Travel

Bluma Lepiku
Tallinn
Estonia
Interviewer: Ella Levitskaya
Date of interview: March 2006

I conducted this interview with Bluma Lepiku at her home. Bluma lives in a one-room apartment in a new residential compound in Tallinn. Her apartment is very clean, cozy, and full of light. Bluma is short and plump. Her black wavy hair with gray streaks is cut short. She has bright and young eyes. After her husband died, Bluma has lived alone. Her relatives passed away a long time ago, and Bluma is very lonely. Her forced loneliness is a hard burden on her. Due to severely ill joints she spends most of her time at home, and this causes a lot of suffering to her. She even complained to me that she begins to forget words having nobody to talk to. Bluma is sociable, very spontaneous and lively. She finds everything in the world interesting. She was very interested in hearing about Ukraine. Bluma reads and thinks about what she has read a lot.

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

My mother and her family did not come from Estonia. My maternal grandmother, Dora Gore, and my grandfather Gore were born in the Russian Empire, but I don't know the exact place of their birth. My mother Luba, nee Gore, her sister Fanny and her brothers Samuel and Lev were born in the Russian town of Yekaterinoslav [in 1926 Yekaterinoslav was given the name of Dnipropetrovsk, which is currently one of the largest administrative centers in Ukraine. It's located 400 km east of Kiev]. My mother's Jewish name was Liebe. My mother was born in 1897.

I don't know when my mother's brothers and her sister were born. I can't even say for sure, whether they were younger or older than my mother. I would think that Samuel and Fanny were older, but there is nothing I can say about Lev. I never met him. All I know about him is what my mother and grandmother told me. Regretfully, I've forgotten a lot. I am 80 years old already and my memory often fails me now.

My mother's family lived in Yekaterinoslav before the 1900s. When Jewish pogroms 1 started in Russia, they decided to move to where it was quieter. I have no information about my grandfather. I don't know what he did or how he died. He might have become a victim of pogroms. At least, my mother's family moved to Estonia without him. It was my grandmother and her four children. Though Estonia also belonged to the Russian Empire, but Jews lived a very different life in Estonia than in other areas of the Russian Empire. The Pale of Settlement 2 was not applicable in Estonia. Jews were not restricted as to the area of residence and were treated as equal members of the community.

There were no Jewish pogroms in Estonia. There were no restrictions with regard to education or career applied to Jews. Jewish young people from all over Russia came to study at Tartu University. There was not only no quota 3, but there were even Jewish students' corporations. [Editor's note: Students of Jewish origin studied in Tartu University since the end of the 19th century, and they had their associations and corporations. The student's money box was established in 1874, and in 1884 the academic society with the name of Akademischer Verein für jüdische Geschichte und Literatur (Jewish Academic Society of History and Literature). Jewish students formed the 'Hacfiro' society. There were two corporations: 'Limuvia' and 'Hasmonea.' The 'Limuvia' was a secular organization, and the 'Hasmonea' was Zionist oriented. Since there were relatively few numbers of Jewish students at the university, their organizations were small. In 1934 the Academic Society listed 10 members, the 'Hacfiro' - 20, 'Limuvia' - 43, and the 'Hasmonea' - 30 members. The societies owned large libraries: the 'Limuvia' had about 3,500, the 'Hasmonea' - 1,000, the Academic society 2,000, and the 'Hacfiro' had 300 volumes. Jewish students also had a cash box. This was the first Jewish students' organization in Estonia. The purpose of the cash box was to support Jewish students from poor families. Wealthy Jewish families made annual contributions to the fund, and the board distributed the amounts among needy students].

There were many wealthy Jewish families in Estonia, and they made contributions to the cash box to give talented students from poor families an opportunity to pay for their studies. This was not the case in any other areas of the Russian Empire. Jews have always been treated nicely in Estonia. Perhaps, this was why my mother's family decided for Estonia. They settled down in Tartu, the second largest city in Estonia.

My mother hardly told me anything about her childhood. I don't know how they managed without their breadwinner, but my grandmother managed to raise her children all right. They managed to get some education. At least, my mother, her sister and brothers could read and write. My mother's older brother Solomon was a sales agent. He supplied popular Czech imitation jewelry to local stores. My mother's older sister Fanny moved to America at 17. My mother attended hat making trainings and one year later she became a skilled hat maker. All I know about my mother's bother Lev is that he was regimented to the army at the beginning of World War I and disappeared at the front. His family kept hoping that he was captured or wounded and was in hospital, but he never came back.

My mother's family was religious. My grandmother was a believer. She observed Jewish traditions and raised her children to respect them. The whole family went to the synagogue 4 in Tartu on Jewish holidays. They also celebrated Sabbath and Jewish holidays at home and followed the kashrut. Each family member spoke fluent Russian since they had arrived in Estonia from Russia. However, the language they spoke at home was Yiddish. In Estonia all of them learned Estonian, including my grandmother. Though Russian was an official language in Estonia like everywhere else in the Russian Empire, the majority spoke Estonian, their mother tongue.

When my mother and her brother Solomon began to earn their own living, my grandmother moved to her older daughter Fanny in America. My grandmother corresponded with my mother and Solomon telling them about life in America. She was telling my mother that she should visit them in America. My mother finally decided to take the trip. This happened during the First Estonian Republic 5, after the war for independence was over 6, i.e., in 1920. My mother decided she would visit her folks and see whether she would be interested to move to America for good.

She had to get to Tallinn from Tartu to go on from there. Her brother traveled a lot, and he told my mother there was a little Jewish restaurant and an inn in Tallinn where my mother could stay overnight, if necessary. Solomon had stayed there himself on his numerous trips. He told Mama she should stay there as well. This was how my parents met. My mother came to the inn and told the owner her name, Gore. The owner of the inn and the restaurant, my future grandmother, Dora Reichmann, asked my mother if Solomon Gore was related to her. My mother told her that Solomon was her brother. The owner liked my mother a lot.

My mother heard someone playing the violin at the restaurant. It was beautiful. She asked who was playing so beautifully. The owner replied that it was her older son Yankl. She showed my mother into the restaurant where she introduced her to her son. They fell in love at first sight and there's no need to say that my mother cancelled her trip. She stayed in Tallinn and then went back to Tartu. Shortly afterward my mother and father got married. They had their wedding party in my grandmother's restaurant. It was a traditional Jewish wedding with a rabbi and a chuppah. After they got married my mother moved to Tallinn.

My father's parents came from Tallinn. My grandmother's sister, Martha Fridlander, also lived in Tallinn. She divorced her husband before I was born. I didn't know him. Martha had a son. His name was Hermann. He was tall and handsome. Marta was worried that he was single. I didn't know my father's father, Mendl Shumiacher. My father was born in 1897. His younger brother Michail was born in 1900. Their father died, when they were still very young.

My grandmother remarried. I don't remember her second husband's first name. His surname was Reichmannn. My grandmother had his portrait. He was a handsome man with moustache. They didn't live long together. Reichmannn died in a tragic accident. He was an electrician. One day he was killed by an electric shock. My grandmother never remarried again. She rented a house and opened a kosher Jewish restaurant and a small inn for traders and sales agents. When her business developed and she could afford it, she bought the building from its owner. The family resided in a rental apartment.

My grandmother was a terrific cook. I don't know a better one. Her inn and restaurant were always full, and a number of men proposed to my grandmother, but she refused all of them, since none of them wanted her children. They were talking about getting married and as for the children, they wanted to discuss this issue later. However, my grandmother did not agree to leave her sons on their own even for the time being. So, she never remarried again. She dedicated herself to the restaurant and her sons.

My father and his younger brother were very good at music. They studied at a gymnasium, but my grandmother could not afford to pay additionally to teach them music. It was too expensive. However, both of them wanted to learn music. Somehow, though I don't know how they managed it, they learned to play the violin. My father started earning money, when he was still very young. There were musicians playing the music during silent film screenings. My father played the violin at the movie theater. This was his good luck. A teacher of music took notice of him and offered him free classes. He lived in Tartu and convinced my grandmother to let her son move to Tartu to take music classes. His teacher taught my father diligently, and when my father improved enough to continue on his own, he came back home.

Perhaps, it's not proper to say this about one's own father, but there was no other violinist like my father in Tallinn. Who didn't know Shumiacher! My father could not afford to study at the conservatory, but he became a skilled musician. He put his whole heart into music. My father played in the largest restaurants in Tallinn: Astoria and Linden. Many visitors went to the restaurant just to listen to Shumiacher playing. My father's brother Michail also became a good violinist.

After the wedding my parents rented an apartment from Penkovskiy, a Jewish owner. We had a three-room apartment with stove heating. It was nice and warm. I remember piled stoves in our rooms. The piles were polished so thoroughly that one could look in them like in a mirror. There was one stove to heat two rooms: my parents' bedroom and the children's room. There was another stove in the kitchen, and it also heated the dining-room.

My father earned all right and could provide well for his family. My mother didn't work after her wedding. My older sister Mena, their first child, was born in January 1922. After my baby sister was born, my mother's mother came from America. She lived with my parents helping them to take care of the baby. I was born in October 1926. I was given the name of Bluma.

Growing up

My grandmother stayed with us a little longer before moving to Tartu where her son Solomon and his family lived. Solomon married Yida, an Estonian Jewish girl. In 1922 their son Michail was born. My grandmother died in Tartu in early 1940. She was buried in the Jewish cemetery in Tartu according to Jewish traditions.

We spoke several languages at home. My grandmothers and my parents communicated in Yiddish. Besides, my parents taught my sister and me German and Estonian. Actually, we learned Estonian playing with other children, and our governess Jenny was teaching us German. We also spoke Russian at home. Young girls from Pechory, a Russian town located on the border of Estonia and Russia, used to take up housekeeping jobs in Estonia. We also had one such housemaid. We heard our mother speaking Russian to her. My sister picked some Russian, but I couldn't speak any Russian.

Our father was not involved in raising the children or any household duties. My mother was responsible for raising the children and keeping the house. My father brought money home, and it was my mother's part to take good care of it. My mother was always alone at home at night. My father played at night-time. My mother and my grandmother became good friends. They went to theaters and concerts together. My grandmother liked my mother dearly. However, my two grandmothers did not get along. This is the case, when they say they were at daggers drawn with one another.

My mother was raised to strictly observe Jewish traditions. My father was not particularly religious, though his mother was a very religious woman. We followed the kashrut at home. My mother did the cooking herself, and all food was kosher. As for my father, he did not follow the kashrut. He had meals at restaurants and told us he commonly ordered pork carbonade or chops with fried potatoes and a shot of vodka. He believed having a delicious meal was more important than kashrut. As for my mother, she followed the kashrut strictly. We never had pork at home: we only ate beef, veal and poultry.

My father ate this kind of food at home. My mother was religious. My mother and my grandmother went to the synagogue on Sabbath and Jewish holidays. There was a large choral synagogue 7 in Tallinn. Men were on the lower floor, and women sat on the balcony. Mama always celebrated Sabbath at home. She made a festive dinner, lit candles and prayed.

On Saturday afternoon my grandmother invited us to a festive lunch. My grandmother was a terrific cook, and I still cook what I liked eating at my grandmother's. She always made Jewish kugel with ground potatoes, onions, pepper and spices, all mixed and baked in the stove. I remember how my grandmother's kugel was rolling in fat, and when taken out of the stove, it was 'shedding' the drops of goose fat like tears. Kugel and chicken broth - this was so delicious! I think Jewish cuisine is the most delicious. My grandmother also made potato latkes, fried pancakes. My grandmother served them with bilberry jam. It goes without saying that there was gefilte fish, stuffed goose neck and the herring forshmak.

There were sweets, too. My grandmother made teyglakh, rolls from stiff dough with raisins. Alcohol was also added into the dough. They are cooked in honey with spices. They taste delicious. We also liked aingemakht from black radish. Ground black radish was also cooked in honey with spices. This was a festive dish, and we liked it as well. As for common meals, my father used to make ground black radish with goose fat.

We visited my grandmother to celebrate Jewish holidays. The whole family got together. My mother's younger brother Michail, my grandmother's sister Martha Fridlander and her son Hermann, my grandmother's friends also joined us. There were at least 15 people sitting at the table. All traditional Jewish food was on the table.

We always had matzah on Pesach. My father conducted the seder. He broke the matzah into three pieces hiding the middle part, the afikoman, under a cushion. One of the children, whoever managed first, was to find the afikoman and give it back for a ransom. I remember once finding the afikoman. I received a bag of walnuts in return. We celebrated all Jewish holidays. On Purim my grandmother made very delicious hamantashen pies filled with poppy seeds with raisins, honey and walnuts.

On Yom Kippur my grandmother and my mother observed the fast. They spent a whole day at the synagogue. When they returned, they could have the first meal of the day. They usually had some fruit for a start and then had a meal about two hours later. I remember this. We also celebrated birthdays. My grandmother used to make a bagel for each birthday member of the family. They were beautiful bagels! They were decorated with oak-tree leaves made from dough, sprinkled with sugar powder and ground almonds. Bagels of this kind remained fresh for a week. My grandmother made her last bagel shortly before she died in 1948.

My father did not take part in raising his children, but we obeyed him implicitly. He could shush us just frowning or looking at us with a definite expression. We were never beaten or told out. The most severe punishment for me and my sister was when our father told us to stand in the corner. Our parents treated us with strictness. I remember that I liked dangling my legs, when sitting at the table. When my father noticed this, he made me go to stand in the corner. When everybody else had finished eating, I was allowed to sit at the table to eat.

It would have never occurred to my sister or me to disobey our parents, snarl at them or demonstrate disrespect. Things like that never happened. When we went out, Mama always told us at what time we had to be back at home. If we were ever two or three minutes late, we were not allowed to go out next time. My mother and father wanted to know our friends and where we went. However, we were never restricted in our choice of friends. I was never told to only make Jewish friends. I had Jewish, Estonian and Russian friends. What mattered for our parents was that my friends came from decent families and behaved properly.

There were wonderful winters in Tallinn before the war. There was a lot of snow in winter. The snow was white and clean. There were few cars, and the air was clean. My friends and I liked sleighing from the hill in the Old Town on the side of the Liberty Square. We liked walking in the park and along the narrow streets of the Old Town. Our family spent the summer months in Piarnu, a resort town. My father played in the orchestra in Piarnu, and my mother, my sister and I enjoyed our vacation there. I have beautiful memories of our stay there.

Jews had a very good life at the time of the First Estonian Republic. There was no anti-Semitism. Jews suffered from no restrictions in Estonia. The only restriction, as far as I can remember, was that Jews could not hold senior officer's positions in the army. However, I don't think this was so very bad, since they were free to engage themselves in any other sphere of activity. They were free to receive higher education and become teachers, lawyers and doctors. Lots of Jews were engaged in businesses. They enjoyed the same employment rights as Estonians. What was important was how skilled one was and how well one could perform, but one's origin was of no significance, really.

In 1926 Jews were granted the cultural autonomy 8 unlocking even more opportunities. There was no everyday anti-Semitism either. Routinely anti- Semitism can only evolve, when the government shows connivance. It can only develop, when it is not terminated, and there was no such ground in Estonia.

Going to school

My sister studied in a Jewish gymnasium in Tallinn. There were two gymnasiums sharing one building on Karu Street, though they both had the same staff and director, Samuel Gurin. In one gymnasium subjects were taught in Hebrew, and in the other one in Yiddish, while Hebrew was just another subject. My sister studied in the Yiddish gymnasium. When my time came to go to the gymnasium, I went to the Yiddish one. It was quite a distance from our house and my mother took me there in the morning and met me after classes.

We had very good teachers, indeed. Gurevich taught us music and religion. He was a wonderful teacher and a chazzan at the choral synagogue in Tallinn. Gurevich told us interesting tales from the Bible, the Torah. He brought a concertina to our classes to accompany us, when we sang.

Unfortunately, I only studied one year at the gymnasium. I fell ill with diphtheria and missed a number of days. I was to go to the second grade the following year. I went to the Estonian general education school near our house. Boys and girls studied together at the Jewish gymnasium, but this school was for girls. There were wealthier and poorer pupils at school. I also had friends from wealthy or poor families. This was of no significance for my parents. We retained our friendship. Unfortunately, many of my friends have passed away. And I keep in touch with those, who are here, we call each other and see each other occasionally.

My father insisted that my sister studied music. We both attended piano classes, but it was impossible to practice at home, when our father was there. God forbid, you play a false note. Father made a real blow-up yelling that no good musicians will come out of us. This was the worst oath he could think of. Therefore, Mama was always watchful that we did not sit at the piano, when Father was at home.

My father's younger brother Michail Shumiacher was also a violin player. He had no family. Regretfully, this was my grandmother's fault. Michail lived together with Ilze, an Estonian woman of German origin, for 13 years. Ilze was a very beautiful and intelligent woman. She knew 15 languages and worked as an interpreter in an embassy. She had a son from her first marriage. His name was Otty.

Michail and Ilze loved each other and wanted to get married, but my grandmother was strictly against this marriage. She had no complaints against Ilze, but one: Ilze wasn't of the Jewish origin. My grandmother believed that Michail had to marry a Jewish woman. My father and his brother respected their mother so much that it never occurred to Michail to disobey his mother and do what he believed was right. My grandmother kept introducing him to Jewish girls, but Michail only wanted Ilze. Otty hated Michail. When a child I thought Otty felt so because he was a fascist, but when I grew up, I understood that Otty believed Michail to be the source of his mother's suffering. I don't know what this was about.

In 1939, when Estonian residents of German origin started moving to Germany at Hitler's call-up, Ilze and Otto left, too. I remember how Michail came to see us then. He was very upset and told my mother that all he needed to say was, 'Ilze, stay,' and Otty would have left for Germany alone. However, he couldn't have said this, because my grandmother would not have recognized Ilze. He never saw her again, and Michail never got married. He dated women, but never stayed long with one.

We recalled Ilze and her son again in 1944, when we returned to Tallinn from the evacuation. The owner of the apartment where my uncle had lived before the evacuation told him that when the Germans occupied Tallinn, a German officer wearing an SS uniform visited her looking for my uncle. This was Otty. If my uncle had stayed in Tallinn, he would have killed him for sure.

In the mid 1930s my grandmother's condition grew weaker. The podagra disfigured her hands, and her joints were aching. She could work no loner, so she sold her restaurant. She spent all her time reading the Torah and praying. We often visited her.

During the War

I cannot remember what my parents thought about the Soviet military bases in 1939 9. The adults must have discussed this issue, but there was a solid rule in our family: the children were not to be present, when adults were having their discussions. They did not touch upon policy in our presence. Even when we had guests, we had to leave their company at 9 in the evening. Without any reminder we had to stand up, say 'good bye' to everyone politely and depart into our room. This was the rule. Therefore, we never knew what they were discussing.

In summer 1939 we were on vacation in the country, the town of Algvida. There was a railroad nearby, and a train with Soviet navy men arrived there. They were entertaining, sociable and even arranged impromptu concerts for the locals. My mother found them enchanting, and when she discovered Jews among them, she was delighted. My mother spoke fluent Russian and she could easily talk to the Soviet officers. She met a few of them and was very much interested in what they were telling her about life in the Soviet Union. I remember my mother saying to a Soviet officer, 'How come you've never traveled here before?' At that time we did not know yet what the Soviet regime was bringing to Estonia. In 1940 the Soviet rule was established in Estonia 10. Soviet Armed Forces came to the country. A few months later my mother was saying with horror, 'Why are they here?'

Estonian residents knew about the Soviet Union what they could read in newspapers or hear on the radio. This information stated that the USSR was the country where people were equal, all roads were open to all, healthcare and education were free and all nations lived as one fraternal family. Actually, these were the slogans that we were going to hear every day. In general, Estonians had a friendly attitude towards the Soviet newcomers. I don't know whether they were sincere or just realized that there was nothing they could do about having them in their own country. Anyway, the accession of Estonia to the USSR was undisturbed. The Soviet newcomers were even greeted with flowers.

Oppressions followed soon. They kept arresting politicians and the ones that failed to demonstrate their loyalty to the Soviet regime. The next step was the nationalization. They took away houses, stores and businesses, which became the property of the government. We were happy that Grandmother no longer owned the restaurant. Actually, our family had no other property. My father's 'production tools' were his hands and the violin. Therefore, our family suffered no implications then. Since we had no property we did not belong to the wealthy class of exploiters, according to the understanding of the Soviet authorities. The only change for me personally was that my classmate and I became pioneers 11. However, this was a mere formality for me and the girls. We hardly knew anything about pioneers.

The population of Tallinn grew all of a sudden. The military were the first to come, and then their families followed. They were initially accommodated in local apartments. This was when we experienced living in shared apartments 12. Nobody was accommodated in our apartment, though. Perhaps, they would have been, had there been more time. I don't think my parents were concerned about those on-going arrests. They probably believed there was nothing we should have been afraid of: we were decent people, we did not lie and our father was not involved in any politics. At that time my father was playing in the symphony orchestra at the drama theater.

On 22nd June 1941 Germany attacked the Soviet Union 13 without declaring a war. We had to decide whether we were going to stay or leave. We did not feel like leaving our home. My mother and grandmother were positive that we should stay, but my father said we should leave as far as possible from the place and there should be no doubt about that. His theater was to evacuate and we could go with it.

My mother packed a suitcase for each of us, just in case we happened to travel in different train carriages. Mother packed our best clothes and shoes. She also added our valuables and silverware into or Father's suitcase: a sugar bowl, a coffee pot and the tableware. My mother was hoping that we would be able to trade our silverware for food products, if necessary. However, this was the suitcase that was stolen at the railway station even before we got on the train.

My grandmother, my father's brother Michail and my grandmother's sister Martha went with us. Martha's son Hermann was mobilized to the Soviet army. The theater was to evacuate to Kuibyshev, they were told, but on the way the route changed. The Soviet government was evacuated to Kuibyshev and, of course, we were not allowed to go there as well. We arrived at the Kanash station, Chuvashia [about 700 km north-east of Moscow]. At the evacuation office we were told that our destination point was the village of Shemursha. The musicians of the orchestra and their families were distributed to various locations. In Shemursha we were the only family of an orchestra player, though there were many other people evacuated from their homes. They came mostly from Belarus. There was one family from Estonia and we became friends almost immediately.

We were accommodated in a small house located in the yard of the owner's house. We were the only tenants. There was a big room and kitchen with a Russian stove 14 in it. The stove heated the kitchen and the room. We cleaned the house. I washed the floors using a brush and some alkali solution. We made frilled gauze curtains for the windows. There was no other house with curtains in the village. The locals, when visiting us, admired how clean and cozy our house was.

There were actually many things we didn't know about living in the village. We didn't know how to cut wood, and my mother didn't know how to stoke the Russian stove. It took us some time to get used to doing things of this kind. My mother was trading whatever belongings we had with us for potatoes and flour. We baked potatoes in the Russian stove, and my mother baked our own bread. My sister and I picked brushwood, bringing it home in bundles. Someone delivered a few logs to us, and we cut them for wood for the stove. My mother or my sister never learned to cut wood. My father and I did this job. We had to learn it all. Misfortunes can teach anything.

There was a sauna in the backyard. This was new to us. We had never seen a sauna before. There are no such saunas in Estonia. You undress in the fore room with some straw on the clay floor. Coming out of the sauna, you get dressed standing bare footed on this cold straw. What is surprising is that nobody fell ill once there. I was very ill, when a child. I had probably all children's diseases in Estonia: scarlet fever, diphtheria, chicken pox, etc. And catching a cold was a common thing me, but I never had even a running nose in Russia, even though we came out of the sauna, when it was minus 40 degrees Celsius outside. When we returned to Tallinn, I started catching a cold often again. The climate in Chuvashia was very healthy with bright and hot summers, when it only rained occasionally, and frosty and dry winters.

The locals treated us kindly. We did not starve even during the first year of the evacuation. We have to thank our mother for managing to provide food for us. My mother started making sheepskin hats for the locals from the sheepskin they supplied. They paid with food products: potatoes, cereals, sauerkraut and pickles. At the start of the second year we received a land plot where we planted potatoes, carrots, cabbage, onions and garlic. Tatiana, our landlady, had a cow. She brought us a mug of milk every evening. My mother had cuts of fabric with her, and she traded them for butter, poultry and even honey. So, we had everything we needed in the evacuation, and our situation was very different from what others had to go through.

My mother and sister knew the Russian language, while my father and I could speak only a few words at the most. It was hard at the beginning. Mama taught me the Russian alphabet. I tried to read signs in the village. I made a few friends. They were local girls and the ones like me. They spoke Russian to me and before long I picked up some Russian. For a long time I spoke with a terrible accent and put all the wrong accents on words, but in due time I learned to speak.

Back in Estonia I had finished four grades at school, and in the village I went to the local school. It was hard at first, but I improved eventually. Schoolchildren used to write letters to the front. My friend helped me with writing letters. I drafted a letter, she checked and corrected the mistakes and I put together the final version. So, I learned to write without mistakes, eventually. I finished seven grades of a general education school in Chuvashia. I didn't join the Komsomol 15 at my school. They didn't pay much attention to such things there.

My grandmother's sister's son Hermann was regimented to the army before we left Tallinn. He was enlisted to the Estonian Corps 16, which was formed in early 1942. It was deployed in the Yelansk camps near Kamyshov in the Ural, which was not that far from our location. Hermann managed to visit us in our village. He fell ill with diphtheria, and when he was released from hospital, he was allowed a leave. Hermann stayed with us for a short time before he went back to his unit. This was the last time we saw him.

He died a tragic death at the very end of the war. This happened on Saaremaa Island. Herman was captured by Germans. He did not look like a Jew having fair hair and a straight nose. He was tall and spoke native German. Besides, his surname was Fridlander. The Germans thought he was an Estonian German. They did not kill him. When the Estonian Corps advanced to Saaremaa, he managed to escape. When Hermann joined with his unit, they met him with suspicion. They did not believe he was not working for the Germans. They couldn't believe the Germans had not killed the Jewish man. Nobody listened to what he had to say, and he was regimented to a penal unit where he perished. He must have been destined to die, and there is no escaping fate. After the war Hermann's fellow soldier told Aunt Martha about what had happened to her son after the war.

In 1943 my father was summoned to Yarsoslavl where an Estonian state orchestra was formed. My father's brother Michail was also summoned there. My father and Michail went to Yaroslavl. Before leaving they made stocks of wood for the stove. Even when we were leaving there was still a lot of it left. Some time later my father picked us from Shemursha and we headed to Yaroslavl [about 250 km north of Moscow].

My father worked a lot in Yaroslavl. He attended rehearsals, and the orchestra also went on tours to the front line. There was also a ballet and a drama troop. There was even a jazz band in which Uncle Michail was playing. They all gave concerts at the front.

My mother did not go to work in Yaroslavl, but my sister did, though I can't remember where. I finished a course of medical nurses at the medical school in Yaroslavl. I went to work as a medical nurse at the ophthalmologic department at the hospital in Yaroslavl. In November 1944 the Estonian Corps liberated Tallinn. We started preparations to go home. My father was offered a job in the symphony orchestra in Yaroslavl, a nice apartment and salary, but my sister and I insisted on going back to our homeland. We wanted to go back whatever there was in store for us! We could not imagine living anywhere else, but Estonia. So, our family headed to Tallinn.

After the War

We looked forward to getting to our apartment. We already knew that it was not damaged or ruined. Uncle Solomon's son got to Tallinn some time before we did. He served in the Estonian Corps that liberated Tallinn. Michail came by our house and wrote my mother that our apartment was all right. However, when we got there, it turned out there were other tenants living in there. Our Estonian janitor had moved in there. When we opened the door using our own key, he met us with the words: 'Jews, what are you looking for here? Why did you come back in the first place and how come they didn't kill you in Russia? My father asked him what he was doing in our apartment, but he only cursed us in response. To cut a long story short, he didn't let us in our own home. We had to back off.

My mother's friend, whose husband hadn't returned from the front yet, gave us shelter. My father addressed the court to have our apartment back. However, it turned out that there was no way we could force the janitor to move out. He presented the form stating that his son was in the Red Army to the court. As it turned out afterward this form was falsified, but we only found this out many years later. Well, at that point of time we were homeless. After numerous visits to the executive committee 17 and the Central Committee of the Party Mama obtained an authorization for us to move into two rooms in a shared apartment. We lived there a few years. Our co-tenants in this apartment were three other families. We had never resided in a shared apartment before and had to get used to the new way of living.

After the war my mother's sister Fanny found us. She lived in the USA with her family. She was so happy to learn that we survived! We had hardly any luggage, when we arrived in Tallinn. Mama only retained one decent outfit for each of us, so that we had a pair of shoes and a dress each to dress properly to go out. She didn't want people to say that we were a bunch of ragamuffins having come back from Russia. The rest of our clothing was sold or traded for food products. Actually, this was all we had at all. Our apartment and whatever belongings we had left therein were gone. Aunt Fanny started sending us parcels. She sent us sufficient clothes to dress for any occasion. We corresponded until my father was told that this was not safe 18 and our communication faded.

Uncle Solomon's wife returned from the evacuation. Ida and Solomon were evacuated to Uzbekistan. Solomon had poor sight and was not subject to army service. Solomon was a rather credulous man, and this played a wicked trick on him. One day in the evacuation a Polish Jew, an acquaintance of Solomon dropped by asking Solomon whether he might leave a bag full of clothes at his place. It goes without saying that Solomon did not mind. Later it turned out that this bag contained stolen things. The thief had been captured and confessed that Solomon had the bag. My uncle's place was searched. They found the bag and arrested my uncle. Solomon died in prison. Ida worked at a weaving mill in Uzbekistan. She was even noted for her performance. Their son Michail was at the front and survived. They lived in Tartu after the war.

After returning to Tallinn our family observed Jewish traditions. There was no possible way to follow the kashrut, though. Well, we did not buy any pork or pork sausages, but there was no place selling kosher meat. We bought beef, veal and poultry, then. Actually, we did that, when meat became available in stores some time after the war, of course. We celebrated Jewish holidays at home. My mother made matzah for Pesach. We did what was possible. The synagogue in Tallinn burned down in 1944. My grandmother and mother went to a small prayer house on major Jewish holidays. My sister or I didn't go there.

In Tallinn I went to work as a medical nurse in the navy hospital. My sister Mena was a manicurist at a hairdresser's. Our father played the violin in a popular café in Tallinn. Before 1940 it bore the name of Fleishner after its owner, and after the war it was renamed to the Tallinn café. Many people visited the café to listen to my father playing the violin. He played with a small orchestra. People applauded, when he stepped onto the stage.

My father liked Russian romances and musical comedies. He put his whole heart into playing the violin. He had four infarctions because of working so hard. When he died, so many people came to his funeral, as if he had been some celebrity. And my father was a celebrity in Tallinn, indeed. When renowned violin players from the USSR or other countries visited Tallinn, they always came to see my father. He was buried in the Jewish cemetery in Tallinn.

My grandmother returned to Tallinn all right, but her health condition grew worse. She had an infarction and died in 1948. In 1952 my father's younger brother Michail died. He had leukemia and died at the age of 52.

In 1948 Israel was officially acknowledged 19. My father was no Zionist 20, but he was as happy as a child would be. We also felt happy and proud acquiring our own country. The fact that the Soviet Union supported Israel was some reconciliation for making Estonia one of the Soviet Republics. The relationships between the Soviet Union and Israel were quite friendly at the start. Golda Meir 21, the Prime Minister of Israel visited Moscow, and this event was widely covered in the mass media.

We followed what was happening in Israel. We are Jews, aren't we? And every nation sympathizes with its own people. We were proud of the successes of Israel. Who wouldn't be proud? Then the attitude of the USSR toward Israel changed dramatically. The Soviet press kept calling Israel an aggressor. We listened to news from Israel on the Finnish and other Western radios. We were worried about the Six-Day War 22, the Judgment Day War 23. And we were proud, when the little country of Israel won the victory over its offenders.

However, my mother had no intention of moving to Israel. My mother used to say, 'East or West, home is best. Why go to another country? Our home is here and so are our dear ones and friends. Why give up all and go to where we don't know? It might be the case, if we were oppressed to persecuted, and otherwise there's no reason to leave your home.' When in the 1970s large numbers of Jewish people were moving to Israel, I particularly didn't feel like going there.

Poor people of Israel! I don't think they knew they were going to have their hands full with all of them, who were used to commanding and demanding what they believed was due to them. For some reason Soviet Jews thought that Israel owed to them and they kept demanding the benefits, which were granted to the native residents of the country that they had built in the middle of the stony desert. It never occurred to them that they had to contribute something before they were entitled to receive things. They aren't even willing to study the language. They want people to talk Russian in Israel.

Nowadays Israelites, perhaps, understand that they should have constrained their generosity, but can they change anything? Immigrants from the Soviet Union may cause a social upheaval soon... So, for this very reason I was reluctant to move to Israel. I sympathize with Israel a lot. Poor country. They are surrounded with the Muslims thinking of how to destroy them, and on the other hand, there are immigrants from Russia, unwilling to accept the rules of the country and trying to introduce their own rules.

I got married in 1950. I met my first husband, Victor Vatis, at a dancing party at the Palace of Officers. We started seeing each other and got married shortly afterward. Victor came from Odessa 24. His family moved to Tallinn after the war. His mother, Zinaida Vatis, was born into a family of district doctors in Kherson. Zinaida became a medical nurse. She got a very good education. She knew few foreign languages. She spoke fluent French and often spoke French to my father's brother Michail. Her husband, Yuri Vatis, was an accountant. They had two children. Victor, the older one, was born in 1927. His sister Tamara was one year younger.

Victor graduated from a College of Finance and Economics and studied at the Department of Journalism of Tartu University, the extramural department. Though Victor was a Jewish man, my mother did not quite like the fact that he wasn't a local man. However, my parents had no objections to our marriage. We had no traditional Jewish wedding. This was hard to arrange after the war, and besides, Victor was an atheist. We registered our marriage in a registry office and had a wedding dinner with our friends and relatives. Victor had a room in a shared apartment where I moved after the wedding.

Victor was a jealous husband, and insisted that I quit working at the hospital, because many of the patients were young men. I went to work as a medical nurse in the railroad children's recreation center. I got pregnant, and my pregnancy took a complicated course. The labor didn't go normal and the baby was stillborn. After that we started keeping aloof. We were no longer a family. We were just two people sharing a room for some vague reason. We divorced in 1953. However, I retained friendly relationships with his mother and sister. Tamara died young. She had the flu, and it affected her heart. She died in 1980.

I worked in the recreation center for three years. The Doctors' Plot 25 had no implications for me. This period was quite unnoticed in our part of the country. I remember the day, when Stalin died in March 1953. Many employees of the recreation center were not just crying: they were grieving and sobbing, as if they had lost their own father. They were lamenting and sobbing. I did not cry and had no feeling of grief. I could not understand why they were grieving. I was telling them that we are all mortal and one day we will go, too. I though to myself: are they so dumb? Don't they know that Stalin was an evildoer? As it happened, they didn't.

Stalin was mean in his treatment of doctors. It was a good thing he died and they were rehabilitated 26. However, even now many people believe that Stalin was a great person and chief. Well, let everybody believe what one wants to believe. For some people Stalin was an evildoer, for others he was an idol, and this won't change.

In the children's recreation center I contracted dysentery bacillus from children. I could not go to work with the children before I fully recovered, and I quit working at the center. I went to work as a typist at the railroad office. I issued train and load tickets. I thought it was going to be my temporary job, but when I fully recovered, I did not feel like going back to the center. My work there involved night shifts and continuous nervous tension... So I stayed at my new job.

There I met Ilmar Lepiku, my second husband. He was Estonian. He was a loader. We got married in 1962. My mother was no longer with us. She died in 1956. We buried Mama in the Jewish cemetery in Tallinn. In 1962 we buried my father next to her.

My second husband, Ilmar Lepiku, was born in the village of Aniya, Kharoyusk district, in 1932. His father and mother Ilmara were farmers. Ilmar had a younger brother. His name was Rein. Ilmar finished seven grades at the general education school in the village. He was not fond of farming and went to study at the vocational school at the shoe factory in Tallinn. After finishing it he worked as a shoemaker at the factory and lived in a dormitory, which saved him from the resettlement [see Deportations from the Baltics] 27.

His mother Maria Lepiku and his father were exiled. When the officers came to arrest Maria, her younger son was in bed. Maria had sufficient self- control to cover him with heaps of clothes, and the NKVD 28 officers did not notice the boy. Maria and her husband were arrested, and their son stayed at home alone. His neighbors found him and he stayed with them. They were kind people. Maria was exiled to the Krasnoyaskiy Krai and her husband was taken to the Gulag 29 where he died. Maria returned from exile in 1956. She came back an invalid. Estonians are very hard-working people. Maria worked at an elevator sparing no effort. She had her spine injured. It hurt her to walk. However, she lived to turn 91.

Ilmar worked at the factory until the late 1940s, when he went to work as a loader at the railroad. He earned a lot more as a loader. Ilmar was a sportsman and a very strong man, and hard work did not bother him much. He was very honest. He told me other loaders were stealing, when unloading trains. It was common for Soviet people to steal at work. I saw that, when I was in the railroad staff. I thought then: 'It's none of my business. Let them do what they want.' Ilmar did not even think about stealing things. When he quit his job, his supervisor said he was so sorry that he was leaving. There are few people like Ilmar.

When we got married, I quit my job and went to work as a controller at the Salva toy factory manufacturing dolls with Estonian folk costumes. The factory was located in the yard of our house, which was very convenient. Shortly before I was to retire I went to work at a toy shop. They paid a higher salary to the staff of shops, which was better from the point of view of my future pension. When my retirement time came, I was assigned the highest pension rate in the country, which was 120 rubles.

My husband and I got along very well. They say mixed families face the risk of confrontations due to their national differences, but I believe this all depends on the spouses themselves. Behave decently, respect your spouse's national identity, respect his/her people's traditions, and there are going to be no problems. This is how we believed it was proper. I never heard a mean word spoken by my husband against Jews.

However, Estonian people had no anti-Semitic convictions. There was no anti- Semitism in pre-Soviet Estonia in the past. It was imported to Estonia by immigrants from Soviet Russia. I wouldn't say that all Soviet people are bad. No. Like Germans, for example, besides fascists, there were also German people rescuing Jews during the war. I believe there is no evil nation, there are evil people. This is also true about Jews. Somehow, evil people draw more attention than decent ones.

My dear ones left this world early. My sister died of cancer in 1982, when she was 59. Mena was single and lived alone. My husband Ilmar died in 1992. He turned 74. 14 years ago my dearest person died. I don't know when it is my turn...

In 1985 the Jewish community of Estonia 30 was established. It provides great assistance to all of us. The community supports me. I keep to a strict diet and cannot eat the food they deliver. Therefore, they deliver food rations, and I can cook myself. I try to do everything about the house. The social community staff tell me off for cleaning the windows myself, when I can order this service. What I think is that as long as I can do things myself, why bother people?

I used to visit the community frequently in the past. I attended their events and celebration of holidays. Now walking is difficult for me, and I stay at home most of the time. The community covers some medication costs for me, though I have to spend a lot on medications.

In summer 2005 the government increased pensions of the people, who had been in the evacuation. We were equaled with those, who had been subject to repression, and provided some similar benefits. However, our utility bills are very high. After paying all bills I have 800 crones [about USD70,-] left, and this is far from sufficient. I don't know how I would manage, were it not for the community support.

It's hard to give a simple answer to the question about the breakup of the Soviet Union. In general the life of Jews in independent Estonia 31 has improved. There is no anti-Semitism now, or there's hardly any, I'd say. Nowadays they have job-related age and qualifications restrictions, but no nationality-based limitations. There are hooligans, but they exist in every country. However, they are just a few individuals, but it is not the policy of the country. Our President shows respect to Jews and highly values our community. He visited the community at the Chanukkah celebration recently. This kind of visit was out of the questions in the past.

I would say this happened to be beneficial to some people and failure for the others. The breakup of the Soviet Union is good for young people, undoubtedly. They have free choices. They can study in any country and they can travel all over the world. They have got more opportunities in Estonia, too. There was no entrepreneurship in the Soviet Union. People could only get jobs at the state-owned enterprises. Nowadays any individual can start his/her own business. This is good for the country.

However, pensioners have surely lost a lot. There were low prices and free healthcare in the Soviet Union. This is very important for the people of my age. Now we have to pay for healthcare services and medications. The members of the parliament responsible for lawmaking studied in free Soviet universities. And now they establish prices for higher education. Is this fair?

I know that I have already lived my life, and I'm not the one to have my word in what is going to become of Estonia. This is up to younger people. They are to live in their country and raise their children. What I know for sure is that to have a good life, one has to think about one's country and helping the needy besides taking care of oneself and his/her own family.

Glossary:

Erzsebet Radvaner
Budapest
Hungary
Interviewer: Eszter Andor and Dora Sardi

Herman Rosenberg, my paternal grandfather, was born sometime in the 1830s,
in Gonc, I think, and died in 1908 in the Jewish hospital in Budapest. His
wife was Regina Feuerstein. I do not know when she was born, but the age
difference between them was small and she died in 1908 too. They had eight
children: six boys and two girls. Three out of the six boys "magyarized,"
or changed their German surname for a Hungarian one. At the turn of the
century my father magyarized his name as well; he became Gonczi. I knew my
paternal grandparents, but as far as I know they were not very religiously
observant.

Ignac was the eldest son, born in 1852, and he was the only one who could
get an education. He became a lawyer, a legal adviser to the coal mining
industry in Petrozseny and the deputy of the town. He had a six-room flat
in Budapest; he was the rich man of the family. He died in 1920. He had
five children. Julia was the eldest. I think she died when she was three.
Imre lived in Petrozseny and in 1944 he was beaten to death by Iron Guard
men.

Judith suffered from heart disease and died in her thirties. Janos was a
student at the time of the Hungarian Soviet Republic in 1919 and he joined
an anti-revolutionary group. We never knew about anything it. He got
married, had a daughter, and in 1932 when she was eighteen she died of so-
called children's paralysis. There was an epidemic of it then. After the
war came the Rakosi era and the communists; Janos said that this was not
what they had fought for, and killed himself. Ivan was left. He became a
foreign trader, got married and they had a mentally handicapped son. I do
not know when he died.

The younger brother of Ignac was Lajos. He was born sometime at the turn of
the century. He emigrated to America and corresponded with the family while
his parents were still alive, then he lost touch. The next is Miksa. He
remained Rosenberg. He was the vendor of a textile factory. He travelled to
Paris and I don't know where else. He got married in Vienna. Izidor was a
furniture merchant. He had a factory, but he lost it playing cards. Then he
married a woman who brought a lot of money to the marriage and managed to
save his factory. He never saw his wife before the wedding. My aunt spoke
French. They had two daughters and two sons.

Then there was Ida, who married Bertalan Szilagyi. They emigrated to the
States at the turn of the century and they had a son there, who died when
he was six. My aunt became ill and the doctor advised my uncle to bring his
wife home, if he did not want to bury her there soon. They came home. The
second son was born here in 1905. Bertalan had a successful ladies' fashion
workshop. Aunt Ida died in 1919. The younger sister of my father, Malvin
was born in 1879 and she died in 1932. She had a bad marriage. She married
in order for my father to be able to get married himself, and she had two
daughters. Both daughters were deported in 1944 and died.

The younger daughter's husband was a leather merchant and they had two
sons. They were very observant: they went to synagogue on Friday and
Saturday, but to save the boys they converted to Christianity. On Friday
they went to the synagogue to say goodbye to the Jewish God and on Sunday,
with a prayer book with the cross on it, they went to the Catholic Church.
There was a sort of monastery on Maria Street: the boys were educated
there. The priests who taught the boys hid them during the war. Thus they
were saved. They live in Switzerland.

Jozsef Klein, my maternal grandfather, was born in 1847 or 1848 in Szilagy
County. I think it was Hadad. He was a stove-maker. He came to Pest, but I
do not know when. He met my grandmother here, who was a widow then. She
brought two daughters into the family. I do not know anything of them; they
died. I don't know where grandmother Regina Bloch came from. There were a
lot of sisters and brothers. I can remember an aunt whom we visited. I have
only a few memories of Grandmother Regina; I was very young when she died
in 1913. Grandfather died in 1920.

There were four siblings in my mother's family. The eldest was Mor Klein,
who became Mor Karman. He worked in the stock market and in 1932, when the
market collapsed, he killed himself. His wife worked in the clothing shop
his mother owned. It was an elegant shop. People didn't go there to buy a
shirt, they went there to order a trousseau. They had a son, Istvan Karman.
He was taken away to a forced labor corps and he died there in Koszeg in
1944.

There is one more daughter. She lives in America. She got married in 1936.
Her husband was quite observant. They had the wedding in the Rumbach Street
synagogue. That one was more orthodox than the one on Dohany Street; they
had no organ there. Klari was not too observant as a matter of fact, but
she kept all the observances with her husband. In 1938 when the Anti-Jewish
law was discussed in Parliament, her husband said that he did not want to
be a second rate citizen anywhere. They emigrated to America, to New York.
Here at home they had had a child, but it died; there in America they had a
daughter. Mor's wife was in my flat, which was in a protected house, and
she emigrated to America in 1947.

The next brother of my mother was Artur. He did not like studying, he
wanted to be an actor. My grandfather did not like that and so he had to
study to be a locksmith, though later he was a traveller. He wandered all
through Europe from Moscow to Madrid. In the end he lived in Hamburg. He
rented a room at the house of a Christian dancer, who was fourteen years
his senior and had two grown daughters. He married her. If there was ever a
good marriage, then it was that one. When my grandmother died he came home
for the burial with his wife and a common-law son of theirs, who was the
same age as I was. One more son, Ferenc, was born to them in Pest in 1914.
They were living in the house where my grandmother's siblings lived. When
the child was born, the neighbours went and registered him as Ferenc Jozsef
Klein, religion Jewish. Grandfather took him into the stove trade. He
needed a locksmith for work with ovens. My grandfather had a workshop in a
cellar, in fact it was a storeroom, as they did not work there. They went
to houses and were told everywhere that only uncle Klein would do. Only he
was called to work at the Lukacs Cafe.

Artur was a soldier in WWI. When Feri was born, he was not at home.
Grandfather gave his wife money and the money my grandfather gave was
always just too little. When her husband came home she complained to him.
In 1919 my uncle started saying that his wife was better than his sister
was and they had an argument with Grandfather. Without so much as a
goodbye, he left his father and everybody else and they went back to
Hamburg. He became a projectionist at a Jewish cinema and his wages were
not too bad. His elder son joined the SS and did not speak to his father.
In 1939 my aunt came to Pest to certify that their younger son was a
Christian. She had a birth certificate that the child was Jewish, but from
the Evangelical minister she got a certificate that the child had been
christened. Later in the court she swore that her husband was not the
father of the child.

The elder son died as an SS soldier in 1940, the younger became a Wehrmacht
soldier at an anti-aircraft unit and died in a bomb attack. My uncle
survived the war; while he was at work, in the projection room in the
cinema, a child was killed in the neighbourhood and he was arrested as the
killer. Everybody at the cinema testified for him. He was released, but
there were no apologies. Instead he was taken to an internment camp, which
he survived. In 1958 he came home for the first time since 1919 and I think
he died in 1964.

Then there was Berta, she died in 1905 when she was 23 and engaged to be
married. She had some sort of heart problem.

My mother was the youngest. She was born in 1884 in Budapest. She finished
four secondary classes and after that she learned sewing and then she
stayed at home. My mother did not study, nor did her sister. They learned
sewing from an acquaintance, but women had no profession.

My father was called Mano Mihaly. He was born in 1877 in Gonc. His parents,
the Rosenbergs, had their own house and a shop. Then another Jew moved
there, one who was cleverer and more skilled than my grandfather, and they
went bankrupt. They moved to Kassa (Kosice in Slovakia today). I do not
know what they did there. Maybe the eldest son was already helping them.
Then they moved to Pest. They lived on Garai Street. There they were not
working. There was a shop there too, but that one was their daughter's. I
don't know if they helped out in the shop or not. Then they died. At
school, my father finished four upper classes. Then he went to be a shop
assistant in an elegant furniture shop and he was also a designer there. He
could draw beautifully. They had a very big shop on Kecskemeti Street
which sold very elegant furniture. The customers used to come and ask him
to have a look at the furniture they wanted to have. Then my father would
draw the furniture. He would draw the bedroom, the dining room, the living
room and the parlour. If it was suitable, the joiner made it, they
delivered it and installed it, and then the customer could move in.
Everyone in the joinery trade knew him.

There was a ballroom where the Royal Hotel is now. There was some ball to
which my mother went to dance and there was my father, not dancing. They
met there and love and marriage followed. Getting married was not so very
simple. My father was the youngest son and he had a younger sister, Malvin.
The parents said: "You can't get married before Malvin." They married
Malvin off, but she had a very bad marriage and it was always blamed on my
father. They, my parents, got married at last in 1904 in Pest, in the
synagogue on Dohany Street. My father was in WWI for less than a year,
because his boss brought him back. The boss had inherited the shop from his
father, but did not know the trade. Someone in the WarMinistry ordered a
suite of leather chairs and new furniture for a whole room to help
discharge my father. He stayed in office work until the end of the war and
was behind the counter in the mornings. Then the shop closed because it
went bankrupt.

My father was unemployed. I do not know too much about this period. I
didn't ask and they never told me. Under the Hungarian Soviet Republic my
father was working in a furniture depot. Then he was fired from that job.
He did lots of different things, he changed his trade nearly every month
until 1928. Then he was working in a shop that sold kitchen furniture. It
closed due to the Great Recession. He was unemployed for many long years,
but then he became shop manager in the Zsigmond Nagy & Partner furniture
shop.

My elder brother, Laszlo, was born in 1905. I was born in 1908. I went to
the primary school on Nyar Street. I was the best pupil the whole time I
was there. Then there was the Maria Terezia higher school for girls, on
Andrassy Street, which lasted for six years. It was very difficult to get
in there, as it was just for the rich. The husband of the sister of one of
my aunts was the director of a publishing house and he had connections to
all of Pest. My mother went to him and told him that she would like to get
me into the Andrassy Street School. He said that he could get me into any
school in the town, but not there: "She would only learn to show off there.
Put her into the middle school," he suggested. That school was on Nagydiofa
Street. I was the best pupil there too. Going to the synagogue on Fridays
was compulsory. At the beginning my mother took us to school, but later we
went on our own. There was no public transport. Laci went to the Realschule
on Realtanoda Street. I used to go along with them as far as Nagydiofa
Street.

For three years I learned to play the piano, because we had a borrowed one
from my uncle. During the year the piano was at our house, but during the
summer they moved out of the town to Zugliget and they took the piano
along. Then they said that all the transportation was damaging the piano
and they would not bring it anymore. I practised all kinds of sports, but
wasn't good at anything except rowing, which I loved. I swam, but badly. I
skated, I played field hockey and tennis, but all these just a bit.

When my father had no job our grandparents took them in because my maternal
grandfather was earning good money. It was meant to be until my father got
a job. I don't know how long it took my father to get himself a job. What I
can remember was the time he was a shop manager at the Fodor Company. We
lived first on Kiraly Street, then on Kertesz Street in a three-room flat.
There were two rooms with a balcony facing the street. There was a dining
room and a bedroom. All of us, the parents and the children, slept there.
The room looking out onto the yard was my maternal grandparents' room. We
moved there in November 1912 and grandmother died in April 1913.

My mother had no job but tending to the home. We had the same helper for
thirty years, Erzsi. She was sixteen when she came to us and she was very
decent. She cleaned the house and cooked; she was an excellent cook. As
long as my grandfather was alive, the household was kosher. My grandfather
was observant, heart and soul. Each Friday he went to synagogue and each
Saturday the same. Each morning he put on the tallit and the tefillin and
he prayed.

My father had some stomach disease. My mother bought ham for my father's
dinner, he ate it from the paper, and he did not use cutlery or anything
else. But he wiped his mouth after it. Grandfather took the napkin used by
my father and after dinner he put it in the laundry. Grandfather really
took it seriously. As long as my grandfather was alive, he sent us, each
Friday from September till January, a big goose bought at the goose seller.
Erzsi opened it. She knew well by then how to cook kosher. She salted it,
put it to soak and she prepared it in the kosher way, but it was my mother
who shared it out. I used to wonder, how she could share a roast goose
among such a big family. Many times on Saturday there was cholent, but
that was reheated. There was no cooking on Saturday, just reheating. Then
in 1919 there came the Hungarian Soviet Republic and there was nothing to
eat.

My father was working in the furniture depot. Under the Hungarian Soviet
Republic those who presented a wedding certificate saying that they were
newlyweds got free bedroom furniture. The peasants used to bring 5 kilos of
pork bacon and smoked ham; they believed that they would get better
furniture like that. So we ate it. Grandfather ate it too.

There were great Seders at Pesach led by my grandfather. There were lots of
us at the Seder Eve dinner: my mother's siblings were there , but none of
my father's relations. We had separate dishes for the Seder, we kept them
in the attic until Pesach. Before Pesach we used to give the whole house a
big clean. On the last morning, Grandfather gathered the last crumbs with a
candle onto a wooden spoon and burnt them and prayed. I stood at his side
because I immensely loved everything linked to a festival.

On the Eve of Rosh Hashanah we had dinner in the evening, went to the
synagogue, and then my father took us to his brother Izidor's place, who
had four children. That was all we did. That was where my father's family
was. We would always go there.

Laci (Lazslo) was Bar Mitzvahed and he prayed every morning for months,
because Grandfather wanted it that way. Then he said that he had no time
for it. My mother wanted us to fast on Yom Kippur. I did it in earnest; I
was religious. But Laci was not. I think he hid on Yom Kippur.

We were at Siofok down by Lake Balaton every summer until the beginning of
World War I. We rented a flat with a servant, and we packed up everything,
including all the kitchen stuff, and went there. When Laci went to school,
then we were there from the end of the school year until it started again.
On Saturday evenings the husbands came to visit. Then in 1914 my parents
went to Abbazia. The whole family went to Nagymaros together in 1918. There
was no holiday in 1919. Then we did not have holiday for quite a few years,
because my father was unemployed. Then the family holidays were over.

My social circle was mostly Jewish. I had very many boys around because
anybody could come to our house, boys and girls. My mother was the most
wonderful person in this world. We would go to the zoo every evening during
the summer, because there were classical music concerts on the Gundel
Terrace next to the zoo. Two brothers, who were our friends, had entrance
passes for the zoo and we all got in with that one pair of passes. All of
us got in separately at different gates, giving the passes to each other
through the rails of the fence. There were ten or fifteen of us. From the
age of fifteen I always went to concerts. Before that, Laci and I and two
cousins of ours went to the town theater every Sunday afternoon. You can
not name a singer or a conductor whom I did not hear. My father was not
interested in classical music. My mother liked it, but never went to
concerts. It was the hobby of my brother. My brother was a very cultivated
child. He was only interested in classical music. And he read and read.
There were not too many books at home, but we read books from the library
all the time. And we read everything: Gardonyi, Mikszath, Jokai, and so on,
all the greats of Hungarian literature.

Laci went to the Realschule. There he had his bachelors' exam, but he was
not accepted to the university because of the Numerus Clausus, a legal
limit on the numbers of Jews allowed into certain institutions and
professions. First he worked at my uncle's, in the office, then he had a
workshop for small furniture. He wasn't very successful. In the end he had
a good job. He was a manager on an estate somewhere in Szilagy County in
the territory Hungary took back in 1938. This was already during the war.
He earned good money there and he and his wife had two sons. My brother
converted to the Protestant faith. When his wife became pregnant he changed
his religion for her sake. Their son Adam was born as a Protestant.

My younger sister, Anna, was born in 1917. She attended the Jewish school.
She studied well, and had trouble only with Latin. In the fourth form her
teacher said that if my mother did not withdraw her from the school, he
would make her fail her year. My mother withdrew her. She went to
bookkeeping school for a year. Later she learned pottery and languages and
she was a shop assistant in a tea and coffee shop. She had to leave it
because of the Anti-Jewish law.

I would have liked to have gone to medical school to be a pediatrician, but
the Numerus Clausus was already in effect. So then first I learned hat-
making in a private shop. Then we were told that I should learn sewing, and
that there was always demand for that kind of work. I got into Julia
Fisher, which was one of the biggest fashion salons in Pest. I was sixteen
when I got there. Once, at the end of the workday, one of the seamstresses
told me to take some letter to some place. I told her that I could not. The
next day the lady in charge came and said that because I hadn't gone, I was
fired.

My uncle sent word that I should go to the Korstner sisters. I had a nice
time there and I learned the trade there. I got my certificate there one
and a half years later, and worked there for two more years, because I
needed two years' practice to get a permit to open my own workshop. Then I
quit. This was in 1929. For thirty years after that I worked and I had a
ladies' fashion shop.

At first I worked in my mother's flat. My mother had a sewing machine which
she had received from her family. My clientele was mostly Jewish and I had
a well to do ladies' fashion shop. Sometimes I had 8-10, sometimes only two
employees, it depended on the amount of work. I had no time during the week
because in the morning I had to distribute the work among the girls, and
then the clients started arriving to buy or to try on. I had this ladies'
fashion shop until 1949.

My first husband was Tibor Grosz. He was fourteen years my senior. We had
no wedding at the synagogue. He was not non-religious, but he said that it
was nobody's business what two people did. Once we went to the synagogue on
Dohany Street at Yom Kippur. Even then I was disturbed by all the talking
going on. I go there either to pray or to discuss things. I never felt like
going.

He was a chemical engineer. First he was in the leather factory. It went
bankrupt. Then for a year he was unemployed and then he became the head of
the laboratory of the Leipziger Spirit factory. We lived in Obuda. We had
no phone, and after 11 at night there were no trams. Our guests had to walk
to Budapest from there and everybody left at one or two o'clock in the
morning, because they felt so good. In our flat we didn't talk about
politics. Then came that particular Friday evening. We were leaving my
mother-in-law's place and people were shouting that Vienna was under
attack. With that, politics came. We moved to Katona Jozsef Street in 1938.

During the war, 32 people lived in my three-room flat. Our house became a
protected house. In October 1944, all the Jewish women between the ages of
16 and 40 were called up to the Kisosz stadium. We went from there to
Mogyorod, and from Mogyorod to Isaszeg. We were told that we were being
taken to work. We were in Isaszeg for two days. There was a French break-
through and we were herded backwards. We were brought back to the brick
factory on Becsi Street, where we spent the night. In the morning we
started walking towards Hegyeshalom. From there we went on towards
Zurendorf, Austria. There the SS took over. They were mere boys of 14-15,
at least they looked that way to me.

They made us get into railway carts and in the evening the train set off.
We looked out in the morning to see where we were. It was some town.
Suddenly I shouted that we were in Hungary. The train stopped in Harka-
Kophaza, where we got off. We got to Kophaza on foot, where we had to dig
ditches. There were no SS around, as they were trying to run away by then.
Usually we were guarded by self-trained peasants, but there were still some
SS, of course. There were four of us together. My younger sister, a girl
from the house and an acquaintance of my sister.

At the end of March the Russians were already coming and they started
herding us away, but we went back to Kophaza. We went to the Jewish
canteen. There the Jews who were in forced labour gangs got some sort of a
soup that had some beans in it, and in the morning some black liquid that
was at least wet and warm. There was not even water and we suffered from
thirst all the time. Anna was very clever and resourceful. She went to the
local authorities and told them that we were left there at the Jewish
kitchen, but we had nothing to cook. It was announced in the village that
food was needed at the Jewish canteen. Suddenly the boys saw that on the
other side of the road, the German soldiers were loading food on cars. They
were stealing bread and artificial honey and artificial butter. Then we
heard sounds of the cars. I said that I thought the Germans were leaving
and there were no Germans at all in the village. Then the shooting and the
cannon fire started. We set out for home all the same: by train, by cart,
on foot. We got home on the 11th of April. My husband died in Bozsok in
February 1945. He was above the age limit, which was why he was not taken
to forced labour earlier. In 1944 on the 20th of October, the Nyilas men
(Hungarian fascists) came at five in the morning, they gathered all the
middle aged men who could still walk and deported them. I never saw him
again. We were taken on the 23rd of October.

My mother and my father were hiding, holding Christian papers. Those were
real papers, not fakes. A teacher couple, Lajos Kovacs and his wife, had
run away from Hajduszoboszlo. It was not difficult to learn the name of the
man, but the woman was called Julianna Oblidalovics. My father was not
deported. The housekeepers were decent people, because when the Nyilas men
came, they hid him in a wardrobe or in the lichthof (a shaft in the middle
of certain buildings that lets in light and air). There was a mezzanine
with a door to the lichthof. The key to that was in the pocket of the lady
caretaker. The Nyilas men walked around the flat, he was nowhere. "And this
door?" they asked. "This is just the lichthof," she replied.

My father went back to work right after the war, to the Zsigmond Nagy and
Partner furniture shop. He had to furnish a guesthouse in Matrahaza in July
1945. (Matrahaza was a fashionable mountain holiday village and still is
today.) They came to take him there, though he was he felt unwell.
Something was wrong with his stomach, but he went all the same. This
happened on a Saturday. On Tuesday he became ill and was immediately taken
to Gyongyos Hospital. His diagnoses was what they called Ukrainian
Diarrhoea, and there was nothing to be done. They sent us a telegram, and
my mother and I went there immediately. Four hours after our arrival he was
dead.

When he died I went with my mother to the community. The community had no
gravedigger, no rabbi, they had nothing. We wanted to take him to Pest.
They did not want to do it. It was the summer of 1945, there was no car and
they could not transport him by horse cart. If they took a bad horse, the
journey would have lasted for too long. If they took a good one, the
Russians would have taken it away. It was a really big deal, but I managed
to get a community member to organize the funeral the same day. He
succeeded in getting ten Jewish men who could pray together. Though it was
difficult during the summer of 1945, he succeeded. My father was buried in
accordance with the orthodox rites the very day after his death in
Gyongyos.

My brother was at death's door. He was in a forced labour corps in the
summer of 1944 when the carpet bombing of the Ferihegy airport happened.
One friend of his died on his right, another died on his left. Laci had his
trousers full of holes, like a sieve, but nothing happened to him. Laci ran
away. They lived in the Szilagyi alley with fake papers. My brother lived
as Sandor Vajk, my sister-in-law as Laszlone Gonczi. Her husband was
deported and she did not know where he was. On the 1st of January, 1945,
Laci's father-in-law had been wounded and he was taking bandages to him. He
had some notes in his pocket on which he had written several Russian words.
What probably happened is that he was reaching in his pocket for the notes,
and they did not know why was he doing so, and shot him. My sister-in-law
knew where her father was. She went there and he found Laci dead in the
snow. My sister-in-law buried him there in the Szilagyi Erzsebet alley.
After the war, My sister-in-law, together with her two sons, emigrated to
Sweden.

I worked at an ambassador's place for half of a year in 1949, but could not
earn anything there. Anna was in the Communist Party school and she had to
attend evening school too. She became a foreign trader. She made business
deals, and learned German and English. I was taken into the Communist
Party, though I did not want it. Then I worked at the Agricultural Ministry
in the Filaxia, a veterinary pharmacy. I got to the personnel department in
1950. The Filaxia was the most anti-Semitic company ever. I was told that
in the 1940s a friend of the director brought a christianised Jewish woman
there. Her colleagues found out that she was of Jewish origin and they said
that it was either one way or the other: either the woman was sent away or
they would not come to work anymore. They did not dare to tell it to my
face; they were all nice to me. There is nothing more base than the work I
was doing, where one has to build up a system of informants to spy on
others. Whenever I entered a room there was dead silence there. I never
knew a thing. I could never have asked for any kind of information. I did
not want to really. Each day I had to write an atmosphere report. I was
proud of the fact that nobody was fired while I did this work.

I married my second husband in 1948. He was a private merchant, and he
could trade with state companies. Then at the end he was a chief supervisor
in a cooperative. He went around to supervise the branches, but he came
home when he wanted. I was left in the flat in the Katona Jozsef Street and
we lived there. My daughter, Julia, was born in 1949.

When my father was on his deathbed I promised him that my mother would live
with me. In fact it was much easier for me like that, because Juli was six
months old when I had to give up my fashion shop and had to go to work.
They kept my baby for me. For twenty-one years, my work was such that I was
at home in the flat. So if my child cried, I could go to her in the other
room. My mother reared her from her age of six months. I had a domestic
helper. When I had my fashion shop it was cheaper to have one, than to do
the cooking and the cleaning in my own time. I got my job during the summer
and Emi, the domestic helper, said she would take Juli in. They went away
for two weeks that was the holiday due to Emi. I gave her an addressed card
for her to write each day. I could not have provided such things for her in
Pest in 1950; she got the first milk from the morning milking and every day
they killed a chicken to get the fresh liver into her soup.

Juli was head of the class in the gymnasium. She was accepted at her first
application to the Theater Academy. The next day I went to work very happy
and met our legal adviser, who told me, "You shouldn't be so happy. It is a
bumpy career, someone either is very successful in it, or not." I've
thought so many times. I am very sorry for Juli's actual life. She got her
diploma in 1971, and she was in the provinces. She got a contract in
Debrecen first. From there she went to other provincial towns. I retired
when Juli got her diploma.

We did not speak about religion at home after the war. My mother was
observant and Vili her husband was too. But I said that we could not
educate the child in two different ways. If she was told something at
school, we could not tell her any different. She didn't notice that the
dinner was different and at a different time. And in 1956, during the
revolution, the order came that beginning in September 1957, religious
education classes would be started. The ones who wanted their children to
attend had to sign for it. I did not want to, but Vili signed that she
should attend the Jewish religion classes. Juli accepted it without
knowing what it was.

Her next meeting with Jewish life was when a classmate of hers came to our
place to play. At that time biscuits were sent in colourful boxes by Jewish
organisations and the other girl liked them very much. My mother told her
that she could take them home if she wanted to. The girl replied that she
could not take them home, because then her parents would know that she had
been to a Jewish girl's house. My mother told her: "Forget about the boxes
then. Look, you can lie however you want at home, but don't come here
anymore." From then on, Juli knew that she was a Jew. We never spoke of it.
Then she noticed that there were matzoh dumplings. We did not keep Pesach,
but there were matzoh dumplings. There was the dinner after Yom Kippur, and
before that Vili fasted and prayed. I did not fast. I couldn't. My work
mates never asked me "Are you coming to have lunch?" except on Yom Kippur.
I worked on every Yom Kippur. Juli knew several things by then, but not too
much, and she didn't ask. Emotionally, she became a Jew at that time.

There was a great festival in the Erkel Theatre in 1948 when Israel came
into existence. I was there and I was very happy. But it never occurred to
me to emigrate . We wanted very much to go to Israel with Anna, but we
could not get passports from here. Towards the end of the 1970s, Anna found
out that visas were being issued in Vienna. The visa was not put into the
passport, but given on a separate sheet, which could be thrown away so that
the authorities wouldn't find out if someone went to Israel. We were making
preparations, but Anna was very ill. I said that we should wait until she
got better, but I knew she wouldn't. So we never made it there.

Alla Yasnogorodskaya 
City: St. Petersburg 
Country: Russia 
Interviewer: Alla Shevchuk

• My family background
• During and after the war

• My family background

My great-grandfather on my mother’s side, Nohum Yasnogorodsky, was born in the settlement of Yasnogorodsk, Belaya Tserkov, near Kiev. The name Yasnogorodsky comes from the name of this settlement. Nohum lived in Kiev. He received no education except cheder, but he  became famous for his songs, for which he wrote both the words and the music. 

The most famous of them (Sleep my child) immediately became a popular folk song.Nohum was also very famous in Kiev as a journalist. 

He focused on Jewish topics in his articles and songs, recounting the lives of the Jewish community. Nohum Yasnogorodky’s musical compositions are archived in the public libraries in Kiev and St. Petersburg. He perished during a pogrom in Kiev in either 1906 or 1914 (the exact date is unknown). 

Nohum had a sister, but no one remembers her name. She was married to Haim Bernshtein, a Rabbi and a Cantor. They had two sons: Meer and Avreml.Avreml died of consumption at the age of thirty. The fate of the second son, Meer, played out in a more interesting fashion.Meer Bernshtein  was born in July 1858 in the city of Belaya Tserkov, Kiev province, to a poor rabbi’s family.His father’s knowledge of the Talmud and singing fed them poorly, and the family, with little Meer, traveled around Ukraine in search of work. They traveled within the Pale of Settlement: to the Jewish settlements of Rakitnoe, Medvedevka, Voronka, etc…

It was in Voronka that Meer, still a child, became friends with Sholom Rabinovich, who later became a famous writer [known as Sholom Aleichem].They loved to act out comedies. Meer composed scenes from “The Sale of Joseph”, “The Flight from Egypt”, and other episodes from Jewish history. He knew the events in Jewish history.  He also knew many Jewish songs, which he sang constantly. His friendship with Sholom Aleichem lasted his entire life.The writer even dedicated a chapter of his book “From the Market” to Meer: “Meer from Medvedevka.”

Meer lived in the provinces until the age of 17 and then moved to Kiev.He wanted to study [singing] and he had a wonderful voice and tone. His father, however, still had no money. His uncle, Nohum Yasnogorodsky came to his aid. 
Thanks to his connections in Kiev, Nohum got his nephew into the Kiev Musical School. 

In 1878 an event occurred that sharply changed Meer Bernshtein’s life. Nikolai Grigorievich Rubenshtein, at that time the director of a conservatory, came to Kiev to recruit students.Meer’s musical gift impressed Rubenshtein so much that he took the boy to study in Moscow.

In order to begin his career as a singer, Meer Bernshtein (like many Jews at that time) had to change his name. He chose the pseudonym Mikhail Medvedev, after the settlement of Medvedevka where he spent his childhood.
Meer’s native languages were Yiddish and Ukrainian, therefore at first he sang in Russian with an accent.

Mikhail Medvedev’s fame began when he played the part of Lenskii in the opera “Evgenii Onegin,” by Peter Tschaikovsky.The premiere was held in March of 1879 on the stage of the Malay Theatre in Moscow. It was one of the composer’s first works.Mikhail Medvedev continued studying at the conservatory while working at the theater.

