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Életrajz

Az interjúalany nevét kérésére kezdőbetűkkel jelöljük. F. N. 1983 óta él Genfben, de feleségével együtt évente kétszer ellátogatnak Magyarországra, és ilyenkor jut egy kevés idejük a régi barátok fölkeresésére is. F. N. gyakran használ internetet, a Centropát is így találta meg. Az interjút Budapesten, az egyik ötcsillagos szállodában készítettük, ahol F. N.-t már törzsvendégként ismerik. A beszélgetésre két alkalommal kerítettünk sort.

Az apai nagyapám neve F. Simon, született Losoncon, nem tudom pontosan, mikor. Ez a F. név az 1800-as évek második felében jöhetett be. Arra gyanakszom, hogy Fried lehetett korábban [lásd: névmagyarosítás].

Szabómester volt, és amikor megházasodott, eljött Losoncról Pestre. Ezek olyan bődületes magyarok voltak, hogy a nagyapámnak magyaros bajusza volt, nem járt zsinagógába. Büszkék voltak rá, hogy magyarok, és a gyerekeiket is így nevelték. Nem tudok róluk többet. A nagyapám Gyömrőn halt meg 1941-ben vagy 1942-ben [Gyömrő – nagyközség, Pest-Pilis-Solt-Kiskun vm., 1891-ben 1500, 1910-ben 4100, 1920-ban 5500 főnyi lakossal. – A szerk.].

Nagyapa egyik testvéréről, Adolf bácsiról tudok. Ő jobb módú volt, és később, az 1940-es években időnként anyagilag segített bennünket. Budán, a Bimbó úton lakott. De nem volt semmiféle szoros kapcsolat. Az anyagi segítség abból állt, hogy amikor nem tudtuk kifizetni a lakbért, mert az apám már munkaszolgálatos volt, akkor anyám végső kétségbeesésében elküldött Adolf bácsihoz. Én voltam tíz éves, elslattyogtam oda, gyalog persze, a Nagydiófa utcából, ahol laktunk, előadtam, hogy miért jöttem, ő már tudta, és adott húsz pengőt vagy harmincat vagy ötvenet. A lakbér ötven pengő volt. Ebből állt a kapcsolat. Nem ismertem jobban, a családok soha nem jöttek össze.

Az apai nagymama, Blau Natália. Róla szinte semmit nem tudok. Feltételezem, hogy Pesten született és élt, valamikor az első világháború után halt meg, mert a nagyapám másodszor is megnősült. Lehet, hogy a spanyolban [lásd: spanyolnátha] halt meg 1918-ban vagy 1920-ban. Pesten van eltemetve. Nem tudom, milyen iskolát végzett, mivel foglalkozott a nagymama. Valószínűleg ugyanúgy nem volt vallásos, mint Simon nagyapám. Ha hozzáment, akkor valószínűleg nem volt vallásos. Lehet, hogy mélyen hitt, de vallásos nem volt. Az ő testvéreiről semmit nem tudok.

Ez a Blau család valahogy kötődött a Budapesti Német Színházhoz. Úgy derült ki, hogy egy ősrégi, színházi újságot kaptam egy rokontól. Az ő apjának vagy nagyapjának van benne hirdetése. Színházi kellékek, ruhák kölcsönzésével foglalkozott. Amikor mi elmentünk Magyarországról 1970-ben, akkor még nem tudtam, hogy német állampolgárságot kaphattam volna azon a címen, hogy a felmenőim közül valaki a Duna völgyében a német kultúrát terjesztette a tizenkilencedik században [Pesti Német Színház –1812-ben nyílt meg a mai Vörösmarty téren, háromemeletes épületében 3500 néző fért el. Műsorán egyaránt szerepeltek operák (Rossini, Mozart és mások művei) és prózai darabok (Shakespeare, Schiller, Lessing, Goethe, Hugo stb.). A színház 1849-ig működött. És volt Budán is, a Horváth Kertben 1843 és 1870 között egy német nyelvű nyári színház (Ofner Tagstheater in der Christinenstadt). – A szerk.].

Anyai nagyapám Klein Lipót. Kocsmáros volt egy kis faluban a Felvidéken, a Garam völgyében. A helységet úgy hívták, hogy Csata, ma Szlovákiához tartozik, Esztergomtól lehet huszonöt kilométerre [Csata – kisközség volt Bars vm.-ben, 1891-ben 1400, 1910-ben 1800 főnyi lakossal. A trianoni békekötés után Csehszlovákiához került (Čata). – A szerk.]. A Kárpátok előtt, a dombosabb részen fekszik. Nagyon szép vidék. A nagyapám hogy mikor született, nem tudom, 1916-ban halt meg Esztergomban. A családi történet, amit anyámtól hallottam, az az volt, hogy amikor a fia – tehát az édesanyám testvére – katona volt az esztergomi laktanyában, nagyapám elment meglátogatni, de az őr nem akarta beengedni, de addig erőszakoskodott, amíg az őr puskatussal megütötte, és két nappal később meghalt. Ez 1916-ban történt. Nem tudom, hogy nagyapámnak voltak-e testvérei.

A nagyanyám Breuer Júlia. Szült, azt hiszem, nyolc gyereket, abból egy viszonylag fiatalon meghalt. N-nek hívták, és ezért kaptam én is ezt a nevet. A nagyanyám valószínűleg a Felvidéken született. A sádhenek, a házasságközvetítők általában nők voltak, akiknek volt egy listájuk, azzal mentek házról házra, s akkor jöttek a fiúk háztűznézőbe. Erről anyám mesélt. Az ő szülei is így ismerkedtek meg, és anyám is így házasodott. A nagyszüleim hogy hol házasodtak össze, nem tudom. A nagyanyám 1930-ban halt meg, Pesten. Egész életében a háztartást vezette, és valószínűleg segített az üzletben. Ez az üzlet 1918-ban, vagy már 1916-ban, mikor a nagyapám meghalt, megszűnt. A nagyanyám valószínűleg, mint általában a nők, vallásosabb volt a nagyapámnál. Csak azért tudom, hogy vallásos volt, mert a gyerekeit úgy nevelte. A nő megy a templomba, megy az istentiszteletre, de a férje sokkal kevésbé. Nem mindenütt, de általában így van. [Inkább a férfiak járnak el a zsinagógába, az asszonyok pedig elsősorban a nagyünnepeken. Különösen áll ez a péntek esti, a szombat bejövetelét megelőző zsinagógai részvételre. A gyertyagyújtás ui. az asszonyok három micvájának egyike. A Talmud szerint egy nőnek évente kétszer kell elmennie a zsinagógába: Jom Kipurkor, meghallgatni a sófár megfújását és Purimkor, az Eszter könyve fölolvasásakor. – A szerk.] A nagyapám feltehetően olvasta héberül a Bibliát és az imakönyvet. A betűket ismerte, és tudott összefüggően olvasni. Nem voltak ortodoxok. Nem hiszem, hogy a nagyapám föltette a tfilint [lásd: imaszíj]. Nem hiszem, hogy annyira ment volna ez a vallásosság. A ruházata a kornak megfelelő volt. Jóllehet nem volt földje, amit műveljen, de egy kis faluban, ahol lehetett néhány száz lélek, volt egy kocsmája, tehát egy paraszt zsidó volt lényegében, egyszerű ember. A gyerekeit polgáriba [lásd: polgári iskola] járatta. Az már egy nagy dolog volt, hogy négy elemit és négy polgárit, nyolc évet jártak a lányai iskolába. Az anyám is négy polgárit végzett. A nagymama testvéreiről nem tudok semmit.

Fogalmuk nem volt a világról és az életről. Sem akkor, sem később. A nagyanyámat fölhozták Pestre, mert hát ugye Trianon [lásd: trianoni békeszerződés] miatt minden elveszett, átszöktek, és ő is jött. Anyámékkal lakott, nem tudom, hol, el tudom elképzelni, hogy valamilyen nyomor helyen, és az ő számára szörnyű volt, hogy nincs rá szükség, csak teher a lánya, a veje, a gyerekei nyakán. Neki ott Csatán volt egy kertes háza, itt pedig egy lakás egy nagyvárosban, amikor egész életében falun élt. Anyám mindig azt mondta, hogy ebbe halt bele. Ki tudja? 1930-ban halt meg, pár hónappal a születésem előtt.

Édesanyám 1894-ben született, Csatán, abban a faluban, ahol az apja kocsmáros volt. Azt hiszem, hogy a Csatától tizenöt-húsz kilométerre, északra fekvő Lévára járt iskolába, mert ott volt polgári. Akkor, a Monarchiában, a Felvidéken minden magyar nyelvű volt. Ott járt iskolába, és utána segített a kocsmában.

Anyám testvérei közül a legidősebbet Viktornak hívták. Ő volt a nagy karrier ebben a családban, mert állomásfőnök volt valahol a Felvidéken, valami kis helységben. Az egy nagy dolog volt. Nem tudom, milyen iskolai végzettsége volt, én nem találkoztam vele soha. Az ő felesége, Ida néni, már nem volt zsidó, azt hiszem. Volt egy lányuk, Ilus. Ő tanító volt vagy tanár. Ilusnak született két gyereke. Az egyik Zsuzsi, ma Pozsonyban él, a másik fiú, akivel sose találkoztam, nemrégen halt meg, Miskolcon.

Viktor után jött, azt hiszem, Ernő vagy Jenő. Nem tudom, melyik volt az idősebb. Ernő az első világháborúban volt katona, megsebesült, és Szegeden kórházba került. Volt ott egy csinos nem zsidó ápolónő, egymásba szerettek, elvette feleségül. Ez volt Mariska néni, őt ismertem. Nekik született egy lányuk, Éva. Ernő Szegeden maradt, a szegedi színházban volt énekes. Csodálatos hangja volt. Túlélte az egészet, mert Finta, a gettó csendőr parancsnoka korábban szintén a színházban volt, és ismerte őt. Akkor már Kovács Ernőnek hívták, mert Kleinből magyarosított. Finta tudta, hogy Kovács Ernő zsidó, és szólt neki, hogy menjen ki egy tanyára, és bújjon el. [Finta Imre csendőr századosról, aki a szegedi gettó parancsnoka volt, lásd Randolph L. Braham: A magyar Holocaust, Budapest, Gondolat/Wilmington, Blackburn International Inc., é. n. /1988/, II. kötet, 57. oldal, valamint a 68. és 69. sz. jegyzet a 70. oldalon. – A szerk.] Kiment valami parasztemberhez, ott elbújtatták, és így élte túl a második világháborút. Éva lányuk félzsidó. Éva férjhez ment egy fiúhoz, aki szintén nem volt zsidó, sőt vannak már leszármazottak, akiknek fogalmuk sincs a zsidóságról vagy a judaisztikáról. Évát egyszer megkérdeztem, hogy tudják-e egyáltalán, hogy a nagyapjuk vagy a dédapjuk zsidó volt. Azt mondta, hogy igen, tudják, de ez nem biztos, hogy igaz. Lehet, hogy Éva nem akarja kitenni a gyermekeit semmiféle veszélynek, atrocitásnak, ezért talán meg sem mondták nekik. A neveik is olyanok, hogy messze nem zsidó nevek. Ernő és a felesége is Szegeden haltak meg az 1950-es, illetve az 1960-as években, és ott vannak eltemetve.

Jenőnek Pesten volt fűszerüzlete. A feleségét úgy hívták, hogy Tilus. Tilus az üzletben segített. Ezek mind egyszerű emberek voltak, egynek sem volt érettségije, maximum polgárija. Az érettségi akkor egy nagy dolog volt. Úgy tudom, hogy Pesten vannak eltemetve, de az is lehet, hogy valahol az USA-ban. Volt egy lányuk, Vera, aki 1956-ban kiment Amerikába. Nincs semmi kapcsolat köztünk.

A lányok közül a legidősebb Gizi volt, 1870 körül születhetett, és a spanyolban [lásd: spanyolnátha] halt meg 1918-ban. A férj nagyon sok évvel túlélte a Gizit, kilencvenhat éves volt, amikor az 1960-as években meghalt. Pesten van eltemetve. Öt gyerekük született. Az öt gyerek közül az egyik, Tivadar száz évet élt, és Argentínában halt meg nem olyan régen. Gizi másik gyerekének, Mancinak a férjét elvitték munkaszolgálatra, őt pedig a kisgyerekével együtt Csornáról deportálták volna, de gyógyszerész volt, és amikor a vagonban látta, hogy mi történik, akkor mérget adott a gyerekének, és maga is bevette. A gyerek kiköhögte, ő viszont lenyelte, és meghalt. A gyerek életben maradt egész addig, amíg Auschwitzban el nem gázosították, és el nem égették.

A harmadik, Erzsébet szintén gyógyszerésztechnikus volt, Pápán dolgozott egy gyógyszertárban. Auschwitzban volt, és valahogy túlélte. Visszajött Magyarországra, Pápára, ahol nyugdíjazásáig ismét a gyógyszertárban dolgozott. A németektől kapott valami kártérítést, alamizsnát. Nemrégen halt meg Pesten.

Aztán volt Adél. Adél kikeresztelkedett, és annyira hívő katolikus volt, hogy – kis túlzással – már a templomajtótól térden csúszva ment az oltárig. Misére járt, gyónt. Mindent az égvilágon. Még jóval a háború előtt. Valószínűleg hitt, keresett valami támaszt. A lényeg az, hogy ez nem változtatott azon, hogy egy büdös zsidó maradt. Százszázalékos zsidónak minősült. Az, hogy katolikus vagy hivő katolikus, nem számított. Túlélte.

És volt Laci. Laci munkaszolgálatos volt, túlélte, visszajött, aztán 1949-ben vagy 1950-ben a gazdasági rendőrség letartóztatta, és hülyére verték. Utána próbálták kezelni, ami akkor azt jelentette, hogy elektromos sokkokat kapott, amivel teljesen elégették az agyát. Évekig volt kórházban zárt osztályon. Mennyi tragédia egy családon belül! És minden irányból.

Aztán volt Jolán. Nagyon szép volt, a lányok általában szépek voltak. Jolán 1914-ben vagy 1915-ben lefeküdt egy Tokody nevű helyi kisnemessel. Ebből született egy törvénytelen gyerek. Tokody ment a frontra, és elesett. A Jolán egy megesett lány volt, azért kapta a fia az ő nevét, mert nem volt férj, ami akkor egy szörnyűség volt, pláne egy zsidó családban. Jolán túlélte a holokausztot, mert az 1930-as évek vége felé csinált egy névházasságot. Így lett a neve Tóth Sándorné. Jolánt gyalogmenetben [lásd: halálmenetek Hegyeshalomba] vitték 1944 novemberében vagy decemberében Pestről Ausztria felé. Egy ismerőse, aki csendőr volt vagy katona, meglátta, és azt mondta: maga, Tóthné mit keres itt ebben a menetben, ez tévedés, és kiemelte. Így menekült meg. Aztán később a fia, Klein Imre felvette a Tokody nevet, 1956-ban elment Magyarországról, végül Ausztráliába kötött ki, és ott halt meg. Jolán Pesten halt meg.

És volt Riza, aki nagyon későn ment férjhez, egy templomi énekeshez. Ő volt még a leginkább vallásos, és a Rumbach Sebestyén utcában lakott. A zsinagóga mellett voltak lakások a hitközségi alkalmazottaknak, ott lakott az első emeleten a férjével egy szoba-konyhás lakásban, vécé a földszinten, fürdőszoba nem volt. A férje Friedman Feledi Gyula a templomban énekelt, de nem volt kántor. Temetésekre, esküvőkre hívták, kapott valami kis fizetést, és ebből éltek. Nekik nem született gyerekük.

Apai nagyapámnak, Simonnak három fia volt. A legidősebb volt az apám, Imre. Középső volt Laci, és aztán Pista. Ez a három fiú Budapesten élt.

Laci nem tudom, mivel foglalkozott. A felesége Heda. Nem volt semmilyen iskolájuk, csak a minimum [azaz 6 elemi – A szerk.]. Baloldaliak voltak, gondolom, szociáldemokraták, nem tudom, miért. Két gyerekük született, egy fiú és egy lány. Lacit a második világháború alatt valahol megölték. Nem lehet tudni, hogy hol. Munkaszolgálatosként vagy deportálták. A gyerekek a második világháború után kimentek Izraelbe. Heda is túlélte a holokausztot, és egy ideig a Szociáldemokrata Párt balszárnyának volt a tagja. Gondnok volt Balatonon egy üdülőben, onnan nyugdíjazták, és akkor valahogy kivergődött a gyerekeihez Izraelbe, és ott halt meg az 1980-as években. A lánya, Lili egy hat elemit (?) végzett pékmesternek volt a felesége. Izraelben libák tömésével foglalkoztak, libamájat csináltak. Kemény munka. Egyszerű, dolgos asszony volt, néhány évvel ezelőtt halt meg. Az öccse, Robi bement egy kibucba, és azóta is ott van. Villanyszerelő, a malomban ő tartja rendbe a villanyt, most hetvenhat éves.

Másik nagybátyám, Pista cionista volt [lásd: cionizmus; cionizmus 1938 és 1940 között Magyarországon]. Az 1930-as évek végén már lehetett látni, hogy bajok lesznek, háború lesz. Pista próbálta meggyőzni a testvéreit, hogy menjenek ki Palesztinába. Az apám meg Laci azt mondták, hogy „magyarok vagyunk, és ha jön a háború, akkor majd együtt megyünk a tűzbe”. Ezek voltak a szavaik, erre emlékszem. Ezt úgy gondolták, hogy a fronton harcolnak Magyarországért. Hát mentek a tűzbe, csak nem együtt, és nem olyan tűzbe, amit gondoltak. Pista viszont valamikor 1939-ben kiment Palesztinába. Palesztina akkor angol protektorátus volt, oda kimenni borzasztó nehéz dolog volt [Az angolok éves bevándorlási kvótát állapítottak meg, amitől még a háború alatt sem voltak hajlandók eltérni. Ezért megpróbáltak minden, bevándorlókat szállító hajót elfogni, és az utasokat Ciprusra internálták, ahonnan minden évben csak bizonyos számú embert engedtek legálisan bevándorolni Palesztinába. – A szerk.]. Kellett egy bevándorlási engedély, ahhoz deponálni kellett ötven fontsterlinget. Ötven font az annyi lehetett akkor, mint ma ötszázezer forint. A cionista szervezet adta az ötven fontot, amit vissza kellett adni, hogy újabb zsidókat próbáljanak vele engedéllyel bevinni. Pistának itt már volt felesége, a Manci, aki nem volt zsidó. Manci meg a családja összeszedték valahogy a pénzt, és 1943-ban magyar útlevéllel Törökországba utazott Bulgárián keresztül. És utazhatott! Manci mesélte később, hogy a németek ellenőrizték az útlevelet és mindenkit, és a Mancinak az arcára rá volt írva, hogy nem zsidó. És kiment Izraelbe, csatlakozott a férjéhez. Nem született gyerekük. Pista és a felesége is most halt meg néhány évvel ezelőtt. Manci megtanult héberül, és nagyobb izraeli lett belőle, mint a férjéből. A Mancinak vannak itthon rokonai, akiket nem ismerek, csak hallottam, hogy később, amikor megenyhültek a dolgok, jött látogatóba izraeli útlevéllel a családjához.

