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Életrajz

Györgyi nagyon élénk, tevékeny asszony. Nyílt, életerős, barátkozó, szókimondó személyiség, akivel az első pillanattól kölcsönös szimpátiát éreztünk. Élettársával egy új építésű, tágas, világos budai lakásban él. Első férje meghalt. Ragaszkodott hozzá, hogy a lánynevén szerepeljen az interjú során. A lakás berendezése célszerű és szép. Modern és régi stíluselemek keverednek benne egymással, nagyon ízlésesen. Érezhetően fontosnak tartják a megnyugtató, szép környezet kialakítását. A konyhai kis erkélyről nagy belső udvarra látni, amelyet körülölelnek a különleges, szép ívben elhelyezett házak emeletei, erkélyei. Az udvaron és az erkélyeken is mindenütt virágok és zöld növények. A lakásban is mindenütt szépen ápolt virágok is díszítik otthonát. Györgyi számára az élet lényegét a családi és baráti kapcsolatok jelentik elsősorban. Úgy is él: a nap minden órájában keresik telefonon, találkozókat szervez, közéleti vitákra is eljár. Gyermekei és unokái rendszeresen tanácsot kérnek tőle, s megbeszélik vele életük legfontosabb kérdéseit és döntéseit. Az élet nagy ajándékának tartja, hogy minden gondját, örömét megbeszélheti gyerekeivel, unokáival. Élete kiegyensúlyozott, és szervesen illeszkedik a körülötte zajló mai életbe, a világba, amelynek minden problémájában tájékozódik, és újra meg újra befogadja újdonságait és változásait.

Minden ember életében meghatározó, hogy milyen családba születik. Nekem szerencsém volt. 1944-ig nagyon sok szeretet kaptam szüleimtől, nagyszüleimtől, az egész összetartó családomtól. Vagyont nem örököltünk öcsémmel, de örökségként visszük tovább a családi szeretet, összetartozás fontosságát. Ember ennél értékesebb örökséget nem kaphat – szerintünk.

A családom nagyon régen, évszázadokkal ezelőtt jöhetett be az országba. Igazolja ezt, hogy az apám könnyűszerrel megtalálta Magyarországon a család származását igazoló iratokat, hetedíziglen. Hét nemzedékre visszamenően.

Mindig magyar anyanyelvűnek vallotta magát a családom, és magyarnak. Mind a két nagypapám, nagyanyám erre nevelte gyerekeit, unokáit. Nem beszéltek jiddisül. A héber betűket, a zsidó vallás szokásait, a Bibliát, azt hiszem, mindenki a hittanórákon ismerte meg. A hittan oktatása kötelező volt 1947-ig, tudomásom szerint. Úgy emlékszem, én addig tanultam hittant [Az iskolai hitoktatás 1949-től fakultatív lett (az Elnöki Tanács 5. sz. törvényerejű rendeletével). Ezt követően 1950-ben az általános iskolás tanulók 80%-a járt iskolai hittanra, 1955-ben már csak 40%-a, 1960-ban 25%-a, 1965-ben 10%-a. – A szerk.].

A dédszüleimet nem ismertem. Egyiket sem. Amikor én megszülettem, ők már nem éltek. Viszont a nagyszüleimről nagyon eleven emlékeim vannak. Azok az őseim, akikről én tudok, iparosok voltak, nem kereskedők.

Az egyik apai dédapám [az apai nagyapa apja], Schwéd Salamon és a felesége, Berger Hani Mátészalkán élt. Itt született a nagyapám, Svéd Zsigmond is [Mátészalka – nagyközség volt Szatmár vm.-ben, 1891-ben 4600, 1910-ben 5900, 1920-ban 6500 (Szatmár, Ugocsa és Bereg vm.), 1930-ban 9100 (Szatmár-Ung vm.) lakossal (járási szolgabírói hivatal, járásbíróság, adóhivatal és pénzügyőrség, szeszgyár). – A szerk.]. Dédszüleim Mátészalkáról fölköltöztek a tizenkilencedik század végén a fővárosba.

Apai nagyanyám apja, másik dédapám, Stern Móric, a felesége, Sternné Stern Róza. Azért duplán Stern, mert a lányneve is Stern volt. Makón éltek. A dédszüleim szerintem nem lehettek nagyon vallásosak. Sok fogalmam nincs róla, mert akkor még nem volt más anyakönyvezés, csak hitközségi.

Apai nagypapám, Svéd Zsigmond 1872-ben született, és megölték 1944-ben.

A Svéd nagyapámnak volt négy testvére, ők mind a négyen a századfordulón vándoroltak ki Amerikába. Nagyapám nem ment, mert magyarként itt akart élni A két fiú: Schwéd József és Schwéd Albert, Berti bácsi meg a két lánytestvére: Mária és Erzsébet. Ők mind escéhá dupla vé-vel írták a nevüket, nagyapám nevét a MÁV-nál Schwédről Svédre magyarították, már Svédként anyakönyvezték minden gyerekét. Józsi bácsi, Mariska néni és Erzsi néni megérték a háború végét.

A Svéd nagyapa magas, nagydarab ember volt, nagy parasztbajusza volt, mint ahogy ez egy igazi magyar embernek illik. Vasutas volt, állomásfőnök Csillaghegyen. Az Államvasutaknál állást nagyon nehezen lehetett kapni abban az időben, amikor nagyapámat alkalmazták, mert az nyugdíjas állás volt. A felesége, Svéd nagymama, Stern Mária, Makón született, 1867-ben, öt évvel idősebb volt a nagypapámnál. Ebben a családban öt gyerek volt, négy fiú és egy lány. Szolgálati lakásban laktak, az állomás épületében. Itt nevelte nagyanyám az öt gyereket. Nagyon szelíd, csendes asszony volt.

Amikor kiházasodtak a gyerekeik, átköltöztek Pestre, a nyolcadik kerületbe, az Erdélyi utcába. Erről a lakásról csak halvány emlékeim maradtak. Nagypapám nyugdíjazásakor a nagymamámnak Amerikában meghalt egy testvére, aki után valamennyit örökölt. Abból a pénzből meg apukám, a legidősebb fiú és a legfiatalabb öccse hozzájárulásával vettek Rákosligeten egy házat. Nem voltunk gazdagok, se jómódúak, de apám és a testvére vállalták a részletek fizetését a rákosligeti házra. Velük költözött [Rákos]Ligetre egyetlen lányuk, Juliska is a családjával. Az 1. utca 14-ben laktak.

1944-ig apu szülei Rákosligeten éltek [Rákosliget – Rákoskeresztúrból 1907-ben kivált község Pest-Pilis-Solt-Kiskun vm.-ben, 1910-ben 2600, 1920-ban 2700 magyar és német lakossal. – A szerk.], anyu szülei Újpesten. A nagyszüleim nem voltak vallásosak. Mind a két nagymamám neológ háztartást vezetett. Nem volt semmi kóserság. Mindegyik család magyaros ételeket evett, azért gyakran volt sólet, a húsleves maceszgombóccal volt az igazi! Libazsírral főztek [lásd: étkezési törvények]. Az igazi, nagy családi lakomákon libasült, libamáj és tepertő is volt. Mind a két nagymamám isteni réteseket tudott csinálni.

Rákosligeten már a negyvenes évek elején furcsa dolgok történtek. Endre László volt akkor a belügyi államtitkár. Már akkor kiírták a Fő utcában a cukrászda ajtajára, hogy „Zsidónak és kutyának tilos a bemenet!”. Az unokatestvérem barátnője vásárolta meg a fagylaltot, mi csak az utcán ehettük meg. Nem értettük ezt a tilalmat. Kislány voltam, de tudtam, hogy a kutyák nem szeretik a fagylaltot. Akkor még azt sem értettem, hogy én miért nem mehetek be, igaz, zsidó a vallásunk, de mi magyarok vagyunk! Később, már megértettem, hogy „büdös zsidó” vagyok, aki akar, belém is rúghat.

1945-ben kimentem Rákosligetre, megnézni, hogy mi maradt a nagyszüleim házából. Kihúztam az ebédlőszekrény fiókját, és egyetlen levélboríték volt benne, Józsi bácsitól, a nagypapa testvérétől, amit még a háború előtt írhatott. Kivándorlásuk után a testvérek állandó levélkapcsolatot tartottak nagyapámékkal a háború kitöréséig. A borítékon ott volt Józsi bácsi címe, írtam nekik. Megírtam, hogy mi maradtunk meg az egész családból, édesanyám, kisöcsém és én. Azonnal válaszoltak. Szegény emberek voltak, de gyakran írtak levelet, egy dollárt beleraktak minden levélbe, így akartak segíteni minket.

Az apukám, Svéd Mihály 1899-ben, május másodikán született Budapesten, és 1945. június huszonhatodikán halt meg. Négy testvére volt. Apám volt a legidősebb. Volt egy ikerpár, Svéd Zoltán és Svéd Vilmos, ők 1901-ben születtek, a húga, Júlia 1904-ben, a legfiatalabb testvére, Svéd Sándor 1906-ban látta meg a napvilágot.

Svéd Vilmos, Vili fodrász volt és pedikűrös. Fodrászüzlete volt a Népszínház utcában. Családi érdekesség, hogy az egyik anyai nagynénémet, Müller Rózsit vette el feleségül, mégpedig anyám és apám házasságával egy időben, 1929-ben. Rózsi és Vili nagyon rövid ideig voltak házasok. Válásuk után a fodrászüzlet is megszűnt. Ettől kezdve Vili pedikűrösként kereste kenyerét. 1944 októberében munkaszolgálatos volt Budapesten. Többször meg is tudta látogatni a családunkat. Utoljára nyilas karszalaggal láttuk, svájci menlevelet hozott nekünk. Mondta, hogy próbál minél több menlevelet szerezni zsidó családoknak. Akkor még azt hittük, hogy a menlevél életet ment. Vili eltűnt, nem jött vissza többé. Nem tudjuk, mi lett a sorsa.

Svéd Zoltánnak volt, egy lánya, Lucika, nálam néhány hónappal volt fiatalabb [1931-ben született. – A szerk.]. Ők Székesfehérváron éltek.

Svéd Juliskának is volt két gyereke, Kató és Lacika. A három unokatestvéremet is elvitték, és megölték. Juliska férje, Weinfeld Andor vagy András – az utóbbi nevet használta inkább – sem jött haza. Gödöllőről, ahol munkaszolgálatos volt, írt egy levelet apám unokatestvérének, akkor írta, amikor megtudta, hogy a családját elvitték. Csak annyi hírt kapott róluk, hogy a hatvani cukorgyárban átvették őket a németek. „…tény az, hogy most már nincs senkim ezen a világon, de azért még élni akarok” – írta Bandi [Mint a HUGSV018. sz. kép hátára a háború után Svéd Györgyi ráírta, Weinfeld Andort az Albrecht laktanyából vitték el 1944. november 10. és 15. között. Az Albrecht laktanya Budapest XIII. kerületében, a Lehel úton volt, ide gyűjtöttek be 1944-ben munkaszolgálatosokat. Raoul Wallenberg kísérletet tett a megmentésükre. – A szerk.]. Juliska néném – akkor negyven éves volt – írt egy lapot az unokatestvérének, Goldstein Rózsinak 1944 júniusában, amikor hajtották őket a vagonokhoz a rákoskeresztúri gettóból: „Most visznek el, nem tudjuk hova. 1 órát adtak, Isten veletek! Miskát, Sanyit értesítsd! Juliska”. Együtt vitték el a lányával, Katóval (aki tizennyolc éves volt), a kisfiával, Lacikával (tíz éves volt), a Svéd nagymamámmal meg a nagypapámmal [Svéd Zsigmond és Stern Mária], mint már előbb is említettem.

Svéd Sándor, a legfiatalabb öcs volt az egyetlen, aki a Svéd családból megmaradt. Sándor családját kimentették a székesfehérvári gettóból. Sanyi Pesten volt munkaszolgálatos, és amikor megtudta, hogy a felesége és a kisfia a Kolumbusz utcában vannak [lásd: Kolumbusz utcai menekülttábor], beszökött hozzájuk. Így együtt deportálták őket. Bergen-Belsenből, a Familienslagerből jöttek haza 1945 decemberében Svéd Sándor, a legfiatalabb öcs volt az egyetlen, aki a Svéd családból megmaradt. Sándor családját kimentették a székesfehérvári gettóból. Sanyi Pesten volt munkaszolgálatos, és amikor megtudta, hogy a felesége és a kisfia a Kolumbusz utcában vannak [lásd: Kolumbusz utcai menekülttábor], beszökött hozzájuk. Így együtt deportálták őket. Bergen-Belsenből, a Familienslagerből jöttek haza 1945 decemberében [A Kasztner-féle mentőakcióról  van szó. A Kolumbusz utcai Siketnémák Intézetében gyűjtötték össze 1944. június 10-től kezdve az erre kiválasztott embereket. Innen 1944. június 30-án 1684 ember indult el (és végül 1683 érkezett meg július 8-án) Bergen-Belsenbe. Az SS és a Joint között folyó tárgyalások eredményeként ez a magyar csoport és más, semleges államok útleveleivel rendelkező zsidók Svájcba távozhattak 1944 augusztusában illetve decemberében. Svéd Sándorral kapcsolatban fölmerül a kérdés, hogy vajon nem Svájcból jöttek-e végül haza, mert a szakirodalom úgy tudja, az egész csoport oda került (Csősz László jegyzete).].

Ott szabadultak fel, a feleségével és a kisfiával együtt, aki akkor nyolc éves volt. Sajnos apukámmal már nem találkoztak. 1957-ben kivándoroltak Ausztráliába, Sanyi nyolcvanéves korában halt meg. Felesége, Panni ma is él, kilencvenhárom éves. Unokaöcsémnek, Jánosnak három gyereke és hat unokája van. Rendszeresen beszélünk egymással telefonon, küldjük egymásnak a képeket a gyerekekről, unokákról. János, a felesége és a gyerekei többször voltak Budapesten. Háromszor már én is meglátogattam Sydney-ben a családom. Egyszer a lányom is velem jött. Összetartozunk. Abban, hogy ilyen jó a kapcsolatunk, jelentős a szerepe János feleségének, Mártának. Sydney-ben él még sok unokatestvér a Svéd ágról, apám unokatestvérei, illetve azoknak a gyerekei, unokái, három vagy négy család. Népes a családunk Ausztráliában is.

Nagyon nehéz meghatározni, hogy mi az a polgári jólét. A férjem édesapjának a harmincas években például volt saját autója. Apósom fakereskedő volt. Apám unokatestvére és a férje nagyon jómódú szűcsök voltak, a Goldstein szűcsék. Ők szemben laktak velünk. Az Apponyi tér 1-ben [Ma: Ferenciek tere. – A szerk.], a félemeleten volt egy bundaszalonjuk. Háromszoba-hallos lakásban laktak, hárman. Volt szakácsnőjük, náluk kóser háztartást vezettek, a szakácsnő főzött. Húsvétkor [Pészah] mindig oda mentünk át maceszgombócot enni, este mindig ott vendégeskedtünk náluk ilyenkor, mindig legalább harminc ember volt. Pasaréten is volt villájuk, ahol májustól októberig laktak. Elegáns villa volt, gyönyörű kerttel. Minden évben néhány hetet ott nyaraltam. Hétvégén sok vendéget fogadtak, anyukámékat is gyakran hívták oda vendégségbe. A fiuknak, az unokabátyámnak a Schweitzer Jóska [Schweitzer József, főrabbi – A szerk.] volt a legjobb barátja, Jóska is gyakran volt a Goldstein-házban. Goldstein Miklóst, Golafot, az unokabátyámat munkaszolgálatosként huszonegy évesen megölték. Édesapját, Samu bácsit a Dunába lőtték [lásd: zsidók Dunába lövése]. Csak a nagynéném élte túl a borzalmakat, szegénykém, egész hátralévő életében menekült önmaga elől.

Rákosligeten szombatonként a nagypapámmal mentem a templomba, a Gózon Gyula bácsi és a nagypapa egymás mellett ültek [Gózon Gyula (1885–1972) – színész. 1906–12 között Nagyváradon játszott. 1913 és 1935 között szinte az összes jelentős fővárosi színházban játszott, majd 1935-ben a Nemzeti Színház szerződtette, s egészen 1941-ig, a zsidótörvényekig itt játszott. Majd 1945-től élete végéig a Nemzeti Színház tagja maradt. – A szerk.]. Jó barátok voltak, Gyula bácsi gyakran jött át hozzánk beszélgetni. Gózonék [azaz Gózon Gyula és Berky Lili] a Ligetsoron laktak. Lili néni ott, a házuk pincéjében rejtette el Gyula bácsit a deportálás elől, egy elfalazott kuckóban. Jöttek a csendőrök Gyula bácsiért, hogy elvigyék. Lili néni káromkodott, mondta a csendőröknek, hogy mit csinálhatott volna mást egy piszkos zsidóval, elkergette. Háború után, meglátogattam őket, együtt sirattuk nagyapámékat. A zsinagóga helyén már csak egy romos épület áll. A rákosligeti holokauszt-áldozatok emléktábláját is eltüntették. Amikor pedig Újpesten voltam szombaton, Müller nagypapámmal mentem a Beniczky utcai zsinagógába, nagyon közel volt a lakásukhoz ez a templom.

Ebben a templomban helyezték el 1946-ban az Újpestről deportált meggyilkolt áldozatok névsorát. Itt minden évben, nyáron megemlékeznek a holokauszt újpesti áldozatairól. A szomszédban van egy zsidó otthon is, egy zsidó öregek otthona, a templomkertben. Lehet, hogy most már nem Beniczky utcának hívják, hanem Venetianer Lajos utcának. Venetianer volt a legismertebb újpesti főrabbi. Az unokatestvéremmel hat-nyolc évvel ezelőtt kimentünk nosztalgiázni Újpestre. Megnéztük a zsinagógát és azt a házat, ahol a nagymamáék laktak. A Károlyi utcai ház áll, az állapota illuzióromboló.

A szüleim házasságkötése után derült ki, hogy a két nagymamám és nagypapám egy napon, egy anyakönyvvezetőnél, egy templomban, egymás után házasodtak, 1898. július harmincegyedikén. Nem tudom, melyik templomban és melyik anyakönyvvezetőnél, de ez volt a családi hagyomány. Mindig egy napon ünnepeltük a két nagyszülőnek a házassági évfordulóját. A negyvenedik házassági évfordulójukon, Rákosligeten, a kertben ünnepelt együtt a két család apraja-nagyja. Gyönyörű kert volt! Nagyapám dáliái a szivárvány minden színében pompáztak. A gyümölcsfákra fel lehetett mászni, friss gyümölcsöt szedni. A málnát a bokrokról szedtük és ettük… Nagyon jókat lehetett játszani az unokatestvéreimmel a kertben.

Anyai dédapámat Müller Józsefnek hívták, a feleségét Winter Rozáliának. Még az ükapám nevét is tudom, Müller Izsák és felesége, Mari.

Anyai nagyapám, Müller Bernát 1874 júniusában született. 1898-ban vette el a nagymamát, Neufeld Leonórát. Müller nagypapámék a századforduló tájékán vagy még az előtt költöztek föl Budapestre [Pontosabban: Újpestre, amely akkor még önálló község volt Pest-Pilis-Solt-Kiskun vármegyében. – A szerk.]. Pont hetven éves volt, amikor megölték 1944-ben. Üvegfúvó mester volt, az Egyesült Izzóban dolgozott [Egger Béla és testvérei 1896-ban hozták létre az Egyesült Izzólámpa és Villamossági Rt.-t. 1903-ban kidolgozták a volfrámszálas, gázzal töltött izzólámpák gyártási eljárását, és 1911-ben beindították a termelést. 1912-től használták a Tungsram márkanevet. 1921-ben az Egyesült Izzóban alapították meg Európa első ipari kutatóintézetét. – A szerk.]. Minden ellenkező híreszteléssel szemben, olyan, hogy Kohn, a kovács nem volt, de mint hallod, Müller, az üvegfúvó, olyan volt. A nagypapámnak kis bajusza volt, de ő maga is egy olyan kis aprócska ember volt. Imádtam, én voltam a kedvenc unokája. Olyat nem tudtam kérni, amit a nagypapa meg ne tett volna nekem.

Bernát nagypapának három testvéréről tudok. Ignác nyomdász volt Budapesten, a tizenharmadik kerületben lakott, már a háború előtt meghalt, 1942-ben. Lánytestvérei, Róza és Juliska szintén Újpesten éltek, a háborút csak Juliska élte túl.

Náci bácsinak is öt gyereke volt, négy fiú és egy lány. A háborút csak a lánya, Rózsi, valamint  Béla fia és három unokája élte túl [Mária (Müller) Béla (1903–1975) – ideg- és elmegyógyász, költő. Származása miatt nem vették fel magyar egyetemre, a nápolyi egyetemen avatták orvossá 1930-ban, ezt követően Olaszországban dolgozott 1939-ig, amikor kiutasították Olaszországból. Hazatérve Magyarországon nem nosztrifikálták diplomáját, állást nem kapott, fizetés nélküli externistaként dolgozott a Szabolcs utcai kórház idegosztályán. E korszakban írta legtöbb versét. 1939-től bekapcsolódott az illegális kommunista párt tevékenységébe. Munkaszolgálatosként Ukrajnában és Borban volt. 1944-ben átszökött a jugoszláv partizánokhoz. 1945 után tudományos közleményei jelentek meg, főleg a skizofrénia témaköréből, az alkoholizmus és az endogén pszichózisok kapcsolatáról. 1957-től 1972-ig igazgató főorvosként vezette az Országos Ideg- és Elmegyógyászati Intézetet. Élharcosa volt a korszerű elmeügyi jogszabályok megalkotásának, melyek a humánus elveket, a beteg gyógykezelésének érdekeit állították előtérbe. A gyógyításban különös fontosságot tulajdonított a rehabilitációnak (igazgatása alatt létesült az intézetben – elsőként az országban – rehabilitációs célokat szolgáló nappali szanatórium). Írásai 1922-től jelentek meg („Magyar Írás”, „Népszava”, „Korunk”, „Új Idők”, „Kortárs”). Több olasz regényt fordított magyarra (Forrás: MÉL). – A szerk.]. Rózsit is kivégezték, de a golyók nem ölték meg, fel tudta nevelni a lányát, Mártát, aki 1944-ben egy éves volt. Rózsi férje keresztény volt, de baloldali politikai fogolyként ölték meg Mauthausenban. Mártával nagyon közeli kapcsolatban vagyunk, ő az én „hugám”, pedig csak második unokatestvérem, a gyerekei a „kedvenc nénikéjüknek” tartanak.

Anyai nagymamám lányneve Neufeld Leonóra. 1877-ben született, őt is 1944-ben ölték meg. Ő nevelte a hat gyereket. Róla nem sokat tudok. Nem tudom, honnan származott, mivel foglalkoztak, hol éltek a szülei, voltak-e testvérei. Nagymamám soha nem mesélt a gyerekkoráról.

Müller nagyszüleim gazdagnak aztán nem voltak mondhatók! Nagypapámat elbocsátották az Egyesült Izzóból, ez 1935-36-ban történhetett. Új munkát nem tudott kapni. Újpesten, a Károlyi utcában volt egy négyszobás lakás, és abban lakott az egész pereputty. Az orvos nagybátyám, a fiuk, az Árpád úton [Szintén Újpesten – A szerk.] lakott a családjával egy négyszobás lakásban, itt működtette a fogorvosi rendelőjét is. Nagyszüleimmel lakott anyám nővére, három húga, aztán amikor férjhez mentek a lányok, akkor a férjeik is odaköltöztek. Nagymamám vezette a háztartást, ő parancsnokolt az egész családnak, nagyon kardos asszony volt. Gyönyörű hófehér bőre és koromfekete haja volt haláláig. A haja olyan volt, mint a selyem, minden este kikefélte, reggel befonta, és kontyba tűzte föl. Nagyon, szép asszony volt a nagymama, kicsit duci, de nagyon szép.

1944-ben mind a négy nagyszülőm élt még, nagyon kötődtem hozzájuk. Számomra szörnyű csapást jelentett, hogy mindannyiukat megölték Auschwitzban. A Müller családot Újpestről vitték el. Svéd nagymamámékat Rákoskeresztúrról deportálták. Mielőtt elvitték őket, írta nagynéném a postai lapot: „Visznek minket…” Nagyanyám, aki ott a karján tart a fényképen [lásd a HUGSV001 sz. képet], már a vagonban meghalt. Valaki, aki hazajött 1945-ben a deportálásból, mesélte ezt nekem. Az apukám még valahogy el tudott búcsúzni a szüleitől. Már munkaszolgálatosként kért oda eltávozást, és meglátogatta nagymamáékat a gettóban. Rákoskeresztúron, ahová összegyűjtötték a környéken élő zsidókat, többször meglátogatta Berky Lili néni [Berky Lili (1886–1958) – színésznő. Vígjátéki és népszínmű szerepekben épp olyan sikeres volt, mint primadonnaként. Idősebb korában drámai hősnők alakításában tűnt ki. – A szerk.], ennivalót is vitt nekik, vigasztalta őket.

Édesanyám neve Müller Gizella. 1903. december tizenkilencedikén született, és 1962. július hatodikán halt meg. Édesanyámnak öt testvére volt. A családban egy fiú volt és öt lány. Mind az öt lány szakmát tanult. Az öt lány azért dolgozott, hogy ebből az egy fiúból orvos lehessen. Általában a zsidó családokra ez volt a jellemző, mindenki azt akarta, hogy a gyerekéből tanultabb ember legyen. Persze ez most egy kicsit elfogult mondat volt, mert általában minden szülő azt szeretné – minden normális szülő –, hogy a gyereke többet érjen el az életében, mint amit ő elért. Ez a zsidó családokra különösen jellemző, céljuk elérése érdekében komoly áldozatokat is képesek hozni. Anyám legkisebb húgának, Lujzának kalaposüzlete volt a háború előtt, Annus, gépi műhímző volt, a legidősebb lány, Rózsi gyors- és gépíróiskolát végzett, tisztviselő lett. Rózsit elvette a nagybátyám, Svéd Vilmos. Azért vette el apám öccse az anyám nővérét, hogy apámék összeházasodhassanak [Mindig a legidősebb lányt kellett kiházasítani először. – A szerk.]. (1929-ben volt az esküvő, mind a kettő. Az anyáméké és az övék.) Anyám és Ilonka, varrtak. Azért dolgozott az öt lány, hogy a bátyjuk, Jenő tanulhasson, orvos lehessen. Anyukám egyik húga, Ilonka korán meghalt, szívbetegségben, valamikor 1935-ben.

Édesanyám testvérei közül az orvos bátyja, doktor Müller Jenő megérkezett a deportálásból, valamikor augusztusban, ő már 1942-ben megjárta Ukrajnát is [mint munkaszolgálatos]. Az idősebbik lánya, Éva már júniusban hazajött, és nálunk lakott. A felesége, Dudi [Kluger Dolóra] meg a kisebbik lánya, Carmen Auschwitzban pusztult el.

Anyám nővére, [Müller] Rózsi már májusban itthon volt, ő is hozzánk költözött. Vele együtt építettük újjá lebombázott lakásunk egy részét, ő anyámmal élt egészen anyám haláláig [Müller Rózsi volt korábban az apa Vilmos nevű testvérének a felesége rövid ideig. – A szerk.]. Jóval túlélte anyámat, nyolcvanhárom évesen halt meg. Anyu lakásáért kapott egy garzonlakást a József Attila lakótelepen, mert akkor bontották le a Marokkói udvart. Anyám meghalt a kórházban július hatodikán, és augusztus húszig ki kellett ürítsem a lakást.  

Müller Lujza és Marmorstein Ármin esküvője 1937-ben volt. Müller Annus és Grünwald Laci 1938-ban házasodtak össze, a ház udvarán, a Károlyi utca 24-ben egy hüpe [esküvői sátor] alatt, erre emlékszem [lásd: házasság, esküvői szertartás]. Annus és Lujzi férje is hazajött, Grünwald (Gerendai) Laci és Marmorstein (Mérő) Musi. Mindkettőjükkel halálukig igazi, rokoni kapcsolatot tartottunk, nagyon sok szeretetet kaptunk tőlük, ők voltak a mi igazi nagybácsiink. Müller Jenő csak pofont tudott nekünk adni, szeretetet, segítséget nem. Anyánknak is Laci és Musi segített, ha segítségre volt szüksége. Annus és Lujzi egy öt-, illetve hatéves kislánnyal [Grünwald Ilonka és Marmorstein Zsuzsi – A szerk.] a gázkamrák áldozata lett, Lujzi kisbabát várt, a hetedik hónapban volt.

Grünwald Lacit Borban a partizánok szabadították fel a munkaszolgálatból. Sokat segített nekünk, amikor apuért lementünk Kecskemétre, majd Szegedre. 1945 után magyarosította a nevét, Gerendaira. Új családot alapított, a lánya, aki ebből a házasságából született, megint Ilonka lett, a fia Barna. Lacikám tizenhárom-tizennégy éve halt meg. Betegsége alatt az öcsém anyagilag támogatta, én rendszeresen látogattam, szeretgettem. Az özvegyével és a lányával ma is tartjuk a kapcsolatot.

Marmorstein Árminból Mérő Árpád lett l945 után. Nekünk Musi maradt. Másodszor is megházasodott. Nagyon szerettem a feleségét, Lilit. Nekik is született egy kislányuk, Zsuzsi. Zsuzsival és családjával ma is rokonok vagyunk, számíthatunk egymásra.

Éva [Müller Jenő lánya] meg a nagynénim, Rózsi mesélték, hogy Auschwitzban szortírozták [lásd: szelektálás] az embereket, és miután az Éva jól fejlett kislány volt, elszakították az anyjától. A nagynénim zokogva könyörgött, hogy hagyják vele, nem hagyták. Ez volt Éva szerencséje, mert akiket kiválasztottak, rögtön vitték a gázkamrába. Ő [Müller Éva] az egyetlen unokatestvérem, aki itt él, Magyarországon. Ez az egyetlen unokatestvérem él itt Magyarországon, a Jenőnek ez a lánya. De őneki teljesen keresztény családja van, mind a két férje keresztény volt. Az első házasságából született két fia, József és Gábor, a második házasságából egy lánya van, Éva. Az egyik fia a politikában kicsit jobboldali. Rengeteget dolgozik, a MÁV Északi Járműjavítójában, nagyon jó családapa, van két lánya és három unokája. Az idősebbik fiát fiatalon leszázalékolták, szívinfarktusa volt. Jóskának egy lánya van, Ági, Olaszországban él, neki is van egy kisfia. A lánya, Éva beteg, huszonhárom éves volt, amikor az idegrendszere miatt leszázalékolták. A református papok tömik a fejét, így ő kifejezetten antiszemita. Többször mondtam az unokatestvéremnek, hogy jó lenne, ha elmagyarázná a gyerekeinek, hogy ők egészen zsidók, mert akinek az anyja zsidó, az zsidó [A háláhá szerint csak az számít zsidónak, akinek az anyja zsidó vagy ő maga betért. – A szerk.]. Éva nem egy anya típus, igazán csak a kutyáját szereti.

A nagybátyámék [Müller Jenő és családja] kitértek [lásd: kitérés], mert azt hitték, hogy ez valamit fog számítani. Évától tudom, hogy amikor Újpestről, a gettóból a téglagyárba vitték őket, Jenő nagybátyám odament a nagypapához és a nagymamához, és megkérdezte: „Mama, tudok valamiben segíteni?” Erre a nagymamám ránézett a fiára, potyogtak a könnyei, és azt mondta: „Ne haragudjon, de én magát nem ismerem, én megmondtam, hogy maga számomra meghalt, megtéptem a ruhámat [lásd: köria] és meggyászoltam.” Pedig a nagyanyámnak az istene volt a fia. Annyira megharagudott rá, hogy nem volt hajlandó szóba állni vele azok után, hogy kitért. Nem volt a nagyanyám bigott, csak fájt neki, csalódott a fiában.

Mint már mondtam, Jenő taníttatásáért dolgozott az egész család, ő valóban orvos is lett, fogorvos. 1945 után Újpesten, az újpesti SZTK-nak [Szakszervezetek Társadalombiztosítási Központja – 1990 előtt ide tartoztak az egészségügyi szakrendelők. – A szerk.] volt az igazgatóhelyettese, az osztályvezető főorvosa. Magának való, önző ember volt. A háború után megnősült újból, egy orvosnőt vett el feleségül, sem a lányával, sem az unokáival nem törődött.

Apám családjában az apám volt az, akit egyetemre küldtek a nagyszüleim, mert ő volt a legidősebb. Általában a legidősebb fiút küldték el a zsidó családokban tanulni, az öccsei közül az egyik ikeröccse [Svéd Vilmos] szakmát tanult, a másik [Svéd Zoltán] kereskedelmiben [lásd: kereskedelmi iskolák] érettségizett, Sanyinak is szakmája volt. Annyi gyereket egyetemen taníttatni nem volt lehetőségük, de egy gyereknek egyetemre kellett mennie. Apu végül egy évet végzett a közgazdaságin [Apja 1917-18 körül kezdhetett egyetemi tanulmányokba (1899-ben született). Nem tudjuk kideríteni, melyik egyetemre iratkozott be közgazdaság-tudományt tanulni, hiszen önálló közgazdasági egyetem ekkor még nem létezett. Lásd a szócikket: közgazdaságtudományi egyetem. – A szerk.]. Aztán felmérte a helyzetet, hogy nincs tovább.

Apukám 1919-ben, a Tanácsköztársaság idején húsz éves volt, egyetemista a közgazdasági egyetemen. Beállt vöröskatonának, mint afféle baloldali ember. Amikor leverték a kommünt, akkor a nagyapámék a Császárfürdő állomás épületében laktak. Jöttek a csendőrök, apámat keresték [Minden bizonnyal rendőrök voltak, nem csendőrök. Csendőrség vidéken volt. – A szerk.]. Apu volt otthon egyedül, mondták, hogy Svéd Mihályt keresik. Apu rögtön tudta, hogy miért keresik őt a csendőrök. Azt mondta, hogy a bátyja nincs itthon. Miután voltak testvérei, úgy tett, mintha ő valamelyik öccse lenne. A csendőrök ott hagytak egy idézést, ha megjön, azonnal jöjjön be a rendőrkapitányságra. Apukám bepakolta a legszükségesebb holmijait egy kis bőröndbe, írt néhány sort a szüleinek, és fölült a párizsi vonatra. Párizsig meg sem állt. 1920-ban ment ki Párizsba. Kint volt öt vagy hat évig. Értelmes, okos ember volt, tudta, hogy ő a büdös életben Magyarországon értelmiségi pályát nem folytathat. Kitanulta Párizsban a legjobb mesterektől a női szabóságot. Művelt szabó lett belőle, aki jól beszélt nyelveket is. Párizsban magába szívta a kultúra, a művészetek szeretetét is.

Akkor ismerkedett meg anyukámmal, amikor hazajött. Összeházasodtak. Anyám is varrónő volt. Együtt csináltak egy varrodát, egy nőiszabó-műhelyt, egy belvárosi szabóságot, ahol főleg apukám meg anyukám dolgozott. Szabni apukám szabott, próbálni apukám próbált, az anyukám meg varrt. Amikor már sok munkájuk volt, néhány kézilányt is alkalmaztak.

Négyszobás lakásban laktunk a Vilmos császár úton [Ma: Bajcsy-Zsilinszky út. – A szerk.], a Marokkói udvarban [A mai Erzsébet tér és a József Attila utca környékén volt a hajdani, három utcára néző, kétudvaros Marokkói udvar, amely egykor Pest második legnagyobb bérháza volt (nevét egy „marokkói” figurát ábrázoló domborműről kapta). Az 1700-as évek végén kezdték építeni, és gróf Festetics Antal vásárolta meg 1802-ben. A Marokkói udvar tömegbérház volt: szobái és földszinti üzletei szűkösek voltak, a lakások többsége minden komfortot nélkülözött. (Az épületet az 1960-as évek elején lebontották.) – A szerk.]. Két szobában laktunk, a másik kettőben volt a műhely és a szalon. Hétvégeken a szalonban ültek le a rokonok, vendégek is. A gyerekeim néha érdeklődnek az akkori életkörülményeinkről. Azt szoktam ilyenkor példaként elmesélni, hogy az anyukám, ha vett egy libát, akkor azt egy hétig ettük. Volt mindig nálunk egy kis cseléd, egy fiatal kislány, aki segített az anyukámnak. Pucolta a zöldséget, mosogatott, takarított. Így anyukám több időt tudott a műhelyben dolgozni. A földszinten volt a mosókonyha, minden hónapban jött a mosónő, és megcsinálta a nagymosást.

Apukámék bedolgoztak Goldsteinéknek, apám unokatestvérének a bundaszalonjába, bundabélelést vállaltak. Nem vetették meg a szüleim ezt a munkát sem, örültek, hogy ezzel is kereshettek. Nekünk Goldsteinék voltak a gazdagok. Nekik volt a Pasaréten, az Orsó utcában egy gyönyörű villájuk. Nagyon szép villa, most is. Minden nyáron ott nyaraltam, meg Rákosligeten, a nagymamáméknál.  Az öcsém nem jött velem, mert még kicsi volt, nyolc évvel fiatalabb nálam. Nem emlékszem más nyaralásra. A háború előtt, nem emlékszem, hogy lettünk volna a Balatonon.

Harmincnyolcban elterjedt az a hír, hogy az a zsidó, aki igazolni tudja, hogy hatodíziglen Magyarországon születettek az ősei, az magyar állampolgársági bizonyítványt kap, mentesül minden zsidótörvény alól. Apukám gyűjtögetni kezdte a családi papírokat. Ez még a zsidótörvények [lásd: zsidótörvények Magyarországon] előtt volt, én akkor hét éves voltam. Annyira emlékszem, hogy az apu minden héten egy napra elment vonattal valahova, és összeszedte a megfelelő iratokat. Ment nyomról nyomra, megkereste a nagyapja, a dédapja, születési és halálozási adatait, majd ment tovább, hogy földerítse, hol született az előző ősapa, ősanya. Így hatodíziglen megszerezte a papírokat. Illetve hetedíziglen, mert azt akarta, hogy a nagyapáméknak is meglegyen a hatodíziglen. A Svéd család minden tagja megkapta a magyar állampolgársági bizonyítványt [1941 februárjában állították ki az állampolgársági bizonyítványt. Lásd a HUGSV034. sz. képet] [A zsidóellenes rendelkezések hírére egyesek már korábban elkezdték a családjukra vonatkozó iratok begyűjtését, arra számítva, hogy az „őslakos” zsidóság kedvezményekben, mentesítésben részesül majd. De a Magyarországon született ősök először a második zsidótörvény (1939. évi IV. tc.) szövegében kerültek elő (4. §), és kizárólag a zsidónak minősített állampolgárok választójogát, illetve választhatósági jogát befolyásolták. Tehát a „hatodíziglen” vagy hasonló kifejezés sehol sem szerepelt törvényben, a generációk száma is csak a lentebb idézett esetben számított. Ugyanezen törvény (5. §) nyomán minden magyarországi közhivatalnoknak, állami alkalmazottnak igazolnia kellett keresztény származását nagyszülőkig bezárólag, így valóban százezrek kényszerültek arra, hogy anyakönyvi kivonatokat, keresztleveleket szerezzenek be. Állampolgársági bizonyítványra azonban ez esetben nem volt szükség. Az állampolgárság igazolása leginkább (sőt szó szerint életbevágóan) fontossá 1941-ben vált, amikor a külföldi vagy „rendezetlen” állampolgárságú, a gyakorlatban többnyire magyar állampolgár, de honosságukat bizonyítvánnyal igazolni nem tudó zsidókat deportálták az országból. A művelet által elsősorban érintett Kárpátalja mellett az ország belsejében is gyakoriak voltak az ezzel kapcsolatos nyomozások, razziák, idegenrendészeti eljárások. A KEOKH külföldinek tekintett minden zsidót, aki nem tudta állampolgárságát dokumentumokkal igazolni. (A vidéki levéltárak iratanyaga arról tanúskodik, hogy az utóbbi eljárások által közvetlenül nem fenyegetett zsidók közül is sokan igyekeztek beszerezni ezeket a bizonyítványokat.) (Csősz László jegyzete).]

Ezek után 1940-ben apukámnak a választójogát megtagadták a magyar Szent Korona nevében, az 1940. szeptember hó 1. napján tartott nyilvános ülésen, az 1938. 9. tc. 44. §. alapján [Az 1938. évi IX. tc. a „Szent István király emlékére ötpengős ezüstérmék veréséről” szól, a zsidók választójogát az 1939. évi IV. tc. („A zsidók közéleti és gazdasági térfoglalásának korlátozásáról”, az ún. második zsidótörvény) korlátozta. A 4. § szerint „Zsidónak csak akkor van országgyűlési, törvényhatósági és községi választójoga és zsidót csak akkor lehet országgyűlési képviselőnek, törvényhatósági bizottsági és községi képviselőtestületi tagnak megválasztani, ha ő maga és szülői – amennyiben szülői az 1867. év december hó 31. napja után születtek, ezeknek szülői is – Magyarországon születtek és a törvényben meghatározott egyéb előfeltételeken felül hitelt érdemlően igazolja azt is, hogy szülői vagy – amennyiben szülői az 1867. évi december hó 31. napja után születtek – ezek felmenői az 1867. évi december hó 31. napja óta állandóan Magyarország területén laktak”. – A szerk.]. Erre apu panaszlevelet adott be, mert öntudatos magyar ember volt. Elfogadható módon igazolta, hogy atyai nagyszülei Mátészalkán, 1847. évben születtek. Elutasították: „A panaszirathoz csatolt községi bizonyítvány panaszos atyai nagyszüleinek magyarországi lakását csupán 1870-től halálukig vonatkozóan igazolja, semmi elfogadható bizonyíték nincs arra nézve, hogy a panaszos atyai nagyszülei a nem közölt időben is, tehát 1867. december 31. óta állandóan Magyarország területén laktak.” A magyar közigazgatási bíróság 1940 szeptemberében a panasznak nem adott helyt. Apám nem hagyta magát, és tovább fellebbezett, ismét elutasították.

Ezek után 1940-ben apukámnak a választójogát megtagadták a magyar Szent Korona nevében, az 1940. szeptember hó 1. napján tartott nyilvános ülésen, az 1938. 9. tc. 44. §. alapján [Az 1938. évi IX. tc. a „Szent István király emlékére ötpengős ezüstérmék veréséről” szól, a zsidók választójogát az 1939. évi IV. tc. („A zsidók közéleti és gazdasági térfoglalásának korlátozásáról”, az ún. második zsidótörvény) korlátozta. A 4. § szerint „Zsidónak csak akkor van országgyűlési, törvényhatósági és községi választójoga és zsidót csak akkor lehet országgyűlési képviselőnek, törvényhatósági bizottsági és községi képviselőtestületi tagnak megválasztani, ha ő maga és szülői – amennyiben szülői az 1867. év december hó 31. napja után születtek, ezeknek szülői is – Magyarországon születtek és a törvényben meghatározott egyéb előfeltételeken felül hitelt érdemlően igazolja azt is, hogy szülői vagy – amennyiben szülői az 1867. évi december hó 31. napja után születtek – ezek felmenői az 1867. évi december hó 31. napja óta állandóan Magyarország területén laktak”. – A szerk.]. Erre apu panaszlevelet adott be, mert öntudatos magyar ember volt. Elfogadható módon igazolta, hogy atyai nagyszülei Mátészalkán, 1847. évben születtek. Elutasították: „A panaszirathoz csatolt községi bizonyítvány panaszos atyai nagyszüleinek magyarországi lakását csupán 1870-től halálukig vonatkozóan igazolja, semmi elfogadható bizonyíték nincs arra nézve, hogy a panaszos atyai nagyszülei a nem közölt időben is, tehát 1867. december 31. óta állandóan Magyarország területén laktak.” A magyar közigazgatási bíróság 1940 szeptemberében a panasznak nem adott helyt. Apám nem hagyta magát, és tovább fellebbezett, ismét elutasították.

Tehát nekem van magyar állampolgársági bizonyítványom. Nagyon sokat érek vele, de van. Ennek ellenére elpusztították az egész családot. Az apu őrizte egy kis vulkánfíber bőröndben ezeket az iratokat. Anyukám 1962-ben meghalt. Nekem hat hét alatt ki kellett a lakást üríteni, mert akkor bontották le a házat, a Marokkói udvart. A kezembe került ez a vulkánfíber bőrönd. Amikor megláttam, dührohamot kaptam, elégettem az egészet. Belevágtam a kandallóba, és égett. A férjem nem volt otthon. Mikor hazajött, azt mondta: „Megőrültél? Miért égetted el?” A választ nem tudtam megfogalmazni, nem tudom megfogalmazni ma sem. Sírtam azért, hogy ezekért a vacak papírokért mennyit rohangált apám, és minek? Mert bízott bennük, és hitt nekik. Elhitte, hogy aki becsületes magyar ember, annak nem lesz semmi bántódása.

Apukámat minden érdekelte, sokat olvasott, szerette a szép képeket, jó színházi előadásokat, a zenét. Anyukámnak és apukámnak is szép hangja volt, szívesen énekeltek munka közben is, sok népdalt tőlük tanultam meg. Fontos volt számukra, hogy a gyerekeikből művelt emberek legyenek. Sok könyvünk volt otthon. Tanultam hegedülni, németül, később angolul. Apámnak az volt a terve, hogy a francia nyelvet ő fogja majd megtanítani nekem. Soha nem tanultam meg franciául. Apám halála után soha nem vettem a kezembe hegedűt, megfogadtam, hogy nem fogok soha németül beszélni. Sokat gondolok arra, hogy életem során mit tettem úgy, ahogy ő az életemet elképzelte: miben felelnék meg az elvárásainak? Remélem, sikerült úgy alakítani a sorsomat, ahogy azt édesapám elvárta tőlem.