After graduation in 1881, he returned to his beloved Kiev where he quickly became an idol. At that time he was second in popularity to Chaliapin.  Medvedev sang in Moscow at the Bolshoi Theatre, at the Marinsky in St. Petersburg,
in Kharkov, in the Caucases, and all along the Volga River.  His repertoire of roles was great: Othello, Don Juan, Faust…He won his greatest success and worldwide fame, however, in the role of German in “The Queen of Spades.”
At a performance  in Kiev,  Tschaikovsky came out for a curtain call with Medvedev. He presented Medvedev with a score of the opera and a gold watch  with the inscription “The best German.”

In 1898, Medvedev left for America, where he received an enthusiastic welcome.He performed in New York, Boston, Philadelphia and Chicago, as well as in Quebec and Montreal.

After returning to Russia he devoted himself to teaching. Beginning in 1901, he was a professor of musical courses atthe Moscow Philharmonic Community. After a few years he returned to Kiev where he worked as an educator at the operatic theater. There he taught a cycle of lessons called the “ Kiev operatic higher musical and dramatic courses of Professor M.E. Medvedev.”

In 1912 he was invited to take up the post of professor of voice at the Saratov Conservatory. It was the first conservatory in the provinces.  Among his students was Lydiya Ruslanova, who was to become a famous singer. Medvedev lived in Saratov until the end of his life.

On August 1, 1925, after a concert, he died of a heart attack.

My grandfather, Nohum Yasnogorodsky’s son Mordukh, was born in 1862 in Yasnogorodsk. Then he moved to Kiev.  Like his father and his cousin Meer, Mordukh was musical and sang well. Thanks to  Mikhail Medvedev’s invitation to work in Saratov, the entire Yasnogorodsky family also moved to Saratov. 

By that time Mordukh had already married Nehama Dovgalevskaya. Mordukh took part in performances and occasionally sang in the choir of the Saratov Operatic Theatre. He also worked there as an accountant.  He died at the age of 80 in 1942 in the city of Yalutrovsk (Siberia) where he had been evacuated during the blockade of Leningrad, at the age of 80. Unfortunately, I do not know any details of his life because he died when I was a very small girl.

My grandmother, Mordukh Yasnogorodsky’s wife, was Nehama Dovgalevskaya.  She was born near Kiev, where she also was married. She was a housewife her entire life, devoting herself to the children. Mordukh was her second husband. 
She had married for the first time when very young, but her first husband died of tuberculosis when Nehama was only 18. 

At that time she already had a little daughter.  The child was taken in to be raised by her first husband’s parents but died quite young. Nehama’s father, my great-grandfather, Benticion Dovgalevsky was  the lessee of a mill near Kiev. 

Nehama’s cousin was a very famous person: the revolutionary Valeriyan Dovgalevsky. He was born in 1885 in Kiev. He then left to study in France where he graduated form the Toulouse Institute with a degree in engineering and electronics. Beginning in 1904 he took an active part in the revolutionary movement. In 1906 he was arrested and sentenced to life behind bars, but he managed to flee over the border. From 1908-1917 he was a member of the Bolshevik party in Belgium, Switzerland and France.  In 1917 he returned to Russia. He took part n the October Revolution of 1917. 
In 1919 he worked in the Narkom of communications and transport.  In 1920 he was the inspector of communications in Kiev. From May of 1921 he was a member of the Narkom for post offices and telegraph of the RSFSR and then the USSR. From 1924 to 1926 he was the representative of the USSR in Sweden, in 1927 in Japan and from 1928 to 1934 in France.

In London in 1932 he signed the agreement to begin diplomatic relations between England and the USSR. In 1932, in Paris, he signed the Franco-Soviet non-aggression pact. 
Valeriyan Dovgalevsky was a prominent government official and diplomat. He died in 1934 and was buried at the Kremlin wall in Moscow.

Nehama and Mordukh had three children: two sons and a daughter. The younger son (his name is unknown) was a very talented boy whose hobby was music, but he came down with scarlet fever and died at the age of 10. The elder son, Haim (Efim), my uncle, was born in Saratov. Then, in 1925, the family returned to Kiev. 

In the 1930s Haim moved to Leningrad. Haim was an organizer by character.  In the Institute of Civil Officers in Leningrad he organized a club that met with interesting people: writers and composers. 
It is known that Babel enjoyed attending this club.  In the second half of the 1930’s, Haim Mordukhovich (Efim Matveevich) Yasnogorodsky worked at the Executive Committee of Lenplan.

• During and after the war

In 1941 World War II began and Haim was at the front. His headquarters was located in Beloostrov (Leningrad Region). After the fall of the Leningrad blockade, Haim was demobilized for the reconstruction of the city. 
After the war he once again worked at the Executive Committee. He was married, had two children, and died in 1994.

My mother, Broha Mordukhovna (Berta Matveevena) Yasnogorodskaya, daughter of Nehama and Mordukh, was born in 1908 in Saratov,where she finished the 9-year school and studied at the conservatory.  Their relative, the opera singer Mikhail Medvedev, oversaw Haim and Broha’s musical education. In 1925, after Medvedev died, the entire Yasnogorodsky family moved to Kiev. From 1925 to 1929 Broha studied at the Kiev conservatory.  In 1928 Broha met Lazar Futoryan in Kiev,  and they were married. Unfortunately, I do not know how they met.

My grandfather on my father’s side, Alexander (Sender) Israilovich Futoryan, was born in 1884. Until 1917 he was a traveling salesman and after the Revolution he became a bookbinder. It is known that he bound books for the Vitebsky train station in Leningrad.  He took part in military action during World War I.He lived in Moscow.  He was married and had four children.  Simha, Lazar, Elizaveta and Dora.  His wife was Rozaliya, my grandmother,after whom I was named, but I don’t know anything  about her. My grandfather always had warm feelings towards his daughter-in-law,my mother Broha, even after she and my father were divorced.  And Mama, when in Moscow, often stayed at Grandfather Alexander Israilovich’s.
He died in 1970.

My father, Lazar Senderovich Futoryan, was born in 1906 in Kiev.  He was a chemist, a graduate of the State Institute of Applied Chemistry in Leningrad.In Kiev he met  my mother, and they were soon married.  My father took part in three military campaigns: he was in the campaign to divide Poland and Hungary [the Soviet invasion of Poland], in the Finnish War, and in World War II, where he advanced from Stalingrad to Berlin. Before the war he worked in a vanilla production workshop.  After the end of World War II Lazar and my mother divorced and Father left for Moscow,where he worked in a chemical enterprise.  He retired at the age of 48.

Father had two sisters and a brother.  My uncle Simha was a colonel and builder of railroads.There is very little known about aunts Elizaveta and Dora.  Dora married and had two children.Father died in 1996 in Moscow.

In 1929 Broha and Lazar moved to Leningrad.  There Broha taught at a musical school. I, Rozaliya-Polya (Alla) Yasnogorodskaya-Futoryan, was born in 1932 in Kiev. In the last months of her pregnancy my mother traveled to Kiev where she gave birth to me, then after a month she returned to Leningrad. Mama always dreamed of becoming a musician, but this was hindered by her birth defect: she was born with a dislocated hip.

She was very embarrassed by this handicap.  She had to undergo several difficult operations that brought her nothing but pain – the problem lasted her entire life.At the age of 30, Mama decided to sharply change her fate.  After trying out several professions, she chose literature and entered thenon-matriculated department of the Pokrovsky State Pedagogical Institute in Leningrad.  She graduated with excellent grades after just two years (1938-1940). 
As an exception to the rule, she was to be allowed to do graduate work, but the war interrupted her studies.

During the war my father was at the front.  In the mid-1930s my grandmother and grandfather Nehama and Mordukh had moved in with my parents in Leningrad. Therefore the entire family, mother and I, grandmother and grandfather, were evacuated from blockaded Leningrad to Siberia.This was in 1941.  We left by train.  Bombs destroyed the train before ours, and our was hit as well, but thankfully we were not killed.After them, no one else left the city.

Mama taught literature and singing in the small Siberian town of Yalutogovsk.  She also organized a school of amateur talent. Under her leadership the entire school studied singing and dancing and put on concerts: this was not just amateur talent. Along with the school director, she got the idea to collect money for the construction of an airplane [to help the war effort].Their enthusiasm ignited the whole school. 

Those who could brought money or toys and books for a lottery that was drawn during concert intermissions. The first spectators were the wounded at the hospital, then there were paying concerts at the Yalutorovsk Theatre.
The end result was that Mama was able to collect 100,000 rubles for which she received a telegram of thanks from Stalin.This money was sufficient to built a plane.

In May of 1944 we returned to Leningrad.  New people occupied our apartment and we, for some time, lived with Uncle Efim Matveevich (Haim Mordukhovich). Once again a new life began for Mama – study for graduate work (1945-1948) and at the same time, work as a teacher of foreign literature at the military-political school.

After the war, my parents separated.  My mother explained that she had ceased to love my father.  He moved to Moscow,  but for the rest of their lives they kept up very warm and friendly relations. Neither Mother nor Father had a new family.

In 1950 Mama defended her dissertation on the works of Schiller.  After that she stayed on to work as a teacher of foreign literature at the same institute.

In 1952 mother once again lived through a painful operation on her hip, the result of which was that she couldn’t get out of bed for two years.When she was finally able to return to work, she discovered that her place was already filled. She was invited to work at the Pedagogical Institute in Tobol (where she had worked during the evacuation) in 1954-55. 

However, the difficult climate forced her to leave her work and move to the Pedagogical Institute in Cheboksary (beginning in 1956).There she organized lectures, which attracted interesting people.  Mother always leaned towards educational work, just like her bother Haim and like their grandfather’s cousin,the singer Mikhail Medvedev. Mama died in 1988.

I graduated from school in 1950.  I tried to enter university, but Jews weren’t admitted.  This was the way anti-Semitism worked.I worked at the Public library. In 1954  I graduated from the philological department (French and German languages) of Pokrovsky State Pedagogical Institute in Leningrad.

From 1954 to 1955 I taught Russian and German at the Pedagogical Institute in Tobol , along with my mother. In 1956 (with the help of my Uncle Matveevich who, at the time, worked at the Executive Committee) I was hired as a translator and researcher on architecture in the department of information of the Leningrad enterprise “Lenproekt,” where I remained for the rest of my career. 

At the same time I worked as a part-time guide for “Intourist.”  I was greatly interested in the French language and in 1988, at the invitation of some French friends,
I was able to visit France.  I was in Paris, Burgandy and Normandy.  Near the small town of Bayonne I visited an ancient Jewish cemetery from the 18th century.
Because of my trip to France, I had to leave my job.  I was basically fired.

I taught foreign languages at the Leningrad Mining Institute (June 1969-August 1969) and the Togliatti Engineering-Economics Institute in Leningrad (1970-71). I have been a pensioner since 1989.  I was never married and have no children.I live in St. Petersburg.

Shimon Danon
Sofia
Bulgaria
Interviewer: Maiya Nikolova
Date of interview: February 2002

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

My family background

The path of my paternal family, after the crusades and the Spanish persecutions, passed through the Mediterranean and Turkey. The ancestors of my father Eshua Danon settled in Odrin [Turkey]. The aftermath of the wars for the liberation of Bulgaria from the Turkish yoke 1 created better living conditions. The economic situation, the relations with authorities, the fact that Bulgarians had recently undergone the hardships of the yoke – and this made them more tolerant and understanding to Jews who had similar fate – made most of the Jewish population that lived in the area of Odrin and Lyule-Bourgas move to the Bulgarian part of Thrace. Many of those Jews were primarily craftsmen, or eventually became traders.

My paternal grandfather, Shimon David Danon, whom I was named after, was born around 1853/55 in Odrin and died in Pazardzhik in 1918/19. He was a craftsman – a leather-worker. I know this, even though he died before my birth, during the European war [WWI]. My grandmother, Simha Danon was also born in Odrin around 1858/59 and died around the same time, also in Pazardzhik. They had both been strongly religious because they came from Spain where the persecutions had been mostly religious. During the Inquisition everyone who did not profess Christian faith had to leave the country. Therefore tradition was the thing that really ‘sealed’ the Jewish community. My father told me that in his family they very strictly observed Jewish tradition, especially Sabbath. Yom Kippur was considered a more important holiday than all the rest. They believed that [every year] from that day on they would start a brand new life, having been forgiven all the bad things they had done. Thus, tradition had a great impact on the relations within the family and outside it, accounting for a better way of living.

Grandpa and granny’s house was made of sun-dried bricks with Turkish roof-tiles. [These are curved tiles, unlike the Bulgarian ones, which are usually flat.] The rooms were painted with various patterns that continued from one room into the other. All the children used to sleep in the bedroom. Both my father’s and my mother’s families were large: there were three brothers and two sisters in my father’s family, and three brothers and three sisters in my mother’s family.

My maternal grandpa Nissim Assa was born in Stara Zagora around 1871/72. I don’t know where and when my granny Dudu Assa was born. They lived in Plovdiv. They had a house before my birth that I don’t remember. Then they built another one, in which an enormous clan used to live – the families of my grandfather and his brother. Their wives had the same names [Dudu Assa]. The land on which the house was built was their property. Whenever a child was born in one of the families, a newly born child in the other family usually followed within 6 months – my mother Ester Danon, born in 1898, matched my aunt Fortuna Assa and so on. If my grandpa’s family had 6 children, doubtlessly my grand-uncle’s family would have 6 also. My grandma died in 1939/40 and my grandpa at the beginning of the 1960s.

The Jewish quarter in Plovdiv, where my grandfather’s house used to be, had a much clearer and firmer distinction than the one in Pazardzhik, where my maternal grandparents lived. About fifty meters away from grandpa’s house was the so-called ‘cortiso’, which means ‘yard’ in Spanish. The houses of some fifty families were situated within that inner space. There weren’t any Bulgarian families there, and Jewish integrity was taken care of.

My maternal grandfather was a religious fanatic. He knew he had to pray and never missed a prayer. He was of those orthodox Jews who were so devoted to religion that every morning and evening they visited the synagogue to pray. There had to be something really unavoidable – some great event – for example, illness, for him to miss his usual visit to the synagogue. He observed the canons of religion without actually understanding its core, without delving into its deep meanings. My grandmother observed religion as far as she was able, as she got paralyzed very early and spent one third of her life in a chair. She had to be looked after. There wasn’t anything particular in the way my grandparents used to dress. They wore normal clothes, nothing especially connected with traditions. 

The strong sense of mutual aid had motivated Jews never to deviate from their Jewishness. For example, when endowments are made, they are not intended for one person only but for the support of poor people in general. Before Yom Kippur, a sacrifice with the slaughtering of birds was performed for the sake of each family member’s health – a cock for men, and a hen for women. [The interviewee refers to the custom of kapores.] In the years before my brother Shemuel Eshua Danon’s birth we used to slaughter 4-5 hens but we couldn’t consume them. It was obligatory for us to give part of this meat to poorer people. Jews who were invited to the synagogue to say the kiddush, were supposed to make matanah after that, which means ‘a gift.’ It was made by the one who had been honored to go up to the almemar. This mutual aid had other material forms. All poor Jews used to study free of charge in the Jewish school. It was also a common practice for all children of poor families to receive clothes that were sewn especially for them for Rosh Hashanah. Shoes, warm clothes and, above all, food had to be provided for the poorer people. There was an organized soup kitchen for the poor children in the Jewish school where I used to study. Each one of them had to receive warm food at lunch. There was an appointed day for every wealthy family, on which the housewife had to provide food for the soup kitchen. Our family was also allotted such a day. There was some kind of a competition for providing better food, or at least food of the same quality that we ate daily at home.

The Jewish community in Pazardzhik numbered some 900-1,000 people. There were about 350 families with 3-4 persons on average. There were streets known as Jewish streets. There were only two Armenian families in our street and one Bulgarian in the next one. It is not true that there wasn’t any anti-Semitism in the Bulgarian circles. There was fear of Jews, as well as envy for the support that we gave each other. The notion that Jews are ‘blood-drinkers’ was constantly imposed on Bulgarian children. [The interviewee refers to the century-old blood libel accusations.] Fights between Jewish and Bulgarian children from close neighborhoods happened quite often. There was always someone who shouted, ‘Why do you drink Christian blood? Why do you slaughter Christians?’ and so on.

My father, Eshua Danon, was a very interesting person. He was a gabbai – this is something like an elder - the first man after the rabbi. People addressed him as a public figure. The gabbai was responsible for solving any problem that proved interesting to visitors of the synagogue. 99 % of the rabbis who read the prayers were not quite aware of what they were actually reading. They used to say the words only by heart, without knowing their meaning. Unlike them, my father knew what he was reading. He used to translate the prayers into Latino [Ladino], as it was the spoken language among Jews. Especially during the family holidays, prayers were usually first said in Hebrew and then in Ladino, which made them clear and understandable for the people present. My father wasn’t a religious fanatic like my maternal grandfather. He made religion somehow close and comprehensible. He ‘updated’ it. He was a progressive man. At one time he even had left-wing convictions. He even participated in the September events [Events of 1923] 2, after which he was wanted by the authorities.

My father’s courtyard in Pazardzhik wasn’t big, but we had fruit trees and a hencoop, in which some 15-20 hens were looked after. My father had various interests, which definitely enhanced the modern development of the village. Pazardzhik was an agricultural region, and there was hardly any industry. In order to improve village life, there had to be some way to make a living. My father took care of this. He organized the breeding of silkworms. Mulberry trees had to be planted, special rooms and pottery also had to be provided. It is true that nothing effective came out of it, but my father was, so to say, the founder of the whole initiative. After that, some 200-300 villagers started do breed silkworm.

My father also cultivated rice, he rented land, hired people, because rice growing was not traditional for Pazardzhik (wheat was usually grown there), and it required a unique approach. Special irrigation ‘cells’ were prepared. The technology that he used was different to the one used in traditional agriculture. My father, who was one of the innovators of the Pazardzhik district, actually introduced rice growing – even though he didn’t make much profit from it.

Later on he started hemp cultivation. All these initiatives didn’t come from the village people, but came from a few enterprising people, one of whom was my father. Hemp growing was very difficult; it had to be reaped, forged out, stapled.

Although it sounds rather unlikely, my father also had a herd of sheep. He had some ideas about changing the old mode of non-profitable sheep breeding. I remember that one of the shepherds he had hired simply robbed him. Every time he came, he responded with the simple ‘They died’ to the question about what had happened with the sheep. At home we had medicines against all sorts of sheep-diseases. My father wanted to make full use of the sheep: for example, to process their fleece into fine, not rough, wool for cloaks. My father, who saw that innovations could bring greater profit than tradition, enthusiastically experimented with lots of things, even though he didn’t benefit much himself. He was an avant-garde thinker.

My father had a good knowledge of French – he could write and speak well, without having studied it anywhere, just due to his own interest. My father never went to bed without turning on the radio to hear the International. And he always cried at it. He imagined that the International would bring the liberation of people all over the world, with equality and respect to their national interests. He also wanted to be seen as an equal among others; therefore, whenever he heard the International, the inspiration usually brought tears to his eyes. At the time of the Holocaust, around 1941, the radio was first stamped and later on we were obliged to give it away. It was as if something had been torn from us.

My father had a medal for bravery from the Balkan war [1912-1913]. Can you imagine a Jew having a medal for bravery, when everywhere Jews were denounced as the most cowardly people – and a ‘faint-hearted’ Jew used to be a byname? My father was a corporal in a battery – 6 men for 1 gun – that was surrounded during the war at the pass of Odrin [in Turkey]. The sergeant major in charge pulled out his sword and cried: ‘Onward - for mother Bulgaria!’ in order to show patriotism, and the Turks killed him. My father was left alone with the 6 soldiers, who wanted to surrender. My father saw that night was falling and tried to raise their spirit. He told them to hold on until it got dark. He examined the area and saw that there was a covered ravine to which they could possibly withdraw. He took the responsibility for the battery and gave orders to carry out the withdrawal. Some had to keep up fire while the rest stripped the gun and divided it amongst each other. And they succeeded in withdrawing to that ravine; and thus, he saved the 6 soldiers and the weapon. He was awarded with a medal for bravery in front of the whole regiment. It was noted that in spite of his bravery, the sergeant major had shown a rather meaningless patriotism – unlike my father, who had done a truly courageous deed by saving the battery and the 6 men, who certainly would either have been captured or killed, if it hadn’t been for him. Because of this medal my father was a little more privileged in comparison to other Jews. When everyone, including me, wore yellow badges, my father wore a yellow button, which was meant to show that the fascist country was somehow obliged to him.

My father’s sister, Roza Sizi, was married to a man more enterprising than my father – Bohor Sizi. Everything that could possibly appear in the town, he had first. He was the first one to have a radio. In his yard there were fruit trees with everything from fig to almond trees. Note that it was the yard of a Jew, who initially was not an agricultural worker. When I entered his yard, I had the feeling that it was a paradise. He didn’t have any farm hands or other workers. He took care of his yard by himself. He even cut logs alone, and for that purpose he had made a special device. He used to joke that he would rather cut two pieces of wood instead of doing gymnastics. And he was among the richest people in town thanks only to his enormous drive.

He knew French very well; he used to read classics in original – Hugo, Eugene Sue. He was definitely the most knowledgeable man. I remember how amazing it was for us, the children, when we saw him listening to the radio with those enormous headphones. In Pazardzhik, where there wasn’t a house higher than 2 floors, he had a 30-meter gantry that could be seen by the whole city. He informed us about what was happening in Brussels, Paris, especially around Munich, 1939, and the invasion in Czechoslovakia. He received newspapers and magazines from abroad. He used to read and translate them for us. He was not a café-admirer but he had some games at home, and visiting his house was always a special event. He was a unique man. I don’t know if genes have something to do with it, but his grandson Alkalai was nominated for a Dimitrov award. [This was one of the highest governmental awards in communist times, named after communist prime minister Georgi Dimitrov]. He invented a machine for tobacco planting, which became known all over the world, as tobacco planting is a very labor-consuming activity. Thus, Bulgaria became a top country in agriculture. When Todor Zhivkov visited Plovdiv, his first stop was usually Alkalai, as he wanted to get acquainted with the latest innovations in the domain of agriculture.

My mother, Ester Danon, was an open-minded person, even though she was deeply religious. For example, she didn’t always observe the custom of not eating pork, but during difficult moments, she always turned to God. My mother was a typical Jewish woman who had to take care of her children. My mother and my father didn’t marry for love – because of those times and an age-difference of thirteen years that separated them. My father got married quite late – in 1921 – because of the wars between 1913 and 1920 [the Balkan wars and WWI]. They certainly had a religious marriage in the synagogue, as secular marriage wasn’t a common practice then. My father was a handsome man, a dandy – he was interested in clothes and fashion. My mother was just the opposite. My father was keen on decorating our house with sculptures and paintings. My mother paid less attention to those things. She loved reading novels instead. We used to read at home. I cannot say that we did it from dusk till dawn, but we were bright and aware of what was to come. During the war we had a chart where we used to mark the events – we were informed, and eagerly discussed everything. My father was a classical music fan. We had a gramophone with records and we used to listen to arias sung by world famous singers. His greatest pleasure was to ‘wind up’ the gramophone and enjoy Rigoletto and Traviata. Such things were not very common for 99% of the people in a town like Pazardzhik.

Growing up

I was born in 1927. I have a sister, Simha Moshe Danon, born in 1923 and a brother, Shemuel Danon, born in 1943. My brother was born ‘thanks to’ the Holocaust, so to speak, because the whole family was gathered in a small room. The house was crowded with exiles from Sofia. When he was born, I was 16-17 years old and our sister was 20. We took care of our brother. The situation was quite delicate, as our sister could already have her own children. My mother gave birth initially thinking that she had a terrible disease. The cancer that the doctors diagnosed actually turned out to be her pregnancy with my brother.

I completed elementary and secondary school in the Jewish school in Pazardzhik. We studied Hebrew and Jewish literature, as well as the Tannakh there. The other school subjects were the usual ones, the same as in the Bulgarian school. Until the 4th grade we also studied mathematics in Hebrew, as well as the Torah. I graduated from high school in Pazardzhik also – but from the Bulgarian one. At that time there wasn’t a Jewish high school in Bulgaria. The Jewish school in Pazardzhik was very interesting. There was a teacher there, Geveret Semo [geveret is Hebrew for teacher], who lived more than a hundred years. She settled in Israel. On her 100th birthday all her former students from Pazardzhik, who lived in Israel, prepared a great celebration. There were really a lot of people – now there are some 30 Jews in Pazardzhik left of the thousand Jews who once used to live there. Geveret Semo was a very interesting person. She only spoke Hebrew with her students. In the end her persistence proved helpful for those who left for Israel, as they had already acquired a considerable knowledge of the Hebrew language.

Every year there were theater performances at the Jewish school that were performed entirely in Hebrew. The spirit of Jewry was conveyed through them. I remember a play in which my sister Simha Moshe Danon participated. The play was staged by a Bulgarian director. A farewell dinner was given in his honor, to which all the actors were invited. It was a grandiose event for the Jews in our town. The play was about the massacre of Jews in Poland. It was around 1939/1940, just before the persecutions against Jews in Bulgaria had started, and when there were rumors about new restrictive laws against Jews [The so-called Law for the Protection of the Nation] 4. This united the Jewish community. To represent the burning of the Jewish houses in the play, newspapers and burning torches were waved behind the stage during the performance. There was a window close to the stage and the fire could be seen from the yard of one of the richest Jews – he used to buy up tobacco and his stores were in this yard – so his workers jumped in to put out the fire.

Around the time I started high school, the anti-Jewish laws had already come into force. Despite that, I enrolled in high school because my father had a medal for bravery from the Balkan war. The law at the time allowed the children of the Jews who had been presented with a medal for bravery to study. At the beginning of the first high-school class I had to sit with the village boys. There were one or two guys from Pazardzhik who were notorious for their bad behavior and unwanted by the other classes. At that time there were both Branniks 5 and legionaries 6 already.

When I started high school, my classmates used to tell me, ‘Hey, you don’t look like a Jew. You are good, you don’t lie, why aren’t all Jews like you?’ Those types of comments were common among the village boys. (As I was a Jew, I studied in the class of the village boys, not in the class of the city boys.) The village boys’ anti-Semitic attitude was rather naive and not based on any material interest, but that of the city boys’ was much stronger because they were sons of merchants and craftsmen who used to compete with the Jews. Envy existed. In my family they used to say: ‘Fine, be good at school, stay among the best students, but never actually be the first.’ My father used to tell me: ‘Even if there is no anti-Semitism, I always put you one point ahead of the others, because when they examine you, they usually take it away, because you are a Jew.’

A deep feeling that our capabilities were underestimated was implanted among Jews. Even in the best times a Jew could not hold a high position in the army, police or in finances. Although we constituted about one-twentieth of the town’s population, there wasn’t a single Jewish police officer, nor was there an army officer, or a city community official. This certainly provoked Zionist interests and it can be said for sure that Pazardzhik was a town with a strong Zionist influence. We had two official Zionist organizations. The first one was Betar. It was more like a political party, a right-wing oriented organization. The other one was the youth sports organization, the Maccabi, which I was a member of.      

I wouldn’t say that I have any particular sports talent but I was athletic and a quite good short distance runner, especially in 100 meters. I was good at it. I have 7-8 prizes from Jewish organization sports events. I was a member of the Maccabi – the Jewish sports organization. At a city competition in short-, and long-distance running I had to compete with the winner of the city boys’ class – one of the Brannik boys – in order to become a representative of the high school. The teacher would never have allowed me under different circumstances, but in this case he had no choice – I was the winner of our class. The guy could never cope with the fact that a Jew had beaten him.

The first time I entered the classroom (I was late because I had to take care of all the high school enrolling formalities), some Brannik boys stood up and said that they were forbidden to share a desk with a Jew. So the richest boy from Malo Konare village, whose brother was a partisan and a political commissar of the partisan detachment in the Pazardzhik district, offered me a place next to him. His name was Rangel Karaivanov. When [during WWII] the rest of the citizens received 300 gr. bread per day, Jews were given 150. Every morning, over the course of several years, Rangel used to pass me half of his breakfast slice of bread under the desk. He didn’t do it out of fear but because he didn’t want to hurt my dignity. When he passed away I said – and I have said it many times – that trees should be planted in Israel in memory of such people, who helped Jews on a daily basis, and not only for those who spoke loudly. Rangel himself was in a much more difficult position because his parents were sent to a camp, as his brother was a partisan. They watched and followed him, and also warned him not to carry out any anti-fascist actions – which he did, anyway.

During the war

Jews began to anticipate that they would have to resettle somewhere else. Around 1941 a ship, which was on its way to Israel, sank in the Black Sea. There were many people from Pazardzhik on board. Mishel Pamukov, who led the Jewish youth organization in Pazardzhik and was one of the most popular Jewish young men, drowned with it. He inspired many people with his nationalist sentiments. I know that he is now honored in Israel. He is mentioned as being one of the founders of the Jewish State in the memorial services that are held there.

It is mere talk that there was no fascism in Bulgaria. The atmosphere was rife with chauvinist tales about Great Bulgaria, Bulgaria above the other Balkan peoples, etc. Back then village boys in the education system didn’t have the opportunities that the city boys had. The village was quite backward compared to the town. There were children who came to school without having seen electricity. They lit their homes with kerosene lamps. In Pazardzhik there was electricity, running water, cinema, theatres – it wasn’t that underdeveloped culturally. Villages were millions of years backward, although there were some very bright and intelligent children, much more gifted than the city kids. For example, our alumni produced two ministers – Todoriev, of energy and Serafim Milchev – of mines. Bulgaria owes much to Todoriev. He is an innovator.

During the Holocaust we stayed in Pazardzhik. I would like to emphasize here that a wrong notion exists that the Bulgarian people saved its Jews. I have a slightly different opinion concerning this. I think that Jews in Bulgaria became more confident about their future not because of Bulgarian society as a whole. I cannot deny that there were quite a lot of Bulgarians who were helping Jews for different reasons. Actually, the ones who used to chase our people were rather shocked by the losses of the Germans on the East front. The more the Red Army approached our borders, the more some people felt ‘close’ to their Jewish compatriots. After the Stalingrad battle they began to fear that retribution would reach them for the things they had done. And they had done awful things. I remember the Brannik boys (only young people) one evening loading up some carts with paving stones and marching in our street. Ours was an entirely Jewish street. There weren’t any Bulgarian families there. There were only two Armenian houses: one in the beginning and one in the middle of the street. The youngsters systematically smashed windows and sashes. They only left out the Armenian houses. First they threw one big paving stone to break the window frame and after that – smaller ones – like a hailstorm. A large paving stone broke our bedroom window. We all lay under the beds because glass and stones were falling down and we feared for our lives. On the same night they attacked the Jewish community building as well. Everything was vandalized and robbed. There was a guy, Gogo Dulgia, who usually carried a whip in his hands. We could only go out from 4 to 6 p.m. It was the only time we could buy ourselves something. Everyone who hired Jews had to get special permission.

On my mother’s side our family suffered great losses. My aunt lost both her sons. Although they had left-wing convictions, they studied in the English College in Sofia. One night, Branniks came to my uncle’s place and blackmailed him to give them several million leva within two hours. As he couldn’t do it, they killed his children on the same night. The monument that was built in their memory has been ruined by Bulgarian neo-fascists.
My brother and my sister are both associate professors. My sister is a senior research professor in medical hygiene. My brother works in the oncology hospital. Until recently he was deputy director, and now he’s in charge of the state register of people with oncology diseases, a very responsible job.

Post-war

I reached the highest levels of power. I was deputy prosecutor-in-chief of the Republic [in communist times]. It means that I was responsible for a whole department in the chief prosecutor’s office. There isn’t a town in Bulgaria that I haven’t visited. There isn’t a prosecutor in Bulgaria who wouldn’t know me. I have appeared dozens of times on TV and radio with my full Jewish name – Shimon Eshua Danon. 

My wife, Anna Danon, is a doctor. I met her in the reading-room of the library of the Jewish community in the 1950s. At that time I was a law student but I also worked there as a librarian. It was a rich library, visited by a lot of Jewish students. There I met Anna and we soon got married – we had a secular wedding. We have one daughter Raia, who is a teacher of Spanish language at the Spanish high school in Sofia. In my adult life I have kept my Jewish identity by regularly observing certain Jewish traditions, like Pesach, for example. As I am a member of the Jewish community in Sofia, I often visit lectures and various events that are organized by it. And, throughout the years, I have maintained regular contact with my mostly Jewish friends. I visited Israel in 1993-1994. It was a visit to my wife’s relatives.

To pretend that there is no fascism in Bulgaria today is nonsense. Now Mein Kampf is sold here without any obstacles. Books are distributed that deny the Holocaust and speak the same way of the Jewry as of the Mafia, claiming that they destroy nations. Anti-Semitism, the international language of fascism, is now gaining power again. ‘Jews on soap’ is written on the walls of the French high school in Sofia – after everything that has happened, after the death of 6 million people. There are skinheads who speak on television about destroying the Jews. If Jews are still emigrating, it’s because – even since the beginning of democracy – anti-Semitism still continues to grow. And, in spite of the propaganda that is spread by some Jewish agencies that in communist times the position of Jews had been very bad, I would even say that it wasn’t bad then. It is bad now. It’s true, for example, that the relatives of some Jews who were living abroad were monitored and watched; they weren’t allowed to hold governmental and state posts. The number of Jews working in the network of the state security system was very limited. And now – for example, Jews in Bulgaria haven’t yet been compensated for their property losses during the Holocaust. On the contrary, and not without the support of famous Jewish circles, a certain policy is now circulated that – can you imagine? – there has never been fascism in Bulgaria. This is an absolute lie. And at the same time they say: ‘We saved you from fascism.’

Principally, the Jewish community exists only when it is necessary. I have the feeling that now it’s stronger – with the emphasis put on the concept of ‘Jewry’ in the community itself because of the need for protection. Recently I was at a meeting where my compatriots, in the presence of the ambassador of Israel and other official figures, said that anti-Semitism continues to grow in Bulgaria. There are authors, newspapers, TV magazines with obvious anti-Semitic sentiments. They say there are no laws to oppose that. I am a jurist and I can tell you that there are texts against pro-fascist activities and racial hatred in our constitution. Because the leading posts of SDS [Union of the Democratic Forces] were held by people with pro-fascist convictions some people prefer to close their eyes.

Glossary

My name is Serafima Nakhimovna Staroselskaya, I was born in Leningrad in 1949. I know about my grandparents from what my parents told me, since I was born after the war and the older generation was eliminated, shot by the Germans. I keep that in mind all my life because it is very important to me.

My family background

During the war

Growing up

After the war

My family background

My grandfather’s name on my mother’s side was Borukh Vigdergaus, and my grandmother’s name was Sima. They lived in the town of Nevel in Pskov province, where a lot of Jews lived. All our kinsfolk came from Nevel and Vitebsk. They were a very united family. Grandfather and grandmother were born approximately in the 1878-1880s. Grandfather's mother (my great grandmother) lived together with them, though she also had sons Grigory, Bentsion and daughter Manya. But grandmother loved Sima very much and said that she wanted to live only with her. Great grandmother was religious; she thoroughly observed all religious rules and the family celebrated Sabbath.

My grandfather’s brothers, Grigory and Bentsion, left Nevel for Leningrad in the 1920s. Grigory got married here, his wife’s name was Lisa. When other young relatives started to come to Leningrad, uncle Grisha and aunt Lisa’s house was always open for them, they were welcomed as if it were their home. They lived in the center of the city not far from the Technological Institute. Aunt always kept a bucket-sized pan on the stove, young people came to visit them very often.  It was in the 1930s, when everyone was always hungry. As soon as one ate, others came, aunt Lisa poured some water into the pan, so that it was always possible to get a plate of soup in her house.

Grandma Sima was very kind and sympathetic, everybody loved her. She was a person easy to get along with. They owned an inn. There were a lot of villages around Nevel and Russian peasants, who brought foodstuffs for sales, stayed at my grandparents’ inn.  As far as I know, they had no education, though outwardly they were very intelligent people. Grandma and grandpa had six children. They had seven  children, but the first girl died. Three sons and three daughters remained. Elder daughter Sarah-Dinah (they called her Sonya at home), was born in 1901.  Second daughter Lyuba was born in 1903. Then brother Semyon (Shlyoma) was born and later Yakov (Yankel) and finally Yefim (Khaim). Last and the youngest was my mom.

Their house was located right on the lakeside of the Nevel Lake. There was a lot of fish in the lake and many years later when we ate fish mom always said: “Now we can only recall the fish we ate in Nevel.” They fished themselves and sometimes fishermen brought the fish to us. Children had fun boating not only in boats but also in wash-tubs out on the water. Boys certainly were very naughty. Though there was a huge fruit garden of their own, they stole apples in neighboring gardens. The house was rather big, the family lived moderately but the children were always full. They kept two cows and lived owing to their own work.  All Jewish traditions were observed by the family: grandma wore a traditional Orthodox wig, Sabbath was strictly observed, there were special Sabbath candlesticks and kosher utensils and mom remembered it all. Matzah was always baked for Pesach.

There were a lot of Jewish houses in Nevel and they were all very different. Mom told me that, unfortunately, many of the houses were dirty and slovenly. Grandma’s house was always very clean and full of flowers. Grandma Soma always dressed very neatly and nicely and differed from the others. That’s why there even appeared an expression “Sima and her kids.” Grandma never yelled at them. She never had anyone to help her with the house and managed everything on her own. All children started to walk barefoot as soon as spring came, sparing their shoes. Festive shoes were worn only on Pesach. Synagogue was attended obligatorily. A certain number of men gathered for a prayer in the houses. All in all, they led their own Jewish township life. My mother spoke Yiddish since childhood, it was her mother tongue and everybody at home spoke Yiddish.

My mother was born in 1915. She has a very interesting name – Kisya. She was given this name in honor of uncle Kushi. The name is a rare one, really. At those times parents gave their kids Jewish names as they wished.  However, when mother obtained her passport during the Soviet time, she was told that there cannot be such a name. They offered her to change her name, to become Kseniya or Yekaterina, but mother insisted that her name remained as her parents had given her. Later since mother was a Comsomol member and worked with difficult-to-bring-up kids, she was called Katya or Ksenya, but basically she lived with the name Kisya, Kisulya.

When mother was a little girl, her elder brothers and sisters began to leave home. They began to move to Leningrad in the 1920s, as a lot of Jews who lived beyond the “Jewish Pale  of Settlement” before the Revolution had done. Mother lived in Nevel up to 1930. She finished a Russian school there and was the last to leave among the other kids. She was 15 years old at that time. Older sisters already had babies and mom’s nephews were 10 years younger then herself.  She even nursed them, because they were always brought for summer to Nevel to stay with grandparents. Only in winter, when everyone left for Leningrad, mother remained alone with her parents.

Her elder sister Soya (Sarah-Dinah) studied to become a seamstress at the age of 13. She sewed women’s lingerie beautifully. It was before the Revolution. Then she left for Leningrad and studied somewhere else. But no one managed to get a higher education. She got married in Leningrad, her husband was a military man and later on he worked at a printing-house till the end of his life. Second sister Lyuba got married at the age of 19. Her husband’s last name was Dernovsky, he also came from Nevel. He was the only person in the family who obtained a higher education. He studied at the Technological Institute in Leningrad, at the department of ceramics and refractories. It was such a starvation year - 1921 and Mikhail attended the Institute wearing only one rubber boot.  When he graduated from the Technological Institute, he was assigned to work in the town of Borovichi, where aunt Lyuba and uncle Misha always lived. A large refractory combine was being constructed there and uncle held an important position at the combine. In general it was a family known to the whole town. They had five kids born.

Mother’s brother Semyon (Shlyoma) finished the Red Commissars’ courses. There was also brother Yakov. He perished on the Leningrad front line; other brothers also participated in the war there. Yakov was the only one who perished. He left two daughters who were born before the war, Galya and Edith.

Mother’s brother Yefim, born in 1912, served in the navy on a man-of-war. Once in 1937 during the massiveStalinist  repressions, he mentioned in one of the conversations that people get orders like badges. Someone denunciated him and he was put into prison. All his family was, at it was called in those days, “incapacitated” and mother became a relative of the “national enemy,” but she never told about this at the place of her work. Later someone noticed her visiting the prison carrying parcels and informed the proper officials. Yefim stayed at Kolyma during the whole war. He got acquainted with a Russian girl, who came there with a Comsomol authorization, and a baby was born to them. They were allowed to leave Kolyma for Borovichi which was incredibly far away, since they were permitted to live only beyond “the 101st kilometer” [1946], and his elder sister Lyuba with her husband lived in Borovichi.

As I already mentioned, mother came to Leningrad in 1930 at the age of 15. It was the most difficult year - dreadful unemployment, so she had to visit the labor registry office all the time. Finally she managed to find a job at the technical school. She worked with machines: with a lathe and a metal machine, she also knew electricity well. She was rather crafty, all in all, besides, she sewed and cooked very well.

One of the brothers had a room on Nevsky prospect, in building # 1, with windows facing the Palace Square. All relatives and friends who came to Leningrad from the provinces, stayed in this room. All mom’s brothers and cousins were very amicable and visited the place very often. Mother lived also with her elder sister for some time. It was a Soviet-custom-type life. When mom came from Nevel, her Comsomol life period started. However, she spoke Yiddish in her midst. She was seriously in love with a Russian young man, but she parted with him, because she had been brought up believing that she should marry only a Jew.

My maternal grandmother died at the age of 43 of cancer. Before the war grandpa got married for the second time. The pre-war time was very difficult, but mom and dad recalled that all relatives were on friendly terms with each other. Bonds between relatives were different from that of contemporary. First of all, even a cousin was considered a very close relative and they helped each other. Mother was great friends with her cousin, Benstion’s daughter, her name was Rosalia. They were of the same age and they had one party dress for two, so they had to go on dates in turn, though there were a lot of admirers. Relatives visited each other often. There were no telephones at that time, but they all lived in the center, never locked the doors, no matter if it was a working day or a holiday.

Mother married Naum Staroselsky (his name was registered in the passport as “Nakhimya”) when she was 22 years old, in 1937. Father’s ancestors came from the town of Gorodok in Belorussia. By the way, the name of Staroselsky derives not from the nationality but from a location. I read about it in a book. Both Russians and Jews could have such a last name. I know less about my father’s parents. I think they were a bit older than my mom’s parents, born approximately in 1870. I do not have any of their pictures. My paternal grandmother’s name was Nekhama, and grandfather’s name was Alter-Shmuil. Though father’s patronymic was indicated in his documents as Adolfovich. I do not know what kind of education they had. I only know that grandma Nekhama was very beautiful and active and grandpa was, as they say, henpecked. Grandma was very enterprising, she was engaged in commerce, though I do not know, what kind of. They were better provided for than my mom’s parents. They owed two houses in Gorodok before the Revolution, a small one and a bigger one. They also had 2 or 3 cows. Everybody in the family worked. However, they were even “dispossessed as kulaks” in the 1930s.

Father (born in 1907) worked since he was a small kid, as he was the only boy. He had 4 sisters. The elder Dora was born in 1905 and Sonya was born in 1912; there was also Ida, who was born in 1913 and died right after the war; Bronislava, born in 1915, is still alive. Unfortunately, I do not know much  about this part of the family.

Father lived in Gorodok approximately up to 1928, because he had to help his parents. Later he moved to Leningrad. He had a room on Basseynaya (now Nekrasova) Street. There was a Jewish club nearby where a lot of young people gathered, so dad lived a Jewish life mostly owing to that. Jewish young people entertained themselves and relaxed there, it was not prohibited at those times--  yet. There was even a peculiar “meeting club.” Dad had a lot of friends. He was a very outgoing and cheerful person. He met mom in one such gathering. He was wounded in the war, lost his health, which had a significant effect on his temper. Mom very often recalled what kind of nature he had had before. 

Before the war mother worked at a mechanical plant. Before 1943 she worked as a secretary in Smolny [Leningrad Communist Center] for two years. When Kirov (a high party functionary) was murdered, everybody was fired and she lost the job. My parents got married on November 7th, 1937. The wedding took place on December 5th, it was the holiday of Stalin’s Constitution Day. Dad wanted to present mom a golden ring, but she told him that Comsomol members do not wear golden rings. So dad gave her a golden watch, which I still keep. They did not have a Jewish engagement ceremony and wedding. A trip to Leningrad was not possible for mom’s parents, so it was difficult to reach our relatives, who lived 40 kilometers from Nevel (in Vitebsk), and they did not see each other for years. The wedding was a fairly typical civil one.  

I am not sure what dad’s occupation before the war was; he was some type of an office worker. He had no higher education. He finished a Russian school in Gorodok, but he spoke Yiddish very well. Dad carried the spirit of Judaism throughout his life. I think that he was a dissident, according to contemporary understanding. Mother was 8 years younger than him and was brought up within the conditions of the Soviet power: she was a Comsomol member and accepted everything connected with this life. Deep in his soul Dad never accepted the Soviet power completely. He admitted some things, but the spirit of the past, the bourgeois spirit, lived within him all his life. We did not really understand it until later. When mother married him, her family did not have a friendly attitude toward him, regardless of the fact that he was a Jew. They were all brought up in the Comsomol-Communist and Soviet conditions, and it seemed to them that dad had a certain “bourgeois touch.” In half a year after mom and dad got married they moved from Nekrasova Street to 85 Sadovaya Street, into a huge communal apartment without any conveniences. In 1938 my sister Nina was born, she was given this name in honor of grandma Nekhama (on father’s side). Mom went to her parents, who lived in Nevel to give birth to Nina. I was born in Leningrad, at the maternity hospital #2, the most famous one in the city.

Every summer before the war mom and Nina went to visit my grandparents; actually, all the grandchildren gathered there for summer.

During the war

War caught them there. Mom decided to go to Leningrad. Grandparents said to her: “Leave Ninochka with us”. Mother hesitated for a long time, but finally took my sister away. Grandparents stayed in Nevel but later decided to leave. They had friends among peasants, who loved them very much and offered them a hiding place in case the Germans arrived. And they did really hide them for two years. I found out about it just recently. I thought that they were executed in Nevel at the beginning of the war. Later, they were either betrayed or someone told them that there were no Germans in Nevel anymore, so they returned back to the town and the Germans grabbed them. I know it happened on September 16th, 1943, because mom always lit a candle on September 16th in their memory. It was a massive execution of the Jews. Some Jews dug trenches, then they were shot and the rest of the Jews buried them. I found pictures of the execution in Nevel at the Hesed Center not long ago. It was a real shock for me to see this big picture of the monument at the place where my grandparents were executed. I only heard from mom before that the place was called the Blue Dacha (summerhouse).

Thus my sister was saved, as mother took her to Leningrad. When the war broke out, children were evacuated from the city with their kindergartens, separately from their parents. So mom sent Nina with the kindergarten. When she had left, mom understood what she had done and got frightened that she had sent a 3-year old child alone. So she left with the last special train to look for Nina, as she knew approximately where to look. She found her in the town of Nikopol. In September 1941 they were evacuated to the town of Belibey in Bashkiriya, not far from the town of Ufa, because two father’s sisters were evacuated there.

Mom told me a lot about evacuation. She left Leningrad together with her friend, who had two kids. They stayed together during the war. It was very difficult to find a place for living in Belibey, though finally they found a 5 meter poky little room, with hoarfrosted walls.  Mom was lucky, because in evacuation she met a good friend of hers, who helped her to get a job at the officer’s canteen. So she always had food. They lived in evacuation until 1944.

My dad lived through two wars: the Finnish and the Great Patriotic wars. He was a volunteer at both wars. He served as a medical assistant having finished special courses. He was not even wounded during the Finnish war.  Later he was at the Leningrad frontline and took part in military operations. I know that he save a lot of people, because even after the war people came to us and dad could not even remember them. They expressed their gratitude to him for saving their lives. In 1943 dad was wounded in his leg. He stayed for half a year in a hospital near Leningrad. The wound was very severe and they thought that the leg could not be saved. But they did save it, though he had to get about on crutches for a long time after. He managed to find mom in Belibey. She recalled the scene – when someone suddenly told her: “Kisya, go meet your one-legged!”

When the blockade was lifted, dad began to write to Leningrad and at the end of 1944 they received a permission to return. When mom and Nina came to Leningrad, the streets were totally deserted. Their room in Sadovaya Street was not occupied fortunately. But everything was stolen. Nobody really pondered on that, everybody was happy to be back home. Mom found a job of a passport office employee and worked there for several years.

All our men relatives participated in the war and the women remained in besieged Leningrad, some managed to get evacuated. Mom’s elder sister Sonya and many other relatives stayed in besieged Leningrad. They almost starved to death when dad returned from the frontline after he had been wounded. He found a dead horse on the way. He managed to get some horse-flesh and brought that meat to his relatives who lived on Fontanka embankment, when they already could not move and lay motionless. There were five of them. Finally they had something to eat. They recalled this story with gratitude all their lives, because dad saved their lives.

Two years after the war ended, in 1947, when dad was in a bad condition after being wounded and had to get about on crutches, he went to get some milk, one tram stop away. He brushed against a woman with his crutch, she called him a “Jewman”, and dad responded something. But the woman appeared to be a militia officer. He was immediately arrested, and dad spent 8 or 9 months in Kresty [Leningrad prison]. It was very difficult to get a permit for him to stay in Leningrad, it became possible only owing to his many orders and war wound. There was a criminal case brought against him, but he was acquitted. It is possible to talk about repressions today. But at that time everything was concealed, so I found out about that case only when I was a grownup. It was a real shock for me. A man, who had done so much for people, who participated in the war! After that dad’s health was undermined. And all this happened because he could not keep silent when he was called a “jewman”.

Growing up

I was born in 1949. I do not remember either my mother or my father young. When I was born, mom was 34 years old, but she really looked rather youthful. Dad was 42. He was very sick after the war wound and his temper changed a lot after the ordeals he survived, he became more reserved and suspicious. I got my name in honor of grandma. When mom registered me, she wanted the name to be written “Sima” in the birth certificate, but she was told that there was no such name and they wrote “Serafima”. I had a lot of cousins, but I was the only one, who resembled our grandma both by appearance and by temper. I also love flowers as much as she did.

Jewish spirit was always present in our family and I understood since childhood that I was Jewish. I had a lot of friends who were Jews only by passports, some even concealed their nationality.

My childhood was hallowed by Jewish holidays and attendance of the synagogue. It was before school. I remember our neighbor Masha, who was a year older than me. We attended the synagogue together with our fathers and not only for praying. It was a place for Jews to meet in Leningrad. Lermontovsky prospect, where the synagogue was situated, was overcrowded on holidays. This synagogue is located in the center of the city and holds more than 2,000 people. Old friends met there. I remember dad, mom and me walked from one group to another, say hello, and our friends always paid attention to how children were growing up. Father always prepared to such visits very solemnly, put on his best suit and a broad brimmed hat. They spoke mostly Yiddish at synagogue. We celebrated Jewish holidays at home but did not observe Jewish traditions thoroughly. Though mom always said that meat should not be mixed with dairy products. So we did not, though not because it was not allowed to, but simply because that was the way it used to be in our family.

I have been to the synagogue recently after the restoration of the building. Everything turned over in my soul when I remembered how the cantor sang when I sat there. I imagined dad and all our friends because the synagogue was never a mere empty phrase for me. When I hear songs in Hebrew, but especially in Yiddish, the “voice of the ancestors,” something stirs inside me, and though I never knew my grandparents, I have a feeling that I see them in front of me.

After the war

I attended the synagogue as a student and never missed a holiday. Simkhat-Torah was the most cheerful holiday. It is a very merry holiday with dancing and singing. Regardless of something happening around us all the time, like someone was expelled from the Institute, someone was arrested, I was not scared and continued attending synagogue. After synagogue services we continued having fun at somebody’s apartment. It was the end of the 1960s, beginning of the 1970s, the time which was later called the end of “Khruschtchev’s thaw” [ the beginning of liberal reforms in the Soviet Union ]

The district where we lived was very international. There were 9 apartments in our house but there was no apartment where a Jew did not live. For instance, our “communalka” had 7 rooms and 3 Jewish families lived in it. People came and went, but there were always at least 2-3 Jewish families. Tatars lived here as well as gypsies. Anti-Semitism was invisibly present, but we, children, always understood each other and played together. Since a lot of Jews lived in Sadovaya Street, people spoke Yiddish very loudly in the street, without any embarrassment. It remained like until the 1960s. Later we began to feel nationalism and anti-Semitism.  No one taught me this language, so I knew only some words, which I heard often. My parents spoke Russian with me, but when they wanted to conceal something, they proceeded in Yiddish. Some words I understood, some not. Though my sister understood Yiddish better than me because she learnt German at school.

There lived a very religious Jewish family in our house, the Golimbevich family. Mendel, the representative of the elder generation, never worked, except at the synagogue. This family always observed Sabbath and all holidays. They had a boy, Izya (Isaac), we were of the same age and were in the same class. He and Mendel wore kipas at home. He was the only one who did not go to school on Saturdays. Teachers were slightly displeased with that, but they finally accepted it, as he was a rather clever boy and studied well, so this did not influence his education. A rabbi visited him at home and he studied the Torah.

It was 1954-1955 and since we were friends, I came to their place often and saw him pray. I remember it very well, though I did not understand everything correctly. They invited me on some holidays, we celebrated Hanukah together, lit the candles and everything was the way it should be. Mendel had 3 daughters, one of them managed to leave to Palestine in 1930 and two other daughters tried to cross the border when the Israel state was established. They were caught and put into prison. One of them had a son named Izya. He remained with his grandparents who brought him up. In 1956 when we were in the 1st grade, his mother and aunt were released from prison. Izya and I were walking home from school and suddenly he rushed up to one of the women crying: “Mom!” I cannot imagine how he recognized her; he hadn’t seen her since he was very small. This family lives now in Israel..

Certainly I faced anti-Semitism in my life and not just once. I remember when at school my classmates peeked at the end of the class register and asked me: “What kind of patronymic you’ve got – Nakhimovna?” I was always busy with public tasks, I was a pioneer and later a Comsomol member. I also remember how in the 8th grade children were chosen to be sent to Artek [famous international pioneer’s camp on the Black Sea]. I was one of the first candidates to go. I was summoned to some commission and asked who my parents were by nationality. I answered that they were Jews. So another girl instead of me went to Artek, who never carried out any public work. It was like a first slap on the forehead for me, and a very unpleasant one.

Then there was another case. School children from Leningrad were authorized to go to the XXII Party Congress to welcome the Congress delegates. It was a tradition at that time. Only six children could go. The pioneer leader of our school, Lyudmila Valentinovna, was to supervise our delegation. She was half-Jew on her mother’s side. Neither me, nor she, were allowed to go to Moscow. Others went instead of us. I do not think I could have hindered someone from something at the Congress, it was absolutely clear that my Jewish origin was the problem. Almost the same happened when our group at the Institute went to Bulgaria. Without me. When I worked at the scientific enterprise and a group of employees was going to Poland, I “reached the district party committee (raykom)” and the commission asked me a question, which had nothing to do with Poland. Everybody was allowed to go and I was told: “Go and prepare yourself”. All in all, there were such moments, and not just a few.

I finished school with a silver medal and entered the Leningrad Technological Institute to obtain a profession of a chemist-technologist. After graduating I worked for 15 years at a Scientific Research Institute; later for 14 years at an environmental preservation laboratory. Being a final-year student in 1971 I had the right to choose the place of my future job, since I was second in the class. However, when before the assignment we were all collected together, our teacher warned us that it was no use to get a job at GIPKH (State Institute of Applied Chemistry) (this warning was meant for the Jews, and there were a lot in our group). Starting from 1972 Jews were not accepted to the scientific Research Institute of Synthetic Rubber, where I was assigned to after graduation.

I met my husband Mikhail Isaacovich in 1970, when I went with my friend to Seliger Lake for winter holidays. My husband-to-be also went there with his sister. We liked each other at first sight. We talked on the phone for a year and a half, then began to go out and married in 1972. Soon after that my husband was enlisted to the army. Nelya was born in 1975.

My husband’s father, Isaac Markovich Lokshin, was a military man and their family had to move constantly from one place to another. Only in 1975 they “settled” in Leningrad. That is why they were less used to Jewish life. My husband did not attend the synagogue like I did when he was young because he could have been fired for that. After graduating from the Aircraft Equipment Construction College he worked at a secret “Vector” enterprise. However, my husband still speaks Yiddish. He graduated from LIAP (Leningrad Aircraft Equipment Construction Institute) by correspondence and continued to work at the same Institute. For the last 10 years, since 1994, my husband has been working in St.Petersburg Department of the “Joint” organization (an American Jewish social welfare organization).

My husband’s grandfather’s name was Zalman Khenkin (he came from Tula). He left for Palestine in 1919. He left his wife and two children in Russia. My husband’s mother, Nekhama-Maryasya Khenkina (my mother-in-law) was not born yet at that time: grandma of my husband was pregnant with her third child, when grandfather left. He left the town of Yefremov near Moscow, there were pogroms, and their family was rich, they owned a jewelry store and Zalman permanently felt potential danger. He left for Palestine hoping that he would be able to settle and send for his family. At first the family kept in touch with him, he wrote letters. But in 1921-1922 the contact was interrupted. Zalman disappeared. No one knows what happened, but it was assumed that some relative, my husband’s grandmother did not want their daughter to leave forever, and interrupted the contact.

My mother-in-law, Nekhama-Maryasya (Lokshina after marriage) grew up without her father, but grandfather’s sister, her aunt, told her a lot about him. He was a very interesting person, a very musical one, he could even play the saw. He was very kind. He loved his wife (mother of my mother-in-law) very much. First 10 years of my married life I was sure that mother-in-law knew her father, as she spoke so much of him. They also led a Jewish life at home. But at the age of 12 she left [interviewer does not know where].  Her parents were also executed during the war in Belarus. She remained without any livelihood. After the war she lived in Leningrad and finished a technical school here. None of her relatives are alive. She got married after the war.

It was possible to find out about Nekhama-Maryasya’s father’s fate at the beginning of the 1990s, when our daughter Nelya got engaged in  Jewish life of the city and began to meet representatives of Jewish youth, who visited Leningrad. I would like to tell about this in detail. When at the beginning of the 1980s a massive departure to Israel started and fewer and fewer Jews remained here, we began to think, what could we do to bring our daughter into a Jewish environment? We never hid our Jewish identity from our daughter (although there were a few friends we never told). I even know families where the children did not even know what their nationality was. So we registered our daughter with the Sunday school at the synagogue. Nelya plunged into Jewish life and made a lot of new friends there. She asked one of them, Avraam, to try and find out something about grandfather’s fate in Israel. When he came home, he placed an announcement in a newspaper, seeking Zalman Khenkin, who had left in the 1920s from the town of Yefremov, Moscow region. And one wonderful evening the phone rang in our apartment. I only understood that the person spoke Hebrew and wanted to talk to Nelya. She was not at home. In a day there was another call and a woman said that she had seen an announcement saying that relatives are looking for Zalman Khenkin. “We are Khenikin, maybe my father was your relative?” She told that her father had died in 1967 and she kept his pictures. In order to find out if it was correct, we sent a picture, which grandmother kept, to Israel.

All in all, it appeared so, that Zalman Khenkin’s trip to Palestine was very long, he was even in Turkish captivity. When he settled in Palestine and his contact with his family was absolutely lost, he got married in 1930 and created a new family. He had two children, son Iser and daughter Shoshana, the woman who called us. We invited Shoshana and her brother to visit us in 1993. In order to meet guests from Israel, the sister of my mother-in-law came from Astrakhan, her name is Irina (they called her Fira at home). She and Shoshana were very much alike. A lot common memories popped up when they looked at their old pictures. Shoshana remembered how her father sometimes took out a casket, where he must have kept letters and pictures, then locked himself in the room and examined them for a long time. When Zalman died, the casket disappeared. Shoshana told us that they had all known about some secret in their father’s life, but he had never told anyone about it. He never even mentioned that there was a family of his left in Russia. She also told us that she had a feeling since childhood that she had a sister somewhere in this world. So it was: she had a stepsister! They both were very happy. Very often relatives now manage to find each other. But at that time, 10 years ago, it was a sensational story! We were all shocked, as well as our friends and our relatives from Israel. Such a big family we have. Both Nelya and grandmother are great friends with Shoshana, and she calls us often. My mother-in-law visited Israel 3 or 4 times.

I would like to add a couple of words about my husband’s aunt Ira (Fira), whom I mentioned above. She was born in 1918. She lived near Moscow before the war, in the town of Pervomaysk. She got married at a very young age, when she was 16. When her husband left for the frontline, she remained alone with her children. Very soon she received a notification about her husband’s death. She was supposed to share the fate of all Jews in town. They were collected together, arranged in columns and led to execution. Germans and Romanians guarded the column. Fira was very beautiful and one of the Romanians liked her. He managed to save her by miracle, pretend that she was Russian (aunt used the name of her killed friend Ira Molchanova). Later when the Red Army forces released Pervomaysk, one of the soldiers, Sergey Levchenko, met Ira, fell in love with her and married her in spite of the three children she had. Then another baby was born. After the war Ira suddenly (when she was walking along the railroad lines) met her first husband!  It turned out that the “death notification” was sent too soon - he was alive and looking for his family! So he had to resign himself and admit that the war and fatal circumstances separated him with Ira and the kids. He left for Odessa. Sergey brought up all kids and loved them all as if they were his own. Their family lived in Astrakhan and Ira worked there as an administrator in a theater. She is now 84 years old and lives with her son in Zhukovskoye near Moscow. 

Now a little bit about my daughter, and how our family returned to its origins. As a child Nelya spent a lot of time with her grandmothers, she learned a lot from them and a lot passed between these generatons.  However, our family never celebrated real Jewish holidays and Sabbath. But the revival of Jewish life and our junction with it commenced at the end of the 1980s. Very quickly and surprisingly for all of us she learnt Hebrew in synagogue so successfully that by the end of the 10th grade at school she began to give lessons to small kids in Sunday school. Apparently certain Jewish genes guided her toward the language. She wanted to be a teacher since childhood and planned to enter the college named after Nekrasov, where students are trained to be educational specialists for children of preschool age. She finished her courses there. Suddenly she was persuaded to go study in Israel. She left and for a year studied at the “Makhon Gold” religious pedagogical college. At that time she began to observe Jewish customs and traditions, to celebrate Sabbath and wear a long skirt. I supported her studies and was glad that she would know the traditions and the Jewish culture very well, though I was afraid a little bit that her religiousness would go too far, that she would become an Orthodox. This fortunately did not happen. Her studies were very interesting and she traveled all around the country within a year.

Having returned to St. Petersburg Nelya became a leader of “Bney Akiva”, one of the first Youth’s Jewish organizations in our city [1990].  At that time there were no permanent offices and they had to rent an apartment. She celebrated Sabbath there according to the proper rules and cooked food. It was a real official job and it was accounted for her as a year of alternative service in the Israel Army, “Shrut Leumi”. After that Nelya decided to leave for Israel for permanent residence. She entered a Pedagogical Institute in Jerusalem, but visited home every year. Finally she married her classmate, Boris Onoprienko, and in 1997 she came home after graduation and started to work at “Adain Lo,” a regional public Jewish organization, where she was very much needed, because Jewish kindergartens, which started to open at that time, had no educational specialists with Israeli certificates.

For the last three years, since 1999 and up to now, I also work as a coordinator of “Yakhat,” a program developed by “Adain Lo” for disabled children. I like the work I am doing now, very much, because disabled children are the category of the society which never really received proper attention in this country.

Sima Staroselskaya is a very active woman with perfect taste, which is proved by cozy home environment and atmosphere, where a lot reminds one of the family history and Jewish traditions (for instance, pictures of relatives, candlesticks and a mezuzah at the entrance to the apartment).  Her family is a very vivid example of Jewish life revival in St.Petersburg: everyone in the family, including father, mother and daughter, work enthusiastically in the city’s Jewish organizations, not by word of mouth, but in actual deed assisting a lot of people, both children and adults to become aware of their belonging to the Jewish nationality. 

Életrajz

Lövith Egon a 80 éves kolozsvári zsidó szobrászművész egy kedélyes úriember, aki még mindig fiatalosan mozog és ad önmagára. Megjelenéséhez elmaradhatatlan a félrecsapott beret, az öltözete fiatalosan kényelmes és izléses. Egyedül él egy szoba-konyhás tágas lakásában. Az utóbbi évtizedekben itt éltek feleségével Margóval, aki 1999-ben halt meg. Egon szobája olyan mint egy otthonos kiállitóterem: körbe a falakon kedvenc és értékes festményei láthatók, a szoba világitása is picit múzeumos, elsősorban  festményeket világitják meg. A polcokon kerámia és bronzszobrocskák kiállitása látható: együtt vannak többek között Egon bronz madarai és a fekete női torzók. A mexikói terakota (égetet kerámia) kompoziciója is helyet kapott a falon: vagy 20 egymáshoz fűzött szép szines zománcú kerámiatálkák a művész belső harmóniájáról tanuskodnak.

Az apai nagyapát, akit én sohasem láttam, Lövithnek hívták. Simferopolban éltek a nagyszülők, az egy kikötőváros valahol lenn délen Ukrajnában. Én csak következtetem azt, hogy milyen anyagi helyzetben voltak, mert erről nem beszéltünk az apámmal, mivel elfoglalt ember volt. Az apai nagyszülőknek kiváló anyagi helyzetük kellett legyen az első világháború körül, hogyha elküldték a fiúkat Svájcba órásmesterséget tanulni. Úgy látszik, apám, Lövith Max, egy nagyon rátermett valaki volt. A pontos iskolázottságát nem ismerem, de valami volt, ami az érettségi felett van és olvasott ember volt. A legjobb órákat Svájcban készítették akkoriban, nos, apám ott tanult több éven keresztül. Nagyon komolyan megtanulta azt a szakmát, szenvedélye volt az óra. A németet nagyon kellett tudja, ha ott tanult Svájcban. Az első világháború kitörésekor, amikor Oroszország hadba lépett, őt akkor haza hívták mint orosz állampolgárt. Felöltözött mundérba és ment a harctérre, ahol végigcsinálta az egész háborút és mint osztrák-magyar hadifogoly került ide Erdélybe. Egy nagy orosz fogoly csoportot hoztak ide Zilah környékére, a Szurduki erdőbe dolgozni. A hadifoglyok Báró Józsika birtokának az erdejében fakitermeléssel foglalkoztak.

Az anyai nagyapám családja, a Pardesz család, Litvániából származott. Ők úgy jöttek ide 1915 körül, hogy nagyapám erdőkitermelő szakember volt és Báró Józsika, aki nagybirtokosa volt a nagy zilahi erdőnek, ide telepítette őket. Hogy személyesen ment el nagyapámék után Litvániába vagy csak megismerte őket valahol, nem tudom, de ide hozta őket – ezt tudom a családi krónikából. A család ott megtelepedett, házuk is volt. Nem tudom a nagyapám nevét, mert három éves koromban láttam utoljára, amikor elvittek Mexikóba, és mire visszajöttem, már nem élt. Emlékszem, a nagymamám talán mutatott valami fényképet róla: feszülő nadrágban, térdig érő vastag zoknikkal és bakancsban volt (nem csizmában), és meleg zekében. Biztos, hogy volt szakálla, de nem lengő nagyszakállú. Vallásos volt, de nem nagyon vallásos, a neológokhoz tarozott a család. Egész végig szolgálatban volt a báró birtokán. A nagymama kicsi, alacsony volt. Amikor én megismertem, akkor kis pufók volt, de később, a deportálás előtt a nyomor miatt szegénykének eltűnt a hízása. De rettentő tevékeny volt mindvégig. Emellett tekintélyelvű volt, de nem parancsnoki, hanem anyai formában. Az egész család engedelmeskedett neki. A családban lengyelül és oroszul is mondtak kifejezéseket. Beszélték a németet és a jiddist is, de főként a magyart használták.

A testvérek nagy része biztos Litvániában született. Anyám, Pardesz Berta volt a legidősebb, ő 1896-ban született. Anyám után született János, még talán 1899-ben. Utána következett Herman 1903-ban, azután Jenő, aki 1905-ben született. A legkisebb Edit 1916-ban már itt született Erdélyben. A Pardesz férfiak nagyon fejlett izomzatú, masszív, erőteljes, magas emberek voltak. Nagyon északiaknak néztek ki: fehér bőrűek, majdnem szőkék és kék szeműek.

Jenőt, a legfiatalabb Pardesz fiút, mindig érdekelte az erdőjárás. Ő volt a legtermészetjáróbb, imádta a nagy kirándulásokat. Neki nem voltak intellektuális hajlamai, nagyapámat végig kísérte az erdei munkákban. Állandóan ott volt az erdőben a hadifoglyok között, nagyapámmal együtt ismerhették meg az apámat. Valószínűleg hamar kiderülhetett, hogy ő is zsidó, és [a Pardeszék] oroszul is beszéltek – mert a családban beszéltek litvánul, oroszul – és valószínűleg nagyapám meghívta őt, hogy jöjjön a házához. Az akkori fogság sokkal liberálisabb volt, és ha őrizték is őket, nem volt ahova menjenek. Lehetett nekik is egy szabadnapjuk, amikor nem dolgoztak, de nem maradtak ott a telepükön vagy kaszárnyájukban, hanem kaptak engedélyt, hogy elmehessenek. Biztos nagyapám járta ki [és intézte el neki], hogy a szombatot tarthassa náluk a házban. Gyakori vendégük lehetett. Így ismerkedtek meg a szüleim. Apám nem volt magas ember, de erős izomzatú, kisportolt embernek nézett ki. Emellett egy intelligens, tanult, olvasott orosz ember volt, svájci tanulmányokkal.

Amikor vége volt a háborúnak és szabaddá váltak, tehát mehettek vissza Oroszországba, apám itt maradt, de gondolom, hogy azért leveleztek [a Simferopolban élő szülőkkel]. Apám itt megházasodott, az anyámat, Pardesz Bertát vette el. Egész biztos, hogy vallásos esküvőt rendeztek, mert beszéltek hásené-ről, ami zsidóul esküvőt jelent, és hogy hippe [huppa] alatt kellett megesküdjenek. A házasság után az anyai nagyszülők házában laktak, amíg be nem beköltöztek Kolozsvárra.

