Travel

Feiga Tregerene
Kaunas
Lithuania
Interviewer: Zhanna Litinskaya
Date of interview: October 2005

Feiga Tregerene lives in a 1970s building in a residential area of Kaunas. She has a nice two-room apartment furnished in the fashion of the same period. Feiga, a short and slim lady, makes an impression of a very ill person. She can hardly move around her apartment, and when walking, she needs to hold on to the walls. She has a low and indistinct voice. Nevertheless, Feiga agrees to this interview. She emphasizes that it is her wish to tell the story of her life and family and leave this kind of memory about them. Feiga speaks very quietly, her answers to my questions are concise, but in the middle of her story she acquires some confidence. Feiga absolutely refuses to be photographed, and she has no recent pictures of herself to share with us.

My ancestors and I come from Birzai, a small town in the east of Lithuania. This was a typical Lithuanian town. There were corner shops and stores in the center of the town, most of them owned by Jews. They were rather small shops, and townsfolk had to go to Kaunas or Zarasai for major shopping. The town stores were selling groceries, meat, haberdasheries and household goods. There were cobblers', tailors', glass shops, etc. in the town. Twice a week there was a market in the central square where farmers sold their products: vegetables, potatoes, and dairy and meat products. The central part of the town was mostly populated by Jews, while the Latvian and Lithuanian population traditionally resided in the outskirts of the town. All communities lived in peace following their own and respecting everybody else's traditions. There was a Catholic cathedral and a Protestant church in the town, but there was no Orthodox church. However, the most beautiful building of this kind was a two-storied wooden synagogue. With its wood carvings, it looked like the utmost piece of construction art to me. There were a few synagogues in Birzai, but I remember this central choral synagogue. Sloss, a large park, was a popular place in our town. It was laid out on two levels. The townsfolk dressed up to walk in the shade of the trees and among the flowers on weekends and holidays.

Unfortunately, of all my ancestors, I only knew my grandmother, my father's mother, though I can't remember her name. She was born in the 1860s, and in the 1930s, when I was a child, she lived in Birzai in the family of my father's brother Chaim Berl. My grandfather Fayvel Glezer died around 1914, which was long before I was born, and since then all first-born boys in our family were given the name of Fayvel after him. I don't know what my grandfather did for a living. He may have been a craftsman. Anyway, he didn't really make a fortune, and his children were not wealthy, or I would rather say, they were poor.

The family of my grandfather was a traditional Jewish family. My grandfather and grandmother observed Jewish traditions and went to the synagogue. They celebrated Jewish holidays and raised their children to respect traditions. I know this from the memories I have of my grandmother. She was an old thin lady, or at least, I believed she was old, when I knew her. She always wore dark clothes and a kerchief on her head. She lived a quiet life and died quietly in 1936. I don't remember her funeral. According to [local] traditions, Jewish children are not supposed to attend funerals. However, I know for sure that she was buried at the Jewish cemetery in Birzai in accordance with Jewish traditions, and all mourning requirements were observed.

My father's eldest sister, whose name I don't know, moved to America, when she was young. I have no information about her. My parents and she had no contacts. My father's elder brother, Chaim Berl Glezer, born in the 1880s, also lived in Birzai. I don't remember his wife's name, but I remember her always wearing an apron. She spent all her time doing the housework and cooking for the numerous members of her household. Chaim Berl had many children and had to make every effort to provide for them. He was some kind of a craftsman and also often assisted my father.

One of Chaim Berl's sons was a convinced Zionist, who moved to Palestine in the late 1930s. He was one of the pioneers of the kibbutz movement. He became the director of a large kibbutz. Chaim Berl's other sons, Perez and Chaim, joined the Komsomol 1 like many other poorer Lithuanian Jews. They perished at the front during the Great Patriotic War 2. All the other of Chaim Berl's children survived. He had four or five daughters, and I remember their names: Chaya Sora, Feiga, Paya, Zipa, though I can't remember, who was born after whom. Leibl, the youngest son in the family, had turned six before the Great Patriotic War.

Fortunately, Chaim Berl and his children managed to leave the town on the first day of the war. They returned to Lithuania after the war and settled in Kaunas. From there they gradually moved to Israel. Paya was the first one to do this. She married a Polish Jew after the war, moved to Poland, and from there they moved to Israel. Her brother, who was the director of a kibbutz, supported his sister at the initial stage. Leibl followed his sister to Israel. Feiga, Chaya Sora and Zipa, who were married by then, also moved to Israel with their children. They are still there with their children and grandchildren, enjoying a prosperous life in Israel. Chaim Berl lived as long as 70 years. He died in Kaunas in the middle of the 1950s. His wife didn't live much longer. They were buried at the Jewish cemetery in Kaunas.

My father's brother Meishe Glezer, born in the 1900s, had two children: daughter Chaya and son Fayvel. They were members of the Komsomol. When the war began, they left Birzai with a group of Komsomol activists. They worked in a kolkhoz 3 in Udmurtia [a region in the north of Russia, 1500 km from Moscow]. They survived, but Meishe and his wife as well as other Jews, were killed in Birzai in 1941. After the war Fayvel and Chaya moved to Israel. As far as I know, they still live there.

My father's sister Riva, who was much younger than him, was an underground movement activist. She was a Komsomol member and later she joined the Communist Party. In the early 1930s, during the rule of Smetona 4, she was arrested and put in jail for eight years before the Soviet rule was established in Lithuania 5. Riva was released and married Kodulu Stupas, her Lithuanian friend. He was also a member of the Communist Party. On the first day of the war Riva, who was seven months pregnant, left Birzai, and I was to accompany her. I was 14 then. I will describe our mishaps and our long trip into evacuation later. I accompanied Riva and her daughter Nadia, born in August 1941, through all the years of the war. After the war Riva was reunited with her husband, who had been kept in some Fascist concentration camps on the occupied territory. Riva gave birth to another girl, but it wasn't her destiny's will to let her raise her children. Her imprisonment in jail, and then lack of food and hard work in evacuation affected my aunt's health. She had a poor heart. Riva died in the late 1950s. Her children live in Israel.

My father Isroel Glezer was born in Birzai in 1891. The only education he got was at cheder. He had to start work and became a painter's apprentice, when he was still very young. Very soon my father surpassed his master and became the best expert in painting. He was highly skilled and did fine work, which required artistic skills. The climate in Lithuania is humid, the winters are cold and damp, and people tend to have all renovations done during the summer. To have work to do in winter, my father learned how to engrave on granite gravestones in the Jewish cemetery. When World War I began, my father was drafted into the army. In less than a year's time he was wounded and shell-shocked. He was taken to a hospital in Kiev [today Ukraine]. When he recovered, he was dismissed from the army. When he returned home, his father Fayvel had already passed away, and my father took to work. He also helped my grandmother about the house. In 1919 my father married my mother. She also came from Birzai. My father knew her since they were young.

I didn't know my maternal relatives. My mother was orphaned, when she was a young girl. Her parents died before she turned 18. The only thing I know is my grandfather's name. His name was Khona Rapeik. This beautiful and rare name was my mother's maiden name. Unfortunately, I can't remember my grandmother's first name, though my mother must have told me her name, when I was a child, I would think. My mother's only sister [Feiga Rapeik] died in her childhood. However, my mother had a cousin. His name was Shimon. He was a vendor and a rather wealthy man, though he didn't provide any support for my mother and was just a relative in name. Unfortunately, this is all I know about my mother's family.

My mother, Chaya Rapeik, was born in Birzai in 1896. When my mother became an orphan, she moved to a Latvian town, I don't quite remember, which town it was, but there was a distant relative of hers living there. In this town my mother became a dressmaker's apprentice. She went to work for a dressmaker where she was provided with boarding and meals. It didn't take long before my mother acquired the necessary trimming skills. Her mistress was good to the orphaned Jewish girl. My mother remembered the kindness of this lady, who was so helpful at the very start of my mother's adult life.

Having learned a new craft, my mother returned to her hometown. She settled in her parents' house. Chaya earned her living by sewing. My parents had a modest wedding party, but it was a traditional Jewish wedding. They stepped under the chuppah in the largest synagogue in town. After the wedding my father moved into the house where my mother was living. My sister, brothers and I were born in this house, and this was where I spent the happiest years of my life. In 1920 a girl was born, and my parents gave her the name of Hanna. I think my mother gave her this name after her father Khona. In 1921 a boy, who was given the name of Fayvel after my father's father, was born. Two years later another boy was born. He was given the name of Falk. I was born on 17th February 1927, a few years after my brother. I was given the name of Feiga after my mother's sister, who died in infancy. My mother had no more children after me, though she was still young.

We were not wealthy. My father was the only working member of the family. It was common for married women to take care of their homes. My mother took care of the household and the children, and had no time to earn additionally by sewing. An efficient housewife can contribute so much more than whatever mythical earnings she might have, if she weren't tied to housekeeping and children.

We lived on the outskirts of town in a basically Lithuanian neighborhood. Our house was not far from the cemetery, which made it convenient for my father to get to work. There were three rooms and a kitchen in our small wooden house. The furniture was plain, but solid and lasting. The largest room served as a dining and living room. There was a sofa in this room, and this was where my sister and I slept. My brothers had a little bedroom of their own. The third room was our parents' bedroom. The kitchen was in the central part of the house. There was a big stove where my mother cooked, and the stove also heated the house. The toilet was in the yard, which was quite common at the time. We also kept chickens and turkeys in the yard. We didn't have a cow. My mother bought dairy products at the market. Some Jewish families kept pigs, but my mother believed this was quite out of the question for us.

I don't think my parents were very religious. They didn't pray at home and they didn't always cover their heads. My mother had her kerchief, and my father had his kippah on, when going to the synagogue. However, they strictly observed the traditions of a Jewish household that they had been taught in their childhood. In our household we strictly followed the kashrut. We had separate kitchenware, utensils, tableware, cups and plates for dairy and meat products. Mama bought meat in kosher stores: she usually bought inexpensive mutton and veal for holidays. We took our chickens and turkeys to a shochet at the synagogue. Usually this was the responsibility of the older children, and it became mine, when I grew up. However tight our situation was, we didn't starve. Mama was an efficient housewife. In the morning we usually had cheese pancakes or porridge. At lunch we had soup: cereals, boiled in meat broth or potato soup and a piece of meat. For supper we had a slice of bread and milk. Our food was plain but filling.

On holidays Mama always made something delicious. She used to start preparations for Saturday in advance. On Thursday she already had challah loaves in stock. She used to buy challah in a Jewish bakery store, or at times she baked bread in our stove. The house was filled with the smell of fresh bread starting on Thursday. Besides challah, my mother made very delicious little meat pies. This filling was both cost-effective and delicious. She bought cow lungs, washed them thoroughly, fried them with flour and onions, ground them in the grinder and filled little pies with this stuffing. When we got up on Friday morning, there was a dish full of little pies on the kitchen table waiting for us.

Mama usually boiled a chicken for Sabbath. She served it with little pies or kneydlakh and homemade noodles. In the summer, the season of berries and fruit, she made little pies with apple and cherry filling. It goes without saying, that chulent was there on Saturday. No Jewish household can do without chulent. Mama left a large pot with stewed meat, onions with spices, potatoes and beans in the stove overnight. On Friday evening, when my father came home from the synagogue, we sat together at the festively laid table. My mother said a prayer and lit the candles, and my father blessed the food and wine, broke off a piece of challah and dipped it in salt, signaling the start of our meal.

On Saturday morning my father also went to the synagogue, and when he was back, we had a meal that my mother had made in advance. On this day you are not supposed to heat the food, turn on the light or feed the animals. I used to feed our chickens and turkeys. It was not considered a sin, if I did it. After lunch everybody could take some rest. Mama used to read on Saturday. She liked Jewish writers, and her favorite was Sholem Aleichem 6. My father sang very well. I think he might have made a good opera singer, had he grown up in different conditions. On Saturday he liked singing Jewish songs, and neighbors and friends enjoyed listening to him. In the summer, when the weather was nice, we went for walks in the park. Jewish families used to walk there, bowing 'hello' to one another.

I have already mentioned that we lived in a Lithuanian surrounding, and my first friends were Lithuanian girls. We played together without giving a thought to what nationality one or another girl was. Our parents also had good relationships. I remember that the girls treated me to Easter bread on Easter. I accepted the treats, but never ate them. Mama didn't allow me to eat them, explaining that they might have been cooked with pork fat.

As for our Jewish holidays, I liked them so much! Christians were not supposed to be invited to our celebrations. Our Jewish world was rather secluded. My friends knew about Jewish holidays and sent me greetings, but they never attended our celebrations. My favorite holiday was Pesach, of course. We started preparations almost immediately after Purim. In my childhood I didn't quite recognize Purim, except that I liked the delicious 'Haman's ears' [hamantashen], triangular pies stuffed with poppy seed. When I went to the Jewish school, this was when I discovered the fun of the Purim carnival and merry performances.

However, Pesach was a true home holiday. The house was thoroughly cleaned: the floors were cleaned, the furniture polished, the table was covered with a fancy tablecloth, the windows were cleaned and lighter summertime curtains were hung up. There was the feeling of forthcoming festivities everywhere. My father prepared presents for the children in advance: new boots, dresses for the girls and suits for the boys. There were four of us, and he had to take care of each one, which was quite a challenge, considering his modest means.

Sometimes we had a chance to earn a little at my mother's cousin's house. They made matzah at home, and my older sister, my brothers and I assisted with kneading the dough and making holes with a special wheel. Our uncle paid us a few litas for this work, and this additional earning came in very handy.

A few days before the holiday, a big basket with matzah was delivered to our home from the synagogue. Mama had special kitchen and table ware for Pesach. Before Pesach my father conducted a special ritual of chametz removal. He searched and got rid of any traces of chametz in the house, sweeping them onto a special shovel and burning them in the yard. There was not a crumb of bread in the house throughout the holiday. Then the first seder took place. We had it at home usually. My father was sitting at the head of the table, conducting the ceremony. One of us found the afikoman and my brothers asked questions about the holiday, and all rules were followed on this day. My cousin Chaya often visited us on this day. She liked listening to my father singing. She asked him to sing.

Mama cooked most delicious Jewish food for the holiday, and gefilte fish was the central dish on the table. This was the most festive food. Pesach was the holiday, when we could afford it. Even on Sabbath we could not afford to have it. Stewed chicken, kneydlakh from matzah, matzah puddings, broth, imberlach and teyglakh, cakes made from matzah flour, chicken and turkey liver pate made our festive meal on this day. My father made wine from honey and raisins for this holiday. We called it the 'honey drink.' The door was kept open overnight. I truly believed that the Prophet Elijah visited every Jewish home on this holiday and had a little wine.

Pesach was the principal holiday. We also celebrated other holidays. On Shavuot Mama made things from cottage cheese: cheese cakes and pancakes. Rosh Hashanah, symbolizing the start of the year and repentance, started with the kapores ritual. Girls came to the synagogue with a hen and boys carried a rooster each. The shochet circled a chicken over his head, saying a prayer. Our parents went to the synagogue in the evening, and there was a delicious dinner waiting for us at home. Gefilte fish was the main dish that we had on this day, and our father, being the head of the family, was to eat the head of the fish. There were sweets, symbolizing a sweet year to come: apples with honey and imberlach. Besides, Mama also made meat, apple and cheese cakes. On Yom Kippur our parents observed the fast. Before and after the fasting we had a plentiful meal.

On Sukkot my father made a sukkah in the yard, using pine tree branches. Inside the tent he placed a portable table to have meals there on these days. On Simchat Torah we ran to the synagogue to watch the festival. When we grew older, we could also participate. I remember numerous lights on Chanukkah, the winter holiday, when Jewish residents lit chanukkiyah candles that could be seen through the windows. Mama lit another candle every day. When I was a little girl, my father used to make me a spinning top, and I played with it with other Jewish children. All eight days of Chanukkah we ate potato pancakes [latkes], cakes and pies made from the dough on vegetable oil. We also had little pies filled with jam. I learned the history of Jewish holidays and rituals, when I went to the Jewish school. Before school I didn't quite realize what they were about.

There was one four-year Jewish school in Birzai. All subjects were taught in Yiddish. When I started this school at the age of seven, my brother Falk had just finished it. We had wonderful teachers. They were truly committed to the idea of Jewish public education. I made a number of new friends at school. They were Jewish boys and girls. Basia was one of them, and there was Perez, whose parents owned a large store in the center of Birzai. He was probably the best provided for child at our school. My mother was an active member of the parents' committee. This committee was established to provide assistance to teachers. My mother attended its weekly meetings. Parents collected contributions to organize celebrations on holidays, buy costumes and supplies and support the needy schoolchildren. Besides general subjects that were taught in Yiddish, we were told about the Jewish history and religion, and this was when I came to know the origin of my people's holidays and traditions.

I liked preparations for Jewish holidays most of all. We staged amateur performances, which were sketches from the Jewish life, for each holiday. Purimspiel was the merriest performance on Purim. Once I even played the role of Queen Ester, the savior of the Jewish people. Our mothers and older sisters made costumes for holidays in our favorite teacher's apartment, which almost became a sewing shop. Our teacher enjoyed preparations to holidays as well. We also gave performances on Simchat Torah and Chanukkah. I enjoyed going to school, and my school years were happy and flew by quickly.

There was no place to continue my Jewish education in Birzai. My older sister Hanna became a dressmaker after finishing school. My brother Fayvel went to work in a craftsman's shop in Birzai. My father wanted me to continue my education. There was a Jewish gymnasium in Zarasai, where Jewish children could continue their Jewish education, but my mother was reluctant to have me leave our home. Therefore, after finishing my school, I entered a public Lithuanian gymnasium in Birzai. My brother Falk, who was good at technical things, also studied in this gymnasium. After finishing it he moved to Kaunas where he entered a Jewish secondary school.

I was the only Jewish student in my class in this Lithuanian gymnasium. My school mates and teachers were kind to me, but I didn't like it there anyway. It seemed a different surrounding to me. We had to leave the classroom, when the others had their religion classes. A rabbi conducted a common religion class for Jewish students.

In those years young Jewish people took an active part in political activities. Some young people were fond of Zionist 7 ideas related to the restoration of a Jewish state. However, the poorest strata of the Jewish community, suffering from the ruling regime, strongly believed in Soviet Russia. My sister and brothers joined the underground Komsomol. My sister and brothers' friends had frequent gatherings in our home. They also gathered in a nearby forest where they played the accordion and danced, and they also read Marxist books and propagated their ideas. My parents were aware of their older children's hobbies. They couldn't help being concerned about them. By that time my father's sister Riva had spent a few years in jail for her underground Communist activities, and my father was afraid his children might suffer the same punishment. One day before the holiday of the 1st of May young people put red flags everywhere in the town. The following day arrests started, and my parents decided that Hanna had to leave town to escape arrest. She went to Kaunas where Falk lived. Hanna went to work at a students' diner.

When the Soviet Army 8 came to Lithuania in June 1940 9 and the Soviet rule was established, my brothers and sister were just happy. Poor people were happy. Shortly after the Soviet rule was established many food products disappeared from stores. Nationalization began: property was taken away from those, who had worked hard to make their living. The wealthiest individuals were relocated to Siberia 10. My school friend Perez's family was sent to Siberia. After the war people told me that Perez survived, returned to Lithuania after the war and moved to Israel later. I never saw him again. In autumn I went to the new Soviet school organized on the basis of our former Jewish school. The term of education was extended by two years. I was happy to go back to school and see my school friends again. My sister Hanna became an active Komsomol member. Shortly before the Great Patriotic War began she joined the Communist Party. She worked in the passport office in Kaunas. My brothers Fayvel and Falk also became active Komsomol members. Fayvel was seeing a Jewish girl from Birzai and was thinking of marrying her.

In the middle of June 1941 our family got together in Birzai: my sister and brothers came home on vacation. I had finished the fifth grade of school. On the morning of 22nd June I saw airplanes in the sky. This was the first time I saw such a sight and so, I kept watching them. We had no radio, and our neighbors hurried in to tell us that the Great Patriotic War had begun. On this very day a few Komsomol activists left the town. My brothers Fayvel and Falk and my sister Hanna went with them. Aunt Riva's husband had to stay in the town for some time. He and other party leaders had to ensure that all party documents were destroyed. The family council decided to send away Riva and me to support her on the way. Riva's husband found a horse- drawn cart and we left our hometown. We didn't even get a chance to properly say 'good bye' to our dear ones.

We headed for Latvia. It took us a whole night before we reached a border side town. A few women from Birzai were with us. We stopped in a forest quite near the railway station. Riva and a friend of hers went to look for some transport to move on. At that time a bombing raid began, causing the explosion of railroad fuel tanks. It didn't take long before the whole town was burning. We had to move on and I realized I had lost Aunt Riva. We walked a few kilometers before I saw a truck. The truck stopped and from there my aunt called my name. We decided to never lose sight of one another for a single minute. We reached a railway station. There was a train on the tracks with all those who had left their homes. My aunt showed her documents and her party membership card, and we took this train. Our trip lasted at least ten days. On the way my aunt traded our belongings for food. I was hungry all the time. My aunt was pregnant and needed more food than I did, and I gave my share to her. We finally reached Kirov [about 1300 km north-east of Moscow], and from there we took a truck to the town of Slobodskoy, Kirov region.

We were accommodated in a local house. The mistress of the house was Russian, one of those wealthy people, who were relocated to this town after the revolution 11. She still hated the Soviet rule and for some reason she associated us with this regime. We could physically feel the hatred that she radiated. Soon my aunt had to go to hospital. Her baby was due soon. I was alone with our landlady. At some point of time I felt so starved that it caused giddiness. At this time our landlady was having tea that she made in a samovar. She never offered me a cup of tea. I spoke not a word of Russian, and this made my situation even worse. I went outside feeling unsteady. A local approached me in the street. She asked me a few questions, but I didn't understand a word. The girl left me and a few minutes later she brought me a glass of milk and a piece of bread. I shall always remember this girl. She probably saved my life. Later I went back into the house and went to sleep. In the morning, when I woke up, somebody knocked on the door. My parents were standing in the doorway.

We were laughing and crying, hugging and telling each other of our misfortunes. They happened to leave Birzai a few hours after us and kept looking for us. A Lithuanian acquaintance of theirs directed them to where we were. By that time Riva gave birth to a girl and named her Nadia. We still had no information about my brothers or Hanna. Riva didn't know anything about her husband.

Some time later my parents and Riva decided we should go to Gorky region where Lithuanian Komsomol members were, according to what people were saying. We took a train to Gorky, but in the middle of the way it headed in a different direction and we arrived in Udmurtia. We were taken to a kolkhoz and accommodated in a pise-walled hut. There was one room in the hut. The owner of the house had to move to his acquaintances. Mama started the search for her children again. She traveled to nearby kolkhoz villages asking people, when she finally succeeded. My sister Hanna happened to be in one of them. She joined us soon. She told us she had lost our brothers at the border between Latvia and Russia, and she knew nothing about what had happened to them.

We all went to work. Hanna and I worked at the flax harvesting in a kolkhoz. My father also worked in the kolkhoz, and so did Riva. My mother stayed at home with little Nadia. We were in bad need of food. The kolkhoz provided some gray bread and cereal. Mama started selling our clothes. With a sunken heart she traded a cut of English gabardine that she had bought for my brother to the director of the kolkhoz for a few bags of potatoes. My dresses and even nightgowns adorned with lace were selling well. Local girls wore my nightgowns as they would fancy dresses. Hanna couldn't agree to part with the Swiss watch that our father had given her. One day she came home in tears: her watch had been stolen. Somebody had taken it off her wrist.

My mother and sister couldn't help thinking about my brothers. Hanna decided to join the 16th Lithuanian division 12, hoping to find our brothers there or at least, get some information about them. Mama went to the Lithuanian representative office in Kazan, the capital of Tatarstan, to arrange for my sister to join the army. In fall 1942 Hanna went to Balakhna where the rear units of the 16th Lithuanian division were formed.

When Hanna left, Riva decided to move to the town of Glazov, where she was offered a job. Nadia was to go with her. I also went with them. Riva had to go to work, and I was to look after the baby. Some time later our parents joined us in Glazov. We shared our room with a young Lithuanian woman, who had two children. Her name was Neele. She was older than me, but we became friends. Neele loved a man, who was an officer in the Soviet Army. Neele looked forward to his letters and kept hoping that he would be safe. We got along well and lived like one family. I also looked after Neele's children while she was at work.

However, some time passed and we decided I had to go to work. Riva had a bread card 13, but this bread was insufficient for all of us. My father went to work at a military plant evacuated from Kalinin. He was a worker. By that time I picked up some Russian and could even write in Russian a bit. Having these skills I managed to get a job at the secretariat of the plant. As an employee I was provided with 800 grams of bread. I made friends at the plant. The girls were older than me, but we had common interests. We were fond of reading. There was a library at the plant, and I read almost all the books available there. I discovered the wonderful world of Russian classical literature. I joined the Komsomol at the plant. My mother was babysitting. She also worked at nighttime. Her acquaintance from Siauliai worked at a bakery. My mother worked night shifts with her, receiving a loaf of bread for her work.

Hanna wrote to us regularly. Fortunately, she wasn't sent to the front line. She returned to Balakhna after having acute malaria. She was sent to the hospital and after recovering she was assigned to a rear unit. My sister already knew the truth about our brothers, but she kept it a secret from us. My mother kept writing letters to Buguruslan and Kazan. Once we received a response with the return address of Fayvel Glezer. We were so happy and wrote back, but this Fayvel happened to be an older man. He just happened to have the same name as my brother.

Finally, Hanna decided to tell us the truth to save us from the pain of uncertainty. She found out that Fayvel, Falk and a large group of Komsomol members were detained at the former Soviet border in a small Latvian town. It turned out that the Soviet authorities didn't let everybody across the border. We were lucky that Riva had a party membership card. Younger and stronger men and women were left to create a living shield on the way of the enemy. My brothers had a chance to cross the border, but they decided to wait for Hanna. They didn't know that Hanna had already left without them. Then Fascist landing troops killed all the Komsomol members: my brothers and many of our acquaintances and friends. Learning this terrible news was very hard for us. Mama was grieving and never found peace till the end of her days.

In early 1944 Hanna was sent to a training course at the Ministry of Internal Affairs in Moscow. She finished her training in July 1944. Immediately after Vilnius was liberated my sister went to our home country. She was offered the position of manager of the passport office in Zarasai. In 1944, that same year, my sister married Andrushis, a Lithuanian man, whom she met at the training course.

We celebrated the Victory Day in Glazov in May 1945 14. It was full of joy and tears. This was a day off. People marched the streets. My sister was already making arrangements for us to go back home. Riva left in early 1945. In August I said 'good bye' to my friends, and my parents and I headed to our homeland. We arrived in Zarasai where my sister and her husband met us. She already had a boy. He was given the Lithuanian name of Rimas. My sister was very happy that we arrived. She put us up in a room in her two-room apartment.

Her husband was rather prejudiced against us. He wasn't an easy-going person. He worked in the accounting office of an NKVD body 15. Though he wasn't involved in arrests 16 or interrogations, the atmosphere itself must have affected his personality, which was not easy, anyway. I wouldn't say he was a manifest anti-Semite. I never heard a word of abuse from him, but he was treating my parents and me with resentment. In early 1946 there was a fire in our street, and this fire caused severe damage to our house. We were given separate apartments, though in one building. We finally had our own lodging.

My sister was very kind to me. She helped me to get a job. Though I had lower secondary education, I had a good command of Russian. There were few people who knew Russian at the time. I went to work as a secretary at a district consumers' association. Hanna decided to take care of my personal life as well. She had two Jewish friends, veterans of the Lithuanian division. They were brothers. They reminded her of our brothers. One of them was even called Fayvel. One day David and Fayvel visited us. David liked me and I liked him as well. We decided there was no point in waiting. A few weeks later we registered our marriage in a registry office.

My husband, David Treger, was born in Zarasai in 1920. His father Simon was a craftsman. His mother Chaya was a popular dressmaker. She even had clients from Kaunas. Chaya had her own dressmaking school, and her trainees worked in many Lithuanian towns. David had a good education. He finished a Jewish gymnasium where he got fond of Zionist ideas. The establishment of the Soviet rule prevented him from moving to Palestine. When the Great Patriotic War began, Chaya, Simon, my husband's sister Pesia and his younger brother Leibl stayed on the occupied territory and were killed like all the other Jews of Zarasai on 26th August 1941. This happened in the vicinity of the town. David and his older brother Fayvel left the town with other Komsomol members. They joined the 16th Lithuanian division. They were wounded several times and received a number of awards. Fayvel lost his leg, and David had three fingers of his right hand missing.

David had a good position: he was deputy director of the district consumers' association. However difficult this period of time was, David was doing well. He managed to get the wedding rings for us. His cousin made a crepe de Chine gown for me. We arranged a wedding party at my home. My husband and I shared the room with my parents. The Treger family house wasn't damaged during the war, but there was a Lithuanian woman living in it. Fayvel was a rough man. He went to the house and threw this woman's belongings out of the window. We moved into my husband's family house. Some time later Fayvel went to visit his relatives in Tashkent. He came back with his fiancée Irina. She was a Jewish girl from Ukraine. They got married and moved in with us. In 1947 my son was born. We named him Simon after my husband's father.

My father didn't work after he returned from evacuation. He was helping my sister to raise her son. When Simon was born, he moved in with us. When I went to work, he was babysitting. My sister didn't get along with her husband. She decided to get a divorce. In 1948 Hanna and her son moved to Birzai. Formerly we had made up our mind to never go back to our hometown, where even stones seemed to have been soaked in the blood of our dear ones and acquaintances, but then my mother decided to join my sister. She wanted to be of help to her. As for my father, he decided to stay with me. My mother never recovered from her sons' death. She walked along the streets recalling who lived there and what happened to him or her. One day she had a stroke right there in the street. My mother died. This happened in 1949. After her death my father moved in with Hanna.

There were few Jews left in Birzai, but they stayed together, remembering their deceased friends. They collected money to install a monument in their memory at the burial place. My father didn't work. He received a pension for his sons. In the middle of the 1950s Hanna's husband arrived in Birzai. He made an attempt to make up with her. As it turned out later, he wanted this for the sake of the apartment. My sister believed her husband. She, her son and her husband moved to Kaunas where they received a nice apartment. My father moved to Zarasai to live with me some time later. He was of great help to me. He was my best friend and companion. He lived many years before he died in 1976 at the age of 85. We buried my daddy at the Jewish cemetery.

Hanna didn't get along with her husband. She divorced him, but stayed to live in Kaunas. Hanna was a member of the Communist Party. She was the director of the passport office and retired from this position in due time. She married Yashgur, a Polish Jew. My sister must have been born unfortunate. Her second husband wasn't an easy-going man either. She lived with him for over 20 years. He died a few years ago. Hanna lives alone in Kaunas now. Her son Rimas identifies himself as a Lithuanian. He doesn't recognize any Jewish traditions. He married a Lithuanian girl and raises his children according to Lithuanian traditions.

After my son was born I continued working in the consumers' association for some time. During this period my husband's people convinced him to join the Communist Party. This wasn't what he wanted, but his position required him to be a member of the Party: my husband was the director of the consumers' association. In the early 1950s he was invited to visit the district party committee where they explained they wanted to employ me. The party authorities were in need of Russian speaking employees. I was employed as a typist. Some time afterward I was promoted to the typists' office manager. I worked the last years of my career as an accountant. I came to work at the district committee in January 1953. This was quite amazing, considering that in those years most Jews were fired and accused of all mortal sins 17. I wasn't involved in any party activities. I belonged to the support staff, but the Communist ideology did influence my personality.

In March 1953, when Stalin died, I was shocked at how my fellow employees were grieving. They thought life wasn't possible without him. I worked at the district committee for 30 years before I retired. It goes without saying that I couldn't avoid the party membership working at the district party committee. Therefore, I joined the Communist Party some time after I started my career there. However, I was just a nominal member of the Party. I wasn't involved in any party activities or events. Basically, I've never been interested in any politics or public activities. I believe this to be a waste of effort and time. It's better to dedicate more time to one's family, children, friends and books, if you ask me. My life is my children, my house. As for whatever public things, I couldn't care less. Perhaps, this attitude makes me feel lonely and exhausted nowadays, but this is the way I am, and one can hardly do anything about it.

We had a very good life. My husband was paid well, and we had all we needed. In 1956 my daughter was born. We gave her the name of Chaya after my mother. However, when the girl went to school, we started calling her Raya 18. We were raising our children in the Jewish way. Since their early childhood they were aware of their uncles' death. We told them about the memorable, sad and tragic events of Jewish history. Every year on 27th August we took our children to the place where my husband's parents died. Jews from all over Lithuania used to arrive there: from Kaunas, Vilnius and other towns. My husband and his brother established an initiative group to collect funds to immortalize the memory of the deceased ones. The monument was installed thanks to Jewish contributions.

Our children had friends of various nationalities. They studied in a Russian school. I recall no cases of oppression my children faced due to their Jewish origin and identity. We had a friendly atmosphere at home as well. Simon and Chaya's friends visited our home. They knew they would always receive a warm welcome here. My husband's salary enabled us to have a decent life. Each year we spent vacations in Palanga. These vacations were paid for by trade unions. There were no theaters in Zarasai, but we took every opportunity to attend tour performances. We took trips to Kaunas, Vilnius, Moscow and Leningrad [today St. Petersburg, Russia]. We led an active cultural life. Many people were surprised that my husband had no car or dacha 19, considering his positions that allowed many to accumulate a fortune. However, my David was a crystal-honest person. He was a decent man in everything he did. We didn't even have money to buy a cooperative apartment. We lived in his parents' home for a long time. In the late 1960s the Lithuanian consumers' association provided an apartment for us.

We had many friends. Most of them were from the intelligentsia of Zarasai. Despite our membership in the Party we never neglected Jewish traditions. It goes without saying that Sabbath or the kosher way of life were out of the question, but we always bought matzah for Pesach. Initially we bought it in the apartment where it was made secretly, and later we had it delivered from Vilnius. There was no synagogue in Zarasai or Birzai after the war. However, we got together with our friends to celebrate holidays. As for fasting on Yom Kippur, I still follow this tradition.

My husband always dreamed of Israel. During the period, when emigration to Israel was no different from a funeral, my husband or I couldn't even dare to think about Israel. Neither of us would have been allowed to move there. We had special permits to access secret documents. When perestroika 20 began and Lithuania regained independence 21, relocation to Israel was made possible, but my husband was severely ill by then. He had stomach cancer, but even in his poor condition he was dreaming of stepping onto the land of Israel, kneeling and kissing it. David's dream was not to come true. My husband died in 1992.

Our children had their own families by that time. Both of them got university education. Simon graduated from the Siauliai Teachers' Training College. Working as a teacher at the school for children with special needs, he received additional education and was promoted to headmaster of this school. Simon married a Jewish girl. A mixed marriage was out of the question in our family. His wife Rachil was a sanitary doctor in Kaunas. Simon and Rachil have two daughters: Taube, the older one, and Liana, the younger one. In the mid-1990s my daughter-in-law had problems at work. She lost her job, eventually. She insisted on emigration, and a few years ago my son and his family moved to Germany. The girls entered a college there. They are completing their education. Taube married a Russian man. They have a son. His name is Georgiy. He is my great-grandson. Liana married Igor, a former USSR citizen. They have no children yet.

My daughter Chaya graduated from the Faculty of Cybernetics of Kaunas Polytechnic College. She married Motl Rozenburg, a talented engineer. This was a pre-arranged marriage, but my daughter and her husband are happy. She has two children: son Elan, born in 1977, and daughter Elena, born in 1983. Elena has finished a medical college this year. She wants to continue her education to acquire her Master of Medicine degree. Chaya works in a private company and is making good money. Motl works at the design institute where he started his career. Elan, my grandson, finished a medical college. He married Lisa, a Jewish girl. In 1994 he realized his grandfather's dream and moved to Israel. He's become a true Israelite, a religious Jewish man observing his ancestors' covenants. Elan and Lisa have a lovely daughter. Her name is Michalia. She is my great-granddaughter.

David's death was a hard blow for me. In 1994 my children sold my apartment to take me to Kaunas. I am very ill. I haven't been out for almost two years. I feel like a very old, tired and lonely person, though I am not that old. I am a member of the Jewish community, but I am not in a condition to attend Jewish events. I speak with my sister Hanna and my daughter-in-law Rachil on the phone. They are my closest friends. On this Jewish holiday of Rosh Hashanah I wish joy, prosperity and happiness to the Jewish world!

Glossary:

Chava Pressburger
Prague
Czech Republic
Interviewer: Pavla Neuner
Date of interview: May 2005

Mrs. Chava Pressburger lives in both Israel and the Czech Republic. It was in Prague, in her cozy and tastefully furnished apartment, where the interview took place. Mrs. Pressburger impressed me as a very educated and cultured woman and works as an artist. I met her for the first time at the end of 2004 in a Prague bookstore, where she was signing a newly published book of diaries of her brother, Petr Ginz. I was immediately captivated by the book's cover, which she designed.

Family background

I unfortunately didn't know either of my grandfathers; they died before I was born. My grandfather on my father's side was named Josef Gunz, and was born in 1857 in Barchovice. According to his birth certificate, he was circumcised at birth. His father was named Filip Gunz and was a merchant, his mother was Estera, nee Pickova, and came from Lesna. Later, grandpa 'Czechified' his name, and changed the 'u' with an umlaut to an 'i'. So my father's last name was already Ginz. Grandma was named Berta, nee Stastna. She was born in 1866 in central Bohemia. From my grandfather's birth certificate, it's obvious that my grandparents and their parents were merchants. I don't know how religious they were, and how much they observed Jewish customs, but I imagine that Jews in those days were all very religious.

My grandparents lived in Zdanice, near Prague. In the beginning my grandpa was a teacher, but then, I don't know at what point in his life, he began to deal in antiques. He opened an antique store, at first in Kostelec nad Cernymi Lesy, and then he moved with his family to Prague, and opened an antique store on Jungmannovo Namesti [Jungmann Square] in Prague. According to various letters, notes, pictures and what I had heard from my father, my grandfather was a very educated person, though I don't know where he came by his education; most likely he was self-taught. Grandpa also knew many languages and was very intelligent and had a talent for art. I have several pictures that he himself painted and that look like they were done by a professional artist. He also wrote poetry, and I have part of his business correspondence written in verse in German and also in Czech. Besides artistic talents, my grandfather also showed a talent for business. When he died in the year 1912, at a relatively young age, he left behind an extensive collection of antiques and an estate large enough to enable his wife and five children to lead a comfortable life. This could have lasted up to her death, but unfortunately the Nazi regime severed this beautiful family.

My grandfather's store on Jungmannovo Namesti was in those days a well- known place in Prague where Czech and German artists and poets would meet. They would mainly pick through rare books that my grandfather was an expert in. A large part of his antique collection was made up of rare old books. While he was still alive, my grandfather was a big proponent of Czech culture and associated with the Czech intellectual elite. He's buried in the Jewish cemetery in Prague at Olsany and has a Czech inscription on his tombstone.

From what I hear, my grandpa and grandma's household was modern for the times. They dressed as was the custom in the West in those days: my grandpa in a nice suit and tie, and my grandma in beautiful dresses. Their Prague apartment was comfortable for the times, it had about five rooms. Of course, they had running water and electricity. After my grandfather's death, grandma and grandpa's son, my father's brother, Viktor Ginz, turned one of the rooms into a lawyer's office and did business there. In my grandparents' home, German and Czech were spoken, and they always had a maid.

The apartment was furnished with beautiful and valuable antique furniture. Antique paintings hung on the walls, including one of Christ's head. After various trials and tribulations that painting finally ended up in my possession. It's a portrait painted by the Austrian Gabriel Max on the cusp of the 19th and 20th century. Gabriel Max was a well-known artist who also lived in Prague for some time, and the National Gallery in Prague has many of his paintings, which are often exhibited in the Convent of St. Agnes 1. This painter used to shop in my grandfather's antique store when he was staying in Prague, and would buy skulls from him, which he then used as models for painting people's heads. He owed my grandfather some money, and from correspondence between Max's widow and my grandfather it follows that she sent my grandfather a painting, Christ's Head, instead of paying the debt that her husband left when he died. This correspondence thus documents that the painting is real, and not a forgery.

I used to go regularly to my grandma's for a visit every Saturday. I remember these visits very well, and I used to like them very much. In those days one didn't talk with children much, the adults sat apart and spoke Czech to each other, or German when they didn't want us children to understand, but despite all this Grandma always had special little cakes prepared for us, spiced in a peculiar way, whose taste I even now feel on my tongue. The household was of course kosher, the synagogue was attended on only the major holidays and the rest of the Jewish holidays were observed at home. My grandfather didn't wear a kippah or caftan or anything like that. Neither did my grandmother wear an Orthodox wig.

My grandparents had five children. The oldest daughter, Herma, was born in 1890, two years later came a son, Viktor, who was nicknamed Slava. Two years on, a daughter, Anna, was born. Then came my father, Otto, and finally, in 1898, the last son, Emil. None of these siblings or their families survived the concentration camps, only my father, I and Emil's daughter Hana were saved.

My father married a Christian woman, and so did his brother Emil. My grandmother proclaimed that if her third son, Slava, did the same, she would commit suicide. The whole family knew that Slava was going out with Marie Ciolkova, who was also a Christian, a very nice woman. They went out for about ten years, but Slava never got up the courage to marry her. If he would have done so, she would have protected him from the concentration camp. As it was, he was one of the first to be transported, and died. Miss Ciolkova then waited for him another two years, still hoping that he would return from somewhere. Later she married an Armenian. Marie was a good friend of my parents' and my father hid the diaries of my brother, Petr Ginz, with her, which were found not long ago and which I publicized. Marie died in one apartment house in Modrany, alone and ill with Alzheimer's. This apartment house was then bought by a certain person, who didn't throw out my brother's diaries after discovering them, which he did with most of the things he found in the apartment house. When, after the tragic crash of the shuttle Columbia in 2003 along with Petr's drawing 'Moon Landscape' on board, Petr's name became known almost everywhere in the world, the owner of the apartment house remembered Petr's diaries and put them up for sale. After some time I finally acquired them.

Aunt Herma was the oldest and married a rich person, Karel Levitus, who was the general manager of the insurance company Asecurazione Generali in Prague. My aunt had a large collection of antiques from my grandfather, to which was devoted an entire floor of their villa in Prague in which they lived. My aunt was a housewife; they had no children. Both were put on one of the first transports and both died in 1942 in the Maly Trostinec concentration camp in Poland.

The other daughter, Aunt Anna, remained single and lived with my grandmother. We liked her very much; she spent a lot of time playing and romping about with us. She didn't survive Auschwitz, and died in 1943.

Emil's wife was named Nada. She wasn't Jewish. They had some relatively small firm that manufactured printing cylinders, and thought that they could save it by divorcing and transferring it to her name. Unfortunately, as a divorcee, Emil was soon summoned to the transport to Terezin 2. Then he was transported further east, from where he never returned. Their daughter, Hana, survived the Holocaust, she stayed in Terezin until the end of the war, but their son Pavel died.

My grandparents on my mother's side aren't of Jewish origin. My grandpa was named Antonin Dolansky and my grandma Ruzena, nee Pultrova. I don't know when they were born, but my grandma came from around Hradec Kralove, where later she and her children lived. Grandpa was a country teacher. He died young, he was a little over 40, and left my grandmother alone with five children and a small teacher's pension. They were very badly off, literally poor, and so all the children had to work. My mother didn't get married until she was 29, even though she was very pretty, but she had to help support the family, so that the younger siblings could study. I don't know if my mother actually converted, but when she married my father in 1927, she completely gave herself body and soul over to Judaism. Her family wasn't against it - Grandpa wasn't alive any more at that time - in those days before Hitler, when a Czech girl married a Jew, it meant that she was lucky, because a Jew didn't drink, usually made good money and was a good father and husband, which my father really did fulfill.

My mother had a brother, Josef, who died before the war in a motorcycle accident. Then she had an older sister, Bozena, who married the director or deputy of the Zivnostenska Bank in Hradec Kralove. Their son was a well- known Czech actor, Ota Sklencka. They also had a daughter, Eva. The oldest sibling was Ludmila, who married Mr. Vanek and they had two daughters together. Mother's brother Jaroslav married a girl whose father owned a printing house in Hradec Kralove, which he later took over. Another brother, Bohumil, had a beautiful mixed-goods store in Hradec Kralove. My grandma was paralyzed for the last 15 or 20 years of her life due to a stroke. She lived with her housekeeper, who looked after her and all of her well-positioned children took care of her. She died in 1943.

My father was named Otto Ginz - later, when Hitler came to power, he shaved his mustache and changed his name to the more Czech-sounding Ota - and was born in the year 1896 in Zdanice near Prague. As opposed to my mother, my father was a withdrawn and strict person, and didn't show his feelings, though I know that he liked my brother and me very much. His life's hobby was membership in the Esperanto movement, and during an international congress of this movement that took place in Prague he met my mother, who was also a passionate Esperantist. My mother would tell that when she saw my father, she thought that he was a Spaniard, because he was a little on the darker side. Because everyone spoke in Esperanto, you couldn't tell who was from where. But then, when they got to know each other more and spoke a bit, it came out that they were both Czechs. Their marriage took place in Prague at the city hall.

My mother was named Marie Dolanska and was born in Cibuz, near Hradec Kralove, in 1898. My mother grew up in the country and then in Hradec Kralove, where she went to a commerce-oriented high school and then worked as a secretary at an insurance company. She also took German and French at school. At home they spoke Czech. Our mother was much more open and approachable than our father. My mother had many interests, all sorts of intellectual ones, but she also used to go to gymnastics.

My brother was named Petr Ginz and was born in 1928 in Prague. Our childhood was more or less the same. Petr was two years older and I loved him very much. He had his bar mitzvah in the Maisel Synagogue in Prague, I remember that afterwards there was a small celebration at home with relatives, and a chocolate cake. Petr was a talented boy, and when Jews were no longer being accepted at high school [see Exclusion of Jews from schools in the Protectorate] 3, my parents put him in a school named the Experimental School, in Nusle. It was a special school for talented children where they were attempting to teach with not completely conventional methods. Our parents thought that here his talent would take root and develop. But soon after they threw Petr out of this school as well, because of his Jewish origin. My brother was always very curious and Mother and Father supported education.

Petr began to write already as a child; he wrote many articles, stories and poems. He drew a lot as well. He wrote several short stories from the age of 11 to 12: 'Ferda's Adventures', 'From Prague to China', 'Journey to the Center of the Earth', which belong to Yad Vashem 4 in Jerusalem, and later from the ages of 13 to 14, more voluminous novels, 'The Secret of the Devil's Cave', 'The Wise Man of Altai', 'Around the World in a Second' and 'A Visit from Prehistoric Times'. Somewhere Petr notes that he's already got 260 pages of 'The Wise Man of Altai' finished. Unfortunately only 'A Visit from Prehistoric Times' survived, the rest of the later novels was lost. But perhaps, like his diaries, those works will also surface somewhere. I own 'A Visit from Prehistoric Times'. Like every young boy, he liked to read Verne's novels full of fantasy. Petr imagined that he had found a forgotten novel of Verne's, in the attic of Verne's old apartment building, translated it from French to Czech, and that he's presenting it for the first time to Czech readers. It's about some prehistoric reptile that lives somewhere in the Belgian Congo. In the novel he describes this monster, which is in reality a large robot, controlled by a dictator who through it wants to dominate the entire continent, and all of Africa is terrified of it. It's an analogy to Hitler and is relatively long. Petr bound and illustrated the book himself. He wrote the novel shortly before he was transported away in 1942, so he wasn't yet 14 at the time.

Growing up

I was born in Prague in the year 1930. Since then not much has changed in Prague, that is, modern technology has of course changed things a lot, there are many more cars driving around and the metro. But as far as streets and buildings go, they're the same streets, the same buildings, the same Vltava River, that I knew as a child.

I remember from my childhood that Esperanto played a very important role in the life of my parents. Quite often we would have visitors from all over the world, and I remember, for example, how once at Christmas a black man from Nigeria, an Esperantist of course, came to visit us. And when we were walking along the street with him, one primitive lady, when she sighted him, began to run away and yell 'A devil! A devil!'. Our household was always a hive of activity and fun, and we always had visitors over, and also our Ginz relatives, grandma and my father's brothers and sisters. My father's four siblings and mother lived in Prague and we would visit them regularly every week. On Sunday we would go for a walk in the park, together with the children of the other uncles and aunts we would run on ahead and play, and the parents would walk behind us and talk. Back then we had to be nicely dressed though - white stockings and shiny shoes - so we wouldn't cast a bad light on the family. We went to visit my mother's siblings' families in Hradec Kralove about twice a year, and they visited us as well.

We attended the synagogue on only the major holidays. Our mother led a kosher household at home, but in a somewhat liberal fashion. At Passover, for example, I remember that we had matzot, but at the same time we ate bread and rolls. Dishcloths and utensils for meat and milk were separate, we didn't eat pork, we bought meat at a kosher butcher and as children we were brought up in a Jewish spirit. We observed all Jewish holidays. Chanukkah usually came out to be around Christmas time, we would light the menorah, and for Christmas we would go to Hradec Kralove to my mother's Christian family, and would celebrate Christmas there with them and would get gifts. It was a rich and happy childhood, which unfortunately lasted a very short time.

The apartment which we grew up in was relatively modest, nevertheless furnished with all the necessities. We had two rooms and a kitchen with conveniences. When we were small, we slept with our parents in the bedroom, later in the living room. The apartment was furnished mainly with antique furniture that our father had inherited from his father. We had a maid who lived with us, and slept in the kitchen. We went through several of them, among them were also one or two Germans, because our parents wanted us to learn German from her. In the end, though, she learned Czech from us more quickly.

Our father and mother had a large library, and we children were allowed to read some of these books. And we also had our own children's books there. In those days it wasn't the custom for children to get a lot of books as gifts, so we would go to the public library. We borrowed books there quite often. We used to visit the City Library on Marianske Namesti [Square], which still functions to this day.

I don't think that my parents belonged to some political party, but by their opinions I judge that they were social democrats. They had many friends, mainly from Esperanto circles, but also from others, and they were always very cultured people.

Both my brother and I grew up at home. We started our school attendance at the Jewish elementary school in Prague on Jachymova Street. I think that my favorite subject at school was drawing. Outside of school we didn't have any private tutors, but we both regularly attended the gym, which I liked a lot. My girlfriends from elementary school were in a similar situation as I, all came from well-to-do Jewish families and our childhood was very happy. Besides my Jewish classmates I don't remember any friends outside of school.

In our home it was important that the children pay attention to their responsibilities and that all was in order. In the morning we rose, the maid prepared breakfast and then Petr and I would walk by ourselves to school. In those days there weren't very many cars about and the streets were safe for us. We lived at Tesnov, close to Hlavkuv Bridge. It was a beautiful walk; on winter mornings the gas lamps would still be lit and the snow would crunch under our feet. School was in the morning, I usually finished earlier than Petr and my mother would be waiting for me in front of the school. Then we would have lunch at home; only our father was in the office and came home later. After lunch our mother would go lie down and we would do our homework; in those days there wasn't much of it.

Then we would play a bit at home, and then go out for a walk, usually with the maid. Often we would go to Stvanice, which is an island in Prague, there we would toboggan or play with a ball, and when it was warm, you could bathe in the Vltava there. And in the winter we would again go to the Vltava, to skate; the river froze over regularly and we would skate from Hlavkuv Bridge to the weir and back again. Sometimes we would go skating to the arena on Stvanice, but there you had to pay. They had music playing there and you would skate round and round. We would go shopping to the market at Ovocny Trh [Fruit Market]. I remember how there would be old women sitting there, selling pats of butter and cheese, and would let us have a taste, which I liked to do very much. The butter would then be kept in the pantry, in cold water. We would also have fruit preserves or sauerkraut stored there. When we returned from our walk, it was suppertime, and then Petr and I would like to read, there really wasn't any other form of entertainment. Reading was our main hobby.

During longer holidays and summer vacation we would always go outside of Prague with our parents. At Christmas and Easter we would go skiing to the mountains, while summer vacation we spent in the countryside, where our parents rented a bungalow. One place was named Radosovice. It was close to Prague, and our father would come visit us on the weekends. We were there alone with our mother and the maid. We would go swimming, for walks, picking mushrooms in the forest and so on.

It wasn't the custom to eat in restaurants, we ate at home, but my parents often went to coffee shops with their friends. There weren't many cars yet in those days, and so every car ride was quite a big experience. For me, unfortunately, a bad one, because during every ride I suffered from carsickness and would be nauseous. On the contrary, riding on the train wasn't anything special for us. We didn't have our own car.

I recall all sorts of national celebrations, mainly the anniversary of the founding of the [First] Czechoslovak Republic 5. In the streets there would be parades with flags, and music would play. The holiday was also celebrated at our Jewish school. I think that Jews were always similar to the nations in which they lived. Thus Czech Jews were very similar to Czechs, and so responsibility, hard work was just as characteristic for Czech Jews as for Czechs. I didn't know anti-Semitism in my early childhood at all. Then when I was attending Jewish school, sometime in 1937 or 1938 or so, because of a lack of space a part of the school moved to the neighboring German boys' school on Masna Street. During recess we would go out into the schoolyard, which was separated from the yard of the German school by just a fence, and those small German boys would even then yell things like 'Juden heraus!' [Jews out!] and 'Jews to Palestine' at us.

During the war

I remember a few important political events from my childhood. When Hitler came to power, Munich in 1938 [see Munich Pact] 6, when the Germans invaded Poland [see Invasion of Poland] 7 and when the Germans occupied Bohemia and Moravia in March 1939 [see Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia] 8. I was nine years old at the time. And in the years leading up to these events, the years of critical political events, I heard adults' conversations, my parents, friends and relatives. They were conversations that the adults led among themselves, daily, in great tension, and we children of course felt this strained atmosphere, even though our parents and the others didn't talk to us about it.

We felt anti-Semitism soon after the occupation. The financier Petschek [Petschek Ignatz, a German industrialist of Jewish origins; did business in Bohemia mainly in the sphere of brown coal. Controlled the majority of mining and market with brown coal in Bohemia and partly also in Germany; had significant influence on the Czechoslovak economy], in one of whose firms our father worked as manager of the export department, arranged emigration permits and employment in foreign countries for all of his Jewish employees. For our father as well. At that time we were supposed to emigrate to New Zealand, but our parents didn't take advantage of it in time. They said to themselves, we have our apartment here, and we're going to go somewhere at the ends of the earth, it won't be all that bad. Later it was already too late. All anti-Jewish prohibitions and regulations [see Anti-Jewish laws in the Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia] 9 applied to our family as well, even though our mother wasn't of Jewish origin. Our father they threw out of work, us they threw out of school. The Jewish school was definitively closed during the school year 1941/42. The number of food stamps we were allowed was limited, and we were only allowed to ride in the last tram car, we weren't allowed to sit. All the others, Czechs and Germans, sat. We weren't allowed to go to the park and to various public places, and so on. At birth my brother and I had been registered in the Jewish birth register. My brother and I were considered according to the Nazi Nuremberg Laws to be half-breeds of the 1st degree, and therefore all anti-Jewish measures applied to us. There was only one difference: that the Germans took these children from mixed marriages to the concentration camps only from 14 years old and up.