Apukámnak mindig volt egy szép téli és egy szép nyári öltönye meg egy városi bundája [A férfiak ún. városi bundája bundabéléssel ellátott, általában perzsagalléros szövetkabát volt. – A szerk.]. Otthon anyukám és apukám is munkaköpenyben dolgozott. A köpeny alatt apukám inget és nadrágot, anyukám ruhát viselt. Amikor elmentünk valahová, csinosan felöltöztünk. Anyukám kabátjait és az én kabátjaimat, ruháinkat apukám tervezte és szabta ki, anyukám varrta meg.

Minden évben apukám vett helyjegyet a Dohány utcai templomba [lásd: Dohány utcai zsinagóga], hosszúnapkor és újévkor [Ros Hásáná] [A nagyünnepekre, amikor sokan mentek el az istentiszteletekre, gyakran árulták a helyeket. De egyébként is, a hitközségi adóbevétel egyik tétele volt a zsinagógák ülőhelyeinek bérletbe adása. A bérletet az őszi nagyünnepek előtt kellett megújítani a következő évre. Az ülőhelyen szerepelt a tulajdonos neve. Amennyiben valaki naponta látogatta a zsinagógát, a padhoz tartozó kis fiókban tárolhatta imakönyvét, táleszét és tfilinét. Az ülések ára különböző volt, attól függően, hogy a zsinagóga mely részén voltak. – A szerk.]. Elmentünk a templomba. Emlékszem arra, amikor a sófárt fújták. Ez gyerekkori emlék. Ilyenkor, hosszúnap előtt kakast, tyúkot és csirkét pörgettek a fejünk fölött, apukám imát mondott a bűneink bocsánatáért, majd a csirkéket a sakterrel vágatták le, áldozatként [lásd: kápóresz]. Mindig megsirattam a csirkéket. Apukám, anyukám hosszúnapkor böjtöltek. Apukám 1944-ben is böjtölt, pedig akkor már nagyon beteg volt [Böjtölnie egyébként csak akkor kell az embernek, ha ez semmiben sem veszélyezteti az egészségét. Ezért a betegeknek nem kötelező böjtölniük. – A szerk.]. 

Mi, anyukámmal és öcsémmel csillagos házban és a gettóban éltük át a vészkorszakot. A csillagos házban három család lakott együtt egy háromszobás lakásban. Minket egy nagyon kedves ismerősünk fogadott be az egyik szobájába. Aranyos fiatalasszony volt, Fischer Jolinak hívták. Volt egy hétéves fia és egy kétéves kislánya. A férjét még a kislány születése előtt megölték Ukrajnában, munkaszolgálatosként. Jolikát 1944 októberében vitték el Ausztria felé, soha többet nem hallottunk róla. A két gyerek velünk maradt a lakásban. Később a keresztény cselédlányuk bújtatta el őket, és fel is nevelte a két gyereket tisztességgel. 1944 novemberében hajtottak be minket a gettóba [lásd: budapesti gettó], az emberek mentek a járdán, mi az úttesten, sárga csillaggal megbélyegezve [lásd: sárga csillag Magyarországon], öregek, betegek, gyerekek. Január tizennyolcadikáig a Klauzál tér 16-ban laktunk, negyven ember egy kétszobás lakásban, a bombázások alatt a fáspincékben, a földön, éhen-szomjan. Aki ezt nem élte át, el sem tudja képzelni az akkori helyzetünket.

Apu 1945-ben hazajött a munkaszolgálatból. Először Erdélybe vitték, onnan fölhozták Rákosra. Addigra már megromlott az egészsége, nagyon köhögött. Nehéz asztmagyógyszereket szedettek vele a köhögése miatt. Később kiderült, hogy nem is volt asztmája, de a gyógyszerek súlyosan károsították a szívét. 1945. januárban bekerült egy deportálómenetbe, gyalog terelték őket a keretlegények. Seregélyesen szabadultak fel. Betörtek az orosz csapatok Seregélyesre, néhány óráig tartották a frontot, amíg az ott lévő munkaszolgálatosokat a [duna]földvári hídon átmentették Kecskemétre. Miután a csoport átért, fölrobbantották a Duna-hidat. Kecskemétről kaptunk 1945. február másodikán, pont az öcsém hatodik születésnapján egy levelet, hogy apu él, és ha akarjuk őt életben látni, akkor menjünk mielőbb Kecskemétre.

Anyám egyik húgának a férje, a Grünwald Laci már hamarabb jött haza Borból [lásd: bori rézbányák; munkaszolgálat (musz)], Szegeden volt már akkor, ott telepedtek le, várták, hogy hazajöhessenek. Laci, amint meghallotta, hogy Pest felszabadult, jött haza megnézni, hogy ki maradt meg a családból. Rajtunk kívül egyetlen rokonát sem találta. Vele mentünk apánk keresésére. Kecskemétig orosz teherautóval. Ő a rendőrségen dolgozott, Szegeden, és el tudta intézni az oroszokkal, hogy fölvegyenek minket a teherautóra. Kecskeméten összeszedtük apámat, aki száznyolcvanhat centi magas volt és negyvenhat kiló. Szinte jártányi ereje sem volt. Szekéren utaztunk tovább, akkor már apuval együtt Szegedre. Rögtön orvoshoz mentünk, egy JOINT orvoshoz, Lantos doktorhoz. Beteg voltam én is, az orosz teherautón megfáztam, tüdő- és mellhártyagyulladást kaptam. Az orvos megvizsgálta az apukámat és engem is. Azt mondta, hogy én nem kelhetek ki az ágyból. Ellátott minket orvossággal, kérte apukámat, hogy három-négy nap múlva menjen ismét el hozzá, hogy lássa, javult-e az állapota, jól hatnak-e a gyógyszerek. Hazamentünk, mindketten lefeküdtünk az ágyba. Szedtük a gyógyszereket. Apukám soha többet nem tudott kikelni az ágyból, én hamar meggyógyultam. Ott, a nagybátyám szobájában éltünk öten, három hónapot. Apunak egyre romlott az állapota. A kórházban egy vizsgálatnál nyolcvanévesnek nézték.

1945-ben, május nyolcadikán Szegedre jött Rákosi beszélni. Akkor volt a béke első napja [„Hivatalosan” május 9. a béke napja: 1945. május 9-én 0 óra 50 perckor Berlin keleti negyedében, Karlshorstban véget ért az az ülés, ahol a győztes hatalmak elfogadták a német fegyveres erők feltétel nélküli megadását, és aláírták az erről szóló okmányt. Ezzel Európában véget ért a második világháború. – A szerk.]. Persze apám nem tudott elmenni a gyűlésre, csak hallgatta a rádiót. Azt mondta, hogy most jönne el az én világom, amikor a szociáldemokraták is tudnának tenni valamit, de most már én nem fogok élni. Akkor negyvenhat éves volt. A jövő mást hozott, nem a szociáldemokraták jöttek, Szegénykém, nem tudom, milyen sorsra jutott volna. Nem tudom, hogy mi lett volna neki jó vagy rossz, nem volt kommunista, baloldali gondolkodású, liberális volt.

Májusban valamikor hazajöttünk. Az első vonattal, ami személyvonat volt, följöttünk Pestre. A lakásunkat lebombázták negyvennégyben, egy szobát tudtunk lakni a Bajcsy Zsilinszky út 10-ben. Aput bevittük a zsidókórházba, a Szabolcs utcába, az a zsidó hitközségnek volt a kórháza [lásd: zsidókórház]. Taligán húzogatta a vonattól a kórházig a másik nagybácsim, anyám másik húgának a férje, Musi. A kórházban kezelték, megpróbálták megmenteni az életét. Mi bizakodtunk.

1945 júniusában az apám meghalt. A Rákoskeresztúri zsidó temető hősi parcellájában temettük el.

Anyukám nem bírta lelkileg feldolgozni a családunk tragédiáját. Mindenki meghalt. Elveszítette édesapját, édesanyját, anyósát, apósát, testvéreit, azoknak a gyerekeit, mindenkit, akit szeretett. Megölték őket. Apukám életét sem tudták megmenten. Anyukám negyvenegy évesen itt maradt két gyerekkel, egyedül. Belebetegedett a gyászába. A lakásunkat is lebombázták, a műhely felszereléséből alig maradt valami. Teljesen kilátástalannak látta az életünket. Amikor volt munkája, varrt.

Büszke vagyok az anyukámra. Nagyon egyszerű ember volt, nagyon jó ember. Csak annak segített, akinek tudott. Ha nem volt semmije, ő abból is tudott adni. Négy polgárit végzett [lásd: polgári iskola]. Középiskolába nem járt, szakmát tanult. Az írása is egyszerű volt, kiíratlan. Ritkán írt, mert minden adminisztrációt, mindent, amit intézni kellett, az apukám intézett. Apukámnak kiírt írása volt. A szüleim mindketten nagyon, nagyon jó emberek voltak.

Az öcsém, Svéd Tamás 1939-ben született, február másodikán. Nyolc éves voltam akkor. Nagyon vártam, hogy megszülessen a kistestvérem. A szüleim is boldogok voltak, hogy kisfiuk született. A Svéd családban a legkisebb unoka volt, a Müller családban az egyetlen fiúunokaként érkezett Tomi. Tamás Péterként anyakönyvezték. Megmalenolták [lásd: körülmetélés], a zsidó neve Benjámin lett. Amikor a szüde volt – azt hiszem, így mondják a zsidó keresztelőt –, nagyon sok vendég volt nálunk [Szöudász micvó – „az eljegyzési, az esküvői, a brít milá és a bár micvó alkalmából rendezett lakomák” (Jólesz László: Zsidó hitéleti kislexikon) . Jiddisül: szüde. – A szerk.]. Kedves, szép kisfiú volt Tomi. Anyukám mindig megengedte, hogy a fürdetésnél, pelenkázásnál segítsek, amikor lementünk az Erzsébet térre, tologathattam a kocsiját. Később a járókája a műhely közepén állt, így anyukám és apukám is egész nap láthatta. Aludni vitték csak a gyerekszobába. Amikor már nagyobbacska volt, a gangon játszott.

Az öcsém számára ez a boldog gyerekkor csak ötéves koráig tartott. Egy ilyen kisgyereknek még szörnyűbb lehetett elviselni a sok változást, az üldözést, a koplalást. Soha nem felejtem el, amikor a gettóban, a pincében, anyukám még tartogatott néhány pici pogácsát. A pincében sötét volt, koszosak voltunk, vizünk is csak korlátozott mennyiségben volt. Anyukám adott Tominak egy pogácsát, a kisgyerek tartotta a kezében, és azt kérdezte: „Anyucikám, ez a reggeli, az ebéd vagy a vacsora?” Azt hiszem, életemnek ez volt az egyik legszörnyűbb élménye. Nem panaszkodhatunk, mert mi túléltük a holokausztot.

Félévre rá, hogy apukám meghalt, 1946 januárjában az öcsém hatévesen kiszökött az utcára. Elmentek az unokaöcsémmel, Svéd Jánossal tujázni [A villamos utolsó kocsijának ütközőjén való utazást hívták tujázásnak. – A szerk.]. János akkor nyolc éves volt, és már megjárta Bergen-Belsent. Az öcsém leesett a villamosról, a lábáról levitte a villamos négy ujját. Anyukámmal úgy tudtuk, hogy János és Tomi az udvaron játszanak. Csöngettek. Egy barátnőm, Blanka állt az ajtó előtt, zokogva. Csak annyit tudott mondani: „Tomi a Deák téren vérben fekszik.” Anyukám elájult, Blanka élesztgette. Átrohantam a szomszédba, szerencsémre, a szomszéd otthon volt, ő rohant le velem a Deák térre. Az öcsémet addigra bevitték a patikába, ahol ismertek minket, bekötözték a lábát. Iszonyatos látvány volt, a sápadt kis arca, a kettévágott cipője. Puszilgattam, vigasztaltam. Ezalatt a szomszédunk leállított egy teherautót, akkor mentőautó nem volt még. A karjába vette a gyereket, beültek a vezetőfülkébe. Mi Blankával felkapaszkodtunk a platóra, indultunk kórházat keresni. Jártunk kórháztól kórházig, nem fogadták be a vérző kisfiút, mindenhol azt kérdezték, tudunk-e dollárral vagy arannyal fizetni. Nem tudtunk. Végül az István Kórház gyermeksebészetén befogadták Tomit. Hetekig úgy volt, hogy amputálni kell a lábát.

Szerencsénk volt, Tomi egy év alatt meggyógyult, tökéletesen megtanult ismét járni. A drága doktor nénink, doktor Neumann Sára naponta jött kezelni az öcsém lábát, miután kihozhattuk a kórházból. Sára néni hozta a kötszert, gyógyszereket, sokszor ennivalót is hozott. Áldott legyen az emléke!

Anyukám, ettől a sok szörnyűségtől, amit rázúdított a sors, nagyon rossz állapotba került. Nem volt ereje, ahhoz, hogy az életet újrakezdje. Mindentől, mindenkitől félt. Régen ott volt apu. Anyukám azt szokta meg, hogy apu intézte a műhellyel kapcsolatos hivatalos dolgokat, beosztotta a pénzt. Anyu a műhelyben csak varrt, a háztartás vezetése, a család ellátása volt az ő feladata. Szegénykém, apám életében is nagyon sokat dolgozott, sokszor késő éjjelig dolgoztak, de az adminisztrációhoz, az üzleti dolgokhoz nem értett.

Anyu a magas vérnyomástól, kapott egy vesezsugort, 1962-ben, ötvennyolc évesen meghalt. Amikor ez a szörnyű betegség kiderült, megírtam az öcsémnek, hogy az orvosok szerint anyunak maximum egy éve van hátra. Akkor volt másfél éves a kisfia, és a másik baba a sógornőm pocakjában volt. Hívott Tomi telefonon, hogy szerzett kölcsönpénzt, annyit, hogy el tudjanak jönni Bécsig, ott a költségeinket is fedezni tudja.  Kétségbeesetten kért: „Könyörgöm, hozd ki Bécsbe valahogy anyut, hogy láthassam!” Ez volt 1961 karácsonyán. 1961-ben útlevet kapni nem volt kis feladat [lásd: utazás külföldre 1945 után]! Az sem volt mellékes, hogy a férjem kizárt párttag volt, illetve „c” pont alapján elbocsátott igazgató.

Anyukám akkor már szövetkezetben dolgozott, egy varrószövetkezetben. Akkor lett szövetkezeti tag, amikor én férjhez mentem. Ott jó helyen volt, mert mindent intéztek helyette. Nem kellett neki semmit szervezni, odaadták a munkát, azt megcsinálta. Nagyon szorgalmas volt, sokat dolgozott, csak éppen nem tudott annyit keresni, hogy megéljen belőle.

Írtam egy levelet a belügyminiszternek. Leírtam, hogy az én anyukám egész életében csak gürcölt, dolgozott. Nem tudom, ki volt akkor a belügyminiszter, de írtam neki. Akkor a Németvölgyi úti iskolában tanítottam. Nagyon rendesek voltak, miután tudták, hogy az anyuval mi van. A kérelmet aláírta, az igazgatóm meg az osztályvezetőm, személyükben felelősséget vállaltak értem és anyukámért, hogy nem disszidálunk [lásd: disszidálás]. A Fővárosi Tanácsnál is javasolták, hogy útlevelet kapjunk. Két gyerekem és a férjem itthon maradt.

Úgy látszik, a minisztériumban meghatotta őket a levelem. Két hét múlva behívtak a belügyminisztériumba. Megkaptuk az útlevelet. Summa summarum, ki tudtunk menni anyukámmal Bécsbe.  Anyunak  hályog volt a szemén, nem tudott egyedül közlekedni. Akkor a hályog eltávolítása egy borzalmas műtét volt. Szegény anyukám, életében akkor lépte át először a magyar határt. Ez is adalék a jólétünkről. Hihetetlenül boldog volt. Nem tudta, hogy beteg. Azt mondtam neki, hogy Tomi [Svéd Tamás, Györgyi öccse – A szerk.] nagyon szeretné őt látni, szeretné, ha megismerné a feleségét, Haselt és a kisfiát, Michelt. Anyukámnak semmit nem mondtunk el a betegségéről, úgy utaztunk el.

Öcsémmel és családjával a West Bahnhofon találkoztunk. Mindannyian sírtunk és nevettünk a boldogságtól, hogy együtt vagyunk. Tíz napot töltöttünk együtt, anyukám még táncolt is az öcsémmel. Élvezte, hogy játszhat a legkisebbik unokájával. A sógornőmmel persze nem tudott beszélni. Vittem ki magunkkal egy angol–magyar, magyar–angol szótárt, amikor az öcsémmel elmentünk csavarogni, akkor a sógornőm meg az anyukám szótárból beszélgettek egymással. Persze nem sokáig hagytuk őket egyedül. Anyukám nagyon büszke volt a fiára, hogy ezt a nagy áldozatot vállalta, azért, hogy őt láthassa. Nagy öröm volt számára az is, hogy a kisunoka édesapám nevét kapta, úgy mondta, hogy ő a „kis” Svéd Mihály. Még megélte anyukám, hogy megszületett öcsémék második kisfia, Willy. Azt nem tudta, hogy én terhes vagyok, mert akkor nem engedte volna, hogy emelgessem.

Január hatodikán jöttünk haza, és pont fél évre rá, július hatodikán anyukám meghalt. Kórházba kellett vinni, ott halt meg. Lebénult a fél oldala. A veséje egyre zsugorodott, az orvosok mondták, hogy amíg nem hány, nincs nagy baj. Minden nap vittem ebédet, és megetettem. Július ötödikén, ebéd közben anyukám elkezdett hányni, az volt a vég. Akkor vártam a harmadik gyerekemet. Anyukám hányt, engem elöntött a vér. Péter elvitt a nőgyógyászomhoz. Elvetéltem. Saját felelősségemre kijöttem a kórházból. Ott ültem anyám mellett, fogtam a kezét. Elment, örökre. Édesapám mellé temettük.

A kisgyerekkoromra úgy emlékszem, hogy egy nagyon meleg családban éltünk. Azt szoktam mondani a saját gyerekeimnek, hogy én örökségül azt kaptam a családomtól, hogy nagyon kell szeretni és segíteni egymást. Azt hiszem, a családi összetartás a zsidó családok egyik legjellemzőbb tulajdonsága. A szüleimmel egyik vasárnap mentünk Rákosligetre, másik héten mentünk Újpestre. Ez volt a program. Mindig együtt volt a család, a gyerekek játszottak, a felnőttek diskuráltak. Milyen jó nekem, hogy erre emlékezhetek! Az öcsémnek az a szomorúsága, hogy ő nem emlékszik a családra, édesapánkra, nincsenek emlékei. 1944-ben öt éves volt.

Öt vagy hat hónapos voltam, amikor az Alsóerdősor utcából a Marokkói udvarba költöztünk. A Marokkói udvar egy nagy átjáróház volt. Most ennek a helyén van a „Nemzeti Gödör” [A tervezett, de ott föl nem épült új Nemzeti Színház kiásott helyének közszájon forgó elnevezése. – A szerk.].  Gangos, nagy ház volt a belvárosban. Polgáremberek laktak ott, iparosok, kereskedők, tisztviselők, értelmiségiek. A gangon nőttem föl. Ebben a házban zsidók és keresztények éltek együtt békességben.

Kisiskolásként a Szent Isván téri elemi iskolába jártam. Gimnáziumba, bár kitűnő eredménnyel végeztem a negyedik osztályt, nem vettek fel máshova, csak az Izraelita Leánygimnáziumba [lásd: Zsidó Gimnázium]. Nagy szerencsém volt, hogy oda felvettek, két első osztályt nyithattak csak akkor [Svéd Györgyi 1940-ben lépett középiskolás életkorba. Csakhogy „1939 őszétől kezdve … miniszteri rendelettel bevezették az osztályonkénti 6 százalékos kvótarendszert az újonnan beiratkozó zsidó tanulókra vonatkozólag. Ettől függetlenül is, s ezt megelőzőleg a keresztény egyházak (különösen a többségi katolikus egyház) felügyelete alatt működő középiskolák kapui fokozatosan bezárultak a zsidó jelentkezők elől.” (Karády Viktor: Felekezetsajátos középiskolázási esélyek és a zsidó túliskolázás mérlege, in Zsidóság és társadalmi egyenlőtlenségek /1867–1945/, Replika Kör, Budapest, 2000, 234. oldal). – A szerk.].

1945-ben, apám halála után bementem a Zsidó Gimnázium igazgatójához, Zsoldos Jenőhöz. Megkérdeztem, mi lenne a módja annak, hogy ne veszítsek évet a tanulásban. Nehéz helyzetben voltam, mert 1944. március tizenkilencedikén befejeződött a tanév, megkaptam a harmadikos bizonyítványomat. Szeptemberben nem kezdődhetett meg a tanítás, 1945 februárjától az osztálytársaim már járhattak iskolába, de mi csak május végén jöttünk haza Szegedről, akkor már nem kapcsolódhattam be a negyedik osztály munkájába. Az igazgató úrnak az volt a tanácsa, hogy nyáron, magánúton tegyem le a negyedikes vizsgákat. Szerinte minden tantárgyból le tudok vizsgázni ennyi idő alatt, csak latinból nem. Mi akkor csak harmadikban kezdtünk latint tanulni [A nyolcosztályos gimnázium harmadik osztályáról van szó. – A szerk.], 1944-ben öt hónapos volt a tanév, a negyedikes tantárgyakból a vizsgákra két hónap állt a rendelkezésemre. Lehetetlen volt két hónap alatt a két év latin tananyagát is megtanulnom. Javaslatára polgáriban tettem le a negyedikes vizsgákat, a Lovag utcai iskolában. Zsoldos Jenő úgy gondolta, hogy a tanulást a Dobó Katalin Kereskedelmi Iskolában kell folytatnom. Ez az iskolatípus akkor érettségit adott négy év után, és kereskedelmi, könyvelési, statisztikai, gép- és gyorsírói végzettségről is adott bizonyítványt [1916-ban nyílt meg a VIII., Bezerédy utcában a Felső Kereskedelmi Leányiskola, amely 1925-ben felvette a Dobó Katalin Felső Kereskedelmi Leányiskola nevet (az 1922/23-as tanévtől kötelezték az iskolákat arra, hogy a nemzet nagyjainak nevét vegyék föl). Az iskola 1931-ben a VII. ker. Wesselényi utca 52. szám alá költözött. A Felső Kereskedelmi Leányiskola elnevezés 1940-ben Kereskedelmi Leányközépiskolára változott (Az 1938. évi XIII. tc. /A gyakorlati középiskoláról/ értelmében 1940-től a felső kereskedelmi iskolák mint kereskedelmi középiskolák működtek.) Az 1949. évi államosítással a Dobó Katalin Kereskedelmi Leányközépiskola befejezte működését. – A szerk.]. Az igazgató úr segített abban, hogy felvételt nyerjek ebbe az iskolába. 1945 szeptemberében megkezdhettem középiskolai tanulmányaimat. Nagyon sok gyerek iratkozott be elsősnek, így én a H osztályba jártam.

Az iskolába csak járogattam, mert mellette dolgoztam, anyukámnak segítettem a varrásban. Volt egy csodálatos osztályfőnököm, Tajthyné, Klári néni. Neki köszönhetem, hogy a sok hiányzásom ellenére minden évben bizonyítványt kaptam. A barátnőim mindig elhozták nekem a napi házi feladatokat, így nyomon tudtam követni a tanítás menetét. Klári néni tudta, hogy nem linkségből lógok az iskolából, ismerte a családi problémáimat. Minden tanítványáról tudott mindent, nemcsak történelmet, földrajzot tanított, emberségéről mindenki példát vehetett. Volt egy doktor nénink, aki keresett nekem egy olyan betegséget, ami indokolta a sok mulasztást, vitustáncom volt, ez egy olyan betegség, amelyik gyakran tünetmentes.

Apukámat nagyon szerették az ipartestületben. Bementem a Sörház utcai központba megkérdezni, hogy mihez kezdhetünk, mert anyukámnak nem volt mestervizsgája. Rögtön kiadták anyunak özvegyi jogon az ipart. Az ipartestületben megkérdezték tőlem: „Kislányom, van otthon egy lepedőtök?” Igennel válaszoltam. „Akkor behozod, kiszabjuk, te megvarrod. Ez lesz a te szakmunkásvizsgád, segíthetsz anyukádnak.” Az én méretemre szabtak egy elölgombos ruhát. Ott a helyszínen szálat húztam, összeállítottam, megvarrtam a ruhát. Nágel Feri bácsi felajánlotta, hogy ingyen megtanít szabni. Meg is tanított, bizonyítványt is kaptam róla. Ez azt jelentette, hogy dolgozhatunk. Rendbe raktuk a műhelyt. Megtaláltuk a régi megrendelők listáját, megkerestük őket. Már semmi akadálya nem volt annak, hogy dolgozzunk. Ismét vállaltunk bundabélelést is, ez jövedelmünk jelentős részét jelentette. Nem volt túl sok munkánk, de elég volt arra, hogy hárman, nagyon szerényen, megéljünk.

Amikor felszabadultunk, mint minden zsidó fiatal, akit a gettóba zártak, sárga csillaggal megbélyegeztek, én is szabadnak és boldognak éreztem magam. Valami hihetetlenül felszabadult érzés uralkodott el rajtunk, ez egész korosztályunkra jellemző volt. Mi akkor úgy érezhettük, hogy ismét emberek vagyunk, jogunk van beszélni, jogunk van elmondani a gondolatainkat. Ez valami egészen különleges érzés volt. Vágyódtam arra, hogy hasonló korú fiatalokkal lehessek együtt, akik hasonlóan örülnek a szabadságnak. A Szent Isván körút 2-ben megalakult az ötödik kerületi MADISZ [Magyar Demokratikus Ifjúsági Szövetség]. Miután iskolai és otthoni körülményeim valamennyire rendeződtek, elmentem egy rendezvényükre. Jól éreztem magam ebben a társaságban. Bekapcsolódtam az úttörőmozgalom szervezésébe. Sokat kirándultunk. A MADISZ-ban ismertem meg a férjemet, H. Pétert is. Mindketten MADISZ-aktivisták voltunk. Akkor még az Új-Lipótváros is ötödik kerület volt. Minden szabadidőnket ebben a közösségben töltöttük Falura jártunk, romos iskolák felépítésében segítettünk, kulturális műsorokat, vetélkedőket szerveztünk, táncdélutánjainkon a saját zenekarunk adta a zenét. Ebben a közösségben életre szóló barátságok alakultak, sokan itt találták meg a párjukat is, 1948–49-ben sokan kötöttünk házasságot. Mi a Lipóciában [Új-Lipótváros], a Fürst Sándor utca l6-ban kaptunk lakást. Most Hollán [Ernő] utca a neve.

Tehát a MADISZ-ba jártunk rendszeresen. Engem nem is az a nagy elhivatottság vitt a mozgalomba, mint általában a fiatalokat, hanem az, hogy én mindig tanító néni akartam lenni. Az ifivezetés lehetősége vitt az úttörőmozgalomba. Házasságkötésünk után a Nagy-Budapesti Úttörő Központban dolgoztam, ahol hatszáz forint volt a fizetésem. Felajánlottam a mozgalomnak a fizetésemet, az erkölcstelen lett volna, hogy kettőnknek olyan sok pénzünk legyen. A férjem jól keresett, ezerötszáz forintot, abból özvegy mamáinkat is kellett támogatni, hogy a kistestvéreinket nevelni tudják. Ez más lapra tartozott, az öntudatunk azt diktálta, hogy a mozgalmat is támogassuk. Az úttörőközpontból mentem el a Statisztikai Hivatalba dolgozni mint statisztikus. A kereskedelmi iskolai végzettséggel ott tudtam elhelyezkedni.

Akkor minden fiatalnak megadták a lehetőséget arra, hogy munka mellett tanuljon. Mi is megvalósíthattuk régi álmunkat. Péter mindig építészmérnök akart lenni, én pedig mindig tanító vagy tanár. Miután a Statisztikai Hivatalban dolgoztam két évet, beiratkozhattam a főiskolára a munkahelyem ajánlásával. Az Apáczai Csere János Pedagógiai Főiskola hallgatója lettem a Cukor utcában [A Főiskolát 1947-ben hozták létre, és 1955-ben szűnt meg. – A szerk.]. Gyakorló évemet a tizenkettedik kerületben, a Laura úti Általános Iskolában töltöttem. A fiam akkor már egy éves volt, bölcsődés. A férjem a műszaki egyetemre járt, építészmérnöki karra. Tanulmányi versenyben voltunk, gyűjtöttük a jeleseket.

Nem tanulhattunk nappali tagozaton, mert mint már mondtam, nem csak magunkat kellett eltartani, hanem anyukánknak és a kistestvéreinknek is kellett segíteni. Nappal dolgoztunk, heti öt alkalommal délután öttől előadásokat hallgattunk, szemináriumokra jártunk. Évi harminc nap tanulmányi szabadságot kaptunk, azt mindig a vizsgaidőszakban vettük ki. Ma már el sem tudom képzelni, hogy jutott ennyi mindenre időnk. Főleg, amikor már megszületett a fiam is.

Fönt, a Szabadság-hegyen kaptam állást gyakorló tanárként, a Laura úti iskolában. A Piatnik-villában rendeztek be egy iskolát. Oda csak intézeti gyerekek jártak, a Hegyhát útról, a Dózsa György Nevelőotthonból és a Zrínyiből, a Mátyás király útról. Ezek a gyerekek nem olyan intézeti gyerekek voltak, mint a mostaniak, ezek háborús, árva gyerekek voltak. A Rajk-perben lecsukottaknak a gyerekei is ide kerültek. Nehéz munka volt, nem fizikailag, lelkileg nem bírtam. Rettenetesen sajnáltam a szerencsétlen kis árvákat, hordtam haza őket, hétvégére. Mindenkit nem vihettem haza! Itt tanultam meg, hogy a gyerekeket nem csak tanítani kell, hanem nagyon-nagyon szeretni is. Itt határoztam el azt is, hogy ha rajtam múlik, nem elit iskolákban fogok tanítani.

Volt  egy O. Iván nevű srác. Írattam velük egy dolgozatot ötödikben a Petőfi-vers ihlette címmel: „Egy estém otthon.” Ki gondolt akkor arra, mit fog ez kihozni ezekből a nyomorultakból? Ez az O. Iván nevű ifjú ember leírta a dolgozatában, hogy ha ő estére és az otthonára gondol, ő csak ugyanarra az estére és ugyanarra az otthonra tud gondolni, amikor az ő drága jó édesapját és édesanyját, akik a világ legbecsületesebb emberei, ezek a piszok gazemberek letartóztatták. Hazavittem a dolgozatot, és kérdeztem a férjemet, hogy na most ezzel mit csináljak. Elhatároztuk, hogy én ezt a dolgozatot el fogom veszíteni. Elégettem, azt mondtam a gyerekeknek, hogy sajnos a fogaskerekűn elvesztettem egy dolgozatot. Hiába volt az egy értékes dolgozat, ha én azt, akkor megtartom, azzal annak a nyomorult gyereknek a létét kockáztattam volna. Nagyon érdekes, hogy évek múlva, véletlenül összefutottam a mamájával. A Táncsics Gimnáziumban volt egy O.-né nevű igazgatónő. Egyszer egy szakmai értekezleten megkérdeztem: „Ne haragudj már, nem ismersz véletlenül egy O. Ivánt?” Rám nézett, és azt mondta: „Hát véletlenül ismerem, mert a fiam.” Na, köpni, nyelni nem tudtam. „De miért kérdezed?” „Hát, mondom, azért, mert én a fiadat tanítottam.” „Hol, a Laura úton?”, kérdezte. „Igen.” „Te vagy a Györgyi néni, aki eldugtad a dolgozatát?” Mint kiderült, a szülőket rehabilitálták, a kisfiú is hazakerült A gyerek elmondta otthon, hogy egyszer elveszett egy dolgozata.

Párttag voltam egy évig. 1955-ben lettem csak párttag, mert én nem voltam elég megbízható. Akkor találtak méltónak arra, hogy párttag lehessek, talán addigra egy kicsit más volt már a megítélés. „Kispolgárnak” számítottam addig. A férjem párttag volt, de őt 1956 [lásd: 1956-os forradalom] után kizárták mint ellenforradalmárt. Akkor nem is engedték elhelyezkedni. Engem 1956 után nem vettek vissza a pártba, bár kértem a visszaigazolásomat.

A kislányom 1956 júniusában született, a fiam öt éves volt. Kicsit el voltam foglalva. Elapadt a tejem az izgalmaktól. Nem tudtunk a  picinek enni adni, mert októberig csak anyatejet kapott. Szörnyű volt, kétségbeestünk, hogy a gyerek éhen fog halni. Aztán, lisztlevessel, teával, vizes grízzel etettük, köpködött, de életben maradt. A testvéreink disszidáltak, mi pedig maradtunk, mert ugye egy kosár gyerekkel nem lehet nekiindulni a világnak.

A férjemnek megvolt a kinevezése a Mélyépítő Ipari Vállalathoz műszaki igazgatónak, azaz főmérnöknek. 1956. október huszonharmadikán írta alá a miniszter a megbízását. Október huszonharmadikán még egy szekérfuvarozó vállalatnak volt az igazgatója. 1954-ben megbízták, hogy mentse meg azt az építőipari céget, mert a csőd szélén állt. A cég nyereséges lett, a beosztottak nagyon megszerették, különösen szerették a rakodók és a kocsisok. Meg akarták választani a munkástanács elnökének. A kommunista igazgatót munkástanácselnöknek! A férjem azt mondta, hogy ő nem szeretne munkástanácselnök lenni, válasszanak mást, ő megmarad igazgatónak. A cég egyetlen napot sem sztrájkolt, élelmiszert, gyógyszereket szállítottak. Mást választottak munkástanácselnöknek. Miután megszűntek a harcok, a párttitkár és néhány cinkosa feljelentette a férjemet a pártbizottságon, hogy letépte a pártirodáról a drapériát. Nem is volt drapéria. Másik huszonöt ember állította, hogy nem így volt, de ez senkit nem érdekelt.  Komoly vegzatúrának tették ki szegényt. Még kőművesként sem engedték elhelyezkedni, pedig ilyen képesítése is volt a két diplomája mellett. A végén kőművesként alkalmazták a második kerületi IKV-nál [Ingatlankezelő Vállalat]. A munkaügyis megsajnálta, mert mondta Péterem, hogy elnézést, két gyerekem van, a feleségem pedagógus, a fizetéséből nem tudunk megélni.

Engem is bántottak a munkahelyemen. A pártbizottságon közölték, hogy váljak el a férjemtől, mert gazember. Tiltakoztam, közöltem, hogy én a férjemet tisztességes embernek és kommunistának tartom, nem válok el. Mondták, egy áruló feleségét nem igazolják át a pártba.  Hibámul rótták fel, hogy festem a körmömet, vörösre. Azt válaszoltam, hogy én nagyon szeretem a piros színt.

Attól kezdve elég nehéz időszak kezdődött, mert a létfenntartásunkért kellett küzdeni. Házkutatás volt nálunk. Szegény anyukám éppen ott volt nálunk, amikor jöttek a zsaruk. A Keleti Károly utca 9-ben laktunk, a Rózsadomb Kávéház házában, egy kétszobás lakásban. Az egy nagy, százhúsz lakásos ház volt. 1956 októberében nem volt ennivaló. A forradalmárok vagy ellenforradalmárok, vagy hogy mondjam őket, ott jöttek-mentek, rohangáltak. Féltünk, hogy bejönnek a házba a piáért. A pincében egy nagy italraktár volt. A férjemnek meg még egy-két pasasnak az volt az ötlete, hogy el kellene barikádozni az italraktárt ládákkal. Ezek a fiatalemberek lementek, hogy elbarikádozzák a raktárt. Akkor jött az ötlet, hogy mivel nem lehet kapni kaját, az ottani élelmiszerraktárból, akinek kell ennivaló, az fölviszi a lakásába. Mindenki aláírja, hogy mit vitt föl, ha rendeződnek a viszonyok, majd kifizeti. Az én őrült férjem meg még egy lakótárs egész éjjel ott lent voltak, míg vitték az emberek a kaját, és mindenkivel aláíratták, hogy mit vitt el, mennyit vitt el. Mindenki maga írta be a könyvbe, és aláírta. Aztán ők fogták a könyvet, fölhozták, és bezárták a raktárt.

A házkutatás során megállapították – egy év múlva –, hogy a spejzunkban lévő öt üveg bort és a bárszekrényben lévő császárkörtelikőrt loptuk az italraktárból. A férjem lopta, bűnszövetkezetben. A likőrt a nagybátyámék [Svéd Sándorék], akik kimentek Ausztráliába, 1957-ben adták nekünk, mielőtt elmentek. A nagybátyám drogista volt, ő kutyulta. Az öt üveg bor megmaradt az előző napi vendégfogadásból, a barátaink keveset ittak, és megmaradt öt üveg bor. Akkor már dolgozott a férjem is, kőművesként, keresett is.

Több mint egy évig volt kőműves. Közben állandóan különböző helyekre fellebbezett. Mindenhonnét elutasítást kapott. Kitalálta, hogy alapít egy szövetkezetet. Megszervezte, de budapesti beírással nem lehetett, Szentendrén lehetett. Az volt a tőkéjük, hogy a békekölcsön kötvényeket leadták a szentendrei OTP-be [Országos Takarékpénztár]. Arra adtak kölcsönt. Az építőipari szövetkezetnek a férjem lett a műszaki vezetője, miután megvolt hozzá a végzettsége.

Abszolvált indexe volt 1956-ban, de nem engedték diplomázni. Megvolt az összes szigorlata, de nem engedték megvédeni a diplomáját. Két év után, nagy kínnal adtak engedélyt úgy, hogy az összes szigorlatát újból le kellett tenni mint utóvizsgát.  A professzorok azt mondták, hogy amit ők két éve beírtak, azért ők vállalják a felelősséget, és újból beírták az indexébe a jegyet. Nem voltak hajlandók vizsgáztatni. Kapott egy diplomafeladatot, azt megoldotta és megvédte. A diplomája kettes lett, minden szigorlata utóvizsgának számított, arra csak kettest lehetett adni.

A szövetkezetet megalapították, s a kollégák, barátok, akik ismerték a képességeit, később segítettek neki, hogy az állami építőiparba visszakerüljön. Soha többet nem vállalt magasabb beosztást, mint osztályvezető, fő-építésvezető. Sokat maszekolt. Büszke volt arra, hogy a felesége megengedhette magának azt a luxust, hogy pedagógus legyen. Péter nagyon sokat dolgozott, megkereste arra a pénzt, hogy megéljünk tisztességesen. A sok-sok kellemetlenséget azért tudtuk elviselni, mert a barátaink mellettünk álltak, megpróbáltak a férjemnek segíteni abban is, hogy rehabilitálják.

Nagyon szerettem a munkámat. Mindig tanár szerettem volna lenni. Szeretem a gyerekeket. Szívesen szerveztem kirándulásokat, színház- és múzeumlátogatásokat. A tizenkettedik kerületben több iskolában dolgoztam. Két évet a Laura úton, tizenöt évet a Márvány utcai általános iskolában tanítottam, egészen az iskola megszűnéséig. Váltott műszakban dolgoztunk, az osztályok létszáma általában negyven fölött volt.

Közben, elvégeztem a könyvtárosi kiegészítő szakot. Magyar szakos tanári diplomám itt, Budapesten szereztem. A főiskolán Vidor Zsuzsa tanított irodalomdidaktikára, Takács Eta nyelvtandidaktikára. Tanításuk meghatározó volt pedagógus személyiségem kialakulásában, a tanítási módszereimre, a gyerekekhez fűződő kapcsolatomra. Vidor Zsuzsa néni, Vidor rabbinak volt az özvegye.

1972-ben kerültem Újbudára. A kerület akkori oktatási osztályvezetője nagyon kedvesen azt mondta nekem, hogy számít a szervezőképességeimre is. Azt a kérésemet, hogy „nehéz iskolába” helyezzen, akkor nem tudta teljesíteni. Így két évet a Bartók Béla út 141-ben dolgoztam. Az Aga utcai általános iskolából mentem nyugdíjba. Nyugdíjazásom után még sokáig vezettem az iskola könyvtárát. Ez az iskola volt számomra az igazi kihívás. Voltak itt intézeti gyerekek és körzeti gyerekek is. Itt a módszerek megválasztása volt mindig a legfontosabb. Olyan feladatokat kerestem mindig, hogy lehetőleg minden gyerek sikerélményhez juthasson az órákon. Arra törekedtem, hogy a tanítványaim tudják, hogyan folytassák az életüket az általános iskola elvégzése után. Volt olyan intézeti gyerekem, akit az isten is adminisztrátornak teremtett, de az intézet nem akart hozzájárulni ahhoz, hogy a gyereket gyors- és gépíróiskolába iskoláztassam be. Végül addig vitatkoztam, amíg a kislány az általam kiválasztott iskolába kerülhetett. Ennek a lánynak én voltam az esküvői tanúja. Férjével és gyerekeivel együtt ma is rendezett életet élnek. A lány ma egy ügyvéd titkárnője. A kislányuk már középiskolás.

Sok kollégámnak a nevemről ma is a színház jut eszébe. Minden évben előre összeállítottam számukra a színházi bemutatók és repertoárdarabok listáját, s beépíthették a tantervbe a színházlátogatásokat. A mi kerületünk diákjainak minden színház szívesen adott el egy-egy teltházat, mert a kollégák előre felkészítették a gyerekeket a látnivalókra.

Annak ellenére, hogy a szüleimnek a kulturális igénye megvolt, de ők megközelítően sem tudtak úgy élni, ahogy szerettek volna. Mások voltak a gazdasági, a kulturális és a technikai lehetőségek. A legmerészebb álmaimban sem gondoltam gyerekkoromban, hogy a testvérem családja vagy az én családom olyan körülmények között fog élni, ahogy élünk.

Hála istennek, az egész életünk egészen más, mint a szüleinké volt. Gyerekkoromban egy libát egy hétig ettünk. Nagyon beosztóan éltünk. A megtakarításaikból tudták segíteni a szüleiket is. Soha nem felejtem el, hogy amikor életemben először – már a gyerekek nagyobbak voltak – vettem két sütnivaló kacsát, és megsütöttem vasárnapi ebédnek. Amikor odaraktam az asztalra, akkor elsírtam magam. Arra gondoltam, hogy a szüleinknek soha nem tellett arra, hogy két kacsát rakjanak az asztalra.

Már említettem, hogy 1949-ben, amikor férjhez mentem, először a Fürst Sándor utca – azaz Hollán utca – 16-ban laktunk, egy garzonlakásban. Mikor a fiam megszületett, sikerült ezt a lakást elcserélni egy kétszobásra, a Keleti Károly utcába. Ott éltünk addig, amíg Mari nyolc éves, Gyuri tizenhárom éves nem lett. Akkor elköltöztünk a Vércse utcába, a tizenkettedik kerületbe, a Sas-hegyre, egy két szoba, hálófülkés, személyzetis lakásba. A férjem átalakította a hálófülkét egy kis szobának. Így a gyerekeknek külön szobájuk lett. Tizenhat évig laktunk ebben a lakásban. Vettünk közben a Mártonfa utcában egy telket a megtakarított pénzünkből. A gyerekeink felnőttek, megházasodtak. Eladtuk a Vércse utcai lakást, a Mártonfa utcai telekre a férjem tervezett és épített egy ikerházat 1980-ban. Egy ikerházat. Az ikerház felét eladtuk. Abból a pénzből meg, amit a másik lakásért kaptunk, tudtuk fölépíteni a mi lakásunkat, házilagos kivitelezésben. Így tudtunk segíteni a gyerekeinknek is, hogy megfelelő lakásba költözhessenek. Ide, az Aladár utcába két és fél éve költöztem. A házat csak másfél éve, tavaly novemberben adtam el. Az öcsém adott kölcsönt, és abból vettem meg ezt a lakást. Amikor eladtam a házat, akkor visszaadtam a kölcsönt az öcsémnek. Nagyon jó, hogy a testvérem segítségére mindig számíthatok.

Az öcsémnek Kanadában van négy gyereke. A legidősebb 1960-ban, a legkisebb 2006. október tizenegyedikén született. Így a gyerekek kor szerinti megoszlása érdekes: van egy negyvenhét éves, egy negyvenöt éves fia és egy negyvenhárom éves lánya. A második feleségétől, Larissától meg a kicsi, a Sigmund Bernard Robert. A legidősebb fiú az apám nevét viseli, Michael, sikeres orvos. A második fiú William, az elhalt nagybátyám nevét örökölte, ő színésznek tanult, de személyi trénerként keresi a kenyerét. A lánya, Giselle az édesanyám neve után kapta a nevét, Gigi gazdasági ismereteket tanult, ő az öcsém cégében dolgozik, ő az apja jobbkeze. Az öcsém a névadásban nagyon konzekvens. Azért, hogy a két nagypapának a neve fönnmaradjon, Robbie megkapta az ő nevüket is, ezzel is emléket akart állítani Bernát és Zsigmond nagypapának. Vannak ilyen romantikus dolgai az öcsémnek. Robbie születése igazi csoda a számomra. Édesapám halála után hatvankét évvel, édesanyám halála után negyvenöt évvel született egy unokájuk!

Tominak hét fiúunokája van és egy lány: Montgomery, Joshua, Jordan, Jared, Brendon, Donovan, Jessie és Wessy. A lányának van négy gyereke, a fiúknak kettő-kettő. A három legidősebb unokája már egyetemista.

Tomi tizennyolc éves korában ment el, disszidált. Fűtésszerelő volt a szakmája. Először Bécsbe ment. Rokonaink éltek Amerikában és Ausztráliában, az öcsém Kanadába ment. Nem beszélt angolul. Mosogatással kezdte a kanadai életét. Soha senkitől nem kért segítséget. Nagyon szorgalmas, céltudatos ember. Mindig tudta, hogyha valamit el akar érni, ahhoz kitartásra van szüksége. A szerencse is mellé szegődött. Már 1965-ben olyan egzisztenciája volt, hogy meghívott minket a férjemmel Torontóba. Akkor ismertük meg Willyt és Gigit is. Együtt látogattuk meg apánk amerikai unokatestvéreit. Érdekes találkozás volt, nagyon hasonlítottak az itthoni Svédekre. Az idősebbek beszéltek magyarul, a fiatalabbak nem. Felejthetetlen marad ez a találkozás.