Apám, F. Imre 1900-ban született Budapesten, és őt már gimnáziumba járatták, ami óriási dolog volt. De nem érettségizett le, mert rendkívül nagy magyar volt, és 1917-ben a hetedik gimnáziumból kiment a frontra mint önkéntes. Nem volt kötelező neki, nem is hívták be. Önként jelentkezett a frontra a hazáért harcolni, és otthagyta az iskolát, soha nem érettségizett le. Szerencsétlen. Ezzel a döntéssel teljesen tönkretette az életét. Az olasz fronton harcolt, fogságba esett, valamikor 1920-ban jött haza, és kitüntetést kapott. Akkor már érettségiről szó nem volt, egyetemről nem is álmodtak. Aztán jött a numerus clausus [lásd: numerus clausus Magyarországon], ha akart volna tanulni, akkor sem tudott volna, és senki nem tudta volna megfizetni, hogy Párizsba menjen vagy Peruggiába, ahol rengeteg magyar zsidó egyetemi hallgató volt, akiknek nem volt módjuk Magyarországon tanulni [lásd: egyetemi tanulmányok és numerus clausus].

Apám magyar volt, a legnagyobb mértékben. Nagyobb hazafi volt, mint sok más. Nem volt baloldali. Jobboldali volt, olyan mértékben, amilyen mértékben a környezete meg a nyomora engedte. Nem volt semmilyen pártnak a tagja. Ő egyáltalán nem hitt ebben a kommunista históriában. Ő Magyarországban, Horthyban [lásd: Horthy Miklós] hitt. Amikor kicsi voltam, hallatlanul hazafias nevelést kaptam. „Csonka Magyarország nem ország, egész Magyarország mennyország” [lásd: irredentizmus]. Nekünk mitől lett volna mennyország, azt ma se tudom. Emlékszem, egyszer gyerekkoromban Esztergomban voltunk, Párkánynál a Duna hídon, amit most építettek újjá. Rámentünk a hídra, és az apám mondta, látod, ez idáig a mienk, és innen már a cseheké. És akkor én megszámoltam, hány szegmens van a hídban, ha jól emlékszem, öt volt, és abból kettő volt a magyar, három a cseh részen. És akkor kifogásoltam: „Apa, miért van nekik három és nekünk csak kettő?”

Miután anyám és a nagyanyám 1920-ban átszöktek a határon, először a Kecskeméti utcában laktak, a születésem után pedig Árpádföldre költöztünk [Árpádföld 1950-ig nem tartozott Budapesthez, 1902–1927 között Rákosszentmihály, ezután pedig Cinkota része volt, neve 1935 óta Árpádföld, addig Árpád-telep volt. – A szerk.]. Az apám bejárt a városba dolgozni, és én mindig mentem ki a HÉV-hez. Apu, szép vonattal jöttél vagy a csúnyával? A szép az újabb kocsikból állt, a csúnya a régebbiekből. Lehettem négy éves. Nem tudom, mikor házasodott össze anyám apámmal. Nem tudom, hogy hol találkoztak, fogalmam sincs róla. Akkor anyám otthon dolgozott, a háztartást vezette, mert általában a férfi volt a kenyérkereső. Jól, rosszul, de eltartotta a családját. Amire én emlékszem, az már az, hogy apám az „Est-lapok” kiadóhivatalában dolgozott Kaposvárott, a terjesztéssel volt elfoglalva [lásd: Az Est-konszern lapjai]. A család is volt egy bizonyos ideig ott, aztán Pestre kerültünk. „Az EST” egy liberális polgári újság volt, de megszűnt, apám elvesztette az állását [A lap 1939-ben szűnt meg, ők viszont – mint lejjebb kiderül – már 1935 körül ismét Budapesten voltak. Apja tehát más miatt veszítette el az állását, nem a lap megszűnése miatt. – A szerk.]. Akkor először könyvügynök volt. Járt házról házra, és próbált könyveket eladni. Próbált pincérkedni, de ez azért volt problematikus, mert szemüveges volt, és a pincérek nem lehettek szemüvegesek, mert ha az étteremből visszamegy a konyhába, akkor bepárásodik a szemüvege. Nem nagyon szerették. De volt pincér a Margit-szigeten a Kaszinóban és egy rövid ideig a Grand Hotelben.

Először a Podmaniczky utcában laktunk pár hónapot, aztán kikötöttünk a Nagydiófa utcában. Ez 1933-ban vagy 1934-ben lehetett, de 1935-ben már biztos, mert itt jártam óvodában. Nem zsidóba, hanem a helyi óvodába. Ott volt a Dohány templom meg a Rumbach templom, és ott volt a Kazinczy utcai, de az ortodox volt, arról szó nem volt, hogy mi odakeveredjünk. A Rumbach templomba [Rumbach Sebestyén utcai zsinagóga] jártunk. Lehet, hogy azért, mert az anyám nővérének, Riza néninek a későbbi férje ott énekelt a kórusban, és ott volt egy lakása. Oda járt anyám templomba. Én nem nagyon, ha tudtam, mindig meglógtam.

Anyám hozta hazulról a vallásosságot, apám nem. Apám családja egyáltalán nem volt vallásos, és a vége felé már anyám sem. Általában ahogy öregszenek az emberek, úgy térnek vissza a valláshoz. Anyám nem. Ő végig járt templomba, folyékonyan olvasott héberül, persze egy szót nem értett belőle, hogy mit olvas. És nagyon hitt, de csak mértékkel volt vallásos. Gyertyát gyújtott minden pénteken [lásd: gyertyagyújtás; szombat]. Apám nem foglalkozott ilyesmivel, aztán a munkaszolgálat miatt nem is volt otthon, úgyhogy anyám áldott meg. Elmondta az áldást héberül, a fejemre tette a kezét, és körülbelül ennyi volt. Ros Hásánákor és Jom Kipurkor templomba ment, Jom Kipurkor böjtölt is. Mást nem. Temetőbe járt az édesanyjához, és időnként vitt engem is. Egy évben egyszer-kétszer kiment a temetőbe.

Anyám hosszú időn keresztül csak kósert volt hajlandó enni. Igyekezett fenntartani azt, hogy a tejes és nem tejes edények külön legyenek [lásd: étkezési törvények]. De rendkívül szegények voltunk, és ahhoz kell egy bizonyos anyagi biztonság, hogy két lábas legyen, ne csak egy. Apám egyáltalán nem figyelt erre oda. Arra emlékszem, hogy apám hozott haza sonkát vagy szalámit, de nem tehette tányérra. Nekem ne tréflizd össze az edényeimet, mondta az anyám. Ha apám ilyesmit hozott, akkor letette a papírt az asztalra, és arról ette meg. Arra nem emlékszem, hogy anyám mikor kezdett el ilyesmit enni, de egy bizonyos idő után ő is evett, átvette.

Nekünk a zsidósághoz viszonylag kevés közünk volt. Anyám járt templomba, de a hitközségnek nem fizettünk, mert miből fizettünk volna. Nem is kértünk, és nem is kaptunk semmit, kivéve, hogy én ingyen jártam az iskolába. Mást nem. Újságot az apám olvasott, de ritkán, mert nem volt pénze megvenni. Rádiónk volt már 1936-ban vagy 1937-ben, amihez senki nem nyúlhatott hozzá, én pláne nem, mert elrontja. Ez egy fantasztikus dolog volt, nem néprádió [Ekkor még nem is létezett néprádió – ezt az olcsó rádiótípust az 1939/40-ben elindult ún. néprádió-akció során fejlesztette ki négy nagy európai elektronikai cég, a Telefunken, a Standard, a Philips és a magyar Orion Villamossági Rt. – A szerk.]. Amit a rádió mondott a zsidóüldözésről, arról tudtunk, és anyám időnként azt mondta, hogy hol az Isten, hát nem tudja megdögleszteni ezt a Hitlert?! Primitív, egyszerű emberek voltak. Hittek a Horthyban, hogy nem fogja a deportálást engedni. De a Horthy csak akkor mondta, hogy tovább nincs deportálás, amikor közbelépett egyebek közt a svéd király [V. Gusztáv svéd király 1944. június 30-án fölszólította Horthy Miklós kormányzót, hogy Magyarország tanúsítson "lovagias, hagyományainak megfelelő" bánásmódot a zsidókkal szemben. A kormányzó (egyes források szerint) július 6-án (más források szerint 7-én) állíttatta le a deportálásokat. (Döntését egyébként több tényező is motiválhatta: a pápa, Roosevelt elnök, a magyar egyházi vezetők, Bethlen István és köre tiltakozása és valószínűleg a hadi helyzet változása is.) – A szerk.]. Megfenyegették, hogy a háború után felelősségre vonás lesz. No meg egy puccstól tartott a Pestre hozott csendőrök részéről [lásd: csendőrpuccs]. Akkor leállította a pesti gettó deportálását, tehát meg tudta volna tenni korábban, de nem tette. Horthy keményen antiszemita volt. Ez az antiszemitizmus odáig ment, hogy embereket gyilkoltatott. Magyarország igen keményen és igen mélyen átitatott antiszemitizmussal volt megfertőzve.

Mi udvari lakásban laktunk. Akinek utcai lakása volt, annak fürdőszobája is volt [Fürdőszoba 1930-ban 100 budapesti lakásból 33-ban, az 1941-es népszámlálás szerint 44-ben volt. – A szerk.]. Hát ez gazdag, mondták. Tovább nem jutott a dolog, mert hát honnan tudták volna, hogy mi a gazdagság. Anyám soha nem látott gazdagságot, jómódot sem. Nem tudták elképzelni. (Anyám gazdagságot vagy jómódot csak jóval később látott, amikor kijött hozzánk, Párizsba.) A házban laktak zsidók is. A Deutsch nevű szabó a földszinti, utcai lakásban. Nekik volt fürdőszobájuk. Mellettünk lakott a házmester, Schäfelinné, az Olaszék, akik nem voltak zsidók. Akkor az Olaszéknak volt egy albérlőjük, az Oláh. Oláh egy nyilas pártszolgálatos volt, kerülte a zsidókat, és zsidózott is. Erre emlékszem. Ő is ugyanolyan nyomorult volt, mint a többi. Egy nyomorultnál lakott albérletben, egy ugyanolyan nyomorult, de primitív embernél, aki arról beszélt, hogy a zsidók milyen gazdagok, hogy a zsidók kifosztják meg kiszipolyozzák Magyarországot. Az első emeleten lakott még egy zsidó család, de nem tudom, mivel foglalkoztak.

A mellettünk lakó Olaszné járt hozzánk, viszonylag sokat beszélgettek anyámmal, és kölcsönkért ezt meg azt. Aztán meg az anyám ment oda, és kért kölcsön, ha éppen nekünk nem volt. Pénzt is, időnként előfordult, hogy két pengőt kért, azzal, hogy a jövő héten megadja. Ha tudott, adott, ha nem tudott, nem adott. Az 1930-as években Olasz Gábor volt a barátom. Teljesen asszimilálódott népség voltunk, és Olaszék a maguk szintjén be is fogadtak bennünket, mert ugyanolyan nyomorban voltak, mint mi. Anyám nem volt buta. Tanulatlan volt, ez kétségtelen, de a négy polgárival tudott helyesen írni-olvasni. Semmilyen idegen nyelvet nem beszélt, de számolni, összeadni, szorozni, kivonni tudott, és volt humorérzéke.

Anyám ha volt pénze, kiment a Klauzál téri piacra, de nem a hentestől vásárolt, hanem csak élő csirkét vett, és azt bevitte a Pesti Izraelita Hitközséghez. Ott volt a sakter, az levágta a csirkét. Ennek két oka volt, egyrészt egy vallási, rituális oka, másrészt ő soha nem tudta volna egy csirke nyakát elvágni. Anyám nem dolgozott egészen 1938-ig. Akkor apámat behívták katonának Vácra. Ezt énekelték, ahogy masíroztak: A nagy váci temető / honvéd baka sírja benne az első, / sírja körül hat szobalány, / szűk szoknyája reped a farán, / köztük van az én rózsám, / három arany gyűrű csillog az ujján.

A család kapott valamit, de mert zsidó volt, a zsidótörvény [lásd: zsidótörvények Magyarországon] miatt még 1938-ban vagy 1939-ben áttették a hadseregből munkaszolgálatosnak, és akkor a család már nem kapott semmit [A családi segély elméletileg zsidóknak is járhatott, a gyakorlatban azonban a jogosultság, rászorultság megállapításánál szigorúbban jártak el. Hivatalos korlátozások is voltak: pl. az 1941. július 8-i, valamint az augusztus 12-i HM körrendelet szerint a zsidó munkaszolgálatosok hozzátartozói rendkívüli szolgálat (fegyvergyakorlat) esetén is csak a rendes családi segélyben voltak részesíthetők. Az 1942: XIV. tc. (a honvédelemről szóló 1939: II. tc., valamint az 1914–1918. évi világháború tűzharcosai érdemeinek elismeréséről, 1938. IV. tc. módosításáról és kiegészítéséről) szerint a meghalt (fogságba esett, eltűnt, megrokkant) közszolgálati alkalmazottaknak járó ellátás (19. §.) a munkaszolgálatosokra, ill. hozzátartozóikra (a honvédelmi özvegyekre és árvákra) is vonatkozott. Tehát ők a hadiözvegyekhez és árvákhoz hasonlóan hadigondozási járulékban részesülhettek. Hadipótlékot viszont e szerint csak tűzharcosok (tényleges frontszolgálatot teljesítők) hozzátartozói kaphattak. Az 1943. április 7-én kelt 23000/eln. 22. g. – 1943. sz. HM körrendelet biztosította a hadisegélyhez való jogot a bevonult zsidó munkaszolgálatosok családtagjai (feleség, gyerekek, szülők) számára. Igazolni kellett, hogy az eltartó kiesése miatt veszélybe került a megélhetésük (a limit családonként Budapesten havi 120 P volt). Nem járt segély a póttartalékos, ill. rendes katonaidejüket töltő személyek hozzátartozóinak. Ez nem vonatkozott az 1942. november 25. előtt bevonultakra. Utóbbi megszorítást 1943. november 24-én (83000/eln. 22. g. – 1943) szüntették meg. – A szerk.]. Akkor valamit csinálnia kellett, mert etetni kellett a gyerekét és saját magát. Anyám egyik nővére, Jolán varrt, de nem ruhákat, hanem klottgatyákat magyar falusiaknak. Fekete rövidnadrág, amit alsónadrágnak használtak, de amikor meleg volt, abban arattak. Anyám nővére betanította anyámat klottgatyát varrni. Lábbal kellett hajtani a gépet. Weingarten úrnak, aki ortodox zsidó volt, a Rumbach Sebestyén utcában volt üzlete. Egyebek mellett klottgatyákat varratott. Ott kapott anyám munkát. Amit kiszabtak, anyám otthon megvarrta. Négy vagy öt fillért kapott egy nadrág varrásáért. Ha reggel ötkor fölkelt, és este nyolcig, tízig dolgozott, akkor egy nap alatt megvarrt száz klottgatyát, és ezért kapott négy vagy öt pengőt. De nem volt mindig munka. Emlékszem, hogy bementünk az üzletbe, anyám mondta, hogy Weingarten úr, nézze, a fiamnak ennivaló kell, tudna nekem valamennyit adni. És akkor megsajnálták, és adtak ötven vagy száz nadrágra valót. Amikor viszont volt munka, akkor éjjel-nappal dolgozott. Aki az anyagot kiadta, az megbízott benne, hogy nem fogja elrontani, és időre visszaviszi. Amikor szezon volt, akkor hétfőn adtak kétszáz darabot, aminek szerda délután négy órára készen kellett lenni.

Ebből kellett kifizetni az ötvenpengős lakbért meg enni meg fűteni. A konyhában volt egy régi sparhert. Ezt a sparhertet télen bevittük a szobába. Ott lehetett főzni is, meg egyúttal melegített is. Én valamelyik sarokban ültem, és csináltam a leckémet. A lakás két szobából, előszobából, konyhából állt, és volt vécé meg spejz. Fürdőszoba nem volt. A stabil jövedelem az volt, hogy az egyik szobát kiadtuk albérlőnek. Egymásba nyíló szobák voltak. Az albérlő, Palásti úr és a felesége átjárt rajtunk, mert ők a belső szobában laktak, mi a külsőben. Palásti úr a Pesti Magyar Kereskedelmi Bankban vagy a Hitelbankban volt hivatalszolga. Ha éjjel ki kellett mennie vécére, akkor átment rajtunk. A konyhában pedig egy ágyrajáró volt, az csak este jöhetett, és reggel ment. Az volt a Klapka Fehér János, aki a Klauzál téri csarnokban egy fűszerüzletben volt segéd. Amennyire emlékszem, jópofa pasas volt. Öten laktunk abban a lakásban. A fürdés, mosdás, tisztálkodás eléggé nehéz, komplikált história volt, mert melegíteni kellett vizet, és csak lavór volt. Fürdőbe is lehetett menni, de az pénzbe került. Ezek egyszerű emberek voltak. Emlékszem, Palástiné azt mondta egyszer, hogy a kommunizmus azt jelenti, ami a tied, az az enyém is, ami az enyém, ahhoz neked semmi közöd. Palástiéknak volt valami papírjuk valami erdélyi rokon menekültről, amivel 1944-ben lehetett volna menteni, de nem adták nekünk oda, hanem eladták valaki másnak, egy másik zsidó családnak, aki tudott fizetni.

