a good public, experimental school. He passed in the Polytechnic University of Athens and became a mechanical engineer, then he went to Paris for a postgraduate diploma in the mechanics of production and renewable sources of energy for six years. He got a distinction for his dissertation and was also awarded by the French academy.

In the six years he was there we visited him once. They both stayed with us during their studies in Athens but they both lived alone when they came back from their studies in Paris. For me my children’s’ education was very important I wanted them to do something that would educate them but that they could also find a job with. When they left for Paris we were sad in a happy way because they had left to do something good for themselves.

Now, Tony my son is manager in D.E.P.A., the Public Gas Supply Corporation of Greece. When he was in Paris he got married to a woman from the Czech Republic but he got a divorce from her and then married again, in 1985, Ioanna, who is Christian Orthodox, so they had a civil marriage. They met in Athens; they lived together for three years and then got married. She did all her studies in Germany and now she is a German teacher at university. They have two children: Philip, who is eleven years old, and Faedon Florentin, who is nine years old.

Right now the children don’t have a religion but they know both about Christianity and Judaism. They talk about Purim and get Rosh Hashanah presents but they have a Christmas tree during Christmas etc. My wife has taken them to the synagogue and their mother is absolutely fine with that.

They live in the building opposite us; my wife and I never put pressure on them to live close to us but when we moved here from Maroussi [middle class area in the north of Athens] they decided they wanted to buy a house close to us. We have very good relationship with our grandchildren and also with my son and his wife. We see our grandsons very often. Of course there might be periods of ten days or so that we haven’t seen them but in general they come and say ‘hi’ and stay with us a few hours.

I talk to my son and my daughter almost every day, sometimes we get together and eat but not something standard like it was when their grandmother was alive. We usually gather with my son, his family and my daughter for certain Jewish holidays like the seder night or other occasions. We gather in our house and my wife does the cooking.

Nowadays in the summer, we go to our summerhouse in Porto Rafti from the 1st of July until mid-August. It is a two-story house so my grandsons usually come with us and stay on the same floor as my wife and me. My son and his wife stay on the second floor. My grandsons love Porto Rafti. We swim in the sea, they play around, I think they really love that place. Then around the end of August we go to Abano in Italy for fifteen days. Abano is a spa town, my wife has mud baths and I swim in the swimming pool half an hour a day. I love that place and every year I can’t wait to go there.

As for my grandchildren there are certain things I would do different if they were my children. The oldest one is very smart but he doesn’t study or read books and I think his education is lacking important things like orthography, proper Greek language or just more depth in what he studies. I think he should read a book outside school, a children’s book, but I don’t want to intervene because their parents spend enough time on them.

I have a good relationship with my grandchildren but my wife has an even closer one, I try but they just have more contact with her. Sometimes I want to say certain things but I don’t want to intervene and insist on anything. Until now I haven’t spoken to them about the war and my stories.

More recently, my wife and I had a very nice group of friends but unfortunately two of them died and the other one can’t see very well so he doesn’t drive. Now we see a lot of Matoula Benroubi and her husband Andreas, we see them almost once a week. We go to ‘tavernas’ and eat, we don’t go to the cinema, I haven’t been to the cinema in five years. I don’t really know why. Anyway we also talk about the past about how things used to be and at least I enjoy these conversations very much.

I am not involved in the Jewish community or the different committees and I never was. I have a computer and e-mail but right now I haven’t set it up because when we moved I put one computer on the side and then my son brought me a laptop and on that one sometimes I push the wrong buttons and I ruin everything. But anyway, at some point I took some computer lessons, thankfully, but my wife didn’t. I think she should have done. My grandsons know everything about computers, while to me it’s the strangest thing and so they help me sometimes.

Glossary:

1 Ladino

Also known as Judeo-Spanish, it is the spoken and written Hispanic language of Jews of Spanish and Portuguese origin. Ladino did not become a specifically Jewish language until after the expulsion of the Jews from Spain in 1492 (and Portugal in 1495) - it was merely the language of their province. It is also known as Judezmo, Dzhudezmo, or Spaniolit. When the Jews were expelled from Spain and Portugal they were cut off from the further development of the language, but they continued to speak it in the communities and countries to which they emigrated. Ladino therefore reflects the grammar and vocabulary of 15th-century Spanish. In Amsterdam, England and Italy, those Jews who continued to speak 'Ladino' were in constant contact with Spain and therefore they basically continued to speak the Castilian Spanish of the time. Ladino was nowhere near as diverse as the various forms of Yiddish, but there were still two different dialects, which corresponded to the different origins of the speakers: 'Oriental' Ladino was spoken in Turkey and Rhodes and reflected Castilian Spanish, whereas 'Western' Ladino was spoken in Greece, Macedonia, Bosnia, Serbia and Romania, and preserved the characteristics of northern Spanish and Portuguese. The vocabulary of Ladino includes hundreds of archaic Spanish words, and also includes many words from different languages: mainly from Hebrew, Arabic, Turkish, Greek, French, and to a lesser extent from Italian. In the Ladino spoken in Israel, several words have been borrowed from Yiddish. For most of its lifetime, Ladino was written in the Hebrew alphabet, in Rashi script, or in Solitreo. It was only in the late 19th century that Ladino was ever written using the Latin alphabet. At various times Ladino has been spoken in North Africa, Egypt, Greece, Turkey, Yugoslavia, Bulgaria, Romania, France, Israel, and, to a lesser extent, in the United States and Latin America.

2 L’ Indépendant

Jewish daily evening newspaper, published in French, one of the most important and long lived newspapers published between 1909-1941, when it was closed down by the Germans in April 1941. It did not endorse any political views and defended vehemently the rights of the Jews. (Source: Repf. Frezis: O evraikos typos stin Ellada, in Greek Volos, 1999 pp. 107-108)

3 Le Progrés

One of the 7 French-Jewish newspapers published in Salonica up until 1941.

4 German Occupation

In the spring of 1941, Germans defeated the Greek army and occupied Greece until October 1944. The country was divided in three zones of occupation. Thrace and the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia were occupied by Bulgaria, Germany occupied Macedonia including Thessaloniki, Piraeus and western Crete and Italy occupied the remaining mainland and the islands. Now depending of where the Jews lived, defined both their future and the possibilities of escape. Greek resistance groups, communists or not, fought against the occupation in an effort to save Greece but also the Jews living in Greece. Approximately 8,000 to 10,000 Greek Jews survived the Holocaust, due to the refusal, to a great extent, of the Greeks, as well as the leadership of the Greek Orthodox Church, to cooperate with the Germans for the application of their plan to deport all of them. Furthermore, the Italian authorities up to their surrender in 1943 refused to facilitate or to permit the deportation of the Jews from the Italian zone of occupation. (Source: www.ushmm.org/greece/nonflash/gr/intro.htm).

5 Greek-Albanian War/Greek-Italian War (1940-1941)

Greece was drawn into WWII when Italian troops crossed the borders of Albania and violated Greek territory on 28th October 1940. The Italian attack of Greece seemed obvious, despite the stated disagreement of Hitler and the efforts of Ioannis Metaxas, who was trying to trying to keep the country in a neutral stance. Following a series of warning signs, culminating in the sinking of Battleship 'Elli' on 15th August 1940, by Italian torpedoes, and all of these failing to provoke the Greek government to react, the Italian Ultimatum was delivered on 28th October 1940, and it demanded the free passage of the Italian army through Greek soil, as well as sole control of a series of strategic points of the country. The rejection of the ultimatum by Metaxas was in line with the public opinion in Greece and led to the immediate declaration of war by Italy against Greece. This war took place mostly in the mountains of Hepeirous. In the Greek-Albanian War approximately 12.500 Greek Jews took part and 513 Greek Jews died fighting. The Greek counter-offensive pushed the Italians deep into Albania and the Greek army maintained the initiative throughout the winter capturing the southern Albanian towns of Corce, Aghioi Saranda, and Girocaster. [Source: Thanos Veremis, Mark Dragoumis, 'Historical Dictionary of Greece' (London 1995)]

6 Metaxas, Ioannis (1871-1941)

Greek General and Prime Minister of Greece from 1936 until his death. A staunch monarchist, he supported Constantine I and opposed Greek entry into WWI. Metaxas left Greece with the king, neither returning until 1920. When the monarchy was displaced in 1922, Metaxas moved into politics and founded the Party of Free Opinion in 1923. After a disputed plebiscite George II, son of Constantine I, returned to take the throne in 1935. The elections of 1936 produced a deadlock between Panagis Tsaldaris and Themistoklis Sophoulis. The political situation was further polarized by the gains made by the Communist Party of Greece (KKE). Disliking the Communists and fearing a coup, George II appointed Metaxas, then minister of war, to be interim prime minister. Widespread industrial unrest in May allowed Metaxas to declare a state of emergency. He suspended the parliament indefinitely and annulled various articles of the constitution. By 4th August 1936, Metaxas was effectively dictator. Patterning his regime on other authoritarian European governments (most notably Mussolini’s fascist regime), Metaxas banned political parties, arrested his opponents, criminalized strikes and introduced widespread censorship of the media. But he did not have great popular support or a strong ideology. The Metaxas government sought to pacify the working classes by raising wages, regulating hours and trying to improve working conditions. For rural areas agricultural prices were raised and farm debts were taken on by the government. Despite these efforts the Greek people generally moved towards the political left, but without actively opposing Metaxas.

7 Eleutherias Square

On 11th July 1942, following the order of the German Authority published by the local press, 6000-10.000 (depending on different estimations) male Jews aged from 18-45 were gathered in Eleutherias Square, in the commercial center of Thessaloniki. The aim was to enlist/mobilize them to forced labor works. Under the hot sun the armed soldiers forced them to remain standing for hours and imposed on them humiliating gymnastic exercises. The Wehrmacht army staff was taking photographs of the scene, while the Greek citizens were watching from their balconies. [Source: Marc Mazower, 'Inside Hitler's Greece' (Yale 1993)]

8 Ghetto

Until the German occupation there was never a ghetto in Thessaloniki. During the occupation the Germans created three main ghettos: 1. Eastern Thessaloniki: Fleming Street Ghetto, 2. Western Thessalonica: Sygrou Street Ghetto, 3. Baron Hirsch Ghetto in the Baron de Hirsch neighborhood. These were formerly neighborhoods with a dense, yet not exclusively Jewish population. (Source: Mark Mazower, Inside Hitler's Greece: The Experience of Occupation, 1941-44, New Haven and London)

9 Andartiko or Mountain

Abbreviation for Greek Resistance during World War II, composed of civilians and members of the communist party. They formed an army stationed in various mountainous locations of the Greek countryside where they formed groups of resistance; andartis: in Greek: one who revolts or, one who resists.

10 EAM (National Liberation Front - Ethniko Apeleutherotiko Metwpo)

Founded at the end of 1942. It was the combating section of the left-wing Resistance. (Source: J. Hondros, Occupation and Resistance: the Greek Agony, New York, 1983).

11 ELAS

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

12 Deportations of Greek Jews

The Jewish population of Thessaloniki started being deported to Baron Hirsch camp as of 25th February 1943. The first train that took away Salonican Jews left the city on 15th March 1943 and arrived in Auschwitz on 20th March 1943. One deportation followed another and by 18th August 1943, a total of 19 convoys with 48.533 people had left the city. [Source: Rena Molho, 'Salonica and Istanbul: Social, Political and Cultural Aspects of Jewish Life' (The Isis Press, Istanbul, 2005), p. 66]

13 Greek Civil War (1946-1949)

Also known as Kinima or Movement, fought from 1946 to 1949 by the Governmental forces, receiving logistical support by the United Kingdom at first and later by the United States, and the Democratic Army of Greece, the military branch of the Greek Communist Party (KKE), was the result of a highly polarized struggle between leftists and rightists which started from 1943 and targeted the power vacuum that the German occupation during World War II had created. One of the first conflicts of the Cold War, according to some analysts it represents the first example of a post-war Western interference in the internal politics of a foreign country, and it marked the first serious test of the Churchill-Stalin percentages agreement. (Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Greek_Civil_War)

Riva Belfor

Riva Belfor 
Kishinev
Moldova
Interviewer: Zhanna Litinskaya
Date of interview: July 2004

Riva Belfor lives in a nice two-room apartment in a district, constructed in the late 1970s. Riva is a very beautiful slender woman with huge dark-brown, expressive eyes. It looked like she was nervous and ill at ease. As it turned out she was worried about her daughter’s divorce and her immigration to Israel. Riva asked not to take her picture now, as she had changed a lot and grew old because of the latest events. It was a Saturday evening. The candles were burning out in the silver candlestick given to Riva by her relatives. Riva and her husband still observe Jewish traditions. When Riva started her story, her husband Boris, an impulsive, young-looking man, was surprised to find out that our conversation was private. He had to go to the next room. We could hear his exclamations. As per Riva’s request, Boris will be talking about his family himself. I could feel that Riva was the heart and soul of the family. She pampered her husband, who is in fact a big child.

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

My family background

My paternal grandfather, Ihil Soifer, was born in 1860 in the small town Medzhibozh [about 300 km from Kiev], located in South-Western Ukraine [in 1860 part of the Russian empire]. This town is known for being the center of Hasidism 1 [the Jewish community of Medzhibozh is one of the oldest in Ukraine and until 1648 one of the largest in Podolia. The number of Jews grew to 6,040 (74% of the total population) in 1897, then fell to 4,614 (58.2%) in 1926. The community was destroyed after the German occupation in 1941]. My grandfather’s name means ‘a man, who rewrites the Torah’ in translation from Yiddish [Editor’s note: soifer or sofer (Heb.) is ‘scribe for holy books,’ a man especially trained for this holy task]. Men of his lineage were involved in this honorable and complicated matter from the ancient times. My grandfather fixed the Torah, wrote holy scripts, which were put in the tefillin and mezuzah. Apart from this craft, which was similar to the subtle art, Grandfather read the Torah and Talmud – all holy Judaic books and interpreted them. He discussed things that he read with the neighbors and acquaintances. He tried to live and to act in accordance with the Torah. He often told his kin how one was supposed to act in certain cases according to the doctrines of the holy books. In general he was a very religious and literate man. He got married at the age of 18 according to the Jewish rite [The Talmud recommends that a man marry at the age of 18, or somewhere between 16 and 24]. I didn’t know Grandmother Riva. All I know is that she gave birth to ten children, five sons one after another – Abram, David, Monya, Isaac and Jacob, and five daughters – Reizl, Dvoira, Basya, Sima and Lubov. All children got only elementary Jewish education. The girls were taught by melamed and the boys went to cheder.

In the 1910s the large Soifer family moved to Bessarabia 2 – either they were looking for a better living or trying to find shelter for their sons not to be drafted into the army. The peak of the drafting campaign was achieved in 1913, before World War I. All my grandfather’s sons were very religious and the army service was a kind of moral ordeal for them. Three sons – David, Monya and Isaac – found a solution: immigration to the USA. All of them were approximately of the same age – as they were born in the mid-1880s. Their first attempt was unsuccessful - they were arrested at the border and forced to return to Medzhibozh. But they didn’t change their minds and in 1913 they took another attempt and managed to leave for the USA via Hamburg [Germany], where they had to stay for a couple of months. Grandfather gave a bribe, which cost him a lot of money, to get a new passport for the name of Stiepelman so that the Soifers would vanish into thin air. 

So this is how it happened that the whole family acquired a new name: Stiepelman. Thus, my father and his siblings had that surname. The family moved to Kishinev [then Bessarabia, today Moldova, called Chisinau in Moldovan] and settled there in a rather nice house, purchased for the money acquired for the sold house. They got a husbandry – chicken and geese. Ihil kept on religious activity there. After Grandmother Riva passed away in 1929, Ihil got married shortly after her death – according to the Jewish tradition in grandfather’s words a man is not supposed to be alone [Gen. 2:18: ‘it is not good for man to be alone’]. I don’t remember his second wife’s name as they didn’t live together for a long time due to her death caused by some sort of disease. Reizl was grandfather’s third wife. She was his last wife. She was a comfort to my grandfather during the last stage of his life and was doomed like he was. In 1941 the Germans came to Bessarabia. Ihil didn’t want to get evacuated, so he died with his wife in Kishinev ghetto 3. It was a horrible death. Father told me that Grandfather was harnessed in the cart with a huge barrel with water and made to run until he fell dead, while the guards were mocking him. Reizl was shot shortly afterwards. 

My father’s elder brother Abram Soifer, born at the beginning of the 1880s, lived in St. Petersburg with his wife Basya and his children. He got married in Medzhibozh and then moved to St. Petersburg, finished some sort of vocational school. He was involved in commerce. I don’t know the details. Abram died in 1918 during the Civil War 4. I don’t know what happened to him exactly, but his wife Basya always used to cry when this subject was broached. He was killed by some gangsters, which at times came to Kishinev. I remember only Israel, Rahil, and Reizl out of the fourteen children of Abram and Basya. All of them are deceased. 

In America, father’s brothers David, Monya and Isaac changed their last name to Saper. The eldest brother David got married to a rich American lady, the owner of a large store, shortly after immigration to America. David got acclimatized very swiftly – soon he became proficient in English and was able to merge in his wife’s business and make it even much more prosperous. He had a good and worthy life. He never forgot where he came from and he sent money to Grandfather on a regular basis, and Grandfather in turn helped out the rest of the children. In 1939 David managed to come over to Kishinev to visit his kin. I remember how I was rapt by foreign chic – David, dressed in a morning robe, was sipping coffee from a demitasse. It was the last time I saw David. I never saw either his wife or any of his four children. I didn’t know that we didn’t keep in touch after the Soviet regime was installed in 1940 5. The Soviets, putting it mildly, didn't encourage people who had relatives abroad 6. David passed away in the mid-1950s. He died from cancer. 

Monya also became an entrepreneur in America. He started out from a small car repair shop. His business was gradually growing, making him rather well-off. He had a family, but I don’t remember the names of either his wife or his children. Monya died at an old age. before his death we were able to order a telephone conversation, so that Father would be able to hear his brother’s voice, whom he hadn’t heard for many decades. 

Isaac had a tragic fate. He had been a greengrocer all his life, selling plants in the street. His wife died in parturition, leaving a wonderful girl. Isaac had the nanny to raise the girl until she reached the age of seven. The lady didn’t give the girl back and the American court, where Isaac filed a claim against the lady, let the girl stay with the lady by ruling. Isaac was in courts for years trying to have his daughter back. The girl grew up, got a good education and became a lawyer. She saw her father a few times, but she never recognized him. Isaac died in the 1970s in solitude and indigence. I don’t know where David, Monya and Isaac were buried, or whether they were buried in accordance with the Jewish tradition. They were very religious people and it was likely that they were buried at a Jewish cemetery. 

Father’s elder sisters Reizl and Dvoira had fiancés before leaving for Kishinev from Medzhibozh. They didn’t want to walk away from their fiancés and soon got back to Medzhibozh. They got married there. I don’t remember the name of Reizl’s husband. He was killed by gangsters during the Civil War. Reizl remained with two sons – Solomon and Natan. Reizl, who was a housewife before her husband’s death, became a seamstress. During the Great Patriotic War 7 she was in evacuation with her children, somewhere in Central Asia, but she didn’t live long after coming back to her native city. Reizl died in the early 1950s, she was buried at the Jewish cemetery in Medzhibozh. In the 1970s her son Solomon immigrated to the USA with his family. He died there ten years ago. Natan, who is over 80 now, is alive and healthy. He has lived in Israel with his family since the late 1970s. Dvoira’s life is more or less prosperous. Her husband Veiner – I don’t remember his first name – was a successful vendor and lived with Dvoira until getting old. Neither Dvoira nor Reizl had to work. She died in1970 and was buried next to Reizl; the funeral of my father’s sister was carried out in accordance with the Jewish rites. I don’t know what happened with Dvoira’s daughters. They don’t keep in touch, and I forgot their names. 

Father’s younger sisters Sima, Basya and Lubov lived in Kishinev all the time. Sima, born in the late 1890s, was married off successfully. Her husband, Joseph Epelbaum, was a literate, well-educated and religious Jew. He was the secretary and the right hand of the Kishinev Rabbi Zirelson [Zirelson, Yehuda Leib (1860-1941): rabbi, member of the municipal council of Kishinev and its delegate to meetings with government authorities. He yearned for a Jewish state, based on Torah principles. He was killed in a bomb attack on Kishinev]. Joseph made good money and his family – Sima and five children – were well-off. His son – I don’t remember his name – died at the age of 18. His daughters – Mara, Shelya, Susanna and Bella – died at an old age. 

Joseph and his family managed to get evacuated in 1941, I think they were evacuated to the Ural. It was good that he hadn’t listened to Rabbi Zirelson who was talking him into staying in Kishinev. Joseph kept all the Jewish traditions and rites even in the post-war period and after returning to Kishinev. He died in 1961. He was buried at the Jewish sector of the city cemetery of Kishinev. [In the USSR city cemeteries were territorially divided into sectors. Usually all city cemeteries have common land plots, plots for burial of children, sectors for burial of the titled militaries, a Jewish sector, land plots of the political leaders etc. People were usually buried in accordance with the will of the relatives of the deceased or the testament.] Some elderly people recited the Kaddish over his grave. Sima passed away at the age of either 92 or 93, only Bella is alive and lives in Tel Aviv. Shelya lives in the USA. We don’t keep in touch.

Basya, born at the beginning of the 1900s, was married to a Jew, Vertman. I don’t remember his name. He worked as a salesman for some owner of a store.He didn’t make much money, but it was enough to make a living for his wife Basya and their three daughters – Rahil, Lida and Riva. Basya with her husband and children was in evacuation during the Great Patriotic War and returned to Kishinev when the war was over. She died at the age of 80 and was buried at the Jewish sector of the Kishinev city cemetery, next to Joseph. Lida is the only daughter who is alive now. She is currently residing in Israel. 

My father’s youngest sister Lubov, born in 1911, was married to a goldsmith, Aron Dorf. Her husband didn’t have Romanian citizenship and was exiled somewhere for salt processing. When the Soviet regime was established in Bessarabia he stealthily came back to Kishinev. Lubov lived in Kishinev with her sons, Buma and Haim, during that period of time. Their sons had a tragic fate. The younger son, Haim, died at the age of twelve in the train car on his way to the evacuation area. The elder brother, Buma, entered the Physics and Mathematics department of Kishinev University after the war. He ranked as a top student of his course. Buma drowned when he was passing a test in swimming. After Buma’s death, Lubov gave birth to a third son at the age of 41. He was given the name of Ilia, and was as handsome, intelligent and gifted as Buma was. He also entered the university. When his mother got severely ill he devotedly was looking after her. Aron was deceased by that time and Lubov accidentally threw away the jewelry box with precious things, which was stashed away by Aron. She wasn’t controlling herself at that time. After that she had an apoplectic stroke and died in hospital in 1967. Ilia couldn’t get over his mother’s death. In spite of the fact that he got married and had two daughters of approximately the same age, born with just one year difference, he was grieving over his mother’s death so much that he committed suicide. His wife and his daughters immigrated to the USA in the 1980s. 

My father Jacob Soifer, the youngest of the sons, born in the early 1890s, changed his name to Stiepelman. Father didn’t get any education. He even didn’t go to cheder. Grandfather Ihil was his teacher, and he gave all his knowledge to his favorite son. The elder brothers sent an invitation from the USA to my father. And when he decided to join his brother, Grandmother Riva said that she would commit suicide, if he left. He loved his mother very much, so he refused to go. He lived with my grandfather at that time and spent time studying and praying before he got married. He was not that young when he got married. It was a prearranged marriage. His wife-to-be was from the Moldavian [Moldova in Moldovan] 8 village Gura Galbeney. Her name was Haya Feurman.

My mother Haya Feurman came from a large family. She had nine siblings. They lived in the Moldovan village Gura Galbeney [which means Yellow Mountain in Romanian], 40 kilometers away from Kishinev. My maternal grandfather, Velvl Feurman, born in the 1860s, was the owner of a grocery store. Besides, he worked as an accountant for the forestry. Velvl was a highly qualified accountant. One of his job functions was to check the parts of the forest that he was responsible for. Grandmother Sosl was a housewife. She raised the children, did a lot of things about the house. My grandparents were rather well-off and respectable people. There weren’t very many Jewish families in Gura Galbeney. There were about 100 families in the village, and 10-15 out of them were Jewish families. Mother was a very sociable lady who kept in touch with Moldovans and Romanians. The Jews, Moldovans and Romanians had a mutual respect for each other and got along very well. There was a small synagogue in that village and the family went there on high holidays. There was also a cheder in the village. My maternal grandparents weren’t as religious as the paternal ones. They adhered to traditions, observed the kashrut and celebrated holidays, but they didn’t do it as devotedly and properly as my paternal grandparents’ family. Grandfather died at the beginning of 1940. 

I don’t remember the names of all of my mother’s brothers and sisters. I know for sure that they lived in small towns of Bessarabia. Almost all of them had their own families and children. I remember mother’s brothers Shmerl, Haim and Suher, who were drafted into the lines during the Great Patriotic War and were reported missing. Shmerl was a bachelor. Haim had a son. He lives in Israel now. Suher went through the war and survived. In the post-war period he lived in Kishinev. He got married and immigrated to Israel with his wife in the 1980s. Suher didn’t have children. He died in Israel. 

My mother’s eldest sister Hanna was married twice. She divorced her first husband, and her second one, Vasilkovkskiy, had died before the Great Patriotic War broke out. As soon as the war began, Hanna and her two children – son Milya and daughter Lubov – and Grandmother Sosl were evacuated. They went by train and on their way the echelon was bombed. Hanna, Grandmother Sosl and Milya died during the bombing. Twenty-year-old Lubov survived the bombing. She was found in the shambles of the train. Soviet soldiers took her to the hospital. When Hanna was discharged from the hospital, she attended nurses’ courses. Then she went to the front lines as a volunteer. Lubov was in the lines until the victory day. After the war she married a Jew, Shulim Herman, and moved to Western Ukraine, the city of Lvov [500 km from Kiev]. She had a hard life. Her husband was killed in a car crash and Lubov remained with her seven-year-old daughter. They didn’t have enough money to get by. Lubov worked in the hospital as a nurse. Her salary was skimpy, besides she was supposed to be on duty very often, but they managed to go through that hard period of their lives. Now they live in the United States.

Mother’s sisters Rahil and Leya lived in a village not far from Kishinev. Rahil married a lad, whose mother was a Jew and father a German. They didn’t evacuate in 1941. Rahil and her husband hoped that Germans wouldn’t touch them, but they were murdered by the occupants. Leya, her husband and three of her children also perished at the hands of the Fascists. I don’t know anything about the rest of my mother’s siblings. 

My mother Haya Feurman, born in 1895, and her other sisters were educated by a melamed. In spite of her being educated at home, she was a rather erudite person. Yiddish was her mother tongue. She was proficient in Russian and could read Jewish books in Ivrit [modern Hebrew]. Before meeting my father, Haya spent most of the time at home, read books and helped Grandmother about the house. It was considered that she was a spinster, as she was twenty-seven and still single. But my father wasn’t a boy either. A Jewish shadkhan made an arrangement for my parents to meet each other. Shortly after their acquaintance they got married. I don’t know the details of their wedding. All I know is that it took place in Kishinev in full compliance with Jewish rites: chuppah, Jewish music and numerous guests. 

My parents rented an apartment in Kishinev after their wedding. Grandfather helped them out for a while until Father had acquired a profession. Then father learned how to become a shochet. Every week he went to the small town of Khyncheshtch [since 1940 Kotovsk, 30 km from Kishinev], where the butcher who taught him lived. My parents didn’t stay in Kishinev for a long time, and moved to Khyncheshtch, looking for a job. The old butcher, my father’s teacher, sent all his clients to my father. Father became a very skilled butcher. He could cut poultry, and he also knew how to slaughter cattle. In every house we used to live, there was a shed where my father did his job. There were huge hooks where fowl was placed and there were tubs with straw or boxes with sand underneath for the seeping blood. Father was very hard-working. Not every Jew was able to pay my father for his job, but my father couldn’t leave a Jew without a kosher Sabbath chicken. That is why my father worked for free sometimes. Each Friday Father rented a cart to go to the villages, where at least one Jew was residing, to cut chicken for Sabbath. He didn’t want any Jewish family to remain without kosher chicken, but there were families, which couldn’t afford to buy a chicken, and my father came back home empty-handed. 

Father didn’t make much money, but it was enough for the family to get by. Mother was a wonderful housewife, coping with a lot of housework: baking fresh bread, cooking an apple pie, keeping a house in order and taking care of the children. In 1923 my sister Bluma was born, and the next year Rahil was born. My elder brother Motle was born in 1927. Then I was born on 10th September 1934, in the town of Khyncheshtch. I was named after my grandmother Riva. She was deceased at that time. [One of the most common practices is to name a child to honor a relative. Sephardic Jews name their children freely after both living and deceased relatives. However, Ashkenazim rarely name children after living relatives.]

Growing up

Shortly after I was born, Father found a job in the town of Resena [about 80 km from Kishinev], not far from Kotovsk, and our family moved there. I remember myself at the age of two, drinking wine. I was a mirthful and sociable girl. Once I saw Moldovans crushing grapes and dancing. I went in the circle. They gave me some wine to drink. I was dancing so hilariously that everybody burst into laughter. There is another recollection from early childhood, which is embossed in my memory. I remember that Mother taught us not to take anything that belongs to other people, no matter how hard our living was. One of our acquaintances, who was very rich, brought me a little white apron. I was so happy to get such a nice present, but Mother told me to give it back and said that we didn’t want anything that didn’t belong to us. 

I also remember my mother was expecting a baby. I was two, but I was fully aware that I wouldn’t be taken as much care of and I wouldn’t be loved so much when mother would give birth to a baby. It made me sad. The priest’s spouse was the midwife in Rezina and she delivered my mother’s baby. Mother was in the small bedroom, while Grandfather Ihil was making gefilte fish in the drawing-room. I was close to the Primus stove [a small portable stove with a container for about 1 liter of kerosene that was pumped into burners], inhaling a spicy aroma and expecting a delicious dish. Grandfather kept telling me to stay away from the stove. I didn’t understand why Grandfather was cooking fish on the Primus stove, because Mother always used to cook on the Russian stove 9 in our kitchen and used the Primus very rarely. When the cry of a baby was heard from the next room, my father and grandfather rushed there. Then I was shown a small puckered baby. Mother gave birth to a son, who was given the name of Haim. I liked him very much and I forgot all my apprehensions and jealousy. I still love my brother very much. In 1938 Mother gave birth to a girl, but she lived only for a couple of weeks and died.

I vaguely remember the town of Rezina. It was an ordinary Jewish town, where Jews peacefully coexisted with Moldovans and Romanians. I think there were about 500-600 yards in the town, and approximately half of them were Jewish. I remember the synagogue with the separate gallery for women. When Mother went to the synagogue, she took me there as well. She put my breakfast in a parcel: patties, grapes and apples. Usually she left me in the synagogue yard, where I played with other girls. At times we had to wait for a long time until our mothers were through with praying. We also shared food given to us by our mothers in parcels. 

My mother’s family wasn’t as religious as my father’s. Father was a very religious man. He even went to bed in a kippah. Mother also became religious, following Father’s example. She adhered to all the Jewish traditions. Mother covered her head with a dark kerchief, even in evacuation, where it was hard to get any fabric. Before Sabbath our house was thoroughly cleaned and festive dishes were cooked: chicken, challah, cookies, homemade kosher wine [wine made by a Jew from the grape that he planted himself], gefilte fish, all kinds of tsimes 10, beans cooked with sugar and cracklings. Challah was put on the table. Mother lit the candles, sang and read a prayer. Father recited the Kiddush. The kashrut was strictly observed. If there were two cauldrons in the house – one chipped with a knife, for it to look different and not to be confused with the other one, was used for milk, and the other one was used for meat. Knives, cutting boards, dishes and even rags were marked. If a knife fell on the floor on Pesach, it wasn’t used for the entire week. It was put in the earth and was supposed to stay there for a week. 

Jewish holidays were celebrated in our house. We got ready for the holidays beforehand. My father was a shochet. Besides he was a chazzan [back in the time, the chazzan was the head of the community prayer in the synagogue, later he was a cantor, a synagogue singer] in the synagogue, he sang prayers during the holidays. He was supposed to blow the shofar at the end of Yom Kippur. He rehearsed blowing the shofar in the summer before the fall holidays. My parents fasted on Yom Kippur. Father spent the whole day in the synagogue. I began fasting at the age of twelve. [Children under the age of nine don’t fast, then they start fasting little by little. Boys start to fast as long as adults do by the age of 13, girls from twelve.] 

I loved Sukkot very much. Father took some reed and made a sukkah in the yard. The attributes of the holidays – lulav and etrog – were sent from Kishinev. [Editor’s note: the Sukkot attributes are the so-called Four Species (arba minim): an etrog (a citrus fruit similar to a lemon native to Israel; in English it is called a citron), a palm branch (in Hebrew, lulav), two willow branches (aravot) and three myrtle branches (hadassim).] I liked to watch my father say a morning prayer in the sukkah, holding a palm branch and the fruit of the citrus plant Lyonus. After the holiday those plants were put in long boxes and kept for a year. We had dinner in the sukkah in the period of eight festive days, even though it got really cold in fall. 

We had a good time during holidays. My parents’ friends came to us. They were common Jews. We sang songs and danced. I had fun as well, as my parents’ friends used to bring their children with them. I enjoyed playing with them. We liked Chanukkah very much, as we were given presents and money. Purim was spectacular. People in the Jewish houses were cooking and baking all day long. At night they took a walk along the central street in Rezina, lit only by one lamppost, to bring shelakhmones from house to house. At home we gave performances, Purimshpil [traditionally at Purim parodies (Purim Shpil, Yiddish for Purim Play) are performed], and made hoaxes. 

Pesach was the most important holiday. Mother cleaned the house, scraped walls and whitewashed the stove. [The Passover cleaning, the mitzvah of biur chametz – getting rid of chametz – and other traditions described below belong to Pesach traditions according to halakhah.] New outfits and shoes were prepared for all children. There was a clean starched cloth on the table and snow-white napkins on our modest furniture. On the eve chametz was banished. Mother took bread crumbs, put them in a wooden spoon and buried them. [Editor’s note: the described proceeding refers to bedikat chametz, a formal search for chametz in the home, but with slight differences regarding the tradition.] 

Matzah was brought from the synagogue in a large hamper covered with a sheet. Pesach dishes were taken from the garret. Those dishes weren’t used for the entire year. Every child had his own. I was looking forward to getting my pink glass with the picture of a kitten, which was kept in the chest. My father, clad in white attire with a belt and a white festive kippah, was reclining on the sofa with the white cover, carrying out seder. [According to the Jewish tradition the eldest man in the family, the one who made Seder, was supposed to recline on something soft (usually pillows were used for that), which was the embodiment of relaxation and exemption from slavery.] My brother Motle asked him four questions about the origin of the holiday while I was looking for the afikoman. The festive Pesach dish was in the middle of the table. There were all dishes in accordance with the Haggadah. Besides, the table was abundant in Jewish dishes: gefilte fish, chicken strew, chicken broth and tsimes. The goblet with wine was placed on the table for Elijah ha-nevi. There was a certain paragraph in the Haggadah when people were supposed to open the door. We kept the door open until morning for Elijah ha-nevi to come to our house and drink wine. 

During the war 

In 1939 our family moved to Kishinev. There was a vacant position for a shochet. We rented an apartment. It was a small three-room apartment in a private house. There was a shed in the yard, where my father did his job. My elder brother Motle helped my father so he could learn from him. Motle had been prepared for religious activity since early childhood. He finished cheder, which was customary for the boys. Father and Grandfather Ihil spent a lot of time teaching him. My brother got ready for the rite of bar mitzvah. The rite was carried out by Rabbi Zirelson in the central synagogue. After that Motle was enrolled in a yeshivah, where very literate, educated and religious Jews taught, such as Zirelson and Uncle Joseph Epelbaum. 

My sisters didn’t get such a thorough education. The elder one, Bluma, was taught how to read and write by our parents. She thought it was sufficient for a girl like her. She was very good at embroidery since childhood. Later on she started taking orders and earned pretty good money. After finishing school, Rahil went to the technical school of the Tarbut school 11, one of those schools which prepared the youth for repatriation to Palestine. There were very many Zionist organizations in Kishinev, but I couldn’t join them because of my age and I don’t remember their names. 

Pro-Soviet and pro-Communist ideas were also disseminated. I remember how my father was inspired to talk about Russia. He was a real zealot of Soviet power, national equality, propagated by the Communists. Father tried to find out about Russia as much as possible. At that time the USSR was a political enemy to Romania and there was no information about Russia. Father had a friend – a Moldovan, a medical assistant – who also cared for the USSR. He had a radio, which was a rare thing for people of our circle. Father came to him and they used to listen to the news from Moscow surreptitiously. Of course, neither Father nor his friends knew the truth about the USSR, they knew nothing about arrests and repressions of the innocent people 12

Back in those times there were Fascist Organizations: followers of Professor Cuza 13, the so-called Cuzists 14, and the Legionary Movement 15. They advocated Fascist ideas of racial and nationalistic hatred and threatened the Jews. Kishinev Jews who survived the Pogrom of 1903 16, dreaded to think that it would recur. Fortunately it didn’t come to that, though anti-Semitism was felt in everyday life. One evening, when Father was on his way home from the synagogue, two gangsters, Cuzists, attacked him and hit him a couple of times, threatening to do away with him. 

On 28th June 1940 an event took place, awaited by many Jews and our family as well. The Soviet Army was marching along the streets of Kishinev in filthy tunics and dusty boots. It seemed to us that they were envoys from a wonderful country and my siblings and I were delighted to meet the soldiers. Then our life started changing, and it wasn’t for the better. First, almost all the products vanished from the stores. Mother complained about it to my father, but he kept silent. The worst things were to come – arrests and exile. The Soviet regime was after wealthy people first, we were safe, because we were not well-off. They were after the activists of the Zionist movement and religious Jews. Father didn’t work as a shochet, he was employed at the railroad department. Sometimes Uncle Joseph came to us in the evening and they were whispering about something. Joseph feared to be arrested even more than my father did. Neither he nor Zirelson were touched, maybe for the lack of time. 