Az 1920-21-es években jöttek Kolozsvárra, miután a [trianoni] békeszerződés 1 megkötődött. Lehet, hogy megvették a házat és a család egy része beköltözött, de nagyapám még egy ideig ott maradt, hogy elvégezze a dolgát és időnként jött haza Kolozsvárra. A család anyanyelve a magyar lett, a hétköznapi értekezésében a magyar nyelvet használták. Kolozsváron már az 1920-as években nyitott nagyapám az apámnak egy órás üzletet a Malom utcában (a mai Bariţiu utcában, a város központjában), de nem hiszem, hogy megvette volna a helységet. Az egy eléggé régi, kis szegényes helység volt. Az volt felírva, hogy ‘Max Lövith reparaţii ceasornicărie şi bijuterie’ [óra- és ékszerjavítás]. Apámnak nem lehetett pénze akkor, de mint igazolható svájci végzettségű órásmester, valószínűleg a szakmája volt az aranyfedezék. A családba úgy fogadták be, hogy nyereségnek vehették, hogy ilyen vejük lehet a nagyszüleimnek. Mindig büszkék voltak Maxra.

1922-ben itt Romániában, főleg a diákság körében, már meghonosodott a fasiszta mozgalom és tüntetések is voltak. 1923-ban egy a szörnyű dolog történt. A diákok tüntettek, felvonultak, és a magyar színháztól a Malom utcán keresztül jöttek. Az a része Kolozsvárnak már ki volt épülve, már nagyon sok zsidó üzlet és zsidó cégtábla volt. Akkor mámorukban, örömükben, hogy visszanyerték Erdélyt – ez is hozzájárult a fasiszta gondolkodás és a nacionalizmus szélsőséges formájának megnyilvánulásához – megpillantották apám cégtábláján a zsidó nevet (és nyilván volt egy kis kirakata is) és széttörték az egész kirakatot, behatoltak és mindent szétromboltak, kifosztottak. Apámat is olyan mértékben bántalmazták, hogy korházba került. Apám felépülése után elhatározta, hogy többé nem marad itthon, elmegy ebből az országból. A boltban értékek voltak, mert régen csak az javíttatta az órát, akinek volt egy jó órája: drága Doxák, Omegák, meg ilyenek és az ékszerek hiánya is számított. A család összeszedte az utolsó pénzét, mert kártéríteni kellett a kuncsaftokat. Tekintettel, hogy apám már a családban volt, nem követelhették, hogy maradjon itt és dolgozza le az összeget, hanem a maradék pénzzel elintézte az útlevelét, hajójegyet vett magának, és elindult. Sejtem, hogy elképzelése szerint Svájc és Oroszország után nem volt Mexikó egy vonzó hely, gondolom Amerikába, New Yorkig akart menni. Valószínűleg elfogyott a pénze, azért jutott el csak Mexikóba. De lehet, hogy tévedek, és a hajón útközben beszélgetett valakivel, hogy milyen perspektívák vannak Mexikóban, ahol újdonság lesz, hogy ő órás.

Apám egy ügyes ember volt: megbirkózott a spanyol nyelvvel, szerény körülmények között, kevés pénzzel, de tudásával üzlethelységet nyitott. Emlékszem arra az üzlethelységre, amit mi találtunk, amikor odaérkeztünk. Bérelte valakitől, egész szerény, sötét, hosszú terem volt. A szoba végében volt egy ágy és egy pisztoly is lógott a falon, erre emlékszem határozottan. Kirabolhatták apámat és nyilvánvaló, hogy védekezésre tartotta a fegyvert, ami Mexikóban nem volt ritka dolog. Ott lakott apám, addig, amíg mi meg nem érkeztünk. Lenn, az üzlethelységnek utcára nyíló, kicsi rollos kirakata is volt.

Személy szerint zsidó kuncsaftra nem emlékszem, de kellett legyen valaki, akivel ő beszélgetett. Az tény és való, hogy apám meglátogatott egy akkor közismert, nagy jelentőségű menekült orosz-zsidó forradalmárt, Trockyt, aki ellentétbe került Oroszországban a bolsevik irányvonallal, és Sztálin elől Mexikóba menekült, de hamarabb mehetett mint apám. [Szerk. megj.: Egon apjának Mexikóba vándorlása után jóval, 1929-ben utasítják ki Trockijt a Szovjetunióból, szovjetellenes tevékenység vádjával.] Sztálin kiadta rendeletül, hogy öljék meg, aztán meg is gyilkolták. Apám valószínű ismerhette a történteket, tudhatta, hogy mi a jelentősége a dolgoknak, s biztos úgy ment hozzá, hogy neki is voltak baloldali meggyőződései. Cárellenes kellett legyen apám, mert nem volt leányálom Oroszországban élni.

Én 1923-ban születtem, miután az apám kiment Mexikóba. Két-három évre rá apámnak sikerült annyi pénzt összeszedni, hogy küldte nekünk a hajójegyet. 1926-ban mentünk ki anyámmal Mexikóba. Már bérelt lakással várt minket, be is rendezte. Emlékszem, hogy egy kétszobás, fürdő nélküli lakás volt. Fürdőszobánk talán nem is volt sohasem, amíg ott voltunk Mexikóban. Végig dézsában vagy nagy tálakban mosakodtunk, marékkal csorgattuk a vizet egymás hátára, így volt ez. Nagyon szerényen éltünk, voltak valami fekvőhelyek, egy asztal. Villany volt, égtek valami halvány körték. Később laktunk olyan lakásban, ahol közös csap volt az egész háznak és általában olyan helyeken laktunk, ahol nagyon sok ember lakott.

Amikor apámnak egy kicsit jobban ment az üzlet, akkor pénzben módunkban áll, hogy jobb helyre költözzünk. De soha nem laktunk külön udvarban. Tudom, hogy egyszer a Meave utcában laktunk, ott olyan lakásunk volt, hogy két ablakunk az utcára nézett. Ez nagy szó volt, mert egyébként a házak beton bérlakások voltak, körbe voltak az emeletek, korlátokkal, s az ajtók az ablakkal mind befelé nyíltak a nagy udvarra. Óriási udvarok voltak, ott rendezte a háznép minden problémáját, az ünnepeket is ott ülték. Volt egy ünnep a gyerekeknek, amikor az egész ház bámulta őket [amint előadnak valamit], aztán kommentálták egymásnak. Végig lehetett menni az emeleten, mindenhol nyitva volt az ajtó. Állandóan lehetett érezni a levegőben, hogy mit főznek és be lehetett szólni, hogy: ‘Seniora como esta? Bene grazie’. [Hogy van asszonyom? Köszönöm jól.] Átszóltak egymásnak a szomszédba, és mindig tudtuk, hogy kik élnek jól, kik élnek rosszul, kik verekednek, mindent lehetett tudni. Anyám nem dolgozott, hanem szépen felöltözve vártuk vele aput az ebéddel, hol meglátogattuk a műhelyben, vagy üzletbe mentünk bevásárolni. Vendéglőbe csak vasárnaponként jártunk.

Apám összeismerkedett a fővárosban egy gazdag lengyel-zsidóval, aki ugyancsak kivándorolt Mexikóba. Elias Gopasnak hívták, ügyes vállalkozó volt, s olyan gazdag lett, hogy nagy tehén csordái voltak Mexikó fővárosának a szélén és volt egy tejfeldolgozó vállalata is. Ő vajat is, tejfölt is csinált. Igen ügyes pasas lehetett ez a lengyel, az indiánok dolgoztak neki. Egyszer bevitte apámhoz, mint óráshoz, az óráját s akkor összeismerkedtek, s tartották is a kapcsolatot. Aztán jártunk hozzá, sok időt töltöttem ott náluk. Borzasztó mi mennyiségű tejterméket ettünk nála. És végre ettünk vajat, ami a mexikóiaknak nem nagyon volt. A Gopas család olyan jó elhízott család volt, szerettek nagyokat zabálni. Volt vagy két gyereke, vörös hajúak, fehér bőrűek, nem magasak. Gopas is egy középtermetű, tömzsi ember volt, mindig nyitott inggel járt, nagy szuszogással, de nagyon erőteljesen. Mikor meg kellett fogni egy dézsát, vagy arrébb kellett tenni a ganéjrakást, a szegény indiánok kínlódtak, ő megfogta keményen és arrább tette iszonyatos erővel. A szombatot s az ünnepeket tartották. Amíg apám egyedül volt Mexikóban, Gopasék meghívták őt szombatra, hogy ne legyen egyedül, hogy a zsidóságát őrizze meg. Szombaton, gondolom, együtt ettek, és egyéb dolgokat is meg tudtak beszélni a zsidó életről, az orosz-lengyel viszonyokról. Egész biztos nagy politizálás folyt, átértékelték az egész cári helyzetet.

Kiderült valahonnan, hogy a magyar kivándorlóknak volt klubjuk Mexikó Cityben, ahol egy magyarul beszélő társaság gyűlt össze és szervezkedett. Tagsági díjat is kértek, be kellett iratkozni, s akkor lehetett este menni itókára, kis kártyázásra, bridzselésre. Egy nagyon szép tiszta vendéglő volt, s magyar szó zengett ott. Valakiket megtanítottak vagy ők maguk húzták a cigány dalokat, nem tudom, de énekeltek magyar dalokat. A dalokat anyám nagyon tudta, néha ő is beleénekelt. Étkezni is lehetett, magyaros ételeket készítettek. Jó kövérek és piros pozsgásak voltak az oda járó emberek, nagy evés-ivás, nagy randalírozás volt. Igazi magyar viselkedés, ropogós hangulat volt. Mivel anyámnak hiányzott a magyar társaság, főleg ő járt oda. Munka után apám utána ment, s együtt jöttek haza. Engem nem nagyon vittek, én addig ültem otthon s az indián szomszédok vigyáztak rám. Volt egy kicsi könyvtára is a magyar klubnak, aztán egymás közt kölcsönözték a könyveket. Ha jól emlékszem, anyám hozott haza magyar nyelvű könyvet és otthon olvasott. A nudli eset híres volt a családban, amikor elvitték Egonkát  a magyar klubba, s ő kért nudlit. [Szerk. megjegyzés: néha Egon egyes szám harmadik személyben beszél magáról, mintha kívülről tekintene gyerekkori önmagára.] ‘Kérjél te!’ – mondták nekem a szülők, s akkor elkiáltottam magam ‘Nekem cigánypuca kell!’ (Én nem nudlinak ismertem, hanem cigánypucának.) Óriási röhögés következett – kicsit már fel is öntöttek a garatra –, óriási hangulat lett.

A magyar klubban ismerkedtek meg egy szabó házaspárral, talán Elekesnek hívták őket, nem volt gyermekük. Szabó volt a foglalkozásuk, jól ment nekik. Volt is egy műhelyük. Nagyon jóban voltak velünk. Velük jártunk vasárnap kirándulni, olyankor vittünk ennivalót otthonról. Az asszony derék, stramm fehérnép volt.

Amikor mi már ott éltünk, megjött a választás ideje. Tudom, hogy a vállára vett apám– ez azt jelenti, hogy olyan öt éves kisfiú voltam, tehát 1928-ban lehetett  – és megérkeztünk egy nyílt térre a fővárosban, Mexikó Cityben. Óriási tömeg volt. Bejöttek vidékről az indiánok is, nagyon sok szalmakalapos volt ott, állítólag 1 millió ember, akiknek kihirdették mikrofonon a választás eredményeit. Olyan rossz volt a mikrofon, hogy nem lehetett érteni semmit sem. Akkor feljött az elnök, egy ősz hajú indián származású, barna bőrű, Alvaro, aki bejelentette, hogy megválasztották. Ez volt az első demokratikus választása Mexikónak, amikor az elnök indián származású volt. Addig spanyol diktatórikus elnökök voltak. Apám nem volt olyan magas ember, nem láthatott sokat és akkor én a nyakából mondtam neki az eseményeket, a látnivalókat. És egyszer csak röviden egy puska- vagy egy pisztolylövés hallatszott és láttam, hogy leesik az új elnök. Óriási zsivaj lett, mindenki kivette a pisztolyt és lövöldözött és akkor apámmal alig tudtunk kimenekülni abból a tömegből. Úgy hogy én, mint hat éves gyermek, már fül és szemtanúja voltam egy merényletnek. [Szerk megj.: 1928-ban Alvaro Obregón mexikói kormányfő szolgálati ideje éppen lejárt, de figyelmen kivűl hagyva a helyi politikai határozatot, miszerint nincs újra-választás, ismét jelöltette magát és megnyerte a választásokat. De egy fanatikus katolikus merényletének áldozatává lett.]

Emlékszem, hogy mekkora reklámja volt és mekkora zajjal járt, amikor megalakult az első észak-amerikai stílusú áruház Mexikó Cityben. Óriási siker volt, állandó zsúfoltság volt, de a legtöbb ember nem vásárolt, hanem csak bámult. Hát mi is elmentünk. Három emeletből állt, ahol az árút nem azon az emeleten fizetted, ahol kaptad, hanem futószalagon leküldték, és a lenti kasszánál kellett fizetni, ott is csomagolták.

Apám kéz alatt megvett egy régi Fordot. Amikor mi hárman beültünk a kocsiba, úgy néztünk ki, mint a Stan és Bran filmekben az emberek. Nagyon ügyesen karbantartotta az autót, még kellett azt kurblizni is. Az autó gumi, ha jól tudom, nem is voltak felfújhatók, hanem tömör gumik voltak. Amíg még jól érezte magát, fogott engem, és anyuval jártuk Mexikót. Körülbelül 70-80-100 km-re is elmentünk autóval. Főleg az azték vidéket cserkésztük be. Apám meg akarta mutatni, hogy merre járt két évig, mivel foglalkozott az órásság mellett, amíg várt minket. Az órásság után második szenvedélye volt apámnak az archeológia.

Én egy különleges gyerek voltam, a fantáziám sokkal fejlettebb volt, mint a tudásom. A családi krónika szerint már kicsi koromban tudtam csinálni papírból mozgatható szamarat. Állandóan rajzolgattam és mindenféle dolgot kitaláltam. Apám azt hitte, hogy normális gyerek vagyok, s ólomkatonákat meg repülőgépeket vett nekem, de engem nem érdekelt igazán, az ólomkatonáimat is előbb-utóbb meguntam. Volt kedvem játszani, de nem úgy, mint más gyerekek, hanem mindig azt, amit én kitaláltam. Volt fantáziám, gyertya viaszból búvár csináltam. Az én búvárom mindig jobban érdekelt, mint a repülőgép, ami repülni is tudott. Nem voltam olyan olvasott, de aztán apám hozott haza Jules Verne könyvet spanyolul. Apám spanyol könyveket vásárolt, de otthon azét magyarul beszéltünk. A spanyoloknál végeztem az elemi tanulmányokat, és a legjobb spanyol katolikus iskolában, a Saint Louis de Palestrina nevűben végeztem öt gimnáziumnak megfelelő iskolát, de mindig csak a középkort tanultuk a történelem órán.

Apám megbetegedett, és ezt teljes anyagi leromlás követte. Már nem bírta a munkát, s 1932-ben kiköltöztünk a fővárosból a külvároson túl. Villamossal mentem, és úgy emlékszem, hogy még vagy 25-30 percet kellett menni gyalog a villamos megállótól míg hazaértünk, mert ott kinn nem is volt megálló. Később aztán egyedül utaztam. Kanalizálás nem volt, árkokban folyt a víz, úgy, mint falun, ahogy szokott. Ahogy leszálltam, az út elején egy sátorban árultak disznózsírt meg tortillát. Utána nagy üresség következett: kertek, mező és utána egy-két szerény ház. Baloldalt láttam két jobb házat több vegetációval, valami spanyol család lakhatott. Mellettünk már szegény mexikói indián agyagházak voltak. Ott béreltük egy házat. Egy indián kiadta nekünk bérbe az ő téglaházát, ő mellettünk egy vályogházban lakott. Sok munkát ő végzett nekünk. Akkor már volt udvarunk is, mintha falun lettünk volna. Zárható ajtónk, kapunk volt, de bárki átugorhatott a kerítésen.

Az volt az utolsó lakás Mexikóban, ahol született a húgom Irénke 1932-ben. Magyarul tanult meg beszélni, otthon csak magyarul beszéltek. Keveset tudott spanyolul, óvodába adtuk egyszer, talán negyed- vagy félévre, és csak azt tudta, amit az indián gyerekektől szedett össze. De általában mi ketten, a két gyerek, inkább otthon ültünk, és ott nem volt akivel spanyolul beszélgetni. Volt egy félelmetes kutyánk is, hasonlított a híres Rintintinhez, a nagy farkaskutyához. Lobonak hívták, ami farkast jelent spanyolul. Az vigyázott ránk, őrzött minket gyerekeket. Rá lehetett bízni a kicsi húgomat, aki ott ült és aludt, a kutya el nem mozdult volna mellőle. Ellenben borzasztó arisztokratikus volt, nem tudom honnan szerezték, de tény és való volt, hogy nem bírta a mezítlábasokat és az egyenruhásokat, csaholt is sokat. Én akkor már nagyocska voltam, de a szomszéd indián asszony mindig felügyelt ránk, mindig ez volt a megbízatása. Délután, ha nem voltam iskolában, akkor itt-ott elidőztünk a húgocskámmal a szomszédoknál, bámultunk, beszélgettünk, rám volt bízva. Irénke nagyon ragaszkodott hozzám, mindig mellettem volt, jóban voltunk. Nagyon jópofa, édes leányka volt. A figuráimon, amiket készítettem az ő jelenlétében, nagyokat kacagott. Az első vicces rajzot egy matróztól tanultam: csináltam egy Chaplint hátulnézetből, hogy volt egy ék alakú nyitás a frakkjának, az újammal ki kellett nyomni és mindenki látta, hogy az a feneke. A kicsike élvezte, most is emlékszem a kacagására.

Zsidó tradíciókból csak annyi volt, hogy anyám és apám péntek este gyertyát gyújtottak, de kóser koszt nem volt. Nem volt sakter, honnan akkor kóser hús? Anyámat láttam péntek este, hogy gyertyát gyújt és kendőt kötött a fejére és úgy imádkozott. Gyertyagyújtáskor egészen a vacsora elfogyasztásáig volt kendő a fején, azután levette. Apám kalapot tett, nekem is tettek valamit a fejemre, eleinte csak egy zsebkendőt, aztán volt egy sapkám. Apám azt hiszem dolgozott szombaton. De ha jól ment a dolga és volt miből élni, akkor nem dolgozott. A szombat, vasárnap arra volt, hogy üljön együtt a család. Szombaton volt nekünk babételünk. Próbáltak a szülők csollentet csinálni, de sütő nélkül egy indián szomszédasszonnyal kellett megegyezzenek, hogy náluk főjön. Anyám összerakta pénteken, és átvitte, mert nekik volt agyagkemencéjük. A csollentet nem mexikói fűszerekkel készítették, hanem lehetett kapni a városban szemes borst és azzal. És nem tudom, hogy honnan szereztek árpakását, de volt benne, mert a csollent anélkül nem finom. Kenyeret nem ettünk Mexikóban, hanem tortillát, kukorica lepényt. Tudok apámnak egy német kuncsaftjáról, aki hozta nekünk a lébenhustot, a májast, valószínűleg disznóból készítve. A német csinált magának egy mészárszéket Mexikóban vagy Európából hozta, nem tudom, de állandóan májasokat hozott hozzánk. Általában mi disznóhúst nem fogyasztottunk, de inkább azért, mert nehéz volt abban az időben disznóhúst kapni. Mexikóban a pulyka volt az ünnepi étel. Pulyka és tyúkhússal éltünk.

Szombaton az úgynevezett gój munkákat, tehát amit zsidónak nem szabad csinálni, azt inkább az indián asszony csinálta. Például volt úgy, hogy levágta a tyúkot vagy a pulykát, megfőzte az ebédet, ha éppen nem volt csollent, s olyankor addig maradt, amíg be nem fejezte a főzést. Anyám nem foglalkozott ezzel. Hétköznap is az indián asszony kellett levágja a tyúkot, a bevásárlást is ő végezte. Anyám is bevásárolt néha, de szombaton általában nem ment ki vásárolni. Úri nő volt az anyám, úgy is nézett ki: térdig érő gyönyörű szép szövet szoknyája volt, selyemharisnyával és magas sarkú cipővel. Mindenki tudta, hogy ő Seniora Max.

Jó iskola csak a Cityben volt. A külvárosban is volt egy falusi forma iskola, ahol fizettek egy embert, hogy tanítson, de engem inkább bejárattak a városba. Gyalog kezdtem el járni iskolába, erdőn, mocsaras, vadidegen vidéken keresztül mentem (7 km-t kellett megtegyek eléggé sivár helyen). Nagy volt a meleg, s mikor egyszer jöttem az iskolából haza, mint csavargó gyerek unatkoztam és kezdtem kíváncsiskodni. Volt ott egy Eukaliptusz erdő, s akkor Egonka [saját magáról beszél itt Egon] fogta magát és bement az erdőbe, hogy kicsit lásson érdekesebb dolgot. Békanyálas vizek, tócsák, békák és mindenféle érdekes dolgok voltak ott, és én eltévedtem abban az erdőben. Véletlenül egy mocsaras helyre kerültem, ahol egyből besüllyedtem a térdemig. Akárhogy vergődtem, nem tudtam kimászni onnan. Nagyon megijedtem, mert már szürkült, haza kellett volna érjek hat vagy hét órára. Hát addig vergődtem, amíg mellkasig besüllyedtem. Hallottam hangokat, hogy mentek arra el emberek, visítottam, ordítottam, mindent kiabáltam, de nem hallott meg senki. Pityeregtem, sírtam is, azután abbahagytam, a végén megnyugodtam. Feljött a holdvilág, s jöttek keresni azon az úton, még kiabáltak is. Nem csak a szüleim, hanem a mellettünk lévő indiánok is jöttek, riasztva volt az egész környék, óriási dolog volt. Vagy 20-an kerestek engem. Lehet, hogy a kiáltozásra visszakiabáltam, erre már nem emlékszem, de csak úgy találhattak meg.

Először szamáron akarták, hogy járjak iskolába, csak anyám nem akarta, hogy szamárra üljek, bár többen közlekedtek szamáron. Félt, hogy leesek róla, mert annak nem volt nyerge. Ezentúl béreltek nekem egy lovat. Megegyezett apám egy indiánnal, aki adta a lovát nyergestől s kengyel is volt rajta. Rátettek a lóra a könyveimmel és a füzeteimmel és rendesen ültem a nyeregben, úgy mentem iskolába. Fizetett még valakinek, hogy amíg iskolában vagyok, ad a lónak valamit enni, vagy volt a lónak ennivalója és csak a helyért fizetett, nem tudom, de csekélységet kértek azért [a szolgáltatásért]. Nagyon jó kapcsolatunk volt a bennszülöttekkel, Senior Maxnak nevezték az apámat. Németeknek nézhettek minket. Európai emberként sokkal barátságosabbak voltak, bizonyos kérdésekben kikérték apámnak a véleményét, mert ő is olyan közlékeny volt mint a mexikóiak. S aztán sokat segítette őket, főleg megjavította az órákat, tanácsokat adott.

Előlünk, gyerekek elől titkolták, hogy apám nagyon beteg. Nagy fájdalmai lehettek, fekélye volt, ami teljesen végzetessé vált. Esténként tette a meleg kötéseket a gyomrára, ha fájt, hogy csillapítsa. Valami fájdalom csillapítót csak szedhetett, hogy másnap tudjon menni dolgozni. Apám felszámolta a cityben a boltot, már nem vállalt fel annyi munkát, s többet ült otthon. Aztán ágynak esett, egy évet szinte csak az ágyban feküdt, s aztán többé nem kelt fel. Teljesen feléltünk mindent, még volt valami kis ékszer, eladták az órákat. Apám betegsége alatt anyámnak volt segítsége. A szomszédban lévő indián asszony jött mindig át fizetség fejében, foglalkozott a húgommal és velem is, és főzött is néha nekünk. Lehet, hogy voltak gazdagoknak magán klinikájuk, de én nem emlékszem. Az 1930-as években nem volt még Mexikó úgy kiépülve, hogy lett volna klinikai ellátás, de anyám valahonnan hozatott egy öreg privát orvost, de hiába. 1934-ben apám meghalt gyomorrákban. Anyám, apám halála után Gopastól kapott segítséget végül is, hogy eltemessék apámat, de a temetésre nem emlékszem. Mexikó külvárosában volt egy nagy temető, oda temették el apámat, de nem tudom pontosan, hogy hova. Anyám amikor özvegyen maradt, valószínűleg a szabó házaspár is segítette őt a temetésnél. Tudom, együtt határozták el, hogy visszatelepedünk Európába, együtt is jöttünk vissza.

Ahhoz, hogy tudjon jegyet venni, el kellett adni az ékszereket. De nem tudtunk annyi pénzt szerezni, ezért aztán el kellett menjen dolgozni, hogy még keressen pénzt. Úgy tudom, hogy valami halfeldolgozó vállalatnál dolgozott. Láttam, hogy jött haza anyukám és első dolga volt levetni az egész ruháját, mert büdös volt. Ő mosta, vagy ha volt rá módunk, akkor a szomszéd indián asszony is mosott nekünk. Lúgos szappanokkal kimosták, rögtön kitették száradni, másnap mikor ment, akkor megint tisztát vett fel, ehhez ragaszkodott. Jött egyszer a szabó házaspár vendégségbe hozzánk, nem emlékszem a beszélgetésre, de nagyon komoly egyezkedés folyt anyámmal. S akkor ő egy szép nap kijelentette: megyünk haza. Közben [Mexikóból] levelezett anyám az itthoniakkal.

A hajó zsúfolva volt. A szabó házaspárnak több pénze volt és ők tudtak kabint szerezni maguknak. Mi kint aludtunk a fedélzet fedett részén, napozósezlonokban, amolyan nyugágyakon. Jó nagy és kényelmes volt, kaptunk két pokrócot is, amikor fújt a szél, be kellett bújni a pokróc alá. Ez volt a legolcsóbb jegy, amivel adtak féljegyet is nekem, a 13 éves fiúnak, s a húgomtól eltekintettek, olyan kicsi volt még.

Sokat utaztunk, utast és árút is kellett szállítson, nem volt éppen egy luxushajó, Iberia volt a neve. Több mint egy hónapot utaztunk a tengeren. Emlékszem a társaságra: HALPAG, Hamburg-America Linien Pack Action Gesellschaft. Egy amerikai - német vállalkozás lehetett, hozták haza a németeket, mert Hitler hívta haza a német kivándorlókat, mert a nagy német birodalom újjászületik nemsokára. Jöttek is sokan, a kabinok tele voltak velük. Kuba volt az első állomás. Havannában kiszálltunk, még volt valami aprópénzünk amivel anyám ivott egy jó kubai fekete kávét. Aztán egész éjjel nem tudott aludni a hajón.

Mexikóban anyám kapcsolatban volt a Kolozsváron élő testvéreivel, és Jancsival is, aki Spanyolországba ment úgy 1935-ben. Jancsival levelezett anyám, még apám halála után is. Meg volt beszélve a hajóútnál, hogy Spanyolországban leszállunk a hajóról, és hogy hol szállunk meg. De Jancsi már üzente a szállodába ‘Menjetek haza, én majd jövök Egonért’. Ő akkor már el lehetett menve az országból, az Egyesült Államokba. Nem tudom, hogy kerültünk vissza a hajóra, ami aztán kikötött Angliában is és Franciaországban is. Hamburgban tettek ki minket, mert ez volt a Hamburg-America line végállomása. Valami olcsó szállodában szálltunk meg. Hamburgban kiderült, hogy nekünk el kell menni Berlinbe, mert francia útlevelünk van és csak a francia nagykövetség engedheti meg a továbbutazást Csehszlovákián, Ausztrián és Magyarországon keresztül Romániába. Akkor elintézte anyám a vonatjegyeket, a nagy csomagjainkkal felültünk, s megérkeztünk Berlinbe. Amikor mentünk a francia követséghez egy óriási tömeget láttunk. Fogalmunk sem volt, hogy mit látunk, s anyám megkérdezte németül, hogy ez ki. ‘Maguk nem tudják?’ ‘Nem, mert mi Amerikából jöttünk’ mondta anyám. Erre emlékszem, azt mondták: ‘Ez Hitler, a vezérünk’. Akkor láttuk Hitler, ott valahol egészen magasan szónokolt. Anyám hallhatott Hitlerről, valószínűleg mondott is akkor nekem valamit, de nem jegyeztem meg ki az a Hitler. Ennyi maradt bennem. Itthon hallottam később, amikor haza érkeztünk, hogy nagyanyám Hitlerről mondta: ‘Hitler ist unsere zeunen’, Hitler az ellenségünk. (Nagyanyám egy rettentő politizáló öregasszony volt, postáskisasszony volt, egy fél-intellektuel, aki nem maradt hírek nélkül.)

A követségről egyenesen a vasúthoz mentünk. Csehszlovákiában a vámolásnál, a vasútállomáson leszállítottak minket, hogy vizsgálják át a csomagjainkat. Anyámnál volt egy fonott azték motívumokkal díszített egzotikus indián kosár tele ajándékokkal. Olyan vámot mondtak rá, hogy nem volt annyi pénzünk, és anyám próbált alkudozni velük. Addig mind húzták az időt, amíg elindult a vonat, s akkor feldobtak minket, a két gyereket a vonatra. Anyám akkor kénytelen volt ő is felkapaszkodni a vonatra, azok meg gonoszul, rondán vigyorogtak: sikerült átverni minket. A csomag, amit hoztunk Mexikóból ott maradt teljes egészében. Amikor jöttünk haza, csodálkoztak itthon, hogy: ‘Nem hoztatok semmit magatokkal?’ Talán egy piros, élénk színű szőttes volt meg csak (kivágással a közepén, de nem poncsó, hanem száráfénak hívták, amit viselnek az indiánok), a vonaton hagytuk, mert arra ültünk.

Kolozsváron nagyon szépen fogadtak, együtt volt a család megint. Nagyon siratták apámat, mert szerették őt. Az anyai nagyapám már jó pár éve meg volt halva, mire mi visszaérkeztünk, de ez le volt levelezve a szülőkkel. Amikor megérkeztünk, csak akkor tudtuk meg, hogy Jancsi Amerikában van. Anyám testvérei közül Jancsira nem emlékszem. Egyetemet végzett, talán kémikus volt. De én már nem találkoztam vele. Először Magyarországra ment, ott elvett feleségül valakit, egy nem zsidó lány, akit mi nem ismertünk. Onnan kivándoroltak Amerikába egy nagy városba, talán New Yorkba. Úgy tudom, gyerekük nem lett.

Mi szeptemberben vagy októberben érkeztünk vissza Kolozsvárra. Az első dolog volt, hogy iskolába írassanak. A nyolc mexikói iskolaévből csak hat évet ismertek el. Kellett volna folytatnom a második gimnáziumot, de a Párizs utcai elemi iskolába adtak egy évre, hogy megtanuljam a román nyelvet. Ott megtanultam jól románul, és akkor beiratkoztam az Angelescu líceumba, ahol felvettek a második gimnáziumba. Én nem vettem részt a keresztény vallásórákon, mert deklarált zsidó voltam. Lehetett menni a Tarbutba [a Tarbut Zsidó Iskolaegyesület szervezte] vallásórára, de oda én nem jártam.

Mindjárt az első héten, amikor beiratkoztam a gimnáziumba, megtörtént velem a megkülönböztetés. [Egonon kívül nem volt zsidó az osztályban.] Én barátkozó természetű vagyok, s az elején a szünetben az osztálytársaim el voltak ragadtatva a mexikói mivoltomtól, mivel mind mexikói holmiim voltak: hol indián, hol bölény volt rajzolva a pulóvereimre. Így öltözködni nagy feltűnés volt, nagyon tetszett nekik a mexikóiságom. Egyik nap, szünetben, elkezdtek faggatni ezek a román gyerekek, akikkel egyébként jóban voltam, és megtudták, hogy nem mexikói vagyok, hanem zsidó, és akkor összesúgtak a hátam mögött. Már akkor megvolt a fasiszta mozgalom, a Gogista szellem [a Cuza-Goga kormány 2 szimpatizálása]. Én aztán gyanútlanul kimentem az udvarra és játszottam velük, de egy adott pillanatban, az udvar hátsó részén, ami falakkal volt körülvéve, és ahol már nem láthatott az igazgató, egyszer csak odajöttek páran. Előbb a mexikói mivoltomat tették próbára és elővettek késeket, bicskákat, hogy dobjak célba, mutassam meg, hogy milyen mexikói vagyok. Nekem nem ment olyan jól, mint nekik, hát kaptam egy pár ütést, rúgást, ‘ez nem mexikói’ – mondták. De ezek még csak olyan gyerek-rúgások voltak, mint amikor csak úgy megvertek valakit. A komolyabb ezután jött, mert miután letárgyalták, hogy én Mexikóból jöttem, de zsidó vagyok és ráadásul magyarul beszélő is, megváltozott a dolog. A legionárius 3 szellem már ott lebegett, az otthonokban beszélték, hogy ‘noi românii..., patria noastră… stb’ [mi románok…, a mi hazánk]. Mikor aztán ismét a hátsó udvarra mentem, egyszer csak egy csoport gyerekek – ma huligánoknak nevezném – nekem nyomult. Lefogtak, odanyomtak a falhoz, a torkomat is megfogták és mondták, ‘Măi jidane, futu-i mama ta! Strigă, trăiască Legiunea şi Căpitanul!’. [Te zsidó, az anyád picsája! Kiáltsd azt, hogy éljenek a legionáriusok és a Kapitány!] Akkor én már tudtam, hogy Horea Simaról 4 van szó, a legionáriusok vezetőjéről. Én nem voltam hajlandó engedelmeskedni. Borzasztó milyen vadak tudtak lenni azok a velem egykorú gyerekek, de azért én sem hagytam magam, védekeztem. Ez 1938-ban lehetett.

Octavian Şirarunak hívták a román tanáromat, aki egy nagyon művelt pasas volt, és nagy barátja és csodálója a miniszternek, Gogának. Addig vele sem nem volt semmi baj, amíg a mexikóiságom még tartott, csak utána. Egyszer kellett dolgozatot írni neki, s én vállalkozó szellemű, gyanútlan gyerekként egy négy vagy hat soros verset írtam románul Romániáról, hogy Romániában a fák virágoznak, a madarak is énekelnek, meg valami ilyesmi. Annyira felháborodott, hogy elvesztette az önuralmát és egy nagy pofont kent le nekem. Rekedten elkezdett ordítani az osztályban, hogy honnan veszem a bátorságot. Azt mondta: ‘Limba noastră curată…, vii tu, cine ţi-a dat voie să faci treaba aceasta?’ [A mi tiszta nyelvünk…, jösz te, ki engedte meg neked, hogy ezt csináld?]. Nem tudtam akkor én még visszafelelni, még nem beszéltem jól románul.

Éjjeleket azon törtem a fejem, hogy hogyan tudnám a tekintélyt magamnak megszerezni. Mexikóban jól megtanultam lasszót vetni, tudtam, a hurkot hogy kell csinálni, hogy ha a marhának a nyakára kerül, akkor csak egy húzással összeszoruljon. Volt nekünk fenn a padláson egy speciális mánila kötelünk, mánila egy növény, amiből fonva van. Vastag kötél volt, gyönyörű fehér. A csomagjaink, amit Csehszlovákiában lebontottunk, azzal voltak összekötve. Akkor a kezünkben maradtak a spárgák, azzal a szándékkal, hogy vissza fogjuk csomagolni a holmikat, így azzal együtt dobtak fel a vonatra. Azt követően, miután hazaértünk, másnap már szárítottunk rajta ruhákat a padláson, mert nagyon tetszett nagyanyámnak. Én leszedtem a ruhákat róla, és megkötöttem magamnak, olyan rodeósan, másnap beültem vele az utolsó sorba, s kinéztem a legpimaszabbakat előttem. Ők voltak a nagy hangadók, akik hangoztatták: ‘măi jidane, măi…’ [Te zsidvány, te…]. A legszelídebb tanár óráján, aki a táblánál írta csendesen a magáét, nagy lárma volt, nem is figyelt ránk. Én hátulról a lasszót megforgattam jó cawboy módra – még volt mellettem két magyar fiú –, dobtam és kifogtam vagy kettőt-hármat, a nyakuknál megszorítottam és húztam. A nagy csendben, ami lett, csak a fuldokló hang hallatszott. A tanár nem értette, miről van szó, felnézett, és meglátott minket. Kicsaptak az iskolából, nagy botrány lett. De hírnevem is lett. Találkoztam öregkoromra olyan diákkal, akivel akkor együtt voltunk az Anghelescu gimnáziumba, s azt mondja: ‘Te, emlékszel, amikor jöttél a lasszóval és elkaptad azt a hármat…?’ A gyerekek közül többé soha nem bántott senki, az a három még egy darabig duzzogott rám. Engem két hétig nem engedtek az iskolába, de anyám visszakönyörgött nagyon nehezen.

Otthon el voltak keseredve a zsidózás miatt, nálunk ez olyan volt, mint Krisztusnak a keresztre feszítése: ‘Bocsásd meg Uram, mert nem tudják, mit csinálnak.’ Úgy viszonyult a családom a zsidóságunkhoz, hogy ez a helyzet, ez van. Ezzel számoltunk mi egész végig, csak nem vagyunk az a tűrő zsidó típus.

A család együtt lakott a Szécsényi téri lakásban: nagyanya, anyám, nagynéném, húgom, két nagybátyám és én. Ez egy rettenetesen olcsó, nyomorúságos bérház volt, egy szoba – konyha. A négy nő volt bent a szobában, és mi, a három férfi, kinn aludtunk a konyhában. Kívülről, az utcáról magasnak nézett ki a ház, de hozzánk le kellett menni a konyhába. Olyan sötét, kicsi, alacsony, hosszukó konyhánk volt. Rettentő helyzetben, egymás mellett aludtunk a konyhában, úgy hogy, mindig az ágy lábától a fejig dobtuk magunkat. Nem úgy volt, hogy leszállok az ágyról és ott van a cipő, hanem a cipő mindig ott maradt az ágy bütüjén [végén]. Komoly dolog volt ez. Volt egy vízvezeték is a konyhában, mert mégiscsak belvárosi lakás volt. A szobában fával tüzeltünk. Olyan csikókályhánk volt, fekete pléhből, s kiemelkedett a sütője Az udvar nem volt messze a Szamostól, egy teljesen sötét hely volt az udvar. Mellettünk lakott egy pájeszos vallásos zsidó, és volt egy gyereke. De nem engedte soha a gyereket hozzánk, mert mi tréflek voltunk. Egyébként sem nem tartott minket túl nagy zsidónak, mert mi általában fedetlen fejjel jártunk, kivéve a szombati étkezésekkor és mikor templomba mentünk.

Egy éve már itt voltunk Kolozsváron, akkor már négy éves volt a húgom, és a szomszédban a házmesterék vágták a disznót. Úgy voltunk, hogy minden ajtó nyitva volt az udvar felé, a nagy blokk fölöttünk, és ott folyt minden előttünk. Hátul vágták a disznót, ahol a háznak volt egy elkanyarodása a pince felé, ahol le is lehetett menni a Szamosra is. Persze mi részt vettünk az egész ‘gálán’, mert nagyon érdekelt, én ilyet még nem láttam: disznót pörkölni, disznóhúst enni. És nagyon megkívánta az én öt éves drága húgocskám a disznóhúst, oda állt és azt mondta: ‘Hát, ha nem lennék úrika kislány, akkor én most kérnék, hogy adjanak nekem egy kicsit abból’. Akkor már trencsirozták a disznót, készültek a kolbászok, a többiek ott hátul álltak. A kicsi gyereknek nem volt ilyen tilalma, hogy ez nem kóser, nem eheti meg, nagyanyám csak tudomásul vette a dolgot, hogy a húgom megkóstolta a disznóhúst.

A zsúfolt lakásban ahol laktunk nem volt nagy lehetőségünk a szombatot megtartani. Először is nem volt egy rendes asztal, és hely sem volt, ahol mindannyian üljünk. Csak akkor lehetett egy ilyen rumlit [felfordulást, összeülést] csinálni, amikor a nők még nem feküdtek le. Körülbelül négyszer egy héten a babétel főétel volt a háznál: törtpaszulyt ettünk, levest és savanyú káposztát. Szombaton nem főztek, hanem pénteken előkészítették a csollentet, le volt fedve papírral, és mindig Hilmannhoz, a pékhez vittük. Előre kellett fizetni, csak úgy vette át, s akkor tett rá egy számot és adott is egy számot, és azzal kellett utána menni.

A péntek esti gyertyagyújtás határozottan kötelező volt. Megvoltak a régi finom ezüst gyertyatartóink, amiben mindig volt gyertya. Akármilyen szegények voltunk, de a gyertyagyújtás megvolt. Én nem voltam templomba járó, csak akkor mentem, amikor nagyünnepekkor vitt anyám vagy nagyanyám (de körül vagyok metélve). Az asszonyok tettek kendőt, de csak az ünnepen. Egyébként nem kötöttek kendőt, emlékszem, nagyanyám az ősz hajával nagyon sokat csellengett kendő nélkül. De a férfiaknak kötelező volt ünnepekkor a kalap. Szombaton lehetett hazahozni a csollentet, de nem mi hoztuk el, hanem valamelyik keresztény gyereknek már pénteken délelőtt ki volt téve az asztalra a fizetség, s ő hozta. Amikor jött, még forró volt fazék, a papír barnás volt rajta, úgy jól megégett. Korábban hozták, mint ahogy megérkeztek a nagybátyámék, Hariék a templomból. Én szombaton kimentem az udvarra és rajzoltam egy darab papírra. Emlékszem Jenő és Hari ahogy a templomból megjöttek, ebédeltek, de unták egy kicsit otthon és megint elmentek otthonról látogatóba barátokhoz. De nagyanyám a lelkükre kötötte, hogy sábeszkor nem mehetnek semmilyen nyilvános helyre, mulatságra vagy kártyapartira.

A mikvébe nem emlékszem, hogy jártak volna a nők, de arra emlékszem, hogy a férfiak gőzfürdőbe mentek vasárnap. Volt Kolozsváron a Széchenyi téren egy gőzfürdő, a férfiak külön voltak a nőktől. [Szerk. megj.: Selig József Cristal nevű rituális gőz- és kádfürdőjéről van szó, amely a mikvével egy időben működött.] Előbb szappannal meg kellett mosakodni, azután lehetett menni a meleg bazinba, csendesen ülni, utána volt a hideg bazin, ahol olyan hancúrozás volt, hogy rettenetes. Hari és Jenő ide vittek engem. Sok világi zsidóval találkoztam ott. A mikve nem messze tőle a Szamos partján volt, de ott nem voltam soha.

Amíg együtt voltunk, addig a széder estét tartottunk, volt külön húsvéti edény félretéve. A férfiak, Hari és Jenő, olvasták fel és mondták, amit kellett, és én voltam a 13-14 éves Egon, aki kellett kérdezzen. A húgomat, Irénkét, lefektettük aludni, mert hamarabb elálmosodott. Aztán volt az egész történet, amit fel kellett mondani valamennyire, én voltam az áldozat, aki kell kérdezzen. Azon kívül eldugtak előlem egy darab pászkát – általában Hari dugta el –, s azt kötelező volt megtalálni. De megtaláltam, mert kicsi volt az a lakás, nem dugták a szekrény tetejére, hanem vagy az abrosz alá csúsztatták, vagy a fiókba tették be. Emlékszem, hogy kértem egy csomó rajzszert, festéket, színes ceruzákat, papírokat, vásznakat.

Hét közben a két férfi, Hari és Jenő, általában a városban étkezett, és nem ettek kósert. Tudom, hogy az elején tartózkodtak, hogy szalonnát meg ilyeneket egyenek, de végül már kértek, hozzak treflet a házba. Akkor már egy cipőüzletben dolgoztam a büfék mellett, és a borravalóból, meg amit kerestem, abból vásároltam, és vittem haza egy kis kolbászt, egy kis szalonnát, amit én is ettem. Nem nagyon szerette ezt nagyanya.

Otthon művészként kezeltek, hagyták, hogy dolgozzak. A saját lepedőimre festettem, mert nem volt pénzem vászonra. A ház falai tele voltak a rajzaimmal, sok-sok képem volt rajszeggel felfogva, mert nem volt pénzem rámára. Már az emberi figurákkal is foglalkoztam, nagyanyámnak arcképet is csináltam. Préselt szénnel rajzoltam, főleg grafikákat. Akkoriban már lehetett jó papírt kapni például a híres Lepage könyves üzletben. [Szerk. megj.: Lepage Lajos könyv- és papírkereskedés a mai Egyetemista könyvesbolt elődje (a főtér délnyugati részén található), igazgató-cégtulajdonosa dr. Dobó Ferenc volt.] Ott lehetett kapni folyóiratokat, a L`impression gyönyörű színes lap volt, és már abból tanultam a francia modern piktúrát. Bekukkintottam a boltba, és néha volt nekik folyóiratuk régebbről megmaradva, amit pénz nélkül is lehetett kapni, azt nekem adták. Sokat rajzoltam és Kolozsváron az iskolában tudták, hogy mexikói rajzos vagyok.

Én a Hasomer Hacairba voltam beiratkozva, de sosem voltam meggyőződéses cionista, a családom nem volt az. Már 1937-38-ban működött és folytatódott a magyar érába [1940–1944 között] 5. A székhely a Horea útnak a végében volt, a mai Einstein utcában. Lent volt az alagsorban egy nagy terem, ott gyűltünk össze. Nagy táncolás, énekelés, héber tanítás is volt talán. Sajnos én nem tanultam meg héberül, nekem sosem volt időm tanulni, mert festettem, rajzoltam inkább. Vittem oda képeket és feltettem a falra, nagyon örvendtek neki. Ott is rajzoltam nekik. Rengeteg olyan zsidó járt oda, akik ma Izraelben nagy szerepet töltenek be. Azért jártam oda, mert ők voltak a legliberálisabb zsidó ifjúk, nem a vallásos zsidók. De aztán abba hagytam, nem jártam többet, mert kicsit katonás volt. Volt egy zsidó kivándorlási hullám Romániában az 1939-40-es években. Az akkori években hajóúttal lehetett menni Izraelbe. A Hasomer Hacair, mint szervezet meg is szűnt aztán, [miután 1947 végén a tagjai tömegesen alijáztak Izraelbe] mert a cionisták úgy voltak nevelve, hogy Izraelbe menjenek a legelső alkalommal, ami adódott. De én nem akartam kivándorolni Izraelbe, tudtam első perctől kezdve, nekem kötelességem volt. Azt a feladatot adtam magamnak hogy családfenntartó legyek, mert nagyrészt csak nőkkel maradtam: nagyanyám, nagynéném, anyám, és a húgom. A nagynéném Edit férjhez adás előtt volt, és csak Harinak volt egy kis nyomorult fizetése. A családom sem akarta, hogy Izraelbe menjünk. Egyelőre a család fel akart épülni, apám halála nagy vesztesség volt. Anyám gyönyörű, párizsi divatlapra való nő volt, de nem akart még egyszer férjhez menni, habár ajánlottak neki zsidó partit, hoztak neki jól kereső zsidókat, de olyan ízléstelen szagos zsidók voltak, hogy nem tetszett neki.

1938 végén volt egy képességvizsga az Institutul Regele Carol al II-lea szervezésében. [Szerk. megj.: a II. Károly király Intézet az I. Ferencz József Tudományegyetem utódja a két világháború közötti időszakban, most Babes-Bolyai Tudományegyetem.] Mondták nekem, hogy képességvizsga nélkül nem is lehet menni sehova sem, hogy állást keressek. Nem szakmai álláshoz kellett, mert ezen felül a szakmát kellett még írással is bizonyítani, hogy van olyan iskolád. Ez a képességvizsga, amire bárki jelentkezhetett, a numerus clausus 6 rejtett formája volt. Nem kijelentett hogy nem mehet dolgozni, hanem, hadd lássuk a képességét. Itt olyan próbák voltak, aminek semmi köze nem volt semmihez. Először is orvosi vizsgálatok, vérvizsgálat, mandulát nézték, fogakat, ilyesmit. Vékony, de jó erőben levő gyerek voltam. Egy csomó intelligencia próbára emlékszem: voltak matematikai feladatok, megoldani való logikai következtetések. Én kiváló voltam a megfigyelő és a logikai próbában. Adtak valami megtévesztő képeket, ahol ki kellett egészíteni, ami hiányzik. Csak egy pillanatra mutatták meg az eredetit, és kellett emlékezni, hogy mi volt ott. De volt olyan, hogy mutattak rövid ideig egy képet, elvették, adták a papírt, és kellett a hiányzó részeknek a pontos megoldása. Tehát láttam például, hogy egy medve megy a hóban és megáll az erdő szélén, de nem volt nyoma, az hiányzott. De más is hiányzott, és ki kellett egészíteni. Nekem nagyon magas pontarányom kellett legyen ahhoz, hogy mennyi mindent megláttam. A végeredményt nem adták rögtön, és így hangzott, ‘Határozat: a fiatal képességeinek megvizsgálását követően a bizottság a következőket állapította meg, alkalmas kertészkedésre és kosárfonásra’. Tehát a kosárfonást és kertészkedést engedték meg nekem. Abszolút biztos, hogy nem az intelligencia hányadosra adták a képesítést. Egy csomó proli gyerekkel kerültem össze, én, aki az intellektuális kategóriához tartoztam: mexikói iskolázottságom, nyelvtudásom, neveltetésem volt. Nyilvánvaló, a román gyerekek javára dőlt el az eredmény, és a többi kategóriát távolították el a jobb állások lehetőségétől. Ez még nem volt biztos állás, de ezzel kellett menni egy céghez és azt mondani szeretném a helyet elfoglalni. Anyám elkeseredett, amikor megjött az eredmény az alkalmassági vizsgámról.

1939-ben (még a román éra alatt, II. Károly Király 7 idejében) amikor a gimnáziumot befejeztem, el kellett menjek dolgozni, hogy valami pénzt keressek, mert nem tudták tovább az iskolai tandíjat fizetni. Kellett keressek munkát, ilyenek voltak, hogy egy vízvezeték szerelő maga mellé vett, hogy cipeljem azt a csomagját és ássak. Akkor vettek fel a Farkas Ignác cipőüzletébe, ahol egész végig kifutófiú, Ez volt a legelegánsabb, legnevesebb cipőüzlet, a Herbach Dermatanak volt a fióküzlete, mind Dermata cipőket árultunk. Farkas Ignác a Dermatának egyik társtulajdonosa volt. [Szerk. megj.: a dr. Farkas Mózes és Farkas József Dermata bőrgyár és cipőüzem Kolozsvár egyik legnevesebb bőripari vállalkozása volt, a mai Clujana cipőgyár elődje.] A közvetlen főnököm, Glantz úr is zsidó volt, előkelő és borzasztó tartózkodó. Mindig szagos volt, de az izzadságával együtt csúnya, úri zsidó volt. Még volt egy magyar főkönyvelőnő, egy elégé önmagát pingáló hölgy. Az elárusítók között volt egy román, egy magyar, a többi öt árusító zsidó volt. Ezen kívül volt két szolgálatos az üzletben, két egyszerű magyar ember, akik rendesek voltak, jóban voltam mind a kettővel. Náluk volt a kulcs, ott kellett legyenek reggel hatkor, amikor megérkeztem, és ők nyitották a boltot.

Nekem az volt a feladatom, hogy az üzletet tisztán tartsam. A két magyar embernek a feladata volt, de végül én kaptam azt is, hogy a járdát mind reggel teljesen körül kellett seperni, a szemetet, a papírokat el kellett tüntetni. Az összes mocskos munkát rám hagyták. A szemetet, amit a kirakatrendezők meg a vásárlók csináltak, azt is én kellett eltakarítsam az üzletből. A dobozokat lecipelni, felcipelni a pincéből, sokszor nyolc-tíz csomaggal jöttem kifele a pincéből, mert ott volt az egész cipőkészlet. A legnehezebb az volt, hogy minden este hét óra után, amikor kitakarítottam s bezártunk, haza kellett vigyem a cipőket, amiket a vevők hazarendeltek, mert ez egy úri kiszolgáló hely volt, ahova a nagyon gazdagok jöttek. Akkor útra kaptam a csomagokat, át voltak kötve vagy én kellett átkössem, a cím megvolt rajtuk. Kaptam egy papírocskát is, hogy hova és kinek kell vigyem. Gyalog mentem vagy 6-7 km-t a cipődobozokkal. Általában két kuncsaftot adtak estére, hármat, csak hogyha egymás mellett laktak. Aztán megérkeztem a címhez, csengettem, s azok már vártak, mert megmondták, hogy este mikor jöjjek. Ami kellett a kuncsaftnak, azt otthagytam, és adtak vagy nem adtak borravalót a szállításért, aztán jöttek az üzletbe és megfizették. Amire én befejeztem a házhoz szállítást, utána még az állomásra le kellett menni, mert ott laktam. Ezek az úri népek nem az állomás közelében laktak, a proli csórók pedig nem rendelte haza a cipőt.

Egy bárónővel lett konfliktusom. Nem tudott dönteni ott az üzletbe, s akkor haza kellett neki vinni nyolc-tíz pár cipőt valahova a város valamelyik részébe, a Gyulai Pál utcába. Jó késő este lett, nyolc-kilenc óra lehetett, amire odaértem. Egy szép villa volt egy kertben, kint volt egy terasz és ott vacsoráztak. Amikor megérkeztem csengettem, és valaki kinyitotta a kaput és azt mondta nekem, jöjjek még egyszer, mert most nem fogadhat. Akkor haza kellett volna cipeljem a cipőket és ezt nem akartam, mert nagyon sötét utak voltak akkor, és büdösek és piszkosak. Akkor odaszóltak a teraszról, hogy várjak, és a kapu mellett megálltam, nem volt egy ülőhely. A vacsora elején fogtam ki őket, ezek megvacsoráztak, megitták a pohár borukat, teájukat én meg a tíz pár cipőmmel álltam ott a kapuba jó másfél órát, abban a hidegben. És ideges is voltam, mert már késő volt, mert ezt hagytam utoljára. Csak akkor intett a bárónő, hogy jöhetek, mikor az asztal kiürült. Valahány cipőt felpróbált és a tízből megtartott hármat vagy négyet, én meg maradtam öttel. Már akkor nagyon felforrt az epém, mert nem bírtam ezt a megaláztatást, hogy a kapuban váratnak, mint egy utolsó szolgát, nem adtak egy széket, hogy leüljek. A nevelésem szerint mégiscsak úri fiúnak tartottam magamat. És akkor a nő pénzt vett elő, és úgy adta nekem, mint az alamizsnát. Megnéztem és láttam, hogy ez az összeg akkora, hogy három napot, hanem egy hetet kell dolgozzak ahhoz, hogy megkeressem. De én önérzetes, ‘úrika’ fiú voltam – így mondtam, amikor kicsi voltam, ha valami nem tetszett, vagy nem akartam, –, megköszöntem, és csak ennyit mondtam: ’nem fogadok el borravalót’. ‘Hogy?’, csak ennyit tudott mondani. Elköszöntem, igaz nem nagyon alázatosan, nem nagyon szépen és nem háttal mentem ki, hanem megfordultam és kimentem a kapun. Elvittem a maradék csomagot haza. Otthon elmondtam, hogy nem fogadtam el a borravalót. A család vegyes érzelmekkel értett egyet velem, de jobban örvendtek volna ha pénz is van a markomba, abból lehetett volna kenyeret venni. A büszkeségnek ára van, a fene egye meg.

Még aznap este vagy reggel korán beszélt a bárónő Glantz úrral, mert amikor másnap reggel 8-9 fele bejött az üzletbe, azonnal behívott magához. Azt mondta: ‘Ide figyeljen, én tudom, hogy milyen a családi származása, tudom, hogy volt Mexikóban stb.stb., de én magát úgy kirúgom, hogy a lába sem éri a földet. Magának nincs jogában, sem módjában megsérteni egy kuncsaftot, nyelje le, magába gondolhat amit akar, de ne látszódjon az arcán semmi.’ Én nem kérdeztem, hogy de miért Glantz úr, csak hallgattam, hagytam, hogy mondja végig. Abban a percben még nem raktak ki, hanem a legközelebbi időben, mikor jött egy numerus clausus legalább egy-kettőt a zsidók közül ki kellett rakni. Ez 1939-ben volt.

Két nagy szállítási vállalat volt Kolozsváron, az egyiknek jó zsidó neve volt, talán Goldstein, és a másik az Unió volt. Én az Unióhoz kerültem, ami az állomás mellett volt, Hari nagybátyám ott dolgozott mint főkönyvelő, mivel közgazdasági iskolát végzett. A tulajdonos zsidó volt. Szállítómunkásnak vettek fel. 28-30 kg-os faládát kellett vinni gyalog a vállamon, a postán feladni, visszavinni a nyugtát és elszámolni, hogy elintéztem a dolgot. Az állomástól a postáig rövid az út, de a nagy ládát vinni nem egy könnyű, kényelmes dolog és én nem voltam megedződve. Hallgattam és fájlaltam a vállamat, mire otthon úgy sajnáltak, hogy majdnem sírtak mikor megláttak, hogy hogy néz ki a gyerekük, de nem volt mit csinálni, ez volt az állás. Anyám aztán felkérte Harit, aki közbelépett és áttettek egy nagy lovas kocsira segédszállító munkásnak, de nem nagyon akartak fölvenni a cingárságom miatt. Tudták, hogy 100 kg-okat kell emelgetni, egy zongorát kettőnek kell elvinnie. És akkor Mózsi bácsi, egy magyar ember, volt az egyedüli, aki vállalt és hajlandó volt engem maga mellé venni. Hallottam is, hogy mondták: ‘Na, megkaptad a zsidót magadnak, aztán nézheted magad!’ Ez beképzeltség volt inkább, nem volt ott antiszemitizmust. De nagyon ügyesen megtanított, hogy milyen fogással kell csinálni. Két ló volt befogva a kocsinkba, ezekkel kellett főleg szenet, búzát, csomagokat szállítani, ami áru megjött a vonattal. Pár hónapot maradtam az Uniónál, de aztán a zsidó személyzetet csökkentették és én is el kellett jöjjek, mert nekik inkább markos személyzetet kellett. És aztán jött a magyar éra.

Horthy 8 bevonulását nem nagy örömmel és kételkedő nyugalommal vette tudomásul a családom. A magyar dzsentriket látták, hogy jönnek. Nem számítottunk egyáltalán arra, hogy javulni fog a helyzetünk, attól, hogy azt mondták: ‘Édes Erdély, megint itt vagyunk…’. A zsidók egy része reménykedett, hogy visszakapják azokat a pozícióikat, amiket a románoknál elvesztettek.

Nálunk a családban főleg a nagyanyám volt nagy politikus. Nem volt rádiónk, ezért aztán nagyanyámnak mindig muszáj volt, hogy hozzak egy magyar újságot, a Jó estét-et, a kenyér és a tejjel együtt. Egyáltalán nem volt zsidó témája, ez egy vegyes újság volt, főleg a magyar kispolgárok lapja. Kulturális dolgok, színház és mozi előadások kommentálása is benne volt, sőt még könyvismertetés is volt. Voltak benne politikai cikkek is, és a nagyanyám nagyon kommentálta, értelmezte azokat. Az előszelét hozták a változásoknak. A magyar újságokban azért vigyáztak, hogy mit írtak. Én csak amit tudtam, amennyit hallottam a családban a felnőttektől. Hari, nagyanya, anya, Jenő tárgyalták ezeket a dolgokat. Én csak asszisztáltam, politikamentes voltam, csak művészettel foglalkoztam. Nem érdekeltek engem különösebben ezek a dolog.

Anyám akkor az Ufáromban, a gyógyszergyárban dolgozott – fiolákkal, orvosságokkal kellett dolgozni – ahol nagyon sok magyar is volt. [Szerk. megj.: dr. Stern Vilmos főorvos Ufarom Egger nevű gyógyszeráru gyáráról van szó.] Munkások voltak, nem volt baj a zsidósága miatt. A baloldali gondolkodás már jelentkezett a munkások között. Nagyon jóba lett ott anyám a társasággal. Nagyon egészségtelen volt a munka és nagyon hosszú volt a munkaidő, hát sztrájkot rendeztek, amiben részt vett az anyám is. De a sztrájkot leverték, és anyámat meg aki még benne volt, kitették a gyárból.

Anyám még próbálkozott azután, szereztek is neki egy ügynöki állást cipő- vagy ruhaforgalmazó vállalatnál. Szerződtették, hogy házhoz menjen és szedje be azoktól a pénz, akik hitelbe vásároltak. Szegényke olyan fáradt volt, hogy a végén én kellett helyette járjak vasárnap, hogy legalább akkor maradjon otthon, tegye rendbe a házat, főzzön. Én mentem a cédulákkal, de nekem nem volt jó fellépésem, ügynöki tehetségem, vagyis hogy kibeszéljem belőlük a pénzt, és vagy adtak vagy nem adtak. Szegény anyám aztán nézte a pénzt, és mondta, hogy elégedetlen lesz a vállalkozás vezetője. Rettenetes dolog volt, mert nem fizettek sehol sem, mindenhol elutasították őt is, nem tudta beszedni azt, amit elvártak tőle, és akkor onnan is elbocsátották anyámat. Ez volt az utolsó munkahelye, amire emlékszem.

A magyar éra alatt Jenő szerelmes lett magyar ápolónőbe. A nő rettentő kedélyes, jópofa volt. Úgy nézett ki, hogy házasság lesz a vége, de nagyanyámnak megtiltotta neki, hogy egy gójt vegyen el feleségül. És Jenő függött nagyanyámtól.

Editke, anyám húga egy kicsit félénk, visszahúzódó volt. Kis vékony, de intelligens, művelt, jó modorú kis leányka volt, nagyanyám nagyon vigyázott rá. Tisztviselő lett egy zsidónál a Malom utcában, akinek tűzifa-kereskedelme volt és ő könyvelt neki, mert volt négy polgárija. Még ott laktunk a Széchenyi téren, amikor szerelmes lett Bilman Károlyba, akit mi Samunak neveztünk. Nem tudom, hol ismerkedtek meg, egy medgyesi gazdagabb, műveltebb zsidó családból volt. Azt hiszem, valami üveggyáruk vagy kereskedelmük volt Medgyesen. Kiküldték a szülők Bécsbe tanulni, ott zenét tanult konzervatóriumban, és a filharmóniában hegedűs vagy zongorista volt. Samu művelt, olvasott pasas volt és képeket is festett, nem is rosszul. De gyermekbénulása volt és csak két bottal tudott járni. Egy alkalommal 1941-42-ben jövök haza és óriási riadalom a házban: Edit öngyilkos lett [de nem halt meg], mert a nagyanyám kijelentette, hogy nyomorék emberhez nem adja a lányát. Azután volt egy holtpont, amikor Samu visszament Medgyesre rendezni a dolgát. De a végén Edit csak kiharcolta magának, hogy Samut akarja, s az esküvőt akkor tartották, amikor mi már az állomásnál laktunk. [Időközben Egonék átköltöztek egy másik lakásba.] A Horea úttal párhuzamos utcában Samunak valami rokona rendelkezésükre bocsátotta a házát, ahol megtartották az esküvőt. Ott készítették az ünnepi ételeket, az egyik szobát berendezték, odajött az a rabbi, ott állították fel a hippét. Ott voltam én is, amikor a poharat le kellett taposni, utána volt egy étkezés. Lehet, hogy zsidó dalokat is énekeltek, nem tudom, mert én hamar elhordtam magam, nem érdekelt a dolog. Samu hozta a fő vendégeket, a mi ismerőseink részéről kevesen voltak. Nem volt egy nagy esküvő.

Medgyesen működött tovább a család üveg vállalata. Samu a könyvelést vagy a szervezését vezette, nem tudom. Nagyon ügyes pasas volt, mindent felvállalt. Mellettünk volt a lakásuk, ahova költöztek. Samu nem szégyellte magát, nem volt semmilyen gátlása, és imádta a nőket. A festményeket, amit én csináltam, nagyon szerette, persze akkor szerette a legjobban, ha a legjobb munkákat neki ajándékoztam. A lakásukban voltak a legszebb képeim és rajzaim. De nekem hízelgett, hogy ekkora műveltséggel, mint az övé ennyire nagyra becsüli a képeimet. Ő betartotta a szombatokat.

Az utolsó ház, ahol laktunk, az állomás mellett volt, [kicsit nagyobb volt, mint az előző lakás]. Akkor Hari még nem volt megnősülve, de már csak Jenő és Edit lakott velünk. Volt egy konyha, egy nagyobb szoba és egy kicsi szoba hátul. Sajnos nem volt vécénk bent a házban, ki kellett menni az udvarra, mert a szemben levő háznak az oldalán volt a budi. A nagyobb szobában egy duplaágyon feküdt nagyanyám, anyám és köztük Irénke. Én az ágy lábánál aludtam egy díványon, amiből kiálltak a rugók. Jenő a konyhába aludt egy ágyon, Edité – mint férjhez adandó lányé – volt a kicsi szoba, az volt a fehér szoba, fehér szekrénnyel, bútorokkal. Oda nem lehetett csak úgy bemenni. De amikor Edit elment, akkor én fogtam magam, s bementem arra a csendes helyre rajzolni. Nagyanyám mindig látta, de nem szólt semmit.

Abban az időben megismertem egy hölgyet, aki a véradó központnál dolgozott. Megkértem, csinálhassak aktot róla. Csak nagyanyám volt otthon, anyám dolgozott, Irénke meg iskolába volt, és Jenő is el volt tűnve, hát bementünk a fehér szobába az ablakon keresztül. Miután én lerajzoltam, eldugtam a képeket, ha jön Edit haza, ne lássa meg. Éjjel aztán egyszer az én kövér kis nagymamám leszállt az ágyáról, s hallom, hogy szólít jiddisül: ‘Egonka, alszol? Nem tudom miért beszélt velem jiddisül, de megébredtem. ‘Meni egy kicsit arrább’, mondta. Nagyanyám mellém feküdt, és akkor folytatta súgva: ‘Te azt hiszed, hogy a nagyanyád ilyen buta, elmaradott öregasszony?’ Éjjel két vagy három óra lehetett, néztem milyen beszélgetés ez. 18-19 éves lehettem, nem értettem hirtelen, mi ez. Azt mondja: ‘Te, bementem Edit szobájába, megnéztem azokat a rajzokat, gyönyörűek! Milyen jól csinálod, de különben miért hozod be az ablakon a nőket?’ (Azt is tudta.) ‘Hozd be az ajtón, van műkávém, megkínálom vele, nagyon szép az a rajz róla.’ Büszke volt nagyanyám az unokájára, pedig vallásos volt a lelke mélyén. Ki akarta fejezni, hogy ne titkolózzak, mert ő segít engem abban, hogy rajzoljak, ami nagy dolog volt, hogy meztelen fenekeket rajzolok. Az én nőim, nagyanyám és anyám, szenzációsak voltak, mindig meghatódok amikor eszembe jutnak ezeket a történetek.

Nagyon sok jiddis szót használt az anyám és a nagyanyám. Jiddisről magyarra fordították a szót, aztán meg fordítva, így tárgyaltak. Azt mondja: ‘Bertuska, zist du vest it?’, Akkor magyarra tértek, hogy ’Na nézd meg mit csinált!’ Jenőre érthették, ha valamit hanyagságból otthagyott a fekvőhelyén. Mind a ketten olvasottak voltak. Általában egy-egy könyvet végigolvastak, s aztán vitatták. Akkoriban Dosztojevszkijt olvastak nagyon sokat.

Az 1940-es évek elején, amikor már magyarok voltak itt Erdélyben, kitették a zsidókat a magyarországi főiskolákról. Köztük volt két vagy három nagy művész is, akik összeálltak és alapítottak egy magán iskolát Pesten. Eljöttek Erdélybe zsidó tehetségkutatásra, csak nem tudtak biztosítani Pesten ösztöndíjat. Zsidó vonalon ismertek engem a városban, s megsúgták nekik, hogy van egy Lövith nevezetű, aki jól fest. Bemutattam a munkáimat, és első helyezést nyertem náluk. De ott volt a probléma, hogy nekem kellett volna fizetni a tandíjat, vagy kellett volna egy zsidó, aki pénzelné nekem az első évet. Azt mondták: ‘ha tehetséges vagy, a többit biztosítjuk neked’. Elmentem egy nagy zsidó petróleum tulajdonoshoz, Adlerhez, az állomáson túl voltak a nagy tartályai. Az azt mondta, hozzak neki munkákat. Vittem neki 5-6 munkát, de az nem volt elég, és behordatott velem vagy 30 munkát: kicsi szobrokat, képeket. Otthagytam mindent és mikor mentem, hogy adjon nekem írást, hogy támogat, azt mondta, ‘Ide figyelj, látom tehetséged az van, de én nem veszem a magam lelkiismeretére a támogatásodat. Te családfenntartó vagy. Adjak neked egy évre támogatást, hogy elmenj aztán 4-5 évre, legyél egy éhenkórász művész? Hagyod, hogy éhen haljon a családod? Magadat sem fogod tudni eltartani.’ Nem adott pénzt. Ezen bukott el, hogy én nem jutottam el Pestre.