Budapesten lakott anyám testvére, Jenő, akinek egy kis lyuk fűszerüzlete volt. Egy évben háromszor vagy négyszer elmentünk hozzájuk, ami nagy esemény volt, mert ott kaptunk süteményt. Sokkal jobb körülmények között éltek. Jenő elég izmos ember volt, a krumpliszsákokat tudta vinni a hátán. Jenő bácsi és a felesége hozzánk nem jöttek, mi nem tudtuk vendégül látni, valamivel megkínálni őket, és nálunk amúgy is albérlők voltak. Ő fűszeres volt, neki egyszerűbb volt valami kis süteményt meg teát adni, és nem voltak albérlői sem. A Csengery utcában laktak egy kétszobás lakásban.

Anyámnak két nővére volt még Pesten. Jolán, aki betanította a varrásra, és bevitte Weingarten úrhoz, és Riza, aki ennek a templomi énekesnek, Gyula bácsinak volt a felesége. Ernő Szegeden volt, Viktor valahol a Felvidéken. Nem volt különösebb kapcsolat. És apám családjával sem. Anyámnak volt egy kisebbségi érzése, mert a Felvidékről jött, és palócosan beszélt. Emiatt úgy érezte, hogy kicsúfolják, kinevetik a háta mögött. Erről szó se volt, de ő így érezte apám családjával szemben, akik pesti kiejtéssel beszéltek magyarul. Volt még az Adolf bácsi, a nagyapa testvére, akihez időnként mentem, hogy a lakbért ki tudjuk fizetni. Ő egy nagyvállalatnál volt tisztviselő. Volt még valami rokona apámnak, de soha nem volt semmilyen kapcsolat. Ők se kerestek minket. Talán jobb körülmények között éltek, és a szegény rokont nem nagyon preferálják az emberek.

Mi nem hívhattunk vendéget, mert amikor hazajött az albérlő, jó estét kívánt, és átment a szobán. Aztán kiment a konyhába kezet mosni, mert ott benn evett valamit, utána kiment a vécére. Ezt nem lehetett. Amikor már nagyobb voltam, szégyelltem az osztálytársaimat elhívni hozzánk. Az egyetlen dolog, ami az anyámat érdekelte, hogy előteremtse a jövő havi lakbért. Meg hogy honnan fog nekem kabátot venni? Nyolc üzletbe mentünk be a Kazár utcában, és alkudott, mint egy kofa, végül nagy keservesen kaptam egy télikabátot. Kicsit nagy volt, de majd belenő a gyerek. Nem lehet olyat venni, ami jó. Hamar kinövi. A legolcsóbb zoknit vette, aminek már a harmadik, negyedik nap kilyukadt a sarka. Stoppolásra nincs idő, varrni kell a klottgatyákat. Édes kisfiam, húzd le a zokni sarkát, hogy leérjen a sarkad alá, és akkor nem látszik ki a lyuk. És újságpapírt tettünk a cipőbe, ha nagy volt. Énekelt a nyomor, ahogy József Attila írja az egyik versében, körülbelül az volt. [József Attilának ilyen sora nincs, az interjúalany valószínűleg Ady Endre „Álmodik a nyomor” című versére asszociált. – A szerk.]

A játékaimat magam találtam ki. Dominókat ragasztottam össze. Egy vászoncsíkot vágtam, arra ragasztottam a vízben feloldott liszttel a dominókat. Az elsőnek kettőt tettem a tetejére, ez volt a vonat. Az álmom egy kilencvenhat filléres, fából készült villamos volt, nagyon szép, sárgára festve. Soha nem kaptam meg. Soha. Kilencvenhat fillér egy vagyon volt abban a nyomorban. Igyekeztem az iskolában jó eredményt elérni, mert volt egy ötpengős díj, amit meg lehetett esetleg kapni. A születésnapomra egy narancsot kaptam. A másik álom a Tibi csokoládé volt. Tíz fillérbe került a kis Tibi, és húsz fillérbe a nagy. Én kis Tibit se kaptam soha. Tíz fillér az komoly pénz volt akkor, három tojás ára, mert három fillér volt egy tojás, két vagy három fillér volt egy zsemle.

Hétéves koromban a köröttem lévő világról fogalmam sem volt. Egy osztálytársam,  Tomi, aki ma New Yorkban él, mivel jó tanuló voltam, meghívott a születésnapi zsúrjára. Valami ajándékot kellett vinnem. Azt gondoltam, hogy valami olyat viszek Tominak, amiről én álmodtam, egy húszfilléres Tibit. Megkerestem az apámat valahol, nem emlékszem pontosan, hogyan, és apám adott húsz fillért. Most sem értem, honnan. Megvettem a Tibit, és azt vittem el ajándékba. Én csak jóval később tudtam meg, hogy az apja cukorka- és csokoládé-nagykereskedő volt. Amikor vége volt a zsúrnak, adtak nekem egy csomagot, amiben benne volt az a Tibi, amit én vittem (ez volt a nagy pszichológiai balfogás), és volt még benne egy csomó más csokoládé meg cukor. Emlékszem, szörnyen bántott, hogy az ajándékomat visszaadják, másrészt viszont boldog voltam, hogy ehetek Tibit meg más csokoládét is.

Anyám azt mondta, hogy kisfiam, légy szíves, hozz egy negyed kiló cukrot. Kérem rá a pénzt, erre anyám azt mondta, pénzért a bolond is tud hozni. Menj a Feinl fűszereshez, és mondd meg, hogy írja fel! És ha a Feinl bácsi nem akarja felírni, mert túl sok van már felírva, akkor mondd azt, hogy elmész a Goldstein bácsihoz, mert ott is van cukor. Elmentem, és valahogy végül nagy keservesen szereztem egy negyed kiló cukrot. Egy darabig volt hitel, és amikor anyámnak volt munkája, és sok nadrágot varrt, akkor az volt a probléma, hogy a fűszerest fizesse ki, vagy a lakbért. Nyilvánvaló, hogy a lakbért kellett kifizetni. A ház tulajdonosa Budán lakott. Jómódú zsidók voltak. A házmester néninek kellett minden hónap ötödikéig kifizetni a lakbért, de volt olyan, hogy nem tudtunk fizetni, és anyám tizedikére vagy tizenötödikére szedte össze a pénzt. Odaadta, hogy vigyem el a lakbért a háztulajdonosnak. Villamosról, buszról szó nem lehetett. Tél volt, hideg volt, elgyalogoltam oda, kezemben az ötven pengővel, becsengettem, mondtam, hogy ki vagyok, honnan jöttem, és hogy hoztam a lakbért. Olyan szép lakást máshol nem láttam. Két idősebb nő volt ott, nővérek. Mondták, hogy tegyem oda le. Letettem, köszöntem és eljöttem, elszaladtam. Nagyon rosszul éreztem magam.

Mivel decemberi születésű vagyok, egy évet veszítve, 1937-ben kerültem a Pesti Izraelita Hitközség Elemi Iskolájába, a Wesselényi utca 44-be. Nem tudom, ki íratott be oda, valószínűleg anyám. Apám nem ellenezte, különösebben nem érdekelte. Ez egy jó hírű, jó nevű iskola volt. Bilinszkynek hívták az igazgatót, aki nagy cserkész volt. Az első három évben egy Kolman Kálmán nevű tanítóm volt. Akkor még nem volt úgy elnőiesedve az oktatás, mint most. Az osztályban lehettünk huszonnyolc-harmincan. Az egyik osztálytársamat úgy hívták, hogy Berkovics, ma Berend T. Iván néven közismert, a Magyar Tudományos Akadémia elnöke volt, most az USA-ban egyetemi tanár. Voltak tehetséges gyerekek, nálam jóval tehetségesebbek. Megtanítottak írni, olvasni. Analitikus módszerrel tanítottak. Egyszer az volt a feladat, hogy egy tízszer tíz centiméteres újságot ki kellett vágni, aláhúzni az „a” betűket, és azt bevinni. Hányat ismert fel, és hányat hagyott ki a gyerek. 1941-ben fejeztem be a négy elemit, utána ugyanott, a Pesti Izraelita Hitközség Polgári Iskolájába mentem tovább. A polgáriban egészen kiváló tanárok voltak. Gombos tanár úr például krétával olyan jól tudott célozni, hogy gyakrabban eltalálta a gyereket, mint nem. Olyan tekintélye volt, hogy csoda. Az egyedüli nő rajzot és éneket tanított. Németül is tanultam, de azt nem mondhatom, hogy beszélek németül, csak nagyon gyengén. Az osztálytársaim közül, akire emlékszem: Grünbaum Laci, vele Párizsban találkoztam a második világháború után. Schenker Pista, akinek az apja asztalos volt, és azt hiszem, az asztalosműhelyét örökölte. Ezek voltak a barátaim. Az egyik a Síp utcában lakott, ugyanolyan lakásban, mint mi. Fürdőszoba, melegvíz nélkül, ez volt az asztalosmester. A másik a Kazinczy utcában lakott szintén ugyanolyan lakásban, mint mi, és gombfociztunk. Mi ragasztottuk össze és csiszoltuk a gombokat, voltak csatárok, és volt a védelem. Óriási gombfocimeccsek voltak. Ez volt a szórakozás. Könyveket sem a Grünbauméknál, sem a Schenker Pistáéknál nem láttam. Nálunk sem voltak. Az apám újságot olvasott időnként, de könyvet nem, az nem volt, honnan lett volna? Az pénzbe került. A csokoládé-nagykereskedő fiával nem barátkoztam, messze magasan fölöttem állt, nagyon okos volt a fiú. Berkoviccsal sem, ő is egy más kategória volt.

Jó iskola volt, csak jó emlékem maradt róla. Fúiskola volt, nem vegyes iskola. Volt lány polgári is, a másik oldalon, ha jól emlékszem. Tizenhárom-tizennégy évesen csak bámultuk a lányokat. Fogalmunk se volt az életről. Anyámhoz nem fordulhattam, apám meg már nem volt otthon. Még a második világháború után is, amikor tizenhat-tizenhét évesek voltunk, Schenker Pista, aki most Kanadában él, azt mondta nekem, hogy te, ide figyelj, itt van az a lány, egy szép kislány volt, te vond el a figyelmét, én azalatt megsimogatom a combját. Ennyire fogalmunk nem volt az életről. Neki se volt apja.

Semmit sem fogtunk fel. Éltünk a magunk kis kreclijében, és gombfociztunk. Fel sem merült, hogy háború van. Egyszer a polgári iskolában az igazgató behozta az osztályba Löwit. Löwi német gyerek volt, Németországból menekültek Ausztrián keresztül Magyarországra, aztán innen mentek tovább, mert pénzért még el lehetett jutni Románián keresztül valahová. Löwi egy kukkot nem tudott magyarul. Az igazgató bemutatta, és azt mondta, segítsetek neki, nem tud magyarul. Lengyelországból is jöttek. Nálunk is lakott két nő, zsidó menekültek, cionisták, gondolom. A hitközségen keresztül találtak meg minket. Anyám azt mondta nekik, itt aludhattok egy hétig, de aztán menni kell, ki kell adnia a konyhát. A konyhában aludtak, mert éppen nem volt ágyrajáró. Az első nap nem tudták leoltani a villanyt. Kiálló villanykapcsoló volt, mutogatott, próbálta csavarni, és én mutattam meg neki, hogy a nyelvét kell föl- és lekattintani. Eszembe sem jutott, hogy úgy nézzek rájuk, hogy ők is zsidók, én is zsidó vagyok. Nem, én magyar vagyok. Ők nem magyarok, nem magyar állampolgárok, semmi keresnivalójuk nincs itt. Menjenek vissza oda, ahonnan jöttek. Az eszembe sem jutott, hogy megölik őket. Honnan vette volna egy tizenkét-tizenhárom éves gyerek azt a gondolatot, hogy embereket csak úgy megölnek?! Eszembe nem jutott. Senki fel nem fogta, hogy itt miről van szó. El nem tudták képzelni.

1940-ben vagy 1941-ben, miután a Felvidéket visszacsatolták [A Felvidéket az első bécsi döntéssel csatolták vissza 1938-ban; 1940-ben Észak-Erdély került vissza a második bécsi döntéssel. – A szerk.], Csatán nyaraltam. Csatán volt a nagyapám kocsmáros korábban, mindenki nagyon szerette őt. Anyám nagyon jóban volt egy Kulucsi Boskó becenevű parasztemberrel, akik feljöttek Pestre, látták, hogy sápadt vagyok és sovány, mire azt mondták, hogy ők majd rendbe hoznak engem. Elvittek oda nyaralni. Mindennel elláttak. Nagyon szerettem annál a parasztháznál a háziállatokat, és imádtam a Garamban fürödni. Akkor nyaraltam életemben másodszor. Annál a parasztcsaládnál voltam két vagy három hétig. Csata egy kis falu volt. Nem hiszem, hogy laktak zsidók abban a faluban. Egy-két család talán.

Apám munkaszolgálatos volt. Először Erdélyben, Déván vasutat épített, onnan leszerelt 1940-ben vagy 1941-ben [A Hunyad vm.-ben lévő Déva a trianoni békekötést követően Romániához került, és lévén Dél-Erdélyben, a második bécsi döntés nem érintette. F. N. apja valószínűleg a Déda–szeretfalvi vasútépítésre került 1941-ben munkaszolgálatosként. – A szerk.]. Amikor visszajött, valahol még pincérkedett, és ez a könyvügynökség is akkor volt. A zsidó könyvkiadónál, az OMIKE-nél dolgozott, és zsidó családokhoz járt, nekik próbált könyvet eladni. Voltak, akik vettek, voltak, akik nem. Néhány hétig, néhány hónapig otthon volt, és akkor újra jött a behívója. SAS-behívót kapott. A zsidók közt azt mondták, hogy Siess Adolfnak Segíteni. Sürgősségi behívó, és azon mindenfélék voltak írva, hogy amennyiben elmulasztja, akkor kiheréljük, felkoncoljuk, felnégyeljük [SAS-behívó – névre szóló katonai behívóparancs (hivatalos nevén: behívójegy) volt a második világháborúban a nem tényleges állományúak számára. A posta expresszküldeményként kezelte, címzettje köteles volt 48 órán belül bevonulni a kijelölt helyre. Nevét az első szavak: "Sürgős, azonnal siess" kezdőbetűinek összeolvasásából kapta. – A szerk.]. Jelentkezett. Ma már mindenki tudja, hogy ezek mögött volt egy ilyen ördögi machináció, hogy a férfiakat leválasszák a nőkről, gyerekekről. Amikor a deportálások elindultak, ott, azokban a falvakban, városokban fiatal zsidó férfi nem volt. Nem mintha ellenálltak volna, eszükbe sem volt, elhitték a maszlagot, de nem volt senki, aki felvilágosította volna őket. Utána mikor Budapestre került, azt hiszem, egyszer kapott még kimenőt, hazajött, aztán visszament végleg. Nagyon keveset mesélt közben. Dolgozunk. Jól vagyunk. Ennyi 1944-ben. Apám nyugodtan maradhatott volna velünk a védett házban, de eszébe nem jutott, mert a parancs szerint ő munkaszolgálatos, a Magyar Királyi Honvédség keretén belül. Sokan voltak így. Később, a Szálasi alatt [lásd: Szálasi Ferenc] állítólag az apám azt mondta, megpróbálna elszökni, de nem tud, mert nincs rendes cipője, bakancsa, így az első nyilas rögtön felkoncolná, ha meglátja, hogy kapcarongyokba csavart lábbal megy [A munkaszolgálatosok ugyanis saját ruhát, saját lábbelit voltak kénytelenek viselni, nem kaptak a honvédségtől egyenruhát. – A szerk.]. Utolsó lapján, amiben lényegében elbúcsúzott, azt írja anyámnak: „Ha Isten megtart titeket, nevelj a fiamból egy istenfélő, becsületes embert. Sírig hű aputok.” Körülbelül ez volt a szöveg. Senki nem mondta meg, hogy mire megy ki a játék. Horthy meg a magyar vezetőség rég tudott Auschwitzról [lásd pl. Auschwitzi Jegyzőkönyv]. A csendőri jelentések azt írják, hogy jelentem, hogy letartóztattunk egy 1939-ben született személyt – egy ötéves gyereket –, de voltak hetven évesek is, akiknél ugyanaz a standard szöveg, hogy átadtuk a németeknek németországi munkára. Milyen munkavégzésre? Ez nem tűnt fel senkinek?!

A Grand Hotelben, ahol az apám dolgozott, én is dolgoztam 1941-ben vagy 1942-ben, mert kijött egy olyan rendelet, hogy a háború támogatására bélyeget kell ragasztani az éttermi számlára. Volt egy sötét ruhám, kis táskám meg egy kalauz-lyukasztóm. Amikor a vendég fizetett a főúrnak, akkor odaálltam, a főúr bemondta, hogy hat pengő nyolcvan, és én gyorsan kiszámoltam, hogy arra harmincnégy filléres bélyeg kell. Ráragasztottam a számlára, kilyukasztottam, és én is kaptam borravalót, amit megengedtek, hogy megtarthatok. Ez nem sokáig tartott, mert kiderült, hogy nem dolgozhatok, mert a törvények nem teszik lehetővé, hogy egy tizenegy-tizenkét éves gyerek este dolgozzon.

Jártam a polgáriba, anyám pedig varrt. A németek bevonulásáig, 1944. március tizenkilencedikéig [lásd: Magyarország német megszállása] ez volt a jövedelemforrásunk. A német bevonulásra emlékszem. A németek a Duna parton masíroztak. Rendkívül imponáló volt, énekeltek, nagyon jól. Negyedikes voltam, utolsó éves. Rövidített tanév volt, mert a németek miatt korábban befejezték.