And so it happened that my brother was transported to the Terezin ghetto alone in the year 1942, at the age of fourteen. My transport followed two years later. This decree was very cruel, and I'd say that for mixed families often worse, because the family couldn't stay together. The Germans tore from a family a child, which then had to leave alone, which was horrible both for it and for the rest of its family. I remember my feelings when I was waiting to turn 14 with the knowledge that my parents were going to have to give me up to the Germans. The feelings of my parents, their fear and helplessness were similarly indescribable. Our father was protected from the transports due to his marriage to an Aryan. This privilege was however revoked by the Germans in February 1945.

Occasionally you were allowed to send postcards from Terezin, which were censored and written in German. So we got a few cards from Petr, and we were allowed to reply with thirty words. About twice we also got an illegal letter from Petr, one that had been smuggled by a Czech policeman that had hidden it and brought it to us. Usually those policemen didn't do it for free, but for good money. Both letters were written on very thin paper, so the policeman could securely hide it in his clothing.

My father didn't want to work at the Jewish Community in Prague, where many Jews that had lost their jobs worked as clerks. He said that it's not for him, that it's slacking off. He went to work in a Jewish orphanage, where he washed dishes, and I sometimes went there to help him out. The orphanage was run by the Freudenfeld family. At that time they were also rehearsing the today well-known children's opera Brundibar, so in Terezin they followed up what had been rehearsed in the orphanage. [Editor's note: The children's opera Brundibar was created in 1938 for a contest announced by the then Czechoslovak Ministry of Schools and National Education. It was composed by Hans Krasa based on a libretto by Adolf Hoffmeister. The first performance of Brundibar - by residents of the Jewish orphanage in Prague - wasn't seen by the composer. He had been deported to Terezin. Not long after him, Rudolf Freudenfeld, the son of the orphanage's director, who had rehearsed the opera with the children, was also transported. This opera had more than 50 official performances in Terezin. The idea of solidarity, collective battle against the enemy and the victory of good over evil today speaks to people the whole world over. Today the opera is performed on hundreds of stages in various corners of the world.]

In 1944 I had to embark on the transport. I was never able to imagine it, but as a mother I know that it must have been unimaginably cruel. In this sense the fate of half-breeds was much worse than when the whole family left together. When the family had to tear itself apart and go into the unknown, that was very difficult for the mother as well as for the child. My mother was always strong, she comes from this healthy Czech family, and that's probably why she was able to endure it all.

In Terezin I lived in a girls' home at L 410. Some things from life in Terezin I remember, others are completely wiped from my memory. Our home was led by Willy Groag and Mrs. Englanderova. I also remember that my cousin Hanka Ginzova was there with me, and also Sary Veresova. I recall one incident. The girls had gotten a small Christmas tree from somewhere, because there were a lot of half-breeds there. These were children that often had been brought up in a completely Christian fashion, and the Germans had sent them to the concentration camp only due to racial reasons. They were used to the Christmas holidays and so put the tree in the middle of the room. Then Willy Groag, who was a big Zionist [see Zionism] 10, arrived and got horribly upset, grabbed the tree and flung it on the ground.

Our mother supported us in Terezin a lot: she tried to send packages, even addressed them to other people. We would then get the packages from them and give them a certain share. That is, mainly Petr, because I wasn't in Terezin that long. Our mother tried from Prague to save us in some way, and so went to see one of the top Gestapo commanders, whose name I don't remember. He received her in his office 'gnadige Frau hin a gnadige Frau her' [my dear lady here and my dear lady there], sat her down and said, 'My dear lady, you don't have to worry about your children in Terezin, they belong to a special group, and according to orders that group won't be transported further on and will stay in Terezin.' Other sources also mention this decree.

People have asked me, how it was then possible that Petr was transported further on. But he wasn't the only half-breed that was sent from Terezin to the East. Though the explanation causes me great pain, I can't hold it against anyone, that when he tried to save a member of his family and had the opportunity to put a half-breed, though usually only a child, on the transport instead, he did it. It was a matter of life and death. I think that that's the way it happened, but I can't condemn it, because if I had been in that situation and could have saved my brother in this way, I maybe would have also behaved similarly. Petr was transported to Auschwitz in the fall of 1944. He was already sixteen, and so maybe that protection didn't apply to him any more. This is all just speculation. No one from the Terezin Altestenrat [Council of Elders] is alive to explain it. When Petr was assigned to the transport to Auschwitz, I volunteered to go with him. I then got a card, where they wrote in German that they aren't accepting me for the transport, because they already have enough of them.

As a small child, Petr wanted to be a scientist, writer or journalist. In Terezin he was the initiator and editor of a secret magazine, Vedem 11, which was published every Friday by a group of boys in Barracks No. 1 in L 417, where Petr lived. They had all intellectual activities strictly forbidden by the Germans, and so in the evening during the reading of this magazine in a forum of all the boys, one of them stood on guard, so he could warn them in time if one of the guards was approaching. Vedem was of a very high standard, it had philosophical, historical and other articles, and also a lot of boyish humor and self-criticism. When Petr, the magazine's editor, didn't collect enough articles from his friends for Friday's edition, he wrote the articles himself under various pseudonyms.

During those two years in Terezin, when Petr lived in the boys' barracks L 417, his personality developed significantly. Petr had access to the library, which was composed of books confiscated from Jews after their arrival at Terezin, and Petr tried to read as many as he could. His notes from Terezin, in which he tasks himself what he has to learn and what to read, prove this. A small sample from these notes: 'September 1944... I read: Schweitzer: From My Life and Work, Dinko Simonovic: The Vincic Family, Thein de Vries: Rembrandt, Thomas Mann: Mari and the Magician, Dickens: A Christmas Carol, Danes: Origin and Extinction of Natives in Australia and Oceania, Milli Dandolo: The Angel Spoke, K. May: The Son of the Bear Hunter, Oscar Wilde: De Profundis and other novels'. Shortly after this note Petr was sent to his death in Auschwitz.

I have one witness to how Petr died. Jehuda Bacon, a well-known Israeli painter, who knew Petr from L417, told me that he saw him walking on the road to the gas chambers. Petr was always quite tall, skinny and pale. He was already in Terezin for two years when they transported him to Auschwitz, and he most likely didn't pass the selection.

My father came to Terezin in April 1945, when after another change in the Nuremberg Laws he lost the protection of his 'Aryan' wife. Together we were then liberated by the Russian Army and in one Russian car returned to Prague, where my mother had already worn a hole in the floor standing in front of the window. Our reunion couldn't be happy without Petr's return, month after month we waited, but to no avail.

At the beginning of the war, living with the worry that the Germans would confiscate their expensive antique furniture from my grandfather, my parents moved the furniture to Hradec Kralove to my mother's family. Everything that was hidden with relatives, we got back after the war without any problems. Many things were also preserved because my mother stayed home for the entire duration of the war. Problems came up in the case of property of my father's siblings, which was hidden with various Czechs. Only a small part of that property was returned, some simply denied it and refused to return it. What the Germans didn't take, the Czechs kept.

Post-war

After the war, like many other Jewish children, I had a strong desire to learn, because for five years I hadn't been able to go to school. I prepared for the high school entrance exam with Prof. Irma Lauscherova, passed it successfully, and entered the 'kvinta' [fifth year] of the Gymnazium [High School] of Hana Benesova in the Prague quarter of Vinohrady. After two years, I on my own initiative transferred to the Reformist Practical High School on Dusni Street in Prague. I tried to learn as much as possible, so outside of high school I also took some sort of library course, learned how to drive a car and subsequently passed my driver's exam, and for two years I attended the School of Applied Arts on Narodni Avenue in Prague three or four times a week. There my specialized artistic education began. In high school I studied French, which I very early on made use of. I was supposed to graduate in 1948, which however didn't happen, because right before graduation I left with my then boyfriend and future husband, Jindrich [Abraham] Pressburger, for France. At that time it was the last chance to leave Czechoslovakia [see February 1948] 12. I left without my parents, halfway illegally, using someone else's passport.

My husband comes from Slovakia; he was born in the year 1924 in Bratislava. He worked in the Zionist movement Hashomer Hatzair 13. We met thanks to sports. I received a notice about a trip to the mountains that this Zionist organization was putting on, I went skiing with them, and so met Abraham.

After leaving Czechoslovakia we got to Vienna, where we stayed for about six weeks. Then Abraham was sent as a leader of Zionist youth to Paris. In Paris he worked another year for Hashomer Hatzair, and then we emigrated to Israel, where we were then married, and my husband took the name Abraham. My leaving Czechoslovakia was motivated mainly by my husband's Zionism and my love for him. A strong reason was also my desire for freedom, from the age of nine I had not been free and after the Communist putsch in Czechoslovakia I saw that another similar regime was coming. If it hadn't been for Abraham's Zionist tendencies, I would have at that time rather stayed in France. I was very happy during the year that we spent there. For one, I was young, and for another Paris, freedom and the cultural atmosphere there very much suited my nature.

We arrived in Israel from Marseille on a ship named Negba, which translated from Hebrew means 'To Negev'. And we really did drop anchor in Negev, in Ber Sheva. Hebrew became my second language, the same as English. When we came to Israel, Hebrew was a difficult language for me, and so I began to read all books in English. I also speak French, German and also Esperanto from childhood.

My parents stayed in Prague until the year 1956, and then also moved to Israel. My mother kept a kosher household in Israel as well, as opposed to me. She was also a big Zionist and had a talent for lecturing. While still in Czechoslovakia she and my father gathered films and slides and she lectured on Israel at the Esperanto Club. She then also gave lectures on the ship on the way to Israel. In the beginning it was very difficult for them in Israel. My husband and I worked, we already had a child, and my parents lived with us in a small apartment. That was a tough situation. But then, on the basis of an agreement with Germany [BEG - Bundesentschädigungsgesetz, a West German law from the year 1956, according to which claims for compensation put forth by victims of National Socialist persecution are processed] they began to receive compensation, which put them on their feet. They bought their own apartment and after that things went well for them. My father died in 1975, my mother lived until the age 93. Both are buried in a cemetery near Haifa.

In the beginning we lived in Ber Sheva in a comfortable apartment that my husband was allocated as part of his employment. A few years later we bought a small house in Omer, near Ber Sheva. The house stands in a very nice residential neighborhood, which isn't officially a part of Ber Sheva, but practically everyone that lives here works there. A lot of doctors, professors, more or less an intellectual elite, live here. The house stands on a lot measuring 1,000 square meters. I take care of our garden. When the house was being built, it was desert, today we have a beautiful lawn and many plants, bushes and tall evergreens, which have since grown to a huge height. We planted them because we were homesick for Europe, and wanted to have our own forest.

Both of our children, our son Yoram and daughter Tamar, lived with us up to their entry into the army. Yoram was in a special unit in the army as a parachutist, and took part in the Lebanese War [see 1982 Lebanon War] 14. That was a very difficult time for us, when we were afraid that we'd perhaps never even see him again. Luckily he got through it all, was decorated, and began to study Mechanical Engineering at the local university. After he finished his studies he left for America, where he received a scholarship and completed a PhD. He then stayed in America and now works in his field for a private company. Tamar lives in Jerusalem, she also finished university in Israel and has a PhD from the University of Jerusalem. The thesis of her doctorate was 'The attitude of Israeli and German media towards the Holocaust' and this work of hers was then also published in book form. Tamar also lived partly in America, where her first son was born, nonetheless she currently lives in Israel and works as the head of a scientific research department of the Myers-JDC-Brookdale Institute in Jerusalem.

Our household remained secular, as well as that of my son, his wife and his daughter in America. Tamar is the most inclined to observe traditions. Although she isn't Orthodox, she nonetheless observes all holidays, and so does her husband. We traveled abroad several times with the children, but now my husband and I travel alone. We've been to America several times to see our son and we often travel to Prague, which we both like very much.

I still devote myself to art. I think that Petr and I inherited a talent for art from my mother's family and actually from Grandpa Ginz as well. My mother also liked to paint. I drew from my youngest years, in those days I imitated Petr. I have no formal, integral art training. While still in Prague, after the war, I attended evening classes at the School of Applied Arts on Narodni Avenue. In Paris I then attended lectures at the Beaux Arts on an informal basis; I tried to catch what I could here and there. Then beginnings in Israel weren't easy, our finances didn't allow me to register in some art school, we had to work to make ends meet. Despite this, though, I attended various private courses given by various Israeli artists. I also learned artistic printing techniques such as etching, lithography, and finally also a technique that I have actually been using for more than the last ten years and which I have further perfected. This technique consists of the hand-manufacture of my own paper, which I then use for my artistic works. I make beautiful paper from plants that I pick myself and then process. Something similar is known as Japanese paper. Nevertheless, I don't just make paper for paper's sake, but during the manufacturing process I'm already forming a work of art. I give it various shapes, colors, or artistically print or finely draw on the finished paper.

I taught for ten years at the Visual Art Center in Ber Sheva, but it has unfortunately ceased to exist. I became a member of the Artists' Union in Israel. I frequently exhibited in Israel as well as in Europe, also several times in America. A portion of my works is focused on the theme of Shoah. In this respect my most important exhibition took place at the Jewish Museum in Prague, then in Texas at the Houston Holocaust Memorial Museum, then also in Los Angeles, West Hartford and in Providence. This project concerns itself with the story of one house, a villa in the Podoli quarter of Prague, that had belonged to my uncle Karel Levitus and aunt Herma, my father's sister. It was a beautiful, large villa, which we often visited as children and where we very much liked to be. In this exhibition I show and describe the beautiful pre-war idyll and then the arrival of the Germans, who threw my uncle and aunt out of the villa, stole all of their property and sent them on one of the first transports to a concentration camp, where they were murdered. A large, beautiful antique collection, that took up the entire upper floor and which my aunt had inherited from my grandfather the antiques dealer, was stolen and confiscated, and how then after the end of the war the house waited for its original owners to return, which however didn't happen because they were no longer alive. This house only passively watches everything that happens in it. After the Germans the house was occupied by Czechs to whom it had been allocated. Then the villa got into the hands of the Communist regime, which again moved its own people into it. After the fall of this regime the new government wanted to return the house to its original owners, and as their inheritors I and my cousin received a certain amount of compensation for it. But the house keeps living its life even with new residents, however I frequently dream that at night its original owners, my relatives, appear.

Glossary

Alica Gazikova
Bratislava
Slovak Republic
Interviewer: Martin Korcok and Barbora Pokreis
Date of interview: September - October 2005

Mrs. Alica Gazikova is a very obliging and punctilious lady. Her life story is interesting also in the fact that it reveals Jewish life in five Czech- Slovak towns and cities (Pezinok, Bratislava, Zvolen, Banska Bystrica and Brno). Mrs. Gazikova's husband, Albert Gazik, actively participated in the functioning of the Jewish religious community in Bratislava up until his death in 1995.

My family background
My parents
Growing up
Our religious life
My school years
During the war
Post-war
My husband
Our daughters
Glossary

My family background

I can't remember my great-grandparents on my father's side, as even his parents died in the years 1934 and 1935, when I was six years old. My father's parents were named the Adlers and came from Pezinok. My grandfather, Ignac Adler, had a house in the center of town. A part of this house was also his general goods store. The house was very large, for the Adler family was also large: they had nine children. Because they had so many children, my grandma [Anna Adler, nee Berger] was a housewife. Back then women didn't go to work. The first floor of the house had five huge rooms. Besides my grandfather's family there were also two other families living there. On the ground floor there were four rooms for commercial purposes. The house was truly spacious and beautiful. But I remember these things only from recollections of my father, Arnold Adler. That house is currently around 400 years old, and is designated as being of historical importance. It has a very unusual facade. It's been renovated, but unfortunately no longer belongs to our family.

After World War I, as they say, still during the time of the First [Czechoslovak] Republic 1, my father's parents moved from Pezinok to Bratislava. It was on the cusp of the years 1918/1919. One of their daughters, Vilma Sebestyen [nee Adler], whose husband was a veterinarian, moved into their empty apartment. Besides them, a family by the name of Reisner also lived there, who rented the commercial spaces on the ground floor. They had a fabric business. A very poor Jewish family, the Lampls, also lived there. Mrs. Lampl sewed bedding and underwear, and Mr. Lampl made the rounds in surrounding villages and bought up animal skins. An older family, the Friedmanns, also lived there. Old Mr. Friedmann taught children religion.

My grandparents likely moved from Pezinok because my grandmother couldn't get over the fact that during World War I two of her sons [Jozef and Eduard Adler] had died at the front as soldiers. At which front they fell, I unfortunately don't know. That was the first thing, and the second thing was that approximately in the year that they moved there was large-scale looting in the town and their store was looted. So they bought a building in Bratislava, on Lodna Street No. 2, and as they say, they retired there. The building on Lodna Street stands to this day. The commercial space they left behind then fell to my father.

I almost don't remember my grandparents at all, as I've said, I was around six when they died. But for sure they weren't hyper-religious, and my parents weren't that religious either. I'm assuming that their mother tongue was German. Pezinok, otherwise in German Bosing, in Hungarian Bazin, had by my estimate about a 30 percent German population, which by and large concerned itself with cultivation of vineyards. Before World War II, Pezinok also had a very strong Jewish community. But there were also very many poor Jews. The poorer ones were, I'd guess, the more religious. There was also a class of richer ones. So I can say that we belonged to the richer ones.

Jews in Pezinok concerned themselves mainly with business. I'd say that we had the largest store, actually my father and his partner did. It was a store with general goods, that is, with groceries, and was named Adler & Diamant. Besides this retail store we also had a so-called wholesale business. That means that we supplied those groceries to smaller shopkeepers in surrounding towns and villages, and besides this we also had a mill right in the town. Back then they called it an automatic mill. An automatic mill means that it ran on electricity and not water. You know, back then mills were usually run by a water wheel.

My dear father, Arnold Adler, was born on 24th May 1895 in Pezinok, and had eight siblings. The two oldest brothers, Jozef and Eduard, died in World War I. Another of my father's sisters was Aunt Ema Adler, married Weider. She lived in Zilina and had two daughters, Olga and Ilus. Olga married a man by the name of Frankl and had one son, Alex, who was born around 1930. They all moved to England before the Holocaust. Ema's second daughter, Ilus, wasn't married. She lived with her mother in Zilina. In the year 1944 they deported them and they died in Poland.

Another of my father's sisters was named Tereza [Terezia], so Tereza Adler, married name Reichenberg. Her husband was named Bela, and they lived in Dioszeg what is today Sladkovicovo. They had two children. Their son was named Jeno. In 1939, together with his uncle Oskar, another of my father's brothers, he moved to Israel, at that time Palestine. There he married Edith and they have a son, Micki. He was born in 1944. Tereza's daughter was named Grete. Grete married a man named Klein. They had two children. They all died in concentration camps, their parents Tereza and Bela Reichenberg as well.

My father's sister Vilma had a husband named David Sebestyen, who was a veterinarian in Pezinok. Later they lived in Bratislava, and right before the deportations, in Zilina. They had two children. Lilly married Stefan Frankl. Her husband comes from Zilina. Lilly and her husband survived the war and in 1946 they had a daughter, Zuzka [Zuzana], who after graduating from high school moved to England. There she married a Czech by the name of Nesvadba. Lilly died in around the year 1988 in Zilina. Vilma's son was named Pavel. During the war they caught him together with his parents at the Zilina train station. From there they deported them somewhere. None of them survived the war.

Another of my father's brothers was named Richard Adler. His wife was named Malvina, nee Quittova. They had one daughter, Bozsi. When the Hitler era began, they sent her as a young girl to England, where she survived the war. She married a man by the name of Roubicek, by origin a Czech Jew. After the war they returned to Prague and had a son, Franta. After the Communist coup in Czechoslovakia, in the year 1948 [see February 1948] 2, they returned to England. After the death of Roubicek, her husband, Bozsi married a widower by the name of Seelig in Israel. She currently lives partly in Israel and partly with her son in England. Bozsi's parents, Richard and Malvina, died during the Holocaust.

Another of my father's brothers was Rudolf Adler. He was born around the year 1898. During World War II he lived in Sladkovicovo and Nove Zamky. During this time he married a widow by the name of Ella, nee Reichard or Reinhard. Ella had a son, Tomas, from her first marriage. Together with the little boy she died in a concentration camp. Rudolf, or Rudi, got married for a second time in Zilina, around 1947, to Erna. Erna was from Poland and came to Zilina because of her brother-in-law, Pista [Stefan] Braun. Rudi died in 1973 and Erna in 1988 or 1989.

The last of my father's brothers was named Oskar Adler. Before World War II he lived for a long time in Germany. After the year 1933, when Hitler seized power, he came to Bratislava. In 1939 he left for Israel with his nephew, Jeno Reichenberg, where he lived up until his death. He married Ruth, who moved there still before the war with her aunt. They had no children.

My mother came from the Baumhorn family. My grandfather was named Bertalan Baumhorn, and was from Zilina, from a well-known family of bakers. He was born on 26th October 1867. People in the town still remember the family to this day. My grandmother was named Paula Baumhorn, nee Neudorfer. She was born on 11th June 1873. I'm not sure where exactly she was from, I think from Kezmarok. They settled in Zilina. My grandfather died on 22nd October 1904 at the age of 37, he was still very young. My grandmother became a widow with three children. As she didn't have a house of her own, she had to sell her husband's store. She put the money in the bank and lived off the interest. But my grandfather's family helped her a lot. So you could say that she and the three children lived modestly, but decently.

My grandmother was a person whom I loved perhaps most of all. And I can say, though it's unusual, that I put her in first place. No, the first place during my childhood years belongs to my father, then my grandmother, and only then my mother after her. Because my grandmother was fantastic. For the times she was a very wise, progressive and modern woman. I remember how she would discuss politics with my father. She had a fantastic rapport with children. She was simply fantastic. For example, I never wanted to eat soup, and she knew how to go at it with me. She would say, you don't have to eat, just taste it, and so she slowly taught me to eat everything. I was picky, but she changed me in this way that was acceptable to me.

Because we lived in Pezinok and my grandmother in Zilina, we couldn't visit each other often. But I think it was in 1934, when she moved to Bratislava, to live with her son Pavel, who was still unmarried at the time. During that time I visited her often. I spent my summer vacation with her, and she would teach me how to make preserves. She was simply an exceptional homemaker and very punctilious. She was everything to me.

My mother lived with my grandma in Zilina until she married my father and moved to Pezinok. My mother was born on 29th June 1899. As I've already mentioned, she had two siblings. Her sister was named Erzsi [Alzbeta Baumhorn]. She was born around the year 1895 and died very young, at the age of seventeen, of tuberculosis. She got it from some infected boy.

My mother's brother was named Pavel Baumhorn. He was born on 2nd October 1902 in Zilina. In 1937 he married Eva, nee Schwarz, from Pezinok. They lived in Bratislava and had a daughter named Viera. But they called her Junta. She was born in 1938. My mother's brother inherited half of a carbon dioxide factory in Bratislava from some uncle. He then ran the office in that factory. In 1944 they sent the entire family, together with my grandma, who lived with them, to the Auschwitz concentration camp. When they were conducting the selection, with women and children to one side, my grandmother took the child and thus saved the bride. That bride is still alive today: she's 88 years old and lives in Bratislava. My uncle's death was later described to us by one of his fellow prisoners. Before the war he weighed about 100 kilos, well, and in the concentration camp he shrank down to 50. He died during the transfers from one camp to another in a freight train. Besides Aunt Eva, who was born on 6th December 1917, they all died.

My father was born in Pezinok. He graduated from a two-year business school, likely in Bratislava, as there was no school like that in Pezinok before World War I. My father attended German schools, as his mother tongue was German, but he also spoke Hungarian and Slovak. Well, and my mother, though she lived in Zilina, attended Hungarian schools. I and my brother [Juraj Adler] spoke Slovak with our parents, but what language we spoke with my father's parents, that I don't remember any more.

My parents

My parents met each other in Pezinok. My mother's uncle, Mr. Neudorfer, worked in a brick factory in Pezinok, which in those days was a classy business. He had a beautiful company apartment there, and my mother would go visit him. That's where she met my father. They were married on 29th June 1922 in Zilina, as that's where my mother was from. I'm assuming that it was in the synagogue courtyard, but I don't know for sure, as my mother wasn't at all religious. In Zilina there was a large modern Neolog 3 community. Pezinok had an Orthodox 4 one. So my grandmother's family from Zilina didn't keep kosher. Because my mother moved to Pezinok, where there was an Orthodox community, she had to adapt. So we therefore kept kosher at home.

My father owned a store, several warehouses and a mill, together with his partner, Mr. Moric Diamant. They worked from morning till evening. Besides this, one day a week my father would make the rounds in surrounding towns like for example Svaty Jur, Raca, then still Racisdorff, and take orders from smaller merchants. Then they would deliver it all to them. Besides this they also had a small truck, a 1 1/2 ton Chevrolet, with which they would distribute the ordered goods. They of course employed a driver, and also an assistant driver. My mother and Mr. Diamond's wife, Frida, worked in the store itself. They were, as they say, the ladies behind the counter. They served customers, everything was still hand-wrapped back then, there weren't any packaged foods. Flour also had to be weighed. They were in that store from morning till evening. Besides them there was also one journeyman in the store. They also employed people at the mill. I don't know exactly how many of them there were. But they didn't pick workers only from among Jews.

Mr. Diamant also had a brother in Pezinok. He actually came to live there because of his brother. The Diamant brothers were from a very numerous family. They came from a village near Topolcany named Oponice. Here they made friends with my father and agreed among themselves that they'd reopen the store that my father's father had left him. Diamant had some money, my father had no money but an empty store. So they went into business together. They divided the responsibilities, and there was 100 percent trust between them.

Mr. Moric Diamant had a very unusual relationship with my father. They weren't related, they were only friends. We shared everything with the Diamants. The store was shared, the house was shared. Everything was shared, like for example coal, wood... Everyone took what groceries they needed from the store. Simply put, perhaps not even the best family lived like we did. We had everything half and half. The Diamants had three children: two daughters, Gerta and Liana, and a son, Zigmund.

My father, if I'm to be objective, as far as is possible, was the most fantastic person. I loved him terribly. He was very just. He had not even a speck of animosity in him. He was very tolerant and kind-hearted. I can't tell you anything specific about his political opinions. I do know, though, that my father was the only one of the siblings who didn't serve in the army. Because he took care of supplying the army, he was exempted from army service. I didn't like my mother as much. What I can say about her is that that she was a very good homemaker. She loved that store, it was everything to her. Simply put, she was completely absorbed by that store. Our household was very well-run and everything was in the utmost order. Nothing was wasted. And the only thing that I felt was that she liked my brother more than me. She didn't even hide it very much.

Growing up

My brother was named Juraj Adler and was born on 14th June 1923, in Bratislava. Five years later, on 4th February 1928, I, Alica Gazikova, nee Adlerova, was born. I was also born in Bratislava, on Telocvicna Street, at that time Zochova, but only because Pezinok had no maternity hospital and my mother didn't want to give birth at home. It was a small, private maternity clinic.

We lived in Pezinok, where my parents bought a house together with the Diamants. It stood across from a church and at one time there had been a restaurant in it. My parents renovated it a bit. We had a four and a half room apartment. Huge rooms. The dining room had Jugendstil furniture. Jugendstil, that's Art Nouveau. There was also a piano in the dining room. Then there was our parents' bedroom, that was the second room. The third room was our children's bedroom. We children together with a young lady, our governess, lived and slept in the largest, the children's room, which had at least 7 x 5 meters, two windows and two large double doors. One set led into the hallway and the second into our parents' bedroom. The furniture was white with black trim. Also Jugendstil. The most beautiful was the stove, a so-called American one, with little slate windows at the front and sides. Heating with them was very complicated, so that's why our parents exchanged it for a normal cast-iron one. So much for romance. When the lights went out, and only the little slate windows were shining, our governess would tell us a tale, or about some event in her life. It was amazing to see that stove, or actually oven. It was very valuable. More than one nouveau-rich type would have liked to have such a thing in his multi-million crown house. The fourth room had a radio and an armchair. Then there was a huge kitchen, and one more small room where the cook slept. Besides the cook we also had a governess who slept with us in the children's room.

We had several governesses. The last one was from Opava. She graduated from a school, the kind that today nursery-school teachers attend. She was even from a very good family. Her father was a judge. His wife died, however, so she was a half-orphan. She was German, but not a Fascist. She was named Mitzi, but I don't know her surname. She took care of us, the children, and our upbringing. She slept with us, took us for walks, taught me handicrafts and so on. We had a good relationship with her. Then we also had a cook that cooked and cleaned. There was a certain rivalry between them. Because the young lady, she thought herself to be a little better, and the cook as something a little less.

We also went through several cooks, so that's why I don't remember them all that well any more. But I'll tell you the truth, that with us, as they say, they had it good. My mother was very generous to them. For example at Christmas, they would go home, and would always get a large bundle. Normally my mother would buy for them, if they were single, things for their trousseau: clothes, dishcloths and so on. So they had it very good with us. They could eat as much as they wanted and weren't limited in any way. In this respect there was no problem at our place. But they didn't eat with us. When they finished their work during the week, they could go out, and on Sunday they had time off.

Our religious life

We observed holidays in our family. But what for example my father very much regretted was that the store wasn't closed on Saturday. Normally, one would, as they say, 'fool' God, and that in a manner that the store was for all appearances closed, but things would be sold underneath the gate. And when the persecutions during the time of the Slovak State 5 arrived, he regretted that very much, because one way or another he lost everything anyways. My parents of course attended the synagogue. Father went on Friday evening, Saturday morning and on holidays. But normally during the day my father didn't cover his head. Jews have a custom that women attend the synagogue only on the high holidays. So my mother went only on those occasions. Sabbath was never observed much in our family. Only in that beforehand barkhes were baked, and our father, upon returning from the synagogue, would recite the Kiddush. For Saturday we would also prepare chulent, which would be taken across the street to the baker's, and on Saturday we would pick it up. Otherwise, my brother and I attended a public school, where there were classes on Saturday as well. That day we would go to school as usual, but we had an exception, we didn't have to write and draw.

I myself liked Passover the best, that was a holiday for me. It's a spring holiday, so I would usually also get new clothes. During this holiday you also have to change dishes. During this holiday you aren't allowed to eat leavened foods and bread is replaced by matzot. In the evening the entire family sits down at the seder table, which is set according to strict rules and those present speak about the significance of the Passover holiday. Back then schnorrers [beggar, the Yiddish term shnoder means 'to contribute'] from Poland would also come by, but they wouldn't sit down at our table. We weren't kosher enough for them: although we did have two separate cupboards in the kitchen, one for dairy products and the second for meat. We bought kosher meat, but even so we weren't kosher enough for them. Most of the time they would go into the store, and there my mother would wrap something up for them. I of course didn't participate in the housecleaning before the holiday. For Yom Kippur we of course fasted. Our parents were in the synagogue the whole day and we as children would also attend.

There was only one Orthodox synagogue in town. During the holidays you definitely had to pay for a place in it. That was like it is now. There was also a religious tax. That was set according to one's earnings. They knew people's income and it was according to that. We, of course, belonged to the richer ones. So we also paid a higher tax. But you understand, you have to take into consideration, that I really can't remember how much it was. Our rabbi was named Dr. Jozef Schill. He had a PhD. in theology. Otherwise his name is also engraved in the Jewish Museum [Editor's note: one of the rooms in the Museum of Jewish Culture in Bratislava serves as a Holocaust memorial room. One of its walls has a list of names of all rabbis from the territory of today's Slovak Republic that were murdered during the Shoah]. Now, he was religious to the point of bigotry. He was exceptionally, exceptionally religious and very poor. They had six children. One very handicapped child, it had the so-called English disease [English disease, or rickets: caused by a deficiency of Vitamin D, is a disease specific to childhood. Food intake can be a factor in its occurrence - insufficient intake of Vitamin D and also calcium and phosphorus]. Back then it was simply a disease caused by a lack of proper food and unhealthy living conditions. I think that he had three daughters and three sons.

One of his daughters was self-taught. She even prepared my brother for his bar mitzvah, which was unusual, for a woman to do this. She knew both spoken and written Hebrew. She taught me as well, but languages. At first German grammar, back then still in Schwabisch [Old German, or Suetterlin] script. To this day I can still write in Schwabisch. Last of all, she was also teaching herself English. One day a week she would come over to our place and give me English lessons. So those were my foundations of English. As well, one day a week I would have German with her. For that I would for a change go to her place. In this fashion she earned a few extra crowns.

I remember my brother's bar mitzvah very well. It was a grand event, a little humorous as well, Juro's [Juraj] bar mitzvah was. If I remember correctly, it was on 14th June in the year 1936, at least the closest Saturday to that date. As far as the religious aspects of this event was concerned, that was prepared by the daughter of the rabbi, Dr. Jozef Schill. I was eight years old at the time, but I remember everything. Of course this event couldn't take place in just any old way, the only son of Mr. Adler, not the poorest Jew in town, was having his bar mitzvah! In order for everything to be as it should, our entire huge apartment was repainted. The windowsills were painted, the apartment was renovated and furniture purchased. I know that we also bought new curtains and a modern writing desk. We used to call the living room the 'Radio-Zimmer' [German for 'radio-room'] in those days because it had a radio. Paradoxically, the living room was the smallest room.

So I'll return to the bar mitzvah. Now came the dilemma as to who to invite to this magnificent celebration. In the end they emptied out our huge children's room. In it were nothing but tables and chairs for about thirty or more people. The selection was very difficult, in the end it was announced in the synagogue that everyone's invited. The large shelves in the pantry were filled with cakes, barkhes and so on. On the evening before the big day the back then still numerous family got together for a celebratory supper. The culmination of the evening was a swan made of parfait, that's what today's ice cream was called. They brought it in a box packed with ice all the way from Bratislava, from some fancy restaurant. I can't remember its name. In any event it doesn't exist any more today. I didn't have anything of that delicacy, they sent me to bed early and in the morning it was all gone. Not everyone who came touched their food, because for some we weren't kosher enough. The next day my mother sent to those, who were mostly the devout poor, an envelope with money. The rabbi Dr. Jozef Schill also came. And for this reason he didn't even touch a glass of water.

In connection with this event there was suddenly a problem with Juro's clothing. Up to this time he had never had long pants. And because a bar mitzvah is supposed to show a man who has the obligation to uphold religious customs, his clothing was also supposed to be appropriate, that is, covering his body. Up to then in the winter he had mainly worn knee breeches together with stockings. But this also wasn't appropriate, because it was sports clothing, not suited to the occasion. In the end he had a dark-blue suit, but with short pants after all. God probably didn't care one way or the other, and the rabbi looked the other way.

We had good relations with the people in town. In the house that we lived in also lived the Diamant family. Besides this, in the back in our courtyard there was this tiny little apartment. Poorer Jews used to live in it. On one side of our house we had no neighbors, and on the other we did, they were old maids, teachers. All of them were German, but in those days that wasn't a problem. But there was no time for big friendships, because my parents were fully occupied. The closest family relations that my parents kept up was with the Sebestyen family, who lived in my grandparents' original house, as I've described. That was my mother's sister-in-law, my father's sister. Then my mother and her brother, Pavel, who had moved to Bratislava, were in touch. My father also had in those days two unmarried brothers, Rudolf and Oskar, who used to come visit us. So the family would meet up.

Our vacations were very limited, as my parents didn't have time for vacations. In those days it wasn't really the custom. When we did go, it was usually only with my mother. I remember only one vacation, when we were in Luhacovice [the spa town of Luhacovice lies in the southeastern part of the Czech Republic]. Back then people didn't go on vacation much.

My school years

My brother and I never attended nursery school. We had an educated governess. We'd go to the park with her, and when I grew up a bit, she taught me handicrafts. I began attending a Slovak public school. I started school in the year 1934. Now that was a big dilemma. In that single school building there was one German class and three Slovak classes. By this I mean first grade classes, and because I had a German governess, I spoke better German than Slovak. But in those days Fascism had already begun, so my parents immediately refused it and put me into a Slovak classroom. I don't want to boast, but I was a good student and I loved all subjects equally. We had an excellent teacher, Mrs. Maria Bencurikova. In the second grade Mrs. Bencurikova left to become a nun, and after the second grade we got this one teacher. He was actually a Czech by origin, or a Moravian, and knew how to draw beautifully. He was named Komanec. He was a fantastic teacher. I remember that he drew something very nice for me in my diary, which I no longer have.

When I was already attending school, my mother signed me up for piano lessons. My mother brought to the marriage one large piece of furniture, and that was a Viennese Bosendorf piano. I'm not familiar with the brands of those days, but it was really a first-class brand. The piano stood in our dining room. It was a large, black grand piano, its top decorated with golden lines and moreover decorated with beautiful mother of pearl. When the lid was lifted, inside there were wooden parts like for example a music stand and also flat candleholders that slid out, made out of beautiful white sanded, not painted, wood. At one time my mother's sister had played on the piano, and my mother a little as well. I rarely saw her play though, and for many years her fingers didn't even touch the piano.

But since there was a piano, and a daughter, me that is, it was necessary for it to once again be played. A piano tuner was called in, as I later learned, it was never possible to properly tune the piano, so even back then there used to be lemons. They took me to see Miss Edita Mikulikova, a piano teacher. Pezinok had no music school. Miss Mikulikova was an old maid. She lived with her mother, and her father had at one time been the mayor of Pezinok. She wore horrible hats and always had a bow tied under her chin. She had quite a few students. I don't even know whether besides her there was anyone else in Pezinok that taught piano. They bought me Bayer, that was beginner's music for piano. Then followed Cerny I and Cerny II and I began to learn. Back then it wasn't the custom to take off your shoes, there [at Miss Mikulikova's] you had to take off your shoes or galoshes, as the kids would have brought in tons of mud. Her mother, Mrs. Mikulikova, had the biggest joy not from the students' success, but when she could slander a student that had just left. The furniture was terribly old-fashioned, but covered in white sheets, mainly the upholstered parts, so that the sun wouldn't fade them. When a fly buzzed by, Miss Mikulikova would jump up, leave the piano be until she caught the fly and then stuck it into a flower pot. Apparently flies make good fertilizer.

OK, I've gotten a bit off track. I plinked, I plunked, but besides taking piano lessons, it was also necessary to practice. During the summer and fall everything was fine. My musical successes weren't above average, but beginnings were the same with everyone, so I didn't really stick out much in any negative fashion. As much as our piano stood in the dining room, which wasn't heated, and heating it just because of my playing the piano would have been exceptionally unprofitable, my musical career was put to an end. Miss Mikulikova was so angry at me, that when after the termination of our teacher-student relationship I met her on the street and said 'hello ma'am,' she didn't answer and sailed off in front of me with her chin in the air. That's how I ended up. And how did the piano end up? In the year 1952, when we were moving from Pezinok to Bratislava into a small two and a half room apartment at 47 Cervene Armady Street, before that and later Grossling Street, the piano wasn't moved, as it would not have fit into the small apartment here in Bratislava. My parents sold the piano for 4,500 crowns. A year later there was a drastic currency reform 6. Currency was exchanged at a ratio of 1:50, only regular savings deposits were changed at 1:5. So out of 4,500 crowns for the piano we ended up with, if I'm counting correctly, 90 crowns.

Anti-Jewish laws [see Jewish Codex] 7 began to appear when I had finished the fifth grade of elementary school. I went into the first year of council school, that was still normal. It was the year 1940 and then I commenced my second year of council school, and two weeks after the beginning of the school year they threw us out of there. In one word they told us that students of Jewish origin weren't allowed to attend. What did we do after that? The parents in Pezinok simply got together and found a teacher in Bratislava who commuted daily. He taught all the Jewish children from first up to eighth grade. Once every three months we then went to Zochova Street in Bratislava, where there was a Jewish school. There we wrote exams. This is how I studied for two years: seventh and eighth grade. What came after that, that's a different story.

During the war

In 1942 I got into a Protestant boarding school in Modra. That was already illegal. After I finished the eighth grade I was 14 years old. My parents arranged for me to be accepted into that Protestant boarding school. They accepted more of us Jewish girls, under the condition that we become Protestants. Since I wasn't, they quickly christened me and I spent two years in that boarding school, where they treated us well. There were about 20 of us Jewish girls there. That is, some of us left and there were also those that arrived. It was all organized by the local Protestant minister in those days, Mr. Julius Derer. He was the administrator of the boarding school. We attended school normally. The residence was on the upper floors, and the school was below on the ground floor. We of course couldn't move about outside of the boarding school. We couldn't show ourselves very much and communicate with the outside world. Not even any visits. We were hidden away there, but within the confines of the boarding school we moved about, were fed, studied. And we even got a report card.

For the two years I was at the boarding school, my parents stayed in Pezinok. My father had an exception, which protected him. [Editor's note: during the time of the Slovak State, there was a so-called Presidential Exception 8 and the Economically Important Jew exception; those were given to Jews performing work activities that weren't easily replaced. The father of the interviewee fell under the second of the aforementioned exceptions.] And you could say that we also had a decent Aryanizer [Aryanization - the transfer of Jewish stores, firms, companies, etc., into the ownership of another person (Aryanizer)]. What I can tell you about the Aryanizer is that he was named Jozko Slimak. His wife was a teacher. The strange thing was that she had some sort of Jewish origin, which no one knew about. Despite this, he was the decent one and she was quite devious. Well, she constantly wanted money and more money. But Mr. Slimak behaved decently. As an Aryanizer he had a quite difficult position in that every Aryanizer was allowed to take one of the former owners as an adviser, that is, one Jew. Here though there were two, because my father and Mr. Diamant were partners. Mr. Slimak didn't want to do either my father or Mr. Diamant any harm, and juggling between those two wasn't that easy. But how he managed to hold on to both of them, I don't know.

When I left the boarding school in 1944, my mother was very farsighted. She arranged a hiding place for our entire family in Pezinok with Mr. and Mrs. Zaruba. First we were hidden away in a room. One day they summoned Mr. Zaruba, the reason being that he and his wife live alone, childless, and have a two and a half room house. They needed to place a German officer with them. He didn't protest, so the German officer was moved into the room that we had been hiding in, and he moved us into the cellar. He was so generous that he didn't throw us out. So the German officer lived above us and we below him in the cellar. On the one hand, it was very secure, in that it would never have occurred to anyone that there could be Jews hiding where a German officer is. You can imagine that it was all very complicated and in the end he was fantastic that he didn't throw us our and hid us until the last moment: until the end of the war. Then we started to have bad luck. That's a story all in itself. A week before the liberation of Pezinok we had to leave there and in the end we found a safe haven in Pezinska Baba. One day there were still Germans there, and the next day the Red Army arrived, who liberated us.

Post-war

The fact that we had to abandon our hiding place a week before the liberation is a very complicated affair. The parents of Mr. Zaruba, with whom we were hidden away, lived in a neighboring village. And they were also hiding Jews, by coincidence our partners, the Diamants. We didn't know that they were there, and they didn't know about us. The son didn't know that his parents were hiding someone, and the parents didn't know that their son was hiding someone. His parents had a store in that village, a pub, fields and cows. Once, by coincidence, a German woman from Pezinok came to them for milk and saw the Diamants. She right away went and turned them in. The parents and children were hidden there. As soon as she informed on them, they came for them. One little girl was on the toilet at the time and the parents didn't say, "You know, we've also got a daughter." And that little girl was brought here by another of old Mr. Zaruba's sons. The man that was hiding us expected though, that when they discovered that there's a little girl missing, they'd go looking for her at his place. During the night Zaruba had to eliminate all signs of our hiding place. We had to leave. Mr. Zaruba loaded us into a car and drove us up to Pezinska Baba. There, there was this one cabin-dweller, Mr. Ossko. We knew him, as he used to shop in our store in Pezinok. He let us stay with him up until the liberation. They took the Diamants together with their son to Terezin 9. That was already near the end of the war, so they were in Terezin for only a very short time. They all survived. Their little girl Lianka and son Zigmund to this day live in Israel.

Zigo [Zigmund] Diamant was a very good friend of mine. We were friends from childhood and were better friends than when two girls or two boys are friends. He lived in the same house and we had a huge garden, and he was this 'thinker-upper'. He was always thinking something up. Even though his parents were quite religious, Zigo was modern. He liked hiking and camping. He could draw very well. After World War II he went to Banska Stiavnice to study at a school specializing in the timber industry. In 1949, after he graduated, their entire family emigrated to Israel. There he got a university education. In Tel Aviv he had an office with another friend, originally I think from Austria. They were interior architects and mostly did the interior design of buildings. For example they also worked on the Tel Aviv airport. Today he lives in Natania, near the sea.

The way we ended up at the Zarubas' place was that his parents had a store in Kocisdorf, today Vinosady. My father and Mr. Diamant supplied their store with goods. So somehow in this fashion we ended up with them. The Diamants ended up with his parents in a similar fashion. Everything happened independently, so that one didn't know about the other. I can even say that not even my mother's brother, not even her family, knew where we were. For the fact that they hid us, that family has also been registered among the Righteous Among The Nations. [Editor's note: the title Righteous Among The Nations is granted by Yad Vashem to people of non-Jewish origins that during World War II saved or helped save Jews.] Mrs. Zarubova was at that time only a year older than me. She still lives in Pezinok. We still communicate with each other, phone each other, visit. They saved us in very dramatic circumstances.

It's hard to say how many members of the Jewish community survived the war. My estimate is about ten percent. In 1949, well, that's only what I think, a wave of emigrations began. Whether the government gave people that wanted to leave problems, I don't know. I only know that when someone wanted to go to America, he needed a letter of invitation from there. That means that his family or friends that already lived there guaranteed that they'd take care of him financially and so on; basically that the person that's arriving won't become a burden on the state and won't ask for any government support. My best friend was named Magda Sproncova, now Gross. She lives in Israel, in Haifa. I keep in touch with her via letters and the phone. I also went to visit her, and by coincidence she had married a Pezinokian, who she maybe didn't even know before. He left for Israel with his parents already in 1939. She went there in 1949, first she was in a kibbutz for a year and then her parents and brother also arrived and he lives there to this day. Their parents have already died, but her brother lives there.

Luckily my parents survived the war, and my brother as well. At that time I was 17. We returned to our original apartment, where only a couple of things remained. Everything had been stolen, and I'll tell you, we started anew. My first concern was school. There was a commerce school in Pezinok, so I immediately registered. My classmates were already in second year, so I tried to as quickly as possible to learn what I had missed. I managed it, and in September 1945 I wrote the entrance exams and was accepted into second year. In those days commerce school had two years.

My parents once again began to do business in the store, together with their partner, Mr. Diamant. It was more or less distribution, for example of flour and sugar. We had warehouse space and so began to supply smaller stores with goods, flour, sugar and so on. They rented vehicles and that's how the goods were distributed. Later they nationalized it [see Nationalization in Czechoslovakia] 10 and in its place opened a Mototechna. [Editor's note: state-owned company with headquarters in Prague, founded in 1949; buys, sells and repairs motor vehicles and accessories.] My father then worked in it. His partner, Mr. Diamant, with whom he as they say cooperated, left with his family in 1949 for Israel. My brother got a job in Bratislava at the Gestadtner firm. Maybe it was a German company, or maybe a Jewish one, I don't know. They concerned themselves with copy machines and copy technology. My mother was a housewife.

My parents also intended to move to Israel. When my father's partner left in 1949, I know that we already had made a list of our clothing. At that time Pezinok fell under Trnava, there was some government office there, and I know that they even certified that list of clothing there. To this day I don't know why we didn't leave for Israel. It's hard to say whether I regretted it at the time. I began to regret it much later, really. Not until 1990, when I was in Israel for the first time, and met up with that girlfriend of mine, Magda. It was quite a bit later.

In 1952 we moved from Pezinok to Bratislava. We lived on Grosslingova Street. Later it was renamed to Ceskoslovenske Armady Street [Czechoslovak Army Street], and today it's once again Grosslingova. My father worked for Mototechna. Mototechna had a store in the Royko Passage, where they sold bicycles, sewing machines, and he worked there as the manager. My mother was at home, but here and there helped my father out in the store, because she enjoyed it.

My husband

I met my husband-to-be [Albert Gazik, born Gansel] by complete chance. At that time I was working at the Ministry of Food Industries on Vajanske Nabrezi, now the Tatrabanka bank is located there. He came there to see some colleague of mine on a work-related matter, she wasn't there and I was filling in for her, and that's how we met. My husband was of Jewish origin, but I don't know if that was a deciding factor in our relationship. Well, maybe there was some sympathy due to that. We had our wedding in Bratislava in an Orthodox synagogue on Heydukova Street on 9th September 1954. At that time there was still this one rabbi here, by the name of Izidor Katz. He later left to go abroad somewhere. The way it was in those days was that you first had to have a civil wedding, which was at the Town Hall, and then on the same day in the synagogue, the clerical wedding. Our wedding reception was at the Carlton Hotel. There weren't a lot of guests, 21 I think.

My husband's father was named Armin Herman Gansel and his mother Zaneta Ganselova, nee Reif. He also had a brother, named Jozef. Their family lived in Banska Bystrica. During the war Bystrica was the center of the uprising. My husband and his brother joined as soldiers of the Czechoslovak Army. They weren't partisans, but soldiers. As soldiers they captured them during the night in one cabin, I think that the place was named Kozi Chrbat. It was a cabin in the mountains. Someone betrayed them to the Germans, and they attacked them during the night, captured them and took them away into captivity. They were somewhere in Germany. My husband's brother was two or three years younger and wasn't as physically strong. He didn't survive captivity. My husband was very strong. My husband's parents survived the war hidden in the mountains somewhere, under very dramatic conditions, as it was horribly cold and they bore it very badly.

In my husband's family Jewish traditions were kept up quite a bit, as my husband's parents were from devout families. My father-in-law came from around Komarno and my husband's mother was from Topolciany. Before the war Topolciany had a very strong, devout Jewish community. After the war, though, they abandoned keeping kosher, but they observed all the holidays.

After our wedding, in 1954, my husband and I settled in Zvolen, as my husband was from Banska Bystrica and at that time worked in Zvolen. I found a job at the Central Slovakia Poultry company in Zvolen, and I was there for thirteen years, and for thirteen years we lived in Zvolen. I worked in the same place the whole time. It was a relatively prosperous company. It had plants outside of Zvolen as well. We served as the company directorate, and at one time I was the sales manager and then supply manager. I never became a member of the Communist Party [of Czechoslovakia (KSC)] 11. I was only in the ROH 12. My husband had to be in the Party, but not due to his convictions. His father was according to the views of the time a wholesaler, so my husband had to compensate for it somehow. Otherwise he would have had big problems finding work.

In the year 1956 my husband and I changed our name. Before, my husband had been named Gansel, and he changed it to Gazik. I became Gazikova. At that time I was expecting our first daughter, and that's how we decided. It was, as they say, in fashion. But I always said at work, but also everywhere else as well, that I'm of Jewish origin. I never hid it in any way. According to me that's the worst that can be, because in the end, they would have found out about it anyways. I always had good friends and they didn't make any exceptions, neither at work nor anywhere else. During that period, mainly in Zvolen, I didn't perceive anything. That's why I said in Zvolen, because you know, in a small town people aren't as rotten as in a big city.

In Zvolen in those days there was a small Jewish community. They were mainly older people. My husband and I used to go visit them. We associated with them, but otherwise, I can tell you, there were five families there. Older than we were, even then. Maybe only one younger couple and that was all. So basically one can't talk about some sort of Jewish community functioning in Zvolen after the war. In this environment we didn't observe holidays, only among ourselves in the family, but officially it wasn't possible. You know, at that time you had to also go to work. The community didn't even gather for holidays like Yom Kippur. Close to Zvolen lies Banska Bystrica, where there was a Jewish community, and a prayer hall. My husband's parents were also there, but we didn't go visit them for the holidays much either. My parents in Bratislava didn't keep kosher, but they did attend the synagogue and also observed the holidays.

My older daughter Eva was born exactly two years after our wedding [1956]. She was born in Bratislava. I went to Bratislava to give birth, because my parents lived there and I was with them for two months after giving birth, with the little one. Then we returned to Zvolen. My second daughter wasn't born until seven years later [1963] in Zvolen. I was on maternity leave for three and a half months both during the first and the second child. Back then that's how it was. Maternity leave was four and a half months. Of that one month could be taken before and three and a half after giving birth. In those days the job situation in Zvolen was so bad that no one dared extend it. So when one and then the other was three and a half months old, I went to work and left the child with a lady who was a complete stranger. I didn't have any family in Zvolen, so I had to find someone to take care of the children. But they took good care of them for me. Everything was fine.

My parents and brother, who lived in Bratislava, tried hard to get me to move there. But first my husband had to find work in the city. By coincidence one of his former colleagues roped him in to work with him in Bratislava. At that time they were putting together the head office of the Prior department stores. That colleague was a deputy, and he also promised him an apartment. Though a co-op one, the kind they were building in those days. That company, that is, those department stores, had four co-op apartments at their disposal. So an apartment had also been secured, as well as work. In 1967 we moved from Zvolen to Bratislava. My husband worked at the head office until he retired. As a pensioner he then worked in the administration of the Jewish Religious Community in Bratislava at 18 Kozej Street. For example he took care of kosher meat and its distribution. He issued documents when someone died and so on. He worked there until his death in the year 1995.

I have to say though, that life in Zvolen was quite good, though boring. Very quickly I found friends there. We would always spice things up a bit by going to Sliac. [Editor's note: the spa town of Sliac is in central Slovakia, in the Zvolen district. In 1970 it had 3286 inhabitants.] It was only a couple of kilometers away. We had beautiful walks with the children in Sliac. Then, in the Hotel Palac, there was a so-called 'tea at five,' though it was at 4 o'clock, and children could eat there too. So my husband and I would dance a bit there. My husband loved to dance very much. Later they built a chalet there. They had haluszky with bryndza [haluszky are somewhat similar to potato gnocchi, and are usually served with bryndza, a creamy sheep cheese] and the children chased each other about there. It was simply a beautiful place. During summer vacation we would go on holidays around Czechoslovakia. They were those advantageous ROH recreational activities. So we were for example for cultural recreation in Prague, all ROH. We were in the Krkonose Mountains, we were in Marianske Lazne [Marienbad] 13 around two or three times. In fact even for our honeymoon in 1954 we went on a ROH trip to Marianske Lazne.

My husband and I used to attend the theater. He had many friends. You know, I wasn't, as they say, the coffee-shop type. For example, later, when we were already living in Bratislava, my husband would meet every Sunday morning with friends at the Hotel Devin. We didn't choose our friends from only Jewish circles. We had both those, and others. Religion didn't matter. We had friends from work, from childhood. It was a mixed group.

During totalitarian times we didn't go abroad much. The first time I went abroad was to Balaton, around the year 1958. I was the ROH treasurer and as a bonus I got a holiday at Balaton. Once we were with our friends, that was probably in 1966, in Vienna, but for only about three days. The car we drove belonged to our friends. At that time we didn't have a car. They had this Skoda and they were these terribly meticulous people. They had everything planned out in advance. They also planned that trip to Austria, to Vienna. In the evening we went for a walk around Vienna and suddenly we came up to one display window that measured at least three meters. It was 10pm and the display window was full, full of gold, I don't know, rings, chains, and so on. When I got home, I pinched myself, whether I had been dreaming, or if it was true that such a thing existed. Because here, in those days, if a jewelers' got even one little pendant, people queued up. That's how it was, it's ridiculous, but it's true.