A Zsidlicesek [Zsidó Líceum diákjai] 9 ismertek engem, tudták, hogy rajzolok és már voltak akkor szobraim is, és egyszer csak felhívatott Antal Márk 10 [néhai igazgató] egyik helyettese az iskolába – mert nem találtak hirtelen egy szobrászt –, hogy gyorsan készítsem el Antal Márk halotti maszkját, mert holnap lesz a temetése. (Azt hiszem, hogy találkoztam előzőleg Antal Márkkal, amikor jött a pesti pályázati lehetőség, akkor felkerestem őt is, hogy adjon nekem ajánlást, és nem tudom miért, de nem mondta, hogy ő ad segítséget. Ha más nem ad, akkor jöjjek vissza, valami ilyesmit mondott.) Vittem akkor gipszet, amivel a negatívot levettem, hogy aztán megmintáztam, majd kiöntsem. Eléggé el volt hízva, telt arcával, erős állával és erős pofacsonttal olyan római szenátor képe volt. A szeme le volt hunyva. Teljesen bekentem petróleumos viasszal az arcát, majd bedugtam az orrát és a füleit vattával, hogy ne menjen be a gipsz. Nem szívesen csináltam ezt a hullával, de nem volt mit csinálni. A nyaknál tettem neki egy védőt agyagból, így zártam le a maszkot. Otthon kiszárítottam és kiöntöttem, egy kicsit patináztam sárga festékkel, olyan halott viaszos fehér lett. A legnehezebb az volt nekem, hogy nem volt még gyakorlatom, de sikerült valahogy megcsinálni. Oda adtam nekik, hogy aztán ők hova tették, nem tudom, de a halotti maszk megvolt még hosszú ideig, mert még sokan hivatkoztak rá a Zsidlicesek közül.

Nekem sikerült bekerülni a Globuszhoz, ahol két antipatikus zsidó volt a tulajdonos. Egy nagy dioptriás fehérnép volt az egyik, a másik egy barátságtalan öreg volt, aki alig fogadta a köszönést. Volt négy nagy gépje, nagyon nehéz karja volt a gépeknek. Műanyagot kellett betenni fém formába, és azt forrósággal, villamossággal megolvasztotta. Akkor azt le kellett szedni még forrón, de úgy, hogy nagyon kellett vigyázni, hogy ne törjön le, mert minél többet törtél le, annál többet fizettél, levonták a fizetésedből. Ha nem csináltad kifogástalanul, minden darabnak megvolt az ára. Volt még három magyar fiú a másik három gépnél, és én voltam az egyedüli zsidó. Ezek kemény, nagy izomzatú legények voltak, a fizikai munkához hozzá voltak szokva. Én nem bírtam úgy, mint ők, úgy hogy mindig volt különbség volt a fizetésekkel. Mind mondta nekem az igazgató: ‘Maga miért hagyja magát, miért nem csinál annyit, mint ők?’. ‘Én igyekszem, mondtam, de nem megy.’ ‘Ez nem jó nekem se, hogy maga ilyen keveset csinál’ – és ezzel kaptam egy csendes fenyegetést. Nem tettek ki, mert igyekeztem dolgozni.

Mielőtt elvittek volna engem munkaszolgálatra, akkor Jancsi nagybátyám még levelezett Amerikából a családdal és Editnek küldött egy töltőtollat és öt dollárt. Nekem semmilyen személyes kontaktusunk nem volt vele. Csak fényképről láttam, az utolsó fényképen emlékszem, már egy nagy amerikai ősz hajú, meghízott, jól öltözött férfi volt. Nem jött egyetlen egyszer sem haza, kizárólag csak Edittel tartotta a kapcsolatot, miután Hari eltűnt a háborúba. Utána nem tudom, mi történt, nem is volt halálhíre, hogy meghalt volna.

Hari az 1940-es években házasodott meg, de még előtte külön költözött. Elvett egy magyar zsidó leányt, de nem emlékszem, hogy hívták, sosem találkoztam vele, nem is tartotta velünk a kapcsolatot, és lett egy gyermekük is. A családunkból Harit vitték el leghamarabb munkaszolgálatra, Ukrajnába. Valakik mesélték nekem, akik Harival voltak, hogy az aknaszedésnél volt, és utána nem hallottunk róla többet semmi hírt. Más szerint, eltörte a lábát és az ottani körülmények között fertőzésben halt meg vagy lelőtték. A felesége itt maradt a gyerekkel Kolozsváron, de nem tudok róluk semmit, hogy mi lett velük.

[1936-tól a munkaszolgálatig], egész végig együtt laktam Jenővel. Jenő nem végzett csak egyszerű iskolát. Sokáig nem nősült meg, jó kedélyű volt, élte a világát. Órásnak készült, még az apám adott neki igazolást, s a munkakamaránál is igazolta, hogy ő készítette fel. Az órások mind ismerték Jenőt. Unta az órásságot, bár kitűnő órás volt. Időnként az órásoknál dolgozott, de sokszor kitették azokból az állásokból. Akkor elment nehéz fizikai munkára, amitől annyira leromlott a keze, hogy többé nem vállalkozott óra javításra. Jenőt hamarabb vitték be, mint engem, Magyarországon volt munkaszolgálaton egész 1944-ig. Budapesten is volt, de nehéz megmondani, hogy hol kellett ő dogozzon, ásson. Szakácskodott is, mint munkaszolgálatos, aztán hazajött.

[Egon 1944 februárjában kapott behívót Nagybányára, nem tudja pontosan, hogy hogyan alakult a családja helyzete a deportáláskor, csak annyit tud, amit másoktól hallott.] Azt tudom, hogy a téglagyárba vitték édesanyámat, nagyanyámat és a kicsi húgomat. Hárman voltak egy darabig, amíg együtt hagyták őket, egy nő mesélte nekem, hogy együtt vagonírozták be. 1950-ben találkoztam ezzel, aki mondta, hogy az édesanyámmal együtt dolgozott az Ufaromban, mint munkás. Azt mondta, rettenetes volt, 100-an voltak a vagonban, étlen, szomjan ültek, a nagyanyámat már holtan szedték ki a vagonból, nem bírta ki. Mikor megérkeztek Auschwitzba, volt ott egy pár zsidó, akik elvették a csomagokat, és azok mondták nekik: ‘Látjátok ott, azt a kéményt? Fél óra múlva ott jösztök ki, azon a füstön.’ S akkor oda kerültek Irénkével együtt Mengele elé, és Irénkét rögtön a másik oldalra utasította. [Szerk megj.: Csak feltételezés, hogy éppen Mengele szelektálta az embereket.] Tehát anyám már tudta, hogy Irénke halálra van ítélve. ‘És akkor fogta magát – meséli a nő –, a maga édesanyja kézen fogta leányát és ment a halálba. Többet nem tudok. Én életben maradtam, és ha az édesanyja velem marad, talán ő is életben marad, 40 éves volt, még jó erőben volt az édesanyja és bírtuk volna.’

Engem 1942-ben hívtak be először úgynevezett kisegítő előképzésre [a levente gyakorlatozás helyett], de csak minden héten egy napot kellett menni. A kaszárnyába kellett gyülekezni. Ott felolvasták a nevet, majd masírozva, szerszámmal, lapáttal mentünk ki a munkahelyre. A sárga karszalagot kötelezővé tették. Eleinte adtak egy honvéd sapkát, tisztelegtem is, de a tisztek kikérték maguknak, s elvették a sapkát. És persze az is rossz magatartás volt, ha egy kicsi masírozás közben énekeltünk. A Hójába [Kolozvár közelébe] vittek sípályát és erdőírtást csinálni, vagy a Szécsényi téren mi pucoltuk ki a tavat, egész napi munkák voltak. Aztán a kaszárnyába kellett visszakozni, s akkor onnan engedtek haza. Ezt csináltam, amíg el nem vittek 1944 februárjában.

Amikor megkaptam a behívót 1944-ben, hogy el kell menjek munkaszolgálatra, egy kérésem volt a Glóbusz tulajdonoshoz. Nagyon szépen kértem – nem hivatkoztam a zsidóságomra –, adjon ki nekem előre egy plusz fizetést, mert itt kell hagyjam anyámat, nagyanyámat és a húgomat, akiknek én viszem haza azt a liter tejet és a kenyeret. Visszajövök majd és megdolgozok érte. Nem voltak hajlandóak adni. Mikor visszajöttem még élt az a két ember, itt maradtak, nem voltak deportálva, nem tudom hogy sikerült nekik. S akkor mindjárt oda jöttek hozzám s vállon veregetet, hogy ‘Jaj de jó, hogy életbe maradt, indítjuk az üzemet, gondoltunk arra, hogy visszajön’. De én azt mondtam: ‘Magukhoz én nem megyek többet dolgozni, elegem volt’.

Edit terhes lett, de engem akkor már elvittek munkaszolgálatra. Edit mentesül a deportálás elől, mert a Széchényi téri zsidó korházba ment szülni. Ez Samunak az érdeme, mert ő rakta be oda, ő közben szabadon csellengett, jött-ment. A keresztények, akik ott voltak, bujtatták. 1944-ben a szüléskor levitték Editet a pincébe és ott szülte meg a Liát. Nem igyekeztek kihozni a korházból, még ott maradt hosszú ideig a gyerekkel. Samu nagyon ügyesen intézte, nem volt gettóban, se nem deportálták, mivel tudta igazolni valamilyen iratokkal, hogy ő német származású [ami nem volt igaz]. Bécsi iskolája volt, jól beszélte a német nyelvet és elhitette, hogy ő Bécsből jött, nem kötötte senkinek az orrára, hogy innen mentem Bécsbe. 1945-ben született a másik gyerek Judit.

1944-ben behívtak munkaszolgálatra, a 110/63-as katonai egységbe osztottak be Nagybányára. Kolozsváron még mindegyikünknek volt hátizsákja és civil ruhában mentünk, de csak egyeseknek volt bakancsuk. Nekem nem volt bakancsom, hanem egy papírtalpú cipőm, amit a zsidó egylettől kaptam mielőtt elmentünk volna, de a cipőből kinn volt a lábam. A saját ruhánkban voltunk, de voltak köztünk gazdag zsidó gyerekek, akik felöltőzve nagy bakanccsal, gyönyörű szövetnadrágokkal, meleg bélelt kabáttal jöttek, sőt tartalékba is volt bakancsuk. Olyan puffadt volt az arcuk a kövérségtől, hogy dülledt ki a szemük. Leültek, hogy egyék meg a kajájukat, de nem osztották meg a többiekkel. Én nem is kértem, annál büszkébb voltam. Jellemző, hogy mekkora osztálykülönbség volt köztünk, zsidók között is. Rettenetesen fájt a lábam azon a köves úton menni, s valaki ott mellettem látta, hogy kinn lóg a lábam a cipőből, és mondta: ‘Adjátok oda Egonnak azt a jó bakancsot’, de nem adták. Nagybányára szédítően meredek utakat tettünk meg, le a hegyről a patakig, onnan vissza. Első éjszakán már rajtunk ütött a hatóság, hogy: sorakozó, leülni, kinyitni a csomagokat. Az első dolog volt, hogy elvették a pénzünket, az óráinkat, s maradtunk egy fillér nélkül. A második alkalomkor elvették a jobb ruhákat. Tőlem nem volt mit elvegyenek, mert nekem kinn volt a fenekem a nadrágból, olyan rossz volt. Harmadik rajtaütéskor már elvették a bakancsokat is. Még mondták: ‘Na látjátok szarháziak, nem adta oda a bakancsot, s most neki sincs bakancsa’.

Nagybányáról aztán Bajára kerültem, nem tudom, hogy az pontosan mennyire van messze Budapesttől. Lövészárkokat és légelhárítókat kellett csináljunk. Baján meglehetősen szabadon voltunk, a vasárnapokon hagyták, hogy menjünk a Duna mellékfolyójára fürödni, úgy hogy egész nap ott voltunk, csak ebédre jöttünk haza. Elhagyott kaszárnyában laktunk primitív körülmények között, és istállókban is laktunk, úgy kellett leugrálni a padlásról. A honvédek őriztek minket a kaszárnyában. Akik nem mozogtak elég gyorsan, azokba a honvédok belé szúrtak szuronnyal, én is kaptam egy szúrást.

Aztán Törökbálintra kerültem, ahol egy honvéd engem választott ki, hogy menjünk be Budapestre, a beszerző központba, hogy valami csomagokat hozzunk. Ezek a honvédok még egyszerű parasztokból, munkásokból tevődtek össze, nem voltak éppen olyan vadak, mint a nyilasok. Vonattal mentünk be Budapestre. Budapesten elvégeztük a dolgunkat, de valamiért éjszakára ott kellett maradjunk és azt mondta: ‘Magát itt hagyom, jövök reggel magáért, s aztán megyünk vissza. Hol lesz, hol kapom meg?’ Magázott, nem tegezett. Én kijöttem az utcára. Valahol a Király utca környékén volt ez. Én elkezdtem járkálni, meg akartam nézni a várost, ahogy jöttem-mentem, akkor történt a Horthy proklamáció [1944 október 15-én]. Valami olyasmi volt, hogy kijelentették a rádióban, hogy Magyarország leteszi a fegyvert. 24 óra alatt a nyilasok, Szálasiék vették át a hatalmat egész Magyarországot. Én ott voltam kinn az utcán, és nem tudtam ezt. Azt hittem, hogy még mindig Horthy Miki világa van és visszamegyek a zsidó családhoz, ahol az éjszakát fogom tölteni. És jött velem szembe egy magyar és azt mondja: ‘Maga munkaszolgálatos, – a szalag rajtam volt –, vegye le azt a szalagot! Ugye maga zsidó? Azonnal tűnjön el, Szálasiék jöttek uralomra!’ Én nem voltam addig Budapestem, úgyhogy teljesen elvesztettem magam a helyzetben.

Beérkeztem egy köztérre, s ott a tankok összezártak minket. Én megriadtam és elszaladtam akkor. De estére már nem bírtam a bizonytalanságot, hogy hogyan meneküljek el, s ahogy csavarogtam, elérkeztem a Duna-parthoz. A Duna-parton nagy házak voltak, s láttam a zsidó jelzésű házakat, de ki voltak már ürítve. Találtam egy nyitott ablakot, ha jól emlékszem, ott bemásztam. Nem volt senki a házban, ott megbújtam. Fel tudtam menni a második emeletre. Ott voltam egész éjszaka. Egy napot töltöttem ott, de a második nap nagyon éhes lettem. Volt valami forint nálam, – mert a honvéd adott pénzt, mivel úgy egyezkedtünk, hogy valamit majd veszek magamnak –, s akkor kinéztem az ablakon és láttam, hogy szemben van egy élelmiszer-fűszerüzlet és nagyon ritkán jött egy-egy kuncsaft. Akkor elhatároztam, lemegyek és vásárolok valamit. Persze a karszalagnak látszott a helye, s rongyos voltam, mint egy nyomorult. Kértem valami kétszersültet vagy pogácsát, és én elmentem. Visszamentem a házhoz, körül néztem, és amikor láttam, hogy nem néz senki, beugrottam az ablakon. Nagy három szobás bútorozott lakás volt, a házból jól láttam a Duna partot. Ahogy majszoltam, kinéztem az ablakon, le az utcára, és láttam a bolt tulajdonost a fehér kötényével – igen gyanús spicli kinézésű pasas –, hogy mutat arra az ablakra, ahol én látható voltam. Ebből tudtam, hogy vége lesz a bujkálásnak, megláttak. Fogtam magam, felmentem az emeleten, amíg találtam egy nyitott padlásajtót, és fel tudtam menni a padlásra. Félelmemben, hogy jönnek, ott bujkáltam. És tényleg feljöttek. Kezdek kutatni, én meg kimásztam a háztetőre. Ősz volt, hideg volt, mint a nyavalyatörés. Meghúzódtam a legtávolabbi kéménynél, ahova kellett bizony egy kicsit menni, csakhogy nekem már volt gyakorlatom. (Sokszor kellett a padlásra is menni, amikor a szállítási vállalatnál dolgoztam.) Hallottam a hangokat, hogy beszéltek, hallottam, hogy csapodnak az ajtók, kijöttek a tetőre, s aztán eltűntek. Ott maradtam egész éjjel a padláson, nem mertem lemenni, borzasztóan fáztam. Megettem az utolsó kétszersültet s dideregtem. Másnap elhatároztam, hogy otthagyom a házat. Mikor már sötétedett lementem, és egy adott pillanatban kimentem az utcára. Megint elindultam, de visszatértem arra a térre, ahonnan megszöktem, a tigrisek [a német tankok] elől. De most a rendőrök kaptak el.

Látszott rajtam, hogy munkaszolgálatos vagyok. Azonnal letartóztattak, de nem bilincseltek meg, hanem betuszkoltak egy zárt autóba. Nem volt időm észlelni, hogy hányan vannak, kik vannak ott. Jól összezsúfoltak minket, ‘igazolatlan embereket’. Akiket elkaptak, azok főleg munkaszolgálat alól léptek meg. Egyenesen a Mária Terézia laktanyába vittek. Már nem volt mit elvenni tőlem, mert olyan szegény csóró voltam. Enni alig adtak valamit.

Onnan Kistarcsára vittek internáló táborba, ahol a politikai foglyokkal voltam együtt, oda vitték a zsidókat és a magyarországi kommunistákat. Eléggé szigorú rendszer volt a táborban, de szolidaritás volt a foglyok között, a kommunisták értették egymást [összetartottak]. Érződött egy kicsit, hogy a kommunisták szerveződtek, csináltak tervet [megbeszélték], hogy mi lesz, ha vége lesz a háborúnak. Nagyon remélték, hogy a Szovjetunió bekerül ebbe a térségbe. Nem tudnám megmondani, hogy egy hétig, kettő, három, vagy egy jó hónapig voltunk ott. Nem engedtek ki a szabadba, állandóan börtönbe voltunk zárva. Teltek a napok, dobtak be nekünk valami moslékot, hogy éppen együnk. Nagy probléma volt, ha vizelni kellett menni, nem lehetett csak úgy kimenni, összegyűjtöttek, és egy külön menetbe őrséggel kellett menni a vécére. Jó pár hétre rá összehozták megint a 110/63-as szakaszt, a törökbálinti maradékot, és gyalogmenetbe tettek minket és kivittek minket a magyar határig. Éjszakára mindig betereltek minket egy téglagyárba. Vagy három-négy napot mentünk a határig, átvittek osztrák földre, a határ után a vonat már megjött, és betettek minket a vonatba.

Megérkeztünk Németországba, Türkheimba. Éjjel volt, kutyaugatás, óriási lárma, ordítás, kiabálás, kevés fény, fenyves erdő mellettünk. Gyalog mentünk. Egy láger mellett haladtunk el. ‘Auss, auss schnell!’[Ki, ki, gyorsan], kaptam egy-egy rúgást, ütést. A láger úgy nézett ki, hogy nincs senki benne, nem láttunk foglyokat. Kiderült, hogy ez egy új láger. Emlékszem a gyantaszagra. A barakkoknak csak tetejük volt, s le kellett lemenni a barakkba, mert a földbe voltak építve. Mindegyikben volt egy nyomorult kis kályha és egy keskeny kicsi ablak a földdel egy szintben, onnan jött egyedül világosság. Ezek nem voltak nagy barakkok. Két oldalt voltak az ágyak végig, ilyen folytonos deszkák. Azt hiszem úgy 30-an voltunk egyik oldalon, és 50-60-an egy egész barakkban. Összesen 200-240-en voltunk a táborban, mind munkaszolgálatosok. Az őrségnek is ott voltak a barakkjaik. A németek görög zsidó foglyokat tettek oda őrségnek, akik borzasztóan vertek, nagyon durvák voltak. Aztán volt egy nagy konyha, volt a revier – az egészségügyi hely – és az irodák. Volt olyan barakk is, ahova a németek csak a ruhaneműeket gyűjtötték össze. Azt hiszem 8-10 barakk lehetett összesen. Ez Dachaunak egy altábora volt, egy munkatábor. Az elején csak férfiak voltunk, csak később hoztak nőket a táborba.

Mindig vittek egy gyárba, nagy bunkerekbe, ahol Fau 1-es, Fau-2-es repülőgépeket gyártottak. Pokoli lárma és rettentő nagy sötétség volt, fény alig látszott. Kicsi kis emberek voltunk ott, nagy homok köveket, építkezési anyagokat kellett nekünk ide-oda szállítani. Muszáj volt dolgozni, mert olyan jéghideg volt, hogy hiába akartál megbújni, hogy úgy csinálj, mintha dolgoznál, mert inkább dolgoztunk, csak ne fázzunk. Ott német felügyelőknek voltunk adva, karszalaggal kellett dolgozni. Hiába voltam vékony, de életre való, szívós gyerek voltam. Az otthoni nehéz munka, a cipelés jót tett nekem, nagyon jól bírtam magam. Aztán rövid idő múlva megszüntették a gyárat és áttettek minket Dachauba.

Dachau egy rettentő hely volt, volt krematórium is ott. Ott a piszoktól, mocsoktól, be nem gyógyult sebektől elkaptam a flektifuszt, csak én titkoltam. Nem akartam jelentkezni, hogy beteg vagyok, mert nem lehet tudni, mit csinálnak aztán a betegekkel. Szörnyű 7 km-es menetek a hóban, fatalpú cipőben, legyengülve, amikor vittek munkára. És visszafele is 7 km-t kellett jönni este sötétben. Ha valakinek a nagy fatalpú cipőjére rárakodott a hó s kibicsaklott a lába, lesett s jajgatott. S akkor hallottuk, hogy: pák, lelőtték. Nem volt időnk megnézni, ki volt, mert hajtottak: ‘Loss! Loss!’. Én nagyon igyekeztem menni, mert aki hátra maradt, azzal mindig valami baj történt. Én sportos fiú voltam, jó nagy iramba mentem, de már úgy szédültem a betegségtől, hogy nekiütődtem az első vezető őrnek. Ebből tragikus dolog lett, mert visszafordult és a puskatussal úgy szájba vágott, hogy ott helyben kiütötte nekem az összes fogaimat. (Azóta műfogsorom van.) Éreztem a számba valami sós, meleg lét, azt hittem ott ájulok el. Aztán később tudtam meg, hogy egy holland fasiszta volt, aki beilleszkedett az SS-ekhez.

Egyszer, amikor visszaérkeztünk Dachauba, nagy szerencse történt velünk. A türcheimi láger führer, akinél voltunk, tudta, hogy jön a háború vége, a felszabadítók bombáznak mindent, és meg akarta úszni az egészet szárazon, ezért vigyázott nagyon a munkaszolgálatos foglyaira és visszavitte őket a táborába. Ha Dachauhoz hasonlítom, akkor később Türcheimben egy normális, rendes élet volt, nem vertek. Amikor sorba kellett állni az ételért csak kiabáltak ránk, vagy lökdöstek, vagy mondtak valamit csúnyán. Nem is tudom, ha létezett magasfeszültségű kerítés a tábor körül. A katonák, akik őriztek minket, nem SS-ek voltak, hanem Vermachtosok. Volt ott szabó- és cipőműhely, jöttek oda német katonák, hogy valamit csináljanak nekik, még cigarettát is kaptak tőlük. Amikor visszakerültem Türkheimbe, rögtön be kellett valljam, hogy én tífuszos vagyok. Bevittek a revierbe [a lábadozók barakkjába], ahol voltak valami orvosok rabruhában, de nem voltak tisztító meg fertőtlenítő szereik. Rövid idő múlva kezdődött a láz és látták, hogy nem képesek semmit sem csinálni velem. Közben felépült a halálbarakk, a tífuszosok bódé, és átvittek mindenkit oda, aki flekktífuszos lett. Körülvették dróttal, villany volt, meg reflektor, őrök az őrhelyről láttak minket, nem lehetett mozogni. Semmilyen kezelést nem kaptunk. Nekünk volt külön árnygödör ásva a barakk mellett. Eleinte sokan voltuk, 20-30-an, hoztak ennivalót, még valaki benézett, de utoljára már nem nézett be senki és ennivalót sem kaptunk. Csak ketten maradtunk életben Schwartz Sándorral, egy kolozsvári ügyes fiatalemberrel, aki kereskedő volt. Állandóan bágyadt állapotban voltunk, és nem észleltük, mi történik körülöttünk. Egy idő után nagyon nagy volt a csend, távol már hallatszott az ágyúzás.

Őrség ott már nem volt, egy lámpa sem égett talán. Kicsit nyomasztó csend volt a lágerben és nem láttuk a többieket, s akkor elterveztük, hogy elszökünk. Nagyon le voltunk gyengülve, de már túl voltunk a betegségen. Azt tudtuk, hogy külön el voltunk drótokkal kerítve. Úgy láttuk jónak, hogy kiássuk magunkat a drótok alatt, hogy ott szökjünk meg, mert nem tudtunk volna a kapunál kisétálni. Kicsit ködös idő volt, felhős volt az ég. Addig kúsztunk ott a szemét mellett – mert oda gyűjtötték hozzánk a konyháról a szemetet, ételmaradékokat, krumpli héjak –, amíg éreztük, hogy hol puhább a föld. Mind találgattuk, van-e magas feszültség a drótban, de ez egy szimpla drót volt, mert általában folyosót hagynak két drót között, ha van magasfeszültség. Kapartunk egy lyukat, s kúszva átmásztunk. Az erdő kb. 15-20 m-re volt tőlünk és egy futás alatt akartuk odaérni, amikor nincs megvilágítva az a rész reflektorral. Sáros falusi út volt ott. Felkeltünk s elkezdtünk szaladni. Beszaladtunk az erdőbe, de annyira kimerültünk, hogy ott lebuktunk a földre és lihegtünk. De aztán rögtön fel kellett kelljünk, s mentünk egész éjjel. Azt hiszem nekem jutott eszembe s javasoltam, váljunk el, mert így csak egy sansz van a menekülésre, ha mind a kettőnket elkapnának együtt, de ha szétválunk, akkor két sansz van. Elfogadta az ajánlatot. A bajor erdőben rettenetesen sötét és hideg volt, április végén volt ez.

Az erdő túlsó oldalán volt egy városka, szép házakkal. Nem mertem elindulni, mert merre menjek, hova menjek? És akkor hirtelen megpillantottam egy nagy fedett bútorszállító kocsit. Ferdén állt, a tengelye el volt törve, a hátsó részéből lógott kifele a szalma, és nyitva volt az ajtaja, elhagyott volt. Borzasztóan le voltam gyengülve, s az első gondolatom az volt, hogy bemászok oda és egyet alszom. Egyszer csak hallom a hátam mögött, hogy ‘Jude’, már ott volt egy németet. Láttam egy fekete ruhás, 40 körüli pasast, gondoltam kész, végem van. S akkor rámszólt: ‘Schnell, schnell, komm!’ [Gyorsan, gyorsan, gyere]. Nem kapcsoltam arra, hogy ‘komm’, [gyere]. Ilyenkor meg szoktak lökni, s azt mondják: indulj és megyünk-megyünk. Amikor a fekete hátat néztem, elkezdtem csodálkozni, hogy miért vagyok én hátul, és ő elől. [Az őrök mindig hátul maradtak, hogy ne tudják hátba támadni őket.] De nem volt nekem erőm facipővel elszaladni, és úgyis utolért volna. ‘Schnell, schnell!’ és mondott ott nekem németül. Egy vasúti munkás volt, sötét uniformisa volt. Kerülő úton elvitt a lakására. A háza kicsit kintebb volt a faluból, a kert felől mentünk be, s kijött az asszony. Első dolga volt, hogy azt mondja: ‘Nein-nein, du bist verücht!’, ‘Bolond vagy teljesen, ez a lágerből van’. ‘Tudom, fogd be a szádat!’ Levetkőztetett, letépte rólam a dolgokat és kidobta az ablakon a kertbe. Közben az asszony hozott lúgos meleg vizet, lefektettek úgy ahogy voltam meztelenül, elkezdtek engem dörzsölni. Többet nem tudok, mert elvesztettem az eszméletemet. Nem tudom mennyi időt aludhattam, de arra ébredtem meg, hogy derengő világosságot látok és aztán rájöttem, hogy egy pincében vagyok. Éreztem, nagyon melegem van. Kiderült, hogy lefektettek valamilyen ágyba és dunyhákat, paplanokat tettek rám. Aztán lejöttek, felvittek a konyhába, s megint rendbe szedtek engem, adtak valami ruhát. Kaptam mindjárt valami tejeskávét, s egy kis kenyeret is, s kezdtek engem táplálni. A pincében aludtam, s időnként ébresztettek fel és hoztak fel a konyhába. Egy alaklommal mikor fenn voltam, verik az ajtót. Kinéztek ezek: a német katonák vonultak vissza és meg akartak melegedni. Már nem tudtak elrejteni engem, s megegyeztünk, hogy olasz fogoly leszek, akinek menedéket adtak. Bejöttek a németek fegyveresen, úgy, ahogy voltak. Volt ott nagy beszélgetés. Valamit mondtam nekik, hogy ‘Ich bin italian, io sono italiano.’ Próbáltak ők is mondani olaszul, de nem tudtak. De akkor már ők sem voltak nagyon kíváncsiak, ők is rosszul néztek ki, le voltak fogyva, szakállasok voltak. Aztán elmentek.

Egy idő után a szomszédok is tudomásul vették, hogy ott vagyok és sokan mások is befogadtak már lágerlakókat, ez már nem volt újdonság. Két hétig voltam náluk. Bementem a városkába, hogy lássam mi a helyzet és ott nagy ribillió volt, mert a francia foglyok, akik szintén kiszabadultak a lágerből, mind feltörték az üzleteket, betörtek minden félét. Az egyik látta, hogy csak ott állok és nézek, s azt mondja: ‘Viens avec nous!’ [Gyere velünk]. Kiderült, hogy egy cipőüzletet is teljesen kiraboltak, ami csupa kolozsvári Dermata cipővel, bakancsokkal volt tele. Fogták magukat és vagy 12 pár cipőt raktak a vállamra, hogy azt hittem összeesek. Én azt hazavittem és a németnek adtam az összes cipőt. Valamelyik francia látta, hogy ruha is kell nekem, s voltak ugyancsak valami román szövetek – teljesen új volt, rá volt nyomtatva egy híres román szövet neve –, abból három métert letépett, és azt is a vállamra tette.

Nem mentünk el a városkából, amíg az amerikaiakat be nem jöttek. Akkor visszamentem Türkheimbe, a táborba. A német katonák kaszárnyája és a barakkok is üresen maradt. Akkor derült ki, hogy míg mi előzőleg Dachauban voltunk, addig lett női részlege a türcheimi tábornak, de mire a láger führer visszahozott minket, addig a nőket elvitték valahová, de egy pár nő megszökött. Margó, a későbbi feleségem is megszökött és visszajött Türkheimba. A nők, akik visszaszöktek, ott aludtak valahol a barakkokban. A konyhában maradt valami élelmiszer, krumpli meg ilyesmi, és próbáltak maguknak ételeket főzni. Úgy ismertem meg Margót, hogy láttam, hogy füstöl a konyha és bementem. Láttam két lányt és egy öregembert, hogy nagy üstben kavarták az ételt. Én akkor rájuk ripakodtam, hogy: ‘Nem tudjátok, vége a háborúnak, azonnal hagyjátok itt ezt a helységet’. Margó megmagyarázta nekem pár szóban, hogy el akarták vinni őket, de megszöktek és nagyon éhesek. Aztán megtudtam, hogy ez a két lány mehetett volna a városkába, és nem csak azért maradtak a táborba, mert éhesek voltak. Néhány mondat után kiderült, hogy van vagy 20-27 beteg, akiknek főztek.

Margó Ravensbrückben kapott egy szörnyű kezelést, amitől gyermektelen lett. A nők le kellett vetkőzzenek meztelenre, utána természetesen lenyírták a hajukat. Margóra is rákerült a sor, odament a borbélyhoz és az SS nő egyszer csak azt mondta: ‘Nein, disest nicht die hare!’, neki ne vágd le a haját. Margó mondta később: ‘Majdnem térdre estem előtte, könyörögni kezdtem, hogy vágja le a hajamat, mert nem bírom, mert tetves vagyok.’ Az nem is akar hallani róla. [Valószínű dacból nem vágták le a haját, mert annyira akarta, de ez csak feltételezés.] Margó beállt a sorba s ment a fürdőbe. Nagy meglepetés volt, amikor a felszabadulás után láttam, hogy a többi lánynak mind milyen kicsi haja van, és Margó megjelenik nekem egy nagy fekete hajjal. A konyhában, az első pillanatban nem láttam, mert le volt kötve egy kendővel, de egyszer csak láttam, leveszi a kendőt, megrázza a haját, kibomlik a nagy fekete haja. ‘Te jó Isten, honnan van neked ilyen nagy hajad? Mi történt?’, s akkor elmesélte.

A munkaszolgálatos férfiak is kezdtek visszajönni a táborba. Sanyi is valahonnan előkerült, elmesélte, hogy őt is egy német fogadta be. Az SS-eseknek a barakkjaiban húztuk meg magunkat, éjjelre pokrócunk is volt. Számításom szerint még három hetet töltöttünk Türkheimban. Akkor a fiúkkal összeálltunk – voltak máramarosi zsidó fiúk is, mind olyan tevékenyek voltak – s a lányokat gyámolítottuk, elkezdtünk ott mindenfélét csinálni. Az amerikaiak nem törődtek velünk, mentek tovább, mert nem volt vége még a háborúnak.

Szereztem cigaretta ellenében arany karikagyűrűket, s az egész társaság előtt eljegyeztük egymást Margóval. A táborlakók szereztek nekünk egy külön kunyhót az erdő szélén. Gyönyörű fehérre volt meszelve, s azt én kívülről kipingáltam indiánokkal. Ott laktunk Margóval, már mindenki férj-feleségnek tartott minket. Valami fekvőhelyet is improvizáltunk. Az amerikai hadseregben volt egy kis mexikói, ketten felfedeztük egymást, hogy beszélünk spanyolul. Rettenetesen tetszett neki a kunyhó fala, ameddig ott volt az amerikai hadsereg, állandóan jött, amikor szabad ideje volt. Látta, hogy nincs rendes öltözetem, s ő vette nekem az első zöld trikót, hozott alsónadrágokat, zsebkendőket, meg ilyesmiket.

Májusban adtak az amerikaiak szabad mozgási cédulákat, s szépen felraktak egy teherautóra és elvittek minket Feldafingba. Nem választottak szét minket Margóval. Több mint két hónapot voltunk ott karanténban. Persze élelmeztek minket, valami ruhákat adtak, amiket kaptak a német barakkokban. Egy-egy pokrócot is kaptunk. Margóval a kaszárnyának a padlásán kaptunk helyet, jó poros volt, még szalmánk sem volt. Alacsony volt a tető és nagyon nagy volt a meleg, mert már nyár volt. Kimehettünk a táborból, bementünk Münchenbe s ott lehetett jönni-menni, de vissza is kellett jönni éjszakára. Egyszer egy németet megbíztunk, hogy vigyen be kocsival, már pénzem is volt, és így szereztem festéket. Aztán értesítettek, hogy felszabadították Auschwitzot és meg kellett csinálni az orosz átlépőt, mert ha Magyarországra mentünk, az oroszoknak is kellett igazoljuk, hogy honnan jövünk. Az amerikaiak adtak nekünk deportált – úgy emlékszem fényképes – igazolványt, azzal jöttünk haza.

Marhaszállító vagonnal jöttünk, nem volt semmink, egy kis ruhatáron kívül, amit a mexikóitól kaptunk. A hazautazás nagyon kalandos volt. Összekerültünk egy máramarosszigeti csoporttal, vagy 10-12 ember, akik borzasztóan piszkosak voltak, veszekedtek, verekedtek. Valószínű úgy 20-an voltunk a vagonokban. Szalma nem volt a vagonokban, csak a pokrócunkat tettük le, s a csomagokon feküdtünk. Megálltunk bizonyos városoknál, egy-egy helyen vártak minket meleg étellel. Kihúzták a vonatunkat egy mellékvágányra, s ott adtak vizet, meg is lehetett mosakodni. Állandó konfliktusba kerültünk a vasúti igazgatósággal, mert ahol a vizet adták a mozdonyoknak ott leugrottunk, emlékszem, belemásztunk a hordókba és eresztettük magunkra a jó hideg vizet, mert meg lehetett bolondulni abba a meleg, száraz vagonokban. A vonat egészen behozott minket Budapestig.

Állt a vonat majdnem 15-16 órát Budapesten, s akkor mondtam Margónak, hogy nézzük meg kik élnek a családjából, majd visszajövünk az állomásra és megyünk Kolozsvárra, hogy lássa Kolozsvárt, hogy ott telepedünk le vagy itt Budapesten. Margóval akkor még nem döntöttünk, hogy hol fogunk élni. És ahogy leszálltunk a vonatról, abban a pillanatban ott termett egy kicsi tiszt fekete sújtásos ruhában, arany gombokkal. SS nadrágom volt és vermachtos csizmám, úgy ahogy a magyar hadseregben voltak a háború alatt. És akkor azt mondta a tiszt: ‘Maga le van tartóztatva, mert magán kincstári holmik vannak, azonnal kövessen!’ Erre összegyűlt vagy 14 ember, akikkel együtt jöttünk a vonaton Türkheimból meg máshonnan Németországból, és akkor azt mondtam nekik: ‘Ide figyeljetek, látjátok Horthy Miki katonáját? Le akar tartóztatni, azt mondja, kincstári holmi van rajtam.’ Erre morgolódni kezdtek s olyan fenyegetően néztek, hogy megijedt a tisztecske és felugrott egy arra menő villamosra és onnan kiabált: ‘Le vannak tartóztatva mindannyian!’ Erre azt mondtam Margónak: ‘Ide figyelj drágám, itt nem változott a mentalitása semmit. A lágerből jövök, s hallod hogy még mindig el akarnak vinni, ezek még mindig numerus claususban gondolkoznak. Gyere nézzük meg, kik élnek tőled és megyünk Kolozsvárra.’

Margó debreceni születésű volt, 1925-ben születet, proletár családból való volt. Szegény és nagyon vallásos asszony volt az anyja, szépen nézett ki fényképen. Az apja már gyermekkorukban meghalt tüdővészben, s anyagilag teljesen tönkrement a család. Két fiútestvére volt, az öccsét Sanyit elvitték egy lágerbe s nem jött vissza. A bátyja Ernő cipész lett Budapesten. Nem nősült meg. Olyan ügyes volt, hogy a deportálás alatt végig csellengett Budapesten magyar honvéd katona öltözetben, s nem deportálták. Vele Izraelben ismerkedtem meg később. Két leánytestvére volt: Rózsi, a nagyobbik és Évi kisebb nála Az özvegyasszony beadta a két kisebb leányát a budapesti Izraelita Leányintézetbe. Margó olyan 10-12 éves lehetett, és Évi olyan 5-6, és ott nevelkedtek egészen a deportálásig. Egy zsidó női leányintézet volt, a gazdag zsidó nők tartották fenn, mindent megadtak nekik. Fel kellett legyenek szépen öltözve, magas sarkú cipőjük volt. Olyan volt mint egy svájci nevelőintézetet, azzal a különbséggel, hogy mindegyik lányt mesterségre tanították. Rózsi nem volt egy iskolázott nő. Mosónő lett, házhoz járt és mosta a ruhákat, aztán később egy szállodában is dolgozott. Férjhez ment egy zsidó pasashoz, aki kereskedelemmel foglalkozott, lovakkal és szekérrel szállított, de olyan vallásos volt, hogy cicesszel járt. Rózsi is nagyon vallásos volt, de rosszul élt a férjéve. Lett két gyerekük. Rózsit az anyjával együtt eldeportálták Ausztriába. Az anyja ott megbetegedett és elpusztult. Rózsi visszakerült Budapestre

Margóval elmentünk, hogy lássuk kik maradtak meg a családjából. [Felkeresték a nagynénit, akinél Margó közvetlenül a deortálás előtt élt. Évával, a testvérével, akkor még nem találkozott, de tudta, hogy életben van, mert a leányintézetben lévőket nem deportálták és Éva ott élt a háború alatt.] Felkerestük a Leányintézet igazgatóját, s egyrészt találkoztunk azokkal, akikkel ő ott volt. Nagyon szép volt az intézet. A szobák tiszták, rendesek voltak, és nem volt semmilyen intézeti jellege. Az étkezőben leesett az állam, hogy nem padokon ültek, mint a verebek, hanem az asztalok voltak négy székkel. Azt tudom, hogy kellett mondani asztali áldás. Ők terítették meg az asztalokat, ők is szedték össze, vitték a tányérokat a konyhára. Egyébként volt személyzet, a mosást, vasalás nem velük csináltatták, de megtanították őket vasalni, varrni. Volt varrodájuk, s mindenkinek külön varrógépje. Margó ott tanult meg varrni. Még láttam, volt valamelyik teremben színpad, a zongora ott állt, tanultak énekelni. Kórusuk is volt, akik felléptek, volt nekik egy kis zsinagógájuk s ott. Margó szólista volt a kórusban. Volt egy tornaterem is. A Leányintézetben betartották az ünnepeket, csak modernek voltak. Szombaton nem dolgoztak. Biztos sétáltak is, mert gyönyörű kertje is volt az otthonnak, és kertészük is volt. A könyvtárból vettek ki könyvet, olvashattak esetleg valamit. Bankbetétje is volt az intézetnek, villamos bérletük és opera bérletük volt. Úgy tudom, hogy fizették nekik, addig amíg el nem mentek az intézetből.

Margónak öt gimnáziuma volt. Tanultak héberül az intézetben, mert az imádságot kellett tudják olvasni. Angolul is beszélt. Elvégezte Margó az inasiskolát [varrónőnek tanult] és segéd lett egy budapesti előkelő férfi fehérnemű szalonban. Ha már kerestek is, nem tették ki őket, még segédkorukban is ott maradhattak az otthonban. 14 évtől felfelé már ketten voltak egy szobában. Margó 16 éves koráig az otthonban lakott, az inaséveit ott töltötte, és akkor egy jómódú nagynénijéhez költözött. A nagynéni az anyja családból származott, ő is szegény volt, de szerencséje volt, hogy férjhez ment egy gazdag pasashoz, aki igazgató volt, vállalata volt. Tehát négy szobás, központi fűtéses, csempézett lakásba került Margó. De biztos kellett segítsen jócskán.

Margó nem maradt Magyarországon, egyenesen Kolozsvárra jöttünk. 1945 szeptemberében érkeztünk vissza, s vártak a barátok, akik szintén lágerben voltak nem tudom hol. Margó 20 évesen érkezett ide. Mindenki szerette őt. Azzal, hogy Margó a feleségem lett, minden ajtó megnyílt előttem. [Az emberek kedvesebben viszonyultak Egonhoz Margó barátságos természete miatt.] Nem volt egy nagy beszédű, mindig amikor mondott, megfontoltan szólt. Nem volt olyan kacagó, de mindig mosolygott, mindig derűs, kellemes volt. Margó jól érezte magát közöttünk, a társaságot is szerette, ahova jártam.

Mikor én visszajöttem a deportálásból, Jenő már itthon volt a munkaszolgálatból és dolgozott. Bekerült egy üzemhez, az Armaturaba, ami vas- és fémalkatrészek gyártásával foglalkozott. Mint ügyes embert rögtön felhasználták, előbb raktáros volt, amihez nem kellett szakképesítés és mivel imádott menni, elvállalta a beszerzői állást, és aztán a saját zsebéből fizette sokszor az autóbuszokat. Jött a csomagokkal, hozta az árút, megszervezte, hogy szállítsanak dolgokat, akkor állandóan Bukarest és Kolozsvár között utazott vonattal, mert az üzem küldte delegációba. Jenő rettenetesen sánta volt, mert csont tuberkulózisa volt és rosszul sikerült az operáció, de 40km-t is gyalogolt [a beszerzői tevékenysége során].

Az 1950-es évek végén egyszer csak sor került arra, hogy Jenő, nem emlékszem pontosan hol és hogy, de bajba jutott, adósságba keveredett. Akkor valaki mondta, hogy van egy nála idősebb zsidó nő, és rábeszélték, hogy vegye el feleségül, mert van egy kis pénze is. (Nem foglalkozott semmi munkával a nő, mivel volt pénze és ékszerei is, és abból élt.) Akkor nem volt más mit csinálni, elvette feleségül Szerént. Hatvan valamennyi éves volt Jenő amikor megnősült, már nyugdíja volt, öreg volt. Egy teljesen kiaszott, kedélytelen, öregedő vénlány volt az asszony is, aki hallgatag is volt és egyáltalán nem volt barátkozó természetű. Jenő viszont nagyon kedélyes, jópofa volt, aki imádott óriásikat étkezni, hízott is nagyon. Mindig jószívű volt és az volt a rossz szokása, hogy ha pénz volt a zsebében, nem bírta ki, mindig valami nagyot vásárolt. Állandóan konfliktus volt emiatt, mert a nő rettentő fukar volt és vigyázott a pénzre, Jenő meg egy szertelen fiú volt. Nem váltak el, mert a zsidóknál nem nagyon van válás. [Állami esküvőjük volt, nem vallásosságból nem váltak el, hanem olyan meggondolásból, hogy nem szoktak a zsidók elválni.] Emlékszem, meglátogattuk Margóval a blokklakásban, a Hajnal negyedben, ahol laktak. Mikor odamentünk, mindig szomorúak voltunk Margóval, nem lehetett beszélgetni. Szerén nem is ült le, akkor Jenő elkezdett morogni, és vérbennforgó szemekkel azt mondta: ‘tegyél valamit az asztalra’, mert még azt is sajnálta a nő. Jenő nem volt egyáltalán spóros, pedig hol keresett, hol nem. Társaságban nagykedélyű volt, de ilyen link iparos társasága volt neki.

Jenő amikor közeledett már a kilencvenedik évéhez, nagyon beteg volt, óriási fájdalmai voltak, hiába vittük korházba. A felesége egyáltalán nem vigasztalta, rossz volt a viszonyuk. Egyszer csak éjjel kapok egy telefonhívást egy szomszédjától, hogy a nagybátyám öngyilkos lett, kiugrott a kilencedik emeletről. [Ez 1995-ben történt, 90 éves volt Jenő. A kolozsvári neológ zsidó temetőbe temették el.]

Miután megérkeztünk, mint deportáltakat, kaptunk egy szobát a Péter-Pál villában 11. Egyszer csak megérkezett a rendőrség és el akarták vinni, ki akarták toloncolni Margót az országból. Ezért gyorsan össze kellett házasodni hivatalosan is. Novemberben házasodtunk meg. Kolozsváron nem voltak hajlandók összeadni bennünket, mert a drágám magyar állampolgár volt. Elintézték a barátaink, hogy menjünk Hidalmásra [egy közeli kisebb helységbe, ahol a hivatalos dolgokat könnyebben el lehetett intézni] és ott összeadtak hivatalosan.

A szobában, ahol laktunk, nem volt semmi és olyan kicsi volt, mint egy cselédszoba. Úgy 10-15-ön voltunk a villában a deportált fiúkkal együtt. Szereztek egy nagy kanapét nekünk, s még fel is hozták a szobába, 10 évig azon a kanapén aludtunk. Bevertem két nagy szeget a falba és oda akasztottuk a ruháinkat, ennyi volt az egész bútorzat. Egy darabig a Péter Pál villában étkeztünk, mert a zsidó szervezet szervezett ott egy kantint. Comitetul Deportat Evreiesc, Deportált Zsidó Bizottság így hívták a szervezetet, és mind világi zsidó ügyvédek, orvosok, mérnökök voltak a vezetők. Ezek a demokrata zsidók, Kohn Hillél vezetésévelés a háború után egy rekvirálás alkalmával elfoglalták a villát, mint zsidó tulajdont. Én csináltam az első Dézsisz emlékművet, egy gipsz rölifet, valami zászlóvivő csoportot ábrázoltam, amit aztán később broznzba öntöttek. A Péter-Pál villa udvarán volt felállítva, ahol a deportált emberek laktak közvetlenül a háború után. De az államosítás 12 után, mikor kiadták lakóknak a lakásokat, azoknak nem tetszett és végül lebontották. Sokan számon kérik tőlem, hogy hova lett a munkám, (talán fénykép is van valahol róla), de azt nem tudnám megmondani, hogy mi lett vele, miután lebontották az udvarról.

A Dézsisz, a Demokrata Zsidó Ifjak Szervezte egy teljesen külön szervezet volt. Egy néhány fiatal szervezte meg a buchenwaldi csoportból, akik hamarabb kerültek haza. Például dr. Herskó, aki később románosította a nevét Mureşan Petru-ra. Ő nagy pártaktivista lett és később felvitték a minisztériumba. Schwartz Vilmos egy fogorvos, szintén benne volt. Löbl Emil volt a másik szervező, aki mérnök volt, s tanár lett a politechnikán, és felvette a Száva nevet. Ideológiai ellentétbe kerültek Docsival, a másik Dézsiszes vezetővel, aki orvos volt. Havas Andor is ott volt a vezetőségben, szintén Docsi pártján állt. Aztán ott volt Rot Lajkó, aki kommunista maradt, a rádió román részlegének lett végül az igazgatója. Vele én kerültem konfliktusba, hogy nem értettem egyet vele abban, hogy nem szabad megházasodni a kulák származáuakkal. Én titkár voltam a Dézsiszben. A Zsidó Bizottsággal kollaborált a Dézsisz. (A hitközösségnek semmi köze nem volt ezekhez a szervezetekhez.) A Dézsisznek a főprogramja, mint a kommunistáknak, hogy maradjunk itt és itt építsük fel az otthonukat. Volt egy nevelő szerepe, hogy szakmát tanítsanak. A legtöbb dézsiszistának, aki visszajött, nem voltak már szülei, s egy inas otthonban lakott, amit a Demokrata Zsidó Népközösség tartott fenn. [Szerk. megj.: a Demokrata Zsidó Népközösség a háború után megalakuló zsidó intézmény, amely a hazatért, általában árván maradt zsidó fiatalokat segítette.] Nagyon sok gyereket a termelő munkába [gyárakba] irányítottunk, ezeket mind mi fogtuk össze. Harcban voltunk a cionista szervezettel, például a Gordoniával, akik a kivándorlást javasolták. A Gordonia talán inkább a polgárok gyerekeit foglalta magába. Elfogadták tőlünk, hogy segítsük őket a szakmai képzésben, hogy valamit tanuljanak, de azért ők egy külön szervezetként szerepeltek, utolsó percig az elmenés mellett voltak. A családunkban is volt ilyen ellentét, amikor Évi, Margó húga cionista lett. Amikor még a Péter Pál villában laktunk, eljött, hogy menjünk ki Izraelbe. Óriási ribillióval fogadta, hogy én nem akarok kimenni, és leszidott, hogy nem hagyom Margót, hogy kivándoroljon. Már akkor férj és feleség voltunk, mondtam: ‘Mi itt maradunk egyelőre’. Többet nem is volt hajlandó velem beszélni, nagy haraggal váltunk el, nem is írt Izraelből, miután a bátyjával kivándorolt. Nem akartam kimenni, mert én már el voltam indulva a művészi pályámon, és gondolkoztam, hogy menjek főiskolára. És nem volt nekem fogalmam arról, hogy milyen Izrael, később voltam Izraelben és még most is állítom, hogy akkor én már nem voltam Izraelbe való. Én nem nagyon akartam, hogy elmenjünk oda dolgozni vagy beállni a hadseregbe.

Kolozsváron elmentünk a gazdag zsidókhoz, hogy adjanak adományokat és meglehetősen szép támogatásban volt részünk. Általában igyekeztünk megnyerni őket az árva zsidó gyerekek ügyének, hogy adjanak pénzt az otthonnak, és a dézsisznek szervezésére is kellett pénz, hogy tudjunk kifejleszteni, kiépíteni. A fiatalok közül rengeteg utazó emberünk lett, akik elmentek más városba, és majdnem az egész Erdélyben létrehoztunk Dézsisz fiókokat, például Váradon, Nagybányán, Máramarosszigeten.

Majdnem évente csináltunk egy nagy Dézsisz bált. A Király utcában a Nemzeti Múzeumnak van egy melléképülete, ott a nagy teremben rendeztük a bálokat. Mind jótékony célúak voltak a bálok, ahol gyűjtöttük a pénzt, hogy segítsük az inas otthonban levő árva gyerekeket vagy más közösségi célra szántuk a pénzt. A bál szervezésében tevékeny részem volt és Margónak is. Együtt gondoltuk ki a műsorokat a dézsiszes fiúkkal és Margó varrta a ruhákat a műsorhoz. Én készítettem a díszletet. A műsornak voltak vicces, szórakoztató részei, amolyan bohózatok. Emlékszem, hogy előadtunk egy láger jelenetet is, mert sokan hoztak rabruhát magukkal a lágerből, s ott feküdtünk a színpadon, mint egy csomó fél hulla. S akkor az egyik azt mondta: ‘Jaj, érzem, hogy rothad a lábam…’. Voltak olyan részek, ahol kicsit a kapitalizmust is csúfoltuk. Meghívtunk énekeseket, színészek is léptek fel szatirikus vagy vidám jelenetekkel. Harag György is, a zsidó színész, eljött játszani a kolozsvári szinháztól, ő már akkor szimpatizált velünk, dézsiszesekkel.

1948-ban Izrael megalakulását csendesen és hűvösen fogadták a dézsiszben. A buchenwaldi csoport: Docsi, Dr. Herskó, Lajkó, szenvedélyes, régi illegális kommunisták voltak, mind nagyon rendes, becsületes, tisztességes emberek. Ők sokkal kevésbé akartak kimenni, mint a cionisták. Akkor kezdődött a Dézsiszen belül az erjedés, amikor kiderült, hogy a dézsiszisták egy része ki akar menni Izraelbe, és ez nem tetszett az idősebb kommunista korosztálynak. Ezt ma már nagyon világosan látom, de sajnos akkor nem láttam ennyire világosan a dolgokat. Csak olyan természetes volt, hogy nem akarok innen elmenni. Azok, akik a felsőoktatásba kerültek nem mozdultak meg. Akik szerényebb zsidó családokból származtak, a középosztályon aluli réteg, és a fiatal szegény proli gyerekek mentek el leghamarább. Aztán az államosítás ideje alatt, amikor már kezdték elvenni a házakat, felocsúdtak azok, akiknek pénzük, vagyonuk volt – a Dézsiszből ezek is elmentek. Az iskolázottabb emberek, a polgári származásúak egy része, s utána a vallásos zsidók is lassan elmentek. Például a Fritsch családban volt két testvér: a nagy, Fritsch Márton egy szenvedélyes kommunista volt (ő is egy vezetője volt a Dézsisznek) és később szekuritátés lett, az öccse a hadseregben volt tiszt és ellentétbe került a kommunista mentalitással, s a végén kiment Izraelbe. Tehát maradt egy szolid réteg: a munkás réteg, akik itt tanultak szakmát. 1945 után, három vagy négy évig működött a Dézsisz, utána Zsidópárttá alakult, amit aztán beolvasztottak az UTC-be [az Ifjú Kommunista Pártba]. Nyilván sokan kiváltak a szervezetből, vagy más funkciót kaptak. Sokan párt aktivisták lettek.

A háború után volt egy olyan nézetem, hogy a munkásosztálynak más szerepet kell játszania a társadalomban, tehát több szava kell legyen. A kommunizmus ellentétben volt azzal a rendszerrel, amely elvitt minket a lágerbe. Itt voltak a kommunisták és azt mondták, igen nekünk van elképzelésünk a jövőről. Akkor jó, úgy csináljuk, ahogy gondoljátok. És egy idő után elsajátítottuk ezt a gondolkodást. Egy darabig én is támogattam ezt – beléptem a pártba –, amíg rájöttem, a proletáriátus önmagában, mint vezető osztályt nem lehetséges.

Mi Margóval a Dézsiszes fiatal zsidókkal barátkoztunk. A Dézsiszesek – és főleg azok, akiknek voltak már a Zsidlicből [Zsidó Líceumból] végzettségük – egyetemre mentek. Mi, a többiek, elmentünk munkás kurzusokra, ahol lehetőséget adtak, hogy két évet egy év alatt járjunk ki. Például Margó járt két évet esti kurzusra miközben dolgozott mint varrónő, és így érte el, hogy az öt gimnázium megfelelőjét átértékelték, mert itt Romániában nem fogadtak el semmit, amit máshol végzett.

1947-ben elvégeztem egy kurzust a művészeti iskolában. Olyan szakszervezet szerűség volt, ahol egy pár festőművész rendezett egy műhelyt és tanítottak minket. Egy évet voltam ott, igazolványt is adtak. Amikor a Magyar Művészeti Intézetbe kerültem 1948-ban, akkor II. évre vettek fel, mert beszámították nekem az előző évet. Nagyrészt magyar vezetőség volt, Kovács Zoltán volt a rektor. Délelőtt diák voltam, délután középiskolás, mert nem volt befejezve a középiskolám, és kellett az érettségi, mert addig nem mehettem államvizsgázni. 1949-ben bevezették, hogy két nyelven tanítottak [románul és magyarul] és az intézet átalakult Ion Andreescu Művészeti Intézetté és Aurel Ciupe lett a rektor. Akkor a sétatéren [a központi parkban] megkaptuk a nagy festészeti pavilont. Nagyon sok magyar volt, akiket lassan leváltották a fontosabb pozíciókból. Az intézetben, a szobrászaton voltak jó nevű szobrászok, mint Szervaciusz, aki főleg technológiát tanított: faragást, öntést, ilyesmit, de nem vitte tovább a lektorságnál. Zsidó volt a művészettörténet tanárom, Balaska Nándor, aki magyar kultúrában nőtt fel, és aztán kiment külföldre. Voltak tantárgyak, amit magyarul is és románul is adtak elő, lehetőleg két nyelven kellett tudjon a tanár. 1950-ben már kineveztek preparátornak [segédtanárnak] anatómiából, rendesen be voltam jegyezve a tanári karba. Akkor meg délelőtt diák voltam, délután preparátor. 1953-ban végeztem a szobrászaton és ottmaradtam az intézetben, végig csináltam az egész szamárlétrát. Ahogy végeztem, rögtön asszisztens lettem, s aztán rá vagy 7 évre lektor lettem, és utána előadó egyetemi tanár. A főtantárgyakat – rajzot, szobrászatot, kompozíciót – én tanítottam.

A magyarországi 1956-os eseményeknek nagy szerepe volt az intézetben. Nagyon sok diákot Magyarországon érte az esemény, vakáción voltak, és hozták haza a szabadság gondolatát. A magyar diákok lereagálták, megmozdult a Babeş-Bolyai Egyetem is, összehívtak egy titkos gyűlést. Nem tetszett a diákságnak a politikai oktatás, megpróbálták kivenni a marxizmust és egyáltalán az ideologizálást az oktatásból. Azt akarták, hogy maradjanak meg a szaktantárgyak: a tudomány és a művészet, és ez a kettő legyen az oktatás irányítója. Én alapszervezeti titkár voltam, de súlyos tüdőbajjal feküdtem otthon ebben az időben. Emlékszem, a párttitkár felszólított, hogy keljek fel mindenáron, mert titkos gyűlés van. Mire odaérkeztem, a gyűlésnek vége volt, körül voltak véve fekete kocsikkal, a szekuritáté 13 ott volt az intézetnél és rögtön elkapta a vezetőket. Köztük volt Vid Târnăvan, egy magyar fiú, Balázs Imre, aki most is egy jó nevű festő Magyarországon. Elítélték őket a megmozdulás miatt és börtönbe kerültek vagy másfél, két évre. Próbáltam kiszedni a szekuritáténál őket. Mondtam, ismerem őket és garanciát vállalok értük, hogy ezek az emberek a magyarországi események hatására az intézet oktatási dolgán próbáltak javítani. Azt mondták, hogy ne szóljak bele, ez nem az én dolgom. Az intézet tanárságának nagy része nem foglaltak állást.

1957-ben csináltam egy csomó paraszttémájú szobrot, például a 907-et. Kilencszázhét – ez volt a neve a szobornak. [Szerk. megj.: 1907, egy román parasztfelkelés emlékére.] Mexikóban, indiánok között nőttem fel, és láttam milyen a földmunka. És az volt a baj, hogy olyan parasztokat csináltam, akik soványak voltak, hasonlóak a mexikói földművesekhez. Egy szobrász kollégám, aki ott volt a szobrászaton, anélkül, hogy szólt volna, írt egy rettenetesen letoló cikket, ami a helybeli román újságban, a Frăţia-ban [Testvériség] jelent meg: ‘Lövith csúfot űz a román parasztból, Lővith parasztja inkább a szúnyoghoz hasonlít’ – mert soványak voltak, és kínlódtak. Négy sovány parasztot csináltam egy fa alatt, ahol fent a varjak már várják, hogy ezek halálra vannak ítélve. Gipszből voltak, ki kellet volna önteni. Egy darabot hagytam meg, a többit mind összetörtem dühömben. Sokan mondták, meg vagy örülve, azt mondtam: ‘nekem elég volt ebből, én nem nyúlok többet ilyen témához’. [Egon elhatározta, nem készít több paraszt témájú szobrot.] Az elégtétel az volt, hogy 2002-ben a kolozsvári Művészeti Múzeum kérte tőlem, hogy adjam nekik azt a parasztomat, amit nem törtem össze. Én saját magam vittem oda kocsival.

Már a Gheorghiu Dej 14 ideje alatt, az 1950-es években készítettem egy két és fél méteres szobrot a deportáltakról: három figurával – csontvázzá aszott emberek – a felszabadulást ábrázoltam, de nem fogadták túl jól a minisztériumban. Megvette a bukaresti múzeum, de pár év után kaptam egy üzenetet Bukarestből a minisztériumból, hogy vegyem tudomásul, a munkám nagyon rossz állapotban van. Én mondtam, hajlandó vagyok felutazni és kijavítani, de nem reagálták le, s a munkákat eltüntették.

Amikor létrejött a Ion Andreescu intézet, akkor már létezett Uniunea Artistilor Plastici [Képzőművészek Egyesülete], én tagja voltam diákkorom óta. A bukaresti Unio mintájára lett a kolozsvári Uniunea Artistilor Plastici. Ciupeék alapították, [többek között Aurel Ciupe, a kolozsvári képzőművészeti intézet igazgatója]. Az Egyetemi könyvüzlet fölött van most is az iroda, ott gyűltünk össze. Ők akkor tudták, hogy kerestem a lehetőséget, hogy legyen nekem műtermem, miután végzek. A tanárom Irinescu kapta a helyet, ami most az enyém, de ő visszament talán Bukarestbe, s 1953-ban felajánlotta nekem. A műterem a központban van. Nem volt csak egy vízvezeték és egy körte égett ott fenn. Miután megkaptam, én vezettem be a gázt, egy csomó pénzért műteremmé alakítottam át.

Az Unión belül megalakult a Fondul Plastic [a Képzőművészeti Alap], az anyagiakkal foglalkozott ez a szervezet, kiállításokat rendezett. Az 1970-es években lettem a Fondul Plastic elnöke. Amellett, hogy az intézetben tanítottam, az Unio titkára is voltam, de ezt a dolgot nem fizették, nem volt semmi érdemem érte, hogy agyondolgoztam magam a kiállításokra készülve. Mindig több volt a magyar azok között, akik rendeztük a kiállításokat, a munkák feltevését. A kiállításon voltak különbségek, hogy kinek a munkája hova került, mert például Fülöp Antal munkáit mindig az ajtó mögé tették, és a fő hely az Ciupeé volt. Egyik napról a másikra tudtam meg, hogy azért, hogy a Fondul Plastic elnöke vagyok már nem jár pénz, 2000 lejt adtak addig egy hónapra. Továbbra is megmaradtam elnöknek, csak nem fizették többé. A Fondul Plastic titkárának 1800 lej volt a fizetése. Neki, az ügynököknek és az anyagmozgatóknak megmaradt a fizetése, csak az elnököknek ‘vették el a trónszékét’. Ilyen pimaszságok voltak és én ezt türelemmel végigcsináltam. De nem lehetett azt mondani, hogy nem vállalom, mert addig mind beszéltek, hogy én milyen kiváló vagyok, hogy végül elfogadtam. De nem számít, mert megmaradtam a versenypályámon mint művész. Létrehozták a minisztériumnál azt a diszkriminációt is, hogy profil szerint szabták meg a fizetést. A legfontosabb foglalkozásúak, az A kategóriások, matematikával, kémiával foglalkoztak. A művészeti intézetek összes ága B vagy C, nem is tudom melyik kategória voltunk, ahol gyengébb volt a fizetés.

Rövid ideig a Péter-Pál villában laktunk, és amikor Editék kiköltöznek a Majális utcai lakásból, mi költözünk oda. Ez egy nyomorult egy szoba-konyha volt. Mellette volt egy három szobás lakás, valószínű, hogy a szoba valamikor oda tartozott, és cigánymunkával építettek még egy a konyhát, hogy kiadják a szobát. A tulajdonos egy gazdag ember volt, övé volt a vasudvar, valami birtokai is voltak. A szobában olyan hideg volt, hogy bolondultunk meg, amíg részletre nem vettünk Margónak a pénzéből [aki a Viktoria gyárban dolgozott mint varrónő] egy csikókályhát, egy vaskályhát, amivel lehetett tüzelni. A lakás alatt adtak nekünk egy rettentően sötét, nedves pincét, ahol a fát és szenet tartottuk. Mindig gyertyával onnan hoztam fel a tüzelőt. Kellemes meleg volt azután, olyan jól éreztük magunkat abban a keskeny hosszú vagonlakásban. Volt egy hatalmas ablak is az utca fele. Kamra, fridzsider nem létezett. Fürdőszobánk nem is volt, csak egy hidegvíz csap a konyhában, ott kellett fürödjünk Margóval. Volt egy fateknőnk és abban fürödtünk. Csészével öntöttük egymásra a vizet. Vécénk sem volt, csak az udvaron egy lehúzós budi, de télen mindig megfagyott a víz benne. De derűs életűek voltunk, végre volt egy saját szobánk, és ez nekünk rendkívüli dolog volt. A lakbér, amit Editék is fizettek, azt nekünk is kellett fizetni.

Megtudtam, hogy egy Jeri nevű magyar cigány vitte el a régi lakásunkból a bútorainkat. Elmentünk a dézsiszes fiúkkal és olyan félelmetesek voltunk, hogy kivertük belőle, hogy a deportálás után – mielőtt lebombázták volna a házat –, bement és elvitte a bútorokat. Visszaadta a holmit, írást is csináltunk róla. Elhoztunk egy nagy szekrény és egy tükörasztal. De olyan keskeny volt a lakásunk, hogy alig lehetett betenni. Ott volt az a nagy kanapé, amit előzőleg kaptunk, és a konyhába valami rozoga asztalt szerzetünk egy székkel. Nem lehetett kettő, mert nem volt hely. Már ott elkezdtem festeni, ott festettem az első önarcképemet. A lakással együtt Samu ideadott nekem egy csomó megszáradt festéket, ecsete, ami megmaradt neki.

Rövid idő alatt megfosztottak minket a bútortól, amit visszaszereztem. Samu elvitte tőlünk, mert egy kétszobás lakásba költöztek, és kellett nekik. A családunké volt a bútor, s így az Edité is. Tehát a kanapéval maradtunk és szegeket ütöttük a falba, azon voltak a ruhák, aztán vásároltam valamiket az ószerestől.

A második világháború után Edit férje, Samu, nyitott az apjáékkal egy üveg és porcelán vállalkozást itt Kolozsváron. Volt egy üzlete és ezzel tartotta fenn a családot. Edit addig foglalkozott a lakással és a két gyerekkel. Samu itt halt meg az 1960-as években Kolozsváron, a Gheorhiu Dej ideje alatt, és azután ment ki Edit a lányokkal Izraelbe. A két leány [Lia és Judit, akik egymás után, 1944 és 1945-ben születtek] kb. 17-18 évesek lehettek és már itt, mind a ketten férjhez mentek valami regáti zsidó fiúkhoz, és együtt vándoroltak ki. Ők Tel Avivban telepedtek le. Edit Holonban telepedett meg, nem emlékszem milyen munkahelyen. Nem volt senki ismerőse Izraelben, úgy érkezett meg mint kivándorló, de kapott egy egyszobás berendezett lakást. Aztán Edit férjhez ment egy már régebben ott lévő magyar zsidóhoz, akinek volt ott háza. Limonádékat árusított. Később, mikor mi Izraelbe érkeztünk, nagyon kevés időt töltöttünk vele együtt, de nagyon barátságos volt. Az utolsó időben Edit segített a beszerzésben és a fagylaltnak és a gyümölcsöknek az árusításban. Lia zongorázni tanult, muzsikus lett és muzsikát is tanít otthon, Tel Avivban. Jutka modernebb, valamilyen komputeres dolgot tanult.

A munkások a gyártól kaptak lakást. Lidérces nekem a visszaemlékezés erről a periódusról, mert nem tudtunk egy tisztességes lakást kapni. Az első lakásunkat a Majális utcában az 1950-es években lebontották, ott épült a diák palota [az Egyetemisták Háza] a Béke téren. Mindenkinek, akik ott laktak, adtak valamilyen lakást, amíg bontás volt, nekünk nem adtak. Kaptak, mert volt gyerekük. Nagy nehezen, sok utánajárással kiutaltak nekünk is egy ócska lakást az Andrei Mureşanu negyedben, az utolsó autóbusz állómástól kintebb, ahol még konyhánk sem lett volna. 1956-ban súlyos tüdőbetegséggel feküdtem, alig épültem fel, és nem akartuk, hogy az udvar túlsó oldalán legyen a közös konyhánk, ami ráadásul egy fából épített konyha volt. Nem akartam, hogy odamenjünk, s akkor nagy nehezen kaptunk egy egyszobás lakást a Mócok útján [közel a városközponthoz]. Egy közös udvarról lehetett bemenni. De csak gáz volt, a víz nem volt bevezetve a házban, egy vedret vettünk magunknak s azzal hoztuk kintről a vizet, a mosogatás is így történt. Nem volt fürdőszoba, mosdótálban mosdottunk. A szörnyűség az volt, hogy nem volt külön vécénk. Hátra kellett menjünk az udvarra, bekopogtassunk a hátsó lakókhoz, azok kinyitották a saját előszobájukat, s ott volt nekik egy vécéjük furnirlemezből csinálva, s ott kellett elvégezzük a dolgot. Minden hallatszott, s utána meg kellett köszönni, s amikor kijöttél becsukták mögötted az ajtót. Margóval olyan idegállapotban voltunk, hogy inkább elszaladtunk a főtérre, mert még akkor létezett a főtéren közvéce, ahova le lehetett menni. Borzalmas volt, szégyeltük, hogy bilibe csináljuk, mert nem volt ahová kiönteni. Vagy 4-5 évet laktunk ott. A műteremnél [ami 10 percre volt a lakástól] volt egy közös véce, az sokszor segített rajtunk.