Először a sárga csillag viselése volt kötelező, aztán jött a kijárási tilalom. Mi abba a Rumbach Sebestyén utcai zsidó házba [lásd: csillagos ház] kerültünk, ahol anyám nővérének, a Rizának volt a szoba-konyhás lakása. A nagynéném férje, a Friedman Feledi Gyula akkor már halott volt. Zsidók az utcára nem mehettek ki csak délelőtt tizenegytől délután kettőig. Akkor kellett bevásárolni, dolgokat intézni a sárga csillaggal. Aztán ezt meghosszabbították: délelőtt kilenctől délután ötig [A pontos „órabeosztást illetően lásd: kijárási tilalom Budapesten. – A szerk.]. Én mint futár kerestem valami kis pénzt a Síp utcai zsidó tanácsnál. Volt egy fényképes futárigazolványom, ami német és magyar nyelven volt kiállítva. Adtak egy biciklit, és ezzel hordtam ki leveleket a városban. Volt egy kalandom, máig nem felejtettem, bár semmit nem jelentett azokhoz az atrocitásokhoz képest, amik történtek. Tizenhárom-tizennégy éves voltam, és akkor találkoztam ilyenfajta igazságtalansággal először. Biciklivel mentem valahol Óbudán, és egy suhanc állt az út közepén. Ahogy elbicikliztem mellette, ököllel úgy hátba vágott, hogy elakadt a lélegzetem, és azt mondta, hogy rohadt, büdös zsidó. Alig tudtam továbbmenni, szóval valami olyan igazságtalanságnak éreztem, miért üt ez engem meg. Nem is ismer, semmit nem csináltam, nem vétettem se neki, se másnak. Akkor realizáltam, hogy az igazolvány se ér sokat. Lakott a házunkban egy templomszolga, aki nem volt zsidó, mert pénteken le kell oltani a villanyt. Ott lakott a földszinten, járt neki egy szolgálati lakás a hitközségtől. Ki volt téve az ajtóra egy nagy cetli, hogy itt nem zsidók laknak. Ha bejött valaki a házba, őket békén hagyták, mert nem zsidók. Bennünket már kevésbé.

Emlékszem 1944. október tizenötödikére, a Horthy-féle proklamációra, amit a rádióban beolvastak. Utána azt hittük, vége az egész cirkusznak, de akkor jött Szálasi, és a nyilasok átvették a hatalmat. Valahogy bekeveredtünk a Nemzetközi Vöröskereszt védelme alatt lévő házba, a Csanády utcában. De hogy kerültünk ide, és hogy kaptunk ilyen menlevelet, azt nem tudom. Nem emlékszem, ki szerezte. Nem sokat ért, de hát az is valami.

November végén lehetett. [Délután] ötig lehetett kint lenni, és mentem haza a Csanády utcába. Bocskai-kabátom volt, ilyen sújtásos télikabát, és azon volt a sárga csillag [Bocskai-kabát – az 1930-as években divatos ruhadarab, szürke vagy fekete szövetből, fekete zsinórdíszítéssel. A Bocskai-ruha viselése, mely tipikusan a magyar középosztályra jellemző, jelzi az asszimiláció sikerét. – A szerk.]. A Margit híd már fel volt robbantva [1944. november 4-én robbant fel az aláaknázott Margit híd baleset következtében. – A szerk.]. A Szent István körút 2. előtt mentem el, ami egy nyilasház volt, de én nem tudtam. Kint álltak a nyilasok, és azt mondták, hogy tessék bemenni a házba, igazoltatás van. Bementem a házba, ott egy csomó más emberrel együtt lezavartak a pincébe, semmi papírt nem kértek. A pincében megpofoztak. Bődületes pofonokat kaptam, zúgott a fülem. Voltak ott öregek, gyerekek, nők, férfiak. Volt egy ember, aki állandóan arról beszélt, hogy ő amerikai állampolgár, és tiltakozik. De hát fütyültek rá, kit érdekelt. Az egész társaságot felvitték az udvarra. Az udvar négyszögletes volt, elöl a szép lépcső, hátul meg a cselédlépcső. Valami szenet kellett hordani, és szóltak, hogy valaki menjen föl. Én rögtön jelentkeztem, mert gondoltam, valahogy meg lehet szökni. Arról, hogy a Dunába lövik az embereket, fogalmam nem volt [lásd: zsidók Dunába lövése]. Csak az izgatott, hogy anyám vár, és izgul, hogy mi van velem. Volt ott egy munkaszolgálatos, őt kérdeztem, hogy lehet megszökni. Azt mondta, hogy innen nem lehet megszökni. Nincs kiút. Nos, felhordtam a szenet, és akkor visszaküldtek az udvarra. Az udvar és a kapu között, ahol ki lehetett menni, nyilas őrök álltak velünk szemben. Mondtam, hogy vécére kell mennem. Hátul, a cselédlépcső mellett voltak a vécék. Odamentem, és láttam, hogy hátulról nem őrzik a társaságot. Úgyhogy visszamentem a sorba, utána újra hátramentem, ott letéptem a csillagot, a sapkámat a zsebembe dugtam, ne nézzek ki egyáltalán zsidónak. Levettem a cipőmet, és mezítláb, zokniban fölmentem a melléklépcsőn az első emeletre. Ott fölvettem a cipőt, kihúztam magam, és a gangon végigmentem az első lépcsőhöz, ahol lejöttem az udvarra, és ezzel a zsidókat őrző nyilasok háta mögött voltam már. A kapunál is álltak nyilas őrök, de ott kijöttem azzal, hogy „Kitartás! Éljen Szálasi!”. Még arra is gondoltam, hogy úristen, inkább balra fordulok, a város felé, mert jobbra a híd nincs meg, gyanús lehet, ha arra megyek. Kijöttem, s mint egy öntudatos fiatal magyar nyilas, döngő léptekkel elindultam a Nyugati felé. Aztán az első utcán befordultam, és akkor ott elkezdtem futni. Loholtam hazáig, így úsztam meg. Azt hiszem, azokat, akik ott voltak, a Dunába lőtték. Így maradtam életben.

Karácsonykor rendőrök vittek be minket a gettóba. A rendőröknek Magyarországon volt egy azonosító számuk, az övükön lévő fémcsaton. Minden rendőr rátette a kesztyűjét, hogy ne lehessen tudni, hogy ki kicsoda, ne lehessen őket később megtalálni. Mielőtt beengedtek volna bennünket a gettóba, először megfenyegettek mindenkit, hogy aranyat, pénzt, gyűrűt, ékszert le kell adni. És ugyanakkor a hátunk mögött, a pincéből jöttek ilyen hangok, hogy muszosok vagyunk, adják ide hátra, a nyilasok úgyis elveszik maguktól, agyonlövik magukat, ha aranyat találnak maguknál, adják ide, mi eldugjuk, és majd visszaadjuk. Ilyen figurák. Nekünk nem volt semmink.

A gettóban a Nagydiófa utcai lakásunkba mentünk vissza, ahol akkor már ötven-hatvan ember volt. Oda befogadtak. Így aludtunk egymáson. Ennivaló nem volt. Kemény éhezés volt. Kukoricamálét meg kását osztogattak, de mi abból sose kaptunk semmit. Próbálták megszervezni, de semmiből se volt elég.

Voltak harcok a gettóban is. Egy német katona, aki a szemközti kapuban állt, amikor ki akartam menni, rám kiabált, hogy menjek vissza. Lelőhetett volna. Ennivaló nem volt, mentek az emberek, és az utcán heverő lótetemből vagdostak. Mi nem csináltuk, és nem tudom, hogy mit és hol ettünk. A Kazinczy utcában volt egy rituális fürdő [mikve], oda hordták a hullákat. A Klauzál téren is tárolták a hullákat, és ha jól emlékszem, a mi házunkban is volt egy lakás, ahová behordták a nálunk meghaltakat. Tél volt, ezek a holttestek megfagytak. [Légitámadáskor] az óvóhely tömve volt, nem lehetett bemenni. Voltak emberek, akik lementek az óvóhely melletti fáspincébe. Mi is ott voltunk, és egy idő után azt mondtam anyunak, hogy menjünk fel, ez elviselhetetlen, menjünk fel a lakásba. A miénk egy földszinti lakás volt. Aztán a háznak arra a részére, ahol a pince volt, bomba esett, beomlott, és akik ott voltak, azok meghaltak. Mi életben maradtunk, mert feljöttünk. Nem lehetett tudni, hogy mi a jó. Nem lehetett okosnak lenni.

A második világháborúnak úgy lett vége, hogy egyszer csak teljesen idegen nyelvű, idegen egyenruhás emberek jöttek, akik azt mondták, hogy „nyemecki jeszty?”. Valaki, aki tudott valamit szlovákul, az mondta, hogy nincs német, és akkor mentek tovább. 1945. január tizennyolcadikán szabadította fel a Szovjet Vörös Hadsereg a gettót. Egy öreg, ukrán paraszt katona letépte rólam a sárga csillagot, és a földhöz vágta. Kiszakadt a kabátom, hát istenem. Hogy hogyan éltük túl az első néhány hónapot, mit ettünk, fogalmam sincs. Abban a lakásban maradtunk, ahol voltunk a gettóban, amelyik a mi bérlakásunk volt. Apám nem volt, anyámmal voltunk ketten a Nagydiófa utcai lakásban. Anyám vékonyra lefogyva. Eszünkbe nem jutott, hogy bárhova is elmozduljunk. Anyám mindig azt mondta, hogy ha hazajön az Imre, az apám, akkor itt fog keresni, itt kell maradni. Mindenki hitt, és remélte, hátha a hozzátartozója túlélte. Voltak csodák. Volt olyan, hogy valaki betámolygott lerongyolódva, toprongyosan és tetvesen. Túlélte. Volt ilyen zsidók és nem zsidók között is. Rettenetesen vártam, hogy visszajöjjön az apám. Nem jött vissza. Aztán találkoztam valakivel, aki ismerte. Mert amikor az ember látott ilyen embereket az utcán, odament és kérdezősködött. És az egyik mondta, hogy az apád meghalt Engerauban. 1944. november huszonnyolcadikán vagonírozták be őket, és átadták az osztrákoknak. Ott tankcsapdát építettek, végül aztán az osztrák népfelkelők kivitték őket a temetőbe, megásatták velük a sírjukat, és belegépfegyverezték őket. Néhányról lehet pontosan tudni, hogy ki, de a többségnél nem volt okmány, nem volt semmi. 1945-ben, 1946-ban kezdtem keresni, hol van Engerau. Senki nem tudta megmondani, hogy hol van. 2001-ben vagy 2002-ben egy pozsonyi rokonom férjével beszélgetve megemlítettem Engerau nevét, és mondták, hogy az itt van Pozsony mellett, Pozsonyliget [Ligetfalu (Engerau) – Pozsony mellett fekvő kis falu, korábban főleg német és horvát nemzetiségű lakosai voltak. Ma Pozsony egyik városrésze (Petržalka). – A szerk.]. Kiderült, hogy ott van egy nagy tömegsír, körülbelül kétszáz-háromszáz ember, magyar muszosok, akiket valamikor 1945 telén lőttek agyon. Elmentem a hitközségre, és az archívumukból kiderült, hogy az apám százada valóban odakerült, ott lőtték agyon, és ebben a sírban van. Engeraut a második világháború környékén Ausztriához, illetve a Német Birodalomhoz csatolták, aztán a háború után visszacsatolták Csehszlovákiához, majd később Szlovákia része lett. Egészen véletlenül megtaláltuk az apámat.

1945 tavaszán Ernő bácsi [anyja testvére] feljött Pestre. Négy napig utazott, vonatközlekedés mint olyan nem volt. Levitt Szegedre, ott volt ennivaló, és sokkal biztonságosabb volt, mint Pest. Szegedre nem akartak beengedni, mert volt egy polgárőrség, amely Szeged városát védte, de aztán sikerült bejutnunk. Néhány hetet ott maradtam. Ernő bácsiék egy szobakonyhás bérlakásban laktak, vécé a folyosó végén balra. Volt egy szörnyű élményem: kimentem a vécére, és egy nagy patkány jött fel a vécén. Üvöltöttem, mint akit nyúznak, úgy megijedtem. Most is emlékszem rá. Arra nem emlékszem, hogyan kerültem vissza Pestre. Valaki visszavitt. Ernő továbbra is énekelt a Szegedi Színházban, Mariska néni otthon volt, és nevelték Éva lányukat. Éva kereskedelmit [föltehetően felső kereskedelmit; lásd: kereskedelmi iskolák] végzett, ami nagy dolog volt már akkor. Ebben a családban főiskolát egyedül én végeztem. Most van valami kapcsolat közöttünk, de korábban minden tíz-tizenöt évben egyszer eljöttek Pestre valamely oknál fogva, és akkor meglátogattak bennünket. Mi soha nem mentünk Szegedre. Az 1940–50-es években miért mentünk volna Szegedre?! Sokba került a közlekedés. A Jenő bácsihoz sem nagyon mentünk, ő a Csengery utcában, a Nyugatinál lakott. A két nagynénim, Jolán és Riza a Király és a Rumbach Sebestyén utcában laktak, de őket sem nagyon látogattuk. Ez egy rém egyszerű család. Itt nem voltak kiemelkedő tehetségek. Itt csupa egyszerű, szegény vagy még szegényebb, nyomorban élő vagy még nagyobb nyomorban élő ember volt. 1947-ben nem tudtunk felkelni, mert nem volt mit enni, és nem volt mivel befűteni a kályhát. Tél volt, és ott töltöttem a dunyha alatt az egész napot, mert fáztam. A lakáson belül megfagyott a víz a pohárban.

Voltak olyan gondolataim, hogy szívesen elmennék, itt hagynám az egészet úgy, ahogy van. A borzasztó élmények tömege eredményezte, hogy úgy éreztem, ez az ország engem elárult. De anyám nem volt hajlandó megmozdulni, mert azt mondta, hogy akkor én nem tudom, hogy hol fogok lefeküdni, álomra hajtani a fejem. Itt van az én rekamiém, itt van az én kuckóm a szobámban. Így maradtunk.

Hozzánk soha nem jött senki. Én nem akartam. Szégyelltem. Mindig én mentem Schenkerékhez, akik a Víg utcában laktak. Schenkeréknek már volt egy lakásuk, ahol volt fürdőszoba, meleg víz, bojler. Fantasztikus. Telefon ott se volt. „Kezét csókolom, Schenker néni, itthon van a Pista?” – ez volt a szöveg. Akkor beszólt, hogy Pista, itt van N. Összejöttünk. Barkochbáztunk, kézilabdáztunk, amennyire lehetett. Azt se tudtuk, hogy kell. Mi határoztuk meg a szabályokat. Schenker Pistának volt pénze. Elmentünk moziba, aki nem tudott fizetni, annak Schenker Pista vette meg a jegyet. Én viszonylag keveset voltam velük, mert nekem valamit mindig dolgozni kellett. Például kocsikísérő segédmunkás voltam. Csak az volt a baj, hogy rosszul voltam táplálva, gyenge voltam, és inkább a sofőr rakta le a vegyi anyagokat a festéküzletekben, mert én nem bírtam. Persze ez nem is ment túl sokáig. 1946-ban különbözeti vizsgát tettem, és magánúton a Kölcsey Gimnáziumban tanultam tovább, és iskola mellett továbbra is dolgoztam mindenfélét, a lehető leglehetetlenebb dolgokat.

Segédmunkás voltam a Szikra Nyomdában, ami a kommunista párté volt. Egy cingár tizenhét éves fiú, mint amilyen akkor én voltam, nem tudott megmozdítani sem, nemhogy gurgatni mázsás újságpapírhengereket. Fölhívattak az irodába, és azt mondták, hogy lenne a számomra más munka náluk a szerkesztőségben, az irodában. Valamennyit tudtam angolul, helyesen írtam, olvastam, volt már hat vagy hét gimnáziumom, de azt mondtam, köszönöm szépen, én nem vagyok kommunista. Erre azt mondták, jó, köszönjük, akkor menjen vissza a pincébe. Visszamentem a pincébe. Akkor még azt hittem, hogy meg lehet mondani az igazat.

Denis Healey egy zseniális pasas volt, az angol Munkáspárt egyik vezetője, hosszú időn keresztül pénzügyminiszter. Állítólag egyszer azt mondta, hogy ha egy fiatalember húszéves korában nem kommunista, akkor annak baj van a szívével, és ha huszonöt éves korában még mindig kommunista, akkor baj van az eszével. Hát körülbelül ez a folyamat zajlott le nálam is és elég sok barátomnál is. Az elején olyan jól hangzottak ezek a dolgok, hogy a kapitalistákat ki kell sajátítani, elvesszük a vagyont, akkor majd mindenkinek tudnak adni. Az senkinek nem jutott eszébe, legalábbis nagyon kevésnek, hogy annak a nagy vagyonnak jelentős része fikció. Mit jelent, hogy államosítanak például egy képtárat? Hogy ettől a „rohadt” kapitalistától elvesszük a képtárat, amit fenn kell tartani, mert a képtárban kondicionálni kell, télen fűteni, nyáron hűteni, a levegő nedvességét megállapítani, biztosítani kell stb. Mindez rengeteg költséggel jár. Még ha belépti díj van is, akkor sem hoz annyit, amennyibe a fenntartása kerül. Szóval, mit jelent az, hogy kisajátítani, elvenni a vagyont?

1947-ben egy dél-afrikai pasas volt az angoltanárom, és különböző kételyeket ültetett el a fejemben. Mert addig én hittem ebben a kommunista dologban, hogy az gyönyörű lesz, mert a munkások dolgoznak, és mindenkinek több jut. Az angoltanárom kérdéseket tett fel, és én elkezdtem gondolkodni, hogy is van ez. Például 1945 és 1947 között rengeteg ember ki akart vándorolni. Feltűnt nekem, hogy mindenki Amerikába akar menni, senki sem akar a Szovjetunióba menni, pedig ott van a munkások paradicsoma. Aztán láttam, hogy a szovjet vezetők, mint a Vorosilov marsall is, amerikai autókkal jártak. Miért nem szovjet autókkal? Hát hogy van ez? Szóval ilyen kérdéseket tettem fel, de nem hangosan. Baráti körben beszéltünk néhány dologról. Ott is nagyon óvatosan. Csupa zsidó barátom volt. Schenker Pista, aki ma Kanadában van. Juci, aki ma Al Nelson néven New Yorkban él. Rafi, aki egy Népszínház utcai cipészmesternek volt a fia, és aki Kanadában halt meg. Kéri Gyuri, akinek az apja fuvaros volt. Egy teherautója volt, ő volt a sofőr, és ő cipelte, rakta föl meg le a bútort, szállította fel Pestre az élelmet, de 1949-ben persze államosították. Ezek voltak a barátaim. Volt egy-két lány, akikre nem nagyon emlékszem. Jellemző. Az egyik Zsuzsa, aztán később Anita, aki ma Zuglóban él. De furcsa viszony volt a lányokkal, mert senkinek fogalma nem volt, mi az, hogy egy lány. Féltünk is tőlük, tele voltunk kisebbségi érzésekkel, én főleg azért, mert egyetlen ingem volt. Egy hétig hordtam, akkor otthon maradtam, amíg anyám kimosta, aztán újra hordtam. Emlékszem, hogy ebben az időszakban randevúm volt a Nemzetinél [Népszerű randevú-hely volt a korabeli Pesten: a Rákóczi út és a Nagykörút sarkán állt a Nemzeti Színház épülete, amíg 1965-ben le nem bontották, és volt a sarkon egy hirdetőoszlop órával. – A szerk.], és úgy mentem, hogy vittem a táskában a könyveimet, és azt mondtam a lánynak, hogy nem volt időm hazamenni átöltözni. Egy frászt. Nem volt mibe. Egy pár cipőm volt, egy ruhám volt, egy ingem volt, és valami kevés fehérnemű. Hetenként vagy havonta mentem fürdőbe, erre már nem emlékszem. Nyomor a tetőponton és az ezzel járó kisebbségi érzések csimborasszója. Nem tudtam meghívni a lányt egy kávéra, kimentünk a Margit-szigetre sétálni. A körúton is gyalog sétáltunk le, villamosra se volt pénzem. Semmire nem volt pénzem. Amikor egyedül voltam, abból állt az esti program, hogy a körúton elsétáltam a Nyugatiig, aztán visszasétáltam a Wesselényi utcáig a másik oldalon. Nem volt mit csinálni. Szóval nehéz idők voltak.