A testvérem ma már egy nagyon jómódú üzletember. Festőszerszámokat importál – közel negyven éve – Kínából Kanadába és az Egyesült Államokba. Nagyon büszke vagyok rá, mert amit elért, azt a saját eszével, erejével érte el.

A gyerekeim tizenhat éves diákként az öcsém vendégei voltak, az ő gyerekei, amikor tizenhat évesek lettek, családi hagyományként hozzánk jöttek nyaralni. Minden nagy családi eseményt együtt ünnepelünk, bár micvókat, esküvőket. Ilyen események egy ilyen nagy családban gyakran előfordulnak. A torontói eseményekre mi utazunk Kanadába, a pesti eseményekre az öcsémék jönnek Budapestre.

A fiam, György 1951-ben született. Építészmérnök, szigetelő szakmérnök. Angol nyelvvizsgája is van. 1978-ban házasodott, a felesége építőmérnök. Van egy fiuk, Dávid, aki 1979-ben született. A fiam második neve Mihály, így ő vitte tovább apám keresztnevét.

A fiam mindig nagyon szolid és szelíd volt. Mindig azt csinálta, amit éppen csinálnia kellett. Amikor iskolába kellett járni, akkor iskolába járt, ha tanulni kellett, tanult, vagy ha katonának kellett menni, akkor katona volt. Rendkívül jól alkalmazkodott. A férjemmel mindig azt mondtuk, hogy ő a lányunk, és a lányunk a fiunk. Ő az idősebb, ő az, aki mindig tudta, hogy mit akar csinálni. Ötödikes korában azt mondta, hogy ő mindenben olyan akar lenni, mint az apu, tehát építészmérnök lesz. Ötödikes korától erre készült. Leérettségizett, amikor le kellett érettségizni, felvételizett, amikor felvételizni kellett. Elvégezte az egyetemet, minden halasztás, évismétlés nélkül. Néha rossz jegyet hozott haza, nekünk kellett vigasztalni. Mondtuk is, hogy ő az a gyerek, akinek a hármasért jutalmat kell adni. Kötelességtudó, sok benne a felelősségtudat. Huszonhét évig élt velünk. A férjemmel azt vallottuk, hogy huszonhét év alatt huszonhét perc szomorúságot sem okozott nekünk. Ma egy belga–német cégnek a magyarországi igazgatója.

A fiam fia, Dávid már gimnazista korában úgy gondolta, s ezt a nagyapjával is megbeszélte, hogy miután az apja is meg a nagyapja is építészmérnök, ő is építészmérnök lesz. Azt mondta: „Jó kis dinasztia leszünk!” Dávidom kitűnőre érettségizett. Addigra német, olasz és angol nyelvvizsgája is volt. Beiratkozott a műszaki egyetemre, el is végezte, időre. Ő volt ott a diákbizottság elnöke, az öt évből négy évet. Amikor megkapta a diplomáját, elvittem neki a nagyapja diplomáját is. Azóta elvégezte a közgazdasági egyetemet is, most már mérnök-közgazdász. Angolul, németül, olaszul beszél. Most huszonnyolc éves, van egy menyasszonya, 2008-ban akarnak összeházasodni.

A lányom, Mária 1956-os születésű. A tanult szakmái: kirakatrendező, grafikus, reklám, propaganda. Jól beszél angolul. Két gyereke van. A lánya, Zsuzsa 1977-ben született, neki is van egy kislánya, Dóri. A dédunokám 2002-ben született. A lányom fia, György Róbert 1984-ben született.

A lányom öt hónapos volt 1956 októberében. Mint már említettem, majdnem éhen halt. Attól kezdve még jobban kényeztettük, Nagyon szép kislány volt. Könnyen barátkozott. Vagányabb volt a fiúknál is. Érettségi után jelentkezett a Külkereskedelmi Főiskolára és a Kirakatrendező Iskolába. Nagyon jó nyelvérzéke volt, az általános iskolában orosz tagozatra járt, akkor már jól beszélt angolul. A humán tárgyakat jobban kedvelte. Nagyon jó volt a kézügyessége is. Az Arany János Gimnáziumban érettségizett. Az volt az az év, amikor az érettségin csak „megfelelt”, „nem felelt meg” értékelést adták. A gyerekek nem tanultak, tanulás helyett buliztak. Mondtam Marinak: „Készülni is kellene az érettségire!” Válaszolt: „Anya, pedagógus vagy, gondolod, hogy van olyan tanár, aki négy évig engem négyes-ötösre zárt le történelemből, magyarból, angolból, az most meg fog buktatni?!” Igyekeztem meggyőzni arról, hogy az ember magának tanul, a tudás hatalom. Angolból kiemelten jól felelt meg, a többiből megfelelt.

A mi tehetséges, okos lányunkat nem vették fel egyik helyre sem, ahova jelentkezett. A kirakatrendező iskolába a következő tanévben fölvették. Az apja ragaszkodott hozzá, hogy elmenjen segédmunkásnak, nem hagyta, hogy egy évig ne csináljon semmit. Kirakatrendező segédmunkásnak felvették egy nagy dekorációs céghez, a Hungexpóhoz. Az összes nagy kiállítást ez a cég csinálta. Azt mondta az apja, hogy aki nem tanult, akit nem vettek föl sehová, annak nem az eszéből, hanem a fizikai erejéből kell megélnie. A kislányunk rájött arra, milyen rossz reggel öt órakor felkelni. Nagyon sokat tanult ez alatt az egy év alatt az élet iskolájában. A következő évben fölvették őt a kirakatrendező iskolába, el is végezte.

Letette az angol nyelvvizsgát. Később elvégzett egy felsőfokú PR [public relation] tanfolyamot. Kirakatban nem akart dolgozni. Egy ideig a Közlekedési Múzeumban volt dekoratőr, kiállításokat rendezett. Később egy vegyianyaggyárban dolgozott a Fehérvári úton, ott PR feladatokat látott el. 1976-ban férjhez ment, négy és fél év után elváltak. Négyévi házasság után derült ki, hogy a lányom a negyedik felesége a férjének. Akkor már a kislányuk, Zsuzsa négy éves volt. Mari nem akart tovább együtt élni a hazugságokkal. Matyi, a férje zsidó volt. A szülei tagadták a zsidóságukat. Később, ismerősöktől tudtuk meg, hogy zsidók. Nagyon pozicionált emberek voltak. A mama, az unokám másik nagymamája most halt meg, a papa már régebben. Az unokámnak a válás után minden kapcsolata megszűnt a nagyszüleivel és az édesapjával is. Az apja tartásdíjat se fizetett, a gyerekét huszonöt év alatt talán huszonötször látta. Az ötödik feleségétől van egy fia. A lánya és a fia között nincs semmilyen kapcsolat. Matyinak van egy testvére, annak van két lánya. A két unokatestvérével igazi unokatestvérekként szeretik egymást.

Amikor meghalt a nagymama, az unokám a két unokatestvérével kiment a temetésére. Temetés után fölhívott, és azt mondta: „Te, anyu, én nem hittem, hogy én az égadta világon semmit nem éreztem a mamika iránt. Kirohantam a temetés után az apuhoz – férjemet, apunak, engem anyunak szólítanak az unokák – a temetőbe, mert akartam érezni, hogy nekem igazán voltak nagyszüleim.” Imádták a gyereket a V. nagyszülők, amíg házasok voltak a gyerekeink, aztán elfelejtették. Soha nem tudom ezt megbocsátani, nagyon sok fájdalmat okoztak ezzel az unokánknak.

Mari, másodszor is férjhez ment, 1983-ban. Amikor 1984-ben a kisfiuk megszületett, a GYES után úgy döntött a lányom, hogy kereskedő lesz. A férjének volt egy fodrászüzlete, abban kialakítottak egy kis butikot, ahol mindenféle encsem-bencsem-kincsemet árult. Később a fodrászüzlet felét átalakították sörözőnek. Ez az üzlet egy nagy pavilon. Valaki betársult hozzájuk a söröző megnyitásához. Attól kezdve, a vőm többet volt a kocsmában, mint a fodrászüzletben. Egyébként nagyon rendes, melegszívű ember. A lányunokánkat úgy szerette és úgy nevelte, mintha a sajátja volna. Nem tett különbséget soha, semmiben a fia és a lánya között. Imádja őket. A két gyerek igazi testvérként nőtt fel. Az unokát a saját unokájának tekinti. Nagyon, nagyon szeretik egymást.

Amikor a vőmmel kezdődtek a problémák, látta a lányom, hogy valami nagyon nagy baj lesz. Gyorsan nyitott egy használtruha üzletet. Elkülönült a férje cégétől. Nagy szerencse, hogy neki már megvolt ez a használtruha üzlete. Azóta is kereskedői tevékenységet folytat, nagyon ügyesen. A férje cége csődbe ment.

A végén ebből a kis kereskedelmi cégből egy kis áruházszerűség lett. Mindig nagyított, vett hozzá még területet, helyiséget, és mindent árult. Körülbelül négy évvel ezelőtt megvásárolta és átalakította ezt a háromszáz négyzetméteres területet. Csinált egy miniplázát tizenkét üzlettel. Két évig üzemeltette, majd eladta az egészet egy amerikai befektetőnek. A lányom most azon gondolkozik, hogy ingatlanozni fog, vagy esetleg megint visszatér a ruhakereskedelemhez. Most éppen átmeneti időszakot élünk. A lányom a legjobb barátnőm. Nagyon jó anya és nagymama. A második férjével baráti kapcsolatban vannak. Gyurka a családunkhoz tartozik. A lányom mindenben ügyes, csak még nem tudta megtalálni az igazi társát.

A lányunokám leérettségizett, kicsit komplikáltan, mert a harmadik középiskola után, amit közepesen végzett el, közölte, hogy neki elege van a tanulásból, a piacon vesz egy érettségi bizonyítványt. A nagyapja ettől az ötlettől majdnem rosszul lett. A férjem halála után az unokám közölte velem, hogy ő tartozik az apunak egy érettségi bizonyítvánnyal. Le is érettségizett, becsülettel. Utána mindenfélével próbálkozott. Olyan ötletei voltak, ugye anyja lánya, hogy ő angolt fog tanítani. Óvodában tanított is. Azt kérdezte tőlem: „Anyu, lehet, hogy a te nevedben tanítsak?” Mondtam neki, hogy az én diplomámmal ő nem taníthat. „De te váltsál ki engedélyt, és én majd tanítok helyetted.” „Ez linkség megint. Nem.” „De anyu, hát.” „Jó, tegyük fel, kiváltom, mi lesz, ha meghalok?” „Anyu, te ne halj meg!” Ezzel a kisunokám megoldotta a problémát! Ez után a beszélgetés után beiratkozott egy idegenvezetői iskolába. Angolból letette a nyelvvizsgát. A záróvizsgára nem ment el. Van egy abszolvált indexe, csak záróvizsgája nincs. Viszont van egy tüneményes, gyönyörű lánya és egy aranyos párja. A kislányuk már öt éves. „2008-ban elvesszük anyát feleségül” – mondja nekem a dédunokám.

Az unokám nyitott egy kreatív boltot az anyja miniplázájában. Kézműves dolgokat készít, például szalvétatechnikával dobozokat díszít, meg gyöngyfűzéshez való dolgokat árul. Fantasztikus a kézügyessége. A párjának van egy fuvarozó cége, annak az ügyvitelét, adminisztrációját is csinálja. Hála istennek, szeretetben, harmóniában, elég jó anyagi körülmények között élnek.

Legkisebb unokám – százkilencvenhét centiméter magas – kicsinek nagyon mozgékony, élénk kisfiú volt. Miután ő volt a „ kicsi”, mindenki őt kényeztette a családban. Egyetlen ember volt, akinek első szóra szót fogadott, a nagyapja, a férjem. Imádta és imádja ma is az autókat. A komputerekhez kicsi kora óta vonzódik, könnyedén megtanulta a számítógép használatát. Nem volt kérdés, természetesen, érettségi után a Gábor Dénes Számítástechnikai Főiskolára jelentkezett. Két évet jó eredménnyel végzett el ezen a főiskolán. Két év után halasztást kért, mert az édesapjával akart dolgozni, festőszerszámokkal akart kereskedni. Most is együtt dolgoznak, importtal, nagykereskedéssel és kiskereskedéssel foglalkoznak. Sajnos, a főiskolát nem fejezte be. Ősszel beiratkozott a külkereskedelmi főiskolára. Úgy gondolja, hogy a mostani munkájához ezekre az ismeretekre van szüksége. A számítástechnika is érdekli, de ezeket az ismereteket autodidakta módon szerzi meg. Az unokáim közül ő a legzárkózottabb.

A férjem a Toldi cserkészcsapat tagja volt. Ez a csapat soha nem szűnt meg. Amikor betiltották a cserkészcsapatokat itt, Amerikában élt tovább a csapat, szerkesztették az újságukat, az Ösvényt. Ebben a gárdában mi vagyunk a legfiatalabbak lassan, de ezek a nyolcvan-nyolcvanöt éves emberek is négyévenként világtalálkozókat rendeznek. Idejönnek, együtt vannak itt, és szeretik egymást. Ezek a barátságok megmaradtak. Amikor mi elkezdhettünk utazni, tudtuk, hogy X barátja, cserkésztársa a férjemnek abban a városban él. Természetesen mindig úgy alakítottuk a programjainkat, hogy találkozni, beszélgetni tudjunk. Ez nagyon jó volt, hogy az embert a világon mindenhol barátok fogadták.

A hetvenedik születésnapomat megünnepeltük, ezt az összejövetelt már csak a gyerekeim szervezték, Péter akkor már nem élt. A család és a legközelebbi barátaim együtt voltak. Ez is meglepetés volt. Ott voltak az unokáim is, mind a hárman. Minden tele volt virággal. Görög Júlia barátnőm, grafikusművész a hetvenedik születésnapomra összerakta az életem bőröndjét. Nagyon sok ötlet és szeretet van ebben a bőröndben. Attól kezdve, hogy utazhattunk, sokat utaztunk, kíváncsiak voltunk a világra, sokfelé jártunk, gyakran Juliék voltak az útitársaink. Ezért lett a bőrönd. A mini Ady-kötet az irodalomtanárnak szól. A fakanál az „alkotó” háziasszony jelképe, fakanálon a felirat: „aranygaluska, bodzaparfé, sólet, csokitorta, libamáj” – ezek a specialitásaim. Természetesen itt a bridzskártya, és itt van a kutyám, Exi képe. Majd tizenöt évig volt családtag nálunk. Radnóti: „Á la recherche”, Radnóti a kedvenc költőm. Egy pici telefon jelzi, hogy állandóan ülök a telefonon. Feliratok: „Béke védelmének feladatai.” „Éljen a magyar békekongresszus!” – emlékek 1950-ből, a nyolcadik nyári úttörő-olimpiáról. A fiatalságunk emlékei. A Szabadság-szobor. Egy sárga csillag, a sötét múlt. Szerkesztettem valamikor egy nyelvtanjegyzetet, abból is egy darab. Színházjegyek, szeretek színházba járni, a gyerekeket is a színház szeretetére akartam tanítani. Egy kis repülő is van itt, repülőn gyorsabban jut el az ember valahová, mint autóval. Babits, Tóth Árpád – még egy kis irodalom. Két pálcika, menjek el Kínába is, mert ott még nem voltam. A szíves doboz jelentése, hogy mindenki előtt nyitva áll a szívem, senkit nem felejtek el.  Ebbe a szíves dobozba mindenki berakhatott egy fényképet. Itt vannak benne a picike fényképek, ismerősök és rokonok, a rokonok rokonai, kollégák, cserkésztársak, bridzspartnerek. Itt van Péter fényképe, képek a gyerekeimről, unkáimról, a dédunokámról.

Ilyen az én barátném! Mindig, mindenkinek, akit szeret, a kerek évfordulókra csinál valami kedves meglepetést, amit boltban nem lehet kapni. Az egyik barátnőnknek a hetvenedik születésnapjára rajzolta meg eredetiben a dámákat – ez egy másolat. A bridzspartnerek a négy dáma. Pikk dáma: R. Lili, az ünnepelt, kőr dáma: V. Vera, treff dáma: G. Juli, a káró dáma én vagyok. Ez nem az én születésnapomra készült, ez is zseniális ötlet és kivitelezés, nem akármi!

Nem rossz dolog, ha az embernek ilyen barátai vannak. Szerintem ez a legnagyobb kincs. Nekem a szeretet adok-kapok az igazi érték. A gyerekem mindig azt mondja, anyu, csak azt nem veszed tudomásul, hogy nem mindenki úgy gondolkozik, mint te. Ebben igaza van.

A gyerekeim nincsenek megkeresztelve. Nem tagadtuk soha a zsidóságunkat, de nem akartuk a kisfiúnkat „megjelölni”. Féltettük a gyerekeinket. Még élénken élt bennem az emlék, amikor anyukámmal bujkálni akartunk 1944-ben, nem mertük vállalni, mert az öcsém meg volt malenolva [körülmetélve]. Neki nem kellett hordani csillagot, nem volt még hat éves. Attól rettegtünk, ha a gyereknek letolják a gatyáját egy razzián, ott ölik meg előttünk.

1945 után nem foglalkoztam azzal, hogy zsidó vagyok vagy nem. Örültem, hogy teljes jogú ember vagyok, nem állat, nem hajthatnak családommal együtt az utcán, mint egy hordát. Véleményem lehetett, választhattam, dolgozhattam az ifjúsági mozgalomban. A férjemmel együtt újjászületésként éltük meg 1945-öt, nekünk ez tényleg felszabadulás volt. „Véletlenül” a baráti körünk nagy része zsidókból került ki, akikkel hasonlóan gondolkoztunk. Természetesen nagyon sok kedves barátom van, aki keresztény.

1956-ig [lásd: 1956-os forradalom] nem nagyon éreztünk zsidóellenességet. 1956-ban a falra is kiírták: „Vigyázz, Itzig, nem jutsz el Auschwitzig.” Október huszonkilencedikén-harmincadikán Budán ilyen feliratok voltak a falakon, nyilaskereszteket is rajzoltak. Az antiszemitizmus nem halt ki. Ma sem. Sőt!

Amikor a gyerekeim keresztényekkel házasodtak, annak örültem, hogy „keveredtek”. Ők alapvetően ateisták, talán inkább úgy mondanám, hogy deisták. Hisznek egy világot fenntartó erőben. Nem tartják be a zsidó vallás törvényeit, nem jártak hittanra, de nem tagadják a zsidóságukat. A „félzsidó” unokáim sem tagadják meg őseiket, barátaik között sok a zsidó. Így alakult ki, automatikusan.

Amikor az unokám gyereke megszületett, az unokám elmondta, hogy az apa családja azt akarja, hogy megkereszteljék katolikusnak. Ő nem akart a párjával ujjat húzni. Megkérdezte tőlem: „Anyu, neked ez nagyon fájna?” „Nekem? Miért fájna? Egyrészt a te gyereked, nekem a dédunokám. Természetesen el fogok menni a keresztelőjére. Szerintem az a baj, hogy az egész csaláson alapul. Te nem vagy keresztény, nem vagytok megházasodva.”

A keresztelő után „buliztunk”, a nagymamák, dédik sütöttek, főztek, mi vittük az ennivalót, a szülők az italokat hozták. A másik nagymama, az unokám anyósa kérdezte: „Ugye, milyen gyönyörű volt a keresztelő?”  Válaszoltam: „Nagyon szép volt, mert mi lehet nem szép a Mátyás templom altemplomában?” Sajnos, majdnem rosszul lettem. Egyetlen dologért büntettem mindig a gyerekeimet, ha hazudtak. Nálunk a hazugság volt a legnagyobb bűn. Soha nem kaptak büntetést, ha elmondták, ha valami rosszat csináltak. Edit szerint ez a hazugság kegyes hazugság volt. Értetlenül válaszoltam: „Templomban? Hazudni?” Mindenkinek a hitét tiszteletben tartom, a hazugságot gyűlölöm.

A zsidóság – szerintem – egy sorsközösség. Attól nem vagyok zsidó, hogy bemegyek a templomba, ott davenolok [imádkozom], vagy részt veszek a traccspartiban, amit ott a hölgyek folytatnak az emeleten. Úgy vagyok én zsidó, hogy nem tagadom a zsidóságomat, ha zsidóznak, vitázni is hajlandó vagyok. A gyerekeim is hasonlóan gondolkoznak erről. A férjemet, aki nem gyakorolta a vallását, de magasabb erkölcsi törvényeket tartott be, mint a tíz parancsolat, a Farkasréti zsidó temetőben temettük, zsidó rituálé szerint [lásd: temetés; temető]. Közös megegyezéssel döntöttünk így, mert sajnos a férjemmel erről nem beszéltünk. A férjem mellett szeretnék én is nyugodni.

Fontos volt számomra az is, hogy elpusztított családtagjaimnak emléket állítsak. 1990-ben, amikor a férjemmel Izraelben jártunk, a Jad Vasemben kaptam adatlapokat, annyit kértem, ahány családtagomat elpusztították. Itthon ezeket a lapokat kitöltöttem a pontos adatokkal, fényképeket is ragasztottam a lapokra. Visszaküldtem. Értesítettek, hogy családom tagjai szerepelnek a holokauszt áldozatainak listáján, unokatestvéreim nevét, a gyerekek emlékházának magnóján szerepeltetik. Még abban az évben, a hatvanadik születésnapomra azzal ajándékoztam meg magam, hogy a Svéd családnak és a Müller családnak egy-egy levelet vettem Varga Imre emlékfáján. Később, az öcsém minden családtagunknak külön levelet vásárolt [A fáról bővebben lásd a Dohány utcai zsinagóga szócikket. – A szerk.].

Van egy kollégám, akivel az Aga utcai iskolában tanítottam együtt. Egyszer, amikor beléptem a tanáriba, éppen előadást tartott a zsidókról, ilyenek meg olyanok, mindenhova bejutnak. Odaálltam, és megkérdeztem, hogy rólam beszél-e, mert én zsidó vagyok. Csend lett. Aztán azt mondtam neki: „Akkor mostantól kezdve, a kötelező beszélgetésen kívül, veled nem beszélek.” Addig nagyon jóban voltunk. „Az én segítségemre mostantól ne számíts!” Többet nem mondtam. Az Aga utcai iskola megszűnt. Kollégáink, akik most a Keveház utcai iskolában tanítanak, összehoztak egy Aga utcai találkozót. Aranyosak voltak a kollégák. Nagyon sokan voltunk, ott volt ez a kolléga is. Tárt karokkal jött elém: „Jaj, Györgyi, te nem változtál semmit!” „Örülök, hogy ez a véleményed” – feleltem, nem fogtam vele kezet, mentem tovább. Lángvörös lett, tudomásul vette, hogy én nem felejtek. Munka nélkül van, mert elitta az eszét, az elsők között küldték el az iskolából. Most van oka, hogy elégedetlenkedjen.

Tegnap a zsidóságomról kérdeztél. Sokat gondolkoztam. Éjjel nem aludtam, mécsest gyújtottam anyukámért, a halálozási évfordulóján égett egész éjszaka. Gondolkoztam. 1944 előtt anyukám gyújtott gyertyát [lásd: gyertyagyújtás] péntek esténként. Volt két ezüst gyertyatartónk, azokba tette a gyertyákat, majd meggyújtotta, körmozdulatokat tett a szeme előtt, imádkozott. Másra nem emlékszem. 1945 után anyukám nem gyújtott gyertyát.

Apukám munkaszolgálatosként eltávozást kapott hosszúnapkor. Akkor már nagyon beteg volt, könyörögtünk neki, hogy ne böjtöljön. Böjtölt, hogy a szülei hazajöjjenek. Átmentünk ünnepkor Goldsteinékhoz. A harmadik emeleten laktak, a liftbe se szállt be szegénykém. Rosszul is lett a lépcsőházban.

A férjemmel nem jártunk zsinagógába. Engem a Schweitzer Jóska [Schweitzer József főrabbi – A szerk.] úgy hív, hogy én vagyok „az egynapos zsidó”. Minden hosszúnapkor [Jom Kipur] elmegyek a templomba, maszkerra [lásd: mázkir]. Anyukám, miután a szüleit, a testvéreit meg apámat megölték, minden hosszúnapkor elment a templomba, maszkérra. Az elpusztított hozzátartozóira emlékezett. Anyám halála óta járok én is templomba. Hova mehettem volna, mint oda, ahol a Jóska volt! Schweitzer Jóska, azóta azon az egy napon mindig biztos találkozott velem a templomban, amíg aktív volt.

Az öcsém elmesélte, hogy odakint kádist mondott hosszúnapkor. A gyerekeinek, unokáinak volt bár micvójuk. Michel bár micvói jutalma az volt, hogy Budapestre jött az egész család. Willy bár micvóján ott voltunk a férjemmel együtt, ez egy modern bár micvó volt. Mi álltunk az apai nagyszülők helyén. A férjem, apám helyett, fölment a tórához, tórát olvasni. Anyám helyett, én áldottam meg a gyereket. Az öcsém mindkét fiát, sőt unokáit is megmalenolták [körülmetélték]. Az idősebb fiának zsidó a felesége is, a másodiké keresztény. Gigit egy McPherson nevű skót vette feleségül. A szertartás reform zsidó szokás szerint zajlott [lásd: reform zsidóság] A kertben két sátrat állítottak fel, az egyiket templomnak, a másikat a vacsora és a büfé számára rendezték be. Reform rabbi esketett. Négy botra feszítettek ki egy táleszt, amit a férjem, a fiam, a lányom és én tartottunk, ez volt a hüpe. A szertartás után a táleszt az öcsém összehajtogatta, odaadta a vőlegénynek, aki hozzájárult ahhoz, hogy minden gyereke zsidó legyen.

A régi családban még tartottuk a hagyományos húsvétot [Pészah], Hagadával, széderrel. Az öcsém erre nem emlékszik, nem vallásos, de újraélesztette, és kicsit átalakította a hagyományokat. Azt találta ki az én kistestvérem, hogy Pészahkor nem az egyiptomiakról mesélt a családnak, hanem a mi családunk történet dokumentálta, az elpusztított hozzátartozóinkról mesélt. A családi levelekből, képekből Jordaine, a lányunokája segítségével „összeállították”, kinek a nevéhez kinek a fényképe, levele tartozik. Minden családtag kapott egy-egy másolatot, Tomi ennek alapján mesélt a családjáról, akiket valójában ő is csak anyukám és az én meséimből ismert. A sógornőm, Larissa másolta le nekem ezt az összeállítást. Az egyik levél az anyai nagybátyámtól [dr. Müller Jenő] az apámnak szólt, amikor hazajött. Őt 1942-ben elvitték Ukrajnába [lásd: munkaszolgálat (musz)]. Orvos volt, és abból a szörnyű századból jött haza. Egy másik levelet apám húgának, Juliskának a férje, Weinfeld Andor (András) írta a nagynénéméknek, Goldsteinéknak, akik csomagot küldtek neki a munkatáborba. Kulturált írás. „Nagyon köszönöm a sok mindent, amit küldtetek, de sajnos, nem tudok annyi sokat elfogyasztani, azt hiszem, mindent rendben megkaptam. Úgy gondolom, Ilitől is (ez egy másik nagynéném) kaptunk csomagot, úgyhogy minden megvan.”  Az öcsém Weinfeld András másik levelét is lefordította, amelyben arról írt, hogy elvitték a családját. Juliska néném levelezőlapjának a másolata is itt van, segélykiáltásként írja, hogy elvitték őket a rákoskeresztúri gettóból, nem tudja, hova.

A gyerekeim kamaszkorukban kezdtek el foglalkozni azzal, hogy zsidó, nem zsidó. Otthon tudatosan nem beszéltünk róla, mert rettentően féltettük őket. Utólag, most ezt nagyon rossznak tartom. A péntek estét nem tartottuk. Hanuka helyett a szeretet ünnepeként mi a karácsonyt ünnepeltük. A hároméves lányom az óvodában elmondta, hogy a karácsonyfát nem a Jézuska hozza, hanem mi díszítjük fel, együtt. Az egyik kislány apukája megfenyegette őt, hogy ne meséljen butaságokat: „Leviszlek a pincébe, ha ilyeneket mesélsz, és ott megesznek a farkasok.” Az én kislányom felháborodottan válaszolta: „Hát most már tudom, hogy miért olyan buta az Icuka, mert te is ilyen buta vagy! Az apukámmal szoktam a pincébe járni fáért, ott nincsenek farkasok. Jézuska sincs, ezzel a két kezemmel díszítettem a fát.” Ezt az óvónő nevetve mesélte nekem.

Most voltam néhány vitán, mert néhányan azt akarták, hogy legyünk kisebbség. Zsidó kisebbség. Ott volt Szegő, vele vitáztunk. [Szegő András 2005-ben kiállt a mellett, hogy a zsidóságot etnikai kisebbséggé nyilvánítsák. A cél a nem vallásos zsidó emberek zsidóságtudatát, összetartozását megerősíteni. – A szerk.] Elmentem különböző vitákra, érvelni, mert azt gondoltam, hogy a fene egye meg, én legyek kisebbség, aki ezer és ezer embert tanított meg a magyar nyelv szeretetére, az irodalom ismeretére? Hogy jövünk mi ehhez? Kikérem magamnak, hogy emberek a nevemben is nyilatkozzanak! Úgy éreztem, meg lehet vívni ezt a harcot. Szegő nem értette meg érveinket. Ötvenen magyaráztuk neki az ellenérveket. Nem értette meg. Ugyanazt válaszolta ötvenedszer is, mint egy szajkó. Egyszerűen képtelen volt fölfogni ésszel a sok-sok ellenérvet. Már csak az hiányzik itt Magyarországon, hogy a zsidóság kisebbség legyen!

***

Nekem hatvan év sem volt elég ahhoz, hogy feldolgozzam a sors csapásait. Úgy gondoltam, befejezésként felsorolom mindazt, amit a sors ajándékának tartok.

1. Abba a családba születtem, ahol szeretetben leélhettem életem első tizenhárom évét.

2. Édesanyámmal és öcsémmel együtt túléltük a holokausztot.

3. A férjemmel élhettem együtt negyvennyolc évet.

4. Taníthattam ötvenkét évet.

5. A gyerekeimet, akiket becsületben felnevelhettünk, taníttathattunk. Velük örülhetek örömeiknek. Öreg napjaimban mindenben segítenek, mellettem állnak. Olyan emberek lettek, akiket a másik ember gondja is megérint, készségesen segítenek mindenkinek, aki a segítségüket kéri.

6. Az öcsémet, akivel ötvenegy év óta távol élünk egymástól, de igazi testvérek maradtunk.

7. A három unokám létét, és azt, hogy a társaikkal együtt most már öt unokám van.

8. Megélhettem az első dédunokám születését, figyelhetem fejlődését, játszhatok vele, segít nekem főzni, színházba is mehetünk már együtt.

9. A barátaimat, akik már nincsenek velünk, elvesztésük nagyon fáj, de emlékük velem él. Az élő, régi barátaimat, akikkel még szeretnék sok szép napot együtt tölteni, bridzselni, utazni, vagy csak jókat beszélgetni. A fiatal barátaimat – többségük volt tanítványom –, akik késleltetik azt, hogy igazi öregasszony legyek.

10. Bandit, aki tíz éve a társam. Akkor találkoztunk, amikor mindketten úgy gondoltuk, hogy nekünk már nem adhat semmit az élet. Tévedtünk, sok szépet láttunk még együtt, igyekeztünk szebbé tenni egymás életét. Nem volt könnyű a mi korunkban összecsiszolódni.

Emanuel Elbinger
Cracow
Poland
Interviewer: Jolanta Jaworska
Date of interview: December 2005 – January 2006

Mr. Emanuel Elbinger lives alone in a one-room apartment on a high-rise estate in Cracow. He looks after his younger but very frail sister Pola and is an active member of the Cracow branch of the Children of the Holocaust Association 1. Several times a year he travels to Belgium to visit family, and friends and relatives from all over the world often come to see him. Mundek, as everyone calls him, also likes soccer, and occasionally drops by one of Cracow’s pubs to watch a match.

My family history
Growing up
During the war
Going into hiding
After the war
Children's home
Life in Communist Poland
Recent years
Glossary

My family history

My surname is Elbinger, first name Emanuel. I was born on 2nd January 1931 in Cracow, and before the war I lived in the town of Nowe Brzesko, that’s 25 kilometers from Cracow. My two younger sisters were born when we were already living in Nowe Brzesko.

My grandmother on my father’s side was called Genendl, and her surname was the same as Father’s: Elbinger. Only she’d been married once before. Elbinger was her second husband; the first was Zabner. She’d had children in her first marriage, but I didn’t know them, they didn’t live in Nowe Brzesko. She was religious; she wore a sheitl. She dressed typically old-fashioned: long black skirt and blouse. She was a widow. But my parents used to say that my grandfather had been very religious. Did nothing but pray. It used to be called studying. All day long sitting at his books while she – which was very common with religious Jews – took care of the running of the house, that there was something to live on, a wage – ‘pernusy,’ it’s called in Jewish [Yid.: parnasa].

Grandmother was blind, and I’d often have to take her places, take her round – she’d lost her sight, you see. Our house was quite a way from her house – well, quite a way or not, but for a small town quite a way. On the Main Square too, only on the opposite side. Grandmother lived on her own. She managed on her own, because you see it was her house, and she lived just in one little room. Her other son [Zamwel] and his family lived in that house with her, too. So I’m sure my cousins helped her about as well. I think her illness, that she was blind, made her feel forced to depend on other people, and that must have made her… well, it’s hard to be happy, isn’t it, if you’ve got a handicap like that? I know that in earlier days she went to Cracow a lot, to see doctors, tried to get help. When she went to Cracow, my cousin Abraham, who lived there, would go with her to the doctors. Grandmother owned four houses in the Main Square. One two-story one, which she lived in, and three single-story ones. Grandmother was very enterprising and capable, and she and my grandfather built the 2-story house themselves. Before World War I, I think. As for the other houses, I don’t know exactly, but she probably bought them.

Grandmother’s house was the nicest house in Nowe Brzesko, with a balcony. There were nice stoves in there. I remember the address: Main Square 9. It was part sublet – on the first floor were the post office and some shops. On the second floor was a photography studio. Grandmother’s house was a corner house – the corner of the Square and Pilsudskiego Street, which led to the Old Square ­– there were two squares in Nowe Brzesko, you see. Grandmother had another 2 single-story cottages stuck on to the corner one, in the Square as well, and one more little house stuck on from Pilsudskiego Street. The houses had a shared courtyard. Going further along Pilsudskiego there’s the Old Square, on it the church, and further on the street leads towards the [River] Vistula. That’s 1 kilometer. Down there back before the war there was a huge, marshy common there as well – between Nowe Brzesko and the Vistula flood wall – there’s a flood wall there. Part marshy, by the flood wall, but nearer to the town dried out. On the other side of the Vistula you’re in the village of Ispina and the Niepolomice Forest, so it’s a very interesting area.

My father was born in Nowe Brzesko in 1900 in the house where Grandmother lived, and brought up there. His name was Boruch Mordechaj. Father was a good-looking man, and so he had the nickname ‘Doll’. Yes, you see he was quite handsome. He wasn’t tall. He didn’t wear a beard, but he did wear a Jewish-style cap – they were these round ones, with a short peak. He didn’t go out without a cap, with a bare head, no – he was religious, you see. Apart from that, he wore normal, European clothes. Father didn’t have an education, only the religious sort [he went to cheder].

Father had three brothers. One of them, Zamwel, lived in Nowe Brzesko. He had a wife and two sons my age. I don’t remember their names. They had a shop too, but not dry goods, a food store – in Grandmother’s house. Maybe it was Grandmother used to run it, when she still had her sight. Two of Father’s brothers were in Cracow. Yes, Moryc lived on Miodowa [Street], and had a textile wholesaler’s. He had two daughters: Ida and Giza. I knew both of them; by then they were young girls. The other brother had a food store on Zwierzyniecka Street. I don’t remember his name. I went to visit him there back before the war. They had one son, Abraham. Then there were Father’s half-brothers, but they didn’t keep in touch with them at all. But the four brothers stuck together.

Father and Mother were about the same age. She was born in 1900 or 1901 too. Mother was born in Strzemieszyce. That’s a small town in Silesia, near Katowice [approx. 80 km from Cracow]. People tended to call her by her Jewish name, Rajzel, but she had Roza in her papers. Her maiden name was Margulies. She had medium length hair. Mine was curly, but I don’t know who that was after. She was of medium build. To me, Mother was the most beautiful in the world, and most of all I think she was educated, and Father wasn’t. I think she’d graduated from gymnasium and was head and shoulders over Father when it came to intellect. In our family, Mom was more enterprising compared to Father, more lively, knew this and that – though she was from a religious family too.

To my mind she was a fantastic person. Mother was well in with the local elite: with the secretary of Nowe Brzesko borough, who she knew well, with his wife, with the teachers in Nowe Brzesko too. Well, as far as Nowe Brzesko went, that was the sort of… intellectual clique, if you like. Mother was the only one in town who could speak French – I remember when the first Germans arrived, the officers, she could talk to them in French. I don’t know where she’d learnt French. She must have wanted to learn it, because she certainly didn’t learn it at school. She was from a religious family, but not such an orthodox one that their whole life centered on praying – above all there was a living to be earned. I don’t know what Mother’s parents did. As I remember, her parents were already dead, only her brothers and sisters were still alive. Her two brothers lived in Bedzin [approx. 100 km west of Nowe Brzesko]. One definitely was called Dawid. The other one had a typical Jewish name… I can’t remember. I remember he was tall. The shorter one was Dawid. Mother’s sister, Frania, lived in Chrzanow [approx. 60 km west of Nowe Brzesko]. Long before the war she and her family immigrated to Antwerp, to Belgium. Mother had family in Sosnowiec [approx. 100 km west of Nowe Brzesko] too, but I don’t remember exactly who.

I think my parents met through matchmakers. It was a very good marriage. My sister Pola [Mr. Elbinger’s sister was called Priwa, but her father changed her name to Pola in 1945] was born in 1932, and Lusia [Lea] in 1934. We spoke Polish at home. My parents knew Yiddish, and sometimes spoke it to each other. Mother spoke Polish perfectly; Father sometimes dropped Yiddishisms in, because he’d spoken more Yiddish at home.

After their wedding Father and Mother set up their own dry goods store. Before that Father had been a glazier, but because he had a brother in Cracow with a cloth wholesale, they decided to get into the same business, because I presume they could get things on credit from him. I don’t really know, because I wasn’t into the business back then, I was too young. And usually Father bought his goods from his brother, brought them in carts from the wholesale. For the shop my parents rented a house that was even more central on the Square, on the Cracow – Sandomierz road. That house was rented from a Polish Christian family, the Lipnickis. It was a good location, because the biggest business was done at the markets. Before the war there were markets once a week, on Mondays. It’s a farming region, so the farmers used to bring their produce, crops, horses, other things, and of course they had the time that day, and they bought everything they needed in the town. Our shop, I think, was quite well stocked. It was one of the bigger shops in Nowe Brzesko. Father and Mother ran it. On market day my parents would get someone in to help because there were so many customers. Mother looked after the shop all day, of course, kept shop. The house too, and the children – sometimes it was too much. So a woman would come in. She just looked after us children. She wasn’t permanent, live-in. From time to time, to take us for walks or wherever. No, she wasn’t Jewish.

Growing up

In the house where our shop was we had quite a big apartment. Behind the shop there was a kitchen and my parents’ room – this big bedroom. I can’t remember if we children had a separate room. I think there was a corner set aside for us. My parents had 2 beds side by side, and apart from that I think there were extra beds for us, small ones. Some things fade... Further along, beyond the kitchen, was our stockroom, with the materials. And there was some other store room there too... boots – I think. There wasn’t a bathroom. There was this wooden lavatory set up in the yard. My parents didn’t have too much money, but we weren’t a poor family. It was more like we helped others, in the sense that on Saturdays we’d give all sorts of donations to the poor, collected funds. There were quite a lot of people like us there, because there were craftspeople, production.

The first thing I can remember from Nowe Brzesko is Pilsudski’s death 2. That was 1935. I was four, but I remember it as if it was yesterday. In Szmajser’s yard – he made shoe uppers – there was this huge… pear tree, I think it was, and there under it was this guy lying on the ground. Asleep, in the daytime. Hot, it was. ‘Why’s he lying there like that?’ I asked. So someone told me: ‘He’s drunk, because Grandfather’s died.’ Pilsudski was known as ‘Grandfather.’ That’s the first thing I remember.

Brzesko was a borough. It had once had a city charter, but before the war [WWII] it no longer did. Before World War I there had been Russians in Brzesko 3, a Russian garrison was stationed there, and there was an Orthodox church. It was in the Russian partition, and the border was along the Vistula. Nowe Brzesko was the Russian side, but beyond the river was Galicia 4, that was Austria. As I remember from childhood, Nowe Brzesko was buzzing with life, because I think the Jewish community was more… a bit more lively than the Poles. Nowe Brzesko was a town where a large proportion – well, not large, but there were quite a few Jews living there. There were maybe 100, 200 – so everyone knew each other. Ten percent of the town [Editor’s note: in 1939 there were approx. 2000 people in Nowe Brzesko. The Jews made up approx. 20% of the population]. The Poles didn’t necessarily all know each other, because it was quite spread out.

The center of Nowe Brzesko was where the Jews lived. Lots of the Jews had beards and sidelocks. Different caps, overcoats and tzitzit underneath, though not all of them. Broadly speaking, some were merchants and some craftsmen. All trades, and artisan production. And there was even a factory, I mean a shirt producer – it belonged to the Ickowicz family, a factory making trousers, clothes. I remember the tinkers – one of them, who had a workshop on Lubelska Street, used to make me whistles. That tinker made various things, including bowls, and I used to go round to see him because I was interested in how he did things with that metal – cut it, and then soldered it with zinc. Well, and there were a lot who made shoes. Some made uppers, others the bottoms. There was a division: the ones who made uppers separately, and the cobblers separately again, and they mended them afterwards – because you wore shoes until they wore out. You had them patched, re-heeled, and it was all expensive. You had your shoes made by the cobbler. He fitted you – what leather? Better, worse? You agreed a price. The same with clothes. There were Jewish tailors, a lot of them.

Just a small town, and yet it was full of craftsmen, all the craftwork really was done by Jews. They made things to sell to the farmers from the villages round about at the markets. Some of the Jews traded in crops. The people who acted as agents in the sale of crops from the manors were Jews. There were horse traders, cow traders. And shops too. There were butchers, bakeries – two super bakeries that didn’t supply just the Jews, but everyone. I used to take the chulent to the bakery on Krakowska Street. I remember watching them make matzah for the holidays [Pesach] – they only baked it in that one bakery. They used to cut out these big thin circles and run this cutter wheel over them, and then toss them into the oven with a wooden paddle. And then they took it right out of the oven, because it was so thin. There wasn’t a Polish bakery. All Jews.

No-one worked on Saturday, of course. The Jewish shops were closed and it was all festive. Everyone would play chess or checkers on the street – but that was the men. The women gossiped, met up. Everybody put tables and chairs outside their houses and sat around like that. And in the Square there were a few Jewish food stores that as well as the shop, out the back had a little room, like a cake shop, as it were. And on Saturdays the men used to go there and drink colored water, or fizzy drinks, eat cookies and talk. You weren’t allowed to pay on Saturdays, of course, so I suppose they paid on Monday. Father never went there – I just saw it, because it was in the neighborhood, and I would wonder that they could afford it. The proprietor there was called Kopel. We went for walks on Saturdays, along the Vistula, and then towards Smilowice [approx. 5 km east of Nowe Brzesko]; there’s a manor there [a neo-Classical house dating from ca. 1805 and a park, now ruined]. You took a big scarf to have something to sit on, and food. And then we’d sit in a meadow somewhere and eat. Life was… well, back then it seemed normal and good to me.

You went to cheyder [correct form: cheder] from when you were six [Editor’s note: boys usually went to cheder from the age of 3]. There wasn’t a Jewish school in Nowe Brzesko, but there was a [ritual] butcher and he was our melamed. It was his cheyder. You paid to go. I don’t remember what he was called. He’d given over one of his private rooms in his apartment to it. The butcher had a beard, I remember, and he was quite sturdy, not a young man. He wore an overcoat. And I learnt the Bible [Old Testament] with him, and at the same time I learnt Hebrew and Jewish. Some of the boys already knew Jewish, but I didn’t. The Bible is in Hebrew, but at the lessons it was translated word by word into Jewish, not into Polish. I remember to this day what I learnt, those bits from the Bible. It was the 5 Books of Moses, the Mish [correct form: Mishnah; the compendium of oral law edited by Rabbi Judah haNasi in approx. 200 A.D.], it’s called. And I even studied the Gemara [the compendium of commentaries and explanations supplementary to the Mishnah; together they make up the Talmud]. I went there for two years.

The Torah is the Jews’ holy book, and it’s divided up over the whole year. Every week there’s a different section – parsha [Heb.: part], it’s called – and it’s read out in the synagogue. When we went to cheyder, the teacher went over it with us too, and talked about that parsha. We didn’t understand much of it, but on Saturday I didn’t go to cheyder but to one of the citizens who knew the Torah, and I had to give an account of what I’d learnt over the week. And I remember I was quizzed by this one guy, who lived in the Square, and if I knew it, all of it, he would pinch me on the cheek with satisfaction. He used to give me something to eat there. No, I didn’t just go to him, to various families. I think it was either Father asked someone to test me, or the butcher himself sent us. All the children used to do that, because it forced you to study better. If I had to go and talk about what I’d learnt, then I had to try and remember what I’d been taught. All in all I went to cheyder for about two or three years, because at the beginning of the war I was still going. I think it was every day except Saturday and Sunday. Yes, I went on my own, because it wasn’t far. I don’t remember how long I was there for, an hour or two. I couldn’t say how many of us there might have been in that one room... five, ten – more or less the same age. Boys of other ages went too, but at different times.