In spring 1941 our family came back to Rezina. Father thought that it would be safer to live here. In the morning of 22nd June 1941 I was in bed, reading a book about Sergey Kirov 17 – by that time I could read in Yiddish and Russian. I was taught by my mother. We lived on the central square of the town. I heard some noise coming from the street. People clustered by the street loud speaker. They were listening to the broadcast very closely. Soon Father came home and broke the news about the commencement of the war. For ten days we lived as if nothing had happened. Some Jews left Rezina, others were on the point of leaving. There were also people, especially survivors from World War I, who were prone to think that Germans would do no harm to Jews. 

At the beginning of July, retreating Soviet troops went along the streets of our town. We were having lunch. My appetite wasn’t very good as it was very humid outside. Somebody knocked on the door. A handsome Jewish lad in the officer’s uniform entered the room. He asked Father to give him a pill for toothache. He went to the next room where Father was. Father rushed from the room in a second. He was really pallid. Father said that we would be leaving at once as Fascists were on their way. Probably the soldier told my father what had happened to the Jews on the occupied territories. It was on the 7th of July. We took off immediately without changing our clothes: my siblings, parents and I. We were at a loss. Mother didn’t even take the documents and the precious things: her and father’s wedding rings. Mother only took some money and Father took tallit and tefillin. When we went outside, a Romanian told my father: ‘Yanku [short for Jacob], where are you taking your caboodle, you won’t make it, let me hide you in my garret.’ But my father only shook his head and we left. 

We walked for a couple of days in the direction of Kishinev. We could feel the panic: the roads were crowded with people, besides they were moving in both directions – from and to Kishinev. Nobody understood where to go, and which road to take. Nobody was told what to do. It was humid and dusty. There was no place to bathe. In a day or two we started to itch, and when I took off my dress I was shocked: I was teeming with lice. I had noticed that it was the same with the others. Those insects always appeared when there was a calamity. 

When we came to Kishinev, the city was on fire. People were panicking and scurrying in all directions. We came to the train station. It was crammed with people, so it was next to impossible for us to take a train. However, luck smiled at us. One of my father’s pals called him. His family was on the open coal carriage. He helped us get there before the train left. We reached Tiraspol and changed the train. The fugitives were put on locomotives, which left for Rostov [today Russia]. Our trip lasted for about two weeks, we went through about 900 kilometers. We tried to get some food and water at the stations. The road was bombed. We were cold and hungry, sitting close to our mother like chickens by the hen. Once, Motle was about to miss the train. We got off the train on one of the stations to fetch water. Father got him on, when the train was starting off. 

In August 1941 we got off the train at the station Belaya Kalitva, not far from Rostov, which was about 1000 kilometers from Kishinev. We were met at the station very ceremoniously and warmly. We were given warm bread with honey, tea and milk. Then they took us to a kolkhoz 18. All evacuated people settled in the houses of the kolkhoznikovs [collective farmers]. We lived in the house of an elderly Cossack 19 and his wife. They treated us very well. We, the children, spent all day long outside in the orchard with apple and pear trees. We ate tasty melons and watermelons. Father and the elder children worked in the kolkhoz. Mother went to the canteen everyday, where she was given warm cooked food and bread. Everyday she brought a full can with food. Then, the cold and rainy fall came. Everyday Father and the host listened to the round-ups on the radio. One November day of the year 1941, the old man told my father that he heard in the news that the front lines were approaching and my father needed to move further to the East. 

And again we went on foot. It was cold. It was sleeting. The roads were crowded by retreating squads of the army and fugitives. On one of the junctions, a handsome Russian officer came to us. I was a pretty little girl at that time. He said to me, ‘My little daughter is wandering on the war roads just the way you are!’ The officer stopped the truck and ordered the driver to take us to Stalingrad. There were fugitives from other cities and districts. They were staying in the fields, and in the stadiums. It was December, but fortunately it wasn’t cold. We were starving. Father bought some rolls, sometimes he managed to get some warm soup. People got lost, and to find each other, they glued the announcements on the fences and on the walls of the stadium. Father wrote such an announcement as well, hoping that he would find somebody from our kin. Mother’s younger brother Suher found us with the help of that announcement. He was mobilized, he was waiting to be dispatched to the front lines. Suher brought a loaf of bread, some canned food and said good-bye to us. 

In about a week we crossed the Volga on a barge. It was horrible as the barge was bombed and people were pushing each other, forcing their way to the barge. We were lucky to get on the barge and stay together. On the opposite bank of the Volga we took a freight car and went to the East. And again we had to starve, being able to find food only at the stations. Sometimes at the substations we boiled potatoes, brought by compassionate local inhabitants. Once, the train was to start off, and Dad grabbed a bucket with under-boiled potatoes, so we had to eat raw and hard potato. Father prayed daily, sitting in the corner of the car and swaying from time to time. There were people of different nationalities in our car, and nobody hurt or offended us in any way. 

It took us six weeks to reach Tashkent [today Uzbekistan], and from there we were taken to the town of Namangan in Ferghana valley [about 3700 km from Kishinev]. For a couple of days we lived in a shed, previously used for fertilizers. There was a hearth in the corner, where women cooked food. There was a sulfur heap next to the fire and we were gasping for air from evaporation of sulfur. Suddenly an earthquake started. People rushed from the sheds half naked and barefoot and cried in panic. When the earthquake was over, the evacuated were brought to kolkhozes. 

We were taken to the kolkhoz Itiphok, which means Union in Uzbek. Houses weren’t heated; there was a hole in the corner of the room where we put cotton waste to warm the premises. My parents and elder sisters gathered cotton, and my brothers and I stayed at home. We were also given some work to do: they brought us unopened cotton bolls for us to work in the shed. Our nutrition wasn’t very good. Each family was given daily one glass of semi-rotten wheat or barley. We made porridge out of it. In spring 1942 Father was taken to the labor front 20

It was a very hard period for us. Mother was hypertonic, and was unwell rather often, she couldn’t work. We were famished. One rich Uzbek offered Mother money under the condition that I would marry him. I was only eight years old. Of course, Mother didn’t agree to that. She sent my brother and me to Kasansay [today Uzbekistan], where the family of Father’s sister Sima lived. Her husband Joseph was working at a tobacco factory as a book-keeper, and her daughters were also working. They lived comfortably, but there wasn’t enough food for everybody. My brother and I were sent to an orphanage, but we were even more hungry there than in the kolkhoz. At that time, Mother received a letter and a package from Father, who worked at a military plant in Chelyabinsk [today Russia]. Mother took us back. Our living was better when Father was sending us money and provision. We weren’t able to receive the money, as the Jewish postman embezzled it. At the end of 1943 Father came back. He demanded money that belonged to him, and he was given it. In evacuation and at the labor front Father observed Jewish traditions. He didn’t work on Saturdays, he worked on Sunday instead. On Friday he lit a candle. On Pesach he sold his bread ration and bought corn flour to make some scones similar to matzah. His comrades respected my father’s religious belief.  

After the war

At the end of 1944 Father took us to Chelyabinsk. We shared the apartment with one Russian woman. Father worked at the plant and when he had spare time he sawed felt boots. Our life was getting better. Then we were struck by sorrow. Late in the evening our neighbor rushed to us, screaming that our father was lying on the railroad. When he was brought home, it turned out that on his way from work, late at night, he was hit by the train and his leg was cut off. Father was in the hospital and came back with a crutch and an empty trouser leg. Father said that God had rescued him taking only one leg, not his life. He became a cobbler, working near the market. Since childhood he was good at it. Thus he made some money and we came back to Namangan. It was warm there. I went to school in Namangan. It was a Russian school and I became an excellent student within a year. Then Aunt Sima sent us an invitation from Kishinev. In August 1946 we came back to Bessarabia.

The city was devastated. We had to walk for a long time and finally we reached the house of one of Sima’s daughters, my cousin Shelya. Mother thought that we would be able to move to some of our relatives but then we understood that we shouldn’t rely on anybody as everybody had their own problems. Father on crutches went to look for lodging in the city. Some Russian lady was very sorry for him when he told her our story. She showed us an empty basement. We moved to the basement. We stayed there until 1956. There were two dark rooms and a corridor, where Mother made a kitchen. We were happy to have a roof over our heads. At that time many families were trying to find a shelter in the basements and sheds. Father remained a cobbler for a short time. There was a shochet in Kishinev, when we returned, but when he left abroad in 1946, Father was offered by the community to take the position of the shochet. Father processed a patent, equipped his working place and became a butcher again. Father worked for many years duly paying all taxes. He regained his footing when he came back to his favorite synagogue and became a chazzan. 

I went to school. After the Uzbek school I was admitted in the fourth grade. I stuck to Jewish traditions having been observed in my family since childhood even after I became a pioneer 21 and Komsomol 22 member. I had to conceal my true religious belief. During the first years of hunger we ate only mamaliga [polenta, crushed cornmeal]. Once I was treated to a tasty roll with a nice smell. It was during Pesach, I didn’t eat that roll and hid it under the bed. Of course, I had to throw it away as it got moldy. I remember once on Friday night my Ukrainian friend knocked on my door. She was a real Soviet person. Her father was the Deputy Minister of Foreign Affairs. The candles were lit in our apartment and I didn’t want to let Larissa in. She was persistent, so I had to open the door. She was surprised to see that our electric lamps were switched off and candles were lit. I said that our fuses had burned out, and when she told me to repair them, I said that only adults could do that. I don’t know whether Larissa guessed that we were celebrating Sabbath. She never even made a hint. I was friends with Larissa for many years. Both of us were sobbing when Stalin died [1953]. My parents were laughing at us. I think that at that time they understood that the great leader was responsible for all our tribulations. 

I finished school with the golden medal [with highest level of honors] and was supposed to enter the institute without taking exams [pupils that graduated with golden or silver medals had the right to enter the university only by passing entrance interview 23. That was the first time when I came across anti-Semitism. I applied for the Chemistry Department of Kishinev University. The dean said that I was supposed to take exams, because it wasn’t known where I was during the war and how I got my certificate. The director of my school, a Russian lady, stood up for me. She came to the dean and made him get me accepted the way it was supposed to be: without the entrance exams. I was a good student at university. I didn’t feel any inequality there, the atmosphere was rather pleasant. In those years Father was able to save some money and in 1956 he purchased a two-room apartment. In the end, we moved out of the basement. I got my diploma with distinction, which meant that I might expect the best positions after the mandatory job assignment 24. As a rule Jews didn’t get good jobs. I was sent to the city of Chernovtsi [today Ukraine] to teach chemistry. My parents didn’t want to let me go and Father found a way out with the help of his pal. He gave a bribe and I got a job at the chemical laboratory of the jewelry plant. It was my first job.

In 1958 I met a Jewish lad, Boris Belfor. We began to date and fell in love with each other. Boris introduced me to his parents and proposed to me. His father, Abram Belfor, born in a town close to Lvov [today Ukraine], moved to Bessarabia before the revolution [Civil War of 1917-18]. He was a hatter ‘s apprentice. He was married to a Jewish girl, Mintsa. Boris, the fifth baby in the family, was born Kishinev in 1932. The family of Abram and Mintsa wasn’t religious, but their children adhered to Zionist ideas. The eldest, Alexander [Jewish name Ziska], a convinced Zionist, left for Palestine at the age of 18. He lived in a kibbutz, where only Bessarabian Jews were. Alexander became a respectable man, got married. His death was tragic: he drowned in the sea in 1959. 

My fiance’s sister Broha Belfor joined an underground Zionist group [which wasn’t an organization; the Jewish youth just got together to talk about Israel, read Jewish literature, discuss the prospects of life in Israel], after coming back from the evacuation in Central Asia, where she was with her parents and younger brother. Broha, along with fifteen other women was arrested in 1950. She was sentenced to 15 years imprisonment and was released from prison only after Stalin’s death, in 1956. Broha got married and left for Israel. Now Broha Basman lives in Israel. Boris’s elder brother Nusim perished in Königsberg [today Kaliningrad in Russia]. His second brother Moishe lived in Kishinev. He was a common worker.

By the time of our acquaintance Boris had served the full term in the army, which was two years at that time, and graduated from the Lvov Polygraphist College. He was an extramural student of the Ukrainian Polygraphic Institute. In 1958 we got married. In spite of the fact that we both were Komsomol members, we had a traditional Jewish wedding. A chuppah was placed in the yard of Uncle Joseph Epelbaum. The rite was carried out by him. Then the crystal goblet was broken, Klezmer music was played. All our relatives and friends had fun.

By that time my sisters Rahil and Bluma were already married. They married the Gershengolts brothers. Bluma’s husband Motle worked as a salesman in Kotovsk [former Khynchenshtch]. Bluma worked as an outworker knitter. She died in 1988. Her son Vladimir lives in Kishinev, and her second son, Boris, lives in Israel. 

Rahil’s husband Mehl Gershengolts was also involved in commerce. He built a nice private house in Kishinev where he lived with his wife and daughters – Sonya, and Edit. Rahil died rather young, in 1968. Her husband and children left for Israel. The daughters are currently residing there.

My eldest brother Motle worked as a foreman after finishing vocational school. He also immigrated to Israel with his family –wife Sofia, children Anna and Yuri. Motle died at the beginning of the 1990s. His children are currently residing in Israel. My younger brother Haim was involved in commerce after finishing school. He got married and immigrated to Israel in 1990 with his wife and daughters. He and his daughter Irina are currently living in Israel. 

In 1958, after our wedding we moved to Rahil’s house. We were given a separate room there. In 1959 I gave birth to a girl. Our daughter was given thename Zinaida, after the recently perished brother of my husband, Zinka. We got an apartment in a couple of years. We still live in this apartment. We had a good life. My husband worked as a chief engineer of the large typography house. Soon I went to work there as a chemistry expert-production engineer. We made pretty good money and we had a lot of friends at work. We celebrated Soviet holidays together, took part in festive demonstrations in spite of the fact that the Jewish traditions ands holidays were a major priority to us. 

I cannot say that we had a luxurious life, we didn’t have a car or dacha 25, but we had enough money for food and recreation. Almost every year we went to the seaside spas. We also went to the theaters, cinemas. Sometimes, we went to the restaurants with friends. We enjoyed reading. We had a full-fledged life. I went on business trips to large cities rather often. I went sightseeing there, attended museums and theaters. Our daughter was nurtured in kindness and care. My mother helped me raise a good daughter, a true Jewish lady, who observes traditions. 

My parents lived in the same two-room apartment, purchased by my father. In 1975 Mother passed away. Father died in 1983, eight years after mother’s death. They were buried in the Jewish part of the cemetery in compliance with the Jewish rites and traditions. Unfortunately, Uncle Joseph, who carried out all the Jewish traditions in the family, didn’t conduct the funeral rites, as he died in 1961.

Zinaida finished school, then the Economics Faculty of the Agricultural Institute. She was married to a Jew called Vadim Donets. They lived together for many years. In 1983 my granddaughter Marina was born. My daughter fell in love with an Israeli citizen and divorced her husband, when her daughter came of age so she could understand her. Zinaida left for Israel a year and a half ago. She has a happy marriage. She lives in Haifa. Marina lives in Kishinev with her father. She entered the university. Marina came to Zinaida for a visit. 

I am suffering because of the collapse of my daughter’s family, though I shouldn’t. Everybody is free to choose his own fate. I regret not leaving for Israel, when our relatives and acquaintances were leaving. We were afraid that we wouldn’t be able to find a job. Besides, we had a good life in Kishinev. Now we go to Israel on a frequent basis. We are considering immigrating to Israel.

We have always observed Jewish traditions: lighting Sabbath candles and celebrating all holidays. The synagogue was always open in Kishinev and Jewish traditions never ceased. Now after the breakup of the Soviet Union, independent Moldova created conditions for national revival making Jewish life more active. We are community and Hesed members 26. We attend different events, Jewish performances, read Jewish newspapers. Along with other community members we come to the monument of Holocaust victims, built at the place of the shooting of Kishinev Jews. Grandfather Ihil and his wife Reizl died there as well. One of the positive things brought by perestroika 27 is the revival of Jewish life. But it is not enough. I am missing the huge Soviet Union, where I could go to any city with historic sites, where I felt needed by people, where I could meet my friends. Now I am not needed by anybody, but my husband. Maybe I am just getting old.

Glossary:

1 Hasidism (Hasidic)

Jewish mystic movement founded in the 18th century that reacted against Talmudic learning and maintained that God’s presence was in all of one’s surroundings and that one should serve God in one’s every deed and word. The movement provided spiritual hope and uplifted the common people. There were large branches of Hasidic movements and schools throughout Eastern Europe before World War II, each following the teachings of famous scholars and thinkers. Most had their own customs, rituals and life styles. Today there are substantial Hasidic communities in New York, London, Israel and Antwerp.

2 Bessarabia

Historical area between the Prut and Dniestr rivers, in the southern part of Odessa region. Bessarabia was part of Russia until the Revolution of 1917. In 1918 it declared itself an independent republic, and later it united with Romania. The Treaty of Paris (1920) recognized the union but the Soviet Union never accepted this. In 1940 Romania was forced to cede Bessarabia and Northern Bukovina to the USSR. The two provinces had almost 4 million inhabitants, mostly Romanians. Although Romania reoccupied part of the territory during World War II the Romanian peace treaty of 1947 confirmed their belonging to the Soviet Union. Today it is part of Moldova.

3 Kishinev Ghetto

The annihilation of the Jews of Kishinev was carried out in several stages. With the entry of the Romanian and German units, an unknown number of Jews were slaughtered in the streets and in their homes. About 2,000 Jews, mainly of liberal professions (doctors, lawyers, engineers), and local Jewish intellectuals, were systematically executed. After the wave of killings, the 11,000 remaining Jews were concentrated in the ghetto, created on 24th July 1941, on the order of the Romanian district ruler and the German Einsatzkommando leader, Paul Zapp. The Jews of central Romania attempted to assist their brethren in the ghetto, sending large amounts of money by illegal means. A committee was formed to bribe the Romanian authorities so that they would not hand the Jews over to the Germans. In August about 7,500 Jewish people were sent to work in the Ghidighici quarries. That fall, on the Day of Atonement (4th October), the military authorities began deporting the remaining Jews in the ghetto to Transnistria, by order of the Romanian ruler, Ion Antonescu. One of the heads of the ghetto, the attorney Shapira, managed to alert the leaders of the Jewish communities in Bucharest, but attempts to halt the deportations were unsuccessful. The community was not completely liquidated, however, since some Jews had found hiding places in Kishinev and its vicinity or elsewhere in Romania. In May 1942, the last 200 Jews in the locality were deported. Kishinev was liberated in August 1944. At that time no Jews were left in the locality.

4 Civil War (1918-1920)

The Civil War between the Reds (the Bolsheviks) and the Whites (the anti-Bolsheviks), which broke out in early 1918, ravaged Russia until 1920. The Whites represented all shades of anti-communist groups – Russian army units from World War I, led by anti-Bolshevik officers, by anti-Bolshevik volunteers and some Mensheviks and Social Revolutionaries. Several of their leaders favored setting up a military dictatorship, but few were outspoken tsarists. Atrocities were committed throughout the Civil War by both sides. The Civil War ended with Bolshevik military victory, thanks to the lack of cooperation among the various White commanders and to the reorganization of the Red forces after Trotsky became commissar for war. It was won, however, only at the price of immense sacrifice; by 1920 Russia was ruined and devastated. In 1920 industrial production was reduced to 14 percent and agriculture to 50 percent as compared to 1913.

5 Annexation of Bessarabia to the Soviet Union

At the end of June 1940 the Soviet Union demanded Romania to withdraw its troops from Bessarabia and to abandon the territory. Romania withdrew its troops and administration in the same month and between 28th June and 3rd July, the Soviets occupied the region. At the same time Romania was obliged to give up Northern Transylvania to Hungary and Southern-Dobrudja to Bulgaria. These territorial losses influenced Romanian politics during World War II to a great extent.

6 Keep in touch with relatives abroad

The authorities could arrest an individual corresponding with his/her relatives abroad and charge him/her with espionage, send them to concentration camp or even sentence them to death.

7 Great Patriotic War

On 22nd June 1941 at 5 o’clock in the morning Nazi Germany attacked the Soviet Union without declaring war. This was the beginning of the so-called Great Patriotic War. The German blitzkrieg, known as Operation Barbarossa, nearly succeeded in breaking the Soviet Union in the months that followed. Caught unprepared, the Soviet forces lost whole armies and vast quantities of equipment to the German onslaught in the first weeks of the war. By November 1941 the German army had seized the Ukrainian Republic, besieged Leningrad, the Soviet Union's second largest city, and threatened Moscow itself. The war ended for the Soviet Union on 9th May 1945.

8 Moldova

Historic region between the Eastern Carpathians, the Dniester River and the Black Sea, also a contemporary state, bordering with Romania and Ukraine. Moldova was first mentioned after the end of the Mongol invasion in 14th century scripts as Eastern marquisate of the Hungarian Kingdom. For a long time, the Principality of Moldova was tributary of either Poland or Hungary until the Ottoman Empire took possession of it in 1512. The Sultans ruled Moldova indirectly by appointing the Prince of Moldova to govern the vassal principality. These were Moldovan boyars until the early 18th century and Greek (Phanariot) ones after. In 1812 Tsar Alexander I occupied the eastern part of Moldova (between the Prut and the Dniester river and the Black Sea) and attached it to its Empire under the name of Bessarabia. In 1859 the remaining part of Moldova merged with Wallachia. In 1862 the new country was called Romania, which was finally internationally recognized at the Treaty of Berlin in 1878. Bessarabia united with Romania after World War I, and was recaptured by the Soviet Union in 1940. The Moldovan Soviet Socialist Republic gained independence after the break up of the Soviet Union in 1991 and is now called Moldovan Republic (Republica Moldova).

9 Russian stove

Big stone stove stoked with wood. They were usually built in a corner of the kitchen and served to heat the house and cook food. It had a bench that made a comfortable bed for children and adults in wintertime.

10 Tsimes

Stew made usually of carrots, parsnips, or plums with potatoes.

11 Tarbut schools

Elementary, secondary and technical schools maintained by the Hebrew educational and cultural organization called Tarbut. Most Eastern European countries had such schools between the two world wars but there were especially many in Poland. The language of instruction was Hebrew and the education was Zionist oriented.

12 Great Terror (1934-1938)

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

13 Cuza, Alexandru Ioan (1820-1870)

The election in 1859 of Alexandru Joan Cuza as prince of both Moldova and Walachia prepared the way for the official union (1861-62) of the two principalities as Romania. Cuza freed in 1864 the peasants from certain servile obligations and distributed some land – confiscated from religious orders – to them. However, he was despotic and corrupt and was deposed by a coup in 1866. Carol I of the house of Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen was chosen as his successor.

14 Cuzist

Member of the Romanian Fascist organization named after Alexandru C. Cuza, one of the most fervent Fascist leaders in Romania, who was known for his ruthless chauvinism and anti-Semitism. In 1919 Cuza founded the LANC, which became the National Christian Party in 1935 with an anti-Semitic program.

15 Legion of the Archangel Michael (also known as the Legionary Movement)

Movement founded in 1927 by C. Z. Codreanu. This extremist, nationalist, anti-Semitic and xenophobic movement aimed at excluding those whose views on political and racial matters were different from theirs. The Legion was organized in so-called nests, and it practiced mystical rituals, which were regarded as the way to a national spiritual regeneration by the members of the movement. These rituals were based on Romanian folklore and historical traditions. The Legionaries founded the Iron Guard as a terror organization, which carried out terrorist activities and political murders. The political twin of the Legionary Movement was the Totul pentru Tara (Everything for the Fatherland) that represented the movement in parliamentary elections. The followers of the Legionary Movement were recruited from young intellectuals, students, Orthodox clerics, peasants. The movement was banned by King Carol II in 1938.

16 Kishinev pogrom of 1903

On 6-7th April, during the Christian Orthodox Easter, there was severe pogrom in Kishinev (today Chisinau, Moldova) and its suburbs, in which about 50 Jews were killed and hundreds injured. Jewish shops were destroyed and many people left homeless. The pogrom became a watershed in the history of the Jews of the Pale of Settlement and the Zionist movement, not only because of its scale, but also due to the reaction of the authorities, who either could not or did not want to stop the pogromists. The pogrom reverbarated in the Jewish world and spurred many future Zionists to join the movement.

17 Kirov, Sergey (born Kostrikov) (1886-1934)

Soviet communist. He joined the Russian Social Democratic Party in 1904. During the Revolution of 1905 he was arrested; after his release he joined the Bolsheviks and was arrested several more times for revolutionary activity. He occupied high positions in the hierarchy of the Communist Party. He was a member of the Central Committee of the Communist Party, as well as of the Political Bureau of the Central Committee. He was a loyal supporter of Stalin. In 1934 Kirov's popularity had increased and Stalin showed signs of mistrust. In December of that year Kirov was assassinated by a younger party member. It is believed that Stalin ordered the murder, but it has never been proven.

18 Collective farm (in Russian kolkhoz)

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

19 Cossacks

an ethnic group that constituted something of a free estate in the 15th-17th centuries in the Polish Republic and in the 16th-18th centuries in the Muscovite state (and then Russia). The Cossacks in the Polish Republic consisted of peasants, townspeople and nobles settled along the banks of the Lower Dnieper, where they organized armed detachments initially to defend themselves against the Tatar invasions and later themselves making forays against the Tatars and the Turks. As part of the armed forces, the Cossacks played an important role in Russia’s imperial wars in the 17th-20th centuries. From the 19th century onwards, Cossack troops were also used to suppress uprisings and independence movements. During the February and October Revolutions in 1917 and the Russian Civil War, some of the Cossacks (under Kaledin, Dutov and Semyonov) supported the Provisional Government, and as the core of the Volunteer Army bore the brunt of the fighting with the Red Army, while others went over to the Bolshevik side (Budenny). In 1920 the Soviet authorities disbanded all Cossack formations, and from 1925 onwards set about liquidating the Cossack identity. In 1936 Cossacks were permitted to join the Red Army, and some Cossack divisions fought under its banner in World War II. Some Cossacks served in formations collaborating with the Germans and in 1945 were handed over to the authorities of the USSR by the Western Allies. 

19 Labor army

it was made up of men of call-up age not trusted to carry firearms by the Soviet authorities. Such people were those living on the territories annexed by the USSR in 1940 (Eastern Poland, the Baltic States, parts of Karelia, Bessarabia and northern Bukovina) as well as ethnic Germans living in the Soviet Union proper. The labor army was employed for carrying out tough work, in the woods or in mines. During the first winter of the war, 30 percent of those drafted into the labor army died of starvation and hard work. The number of people in the labor army decreased sharply when the larger part of its contingent was transferred to the national Estonian, Latvian, and Lithuanian Corps, created at the beginning of 1942. The remaining labor detachments were maintained up until the end of the war.

20 All-Union pioneer organization

a communist organization for teenagers between 10 and 15 years old (cf: boy-/ girlscouts in the US). The organization aimed at educating the young generation in accordance with the communist ideals, preparing pioneers to become members of the Komsomol and later the Communist Party. In the Soviet Union, all teenagers were pioneers.

21 Komsomol

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

22 Entrance interview

graduates of secondary schools awarded silver or gold medals (cf: graduates with honors in the U.S.) were released from standard oral or written entrance exams to the university and could be admitted on the basis of a semi-formal interview with the admission committee. This system exists in state universities in Russia and most of the successor states up to this day.

23 Mandatory job assignment in the USSR

Graduates of higher educational institutions had to complete a mandatory two-year job assignment issued by the institution from which they graduated. After finishing this assignment young people were allowed to get employment at their discretion in any town or organization.

24 Dacha

country house, consisting of small huts and little plots of lands. The Soviet authorities came to the decision to allow this activity to the Soviet people to support themselves. The majority of urban citizens grow vegetables and fruit in their small gardens to make preserves for winter.

25 Hesed

Meaning care and mercy in Hebrew, Hesed stands for the charity organization founded by Amos Avgar in the early 20th century. Supported by Claims Conference and Joint Hesed helps for Jews in need to have a decent life despite hard economic conditions and encourages development of their self-identity. Hesed provides a number of services aimed at supporting the needs of all, and particularly elderly members of the society. The major social services include: work in the center facilities (information, advertisement of the center activities, foreign ties and free lease of medical equipment); services at homes (care and help at home, food products delivery, delivery of hot meals, minor repairs); work in the community (clubs, meals together, day-time polyclinic, medical and legal consultations); service for volunteers (training programs). The Hesed centers have inspired a real revolution in the Jewish life in the Former Soviet Union countries. People have seen and sensed the rebirth of the Jewish traditions of humanism. Currently over eighty Hesed centers exist in the FSU countries. Their activities cover the Jewish population of over eight hundred settlements.

26 Perestroika (Russian for restructuring)

Soviet economic and social policy of the late 1980s, associated with the name of Soviet politician Mikhail Gorbachev. The term designated the attempts to transform the stagnant, inefficient command economy of the Soviet Union into a decentralized, market-oriented economy. Industrial managers and local government and party officials were granted greater autonomy, and open elections were introduced in an attempt to democratize the Communist Party organization. By 1991, perestroika was declining and was soon eclipsed by the dissolution of the USSR.
 

Dan Mizrahy

Dan Mizrahy
Bucharest
Romania
Interviewer: Anca Ciuciu
Date of interview: May 2005

Dan Mizrahy is a 79-year-old man with a lofty stature and a calm, deep voice. He lives in the house where he was born, which is surrounded by verdure and filled with childhood memories. His study, a bright, large room full of books and posters of his performances, is dominated by the piano. Mr. Mizrahy is a pianist, a teacher, a composer, a member of the Union of the Romanian Composers and Musicologists. Since 1946, he gave numerous recitals and concerts as a soloist of the local philharmonics, playing Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, Tchaikovsky, Prokofiev, and Gershwin. He went on tours to Italy, the US, and Israel. A promoter of Gershwin, he was the first to introduce the entire work of the American composer to the Romanian public; in 2002, the ‘Electrecord’ Recording Company launched a double CD featuring his performance of Gershwin. As a teacher, he was a founding member of the first secondary music school in the country (today, the ‘Dinu Lipatti’ High School in Bucharest), he taught at the People’s School of Performing Arts (1960-1999), and he was an associated professor at the National Music University in Bucharest (2000). He mainly composed vocal music (lieder, romances, light music, chorals); most of his works were recorded by the National Radio Broadcasting Company. He received many awards and honors for his activity. He wrote an autobiographical book entitled ‘That’s How It Was’, which is due to be published by the Hasefer Publishing Company in the fall of 2005. The following pages comprise edited excerpts from this book and some other fragments that were added after the interview.

My family history
Growing up
In Palestine
After the war
Glossary

My family history

My paternal grandfather, Avram Mizrahy, was born in 1864 it seems, in Varna [Bulgaria] and came to Bucharest when he was a child. I think he had a sister, Mazal [Hebrew for ‘luck’]. He owned a small clockmaker’s shop on Carol Street. The shop may have been small, but the sign was big, visible from a distance: ‘A. Mizrahy – house founded in 1884’! My paternal grandmother, Lucia Sara Mizrahy [nee Rubinstein], was born in 1873 in Bucharest. I met one of her brothers, Moritz Rubinstein, and one of her sisters, Rosa Olivenbaum [nee Rubinstein]; they both lived in Bucharest in the 1930s.

The Mizrahy grandparents had their ‘quarters’ on Banu Maracine Street [formerly known as Spanish Street, because many of the residents were Spanish Jews – at that time, there were several thousands of them]. My grandfather still spoke Ladino, but the language spoken in their house was Romanian – without foreign accents, even without inflections. All his five children – Moscu Mizrahy [my father, the eldest], Leon Mizrachi [the only one whose name had a different spelling, because of a transcription error that occurred in the official papers], Suzette Aronescu [nee Mizrahy], Carola Rosman [nee Mizrahy], and Solomon Mizrahy – spoke the literary Romanian fluently. It was in these ‘quarters’ that my father grew up together with his two brothers and two sisters. Both my father’s sisters lived on Banu Maracine Street, on neighboring plots, with a common courtyard. My paternal grandmother died in 1935, and my paternal grandfather in 1940. They were both buried at Bucharest’s Belu cemetery, in the Spanish section.

Leon [pet name Nicu] Mizrachi was born in 1899 in Bucharest. Until he left the country, in 1941, he was a lawyer and the president of the Zionist associations in Romania. I was very close to him. I was still in my early childhood, but I remember he often came to our place; he loved me and brought me presents. He was the one who gave me my first fountain pen with a golden nib and my first alarm clock. It so happened that I immigrated to Palestine at the same time with him and his family. Between 1941 and 1945 I visited him on a regular basis, first in Haifa, where he had built a house, then in Tel Aviv, where he tried to get in business with a diamond polishing workshop. He couldn’t practice law, because he didn’t manage to learn to express himself in Ivrit in such a manner that he could plead in front of an Israeli court. This hurt him. He had a very well shaped personality, his intelligence was doubled by a solid culture, and he was a sentimental nature.

He and his wife, Paulina Mizrachi [nee Hurtig] had four children, who were born at relatively big distances one from another: Emanuel, the Theodor and Angelo twins, and then Daniela. Emanuel Mizrachi [known as Bar Kadmah in Israel] was born in 1932 in Bucharest. He worked as a theater reviewer for many years; he also painted, becoming a well-known modern painter in Israel. He never got married. The Theodor and Angelo Mizrachi twins [known as Zvi and Schmuel, respectively in Israel] were born in 1939 in Bucharest. They were one year and a half when they left the country. Sadly, Angelo caught poliomyelitis in 1947 and passed away at the age of eight. Theodor embraced the kibbutz idea. He has three children, two boys and a girl. Daniela Grunberg [nee Mizrachi] was born in Israel in 1946. She had an impressive career, reaching the top management of the company in charge with the irrigations in Israel. She has three wonderful children, two boys and a girl. My uncle, Leon Mizrachi, died in 1967 in Tel Aviv. His wife died in the early 1990s [in 1994]. Their children love one another deeply and they keep a very nice tradition: every Friday night they get together at Daniela’s or Zvi’s.

Suzette Aronescu [nee Mizrahy] was born in 1901 in Bucharest. She married Felix Aronescu, with whom she had a boy, Mihai Aronescu, born in 1930. Suzette lived at 41 Banu Maracine Street, next to my grandparents. She got divorced in the 1940s and immigrated to Israel in 1950. Mihai Aronescu [changed his surname to Amit in Israel] became an anesthesiologist. He has a 35-year-old daughter, Leora, from his first marriage. Aunt Suzette died in the late 1970s in Holon.

Carola Rosman [nee Mizrahy] was born in 1906 in Bucharest. She married Iancu Rosman and the two of them had two boys: Dan and Lucian Rosman. My aunt was an exemplary housewife who loved to have guests; her stuffed fish was exquisite and all her meals were delicious and abundant. She lived at 43 Banu Maracine Street, between the two Spanish temples. For as long as I was a child, we all went to her place after the [Yom] Kippur fast was over, and she welcomed us with the traditional teaspoonful of preserves. The house she received as dowry, and where she lived until 1951, when she made aliyah with her husband and children, was nationalized. Her son, Dan Rosman, was born in 1932 in Bucharest. He didn’t go to college and worked in an Israeli bank as a clerk until his retirement. He died in Israel in 1998. The other son, Lucian Rosman [known as Ramon in Israel], was born in 1937 in Bucharest and had a glittering university career as a chemical engineer. He worked a lot as a researcher at the University of Jerusalem and he also had contracts in the US, Spain and South Korea. For over 50 years, his permanent residence has been the Sarid kibbutz, which he joined in his early youth. He is married and has three children, two boys and a girl. Carola Rosman died in Israel in the early 1980s. Her husband had passed away earlier, in the second half of the 1970s.

Solomon [pet name Soly] Mizrahy, the youngest brother, was born in 1909 in Bucharest. He was a chemical engineer, just like his wife, Odette Mizrahy [nee Steinbach], who became a PhD in chemistry in Israel. They immigrated to Palestine in 1944. Their only child, Alma Gal [nee Mizrahy], was born in 1946. Solomon was a Zionist and worked a lot for the Sohnut 1, being in charge of the integration of the newcomers to Israel. In this quality, he used to be sent abroad, to South America and Europe. He was the most religious of the Mizrahy brothers, he took a very active part in the religious life, but he never covered his head. I remember him at the tomb of my parents, in 1976, soon after my mother’s death; he didn’t let us hire someone, but read the prayers himself. He lived in Tel Aviv, but died in Jerusalem in 1979, while he was visiting his daughter. She became a PhD in chemistry and worked for the Hebrew University in Jerusalem. She has two boys. She also had a daughter, but she died of leukemia at the age of five. Alma died of leukemia in Jerusalem in 1998. Odette Mizrahy [nee Steinbach] died of cancer in Tel Aviv in March 1998, six weeks after she buried her daughter.

My father, Moscu [pet name Bubi] Mizrahy, was born on 12th April 1897 in Bucharest. He was what they call a ‘self-made man.’ He went to the Evangelic School, then to the Commerce Academy in Bucharest. Right after he graduated from the former, he started to provide for himself by doing bookkeeping for various employers; he did this all the way through college. In 1924 he was hired as a clerk by a company owned by a very rich family, Marcus Pincas & Co. In just a few years, through hard work and competence, he made it to the top. Over the years, his career developed further: authorized accountant, expert accountant, and PhD in economics in 1935. After more than 20 years, my father changed his employment; he was appointed manager at IRCO [Romanian Crystals and Mirrors Industry] and delegated administrator of the administration board of the Scaeni Windows Factory [located in Scaeni, near Ploiesti].

He was drafted at the end of World War I, went to an officers’ school, and graduated as a second lieutenant. After a call-up in 1927, he was promoted to lieutenant. There were some more call-ups in 1939, to Sibiu and Lipova [Arad County] – he was with the 5th Heavy Artillery Regiment. He remained in the army until 15th August 1940, when Jews were kicked out from the armed forces.

My father observed the main holidays of the Hebrew calendar, fasted once a year, on Yom Kippur, didn’t eat bread during the eight days of Pesach, and, if he came back from work in time to catch the Friday night service, he went to the temple and read from the prayer book alongside the others. He wasn’t devout, but had had a religious education. I have his old prayer books, where he thoroughly marked over the years the time of the Kol Nidre prayer, the time of the shofar, and the time when the service ended. I carry on this tradition and I mark the times when the services begin and end.

My maternal grandfather, David Schonfeld, was born in 1851 in Iasi. He came to Bucharest after the death of his first wife. He worked for over 30 years as the manager of the Filantropia Jewish cemetery in Bucharest. He spoke Romanian and I think he also spoke Yiddish. He died in 1928, when I was two years old. My grandmother survived him by another 27 years.