As I've mentioned, by husband's parents lived in Banska Bystrica. Around 1952 or 1953, I can't tell you exactly, there was this campaign, that they moved richer people, or people that had once been business owners, out of their own apartments or houses. During 48 hours they had to abandon their own house. This also happened to my in-laws. They had to abandon their own house and they moved them to Spania Dolina. Into horrible, horrible conditions. I can't be described. Into this one horrible house. A wet, moldy one. It had a kitchen and one room. But they had to live on something, so my father-in-law, that was during the time I was getting married, so in 1954, did shift work in the Harmanec paper mill. He didn't have a demanding job. He was in some electrical room and recorded from some gauges how much electricity was being used. But he had to do shift work, at night as well, and so on. What was also horrible, my husband's mother took the death of her son very hard, the one that hadn't returned from captivity. She had serious psychological problems because of it. My husband's mother died on 4th February 1967. They buried her in Banska Bystrica in an Orthodox cemetery.

In Banska Bystrica, a few months after the death of his wife, my husband's father met a former, very rich, resident of Bystrica, who before the war had owned a big distillery. He was named Lowy and he convinced him, which we didn't find out until later, to go to Brno, that there's a Jewish old age home there. He told him how fantastic it was there. That he'd even have kosher food. That he could even bring his own furniture. In Brno he'd be able to live a religious life, because there was a decent Jewish community there. Imagine that my father-in-law moved away without saying one word to us. In the meantime we had been looking for an apartment in Bratislava for him, because he wanted to be independent. Some one-room apartment, however with central heating. Well, you know, in those days it wasn't that easy. Back then you couldn't find an apartment just like that, like today. My father-in-law, without telling us anything, packed up his household and went to that old-age home in Brno.

It's true that there were many people similar to him living there. A certain Mr. Klimo lived there. Then some rich guy from Liptovsky Mikulas, who before the war had had a fur factory there. There were many well-known furriers in Liptovsky Mikulas, among non-Jews as well. So that old-age home in Brno was a gathering place for, as they say, high society. So he packed himself up and went to Brno. Then, when he was already there, my husband went to help him. But he arranged it all himself. So we began to go to Brno. We would drive there every third, fourth Sunday. We'd pick up my father-in-law and go out, for example to a restaurant. He was quite mobile, and also would come here, to Bratislava. Regularly for winter holidays, he was always here for two weeks. But you know, people slowly died off and the old-age home was transferred to the state. It wasn't even kosher any more, but at least they upgraded it a bit. They installed an elevator, which until then hadn't been there.

My father-in-law still felt great about being there. You see, he had at one time been a businessman. He'd had a textile and fancy goods store in Banska Bystrica. In Brno it was as if he'd returned into his past. He performed services for the old-age home residents. More or less in the fashion that in the morning he would sit down in the hall, and the residents would come to him, 'Please Mr. Gansel...' - that was his name - "...please Mr. Gansel, I need a postcard for someone's name day. And I need some toothpaste..." He'd write it all down and go into town and return with the things he'd written down. Then after lunch, at one o'clock, he'd sit down again and distribute it all. When there was a larger amount to be bought, he borrowed a car that delivered food to them from one larger old-age home. The load would be brought with that car and he'd be completely ecstatic that he was a businessman again. Always when he came to visit us, he'd show us his orders and was proud of it.

In Brno my father-in-law made a close connection with the Jewish religious community. He went there every Friday and Saturday, to the synagogue. When he died, in 1975, the official part of his funeral was in Brno: a very nice, very well done funeral, that my husband and I attended with the children as well. During the night the funeral service then drove him to Banska Bystrica and the next day they buried him in Bystrica, in the Orthodox cemetery beside his wife, with us in attendance.

Observance of holidays went without saying with my parents. My father attended the synagogue regularly. My mother also attended the synagogue; she had her own place there. After my husband, the children and I moved to Bratislava, we also attended the synagogue with my parents during the holidays. In those days Bratislava had a quite large Jewish community, because they were all moving here from the surrounding villages. So we of course attended. But my brother was quite distant from religion, already from childhood. He wasn't very religiously inclined. Despite this he married a Jewess. For a long time she couldn't get pregnant, but after thirteen years she finally succeeded. And then they had two nice and healthy sons. My brother died on 15th October 1989 in Bratislava.

We moved to Bratislava in August of 1967, and by the beginning of October I already had a job. I began in the Detva manufacturing co-op. [Editor's note: in the year 1948 Detva was socialized into the Folk Art Manufacturing Center. In 1953 it was transferred to the Slovak Union of Manufacturing Co- ops as a Folk Art Manufacturing Co-op. In 1973 Detva had 806 workers.] I was there the whole time, practically until retirement. While already of retirement age I transferred to another co-op, Univerzal. [Editor's note: the Univerzal manufacturing co-op was located in Bratislava. Its activities were in the sphere of electro-technical and metallurgical industry.] Here I also worked in supply. Finally I became the caretaker of my own grandson, Daniel. I took care of him for two and a quarter years.

Our daughters

Both of our daughters did very well at school. There were no problems with them. Both of them were straight-A students. The older one, Eva, began to take accordion lessons while still in Zvolen, but as they say, she didn't become a virtuoso, which she later regretted. Both had a talent for languages. After elementary school Eva attended high school and then graduated from medicine with honors. The second daughter, Viera, also went to high school and then studied economics at university. She became an engineer. She graduated at the age of 22, because in those days economics was a four year program. After university she devoted herself to the English language. For three months she studied in America. She then left to study for seven months in Melbourne, Australia and did two months of work experience with one renowned American company located in Sydney. That was far from all. For a certain time the University of Pittsburgh had a distance study program in Bratislava. Professors from Pittsburgh would come every second week to Slovakia to lecture, in English of course. She finished this school and was awarded an MBA degree. The graduation ceremonies took place at the City Hall in Bratislava.

Eva got married a year before she finished her university studies, in 1980. Her husband comes from a Jewish family. They were married in a synagogue in Brno. The synagogue was completely crammed full, I don't know how everyone found out about it. The wedding didn't take place in Brno due to the fact that my future son-in-law was from there, but because at that time there was no rabbi in Bratislava. There was this one here, by coincidence also Katz, who before had been in Dunajska Streda. Not that I didn't like him. But he de facto wasn't a rabbi, he only let himself be called that. I think that he was a shochet. In Brno Mr. Neufeld was the cantor. He also did the wedding and together with his two sons sang at the wedding. He was from Banska Bystrica, the same as my husband. They sang beautifully. What more, which is strange, the synagogue wasn't full of Jews, but non-Jews came to have a look. For around twenty years there hadn't been a Jewish wedding there, and everyone was curious. In those days there weren't too many religious activities going on in Bratislava.

When my daughters left home I didn't feel sad, nor did I regret it in some way. They weren't going out of the country, not even out of the city. Eva and her husband have two children: a daughter, Dagmar, and a son, Daniel. Viera didn't get married. She's a single mother. Not long ago she had a daughter, Valeria, and now she's on maternity leave. Both of my daughters were brought up in a Jewish family, so also in a Jewish spirit. I don't know what the younger one is doing now, but the older one, along with her family, is a member of the Jewish religious community. She even has some sort of function in the community, but I don't know what. She attends the synagogue, and even my son-in-law is from a relatively devout family. He isn't so much, but his father was very devout. My grandson Daniel is momentarily studying in Israel.

Viera and I see each other almost daily, she lives relatively close by. I see the older one, Eva, about once, twice a week. She's very busy in her work. But we call each other almost every day. What sort of a relationship do I have with my grandchildren? Well, they like me, but do what they want. In the end, they have their own lives, and I can't burden them, something like that.

How did I experience the radical political changes in 1968 [see Prague Spring] 14? The year 1968 affected everyone, even if not directly our family, but the atmosphere and so on. Of course a person was devastated by it, because already before 1968 t here had been a certain loosening-up in the air, at least it seemed that way. But in 1989 [see Velvet Revolution] 15 my husband and I regretted that we aren't younger. We can't enjoy ourselves as much, traveling for example. My husband would for example liked to have gone into business. You know, he had it in him. Maybe he was also saddened by the fact that he saw that none of our children have it in them. He would have very much liked to be in business.

The first trip after the regime changed was in April of 1990 to Israel. It was a four-day trip, there and back. At that time President Havel 16 was there. Two planes went. We didn't go with Havel, but in the other one. I traveled with my husband, our son-in-law and our younger daughter. I was enthralled by Israel. I hadn't imagined that it's that built-up. People are self-confident there. They don't have to be afraid that someone's going to discriminate against them due to their Jewish origins. Every country of course has its pluses and minuses. It depends on what eyes you look at it with. A minus is for example their relationship with the Arabs. That's not normal, and I don't know if it's at all possible to resolve.

Glossary

Jan Fischer
Prague
Czech Republic
Interviewer: Silvia Singerova
Date of interview: November 2003

Jan Fischer is an 82-year-old man who lives near the center of Prague. Old photographs of his family, father and wife hang in the room where this interview was held. Despite his age, he is still physically and mentally very agile and he has an excellent memory and a great sense of humor. A theater director by profession, he is a great storyteller with the ability to describe events vividly and graphically, as well as being admirably frank. He tries to connect his personal story with historical and social events. In the course of his narrative, he often seeks to explain the circumstances surrounding the historical development of Jews in Bohemia, which attests to the broad scope of his knowledge. In 1998 he published his memoirs, entitled 'Sest skoku do budoucnosti' (Six Leaps into the Future), published by Idea servis, Prague, from which, with his permission, I shall cite additional information. To fill in certain points, I have also used his family chronicle which he kindly lent me.

My family background
Growing up with German and Czech
During the war
Auschwitz
Post-war
Married life
Glossary

My family background

Our family was assimilated, so we had no direct connection with Jewish traditions. We weren't observant, didn't eat kosher food, and didn't go to the synagogue. As a family we were traditionally aware of our Jewishness, so it was respected but not celebrated. I knew I was a Jew, except in those days knowing you were a Jew meant something completely different from what people think today. It wasn't anything particularly special, for we were surrounded by people like us. It wasn't anything out of the ordinary; it was just like you were a member of Sokol 1 or something. You were a Jew, so you were a Jew. We weren't practicing Jews. We kept company with Jews who were assimilated like us.

My dad's father - that is, my grandfather, Jakub Fischer - was a gentleman's tailor. He was born in 1856 in Beroun. Rural Jews had to speak Czech, of course, because otherwise they would have found it hard to make a living. So their nationality kind of alternated - I call it 'movable'. [Editor's note: Supposedly rural Jews spoke Czech more likely than urban Jews, so they could communicate with their Christian surrounding. However, the official language in Austria-Hungary was German. Jakub Fischer most likely spoke German as well.] He came to Prague to learn about tailoring. In Prague he trained as a tailor; he was apparently good, for he soon got his own business, a tailor's salon on Jungmann Square, by which time he was already speaking German. I didn't know him; he had died in the year when I was born. I suppose he learned German only in Prague, because of business reasons. He was trained at tailor Mr. Orlik's, the brother of the famous Czech painter Emil Orlik [1870-1932]. There I suppose they spoke German. The most money he earned was from sewing clothes for professors at the German University of Prague; in those days they wore uniforms. So I guess that he must have sewn the uniform worn by Einstein when he was in Prague. [Editor's note: Albert Einstein spent 17 months in Prague in 1911-12]. My dad's father had ten employees, so he was pretty wealthy. It was a comfortably situated family.

One realizes now that the opening of the ghettos after 1848 must have been a big explosion. Jews gained astonishing freedom and self-confidence. They had great educational potentiality - Jewish cheders, writing ability, philosophy, Talmud etc. There was a big explosion of doctors, advocates, professors; an explosion of education.

I think granddad was a practicing Jew. He is said to have been a great joker, too. We must have inherited his love of animals, because we've always had various creatures around us. Granddad had a boxer which was well- trained; it used to guide my dad home at night when he'd been drinking. It was customary for mom to find him in the morning lying on the floor, the dog in his bed. They also had a parrot that could speak; my grandfather kept it in the workshop where they did the sewing. Grandfather Jakub died in Prague in 1921.

Grandfather Jakub had a sister, Emma Kitten [nee Fischer], who was born in 1862. She married a cantor from a Prague synagogue, Josef Kitten, and was a practicing Jew. She kept a mezuzah on her doorpost and went to the synagogue regularly. She was a small, white-haired lady with her hair tied back in a little bun, a deeply religious person who went to every service, celebrated every holiday and prepared strictly kosher food, in accordance with all those complicated laws. She was a virtuous Jew, a terrific old lady, wonderful and kind. She was a typical kind old lady like from a fairytale and she always cooked something good. When I was little, we lived in an old house on Tynska Street, but we moved later on and I then lost contact with her.

My grandmother, Rosa Fischer [nee Reiss], was born in 1856 in Stirin. I can remember that she was still a practicing Jew. She spoke German and, of course, Czech. That was normal. With the staff you spoke Czech, at home German. I never knew my grandfather Jakub, as he died in the year I was born, but I got to know my grandmother for a few years. Grandmother Rosa was a small, plump, charming old lady. It was fun with her, for she had a sense of humor. She didn't live with us, though. At first she was on her own, then she lived for a time with her son, my uncle Oskar, as he didn't have any children, whereas at our place was the family. My grandma died when I was about ten; she is buried in the Jewish cemetery [in Prague].

My dad, Richard Fischer, was born in 1885 in Prague. His mother tongue was German. He was a level-headed, cheerful person who liked to appear dignified and to put on airs. His hobby, which he had avidly pursued since childhood, was photography. In the army he was with the 28th regiment, which was based in Prague. During the war [World War I] he was in Bruck an der Mur [today Styria, Austria] and in Carinthia [today Austria], which was where he served. He was a graduate of the Commercial Academy and a 'one- year volunteer' (Einjährig Freiwilliger). That was an Austrian institution for graduates who volunteered to an army for one year and by that made their service shorter. He was promoted to the rank of first lieutenant and, what's more, he became the regiment photographer. He took photos of the officers riding horses, infantrymen, of course, their wives and children, and of various celebrations. In time he became indispensable. Although World War I was under way, he wasn't sent to the front, so he survived it all hidden away in Styria. Photography became his fate. After World War I, he managed to get an agency as a representative of a German optical works, where he sold cameras, lenses, binoculars, microscopes, and such like. My dad sympathized with the social democrats. They were liberal, slightly left- leaning.

Dad had two brothers, Oskar and Erich, and a sister, Anna. My dad's younger brother, Oskar Fischer, was born in 1890. I think he was also a graduate of the Commercial Academy. When my dad got the agency, he went into partnership with Oskar who had a third share in the firm. Oskar got married to a woman from Vienna, Valerie [nee Pietsch]. She lived with him here [in Prague]. She was an Aryan. Oskar was sent to Terezin 2 during the war [World War II]. Towards the end of the war, people of mixed race and of mixed marriages were transported there. Just for three or four months; they arrived in November, I think. Although they didn't have much food, they were not endangered by transports. After the war Oskar was sick. He had a heart attack and was paralyzed as a result. He became a big communist; he used to sit at home reading 'Rude pravo' ['Red Law', communist newspaper] and whenever I visited him we quarreled about politics. Oskar died at the turn of 1962-63. He didn't have any children.

My dad's other - also younger - brother, Erich Fischer, was born in 1893. He made a living in all kinds of ways, but didn't have much luck in life. He worked as an employee at various firms, and I can remember him selling tires. He didn't acquire much wealth though. Erich was married to a woman whose first name I can't remember; her maiden name was Weiner. They had a son called Jiri Fischer. He was a trained plumber and was with me in Terezin, where we worked together. So that was the poor side of the family. They weren't religious, and none of the younger generation [Oskar, Erich] was. My grandparents were, but not my parents. Erich died in Terezin, I think it was in 1943. I was sitting by his side at the time. He had cancer of the stomach.

My dad's sister, Aunt Anna, was born in 1895. She never went to work, I think. She married Rudolf Altschul. Here's something interesting. Rudolf Altschul was a Prague wholesaler in tropical fruit. So they were pretty well off. He was a typical Jewish intellectual: a handsome fellow with small glasses, the nose, bald spot, and so forth. And what an amazing mind! He began to study technology but could also do shorthand for a living, so he went to the parliament to take down the minutes. But as his father got cancer, he changed over to medicine so he could help him. He graduated in medicine from the German University of Prague. He specialized in psychiatry. He spent about two semesters at the Sorbonne and after graduating he worked at a practice in Rome where there was a famous professor by the name of Mingazini. Rudolf worked there about a year or two and then returned and set up a practice here. He wasn't very rich, of course; it wasn't any good being a German psychiatrist in Prague when Hitler was around. I remember that, even back then, what interested him in psychiatry was neurology, and it was through neurology that he got into histology. He used to get sent the brains of various animals, which he would study under the microscope and write about in numerous papers. He was already married to my aunt by then.

They emigrated just before the war; at the first sound of canon, they took off to Canada, although their ship sank on the way. The first response to his scientific papers, which he distributed around the world, was from Canada. Later on, he got even better offers from America, but he said no, the Canadians were the first to reply, so he was going to Saskatoon. They sailed on the Athens, which was the first civilian ship the Germans sank. That was in 1939, sometime in October. It was sunk off the coast of Scotland, but they managed to get rescued and then made it to Canada, where Uncle Rudolf became a university professor. He also knew about literature and history and could speak Italian, French, English, German and Czech, and all perfectly well! He died shortly after. He was a person who towered above the average. He didn't have children, unfortunately.

I don't know anything about my mom's parents. I don't even know what her mom was called.

My mom was called Julie Fischer [nee Lederer]. She was born in Prague in 1884. She was from the poorest of families. She was an illegitimate child. I think her parents weren't married. Her mom, who I didn't know, died young. She fell in love with a dashing young fellow from Serbia, a journeyman goldsmith by trade, who turned on the charm, had two children with her, and after some time just took off and abandoned her! He was a goy, an Aryan. A real bastard, alcoholic and so on. He used to get drunk and beat his wife and children and he left them in complete poverty. All her life my mom had scars on her back from the beltings he gave her. They lived somewhere in the Old Town of Prague, where they shared a single room that was divided in the middle by a chalk line; two families lived there.

When her mom died, my mom was sent away to be brought up by an aunt, but it was no bed of roses there. My mom was adopted by this aunt whose name was Lederer. My mother was a non-practicing Jew. Marrying a boy from a good family, my dad, released her from her misery and loneliness. I always knew that my dad married her as a poor orphan. My mom had a sister who I have seen twice in my life. She was in a wheelchair, lived in an asylum.

My mom was melancholic and withdrawn by nature. I don't know if she was like that when my father married her, but that's how I knew her. Although she only had a basic education, she was an avid reader, with an interest in quality literature, even books on philosophy. I cannot say what she got out of the books, but although she was no intellectual, she was always very moderate and thoughtful in her views. I don't know how she died. From Auschwitz she supposedly went to Bergen-Belsen, but there are just vague traces, based on the fact that someone saw her there.

I had a brother called Herbert. He was born in Prague in 1915, so he was six years older than me. I should add that he got the name Herbert after the son of President Masaryk 3, just as I was named after another son, Jan Masaryk 4. My brother was completely different in nature than me. He was the studious type. At school he always got top marks, and he was great at sports, too. He was excellent at gymnastics, occasionally went mountaineering and had a motorbike that he drove with great vigor. But the thing that most impressed me about him was that he went gliding. He had a good figure, but was a bit on the small side and, unfortunately, he wasn't very good-looking - he had an extremely large nose. After graduating from high school he studied mechanical engineering at the Technical University, but he didn't finish the course. He then got a job in a workshop, similar to the one I worked in; we were both making glasses at the time. It's quite clear that he never took any notice of me at all, for I meant nothing to him.

Herbert got married to someone called Marta, but I can't recall her surname. I've forgotten it. She said she was Aryan, but it came out later that she was half-Jewish. My brother wanted to save her and get divorced so that she wouldn't have to go to a concentration camp. He went instead and never came back. If they had stayed together he might had been saved, since people from mixed marriages were deported only at the end of the war, as my uncle Oskar. They didn't have any children. He was deported to Auschwitz, apparently from Terezin. He probably went to the gas chamber, but I don't know the details. It was probably some time in 1944 that he was murdered.

After the war I had minimum contact with his wife. There was this shadow hanging over her - by divorcing her, my brother had saved her and condemned himself to death, and then we found out that she was half-Jewish, so she had actually deceived us all. And she remarried straight away... You see, she was a bit... light-headed. I don't want to say that she was a bad person, but she didn't have any inner qualities. She later had problems with her feet and wasn't able to walk. It was as if she was a different kind of person. She didn't belong to the family.

Growing up with German and Czech

Back to our family. We spoke German at home and Czech with the staff. I went to a German-language school, for instance. That was probably because my dad was the Czech representative of the German company, Zeiss and Zeiss Ikon Opticians. My brother studied engineering, as he was the intelligent one. I was the stupid one who was supposed to take over the business. So I, of course, had to speak German. Anyway, we were kind of used to the German language at our house. The cultural bent of our family was definitely German: German books, German gramophone records, German theater. From a political perspective, however, our family was strictly pro- Czechoslovakian.

The First [Czechoslovak] Republic 5 is hard to understand these days; take, for example, the fact that my brother and I were named after the Masaryks, Herbert and Jan. Masaryk was a great idol. So why Czech, Jewish and German national sentiment? Nationality didn't count. After all, there's nothing at stake in a democratic state. Of course, things turned out slightly differently, but people believed in it at the time. Progressive thoughts, too. Religion was respected but it wasn't necessary to observe it. Democracy really worked and we believed in it for a long time! We lived a bilingual life, which seemed normal to us. If anyone came out with the odd comment, either against Jews or against Germans, it wasn't a democrat, so wasn't worth paying attention to. Our faith in the new republic was firm. We finally had the chance to show what we could do, to show that we were on a par with all other nations of Europe.

Our name, for instance, is spelt as it is in German - 'Fischer'. I'm not aware of the spelling having changed, but countless times during my life, and to this day, it has been written in different ways by different people. Out of Czech laziness they miss out the letters 'ch' and write it 'Fiser' pronouncing it in Czech as 'Fisher'. On the basis of everything I know, I would bet that my ancestors would certainly not have wanted their name to be spelt the Czech way. The tendency to hold on to German culture persisted until my parents' generation, only to be severed by me.

It remains an open question to me as to which language was the main one, the mother tongue, for me. Strangely enough, the first language I learnt was Czech, since I had a babysitter who spoke Czech. They started with German only later... But there was a fundamental difference in the level of my Czech and, later, of my German. Obviously, as I had been to a German school and learnt German literature, language and grammar, I was better at German at the time. But I was quite rooted in the Czech language; it wasn't foreign or strange to me.

At one time, all documents had a religion column that had to be filled in. During the war [World War I] my parents got baptized and after I was born they had me baptized too, and that was on the 'Augsburg' denomination, which is some evangelical branch [Lutheran protestant branch]. Then they all went out of the church and were 'without denomination'. Somewhere at the back there was always this 'Jew' or 'Jew-boy', depending on the situation. We didn't hide our Jewish origin, but we didn't emphasize it either. Sure, most of our acquaintances were Jews, either baptized or not. From a religious perspective, however, they were all very half-hearted, looking for a slow, painless path to assimilation. We didn't go to the synagogue and didn't observe the holidays, but we didn't turn our backs on the Jewish faith and we felt the right to feel Jewish.

Back to my childhood. We lived at 19 Tynska Street near Tyn Church. If you go down that narrow lane between the church and the House of the Stone Bell, you'll come across two passages. The one on the left leads to an ancient house where there used to be a notorious dive. At night there was always the sound of an accordion playing, and there were always very suspicious characters that would be staggering around. Naturally, I was really scared of this dark spot, so I would run quickly down the left passage that led to our street.

We lived in a turn-of-the-century house, with the windows overlooking the yard. In our street was Mrs. Eisner's grocery store, where we did our shopping. I remember a barrel of pickled herrings there, and a large lump of butter on the counter from which pieces were cut with a wire between two short pieces of wood. I can still clearly see the orange packets of chicory and the 'Certle' boiled sweets in a large glass cylinder. At the corner of the street was a gin-shop, which was quite a big store dominated by shelves with bottles of gin. Drinking was done while standing up, of course. What a variety of labels and what poetic names! We also had a coalman in our street. Steep steps led down to his kingdom and it was not easy to carry the coal out. Emil the coalman could usually be found in the gin-shop. With unsteady legs, he would then carry coal up to the third floor, all with great style and without even hurting himself. Opposite our house was the Tabarin Bar, a place of ill-repute, simply a brothel. It wasn't talked about in our house; I just figured out from significant glances that it must be something mysterious, probably a criminal den. A lot of musicians came to play in the yard - usually an accordionist accompanied by a singer. People would lean out the windows and throw small coins, wrapped in paper so they wouldn't roll away. There was one nasty trick that some people played on them though - they would pick up a coin with a pair of pincers, heat it over a candle and then throw it into the yard. Instead of the usual expressions of gratitude, you would then have got something like 'Just you wait, you shit, you lousy bastard!' At times like that it was worth savoring the beauty of the Czech language.

The distinct character of the Old Town was complemented by plenty of unusual characters. Without a doubt, the king of these was Hasile, the famous beggar, whose last name was Weiss. He was an elderly gentleman who paced with dignity through the streets of Prague, walking-stick in hand. Mr. Weiss went begging only when religious services were being held. He would stay in front of the synagogue or outside the Jewish cemetery. Never one to put his hand out, he accepted charitable gifts with great dignity. Whenever someone gave him anything less than 50 halers, he would take offence and turn down the gift with the words: 'Bin ich ein Schnorrer?' - 'Am I a beggar?'

My father's German agency prospered nicely. Dad even bought a car - a Skoda [Czech brand]. It had extremely big head-lamps and looked very imposing. A chauffeur also came with the car. It was a company car and he used it during the week for his work, but on Sundays it came to Tynska Street. A chauffeur would open the doors and our family would set off on an excursion.

My dad was a successful businessman and made a lot of money. He could therefore afford to hire a babysitter after I was born. I have a photograph of our family sitting on the grass during a trip somewhere. Mom looks very willful, dad looks as if nothing is up, and I'm there, about a year old, in the lap of a delightful young blond girl. This snapshot clearly shows how things were. Dad's uncontrollable weakness - for the tender sex - later became one of the causes for the sad end to our family.

In the Old Town I went to the German five-class elementary school. In the first year I was taken to school by a servant. I can remember that in my little knapsack I had a small black slate board with a writing-tool and a sponge on a piece of string. I can also remember our teacher, Mrs. Kindermann, a kind gray-haired lady with long hair in a bun. Every morning we had to stand up and, Jews and non-Jews alike, start with the prayer: 'Lieber Gott, steh mir bei, dass ich recht, brav und fleissig sei!' -'Dear God, stand by me, so hard-working I'll be!' When I was ten, we moved to an apartment on the Smichov embankment. We lived on the fourth floor and had a beautiful view of the river. We had moved up two floors not only in the house but also on the social ladder, and the views were stunning.

A short time later the economic crisis set in. Suddenly there were unemployed people and lots of beggars around. At that time I had started to attend the first year of the Realschule 6 [technical secondary school], and I felt I knew what was going on. There were a million unemployed people in the republic, which really was a lot. I once saw a young person pass out on the street because he was so hungry. Beggars kept ringing the doorbell, not for money, but for a slice of bread. It was a very depressing experience for a child. Children were suddenly deprived of all their certainties. All of a sudden, it was necessary to save.

A short while later we moved to Podoli, which was then on the outskirts of town. I now had to go to school by tram. But Podoli was a quiet spot and had a lot of attractions. The first of these was the river Vltava. Also, I was five minutes away from the swimming pool, known as the Sports Pool. You could also go rock climbing in Podoli, as there were several quarries in the area. And when it was really cold, the Vltava froze over and then, all at once, you had a skating rink. I actually skated to school a few times. I should add that I had other interests as well, particularly reading. I had a large library at home. And then there was the theater. My parents had season tickets for the Neues Deutsches Theater that is the German Theater. As mom and dad preferred operetta and drawing-room plays, I had the opportunity to see all the operas and the most boring of classical plays. It was all 'second hand'. My brother didn't express any interest in the theater, so it was me who saw the most shows. The German Theater was very good quality. These were amazing experiences for a kid growing up. The theater was probably in my blood by then.

At secondary school, the German Realschule, I was a bit below-average and it was a struggle to pass the exams that were necessary to move up a class, and once I had to do a re-sit. Perhaps I should say something about our school. It was a German Realschule on Mikulandska Street. We were quite a motley bunch, both in terms of personality and politics. The European situation was reflected also in the makeup of the school. Among the pupils were politically aware Germans, both rich and poor, and a good half of the class was Jewish. The democratic spirit began to disintegrate slowly, though, and at the end of the 1930s our teachers began to seat us according to racial stereotypes. Quietly and inconspicuously, without words or reasons. Most of the pupils didn't respond to it. I think it actually brought us closer together, the fact that we were a band of blackguards. We had known each other since the first grade. Childhood friendship and rebel solidarity at the time had a certain force and persistence.

At the end of the 1930s Hitler took on more power and the atmosphere in Czechoslovakia was becoming tenser. Dad's business was getting worse and worse, as less people were now buying German goods. So we had to move again to a cheaper apartment, this time in Vinohrady [today a neighborhood close to the city center]. It was a small but comfortable one.

In 1938 my dad's German agency was taken away from him. At the time he had debts, since German products were obviously not selling as well. As an honest businessman, he couldn't bear the fact that he had debts that he wasn't able to repay. So he committed suicide in 1938. That morning I woke up by the sound of crying of our charwoman. She told me that my father had done something to himself and my mom and my brother already ran to his office. I didn't ask more and ran there. I saw from the distance that there was an ambulance and they were taking someone on a stretcher inside. There was a lot of blood. Then the ambulance went away. My mom was standing on the sidewalk and my brother was trying to console her. It happened like this: My dad bought a razor on his way to work, locked himself in the office and cut his arteries on his neck and hands. They tried to save him in the hospital but the next day he died. Dad had arranged an insurance policy with the insurance company Fenix for 100,000 crowns and he knew that this would provide for the family. That's why he chose an honorable death. However, a large proportion of the insurance company was in the hands of Germans, who took out their capital. It soon declared bankruptcy. They then took everything from us, confiscated the lot. We were stony-broke, my mom, brother and me, basically without any money at all.

After graduating from school, I was faced with the problem of how to make a living. Before the war and during the German occupation I had done several menial jobs. I worked in a photography shop for a while, but it wasn't long before they fired me, because the boss was an ardent fascist. For a short while I sold theater programs in the Lucerna complex [famous theater and cinema complex in the centre of Prague], and then I got a job as a laborer in a workshop where they made glass frames. I worked there with my brother Herbert, who in the meantime had got married and moved into his own apartment.

I experienced my father's death as a big shock, but in an objective rather than subjective way. I liked him, but it wasn't a personal tragedy for me, for we had never been particularly close. It was more of a catastrophe in terms of our position in the world and in life. No money, no base, no future. Our world had completely fallen apart. It was the end of an era, the end of the First Republic: Dad's bankruptcy in 1938, after the Munich Pact 7, and his death a month later. It was the tragedy of anti-Semitism and Czech fascism here... That was the most tragic moment so far. I was 17. One could say that a world had collapsed. It was the first huge disappointment for humanity as such, not just in that fascists and Vlajka 8 newspapers came out, but also because people who were close to you suddenly changed in a terrible way. It was not just that you saw them in a different light, but that they saw you in a different light! Until then the word 'Jew' hadn't meant anything. It was something like being a minority, something we just took as a fact.

My parents were big supporters of President Masaryk... I have told my children this numerous times. What had happened was a bigger shock to us than the German occupation! Because it was a betrayal from within. You suddenly realized that you had been standing on thin ice... that there was something underneath that you could only sense or guess by instinct, because it wasn't official. What came later was only the consequence of this disintegrated image of humanity. After that, things only got worse and worse. But it was no longer anything new. It was new after the Munich Pact. That stayed with me much more than Auschwitz, the terrible disappointment. That's why I am so distrustful of people... On the contrary, the other side of humanity weighed down on the scales. I'm not saying anything new here, but if there hadn't been friendship or personal contact, which always helps you to cope with external pressures, you couldn't have survived in the concentration camps. It wasn't possible to survive without friends, without solidarity...

During the war

This was now the period of the Protectorate [of Bohemia and Moravia] 9. I can't leave out 15th March 1939. In the morning, when I was going to school, the first motorized divisions were already coming into Prague: a few armor-plated vehicles, motorbikes with sidecars and plenty of trucks on which soldiers with guns between their legs were sitting rigidly, like sculptures that cannot see or hear. It was snowing heavily, crowds were pushing forward and they were shouting, whistling and spitting at the soldiers. There was a huge amount of tension in the air, and no-one knew how to act or had any idea what could possibly happen. There could have been a massacre, but it didn't happen. Soldiers were already running about at the school. For me, everything that was German ended that day. I forgot the German language and began to hate Germans. 'Schluss aus' [German for 'all is over']. Our family's situation got increasingly worse, but I was 18, an age where there is a strong desire to live. Out of an understandable inferiority complex, I joined a boxing club. Apart from my sporty friends, I also mixed with a different sort of people with whom I frequented cafes, went on trips, went canoeing on the Vltava in summer, and so forth.

Then they stamped the letter 'J' in my ID-card [see J-passport] 10, and when ration cards were introduced, we received less food. But the worst thing came next. I was forced to wear a yellow star with the inscription 'Jude'. As I recall, the regulation to wear it came into force by the end of the week. [In the Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia the yellow star was introduced in March 1939] So I went up to the captain of my hockey team, who didn't suspect I was a Jew and that I had to wear the star, and I told him that I wouldn't be coming to the match on Sunday. 'Don't be daft', he said. 'You know there's a lot at stake on Sunday.' To which I replied: 'I'm a Jew and as of Saturday I have to wear this badge.' And I showed him the nice yellow cloth star. He went silent for a while and then said, 'Oh shit! Well, don't bother about the bloody star now. Just start wearing it on Monday!' So I went to play hockey on Sunday and then shook my mates' hands. No more fun.

I waited to see how people on the street would react, how they would behave when faced with this new fashion? Everyone pretended not to see you. I wasn't allowed to go in cafes, pubs, the cinema or the theater. On the tram I was only allowed to use the rear carriage, and I had to be home by nine in the evening, and so on, and so on. I moved with my mom to an even smaller apartment in Vrsovice [on the outskirts of Prague]. I slowly started to get the feeling that something had to happen soon. This was not life, it was something makeshift.

In our house lived another Jew, Mr. Weil. When we met on the stairs, he always made very pertinent remarks. One word led to another, and he invited me in for tea. After a while it turned out that he was a member of the Communist Party [of Czechoslovakia] 11. I soon fell for his ideology. I longed to do something active. I hated fascists and Nazis from the bottom of my heart and Communists were their arch-enemies. One day I asked Mr. Weil if I could become a member of the Party. I wanted to fight. But I wasn't asked to join. Apparently they needed working-class cadres, and I was apparently an intellectual; I doubted that one. I was told, however, I could work for the Party in my particular sphere, spreading the word, and so on, and so on. I was bitterly disappointed, but things were moving swiftly on and soon it was all sorted out for me.

In December 1941 I received an order to turn up at six in the morning at the old Trade Fair Palace. We were allowed to take mattresses and quilts with us. Our transport was AK2, Construction Unit No. 2, a thousand young men who were supposed to make all the necessary preparations at Terezin for the arrival of other transports. Hence the mattresses and quilts, for there was absolutely nothing in Terezin. We were each given a number. My number, 687, was painted on my mattress. To my amazement and joy, a cousin of mine from Uvaly, Jirka Fischer, turned up and was given the next number, 688. We had hardly seen each other before. He was a great guy from the country, a trained plumber. We were both genuinely pleased to see each other, as it was clear things would work out better if we stuck together. For two or three days we had to wait in some barracks before they took us to our destination.

The strangest person there was Mr. M, who had been appointed by the religious community to keep order. Taking the Germans as his role model, he went around in riding breeches and jackboots, had a horsewhip, shouting and threatening. He was basically a lout and a stupid Jew. We went on normal passenger trains to Terezin, as people. Then everything got worse. We were crammed into some kind of large warehouse: mattresses on a concrete floor, tiny washbasins, dirt everywhere, and no detergents. People used whatever they had; those that had nothing had bad luck. This 'suffering' at the start of our anabasis was laughable in comparison with what was to come, but every beginning is difficult and it seemed cruel and inhuman to us. My dear cousin arranged for me to work as his assistant, and because a plumber is an exceptionally important person, we had certain advantages from the outset. It was great luck for me that I worked with him in Terezin. I had a good job where there was relative freedom.

One day they lined us up in the yard. One of the SS commanders had a few words to say: 'We have found several letters that some of you put into mail boxes in the town, even though this is strictly prohibited. Those who committed this offence, take two steps forward.' They knew our names anyway. I was one of the sinners, as I had wanted to send a letter to my mom in Prague. I was about to step forward when the person standing next to me held me back. 'Don't be an idiot,' he said, 'if they know the names, let them call them out.' I thought he was right, so I didn't step out of the line. Nine lads stepped forward. 'Take them away!' Then they disappeared into the slammer. A few days later we were officially informed that those nine lads had been hanged for gross breach of orders. One of us had had to carry out the execution. It was an ambulance man from the pathology section who set about this terrible task. He thought he could get over it better, since he was used to death. He was evidently mistaken. I found him one day in a large empty room, sitting on a straw mattress, crying. It was a brutal psychological trick the Germans had played as a way of ensuring discipline. A lot of things were to happen later but this terrible execution was a singular case.

Suddenly everything changed around us. The normal world disappeared beyond the horizon. The lives we had been leading until then came to an end and the new, horrifying reality showed its face. We were in the hands of madmen and murderers and, from then on, no-one could be sure of his life. Amen.

It is very difficult to describe life in the ghetto. Even the Germans didn't know how things would be there. The 'Endloesung', the final solution of the Jewish question, was just being explored. In the meantime they were trying to cram as many people as possible into Terezin. Civilians moved out and the town was filled with poor wretches who had been thrown out of their homes and forced to live in inhuman conditions: everywhere three-tier bunks, even in the attics, hardly any food, the most appalling hygiene, medical care with great doctors but without medicaments or instruments. Women and men lived separately in barracks, children in homes. Lights out at about 9pm. We were protected from the world by ramparts and walls, and by our jovial Czech gendarmes. They guarded well.

Mortality in the ghetto was colossal and there was soon no room for burial. As they were afraid of epidemics, the Germans decided to build a large crematorium quickly. Jirka and I were called on to finish off the water mains for the building. We worked from morning to night and two ovens were already working at full blast. Coffins weren't used, of course. The dead were carted in on rough boards with loose lids in three consecutive rows. The boxes were returned and only the lid was incinerated. Involuntarily, we became experts in cremating bodies. It is a terrible thing, but one can get used to anything, even dead bodies. The ones who didn't get used to it were our roommates in the barracks. They cursed us: 'You stink of dead bodies, you shits! Go and sleep somewhere else!' Yeah, we all stunk of dead bodies, but we couldn't smell it yet.

After the initial horrors, the Germans then came up with the idea of a transit camp. Transports in, transports out, the latter usually sent to their deaths. With time, the Germans lost interest in what was going on inside the old fortress. Let them sing and dance, play football or do theater. What difference does it make? They won't escape their fate anyhow.

I have already admitted to having had a love for the theater since childhood. In my room, on the opposite bunk to me, there was a great guy, Zdenek Jelinek [1919-1944, born in Prague, died in Auschwitz]. He was a poet and translator who also wrote his own stuff. He was a person full of humor and always in a good mood. I owe a lot of my knowledge, wisdom and observations to him. He lent me the book 'Lasky hra osudna' [Fateful Play of Love], which was written by the Capek brothers [see Capek, Josef and Capek, Karel] 12. I was enthused, carried away, enamored. 'We have to play that!' More enthusiasts came forward, one person got hold of one thing, another came by something else, and one day we found we had a stage in the attic of an abandoned building. For lighting we had a powerful light bulb on wire. We didn't need a curtain; after all we were the avant-garde! I played the part of Scaramouche and my costume consisted of the bottom part of a gent's leotard. The costume was ready once Franta Zelenka, that wonderful person and great set designer, had painted colorful diamond shapes on my body. There are many things that I can't remember about this, but I will never forget the wonderful atmosphere. In that dark hole we suddenly had poetry; a world of fantasy filled us with joy. It was our world. The real world was an awful long way off. Someone had to keep guard at the entrance to see if the SS were about. At that time, you see, culture was still prohibited. Nothing was 'normal' - not us on the stage, nor those in the audience, not to mention the period. The theater was given a completely new dimension, one that surpassed all criteria.

We were not good actors. I didn't see this at the time, of course, but I didn't know anything about it, as I was a novice. Most of us were amateurs. We couldn't have acted well, but that was not what it was all about. This is a key to everything. We did theater, with the same people in the audience and on the stage. It wasn't that the actors were looking for contact with the audience; they just wanted to say something to each other. They all said one and the same thing. That viewer/actor correlation was completely different there... The 'timeless' nature of the thing played an evident role, because it wasn't about career, money or love - none of that existed. It was about some residue of the soul that was desperately calling out for help. The soul was all the stronger and our efforts had to be all the stronger, too...

The second show that I was involved in took place during the 'Freizeitgestaltung', an awful word that, in its clumsy way, was supposed to mean leisure time. By now, our captors had realized that they would have fewer problems if they let us express ourselves through culture. Gogol's 13 'Marriage' was, I think, one of the best shows in the ghetto... I played a smaller role, the suitor to the bride, called Chubkyn. The only thing I know is that my arm was in a sling, as I had a festering inflammation that just wouldn't heal. I had two operations, without an anesthetic, but without success. Later on, fortunately, a young doctor managed to save my arm. There had been a risk of amputation. The arm in a sling looked particularly sophisticated. I also acted in a folk play about Esther, which was once prepared by E.F. Burian [Czech theater director] and which was brought to Terezin by the writer Norbert Fryd [1913-1976]. People sang, acted, recited and danced in Terezin. Never again will you find so much culture in one spot...

By the time my bad arm had got better, however, my plumbing days were over. I then was in charge of the youth library. I don't know where the books came from, though. They were available on loan only for people under 20. There was a hunger for education. In addition, we held lectures, which was an even more important activity. The Germans were given only the titles of individual lectures, so they didn't suspect that the lectures comprised entire series. These were intended as a substitute for school. We tried to give young people at least a basic education, as there was no school. The library was run by a council composed of people of various political persuasions, from Communists to Zionists. They began to argue with each other only after the war. It was great work and made sense. At the given moment, that is.

There was quite a famous actress who appeared in Terezin. She was older than me and had a husband in Terezin, but I was madly in love with her. Totally and hopelessly. She sometimes came to our rehearsals, gave bits of advice now and again and I ran after her like a dog. The marriage of my beloved Hana, as she was called, was going through some kind of crisis, so my crazy infatuation with her didn't remain a secret. As a prominent person, Hana had been given her own, small room. So we had a relationship, but one that was not purely sexual. It also had a romantic side. I can remember one time when I was playing chess with her husband. He was a likeable, intelligent guy, and it wasn't possible for me to hate him. So we played chess, as she looked on. Things suddenly got tense, though, and we realized that we were playing for her love. Her husband was a better chess- player than me, but he was obviously too sure of his victory, because he made a mistake and lost.

I loved Hana so much that I have to admit to an ethical indiscretion. I haven't yet mentioned that my mom, Julie, was also in Terezin by that time. She had come over at the beginning of 1944 and worked in a warehouse full of clothes that had been stolen from people. We saw each other occasionally; I went to see her in the barracks, but I really had little time. Work, theater, love, it was all too much. She had received her deportation order in the fall. In this situation there emerged a terrible dilemma for members of the family: to register voluntarily or not. We suspected that we would be going to a worse rather than a better place, perhaps a labor camp. We didn't know anything about the reality of Auschwitz, so deportation was just an uncertain kind of threat. It was difficult for me. My conscience told me that I should go, but my mind told me that I would hardly be able to protect her. My sense of morality drove me to the transport. But I was in love, I had my civic duties in the library, and I adored the theater. There was a faint glow of hope. After all, mom was a 'Mischling', of mixed race! Her father was that Serbian bastard I mentioned earlier; perhaps it would be possible for her to be spared from deportation! That was the card we were betting on, so I didn't volunteer for deportation.

On deportation day I secretly sneaked into the barracks, from where they were departing. I got up to the attic so as not to be seen, and looked down at the yard. In the middle of the yard stood the SS chief deputy Bergl. Mom was there, wearing an old trench coat, low shoes with heels and a scarf around her head. She looked terribly small and wretched from that height. I saw her as she stepped before that demigod, stood to attention and started to explain something to him. He stood, slightly swaying. I think he was drunk. He waved his hand towards the gate and the little figure of my mom left through the open gate and got onto the freight train. That was the end. I broke down in tears. I wanted to go out of the barracks, but was stopped by the 'Ghettowache', the internal Jewish guard, and they shook me. I collapsed and started to cry hysterically and fell to the ground. They had to bring me round and attend to me, so they were glad to get rid of me after a while. I never found out any concrete information about my mom after that. I don't know where, when or how she perished. My brother Herbert disappeared in a similar way. He came to Terezin where he worked as a sewer cleaner, but he didn't stay there long. He left on a transport to the east, where he vanished without trace.

Back to that fateful game of chess. It was the fall of 1944 and mass transports were now under way. The first to leave was Hana's husband, then it was my turn and then Hana voluntarily registered for deportation, as she wanted to go to see her husband. She returned, as did I, but he perished. He lost the game.

There is one incident that I feel I should mention here, one that I remember well. It all began to break down very quickly: transports were dispatched one after another, until we went too. But in the intervening time, before things started to break down, before we knew that the ghetto was being dissolved, that something was going on here, we were sitting together and someone, I don't know who, brought in a postcard that he had apparently just received. He didn't know where it was from - some place called Auschwitz. It was in those few lines that were permitted, that we deciphered the first letters, 'Gastod' [German for 'death by gassing']. And now what? It is incredible, but we didn't have any idea what it was! It wouldn't have occurred to anyone that there were gas chambers there, that people were being liquidated in gas chambers! That they were being shot, hanged, bludgeoned to death, yes, but gas chambers? We didn't believe it! It's a strange detail... you don't realize that what you've experienced, stays inside you. That you can't get rid of the experience. It's like when you have an unexploded bomb inside of you. Today, now I know it won't explode in me at my age, that's clear to me. Without knowing, you are inevitably marked by it.

On 28th September 1944, St. Wenceslas Day [St. Wenceslas, patron of Bohemia], a transport of 2,500 men aged 18-50 was dispatched from Terezin. This was quite evidently a work transport. From this we figured that they need us for work somewhere, perhaps digging trenches on the eastern front. We were crammed into cattle-trucks, in groups of 50 per truck, luggage included. It was nice of them to allow us luggage, as they immediately took it off us when we reached our destination. On the journey we used the luggage as something to lie on, but that was also why it was so crammed in the truck. For hygiene we had two buckets. First of all, we headed north. That seemed promising, for we'd take work in Germany! We went through Dresden but then we turned to the east. We knew this from the position of the stars in the night sky. It would probably be more accurate, however, to say that we were stationary rather than moving. We weren't given any food or water. Each person had a bit of food with him and there was water in a bucket for fifty people. Next day we went through Breslau and it was then clear.

Auschwitz

After two and a half days I saw the sign for Auschwitz. I could also see fires burning. I assumed that it would probably be a kind of steelworks where we would be working. By the time we got there it was already getting dark, and we were glad that we could finally stretch our legs. There was suddenly a great deal of confusion. 2,500 people were herded together onto a ramp where they waited to see what would happen next. While unloading the luggage, prisoners in striped uniforms kept mumbling under their breath: 'Alle gesund!' [German for 'All healthy']. We didn't understand what this was supposed to mean. Everything seemed to be under a spell... A long line of prisoners slowly began to move forward in the same direction. We moved very slowly and I couldn't see what was going on at the front. Finally, I got to see. At the end of the ramp stood an SS officer, a self-styled judge. In his hand a riding whip. Left or right... I thought it was some kind of work allocation. Then it occurred to me what 'Alle gesund!' meant. He was apparently asking about their state of health. It would probably be a mistake to speculate for lighter work and use illness as an excuse. I was sent to the right, so I joined the guys who were already standing there... After they had later washed us and shaved our hair, the number 1.650 was written on a blackboard in the baths. That was how many of us had arrived at the camp. 850 young and healthy men went to the gas chamber straight away. So decided Doctor Mengele.

They divided us up and put us in timber huts that had served earlier as stables for horses. A thousand of us were crammed into one of those stables. When it was time for bed, we were lined up in groups of five with our backs to the wall and, on the order, had to fall to the ground. It was necessary to spread your legs, so each person sat between someone else's legs. Just try getting to sleep like that. There wasn't a night that went by without a beating or bawling.

The technical term for our camp, Birkenau, was 'Vernichtungslager', a terrible word that means extermination camp. It was situated on a slight slope. At the bottom was the entrance gate through which the trains entered and where the famous ramp was located. Higher up were the gas chambers and crematorium. From above, you could see each transport arrive, the people getting out. A few hours later, flames would shoot out of the low chimneys of the crematorium and a thick cloud of smoke hung over the camp... The Germans had a form of entertainment they called 'Selektion'. Try and imagine what it feels like when you are standing, completely tense, as you wait for the judge's gaze to fall upon you. Will he stop or will he pass on to another one? You have to look fit, young and strong. You mustn't have a rash, you mustn't have stubble, or be dirty or depressed. All this can play a role. The food was catastrophic. After all, it wasn't about surviving here. In the morning you got bitter fake coffee and a small slice of bread. At midday, usually beet soup and sometimes a handful of unpeeled boiled potatoes. In the evening another slice of bread and sometimes, just sometimes, a piece of margarine or substitute marmalade. In a word, disgusting! Hygiene: cold water faucets and that was it. No soap, no towel, not even a piece of paper!

I can't remember now how long I stayed at Birkenau, perhaps it was a few weeks. Then fortune smiled on me. A transport of about a hundred people was being selected for another camp and I was chosen. We went to Hlivice [Gleiwitz], where a new camp, Gleiwitz III, was being built next to a factory. In comparison with Birkenau, it was like being in a spa. You slept in single bunks in a heated hall, got reasonable enough food and the guards were tolerable. To this day I don't know what they were actually making in that factory. We assumed that they were some kind of rockets components, but God knows. In addition to us, there were also Poles, incarcerated like us, but Aryans, and prisoners of war, French and Italians. With my specialization as a plumber, I was assigned to a German foreman who was welding compressed air pipes with an oxyacetylene burner. Clean and, on the whole, light work.

The major Soviet offensive began on 12th January 1945. Laborers were no longer taken on at the factory. We, that is to say Jews, were assembled in an empty hall and one of the officers gave a speech. We didn't even have to stand to attention. He said that the war, which they would win, was drawing to a close, but that in the meantime we would have to move back a bit. We had nothing to worry about! After the war we would be rewarded and everything would be fine... The march west was awaiting us. There was severe frost and snow everywhere... Everybody knows about the death marches now. Unfortunately, we only suspected at the time. We now had to bear up at all costs! The crowd pulled together and an instinctive kind of self-help came about. The strong looked after the weak.

On the third night we slept in a small concentration camp that was hidden away in the forest. In the morning I was awoken by shouting and cursing - our dear SS-men were loading their luggage onto carts and were looking for slaves to pull them. They had found out that the Russians were approaching swiftly from the north. I looked out the window at this circus... I was not the only one who had decided to stay... For several days we had been almost without food. Suddenly a mass hysteria broke out over food - somebody had discovered a storeroom full of loaves of bread. Complete loaves! Brutal fights broke out. Hunger had turned people into animals and clouded their minds. Feeling sick at the sight of it all, I went back into the building... Then we discovered the camp kitchen, and there was nobody there. In the pots we found potatoes which we immediately started to cram into empty bags.

Then there was the sound of gunshots. A military guard of the Wehrmacht had got into the camp, saw the fight that was raging between the prisoners and started to fire at whatever moved. Fortunately, they had little time and were terrified because of the Russians. When a soldier fired into the kitchen window, the shell exploded against the chimney and the cartridge hit me in the groin... They carried out their task in a messy way and were quickly gone. It was suddenly quiet, as if time didn't exist. It was actually the sound of the dead, as there were lots of bodies outside. The silence ended in the night. There was the drone of tanks and firing from all kinds of weapons. Before noon a Russian soldier appeared on a motorbike. He saw this surreal picture of hell and burst into tears. 'I'll send you help,' he shouted. 'They'll come, for sure! Soon!' And then he left. For me, that was the end of the terrible war.

We soon left the concentration camp in the forest and moved down into the valley. We weren't deserted here. All around us were Soviet troops. They behaved nicely to us, but we soon had to move away as it had become a war zone. We left for Hlivice in the hinterland. It was half-deserted there. We found a nice, empty little villa. Paradise on earth. Beds, quilts, porcelain, cutlery, toilet and a bath. The only worry was food. We stayed in this idyll for a while, but I soon felt a longing for home. As eastern Slovakia was liberated, we decided to go there on our own. The journey wasn't without difficulty, though. The Russians stopped us a few times as they wanted us to join their army, which we obviously had no interest at all in doing. We said that we intended to join our army of General Svoboda 14.

Kosice was ours again and I had heard somewhere that someone had seen Hana. She was alive! I had to see her straight away. I began to look for her desperately. At last I found her! On the street. I think we remained silent for a very long time. We felt that the world had changed in the five months we hadn't seen each other... Her husband, for whom she had volunteered to go to Auschwitz, was no longer alive. He now cast a huge shadow over us. I had beaten him at chess when he was alive. But now he was dead, he had checkmated me.

In Kosice I got a job at the Ministry of Information [also see Czechoslovak Provisional Government in Kosice] 15. And one day, as they knew I had been involved in theater in Terezin, somebody invited me to work for the radio, as they were going to start broadcasting again. So there were three Czech radio presenters there, sometime in April 1945. The Kosice-based government program was published at that time and our main task was to broadcast this document in the occupied territories. One thing remains puzzling to me, though. I have never met anyone who heard our broadcasts from Kosice. And I was so proud that I had contributed to the establishment of the new republic.

Then mobilization came. I had to leave the radio and join the army. I was conscripted in Kosice and then got to an officers' school in Poprad. We went on foot to Levoca; I think, the trains weren't running. I was there about two and a half months in Svoboda's army but wasn't at the front. At the school we were issued with German summer uniforms, like the ones worn by the Germans in Africa, as well as thin covers. It was early April and pretty cold. It was very difficult to spark any patriotic enthusiasm in me.

Post-war

At last 9th May! The end of the war, time to go home! Next day I asked how much longer we were supposed to stay at the school. In September I would be going home as a lieutenant! Nobody was interested in whether any of my family or friends were alive. But I was interested. Desperate, I turned to the regiment's physician and told him the whole truth. He looked at me for a while and then said: 'You are short-sighted, aren't you? And you have chronic bronchitis.' Dear old doctor. I had to go to another regiment where I was supposed to be demobilized. That was in Kromeriz.

We boarded the train for Prague. I managed to find several friends and even a few people who had returned from the concentration camps or from Terezin, but none of my family had come back yet. I returned to Kromeriz where I had to sign a statement saying that I hadn't graduated from high school, so that I could be demobilized. There was complete chaos at the other regiment. Finally, on 11th June 1945, I was standing on Wenceslas Square [Prague's main city centre square]. I had nothing and nobody.