Ebben a lakásban nem lehetett ebédet főzni, mentünk ebédelni mindenhová, ahova csak lehetett. Hosszú ideig a zsidó kóser kantinban étkeztünk a Unió utcában. Az 1960-as években a Victoria kantinjában, étkeztünk, ahol Margó már dolgozott, mint varrónő. Ez egy szövetkezett volt, ahol sok zsidó ismerősünk dolgozott.

Rettenetes kínokkal kértük, hogy az Unió utcában, az első épületben, amit építettek, adjanak nekünk két szobát. Nem adtak, csak más lakónak, akinek volt gyereke. Akkor megtudtuk, hogy gyerek nélkül nehezen fogunk lakást kapni. A blokklakás luxusnak számított. Én igényeltem, sorban álltam: egy ismerős párttitkár – egy magyar ember, akivel együtt voltunk az UTC-ben [Ifjú Kommunista Párt] – 11 órát hagyott abban a hideg folyóson várakozni, s mikor kijött, akkor azt mondta bizalmasan: ‘Öregem, gyere, mondd el, hogy miről van szó’. Elmondtam, hogy nem elég, hogy lebontották a lakásunkat, de nem vagyunk képesek másikat kapni. Azt mondja nekem: ‘Öregem, én nem tudok semmit sem csinálni’, s búcsú nélkül elment.

Székely Sárinak, egyik zsidó barátunknak a férje – akinek volt összeköttetése –, az 1970-es években addig intézkedett, amíg kiutaltak nekünk egy blokklakást, egy szobát. Konyha nem volt, a szobának volt egy főző része egy vízvezeték mellett, ott kellett főzni. Volt egy fürdőszobánk, de csak egy zuhanyozó és egy vécé volt benne. Sokáig ott éltünk, mert az nekünk jó volt. Aztán a lakást igényelte valaki. [Kellett valakinek a lakás, és Egonéknak el kellett költözniük.]

Ismét szóltak az érdekünkben és elintézték, hogy kiutaltak nekünk egy másik lakást az Einstein utcában, amelyikből a zsidók elköltöztek valahová. Ez az állomás felé vivő Horea utca mögött van. Az két szoba konyha volt, padlással, pincével, mosókonyhával, de a nagy házak mellett, ez az alacsony ház teljesen sötét volt. Elől volt egy kicsi düledező lakás, ahol egy rettenetes fél cigány család lakott, egy csomó – vagy öt – gyerekkel, és egy haldokló zsidó egy másik szobában külön. Ott voltunk sokáig. Nekem Szentírás volt, hogy legyen csend és nyugalom, ahol dolgozom, de nekünk béke nem volt ott soha, és elhatároztuk, hogy elmegyünk.

Ez az a hely, ahol most lakom, egy securitátés ház volt. Előtte ez a ház két zsidó asszonyé volt, két testvéré – valószínűleg egy nagyobb család lakhatott itt valamikor –, akik elköltöztek innen. Akik ideköltöztek, húztak egy emeletet erre a házra. [Egon a földszinten lakik.]

Az 1980-as években rettenetes dolog volt számunkra az étel jegy, a sorban állás, voltak anyagi problémáink. Az a kockacukor, amit most olyan könnyen elfogyasztunk, az egy nagy kincs volt. Én szeretem jól megkenni a kenyeremet, de az a fél tábla vaj, amit kapni lehetet egyszer egy hónapban, azzal nem lehetett. A húsért órák hosszat kellett állni. Már éreztük Margóval, hogy a romániai szocializmus nem sikerült, egyre rosszabb lett.

Az 1980-as években nem volt már semmilyen funkcióm, csak kizárólag a tanítás volt, amit nagyon megszerettem. Az 1980-as évek végén a Képzőművészeti Intézet leépítette az embereket. Gyűlést hívtak össze, de nem úgy nézett ki, hogy bárkinek felmondták volna az állásást. Javasolták, hogy vegyem át a szobrászati katedrát. Általában türelmes ember vagyok, de akkor felment a pumpám, mert én előzőleg hallottam, hogy nem fogják ezentúl fizetni ezt az állást és nem hívják katedra főnöknek a pozíciót, hanem szekció főnöknek, és nem adnak többet pénzt érte. A tanári fizetéshez nem nyúltak, csak a szekciófőnökséget kellett volna önként vállaljam. Ugyanazért a munkáért, amiért eddig valaki pénzt kapott, most én vegyem át és dolgozzak, és nem kapok semmit. A végén mésgiscsak elvállaltam, bár nem volt semmi előnyöm belőle. 1991-ben mentem nyugdíjba az intézettől (nem voltam 70 éves sem), és emiatt nagyon kicsi lett a nyugdíjam.

1989 előtt mi Margóval már beszéltük, hogy kibírhatatlan a helyzet. Egész idő alatt, annak dacára, hogy párttag voltam, a zsidó öntudatom is bennem volt. [Egon nem vallásos, a zsidóság, mint identitás fontos számára.] A fasizmus után elfogadhatónak nézett ki, hogy a szocializmust és a kommunizmust válasszam magamnak, de lassan terhessé vált, mert ez a kategória vagyok, akinek a kommunizmus nem adott, csak nagyon keveset. Habár munkát adott nekem, és lehetőséget, hogy szónokoljak és a kommunista tanokat terjesszem, az igazság az, hogy minket személyesen nagyon hátrányosan érintett. Először is hirdették, hogy a rendszer a magasabb rendű humanitást tűzi maga elé, ahol az emberek nem lesznek kizsákmányolva, ahol az emberek fogják kapni a munkájuk utáni bért. Igen, de Lövithék esetében az, hogy lágerből jöttünk, és nem volt semmink, az őket teljesen hidegen hagyta. Sőt, büntető jellegű kategóriába kerültünk, ahol nem is adtak nekünk lakáslehetőséget. Gyermektelenek lévén mindig a sor végén voltunk, pedig a láger tett minket gyermek-képtelenné. Ez nagy sérelem volt, amit mi úgy éreztünk, hogy nincs semmilyen jóvátétel, hiába adták utólag, évek után azt a pár dollár kárpótlást.

Még a Ceauşescu 15 ideje alatt csináltam kiállításokat, de az mexikói témájú volt. Olyan sajátosan dolgoztam fel a mondanivalómat, hogy abba nem tudtak belekötni. Általában öntött bronz szobrokat csináltam, de voltak égetett terakottáim is. Terra cotta, tehát sütött föld, kerámia szobrot jelent. 1953-ban súlyos tüdő betegségeim miatt le kellett mondjak egy darabig a szobrászatról, kőfaragásról nem is lehetett szó, és elhatároztam, kipróbálom a kerámiát. Nem voltak nekem komoly ismereteim a kerámiáról, de a műteremben egy kemencét raktak fel nekem a szakemberek s kísérleteztem, ott kotyvasztottam a folyékony mázakat. Igyekeztem, hogy a kromatika, a színezés változatos legyen, és kapjon egy bizonyos ritmust. Ceausescu idejében nagyon sikeresek lettek ezek a darabok, amiket készítettem és nagyon óhajtott cikk lett, először is mert az ára is kicsi volt. Elment a hírem, iskolákból jöttek a gyerekek és vették nőnapra vagy a tanároknak. 20-50 darab rendelésem is volt. Kompozíciókat is késztettem belőlük, fel is lehet tenni a falra. A kerámia szobraim mind mázasok, funkcionális vagy fél-funkcionális dolgok, tehát kancsók, amibe lehet virágot vagy valamit tenni (én például pipákat tartottam benne), hamutartók, vagy pedig ‘haszontalan’ kerámiák, fütyülő kancsók, díszek. Bizonyos mértékig végig jövedelmet hozott nekem a kerámia. A mexikói művészet inspirált, a mexikóiaknak csodálatosak a kerámiáik. Úgy vették a munkáimat az emberek mint a cukrot.

Az első látogatásom Izraelbe a Ceauşescu ideje alatt volt, 1989-ben. Egyedül, a feleségem nélkül, kiengedtek, csak pénzem nem nagyon volt. [Szerk megj.: általános tendencia volt a Ceausescu érában, hogy nem engedték ki külföldre mindenik családtagot, nehogy mindannyian kint maradjanak.] 1989 16 után, már együtt mentünk Margóval, akkor már nem volt probléma. 1990 után az életszínvonal egyszerre nem növekedett meg, de legalább nem volt ételjegy. Amit nem sikerült addig megcsinálni, igyekeztünk, hogy megtegyük. A fürdőszobát rendbe tettük, minden addig csepegett benne.

Amikor elkezdődött a szerveződés a hitközségnél is, már többször hívtak. Elkezdtem zsidó témákat festeni, ami nekem azelőtt lehetetlenség volt, mert egyszerűen nem volt kiállítási lehetőségem. Az állami kiállításokon sem zsidó, sem bibliai témákat nem fogadtak el, tehát 1989 után nagy megkönnyebbülés volt, hogy most azt festek, amit én gondolok. Akkor elkezdődött az elhatározás, hogy kizárólag csak egyedi kiállításokat csináljak. Legelőször a zsidó tipológiát vittem be a munkáimba: portrékat, imádkozó zsidókat, és aztán főleg a bibliai témákat. Elkezdtem megint olvasni a Bibliát, ami nekem egy zsidó történelmi könyvvé vált, és ami egy sajátos megértési módban jelenik meg a képeken.

Festettem egy Holokauszt sorozatot, 1987-ben készült a legtöbb kép. Belső indíttatás volt: megérett bennem az egész, hogy hozzá tudtam nyúlni ehhez a témához a magam sajátos módján. 1996-ban, amikor készen volt a Holokauszt sorozat, elkezdődtek a tapogatózások, hogy mit is csináljunk vele. Akkor ajánlással, nagy pénzzel, vámolással, a múzeumi patrimonium formájában kivittem a 33 munkámat Izraelbe, tekintettel arra, hogy az előző évben, 1989-ben járt itt Kolozsváron a Yad Vashem igazgatója. Valószínű a hitközséghez jött látogatóba, s Lusztig Oliver, aki a hadseregben volt ezredes, valamikor Dachauból szabadult és Dézsisz tag volt, ő tevékenykedett ebbe az ügybe, tulajdonképpen ő hozta hozzám a Yad Vashem igazgatóját. Volt nálam is a műteremben, személyesen ő mondta, hogy ezeket a munkákat ki kell hozni Izraelbe. Végül megszereztem az engedélyt, törvényesen kivittem mindent és mire megérkeztem a Yad Vashenbe, az igazgatót – nem emlékszem, hogy hogy hívták – leváltották. Kijelentette, hogy nem tud csinálni semmit, s mikor mondtam, hogy itt vagyok a feleségemmel, akkor azt mondta: ‘Hívjál fel két nap múlva’. Addig a nagynénémnél Editéknél kaptunk szállást. A másik igazgató, akit a helyébe választottak, az nem is állt szóba velem, nem érdekelte őt. Két nap múlva beszéltem a volt igazgatóval, aki azt mondta: ‘Változás történt, nem tudunk foglalkozni a kiállítással, de megbeszéltük a komitéval, hogy öt képet adhatsz nekünk.’ Nem hagytam ott egy képet sem, nem voltam hajlandó velük tárgyalni.

Ellenben az a csodálatos a történetben, hogy ott volt Margó egy rokonának a férje, akinek a repülőtéren van tisztítási vállalat, – egy bűbájos ember, aki már a Ceauşescu ideje alatt kivándorolt –, és az ott tartott minket Izraelben. 8-9 hónapig voltunk ott, egy négyszobás lakásban, képekkel berendezve. Akkor találkoztam Salamon Ervinnel, a kiváló festővel. Adolf Adlernél is voltam, aki nagyon jó festő volt. Izraelben berendezkedtünk egy négy szobás lakásban, volt fűtőtestünk, televíziónk. Pénzt is adott, vagy 400 sekelt, azt mondta: ‘Nem engedlek, hogy visszavigyed ezeket a képeket! Nekifogsz dolgozni, vásárolsz anyagot, nyitottam neked egy számlát.’ Mindig veszekedett velem, hogy mért nem vásárolok, nagyon jól éltünk Margóval. Ott voltunk vagy nyolc hónapig és vittek minket különböző városokba. Az egyik szoba az enyém volt, festettem, kiállítást csináltam és meghívtam a művészeket. Állandóan látogatóim voltak. Az egyik nagyon fontos magyar nyelvű zsidó újság is írt rólam Tel Avivban.

Az 1990-es években nem maradtam Izraelben, mert már elindítottam az életemet Kolozsváron, itt van a műterem. A klímát sem bírom, a zűrzavart sem bírom, ami ott van, én nem tudok beleilleszkedni abba a dologba. Én itt vagyok valaki, akit ismernek, most már a munkák és a hírnév dolgozik értem, itt az összes szobrom, itt van a zsidóságnak egy jó része, főleg magyarok, és románok is, akik megvették a munkákat, úgyhogy én itt jól megvagyok.

Később elkezdődött egy tárgyalás egy magyarországi városka múzeumával, de nem tudom megmondani a kicsi város nevét. Mondták, hogy egy meggyalázott kis zsinagógából egy deportált emlékművet akarnak csinálni, s az én képeim kellenek nekik, és árat is kellett mondjak. Hosszú időn keresztül tárgyaltuk az 1990-es években, s egy szép nap nagy lelkesedve Magyarországra vitték a Holokausztomat. A budapesti minisztérium is lereagálta ezt a dolgot, ők írták, hogy átvettük, itt vannak a képek. [1997-ben Magyarországon, Kisvárdal-Sárospatakon személyes kiállítása volt Egonnak a Zsinagóga Múzeumban.]

Miután Magyarországon volt a munkám, felébresztette a németekben is az érdeklődést és kérték a munkámat. Ez egy rendesen megkötött üzlet volt, semmilyen szentimentális köszönéssel irányomban, nekik kellett ez a sorozat, mert ilyen témájú holokausztos művész, mint én, nem létezik. [Egon arra érti, hogy a Holokauszt-élmény feloldódott benne, a festményei nem a zaklatott miért-keresések, hanem szuggesztív tömörséggel, csendes visszafogottsággal ábrázolják az élményeit és ez sajátos ebben a témakörben.] A dachaui Memoriál Múzeumban is volt akkor egy kiállítás 1997-ben, és ez rendkívül fontos nekem, mert azon a helyen volt, ahol nekem az egész szenvedésem van. A magam életét, a láger történeteit, ami körülöttem zajlott, azt írtam le: hogy valakinek nincs ereje már enni sem, kuporodik egy üres tányérral, három sötét árnyék mély árokba dobják le a gyerekeket, ez van a Holokauszt ciklusban.

Margó 1999-ben halt meg. 54 éves házasság után maradtam egyedül. A szobrászatot teljesen abbahagytam, nehéz lett nekem a munka, még a szerszámaim egy részét is elajándékoztam. Úgyhogy lényegében a rajz és a festészet maradt még, amit művelhetek. Sokan dicsérik és nagyon-nagyon csodálkoznak, hogy sok mindennel foglalkoztam. Valaki tett nekem egy megjegyzést, hogy: ‘Mondja kérem, maga szobrász létére fest, grafikát is csinál, kerámiát is, ötvösművészetet is csinál, hogy lehet ennyi mindent csinálni?’ Amire én azt a kis vidám megjegyzést tettem, hogy: ‘Mit csináljak ha én egy elkésett reneszánsz ember vagyok?’

Kolozsváron az önálló kiállítást Margó halála után, 2000-ben csináltuk a Bánffy palotában, a városi nagy múzeumban. Az összes szobrom ki voltak állítva, főleg az új szobrok, s még hoztunk fel a pincéből is egy-kettőt a régiek közül. Három vagy négy teremben volt kiállítva. A két igazgató személyesen vettek részt a rendezésében, nagyszerű rendezés volt. Ezen kívül még egy csomó barátot és hívet szereztem magamnak az ottani munkatársak, fiatal végzősök, egyetemet végzettek közül. Egy hónapig volt látható a kiállítás, ez alatt hét televízió vett részt a népszerűsítésében. Nagyon sok cikk jelent meg, majdnem minden sajtót reagált a kiállításra. Egy román helybeli újságírónő ilyeneket írt az Adevarul de Cluj [Kolozsvári Igazság] napilapban, hogy: ‘Lövith, mai mult ca evreu’ [Lövith, több mint zsidó]. A román lapokban a kellemes meglepetést és elragadtatást fejezték ki. A magyar lapokban mélyebben, nem vízszintesen dicsértek, hanem függőlegesen elemeztek engem.

2002-ben jelent meg Kolozsváron Gabriela Rostaşnak (az Antena 1 TV csatorna rovatszerkesztőjének), egy velem készített könyve, amit kérdés-felelet alapján írtunk, de aminek egy kicsit irodalmi igénye is van és nagyjából összefoglalja az életemet. A címe Lumea într-un cartof, A világ egy krumpliban, román-angol szöveggel.

2002-ben a könyvem megjelenése után 2-3 hónapra jött a díjkitüntetés. A hitközségnek az egyik vezető embere egy bukaresti delegációval jött – azt hiszem Dorin Dorelnek hívják, aki egy közismert román író, de zsidó újságban is írt – ő hozta a díjat nekem. Egy időben adtak nekünk Izsák Mártonnal. [Izsák Márton Marosvásárhelyen élő zsidó szobrászművész.] Felhívtak mind a kettőnket Bukarestbe, de ő sem ment a 90 évével, és én sem a 80 évemmel. Akkor kénytelenek voltak eljönni hozzánk külön-külön. Nyolc órakor volt Marosvásárhelyen, és két óra múlva ide jöttek Kolozsvárra. Én most vettem részt ilyesmin először: egy pár szót mondanak arról, hogy mekkora művész, s méltatják. A díjra oda van írva, hogy az életművéért. ‘Ez a Romániai Zsidó Hitközségek Szövetségének személyes díja, Kiválósági Diploma, Speciális Díj Lövith Egon szobrásznak, az összes műveiért’, dr. Nicolae Cajan és Aurel Iulian ügyvéd.

Véleményem szeint nagyon jó a kapcsolatom jelenleg a hitközséggel. Örvendetes dolog, hogy a mostani hitközség elnökének (Goldner Gábornak) tervei is vannak velem. Ő azt akarja, hogy amennyiben hajlandó vagyok a hitközségnek adományozni a még meglevő értékes zsidó témájú munkáimat – közöttük a Biblia sorozatomat, tehát összesen vagy 50-60 nagy képet –, akkor a Judaisztika Fakultás új épületének nagyteremében kiállítják, aminek Lövith Kollekció vagy Galéria lesz a neve.

Én mindig vallottam a zsidóságomat, még akkor is, mikor ez nem volt túl kényelmes dolog. Nekem a zsidóságom a saját létem, de nem vagyok egy mellveregető zsidó, meg hiányoznak a héber és talmudi ismeretek, ami erősítené zsidóságomat. Az én deklarált zsidóságom inkább képpé vált, imázst tudok teremteni, ami felér legalább annyival, mint amikor valaki ír a zsidóságról. Én már nem faragok se kőbe, se fába, bronzot nem tudok önteni, mert nincsen segítségem, de rajzolok, jelenleg grafikával foglalkozom.

Szójegyzék:

15 (Ceausescu)

16 (1989)

Egon Lovith
Cluj Napoca
Romania
Interviewer: Ildiko Molnar
Date of interview: March 2003

Egon Lovith, the 80-year-old Jewish sculptor from Kolozsvar, is a jovial gentleman, who stays in shape and takes care of himself. The beret cast aside is an essential part of his look, and his dress is youthful and tasteful. He lives alone in a spacey one-bedroom apartment. For the past couple of decades Egon and his wife Margo, who died in 1999, have been living there. Egon’s room is like a homely gallery: the walls are decorated with his favorite and valuable paintings, and the lighting of the room is also like in a gallery, focused primarily on the paintings. On the shelves there are ceramic and bronze sculptures: among other things, Egon’s bronze birds and black female torsos. His composition of Mexican terracotta (burnt ceramic) is also on the wall: approximately 20 beautifully colored enameled plates connected to each other by a string reflect the artist’s inner harmony.

Family background
Growing up in Mexico
Going back to Romania
During the War
After the War
Glossary

Family background

My paternal grandfather, whom I never met, was called Lovith. My grandparents lived in Simferopol, which is a seaport somewhere down south in Ukraine. I’m only speculating about my grandfather’s financial circumstances because my father and I never talked about it since he was a very busy man. They must have been very well off before World War I, if they could afford to send their son to Switzerland to study to be a watchmaker. It seems that my father, Max Lovith, was a very qualified person. I don’t know his exact qualifications but he had some degree beyond secondary school and he was also well read. At the time, the best watches were made in Switzerland and that’s where my father studied for years. He learned his profession thoroughly since watches were his passion. He must have known German really well if he was studying in Switzerland. When World War I broke out and Russia entered the war, my father, as a Russian citizen, was called to return home. He put on his uniform and left for the front where he fought throughout the war and finally was brought to Transylvania as a prisoner of war of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. He was in a big group of Russian prisoners of war that were brought here, around Zilah, to work in Szurduk Forest. The prisoners were doing lumbering on the estate of Baron Jozsika.

My grandparents on my mother’s side, the Pardesz family, had come from Lithuania. They came because Baron Jozsika, who was the estate owner of the great forest of Zilah, brought my grandfather as an expert in lumbering here around 1915. Whether the baron had gone to Lithuania after my grandfather personally or had only met him somewhere else, I don’t know, but either way the baron did bring them here – I know this much from the family chronicle. The family settled there and even had a house. I don’t know my grandfather’s name because the last time I saw him I was three years old, before I was taken away to Mexico. When I returned he wasn’t alive any longer. Perhaps I remember my grandmother showing me a picture of him: with tight pants and long thick knee socks, in heavy boots and in a warm jacket. He had a beard for sure but not a long hanging one. He was religious but not too religious, the family belonged to the Neologs 1. All the way, he remained on duty on the Baron’s estate.

My grandmother was short and petite. When I met her she was chubby but later, before the deportation, in the times of misery, my poor grandmother lost her chubbiness. But she was so active all the way to the end. At the same time she demanded respect, but not in an authoritarian way rather in a maternal way. The whole family respected and obeyed her. In the family they used Polish and Russian expressions. They spoke German and Yiddish as well but mostly they used Hungarian.

Most of the siblings must have been born in Lithuania. My mother, Berta Pardesz, was the oldest, she was born in 1896. Jancsi was born after my mother around 1899. After him was Herman in 1903 and Jeno, who was born in 1905. The youngest, Edit, was born here in Transylvania in 1916. The Pardesz men were very strong, muscular and tall. They looked very northern: with pale skin, almost blond hair and blue eyes.

Jeno, the youngest Pardesz boy, was always interested in wandering in the forest. He loved nature and hiking. He didn’t have any intellectual inspirations, he followed my grandfather around in his work in the forest. He was constantly in the forest, around the prisoners of war. It is likely that Jeno and my grandfather met my father together. Possibly, it was soon revealed that my father was also Jewish, and the Pardesz spoke Russian, too – because in the family they spoke Lithuanian and Russian – and most likely my grandfather invited my father to his house. Being a prisoner at the time one had much more freedom, and even if the prisoners weren’t guarded they had nowhere to go. They could get a day off when they didn’t have to work and they didn’t have to stay at their settlement or barracks because they got permission to leave. It must have been my grandfather who managed to arrange that my father could spend Saturdays with us. My father must have become a regular visitor. That’s how my parents met. My father wasn’t tall but he was muscular and looked fit. Apart from his looks he was also an intelligent, educated and well-read Russian man with Swiss schooling.

When the war was over, and the prisoners were freed and could go back to Russia, my father stayed here, but I think he kept in touch with his family [in Simferopol] through letters. My father got married to my mother, Berta Pardesz. It was certainly a religious ceremony because they talked about the khasene, which means marriage ceremony in Yiddish and furthermore, they had to get married under the chuppah. After their marriage they lived with my mother’s parents until they moved to Kolozsvar.

They came to Kolozsvar around 1920-1921 after the Trianon Peace Treaty 2 was concluded. Perhaps they bought a house and some of the family moved in, but my grandfather kept his job on the estate for a while and only came to Kolozsvar once in a while. Hungarian became the everyday language of the family. In Kolozsvar my grandfather opened a watch shop for my father in 1920, in Malom Street [today Baritiu Street, in the city center], but I don’t think he actually bought the place. It was a scanty old place. There was a sign saying, ‘Max Lovith reparatii ceasornicarie si bijuterie’ [watch and jewelry repair]. My father probably didn’t have any money at the time, but his Swiss education proved to be a goldmine. He was welcomed in my mother’s family as family gain and my grandparents were always proud of Max, my father.

In Romania, by 1922, the fascist movement established itself among the students and there were already fascist protests. There was a terrible incident in 1923. It was a student protest, they were walking from the Hungarian theater to Malom Street. That part of Kolozsvar was already built up and there were lots of Jewish shops and Jewish signs. When the marching students, who were delighted to have won Transylvania back – this also belonged to the way of fascist thinking and extreme nationalists – saw the Jewish name on my father’s sign they broke the shop window, got into the store and destroyed, plundered everything. They beat up my father so badly that he was brought to hospital. Once my father recovered, he decided that he wouldn’t stay here but leave the country. There were expensive watches in the store, because in the old days only people with good watches got their watches fixed, they were pricey Doxas, Omegas and other such quality watches and the missing jewelry also counted as loss. The family collected everything they had left because they had to compensate the store’s customers. Since my father was already a member of the family, my mother’s family couldn’t have demanded him to stay and work off the value of the compensations. So my father took whatever money was left, arranged to get his passport and a ship ticket for himself and then he left. I suspect that in his eyes, after living in Switzerland and Russia, Mexico wasn’t the most attractive place and I think he probably wanted to go to New York, to America. Most likely he ran out of money and that’s why he only got as far as Mexico. But I could be wrong and he could have talked to someone on the ship who might have spoken to him about the possible prospect of being a watchmaker in Mexico.

My father was a talented man: he succeeded to learn Spanish, and in poor circumstances, with little money, but with his knowledge he was able to open a store. I remember the store we found when we got there. He was renting it from somebody, it was a very modest dark long store room. Upstairs, at the end of his room there was a bed and there was also a gun hanging on the wall, which wasn’t unusual in Mexico. That’s where my father lived until we got there. Downstairs the store had a small window with blinds.

Personally, I don’t remember any Jewish customers but there must have been someone my father talked to. It is a fact that he visited Trotsky 3, a well-known Russian-Jewish revolutionist refugee at the time, who was in opposition with the Bolshevik party line in Russia and had to escape from Stalin. Trotsky must have gone to Mexico sooner than my father. [Editor’s note: Trotsky’s expulsion from the Soviet Union in 1929 for ‘anti-Soviet activities’, took place much later than the emigration of Jeno’s father.] Stalin ordered Trotsky to be killed and he was indeed assassinated. My father would have known the facts and probably was aware of the importance of Trotsky and he must have visited him because of the fact that he also had leftist beliefs. My father had to be anti-tsarist because it was by no means comfortable living in Russia when he was there.

Growing up in Mexico

I was born in 1923 when my father was already in Mexico. Two or three years later my father collected enough money so that he could send us ship tickets. I went to Mexico with my mother in 1926. My father was waiting for us with a rented furnished apartment. I remember it was a two-bedroom apartment without a bathroom. I don’t think we lived in a place that had a bathroom throughout the entire time we were in Mexico. We bathed in a tub or in big bowls, where we poured the water on each other with our hands, that’s how it was. We lived very modestly; we had somewhere where we could sleep and a table. We had electricity so there were some light bulbs that gave some dim light. Later we lived in an apartment and the whole house had to share the tap and in general we lived in places where a lot of other people lived as well.

When my father’s business started going better we could afford to move into a better place. However, we never lived in a separate courtyard. I know that once we lived on Meave Street in an apartment that had two windows looking onto the street. It was a big thing since most of the houses were concrete apartments, the floors were arranged in a circle, with bars, and the doors and windows all opened inwards toward the big courtyard. There were huge yards where the tenants dealt with all of their issues as well as all celebrations and holidays. There was a celebration for children, when the entire house was staring at them [as they were performing something], and then they commented how the children performed. You could go through the floor and find every door open. You could smell what everyone was cooking all the time and you could also yell into the apartments saying, ‘Senora como esta? Bien, gracias’. [How are you Madame? Well, thank you.] They talked back and forth and we always knew who lived well, who lived poorly, who lived under bad conditions, who had fights; there were no secrets. My mother didn’t work, so together we, nicely dressed, we would wait for my father for lunch, or visit him at his store or go shopping. We only ate out in restaurants on Sundays.

My father met a wealthy Polish Jew in the capital, who had also emigrated to Mexico. His name was Elias Gopas, he was a skilful businessman and became so incredibly rich that he had cowherds on the border of the Mexican capital and he also owned a milk refinery. He produced butter and sour cream as well. This Polish man must have been a very talented fellow and he had Mexican Indians working for him. He took his watch to my father once; that’s how they met and they kept in touch afterwards. We started to regularly visit them and I spent a lot of time at his place. It was unbelievable how much dairy we ate there. We could finally eat butter, which was rather rare in Mexico. The Gopas family was overweight; they loved to eat a lot.

Elias Gopas had two kids. I think they both had red hair, pale skin and weren’t too tall. Elias himself was also a stocky, middle height person, and he always wore his shirt unbuttoned, breathed very heavily and walked powerfully. When there was a tub or a pile of dung had to be moved that the poor Indians were struggling with, Elias grabbed them firmly and moved them with incredible strength. They celebrated Sabbath and the holidays. While my father was alone in Mexico, the Gopas family invited him for Sabbath so he wouldn’t be alone and he could keep his Jewish identity. On Sabbath I imagine they ate together and they would also discuss things about Jewish life and Russian–Polish relations. There were certainly heavy political discussions and they surely analyzed the whole situation of tsarist Russia.

Somehow word spread that there was a club for Hungarian emigrants in Mexico City, where this group of Hungarians would come together. They even asked for registration and a member’s fee and then you could go for a drink and play cards, play bridge. It was in a very nice and clean restaurant, which was filled with Hungarian voices. The band was either taught or they learned it from somewhere but they played Hungarian gypsy music. My mother knew the songs really well and sometimes she would sing along with the band. One could even eat, the restaurant offered Hungarian-style dishes. The regular members were well fed with red cheeks. It was a big party with lots of food and drinks. It had a truly Hungarian vibrating atmosphere. Since my mother was missing Hungarian company it was mostly she, who went to the Hungarian club. After his work, my father went to the club after her and they came home together. They hardly took me with them, so most of the time I just sat at home and some Indian neighbors took care of me. The club also had a small Hungarian library and the members shared the books amongst each other. If I remember correctly my mother brought home Hungarian books and read them at home. The vermicelli incident was notorious in our family when little Egon was taken to the Hungarian club and asked for some vermicelli. [Editor’s note: Sometimes Egon talks about himself in third person, as if he was looking at his early years as an outsider.] ‘You order it,’ my parents said to me, and than I just yelled, ‘I need gypsy dumplings!’ I knew the dish not as vermicelli but as gipsy dumplings. There was great laughter after my shouting – people were already a little tipsy – and the atmopshere was wonderful.

In the Hungarian club my parents met with a tailor couple, their name might have been Elekes, who didn’t have any children. They had a very good tailor business and their own tailor’s shop. We became really good friends with the Elekes and we would often go hiking together on Sundays and my family would bring food for brunch. Mrs. Elekes was a fine, sturdy woman.

While we were already living there, the time of the elections came. I know that my father put me onto his shoulders – which means that I must have been about five years old, so it must have been in 1928 – and we arrived to a big open square in Mexico City, the capital. There was an enormous crowd. The Indians came from the countryside; there were so many people in sombreros, supposedly one million people on the square. The result of the election was announced on speakers, but the microphone was so bad, we couldn’t understand anything. Than came Alvaro, the president, a brown-skinned, gray-haired man with Native American origins, who announced that he had been elected. This was Mexico’s first democratic election in which someone of Mexican-Indian origin was elected. Up until then the presidents were Spanish dictators. My father wasn’t particularly tall so he couldn’t really see much, so sitting on his shoulders I was telling him what was happening. Then all of a sudden I heard a gun or a pistol shot and I could see the new president falling to the ground. There was a huge mess, everybody took his pistol out and there was shooting everywhere. My dad and I could hardy get out in one piece. So, as a five-year-old kid I was already an eyewitness of an assassination. [Editor’s note: In 1928 Obrego Alvaro’s prime ministerial mandate expired but Alvaro, ignoring local political laws that prohibited reelection, reelected himself and won the election. However, a fanatic Catholic assassinated him.]

I remember the big campaign and how noisy it was when the first North American style shopping mall was built in Mexico City. It was a huge success, the mall was always packed but most of the people didn’t shop, they only stared at the products. We went to check it out, too. The mall had three floors, and you paid for the products not on the floor where you got them, but they were sent down to the ground floor on an assembly line, where they were also wrapped up.

My father bought an old Ford under the counter. When the three of us sat in the car we looked like the people in Stan and Bran films. My dad was very good at keeping the Ford in good condition, he even had to crank its handle. If I’m correct the tires of the car weren’t even inflatable, they were still the solid tires. While my dad was still well he would take my mother and I for car rides and we drove around Mexico. We would drive as far as 70, 80 or 100 kilometers. We mostly explored the Aztec land. My father wanted to show us where and what he had done besides watch making in his first two years while he was waiting for my mother and I. Besides his passion for watches, my dad had a passion for archeology.

I was a peculiar child and my imagination far exceeded my actual knowledge. According to the family chronicle, as a young kid, I was already able to make a moveable donkey out of paper. I always drew and invented all kinds of things. My father thought I was an ordinary child, and he bought me tin soldiers and airplanes, but I got bored of them within a very short time. I wanted to play but not like most of the other kids did. I always just wanted to play whatever game I invented. I had a great imagination. Out of wax I made a diver. I always took more interest in my wax diver than in planes even if they could fly. I wasn’t particularly into reading but then my father brought home Jules Verne books in Spanish. My father bought Spanish books but we still spoke Hungarian at home. I finished elementary school in Spanish, and I had five years at Saint Louis de Palestrina, the best Spanish Catholic middle school, where we only learned about the Middle Ages in our history classes.

My father became ill and it led to the complete financial break down of my family. He couldn’t keep up with his work and in 1932, we moved out from downtown to past the suburbs. I took the tram and if I recall correctly, after the last tram stop it was another 25-30-minute walk to our house. Later on I traveled by myself. There were no canals and the water ran through ditches, just like in villages. At the station where I got off, at the beginning of the road people were selling lard and tortilla in a tent. Afterwards, there was just a big emptiness: yards, fields and after that a few modest houses. On the left side I saw two more decent houses with better vegetation, they must have belonged to Spanish families. Next to our house there were very modest Mexican-Indian clay houses. That is where we rented a house. An Indian rented his brick house to us while he lived near us in a wattle house. He did a lot of work around our house for us. By that time we had our own yard, just as if we were living in the countryside. We had a lockable gate and door, but anyone could easily jump the fence.

That was our last home in Mexico, where my sister, Irenke, was born in 1932. She only learned speaking in Hungarian because we only spoke Hungarian at home. My sister knew only a little Spanish, she attended kindergarten for a quarter or half a year, and she knew only what she picked up from the Indian kids. However, the two of us would usually stay at home where we didn’t have anyone to speak Spanish with. We had a scary dog; he looked like the famous Rin Tin Tin, the big German shepherd. His name was Lobo, which means wolf in Spanish. He was our guard. He could be trusted to safeguard my sister who would fall asleep and Lobo wouldn’t leave her side. However, Lobo was a very aristocratic dog. I don’t know where my parents got him from, but he couldn’t stand either the bare-footed, nor uniformed people, he always barked at them. I was a bigger boy by then, but nevertheless, the neighbor Indian woman still looked after us. On the afternoons when I wasn’t in school my dear little sister and I spent time at different neighbors, or we were staring at things, had a chat. I was supposed to take care of my sister. Irenke was very attached to me, she was always by my side and we were very close. She was a very funny and sweet girl. She laughed at my figures each time I drew them in her presence. I learned my first funny drawing from a sailor: I drew a Chaplin figure from behind, so there was a wedge like an opening on his tailcoat and I had to push it out with a finger and everyone could see that it was his butt. My dear sister really enjoyed it and I still remember her laughter.

The only Jewish tradition we observed was that my mother and father lit a candle on Friday evening, but we didn’t even have a kosher meal. There was no shochet so how could there be kosher meat? I saw my mother lit the candle, put a shawl on her head and that’s how she prayed. From the time she lit the candle up until we finished eating dinner she had a shawl on her head. Once we were done eating she took the shawl off. My father put a hat on and I got something on my head as well; at first, it was a hanky and later on a hat. I think my father worked on Saturdays. If his business was going fine and we had enough for a living he didn’t work on Saturdays. On Saturdays and on Sundays the family sat together. On Saturdays we had a bean dish. My parents tried to make cholent, but without an oven they had to agree with a neighbor Indian woman so they could leave the cholent there, in her oven. My mother prepared it and took it over to the Indian woman’s on Friday because she had a clay oven. My parents prepared the cholent not with Mexican seasoning but with black peppers that they bought in the city. I’m not sure where they got parsley but the cholent had some in it because otherwise it wouldn’t have tasted so good. In Mexico we didn’t eat bread, only tortillas, which are corn flans. I know that a German customer of my father used to bring us Leberwurst, meat and liver paté that was probably made from pork. The German had a butcher’s shop or he imported the meat from Europe, I’m not sure, but he always used to bring us pate. In general, we didn’t eat pork, mostly because at the time it was difficult to get pork meat. In Mexico the national food on holidays was turkey. We lived on turkey and chicken meat.

On Saturdays, our Indian neighbor performed the so-called goy jobs, which meant the kind of work that Jews weren’t allowed to perform. For instance, she would kill the chicken or the turkey and cook lunch if there was no cholent, and she would stay until she finished making lunch. My mother didn’t do any of this. Even during weekdays it was the Indian woman who slaughtered the chickens and she also did our shopping. My mother would also shop once in a while but generally she wouldn’t do it on Saturdays. My mother was a noble woman and she looked like one as well: she had a beautiful textile knee skirt, silk stockings and high-heeled shoes. Everybody knew she was Senora Max.

Good schools were only in the city. There was a peasant school in the suburbs where they paid a person to teach but my parents had me rather attend a school in the city. At the beginning I had to walk to school, and I had to get through the forest and through totally unknown swamp areas I had to go seven kilometers across desolate places. It was pretty hot and once when I was coming home from school, as a curious kid, I was bored and I started to wander off. There was an Eucalyptus forest and then little Egon decided to go into the forest to see something more interesting. There were ponds with duckweed, streams, frogs and all kinds of interesting things around and I got lost in there. Accidentally, I got to a swamp area where I immediately sunk in up to my knees. I tried hard to get out of the swamp but I just couldn’t. I got really scared because it was already getting dark and I was supposed to be home by six or seven o’clock. So, I was struggling until I sunk in up till my chest. I heard some voices, people were passing by nearby, so I screamed, yelled, shouted as loud as I could, but nobody heard me. I even cried but after a while I stopped and calmed down. The moon was rising and people came looking for me on the road and they were also shouting for me. It wasn’t only my parents but also the neighbor Indians, and they had alerted the whole neighborhood. It was a great thing. There were about 20 people looking for me. It was possible that I screamed back to their yelling, for this I don’t remember anymore, but probably that’s how they found me.

At first, my parents wanted me to go to school on a donkey, but my mother didn’t really want me to ride a donkey even though there were many others who did it. She was worried that I would fall off because the donkey didn’t have a saddle. So, after all, they rented a horse for me. My father made a deal with an Indian man who rented his horse to me. It came with a saddle and stirrup. They put me on the horse with my books and notebooks and I sat in the saddle properly and that’s how I used to go to school. My dad paid someone to feed the horse while I was in school or maybe he only paid for a spot for the horse and it had food [in a fodder-bag]. I don’t know but the whole thing cost little money. We had a very good relationship with the native people. They called my father Senor Max. They must have thought we were Germans. They were much friendlier towards us Europeans, and in certain instances they would ask my father for his opinion because he was also very open and talkative with the Mexican people. He also helped them a lot, mostly he fixed their watches and gave them advice.

My parents hid my father’s illness from us children. He must have had awful pain for he had a fatal ulcer. He put heat packs on his stomach to soothe his pain at nighttime when it got worse. He must have taken some painkillers so he could still work the next day. My father sold his shop in the city and he didn’t take on as much work anymore and stayed at home longer. Then he fell ill and stayed in bed for nearly a year and never recovered. We lived off my father’s savings and we even sold the little jewelry and few watches that my parents had. Throughout my dad’s illness my mother had help. For some money, the neighbor Indian woman came over and spent time with my sister and I and sometimes cooked for us. It’s possible that there were already clinics for the wealthy but I don’t remember that. By the 1930s Mexico hadn’t developed and built up enough to provide clinical treatments, but my mother still brought an old private doctor to my father from somewhere. However, it was too late. My father died of stomach cancer in 1934. After he passed away, the Gopas family helped my mother so my father could be buried, but I don’t remember the funeral. There was a big cemetery somewhere in the suburbs of Mexico City, I don’t know exactly where, but that’s where they buried my father. The Hungarian couple with the tailor business probably also helped my mother out with the funeral. I know they decided with my mother to move back to Europe and we did come back together.

Going back to Romania

To be able to get ship tickets we had to sell all our remaining jewelry. But it wasn’t enough so my mother had to get a job in order to get the rest of the money. As far as I know she worked in a fish processing company. I saw how she would come home and the first thing she did was take off all her clothes because they were really smelly. She washed them but when we could afford it the neighbor Indian woman did it. They washed my mother’s clothes in lye and put them out so they would be dry by the next morning and my mother could wear fresh clothes to work every day. She insisted on that. Once the tailor couple was visiting and I don’t remember their discussion with my mother but it was very serious. And then one day my mother announced that we were going home. In the meantime my mother had kept in touch with people from back home through letters.

The ship was very crowded. The tailor couple had more money and they could get themselves a cabin. We slept outside on the covered part of the deck on sunbathing chairs. They were big and comfortable and we also got two blankets and when it was windy we had to get under them. We had the cheapest fare; my ticket was a half-prize because I was only 13 years old and my sister’s was free since she was still so young.

We traveled for a long time. The ship was transporting goods as well as passengers and it wasn’t exactly a luxury ship. It was called Iberia. We traveled on the ship for over a month. I remember the company’s name: HALPAG, Hamburg-AmeriKa Linien-Packaktion Gesellschaft. It must have been an American-German cooperation. They were bringing Germans home because Hitler was calling the German emigrants back because the great German Empire was to be reborn. And many of them were coming; the cabins were full of Germans. Cuba was our first stop. We got off the ship in Havana, we still had some pocket change and my mother drank good black coffee. Afterwards, on the ship, she couldn’t sleep all night.

In Mexico my mother stayed in touch with her siblings who lived in Kolozsvar and with Jancsi too, who emigrated to Spain around 1935. My mother and Jancsi kept in touch by mail even after my father died. Before we left we arranged to meet Jancsi in Spain and he gave us the name of a hotel to stay in. But after we arrived in Spain at the hotel we received Jancsi’s message: ‘Go home and I will come for Egon’. By then he must have left Spain for the United States. I don’t know how we got back to the ship, but we did and after leaving Spain the ship docked at England and France before arriving in Hamburg, the final destination of the Hamburg-American line. We stayed in a cheap hotel. In Hamburg we found out that we had to go to Berlin because we held French passports and only the French embassy could allow us to travel further through Czechoslovakia, Austria and Hungary to Romania. While going to the embassy we saw a mass of people in front of a podium. We had no clue what was happening and my mother asked somebody in German who the speaker was. ‘You don’t know him?!’ came the answer. ‘No, because we’ve just come from America’, said my mother. As an answer to that I remember the person said, ‘That’s Hitler, our leader’. Then we saw Hitler up on the podium where he was giving a speech. My mother might have heard of Hitler and probably even said something to me about him, but I forgot it. That’s all I can remember about this incident. Later after we arrived back here to Kolozsvar I heard what my grandmother said about Hitler: ‘Hitler ist unser Feind, Hitler is our enemy. My grandmother was very engaged in politics; she was a post-woman, with a sharp intellect, who was always informed about the news.

From the French embassy in Berlin we went straight to the train station. At the customs in Czechoslovakia we had to get off the train and they searched our bags. My mother had an exotic Aztec wicker basket full of presents. They taxed us for it so badly that we didn’t have enough money to pay for it. My mother tried to sweet-talk them into reducing the tax. The custom officers were just playing for time to reduce it until the train was leaving and then still having the basket they just threw my sister and I onto the train and not having any other options my mother also got up with us. The officers just stood there with an ugly and evil grin: they succeeded to put us on. We left behind the basket full of things that we had brought all the way from Mexico. When we arrived back here, everyone was surprised, asking, ‘You didn’t bring anything back with you?’ There was one vivid red-colored woven piece of clothing that remained for us, with a cut in its front, and it wasn’t a poncho but something else the Indians wear called sarafeh, but we left it on the train at the customs, because we were sitting on it.

We had a very nice welcome in Kolozsvar and the family was once again together. They were really upset about my father because everybody had loved him. My grandfather on my mother’s side had passed away a couple of years before our arrival, but my parents knew about it from the letters. Once we arrived we heard that Jancsi was in the United States. Out of my mother’s siblings, Jancsi is the only one I don’t remember. He graduated from university and I think he was a chemist. But I never saw him again. First he went to Hungary, where he got married to a non-Jewish girl who we didn’t know. From Hungary, the two of them emigrated to the United States, maybe to New York. As far as I know, they didn’t have any children.

We arrived in Kolozsvar either in September or October. I was put into school right away. Out of my eight school years in Mexico, only six were recognized so I had to go back to the 2nd grade in public school. However, they decided to put me into the elementary school on Paris Street first, to learn Romanian. In that school I learned Romanian well and then I transferred to the 2nd grade at Angelescu Gymnasium. I didn’t go to Christian religion classes because I was a declared Jew. It was possible to attend the Tarbut’s 4 religion class but I never went.

Already in my first week at school I felt discriminated against. [Egon was the only Jewish student in class.] I’m a friendly person and initially, during our breaks, my classmates were fascinated with my Mexican background, which they discovered since I was wearing Mexican clothes: there were either buffaloes or Indians painted on my jumpers. To wear such clothing was very noticeable, but they all liked my Mexican outfits. On one day, these Romanian kids with whom I was on good terms, started asking me about my background and soon they found out that I wasn’t Mexican but Jewish. Afterwards the kids whispered behind my back. By that time the fascist movement was already active with the Goga line [that is, sympathizing with the Goga-Cuza government] 5. I unsuspectingly went outside to the schoolyard and kept playing with my classmates when all of a sudden, in the back of the schoolyard that was surrounded by walls so that the director couldn’t have seen anything, I was surrounded by a couple of kids. First they questioned my Mexican identity and they took their knives and pocket-knives out for me to show them how I could throw at a target to prove how Mexican I really was. I couldn’t perform as well as they did so I got a few hits and kicks from them. ‘This is not a Mexican’ they said. But these were only a child’s kicks, ones that were used in small fights. However, the hardest part came once the kids discussed that even though I had come from Mexico I was Jewish, moreover a Hungarian speaking Jew. After this things took a bad turn. The Legionary 6 spirit was already alive and in homes people were talking like, ‘noi romanii…, patria noastrăa…, etc.’ [we, Romanians…, our motherland]. When I went to the back of the schoolyard again, I was suddenly attacked by a bunch of kids – today I would call them thugs – and they knocked me down to the ground. They pushed me to the wall and while strangling me they said, ‘Mai jidane, futu-i mama ta! Striga, traiasca Legiunea si Capitanul!’ [You Jew, your mother’s cunt! Shout, long live the Legionaries and the Captain!]’ By then I knew they were referring to Horia Sima 7, the leader of the Legionaries. I was unwilling to obey. It’s terrible how brutish my peers were, but I was not giving in, I defended myself. All this was happening in 1938.

My Romanian teacher, Octavian Siraru, was a very intelligent man who was a good friend and an admirer of Goga, the prime minister. While my Mexican identity held up I didn’t have any problems with Mr. Siraru, but that wasn’t true afterwards. Once we had the task to write something and, being an enterprising but naïve child, I decided to write a four-to-six line poem in Romanian about Romania, expressing how in Romania the trees are blooming and the birds are singing and something else along those lines. Mr. Siraru felt so insulted that he lost his temper and he hit me in the face. He was shouting at me in a husky voice in front of the whole class asking where I got my courage to do such a thing. He said, ‘Limba noastra curata …, vii tu, cine ti-a dat voie sa faci aceasta?’ [Our pure language…, how dare you, who allowed you to do something like this?] There was nothing I could say to him because I didn’t speak Romanian well enough yet.

At night I tried to come up with some ideas to earn myself some respect. In Mexico I learned what to do with a lasso. I knew how to make a snare so if it got around the bull’s neck it would tighten with one pull. We had a special rope in the attic, which was made from the manila plant. It was a thick, beautiful, white rope. Our luggage, which we had to leave behind in Czechoslovakia, was tied together with this rope. After unpacking our baskets we held onto the ropes waiting to use them again but instead we found ourselves on the train with it, but with no luggage to tighten it around. A day after our arrival we were already using the rope in the attic to hang clothes because my grandmother loved it. I took the clothes off the rope and I tied it around my waist rodeo like and the next day in school I sat in the last row and took note of the most annoying kids in front of me. They were the loudest and kept saying, ‘mai jidane, mai…’ [You dirty Jew, you]. During class with my most gentle teacher, who was quietly writing on the blackboard completely ignoring the noisiness of the class, I spun the lasso around like a cowboy – I had two Hungarian kids next to me – I tossed it and caught two or three of the loud ones and I started tightening the rope. In the silence that followed there were only choked voices. The teacher looked up not understanding what was happening and then he saw us. I was expelled from school and it was a big scandal. But I also made a name for myself much later, when I grew older, I met a student who had been there in Anghelescu school at the same time and he said to me, ‘Do you remember when you came with the lasso and caught those three …?’ Since then, no one at school tried to hurt me again although those three were in a huff with me for a while. I wasn’t allowed back to school for two weeks but after that my mother begged them to allow me to return.

At home they were upset about the anti-Jewish remarks. For us it was like the crucifixion of Christ and we said, ‘Forgive them Lord because they don’t know what they are doing’. My family’s attitude to our Jewish identity was as to a reality that had to be dealt with. We were ready to deal with it but we weren’t the kind of Jewish people who had a lot of patience.

Our family lived in an apartment on Szechenyi Square: my grandmother my mother, my aunt, my sister, two of my uncles and myself. This was a particularly cheap apartment house, one room and a kitchen. The four women stayed in the room and us three men slept in the kitchen. From the street the house seemed tall but to get to our kitchen we had to go downstairs. The kitchen was dark, small but longish and had a low ceiling. We slept there, next to each other in awful circumstances, in such a way, that we had to throw ourselves from the bed-post to the head of the bed. It was by no means like I could get off the bed and there were my shoes. No, the shoes always remained at the end of the bed. This was a serious thing. There was also a water pipe in the kitchen because after all it was a downtown apartment. In the room we burned wood for heating. We had a stove of black tin and its oven stuck out. Our yard, which was totally dark, wasn’t far from the Szamos River. Next to us lived an observant Jew with payes who had a child. But he never let his child come and play with us because we were treyfs [non-kosher]. Otherwise he didn’t consider us real Jews since we were usually bareheaded except during meals on Sabbath and when we went to the synagogue.

We had been in Kolozsvar for a year, my sister was already four years old, when at the janitor’s next door they had a pig killing. All doors were open towards the yard, the big block of apartments above us, and everything was happening right in front of us. The pig was getting killed in the back of the house, where there was a bendy way to the cellar, from where you could also descend to the bank of the Szamos River. Of course we kids participated in the whole ‘gala’ because I was really interested since I had never seen a pig being roasted, or pork being eaten. And my five-year-old dear sister really desired some pork so she went up and said, ‘If I weren’t a gentle girl then I would ask you for some pork’. By then the pig was getting carved up left and right; the sausages were being made, the other attendants were standing behind. A small child didn’t have the understanding that eating pork wasn’t kosher and that she shouldn’t have any pork, and my grandmother just accepted that my sister tasted the pork.

In our crowded apartment we didn’t really have the opportunity to observe Sabbath. First of all, there was no real table and there wasn’t enough room for all of us to sit. We could only have all of us together when the women hadn’t yet gone to sleep. About four times a week we had some kind of bean dish for the main course; we ate smashed beans, soup and pickled cabbage. On Sabbath we didn’t cook. Cholent was prepared on Friday and it was covered with paper. We always took it to Hilmann, the baker. We had to pay him in advance and he only took the cholent if we had paid him before and then he gave us a number that he also put on the cholent and that’s how we could ask for it later.

The candle lighting on Friday evening was absolutely mandatory. We had our fine old silver candlesticks and they always had candles in them. No matter how poor we were we would always have candle lighting. I wasn’t a synagogue goer, I only went on the high holidays when my mother and grandmother took me (but I am circumcised). The women wore scarves only on holidays. Otherwise they didn’t wear scarves, I remember that my grandmother would often loaf round with her white hair open, not wearing a scarf. But for the men it was mandatory to wear hats on holidays. On Sabbath, the cholent would be brought back from the baker, though it wasn’t any of us who brought it back, but some Christian child. The money for his service was on the table already on Friday morning. When the child brought the cholent on Sabbath, it was still hot and the paper was brownish from being well burned. It was at home before my uncles got back from the synagogue. On Sabbath I went out to the yard and I used to draw on a piece of paper. I remember that after my uncles Jeno and Hari got home from the synagogue, they had lunch but after being home for a little while they got bored so they left to visit their friends. But my grandmother insisted that on Sabbath they didn’t go to any public places, parties or to play cards.

I don’t remember women going to the mikveh but I do remember that the men used to go to the steam bath on Sundays. In Kolozsvar, on Szechenyi Square there was a steam bath, separately for men and women. [Editor’s note: Egon Lovith is referring to Jozsef Selig’s steam bath named Cristal, which operated in the same period as the mikveh.] Before we could get into the hot tub, where we would sit quietly, we had to wash ourselves with soap. After the hot bath we went into the cold tub, where there was a terrible frolicking. This is where Hari and Jeno took me. I met many secular Jews there. The mikveh wasn’t far from there on the bank of the Szamos River but I have never been there.

While the family lived together we observed seder and there were separate Pesach utensils. The men of the family, Hari and Jeno, were reading and saying out loud whatever they were supposed to and I, 13-14-year-old Egon, had to the role of asking [the mah nishtanah]. We put Irenke, my sister, to sleep because she got sleepy early. Then came the whole story that I had to recite, I was the victim who had to be doing the asking. Besides that, they also hid a piece of matzah for me – it was usually Hari who did it – which I had to find. But I found it because the apartment was tiny and they didn’t hide it on top of the wardrobe, instead they slid it under the tablecloth or put it in the drawer. I remember I asked for a lot of drawing supplies, paint, colored pencils, papers and canvas as a reward.

During the week the two men, Hari and Jeno, usually ate in town and they didn’t eat kosher. I know initially they were hesitant to eat bacon and such but later on they even asked me to bring some treyf to the house. By then I was already working in the shoe store next to the food stands and from my tips and the money I earned I bought some food, a little sausage and bacon that I took home. My grandmother wasn’t too fond of this.

At home they treated me like an artist and they let me work. I painted on my own sheets because I didn’t have money for canvas. The wall of the house was full of my paintings and the paintings were hung with pushpins because I didn’t have money for frames. I was already working on human figures and I drew my grandmother’s portrait. I drew mostly graphics using pressed charcoal. Those days it was already possible to buy good quality paper in places like the famous Lepage bookstore. [Editor’s note: The Lajos Lepage bookstore and stationer’s was the predecessor of today’s university bookstore, on the southwestern side of the main square, whose owner-director was Dr. Ferenc Dobo]. You could get periodicals. L’impression was a beautiful periodical and I studied modern French painting from that magazine. I used to peek into the store and sometimes they had some older issues of the magazines and they would give them to me for free. I drew a lot and at school in Kolozsvar they knew that I was a ‘Mexican painter’.

I was registered at Hashomer Hatzair 8, but I was never a convinced Zionist and neither was my family. The Zionist movement was already in progress in 1937-1938 and it continued into the Hungarian era 9. The center of the organization was at the end of Horea Street, today’s Einstein Street. In the basement there was a big room where we gathered. There were big dance parties, singing and perhaps even Hebrew language classes. Unfortunately, I’ve never learned Hebrew because I never had time to study since I was painting or drawing instead. I took some pictures to the center and hung them on the walls and people really appreciated them. I also drew at the center for them. An awful lot of Jews, who are in very high positions in Israel today, used to go there. I myself used to go there because there one would find the most liberal secular Jewish youngsters, and not the religious ones. But I stopped going when the center turned too militaristic for me.

There was a Jewish emigration wave in Romania in 1939-1940. Back then people went to Israel by ship. Eventually Hashomer Hatzair as an organization closed down [following 1947 when most of its members left for Israel] because the Zionists were taught to take the first opportunity to move to Israel. But I didn’t want to emigrate to Israel because I knew straight away that I had obligations. I set myself the task of being the breadwinner of the family since there were mostly women left in my family: my grandmother, my aunt, my mother and my sister. My aunt Edit was just about to get married and only Hari had some miserable earnings. My family was also against moving to Israel. Mostly the family wanted to reestablish itself because my father’s death had been a devastating loss. My mother was a beautiful woman, like the models you see in French magazines, but she didn’t want to remarry even though she was getting proposals from wealthy Jewish men. But the men lacked style and were so smelly that my mother disliked them all.

At the end of 1938 there was a qualifying examination at the Institutul Regele Carol al II. [Editor’s note: King Charles II Institute was the successor of the Franz Joseph University in the interwar period; today it is called Babes-Bolyai University.] I was told that without a qualifying examination I wouldn’t be able to find a job. The exam was necessary for any non-specialized jobs and for specialized jobs besides this exam, it was also required to prove one’s vocational schooling. The qualifying examination was available for anybody but in reality it was a hidden form of numerus clausus in Romania 10. It wasn’t stated that a person of a given ethnic background wasn’t allowed to work, but they rather said that the person needed to prove he was qualified. At the examination there were tests that had nothing to do with anything. First there was the medical examination; blood tests, throat, teeth and other check-ups. I was a skinny but strong kid. I remember a bunch of intelligence tests: there were math problems and logic problem sets. I was excellent at the observation and logic tests. They gave some sort of tricky pictures and I had to complete them. They showed the original complete pictures for a moment and I had to remember what the details were. There was also another test where they showed me a picture for a short time and then took it away and afterwards gave me a piece of paper and I had to complete whatever parts of the original picture were missing. For instance I saw a bear walking in the snow but the footprints were missing. And there were other things missing as well that I had to finish. I must have gotten a high score for noticing so many missing details.

The end result wasn’t given immediately and it read as follows, ‘Decision: after the examination of the youngster’s abilities the committee concluded that he is qualified for gardening and basket weaving’. So, I was allowed to weave baskets and do the gardening. It is absolutely certain that they didn’t give qualification based on the intelligence scores. I found myself among a bunch of underclass kids – I, who belonged to the intelligentsia with my Mexican schooling, language proficiency, and good upbringing. It’s evident that the scores were determined in favor of the Romanian kids while the non-Romanians were denied the possibility of better jobs. My qualification exam results didn’t guarantee a job for me. I had to go to a company and ask for my spot. My mother got really upset when the result of my qualification exam arrived.

In 1939, still under the Romanian era, during the reign of Carol II 11, when I finished high school I had to look for work to earn some money because my family couldn’t afford to pay for my higher education. I had to look for a job and the possibilities were sad. I worked for a plumber carrying his bag and I dug holes. Then I was hired at the shoe store of Ignac Farkas as an errand boy. This was the most elegant and most famous shoe store, the Herbach Dermata’s retail store, where we sold Dermata shoes exclusively. Ignac Farkas was the co-owner of Dermata. [Editor’s note: Dr. Mozes Farkas and Jozsef Farkas’ Dermata leather and shoe factory was one of Kolozsvar’s most known and leading leather ventures and was the predecessor of today’s Clujana shoe factory.] My immediate boss, Mr. Glantz, was extremely reserved. He always smelled and along with his sweat he was an ugly aristocratic Jew. There was also a Hungarian chief bookkeeper woman who was always busy putting on make-up. Among the shop assistants there was a Romanian, a Hungarian and the five others were Jewish. Besides this, there were two janitors in the store, two simple Hungarians who were very nice and I got along well with both of them. They kept the store keys and they had to be at the store and open it by six o’clock in the morning when I got there.

My task was to keep the store clean. Originally sweeping the walkway and getting rid of any rubbish were the tasks of the two Hungarian janitors but eventually it became my job. They left all the dirty work for me. I had to clean up all the rubbish left by the person who arranged the store window and got rid off the rubbish that the customers left. I also had to carry shoeboxes, at times eight to ten at once, up and down from the basement because that is where they stored the shoes. My most difficult task was that every single evening at seven o’clock, after I cleaned up and the store closed, I had to deliver the shoes that the customers ordered to their homes on that day, since our store was an elite place, only the wealthy shopped there. Then I got the shoeboxes, which were tied around together or I had to tie them myself and the addresses were on them. I also got a note telling me to whom I had to deliver the shoes. I walked about six to seven kilometers with the shoeboxes. In general I had to deliver to two customers an evening and three if they lived close to one another. Once I arrived at the given address, I rang the bell and they were expecting me, because they had said before when they wanted me to go there. I gave the shoes to the customers, and some did, others didn’t give me a tip for the delivery. They went to the store afterwards to pay for the shoes. Once I was done with the deliveries I had to go down to the train station because that’s where I lived. Needless to say, wealthy people didn’t live close to the station, and the poor people who did wouldn’t order a shoe delivery.

I had a conflict with a baroness once. She couldn’t make up her mind in the store, so eight to ten pairs of shoes had to be delivered to her house, somewhere on Gyulai Pal Street. It was quite late in the evening, around 8 or 9pm, by the time I got there. It was a pretty villa with a garden, and they were having dinner in the terrace. Upon my arrival I rang the bell and somebody opened the gate and told me to come back once more because the baroness wasn’t going to see me right then. I would have had to take all the shoes home and I didn’t want to do go through all the filthy, smelly and dark streets. Then someone spoke up from the terrace and told me to wait. I stood next to the gate because there was nowhere to sit down. I caught them at the beginning of their meal and while they ate their dinner, drank their wine and tea, I stood by the gate in the cold, with ten pairs of shoes for an hour and a half. I was pretty annoyed because it was late already and this was my last errand.

Finally, when everyone had left the table, the baroness signaled that I could come in. She tried on all the shoes and decided to keep three or four so I was left with five pairs. By that time I was really fed up because I couldn’t stand the indignity of the way I was treated; how they made me wait by the gate, as a miserable servant, and wouldn’t even give me a chair to sit on. After all, based on my upbringing, I considered myself a gentleman. Then the baroness took some money out and gave it to me like it was a pittance. I looked at the amount and it was as much as I made in three days if not in a whole week. But I was a self-respecting ‘gentle’ boy – that’s what I said when I was young, if I didn’t like or want something – I thanked her and said, ‘I don’t accept tips’. ‘What?’ was all she could say. I said goodbye, it’s true that not very humbly, not very nicely, and not backwards, but turned my back on her and went out the gate. I took the remaining shoeboxes home. At home I told everyone that I didn’t accept the tip the baroness had offered. The family agreed with me with mixed feelings; they wouldn’t have minded if I had had some money in my hands so we could have bought some bread. Pride costs money, damn it.

Perhaps on the same night or early the next morning, the baroness talked to Mr. Glantz, because when he came to the store around 8 or 9am on the next day, he ordered me into his office immediately. He said to me, ‘Listen to me, I know your family origins, I know you have been to Mexico, etc., but I will fire you without your foot touching the store’s ground ever again! You have no right to insult a customer, you have to swallow whatever a customer says and you can think whatever you want but you can’t show it.’ I didn’t ask Mr. Glantz why or anything, I just waited in silence for him to be done. I wasn’t fired right away but I was as soon as the next numerus clausus was enacted and the number of Jewish employees had to be reduced at least by one or two. That was in 1939.

There were two large transportation companies in Kolozsvar, one of them having a nice Jewish name, perhaps Goldstein, and the other one was the Union. I got a job at the Union, which was by the train station. My uncle Hari worked there as chief bookkeeper because he had graduated from the school of economics. The owner was a Jewish man. They hired me as a transport worker. I had to carry 28-30-kilo wooden boxes, on foot, on my shoulders, to the post office, send it and take the receipt back to the Union. It was a short trip from the station to the post office, but carrying such heavy boxes wasn’t an easy and comfortable thing and I wasn’t fit enough to do that. I was silently doing my job and bore the pain of my shoulders, so everybody at home felt so sorry for me, that they almost cried, when they saw me, their child, what I looked like. But there was nothing to help the situation with, because that was the job.

Soon my mother talked to uncle Hari and I was transferred to a big horse carriage to be an assistant transport worker, although they didn’t really want me there because I was too skinny. They knew that they had to lift and carry things over 100 kilos and two men had to be able to carry a piano. In the end Mozsi, a Hungarian man, was the only person who was willing to work with me. I heard what people said to him, ‘You got the Jew for yourself, you will suffer the consequences.’ But this was just cocky talk and there was no anti-Semitism at the Union. Mozsi taught me well how to grip and lift things skillfully. Our carriage had two horses and we had to carry mostly coal, wheat, and packages, things that came on the train. I only stayed at the Union for a couple of months because the company reduced the number of Jewish employees and mostly kept the stronger men. After that came the Hungarian era.

During the War

My family wasn’t too happy and was calmly skeptical about Horthy’s 12 entry. They saw in them the returning Hungarian gentry class. We weren’t at all expecting that our situation would improve just because the Hungarians said ‘Sweet Transylvania, we are here again…’. Some Jews were hoping that they would get back the positions that they had lost under the Romanians.

In my family it was mostly my grandmother who was engaged in politics. We didn’t have a radio, therefore I had to bring a Hungarian newspaper, the Jo Estet [Good Evening], for my grandmother along with the bread and milk. The paper didn’t have any specific Jewish content and was a politically mixed paper, mostly for the Hungarian middle class. It had a cultural section with theater and cinema commentaries and even book reviews. The paper also had political articles and my grandmother always analyzed and commented on them. These articles were the forerunner of the coming changes. The Hungarian papers were careful of what they wrote about. Everything I knew I heard from the adults in my family. It was Hari, my grandmother, mother and Jeno who discussed these things. I only listened to them but I wasn’t involved in politics and cared only for art. I wasn’t really interested in any of the things they talked about.

My mother was working for Ufarom pharmaceutical factory at the time – she had to work with vials and medications – where lots of Hungarians were working, too. [Editor’s note: The interviewer refers to Dr. Vilmos Stern’s Ufarom Egger pharmaceutical factory.] Among the workers there was no problem about being Jewish. Leftist thinking was already prevalent among them. My mother became really close to them. They worked in the factory under very unhealthy conditions and their hours were very long so they organized a strike and my mother also participated. But the strike was broken up and my mother and all those who participated were fired.

Afterwards my mother tried to get another job and she got a position at a shoe or a clothing retail company. She was hired to go from house to house to collect money from the people who bought things on credit. My poor mother was so tired that later on I had to do her job on Sundays so she would have at least one day to stay home, cook and tidy up the house. I went from house to house with the slips but I didn’t make good impression, didn’t have the talent of an agent or a way of sweet-talking people, so they gave me little money. My poor mother took a look at the money I had collected and told me that the boss of the company would be dissatisfied. It became a terrible thing because soon after that people stopped paying any money even to my mother; she was turned down at every house. Since my mother couldn’t meet the company’s expectations she got fired from there, too. This was her last job that I can remember.

During the Hungarian era Jeno fell in love with a Hungarian nurse. The woman was extremely cheerful and funny. It looked like they were going to get married but my grandmother forbade Jeno to marry a goy woman. And Jeno depended on my grandmother.

Edit, my mother’s younger sister, was a little shy. She was a petite but intelligent and well-mannered girl and my grandmother was her protector. She went to secondary school and later became a bookkeeper for a Jewish man who owned a firewood business in Malom Street. We still lived on Szechenyi Square when Edit fell in love with Karoly Bilman, who we called Samu. I don’t know where they met. He came from a wealthier and more educated Jewish family. I think his family owned a glasswork factory or business in Medgyes. His parents had sent Samu to Vienna to study music at the Conservatory and he became a violinist or pianist with the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra. Samu was an educated, well-read man and he was also a decent painter. He had polio and he could only walk with two canes.

One time, in 1941-1942, I was coming home and there was big panic when I arrived. Edit had attempted suicide [but she didn’t die] because my grandmother declared that she wouldn’t allow her daughter to marry a retarded person. But after all Edit managed to get her way and they were married by the time we lived by the train station. [In the meantime, Egon’s family moved to another apartment.] Some kind of relative of Samu let them use his house, which was on a street parallel to Horea Street, for the wedding. They prepared the food for the wedding there and arranged one room where they made the chuppah and where the rabbi came. I was there when they had to stomp the glass and then came the eating. It could be that they were singing Jewish songs, I don’t know because I left pretty early, I wasn’t really interested in it. Most of the guests were Samu’s, my family had only invited a few guests. It wasn’t a large wedding.

The glasswork business of Samu’s family continued to work in Medgyes. Samu did the bookkeeping or the administrative things, I don’t know. He was a very talented man and he took on a lot of things. Samu and Edit moved into an apartment next to us. Samu wasn’t a shy man and didn’t have any inhibitions and he loved women. He loved my paintings and of course was the happiest when I gave my best works to him. My best paintings and drawings were in their apartment. But for me it was impressive that with such intelligence and an educated background he thought highly of my paintings. Samu also observed Sabbath.