My maternal grandmother, Rachel Schonfeld [nee Friedman], was born in 1865, during the reign of Cuza 2, in Bucharest. She witnessed the instauration of the monarchy, she lived under the rule of all the four kings and she even had the ‘luck’ to catch the beginnings of the ‘people’s rule.’ As a young lady, she – and other girls from ‘respectable families’ – had the privilege to collect money for the erection of the Romanian Athenaeum, standing in the Cismigiu Garden, with a basket of flowers in her hand: ‘Donate one leu, just one leu, for the stately Athenaeum!’ She was a contemporary and a friend of Marioara Ventura [Editor’s note: Marioara Ventura (1886-1954): Romanian actress, famous at the beginning of the 20th century, member of the Comedie Francaise]. She had also met her mother. Stimulated by her entourage, she studied drama and the piano. I remember her as a short, neat, stylish old woman with a bright face who worked hard – a mistress of crochet, among other things; this is how she remained until the very last day of her life. She died at the age of 89. Endowed with an uncommon memory, she used to recite to us poems by Eminescu 3 with an amazing freshness.

I remember her on the day of 23rd February 1954, when she entered her 90th year, in the sounds of a waltz played by yours truly at the piano. Omama [German for granny] danced with my brother-in-law. Four weeks later, we accompanied her on her last journey. As she departed, she took with her an entire era.

My maternal grandfather had two older children from his first marriage: Iosef Schonfeld and Lisa Zilberman [nee Schonfeld]. Iosef Schonfeld was a hatter and owned a fashion design house in Bucharest, on Lipscani Street [Bucharest’s commercial center]. Lisa Zilberman [nee Schonfeld] became a widow during World War I and was left with several children – I think three girls and a boy.

It was in the small house at the entrance of the Filantropia cemetery that my grandparents’ three daughters were born and raised: Mina, Henriette, and Annie Schonfeld went to the ‘Moteanu’ boarding school, where they were taught to treasure the value of money and to earn their existence. They all worked as clerks until they got married.

Mina Solomon [nee Schonfeld] was born in Bucharest in 1896. She worked as a clerk until she married Moritz Ticu Solomon. He fought and was wounded in World War I. He became a sergeant in the Romanian Army. He was a self-made man, an oil man who had a small refinery at the entrance of the town of Ploiesti. He built himself a four-floor apartment house, with two apartments per each floor, in Bucharest, on Sfintilor Street. They were the only ones in the family who had a car and a chauffeur. In the early 1930s they had a Daimler, then a Marmon; I had never heard of this make before and I never heard of it again, but I remember the license plate: 676 B. The ties between the three sisters were very strong. In particular, my mother and Mina were extremely close and this is how they remained until the end of their lives. Marian Solomon, my cousin, was born in 1921 in Bucharest. He left on a small boat to Palestine in 1942 and spent six months in Izmir [Turkey], until the British let him stay in Cyprus, in 1943. After one year and a half he got to Palestine. He never returned to Romania. He went to the Polytechnic in Beirut [Lebanon], spent a few years in France, and then he settled in Australia, in Sydney, where he became the general manager of some factory. He had two children, a boy, Alan, and a girl, Nathalie. The boy was a sort of young genius of the family; he was Australia’s chess champion at the age of 13. In his turn, he has a son, who has recently chosen to become a policeman. My cousin Marian died of leukemia in Sydney in 1980. Mina Solomon died in Tel Aviv in 1986.

Annie Nutzy Segalescu [nee Schonfeld] was born in 1900 in Bucharest. She was the most religious of the sisters, but she had her limits; she didn’t wear a wig. She married Eugen Segalescu, with whom she had a son, Gabriel Segalescu, born in 1926 in Bucharest, seven weeks after I was born. She got divorced in 1939 and remarried.  She immigrated to France and died in Paris in 1982. Gabriel Segalescu left the country in 1961. When he got the French citizenship, his name became Segard.

My mother, Henriette Mizrahy [nee Schonfeld], was born in 1898 in Bucharest. From the moment I could understand and judge, I realized that the day of 29th March – my mother’s birthday – was a holiday in our home. The house was filled with flowers, the phone didn’t cease to ring, and, in the evening, when all preparations had been finished, the family gathered with some couples of friends who were as close to my parents as their brothers and sisters. As for the presents, they were my father’s ‘job.’ I remember the ‘bestowment’ of such a gift, I think this was in 1936 or 1937: In my parents’ bedroom, in front of me, and maybe my sister Mira, my father presents my mother a nicely wrapped small package. She opens it and reveals a red-blue box of ‘Shalimar’ perfume. Delighted, my mother kisses my father and thanks him. He urges her to open the box and try the perfume. On doing that, my mother lifts the top that covered the bottle, which causes an object wrapped in paper to fall on the floor. We rush to pick it up, my mother unwraps it and we are all speechless! My mother is holding the most beautiful brooch that we have ever seen!

Our family’s standard of living was the normal one for an intellectual who worked as a higher clerk and supported a wife and two children. We employed one or two maids, usually from Transylvania 4, and we also had a governess for a while – until we were seven or eight. As far as our education is concerned, I can say that no resources were spared in order for us to get the best schools and the best teachers. There were no extravagances though! Our parents didn’t take the taxi, and neither did we, obviously. Moreover, when my father’s streetcar pass expired, he would ride in 2nd class; I remember the ticket cost 4 lei, as opposed to the 1st class ticket, which was 5 lei. I’m pushing the limits of my memory in order to be able to recall one single vacation spent with my father in the 1930s, but I’m afraid I fail. When we were small children, my mother would first take us on vacation to the seaside [at the Black Sea] for a month, then to the mountains for another month – usually to Predeal or Timisul de Sus [mountain resorts in Brasov County]. We stayed at the Excelsior boarding house, later known as Savoy. It belonged to the Pincas Company and my father got a discount, of course.

My parents got married on 31st October 1920. The religious ceremony took place in the fashion design shop of my mother’s step-brother, Iosef Schonfeld. The blizzard was so strong, that carriages couldn’t enter Lipscani Street. After having lived for three years in rented rooms, my parents, who both worked as clerks, were able to build the house where I was later born; they paid installments to the ‘Cheap Housing Society.’ When they moved in, my sister was three months. The house was furnished with the best taste: the living room, with two comfortable armchairs and six chairs with identical upholstery, the ‘Aubisson’ corner, the floor lamp, the splendid bronze chandelier with twelve arms, matching the two bracket lamps of the same material, which guarded the fireplace. The right-hand rooms were turned into one single room when the house was renovated in 1935. The side towards the street sheltered my father’s desk with the adjoining armchair and a superb bookshelf with crystal doors; the side towards the courtyard had the oak dining room set, with an extendable table for 24 people relying on two massive, sculptured legs, a huge sideboard that covered an entire wall, a buffet next to another wall, and, finally, a wonderful crystal cabinet placed in a niche that had been specially added when the house was renovated. The window was made of crystal poured over a drawing inspired by Strauss’ ‘Wein, Weib und Gesang’ waltz [German for ‘Wine, women and song’], picturing an elegant lady with a hat sitting at a table in front of a glass cup, with a saxophonist standing next to her. An electrical installation used to illuminate this crystal with a light bulb placed between the exterior window and the crystal.

My sister, Mira Cotin [nee Mizrahy], was born in 1923 in Bucharest. She was a quiet child and a pupil loved and respected by her schoolmates. She had the misfortune of being ‘forced’ to take piano lessons at the same time with me; the main reason why my parents did that was not because they wanted to secure her musical education, but because they didn’t want to give her an inferiority complex. It took seven years of nightmare until our dear parents could be persuaded that Mira and music had nothing in common!

I did something blamable the day my sister celebrated her 17th birthday! I wasn’t invited to the ‘tea party’ given that afternoon and the fact that I was only 14, while she had the ‘nerve’ of being 17 gave me such an ‘inferiority complex’… So I prepared a vial of sulphydric acid whose formula I had just learnt in school with the excellent chemistry teacher Voitinovici, opened all the doors between the laundry room, where I had improvised my little laboratory, and the rest of the house, and went to the skating rink, as it was Saturday… In the evening, when I came back home, my sister was crying because I had ruined her ‘tea party.’ My parents shut down my laboratory, ‘sealed off’ my skates, but the smell still persisted in our house… Except for this bad ‘prank,’ I don’t remember any other incident with my sister during our entire childhood.

In college, my sister kept on being a good student and she became a respected physician. She was an obstetrician in the first ten to twelve years, and then she changed her specialization after she left the country, becoming a good internist. In 1952 she married Dan Cotin, a university assistant at the Faculty of Agronomy. My niece, Dina, was born in 1956. She was a beautiful and quiet child, whom I had nicknamed Ghem [Romanian for clew]. As soon as she started uttering words, she nicknamed me Dadi. More than 45 years have passed since then, but I am still Dadi for Dina and her three children. They immigrated to Israel in 1961 together with my parents.

Growing up

My name is Dan Mizrahy. I was born in 1926 in Bucharest. I don’t think I had turned four yet when I went to the cinema for the first time. My sister was with me and we were accompanied by Fraulein Mitzy, a Swiss woman who helped our parents raise us appropriately and spoke to us in German. The name of the cinema was Trianon [today Bucharest Cinema] and we saw a silent film starring Charlie Chaplin. It was silent in the sense that there was no talking, but it did have a musical background. They played a very light tune. It stuck with me and, to the general surprise, when I got back home, I sat at the piano, an upright piano, actually, and I… reproduced that tune. I remember my sister called Fraulein, Fraulein called my mother, and my mother called my father, while I, the ‘star,’ was sitting on the revolving stool and was playing imperviously! Touched to tears, my father drew a second stool and started to accompany me as well as he could.

I started going to school to ‘Sf. Iosif’ [German school]. This happened in 1932. In 1933, after finishing the 1st grade, they transferred me [because of the events that took place in 1933 in Germany, where Hitler came to power] to School no.31 ‘Alexandru Vlahuta’, a neighborhood school on Scolii Street. When I got to the 4th elementary grade I was admitted to the 1st year at the Royal Academy of Music and Drama. I was nine years and a half… During that academic year, 1935-1936, they opened the Scala Cinema. To advertise it, they offered discount tickets to students. If my memory serves me well, they ran ‘Robin Hood’ with Errol Flynn. I put on a jacket and a tie, with shorts, of course, placed the lyre on my lapel, the pin of the Conservatoire students, and went to Scala, where I asked for a discount ticket. The window of the box-office was very high, or at least this is how it seemed to me. A hand came out from there and stopped on my head, while a sweet female voice addressing me as ‘kid’ explained that the discount tickets were not for children and that I would have to wait to become a student before I could take advantage of that favor. With perfect calm, I stretched my arm and laid down my student card in front of her. This was followed by an, ‘Oh, please forgive me!’ and by the release of the requested ticket. I felt very proud!

So I started the 1935-1936 academic year as a pupil in the 4th elementary grade at School no.31 and as a student in the 1st year at the Royal Academy of Music and Drama. At that time, the academy was still based on Stirbei Voda Street, in an old and totally inadequate building. A year later it moved to Brezoianu Street, a splendid aristocratic house, with large, bright rooms, and with a superb hall where exams were held. I had classes with Mrs. Aurelia Cionca on Wednesday afternoon. Of course, I was by far the youngest student. There were two pianos in the classroom placed one next to the other. The teacher sat at the one on the left, and the student at the one on the right. The keyboards were oriented so as to form a right angle with the chairs placed next to the wall, where the ones who listened sat. Mrs. Cionca’s method was to let the student go through the entire piece without interrupting him unless he made serious mistakes. Then she commented on the performance and supported her arguments by playing the piano herself. It was a true delight!

On holidays, I sometimes went with my father to ‘Cahal Grande’ [‘The Great Temple’ in Ladino]. It was spectacular. A monumental building, with marble floor and pillars, with lavishing chandeliers and an organ whose sounds magnetized me. They sang traditional tunes at the Great Temple. Josef Rosensteck was at the same time the Romanian Opera’s choir master and the organist and choir conductor of the Spanish temple in Bucharest. The main cantor was Alberto della Pergola, an Italian singer hired by the community of the Spanish Jews in Bucharest. The services at ‘Cahal Grande’ turned into real musical shows that were quite impressive. At that time, the ‘master of ceremonies’ was Great Rabbi Sabetay Djaen, who had been born in Argentina and had been brought here to fill this particular position, which he did with a lot of stateliness.

When the time of my religious coming of age, the bar mitzvah, drew near, my father wanted to observe the tradition and programmed this ‘confirmation’ ceremony at the Spanish temple. For this, he hired me a Hebrew teacher named Cohen who taught the Tannakh at the school of the Spanish Jews’ community, on Negru Voda Street. Mr. Cohen was rather young, punctual and fair, and came to our place in the evening. He always found me tired after a day of school, homework and playing… However, I obeyed. So, when I turned 13, the ceremony took place; I found myself on the altar of the temple, where I read various prayers in Hebrew, then I held a speech in Romanian, which had been prepared by the rabbi, committing myself before the rabbi to observe the faith and the precepts of the holy writs. Everyone congratulated me and we had champagne and wafers in the festivity room. Happy and relieved, I went home to change my clothes and went straight to the cinema.

My father, my sister and I would take the Bus No. 45 every morning. It ran on Floreasca Avenue. My father was the first to get off, at C. A. Rosetti [bus stop]. Mira and I got off at the following stop, Batistei. She went to the right, to ‘Regina Maria’ High School, and I went to the left, to ‘Spiru Haret’ High School. At 1pm, when I finished school, I rushed to pick her up. We joined our father at the corner of Batistei Street with Bratianu Blvd. and the three of us got on Bus No. 45, which took us back home. Picking my father up from his office in the evening was one of my greatest pleasures. We began our trip at 5 Boteanu Street and looked for delis: cheese at the cheese mongers in Piata Mare, today’s Unirii Square, or fresh pastrami at the butchers on Vacaresti Avenue. We often brought home a bouquet of violets, my mother’s favorite flowers. The downtown flower girls were a picturesque show at that time too.

One of the reasons why I was a normal child was the fact that my parents never made me feel like a wunderkind. Thus, to the extent of their material possibilities and trying to avoid spoiling me, they made sure I had all the toys a boy could want; these included the balls and the circle, the tricycle, the sleigh, the mechanic train, the sling, the bow, mechanic games and children’s games, like ‘Mensch argere dich nicht’ [German for ‘Don’t get upset, man’], which I played with my grandmother on Thursday, when she came to visit us at noon… I went ice skating on Saturday afternoon at the Otetelesanu. The cycling track behind our house – which wasn’t used at the time and which later became the Dinamo stadium – was the ‘kingdom’ of my childhood. I used to spend all the spare moments of my summer afternoons there with my friend, Andrei Poenaru-Bordea.

Here is a story that deeply marked me in my childhood. When I was eleven or twelve, my father wanted to surprise me and took me to a boxing match. I had never been to such an event before and I have never been ever since. Moti Spakov, then the champion of Romania in the heavyweight category, was fighting an African. I can’t remember who won and it doesn’t matter. What matters – and this I cannot forget – is that all around me, scores, hundreds of ‘patriotic’ spectators were yelling: ‘Hit the jidan [offensive word for Jew in Romanian]! Let the jidan have it!’ All the years that passed didn’t manage to soften the shock I had that night.

Right before I was about to begin the 5th secondary grade at the ‘Spiru Haret’ High School and the 6th year at the academy, in September 1940, the anti-Jewish laws 5 were passed. With them, the wings of my childhood’s smooth flight were broken. Mihai Popescu – the secretary of the Conservatoire at the time – called me on the phone and told me to come and hand in my 6th-year student card, as I had been eliminated from the academy. He received me with kind words and, despite the green shirt with baldric which he wore [reference to the Legionary 6 uniform], he shook my hand and wished me luck. The expulsion from high school was less spectacular. No one called me or handed me an official notice. I was simply expelled. I kept running around like a hunted prey, trying to find a way out. My sister, in her turn, was about to enter the 7th grade at the ‘Regina Maria’ High School. She was left outside too. In order to continue our education, we were registered at the high schools that belonged to the Jewish community in Bucharest: it was ‘Focsaneanu’ for my sister and ‘Cultura’ 7 for me. Several scores of children were crammed into a 20-square-meter room and had to sit three at a desk, in an inadequate building, first on Zborului Street, then on Sf. Ioan Nou Street. The teachers, who were all Jewish, did their best to make classes look professional. I remember some of them: Fayon – severe and virulent – at math, Kanner – refined and polite – at geography, Mircea Brucar, the pianist, at German.

Of course, we knew something had changed around us from the radio, from the press, and from what we heard from others. We had felt it, at least on the moral level, once we had been expelled from schools. It was a state of tension that kept growing, like a circle that was gradually tightening around us in a threatening manner. It was in that atmosphere that on 21st January 1941, towards noon, I heard the first gun shots in my life. The phones were still working. They were later confiscated from the Jews, just like the radio sets. This is how we found out from my mother’s younger sister that the radio station in Bod, captured by the rebels, had announced that a dissident division of the army, led by General Dragalina, was heading for Bucharest. At the same time, the Bucharest radio station was announcing the decisions of General Antonescu 8, who was dissociating himself from the Legionary movement, as well as the actions taken in order to annihilate this movement. I remember the exact words: ‘From now on, no other uniform than the military and the police.’ But in those very moments, the police, which had been divided in two until that day – the regular police and the Legionary police – was fighting fiercely, both at the prefecture, and at the barracks on Geneva Alley, where the policemen, encircled by the Legionaries, were defending themselves. At the same time, the army was trying to conquer the Legionary headquarters on Roma Street. Our house lay at only a few hundred meters from the above-mentioned locations, in a straight line. We could hear the shots coming from there. We kept getting news on the phone about the horrors that took place in the Jewish houses of the Vacaresti and Dudesti quarters. On the evening of 21st January 1941, one of my father’s sisters, who lived on Banu Maracine Street, called us to tell us that the Spanish temple ‘Cahal Grande’ was in flames. We soon found out that, at the beginning of the Legionary rebellion, they had emptied many canisters of gas inside and outside the temple, and had set it on fire. It burnt to the ground. The ruins survived for many years, a testimony of the tragedy that occurred that night.

On the morning of 24th January an army patrol that searched every house rang at our gate. Once in the vestibule, the commanding officer was struck by my father’s military mantle that hung on the peg. It was a winter mantle that my father hadn’t had the chance to wear. It was cold outside. Acting with undisputable spontaneity, my parents offered the mantle to the young second lieutenant. Surprised and touched at the same time, he accepted it. Then my mother made hot tea. After the routine check, they left. A nightmare was over. But it was a nightmare that would mark the destiny of my entire life. The events of the last months, that had reached their climax in those January days, had carved in me the certitude that those circumstances, that reality, that society were no place for me any longer.

At the ‘Cultura’ High School, where I was in the 5th grade, I found out from my former desk mate from the ‘Spiru Haret’, Osias Rolling, about a Palestinian Office. He told me it was in charge of the emigration of the youth to Palestine. But the information was vague, nebulous even. The idea to leave began to yield in my head. In February 1941 things became clear. Two groups of young Jews, 200-300 each, were set to leave one week apart from each other, accompanied by a few clerks of the Palestinian Office. They were to travel by boat to Istanbul, then by train. The two ships were scheduled to leave on 21st March – the ‘Dacia’ – and on 29th March – the ‘Regele Carol I’.

29th March was my mother’s birthday and a holiday for the Mizrahy household… So the day of 29th March 1941 came. It was a late winter morning with clouds and thaw. We woke up at dawn. We wished our mother ‘Happy birthday!’ with voices drowned in tears. She thanked us with the same emotions. My father, who had been discharged recently and had had his dignity of being a good Romanian citizen offended, sought to encourage us and to inspire us with a minimum of optimism. ‘Trust me’ – these were the last words which he told me on the platform of the North Railroad Station, as I was leaving towards the unknown, towards Palestine. ‘Yes, I trust you, but I don’t trust Antonescu!’ Many years later, my father would still recall this dialogue.

In Palestine

The hours that separated us from Constanta simply flew. The customs. The waiting. The embarkation. When the ship set off the evening was falling. I can’t even remember if the sea was calm or not. At dawn we had reached the Bosphorus. The disembarkation. The customs. Apart from the three suitcases and my accordion, I carried a knapsack in whose leather borders I had sewn four bills of 5 sterling pounds. This was the ‘total amount of foreign currency’ that my father possessed. He had given it to me to get by. We boarded the train in Istanbul. From this point forward, my memory began recording. 3rd class cars. Small, yellow wooden benches crammed in a car without compartments. We were wearing the same clothes we had on when we left. We didn’t have access to our luggage, which was stored in another car. We had been ordered not to leave the cars, regardless of how long the train waited in stations. And the train kept waiting… It waited more than it rode. It took four days and three nights to cross Asia Minor in the conditions described above. We reached a station and we saw French soldiers on the platform. We found out we were in Aleppo, Syria. There was a burst of joy. That same evening we stopped in Beirut, Lebanon. To our surprise, we were invited to get off the train and board the buses that were waiting for us, and we were taken to the… hotel! The following morning we found out that we were to enter Palestine by road, not by rail. I remember Beirut was full of lights, that the hotel was located downtown, that many restaurants and bars were open and that… I had no money! On the morning of 4th April 1941, a line of Palestinian buses was carrying several hundreds of passengers, most of them underage, who were coming from Romania, to the ‘Promised Land.’ At the frontier between Lebanon and Palestine, the British customs officers didn’t let us just pass. I still recall my passport with blue covers – on the first page, in the right upper corner, there was a stamp with only one word written in uppercase letters: JEW.

A few hours later, to our total amazement, the buses passed the barbed wire gates of a settlement of shacks, whose name we learnt as soon as we got off: the Atlid Camp! Armed British soldiers, policemen I think, pointed out the areas where the women and the men were supposed to gather separately. That day, soon after this ‘separation,’ my uncle had a nervous breakdown. He cried like a baby, in despair and helplessness, and I, a 15-year-old boy, was the one who comforted him and encouraged him…

Once we got over the initial shock, we realized we weren’t in a concentration camp, but in a sorting camp, and that, after our identities had been checked, we would be taken by the representatives of the Sohnut and assigned to various places. A week later I was assigned to an agricultural ‘hostel’ – in fact, an agricultural school, ‘Ahava’ [Hebrew for ‘love’] located in the Gulf of Haifa. As for my musical education, merely mentioning it would have caused laughter! ‘Ahava’ was a unit subordinated to the Alyat Hanoar [Youth’s Emigration], based in Jerusalem. Founded by a venerable lady, born in America and named Henriette Szold, this organization aimed at saving the young Jews from Nazi Europe and training them within the Jewish state, that didn’t exist ‘de jure’ yet, but was solidly implanted ‘de facto.’ Since one of the priorities of the emerging state was agriculture, many of the young immigrants were directed towards this field. The kibbutzim were, at that time, the real base of the country. More than 80% of the people’s food came from kibbutzim. The vast majority of the inhabitants of these kibbutzim were immigrants.

‘Ahava’ was composed of three to four modern buildings with two floors, which sheltered about 200 children – adolescents to be more precise – that had emigrated from Europe in the last two or three years. Most of the pupils, teachers and the auxiliary staff had come from Austria and Germany. The headmaster was from Austria and his name was Rosenkranz. In the dining room there was a very tired and out of tune upright piano. I remember that on one of the first evenings after I got there, I tried to play Chopin’s Polonaise in A major. There was silence all around me and many children came to the room, attracted by the sounds. When I had finished, a gray-haired lady of about 50 years came up to me and addressed me in German, asking me what my name was. She introduced herself and invited me to visit her the following day, after classes, in the house next to the gate. The lady was the headmaster’s wife. Her profession: pianist and piano teacher!

It was with excitement and shyness that I went to her place the following day. She had a beautiful concert piano that she let me play. With an austere voice, without any display of exuberance or enthusiasm, she asked me whether I was interested in continuing my musical studies. I showed her my certificates, as well as the splendid recommendation written – in German, fortunately – by my teacher from the academy, Aurelia Cionca. It seems that those papers impressed her. She offered to work with me and, depending on my results, to put in a word for me in Jerusalem, at Alyat Hanoar, so that I may be able to continue my studies at the Jerusalem Conservatoire. You can imagine the excitement that seized me. What I realized in that moment was that I was being given the chance to hope; that, after I had abandoned ‘ogni speranza’ [Italian for ‘any hope’], my fate might change!

In May or at the beginning of June 1941, in the middle of the night, we were woken up by the sirens. We were warned not to turn on the lights and to go to the shelters. Soon after, we where shaken by repeated explosions. In a totally unprecedented act, the German air force was bombing the oil refineries in the Gulf of Haifa, located very close to ‘Ahava.’ We went to the ‘shelters’ – actually some ditches one meter wide, ten meters long and, I think, about one meter deep. Some tin barrels filled with sand placed on the two sides of the ditches leaned on one another, forming a sort of ‘roof’ that protected the ditches. Sometimes the planes came all at once, sometimes they came in waves. At that time of the year, the sky was always clear – there is no drop of rain from April till October – so the ‘show’ was absolutely fantastic, especially in the nights with a full moon. The searchlights installed along the coastline, all the way to the harbor of Haifa, were lighting the skies, crossing their blue rays and sometimes catching the planes that glittered like aluminum toys.

In that period, when Romania was still neutral, we received postcards from home. [Editor’s note: Romania engaged in World War II on Germany’s side on 22nd June 1941, fighting in the campaign against the USSR.] They were written in French, in order to escape more easily the British censorship, which was official during the entire war. Those postcards mainly contained news from and about the family. Yet, my father, with his unequaled humor, would slip a joke from time to time… After Romania entered the war – and, particularly, towards the end of 1941 – the direct correspondence was no longer an option. For a year or two, I still got mail via Turkey, where my father knew a man who got his letters, put them in another envelope, and sent them on to me. Then this way of communication could no longer be used either. The only news we got from one another were the messages sent through the International Red Cross; we were only allowed to send them once every three months and they could not exceed 25 words.

The approval came from the Alyat Hanoar: they agreed to facilitate my trip to Jerusalem, where I was to audition at the Conservatoire, before the end of June 1941. It was the chance of my life, so to speak. I was really supposed to leave them speechless in order to persuade them to create a precedent: taking an immigrant pupil from an agricultural school and supporting his studies at the Jerusalem Conservatoire. The Palestine Conservatoire of Music, located on Jaffa Road, in the very heart of Jerusalem, stretched along one border of Zion Square. I can’t say it impressed me by its stateliness. An old house, probably Arabian, with the entrance through a petty side street. I think the entire institution didn’t have more than ten rooms. I took the left-hand stairs… At that time, I wasn’t familiar with the Fantastic Symphony and its March to the Scaffold. I remember it was very hot that day, and I was wearing a suit and a tie! ‘Der kleine Gernegross,’ which means something like ‘the kid who wants to show off’! [Editor’s note: the German colloquial expression ‘er ist ein kleiner Gernegross’ translates as ‘he likes to act big.’] After the exam they decided to admit me to the 1st year at the Music Academy, an upper level of the Conservatoire, as a sponsored student. Half of the scholarship was to be covered by the Conservatoire, and the other half – by the Alyat Hanoar. The Alyat Hanoar was also supposed to support me for the entire duration of my studies, two years. Located in the elegant Rehavia residential quarter, the Alyat Hanoar ran with very few, but very efficient employees. After I had the honor of being introduced to Mrs. Henriette Szold, I was sent to those clerks. After going through a series of formalities, they informed me that I was to move to Jerusalem on 1st September, when classes started, and that I was to live with the Uberal family, in a house located in the same neighborhood, two or three streets away.

1st September 1941 was an important day for me. Loaded with luggage, I ‘landed’ at 23 Detudela Street. I shared a room with three other boys who were supported by the Alyat Hanoar and were lodged by Mrs. Uberal. The oldest – they were all more than 20 years old – was named Ruven and came from Germany. He studied printing, working for a company in this industry. The second, Arie, a tall, blonde lad who came from Czechoslovakia, specialized in leather products. Finally, the third was, to my pleasant surprise, from Piatra Neamt. His name was Zeev Gutherz. He came from a kibbutz in the north. He had a heart condition and had been transferred to Jerusalem, where he studied accounting. He was to return as an accountant to the kibbutz where he had come from.

We had two evenings with a fixed schedule. On Thursday night, rather late, a Hebrew teacher sent by Alyat Hanoar came. The other evening with a ‘fixed schedule’ was on Friday. The Uberals celebrated the eve of Sabbath. That night, neatly dressed, we became the guests of the family. Mrs. Uberal’s room turned into a dining room and the table stretched from one side to the other. A shining, white table cloth enlightened the entire room. Two tall candlesticks, with the candles lit, created the special atmosphere, and the food was served using the ‘festive’ covers of the Uberals, which had been saved, along with few other things, from the house they had left in Vienna. The meal was never a feast, but the menu was quite abundant, consisting – without exception – of a soup, usually chicken, a main course and a dessert. What I remember with accuracy is the beautiful challah, the white plaited bread which filled the bread baskets.

I remember my fellow-students from the Conservatoire: Ora Abulafia, the daughter of a rich Argentinian-born merchant, lived in an elegant apartment house located in the vicinity of the Conservatoire, on Ben Yehuda Street. After the war, the Abulafia family moved to Argentina, and they later settled in Brussels. Another fellow-student, Braha Eden, was, at that time, a fair-haired, petite girl with a snub nose. I saw her again twice, when I visited Israel. She became a concert pianist, a teacher at the Rubin Academy, the former Palestine Conservatoire of Music, and she had a great national and international career. Another character that I want and have to evoke is Iosif Fraier. He was born in Iasi and he came to the Conservatoire one or two years after I had got there. He was about 20 years old, had been in Palestine for some time, and was, at the time of his arrival, already formed as a pianist. Tall, brown-haired, with a pointed nose and a beautiful mouth, with extremely big hands, and long, beautiful fingers. Much to our envy, he could easily encompass a tenth, and he speculated this gift of nature in his piano repertoire. A serious, ambitious boy, he studied a lot and he outshone us with his technique. In 1948, a short while after the proclamation of the State of Israel, in the middle of the independence war, a letter from my uncle Soly informed me that Iosif Fraier had perished in the battles fought around Jerusalem. I was and remained tremendously impressed.

The winter of 1941-1942 was not an easy one. The tension that floated in the air was reflected by our material situation. Food and other necessities were becoming harder and harder to get. For instance, in that period, you could only purchase a simple tooth paste if you gave a used tube in return. As for the press, the only English-speaking newspaper was ‘Palestine Post,’ which cost 10 mils – the equivalent of a falafel. The falafel was a very nourishing and very tasty food. It consisted of small balls of ground chickpeas roasted in oil and served inside pita bread. Various spicy salads were added over these balls: cucumbers, tomatoes, and bell peppers. The falafel machine was in the open air, in Zion Square, a few meters away from the Conservatoire entrance.

I started to earn my living in 1941, giving accordion lessons. At the end of 1942 I began to play every Tuesday evening – from 18:30 to 21 – at a Scottish club reserved for the Scottish troops. I played folk dances and I was surprised to see that the soldiers mastered the technique of these dances perfectly. It was simply amazing to see a hall full of people of different professions who handled the various schemes implied by those dances impeccably. They were warm, open people, and I could imagine how well they felt when dancing to their traditional music. No alcoholic drinks were served in there. They danced and clapped their hands. The moment the club’s manager gave me the sign to play the anthem, they all stood up straight. They clapped their hands one last time, then everyone left.

In 1943, when the Alyat Hanoar scholarship expired, I started living ‘on my own.’ I rented a small room that was modest, but located downtown, and I lived there until the summer of 1944. In 1943 I met a Romanian-born gymnastics teacher. His name was Beny Blumenfeld and he ran a gymnastics club in downtown Jerusalem, on Betalel Street. He hired me to be his repetiteur. [He needed to be accompanied by music for his gymnastics classes.] That same year I had the chance to meet two personalities of the Israeli ballet: Rina Nikova and Hasya Levy. The former was, at the time, about 45 years old, and was recognized as a ‘peak’ of the Israeli ballet school. An expert in classical ballet, she had started working on the rediscovery of the Jewish traditional dances even before the war, analyzing and updating the ancient Hebrew dance. She also held classes of classical ballet with paying students who took weekly lessons. [Mr. Mizrahy played the piano for these classes.] I think my fee was 300 mils per hour. If we take into consideration the fact that a meal at ‘Palestine Restaurant’ or at ‘Mitbah Hapoalim’ – literally meaning ‘workers’ kitchen’, but translated as ‘canteen-restaurant’ – cost 100 mils, just as much as an ‘expensive’ film ticket in the evening, or that a falafel cost 10 mils, as well as the fact that, from the very beginning, I had at least two or three sessions of several hours every week, I think I don’t have to explain the material and moral impact that this ‘job’ had upon me.

In June 1944 I passed my piano graduation exam. I was 18 years and a few months. Now a certified pianist and teacher, I had a few students who came to my place for piano or accordion lessons twice a week. Thanks to the accordion, I also taught rhythmic at a few kindergartens. Moreover, the Conservatoire started to send me some of their would-be students. They paid a fee at the Conservatoire and the Conservatoire, in its turn, was paying me. My psychological and moral state had improved a lot. The obsessive fear about what would become of my family who had stayed in Romania began to fade away [once Romania joined the side of the Allies, after 23rd August 1944] 9. I finally got direct mail again. The front had moved away from Romania and was approaching Berlin. The end of the nightmare was drawing near at a fast pace.

Towards the end of the summer of 1944 I rented an apartment with my cousin Gaby Segalescu and two other Romanian-born young men. Although I had been a regular of the ‘Mitbah Hapoalim,’ I started eating at a Romanian restaurant, ‘Margulius.’ Although the prices here were much higher than those at the canteen, the food was incomparably better and the company was more pleasant. I began to organize musical soirees at our place. On Friday evening I would have some people from the Romanian colony that I knew over – with or without a special invitation. I played whatever came to my mind – usually Chopin, Albeniz, ‘digestible’ things. Then we’d chat. There were no treats. But the atmosphere was exquisite! We talked a lot about the dear ones we had left in Romania. Letters had started to arrive regularly. We sometimes got a newspaper, which we rushed to devour. It was with pleasure that we read the ads where old and familiar names of medical practices and restaurants, Jewish ones included, had appeared again. The persecutions had ceased. The people were getting their rights back. Mira had been recognized the education she had got in Jewish schools, including the first two years of college, and she had become a student in the 3rd year at the medical school.

In Palestine, once the European war had ended, the problem of receiving the refugees – especially the Holocaust survivors – was becoming more and more acute. Hundreds of thousands of Jews who were refugees or had been liberated from camps or discharged from the allied armies were in search of a shelter. ‘Jidanii to Palestine!’ Generations of children had been born and raised with this slogan in many corners of Europe. This was not typical for Bucharest only, as I had imagined in my childhood. But the English wouldn’t have them in Palestine. The way they saw it in 1945, nothing had happened since 1939, when they had issued the famous ‘white book’ with the ‘numerus clausus,’ limiting the number of the Jews in Palestine to 500,000 and not one single more! The Jewish dissatisfaction with the ‘closed borders’ began to be expressed in ways that were more radical ways than verbal or written protests. An anti-English campaign was born. In a short while, there were overt acts of violence – more or less organized. Of course, the police didn’t just wait. There were house searches, arrests, and ‘emergency statuses.’

Like any other rational being, I was horrified by the atrocities that kept being revealed about the systematic extermination of six million Jews whose only fault had been their ethnic origin. I understood the urgent need of the refugees to find a home in Palestine. I think it was on 27th October 1945 that Gaby, my first-degree cousin, received a telegram from his parents. They told him they had managed to get his repatriation approved and secured him a ticket aboard the ‘Transilvania.’ The ship, which was carrying Jewish emigrants from Romania, was to lay anchor in Haifa on Wednesday, 28th October. Gaby was tremendously happy. I’ve already mentioned that I felt devastated. In that moment I realized that this is what I wanted for myself too. A few hours later I went to work, to Rina’s, and I found her with a long face. She gave me a hug and… told me that my uncle in Tel Aviv had called. He asked her to tell me to contact him as soon as possible, because… there was a telegram from my parents! He had also told her what it read: ‘Transilvania arrive jeudi Haifa. Passage retour paye, t’attendons!’ [French: ‘[The] Transilvania arriving Haifa Thursday. Return ticket paid. Waiting for you!’] My feet became numb with excitement. I started to cry. I was crying because I was happy, but also because I had to part with people I loved…

I had no idea what went on back home. My parents’ letters were affectionate, but vague. At only 19 years old and lacking basic political training and culture, I put my feelings first, not my reason… Since we’re at it, I can’t help mentioning the captain of the ‘Transilvania’, Commander Maugus. On 30th October 1945, the moment I boarded his ship, which was at anchor in Haifa harbor, he asked me a few routine questions about the ticket, the passport and the likes, and then he inquired, ‘Where are you going, young man?’ I gave him the conventional answer, ‘I’m going home, Commander,’ to which he retorted – and I can still hear his words today – ‘Home you say, Sir? Don’t you know what’s going on at «home»? The Russians are there and Communism is kicking in!’

We were assigned to 3rd class quarters. At the embarkation, we were told that the captain had received a radiogram informing him that the ship would be rerouted. Instead of heading straight back to Constanta, he had to do a sort of ‘tour’ of the Mediterranean in order to pick up Romanian refugees returning from Portugal, Spain, England, France, Germany, Italy, and Turkey. As a result, the journey’s duration would extend from two to three days to a few weeks, and we would have to pay for our meals. The ‘Transilvania’ had a restaurant, or maybe a bar, which had a platform designed for the orchestra in the middle. On it stood a beautiful [Welte-]Mignon cottage piano like I had never seen before. With the captain’s approval, I tried it the very first day. It sounded wonderful. The effect on the captain was instantaneous. From that moment until towards the end of the cruise, when the ship got crowded, the captain had me as a permanent guest at his table!

After six days at sea, in which we seldom saw the land, we laid anchor in Barcelona. As soon as the ship was moored, the quay filled with Spanish soldiers with their bayonets fixed. After lengthy negotiations, the only one who was allowed to disembark in order to arrange for the ship to be supplied with water and take care of other emergencies was Commander Maugus. I soon found out that the ship and its passengers were Communists to the eyes of the Spaniards! At first, this amused me, then it filled me with indignation; eventually, I began to get used to this new position and to resign myself.