I was 23 years old and so far had not actually lived. My whole life was ahead of me, but what I had to do now was to learn to live like a normal human being. How quickly could I get over the past? I was still overcome by bitterness and sadness, but on the other hand I had an immense lust for life. I had no specific interests, but also no base and no money.

I genuinely believed in the Communists, whom I joined in all the concentration camps. In Terezin I was a member of an illegal cell which met in secret. I believed the Party, that it was thoroughly anti-fascist and that it would prevent another Munich agreement. I had no political experience, so it should come as no surprise that I believed it. I was not alone. I then decided that I would do what I enjoyed the most - theater. We soon put together a small group of young actors and directors who had similar ideals. Some had returned from our Terezin group. For something to do, we prepared a touring variety show with songs, acts and poems. We went all round the countryside, spreading culture. We didn't get a salary, just fees for appearances. I don't know what I lived on in those days. I received a furnished apartment left by the Germans. After all that I had endured - camps, military service, dirt - I was a human being again! The theater became my home. I lived the theater, breathed its air and became enslaved to it.

After the war I went through some unpleasantness to do with the fact that I was registered as a German. I didn't know this at the time, but that's what was put down in the last census, which I think was in 1933 or 1934, when I was ten. It was only when I had returned and needed papers that I found out I was registered as a German. As I didn't have any papers in the camps, I now needed documents to prove my nationality and lo and behold! I had to apply for my Czech nationality to be acknowledged. I know nothing about this procedure, because it was my wife who arranged it for me. She only had to hand in some application at the offices but it went without problems because first of all I was a member of the Communist Party and second I had been in a concentration camp. I think it was a part of the 'Benes 16 decrees'. People of German nationality had to leave the country unless they proved they weren't fascists. That of course wasn't a problem in my case. For me it was a shock when I found out about it: Oh my god I am a German, what shall we do about it? It wasn't my fault that my father had registered me as German in the year 1933. But it was clear I was no German; even if I had gone to German schools, I spoke perfect Czech. Also I wasn't interesting, some assistant of a theater director. Nobody knew about this, I myself didn't know it for a long time, but of course I wouldn't spread it out. I didn't meet any people in a similar position, if there were such cases, they wouldn't talk about it publicly.

I hated fascists from the bottom of my heart. I identified them with all that was German. Since 1939-1940 I had finished with the German language and no longer spoke it. Not a single German word came out of my mouth. That's another thing - changes in nationality. For many years I was of the opinion that fascism and the Holocaust were a German matter. It took me a long time to realize that this was not the case, and that other nations were of the same opinion. Of course, it changed my relationship with Germans, as I found out that not every German was a fascist. It wasn't an impulse; it was a long process of realizing the sad reality. This process was connected with slowly uncovering cards in Russia. Suddenly one had found out that fascism, in other words aggression and violence, was not a specific thing of the German nation, as I had thought until then. That was a very widespread theory at that time. I hated Germans but I never sought for revenge or violence. The Germans I knew were decent people; I felt sorry for them.

The problem wasn't a German but an SS-man. How do you create an SS-man, this question troubled me for a long time. There was something I couldn't understand. My primary experience: when we came to Auschwitz, there was an SS-man who led us up to the camp. On the way he did business with us, asking who had watches or rings etc. In the meantime there were women running out and asking us for some food. We had some bread so fellows threw it over the fence. And this SS-man who did business with us, suddenly turned around, took his gun and shot a woman, then continued asking: 'so, and what do you have?' That was a shock! He was a Volksdeutscher 17, not even a native German, spoke in provincial German. A person who shoots a woman, he doesn't even know and then goes on with his profiteering! That was the biggest question: how to create such a man? It was connected with German history, it had happened in that country in such and such circumstances. That bothered me for a long time.

However, there's a difference in your behavior towards an individual who you know and toward a whole nation. It became clear to me that it's impossible to hate a nation for a long time. It's impossible to pigeon-hole and hate them. I also met one German that I considered a decent man. He used to be a Wehrmacht officer and he told me he only found out what was going on in the winter of 1945. This took me by surprise and I had realized some of them really didn't know. But what is it - not knowing? One doesn't know either out of stupidity or because one simply doesn't want to know. We mustn't forget what difficult terms were put on Germany by France after World War I. There was great poverty out of which arose Hitler... The circumstances were ready for hate and revenge. Anti-Semitism and aggression were inertly suitable for them.

After Stalin's death information slowly began to spread. I had realized that communism wasn't all that different. It also created 'SS-men'... Once a person got released from the communist influence, he suddenly realized he had also been on the wrong side, just like the Germans. Nobody had known that Stalin was a murderer, a murderer of millions. Slowly one understood that it isn't a nationality but rather social and political conditions that help to create an 'SS-man'. Of course some ideology must come along with it, some poison added to the soup. Today everybody knows what I discovered back then, sometime in the 1960s.

But when the war was over, the point at issue was the displacement of the Germans. This is my own view: when I got back to Prague, which was in June 1945, still wearing an army uniform, I had, of course, finished with the Germans altogether, as they were the enemy. But I can still recall my journey home from Poland, during which we went a bit of the way on foot and hung around waiting for trains. We came across a Russian soldier who was in charge of ten German POWs working in a field, and we got talking to him. Realizing from our tattoo numbers that we had come from a concentration camp, he gave me his automatic weapon and said: 'Here you are, have a little game with them, try a bit of target practice.' And at that moment it suddenly dawned on me that I couldn't do it. They were people who I didn't know and who I knew nothing about. All I knew was that they were Germans, and that I couldn't do it. That was quite typical. For all I know, most of the people from the camps didn't crave blood, unless they came up against someone they knew and who they knew to be guilty. They had had enough and didn't intend to do the same things.

But when I returned home, there was a situation that few people can now recall. Firstly, at that time, between the end of the war and the fall, all those things that hadn't been known about during the war suddenly came out: about the camps, all the atrocities. Documents from the Czech archives showing what had happened here, who had been shot... So what happened was that the Germans were suddenly faced with all the horrors that they had committed during the war. Obviously, those people who had suffered the least were the greatest avengers, those guys from the RG - Revolutionary Guards. They were young people; they wore German summer uniforms and a red band on their arms with the letters RG. They showed up after the Prague Uprising in May 1945. They ransacked the apartments, slapped Germans etc.

I didn't come into contact with them very often - they behaved extremely foolishly. They were stupid fools who had suddenly become big fish - they were the downtrodden boys under the Protectorate. I ascribe the brutalities that were inflicted on the Germans here to those people who had apparently not suffered themselves but were acting as the avengers of the whole nation. We were certainly not among them. The fact is that 90 percent of people who were in concentration camps hated brutality. This was a life experience: that there is nothing worse than depriving someone of his humanity and his rights. I don't know many cases of personal revenge of people from concentration camps. All that was bad came down on the Germans, and the nation was in the grip of a terrible mood, one that was based on 'settling scores with the bastards'. That was the first wave of revenge, anger and hatred. People were settling scores, some who had scores to settle; others who didn't but were just venting their anger, or stealing... After all, most Jews had been robbed of all their property. We also lost everything.

The second thing to note here is that after the war there was no proper army over here, except for Svoboda's forces which were in a great deal of chaos. Our postwar government hardly had any chance of implementing a process of denazification, so it just didn't bother about it! Of course, when they saw how bad things had gotten and realized the scandal that was happening, they started to hold back a bit, but they basically had no possibility of intervening. What happened should never be forgotten. It was partly their fault, but partly also their powerlessness. No great effort was made, though, and that's a fact.

I saw Hana from time to time, but the days of our great love were gone. I went to the theater almost every day and that's where, one day, I came across another Hana, the dancer Hana Meisslova. We knew each other from Terezin, where she had worked as a nurse and danced in a number of shows. So now, years later, we met again. I kept on at her about going out together for a drink. In the end I managed to persuade her. We went to a wine bar, then to her apartment, and then spent the next fifty years together.

Married life

My wife was Jewish. She was born in Prague in 1921, but the family lived outside the capital. Her dad was a landowner. They were more Czech than us, but I don't know to what extent. She studied at high school for two years but didn't graduate.

It is interesting that there were many parallels in the fates of our fathers. I know of other cases, too. It was logical during the First Republic. The major crisis of the 1930s hit our family hard. Hana's dad was a landowner, but he also gambled on the stock exchange. He blew the estate, then became an administrator of another estate, and then of an even smaller estate. His wife, Hana's mother, was a beautiful woman! A posh, elegant lady. When things got worse, she divorced him. My wife took umbrage at this. Her father then committed suicide, like my dad did. He shot himself in the head, but the bullet didn't go straight in. My wife Hana and her sister Dasa looked after him before he died, a short time later. My wife never told me this. I only found out after her death.

Hana's mom remarried a German composer who had written an opera called 'The Emperor of Atlantis', which was very well-known in its day. He already had three children of his own. My wife Hana then ran away from home and set up on her own as a gymnastics teacher. She later got into modern dance; she didn't do ballet.

Hana's sister Dasa was born in about 1924. She was a beautiful blonde, and I still have her picture. They weren't at all alike. Dasa ended up in Auschwitz, which was something that Hana, my wife, found really hard to bear. The wounds were deep. My wife was badly traumatized by the war. Nobody was allowed to talk in front of her about concentration camps or about Jews; she absolutely hated the subject. She would get an instant shock and run away. It had obviously all been too much for her as a little girl, what with her parents' divorce and her father's suicide. Her step- father behaved badly towards his own family and to my wife. She ran away from the family and hated her mom for marrying such an idiot.

We got married in 1947. On returning to Prague I was faced with the problem of what to do. I was nothing. I had graduated from a German school. I didn't know what to do. Perhaps I could have studied, but if you are alone without a base or anything, things are difficult. As I didn't know what else to do, I decided for what I liked the best and what I had done in Terezin - the theater. A few other people who had been in the theater at Terezin got together, so there were about three or four of us. First of all, I lived with people who I knew in Prague - people from the art world I had met and such like. Then I applied for an apartment with Frantisek Jiska, a friend and actor. We got a two-room place where we stayed together. He later got married and threw me out. I then moved in with my future wife who had a one-room apartment. She had arrived in Prague before me - she had been deported back to Terezin earlier; a series of transports had returned to Terezin, as the Germans didn't have anywhere else to put people. So she was there at the very end of the war and went straight on to Prague where she managed to get a small apartment. People from the concentration camps were given apartments. Whoever wanted one could have registered with the Jewish community, but all they had to do was go to the National Committee. We had no papers though.

We lived in a small apartment, poor as church mice, but that didn't matter at all. We were just pleased to have our freedom and suddenly be able to live and do something in life, and we had the theater. I experienced various ups and downs, but in the end I got to the Vinohrady Theater [in Prague] as an assistant to the famous director Frejka, which gave me a great feeling of satisfaction. The pay was miserable, but my wife was also working; she had a job at the trade union central council. On the whole we were satisfied with our lives. We had plenty of friends. A few people from the camps were still around and sometimes they would come by. And then there were the new friends from the world where we worked, especially the theater.

After the war I spoke very little about concentration camps with friends, just when we got together, friends from the camps. People who hadn't been with us used to say that we were terrible cynics. That was because we made fun of it retrospectively. I can't explain this, it was a way of liberating yourself from a terrible trauma, but instead we appeared to be terrible cynics.

I didn't have the feeling after the war that there was any anti-Semitism about, apart from a few, minor incidents. Basically, it didn't play a major role. However, looking back after all these years, thinking about it and seeing more into the nature of things and people, I later realized that a series of incidents or bad results that came about may now be ascribed to anti-Semitism. But these are work-related incidents. Privately I never came across it in a social setting.

I have a daughter, Tana, who was born in 1947, and a son, Jan, who was in born in 1949. My daughter Tana was an actress and now works as a member of parliament. My son Jan runs an advertising agency. My son has two children, a son and a daughter. My granddaughter is at university and her brother has got into advertising as a graphic designer. He's a beautiful, tall boy. My daughter has a son, although he is crippled with polio and is in a home.

My children were not brought up as Jews. I don't think they knew they were Jewish when they were little. We told them when they were a bit older. Of course, they identify with their Jewishness, but as an idea rather than a religion. To pass on the Jewish faith... It depends... For me the main idea of Jewishness is this atmosphere of Polacek [Polacek, Karel (1892-1945): Czech Jewish writer, famous for his collections of Jewish anecdotes and short stories about life in Prague at the beginning of 20th century.]. Of course, it is inside me and my children have learnt it, too. But I would say they feel an affinity with their Jewishness. They have an inner relationship with it. My two step-children - Zora and Jindrich - were very quick to take on the Jewish faith, being in the same boat as us. They had not been brought up in a Jewish way, as their mom had been an Aryan and from a not too intellectual family. With the awareness of her mom I told my step-daughter Zora that I am a Jew. Today she has more contacts in the Jewish community than me. I didn't urge them onto it; they came to it by themselves. It was a big surprise for me. We hadn't met so often when my wife was still alive. My son Jan married an Aryan, my daughter Tana remained single.

We didn't talk very much about this topic with our children until they were older. They were both very positive about it. My wife suffered a lot of postwar trauma. You couldn't mention the words 'Jew' or 'concentration camp' in front of her. Otherwise I didn't hide it from the kids; they knew about it.

There are two sides to the Jewish faith, one rational, the other irrational. The irrational side, which is genetically given is about believing in tradition or in the soul, and, in that sense, I am probably much more of a Jew. The feeling is there, and it is also there with my children, but not my grandchildren.

When the victorious February 1948 18 was drawing closer, I was a political novice who believed what the left-wing propaganda came out with. Most artists were in the Communist Party or supported it. Years later I was often asked the question: 'Were you so stupid or blind that you didn't see anything?' I have to admit that I really didn't see what the truth was and what a lie was. But the Party had completely changed. Immediately after the war it was an open organization full of sympathetic, intelligent people. I was in support of the February coup. I believed that socialism was the right solution. My euphoria lasted a bit longer but I soon found out that the comrades were no longer so open and sincere.

It was the turn of the Jews again in the 1950s, with the Slansky Trial 19, even though I would say that the majority of Czech intellectuals rejected them. This was a kind of 'folklore' theater that was intended for the lower classes, not for the highest walks of society. I hadn't experienced much fascism in the theater. I am very sensitive to anti- Semitism! I first came out in protest after the Slansky trial, which was the first shock for me, both for its theatricality but primarily for the fact that the first traces of anti-Semitism had become evident. It was a shock for all the Jews. When you opened the newspaper and there you read 'of Jewish origin' - what was it? It wasn't only about Slansky and Jewishness, the main thing at that time was to disclose the enemies inside the Party. The enemy didn't have to be exactly a spy, but someone who was standing on the wrong side of the line [ideology line]. And this was what they found on me.

I had had some negative personal experience. When I used to work in city theaters, they started to gossip about me, saying that I didn't behave nicely to non-members of the Party. Someone had made it up on me. Nothing happened, the fire was put out. One more time, in the late 1950s started a new wave of anti-Semitism: cosmopolitism! They considered me as a cosmopolitan. There was a woman working in the Ministry of Culture that I had known for many years, and she told me: 'You know, you are a wonderful director, but you can not direct J.K.Tyl because you are a cosmopolitan. [Tyl, Josef Kajetan (1808-1856): Czech dramatist, actor, prose-writer and journalist, main representative of sentimental patriotic romanticism, organizer of national cultural life.] People would believe such nonsense! It is very easy to slander someone. It was one of their attempts to find the enemy in me. That was the sickness of communists: always to look for an enemy. In the 1960s they succeeded in my case.

Then Stalin died [in 1953]. Another shock. This was followed by the uncovering of personality cult. I called for a special congress to be held in order to make things clear. This marked the definitive end for me. I was then among the open critics and doubters. This didn't remain without consequences.

While I was at the Chamber Theater I had to direct a Soviet play. A very bad one. There was nothing to be done, as it was a compulsory libation to the gods. After the dress rehearsal, a lot of criticism rained down on me. This was a personal attack on me, the youngest director. I knew that to hang your head would mean getting in a shaky position and having a loss of authority. I said what I thought and slammed the door. For good. Making compromises in art is to no avail.

Then I directed the Country Theater, later I was in Brno and Plzen and finally I became established as the director of the Magic Lantern Theater, with which I traveled across the world. In the summer of 1968 I was directing a Czechoslovak show at the Paris Olympics. This cultural event was the work of Bruno Cocatrix, the director of the Olympics. After reading about the Russian occupation, he later sent me an invitation to Paris for my entire family. To this day I am amazed at this gesture and I remain grateful to him. I didn't make use of the invitation, since my children refused to leave their country and I couldn't leave my children. The Russian tanks on the streets reminded me, inevitably, of 15th March 1939. It was my second occupation [see Prague Spring] 20. Like nearly everybody else, I was a supporter of Dubcek 21 and didn't try to hide it. I was dismissed from my post as artistic director and expelled from the Party in 1971. They accused me of what I hadn't done: as an old comrade I should have known what was right! This was the end of my career, and, above all, the end of those wonderful years of the 1960s.

I was fired from all my jobs, so I got to do all kinds of work - water pumper, warehouseman, and so forth, but that is not important now. Occasionally I was allowed to direct, for instance a puppet show at Christmas. After a number of years of penury, the Communists became tired and the situation began to slowly improve. I had several jobs as a guest director. It wasn't enough for a living, of course, even less for a pension. I finally reached retirement, which was a considerable relief for me.

I had neither the time nor the interest to get involved in the Jewish question, because if you work in the theater, you have a terribly busy schedule: rehearsal in the morning, show in the evening, with little time in between. Not that I was without contact with the kile. Occasionally I would help them out on Pesach or something, put something together, or sometimes I would go there for lunch, and so forth. I had kind of infrequent contacts with the community. They didn't care about me, or I didn't care about them, I don't know, somehow we weren't exactly friends. But that has all changed now. Now I am downright mad at them! They don't do anything at all for culture, for instance! They don't raise a finger! I sent them a copy of the book I wrote, for example, and they didn't even thank me. They just aren't interested. They don't support people in the theater or in music and they don't invite people to concerts...

I didn't try to get involved. They made me an offer, in the 1950s or something, they said they were glad I was working for them, but that they wanted me to register as a member of the Jewish community. I told them that I was sorry but that I had no conviction. I said I would like to work with them, but that they shouldn't expect me to profess my religion. The situation in Prague and elsewhere in Bohemia is such that religion doesn't really mean much. I'm not an atheist, but the church... I had no desire to become a subject of the church. That would be insincere. But I never denied my Jewishness. Some people changed their names and so forth, but I never did anything like that. On the religious side, I'm not sure whether I'm a Jew or a Christian. I believe in God, but not in any specific one, or one with a specific symbol.

My book was published in 1998. ['Sest skoku do budoucnosti"' (Six Leaps into the Future), published by Idea servis, Prague, 1998]. My children had been saying for years that I should write it some time, that it was a pity I didn't... And I told them to forget about it as enough had already been written on that topic. When my wife died in the summer of 1997, we buried her here and I then went to stay at our cottage. My daughter left in July, as she does every year, and in late August I was on my own in the cottage for the first time in my life. I had a strange feeling, time for meditation. It suddenly occurred to me that I could start writing now, since I was on my own there.

Then something happened that was quite odd. I had never thought I could write. I thought writing was something that I really couldn't get into. That is why I haven't written much in my life, although I have translated... So I took a pen and started to write. I didn't have to think about it or to cross anything out. As you may know from my book, I wrote it from beginning to end without stopping...Everyone tells me that it is an exiting, interesting read. But I have come to the conclusion that it was not me but actually God who wrote it. It was as if he was dictating to me something that I knew nothing about. It was incredible. I hadn't even had to think while writing.

My children already knew what I was writing about, but not about everything, Auschwitz for example. I tended to hold that back from them. Actually, they knew everything in snippets, whereas the book describes things in detail. When you are sitting with someone and talking to them, you don't describe what a crematorium looks like. You can do that in literature. But even my book is written in quite an abridged way. I felt that if I were to elaborate any more, it would convey a completely different atmosphere from the one I wanted... I didn't want to write about what a poor wretch I am or so.

In November 1989 I was sitting in the theater, involved in one of those ardent debates. There was speech-making, chanting, and thunderous applause. It was great. The vent had opened and clean, sharp air was starting to circulate in our country. At the time, my nephew asked me how many upheavals I had lived through. I was taken aback but then started counting: '1938 - the Munich Pact, 1939 - the German occupation, 1945 - liberation, 1948 - Victorious February, 1968 - Soviet occupation, and now 1989 [see Velvet Revolution] 22, which is number 6. I would say that was quite enough for one life.'

Glossary

Elvira Kohn 
Zagreb 
Croatia 
Interviewer: Lea Siljak 
Date of interview: May 2003 

Elvira Kohn is a tiny and very lively 89-year-old woman who vividly remembers details from her young days.

She recalls and tells stories passionately and with humor. Elvira is very modest and self-effacing in her accomplishments.

Once a professional photographer and an active photo- reporter, Elvira is retired today and lives alone in her quiet apartment in central Zagreb.

There are many Jewish accessories present in her apartment, of which Elvira is particularly fond and proud.

Even though her apartment is small and modest, it gives off warm feelings. 

Ms. Kohn died in August 2003.

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

• My family background

I don't know where my paternal great-grandparents came from. According to my surname Kohn - a German surname - I assume that they probably came from Germany and settled in what today is Croatia.

I don't know much about my paternal grandparents either. They moved a lot around the towns in Eastern Slavonia and finally settled and lived in the small town of Golinci, near Osijek. My grandfather, Ignatz Kohn, born in 1859, was a storekeeper; he sold groceries and textiles and cloths in his store in Golinci.

My grandmother, Berta Kohn, nee Deutsch, born in 1865, was a housewife. They died young at the age of 56 and 51 respectively, and I don't remember them. I was still a small child when they died.

The whole Kohn family, the paternal side of my family, lived in East Slavonia: in Osijek, Petrijevci, Donji Miholjac, Belisce and the towns around. The Kohn family was a large family: my father had two brothers and three sisters. The two brothers, Sandor Kohn and Emil Kohn, left Golinci to live in the larger town of Podravski Podgajci.

In Podravski Podgajci, Emil, my father's oldest brother, had a grocery, a butcher's shop and an inn. The butcher's shop wasn't a kosher shop; it was a regular shop that sold non- kosher meat. He was a well-off and prosperous man, but not very rich. Although I don't know much about the paternal side of my family, I know that they weren't religious.

They didn't follow the kashrut, but they fasted on Yom Kippur and celebrated Rosh Hashanah. That was about it. When I was very young, I used to visit them during school vacation. I remember I always had a very nice time with my father's family, although I don't remember much any more. Sandor never married, but Emil had a family: he and his wife adopted a girl from Zagreb, but I don't remember her name.

My father's oldest sister, Malvina Kohn, died before World War II. The second sister Olga Cvjeticanin, nee Kohn, married a non-Jewish man, an Eastern Orthodox Serb named Jovan Cvjeticanin and lived in Belgrade. Nobody in the family was against the fact that Olga married a non-Jew. There was never any argument. Everyone in the family loved Jovan very much. The third sister, Elza Fischer, nee Kohn, lived in Donji Miholjac. Elza was married to Ignatz Fischer from Brcko; they had no children.

The two brothers, Sandor and Emil, Emil's family and Elza and her husband were taken to Auschwitz and murdered. Olga survived in Belgrade. Because she married a non-Jew, she converted to his religion and became Eastern Orthodox. No one in the family opposed. Jovan's father was an Eastern Orthodox priest and he was the one who baptized Olga.

I remember that someone once told me the following anecdote: Jovan's father, while baptizing Olga told her, 'Even though you are now accepting another man's faith, never forget who and what you really are.' Olga survived because she converted. She died in Belgrade around 1990. She had no children.

My father, Bernard Kohn, was born in 1887 in Koska, near Nasice. He was a salesman and met my mother in Vinkovci. For a short time, my parents lived in Vienna, Austria, where my brother Aleksandar was born in 1912. I think they lived in Vienna because of the nature of my father's work. He was a salesman and a manager in a firm that dealt with the production of textiles. From Vienna they moved to Rijeka, again because of his work, where I was born in 1914, just when World War I started.

In the war, my father was an Austro-Hungarian soldier [in the KuK army] 1 and was imprisoned by the Serbs in Nis in 1915. In the place where he was captured, there were many typhus patients and my father was also infected with typhus. He died in 1915 in Nis and was buried there. I was only one year old when my father died and I practically never met him. All I know about my father is from the stories that my mother told me and from a few pictures that I still have.

After my father died in 1915, my maternal grandfather, Leopold Klein, came to Rijeka to take my mother, my brother Aleksandar and me to his house in Vinkovci. I remember my maternal grandparents much better than the paternal ones because my mother, my brother and I lived with them in their house in Vinkovci, and with them I spent my childhood.

My grandfather was born in Ruma in 1872. I don't know how his family came to Ruma. My grandfather had a brother, Matijas Klein, who lived in Vukovar, and a sister whose name I don't recall. I only remember that she was married to a man named Soper and lived with him in Vienna.

They had one son, Alojz Soper, but I don't know anything else about them. My grandmother, Rozalija Klein, nee Weiss, was born in Velika Kopanica in 1877, and the Weiss family lived in Slavonski Brod and the towns around. I don't know how my grandparents met, but after they married, they eventually came to live in Vinkovci, and they stayed there until they were taken to Stara Gradiska 2 in 1942.

My maternal grandparents had five children: my mother, her two sisters and two brothers. The two brothers, Samuel and Dragutin Klein, were taken to Jasenovac 3 in 1942 and murdered. The older one, Samuel, had two sons: Mirko and Vlado.

Vlado died of some illness in Vinkovci before the war, and Mirko was murdered in Jasenovac when he was 15 years old.

The other brother, Dragutin, married a Catholic woman and they had one son, Mirko. Even though Mirko was from a mixed marriage and it was said that children from mixed marriages would be spared, he was nevertheless taken to Jasenovac in 1942 and murdered.

One of my mother's sisters, Adela Klein, left her hometown Vinkovci in 1929 and went to live in Brazil. One of her childhood friends had moved to Brazil before her, contacted Adela from there, and suggested that she should also come.

There, Adela married a German Jew named Erich Stiel and had a daughter, Estera, with him. Because she lived in Brazil, Adela never experienced the war tragedies directly. Adela came to visit me in Zagreb twice after the war, and one time she came with Estera. I kept in touch with Adela on a regular basis and we were always in very good relations until her death in 1983.

Her daughter Estera is still alive and lives in Sao Paolo, Brazil. Estera has two sons but is divorced.

The other sister, Tereza Klein, married a Jew named Marko Ruzic; Marko was murdered in Jasenovac in 1942. They had two daughters: Zlata and Zdenka. Zlata moved to Dubrovnik before the war started and worked as a hairdresser. During the war, she was taken to the camp Feramonti in Italy but she survived.

After the war, Zlata went to live in Israel where she stayed until her death five years ago. Zdenka was married to a Jew who was murdered in Jasenovac.

She was taken with my grandparents and her mother Tereza to Stara Gradiska in 1942. Zdenka was pregnant when they arrived in the camp. When Ustasha 4 men saw that she was pregnant, they killed her, opened her womb, took the child out and put stones inside. I don't know who told me this but unfortunately someone always stays alive to tell the truth.

My grandfather Leopold had a store in Vinkovci. It was a grocery where you could get sugar, flour, bread, milk, and other food products. It wasn't a very large store, but it had a variety of food products, and household goods were sold there, too.

My grandfather completed some kind of vocational school; it was obligatory to finish that kind of school in order to obtain a permit to open a grocery. My grandfather himself worked in the store and there was one employee. The store was open on Saturdays but my grandfather didn't work on Saturdays since he always went to the synagogue then. It was always the other worker, a non-Jew, who worked in the store on Saturdays.

My grandfather was a big joker, and I think I inherited that from him. He was always in a good mood, always smiling and happy, just like I am. He was very interested in stars and astronomy, and was very curious how stars and the sun evolved.

I remember he had this one book, very old and already yellow, written by some prophet about what will happen. It was some kind of prophetic book, not Jewish I think, but still he was preoccupied with what was written in there. He gathered us children and read out loud from the book. I don't remember what was written in this book, but I remember that my grandfather was very much preoccupied with astronomy, which interested him very much.

Grandmother Rozalija completed the obligatory elementary school and was literate, but she was a housewife. At that time, it was usual for a woman to be a housewife and not to work. My grandmother was a hard-working woman, a provident and caring housewife, a mother and a grandmother, and an excellent cook. She was a kind and gentle woman.

• Growing up

My mother Gizela Kohn, nee Klein, was born in Vinkovci in 1892. She was a wonderful woman. She was always smiling, even though she had a very tough life, and everyone loved her for her smiles. My mother was a tall, slim, dark-skinned, brown-haired, beautiful woman.

Although she was a housewife, she worked in a small shop close to the railway station in Vinkovci for a while, where she sold newspapers, candies and similar things. But she didn't work there for long. She mostly helped my grandmother around the house and took care of my brother and me. My mother lost her husband when she was still a young woman with two small children.

She was a wonderful mother to us, caring and supportive, always understanding and loving. After her husband, my father, died, my mother had to face yet another tragedy in her life. In addition to losing her husband, she also lost her son.

My older brother Aleksandar completed a trade academy in Osijek. My father's sister Olga Cvjeticanin, married and living in Belgrade, had no children. She and her husband loved my brother very much and they invited him to come and live in Belgrade.

They helped him find a job as an accountant with a British company called Konac in Belgrade. After the first month of probation, my brother was accepted to work in the company full time, as they were very satisfied with his work. He received his first salary and sent 100 dinars to my mother. Very shortly after that, my brother had an accident and died.

A young boy, riding on a bicycle, ran into my brother and knocked him down. My brother fell, hit the curbstone with his head, and died. That was in 1937. It was a terrible shock for the whole family. He was buried in Belgrade in a Jewish cemetery. Although this was a tragedy, I know where his grave is today; had he lived a little longer, the Germans would have killed him and I wouldn't know.

In Vinkovci we first lived in a house close to the railway station on Kolodvorska Street. When World War I was over in 1918, I was only four years old. Because Vinkovci had a large railway station, many trains passed through the town and the soldiers returned to their home.

The war was over and the soldiers fired shots in the air: they were celebrating the victory. I remember standing by the window with my mother and looking out at the soldiers. As we were looking, I told her, 'They are not going to do anything to us because they know we don't have a daddy.' I remember this so well, I even now hear myself saying it! I was only four years old but I always lived with the awareness that I didn't have a father.

After Kolodvorska Street, we moved to Daniciceva Street, and then to King Aleksandar Street, that was the name then, I don't know what it's called today. We lived in a one-story house with three rooms, a kitchen and a bathroom. We didn't have running water but we had a well in our backyard. Vinkovci had a gas plant, so we had gas and not electricity. We used it for heating and cooking. Apart from a few fruit-trees and a small garden, we didn't have anything else in the backyard.

My grandfather wanted us to speak German in the house since that was his mother tongue. My grandmother spoke Croatian with us and he was displeased when we spoke Croatian and didn't speak German. However, we mostly spoke Croatian in the house. For Jewish expressions we used the Yiddish pronunciation; for example, we said Shabos [Sabbath] barhes [challah], matzos [matzah].

In our house in Vinkovci where I lived with my grandparents, my brother and my mother, the family respected Jewish customs and traditions. We weren't very religious, but there were certain elements of the Jewish religion and traditions that we respected. There was no pork in the house; that was strictly forbidden. We never had pork.

Otherwise, the meat we ate wasn't kosher; at least I don't think it was slaughtered according to the strict kashrut rules. My grandmother and mother cooked on Friday for Saturday so we didn't cook on Saturday. They prepared challah for Friday night and for Saturday. We lit candles Friday night and had a festive meal, usually fish, chicken soup and chicken. We had red wine.

On Saturday, we always ate cholent, which was prepared the day before. Most of the food was kept in the well in the backyard because otherwise it would have gone bad. We had a young servant girl named Ivka from Brcko who didn't live with us, but occasionally came to help my mother and my grandmother. She wasn't Jewish so she mostly helped us on Fridays and Saturdays. For example, on Saturday she went to the well where the cholent was kept, brought it in and heated it up for us for lunch.

We also lit candles on Chanukkah. For Pesach, we ate matzot, and I remember that my grandmother made delicious matzot cake. We had a seder dinner. Of course, we celebrated all the holidays, like Rosh Hashanah, and we always had a nice lunch or dinner. We fasted on Yom Kippur. It was more of a tradition than strict religion in my family. Like it is said: the customs have kept Judaism, and not the prayers.

There were many young boys who were in the army in Vinkovci since there was an army base there. It was a custom that Jewish families invited Jewish soldiers for a meal to their home on Rosh Hashanah or seder or some other holidays.

The Jewish community in Vinkovci sent a letter to the army base informing them that on a certain date it was a Jewish holiday and kindly asking for permission for Jewish soldiers to leave the base that day. There was a list of all the Jewish families who invited soldiers to join them for holidays. Not every Jewish family invited soldiers, only the ones who wanted. My family always had soldiers over for lunch or dinner on Rosh Hashanah and other holidays.

There was a large and beautiful synagogue in Vinkovci. We called it the temple. Men and women sat separately: men downstairs and women up on the balcony. Downstairs in the middle, there was the bimah where the rabbi stood, and in front of the bimah there was a built-in closet and inside were the scrolls of the Torah.

The synagogue was full with people. Jews came to pray on Saturdays and holidays. My family went to the synagogue on every holiday. We went to the synagogue more often on Saturday mornings than on Friday evenings. When they were in the synagogue, my grandparents covered their heads.

My grandfather wore a small cap on his head. My grandmother had a black scarf made of lace that she just wrapped over her head. Otherwise, they didn't cover their heads, only during the services in the synagogue.

In Vinkovci, there was one rabbi and one cantor. Somehow I don't remember the cantor that well. The rabbi was called Dr. Frankfurter. He had a large beard. I heard that when the Germans came to Vinkovci, they tied his beard and put a large red ribbon on it. Then they gave him a broom and made him clean the streets. I'm not sure if there was a kosher store in Vinkovci that sold kosher food; I don't remember. But there was one man who slaughtered the meat according to the kashrut rules. He went to people's houses whenever somebody needed him and slaughtered chickens and poultry. I don't think there was a mikveh in Vinkovci.

I attended public school, the regular elementary and high school in Vinkovci. There was no Jewish school. There were pupils of all kinds of religions and nationalities in this school and my friends were Jews and non- Jews alike. In my class in particular, there were 30 pupils, of which 13 were Jews, around 10 Eastern Orthodox because there were many Serb villages around Vinkovci, and the rest were Catholics and maybe some Evangelic.

Although there was no Jewish school, there was Jewish religious instruction, which was obligatory. Every Sunday we had religious classes and received grades; it was part of the school curriculum. We had a religious instructor whose name was Pollak. He taught us Hebrew, the Talmud, the Torah, some Jewish history and traditions.

On Saturdays we didn't have to attend classes in school, but we had to go to the synagogue. We also had to obtain a written statement signed by Rabbi Frankfurter saying that we were at the service on Saturday morning, and we had to bring this statement to school. It was like a confirmation that we were in the synagogue instead of being in class.

There was a Jewish community in Vinkovci and in general there was a rich and lively Jewish life. We celebrated Chanukkah and Purim together and had parties on holidays. Those took place in the cultural center in Vinkovci, not in the community building.

I assume that there wasn't enough space in the community building for such celebrations because a lot of people came to celebrate. The Jews were the ones who organized and participated in the celebrations, of course. We gave performances on Chanukkah and Purim. It was customary to dress up and put on masks for Purim. We danced, sang Jewish songs and socialized with other Jews, our friends, and always had a good time.

Within the Jewish community there was also a Jewish Youth Club and I was a member. We used to meet in the community building and talked, learned some Hebrew and some Jewish history, exchanged knowledge and ideas, or just spent time together. Sometimes we had visits from the youth of the Jewish Community Vukovar or from other Jewish communities, or we went to visit them.

Then we interacted with our fellow Jews and spoke about Jewish life in other places. That was always interesting and I enjoyed meeting with Jews from other places. We had many lectures and discussions on ideas about creating a Jewish state. I suppose that we were Zionist-oriented and nurtured the Zionist ideology. There were no summer camps, not that I remember, but we organized inter-town visits and exchange.

In Vinkovci, I completed the public elementary school, four grades of public high school and after that I learned photography in a private photographer's shop called Seiler. In this photo studio, I learned the trade and became a qualified photographer. I was very much interested in photography and I learned to love this art form very much.

At the beginning, of course, I only worked in the photo studio but with time I became less interested in taking static pictures and telling people to turn left, right, smile, and so on. After I learned the profession and gained experience. I wanted to become a photo-reporter. I wanted to work outside the studio, take photographs of events and people.

Many traders and photographers came to the Seiler photo studio where I worked, and once one of them asked me if I would be interested in working in a photo studio in Dubrovnik. He said that they needed someone with my qualifications and that I could work as a photo-reporter.

I left for Dubrovnik in 1932. At first I lived alone but later I found a bigger apartment and settled in, and my mother came from Vinkovci to live with me. In Dubrovnik my mother didn't work. She wasn't employed anywhere. She took care of our house and of me. Apart from my work, I didn't have to take care of anything because my mother was there.

I worked in a photo shop called Jadran, which was on the corner of Zudioska Street where the synagogue in Dubrovnik was and still is today. The owners weren't Jewish. The name of the owner was Miho Ercegovic, and his son was called Velimir Ercegovic. Within the shop, there were three sections: a book store, a stationary and a photo studio.

I worked in the photo studio. My main duties were to take photos of various daily events that were taking place in Dubrovnik and its surroundings: cultural happenings, political events, events related to the church, such as mass, baptism, or other church-related events.

Sometimes people asked me to take photos of their children at birthday parties, or when a child was born. I always liked taking photos of children. Sometimes I took photos for newspapers and journalists wrote a story related to the photo. I never wrote for newspapers, I only took photos.

I recall well one event in Dubrovnik: in April 1942, the NDH was proclaimed an Independent State of Croatia 5. On this occasion, a great ceremony and celebration took place in Dubrovnik. All the high-ranking officials of the NDH came to Dubrovnik and requested that this ceremony be photographed.

Apart from me, there were two more men in Dubrovnik who worked as photo- reporters; however, that day they were already busy working elsewhere. By then Jews already had to wear a badge. Everywhere else in Croatia, Jews had to wear a yellow star but in Dubrovnik we wore on the left side of the chest a brass-like yellow badge within which was the black letter 'Z' [Zidov=Jew].

My boss told the officials that other photo-reporters were busy but that signorina [Italian for Miss] Elvira - that's how they used to call me in Dubrovnik - was available to take photos. 'If you don't mind that is. You know, she is Jewish', my boss said to them, and they replied that they didn't mind as long as the whole event was photographed.

The main ceremony took place in front of St. Vlaho church, and all the officials stood on the stairs of the church. Professor Kastelan and his sister were among the officials and many other functionaries and deeply religious Catholics. The ceremony began and I started to take photos. I had a Leica then. I stood there and took photos with my Leica on one side and the badge on the other.

After a short while, I noticed that the sister of this Professor Kastelan whispered something into his ear and they both looked at me. They stared at me for some time, and, as I noticed this, I slowly started to move back towards the crowd.

I wanted this to be unnoticed, and I moved slowly and disappeared into the crowd. Soon the sister came down the stairs, walked through the crowd, came straight up to me and asked me to stop taking photos immediately. At her request, I stopped and left the event.

I told my boss everything about it. He put the already-taken photos aside and never published them in the newspapers. A few days later, some of the NDH officials came to the studio to collect a few of the photos that I had taken and to ask why the photos weren't in the newspapers. Velimir, the son of the owner, told them that it was impossible. He explained that the shopkeepers had destroyed all the films since signorina Elvira was ordered to stop taking photos and that they believed that it was forbidden to develop even the few photos that signorina Elvira managed to take. The NDH officials were furious, of course, but there was nothing they could do. Those photos were never developed.

In general, I have great respect for the citizens of Dubrovnik in how they treated the Jews during the war. They were very fair to us. I never hid the fact that I was Jewish. There's a well-known Croatian actress from Dubrovnik whose name is Marija Kohn.

Her father married a Catholic woman and converted to Catholicism but didn't change his name. For this reason, the name Kohn was well known in Dubrovnik and when someone heard that my name was Kohn, they automatically considered me a Catholic as well. I always emphasized that I was Jewish though.

There was a Jewish community and a synagogue on Zudioska Street. I think there were about one hundred Jews in Dubrovnik. I didn't take part in the life of the community that much. I always attended the services and celebrations on main holidays but that was about it. It was a Sephardi community.

Dubrovnik was a small town and everyone intermingled; I didn't feel that I needed to be part of the community life. I felt Jewish, declared myself Jewish, had Jewish friends but didn't feel that I had to do more. On Saturdays I worked so I didn't go to the synagogue but sometimes I went to the services Friday night. My mother was more involved in the community life because she had more free time. She was very friendly with other Jewish women and they often visited one another.

I had many friends both Jewish and non-Jewish. It was a small town and we all knew each other. I don't know how I drew people towards me, but I had many friends and they all liked me.

When I arrived in Dubrovnik it was January or February 1932, a season when less foreign people come, and whoever comes is noticed. And so was I noticed. I met one nice young man who worked in the photo studio. He introduced me to a few people, who then introduced me to a few more, and so it goes.

My good friend was Mara; she was from Dubrovnik and she worked in the book store that was part of the shop where I worked. She wasn't Jewish but she was a very good young woman. Many people were very good and very kind to me.

• During the War

I didn't feel much anti-Semitism in Dubrovnik before the war. Perhaps right before the war started, anti-Semitism was felt more individually than collectively. My boss, Miho Ercegovic, had one partner named Gesel. This Mr. Gesel told my boss that he must fire whoever was Jewish. He knew I was Jewish.

So my boss, who was very inclined to me, had to fire me but he did so only officially so that he wouldn't get into trouble. He still let me work 'unofficially' for him and I continued to do my job and take photos and that way I could earn my living. This was just when the NDH was proclaimed a state and the Ustashas came to power.

We were forced to wear a badge since the NDH was proclaimed in 1942. There were other discriminating laws implemented against Jews: in addition to wearing the badge, we were forbidden to work in state and public services, and we were deprived of the freedom of passage. We were allowed to go to the beach or to the market only until a certain time of the day; a curfew was imposed on us.

In Dubrovnik, the state power was in the hands of the Croats, i.e. of the Ustashas, and the military power was in the hands of the Italians. It was our luck that the Italians were in power there. The Germans, in collaboration with the Ustashas, tried to take us to their concentration camps, but the Italians made clear to them that they were in power in Dubrovnik and that it was Italian right to do what they wanted to do with us. And because the military power was greater than the state power, we were, in a way, put under the protection of the Italians.

The Jewish community informed all the Jews living in Dubrovnik, the Jews who by accident happened to be there, and the Jews who came to Dubrovnik to run away or hide, that on a certain day in November 1942 we would be taken away and that we could take with us what we thought was necessary. I was with my mother. We were taken aboard a large Italian passenger ship and many people of Dubrovnik came to see us off.

Among them was my boss Miho Ercegovic. When I saw him, I approached him and returned his camera. And he said, 'No, you keep it, and whatever happens will be captured on film.' We were first taken to the hotel Vrek in Gruz, a few kilometers from Dubrovnik. There we stayed for two months and at the beginning of January 1943 we were taken to Kupari. There were around 1200 Jews.

Kupari is about twelve kilometers from Dubrovnik and there we were interned in a Czech hotel that was situated on the seaside. It was a large hotel that was delimited with wire. We were only allowed to walk within the wired fence. The Italian soldiers were all over; there were also Italian guards who kept their eyes on us all the time.

They didn't allow us to go beyond the fence or to the coast because they thought that someone might swim away. So we had to stay inside the hotel or walk just a little bit around it. We received food but I rather not recall that: it was dried vegetables in oil and a piece of bread.

Then we had to cut this piece of bread in three parts, one for breakfast, the second for lunch, and the third for dinner. A friend of mine from Zagreb sent me a package with some food; we were allowed to receive one package per month. But even the food she sent me had to be dry so that it could be preserved.

In May 1943, when the internment camp on Rab 6 was built, we were transferred from Kupari to the Island of Rab. There were no religious or observant inmates and no one observed any Jewish traditions or laws. At least I don't remember anyone doing so.

The Island of Rab was also under Italian rule. There were two camps: one for Slovenes and the other for Jews. Slovenes were imprisoned by the Italians just like we were. The two camps were strictly separated and no communication or contact between the two camps could take place.

There was one man, a Slovene, who was an electrician and who was ordered to fix some electric failures or something similar in our camp. He was the only one from the Slovene camp that we had some contact with but even that was very rare and limited since the Italians kept their eyes on him while he carried out his duty.

The Jewish camp, called Kampor, was divided into two camps: the Dubrovnik camp, where I was with my mother and other Jews from Dubrovnik, and the Kraljevica camp. Jews who managed to run away from Zagreb, Karlovac, and the surroundings arrived in Crikvenica and were interned by Italians in Kraljevica, just a few kilometers away from Crikvenica.

After a while, they were transferred from Kraljevica to Rab and were interned in the camp next to ours. The two camps, Dubrovnik and Kraljevica camp, were separated and each was enclosed with a wired fence. We were allowed to meet with Jews from Kraljevica camp during the day but only from 12 noon to 2pm, during the hottest time of the day.

At other times, it was strictly forbidden to meet. There were cases of parents being in one camp and their children in the other, depending on who was where when the war started, and at least they could meet for a short time during the day. I was lucky that I was with my mother.

There were around 1200 Jews in Dubrovnik camp and perhaps the same number or maybe a bit more in Kraljevica camp. We were accommodated in the barracks; in Kraljevica camp, there were wooden barracks, and in Dubrovnik camp they were made out of bricks.

The barracks were long and somewhat narrow. There were some 30 people in one barrack. The beds were bunk-beds: one person sleeping on the top and one on the bottom. The beds were one next to the other, on both sides of the barrack.

The toilets were outside, far away; to go to the toilet was like going on an excursion. The toilets were in one place and everyone from our camp used the same facilities, but there were a few toilet bowls, not just one. There was water in the camp, but for some weeks the central unit that supplied water was broken so cisterns with water were delivered to the camp. We received one liter of water per person per day, and that had to be enough for drinking and for personal hygiene.

We got a small amount of food which wasn't enough to keep us for the whole day. It was also disgusting. For breakfast, we got coffee that wasn't real coffee but some mishmash that tasted awful, and a piece of bread for the whole day. That piece we divided into three parts so that we also had a little piece for lunch and a little piece for dinner.

For lunch, we were given some soup, dried vegetables brewed up with old and foul-smelling oil, or pasta with oil. Pasta was usually served for dinner; thick black macaroni with oil. Even today, when I see someone pour oil over his food, I feel disgusted. Sometimes we were served goulash with meat and potatoes, but only small amounts of meat.

Every one of us had his turn to work in the kitchen; it was like a duty call, an obligatory call, perhaps once or twice in a week. We only helped around the kitchen to prepare the food, but the cooks cooked; we didn't. I remember once it was my turn to work in the kitchen and that day goulash with potatoes was served. The soldiers brought large baskets filled with already cooked potatoes and we were supposed to peal off the skin.

When the soldiers came to collect the potatoes, they looked inside the basket, then looked at us and asked: dove sono gli potati? [Italian: where are the potatoes] They gave us cooked potatoes to peal, and of course we ate more than half of the amount, who wouldn't have? We were hungry! The soldiers were very upset and from then on they always gave us raw potatoes to peal, and it was impossible to eat raw potatoes.

We usually woke up around 6 or 6.30 in the morning. The breakfast was brought to our barracks by the soldiers at 7am and by then we already had to be up and ready for breakfast, that is that horrible coffee and a piece of bread.

After breakfast, we each had our obligations that had to be fulfilled during the day. In the camp, everyone had to work or do something else during the day. The Italians weren't forcing us to work in a particular place; we could choose where we wanted to work. It looked as if it was voluntary work whereas we were actually forced to do something, it was just the place that we could choose. But sometimes even the place of work was determined.

There was something like a tailor's place where women who wanted to work there went. Buttons fell off from soldiers' uniforms or other things like that, so women went to do these jobs. Whoever worked there would be given an extra portion of food; this was like voluntary work, we weren't forced to do that.

Out of pure spite, I refused to sew buttons on soldiers' uniforms and never went to work there. Then, the Italians always built some roads and men usually went to dig and build these roads. That was hard physical labor. Men who worked there were also given an extra portion of food.

There was also a medical clinic in the camp, and usually the imprisoned Jews who were doctors worked there. In addition, there was a school for small children to teach them how to read and write so that they wouldn't remain illiterate. The inmates who were teachers worked there and taught children the basics in language and mathematics, the elementary things. The Italians allowed this.

I worked in the hospital. On the coastal side, in the town of Rab, which was four to five kilometers from the Kampor camp, there was the Hotel Imperial, which served as a hospital. Whoever wanted to work in the hospital could do so, and I volunteered. Every morning, Italian soldiers took a few of us on the truck to the hospital and brought us back in the afternoon.

We usually helped nurses in sterilizing bandages and preparing medical utensils. The patients who were treated in this hospital were the inmates from the Kampor camp. My mother sometimes worked in the tailors' place but most of the times she helped in the kitchen.

Lunch was served between 12 noon and 2pm. We had to go to the kitchen to collect our portion of food and then return to the barrack to eat there. During that time, we were also allowed to meet with the Jews from Kraljevica camp. We usually had the afternoons off. Depending on the nature of the work, sometimes someone had to work in the afternoon as well, but usually we had time off. Sometimes the Italians took us to the beach; they allowed us to go swimming.

They allowed 20 or 25 people to go to the beach, so we rotated. If more people went, it would have been more difficult for them to keep their eyes on us, so only 20 or 25 went at a time. It was around one or two kilometers to the beach and we walked. The Italians watched over us and guarded us very strictly and rigorously.

It was one of the Italian specialties to count us; they counted us again and again. We always had to line up and they counted and counted, before we left, while we were walking, while we were on the beach, when we walked back; they permanently counted us!

After we came back from the beach, we had off until 9pm. We usually walked around, many of us knew each other from before or we became friendly during our imprisonment so we walked and talked. At 9pm, the lights went off and we had to be in our beds in the barracks. The barracks weren't locked during the night.

The guards guarded them and walked around the camp during the night so that no one would even try to escape. It was very hot in the barracks especially during the night but the worst were the bedbugs. Our barracks were full of them and they drove us crazy. Those bugs bite and are very annoying so it was difficult to sleep at night.

Today people say that the Italians didn't really kill anyone directly in the camp. My answer to that is: the Italians did and didn't kill in the camp. They killed indirectly. They killed by forcing us to work, by giving us small amounts of food, by giving us orders, by treating us like a lower race. They were cruel.

Often the inmates who had small children were given half a liter of milk for a child. The commandant of the camp who was among the worst, saw a mother with her child in one hand and a bottle of milk in the other, approached the mother, took the bottle from her and spilled the milk. They were cruel in these ways: starving us, mistreating us, scaring us, forcing us to work.

Throughout the whole time of our imprisonment in the camp, I had my camera with me. I managed to hide it when we arrived in the camp even though we had to submit all of our belongings to a detailed search. But, apart from the initial search, I had to continue to hide the camera because the Italians searched our barracks almost every day.

We, the inmates, figured out the system although it was very risky. We informed each other when and where the search began so if the search began in barrack number 1 that meant that barrack number 1 was clear.

One of the informers ran to let the others know, who then let me know, and then I sent the camera through others to barrack number 1 that had already been checked. So my camera was always in a different place and the Italians never found it, thanks to good communications and good relations among the inmates.

I didn't take any photos during our imprisonment because that would have been too dangerous. I wasn't, of course, allowed to do it and, had they caught me, I could have been in great trouble so I never even tried.

Italy capitulated on 8th September 1943 [see Italian capitulation] 7. The Italians were running away from the Island of Rab by boats; some managed to escape, others didn't. A group of young Jewish boys caught the main commandant of the Kampor camp and forced him to return to the camp.

I don't know his name; we used to call him colonello [Italian for commandant]. Since Crikvenica was already liberated, there was a military court there, so the Jewish boys wanted to take colonello to court. On the way there, colonello somehow found a razor blade and slashed his wrists. The boys then took him back to the Island of Rab and buried him, not in the cemetery as such, but in front of the cemetery.

When the partisans arrived from Crikvenica on the Island of Rab, whoever wanted to join the partisans could join them. A group of young Jewish boys registered and was sent to Korski Kotar. Most of them didn't know how to use weapons so many of them lost their lives soon after they were liberated from Rab.

I immediately decided to join the partisans. They asked every one of us individually what we wanted, where we wanted to go, which brigade we want to join, what our profession was. I told them I was a professional photographer, and that I had a camera, that I had a Leica.

They were very surprised to hear this, and very glad, so they invited me to join the advertising and public-relations department of ZAVNOH 8, which was situated in Otocac at the time. They asked about my mother and what her profession was. So I said she was a housewife, and they replied that she should also come because we would need her around the kitchen. And so we left the Island of Rab; most of the inmates from the camp decided to join the partisans.

We got aboard a large boat that had both motors and sails, and arrived in Senj. Senj was completely bombed and destroyed, the whole town except for a church. We stayed in the church for several nights and slept on the wooden church benches. From Senj, we left on ox-drawn carts across Velebit and reached Otocac. For a while we stayed there. My mother worked in the kitchen, and I was part of the public-relations department of ZAVNOH. Apart from this department, there were other departments, like the educational, cultural, technological one and others.

My job was to take photos of various events that took place within ZAVNOH. They had board meetings, conferences, workshops, exhibitions, concerts; all kinds of events were taking place. It was like a government so many activities were going on, and I had to take photos of all the events. All the high-ranking officials of the government were there.

Within the complex of ZAVNOH was also a hospital and a pharmacy, and my mother soon joined the pharmacy. My mother and I weren't always together. Depending on our duties, we had to separate and go our own way: my mother with the pharmacy department of the hospital, and I with the government. As the government moved, I moved with them.

While I was with the partisans, I always emphasized that I was Jewish. I've never hidden the fact that I am Jewish. There was also no need; as soon as I said that I had been on the Island of Rab, it was known that I was Jewish. I said I was Jewish so that I wouldn't put anyone or myself in an uncomfortable position.

I wanted to let everyone know so that nobody would say anything against the Jews. There were other Jews with me in ZAVNOH in other departments. Some were typists, some clerks, and so on. Nobody treated us any different than the rest. There were Croats, Serbs, Slovenes, Jews. Everyone was treated equally, and the relations among us were fine. We all had a common goal: to liberate our country and bring about peace.

There was an offensive in Otocac, and we were forced to move towards Slunj. From Slunj we had to move towards Plitvice. It was snowing and the trucks could hardly move through the snow. We reached Plitvicki Leskovac, and were informed that the Germans were arriving. We managed to dig the trucks out of the snow, moved quickly and ran away.

That was at the beginning of January 1944. I remember that on 13th January 1944 we were in Glina. I particularly recall that day because it was sunny and clear, and when the days were sunny and clear, the Germans would bomb. And exactly on that day, the Germans bombed. I was inside a building, and the first thing we were told was to open all the windows. We opened the windows so that they wouldn't break and disperse in all directions. There were some kind of stairs and we hid underneath these stairs until the bombing was over.