Mother did every thing in the kitchen. She cooked and baked. We had a 100 percent kosher kitchen. Not far from Nowe Brzesko is Hebdow [approx. 2 km from Nowe Brzesko], and there there was a manor [1149-1818 Norbertine monastery; after the dissolution of the Hebdow order the property was taken over by the State Treasury; from 1949 a Piarist monastery]. We bought supposedly kosher milk from there. Kosher in the sense that it was in clean vessels, right, because milk is kosher anyway, only it mustn’t be in the same vessels that have had meat in them. I think the Jews had an agreement with the manor dairy to ensure that the milk was clean. There was one Jew from Nowe Brzesko who got whole cans of milk from the manor, carried them into town, and you could buy from him. They were cans the lids of which were also liter measures. Yes, he poured it into the lid and that was a liter of milk. Then you poured it into your own pan. That’s how it was sold.

The Jews have ritual slaughter. I used to take the chicken to the butcher myself – in our house we always bought a chicken for Saturday. You didn’t eat meat all week, perhaps some cold cuts or something, but other than that we lived very frugally, because before the war meat was a luxury. I used to take a live chicken, because it wasn’t allowed any other way, and he – a specialist at it – one second, and… he cut its throat in a special way, so it bled out entirely. The thing was to kill the animal without suffering, as they say [Heb.: shechitah, the ritual slaughter of animals and birds].

And I know that when we had that chicken for Saturday, even though there were five of us, we always gave the giblets to this poor family, the water carrier’s, so that they at least would have something to make chicken broth with for Saturday – the wings, the head – the giblets. They used to come and we’d give it to them. He was a carrier by trade, he carried mostly water, because there was no mains system in Nowe Brzesko. There was a well in the Square. He was called Henoch, he lived near the synagogue, and I remember he had a squint. He lived off whatever people gave him. I remember he was poor, but a strong man. It wasn’t only Jews hired him. Anything that needed doing, he’d do it. He carried wood, coal too. When there were matches in Nowe Brzesko – they were played on the common – he would get a wheelbarrow with lime in and push it round and mark out the pitch markings with the lime.

There was a mikveh in Nowe Brzesko. There was everything. A synagogue, a mikveh, a cemetery and a doss house for vagrants. A small town, but all the needs of the Jewish community were met [Nowe Brzesko didn’t have its own rabbi; it was part of the Miechow Jewish community and used the services of the rabbi in Proszowice, from 1936 Nuchem Beer Horowitz]. The mikveh was on the southern edge of town, out towards the common, because the mikveh has to be on the site of a spring, and there was a spring there. I went to the mikveh every Friday, Yes, with Father, of course. It was this pool, and in the pool there was a cast-iron stove; it was lit and gave hot water – because other than that the water that flowed in from the spring was cold. And then there was a room where all the men washed, of course. The women had a different day. Men had Friday, before Saturday, because Saturday starts on Friday evening, when you go to synagogue.

The synagogue [now converted into a house] was on a side road off the Old Square, at the back of Lubelska Street, on this little square. Father didn’t have a beard, so he wasn’t some kind of fanatic, but he prayed every day, and on Saturdays he went to synagogue, and took me too. On Saturday, because the shop was closed that day. It was a brick building, I remember. Inside – because pictures of human figures aren’t allowed – there were no pictures, just various maxims from the Bible. I remember those inscriptions. This painter used to come and write them out by hand. And that’s where you sat. I remember snuff – they used to offer each other snuff, and all of them took it, and sniffed it, and sneezed. And that was very fashionable in that synagogue. Yes, but not during the prayers. In Judaism anyone who knows how to can lead the prayers. You just get up and pray. We didn’t have a cantor. So it was whoever knew how. Even Father. They all knew how to pray, and one would stand up and lead. One one time and another the next – they took it in turn. Rather monotonous, it was.

And I remember once Father spoke in the synagogue, he said that the Jews were in danger, fire, what was happening in Hitler’s Germany – that was 1938. The pogroms were already in progress, the Crystal Night 5. I didn’t understand about the Crystal Night, I just sensed that something ill was afoot. He said that whoever could should help, to buy land in Palestine, to try and have our own state. He wasn’t a true Zionist 6, because he didn’t belong to any organization, but in spirit. So under his influence I was in favor of the idea for a Zionist state. And I remember that in our shop there were these 2 tins, and anyone who wanted to could put money in so that land could be bought, for Keren Kayemet 7 and Keren Hayesod 8.

Next to the synagogue there was this wooden doss house, because there were poor Jews, homeless ones, too, who wandered from town to town because they had nowhere to live. I remember what it was like: there were these palliasses, straw mattresses, some cupboards... The Jewish cemetery was two or three kilometers outside Nowe Brzesko, in a field.

As a child I wasn’t so very well-behaved. I remember I got a hiding from Father once. My sister had this doll that cried, moved its eyes, said ‘Mama,’ and I was intrigued as to how it could do that. And one night I cut it open to see what was making the crying. And the sawdust came out, I got to the mechanics, and then I got a hiding. And besides that, I know I didn’t have enough calcium, because I used to dig bits of lime out of the wall and eat them, and I used to get a hiding for that too.

With my friends I mostly chased around and fought, that’s how it was – boys will be boys. There were Jewish children, Polish children, and we used to go down to the common together. There were worse ones than me, but… we often used to fight, at the drop of a hat. I remember once one of them pushed me, I had a pocket knife in my hand, and it cut me by my eye. It didn’t damage my eye, but I had to go to the doctor to have it dressed. I remember that down on the common the boys would pull birds out of nests, kill the baby ones. Drown cats and dogs – that’s the way it is in the country. What to do when there’s so many puppies and nobody wants them? I didn’t like it, but I watched them doing it. I didn’t take part, because it turned my stomach to kill a live creature. But there was a kind of cruelty in those boys...

And then there were osiers on the common, and leeches, and we gathered blackberries. The water was clean, there were all sorts of streams. I used to go swimming there. I used to like climbing trees too. I had skates and I went skating in the winter. There wasn’t a bridge over the Vistula, but there was a ferry. I used to go down there and watch the horses get on, the carts and what have you, but it was maybe only once I crossed the river. The ferry was attached to these metal cables so the current didn’t sweep it away. And apart from that there were oars, I think, but I can’t remember now. So life in Nowe Brzesko was a bit rural, like. I used to like horses, used to go up to them while they were grazing. Once a horse bit me, caught me between the legs. There were horse traders there – the Jews traded in horses. And the whippersnappers, their sons, used to ride the horses just like that, without saddles, bareback. Some Jews had farms, and there were a few horse traders and cow traders. One, Niemiec, his name was, even survived [WWII]. And later on he married the gal who’d hidden him.

There were grain stores in Nowe Brzesko too, I remember – the Jews bought crops from the manors not just for themselves, but for wholesale. One of the traders who had a grain store, Strossberg, had a son my age, and we used to go there. His name was Fawek, but in Polish they used to call him Romek. In the evening, after the store closed, he used to let us in, we’d slit the sacks and gorge ourselves on poppy seed. Huge, those sacks were, 100 kilos or something.

In Nowe Brzesko there were lots of Jewish families that were in jam-making. I remember one, Pioro, I think their name was. They used to buy plum orchards on the tree. I mean the orchards themselves belonged to the manor, or to larger farms, but they bought the fruit before the harvest. And some years the harvest would be good, and sometimes not so good. And then they’d make jam from them. I saw them making it, but I don’t really remember how now. There’d be this big fire burning, they tipped the plums in, at first just to dry them off, if you like: the heat comes up and they dry out, and go this dark plum color. And then they stewed them in big pots.

I used to go to soccer matches of course, because there was a team in Nowe Brzesko, and there was a  team called Proszowianka too – Proszowice was a bit bigger town, eight kilometers from Nowe Brzesko. I used to walk there sometimes with Father if he had something to do there. Nowe Brzesko played matches with other small towns. The grown-ups’ matches were on the common, and we used to have a kick-around in the Square. The Square in Nowe Brzesko was big, rectangular. There was a statue of the Virgin Mary there [erected 1872 on the site of the former town hall to mark the 1863 January Uprising], with a little fenced garden around it. That was the only bit of green and flowers, around that statue. And I remember there were May services there [Catholic services held throughout the month of May in honor of the Virgin Mary]. You used to hear them singing... The Square was cobbled. On a Monday, when the market was full, you couldn’t play soccer, but otherwise we played on the Square. That’s more or less what life was like.

I remember that when the Monday markets were on in the Square, when there were the most customers, the priest used to stand in the doorway of our shop and stop customers coming in. He was the parish priest, I saw him as a huge figure – and he would point at our shop: ‘Don’t buy here from Jews! 9 There’s a Christian shop over there, buy there!’ But it didn’t do any good, because people would come in round the back. Yes, because I presume it was cheaper in our shop than in the Christian shop. That was for one, and for another, we would sell on credit, mostly to people we knew. And that was my first shock. I don’t remember what year that was… 1938 or 1939. It was in the last years before the war that it started to get bad. It all went rotten. Luckily, after that anti-Semite died, another priest came along, a decent guy. His sister lived in the presbytery too – she was obviously single – and later she got friendly with my mother.

And I got my second shock in school, when I went to first grade at the Polish elementary school. Before the war I only did first grade – in the 1938-1939 school year. And the boys, at least a lot of them, said: ‘I don’t want to sit at the same desk as a Jew.’ They’d gotten that from home, of course – we were seven years old. I didn’t have that. People wanted to sit with me, maybe because I could draw. I remember like yesterday, we were told to draw a tree. So I drew all the branches, the leaves, but the others couldn’t do it so I helped them, drew bits for them. I could draw basic things, but I couldn’t draw from my imagination. If I could see the thing, a figure, then I could pick up the chalk and draw on the blackboard, and there would be a likeness. I sat with a non-Jew, with Strzeszynski Janusz. He’s a doctor now, an oncologist, I think. There weren’t many Jews in the class, 10 percent, say.

It was a co-educational school, I think; I seem to remember boys and girls. We had math, Polish, drawing. I had this one set-to – beyond belief, I took it very hard. There was one teacher who taught all the lessons. And it was a math lesson. And that teacher asked one of the pupils what was, say, 2 times 2 – I don’t remember exactly. And he didn’t know. And behind him was sitting this little Jewish guy, tiny, he was, his parents were house-to-house salespeople. They had this portable stall in a case, and went from house to house round the villages selling their wares, taking orders and bringing the goods the next week. They supplied the farmers with thread, needles and what have you. Poor, very poor people. And that little boy knew what 2 times 2 was. He must have heard so much arithmetic at home that basic sums must have been a cinch to him. And he whispered the answer to the other boy. And the teacher: ‘You stinking Yid.’ Yes. She hauled him out from behind the desk – back then you used to get rapped across the hands for being naughty, and he got the ruler. But that word, to such a small boy..., I knew him well, because he was the same age as me, just small and skinny. I can see him now, but what his name was I can’t remember unfortunately. ‘You stinking Yid,’ and that was 1939.

That guy Szmajser, who lived in the Square, was the only one who had a tube radio, because other than that they were all crystal sets. Battery operated, of course, because we didn’t have electricity. He used to put the radio in the window and I remember those screams of Hitler’s, because they used to broadcast his speeches on the radio in German. The threat of war was already real, because it was 1939.

I went to Bedzin with Mother to visit family – I don’t know – maybe two weeks, a month before the outbreak of war. The Polish army had already been mobilized [Editor’s note: full mobilization was not announced until 30 August 1939; what Mr. Elbinger saw was probably an army parade]. And I remember the cavalry – on their horses, with lances, here those boots, spurs everywhere, and how it rang! I thought it was such a force that if war broke out they would smash the Germans to smithereens, see, because it made such an impression. Uhlans [the Polish light cavalry]. Sabers, lances, a fantastic impression. In fact there was this one Jewish family, the Smietanas or Smetanas, and one of their sons was in the Polish army, and he would often come to Nowe Brzesko on leave. This great hulking guy with a saber used to come to the synagogue to pray in his uniform, so all the kids would look at him, see, like an idol. A saber at his side… an uhlan!

Polish propaganda before the war had it that the Germans were starving, they didn’t have anything to eat, and that was why they had to wage war, to seize food in Poland. The propaganda was sick altogether – they said that the German tanks were made of cardboard, that there would be a gas war like in World War I. I remember that all the windows were criss-crossed with sticky paper to protect from blasts, and sealed to stop gas. Then the propaganda had it that the Germans were cutting out tongues. I used to eavesdrop on what the older people said a lot.

During the war

I remember the first Germans coming into the town because I was outside. They came from Cracow [the German army occupied Cracow on 6 September 1939], along the Cracow - Nowe Brzesko - Koszyce road to Sandomierz that ran along the Vistula. I was out there on this square, and I was surprised, see, because after what I’d seen in Bedzin I was sure that the Polish army was so powerful. And that day the Polish army had retreated, but the tail-end was still there: one horse, this two-wheel buggy, and two Polish soldiers. The first German came in on a motorcycle, and those two soldiers put their hands up. So I’m thinking to myself: ‘What’s going on?’ But of course they took their belts off and surrendered their weapons. Then a whole group of Germans came along on bikes. They stood there and wouldn’t let anyone go in the direction of Koszyce and Sandomierz, but sent everyone north, on the Proszowice road. My, there were battles in Proszowice [the German artillery destroyed approx. 30% of the homes there]. They resisted.

There wasn’t any fighting in Nowe Brzesko, and later the same day – it was 1st September [Editor’s note: probably 5th or 6th September], so it was hot, see, stifling – the German soldiers on the Square drew water from the well, stripped to the waist, and splashed themselves. And they gave the children candy and bread – the Germans behaved marvelously when they occupied Nowe Brzesko. Lots of people, especially Jews, fled. They took rucksacks and fled east 10, so as not to encounter Germans. My father took a rucksack too, but, well, he didn’t get very far. The Germans were faster, because they were on motorbikes. And a few days later he came back.

Of course I didn’t go to school anymore, because as soon as the Germans came, the first ban was that Jewish children weren’t allowed to go to school [Editor’s note: schools re-opened in October 1939, and Jewish children were banned from January 1940]. And as far as I know, the headmaster, Stanislaw Szymacha, behaved very decently: he called a meeting of all the parents and apologized: it wasn’t his fault, he’d had an order, that unfortunately there was a ban. And that was where my education ended. My parents soon had to close the shop too. And then the German decrees – that was awful, because they came down on the Jews. The Jews’ problems started straight off. Although there were no Germans there, they often came from Cracow or somewhere. For various reasons, even to buy geese. On the common there were marshy meadows, and the Germans were draining them, so of course they got Jews to dig the ditches. My father too. I used to bring him food. For no pay, the borough just put out a list of who was to go. But that was the least of all the harassment.

We had to wear armbands 11. I didn’t wear one, because it was from age 13 [Editor’s note: armbands had to be worn from age 10]. You weren’t allowed to walk on the sidewalk, only on the road. You weren’t allowed to leave the town at all. It was like a ghetto, only without walls, so food wasn’t hard to come by if you had money. There was just the ban on leaving town. It was easy to get around the rules, because there weren’t any Germans. In theory everyone had to have an armband, but Mother wore a peasant-type headscarf, which hid the armband. 

We had to move out of the house we rented from the Lipnickis after a while, because they threw us out. We got one little room in one of Grandmother’s houses. There were five of us in that room, but you were happy anyway. Another Jewish family, that made shirts, was already renting there, and they had to squash up because of us, and that’s how we lived.

I remember this scene, I couldn’t tell you what year it was, but probably 1940 or 1941. Some German soldiers came to town, Wehrmacht, I think, not the SS. A lot of Jews still had beards at the time, and I remember that they hauled the barber out. The barber was a Jew too, but the Germans evidently didn’t know that. They ordered him to cut off beards. They caught the Jews, took them there, and the barber had to cut their beards off. On the Square. That’s how I saw it, because we were still living in the Square. And I remember the butcher, because they caught him too. I remember how one of the Germans held his machine gun in front of his ankles and another one made him jump over it. And then they forced a few more Jews to do it. They made the barber cut the butcher’s beard off too. He did it quite gently. And all the people whose beards he cut off had to pay – they’d put this basket out. At the end, I don’t know who, but somebody said that the barber was a Jew too. It wasn’t much money, so they didn’t take it, just scattered it across the Square, and people came and collected the money.

When they started setting up the ghetto in Cracow 12 in 1941, most of the Jews who lived there thought it would be quieter in the small towns, and they didn’t all go to the ghetto, but instead tried to move out to the little towns. And quite a lot of people came to Nowe Brzesko too, mostly craftspeople. Some were German Jews who’d been in Cracow 13. They rented single rooms wherever they could. Everyone needed the money, so you squeezed up. So suddenly there were quite a lot of Jews in Nowe Brzesko. I remember once a German lorry broke down, and in the whole of Nowe Brzesko there was only one auto mechanic – a Jew. Somebody told them of that mechanic; I think he was a German Jew, because he spoke to them in German. I watched what he did, because it was a sensation for me too. Well, he repaired the truck, but I think they found out he was a Jew and they didn’t pay him. Those are the scenes I’ve remembered, see.

At first, in 1941, the ghetto in Cracow was still open, you could still get out of it. And some Jews came to Nowe Brzesko on bikes – they rode along the flood walls, from Cracow to Nowe Brzesko it’s 30 kilometers. And they brought gold, or something, and exchanged it for bread, for food to take back into the ghetto. There was a fire service in Nowe Brzesko – a volunteer service, not a professional one, and one of the firemen was an out-and-out dog: I know he denounced one of the Jews he caught, and shot another one dead.

And then there were constant rumors that they were resettling. Where? Where to? We still had contact with the intelligentsia, with the teachers, the borough officials, the priest’s sister, so Mother knew what was going on – there was no other way of finding out. Nobody knew anything. Just rumors, rumors. Mother found out what orders were coming in from that friend of hers, and that’s how we knew in advance that they were planning resettlement, because the borough office had orders to organize transportation. The farmers had to provide transportation, horses and carts, to deport the Jews. I suspect Mother was sworn to strict secrecy, absolutely banned from repeating it. Everyone thought it would be enough to go into hiding for a few days, just to stick out the campaign, and then we would be able to go back. We thought like that too, because that’s how it was in Proszowice. The first time there was just a round-up, and those who managed to stay in hiding stayed there, and it was only the second time that they finished them all off [7 September 1942, deportation to Belzec death camp].

Before that the Germans had requisitioned some of our stock and taken it off to Miechow [approx. 40 km from Nowe Brzesko]. What was left, my parents split up and farmed out among various friends, so it was scattered around different places. We gave some of the stock to a teacher for safe-keeping – Filipowska, she was called. They lived out of town, down by the common. And we also had some stock with the borough secretary. Some of it we cashed in, some we exchanged for gold and jewelry, so it would be easier to stow away.

Going into hiding

We went into hiding a few days ahead of the deportation. The deportation was in August or September 1942 [Editor’s note: It was in September 1942]. For the first few days Mother and my sister Pola were in the parish house – the priest’s sister had taken them in thinking it was a question of a short time. Of course. Father and I went into hiding with some farmers we knew, in the country, to a village called Stregoborzyce [approx. 7 km from Nowe Brzesko] – an out-of-the-way house, absolutely safe – and my youngest sister Lusia went to a family in another village, Mnichow.

And unfortunately the people who had my youngest sister... I think some other farmers must have found out they were hiding a little girl, and they got scared, and on the day of the deportation they took her straight into the Square, the youngest, Lusia. She was very clever. She went about the Square asking, begging people to open up the cubbyhole in our yard so she could hide. Nobody did. She knew Mother was in hiding and would come for her. It got out…Mother knew what was going on from the priest’s sister, and she wanted to go, but the priest’s sister wouldn’t let her, because she said that would be the end, and she had another daughter here. I heard that later some family of German Jews took her, and they went together, and died together. Grandmother couldn’t go into hiding because she was blind. In fact, she just stayed at home, because since she was blind, they didn’t want to be bothered with carting her around anywhere – well, I don’t know the details. I know she was shot in her own home, in the yard – I found that out after the war. They called it resettlement, deportation: that was a camouflage. It turned out that it wasn’t deportation, only liquidation. And of course there were notices plastered everywhere from the word go, that hiding a Jew was punishable by death 14. So it was a risk.

It turned out that not far from Nowe Brzesko mass graves had been dug, somewhere in the meadows near Slomniki [approx. 25 km from Nowe Brzesko] [in August 1942 the Germans rounded up several thousand Jews from surrounding towns and villages in the meadow, and those over 60, the sick, and children, were shot. About 100 people were deported as labor; the rest in an unknown direction]. During the war the Germans set up this organization the Baudienst [Construction Service, created 1 December 1940 by an order of the General Governor and headed by Germans; recruitment was by call-up or voluntary enrollment; the recruits were barracked and uniformed] which they enlisted Polish youth in by force. They used those young boys mainly for construction work, but I found out later that they’d been brought in that time to dig those graves and cordon off the town during the deportation so that no-one got out. Quite a lot of Jews got away that time – there was no wall... But escaping is nothing, what then? I was in hiding by then, out of town, in the hayloft, and I watched. Quite a lot of Jews that had split were round and about in the fields, but no-one took them in. And, well, how long can you stay in a field. A day, two days, three days without food... They turned themselves back in to the police – after all, they didn’t know that they would get killed straight off.

There were two priests in the presbytery: the parish priest and the curate. There was an orchard there, and my sister went out into the orchard and the curate noticed her. I don’t want to mention names, but I know his name. He was local, came from Nowe Brzesko. He went to the priest and said, ‘There’s a little Jewish girl hanging around here.’ Well, when he found out, there was no way that Mother and Pola could stay there. Mother knew where Father and I were. Somehow, she and Pola left the presbytery and got to us in Stregoborzyce. Before the war we’d had a big shop with a lot of customers my parents thought decent, and we paid them to keep us hidden. We didn’t have anything with us, just the stock scattered around in different places.

The ones whose house we were living in were super decent people. All people we knew, otherwise the suggestion would never have been put, because it was all in the greatest conspiracy – but it wasn’t the Germans we were hiding from. The Germans had done a round-up, exterminated and taken away whoever they could, but after that, unfortunately, the enemy was your neighbor. Your enemy was whoever found out, whoever tipped the Germans off. That farmer’s wife was the village teacher. They had children, but I don’t remember how many. They had a young nephew too, who I think was in the Home Army 15, because he had a gun. He showed me how to strip a revolver. Their house was under one roof with the barn. The barn was full of crops, because the sheaves were there that hadn’t been threshed. There was a hideaway made for us, sheaves arranged in a special way to make a corridor, which led to a bigger room, and that’s where we stayed. We only went out at night – there was a WC so we could pee. And somehow we lived like that. But I do remember that whenever I saw a dog or a bird I wished I could be a dog or a bird. To be able to go out, fly, do anything… because I knew that just going out would mean death. Mother used to go out to the people who had our stock. One time, Filipowska told her that there were nuns going round Nowe Brzesko saying that the Jews murdered Christ and this was their divine punishment, and you shouldn’t help Jews.

The people, where the four of us were, had obviously gotten cold feet or thought we weren’t paying them enough. I don’t remember exactly now, but it must have been 1944, because I know we’d been living there for over two years. They started… not giving us anything to eat. Nothing. Simply starving us. But because it was a barn, I used to find grains of cereal and eat them, but it was getting worse and worse. Father asked them for food, because after all, he was paying them… and the farmer beat him up. As well as in the barn, we were also living part in the loft, in this lean-to, and you could hear what they were saying, that they were pow-wowing on how to finish us off without making a noise. Yes. One said: ‘With an ax,’ another: ‘With a knife,’ well, it was getting desperate. There was that farmer, and his young nephew, the one from the Home Army. Who was there during that conversation I don’t know – well, probably the men, though the wife must have known, because she starting abusing us too. Mother knew we had to find somewhere else right off, or they would finish us off. She went out on the pretext that she was going to bring them some more gold, because we didn’t have anything on us – and that was lucky, because if we had, they’d have taken it and then murdered us.

Mother found this cottage in the same village, Stregoborzyce. A detached house, of course, a way away from any others. The people who lived there were poor as church mice. Mother told them we would reward them, that we had stock, and they agreed to us being in the loft. We moved in the night. They had children too, so the youngest ones, the little ones, didn’t know, but I think the older girl did. We slept in the loft. I just slept in my clothes. We didn’t have any bedclothes, we just all lay side by side. We had nothing. And when I covered myself in my overcoat, in the winter my clothes would often freeze to my face. My arms and legs were frostbitten.

One day Mother went over to the Filipowskis’ to pick up some stock as usual. She couldn’t take too much at once, but we had to pay our way somehow. They were never too keen to hand it over – it was obvious they’d counted on none of us surviving. At one point Mother realized they’d gone for that fireman, because they were stringing her along and not giving her anything. Instead of waiting for the stock, Mother gave them the slip – it was near the common, way out of town. She didn’t get anything, but she came back to us and told us how things stood, that they wouldn’t give her anything, on the contrary, they’d put the word out that she was there.

Mother couldn’t go to Nowe Brzesko after that, so I used to go. It was a few kilometers, but I knew the way. I was dressed as a girl, in a dress and all... That was safer than as a boy, because I looked like a woman. In the country they used to wear these big square headscarves, so I put one of those scarves on, and all you could see was my eyes, and my nose – a peasant woman. I had my eyebrows shaved off, so you couldn’t see they were black, so no-one would recognize me, and I went to the borough secretary dressed like that a few times.

There was this teacher we knew in Wawrzenczyce, and once I went to see her. ‘Child, just look at you!’ – well, I never saw the sun. I asked her for bread. She didn’t give me any, just bewailed my fate. I understand someone not helping. People aren’t born heroes. She was afraid that if they caught me I’d let on who’d given me the bread. No, I don’t hold that against her, but what I do resent are the ones that murdered for gain or hate. I don’t know, do I, how I would have behaved? I definitely wouldn’t have murdered anyone, but would I have stuck my neck out and helped someone when the punishment was death? But unfortunately there were some who at first informed and later murdered. Heaps of Jews in that area were murdered by pseudo-partisans there 16. The Kielce region is known for that.

I went to Nowe Brzesko a few times, to the borough secretary, dressed up like that, as a woman. But once I was spotted. Three boys who I’d been in 1st grade with. Obviously because we’d known each other well. And I can hear the three of them coming after me. I looked round, like. They’re saying: ‘It’s that Mundek.’ Mundek, they used to call me at school. And that saved me, because one of them said: ‘We’ve got to see where he goes.’ I pretended I hadn’t noticed, I hadn’t heard. I went through the Square, where the police station was, and I didn’t go in anywhere, because I knew... And they were still behind me, until I got out onto the Proszowice road. When I got out of the town, as I stepped up the pace, so did they... I ran. I was very fast as a kid, but only over short distances. They chased me, and because they were mad, they started going ‘Bang, bang, bang!’ – pretending to shoot me. They shouted after me: ‘You Yiddo!’ I escaped, lost them. And so I was out of the game too – I couldn’t go to Nowe Brzesko, and now it was even worse, because word got around that I was alive, in the area.

So there was only one thing for it… we found out that in the same village there was another father and son, Jews, who’d lived in Wawrzenczyce before the war. They were farmers – well, not exactly, but they lived on the land. And he, that Jewish guy, had been working for these farmers we knew, helping them out in the fields, in return for food. He had a five to six-year-old boy. Mother got in touch with him somehow, and he gave her food, because he had more food, whereas the family we were with was very poor. We gave them what we could, but in the end we couldn’t even give them anything, because Mother couldn’t go to Nowe Brzesko, because she’d been seen, I couldn’t go either – and anyway, by then I had problems walking, because my feet were frostbitten. So Mother used to go out to that Jew and bring food back.

And one time she didn’t come back. That was towards the end of the war – I don’t know, maybe a month before liberation. I knew where she’d gone, and I went to see what was going off. It was night, 9 or 10 o’clock, and the farmer, or his son, said: ‘Go, now! The partisans took your Mom.’ The Jew who’d been staying there, and his kid, they’d been taken too, whether on the same day, hard to say. And I ran. I remember I heard shots, I hid… there were these tobacco stems, quite tall, and I ran through those stems. I got back, total despair. Mother’s gone, murdered, the partisans took her. The Jew and his child murdered too. After that we couldn’t give the farmers anything anymore, but they didn’t throw us out, no, they didn’t throw us out.

After the war

In January 1945 came the liberation. I heard the big guns firing. You could hear the front. From the loft I could see the Germans firing as they retreated. And then the farmers told us that the front had passed, that the Russians were here. No-one stopped in that village. The farmers told us they didn’t want anyone to know we’d been staying with them. They were decent people.

We went back to Nowe Brzesko: me, my father, sick with tuberculosis, and one of my sisters, Pola. Mother had been killed, and my youngest sister Lusia too. We lived in one room. We found out that Father’s brother Zamwel and his wife had gone right away, with the deportation, but their children, the ones the same age as me, had been in hiding. And then I also found out that apparently, during the liquidation, the butcher had taken a knife out of his boot top and stabbed one of the Germans. Our neighbors, the Kopels, a Jewish family, had hidden in the loft. They hadn’t gone in response to the order, but the Germans had found them and shot them on the spot. Because they hadn’t reported, but maybe that was better, because they escaped that fate – they took all of them to Slomniki. We were told that during the deportation some farmers had come with carts and others came to loot. It all went off about 5-6 in the morning. They came in carts to take the things away, because the Jews had been taken away, and just their bundles were left... So they just loaded it up onto their carts. Furniture, eiderdowns, whatever there was. There were some that suffered at the sight of how those people were behaving. Apparently it wasn’t the people of Nowe Brzesko that did it, but farmers from the nearby villages. After that, my cousins were caught. They didn’t bring the Germans back – apparently the Polish Navy-Blue Police 17 didn’t want to shoot them, because they were small boys, so they gave them food with poison in it. That’s what I heard.

Well, in fact there were lots of similar cases in Nowe Brzesko. Not only in Nowe Brzesko, in the area too. The Strossberg family, the one who had the grain store, they all went into hiding. One son survived, and the father. The mother and daughter were somewhere else, and they were murdered by farmers too. There’s a gravestone near Proszowice. While he was alive he used to come and tend it, but he died. Unfortunately there was no way of surviving in the country. A whole lot of people would have survived if not for the gangs. And it wasn’t for money, because people had nothing, but out of hate, and so they wouldn’t have to give their apartments or houses back.

Another few Jews came back to Nowe Brzesko from the camps. That Zabner [one of the sons from Mr. Elbinger’s grandmother’s first marriage] came back from a camp, came to see if any of them had survived. But nobody had, unfortunately. And he stayed with us for two nights. We all slept in the same bed. All he had was what he was wearing and one blanket. And after that we lost touch, that’s all I ever knew of him, and after that I don’t know what happened to him.

One Jewish family came back to Nowe Brzesko intact: him, the wife, and two daughters. A poor family of peddlers. It turned out that they’d been taken in by a Polish family of Jehovah’s Witnesses. For no money, because they had nothing. When they came back they went to live in a cottage on Krakowska Street. Before the war it had been a Jewish house, and they had two rooms on the right, and on the left lived a Polish family. When they came back, they wanted to make a living somehow, so they started making soap, using primitive methods, because after the war there was nothing to be had… I don’t know whether it was envy, or what: one night, a gang burst into the house – the Jews were on the right and on the left the Polish, Christian family – and started shooting at the Poles, and injured them. Yes, afterwards they were caught, and they explained in court that they’d mixed up, that they’d wanted to shoot at the Jews. I don’t know how it ended. That was 1945, and then their trial was in Cracow.

The brother of the Jew who was murdered with his little boy in Wawrzenczyce came back from a camp after the war and somehow found out where the grave was and exhumed them. To this day I don’t know where Mother’s buried. I don’t know – somewhere out in a field, hard to say where. I don’t know who killed her. But I know they did murder people there, because there were bands of partisans there. I don’t know which ones. People said it was the Jedrusies [the guerilla arm of Odwet [Revenge], a local conspiratorial organization operating in the Kielce and Podkarpacie regions [south-eastern Poland] in WWII]. I don’t want to generalize – there were those who saved lives, but there were some that murdered folk as well. My mother wasn’t murdered by the Germans, but in the countryside by pseudo-partisans.

After the war, all sorts of unpleasant things carried on happening in that town. It was like a continuation of the war. Anti-Semitism was strong and Jews were murdered after the war, which is sad to say now, but that’s how it was. After the war there was a general tendency to say that everybody fought against Hitler and everybody saved the Jews, but unfortunately things were different in reality. And it’s not what people here in Poland say, that the Jews have taken umbrage because Poles didn’t help. There’s no offense that people didn’t help. The offense is that there were some, not many, maybe, but active, who murdered 1, 2, 3 people. One bad person can do 1,000 times more damage than 100 good people. Of course it’s true that some Jews generalize, that all Poles were anti-Semitic, which isn’t true, because if they were, then no-one would have survived.

In Nowe Brzesko I went round to the Lipnickis’, who we had rented a house from before the war. Grandmother Lipnicka told me this story. In the summer of 1944, toward the end of the war, the Germans were passing through Nowe Brzesko toward Cracow, and they were shot at [on 27 July 1944 Wehrmacht detachments traveling from Koszyce to Cracow were attacked by a partisan detachment of the Home Army. In revenge the Germans took 20 hostages and bombarded the town repeatedly]. Nobody was killed – just a game, and the driver gave it some gas, but then the Germans sent a plane. I remember that plane, because I watched it circling over Nowe Brzesko through a hole in the loft, and every so often an explosion, because it dropped a few bombs. That woman Lipnicka told me that no houses had been destroyed, but one of the bombs had hit the cubbyhole in our yard and it had burnt down. One of the bombs, as it splintered, sliced the head off the statue of the Virgin May in the Square. Yes, an obvious thing, a matter of plaster, but I remember how that Lipnicka explained to me why it happened: the Virgin Mary sacrificed herself, gave her head to save Nowe Brzesko. You hear things like that today on Radio Maryja [a Polish nationalist Catholic radio station run by Redemptorist monks, known for its anti-Semitic sentiments], but I heard that back in 1945.

Children's home

It was terrifying after the war. All the Jews moved away from Nowe Brzesko, because – well, if there’d already been an attack and it was only because of a blunder that a whole Jewish family hadn’t been wiped out, because they’d gone left off the entrance instead of right... In any case, Father decided we had to flee too. He went to Cracow and found out that there was this children’s home on Dluga Street, and he put me and my sister in it. And he moved to Cracow too. It turned out that both Father’s brothers from Cracow had been killed. The only one who survived was Abraham, the son of the brother that lived on Zwierzyniecka Street. He moved to Germany, to Munich, and changed his name to Alfred. One of Moryc’s daughters, Giza, survived too. She’d been in a camp. In Cracow Father was advised to change his name, and after the war he was called Bernard. When he changed his, he changed Mother’s name too, to Rozalia.

I was 14 after the war. I was sick. Sick physically – I couldn’t walk, I was on crutches. My knees hurt, stabbed when I walked. I had frostbite on my legs, and my arms too. And mentally I was not right either – when I saw anyone, I would run, hide, I was scared, because in the war, everybody was a deadly enemy. So after the war I still had the habit of ducking into a doorway whenever I saw anyone. I was totally retarded. I remember that the ones who came to the home from Russia 18 were different people altogether. Everything was just so free of terror there...

And they set up two branches of that home on Dluga Street: one in Zakopane [approx. 110 km south of Cracow] and one in Rabka [approx. 70 km south of Cracow]. The one in Zakopane was called a preventorium, children generally ailing, like me, like my sister. She didn’t have frostbite like me, but she was just generally weak. The one in Rabka was a sanatorium, for ones that were at risk of tuberculosis, those with sicknesses of the lungs. Me and my sister were sent to Zakopane. I spent almost all of 1945 in that children’s home in Zakopane. It was wonderful there. I could study, I developed to way above my age, and after that year I graduated from 5th grade. We went on these special courses, because I had no idea about, say, geography or biology. I could read and count and that was it.

Again it’s sad to say, but one day the children’s home in Rabka was attacked. They don’t know who – some band. After the war there were armed gangs 19, scores of them, like ‘Ogien’s’ band [pseudonym meaning ‘fire’, real name Jozef Kuras (1915-1947), commandant of an anti-communist partisan band in the highland Podhale region of southern Poland; after WWII, his division, ‘Blyskawica’ [lightning] did not disarm]. And a battle broke out. They didn’t take the house, but the battle went on for several hours through the night. There was this Russky officer, a Polish Jew, only he’d been in the Soviet Army in the war, and he led that whole defense. Some of the children were familiar with guns because they’d been with the partisans in the war or whatever, so they passed up the ammunition. Straight away, the next day or the day after, they abandoned the house in Rabka and moved all the children to us in Zakopane. And it was the children who told me about it. After the war all children’s homes were under guard. They were all armed. Jews who’d been in the Polish army – the Russian one [the Polish army formed in the USSR in 1943, 1st Infantry Division] – or in the Russian army, were redeployed. Wherever there were Jews living there was a guard.

We had it good in Zakopane, because the Americans sent aid: UNRRA 20, Joint 21 and some other organizations – I don’t know which. So we had clothes. We wore clogs, shoes with wooden soles, but yes, there was food. We ate all sorts of tinned food, and we were even lucky enough to have chocolate – but we, as children do, wanted ice-cream, so we used to sell the chocolate in the shop so we could buy ice-creams.

At the children’s home in Zakopane I used to illustrate the classroom newspaper. I drew well, but only copying, really. I could look at someone and draw them, I could look at a landscape and draw it. The odd basic thing from memory too, but there was one guy with me in Zakopane who was phenomenal. Literally. There were movement classes for the girls, and there was a piano, and that boy would go up to the piano afterwards and tap out any tune he’d just heard with one finger. Anything. And he knew nothing about music. And that’s not all. The girls used to come up to him: ‘Write in my autograph book,’ or: ‘Draw me a shepherd with some shepherd boys and some sheep,’ they would ask him. And he could draw anything they wanted. I couldn’t do that. I don’t know where he is now, because he left the children’s home in Zakopane. I can’t even remember his name.

From Zakopane they even sent me to Ciechocinek [one of the largest spa resorts in Poland] to take the waters, because I was still having problems walking. And there I had mud treatments, brine baths, immersions, and that helped me. I came back a different person, my pain stopped. I have a little trouble with my legs, that they get cold, with my circulation, but I’ve lived so many years thanks to the treatment they gave me back then. At that time, the wife of Prof. Aleksandrowicz 22 used to come to Zakopane from Cracow specially, to take corrective gymnastics classes. She’d been a physical education instructor before the war. Her husband was a hematologist, founder of the hematology clinic in Cracow.

I think in time Joint took over the running of that children’s home. They gradually tried to move the whole Zakopane children’s home out of Poland, yes, altogether. They must have put up the funds. And I was supposed to go too. I was in rather an unusual situation with having a father. Sick, it’s true – he wasn’t in a fit state to look after us at all, because he was in hospital and infectious. He had tuberculosis after all those experiences, and there was no question of him looking after us himself. He was in and out of hospital. They asked Father if he agreed to us emigrating but he didn’t. He wanted someone to stay with him.

And more or less the whole house left the country at the end of 1945 with the intention of going to Palestine, but the English weren’t letting anyone in then 23. There was a blockade. They left for Czechoslovakia, and from Czechoslovakia through Vienna to somewhere in France, and they’re scattered all over the world, in Israel too. And so my sister and I went back to the children’s home in Cracow, which was on Augustianska Street by then [Editor’s note: 1 Augustianska Boczna Street]. It was a big house, there were four stories, the little ones at the top, the nursery.

I was in the oldest group. Boys and girls were separate. We were still getting food and tins from America. Even fruit that I hadn’t know before the war, peaches and other things – they used to come in tins. We had excellent food for that time. The carers weren’t in it for the money, see, they were homeless flotsam too. They lived in the children’s home like us. There were carers who’d lost children, children who’d lost parents, and the ones took the place of the others. It was a totally family atmosphere. Some of the carers, like Misia [Emilia Leibel] and our director Dawid Erdestein, had come back from Russia. They tried to create a homely atmosphere for us. Well, some people couldn’t cope... In the children’s home there was this stair rail, and one of the girls, she was maybe 12 or 13, she couldn’t cope, and threw herself from the stairs and was killed. After that they raised the banisters so that it wouldn’t be so easy to jump over. Nobody else jumped.

Erdestein had been a prewar communist – he’d done time too. He was one of the first to start work in the children’s home in Cracow. During the war he’d been in the Caucasus, in Abkhazia. He lost his wife there. He was from Kalush [now in Western Ukraine, before WWII part of Poland, in the Stanislawow province]. His father had been taken prisoner by the Russians in World War I – that had been Austria-Hungary – and he never came back. His mother took in sewing from dawn till dusk to keep the children, and Erdestein gave private lessons and studied, because he wanted to study. He dreamed of graduating in medicine. In Poland at the time that wouldn’t have been possible. For one, he was a communist, and for another he was a Jew, so he went to Czechoslovakia. While he was director of the children’s home he was in the Party, but he was an absolutely honest man, crystal clean. He didn’t get anything out of it. He lived in the children’s home, worked for his board, and felt that he was doing his duty. He often used to have talks with us and tell us how fantastic it would be, a bright future, when socialism was built.

When he came back to Poland after the war, it turned out one of his brothers had survived too, and they met. They had an aunt in Australia, and she wrote to them saying that she was doing very well materially, and that they should go to Australia. She would keep them and all. And his brother went, but he wrote back to her saying: ‘How can I go? There’s a chance for us to build socialism here right now, what I’ve dreamed of all my life. I can’t be unfaithful to that, I can’t go for any amount of money, because I have a duty to help here now.’ That was our director.

I had a sweetheart in the children’s home, a close girlfriend, Marta Fiegner. A true blond. Me, Marta and another friend used to go on trips together. We stuck together pretty close. We were 16. She and her mother had survived – she had a mother, but she was in the children’s home anyway, because no-one had anywhere to live. There were half-orphans in the children’s home too, like me and my sister. Marta and her mother were from Lwow. Her father had been killed, he was an attorney. Marta wasn’t in the home long. Then she and her mother went to France. We wrote each other for a while, but under communism it wasn’t wise to have any contacts with the outside world or they were onto you at once, asking who and why. We lost touch.

I remember Maciek Gainthaim. He’d been a very pretty blond baby, before the war he was a model, and his photograph used to be on the cocoa tin labels. I think he was from Drogobych [a town in Ukraine approx. 60 km from Lwow, before WWII part of Poland]. He survived the war with his mother in Russia. He was a sporty type, entered fencing competitions at ‘Sokol’ [the Polish Gymnastics Society, founded in Cracow in 1885]. He graduated from the Academy of Mining and Metallurgy [now the AGH University of Science and Technology in Cracow] and emigrated with his mother. Now he’s an engineer in Israel, at Ben Gurion airport, as far as I know.

Then there were Malwina and Zygmunt Gelbart, brother and sister. Blonds. He was older, a strong guy, he’d been a cowherd in the war – of course, nobody knew who he was. He grazed cows with some farmers. Malwina had been a maid. Before the war their father had traded in wood, he’d gone to Brazil on business and war had surprised him there, and he couldn’t get back to Poland. After the war he found his son and daughter and took them back to Brazil.

After the war they started resurrecting all the Jewish institutions, all the organizations. It was only later that the communists closed them down 24. Masses of people had no families, no homes, and wanted to immigrate to Palestine. Kibbutzim sprang up. There was this group from Przemyska Street, where there was a kibbutz too. They hired three taxis to get to Zakopane and across the border into Czechoslovakia. Was it illegal? I don’t know. Well, and they were stopped by a gang. It was 1946. They shot them all, 20-something people [Editor’s note: the murder took place on 3rd May 1946 near Nowy Sacz; the victims were 13 members of Gordonia, who were fleeing to Czechoslovakia. The perpetrators were never found]. There’s a common grave in the cemetery on Miodowa Street [Cracow’s only active Jewish cemetery; in WWII the Germans used some of the headstones as construction material; restored by the Joint in the 1950s]. I went to the funeral; I was nosy – there were scores of people there. I remember that Dr. Bieberstein 25 spoke, he appealed to the authorities, to the power of the Republic, for someone to take this in hand, for someone to try and stop what was going on. Three taxis full of young people killed. I didn’t know any of them, because they were older – young people, but old enough to want to set up a kibbutz in Palestine. They went together because they wanted to be together, and there you are. Never made it.

On Estery Street there was a Jewish school where you could do two grades in one year, up to the lower standard examinations. It was a Jewish school with state school powers. The teachers had come back from Russia, Jewish women, professional teachers. Some of them from the camps. Most of the children, the ones who’d come back from Russia, were up to date, because they’d been to school in Russia, but the ones who’d been here just didn’t have that general knowledge – when someone had said something to me in Zakopane about insects, exoskeletons – no way! I knew nothing. Polish was the language they taught in, but there was Yiddish and Hebrew too. And by the time it came to the lower standards I was all caught up. I took the lower standard – a delegation came from the department of education to listen in on the oral exams. There was this one funny situation, I was learning English you see, but I didn’t really have a clue, but I had managed to get quite good in Yiddish. And in my English oral examination, whenever I didn’t know a word in English, I put in the Yiddish word. The teacher who was examining me didn’t say anything, and the guy from the education department couldn’t understand a word in either language. Afterwards, the teacher said to me: ‘I didn’t know you could speak Yiddish so well.’ She kept quiet and I passed.

Back when I was still in the children’s home I went on a radio engineering course because I was very interested in technology and physics. There was this course at the ORT 26 in 1947 – for adults. ORT is an international vocational training organization, which existed before the war and taught Jews production skills and trades. And after the war it started up again. In 1947 I was 16 and I graduated from that course, I was a radio engineering apprentice. I wanted to earn a few groszy after that school-leaving exam. I went to work in a factory on Zulawskiego Street where they made electrical things, electrical distribution boards. Aside from that, the people from that radio engineering course opened a radio engineering co-operative on Dluga Street. And I was naïve – I remember my first job, they slapped me down. Someone brought a radio receiver in to be repaired, I took it and saw that the fuse had blown, so I put another fuse in and said: ‘It’s nothing.’ The boss, when he heard that, said: ‘If that’s the way we’re going to work, we won’t earn enough for bread and salt! He taught me the common sense that you can’t work like that, because you have to make money [Editor’s note: he was hinting that they should charge over the odds for small jobs].