The following day we stopped in Marseilles. Things were different here. The frontier authorities came aboard and informed us that during the ship’s stay in the harbor, we were free to get off and go wherever we felt like… I was struck by the stir on the quays. I soon found out that German prisoners were working to rebuild the harbor’s installations. We felt neither hatred, nor compassion for them. We felt nothing. A storm at sea caused the ship to leave Marseilles six days after its arrival; we had been scheduled to linger for only two days. The passengers who boarded the ship in the French harbor included Romanian diplomats from France and England, as well as a part of the BBC’s Romanian staff.

Two days later we reached Naples. We weren’t allowed to disembark there. We were to take in new passengers by the hundreds. I remember the stir of authorities, luggage, and smugglers who dealt with all sorts of liquors and cigarettes. The ship filled with refugees, many of whom had been liberated from German camps. We reached Istanbul on 20th November. We only stayed for a couple of hours. Among the few passengers who boarded – six or so – were my cousin, Paula Dragusanu [nee Feldman], her husband Silviu, and their son Miky, aged one year and four months. They had left Palestine a few months before and were waiting to be repatriated from Turkey. That same night the ship set off. The following day, on 21st November 1945, we reached Constanta.

After the war

I lived the moment I had awaited and dreamt of for four years and eight months. I embraced my parents who were waiting for me on the quay. In Bucharest, at the station, there was Mira, together with several uncles and aunts. I wasn’t returning ‘home,’ but to 14 Dr. Felix Street, where my parents had been living for about two years. Our house, requisitioned by the National Romanianization Commission in 1941, still served as the headquarters of the 8th Precinct police station. When the house at 14 Dr. Felix Street was bombed in 1944, my parents took refuge at the place of my mother’s older sister, Mina Solomon. I had come back to Bucharest, but not home. I was a guest and, to be frank, I didn’t mind that situation one bit at the time. The guest of my own parents. For days in a row, people kept coming over, mostly to see me: our relatives, most of whom were still in the country – my father’s sisters and my mother’s sisters with their husbands and children, my cousins –, my parents’ friends, and, most of all, people whose relatives were in Palestine and who came to me to collect letters from the loved ones. All I can remember is that I had to thoroughly schedule – by the day and by the hour – all those who called to announce their visit.

From a social point of view – or, to be more accurate, from an ‘economical’ one – the situation in Romania looked totally different from the one I had kept in my memories. I had left a prosperous society and I regained an impoverished one. The limousines and carriages driven by cabmen dressed in velvet had been replaced by army trucks packed with Russians with ‘balalaikas’ [nickname given to the Russian machine-guns, which resembled that instrument]; the fancy ladies who used to go out for a walk on the beautiful avenues downtown had been replaced by war invalids with crutches who sold ‘Nationale’ or ‘Marasesti’ cigarettes with yellow paper and stinking tobacco. The buses were gone. As for the overcrowded streetcars, I avoided them for months. I didn’t go out often and, when I did, I walked, because I abhorred the law of the fist that seemed to govern that means of transportation. I had bought a bag of lemons in Haifa, planning to give them to my closest ones instead of presents. My folks, more practical than I was, realized the potential of the ‘treasure’ I had brought and began to sell them to various acquaintances in the apartment house. A lemon bought me a taxi ride. At first, I could afford that. After the lemons were finished, I walked.

Once I realized the full extent of the situation, I understood that I had let go ‘the bird in the hand’… Moreover, the conversations with my father made it clear to me that he didn’t include emigration among his future projects. ‘I’m a Romanian officer’ – that was his supreme argument. It’s funny how I can still hear his words in my head today. At that time, at the crossroads of 1945 and 1946, my father was a hopeless case. Unfortunately, Mira, my dear sister, shared his point of view. What’s interesting is that in her student environment, many of her fellow-students, not necessarily Jewish, flirted with the idea of emigrating more and more seriously. And so did some members of my family or friends of my parents. But the ones that really mattered, my closest ones, were hopeless. It’s not by accident that I didn’t mention my mother here. She was the most flexible. Her only wish was for the four of us to be together, not separated.

One of my priorities was to get my degree from the Jerusalem Conservatoire recognized in Romania. It only took one visit to the Bucharest Conservatoire to solve this issue. I was immediately received by the rector, whose name was… Mihail Jora! [Mihail Jora (1891-1971): Romanian composer and conductor, professor, founding member and chairman of the Romanian Composers’ Society. Creator of the Romanian lied and ballet (‘La piata’ – ‘At the Marketplace’, ‘Intoarcerea din adancuri’ – ‘The Return from the Deep’, ‘Curtea Veche’ – ‘The Old Court’ etc.).] This encounter had a tremendous impact on me. I hadn’t met him in person, but I had seen him in concert, conducting or accompanying at the piano, and I had listened to some of his works. We talked a little. He asked me to tell him about the years I had spent in Jerusalem, about my teachers, my studies, my piano repertoire etc. He recognized my degree on the spot and asked me whether I was interested to attend the two-year post-graduate course. In my turn, in a moment of great courage, I had the nerve to tell him that I would be happy if he accepted me as his private student. He asked me what I would like him to teach me. I gave him this simple answer: ‘Music!’ The proof that he liked my answer was that he… said yes! For about five years, I frequented the maestro every week. He took them one at a time: harmony, forms, orchestration, counterpoint, and, last but not least, composition. I can still see him today, playing his out of tune piano, a red Steinway, which he refused to have tuned, claiming that a tuned piano would cause him to lose his inspiration! He had a dry and very personal sense of humor.

I distinctly remember the evening of 30th December 1947. I was on the streets of Predeal and I heard the loudspeakers connected to Radio Bucharest broadcasting the abdication declaration of King Michael 10, followed by the proclamation of the People’s Republic. It was with total silence that the passers-by received those two announcements. Their faces were visibly grave and worried, while some of them made futile attempts to disguise their sheer sadness. It wasn’t a surprise for anyone. But the date they had chosen might have been unexpected. We later realized that ‘The Party’ didn’t want to give the King another chance to address his traditional New Year’s Eve wishes to the people. I had been familiar with King Michael since he was a child. I can even remember the coins of 5 lei with his face as a child imprinted on them, then the countless pictures and newspaper stories about his schooling and upbringing. I remember him after I returned to the country, from the newsreels; no matter under what circumstance he was shown on the screen, the whole audience would burst out applauding. It was their only way to protest against the new realities imposed by the regime.

Around New Year’s Eve 1947 I met Edmond Deda at a party in the house of the Carasso family, on Barbu Delavrancea Street. [Edmond Deda (b. 1921): Romanian composer, conductor, pianist, and vocal soloist; he composed music for variety shows and films.] The rest came by itself: met me, liked me, hired me! The following day or the following week – I can’t remember which – I started to work for his conservatoire, ‘The American Music Conservatoire’. Deda’s school was in the house of Theodor Rogalschi, on General Manu Street, which later became Lt. Lemnea Street, then changed its name back to Gen. Manu Street after 1989, where Deda had rented two rooms and a half, plus a lobby. The teaching body was very scarce – only three to four teachers. There was an old man from Cernauti, Salter, who taught harmony, and was later replaced by Ion Dumitrescu who, if I remember correctly, also taught ‘theory and solfeggios’; Sandu Fieraru, a jazz pianist, taught the history of jazz; Deda, a jack of all trades, taught singing and jazz (vocal and piano), was a corepetitor, and played with Fieraru in parallel. Finally, I was ‘the classical piano teacher’ – a bombastic title which actually meant that I had to teach the ABCs of music. From a material point of view, the money I earned there meant nothing. Inflation was booming; prices changed from one day to the other and a streetcar ticket cost 30,000 lei. So it’s understandable why the tuition fees cashed at the beginning of the academic year couldn’t cover the teachers’ salaries for the following nine months, not to mention the utilities or the cost of heating by firewood.

I finished the post-graduate course in 1948. That very summer, the education reform 11 caused the course to be closed, so I was left only with a graduating certificate instead of an actual diploma. Listening to the advice of other members of my profession, I joined the Instrumentalist Artists’ Trade Union, which was, at that time, a part of the Federation of Artists’ and Journalists’ Unions. Thus I acquired a certain social status – a thing that was becoming more and more important in that period.

I have beautiful memories from that period [1946-1949]. My assiduously going to the concerts and rehearsals of the Bucharest Philharmonic had a serious influence on my musical education. I had the chance to listen to memorable concerts, such as the cycle of Bach’s sonatas and partitas for solo violin, played by Georges Enesco. I also saw him at the premiere of Khachaturian’s Concerto and I watched him as a conductor, accompanying Pablo Casals or Yehudi Menuhin. When he played Bach’s concerto for two violins with Menuhin, the orchestra was conducted by Mihail Jora. Constantin Silvestri also conducted many concerts in that period and the rehearsals that he led were genuine lessons in music. I attended them as if they were regular Conservatoire classes. Whenever I could, I brought along the partitions of the pieces they rehearsed and, if the partitions happened to be mine, I wrote comments on them according to his indications. I also remember his recitals at the Athenaeum, at least two of them: he entered the stage, sat at the piano, and asked the public to give him a theme on which to improvise. It was spectacular!

I continued to study and to make progresses. The Radio Company scheduled me repeatedly; the Artists’ Trade Union scheduled me to perform in people’s athenaeums, as well as at the Romanian Association for Strengthening the Ties with the Soviet Union – most of the major soloists played for them, in the Fantasio Hall on Batistei Street. After 1948 I had small recitals scheduled by the Music Department in the Arts Ministry. All these made me practice and continuously broaden my piano repertoire. At the same time, I attended the specialization course at the Conservatoire and I took private lessons with Maestro Jora. I had also started my teaching activity at Deda’s conservatoire.

In 1948 I got my ‘1st category concert soloist’ certificate. Another important event of that year was our return to the old house on the street that is now called Turbinei Street. So we came back home!

At the beginning of 1949 – in February, to be more precise – the radio announced a contest to fill five vacant positions of ‘sound masters.’ The average that I got after the commission examined me placed me in the first position. I was 23. Shortly after the results were made official, I was visited by a ‘comrade’ named Katzenstein, who introduced himself as the ‘head of personnel of the Romanian Radio Broadcasting Company.’ After a formal handshake, he told me he was in charge of ‘running a check’ on me before I could be hired for the position that I had already earned through the contest. He called me to his office and he actually investigated me! Katzenstein’s verdict was: taken into consideration the fact that I had left for Palestine with my uncle, counsel Leon Mizrachi, former president of the Zionist organizations in Romania, as well as the fact that I had returned, while he had stayed in Israel, I may have returned as his agent or… in order to make Zionist propaganda in the People’s Republic of Romania! Because of that, I was not trustworthy and I could not be hired by the Romanian Radio Broadcasting Company… I think it’s worth mentioning that ten years later, Comrade Katzenstein, recently dismissed from the Radio Company because he had filed for emigration to Israel, could be seen in Sf. Gheorghe Square, selling the ‘Informatia Bucurestiului’ [‘Bucharest’s Information’] newspaper!

I met Aurelia Sorescu in the summer of 1948. Two years later she became my wife. She was 20, I was 24. It was a love match, of course. In the theatrical world her name was well-known thanks to the success and publicity attained by her performances in ‘Insir-te margarite’ [by Victor Eftimiu] and ‘Wedding of Kretchinsky’ [by Alexander Sukhovo-Kobylin] – at the National Theater – as well as in the film ‘Mitrea Cocor,’ shown extensively in all the major cinemas in the country. I spent my vacations of 1954 and 1955 as ‘prince consort,’ attending the shooting of ‘Si Ilie face sport’ [‘Ilie Exercises Too’, 1954], and of ‘Alarma in munti’ [‘Alert in the Monuntains’, 1955]. We were married for 13 years. The divorce was pronounced in 1963. We remained friends until the last day of her life, 21st January 1996.

In 1950 I met Helena Uberal again. She was the lady at whose place I had lived between 1941 and 1943, while in Jerusalem. In 1950 I got a call from Ehud, her oldest son and my former chess partner on the Friday nights of that period. He was speaking from the Athenee Palace Hotel. His name was no longer Uberal, but Avriel. In Hebrew this name is spelled using the same consonants as Uberal, but the dots representing the vowels are different. He informed me that he was the new ambassador of the State of Israel to Romania, but that he ‘didn’t have time to meet me.’ It took me a lot of time to understand how wise that decision of his had been. However, he told me that his mother was to come to Romania soon and that she wanted to see me! From that moment, it felt like a holiday in our house. From the day she arrived until they left the country, in April 1951, the weekly visits of Mrs. Uberal became a habit. Of course, she rode in the legation’s car. The driver either waited for her or came back to pick her up. We never visited her. I only met Ehud once, at the legation, when I went to inquire whether I still kept my quality of ‘permanent Palestinian resident’ after the creation of the State of Israel. He presently sent me an official letter informing me that this quality was maintained; moreover, he announced to me that the legation of the State of Israel was offering me and my wife a laissez passer [French for a document that allows you to cross a border, a check point... like a passport, a permit] to return to Israel, ‘provided that the Romanian authorities had nothing against’… This letter, together with my expired passport bearing the stamp that proved my ‘permanent resident’ quality, was confiscated by the Securitate 12 during the search they conducted at my home on 3rd May 1951 at dawn, the day of my arrest. Actually, to be precise, I was ‘invited’ to give a written statement…

I was taken to a concrete room with no windows, lit by a light bulb placed in a niche in the wall. It was a passage room, because it had two doors on opposite walls. I checked my watch. It wasn’t even 9am. I stood on a bench. There was an incredible silence. Not a sound. After a lot of time, an hour or so, the door to my left opened and a sergeant entered. He was wearing his summer uniform, felt slippers, and a cap. He looked at me for a moment, then he headed for the door to my right. Before he opened it he smirked at me, ‘You must be thinking if you’re in for this one or the other…’ He calmly opened the door and left. I believe it was at that moment that I began to realize… The so-called ‘written statement’ for which I had allegedly been brought in was a lie.

I found out I was at the Ministry of Internal Affairs. At 5am a corporal would open a small metal hatch in the door and just say, ‘Wake up!’ Then they took us to the toilet; of course, they made us wear dark glasses every time. At 6am they brought us a sort of coffee. At about 12am they gave us lunch: soup and a sort of second course, usually pearl barley, as well as a loaf of bread which weighed 350 grams it seems. After 6pm they brought us ‘dinner’ – a second bowl of pearl barley. At 10pm we had to ‘turn in.’ Located at the second level of the basement, the cells lacked any natural ventilation. In the very hot days of that summer we were often forced to touch the door with the tip of our nail – the only way in which we were allowed to signal the guard – and beg him to let some fresh air in, lest we should suffocate. The light bulb was lit all the time. After a while we noticed that the ‘life span’ of a light bulb was approximately 24-25 days. When it burnt out we could relax for a few minutes, until the guard, who checked every cell through the hatch all the time, saw it and replaced it. And the nightmare began again…

The entire ‘guilt’ that was being set up for me revolved around the people I knew at the Israeli legation. ‘Cosmopolitanism’ was intolerable for the ‘new society’ that was being built. Speaking other languages than Romanian and Russian was unwanted and dangerous. People had been arrested only for having a subscription to the French, or English, or American library. ‘The x or y library group.’ One of my fellow-inmates from Jilava [Penitentiary] was a gentleman named Manolescu whose only ‘guilt’ was that he had repaired a refrigerator at the Israeli legation… I was also told of a waiter who was in the same situation. One of my friends in Bicaz, Dr. Costel Constantinescu, had been to a ‘party’ at the Turkish legation and was in the same ‘group’ with actor Ovidiu Teodorescu, arrested for the same reason.

On 19th October 1951, in the morning, the guard opened the door and said, ‘M. D., get your things and let’s go!’ We rode for about half an hour, in which time we weren’t allowed to talk. When the doors of the van opened they didn’t make me wear the glasses, so I could read on the gate in front of us ‘Fort no. 13 Jilava.’ I suddenly remembered the words ‘Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch’entrate’ [Italian, quote from Dante’s ‘Divine Comedy’: ‘Abandon all hope, ye who enter’]… We were taken by some guards dressed in police uniforms and escorted through a series of dark corridors lit by dim light bulbs sunk in the brick walls. We reached a larger room; after they stripped us to the bone and inventoried our things again, they allowed us to get dressed and take a part of our things to the cells with us. Once the formalities were over, a guard escorted me through other corridors, equally dark and damp, to ‘room 20.’ Massive wooden doors with latches and locks bordered the corridors. No sound came from behind those doors. Yet, there was one room at the end of a corridor that was different: if you passed by its door you could hear the sound of heavy chains. My new fellow-inmates told me that was the room of ‘those who were condemned to the death penalty.’

After 14 months, on 17th December 1952, in the morning, I was taken out of my cell and escorted to a room where there were several guards and inmates. They returned the few possessions they had taken into custody, such as my suitcase and my vanity bag. Then, without making us put the glasses on, they made us get on a van. After a one-hour ride we got off in front of a barbed wire gate, which guarded – I was to find out soon – the entrance to the Ghencea Camp [Editor’s note: Camp for sorting inmates founded by the Ministry of Internal Affairs in Bucharest]. Surrounded by guards, who were wearing Securitate uniforms this time, we were walked into the courtyard. It was snowing lightly. We were ordered to line up, strip to the bone, and place our things in front of us. Everything on the ground was white and I was terribly cold. I was escorted to a certain shack – there were many of them – which, I was to find out, sheltered about 330 ‘occupants.’ The shack’s leader, an inmate himself, pointed to a bunk bed where I was to ‘reside.’ We were allowed to walk around the camp freely during the day. We could go from one shack to another and we could communicate with the other inmates. In general, I got sympathetic looks as soon as they found out where I came from and how much time I had spent underground…

Towards the middle of January 1953, a commission of officers from the Ministry of Internal Affairs gathered us on the field in the middle of the camp, where the ‘counting’ took place every day, and read us a sort of communique; they were offering us the chance to ‘rehabilitate ourselves through labor.’ They needed volunteers for a ‘labor colony’; the benefits included: visits, parcels, postcards. Without hesitating, I stepped forward and requested to be signed up immediately. Of course, there were others who did that too, but not too many. In my hopeless naivety, I didn’t realize that the call for volunteers was a bluff. The games had already been made and the lists of those who were to be sent to labor had been approved in advance. On 21st January 1953, in the afternoon, a large group of ‘volunteers’ and ‘non-volunteers’ traveled by van to a place outside Basarab station, where a prison rail car awaited. After a trip that lasted for an interminable night, we reached our destination. I remember a high barbed wire gate; we walked through it into a large courtyard and we stopped in front of a shack. We soon found out we were at the military unit number I don’t know what, also known as the Bicaz Labor Camp.

In that period they were building a dam in Bicaz. It was designed to block the flow of the Bistrita River; a part of it was to be deviated, and the other part was to be collected in a reservoir. We, the inmates, had to carve several terraces on the two slopes that bordered the river, at various levels. The highest level was – as far as I remember – 550 meters. The terrace at this level stretched for about 200-300 meters and it was three to four meters wide. It had a very narrow track on which ran small carriages of 0.3 cubic meters, I think. ‘Ran’ is actually too much, because they had to be pushed by hand. The inmate’s work consisted of carving the rock with a pick or with a shovel, loading the carriage, pushing it all the way to the end of the terrace and unloading it by tilting it. This operation had to be performed ten times in one shift. I was assigned to a brigade that worked on the left bank of the river, at level 550. We were in the night shift and began working at 7pm. In my mind, those endless trips to the work site and back – especially those in winter – are all the same. They were horrible. First of all, we walked in the dark. We had to cover the distance of four to five kilometers marching – not a cadenced or a forced march, but still, a lively one. We were five in a row, flanked by armed soldiers. ‘Keep the lines tight!’ was the eternal leitmotif. Talking was forbidden. However, there was whispering. The road was difficult. We walked on trodden snow, sometimes on ice and glazed frost. No matter in what shift you worked – there were two 12-hour shifts, from 7am to 7pm and from 7pm to 7am – it was dark when you arrived and when you left.

Two or three days after I had arrived in the shack, a man was set to be released. I don’t know his name and I don’t think I knew it then. I had to use all my persuasive skills to make him promise he would write my folks that I was all right and I was in Bicaz. I told him that my parents hadn’t heard from me since 3rd May 1951. I gave him the name and the address. He memorized them, he promised he would write, and he did! God bless him! Out of caution, my folks didn’t keep the postcard, but they told me the man had signed Puiu. A few days later, on returning from the work site, I saw my father in front of the gate. He had uncovered his head in the blistering cold so that I could recognize him. He had gone to the gate and requested for permission to see me. He had been told to wait. And the poor man waited standing until we came back from the work site. I knew our time was limited and we had to make the best of it. I inquired about the essential things and I learnt that all my folks were alive and well, including my grandmother, who was 88. The second piece of news was that my sister Mira had got married two months ago, on 6th December 1952. There had been an official ceremony at the city hall, then a religious one, at home. My father showed me the picture of my brother-in-law, Dan Cotin, university assistant at the Faculty of Agronomy. He also told me that my wife [Aurelia Sorescu], drama student in the 4th year, had played in a film called ‘Mitrea Cocor’; that Gaby, my first-degree cousin and milk brother, had got married two months after my arrest; that my father-in-law, ‘Nea Ilie’, like I used to call him, had been arrested ‘administratively’ six months ago and was working at the Canal [the Danube-Black Sea Canal]…

One day, while I was working, a Securitate second lieutenant approached me when I was alone. He addressed me with, ‘Good afternoon, Maestro’. I was speechless. A Securitate second lieutenant smiled to me! I felt the whole world was spinning around me. In almost two years of imprisonment I had only heard insults, from ‘enemy of the people’ to ‘bandit’, and, out of the blue, an officer in uniform called me ‘maestro.’ He told me he was from Iasi and that he had been to a concert I had given as a soloist of the ‘Moldova’ Philharmonic. His name was Crisan Talisman. He was on a call-up and was in charge of the camp’s paper work. He told me I had been convicted ‘administratively’ and that, if I wanted details, I could request to access my file in order to find out what my situation was. He shook my hand and left. I was so excited I couldn’t put my thoughts together. I didn’t say anything to anyone. That same evening, when I returned to the camp, I did what he told me and I got to his office. He welcomed me smiling, invited me to sit down and took out my file. It was then that I learnt the Ministry of Internal Affairs had the right to issue ‘administrative’ sentences for those who hadn’t been tried, and that those sentences came in multiples of six, ranging from six to 60 months of imprisonment. My own administrative sentence was for 24 months. But, once those 24 months expired, on 3rd May 1953, instead of being set free, I was ‘bestowed’ with an extra 36 months!

On 29th August 1953, on a Saturday evening at about 9:20pm, the phone rang [in the house at 1 Turbinei Street]. A female voice asked to talk to ‘comrade’ Henriette Mizrahy. Using few words, she said she was calling from the Presidency of the Ministers’ Council in relation to my mother’s petition and that she was being invited for an audience. If she agreed, a car would pick her up in a few minutes. According to my parents’ account, in less than five minutes after the conversation ended, a large, black car was waiting for them outside. The car stopped at the Ministers’ Council and they were accompanied to an elevator. A huge room with a desk in the back. At it, Gheorghe Gheorghiu-Dej 13, prime minister at that time, and Iosif Chisinevschi, prime vice-president of the Ministers’ Council at that time. Gheorghiu-Dej told my mother, ‘Listen, Madam, half an hour ago I received this petition together with your son’s photo.’ It was a photo of me and Mira taken at our place after a concert at the Athenaeum and I was still wearing my frock. ‘How is it possible, Madam, to have such a son and not come to me to tell me he has been suffering for such a long time? I get people from all the corners of the country, peasants and such; and you, who live in Bucharest, can’t get to me?’

Keeping her cool, my mother searched through her purse a little and took out a number of registrations that proved how many petitions she had filed in the years that had passed since my arrest. On seeing them, Gheorghiu-Dej turned to Chisinevschi, ‘You see, my dear, it’s true. Before you get to God, the saints eat you alive.’ Then he addressed my parents, ‘Tell me where your son is at this moment.’ They told him. ‘Is he all right?’ They told him about my leg accident. They didn’t know about the pulmonary congestion. [Editor’s note: In his book, Mr. Mizrahy elaborates on several health problems from that period.] The next second Gheorghiu-Dej picked up the phone and asked to speak to the Internal Affairs minister. He was told he was not in his office. They put him through to one of his deputies, named Tanasescu. My parents tried to describe to me the conversation that followed as accurately as possible: ‘Pay attention. In the Bicaz Labor Camp there is a young pianist named Dan Mizrahy. I want you to call Bicaz this instant and have them inform him he is free. Have him accompanied home by an unarmed officer dressed in civilian clothes. And I want you to confirm that the order has been carried out.’ Then he hung up. This way of controlling a man’s life and fate, this way of doing whatever one pleases – be it good or bad – through the simple push of a button, all the misdeeds committed for scores of years under all sorts of regimes, right wing or left wing, may seem like fairy-tales to a generation that didn’t live with them.

I still have my release paper. I quote from memory: ‘The said M. D., son of M. and H., arrested on 03/05/1951, according to warrant no. … [unfilled], convicted to 5 years of imprisonment by court sentence no. … [unfilled], in order to be reeducated. Released on 30/08/1953, on telephone order of Comrade Minister Tanasescu. Skills acquired during detention: working with shovel. Conduct: «good».’

The night of my arrival home, 30th/31st August 1953, was an unforgettable one. We all laughed and cried. Everyone spoke at the same time. Then, towards dawn, something extraordinary happened. I realized the Forster upright piano had been placed in my bedroom. Not caring about the late hour or my mother’s desperate signs, I sat at it and… played the first part of Tchaikovsky’s Concerto no.1! That’s right. A miracle had happened. I sat at the piano and played for the first time in the last 851 days! And something else happened. When I stood up, I asked with the most natural voice, ‘What about my slippers? Where are they?’

My wife and I were invited to Dr. Petru Groza’s 14 office. He wanted to meet us. ‘As a president,’ he told us, ‘I have the right to grant pardons. But, in order to pardon someone, that person has to be convicted first. Nedelcu told me you hadn’t been tried. [Editor’s note: Professor Nedelcu, a retiree and a former schoolmate of Petru Groza, listened to Mrs. Aurelia Cionca’s plea and handed Groza the petition signed by Mr. Mizrahy’s mother.] During a reception given at the closing of the international youth festival, I approached Chisinevschi and told him: «You see, we award young artists from all sorts of countries, and keep our own in prisons!» - «What do you mean, Comrade President?», inquired Chisinevschi. So I told him about you. And I handed him the petition.’ That audience lasted a lot longer than we had expected. Happy the ‘scheme’ to get me out from Bicaz had succeeded, Groza suddenly opened the left side of his desk and took out a pile of files which he placed on the desk saying: ‘See, this is what I do all day. Granting pardons. All these files are petitions for pardons. Whenever I can, I approve them. My predecessor, Parhon, said he wouldn’t have anything to do with this and that he trusted the penal system. Well, I don’t!’

Around the middle of fall of that extremely eventful year, Sergiu Comissiona, conductor and artistic manager of the CCS ensemble at that time, invited me to be the soloist of the symphonic concert he was preparing to conduct at the end of January 1954. I started practicing with Mrs. Cionca again; we rehearsed Bach’s Concerto in F minor at two pianos. Slowly but surely, I got back into my ‘old’ shape. At the same time, I was rehearsing pieces for recitals. The day of my ‘reentering the arena’ was drawing near. The concerts on 30th and 31st January were a milestone in Bucharest’s musical life. Initially, only one performance had been scheduled on Sunday, 30th January, at 4:45pm. Facing an unexpected demand for tickets, they decided to schedule a second concert on 31st January. Moreover, on the eve of the concert, they even decided to have a third performance on 1st February. Despite the bad weather and the difficult traffic, the hall was overcrowded. In the honor row at the balcony sat President Petru Groza accompanied by his daughter, Mia, whom I think I met on that occasion. Maestro Jora, who had come back after a five-year ban, got endless standing ovations when finishing his suite ‘Cand strugurii se coc’ [‘When Grapes Become Ripe’]. The general enthusiasm was absolutely contagious.

On 20th December 1954 I gave my first recital at the Romanian Athenaeum. It was a very important moment in my career as a soloist. My program included no less than eight composers: Scarlatti, Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, Ravel, Enesco, Prokofiev, and Gershwin. In a time when censorship was at its peak, they didn’t weigh only words, they also weighed music. Georges Enesco’s music wasn’t officially banned, but it was… omitted. The heads of the censorship couldn’t eliminate him from the draft of my program – ‘Toccata’ from Suite op. 10 – all they could do was reluctantly approve him. My ‘act of bravery’ was later described in Lucian Voiculescu’s book ‘Oedipe’ [‘Oedipus’], in a chapter where he mentioned the ‘bold ones’ who had the guts to play Enesco’s music during his self-imposed exile. Finally, we get to the other George in my program, Gershwin. Well, things were not at all simpler with him. The reason why the Radio had ‘banned’ me in 1948 was my allegedly playing a kind of music that was ‘unwanted by the audience.’ In other words, they were referring to George Gershwin. Nevertheless, after a few years of imprisonment, Dan Mizrahy included in his program for a recital at the Romanian Athenaeum, under the aegis of the State Philharmonic, the one and only ‘Rhapsody in Blue.’ In the day that followed my recital the afternoon newspaper ‘Informatia Bucurestiului’ published my photo on the front page, together with a few eulogistic words.

The school gave me a warm welcome – the principal, my old colleagues, and many other new ones who had been appointed while I had been away. The building couldn’t cope with the number of students and teachers, so they had been given a second one, on Lipscani Street; it actually belonged to the ‘Ciprian Porumbescu’ Conservatoire, but they had temporarily given a number of classrooms to the ‘Intermediate Music School.’ One year later the school moved to Principatele Unite Street, where it still functions today, under the name of ‘Dinu Lipatti’ Music High School. In the five years that followed my career went up. Invited as a soloist by the local philharmonics, invited by the Radio Broadcasting Company to play in concerts and give recitals, I got to be known nationwide.

On 3rd November 1958 my family – my parents, my wife, my sister, my brother-in-law, my niece, and I – filed a request for passports in order to emigrate to Israel. Two weeks later, my wife was sacked from the theater; on 27th November, in the morning, the principal of the intermediate music school called me and informed me – with an embarrassed voice – to prepare my teacher card and hand it to the cleaning woman who was on her way to my place. She was bringing a memo informing me that my contract had been terminated, based on an article that labeled me in such a way that no one would ever hire me again. Some managers limited themselves to a simple notification, like in my case; others called people to their office like in Reli’s case; and there were institutions, like the Romanian Opera, where they put on full-scale union and party meetings in which the applicants were ‘exposed’ as traitors and enemies of the people and were hooted out of the hall – this was the case of the couple Robina, a ballerina, and Sergiu Comissiona, a conductor. Other colleagues told me that the ones who were fired from the Radio hadn’t had an easy time either. Our situation was very serious. We became outcasts. Some of our former colleagues, the cautious or fearful ones, avoided being seen in our company, because one ‘didn’t look good’ if seen with the outcasts.

So I had to start all over again! In those wretched times, not having an employment meant that you were a tramp, which was a legal offence. Theoretically speaking, any man who was fit to work but who wasn’t employed could be seized in the street and sent to whatever workplace the authorities wanted. We heard a rumor about a cooperative association, ‘Munca si arta’ [‘Work and Art’], specialized in tailoring, which was about to found an orchestra! We all rushed in to catch a position there. I went to their address and I learnt that the rumor was true. They were indeed forming an orchestra, and it looked rather strange: ‘classical’ instrumentalists together with instrumentalists specialized in light music. Many strings, few winds. A band like Mantovani, which was a famous band at the time, larded with wind instrumentalists. I was told the pianist’s position had already been given to Miani Negreanu and that the only one available for me was ‘2nd accordionist.’ I remember the violinists Lucian Savin, Rhea Silvia Starck, and Mircea Negrescu – they had all been leaders of the symphonic orchestra of the Romanian Radio Company; I remember Mendi Rodan, the ‘aces’ of light music – Alphredo Thomas and Joe Reininger, conductor Edgar Cosma, who was now a corepetitor, and, finally, composers Fritz Wanek and Arminiu Cassvan, who now copied notes. Prestigious names covered the violas and cellos department. The ‘scope’ of this ensemble was to work with the ‘Electrecord’ Recording Company. Composer Richard Bartzer was appointed to be our conductor. He was very polite – too polite, I would say. He was actually embarrassed because he got to conduct so many musical personalities whose tragedy he knew. He was also a true professional and was very demanding. The material profits from the recording sessions were practically nil. Our ‘fee’ was 3 lei per minute of recording, which meant that a ‘long’ piece got us 15-20 lei per person… But the important thing is that we all had cooperative member certificates and we had regained a certain social status.

My wife, Aurelia Sorescu, lived her tragedy and humiliation without seeing any chance to get to do something even remotely related to her profession. Various acquaintances of hers – some of them placed in pretty high places – started suggesting to her to give up the idea of leaving the country. To file for ‘cancellation.’ This term was becoming popular – it was the term that could give us the right to live again. Of course, she asked for my opinion. I couldn’t say no. I wouldn’t have had any arguments. She had reached the limits of her physical and psychological strength. The question was whether I should abandon the emigration plans too – making common cause with her, just like she had done back in fall – or wait and see what would happen to her before I make a decision. We both agreed on the latter. She was moved from place to place, until they found her a position at the ‘L. S. Bulandra’ Theater, the former Municipal Theater. Encouraged by the results of her ‘cancellation,’ I was naive enough to think that the same thing would happen to me too. But I was wrong. My first dream had been to teach again. The answer was trenchant: ‘There’s no room for him in education anymore. He can go play in pubs!’ I couldn’t be a soloist either. With or without that cancellation, my name could no longer be printed on any poster. I had no way out. And I couldn’t access the higher hierarchy. Petru Groza was dead and Gheorghiu-Dej was the new head of the state. It was obvious that I couldn’t go to him. The man had ‘rehabilitated’ me, and I had applied for emigration in return…

At the beginning of December 1959 I was told – I can’t remember by whom – that baritone Barbu Dumitrescu, manager of the Operetta State Theater at that time, wanted to see me. I rushed to him. We knew each other – we had taught in the same music school. He received me at once and told me – in few words – that he wanted to help me. He offered me a position as a 3rd class rehearse pianist starting 1st January 1960. Out of respect, Barbu Dumitrescu assigned me to the vocal soloists’ section. 3rd class rehearse pianist was a position that didn’t require higher education and didn’t involve public appearances as the one who accompanies. The first condition – education-related – affected my salary, which was much lower than the one of the ‘master corepetitors,’ while the second was actually a benefit. The fact that I remained ‘banned’ and could not be featured on any poster – not even on concert programs, as you will soon see – kept me away from the chores that the operetta soloists had to endure: they were forced to attend various political celebrations – 1st May, 23rd August, 30th December, 8th March – to give public recitals for local culture halls, union events, factories and such, not to mention the tours and the radio and television appearances.

I was put in charge of preparing Gherase Dendrino’s operetta ‘Lisistrata.’ Days of real artistic fulfillment followed. First of all, I liked the music. The tunes were beautiful and many of them later became hits; they were well harmonized, with modern, catchy rhythms. The cast was mostly composed of first-class soloists. I can’t forget the working sessions with Ion Dacian, ‘the prince of operetta.’ [Editor’s note: Ion Dacian (1911-1981): one of the best known Romanian tenors; he performed Romanian and international operetta.] He came to my booth with an English punctuality and sat next to me as a ‘disciple.’ With an embarrassing politeness, he addressed me as ‘maestro.’ Noticing I didn’t feel comfortable when I had to make comments on his performance, he asked me not to spare him at all; he told me that he deeply respected my professionalism. So I had to comply. More than 40 years have passed since then. The Operetta Theater, located on the Dambovita River’s bank, in the building which sheltered the Romanian Opera during the war and the ‘Regina Maria’ Theater before that, was demolished. Many artists of that period are no longer among us. They departed and took their memories with them. Still, a miracle happened! In 2001 the former Operetta State Theater, which had become the ‘Ion Dacian’ Operetta Theater and was temporarily located in one of the halls of the National Theater, was renamed the ‘Ion Dacian’ National Operetta Theater. On that occasion, I became an honorary member of this prestigious institution.

On 1st November 1960 I got transferred to the People’s Arts School. The opportunity had come for me to return to teaching! The salary criteria for corepetitors and teachers were the same – they included education, seniority and teaching degrees. I agreed with Principal Benea to start working in the afternoon of 1st November. But as the end of November drew near, the clerks couldn’t register me on the payroll because my ‘appointment’ hadn’t arrived yet. The holidays were close. The principal asked me to stop coming to school until my appointment arrived. So I became unemployed again. I had become a ‘case.’ The members of my profession knew what I was going through. Some of them, especially my former colleagues from the Operetta Theater, felt sorry for me. Others just passed me by indifferently.

On 21st January 1961, towards noon, while I had a corepetition session with one of the Operetta Theater’s soloists at her place, I got a phone call at home. They wanted me to contact the school’s deputy principal as soon as possible. I called her and suddenly my legs felt numb. ‘Hello, how are you, Comrade Mizrahy? We’re looking for you and can’t find you. Your students are waiting for you to come to school. Your appointment has arrived…’ I lingered on that chair for a few moments, unable to utter one sound.

From a professional point of view, the period that followed was beautiful and serene. I did my job with enthusiasm. I had earned my students’ trust. They came to my classes with pleasure. They studied, made progresses, and everyone was happy. Of course, the skills of my disciples were generally way inferior to those of the piano ‘majors’ from the music high schools. I used the term ‘generally’ because – like I said – some of them grew to become professional musicians, and good ones too. Over the years, they kept adding to the list. However, they were the exceptions. Still, what remains important to me is that at least 90% of the students had come to learn to play the piano out of love, by their own will, and sometimes out of passion; they hadn’t been ‘steered’ by their parents, they hadn’t been forced in any way.

So I had been rehabilitated as a teacher, but I was still forbidden to play as a soloist. The first one who was willing to take the bull by the horns was conductor Henry Selbing, manager and prime conductor of the State Philharmonic in Sibiu at the time. He called me and, at my request, sent me a written invitation informing me I was scheduled to play Bach’s Concerto in F minor and Gershwin’s ‘Rhapsody in Blue’ as a soloist of his philharmonic on Wednesday, 22nd February 1961 at 8pm. This invitation was an act of great courage. At the end of 1958 the Ministry of Culture had sent a memo with the list of ‘banned’ conductors and soloists to all the philharmonics, and it was still valid.