Már tizenhét-tizennyolc éves voltam, amikor gyerekeket vittünk nyaralnia, a MADISZ, a Magyar Demokratikus Ifjúsági Szövetség szervezésében, mert akkor még nem mondták, hogy kommunisták vagyunk. Nekem valamit fizettek, és nyaraltam is, mert a Balatonba én is bemehettem a gyerekekkel. A gyerekeket fel kell hizlalni, mondták. A szülőket úgy gondolták megfogni, hogy elmegy a gyerek húszkilósan, és visszajön huszonnégy kilósan. Lám, milyen jó ez a kommunizmus, ez az egész szisztéma, népi demokrácia vagy demokrácia, aminek akkor hívták.

1947–1948-ban valamennyit tanultam angolul. Az akkori logikám az volt, hogy azt a kevés pénzt, amit keresek, jobb, ha arra fordítom, hogy angolul tanuljak. De például nem volt karórám. Tudtam, hol vannak a nagy órák Pesten, és a szerint tudtam tájékozódni. Volt egy órám, azt eladtam, hogy ki tudjam fizetni az angol nyelvórát. A logika az volt, hogy ha van pénzem, egy karórát három perc alatt tudok venni, de hiába van pénzem, három perc alatt nem tudok venni egy angol nyelvtudást. Úgyhogy én 1950-ben, mondjuk, iskolás szinten, de elég jól beszéltem angolul. Az akkori magyar viszonyoknak megfelelően jól tudtam, mert viszonylag kevesen tudtak tisztességesen. Ma már természetesen más a helyzet, brit állampolgár vagyok, Angliában éltem és dolgoztam, de itt-ott magyarul is beszéltem. Azt szoktam mondani, hogy magyarul már, angolul még nem tudok. Az érettségire készülve tanultam latint és franciát, jóllehet latinból nem érettségiztem. A francia nyelvtant akkor persze sokkal jobban tudtam, mint ma, de ma sokkal jobban beszélem, mert francia nyelvterületen élek.

Tizennyolc-tizenkilenc évesen voltak ilyen fordítói meg tolmácsolási munkáim is. Kiválasztottak, mondjuk, arra, hogy tolmácsoljak a VIT alkalmával Pesten [Világifjúsági Találkozó (VIT) – az 1945-ben alakult Demokratikus Ifjúsági Világszövetség (DIVSZ), a világ kommunista- és munkáspártjai ifjúsági szervezeteinek nemzetközi szövetsége által szervezett fesztiválsorozat. Az elsőt 1947-ben rendezték Prágában, a másodikat 1949-ben Budapesten. A politikai cél az volt, hogy az egyre erősebb hidegháborús légkörben a Szovjetunió növelhesse és demonstrálhassa befolyását az ifjúság körében. Eleinte kétévente szervezték, 1959-től háromévente, 1968-tól ötévente szervezik. Mai neve: Világifjúsági és Diáktalálkozó. – A szerk.]. Utána megbíztak újra egy tolmácsolással, az ír bokszcsapat mellett voltam. Akik kiválasztottak, azok is körülbelül úgy tudtak angolul, mint én, viszont megbízható elvtársak voltak. Írország olyan távoli ország volt a számomra, hogy először is fogalmam se volt, hogy mi a különbség Írország, Anglia és Skócia között. Nekem mindenki angol volt, aki onnan jött, és ők magyarázták el, hogy ők írek, és ez egy önálló ország. És adtak egy jelvényt. Ezzel a jelvénnyel később volt problémám. Zöld színű ír lóhere-jelvény volt, nagyra becsültem, és elég sokat hordtam. Amikor 1954-ben, huszonnégy évesen életemben először utaztam nyugatra, Brüsszelbe, már üzleti ügyben, akkor is rajtam volt a jelvény. Volt egy utcabál, ahol fölkértem egy lányt táncolni. Tudott valamit angolul, meglátta a jelvényemet, és gondolta, hogy én ír vagyok. Ráhagytam, mert hát ha azt mondom, hogy magyar vagyok, én nem tudom, mi történik. Hogy kerülök oda egy kommunista országból?! Később valahogy odakeveredett egy izompacsirta pasas, és azt mondta, „I’m a real Irish man”. Ő tényleg ír volt, valódi, a kiejtésén lehetett hallani. Én kellőképpen betojtam, és villámgyorsan eltűntem. Ennyi volt a brüsszeli kislánnyal a kaland. Ha kinyitom a szám, kiderül minden.

Tanítottam angolt, ami azért volt jó, mert kulturált körülmények között lehettem. Azon kívül, hogy kifizették az óradíjat, nagyon sokszor megkínáltak, lehetett enni. Már akkor többet tudtam angolul, mint számos mai angoltanárnő a magyar iskolákban. Korrepetáltam matematikát is, nagyon jó voltam matematikából. Egyik család ajánlott a másiknak. Baráti kapcsolat akkor már nagyon kevés volt. Az emberek elkezdtek félni és tartani egymástól. Nem lehetett tudni, hogy ki kicsoda. Volt erről egy történet. Prágában a villamoson ülnek az emberek, és az egyik azt mondja, odanézz, micsoda autó, egy Mercedes! Azt mondja a másik, ugyan kérem, az semmi, nézze meg azt a Tátrát, az az igazi! Erre az egyik, uram, maga nem tud semmit az autókról. Erre a másik, én az autókról mindent tudok, de nem tudok semmit magáról. Az emberek kezdtek bezárkózni 1947–48-ban. Egy más világ jött. Anyám 1948–49-ben olyanokat mondott nekem, hogy kisfiam – tizenkilenc éves voltam –, egy ilyen népi demokráciában egy zsidó fogja be a száját! És milyen igaza volt.

Ne legyen véleményed, vagy ha van, akkor ne mondjad ki, hallgass! Ne vitatkozz, ne kérdezz! Ha kérdezel, akkor vigyázz, hogy mit kérdezel! Ha az egyik elvtárs valamit kérdezett, és a másik elvtársnak nem volt rá válasza, akkor azt mondta, provokatív kérdést tesz föl. Ha viszont nem kérdezett semmit, akkor azt mondták, hogy az elvtárs passzív, nem vesz részt a szeminárium munkájában [Szeminárium – sajátos oktatási forma, ill. kommunikációs alkalom volt a szocializmus évtizedeiben a pártvezetés különböző szintjei és a „dolgozók” között. A munkahelyeken szervezték, többnyire munkaidő után, a részvétel – főleg a diktatúra keményebb éveiben – nemcsak ajánlatos volt, hanem kötelező is. Szerveztek szemináriumot a párttagok ideológiai továbbképzése céljával, értelemszerűen a párttagoknak (és nem csak a részvétel volt kötelező, hanem a megadott brosúrairodalom ismerete is); de szerveztek szemináriumot aktuális (kül- és bel)politikai kérdésekben való eligazításra – az ilyen szemináriumokon illett részt venniük a nem párttagoknak is. – A szerk.]. Amiből az következett, hogyha valakinek egy kis esze volt, ki kellett találni olyan kérdéseket, amikre tudta, hogy a másiknak van válasza. Mert akkor aktív is a szemináriumon, kérdez is, de nem provokatív a kérdés. Nem volt nehéz. Kérdeztem az amerikai imperializmusról, hogy miért csak Afrikában és nem másutt van világhódító törekvése. Mert másutt fél a Szovjetuniótól, volt válasz. Például lehetett olyat kérdezni, hogy miért építünk aknazárat [lásd: határsáv] a határon, arra az volt a válasz, hogy azért, hogy az imperialisták ügynökei ne tudjanak behatolni. De hogy miért nem mehetek én oda, azt már nem lehet megkérdezni. Arra nincs válasz, nem illik bele ebbe a képbe. Nagyon kellett vigyázni, hogy ki mit mond, kivel áll szóba, és hogyan. A DISZ-titkár, aki egy Nyíregyháza mellőli tanyáról följött gyerek volt, azt mondta, hogy ő legszívesebben mindenkit megfojtana, aki autóbuszon utazik, mert az mind burzsoá, kapitalista, osztályidegen, ellenség. Ahonnan jött, ott nem volt autóbusz, legfeljebb szekér. Miután az autóbusz drágább volt, mint a villamos, a villamoson való utazást már elfogadta, de a buszt, azt nem. Az 1950-es években nem volt cukor. Egy időben bevezették az élelmiszerjegyet [lásd: jegyrendszer Magyarországon]. Hogy lehet, hogy nincs cukor? Ilyen imperialista összesküvés, hogy már cukor sincs. Már rögtön benne volt az, hogy valaki mást, az imperialistákat, az amerikaiakat kell okolni.

Úgy kellett hazudni, hogy az embert ne fogják rajta. Az én életrajzom úgy kezdődött, hogy apámat a német fasiszták megölték. Magyar fasisztákat nem lehetett mondani, mert magyar fasiszták nem voltak, csak kisnyilasok, akiket félrevezettek. És az életrajzomban első helyre beírtam, hogy külföldön soha nem jártam. Lényeges dolog! Engem nem szervezhetett be az amerikai, az angol vagy a francia állam, mert sose voltam ott. Külföldön sose jártam. Külföldön rokonaim nincsenek. Ez volt az életrajzom. Akkor már elfogadható. Apám vendéglátó-ipari szakmunkás volt. Ez sokkal jobban hangzott, mintha azt írom, hogy apám pincér volt. A pincér lehet egy uraságokat kiszolgáló lakáj. Azt nem írhattam.

1949-ben leérettségiztem, és 1950-ben felvettek az akkori Közgazdasági Főiskolára, amit ma Számviteli Főiskolának vagy Kereskedelmi Főiskolának hívnak. Valaha a Keleti Akadémia volt, és ennek a külkereskedelmi szakára kerültem. Volt nagyon sok gyerek, akit átirányítottak, az ipari vagy belkereskedelmi szakra, mert a háttere, a megbízhatósága nem volt biztosítva, mert az apja például nem vendéglátó-ipari szakmunkás volt, hanem kiskereskedő, kisiparos, középparaszt vagy mit tudom én. Munkás- és parasztgyerekeket kerestek, mert a szak elvégzése a dolgok természetéből adódóan külföldi – horribile dictu, nyugati – kapcsolatokat is jelentett, jelethetett. (Ezért választottam apám foglalkozásának definiálására a „vendéglátó-ipari szakmunkás” megjelölést. Ebben volt ipar és munkás, és nem hazudtam – pincér volt.) A külker szakon belül is volt további szelektálás politikai szepontok szerint: ki tanulhatott angolul vagy franciául (imperialista országok nyelvei!) és ki oroszul vagy németül (Szovjetunió, ill. NDK). Azért mentem oda, mert ez kétéves volt, nem négy. Fölvettek ugyan az egyetemre angol–francia szakra, de azt villámgyorsan otthagytam, egyrészt, mert négy év teljesen kilátástalan volt, másodszor pedig azért, mert nem különösebben érdekelt Molière nyelvtani összefüggése, amikor egy háborúból jöttünk ki. Nem láttam értelmét. Közgazdász oklevelet szereztem [Az említett Közgazdasági Főiskolát a Budapesti Gazdasági Főiskola (BGF) elődintézményei között tartja számon (F. N. aranydiplomáját a BGF Pénzügyi és Számviteli Főiskolai Kara állította ki). – A szerk.]

Akkor azt mondták, hogy Hegel dialektikáját a marxizmus állította a fejéről a talpára. Ezzel Hegel dialektikája be volt fejezve. Ha valaki azt mondta volna, hogy szeretne Hegelt olvasni, azt kirúgták. A marxizmus által talpra állított dialektikát lehet olvasni, ha van ilyen könyv, de nem biztos, hogy van. A Sztálin elvtársat, a Szovjetunió Kommunista Pártjának történetét azt lehetett olvasni és tanulmányozni [Sztálin könyvéről van szó: „A Szovjetunió Kommunista (bolsevik) Pártjának története (Rövid tanfolyam); 1938-ban jelent meg, s már 1939-ben lefordították több nyelvre, így magyarra is, a Szikra Könyvkiadó 1949-ben jelentette meg, bár korábban, 1945 tavaszán már kinyomtatta és megjelentette a Szikra nyomda is. – A szerk.]. Marx Tőkéjét lehetett olvasni. Senki nem olvasta el, mindenki beleolvasott, és azt a részt fújta. Én is úgy irányítottam a mondandómat, amit ismertem, és azt nagyon szépen kifejtettem. Lehet, hogy a tanár se olvasta el.

Az egyik évfolyamtársamat meglátták, amint kijött a Szervita téren a katolikus templomból. Úgy rúgták ki, hogy lába sem érte a földet. Nagyon sok helyen kommunista papok voltak, akik eladták magukat. A vallás mindenkinek oly mértékben a magánügye volt, hogy a legmélyebb mélyre rejtette el. A gyerekeket otthon arra tanították, hogy az iskolában hazudni kell akár vallási, akár politikai üggyel kapcsolatban. Közismert az a történet, hogy a Szovjetunióban egy úttörő kisfiú a szüleit feljelentette, kivégezték a szülőket, és az úttörőt példaképnek állították az országban. Az ifjúságnál is volt olyan, hogy vesszenek a belső bitangok, a demokrácia ellenségei. Kik a belső bitangok, és kik a demokrácia ellenségei? Akik nem értenek velem egyet, az mind a demokrácia ellensége. A kizsákmányolók. Szólamok jöttek, szólamokat hangoztattak, és vigyázni kellett, mert nagyon gyorsan letartóztatták az embereket. Volt egy gazdasági rendőrség, és volt egy politikai rendőrség, és embereket tüntettek el. Nem kisembereket, hanem vezető beosztású embereket [lásd pl.: koncepciós perek; Kéthly Anna].

Ahogy a történetet „bennfentesek” nekem elmondták: volt itt egy gyár, a Schmoll cipőpasztagyár. A tulajdonosa és vezérigazgatója egy Kallós nevű zsidó férfi volt. A háború előtt és alatt segítette és támogatta a kommunista pártot. Kallós fia, Ödön munkaszolgálatos volt, és elvitték Ukrajnába. Amikor visszajött Ukrajnából, lerongyolódva, leromolva, akkor a Kallós papa elment a párthoz, amelyiknek sok pénzt adott annak idején, és azt kérte, hogy a fiának adjanak valamilyen helyet, ahol magához tud térni. Erre kinevezték a fiút Egyiptomba kereskedelmi tanácsosnak. Ott Kallós Ödön nem jött ki az egyiptomi magyar nagykövettel, voltak viták, veszekedések, és elkezdték egymást feljelentgetni. Ebben semmi újdonság nincs, nagyon sok helyen később is előfordult ez. Az egyiptomi nagykövet, Tildy Zoltánnak, a magyar köztársasági elnöknek volt a veje. Tildyt pedig ki akarták készíteni. A vejét hazahívták, a Kallós-féle feljelentések alapján perbe fogták, halálra ítélték és kivégezték mint árulót [Csornoky Viktorról van szó, lásd: Tildy Zoltán. – A szerk.]. Kallós erre akkor nem gondolt, hogy ennek ilyen vége lesz, de hát ilyen vége lett. Tildy nem lehetett tovább köztársasági elnök, hiszen egy hazaáruló veje. A dolog el volt intézve. Kallós Ödön akaratán kívül egy „persona grata” lett az ávónál. Ezt a Kallós Ödönt én jól ismertem, később a Kamarának volt az elnöke, többször találkoztam vele, a felesége, Kallós Hédi beosztottam volt egy ideig [Kallós Ödön (1917–1989) a föllelhető források szerint nem kapcsolódik a Schmoll cipőpasztagyárhoz. A Magyar Életrajzi Lexikonban a következők olvashatók róla: …Londonban szerzett közgazdasági diplomát, 1945-től 1947-ig az apja tulajdonában levő ELZET Gyár kereskedelmi tevékenységét vezette, 1948–55-ben Mo. kairói kereskedelmi kirendeltségének vezetője volt, 1955-től 1956-ig a MOGURT vezérig.-h.-e, 1956-tól Indiában kereskedelmi tanácsos, 1959-től 1981-ig a Magy. Kereskedelmi Kamara elnöke, majd társelnöke … Tizenöt éven át volt a Nemzetközi Kereskedelmi Kamara Kelet–Nyugati Szekciójának társelnöke. A magyar evezős sport támogatója és elnökségi tagja volt.” – A szerk.].