From Glina we reached Topusko where the supreme headquarters of Croatia was, and for a while we stayed there. Maybe all together we were a hundred people that formed various departments within the headquarters and who always moved together.

Each one of us had his duties and knew what he/she was supposed to do. I knew exactly what took place when and where, in terms of meetings, conferences, events, campaigns, and I followed the schedule. I was the only female photo-reporter within ZAVNOH. There were two other male photo-reporters, but sometimes there were called in for other duties, so there were times when I was the only photo-reporter for ZAVNOH.

After the supreme headquarters formed their own public-relations department, I started to work for them, and I stayed there until the war was over.

For a while we stayed in Topusko and were about to start the preparations for celebrating 8th March [International Women's Day]. However, we received the order to move to Zadar. Zadar was terribly bombed, but liberated, and so we were given orders to reach Zadar.

After we packed our belongings, we set out on our journey from Topusko to Zadar. In front of us was a Russian military mission, the English and the Americans, and each had flags on their trucks. And, again, the day was sunny and clear, the Germans saw the truck convoy and started bombing. When we were forming our convoy, each truck had a number; each department received a number and had to load the truck with the corresponding number.

When it came to truck number 13, nobody wanted to load it, since that's an unlucky number. In the end, the artillery department agreed to be on truck number 13, and all the artillery and guns were loaded onto it as well. Call it fate, or I don't know, but exactly that truck number 13 was bombed. All of the men who were on that truck managed to jump out, except for one man from Rijeka who didn't and was killed.

We reached Zadar, which was completely destroyed. The army barracks were still somewhat functional so we stayed there. All the buildings were demolished, the main street, the main square; all was destroyed. There wasn't a single soul in the town, everyone had run away. And I still have an image in my mind that I will never forget: an old woman sitting in front of the church, with a rosary in her hands, praying.

I approached her, looked at her and said, 'Nona [Italian for grandma], what are you doing?' And she said, 'Praying, praying, praying. Is there anyone left in this world?' I will never forget the image of that old women sitting in front of the church and praying in this empty and destroyed town.

From Zadar, where we stayed for a considerable amount of time, we returned to Otocac. The supreme headquarters of Croatia was there, and they prepared a celebration. It was the beginning of May 1945 and, as we started walking towards the woods to where the celebration was to take place, a courier quickly approached the commandant, whispered something into his ear, and the commandant called the celebration off and we were to return to the headquarters in Otocac. Then we were told that we should pack our belongings and move towards Zagreb. We moved slowly, and reached Karlovac.

There was a rumor, which the Ustashas spread, saying that the partisans went around and killed innocent civilians. When we reached Karlovac, it seemed as if there wasn't a single soul in the town. We were very tired, hungry and thirsty, and we entered the backyard of a house that had a well, and wanted to drink water.

Suddenly, an old woman came out of the house, looked at us, approached me, and started touching my face, my hair, my arms. I asked her what she was doing, and she replied, 'I want to make sure that you, partisans, are humans made out of flesh and blood, and not savages.' After she realized that we were humans made out of flesh and blood, other locals who were hiding in the houses around came out, gave us more water and some food.

We reached Zagreb on 9th May 1945 around 5pm. We crossed the Sava bridge and arrived at the main square. The welcome was amazing. People were standing on the streets all over the city of Zagreb, waiting for us to come, clapping their hands, waving the flags. The atmosphere was magnificent, full of emotions, people were delighted and excited. Everyone knew that the war was over, that the Ustashas and the Germans had left the city, that Zagreb was liberated.

After the celebration on the main square, a group of us partisans, who had been together throughout the war, went to Zvonimirova Street, where the headquarters of Pavelic 9 used to be. We decided to sleep in the headquarters of Pavelic, as a statement of victory over the Ustashas. We were warned not to touch anything because there was danger that the Ustashas had left bombs and munition.

There was still a smell of smoke in the backyard of the headquarters; the Ustashas must have been burning the documents and papers just the day before when they were driven out. My first night in Zagreb, I slept on a table in Pavelic's headquarters, with an army coat and a gun underneath me.

• Post-war

My mother came to Zagreb, along with the hospital and the pharmaceuticals, three weeks after me. In the meantime, I stayed with a friend from Dubrovnik, a non-Jewess, in a house on Buliceva Street. When my mother came, I found a bigger apartment for the two of us, and we moved to Stanciceva Street. After the war, the defense and army headquarters of the JNA 10 was formed, and I was appointed by the supreme headquarters of Croatia to work in the newly established defense and army headquarters.

At first, I had to organize the photo laboratory, collect the necessary equipment, cameras, and so on in order for the photo department to function. I also gathered the people who worked with me, as I soon became head of the photo department. I supervised the work of others in my department but I also took photos myself. My love for photography and for capturing important and interesting moments was still very strong.

I usually attended party meetings and took photographs; there were various events that took place, like meetings or celebrations of 8th March, 1st May, 25th May 11 and other party celebrations or commemorations. I had to travel a lot and I was really quite busy, but I enjoyed doing my work. I was very lucky to having found a profession that I loved.

In my work, I often met JNA officials and important people; once I met Josip Broz Tito 12. The photos that I took were mostly published in local newspapers, such as Vjesnik and Naprijed. Often, I took photos for my own pleasure: shots of nature, the people that I loved, my friends.

I continued taking photos of small children, usually my friends' or just children that I saw on the streets. Even after I retired in 1964, I continued taking photographs privately and enjoying photography as an art form. I donated my photographs and negatives to the Croatian History Museum, and they are still kept there today.

I never married. It is my love for photography that should be blamed for this. I was always away; I spent three days in Zagreb, then five days on a trip working, then I was in Zagreb again, then working away again. It was hard to find someone who would have tolerated this! One suitor once told me, 'You love your camera more than you love me!' True, I loved my work, and I dedicated myself and my whole heart to it.

During the communist times, I was in the JNA, I was a member of the Party. I worked and socialized with others who were in the Party; that was my life, that was my world. Today people say terrible things about communism, but it wasn't so bad after all. Maybe in certain aspects it was better than it is today; only, we aren't allowed to say that, it just doesn't sound right.

Immediately after the war, I went to the Jewish community on Palmoticeva Street to become a member. Through the community I re-established relations with my aunt Adela in Brazil and my cousin Zlata in Israel. I've never been to Brazil, but to Israel I went several times.

The first time I went in 1950 to visit Zlata. It wasn't easy to get permission to leave the country because I was among the high-ranking officers in the Party. At last, after many attempts and rejections, I spoke with one officer-general who helped me get a permission to go to Israel. I left from Rijeka on a boat, and arrived in Haifa. It was an amazing trip because there I met with Zlata and her family and I also saw many people who had been interned on Rab with me. But, I never developed any deep feelings for Israel. I was also invited to Zlata's son's bar mitzvah and I went.

Then there was her son's wedding, and I went again, and I think I visited Israel another couple of times. Had I not been in the JNA and the Party, I would have considered to move to Israel. But I was in the army, and I was very much connected to it, and I couldn't help myself. In addition, my mother wasn't so young any more, and it was a risk to go because I didn't know what kind of job I could get there. The Party never criticized me for going to Israel. Everyone always respected me because I always openly admitted that I was Jewish and never hid my origins.

Both my mother and I became members of the Jewish community. I attended celebrations for holidays, if I was in Zagreb. Because I traveled a lot, I couldn't become more active in the community. The fact that I was in the army and went to the community at the same time had no consequences. I never directly told anyone in the army that I went to the Jewish community; that was my personal and private business. If I was in Zagreb for Chanukkah or Purim, I went to the celebrations.

I took my mother to the synagogue for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur and waited outside. I didn't enter because I didn't want the wrath of the Gods, so to speak. There were services for holidays that my mother always attended, and I know that there were people who went, and the people who conducted the services, but I'm not in the position to say much more about it. When I went, I mostly went to the afternoon meetings and tea parties, or to the meetings organized by the women's department.

I lived with my mother until her death in 1977. The two of us were very close, and it was difficult for me when she died. I was left alone; I had no relatives, no family of my own. I was also in a dilemma as to how to bury my mother. It was a very difficult decision for me to make.

Many JNA officials and my co-workers came to my mother's funeral. Some gave a speech. I couldn't have a rabbi bury her in front of the party members. And I couldn't have the party members speak in front of a rabbi. The two don't go together. So at last I decided not to have a rabbi at the funeral. It wasn't easy, but there was no other choice. I wasn't allowed to have a Jewish funeral for my mother.

But I did something else. I arranged with the community that for the whole first month after my mother's death, the Kaddish was recited for her every Friday and Saturday. That was something I could do. Even though all the officials knew that I was Jewish, and that my mother was Jewish, I couldn't have both, the Party and the rabbi, at the funeral. And even though I had been retired since 1964, and my mother died in 1977, I was still in the same circle of people, shared the same spirit, and thus wasn't allowed to. That was the spirit of the time.

When the war broke out in Croatia in 1991 [see Croatian War of Independence] 13, I wasn't afraid for some reason. I wasn't afraid of any catastrophes and disasters. Once someone called me on the phone and said threateningly, 'What are you still doing here, why don't you go where you belong?' I replied, 'I live in my apartment! Where should I go?' And he said, 'You have lived long enough!', and hung up. That scared me and disturbed me. But he never called again. He must have found my last name in the phone book and wanted to scare me.

When Zagreb was bombed in 1991, a friend of mine who lived in Frankfurt, Germany, called me and told me I should immediately leave Zagreb and come to Frankfurt. The airport in Zagreb was already closed so I had to take a bus to Graz, Austria, and from there I took an airplane. While I was there, my neighbor from Zagreb called to say that someone had come a couple of times asking about my apartment.

Perhaps they saw that no one was there, and wanted to move in. It happened a lot that people moved into empty apartments or houses of the people, especially Serbs, who had left Croatia. And so I returned home quickly, and nobody came any more, and no one disturbed me. I was away only for a few weeks, maybe a month but not any longer.

My friends in Zagreb were Jewish and non-Jewish, even more non-Jewish than Jewish. I didn't grow up in Zagreb; my childhood and my youth days I spent in Vinkovci and Dubrovnik, so I didn't know many Jews from Zagreb.

There were a lot of Jews in Zagreb who were on Rab with me, and with them I had contacts. Most of the people I socialized with were my work colleagues, or neighbors, who weren't Jewish. What deeply affected me was that Tudjman 14 and his government didn't financially valorize participants of the National Liberation Army.

The government reduced material incomes that we received during the communist regime. The partisans were all of a sudden not recognized any more. And I claim that, if it hadn't been for the partisans, there wouldn't be a Croatia today. And I'm not afraid to say that.

I am Jewish and feel Jewish, and I always say that. I'm a member of the community and pay the membership fee. Nowadays I don't go to the community because I'm a bit old, and I walk slowly. I'm not religious because I wasn't brought up that way, and now I'm too old to change my life. Most of my friends have died, but I still have dear people who care about me. And I still have memories that I cherish and that help me in my old days.

• Glossary:

Naum Balan
Odessa
Ukraine
Interviewer: Ludmila Grinshpoon
Date of interview: May 2003

Naum Balan is a tall gray-haired man with a sincere and friendly face. He and his wife Lidia Lieberman live in a two-bedroom apartment. In the living room the furniture is of 1970s style. There are a few landscape paintings on the walls painted by Naum's brother Michael, an artist, and his daughter. Naum is very proud of his brother. Naum had a file of his family that he had made himself displayed on a big table. He has a beautiful sheet with his family tree with over one hundred names in it. Naum became interested in the history of his family in the 1980s. He corresponded with his elderly relatives to get more details, but he didn't get answers to all his questions since many details were gone along with the ones that knew them.

Family background
Growing up
During the war
Post-war
Glossary

Family background

My paternal ancestors came from Mostovoye, Ananiev district, Kherson province. [Editor's note: at the end of the 19th century it was called Liakhovo, Privolnoye.] There were 1,607 residents in Mostovoye and 862 of them were Jews. There was a synagogue, an elementary school, a district hospital and a steam mill in the town. There were a few markets where Jews had their shops. My great-grandfather Naftul Balan was born in 1844. He lived in Mostovoye all his life. He was a cattle dealer. Around 1864 Naftul married Sosia, a Jewish girl, born in 1845. Nobody remembers Sosia's maiden name. My great-grandfather Naftul perished during the Civil War 1, in 1919 when a gang 2 attacked Mostovoye. Bandits broke into the house and one of them cut off my great-grandfather's head when he was praying. My great-grandmother Sosia died in 1924. They had five children: three daughters - Chona, Shyfra and Esther - and two sons - Mosha and Michael. All of them were born in Mostovoye.

My grandfather Michael Balan was born in 1865. He was the first child in the family. He spent his youth in Mostovoye. Michael began to help his father when he was very young. In the late 1880s he married Reiza Bashuk, a Jewish girl from his village. My grandfather was a very business-oriented man. He often went on business to Odessa where he had acquaintances. In the late 1920s my grandfather sold his house in Mostovoye and moved to Beryozovka with my grandmother. They lived with their daughter Lisa. Grandfather often visited my parents in Odessa and Tiraspol. I remember his visits to Tiraspol. He wore traditional dark clothes, a long jacket and boots. He had streaks of gray hair, a beard and a moustache. He always wore a cap with a hard peak. My grandfather was religious. My father said he studied in cheder. I think he had food made specifically for him in our house since we kept a cow and pigs and he wouldn't have eaten pork. I don't remember whether my grandfather went to the synagogue in Tiraspol, but he always prayed at home. I liked to watch my grandfather preparing for praying covering his head with tallit and putting on a small box [the tefillin, on his forehead and hand]. Grandfather Michael died in 1939. He was buried in the Jewish cemetery in Beryozovka. I don't know whether he had a traditional funeral.

My grandmother Reiza's father, Solomon Bashuk, was born in Mostovoye in the 1840s and died in this town in 1902. That's all I know about him. His wife, my great-grandmother Etl, lived a long life. After her husband died she lived in the family of her daughter Golda Gorokhovskaya in Odessa. She died in 1941. Besides Golda, Reiza had two other sisters: Charna and Eidia.

My grandmother Reiza was born in 1863. She was of average height and was neither slim nor fat. I remember her wearing a kerchief, long skirts and long-sleeved blouses. I believe my grandmother was religious and observed all Jewish traditions, but I never took any interest in it and don't know any details. My grandparents spoke Yiddish. Grandmother Reiza died in Beryozovka on 3rd February 1937. She was buried in the Jewish cemetery. Michael and Reiza Balan had eight children: four boys and four girls. All of them were born in Mostovoye. They studied in a Russian school. My father's brother Abram died in infancy in 1902 and another brother Semyon died at the age of 14 in 1914. Betia, one of my father's sisters, lived in Kaluga where she died in 1978. That's all I know about her.

My father's brother Minia was born in 1897. He lived with his family in Beryozovka before the Great Patriotic War 3. His wife's name was Sonia. They had three children. I don't remember their names. Minia worked in a kolkhoz 4. I don't know what he did. I only remember that he always brought watermelons when he visited us. In July 1941 when the Great Patriotic War began and our family was ready to evacuate from Tiraspol, my father went to Beryzovka to take his brother Minia's family with us. His mother-in-law said, 'Why do we have to leave our home - did we do the Germans any harm? We don't have to leave'. They stayed.

When the Germans came my uncle's family was taken to the camp in Domanevka 5. He saw his wife and children being shot by the Germans. He buried them himself. He would have been shot, too, but Manya, a Jewish medical nurse helped him to escape. They kept wandering in the steppe for a long while and they lived with a Ukrainian family for some time. Uncle Minia knew German and pretended he was a German. When the Germans were retreating somebody reported to them that Minia was a Jew. They arrested and beat him so hard that his leg got fractured. It didn't knit properly and Uncle Minia was lame for the rest of his life. The Germans were in a hurry. This saved his life. After the war Uncle Minia and Manya got married. They lived in Beryozovka. My uncle continued his work in a kolkhoz. They had two sons: Senia and Alik. When their sons grew up they moved to Odessa were they worked as meat cutters at Privoz market. Uncle Minia died in Odessa, where he lived with his older son, in 1962. He was buried in the Jewish cemetery. Both sons and their families moved to Germany in the early 1990s. Senia has already passed away; Alik lives in Berlin.

Lisa, my father's sister, was born in Mostovoye in 1902. She married Moisey Rosenblatt, a local Jew. They had three children: Gedaliye, Emma and Anna. Before the war they lived in Beryozovka. When the Great Patriotic War began Uncle Moisey and Gedaliye went to the army and Aunt Lisa and her daughters were in evacuation with us. After the war they returned to Tiraspol with us. Gedaliye perished and Uncle Moisey returned home after the war. He had many awards. He worked as an accountant after the war. He died in the 1970s. Emma graduated from a pedagogical college. She was very sickly. She has already passed away. Anna, the younger sister, graduated from a technical college and worked at the wine and cognac factory in Kishinev. She doesn't work any more now. She lives in Kishinev with her husband, and their only daughter lives in Canada with her husband. Aunt Lisa died in Tiraspol in 1993.

As for my father's other sisters, Polia and Esther, all I know about them is that Polia was born in 1904, lived in Mostovoye, was married, had children and perished along with her children during an air raid in 1941. Esther was born in 1906 and lived with her husband and children in Odessa. They all perished in 1941.

My father Mark Balan, the oldest of the siblings, was born in 1890. I don't know whether my father was raised religiously, but from what I recall, he observed no Jewish tradition. After finishing a four-year elementary school, at the age of 12 my father began to work to help his father support the family since the situation was hard. They worked for their landlord Engelgardt purchasing cattle for him. Every now and then they got into trouble. Once some bandits attacked them, took away the cattle and locked them in a hut in the woods. They managed to escape from there.

When World War I began in 1914 my father was recruited to the army. He was almost 24 years old. He served in the rear in Simferopol first. He told me that one of his duties was to stand on sentinel stock-still for two hours. If his sergeant major noticed him stir, he started his countdown anew. Later my father went to the front. He was in the army of General Brusilov. [Editor's note: ?. ?. Brusilov (1853-1926): well-known Russian and Soviet commander. During WWI he was the commander of the Southwestern front. In 1916 he was in command of a successful attack of the Russian army known as Brusilov breakthrough. From May-July 1917 he was a Supreme Commander-in- Chief and between 1920-1924 he served in the Red army.] Once his regiment had to lie in hiding under the enemy's fire. My father and his fellow comrade were ordered to fetch some water. On their way back his companion was killed and my father was wounded in the neck. He was sent to a hospital in Kiev. This happened in 1916. After he recovered he returned to Mostovoye. My father never told me what he did for a living there.

My maternal great-grandfather Avrum-Itzhak Korsunski was born into a very poor family in the town of Novoukrainka, Elisavetgrad district, Kherson region, in 1818. My great-grandfather was raised in his aunt's family who also had twelve children of their own. When he turned 20 he decided to leave the family and live on his own. He had to work hard to make his living. When the Crimean War [1853-1856] began he was recruited to the army. His regiment was in Sevastopol. After the war Avrum-Itzhak purchased a small grocery store in Novoukrainka and married Getia, a local Jewish girl. I don't know my great-grandmother's maiden name. My mother didn't know the date of her death either.

My mother often talked about her paternal grandfather Avrum-Itzhak. He was a strong man with big hands and a large nose. My mother used to say, 'Azoy vi a kartoshke' [it looked like a potato in Yiddish]. My great-grandfather Avrum-Itzhak liked drinking and his nose was always of purple color. He lived in Novoukrainka separately from his children. When my mother brought him borsch or other food, when she was a girl, he always heated it on his Primus stove: he liked his borsch or tea very hot. He loved my mother and always had a small gift for her when she came to see him. My great- grandfather was tall and big; he had an upright posture and walked a lot. He rarely took his stick with him. Even in his old age, he had strong teeth and a clear sight. When somebody complained of a toothache, he used to comment that it was hard to imagine that a bone could ache. He read without glasses. He was a self-educated man. He read Russian newspapers and was interested in politics. My great-grandfather died in 1921: he was sitting in an armchair when they found him dead in the morning. He died at the age of 103. He was buried in the Jewish cemetery in Novoukrainka. My great- grandfather had only one son named Gersh.

My grandfather Gersh Korsunski's date of birth is unknown. Most likely, he was born in Novoukrainka in the early 1860s. He studied in cheder. He helped his father in the grocery store and later went to work at the mill owned by Varshavski, a local Jew. Later my grandfather bought a mill in Novoukrainka. In 1887 he married Leya Lev who came from the town of Bobrinets, Elisavetgrad district, Kherson region. My grandmother's father Tonchen Lev was born in 1822. I guess he was born in Bobrinets, too. He died there in 1912. My grandmother's mother's name was Pesia. I don't know the dates of her birth or death. My grandmother had one brother, Shlomo, and six sisters: Tsetl, Zlata, Mariam, Basheiva, Shyfra and another sister whose name nobody remembers. They were born in Bobrinets. My grandmother was born in 1870.

After they got married my grandparents lived in their own house in Novoukrainka. I don't remember this house. My parents and I went to Novoukrainka, but I was too small to remember any details. My mother told me that my grandparents were very religious. They strictly followed the kashrut and had their poultry slaughtered by a shochet. Their four children were raised religiously. They observed the Jewish traditions and rituals. They spoke Yiddish in the family. They were wealthy. My mother's brother and sisters studied in a grammar school. My mother told me that in 1919, during the Civil War, a gang came to Novoukrainka and broke into their house. Bandits demanded horses from my grandfather. Horses were of great value for villagers and my grandfather refused to give them any. One of the bandits grabbed his sable, but my grandmother began to scream and they didn't do my grandfather any harm. In 1922, after the Civil War, Soviet authorities arrested my grandfather for some reason. Grandfather Gersh never returned home and we don't know how he died. The authorities didn't offer any explanation of what had happened.

After my grandfather was arrested and gone, my grandmother Leya lived in Novoukrainka alone as all her children had left their parents' home by then. In 1934 the older children, Godia and Sonia, convinced her to move to Australia where they lived. She lived in her son Godia's house. In 1936 my grandmother died accidentally: she drowned in the bathroom. She probably felt ill, but there was nobody around and she drowned. This happened when she was visiting her daughter Sonia. Grandmother Leya was buried in Perth, Australia. For many years Uncle Godia couldn't forgive his sister Sonia that their mother died in her house. They made it up only two years before Sonia died.

Godia, the oldest in the family, was born in 1888. In 1908 he moved to Nikolaev from Novoukrainka and became a shop assistant. My uncle was a caring son and brother; he often wrote letters and sent gifts to his family. The owner of the store valued him highly and put all his trust in him. The owner offered him his support if he wanted to open a store of his own, but my uncle decided to move to Australia in 1913. He had a hard life in Australia: he was a laborer and worked in stores, but gradually he came to standing firmly on the ground. He owned a hotel and purchased a shell- rock mine. He married a Jewish girl, but she died when she was young. They didn't have any children.

Uncle Godia often traveled to Israel for charity purposes: he built a school and supported children's institutions. He wanted to visit us, but my father was summoned to the KGB 6 office where they told him to write his brother that he couldn't receive him on any plausible excuse: refurbishment in the apartment or something like that. My mother missed her brother a lot. She said she would recognize him among a thousand people. Finally, Uncle Godia arrived in Odessa in 1963. He stayed in Londonski hotel on Primorski Boulevard. My parents and I went to see him in Odessa since he wasn't allowed to travel to Tiraspol where we lived. Uncle Godia wanted our family to move to Australia, but my father didn't agree to this. After my father died Uncle Godia invited my mother to visit him in Australia, but she didn't dare to travel that far. Uncle Godia died in Perth in 1971. His nephews in Australia inherited his money. My cousin Rachel contributed some money to charity in Israel in the memory of my uncle.

Rachel's mother was my mother's older sister Sonia, born in 1897. As a child Sonia was smart and had an inquiring mind. She studied well, but was a naughty girl. My mother told me a story: during the Civil War some bandits were staying in my grandfather's home. There was a redhead among them who had a remarkable appetite. When their senior ordered Grandmother Leya to make vareniki [dumplings with filling] Sonia made a big varenik filling it with wheat wastes and put it on top of others on a dish hoping that the redhead would grab it. He did and got very angry when he found out that there was something wrong with the filling. Grandmother Leya was horrified, but Sonia just burst into laughter. All of a sudden other bandits began laughing, too, and the redhead laughed with them.

Sonia got married in the early 1920s. I think her husband's surname was Katel. Sonia's son Abram was born in 1923, and in 1924 Sonia moved to her older brother Godia in Australia. I don't know what happened to her first husband.

In Australia Sonia married Yakov Roshanski, a Jewish man who came from Bessarabia 7. They had two sons: Harry and Tony, and two daughters: Rachel and Liya. Liya was named after her grandmother. I saw my aunt Sonia in 1976 for the first time when she came to Kishinev on a visit with her husband. Sonia was a slim woman who looked young for her age. She died in Perth in 1989. Her son Abram visited the USSR in 1990. He wanted to find his father. We met and spoke Yiddish. I correspond with Liya. I don't know whether my relatives in Australia observe Jewish traditions, but Liya always sends me greetings on all Jewish holidays.

My mother had another sister, Rosa, born in 1895. She told me that Rosa attended a Marxist club. She died of twisted bowels in Nikolaev in 1914. Grandmother Leya also adopted a boy that had problems in his own family. His name was Veniamin. He took my grandfather's last name. He went to the front during World War I and never came back to my grandmother's home. Somebody saw him in Odessa after the war. In the 1960s our relatives mentioned to us that there was a Veniamin Korsunski who lived in Leningrad. I visited him when I went to Leningrad on business. They received me well, but that man told me that he wasn't the one I was looking for. My mother believed that he didn't want to acknowledge that he was a Jew since he hadn't told his wife that he was one. He was Russian, he said. I didn't find him looking like a Jew, anyway.

My mother Fira Korsunskaya was born in Novoukrainka in 1902. My mother enjoyed recalling her childhood. She was a healthy and cheerful girl. She was the favorite in her family and of their neighbors. She was her older brother's pet; Godia always gave her gifts. My mother told me that she always fought with street boys who teased her calling her names. They called her: 'zhydovochka - a Jewish girl [abusive] - Rukhlia died on a stove bench and other zhydy [kikes] came to her funeral...' I don't remember the rest of it. Those boys always threw stones into a bucket of water when she was carrying one. She ran after them to beat the obnoxious boys. She could always stand for herself. Her sense of humor never failed her and she was always cheerful.

My mother finished seven years of grammar school in Voznesensk. She studied well in grammar school, had an inquiring mind and was hardworking. My mother was fond of literature: she remembered poems that she learned in grammar school and often recited them to us. We liked listening to her. My mother was good at mathematics. When my brother Michael had problems doing his homework my mother helped him. She knew the Bible well and told us stories from the Bible. She wanted to become a doctor when she was a child. To enter a medical college women had to finish a school for medical nurses. My mother entered a school for medical nurses in Voznesensk in 1916. After finishing this school in 1918 she was sent to work in a hospital in Mostovoye where she met my father. My mother told me that my father made up any excuse to come to see her in the hospital: his leg hurt or he bruised his finger or something the like.

Growing up

My parents got married in Mostovoye in 1919. I don't know what kind of wedding they had, but knowing my grandfather Michael's religiosity, I would think they had a traditional Jewish wedding. After the wedding the newly- weds spent some time with my mother's parents in Novoukrainka. Grandmother Leya made my mother a very valuable wedding gift: a feather mattress that my mother kept until she died. After a few months, in 1920, the newly-weds moved to Odessa. At first they lived on Chicherin Street in the center of the town, but it turned out to be very cold and they moved to another apartment in Nezhynskaya Street in the same part of the town. My mother told me that my father and another Jewish man named Reznik kept a few cows in the stables in a beautiful building in the backyard of Gaevski pharmacy in Odessa. There was no pasture since the stables were in the center of the town, but it was a profitable business. They supplied fresh milk to residents of the town. In the late 1920s they closed this business. Perhaps, it was due to the end of the NEP 8.

Their son Adam was born in Odessa in 1920. He only lived a few months. The next was my brother Nathan, born in 1922. He was named after our great- grandfather Naftul. My brother Abram was born in 1925 and I followed in 1928. I looked like a girl so much that my mother called me 'meydele' [little girl in Yiddish]. In 1929 my parents moved to Tiraspol where life was not so expensive. My brother Aron was born there in 1930. He died of scarlet fever when he was one and a half years old. The doctors couldn't determine the right diagnosis.

In Tiraspol our parents rented a wing of a house at first. Their landlord's name was Bogaty [rich in Russian]. It was a small house with a kitchen and two small rooms - 50 square meters altogether. The living room was a little dark. There was a long old table covered with a tablecloth - my mother liked tablecloths - and five chairs. There were two wardrobes and a couch that served as a bed for Nathan and me. There was another bed for Abram. The other room was our parents' bedroom. There were two beds and a sideboard between them in the room. The rooms were heated with a stove. There was a table and a stove in the kitchen. My paternal grandfather Michael liked to pray in the kitchen - nobody knows why - when he and Grandmother Reiza were visiting us. We were the only Jewish family of many families living in the neighboring house, but we got along well with all other tenants and never had any problems.

There was a long basement that once connected a house and the shop of the landlord of the house. We, the boys used to go to this basement. There was old furniture, children's prams and other junk there. I found an old gun that was dropped there during the Civil War. My mother was a monitor of the yard. We had skittles, chess, checkers and other games in a sideboard in the hallway and all children in the yard could take them to play, but then they had to return the games where they belonged.

Around 1935, when they sold the house in Novoukrainka that my mother had inherited from Grandmother Leya, my parents managed to buy a house in Tiraspol. My mother always dreamed of a house of her own. There were three rooms, a hallway and a kitchen in the house. There was a small orchard in the backyard: there were apple trees, a cherry tree, an apricot and a plum tree that is still there. Branches of our neighbor's walnut tree hanged over the fence into our garden. I was responsible for our kitchen garden. I grew radish, onions and other vegetables on a small plot between the house and the fence. I designed and made a system of irrigation and planted bushes and flowers. There was a shed and a deep cellar in the yard. During the war we found shelter in this cellar. We kept a cow and two pigs in the shed. Although my grandfather Michael was very religious I don't remember him mentioning anything about pigs to my parents. There was also a chicken- coop in the yard where we kept chickens and ducks. We also stored wood and coal in the shed. There was a small pergola in the yard.

My father was a worker at the wood cutting factory in Tiraspol, and later he worked as a meat cutter at a market. My mother worked as a nurse in the town hospital for a short while, but then quit since she had a lot of work to do about the house and with the livestock. My mother put all her time and effort into the house and the children and my father worked to provide for the family. We spoke Yiddish in the family. My father wasn't religious. I don't remember him ever going to the synagogue while my mother always knew when there was a holiday. She told us the history of each holiday and cooked special food. I regret that I didn't listen to her as I should have and took little interest in all this. But I remember that we always had matzah for Pesach. My mother cooked fish, chicken broth and other delicacies. Before Pesach she took chickens to the shochet to have them slaughtered.

My older brother Nathan was good at drawing and liked photography. He attended a club of photographers at the town's Palace of Pioneers. I sometimes joined him to go there. Nathan and I had much in common and were very much alike. We were both dark-haired and dark-eyed while our middle brother Abram had red hair. He didn't have any hobbies, but he studied well. When I grew older I began to attend a drawing club in the Palace of Pioneers where I learned to play the mandolin and balalaika. I also attended an aviation-modeling club. Nathan went to a Jewish elementary school, but he didn't like it there and left it for a Russian school, which was the best school in town. Nathan studied well and was a Komsomol 9 activist.

In 1935 I went to the elementary school located not far from where we lived. It was a one-storied cobble-stone building. My first teacher, Sophia Yakovlevna, was a Jew. I studied well, but due to my misconduct Sophia Yakovlevna sometimes told me to leave the classroom. Once I made her so angry that she grabbed me by my collar and pulled me to the door along with my desk. My bag fell on the floor and my apple and slice of bread with butter and jam, which my mother had given me, rolled onto the floor. Sophia Yakovlevna kept pulling me telling me to send my mother to school. My mother had to go to school to talk with the teacher. However, I finished elementary school and always kept good relationships with Sophia Yakovlevna. I was very happy that she survived the occupation during the war. She failed to evacuate and stayed in Tiraspol.

When I went to secondary school I became a pioneer. I had all excellent marks at school. After finishing the 5th grade my schoolmates and I went on tour to Odessa. We walked in the town and went to museums. I also remember spending vacations in a pioneer camp at the seashore.

Tiraspol was a small town. There was a musical and drama theater in the town. My mother liked going to the theater. She often took me there. She liked Natalka-Poltavka [an opera by a famous Ukrainian composer Nikolai Lysenko] 10 and Zaporozhets za Dunaem [Dnieper Cossack Beyond the Danube - an opera by famous Ukrainian 19th century composer Semyon Gulak- Artemovski]. My parents often visited their relatives in Kirovograd, Bobrinets and Novoukrainka. I remember a trip to Kirovograd when we went to pay a visit to some of my mother's relatives. We went there by train and attended a birthday party of the son of one of our relative's. I remember that the food was delicious.

When Bessarabia became a part of the USSR in 1939 a special border patrol unit was organized at my brother's Nathan school. Senior pupils were to patrol the bank of the river with frontier men to prevent spies from crossing the border. We, boys, were also on guard. Once we saw a suspicious man, and we asked him to show his documents. He couldn't run away since there were people around. Some pedestrians joined us. This man didn't have any documents and we took him to a militia office. There were many such incidents.

During the war

I remember 22nd June 1941 - the beginning of the Great Patriotic War. My father was an early riser. He was the first to hear explosions: a bridge across the Dnestr River between Tiraspol and Bendery was bombed. My father woke us up and we went to hide in the cellar. The front was nearby and we prepared to go into evacuation. My father obtained documents for our departure and got horses. He went somewhere with Abram at night, probably to an office, to make final arrangements. For us to get packed my mother put a kerosene lamp on the floor. The light came through between the front door and the threshold, and two patrol soldiers saw it from the outside and came into the house. One of them said that my mother was signaling to the Germans and that she should be shot. Another soldier argued in response saying that she didn't do it on purpose. The first soldier wanted to take my mother with them. We were scared. Nathan and I got up and began to scream. My father came home soon and we managed to protect my mother.

We evacuated on horse-drawn carts. We picked up my father's sister Lisa and her children in Beryozovka. The family of my father's brother Minia refused to join us. We stopped in various towns. Once near Nikolaev I was wounded in my leg during an air raid. We reached the village of Nizhne-Chirskaya in Stalingrad region and stayed to spend a winter there. My father worked in the kolkhoz named after Stalin. He was a cattle breeder and we worked in the field. My older brother Nathan was recruited to the army in December 1941. In his letters he wrote about how they marched to Stalingrad - they had to cover a distance of about 100 kilometers - and how they stayed in a school building. Later he wrote from the front. Nathan disappeared in 1943. We don't know where or how it happened. In February 1942 my younger brother Michael was born in Nizhne-Terskaya.

When the Germans began their offensive near Rostov in summer 1942, we - I, my mother, my three brothers, Aunt Lisa and her two daughters - moved on with the kolkhoz cattle. We traveled on horse-drawn carts. Germans often bombed and fired at our group. I saw carts blowing up and people dying. German pilots pursued every person. I don't know how we survived. At the crossing on the Volga - I guess it was called Krasny Yar - there were military men crowding waiting for their turn to cross the river. The Germans bombed this crossing a lot. Soldiers found shelter in shell holes. We also looked for any hiding place we could find. We didn't unharness our horses since we didn't know when we might get a chance to get across the Volga on a pontoon.

My brother Michael was only six months old. My mother and he were hiding under the cart and my mother shielded him with her body to protect him from bullets. At night the Germans fired with tracer bullets that shone in the dark. In the daytime the sky was dark from avalanches of German planes that made a specific howling sound. There was a small church not far from the crossing where a military unit stayed. Many bombshells hit this church killing many military. I watched these bombshells falling down: there was hardly any fear left since we got used to firing. My father helped with fixing the crossing. They made a small landing stage and then the crossing began. Our cart was about to board the pontoon, but something delayed us and another cart boarded before we did. The pontoon moved, but we stayed back. We couldn't move backward since there were other carts jamming. When this pontoon was in the middle of the river it bumped into a mine. It exploded and sank and we stood there looking. We crossed the river on another pontoon. When we got to the opposite side another bombing began. The first cart turned over when trying to get on the bank. It took some time to get the horses onto the bank so that we could move on. We hid in a forest and watched the bombing from there. We saw big splashes of water created by the explosions.

We finally got to Palasovka, a railway station on the border with Kazakhstan, where we got on a freight train. Somebody stole some of our luggage at the station and we had little left. We were given bread on the train and a hot meal at the stops. I remember millet soup, however thin, but hot and tasty. We arrived in Karaganda [2,000 km from Odessa]. There were one and two-storied buildings with stone foundations and wooden structures in the town. There were barracks for workers from other locations near the railway station. There were lots of robberies and murders in Karaganda during the war.

In evacuation, people were supposed to find accommodation by themselves. We stayed in an earth house for two years. There was so much snow in winter that it was rather warm in the earth house. There were frequent snowstorms. Once there was so much snow that my father could hardly manage to get outside to shovel snow. After two years we moved to an apartment in a private house. Another family lived there. We stayed in this apartment until August 1945.

My father went to work at the meat factory. He was the head of a cattle supply department. Our life wasn't too bad. My father brought home some leftovers from the factory. We went to buy bread in Kustanai region where it was less expensive. My mother did the housework and looked after Michael. I went to the 7th grade at school. The school was big and there were wooden floors. There were children of various nationalities. I studied well. I became a Komsomol member in this school. Several times some boys called me 'zhyd' [kike] in the streets, but I fought back. Once, a boy hit me with his skates. This happened during a snowstorm in winter and I was caught unawares. There were two of them that came unexpectedly out of the blizzard saying, 'Ah, zhyd!' Well, there was some fighting, but when injured I had to run home. My mother got so worried when she saw blood dripping from the wound. I told her that I had had a fight. Basically, besides some minor episodes of this childish fighting I wasn't suppressed or persecuted in all those years.

My brother Abram finished secondary school in Karaganda and went to the army in 1943. When he received a subpoena to the military registry office he got an offer to go to work at a military plant where employees were released from service in the army, but Abram said he wanted to beat fascists like his older brother Nathan did. He went to the front. First he was sent to the town of Kushka [Turkmenistan] in the very south of the former USSR. My brother took a six-month training there: they trained horses to transport ordinance at the front. After he finished his training he went to the front. In 1944 my father received a notification that his son perished in Sumskaya region in January, but this happened to be false information. Abram was severely wounded in his face and got to a hospital in Leningrad. He was in the department of facial surgery. He recovered and went back to the front. He perished in the village of Parichi near Svetlogorsk in Gomel region at the end of 1944.

In February 1945 my father was ordered to go to the Ministry of Meat and Dairy Industry in Moscow. He received an assignment to join a military unit in Berlin. This was how he came to Berlin with Soviet troops. He was the supervisor of the cattle supply base of the Berlin meat factory for over a month. In summer 1945 he was released from his assignment due to his health condition. He was 54 years old.

On 9th May 1945 [Victory Day] 11 when we heard an announcement about the victory on the radio all residents of Karaganda rejoiced. There were so many people and enterprises in evacuation. We all dreamed of going back home. We waited until my father came to pick us up in late August. We went to Tiraspol from Karaganda via Moscow. This was my first time in Moscow. In the square in front of Kievskiy railway station [a railway from where trains to Ukraine and Moldova depart] where we were to board a train, I saw a staircase going down, and many people were going downstairs. I wondered where they were going and followed them. It turned out to be the metro. At that moment boarding on our train was announced and my father began looking for me. He was very scared when he didn't see me around, and he gave me quite a 'what the dickens' when I got back. I kept looking at Moscow from the train window. It was very interesting.

Post-war

We came to Tiraspol and found out that three other families lived in our house. During the war Romanian soldiers kept horses in our house. They bit on the barks of our fruit trees in the yard. There was a mess in the house: there were partials installed, plaster damaged and floors scratched. Our neighbors took our belongings. It took us a while to have these families move out; the town council helped us. After the war my father worked at the market. He was a foreman of the meat department. I went to the 10th grade at school. I also continued photography. I took my younger brother Michael to his teacher of music. He learned to play the violin. He was five years old then.

After finishing school in 1946 I entered the Electrotechnical Faculty of Odessa Communications College. I lived in a hostel and received a stipend, but this wasn't enough for a living and my parents supported me. Students also worked as loaders in the harbor to earn some money for a living. 1946- 47 were hard years. We tried to get up late in the morning so that we could have lunch at 12, because we usually didn't have any breakfast. We were given food coupons for a hot lunch at the canteen. After classes we bought a half-liter jar of corn flour at the market to make mamaliga [corn flour pudding] with shmaltz [melted pork fat] in the evening. We lived on the second floor and there were dancing parties on the first floor in the evening. We managed to drop by there to dance a little while mamaliga was being cooked. We didn't care about nationality at that time. There were no conflicts or anti-Semitism whatsoever in the college. I had friends in college and also visited my father's acquaintance and companion Reznik. His daughter Rita introduced me to Lidia Lieberman, a student of medical school, who was to become my wife many years later.

I finished Odessa Communications College in 1951. I studied well and got a [mandatory] job assignment 12 at a design institute in Kiev. But I liked practical work and chose to go to Kustanai in Kazakhstan [2,500 km from Odessa], where I was appointed as chief communications engineer. My parents gave me a pillow, a blanket and a box to store my clothing. I sent my luggage to Kustanai and went to the town via Moscow where I got an invitation to the Ministry of Communications. The deputy minister had a meeting with me. He said that I was to become the director of the communications office in Kustanai since my predecessor had been fired. Later I got to know that he had lost his job for criticizing comments regarding the Soviet regime in a discussion with friends. One of those friends sent a letter with this information to the KGB.

I even received a house when I arrived as my management thought that I was bringing my family with me. It was an old one-storied house where a cleaning woman and her daughter lived. I occupied only one room there and this woman was very grateful to me for this. I met Alexandr Lazerson at work. He came from Leningrad and worked there at the telephone station. His wife Maria worked there as telephone operator. In 1937 [during the Great Terror] 13 Alexandr's brother was arrested and disappeared. There was no court hearing or investigation. Alexandr and his family were allowed 24 hours to pack and leave the town. Alexandr was sent into exile to Kustanai and his wife and daughter were sent to another town. It took them a few years to get a permit to live together. They were very decent and friendly people. We were friends. Maria offered me to come to lunch every day and I took them to the theater and cinema to return the favor. There was a nice drama theater in Kustanai and a wonderful actor whose name I don't remember. He was admired in the town and we went to see performances where he took part with great pleasure.

When Stalin died in 1953 we were given red-and-black armbands. People looked preoccupied. Many cried. There were no loud discussions or laughter heard. People were asking each other how we were going to live without Stalin. Shortly after Stalin died Alexandr Lazerson was rehabilitated [Rehabilitation in the Soviet Union] 14, but his family stayed in Kustanai. Alexandr was like a father to me. In 1982 I went to see Alexandr Lazerson in Kustanai. He was dying. We talked and he said he had been waiting for me and now that he had seen me he could 'leave'. I still keep in touch with his daughter Galia.

In the early 1950s I went to work as a chief engineer at the telephone station and received a room in a two-bedroom apartment in the center of the town. My neighbor tenant had tuberculosis and I believe I contracted it from her. It was diagnosed in 1953. The doctors told me that I had to go to hospital; my lungs were affected and it was a disseminating process. I underwent treatment: pneumothorax and medications. They sent me to Borovoye recreation center in Kokchetav region, and I went there for the second time in 1954. I met Elena Mazdorova, a Russian woman there. She also had tuberculosis and was getting treatment in that same recreation center.

Elena was born in the town of Mamonovo in Altay in 1931. When we got well we got married in 1956. Elena moved to Kustanai. My parents had no objections against my marriage since I just informed them de facto. When Elena and I went to see them they liked her. Elena finished Kustanai Pedagogical College. She was a teacher of Russian literature and language in a school in Kustanai. After I got married I got the second room in the apartment. Thus, Elena and I lived in a two-bedroom apartment by ourselves. There was running water in the apartment but no other comforts. Later I promoted the installation of bathtubs in apartments. In 1959 I bought my first TV, brand of Record, as I worked in the communications field. TV sets were rare at that time and our neighbors came to watch TV with us. There were first refrigerators sold in Kustanai, but they were very expensive. An acquaintance of mine helped me to get a Soviet refrigerator ZIL-Moscow.

Our son was born in Kustanai in 1963. We named him Igor. My wife and I agreed that for our son to avoid any problems in the future he would have her last name and his nationality would be Russian. I didn't face any anti- Semitism personally, but after the Doctors' Plot' 15 in the 1950s state anti-Semitism was very strong.

My parents lived in Tiraspol. My brother Michael studied at school. He was the only child who stayed with our parents and they spoiled him a lot. Michael was fond of drawing and collecting postage stamps since he was five. I sent him his first stamps from Kustanai. When he grew up he became a member of the philatelic society of the USSR. He had a big collection of stamps. In 1962 Michael finished school and went to the army.

I was a success at my workplace in Kustanai. I became a recognized person in the town. I was offered a responsible job in Alma-Ata, the capital of Kazakhstan, but my parents were getting older and my mother wrote me that I had abandoned them. I finally made a decision, and in 1963 I moved to Tiraspol with my wife and son. We lived with my parents. My wife stayed at home looking after Igor. I couldn't find a job for quite a while. The Ministry of Communications of Moldova promised me a job, but they couldn't give me an apartment. I worked as a technician in a construction trust and then in the laboratory of the tinned food factory. In 1965 we moved to Kishinev where I got a job as an electrical engineer at Kishinev University. My wife worked at school. We lived in a room in a hostel until I received a nice two-bedroom apartment in a new district of Kishinev in 1968. We completed repairs: whitewashed the walls and painted the kitchen with oil paint. We bought a Moldavian set of furniture: a cupboard, a sofa, a dinner-table, chairs and a low table. Moldavian furniture was of good quality. We bought Romanian beds with good mattresses for our bedroom.

My father died at the age of almost 75 in 1965. He worked as a meat cutter at the market and got up early in the morning. On that day he got up as usual. My mother said goodbye as usual. When leaving he said 'good day' to her as usual and she replied, 'Gey in gezinterheit' [have a nice trip in Yiddish]. It was an early morning in April. There was ice on the road. My father fell and hit his head, but he stayed to wait for the bus to get to work. He worked all day, but when he came home he complained that he had a headache. My mother called an ambulance and sent me a telegram. I came immediately. The doctors couldn't help him. He died. We buried him in accordance with the Jewish tradition: I remember him lying on the floor wrapped in a shroud. We buried him in a coffin in the Jewish cemetery in Tiraspol.

My brother Michael got married in 1966. His wife Marina had a Jewish father and a Ukrainian mother. Michael and his wife had two daughters: Ludmila and Tatiana. My brother and his family lived in our parents' house. My mother didn't get along with my brother's wife and my brother felt sandwiched between them sometimes. Michael was a design artist in Tiraspol: he designed the interior for exhibitions, painted pictures and portraits. He worked in his shop. My brother became a well-known artist in Moldova. He took part in many art exhibitions and became a member of the Union of Artists of Moldova. His daughter Tatiana followed into his footsteps and finished the Art Graphic Faculty of Tiraspol Pedagogical College of Moldova. His daughter Ludmila finished construction college. They are both married.

After my father died, my mother's brother Godia from Australia continuously asked my mother to move to Australia. He said that he would send a medical nurse to accompany her since she wasn't feeling well. He invited her to come and look around and then my brother and I would follow her. However, I was a patriot of my motherland and I had no doubts about my decision: of course, I wasn't going to leave my country. After my father died my mother felt ill all the time. She lived a hard life: she lost two children, my brothers, and two sons that perished during the Great Patriotic War. But she never gave up: she cooked and even went shopping to the market a month before she fell so ill that she had to stay in bed. My mother died in 1976. She was buried near my father in the cemetery.

My family life wasn't perfect. In 1972 I left my family and moved to the town of Soroki where I worked at the construction of the water supply pipeline Soroki-Beltsy. I was senior engineer in a construction company and later I became head of the industrial technical department. I received a room with electrical heating, electricity and running water. In 1975 my wife and I divorced officially. I received a one-bedroom apartment with all comforts in Soroki. I left our apartment in Kishinev to my ex-wife and son. There was a drama theater and a cinema theater in Soroki so I didn't get bored. In 1981 my acquaintances reminded me about Lidia Lieberman that used to be a friend of mine in Odessa. By that time she had also divorced her husband. Lidia lived in Odessa and worked as a lab assistant in the pathologoanatomic department of the regional hospital. I wrote her a letter and then went to see her. We resumed our relationships. Lidia came to see me in Soroki and I often visited her in Odessa.

In the early 1990s I began to attend the Jewish community in Soroki. The community regained a building of the former synagogue. There weren't many Jews in the community, but we had beautiful celebrations of holidays there.

I often traveled to Kishinev where I met with my son Igor. Igor also came to see me in Soroki. Igor went to the army after finishing school. He returned from the army and got a job at a scientific research institute. He was a locksmith in the laboratory. He had 'hands of gold'. Igor married a girl from a Ukrainian and Moldavian family in 1986. Her name was Tania. I didn't have any objections; love is what matters. They have twin girls: Alina and Oksana. Igor's wife was a painter. They received a nice three- bedroom apartment in the suburb of Kishinev. My granddaughters went to work after finishing nine years of secondary school.

When perestroika 16 began I believed in Mikhail Gorbachev 17. I thought life was improving, but it wasn't quite so. In 1991 the USSR fell apart. I happened to be living in one country and Lidia in another. Perestroika developed a problem with the Russian language: even Moldavians that had spoken Russian before began to communicate in Moldavian. Russian speaking residents were looked at as if they were foreigners. Many people left Moldova for Ukraine or Russia.

Lidia and I decided to live together in 1995. I moved to Odessa. I had to have my documents changed. Moldavian officials were helpful and so were officials in Odessa, especially when I told them that I came from Odessa. Lidia lived in a communal apartment 18 in the center of the town. After her aunt died she inherited a one-bedroom apartment in Cheryomushki [a new district in Odessa]. We exchanged these two apartments and settled down in a new two-bedroom apartment with a balcony and all comforts in a new district of the town. Our apartment is on the second floor. It's very convenient for us since there is no elevator in the house and we are in no condition to walk higher upstairs. My son Igor often comes to see us here in Odessa. We support him. In my time, children supported their parents, but now things are different.

In the late 1990s my brother Michael, his daughters and their families moved to Germany. They live in the very picturesque area of Turingia: a distric in Darmstadt. Michael and his daughter Tania draw a lot. Michael has been exhibiting his works in Jewish communities in many towns.

I go to the main synagogue in Odessa on holidays when my health condition allows it. I don't pray since I don't know any prayers.

I identify myself as a Jew and wish all Jews to have a good life. I'm interested in everything about Jews and Israel. I knew about the establishment of Israel in 1948, but we didn't get any information about the country at that time. Israel is the life and the capital of all Jews in the world. In 1948 Israel won the war for independence, and I was glad they could stand for themselves since I heard people say more than once that Jews were no soldiers whatsoever. All my relatives, all our men were at the front during the Great Patriotic War and two of my brothers perished during the war.

The Gmilus Hesed Jewish Charity Center, established in 1992, provides assistance to Lidia and me. There is an aid visiting us. She brings us food and cleans our apartment. We receive food packages and medications. Whenever I can I attend events at Gmilus Hesed.

Glossary

Victoria Behar
Sofia
Bulgaria
Interviewer: Zelma Almalech
Date of interview: September 2002

Family background
Growing up
During the war
Post-war
Glossary

Family background

My ancestors came to Bulgaria as early as the end of the 15th and the beginning of the 16th century after the persecutions in Spain [see Expulsion of the Jews from Spain] 1. Then Bulgaria was under Ottoman rule 2. The native language of both my maternal and paternal grandparents was Ladino. I even remember my sisters and cousins and me made our grandmothers speak Bulgarian and mocked them a bit because they didn't know it well. They also spoke Turkish.

My paternal grandfather's name was Aron Bohorachev. He came from Kiustendil, a town in South-West Bulgaria. I don't remember him because he died in 1929, when I was only one. My grandmother's name was Sara Bohoracheva. I don't know her maiden name. She was a housewife and a very affectionate woman, who looked after the family and us, her grandchildren. Every time we asked her how old she was, she would say that she was very old because she remembered the times of the Turkish rule.

I don't know about my grandfather, but my grandmother never went to school. She lived a long life and moved to Israel in 1949. She lived with the families of her children there and received a small pension. She died in Israel, but I don't know when. I don't know about my grandfather's family, but my grandmother's was very large: She had three brothers and three sisters. One of her sisters is my second grandmother, my mother's mother. People called her Franca, but her real name was Devora. So, my mother and my father are first cousins.

My grandfather on my mother's side, Bohor Komforti, was a flour dealer. I will always remember him in his brown, coarse clothes, sprinkled with flour. He had his own business - a medium-size one, according to Bulgarian standards. He didn't have any employees and worked every day, except for Saturdays. His clients knew that he didn't work on Saturdays. My grandmother Devora was a housewife; she looked after her children and grandchildren, both in Romania and in Israel. They dressed in the same way as the Bulgarians. There was nothing special in their clothing, except that my grandmother always wore a kerchief on her head. Their house was very beautiful, and there was also a yard. In the summer we all gathered there, mainly the children.

There were three sisters and three brothers in my mother's family. My mother, Ester Bohoracheva, nee Komforti, was born in Dupnitza, a small town in Western Bulgaria between Sofia and Kiustendil, in 1905. When she married my father, she moved to Sofia. Her brother, David Komforti, died very young. Her second brother, Rahamim Komforti, lived in Plovdiv and was the director of a cigarette factory. The third one, Jacques Komforti, stayed in Dupnitza and helped his father. My mother's sister, Rosa Komforti, died of Spanish fever during World War I, in 1918. All her siblings emigrated to Israel after the war.

My father, Iacob Bohorachev, had two brothers and one sister. His oldest sister, Rosa Aronova Bohoracheva, was born in 1892. Avram Aronov Bohorachev was born in 1894 and died at the age of 87 in 1981 in Israel. I don't know when Isak Aronov Bohorachev was born, but he died very young.

My father was the youngest son. He was named Iacob at birth, but they called him Jacques, and he was known by that name everywhere. He was born in 1900 in Kiustendil and died in 1977 in Israel, in a kibbutz near Kfar Saba. My grandfather was married before and had six daughters from his first marriage. My father often mentioned their names, but I have forgotten them.

My aunt Rosa lived in Pernik, Uncle Avram and my father in Sofia. They weren't very religious and only observed the high holidays, mainly at home, where the whole family gathered. My father only went to the synagogue on the high holidays, and mostly alone. He very strictly observed Yom Kippur and fasted. On Pesach we had the seder. My mother's family was more religious; they ate kosher food, observed Yom Kippur, and the whole family gathered on Sabbath.