Armed with the written invitation I went to the Music Department of the Ministry of Culture. The newly appointed manager was Comrade Mauriciu Vescan, whose ‘maiden name’ was Wechsler. An accordionist by trade and a major union activist at the beginning of the communist era, he had climbed the political hierarchy to become a manager in a ministry. He held me the ‘standard’ speech about ‘war and peace,’ ‘capitalism and socialism,’ ‘patriotism and cosmopolitanism,’ and many other slogans used and proliferated by the Party activists of the time. After I let him recite his ‘poem,’ I replied, within the limits of decency and politeness. My position was slightly different from the one I had had during previous audiences. I had been ‘rehabilitated,’ and by the ‘Party’ itself too. I told him that, since the application for emigration was not a crime, there was no reason for him to address me as a felon. Besides, more than one year before, I had withdrawn my application and I had resumed my teaching career. The fact that the philharmonics began to invite me as a soloist again proved that my activity in this field was valued and even necessary to the fulfillment of the concert quotas. He continued to groan and mumble. Eventually, he muttered something like ‘Well, let them have you then. But I, for one, would never invite you!’

At the beginning of March I was in the house of composer Mircea Chiriac when I got a call informing me that the emigration approval had arrived for my parents and my sister with all her family: husband, daughter and mother-in-law. I interrupted the rehearsal, apologized, mounted my scooter and went home. I read the documents. They all bore the mention ‘urgent.’ Difficult moments and days followed. My parents were the ones who were leaving now, planning to spend the last years of their lives in peace. In the evening before the departure they both came to my bedroom. Without saying one word, the three of us let our tears burst. We sobbed for a long time.

The most painful memory from those days is the arrival of the new lodgers, who had been sent by the SGL [the housing authority]: a family of three – father, mother, and daughter – the S family. They were assigned the upper floor – my room, Mira’s room, which had become my parents’ bedroom, the hallway – and were granted access to the bathroom, to my grandmother’s former room, to the kitchen, and to the basement. We got to keep the bedroom, the study and the service room, which we obtained after lengthy negotiations. Of course, the front door was used as an entrance, so everyone passed through our living room. Here’s a sample of conversation with the S. family: ‘Mister Dan! You and your wife take 14 showers every week; Mrs. Adela, our cleaning woman, takes one. This gives us a total of 15. Now, the three of us only shower once a week, on Saturday. This gives us a total of 3. Which means that we should pay 5 times less than you pay for the water!’

It was always said that the ‘regulation’ of the housing space was generated by the increase of the cities’ population. But this increase was not the result of a natural growth. The main cause of the population boom in the major cities was the migration of the peasants, determined by two factors: the confiscation of their lands and the massive industrialization process. In a society led by the ‘working class,’ which was privileged through laws and decrees, the normal relationships between people changed, and everything was turned upside down: the values hierarchy, mentalities, politeness, respect, conceptions – civilization in one word.

I tried to adapt myself to the new situation as much as I could; this process wasn’t fast and it wasn’t easy. I focused on my profession. As time went by, I began to receive invitations from various philharmonics; they weren’t as frequent as they had been before I was banned, at the end of 1958, but they did help me reenter the circuit. In 1961 I was invited to Targu Mures, a city where I always played for a full house; in 1962 I went to Arad, Oradea, Sibiu, Oradea again, Focsani, and Targu Mures again. My repertoire consisted of five different concerts that I used in different combinations. Other philharmonics came: Ploiesti, Craiova, Iasi, Galati, Cluj etc.

For many years, my professional activity was split in two: a pianist in the morning and a teacher in the evening. In my 50 years of teaching I always scheduled my classes in the afternoon, so that I could study the piano in the morning. I thoroughly adhered to this schedule most of the time. My return to stages of Bucharest took place rather late, after 7 years of absence. It so happened that I had two concerts just eight days apart: one at the Athenaeum, with the cinema symphonic orchestra conducted by Paul Popescu, the other one at the Radio Hall, with the symphonic orchestra conducted by Mircea Cristescu. Getting to the ‘Enesco’ Philharmonic was more difficult. I only had my ‘debut’ with this orchestra in the summer of 1970.

At the beginning of the 1963-1964 academic year I was appointed the head of the Instruments Department of the People’s Arts School in Bucharest. I held that position for 20 years. At the time of my appointment the department only counted a few people. In the 1970s, their number had increased to 37 professionals who taught no less than 17 different subjects.

In the spring of 1964 the ‘Electrecord’ Company invited me to record ‘Rhapsody in Blue’ and George Gershwin’s Concerto in F, accompanied by the cinema symphonic orchestra conducted by Paul Popescu. It was a professional challenge and a totally unexpected proposition. Of course, I accepted on the spot. Although, judged individually, most of the instrumentalists were top quality, the recording of the rhapsody was a professional test of great difficulty. First of all, it was about the style. Symphonic jazz was totally new to them. The piano was extremely old and worn out and it occasionally made us surprises. The nails that fixed the chords sometimes gave in during the recording. The first one to notice this was our excellent sound master named Fredi Negrescu. My cooperation with him was impeccable, both during the recording, and during the processing, when I sat next to him in his booth and we decided on the final version of the LP together. As years went by, the ‘Gershwin’ record became a success. For many years in a row, about 30 I believe, it was reedited and it sold like hot cakes every time.

One month after the record was launched – an event that was mentioned in the press and on the radio – the cinema symphonic orchestra, conducted by Paul Popescu, organized a ‘smashing concert’ at the Athenaeum. The program comprised two composers: Stravinsky and Gershwin. The former was represented by the ‘Symphony in Three Movements’ and ‘The Firebird’, and the latter – by ‘An American in Paris’ and ‘Rhapsody in Blue’, with me playing the piano. Seven years and a half had passed since my last performance on the stage of the Athenaeum. On entering the stage I actually got standing ovations; that night I felt that Gershwin was not the only one whom the audience loved… ‘The Ostracized,’ ‘The Banned,’ ‘The Unwanted’ of the authorities of the time was rewarded with generous and warm applause by the Bucharest audience, who wanted to show that the seven to eight years of my absence had not gone unnoticed.

On Tuesday, 24th September 1964 I got married to Elena Cecilia Mizrahy [nee Dimitriu]. Cici [affectionate for Cecilia] was born on 22nd May 1933 in Bacau. During the war she lived with her family in Cernauti until 1944, then they stayed in Abrud for a few months, and finally got to Bucharest. After graduating from the Conservatoire, she started to teach canto at the same school where I worked, the People’s Arts School. She worked there from 1959 until the year of her retirement, 1999. She was interested in the art of singing, had a beautiful soprano voice, and proved to be an extremely good teacher, with remarkable achievements in this field.

Cici is a part of me. She’s a component of mine, and I probably am one of hers. We usually think alike and, when we don’t, we respect each other’s point of view. We have the same sense of humor. She has been a very good travel companion throughout the 41 years of our marriage. She’s an excellent cook – and I’m not being subjective here, for all our friends admit she is. She has never had racial prejudices. Without denying her religion – she’s a Christian-Orthodox – she embraced the traditions that I am fond of; she is familiar with the Jewish holidays and their meaning. During our countless trips to Israel, she learnt many words in Hebrew, to the great surprise of my relatives who live there. She is very discreet and very picky when it comes to choosing her friends. But, once you are among her true friends, she is totally devoted to you.

The year 1966 was extremely generous to me. First of all, there was the joy of having my parents home again. Then there was the absolute Romanian premiere of Gershwin’s second rhapsody for piano and orchestra. Another important accomplishment was my getting the 2nd teaching degree, after an exam I passed in fall. My parents arrived on Friday, 10th June 1966, at 3pm. The reunion was superb. There were no tears or sighs. We were all cheerful and behaved naturally, irradiating a contagious good humor. They embraced Cici with the warmth of two parents who see their daughter again. Of course, they had already got to know one another from the photos and the weekly letters, to enjoy one another’s humor and to value one another. Those were great moments. What followed is what I consider to be the happiest vacation of my life. And I think I am not mistaken too much if I say that they felt the same about it. In the three months that followed we tried to offer them everything they had been missing for the last five years. The day before they left I had the inspiration to record their thoughts. My father tells about how he swam with me in Floreasca Lake, Snagov Lake, the Black Sea, in Ocna Sibiului, Tusnad Lake, Sf. Ana Lake, Codlea pool and I don’t know where else. His story is followed by my mother, whose charming laughter was caught on tape forever. At the end of the recording there’s a tune played by four hands: Moscu and Dan Mizrahy playing ‘A travers les bois’ [French for ‘Across the Woods’] – a worthless salon piece with which we used to have fun in my childhood. Today this worthless piece is priceless to me…

My parents returned during the 1968 vacation. The invasion of Czechoslovakia [see Prague Spring] 15 caught us all in Bucharest. In the panic of those days, we were seized by all sorts of thoughts. My parents were scheduled to return on 30th August 1968 and we figured we should try to arrange for them to leave earlier. Another option was to try to cross the border to Yugoslavia. But we realized we didn’t have passports and that my parents – who were old and had illnesses – could not undertake such an adventure. I can’t remember whether or not we tried to change the plane tickets. I remember one of the last days we spent together. We drove to Giurgiu. On our way we met many Czechoslovakian cars returning from Bulgaria. Everyone greeted them and encouraged them. My father reached the end of his life that same year. He died in Israel.

Encouraged by the fact that things relatively loosened up in Romania after the invasion of Czechoslovakia, we decided to take our chance and, on an April day, we applied for a visit to our relatives in Israel. Filling the forms was a nightmare. There were many pages with questions that required unequivocal answers. According to the custom of the time, a few weeks after we submitted the application, Securitate officers dressed in civilian clothes visited the school and our neighbors, including the ones who were living in the same house with us, in order to ‘collect information.’ They inquired whether we were ‘trustworthy’ people, who frequented us, whether or not we had sold things from the house and so on and so forth. Our application was approved in June. At the beginning of July, right after the summer vacation started, we left. The days that followed felt like a dream. Faces of people whom I hadn’t dared hope I would ever see again were right before my eyes: my family, my friends, my acquaintances, my former colleagues. Shortly after we arrived we went to the wedding of my first-degree cousin, Daniela Mizrachi, daughter of Nicu, my father’s brother. Daniela was born in 1946, one year after I had left Palestine. I dare say that, the bride and groom aside, we were the stars of that evening. We were pampered, courted, fondled, and, most of all, assaulted with questions. The truth is that we were in fact among the very few tourists who had ever come to Israel from the SRR [Socialist Republic of Romania].

I was 43 in 1969. At that time, our ‘fortune’ was limited to a Trabant, and a piano. [Editor’s note: Trabant was a famous automobile brand formerly produced by East-German carmaker Sachsenring. A very popular vehicle in the former socialist countries, Trabant cars had a bad reputation but were quite reliable and affordable.] We were just beginning to claim our house back – it had been taken by the State in 1963 – and our chances to achieve that were extremely low. When we left for Israel our school principal pledged for us. If we didn’t come back we could cause him problems. However, weighing my promise on the one hand and all the nasty things that the totalitarian regime had made me endure, and which I already described in detail, on the other hand, wasn’t I entitled to break my promise? Yes, I was. Still, I thought that our departure as tourists – a couple with no children – became a precedent in the SRR; it was an experiment for the regime. Our failure to return may have had a negative impact on all the other ‘tourists’ like us, who could have been prevented from leaving because of us. We kept considering the pros and cons in those vacation days. But we turned down the offers – among them, a piano and a canto class at the Jerusalem Rubin Academy – and came back on the scheduled day.

At the creation contest ‘Crizantema de aur’ [‘The Golden Chrysanthemum’, a popular romance competition] held in Targoviste in 1969, my romance ‘Batranul tei’ [‘The Old Linden Tree’] was awarded the 2nd prize. For the edition of 1970 I wrote two songs – ‘Inserare’ [‘Dusk’] and ‘Monedele’ [‘The Coins’]. The latter was awarded the 1st prize. In 1971 I wrote a light tune inspired by Tania Lovinescu’s lyrics. It was sung by the great singer Doina Badea and recorded by the Radio Company. The ‘entertainment’ orchestra of the Romanian Radio and Television Company was conducted by Sile Dinicu. It was my first light song and it was called ‘Daca’ [‘If’]. In that summer I composed a second one, called ‘Chiot’ [‘Shout’], based on the lyrics of Mariana Dumitrescu. Again, it was recorded by Doina Badea, but Cornel Popescu did the orchestration and conducted this time. I entered the [1971 edition of the] ‘Crizantema de aur’ with ‘Romanta toamnei’ [‘The Autumn’s Romance’], based on the lyrics of Tania Lovinescu. This time, at my request, the lyrics were cheerful, expressing the joy of meeting the fall and its flowers ‘in thousands of colors’ and culminating in a declaration of love addressed to the chrysanthemums. The result? ‘The Special Prize of the Composers’ Union’! It was the third year in a row when I came back with an award from Targoviste. ‘Pas mal’… [French for ‘Not bad’] In the fall of 1972 the romance ‘Primul fior’ [‘The First Thrill’], based on the lyrics of Constanta Campeanu and my music, got the 1st prize. In 1972 I also found the time to write the cycle ‘Fours songs for soprano and piano,’ based on the lyrics of Mariana Dumitrescu.

In 1973 we were allowed to spend our vacation in Israel again. Although we were no longer a ‘premiere’ there, we were just as pampered as we had been the previous time. Each and every cousin invited us over and took us out. Festive meals at my parents’ sisters and brothers, tickets to the Israeli philharmonic, conducted by Zubin Mehta, walks through the old and new Jerusalem, invitations to my former colleagues and friends – among them, the same Haysa, who not only hadn’t given up persuading me to accept a teaching position in Jerusalem, but was even offering me a whole department this time!

In 1975 I wrote several light music tunes. It was in that year that were born ‘Noptilor’ [‘To the Nights’] and ‘Floarea dragostei’ [‘The Flower of Love’], based on the lyrics of Alexandru Mandy. I have many important memories from that year too. From a professional point of view, it is worth mentioning that I managed to perform in public, playing the integral of the pieces for piano and orchestra by George Gershwin in the same concert. It consists of ‘Rhapsody in Blue’, the Concerto in F, the 2nd Rhapsody, and ‘I got rhythm.’ The event took place in Arad on 20th and 21st April, with Eliodor Rau conducting. As the local press pointed out, that was an absolute premiere – and not just a national one, but possibly an international one. None of the critics, musicologists and other experts, and none of the reviewers who were up to date with the specialized international publications had heard of such a performance so far. Anyway, what’s certain is that the event was an absolute premiere in Romania. In the years that followed, I did it repeatedly with various orchestras in the country. I quote, from memory, of course: Brasov, Iasi, Satu Mare, Timisoara, Oradea, and, eventually, Bucharest after 1989. In some cities like Arad or Timisoara I played ‘The Integral’ for three or four times; in others like Iasi or Satu Mare I played it twice and I also went on tours to the neighboring cities: to Piatra Neamt with the Iasi orchestra and to Baia Mare and Sighet with the Satu Mare orchestra.

The light tune ‘Care din doua?’ [‘Which of the Two?’], composed using a less common rhythm – 5/4 – entered the [national] music competition in Mamaia in 1976. Its lyrics are very funny. It’s a comparison between ‘the old love,’ which is ‘unmatched’ and ‘leaves a heavy trace,’ and the ‘new love,’ which ‘is worth as much as two’ and ‘one can’t live without it.’ The lyrics were written by H. Malineanu. I’ll quote some more, as I think it’s worth it: ‘Veche sau noua, care din doua? E o intrebare, nu? Nu pentru mine c-am ales bine, dragostea mea esti Tu’ [‘Old or new, which of the two? It’s a question, isn’t it? Not for me, for I have chosen well, my love is You’]. That was the only time I participated in the light music competition. It was a world I didn’t belong to. But I did continue to write light music and took pleasure in it too: ‘Drum implinit’ [‘Completed Way’], ‘Vers de dragoste’ [‘Love Verse’], ‘Leac pentru iubire’ [‘Cure for Love’], and ‘Cainele granicerului’ [‘The Frontier Guard’s Dog’] – which were all based on the lyrics of Eugen Rotaru – as well as the romance ‘Lumini si umbre’ [‘Lights and Shadows’], based on the lyrics of Malina Cajal, date back to 1976.

Our stay in Israel in 1976, after my mother’s death, was sad and difficult. We stayed for the last time in my mother’s apartment, surrounded by memories and feeling excited every time we touched one of the small things that used to belong to her. I kept a constant weekly correspondence with my parents from the moment of their departure to Israel until my mother’s death. Out of inertia, I continued to exchange letters with Mira until her husband died in November 1995. Then my sister replaced the letters with the phone calls. If, until 1995, a phone call was a real event – and had only been used to announce the death of a relative or to check on us after the 1977 earthquake and sometimes for anniversaries – Mira turned it into our most common means of communication. Needless to say, because of the great difference between our material standards of living, the one who makes the calls, sometimes more than once a week, is her, not us.

In 1977, the year of the earthquake, my professional activity, except for the teaching part, was affected by this catastrophe. All my contemporaries – the citizens of Bucharest in particular – can remember those horrifying and interminable moments. The courtyard in front of the garage was covered with bricks from our neighbors’ shed, which had collapsed almost entirely. We left on foot. The streets were full of people who were walking around looking for their close ones, just like we were. We passed the apartment house at 58 Sahia Street, today’s Jean-Louis Calderon Street. A pile of debris covered in a cloud of dust stood where the building used to be. Universitatii Square was in total darkness, so we couldn’t see the ruins of the ‘Dunarea’ apartment house. We tried to cross the square to get to the apartment house at 3 Ion Ghica Street, where Cici’s mother lived with her husband. The street was blocked by the debris from the building on the other side: the corner of Ghica Street and Bibliotecii Street. In that apartment house used to live Doina Badea with her husband and her two little children, young pianist Tudor Dumitrescu, poet Veronica Porumbacu and many others… We were impressed by the silence that reigned over the whole city. Our house looked as if it had been bombed. On the upper floor, everything was damaged, except for the bathroom. Bricks, debris, bits of glass. In the room of my childhood – which had become the guestroom – the stove had simply exploded and the scattered terracotta pieces blocked the access door.

At the beginning of July 1978 we left for Paris by car! My cousin Gabriel Segalescu sent us an official invitation and we were able to get all the necessary papers approved. The minimum amount of money necessary to get the visas for a trip by car was $100. Once we got the passport and the bank certificate, we obtained the visas from the embassies of France, Germany, Switzerland, and the Benelux countries: Belgium, Holland and Luxembourg. We didn’t need visas for Hungary and Austria. Those were days of accumulation… The return trip felt longer and sadder. We were realistic people and we knew perfectly well what we were leaving behind and what we were going back to. The ‘fantastic trip’ had ended…

In August 1979 we made an unexpected trip to Israel, to attend the wedding of my niece, Dina [nee Cotin]. It took place in a huge hall specially built for such occasions, with lots of people – about 200 – food, drinks, and fiddlers. The religious service was performed under a canopy placed in the middle of the hall. Then there was dancing and music and fun. At the request of my sister and my brother-in-law, I stood by the entrance with Jack Rotaru and I collected the presents, which I stored, together with the attached business cards, in the adjoining room. However, most of the guests brought cheques, according to the local custom. Unlike the Romanian weddings, where the party lasts till dawn, the wedding parties in Israel are incredibly short. The whole thing – the ceremony, the speeches, the more than abundant meals, the singing and dancing – doesn’t exceed two or three hours.

1980 remains a capital year in my career as a soloist. It’s the year of my first – and only! – tour as the soloist of a symphonic orchestra. In 14 days I gave 13 concerts which included two of Gershwin’s pieces for piano and orchestra: the Concerto in F and ‘Rhapsody in Blue.’ The orchestra that accompanied me was the ‘Moldova’ State Philharmonic conducted by Ion Baciu, and the country we toured was Italy. The tour was organized by a Polish-Argentinian-Jewish-Italian agent and pianist named Valentin Protchinsky. We started in San Marino and went through: Sondalo in the Alps, Pescara, Sulmona, Frosinone, Campobasso, Lecce, Lamezia Terme, Cosenza, Messina in Sicily, San Severo, Bari, and Foggia. As you can see, there’s almost no ‘famous’ city. However, in all these places, the concerts were held in perfect concert or opera halls, with excellent pianos – Steinways most of the time – in front of educated audiences that filled the halls entirely. I had some unforgettable evenings. My companions were nice people. They had gone touring many times and had developed all sorts of ‘habits.’ One of them was to go in the morning to marketplaces no one else knew and buy cheap things – blue jeans, skirts from the same fabric or other items of clothing – which they sold when they returned to Iasi. Another arrangement consisted of the following: several colleagues gave up their entire allowance and donated it to one of them, a different person in every tour; when the tour ended, the one whose turn had come to collect the money could afford a more serious investment, like buying furniture or a refrigerator, or even pay an advance for a new apartment. It was impressive!

The year 1980 brought another major event in my professional life. Seven years after I had applied for admission to the Composers’ Union, a clerk called to inform me that my application had been approved and to invite me to pass the admission exam on 13th October at 9am. It wasn’t a simple formality, but a real examination. It consisted of three tests: composing the music for a tune – vocal and piano – based on a poem of my choice from a volume by Ion Brad; orchestrating this composition for a band of my choice; a harmony exam where I had to harmonize a given bass and a given soprano with four voices. For those who are not familiar with these terms, it was about two separate tests involving composing a song on four voices built on a given theme that could not be altered. On the day of 13th October 1980 I officially switched from ‘amateur’ to ‘professional’ composer.

At the end of December 1982 the Great National Assembly ‘voted’ in favor of a law compelling all the artistic institutions to finance themselves. It was horrible. It involved theaters, operas, philharmonics and… people’s arts schools! For the 22 years that I had spent in that school I had been the only piano teacher. In the 1981-1982 academic year a young composer had showed up in our school; thanks to a powerful connection – which remained unknown to me – he had been appointed piano teacher. But as the piano classes diminished, there was only one full-time piano teacher position left; the workload had to be divided between the two of us, and we got part-time jobs. One week later, on 30th December, when we went to school to pick up our salary, Cici was handed an envelope containing the… termination of her contract. We returned home horrified. New Year’s Eve was the next day…

I am getting to the year 1983. It was a sad year. Once the vacation was over, I went to school on my regular day and to my regular class. For the first time in 19 years, I was going alone. Another situation that was hard to bear was the new distribution of the students in the timetable that had been reduced to half. The ‘leading comrades’ found a quick solution: they increased the teaching quota from 18 hours to 26 hours a week; therefore, half a quota was 13 hours. They also invented the 45-minute class and made the teacher give up the break between two consecutive classes. This way, they considered the problem solved. Of course, it wasn’t so. Having 45-minute classes around the clock was an inadmissible thing. Interrupting a student in the middle of a sonata by Beethoven because the time had expired would have been a sacrilege. So I worked the same days, the same hours, with the same students, but I only got half of the salary. Towards the end of March I got a phone call from the principal of the ‘Dinu Lipatti’ High School whose ‘founding member ’ I had been 34 years ago and where I had been kicked out in November 1958; pianist Lavinia Coman offered me a part-time job as a rehearse pianist at the strings department. I gratefully accepted her offer. On 1st April 1983 I was employed as a part-time corepetitor at the ‘Dinu Lipatti’ Music High School. When the 1983-1984 academic year started, they gave me back my full-time job at the People’s Arts School.

In June 1985, the Composers’ Union sent me on a seven-day visit to Moscow and Leningrad with light music composer Dan Beizadea and musicologist Ianca Staicovici – such cultural exchanges were common at the time. It was a very interesting experience and a present I hadn’t even dreamt of. The visit was excellently organized and we had the best conditions, except for the train trips from Moscow to Leningrad and back; we traveled by night in a so-called berth. We spent four days in Moscow and three in Leningrad and we saw interesting places, met Russian composers, and visited museums – including the Hermitage in Leningrad and the ‘Pushkin’ Museum in Moscow – while attending a concert, an opera or a ballet every night.

1985 and 1986 were extremely rich in concerts. I look over the concert agenda – 18 symphonic concerts: Iasi, Arad, Satu Mare, Sighetu Marmatiei, Targu Mures, Sibiu, Timisoara, Cluj Napoca, Craiova. What strikes is the frequency of the concerts held in the same city in the same year – three times in Arad, Timisoara, and Oradea, twice in Craiova. If I were to add the educational concerts, which – in most of the cases – preceded the ‘real’ concert and had a relatively large audience, the total number of concerts would double. Looking over the programs, I find ‘The Integral’ six times. For the rest – with few exceptions – I played at least two of Gershwin’s pieces. For the State Philharmonics – which had switched to self-financing – any concert that could bring about profit was a business opportunity not to be missed. ‘Gershwin Festival’ or ‘The Gershwin Integral’ secured a full house. The public, who had been deprived of attractive TV shows – although the entire Banat and a part of Western Transylvania were tuned in to the Yugoslav and Hungarian TV stations – craved for American music, and Gershwin was and still is a prominent representative of this music.

In 1987 the Composers’ Union sent me to Berlin – East Berlin, of course – with my younger colleague, composer Calin Ioachimescu. I was shocked by the abundance that I found in the ‘red’ Berlin and I tried to compare it to the poverty that waited for me back home. I knew the cause of this incomparable abundance enjoyed by the citizens of East Germany: the Russians were trying to compete with the money pumped by the Americans in West Germany. I was amazed by the variety of sausages from the groceries, as well as by the large array of beers. In Bucharest, whenever they ‘brought’ beer in some alimentara [grocery] – a thing that only happened every now and then – a huge queue would form in the street and the people of the neighborhood would rush home to get ‘returnable bottles.’ The cinema near the hotel ran the film ‘Out of Africa’ starring Meryl Streep and Robert Redford. The last performance began at 10pm. In Bucharest, the cinemas closed at 9pm. By night, streets were lit as if it were day; in Bucharest we had dim light bulbs on every other pole… Moreover, I remember the flight back, which took place after night had fallen, in perfect visibility. After we flew over East Germany, a part of Czechoslovakia and Hungary, we knew we had reached Romania when we couldn’t see any city lights…

As for the daily life in those years, the knife was beginning to reach the bone. Everything became a problem – from the daily necessities to comfort. In order to pay the external debt the regime had decided to impose drastic internal savings. These ‘savings’ involved driving the local population to starvation and restrictions in power, thermal energy and fuel consumption. There were times when, in order to buy a loaf of bread, you had to show your ID card to prove you lived in Bucharest, lest the peasants should buy bread to feed their animals, God forbid! The butcher’s stores sold pig hoofs, bones and chicken tacamuri. The ‘tacamuri’ were claws, wings, and heads of slaughtered poultry. In order to purchase a 1-kilogram pack of meat you had to stand in line the night before, hoping a truck would come in the morning and they would ‘bring’ meat. Whenever a store sold meat, a queue formed out of the blue and the verb ‘to sell’ was replaced by the verb ‘to give.’ ‘What are they giving here?’ – ‘They’re giving meat.’ I remember a joke from that period. An American passes by such an interminable queue and asks in surprise: ‘What is going on here?’ – ‘They’re giving meat,’ the reply comes. And the American goes: ‘Oh, in that case, I think I’d rather buy it.’ Here’s another one, more ‘subtle.’ A man standing in a queue to buy meat is cursing violently: ‘Damn him! To hell with him and his entire kin! May he rot in hell!’ Two civilians seize him, take him to the police station, and hand him to the lieutenant who’s on duty. ‘Who are you cursing?’ he asks him. ‘Hitler… He is the one who brought us to this pitiful state, isn’t he?’ Shocked, the lieutenant releases him at once. The man reaches the door, then turns to the lieutenant and asks him: ‘Excuse me, Sir, but who exactly did you think I was cursing?’ The bottom line: people started to have guts. As for the sense of humor, they had never lost it.

In the Bucharest cinemas an American film was a very rare thing. When they did run such a film, it was only to show the racism in the US or the ‘fight for peace’ or the poverty in some God-forsaken places in the desert or the mountains. However, Bucharest was full of videotapes brought by various people from abroad. It wasn’t illegal, but it wasn’t done in broad daylight either. Without this circuit being clandestine, it had a certain touch of discretion. In the latter half of the 1980s the Bulgarian television became the ‘new fashion’ in Bucharest. People, us included, would install special antennas, persistently trying to catch an American or European show or film or a concert. The Bulgarians also had a second channel, specialized in culture. This is where I watched – among other things – Verdi’s ‘Requiem’ sung by Mirela Freni and her husband, Nicolae Ghiaurov, as well as ‘Rhapsody in Blue’ performed by Alexis Weissenberg, my former fellow-student from Jerusalem, whom I hadn’t heard of for over 40 years. The Bulgarian television had become so popular, that certain apartment houses posted its weekly program at the entrance. The inhabitants of Timisoara caught the Yugoslav and Hungarian TV stations; in Iasi they caught the television from Chisinau; Oradea caught the Budapest television and so on and so forth.

The year 1989 didn’t seem to be any different from the previous. It was on 20th December, when Ceausescu – who had just returned from Iran – appeared on TV, surrounded by the vice-presidents of the State Council, with the tricolor in the background, and announced the proclamation of the state of emergency in Timisoara that we realized we were living truly historic days. We watched a part of the rally that took place the following day – a Thursday. At 12:30pm, after the first interruption of the broadcast, we had to go to a warehouse of the Jewish Community on Negustori Street to buy the kosher meat ration that the Community sold to us once a month. While we were crossing Republicii Avenue at the crossroads with Armeneasca Street, we heard a powerful explosion. We later found out that it had been produced by the petard that had caused the rally in Palatului Square to fall apart. The news was confusing. We didn’t know anything about the events in front of the Intercontinental Hotel and in Universitatii Square and Romana Square. On Friday morning an unscheduled television broadcast announced the proclamation of the state of emergency in Bucharest and throughout the entire country. They ran patriotic songs and folk dances. We turned the TV off. Towards noon our friend Geta Coman called us and told us to turn the TV on. We complied and it was then that we learnt that the impossible had become reality. A saying had been running for a few months: every Romanian keeps a bottle of champagne in the fridge. No one explained it, but everyone knew what it meant. However, the euphoric moments at noon were followed by the shots in Palatului Square, today’s Revolutiei Square in the afternoon, then by the sporadic shots that could be heard all night, even in the vicinity of our house. News began to arrive about people killed on the street like actor Horia Caciulescu, for instance; helicopters that didn’t belong to the army began to rotate at low altitude; we got contradicting news about the capture of the Ceausescu couple; there was shooting at the Television Company and at the Defense Ministry. In other words, life was far from being back to normal. Teams of armed volunteers wearing tricolor badges were patrolling the streets not knowing what and whom they were after. I remember the television speakers and other employees, who came on air and apologized, asserted their position, blamed the others, and exculpated themselves: actors, composers, military, people who wanted to ‘step in front’.

For several years the opinion that ‘nothing has changed’ could often be heard. It was fueled by people who weren’t necessarily ill willed, but whose horizons were rather limited. In my opinion, they were wrong. In the first year after the [Romanian] Revolution [of 1989] 16 there was a joke. What were the Romanians before the revolution? Penguins standing in the cold and applauding. What about after the revolution? Dalmatians: the more black spots they had, the louder they barked… If I am not mistaken, this is the only political joke that I heard after the revolution. Once the winter vacation was over schools were opened again and we began our classes. People returned to their daily routine. The pictures of the ‘genius of the Carpathians’ were taken down from the walls; the word ‘comrade’ disappeared from the vocabulary, together with other terms that we were happy to get rid of: ‘activist,’ ‘sectorist’ [police officer in charge of law enforcement and population registration in a certain district], ‘the collective work,’ ‘on duty’…

In 1991, 45 years after my ‘debut’ as a collaborator of the Romanian Radio Broadcasting Company, when the decision to end my soloist’s career had already been made, I requested a scheduling of the ‘Integral of the pieces for piano and orchestra’ by George Gershwin. In an unprecedented gesture, the Television asked me to introduce the pieces in the program myself. They came to my place with all their equipment and filmed me in various corners of my study – for each introduction they used a different setting. They told me the whole concert would be broadcast on television. At my suggestion, in order to prevent the audience from getting bored during the breaks between the four pieces, they installed two monitors in the hall, so that the audience could watch the TV program. Moreover, during the intermission, they broadcast an interview that Yvona Cristescu, the show’s editor, had done with me at the Radio in the break of the general rehearsal. They also ran short fragments from that rehearsal. So, for two hours and a half, there was an ‘all-Mizrahy show’ on radio as well as on TV.

At the crossroads of 1997 and 1998 I went on a tour organized by Lory Walfisch to the US. It included five lecture-concerts on George Gershwin in five colleges and universities in five states, and two recitals in Washington DC, at the State Department and at the World Bank. 1998 wasn’t a relaxed year at all. Soon after we came back, tenor Florin Diaconescu held a recital of arias from operas in the foyer of the National Opera. He included a few lieder in his program – three by Valentin Teodorian and three by me. His wish was that I accompany all these lieder. A few months later I resumed the role of ‘accompanying author’ at the launch of my volume of songs and romances at the ‘Muzica’ store. This volume was a personal thing, as well as a professional ambition. In the years that had passed since I had written my ‘Batranul tei’ I had composed 34 other romances. On 27th June 1998 the launch of the album ‘Eu te iubesc, romanta’ [‘I love you, romance’] took place.

In 1998 was the Gershwin centenary: 100 years since his birth. The Radio Broadcasting Company made me a very nice and honoring invitation. They offered me their concert hall in November, letting me organize a ‘Gershwin evening.’ The poster of the concert read: ‘Gershwin Centenary – Dan Mizrahy and his guests.’ The names of the guests followed. The announcer was Florian Lungu. ‘Mosu’ [‘the old man’], as this refined and profound specialist in jazz likes to be called, and I had a fruitful dialogue on stage. Sitting at a table in a corner of the stage, with a microphone in front of him, he participated in my entire program. Our dialogue included biographical data about Gershwin, the presentation of the program, going to musicological analysis at times, and humor. The audience was warm, receptive, participating, and they welcomed the spontaneous jokes with applause. I played nine pieces in first public performance. Another ‘detail’ that shouldn’t be neglected is that, from the end of August until Christmas Eve, our house went through a renovation process! It looked like a real construction site: scaffolds, bricklayers, tinsmiths, carpenters, house painters, and debris, a lot of debris… In the morning I practiced at the cottage piano of my friend and neighbor, Stelian Popescu. In the afternoons when I had classes at school I stayed in the classroom after the workday was over and I invited my young collaborators, including the members of the ‘Contemp’ quartet, there. They came in the evening and we rehearsed. Other times I rehearsed with the vocal soloists in some empty hall of the Philharmonic. I remember the evening of the concert – dressed in my tuxedo and wearing my lacquered shoes, I stepped through the debris trying to keep myself clean…

In November, at the request of the Romanian Radio Broadcasting Company, I started to record the nine piano pieces that I had played in first public performance. During the recording sessions I also learnt the tenth (‘Jassbo Brown’), which I had received in the meantime, thus securing the Radio archive with everything George Gershwin had written for piano and orchestra, as well as for solo piano. Three years later these recordings were included on a double CD edited by ‘Electrecord’ with the support of the Radio Company. One of my dreams came true: I recorded all the works composed for piano by George Gershwin.

The ‘Haim and Sara Ianculovici’ Foundation in Haifa awarded me the diploma and title of ‘Laureate emeritus’ for the year 2000 and invited me to come to the bestowment ceremony in April. I found out along the way that this foundation had been created a few years earlier by a couple of Romanian-born Jews who had settled in Israel in 1950. In the last decade of the 20th century they became a sort of Maecenas [patron of arts], supporting young Israeli artists and awarding personalities of science and art from Israel and Romania. I learnt that among the 1999 laureates was Academy member Nicolae Cajal 17. In 2000 they also awarded literary critic Zigu Ornea [Ornea, Zigu (1930-2001): Romanian literary historian, editor, editor-in-chief, then manager of the Minerva and Hasefer publishing houses] and philosopher Henry Wald [Wald, Henry (1920-2002): Romanian philosopher of Jewish origin; he wrote studies on epistemology, logics, and semantics.]. The concerts I held on 28th and 29th June 2000 in Jerusalem had, of course, a special meaning for me. 59 years after I had first set foot in the ‘Holy City,’ I returned as a soloist of the Jerusalem Symphony Orchestra, having my friend, Sergiu Comissiona, at the conductor’s rostrum. Another important factor, emotion-related, was my family. Six of my first-degree cousins were still alive at that time, scattered throughout the Israeli cities. They all came, together with more distant relatives who lived in Jerusalem or in other places. Dina – my niece – took a lot of photographs in the concert hall and in my booth, capturing the moments of that evening.

When I turned 75 [in 2001] the Romanian Composers’ and Musicologists’ Union and the ‘Enesco’ Museum organized a celebration for me in the auditorium of the Cantacuzino Palace. Important personalities of the musical institutions were present. The Romanian Radio Broadcasting Company was represented by its CEO, Andrei Dimitriu; Cristian Mandeal and Nicolae Licaret came on behalf of the Philharmonic. There were many other personalities of music, composers, singers, and teachers. The entire management of the Federation of the Jewish Communities in Romania, led by Academy member Nicolae Cajal, also attended. Speeches congratulating me and rendering me homage were held by: Dumitru Capoianu, who was also the host of the program, musicologist Octavian Lazar Cosma, vice-president of the Composers’ Union, composer Anton Suteu, secretary of the Composers’ Union, pianist Ilinca Dumitrescu, custodian of the ‘Enesco’ Museum, soprano Eugenia Moldoveanu, composer Laurentiu Profeta, musicologists Luminita Vartolomei, my former student from the People’s Arts School, and Elena Zottoviceanu, and, in the end, by pianist Lory Walfisch, who had crossed the ocean for the occasion. She also read a message from Sergiu Comissiona. Dan Iordachescu, Florin Diaconescu, Liana Podlovski, Camelia Pavlenco, and Geanina Munteanu sang some of my creations. I accompanied them on the piano. They also played recordings of my songs performed by my wife, Cecilia Mizrahy, by Corina Chiriac, Doina Badea, Valentin Teodorian, and by the ‘Voces Primaverae’ choir. I felt happy and excited when I left.