1952-ben, amikor végeztünk, egy bizottság megmondta, hogy ki hova megy dolgozni [lásd: munkahely-változtatás korlátozása]. Nem nagyon lehetett vitatkozni, hiszen elvtársak, nincs kecmec, a Pártnak ez a kívánsága, alászolgája. Kész. A Külkereskedelmi Minisztérium kompenzációs osztályára kerültem, ahova különben nem nagyon lehetett volna bejutni, csak párttagsággal, de erről az én esetemben nem volt szó. Amikor elkezdtem dolgozni, nyolcszáznegyvennyolc forint volt a fizetésem, ami az éhenhaláshoz is kevés volt. Egy pár úgynevezett típus férficipő száznegyven forint volt. Anyámmal ketten, lakbér, villany, fűtés, enni, nem nagyon jöttünk ki a nyolcszáznegyvennyolc forintból. De nekem még volt egy másik problémám is, nevezetesen az, hogy még nem hívtak be a tartalékos tiszti kiképzésre azok az elvtársak, akik ezzel foglalkoztak, nem találtak elég megbízhatónak. Feltehetően azért, mert én voltam az egyike azon kevés zsidóknak, talán ketten voltunk zsidók ezen a szakon, akiket nem hívtak be. Tehát az annyit jelent, hogy én akkor voltam huszonkét éves, és akkor elvittek volna három évre katonának, ami teljesen elfogadhatatlan [1956 előtt még a háború előtti honvédelmi törvény volt érvényben (1939: II. tc.), e szerint a katonaidő maximálisan három év volt, tekintet nélkül az iskolai végzettségre. Haderő-, ill. fegyvernemenként a HM külön szabályozhatta a szolgálati időt, és lehetőség volt egyéni engedélyek kiadására is. Felsőoktatásban részt vevők számára az ún. előfelvételi rendszert csak 1964-ben vezették be, ugyanekkor a hadköteles kor 20-ról 18 évre módosult. A katonaidőt 1976-ban két évre csökkentették (Ehrenberger Róbert,  Hadtörténelmi Intézet és Levéltár). – A szerk.]. A Külkereskedelmi Minisztériumban dolgoztam, és a főosztályvezető meg a közvetlen főnököm meg a személyzeti osztály segítségével sikerült beiratkoznom az egyetemre, matematikára, esti tagozatra, és mint egyetemi hallgatót felmentettek a katonaság alól [F. N.-nek szerencséje volt, mert az esti, ill. a levelező tagozat nem feltétlenül mentesített valakit a katonai szolgálat alól. – A szerk.]. Aztán volt egy májhistóriám, sárgaságom, úgyhogy akkor már nem hívtak be katonának. Akkor viszont abbahagytam az egyetemet, mert munka mellett sok volt. Nyolc-kilenc hónap keserves kínlódás után én kértem, hogy a Külkereskedelmi Minisztériumból helyezzenek át egy külkereskedelmi vállalathoz, aminek a neve az volt, hogy „Importex”. A kompenzációs osztályra kerültem. Itt már ezeregyszázhuszonhat vagy ezeregyszázötven forint lett a fizetésem, óriási emelés volt, persze közben volt infláció is, de mégis többet kerestem. Ez a vállalat kilencvenkilenc-száz százalékban importtal foglalkozott. Gyapotot, gyapjút, textilipari nyersanyagokat importált. Rongyot is, amit itt feltéptek, és abból csináltak textilt. Akkor ez úgy nézett ki, hogy az állam a külkereskedelmet erre a célra létrehozott szervezeteken keresztül bonyolította. Persze a külkereskedelem is egy hamis kifejezés volt, mert kereskedelemről itt nem volt szó. Itt szó volt exportról; tehát magyar textilt meg magyar paprikát exportáltak az erre a célra létrehozott állami monopóliumok. Illetőleg importról, amikor megvették a gyapotot, a nyers pamutot, amiből itt fontak és szőttek textíliákat. De azt, aki fonta és szőtte a textíliákat, nem engedték a külföldiek közelébe, akiktől vásárolni lehetett, mondjuk, gyapotot; a kettő közé volt iktatva a külkereskedelmi vállalat.

A kompenzációs osztályra azért volt szükség, mert 1952-ben már erősen érvényesült egy gazdasági embargó Magyarország és a többi szocialista ország ellen, olyan értelemben, hogy olyan nyersanyagot, amely egy háborús felkészüléshez szükséges, nem lehetett eladni. Ennek az embargónak a megkerülése volt az egyik feladata a kompenzációs osztálynak, amit egy Arató Ferenc nevű zseniális férfi vezetett. A kompenzációs osztály azt is jelentette, hogy áruért árut, mert pénzünk (deviza), az nincs. Azt mondtuk, hogy kérem, Magyarországnak szüksége van nyers gyapotra, pamutra a fonodák és a szövőüzemek számára, hogy abból textíliát lehessen gyártani. Gyapotot lehetett vásárolni, ha valakinek volt pénze (devizája). De nekünk nem volt. Ezzel szemben volt szerszámgépünk, traktorunk, kész textilneműnk. És akkor le lehetett tárgyalni egy üzletet, hogy a nyers gyapotért én szállítok kész textíliát. Gyapotot vett Iránból, és fizetésképpen szállított fogkefét. Össze kellett rakni, kompenzáció, barter. Mert ha előbb jön a gyapot, akkor Irán azt mondja, na de mi van akkor, ha nem adsz nekem fogkefét. Mire azt mondtuk, hogy mi sem tudjuk elküldeni a hadsereget, hogy behajtsa rajtad a gyapotot. Hogy lehet ezt megoldani? Akkor azt lehetett csinálni, hogy a fogkefét leraktuk, ez csak példa, Bécsben egy raktárba, azzal az utasítással, hogyha odaérkezik a pamut, akkor add ki a fogkefét, és akkor kicserélték a kettőt. De akkor hátha a pamut nem az a pamut, amit vettünk. Minőséget kellett ellenőrizni. Komplikált históriák, és úgy ítélték, hogy nekem van olyan kombinatív készségem, hogy ezeket az üzleteket fel tudom építeni, és le tudom bonyolítani. Persze nem a minisztérium kompenzációs osztálya csinálta, az csak felügyelte. Minden állami vállalatnál volt egy kompenzációs osztály vagy konstrukciós osztály, és ezeket kellett segíteni, ellenőrizni és így tovább. Ez a munka életem végéig tartott, csak átalakultak a dolgok.

Innen, az Importextől utaztam életemben először külföldre, 1954-ben. Franciaországba, Belgiumba és Amszterdamba, Hollandiába kéthetes útra, ahol vettem magamnak egy ballonkabátot, néhány inget, egy öltönyt, órára már nem jutott. Elég jelentős üzleteket tárgyaltam, kötöttem, aláírtam, de órám nem volt. Otthon telefon nem volt, másnak sem volt [Nehéz kideríteni a budapestiek telefonnal való ellátottságát: annyi tudható a statisztikákból, hogy 1965-ben 127 100 magán telefonállomás volt fölszerelve, 1000 lakosra durván 70 főállomás jutott, 1970-ben 86 (de léteztek ikerállomások is, arról viszont végképp nem tudható, hogy hány volt közülük magánhasználatban), és még 1985-ben is csak 351 telefon-előfizetés jutott 1000 lakosra. – A szerk.]. Így nézett ki a dolog. 1955-ben neveztek ki Londonba, a Magyar Követség kereskedelmi osztályára kereskedelmi attasénak, ez a legkisebb rang. Ott már tudtam egy órát venni, sőt anyámnak egy télikabátot. Nem volt neki. Egy utazóval elküldtem Pestre. Ez az óra, amit 1955-ben vettem, még most is megvan. Londonban a főnököm, a kereskedelmi titkár, egy Tóth Lajos nevű villamosvezető volt, akinek a felesége egy Ákos Edit nevű zsidó nő, aki Altmanról magyarosított. Ákos Edit a pártközpontban Frissnek volt a titkárnője [Friss István (1903–1976) – közgazdász, egyetemi tanár, az MTA tagja. 1935–1945 között Moszkvában élt. Mint közgazdász részt vett az 1946. évi stabilizáció munkájában, az 1948–49. évi államosítások kidolgozásában. Az MKP (majd MDP, majd az MSZMP) gazdaságpolitikai vezetője, 1954-től, megalapításától igazgatója volt az MTA Közgazdaságtudományi Intézetének (1974-ig), főszerkesztője volt a „Társadalmi Szemlé”-nek (1955–56), ill. a „Népszabadság”-nak (1956–57). – A szerk.]. A papája, Altman doktor a kuplerájoknak volt az orvosa. A Dohány utcában laktak. Ákos Editnek kellett egy káder, és Tóth Lajos tökéletes volt. Tóth Lajosnak kellett egy értelmes nő, mert Tóth Lajos eléggé gyenge volt, és ez volt az Ákos Edit. Tóth Lajosnak fogalma sem volt arról, hogy mit, hogyan, miért kell csinálni. Ákos Edit csinálta, bár neki nem volt beosztása, a férj volt a főnök. Eléggé nehéz dolog volt, mert előfordult, hogy Tóth Lajos lehordott valami üzlet miatt, amiért Pesten ugyanakkor hatalmas jutalmat fizettek nekem ki, és megdicsértek. Nem értette, hogy miről van szó, nem tudta követni. Voltak ilyen humoros szituációk, hogy behívat magához a főnököm referálni, és ott ül a felesége. Aztán a főnök azt mondja, jó, köszönöm szépen, és nem szól egy szót se. Kimegyek, és tíz perc múlva vissza, mert a felesége megmondta neki, hogy mit kell kérdezni, és a főnök fölteszi ezeket a kérdéseket. Később aztán másképp alakult, mert a nő mindjárt beleszólt, és rákérdezett a dologra. A pasast ez rendkívül zavarhatta, borzasztó volt. Itt tanultam meg, hogy abban a világban sohase szabad azt kérni, amit akarok. Az ellenkezőjét kellett kérni, és akkor az elvtársak az ellenkezőjét adták. Ezt 1955 szeptemberétől csináltam 1956 elejéig. 1956 elején küldtem haza egy levelet futárral – mert levelezni nem volt szabad, telefonálni nem volt szabad –, amiben azt kértem, hogy azonnal hívjanak haza, haza akarok jönni, mert ezzel az emberrel én nem maradok együtt. Erre hazahívtak, és kineveztek Párizsba, ugyanilyen beosztásba. Ha mást kérek, akkor baj van. Franciául tudtam, nem túl jól, de tudtam. A párizsi kereskedelmi tanácsos, aki a főnököm volt, egy kulturált, hozzáértő, zseniális polihisztor volt. A kínai konyhával éppúgy tisztában volt, mint Wagner muzsikájával. Ez az ember igencsak jól beszélt németül és angolul, erre természetes, hogy Párizsba tették tanácsosnak. Miért tették volna máshová? Erre ötvenéves korában megtanult franciául. 1956-ban, Párizsban valószínűleg többet tudtunk arról, hogy mi történik Pesten, mint a pestiek, mert a francia rádió, a francia sajtó erről részletesen és sokkal pontosabban beszámolt, mint ami a magyaroknak itt jutott. Borzasztó volt, borzasztó volt, mert az emberben felforrt a vér, és kinyílt a bicska a zsebében, de hát semmit nem tudott csinálni. A franciák még velünk is, akik hivatalosan voltunk kint, rendkívül gálánsan és korrekten viselkedtek, rendkívül segítőkészek voltak. Ha bementem egy üzletbe, és kiderült, hogy magyar vagyok, akkor elengedték az ár felét. Nagyon sok ilyesmi volt. Aztán 1956-ban elment két kollégám, egy Mogyorósi nevű fiú és egy Szemerényiné nevű titkárnő. Visszahívtak őket Magyarországra, de nem mentek vissza. Más mindenki maradt a helyén.

1957-ben házasodtunk össze a feleségemmel, Újlaki Máriával Párizsban. Tulajdonképpen Párizsban ismertünk meg egymást, amikor ő úton volt Londonba hivatalos kiküldetésben, és én még csak kiküldetésben voltam Párizsban. Ő akkor elment Londonba, én visszajöttem Pestre. Aztán 1955-ben engem kiküldtek Londonba, és akkor már ott volt a jövendőbeli feleségem, hogy engem behálózzon. 1957-ben Párizsban Kutas Imre magyar nagykövet és Sulyok Béla magyar kereskedelmi tanácsos mint két tanú előtt örök hűséget esküdtünk egymásnak. Párizsból 1959-ben jöttünk vissza Pestre. Visszaraktak az Importexhez, ahonnan kimentem. A külkereskedelemben az volt a szabály, hogy oda kell visszamenni, ahonnan az illetőt kiküldték, hacsak nincs rá nyomós ok, hogy máshova tegyék. Visszajöttünk a feleségemmel, akinek akkor volt egy társbérlete. Azt elcseréltük ráfizetéssel egy kis garzonlakásra, és ott laktunk.

Én naiv voltam és ostoba. Mert utólag kiderült, hogy nagyon is jól tudták, hogy én zsidó vagyok. De én ezzel nem foglalkoztam, eszembe sem jutott, hogy bárkinek is fontos lehet, ahogy vége lett a náci rendszernek. Aztán később derült ki, hogy nagyon is jól tudták, kollégáim is mind, hogy ki a zsidó, ki a nem zsidó. Például a párttitkár az egyik külkereskedelmi vállalatnál Jom Kipurkor azt leste a vállalati étkezdében, hogy ki az a zsidó, aki nem megy enni, mert böjtöl. Ez a pártitkár is zsidó volt. Nem csinált semmit, csak lehívatta a pártirodába, és elbeszélgetett vele, nem jelentette föl. Még azt is lehet mondani, hogy jóindulatú volt, mert figyelmeztette, te marha, ne csinálj ilyet, inkább vegyél ki egy hét szabadságot, vagy jelents beteget, de ne csináld.

Sztálin halála [1953-ban] előtt elkezdődött a Szovjetunióban egy igen erős zsidó boszorkányüldözés, amikor zsidó orvosokat tartóztattak le azzal, hogy meg akarják ölni a szovjet állam vezetőit [lásd: orvosper]. Magyarországon Rákosi, aki zsidó volt, felhívta Bognár József belkereskedelmi minisztert, egy rendkívül tehetséges, nagy tudású közgazdászt, hogy Bognár elvtárs, úgy hallottam, hogy a belkereskedelemben nagyon sok a zsidó [Bognár József (1917–1996) – a Független Kisgazdapárt tagja, majd 1948-tól ügyvezető alelnöke volt, országgyűlési képviselő (1945–1990), tájékoztatásügyi miniszter (1946–47), Budapest polgármestere (1947–49), belkereskedelmi, ill. külkereskedelmi miniszter (1949–1956), a közgazdaságtudományi egyetem tanára, több akadémiai kutatóintézet igazgatója, akadémikus. – A szerk.]. Állítson nekem össze egy listát, hogy kik a zsidók! Bognár, aki nem volt zsidó, azt mondta: Rákosi elvtárs, ki minősül zsidónak, ki zsidó? Rákosi azt válaszolta, maga azt nagyon jól tudja! És letette a telefont. Hajszálra voltunk attól, hogy itt is újra mindenféle perek kezdődnek. Üldözés, amibe a magyar nép egy része boldogan beszállt volna. A nyilasok mindenhol ott voltak. Rajk nem volt zsidó, és amikor felakasztották, ilyen megjegyzéseket hallottam az utcán: ha egy zsidó felakaszt egy másik zsidót, ahhoz nekem semmi közöm. Nem volt zsidó, de ez nem zavart senkit. 

Az Importex vállalatnak egy Müller Sebestyén nevű sváb, volksbundista, erősen náci felfogású elvtárs volt a vezérigazgatója. Ez ott ki akart készíteni néhány embert, és neki én arra kellettem volna, hogy miután ezeket az embereket kikészíti, valaki, aki ért hozzá, vegye át az előzőnek a helyét. Az, hogy volksbundista volt, valószínűleg az életrajzában is benne volt. Annak a posztógyárnak volt a háború előtt vagy alatt az egyik vezetője, amelyik úgy hirdette magát, hogy az egyetlen árja textilgyár Magyarországon.

Még jóval korábban volt egyszer itt egy cirkuszom. Mindig az ment, hogy mettől meddig tart a munkaidő. Reggelente ott álltak a kapunál, hogy ki késik, ki nem késik. Az egyik termelési értekezleten felvetettek egy problémát, és én jelentkeztem, hogy én erre a problémára megtaláltam a megoldást. Igazán, mi az? Nem tudom elmondani. Miért nem tudja elmondani? Mert ez tegnap munkaidőn kívül jutott eszembe, a borbélynál. Óriási röhögés, azt hittem, hogy kirúgnak. A másik ilyen eset, a vietnami háború alkalmával volt, hogy ugyanis segíteni kell a vietnami elvtársakat [Vietnami háború – fegyveres konfliktus (1959–1975) a Vietnami Demokratikus Köztársaság és a DNFF (Dél-vietnami Nemzeti Felszabadítási Front), valamint a Vietnami Köztársaság (Dél-Vietnam) és az őt támogató Amerikai Egyesült Államok között. – A szerk.]. Felálltam, és azt mondtam, elvtársak, segítsük a vietnami elvtársakat, mindenki, akinek arany órája van, adja le, kap helyette egy szovjet gyártmányú Poljot órát, és az árdifferenciát adjuk oda a vietnami elvtársaknak. Olyan csönd lett, hogy aki vezette az értekezletet, azt mondta, menjünk tovább. Odáig nem ment el a segítség, hogy az elvtársak beadják az aranyóráikat, világos. Ezekből az apróságokból kiderült, hogy az egész szisztéma nem működött, és nem is működhetett.

1963-ban mentem el az Importextől. A feleségem tudtomon kívül elment Müller Sebestyén haverjához, aki akkor a Külkereskedelmi Minisztérium személyzeti főosztályának volt a vezetője, az asztalra csapott, és azt mondta, hogy hagyjanak engem békén. Ő megtehette, mert őt úgy hívják, hogy Újlaki Mária, nem volt zsidó. Ezek az urak antiszemiták voltak, csak nem deklarálták. Őket szórakoztatta, hogy itt, az Importexnél egy zsidót ki lehet nyírni egy másik zsidó segítségével. Nem humoros? Én lettem volna a másik zsidó, akinek a segítségével ki akarták nyírni az egyiket, csak ehhez én nem voltam partner.

Ha kirúgtak, elbocsátottak valakit, akkor annak nagyon nehéz volt állást találni. Állást cserélni csak áthelyezéssel lehetett [A szocializmus évtizedeiben sokféleképpen nehezítették a spontán munkaerőmozgást. Ha például a munkavállaló önként kilépett egy munkahelyről – amit a munkakönyvben „a munkaviszony megszűnésének módja” rovatban rögzítettek –, néhány évre elvesztette a tizenkét nap alapszabadságon felül járó, kétévenként egy nappal több pótnapot, átmenetileg csökkent a táppénze stb. Elkerülendő a hátrányokat, az illető ún. áthelyezési kérelmet vitt attól a munkahelytől, ahova menni szándékozott. A nyolcvanas évek közepétől azonban lényegében megszűnt ez a gyakorlat. – A szerk.]. A Belügyminisztériumtól, a politikai rendőrségtől minden nagyvállalathoz, főleg a külkereskedelmi vállalatokhoz, rendszeresen kijárt az ún. belügyi összekötő [lásd róla a „személyzetis” szócikket], aki érdeklődött a vállalatnál történtekről, vállalati emberekről, mindenről. Akkoriban volt a titkos irattár [TÜK volt a neve: titkos ügykezelés, ahol a különböző mértékben bizalmas, szigorúan bizalmas iratokat tárolták és kezelték. Ma is létezik ilyen szervezeti egység az intézményekben. – A szerk.]. Itt volt például a „Financial Times” is. A titkosba való betekintés rendkívül fontos jog volt, mert akinek nem volt engedélye az ávótól vagy ÁVH-tól, később a belügytől a titkos betekintésre, azt már egy bizonyos beosztáson felül nem lehetett alkalmazni. Üzletkötő, amely pedig viszonylag alacsony beosztás, már nem lehetett egy külkereskedelmi vállalatnál olyan ember, aki nem kapta meg a titkosba való betekintést, tehát nem olvashatta a „Financial Times”-t. Akit ki akartak nyírni, attól megvonták a titkosba való betekintést. Akkor az el volt intézve, azt ki kellett rúgni.