Growing up

My father didn't complete his university studies in economics, but he nonetheless worked as an accountant in a knitwear factory. My mother graduated from a junior high school, but she didn't work so that she could look after my sisters and me. I'm their eldest daughter. I was born on 1st June 1928. Elvira is the second oldest; she was born on 5th April 1932. My youngest sister, Devora, was born on 11th December 1936. We were all born in Sofia. We spoke Bulgarian at home and Ladino only when my grandmothers came to visit. We also lived in Dupnitza for a while, where we were interned to on 3rd June 1943. We came back to Sofia in October 1944.

We lived in the Jewish quarter near Bet Am 3 and the Great Synagogue 4, but then there were smaller synagogues, too. We had a house with a yard in which there were only flowers, and my friends and I played mostly there. Our house had three rooms. We had running water and heated the house with coal and wood. My mother did all the housework by herself. My parents kept in touch mainly with their relatives, as our kin was quite big, and most of their friends were Jews. My father was very close with his employer, Gotse Gulev, who was the owner of the knitwear factory. His employer's family helped us a lot during the Holocaust. When my mother had her appendicitis operation, his wife, Elena, took my younger sister and me from our grandmother, who looked after Uncle Avram's children then. And Elena looked after us until our mother got better.

We observed almost all religious traditions at home. All holidays were properly celebrated, for example, on Yom Kippur our father didn't allow us, children, to eat either. It was hard, but we obeyed. My father was a very strict man. But he went to the synagogue only on Rosh Hashanah and on Pesach. We celebrated the holidays mostly at home. I loved all holidays very much, especially Pesach, because then we received new clothes and shoes, and I loved eating burmoelos 5. Traditions were observed in the family circle. We celebrated the high holidays at home. I remember that we used to organize a children's fancy-dress ball on Purim.

Every summer we visited my grandmother in Dupnitza or my uncle in Kiustendil by train - this was at the beginning of the 1930s, during the summer holidays. When we were younger, we went only for one or two weeks, but when we started going to school, we spent the whole summer vacation there and played with our cousins. We didn't go on holiday to other places. It was around that time that I traveled by car for the first time. My uncle Rahamim, who lived in Plovdiv, had a car. He would drive to Kiustendil and take us on a ride around the suburbs. On the Christian holiday of Archangel Michael my father's employer would prepare a special dinner of boiled mutton for his employees and would come to take our family in his car. What I also remember from those years is our father taking us to a restaurant from time to time to eat kepabcheta [grilled oblong rissoles].

As a child I went to a Jewish nursery school where I studied Hebrew. My sisters didn't go to kindergarten. We studied in a Bulgarian school in Sofia. Afterwards, I entered the 1st grade of the French College 6. My favorite subject was chemistry. I didn't have a favorite among the teachers because they were all very considerate and exceptionally tolerant. I only visited the religious classes in the Old Testament. All Jewish students in the college were exempt from the New Testament classes. If someone wanted to, they could go to those classes, but we didn't. We were friends with everybody, regardless of nationality. As for my spare time and friends, the times then were more patriarchal and my father was a strict man, so I mainly stayed at home. I didn't take part in the events of the Jewish youth organizations of the time.

Although I was in the French College, I very much wanted to continue to study Hebrew and I enrolled in classes at the Jewish school, which were for people who didn't study there. But I only went a few times because the Defense of the Nation Act [see Law for the Protection of the Nation] 7 was passed. The rights of the Jewish population were limited and my parents forbade me to go there, as they were afraid that something bad might happen to me. Soon after that, the Jewish school was closed and all Hebrew lessons were stopped. I could only go to the regular school.

During the war

During my childhood in Sofia and the vacations in Dupnitza I never experienced a bad attitude towards us because we were Jews. Everyone in the college was also very tolerant. But after the Defense of the Nation Act was passed and we started to wear the yellow star [in 1942], we were forbidden a lot of things - to have our own business, to go out on the street after 8pm, to visit public establishments, such as restaurants, cinemas, etc. At that time I saw that many people from our quarter were also Jews - we recognized them only by the stars. On 24th May 8 the Jewish students were forbidden to take part in the traditional students' manifestation in the center of Sofia. My Bulgarian classmates proposed that we, the Jewish girls, should take part like all the rest despite the decision of the authorities. But our teachers, who were nuns, and loved us very much, persuaded them that this could do harm to the college and to us. So, we gave up the idea of participating, but after the manifestation we celebrated in the school with the rest of the students.

All Jews from Sofia and the larger Bulgarian cities were interned to smaller countryside towns. Some of my relatives were interned to Vratsa, a small town northwest of Sofia, others in Kiustendil. Only Uncle Rahamim from Plovdiv wasn't interned. The Jews from that city were prepared to be deported the first to the Nazi camp, Treblinka. But the citizens of Plovdiv led by Plovdiv's Bishop Kiril 9 didn't allow this to happen. We were interned to Dupnitza on 3rd June 1943 and went to live in my grandmother's house. They allowed us to take only the most necessary things and my parents started selling out our belongings fast and almost for free.

Then Gotse Gulev, the owner of the knitwear factory, where my father worked as an accountant, and his wife, Elena, came and told my parents to sell nothing and that they would keep our furniture until all this was over. My mother was desperate and told them that we would never come back, that we would be sent to the death camps, about which we already knew. We had heard about them from friends and acquaintances outside Bulgaria, from the independent Bulgarian newspapers with correspondents abroad, who wrote about the echelons of death, and from the French girls in the college. [Editor's note: Although the interviewee insists that she was aware of the existence of the German death camps in Poland, this is unlikely. Most Jewish interviewees who we have interviewed understood that 'deportations to the east' boded ill for them, but none guessed that actual death camps were in operation. Holocaust historians Raul Hilberg, Wolfgang Benz and Randolf Braham have written extensively on how the German regime worked to keep these camps a secret. It is also unlikely that Bulgarian newspapers, which were all under government control, would have written of such things, especially when the Bulgarian government was an ally of Hitler's Germany]. But Gotse Gulev and his wife told my mother that such a monstrous deed couldn't go on for long. He even sent two of his employees to Dupnitza with us to see how we would settle and where we would live. Later, I found out that on 24th May 1943 10 when a big march in support of the Jews was organized by Bulgarian intellectuals and representatives of the Orthodox Church in Sofia, Grandfather Gotse - I called him Grandfather because he loved me as if I were his granddaughter, and so did I - also took part along with Exarch Stefan 11.

Grandfather Gotse managed to arrange for my father something like civil mobilization on the grounds that he was indispensable for the factory. So my father went to Sofia every month for a week to work and he was paid as if he had worked the whole month. They were wonderful people, but later they also had a tragic fate. I had to interrupt my education because only one Jew was allowed in a class with vacancies in Dupnitza. There were no vacant places for me and I had to complete my 5th grade [the last but one class of high-school] as a private student. Unfortunately, my father couldn't find all the textbooks I needed and it was extremely hard for me.

We were forbidden to pass along the main street in Dupnitza after 4pm and we were absolutely banned to go out on the street after 8pm. But one day I had to send a letter to my father, who was in Sofia that week. I only had to cross the main street; this was all that we were allowed to do. It was around 5 or 6pm and on my return, in the Jewish neighborhood, a Jewish boy, who was a friend of ours, took me quickly to their place, because the Branniks 12, along with the police, were organizing a manhunt against the Jews. I spent some time at their place, but I was afraid that my family would be worried about me. In the end, the Jewish family let me go, so that I wouldn't be out after 8pm, and the situation outside also seemed calmer.

But, suddenly, as I was walking, two Branniks jumped out on the street next to the river where we lived and where we had the right to walk. Policemen came and took me to the police station; there were also other Jews there who had been taken from the streets without them violating the curfew and with no other reason whatsoever. They left us there the whole night, and we had no idea what would happen to us. We waited and we asked, but they only told us, 'You'll stay here!' At around 3 or 4am they told us to leave our ID cards and they let us go. An uncle of mine was also among the arrested and we went home together. Later the police told my mother that she had to pay 200 levs to get my ID card back. This was unimaginable terror.

That year, since I was studying as a private student, I found it very hard when we went back to Sofia and I had to continue my education. The anti- Jewish laws and our internment practically crippled my education. I had my grade officially recognized, although I had only sat for my singing exam, because 9th September 1944 13 came and all students had their grades recognized. The new power had come; the Soviet armies had reached Bulgaria. We were allowed to go back to Sofia.

My father went to our house to tell the people living there that we were coming back. When he came to Dupnitza, he told me that he had signed me up in the French College for me to continue my education and that the teachers would give me textbooks. I went back to Sofia alone in October 1944 carrying the curtains my mother had given to me so that I could tidy up the house until they had prepared the rest of the luggage. Then Grandfather Gotse and his wife Elena took me to sleep at their place so I wouldn't be alone in the house. And since at the time of our internment to Dupnitza my parents had sold their bed, they bought them a new one. They were such good people. I still have this bed! All my family came back to Sofia and my sisters continued their education, after an interruption of one year, in an ordinary Bulgarian school.

Post-war

In 1946, during the nationalization by the communists, Gotse Gulev's family was interned to Vratsa and all their possessions were taken away. They both fell ill a little later and within a year both died of cancer. They weren't allowed to go back to Sofia to have treatment, and they had done only good things in their life...

During that period many Bulgarian Jews started moving to Israel [see Mass Aliyah] 14. Whole families and kin gathered to decide whether to leave for Israel. I remember that my mother's whole kin gathered at our place and decided that they wouldn't leave. That was in 1948. I had already graduated from the French College and had a boyfriend. It is a romantic story. While I was a student in the upper classes, I often met on my way to the college a tall, slightly swarthy soldier, who was always smiling at me. This also happened when I was with my sisters or friends and they noticed it. My parents somehow learned about it and they told me that I could have for an intimate friend, and later for a husband, only a Jew and I should have no illusions about this soldier. Particularly after his Holocaust experience, my father had told me that he wanted no Bulgarian for a son-in-law. And my sister was telling me all the time how this tall and swarthy soldier was staring at me. I started thinking that he was Armenian or Turkish; he didn't look like a Bulgarian to me. Then, one day, some relatives and friends from Dupnitza came to Sofia and we met some other friends of theirs outside the cinema. My wooer from a distance was among them. We were introduced to each other and it turned out that he was also a Jew.

His name was Jacquelen Iacob Behar. We started going to his Workers' Youth Union [see UYW] 15 club together. He was an active member of the UYW. After two years we got married. I never looked at him until I found out that he was a Jew and then I fell in love with him. Jacquelen was born on 3rd February 1926 in Sofia. His family wasn't rich - they were workers. They weren't religious. His father entered the socialist movement right after World War I. When Jacquelen was young, he was a member of the communist youth movement. During the Holocaust his family was interned to Vratsa.

When we found out that my family wouldn't leave for Israel, my boyfriend and I decided to apply to Sofia University and continue with our education. I loved chemistry, but I had studied French in college and I failed on the test in Bulgarian language. I made the foolish mistake of not applying to study French philology and so I remained without a university education.

My boyfriend and future husband started studying pedagogy. As an admitted university student Jacquelen went to a youth brigade 16 and I started working. Everything was going well, we were already talking of marriage and when he came from the brigade, we quickly got married. Meanwhile, despite their former decision, all my mother's relatives had moved to Israel. She remained here alone and along with my father decided to leave, too. So, I either had to marry quickly, or leave with them. And I chose Bulgaria because of my love for Jacquelen.

In fact, my parents moved to Israel in a little dramatic fashion. At one point my mother wanted me to tell them whether they should leave or not. It was clear then that I was staying with my husband in Bulgaria. Then they decided to leave and started packing. One day I came from work and saw the trunks unpacked. I asked what was going on and in the meantime my father came home, too, and he asked my mother the same question. And she said that she couldn't leave without me, she couldn't leave her child behind... I felt very bad that I was an obstacle to their decision - I neither wanted to leave with them nor stay here without them.

This was at the beginning of April 1949, but, after all, they left for Israel on 7th May the same year. They settled in a kibbutz near Kfar Saba, where some of their grandchildren still live. They were mainly involved in agriculture. My mother died in 1974. My sister Elvira has a son and a daughter, two granddaughters and a grandson. She died in the kibbutz in 1987. My other sister, Devora, died in a car crash in Israel in 1980. She had four daughters and a son, and now she has many grandchildren, but she is gone.

Jacquelen's family didn't want to move to Israel. His father became a member of the Bulgarian Communist Party as early a 1919 and they believed that they had to stay in Bulgaria to build socialism and communism. Now I regret that we didn't leave and took his parents with us, too. But it was our fate to stay here. My parents' families had never been interested in politics and they were devoted to their work and families. When I went to Israel for the first time with my little son Eli to visit my parents in the kibbutz, my father wanted me to stay in Israel, but my older son, Emil, who was nine years old, had remained in Bulgaria then and my husband was also in Sofia. They had become my family no matter how close I was to my parents and sisters. My father came to visit me in Bulgaria and always argued a lot with my father-in-law and my husband about politics.

My father-in-law worked as a director of one of the few big stores, then called 'Naroden Magazin' [a public store]. He found a purse for the wedding for me. I had a white shantung dress from my student years, my mother-in- law gave me a pair of white shoes and that's how I got married. Our marriage was only before the registrar because at that time the communist authorities had banned religious marriages regardless of the religion.

I started working in my father-in-law's store. My son Emil was born on 27th February 1950, and my second son, Eli, on 19th November 1955 - both in Sofia. When the children were born and there was no one to help me, I started to do sewing in piece work from home. This kind of work was organized for old people and women with little children. At one point, however, I could no longer work that way and I started working with the state tourist company Balkantourist, where I worked for 19 years as a clerk in the administration until I retired in 1983. My husband attained the highest academic degree, associate professor in pedagogy, and his particular specialty was pedagogic psychology at Sofia University.

In my work I've never had problems because of being Jewish. But during the trial against the Jewish doctors in the Soviet Union [the so-called Doctors' Plot] 17, my father-in-law was director of the Kazanlashka Roza company [a company producing and exporting rose oil in Kazanlak - a small town in Central Bulgaria at the foot of Stara Planina]. Once after the export of a certain quantity of oil by plane - it was the first time that rose oil had been transported in that way - it turned out that the container was only two-thirds full on arrival. He was put on trial and the implicit reason for the charge was that he was a Jew. A colleague of his, a physician, proved at the inquest that the decrease of quantity was a result of some laws of physics, when rose oil is exposed to great heights, and he was acquitted. But the trial affected his reputation. And yet, he and my husband remained firm communists.

We brought up our children to be aware of their Jewish identity, but also to follow the communist ideals. We told them the truth about the persecutions of the Jews during World War II. As for Israel, we explained to them that regardless of the differences in ideology, every person has the right to make his or her own choice and by going there our relatives had made theirs.

During all these years it was extremely hard for me - I loved my husband and my children very much, but I also missed my relatives who were far away in Israel a lot. My father was anti-communist, and my husband's family were communists. When I first wanted to go to Israel in 1959, the Bulgarian police didn't allow me to, but my husband managed to arrange it and they finally let me go. I was so happy that I would see my relatives after ten years. Out of worry, I developed an allergy, which I get even now when I'm nervous. I traveled by plane with one stop in Athens. When my younger son and I boarded the plane, I felt such excitement!

Yet, my father could never fully understand how much I loved my husband and that I couldn't live apart from him. I missed him and my older son so much; at the end of the third month in Israel I was dying to go home. I felt the same way after the wars in Israel and the breaking up of the diplomatic relations between the two countries. It was very hard for me, but fate decided this way. I was very excited during my visit to Israel, but I also felt a bit insulted as far as Bulgaria was concerned because the people in Israel thought that Bulgarians lived in poverty and had nothing to eat. I also think that during their visits to Israel some people complained far too much in order to receive more presents to take back home.

After 1959 I never saw my mother again. My father came to Bulgaria once at the beginning of the 1970s. He stayed for a month and every evening he argued with my husband about political issues - they never reached an agreement. My father defended Israel's position, and my husband the position of the then communist countries.

Now both my sons have two children. Emil has two daughters, Victoria and Silvia, and Eli has a son, Victor, and a daughter, Daniela. They both graduated from university - Emil is a pedagogue like his father, and Eli is a pharmacist. My husband and I wanted them to marry Jewish women, but they both married Bulgarians. The way of life in a Jewish family is different from that in a Bulgarian family, even though they live in the same country. My husband and I even wanted them to see more of life before marrying. But it was their decision. We had told them that there is no such thing as divorce in our families, but two years ago Eli divorced his wife. It's all fate. They both identify themselves as Jews, but I couldn't take them to Bet Am to take part in the life of the Jewish community. But now I'm happy that I was successful with my granddaughters, who also feel like Jews. I only failed with my grandson, Victor.

I've never been a member of the Communist Party. But I lived in such a family and after the changes in 1989 [following the events of 10th November 1989] 18, I think that despite all that was said then and is being said now about these 45 years, we lived better then. We lived better because we had a secure job, there weren't so many beggars, no prostitution; no such crimes. Well, there were maybe a few hundred people who lived better than us then, but the rest as a whole lived better than now. To take my family as an example: I could always afford to bring my grandchildren some present then, and I can't afford it now.

It wasn't right to build the Berlin Wall and divide one people. But when it fell, a lot of bad things were said about communism. Maybe I take all this to heart because these changes affected my husband badly. He died on 30th July 1995 in Sofia. He was seriously ill.

Now, there is once again some drama in my family - everyone is working very hard without a break. The daughter of my older son Emil, Victoria, works with the first private national television, the bTV, and I can't see her. This is also true of my sons and my grandchildren. I go to Bet Am for two hours every day, to help the group of older Jews, with whom we eat there. However, it's not like home. My daughters-in-law, although they aren't Jews, learned the Jewish cuisine, but they don't have much time to cook at home. We have never gathered for the Jewish religious holidays, only for New Year's Eve - they go to celebrate it with some friends on the eve itself, but the next day they come home. But now, they don't even do that any more. I know that they love me very much, they help me financially, but I want to see them more and they are so busy.

Nowadays, there are some attitudes towards us, Jews, that worry me. Even during the Holocaust in Bulgaria, the anti-Jewish laws didn't make the Bulgarians anti-Semites. On the contrary, they sympathized with us, helped us. I told you what wonderful people the family of my father's employer were. And now, I hear all the time, that we, the Jews, are ruling the world, that we are the most well-off nowadays. Let's not talk about the Holocaust any more. I feel bad when I hear such things. I feel particularly bad when I hear them talk about Solomon Passy, the present foreign minister of Bulgaria, complaining that a Jew is leading the Bulgarian diplomacy. He is a Bulgarian citizen, after all!

My parents' families weren't deeply religious, but all Jewish holidays were observed mostly by all relatives getting together. My father went to the synagogue twice a year - on Rosh Hashanah and on Pesach. I also continued this tradition, and so does my family. Especially after my husband died in 1995, my peers and the older Jews from Bet Am became my family. At home I keep some things to remind me of the past - photos and albums, the videotape sent to me by the Steven Spielberg Foundation after my participation in the Shoah project [Survivors of the Shoah Visual History Foundation]. The people at Bet Am take good care about us and help us, and we receive aid from various international Jewish organizations. I wouldn't want to bother my sons, their families, my grandchildren. Such are the times nowadays...

Glossary

Dagmar Lieblova 
Prague 
Czech Republic 
Name des Interviewers: Pavla Neuner 
Datum des Interviews: January, 2004 

Dagmar Lieblova wohnt zusammen mit ihrem Mann in einer wunderschönen Wohnung in einer neuen Prager Wohnsiedlung.

Das Interview fand in ihrem gemütlichen Wohnzimmer – voll mit alten Familienmöbeln und Büchern – statt. Frau Lieblova ist eine sehr sympathische Person – wie ihr Mann auch.

Sie ist auch eine sehr angesehene und elegante Frau, dessen viele Tätigkeiten und Energie bewundernswert sind.

• Familienhintergrund
• Meine Jugend und während dem Krieg
• Nach dem Krieg

• Familienhintergrund

An meine Großmutter oder Großvater väterlicherseits erinnere ich mich nicht sehr gut, da ich nie sehr viel Zeit mit ihnen verbrachte, obwohl wir zweimal im Jahr bei ihnen in Cimelice – ein kleiner Ort in der Nähe von Pisek - zum Besuch waren.

Mein Großvater väterlicherseits hieß Vilem Fantl und wurde 1858 in Lubenec geboren. Er wohnte in Cimelice, Südböhmen, und hatte dort einen Hof mit Ackern und Pferden, worauf er sehr stolz war. Dort hatte er auch einen Laden, der noch steht, doch er verkauft jetzt holländisches Möbel.

Meine Großmutter väterlicherseits hieß Jidriska (geboren Hechtova) und wurde 1859 geboren. Sie stammt aus Suchomasty, Beroun.

Die Familie Hecht lebte bestimmt lange dort, da wir einmal im alten jüdischen Friedhof einen Grabstein fanden, worauf der Namen „Filip Hecht aus Suchomast“ stand. Er war der Großvater meiner Großmutter. Dieser Vorvater war Glasmacher.

Das weiß ich, weil mein Vater während des Krieges ein Dokument schrieb, indem er erwähnte, dass „Filip ein merkwürdiger Name für einen Juden sei, so wie die Beschäftigung.“ Das schrieb er, um von Disziplinarstrafforderungen zu entkommen, doch brachte es nichts.

Meine Großeltern waren beide religiös. Sie hatten getrenntes Geschirr, aßen koscheres Essen und hatten wohl eine jüdische Hochzeit, obwohl Großvater keine Kippa trug. Ihre Frömmigkeit wurde an ihre Kindern nicht weitergegeben, glaub ich.

Anfang der 30er Jahre verkauften die Großeltern ihr Haus und Hof in Cimelice und zogen nach Beroun, wo sie ein kleines Haus mit Zimmer und Küche unten und Dachgeschoss oben bauten. Anders als Beroun kann ich mich nicht an Cimelice erinnern.

Am ersten Mai waren wir immer in Beroun und meine Eltern wollten immer vor den feierlichen Umzügen in Prag zurückfahren. Wir fuhren von Kunta Hora via Prag. Meine Großmutter kochte leckere Maultaschen aus Mehl und meine Mutter fragte immer nach dem Rezept, woraufhin meine Großmutter immer sagte: „kannst du keine Maultaschen?“ Wir hatten immer Maultaschen und polnische Sauce oder Gans.

Polnische Sauce ist süß mit Pflaumen und Rosinen. Da gab es auch immer gute Suppe. Ich weiß noch, dass Großvater uns immer auf dem Heimweg ein bisschen im Auto begleitete. Beim Verabschieden segnete er uns immer. Ich weiß nicht mehr was er flüsterte, aber er stellte seine Hand immer auf meine Stirn.

Meine Großeltern starben vor den Deportationen – die Großmutter in Januar 1940, der Großvater sechs Wochen danach. Die Großeltern hatten sieben Kinder: Ota, die schon im Kleinkindalter starb, Rudolf, Emil, Ruzena, Marenka, Julius, mein Vater, und einen andern Sohn, Ota.

Rudolf wurde 1883 geboren. Er heiratete eine jüdische Frau, Rezi. Sie war die Schwägerin meiner Mutter. Sie wohnten ihr ganzes Leben in Ceske Budejovice. Rudolf erbte von seinem Schwiegervater eine Brennerei. Als er in 1922 starb, wurde das Geschäft von seiner Frau betrieben, die den Holocaust nicht überlebte. Zusammen hatten sie zwei Töchter – Marie und Lilly, meine Cousinen.

Lilly heiratete einen nicht-jüdischen Mann; in einer Mischehe schaffte sie es, den Holocaust zu überleben. 1944, kurz bevor sie inhaftiert wurde, brachte sie eine Tochter zur Welt. Nach dem Krieg hatte sie noch vier Kinder. Marie war auch mit einem Nicht-Juden namens Antonin Rozanek verheiratet.

Marie wurde erst zur „kleinen Festung“ und danach nach Auschwitz transportiert. Sie war im Frauenlager in Birkenau und kam laut ihrer Schwester in Bergen-Belsen ums Leben. Die Verfolgung überlebte ihr Mann sowie ihre Tochter Helenka, die den Chemiker Josef Moravek heiratete. Sie sind zusammen nach Amerika ausgewandert, wo sie noch bis heute leben. Antonin blieb in Böhmen. Er besuchte sie ein paar Mal dort, starb aber in Böhmen. Emil wurde 1886 geboren.

Er heiratete Josefa Franklova, eine jüdische Witwe mit einem Sohn namens Ludvik, der 1913 geboren wurde. Sie hatten ein Lebensmittelgeschäft am Marktplatz in Hyskov, ein Dorf in der Nähe von Beroun. Sie verkauften auch Stoffe und landwirtschaftliche Geräte. 1922 hatten sie noch einen Sohn, Rene.

Beide Söhne waren brave Jungen. Beim Besuch der Großeltern aßen wir in Hyskov immer was Kleines nach dem Mittagessen. Da waren wir im Urlaub irgendwann 1939. Ich hatte Ludvik und Rene sehr gern – sie waren älter als ich und ich hatte immer Spaß mit ihnen. Ihre Eltern verkauften auch Farbe im Laden; die Jungs nahmen das Wasser von der Pumpe im Hof und fügten Farbe hinzu. Rene brachte mir das Kraulschwimmen im Fluss Berounka bei.

Ludvik studierte Jura und war kurz davor zu absolvieren, als die Universitäten zugemacht wurden. Rene hatte schon absolviert und wollte Chemie studieren, doch es war dafür zu spät [Ausschließung der Juden aus den Schulen im Protektorat] (2). Er wurde ins Arbeitslager in Lipa verschleppt.

Wir sahen viel von Ludvik und seinen Eltern in Theresienstadt (3). Ludvik musste die Bäder in den Vrchlabske-Barracken heizen und ab und zu am Samstag, als niemand da war, durften wir dort geheim baden gehen. Rene wurde von Lipa im Sommer 1943 nach Theresienstadt transportiert.

Emil, zusammen mit seiner Frau und Rene, war September 1943 auf dem Transport nach Birkenau; Ludvik bot sich an, mit ihnen dorthin zu fahren. In Birkenau sah ich die Jungs wieder. Einmal traf ich sie beim Leichen tragen; sie sahen grauenhaft aus. Sie landeten in der Gaskammer. Marie starb sehr jung. Ich glaub an Tuberkulose. Sie war ledig.

Ruzena wurde in 1890 geboren. Sie heirate Ota Beran, der Kaffeeimporteur war. Finanziell ging es ihnen ganz gut, aber ihr einziger Sohn, den ich nie kennenlernte, kam lange vor dem Krieg in einem Fahrradunfall ums Leben. Ruzena wohnte mit ihrem Mann in Prag und baute später eine Villa in Strancice, wo wir sie einmal besuchten.

Damals war ich sehr von dem Ort beindruckt, da es ein Zimmer mit einem direkten Zugang zum Garten über ein Treppenhaus gab. Ruzena und Ota wurden beiden in September 1942 nach Theresienstadt und dann weiter nach Maly Trostinc transportiert, wo sie starben.

Ota wurde 1894 geboren, blieb unverheiratet und wohnte in Prag in der Koubkova-Straße 3. Er war zur Oberschule gegangen und ich glaub er arbeitete bei einer Firma, die mit Auslandshandel zu tun hatte. Er schrieb Kurzgeschichten und hatte ein literarisches Können.

Ota war ein sehr netter Mann und eine sehr lustige Person. Er besuchte uns in Kutna Hora. Für den Geburtstag meines Vaters ließ er ihm immer einen Kuchen von Mysaks liefern. Es gab in Prag zwei berühmten Süßwarenladen, Mysak und Berger, beide in der Vodickova-Straße.

Als ich geboren wurde, bekam ich von Ota silbernes Besteck. Er wurde nach Teresienstadt und dann direkt nach Treblinka transportiert, wo er in 1942 umgebracht wurde. Meine Großmutter mütterlicherseits hieß Augusta Reitmanova (geboren Hermanova) und wurde 1970 in einem Dorf namens Pokrikov im böhmisch-mährisch Hochland geboren. Ihr Vater hatte anscheinend ein Wirtshaus oder kleinen Laden.

Meine Großmutter hatte einige Brüder und Schwester. Karel und Zikmund wohnten in Brno, wo sie Konfekt machten. Ein anderer Bruder, Emil, wohnte mit seiner Frau, Petronila, und zwei Töchtern in Hermanuy Mestec. Er wohnte in einer Mischehe, was ihn vor Deportation rettete, doch er erhängte sich während des Krieges. Meine Großmutter hatte auch eine Schwester, Matylda, die unverheiratet war und zuhause in Malin wohnte. Sie starb irgendwann 1933 und ist im jüdischen Friedhof Kolins beerdigt.

Später hatte Großmutter noch einen kleinen Bruder, Jindrich, doch er starb als Kind. Ganz zufällig begegnete mir Karels Enkeltochter 1999 bei einem Kongress für Kinderüberlebende des Holocausts in Prag. Eva wohnt in Israel. Kurz nach dem Krieg zog sie mit ihren Eltern dahin, heiratete und bekam vier Kinder. Ich wusste, dass Eva noch lebt, aber mich kannte sie gar nicht.

Sie fragte jemanden beim Kongress, ob er sich an ihre Mutter erinnern konnte. So lernten wir uns kennen. Viel später, als ich zuhause bei ihr und ihrer Tochter in Israel war, zeigte sie mir einen Brief, den ich meinem Vater nach dem Krieg schickte und den sie behielt. Der war ein langer Brief und mit Danka unterschrieben, aber sie wusste nicht wer das war.

Mein Großvater mütterlicherseits hieß Maxmilian Reitman und wurde 1870 in Trhova Kamenice nähe Chrudim geboren. Er wohnte mit meiner Großmutter unweit von Kutna Hora im Ort Malin, wo sie ein kleines Haus mit einem kleinen Lebensmittelgeschäft hatten.

Malin war ungefähr 7km von Kutna Hora und ist jetzt Teil des Ortes. Eine sehr alte Gemeinde; Silber wurde dort irgendwann im 10. Jahrhundert abgebaut. Hinter dem Laden war eine Küche und, noch weiter, zwei Zimmer und ein Innenhof. Ich glaub sie hatten kein fließendes Wasser und die Toilette war im Hof.

Es war ein rustikales Haus. Ich weiß noch, dass es wohl ein sehr niedriges Haus war, da mein Vater, der ziemlich klein war, die Decke noch berühren konnte. Meine Großeltern hatten einen Hund namens Haryk, der immer vorherahnen konnte, wann ich mit meinen Eltern besuchen komme. Er fing dann immer an zu bellen.

Meine Großeltern waren ziemlich arm. Sie hatten einen Laden und einen Assistenten, aber meine Großmutter war oft hinter dem Tresen. Mein Großvater kam immer auf viele Ideen – der eine Tag verkaufte er Gemüse, der andere etwas Anderes, so dass Großmutter immer das Standbein des Ladens war.

In 1934 oder 1935 verkauften meine Großeltern das Haus und den Laden uns zogen bei uns in Kutna Hora ein. Ein Dienstmädchen meiner Großeltern erzählten mir einmal, dass der Papa meines Großvaters Maxmilians in der Armee wohl den Papa meiner Großmutter, Josef Herman, getroffen hatte.

Nach meinen Berechnungen war das wohl 1866. Man sagt, sie freundeten sich damals an und verabredeten dann, dass ihre Kinder einmal heiraten würden, wenn sie welche bekämen, was ja später dann auch so passierte. Angeblich war meine Großmutter ursprünglich mit jemandem anderen zusammen, doch ihre Eltern waren dagegen, da er kein Jude war, also heiratete sie den ihnen genehmen Verehrer. In seiner Jugend hatte mein Großvater eine gute Figur und einen Bart, um den er sich viel kümmerte.

Er hatte einen unruhigen Charakter und ich glaub es war kein einfaches Leben mit ihm. Zuhause hörte ich, dass sie ein paar Jahre vor dem ersten Weltkrieg in Bosnien und Herzegowina wohnten – irgendwann um 1908. Ich weiß nicht warum oder wie sie dahin kamen. Aber ich nehme an, Großvater wollte dort Waren verkaufen.

Sie wohnten in Mostar und Novi Sad, die ersten fremden Städte, von den ich als Kind hörte. Später kamen sie zurück nach Böhmen und verbrachten mindestens Teil des Ersten Weltkrieges in Prag. Meine Großmutter erzählte immer von der Brotschlange. Dann später kehrten sie nach Malin zurück, wo die blieben.

Beide meiner Großeltern kamen aus tschechisch-sprachigen Familien. Ich glaub keiner von den Beiden waren gebildet. Mein Großvater war religiös und ging regelmäßig in die Synagoge, nicht nur an den hohen Feiertagen. Er brachte mich mit. In der Nähe von Malin war eine Synagoge, aber keine Gemeinde mehr. Also mein Großvater – ein eingefleischtes Sokol (4) Mitglied – arrangierte den Verkauf der Synagoge an den Sokol.

Das Gebäude wurde vor mindestens 20 Jahre abgerissen. Meine Großmutter war auch religiös. Sie ging nicht in die Synagoge, versuchte aber den Schabbat zu befolgen. Großvater starb1941 und hatte eine jüdische Beerdigung. Großmutter überlebte das Konzentrationslager nicht.

Der älteste Bruder meiner Mutter, Ervin, wurde 1895 in Malin geboren. Er wohnte in Dejvice, Prag - heute die Ckalova-Strasse – und arbeite als Bankangestellter. Am Ende der 20er Jahre heiratete er Helena Schillerova, eine Jüdin. Ihr Vater war zweimal verheiratet, also hatte sie zwei Stiefschwestern, die in der Kolkovna-Straße in Prag wohnten. Während des Protektorats (5), als Juden aus den besseren Bezirken ausziehen mussten, zogen Ervin und Helena mit ihm ein.

Ervin und Helena hatte einen Sohn, Tomas, der 1936 geboren wurde. Ich weiß nicht wie religiös sie waren, aber ich glaub der Onkel Ervin war nicht fromm. Sie kamen alle in den Konzentrationslagern um. Onkel Ervin und Tante Helena kamen relativ spät nach Theresienstadt, 1943, und waren im selben Jahr auf einem der ersten September-Transporte nach Birkenau.

Als meine Mutter und ich Dezember 1943 in Birkenau ankamen, trafen wir dort Menschen, die auf den September-Transporten gewesen waren. Wie warteten in einer Schlange, um mit einer Nummer auf dem Arm tätowiert zu werden, als ein Bekannter meiner Mutter erschien und ihr sagte: „Weißt du, dass Helena Reitmanova Witwe ist?“

Er wusste, dass meine Mutter Frau Reitmanova kennt, aber nicht, dass sie ihre Schwägerin war, und dass die Person die starb ihr Bruder war. Das folgende Jahr im März wurde Tante Helena mit Tomas in die Gaskammer geschickt.

Mein Vater hieß Julius Fantl und wurde 1892 in Cimelice geboren. Der war blauäugig und blond. Als er Medizin studierte, nahm er in der Studenten-Aktion gegen Österreich teil und im Alter von 22 wurde zum sechs Monaten Haft verurteilt.

Er war dann doch nur drei Monate im Gefängnis, da es 1917 mit dem Tod des Kaisers Franz Josef [21 November 1916] Amnestie gab. Vater wurde verurteilt und permanent aus allen Universtäten in Österreich-Ungarn verwiesen.

Mein Großvater Vilem schrieb einen Brief an ein Gefängnis in Arad, Rumänien [Arad war Teil Rumäniens erst nach dem 1. Weltkrieg um 1920. Julius Fantl war in der österreich-ungarische Stadt verhaftet worden], in dem er fragte, ob sein Sohn Julius da ist und ob er noch lebt und es ihm gut geht. Er bekam den Brief zurück und das folgende wurde auf Deutsch geschrieben: „Wir können Ihnen mitteilen, dass Ihr Sohn Julius hier und gesund ist.“

Ein Anwalt erklärte mir später es macht Sinn, weil wenn sie auf anderes Papier geschrieben hätten, hätten sie es denn archivieren und eine offizielle Rückmeldung schicken müssen. Nachdem mein Vater eine Amnestie bekam, diente er in der Armee, in einem tschechischen Regiment in Ungarn, und fing 1918 wieder an zu studieren.

Er erzählte oft was ihm passierte, als er seinen Namen für die Abschlussfeier einschreiben wollte: Ein Beamte des Rektorats schaute über seine Dokumente und merkte, dass er permanent von allen Universitäten in Österreich-Ungarn verwiesen wurde. Daraufhin sagte mein Vater, dass Österreich-Ungarn nicht mehr existiert. Er war sein ganzes Leben Hausarzt.

Meine Mutter hieß Irena Fantlova (geboren Reitmanova) und wurde 1901 in Malin geborgen. Nach ihrer Grundbildung machte sie einen Koch- und Nähkurs. Sie wohnte in Malin und half im Laden und im Haus. Mutter war eine schöne Frau. Einmal als sie krank war, sagte angeblich die Nachbarin zu ihr, „junge Dame, geh nach Kutna Hora. Dort gibt’s einen neuen Arzt. Er ist zwar ein Jude, aber der ist eine sehr nette Person.“

Vater bekam eine Arztstelle in Kutna Hora bei der Masaryk Institut für Soziale Arbeit und auch seine eigene Praxis. Sie lernten sich anscheinend so kennen, laut der Familie. Ich glaub aber in der Tat lernten sich sich durch einen gemeinsamen Freund, Herrn Ohrensteins, der Vater des Dichters Orten [Jiri Orten; geboren Jiri Ohrenstein, tschechischer Dichter, 1919-1941] kennen.

Sie heirateten 1926 in Prag, aber es war keine jüdische Hochzeit. Vater kaufte 1932 in Kutna Hora ein Haus. Davor mieteten wir ein Haus von Frau Roubickova. Vater kaufte es von Frau Taborska, die Metzgerin war und ursprünglich einen Laden im Haus hatte. Mein Vater nutzte ihren Laden als Beratungszimmer. Unser Haus stand an der Ecke Ceska- und Hradebni-Straßen. Es war ein einstöckiges Haus mit Garten.

Wir hatten fließendes Wasser, Strom und Gas. Unser Haus war relativ groß mit ungefähr fünf großen Wohnungen – zwei oben und zwei unten mit einem Beratungsraum. Wir hatten eine vier-Zimmer Wohnung im Erdgeschoss. Das Haus hatte ein Türmchen und Erkerfenster und es gab ein Eckzimmer mit sieben Fenster, das schwer zu heizen war.

Es gab Möbel, die von einem Tischler in Kutna Hora beauftragt wurden – ein Schrank, Glasschrank, Tisch, Stühle, Schreibtisch, zwei kleine Sessel und ein zusammenklappbares Ledersofa. Es war ein großer Raum und hatte Parkettboden wie die anderen. Nur im Eingangsbereich und im Bad gab es Fliesen.

In der Wohnung gab es einen Flur, Esszimmer, Gastzimmer, Schlafzimmer und das Wohnzimmer, wo ich zuerst mit meiner Schwester schlief. Als wir dann ein bisschen größer waren, steckten sie mich und Rita im Gastzimmer. Doch nicht für lange, da nachdem die Großeltern einzogen, waren meine Schwester und ich zurück im Wohnzimmer, wo es einen amerikanischen Ofen gab.

Das Dienstmädchen der Großeltern, Fanynka, schlief in der Küche. Es war eine kalte Wohnung; die Küche war nach Norden gerichtet und hatte einen modischen Terrazzo-Fußboden mit sehr kalten Steinfliesen. Die Zimmer waren über vier Meter hoch und waren dementsprechend schwer zu heizen.

Es gab einen Kachelofen und einen Gasherd mit zwei Platten in der Küche. Mutter hatte immer Socken und ein Pulli an zuhause. Der amerikanische Ofen im Wohnzimmer konnte nicht alles heizen, also später benutzten wir einen Musgrave-Ofen, der sowie das Wohnzimmer als auch das Schlafzimmer heizte. Mutter war Hausfrau. Sie war so religiös wie meine Großmutter, da sie auch am Yom Kippur und Schabbat fastete.

Ich glaub sie machte nur das Nötigste, aber dafür ging sie nirgendwohin. Sie betete, doch zündete sie weder die Kerzen an noch kochte sie koscher. Vater hatte die Fasten nie wahrgenommen. Zuhause feierten wir die jüdischen Feiertage nicht. Meine Schwester und ich wurden nicht sehr jüdisch erzogen.

Wir gingen nur am Neujahr und Yom-Kippur in die Synagoge. Wir feierten die tschechischen Feiertage und hatten einen Baum und Geschenke zum Weihnachten. Ich wusste von jüdischen Feiertagen, weil wir im Religionsunterricht über sie lernten. Für Pessach bestellten wir elf Kilo Mazze von der Bernard-Schutz-Firma in Pardubice.

Mutter zerbrach die Mazzen und die Teile wurden in weißen Kaffee getan oder an unsere Freunde verteilt. Brot aßen wir aber auch. Wie auch an Weihnachten kamen unsere Verwandte für Pessach zu uns, um Ostern zu feiern. Wir feierten eher Ostern als Pessach. Wir bemalten Eier und gingen zum Markt und kauften türkischen Honig [traditionelle Süßigkeit, typischerweise auf Märkten in ehemaligen habsburgischen Ländern verkauft].

Obwohl er aus einer jüdischen Familie stammte, aß Vater alles, wahrscheinlich, weil er immer wusste, wie es im Gefängnis war. Ich hörte ihm zu, doch es war viel später als ich verstand. Er sagte, Häftlinge beobachten sich gegenseitig, so dass niemand mehr Kartoffelschälen essen würden.

Das verstand ich später, als ich die selber aß. Aber ich weiß es gab Essen, das er nicht mochte, obwohl wir nicht koscher kochten oder aßen. Gebratenes Lendenstück mit Sahne, zum Beispiel. Ich glaub der Grund dafür war, dass sie es nicht bei ihm zuhause kochten. Wie hatten immer Rind mit Dill-Sauce statt Sahne. Ich glaub Vater war ein guter Arzt. Es gibt noch Menschen, die sich an ihn erinnern.

Er stellte eine Krankenschwester an der Masaryk Institut für Soziale Arbeit an, zuhause hingegen machte er alles für sich selbst. Mutter kam abends rein, um seine Instrumente zu reinigen und die Spritzen zu kochen. Er war der einzige jüdische Arzt in Kutna Jora. Weil er Jude war, dürfte er nur bis 1939 als Hausarzt arbeiten, danach dürfte er nur jüdische Patienten behandeln.

Vater war Mitglied einer Reihe professionellen Vereinigungen, doch hatte bei keiner von denen eine Stelle, soweit ich weiß. Er war pensionierter Offizier und nahm sich selbst als tschechoslowakischer Patriot wahr. Seine politischen Zuneigungen waren für die Sozialdemokraten. Zuhause lasen wir „Pravo lidu“ (Volksgesetz), eine tschechisch-sprachige Zeitung, die von den meisten Sozialdemokraten gelesen wurde.

• Meine Jugend und während dem Krieg

Meine jüngere Schwester hieß Rita Fantlova und wurde 1932 in Kutna Hora geboren. Wir waren ständig zusammen und hatten ein normales Geschwisterverhältnis. Ich war ein leicht reizbares Kind und sie hänselte mich bis ich vor Wut zitterte. Unsere Eltern sagten mir immer, dass ich einfühlsamer sein sollte, weil ich das älteste Kind war.

Das nervte mich immer. Im Sommer und Winter, nachdem das Schulsemester vorbei war und wir keine Hausaufgaben mehr hatten, spielten wir immer im Garten vor dem Haus. Unsere Eltern wollten uns nicht nach draußen lassen. Freunde kamen uns besuchen, doch als ich älter war und weggehen wollte, müsste ich Rita überall mitbringen, worauf ich nicht sehr Lust hatte.

Rita gefiel es hingegen nicht so sehr, meine alte Klamotten tragen zu müssen. Vater kam erst abends wieder, da er immer beschäftigt war. Manchmal fragte ihn Mutter nach der Arbeit, ob er von vorgekommenen Dingen erzählen will, daraufhin sagte er, er hat den ganzen Tag geredet. Wenn sie frei hatten, gingen sie ins Kino.

Damals gab es zwei Kinos in Kutna Hora und sie schauten jeden Film, der gezeigt wurde. Sie gingen auch ins Amateur-Theater, auf Konzerte und sonstige Kulturveranstaltungen in Kutna Hora. Außerdem fuhren wir im Sommer immer irgendwohin und, falls es warm war, gingen wir zu Vidlak-Teich, der ungefähr 15km entfernt war.

Dort gingen wir auch unter der Woche hin, nachdem Papa mit der Arbeit fertig war. Am Wochenende gingen wir baden – oft in der Sazava Fluss. Wir gingen auch zu Caslav, auch 15km entfernt. Da wohnte die Cousine meiner Mutter von Großvaters Familie, Vera Mullerova (geboren Reitmanova). Sie war auch mit einem Arzt verheiratet, Lev Muller.

Sie hatten zwei Söhne, Jirka und Zdenek, die ein Jahr älter als ich und Rita waren. Wir fuhren oft mit denen weg. In Urlaub waren wir auch mit ihnen, zum Beispiel zwei Mal in den Tatra-Gebirgen in der Slowakei. Als ich noch sehr klein war, machten wir ein paar Mal Urlaub im Hotel in Stare Splavy am Macha-See.

Jedes Jahr waren wir zwei oder drei Wochen in irgendeinem anderen Ort. Ich kann mich noch an das Schwimmbad in Luhacovice, als ich 5 oder 6 war, erinnern. Große Treppen führten von dem großen Schwimmbecken zum Kinderplanschbecken, wo wir zu bleiben hatten. Einmal versuchte ich die erste Stufe, dann die zweite, die schon unter dem Wasser lag, und danach die dritte, aber ich war dann schon unter Wasser und fing an zu ertrinken.

Eine junge Dame holte mich heraus und meine Eltern versohlte mir den Hintern. Aber dann schickten sie mich zum Schwimmunterricht. Ich kann mich auch daran erinnern, 1938 im Bad Velichovky zu sein, wo das Muskelsystem immer noch behandelt wird. Das Bad liegt in der Grenzregion und ich weiß noch wie ich auf dem Schutzwall lief.

Tante Helena war heimliche Raucherin und ich sehe noch, wie sie Soldaten Zigaretten aus ihrem Auto überreichte. Im Winter gingen wir Schnittschuh laufen; Mutter kaufte auch Schlittschuhe und -Stiefel und kam mit. Kutna Hora ist sehr hügelig, also gab es viele Gelegenheiten, Schlitten zu fahren. Kutna Hora ist ein netter Ort, allerdings merkte ich das erst später.

Als Kind nahm ich die Gegend als selbstverständlich hin. Als wir später in Theresienstadt waren, gefiel es mir nicht, dass alles dort flach und eckig war. Ich war an gewundene Straßen und Hügel gewöhnt. Egal wo man in Kutna Hora hingeht, man muss immer bergauf. Das Land wird Richtung Kolin flacher, bleibt aber bis Sazava hügelig und bewaldet.

Meine Eltern hatten natürlich einige jüdischen Freunde, aber generell interessierte es sie nicht, wo ihre Freunde alle herkamen. Meistens trafen wir uns mit anderen Familienmitgliedern, vor allem mit den Verwandten in Caslav. Wir sahen uns fast jede zweite Woche und wenn nicht, dann telefonierten meine Mutter und Tante zusammen. Ein Arzt war verpflichtet, ein Telefon zu haben. Unseres war die Nummer 17.

Damals musste man einen Stiel drehen und warten, bis die Telefonvermittlung durchrufen konnte. Wir waren eine mittelschichtige Familie. Wir hatten ein Auto – ein Tatra. In Kutna Hora gab es nur eine Tankstelle – die von Herrn Kubin.

Das erste war ein dunkelgrünes Auto. Vater kaufte es um die Zeit meiner Geburt. Irgendwann 1936 kaufte er ein neues. Die erste Fahrt im neuen Auto war nach Ceske Budejovice, für Vaters 25. Abschlusstreffen. Vater saß immer hinter dem Lenkrad, da Mutter nicht fahren konnte und außerdem eine schlechte Orientierung hatte.

Als Rita um die 4 Jahre war, hatten wir zu Ostern ins Riesengebirge fahren müssen. Wir waren die Hälfte schon gefahren, als Rita sagte, sie hätte Hals- und Kopfschmerzen, also drehten die Eltern um und wir fuhren zurück. Sie schickten Rita ins Bett, maßen bei ihr Fieber, doch sie hatte keins und Vater sah auch, dass mit ihrem Hals auch nichts war.

Nachdem sie sich erholt hatte, fragten sie die Eltern was passiert ist. Sie hatte anscheinend Angst vor der Rübezahl [Krakonos – der Berggeist der Riesengebirge, zw. Tschechien und Polen]. Vor unserer Geburt waren die Eltern oft auf Wanderurlaub dort. Seit einem frühen Alter gewöhnten meine Schwester und ich uns an wandern.

Wir mochten es, in den Wald zu gehen. Vater sammelte immer Pilze im Urlaub. Zuhause hatten wir ein Dienstmädchen namens Anicka, die irgendwann 1932 zu uns kam. Sie war bei uns bis es verboten war. Danach hatten wir keine Dienstmädchen mehr. Fanyka, das Dienstmädchen meiner bei uns eingezogenen Großeltern war älter, also konnte sie bei meiner Großmutter bleiben.

Das war ein Glück, da sie uns während des Krieges sehr half. Es gab in Kutna Hora einige Schulen und die Kinder besuchten die am Nächsten gelegene. Meine Schwester und ich waren an der Mädchengrundschule. Noch weiter war eine gemischte Schule. Es gab auch eine Schule, wo die Studenten der nahegelegenen pädagogischen Hochschule übten.

Es gab in der Gegend keine jüdische Schule. Ich hatte in der Schule keine Probleme, ich mochte sie sogar im Großen und Ganzen. Soweit ich weiß, hatte ich kein Lieblingsfach. Es gab nur noch eine Jüdin in meinem Jahrgang. Sie hieß Hanicka. Ich besuchte mit ihr Religionsunterricht, doch wir waren in den ersten Stufen noch nicht wirklich befreundet.

Allerdings wurden wir enger nachdem wir 1940/41 nicht mehr in die Schule dürfen und stattdessen unseren Unterricht zuhause bekamen. Die anderen Mitschüler verschwanden irgendwie. Rita fing 1938 mit der Schule an, konnte also nur die 2. Klasse absolvieren. Ich absolvierte die 5. Klasse. Beide Eltern konnten Deutsch; Papa konnte auch Englisch, da er abends mit Herrn Strakosch, der von einer der einheimischen jüdischen Familien war, lernte. Meine Eltern redeten Deutsch, wenn die nicht wollten, dass ich verstehe.

Also hatte ich vor, Deutsch zu lernen, um sie zu verstehen. Dann wollte ich Englisch lernen, falls sie die Sprachen wechseln. Ich fing in der 3. Klasse mit Deutschunterricht, dann mit 11 Englisch, an. Mittwoch- und Samstagnachmittags gingen wir in die Sokol-Halle für Turnübungen. Die jüdische Gemeinde in Kutna Hora war klein.

Die Meisten Juden waren Patienten meines Vaters, also waren sie miteinander befreundet. Dort gab es auch eine Synagoge und, eine Zeitlang, einen eigenen Kantor. Danach kam der Doktor Feder aus Kolin hierhin; später war er Hauptrabbi der Tschechoslowakei. Er gab uns auch Religionsunterricht. Wir hatten keine Jeschiwa oder Mikwe.

Damals war die Einwohnerzahl von Kutna Kora um 13 oder 14.000, ungefähr 200 davon Juden. Die Familie Strakosch hatte eine Schuhfabrik und stellte für den Export her. Noch eine reiche jüdische Familie, die Reiningers, hatten eine Klamottenfabrik namens Respo. Es gab auch jüdische Anwälte.

Im Allgemeinen waren die ansässigen Juden mittelständige Geschäftsmänner. Sie lebten ein ganz normales tschechisches Leben und nur einige davon gingen in die Synagoge. Während des Krieges Die Boulevardzeitung „Arijsky boj“ (Arischer Kampf) kam erst nach der Besatzung heraus.

Damals machten sich die Juden darüber lustig. Sie war nicht aus der Region. Der Herausgeber war eine faschistische Organisation namens Vlajka. In jeder Ausgabe – ich glaub sie war wöchentlich – stand immer Tratsch über diese oder jene jüdische Frau. Ich erwähnte es gegenüber meinen Eltern. Niemand nahm es ernst.

Einmal, nachdem ich nicht mehr zur Schule dürfte, traf ich einen ehemaligen Mitschüler, der vor mir spuckte. Das nahm ich nicht ernst, ich fand es wiederum sogar ganz lustig. Ich weiß nicht, ob meine Eltern Angst vor Hitler hatten, aber Vater dachte bestimmt, dass ihm nichts passieren würde, da er tschechoslowakischer Bürger war.

Meine Eltern waren definitiv keine Zionisten. Sie waren typische tschechische Juden. Der Vater dachte wohl, dass sie die Juden in Frieden lassen würden, wenn sie sich assimilieren würden. Ich glaube meine versuchten nicht, zu emigrieren. Erstens, konnten sie sich nicht vorstellen, wie weit alles gehen würde und zweitens, es war 1938 – als ich 10 und meine Schwester 6 war - nicht einfach, mit der Familie das Land zu verlassen.

Vor allem, weil wir im Ausland keine Verwandten hatten und keine anderen Ressourcen. Ich weiß sie erwähnten einmal jemanden, der Kinder nach England schickt. Vater sagte ich wäre dafür zu jung. Doch meine Eltern ahnten bestimmt etwas, weil Migranten aus Deutschland nach Böhmen kamen. Herr Abraham war ein deutscher Jude, der 1936 oder 1937 mit seiner Frau nach Kutna Hora kam.

Er konnte kaum Tschechisch und seine Frau konnte es gar nicht sprechen. Er war aktiver Kantor und bot den jüdischen Kindern im Ort Deutschunterricht an. Ich erinnere mich noch daran, dass er eine völlig unverständliche pädagogische Methode hatte, so dass ich nicht verstehen konnte, was er mir sagte.

Herr Abraham schrieb auch ein Buch über seine Erfahrung in Deutschland und brachte es auf seinen eigenen Kosten heraus. Ich weiß nicht was ihm passierte, da er vor der Besatzung plötzlich verschwand. Meine Eltern lasen sein Buch, deswegen wussten sie bestimmt, was passiert. Die Menschen informierten sich irgendwie, doch sie zogen nicht die richtigen Schlüsse.

Nachdem mein Vater sein Auto abgeben musste, bekam er die Genehmigung dafür, Fahrrad zu fahren. Das war unser einziges Fahrrad und damit fuhr ich manchmal. Damals hatten üblicherweise reichere Leute Fahrräder oder Ski. Wir müssten den Judenstern tragen und es gab nur einen Laden, wo Juden einkaufen dürften. Die ganzen anti-jüdischen Maßnahmen des Protektorats waren in Kutna Hora gültig.

Meine Eltern dürften nicht mehr ins Kino oder Theater. Reisen war verboten. Nur Vater durfte die Ortsgrenze verlassen, da er Patienten in den umliegenden Dörfern hatte, also durfte er sie mit dem Fahrrad besuchen. Wir wohnten in Kutna Hora bis wir im Sommer 1942 nach Theresienstadt deportiert wurden. Zuerst mussten wir zum Sammelplatz in Kolin und danach ging es nach Theresienstadt.