Regardless of my daily agenda for the past 25 years, I always attended the Purim festivities, first as a pianist, then as a composer. My name was – without exception – in all the programs; I wrote songs for soloists, for the children’s choir or for the big choir, which were accompanied by myself or by a band with my orchestration. Except for the ‘Purim’ song –music and lyrics by H. Malineanu – that became the closing tune for all the yearly celebrations, all the other songs were performed once, then forgotten. Among those who signed these ‘one time only’ songs were composers Misu Iancu, Elly Roman, H. Malineanu, Richard Stein, Edmond Deda, Alexandru Mandy, Aurel Giroveanu, Vasile Timis, Laurentiu Profeta, Dumitru Bughici.

My nationality is Jewish. I was raised knowing this and, even if I hadn’t known, I would have found out along the way. As far as I’m concerned, I was taught not to be ashamed of my ethnic origin, but not to brag about it either – just take it for what it is. I happened to be born in Bucharest and to bear the name Mizrahy. This stands for ‘eastern’ in Hebrew. My parents were born in Bucharest too; I, my parents, and my parents’ parents spoke Romanian. I was taught to think in Romanian, to feel in Romanian, and to play like a Romanian. This is probably why – or this is partly why – over the years, I found it difficult to understand the reason why I was ostracized or, in the ‘happier cases,’ only marginalized – more or less overtly – on the sole grounds of my ethnic origin.

I loved to play and I have always found pleasure in playing. I loved the stage and respected it. Looking back – in no anger – I realize once again that I could have accomplished more than I have, especially in terms of my soloist’s career, as well as in composition. As for my teaching activity, it was my ‘daily bread’ for more than 50 years – the duration of my career in the arts public education. After my retirement I continued to teach piano with the same thoroughness and enthusiasm for an extra 15 years. So my three professions – composing, playing and teaching – coexisted for more than three decades. Yes, I admit it today: there was room for more…

Glossary:

1 Sohnut (Jewish Agency)

International NGO founded in 1929 with the aim of assisting and encouraging Jews throughout the world with the development and settlement of Israel. It played the main role in the relations between Palestine, then under British Mandate, the world Jewry and the Mandatory and other powers. In May 1948 the Sochnut relinquished many of its functions to the newly established government of Israel, but continued to be responsible for immigration, settlement, youth work, and other activities financed by voluntary Jewish contributions from abroad. Since the fall of the Iron Curtain in 1989, the Sochnut has facilitated the aliyah and absorption in Israel for over one million new immigrants.

2 Cuza, Alexandru Ioan (1820-1870)

The election in 1859 of Alexandru Ioan Cuza as prince of both Moldavia and Walachia prepared the way for the official union (1861-62) of the two principalities as Romania. Cuza freed in 1864 the peasants from certain servile obligations and distributed some land – confiscated from religious orders – to them. However, he was despotic and corrupt and was deposed by a coup in 1866. Carol I of the house of Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen was chosen as his successor.

3 Eminescu, Mihai (1850-1889)

considered the foremost Romanian poet of his century. His poems, lyrical, passionate, and revolutionary, were published in periodicals and had a profound influence on Romanian letters. He worked in a traveling company of actors, and also acquired a broad university education. His poetry reflected the influence of the French romantics. Eminescu suffered from periodic attacks of insanity and died shortly after his final attack.

4 Transylvania

Geographical and historic area (103 000 sq. kilometre) in Romania. It is located between the Carpathian Mountain range and the Serbian, Hungarian and Ukrainian border. Today’s Transylvania is made up of four main regions: Banat, Crisana, Maramures and the historic Transylvanian territory. In 1526 at the Mohacs battle medieval Hungary fell apart; the central part of the country was incorporated into the Ottoman Empire, while in the Eastern part the autonomous Transylvanian Principality was founded. Nominally Transylvanian belonged to the Ottoman Porte; the Sultan had a veto on electing the Prince, however in reality Transylvania maintained independent foreign as well as internal policy. The Transylvanian princes maintained the policy of religious freedom (first time in Europe) and recognized three nationalities: Hungarian, Szekler and Saxon (Transylvanian German). After the treaty of Karlowitz (1699) Transylvania and Hungary fell under the Habsburgs and the province was re-annexed to Hungary in 1867 as part of the Austrian-Hungarian compromise (Ausgleich). Transylvania was characterized by specific ethno-religious diversity. The Transylvanian princes were in favor of the Reformation in the 16th and 17th century and as a result Transylvania became a stronghold of the different protestant churches (Calvinist, Lutheran, Unitarian, etc.). During the Counter-Reformation and the long Habsburg supremacy the Catholic Church also gained significant power. Transylvania’s Romanian population was also divided between the Eastern Orthodox and the Uniate Church (Greek Catholic). After the reception of the Jewish Religion by the Hungarian Parliament (1895) Jewish became a recognized religions in the country, which accelerated the ongoing Jewish assimilation in Transylvania as well as elsewhere in Hungary. After World War I Transylvania was given to Romania by the Trianon Treaty (1920). In 1920 Transylvania’s population was 5,2 million, of which 3 million were Romanian, 1,4 million Hungarian, 510,000 Germans and 180,000 Jews. According to the Second Vienna Dictate its northern part was annexed to Hungary in 1940. After World War II the entire region was enclosed to Romania by the Paris Peace Treaty. According to the last Romanian census (2002) Hungarians make 19% of the total population, and there are only several thousand Jews and Germans left. Despite the decrease of the Hungarian, German and Jewish element, Transylvania still preserves some of its multiethnic and multi-confessional tradition.

5 Anti-Jewish laws in Romania

The first anti-Jewish laws were introduced in 1938 by the Goga-Cuza government. Further anti-Jewish laws followed in 1940 and 1941, and the situation was getting gradually worse between 1941-1944 under the Antonescu regime. According to these laws all Jews aged 18-40 living in villages were to be evacuated and concentrated in the capital town of each county. Jews from the region between the Siret and Prut Rivers were transported by wagons to the camps of Targu Jiu, Slobozia, Craiova etc. where they lived and died in misery. More than 40,000 Jews were moved. All rural Jewish property, as well as houses owned by Jews in the city, were confiscated by the state, as part of the ‘Romanisation campaign’. Marriages between Jews and Romanians were forbidden from August 1940, Jews were not allowed to have Romanian names, own rural properties, be public employees, lawyers, editors or janitors in public institutions, have a career in the army, own liquor stores, etc. Jewish employees of commercial and industrial enterprises were fired, Jewish doctors could no longer practice and Jews were not allowed to own chemist shops. Jewish students were forbidden to study in Romanian schools.

6 Legionary

Member of the Legion of the Archangel Michael, also known as the Legionary Movement, founded in 1927 by C. Z. Codreanu. This extremist, nationalist, anti-Semitic and xenophobic movement aimed at excluding those whose views on political and racial matters were different from theirs. The Legion was organized in so-called nests, and it practiced mystical rituals, which were regarded as the way to a national spiritual regeneration by the members of the movement. These rituals were based on Romanian folklore and historical traditions. The Legionaries founded the Iron Guard as a terror organization, which carried out terrorist activities and political murders. The political twin of the Legionary Movement was the Totul pentru Tara (Everything for the Fatherland) that represented the movement in parliamentary elections. The followers of the Legionary Movement were recruited from young intellectuals, students, Orthodox clericals, peasants. The movement was banned by King Carol II in 1938.

7 Cultura Jewish High School in Bucharest

The Cultura School was founded in Bucharest in 1898, with the support of philanthropist Max Aziel. It operated until 1948, when education reform dissolved all Jewish schools and forced the Jewish students to attend public schools. It was originally an elementary school that taught the national curriculum plus some classes in Hebrew and German. Around 1910, the Cultura Commercial High School and Intermediate School were founded. They ranked among the best educational institutions in Bucharest. Apart from Jewish children from the quarters Dudesti, Vacaresti, Mosilor or Grivita, non-Jewish students also attended these schools because of the institutions’ good reputation.

8 Antonescu, Ion (1882-1946)

Political and military leader of the Romanian state, president of the Ministers’ Council from 1940 to 1944. In 1940 he formed a coalition with the Legionary leaders. From 1941 he introduced a dictatorial regime that continued to pursue the depreciation of the Romanian political system started by King Carol II. His strong anti-Semitic beliefs led to the persecution, deportation and killing of many Jews in Romania. He was arrested on 23rd August 1944 and sent into prison in the USSR until he was put on trial in the election year of 1946. He was sentenced to death for his crimes as a war criminal and shot in the same year.

9 23 August 1944

On that day the Romanian Army switched sides and changed its World War II alliances, which resulted in the state of war against the German Third Reich. The Royal head of the Romanian state, King Michael I, arrested the head of government, Marshal Ion Antonescu, who was unwilling to accept an unconditional surrender to the Allies.

10 King Michael (b

1921): Son of King Carol II, King of Romania from 1927-1930 under regency and from 1940-1947. When Carol II abdicated in 1940 Michael became king again but he only had a formal role in state affairs during Antonescu’s dictatorial regime, which he overthrew in 1944. Michael turned Romania against fascist Germany and concluded an armistice with the Allied Powers. King Michael opposed the “sovietization” of Romania after World War II. When a communist regime was established in Romania in 1947, he was overthrown and exiled, and he was stripped from his Romanian citizenship a year later. Since the collapse of the communist rule in Romania in 1989, he has visited the country several times and his citizenship was restored in 1997.

11 The Law for the education reform [3rd August 1948]

The law that unified and secularized the Romanian education according to the Soviet model. Religious and private schools were closed. The free elementary cycle’s duration was set to 7 years; the intermediate cycle lasted for 4 years and comprised high schools, pedagogical school, technical schools, and vocational schools. Higher education comprised a series of faculties. By a decree of the Ministry of Education, all the contracts of the teachers were terminated. Hew hirings were made at the beginning of the 1948-1949 academic year. This way, the teaching body was cleansed of the elements that were considered ‘unsafe’ or hostile.

12 Securitate (in Romanian

DGSP - Directia generala a Securitatii Poporului): General Board of the People’s Security. Its structure was established in 1948 with direct participation of Soviet advisors named by the NKVD. The primary purpose was to ‘defend all democratic accomplishments and to ensure the security of the Romanian Popular Republic against plots of both domestic and foreign enemies’. Its leader was Pantelimon Bondarenko, later known as Gheorghe Pintilie, a former NKVD agent. It carried out the arrests, physical torture and brutal imprisonment of people who became undesirable for the leaders of the Romanian Communist Party, and also kept the life of ordinary civilians under strict observation.

13 Gheorghiu-Dej, Gheorghe (1901-1965)

Leader of the Romanian Communist Party between 1952 and 1965. Originally an electrician and railway worker, he was imprisoned in 1933 and became the underground leader of all imprisoned communists. He was prime minister between 1952-55 and first secretary of the Communist Party between 1945-1953 and from 1955 until his death. In his later years, he led a policy that drifted away from the directive in Moscow, keeping the Stalinist system untouched by the Krushchevian reforms.

14 Petru Groza (1884-1958)

Romanian statesman. Member of the Great National Council of Transylvania (1918), parliamentary deputy (1919-1927), state minister (1921; 1926-1927), vice-president of the Ministers’ Council (November 1944-February 1945). He was the president of the ‘Frontul Plugarilor’ [‘The Plowmen’s Front’] (1933-1953), an organization that activated under the authority of the Romanian Communist Party. Under the Soviet military pressure, King Michael I accepted the appointment of Petru Groza as prime minister. On 6th March 1945 he formed a new government where Communists held the key positions. Recognized and sanctioned by Great Britain and the US (February 1946), the Groza cabinet is responsible for: the trial and execution of Gen. Ion Antonescu and his main collaborators, the falsification of the parliamentary elections in November 1946, the annihilation of the political opposition and the traditional parties, the arrest and extermination of their leaders, the forced abdication of King Michael I. Between 1952 and 1958 he presided the Great National Assembly (was the head of the state). National obsequies were held at his death.

15 Prague Spring

The term Prague Spring designates the liberalization period in communist-ruled Czechoslovakia between 1967-1969. In 1967 Alexander Dubcek became the head of the Czech Communist Party and promoted ideas of ‘socialism with a human face’, i.e. with more personal freedom and freedom of the press, and the rehabilitation of victims of Stalinism. In August 1968 Soviet troops, along with contingents from Poland, East Germany, Hungary and Bulgaria, occupied Prague and put an end to the reforms.

16 Romanian Revolution of 1989

In December 1989, a revolt in Romania deposed the communist dictator Ceausescu. Anti-government violence started in Timisoara and spread to other cities. When army units joined the uprising, Ceausescu fled, but he was captured and executed on 25th December along with his wife. A provisional government was established, with Ion Iliescu, a former Communist Party official, as president. In the elections of May 1990 Iliescu won the presidency and his party, the Democratic National Salvation Front, obtained an overwhelming majority in the legislature.

17 Cajal, Nicolae (1919-2004)

President of the Federation of the Jewish Communities in Romania between 1994 and 2004. PhD in medical sciences, microbiologist and virologist, he wrote over 400 scientific papers in virology, with important original contributions. He was the head of the Virology Department of the Faculty of Medicine and Pharmacology in Bucharest, a member of the Romanian Academy as well as numerous prestigious international societies, and an independent senator in the Romanian Parliament between 1990 and 1992.

Emilia Leibel

Emilia Leibel
Cracow
Poland
Interviewer: Jolanta Jaworska
Date of interview: October 2005

Mrs. Misia [Emilia] Leibel is 95 and lives alone in a two-room apartment not far from the center of Cracow.

She is sick, and has been housebound for 8 years. She has 2 private carers, who are with her in shifts around the clock.

Mrs. Leibel is almost blind. When we come to selecting the photographs to go with her story, I first have to tell her what is on each one.

She has spent her whole life among children, and now they, though scattered all over the world, take care of her, visit her, and write her letters.

  • My family background

My great-grandfather on my father’s side I remember, because I was about 3 or 4 at his funeral in Lagiewniki [a district in the south of Cracow]. Great-Grandfather was called Jekutiel Grossbart. His son was Ozjasz, that was my father’s father. My father’s name was Bencyjon, ‘Son of Cyjon.’ And I was his daughter. We all lived together in Great-Grandfather’s house, which was opposite the railroad station [Borek Falecki; a district of Cracow in the southern part of Podgorze, an area originally a separate town to the south of Cracow] in Lagiewniki. 

No, I didn’t go to Great-Grandfather’s funeral. I just remember the coffin being brought out. It was there, in that house in Lagiewniki, that my great-grandfather died. I can see it in my mind’s eye, and I remember it, because it was the first funeral in my life. Back then you went on foot to the cemetery, in Podgorze, I think it is. I know that Great-Grandfather’s family came from Lacko [approx. 150 km from Cracow, near the town of Nowy Sacz, known to Jews as Zants].

There was this big article in the Dziennik Polski [the Polish Daily, a popular daily newspaper in the south-eastern Polish provinces of Malopolska and Podkarpacie] about this great-grandfather of mine, Grossbard, who was the first to produce that slivovitz [Ed. note: one Samuel Grossbard began production of slivovitz, a strong plum brandy, at the turn of the 19th and 20th centuries; Mrs. Leibel’s maiden name was written ‘Grossbart’, not ‘Grossbard’, hence this is likely a coincidental similarity of names]. I don’t know when or why they moved away from Lacko, but I remember my great-grandfather in Lagiewniki, though he was probably born in Lacko. My great-grandmother, his wife, I don’t remember at all.

My grandmother on my father’s side was called Sara. I don’t remember her maiden name. And I don’t remember where she came from, either. She had heart trouble, she was always going to this place called Wiesbaden [a spa town in Germany known for its hot springs], to spa towns. She had heart trouble, but she outlived her husband by a few years. She wasn’t too slim. She wasn’t fat, either. Nicely rounded, you might say. She was handsome, and kept herself looking nice.

No, she wasn’t a housewife – oh no, they did very well for themselves. There was a Jewish cook, and Leoska, the maid, and Grandma sat in her armchair. I think she must have been very selfish – that’s how I see it today. Well, as a child, what could I think? – Grandma was Grandma. I used to sit with Grandma, I would always do up her buttons on her dress so she didn’t have to bend down. She had sweets in a drawer. I was the daughter of her beloved son, her only son, so she was free with her sweets.

Grandfather Grossbart was a very handsome Jew. He wore a gray beard, short peyot and a hat. I thought he was very nice. Not strict, though once I did get a hiding. I was into everything, you see. And there were some people [laborers] doing something in the fields – Grandfather had a farm – and I asked this one man to sit me up on the hay wagon. And I fell off. I went running home crying, and it was then I got a hiding: ‘What do you think you were doing there? That’s not girl’s work! That’s no place for a girl!’

Grandfather was well liked, his grandchildren would come – everybody would come – ‘to Grandma’s,’ we used to say, but it was more Grandfather who spent time with you than Grandma, because Grandma was… well, evidently she really did have heart trouble.

The whole family traded in leather, skins: they bought up raw hides. Great-Grandfather, Grandfather, even my father was in the business. They were cattle hides. Used to make shoes. I remember how my father used to go places and bring back cattle hides, or somebody would bring them to him. We had a big farmyard in Lagiewniki and I remember there was this brick drying house, coal- and wood-fuelled. When the hides came in – still fresh, or part dried, they would hang there on the poles to finish drying out. Father and Grandfather, they would hang them out themselves.

All I remember is the dry skins being taken down and taken to railroad wagons somewhere. They would be sold to a tannery somewhere. I couldn’t tell you – maybe there was somebody who came in to help with drying the hides. But I don’t think so – I don’t remember any other men.

My grandfather was a farmer as well, really. He had a vast estate – a working farm. Lots of fields. All the fields right down to the Wilga river, to Zaborze [formerly a hamlet on the outskirts of the village of Lagiewniki, now a residential suburb of Cracow] – all that was his property. In the summer, for the harvest, haymaking and potato digging, he would hire people. I remember how Aunt Ela [Mrs. Leibel’s father’s sister] used to carry a sieve with these hunks of bread in it, and coffee in a jug, out to the people in the fields.

I don’t know whether my great-grandfather built that house in Lagiewniki or bought it. What I do know is I was born there, but I was 5 years old when we moved away from there. But maybe he did build it, because that house was wisely designed, and the outbuildings were in a square. The house fronted onto the street – like so. A very decent house, stone.

When you went in off the street, first there was this porch – we didn’t call it a hallway, we didn’t call it a hall. Straight in front of you was a shop. Not an inn, so much, but an off-license, you couldn’t drink in the shop. It sold beer and wine, that I remember – I remember these barrels and kegs standing there, probably for a wedding somewhere or something. Maybe they sold vodka there too. I think some man worked there. Perhaps an assistant hired by Grandfather. Next to the entrance to the shop was a pantry where there was a big cupboard.

From the porch, off to the right you went into a huge dining room. The dining room window looked out onto the street. Right beyond that was Grandfather’s room, there he had his cashbox, his desk – today we’d call it an office. It was a nice room, furnished – masculine; Grandfather slept there. Then there was the parlor. That was a beautiful, very big room, several windows onto both sides – the front and the yard. And in that room, in the parlor, Grandma slept, she had her own door out into the yard.

From the parlor there was a passage to my parents’ room, and then there was another, smaller room, Aunt Ela’s. I lived [slept] in with Aunt Ela, and my brother Jehuda with my parents. And there was also this glassed-in verandah, that was where we played when my cousins came. The Wieners, for instance, from Cracow. The verandah gave out onto the yard. Yes, we played there in the winter, and if the weather was bad in the summer, we didn’t play outside, but on the verandah.

In front of the house, from the street side, was a large summerhouse. Yes. And parallel to the house was a stable. We called it a stable, but there weren’t any horses there, just a trap, because my father’s sisters used to ride to town, to Podgorze to school. Next to that was the drying house where the hides were dried. And at right angles was this outhouse. Further on was the wash house, and in it a bath and everything needed for the washing. A barrel stood underneath the guttering to collect rainwater for the washing. The washerwoman came once a week. There was a cellar too, where there was an ice-house – part of the cellars were clad in ice. In the winter ice would be brought from the Wilga so they could keep it cool in the summer. The Jews eat kosher meat, and so when they killed a calf they had to have ice to keep the meat fresh.

As Grandfather was a wealthy man he had a brick booth [sukkah]. It was incorporated into the building of the house. It had a hinged roof that they could raise and lay branches on top. And only Father and Grandfather ate their dinner there at the holidays. Yes. Just the men.

The farmyard was square shaped. There was a garden there, and in the center a very pleasant little summerhouse with a swing that Grandfather had made for his grandchildren. My father was his only son, so his children were the apple of his eye, of course. In the garden there were flowers and fruit trees. There were peaches growing up against the wall of the house, a south-facing one. No-one was allowed to touch, only Grandfather himself picked them. He would gather them into this sieve, and then I remember that my mother pricked them, I don’t know what for – so that the juice would come out or what – and made jam with them. There were sour cherries and apples in the garden, there were blackcurrants that my brother and I picked – that was allowed, but not the peaches.

In my grandparents’ family boys didn’t thrive, somehow. The sons died as children, and when my father was born, Grandfather, to assure him a future – at least that was what he believed –  took my father to some tzaddik, I don’t know which one, some miracle-worker. He blessed him and gave him another name: Dziadek [Pol.: Grandfather]. So that he would live to see his own grandchildren, so that he could be a grandfather. My mother called her husband Grandfather. The children, my cousins – my father’s sisters had children – they called him ‘Uncle Grandfather.’

Father had 5 sisters. Their marriages were arranged – I don’t know that for certain, but I suspect so, that was the method then. The eldest was Taube. Taube in Yiddish means ‘dove.’ Yes, and her name by her husband, who was from I think Debica [approx. 120 km east of Cracow], was Gewuertz. They had a shop in Borek Falecki that she ran. And I think he was something to do with the ‘Royal’ or the ‘Cracovia’ cafe. All day he used to sit there. I don’t know, perhaps he was a co-proprietor? Those cafes were next to each other, opposite Wawel [the royal castle in Cracow, built in the 11th c.]. They had a daughter, Balka, and a son Mojzesz, or Moniek. That Moniek, when he was about 6, found my father his wife!

Marysia, who was known as Mancia, had a husband called Rajch. I don’t know who he was. Some merchant, too. They lived on Krakusa Street in Podgorze. They had 3 little girls: the eldest Pepa [Paulina], Mala [Amalia] and Mila [Emilia]. Mila, the youngest, emigrated to Palestine for personal reasons long before the war [1939]. And she painted, drew and took photographs. We were both called Emilia after the same grandmother [Ed. Note: Mrs. Leibel must have been called Emilia after a great-grandmother, because her grandmothers were called Sara and Jenta]. The Rajchs had a lawyer son too, Mendel.

Then there was Helena, who married a Wiener. What was his name, Uncle Wiener? Izydor, or... Izaak. I don’t know what he did... He didn’t have a shop, but I know he traveled to Vienna a lot. Maybe he was a sales rep... They lived on Augustianska Street [in Kazimierz, the Jewish district of Cracow]. Both their sons were lawyers – that Maurycy Wiener was a well-known lawyer in Cracow after the war, and his brother emigrated to Palestine. I was friends with Maurycy from being a child.

The next sister was Estera, Auntie Escia, we used to say. Her husband was an only child, son of these rich Jews from Limanowa [approx. 70 km south-east of Cracow]. Goldzwinger, he was. And then they had a shop on the A-B line [a local name for one side of the Main Square in Cracow], and they lived on Grodzka. What kind of a shop they had I don’t remember now. They had a daughter Fela, and then two boys.

The youngest was Aunt Ela, who was unmarried and lived with us in Lagiewniki. Opposite the house in Lagiewniki was a convent [the Congregation of the Sisters of Our Lady of Mercy], but at that time [during World War I; 1914-1918], there was a hospital in that convent run by the nuns. As the festival of Pesach was drawing near in 1915, and Grandfather was a devout Jew, and wealthy, he invited the invalid Austrian Jewish soldiers from the convent to spend the holidays with him.

Dinner was served outside, in the summerhouse. There’s even a photograph of that dinner, but because they couldn’t take the photograph in the summerhouse, because it was too dark, they took the table outside – even the tablecloths weren’t laid straight, in a hurry, while it was still light. Yes. Behind the table, on the wooden wall of the summerhouse, hung a portrait of the Austrian emperor, Franz Joseph 1. Well, it was Austria, and Grandfather was a loyal subject. The Jews prospered under Austria. In the center sat my grandfather, this gray-bearded Jew, and all around him soldiers. My grandmother, mother, and father were there too, and my brother in his sailor’s cap. My Mama was in a white apron, because she’d been helping to serve dinner. Afterwards she was most outraged that they hadn’t told her to take her apron off for the photograph. My 2 cousins Mala and Pepa, were there too, and Aunt Ela. I remember that one of the soldiers taught me to dance, and that they were very grateful for being made so welcome. And the soldier whose knee I sat on to pose for the photograph – well, he fell in love with my Aunt Ela, and she would have married him, Aunt Ela. Those wounded soldiers were a long time in that hospital, you see. A few weeks at least. But then he recovered and left as her fiance, and was killed in Bukovina, because it was war. I remember so much because those were really big emotions.

My parents met in a romantic way. My mother came from Debica, and my father went to Debica from Cracow because he’d been found a match, some girl called Fryda. But in Debica was my father’s nephew Moniek, who was brought up by his grandparents. He was maybe a 6-year-old child at the time, with his nose into everything and ears like pitchers. And that nephew said to him: ‘Why do you want to go and marry that Fryda! That Fryda’s got a beau!’ He told him which boy she used to go down to the river with. ‘You’d be better marrying Dasia, she’s so pretty.’ My mother was called Dasia Leibel, in her papers she had Ernestyna, but she was Ester, Hadasa, in Hebrew. And Father, when he saw my mother, fell in love with her on the spot, because Mama was a beautiful woman.

It was supposed to be an arranged marriage, but nothing came of it. And how I know about this at all I don’t remember, but my mother never told me. I don’t know when my parents were born, but the age difference between them wasn’t very big, my father was maybe 2 years older. After their wedding my parents moved into Lagiewniki.

And later on my parents were the closest of friends with that Fryda and her husband, the one she used to go down to the river with. Rakower, he was called, that husband of hers. They were very friendly with us and came round a lot. Their two sons went to gymnasium with me.

My Mama didn’t have an education. That was typical for a marriageable girl in Debica. But she did embroider beautifully, crochet and knit all sorts of things, exquisite things. Not to mention that she could cook and bake – all in all a true housewife.

My father didn’t go to school, but Grandfather, with him the only one [ed. note: the only son], laid out on him so he could get an education. Father used to go to Vienna and take examinations there. But he didn’t do a high-school final exam, because back then they had some other examinations. I remember that as a grown-up girl I saw Father’s certificates from Vienna around the house: in German, math, correspondence – I remember that, there was such a subject. Yes, they were some kind of commercial subjects. So Father was an educated man, he spoke German well, and wrote it, too. He knew Hebrew. I don’t know, can’t say what political views my father had. I know he wasn’t a member of any party. Definitely not.

Father was a very handsome Jew, he was similar to his father. He always wore this little beard. He was graying, went gray very young. Graying was a family trait altogether, I think, because Father’s sisters were gray-haired too. He was very tall and slim. He only put on more weight shortly before I got married. He developed heart trouble and the doctors forbade him to smoke cigarettes. Before that he’d smoked a lot. By then my grandfather was no longer alive, and Grandma used to say: ‘What a shame he didn’t live to see this, because he was always worrying that his son was so thin.’

My parents were a very loving couple, so much so that we children saw it. When Mother was ill or something it showed especially. Father was a very good man, very kind, to the extent that I remember one time, after my brother’s death it was, this conversation I overheard. The thing was that Father would sign bills of exchange for anyone who asked him. And then he’d have to pay the bills, because people didn’t pay. And I remember how Mother used to reproach him, that he had a grown-up daughter and they had to watch their money. Not give it away to people, because they had none too much of it themselves.

  • Growing up

I was born on 30th July 1911 in Cracow, in Grandfather’s house in Lagiewniki. It is our custom, the Jewish custom, to name girls after their grandmothers, and there were two of us Emilias. The other one was Mila, because she was older, and I was Milusia [two diminutive forms, the latter used for younger children]. And later on, at school, ‘Milusia’ became ‘Misia.’ My brother’s name was Jehuda. He was two years older than me. I was born in 1911, so he was born in 1909. Apparently he was born dead – I only know this from being told – and the midwife threw him up in the air or something – suffice it to say that he was lame after that. That one leg didn’t develop properly.

Father worked, Grandfather worked, Mother looked after her little boy, and I spent most of my time with Grandma and Aunt Ela, because I wasn’t at school yet. Mother spent more time looking after him than me – obviously, the only son. I was healthy, I ran around, charged around, and played. I was into everything. I was a very lively child.

Polish was spoken in Grandfather’s house. They knew Yiddish, Grandfather even Hebrew, but for every day Polish was spoken. Only when Jews came, merchants, did I on occasion hear them speaking Yiddish. I knew it from listening rather than from learning. I understood it, but it wasn’t as though anyone ever taught me Yiddish. My grandparents spoke German, of course, because this was Galicia 2.

In my grandparents’ kitchen everything was kosher. There were separate dishes for meat and dairy. The cook was Jewish. We kept hens, chicks and turkeys. A butcher would come, a carver, we used to say, and he would cut the throat, and only then would we cook it. We didn’t have cows, but as far as I remember Grandfather used to buy meat somewhere, I mean he bought a live animal, and the butcher killed it at our house.

There was a maid, too, Leoska, because water was carried in pails. The well was by the street, a municipal well. Leoska was lame, but she carried the water, cleaned, scrubbed the floors, did things like that. Well, it was a big farm.

All the festivals were celebrated at my grandparents’. Oh, very, very much. Their daughters would come with the grandchildren for some of the festivals. Families lived close to each other then, we met up a lot. For Shabbas, the big table in the dining room was laid: white tablecloths, silver candlesticks, candleholders. There were 6 candlesticks, I think. 4 certainly, and maybe 6. And the candles were lit. We ate off a special service. It was laid more fully, more festively, you could say.

My grandparents used to go to the synagogue to Podgorze on foot [approx. 3-4 km], because you weren’t allowed to use transportation on Saturday. On foot to the synagogue and on foot to funerals, because the Jewish cemetery was even further. The synagogue was Rabbi Skawinski’s, at Celna Street.

My parents went to that synagogue too, but later Mama was thrown out of it, because she didn’t wear a wig. Those were personal things, all I know is that she stopped going to pray there, and that there was talk of it being because she didn’t wear a wig. And anyway, she only went to the synagogue at the festivals, but not on Saturdays. Father went on Friday evening and Saturday.

We didn’t go to Lagiewniki by rail, though there were trains, but by horse. There were hackney cabs. Jewish cab drivers, they stood on Podgorze market square, just in front of the church. Arrangements were always made with the cab drivers in advance, and a cab would come to our house in Lagiewniki. I don’t remember his name, but there was this one driver who would always come on the day arranged and take Aunt Ela if she wanted to buy herself a hat or go on an errand in Cracow.

There were no other Jews in Lagiewniki. Not far from our house, on the other side of the road, was a brickworks – those were Poles living there. I don’t know what that couple were called, but I used to play with their children. There was a girl and a boy. On our side of the road, across the Wilga, was Liban’s factory [Bernard Liban, well-known entrepreneur, owner of factories including the Portland Cement Factory opened in 1888]. He had a daughter, Dola Liban, who was a friend of Aunt Ela’s. She, I know, was Jewish.

Across the river there was also a big shop and a big tenement house – that was in Borek Falecki – and there were some Jews living there too. We used to swim in the Wilga. My Mama used to swim there. There weren’t any swimming costumes, just these shirts. And somewhere nearby there was a bridge, because that was the way you went to Borek Falecki.

Grandfather on Mama’s side was called Leibel, like me – I married a distant relative of the same name, you see. My grandparents came from Debica, and my husband from Wadowice [approx. 50 km south-west of Cracow]. I know that Grandmother was called Jenta, Grandfather... I don’t know that he wasn’t Chaim. He might have been, though I can’t vouch for it. What did that grandfather do? Probably had a shop or something... aha, I know, I remember: Mother always said that it wasn’t an inn but a tavern. When I first went to Debica I think my grandparents were long dead. There was just Aunt Ida, Mother’s eldest sister. I went there maybe twice. I don’t remember much – after all, I was a small child at the time.

My mother had a large family, 4 sisters and 3 brothers. One was Mojzesz. I think he had some inn, or something like that, in Tarnow [approx. 70 km east of Cracow]. Another was Dawid, he was a teacher in a Hebrew gymnasium in Tarnow. The third, Mendel, was a town councilor in Glogow near Rzeszow [approx. 160 km east of Cracow]. Those were the brothers.

The sisters, well, there was Aunt Ida. Yes, the eldest. She was the one who stayed in Debica. Then there was Aunt Mania from Trzebinia [approx. 40 km west of Cracow]. There was also the aunt in Jaslo [approx. 180 km east of Cracow]. Aunt Dora. And there was Aunt Sabina in Podgorze. My mother was the youngest but one.

Aunt Ida was widowed and left alone with 6 daughters. I hardly remember her husband. After his death her sisters wanted to help her, so one of her daughters, Gusta, who went to university in Cracow, lived with us in Podgorze. They all were appealing and found husbands.

The eldest, Syna, Synonia, married a Polish Jew but who lived in Berlin. Then Gusta married a relative of that brother-in-law and went to live in Berlin too. Anka worked in the Jewish hospital in Cracow [8 Skawinska Street, now part of the University Hospital]. Stefa worked in a well-known shop on Florianska [a shopping street in downtown Cracow], ‘Tyrkel.’ Silk, that kind of materials they sold there. Klara went to live with friends in Belgium or Holland and got married there.

And Fela came to Cracow as a companion to an elderly lady, Mrs. Natelowa. That was a well-known Cracow family, wealthy. Her daughter was a doctor, unmarried. They had a house on Orzeszkowej Street. Fela had very good conditions there – she used to drive with Natelowa by cab to take walks on the Planty [a strip of park ringing Cracow’s Old Town, established in 1822] – she did well for herself. After that, a friend of hers got married and went to Czechoslovakia [ed. note: Bohemia at that time, before 1918] –

I don’t know whether she didn’t go to Prague, or somewhere else – and she made her a match with a friend of her husband’s. So Fela went too. I even met her husband-to-be, because she came to Debica with him, to her mother’s. I went to visit them, with my husband by that time, and give them my wishes. Later, she perished, of course, like so many Jews in Czechoslovakia [Bohemia].

Aunt Mania married a guy Lieblich from Trzebinia. They had 2 sons and a daughter Zosia. I remember that the eldest was Jozek – he perished. The younger one was called Stefan, I met him after the war. And Aunt Dora married Goldstein of Jaslo. They were wealthy people. I don’t know, he must have been some big merchant, because their son studied medicine in Prague. One of the daughters did a university degree too. So they must have been earning. They were wealthy, so the daughters came to Cracow for their gowns. The youngest of Mother’s sisters was Sabina. Written ‘Sabina,’ but we used to call her Auntie Bila. She lived in Podgorze. Her married name was Wolf. Janek, their first son, left the country. He went to a Hebrew gymnasium and when the anti-Semitic excesses began, he packed up, said he was off to Israel, Palestine then. And he went, and after a couple of years had his sister Ewa go out there, so after the war I already had 2 relatives there.

I remember that I was 5 when we left Lagiewniki, because my brother and I were to start school in Cracow. We moved with our parents to a two-story house in Podgorze, at 19 Krakusa Street. Podgorze was altogether different from Kazimierz [the neighboring Jewish district] 3, because Kazimierz was typically Jewish, but Podgorze wasn’t. Podgorze was kind of... mixed.

We had a rented room with a kitchen and we all slept in that one room. The WC was in the yard. It was a very modest little apartment. I remember that there were some Jews living on the second floor, and next to us there was an actor who worked in the theater on Rajska. He was called Lason. And we played with Stefek and Irena, Lason’s children. Yes. Poles, Catholics. It was thanks to him that I went to the theater for the first time, he took us to see Cinderella. I met up with that Irena Lason again after the war.

In Podgorze there was a park [the W. Bednarski Memorial Park, partly on the site of a former quarry]. I used to go there with the maid, because Mother spent more time looking after my brother. That maid was with us for years. I don’t remember what she was called. She slept in the kitchen. I remember that Mama did the shopping herself, I would go with her sometimes, when I was bigger. No, I didn’t help Mama in the house – I went to school. Only when my aunt came up from Jaslo with her daughters for clothes, they went shopping and I saw to the kitchen. I was a young lady by then.

When we lived in Podgorze, Mother and Father went to Zuckier’s synagogue [at 5 Wegierska Street, the synagogue of the Bet Ha-Midrasz Chasidim Association of Prayer and Support; now restored, it functions as a contemporary art gallery]. I remember it was on a street corner, but I don’t remember which street. Nobody taught me religious matters. I didn’t go to the synagogue, although... maybe Mama did once take me to ‘the trumpets’ [Rosh Hashanah], but other than that I didn’t go. Oh no! Young girls didn’t go to the synagogue.

I was 6, perhaps not quite, and Father was in the Austrian army. In 1917 I was in first grade, and I remember going with my brother and Mama to the railroad station in Grzegorzki [a district of Cracow] to say goodbye to Father, because he was going to the front. I remember him in uniform and in his cap.

And I remember that he was sent to Olomunc [a Czech town in northern Moravia]. Yes. Then, after some time, he came back, he had varicose veins and couldn’t take the marches. So then he was in the army but in a commissariat in Cracow, in Zablocie [a district of Podgorze], I remember perfectly. He came home often, sometimes slept at home. Did he talk about the war? No. At least not to me – after all, I was a child. He came back home after the war ended. I just remember that when the war ended, they announced at school that we wouldn’t be learning German from 3rd grade. Yes, because before that they learnt it from 3rd grade, but I didn’t start learning it until 5th grade.

After we moved out, my grandparents and Aunt Ela stayed in Lagiewniki. I remember that I still used to go there on vacation. Aunt Ela lost her fiance in the war, but a few years later she did get married. That gentleman was called Laufer. They moved to Warsaw. He was some entrepreneur, a wealthy man. No, they didn’t have children. And the year the war broke out, in 1939, he contracted the flu and died.