The last apartment we lived in was by the train station, it was slightly bigger than the apartment we had lived in before. That time Hari wasn’t married yet but only Jeno and Edit lived with us. There was a kitchen, a bigger room and a smaller room in the back. Unfortunately, we didn’t have a toilet inside the house and we had to go out into the yard because the latrine was near the house opposite. In the bigger room on a double bed slept my grandmother, my mother and Irenke slept between them. I slept right by the double bed on a sofa that had coil springs sticking out of it. Jeno slept on a bed in the kitchen and Edit – as a lady waiting to get married – had the small room for herself. Her room was the ‘white room’ with a white dresser and white furniture. We couldn’t use the white room but when Edit left the apartment I went in there to have a quiet place to draw. My grandmother always knew it but she never said anything.

At that time I met a lady who worked at the blood clinic. I asked her to pose for a nude picture. My grandmother was the only one at home – my mother was at work, Irenke was at school and Jeno was also gone somewhere – so I took her into the white room through the window. After I was finished with the drawings I hid them so Edit wouldn’t see them when she came home. During that night, all of a sudden, my little plump grandmother got off her bed and I heard her calling me in Yiddish, ‘Are you asleep little Egon?’ I don’t know why she was talking to me in Yiddish but I understood it. ‘Move over a little’, she said to me. My grandmother lay down next to me and then continued whispering: ‘You think your grandmother is such an old-fashioned, stupid old woman?’ It was two or three o’clock in the morning and I didn’t know what kind of talk we were having. I was 18-19 years old, suddenly I didn’t know what my grandmother was referring to. She said to me, ‘I went into Edit’s room and I looked at those drawings and they are beautiful! You are so great, but, by the way, why are you bringing women in through the window?’ She knew that, too. ‘Bring her in through the door, I have some coffee, I will offer that to her, that drawing of her is very nice.’ My grandmother was proud of her grandson even though she was religious deep in her heart. She wanted to let me know that I shouldn’t go into secrecy, and that she would help me continue my drawing career, which was a big thing since I was drawing naked bottoms. The women in my life, my grandmother and my mother, were sensational and I’m still moved whenever I think of them.

Both my mother and my grandmother used a lot of Yiddish words. They switched the words from Yiddish to Hungarian and the other way round and that’s how they communicated. One of them would say, ‘Bertuska, zist du es oykh?’ Then they continued in Hungarian, ‘See, look at what he did!’ They were talking about Jeno when he left something carelessly on his bed. They were both well read. In general they both read one book each and then talked about them. In those days they read a lot of Dostoevsky 13.

In the early years of the 1940s when the Hungarians were already in possession of Transylvania, the Jews were expelled from higher educational institutions in Hungary. Among those expelled were two or three well-known artists who teamed up and opened a private school in Pest. They came to Transylvania to recruit some talented Jewish students but they couldn’t offer any scholarships. People knew me in Jewish circles and they told the recruiters that there was a guy named Lovith who was a talented painter. I showed them my work and won their number one award. But the problem was that I would have had to pay my way through school or find a Jewish person who would have sponsored at least my first year. They told me, ‘If you are talented and do well in your first year we will arrange for the rest of your school years.’ I went to see the Jewish owner of a big petroleum company, Mr. Adler, who had big tanks of petroleum that were kept past the train station. He told me to bring him some of my work. I took my best five to six works to him but it wasn’t enough and he made me bring him about 30 pieces: small sculptures and pictures. I left everything with him and when I went back to get his written approval for my financial support he said to me, ‘Look, I can see you have talent but I’m not going to take on your financial burdens. You are a breadwinner. What if I support you for a year and then you go away for 4 or 5 years to be a poor artist? Would you leave your family starve to death? You won’t even be able to support yourself.’ He didn’t give me money. So, that determined that I wouldn’t go to Budapest.

The students of Zsidlic [Tarbut Jewish Lyceum] 14 knew me, and they knew that I drew and by that time I already had sculptures, too. So, one day, one of the assistants of Mark Antal 15 [former director] asked me to go and see him – because he didn’t find any other sculptor at the time – and he asked me to sculpt the death-mask of Mark Antal whose burial was the following day. I think I had previously met Mark Antal when I was looking for recommendations for the private university in Pest and I went to see him. He told me that if I couldn’t get a letter of recommendation from anybody else he would write me one, or something like that. Anyway, so I took some plaster to take the contours of Antal’s face so I could cast the mask. He was quite overweight and with his puffy face, his distinct chin and his strong cheekbones he resembled a Roman Senator. He had his eyes closed. I smeared petroleum wax all over his face and I plugged his ears and his nose with cotton balls so the plaster wouldn’t get into them. I wasn’t really happy to perform this on a dead body but I didn’t have a choice. I made a slip-cover from clay and put it on his neck and that’s how I finished the mask. At home I cast and dried the mask and polished it with a small amount of yellow paint, which gave the mask a deathly white appearance. The most difficult part was that I didn’t have any experience, but somehow I managed to do the job. I gave the death mask to the assistant and I don’t know where they put it up but a lot of people who went to the Jewish Lyceum used to mention it to me.

I succeeded to get to Globusz, which was owned by two repugnant Jews. One of them was a woman who wore thick glasses and the other one was an unfriendly old man who hardly received your greetings. They had four machines that had very heavy arms. We had to put plastic into a metal frame and melt it with the heat of electricity. Then it had to be taken out of the frame very carefully, still burning hot, so it wouldn’t break because they deducted the broken pieces from your earnings. You had to do a perfect job, every mistake cost money. There were three Hungarian boys on the other three machines and I was the only Jew. They were strong, muscular guys who were used to heavy physical work. I couldn’t keep up with them and there was always a difference in our payments. The director kept telling me: ‘Why don’t you perform better and do as well as the rest of them?’ ‘I try my best’, I said, ‘but I just cannot do it.’ ‘It’s not the best for my business that you perform so poorly’ – and I got a veiled warning. They didn’t fire me because I really tried hard.

Before they took me away to forced labor, my uncle Jancsi still wrote to the family from America and he even sent a fountain-pen and five dollars to Edit. I didn’t have any personal contact with him. I only knew him from pictures and I remember how, on the last picture of him, I saw an already americanized, big, gray-haired, overweight, well-dressed, man. He never came back and only kept in touch with Edith after Hari disappeared during the war. After that I don’t know what happened, I didn’t even hear when he passed away.

Hari got married in the 1940s but he had moved out even earlier. He married a Hungarian Jewish girl but I don’t remember her name. I never met her. He didn’t keep in touch with us. Later he had a child. Out of my family, Hari was the first to go to forced labor in Ukraine. Some people who were with Hari told me that he was at a site sweeping for mines and after that we’ve never heard from him again. According to someone else, he broke his leg and, due to bad circumstances, he died of some infection or he was shot. Hari’s wife stayed here in Kolozsvar with their child but I don’t know what happened to them.

From 1936 up until forced labor I lived with Jeno. Jeno only had elementary schooling. He didn’t get married for a long time. He was a happy bohemian guy. He was going to be a watchmaker; my dad even gave him a certificate saying he prepared Jeno for the profession. All the watchmakers knew Jeno but he became bored with watch making even though he was great at it. He worked at different watch making stores for some time but he was fired from many of them. Then he went to hard physical work, which damaged the sensibility of his hands, so that he would never pick up watches again. Jeno was taken away before I was and he was in forced labor in Hungary all the way until 1944. He spent some time in Budapest, but it’s difficult to say where he had to work and dig. He was also a cook as part of his forced labor and then he came home.

[Egon was called up in 1944 to Nagybanya but he doesn’t know exactly what his family’s situation was at the time of his deportation, he only knows what he has heard from other people.] The most I know is that my mother, my grandmother and my little sister were taken to the brick factory. The three of them stayed together while they were allowed, this I heard from some woman, and they were even taken away together in cattle cars. I met this woman around 1950, who told me that she had worked with my mother in Ufarom. She told me how awful it had been, about 100 people crowded in a single wagon without food or water. My grandmother was dead already when they pulled her out of the wagon. When they arrived in Auschwitz some Jews who were taking the newcomers’ luggage away said to them, ‘Do you see that chimney? You will come out with that smoke in half an hour.’ Next my mother and Irenke got in front of Mengele and he immediately sent Irenke to the side, away from my mother. [Editor’s note: It’s only an assumption that Mengele selected the people himself.] So, my mother already knew that Irenke was going to be killed. ‘And so she just stepped out’ – the woman tells me – ‘your mother held your sister’s hands and they walked into death together. I don’t know more. I survived and if your mother had stayed with me perhaps she would have survived, too. She was 40 years old in good health, we would have made it.’

I was first called up in 1942 to a so-called auxiliary preparation [instead of the levente –Hungarian military youth training], but I only had to go once a week. We had to assemble in the barracks. There they read the names and then we had to march with our tools, with shovels, to the worksite. The yellow armband was made mandatory. Early on they gave us a Hungarian army hat and I even saluted but the officers protested against it and our hats were taken away. When we were outside the city we had to sing particular songs but I didn’t open my mouth. They took us to the Hoja [near Kolozsvar] to build a ski-run and to deforest. At the time, the lake in the main park of Kolozsvar was drained and we were ordered to clean the bottom of it. They were long working days. After we finished we had to go back to the barracks and we were relieved from there to go home. That’s what I was doing until I was taken away in February 1944.

When I got my order to forced labor in 1944, I had one favor to ask from the owner of Globusz. I asked him very nicely – I didn’t refer to my Jewish background – to give me my salary in advance because I had to leave behind my mother, my grandmother and my sister whom I had been supporting, bringing them their daily portion of bread and a liter of milk. I said that when I came back I would work it off. There was no way he would give me the money. When I came back the two owners were still around, they had stayed and weren’t deported, I don’t know how they did it. They came up to me straight away and patted me on the shoulder, ‘It’s so great you’re alive, we are restarting our business and we thought you would come back’. But I said to them, ‘For you I won’t go back to work, I’ve had enough of you’.

Edit became pregnant but I was already taken to forced labor by that time. Edit was exempted from deportation because she went to give birth at the Jewish hospital on Szechenyi Square. It was thanks to Samu, he got her there, because he was able to come and go freely. The Christians in the hospital were hiding Edit. They took her down to the basement where she gave birth to Lea in 1944. They weren’t keen on releasing Edit from hospital; she stayed there with her child for a long time. Samu played his cards well, he wasn’t in the ghetto at all, and he wasn’t deported because he could prove with some kind of documents that he was of German origin [which was not true]. He had Austrian education and spoke German really well and so he made people believe he had come from Vienna and he wouldn’t let anyone in on the secret that he had gone to Vienna from here in the first place. They had their second baby, Judit, in 1945.

I was called up to forced labor in 1944 into the 110/63 army brigade in Nagybanya. In Kolozsvar we all still had our backpacks and we were marching in our civil clothes but only some people had boots. I didn’t have boots only paper-soled shoes that I got from the Jewish Association before we left, but my feet were hanging out of the shoes. We were in our own clothes but there were also some rich Jewish kids amongst us who were wearing their best clothes; nice textile pants, big boots, down jackets, and some of them even had extra boots with them. Their faces were so puffy from being overweight that their eyes were protruding. They sat down to eat their food but they wouldn’t have shared it with the others. I didn’t even ask for it, just out of pride. This is telling how great the class difference was even among us Jews. My feet were aching terribly marching on those stony roads and somebody next to me, who saw that my feet were hanging out of my shoes, said, ‘Hey, give Egon those good boots!’ But they didn’t.

Going towards Nagybanya we marched up some incredibly steep roads, walking down hills to streams and back up again. During the first night the authorities came to inspect us: get in line, sit down, open your luggage. The first thing they took was our money and our watches and we were left without a penny. The second time they took the nicer clothes. They didn’t take anything from me since my buttock looked out my pants, they were so worn out. The third time they took the boots as well. The guy who asked for the boots for me said, ‘See bugger, he didn’t want to give away his spare boots and now he doesn’t have any at all’.

From Nagybanya I got to Baja, I don’t know how far it is from Budapest. We had to dig trenches and anti-aircraft shelters. In Baja we were considerably free. On Sundays they let us go swimming in one of the streams of the Danube River. We were there all day and only came back for lunch. We lived in uninhabited barracks in very poor conditions and we also lived in stables into which we had to jump from the attic. Hungarian soldiers guarded us in the barracks. The soldiers stabbed people, who didn’t move fast enough, with their bayonets. I got stabbed once, too.

After that I was transferred to Torokbalint where a soldier picked me to go up to Budapest with him to get a package from the purchasing center. These soldiers used to be simple peasants, workers, and they weren’t as brutal as the Arrow Cross 16 men. We took the train to Budapest. We fulfilled our assignment but for some reason we had to stay overnight and the soldier said to me, ‘I’m going to leave you here and I’ll come for you in the morning and we will go back. Where will you be?’ He addressed me formally, not informally. I went out into the street. I was somewhere around Kiraly Street. I started wandering around, I wanted to see the city and it was then, when the Horthy declaration 17 was announced. I think the radio announced something about Hungary laying down its arms. Within 24 hours the Arrow Cross Party and Szalasi 18 took over the whole country. I was out on the street not having a clue about any of this. I still thought that Miki [Miklos] Horthy was in charge and I was just about to go back to spend the night with the Jewish family, where I was supposed to sleep. Then came a Hungarian who said to me, ‘You are a forced laborer – I was wearing the armband – ‘take that band off! You are Jewish, aren’t you? Get the hell out of here, Szalasi is in power!’ I had never been to Budapest before so I completely got myself lost in the situation.

I arrived at a square where tanks surrounded us. I got scared and ran off. By nightfall, when I couldn’t stand any longer the uncertainty of trying to figure out my escape, I arrived at the bank of the Danube. There were big houses by the river and I saw a few marked Jewish houses [yellow star houses] 19 but they were already empty. I found an open window and if I remember correctly I climbed inside. There was nobody in the house, so I hid there. I could even get to the second floor. I was there all night. I spent a day there, but by the second day I became very hungry. I had a few forints – because the soldier gave me some money, with which I was supposed to buy food for myself – and so I looked out the window and I saw that there was a food store on the other side of the street. Once in a while I could see a customer coming or going. I decided to go over and buy something. Of course the mark of the armband was visible and my cloths were ragged. I asked for some crackers or scones and left.

I went back to the house and looked around and when I thought that nobody would see me, I jumped in through the window. It was a spacious three-bedroom furnished apartment, I had a good view over the bank of the Danube. While I was munching I looked out the window down to the street and I saw that the owner of the food store with his white apron– a suspicious, informer-type looking man – was pointing to the window I was at. I knew my hiding was over, I had been spotted. I got up and went upstairs until I found an open attic door, so I could go up to the attic. In my fear that they were coming after me, I was hiding there for a while. And, indeed, they came after me. They were looking for me and I climbed out onto the roof. It was fall and it was hell chilly. I hid behind the furthest chimney, which wasn’t easy to get to, but I already had some experience. When I was with the transportation company we also had to go up to the attics many times. I heard voices and I heard doors slamming and they came out onto the roof, then they disappeared. I stayed in the attic all night because I was too afraid to go down and I was extremely cold. I ate the last crackers and kept shivering. The next day I decided to leave the house. When it was already getting dark, I went downstairs, and in a moment I stepped out to the street. I started walking again but I got back to the same square I had escaped from in front of the tigers [German military tank serial]. But this time I was captured by policemen.

It was obvious that I was a forced laborer. I was arrested immediately but they didn’t handcuff me, instead they put me into a closed car. I had no time to estimate how many and what kind of people were in there. They crammed a lot of us ‘unidentified people’ into the car. Most of us who were caught were people who had escaped from forced labor. They took us straight to the Maria Terezia barracks. I had nothing they could take away from me since I was so poor. They hardly gave us anything to eat.

From there I was taken to the internment camp in Kistarcsa where I was put with political prisoners because that was where Jews and Hungarian communists were brought. The camp was pretty strictly run but there was solidarity among the prisoners, the communists especially held together. There was somewhat of a feeling that the communists were organizing a plan, discussing what to do once the war was over. They were really hoping that the Soviet Union would come into this region. I can’t tell how long we were there; one, two, or three weeks or for a whole month. They didn’t let us outside into the open air. We were locked into the prison for the entire time. As the days went by, they threw in some kitchen waste for us so we wouldn’t starve to death. It was a big problem if we had to pee because we couldn’t just go outside. They gathered a group of people and then the guards took us outside. After a few weeks they organized those who had remained from the 110/63 Torokbalint brigade and they made us march all the way to the Hungarian border. At night they always drove us into a brick factory. We walked for about three or four days until we reached the border and then they took us over to the Austrian side where the train was already waiting for us and we were put into the wagons.

We arrived in Turkheim in Germany. It was nighttime and there was barking, great clamor, screaming, shouting, not much light and a pine forest right by us. We were on foot. We passed a concentration camp. ‘Raus, raus, schnell!’ [Out, out, fast] and I got some hits and kicks. The concentration camp seemed to be empty and we didn’t see any prisoners. It turned out to be a new concentration camp. I still remember the smell of resin. The barracks only had a roof slightly above the ground and we had to go down under because they were made in the ground. In each one of them was a miserably small stove and a small window on the ground level from where the only light came in. They weren’t big barracks. The beds, that were planks of wood, were lined up along the two sides of the barracks. I think about 30 of us were on one side and there were 50 or 60 of us altogether in one barrack. Altogether there were about 200-240 of us, forced laborers, in the camp. The guards had their barracks there as well. The Germans appointed Greek Jewish prisoners as our guards and they beat us really badly, treated us very roughly. In the camp there was also a big kitchen, the Revier – the first aid place – and the offices. There was a barrack where the Germans only collected clothing. I think there were about eight to ten barracks altogether. The camp was the labor subcamp of the Dachau concentration camp. At first, there were only men but later they also brought women.

They took us to a factory, to big bunkers where they were making Fau 1 and Fau 2 airplanes. There was an infernal row and enormous darkness, light could hardly be seen. We were tiny people in there, who had to bring big sandstones and other building materials back and forth. We didn’t want to hide or only pretend to be working because it was so ice-cold that we would have rather worked than be so cold. In the factory we were under German guard and we had to work wearing our armbands. Even though I was lanky, I was a resourceful and tough guy. Having to work hard and lugging things at home had made me more resistant, I was holding up pretty well. Soon the factory was closed down and we were transported to Dachau.

Dachau was an awful place and they had a crematorium as well. In those awful circumstances in the dirt, because of unhealed wounds, I got typhus but I didn’t tell anybody. I didn’t want to reveal my sickness because no one knew what happened to sick people. It was a horrible seven-kilometer march to the work site, in the snow, in wooden-soled shoes, and being worn out. We had to walk 7 km back to the camp again in the dark. If the snow caught somebody’s wooden soled shoes he twisted his ankle and fell down to the ground screaming. The next thing we heard was the firing of bullets; the person was shot down. We didn’t even have time to see who it was because the guards were driving us on, ‘Los! Los!’ I was trying to walk as fast as I could because whoever got behind had something bad happen to him. I was a fit guy and marched at a good pace but I was getting so dizzy from my illness that I bumped into the first officer guard. This was a tragic mistake because he turned around right away and hit my mouth with the butt of his gun so that all my teeth fell out. Since then I have dentures. I felt something salty and warm in my mouth and I thought I was going to pass out. Later I found out that this officer was a Dutch fascist who had joined the SS.

One time when we came back to Dachau we were really lucky. The Fuehrer of the Turkheim concentration camp, where we were stationed before, knew that the war was coming to an end; the Allies were constantly bombing everything, and he wanted to have a chance after the war so he was very protective of his laborers. This Fuehrer took us back to his camp. If I compare it to Dachau I would say that we lived a normal life in Turkheim and they didn’t beat us there. When we had to line up for food they only screamed at us or pushed us or said something rude. I don’t even know if there was a high voltage gate around the camp. The soldiers who guarded us were not SS soldiers, they were Wehrmacht guards. The camp had a tailor and a shoe workshop and German soldiers came to ask us to do something for them and they even gave us some cigarettes.

When I got back to Turkheim I had to admit immediately that I had typhus. They took me into the Revier [the barrack of the sick] where there were some sort of doctors, but there was no disinfectant. Within a short time I got a fever and they could do nothing about it. In the meantime, a death barrack was put up for prisoners with typhus. It was surrounded with cables and the guards had their spotlight on us. We couldn’t move and we didn’t receive any treatment. We even had our own latrine dug right next to our barrack. At first there were many, 20 to 30 of us, and we got some food and the guards checked on us but later nobody came to see us and we stopped getting food, too. Only two of us survived, Sandor Schwartz, a talented young businessman from Kolozsvar, and I. We felt a constant weakness, and couldn’t really perceive what was happening around us. After a while it became very peaceful and we heard cannon fire coming towards the camp.

The guards weren’t there anymore and perhaps the light was out as well. There was a slightly uneasy silence in the concentration camp and we didn’t see the others so we decided to escape. We were very run-down but at least we were over our illness. We knew that we were caged in by wires. We decided to dig ourselves out below the wires, and that’s how we escaped because, naturally, we couldn’t have just walked out through the gates. It was a little foggy and there were some clouds in the sky. We crawled by the garbage – because they collected the garbage and leftovers from the kitchen there – until we felt that the ground was softer. We tried to figure out whether the wires were electrically charged but we thought they were just plain wires because there were usually tunnels between the electric ones. We scraped out a hole and crawled through. The forest was about 15-20 kilometers away from us and we wanted to get there in one run, when the spotlights weren’t on that part. There was a muddy village road. We got up and started running. We ran into the forest but we were so tired that we just fell down there and were gasping on the ground. But we had to get up straight away and walked all night. I think it was my idea to suggest that we continued separately because we only had one chance to escape if we remained together, but two if we separated. Sandor agreed and then we departed. It was extremely cold and dark in the Bavarian forest. This was at the end of April.

There was a small town with pretty houses on the other side of the forest. I was too scared to start my way; where was I going to go? Right then I spotted a big covered furniture transporting truck. It looked dodgy because it had a broken axle. The truck had straw hanging out of the back, one door open and seemed empty. I was terribly weakened and my first thought was to climb into the back of the truck and sleep. Suddenly, I heard a voice behind me, saying ‘Jude’. The voice belonged to a German. I saw a man in black uniform of about 40 and I thought I was done for. Then he said to me ‘Schnell, schnell, komm!’ [Quick, quick, come]. It hadn’t clicked with me when I heard ‘Komm’. In such a situation they would usually push me while saying, ‘Go’, and we would keep on marching.

The German and me set off. When I stared at his back with the black uniform, I started wondering, why I was at his back, and him in front of me. The guards were always at the back so they couldn’t be attacked from the back. But I had no strength to run away with my clogs, he would have caught me easily. ‘Schnell, schnell!’, and the man was saying something else to me in German. He turned out to be a railway worker in his black uniform. He took me to his place on some back paths. His house was a little further away from the village. We entered through the garden. A woman came out and said immediately: ‘Nein, nein! Du bist verrueckt!’ [‚No, no! You are completely crazy’ – She was referring to Egon coming from a concentration camp]. ‘I know, shut up!’ He took my clothes off and threw the clothes out of the window into the garden. Meanwhile, the woman brought some warm soapy water, they made me lay down, naked as I was, and washed me. I don’t know more because then I lost consciousness.

I don’t know how long I had slept for but I woke up from the dawning light and realized that I was in a basement. I felt very hot. It turned out they put me in some kind of bed and they put an eiderdown blanket on me. They came down and took me upstairs to the kitchen, they tidied me up again, and gave me some clothes. I immediately got a latte and some bread, they started to feed me. I slept in the basement and once in a while they would come and wake me up and bring me up to the kitchen. Once, while I was up in the kitchen, we heard somebody banging on the door. They looked out: the German soldiers were retreating and they just wanted to come in to get warm. There was no time for the master of the house to hide me so we agreed that I was going to be an Italian prisoner whom they had let in. The Germans came inside with their guns, as they were. There was a great discussion. I told them something like, ‘Ich bin Italiener, io sono italiano.’ They also tried to talk to me in Italian but they couldn’t. But they weren’t too curious to find out more about me either and they were in pretty bad shape themselves; thin, with beards. Soon they left.

After a while the neighbors accepted that I was there and others also received into their houses some concentration camp fugitives; this wasn’t anything unusual. I spent two weeks there. I went to the small town to see what the situation was like and it was a big mess there. French prisoners who had also been freed from the concentration camp, went in to the city and broke into all the stores and shops. One of them saw me just standing and staring at them, and said, ‘Viens avec nous!’ [Come with us]. It turned out they had broken into a shoe store, too and plundered it. It was full of Dermata shoes and boots from Kolozsvar. They grabbed about twelve pairs of shoes and put them on my shoulders and I thought I was going to collapse. And I took all the shoes back to the German’s house and gave him all of them. One of the French people saw that I needed some clothes too, and there were also some Romanian fabrics – brand new with the trademark of a famous Romanian textile manufacturer – and he ripped off about 3 meters and put it on my shoulders, too.

We didn’t leave the town until the Americans arrived. Afterwards I went back to Turckheim to the camp. The barracks of the German soldiers and prisoners were empty. I only realized then that while we, men, had been in Dachau, the camp had got female workers, but by the time the Fuehrer brought us back, the women had been taken away somewhere else. However, some of them escaped and came back to Turckheim. Margo, my future wife, was one of the women who had escaped and came back. The women who came back slept somewhere in the barracks. There was some food left in the kitchen; some potatoes and such, and the women were trying to make themselves something to eat. I met Margo when I saw smoke coming out of the kitchen and I went to see it. I saw two girls and an old man making some food in a great cauldron. I went in and yelled at them, ‘Don’t you know the war is over? Leave this place right now!’ Margo explained to me in a few words that the Germans had wanted to take them away but they escaped, and they were hungry and rather cooked something than leave. Later I found out that these two girls could have gone to the town and their hunger wasn’t the only reason they stayed in the camp. After a few sentences I knew that they were cooking for 20-27 ill people.

Margo had undergone a horrible treatment in Ravensbruck: they sterilized her. The women were stripped naked and their hair was shaved. When it was Margo’s turn she went up to the barber but the SS woman suddenly told the barber, ‘Nein, dieser nicht die Haare schneiden!’, don’t shave the hair off this one. Margo later told me, ‘I was almost on my knees begging her to cut my hair because I couldn’t stand to have lice. The SS woman couldn’t be convinced. [She probably didn’t let Margo’s hair be cut because she wanted it so badly.] Margo stood in line and went to the shower. After being liberated it was a great surprise to see Margo with long thick black hair among all the women who had short hair. I didn’t see it at first when I saw Margo in the kitchen because she was wearing a kerchief. But all of a sudden she took the kerchief off and shook her head and all her long black hair fell down. ‘Oh my Lord, why do you have so much hair? What happened?’ and so she told me.

The former male laborers also started to return to the camp. Sandor came back from somewhere, too, and he told me that he had been taken in by a German as well. We stayed in the SS barracks and at night we even had some blankets. If I’m right we stayed in Turkheim for another three weeks. By then the guys had got together – there were some guys from Maramaros who were all very handy – and we supported the girls and did all kinds of things. The Americans didn’t pay attention to us, they kept moving forward since the war wasn’t over yet.

In exchange for some cigarettes I managed to get engagement rings and we got engaged in front of everybody. People arranged a separate little bungalow for us by the forest. It was beautifully painted white and I decorated it with figures of Indians. Margo and I lived there together and everybody looked at us as a married couple. We even put together some sort of a bed. There was a small Mexican guy in the American army and we found out about each other; we both spoke Spanish. He really liked the painted walls of my house and whenever he had time he came to visit me. He saw that I didn’t have any proper clothes and he was the first person to buy me a green T-shirt and brought me underwear, hankies and things like that.

After the War

In May the Americans gave us certificates for free movement, put us on trucks and transported us to Feldafing. They didn’t separate me from Margo. We were in quarantine for over two months. Of course, they fed us and gave us some clothes that they got in the German barracks. We also got a blanket each. Margo and I got a place in the attic of the barrack, which was very dusty, and we didn’t even have straw. The attic had a very low ceiling and it was really hot since it was already summer. We were allowed to go to Munich for a day where we could walk around but we had to come back at night. Once, when I had got some money, I asked a German to take me to the city and I bought some paint. Then we were told that Auschwitz had been liberated and we had to get a pass from the Russians because if we were going to Hungary we needed something to prove where we came from. The Americans gave us deportation IDs – I think it was an ID with a picture – that we could go home with.

We came home on cattle-trucks, we had nothing besides the few things we had got from that Mexican soldier. Coming home was very adventurous. We came upon a group from Maramaros, about ten to twelve people who, besides being filthy, fought and beat each other. There were about 20 of us in one wagon. There was no straw in the wagon so we put blankets on the floor and slept on the luggage. We stopped in certain cities and at a few places people gave us some warm food. They pulled our train off the main track where they gave us some water and let us wash. We were in constant conflict with the personnel at the train station because when they put water in the engine, we would jump off and climb into the water barrels and let the cold water on us because it was so hot and dry in the wagons that we almost went mad. The train brought us all the way to Budapest.

The train was staying in Budapest for 15-16 hours. I told Margo we should find out who was still alive in her family and then we would come back and go to Kolozsvar and then she could decide where we would settle. Back then Margo and I hadn’t decided where we were going to live. As soon as we stepped off the train there came a small officer with soutache decoration and golden buttons on his black uniform. I was wearing SS trousers and Wehrmacht boots just like a Hungarian soldier during the war. The officer said to me, ‘You are under arrest because you are wearing clothes that are government property, you must follow me!’ Immediately about 14 people, with whom I had come on the train from Turkheim and from other German places, gathered around and I said to them, ‘Look at Miki Horthy’s soldier. He wants to arrest me because he says I’m wearing the property of the Hungarian government.’ For that the people started to get pissed off and looked at the little officer with such threatening eyes that he got scared. He jumped onto a tram and shouted from there, ‘All of you are under arrest!’ Then I said to Margo, ‘Well my dear, nothing has changed here in the mentality. I’m coming from a concentration camp and yet they still want to take me away. They are still thinking in terms of the numerus clausus. Let’s see who is alive in your family and go to Kolozsvar afterwards.’

Margo was originally from Debrecen, born in 1925 into a proletarian family. Her mother was a poor and very religious woman and judging from a photo, she was very pretty. Her father died in Margo’s childhood of lung disease and the family slid into destitution. Margo had two brothers and the younger of them, Sanyi, was taken to a concentration camp and never came back. Her older brother, Erno, became a shoemaker in Budapest. He never got married. He was so clever that he was wandering around in Budapest during the deportations in a Hungarian army uniform and thus wasn’t deported. I ended up meeting him in Israel much later. Margo also had two sisters: Rozsi, the elder, and Evi, the youngest child in the family.

The widowed woman put her two younger daughters into a Jewish boarding school for girls in Budapest. Margo was ten to twelve years old by then and Evi was five or six, and they were living there until the time of the deportation. Wealthy Jewish women ran the Jewish boarding school for girls and they gave everything to the girls. The girls all had to dress up nicely and had high heels. It was like a Swiss boarding school except that the girls received vocational education. Rozsi wasn’t an educated woman. She was a washwoman going from house to house and later on she worked in a hotel. She married a Jewish man who managed a transportation business with horse carriages but who was so religious that he wore tzitzit. Rozsi was also very religious but she wasn’t happy with her husband. They had two children. Rozsi and her mother were deported to Austria. Her mother got sick and died there. Rozsi came back to Budapest.

Margo and I went to see who of her family had survived the war. [They visited Margo’s aunt with whom Margo had been living straight before the deportation. At the time, Margo had still not seen, but she knew Evi was alive because the girls from the boarding school didn’t get deported and Evi lived there during the war.] We went to see the director of the school and we also met the girls Margo had been with. It was a very nice building. The rooms were very nice and tidy and they weren’t like in most other institutionalized places. In the dining hall my jaw dropped when I saw that they were not sitting on benches like birds but there were tables with four chairs at each. I know that blessing the food was mandatory before the meals. The girls set the table and also collected the plates and took them back to the kitchen. Otherwise the boarding school had personnel who did the laundry and the ironing but the girls still had to learn these tasks. There was a dressmaking shop where the girls had their own sewing machines. That’s where Margo learned to sew. I also saw a room with a stage and a piano and they also learned to sing. They had a choir that performed, they even had a little synagogue and performed there. Margo was a soloist in the choir. There was also a gym. In the boarding school they observed the Jewish holidays but they were, after all, a progressive institution. They didn’t work on Saturdays. The girls must have also walked around because there was a beautiful garden and there was even a gardener. They could also take books out of the library. The institution had a bank account and girls received tram and opera passes. I believe that they got allowances until they left the boarding school.

Margo had five years of high school. They studied Hebrew at the boarding school because they had to be able to read the prayers. She also spoke English. She completed the apprentice school [she learned to become a seamstress] and became an apprentice at an elite men’s underwear store in Budapest. If they had their own income the girls could still stay in the boarding school if they were only apprentices. After the age of 14 there were only two girls to a room. Margo lived there spending her apprentice years there until she was 16 when she moved in with one of her wealthy aunts. Her aunt came from Margo’s mother’s side and she used to be poor, too, but she was lucky to get married to a rich man, who was the director of a company. So, Margo moved into a tiled four-bedroom apartment with central heating. But she definitely had to help out.

Margo didn’t stay in Hungary, we came to Kolozsvar straight away. We came back in September 1945, and our friends, who had been in other concentration camps, I don’t know where, had been waiting for us. Margo came here when she was 20. Everybody loved her. Because I was married to her, all doors opened for me. [People were nicer to Egon because of Margo’s friendly personality.] She wasn’t a talkative person but when she spoke, she spoke wisely. She didn’t laugh out loud a lot but she always had a smile on her face. Margo was comfortable among my friends and liked the places I went to.

By the time I came back from the deportation Jeno had been back from forced labor, too and he was working. He got hired by the Armatura factory, which was a metal appliance factory. As a skilled man, Jeno was hired quickly and worked in the storage department; he didn’t need any vocational schooling there. Since he loved to travel, he took the buyer position, and a lot of times he even paid the bus fares out of his own pocket. He came with the parcels, bringing the products, and he also organized their transportation. Back then he traveled on the train between Kolozsvar and Bucharest all the time because the factory sent him as part of a delegation. Although Jeno had a terrible limp because he had bone tuberculosis and his operation failed, at times he still walked as much as 40 kilometers [during his buying trips].

At the end of the 1950s, it happened that Jeno, I don’t exactly remember where or how, got into some financial difficulties. Then somebody said he knew an older Jewish woman and people convinced Jeno to marry her because she had money. She wasn’t doing any work because she was living off her money and jewelry. Jeno didn’t have a choice so he married Szeren. Jeno was over sixty years old when he got married and he was already on pension. Szeren was a wasted, gloomy old spinster who was also reserved and not at all friendly. Jeno, on the other hand, was a good-humored and funny guy, who also loved huge meals and was getting pretty fat. He was very generous and one of his bad habits was that whenever he had some money he would buy something expensive. This led to constant conflict because Szeren was very tight with money while Jeno liked living freely. They didn’t get divorced because it wasn’t a custom among Jews. I remember, Margo and I visited them in their apartment, in Hajnal [in Romanian Zorilor] district, where they lived. Whenever we went there, we were always upset because we couldn’t even chat. Szeren didn’t even sit down and then Jeno started to get pissed off as he saw red and told Szeren angrily, ‘Put something on the table.’ She envied us every bite we ate. Jeno wasn’t tight with money at all even though he didn’t always make money. When he was out he was always greatly jovial, but he had pretty lay-about craftsmen friends.

When he was approaching 90, Jeno became very ill and had terrible pains even though we kept taking him to hospital. His wife wasn’t any comfort to him, they had a bad relationship. One night I got a phone call from Jeno’s neighbor saying that my uncle had committed suicide, he had jumped from the ninth floor. [This was in 1995 when Jeno was 90 years old. He was buried in the Neolog Jewish cemetery.]

After we arrived in Kolozsvar, as all people who had been deported, we were given a room in the Peter-Pal villa 20. Once, out of the blue, the police showed up and wanted to take Margo away, to expel her from the country. Therefore, we had to get married officially right away. We got married in November. In Kolozsvar nobody wanted to conduct the ceremony because my sweetheart was a Hungarian citizen. My friends arranged a legal marriage for us in Hidalmas [a small place nearby, where administrative things could be done more easily]. We got married there.

The room where we lived was empty and as small as a maid’s room. There were about 10-15 of us, with the other deported boys, living in the villa. They got us a big old sofa and even brought it up into the room and we slept on it for ten years. I hammered two big nails into the wall and that’s where we hung our clothes, and that was all of our furniture. For a while we ate in the Peter-Pal villa because a Jewish organization set up a canteen there. The organization was called Comitetul Deportat Evreiesc, Committee of Deported Jews and was run by secular Jewish lawyers, doctors and architects. These democratic Jews, headed by Hillel Kohn, seized the villa as Jewish property during the post-war requisition. I sculpted the first DJYO monument, a plaster relief of a group of people carrying a flag, which was later cast into bronze. It was put in the yard of the Peter-Pal villa where people who had been deported lived straight after the war. But after the nationalization 21, when the state rented out the flats for tenants, they finally pulled the relief down because they didn’t like it. Many people asked me what happened to it, but I don’t know what happened to it after it was taken down. Perhaps there is a picture of it somewhere.

The DJYO – Demokrata Zsido Ifjak Szovetsege, Democratic Jewish Youth Organization – was a completely separate organization. A couple of younger guys organized it, who had previously come back from Buchenwald. One of them was Dr. Hersko, who later Romanianized his name to Petru Muresan. He became a party activist and later worked in the Ministry. Vilmos Schwartz, a dentist, was also a member of the DJYO. Emil Lobl, another organizer, was an architect, became a professor at the Polytechnic University and changed his name to Szava. He got in an ideological conflict with Docsi, another DJYO leader, who was a doctor. Andor Havas was also in the leadership and supported Docsi. Then there was Lajko Rot, who remained a communist and became the director of the Romanian department of the local radio. I got into conflict with him because I disagreed with him over the fact that it was forbidden to marry a person with kulak 22 background. I was the secretary of the DJYO for a while. The DJYO collaborated with the Jewish Committee. The Jewish community had nothing to do with these organizations.

The main program of the DJYO, similarly to the communists, was to stay in the country and build up our homes. There was an educational purpose to teach people a profession. Most of the DJYO members who returned after the war didn’t have any parents left and they lived in an apprentice hostel that was founded by the Democratic Jewish Association. [Editor’s note: The Democratic Jewish Association was a Jewish institution, founded after the war that helped the returning Jewish youth.] We directed lots of kids into work in factories, we held them together. We were in opposition with the Zionist organizations, for instance the Gordonia 23, which were for emigration. The Gordonia was made up mostly of middle class kids. They accepted vocational training from us, but still they had a separate organization and promoted emigration to the end.

We disagreed within my family as well when Evi, Margo’s sister, became a Zionist. While we were still living in the Peter-Pal villa she came to see us and told us to emigrate to Israel. She was really upset and angry to hear that I didn’t want to emigrate and that I wouldn’t let Margo either. We had been married already and I said, ‘We are going to stay here for a while’. After that Evi never wanted to talk to me again and we departed on bad terms and she never wrote from Israel where she emigrated to with her brother. I personally didn’t want to leave Romania because I had just started my artistic career and at the time was thinking of going to art college. Back then I had no clue about what Israel was like and later, after I had been to Israel, I could honestly say Israel just wasn’t for me. I didn’t really want to go and work there or get drafted into the Israeli army.

We visited the wealthy Jews in Kolozsvar to get some donations and we usually succeeded in acquiring a nice sum. In general, we tried to get them to support the cause of orphaned Jewish children, to donate some money to the apprentice hostel, and we also needed some money to organize and expand the DJYO. Out of our young members, many became representative agents and they visited different towns to set up DJYO offices, for instance in Nagyvarad, Nagybanya and Maramarossziget.

We held a DJYO ball nearly every year. We held the party in the big hall of the side building of the National Museum on Kiraly Street. These were all charity parties with the purpose of collecting donations for the orphans who lived in the apprentice hostel and for other collective projects. Margo took part in the organization of the parties as well. We thought out the schedule and program of the party with the other DJYO boys and Margo sewed the dresses for the show. I did the sets and props. The program had funny parts, sort of burlesques. I remember we put on a performance about a concentration camp story because many of us brought concentration camp clothes back and we were lying on the stage like half dead people. Then one of us said, ‘Oh, no, I can feel that my leg is rotting…’. There were also some scenes when we mocked capitalism. We invited singers and actors and they performed in satires or in comedies. Gyorgy Harag, the Jewish actor, also came to act from the theater of Kolozsvar, because he was already sympathizing with us, the DJYO.

In 1948 the members of the DJYO accepted the formation of Israel very calmly and coldly. The Buchenwald group – Docsi, Dr. Hersko, Lajko – was a passionate illegal communist bunch, they were all very nice, honest and deeply moral people. They were much more reluctant to go to Israel than the Zionists. The fermentation at the DJYO started when it came to light that some of the members wanted to emigrate to Israel, which was against the beliefs of the older, communist generation. Today this is crystal clear, but unfortunately back then I didn’t understand so clearly what was happening. It was just natural for me that I didn’t want to leave this place. Whoever was enrolled in higher education didn’t move. People from modest Jewish families, from poor backgrounds and the young poor proletarian youth left quickly for Israel. In the times of the nationalization, when the government started to confiscate people’s property, those who had money and fortune realized the situation and left the country – and the DJYO.

Some of the educated and middle class Jewish people left and later on the religious Jews also gradually decided to leave. For instance, there were two brothers in the Fritsch family: the older one, Marton Fritsch, was a passionate communist, he was also one of the leaders of the DJYO and later joined the Securitate 24. His younger brother was an officer in the army where he came to oppose the communist attitude and eventually emigrated to Israel. In the end there was a solid stratum of Jewish people who stayed: the workers who had learned their vocation here. After 1945 the DJYO operated for three or four years. Subsequently, it became the Jewish Party that later merged with the UTC [Young Communist Party]. Obviously many members left and their positions changed as well. Many people became party activists.

I had a theory after the war that workers had to play a different role with a more serious voice. Communism was in opposition to the system that had taken us away to concentration camps. The communists said they had a vision of the future. So, we believed them and did what they wanted us to do, and after a while we adopted their thinking. For a while I supported their ideas – I joined the party – until I realized that the proletariat itself as a leading class cannot be possible.

Margo and I hung out with DJYO guys. The DJYO people – and people who had some previous education from the Jewish Lyceum – went to university. The rest of us went to vocational training courses for workers where we could do two years of training in one. For instance, Margo went to evening classes for two years while she was a seamstress. That’s how her five years of Hungarian high school education was accepted because in Romania they didn’t accept any schooling other than Romanian.

I attended a course at the art school in 1947. It was kind of a party-organized class where some painters set up a workshop and taught us. I was there for a year and I even received a certificate. When I was accepted to the Hungarian Institute of Arts in 1948, I was put into the second year because they accepted my previous year from the art school. The institute had a mainly Hungarian management and at the time Zoltan Kovacs was the rector. In the morning I was an art student, and in the afternoon I was a high school student. I hadn’t finished high school and needed to graduate because before that I couldn’t have graduated from the Institute of Art. In 1949, they introduced dual language education, Romanian and Hungarian, the institute became the Ion Andreescu Institute of Art and Aurel Ciupe its rector. Then the institute got a building with an exhibition space in the Central Park.

There were a lot of Hungarians who were gradually laid off from important positions. There were some excellent sculpting teachers at the institute, for instance Szervaciusz, who was mainly teaching painting techniques: carving, casting and things like that, but he never made it any further than lecturer. My art history teacher was a Jewish man, Nandor Balaska, who grew up in Hungarian culture and later emigrated to the West. There were subjects that were taught in both Hungarian and Romanian, so the teachers were required to speak both. I became an assistant teacher in anatomy in 1950 and was registered in the teaching staff. I was a student in the morning and an assistant teacher in the afternoon. I graduated from the institute in sculpture in 1953 but I stayed in the institute and climbed up the ‘academic ladder’. As soon as I graduated I became an assistant, seven years from then a lecturer and finally a university professor. I was teaching the main courses – drawing, sculpting, and composition.

The Hungarian events of 1956 played an important role in the life of the institute. Many students were affected by the events. Students who were on holiday in Hungary at the time brought back the sense of freedom. The Hungarian students in Kolozsvar reacted to it. Students of Babes-Bolyai University organized actions, even called a secret meeting. The students didn’t like the political directions of the education and they wanted to get rid of Marxism or any ideological teaching. They wanted to keep only the core classes: natural sciences and art-related subjects and to have these two to be the main lines. I was the secretary of the primary party unit but at the time I was seriously ill with tuberculosis and lay in bed at home. I remember the party secretary instructed me to get up at any cost, because there was a secret meeting. By the time I got there, the meeting was already over; the Securitate surrounded the place with black cars and caught all the leaders. Among them were Vid Tarnavan, a Hungarian guy, and Imre Balazs, who is still a well-known painter in Hungary. They were convicted for organizing illegal collective actions and sentenced to prison for a year and a half or for two years. I tried to get them out of the hands of the Securitate. I said I would guarantee that these people were only trying to help the education of the institute due to the Hungarian events. They told me not to get involved because it was none of my business. The teaching staff of the institute didn’t take up a position.

In 1957 I made a lot of sculptures with peasant themes, for instance the 907. That’s what it was called, 907. [Editor’s note: The name is referring to 1907, commemorating a Romanian peasant rebellion of that year.] In Mexico I grew up among Indians and I saw what working in the fields was like. The problem was that I made peasants who looked thin just like the field workers in Mexico. One of my sculptor colleges from the sculpture department, without telling me, wrote a very negative article in Fratia [Brotherhood], a local Romanian newspaper: ‘Lovith makes fun of Romanian peasants. Lovith’s peasant figure rather resembles a mosquito.’ He wrote that because the peasants were thin and they were under hardship. I created four bony peasants under a tree, with crows up on the tree, waiting for these peasants to die because their death was inevitable. They were made out of plaster and I was supposed to cast them. In my anger I only left one piece and broke into pieces all the others. Many people told me I was crazy when I said, ‘I’m sick of this, I will not use a subject like this ever again’. My remedy came when in 2002 the Kolozsvar Art Museum asked me to give them my one remaining peasant sculpture, which I hadn’t broken. I took the sculpture to the museum myself by car.

During the time of Gheorghiu Dej 25, in the 1950s, I made a two and a half meter sculpture in the memory of the deported people: three figures – extremely bony people. I portrayed their moment of liberation but it wasn’t received too well in the Ministry. The Museum of Bucharest bought it but a few years later they contacted me to let me know that the sculpture was in very bad shape. I told them I would go up to Bucharest and repair it but they never got back to me and my sculpture disappeared.

When the Ion Andreescu Institute of Arts was formed, the Uniunea Artistilor Plastici [Union of Fine Arts] was already operating and I had been a member since my student years. The Uniunea Artistilor Plastici in Kolozsvar was modeled after the Union in Bucharest. Ciupe and his friends established it. [Aurel Ciupe was the director of the Institute of Fine Arts in Kolozsvar.] There’s still an office above the university bookstore, where we used to meet. At the time they knew I was looking for an atelier that I could use after I was done with my studies. My professor, Irinescu, got an atelier, which I have today, but he went back, I think to Bucharest, and in 1953 he offered the atelier to me. The atelier is in the downtown area. There was only a water pipe and a light bulb in the room. Once I got the atelier I installed the gas and with a lot of money I made it into a real atelier.

Within the Union there was an organization named Fondul Plastic [Foundation of Fine Arts] that focused on the finances of the Union and also organized exhibitions. I became the president of the Fondul Plastic in the 1970s. Besides teaching at the institute I was also the president. There were always more Hungarians among those who organized the exhibitions, placed the works. There were differences in where we put certain artists’ works at the art shows, for instance Antal Fulop’s works were always put behind the door and the main space was reserved for Ciupe’s works.

From one day to the next I found out that I would no longer receive my 2,000 lei salary for being the president of the Fondul Plastic. I remained president but I didn’t get paid anymore. The secretary of the Fondul Plastic had a 1,800 lei salary. His salary, along with the agents’, and the transport workers’ were not terminated, only the president was cut off. I didn’t get any money for my work and there were no services rendered when I did extra work preparing the exhibitions. That was such impudence, but I continued my work patiently. I couldn’t have quit because up until then everybody had told me how wonderful an artist I was so I stayed. But it didn’t matter because I remained on track as an artist. They introduced a discriminatory system where they decided on people’s salaries based on their profile. People with the professions of mathematics and chemistry became category A, the most important category. All the art institutes were either B or C; I don’t even know which one exactly; whatever the salary was lower.

For a short time we lived in the Peter-Pal villa and when Edit and Samu moved out from the apartment on Majalis street, Margo and I moved in there. It was a miserable one-bedroom apartment. Right next to us there was a three-bedroom apartment and our place probably used to be part of it and they must have built a kitchen into it so they could rent it out. The landlord was a rich man; he owned a metal works and he also owned some property. Our room was unbearably cold until we leased an iron stove from Margo’s salary [who worked as a seamstress at the Victoria Factory.] We also had a terribly dark and damp cellar where we kept our logs and coal. I used to bring the logs up from there with candlelight all the time. It was very cozy and warm after that, and we really enjoyed ourselves in that narrow apartment. There was a big window that looked onto the street. There was no such thing as a pantry or a fridge. We didn’t have a bathroom only a tap of cold water in the kitchen and that’s where we had to bathe. We had a wooden trough that we bathed in. We poured water on each other with cups. We didn’t have a toilet either. There was a toilet in the yard but the water always froze in it during the winter. Nevertheless, we lived happily and finally we had our own room, which was an extraordinary thing for us. We had to pay the same rent as Edit and Samu had paid before us.

I found out that it was a Hungarian gypsy named Jeri who had stolen our furniture from our old apartment. I went with the guys from the DJYO and we were so frightening that we beat it out of him that after the deportation – before the house was bombed – he went in and took the furniture. He returned the furniture and we even got a written record of it. I took a big wardrobe and a table with a mirror home. Unfortunately, the flat was so narrow we could hardly fit them in. There was already the big sofa that we had got previously and a rickety table with one chair in the kitchen. There couldn’t have been two chairs because there wasn’t enough space. I started to paint there and that’s where I did my first self-portrait. Samu left me a lot of dried paint and brushes when they moved out.

Within a short time they took away the furniture that I had just got back. Samu took the furniture away because they moved into a two-bedroom apartment and needed it. The furniture belonged to our family, therefore it belonged to Edit as well. So, we were left with the sofa and had nails in the wall where we hung our clothes.

After World War II, Samu, Edit’s husband, opened a glass and porcelain business in Kolozsvar with his father. Samu had this business, which supported his family. Edit stayed with their two children and looked after the apartment. That’s where Samu died in the 1960s, in the time of Gheorghiu Dej, and afterwards Edit and the two girls emigrated to Israel. The two girls were probably 17-18 years old, were already married to two Jewish boys from Moldova and they emigrated together. They settled in Tel Aviv. Edit settled in Holon and I don’t remember what or where she worked. She didn’t know anybody when she arrived but as an immigrant she received a furnished one-bedroom apartment. Later she married a Hungarian Jewish man who had been living there for quite some time and owned a house. He sold lemonade. Later, when we were in Israel, we spent very little time with him but he was very friendly. During his last years, Edit helped out with the purchasing and selling of ice cream and fruits. Lia learned to play the piano, became a musician and now teaches music at home in Tel Aviv. Judit studied something more modern, some computer thing.

The workers received housing from their factory. I have horrible memories of this period because we weren’t able to get a decent apartment. Our first home on Majalis Street was torn down in the 1950s and they built the new student palace [the House of University Students], on Beke [in Romanian Pacii] Square. Everybody who lived in the house that was to be demolished got some kind of housing, everybody except us. They all got it because they had children. After a lot of effort we finally got a worthless apartment in Andrei Muresanu district. It was further out from the last bus stop and we wouldn’t even have had a kitchen. In 1956 I was suffering from tuberculosis and it took me a long time to recover. I really didn’t want to move into that apartment and eventually we got a different one-bedroom apartment on Mocok Avenue [in Romanian Motilor Avenue, close to the city center]. We could enter from a common yard. There was only gas installed in the house so there was no water in our apartment. We bought a bucket and we used it to bring water in from outside and that’s how we took care of washing. There was no bathroom, we bathed in a washtub. The horrible thing was that we didn’t have a toilet. We had to go through the yard to knock on the neighbor’s door, they opened their door for us and we used their toilet. The walls of the bathroom were made of plywood and so the smallest noise could be heard. Once we were done we had to thank them and then we left and the neighbor locked the door behind us. Margo and I were so uncomfortable with this that we would rather run to the main square where we used the public toilet. It was awful and we were embarrassed to use a bowl for peeing because we didn’t even have anywhere to empty it. We lived in this place for four or five years. There was a communal toilet near my atelier and it saved us many times.

We couldn’t cook in this apartment so we always ate out for lunch. For a long time we ate at the Jewish kosher canteen on Union Street. During the 1960s we ate at the canteen of the Victoria Factory, where Margo worked as a seamstress. This was a co-operative factory where a lot of our Jewish acquaintances worked.

We were begging to get a two-bedroom apartment in the first buildings that were built on Union Street. They didn’t give it to us, only to others, who had children. We found out soon, that without children we would hardly get an apartment. Block apartments were considered luxurious. I wanted to sign up for one and I was standing in line to see an acquaintance of mine – a party secretary, a Hungarian man whom I knew from the UTC – who saw me after eleven hours of waiting in the cold hallway and said to me in confidence, ‘My friend, come, tell me what I can help you with’. I told him that not only had our old home been demolished, but we also were unable to get a new one. Then he said to me, ‘My friend, there’s really nothing I can do about that’, and left without saying goodbye.

The husband of our Jewish friend, Sara Szekely, – who had good relations – arranged that we received a one-bedroom block apartment in the 1970s. There was no kitchen, the room only had a kitchenette by the sink, where we could cook. We had a bathroom but it only had a shower and a toilet. We lived there for a long time because it was suitable for us. But then somebody claimed the apartment. [Somebody needed the apartment and Egon and Margo had to move out.]

Once again, somebody said something on our behalf and we were given a different apartment in Einstein Street, where some Jews had lived but moved out. It was towards the train station behind Hora Street. It was a two-bedroom apartment with an attic, a cellar, and a laundry room but since it was next to big buildings our short house was completely dark. There was a tiny run-down apartment in front where an awful gypsy family was living with a bunch of kids – at least five –and there was a dying Jewish person living separately in another room. We lived there for a long time. For me it was quintessential to have quietness and peace to be able to work, but there was none of it in that place so we decided to leave.

The place where I live now used to be a Securitate house. Before that, the house had belonged to two Jewish sisters – at some point, probably a larger family had lived here. Whoever had moved in here last built the upstairs addition to the house. [Egon lives on the ground floor.]

During the 1980s, it was horrible to deal with food stamps, standing in line and having financial difficulties. The sugar cubes that we eat so indifferently today were a treasure at the time. I love to spread a lot of butter on my bread but the tiny piece of butter we could obtain once a month didn’t allow me to do that back then. For meat we had to stand in lines for hours. Margo and I already felt that Romanian socialism had failed and things were only getting worse.

During the 1980s, I didn’t have any positions other than teaching, which I had come to really enjoy. At the end of the 1980s, the Institute of Fine Arts was laying its employees off. There was a meeting at which it didn’t seem that they would fire anybody. They suggested that I take over the sculpture department. I’m usually a patient person but I really lost my temper because I had previously heard that the position they suggested me to take wasn’t going to be paid for but was going to have voluntary status. It didn’t affect my salary for teaching but I would have needed to manage the sculpture department for free. The same work that somebody had previously been paid for doing, I was going to have to do for nothing. In the end I took the position even though I didn’t benefit from it at all. I retired from the institute in 1991. I wasn’t even 70 years old and because of this my pension is very low.

Before 1989 Margo and I felt that the situation was unbearable. For the entire time, even though I was a member of the Party, I kept my Jewish identity as well. [Although Egon is not religious, he considers his Jewish identity important as a way to relate to the world.] After fascism and socialism, communism seemed the right choice for me but it slowly became a burden because I’m in the category of people that benefited little by communism. Even though communism provided me work and the opportunity to advocate communist doctrines, to be honest, it affected me very negatively overall. They promoted that the goal of the communist system was to achieve a higher state of humanity, where people wouldn’t be exploited and where people would be paid fairly for their contribution to the state. However, in the case of the Loviths, the fact that we had come from the concentration camp and had absolutely nothing didn’t bother the communists. Moreover, we were put in a discriminatory category, which hardly provided any living arrangements for us. Not having children we were always on the bottom of the list to get anything, even though it was the concentration camp that made us unable to have children in the first place. This was a big grievance for us and we felt that there was no reparation even when, years later, we were given a few dollars of indemnity.

I had exhibitions under Ceausescu 26 but I only had Mexican themes. I created a mode of expression that they couldn’t lay blame on. I usually made cast bronze sculptures but I also had some burnt terracotta. Terra cotta, burnt soil, means ceramic sculpture. In 1953, because of my tuberculosis, I had to stop sculpting and stone carving for a while and I decided to experiment with ceramics. I hadn’t had a significant experience with ceramics but specialists set up a kiln in my atelier where I could experiment with the hot glazes. I tried to make the chromatics, the coloring to be diverse and to give each of the pieces its own rhythm. During the Ceausescu period, they became very popular and desired items mainly because they were very cheap. My ceramics became known and kids came from schools to buy them for Women’s Day or for teachers. I had orders for 20-50 pieces at times. I also made compositions of ceramics that could be hung on the walls. My ceramic sculptures are all glazed, I made functional and partly functional ceramic things, for example, pitchers and ashtrays. I also made ‘useless’ ceramics: whistling jugs and ornaments. In a way, ceramics helped me financially all the time. I was inspired by Mexican art; the Mexicans had wonderful ceramics. People liked my works, they were selling like hot cakes.

My first visit to Israel was under Ceausescu in 1989. I went by myself, they let me out without my wife but I didn’t have too much money. [Editor’s note: It was a standard procedure in the Ceausescu era that family members were not allowed to leave the county together because of fear that they would not return.] After 1989 [following the Romanian Revolution of 1989] 27, Margo and I could leave together, traveling together was no longer a problem. After 1990, the standard of living didn’t get much better here, but at least we no longer depended on food stamps. Margo and I tried to get things done which we couldn’t afford to do previously. We renovated and fixed our bathroom because everything in it was leaking.

When they started to be more organized at the Jewish community I was called in to it a number of times. I turned to Jewish subjects in my paintings, which had been impossible to do before because I could have never exhibited them. At the state art exhibitions they didn’t accept any Jewish or biblical subject matter so after 1989 it was a great relief to be able to paint what I thought. It was then that I decided to have only individual exhibitions. Initially in my work I focused on Jewish typology: portraits, praying Jewish figures, and then mainly biblical subjects. I started reading the Bible again and it became a Jewish history book for me, which is depicted in a particular way in my paintings.

I painted a Holocaust sequence and did most of the paintings for it in 1987. The sequence was a reflection of my inner motive. The subject had developed in my perception and I felt I could express it in a personal way. In 1996, when the Holocaust sequence was completed, I was debating what to do with it. With all the necessary recommendations, much money, clearing through customs, in the form of museum patrimonial I took 33 Holocaust works to Israel because the previous year, the director of Yad Vashem Museum was in Kolozsvar and I had met him. He probably came to visit the Jewish community and he knew Oliver Lusztig – who was an army general who had come back from Dachau and was a member of the DJYO. Lusztig brought the director of Yad Vashem to my atelier and made some arrangements in this matter. When the director came and saw my paintings he told me that the paintings had to be taken to Israel. I got all the official permits and I took the paintings to Israel but by the time I arrived in the Yad Vashem 28, the director, I don’t remember his name, had been laid off. He told me there was nothing he could do and then I told him that I was stuck there with my wife and so he said to me, ‘Call me in two days’. For the time being we stayed at my aunt Edit’s. The new director wasn’t interested in talking to me and just didn’t care. Two days later I talked to the former director who said to me, ‘There have been some changes and the museum cannot display your entire collection but the committee agreed to receive five of your paintings.’ I didn’t leave any paintings there; I had no intention of negotiating with them.

What was wonderful about the whole story was that we met the husband of one of Margo’s relatives, who owned a laundry business at the airport – a lovely man, who emigrated during the Ceausescu era – and he made us stay in Israel for eight or nine months in a furnished four-room apartment decorated with paintings. That’s when I met Ervin Salamon, an excellent painter. I also visited Adolf Adler, who was a very good painter as well. We lived very comfortably in our four-bedroom apartment in Israel, we had a television, an air-conditioner. The husband of Margo’s relative even gave us money, about 400 shekels, and said, ‘I won’t let you take these paintings back! You are going to start working; buy some paint, I opened an account for you.’ He always quarreled with me for not buying more things. Margo and I really lived at ease. We were there for about eight months and they took us to various cities. I had one of the rooms for myself, where I painted, displayed my works and invited other artists. I constantly had visitors. One of the very important Jewish newspapers in Tel Aviv, which was published in Hungarian, did a story on me.

I didn’t stay in Israel in the 1990s because I had already started my art career in Kolozsvar and I had my atelier here. I also can’t stand the climate and the chaotic situation of Israel, I couldn’t adapt to it. I belong here, people know who I am and my works and my fame are working for me now. All my statues are here, here are many Hungarian and Romanian Jews who bought my works, so I’m doing fine here.

Later I negotiated with a museum in a small Hungarian town, but I cannot recall its name. They told me they wanted to transform an old, run-down synagogue into a monument for the deported and they were interested in my paintings, and I had to give them a price. We negotiated for a long time in the 1990s and finally they bought and took my Holocaust collection to Hungary with great enthusiasm. From the ministry in Budapest I got the confirmation that the museum had received my collection. [In 1997 Egon had an exhibition in the Synagogue Museum in Kisvarda-Sarospatak, Hungary.]

After having my paintings exhibited in Hungary, the Germans also became interested and wanted to exhibit my work. It was an ordinary business deal and the German weren’t particularly welcoming towards me. They needed my paintings because there was no other Holocaust painter who had a similar subject matter. [Egon refers to the fact that in his own paintings, in contrast to most other paintings that deal with the disturbing search for the ‘whys’ of the Holocaust, Egon’s paintings represent his personal memories expressed by a suggestive conciseness and quiet refrain.] My Holocaust collection was exhibited in the Museum of Dachau in 1997, and it is very important to me because my paintings were displayed at the very same place where all my sufferings had taken place. I depicted my own personal stories, the stories of the concentration camps: that somebody doesn’t even have the strength to eat, that somebody is cowering with an empty plate, there are three dark shadows throwing a baby into a deep trench; these images are in my Holocaust series.

Margo died in 1999. I was left alone after 54 years of marriage. I completely stopped sculpting, working became difficult for me and I even gave some of my tools away. So, it’s only drawing and painting that’s left for me to do. Many people look up to me and respect me for having done so many things. Somebody told me once, ‘How can a sculptor also paint, be a graphic designer, cast ceramics, and also work with metal?’ The only comment I had on his question was, ‘What can I do, I’m a belated Renaissance man?!’

After Margo’s death I had a single exhibition in the town museum in Banffy Palace in Kolozsvar. Most of my sculptures were exhibited, all of the newer ones and one or two of the older ones that we brought up from the cellar. The sculptures were displayed in three or four rooms. The two directors personally took care of the arrangement and organization of the exhibit and it turned out to be an excellent one. I also attracted a lot of new fans: museum employees and graduating seniors from university. The exhibit was on for a month during which time seven different television stations promoted it. There were also a lot of newspaper articles about it, almost every newspaper ran a story on it. A local Romanian journalist in Adevarul de Cluj [Truth of Kolozsvar] newspaper wrote, ‘Lovith mai mult ca everu’ [Lovith is more than Jewish]. The Romanian papers expressed positive surprise and enthusiasm about my works. The Hungarian papers analyzed the exhibition on a deeper level, exploring my art thoroughly.

In 2002 Gabriela Rostas, an editor of Antena 1 television network, wrote a book on me, which was structured in a question-answer format. It also had a little literary value and it more or less summed up my life. The title of the book is Lumea intr-un cartof, The World in a Potato, with Romanian and English text.

In the same year, two or three months after the book was published, I received an award. One of the leaders of the Jewish community visited me with a delegation from Bucharest – I think his name is Dorin Dorel and he is a well-known Romanian writer but he also published in Jewish papers – and he brought me the award. Marton Izsak and I received the award at the same time. They invited both of us to Bucharest but neither of us went. He was 90 years old and I was 80. So, they had to come to us. The ceremony was at 8pm in Marosvasarhely and two hours later they came here to Kolozsvar. This was the first time I participated in an event like this; they say a few words about what an excellent artist the person is. The award is engraved with the words ‘for his life achievement’. ‘This is the personal award of the Union of Romanian Jewish Communities. It is an award of excellence and speciality for the sculptor Egon Lovith for all his contributions, Dr. Nicolae Cajan and Aurel Iulian attorney.’

In my opinion I have a very good relationship with the Jewish community. It’s a very promising thing that the current president, Gabor Goldner, has plans for me. He wants me to donate my works with Jewish subjects – among them my Bible sequence, so all together about 50-60 large paintings – and they will display them in the new building of the university’s Department of Judaism. The name of the exhibit would be either Lovith Collection or Lovith Gallery.

I always acknowledged my Jewish identity even in the times when it wasn’t a comfortable thing to do. For me being Jewish is my existence, but I’m not a self-asserting Jew, and I also lack the Hebrew and the Talmud Torah knowledge which would strengthen my Jewish identity. My declared Jewish identity has evolved into pictures, and I’m able to create an image that is worth as much as expression through literature. I no longer carve stones and cast bronze because I don’t have any assistants but I still draw and right now I’m doing graphics. Lately my drawings have been received so well that it’s given me a drive to keep on painting.

Glossary

Gyula Foldes
Budapest
Hungary
Interviewer: Eszter Andor
Date of interview: October 2002

Gyula Foldes is a retired pediatrician who is still active professionally. Although he was a small child before the war, he is a very good story-teller and he has lively memories of his childhood and knows many stories and anecdotes of his family. With his second wife he lives in a nicely furnished apartment in the Ujlipot district of Budapest, a district inhabited by middle-class people and a very high number of Jews. In the room, in which our interview takes place, he shows me all the cherished books and furniture he saved from his mother and childhood.

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

My family background

My maternal grandfather was called Ignac Altman. He was born in Szent Domonkos in 1879. He started as a railroad braker but worked his way up and died as a chief ticket-inspector. I believe he finished four years of middle school 1 but had no further education. But he wanted his eldest daughter to become a doctor. And she did, too. His wife was called Roza Glatter, she was from Gyongyos. They lived in several places in Hungary, as railroad workers they were sent here and there. They were in Dunaszerdahely, then in Zsolna, but most of all in Pest at the MAV [Hungarian State Railroad] colony in Rakospalota. I have one souvenir of my grandmother, a photograph. Her face is smiley and round. As far as I know they weren’t very religious. They wore middle class clothes, observed Yom Kippur and seder, and they lit candles at Chanukkah. They didn’t observe much else. Ignac Altman died in 1926 and his wife in 1936.

Roza Glatter had a brother, Jozsef [Joska] Glatter, who was a train-driver. He became a communist. In 1919, during the Hungarian Soviet Republic 2, he had a fairly high post – what exactly I don’t know. My grandfather was a legitimist, which is why they always argued about politics. [Legitimists were the supporters of the re-establishment of the Habsburg Monarchy.] After the Hungarian Soviet Republic fell, so did Jozsef Glatter, in 1920´, I believe. He was imprisoned in Csillag prison in Szeged. My mother and aunt – my mother had a younger sister – were daughters of a railroad worker, so they got free train tickets and they went to see him in Csillag. My grandfather must have had some protection because Jozsef Glatter was sentenced to death in the meantime, but stayed in prison. My grandfather reasoned that they wouldn’t hang Jozsef as he had three children. Then the train-drivers put their heads together so as to prevent his execution. A delegation was sent to Horthy 3 to plea for him and get him reprieved. And so it was: he was sentenced to life imprisonment and then, when prisoners-of-war were exchanged in Hungary, Jozsef Glatter, who was a political prisoner, his wife and three children were sent to Moscow. On the train they met a young man called Zoltan Wienberger, who later became a minister as Zoltan Vass.

When the illegally organized parties were disbanded in Hungary Jozsef was summoned in Moscow and told to reorganize the party. They wanted to send his eldest son, Endre Glatter, who was then twenty something, to go to Pest illegally to reorganize the party. Not his father, as he had been sentenced to death. At this his wife, Nelli, said that once was enough and they left Moscow; they were able to do so as they had an apartment which a well-known GPU needed, as he wanted to get married, and he got them passports. At the beginning of 1926 or 1927 they arrived in New York from where, not long after, they went to Canada.

During the war the biggest privation they suffered was that they couldn’t get bananas. We know all this because Erzsi Glatter, their youngest, who was a hairdresser, came to Pest with her husband in 1965 or 1966, and looked us up in the telephone book as she knew my mother’s name. She could speak Hungarian, too, and told us the whole story. Another interesting point is that on the 60th anniversary of the Hungarian Soviet Republic in 1979 an article appeared in the Esti Hirlap [Evening News] saying that a memorial tablet had been unveiled on Ferencvaros station to commemorate an important figure in the workers movement, Jozsef Glatter. I went to see it. There’s nothing on it about when he was born or died – as they had no data about this. I started to laugh as I had already been in New York and Canada and knew that Glatter, despite his communist past, was buried in the Jewish cemetery.

Erzsi Glatter, his daughter, got to know a Jew called Feri Izsak, who came from Szatmarnemeti, and married him. He wasn’t really Orthodox but observed the traditions. They became very wealthy. The Izsaks had some land, here in Szatmarnemeti, he went to Canada in 1946 and his first priority was to buy land. He started to buy and it worked. Because, on the other side of the Canadian-American border, in Detroit, the Ford factory needed workers, and wages in Canada were much lower. So Ford started to build houses there and moved their employees in. They started to buy Feri Izsak’s land.