Mein Vater wurde in den Sudeten-Barracken untergebracht, meine Mutter und ich waren in den Hamburg-Barracken. Meine Schwester wohnte dann im Kinderheim und ich war im Haus L-410. Mutter war zuerst Putzfrau im Kinderheim, danach bekam sie eine Stelle beim Menagendienst [Essenverteilung] in der Küche der Sapper-Barracken.

Mein Vater war angestellter Arzt in der Jägerkaserne, wo die Deportierten aus Deutschland hinkamen. Die Lebensumstände waren verhältnismäßig gut, wenn man daran denkt, was später alles noch passierte. Es gab ungefähr 24 Mädchen gleichen Alters im Kinderheim.

Am Anfang wurden wir von Magda Weissova und später von Laura Simkova betreut. Tagsüber arbeiteten wir im Garten und abends sangen und rezitierten wir. Ich entwickelte ein tieferes Gefühl für Musik, Lyrik und Literatur schlechthin.

Einige von uns traten im Kinderchor auf, der in der Oper Brundibar erschien, was für uns ein großes Ereignis war. [Brundibar wurde 1938 vom jüdischen Komponist Hans Krasa aus Prag geschrieben und mehr als 50 Mal von Kindern in Theresienstadt gesungen. Krasa wurde 1944 in Auschwitz ermordet.] Ich sang im Chor.

Wir sangen viel mit Ermutigung von Magda, die ursprünglich im Schachterchor [der berühmteste Chor in Theresienstadt, unter der Leitung von Rafael Schachter], in der Prodana nevesta [Oper von Bedrich Smetana] und sonstigen Opern war.

Im Haus L-410 war ein Kellerraum mit Harmonium, das wir ab und zu mal benutzten. Einmal kam Karel Berman vorbei, saß sich ans Harmonium und probte mit uns das ganze Rusalka [Oper von Antonin Dvorak]. Wir blieben bis Dezember 1943 in Theresienstadt. Sie brachten uns in geschlossenen Viehwagen hinweg.

Wir wussten nicht wo wir hingehen, aber unterwegs wurde es uns klar, dass war in den Osten fahren. Wir kamen in der Nacht in Auschwitz an. Die stellten uns sofort in einen Block, der schon von denjenigen aus den September-Transports bewohnt war.

Transports von September und Dezember 1943 und May 1944 landeten ohne Aussortierung im Familienlager in Auschwitz. Sie fingen an, uns Nummer auf die Arme zu tätowieren. Da erfuhr meine Mutter, dass ihr Bruder nicht mehr lebt – unser erster Schock. Dann, auf dem Weg zu den Bädern, sagte jemand: „kommt einfach sicher zurück.“

Zu diesem Zeitpunkt verstanden wir noch nicht, was das heißen sollte. Nach dem Bad bekamen wir Klamotten, nichts mehr als dünne Fetzen, kaum genug, um uns in der Dezember-Kälte warm zu halten. Ich wohnte im selben Block wie meine Mutter und Schwester. Eines Tages sahen wir Vater beim Appell, allerdings erkannten wir ihn kaum, da er nach wenigen Tagen furchtbar heruntergekommen wirkte.

Meine Mutter versuchte immer, so gut sie konnte, uns zu helfen, also fand sie Arbeit beim Raustragen von großen Fässern Suppe. Diejenigen, die die Suppe verteilten, hatten den Vorteil, Reste vom Grund des Fasses auskratzen zu können. Mutter war die Arbeit aber schwer, also bewachte sie dann die Toiletten im Block, die für diejenigen da waren, die es nicht mehr zu den Latrinen draußen schaffen konnten.

In Theresienstadt war mein Vater Arzt und als wir in Birkenau ankamen, wurde ihm gesagt, er soll zum Oberarzt, der ihn dann fragte, ob er an einer tschechischen oder deutschen Universität studierte. Mein Vater war sehr patriotisch und sagte selbstverständlich an einer tschechischen.

Er wurde noch zweimal gefragt, doch er sagte immer wieder, dass er an einer tschechischen Universität war. Wenn er gesagt hätte, er wäre an einer deutschen Universität gewesen, wäre er auch dort Arzt gewesen, nur das hätte er nie gesagt.

Stattdessen musste er die Insassen kontrollieren, ob sie Flöhen hatten. In einer Art und Weise passte uns das, weil er in die Frauenblöcke dürfte, also konnten wir ihn sehen. Danach war ich im Kinderblock, wo ich später zehnjährigen Jungen betreute.

1944 ahnten wir schon, dass wir nur noch wenig Zeit hatten. Ich hatte ein sehr komisches Gefühl. Ich war 15 und konnte mir gar nicht vorstellen, dass wir daraus kommen werden oder, dass es ein Ende geben könnte. Ich kann mich noch daran erinnern, dass ich damals sagte, ich werde nie wieder Bäume oder Wälder sehen oder mit dem Zug irgendwohin fahren. Es alarmierte uns, das Ankommen von zwei weiteren Transporten aus Theresienstadt zu sehen.

Dann teilten sie uns mit, dass alle Arbeitsfähigen zur Arbeit geschickt werden. Mit „arbeitsfähig“ meinten sie Frauen im Alter von 16 bis 40 und Männer zwischen 16 und 50. Ich war 15, meine Schwester 12, Vater war 52 und Mutter war 43. Keiner von uns passte in die Gruppen. Doch dann kam der Blockführer und las die Nummern von denjenigen vor, die zur Aussortierung müssten.

Meine Nummer wurde aufgerufen – 70788. Ich meinte es sei ein Fehler, aber da stand sie auf der Liste, also musste ich gehen – ein Glück. Ich wusste nicht wer für den Fehler verantwortlich war; es war allerdings ein Fehler, der mir das Leben rettete.

Später durften Fünfzehnjährige sich freiwillig melden, mit zu gehen, doch ich hätte meine Mutter und Schwester nicht verlassen können. Ich überstand die Aussortierung, weil ich ziemlich groß und noch nicht zu dünn war. Wir wussten nicht ob es eine Art Trick war, ob wir wirklich arbeiten werden.

Zuerst waren wir im Frauenlager, wo wir einige Tage unter furchtbaren Bedingungen lebten. Wir wurden in kleinen Kabinen mit jeweils 12 Frauen untergebracht, da saßen wir und zum Essen bekamen wir nur Suppe aus einem einzigen Topf - und ohne Löffel.

Nach ein paar Tage bekamen wir unsere Gefängnisklamotten und Schuhe. Und nach einigen Aussortierungen schleppten sie die letzten von uns auf LKWs weg. Das war ein komisches Gefühl, Auschwitz zu verlassen. Einige Tage später kamen wir in Hamburg an, auf der Dessauer Seite des Hafens.

Es war ein Donnerstag in Juni. Sie brachten uns in eine fantastische Unterkunft, die mit zweistöckigen Betten und einem Waschraum, auch Tischen ausgestattet war. Am nächsten Tag blieben wir dort und nach all den langen Monaten hatten wir etwas außer Suppe zu essen – Kartoffel und Salzhering. Doch schien es noch einen Fehler zu geben, also bekamen wir nochmal die Suppe.

Am Samstag mussten wir arbeiten. Wir standen noch im Dunkeln auf, gingen zum Hafen und fuhren auf Booten zu den bombardierten Fabriken, wo wir die Trümmer wegräumten und Schienen herausgruben. Dort war es schlimm, da es mindestens einmal pro Nacht einen Fliegerangriff gab.

Im September schickten sie uns nach Neugraben, ein Bezirk am Stadtrand von Hamburg. Zuerst wurden wir von Wehrmachtssoldaten bewacht, die zwar nicht so schlimm waren, aber später durch SS ersetzt wurden. Sie wurden an die Front geschickt und die Aufseher danach waren alte Zollbeamten. Manche von ihnen waren nett, andere nicht.

In Neugraben wurden Notunterkünfte für diejenigen gebaut, deren Häuser ausgebombt wurden. Wir gruben die Fundamente jener Häuser, auch die Gruben für das Wasser und Stromverbindungen. Das machten wir auch bei Minusgrad und mit eisbedeckten Boden.

Einmal arbeiteten wir in einem Ort, wo eine Frau mit einem 12-jährigen Sohn wohnte. Ihr Sohn sagte uns ab und zu ein paar Wörter und seine Mutter fragte unseren Aufseher, ob wir Rasenstücke bei ihr in den Garten reintragen dürften. Danach lud sie uns ein und schenkte uns schwarzen Kaffee und ein bisschen Brot und Käse aus.

Vor Weihnachten brachte uns der Junge einen großen Sack, und sagte der Weihnachtsmann hätte es gebracht. Drinnen war eine gelbe Rübe, Kohl und einige Kartoffel. Für ihn war es nichts Besonderes, aber uns war es ein herrliches Geschenk. Sie schickten uns dann nach Harburg, um den Schnee zu räumen und dort gruben wir Ziegel aus den Trümmern.

Dann gruben wir eine Anti-Panzer-Grube um Hamburg. Da arbeiteten wir neben Kriegsgefangenen. Im Februar mussten wir wieder umziehen, diesmal in einen Bezirk namens Tiefsack, der am anderen Ende der Stadt war. Ich konnte mich allerdings nicht bewegen, weil ich ein schwer verwundetes Bein hatte.

Sie nahmen mich in einem LKW mit anderen kranken Menschen mit, so dass wir nicht laufen mussten. Dort gab es keine Zollbeamten als Aufseher. Stattdessen waren es SS-Frauen, die viel schlimmer waren. Wieder mussten wir Ziegel ausgraben und die Gegend für weitere Benutzung frei räumen. Eines Tages kehrten wir nach der Arbeit zurück und das Lager wurde weggebombt.

Eine Weile danach schickten sie uns aus Hamburg weg. Erstmal waren wir am Bahnhof und dann fuhren wir mit dem Zug nach Celle. Das war Ende März 1945. Einige schafften es, unterwegs zu flüchten. Von dem Bahnhof in Celle aus fuhren wir in das KZ Bergen-Belsen. Man kann kaum beschreiben, wie es damals war. In den Barracken mussten wir auf unbedeckten Boden sitzen, weil es sonst zu voll war.

Die Hygieneverhältnisse waren schrecklich, da es kein Wasser oder überhaupt irgendwas gab. Leichenstapel standen überall zwischen den Blöcken. Ein paar Tage später brachen die SS-Männer aus, weil man inzwischen überall Kanonenfeuer hörte. Da gab es kein Essen mehr.

Meine Freundin Dasa und ich fanden eine Möhre in einer Grube und nahmen sie mit. Dann, als es unmöglich wurde, viel mehr zu ertragen, kam am 15. April die britische Armee. Ich hatte auch nicht die Kraft, um aufzustehen und sehen was passiert. Die brachten Essen mit, aber Dasa und ich nahmen nur eine Dose und schmierten die Möhre mit Fett ein.

Da waren Menschen die sehr schnell ganz viel aßen, doch das war’s für die. Man kann sich kaum vorstellen, wie viele Läuse und Flöhe es damals gab. Provisorische Duschen wurden eingerichtet und sie desinfizierten uns. Später wurde ich mit Fieber erwischt und musste bis Juli 1945 im Krankenhaus bleiben.

• Nach dem Krieg

Sobald der Krieg vorbei war, schrieb ich Fanynka zuhause. Wir haben vor dem Krieg Sachen bei ihr versteckt und während des Krieges schickte sie uns Pakete. Leute aus Bergen-Belsen müssten für ihre Erholung nach Schweden – da hätte ich auch hinmüssen.

Doch kurz bevor wir losfuhren, bekam ich von jemandem Nachrichten, der während des Krieges mit Fanynka war. Er war ein Freund meines Vaters und schrieb, dass sie meine Rückkehr erwarten. Der erste Zug aus dieser Region fuhr im Juli 1945 in die Tschechoslowakei. Wir fuhren mit dem Zug fast eine Woche durch erobertes Deutschland und kamen dann in Pilsen an, wo wir aussteigen mussten, da wir am Ende der amerikanischen Zone waren.

Danach fuhren wir auf Kohlezügen nach Prag. Der Freund meines Vaters, der Professor, traf mich in Prag und fuhr mit mir nach Kutna Hora, wo unsere Fanynka auch war. Am nächsten Tag war ich beim Arzt und hatte anscheinend eine sehr schwere Lungenentzündung.

Der Arzt organisierte für mich einen Platz im Sanatorium in Zamberk, wo ich, wie ich später erfuhr, nur deswegen angenommen wurde, weil ich als Arzttochter einen anständigen Ort zum Sterben verdient hatte. Ich blieb zweieinhalb Jahren im Sanatorium – bis Februar 1948.

Dann bekam ich eine Wohnung in unserem alten Haus und ging zurück nach Hause. Nachdem ich wieder zuhause war, entschloss ich mich dazu, zu studieren, da ich auch mit der Grundschulausbildung noch nicht fertig war. Erstens lernte ich Englisch, dann fing ich wieder mit Klavierunterricht an.

Während des nächsten Jahres bereitete ich mich für die Zulassungsprüfung für die Oberschule vor, um eine richtige Ausbildung zu bekommen. Der Professor-Freund meines Vaters wurde mein Betreuer und unterstützte mich. Doch er fand es nicht so gut, dass ich weiter studieren wollte. Ich war ziemlich stur, also schaffte ich es, die Oberschule zu absolvieren und an der geisteswissenschaftlichen Fakultät der Prager Karls-Universität zugelassen zu werden.

Dort studierte ich Deutsch und Tschechisch. Damals erhielte ich die volle Erwerbsunfähigkeitsrente. Doch bevor ich mit dem Studium anfing, lernte ich meinen zukünftigen Mann, Petr Liebl, kennen. Der wurde 1935 in Ceske Budejovice geboren. Seine Eltern waren ein gemischtes Paar. Gegen Ende des Krieges wurde seine Mutter in Hagibor 6 und Theresienstadt inhaftiert.

Sein Vater wurde in das Postoloprty Arbeitslager geschickt. Petr war derzeit bei seiner Großmutter väterlicherseits in Ceske Budejovice. Am Ende des Krieges fuhr Petrs Vater – zusammen mit einem anderen Mann, der auch im Postoloprty-Lager war und dessen Frau und Tochter auch in Theresienstadt waren – mit der Pferdekutsche nach Theresienstadt um die Frauen zu holen.

Petrs Mutter erwartete ein Kind – einen Junge – der direkt nach dem Krieg zur Welt gebracht wurde. Ich kannte Petr von meiner Cousine Lilly, die ich nach dem Krieg besuchte. Bevor ich ihn kennenlernte, wurde mir gesagt er interessiere sich für Mathe und wiegt kleine Bälle, was sich komisch anhörte.

Dann an einem Tag im Sommer klingelte jemand und Lilly sagte, „Hej, da ist der Petr Liebl, sollte ich ihn einladen?“ Ich sagte, „ja, wenn du magst.“ Ich war überhaupt nicht neugierig. Dann kam er und er war ganz anders als ich mir vorstellte. Wir heirateten im Oktober 1955. Wir wohnten in Prag – er wohnte im Wohnheim, wo ich Untermieterin war.

Samstags fuhren wir nach Kutna Hora, um Fanynka zu besuchen, die wir jetzt als Tante bezeichneten. Im 5. Fachsemester brachte ich meine Tochter Rita zur Welt. Danach blieb ich zuhause und schrieb meine Arbeit. Wir hatten ganz wenig – nur das Stipendium. Als mein Stipendium vorbei war, kurz vor den Abschlussprüfungen, fing ich damit an, Arbeit zu suchen.

Endlich bekam ich eine Stelle an einer Oberschule in Caslav, wo ich bis 1956 Deutsch unterrichtete. Bis dahin absolvierte Petr und danach landete er eine Stelle am Mathematikinstitut in Prag. Dann bekamen 1959 wir unsere zweite Tochter, Zuzana, und versuchten eine Wohnung in Prag zu finden.

Am Ende traten wir bei einer Genossenschaft ein und kaufte eine Wohnung des Wohnungsamtes, die wir 1961 bezogen. Damals dachte ich, wir werden sie uns nicht leisten können. Ein Jahr davor bekam Petr eine Stelle in Dubna, in der Nähe von Moskau, also fuhren wir mit den Kindern dahin. Zwischenzeitlich erhielt ich an Stelle an einer Sprachenschule und versprach, am Anfang des Semesters wieder da zu sein.

August 1961 kehrte ich mit den Kindern zurück und Petr war zum Weihnachten wieder da. 1965 fuhren wir nach Ghana, da das Mathematikinstitut ihm dort eine Stelle an der Universität anbot. Wir blieben drei schöne Jahre in Afrika. Dort lehrte ich Deutsch und eine Zeitlang auch Russisch.

Unsere Kinder gingen das erste Jahr nicht in die Schule, da ich sie zuhause unterrichtete. Zuzana ging dann in die erste Klasse, Rita in die vierte. Dann zogen wir auf dem Campus und sie waren auf eine Schule für Universitätspersonal. Wir gingen im Sommer 1956 zurück in die Tschechoslowakei. Ich war damals schwanger.

Ich erfuhr von den Ereignissen 1968 [Prager Frühling] (8) mehr oder weniger von der Entbindungsstation aus, wo ich im September meinen Sohn, Martin, zur Welt brachte. Wir waren mit der gesamten Situation damals ein bisschen verwirrt, da wir während der Zeit in Ghana ein bisschen den Kontakt verloren hatten, obwohl wir tschechische Zeitungen lasen.

Wir verstanden wirklich nicht viel davon, was um uns herum passiert. Und, dank Martin, war ich meistens mit meiner Familie beschäftigt. 1972 wechselte ich an die Universität des 17. Novembers, eine Uni für internationale Studenten, die für tschechoslowakische Studierende auch eine Fakultät für Übersetzen und Dolmetschen hatte.

Die Universität wurde bald danach zugemacht, doch die Fakultät wurde von der geisteswissenschaftlichen Fakultät übernommen. Während der Feiertage waren wir immer bei Petrs Eltern in Ceske Budejovice. An Migration dachten wir nicht. Wir überlegten wir uns nur, nach Neuseeland zu gehen – ein Angebot, das wir in Ghana erhielten.

Doch am Ende kehrten wir zurück nach Hause. Ich hatte in Israel einen Bekannten, aber wir blieben nicht in Kontakt. Mein erstes Mal in Israel war 1993 mit meinem Mann. Ich war 2000 mit meiner Tochter wieder da. Rita heiratete und zog 1987 nach Kanada. Zuzana und Martin wohnen in Tschechien.

Das Regimewechsel in 1989 (9) war eigentlich zu erwarten. Obwohl ich von dem Regime nicht verfolgt wurde, freue ich mich, dass es passierte, weil wir zumindest die Freiheit haben, ins Ausland zu reisen. Mir begegneten nach dem Krieg keine bestimmten Fälle von Antisemitismus. Derzeit bin ich Vorstandsvorsitzende der Theresienstadt-Initiative (10).

Als Holocaust-Überlebende bin ich auf diversen Treffen. Zum Beispiel war ich neulich in Hamburg, wo es eine neue Ausstellung über die Satellitenlager gab. Also befinde ich mich wieder an jenen Orten, wo ich auch im Krieg mal war. Ich bin oft bei Vorträgen in Terezin mit Studenten aus Tschechien und Deutschland.

Ich reise auch ganz viel nach Deutschland, weil die Theresienstadt-Förderverein in Niedersachsen beheimatet ist. Viele Jahre arbeitete ich bei der lokalen Abteilung des Verbandes der Freiheitkämpfer. Ich war auch Vorstandsvorsitzende der Kommission der Swiss Humanitarian Fund [Schweizer Fond für Holocaustüberlebende] und bin jetzt bei dem Petitionsausschuss für Sklaven- und Zwangsarbeiter im Rahmen des Deutsch-Tschechisch Zukunftsfonds.

Ich vergas nie, dass ich jüdisch bin. Auch meine Kinder wussten es immer. In der Familie nehmen wir es für selbstverständlich. Meine Kinder wurden nicht jüdisch erzogen, da ich auch keine solche Erziehung hatte, doch interessieren sie sich für Yiddishkeit.

I, Alexander Moiseevich Paskov, was born in the city of Leningrad on May 
31st, 1931. I am my parents' only child. Mama began working when I was four months old. I was taken care of by a nanny, a young village girl by the name of Sasha. When I grew older, I began attending kindergarten. During the summer, I was often sent to live with relatives in Starodub or Klintz. Sometimes Mama went with me, sometimes I went alone. 

• My family background
• During the war
• After the war
• Marriage life and children

My family background

My grandfather on my mother's side, Moisei Beniaminovich Levitin, was born in 1865 in the city of Pogar, in the Bryansk region. He finished Hebrew school and was an Orthodox Jew. His native tongue was Yiddish. He lived with his wife and children in the village of Starodub, formerly of the province of Chernigovski (now the Oryol region). He was a minor trader and handicraftsman. He made honey, wine, and artificial fish fat and other lubricants, which he then sold at a stall in his town's market. His wife, Sosya Shaevna, was a housewife. They had five children. Grandmother died young, in 1914, when my mother, the youngest in the family, was only eight. They had a one-story stone house with a high porch and a garden.

After Grandmother's death, Grandfather Moisei lived with his oldest son, who was a shop assistant. After the death of that son in 1920 he lived with other children. In 1921 the entire family began organizing the Jewish agricultural commune "Unity" on a farm in Starodub Uyezd. Grandfather worked there until 1924, until he lost his ability to work at the age of 60. After this he became dependant on his son Zinovi, the former chairman of Unity. Grandfather died at age 70 in 1935. I was visiting Starodub at that time. I was only four years old and therefore wasn't brought to the cemetery. I remember, however, that Grandfather was buried according to Jewish tradition. I watched everything from the high roof of the house.

My paternal grandfather, Yankel Girshevich Paskov, was born in 1864 in one of the small Jewish enclaves in Chernigovski Province. He was adopted and brought up by his foster father, Girsh Paskov. The last name given to him at birth was Reizen, but there is no information about his birth mother. People said that his foster father wasn't drafted into the army because he was the father of an only son-and that is why he adopted my grandfather. I don't know if this was true, or if there were other reasons. Grandfather finished Hebrew school and was a true believer, following Jewish tradition, going to synagogue. He was a member of the Jewish community. He circumcised his sons, but wasn't Orthodox.

Grandfather Yankel was a carpenter by profession, but he also knew "turnery" making objects on a lathe. First he worked in the railroad workshops, then alone in his carpentry workshop. Sometimes he would take on an apprentice. He taught carpentry to his sons. In 1919 he was an instructor at the trade union school. He knew carpentry and turnery well, and had 30 years of practical experience. From 1920 to 1922 he worked on the construction site of a drying factory and power station.

His wife Sarah ran the household and raised the children. I was named Alexander after Grandmother Sarah. She was Orthodox. Their native language was Yiddish. They both died during the Holocaust, shot by Germans, along with their son Samuel's and their daughter Hannah's families, in the ghetto-camp in Belovshina.

Grandfather Yankel often corresponded with my father, writing cards in Yiddish. My father received the last two cards from my grandfather on the 3rd and 4th of August, 1941, in Leningrad. He got no further information about the fate of his parents and other relatives. When Starodub was liberated from German occupation, he learned of their deaths. Sixteen members of the Paskov-Levitin died in the Holocaust.

I would now like to describe how the city of Starodub used to be. That city has been documented as far back as the 11th century. As described in records from 1612, the soldiers of the second False Dimitri, known as the "Tushinski Thief," gathered there before heading for Moscow. In 1906, when both my parents were born there, it was a small town in Chernigovski Province. 

Many Jews lived in Starodub; it had a synagogue. I visited several times when I was a child, in the summers between 1935 and 1941. In the center of the city was "Red Square," a large marketplace. People traveled by horse, so there were tethering posts around the square. On the edge of the square stood a small one-floor building, like a barn. My grandfather Yankel Paskov lived inside. In this building were two little rooms with very low ceilings. The entrance to his lodgings was through the carpentry workshop, in which his tools hung and his workbench stood. And at the end of a yard was a cart.

The closest railroad station was called Unecha. We traveled there by horse. In the city was a narrow gauge railroad, used to transport timber, and also railroad workshops.

During the war the city was occupied by Germans. All the Jews were destroyed by the beginning of 1942, although it was said that some were able to escape into the woods, even from the ghetto-camp. During the German retreat the city was greatly damaged: according to a witness, my father's math teacher Mikhail Kibalchich, 250 houses were burned, including those of my relatives. After the war the city was rebuilt, but today there is no railroad in Starodub. It is a "Chernobyl zone," forgotten by God and man. It will probably not become a destination for pilgrimages. Still, one hopes that the memory of the ancestors will be kept alive.

My father, Moisei (Moisei-Girsh) Yankelevich Paskov, was born on February 19th, 1906, during the pogroms. Father first studied at Hebrew school, then at a Jewish academy. From 1917 to 1924 he studied at the school of Soviet workers, in the former Starodub Gymnasium. He studied carpentry with his father and combined schoolwork with a summer job. He worked on the construction of an electric station and a drying factory for the regional timber committee.

In 1924 he graduated from school. He and his twin brother, Mark, the youngest sons of the family, left for Leningrad. He worked as a carpenter in the Volkhovstroi, at Timber Processing Factory #3, on the Okhta River, and at the Avrora plywood factory. While working, he attended evening classes in the Polytechnical Department of the Builders' Academy.

He changed his job often because he had no specialized education. One year he was even unemployed. Not working was not possible for him, as his parents were poor and couldn't help him materially. By the end of his education, he was working as a junior technician on the construction of a paper plant, and as a draftsman at the Tekstilstroi, the Institute for the Growth of Textile Building.

In 1930, Father finished technical college and started to work as the head technician at Tekstilstroi, which, by then, had been merged with Gipromez (Black Metallurgy) and renamed Stalproekt. From that time until his retirement in 1966, my father worked at that institute. He took part in the creation of the most important centers for black metallurgy in the USSR: Magnitogorsk, Krivoi Rog, Mariupol.

My mother, Estra Moiseevna Levitina, was born on March 4th, 1906, as evidenced by her birth certificate, which was written by the Starodub Rabbi on March 31st, 1916. Mama herself told me that she was actually born at the end of 1905, but her official entry into the register of births was delayed by pogroms. She was the youngest daughter in a family with four other children, two sons and two daughters. Estra's mother died early in 1914 and she was raised by her older sisters, who really spoiled her.

Estra graduated from high school in Starodub in 1924 and left for Leningrad to continue her studies-the only one in the family to do so. Each summer she continued to work in the fields of the collective farm.

In 1927 she graduated from the Mordvinovski agricultural school, having specialized in agricultural techniques. She had dreamed of becoming an agronomist, working with crops, but in 1926 the school changed its specialty to animal husbandry. After graduating, Mama worked at various livestock farms as a laboratory assistant for milk and milk product analysis: in Peterhof, Pella, Starodub, and at the Leningrad milk testing station. This work didn't make her happy, but finding work as an agronomist with her zoo-technology degree was not possible in Leningrad.

In 1929 she began working as an assistant to the agronomist of the Kustov collective farms of the Starodub Regio. There, she also served the Jewish farm community. Then she left to work as the agronomist for the Kustobedini Collective Farm in the Serpuhovski Region. Here she endured the "Cleansing of the Soviet System" in December, 1929, and remained at her post without reprimand.

She really liked working as an agronomist, and the only reason for leaving her work was that she married my father and moved to Leningrad in 1930. There she worked in her former school as an instructor of field crop cultivation.

In 1930, my parents married. They had known each other for a long time, since studying together in Starodub. However, in my mother's words, during school, "Father didn't notice me." Then they met in the Starodub Zemlyachestva in Leningrad and in Starodub. These meetings led to the formation of our family. In 1931 I was born.

After my birth, from 1931 to 1934, my mother worked close to our home. This work was only marginally concerned with farming: it was at the Selhozgiz, the state publisher of agricultural literature.

In 1934 she began work at the Leningrad Agricultural Institute as a laboratory assistant, first in the department of soil science, then in the department of horticulture on Kammen Island, 2nd Beryoz Alley, next to the Kinofabrika. She dealt with soil analysis and enjoyed her job. All the facts about my parents' activities before my birth, I took from their autobiography, which they wrote in 1938 and kept in the family archives.

During the war

During the war our whole family was evacuated to Nizhni Tagil, where Gipromez had a branch. Mother worked for that branch and as a cashier at the building site. She was later awarded a medal for "Valiant Work during the Great Patriotic War 1941-1945." After returning to Leningrad in 1946, she worked as a laboratory assistant in the microbiology section of the well-known institute of experimental microbiology, VIEM (All-Union Institute of Experimental Biology), where vaccines against diphtheria and whooping cough were being developed. She left her work due to illness. She was talkative and curious even in her advanced years, and she passed away in 1983.

I obtained an understanding of Jewish traditions from my grandfather's house in the city of Starodub, but I was only a child then and remembered very little. After they moved from Starodub to Leningrad, my parents became completely assimilated. I grew up in a non-religious atmosphere. They knew Yiddish from childhood, but didn't follow Jewish traditions. Neither did the other young people, their friends from the Starodub Zemlyachestva in Leningrad. (A zemlyachestva is formed when people move to a new location from the same village; it's a little diaspora in one location. They meet, spend time together, celebrate holidays and study together.)

The Starodub Zemlyachestva in Leningrad was made up of active and friendly young people, almost all the same age and in the same classes. They had much in common and were very close to each other, especially in their youth, but also as they grew older, keeping in close contact with each other's lives and families. I spoke with members of the Starodub Zemlyachestva mostly at family holidays, and I know more about them from the stories my mother would tell and her photos. As a child I called all the members of the Zemlyachestva "Aunt" or "Uncle," or by their last name. Most of the women kept their maiden names and first name-patronymic, at home and at work.

Among the oldest Starodub Zemlyachestva compatriots was the famous writer, Grigori Reilkin, who later worked in Moscow. The composer Alexander Manevich, laureate of the Stalin prize, was a reason for pride among the compatriots. How great was their bitterness when, at the last minute, his opera was not premiered. Lev Mendelev was one of the heads of a large construction trust. Before the war he built the Baburinski Zhilmassiv in Les. He also ran the student's practicum at LISI. His wife, Dasha (Judith Levovna Knopova), due to her literary bent, was a teacher, and became the deputy head of pre-schooling for the city department of education. Her
sister Zhena was a journalist. Lev Aronskin was an officer in the Engineering Corps. He finished the war as a colonel, and until 1952 was the head of the military training department at LISI, where he trained reserve officers in pontoon bridge building. He also taught camouflage to the girls from the architecture department. Not long ago I met the bard, Stanislav Slutzker, captain second class, and it turns out that his father, Boris Slutzker, is also from Starodub. In the 1920's, the artist Yurski lived in Starodub, a fact which his equally famous son, the artist Sergei Yurski, recalled.

In the summer of 1941, when the war began, Mama and I were vacationing with relatives in Klintz. After a telegram from my father, we were evacuated to the Urals. We lived in Nizhni Tagil, where my parents worked and I went to school, until 1944. After our return to Leningrad from the evacuations, I studied at school #222, "Petershule".

When the war began, my father was supposed to be drafted into the army on July 5th, 1941. He was assigned to the home guard, but on June 11, 1941, by order of the director of Gipromez, he was sent on a lengthy business trip to Sverdlovsk in order to carry out important governmental directives. He was therefore taken out of active duty. At this time an armored rolling mill was transported from Kolpino, a village near Leningrad, to the Urals. My father's task was to set up this mill. He worked at a branch of Gipromeza and built blast furnaces in Nizhni Tagil.

In 1944 he returned to Leningrad and brought the mill to the Izhorski factory in Kolpino. He later took part in the creation of metallurgical factories in the USSR (Cherpovetz), in India (Bhilai), and in China (Anshan). In 1958 he graduated from LISI evening school and continued to work at Gidromez, but by this time as an engineer/designer. He was a very active person at work, both during his youth in Komsomol and when he was much older. He received many awards, including the Order of the Red Worker. Outside of work he was a quiet and modest person. He wasn't religious. He knew Yiddish from childhood and corresponded with his father in that language, but in Leningrad, Jewish traditions weren't observed. He passed away on September 6th, 1972, and was buried in the Cemetery for Victims of January 9th.

After the war

From 1949 to 1954, I studied at the architectural faculty of the Leningrad Institute of Engineers and Builders. After graduating from institute, from 1955 to 1992 when I retired, I worked as an architect at Giprolestrans, the state institute of timber transport and forestry, working my way up from common engineer to leading expert. I took part in the design of a great number of projects in our country: Bratsk, Ust-Ilimsk, Petrozavodsk, Baikal- Amur Magistral; and abroad, in Laos, Vietnam, Mongolia and Cuba.

My father's twin brother Mark (Meer-Haim) Paskov graduated from the Leningrad Chemical Polytechnical School. Because this school had the status of an institute, Mark received his diploma as a specialist in engineering, metallurgy and casting. Until the summer of 1942, he worked as a technical engineer at the "Bolshevik" factory in Leningrad. In 1943-44 he was evacuated to Nizhni Tagil, where he worked in his field. After his return to Leningrad, he worked as an engineer and junior scientist at the NII-13 Scientific Research Institute. He died in 1961.

Mark's wife, Fanny Grigorievna Shapiro, was a doctor. Before the war they lived in the city of Pushkin, and after the war in Leningrad on the island of Vasiliev. Their twins, Alexander and Rosita (Rita), were born in 1937.

Alik (Alexander) graduated from the Gorni Institute and worked as a constructor of cranes in the factory of lift transport building, as well as for Baikanur.

Rita graduated from the Institute of Film Engineering and then worked as a engineer/chemist in the "Arsenal" factory. She was married in 1959 to Samuel Goldin. Her son Ilya graduated from Polytechnical Institute as an engineer/metallurgist, and her daughter Anna graduated from LISI as a sewer system engineer.

The fate of my father's older brother and sister was quite different. The oldest brother, Samuel, was a carpenter like his father, and worked at the Detkomissi workshop. The oldest sister, Hannah, married a salesman, Efim Blumkin, who became the head of a food store. The youngest sister, Haya, suffered from epilepsy and was unable to work.

When the war began, none of them evacuated. At the end of the war Father sent requests for information on their fate, both to official organizations, such as the Starodub city council, and to acquaintances, including my father's math teacher, Mikhail Kibalchich. From the answers to these questions it became clear that all our relatives had been killed. Kibalchich wrote the most in-depth explanation of their fates, in a letter dated November 25th, 1943. Samuel's daughter Mina was killed by a bomb on the third day after the Germans' arrival in Starodub. After 10 days, Samuel
Yankelevich, his wife Rahil Davidovna, their son Dodik, and my father's parents-like all the Jews in Starodub-were sent to a ghetto camp set up in Belovshin on a former collective farm. Each Jew was allowed to take as many of their personal possessions as they could carry at one time, and the rest was confiscated. Three days after arrival, all the men were shot. The women and children were kept in the camp until Spring. They lived there in cramped quarters, in the cold, and with little food. In March, 1942, the Germans shot everyone who was left.

The Starodub city council sent a letter dated December 10th, 1943 that confirmed this information, and added that this horror also touched the Levant family, my mother's sister, and the Blumkins. Hannah, her husband Efim, and their son Alexander also died.

Hannah's two other children, Igor (Isaac) and Fanna, had been studying in Moscow before the war, and survived. Igor, after graduating from a military academy, enlisted in the Baltic Navy and then became the director of the cafeteria at the Institute of Physical Culture in Moscow. Fanna (whose married name was Shaikevich), moved with her son Alexander's family to Israel.

My father and Uncle Mark were very close to their cousin Adolf (Alter) Velkomski. He was their age, having also been born in 1906 in Starodub, and they left for Leningrad to study together. He graduated from the Leningrad Institute of Water Transport and became an engineer and builder. Before the war he worked on the construction site of the large Ferganski Canal and the military port in Tallin.

During the blockade, he was a colonel engineer on the Leningrad front. He was injured. After hospitalization, he finished the advanced military political academy in Central Asia in four months, and went back to the front as a zampolit (second in command) in an artillery division. However, in his first battle after joining our soldiers near Smolensk, he was badly injured in the stomach by shrapnel from a mine. He lost consciousness and lay in the crater. After the battle was over he was retrieved and sent to the military field hospital, and from there by plane to Moscow, where he was checked in to the Burdenko Hospital and his life was saved. He remained an invalid and was demobilized.

After that he worked first as the head engineer at the Zhilishni Trust on the Petrograd side of Leningrad, and then as a designer at Giprospetzgaz, the institute of projects for the gas industry. He was a very active and energetic person, an activist in the Komsomol and the chariman of the Profkom at Giprospetzgaz for 15 years. Because of his shortened participation in it, he didn't like to talk about the war.

Mark and Adolf married the Shapiro sisters, Fanny and Marie, from Zaporozhia, at the beginning of the 1930s. Their father was a minor craftsman and died in Leningrad. Adolf and Marie's children are Irma (whose married name is Kozub), born in 1932, and Asya, born in 1948. Both now live in Petersburg.

Mother's older brother was a salesman who died young, in 1920. Her second brother, Zinovi (Zalman), born in 1900, was one of the bosses of the agricultural movement and one of the organizers of the Jewish agriculturale commune "Unity" in the Spring of 1921. At one time he was Unity's chairman. The commune was located on a farm on the Belovshina Starodub administrative unit. In 1934, when the commune moved to the Crimea, the Levitin family stayed in Starodub. Zinovi worked as an accountant for MTS, the machine and tractor station. During the war he served in the Rokossovski Army as a senior lieutenant and was awarded the Red Star and a medal for heroism. After the war he worked in the finance department of the Regional Agricultural Administration in the city of Oryol. He died there in 1981. He had no children.

Mother's oldest sister, Sonia, was married to Avraam Levant, a farmer. I remember him as bearded, in boots, and with a whip. When the commune moved, Sonya and her husband transferred to another agricultural community. Their children, Lyonya and Raia, were schoolchildren older than me when the war began. The entire family stayed in Starodub and were killed in the ghetto- camp that the farm was turned into.

My mother's other sister, Liza (whose married name was Shifrina), was a salesman's wife. They lived in Klintsi, where they perished during the war, along with their daughter Raeya, who was my age. 

My mother's cousin Zinovi Lokshin was a violinist and an accountant who spent the war as an officer. After the war he lived in Leningrad and worked as the head accountant for the October 25th Hospital. His son and daughter both have higher education. His son is studying technical science and his daughter is a philologist. We often speak with this family.

Marriage life and children

I met my wife, Galina Zotova, at work; we worked at the same institute. We were married in 1959, and our daughter, Anna, was born on June 8th, 1960. My wife then quit her job and both brought up our daughter and took care of the household. My wife is ethnically Russian. She was born in Leningrad on October 9th, 1930. Her parents were from Arkhangelsk. Her father, Dimitri Moiseevich Zotov, was a salesman. Galina graduated from secondary school in Volhova, where her family lived at that time. She began to work at the Leningrad Institute Giprolestrans in 1953, and in 1958 she graduated from the Leningrad branch of the All-Union Correspondence Builders' Institute as a hydrolic engineer. She majored in water supply and sewer systems, and worked at this until our daughter was born.

My daughter Anna obtained her diploma in power engineering at the Leningrad Shipbuilders' Institute. Today she works as a programmer. Her son, Yegor Paskov, was born in 1987 and attends secondary school. Anna and Yegor live with us.

Lina Mukhamedjanova
Chernigov
Ukraine
Interviewer: Zhanna Litinskaya
Date of interview: June 2003

Lina Mukhamedjanova is a pretty woman, short and slim, with short hair and blue eyes. She doesn't look her age. She is easy-going and cheerful. Lina lives in a three-bedroom apartment in a nine-storied 1970s building in the center of Chernigov. She has many pictures, photographs and books in her apartment. There is simple furniture. After we introduced each other, Lina asked me if I wanted a cup of tea or coffee, and after the interview she invited me to have dinner with her. She said she feels especially lonely when she has to sit at the table alone. I accepted her invitation. We had a nice dinner and kept talking about life, people, children and the future. Lina made the impression of a very calm and happy person.

My family backgrownd

Growing up

During the war

After the war

Glossary

My family backgrownd

My father, Boris Braverman, came from Snovsk, a small Jewish town in Chernigov province. [Editor's note: Snovks was renamed to Schors in 1935. Soviet authorities named the town after Nikolai Schors 1, a Soviet commander during the Civil War 2, and the town still bears this name.] I've never been there, but my father told me that it was a picturesque town on the Snov River. The Jews lived in the center of the town, next to the railway station. They owned small stores and shops. There were shoemakers, tailors, glass- cutters and coppers in town.

My grandfather, Ghil Braverman was born in Snovsk in the 1870s. He owned a hardware store. I don't remember my grandmother's name. She died when she was still young, leaving my grandfather behind with five children. My father was the youngest. He didn't remember his mother very well. Grandfather Ghil was very religious. He was a handsome man with a big beard. He wore a kippah and prayed every day with his tallit and tefillin on. There were religious books at home, the Torah and the Talmud, which my grandfather read. On Saturdays my grandparents went to the synagogue in the center of town. They observed Jewish traditions, followed the kashrut and celebrated Sabbath and Jewish holidays. Around 1915 the family moved to Chernigov where my grandfather bought a house. In 1916 my grandmother died. My grandfather grieved over her a lot. He didn't work like he used to because the Civil War brought pogroms 3 and destitution, so, maybe the family moved to Chernigov for that reason. The older children went to work to support my grandfather and his younger children.

Although my grandfather's family was religious, his children - all five of them, including my father - grew up to become atheists. My father had four sisters: Basia, Fania, Sarra and Eva. They studied with a melamed and finished secondary school afterwards.

Basia and Fania had a tragic life. Both of them and their families perished on the first days of World War II. They were killed by fascists. Basia, born around 1890, was a beautiful and cheerful woman. She married Israel Livshytz, a Jewish man, who was her cousin. Israel was a highly qualified engineer. Basia was a housewife. They lived in Chernigov before the Great Patriotic War 4.

My father's sister Fania, born in 1895, married Iosif Linetski, a military commandant from Kiev. He was also a Jew. They lived in Kiev and had two children, a daughter called Inna and son called Evgeni. Fania's husband Iosif was arrested and executed without any trial or investigation [during the Great Terror] 5. Aunt Fania became mentally ill and was put into mental hospital in Chernigov. Her younger sister Sarra, born in 1900, took her children. She worked as an accountant after finishing a short-term course. Sarra remained single and dedicated her life to raising Fania's children.

My father's youngest sister, Eva, was born in 1913. She finished the Business Faculty at Moscow Aviation College. She married Alexei Yatsun, a Russian man, in Moscow and they lived a happy life together. During the war they worked at the aviation plant in Kuibyshev [Russia]. Eva died in 2000. Her daughter, Lina Ershova, is an economist. She lives and works in Moscow.

My father, Berko Braverman, was born in 1907. In the 1920s he changed his name to Boris, a Russian name [common name] 6. My father studied in cheder and finished two or three years in a Jewish elementary school. After his mother's death, he didn't continue his studies. However, since he was curious and gifted, he read a lot to educate himself. Grandfather Ghil taught him the basics of Yiddish and Hebrew. My father could read the Torah and the Talmud, but he was more interested in fiction. When he turned 12 he became an apprentice to a bookbinder. Of course, he read whatever he could lay his hands on. Later he worked as a shop assistant in a bookstore and became a very skilled expert in book supplies. Like many other young Jewish men my father got very fond of revolutionary ideas and dreamed of building a communist society. He joined the Komsomol 7, read a lot of classical Marxism- Leninism literature and sincerely believed in communist ideas. He joined the Communist Party in 1929. At one of the party meetings my father met my mother, Revekka Ostrovskaya, who had been involved in party activities for a few years.

Before the Revolution of 1917 8 my mother's family lived in the small village of Kalygarka in Kiev region. I don't know anything about this village. My grandfather, Moisey Ostrovski, was born in the 1880s. He was a forest warden. Grandmother Pesia was also born in the 1880s and came from a wealthy merchant's family. Her father, Morduch Fridkin, was a grain dealer. Grandmother Pesia was educated at home like all Jewish girls. She could read and write in Yiddish, knew prayers by heart and was good at housekeeping. She had brothers and sisters, but I only knew one of them: her brother Isaac. I liked to look at his photograph. He was a courageous military man with a red cross on his sleeve. He was photographed when he served in the tsarist army in 1915. He was an assistant doctor. Isaac disappeared during World War I. He must have perished. One of my grandmother's sisters - unfortunately, I don't even know her name - lived in Chernigov and my grandparents often visited her. I only have their family photograph, which was taken during their visit to Chernigov in 1912. They look like wealthy and beautiful people in this photo.

My grandfather's family was very religious. They observed all Jewish traditions. My grandfather had a number of religious books. He prayed every day, wore a kippah at home and a hat when he went out. My grandmother either wore a lace shawl or a wig to cover her head, according to Jewish laws. She told me that the family celebrated Sabbath and followed the kashrut. They had beautiful kosher crockery that my grandmother took out for Pesach. They celebrated all Jewish holidays, fasted on Yom Kippur and taught their children all Jewish traditions.

Their peaceful life ended in 1917 when the Revolution took place and was followed by the Civil War. Gangs 9 attacked their neighborhood and carried out pogroms. My grandfather's family found shelter in Ukrainian families. My grandfather's house was robbed. The bandits broke their beautiful kosher crockery and took away the silver tableware. But this wasn't the most terrible thing that happened. This disaster was a hard blow to my grandfather. He fell very ill and died in 1919 from a broken heart, as they called it in his time, or, from infarction to use a more modern language. I've never been to his grave, but I think he was buried in the Jewish cemetery in Kalygarka and that there was a Jewish funeral. It couldn't have been otherwise back then, particularly in religious Jewish families. My grandmother sold what was left and moved to Chernigov with her four children. She bought a small house. At some point she told herself, 'There's no God', and stopped observing Jewish traditions. She made a single exception for Pesach when she bought matzah and cooked delicious food: gefilte fish, chicken broth, stew and pudding from matzah flour. She didn't have any kosher utensils or crockery, though.

My grandparent's children grew up to become atheists, even though they studied with a melamed and finished Jewish elementary school when they were young.

My mother, the oldest, was born in 1906. After her came Naum, who was two or three years younger. Naum finished Agricultural College and lived his life in Chernigov. He worked for a grain supply company. Naum wasn't liable for military service due to his poor sight. He had a 'white card' [a release from the army]. He was in evacuation with his wife Sima and his daughters Alla and Anna. Naum died in Chernigov in the middle of the 1970s. He was buried in the town cemetery. His daughters and their families moved to Israel in the 1970s. Alla passed away in 2000. Anna and her family live in Haifa.

My mother's next brother, Lyova, was born in 1914. He was a student in a college in Leningrad when the Great Patriotic War began. He joined the Territorial Army and perished in the first days of the defense of Leningrad.

My mother's youngest sister, Genia, was born in 1918. She married a Russian man. My grandmother respected her daughter's feelings and didn't have any objections to this marriage. However, Genia didn't change her last name. To keep the memory of her father she remained Ostrovskaya for the rest of her life. Her husband, Dmitri Nutnikov, perished at the front. Genia, who had a daughter called Svetlana, never remarried. Her daughter died in the early 1990s and Genia and her grandson moved to Israel. They couldn't live together, so Genia, who had her leg amputated, spends the rest of her days in an old people's home.

My mother finished a Jewish elementary school. She could read and write in Russian and Ukrainian, but her mother tongue was Yiddish. She went to work at the stocking factory in 1918. There were many young employees, and work at the factory changed her life. She had her hair cut and joined the group of young people that was fond of revolutionary ideas and the urge to build a new socialist society. My mother joined the Komsomol and became a member of the Communist Party in 1927. She was an active communist and within a few years she went to work in a district party committee where she met my father. They fell in love with one another and got married in 1931. Of course, a Jewish wedding was out of the question. They just had a civil ceremony and no wedding party.

Growing up

I was born on 16th October 1933. My communist parents named me Engelina, after one of the leaders of the world proletariat, Engels 10. They called me Lina at home. When I was to obtain my passport after the war I had the name of Lina written into it. I was born in a very hard year [during the famine in Ukraine] 11. My mother said she was afraid that I might not be born because she never had enough food when she was pregnant with me. However, I was born a small, but healthy girl.

We lived with Grandmother Pesia in a small house in Frunze 12 Street. There were two rooms and a kitchen with a Russian stove 13. There was a chicken house and a shed where the family kept a piglet. It goes without saying that there was no observance of any kosher rules in the family. On Pesach my grandmother cooked food from matzah that she bought at the synagogue. She only went to the synagogue to buy matzah once a year. There was no seder on Pesach, just a family gathering for dinner. There were no kosher dishes and my grandmother always recalled her beautiful kosher crockery that she had before the Civil War. There was horseradish, radish, chicken broth with 'galka' dumplings made from matzah flour. The house was thoroughly cleaned before Pesach. Clean curtains were hung up and the table was covered with a starched tablecloth. My grandmother said that one had to prepare for Pesach as one would for 1st May, but nobody told me what Pesach was really about. As for the other Jewish holidays, I didn't even hear about them.

My parents had many friends that visited us on 1st May and on October Revolution Day 14. They brought food and my grandmother did all the cooking. My parents also bought wine and lemonade that I liked tremendously. The adults partied and sang songs: Russian, Ukrainian and Jewish, and danced to songs on the radio. My grandmother mainly spoke Yiddish, but she also knew Ukrainian. My parents spoke Russian, but switched to Yiddish when they didn't want me to understand the subject of their discussion. However, my father often responded in Russian since he had forgotten much of his Yiddish. By that time he communicated in Russian for the most part. He read in Russian a lot and spoke Russian with his colleagues. Russian was the common language of communication.

My family was poor. We had simple furniture: a table, chairs, a wardrobe, nickel-plated beds and a worn-out sofa on which my grandmother slept. My mother was very proud of a big desk where my father often worked in the evening. My parents put sweets that my grandfather Ghil gave me into the drawers to have them last longer. My mother worked as a party secretary in a kindergarten and at school, but she wore casual clothes. She had one or two worn-out calico dresses and a fancy dark blue suit for all festive occasions. Her friends also had poor clothes. Modesty and poverty was almost the standard of a party official's life.

I don't remember 1937 when the arrests began. Many party officials and common citizens were arrested and executed or perished in Stalin's camps. My mother told me in the 1950s that my father, who was working in the scientific sector of the town party committee, was fired and expelled from the Party in 1937. Fortunately, they didn't go any further than expel him. My father went to work in a bookstore. He didn't even apply to have his party membership restored. I believe he got disappointed with the party ideals.

I went to kindergarten at the age of five. I didn't like kindergarten, especially because my grandmother was at home and I wanted to be with her. However, my mother insisted that I grew up with other children. Once I left the kindergarten and got lost. A militiaman stopped me and I told him my address and said that my last name was Oborvan [Russian for ragamuffin]. I was jokingly called so at home and must have associated this name with our last name, Braverman. The militiaman brought me home. My parents told me off and sent me to kindergarten again on the next day.

I had many friends that were all my neighbors. We all simply adored my father, who spent much time with us, children. He told us many interesting things about the Earth, the Moon, nature and its fauna. He also read books by children's authors to us. I remember a great party that my father arranged in our yard on New Year's Eve 1939. He put up a huge fur tree in the center of the yard and made a small playhouse for children underneath it. He also created ice slides. We celebrated New Year's in the yard, while the adults had a New Year's party in our apartment. They enjoyed themselves as much as usual.

My brother Edik was born in 1939. And, this was a kind of life we had before the war: we enjoyed ourselves and hoped for a better future. World War II put an end to our dreams.

During the war

We heard about the war on 22nd June 1941 at noon, when Molotov 15 spoke on the radio. On the following day my father received a call- up from the military office. He joined the army on 26th June. There was panic in town. People were buying off food, matches, salt and soap. My mother was at a loss, not knowing whether we should stay in Chernigov or leave. In late July Boris, our Jewish neighbor, came to see us. He tried to convince my grandmother to evacuate. He told her to go with her grandchildren since my mother, being a party official, had to stay in town as long as possible. He told my grandmother to pack everything we needed since we were leaving for good. I remember how scared I felt listening to him because my mother and grandmother repeated what they had heard on the radio or read in the newspapers: that the war was to be over soon. My grandmother packed two bags with clothes, cereals, books, toys and crockery.

My mother came from work and said there was a truck leaving from the party committee and we had to catch it. She was in such a hurry that she even forgot the only valuable thing that we had at home. That was my father's watch, which we left in the wardrobe. We also had leftover food that we packed: we only found a loaf of bread and some marmalade in one bag. The truck drove to our house. There was grandfather Ghil, my father's sister Basia and her children Betia and Felix, my mother's sister Genia and her daughter Svetlana. Genia's husband was at the front while Basia's husband stayed in town. He had to evacuate with his plant. He perished during an air raid on his way to evacuation. The mental hospital, in which my father's sister Fania was staying, failed to evacuate. The fascists shot its patients and personnel on the first days of the occupation of Chernigov. Fania's children Inna and Evgeni and my father's third sister, Sarra, were also with us.

We left in late August 1941 when Chernigov was bombed and many houses were on fire. The driver was in a hurry and actually threw us onto the truck. On the way to the railway station the truck stopped several times to pick up women with children. At the railway station we boarded a train for cattle transportation. Our trip lasted about ten days. We were hungry. My mother gave us a marmalade candy and a small piece of bread. At bigger stations the train stopped and my mother and her sisters went to get some hot water. Sometimes they brought some soup or warm cereals that were provided to passengers of the train. We finally arrived at a kolkhoz 16 in Stalingrad region, 1,000 kilometers from home. I don't remember its name, but I remember how friendly the collective farmers were. We were accommodated in the house of a very hospitable woman. My mother and her sisters went to work at the kolkhoz. This was the harvest season and there were big crops. We, children, went to the bank of the Volga where we played with local children. The adults came from work late and were exhausted after a hard working day. We slept on mattresses on the floor. However, we could have plenty of vegetables, fruit, bread and cereals that the kolkhoz provided. We stayed there for two or three months. When it became clear that the war was going to last longer we decided to go farther east. We were afraid that fascist troops would soon arrive where we were staying.

We got on a train. We were on our way for two or three months. The train often stopped, we changed trains and often spent a few days at different stations. We were starving. We ran out of food and didn't have anything to exchange for food. My brother was crying from hunger, but I kept silent. We arrived at Sovkhozchi Papskiy kolkhoz, in Namangan region in Uzbekistan [3,200 km from Chernigov]. We suffered from cold and hunger. It was winter. We were accommodated in a clay wall hut. There was no work. This kolkhoz grew cotton and in winter there was no work to do. Shortly after we arrived, my aunt Basia drank water from an aryk [an artificial water canal]. She contracted typhoid and died. Her children, Felix and Betia, stayed with us for some time and then they left for Kuibyshev to stay with my father's sister Eva. Felix lives in Ufa now and Betia in Gomel. They have no children, probably because their parents were cousins. They send me greetings on my birthday and on New Year's.