A kereskedelmi tevékenységet illető, Rákosi-korszakra jellemző rendkívül dogmatikus bürokrácia a Kádár-korszakban megenyhült. Ha nem is rögtön, de felfogták, hogy ez egy olyan dolog, amihez érteni kell, és kell hozzá egy bizonyos érzék. A Rákosi időben a külkereskedelem úgy nézett ki, hogy mi eladunk magyar paprikát, és azért behozunk lent vagy kendert a lenszövőnek. Vagy eladunk vágóállatokat az olaszoknak, és ezért behozunk rezet, mert az nekünk nincs. Ha a vágóállat ára lezuhant, és a réz ára fölment, akkor baj volt, mert kétszer annyi vágóállatot kellett volna adni, de nem volt. A Kádár-féle időben ez lassan átalakult, és lehetővé váltak kereskedelmi, pénzügyi kombinációk, amelyekkel – horribile dictu – pénzt lehetett keresni anélkül, hogy árut adtunk volna el. A hozzáértést, a gondolatot, az ötletet adtuk el. Például Jugoszláviában Tito alatt volt egy törvény, amely azt mondta, hogy minden áru, amelyet Jugoszláviába behoznak, és Jugoszláviában elvámolnak, az jugoszláv áruvá válik. Kapott egy származási bizonyítványt, ami igazolta, hogy ez jugoszláv termék. Ez mit jelentett? Azt, hogy az el nem kötelezett országok, mint például India, Egyiptom, Jugoszlávia az egymás közötti kereskedelemben vámkedvezményt adtak [„El nem kötelezett országok mozgalma” (Non-Aligned Movement) – politikai tömbökhöz, ill. katonai szövetségi rendszerekhez nem csatlakozott országok mozgalma (alapelvek a nemzetek egymás mellett élésével kapcsolatban: bandungi konferencia, 1955). 1961-ben Belgrádban 25 ország mozgalmat indított a nemzeti érdekek érvényesítésén alapuló független külpolitika, a békés egymás mellett élés politikája, valamint a szemben álló tömbök politikájától való távolmaradás érdekében.  – A szerk.]. Ha én a Goldberger textíliáját el akartam adni Egyiptomban, magyar áruként, mondjuk, harmincöt százalék vámot kellett fizetni – ez most fiktív szám. De ha bevittem Jugoszláviába, akkor öt százalék vám mellett jugoszláv lett, volt egy jugoszláv származási bizonyítványom, és a vevőmnek, aki tudta, hogy mit kap, mint jugoszláv árut adtam el. Arra Egyiptomban már nem volt vám. Ilyen kombinációkat Rákosi alatt nem lehetett volna csinálni, de Kádár alatt már lehetett.

Volt olyan figura, hogy a Szovjetunióból nyersanyagokat vásároltunk, amiért harmadosztályú, máshol eladhatatlan áruval fizettünk, például cipővel, egy dobozba két jobblábas cipő, a másikba két ballábas volt csomagolva, szörnyű dolgok. Ezért kaptunk szovjet nyersanyagot, azzal a kikötéssel, hogy ez a nyersanyag nem reexportálható, tehát Magyarországon kell felhasználni. Ha ez olyanfajta nyersanyag volt, amit Magyarország is előállított, akkor nem volt probléma, nem reexportáltuk a szovjet árut, hanem több magyart exportáltunk, és itthon a szovjetet használtuk fel. Ilyen kombinációk mentek. És akkor a végeredmény a magyar népgazdaság számára az volt, hogy az eladhatatlan cipőért dollárt kapott, mert megkapta érte a szovjet árut, azt lecserélte magyarra, a magyart pedig eladta dollárért. Ilyeneket lehetett csinálni 1958-tól.

1963-ban Egyiptomba helyeztek, én lettem a Külkereskedelmi Bank rezidens igazgatója Kairóban. Ott anélkül, hogy elmozdultam volna, anélkül, hogy átmentem volna a Magyar Követség kereskedelmi osztályára, átminősítettek, és papíron áthelyeztek kereskedelmi titkárnak, ami egy magasabb beosztás volt. Erre azért volt szükség, mert a magyaroknak Egyiptomban rengeteg pénze volt blokkolt számlán, amit az egyiptomiak nem akartak kifizetni. Csak egyiptomi áru vásárlására adták oda. Magyarország szívesen vett volna gyapotot Egyiptomtól, saját használatra is, meg el is lehetett adni jó pénzért, de erre nem adtak kiviteli engedélyt. Mire adtak? Például a hagymára. Az is eladható volt Nyugat-Európában, csakhogy a hagyma huszonöt kilós kiszerelésben jött, Nyugat-Európa pedig csak ötkilós csomagokban vette a hagymát. Nyugat-Európában a szakszervezetek elérték, hogy az ottani elvtársaknak ne kelljen huszonöt kilót cipelni. Tehát a Magyarországra jövő hagymát vagy át kellett csomagoltatni, ami költség, súlyveszteség, vagy nem lehetett eladni. Volt egy másik lehetőség: az Egyiptomból huszonöt kilós csomagolásban jövő hagymát a magyarok eszik meg, mi pedig több makóit adunk el Nyugatra. És akkor már ki is hoztuk a pénzt. Madáreledel, illóolajok, a legkülönbözőbb megoldások és lehetőségek – az én dolgom volt ezeknek a pénzeknek a felszabadítása.

1965-től 1968-ig Montrealban, a Magyar Kereskedelmi Irodában dolgoztam mint „assistant trade commissioner”. 1968-tól 1970-ig Budapesten a Külkereskedelmi Bankban voltam igazgatósági tag, majd a Külkereskedelmi Bank egyik igazgatója. 1970-ben elmentünk Magyarországról. Pedig tényleg nagyon jól fizetett állásokat kaptam, járhattam a világot, kivételezett helyzetben voltam, mégis elmentem. Itt hagytam a lakást, itt hagytam mindent, és elmentünk a feleségemmel. Mi váltotta ki? Két dolog. Az egyik: anyámnak azt mondta az egyik szomszédja, hogy magát nem tudta ez a Hitler elégetni. A másik: a banknál, ahol igazgató voltam, az udvart tatarozták, és valaki átszaladt az állványok alatt. Erre az egyik melós izzó gyűlölettel odakiabált a másiknak, hogy miért nem mondod neki héberül, akkor talán megérti, hogy ne menjen arra. Ez a kettő nekem elég volt.

A feleségem épp Montrealban volt, én pedig kérvényeztem egy útlevelet a Belügyminisztériumtól, hogy kimehessek a feleségemhez, aki törött lábbal várt engem. A Belügyminisztérium elutasította az útlevélkérelmemet azzal az indokkal, hogy tavaly már turistaként voltam külföldön [lásd: utazás külföldre 1945 után; kék útlevél]. Abban az időben három évet kellett volna várni, hogy valaki újból turista útlevelet kapjon. Egy másik lehetőség volt, hogyha egy külföldi rokon meghívja az illetőt. Ebben az esetben nem járt a turista útlevélnél szokásos hetven dollár, viszont évente lehetett utazni. Nekem mint a Külkereskedelmi Bank igazgatójának dollárszámlám volt, kérvényeztem az újbóli utazást, de nem adták meg. Akkor kértem el az elnök-vezérigazgató belső telefonját, az úgynevezett K-vonalat, amit szigorúan csak a magas beosztású emberek használhattak. Megengedték, hogy ezen a K-vonalon felhívjam a Belügyminisztérium Útlevélosztályának az illetékes vezetőjét, aki nyilván azt hitte, hogy én olyan fontos személy vagyok, mint Kádár vagy Aczél [lásd: Aczél György], merthogy K-vonalon hívom [A K-vonalhálózat („zártkörű közigazgatási telefonrendszer”) kiépítése 1947-ben kezdődött, az 1980-as évek végén közel 3000 állomás tartozott a rendszerhez. (Egyébként nem ez volt a legzártkörűbb hálózat: a 30-35 tagú pártállami elitnek rendelkezésére állt egy, a szovjetek által üzemeltetett, lehallgathatatlan ún. VCS-vonal is, ahogy az egykorú zsargonban mondták, a „csajka”.) A K-vonalra való jogosultságról formailag a kormány határozott: az MSZMP vezetői, a minisztertanács tagjai, megyei párttitkárok, a fontosabb lapok főszerkesztői, vállalat- és szakszervezeti vezetők juthattak hozzá a státusszimbólummá vált vonalhoz. Az Antall-kormány 1991-ben újraosztotta a K-vonalakat, és nem egészen 1700-ra csökkentette a jogosultak számát. A rendszert 1998-ban megszüntették („Hetek”, 1998. március). – A szerk.]. Előadtam neki, hogy mi történt, és hamarosan megkaptam a kiutazási engedélyt a feleségemhez, Montrealba.

Különben nem élnénk már, ha itt maradtunk volna. Sem a feleségem, sem én. A feleségemnek olyan besugárzásos terápiára volt szüksége egy tumor kezelésére, amiről Magyarországon akkor még nem hallottak, és amit Svájcban már csináltak. Ha nincs, akkor nem él. A másik az én históriám. Az a osztrák professzor, aki engem „vagdosott”, egy magyarországi kongresszuson előadta az esetemet, és az itteni tudós professzorok tátott szájjal hallgatták. Fogalmuk sem volt, hogy ilyet lehet csinálni.

Montrealban 1970-ben nehezen kezdtem el dolgozni, mert az én szakképesítésemre ott nem volt szükség. Egy textilipari ügynökségnél dolgoztam fél évet, és utána kaptam egy ajánlatot Londonból, amit elfogadtam. 1971-ig Kanadában voltunk, 1971-től 1983-ig Londonban. 1983-ban eladták azt a céget, ahol dolgoztam, és az új tulajdonosok átirányítottak Genfbe. 1983-tól Genfben éltem és dolgoztam, ott mentem 1992-ben korkedvezményes nyugdíjba. 1992-től Genfben és Londonban éltünk, de 2002-ben eladtuk a londoni házat. Már túl sok és fárasztó volt ez a kétlakiság. Azóta Genfben élünk.

A lányom, F. Nicole Londonban született 1972-ben, de ahogyan a szülei, ő is gyakran váltott országot, kultúrát, nyelvet. Angliában volt általános iskolás, de gimnáziumba már Genfben járt, és ott is érettségizett. Két évet járt St. Gallenben egyetemre, majd Angliában, a Warwick Egyetemen folytatta a tanulmányait, és fordító-tolmácsként diplomázott. Jelenleg az USA-ban él, ott kapott egy közepes nagyságú cégnél marketing igazgatói állást. Tisztában van azzal, hogy származása szerint félzsidó, de ahogy a szülei, úgy ő sem vallásos. Ennek ellenére az USA-ban elment számos templomba, hogy megnézze, melyik számára a legszimpatikusabb, és végül a zsinagógát, a zsidó vallást választotta.

A második világháború után anyám változatlanul járt a zsinagógába. Én se előtte, se utána nem jártam, csak egy évben egyszer. Ma ezeket úgy hívják, hogy Jom Kipur-zsidók. Azt a házat, ahol laktunk Pesten, először az Üvegesek Ipartestülete vette meg 1946-ban vagy 1947-ben, azoktól aztán elvették [lásd: államosítás Magyarországon]. Annyiban változtak az albérlők, hogy két parasztgyerek lakott a belső szobában, akik katonatiszti iskolába jártak. Ez volt 1950–51-ben, és anyám kikötötte, hogy ide nőt nem lehet hozni. Erre a nőket az ablakon mászatták be. Ezek ilyen kalandos évek voltak a háború után. A házba senki semmit soha be nem fektetett a kommunista évek alatt, az csak rohadt le. Ez egy tanácsi bérlakás volt, amikor az anyám meghalt, 1983-ban. A lakás akkor is úgy nézett ki, mint korábban, de már volt cserépkályha. Óriási fejlődés. Fürdőszoba és melegvíz továbbra sem volt. Ki kellett menni a konyhába kezet mosni. Már csak egy albérlő volt, egy villamosvezető, és amikor anyám meghalt, ő maradt a lakásban. Hozzá rendszeresen jártam látogatóba, most halt meg egy évvel ezelőtt. A ház maga le van robbanva. A telek elég értékes. Lehet, hogy le fogják előbb-utóbb bontani, és egy irodaházat vagy valami mást építenek a helyére.

Hogyan történhetett meg [a Soá]? Ebben bődületesen nagy a bűne a katolikus meg a protestáns egyháznak Magyarországon is és mindenütt [lásd: keresztény egyházak és a zsidókérdés]. Ha az egyházak elítélik a deportálásokat, akkor a magyar csendőrség és a magyar honvédség sem hajtja végre, vagy nem így hajtja végre [A magyar honvédség a deportálásban nem vett részt, csak a csendőrség. – A szerk.]. Rengeteg ember hithű katolikus vagy protestáns volt, de nem ítélték el. Serédi Jusztinián sem, sőt úgy hallottam, a zsidó vagyonból követelte az egyház részét [Ilyenről azért nem volt szó, a katolikus egyház elvi állásfoglalása elítélte a magántulajdon ilyetén sárba tiprását, és az ezzel kapcsolatos helyi kezdeményezéseket (például: egyes plébániák ingatlan iránti kérelmeit) sem támogatták. Hasonló volt a protestánsok álláspontja is. – A szerk.]. Magyarország különben is fantasztikus szerepet játszott, mert az egyetlen úgy, ahogy érintetlen zsidó közösség 1944-ben Magyarországon volt. A többieket már jórészt kiirtották, kivéve Bulgáriában, ahol a bolgár cár megtagadta a zsidók kiadását, és Dániában, ahol a dánok átvitték nagyrészüket Svédországba. Ez a kettő. Mások nem [lásd: Dánia és a holokauszt; Bulgária és a holokauszt].

A zsidóság két-háromezer éves története során azt a tapasztalatot szerezte, hogy az esetek többségében általában pénzzel, arannyal ki lehetett váltani, el lehetett intézni dolgokat. Nem realizálták nagyon sokan, hogy itt most nem erről van szó. Ezek most nem pénzt akarnak, ezek az életüket akarják. Itt, Magyarországon is voltak olyan dolgok, amiket pénzért elintéztek még az SS-szel is. Ez a Weiss Manfréd család. Még a Hitlernek is voltak ilyen históriái. Kálmán Imrének, a zeneszerzőnek fölajánlottak egy tiszteletbeli árja státuszt, de ő ezt visszautasította, és elment Amerikába [Kálmán Imre (1882–1953) – zeneszerző; első nagy sikere a „Tatárjárás volt” (1908), amelyet Bécsben – akkor: az operett fővárosa – is bemutattak. 25 évesen Bécsbe költözött, bécsi operettszerző lett. A 20. század első évtizedében a „Tatárjárás”-t már játszották New Yorkban, Moszkvában, Londonban, Rómában, s ez volt az első magyar operett, amely Franciaországban színre került. Leghíresebb operettje a „Csárdáskirálynő” (Bécs, 1915). Az Anschluss után Párizsba költözött, majd Amerikába. A háború után visszatért Európába. – A szerk.]. Itt arról volt szó, hogy ki kell irtani az egész zsidóságot, úgy, ahogy van. Egészen fantasztikus, amikor olyat hallok, hogyha Hitler tisztességesen végezte volna el a dolgát, akkor most nem lenne zsidó probléma, és nem lenne izraeli probléma. Szóval lesz ezzel még probléma és gond.
 

Korina Solomonova
Sofia
Bulgaria
Interviewer: Dimitar Bozhilov
Date of interview: November 2002

Prof. Korina Solomonova is a nice old lady, devoted entirely to her five grandchildren. She talks eagerly and enthusiastically about the history of her family - her mother's side comes from Sofia and on her father's side from Sliven. She is very proud of her scientific achievements during communist times in Bulgaria - she discovered that elderly people over the age of 60 can be immunized against tetanus.

My paternal and maternal ancestors belong to the group of Sephardic Jews who lived in Spain and were banished by the Inquisition five centuries ago. They spoke Ladino. My paternal grandparents were born and lived in Odrin [a town on the southern part of the Balkan Peninsula, now in Turkey]. My grandfather was born in 1860, my grandmother in 1865.6I remember that they knew Turkish very well. My grandfather's name was Solomon Mihaylov Solomonov. He had finished the 3rd year of junior high school, corresponding to present-day 7th grade. He had a small grocer's shop.

My grandmother, Mazalto Mihaylova, was a housewife and devoted herself to looking after the children. She very strictly observed the separation of dairy and meat products, she never put meat and milk together on the table. The food was always kosher in her house. She dressed in traditional urban clothes. I know that my grandfather moved with his whole family from Odrin to Sliven [in southern Bulgaria], because his business wasn't going well. In Sliven he once again opened a grocer's shop, with which he supported his family.

My paternal grandfather was better-off than his father and he managed to build and open a small factory producing socks and blouses in Sliven. After he built the factory, he closed the shop. In order to start production in the factory, my grandfather bought ten hand-operated knitting machines for woollen socks. When my father was 18-19 years old, they bought new machines for the factory and modernized it. After my grandfather, my father ran the factory.

My father, Mihail Solomonov Mihaylov, was born in 1891 in Sliven. His first name was Mishel, but during the repressions against the Jews in the beginning of the 1940s he was forced by the authorities to change his name to Mihail. He studied in a high school, but he didn't graduate. He was the youngest among his siblings. He had two sisters and two brothers. His sisters, Duda and Klara, were the eldest. Duda lived in Sliven. Klara was married in Sofia. She was a very educated and cultivated woman; she had graduated from the high school in Sliven. Klara was a housewife; she looked after her children and took part in charity events.