My mother’s sister Gizella or Giza was born in 1904 in Dunaszerdahely and died in Budapest in 1983. When she was born my grandfather was working for the Hungarian State Railroad in Dunaszerdahely and Pozsony. Auntie Giza completed for grades of middle school, but she didn’t particularly want to study. She was a very beautiful woman and wanted to get married as soon as possible. She had three husbands. The first was Ferenc Horvath, who wasn’t Jewish, but the second, Dezso Szanto, was. She married the first at the end of the 1920s, it lasted a short time, she married again in 1936. I don’t know what happened to her first two husbands. Her third husband, Karoly Altman, was her cousin. Ignac Altman had a sister called Fani, and she had a son, Karoly, on the wrong side of the blanket. That’s why he was called Altman, as we didn’t know anything of his father. Fani was supposedly a dissolute woman, I think she lived in Pest. Karoly was Auntie Giza’s first cousin, but while grandmother lived she didn’t allow them to marry because the belief was, and still is today, that cousins marrying is unhealthy. When my grandmother died they married immediately, in 1937, I think. There were only civil marriages then, and I was there. It was in Aszod, as Karoly Altman was a car mechanic and had a workshop there with a partner.

I have many memories of Karoly. He was a dark-haired, tall, good-looking man with an old Citroen car. In the 1930s this was a big thing for us, children, as we could go on trips in the car. During the year before the war, so in 1939, he worked in Pest as well. He was immediately called up, as they needed car mechanics who knew how to drive; whether he was a Jew or not wasn’t an issue; to the extent that even in 1941 he went to Ukraine as a soldier, not as a forced laborer. When he came back in 1941-42 we heard from him how the Hungarian military had behaved during the invasion. About how holding babies by the legs they had thrashed them against the walls. He wasn’t called up for labor service later either, somehow he got excused, I suppose due to his car mechanic expertise.

My father’s father, Lajos Friedman, was born in 1866 in Sirok. He was an upholstery assistant, I don’t think he ever worked independently. He lived on 20 Istvan Road in Pest. At the end of his life he lived with us in the apartment on Terez Boulevard. He died in Budapest in 1937 but insisted on being buried in the Orthodox cemetery in Gyongyos. My father’s mother was Zsofia Klein, I don’t know where she was born, but she is buried in Budapest in the Jewish cemetery on Kozma Street. I didn’t know her, she died at the beginning of the 1930s, but I knew my grandfather.

My grandmother’s father was Moric Klein, who had lots of siblings. There were two interesting personalities among them. One of them was Sandor Kellner who magyarized his name, in fact took another one and became Sir Alexander Korda. He was born in Turkeve. He was one of the outstanding personalities in the international film world; my father went to see him in London in 1939. He had two brothers – Zoltan and Vince – who got into London filmmaking. Zoltan was also a director, Vince was a set designer. Zoltan directed The Thief of Baghdad. [It was in fact directed by Ludwig Berger.] But enough of the Kordas. Moric Klein had another brother too, Korvin, who was a People Commissar during the Hungarian Soviet Republic in 1919. They caught him and executed him.

My grandfather’s sister, Anna Friedman, was the mother of Mariska Grossman. Mrs. Nandor Grossman was born Mariska Grossman –she married her cousin. They had a house and parents in Gyongyos. In 1918 Mrs. Nandor Grossman bought this house, then it became state owned Jewish property in 1944, and in 1951 state owned Kulak 4 property. Those of the family who survived the war went to Israel after the Holocaust, in 1949. I met Auntie Mariska in 1974. She lived in Netanya, but she didn’t recognize me, only her daughter did.

I believe my grandparents certainly completed four grades of middle school, as they could read and write. My grandfather was religious, always had a cap or hat on his head, even at home. But he didn’t have a beard or payes. He wore middle class clothes: trousers, jacket, shirt, tie. The household was kosher but not Orthodox. They didn’t eat pork, lit candles on Friday night, but my grandmother didn’t have a sheitl and there were no prayers with tefillin in the morning. My grandfather attended the Neolog 5 synagogue in Dohany Street not the Orthodox one. He fasted on Yom Kippur.

My parents

My father had a younger sister called Erzsebet Friedman. She was born in 1898. She got schizophrenia, it started in her adulthood. Not getting married was her big regret as how otherwise could she have children? She was pretty, according to the photographs, but ill. An acquaintance of my father’s introduced her to a young man called Jeno Klein, he married her and they had a son. My parents adopted him because of his mother’s illness. He was born Endre [Bandi] Klein in 1930; after adoption he became Endre Foldes. Bandi always thought of my parents as his, and still speaks of them so today. His mother was in many hospitals including Lipotmezo. [Lipotmezo is a big, famous mental institution in Budapest.] Mental patients still get TB today but then it was especially prevalent. There was no proper attendance for the 16-24 bed wards and they infected each other. She got it and died of it in 1942.

We knew that Uncle Jeno was Bandi’s father as he came to see us from Rakospalota, where he lived, every week. But I think that he didn’t want Bandi with him. He probably noticed that his brother-in-law was well off. I can’t say what Uncle Jeno’s profession was. Sometime in 1943 he got married again. Then, when Rakospalota was ghettoized, they were taken away and perished. I think they were taken to Auschwitz.

My father, Tivadar Friedman, was born in 1894, in Istenmezeje, on the northern side of the Matra mountain, about 15 kilometers from Petervasar. This is such a small place that, when I needed documents for reparations, I found out that it had no public records office. But I had my birth certificate from Petervasar because at the 1939 elections one had to show how long one’s ancestors had lived in Hungary and it was issued then. I’ve never been to Istenmezeje but I’ve visited Petervasar, it is the main town in the district even today.

My father graduated from high school at the age of 18 and entered the English-Hungarian Bank. He magyarized his name to Foldes when he entered the bank in Fiume. This was about 1912. He wasn’t expected to, he just did. Probably because it sounded better in the bank. He worked there until the war broke out in 1914. Then, or sometime afterwards, he went to Pest to avoid being called up and from then on he was here at the English-Hungarian Bank. A few years after he married my mother – which was in 1927 – he entered a subsidiary of the bank as a chartered accountant. In the second half of the 1930s chartered accountancy meant taking an exam. He had a certificate in it. The examining board chairman was a certain Istvan Antos who, after the liberation [i.e. WWII], was a financial expert for the communist party and Minister of Finance, too, I believe. Hungarian was my father’s mother tongue, as it was for his whole family.

My mother was called Dr. Julia Altman. She was born in Gyongyos in 1900 and died in Budapest in 1970. She was a GP and dentist. Her father, Ignac Altman, must have had good connections in the right places because he said that he would like his daughter to be accepted into the Medical Faculty. And given that he didn’t join the communist movement during the Hungarian Soviet Republic my mother entered university in the fall of 1919. In 1924 she graduated from the Medical Faculty of Pazmany Peter University and got her dentistry qualifications later.

A fellow student of hers was Laszlo Nemeth, who was a real anti-Semite at that time and acted as one, too. [Nemeth was an outstanding 20th century Hungarian prose writer and playwright.] There were Jews in university but not many. I only know of a certain Sari Neumann in her year, she was a rabbi’s daughter and her father also wanted her to be a doctor. My mother said something to the effect that they picked on her because of her name, and she had the worst subject choices at certain exams. She worked during university, too, stuffing geese for example. Once she studied anatomy while stuffing a goose.

When she finished university she didn’t come to Pest immediately because it was usual, it may have been obligatory to go and work as a doctor in the provinces. She went to Vaja near Nyirbator. She had a suitor there, a Christian boy, who had been at university with her. But nothing came of it, it wasn’t serious. My mother came to Pest, there was a dental surgery on Jozsef street for the prisons, and she got a post there.

My parents got married in 1927 after my grandfather Ignac’s death. They got married in Rakospalota, I don’t know why. I have the marriage certificate and it says that the civil marriage took place in Rakospalota. They married before a rabbi, Benjamin Schwartz, in Bethlen Square in Budapest, as Istvan Road – where my grandfather and my father lived – was part of its district they went there. My mother gave birth to me in 1933.

Growing up

They lived all their life in a rented apartment and apart from the apartment I live in now, I have, too. Before I was born they lived on 82 Kiraly Street. There were two rooms there and the windows looked onto Csengery Street. Then they moved to Liszt Ferenc Square because there was trouble because next to the house was an inn, the drunks misbehaved and my parents poured buckets of water on them. I was born on 4 Liszt Ferenc Square. It was a smaller apartment and my father thought, as did my paternal grandfather, that a bigger one was necessary and he looked at one in the area. He was offered one on 6 Terez Boulevard, where no one had lived for months because a prostitute had lived in it who had been strangled by her boyfriend, so people didn’t want to move in. My mother and father weren’t so bothered by this and they got it cheaply. They moved there in 1934. It had five rooms, my mother’s dental surgery was there, a waiting room and two hallways. The surgery went under the name of Mrs. Foldes Dr Julia Altman. The house was owned by a certain Mr. Sugar, a bachelor. He wasn’t a nice man. He had an ugly, little dog which we always chased with a friend of mine in order to annoy the dog and Mr. Sugar. There was always a row with the concierge, Uncle Sarkany, who said we had to be quiet and not make a row. There was a lift in the house but we preferred to run down the stairs.

My mother, who was left to bring us up, was strict and often smacked us. Here is an example of when. It must have been 1937 when Szalasi 6 and the Arrow Cross Party 7 won an election and the Arrow Cross organized a march on the Boulevard. [Editore’s note: At that time the united party of the extreme right forces was not yet called Arrow Cross but Hungarian National Socialist Party.] We supposedly loved this and on the inner corridor inside the apartment, Bandi and I cried out, ‘Perseverance, long live Szalasi!’. My mother was having a surgery at the time, she said to her patient, ‘Excuse me for a second, just stay here!’ She must have put the saliva pump in her mouth. My mother came out and we got a big smack and were told not to shout.

We had a nursemaid called Ilonka Buko. She looked after us mostly, but did some housework as well. She came to Pest because her parents had sent her to a relative of theirs as she could make a living here more easily. She got an ear infection, which wasn’t treated properly, so she entered the Pest Israelite Community Foundation’s public hospital, and went to have an operation in Szabolcs Street. She wasn’t a Jew of course but a few Christians were also patients in the Jewish hospital. She lived with us until 1943 when she had a row with Aunt Giza about something, and then she left. She was an old maid. Something must have happened to her in 1944-45 during the siege, about which she never spoke. The Russians had caused some scandal. [Editor’s note. Ilonka, as so many women were then, was probably raped by Russian soldiers.] She came back in 1946 but not as an employee. My mother confirmed that she had looked after children, and put her through some sort of college, and then she became a baby nurse in Vas Street hospital, and retired from there. She had an apartment and came nearly every day to see us.

While my grandfather was alive there was a separate part for milky and meaty products in the kitchen. There were also two maids, who weren’t Jews but had been taught how to do it [keep a kosher kitchen]. Although there was no separate sink. There was also a cook for a while, Mariska, who also lived with us on Terez Boulevard. The two Friday night candles weren’t always lit before Sabbath started as there was mother’s surgery, and if a patient came there was no way to say, ‘Sorry but we are lighting candles now’. My mother didn’t finish early on Fridays either as she was on duty at any time. She worked on Saturdays, too.

Bandi’s bar mitzvah was in 1943. He was prepared by chief rabbi Izsak Schmeltzer, the religious instruction teacher at Barcsay Street high school. Afterwards there was a big celebration at ours on Terez Boulevard. There were at least fifty people, not only Jews but Christian colleagues of my father’s, too. Somebody brought Jokai’s 8 book The Earth Really Does Spin as a present for Bandi. I also had a bar mitzvah in 1946 but only because I insisted on it. A 13-year-old child believes that externals strengthen them in their identity. I was also prepared by rabbi Schmeltzer.

My parents read Hungarian authors mostly. My mother and aunt used to say that we were brought up on Jokai’s teats, as my grandmother had read many of his books, too. I was brought up on newspapers. Wherever I am in the world I have to buy a newspaper. We had Est, Pesti Naplo and Magyarorszag delivered as my father was working in the accounts department of Est Lapok. [These are daily and evening papers.]

We were sent away in the summer for two weeks. We were six or seven years old when we first went, we were schoolboys. Until 1943 it was fine to do so. We were in Buda, on Matyas Kiraly Road, in a very comfortable villa. It was run by a nursery school teacher, there were organized activities, there were sports competitions and medals could be won. I suppose it wasn’t a cheap form of entertainment, this summer camp.

A language teacher came twice a week in our childhood for two or three years, I believe, and he taught us German. Thank God I didn’t have to learn music; my mother said that I shouldn’t be forced to. She wasn’t so interested in it either. I can only speak pidgin German and Bandi forgot it, but he learned French and English. We learned English at high school for a short time, then came Russian for eight years and Latin.

During the war

Barcsay Street high school, Madach Imre was its name, where I went to from 1943, had more than a third Jewish boys in class. Originally it had a Jewish class, and because of the anti-Jewish laws 9 only Jewish children were taken. During the German invasion, we were in the 1st grade until April 1944, then the Jews dropped out. I still went to school with a yellow star.

In 1944 my father’s cousin, Jozsef Rubinstein, was deported from Heves, along with his wife, two daughters and their children. Only one returned, one of the daughters, who is now in a mental institute in Israel. Jozsef Rubinstein was wounded in World War I, he lost an eye and received a gold service medal. As a result he had some protection, which meant that he could keep a beer warehouse in Heves. When, after the war, Aunt Boske, his daughter, returned, she went on with it. My father, who was a clear thinker, sent a Christian woman to Heves in April 1944 to tell Rubinstein to send his two grandchildren to Pest, as he believed that they had a better chance of survival there. But he said that it wasn’t true, as the paper of the Jewish community had written that there would be no trouble there. Although the leadership of the Pest Israelite Community, with Samu Stern at its head, knew quite well what would happen. Boske survived as her six-year-old son, Lali Hertz, was led by his grandmother and she held their luggage. Her younger sister, Zila, went with her child in her arms and so Mengele sent them to the left, that is, among those who were gassed immediately. [Editor’s note: It’s only a presumption that Mengele himself selected people.]

The house on Terez Boulevard wasn’t a yellow star house 10 so we had to move out of the apartment. The house in Jokai Street where we moved to belonged to the Fonciere Insurance Company, their offices were on the second floor. Even when it became a yellow star house in June 1944. But at the end of October 1944 it was a refuge for Swedish embassy employees, with diplomatic immunity, thanks to Raoul Wallenberg 11. The Jokai Street apartment was smaller, with three rooms. It was a forced exchange. My father, mother, brother, aunt and uncle Karoly lived there, as well as me. When Wallenberg was operating then there were too many, at least 20-25 people lived there. Then we, the family, squeezed into a room.

Christian inhabitants were still in the house, who didn’t leave – and significantly the concierge, too. On the night of 7th to 8th January 1945, at the ‘charitable request’ of the concierge, an armed Arrow Cross company appeared. Either he had told them that there were Jews there illegally, or he thought he could get something out of it, whatever. I don’t know. The thing is that night a few Arrow Cross turned up. I was eleven. They took everybody who could be moved – anyone who couldn’t was shot – to the Arrow Cross building on 14 Varoshaz Street. Wallenberg got to know of it and appeared at the Arrow Cross building, so the next day they took us to the ghetto, to 54 Akacfa Street. My father and uncle were taken to the banks of the Danube 12 on the following day and shot into the river. The bodies never appeared. The liberation happened on 18th January 1945.

Post-war

When the ghetto was liberated on the morning of 18th January we went back to Jokai Street. Much had been taken, but strangely enough the furniture was there, it hadn’t been burnt. The Russians were very close then. Only personal effects had disappeared, the radio and such had to be given in in May, but things like clothes had gone. Later, I think that summer, my mother looked up to the second floor, while out on the corridor, and saw her clothes on one of the ‘dear’ fellow residents. That kind of thing happened too, but there was only a small row about this, shouting, and then I think she gave them back. The silver, porcelain and such partly remained. My mother was a dentist, she had a fairly big clientele and acquaintanceship, and she had given things to others; she got them back later, not everything, but most things.

After the war, when it became clear that no one was alive, my mother and her younger sister, Aunt Giza, decided not to stay in Hungary. They had connections with the Glatters in Canada, who had invited them, but not really seriously. Then they tried the Zionists. Bandi was part of a Zionist company, two of the pillars of which were Pista Hermann and Agi Heller. [Hermann was a psychologist and Heller a Marxist philosopher.] In 1946 they got together, ten or so children to go to Palestine. At that time there was still some gold at home, which my mother gave to Bandi, who was then 16. Then Aunt Giza also went, not with the Zionists, but with Russians, as a mediator, on a truck to Austria into the American zone, not the Soviet one. The intention was that Bandi and Giza would meet.

Bandi got to Brussels with the Zionists. But the sheliach was very strange, or rather he wasn’t a man of high character, as he said that the children had so much gold on them that they should give it to him; it would be safer with him. [Sheliach is a Zionist representative.] They handed it over and then in Brussels the sheliach and his girlfriend disappeared. The 12-13 children were left with no money, or anything. The police caught them and put them in prison. In the meantime Aunt Giza had gone to Paris via Germany, as my father had three cousins who lived there and she knew that. She also knew they were called Friedman, but not where they lived or what they did. In the refugee camp in Paris – there’s luck in the world after all – she asked whether anyone knew Imre Friedman, and someone said yes and took her to him.

The three cousins had gone to France in 1929. They hid during the war, Joska was hidden by a Christian woman, whom he then married. She was a very nice woman. She’s still alive, but she must be very old now. I remember Uncle Miklos, and Uncle Imre was a communist. After the war Joska, the youngest, drove a taxi in Paris; Uncle Miklos retired, I think. Uncle Imre was originally a fancy-leather goods maker, then became a partisan, and as he took a very active part in things, he was given a medal, which he won for his part in the battle for the liberation of Paris. He got a travel document for himself, went to Brussels for Bandi, and brought him to Paris. All this happened in the fall of 1946. Bandi and Aunt Giza no longer thought of going to Palestine, or even Canada, but stayed in Paris. My aunt became a cook in a kind of Jewish refuge.

Bandi finished high school there. He applied for the Department of Chemistry and Physics at the Sorbonne but then something happened. He met a girl who was Jewish and a communist, and she took him to an anti-Tito 13 protest in 1950. And whom did the police catch? Bandi, of course, and two other guys, and as they were refugees they took them to Sante prison for trial, and they informed Aunt Giza who, huffing and puffing, went for him. Bandi was sentenced to two days imprisonment and thrown out of France.

In the meantime Aunt Giza had a row with the Jews, as they told her that such a godless man who does such things like protest must be abandoned to his fate. Auntie needed no more, ‘You call yourselves Jews, Orthodox religious ones at that’, she shouted, left everything and came back to Hungary. So in August 1950 they all turned up in Pest. Aunt Giza was a bookkeeper, she found a position at the Ganz Electric Factory.

Bandi graduated from university here. Bandi’s wife, Ibolya [Ibi] Krausz, was a mathematics-physics teacher; they met at university. They married in 1955. Then in 1957 they went to Montreal. Bandi was well set up, in that he spoke perfect French and English so that he had work in a week. It took a little longer for Ibi. She was an assistant in the Jewish hospital in Montreal. When De Gaulle made Quebec French, in 1966, I believe, then capitalists started to flee west towards the English speaking territories. Before this Ibi had completed her first computer course, which was at the English-language university in Montreal. When she finished it she got a high post in Northern Electric, a leading telecommunications company. When capitalists started to flee west their company moved its headquarters to Toronto. They have lived there since. Bandi got a job there, too. In the end he became a research director for a big pharmaceutical company. So it worked out for him. A boy and girl were born to them, the boy was circumcised but I don’t agree with it, primarily because it is such a final act, which perhaps should involve the boy concerned to agree with it. And naturally that can’t be so with a baby. The other reason is that a relation of a friend of mine was shot in December 1944, in Pest, because he was recognized by an acquaintance and the Arrow Cross undressed him and shot him.

Ibi’s papa and mama were fairly religious people. They weren’t Orthodox but Uncle Vili, her father, observed the traditions. They were from Pest originally, went to the synagogue, fasted. In the 1960s they followed their daughter abroad. And they observed the holidays while Uncle Vili was alive. They must have observed certain basic kosher laws as well. Uncle Vili’s wife, Emmi, was originally a greengrocer. She really hated our family. That’s the reason why I didn’t stay over there in 1970 when I went to visit. Emmi died in 1977.

To return to me: from May until mid-June 1945 we underwent a very condensed school year. In the 5th year we were given the choice of learning Russian or Greek. As believers in left-wing ideas we thought that Latin was enough of classical languages, it was anyway taught in the upper years of high school, so of course we chose Russian. The class was split: the majority chose Russian as they thought they didn’t need Greek as well as Latin. But there were a proportionally high number of Jews in the class, as Jews chose this language rather, and came over from other classes because of the Russian. In fact there was nothing anti-Semitic, at least not in those days. Before there had been; Mr Monoki, the gym teacher hit the Jewish class mainly, by making the children stand up and bashing their heads together. Apart from rabbi Schmeltzer I can’t remember any other Jewish teachers. I didn’t have a favorite teacher. I got into the Medical Faculty because of my mother.

Two relationships survived from elementary school. One, Peter Held, now lives in New York and we have been friends since September 1939. We started school then and indeed lived in the same building. The other went by the name of Pali Hollander, who also lives in America, a university lecturer, who is now retired. On 6th October 1948 I went to a brothel for the first time with Held, during the fall holidays, to Madame Clarisse on 84 Kiraly Street. We went there several times until the brothels were closed and Peter left in 1949. At the end of the 1940s it was completely normal for young boys to go to brothels. My father’s cousin, Uncle Arnold, who was a rich man, gave me some money for it, 100 forint. Then we would visit each other to play cards, with Szinetar, Peter Polgar, Sommer, Gyuri Szabados – my classmates. Miklos Szinetar’s father, Erno, was a psychiatrist and the director of the Janos Hospital. Peter Polgar became a tax expert.

I argued with the Zionists, Agi Heller’s group, fairly quickly. I, for example, am still happy to wear a tie; I went to see them wearing one, and they said I couldn’t go there in a tie. I said, ‘Then I bid you adieu.’ This was in 1947 or 48.

I entered university in 1951. They didn’t want to take me, despite the fact that my mother was a party member; at the Csengery Street surgery she was even party secretary. At that time there was a ‘wise’ party directive that medical dynasties weren’t encouraged. But one of my mother’s cousins, Imre Zador, held a high post in the medical union, he was on friendly terms with the dean of the Medical Faculty, and so I was accepted into university without any problems.

My mother was elected party secretary in a secret ballot. She was a single mother, so she had the heavy burden to have to support us. She didn’t get a higher salary, but at least they left her alone. The fact is that they weren’t very pleased that her sister and her child didn’t live in Hungary, but she wasn’t dismissed.

There was an anti-Semitic current at university. The university party leadership was a People’s College 14 crowd. But there were many Jewish lecturers at university. We believed the Rajk trial 15 and then again we didn’t. We guessed that something was wrong, but truth is it didn’t affect us. We didn’t pay attention to the scale of deceit going on.

My mother continued her private clinic until 1954, then she disbanded it because she went into two eight-hour shift jobs, first in the Csengery Street surgery, and then to Kispest. Under the Rakosi regime 16 the surgery wasn’t threatened, it wasn’t taken over by the state. Anyone who had a registered surgery was left completely alone. Of course my mother was a member of the Health Workers Union, and of the party since 1945. Rakosi’s signature was in her membership book. She thought that the communist party was the place for left-wingers. Why not the social democrat party, I don’t know. I believe it was because her colleagues and circle of friends swayed towards communism. And there was some satisfaction in it, in that it was possible to give back something of what we had been through, but not revenge exactly. And the communist party was more suited for this, or at least it seemed so.

We had no problems, neither under Rakosi nor Kadar 17, especially not under Kadar. Only in that my mother was looked at askance because her other child didn’t live in Hungary. But when Bandi came back in 1950, after being kicked out of France, my mother wrote a letter to Rakosi to get Bandi a Rakosi scholarship. He got it for a year and was accepted into university easily. So I can’t say that we had any real problems.

In regard to 1956 18 I saw myself, written in the Medical Faculty ground floor toilet, at 26 Ulloi Road, ‘Itsik we won’t take you to Auschwitz’. [Itsik is a common Yiddish name, which was used in anti-Semitic slogans and sayings in Hungary.] On 1st September 1956 I started to practice in Szabolcs Street hospital, the first three months were in surgery. In the days following 23rd October 19 I was in the emergency ward and when Kossuth Square took place on the 25th, an event which even today hasn’t been fully explained, many wounded were brought in. [Editor’s note: Shots were fired into the crowd from the roof of the Agricultural Ministry, which is opposite the Parliament building on Kossuth Square, most probably by the secret police.] Soon one of them died in my arms, it was my first such experience. People were brought in and died, so that I just left it all, and ran home down Podmaniczky Street. I stayed at home for a good while, my mother told me to stay put and she stayed at home, too.

After 1956 one didn’t need to leave the party, one just didn’t join again. My mother didn’t join the party any more. I joined in 1974 when the party was being improved a bit and remained a member until 1989. But I made clear in advance – this was a year after the Yom Kippur War 20 in Israel – that I didn’t think the Jews had been the aggressors. My colleagues said – they were Jews too who tried to convince me to join – that they thought the same, it didn’t count, one could join the party. One of them had said earlier that joining wasn’t like signing up for a package tour. Yet it was proscribed that one had to apply in advance. I didn’t undertake any party function, I was just a mere party member. Every year, after the summer break, there was the first membership meeting in September. I always sat in the first row next to the director for the simple reason that I didn’t want to nod off. The director was a Jew, too, he always asked me when the Jewish holiday would be because then he would go to the cemetery, to his parents’ grave.

I entered MAV hospital in 1979 to be more independent, as a position opened up there because the head physician had retired. So I became head of the children’s ward without any connections or even applying for it. Yet the hospital was traditionally an anti-Semitic one, which had formerly been called Miklos Horthy Hospital. There was a doctor called Sandor Csia, one of whose close relations, of the same name, had been hung with Szalasi. This Csia was no different. I experienced so much anti-Semitism that when a new surgeon arrived and a theater sister asked me, ‘Is that a trimmed prick, too?’ I said, ‘No, but I am, so could you please leave the room’. I didn’t acknowledge her from then on; she tried greeting me twice but I just looked through her.

Israel, as a place to emigrate to, never came up. My mother had a colleague whose daughter, or niece, went to Israel with the Zionists. She was shot close to the West Bank border. Then Bandi’s similar story, the Paris one, didn’t endear it to us. But in 1974 I went to Israel illegally. I went because I had friends in Zurich who organized the visa for me there; it consisted of a huge sheet of paper so that there would be no trace of it in my passport. Nobody ever found out. To get a passport for Switzerland wasn’t so difficult. We could get one every three years, as my girlfriend at the time, Eva, and myself both still had family in Hungary. I was a pediatrician in Szabolcs hospital by then, and Eva was a chief skin specialist at Heim Pal hospital. One can imagine what references I got from Szabolcs hospital as 80% of the staff was Jewish. [Szabolcs hospital was originally Pest Jewish Community hospital, nationalized in 1950.] I was later a head doctor in MAV Hospital, where they didn’t dream of saying anything bad about me. I had only been refused a passport to go to Israel before 1967, so that by 1974 I didn’t even attempt to say I expressly wanted to go there.

My first wife was Anna Vidor. Her grandfather, Dr. Odon Kalman, was the chief rabbi of Kobanya. [This is a working class district of Budapest.] Her father, Dr. Pal Vidor, was a rabbi at the Zsigmond Square synagogue. Her father had been killed in Mauthausen, her mother was a Hungarian-French teacher at Trefort. I met Annuska, as I called my wife, when we were 18, in 1951. After seven years of courtship we married in 1957. We met at the Sport swimming pool through friends. But we couldn’t have got married while at university, neither her family nor mine were rich. Annuska was also a teacher at Kolcsey high school, she taught Hungarian. She is now retired. After three years of marriage we had a bitter divorce as she fell in love with a colleague, who divorced his wife and married her. I was very hurt.

Then I fell in love again, with Anna Dobos, but no marriage came of it. She was a pediatrician, like I was at Szabolcs Street hospital. Her grandfather had been a rabbi in Dunaszerdahely. A friend of mine said that this idiot, meaning me, always wants to marry a rabbi’s daughter. I’m still in contact with her, it really was a great love. But we didn’t get married, not because of me, but because in 1964 she went to New York on a scholarship, following another boyfriend of hers, and thought that her career was better off if she saw something of the world, rather than getting married to me. I believe she was right because we wouldn’t have grown old together, that’s for sure. She had no children later either.

My next girlfriend wasn’t my wife either. Eva Torok was in my year, I would say that she is the best skin specialist in Pest. It was my stupidity that allowed the relationship to go on for 14 years, because half of it would have been more than enough. We got together in 1969, two years after her husband, who was my boss in Szabolcs Street, died. Eva became a widow with two children.

Married life

I married Eva Redei in 1984. This was also a great love. Eva was born in 1947, she has been a bookseller since she was 18. She was already working on Pozsony Road in 1988-89 where she has a shop today, and they sold the Lang Publishers’ books. The owner of the publishing company always went into the shop, to Eva, whom he only knew by sight, to ask how his books were selling. And one day Eva said to him, ‘Listen here, buy me, along with the bookshop, and then everything will be easier’. The next day he came back and said, ‘You had a very good idea, I will think about it and then do it.’ That way Teka Company was born; it included the Lang Publishers, the Book Distributor Company as a state company, Eva, and two other employees, who got less money. It opened on 1st September 1989, and this was the first private business which included a state company as well. Since then they bought a part of the Book Distributor Company, and today Eva is a major shareholder in the store.

I got to know Eva because she worked in the bookshop, and in those days I got quite a lot of books in lieu of tips, and I had two of the same, so I went to Eva to exchange them. Then when she got together with Gabor Deak, her first husband, and her tummy started to expand, she said – as she knew I was the pediatrician for everybody here – that I should be theirs, too. Her son, David, was born in 1976, and I went to their place so long until Eva divorced Gabor. It was a fairly disastrous marriage, and I can say I was sacrificed to my profession as David grew up with me in the end, with both of us. He was eight when we got married.

I’m at daggers drawn with religious belief. I’m a conscious materialist, an atheist. I don’t deny that it began as an emotional thing. We were all taken away on 8th January 1945. What happened to my father exactly, I will never know. I observe his Jahrzeit, albeit not on the day of his death because I don’t know it, I light a candle. The religious holidays are a neurotic point for me. I refuse to observe them. For example at Chanukkah or seder the family is together. I had this last in December 1944. And I believe that at the age of ten I didn’t deserve such a fate from the Almighty. Then, when I became a doctor, for eleven or twelve years out my 42 years of practice I did autopsies. Anyone who does an autopsy knows what is inside people’s bodies. Belief in God is far removed from such things.

Someone, who escaped from the Arrow Cross building on Varoshaz Street, told me that my father had fasted. It’s not as if he was given a lot to eat, but he ate nothing. That’s quite enough for me not to want to keep up with the organized part of the Jewry, including the entire leadership, past and present of the Pest Israelite Community. I haven’t been to the synagogue since 1949 when religious instruction was taken off the curriculum. Perhaps as a demonstration I will go on Yom Kippur, Kol Nidre. But I’m just as much a Jew as anyone who observes the religion. A Jewish upbringing means that you should know what happened to your grandparents, what happened to your father.

I only insist on one thing, being buried in a Jewish cemetery. I also say where, in my grandfather’s grave in Gyongyos. Burying my mother wasn’t easy. I went to the Chevra and wanted a cremation as that was her wish. If five million Jews were burned she didn’t need a special burial, at which the Chevra said that such burials take place on Monday. But we don’t bury Jews on Monday. ‘What’s this, does it mean she’s not a Jew?’, I said with great fury and slammed the door on them.

We were glad of the political changes but its downside is that traditional anti-Semitism in Hungary has arisen anew. But we belong to that 13,500 people who – unlike many – wrote in the last census that we were Jews. My circle is mixed anyway. Let’s say most are Jewish. Every three of four months we gather, twelve of us.

Glossary

Шимон Данон

Пътят на моя род по бащина линия, след кръстоносните походи и испанските гонения, минал през Средиземно море и Турция. Прародителите на моя баща [Ешуа Данон] уседнали в град Одрин. Станалите войни - освобождението на България, създали нови – по-благоприятни условия за живот. Икономическото положение, отношенията с властващите, това, че българите до “вчера” са били под робство и затова можели по-добре да разбират евреите, накарали една голяма част от еврейското население на Тракия, живеещо около Одрин и Люле Бургас, да се пресели в българската част на Тракия. Били са предимно занаятчии, макар че може някои от тях да са били и търговци.

Дядо ми по бащина линия [Шимон Давид Данон], чието име нося, е бил занаятчия – кожар. Знам това, макар че той умира преди моето раждане – по време на Европейската война [Първата световна война]. Баба ми по бащина линия [Симха Данон] умира по същото време. Били са силно религиозни, защото идват от Испания, където гоненията са били на религиозна основа. По време на инквизицията всеки, който не изповядва християнството, е трябвало да напусне границите на страната. Трябва да отбележим, че това, което скрепява еврейската общност, е традицията. По разкази на баща ми [Ешуа Данон] знам, че в неговия род силно са спазвали традицията – особено шабат. Кипур, който е един празник на всеопрощението, е бил считан за по-голям празник от всички останали. Считали са, че от този ден започват отново да живеят, след като опростят всичко лошо, което са направили. Традицията им е внушавала един по-добър начин на живот, не толкова на поминъка, колкото на отношенията в семейството и извън него.

Къщата на дядо ми и баба ми [Шимон и Симха Данон] беше кирпичена, с турски керемиди. Стаите бяха изрисувани с разни шарки. Влизаше се от стая в стая. В спалнята спяха всички деца. Семействата на майка ми и баща ми са били многолюдни. В семейството на баща ми са били 3 братя и 2 сестри  - 5 души. На майка ми – 3 братя и 3 сестри – 6 души. Баба ми и дядо ми по майчина линия [Нисим и Дуду Асса] са имали (преди моето раждане) къща, която не помня. После направили нова, в която живееше много голям род – семействата на дядо ми и неговия брат. Жените им носели едни и същи имена [Дуду Асса]. На тяхно име били имотите, върху които е построена къщата. Когато се раждало дете в едното семейство, не по-късно от 6 месеца се раждало дете в другото семейство. Майка ми [Естер Данон] съответства на леля ми Фортуна [Асса] и т.н. Ако тук има 6 деца, нама съмнение, че и там има 6 деца.

Еврейската махала в Пловдив (където беше къщата на дядо ми Нисим Асса) имаше много по-ясни и твърди очертания от тази в Пазарджик. На около 50 м. от къщата на дядо ми беше т. нар. “кортизо”. На испански това значи “двор”. В това вътрешно пространство бяха наредени къщичките на около 50 семейства. Там нямаше български семейства и всички се грижеха за съхранение на националните интереси на евреите.

Дядо ми по майчина линия [Нисим Асса] беше религиозен фанатик. Той знаеше, че трябва да се моли и не изпускаше никаква молитва. Беше от евреите, които са така привързани към религията, че и сутрин, и вечер отиват в синагогата да правят молитви. Трябваше голямо събитие – например болест, за да пропусне ходене в синагогата, но отиваше по силата на навика. Спазваше каноните на религията без да влага дълбоко разбиране на същността й. Баба ми по майчина линия [Дуду Асса] беше религиозна до толкова, до колкото можеше, защото много рано се парализира и 1/3 от живота си прекара на стол. За нея трябваше да се грижат. На базата на фанатизма налагаше спазването на всички традиции и норми, за което трябваше да се погрижи дядо ми.

Изключително голямата взаимопомощ е помагала на евреите да не се отклоняват от еврейството. Например когато се правят дарения, те не се правят на определена личност, a за подпомагане на по-бедните. Преди Кипур се прави жертвоприношение със заколване на птици, за здравето на всеки член от семейството. За мъж се коли петел, а за жена – кокошка. По времето преди да се роди малкият ми брат [Шемуел Йешуа Данон, роден на 19.10.1943 г.]. Заколвахме към 4-5 кокошки, но не можехме да ги консумираме. Беше задължително част от това месо да се дава на по-бедните. Отделните евреи, поканени в синагогата да произнесат встъпителната молитва – “кидуш”, впоследствие правят “матана”, което значи “подарък”. Прави го този, на който е оказана честта да се качи на амвона на синагогата. Имаше още много други форми, с които се осъществяваше всеобща взаимопомощ. Всички бедни евреи учеха в еврейското училище безплатно. На всички деца от бедни семейства задължително се шиеха дрехи за нова година – Роша Шама. За по-бедните през зимата трябваше да се осигурят обувки, топли дрехи и най-важното – храна. В еврейското училище, в което учех аз, имаше организирана трапезария за бедните деца. Всяко от тях трябваше да получи на обяд топла храна. За всяко по-заможно семейство имаше определен ден, в който съпругата да трябваше да осигури храна за трапезарията. И нашето семейство имаше такъв ден. Надпреварвахме се да осигурим по-добра храна, най-малко такава, каквато ядяхме всеки ден у дома и дори да дадем нещо повече.

Еврейската общност в Пазарджик наброяваше около 900 до 1000 души. Имаше около 350 семейства, средно по 3-4 души. Евреите живееха на определени улици. На нашата имаше само 2 арменски семейства, на съседната само едно българско. Не е вярно, че у българите не е имало антисемитизъм. Имаше и страх от евреите, и завист към тях, дори ако щете, защото взаимно се подпомагат. Непрекъснато се внушаваше на малките българчета, че евреите се хранят с “кръв”. Не бяха редки случаите, когато ставаха спречквания между еврейчетата и българчетата от съседните махали.Все се намираше някой да се провикне: “Защо пиете вие християнска кръв? Защо колите християните?” и т.н.

Когато завърших 3-ти прогимназиален клас (сегашен 7-ми) и отидох в гимназията, съучениците ми казваха: “Абе, ти не приличаш на евреин. Ти си добър. Ти не лъжеш. Защо всички евреи не са като теб?” Това бяха обикновени разговори на момчетата от селата, защото аз, като евреин, учех в класа на селските, а не на градските момчета. И докато техният антисемитизъм беше наивен, защото не беше на базата на някакъв материален интерес, то този на градските момчета беше по-силен, защото бяха синове на търговци и занаятчии, които се конкурираха с евреите. Съществуваше завист. В семейството ми казваха: “Хубаво, учи се, бъди сред първите, но недей да бъдеш първи ученик.” Баща ми казваше: “Нищо, че няма антисемитизъм. На тебе винаги ти пиша една единица в повече, защото когато те оценяват, ти намаляват една единица заради това, че си евреин. “ Сред евреите беше дълбоко насадено чувството, че ние сме пренебрегнати в общата оценка на нашите възможности. Не можеше евреин и в най-добрите времена да бъде лансиран във войската, полицията, финансите. Въпреки, че заемахме да кажем 1/20-та част от града, ние нямахме нито един полицай евреин, нито един, който да работи в системата на войската, нито един чиновник в общината. Това подбуждаше ционистични интереси и спокойно можем да кажем, че град като Пазарджик беше със силно ционистическо влияние.

Баща ми [Ешуа Данон] беше много интересен човек. Беше “габай”, това е нещо като старейшина – първия човек след свещеника. Към него се обръщаха като към общественик. Габайят трябваше да устрои всеки човек, който посещава синагогата, по всеки въпрос, който го интересува. 99% от свещениците, които четяха молитвите, не знаеха какво четат. Те произнасяха думите на базата на запаметяването, без да знаят съдържанието им. За разлика от тях, моят баща разбираше това, което четеше.Той превеждаше молитвите на латино [ладино], тъй като това беше говоримия език за евреите. Особено по семейните празници молитвите първо се произнасяха на иврит, а после на испански, което ги правеше разбираеми за всички, които присъстваха. Баща ми не беше религиозен фанатик като дядо ми по майчина линия [Нисим Асса], той влагаше разбиране, правеше религията разбираема. Осъвременяваше я. Беше прогресивен. По едно време беше придобил леви разбирания. Дори имаше пряко участие в септемврийските събития [септемврийското въстание от септември 1923 г.], за което беше определен от властите за ликвидиране.

Майка ми [Естер Данон] беше човек със свободни виждания, въпреки че вътрешно беше дълбоко религиозна. Например – пред нея не стоеше като ограничение изискването да не се яде свинско месо, но случеше ли се нещо, веднага търсеше помощта на господа. Майка ми беше типична еврейска жена, която трябваше да се грижи за децата си.

Дворът на бащината ми къща в Пазарджик не беше голям, но имахме плодни дръвчета и курник, в който винаги се гледаха 15-20 кокошки. Баща ми (не само в религиозно отношение) проявяваше интереси, които тикаха напред към по-съвременно развитие. Пазарджик беше селскостопански регион, нямаше почти никаква промишленост. За да има поминък на населението, трябваше да има  развитие на селото. Баща ми се занимаваше непосредствено с тази работа. Организираше отглеждането на копринени буби. Трябваше да се засадят черничеви дръвчета, трябваха специални помещения и съдове… Вярно е, че нищо съществено не излезе от тази работа, но той постави началото, основата. С бубарство след това започнаха да се занимават 200-300 семейства. Баща ми отглеждаше ориз, наемаше земи, организираше хора, защото оризарството не е традиционно за Пазарджик (там се отглеждаше жито) и изискваше специален начин на работа. Правеха се “килийки” за напояване. Технологията беше много по-различна от тази на традиционното земеделие. Баща ми беше един от първите в пазарджишкия край, които въведоха оризарството, нищо че не стана кой знае колко по-богат от това. После организира отглеждането на коноп. Всички тези инициативи не идваха от селското население, а от група предприемчиви хора, един от които беше баща ми. Отглеждането на конопа беше много тежко. Трябваше да се жъне, изчуква, прави на влакна… Колкото и да звучи неправдоподобно, баща ми имаше и стадо овце. Той искаше да промени старото недоходно овцевъдство. Спомням си, че един от овчарите, които беше наел, просто го ограби. Всеки път, в който идваше, на въпроса “Какво става с овцете?”, отговаряше “Мрат.” В къщи имаше лекарства против метила и други болести по овцете. Баща ми искаше да използва цялостно овцете. Например, руното им да се обработва от фина вълна, за да не се произвеждат само груби аби. Баща ми опитваше много неща, но ползата от това опитване беше не толкова за него, колкото за другите, които виждаха, че новото може да носи по-добри доходи от традиционното. Той носеше авангардност в мисленето си. Не стигаше до това, което е установено, отиваше напред.

Баща ми владееше писмено и говоримо френски език, без да го е учил никъде, просто от интереса да може да чете. В нашата къща се четеше. Не мога да кажа, че щом станем сутрин сме се хващали за книгата и сме чели до вечерта, но бяхме будни, следяхме новото. По време на войната ние имахме карта, на която отбелязвахме събитията. Всичко се знаеше, всичко се приемаше, всичко се обсъждаше. Колкото и парадоксално да звучи, баща ми не си лягаше вечер без да пусне радиото, да чуе “Интернационала” и да се разплаче. Той имаше чувството, че с “Интернационала” идва освобождението на всички народи на базата на зачитането на националните им интереси и равенството между хората. Той имаше нуждата да бъде зачетен като равен с всички хора по света, затова като чуеше “Интернационала”, така се въодушевяваше, че винаги имаше сълзи в очите. [Бащата на Шимон Данон е слушал тайно емисиите на радио “Москва” по време на II Световна война].

По време на Холокоста, около ‘41-ва година, първо запечатаха, а след това ни задължиха да предадем радиото. Все едно нещо изчезна от нас. Баща ми имаше орден за храброст от Балканската война. Представяте ли си, един евреин да има орден за храброст, след като навсякъде се разправяше, че евреите са най-страхливите хора и “бъзлив” евреин беше прозвище. Баща ми бил ефрейтор на батарея (6 души на едно оръдие), която била обкръжена на подстъпите на Одрин. Фелдфебелът, който ги ръководел, за да покаже родолюбие, извадил сабята, изревал “Напред за майка България!” и турците отсреща го убили. Баща ми останал сам с оръдието и 6-те войничета, които поискали да се предадат. Баща ми видял, че се свечерява и повдигнал духа им: “Дръжте се, докато се стъмни.” Огледал местността и видял, че има дол, където имало прикритие и можели да се изтеглят. Поел отговорността за батареята и наредил как да става изтеглянето – едни да поддържат огъня, а с останалите разглобили оръдието и го разпределили помежду си. Успява да се изтегли през този дол и така спасява 6-те войника и оръдието. Изкарват го пред полка и го награждават с орден за храброст, като дават примера за фелдфебела, загинал в безцелен патриотизъм и баща ми, който спасил батареята и тези 6-ма души, които сто на сто са щели да загинат или най-малко да паднат в плен. На базата на този орден баща ми беше поставен малко по-привилегировано по отношение на другите евреи. Докато всички носеха значки (включително и аз), баща ми носеше жълт бутон, което показваше, че фашистката държава се счита малко задължена към този човек.  

Майка ми и баща ми едва ли са се оженили по любов – в ония времена и с 13 години разлика. Заради войните от 1913 до 1920, баща ми се оженил късно – 1921 г. Баща ми беше личен ергенин, франт, по дрехите, по модата. Майка ми беше обратното. Баща ми гледаше да постави в къщата скулптури, художествени картини. Майка ми като че ли по-малко обръщаше внимание на тези работи. Тя обичаше повече да чете романчета. Баща ми търсеше музикалната класика. В къщи имаше грамофон с плочи и ние слушахме ариите на най-известните певци. Най-голямото негово удоволствие беше да изкараме грамофона и да слушаме “Риголето”, “Травиата”… Тия работи бяха чужди на 99% от хората в един град като Пазарджик.

Сестрата на баща ми [Роза Сизи] беше женена за един по-предприемчив от баща ми човек – Бохор Сизи. Той беше първи по всичко ново, което можеше да има в града. Той беше първия, който имаше радио. В неговия двор (забележете, в двора на един евреин, който не е селскостопански деятел) имаше плодни дръвчета от смокиня до бадем. Там имаше такава лоза, че от нея можеше да храни семейството си. Когато влизах в двора му, все едно че влизах в рай. Той нямаше ратаи или други работници. Сам поддържаше двора си. Дори сам си режеше дървата. Беше си направил за тази цел специално приспособление. Шегуваше се, че вместо да прави гимнастика, ще разреже две дървета. Само на базата на собствената си предприемчивост той беше един от най –богатите хора в града. Владееше страшно добре френски език. Четеше класиците в оригинал – Юго, Йожен Сю. Нямаше по-осведомен човек от него. Помня колко се учудвах като дете, щом го видехме да слуша радио – с едни такива огромни слушалки. Когато в Пазарджик нямаше къща, по-висока от два етажа, той имаше 30-метрова антена, която личеше из целия град. Той ни предаваше какво се слуша от Брюксел, Париж, особено около Мюнхен 1939 г. и Чехия. Получаваше вестници и списания от чужбина. Четеше ги направо и ни ги превеждаше. Забележете, той не отиваше никога на кафене, но в къщи имаше моникс за игра. Отиването в неговата къща беше особено събитие. Беше човек, който може само в роман да бъде описан. Не знам дали по пътя на наследствеността, но неговия внук Алкалай след това бе предложен за Димитровска награда – направи машина за засаждане на тютюн, която придоби известност в целия свят, тъй като засаждането на тютюн е една много трудоемка дейност. Това издигна България във висините на селското стопанство. Когато Тодор Живков посещаваше Пловдив, първо посещаваше Алкалай, за да види какво ново той ще представи за развитието на селското стопанство.                                      
                                         
Завършил съм основно и прогимназиално образование в еврейската прогимназия в Пазарджик. Гимназия завърших също в Пазарджик, но българска – по това време в България нямаше еврейска гимназия. Еврейското училище в Пазарджик беше много интересно. Там имаше една учителка гиверет Семо [“гиверет” на иврит значи “учителка”], която живя повече от 100 години. Изсели се в Израел. Когато навършила 100 години всички нейни ученици от Пазарджик, които били в Израел, направили голямо тържество. Имало наистина много хора – сега в Пазарджик има 30-тина души евреи от над хилядата, които живееха там. Гиверет Семо беше много интересен човек. С всички ученици говореше само на иврит. Преподаваше иврит и независимо дали учениците я разбираха или не, им говореше само на иврит. Това нейно “настояване” много помогна на тези, които заминаха в Израел, защото отидоха с познания върху езика.

В еврейското училище всяка година се правеха продукции с пиеси, които се изнасяха на иврит. С тях се внушаваше еврейщината. Помня една пиеса, в която участваше сестра ми Софи [Симха Моше]. Пиесата беше поставена от български режисьор. В негова чест бе дадена прощална вечеря, на която бяха поканени всички артисти. Беше грандиозно събитие за евреите в града. В пиесата ставаше дума за погромите над евреите в Полша. Беше около ‘39-та – ‘40-та година, малко преди да започнат гоненията на евреите в България – в навечерието им, тъй като вече се говореше за закони за ограничаване на дейността на евреите. Това сцепляваше еврейската общност. По време на представлението, за да представят изгарянето на еврейските къщи, зад сцената въртяха запалени вестници и факли. Наблизо имало прозорец и огньовете хвърляли отблясъци в двора на един от най-богатите евреи. Той изкупуваше тютюн от околията и в този двор бяха складовете му. Работниците му наскачали да гасят пожар. У евреите по това време вече се зараждаше чувството, че трябва да се изселят другаде. Около ‘41-ва година на път за Израел потъна една гемия, в която имаше доста хора от Пазарджик. С потъването на кораба се удави и Мишел Памуков, един от най-известните еврейски младежи, който ръководеше еврейската младежка организация в Пазарджик. Той създаде доста хора с националистически настроения. Знам, че сега го почитат в Израел. В помените, които се правят, името му се споменава като един от създателите на еврейската държава.

По времето, по което трябваше да стана гимназист, вече бяха в сила антиеврейските закони, но аз записах гимназия, защото баща ми имаше орден за храброст от Балканската война. Тогава законът даваше възможност децата на наградените с орден за храброст евреи да учат, докато всички останали не можеха. Когато в началото на първи гимназиален клас трябваше да седна на чина си въпреки всичко, а бях в един клас със селските момчета. В класа имаше не повече от един-двама пазарджиклии и то набедени хора, които не ги искаха в другите класове. Тогава вече имаше и бранници, и легионери. Това са приказки, че в България е нямало фашизъм. Беше си много надъхано, с всички шовинистически приказки за Велика България, България над останалите балкански народи и т.н. Селянчетата в тогавашната образователна система бяха поне на половина под възможностите на градските деца. Селото беше доста изостанало в сравнение с града (не че градът е бил кой знае колко напред). Имаше деца, които идваха в училище без да са виждали електричество и си светеха в къщи с газеничета. В Пазарджик имаше и електричество, и вода, и кина, и театри - не беше чак толкова изостанал в културно отношение град. Селата бяха на светлинни години назад, въпреки, че имаше деца много будни и интелигентни, надарени с възможности по-големи от тези на градските деца. Така например от нашия випуск, от “селските” класове излязоха двама министри – Тодориев, на енергетиката и Серафим Милчев – на мините. България дължи много на Тодориев, той е разионализатор. Всичките електроцентрали по “Марица-Изток” работят по неговите схеми за горенето на лигнитните въглища.

Не искам да кажа, че имам някакъв спортен талант, но бях развит, добре поставен и бягах добре на къси разстояния, особено на 100 м. Биваше ме в тия спортове. Награждаван съм. Имам 7-8 [награди] от спортни прояви на еврейските организации. Членувах в “Макаби” - това е еврейска спортна организация. За едно градско състезание по бягане на къси и дълги разстояния трябваше да се състезаваме аз и първенеца класа на градските момчета – “бранниците”, за това кой ще представи гимназията. Разбира се, учителят никога нямаше да ме пусне, но този път нямаше как – аз бях първенецът на нашия клас. Бранникът така и не можа да се примири, че евреин го е победил.

Когато влезнах за първи път в класа, тъй като аз закъснях докато уредя въпросите около влизането ми в гимназия, бранниците станаха и казаха: “На нас ни е забранено да сядаме на един чин с евреин.” Прие ме да седна до него най-богатото момче от с. Мало Конаре, чиито брат беше партизанин и политкомисар на отряда в Пазарджишкия край. Казваше се Рангел Караиванов. По-късно стана професор по зоология. Докато останалите граждани получаваха 300 гр. хляб, на евреите даваха 150 [Шимон има предвид дажбите по време на II Световна война] Дълги години всяка сутрин Рангел ми подаваше под чина половината от своята филия за закуска. Правеше го не от страх, а за да не урони достойнството ми. Когато почина казах (и на други места съм го казвал), че в Израел трябва да се посадят дръвчета именно за такива хора, а не за онези които произнасяха гръмки фрази, за тези, които в ежедневието помагаха на евреите. Самият Рангел по това време беше в още по-тежко положение, поради това, че неговите родители бяха изпратени в лагер (защото брат му беше партизанин), а той самият беше следен да не извършва някаква антифашистка дейност. (Той си я вършеше, разбира се.)

Аз имам един брат [Шемуел Ешуа Данон] и една сестра [Симха Ешуа Моше]. И двамата са научни работници. Сестра ми е старши научен сътрудник по медицинска хигиена. Брат ми е в раковата болница. Доскоро беше заместник-директор, а сега води държавния регистър на болните от рак в страната – една доста отговорна работа. Брат ми се роди в края на Холокоста. Роди се благодарение на Холокоста, защото цялото ни семейство беше събрано в една малка стая. Цялата ни къща беше препълнена с изселници от София. Роди се 1943 г., когато аз бях на 16-17 г., а сестра ни - на 20. Аз и сестра ни имахме малка разлика - 4 години. Грижехме се за брат ни. Бяхме в твърде неудобно положение – сестра ни сама можеше да има деца. Майка ми роди, смятайки първоначално, че има тежка болест. Ракът, който и предвиждаха, излезе дете.

По време на Холокоста ние бяхме в Пазарджик [не са били изселени]. Тук искам да кажа, че съществува една невярна представа, че българският народ е спасил евреите. В това отношение аз имам малко по-различно разбиране. Евреите в България започнаха да се чувстват по-сигурни за своето бъдеще не въз основа на българското общество като цяло. Не мога да отрека, че имаше доста българи, които подпомагаха евреите по различни съображения. Всъщност голямото стъписване на тези, които преследваха народа ни идваше от загубите на германците на Източния фронт. Колкото повече Червената армия наближаваше границите на страната ни, толкова повече хора се чувстваха “близки” на своите съграждани  и съседни евреи. След Сталинградската битка у тези хора се появи страх, че ще бъдат възмездени за нещата, които вършеха, а вършеха просто страшни неща. Аз си спомням как една вечер бранниците (все млади хора) натоварват каруци с павета и камъни и тръгват по нашата улица. Нали бяхме все евреи. Българско семейство нямаше. Имаше само две арменски къщи, в началото и по средата на улицата. Разбиваха систематично черчеветата и стъклата. Пропуснаха само арменските къщи. Хвърляха първо едно голямо паве, за да разбие черчеветата, а после камъни – като градушка. В нашата спалня едно цяло паве разби стъклата. Всички легнахме под леглата, защото падаха стъкла и камъни, имаше опасност за живота ни. Същата вечер направиха погром в еврейския дом.Всичко беше разбито и ограбено. Имаше един – Гого Дългия, който ходеше с бич. Можехме да излизаме само от 4 до 6 следобед. Само тогава можехме да си напазаруваме. Този, който даваше работа на евреи, трябваше да получи специално разрешение.

По линия на майка ми [Естер Данон] семейството ни даде много сериозни жертви. Моята леля [Фортуне Асса] загуби двамата си сина. Макар и с леви разбирания, те учеха в английския колеж в София. Една вечер при чичо ми дошли бранници – легионери и го заставили в срок от два часа да им даде няколко милиона лева. Тъй като той не могъл да им ги предостави, още същата вечер убили децата му. Паметникът, който им построиха е разрушен от сегашните фашисти – съвременните български фашисти. Да се представя, че сега в България няма фашизъм е глупост. Сега в България се продава свободно “Моята борба” на Хитлер. Продават се книги, които отричат изцяло, че е съществувал Холокоста, които говорят за еврейството като за мафия, която унищожава народите и т.н. Международният език на фашизма, това е антисемитизмът, който сега съществува в големи размери. На стените на френската гимназия [в София] пише: ”Евреите на сапун.” - след всички станали събития, след като загиват 6 милиона евреи. Има скинари, които обявяват пред телевизията, че ще унищожат евреите. Ако изселването на евреите продължава, то причините за това са, че след обявяването на демокрацията антисемитизмът продължава с нови темпове. Аз бих твърдял, независимо от пропагандата дори на някои еврейски агенции, че по времето на комунизма положението на евреите е било лошо, че то не е било такова тогава, а сега. Вярно е например, че имаха едно наум за роднините на някои евреи в чужбина и ги ограничаваха да заемат определени постове в държавния апарат. Доста се ограничаваше приемането на евреи в органите на държавна сигурност. Но аз бях достигнал до най-високите органи на властта. Аз бях заместник-главен прокурор на България. Това означава, че завеждах отдел в главна прокуратура. Няма град в България, който да не съм посетил. Няма прокурор в България,  който да не ме е познавал. Излизал съм десетки пъти пред целия народ по телевизията и радиото и то с пълното си еврейско име Шимон Ешуа Данон.А сега – ето наример, евреите в България не са получили официална реабилитация за това, че са им взети имуществата и че през Холокоста са били използвани от други хора. Напротив, в момента се провежда линия, не без помощта на известни еврейски среди, че видите ли, в България никога не е имало фашизъм, което е една абсолютна лъжа. Едновременно с това казват “ние сме ви спасили от фашизма”. По принцип, еврейската организация съществува, когато има нужда от нея. Аз имам чувството, че сега тя е по-силна с подчертаване на понятието “еврейство” в самата организация, именно защото се чувства нужда от защита. Наскоро присъствах на събрание, където мои сънародници, в присъствието на израелския посланик и други официални лица, казаха, че в България продължава да се засилва антисемитизма. Има автори, вестници и предавания по телевизията с явни антисемитски настроения. Казват, че няма закони да се противопоставят на това. Аз съм юрист и ви казвам, че в нашия кодекс има текстове, които преследват профашистката дейност и расовата ненавист, а те си затварят очите, защото на ръководни постове в СДС стояха хора с профашистки разбирания.                        

Февруари 2002 г.
Интервюиращ: Майя Николова   

Г-н Шимон Данон е изпълнен с активност – физическа, социална, политическа. Стреми се всячески да мотивира събитията, за които разказва. Да изтъкне причините, довели до тях. Да убеди събеседника си в логиката на идеите си.

Забележка: Коментарите на г-н Данон са автентични и, макар че на места интервюто е преструктурирано с оглед на по-гладкия му “хронологичен ход”, не съм си позволила да променя смисъла или да цензурирам изразеното от него мнение. 

Dora Rozenberg
Subotica
Serbia
Interviewer: Nina Poljakovic

I know a bit about the origins of my paternal great grandmother and great grandfather. My great grandfather was Gaspar Spitzer, and his wife Betti Hirsch - married name Spitzer. They were middle-class merchants; they had a shop where one could find everything from groceries to household chemistry. Since the towns were smaller and shops like that one were rare, the business was good. They had five or six children but I do not remember their names other than my grandfather’s, Mor Spitzer. They were quite religious, they kept kosher and observed all the Jewish holidays, but unfortunately I don`t know how, when and where.

My paternal grandfather Mor Spitzer, was born in Subotica and lived on the Tompa farm, a small place in Vojvodina. His wife was Mimi – Marija Koh, married name Spitzer. She, unfortunately, died very young, at 40, from galloping consumption. She was a beautiful and strong woman, who kept the family on her shoulders. She left behind five children. They lived on a farm, at that time Jews did all sorts of things; they worked with meat, textiles, and tools which they used to sell in the village. They didn’t have an actual shop but it was known you could get everything you needed in their house and they even had inns.

Since it was a bohemian age, so to speak, where local people liked to spend all night at an inn making trouble, my grandmother tried to prevent it and succeeded most of the times by having gendarmerie on stand-by. I remember that after she died the chief of gendarmerie used to come to my father and tell him how she was a wonderful, energetic person, and we have always suspected that he was in love with her. They were pretty well-off materially while great grandmother was alive. After her death grandfather sold everything they had, he let the children go wild, without giving them anything, and became an alcoholic.

Their mother tongue was Hungarian and that was what they spoke at home. They were very religious, but you could not tell this from their dress. They were Neologs1. They kept kosher at home and, went to synagogue. They celebrated every holiday very strictly. They lit candles, made challah on Fridays, Shabbat was observed, etc.

They were members of the Jewish community but since the farm was very far away they did not socialize much, except for holidays when the family gathered together. They had a woman who sometimes came to help grandmother clean the house, and a woman who took care of the work outside. At that time it was not the practice to have a woman to take care of all the household activities. Grandmother died from her own carelessness. One winter the laundress did not come so she cleaned everything for the household (for five children and two adults) by herself in the yard, she caught a cold and died a short time later on Purim. After that the family fell apart but grandfather never married again, in fact he was so ill they amputated one of his legs. He was in a wheelchair for the rest of his life, until he was 75 or 77 years old. Grandmother and grandfather had siblings but I do not remember anything about them.
My maternal grandfather was named Salamon Merkler. He had nine children; he was widowed with five children and then married my grandmother, the most wonderful person in the world. Her name was Lujza Bek, she was born in Kiskunmajsa [Hungary] and she had four children with grandfather. She was a wonderful woman because she accepted grandfather’s children as her own. In fact when the grandchildren who were not hers went to visit them, they would not say they were going to grandfather’s but said they were going to grandmother’s. Grandfather was born around 1870 and grandmother was 18 or 20 years younger than grandfather. They lived in Cantavir, a village near Subotica. It was a wealthy village since there lived people with big households, it is as wealthy today actually. There lived quite a few Jews, 15-20 families for certain, but there was no synagogue, only one house represented the place of worship. Of course, there was no Jewish school in the village so the children went to Subotica to school. Jews in the village lived together with other ethnic backgrounds and had good relations. Grandmother and grandfather had a house and since he was a tinsmith he had his own workshop, while grandmother was a housewife and took care of the house and of the cows that they had at home. She could not work because she took care of the nine children. Two of the sons were also tinsmiths and worked with their father in the workshop.

Grandfather was a religious man; he knew the customs and religion itself. He dressed in everyday clothes. He probably wore kipa in the house and especially during the prayings, but never out on the streets, nor did he wear kaftan or payot, since they were not orthodox. Grandmother acted the same way. When he was young he went to cheder and had a special teacher who taught him about Jewish traditions and customs. Grandfather and grandmother were kosher, they kept Shabbat, went to synagogue, especially grandfather who went there every night and who strictly maintained orthodox customs. They never told me what the holidays looked like in their house. When they moved to Subotica they could buy kosher meat and eat kosher food. They were members of the Jewish community but they were never involved in politics, nobody harrased them and they lived quite well. They had two Christian women who helped grandmother with the cleaning, and taking care of the nine children and since they had a barn with cows they needed the attention too. They had a large garden with vegetables and my grandmother just couldn`t manage it alone, so the older girls helped grandmother in the kitchen and took care of the younger children. They were surrounded by Christians and  had good relations with them, there were never incidents nor they have been called out for being Jewish. They did not use to visit each other since they all worked all day long so there was no time for socializing. The part of the house where we lived had street windows and behind it, down the yard, was the workshop. I remember the yard itself. There were a lot of fruit trees, and when there was summer they used to put a large tin tub, for me to bathe in, under the trees.

The thing I remember from grandmother and grandfather’s is Friday evening (Shabbat). When I was in the concentration camp, I always dreamed about that and sometimes it was what kept me alive; seeing the table set, the candles burning, the smell of challah. We did not have a ring-cake, instead grandmother made crescents with cinnamon, they were enormous, or at least they seemed that way to me. I could not get a bite until grandfather came home from synagogue. When he came home he blessed us, grandmother had already lit the candles as was the custom and she served dinner. Since grandfather was old and was not allowed to eat everything, we always had dairy dinners. I can still smell those crescents. In the camps when I closed my eyes and remembered the smell I was no longer so hungry. This is something I have remembered through all the periods of my life up until today.

Grandfather’s only sister was named aunt Lenci.  She lived in Cantavir at her son`s who had four children (Zsiga, Margit, Rozsa and Ilus) and two grandchildren who were born after Lenci`s death. Margit, Rozsa and Ilus were sewers and lived in our neighborhood. Lenci was short, and she wore an apron as all the village women did. She died around 1920.

Grandmother had many brothers and sisters, around five or six. We liked uncle Maksi most. He was a huge man, a good man and he loved the family. My mother, father, brother and I used to go often at his place or he came to ours. There couldn’t pass a Sunday for us not to see each other.

My father Salamon Spitzer, called Sanjika, was born on February 18, 1888 in Subotica. His native tongue was Hungarian but he also spoke German. He finished the sixth grade of elementary school and was unable to continue his studies because as a youngster he suffered a lot. When his mother died, his father left him too. Being very poor he was often hungry for days and was even going barefoot in snow and cold because there was no one to take care of him. At the age of seven he lived with his aunt in Subotica, who was mean and treated him very poorly. Her husband was no better, and since they have not had children of their own, they did not now how to treat him. He lived with them until he was independent enough. When he finished sixth grade of the elementary school he started working at first as an apprentice in a glass-shop owned by a Jew, who was named Kohn. Kohn was a good man and he even helped my father in his growing up by supporting him materially. He made good progress and when he married my mother they opened a small workshop with minimal start-up capital. Because of his modesty they succeeded to build that small workshop into the biggest glassworks in the region with a shop in Subotica. When my father made inventory in his shop he took a box of matches from his pocket and said while looking at them: “Why do I need to make inventory? I started with these and everything above that is profit.”

My mother Cecilia Merkler, known as Cilika, was born in Cantavir on September 29, 1890. She was the sixth child in the family and my grandmother`s first. She spoke Hungarian and she finished the sixth grade of elementary school. She helped a lot around the house, and was very hard working. Mother knew knitting, and after she finished her school she often used to knit. I think that they met in the same manner that all Jews did back then, a shadchan introduced them. They married in Cantavir on March 17, 1914. in the small synagogue. When the war broke out in the fall, several months after their wedding, father was called for military service. Since my mother was pregnant with me she went back to stay with her parents and waited for him to come back from the war.

Father had three sisters and one brother. The eldest was Jozi, then Franciska, Ida, and Margit. Except for one sister, aunt Fani (Franciska) who was with me in the camp, they were all lost during the war. She was the only one to return. I do not know what she did. One sister, Ida, did not have a family because when she was four years old she was stricken with typhus and remained mentally impaired from that. Everybody else was lost in camps during the war. The only thing I know is that Margita’s granddaughter returned from the camp and she lives in London. We even had telephone contacts, but as the time went by we lost our connection.

Mother had brothers, sisters and step-siblings. Emma, Herman, Zsiga, Janka, Miska were step-siblings and Marton, Karoly, Cilka, Rozika were her brothers and sisters. Only my mother and Zsiga returned from the camps. Zsiga was a tinsmith and he lived in Subotica. He has a daughter Marta, who has two daughters in Israel and 7 grandchildren. The eldest sister Emma lived in Budapest and had four children. Uncle Herman lived in Szeged [Hungary] and had one daughter. Miska was deported to Austria and he did not live to see the liberation. Rozsika lived in Belgrade and had two daughters. She stayed with one daughter in Belgrade and they were executed at Sajmiste camp (a factory yard in Belgrade set up by the Germans for massacring Jews after the occupation of March 1941), while the other came to Subotica. She lives in Israel today with her family and has 8 grandchildren.

I was born in Cantavir on January 3, 1915, but I lived in Subotica. During W.W.I., before I was born, my father had been drafted into the war. Mother returned to her parents where I was born. I lived in Cantavir in my grandmother’s house until I was four years old.

As soon as the First World War ended father, mother and I went to Subotica. Subotica had about 100,000 residents 6,000 of which were Jews. Jews did not have their own special section of the town rather they lived all over the city.

There were two Jewish communities in the city, one Orthodox and the other Neolog. My family was part of the Neolog community. The synagogue, where religious services held, had already been there when we came to Subotica and that is where the religious services were held. The community had its own chazan, rabbi, shochet and the Orthodox community had a mikvah. Our women went to the public bathhouse. At that time there was public health care for children and a communal kitchen for the poor. There was a Jewish elementary school where I went. Orthodox boys went to yeshiva.

My parents were not very religious. We observed Shabbat and the high holidays, but we were not kosher. I remember the Sabbath at home. We used to cook the whole day on Friday only for the evening because my mother never cooked on Saturdays. I used to light the candles with my mother – four of them. Two for her and two for me. The smell of challah defined Friday nights for me. When I was a bit older I always went with my girlfriends to service in Synagogue, and when there was school on Saturdays, there had always been service for children afterwards.

When we came to Subotica Jews mostly worked in commerce although there were a few craftsmen. At that time there was no plumbing, but we had a well and we even had our own motor, which drew the water. Our material status was very good. She [my mother] did not work. She was a housewife. We could go on summer vacations every year especially to the seaside where my mother took my brother and me. My father was unable to come because he could not leave the store.  At one point we even had a villa at Palic2 so we spent a lot of time at the lake and there were even times when we spent the whole summer there.