Grandfather Ghil got ill. He missed his older daughter Basia very much. He was also worried about my father, who was at the front. We had no information about him. Grandfather Ghil died about two months after Basia passed away. As for us, I cannot understand how we survived this horrific winter. I can still see a shelf high up on the wall with nice-looking flat cookies on it. We, children, weren't allowed to eat them since they were made of very low quality millet and we could have fallen ill from them. Adults chewed on them and we, kids, only looked at them on that shelf. My grandmother added a small cup of flour to boiling water in a huge bowl to make food for us - it was called 'zatirukha'. In spring the situation improved a little. I picked goosefoot grass - I still hate it - to make soup. Aunt Sarra left for Kuibyshev with Fania's children Inna and Evgeni. Life was easier there since they worked at the aviation plant and received food packages. Sarra, Inna and Felix stayed in Kuibyshev after the war. In early 1960 we took Sarra to live with us in Chernigov. Sarra died in 1967. Inna has also passed away by now. Evgeni and his family live in Kiev.

In spring we moved to Gulbach, a settlement in Papskiy district, where we got a plot of land. We tried to grow vegetables there. Cabbage and potatoes didn't grow in this area. Local residents grew wheat or barley. Aunt Genia planted rice, but it didn't grow because there wasn't enough water. My cousin and I picked mulberries from a tree near an aryk. Uzbeks suspected that we were stealing water, which was as precious as gold. One of them ran after my cousin and me with a whip and threatened that he would kill us if he saw us again. We grew millet that summer and were happy to have it. I went to pick brushwood in the fields. I made huge bundles of it and dragged them home. We grew corn and roasted it on the fire: this was incredibly delicious. I also went to gather salt at a swamp with adults. It had a bitter taste and we had to wash it many times before we could use it. I had numerous wounds on my legs that didn't heal from standing in salty water.

I went to primary school in Gulbach in fall 1942. I went to the Russian class. Our teacher had evacuated from Chernigov. I had excellent marks in all subjects. When we had tests, children from wealthier families sat next to me to copy what I was writing. They offered me food for giving them permission to copy the tests, but I was too proud to accept it. I was rather ashamed of our poverty. I had a friend called Tamara. I helped her to do her homework at her place. Her mother knew that we were starving and always offered me some food or just a glass of milk, but I never accepted anything from her and said that I wasn't hungry.

My mother first worked as a guard in Gulbach. She watched over cotton piles. Later she began to work at the accounting office of the sovkhoz. She had meals at the canteen. She brought us soup with horsemeat that we liked. We received bread per coupons. The woman that handed out the bread felt very sympathetic with us. She gave my mother work to do: she had to put together all bread coupons for reporting purposes. My mother and I did this work at night and the woman gave us half a loaf of bread for it. My mother cut the bread into equal, small pieces to give it to the children. She cut a slice for herself, kissed it and gave it to me saying, 'Give it to Edik because he is the youngest of us'. My mother was always hungry, but she couldn't afford to even eat a small piece of bread.

Grandmother Pesia got ill in spring 1943. She was severely ill for a long time. My mother cried and said that my grandmother was going to die. When my brother and I came to say farewell to our grandmother she said, 'You've come too early to my funeral. Go away, I shall live longer'. She died on the following day. I didn't attend my grandfather or my grandmother's funeral, but I know that they were both buried in accordance with Jewish tradition and wrapped in a shroud. Some older Jewish men recited the Kaddish over my grandmother's grave.

I missed my father, my town, my home and my friends when we were in evacuation. I dreamed of a Ukrainian winter with snow. One morning I looked out of the window and saw something white. Being half asleep I decided it must be snow and ran outside, but it was only a big goose egg. Every day I ran outside to see the postman. We, kids, ran after him and were afraid to receive a death notification from him, but hoped to get a 'triangle' [letter] from the front. In summer 1943 the postman gave me a letter from my father. I ran to our house, yelling, 'Father is alive!'. We were happy and sent my father a long letter and photographs. He sent us a parcel with some clothes and soap that my mother exchanged for butter at the market. We put it on our gums to fight scurvy.

We stayed in the settlement until the end of the war. I remember 9th May 1945, Victory Day 17. All people ran into the streets, kissing, crying and hugging each other. My father came to take us home shortly after the victory. He was still in the army. He was a writing clerk in a tank brigade. He went as far as Moscow with us and from there he returned to his unit. We returned to Chernigov. Aunt Genia's husband's relatives lived there and we temporarily moved in with them. We slept on the floor, but after all we had gone through in evacuation we were immune to hardships.

After the war

Our house was ruined. My father demobilized and we rented a 10- square meter room where we lived with Aunt Genia, whose husband perished at the front, and her daughter. My father went back to work at the bookstore and my mother became a secretary of the party organization in a hospital. I went to the 4th grade at school. I studied well and was an active pioneer and Komsomol member. I attended all kinds of clubs at school: singing, dancing, drawing, and poem clubs. I studied at a school for girls. There were girls of various nationalities at school. I didn't face any anti-Semitism at school, although I saw more than just one abusive graffiti reading 'zhyd' [kike] on the walls and doors. Life was hard after the war. There was another period of famine.

In 1948, during the anti-Semitic state campaign against 'cosmopolitans' 18, my father was accused of theft, arrested and imprisoned. Life became even more difficult. My mother made cereals or boiled potatoes and took some food to my father in prison. She kept crying, knowing that he would share this food, which was so hard to get, with other inmates of his cell. My father was released in 1950. He never spoke about his time in prison. It seemed that he had forgotten about it and lived his life as if it had never happened. Perhaps, he had some discussions with my mother, but it never happened in my presence. I didn't dare to ask him about something that must have been painful for him to recall.

My father couldn't get a job because nobody wanted to employ an ex- prisoner, so he went to Ternopol where he got occasional jobs. He returned to Chernigov some time before I finished school in 1952. My father resumed his job in the bookstore, but he was fired again. Then he got employed again. This happened a few times. They didn't explain why they were firing him, but it was clear that they did it because he was a Jew. They employed him when they couldn't do without him and then they fired him again. This went on until 1956. Afterwards my father worked with a bookselling company until he retired. My mother worked as the director of a nursery school, then she worked in a hospital and in a scientific research institute. She held administrative positions and was always a secretary of party organizations.

I faced anti-Semitism in 1952 when I tried to enter college. I passed my exams to Leningrad Medical College. I had an interview after passing my entrance exams. I noticed that Russian and Ukrainian applicants were admitted to the college while Jewish applicants - there were 14 of us - were told to come for an interview on the following day. We were so upset that one young Jewish man said that if he wasn't admitted; he would write to the United Nations Organization. It must have had its effect because this young man was admitted. The others weren't even allowed to have an interview. I entered Leningrad Communication College instead. I got accommodation in a hostel. I shared a room with three other students. We got along well and helped each other. I studied well. Then the Doctors' Plot 19 began and my co-students stayed away from me as if I had something to do with it. Stalin died in 1953 and I grieved after him. I didn't cry, but I was afraid of what was ahead of us and what we were going to do after the 'father of the people' had died.

After finishing college I got a mandatory job assignment 20 to the telephone company in Chernigov. I was to work as a telephone operator there. I loved coming back to my parents' home. Every now and then guys from the military unit in town called to chat at night in order to stay awake. Once I got an interesting call from a soldier. He began to talk about new books, music and ballet to me. We talked for a while. When I worked the night shift next time he called again. He called every time when I was on night shift and we talked for hours. A month later he arranged a date with me. We met. He was a Tatar and his name was Shamil Mukhamedjanov. He was born in 1931. He was on military service in Chernigov. I liked him at once. I took Shamil to my home. He was polite and reserved. My parents liked him and didn't mind that he wasn't a Jew. When his service was over Shamil left for home. He wrote letters for two years, proposed to me and waited for my consent. I agreed to marry him. We had our wedding in Chernigov in 1957 and left for Guriev in Kazakhstan where Shamil's family lived. My mother-in-law was skeptical about me. A few years later she told me that she hadn't given Shamil her consent to marry me for a long time because I was of different origin. She was afraid that I would ridicule their customs and religion. She didn't care about my Jewish origin in particular - all she wanted was for Shamil to marry a Tatar girl.

My husband's family was religious. They were Muslims. My mother-in- law and Shamil's brothers weren't fanatically religious, but they prayed with their heads facing east. They read the Koran. It was very important to them to respect old people. They didn't work on religious holidays. They didn't eat pork. I didn't see other demonstrations of their religiosity. Frankly speaking, I never gave it much thought. My husband and I had our own life. Shamil told his mother that he wouldn't marry at all if he couldn't marry me. He was the oldest son and, according to Islamic law, the others could only get married after he was. My mother-in-law had to give in. She never regretted it and liked me a lot. I also treated their family nicely. Guriev was a small provincial town with pise-walled houses and small vegetable gardens near the huts. People were friendly and there were no nationality conflicts. Many Russians came to work in the town. New houses and educational institutions were being built. There was a mosque in the center of town where older people gathered on religious holidays. Younger people weren't religious and didn't observe any religious traditions.

I worked at the telephone station for some time. Shamil was a geologist and manager of a geological survey group. We rarely saw each other. Shamil only stayed at home in winter. Our daughter Natasha was born in 1958. She was a very sickly girl. The doctor said that she was having problems living in the continental climate of Middle Asia and that I should rather take her to my hometown. We took Natasha to Chernigov and she stayed with my parents. My mother worked, so we hired a baby-sitter for Natasha. My husband and I returned to Kazakhstan.

When we returned I joined Shamil's geological group and began to work as a time-keeping accountant there. I still enjoy recalling those years - they were probably the best years of my life. This geological group searched for oil. We were following seismic and mapping specialists to carry out the initial survey and the group following us did the in-depth survey. Everything was new and interesting to me. We lived in tents and cooked food on the fire place. We drank water from springs and lakes, baked bread and sang songs sitting by the fire at night. Shamil and I were very much in love. I never complained about anything. I felt good to be where he was.

We received a two-bedroom apartment in 1963. When Natasha was to go to the 1st grade at school my mother brought her to Kazakhstan. She waited until we returned from our expedition. She brought Natasha to school and took good care of her. We returned in October or November. My mother went back to Chernigov and Natasha stayed with us throughout the winter. In March my mother came to take Natasha to Chernigov with her. Of course, this was difficult for my mother. She was aging, but she was happy for us. Besides, Shamil and I earned well and sent her some money.

My brother Edik finished secondary school with honors. He worked as a locksmith and then he finished Leningrad Technological College. When he was in his last year he married a Russian girl from Leningrad. Edik visited us in 1965. Upon graduation he got a job assignment in Vilnius and a room in a hostel, but his wife didn't want to leave Leningrad, her hometown. Edik told me that he decided that he couldn't go on living with her. She wasn't his friend, he realized. He believed that a family had to be a close union, like Shamil and I, based on love and understanding. Then my brother married Sonia, a Jewish woman from Chernigov. This marriage failed as well. I think he might have compared his marriages with me and my husband's and believed us to be the ideal family. Edik and Sonia have a daughter. Her name is Evgenia. She lives in Moscow. Edik lives in Moscow with his third wife Valentina now. They have a daughter, whose name is Elena. She studies in college and works.

I worked in expeditions for eleven and a half years and lived in Kazakhstan for 20 years. In 1965 I began to feel ill and my doctors recommended me to change the climatic zone. Shamil was transitioned to Chernigov and we returned to my hometown. We lived with my parents until we received an apartment. We worked together in a geological expedition. We were wealthy, had a car, traveled a lot all over the Soviet Union - the Baltic Republics, Subcarpathia 21 and the Far East - and spent vacations in the Crimea and Caucasus.

Everything was fine until Shamil suddenly fell ill in 1975. He had fever and swollen lymph nodes. He had terminal cancer. Shamil convinced the doctors to operate on him. After the surgery my husband lived two more years. He died in 1977 at the age of 46. I've lived alone since then. I believe there's no second man like him in this world.

My parents liked Shamil very much and grieved for him with me. We exchanged our two apartments for one to live together. My mother died in 1983. My father passed away in 1994. My parents were buried in the town cemetery, not in accordance with Jewish traditions. Their friends and acquaintances came to their funerals with flowers. They said speeches honoring my parents' memory.

In the 1970s many of my acquaintances moved to Israel, but I never considered emigration myself. I've always liked it here and I've had a good life. I never imagined living in a different country where people speak a different language. My husband is buried here. I have my friends here. I can't imagine life in a foreign country with different people and customs. I've always felt good about Israel though, and I wish this country prosperity and happiness.

My daughter graduated from the Faculty of Roman and German Philology at Simferopol University. She was a success with her studies. She knows Spanish, French and Italian. When she was a student Natasha married Victor Shulgin, a Russian man. Victor finished his postgraduate studies. Natasha stopped studying after they got children. Natasha thinks she is a metropolitan. She works at the university library. Her husband is chief of department at the university. They are a happy family and their children grow up in a loving and caring atmosphere. I have two grandchildren: Victor, born in 1982, and Alexandr, born in 1984. They both study at Simferopol University. The older one is a programmer, one of the best of the university, and the younger one is a mathematician. Natasha, her husband and her children often visit me in Chernigov. They support me materially and morally.

I was neither enthusiastic nor hostile about perestroika 22 in the 1980s. I've never cared about politics. Neither my husband nor I were members of the Soviet Communist Party. We never wanted to be. We had a good life and enjoyed our family life. Now I understand that it's good for Ukraine to be independent. Jewish life has revived and people have an opportunity to travel and run their own business.

I have many friends in Chernigov. I've never observed any Jewish traditions or celebrated holidays, but I've become a member of the Jewish cultural community. We celebrate Sabbath and learn prayers. On holidays Rabbi Yakov Muzykant comes to see us. Of course, I haven't become religious. I was raised by atheists at a time when religion was rejected. However, I like it that Jewish life is returning. I like to learn about Jewish traditions and holidays, which we celebrate in Hesed. I've always identified myself as Jew. Nationality has never been of major significance to me. Every nation has its scoundrels. I value personal qualities like kindness, honesty, and the capability to love and forgive. Now I've come to be interested in the history and life of my people. I'm interested in our traditions. There was no Jewish literature published in the former Soviet Union and there were no public Jewish organizations. I'm glad that we have an opportunity to return to our roots now.

Although my husband joined a better world so early, I feel happy. I lived a wonderful life with a loving and beloved husband and that's rare. Nationality doesn't matter as long as people love each other.

Glossary:

Elza Rizova
Sofia
Bulgaria
Interviewer: Maiya Nikolova

I remember my grand-grandmother. She was a very beautiful, big woman who
wore a nice bonnet. She lived with her younger daughter, who looked after
her. She was disabled. She herself wasn't well-to-do, but her sons
supported her; they took care so that she could live in luxury. I remember
she used to draw small surprises like sweets and fruits out of her pocket
every time I visited her. There was always something in her pocket for me.

My grandfather Samuel Baruh was a hazan. He maintained the temple in the
town of Vidin. His whole family was very religious; so was my mother. My
grandfather used to wear something like a dress coat, black clothing and an
ordinary black hat. He dressed very well at those times.

There was a water pump in their house and the whole neighborhood used the
pump because the water was sweet. They had a wonderful yard with marvelous
quince trees. The house was old but very well-kept. They had some hens and
a dog. They didn't have any domestic help for the garden and the household.
Their younger daughter looked after them till the end of their lives. They
were a model family for the whole town. My grandfather was strongly
religious, but he didn't have any political views. He was a modest person;
he didn't take part in the town's political life.

We used to play in the temple's yard. My other grandfather, Alfred Aladjem,
was a more-modern person. He used to stand on the stairs in front of the
temple and threw sweets to the children. I was the youngest, and I could
never reach for the sweets. He would watch to see who had taken a sweet and
who hadn't, and the next time he would throw it so high that it would fall
right beside me. And the elder children would scuffle for the sweets, but
he would throw it to me again.

He had a talent for medicine. He was sort of a medicine man - he fixed
broken legs, hands, and he also treated ailments with herbs. Once a cart
arrived with a child, wrapped up in a rag. The child was half-dead. My
grandfather saw that she hadn't eaten for a couple of days. Little by
little, my grandfather fed her with a teaspoon. She fell asleep and,
perhaps, in an hour or two she said she was very hungry, and my mother
prepared a big slice of buttered bread for her. She ate it and it seemed
that her temperature had fallen. That is how the child recovered and her
family returned to their village. After a few days, her father brought two
white chickens. He wanted to feed us in return, showing his gratitude in
this way. My grandfather treated not only broken bones, but used herbs to
treat venereal diseases. He was very popular in the town.

I don't remember my grandmother on my father's side. She wasn't alive when
I was born. On my mother's side, my grandmother, Vida Baruh, was a very
clever woman. She loved to knit and embroider. There was a wooden bench in
front of their house and she used to sit there, sewing, knitting and
embroidering.

My grandfathers both took part in the Russian-Turkish War for the
liberation of Bulgaria. My father was born at that time.

My best memories are from my hometown. It is still in my heart and many
times my husband and I have been to Vidin, we have traveled with the
steamboat to Lom and Rousse, and back to Sofia. When I was a child, Vidin
had a European look, because of the river and the harbor, and because of
the customs, as well. It was a large frontier town. All foreigners used to
stop there before they began traveling around Bulgaria. It is a lovely
town. Its garden is magnificent. The Baba Vida's towers are also well-
preserved. All the time, they maintain them, so they won't collapse. And
the Jewish synagogue has the sound of an opera; the acoustics are opera-
like.

The Jews in Vidin used to live in Kaleto; it was a famous Jewish quarter.
There was a cinema hall in Kaleto. There were always dances there. There
was only one synagogue, but there was a Jewish community with
administrative officials and a chairman of the consistory. I remember they
did circumcisions on the boys as well as celebrations of the 13th year - a
very special birthday party in the temple in the presence of almost the
whole community. And it was very beautiful. They put the tallit on them and
they gave them the Ten Commandments to carry around the temple.

There wasn't any anti-Semitism in Vidin, even in deportation times; we felt
no difference at all in the attitude. The military band used to pass
through the town and we ran after it. And in the center, there was a
monument for the soldiers who perished in the war. The band was escorted to
that monument, both by the children and the adults. I remember it very
clearly, yet I don't remember any patriotic songs.

Friday was the market day and all the people from the villages around Vidin
came to sell their products. My mother used to buy large baskets with
cherries, apples, etc. I remember very well the cherries because after she
had given the basket back to the man who was helping her, she would spread
a rag in a very cool room. Then she would raise part of the carpet and
spread the cherries over that rag, so that they wouldn't rot.

My father, Mosko Aladjem, wasn't strict. He was a very good man. He has
never hit me; neither my brothers nor sisters ever were punished. He wasn't
very religious. He kept the official holidays from time to time. He visited
the synagogue and used to wear a silk tallit, a very sheer one.

My father was a radical in his political affiliations. He traveled to Sofia
quite often and here, in Sofia, a minister named Kostourkov met him.
Recently I was at a neighbor's place. I saw the minister's portrait there
and I was introduced to his daughter. This happened after all these years.

My father was elected deputy mayor of the town, and for several years he
was in that position. I remember that when they wanted to oust him, they
broke all the windows of our house and my father left a notice: "Please, my
children would get ill. I want my windows repaired." And in two days a
workman came and fixed the windows without a single coin paid by my
parents. My mother covered the windows with rags and quilts because it was
winter and we were very young.

My mother, Buka Aladjem, spoke Ladino. She used to speak in Ladino to us,
but we always answered in Bulgarian. My father didn't allow us to speak
Ladino at home. He was a politician and wanted his children to keep abreast
of the times. I have no memory of my parents talking about where they have
come from. I know that at those times his education was of average level.
He was a certified public accountant. I don't know what it means but I know
they asked him very often to the court for consultations.

My father spoke Hebrew, and so did my grandfathers and my mother. They all
graduated from the Jewish school. My parents met in a very interesting way.
He liked her. She had been very beautiful girl, and a friend of theirs
would advise him not to fish for that girl because they wouldn't let her
marry him. But he popped the question. She must have liked him. Until the
end of her life she was very neat and elegant. She sewed. She often said
humorously that she didn't need an education, because she knew the
centimeter well. And from the oldest dress she would make me the most
beautiful one. They always bought me patent leather shoes, because I
couldn't use the ones that had belonged to my elder sisters.

In my father's house, we didn't have water pump, and we took water from a
neighboring house. When my father became deputy mayor, they placed a pump
and an electric lamp in front of our house. The day after he was overthrown
from the town council, they removed the pump. The fact that a Jew had
become a deputy mayor was a great success.

Our house was a very old, small house, although it had four rooms. It
wasn't made of brick, but built of adobe. We had a really very nice yard
where my siblings and I actually spent our childhood. My mother was a
housewife, and she had never worked in her life. She was the one who took
of the cooking, shopping, cleaning and any kind of domestic work. We didn't
have any servants.

My grandparents and my parents associated with the town's elite. My father
kept company with Bulgarians. He met with them often. We lived in a Turkish
neighborhood. Next to us lived the director of a bank in Vidin. He had two
children I used to play with. His wife had trained in the food-processing
industry in Germany. They were very intelligent people.

My parents always got together with their relatives. Men used to visit each
other during the holidays. And the women with their handiwork - my mother
would take her knitting and go, for example, to one of my father's sisters.

My father was an administrative secretary of the Jewish community. We kept
all the Jewish holidays. Special cooking was done for each holiday; the
proper kind of sweetmeats was prepared. We weren't very rich, but we had
enough.

We observed Shabbat very strictly, and every Friday evening we went to the
synagogue. My mother was a hazan's daughter; she was strongly religious and
she particularly insisted on that. My father was a worldly person, but in
spite of his modern views, he regularly attended the synagogue on Friday.

We absolutely kept the Friday meal. We ate vegetable soup and meat-filled
peppers. At Pesach, we had boios. On the first night, we used to gather at
my grandfather's, the hazan, and sing very beautiful and inspiring songs.
We made Kiddush at home, although my father didn't drink alcohol at all.

We celebrated the new year. As she was a rabbi's daughter, my mother used
to keep holidays such as Yom Kippur and she insisted on her family keeping
them, too. We were supposed to fast on that holiday as long as we could,
even if it was for several hours only. Even now, not for the whole day, for
several hours only, I still keep it. The bar mitzvah of my eldest brother
was like a wedding, but they didn't do one for Asher. He used to say that
he hadn't celebrated that day, therefore he couldn't grow up. That was his
usual excuse when he got a poor mark at school.

All my brothers and my sisters attended the Jewish school until the fourth
class. At the age of 12, they sent my brother Alfred to Germany to an art
school. After graduating, he continued with the academy. He had a
girlfriend who was a musician. His voice was a beautiful tenor. She
strongly insisted, so he graduated from the conservatory as well.
Unfortunately, at those times a Jew could not perform at the opera. He
didn't have the right. My brother often had concerts here and there, yet he
never became a real opera artist.

My brother Asher graduated from a high school in the evening class. My
sister graduated from an economics school. She worked for the government,
as did my brother. He was chief of personnel in the geological research
department.

I attended the Bulgarian school "Naicho Tsanov." My teacher was Zora Neeva.
She was one of the best teachers; she was a radical, with the same
political affiliations as my father, and they were friends. She was a
spinster; she never married. She taught general subjects. There weren't any
anti-Semitic acts from teachers or students. I've never taken private
lessons; my father was cultured enough to help his children. I graduated
from a Bulgarian school. It was quite common in the past to study first at
a Jewish school, and after that, the secondary and the higher education in
Bulgarian schools. I personally haven't studied Hebrew or religion, but my
siblings have. My parents didn't teach me anything special in the religious
sense.

It wasn't easy during the Holocaust; it was almost devastating. First of
all, we didn't have the material base to provide our living without being
permitted to work. My brothers were in the forced labor camps. I was only
19 and my sister was 21, and we had to work. A friend of my father, Atanas
Minkov, a famous lawyer in Vidin, found us jobs. It was very hard physical
labor in a brickyard. The director respected us, helped us. There was quite
a distance between Vidin and the brickyard. He would pass in a cabriolet,
pick us up on his route and drop us right before the brickyard so that they
wouldn't see him and blame him for supporting Jews. I will never forget
him. His name was Zdravkov.

We weren't allowed to go out in the street. We had a curfew. At that time
we lived on Timok Street, and our landlord was a military officer. I can
hardly explain how big his heart was and how good he was. He helped us in
every way. We couldn't buy bread, because as soon as we went out during the
hours permitted, there was no longer any bread. He supplied us with bread.
And when they were about to intern us from Vidin, my mother made for each
one of her children a small dowry. In those times, you were supposed to put
something aside for the time of your marriage. She arranged all these
things in a chest, listed them and left everything with that Bulgarian
officer, along with her jewels. Later on, he became a minister
plenipotentiary in Czechoslovakia or in Poland. He was a very intelligent
man. He had studied in Turkey. His name was Vladimir Panov. He did us a
really very big favor. Bulgarians weren't bad people, not at all.

My father was moved from Vidin to work in the Sofia municipality. In the
years of the Holocaust, we were sent to Pleven first. But that lawyer,
Minkov, came from Vidin to Sofia. My mother told him that they were
interning us in Pleven and he came here, in the Jewish commissariat and
arranged for us to go back to Vidin. It was because my father was a famous
person and he had a lot of friends who helped my mother and us survive,
otherwise we couldn't have made it. The internment - I think it lasted for
2 years - ended when the war was over.

During the internment, I came to Sofia wearing a badge. My colleagues from
the "Rila" factory invited me to come to a celebration and they paid my
travel expenses. I didn't have any money. I was allowed to come for one
evening to Sofia and return within 24 hours. A colleague invited me to
sleep at her place. I objected that her husband was a cop. In the end, in
spite of the fact that he was a cop, he walked me to the station next
evening. He bought me a ticket and entrusted me to a man he knew and I
traveled in safety.

When we came home after the end of the war, we didn't find anything - not a
single spoon, not a single fork. We didn't have a knife. My brother found
one. Some very poor people had moved into the house we used to live in.
They had cut even the wardrobes to use as firewood in the stove. Those were
three most beautiful wardrobes; they were made of walnut. I used to look at
my reflection in the doors of the wardrobes when I passed by. Everything
was ruined, the whole house. People thought that we wouldn't return and let
such poor people in our house. We couldn't go back, and my brother found us
another house.

When I returned to work after internment, it was as though someone from
high society had entered the factory. Almost the whole weaving workshop
came out to greet me. It was like a celebration. I felt almost like a
queen. During the internment, my colleagues supported me all the time in
every possible way, by constantly sending me parcels, money.

Since the end of the war, I worked as a weaver. I never had any problems
because I am a Jew. I have always been well accepted both by the Bulgarians
and the Jews at work, the Bulgarian silk factory. After the war, I returned
to the same work in production, only not in the weaving shop but in the
dyer's department.

We stayed in Bulgaria because my mother didn't want to leave my father's
grave. My elder sister and my brother left. Meanwhile, I married a
Bulgarian, Anani Rizov. We first met in a very odd way. There was a tram in
Poduene, a quarter in Sofia. One was coming up the hill, and the other was
coming down. There on the crossroad we met - my husband waved his hand from
his tram. When I came back from deportation, he had become a chief of a
department in the factory. We married on January 18, 1946, and we have
lived together for 52 years. I had a very good life and a happy marriage.
We helped our children study and buy houses. They both have apartments. We
also bought a house.

My father-in-law was an old communist from 1923. His views were more
modern. But my mother-in-law wanted me to convert to Christianity. He
jumped to his feet from the chair and told her not to interfere in our
private family matters. We never spoke again of converting to Christianity.

We were all members of the Bulgarian Socialist Party; at that time, of the
Bulgarian Communist Party. We didn't share our fathers' political
affiliations. We had our own beliefs. I am still a member of the party.

We didn't keep the Jewish traditions at our home. We celebrated Christmas
and Easter, the Bulgarian holidays. Now, at 80, I bought a cookbook with
Jewish recipes. It is now that I showed such interest. Once my husband got
ill with a very high temperature, and I didn't know even how to prepare
soup for him. I had no idea at all, because I went to work and I wasn't
interested in the household tasks. So I asked my elder sister to come and
cook something for him because I couldn't leave him hungry at home. She
came and she forced me to do it myself, while she stood next to me. Since
then, I have learned to cook.

My daughter, Sonia Doneva, was born on October 13, 1946. She graduated from
the Machine and Electrotechnical University, textile engineering - her
father's profession. She is interested in any information concerning Jewry;
she has Jewish friends and constantly keeps in touch with them. My son,
Georgi Rizov, is less involved in these things. He was born on November 8,
1955. He is a military doctor and doesn't have relationships with Jews to
such a great extent. He does with the relatives - with my nephews, my
sister's children.

I have been a member of "Shalom" organization for many years, but since the
Jewish organization began. I attend the "Health" club together with elderly
Jewish women. I also participate in the "Elderly" club. My circle of
friends is not only Jewish. I have friends here in the neighborhood. We sit
on a bench every afternoon, we share things and we are inseparable.

I visited Israel twice before 1989, before the fall of the Berlin Wall. The
first time was in1958. There was a war. It was very frightening. The
second trip to Israel was in 1988. My nephew paid for my ticket. I
resembled his mother, and he wanted to see me. He had emigrated when he was
very young and we didn't keep in touch. My brother and my sister also got
tickets. I was there for 3 months.

It was good that the Berlin Wall fell. It was good that roads were open so
that people could travel and live a different life - not only in Bulgaria.
People have the opportunity to study abroad, to move, to change their
lives.

Democracy did not bring very many good turns. My son-in-law, for example -
Sonia's husband -has been unemployed for four years, and he is a man with
two higher education specialties. He has graduated in "internal-combustion
engines" and from the Economics University in Moscow, but he couldn't use
his education. This fills me with indignation - that there are so many
unemployed people. It is true that we have lived in a more modest manner,
with very small salaries, yet we were able to see our children through
their studies and to build a home. We had small salaries to live on;
probably life was cheaper. Now life is very expensive and, with that poor
pension I have, I couldn't make it if it were not for my children. They are
not obliged to help me.

I don't see any difference between the Jews before and after the war. They
have always supported each other. This exists initially in the commitments
of Moses to help each other, both materially and spiritually.

David Elazarov
Sofia
Bulgaria
Interviewer: Vassil Vidinsky
Date of interview: April 2003

[David used and is well-known under the family name Elazar, although in his official documents such as his passport and identity card the obligatory suffix -ov is added. The uniform ending of the names of all Bulgarian citizens was adopted in the 1960s. In all other publications he signs as David Elazar.]

David Solomonov Elazarov lives in the central part of Sofia. He is 83 years old. Although he looks very good, even physically strong, his memory is sometimes already fading away. Since his wife died, he has been living alone and his sons have been looking after him. When the weather is nice, he goes outside. Sometimes he visits his sister Dora. During the rest of the time he reads newspapers and books on politics, watches television. He is interested in contemporary politics and is well informed of the changes in the world.

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

My family background

My ancestors came from Turkey. Not only because the Ottoman Empire ruled over the lands between Egypt and Hungary for many years, but also because my mother was born in Turkey at the end of the 19th century. If I go even further back in time, my ancestors came from Spain. This happened around 500 years ago. All those years they lived in the Ottoman Empire, preserving their language and traditions. They worked mainly as craftsmen and merchants, like most Jews.

I hardly remember my paternal grandparents. My grandfather's name was David Solomon Elazar. I know nothing else about him. It is unfortunate that he is not on any of the photos I have. My grandmother, Rozalia Elazar, died in 1932 in Sofia, shortly after the death of her son Solomon, my father. She was religious and always observed Sabbath. But I don't remember her much. I only remember one phenomenon about her - she lived until she was 90 years old and her hair remained black all the time! It was incredible - it is nice that we have photos showing that her hair is really black despite her age.

My father's name was Solomon David Elazar. He was born in 1880 in Kjustendil. He had secondary education. In the Balkan War [see First Balkan War] 1 and in the Inter-Allied War [see Second Balkan War] 2 my father fought as a supply officer, because he was an educated man. I remember that he wore a beard and a fur cap. At that time all men wore fur caps and most of them had beards and moustaches. Moustaches were almost obligatory. In fact, on the oldest photo that I have of my father, which was taken during World War I, he also has a moustache.

My father worked as a distributor of paints and varnish produced by German companies. The goods arrived in large chests. There were even special tools for opening the chests. My father's business declined during the general economic recession [at the end of the 1920s] and following the advice of uncle Rufat he declared bankruptcy. All that affected my father deeply, because we had a very good reputation. After he died on 1st March 1932 we were in a very hard situation; it was a huge blow to us. He died at the age of 52 of cancer. Only men were present at the funeral, as the tradition allows. The procession was long and I was allowed to take part in it, walking in the middle. I don't have other memories from the procession and the funeral.

My father had two sisters, Matilda and Linda, and a brother, Bentsion. Matilda was married to Rufat and they had five children, four girls and one boy, Buko. All left for Israel except their daughter Ventura. My father's other sister lived alone with her three children after her husband died in World War I. Their family experienced a great tragedy. They tried to reach Israel in a small boat, which crashed and sank. They all drowned except my cousin Bitush. He managed to reach Israel, but he could never forget that tragedy. My uncle Bentsion had five children with his wife Ester. He worked as a cobbler. I don't remember anything else about him.

My father married twice. He had two daughters from his first marriage - my stepsisters Rozalia and Dora. His first wife, Matilda Baruh, died of tuberculosis. I know that she was very rich and brought a big dowry. There was one portrait of her in a black frame in black mounting - she was a very beautiful woman. But I cannot find this portrait anymore.

I am from my father's second marriage. My mother, Vergina Elazar, nee Bohor, wasn't rich. She worked in an atelier. This was her first marriage. Because of the wars, there was a big group of women who couldn't marry. My mother was among them. She married relatively late - when she was 30 years old. And it was very fortunate for her.

My mother was born in 1887 in Sofia. She worked in the textile industry, in a shop for fine women's underwear called 'Doverie' [Trust]. There was such a shop for fine textiles in the center of Sofia.

I remember something else about her: she experienced some kind of fits, maybe because of the climacteric age. Her fingers would stick together and her whole body would start shaking. I was very young; I couldn't help her and thus called the neighbors - they massaged her until she calmed down. My mother also had a sick heart and we looked after her so that she wouldn't tire too much.

During the Holocaust she was interned to Vratsa [see Internment of Jews in Bulgaria] 3. Jews were interned to the northern part of Bulgaria, because the authorities planned to annihilate them and it was easier to send them to the German concentration camps by the Danube. My mother didn't usually wear a kerchief, except during the years when they started to intern us. After the war my mother no longer worked, because she was of advanced age. So, she was a housewife. She died in Sofia on 12th March 1957.

My mother had a number of sisters; I know about one named Sultana, her elder sister, and Sarah, and my grandmother, who lived in Turkey. Sultana was married to Buhor Levi and had five children, among who were Venezia, Duda and Izak. Other relatives of mine lived there too and they visited us sometimes. They knew a number of languages, even Arabic. But at some point they were banished from Turkey, in the 1930s, and came to Bulgaria. However, due to various reasons, they couldn't adapt to the way of life here and left for Israel after World War II along with many other Jews. I haven't heard of them ever since. They were banished from Turkey, because they thought of themselves as Bulgarian Jews and at that time Turkey was pursuing a policy against Bulgaria.

Growing up

I was born on 30th April 1920 in Sofia. At that time my mother was 33 years old and my father was 40. My birth was a great joy for them, because only girls had been born in the family before me. They prepared a special canopy with silk curtains [for the cradle] and organized a big celebration.

My family wasn't religious. My parents weren't atheists, but they didn't bring us up in a religious way or to observe the Jewish laws. My mother tongue is Ladino, which is Spanish from the 15th century, from the time of Cervantes, which has been preserved up until today. After some time I started to forget it. But since I was in Cuba three or four times, and in Spain too, I restored my knowledge to such an extent that everyone was surprised. The two languages - Ladino and Spanish - turned out to be very close.

I remember that when we were children, we stood in front of the Military Club during the military parades. We were impressed by the orderly rows, the soldiers' gait. From the holidays I remember most vividly St. George's Day 4; we went outside, people brought food, roasted lamb and fresh water and we ate in the greenery.

I also remember the 'Women's Market' [the largest open market in Sofia, close to the city center]. They often sent me to buy something from there. It was very interesting - people offering, buying, and bargaining. It was very lively with lots of noise and shouting.

When I was a student, my family and I often went to a place outside Sofia, Korubaglar - it was some 10-12 kilometers from town. It was an uninhabited area eastwards towards the Iskar River Gorge. During the holidays we got on carts and went there. We had a dog named Sharo and took it with us. We also took blankets and food and stayed there in the fresh air. There were a lot of chimneys in Sofia at that time and the air was really polluted. There was no central heating and every chimney was spewing smoke either from the wood or from the coal. We also went to Vladaya, but I didn't go to Vitosha Mountain [the mountain of Sofia] as a child. It became my favorite place for walks much later.

I remember that sometimes the whole family went to a restaurant, Batenberg, to eat kebapcheta [Bulgarian national dish of grilled meatballs]. This was a luxury at that time - warm kebapcheta with French fries - and I loved it. We usually went on Saturdays or Sundays, while my father was still alive, that is, until 1932.

There were two Jewish schools in Sofia. I studied in the central one, and the other one was for the poorer part of Sofia, somewhere close to Iuchbunar 5. The poor Jewish people lived there, but since my father was still alive then, I studied in the central school until the 7th grade. We learned Ivrit and Bulgarian. My school belonged to the Jewish community in Sofia. It was normal for Jewish children to study in Jewish schools. There were some exceptions and we made jokes about them. In fact, our school was no different from the other schools, except that we studied Ivrit and they insisted much on Bulgarian, because it was common for us, Jews, to mix up Bulgarian grammar rules.

The students in our school were often taken to Berkovitsa by bus. It was a very nice village, with a pool in which we swam and a small river. Berkovitsa was like a villa resort of Sofia. Unfortunately, I don't have photos from this period. But I remember that we were accommodated in a holiday home, where we played and read. We went there a couple of times. They didn't take us to other places.

After my father's death we were in a very bad financial state and the family council decided that it would be better if I continued my education in a technical school, so that I would have a profession when I graduated. I sat for the entry exams for the 3rd Men's [High School] and for the Technical School. I was a very good student and I was accepted in both, but it was decided that I should enroll in the Mechanical and Electrical Technical School so that I would get a job later. I studied there until 1939.

My sister Rozalia was twelve years older than me. She was born in 1908. My second sister, Dora, was seven years older, she was born in 1913. I remember going to Varna to accompany Rozalia: my father didn't let her go alone and I was sent as her 'guardian'.

In 1932 Rozalia left for Israel [Palestine before 1948] and she still lives there today - in Holon. She married and now she is called Shoshana Navon. She has two children, Emanuel [born in 1936] and Tslila [born in July 1940]. She worked as a children's teacher in Bulgaria; she graduated from the Pedagogy Institute in Shoumen as a children's teacher. She was very beautiful and a good teacher - children loved her a lot.

I remember that she read a lot and she taught me to read and be interested in more things than what they taught us at school. I started reading a lot and I was really addicted to ancient Greek culture and literature. When I was a high school student, there were scholarly groups in the neighborhood and I often gave lectures there. We discussed and argued various issues and since I was a good speaker many people visited our gatherings.

Dora worked in the trade field. She married Luka Vakarelov and had two children, Virginia [born in 1942] and Krastyo [born in 1946]. She lives in Sofia. During the Holocaust she and I were sent to a camp. She was in the 'St. Nikola' camp in the Rhodope Mountains, near the town of Asenovgrad, from May until November 1943. We both survived the war. After the war Rozalia came to Bulgaria a few times and the three of us met.

Before the war two thirds of the Jewish population lived in Sofia. There was hardly a purely Jewish neighborhood in Sofia, but I remember that many of the people living on Pirotska Street were Jews. There were also Bulgarians, Turks and Armenians in the neighborhood. As children we played football and hide-and-seek. We gathered with the other Jews and celebrated the high holidays. We gathered on Pesach, Yom Kippur and Rosh Hashanah. Rosh Hashanah was my favorite holiday, because there were still flowers, green trees, and fruits... We gathered, ate, drank and sang songs in Ladino.

We always helped each other. There was a feeling of community and desire to help the other Jews. Because even when there were no persecutions, Jews were regarded as different, alien. We also sensed that feeling.

I remember the Great Synagogue 6. It was a monument of culture and we didn't visit it often. But there was a midrash, where we regularly went. There was such a spot on Paisii Street. Sometimes they took me along on purpose so that there would be minyan, which means that we would be more than ten men. And I had to pass for a grown-up man, although I still hadn't had my bar mitzvah.

There was a shochet - every bird, which would be cooked, should be prepared by him. This is a very old tradition: not to eat food, which has blood. Even I took the bird to the shochet and then returned it home for my mother to cook it. The shochet prepared the birds, mainly hens. Favorite dishes of our family were hen with rice and the mirindgena [chicken with aubergine and some tomatoes].

When we were twelve years old, we had our bar mitzvah - we were taken to the Great Synagogue. I didn't understand everything they read to us and I don't remember clearly the ritual itself.

Our neighborhood was an average one - neither too poor nor too rich. Our house was on 64 Paisii Street. Jews inhabited almost the whole street. There were two buildings, stuck to one another in a T-shape. The building in which we lived, was a two-storied one and we lived on the ground floor. The other building had three floors.

We had two rooms, a kitchen and apart from that the house had an inner yard. I slept in the same room as my parents - this was one of the rooms. The second room was for guests and our whole family gathered there. We had nice Vienna furniture covered in green plush in that room. During the war the Jews sold their belongings so that they could leave and so did we. When I think of this furniture, I get very sad. Probably it's in someone else's home now...

During the winter we heated the rooms with wood: we had a stove, warming the two rooms. At that time there was already electricity in Sofia, but my parents didn't know how to use it; they were afraid of it, so we used wood.

We weren't rich and even in our best years, when my father's business was doing well; we didn't have an assistant or a maid. My mother took care of the house and my father helped with what he could.

A number of Jewish families lived in that house and we were close with our neighbors. Sometimes I even went to the second floor to have some rice or something else. We helped each other. The owners of the house lived on the second floor of the house.

Because of our financial state, my parents' political inclinations were directed to the center and a little bit to the left. But more to the center, I think. I don't think they had clear political views. They weren't members of any party or organization. We didn't talk about politics at home, except when the military fascist coup took place in 1923 7, but I was too young at that time and I don't remember much about it. I only remember them talking about it later. Yet, there were three or four political events that I will never forget.

I remember the terrorist act, which took place in 1925 [the bombing of the Sveta Nedelia Church] 8. I remember it very well, because I was upstairs on the third floor playing with the other children and suddenly we heard the loud blast in the cathedral. And we went to the dormer-windows of our house and saw the smoke billowing from the church.

I also remember 1934 and Kimon Georgiev [After a coup d'etat on 19th May 1934 a government was formed by representatives of the Military Union and the 'Zveno' (literally 'a team': a former Bulgarian middle-class party) circle, led by Kimon Georgiev 9. The ruling circles rejected both liberalism and bourgeois democracy, as well as the Marxist doctrine. As a result all political parties in Bulgaria were banned, which led to the monocracy of King Boris III. The economic policy was dominated by the state.]. There was panic. Everybody commented Hitler's coming to power. As if we understood what would happen to us. We suspected that the Jewish people would be killed, that 'the Jewish question will be solved once and for all', as Hitler said. We sensed that a new world war was coming and we knew that Bulgaria as a small country would be involved in it, taking into account that fascism already had roots here.

I remember how Major Thompson was shot down during the war in violation with all international laws. He was a prisoner of war, but the Bulgarian authorities shot him and provoked an international scandal. [Editor's note: Major Frank Edward Thompson, head of a military committee, was sent by the British Intelligence Service with a secret mission to Bulgaria in 1944 in order to contact and support the Bulgarian partisans. In June 1944 he was caught by the police, court-martialed and executed in the village of Litakovo, at the age of only 23. Although he was a British army officer, he was treated not as a POW but as a terrorist. Later a street in Sofia, a railway station and a kindergarten were named after him.]

I remember when the decision was taken that there should be no Jews in Sofia [1942]. They started to intern us. At that time Bulgaria was related to Germany and followed its orders. I must say that the Germans wanted to have us right away, but the authorities here said, 'We need them as a labor force'. There were people, who understood that at some point they would have to pay for all this violence and killings and insisted on having the Jews remain in Bulgaria as a labor force. This saved us; otherwise we would have been taken away like the Polish and the Hungarian Jews.

From 1935 until 1941 I was a member of the UYW 10 and from 1938 until 1941 I was secretary of the District committee and took an active part in the biggest street clash between the Legionaries [see Bulgarian Legions] 11 and the UYW members around Vazrazhdane Square. The Legionaries had decided to attack Jewish sites in Sofia and we had to stop them. My work in the UYW was on the expansion of the political culture - lectures, reports, analyses of the international situation and the state of the political class and relations in Bulgaria. We also organized the struggle against Bulgaria joining a military union with Germany. All our activities were directed towards the struggle for peace.

During the war

I don't remember any anti-Semitic or negative attitudes towards us when I was a child. It wasn't important for me whether my friends were Jews or not. I even think that most of my friends were Bulgarians. My job acquainted me with many different people. But during the Holocaust following that racist anti-Jewish law [see Law for the Protection of the Nation] 12 the authorities started gathering us in Jewish labor groups. And they forced us to work extremely hard. I had just recovered from a serious illness, pleurisy, and I was very weak. From 1941 to 1942 I was in a labor camp in the village of Tserovo [see forced labor camps in Bulgaria] 13. There was a man who forced me to dig four cubic meters of soil every day. The pathetic thing was that after 1944 the same man came to cringe before me, because he found out that I was working in the police.

In these camps they made us work beyond our abilities - I was really at the end of my strength. This was a physical assault on the Jewish population. I realized that I wouldn't survive life in the camp and ran away. The labor camps were not like the concentration camps. In them the Jews had to do hard physical labor. Escape from such a camp was possible, but you could be sued. I was sentenced later by default. For my partisan activities I was also sentenced to death, again by default.

Shortly after that, in March 1942, I was caught and sent to the 'Enikioy' [Thrace, present-day Greece, near Ksanti] concentration camp where I was until November 1942. During that time my sister Dora was also in a camp, although she was married to a Bulgarian [Jews married to Bulgarians had some protection - they were not forced to wear the distinctive yellow star.] All the Jews who weren't in camps were interned - they were banished from Sofia and forced to live in misery.

But I was in such a poor state that I even lay in hospital in Gyumyurdzhina [a small town in Thrace, present-day Greece, now called Komotini]. I was sick, I was suffering and nobody gave me any medication. A nurse came every morning, opened the door to check if I was still alive... and no help, they only put a blanket over me. Elena [Kirilova Elazarova, nee Kehayova], my wife, even sent an appeal to the minister, but this didn't help. In fact, this was financially not acceptable for the police, because four people guarded me 24 hours a day. All the time I tried to explain to them that war was disastrous, that there would be grave consequences for the state. And little by little they started to trust me. They started taking me to the police station where they listened to BBC Radio - the news from the war front and how things were going. So my words were of some use after all.

The people from the village also realized that I wasn't a criminal and started bringing me food and fruit. So, I gradually recovered. Every other day I received a basket of fruit and that way I regained my strength. But that wasn't the main thing, what was important was that I became a partisan. I remember the date - 2nd June 1943 and the squad - 'Chavdar'. I was leader of one unit until 9th September 1944 14.

At first we made big dugouts to store our food there. But when snow fell, we were blocked, because our every step could be seen. Snow made all our efforts pointless. So, we decided to disperse in smaller groups. We formed groups of three, four and five men. And we hid in the village houses, because the villagers turned out to be our best allies. They suffered a lot from the repression measures aiming to supply Germany with everything necessary. So, they helped us a lot.

I myself didn't experience the Holocaust directly, because I was outside the law: for the most part I was a partisan, so I never wore even a yellow star. But I was worried most for my mother, who was interned to Vratsa [north-west Bulgaria]. From time to time I went secretly to see her. She lived with a Jewish family who had sheltered her. We received aid from the English for the resistance and I could help her.

What was interesting was that while I was a partisan and when we made ambushes for the police, the people in the villages welcomed us as winners, as saviors.

Post-war

After the war we returned to our homes. Many of the houses were burned down. Sofia looked like a ravaged city. Everything had to be rebuilt, new buildings had to be erected. The housing estates appeared at that time and the city changed. People built apartments with united efforts, because it was very difficult to build a house by yourself. The whole country was in a very bad economic state.

Our home was not directly affected. When we returned, our neighbors welcomed us well - there were no people regretting that we had survived. Well, maybe there were such people somewhere, but they said nothing then.

The old relations were severed and this gave even more impetus to the campaign for moving to Israel. There were 50,000 Jews in Bulgaria and most of them left. I was against that, because I thought that founding Palestine wouldn't solve the Jewish problem. [Editors' note: establishing Israel, the Jewish state in the British mandate of Palestine.] As if I could foresee what is happening now. But many people left, mainly those with mixed marriages remained here. From the 50,000 people, only 1,500 - 1,600 people remained [see Mass Aliyah] 15.

I married Elena Kirilova Kehayova before the war. She was Bulgarian, born on 25th October 1920 in Plovdiv. She was a journalist. She often published articles under the name Elena Davidova. She died a year ago, on 17th August 2002. She was a good journalist. Even in Russia they published a collection of her best articles.

She had three brothers and one sister - Vassil, Dimitar, Petko and Maria. Only Maria was younger than her. Unfortunately, no one of them is still alive.

After the war, in 1949, I graduated from the Higher Party School. Then, from 1957 to 1959, I was in the Military Academy 'G.S. Rakovski' where I also graduated with very good marks. General Kirov was my examiner and I became good friends with him. I worked in the army, but I realized that I had no future there. I was deputy head of the chief political office of the Bulgarian army until 1962. All the time I was colonel and I remained colonel, although I was also appointed to general positions. In fact, this was due to my Jewish origin - they just didn't allow me to become general.

In the 1960s I became head of the department 'Propaganda and Campaigns' in the Central Committee of the Bulgarian Communist Party [BCP]. I was also awarded the title 'Honored Citizen of Sofia'. From 1970 to 1989 I was director of the Institute on History of the BCP. In the institute I was a contributing author to a number of international scholarly works - 'The Reichstag Fire Trial and Georgi Dimitrov' 16, 'The Biography of Georgi Dimitrov' and the six volumes of the big Bulgarian Encyclopedia. [Editor's note: after 1989 the publishing of the encyclopedia encountered difficulties and it is still not finished.] I was also an editor-in-chief of the almanac of the institute. All that time, during the 1970s and the 1980s, I was five times deputy in the National Assembly, first a candidate member and then a member of the Central Committee of the BCP.

After the 1950s things in Bulgaria changed: the economic opportunities of the country increased, its stability and development became much better. But I don't think it is right to speak of dictatorship during those times. Under the influence of the Soviet Union the government wasn't democratic, but there was no dictatorship.

But there was a change: after the war we didn't celebrate the Jewish holidays so often, we didn't go to the synagogue, except for events related to the Holocaust, although there was not a special day for the Holocaust then. We preserved the Jewish cuisine, although it is not solely Jewish, for example the Turks also prepare mirindgena. And we never celebrated Easter or Christmas. Besides the official holidays [9th September, 24th May, 1st May etc.] we also celebrated New Year's Eve and birthdays.

All the time we kept in touch with our relatives in Israel. Since I held a very responsible position, I didn't have major problems for having relatives in Israel. Yet, I felt a more special attitude - I was very eager to study in the USSR, but I wasn't able to. Even in the middle of the 1950s, at the beginning of the Cold War, my sister Dora had to give explanations to the bodies of the Ministry of Internal Affairs about her relatives in Israel and what kind of contacts she kept with them. Our contacts were never too regular, but we never stopped them, even when the diplomatic relations with Israel were severed. For me the wars in 1967 [see Six-Day-War] 17 and 1973 [see Yom Kippur War] 18 in Israel are in fact the clash of two civilizations. This clash still continues in the efforts for Palestine to be recognized. And these efforts are right, because this issue should be finally resolved. Otherwise, it will remain an open wound forever.

After the 1950s my sister Rozalia came to visit us a couple of times, but I didn't go to Israel until 1989 although she had invited both Dora and me. We didn't go to Israel, because we knew there was a special attitude towards people going there, especially if they had a responsible state job.

I must confess, although it is not nice to tell such things, that I suffered a lot for being a Jew. I wasn't allowed many things. But thanks to my persistence I achieved, in my opinion, incredible things. I was the only Jew from Bulgaria who chaired an international meeting in Moscow. Some of my problems ended when I received the title 'Hero of the Socialist Labor', which went together with the 'Georgi Dimitrov' order. [This is an honorable title, which was the highest order for labor activities in the People's Republic of Bulgaria until 1989. It was accompanied by a Gold Star and the highest order 'Georgi Dimitrov' which is an order for special merit]. And I wore this Gold Star only in the Soviet Union. Anti-Semitism is a very unpleasant thing.

When I went to Mexico, I also had an unpleasant accident. You know the story about Trotsky 19 who was given the opportunity to be treated in Turkey. When he went there he realized that he would be eliminated sooner or later so he escaped to Mexico. He was killed there. When I was in Mexico, they wanted to show me his grave, but this was a provocation. They wanted to take a photo of me and then say: 'Elazar went to search for Trotsky's heritage'. I declined to go there.

Now I don't remember the details, but once I headed a delegation to the USSR. Our last meeting was with a Soviet marshal. They came to me and said, 'Comrade Elazar, we arranged the group for the meeting with the marshal in such a way, that you don't have to come. It will not be interesting. It is not necessary for you to come'. It was clear to me right away that I was excluded, because I was the head of the delegation. I said, 'Okay, if you have decided so... Do what you wish!' When my colleagues found out about that, they decided to boycott the meeting as a protest. I convinced them not to - they might have thought that I had organized that. We let the incident pass with contempt and silence.

My wife and I lived only in Bulgaria, although I visited many countries. I traveled almost everywhere around the world, except in Africa and Australia. All the trips were business ones - official delegations, conferences and meetings by special invitation.

Elena and I raised two boys, Simeon and Emil. Simeon was born in Sofia on 31st July 1943, and Emil on 29th September 1947. Both have university education. Simeon graduated from the Higher Economic Institute and Emil graduated from the Higher Architecture and Construction Institute as an architect. We brought them up in a liberal way. They always knew that they had Jewish origins, but we didn't educate them especially in this respect. I have two grandsons and one granddaughter from them: Emil, 35 years old, Georgi, 30 years old and Elena, 31 years old.

From a political point of view I consider the changes after 1989 differently. For me they were not something out of the blue, but more of a logical continuation of the policy Bulgaria led in the 1980s as a socialist country. The political changes gradually led to the democratization of the state. During that time perestroika 20 started in the USSR, which however was essentially wrong and confused: it led to destruction and not to democratization of socialism.

The changes also had an economic aspect. For example 'Decree 56' 21 functioned from 1989 until 1997. The changes started even earlier in 1983 when 'Decree 56' was in the initial stages of development.

On 10th November 1989 22, at the plenary session during which Todor Zhivkov 23 was replaced, I made a statement, in which I appealed to the delegates not to rush with their evaluations before making a thorough analysis - at least because he was the statesman who had been in power for the longest time since the Liberation. I think that time will best show the advantages and disadvantages of the real socialism.

Since 1989 I think we can witness a gradual process of reversal. All mistakes of the capitalist state before 1944 have come up again and all disadvantages are being reproduced.

As for the Jewish community, we started receiving aid. For example, the Joint 24 organization gave us clothes and supported us, especially the Jews who were the object of violence and assault. I retired at 70 years of age in 1989. In recent years I've often gone to the Jewish center and I follow the political life in the country and abroad.

Glossary