I was working, but I wanted to study too. In the children’s home, when they saw my drawings – I remember I drew Staszic [Stanislaw, 1775-1826, a leading Polish scholar and reformer of the Enlightenment period] and other people – I could draw well, they very much wanted me to go to a specialist high school for art. Some of my friends from the children’s home already went there. I didn’t want to, because I thought to myself: you’d have to have some backing, some rich family or something, to have something to live on. What would I do afterwards? And anyway, I knew what real talent was, because that guy in Zakopane made me realize that compared to him I had no talent at all.

And so I went to the St. Jacek high school for people in work on Sienna Street. I could have gone to a normal school, but I wanted to be earning. And then I had to leave the children’s home. There was a dormitory for young Jewish people on Estery Street and one on Dluga. I was at Dluga 38. At high school I was quite good in math, which we were taught by Prof. Bielak. In fact I had a good time there with my classmates. In math, when they had difficulty, it was always: ‘Come here, Elbinger,’ because I was good at solving written problems. I used to go to religious studies classes too, out of curiosity. Of course that came in handy too, because when the others had questions – something was illogical, say, and they didn’t feel they ought to ask the priest, they would ask through me, because I could always ask. One of the priests was a Jesuit, this Fr. Werner – a huge guy – and the other was Fr. Satora, he was a nice guy, played soccer with us, joked around. All the time I was working in the radio engineering co-op, in the factory on Zulawskiego, and giving lessons in math and physics, and that way I made ends meet. And there, at St. Jacek’s, I did my higher standards. In 1950, I think.

After that I went to university, the Academy of Mining and Metallurgy. I dreamed of studying physics, but I didn’t want to be a teacher, and that’s the realistic outlook for a physics grad. So I went to the electrical engineering department, studied electrics, because I wanted to do something related to physics. That was quite a tough department – they used to say that people who didn’t get into electrical engineering passed for other departments with flying colors. I was a full-time student.

When I was a student we had military studies too. Under communism this country was a bit militarized, because we were always about to fight a war with America. AGH was a technical university, so we had artillery. During the vacation they used to take us out to the training ground, to Deba Rozalin [a training ground, still in use, for armored and missile defense troops in the south-east of Poland, in Podkarpackie province], or to the training grounds in the Reclaimed Territories 27. There were whole towns empty there, and we had artillery training grounds in them, and did shooting. I usually operated the radio. While a student I graduated from the Institute of Artillery in Torun, I spent about three months there. Yes, everyone from my years went. Before you got your officer rank, you had to graduate from that school. And then they would give us the stars, see. I’m a lieutenant. After that, when I’d graduated, they were always calling me up on exercises, for a month at a time. They tried to persuade me to stay in the army. I couldn’t, because I had my father sick. I had him to look after. Once they even tried to make me, to force me. I said no. So they said: ‘Court-martial.’ I said: ‘OK. When there’s a war,’ I said, ‘I’ll go and defend my homeland, but at the moment, while there’s not a war, I’m not leaving my sick father.’

While I was a student I was getting a maintenance grant for one, and for another I was still giving private lessons in math and physics. Father was still on my insurance; he didn’t have a pension of his own because he hadn’t worked since the war. He had a few pence, because he’d sold the two cottages in Nowe Brzesko and that gave him something for a while. As the son he’d inherited them after the war after his mother. He didn’t get the two-story house back, although that was his by rights too. The Farmers’ Mutual Aid forced their way in there, broke down the door and walked in. Without Father knowing, because we weren’t living in Nowe Brzesko by then. They made it into a cereal store, and so it all sagged, because there were tons and tons... They used it and didn’t pay anything. So Father went to court. You know what the courts were like under communism. He didn’t win anything. The case dragged on until he died, nearly. But as long as he lived he used to go there. Still put money into it, very often mine. He’d mend the roof, because it made his heart bleed to see it going to ruin. And still they didn’t pay him anything. They just treated it that since it was Jewish property it was nobody’s, so they could do as they pleased with it.

At university I was a member of the Social and Cultural Society of Polish Jews 28. It was at Dluga 38 at first, and then on Slawkowska Street. The Chairman of the SCSPJ was Wiener [Maurycy, 1906-1990], a university law grad. He was a prewar attorney, silver-tongued, talked like an attorney. And after the war, every Jewish adult looked on young people with this kind of… friendship, that there were any children, any young people left. At that time there were still a lot of Jews in Poland. When there was a SCSJP rally in Warsaw, Wiener asked me to go to Warsaw and represent the youth section, because he wanted to show that there were still some young people. I agreed, and I went.

Life in Communist Poland

I always read the newspapers, it’s something that’s stayed with me to this day. I buy them – even when I don’t have time to read them – and then I throw them away. But I buy them. And back then I used to read them too. And before I went to Warsaw I read about the charges against those doctors 29. And it all became clear to me. They could have been traitors, right. Doctors who poisoned all of those big guns instead of treating them. But when I read the note at the end, where some woman doctor said that most of the accused were Jews, it all started to sound racist to me. If there were eminent Jews, they were Russians, not Jews – professors, generals… but suddenly some poisoners come along, and there’s a note saying they’re Jews. It sounded like Hitler to me. And I knew something was up.

There wasn’t any of that in Poland at that time. And at that rally there was this guy Zachariasz [Szymon; 1948-1964 member of the Party Inspectorate Central Committee, the executive of the Polish United Workers’ Party in power 1948-1990]. He was a member of the Central Committee, a Jew, and he gave a paper. In Jewish [Yiddish]. And he starts spouting this trash, that he takes it as read that those Jews were murderers and poisoners, that they didn’t treat properly. He spoke very pretty Yiddish, forcefully, and he was always interjecting these Hebrew words: ‘eymen,’ that means ‘amen.’ And he says: ‘We’re not only against those doctors, we’re against Israel 28, because Israel is a figment of Zionism, and that’s capitalism, the bourgeoisie.’ An important man, member of the Central Committee, and he believes in that claptrap! No, I got out of there. Left the hall. I didn’t want to hear that, and I left. That told me everything. I saw that socialism was changing into racism. They tried to get me to join the Party, but I never did.

I remember that the Party 30 sent Erdestein, the guy who ran our children’s home, to train young workers and farmers to be the new intelligentsia. He was taken away from our children’s home not because he was bad, just because he was given another job. They set up these accelerated school-leaving courses on Garbarska Street, for them to graduate from high school and go to university. In my view that’s the one positive thing about communism, that you could study whether you were rich or not. You got a grant, a dormitory – I was at AGH, I saw it. There were guys who would never have gone to university if it hadn’t been for communism. But as for the rest, obviously – they took away freedom, everything. And later on I asked Erdestein, once he was retired – he threw his party membership back at them once he saw the way it was going, yes – ‘You went to Russia – didn’t you see that it wasn’t a just system?’ And he said, ‘I saw it, but I put it down to war, that there was a war, and then you have to use desperate measures.’

After graduation I was sent to work to the Railroad Planning Office in Cracow, on Mogilska Street. I worked there for quite a long time, a little while in the planning office, and then in the projects office, where I managed my own design projects. The work on the railroads was interesting, because I could see the communist deceit when I used to go as a supervisor to Hurko-Medyka, an iron ore trans-shipment depot from Russia to Poland. There was a gantry built there, and they tipped the ore down from the wide-gauge and loaded it into normal-gauge cars and then it was transported to Nowa Huta [the Lenin Foundry, built in 1954, the largest industrial plant in the Cracow region], and to the foundries in Silesia [the most industrialized region of Poland].

I was in a meeting, I remember, and suddenly, out of the window I saw this huge hill that had been made, all kinds of greenery was growing on it, so I asked, ‘What’s that big hill there?’ There was this Jakubowski, who was chairing the meeting, and he signed to me to keep quiet. Later he said to me, ‘Engineer, sir, that’s not a hill, that’s ore. We paid the Russians for it, it’s in our records, but it’s ore that’s no use for smelting, because there’s more earth in it than ore.’ I came to the conclusion that I wasn’t really badly off working on the railroads, but they were starting to build Nowa Huta, and I thought to myself: ‘I’ll go to Nowa Huta, work there a while – in industry. I was interested in the foundry itself, where the steel production, pipes, the rolling mill was, that kind of thing. I wanted to see that industry, which was so up-to-the minute for its time. Yes, I was curious.

So of course I told them my plans, filed an application for release or transfer – I can’t remember. And then the boss, the director of the projects office, had me in. Engineer Domka. I say to him that it’s not about the money, that I’m not trying to get anything, that I enjoyed working there – and I really did have very good relations... But I can’t just carry on working like this for ever, see, I want to learn something new. And he starts explaining to me, that that office would soon be modern too. I say, ‘I’m sure it will, and I wish you that… but I want it now.’ And then he started on the party line, we’re building socialism, this is betrayal, because I’m needed, and so on. And in this sharp tone. But I left anyway. New things are more interesting. And after that I read in the newspaper that Director Domka was arrested – the one that had given me the Stalin talk. Turns out that the railroads had all these investment projects going, and when they build new things you had to drill into the ground, do geological studies. And he’d contracted it out to some co-operative, and they’d drilled five holes, and the railroads had paid for ten, and they’d split the money. And this big Stalinist, right, went down, because he’d been mixed up in this corruption scandal – that was party people for you. That’s what it was like.

I worked in the Huta foundry, but it was quite hard work, because it was day in, day out, morning to night, Sundays too, because it was all under construction. I had a gang of electricians, I was maintenance manager – it was non-stop in operation, three shifts. I worked three shifts too. The pay was out of this world. If you wrapped up a job ahead of schedule you had piles of money. But there was nowhere to spend that money. It took you an hour there and an hour back. I had night shifts, there were all sorts of emergency callouts... after a while I was absolutely exhausted. And by then I’d more or less seen everything that interested me. Anyway, I didn’t have the need to earn so much because after all, I had no family, you see after the war I’d come to the conclusion that the happiest man is he who is never born. I lived with women, but I didn’t want children. I had money in the bank, and I left.

And after that, well, in Poland it all started like it had in Russia, see. They started removing Jews, from the army first, and then from all sorts of institutions 31. At the time I was Chief Engineer in Deberol, Central Agricultural Construction. The director was a member of the Cracow Province Committee [of the Polish United Workers’ Party, the communist party in Poland]. Kowalowka, his name was, and he wanted to show that he could fire Jews too. There were two of us Jews in that firm, so he fired two. He came into the room – and he was a stocky guy. I’m sitting at my desk, I had my legs crossed, and so he asks me why I’m sitting with my legs crossed? And I knew he was looking for a pretext, so I say: ‘What rules regulate how to hold my legs?’ I knew it was pure provocation, so I said, ‘Have the guts to say what this is all about.’ And I got three months’ notice. I mean, they paid me three wages but they wanted me to go at once. My immediate boss, Pankowski, soon found out. He came out in my defense fantastically, I hadn’t expected that. The others too. He went to him: ‘What’s all this about?’ – to that director – ‘This is a good worker! We need him!’ And the other comes straight out: ‘Perhaps you’re a Jew too?’ And Pankowski got mad: ‘What, I have to get my dick out on the desk for you, have I?’ Literally – and sharper than that too. My colleagues behaved wonderfully. They wrote a letter, the whole workforce, in my defense.

In all my jobs everybody always knew that I’m a Jew and generally speaking I had good, decent relations. I never made a thing of it, never introduced myself as such, but I never hid it either, and I was left alone. If people wanted to tell Jewish jokes, they did it in my absence. I didn’t have to listen to that. It was enough that sometimes you had to listen to it when you were on the move, in buses, trains. I left the job. It took me two or three months to get over it, but I had enough friends that I went elsewhere. And they welcomed me with open arms, because not all directors succumbed. It was entirely chance that I didn’t emigrate then. I even tried for a while, but I was refused.

From Deberol I moved to Inwestprojekt on Swietokrzyska Street. By then I had good experience and I was supervising inspector for the Cracow province. I used to travel all over the province and supervise. I could be in the field a week, one day here, one day there. I accepted jobs, inspected, signed invoices. People occasionally tried to bribe me. I understood that the contractors wanted to have something out of it too, I know, because they all had losses sometimes… Other people took bribes. I couldn’t afford to, because I knew that if I screwed up, they would nail me not only as an engineer, but also as a Jew. And it wasn’t that I was so very scrupulous, but if I saw obvious things, like somebody trying to invoice me twice for the same thing because they thought I wasn’t keeping tabs on it all after a while – after all, I had whole regions to supervise – then I made it clear I knew and I wouldn’t stand for it. I’d say, ‘I’m not a pharmacist, but I don’t want to go down, and I don’t want you to go down either.’ There was no control over me, but there could have been. That was where I finished, in construction, that was my last full-time job.

During Martial Law 32 I was still working. I had a special dispensation. I was allowed to go to building sites everywhere, because building was going on: Kurdwanow [Kurdwanow Nowy; formerly a village, now a high-rise residential estate in the south of Cracow, construction began in 1980], Wola Duchacka [formerly a village, now a residential estate in the south of Cracow], and in Proszowice. When I retired I was given an apartment – two rooms – but I left it to my sister. I have a bachelor apartment.

Recent years

I had family abroad. I had a cousin in Antwerp, in Belgium. Her mother and my mother were sisters. That’s my closest family, a first cousin. She was born in Chrzanow and left as a baby. Polette, her name is, nee Weizenblum. When the Germans marched into Belgium, she and her mother fled through France towards Switzerland. Her father was killed – the Germans had already gotten onto him before that, but she and her Mom bribed the guards – there were people who smuggled Jews across the border. The Swiss didn’t let Jews in. If you were already there, you were there, but they guarded the border. They even had ‘J’ for ‘Jew’ stamped in Jews’ passports, apparently, so they knew they were Jews. She told me that she was in some orphanage there, and when they didn’t give them good enough food to eat, they protested, because they wanted better food. The Jews in Switzerland survived differently to here. And there she met her husband, who came from Silesia somewhere and was called Sznur. They had two daughters and a son. That family is religious, but like in our home, none of them have beards, but they go to synagogue on Saturdays and don’t work.

My cousin Alfred [Abraham] from my father’s side lived in Munich and had a shop selling watches. He married, but doesn’t have children. In Phoenix, Arizona [USA] lived Giza, the daughter of Father’s other brother Moryc; she survived a camp. I met her once at that cousin’s place in Germany. Her other sister Ida was a beautiful girl, beautiful. And I asked what happened to her. She had a fiance, a Pole, a Christian. She had Aryan papers and Aryan looks, as they say. She didn’t go into the ghetto or into a camp. And it turned out that the parents of that guy didn’t want him to marry a Jewess. His parents denounced her to stop the marriage, and the Germans shot her. In the war.

That time in Germany, I met Giza’s husband. His parents had left Poland for Germany back before the war. He’d been born there, and went to school there. Later, they fled Hitler to France, and after the occupation of France he fled to America. He was young, and volunteered for the American army. And he landed with the American army in Normandy [the D-Day landings began on 6 June 1944 with the aim of opening up a second front in Western Europe]. After that they made him a translator. He could speak German perfectly – born in Germany – he could speak French perfectly, because he’d graduated from school there, and he could speak English perfectly because he’d been in America. Adler, his name was, and then he married my cousin. Giza had been through a lot herself, a lot of stress, because in America she was always going into schools to talk to the children about the Holocaust. So she had to relive it herself. She came to Cracow too, came with her children, a daughter and a son. She met up with my sister Pola, but I wasn’t in Cracow at the time.

And then I took on a part-time job, as if I had too little to do. I worked in the catering co-operative ‘Spolem’ and supervised transformer stations, but that was a trifle for me, because I knew all that inside out. Then I took another job for the State Forestries, working in sawmills, but then I came to the conclusion that I was working for a pittance while all my friends were going to the West and earning several times more, see. And since I had that cousin of mine in Antwerp, when I was there one time I started looking around to see if I could find something there for myself. And I found this unofficial job as an electrician for a while. As a senior citizen.

When I was still working and traveling around, I often used to go to folk art fairs, look at all sorts of wood carvings, they interested me. I used to buy a bit, because I knew what. I started collecting a little and carving myself. And now I co-operate with carvers and do a bit of designing Jewish carvings, because I remember it from before the war. I draw them out what they are to carve and how. At first, while I was still carving more myself, I used to give it all away, but I could see that people were impressed. A friend came from America and I gave her this little figurine, and she gave me a pair of jeans, which was a great present back then. I do a little when I feel better and have time.

After Father’s death [1972] the two-story house in Nowe Brzesko is actually mine and my sister’s. I didn’t use to go there much, simply because it was trauma... it brought it all back, and I just wanted to get out of there as fast as possible. And anyway, I could never get in, because after the co-operative some tenants moved in. As soon as they saw someone coming, they locked themselves in. I went to the borough councilor. He palmed me off. I went to the police – back then it was still the militia. It turned out that they were local civil servants living there. I kept writing to them all those years, until finally, two or three years ago, they moved out. They forged registration signatures, that supposedly they’d been registered resident there. The last borough councilor never said that they were legally resident there. I thought it was another break-in. The case went to the prosecutor, but because those civil servants had been living there for so many years, the prosecutor and the courts knocked it on the head, saying it was limitation [a case cannot be brought to court after a certain time has elapsed]. And they were let off scot-free, because it took me longer than five years.

I’m not appealing the decision, I haven’t the health for it. I’ve let it go. I had a trade, earned a living, and didn’t need to live off that house. If I find someone, I’ll sell it on the cheap. Just the site, because over those few dozen years they’ve ruined the house. It’s such a wreck that it’s hard to sell. The plaster’s fallen off. It even ruins the look of the Square. The only former Jewish house on the Square not sold on is ours. I don’t take much of an interest in it, but they’re always writing to me from the council telling me that it’s a hazard, that I should renovate it. Out of my pension. It’s boundless cheek... and they’d never do it to anyone else, but I’m used to it. It’s nothing compared to what happened during the war, when they’d take a life for a pair of boots, just to plunder something. I know what people are like. I’m not generalizing, but I’ve seen worse barbarity than just that kind of… thieving, isn’t it. What can you say? And now of course, everything looks different in Nowe Brzesko. It’s tidied up, because they’ve put in electricity in the meantime, maybe even mains sewerage, but as a town it looks dead. Dead.

The only organization I belong to is the Children of the Holocaust Association, and I don’t want anything else, because I think that’s what I need, there is where I find people with similar stories. We have meetings once a month. There are 60 people enrolled in Cracow, I think, but if 40 of them come it’s a good show. It’s a lot, because lately a lot of that association is falling off, and some people only signed up for the benefits – there were reductions for the trams, for medication too. I’m maybe the oldest in the group, because people older than me can’t be members of that association – the condition is that you had to have been no older than 16 after the war. In general they don’t know much, because most of them were babies, hidden with other people. They don’t know anything and the religion doesn’t interest them much. I’m an agnostic too myself, so there’s no problem there.

Once, at a Children of the Holocaust meeting, Prof. Aleksandrowicz came to talk to us. Jerzy, son of Prof. Julian Aleksandrowicz [the hematologist]. He’s a physician too, but a psychiatrist, and he told us that what we went through kind of enriches us, because we have a different take on things. He’s a Child of the Holocaust himself. I knew him years ago, because we used to go on camp together. He’s several years younger than me for first, and for second he had a full family after the war, father and mother. I say that I have to disagree with what he says, that it enriches us. I think it’s the opposite, at least in my case, that what I went through more like suffocated me, because I was always inhibited, I always felt like I was treated worse, because what I went through affected my psyche. And I think that anybody who experienced that time as a child but more or less aware of things, it has to affect you like that. And none of us are 100 percent mentally in order. To different degrees. My sister’s in a worse state, she even had to be in the hospital, but I don’t want to talk about that.

When communism ended 34, the Children of the Holocaust organized the first trip to Israel, through the main branch in Warsaw. And I went on that first trip, about 15 years ago. For ten or twelve days. We went all over Israel. We went to Yad Vashem 35, planted trees, went to all these museums. We went to Bethlehem, Jericho, everywhere. A different place every day. We were feted. The television interviewed us, because that was the first group of Jewish Children of the Holocaust from Poland. So we were even received in the parliament. Shevach Weiss [speaker of the Knesset 1992-1996, subsequently Israeli ambassador to Poland] was speaker of the parliament back then.

And there I had this experience out of this world. This Jew from Poland followed us wherever he could. And he was looking for someone from Myslenice [approx. 30 km south of Cracow], from Cracow. I said I was from Cracow. He was called Wulkan, and he told me this story. Before the war his brother and his family lived in Myslenice. Before deportation they’d had two small boys, babies, and they’d given the children over to the care of a Polish family. The children survived, the parents didn’t. He went back, and after the war he met up with them. Later on, those two boys married. He somehow made contact with them again. He wrote to them from Holland, they wrote back, but when they found out that he lived in Israel, it all broke off. Their wives didn’t want them to have any contact with their uncle because Myslenice was anti-Semitic, in fact before the war that was where Doboszynski 36 operated. Shops were smashed up... so it was very vicious there. And that guy Wulkan said to me: ‘I didn’t want to take them away from what they have. They’re Christians, let them be who they want, but I wanted them to know where they came from. It was impossible.’ He tried again through other people, but as soon as those wives found out that somebody was trying to get in touch with them, they blocked it. And their husbands evidently didn’t want to cause any kind of marital conflicts. I tried to get in touch with them too, but I didn’t get anywhere.

Two years ago, I’m in Antwerp – I’ve got a family I’m friends with there, the Finks. His wife comes from Cracow, she’s nearly 80 now too, and I’m walking round Antwerp with her, and there’s this woman walking behind us. She’s speaking good Polish – from Israel. But suddenly I hear the word Wulkan – the name. I say: ‘Excuse me, madam, but I knew a guy Wulkan...’ and she says: ‘That’s my brother. He’s dead now. All his life he wanted to meet up with those nephews of his, but he didn’t manage it.’ I don’t want to get in touch with them by force, as they say; perhaps I could do it through some institution, but why disturb their peace? That brother of their father’s, who so wanted them to know something about themselves, is dead now... They are engineers, they’ve got children, and so on. Nobody knows who they are, that they’re Jewish. They’ve got different surnames. I know their names, but I don’t want to reveal them.

Every year the Children of the Holocaust have a world rally [it hasn’t been in Poland yet], which we don’t usually go to, because you have to pay your own travel and the cost of your stay. Well, in Poland we don’t have the kind of incomes that we can afford to go abroad for three days. But three to four years ago the world rally was in the Czech Republic, in Prague. And so we decided we’d make a trip of it, to meet up with them, because a large percentage of the Children of the Holocaust come from Poland. We booked a trip through a travel agency and to make it cheaper we didn’t stay in Prague itself, but 20 km outside Prague. Well, when the organizers found out that there was a group from Poland, they had a quick whip-round and at their own cost took rooms for us in the center of Prague, in the same hotels as them. And full board, everything, they covered everything. But you don’t get much out of it, because it’s all in English. I don’t know any English, only the basic words.

A few years ago some lawyer called me from Switzerland and said that he was on the Wilkomirski case [Bruno Doessekker alias Benjamin Wilkomirski, in 1995 published a book called ‘Bruchstücke’ (‘Fragments: Memories of a Wartime Childhood’).]. He’s this Swiss guy who worked in a library, read all about the experiences of all these different Jews, evidently, and wrote a book – made this kind of compilation, passed it off as his childhood experiences. A total forgery. A scandal broke out. The BBC got interested, and they interviewed me, because one of the things he wrote was that he’d been in our children’s home in Cracow, that they didn’t have anything to eat, that he had to beg. What hunger? What begging? I told them in the interview that it was a pack of lies. I was speaking to the lawyer in German, and suddenly he asks if I know Marta nee Fiegner and what would I say to getting in touch with her? Well, I burst into tears... ‘Well, I would be happy, she was a very close friend of mine,’ I said.

Turns out that Marta went to university in France. Her mother married again, a Swiss guy, and Marta used to go and visit her. And once, by chance, she met Wilkomirski, in some train somewhere. She told him of her experiences in the children’s home in Cracow, and that’s how they found their way into his book. The lawyer gave Marta my address and telephone number, and we got in touch through him. ‘Why didn’t I stay in Cracow? Cracow is so dear to me,’ she said. She married a non-Jew, a Frenchman. They have a house near Paris. They have a son, a philosophy grad. She’s a bit of a writer, writes poems a bit, had some book published. And she went to Lwow. She and her husband went on a trip to Lwow. She hasn’t been to Cracow yet. I invite her, and she desperately wants me to go to see them. I promise her I will, and I want to go..., and I must, because she calls me and we talk half a hour and more. It would be easiest for me to go while I’m visiting my cousin, but I’m always in Belgium for such a short time...

In 2005 it was the 60th anniversary of the founding of the children’s home I was in after the war. It’s still there today, but now it’s a state children’s home [Care and Educational Complex No. 2]. Even in my day it was mixed, there were Jewish and Polish children, because the Jewish children gradually went back home, found their families, or found someone from their family abroad. It varied. Now it’s a small children’s home, apparently there are only 30 children in it, and they’re supposed to be closing it down this year. The celebrations were amazing, the works – the education department must have financed it. There was a reception, excellent food, a singing performance by Wojcicki [Jacek; Cracow actor and singer], him from Piwnica [Piwnica Pod Baranami, a Cracow satirical cabaret club founded in 1956]. Several generations came – it was packed. There was a small group of Jews too. I was the oldest, there was Marek Boim too, and this guy Cezary came too, who’d immigrated to Israel as a young boy and graduated there. Some long-serving carer talked about the history of the children’s home. Then the organizers wanted the former children to say something. My friends forced me to speak, because I really was the oldest child there. So I told a few stories, what the beginnings were like, from A to Z, that for us the children’s home was great. Nowadays the carers are pedagogues, it’s their job, but with us it was different. They, the carers, had lost children, we’d lost parents, and it was one big family.

I’m the youngest of all us cousins [Editor’s note: Mr. Elbinger’s sister is a year younger than him]. Giza is blind, and now she’s got Alzheimer’s and doesn’t remember anything. She has a good husband, but he’s losing his sight too, and there’s no hope for it. They both live in a care home in Phoenix. Their son works in America, but their daughter married an architect in America and then went to Israel. They’re doing very well, because he has an architectural design office and does jobs all over the world.

Polette has Parkinson’s a little now. She’s nearly 80. Her husband died. The first time I went to Belgium, when her friends found out that I’m from Cracow, it turned out that this one is from Cracow, that one is from Cracow – there were more Cracow people there than there are Jews in Cracow. In fact when I’m in Belgium now, I go to the synagogue, but not to pray, only to find things out, because I have a gap in my knowledge. The rabbi of that progressive community is wise, an enlightened man altogether. He knows over a dozen languages.

I just went to Belgium, for a bar mitzvah. Polette’s son has six children, five of them sons, and another little one’s just been born. He married a girl from New York, from a family of Hungarian Jews. Polette’s grandchildren are very musically talented. The sons sing – one even composes, the daughter sings, the father sings too. Mendi, whose bar mitzvah it was, as well as the party, had a concert organized for him by his brothers. They are religious, so the sexes were separate. The men danced separately and the women separately, but of course the screen was only a cloth one. His friends are religious, so everyone was in black suits, and the dances… They danced, all sorts of acrobatics, because it’s developing, Hasidic dancing. It went on till one in the morning, and I couldn’t tear myself away, even though I’m old and I didn’t feel well, but a concert like that, and music like that, I don’t remember for years, and of course I sat there till the end. It was all filmed, and recently when I was at a Children of the Holocaust meeting, I told them I just came back from this party, and that when the film’s ready – and it’s apparently going to be 1½ hours long – I’ll show it to them, how it is, because since the war, no-one in Poland – maybe right after the war there were bar mitzvahs, but that was decades ago.

Glossary

VERA AMAR
Belgrade
Serbia
Interviewer: Ida Labudovic

Growing up
During the war
After the war

Growing up

My name is Vera Vajda; my married name is Amar. My father was Nikola Mikloša Vajda and my mother Miroslava, nee Torbić. I was born on June 22, 1923. I am the eldest of three children. My mother gave birth to my two brothers and I in the course of three years. My youngest brother, Vojislav, and I were both born in June and my middle brother, Ljubomir, was born in January.

The thing I remember about my mother’s side of the family is that they were very poor. She lost her parents during World War I; they were spoken of very infrequently at home. My father’s parents lived outside of Yugoslavia. They came two or three times for short visits to Yugoslavia; I did not know them well. My father was born in Zalaegerszeg, Hungary. When he graduated from secondary school, he went to Vienna to study. He completed what they called at the time a commercial two-year college. My paternal grandfather, Emil, was a court furrier. My paternal grandmother was named Judita. There were four children in the family: my father was the eldest; then Martin; a sister, Tereza; and the youngest, Lajos. They were religious and they celebrated all the holidays. I do not make a distinction about how religious they were, if they were among Jews in name alone or they lived like Jews. I was too little to have made such a distinction; today I know this well.

I remember when we went to the wedding of my father’s younger sister, Tereza, in Budapest. Although I was very young, I remember that wedding. It was in a synagogue, but I do not remember where the synagogue was. My mother sewed velvet suits with white shirts for my brothers. I had a red pleated dress with a lace collar and patent leather shoes. They were my first and most beautiful patent leather shoes. My mother had a dress that was pleated in a bell shape, in three rows, and patent leather shoes. Father wore a dress suit. I do not remember how we traveled there or how we returned. I only remember Aunt Tereza’s wedding, my patent leather shoes, my dress and my mother’s.

During the war

I was 17 when the war began. At the time, the question of family and their relationships were distant to me. Now, I think about this much more and only lately have I received additional information. My father’s family lived and were killed in Hungary, in Budapest. There is a museum named after my youngest uncle, Lajos Vajda Museum. I was very surprised to learn about this place, but I never managed to enter and see what was inside, especially if there are pictures.

Fifteen years ago, I went on a business trip to Szentendre with David Dinko, a member of the Academy of Science and worked with frescoes. We worked on a series called “The Beginning of Literacy” and filmed the origins of literacy using old icons. Szentendre is a small town with nine churches and yet not one priest was still there, except the one who gave us the key. I wanted to see where my grandmother was buried. We were in Szentendre for eight days and only later did I learn about Lajos Vajda’s museum. They took me to the Jewish cemetery on my last day there. The entire cemetery was dug up and the black marble monuments were laying one on top of the other. The names could not be read. It bothered me that it was like this, and that is a part of my subconscious that pulls me.

My father’s mother Judita died right before the war, and my father was killed in 1941 in Belgrade along with his brother Martin. His sister remained in Budapest, she married and I know her married name is Klein and that she had three children. The whole family died in the war. My Uncle Lajos, the youngest, was in a camp. At that time, my grandfather was captured and I do not know whether he died in a camp or outside. Uncle Lajos was released from the camp, contracted tuberculosis and died. I have no idea where he is buried.

What connects me very closely to my family, to my father and his family, is what my father formed within his family here in Belgrade; he brought tranquility and material prosperity. He was well-educated and made a good living. He was very tender with us children. Father worked a lot. He spent the mornings and the afternoons at work at “Tuner and Vagner,” a private company. He would come home to eat lunch, then return to work. That is what life was like in Belgrade before the war.

My father was a manager, a financial specialist, and he had a big salary. He first worked for “Bajloni,” then at “Tuner and Vagner” and finally for “Brace Zdravkovic,” a quarry. It is because of this last job that we moved to Pasino Hill. The office was at 7 Nebojsa Street. My father and mother met before my father began working in “Tuner and Vagner,” while he was still working in “Bajloni,” a Belgrade brewery. He was a boss, of what today is called the commercial department, where my mother worked as a clerk. There was great love and happiness between them. My father, although he came from a foreign country, found tranquility here, and my mother was very happy, because she had a wonderful life with my father. In three years, she gave birth to three children. Unfortunately, it all came to an end in 1941 and that began the tragedy that affected all Jewish families in Belgrade. As a child, I watched a whole column of Jews from different cities, Skopje and especially from Macedonia. At the time I did not think about it much.

My father and mother lived in a room, near London (a neighborhood in the center of Belgrade) in a building where the Bata store is today. I was born there. Later they moved temporarily into a building owned by Bajloni. We also lived on Solunska Street in a Jewish house where the Pardo family lived. The Pardos had two sons and a daughter but unfortunately they were all killed. We also lived at 3 Jovanov Street where the Kalef family lived. And finally we lived at 30 Cara Urosa in a building that no longer exists. Above us was the synagogue that unfortunately was destroyed by the Germans when they retreated. As a child, I always went to synagogue. I liked it, it was attractive and meaningful to me. Since I am from a mixed marriage, I had a dilemma about whether to take Serbian or Jewish religious classes. To this day, this is still a relevant question. My mother and father were very sensitive, and this meant that my father did not offend my mother nor my mother, my father. I went through school without taking any religious studies. However, the synagogue attracted me –  it was full of weddings, I went there and everything was lovely. Later, I saw that I was in a picture taken at a wedding of a relative of my husband, Isak Bata Amar.

In the Dorcol neighborhood, where I spent my youth, 90 percent of the population was Jewish. I went to the German-Serbian school with my brothers. Our housekeeper took us to school. We spent most of the day on Jovanova Street. Since I had two brothers, I grew up on roller-skates, scooters and bicycles. In Kalemegdan, where the zoo is today (it did not exist at the time), there were swings, merry-go-rounds with ropes attached. At the end of the rope there was rubber, where one was supposed to sit; we drove it with our feet until we were flying.

The entire atmosphere was Jewish –  when I think about it, I did not know one Serbian family that lived in the house where I lived or in the houses next to mine or across the street. They were all Jews. My husband’s aunt’s sister lived across the street. Even as a young man, my father would come to visit his relative who had three children. I think their last name was Demajo, but I know the children’s first names were: Marsel, Miksa and Mikica. They were my friends. Eighty percent of the children in my grade were Jewish. The people who lived around us were Jews, and this was entirely normal for us. The relations between the Serbs and the Jews were very close. The holidays were celebrated; everyone visited one another. My mother did not want to celebrate any holidays, because she did not want to offend my father. Everything concerning these holidays that I soaked up, experienced and that became an integral part of my life, I experienced outside of my house. I had a happy childhood with great comforts. When I look back on all this, it seems that all of us Jews lived like one big family in Dorcol.

I do not remember if there was a Jewish school in Belgrade, I think that there was not. Maybe there was a Jewish kindergarten, but since my mother stopped working as soon as she married, she was able to take care of the house and children. I went to the women’s gymnasium; that building still exists on Dusanova Street.

Going to synagogue was very exciting and nice for me. I went to look at the brides and to see how they looked, to listen and to attend the weddings because it made me happy. I was not aware of this then, I only know that something was always pulling me toward it and I was emotionally tied to it. I know that my mother did not want to let us go, but since we lived close to the synagogue on Cara Urosa Street she let us, because we were not in danger from traffic back then. There were no cars and only two tramways went by our house every two hours. My mother did not let us out because we lived in a garden apartment. There were three of us, and when you let one you must let them all. We went to Kalemegdan and I have a lot of pictures with our mother or housekeeper. That is how children lived back then; later they let us ride scooters. Even though I was a girl I drove with my brothers. But there was no traffic. Children did not have the same freedom that they do today. When I was a young girl, my father was quite strict. He always waited for me in the summer and winter at 8 p.m. If I were five minutes late, he would point to the clock. Relationships were different, not to speak of discipline in schools and discipline in studies, in bedtimes and wake-up times. We were never permitted to wake up and stay in bed. That was a strange thing, but that is how we were raised. The moment Father came in, we had to stand up. It seems to me that it was a sign of respect –  there was a relationship that is entirely different today.

I did not celebrate the holidays much, barely at all. Shabbat was a general holiday for us. I do not know how to explain it. Shabbat was not observed in our house, but it was felt in the whole neighborhood and probably that had an influence on my mother, since she certainly accepted something of the Jewish holidays, but not everything. The atmosphere was felt in the sense that life slowed down, the shops were closed, Father came home. But my father had to work on Saturday and even on Sundays. This is something that still bothers me today. I have the feeling that I lived between two religions. When I married my husband, he told me that on Shabbat his parents and sister closed the store and came home. His father smoked a lot and lit one after another, which I thought was very strange yet cute. In school I celebrated the Christian holidays. I remember Saint Sava, when I sang in the choir. There were also parties. I know that my father went to parties with my mother – not only in the Jewish center, which was located in the same place as it is today, but even more so to other places. She would sew a dress. My mother sewed at Regina Benvenisti’s, which was a well-known salon in Belgrade, and would go to the officer’s house for balls. They celebrated together. I did not have any connection to the community, and I do not remember which holidays they went to the community for.

Later, when we were older, we moved to Pasino Hill, where the atmosphere was entirely different. First of all, it was not as intimate. In general, the houses were privately owned and there were more Serbs than Jews. All of this influenced the formation of the psyche and the way of life and a different atmosphere. The Jewish families were different; we never heard that they hit their children. I do not remember that my mother or father hit us. Jews did not drink any alcohol. In our house no one drank, and this had its influence. Back then, there was a deeply felt respect not only of children for their parents, but between parents. I know that my father always talked endearingly to my mother. Her name was Miroslava, but he called her Mico. He always kissed her when he came home. Of course, he kissed us children, but he always kissed mother as well. Things were entirely different once we moved. We lived in a house where we lived with the landlord. We lived in the lower apartment, a larger apartment.

When our father was taken away and executed, we had to move from there. Then the troubles and relocation began. After a happy childhood, April 6, 1941, entirely ruined everything.

My father was unable to go to the seaside, but we went every summer to Sarajevo by train, from Sarajevo we took a short track train to Herceg-Novi, Igalo, Kumbor, the three of us children, Mother and, naturally, we brought our housekeeper along. My father could pay for all of this, but he was not able to leave his office to go on vacation with us. Now, when I think about this, it hurts me, because he invested a lot of energy and work into ensuring that his family was happy and satisfied, and unfortunately he was killed in his 40s. When we were adults, and when he would have been able to spend time with us, they killed him.

The last time I saw my father was November 14, 1941. After forced labor, he was imprisoned at Autokomand at Topovske Supe. Until November 13, actually November 14, my mother and I visited the camp. Every day, for more than a month, we brought him food and we waited for hours in line to give it to him. The Germans called out the names, and we had to say who we were looking for and who we were, and then they would call us. They called the prisoners to come to the yard, as the meetings were in the yard, and called those of us who were waiting in line to see our loved ones. The meetings were very hard, sad. I remember that I was very young and I still had not grown to my parents’ height. There was a great clamor. We were packed in like sardines. They turned on German music, which made the conversations more difficult. We were in the yard for 10 minutes. Of course, we entered when the whistle blew and left when it blew again. When that conversation was over, my mother departed on the left side of Topovske Supe and I on the right side, where the Number 10 tram runs today. My mother departed on the opposite side, cutting through gardens and meadows, so she would get home as soon as possible.

When I left the camp, which was surrounded by wires and many soldiers – to be more precise, armed guards –  I tried to see my father one more time, not knowing it would be the last time. I got close to the fence and caught a glimpse of my father, his face and his hat at the window. I always have that picture of him with that hat in my mind. He waved to me and at that minute I heard a guard warning me not to get so close to the fence. Naturally, I was not scared and I did not react to his threat. Then he shot at my feet. I continued and a little further away I stopped again and I tried to speak with my father, but I do not remember about what. I remember that I waved and told him that Mother and I would come tomorrow. Then the guard shot again, this time at my head, and the bullet passed by my left ear. When my father saw this, he screamed and begged me to move away. I left, and this was the last time I saw him.

That day, November 13, was a nice sunny day, even though it was cold. However, during the night there was a storm. It snowed and rained, a strong wind blew and hit against the shutters and the gate. The entire night we listened to the rattle of the different locks and the murmurs that always accompany big storms. In the morning, my mother made lunch and, since it was slippery outside, she dressed me in boots and on top of them my father’s old socks. She gave me two portions, which she wrapped in a lot of paper and rags so that the food would not get cold, and put it in a straw bag. I left. I registered and they took the list. They took the food from me, and 10 minutes later they returned the food to me. They told me that he had been taken to work in Germany; they did not even mention forced labor. That is actually how I learned that my father had been executed.

My brothers were with my mother. My brothers were younger than me. They moved out of the apartment and in general they hid around the neighborhood. Nedic’s people captured my brothers a few times, but each time there was at least one of their friends from primary school present and they let them go. The neighbors announced that the Gestapo was coming. This was on Pasino Hill with only a few houses, where it was risky for the Gestapo to enter. This is how they avoided execution three times. My brothers did not go to school; only after the war did they finish school. Both are engineers. My eldest brother has a son, a daughter-in-law and three girls. My younger brother has a daughter, a son and two grandchildren. His daughter does not have children. Fate would have it that they also survived. My mother lived deep into old age and died at the age of 90. My father, my uncle Martin, and his wife and two children were all killed.

As soon as I turned 18 I married a Serb, and I had a son, Slobodan. During those years we all played, we went to school and still carried dolls. I had my child and I was more than happy. I have two grandchildren from my elder son. I moved six times. Because I married a Serb, I was protected in some ways, but not 100 percent. They captured me three times on the street: once on Karadordeva Street, once on Knez Mihailova and once at Slavija. I succeeded in getting away from them by using my youth and skill. I do not know why I seemed suspicious but most likely because of my appearance. The whole situation in Belgrade was clear to everyone. They closed in on me on the corner of Knez Mihajlova and Kralja Petra. This was the first precinct; the police captured me and I did not have documents because I was young and I did not need to carry them. I lied to them and told them what was best for me. When they make a raid they arrest you and interrogate you. Once they captured me at the train station. I was there for only two or three hours and in the precinct much longer, five or six hours. I did not have a Jewish last name; I was already Vera Necic. I told them my address and they could check it; I always managed to run away. They let me go. I had a small child and in general only went out with the child occasionally. Nedic’s people captured me. I think it was not the German police. That is how I survived the war.

By 1945, I already was dating my second husband, Bata Amar. He asked me to marry him; I was already divorced. My ex-husband came to the community once to collect money for saving a Jew during the war. Sometimes things in life are fate. He ran into Aleksandar Aca Levi, who was a vice-president of the community; he knew my whole life story and told him never to come to the community again.

After the war

When the war was over I met my husband Isak Bata Amar, the drama secretary, at the National Theatre when I enrolled in the Drama Studio. At the time it was called Drama Studio, before the Academy. After a two-hour conversation, he asked me if I would like to marry him. Yes. He said that the fact that I had a son did not bother him but that if his parents were still alive he would not be able to marry a half-Jew, since I had a Serbian mother and a Jewish father. He told me that he was  from an Orthodox Jewish family and that he would not be able to marry me if his parents were still alive. Since he did not find any of his relatives when he returned from the war, we married on February 15, 1947. My husband never found anyone from his family. My husband was a lawyer but worked in the field of culture. I also worked in the cultural field: for the cultural committee, then in “Nolit” and then in television and newspaper.

I have a son from this marriage, who also works in the field of culture as a film director, and a granddaughter Sara, who studies in Israel. My life is entirely different. After four years of suffering, I was at 29 Strahinica Bana, the house of Avram Mevorah, a Jewish lawyer, when liberation finally came. When I met my husband I complained that I did not have money to pay for the year. He took the receipt and went to Avram Mevorah and told him that I was his future wife. He ripped up the receipt and I never paid the rent.

It was a nice life with Isak Amar. My son from my first marriage received the same treatment, if not better, than our other son. My son Slobodan received that name because he waited for freedom and Zoran because he was born at dawn. I lived a lovely and happy life. Isak, like my father, brought tranquility to our house. There was lots of love and understanding. He had something that charmed people – not only those in the family but all those around him. He was a functionary in the community and held several positions. One thing that I remember is the space below the synagogue, which is currently being renovated into a kosher kitchen. Mr. Reuben Rubenovic, who was president of the Jewish community of Belgrade at the time, handed me the key, and said: “Here is the key for two days; take whatever you need, however much you want.” I had a wonderful blue coat, a blue dress. I took shoes; before that I wore shoes without soles and had to fill them in with cardboard. When I went to work on the “Brcko Banovici” railway tracks for two months, in 1946, my husband sent me American canned food and a wonderful package that the Jews received. I will never forget the peanut butter and chocolate with raisins.

With Bata, I participated in the community. We sang in the Jewish choir, and twice I went with the choir to Israel. When I went to Israel now, after all these years, I did not recognize the place. In 1955, I went to Haifa for the first time by boat; we traveled three days via Greece. Jews we knew from Belgrade waited for us in Haifa.

Because of the life I spent with Bata Amar, I participated in all cultural events, parties and holidays in our community. My husband did not want to speak about his origins. He lived with his family before the war at 48 Dusanova Street. After the war, the owner of the building called us to give us photographs; everything else was taken. We also got back one brooch and pearls. The owner was able to save only the pictures; the Germans threw away the rest. The ring I wear was made from the brooch. My sons’ wives each received a ring with one of three stones from the brooch. That is all my husband was able to find. My brothers continued to live in Belgrade. One is connected to the community; the other is not. We are divided.

Now I am a full Jew; I became giur – as my mother wasn't a Jew –  in Israel. I wanted that. I was psychologically ready but not physically. I did not even get information about what to bring with me for that moment. I came to grips with this, that minute but instincts are very important. I brought with me everything that was needed. It was my luck that I was not alone. My granddaughter Sara was with me and helped me. I remember that when I entered the room in Ashkelon, which was filled with books, three rabbis sat there, the date was December 17. I do not know Ivrit but I know German, which is similar to Yiddish. So I arranged with one of the priests that my granddaughter and our rabbi, Isak Asiel, be present. When I went in, we greeted each other and they even asked Sara if she wanted to convert. Sara answered that she was not ready. The honesty of her answer impressed the rabbis, Isak and me. She was only 19 at the time, now things are different.