After Aunt Ela’s wedding my grandparents sold the house and the farm and they were going to buy a house in Cracow. Their last daughter had gotten married and they were elderly, didn’t want to stay in Lagiewniki on their own. But that was that moment – the end of the war – and there was such a huge devaluation that Grandfather, for the money that he sold such a huge property for, could barely afford to rent a room with a kitchen [Ed. note: the house likely was not sold until 1922 or 1923, during the worst inflation of the interwar years; this is also suggested by the sequence of events in Mrs. Leibel’s family]. So after that the children helped them out. I don’t know exactly how it was. First, for a short time, they were with us, of course. With their son. Then they lived at 10 Jasna Street, on the corner with Sebastiana [Ed. note: this intersection does not exist; probably Mrs. Leibel means the corner of Sebastiana and Ciemna, in Kazimierz (‘Jasna’ means ‘light’ in Polish and ‘Ciemna’ dark, hence the confusion)].

On Jasna [Ciemna] they had a first-floor mezzanine room with a kitchen. There was a maid, because after all the stove had to be lit, water brought. But there was no Jewish cook, because there were just the two of them. I can’t imagine Grandmother stood at the stove. No. She didn’t do any work in the kitchen or the house. We used to go there, to Jasna [Ciemna], to visit Grandmother. That was compulsory. I know that Saturday afternoons, her daughters and grandchildren gathered there. I went too. I was already dating a boy, but before that I went to Grandmother’s, and only afterwards on my date. In her room we all sat around and talked. Nothing else.

When my grandparents sold Lagiewniki and moved to Cracow, Grandfather was constantly saying that Cracow stank, and 2 years later, he died. He never could get his breath. And yet before that he’d been a lively, healthy man. He woke up in the night, said that he couldn’t breathe, and died. I think he was 63. He was buried in Podgorze, in the Jewish cemetery. I think I was in gymnasium when Grandmother died. She survived Grandfather by maybe 2 or 3 years. She was perhaps 64 when she died. And that house of theirs in Lagiewniki remained standing long after the war. I used to see it as I went past that way. Even  recently I could still remember the name of the guy that bought that house. He was an Austrian, he’d come in from somewhere and set up a factory there.

I went to a Polish elementary school in Podgorze, it wasn’t called an elementary school but the Queen Kinga Common School, on Jozefinska Street. I went to a public school, but my brother Jehuda went to a Protestant school, because there were small classes there – 15 people. That was a private school, whereas in a state school Father was always worried that someone might knock him over – he was an invalid. He was a cripple. Yes, Jews were taken in that school, there was no problem. That school was on Grodzka Street [founded 1826; closed down in November 1939]; to this day there is still a Protestant congregation there.

I remember 3 teachers from elementary school. Mrs. Tarnowska was our class teacher. Mrs. Jarosz taught math – in the first years of school I was very good at mathematics. Miss Swierzowna probably taught Polish, or history. Polish was my favorite subject. I liked history too, but Polish most of all. I read a lot altogether. Devoured books. Because there weren’t enough Jewish girls, all the Jewish girls in Podgorze had religious instruction together. I don’t remember which school in Podgorze it was in, but not ours. Our teacher was called Jonas. To me back then, he seemed like an elderly man, but he certainly wasn’t old. I worked just hard enough in religious instruction to get by.

My best friend was Renia Seelerfreund. She only joined us in 2nd grade, because they’d moved from somewhere, I don’t know where. And they came to live in Podgorze, opposite us, on Krakusa Street. And Renia went to the same school and the same class as me. Mrs. Tarnowska put us together and somehow we just got along. She was a steady type, while I was a wild thing. I sat with Renia from 2nd grade right up to my high school finals.

There were lots of Jewish girls in my class. There were 3 rows of double desks. One row were all Jewish girls. I sat in the middle row, at the back desk, because I was tall. The teachers always said that the Jewish girls only sat separately because we didn’t go to school on Saturdays. A strange kind of explanation? Well, not really, it was a very decent explanation, that it wasn’t about segregation, but just because, so that there weren’t empty places on Saturday, so that one row wasn’t used. It was clear who’s at school today and who isn’t.

Because we didn’t go to school on Saturdays, of course, though school was open. So I had this friend in Podgorze – her surname was Harnikowna – and I would go round to her house on Sunday mornings to find out what the homework was, so I could be prepared at school on Monday. And all the girls who hadn’t been at school on Saturday had to be prepared for Monday. There was no anti-Semitism at elementary school – I hardly even knew the word. On the part of the teachers decency, on the part of my classmates – absolutely none at all. We got along very well.

Renia and her elder brother used to go to gymnastics to the ZTG, the Jewish Gymnastics Society [founded 1917; president: Dr. Ludwik Goldwasser], and I started to go with them. The three of us walked there from Krakusa Street, well, there wasn’t the traffic on the roads. Before you got to Jozefinska there was the old bridge [a wooden one, known as Podgorze bridge; in 1933 the construction of the steel J. Pilsudski Memorial Bridge was completed], and just after the bridge, in the kehile [Jewish community buildings, at 2 Skawinska Street; the seat of the community headquarters to this day] was gymnastics. The gymnastics rooms were in the basement of the kehile building. You went about twice a week or something. I went to those gymnastics classes for a long time. In fact, on the whole my brother was healthy... but he had the one leg shorter and so he couldn’t do gymnastics like me. But he was talented and drew beautifully. Our drawing teacher at gymnasium favored him specially, because he was so gifted.

I think I was in 5th grade, I was 11, when my parents took the apartment at 6 Czarneckiego Street [near Krakusa Street]. It was a whole floor that had been added onto an old two-story tenement house. That was a larger apartment, 3 rooms. So I had a room with my brother, there was a bedroom, a dining room, a bathroom and a WC – something else altogether. A modern apartment. It didn’t have gas. The water was heated in a boiler in the bathroom. The maid lived in the kitchen, yes. In some apartments there was this kind of recess for the maid’s bed, but not in that one. It was a warm house, an open house. Friends would come by, and cousins. They would drop by, because my parents were hospitable and liked young people, and they themselves were liked.

Because my brother and I sat for a private Hebrew gymnasium in Cracow, 2 years beforehand we started learning Hebrew. Although he was older than me, we were to go at the same time, because the thing was, my brother, as a cripple, was always given special protection. And my father wanted us to go together because we had to go by tram. The Hebrew lessons were private – a teacher came to our house and taught my brother and me to read Hebrew. He was called Bencyjon Katz, and he was later a lecturer at the Jagiellonian University (and an older friend of mine, Klara Goldsztof, married him). Did I like those lessons? I don’t know... I worked at them. I was a good student. A few years ago I heard that Katz was a lecturer in Israel somewhere, at some university in Jerusalem.

At gymnasium it turned out that we didn’t know anything, because we’d been taught Hebrew like Latin is taught. We had an excellent knowledge of the grammar, and spelling, but we couldn’t speak a word. At the entrance exam the teacher is talking to me and I don’t know the first thing that he’s saying. I could write, I could read, though I didn’t really understand, and I got to school and it turned out that you had to be able to speak Hebrew fluently, like Polish. But because there was a very big influx of children like that, who couldn’t speak it, there was an ‘A’ and a ‘B’ class, if you like. Jehuda and I were in the same class.

I don’t remember what we were called, but we were in the class that couldn’t speak. The two classes had all the lessons together, and then we stayed behind for a 7th lesson, of Hebrew. To catch up, to be able to speak, because history of the Jews was taught in Hebrew, and we couldn’t say anything, not a word. It was a co-educational gymnasium, and was at 5 Brzozowa Street [Ed. note: that was the address of the Jewish elementary school; the Chaim Hilfstein Gymnasium was in the same building, but the entrance was at 8/10 Podbrzezie Street]. That school exists to this day, but not as a gymnasium, it’s some technical high school [Vocational Schools Complex].

I remember we had a wonderful Polish teacher. He was called Juliusz Felzhorn, he had a doctorate [Ed. note: Dr. Julius Feldhorn]. A very well-educated, marvelous man. He was murdered by the Germans. In 6th grade at gymnasium the math teacher didn’t like me and I got a ‘2’ [equivalent to a ‘D’ grade in the Polish school system]. I think it was simply because he didn’t like me, because when he taught physics in 8th grade, I had a ‘2’ in physics. He was the headmaster. But it wasn’t so bad that I had to repeat the year.

We were in 5th grade at gymnasium, and I remember, it was appendicitis, Jehuda had an operation, and after that operation he died. In those days an operation on your appendix was a serious illness. My father had a complete breakdown. Before that he’d had some tannery, I don’t remember that, I just know from having heard, that it was in Plaszow. I never went there, I just knew that he had it with some partner.

When my brother died, Father lost his head, and that partner swindled him. And after that we had nothing, because Father lost everything. My father had been so jovial, so smiling, but after my brother’s death all the life went out of him. For a long time. Always, really. And Mama said that she had several years of mourning all together. Because first her father-in-law died, then her son, and Grandmother Sara survived my brother by maybe a year.

My father had no head for business, so hard times fell on our house. When I was at the private gymnasium I had a reduction, because there’d been 2 of us, with my brother. And although I went to classes by myself after that, the reduction remained. But to pay for my school, I gave lessons. For the money I earned, I paid for part of my gymnasium. I couldn’t cover the whole cost, because school was expensive – 35 zloty, I think. A month. But I could always contribute something, buy myself a notebook or a textbook [a school textbook might cost around 6-8 zloty]. Later, I had to have help for my Hebrew finals, so I paid for my own lessons.

I was maybe 15 then, and I had this one little girl, whose parents had moved there from Czechoslovakia or somewhere, who was due to go to school the next year, and she couldn’t speak Polish. And I taught her to speak Polish. In the afternoons, after school, I used to go there, perhaps not everyday, I can’t remember. All I remember is that on Fridays I was always given tea with milk and fresh cake. On Friday afternoons, because they baked it for Saturday. They were Jews. I even remembered what they were called until not long ago… it was a well-known, wealthy Jewish family. They lived on the corner of Dietla and Augustianska Streets. They were all killed during the war.

There were 2 sets of high school finals. I was the class of 1928-1929. First, sometime in February, was the Hebrew examination. In the exam we had history of the Jews and Hebrew literature, that was in Hebrew – the whole exam. And our normal finals, the state finals, were in May, I think. There were exams in 4 subjects. Polish definitely, history definitely, Latin definitely, and mathematics. I took my exams the first day.

Because our gymnasium didn’t have full state accreditation, I remember that the chairman of the examining panel was from the board of education. That caused absolute terror, because it was a kind of extra level of scrutiny. And the same day as me, one of the top students, Sara Bester, was sitting too – ‘B,’ at the beginning of the alphabet. She only had to sit one subject, because she was exempt from the rest.

And that chairman decided he wanted to examine a student who was exempt from all the subjects. She was suddenly called in and, being taken by surprise, must have given very poor answers. And she didn’t pass her finals. She took it terribly. And she died that same vacation. They said afterwards that it was because of that experience. She was an excellent student, maybe not so very intelligent, but incredibly hardworking.

Before the war my cousin emigrated to Palestine. Mila had a beau in Cracow, a medical student, and medicine was hard to get into. His surname was Lezer, but I don’t remember his first name. He came from Rozwadow [approx. 22 km north of Cracow] and lived in a student dorm. And when his mother found out that he was dating a girl who didn’t have a dowry, she came down and started threatening to withdraw him from medical school. And at that my cousin packed her things on the spot and went to Palestine. There she married a boy from Cracow, called Tisch – which means ‘table’ in German. But in Israel [Ed. note: Palestine] he changed his name to Tischbi. And she was called Mila Tischbi.

Lezer stayed in Cracow, graduated, and he and Mila only met up again after the war [in Palestine]. He was deported to Russia – I don’t know that he didn’t go into Anders’ Army there 4, because after all a lot of people went into the Polish army. It was those Jews who made it to Palestine later. It’s possible that he did too, I don’t remember. And then later he and Mila were the closest of friends.

When my brother died I had the room to myself for some time, and then my mother’s niece, Gusta, passed her high school finals in Debica and came to Cracow to go to the Jagiellonian University 5. There were 3 rooms in the apartment on Czarneckiego and she moved in with me in my room. She was older than me, maybe 3 years. She was a beautiful girl, blond. We liked each other a lot, and were like best friends. At that time the system was that if you studied, say, history, as she did, then your minor was German.

To practice her German, in the summer vacation she went to stay with her elder sister Syna, the one who’d married a Polish Jew living in Berlin. And there some relative of Syna’s husband fell in love with her and married her, so she didn’t finish her studies, only went back to Berlin. Her married name was Ulman. And she had maybe a 2-year-old boy when the Polish Jews were kicked out of Germany 6. They walked. Gusta’s husband arrived without any shoes, on foot. He turned up in Cracow, and first off Anka, Gusta’s sister, took care of him. She was a nurse in the Jewish hospital. She bought him some shoes and he went on to Debica, because I think he came from there too. But she was such a beautiful blonde that the Germans took a fancy to her, and so she managed to wangle her furniture and apartment back. She brought the child and the furniture back to Poland, to Debica, where her mother was. And then the Germans murdered them all.

After my finals I tried to earn a living, because we had no money. First I spent 6 months doing a commercial course on Florianska Street, because it looked as though I was going to have to go out to work instead of to university. I only went to university a year later. I don’t even know that I took an exam… I don’t think there was an exam, just your school-leaving certificate.

I went for Polish, out of curiosity, out of interest, because I liked Mr. Felzhorn [Feldhorn], who’d taught us Polish at gymnasium. I have pleasant memories of my time at university, though I didn’t really take too much interest in my studies. We had Greek in the first year. Just the first year. And because you had to have a minor, and I’d learnt German at gymnasium, I enrolled for German. I already had the basics.

I only came into contact with anti-Semitism acutely at the university. There were these riots, Jewish pogroms – this one Jewish guy was even killed in Cracow, that was in 1932. They even closed the University down. That happened in the spring sometime, because it was a bit warmer. This funeral, terrible. I went – all of Cracow went, not just the Jewish youth. 2,000 people, apparently.

All the socialist youth, communist – you didn’t say ‘communist’ out loud at that stage. I don’t remember his name. What he studied? I don’t remember, law probably, because the Jews mostly did law – Jews weren’t accepted onto medicine. I didn’t complete the third year, because just before the end was when all that trouble erupted, and in the end I got married in 1933, in March, I think. In March, because it was just before Easter.

  • My marriage

Julek Leibel was friendly with my father. They had common business interests. He was his ‘gesheft freund.’ ‘Geschaeft’ [Yid.: gesheft] means ‘business’ in German. And he used to come to our apartment, to see Father. He was a lot older than me, born in 1896, and I was in love with him, I gazed at him like a dog at the moon. All I used to do was serve tea or something, as you do for guests. It didn’t occur to me that he took any interest in me at all. I was a modest girl. What was I? A young girl without a penny, without a dowry, and he was rich, had a car. What that meant back then!

Julek was an independent leather exporter, and my father was a modest Jew, bought the hides himself and then dispatched them. And I was completely surprised and amazed when one day my mother called me into the dining room, where my distant uncle was sitting, the father of my future husband, and Mother said that he’d come to ask whether I would marry Julek. And I was speechless. I said that of course I would. He liked me, and that was it. He even bought me a trousseau. He didn’t buy it, he gave Father money, so that nobody would know, and Mother got me some linens together, what I had to have, so that I’d have a trousseau.

After he proposed to me, Julek was back and forth from Kalwaria Zebrzydowska [approx. 25 km from Cracow], where he lived with his parents, to me in Cracow all the time. It was winter. Along the Kalwaria-Cracow road there were woods nearly all the way, and attacks on travelers happened all the time.

My mother-in-law was afraid that something would happen to him and refused to let him go to Cracow. She demanded a quick wedding: ‘It’s not like you met each other yesterday, you can get married, let her come to you here and that’s the end of it.’ My mother-in-law was called Anna, and my father-in-law Markus.

The wedding was 3 months after the marriage proposal. Actually, it wasn’t a big wedding, just a quiet ceremony in my parents’ apartment. The rabbi came, married us, and that was it. No reception, because there was no money. There were just a few people: my Aunt Ela, the one who’d really brought me up, came down from Warsaw, and the 2 cousins of mine that were in Cracow.

After my wedding my parents didn’t need 3 rooms. They moved to Rekawka Street, because Father had heart trouble, and that was nearer Podgorski Park – the air seemed to be better there and he found it easier to breathe.

Before we moved to Kalwaria we went to Italy – that was a beautiful honeymoon. We traveled on trains, just the 2 of us. First we went to Vienna, because my husband had an uncle there. From Vienna we went to Venice, then to Rome, as everyone does, to Naples and to Capri. Karol, my husband’s brother, traveled a lot, because he was a confirmed bachelor, and he drew us up an itinerary, where we had to go, what we had to see, and we followed his lead.

We were going to go to Yugoslavia as well, but it was 1934 [Ed. note: Mrs. Leibel got married in 1933] and Hitler had started operating in Germany 7 – he’d woken up, so we came back to Poland. The expulsion of the Jews and all those troubles had started... And then I went to Kalwaria… and as soon as I arrived, I broke my leg. There were these twisted stairs there, and I was running down the stairs fast...

Julek was the youngest of his family. He had 2 brothers and a sister. Karol was the eldest and was a doctor. The second, Heniek, was a lawyer in Bielsko. He was married and had a child. Their sister was called Giza, and the brother-in-law was Jozef Krygier, he was an engineer and came from Jaroslaw [approx. 200 km east of Cracow]. They had a daughter, Irena. Our daughter, Halinka, was born on 14 June 1934.

There were a lot of Jews in Kalwaria. There was a synagogue there, but we didn’t go. My parents-in-law went, my father-in-law. We rented an apartment straight away, and at my behest the apartment was altered. There were 2 large rooms and a huge kitchen, but no WC and no bathroom. Only at my request was the kitchen divided, and a hall, bathroom and WC made. That engineer, the brother-in-law, designed how it would be. That apartment was in a good spot, on the town square near the church, in a farmer’s house. I don’t remember what his name was.

Julek’s grandparents and my in-laws lived in a house across the square, at right angles. My in-laws came from Kalwaria, but they’d later moved to Wadowice [approx. 40 km from Cracow]. My husband was born in Wadowice and had even been at high school back in Wadowice – the same high school that the Pope 8 went to. I don’t know why they moved back to Kalwaria. I got on very well with my mother-in-law, and my father-in-law was very fond of me. He was no longer working, but they were all still taken up with the leather business. Wouldn’t I have preferred to stay in Cracow? If he had business there, I went there to be with him. I’d have gone to hell to be with him, not just to Kalwaria. I was madly in love. What my husband’s firm was called? It wasn’t called anything – there was just a wagon full of goods, off it went, and that was it. Abroad. I don’t know exactly where those wagons went.

When I got married, our maid from Czarnieckiego Street went with me to Kalwaria, but she lasted it a few months and then left. Said she was bored. There were 3 or so people from the village working for my husband, so the daughter of one of them came – and shortly afterwards got married. And after that I had local maids – they were very easy to hire. The working conditions were good at our house: there were 2 rooms, one child, good pay, board, the washerwoman came to take the linen – the maid wasn’t overworked. She used to go with me and Halinka for walks – a little further up the hill there was a place where you could go for walks, because further on, to the [Bernadine] monastery, you couldn’t go, because Jews were not allowed in. So we had to turn back before the monastery. On the whole we cooked kosher food, which wasn’t to say that we didn’t buy ham, but we had kosher crockery so that my father could eat with us when he came to visit.

My husband had a Tatra, a Czech car, he’d had it since 1926 or 1928, I think. He only bought a Mercedes right before the war, in 1939. First he taught me to drive himself, and then later, when there was this automobile course in Kalwaria, he invited 2 examiners round, and told them I wanted to take the exam, that I hadn’t been on a course, but he’d taught me everything himself. There were 2 examiners, my husband sat in on it as well, and I drove the car. There wasn’t any traffic as such in Kalwaria, but this beggar, this invalid, an old man, happened to be crossing the road, and I swore, something vulgar, like: ‘Darn, goddammit! He had to go and get in my way!’ And the examiner found that very funny: ‘Well, now you’re a real driver!’ No, my husband wasn’t afraid to give me the car… My husband would have given me anything. He was a wonderful man, a very good son, husband and father. His mother worshipped him. And my parents, no question – obviously.

In the winter we would go skiing in Zakopane. My husband skied better than me, because I only learned to ski with him. Before my wedding I hadn’t been able to afford skis. Skis and boots cost money. I had my own gear, but bought by my husband. I used to go skiing with Zosia Tygner too – they had this big hide store in Cracow on Grodzka Street. We were kind of friendly through my friend Renia Seelerfreund, because Zosia was her aunt.

  • During the war

One day, in August 1939, my sister-in-law’s husband Jozek, who was a reserve officer in the Polish Army, said that Giza and her daughter and their parents were to leave Kalwaria at once and go to Cracow, because Kalwaria was a small town and who knew what might happen there. And unexpectedly I went with them from Kalwaria to Cracow – I really was going only for a day to visit my parents, but they, on my brother-in-law’s instruction, were to take the train from Cracow to Jaroslaw, to Jozek’s parents’, because even if war did break out, the Germans wouldn’t get that far. So we went to my parents’ house on Rekawka Street.

Well, when my parents heard that, they insisted that I go with Giza. Father literally wouldn’t let me get out of the car. He wouldn’t even let me change – he packed me off in what I was wearing. That was the Monday, and war broke out on the Friday. I didn’t want to leave Cracow.

With the child, the nurse, and my little case, which I have to this day, and in that one dress, Father put me in the carriage and sent me off to Jaroslaw with Giza. My husband didn’t know about any of this. He thought I was on a shopping trip in Cracow, and that day he was at work as normal.

I only managed to take my trunk with my furs and some silver, which had been at my parents’. My parents stayed. My father was as patriotic as anything! He said he wouldn’t leave Cracow, wouldn’t shift. The train was incredibly packed, because it had come from Silesia, where people were fleeing en masse. We all had cases. At the station in Jaroslaw it turned out that my things, which had been sent on, had disappeared. It had all gone, and I was left with what I was standing up in.

We went to Giza’s parents’-in-law – well, Halinka and I to a hotel, and Giza and her parents to their in-laws. Then in the morning it transpired that I had nothing to pay for the hotel with, because after all that they’d forgotten to give me any money. I’d gone from Kalwaria to Cracow thinking I was going for a half-day shopping – I usually had 100 or 150 zloty with me. And here I was in a strange town, alone, with my child and the nurse, and I had 9 zloty. And I dashed off to my mother-in-law in tears – mother-in-law didn’t have any money either, but I remember that she said sharply to Giza, who didn’t really want to lend me any money: ‘Do you know what a scene there’d be if Julek saw Misia crying?’ Giza reached into the till and gave me some money, and I paid the hotel bill.

And soon my husband arrived in Jaroslaw in the car. He’d come just as he was, too, in plus fours, because he wore short trousers for work, and a jacket. Without a coat, even – and he had a leather coat hanging in the garage. All he told me was that on the way to Jaroslaw he’d jettisoned his pistol in some orchard. He had this small pocket revolver that he always carried. But he was afraid that if they’d caught him and searched him and found he had a gun, they’d have shot him. Because that was the first day of the war.

On the Sunday we drove further east in the car. Heniek and his family and their parents went separately, so this time we only had Giza and Irena with us. And Giza’s things – and my, she sure did have some things. She had 6 cases, because she had Karol’s clothes, his linen, his money… because Karol had gone into the army convinced that he was going for 2 weeks. As a doctor, a major. Jozek had been called up as well; I think he was a colonel. Both of them had served in the Austrian army, you see.

We had all sorts of escapades. First we headed for Romania – where the government had gone 9. Przemyslany [then a Polish-Romanian border crossing], that was the place, and there they told us straight off that they wouldn’t let us through Romania in a car. And then, as it later turned out, Karol’s regiment passed right under our noses, as they say. And Giza’s husband went past too. No, they weren’t serving in the same regiment, but they met up later in Romania. At that time everything was going through Przemyslany, but who was looking? There were crowds of troops marching past, but it never occurred to us that our relatives were among them.

In the end we landed up in Lwow, and there we were advised to destroy our passports. So of course we did, both I and my husband. In Lwow we stayed in a rented apartment. Giza had Karol’s money. We had the car for the time being. My husband earned a living with the car, he used it as a taxi, though he didn’t have the sign.

Once, he picked up a passenger, from somewhere in town, I don’t know, and they got talking and found they were both from Cracow, and my husband told him that he was driving without a license. He was an actor from the Slowacki Theater in Cracow [founded 1893, building designed by Jan Zawiejski]. I don’t remember what that actor’s name was, all I remember is that his wife’s surname was Potocka. And he employed him, on the basis that it was his car and my husband was just his driver. And in that way there was no danger that his car would be taken. Nobody suspected that the Russians would get dug in so comfortably in Lwow.

I don’t know when exactly it was that they deported us 10 from Lwow, but it was no longer winter. It was March, April 1940. They [the Russians] came in the night and said: ‘Sobierayties’ [Russ.: pack your things – form used to more than one person]. That was it. So when they said that, I knew they weren’t taking my husband, but that we were all going. I was happier, because usually they only took the men. All together – well then, we’ll go. I don’t know how it happened, but that night they passed my in-laws’ apartment by. Among those Russians there was one Pole. He came up to me and said: ‘Take everything.’ So I took everything – bedding, Halinka had this folding camp bed, and I took that too. The only thing I didn’t take was food. With us they took my husband’s brother Heniek, who was there by chance visiting his parents – we lived in the same building as my in-laws. His wife and son were killed after that.

We were taken straight to the station – it was getting light. Later that same day, in the evening, my mother-in-law, with father-in-law, Giza and Irena in tow, all joined us at the station. When mother-in-law had found out in the morning that we were being deported, she had set up a great lament, apparently – my husband was her favorite son, the youngest. And she would never have forgiven herself that she’d let him be taken away and not gone after him herself. She was an incredibly loving mother.

Remarkable. She wanted to go with her son, so what was Giza (who lived with her) to do? And so in that way we all ended up in the goods wagon. And not just us – two other families besides. I remember there was a couple called the Zubrewiczes – I don’t know where they were from, but that lady cried all the time, because she’d already been deported once and so she knew what awaited her.

We were traveling for a terribly long time. About 3 weeks. They would stop for a moment, sometimes in the day, sometimes at night, so that people could jump out to relieve themselves. During the journey we were treated very well, I must say, only we weren’t allowed to get out for long. I got out once to relieve myself under the wagon, and it was ‘Davay nazad!’ [Russ.: Get back in!] with a machine gun pointed at me. It was a good job I had a child, because we had a potty, so at least we could do a pee and pour it out of the window.

They’d give us some soup once in a while. As it happened, in Lwow at the station it had turned out that they were putting these neighbors of ours from back in Kalwaria on the same train. They were young people, and they realized what was going on, so they jumped off and bought bread. So on the way we ate that bread, as long as it lasted.

We were taken to this port on the Volga, this small town. I don’t remember the name. From there we sailed all night by ship to Koz’modem’yansk [approx. 150 km. from Kazan]; that was a very nice port on the Volga, and there was a railroad station there. That was in the Mariy El Autonomous Soviet Republic [in December 1941 there was a Polish population of 4,000 there]. Apparently 500 people arrived with us on that train. Later that same day we were taken 35 km into the forest.

Mr. Zubrewicz already had a certain amount of experience, so as soon as we stopped, as soon as we were allowed to get out, he and my husband ran off to find us somewhere to live. They managed to hook this cottage. I remember we arrived there in the early morning, and the previous night they had expelled some Russians from there for being against the government or something… I don’t know exactly what for. So we all piled into that cottage: the Zubrewicz family – he had 2 daughters, a son and his daughter-in-law, and his wife – some other couple, and then there were quite a few of us too. So we had one room, the Zubrewiczes had the other room, and in the kitchen – I’ve forgotten what they were called, that couple, quiet people. Jews.

The kitchen was huge, with a Russian ‘piechka’ [Russ.:stove]. Well, when that stove was lit it heated both the rooms. Zubrewicz helped us get organized somehow, kit the house out. It was livable-with. Yes, it was wooden, but it was a proper house, not a hut. I remember that when we arrived everything was in bloom. We drew water from this stagnant, dead backwater of the river. We didn’t know that there was a well perhaps…I don’t know… maybe 300 m away. It was only one of the Russians, one of the ones who were guarding us, who told us that that water was unhealthy, to drink water from the well… after all, some of them were human. Oh, a great time was had by all.

Men and women worked in the forest. My husband worked, my husband’s brother, and Irena. She had just passed her school-leaving exams. Yes. I mean, women didn’t fell trees, they just sawed branches or felled trees into smaller blocks, and then stacked the blocks. I had a small child, and there were the in-laws, elderly people, so I didn’t have to work in the forest. Neither did Giza, because she was… I don’t know how old. Over 50. Later on, by coincidence, my cousin Maurycy Wiener was also deported to Koz’modem’yansk, and worked in the same gang as my husband.

My husband was chopping wood for a factory. And one time he mentioned to his director that I wanted a job. What we wanted was for me to have the right to exist there, to have a bread ration. And that director, a woman, hired me first of all as a gardener. I had no idea about gardening! They showed me the shears and told me to cut the tomatoes as they started to ripen. So I spent maybe 2 weeks on the tomatoes. Then my director said that I wasn’t going to be in the garden, but in the mill. I spent half a day there theoretically getting experience. They taught me which grain was for what – before that I knew next to nothing. What it was called, what my title was at that mill? I can’t remember. I was paid well, every week I would get a small bag of flour, every Saturday. That was a fortune. There was a free canteen.

I had very pleasant conditions at work, ideal. It was a company with 5 different things: there was a mill, there was a buffet, there was a fishery, I can’t remember the rest. My superior, the director of that company, was from Moscow, she’d been resettled there from territory occupied by the Germans. That was how the Russians protected people, because her husband was a Jew and was at the front, and she, her mother and her child were in Koz’modem’yansk. She was a party member. Treated me very decently. She was a teacher by profession, a very cultured woman.

One evening, it was a terrible winter, this Russian came by, this local intellectual, and said that some people had arrived for resettling from Poland, and that they’d been traveling 100 km through some forest, and there were 2 young men with them, but that he was only interested in workers, and he didn’t have anywhere to put them up. He asked us to let him put them in the spare room (the Zubrewiczes had already moved out, into town). Of course we agreed at once. This tall woman came in, this decent fur coat hanging off her. Behind her a short guy, eaten away but also in a decent, well-heeled fur, and 2 young boys, tall as oak trees. And a whole pile of cases and things. And they took their things into the empty room, but we were just eating dinner, hot potatoes, what we had.

Them just in from the road, we sat round the table talking, and at one point my husband says to me ‘Misia, have you got any more potatoes?’ or something like that. And the woman says: ‘You’re called Misia?’ I say: ‘Yes, why?’ ‘Well, my daughter-in-law had a friend called Misia.’ ‘Who’s your daughter-in-law?’ It turned out that she was my classmate, who had married this woman’s son, who had been at school with us. We got friendly. They were called the Kurtzes. They were wealthy, had money. Later they got a decent apartment and went to town before we did, and their boys went into the army, to the front.

A few ‘odkritki’ [Russ.: postcards] came to me in Koz’modem’yansk from Cracow, from my parents. Before the war my father had worked – I mean traded – with a Jew from Hamburg. And that Jew – don’t remember his name – had this employee, a German, and they used to come over to see us. Sometimes that man, and sometimes that employee of his. And later, when the Germans entered Cracow, that German guy helped my father a lot, so that for some time Father worked legally. He was employed in a slaughterhouse as an expert on hides. An expert, yes.

A letter came from Jozek, Giza’s husband, too, that he was in an oflag 11. Just brief: ‘I’m alive and well,’ just ‘Oflag’… some town, I don’t remember where. Karol had ended up in an oflag too. They’d met up by chance, and so of course from then on stuck together, and because Karol was a doctor he was treated slightly differently there. And because of that letter from Jozek, Irena was arrested. They reckoned that if he was a Jew, an officer, and still alive, then he must be collaborating for sure with Hitler.

Irena was taken to prison in Koz’modem’yansk with this guy she worked with (don’t know what he was arrested for). He was called Genek Waks. Maybe they were in love – I don’t know. In any case, 2 young Poles, however you look at it – I mean, he was a Jew too. Shortly after the arrest, the Polish Army 12 came into being, and that Genek signed up for the army from prison, and went to the front. Irena was released after a while too. No, Giza wasn’t arrested, and her grandparents were already dead. Granddad had been standing in line, caught a cold and got influenza. And Grandma had had heart trouble for years.

My husband contracted heart problems too. He worked very hard. Before that he’d been a physically healthy, handsome man, but chopping wood in a forest in sub-zero temperatures... and what kind of nourishment did we have? I called a doctor whose grandfather had been a Polish exile, he was 3rd-generation, still understood some Polish. A very decent man. What was his name? I can’t remember. Because he saw the conditions we were living in, he took my husband into the hospital.

There were no patients on the men’s ward at all, just one patient and my husband the second, because there was a war on and all the men were at war. He was in hospital for a long time, and in the end, the doctor said to me: ‘Take him home, because he won’t live.’ He died in March 1944. He was buried in a Russian cemetery. No, it wasn’t a Jewish cemetery. It was this neglected cemetery, a few people died, so they were buried there. The cemetery wasn’t looked after very well there.

The Union of Polish Patriots 13 organized a Polish school in Koz’modem’yansk. I’d only done 3 years of my degree course [out of 5], but I had my teaching qualifications, and there were an awful lot of Polish children. Polish… I mean Jewish, mostly Jewish. And I taught the children in Koz’modem’yansk along with this Mrs. Hajdukiewicz, a teacher from Lwow. Me up to 4th grade and her up to 7th grade. We were just allocated days and classrooms in a Russian school, and we went there and taught. My Halinka went to that school too. I had something like 15 children in each class.

Irena and a friend worked in the forest, and as young girls, there with those Russian soldiers guarding them – there weren’t a lot of them, maybe 4 – well, one of them fell in love with Irena and used to come round. He didn’t come round for long, though, because they sent him to the front and he was killed. After all, contacts with Polish prisoners were not allowed, so his mates must have split on him [Polish citizens resettled in April 1940 had ‘administrativno vyslannyie’ – ‘expelled pursuant to administrative decision’ status; this meant they were prohibited from changing their place of residence, and were under the supervision of field divisions of the NKVD].

And one day the girls came running home and Irena shouts: ‘The war’s going to end! We’ll be leaving here soon. I heard on the radio that peace has been signed.’ We looked at her: what’s she talking about – we knew nothing. What was a newspaper, a radio? Well, and it was true. Very shortly, a few weeks later, Genek, Irena’s fiance, came back. They had the right to leave the front and take their families back to Poland, you see. And they all – Genek and his brother, their parents, Irena, Giza and Heniek – went to Moscow, and from Moscow smart as anything went back to Poland. Yes, later on Irena married Genek.

Halinka and I stayed. We moved from the cottage into a little room in a Russian woman’s apartment. I surrendered my driving license, as the only document proving that I was a Polish citizen, so that I could return to Poland. In spring 1946 we traveled in goods wagons to Poland. We could only leave when they put on an ‘eshelon’ [a military transport unit, in this case a train]. They gave us 24 hours to get to the railroad station, too. People went in horses and carts. Not everybody had to, but everybody left.

  • After the war

We traveled to Cracow in the same wagon as the Kurtzes; their 2 sons were still in the army. There was another Jewish family traveling with us, but not from Cracow. They were with their son, who had been in the army but had been thrown out, because he wasn’t suitable for some reason. Mrs. Hajdukiewicz, who was traveling with us as well, tried to get out in Lwow. She got off, but very soon came back to the wagon, because it was impossible – when she went into her apartment, when she saw what was going on there – and it was the Russian army… She didn’t go to Cracow with us, but went somewhere where another eshelon was going.

Back in Koz’modem’yansk I’d gotten a letter from a very close friend of mine, a schoolfriend, Karola Wetstein, whose son was the same age as my daughter. She wrote me that she had survived the camps, and that she was starting over from nothing in Cracow. She had her own house on Starowislna Street, and when she came out of the camp and retrieved her son, and found her brother (he had been in the camps somewhere, too), they moved back into their apartment on Starowislna. In her house.

She wrote me also that my parents were dead, that they’d perished in the last-but-one deportation from Podgorze – the ghetto had been in Podgorze 14. The ghetto was liquidated in September [1943], and they’d died in March, taken to Belzec 15. I have no family. After the war I was just me and my daughter. My parents had perished. Karola wrote also that when I came back to Poland, to Cracow, that I should head for her place, simply because I would find shelter with her.

My first steps on arriving in Cracow were to the Jewish Committee on Dluga Street [the Provincial Jewish Committee was set up in 1945 at 42 Dluga Street]. At the Committee I met Wiener, my cousin, and together we looked through the photo albums, and it was he who recognized them, I didn’t recognize: ‘Well look, this is your father and your mama.’ I hadn’t known my father without a beard. He hadn’t known him either, but somehow he’d remembered better. The Germans had taken those photographs in the ghetto.

It was a record of the people who had died – I don’t know, Jews in general. They let me make copies. Before the war my parents had had nothing. Their rented apartment in Podgorze had been in the ghetto, and there was no question of my going in when I got back even just to take a keepsake from home. I tried. I wasn’t let into the apartment and that was it. No, nobody opened up.

I went to Karola’s, and there it turned out that there was some other woman living in her apartment. She told me Karola had taken the child and gone somewhere to help him recover. Karola’s child had been hidden in some shed and couldn’t speak. He was also retarded. And after the war our children were 10 years old [Ed. note: in 1946 Halinka was 12].

And then that Mr. and Mrs. Kurtz took me to the house of some relatives or friends of theirs. In the evening a few people came round – a few young men who had survived the war. One of them kind of looks at me, looks, and says: ‘Aren’t you Juliusz Leibel’s wife?’ ‘I was Juliusz Leibel’s wife, but Juliusz died a few years back now.’

And what it turns out, he was this guy from Kalwaria, before the war he’d been 15 or 16 and he attended his father’s gasoline station. And he remembered me, and remembered my husband, that he’d sold us gasoline. And Halinka and I slept that night at those people’s house, the 2 of us in a cot, and in the morning he took care of me. He told me that he would take me to this woman who would help me find a job and an apartment.

He took me to 6 Slowackiego Avenue. He told me some name, there was a card on the door. I looked at her and I thought, ‘I know this woman from somewhere.’ And she turned out to be this Mala Rubinstein, who opened the first kindergarten for Jewish children in Cracow. The first. You see other than that, kindergartens were run by convents, by nuns, so Jewish children didn’t go to them. Before the war she’d been in Germany somewhere, in some school for kindergarten teachers, and then later, together with some wealthy Jewess (Mala wasn’t rich) she opened that kindergarten.