Proof of our good material standing was that for three years I was educated in a woman’s educational institute because mother had to help father in the store and she did not want to leave me alone. We lived in a big house with four rooms and a hall. The most beautiful part of the house was the living room with plenty of daylight. We used to listen to the radio there and enjoy being together as a family. We had a bedroom where my mother brought the furniture when she married. I also had my own room, a real modern girl’s room with bed closets and a table. The dining room had furniture, which was all carved and beautifully designed. There were also my brother’s room and a bathroom. At the end of the garden we had a separate part of the house, an apartment, which was used for storage. The house had roses, grapevines, and we had a dog. Since we could indulge ourselves we had a full-time housekeeper who lived with us, but she was not permitted to cook because mother did that herself.
We had prayer books as well as secular books. We did not need to use the library because we bought all the books we wanted to read. My brother and I spent all of our pocket money on books. We used to read all the popular books in Hungarian and we always talked over our “shopping,” and all our pocket money was used for books. We collected over 350 books. At that time there were paper-deliverers so my parents used to read newspapers too. We were not very religious but we celebrated every holiday. Friday nights the candles burned, we made challah and ring cakes. We went to the Jewish community on Chanukah and Purim Pesach. We fasted on Yom Kippur. Even today I fast, although it is much more difficult than earlier. For such great holidays, the shop was closed and everything was very festive. After the synagogue we would always go to uncle Maksi`s and celebrate the holiday together with all my uncles and aunts. Mother and father were never involved in politics but my mother’s nephew was a communist. His name was Dr. Imre Ber. He was a surgeon, he wrote books, he taught at the Moscow University, and his textbooks were used. He was liquidated during Stalin’s reign.

Some of our relatives we saw every day. I used to see Aunt Rozsi, as well as mother`s cousin Adam Giza, who often visited us in the shop. When three of them got together, mother had to do at least some handwork, she could not sit and rest. Of course, she did not work on Saturdays or holidays. It wasn`t too fun for me, because they had children much younger than me, and I was the only one to take care of them. On the other hand, other friends we saw only for holidays. Many of them lived in Budapest or Szeged in Hungary, so we did not have many occasions to see them. But since our family was big, we actually have not even had the need to socialize with other people, while friends used to come to shop and they talked there.

I began the Jewish school when I was six-years old. I went to that school until the fourth grade. When I finished I was enrolled in a gymnasium for girls in Veliki Beckerek; there I completed three grades. Since I did not have the patience to be so far from home my parents allowed me to finish the fourth grade in Subotica. When I finished gymnasium I did a two-year stenography course. Since we were well off my family could indulge me in private tennis lessons (I played rather poorly), English and German lessons and piano lessons for three years. Since I had neither a good ear nor talent I bothered my parents and teacher enough so they let me give up on my musical education and my self-improvement.

During my time in school I had several teachers. In the first grade there was an old spinster who hated children, while in the second grade my teacher was Mrs. Hauser. She was really nice to me and she even had a daughter of my age, which I made friends with. In the third grade Mr. Kados was a strict, righteous and a very serious man. After him, in the third grade, Mr. Rosenstein, the school principal was our teacher. In Beckerek [Zrenjanin in Serbian] I had all the best teachers, and the most wonderful time in school. My friends were mostly Jewish, and we used to play together even after school. As far as anti-Semitism in school is concerned I never experienced it nor did anyone ever tease me.

When I finished school I began working in our store because I wanted to be a merchant. I worked together with father; in the beginning my salary was 500 dinars, but I did not have any expenses, and the money was all mine. Father always laughed and asked me, “What do you need a salary for?” I sat at the cash register and whatever I needed I just took. I never had to ask and could buy whatever I needed. The shop had a lot of desks, glass closets and shelves, which were full of glassworks. We had three shop assistants Lajos, Marci and Janos, and one apprentice who learned the trade. Our customers were mostly non-Jewish, but that was not important at all. There were four glass-stores in the town at that time and our worked even on Sabbath.

While in school and after school I socialized mostly with Jews, they were mainly the people I went to school with; I socialized with many of them until they died. I was a member of a Zionist organization Hashomer Hazair, and spent every free minute there. There we learned Hebrew, went to classes and organized classes of History of Judaism. I did all sports like tennis and rowing, halfheartedly, without desire. Since I was very skinny and weak, my parents spared me from physical work.

During the weekends and vacations I went with my friends to the movies from four to six in the evening; from six to eight we went together to the pastry shop. I had to be home by eight because I had to eat dinner with my family. When I grew up my group of friends was still made up of Jews.

During summer vacations my brother Djurika, mother and I went to the seaside. Father always remained behind in the store because he could not leave someone else in charge. Most frequently we went to Crikvenica, Makarska [on the Dalmatian coast of what is now Croatia] and usually for three weeks. We slept in a private accommodation and ate in a hotel. We had a housekeeper to take care of the house during that time. My aunt also stayed at home and took care of the father. My brother often went to camps with the Hashomer Hazair Zionist organization, but parents would not let me go, because I was weak, ate poorly – speaking in general, I was spoiled.

Since some of my father’s customers were restaurant owners, we sometimes went out to dinner with our parents. Most often we went to the Small Garden in Palic whose owner was my father’s friend and a good customer, so we liked to go to his place best.

My brother was named Djordje (at home we called him Djurika). He was born on August 28, 1919. We used to get on well in our childhood, and I remember one interesting occasion. I was very sick because of roundworms, and I started to get better. Father used to get me chocolate and cakes, but mother would not let us eat, because Djurika and I could eat ourselves sick with candies. One time we were left alone in the room, and we tried to get the candies from a two-piece cupboard. Since we tried to do it fast fearing someone might see us, we turned it over on us. Everything inside broke into pieces. Because he was little, Djordje managed to pull out under the cupboard. For a long time after that, he had a habit of crawling under tables and beds. He had more education than I did; he finished medical school and specialization in anesthesiology in Israel. He died there in 1980. He went to Israel after the war in 1948 with his wife Mira [nee Kop] who lives in Israel today. He has two children, Jorama and Nomi, who live there. First he was in a work camp, like all Hungarian Jews, and later in Mauthausen, Gunskirchen.

We did not keep kosher but the holidays were observed as the religion prescribes We separated milk and meat; I even remember we had different color dishes so that we would not mix them up. There were special dish towels which were used to wash and dry the meat and milk dishes. The candles burned on Shabbat, we went to synagogue. As a young girl, after school and Saturdays I went to synagogue because there were mandatory religious services for students. When I finished school I went every Friday evening to the religious services with my girlfriends.
We had religious studies classes. Unfortunately it did not last long, but what was important was that I had a Bat Mitzvah with all of the girls my age. Concerning religion and traditions I learned the most from my parents, especially from my father, since he was a little more religious. My favorite holidays were the ones when we received presents – mostly toys, candies and books, and they included every Rosh Hashanah, every Chanukah and Purim. So that we would not feel like we did not have Christmas we received presents for Chanukah. Later I taught my daughter that Jews did not have Christmas but they did have Chanukah.

I met my husband, Dr. Vladislav Rozenberg, through one of my uncles who studied with my husband`s father. After his studies my future father-in-law lived in Senta where my husband was born on September 21, 1908. Since they remained good friends they frequently visited one another. One time he came with his son and I happened to be there and we liked each other. We never learned whether our meeting was arranged and my husband and I have never spoken about it. We married first in a civil wedding on June 27, 1940, then in a religious wedding on June 30. Since at that time the pre-war waves of fear were felt in the air - the wave of anti–Semitism, so we had the wedding in our house. There was a chupah and the rites were preformed as dictated by the religion and religious law. After the wedding we lived in Velika Kikinda (Banat), which was one of the ethnic German speaking regions, for seven months before my husband went into the army, then he was taken prisoner. I went back to stay with my parents in Subotica where I remained until deportation.

My husband was an eloquent man. He spoke German and French. He finished medical school and then specialized in dentistry.

My father-in-law, that is my husband’s father, was Emil Rozenberg, and his mother Zseni Rozenberg [nee Broder]. His father was a teacher and later the school principal. His mother, as was the practice then, was a housewife. At the time the custom was that men earned money and worried about the family finances while the women took care of the children and the house. I can only say the nicest things about his family. They were exceptionally tolerant and good people. They always considered me to be their daughter; I was especially fond of his mother.

When I was young I did not experience anti-Semitism, but I heard my parents talk about it. There was no anti-Semitism among those in power, rather it appeared among the people. It was a period when many people sang patriotic songs, military parades passed through the city. The first wave of anti-Semitism appeared at the time of the Hungarian occupation; the residents themselves were more tolerant, or maybe I did not feel anything because my friends were Jewish. However the Hungarian government was not as tolerant as the Yugoslav government. They enacted laws, which caused our material and psychological decline. When Hitler came to power we could not possibly dream what was going to happen to us. Even when the war broke out and we were taken to the cargo station and when the German coaches arrived we still did not think we were going to be deported.

My first experience with anti-Semitism was when we started to wear yellow stars. I could not imagine that in the 20th century something was happening that I had only read about and talked about with my mother. I was not embarrassed and I never concealed the fact that I was a Jew; today whenever someone asks me officially or unofficially I always say I am a Jew.

When the anti-Jewish laws were enacted my brother lost his right to study and had to stop halfway through. Only after the war did he manage to finish. At that time my husband was already a prisoner of war in Germany so when he came home he did not have a chance to experience the humiliation, but he knew only what we wrote him in our letters. Since we had our own shop no one could fire us, blackmail us or the like. Unfortunately, later they managed to take the store from us. They took our house when they took us to the ghetto.

When they took us to the camp on June 16, 1944, from in front of the cargo station, the first stop was Bacsalmas where we spent about two to three weeks. There I learned the meaning of friendship. When we arrived the camp was full. They put us in a mill on the first floor where it was impossible to breathe, and my friend and my mother’s friend who were already waiting there for us made a place for us so that we would not be out in the open.

Afterwards we were transferred by wagons to Strashof bei Wien, which was the second stop. We were there for a week, and since we were of no use to anyone they put us in three or four camps so that in the end they would put us in one. We went to Kimber bei Gaming where there was a bomb factory and there we worked as street workers and cleaners. We painted the pipes, swept the streets, and cleaned the Russian prison camp. That was an awful work, because the Russians were dirty and they made the mess deliberately sometimes. One day we would have had it cleaned and the next day it would already be a pig barn. Russians once complained to the camp warden that we had not done any work in their barracks, so we went to him, and since he was a relatively fair man, we asked him to come with us to see for himself. Even if it rained or snowed we were on the street.

In mid-December they took us to Bergen-Belsen. What is hell? It is called Bergen-Belsen. Cold, hunger, dirt and fleas were all the characteristics of Bergen-Belsen. I spent four and a half months there. I was there with my mother, aunt, nieces, mother’s brother and his wife, daughter, grandchild, friends with their children. I was in the same barracks with them. From this camp, they wanted to send us to Theresienstadt in three groups. We were the first. We were “lucky” because we were traveling two or three weeks. On one side there were Germans, on the other side there were Americans and we were in the middle; they took us 40 kilometers on one side and then on the other. On April 13, when we were all, especially me, sick, they called us to the rifle range. As we got out of the wagon, someone yelled “Kids, American tanks are on the road.” Then unrest broke out, the Germans ran and people got back on the wagons.

A young soldier appeared out of the confusion. It was something that I would never forget. He went from wagon to wagon and told us, “Be patient, it is the end. Peace is coming. We are a fighting unit but peacemakers are coming, they will take care of you.”  We simply knew this soldier was a Jew. Tears were running down his face as he went from wagon to wagon, he did not have the words to console us. Then we heard the sad news that Roosevelt had died. We knew he was crying for two reasons, for losing his president and finding us in the condition we were in.

The first place we went was a Siemens hangar. They emptied it out to turn it into a recovery area. The Americans took care of us there; they fed us just a little at the beginning so that we would not die, but there were people who ate so voraciously that they died. Afterwards they gave us heavier and heavier food and care. Then they put us in a place near Hanover, in Magdeburg. That zone was taken over by the English and then the Russians. Under the Russians, unfortunately, we did not live well. We got some bread much of which was not baked so we ate elder plants. We were there from April until the September 8, 1945. We arrived in Velika Kikinda on Rosh Hashanah. Only once we arrived did we realize it was holiday. We arrived home with a group of prisoners of war. Jews from there waited for us, there were two or three families who had returned. We were in Velika Kikinda four or five days; I do not remember exactly. There I heard that my husband had returned, that my brother was alive and that he was at home in Subotica. One beautiful morning they appeared and took us home.

Unfortunately, many of my relatives, like my father, never returned. I never learned where he died. I know he was taken to Backa Topola, then to Auschwitz and that he died of hunger. My dearest aunt Rozika, her daughter Lucika, her husband, my uncle Karoly and his wife Ilonka were all asphyxiated by gas at Sajmiste (the Germans used gas vans then). Only my mother, my father’s sister, the grandchild Klarika who lives in London, my aunt Rozika’s daughter who lives in Israel and my brother returned home from the camps.

After having survived, my uncle Zsiga went to Israel and died there at the age of 95. My aunt Ema survived too, but she lost her two sons while two daughters and a son in law returned. We have been in touch and been visiting sometimes. One daughter died two years ago.

When we arrived home I did not find anything. We received one part of our house; after some time we got the whole thing back. We got the store which was sold out and which only had a little bit of merchandise in it. Later we gave the store up because we did not have the capital to start everything from the beginning. It was nice to see our neighbors who were very happy when we returned, they gave us bread and fruit. But there were those who said “And you returned too?”

There was a period when we had to start from the beginning. We started from the little bit of merchandise we found. The most important thing was the baby. We had a daughter, Mira, in 1946. My husband started to work as a civil-mobilized doctor in Macedonia. After that we returned to Subotica, my husband opened a practice and we started to gain property. We wanted to immigrate to Israel. We submitted a request and were on the list, but doctors were not granted permission at that time. We tried two or three times in 1948, and eventually when we lost the will to go, we found out that the next attempt would have been successful but at that time in 1952 we no longer wanted to go. My brother went with his family. When my brother immigrated to Israel, I visited him and spent more than 3 months there. I must say I felt good there for some reason.

After the camp, life had to go on. We hoped for some time that the father will return but he never did, neither have my in-laws. Lacika, my husband died in 1964. As a doctor he contracted infectious hepatitis from one of his patients. He was buried in the Jewish cemetery. After my husband`s death I did not work, because I was getting his pension and I could live fairly well on it. At the time of communism I was living well without any repercussions and difficulties, maybe because I was never politically involved.

After the end of the war when we returned home we still observed the religion and holidays. The reason was probably that not many of my family members returned from the war, and those were the days we most often were able to get together. We also got together in the Jewish community, a place of refuge, where we had fun, a place where all the Jews gathered. I took my daughter there too. Today she goes more infrequently to temple, because of her obligations, but naturally we go for the high holidays and Maskir.

In forced labor in Austria I made friends. Unfortunately they died but I am still in contact with their children. Our relationship was stronger than friendship, one could even say we were “relatives”. Concerning friends, that changed a lot after the war. Intermarriages started to appear so that the nationality of our circle of friends changed. Unfortunately, my relatives were scattered around the world, two of my nieces that I was close with lived in Budapest, and we rarely saw each other. My husband had one niece, she was married to a Christian who converted and became a better Jew than any Jew I ever met. She was my best friend. I socialized with the rest of my girlfriends until they died. Today I am almost the only remaining person from my generation.

My daughter was a very sweet girl. She was going to kindergarten from an early age, without knowing a word of Serbian. After only six weeks she was constantly babbling in Serbian. From elementary school on she was always one of the best in the class all the way to her graduation. I put a lot into her education, especially foreign languages, so today she fluently speaks German and English. She used to go to piano lessons but she tortured the teacher and me for so long until we finally gave up. My daughter finished law school and works as a lawyer in Subotica. She has two daughters and one granddaughter. The older daughter lives in Israel with her daughter and the younger in Subotica.

I systematically taught my daughter from childhood about Judaism. Since she was born after the war, she did not live through or see the horrors of war. Nevertheless, according to my own principles, what happened to the Jews should not be forgotten and must be told to future generations. I handed this down to my daughter. I told her about the terrible things but also about the friendships that I created in the camps. As long as I am alive I will talk about it to everyone so that this will never happen again.

Despite all of these tragedies, I still believe in God. At one time I did not believe, I did not light candles. However, when my daughter, my greatest happiness, grew up and I saw her succeed in life, I reconciled with God. Until recently I was very involved in the Jewish community. Now, I am old and I just come when they organize something. I was one of the founding members of the Subotica Women’s Section. Of the founding members only my friend Ela Vajs and I are still alive. Our section was very active. We held lectures, but during Tito’s time it was not very popular so we had to publicize them very discreetly. I can’t say we were afraid, but simply the things we celebrated were not popular. The communist party was a god and its own religion but we believed in the real God. I kept telling my daughter that the things we talked about in the house should not be discussed outside. We lived much more modestly than before the war, because we had lost most of our property, but I cannot say that we were harassed. Our goal was to fix the house to its pre-war condition.

I kept going to the Jewish community, same as before the war and I was not scared because of it. We helped poor people, visited the sick, cooked food according to the religious requirements for the Seder, for Purim, for Chanukah, and made packages for the children. Even today Ela and I make matzah dumplings for the Seder.

 Лия Герман

Cеме́йное преда́ние
Де́тство
Bое́нное вре́мя
Послевое́нное вре́мя
Бра́т и сестра́
Cупру́жество

Cеме́йное преда́ние

Я терпеть не могу что-то рассказывать. Мой прадедушка Мейер Кадишевич (1837 – 1920) по отцовской линии родом из Акнисте (Екабпилский район). Оказывается Актисте до 1921 года входил в состав Литвы. В Акнисте собирают сведения о потомках селах (Селия – культурно-исторический регион Латвии) и так мой дедушка коренной житель Латвии, то он тоже относится к селам. Сейчас живых потомков с их мужьями и женами более 100 человек, более 60 человек проживает в Израиле, в Латвии -- 14, в Британии -- 8. Фамилию Кадишевич сохранили, но в Риге Кадишевичей из нашего рода нет. Его дочь Рива вышла замуж за Моше Гальперина, у них было 5 детей. Годы жизни бабушки не знаю, я этим не занимаюсь.  Мой отец родился (1891 – 1979). В нашей семье было трое детей --Мейер погиб (1919 –1941), сестра Эдит умерла (1915 – 1991) и я.

Чем занимался прадед, не знаю. Я знаю только про моего дедушку, который не Кадышевич, а Гальперин. В 1877 году он основал ткацкую фабрику в Двинске (Даугавпилсе) (в тот период Двинск относился к Витебской губернии). Поэтому мы с 1931 года жили в Двинске после его смерти. Я знаю, что он пришел из какого-то местечка. Подозреваю, что тоже из Акнисте, потому что у моих родителей какое-то время было литовское гражданство, о чем я узнала, когда я получала  гражданство. Я нашла в архиве документы об их натурализации в 1925 году. Мама не была гражданкой Литвы, но она  вышла замуж и автоматически получила литовское гражданство. По преданию семейному он ( Моше Гальперин)  пришел пешком в Двинск из какого-то местечка литовского и своими руками построил первый ткацкий станок. Очень талантливый человек. Дети не в него пошли. Дети получили высшее образование и ничего своими руками не могли  сделать, как только потерять. Ни один не сумел ничего создать. Наверно где-то рядышком жил, потому что женился на Риве Кадишевич и они приехали в Двинск жить. И потом уже вся семья жила в Двинске до 1915 года. В 1915 году их вывезли вместе с фабрикой в Павловский Посад (Подмосковье). В Курляндии раньше евреев выселили, а потом уже начали из Двинска выселять. (Это переселение было связано с обеспокоенностью Царского правительства возможной лояльностью евреев к наступавшим германским войскам во время Первой мировой войны.)

Де́тство

У моих прабабушки и прадедушки по маминой линии, а они из Тукума, Курляндии,   было 13 детей. Фамилия их  Крамер. Прабабушка  Мина Иосифовна Крамер. Имя деда не знаю. В Тукуме они занимались оптовой торговлей – зерном, пивоварением. Результатом  переплетения Курляндских и Латгальских корней в том, что мы дома говорили по-немецки и по-русски. Отец мамин умер в 1919 году от испанки, бабушка Роза осталась с восьмью детьми. Мама самая старшая – Герта Крамер,  1899 года рождения. И она приехала в Ригу, здесь уже тетки, дяди  жили, устроилась на работу в контору к моему дедушке Моше Гальперину, умер в 1930 году. У него после возвращения из Павловского Посада в Риге было представительство немецкой фирмы Hartman  и мама устроилась к нему машинисткой, а папа в это время овдовел, остался с двумя детьми. Был очень интересный молодой человек и она вышла за него замуж. Хотя все тетки умоляли ее не делать этого, выходить замуж за вдовца. И мама попала вот в эту Латгальскую семью, где говорили на идиш и на русском. Она на идиш ни слова, она говорила только по-немецки. И над ней все ужасно смеялись. И поэтому меня она в четыре с половиной года отдала в еврейский детский сад при 8-ой еврейской школе. Школа эта была экспериментальная – задание по математике давали каждому индивидуально, на листочке по способностям. Я там только полгода проучилась и мы переехали в Двинск. Так я попала в еврейскую школу – сначала в Риге, потом в Даугавпилсе. И все воспоминания 30-х годов связаны только с еврейской школой. Меня отдали в еврейскую школу, когда я не знала ни одного слова по-еврейски. Я говорила только по-русски и по-немецки. Кстати, с трех лет читала по-русски и по-немецки. Никогда не путались у меня слова, не путались буквы. У нас большинство детей знало два-три алфавита, ничего не было трагичного в этом. В еврейской школе я была в детском саду и в приготовительном классе. Когда мы переехали в Двинск, я по инерции пошла в еврейскую школу, со второго класса начали учить латышский язык. Да, меня вначале отдали в немецкий детский садик, как было положено. Там я была два или три дня, и заявила, что туда я больше не пойду! А почему? Там комната была с антресолями (ярусами), а внизу мы там гуляли, по кругу,  дисциплинированно. Дома у нас было очень свободное воспитание,  без гувернанток  я уже росла, дела уже были плохие. И я, проходя мимо рояля, прошлась по клавишам. Меня немедленно наказали, выгнали из этого ряда и поставили наверх, на антресоли стоять как бы в углу. Я пришла домой и сказала: «Я туда больше не пойду».

Моя мамочка, которая шла у меня на поводу, договорилась в Двинске с директором школы 4-ой еврейской школы В.Левембергом, и он мне лично директор школы устроил экзамен по всем предметам подготовительного класса. И так как я этот экзамен сдала, я поступила в первый класс и всю жизнь была самая младшая в классе. Кончала среднюю школу в Семипалатинске в 16 лет. До 1934 года это была бундовская школа с очень интересными учителями, они нигде не могли устроиться как только в школе. А в 1934 году ее полностью преобразовали и всех наших учителей сослали в Лиепаю. (После переворота 15 мая 1934 года, когда к власти пришел Карлис Улманис, политические противники были отправлены в своего рода концентрационный лагерь в Лиепаю.)

И мне стало очень скучно заниматься, ввели Закон Божий. Мы были все воспитаны иначе. Дома мы были в либеральной атмосфере, ведь бундовцы – это социал-демократы. Вся наша семья была так настроена. Сестра у меня была левая, и брат был подпольщиком–комсомольцем, поэтому и погиб в 1941 году. А потом началось это религиозное воспитание, но оно не прививалось, абсолютно, вызывало только обратную реакцию. Когда мы кончили 6 классов, мы могли поступить в латышскую гимназию. Настолько мы знали латышский. Я поступила в еврейскую гимназию, где было преподавание на иврите. Несмотря на такое мнение, что евреи были очень богатые, была такая беднота, такая нищета этих еврейских детей в школе. Мне мама давала всегда лишний бутерброд, иначе у меня воровали, голодные были мальчики, девочки тоже, но девочки стеснялись. И из приюта дети были. Из нашего класса в гимназию поступило только 4 человека из 28 человек. Гимназия была одна, платная.  Вся школьная жизнь была один год 1940-41 год, когда советской школа стала,  тогда школьная жизнь началась. Приходили, отсиживали уроки, уходили домой и делали уроки.

Форма школьная спасала от разницы, от того,  как одеваются дети из богатых семей и из бедных семей. Детки из приюта были в форме, но их форма от нашей формы отличалась. Если у меня была форма шерстяная, то у них была сатиновая. Моя мама три или девочки приглашала домой и кормила их обедом. Нищета была страшная. Родители были в состоянии платить, но проблемы бывали, не всегда вовремя платили. У них было собственное дело, у них же не было зарплаты.

Мама выросла в Тукуме, училась в немецкой школе, говорила по-латышски хорошо, кстати. Попала в 1915 году (когда выселяли из Курляндии евреев) в Ярославль (Россия) и кончила русскую гимназию, а до этого не знала ни слова по-русски.  Была такая грамотная по-русски, что она во время войны в Семипалатинске и после войны работала машинисткой в Министерстве мясомолочной промышленности.  Ее держали на должности экономиста, чтобы  побольше платить потому, что она грамотно печатала. Я тоже кончила, кстати, русскую школу, хотя ни одного дня не учила русский, кончила в 1942 году с золотым аттестатом. Во время войны золотые медали не выдавали. Аттестат сохранился, только золотой каемки уже нет. О Ярославле мама очень тепло вспоминала. После Тукума Ярославль был столицей. Вспоминала Волковский театр, вечера поэзии Игоря Северянина, за которым мама босиком зимой бегала. И ни слова не рассказывала, как они жили с восьмью детьми. Как дед мог их прокормить там?!  Про быт их ничего не знаю.

Мамочка была у деда и у  папы делопроизводителем, машинисткой, переводчицей. Папочка в 30- х годах, когда при Улманисе всюду надо было говорить по-латышски, а папочка  по-латышски не говорил, мама всюду ходила в банки, в управу. Все делопроизводство было ее. Она была как секретарь, как референт, потому что она хорошо говорила по латышски. Хозяйством не занималась. Была прислуга. В Даугавпилсе мы жили в домике в деревянном, при фабрике, без всяких удобств, естественно с печным отоплением, с примусами. Четыре комнаты были. Дед умер в 1930 году, а  бабушка осталась жить в Риге с младшими детьми, с младшими сыновьями и  их женами,  на улице Лачплеша 61.

Спортом в школе не занималась. Музыкой, балетом. Но я абсолютно бесталанная, без слуха. За музыку мы, конечно, не платили.  Была родственница учительница музыки, которая меня учила и говорила: «Менее способной и более ленивой ученицы у нее еще не было». Так, что это мы довольно быстро бросили.  Балетом я занималась года два, но  поскольку я абсолютно немузыкальная, успехов я тоже не сделала. По принципу «Мы все учились понемногу, чему ни будь, и как ни будь». (Строки принадлежат А.Пушкину.) Коньки были, на коньках плохо каталась. Тогда ходили на каток каждый день. И по субботам. Почему нет? Какой раввин? Кто знал раввина?

Я в жизни не видела хоральную синагогу в Двинске. Мои родители туда не ходили.  У нас праздники всегда, до конца – до смерти отца, отмечались дома. Традиционно. У бабушки так было и у нас так было. Все сводилось к чему – к семейному ужину, праздничному с какими-то традиционными блюдами. Была всегда маца в доме на пасху. Папа ходил в синагогу два раза в год – на Новый год и на Судный день. Причем в Двинске он ходил не в синагогу, а ходил к друзьям, у которых в доме была моленная еще от их родителей. Там надо было собрать 10 человек и он туда ходил. Один раз он взял меня с  собой, поэтому я запомнила. А в Риге, после войны, когда был очень старый, не работал, тоже по субботам не ходил, только по большим праздникам, когда он постился.  А так папа был очень образованный человек, он кончил в Петербурге Психоневрологический институт, юридический факультет, вместе с Михоэлсом.  Но началась революция, он не сумел защитить диплом. С Михоэлсом он еще учился в Двинске. С Михоэлсом я была на встрече в Москве в декабре 1944 года, когда мы возвращались из Семипалатинска в Ригу. Папа меня взял с собой мы пошли в Еврейский театр, и он просил передать Михоэлсу, что пришел такой-то. Выбежал Михоэлс: «Илюша!» Меня он только по головке погладил. И пригласил в театр на спектакль на следующий день, а на завтра мы уехали. Тогда нельзя было знать заранее, когда можно будет уехать. Уехали в Ригу. Был уже декабрь. Мама приехала в Ригу осенью, в октябре, первым поездом. Она в Семипалатинске работала в Заготзерно. Ее вызвали в Москву работать в Министерство мясомолочной промышленности. А мне прислала вызов из университета, а папе с работы. В Ригу мы приехали 31 декабря 1944 года.

Bое́нное вре́мя

Мы не уехали в эвакуацию, мы пешком шли. Мы 11 дней шли пешком. Из Даугавпился до Новосокольников (Россия), до первой станции, которая не была разгромлена, на которой можно было сесть в поезд и доехать до Великих Лук (Россия). А от Великих Лук шел эшелон. Шли пешком 11 дней через всю Латгалию! Толпы беженцев! Дошли до границы нас не пропустили. Советские пограничники нам сказали: «Вы дезертиры, немцев отогнали, возвращайтесь домой работать.» Мы не вернулись, мы отошли в ближайшую деревню и договорились с каким-то хозяином  по поводу комнатки. Мой отец понимал всю эту ситуацию. Мы начали с мамой готовиться ко сну, забегает девчонка и говорит: «Немцы уже в деревне, уходите.» Мы ушли. И когда мы дошли  до границы, то никаких пограничников не было, никакой границы не было. Кому хватила ума не уйти обратно, те прошли. И когда я позже ездила часто в командировки, все эти станции я проезжала, что ногами были исхожены. В Великих Луках формировался эшелон. Он шел в Кемерово. Но отец заболел дизентерией и на станции Юрга 1, его сняли с поезда, положили в больницу, а мы с мамой жили там в Доме колхозников, недели две. Мы поехали в Новосибирск, из Новосибирска в Семипалатинск. Папа знал Семипалатинск. Когда они с фабрикой были в Павловом Посаде (в эвакуации во время Первой мировой войны), то шерсть они закупали в Семипалатинске. И он решил, что в Семипалатинске должна быть развита текстильная промышленность. После Юрги мы попали в Новосибирск, нам там очень понравилось. Папа сказал: «Один день даю на Новосибирск. Если не устроимся за один день, едим дальше.» Тоже не удалось за один день устроиться. Мы поехали в Семипалатинск. В Семипалатинске за один день устроились. Он работал в Семипалатинске в Продснаб. Юристом работал. Мама сразу устроилась, в первый день. Как нас в Семипалатинске приняли, это как в сказке. Мы приехали на вокзал, меня оставили на вокзале. А до того, как меня оставили на вокзале, пошли в буфет кушать, к нам подошел молодой человек, интересный, интеллигентный и говорит: «Вы нездешние?» Причем мы были одеты жутко, мы были ободранные, все, что мы взяли с собой мы бросили. В Юрге нам сшили маме и мне костюмчики, элегантные,  литовские портнихи сшили из жесткого материала. Илья Иванович подошел к нам, его уже давно нет в живых: «Нездешние? По вашему виду вижу, что вы нездешние. Где вы будете жить? Вот вам ключ от моей комнаты. Я здесь дежурю на вокзале. Вы можете идти.» Естественно, мы ключ не взяли. Оставили меня с сумками на вокзале и ушли. Через какое-то время они пришли, устроились: «У нас есть уже квартира и работа». Оказывается, рядом с вокзалом был эвакопункт. Они пришли в эвакопункт, вышла бухгалтер и сказала: «Вот вам адрес, идите, вы там устроитесь. Я живу у своего брата, и мне соседи  сказали, увижу приличных людей, пришли к нам». Это как сказка звучит сейчас.

Как я начинала так я и кончала школу. У меня с собой было свидетельство на латышском языке, что я закончила 9 класс. Там было написано – переведена в 10 класс. А у нас в Даугавпилсе  было 11 классов.  И нас не хватало предметов по программе. И когда я пришла сдавать документы, я сказала: «Я пойду в 9 класс». У нас не было тригонометрии, у нас не было стереометрии. Мне нужно было два года, чтобы школу окончить. Да и русского я не знала. Я на русском говорила, я выросла на русской литературе, но грамматику не знала. В жизни не знала и сейчас не знаю. Папа мне говорит: «Иди в 10 класс. Идет война. Мы не знаем, где я буду завтра. Надо кончать школу». Я же очень послушный ребенок! Пришал в школу, сдаю документы, сидит директриса Зоя Ивановна, фамилии не помню, смотрит на свидетельство. Я говорю: «Я кончила 9 классов, а у нас школа 11 классов». Она мне говорит: «Здесь написано, идите в 10 класс». И повторяет мне слова, которые мне папа сказал: «Идет война. Мы не знаем, что будет завтра. Кончайте школу». – Я не справлюсь! – Если вы не справитесь, то через месяц мы переведем вас в 9 класс. Написано, идите в 10 класс. Первое сочинение было с ошибками, ошибки были не стилистические, а знаки препинания. У нас был класс из всего союза. Мои самые близкие подруги остались из эвакуации, из моей школы.  В Москве две подруги, одна особенно близкая, с которой мы познакомились в читальном зале. Она тоже училась в 10 классе в другой школе. Учебников не было, сидели в читальном зале. Как мы тогда познакомились 60 лет назад, так мы и дружим. Сейчас, к сожалению, только по телефону, последний раз она была 5 лет назад. А раньше постоянно ездили к друг другу. Закончила школу и поступила в Московский геологоразведочный институт (МГРИ), который был в эвакуирован в Семипалатинск. Все пошли в МГРИ, все мои подруги пошли и я. Факультет? Геофизический, геологический, не знаю! Окончила первый курс, потом институт поехал в Москву, а мне ехать в Москву не на что было. Некому было меня содержать в Москве. Я осталась в Семипалатинске, а в Семипалатинске был только педагогический институт (СПИ). И я пошла для развлечения на литературный факультет. После геологоразведочного института это было что-то вроде санатория – очень удобно, очень приятно, очень хорошо. Преподаватели были тоже эвакуированные, шикарный контингент. Там я кончила первый курс, а затем в Ригу приехала сюда на филологический факультет, на английский язык. Учились на русской литературе и брали уроки английского. У нас была очень интересная учительница, и мы брали у нее частные уроки.

Послевое́нное вре́мя

Закончила я фактически в 1949 году. Но у меня была история с дипломом. Диплом у меня 1950 года. Написала диплом  про Эптона Синклера.  Пришлось писать вторую дипломную работу.

Замуж я вышла в 1948, еще студенткой. По специальности не работала. Я думала остаться в университете.  Не брали! При распределении в университете мне сказали: «Для вас в Латвии работы нет! Мы вас передадим в союзное министерство просвещения». (В те годы советская власть практиковала отправлять евреев в глубинку России.) Чего я очень испугалась, решила, что это очень серьезно. И срочно забеременела. Беременная защищала диплом второй раз. Не про Синклера, а про Джека Лондона. Янис Ниедре у на был декан, писатель. Когда мы с моей руководительницей встретились, «Литературная газета» напечатала большую статью «Эптон Синклер карьерист и предатель». Я жила здесь на Гетрудинской 9, а моя    руководительница жила на Блауманя возле Кришьяна Барона, мы побежали к друг другу, встретились на Блауманя, обе с этой газетой. И побежали к Ниедре. И что он мне предложил: «А вы переработайте дипломную на основании этой статьи». Я писала диплом «Антифашистская  эпопея Эптона Синклера». Сидела в  Ленинграде в библиотеке месяц, изучала такие тома на английском языке, очень интересные книги. Только две были переведены на русский. «Переработайте в свете этой статьи!» 1949 год! Я говорю: «Я не могу. Я буду про Чосера писать».

Давление я чувствовала годами! Пока моя сестра, она работала на фабрике «Лента» начальником планового отдела, и она меня устроила в библиотеку фабрики «Лента». Через несколько лет после окончания. Диплом мне фактически только теперь пригодился. Я переводила всю жизнь. Переводила техническую литературу. Последние 20 лет я работала в Латгипропроме в отделе информации.  После «Ленты» я работала в библиотеке фабрики Медпрепаратов, начала заниматься переводами. И для  Латвийской торговой палаты тоже делала технические переводы. А по настоящему я начала пользоваться английским, немецким, латышским и еврейским только теперь. Оказалось, что идиш очень нужен! Я вообще оказалась уникомом! Ко мне все в этом доме, в Латвийском обществе еврейской культуры,  бегают, чтобы что-то прочесть. Иврит еще люди учат, знают, а идиш нет!  Я динозавр!

Бра́т и сестра́

Сестра моя Эдит (1915 – 1991) окончила гимназию,  вначале она училась в Риге, а последний кончала в Двинске и уехала в Ригу работать на фабрику «Красная текстильщица». Там она была помощником мастера, ей было 18 лет, и она влюбилась в шефа -- в мастера Константина Флориановича Яголковского(1893—1981), русский из поляков, из дворян. Бывший белогвардеец, интеллигентнейший русский человек, на 22 года старше ее. Не красавец, невысокого роста. Он прошел с белой армией через Сибирь, Харбины и окружными путями попал сюда. У него в Ленинграде осталась жена и дочь такая как моя сестра, в Харбине осталась еще одна жена, здесь уже была любовница, которая уже разводилась с мужем! А он такой скромный, очень интеллигентный, очень симпатичный человек! И он сошелся с моей сестрицей. На фабрике заключали пари, как на скачках, сколь долго продержится этот брак. И они прожили 35 лет! Такой счастливой пары больше не было! Ни ее дети, ни ее внуки, ни кто так не живет, как они жили. И они здесь в немецкое время были. Он спасал ее! Они не смогли выбраться, они были на работе, когда они прибежали с работы, то мосты были взорваны. Уйти из Риги нельзя было. Когда мы вернулись в Ригу, они жили в Задвинье, возле Ботанического сада, мама пешком пошла туда. Дети есть, живы! Сын в Америке, а дочка умерла, здесь только внуки живут. Но жива ли она! Оказалось, что она тоже жива!

Брат Мейер (1919—1941) был комсомольцем-подпольщиком, в первый же день войны пошел в Центральный комитет комсомола и пошел добровольцем на фронт. Мы одно только письмо получили из Эстонии, и потом он пропал. Его нет ни в каких списках,  нет в списках погибших, нет в списках даже этой воинской части, в которой он был приписан. Они, вроде бы, утонули при  переправе в Кронштадт, или из Кронштадта. Он успел жениться, детей у них не было.

Cупру́жество 

Муж мой из Резекне – Израиль Герман (1917 года рождения), закончил Резекненскую еврейскую гимназию, основная школа там была на идиш, а гимназия на иврите. И пытался несколько лет подряд поступить на медицинский факультет. Он по сей день латышский знает в совершенстве. Не брали его туда по национальному признаку. В другое место он не хотел поступать. Он был в армии латвийской, затем после был автоматически в советской армии. Он был очень музыкальный,  играл на скрипке. И он попал в оркестр Рижского пехотного училища. Так он попал на фронт. Он был капельмейстером. Курсантов отправляли в бой, а оркестр не отпускали. Он демобилизовался, затем поступил в музыкальное училище при консерватории в Ленинграде, после поступил и в консерваторию на теоретический факультет. Приехал в Ригу, а здесь у него сестра с маленькими детьми жила и очень нуждалась. Он в Ленинград уже не вернулся, а пошел работать, чтобы ей помогать. Потом встретил меня. Мы женаты уже 54 года. Золотая свадьба праздновалась, но уже болел в это время. Дочка прилетела из Ленинграда, невестка заказала столик в ресторане, а в итоге у него приступ желчнокаменной болезни и мы никуда не пошли.

Дочка Эдит Дорфман, 1950 года рождения, закончила химический факультет Латвийского университета. Дочка вышла замуж за ленинградца, но не долго жила там, приехала в Ригу и работала в техникуме, в школе средней, когда открыли еврейскую школу, то работала  в ней. Сейчас в Израиле живет с 1992 года, преподает химию, работает учителем. Сын Михаил Герман, родился в 1953 году, закончил физико-математический факультет Латвийского университета. Сын системный программист, живет в Риге. Сын и не пытался идти по моему гуманитарному направлению. У сына был выбор или консерватория или физико-математический факультет. У него не было терпения сидеть столько часов, сколько положено. Кончил музыкальную школу, у профессора Блументаля брал частные уроки. А когда перешел в 10-й класс, то мы пошли к Блументалю советоваться, что делать, куда его определять. Он говорит нам: «Понимаете, он в консерваторию может поступить сегодня. Но зачем ему это нужно? В нашей области нужно быть или гением или никем! Что он будет сидеть с детьми, как я? Он способный математик, Зачем ему это надо?!» Так решилась его судьба. Физика, самый легкий путь, путь наименьшего сопротивления. А дочка меня очень упрекала, хотела идти учиться на филологический факультет, а ей говорила, что у меня очень плохой опыт. Я противилась, как могла. Языкам не обучала: будет знать английский, пойдет на филологический.

Мама меня не направляла ни в какие санатории или лагеря. Был лагерь, но для бедных детей, где мама была в родительском комитете. Дачу снимали и то не каждый год. Не всегда была возможность. Отправляли в Тукум или к тете   в Ригу на взморье. Одинадцать лет жили в Двинске, а дачу снимали,  думаю, два раза.   Свое дело было, но дело и деньги разные вещи. Особенно в 30-е годы. Во время кризиса в 30-е годы в Риге они все потеряли, осталась только эта дванская фабричка, которой управлял какой-то родственник, и папа решил, что надо ехать туда. Спасать! Но особенно тоже не спас! Тянул, нас тянул, свою маму тянул. Ничего лишнего. Бабушка в Риге жила не у тетей, а они у нее. Бабушка была очень властная. Бабушка спаслась, ее вывезли в Семипалатинск, она была с нами. Младший папин брат вывез жену и детей, бабушку. Сам был на фронте. Самые близкие родственники спаслись.

Мамина семья вся в Бразилию уехала еще в 30-е годы. Бабушка Ребека (урожденная Крамер), а муж мой дедушка был Лейбе Герсон из Тукума. В 1919 году, когда они вернулись из России, тогда была эпидемии эспанки, он умер, и оставил бабушку с 8-мью детьми. Мама самая старшая, ей было 19, а младшему было 8 лет наверное. Жила в Тукуме бабушка в своем доме, но помогали ей братья. У нее было три или четыре брата. У них было пивоваренное дело. Они помогали, но сколько можно восьмерых детей содержать. Бабушка сначала рожала через каждые год и два месяца, топом уже через два года. Говорила, что рожает столько, сколько Бог послал. Мама уехала в Ригу строилась работать, братья мамины Моисей  и Мендель они до моего рождения уехали – один в Бразилию, другой в Палестину. Там они жили до самой смерти. Но тот, который в Бразилию уехал, Моисей, он перетащил к себе незамужних и неженатых — тетю Юдит, бабушка с остальными детьми. Мама была замужем и две сестры были замужем. Так они спаслись. Это близкие родственники, а дальних родственников  было так много, что я даже не знаю. Мама переписывалась с бабушкой, Моисей к нам приезжал и Юдит со своей дочкой, в 60-х годах приезжали. Два или  три раза приезжали. Образование они получила в Латвии только среднее. Моисей учился в университете, но не закончил, не было денег. Моисей начинал с того, что жена друга пекла пирожки, а они ходили продавали. Но потом как-то крутились. Моисей был очень интеллигентный человек, владел, по-моему, 12-ю языками, писал что-то. У него было две дочки, одна умерла, другая в Америке.  Никто не преуспел! Никто! Это не та семья, которая преуспевала. Одну сестру он выдал за богатого украинского еврея, но счастья она тоже не видела. Она единственная была состоятельная, только благодаря тому, что она попала  в семью украинских евреев, у которых на Украине в свое время была типография, и в Бразилии у них была типография. Служили, как-то жили, голыми никто не умирал, богатства не было. Из моих родственников ни кто не стал миллионером.  Ни в Бразилии, ни в Израиле. Кто был миллионером здесь, то и там остался миллионером. В Бразилии много родственников – они мною не интересуются, а я ими. Это молодая поросль! Дочка Юдит была у нас во второй раз со своим мужем журналистом, они были в Москве, и заехали к нам. Тогда уже, наверно,  бабушки уже не было в живых. Бабушка умерла в году 1967.

Дядя Мендель в Палестине всю жизнь проработал на шоколадной фабрике. До самой смерти работал, у него было двое детей. Сын летчик – один из первых летчиков в Палестине, дочка была учителем физкультуры, у каждого у них по трое-четверо детей. Там тоже большая поросль детей, внуков. Когда мы там были, нас хорошо принимали. Звонят по праздникам, молодых эти связи не интересуют.

Мои родители никуда не лезли – ни на  общественные работы, ни в партиях вы их не найдете.

В доме была библиотека. Занимались ею и папа и мама. Папа оставил мне очень большую библиотеку после войны, довоенная библиотека пропала вся. В Семипалатинске у нас тоже были книги, но у нас они по дороге пропали. Как мы только приехали, он начал заниматься книгами. Историю евреев собирал, еврейскую энциклопедию, всего Дубного собрал, художественную литературу. У него были связи в антиквариатах,  он получал новые книги. До войны у мамы были немецкие книги, а после войны она читала и по-русски и по-немецки. Библиотека сохранилась, но немножко разошлась по детям.

Мама работал в Министерстве мясомолочной промышленности, а папа в разных местах работал. Мы с мужем с ними жили, у нас не было возможности получить квартиру. Даже когда предлагали на работе кооперативную квартиру, и то не могли купить, не ставили на очередь, очень большая площадь была:  нас было три комнаты на 6 человек. Нас не брали на очередь.

Сын мой Михаил нерелигиозный человек. Внук Илья, 1982 года рождения,  учится на физико-математическом факультете университета, работает, пошел по папимой и маминой линии – все программисты. Все трое работают в одной фирме. А у дочки сын кончил здесь еврейскую школу, там отслужил и Израильской армии два года, а теперь работает там программистом, учится в магистратуре на экономическом факультете. У дочки Эдит в Израиле. Ностальгия у нее  по родителям и брату. Приезжает раз в год. Преподает на иврите и на русском химию в школе.

Сестра жила напротив Ботанического сада, в доме в котором было квартир шесть. И когда в первые дни какие-то хулиганы начали стучать, то соседка, когда ее спросили живут ли здесь евреи и коммунисты, ответила: «Нет!» И не впустила их. И этим фактически спасла ее семью. Это были первые хулиганские наскоки. А потом здесь распространился закон, что неарийские матери арийских детей могут жить  с семьей, им разрешается. С работы она ушла, ей пришлось уйти. Он работал в химчистке на тяжелой работе, а она сидела дома с детьми. Да, они получили повестку в суд, что якобы они разводятся.  Никто из их знакомых не дал согласие. За исключением одного. Когда они пришли в суд, то все начали пилить этого латышского мужа, как это он дает согласие, обрекает жену на гибель. Тогда тот пошел к судье и спросил: «Я могу забрать заявление о разводе?» Судья ответил: «Обязаны забрать!» Все эти жены – еврейские жены латышских и русских мужей остались живы. Им всем сделали операцию – кастрировали, перевязали маточные трубы.Те у которых были дети были очень довольны. Когда немцы  начали вывозить, их забрали сослуживцы латыши-рабочие  в Золитуде прятали.

Lia German
Riga
Latvia
Interviewer: Svetlana Kovalchuk
Date of interview: December 2001

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

My family background

My paternal great-grandfather, Meyer Kadishevich [1837–1920], was from Akniste [Ekabpils district], which, as it recently turned out, was part of Lithuania before 1921. They are now collecting data on Selia descendants [Selia – a cultural and historical district of Latvia] and as my great-grandfather was a native of Latvia, he was also one of the Selia people. There are more than one hundred Selia descendants left today, including spouses, and over 60 of them live in Israel, 14 in Latvia and eight in Great Britain. The surname Kadishevich survived, but no one of our Kadishevich kin lives in Riga nowadays. I have no idea of what my great-grandfather did for a living. My great-grandfather’s daughter Riva, married Moshe Halperin, my grandfather, and they had five children. I don’t know when my grandmother was born, nor when she died. I was never curious about things like that. My father, Ilya Galperin, was born in 1891.

My grandfather Moshe founded a weaving factory in Dvinsk in 1877. [Dvinsk, today Daugavpils, was a part of Vitebsk province then.] That’s why after his death in 1930 we lived in Dvinsk. I know that he came from some a small town. I suppose that he is from Akniste, too, because my parents were Lithuanian citizens for some time; I learned about this when I received my citizenship. In an archive I found documents about their naturalization in 1925. My mother wasn’t a Lithuanian citizen, but she became one automatically after her marriage.

According to family legend my grandfather came to Dvinsk on foot from some small Lithuanian village and built the first weaving machine with his own hands. He was a very talented person. His five children weren’t like him. They all received higher education and couldn’t do anything with their hands. They couldn’t put their minds to anything. My grandfather probably lived somewhere near because he married Riva Kadishevich and they moved to Dvinsk. Their entire family lived in Dvinsk until 1915. In 1915 they were taken to Pavlovski Posad, near Moscow, with the factory. Jews were first evicted from Kurlandia and then from Dvinsk. [Editor’s note: This move was connected to the tsarist government’s concern about the possible loyalty of Jews to the advancing German troops during World War I.]

My grandfather died in 1930, and my grandmother stayed in Riga with her younger children, her younger sons and their wives, on 61 Lachplesha Street. It wasn’t that she lived with her children, but rather that they lived with her! My grandmother was a very authoritative person. She survived the war; she was evacuated to Semipalatinsk with us. My father’s younger brother took his wife, children and my grandmother there. He himself was at the front. My closest relatives survived.

My maternal grandparents came from Tukkum, Kurlandia. They were engaged in grain wholesale in Tukkum as well as in brewing. My mum’s father, Leibe Gerson, a Tukkum native, died during some epidemic in 1919 and my grandmother Rebecca Gerson, nee Kramer, was left behind with eight children.

My mother Gerta Halpern, nee Gerson, was the eldest. She was born in Tukkum in 1899, studied in a German school and spoke good Latvian. In 1915, when Jews were evicted from Kurlandia, she found herself in Yaroslavl, Russia, and finished a Russian grammar school. It’s interesting that she didn’t know a single word of Russian before that. She was so good in Russian that during the war she worked as a typist in the town of Semipalatinsk, and after the war she was a typist at the Ministry of Dairy and Meat Industries. In the employment records she was filed as an economist in order to authorize the managers to pay her more because she was an expert typist.

My mother’s recollections of Yaroslavl were very warm. After living in Tukkum, Yaroslavl seemed to be a capital to her. She often recalled Volkovsky theater and public performances by the poet Igor Severyanin, whom my mother was chasing barefoot in winter.

She never said a word about how my grandmother managed to make ends meet with her eight children. I don’t know anything about their everyday life. Yaroslavl was a Russian town; there was no synagogue. The Gerson family kept all Jewish traditions at home though – on high holidays my grandmother cooked the traditional Jewish dishes.

In 1919, when they came home from Russia, my mother was about 20 years old, and the youngest kid was around eight. In Tukkum my grandmother lived in her own house and her brothers helped her. She had three or four brothers. They owned a brewery. They helped her a lot, but how long could they possibly support eight children? At first my grandmother gave birth to a child every year and two months, and then every two years. She used to say that children were a gift from heaven.

My mother went to Riga and got a job there. Her brothers, Moisei and Mendel, had left in the 1930s – Moisei for Brazil and Mendel for Palestine. They lived and died there. And Moisei took the others, my grandmother and the rest of the children, to Brazil with him. That’s how they saved their souls. My mother corresponded with my grandmother. The children had only obtained secondary education in Latvia. Moisei studied at university, but didn’t graduate for the lack of money.

Moisei started his life in Brazil by selling patties that his friend’s wife baked. He was a very intelligent person, spoke twelve languages, I believe, and he worked as a journalist and translator. He had two daughters: one has already died, the other one lives in America. None of them succeeded in life! No one! It wasn’t a family that would prosper.

Moisei married one of his sisters off to a rich man from Ukraine, a Jew, but she wasn’t happy either. She was the only member of the family who was rich, and only due to the fact that she entered a Jewish family that had once owned a printing house in Ukraine, and also built a printing house in Brazil.

The siblings all worked, earned their living somehow, weren’t poor as a church mouse, but they weren’t rich by any standard. Of my relatives nobody became a millionaire. Neither in Brazil, nor in Israel. Those who were millionaires here, remained millionaires there. I have a lot of relatives in Brazil. I’m not interested in them and they aren’t interested in me. They are all young! Moisei once visited us, as well as Aunt Judith and her daughter, in the 1960s. Judith’s daughter came to us a second time with her husband, a journalist. They were in Moscow and also came to see us. My grandmother was already dead by then. She died in 1967.

Uncle Mendel worked in a chocolate factory in Palestine all his life. He worked until his very last hour. He had two children. His son was a pilot – one of the first pilots in Israel in the 1950s – and his daughter was a PE teacher. Both had three or four kids. They have many grandchildren, too. They gave us a very warm welcome when we visited them. They regularly call us on holidays, but the young ones don’t care about family ties.

My mother came to Riga, where some of her aunts and uncles had already settled, and got a job in my grandfather Moshe’s office. After he returned from Pavlovski Posad he was the director of the representative office of the German company Hartmann in Riga and my mother worked as a typist for him.

Papa became a widower with two kids at that time. He was a very handsome young man and my mother married him. All her aunts were trying to talk her out of doing it. But she didn’t listen to them. That’s how Mum entered this Latgalian family, which spoke Yiddish and Russian. The result of this interlacing of Kurlandian and Latgalian roots was that they spoke German and Russian. My mother didn’t know a word of Yiddish, she only spoke German. And everybody used to make fun of her.

Growing up

We were three children: my sister Edit, born in 1915, my brother Meyer, born in 1919, and I, born in December 1925.

My mother was my father’s and my grandfather’s bookkeeper, a typist and an interpreter. In the 1930s, under Ulmanis 1 rule when everyone was obliged to speak Latvian, my mother used to go to banks, to the authorities, etc. because my father didn’t speak Latvian. [Editor’s note: in that time one of the specifics of national politics was to establish Latvian as a state language]. My mother kept all the records. She acted as both a secretary and an interpreter because she was good in Latvian. She didn’t do any housework; they had maids.

My mother sent me to the Jewish kindergarten at the 8th Riga Jewish school [see School #] 2 when I was four and a half. That school was an experimental school: maths exercises were given to each pupil individually, on separate sheets, according to their abilities. I only studied in that school for half a year before we moved to Dvinsk. That’s how I became a pupil of a Jewish school – first in Riga and then in Daugavpils. All of my recollections of the 1930s are linked to Jewish schools. I was admitted to the Jewish school when I didn’t know a single word of Yiddish. I only spoke Russian and German. By the way, I could read Russian and German from the age of three. I never mixed up words or letters. But first I was put into a German kindergarten, as was customary. I could only stand it there for two or three days and then declared that I wasn’t going there any more! And why? There was a room with tiers there and kids were supposed to walk in a circle in an orderly way. And at home our education was rather liberal: I was brought up without a governess. So, when I was walking past the piano in that room I touched the keys. I was immediately punished, evicted from the circle and sent up to the tiers to stand in the corner. I came home and said, ‘I will not go there again’.

When we moved to Dvinsk, I entered a Jewish school and I began to study Latvian from the 2nd grade. My mum, who always listened to my opinion, agreed with the director of the 4th Dvinsk Jewish school V. Levemberg and he personally arranged an examination for me in all the subjects of the preparatory course. And as I passed that examination I was admitted as a first year pupil and was the youngest in class ever after. Until 1934 it was a Bund 3 school, with the Jewish social democratic spirit, with very interesting teachers who wouldn’t be hired anyplace else. In 1934 the school was fully reorganized and all our teachers were sent to Liepaya. [Editor’s note: After the coup of 15th May 1934, when Karlis Ulmanis came to power, several opposition party leaders spent some time in a special concentration camp in Liepaja, but on the whole the Ulmanis regime was very mild, in comparison not only to Mussolini's regime in Italy and Horthy's in Hungary, for example, but also to dictatorships in Latin America in the last decades.]

From that time on school became boring. Religion was introduced as a school subject. But we were brought up differently. We had a liberal atmosphere at home because Bund followers were social democrats. All our family adhered to these views. My sister was a left-winger, and my brother was an underground Komsomol 4 member.

After we had completed six years, we were able to enter the Latvian grammar school, that’s how proficient we became in the Latvian language. I entered the Jewish grammar school, where they taught us Hebrew. In spite of the general opinion that Jews were very rich, some Jewish children in that grammar school were really poor. My mother always gave me an extra sandwich, otherwise I would have been robbed of my breakfast by hungry boys. The poor girls were hungry too, but they were shy. Some children came from orphanages. Only four out of 28 kids from my former class entered grammar school. It was the only grammar school and you had to pay for it. My interesting school period lasted for only one year, from 1940 to 1941, when the school became Soviet. Before that we would just come, serve our time, go home, do our homework; that was it.

Our school uniform evened out the differences between children from rich and poor families. Children from the orphanage also wore a uniform, but their uniform was different from ours. I had a woolen uniform and theirs was made of satin. My mother used to invite three or four girls to our home and they joined us for dinner. The poverty was terrible. My parents were able to pay, but they didn’t always pay on time; they had some problems to do so, too. They had their own business; they weren’t paid employees.

In Daugavpils we lived in a small wooden house near the factory with furnace heating and kerosene stoves but without any conveniences. We had four rooms.

My mother never sent me to any resorts or pioneer camps. There was one camp, but for poor children, in which my mother was a member of the parents’ committee. We used to rent a summer cottage, but not every year. I would spend my vacations in Tukkum or at the seaside in Riga. We lived in Dvinsk for eleven years, but we only rented a summer cottage twice. We had our own business, but business and money were two different things, especially in the 1930s. During the crisis in the 1930s, the family lost everything except for the factory in Dvinsk, managed by some relative, and Papa decided to go there immediately and save it! But he could hardly save anything. He was doing his best to support us and his mother. We didn’t have anything superfluous. My parents never participated in any social activities, nor were they members of any party.

There was a library in our home. Papa and Mama used to take care of it. Papa left me a huge collection of books after the war, but the pre-war collection was completely lost. We had some books during our evacuation in Semipalatinsk as well, but they got lost on the way from evacuation. As soon as we arrived, my father started to collect books. He collected books on the history of Jews, the Jewish Encyclopedia; he had all the works by Simon Dubnow 5 and many works of fiction. He had good connections with antique shops and they sent him new books. Before the war my mother had German books and after the war she read both in Russian and German. The collection survived, but some books were borrowed by children.

I didn’t go in for any sports in school. I took music and ballet lessons. But I had absolutely no ear for music. Of course, we didn’t pay for the music lessons. A friend of my parents taught me. She used to say, ‘I’ve never had a less talented and lazier student’. So I dropped music quite soon. I went in for ballet for about two years, but due to my lack of hearing I didn’t succeed there either. I had a pair of skates, but I wasn’t an expert skater either. People used to go to the skating-rink every day back then, including Saturday.

I’ve never been to the choral synagogue in Dvinsk. My parents wouldn’t go there. We celebrated all holidays at home until my father’s death. It was a tradition. Grandmother kept it and we were accustomed to it. We just had a family dinner, a gala dinner with traditional meals. On Pesach we always had matzah. Papa went to the synagogue twice a year – on Rosh Hashanah and on Yom Kippur. In the 1930s, in Dvinsk, he didn’t go to the regular synagogue, but to his friends’ home, who had a prayer-room in the house left to them by their parents. Ten people were to attend. Once he took me with him, that’s why I remember.

But in Riga, after the war, when he was very old and didn’t work, he didn’t go to the synagogue on Saturdays, only on high holidays, when he kept the fast. He was a very educated man, he graduated from the Saint-Petersburg Institute of Psycho-Neurology, the faculty of law, along with the famous actor Solomon Mikhoels 6 from the Moscow Jewish Theater . But then the revolution [see Russian Revolution of 1917] 7 started and he didn’t have time to defend his diploma.

During the war

We had to walk on foot when we were escaping from the Germans. We walked eleven days, from Daugavpils to Novosokolniki [Russia] – the first station that wasn’t destroyed and where we could get on a train and head for Velikie Luki [Russia]. And from Velikie Luki we took another train. We crossed the whole of Latgalia on foot in eleven days. There were crowds of refugees! We reached the border but the Soviet frontier guards wouldn’t let us pass, saying, ‘You are deserters, the Germans are defeated, go back home and get to work’. But we didn’t go back. We went to the closest village and rented a room from a countryman.

My father understood what was happening. When my mother and me were about to go to bed, a girl rushed inside, shouting, ‘The Germans are here – save your lives!’ We took to our heels. And by the time we reached the border there where no guards there anymore, nor any border. Those who were clever enough had stayed there waiting and had passed the border. Later, when I was on business trips in that region, I passed all those stations that we had crossed by foot.

A train was leaving from Velikie Luki and going to Kemerovo. But my father fell ill with dysentery and was taken off the train at ‘Yurga 1’ station in Kemerovo. He was taken to the local hospital and my mother and me lived there in a hostel for two weeks. After that we went to Novosibirsk, and from there to Semipalatinsk. Papa had been to Semipalatinsk before. When the family factory was located in Pavlovski Posad [during World War I], they used to buy wool in Semipalatinsk. That made my father guess that the weaving industry must be developed in Semipalatinsk. So we went there and managed to settle very well within a day. My father worked there with a food supplies organization. He worked as a lawyer. My mother also got a job on the first day. Everything turned out like in a fairy-tale in Semipalatinsk.

When I turned 16, I finished a secondary school in Semipalatinsk. By the way, it was a Russian school, although I didn’t study Russian a single day. Anyway, I finished school in 1942 with an honorary certificate. Gold medals weren’t awarded during the war. I still have the certificate, only the gilded edging is gone. My first composition had a few mistakes, not stylistic ones but those to do with punctuation. Our class was composed of children from all over the Soviet Union. There were some friends from my previous school.

I finished school and entered Moscow Geological Research Institute [MGPI], which had been evacuated to Semipalatinsk. All my friends entered that institute. What faculty? Geophysical or geological, I can’t remember exactly. When I completed my first year, the institute moved to Moscow, and I couldn’t afford to go to Moscow. I had no one to support me in Moscow. That’s why I stayed in Semipalatinsk, and the only other institute there was the Pedagogical Institute. So I entered the literature faculty, just for fun. After the Geological Research Institute it was some kind of sanatorium – very convenient, very interesting, lots of fun. The professors were also evacuees, and very good specialists. I finished my first year there and then came to Riga to continue my studies at the local philological faculty, majoring in the English language.

My mother came to Riga in October 1944, with the first train. She worked in Zagotzerno [organization dealing in grain supplies] in Semipalatinsk. She received a proposal to work in Moscow, in the Ministry of Dairy and Meat Industry. She sent an invitation to me at university and to my father’s work place. We arrived in Riga on 31st December 1944.

Post-war

I graduated from university in 1949. But I had a problem with my diploma. I defended it in 1950. I wrote my thesis on the works of Upton Sinclair. [Sinclair, Upton (1878-1968): American writer of novels and non-fiction, with 80 books to his credit and best-known for his book The Jungle, which influenced President Roosevelt in passing the Pure Food and Drug Act in 1906.] But it turned out I had to produce another one. I didn’t have a job in my field. I planned to stay at university. But they wouldn’t accept me.

When assignments [see mandatory job assignment] 8 were given, they told me, ‘There is no work for you here in Latvia! We’ll pass you over to the Ministry of Education of the Soviet Union’. [In those years Jews were assigned to less attractive places in distant Russian provinces.]. I was very scared, I thought it was very serious. And so I tried and became pregnant as soon as I possibly could. And I was pregnant when I defended my thesis for the second time. This time not on Sinclair but on Jack London. [London, Jack (real name John Griffith London) (1876-1916): American writer, best known for works such as The Call of the Wild, The Sea Wolf and White Fang.] Our dean’s name was Yanis Niedre; he was a writer.

When I met my thesis supervisor, Literaturnaya gazeta published a long article entitled ‘Upton Sinclair – careerist and betrayer’. I lived here, on 5 Gertrudinskaya Street, and my thesis supervisor on Blaumany Street. So we rushed to each other with copies of that article. And then we ran to Niedre. And this is what he told me, ‘Why don’t you redo your thesis in accordance with this article?’ My work was called, ‘The antifascist epopee of Upton Sinclair’. I was sitting in a library in Leningrad for weeks, studying these huge volumes in English, very interesting books. Only two of them were translated into Russian. And he says: ‘Redo!’ It was 1949! And I said, ‘I can’t. I might as well write on Chaucer’.

My mother had a job with the Ministry of Dairy and Meat Industry and Papa worked in many different places. My husband and me lived with them, we had no perspectives of getting our own apartment. Even when co-operative apartments were offered at work, we couldn’t buy one because we had no right for another apartment – our parents and us had three rooms among the six of us.

I was under pressure for years. My sister, who was head of the planning department of the Lenta factory, helped me to get a job in the factory library. That was a few years after I graduated from university. That’s when I really needed my diploma. From then on I worked as a translator my whole life. I translated technical texts. For the last 20 years I have been working in Latgiproprom, in the department of information. After Lenta I worked in the library of the Medical Preparations Factory. There I started with translations. I also worked for the Latvian Chamber of Commerce. But the real utilization of my knowledge of English, German, Latvian and Hebrew began only recently. It turned out that Yiddish is very much demanded. It appears I’m unique somehow. Everyone turns to me to ask for help with the reading of this and that foreign text here, in the House of Latvian Society of Jewish Culture. A few people can still understand or are studying Hebrew, but not Yiddish any more! I’m a dinosaur!

My siblings

My sister Edith finished a grammar school; first she studied in Riga and then in Dvinsk. Then she went to Riga to work in the Red Weaver factory, where she was an assistant to the foreman. She was 18 years old, and she fell in love with her boss, the foreman Konstantin Florianovich Yagolkovsky [1893-1981], a Russian of noble Polish origin. At the factory people would make bets, just like at the horse-races, how long this marriage could possibly last. They lived together for 35 years! Such a happy marriage one has hardly ever seen! Neither her children, nor her grandsons live as happily as they did.

They stayed here during the German occupation. He rescued her! They couldn’t get out, they were at their workplace, and when they came running from work, the bridges were blown up. To leave Riga was impossible. My sister lived opposite the Botanical Garden, in a house in which there were about six apartments. And when, in the first days, some hooligans began to knock, the neighbor, asked whether Jews or communists lived there, answered, ‘No!’ And he didn’t let them in. Actually this neighbor saved my sister’s family.

Those were the first outbursts of Nazism. And then a law was adopted here, saying that non-Arian mothers of Arian children could live with the family; it was allowed by the authorities. My sister quit her job; she had to. Her husband worked in a dry-cleaners during the war doing very hard work, and she stayed home with the children. Yes, they did receive the summons to court, ostensibly they were getting divorced. No one of their acquaintances agreed, except for one. When they came to court, everyone started railing at this Latvian husband, saying that if he agreed to be divorced, he would ‘kill’ his wife. Upon which he went up to the judge and asked, ‘Can I withdraw the application for divorce?’ The judge answered; ‘You must do so!’ All these Jewish wives of Latvian and Russian husbands survived. But all of them were subjected to a castration operation – the tying up of uterus tubes. Those who had children were very pleased. When the Germans began to take people away, the Latvian colleagues hid them. When we returned to Riga, they lived in Zadvinye, near the Botanical Garden. Mum went there on foot. The son was in America, the daughter had died, and only the grandsons were still living there. But was she [Lia’s sister] alive, my mother wondered? It turned out she was!

My brother Meyer was an underground Komsomol member, as I mentioned before, and on the first day of war he went to the Central Komsomol Committee and volunteered for the front. We received only one letter from Estonia, and then he disappeared. His name couldn’t be found in any lists, not in the lists of the dead, nor in the files of his military unit. He must have sunk at the crossing to Kronstadt, or from Kronstadt around 1941. He got married before the war but had no children.

Married life

I got married in 1948, when I was still a student. My husband, Israel German, born in 1917, is from Rezekne. He finished the Jewish grammar school there. Teaching in the ordinary school was in Yiddish, and in the grammar school in Hebrew.

For several years in succession he tried to enter the medical faculty. To this day he knows Latvian perfectly. They wouldn’t admit him due to his nationality. He didn’t try another college. He was in the Latvian army, then he was automatically enlisted in the Soviet army. He was very musical and played the violin. And he was admitted to the orchestra of the Riga Infantry School. That’s how he got to the front. He was a bandmaster. The cadets were sent to battle, and the orchestra remained in the rear. He was demobilized, then entered a musical school at the Leningrad Conservatory, and then became a student of the theoretical faculty of the conservatory. He came to Riga, where his sister lived with her small children, and they were very needy. He didn’t return to Leningrad, but started to work to help her. Then we met.

We have been married for 54 years now. We were to celebrate our golden wedding not long ago, but he was sick at the time. My daughter-in law-booked a small table in a restaurant, but he had an acute seizure of gallstone disease and we didn’t go to celebrate anywhere.

My daughter, Edith Dorfman, nee German, was born in 1950. She graduated from the chemical faculty of the Latvian University. She married a Leningradian, but she didn’t live there for long. She returned to Riga and worked in a technical school, in a secondary school, and when the Jewish school opened, she started to work there. She has been living in Israel since 1992 and works as a teacher of chemistry.

My daughter often reproached me: she wanted to study at the philological faculty, and I kept telling her that I had a very bad experience. I did what I could to talk her out of it. I didn’t  teach her languages: if she had mastered English, she would have gone for philology.

My son Michael German was born in 1953 and graduated from the physics and mathematics faculty of the Latvian University. He is a system programmer and lives in Riga. He didn’t even consider to pursue a humanitarian career like me. He had a choice between the conservatory or the physics and mathematics faculty. He wasn’t patient enough. He finished a musical school, took private lessons with Professor Blumental. And when he passed the 10th year in school, we came to Blumental to consult him on what to do, that is which institute our son should apply to. He told us, ‘Look, he can enter the conservatory today. But what for? In our business you must be a genius or you are a nobody! Would he want to spend his time teaching children, like I do? He is good at mathematics, what does he need the conservatory for?!’ That’s how his destiny was decided. Physics it was, the easiest way, the way of the least resistance.

My son isn’t religious. My grandson Ilya, born in 1982, is a student at the physics and mathematics faculty, he works, and pursues his mother’s and father’s career – they are all programmers. All three work in the same firm. My daughter’s son Henri has finished a Jewish school here, served two years in the Israeli Army, and now he works in Israel as a programmer, and studies at the economic faculty in the magistrates.

Glossary