Three questions remain in my head. Why do I want to be a Jew? I answered that I always was a Jew. The second question was: Will I observe Shabbat? I answered yes. The third question was: Am I prepared to help people to the best of my ability? I said that I could not answer that, but that Isak could tell them. They were especially surprised when they asked me what Hebrew name I wanted and I immediately answered “Judita.” I wanted to have the same name as my grandmother. I knew so little about her and I never had the chance to feel her love – so I wanted to have her name. It is a very great thing to be a grandmother. I now have three grandchildren and I see how much they depend on my love and understanding.

When I say that I am a real Jew, I am. I became an Orthodox Jew. I keep kosher, I observe Shabbat and all the holidays and still learn a lot. I am happy about this, and I have peace of mind. I have balance. I go to synagogue on Friday night and Saturday and this is enough for me. I feel psychologically healthy and good.

GLOSSARY:

Andreja Preger
Belgrade
Serbia
Name of interviewer: Ida Labudovic
Date of interview: June 2001

I was born in Pecs, Hungary in 1912. At the time my grandfather had a tailor shop there, and all three of his sons probably worked there. In addition to three sons he also had two daughters. I believe that my father, who finished the Commercial Academy, took the initiative to move the store to Zagreb. Right on Jelacicev Square, on the first floor was the “Samuel Preger and Sons” tailor shop. My father was a merchant and his brother, Edo, was the tailor. The business did not last long because World War I soon broke out. My father and uncle had to go to the army, their youngest brother was released from service probably so that someone could remain with the family. We moved to Pecs [Hungary] where we spent all of WWI.

My father regularly went to shul, Temple, and most likely did not speak Yiddish, but he did know German which was spoken at home. Children that went to school also spoke Hungarian. We celebrated all the holidays. I remember that my grandfather lit Chanukah candles, Maoz Tzor was sung and we had a Seder. A lamb was bought, we had a small yard where I used to play with the lamb and I wondered what had happened to it. I could not imagine that we had eaten it. My grandfather was almost 70 years older than I and he did not spend a lot of time with me. He did not take me on walks, others did that because he was already sick. I remember that he strictly observed all the holidays. He was a tailor and made suits. He had to be dressed elegantly to attract customers; they had a shop on Kraljevska Street in Pecs.

My grandmother was from the Kelert family, a large family. Her brother had many children and they were all successful merchants.  Eugen Kelert, who was my father’s cousin, went to Vienna for an apprenticeship. There he became wealthy, had a house and married the daughter of Otto Weininger, the famous philosopher. Later he had to flee the Nazis. He was a representative for “Faber”, an international pen factory. He lived in Vienna, London and Montreal and died at the age of 104. His brother Vili was a representative for a textile firm and became the director of an Austrian textile factory in Zagreb. All the Kelerts were very capable merchants. Our family was very close to them. My grandmother was a corpulent housewife. She had a prayer book in which she recorded the births  and deaths of all her children and grandchildren. She died at the age of 70, before my grandfather even though he was a bit younger. My grandfather died soon after. Although my grandfather had a very small house, which he most likely bought with his own money, he sold that house while we were still in it and bought a note from state stocks. The entire deal fell apart and we had to move from this house to Zagreb.

I know a little more about my other grandfather because we always went on vacation together to Levice [Slovakia]. He was a very hardworking man. He had a store and a house with a garden that he tended to. He had a tailor shop with textiles. He supported one son in his education to become an engineer. This son was the first to marry a non-Jewish woman. His other son was a merchant and took care of the store. All five daughters received their dowries and were married in succession. He was very vain and a master tailor. If a client did not like a suit he would remake it at his own expense since he did not want anything that was not perfect to leave his store. He was well liked, he had a lot of employees and tailors who worked for him and he ran the store. During communism, in 1919 [the Hungarian Soviet Republic which lasted 133 days], they took his shop and the next day it was returned to him.

My family observed the high holidays. On Rosh Hashanah we went to Temple. On Chanukah we lit candles. Every Friday my mother would light candles. We did not observe Shabbat because the shop was opened. For Pesach we had a Seder not just for our immediate family but also for my father’s brother’s family. Our two families lived together. The Hagadah was read, dinner was eaten and wine was drunk. I had a bar mitzvah. My father read from the Torah that day and gave a contribution to charity, shnodern. The holidays were connected to the family and were celebrated at home.

My father’s family and his brother were always together and the two brothers ended up marrying two sisters. Both of our families were always very close and my father and his brother were partners in the shop. We lived together in the same house and socialized together. My younger cousin, my uncle’s son, became a rich industrialist. He and his wife’s family were in Hashomer Hatzair. We gathered every day around the nest and went on camping trips, mahane, together. My father’s brother had two children, a son Dura and a daughter Piroska, who is still living and has a house in Dubrovnik. She is also a pianist and finished the Zagreb Music Academy. She was a piano professor. We always played together and shared the same piano. When we divided up the house she got the piano, so that I practiced at her place. Piroska did not give public concerts she was exclusively a professor. My sister was born when I was already 13 years old. The war began, we lost our father and I was her father in his place. At the age of 18 she went to Italy and there she married. In general she was with my mother and aunt.

I started school in the first grade of the Jewish school. I have no idea how many Jews there were in  Pecs. It was a mining town with coal miners and a mining movement, one of the mining leaders was a Jew. In 1919 the Independent Republic of Pecs [Hungary] was declared. I remember this because there was no money and marks were used. It was a small town. After 40 years I returned to Pecs [Hungary] to hold a concert with my colleagues and it seemed so small to me. Nonetheless, it was a city that was under the Turks, there is a hamam, a Turkish bathroom, almost on the main square. We never went there. I do not know if there was a mikvah and if there was one if anyone from my family used it. The Jewish community there is very old. My good friend Jozsef Scheiber, who was the chief rabbi of Budapest, was from Pecs. He spoke Hebrew and he finished the Rabbinical Seminar. Pecs [Hungary] is the county capital of Baranya where there were many Jews and many Serbs. In general, there were many Jews in Hungary and every place had Jewish merchants.

In 1919, I returned with my parents and uncle to Zagreb. In Zagreb I went to a Jewish elementary school. I finished the first grade of elementary school in Hungarian. In Zagreb I continued my studies in German and Croatian, which my teacher taught me. I went to the Jewish school in the Jewish community at 16 Palmoticev Street in Zagreb. The director was Dr. Hozeja Jakobi, chief rabbi. It was a school like every other school but we learned Hebrew and the blessings, which I still know today. After finishing elementary school I went to secondary school, the Real Gymnasium, in Zagreb. I remember that there was a Real Gymnasium from the eighth grade.

We Jews socialized more than others. In our class in the Real Gymnasium there were five Jews. I think that I am the only one still living from this group. There was Ivo Kraus, who became the deputy attorney general in Zagreb. His son is the current president of the Zagreb Jewish community. Ivica Hirsl was the communist son of a lawyer; he became a judge on the Supreme Court in Zagreb. Kalos, is from Hungary, his father was the director of a steam mill in Zagreb. They returned to Hungary and died there in an accident. Srecko Stajner, he changed his name to Stanic, was a high functionary in the Statistical Institute. The five of us and all the other Jews in the other gymnasiums attended joint lectures given by Gavro Svarc.

I started to study piano, with my cousin Elza Podvinec, when I was just five years old. I loved to play so there was no need for anyone to force me. In Zagreb I went first to the preparatory, then the lower school and in the end the secondary school of the Zagreb Croatian Music Institute with Prof. Sidonija Gajger. I passed the graduation exams and the test for music teachers. At the age of 13, I was a child prodigy when I performed Liszt’s opera, Faust. When we returned to Zagreb, the apartment we had lived in before had been liquidated and we did not have an apartment so we moved into the shop on Jelacicev Square—an apartment without a bathroom. We lived there from 1919-1925. We had a piano, which my cousin Piroska and I shared.

During my secondary school years I joined the Ahdut Hasofim movement, like most other Jewish children. This was a youth society very leftist oriented, led by Salom Frajberger, who studied in Berlin at a college for Jewish sciences, and Cvilo Rotviler. They had a great influence and many people became involved in Zionism and left-wing Zionism. I was also in the society for secondary school students, the literary society, which included the debate club, we held lectures, papers, discussions about literature, Jewish and historical themes, our ideas flowed from here. Before me the president of the club was Pauli Svarc, son of the chief rabbi. I made quite a revolution [because] this was a society of men, like the Jewish religion, a religion of males. I say this because women do not have to perform any religious functions, they only have to know what kashrut is. I also brought girls into the movement, like Rut Lederer. Later I was in the youth movement which transformed into Hashomer Hatzair. All of its members were prepared for Halutziut, i.e. to move to Israel. This was a well-formed organization whose members were prepared for Hachshara, preparation for crafts and agriculture. In addition to Hashomer Hatzair, there was also Tehelet Lavan and Hedut, which were divided according to their political orientations. The Zionist movement covered a wide spectrum: on the left there were the Workers of Zion, in the center the General Zionists and on the right the Revisionists. All the youth were organized in the Federation of Jewish Youth Societies and this Federation organized meetings. There were lectures, discussions but the main activities were songs and dances in Yiddish and Hebrew where the youth came together. On our own we organized camping trips, machane. We organized everything by ourselves, in the evenings we lit a camp fire around which we held discussions, and sang and danced.  There were theological courses, Hebrew courses. Later (after World War II), during my engagement in the Jewish community, I participated in summer camps, at that time they were organized by the Federation: creating programs, finding the place for the camp, I acted as business manager who took care of the food.

The time came for me to decide what I would do next. I wanted to become an engineer. Therefore, in the third grade of secondary school I decided to take geometric drawing instead of Latin. When it came time for higher studies, I wanted to study in the Leipzig Conservatory but this was a big financial strain and my parents wanted me to study something more practical. I was under the influence of ideology so I wanted to enroll in  law studies but I did not know Latin. I failed the entrance exam. However, I found out that in Belgrade one could pass the entrance exam without Latin. In 1931, I spent two semesters in Leipzig and then came to Belgrade. In Belgrade I had friends, the Davico brothers. One was an aircraft engineer, the other Avram, a lawyer who died in Palestine and Lujo Davico a ballet dancer. He introduced me to the entire Jewish community. In September I passed the law school entrance exam.

There was a crisis and my parents were no longer able to finance my studies in Leipzig. I had to help my father and uncle in the tailor shop. I finished the law school in 1936. I began working in a big Czech firm as translator, but we understood that I needed to go further. I translated from German and French. German I learned from my governess and later in school. French I learned privately and English I taught myself. For my doctoral exam I passed three rigorous exams, which were called rigoroz. Two I passed easily and the third I failed. Only later did I pass and receive my doctor of law title. I became a law clerk with Dr. Mark Horn, who was our cousin and the president of the Jewish community. I distanced myself a bit from the youth movement because I did not want to go to kibbutz with the others. I became employed by Feliks Sternberg. In the political sense, I collaborated with unions and with the Zionist movement. There were Zionists and assimilationists and I was among the Zionists. I prepared for the bar exam because I had to have five years work experience, including one year in court. I passed it in March 1941.

War broke out. I was mobilized as a reserve officer. On April 2 I went to Sinj to defend Split from invasion. I was there until April 10. After laying down our arms, after the announcement of the Independent State of Croatia and when the Italian army came marching into Split there were only seven of us officers, without an army and I returned to Zagreb, where I hid myself with a friend. They were looking for members of Hashomer Hatzair, lawyers and law clerks, so that they could deprive the community of its leaders. I managed to bring my sister, who now lives in Budapest, and I sent my parents a pass notarized by the Germans which was sold blank. My parents were in Zagreb and I was in Split. They started on their way in spite of my instructions and were captured in Drnis. My father only then began wearing a yellow star below his lapel. They took them to Knin. My parents looked for a way to get back to Zagreb into a police prison. Friends and distant relatives got them out of prison but they could not  come to Split because the partisans had destroyed the tracks. They caught my father and my uncle in the street, captured them and after a month they said there was no longer a need for us to send food because they were gone. It was known that they were sent to the Jasenovac death camp. Later, I found in a notation in a publication that the Preger brothers had been found with money in their socks which was forbidden and they were immediately killed. That is how I lost them. Nevertheless, my mother, aunt and sister came and the four of us lived in Split until liberation. We boarded a small boat, with about 30 other Jews, in September 1943. The partisans controlled all the points with ships and they captured our small boat and loaded us on to island Sutivan on Brac, across Split There was terrible hunger. When the partisans carried out their assignment the boat was returned. My mother, sister and aunt went to Bari and then to Rome where my sister married a Hungarian Jewish lawyer in 1945. They returned to Budapest. I returned to the partisans, where I was ordered to go to Jajce where the National Liberation Theatre was, of which I was a member from 1943 until November 1944. We put on plays, had a choir, dance and ballet. We were moved to Drvar, from there we started towards the sea and were moved to Vis, where we had presentations and expanded the choir. After Vis the group went to Bari to perform. There I met my mother, aunt and sister and from there we were taken by plane to the Zemun airport on November 1, 1944.

At the beginning, from November 1944,  I worked at Radio Belgrade as a secretary, then as head of the music department and then as chief editor of the music program. I was also a secondary school professor while I was at the radio station. I taught music theory and history. Later, I wrote commentaries, articles and even a book on Chopin. The commission for textbooks ordered that book from me in the 60’s however it was not printed until a few years ago. I married Ljiljan Pavlovic and we had a son Jasa in 1947. That marriage did not last. I wanted to go to Israel as a Zionist, but my mother did not want to go and I could not take my son with me. I gave up on that idea, and resigned from my job at the radio.

I was a free artist but I had to compensate for a 15-year break. I devoted myself to playing. From the second round they selected me to be the docent for chamber music at the Music Academy. I was involved with many things, as well as following chamber music where I collaborated with foreign artists. I continued to perfect my playing. While playing with the orchestra we had many performances. I was accepted to the Academy based on my artistic achievements and in 1958 a law was passed stating that all those who worked in higher education must have a diploma. Then I married Gina. I went to Ljubljana where I acquired a diploma as piano professor. They gave me credit for 7 semesters of law studies and I had to take and pass one semester. I taught piano at the university and I founded “Belgrade Piano Trio” along with Aleksander Pavlovic and Viktor Jakobcic. I was offered the position of director of the Belgrade opera but I declined. Firstly, because I am not a voice expert and secondly because of my work with the Belgrade trio. With the trio, I traveled throughout all of Europe and several times to America and the Soviet Union. I also had my teaching obligations and that alone was enough work. Ladoslav Laci Kadelburg, President of the Federation of Jewish Communities of Yugoslavia, invited me to help in the Jewish community.

When my musical obligations grew less in the 70’s, I became the cultural referent in the Federation of Jewish Communities. I always collaborated with the Jewish community on projects but I was not a member of any body until now. I was elected to the Executive Board and am president of the Cultural Commission. Eugen Verber helped us a lot. Every summer I went to Pirovac and held lectures there. I devoted myself a lot more to that and less to concerts. We worked a lot, making programs for the summer camp, mini-Maccabiah, I participated in meetings of the coordinating board of the women’s section, which held a gathering of all the generations once a year, with programming, entertainment and occasions for getting to know one another. And my children (my son Jasa and my daughter Eva from my second marriage) went every year to the summer camp. My son is a member of the community, connected to the community and he sent his children to the Szarvas Camp. My daughter was at the summer camp only once but she knows about all the basic ideas of Judaism. I believe that the summer camps where young Jews from across the country came together were especially good. I am always torn between Jewish public work and music. I never interrupted my collaboration with the Jewish community and I think that it is necessary to learn about Judaism during one’s entire life.

Leon Lifsches
Sopot
Poland
Interviewer: Anna Szyba
Date of interview: March 2006

I meet Mr. Lifsches in his spacious apartment in Sopot where he lives surrounded by books and flowers. Mr. Lifsches is not eager to speak about his family and I get the impression he is actually embarrassed by the fact that his parents were orthodox Jews. Modernity and progress contrast in his story with backwardness, the symbol of which is his “fanatic” father. Mr. Lifsches gets agitated when he starts speaking about his career as a communist, he is proud of having fought in the Battle of Lenino, and of his role in the founding of the Jewish War Veterans Association 1.

My family background

Growing up

During the war

After the war

Glossary

My family background

I was born on 29th December, 1915, in Chrzanow [town 50 km west of Cracow]. I come from a bourgeois family. My mother’s name was Aurelia Lifsches, nee Rosenbaum, and she was born in 1876 in Chrzanow. I knew her mother, her surname was Rosenbaum, but I don’t remember her first name. She lived in Chrzanow, on Krakowska Street. She used to have a husband, but he died. I know nothing about him; I don’t even know his name.

My grandmother was religious, because everyone was religious then, but she was also progressive. She wasn’t a fanatic. She lit the candles but I don’t think she kept kosher. We often visited her. I spoke with her in Polish and Yiddish, she spoke Polish fluently. She was a housewife. That’s all I remember about my grandmother.

My father’s parents’ name was Lifsches. I don’t remember the first names of my paternal grandmother or grandfather, because I didn’t know them. They lived and died in Volhynia [region in the east of prewar Poland, today western Ukraine], but I don’t know when.

My father, Pinkus, was born in 1877 in Radzillow in Volhynia [small town ca. 100km north-east of Lwow, today Ukraine] and he lived there until his marriage. My parents’ marriage wasn’t unarranged. All Jewish marriages were arranged then. They got married around 1900, I think, because my eldest brother was born in 1905.

My father was a salesman, a merchant. He sold tea and flour products. There was a store in the basement, he sold there; we helped him on an irregular basis. My mother ran the house; she was, as it was called, ‘with her husband.’

I had four brothers and a sister. Michal was born in 1905, Heniek [affectionate for Henryk] in 1906, my sister Hanka [affectionate for Hanna] in 1911, I was born in 1915, Iziek [affectionate for Izajasz] in 1917, and between them there was one more brother who died.

We lived in Chrzanow at 12 Aleja Henryka. It was a four-story building, the landlord’s name was Szmajdler; we had a four-person apartment on the third floor. There were four rooms, a kitchen and a balcony . I think I shared a room with my brothers, but I don’t really remember. Our whole family of seven lived there.

In the neighborhood there lived relatives named Szott who had six daughters. All those daughters survived [the Holocaust] and [until recently] they lived in Israel. One went with the Maccabi 2 to Palestine before the war and stayed there. She was the eldest one, and I met her when I visited Israel ten years ago. Her name is Jozefa Wajnsztok.

Chrzanow was a Jewish town, an artisan town. Seventy percent of the inhabitants were Jews – tailors, shoemakers, etc. There was one famous factory in Chrzanow, Poland’s first railway engine manufacturing plant. It was the only factory in Chrzanow, the only such factory in Poland, and the only plant [in Chrzanow] where Jews worked next to Christians.

There was a wooded area in Chrzanow. We often went there. There was a fence [around] the house that we lived in, and beyond the fence was a park. We played there. Our backyard adjoined the park. My friends were mostly Jews.

There was the sports association, Maccabi, which I joined at the age of ten or eleven. We met several times a week to practice, exercise. Besides that, there was also the Sokol sports association 3, they did rifleman training, gymnastics, kind of government-affiliated [founded in 1867 in Lwow]. We also went there from time to time, but then they stopped it.

My father was religious but come Saturday, he would invariably fall ill to avoid going to the synagogue. He didn’t work on Saturday, he was a fanatic [derisive for ‘religious’]. There was a synagogue in Chrzanow 4, and there were prayer houses. My father went to both. On the high holidays you went to the synagogue, and on the other occasions you went to the prayer house close to home.

My mother wore a wig but she didn’t keep kosher. She had progressive views. Before the war, it was like that: in the matchmaker’s presence, every woman wore a wig. It was a kind of rule. Whether she was religious or not. And what that woman really thought [about religious laws] was a separate matter. My mother generally didn’t go to the synagogue, but she lit the candles [on Friday], made the chulent.

We celebrated Sabbath. We ate dinner together at the table, and that was it, after dinner everyone went where they wanted. My father’s method of preventing us from going anywhere on Saturday was to hide one shoe from each of us. But since we knew the trick, we had an extra pair stashed away at the neighbors’ and we ran away to the woods.

We didn’t go to cheder but we had a melamed, a Jewish teacher. I remember he was a very dull man, so I didn’t learn much from him. He didn’t teach the Torah, he taught the Yiddish language, not Hebrew but Yiddish. He was such a man that his teaching was really very primitive so we didn’t have much respect for him. He came to us when I was nine or ten, I was the only one to be taught [during that time], my brothers were all progressive [that is, dissociated themselves from the Jewish tradition].

I remember the following episode: when I was 13, I was rehearsing for my bar mitzvah, my father kept provoking me unnecessarily, I simply couldn’t properly read the text, and he gave me a slap on the face. I got angry and I calmly took off the tefillin, placed them on the table, and it was then, at the age of 13, that I became ungodly. It was a memorable episode that I remember very well.

My sister went to a normal [public] gymnasium, I also attended a normal elementary school. I have only one memory from there: of a teacher named Szeligowski whose teaching method was to smack you on the hands and on the backside, he was really cruel. I think he taught Polish. It was a normal, large elementary school. There were Polish boys, Jewish boys, everyone played together. No antagonisms whatsoever. It was a Jewish town, it couldn’t have been otherwise.

With our mother we spoke virtually only Polish at home, and with our father it was basically the same. My father could read Yiddish, he bought the Haint 5 and the Morgenshtern 6. He completed a normal elementary school back in Volhynia. My mother finished elementary school in Chrzanow.

We usually all spoke Polish. I cannot read Yiddish, cannot write it, I’m only familiar somewhat with the spoken language. I never learned Hebrew. I don’t know what language it was you recited the Torah fragments in. You learned all those poems, the [Torah] excerpts, memorized them. I don’t remember how the holidays were observed at home.

When we were 13 or 14, there were May Day demonstrations on the 1st of May [worker holiday established by the 2nd International, celebrated since 1890 in the form of street demonstrations, marches, and rallies]. 

Growing up

Our house stood near the prison. We heard screams and it turned out it was the guards giving the inmates a beating. By that time, I had already joined the Red Scouts [leftwing scouting organization, 1926-1939]. So we went to demonstrate in front of the prison, the whole group of Jewish and Polish youth. The Red Scouts were affiliated with the KZMP 7 [Editor’s note: the Red Scouts did not have any direct political affiliations]. It wasn’t strictly a Jewish organization. I don’t know why I went there. My father had no political views.

We lived in Chrzanow until 1932, and in 1932 our whole family moved to Bielsko [large town, today city, 50 km south of Chrzanow]. Henryk’s brother worked in Bielsko, he was a commercial representative for the fruit product company Parol. We lived at 24 Rynek. The landlord was a German. We had a four-room apartment on the second floor, there was a bathroom, a kitchen, everything. I no longer went to school, I was already on my own. I had completed a textile college there.

In Bielsko, I was a member of the Communist Youth Union and, on its orders, an activist for the MOPR 8, which was a KPP 9 affiliate. Before that, I was a member of the Jewish Worker Cultural and Educational Association [a.k.a. Sila (Strength), founded 1908]. That was purely Jewish, and then, in Bielsko, I began my political activity in the communist party. Later I linked up with the left-wing movement. Being active on the communist party meant taking part in manifestations, in strikes, the whole political life.

We were divided into three-person cells that met secretly, and the police knew about them only if they had informers inside. There was a division into districts, neighborhoods, and then into cells. The party activity took place on three levels: the cell, the neighborhood, the factory. The cells usually met at the factories. At the time, I worked as a dyer at a textile plant, and that’s where I conducted my activity as a communist.

My mother knew I was a communist but my father did not. She was very progressive. She only kept telling us, ‘Alright, everything’s fine, but just don’t get yourself arrested.’ We were all very involved, my sister, too.

My brother Michal emigrated to Palestine in 1932. He wasn’t a Zionist. He went alone, as a chalutz, and there, in Palestine, he joined the communist party and was active in it. He eventually got arrested and deported and he returned to Chrzanow, I don’t remember when, and he remained an active communist.

Heniek got married before the war. His wife’s name was Gienia, nee Kizler. A Jewess from Bielsko. She gave birth to a baby girl, in 1939, I guess, but that was already in Lwow. They named her Wiera.

We weren’t the upper-income kind of petty bourgeois merchants, not at all. Medium-income, I’d say. We didn’t go away for the summer holidays. I don’t really remember what we did; in Chrzanow, we had a newsstand, selling newspapers, buns, that sort of thing. Besides that, we frolicked. Wandered around the parks, the squares, got into mischief, as boys do. I never went to Volhynia.

There was also my mother’s sister who lived in Chrzanow. Her last name was Klajn, I don’t remember her first name. Her husband was a money lender; they had a son. His name was Berek Klajn and during the occupation he was in Auschwitz, after which he found himself in Israel where he had two children and where he died.

His wife, Maryska Klajn, was born in Przemysl and is alive, she lives in Ramat Gan. We keep in touch. She was virtually the only relative we had in Chrzanow. My mother had no other siblings, I think, and I don’t know whether my father had any brothers or sisters at all.

In 1937, there was a pogrom in Bielsko 10, organized by the Stronnictwo Narodowe 11, the endeks, whose local leader was a man named Zajaczek. And we, as the communist party, together with the class-conscious trade unions, dispelled that pogrom. We took several thousand workers out to the street, they started setting houses, businesses on fire, and at the head of that communist party committee stood a woman, Szyfra Goldszlak, a member of the Central Committee of the Communist Party, who spent ten years in prison for her activity. She was arrested in Bielsko. Nobody died in that pogrom.

Financially, we all depended on Henryk who had a business. We weren’t strapped for money; I was independent, had a job. We initially lived together, and then Henryk got married and moved out, but he still lived in Bielsko, it was called Aleja, a Jewish neighborhood, new houses. My sister also had a job; she was a bookkeeper in a very big clothing store. Iziek was a textile worker in a factory, and Michal ran a store for Henryk throughout all that time.

In March 1938 I was arrested and sentenced to 18 months. I still have the original indictment. I did my time together with other communists in a prison in Cieszyn [town 50 km west of Cracow]. During that time, my father died of tuberculosis. I wanted to attend his funeral, but the police said that had to be under escort, and I didn’t agree to that. So I didn’t attend his funeral, but my father is buried at the Jewish cemetery [in Bielsko].

I was released in June, a few months before the war, and was banned from the town for ten years as an ‘undesirable element.’ I went to Lodz. There I moved in with my second brother, Iziek, who had also served time in prison and has been banned. Michal was banned too, he moved to the Tarnopol province, lived in Trembowla [ca. 130km east of Lwow, today Ukraine]. He got married there, his wife’s name was Buchholz, I don’t know her first name. 

During the war

We were in Lodz from June to October 1939. From September, we were under German occupation 12. We left the city with my brother [Iziek] sometime at the turn of October and November. It was still possible to flee, the Germans allowed families to reunite and issued travel permits. It was in Zgierz [suburb of Lodz], and we took advantage of the opportunity. We were leaving at the last moment, acquaintances had already let us know that the Polish police had made communist activists’ files available to the Gestapo.

We went to Warsaw, and from there to Bialystok, and from there to Lwow. The years 1940-1941 we spent in Lwow. Henryk was there, Iziek, me, and Hanka. We all worked with tricot in a textile factory. I worked as a foreman in the dye room, my brother worked as a weaver, and Hanka was a tricot worker. Each of us lived on their own. I lived in Lyczakow [Lwow neighborhood], in a rented apartment.

My mother didn’t want to go with us to Lwow, she went to her sister in Chrzanow instead. And there she died, and Hanka also went to Chrzanow during the Lwow period, to be with our mother, and they both died in Kety, near Chrzanow, in a kind of ghetto sub-camp [Editor’s note: the town of Kety is located 40 km south-west of Chrzanow, 20 km south of Oswiecim (Auschwitz) 20 km north-east of Bielsko. No information has been found on the existence of any camp or sub-camp in Kety. The likeliest possibility is that it was a permanent outpost for Jewish workers working outside the ghetto].

I lost touch with my mother and sister when I was still in Lwow. At the end of 1941 I learned that they were both dead, acquaintances wrote us from there, non-Jews with whom we indirectly kept in touch.

Before the outbreak of the [German-Soviet] war 13, I was enlisted in the Red Army, and Iziek was called up for the so called reserve drill. And there war met us and we didn’t return home, becoming, as you call it, front-liners instead. I served on the Ukrainian front and there we were demobilized and sent away – we were to join the Anders’ army 14. All those who came from Western Ukraine were demobilized with us, as ‘unreliable element.’ That was early 1942.

We were enlisted in the work battalions, the so called ‘stroybats’ [Russian stroityelniy battalion – construction battalion]. They told us we would join the Anders’ army and instead we found ourselves in Novosibirsk as stroybat members, building a metallurgical plant at minus 40 degrees Celsius. And there, a group of 200 soldiers, we mutinied and organized a strike.

Among us was Lucjan Szenwald [1909-1944, poet, communist, fought in the Battle of Lenino], I remember, he was a famous writer. We refused to go to work. A district military prosecutor came and, surprisingly, asked us what we wanted, so we said we were professionals and had nothing against working in the stroybats – but in our professions. To our surprise, 24 hours later the military prosecutor personally arrived with some buses and those buses took us to boarding houses where we were given jobs [consistent with our professions]. And that was an episode that could have well ended tragically.

Iziek was still on the front, somewhere near Moscow. And from there, he was also sent to the trudarmia 15, to Tashkent. We met many of our friends in Novosibirsk. One was a guy named Sternlicht, from Bielsko, his wife worked in the canteen, gave us some extra food, and it was there I learned that my three brothers, Michal, Henryk, and Iziek, were in Tashkent.

It was 1942. And so, illegally, me and a whole group of people, we hopped on a train carrying Polish soldiers released from camps, and we rode towards the Anders’ army, towards Tashkent. Eventually I found myself in a place near Bukhara where they told us to pull our pants down and said, ‘about turn!’ End of story, they checked whether we were circumcised. By that time, Jews were no longer admitted into the Anders’ army 16.

Some people went to Fergana, me and some other people went to Tashkent, but my brother Henryk was no longer there, having left with the Anders’ army. Michal lived in the Kyrgyz Republic, worked in a kolkhoz 17. I got a job in Tashkent as a dyer in a cooperative, Iziek worked in a state textile factory, also in Tashkent. We lived in an Uzbek quarter, called Barkhan, with a Russian lady who had also been evacuated, in very primitive conditions.

We received support from the MOPR Central Committee. There was a large group of Jews in Tashkent at the time, several hundred people. Tashkent had a sizeable Jewish minority in itself, plus there were many of us, the émigrés. We were a large, strong communist group, kind of affiliated with the MOPR Central Committee. The party itself had been banned.

We were in Tashkent until 12th May 1943, after which date we left the city to join the 1st Division 18. Me and Iziek fought in the Battle of Lenino, and my brother was killed virtually a couple of steps away from me.

I was the second in command of the regiment’s medical company. I personally took part in taking wounded soldiers away from the front line under enemy fire. During one such excursion to the front line I was heavily wounded. I went through several hospitals between October and May, and eventually found myself in a Polish hospital in Moscow, where I underwent the final surgery.

After being released from the hospital, I was sent back to the front, to the headquarters, in Lutsk, Ukraine, and from there I went with the army as an officer, already wounded in battle, with the back units. I took part in the liberation of Lublin [23rd July 1944, the city was Poland’s temporary capital for the next 164 days], and then in the liberation of Warsaw [17th January 1945].

Following the liberation of Warsaw, in 1945, I was sent back to Lublin, and directly from there, already released from service, to Silesia, to Katowice, and from Katowice to Bielsko, because the rule was that all officers and professionals were sent to areas they knew to join the reconstruction effort there. I took part in the reconstruction of industry. 

After the war

I was a member of the Polish Workers’ Party [PPR] 19, a party official; I served for some time as secretary for economic matters on the provincial committee in Bielsko. All the time in the textile industry, in the Textile Industry Federation, and in 1952 I was transferred to Warsaw.

I met my wife in 1945. She had also come from Lublin, delegated by the PPR Central Committee. Her name was Zofia Kubik, born in 1919. She wasn’t Jewish, but she fought in a partisan unit in the Rzeszow area. She was a dressmaker by profession.

I have two sons. Andrzej was born on 3rd November 1946, and Marek on 12th May 1950. Andrzej has a degree in sociology, lives in Canada, works as a librarian, and the younger one is a kind of electronics engineer. Andrzej’s wife is called Malgorzata, nee Kowalska, a Pole. They have two daughters, but kill me if I remember their names.

My other son had many wives and has a son with his second one. He lived in Denmark for a long time, left Poland in the 1970s, fed up with the anti-Semitism. He spent the last five years in Poland and is now going back to Denmark.

My children knew about their roots. Our home was completely non-religious, but they have never disavowed [their Jewishness]. In fact, everyone knew that my son would punch any kid who’d derisively call him a Jew. I’ve never changed my last name. My younger son opposes anti-Semitism vehemently if he finds himself among people of such views. As far as Jewish matters go, they haven’t forgotten their roots.

In Warsaw I worked at the Ministry of Crafts, as the head of the military department, and then in the State Reserves Office, I don’t remember since when. I was fired as part of the March story 20. People were harassed, fired from their jobs, my son was expelled from Warsaw University. The famous philosopher, Kotarbinski intervened on his behalf. My son was friend with his grandson and after some time he was readmitted to the university. [Tadeusz Marian Kotarbinski (1886-1981): philosopher, logician, ethic, member of the Lwow-Warsaw school of philosophy]

I got a job at a cooperative called Optima. I worked for some two years there as deputy chief executive for sales, but eventually left because the company was utterly corrupt and they wanted me to participate in their swindles, so I called it quits and took early retirement, at the age of 55 – that is in 1970.

In Warsaw I joined the Social and Cultural Society of Polish Jews 21 and was a co-founder and board member of the Association of Jewish War Veterans. That was in 1987. As a group of social activists, we undertook efforts aimed at setting up an organization of Jewish war veterans. I was initially the head of the veteran department for the Warsaw region, and then, for three terms, a total of 12 years, the chairman of the welfare committee.

As for my brothers, Henryk left Russia with the Anders’ army and went with it to Palestine, where he stayed with his wife and daughter. They had one more daughter, but I can’t remember her name. My brother died in 1978. I didn’t attend his funeral, it wasn’t allowed to go to Israel [the Soviet Bloc countries didn’t have diplomatic relations with Israel from 1967 to 1989].

Michal returned to Bielsko after the war and emigrated to Israel sometime in the late 1950s. There he had two sons with his second wife. He had no children with his first wife, the Buchholz girl he married back in Lwow, and they got a divorce. She moved to Szczecin after the war, and he married again in Bielsko. With the new wife he went to Israel and he has two sons there.

One has a PhD in economics, his name is Jacob. He lectures at the university. The other one, Janek, works for a branch of the Polish bank PKO, speaks good Polish. I keep in touch with them. The other one speaks Polish less well. Michal died two years ago in Israel. Cousin Berek’s wife, Marysia Klajn, who survived in a nunnery, is still alive.

I was in Israel once, as an individual tourist. That was in 1989, I visited my relatives. I never went abroad during the communist period, in 1992 I went to Denmark to see my son.

My first wife had a heart condition and we partly moved out to Sopot [town ca. 15km north of Gdansk], we helped organize the Jewish community there, and there we met [my present] wife who worked as a conservator. She was a family friend and she helped us organize the Jewish community, the Jewish war veterans association in Sopot.

My second wife, Hanna Domanska, is a Pole, born in 1932 in Poznan, who has lived in Sopot since 1946. When my wife died, fifteen years ago, she became my second wife. During the occupation Hania lived in Warsaw and was strongly moved by the Jewish ghetto 22 and Ghetto Uprising 23 experiences. So it’s no accident that she’s involved in these matters.

At a time when no one dreamed yet about reviving the Jewish community, Hania was already deeply into it as historical monument conservator, being in charge of care over the Jewish cemeteries. And we started writing together [books about the Gdansk-Sopot-Gdynia Jews]. We have organized a Jewish festival since 1990. And eventually, bit by bit, gradually, I moved out to Sopot.

Due to various misunderstandings we haven’t been involved with Jewish matters for two years now. I was tired with all that, in fact, I’ve had several surgeries so I want to slow down now. 

Glossary

Ludwik Hoffman
Walbrzych
Poland
Interviewer: Jakub Rajchman
Date of interview: February 2005

Despite his 82 years, Ludwik Hoffman is in great shape, both physically and mentally. He is an active member of Jewish organizations in Walbrzych, where he lives, and Wroclaw, where he is the vice-president of the local Jewish community. During our meetings in his apartment near the Walbrzych market square, full of pre-war photos of his family, Mr. Hoffman told me the story of his life, stressing on many occasions that, unlike most Jewish settlers in Lower Silesia, his family had no working-class roots, but came from the middle class, the burghers of pre-war Poland’s eastern territories. Mr. Hoffman prefers not to speak of his wartime and Holocaust experiences.

My name is Ludwik Hoffman. I was born on 15th April 1923 in Drohobycz [80 km south-west of Lwow, today Ukraine], into a merchant family. My father, Natan Hoffman, was a textile merchant, and, as I think of it today, he belonged to the wealthy class. My mother, Sabina, nee Sztegman, I don’t remember. She died when I was three, upon delivering my younger and only sister, Stella. A clot had accumulated, she got up too early, fell down, and died. I only know her from other people’s stories.

The accounts of those family members who survived and who during the war lived abroad suggest that our great-great-grandparents probably came from Hungary. A photo has been preserved of our great- or perhaps even great-great-grandparents with an annotation from there. I’m not sure, but it could have been Budapest. And because during the partitions period [see Partitions of Poland] 1, Drohobycz was part of Austria-Hungary, it’s possible that it is there my father’s family came from. Besides, my great-grandfather, or perhaps even my great-great-grandfather had a tannery in Drohobycz. Around the tannery building stood residential buildings, where my father’s various relatives lived. It was a rather big family.

I don’t remember my grandparents. The eldest members of my family, the family that I remember and which was quite numerous, were the sister of my paternal grandmother, and my father’s siblings and his family, i.e. his aunts and cousins. I remember some of them, because by the time the Germans started dissolving the ghetto, some of them were still alive. My grandmother’s sister was called Deborah Friedman. We simply called her Granny. She lived with my father’s eldest sister in Truskawiec [well-known health resort ca. 100 km south of Lwow and 10 km from Drohobycz, today Ukraine], helping her run her business, a boarding house for vacationers. Truskawiec was a popular health resort and, since my early childhood, I often went there with my parents for vacations. I saw Granny there. She spoke Polish with us.

My father had one more sister and an elder brother, Aaron [Hoffman], who lived in one of those houses near the tannery. He was a merchant, too, and worked in the so-called covered market. He had four children. His daughter was called Syma Leja, the eldest son was Josel, the younger one Calyl, and the youngest one Matys. And they all worked in the textile trade. I mean, one son worked with his father, the other one helped him, too, and the third even had his own business until some point. And after he went bankrupt in 1929, he worked with my father for some time.

Uncle Aaron wasn’t as well-off as my father. I didn’t understand that as a child, because we had no contact with the poor Jewry at all. Only once, I remember – I may have been seven or eight years old then, I’m not sure, it was after 1930, I had already gone to school, I may have been in the 1st or 2nd grade – my cousin, the daughter of my father’s eldest brother, came to visit us with Uncle, it was winter time. Uncle Aaron was sitting in the living room by the fireplace, warming himself up. Uncle loved us very much, me and my sister. When my father came back home, I told him Uncle Aaron was already there. He came in, and I asked him, ‘Father, can you tell me why do you have so many clothes in your wardrobe, and Uncle walks around in such old things? Why don’t you give him some clothes?’ When my cousin Syma Leja visited us some timer later, for my bar mitzvah, or some other occasion perhaps, she told me she’d never forget that I said that, as long as she lived.

I had two maternal aunts, my mother’s sisters, Bronislawa [Jozesberg, nee Sztegman] and Jetka [Kitaj, nee Sztegman]. The former was married to a lawyer, and the latter was the wife of a kind of building technician, who was also a former member of Pilsudski’s 2 Legions and an officer in the Polish Army [see Jews in the prewar Polish Army] 3. I don’t know what rank he had during World War I, but by the time the World War II broke out, he had already been promoted to the rank of the lieutenant or even major. He was murdered in Katyn 4. We called him Luis. The other uncle, the lawyer, his name was Jakub, was a progressive Jew, meaning I’m not sure whether he went to the synagogue. They all lived in Drohobycz. Except probably one of my mother’s brothers, who lived in America. I learned about him only after the war, but never got in touch in him, never tried to find him. His name was probably Chaim Sztegman, but I’m not sure of that either.

During the partitions period, Poland was divided into three parts. Drohobycz belonged to Austria-Hungary, and the so-called German emancipation [Haskalah] was there. Besides, people who were financially successful started adopting European customs, started going to Austria, Vienna, but also to Prague and Berlin, to study. That grandmother of mine who was still alive had relatives in Berlin. I don’t know what kind of relation it was, whether it was her nephew or what, but he had completed his studies and was working as a doctor in Berlin. Similarly, one of my father’s cousins, that is the son of my grandfather’s sister, was a renowned and very wealthy doctor in New York. All those were people who had made big money and they were, I’d say, Europeanized and progressive.

My father was such a man, too. His name was Natan Hoffman. He was born probably in 1878, though it may have been 1882. I don’t know whether he finished elementary school, but I know he had a merchant’s title. According to his own accounts, he started working for a textile company when he was just 14. He could read and write in German and Yiddish, a bit less fluently in Polish, but still he could do all that.

He never wore the Chasidic dress. Nor did he wear the beard or the cap. Never, even as a young man. My grandfather may have worn the cap, and certainly one of my uncles did, my father’s elder brother. He wore a small beard, a black cap, and a black hat. I don’t, however, remember anyone wearing payes.

When World War I broke out [1914], my father served in the Austrian [KuK] army 5, was taken prisoner by the Russians, and spent a couple of years in captivity. He returned rather late [to Drohobycz] and, from what his sisters told me, immediately went into business. It was probably then that he bought the house and the textile business from his principal. It was a textile shop, no ready-made clothes, only fabrics. In any case, when I was born, my father was over 45 years old, and was running that textile store or rather wholesale business, together with his partner. Whether the store was in the same place before my father bought it, I don’t know. In any case, for Drohobycz’s standards, it was a large enterprise. In 1928, 1929, they were doing really well. They had five or six employees at the time.

Also during that time many of my father’s friends, merchants like him, decided to move to Lwow. And so my father’s company too decided to set up a branch there. My father moved to Lwow then, and we stayed with our stepmother in Drohobycz. Until 1935, our life looked so that Father would come home every Friday night, and then leave again late on Saturday night or early Sunday morning for Lwow. And after the Drohobycz business had been wound up, we all moved to Lwow. That was, if I remember correctly, after I had completed elementary school and was to go to gymnasium. It was May or June 1935. We returned after more than two years, in September 1937, because business hadn’t been as good as expected and the company eventually collapsed. My father decided to return to Drohobycz because that was where people had known him for years and he could restart the old business there. After all, he had worked there for some 40 years. After our return, the company had two salesmen, and the bookkeeping was done by Fajga, my father’s wife, together with a bookkeeper who came twice a week. It went like that until the war.

I remember my father very well, I remember him from my early childhood. Probably because my mother died when I was three, and everyone knows what it means to be a child without a mother. As I was quite a fretful child, to find me something to do, something to play with, my father would bring me textile samples from work. Those were pieces of various materials bound together with a kind of ferrule. I used to play with it as a child and since then, all my life, I was involved with textiles. At home I played alone. In fact, I was brought up in specific conditions, not like the other children. As my mother was dead, I didn’t have much to do with other children, and I developed my first friendships only in gymnasium, when I was a bit older. In elementary school, I played only with my sister and my cousin, sometimes with the other merchants’ kids that you visited, for instance, on the occasion of their birthdays. But it wasn’t the kind of growing up where you run around the yard and play football all day, even though our house had a yard and a garden. I sat alone at home, playing with those samples, living a life of my own.

I know little about my mother. According to some accounts, after the regaining of independence in 1918 [see Poland’s independence, 1918] 6, she worked in the Drohobycz town hall as the mayor’s secretary. I guess that was a distinction. After my mother’s death, that ‘Granny’, my grandmother’s sister, Deborah Friedman lived with us for some time, but then Father decided to marry again.

My father’s second wife, and my stepmother, was called Fana Hoffman, Fajga in Hebrew [Editor’s note: Fajga is a Jewish name]. She was a person about my father’s age, who, until she got married, had worked as a clerk at an oil company. As for the exact position, I’d say she was the bookkeeper, or the chief accountant’s deputy. My stepmother was a modest woman who didn’t socialize too much. She was a very thrifty person, perhaps even a stingy one. She tried to keep the house the traditional way and the kitchen – the kosher way. She was a Jew in the full sense of the word. She lit the candles on Friday, and observed the other rules as well – the fasts, the holidays, and so on. But she wasn’t conservative. She didn’t wear a wig, dressed fashionably, wasn’t afraid to turn on the lights on Saturday.

As for her family, I only knew her sisters. One of those, Gienia Halsowa, was married to an oil industrialist whose name I don’t remember. A progressive man, similar to my father, though perhaps a bit more religious. On Sunday afternoon, for instance, he’d hold the Havdalah – something we didn’t do. And as they had a boy only a year older than me, Ignac, I sometimes visited them. I believe they derived their income from some oil stocks as well as from several tenement houses. My stepmother’s second sister was divorced. Her name was Basia, Bajla in Yiddish. She had a daughter, much older than me and my sister, I don’t remember what her name was. She graduated from Lwow University 7, with a degree in Polish literature, I think. Unfortunately, it was 1936 or 1937 and she couldn’t get a job [due to Anti-Semitism in Poland in the 1930s] 8. I remember, when I was in gymnasium, she was giving me private lessons, chiefly helping me do the homework. She lived with her mother in the tenement of that uncle of hers, the husband of Gienia, my stepmother’s other sister.