I spent one more night with those strangers, and then it turned out that Mala helped me to get my daughter into a children’s home – because I didn’t have anywhere to go – and found me a job in the same children’s home. On Dluga Street. At the Jewish Committee there was this group of women that traveled round Poland specially looking for children like that [Jewish] – because there were people who’d taken children in simply out of pity.

There was this one, Salus, came from Mazovia, but during the war he’d been in Ukraine with his father, his mother had perished somewhere, then the Russians had taken the father into the army, and the boy had gone along with the regiment because he’d had nowhere to go. And Mrs. Marianska, the chair of the Jewish Committee, had taken him in off the streets in Cracow.

There were these two sisters, too, Paulina and Dora, who’d originally had a father, the father had lived somewhere outside Cracow, because he’d had a job with some horses. Then he died and they’d been left alone. Salus and those two sisters were the first 3 children in the children’s home. Unfortunately there were only a few rooms there on Dluga Street.

And there, on Dluga Street, by chance, I met a cousin of mine, my father’s niece, Fela Goldzwinger. I met her on the corridor as I was taking my daughter to the children’s home. About the time I got married, she was still in gymnasium. I didn’t recognize her, because I remembered a schoolgirl, and here was a woman in a long coat and hat. A typical Jew, through and through, with a crooked nose.

Handsome, she was. And she’d been in the Podgorze ghetto, and when the elderly people had been taken to the camps in Plaszow, [the first transports left the ghetto for the Plaszow labor camp in February 1943; this was the start of the liquidation of the Cracow ghetto] 16, she’d been sent to work in Czechoslovakia somewhere. She’d been about 18 then. She lived through various camps, and came back from the camp naked, barefoot, and penniless – and generally with nowhere to go. Her parents and brothers and sisters had perished.

And she met a friend who she’d worked with back before the war, and she took her in, on Lubicz Street. And she found her a husband, took care of her very nicely. When I met her she was already married. She lived for a little while on Wolnica Place. She already had a little boy when she went to Israel. After that she worked there, in some children’s home somewhere, and I think he was a carpenter or something. Terribly poor, they were, but they got by. I saw her when I was in Israel.

This distant relative of mine in Cracow, who was the Jewish community’s assignee, came to see me one day and says: ‘Listen, there’s this young guy getting married, all alone, his whole family killed, and for him to get married they need two witnesses. Come with me.’ He didn’t even know the guy’s name. So we turned up – the wedding was at the rabbi’s place – I look… and it’s my cousin Lieblich, Stefan Lieblich [the second son of Mrs. Leibel’s maternal aunt Mania]. He didn’t know I was alive, and I didn’t know he was alive. He was the only one out of all that family deported way out into deepest Russia that survived. And he was getting married to this painter, Lea Weingruen. Her mother died shortly afterwards and they emigrated. Yes, to Palestine. I went to see them in Israel. There’s a picture hanging over there [on the wall] that she painted and gave me.

We got a whole 4-story building, where the Jewish Children’s Home was opened. Cracow, 1 Augustianska Boczna Street [now 6 Chmielowskiego Street; the building houses Care and Educational Complex No. 2]. That was the address. The house had been built before the war [1936-1938, commissioned by the Jewish community organization in Kazimierz] as an old  people’s home, but there were no old people left, because they’d been murdered by the Germans. Then it had been a barracks, and apparently a brothel for the German officers.

The back of that house butted up more or less against the Jewish hospital on Skawinska Street through the courtyards. And that’s almost right on the Vistula [River]. It was a beautiful building, very decently fitted out, just damaged. It was equipped for our needs – there were washrooms, and a washbasin in every room. Bathrooms in the corridors. Luckily, in spite of the damage we were able to move the children in straight away. Because it had been a barracks, there were these army beds there. The painters went in; there was broken glass everywhere, window panes had to be put in..., as you’d expect after a war.

The children helped to clear up, because 80 or more than 80 children arrived from the Soviet Union. A very large group, a whole carriageful came. There were boys and girls. More girls, of course. Jewish children. All Jewish. What 80 children meant?! All different ages! Some of them were so wild.

There was even a time when there were 130 children in the children’s home – that’s the maximum number I’m giving, because after that there were more or less 70-80, or 80-something. It varied. Of them, there were about 20-30 of the little ones, the under 3’s in the nursery. They lived up on the 4th floor, they had their own nurses up there. There was a veranda up there, and the little ones played up there on that veranda. They never came down from the 4th floor. And downstairs we had a kindergarten, from 4 to 6 years old. And other than that we had children even up to school-leaving age. I didn’t live in the same room as my daughter, she was with the other children.

No, I never got involved in looking out the children; they were brought to me. I was in the house, as a mom – I had a lot of children, each one different. I was there as the carer for the eldest group officially, but in practice I was the director. The real director was a very party man – he spent more time in the party 17, and in effect I ran the home. He’s been dead for years. He was called Dawid Erdestein, a German graduate. I worked in that children’s home 5 years. Some of the staff were Polish women. The carers were Jews.

There was this one Polish woman, an older woman, who rescued Jewish children, everyone called her ‘Nanny’. I can’t remember what she was called, but in return for what she had done the Jewish community office gave her an apartment for life and work in our home. The children called me ‘Pani Misia.’ And it’s stuck to this day.

The Jewish Children’s Home was kept up by American Jews, and we would get parcels of clothing. The children were dressed very nicely, except I always tried to make sure that my daughter was dressed more modestly than the others. And a deputation of American Jews came to visit us, and the Cracow and province authorities were there. After a while a wagon came from America with decent beds, mattresses, clothes and bedding in it – everything we needed. Yes,  and they didn’t want to let that wagon through, because it was addressed in the name of the director, and they thought it was him trying to do some private deal, and he was nearly arrested. That guy Wiener, that cousin of mine, saved him. He went to the militia and explained it.

You weren’t allowed to adopt Jewish children after the war. The communist authorities wouldn’t allow it; that was the official position. By way of exception we managed to get just 2 children adopted. One little girl, who writes to me from Israel now – oh, I must write back to her. She even comes to visit me. And Teresa, who was adopted by a friend of mine, a teacher in High School No. 5 in Cracow.

Jonasz Stern 18 was a friend of the director of the children’s home. They’d grown up together, in the same town, Kalusz (that’s outside Poland now [now Kalush, Ukraine, approx. 100 km south-west of Lwow]). And Stern used to come to our Children’s Home. We got friendly. His is a long story. He was rescued from a death camp; some people took him in somewhere, and when he came back from Hungary or wherever it was he’d been, after the war, he literally painted for bread. And other than that he would come to the Children’s Home, to see the children. He liked children very much.

He taught the children drawing, played with them, organized shows. And he made the costumes for all kinds of shows. He was a wonderful friend. A friend of the home. Once he painted this picture that he gave me as a present. And just after that he became rector of the Academy of Fine Arts in Cracow and after that he didn’t come round so much, because he didn’t have the time any more.

I was fired on the pretext of smuggling children to Israel [Mrs. Leibel isn’t sure what organization smuggled children to Israel, but it was probably Aliyyat No’ar (Youth Aliyah)] 19. Somehow they found out that I corresponded with relatives in Israel, which means somebody must have informed on me.

They knew I was a Zionist, and that I had never been a communist. I worked there for 5 years, so it must have been 1951 or 1952 when they fired me. No, it wasn’t Erdestein who fired me, because he’d been moved before that. Some higher level teacher training course had been set up in Cracow – he was a teacher by profession and was made manager there. I moved to the Friends of Children Society 20. In my place they put some ex-head of a children’s home in Lodz or somewhere. I don’t remember his name any more.

And when the children invited me to some get-together later, they said something about going away, but he said that his children weren’t going anywhere. I said to them then: ‘I’m going to Israel, so when I come back I’ll tell you what it’s like.’ But when I came back they weren’t there any more. They’d gone to Israel. The children who were still in the children’s home invited me to some special occasion, and only then did I find out that there’d been some big campaign – organized from Israel – and they’d been taken. And the new director, who’d been so against them leaving, had been the first to go. Yes, with the children. And he died there shortly afterwards, apparently, because when I went to Israel he had already died.

There was this foursome in the children’s home, 3 girls and a boy, siblings. They’d come from Russia in the biggest group of children. And 2 of the girls went to Israel that time. I remember that one of them, Regina, married there – a Jew, but from Sweden. Jews used to go to Israel to work, to help, and he’d gone too, and fallen in love with Regina, and he married her. And her sister Sara stayed in Cracow, got married here, to a carer from the children’s home – he was an orphan too. She graduated from the Jagiellonian University and worked there. What was her married name? I just found out, yesterday or a few days ago, that she died suddenly, in Cracow.

There was another couple in Israel, a girl and a boy from the children’s home, got married. I think he’s dead, and she’s stopped writing to me. They came to visit me lots of times too. Her father was an officer, a Jewish officer, but he was killed during the war. As a Jew, I mean, not as an officer. A friend of her father’s took her in and pretended she was his daughter. And everyone thought she was a bachelor’s daughter. Then he fell in love with some woman and got married, and that woman put the girl in our children’s home. And the girl used to come back to Poland because she was looking for her father’s papers. She got all his papers back, some orders, and so on.

My parents-in-law had left a house in Kalwaria, and in 1949 I sold that house. My husband had brothers and sisters, but somehow they all ceded at least part of it to me, so I had a little money and I was able to go on a trip to Israel. For a month, that was how much leave I had. That trip cost a lot.

Actually, I’d wanted Halinka to go to Israel instead of me – after the war she was grown up. But she didn’t want to, and we wouldn’t both have got permission to leave the country. They didn’t let people go to Israel, because they were afraid to let their precious Jews go. I had a lots of problems, I was refused permission to go several times, but in the end I succeeded and I went. That was in maybe 1952 or 1953. I thought that in time I’d persuade Halinka; I was brought up in a very Jewish home, but she wasn’t.

As far as I remember, I flew from Warsaw. I got on a plane that landed in Haifa. Janek, my cousin, came to the airport for me. He and his sister Ewa left Poland before the war. And we went back from Haifa by car to… where was it they lived? That famous lake… [the Sea of Galilee]. His wife worked in the municipal offices as a translator, because she was a Jew from England. She was 3 when she arrived there, so she knew English, and Hebrew of course. Ewa had a family there too, but she lived somewhere else.

The first time, I just stayed with Janek. No, for the first few days I couldn’t understand the Hebrew, but within a few days it all came back to me. They tried to persuade me to stay, but I said: ‘I can’t, because I’ve got my daughter in Cracow.’ I didn’t want to part with my daughter, and she desperately didn’t want to emigrate – she was a Pole. Did I bring my daughter up in the Jewish faith? I didn’t bring her up to be a Jew at all. She just has ‘Jew’ written in her papers. I’m not religious either, but I am a Jew by nationality. She doesn’t feel Jewish at all.

I had plans to move to Warsaw, I had the chance of a good job, but Halinka didn’t want to go; I had all sorts of problems. I took her to Warsaw, and she came back. So then I said: either you go to work, or you go to school. She was 18. She went out to work in her final year at school, took her school-leaving exams while she was working.

Well, what did I have to live on? She worked 3-4 years in Huta [the Lenin Steelworks, built 1954, the largest industrial plant in the Cracow region, now the T. Sendzimir Steelworks]. Then she worked in Cracow as a Russian translator – after all, she’d been at school in Russia for several years. Then she did a part-time university degree, in Russian.

After we had to leave the children’s home, Halinka lived with me at first. I found a tiny room at 48 Karmelicka Street. Then, while she was doing her degree she got married and I lived with her and her son [Ryszard Bronislaw, b. 1959], and her husband, a medical student, lived with his parents. Oh, it was all kinds of fun. The owner of the apartment was a very pleasant Mrs. Jenerowa, an Italian woman who’d married a Pole who worked in Cracow in the days when it was Galicia [i.e. before World War I]. So to the time we knew her, she didn’t speak Polish perfectly.

A very genteel, immensely pleasant, good person. It was a 3-room apartment. She lived in one room with her maid, in the second room was a Mrs. Tatarowa, who’d been married to a Jew, but her husband had perished in the occupation, and in the third room us, together with my grandson.

When a room came free in my friend’s apartment on Slowackiego Avenue, I moved in with her, and at least they could live together. Shortly afterwards Halinka divorced him. He moved out. His parents wouldn’t let him back in their apartment. In the meantime, Ryszard was with me more than he was at home with Halinka, because Halinka was working. I worked too, but we managed somehow. He was sick a lot, had high fevers, so he didn’t go to school, but stayed with me. I was constantly taking him on vacation or on trips. When Halinka was in Russia, he lived with me. She was there for 7 or 9 years, working as a translator. In Smolensk somewhere, then in the Crimea – various, in different places.

After I was fired from the children’s home I worked a few years in the Friends of Children Society [FCS] 20, where I was responsible for childcare in children’s homes. It was my job to go round and inspect those children’s homes. I also had to oversee the programs of the summer camps that schools organized. I only went on inspections. There were a lot of summer camps like that in Murzasichle [a popular vacation resort in the Tatra Mountains in southern Poland]. The whole village was basically just 11 FCS summer camp centers.

After the FCS I worked in Vocational Training [the Vocational Training Institute, est. 1915] on Dietla Street. For a while I worked there as course director. Then I moved to the Polish Economic Society. From there I was fired by the director, who I’d previously hired myself as a lecturer on courses, because I didn’t have the qualifications and I couldn’t lecture. He was called Nedzowski, an economics graduate. They wanted to fire him too, but in the end he joined the party and stayed, but I wasn’t a party member, and I was fired. What year was it when they fired all the Jews? [1968] 21. Ah, well that was when they fired me. Why? The usual: Jewish.

So then I went back to Training on Dietla Street, but not as course director any more, but in the library, part time, because I got a doctor’s certificate that I was sick. Then the library was closed down and I worked afternoons enrolling students on courses. When Solidarity 22 started up, they came to get me to enroll in Solidarity.

They started trying to persuade me, but I never joined either Solidarity or any other party. And the employee who came to me was a guy I knew was a drunk – in fact he was drunk when he came to me that time. I thought to myself: if he’s going to be in it, then that’s no place for me, because I’ve never had anything to do with drunks. And I refused, and then I was fired. Ahead of Martial Law 23. Under Solidarity they fired the director too.

The new director had been working there maybe 6 months, maybe not even that, when they came to me and asked me to go back. I wanted to go back, but my daughter wouldn’t let me: ‘What’s that supposed to mean? If they’ve asked you to leave once, don’t go.’ I was already retired before that, it had just been a part-time job. Oh, I worked for a long time, because when I retired, I was nearly 70. At 55 I was entitled to retire, but I worked to 60 normally, and then went part time. I remember the end of communism in Poland 24, but it wasn’t any big deal for me. I knew it was finished and I was pleased, and that was it. Good riddance.

I was a member of the Polish Teaching Union for years and years. I never went on any vacations or anything. And then, when they started demanding money for subscriptions and I was sick, every 50 zloty counted, I stopped being a member. It’s 6 years I haven’t been out of the house now. I have my pension, but I have 2 carers – a day nurse and a night nurse. Private. My pension wouldn’t cover that – my friends pay.

Yes, I must say I keep in touch with the children from the children’s home. Paulina, who lives in Brussels, is always calling me – she phoned me a few days ago. I even have a photograph of her grandson. I went to stay with her a few times. The other one, her sister Dora, lives in Paris, and I went to stay with her too. Just now I got a card from one of the girls in the children’s home for Jewish New Year. And best wishes. It’s very nice that the children remember me and come to visit me.

I have these friends, not Jews, they’re called Wasilewski. Wojtek is a young man, younger than me, younger even than my daughter. He’s a sculptor and his wife’s a painter. Artists. And a few times they organized get-togethers at Jewish festivals. And they asked me to light the candles, the Friday ones, at their house. They live on the way to Nowa Huta. We’re very close. We’ve known each other for about 20 years now. No, there aren’t many older Jews in Cracow. And if there are, I’m not in touch with them. After the war I went to the synagogue a few times, for anniversaries, but not many times. I’m always a member of the community organization, just because. Of course. I get my matzah every year.

  • Glossary:

1. Franz Joseph I Hapsburg (1830-1916): emperor of Austria from 1848, king of Hungary from 1867. In 1948 he suppressed a revolution in Austria (the ‘Springtime of the Peoples’), whereupon he abolished the constitution and political concessions. His foreign policy defeats – the loss of Italy in 1859, loss of influences in the German lands, separatism in Hungary, defeat in war against the Prussians in 1866 – and the dire condition of the state finances  convinced him that reforms were vital.

In 1867 the country was reformed as a federation of two states: the Austrian empire and the Hungarian kingdom, united by a personal union in the person of Franz Joseph. A constitutional parliamentary system was also adopted, which guaranteed the various countries within the state (including Galicia, an area now largely in southern Poland) a considerable measure of internal autonomy. In the area of foreign policy, Franz Joseph united Austria-Hungary with Germany by a treaty signed in 1892, which became the basis for the Triple Alliance.

The conflict in Bosnia Hertsegovina was the spark that ignited World War I. Subsequent generations remembered the latter part of Franz Joseph’s rule as a period of stabilization and prosperity.

2. Galicia: Informal name for the lands of the former Polish Republic under Hapsburg rule (1772–1918), derived from the official name bestowed on these lands by Austria: the Kingdom of Galicia and Lodomeria. From 1815 the lands west of the river San (including Cracow) began by common consent to be called Western Galicia, and the remaining part (including Lemberg [Lwow]), with its dominant Ukrainian population, Eastern Galicia. Galicia was agricultural territory, an economically backward region.

Its villages were poor and overcrowded (hence the term ‘Galician misery’), which, given the low level of industrial development (on the whole processing of agricultural and crude-oil based products) prompted mass economic emigration from the 1890s; mainly to the Americas. After 1918 the name Eastern Malopolska for Eastern Galicia was popularized in Poland, but Ukrainians called it Western Ukraine.

3. Kazimierz: Now a district of Cracow lying south of the Main Market Square, it was initially a town in its own right, which received its charter in 1335. Kazimierz was named in honor of its founder, King Casimir the Great. In 1495 King Jan Olbracht issued the decision to transfer the Jews of Cracow to Kazimierz. From that time on a major part of Kazimierz became a center of Jewish life. Before 1939 more than 64,000 Jews lived in Cracow, which was some 25% of the city’s total population. Only the culturally assimilated Jewish intelligentsia lived outside Kazimierz.

Until the outbreak of World War II this quarter remained primarily a Jewish district, and was the base for the majority of the Jewish institutions, organizations and parties. The religious life of Cracow’s Jews was also concentrated here; they prayed in large synagogues and a multitude of small private prayer houses.

In 1941 the Jews of Cracow were removed from Kazimierz to the ghetto, created in the district of Podgorze, where some died and the remainder were transferred to the camps in Plaszow and Auschwitz. The majority of the pre-war monuments, synagogues and Jewish cemeteries in Kazimierz have been preserved to the present day, and a few Jewish institutions continue to operate.

4. Anders’ Army: The Polish Armed Forces in the USSR, subsequently the Polish Army in the East, known as Anders’ Army: an operations unit of the Polish Armed Forces formed pursuant to the Polish-Soviet Pact of 30 July 1941 and the military agreement of 14 July 1941. It comprised Polish citizens who had been deported into the heart of the USSR: soldiers imprisoned in 1939-41 and civilians amnestied in 1941 (some 1.25-1.6m people, including a recruitment base of 100,000-150,000).

The commander-in-chief of the Polish Armed Forces in the USSR was General Wladyslaw Anders. The army never reached its full quota (in February 1942 it numbered 48,000, and in March 1942 around 66,000). In terms of operations it was answerable to the Supreme Command of the Red Army, and in terms of organization and personnel to the Supreme Commander, General Wladyslaw Sikorski, and the Polish government in exile. In March-April 1942 part of the Army (with Stalin’s consent) was sent to Iran (33,000 soldiers and approx. 10,000 civilians).

The final evacuation took place in August-September 1942 pursuant to Soviet-British agreements concluded in July 1942 (it was the aim of General Anders and the British powers to withdraw Polish forces from the USSR); some 114,000 people, including 25,000 civilians (over 13,000 children) left the Soviet Union. The units that had been evacuated were merged with the Polish Army in the Middle East to form the Polish Army in the East, commanded by Anders.

5. Jagiellonian University: (Pol.: Uniwersytet Jagiellonski), Cracow’s premier university, founded in 1364 by King Casimir III of Poland, it has maintained a high standard of learning ever since. In the 19th century the university was designated “Jagiellonian” to commemorate the dynasty of Polish kings of the same name.

6. Zbaszyn Camp: From October 1938 until the spring of 1939 there was a camp in Zbaszyn for Polish Jews resettled from the Third Reich. The German government, anticipating the act passed by the Polish Sejm (Parliament) depriving people who had been out of the country for more than 5 years of their citizenship, deported over 20,000 Polish Jews, some 6,000 of whom were sent to Zbaszyn. As the Polish border police did not want to let them into Poland, these people were trapped in a strip of no-man’s land, without shelter, water or food. After a few days they were resettled to a temporary camp on the Polish side, where they spent several months. Jewish communities in Poland organized aid for the victims; families took in relatives, and Joint also provided assistance.

7. Hitler’s rise to power: in the German parliamentary elections in January 1933, the National Socialist German Workers’ Party (NSDAP) won one-third of the votes. On 30 January 1933 the German president swore in Adolf Hitler, the party’s leader, as chancellor. On 27 February 1933 the building of the Reichstag (the parliament) in Berlin was burned down. The government laid the blame with the Bulgarian communists, and a show trial was staged. This served as the pretext for ushering in a state of emergency and holding a re-election.

It was won by the NSDAP, which gained 44% of the votes, and following the cancellation of the communists’ votes it commanded over half of the mandates. The new Reichstag passed an extraordinary resolution granting the government special legislative powers and waiving the constitution for 4 years. This enabled the implementation of a series of moves that laid the foundations of the totalitarian state: all parties other than the NSDAP were dissolved, key state offices were filled by party luminaries, and the political police and the apparatus of terror swiftly developed.

8. John Paul II (Karol Wojtyla, 1920-2005): Polish Catholic cleric, archbishop of Cracow, cardinal and from 1978 pope. Ordained in 1946. Lecturer at the Jagiellonian University in Cracow and subsequently at the Catholic University of Lublin. In 1963 became archbishop of Cracow. Elevated to the rank of cardinal in 1967. On 16 October 1978 elected pope. During his pontificate he made more than 100 pilgrimages to countries all over the world. His first pilgrimage to Poland in 1979 is of especial significance, as it was intended to fortify the spirit of resistance to the communist regime. Pope John Paul II devoted much energy to ecumenical dialogue both within the Christian church and with other religions, including Judaism. He was the first pope to visit Rome’s synagogue, he established diplomatic relations with the state of Israel, and in the year 2000 he made a historic confession of the Church’s sins, including the sin of centuries of anti-Semitism.

9. Flight of the Polish government in 1939: On 17 September 1939, when fighting was still going on against the Germans, Soviet forces invaded Polish territory, which spelled the ultimate failure of the defensive war. The Polish government, president, and commander-in-chief of the army took the decision to evacuate the Polish authorities to Romania, with the intention of subsequently getting to France. The Romanian ambassador assured the government right of transit.

On 18 September the supreme Polish authorities crossed the border in Zaleszczyki to Czerniowice. From there, President Ignacy Moscicki delivered an address to the Polish nation in which he announced that the state authorities had been transferred to an allied country. The dispatch of the address constituted a violation of the Hague Convention and provided the Romanian authorities with a pretext to intern the Polish authorities, which the Germans were pressing them to do. On the same day the members of the Polish authorities were placed in isolation in several different locations throughout Romania.

The Polish constitution of 1935 gave the president the right to nominate his successor in a situation of war. Ignacy Moscicki nominated as president Wladyslaw Raczkiewicz, who succeeded in getting to France. The new president appointed Gen. Wladyslaw Sikorski prime minister of the emigre Polish government in Paris.

10. Deportations of Poles from the Eastern Territories during WWII: from the beginning of Soviet occupation of eastern Poland on 17th September 1939, until the Soviet-German war which broke out on 21st June 1941, the Soviet authorities deported people associated with the former Polish authorities, culture, church and army. Around 400 000 people were exiled from the Lwow, Tarnopol and Stanislawow districts, mostly to northern Russia, Siberia and Kazakhstan. Between 12 and 15 April as many as 25 000 were deported from Lwow alone.

11. Polish Jews in Oflags: among the 420 000 soldiers of the Polish Army taken prisoner in September 1939 there were ca. 60 000 Jews, while among the 17 000 Polish officers there were 600-700 Jews (defined according to the Nuremberg laws). They were put in more than a dozen POW camps along with their Polish comrades. In the spring of 1940 the Germans registered all the Jewish officers in Oflags and transferred them to Stalag II B – Hammerstein, planning to send them home, that is, to ghettos in the General Government.

After a few weeks the Germans changed their minds: the Jews were sent back to the Oflags. Officers were protected under the 1929 Geneva Convention, which guaranteed decent living conditions, and the right to send and receive letters and parcels and to participate in educational and cultural activities in the camp. Prisoners of war were under the power of the Wehrmacht. The Convention was breached by the Germans, as they created ghettos (separate barracks) in four Oflags: Woldenburg, Murnau, Neubrandenburg, and Dossel, despite protests from the Polish officers and the Red Cross delegations.

Living conditions in the ‘ghettos’ were worse than those in the Polish barracks, and Jews were also temporarily deprived of the right to receive Red Cross parcels. It is known that Himmler was trying to deprive Jews of prisoner-of-war status, but was blocked by Oberkommando Wehrmacht. The Jewish commissioned officers generally survived the war in the Oflags. Jewish soldiers and non-commissioned officers were treated completely differently: most of them perished in the Holocaust.

12. The 1st Kosciuszko Infantry Division: tactical grouping formed in the USSR from May 1943. The victory at Stalingrad and the gradual assumption of the strategic initiative by the Red Army strengthened Stalin’s position in the anti-fascist coalition and enabled him to exert increasing influence on the issue of Poland. In April 1943, following the public announcement by the Germans of their discovery of mass graves at Katyn, Stalin broke off diplomatic relations with the Polish government in exile and, using the Poles in the USSR, began openly to build up a political base (the Union of Polish Patriots) and an army: the 1st Kosciuszko Infantry Division numbered some 11,000 soldiers and was commanded first by General Zygmunt Berling (1943-44), and subsequently by the Soviet General Bewziuk (1944-45). In August 1943 the division was incorporated into the 1st Corps of the Polish Armed Forces in the USSR, and from March 1944 was part of the Polish Army in the USSR. The 1st Division fought at Lenino on 12-13 October 1943, and in the Wasaw district of Praga in September 1944. In January 1945 it marched into Warsaw, and in April-May 1945 it took part in the capture of Berlin. After the war it became part of the Polish Army.

13. Union of Polish Patriots (ZPP): Political organization founded in March 1943 by Polish communists in the USSR. It served Stalin’s policy with regard to the Polish question. The ZPP drew up the terms on which the communists took power in post-war Poland. It developed its range of activities more fully after the Soviet authorities broke off diplomatic contact with the government of the Republic of Poland in exile (Apr. 1943). The upper ranks of the ZPP were dominated by communists (from Jan. 1944 concentrated in the Central Bureau of Polish Communists), who did not reveal the organization’s long-term aims. The ZPP propagated slogans such as armed combat against the Germans, alliance with the USSR, parliamentary democracy and moderate social and economic reforms in post-war Poland, and redefinition of Poland’s eastern border. It considered the ruling bodies of the Republic of Poland in exile to be illegal. It conducted propaganda campaigns (its press organ was called ‘Wolna Polska’ - Free Poland), and organized community care and education and cultural activities. From May 1943 it co-operated in the organization of the First Kosciuszko Infantry Division, and later the Polish Army in the USSR (1944). In July 1944, the ZPP was formally subordinated to the National Council and participated in the formation of the Polish Committee for National Liberation. From 1944-46, the ZPP resettled Poles and Jews from the USSR to Poland. It was dissolved in August 1946.

14. Podgorze Ghetto: There were approximately 60,000 Jews living in Cracow in 1939; after the city was seized by the Germans, mass persecutions began. The Jews were ordered to leave the city in April; approx. 15,000 received permission to stay in the city. A ghetto was created in the Podgorze district on 21st March 1941. Approx. 8,000 people from suburban regions were resettled there in the fall. There were three hospitals, orphanages, old people’s homes, several synagogues and one pharmacy run by a Pole operating in the ghetto. Illegal Jewish organizations began operating in 1940. An attack on German officers in the Cyganeria club took place on 22nd December 1942. Mass extermination began in 1942 – 14,000 inhabitants were deported to Belzec, many were murdered on the spot. The ghetto, diminished in size, was divided into two parts: A, for those who worked, and B, for those who did not work. The ghetto was liquidated in March 1943. The inhabitants of part A were deported to the camp in Plaszow and those of part B to Auschwitz. Approximately 3,000 Jews returned to Cracow after the war.

15. Belzec: Village in the Lublin region of Poland (Tomaszow district). In 1940 the Germans created a forced labor camp there for 2,500 Jews and Roma. In November 1941 it was transformed into an extermination camp (SS Sonderkommando Belzec or Dienststelle Belzec der Waffen SS) under the ‘Reinhard-Aktion’, in which the Germans murdered around 600,000 people (chiefly in gas chambers), including approximately 550,000 Polish Jews (approx. 300,000 from the province of Galicia) and Jews from the USSR, Austria, Belgium, Czechoslovakia, Denmark, Holland, Germany, Norway and Hungary; many Poles from surrounding towns and villages and from Lwow also died here, mostly for helping Jews. In November 1942 the Nazis began liquidating the camp. In the spring of 1943 the camp was demolished and the corpses of the gassed victims exhumed from their mass graves and burned. The last 600 Jews employed in this work were then sent to the Sobibor camp, where they died in the gas chambers.

16. Plaszow Camp: Located near Cracow, it was originally a forced labor camp and subsequently became a concentration camp. The construction of the camp began in summer 1940. In 1941 the camp was extended and the first Jews were deported there. The site chosen comprised two Jewish cemeteries. There were about 2,000 prisoners there before the liquidation of the Podgorze (Cracow) ghetto on 13th and 14th March 1943 and the transportation of the remaining Jews to Plaszow camp. Afterwards, the camp population rose to 8,000. By the second half of 1943 its population had risen to 12,000, and by May-June 1944 the number of permanent prisoners had increased to 24,000 (with an unknown number of temporary prisoners), including 6,000-8,000 Jews from Hungary. Until the middle of 1943 all the prisoners in the Plaszow forced labor camp were Jews. In July 1943, a separate section was fenced off for Polish prisoners who were sent to the camp for breaking the laws of the German occupational government. The conditions of life in the camp were made unbearable by the SS commander Amon Goeth, who became the commandant of Plaszow in February 1943. He held the position until September 1944 when he was arrested by the SS for stealing from the camp warehouses. As the Russian forces advanced further and further westward, the Germans began the systematic evacuation of the slave labor camps in their path. From the camp in Plaszow, many hundreds were sent to Auschwitz, others westward to Mauthausen and Flossenburg. On 18th January 1945 the camp was evacuated in the form of death marches, during which thousands of prisoners died from starvation or disease, or were shot if they were too weak to walk. The last prisoners were transferred to Germany on 16th January 1945. More than 150,000 civilians were held prisoner in Plaszow.

17. Polish United Workers’ Party (PZPR): communist party formed in Poland in December 1948 by the fusion of the PPR (Polish Workers’ Party) and the PPS (Polish Socialist Party). Until 1989 it was the only party in the country; it held power, but was subordinate to the Soviet Union. After losing the elections in June 1989 it lost its monopoly. On 29th January 1990 the party was dissolved.

18. Jonasz Stern (1904-1988): painter and printmaker. Studied at the Cracow Academy of Fine Arts. Co-operated as a set designer with the “Cricot” Theater. Co-founder of the artistic “Krakow Group.” Active in the Communist Party of Poland, for which in 1938 he was interned in the camp in Bereza Kartuska. During the war he was in the Lwow ghetto and subsequently in the Janowska Street camp. He escaped and managed to reach Hungary, where he was liberated. After the war he settled in Cracow. From 1959 he was vice-rector of the Academy of Fine Arts; removed in 1968 during the anti-Semitic purges. Few of his prewar works have survived: landscapes, genre scenes and grotesque compositions. In his postwar work he began to employ innovative techniques, incorporating into the structure of the picture fragments of other materials: fish bones, small bones, skins, photographs and fabric. Many of his works from this period address the theme of the Holocaust and death.

19. Aliyyat Noar (Youth Aliyah): organization founded in 1933 in Berlin by Recha Freier, whose original aim was to help Jewish children and youth to emigrate from Nazi Germany to Palestine. The immigrants were settled in the Ben Shemen kibbutz, where over a period of 2 years they were taught to work on the land and Hebrew. In the period 1934-1945 the organization was run by Henrietta Szold, the founder of the USA women’s Zionist organization Hadassa. From that time, Aliyyat Noar was incorporated into the Jewish Agency. After World War II it took 20,000 orphans who had survived the Holocaust in Europe to Israel. Nowadays Aliyyat Noar is an educational organization that runs 7 schools and cares for child immigrants from all over the world as well as young Israelis from families in distress. It has cared for a total of more than 300,000 children.

20. Friends of Children Society (Towarzystwo Przyjaciol Dzieci, TPD): a childcare and educational society founded in Cracow in 1911 by, among others, B. Bobrowska, who was its chairwoman for many years. It established and ran children’s homes, clinics, youth groups and schools. Before World War II the society operated in the Cracow region only; it was only in 1949, after it merged with the Workers’ TPD and the Peasants’ TPD, that it became a national organization. At present the TPD has a very broad range of activities: it organizes educational institutions, psychology advisory centers, rehabilitation centers, youth centers, adoption centers, health care, assistance for the disabled, and pedagogical research.

21. Gomulka Campaign: a campaign to sack Jews employed in the Ministry of Internal Affairs, the army and the central administration. The trigger of this anti-Semitic campaign was the involvement of the Socialist Bloc countries on the Arab side in the Middle East conflict, in connection with which Moscow ordered purges in state institutions. On 19th June 1967, at a trade union congress, the then First Secretary of the Polish United Workers’ Party [PZPR], Wladyslaw Gomulka, accused the Jews of lack of loyalty to the state and of publicly demonstrating their enthusiasm for Israel’s victory in the Six-Day-War. This marked the start of purges among journalists and people of other creative professions. Poland also severed diplomatic relations with Israel. On 8th March 1968 there was a protest at Warsaw University. The Ministry of Internal Affairs responded by launching a press campaign and organizing mass demonstrations in factories and workplaces during which ‘Zionists’ and ‘trouble-makers’ were indicted and anti-Semitic and anti-intelligentsia slogans shouted. Following the events of March purges were also staged in all state institutions, from factories to universities, on criteria of nationality and race. ‘Family liability’ was also introduced (e.g. with respect to people whose spouses were Jewish). Jews were forced to emigrate. From 1968-1971 15,000-30,000 people left Poland. They were stripped of their citizenship and right of return.

22. Solidarity (NSZZ Solidarnosc): a social and political movement in Poland that opposed the authority of the PZPR. In its institutional form – the Independent Self-Governing Trade Union Solidarity (NSZZ Solidarnosc) – it emerged in August and September 1980 as a product of the turbulent national strikes. In that period trade union organizations were being formed in all national enterprises and institutions; in all some 9–10 million people joined NSZZ Solidarnosc. Solidarity postulated fundamental changes to the system in Poland, and sought the fulfillment of its postulates by exerting various forms of pressure on the authorities: pickets in industrial enterprises and public buildings, street demonstrations, negotiations and propaganda. It was outlawed in 1982 following the introduction of Martial Law (on 13 December 1981), and until 1989 remained an underground organization, adopting the strategy of gradually building an alternative society and over time creating social institutions that would be independent of the PZPR (the ‘long march’). Solidarity was the most important opposition group that influenced the changes in the Polish political system in 1989.

23. Martial law in Poland in 1981: extraordinary legal measures introduced by a State Council decree on 13th December 1981 in an attempt to protect the communist system and destroy the democratic opposition. The Martial Law decree suspended the activity of associations and trades unions, including Solidarity, introduced a curfew, imposed travel restrictions, and gave the authorities the powers to arrest opposition activists, search private premises, and conduct body searches, banned public gatherings. A special, non-constitutional state authority body was established, the Military Board of National Salvation (WRON), which oversaw the implementation of the Martial Law regulations, headed by General Wojciech Jaruzelski, the supreme commander of the armed forces. Over 5,900 people were arrested during Martial Law, chiefly Solidarity activists. Branches of Solidarity organized protest strikes. The Wujek coal mine, occupied by striking miners, was stormed by police assault squads, leading to the death of nine miners. The Martial Law regulations were eased gradually; by December 1982, for instance, all interned opposition activists were released. On 31st December 1982 Martial Law was suspended, and on 22nd July 1983 it was repealed.

24. Poland 1989: In 1989 the communist regime in Poland finally collapsed and the process of forming a multiparty, pluralistic, democratic political system and introducing a capitalist economy began. Communist policy and the deepening economic crisis since the early 1980s had caused increasing social discontent and weariness and the radicalization of moods among Solidarity activists (Solidarity: a trade union that developed into a political party and played a key role in overthrowing communism). On 13th December 1981 the PZPR (Polish United Worker’s Party) had introduced Martial Law (lifted on 22nd July 1983). Growing economic difficulties, social moods and the strength of the opposition persuaded the national authorities to begin gradually liberalizing the political system. Changes in the USSR also influenced the policy of the PZPR. A series of strikes in April-May and August 1988, and demonstrations in many towns and cities forced the authorities to seek a compromise with the opposition. After a few months of meetings and consultations Round Table negotiations took place (6th February-5th April 1989) with the participation of Solidarity activists (Lech Walesa) and the democratic opposition (Bronislaw Geremek, Jacek Kuron, Tadeusz Mazowiecki). The resolutions it passed signaled the end of the PZPR’s monopoly on power and cleared the way for the overthrow of the system. In parliamentary elections (4th June 1989) the PZPR and its subordinate political groups suffered defeat. In fall 1989 a program of fundamental economic, social and ownership transformations was drawn up and in January 1990 the PZPR was dissolved.

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