From when I was five and until I turned 18, we had one and the same maid, a Ukrainian woman of Catholic faith. Her name was Maria Sarachman, and I know she was still alive only recently, working as a housekeeper for some priest. But I’ve never met her after the war. Besides her, during our early childhood, we also had a nurse, or rather a housemistress. She came from Germany and was probably a nun, as I remember she wore the habit. She didn’t speak Polish, so we only spoke German with her. This doesn’t mean I didn’t speak Polish as a child. Our whole family spoke Yiddish, but to us, the children, they spoke Polish. So I spoke Polish with the maid, with my stepmother, my father, as well as with the relatives. All those people, no matter what trade they plied, spoke Polish because they lived among Polish people. Some of them also spoke Ukrainian because they had contacts with Ukrainians. After we had grown up a little bit, the housemistress was dismissed, and a governess hired for my sister. First one, then another, both were Jewish. All those were girls from poor, but trusted, homes. They watched over the children, took them out, gave them lessons. Following our departure for Lwow in 1935, my parents stopped hiring governesses. The last one we had was called Bella or something like that. We later recommended her to a family in Lwow, so she sometimes visited us there.

The house in which we lived was a two-story house with a large garden on Shevchenky Street [today’s name of the street; before the war it was called Mickiewicza], built, according to the documentation, in 1904. It was a modern-style, brick townhouse that stands in Drohobycz to this day. Those houses were built by people who had hit it big on oil, which means we didn’t build it, only bought it. They were built according to European standards, in the fashion of the Vienna buildings, that’s how it looked. In the basement there lived one Szmer Zanthaus, my father’s business partner, with his family; he already had three or four children. We lived on the first floor, and the apartment was divided in such a way that we occupied one part of it, and in the other there lived some lawyer. Probably the previous owner had intended it for rent, and that’s why the four or five-room apartment had been divided into two.

We occupied two rooms and a kitchen, and the other tenant had two rooms, a kitchen, and a bathroom. The man had already been there when my father was buying the house. His name was Wilner, I think, and he was a lawyer. Probably my father’s partner had let him the apartment, and because of tenant-protection laws, he couldn’t be evicted. He lived there until 1935 when he finally moved to Lwow. We took over the whole apartment then. The toilets were in the hall. The apartment was furnished in a modern way, we had a gas stove, the coal-fuelled kind. I don’t remember whether we had a telephone. We’re not listed in the 1938 phonebook, so I guess we didn’t. In the store, though, they had one absolutely. A rare novelty of the time was the radio. My aunt had one as early as 1932, whereas we bought our first radio in something like 1935 or 1936.

The same applies to our home in Lwow. It was a luxurious four-room apartment with many corridors and hallways. There was the so-called study room, a dining room, the children’s room, a bedroom, and a room for the servants. There was also a kitchen and a dressing room, various kinds of rooms. It was a large apartment, two hundred something square meters. The entrance wasn’t from the front but from the backyard. The windows faced two backyards. It was in downtown, though I don’t remember the name of the street. Upon leaving Drohobycz, we rented the apartment there, so we couldn’t return to it. We had to take up residence in another one, a rented apartment in a newly-built house.

There was also a period when we had our own car, a Ford, if I remember correctly. It had been bought jointly by my father’s company and that wealthy industrialist, my stepmother’s brother-in-law. It was parked in a garage next to that Uncle’s house, close to our shop. On one or two occasions we took that car and went for a ride. The weather was unpleasant that day and people were saying there’d be an earthquake or something like that. So we took the car and went out of town to an area where things were supposed to be quieter. For the rest of the time, the car stood idle, I don’t know why. Me and my cousin Ignac often played in that garage and we’d get into that car and tinker with it. What happened to it after we left Drohobycz, I don’t know.

I went to elementary school in Drohobycz. It was a Polish school, a public one. It was located on Mickiewicza Street, so it wasn’t far from my home. Young people of three denominations studied there: Roman Catholics, Greek Catholics, and Jews. There were hardly any problems between them, though some professors were obviously disposed rather unfavorably towards the Jews. I remember one professor who, when you didn’t know something, would say something like, ‘You stupid little Jew!’ But those were isolated cases. The obligatory religious class was organized so that the students were divided into three groups: A, B, and C, depending on their religion. All the Roman Catholics in a given class were allotted to, say, A, the Greek Catholics to B, and the Jews to C. And a teacher or priest would come and teach his religion. I certainly wasn’t among the most talented ones, in fact, I never applied myself to study. I was interested in history, in a sense also Jewish history.

After we moved to Lwow, I went to gymnasium. I went to a private, Jewish gymnasium where the main language of instruction was Polish. It was a coed Jewish school, where there were perhaps two Christian students, and the rest were students from Jewish families. Among the obligatory courses were Hebrew, and Jewish history. It was a humanities-oriented gymnasium. Saturday was a day free of school, whereas we went to school on Sunday. During that time, or, more precisely, in 1936, I was preparing for my bar mitzvah and had to study intensely the whole ritual in Hebrew. To that end, my father had hired a private tutor, who, between let’s say, December 1935 and March 1936 was preparing me for the ritual.

My bar mitzvah took place the traditional way, only there weren’t too many guests. A special service was held at the synagogue, the one where we prayed in Lwow. It was called Yad Harutzim, the Hand of Justice, I don’t remember what street it was on. After the service, Kiddush was served, and after that a dinner was held at our home for the family and a few selected guests.

After returning to Drohobycz [1937], I spent the last years before the war studying at a coed gymnasium that adhered to the, say, humanistic tradition. At that one, Saturday was a school day, and Sunday was off. One of my teachers at elementary school, and then also in gymnasium, was Bruno Schulz 9. He taught me drawing. I even had at home drawings corrected by him or actually drawn by him, but at the time no one was paying any attention to that because Mr. Schulz wasn’t a professor you talked much about. He kept to himself, and the only thing he’d ever say was, ‘Good morning, good morning.’ And the fact that he had written two books, ‘Cinnamon Shops,’ and ‘Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass,’ became popular knowledge only after the war. Perhaps there were some literary circles before the war, but we, as young people, didn’t care about things like that. Whether the lessons taught by Schulz were special in any way is hard for me to say today.

From what I know, he was somehow related to us through his sister whose name I don’t remember and who got married to a Hoffman. Her son was named Ludwik, too. How her husband was related to us, I don’t know, but my close cousin, Henryk Hoffman, writes in his book ‘From Drohobycz to the Holy Land’ that his father, who was a doctor, was a frequent guest of Mr. Schulz’s. My sister, in turn, claims that when she sometimes went with Father out for a walk on Saturday, they’d drop by at the Schulzes to visit his [Schulz’s] mother. That’s possible, because the Schulzes’ house stood between our business and our house. The last time any of us had any contact with him was during the Soviet period, in gymnasium. I had left it in 1939, but my sister still went there. And on a photo of the class of 1940, you can see Bruno Schulz as one of the professors [the Blatt gymnasium, where Schulz taught, was in operation until the outbreak of the German-Soviet war in 1941].

At that time, we were already grown up enough to be flirting with the girls, and, as the school was coed, everyone had his girlfriend and life was starting to look different. We went with those girls to dancing parties, and on the holidays, for example Purim or Chanukkah, there was a dancing party for students at school, and unless there was a party on the same day at the Jewish orphanage, we’d go there. Because at the orphanage they also organized dancing parties on holidays. If someone of the friends had their birthday, they’d also organize a party. I remember I had a girlfriend at the time, her name was Halinka, the daughter of a lawyer who was the leader of the Zionist organizations in our town, I don’t remember his name. I once took her to a dancing party at the Jewish hospital. I don’t remember the occasion, whether it was Purim or Chanukkah. In any case, we went there, and then I was walking her home. It was then, on our way, that I kissed a girl for the first time in my life.

Then I remember a situation whereby a major of the Polish army who lived in our house had a maid, a young and healthy girl. I remember she often visited our Marysia. And one day she started provoking me and encouraging me that she’d teach me about love, I only needed to say yes. Naturally, I rejected her, because one of my friends had earlier had intercourse with a maid, and then she said she was pregnant and demanded money from him. He had to pay and that served as a warning for me.

We were a small group of people of similar income status. The sons of merchants, lawyers, and other affluent Jews who met with the daughters of engineers or industrialists. That’s how things were. All my classmates were from middle-class, or even upper middle-class families. I was friends with a doctor’s son, an oil dealer’s son, and a paper wholesaler’s son, so that was four of us, and also with the son of the chief accountant of a major oil refinery. Those were Julek Hilzenrat, Izio Hercig, Artur Werdinger, and one more boy named Leszek, whose last name I don’t remember. When I browse through the 1938 phonebook, I can actually remember some of the names. The girls were usually the daughters of engineers employed at the refinery, let’s say, people who made in excess of 1000 zlotys a month, which before the war was a fortune. With the poor Jewry we didn’t, I didn’t, have any contact. And similarly we had very little contact with either the Polish intelligentsia or the Polish youth.

This pack of ours met virtually every day. We’d be doing our homework at home until something like four, and at five we’d meet at one of the boys’. We’d play cards, any of the various popular card games of the time, like Red King, i.e. Hearts, or Thousand. That took us until half past six, after which we’d go out for a stroll down the promenade. It was the main street – today Mickiewicza, then Shevchenky [Editor’s note: inversely]. Boys and girls strolled separately, though sometimes we paired up and strolled in pairs. That lasted until eight, at which time we all had to go back home. It wasn’t allowed for young people to be on the street after eight in the evening.

We also strolled on Sunday morning. That was when the Jewish and Polish intelligentsia strolled, though the latter in smaller numbers because most Poles were at church. And the Jews were strolling or visiting the cafes, especially to show themselves off, for others to see how they were dressed. That was due to the fact that Drohobycz was a town dominated by German culture; people were more open-minded and rather secularized. More and more people were also, for instance, practicing sports, and not only football, but there were also many Jewish young people who played tennis, cycled, or practiced skiing. I was also given my pair of skis. That was in 1939, and I even started skiing a little, we had a lot of good slopes there. But then the war broke out and that was it.

Sometimes we went for longer vacations. When I was a little boy, when my mother was still alive, we went to Iwonicz Zdroj [ca. 300 km west of Drohobycz]. It was a health resort, and as I was a rather sickly child, my mother took me there once or twice, and then I also went to Iwonicz with my stepmother. Later we went each year to mountain resorts, like Rebenow or Skole [ca. 30 km south of Drohobycz, today in Ukraine].

During the time when we lived in Lwow, we usually went for vacation to Aunt Laura, to Truskawiec. We went there twice, in 1936 and 1937. Her business was going better or worse, depending on the house she was renting at the given time: whether it was a large, twenty-room one, or a smaller, fifteen-room one. She rented various houses, of various standards, certainly not all had bathrooms. Naturally, the kitchen was kosher. Though not so strictly kosher that on Friday night they had to put chulent into the oven and on Saturday they wouldn’t set fire under the stove. Some of the employees at those boarding houses were Christians, and it was them who did things like setting fire under the stove or reheating dinner on Saturday. When we went there the last time, Aunt was living in a detached house that had four or five rooms with a kitchen, but no bathroom. The toilet was outside. During the season, Aunt rented out two or three of the rooms, and as her husband, my uncle, whose last name was Roth – I don’t remember his first name – kept a fuel depot, they had an extra source of income besides the boarding house.

Then, in 1938 and 1939, me and my sister went to a Jewish summer camp. Those were the so-called Jewish guesthouses for gymnasium students. My sister went to a guesthouse for girls in Skole, whereas I was in a guesthouse for adults in the same town. As the owners of those places owed my father some money, to recover the liabilities he was sending us there without paying.

As children, me and my sister lived in our own world. We lacked nothing, had everything we needed. We were only supposed to study and play. Nothing else was supposed to occupy our minds. Parents would go to work early in the morning. Father to the shop, Mother too, for she was the bookkeeper there. They’d return around 7pm. I mean, Father would either come home or go to the merchants’ club where he’d play cards, and the like. And then he’d return very late.

My stepmother spent the evenings reading. We had quite a large German library at home. For us, the children, there was another library, with adventure novels and so on. We also read Polish books, but to get the required reading you had to go to the public library. We had no Yiddish books at all. Besides that, my father bought the Polish-language Jewish newspaper Chwila [1919-1939; Jewish political/cultural daily of Zionist sympathies, published in Polish, aimed at middle-class readers. The last editor-in-chief was H. Hescheles.], which had a morning issue and an evening one. Chwila was edited by Jews, but in Polish. I sometimes also bought the Czerwony Kurier, a richly illustrated Warsaw daily. What kind of a newspaper it was, I don’t really know, as I wasn’t interested in its contents. What I was interested in were the illustrations from the everyday events, the political ones, or those from the life of the upper classes. There was also the Swiatowid, but that was too expensive for me to buy. I only know it was a Cracow-based illustrated weekly. I liked to browse through those magazines but I never had enough money to buy them.

Sabbath was always observed the traditional way. It was like you see on old photos or in the movies today. My father would close the shop early, and, I suppose, go to the synagogue. My stepmother would light the candles, and when Father returned, we’d sit down to dinner. The atmosphere was very solemn, Mother would serve the traditional fish dish, for example gefilte fish, and some other appetizer, I don’t remember what. Me and my sister didn’t eat much, because we always waited for the cake. There were various kinds of cakes – every week a different one: a sponge cake for breakfast, gingerbread or honey cake after dinner.

After dinner, Father would rarely stay at home. Sometimes he’d listen to the radio but because the radio was a novelty, he didn’t have much fondness for that. Instead, he’d rather go to the merchant’s club to play cards, Hearts. On Saturday morning, after prayer, we’d sit down to a breakfast combined with supper. Once in a while father would have a bit to eat at the synagogue, a piece of herring or something, then he’d go to some meeting and come home for a solemn supper at one or two. During the time when I didn’t go to school on Saturday, as was the case in Lwow, Father would take me to the synagogue for prayer. I started attending the prayers in the year that I had my bar mitzvah, and in which, as tradition demanded, I started wearing the tefillin. After dinner, father would take a nap and then go to a café or to the club again, and that’s how it went. You can say that if one of those merchants didn’t show up at the synagogue on Saturday morning, it would mean he was either sick or out of town. There weren’t other things to do, like watching the TV today, so you always went to the synagogue. Some went to some sports events, but all the people from the class to which my parents belonged would observe Sabbath the traditional way.

The same was true for other holidays, such as seder [Pesach] or Purim. For Pesach, we’d eat matzot, which, at the beginning, were made at hardly accessible bakeries. During that time, the rabbis made matzah as well. They’d send us their black, whole wheat matzot, the so-called ‘shmirematzot,’ and use the proceeds for the holidays. In the later period, 1936, 1937, matzot were made by mechanized bakeries in Lwow, or brought over from other places. Those were like the ones you can buy today. But in the beginning, I remember, they’d be ordered at the baker and brought, I don’t know, ten kilograms or more, in a dish for the whole holidays. Both the dishes and the cutlery were koshered. We never had any bread at home during the festival. Any chametz was given away, but whether it was genuine or fictional sale, I wasn’t interested in finding out at the time.

Those days, any Jew’s dream was to educate his children in some direction. I didn’t have any talent for the technical things, like drawing and other things like this. I’d surely have gone, like my father planned, to a business college. When I think of my life today, it’s clear to me I never had the kind of aspirations that many young people had at the time, for example to become a doctor, an engineer, or a scientist. I was always devoted to commerce. As a child, I played with the textile samples that my father brought me from work, and I never thought of any career other than in commerce.

I devoted my whole life to commerce, and my guiding principle in business was never to maximize profits but rather to offer the best and most elegant products. I was always interested in the most expensive and sophisticated fabrics and the most stylist fashions. As early as in my school days I was less interested in study and more in commerce, the store, some brilliant shop window display or men’s fashion. In fact, I was always a strange kid because from very early childhood I liked to dress. I had many clothes, because when you operate a textile business, there’ll always be some scraps. So they made me one dress, and when I grew out of it they made me another, and another, and there was always a new one to try. We were always well-dressed, and my parents’ wardrobes were always full of clothes. Father, if he went to Vienna, would always bring us some stylish clothes. We didn’t always want to wear them, for instance there was this woolen jacket with leather applications on the sleeves. Why am I supposed to wear a patched up jacket, I wondered.

As those days you usually went to study abroad, the plan was, as I’ve mentioned above, for me to enroll at a business college in Vienna. But 1938 thwarted those plans. After the Anschluss 10, I could no longer go there. We hadn’t realized that anti-Semitism in Austria had reached such an advanced stage. There was no mention of that in our circles.

As for the town itself, Drohobycz had a population of thirty-something thousand, fifteen thousand of which were Jews. They didn’t live in any specific parts of the town but were scattered across it. The neighborhood where we lived was close to downtown and was a wealthy one. On our street, Shevchenky, there stood 14 houses, of which five or six were inhabited by Catholic families and the rest by Jewish ones. On the main streets in downtown Drohobycz, the proportion between the Catholics and the Jews was, you can say, fifty-fifty. The poorer part of the Jewish population lived in a neighborhood called Lam, where the main synagogue was also located, one of the largest synagogues in the whole Galicia region.

That synagogue was something of a German-style ‘templum.’ I went there only for the state ceremonies, such as 11th November [anniversary of Poland’s regaining of independence in 1918], Pilsudski’s birthday or the 3rd May 11 holiday. Schoolchildren of Jewish religion took part in such ceremonies obligatorily. We’d march in divided into classes, and then the rabbi would deliver a speech in Polish in the presence of the government officials, this is the district governor, the town mayor, and the military district commander. After the ceremony we’d join an official street parade. The synagogue building was a very imposing structure whose ruins have survived to this day. There’s no one, however, to reconstruct it, the people living in Drohobycz are poor, and I don’t think the Jews scattered across the world would be willing to do it. Besides the main synagogue, there were about 20 smaller synagogues and prayer houses in the town.

We prayed at a synagogue located near our house, at the back of the market place, on Garncarska Street. Besides us, it was frequented by several very wealthy merchants and industrialists, as well as by some poorer people. We sat at the main wall, this is the eastern one, near where the ark was located. My father occupied one of the most eminent seats in the synagogue. The synagogue was rather of the reformed style. It was managed by a gentleman who was also the chief accountant of a major oil company, and who also operated the registration office where the births and deaths were registered. He wore a derby hat and had a clean-shaven face. His name was Mr. Szpander. The chief rabbi was a captain in the Polish army and a doctor of theology, but whether he had his own synagogue or prayed at the main one, I don’t know. Nor do I remember his name.

There were also many shochetim in the town. The poultry we bought, whether in Drohobycz or in Lwow, was always slaughtered by a shochet. Sometimes the shochet would come to our house and slaughter the chicken there.

My father was never politically involved. He certainly belonged to some pro-Zionist party, but I think chiefly because it was trendy to do so. Usually, however, he went to the merchant club to play cards. Myself, in turn, as early as in gymnasium – it was 1938 – I started attending the meetings of some Jewish organization. I don’t remember what organization it was, but we all went there, both the working-class boys and the gymnasium students. The meetings were led by a reserve officer whose son was our age and went to a public gymnasium. The meetings would combine lectures with something in the vein of military drill exercises. The whole thing was more like scouting than like a paramilitary organization. It certainly was neither Betar 12 nor Brit Trumpeldor.

The house which we moved in upon returning to Drohobycz in 1937 had been built a year or two earlier and was very modern. It was owned by a Jewish merchant. It had three or even four floors. The first floor was occupied by two Jewish families, and the remaining ones by Christians. By 1938, Christians had become a majority in that neighborhood, the military barracks were nearby, so that’s, for instance, where the garrison commander, the town’s public notary, or the director of the savings-and-loan fund lived.

Anti-Semitism was something I encountered as early as in Lwow. Sometimes the tertian, this is the gymnasium janitor, would come to the class and warn us not to go near the university because anti-Semitic riots had broken out there. Later, in Drohobycz, I remember an action in which the brother-in-law of the above-mentioned garrison commander, a major who lived in our house, took part. That brother-in-law was a student, member of a Polish student fraternity [corporation] 13 that in the Christmas period organized an anti-Semitic action consisting in selling the so called ‘academic fish’ to Christians. Most of the fish traders at the time were Jews, and, to prevent Christians from buying from them, the students would sell the commodity themselves.

The major had a son, a little boy three or four years old, who would often stand on the stairs when I was going back home from school and cry, ‘Dirty Jew! Dirty Jew!’ One time I just couldn’t control myself, and I answered, ‘You son of a bitch!’ A few days later the major asked my father for a talk and threatened him that I’d be fired from school for offending the honor of the Polish army. I wasn’t afraid because, firstly, I didn’t go to a public gymnasium, and, secondly, war was coming up. So that’s how it looked more or less. We were, as young Jews, isolated, met in small peer groups, and we knew about anti-Semitism and its manifestations.

State-owned companies had stopped hiring Jews, and in my gymnasium some of the teachers were from as far away as Cracow, as, despite their degrees, they weren’t able to get a job there. That’s how it looked. We listened to the radio so we also knew something bad was brewing in Germany [see Anti-Jewish legislation in Nazi Germany] 14. But no one suspected things would get that far, would assume such catastrophic proportions. Some people, those who remembered World War I and who had lived under the Austro-Hungarian occupation, believed Germany was a decent nation and everything we were hearing was just propaganda. Or maybe it was simply beyond our imagination?

In 1939, talk started that there might be war. Following the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact 15, it was clear that the situation was tense and that ‘something is wrong here.’ I remember how, in late August [1939], my father came home late in the evening and said people had been driving up to the square in front of the house because the military had ordered a requisition of all private cars. As if the people suspected something.

A few days before the war we started carrying all the merchandise out of the store and hiding it because we were afraid it’d get stolen. And indeed, immediately after the war broke out people started robbing shops, or at least buying up everything they could to get rid of the money. Several days later the Germans entered the town, and anti-Jewish riots began. That didn’t last long because the Germans left Drohobycz after seven or eight days, this is after the time they needed to empty all the oil and petrol stocks. [Pursuant to the Ribbentrop-Molotov pact, the Germans withdrew from Drohobycz on 24th September, leaving it for the Soviet military administration to take over].

The Russians took over soon afterwards. A couple of weeks later we, as well as all the other tenants, were evicted, as the Russian military requisitioned the building. First we moved to the apartment owned by a certain industrialist. It was a five-room apartment, of which we occupied three. The Russians tried to nationalize our property, and to that end searched the shop and the house. They found money and jewelry. Some of that they returned later to us after it turned out the things had belonged to our late mother. Those were family assets, not things father had bought in a store. I don’t remember why, but they observed the law in that particular case. They didn’t return the money, though. Even the money that we hid between the fabrics for a rainy day. I’m sorry to say this, but those requisitions for the Russian army were always carried out by people of Jewish descent. Those were communists, aspiring to destroy the so-called capitalists.

In April 1940, we Jews were deported from Drohobycz as ‘undesirable elements’ [see Deportation of Jews from Drohobycz] 16. We received no-return passports with a provision saying we weren’t allowed to live in Drohobycz. We moved to Truskawiec, where our aunt lived. There we rented a room with a kitchen from some peasant and lived there until 1942 when all the Jews were deported to Belzec 17 and when I lost virtually all my relatives.

By that time I had already ended my education due to the fact that I was banned from entering Drohobycz. Only my sister, who was too young to receive the passport with the no-return clause, was still able to go to school until the time the German-Soviet war broke out. She lived in various places, never sleeping in the same place for too long, hiding a bit, and she continued like that until June 1941. During that time I fell ill with pericarditis, or inflammation of the heart sac, and was confined to bed.

My father didn’t have any job, and we had to survive by selling various private items. Sometimes Father went out to play cards or went fishing, or stood in a queue to buy bread. Most of the time, however, he did nothing. The Russians didn’t forbid us to pray, and as there was a synagogue in Truskawiec, we normally went to pray. The synagogue was quite large due to the fact that Truskawiec was a major health resort. Very many Jews, both from Poland and from abroad, used to visit the place to treat kidney and asthma conditions. The synagogue could seat 100, or perhaps even 200 people. I went to Truskawiec in 1990 and found the place, but the synagogue was no longer there. I think some other building stands there now.

In June 1942, all Jews received special armbands 18 and were sent to work. That lasted until August 1942. Then, one day, all Jews were told to go to the synagogue. The first day the Ukrainian police (there was no German police in Truskawiec) went from house to house and took all the Jews they found to the synagogue. That was followed by a two-day lull, and what had happened to the people taken to the synagogue, we could only guess. People said they had been taken to a camp in Boryslaw [10 km south-west of Drohobycz] but that wasn’t true [on 6th August, 1942, a transport of some 6,000 Jews from Drohobycz, Boryslaw and other places was sent from Boryslaw to the Belzec camp]. The only people around were our Christian neighbors. Later it turned out some Jewish families had been hidden. The Germans also left the Judenrat 19 in place to watch over the liquidation of Jewish property. Some two months later all of its members were executed.

On our way to the gathering point, my father met a Ukrainian police officer who told him to leave us at the station and said we’d be taken from there to a labor camp near Truskawiec. We had never heard of the place before. Father brought one more girl from the synagogue with who I later started meeting in the camp [at the vegetable grange in Truskawiec]. Then he returned to the gathering point and we never saw him again. Like we never saw again the rest of the family, taken away the night before [as part of the 6th August 1942 transport].

As I later found out, they were all taken to Belzec. I was left alone with my sister. The camp to which we were sent from the police station in Truskawiec was more like a grange where they grew potatoes, beets, all kinds of cereals for a military sanitarium. The place was in Truskawiec itself. It was a kolkhoz dating back to the Soviet times. Besides the vegetable gardens, they also had large stables there where they brought sick horses from the eastern front to treat them. There were initially some 30 Jews at the camp, then someone managed to escape. We wore special badges with the letter W, which meant we were working for the military: W stood for ‘Wehrmacht.’

That lasted until April 1943 when it was decided it was inappropriate for the military to use Jews as labor force. They transported us to what remained of the Drohobycz ghetto. There I started working at an oil refinery. We found our cousin Matys, the son of Eliasz Hoffman, my father’s eldest brother. He was a doctor and it was thanks to his contacts that we managed to avoid execution. Later I was sent to work at a brickyard, and I lived like that in that camp created on the ghetto’s remnants until February 1944, when they decided to dissolve the place and move us west. My sister decided to escape to Truskawiec with two girlfriends. There she was hidden by some Christians we knew. I was transported first to Plaszow [camp] 20, then, in October 1944, to Gross-Rosen 21, where I spent about six weeks and from where I was taken to Walbrzych. The Gross-Rosen camp had its branch there [Waldenburg], and it’s there I was liberated on 9th May, 1945.

Of my whole family, the only ones that survived were myself, my sister, and that single cousin Matys, thanks to whom we actually survived, avoiding execution. Later I found out that one more cousin had survived who during the war was enlisted for the Russian army and returned from Russia in 1941.

When the war was over I settled in Walbrzych and registered with the Jewish committee [Central Committee of Polish Jews] 22. After I found my sister and my two cousins, I went first to Cracow, where Cousin Matys lived, and then to visit my sister who lived in Katowice. We all decided to return here and set up a business together with some friends.

My sister Stella got married here, to a man who once, before the war, had worked for my father – Izydor Kawe. Several years after getting married, I don’t remember exactly, but I think it was in 1950, they immigrated to Israel and settled in Haifa. My brother-in-law died in a car accident over 20 years ago, and my sister still lives there, has two children, six grandchildren, and two great-granddaughters.

I visited my sister and her family many times. First time I went there in 1957, and the last time so far has been in 1998. Me and my wife went for all the weddings, bar mitzvot, and other special occasions. Besides, the cousin that lived with me here after the war immigrated to Australia. He is 95 today, so he comes no longer to Poland, but in the past he used to come to Walbrzych very often.

Soon after my sister left, I met my future wife. We got married and soon our daughter Sabina was born. We kept a house in which all holidays, both Jewish and Catholic, were observed. To this day we have tried to observe both traditions, and our daughter has done the same.

During a certain period in my life I thought about emigration. I was afraid, however, that we were a mixed marriage, without proper education, and that it would be difficult for us to establish a new life in Israel. Besides, my relatives in Israel weren’t so well-off and simply didn’t notice certain things. In particular the difference between capitalism and socialism, a difference we are able to notice today. It seemed to me it would be difficult for us to adapt to life in Israel. Later we had some opportunities to go to Australia, but we decided against it because of my mother-in-law, who would have been left completely alone here.

As far as my professional life is concerned, I initially operated, with a partner, a textile trading business. Then, after 1950 when they started nationalizing private businesses, I had to start working for public-sector companies. And so until 1990, when I finally retired, I worked for various state-owned domestic trade enterprises. Due to the fact that during my career I never joined the communist party, I never felt the impact of the various political changes on my skin.

In 1968, when I worked for the Spolem cooperative, I was openly told that, as I wasn’t politically involved, I had nothing to fear [see Anti-Zionist campaign in Poland] 23. Neither myself nor my family were affected by any anti-Jewish campaign [Editor’s note: not only politically involved Jews were harassed during the 1968 campaign]. Though it’s possible such things took place, because very many people left Poland following those events.

There were between 15,000-20,000 Jews in Walbrzych after the war. Today, the Walbrzych branch of the Social and Cultural Association of Jews in Poland 24 has a mere 40 members. The only moment when I experienced discrimination because of my Jewish descent occurred when Solidarity 25 came. My former immediate superior was fired and the new one believed that, because I was drawing benefits as a war veteran, I could be sent into early retirement. He made efforts to fire me, arguing that I was blocking promotion opportunities for younger employees. But the other executives, who knew about my longtime professional experience in commerce, decided I could stay as long as I wanted. That’s why, in 1989, at the age of 67, I decided I no longer needed to work and, due to the fact that I’d receive quite a high pension, I decided to leave.

As far as my activity in Jewish organizations is concerned, there wasn’t any until 1982. That year they came to me to ask whether I’d agree to head the TSKZ. I did, and I still work there today as instructor. Besides that, I’m a member of the board of the Wroclaw community, and my daughter is the secretary general of the Polish-Israeli Society. The club functions normally, as always, though the sessions are a bit less frequent than they used to be. Our recent Chanukkah meeting gathered an audience of some 40. Young people also come, the Polish-Israeli Society, the Righteous Among the Nations 26. The club is open three days a week, and events such as the Chanukkah or Purim parties are organized if the budget allows it. Besides, the club’s activity depends on the weather and the health of those old people; after all, some of our members are over 90 years old.

In my view, it doesn’t make any sense for there to exist several Jewish organizations in Poland. Instead, they should all merge under the patronage of, say, the Jewish Congress, as is the case in all other countries. As it is today, it’s pointless. You can have different views, conservative or liberal, you can be an atheist or a religious person, you can have different tastes and habits, but it’s still one nation. The state of Israel. We all have to live together somehow.

I also believe that, since the state of Israel has emerged, we’re all either Israelis or Poles of Mosaic faith. That’s why I can’t understand why they keep saying: Jew, Jew, Jew. According to what my Jewish friends from France, Greece, or the Netherlands told me, they have never said, ‘I’m a Dutch Jew,’ but always ‘I’m a Dutchman.’ And my religion is my private business. And here they’ve insisted on calling us Jews. Well, I won’t change that, nor, I guess, will my generation.

For many years I’ve lived with my wife here, in Walbrzych. I have a daughter and two grown-up grandsons, Artur and Dominik. I did what I liked in life and what my father had taught me. I remember how he always told me that money is not made on the rich but on the commoners. Because the common people buy thousands of yards of cheap and poor-quality fabrics, whereas the material for an expensive suit you buy once in several years. And I was so used to that that to this day if I buy something, it has to be good quality and a good brand. I never buy cheap, that’s not my style.

Glossary

Mariana Farkas
Brasov
Romania
Interviewer: Andreea Laptes
Date of interview: May 2004

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

Mrs. Farkas is a 74-year-old woman; she’s tiny, thin yet nimble, with short white hair, with a tint of lilac in it, and blue eyes. Her hand is still dressed because of a car accident she suffered recently, and her eyes are still bluish behind the foundation she uses. She lives in an apartment in a building in the old center of Brasov, and she has two rooms and a kitchen. In the living room one can see a photo of her mother, when she was still a young lady, and photos of her daughter and granddaughter. Her library contains mainly books in Hungarian. Mrs. Farkas is very hospitable, and very open; she loves to have guests. While she talks, she smokes one cigarette after another, because, she says, it’s the only pleasure she has left, and everybody has to die from something!

My family history

My grandparents on my father’s side were called Iosif and Gizella Stein. I know my grandmother was born in 1867, but she died before I was born, in 1927; she died at a rather early age, at 60, because of stomach cancer. Both [my grandparents] spoke Hungarian, and I know that my grandfather was a clerk, and my grandmother a housewife. They lived in a village very close [20km] to Budapest, a village called Maglod.

After my grandmother had died, my grandfather lived there with my aunt, one of my father’s sisters, who was called Elena – or Ilona in Hungarian – Meier, nee Stein. My grandfather died there as well, in 1937 or 1938. I knew my grandfather; sometimes I went during the holidays to my aunt’s, when I was little, but I stayed there only a few days a year. But he was already too old, he was over 80 years old; he did love me, but the poor man was already ill and at that age one has very little patience with children, so I didn’t have a strong relationship with him. I don’t know how religious he was, but no one in our family was a bigot.

The house where my grandfather lived when I knew him belonged to my aunt’s husband, a Jew called Jakob Meier, who was an engineer. It had three rooms and a kitchen, I believe, and it had running water and electricity. They kept hens, I remember that, and there were some greens in the garden. My aunt was in charge of the household; she had no help, although they weren’t poor people. They had one daughter, Alice, who left for Sweden in 1947. She had a son, George, who was born there in 1948.

My father had three sisters and a brother: so there was Elena Meier, who lived near Budapest, and who was married to Jakob Meier. Another of my father’s sisters was Hilda Allenberg, nee Stein, who was married to Leo Allenberg, a Jew who had a timber warehouse near Arad, at Vinga. They lived in Arad and then left for Sweden in 1956, to Stockholm, where my aunt died in 1983. In Sweden, Uncle Leo worked as an accountant at a ready-made clothes factory. They had a son, Victor, who died at 20.

The third sister was Rozalia, who was married, but I don’t remember her husband’s name; he was, however, a Jew from Vienna. She lived with him in Targu Mures, and she died in a concentration camp, in 1944, I think. Rozalia didn’t have any children.

My father’s brother was called Emil Bozoky [changed from Stein] and he had a textile factory in Budapest, where he also lived. He was married to Victoria, with whom he had two children: a girl, Lea, and a boy, Imre. Then Victoria died, when Lea was twelve years old, in 1928, I think, and he got remarried to Helga, who was a woman with a very beautiful face, but was obese, that’s why she died in 1940 or 1941. I only remember that she used to make cappuccino for me when I came to visit, and I didn’t like it. After that Uncle Emil married Irma.

My father, Albert Bozoky, changed his name from Stein to Bozoky 1 in the 1920s because he worked with his brother, my uncle, who owned the factory. My uncle was the first to change his name, and my father followed his example, back then he was still single. When Transylvania 2 was returned [Mariana is referring to the Trianon Peace Treaty 3], the Jews and the other nationalities were generally forced by the state to change their names. Anti-Semitism existed in Hungary even then, and my uncle didn’t want a Jewish name to be written on the frontispiece of the factory, he wanted to avoid some problems, for example somebody could have set the factory on fire, or something like that.

My father was born in Becicherecu Mic, in Yugoslavia [during that period it was under the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and now it’s on Romania’s territory], in 1894. He studied at the faculty of economics in Budapest, and he worked as an accountant. He spoke Hungarian as his mother tongue, just like my mother. My mother, Johana Bozoky, nee Seidenfeld, was born in Petrosani in 1903, and she had gone through four classes of high school.

I know how my parents met. I had an aunt, one of my mother’s cousins, Victoria, who was married to my father’s brother, Emil [she was his first wife]. The two of them met there, within family circles. My mother used to come from Transylvania to Budapest many times, and she stayed at her cousin’s, she also had other relatives there, my father visited his brother, and that’s how they met. But it was a love marriage, it wasn’t arranged. They married religiously in 1927, in the synagogue, they probably had a ketubbah as well, but I don’t remember ever seeing it.

My father was drafted into the army during World War I. He used to tell us how life on the front was. He was a young officer back then and he told us that at the officers’ mess there was a specific Hungarian dish, which he liked tremendously. It was a dish made from boiled potatoes, cut into little pieces and then put in a pot with fried onion. Then you boiled some noodles, usually the square ones, and put them in the pot. Then you added a bit of paprika on the potatoes, for the color, and when everything was boiled, you stirred it, added salt, pepper; and this was the dish my father liked, but I don’t remember what it was called. My mother also tried to make it, as she knew the recipe. She made it at home, but my father didn’t like it, he said that it wasn’t like the one from the officer’s mess and that the officers received better food there. And I know Mother told him, ‘Of course, you were hungry there, your guts rumbled, that’s why you liked it so much, hunger makes one eat anything!’

My maternal grandparents, Lipot and Gizella Seidenfeld, lived in Rau de Mori, in the region of Hateg. My grandfather was born in Lupeni, and he had a store. I think he had some elementary school, and his mother tongue was Hungarian, as well as my grandmother. Her maiden name was Lorincz, and she was from Hateg as well; I think she did four classes of high school, and she was a housewife, but of course she helped my grandfather a lot with the store. I know that my grandmother had a brother, who lived in Deva, and some other siblings in Dej, but I don’t know anything more about them.

My mother, Johana Bozoky, had four sisters and a brother: Frida Bauer [nee Seidenfeld] was married to Ottó Bauer, a Jew from Zagreb who was a clerk. They lived in Zagreb, and Frida was a superintendent at a boarding school for girls there. Aunt Frida’s husband, Ottó, killed himself, because he gambled in a game of cards the money of the factory he worked for, and only after that he realized what he had done. He was away in Belgrade, I think, and he shot a bullet through his head there, in a hotel room. After that Frida remained in Zagreb. Frida died in 1944 in a concentration camp, and she didn’t have any children.

Irina Pavlici [nee Seidenfeld] was married to Anton Pavlici, who was a Catholic, and who also worked in Zagreb as a lawyer. Irina was a housewife, and she had a daughter, Nada, who lives in London [England] now.

Matilda Weinberger [nee Seidenfeld] was married to a Jew, Adolf Weinberger, who was a notary. They lived in Targu Mures, and he died of natural death, before the Holocaust. Matilda was a housewife, and she had a daughter, Magdalena. Matilda died in Auschwitz, in 1944.

My mother’s third sister, Borbala Steinhart [nee Seidenfeld], was married to a Jew, but I don’t know his first name. Borbala was a housewife as well, and she had a son, Nicolae. She died in a concentration camp in 1944, either in Auschwitz or in Bergen-Belsen, I don’t remember exactly.

My mother’s brother was called Alexandru Seidenfeld, and he was also a shopkeeper, he helped my grandparents with their store. He was married to a Jewish woman, Reghina, and he didn’t have children. He got sick with consumption; when he was on the front during World War I; he had to stay in water up to his waist, that’s how he fell ill. So he stayed with my grandparents, helped them as long as he had the strength, but then the disease progressed, and killed him. Alexandru died in 1939 in Rau de Mori.

My grandparents had a big house with about six rooms, which was their property. I remember there was a large bolted gate through which the carts entered, and to the right there was always the guest room. My grandmother rented it out during summers, there were many tourists coming, because my grandparents lived at the very foot of Retezat Mountains [Editor’s note: Massif located in the western Meridional Carpathians, between the depressions of Hateg and Petrosani]. Many tourists climbed the Retezat from there, and in the summer there were loads of people who wanted accommodation.

There was no electricity there, but my grandmother had gas lamps, the water was brought from the fountain, and wood was used for heating. My grandmother had a servant, a man to look after the animals, but she did have many children, six, and she couldn’t cope with everything alone. I remember there was a garden, and she always had somebody to work in it. The garden was about 1000 square meters, and it wasn’t near the house, it was on a nearby street, but it was a marvel: there were fruit bearing trees, anything one can imagine grew there. As for animals, my grandparents raised a cow and horses; they needed them for the coach.

My grandparents had a small grocery store, and they also had an inn, which were in the same house: the grocery store was in one room, and the inn in another room. They sold food in the store, anything from bread to oil, but they didn’t sell meat. In the inn they served beer, wine, and my grandparents were in charge of everything, they had no help except from my uncle Alexandru. He may have been sick in his lungs, but he was the one who would keep the discipline in the pub. My uncle was highly esteemed! God, he had some strength in him! He would crack a head open with his bare hands if the customers were drunk and caused trouble.

They were rather well off, but they had enough problems, that is, they weren’t rich because they had six children to raise and dress: five girls and a boy, so they weren’t rich. But they lived well. They had time to go out, my grandfather went with the girls to balls in Hateg, where there were Purim balls, because there were many Jews there, but other balls as well, where long dresses were worn, like it was in those times. But I don’t remember my grandparents ever going on a holiday; with six kids and a household I don’t think they ever got further than a spa.

My grandparents had friends in the village, the intellectuals: there was a doctor, a Romanian priest who came to their house rather often, and then there was the administrator of a near-by castle – there was a certain Count Kendeffy who had some sort of a castle there and had that administrator in his service. I remember it, on the way out from Hateg to Santamaria Orlea – that was the first village, about four kilometers away from Hateg – one could see this castle. [Editor’s note: The castle at Santamaria Orlea was built in the 13th century by the Cande family, better known under the name Kendeffy. It was rebuilt in 1782 by Alexis Kendeffy and his wife, Kirsztina Bethlen. The castle is now a modest two star inn.] And from that castle onwards there were only gardens on the 12 or 14-kilometer road to Rau de Mori. Gardens, fruit bearing trees, on a twelve-kilometer road, it was a wonder.

I know that my grandmother always bought kosher meat from Hateg, once a week. The animals were slaughtered there, because there were many Jews in Hateg during that time and animals could be slaughtered the kosher way. There were no other Jews in the village; they were the only Jewish family in Rau de Mori. The grocery and the inn were closed on Saturdays. There was no synagogue in the village, only in Hateg. I’m not sure, but I think that my grandfather, for as long as he was healthy, went to Hateg every Saturday with the coach, and of course with all the family on the high holidays. But I haven’t spent a holiday with them, I was in Budapest at that time, I usually went to see them during the summers with my parents, when I was on holiday: we would come to visit and we would stay about a month and a half, maybe two, that’s before the 1940s. We came by train from Budapest to Hateg, and my grandfather came to pick us up with the coach from the station.

Groving up

I was born in Budapest, in 1930; it was a splendid city, as it still is now. The Jewish community in Budapest was very big, I don’t know how many Jews there were, I was too young, but there were many. There were several synagogues, one is the largest and most beautiful in south-eastern Europe, it’s the one with the silver tree in the courtyard, it’s a splendor. [The interviewee is referring to the Great Synagogue on Dohany Street 4.] I think there were several other synagogues: another seven or eight synagogues. The community had a rabbi, and there were all the functionaries, hakham, shochet, there were cheders and yeshivot, and so on. There was also a mikveh, but no one from our family went there.

There weren’t typical Jewish occupations back then in Budapest; Jews were traders, but many were poorer workers. Many, the majority, were intellectuals, professors, doctors, and artists. The Latabar brothers were Jews; they were famous comedians of the time. [Mariana is referring to Kalman and Arpad Latabar. Kalman was the more famous actor than his brother. Graduated in 1921 from the Rakosi Szidi’s acting school. He was a comedian with distinguished humor and dynamism, had excellent dancing skills.] Jews lived everywhere in Budapest, but many religious Jews lived on Dohany Street, near the big synagogue; that’s where the ghetto was also built in 1944.

The financial situation of our family was rather good, because my father earned very well. My father was an accountant, he was the chief-accountant at a food factory that belonged to a Jew, something with import-export, and he had about 20 people subordinated to him. My father didn’t work with his brother since his brother’s factory went bankrupt in 1933 or 1934. My mother was a housewife and she looked after the house.

Our house in Budapest was rented; it was actually an apartment in a four-story building on 33 Csaky Street. It was very beautiful and spacious, and we had running water, electricity, and gas heating. The house had three rooms: there was my room, a living room and my parents’ room, plus the bathroom, the kitchen and a hallway. The furniture in the house was rather modern for those times. We had a refrigerator back then, not like refrigerators are now, with electric power, but it worked all the same: there was a cart with ice that came twice a week, and my mother bought ice and put it in the fridge, below, in an ice box; it lasted for a few days. We had a small garden in the back, but we shared it with several families. The garden was for leisure, the neighbors would gather there during summers, but no one grew anything in it.

We had books in the house as well, I had my own library with my books, and my parents had their own library, mainly with books of acknowledged writers. Both my parents read in Hungarian, but my father read in German as well. They advised me as far as reading was concerned, and they bought for me books for my age: fairy tales at first, books for young people later.

My father read the newspaper, but my mother didn’t, she had no interest in politics; my father was interested, but he wasn’t in any political party. My father wasn’t involved in politics, but he hated communists. I know that in Budapest, after the war [World War I] there were a few weeks when the communists were in power, and those who didn’t have a certificate from the state that they had been in the Communist Party 5 couldn’t get a job in Budapest. My father was young at the time, he was 25 years old, still single, and he had to have that document, because otherwise he wouldn’t have gotten a job in Budapest.

My mother had help in the house, there was a woman who came once a week; she cleaned, she also came when my mother did the big cleanings in the fall and the spring, or when there was a lot of laundry to be done. But my mother was the one who cooked. The food wasn’t kosher, because it was very expensive and the kitchen we had in the house wasn’t adequate for two tables, separate stoves and tableware, there was a problem with space and the expenses.

I went to the market with my mother sometimes, when I was home, because in the morning I was in school. There was Lehel-piac, the market there that was close to us; it was an ordinary market, with greens and everything else. We had stores near the house. There were many Jews and therefore many were small traders and near us there was a Jewish family who had a grocery store. And I remember that my mother used to shop there and pay when the salary came. She could buy on credit, if she didn’t have enough money on her when she went shopping, and the owner noted everything down in a notebook.

My father usually went to the synagogue on Saturdays, it was on the same street where we lived, and my mother and I accompanied him on the high holidays, when the women go there as well. My parents fasted on Yom Kippur, and I also fasted all day, from 5 o’clock in the afternoon until the next evening, when the moon and the stars appeared. I think I started fasting when I was ten years old. My mother lit the candles and recited the blessing on Friday evenings, and she cooked the traditional dinner: for Friday evenings she usually baked sponge cake; we used to drink coffee with milk and eat sponge cake. On Saturdays we ate chicken soup with balls made from matzah flour. She made cakes as well, like hamantashen, on Purim. My mother never worked on Saturdays, except on the things she couldn’t avoid. My father used to say the prayers, but he wasn’t a bigot, he knew I studied religion in school so neither he nor my mother made my head swim with this.

I liked all the holidays, I didn’t have a favorite, all are beautiful and our songs are wonderful. I used to sing when I was little, Jewish songs and others as well, I had an ear for music. I don’t remember receiving Chanukkah gelt on Chanukkah, but my mother used to light the chanukkiah at home, a candle every day, seven of them altogether. [Editor’s note: On Chanukkah, usually eight candles have to be lit in seven days]. I didn’t dress up on Purim, but we received at home little packages with cakes, with hamantashen, from the synagogue. There probably were Purim balls in Budapest, but I don’t remember my mother and my father ever going to one. We didn’t have kosher Pesach on Pesach, we didn’t have separate tableware, but for eight days we didn’t eat bread, only matzah, and my mother did a big cleaning before, as she always did before any holiday. I know a sukkah was built in the synagogue in the fall, but I never stayed in one. The war had already started in 1940, and people didn’t observe the holidays like they used to anymore.

When I was very little, my mother used to trim a Christmas tree for me, a small one, because you can’t say to a two or three-year-old child that you are Jewish, the other is Christian, and all the other kids had a tree in the house, I saw it when I visited them. But I didn’t receive any gifts, and when I understood that I was Jewish, my mother didn’t trim one anymore. On Hungarian Easter we received red eggs from our neighbors, and on that occasion my mother baked sponge cakes and other cakes, because the day after Easter the neighbors would come to sprinkle, the sprinkling is very popular among Hungarians. [Editor’s note: Sprinkling is a national Easter custom. This custom was thought to be an ancient fertility and cleaning ritual, this is why girls and women were sprinkled with water. It takes place on the second day of Easter: on Easter Monday. This custom is dying now.]

Among our neighbors, there were about three Jewish families, but the rest of them were Christians. There were the Berkovits, who didn’t have any children; they had a very cute white dog I used to play with. There were also the Faragos, they had a daughter, we were friends, but that was about it. There was another family, the Bernsteins; I believe they had a boy, older than me. We kids were always together in the courtyard. My parents visited other families as well, because they were very open. My mother was a very special woman; everybody loved her. But I can’t say that our neighbors were our friends, they were mere acquaintances.

Our family was very large, about ten families in total, and when my parents had the time, they visited their relatives, they came to us or we went to them. The relatives we visited most often were the ones from Budapest, my father’s brother, but there were also some relatives who were just in-laws: my mother had three cousins and their wives, whom we visited and got along with very well, but I don’t recall their names.

My father’s brother, Emil, lived in Budapest, and he visited us. He had been a very rich man, and he lost his factory and all his belongings from one day to another, he did something foolish probably, I wasn’t told because it wasn’t for me to hear, I was eleven or twelve years old and I probably wouldn’t have understood what had happened. Uncle Emil was a rather weird man, I remember my cousin Lea was very unhappy in his house after he remarried: she came home from school one day, and she found a note from her father, in which he said that he didn’t want to pay for her school anymore and that he wanted her to move out.

So Lea lived with her relatives, uncles and aunts, for a long time. She didn’t have a fortunate fate when she grew up either: she fell in love with a man from a good family, and, from what I understood, he allegedly told her that he would have married her, if she hadn’t been a Jew because he wasn’t a Jew. So when she was 28, I think, Lea killed herself because of this, I think she took some pills or something like that; she went to bed and didn’t wake up.

Aunt Hilda came to visit us from Arad until the 1940s, after that it wasn’t possible anymore. My aunt Elena used to come over to our place all the time, because her daughter, my cousin Alice, lived in our house; the situation was like this because in that village, Maglod, there was no school. She went home at the end of the week, as it was close. I only visited Aunt Rozalia, who was in Targu Mures, once. She came to visit us a few times after that, but after 1940, when the war broke out, all connections broke off. They wrote letters to my parents for a while, but after that they were deported. My mother’s sister Frida was in Zagreb, and so was Irina. But these two aunts never came to Budapest, and we didn’t go to them either, but they wrote to my mother.

Aunt Matilda visited us, too, and we also went to Targu Mures after Transylvania was returned, after 1940 6, but that was the last time, because the deportations began after that, and she and my cousin Magdalena were deported to Auschwitz and my aunt died there and only my cousin came back. After that, she left with all her family for New York, USA. I saw my mother’s brother, Alexandru, for the last time in 1939, I was almost ten years old back then, after that the war broke out and we weren’t allowed to cross the border. Aunt Borbala lived in Gheorgheni, but we didn’t visit her at all, only my mother might have written to her.

My mother used to beat me because I was a terribly naughty child. I was a tomboy: I climbed trees and I don’t know what else all day long, and I didn’t eat, I was as thin as a dried herring. And, of course, my mother was the one who tormented herself with me; I stayed mostly with her, because my father was at work. She had reasons to be upset, if I had been in her shoes, I would have killed such a kid, nothing else. My poor mother always told me, ‘If you’ll have a kid, let it be at least half of what you are!’

My father loved me very much; he spoiled me. It was a wrong education, because my father spent very little time with me and when he came home, of course he spoiled me; and as I barely ate, I caused problems when we were seated at the table, and my mother was already fed up with me, and my father used to defend me and say, ‘Leave my child alone, you want to kill my child, leave it to her, she’ll eat I don’t know what.’

I didn’t like anything that was on the table; I was very fastidious and terribly thin. The only things I liked were fried potatoes and meatballs and Viennese schnitzel, but I wasn’t at peace with spinach or vegetables, and my poor mother didn’t know what to cook for me to eat anymore. I did like soup with meat in it, when my mother made it, with matzah balls, but I wasn’t a horse to eat spinach! And my mother used to buy exotic fruits and vitamins to keep me standing. But I played sports a lot, and therefore I started to recover. And I learnt to eat during the war, when the famine was terrible, we received, I don’t know, 100 grams or 200 grams of bread each day.

My mother used to tell me stories when I was little, and play with me, but when I grew up I was mostly around the house with the other kids, or we went swimming on Margaret Island. When I was little I went to a German kindergarten, since I was six years old. After that I did four classes of elementary school and four classes of high school.

There were Jewish elementary schools, but my parents sent me to a state school. There were private schools as well, but one had to pay a lot of money there so my parents sent me to a state school. But we had religion classes in school and we learned the Jewish alphabet, we learned to read. A Jewish teacher taught us. In school, I liked history a lot, it was like a story for me, but I didn’t like some subjects where I had to calculate, like math, chemistry or physics. I had a favorite teacher, she taught history, she was our class teacher, whom I loved very much, but I don’t remember her name. I never had problems with my teachers or with my colleagues because I was Jewish.

I had friends when I was in school, we visited each other, and they were Jews and non-Jews alike, there were no differences. I had a friend who lived in the same house as me, Farago Zsuzsa was her name, and we were neighbors. I don’t remember other names, but it’s startling that I do remember physiognomies. We went together to the swimming pool, skiing, and skating. We went to the cinema very often as well, we sneaked away from home, my mother didn’t even know. I had pocket money and we went to the matinee performance. We had a cinema nearby, Ipoly was its name, and I loved the movies, they were extraordinarily good movies, and we had great artists: I saw very good Hungarian movies, but American ones as well. And we went to the theater for children, it was close, right near our house, the Vigszinhaz Theater, on Sundays there was always a matinee performance for children. I used to go with my father or my mother, or with both of them, but they didn’t forbid me to go with just my friends.

Other activities outside the school were these trips we made with the scouts organization, we went during summers and winters, we visited the country and I saw nearly all the cities: Szeged, Debrecen, Tatabanya, Kecskemet, Szolnok [all located in Hungary today], all the cities. I had a uniform as a scout, of course, we, the girls, had a skirt, with shoes and stockings or socks when it was summer, and a khaki-colored blouse, a hat with large brims, like the Mexicans have, tied up under the chin, and a tie. I remember we had meetings; we cleaned around the school, the parks or around the houses where we lived. I didn’t have much time to make friends outside school, except for my cousins maybe, whom I met in the family. During the week I was busy with the scouts, with school, with learning, so I didn’t have a lot of free time.

We didn’t go on a proper holiday, somewhere to stay for two or three weeks, before the war, but we went on trips a lot. I saw almost the entire country, we traveled a lot, and we went to Matra. My favorite holiday destinations were Balaton, and the mountains, at Matra. We went a few times for an entire week to Balaton, and the city itself offered so many satisfactions and it had so many places worth seeing and visiting.

We also went to my cousin Imre’s, Uncle Emil’s son, hut. He was still single back then and he worked, and I went swimming with my father. My father was on the bank, because he couldn’t swim, but he regretted it so much that he hadn’t learned swimming, that he wanted to teach me at all costs: he stayed there with me, the water was deep for me, but he was taller, the water came up to his waist and he showed me what I had to do. He also accompanied me to the swimming pool in Budapest, it was on Margaret Island. And I remember that at this swimming pool, which we went to more often, the men and the women swam separately. But I was just a child, so I was allowed to swim with the men; I was with my father mostly. I had a fairy like childhood, the kind I could never offer to my child. First of all, it was the city, which was a splendor itself; there was also the Danube, where I learnt to swim.

I remember I was at military parades, on 20th August it was Saint Stefan’s Day, the first Hungarian king who was baptized a Catholic, 1000 years ago. We went up to the royal castle, in Buda, on the bank of the Danube, where the Matyas Korvin church was. And there, on every Sunday, there was the changing of the royal guard. The men were ravishing, all of the same height, 1.80 meters, dressed in special uniforms. The guard was continuously on duty there and they changed every eight hours, and Sundays it was something special: anyone who wanted to, went up there to the big castle to see them. Be it winter or summer, every Sunday we were there. It happened very rarely that we didn’t go. In kindergarten and then in school, children were brought up to be patriots.

I had school on Saturdays, but I spent the rest of the day at home with my parents, studying; but I can’t say that I was forced to stay at home, except for the high holidays, of course. I was away alone in camps during summers with the scouts, for about two weeks or ten days. We sometimes went out to eat, but that was seldom. We didn’t have a car, cars weren’t so common back then, one had to be very rich to have one, but we traveled by train – when we went on a holiday – and by bus.

During the war

The first time I came across anti-Semitism was in 1943. I was in the youth organization in school, the scouts’ organization. We wore a green uniform, and large green hats, and we took hikes in the woods, gathered the litter when that was the case, and that was very rarely, because the Austrian civilization made its presence felt in Hungary. That’s when I felt the first slap, when I was 13, when the Jewish children were thrown out of the organization, and we had to leave our uniforms there.

Also, in 1943, I saw the first signs of the war, which terrified me. The Hungarian soldiers came from the front; it was summer, and I was at the swimming pool, and there were hotels that had been turned into hospitals for these young wounded soldiers, the majority below 40. Some were in baskets, without arms or legs, only a trunk, yet still alive.

Anti-Semitism appeared [in school] only in the fourth grade of high school, at my last exam, when I already wore the yellow star 7 on my coat: I had worn it since March already, and my last exam was in June. Some of my classmates were Jewish – there were separate classes for boys and girls, but no one from my colleagues or my teachers treated me differently, they knew that we, the Jewish kids, were pretty wretched.

There were anti-Jewish laws 8 in Budapest however, Jewish children couldn’t sign up for university, only I don’t know how many, one percent, could 9. Jews were allowed to shop only in certain stores, at certain hours in the morning and in the afternoon. We weren’t allowed to go out. And we already wore the yellow star, it was of about ten centimeters on the left side, it had to be visible, if you didn’t wear it, some ill-willed person could denounce you and you could get into trouble with the authorities. My father was also affected as far as his job was concerned, the factory where he worked closed down in 1944 because of the air raids.

My parents knew about the invasion of Poland 10, they discussed it, but they didn’t want to believe it, they simply couldn’t believe that such things existed. They had probably found out about concentration camps, but they didn’t discuss it in front of me, there was no television back then, just radio, but I didn’t listen much to the radio either, I was busy with school. My poor father, until the whole thing with Jews and concentration camps started, firmly believed that it would never happen in Hungary. Until 1942, 1943 we didn’t feel the war, but after [19th March] 1944 the German army entered Budapest 11.

In summer 1944 we had to move from our house; the Germans forced us to leave the house when they entered the city. We moved somewhere close to our former house, on a nearby street, into a yellow star house 12. We were crowded, two Jewish families in two rooms, and we shared a kitchen; it was a big house, with about four stories, and there were many Jewish families there, I don’t know how many. My father brought the furniture from one room to that house where we had to move, but I don’t know what happened to the rest of our things. I know a Christian family lived across the street from us and that my father took two or three suitcases with things there, clothes and what was left over. We took them back after the war.

It was during that time when the air raids intensified, since spring, March 1944, they occurred day and night. We spent more time in the cellar than we did in the house upstairs, the air raids happened almost every hour, every day, five, six, seven times, day and night. There were anti-aircraft shelters, but not very close to us. We found out that the house we had lived in was bombed, the frontispiece crushed over the huge bolted cellar, and that everybody in it had died. The air raids took place for six to seven months, until the Russian army entered the city after Christmas. At the beginning of October 1944, my father was taken to forced labor camps around Budapest from that yellow star house; they couldn’t get him out of the city because Budapest was almost surrounded by the American and English armies and by the Russians.

On 15th October 1944, Governor Horthy 13 wanted to take the country out of the war because he realized that the war was lost. And he spoke on the radio about it, and after that speech, the administrator of the house we lived in, an elderly Jew, he was almost 70 years old, I think his name was Lovi or something like that, thought the war was over, and the next day he took the yellow star off the house. The day after Horthy’s declaration Szalasi Ferenc 14 entered, because Horthy had to leave the country, but the old man couldn’t imagine that Szalasi would come in Horthy’s place. Probably all the other houses still had the yellow star on them, and two German officers and two or three Hungarian gendarmes came in our house and asked for the administrator, because they saw that the yellow star had been taken off. We shared the apartment with the old man. And as they didn’t ask, but only knew how to beat and torture, they started thrashing the old man because he had no right to take the yellow star off the house. And the old man yelled, and my mother got frightened.

Like any mother, she immediately wanted to keep her child from who knows what danger and hide me. But where was I to hide, they were already coming; I could hear steps coming towards our room. The first thing at hand was to hide under the bed. And as I was on my all fours, trying to hide under the bed, I think my behind and my legs were still outside, the door opened and one of the Hungarian gendarmes shot at me, without asking, he probably thought I was a man. And I felt a blow in my knee. And when I got out from under the bed, both my legs were full of blood. I was lucky that the bullet came out, it was found under the bed, but my right knee had already been wounded. I came down from the fourth floor alone, because that’s where we lived, and a private car took me to the hospital, where I was hospitalized. After that the gendarme said that he fired his gun in self-defense, that was unbelievable, how is that, self-defense in front of a 14-year-old child? Could I attack him? That’s something I haven’t understood to this day.

I was taken to the Jewish hospital 15, which was near the ghetto we were crowded in after that. The Jewish hospital had four stories, and it was full of sick people, it hadn’t been closed. This Jewish hospital had existed even before the war started, most of the doctors there were Jews, but it was for everybody. At the hospital they took X-rays of my leg and they put it in a plaster, and the other knee, from which the bullet ricocheted from, was dressed. But the knee that had been shot had a problem, because, as the bullet went under the knee, it was split in two and it needed time to heal. I was there for two or three weeks, but my mother didn’t stay with me, she couldn’t come because of the air raids.

When I was released from hospital it was already Christmas, it was on 24th December, when the Jews were gathered and taken to the banks of the Danube 16 and shot there. We were very lucky to make it. On Christmas Eve at about 6 o’clock in the evening, my mother was away, because she was allowed to go shopping. I was at home, in bed, I was still wearing the plaster, I hadn’t taken it off, I had to wait six more weeks for that; we had no electricity as the city didn’t have electricity anymore, we used candles. After some time, two German officers and some Hungarians came into my room – the doors were open, but they weren’t policemen, they were civilians, and asked me what I was doing in bed. I told them that I had been shot in the leg and I had to wear a plaster, and then they saw my earrings, they were gold child earrings, and told me to take them off. They also took a small ring and my watch, and then left. They didn’t say anything; they didn’t take me because they saw that transporting me was a bit of a hassle.

All the others from the house were taken away. After that I found out that they were taken to the banks of the Danube and that they were all shot into the Danube. And right then my mother was on her way home, and a neighbor, I think he was a Christian, signaled her not to go there and told her, ‘Ma’am, I saw all the Jews gathered from the house, don’t go there!’ and then my mother said, ‘What do you mean not go, I have a child who’s lying in bed there!’ Then the man said, ‘Stay here so that no one can see you. I’ll go see if they take the child away as well, they would have to carry her on a stretcher, there’s no other way.’ And the Germans left, and the man saw that I wasn’t among those taken away, and then my mother immediately came home and took me and then we went to the ghetto 17. We were in that yellow star house from April to December.

It wasn’t until then that the wall around the ghetto started to be built, and those still alive after that raid were taken there, and we went there as well, it was sort of compulsory to go to the ghetto. The ghetto was set up near the big synagogue, where the Jewish hospital was; it was fenced and guarded by soldiers and the police. We weren’t allowed to go out, we were brought food there once a day, our bread portion, but the hunger we endured then was terrible. We stayed in the ghetto for about a month and a half, that was all.

There were no living conditions, we had no wood, we had no heating, and it was the height of the winter. I stayed in one room with my mother, and then my father came, and we all shared a room. Until he came, my mother didn’t know anything about him, where he was, what he was doing. My father didn’t tell us much about where he had been, but I know he couldn’t leave Budapest because the allies had already surrounded the city, he dug trenches and he did other hard work, I think. The city was already bombed continuously and the Germans started to withdraw from the city, but they fought for every house, they didn’t want to surrender the city.

We didn’t go into the street much; there was mad continuous shooting there. Somebody in the ghetto had a radio and we found out from that man that the Germans had surrendered the city; but there were still fights on the outskirts and they went on for quite some more weeks, but the Soviet army was already in the city.

For as long as we were in the ghetto, my mother had passports for us, issued by Count Wallenberg 18, but I never saw them, I think those who had those passports weren’t deported. I don’t know how my mother got them, but she did, my father wasn’t with us, he had already been taken away for forced labor. My mother probably went to the Swedish embassy; Jews were allowed to enter there. There were many Jews who actually lived on the precincts of the embassy to escape. That’s what this man, Wallenberg, did; he was a remarkable man. And such a fate, my dear God! No one knows to this day where he died, when he died, and how.

For as long as we were in the ghetto, we had no idea what had happened to the rest of our family. Then we found out. Uncle Emil ran from Budapest to Czechoslovakia, he left with his wife so that they wouldn’t be taken to a concentration camp, but he didn’t know that Jews were taken away from there even sooner than they were from Hungary. He left at the beginning of 1944, and when they started to gather the Jews from Prague, he and his wife killed themselves. They killed themselves because they didn’t want to be taken to a concentration camp. My uncle died, and my cousin, his son, after the war, went there and tried to find out something about them, where they had been buried, but he never found out anything, there was probably a mass grave.

I know my father asked Aunt Elena and Uncle Jacob to come to Budapest when it all started; they would have escaped like my parents and I did, with the Wallenberg passports. But they didn’t want to leave their house, and there, in that small village, everybody knew that they were Jews, and they were the first to be deported.

After we had been liberated in January 1945 we returned to the yellow star house, because there was nothing left from the other house after the bombing, where we had lived; we could go inside, but the house had no windows, no doors, no furniture. I remember that after we had been liberated, people went out into the street and took dead horses from the street and ate horsemeat, those were the horses that had died in the air raids, they weren’t sick, of course. But maybe even if they had been, people would have eaten them anyway, as they were so starved and mad. I ate horsemeat as well, my mother made some meatballs and they were very good, after all that famine.

My plaster was taken off my leg at that time, but my leg was as stiff as wood. I couldn’t bend my knee so my mother found a nurse who would come every day and make me do some exercises; it was a terrible pain until the leg started to move again. I would start crying because of the fear of the pain when I heard the woman come up the stairs. But with time, slowly, I could bend my leg again.

We didn’t look for anybody after liberation; the whole city was in ruins. After quite a while, about a year I think, we found out that my aunts had died in Mauthausen 19. My father wrote to someone from Budapest and asked that person to find out. We knew that the ones in Targu Mures had been taken away [deported]. Only my mother’s younger sister, Irina, survived. Aunt Frida had been taken to a camp. Aunt Irina escaped deportation, because she became a Catholic under the stress of circumstances, it was her husband’s religion.

Post-war

In spring, in April 1945, we came to Arad, the borders were open, one could go to Vienna, one could go to the USA, and one could go to the West. My father spoke with his sister Hilda, who lived in Arad, and we went to visit. We went to Arad in a cattle train, but we went to visit, we had no intention of staying here. We came with just the clothes we had on us, we had nothing left. But in the end, my father’s sister and my uncle insisted until my father said that we would stay in Romania, and we didn’t return to Budapest.

We stayed in Arad for a while, at my aunt’s, and then I stayed for six or seven months in Hateg with my mother, because she took back some things from her late parents: furniture, things like that, pots, bed sheets, pillows, clothes. My grandfather had died in 1933 or 1934 and my grandmother in 1940. My mother went there to see the cemetery first of all, to see where my grandparents and her brother were buried. She found it in the Jewish cemetery, of course, and then she went to see in what state the house was, she talked to the owner, but that was all. All this happened in fall 1945, or in 1946.

It was then, when I was 15 years old, that I met the man I loved all my life, and I still do: his name was Tibi Gusita, he was a lot older than me, he was about 24 years old, and he was a student in Bucharest. He wasn’t a Jew, he was a Romanian and he came from a well-off family. I saw him for the first time on 23rd August 1945, it was the first celebration [of this date] 20 like that since the war was over; he was the most handsome man there, he had the most extraordinary blue eyes and brown hair, but I didn’t talk to him then. And I think I was also striking, I was a bit peculiar, I didn’t speak Romanian at all, and I was dressed in a different way, not like it was in the countryside.

After a few days we were introduced to each other in social circles, and I fell in love with him. It was a very pure love, and I thought he felt just as strongly for me as I did for him. We were inseparable for as long as I was there, and he was a perfect gentleman, although he could have done anything with me, I was so lost in my love for him. Then I went back to Arad for three weeks, I don’t remember what for, and when I came back, and I found out that he was courting another girl, who was wealthy. I was so hurt, but soon we left for Miercurea Ciuc, that I never confronted him. However, I did find out that he married that girl, and I remember I cried my eyes out in Miercurea Ciuc, so forcefully that my mother didn’t know what to do with me, she even beat me, because I couldn’t snap out of it. I cried and I said that he would never be happy with her, or I with somebody else, and I was right in both cases.

When we left for Hateg my father had just found work and he had left for Miercurea Ciuc. He met an old acquaintance from Arad, because my father used to travel to Romania a lot, and draw contracts with wood for furniture from 1940 until 1944. Hungary has very few forests, and here there were rich forests, especially in Harghita, Covasna. And he met in Arad somebody he knew, a Jew, Lempert. He was much older than my father, and he told my father, ‘Mr. Bozoky, come to Miercurea Ciuc, I’ll find a place for you to live, you’ll have a job, you’ll work as a chief accountant in my factory!’ He had a timber factory and a mill in Miercurea Ciuc, and he dumbfounded my father. To cut a long story short, that’s how we got from Budapest to Miercurea Ciuc.

My father worked as a chief accountant at the timber factory there. We lived in the center of town, it was an old house that we rented, there were no apartment blocks then in Miercurea Ciuc, but it was a disaster. We had two rooms, a kitchen and that was it. We lived on the first floor, and there was no running water, we had to carry water in a bucket from the well in the street. We had electricity, but the toilet was at the end of the corridor, and it was made of wood, like it is in the countryside, and in winter when you had to go your buttocks would freeze until you took off your pants and sat on the toilet. It was terrible.

I think my father suffered a great turmoil because of the loss of his siblings, they were a very united family, and he consumed himself. Moreover, he made this mistake, and he realized it, that he prejudiced me by bringing us to Miercurea Ciuc, which was like the end of the world. We were very poor indeed back then, and in six or seven years, that is for as long my father still lived, we couldn’t make a fortune.

My cousin Magdalena, the daughter of my mother’s sister Matilda, sold my grandparents’ house, when she came back from the concentration camp. She told my mother that her father, who had died before they were deported, had loaned my grandparents some money, because they were up a tree, they had problems with the shop, with the house; I know that my grandfather borrowed some money, but I also know that my grandparents returned this money, so my mother was also entitled to the house, it belonged to her parents. And in the end Magdalena sold the house exactly when the money changed in 1948. [Editor’s note: actually, the monetary reform took place in 1952, when the banknotes and the coins issued during the royalist regime were replaced with banknotes and coins marked with the Popular Republic of Romania; the new parity was 1/20 at CEC – Casa de Economii si Consemnatiuni, the Loan Bank, and 1/300 in private.]

So she practically threw away this beautiful house with a garden and everything, because she sold it before the stabilization and she was left only with some millions. My father wrote Magda a letter and told her not to sell the house before the stabilization because she would practically throw the money out the window, that it would have no value. And, of course, my father wrote a rather dour letter, because he knew my mother wouldn’t say anything. Madgalena wrote my mother such a harsh letter – that allegedly my mother had claims over the house, although it wasn’t true – that my mother never wrote back, although she was her niece, and they never saw each other again.

After the war ended we didn’t think of emigrating, back then it wasn’t possible yet. It was very hard to obtain this permission. It wasn’t possible to do it in another country either, if you didn’t have relatives who would pay the communist state. One could only get a passport - but hardly, that was a problem, too - for a trip, leave and not come back. But in that case the family one left behind would suffer repercussions.

I continued high school in Miercurea Ciuc, because I had already finished four classes of high school in Budapest, out of eight, like the system was back then. After high school I worked for a year, I think, as a secretary for the Town Hospital in Miercurea Ciuc in 1949. I studied at the technical design school from 1948 to 1951, in Miercurea Ciuc as well, while I was working.

I was glad when I heard about the birth of the state of Israel 21, like everybody else. I have no relatives in Israel, so the wars 22 23 didn’t affect me directly. I’ve never been to Israel because I had no one to go to, my friends who were there forgot about me, they simply cut all relations with me, they didn’t send a postcard or a letter after they left.

I met my husband, Albert Farkas, at a hockey match, in Miercurea Ciuc, in 1948. My husband’s boss was an acquaintance and he introduced us. Albert was born in 1923 in Sandominic, he was a Jew, and he spoke Hungarian, just like me. He studied at the librarianship school in Budapest, but when I met him he was an officer in the Romanian army.

My husband had three sisters: Rozalia Szekely, who was married to a Hungarian, Bela Szekely, and who still lives in Dej; Etelka Regeni, who is married to a Hungarian Jew, Zoltan Regeni, and who lives in Targu Mures [her husband is dead, Etleka lives alone now]; the third sister is Iuliana Reismann, who is married to a Jew, Edmund Reismann, with whom she lives in Sfantu Gheorghe.

My husband’s parents died in a concentration camp, in 1944, as well as a sister of his. His parents were taken from Gheorgheni, together with two sisters, to Bergen-Belsen 24, I think. His sister, who was married in Targu Mures, was taken to Auschwitz. During the Holocaust, my husband was in Mauthausen. First, he was taken to forced labor camps somewhere near Budapest, I don’t know exactly where – he was in Budapest at the time – when the Jews were taken away by the Hungarians, and then he was taken to a concentration camp, to Mauthausen, and he stayed there for more than a year. He kept in touch with his sisters, they were very united, and as the only man in the family, he was very fond of his sisters.

We got married in 1950; it was more because of my father’s pressure, who kept telling me that a good Jew was hard to find in that town. It didn’t matter to me if my husband was Jewish or not, because my family was very variegated, very mixed up. We had many Christians in the family, especially my cousins. We didn’t have a religious wedding, because there was no synagogue in Miercurea Ciuc. There was a temple, but it was in ruins. And the Jews were so few that they couldn’t afford to repair it, and I don’t even think there were ten men for the minyan. It was demolished between 1940 and 1944, when the Hungarians were there, and all the things were stolen. More to the point, Albert was a party member and he worked where he worked, so there was only a civil ceremony.

After I got married we lived in Miercurea Ciuc for almost another year. We rented a house, it had a room and a kitchen, that’s all we had, and we stayed there. Our friends were Romanians and Hungarians and Jews alike. There were few Jews there, because they had been deported, and the majority of those who came back left for Israel.

I got pregnant with Eva very soon, and I didn’t intend to have a baby, I was too young, I was only 20 years old, but my doctor said that I was very thin, very small, and that I might never get pregnant again, and I would regret it for as long as I lived, if I lost that child or had an abortion. Moreover, my husband worked in the army and nobody would have performed the abortion.

Before Eva was born, in 1951, my husband was transferred to Brasov, and when he found a place to live we moved there as well, Eva was three weeks old. I gave birth to Eva in Targu Mures, because there was no hospital or a specialist in Miercurea Ciuc, and my mother didn’t want to leave me there, if a problem or complication occurred, it would have been dangerous. Taking into account that my husband’s sister lived in Targu Mures, I stayed with them, and had my baby there.

I remember a funny story that happened back then, although I didn’t feel like laughing at the time. About three weeks before I gave birth, I went with my sister-in-law and her husband to a summer garden, to eat steak. It was in the evening, we ate, but then people started dancing. I was seated at the table with my family, and at the table in front of us there was a handsome young man, who had been looking at me all evening. I was extraordinarily thin, even though I was pregnant, you couldn’t tell by my face, and as I was seated down, and as I was very young, he probably imagined that I was single. So I asked my sister-in-law to go home, so that I wouldn’t put him and myself in an unpleasant situation. Of course, he was perplexed when I got up and he saw my belly!

When I was taken to the hospital and I had to give birth, guess whom my doctor was? He was the very same man from that evening, he was a student in his sixth year in medicine, and he assisted me. I thought the earth would open up and eat me, from the shame. I even asked him if he didn’t get tired of seeing women in such unpleasant postures, but he told me that if a woman gives birth beautifully, he could still fall in love with her! Quite a courteous young man he was.

In the meantime my husband had received a place to live, and we brought the furniture and everything we had from Miercurea Ciuc to Brasov. It was a house that belonged to the state, and we had a room with a hallway, a kitchen, a bathroom and a garden.

After I got married, I always observed the Jewish holidays in the family. When we came to Brasov, I went to the synagogue, it didn’t interest me if someone followed me or not. My mother and my father always came from Miercurea Ciuc to observe the holidays together, on New Year [Rosh Hashanah], in the fall, and on Easter [Passover], in the spring. I didn’t take Eva along, she was too little. She only made noise in the synagogue and I didn’t take her with me.

I always received an invitation at the dinner that was held in the community’s canteen. My husband didn’t come because he was in the Party, and he couldn’t, and he didn’t lead the ceremony on Seder evening, for example, because we went to the temple to eat. I always lit candles at home on Friday evenings and said the blessing. I baked cakes, not hamantashen, because I didn’t know how, I was too young, I didn’t really know how to cook, but I baked other cakes. For example, I had learned from my mother to make fruit soup, I made it from sour cherries, plums, gooseberries, with eggs, a bit of flour, sugar and water, it was more of a dessert that could be eaten cold as well.

We did observe Christian holidays in the family when Eva was little. We had a neighbor, who had a small girl, of her age. And on the [Christian] New Year I trimmed a tree, because the girl would cry. What could I tell a two-year-old child – that you are Jewish and the other is Christian? I couldn’t, she would cry. But when she grew up I told her that she was Jewish and she understood that we don’t celebrate that. I did dress Eva up for Purim, when she was at the temple, and then she joined the community choir. I don’t think I ever gave her Chanukkah gelt, as in especially for Chanukkah, but she always had pocket money.

I didn’t keep kosher, I couldn’t, and it was very expensive. You had to have a proper kitchen, with two tables, separate cupboards for the tableware, separate tableware for milk and meat, and we didn’t have the possibility. Especially since we were so poor, because we started from scratch. The house I live in now is the third place we had since we moved to Brasov, I’ve been living here since October 1959. Until then we lived in places with a shared kitchen for eight years and I had had enough of it, it was also in a house, I never lived in an apartment block.

My father died in 1954, exactly ten years after the war, and, poor soul, he kept saying that he wouldn’t die until he saw Budapest one more time, he was in love with the city, but he didn’t make it. Our financial situation wasn’t good enough to afford a trip there, and he fell ill quickly. He was buried in the Jewish cemetery in Miercurea Ciuc. After my father died, my mother went on living there but she would come in the fall to stay with us, and she would stay until May or June, until Eva finished school; then she would go back and stay two to three months in Miercurea Ciuc.

After my father died, my mother went abroad a few times. She went to Zagreb, to her sister, Irina, in 1956, exactly when the Revolution in Budapest started 25; I know she was very worried, she didn’t know what was going on with us, in Romania, she had no news then. And then, in 1956, my mother saw her for the last time. Irina had problems with her heart; in 1957 or 1958, she went to a spa for a treatment, but she was already ill, and she died there, at the spa. Uncle Anton wrote to my mother that she had died.

My mother was already a widow for some years, and she looked very much like my aunt Irina, and my uncle asked her to come to Zagreb, and marry him. My mother didn’t want to, she wouldn’t have left us. She said how could she leave us behind? She wouldn’t put a border between herself and her only child and granddaughter, because I already had Eva by then. She could have gotten married if she had wanted to, it wouldn’t have been the first mixed marriage in the family, but even though she was a relatively young widow, at 51, she never remarried.

I didn’t work for about seven years; we had just one salary in the house. I got a job only in 1958; I worked as a technical designer. I worked for eleven years at the Regional People’s Council, at what the prefecture is today, at the former Brasov region, as it was back then: back then the city of Brasov was called Stalin. [Editor’s note: after 1949 Brasov was renamed Stalin city, from an order of the Russian government, and a statue of Stalin was set up in front of the prefecture; the city kept this name until 1959. The administrative denomination of the zone was first the Stalin district, Brasov region and then Brasov county.] Then I worked at the ‘Constructorul’ cooperative, in the design workshops, and that’s where I retired from in 1985.

For as long as I worked, I have never had problems at work because I was Jewish, never. In the design department, when I got employed, we had a boss, the architect Andor, who was Jewish. He was a very special man. The two of us were the only Jews there. We had Saxon, Hungarian, Romanian colleagues, all nationalities, we even had two Russian colleagues, and they were from Leningrad.

I didn’t join the Party because in school I dodged the UTC [Uniunea Tineretului Comunist - Union of Communist Youth]; those who were UTC members automatically joined the Party when they turned 18. But because I got around it somehow, to this day I don’t know how it happened, I was never a party member. My husband never suggested that I become a party member. His sisters were party members, and so were my brothers-in-law, but I wasn’t in the Party, and neither were my mother or my father. I participated in marches, we were all sent on 1st May, on 23rd August, we had meetings after meetings, where I would keep my mouth shut, I wasn’t into politics at all, I would just shut up and listen.

My husband left the army in 1960; at first he was the chief of the commercial inspectorate of the Brasov district. He worked there for about three years and then he asked for a transfer at the former ICRM [Enterprise of wholesale commerce of metalo-chemic products and building materials], today’s Brintex, and he was the manager of the stationary department there. He didn’t want to leave the army, but there was some reorganization and the Saxons, the Jews, and the Hungarians, were laid off. I didn’t like the uniform, so I was glad about it.

After 1960, after my husband left the army, I wanted to leave for Israel, but he didn’t want to. I couldn’t tell why, as a matter of fact he never wanted anything, he was a man content with whatever he had; he was pretty lazy, he just wanted good food and peace, he was a very crotchety man, that’s the truth. So we didn’t file for it. And in the first years after he left the army, we wouldn’t have received the approval to leave anyway. After he retired, my husband worked for the community for four years as the administrator of the villa the community has in Cristian [commune in Brasov county, approximately 12km away from Brasov], and as the canteen administrator, but I had no connections with the community.

I couldn’t say I suffered from many restrictions during communism. I didn’t suffer from cold because gas was cheap. When we moved here, we had to pay a lump sum for gas, we didn’t have a timer. If you lived in a house, problems weren’t so big. From time to time, we didn’t have electricity, but we had no problems with gas. There were food stamps for food, but we always had a store assistant or an acquaintance that would provide something extra. A former colleague of my husband’s would come with sirloin. And we would buy as much as ten kilograms of sirloin and put it in the freezer. My freezer was totally full with fruit, vegetables, and meat. We were lucky.

We went on holidays during communism all the time, we went to the seaside every year, and we could afford it. I couldn’t go abroad for a long time, I didn’t get a passport because my husband was an officer; I could leave only in the 1970s. I went to Prague and Bratislava in Czechoslovakia. I was also in Hungary a few times, to visit my relatives in Budapest, and I went to Sweden three times. The first time was in 1977, then in 1980 and then in 1986, to Stockholm. Of course, my cousin from my father’s side, Alice, sent me the ticket, but I had no problems with my passport. I waited for three months but I got it. I didn’t try to use connections – it would have been too suspicious that I was in such a hurry to go. I filed all the papers, and I said that if the answer was yes, I would go, if it was no, I wouldn’t go and that was it. I filled in the same kind of paperwork you have to fill in now. I went abroad alone, because my cousin didn’t agree to pay the ticket for my husband as well, it was pretty expensive.

I also went to the old house in Rau de Mori, which had belonged to my grandparents, and which had been sold in the meantime; where I had seen those splendid orchards. Everything was in ruins: there were no trees, nothing except barren land. I contacted Tibi again on that occasion, and I found out what had happened to him: his wife had divorced him, she had found another man, and he was devastated; I think he must have loved her in the end, if he suffered so much because of her. We met, we talked about old times, when I called him I told him exactly this: ‘You know who this is? It’s the little girl from Budapest from 1945!’ We agreed that we would write to each other, and he wrote to me, on the address of a friend of mine, and I also called him from time to time when my husband wasn’t home; I didn’t want him to know. But he was, however, a weak man, I think he got the vice of drinking, and for a long time I didn’t hear from him. I found out that he died in 1990, I think, and that before he died he had said, that if he were to get better, he would get in touch with Mariana, that’s me. But that never happened.

I had many close friends during communism, and the majority was Jewish; for as long as we were young, we went out, we visited each other, or we went to a feast, or once a week we went out to a restaurant to eat. Almost all left for Israel, the USA, Canada. There’s no one left here.

I didn’t have problems with receiving letters during communism, or that the letters wouldn’t reach their destination, I wrote to my relatives in Budapest, to my cousin in Sweden. The letters got there, it’s now, after the revolution 26 that I have lost dozens of letters, with photos in them, those which were a bit thicker – someone from the post office probably imagined that there was money in it, and in 1993/4 my daughter sent me a package weighing one kilo which never got here; they were stolen at the post office, it was a big scandal back then, it was on television as well.

My daughter, after she graduated from high school, studied two years at the faculty of physical education in Bucharest, and then she did a three-year electro techniques course. Eva worked here in the country at the former ICRM, she worked with electronic computers, and it was the first time they had appeared here, in Brasov at least. She got married here, in the country, to Roland Gottschick, who isn’t Jewish, he is a Saxon, in 1972. There was only a civil ceremony. She wanted to get even with her former boyfriend, who was her first love; they quarreled, they had a problem, but I don’t know what it was. It wasn’t a kosher wedding; I didn’t agree to Roland either, especially taking into account the history of our family, I said it wouldn’t come out well, and that’s exactly what happened. Barbara, my granddaughter, was born in 1975.

I was separated from my husband from 1972 to 1973, we weren’t getting along, I didn’t love him, and I got a transfer from work to Miercurea Ciuc, and I stayed with my mother. I came back mostly because of my mother, who was already ill, and who insisted that the family should be united, at least for Eva’s sake. So I came back to Brasov in 1973.

I listened to Free Europe Radio 27 ever since it started, which was in 1970 or 1975, I think. I listened to it in an undertone, at home, but I always knew what was going on everywhere. We told jokes at home, there were plenty of jokes about Ceausescu 28, but we told them only among very close friends, not out loud, in the street. My husband also listened to the radio. He was a party member because he had no choice, if you weren’t a party member you wouldn’t get a house, you wouldn’t get a good job, nothing at all. You were some sort of an outcast. Most of the people who were in the Party didn’t have opinions against communists; very few were convinced communists.

My mother died in 1976 and she’s also buried in the Jewish cemetery in Miercurea Ciuc. There was no rabbi at the funeral, only a chazzan. There was somebody from the community who recited the Kaddish in the first years. The Jewish cemetery in Miercurea Ciuc still exists, but there are no more funerals there; I don’t think there were as many as three or four more funerals there in Miercurea Ciuc after my mother died. I kept Yahrzeit for my parents every year, and I sat shivah after their death in the house, on a little stool.

When the revolution in 1989 took place, it was Chanukkah. And Barbara was in the choir, and she stayed with me, it was during the Christmas holidays. Eva phoned me and asked me to send her home to do her hair, so that she would look beautiful in the choir. And we settled that the girl would come for the choir; Eva lived in Bartolomeu passage [the distance between Bartolomeu neighborhood and the synagogue is approximately 3km], so Barbara, all made up, had to take the bus number 16 to the synagogue. My husband worked in the canteen, he was the administrator, and he had already left home, and when I left for the synagogue, I met a lady in Poarta Schei [Poarta Schei, monument built between 1927-1928 in the old center of Brasov] who asked me what was going on in Prund [region located also in the old center of Brasov, made up mostly of old houses], because there were shots fired in the center. I answered that I had no idea what was going on; I hadn’t heard anything until then, on television or on the radio. And I was terrified when I found out that there were shots fired in the center, and I ran for the synagogue. It felt like forever to cover that short distance, I thought I would never get there.

I started thinking of the girl, of what had happened, wondering if the bus had come all the way up, if she wasn’t stopped in the center, if everybody had to get off, and I said to myself, a 14-year-old child, she would get lost in the crowd, she would be trampled underfoot, anything could happen, because Barbara was too quiet, a bit soft, and I was terrified for her; I thought I would die until I reached the temple, that I would have a heart attack, but she was already there.

By then everybody knew what was going on, and Mr. Roth [Tiberiu], the president, said that we should stay there, that we were safe, and that we would close the doors, but I didn’t want to. I knew there were Arab students in Brasov, and I said no, they were capable of setting the synagogue on fire, or who knows what else, because we were outside the law, everything was in disorder then.

I remembered Budapest and everything that had happened to me, and I said I wouldn’t stay, anything could happen in a few hours, and I took Barbara and went home. I also went to Prund to buy two loaves of bread to have in the house in case we couldn’t go out, I covered the window in the small room with a blanket and I turned on the television. The Securitate 29 headquarters were close, shots were fired, and I remember that in the evening, on the second day of Christmas, there were shots fired in the nearby garden, the scandal was huge. We barricaded ourselves in the house; I didn’t let the girl go out in the garden for three days, until the situation calmed down in Brasov.

I don’t think things got better after 1989, for me at least everything is harder. The money isn’t enough, even with the help I get from the community: gas is very expensive, and I had a lot to fix around the house. It’s true that there was no freedom of speech during communism, but I shut up, what was I to do, I couldn’t get my family in trouble.

My daughter left for Germany at the beginning of 1990, with all her family: her husband and her daughter. I didn’t agree with Eva leaving for Germany, but what could I do, I couldn’t separate a family. I didn’t like this marriage from the beginning, but there’s no way to talk to the young people today, it’s in vain. When I went to visit my daughter in Germany I had to wait three months for the visa; that was in 1992. I waited three months for the visa, exactly like it was during communism. Everybody at the consulate in Sibiu treated us like we were animals, like we were gypsies. Now Eva works as an accountant in Niederhausen. She’s separated from her husband, but not divorced, their temperaments didn’t match; Roland has a very reserved and weird character.

My husband died in 1998, and he was buried in the Jewish cemetery in Brasov. There was also a chazzan, and Mr. Roth delivered the speech. There were many people at the funeral, I think there were at least 200 people, and he was much appreciated. Many more would have come, his former work colleagues didn’t know, I didn’t have time to post an advertisement in the newspaper, because funerals are done very quickly in our religion.

I don’t go more often to the synagogue now, we, the women, only go on the high holidays, but I still light the candles on Friday evenings and I say the blessing. The community helps me, I receive assistance and packages, a sum of money, not much, but it helps; in the winter I receive help for heating, otherwise I wouldn’t pull through. It’s all right here, but it’s a house that is hard to maintain, and it’s cold. I had plenty of problems, I repaired the terrace I don’t remember how many times, the last time was two years ago [in 2002], with the help of my nephew, because there was no way I could have paid 20 million from my pension. I benefited after my husband from the decree 116, because he was taken to forced labor camps, I don’t pay for television, phone and radio subscription, I have free bus and train tickets, I can get free tickets during summer at a spa if I want to go.

The community isn’t so big in Brasov nowadays. When I came here the synagogue was totally full, you had to go earlier to have a seat. Now there’s no one left, the young people have left. I was run over by a car this year [2004], in February, and my face and my arm were pretty badly hit, and my hand heals very slowly because of the age; I can’t lift anything, and I needed to hire a woman for cleaning.

I was close to my aunt Hilda from Arad, but she left for Sweden in 1956, with her husband, and I didn’t have other relatives. In Budapest there are some left, from my father’s side. I keep in touch with my nephew George, and of course with my daughter’s family, with Barbara, who is a pharmacist now; she writes to me rather often and she sends me photos from all the places she travels to, that’s her hobby. I think she considers herself Jewish, but because she lives where she lives she can’t really manifest her ideas. There’s no problem with the German state, but there is with the people, they are anti-Semites. A Jew isn’t well accepted in Germany. I think that for as long as a German lives, not all the waters of the ocean will wash him clean of the shame of the Holocaust.

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