The two brothers of my father were Leon Mihaylov and Nissim Mihaylov. They were no longer alive when I was born. Leon was a teacher and Nissim was a lawyer. They weren't religious, didn't have any religious books. They believed in socialism and had a lot of Russian literature. They had university education and were intellectuals. They both took part in the Balkan War 1. I don't know why, but I suppose that Leon was a prisoner of war in Tsarigrad [the Bulgarian name of Istanbul] during the Balkan War. Then my paternal grandmother, who hadn't gone to school, but knew Turkish very well, went to Tsarigrad herself and arranged for her son to be released from prison. But he came down with tuberculosis. He was put in a hospital in Vienna and my grandmother again accompanied him there in order to take care of him. He died in the hospital in Vienna before he reached the age of 30, and was buried there. His other brother, Nissim, also died young. He was a very intelligent man. I found many of the books he had read in the basement of our old house in Sliven.

My maternal great-grandfather was a rabbi and lived in Tsarigrad. I know that he had a daughter who married a Bulgarian. In order to marry a Bulgarian, she had to convert to Christianity and that was considered a betrayal. She changed her name to Tsvetanka and the whole family cut off all relations with her. Only after 20 years did some of the family get in touch with her. My great-grandfather thought this was a punishment from God and committed suicide by drowning himself in a well, because he couldn't get over the fact that his daughter betrayed her faith. This shows the incredible faith reaching to fanaticism that my great-grandfather had, who felt guilty for failing to raise his daughter to identify herself as a Jew.

My maternal grandfather, Nessim Kohen, was born in Tsarigrad in the 1860s. I don't know what kind of school he graduated from, but he could read very well in Bulgarian and Hebrew. He was a very educated man. He moved to Sofia and traded textiles. My maternal grandmother, Luisa Kohen, was a housewife. She died young, 56 years old, of typhus during the Balkan War [in 1914 in Sofia].

Grandfather was a very religious man. I remember that he was well-built and good-looking, with a long beautiful beard. He observed all religious rituals very strictly. Every night he read prayers, wore a kippah and tallit when he went to the synagogue. From my stays at my mother's family in Sofia I remember that the Jewish rituals were very strictly followed there. The whole family didn't work on Sabbath.

The house of my mother's family is on Opalchenska Street in Sofia. The street is located in the western part of the town near the center and passes through the Jewish neighborhood. The neighborhood was called Iuchbunar 1 and was on the west side of the street. The house is a very beautiful three-story building and it still exists today. My mother's family: my grandfather Nessim Kohen, my mother's elder brothers, Bohor Kohen and his family, Chelebi and Leon Kohen, and my mother lived together in it. The boys were quite a bit older than her, as she was a little girl when they married and had families. The house was big enough to accommodate the families of my mother's brothers as well. It was only my mother who left the house when she married; she moved to Sliven.

My maternal grandfather passed his business on to his sons, but when he had to prepare my mother's dowry, the shop went bankrupt and my uncles started their own businesses.

My mother, Matilda Mihaylova, finished high school in Sofia. She always dressed fashionably. Her family was modern and could afford to dress well. My father's sister, Klara, who was married in Sofia, introduced my parents to each other. They liked each other; they were both very good-looking. Their wedding was in Sliven, probably in 1922, and my mother went there to live in my father's house. After they married, they needed money in order to renovate the factory, which my grandfather passed on to my father. My mother's dowry was very useful because with it they could buy many modern and bigger machines to make socks, which increased production. Around 60 people worked in the factory. This was how our family earned their living before World War II.

My first name is Korina. This isn't a common name in Bulgaria, but I suppose it's typical for Romania. I'm named after a cousin of my paternal grandmother who lived in Romania. She wanted to have a granddaughter, who would carry her name. I was born in 1925 in Sliven. My elder sister, Luisa, was born in 1923 and my younger sister, Soli, in 1929.

The house where I was born had three rooms and a kitchen. My grandparents and my parents had their separate rooms and we, the girls, lived in the third room. When my elder sister, Luisa, was ten years old, she went to Lovech [a small town in Northern Bulgaria] to study in the American Girl's College and she lived in a dormitory. She came home only during the holidays and slept in our room. Thus, I lived with my younger sister, Soli, most of the time. Besides those three bedrooms we also had a ground floor, where no one lived, but the living room was where we stayed during the day, listening to the radio or relaxing. In the evenings we invited our guests there.

Our family, which included seven people, prepared winter supplies every year. My father made plum jam, which was put in jars. Under the ground floor in the house, we had a large basement, where we stored supplies in the winter. We also had a maid. She helped only with the cleaning. My mother did the cooking And my elder sister, who loved cooking, also helped my mother. From the household chores, I most liked cleaning and polishing the stove.

During my childhood, while my paternal grandparents were still alive, we observed all holidays strictly and we had enjoyable times. On the Day of Atonement, on Yom Kippur, we refrained from food and went to the synagogue. On our greatest holiday, Pesach, it was obligatory to eat kosher food. [In a traditional Jewish household not only kosher but unleavened food can be eaten at Pesach.] There was a chest with special dishes on the first floor of our house, which were used only on Pesach. The ritual for the holiday was very interesting. Some time before the holiday my grandmother asked us to bring out all the dishes from the chest and put them in a cauldron with boiling water on the stove. In the middle of the cauldron, I don't know why, my grandmother put a big stone. Thus, on the holiday we used these special dishes, many of which were copper and enamel ones. Some of our everyday dishes were made of ceramics and we used them as jars. For Pesach we put a white blanket on the table and arranged it beautifully. On seder we prepared matzah, put horse-radish, fish and wine on the table. My grandfather - from whom I later inherited a very beautiful white silky tallit with dark blue and black stripes and tassels - read the Haggadah in Ladino.

In my childhood we had very interesting Purim celebrations. On that day my paternal grandmother prepared delicious sweets and dishes, which only she knew how to make. A master confectioner made sugar sticks - they were quite big and you could write someone's name on them. In line with the tradition we organized a fancy dress party and even today I make masks for my grandchildren. When I reached the age of 12, I had my bat mitzvah in the Sliven synagogue.

Grandmother spoke Ladino very well and she taught us grandchildren the language. I understand and speak Ladino. My mother, however, insisted that we learn Bulgarian very well and we spoke mainly in Bulgarian at home. My mother was very intelligent and read a lot. We had a big library at home, including many books from famous Russian authors such as Chernyshevsky 2 and Dostoevsky 3, which had been bought by my father's brothers, who were intellectuals. I loved reading- I still do - and this helped me a lot in my job. When I started studying in Sliven high school, I became interested in left-oriented publications, which were distributed illegally at that time.

Both Bulgarians and Jews lived in our neighborhood in the center of Sliven. My parents got along very well with their neighbors; they had both Bulgarian and Jewish friends. As a child I didn't notice if the other children were Bulgarians or Jews. There was no evident anti-Semitism in Sliven. Our Bulgarian neighbors weren't of the fascist type.

The Jewish community included several thousand people. There was a Jewish municipality, whose management's offices were in the Jewish school. It was a new two-story building with a big nice yard, where we played. We also had a synagogue. It had its own building, situated near our house in the Jewish neighborhood. While in Sofia the Jews had no legal right to buy houses in the center of the city after 1939 [because of the so-called Law for the Protection of the Nation] 4, which led to the forming of the Jewish neighborhood [Iuchbunar], this wasn't the case in Sliven, where relatives wanted to live closer to one another. So, there was a big Jewish neighborhood in the center. We had a rabbi and a shochet. We didn't have a special store where kosher food was sold, but we went to the shochet at the synagogue where he ritually slaughtered hens and calves.

There was a Jewish elementary school, where we studied until the 4th grade. Both Shemaya Yomtov Geron, who was also born in Sliven and later became my husband, and I studied there. Besides the main subjects, we also studied Hebrew. Unfortunately, in Sliven, Hebrew wasn't taught in the higher grades, as it was in other towns where there were Jewish associations, which supported the teaching of Hebrew. I didn't manage to learn Hebrew very well. After the Jewish school I started studying in a Bulgarian junior high school until 3rd grade and then I enrolled in the Sliven high school.

There was a big hall in the Jewish school where we organized ceremonies and celebrated the Jewish holidays. When I was a student there, at the end of every school year, we had to prepare and act out short plays. Some of our teachers prepared us very carefully for these events. We invited the whole Jewish community to watch our theatrical performance. So, the Jews in Sliven had their cultural events. They also had their organizations. My father was a member of the Bnei Brit charity organization, which raised money to give scholarships to the poorer children. The other organizations were Hashomer Hatzair 5 and Maccabi 6. They were youth organizations and all of their members were young people. I was a member of Hashomer Hatzair. The organization took us on excursions, organized lectures in which they told us about Zionism, Israel, and we also collected donations for Palestine. In some towns the [Hashomer Hatzair] organization also taught its members Hebrew, but the one in Sliven didn't. Maccabi was the sports youth organization, which organized volleyball competitions.

When I studied in high school my friends were Bulgarians, since I was the only Jew in the class. In 1942 when the repressions against the Jews started, most of my friends in the class distanced themselves from me. During those times I spent time with the Jews in the neighborhood and met secretly with the members of the UYW 7.

When I was young, we traveled very often to Sofia to visit my mother's relatives. My mother was the favorite of her parents because they wanted a girl very much and they only had boys before that. I remember the time when I was a high school student and I got appendicitis. We visited my uncle, and my mother brought me to Sofia to the clinic of Dr. Varkony, who was a Jew from Hungary. Dr. Varkony himself did the operation.

My little sister became sick at the time when the Jews were forbidden to leave their towns. This happened at the end of 1939. The doctors recommended that my sister should be treated in Sofia and we had to request permission from the police to travel to Sofia to have my sister diagnosed and treated. So we traveled by train from Sliven to Sofia.

I started feeling the repressive measures against the Jews in Sliven around 1942-43, when I was in high school. I remember that we had to wear the yellow stars and we weren't allowed to walk on all streets. We weren't allowed to be out on the streets after 8pm, and we weren't allowed to leave Sliven. At that time there were even cases of violence against Jews. There were the organizations of the Legionaries 8 and the Branniks 9, who threw stones at the Jews and at their houses.

We also experienced such violence. The bedroom where my sisters and I slept had a window facing the street. Although it had big metal bars, one night a big stone fell onto my bed, which could have killed me. That stone was thrown by the Branniks. Very often they broke our windows and yelled insults at us. I felt the restrictions against the Jews the most when I finished school. I was among the students graduating with excellent marks, but I couldn't go to the graduation ball because it took place after 8pm and Jews weren't allowed to leave their houses after this hour.

In 1943 the school year finished earlier than usual. As early as April the high school in Sliven was turned into a hospital because of the war. Also in 1943 the pro-fascist authorities confiscated my father's factory. When I found out that I couldn't continue my education in a university, my older sister and I learned to work on the machines and worked for a while in my father's factory, earning our living as workers. At that time my father's chief accountant, Madjarov, had his friends in the police department appoint him director of the factory.

The Jews in Sliven were not interned to other towns, but Jews interned from Sofia and other towns came to Sliven. My father's sister Klara with her husband and two children came from Sofia to live with us. Her family made wicker baskets and tables for a living in Sofia. They and many other Jews were made to sell whatever they could from their belongings in order to gather some money for food. They weren't allowed to work in Sliven and their life was very hard.

During World War II my father wasn't sent to a labor camp. But as early as 1940 he was interned to the village of Dabnitsa near the town of Nevrokop [today Gotse Delchev in Southwest Bulgaria]. The reason [for the internment] was that he was a Jew and a factory owner. As long as he lived there, he had to report to the municipality every evening and sign his name.

In 1944 my whole family received letters with orders to be sent to concentration camps. Even my younger sister, who was still a student, received such a letter. I remember well that the letter said that after two days we had to appear at the school carrying only the most necessary belongings because we were to be interned. But we knew very well what would happen to us. I had Bulgarian friends who listened to London Radio, sometimes I also went to their place and so I realized that we would be sent to the camps. I remember that my mother made my sister and me sew a rucksack each so that we could carry our belongings separately.

I had a chemistry teacher in high school, who was fascist oriented. She knew that I was a Jew and tested me exactly at the time when we were receiving the orders at home and we were very worried about our fate. We were horrified of what might happen to us, but the teacher deliberately tested only me so that I would feel humiliated for not knowing the lesson. I had excellent marks in all subjects; only in chemistry did I have a three. [In Bulgaria school grading ranges from six, the best mark, to two, the poorest mark.] These events took place in March. I remember well that the deportation was cancelled on 9th March 1943 and the news came to Sliven on 10th March. Later I sat for a school-leaving exam in chemistry and had an excellent mark, but I never forgot that teacher. I heard that she married a German and went to live in Germany.

My family was informed about the course of events in World War II. We knew what was happening in Poland and about the concentration camps from the foreign radio stations and from what other people were saying. We didn't consider leaving Bulgaria because my parents didn't have much money. When I finished high school in 1943, I wanted to continue with my education. I wanted to study medicine, but I wasn't allowed to. My father was willing to give me money to study in Tsarigrad, but the authorities didn't allow us Jews to leave the country. I tried to enroll in a school for midwives in Sofia, but I couldn't to do that either, because I wasn't allowed to leave Sliven. At that time it wasn't possible to leave the country in any legal way. In some towns Jews were better organized and many of them left the country, but only illegally, and moved to Palestine as early as the 1940s. I guess the Jews in Sliven weren't as well organized.

My sisters and I were more involved with the UYW than with the Jewish organizations. We became UYW members very early - while we were studying in high school. I was a student in the last grade, when I became a member. At first we helped the Sliven partisan group. We distributed leaflets against the Germans from house to house, which was very risky. Some partisans killed by the authorities were put on display in our town's square. They had come from another town and were shot without trial or sentence only because they were involved with the communists. My largest contribution as a leader of our group was saving a political prisoner from a death sentence. We gathered money and bribed the judge and so we saved the man from a sure death. We gathered food from the Jewish families when food was distributed in rations and was scarce. We put aside from the little food we had to help the political prisoners, although that was very risky. Yet, there were good people, for example a policeman who was a friend of my father and who warned him that the police was following me and knew who I was meeting with.

There were a number of secondary schools in Sliven - a girls' school, a boys' school, a textile school, a professional school for tailors. They all had UYW groups, who had their leaders. As a leader of the UYW for my high school I met with the main leader of all the schools, Atanas Sandev. Suddenly he was arrested and tortured to betray the other people from the organization. However, he was physically strong and withstood the tortures. He didn't betray me and in this way saved my life. He was sentenced and imprisoned. On 9th September 1944 10 he was released.

At the end of 1943 and the beginning of 1944 I kept in touch with the partisan squad, which was ready to accept a few more people. At that time the persecutions of Jews increased and we were thinking of joining the partisan squad and going underground. We sewed clothes and knitted socks for the partisans. Around 9th September 1944 I was an active member of the Fatherland Front 11, the UYW and later I joined the Bulgarian Communist Party.

During the Holocaust my mother's three brothers were interned to Northern Bulgaria - in Vidin and Lom. In 1948 during the Mass Aliyah 12 all my mother's brothers and their families moved to Israel.

My family didn't want to move to Israel. The main reason was that right after 9th September 1944] my father was given back the factory for a short time and he started to work. I was a member of the UYW then and had work to do in Bulgaria. What's more, I preferred to continue my education rather than move to Israel. I decided that I wanted to study medicine when I was a student in high school. I started studying medicine in October 1944. At that time my mother came down with a very serious illness - block of the biliary tree. She was on the verge of dying. The physician told me that my mother's life depended entirely on me. I had to prepare hot compresses by soaking a towel in hot water, wring it out and then put it on her liver. He said that only this heat could unblock the biliary paths. Although both of my hands got blistered by the hot water, I was absolutely determined to do all I could to help my mother get well. In this way, thanks to my efforts and determination, my mother managed to overcome the illness.

Almost at the same time as I did, in 1944, my sister Luisa started studying dentistry, but didn't graduate. During her second year she married, had a child named Mihael Alhalel and moved to Israel. After she arrived in Israel, Luisa didn't live very well. The law degree of her husband Shalom Alhalel wasn't recognized in Israel and she had to work as an egg vendor and street cleaner while her husband took the exams for law degree once again in Israel. My sister also worked as a maid in a children's home. They settled in the town of Ramla.

My sister's life was very hard. When she was pregnant with her second child, Uri, in Israel, she didn't have anyone with whom to leave her first child and she stayed at home until the very last moment. When the delivery started, there was no time to call an ambulance and they tried to transport her to the hospital in a truck. She gave birth in that truck and her husband cut the umbilical cord. Later they had a third child named Bela. During that time my sister's husband finished his university education. Their children - two boys and a girl - are now adults. One of their sons is an obstetrician in Jerusalem, the other is an engineer and their daughter is a pedagogue and high school principal. My sister has nine grandchildren, but after her husband died, she went to a home for the elderly.

My younger sister, Soli, studied pedagogy and worked as a teacher in Sofia until she retired. Her husband, Mois Semov, is a philosophy professor. He had some problems with his heart and had to undergo an operation. The doctors in Sofia, however, warned him that the operation was very risky. He had a sister who had moved to Israel. She had a good friend, who was a very good heart surgeon. After he got acquainted with the case, he offered to operate my sister's husband for free. So my sister and her husband, with almost no money, left for Israel in 1992 and after ten days Mois was operated and recovered completely. So, they remained in Israel. My sister's two twin-daughters, Nina and Mati,who are engineers and computer specialists, moved to Israel with their parents.

My husband, Shemaya Geron, and I have known each other since we were kids. Our mothers were friends and even bathed us together. Our houses were very close to each other. My husband's father had a textile shop, which was closed by the authorities at the beginning of the 1940s. In high school we got along well and went out with the same friends. My husband is also a Jew, one year older than me and studied in a higher grade. My older sister was a classmate of his. We weren't in love in high school. I was in love with a boy from the textile school, who was from Pleven. I became close with my future husband when we went to Sofia in 1944 to study at university. He studied engineering and I studied medicine. My parents lived in Sliven, while my husband's whole family moved to Sofia. I lived in a rented apartment in Sofia and visited my future husband's home to give injections to his sister. In this way our friendship grew deeper and turned into love.

In 1948 my father's factory was nationalized by the communists. They also took all our money. My father wasn't well off any more; my parents had very little money. They lived in Sliven and it was quite expensive for them to travel to Sofia. I wasn't able to help them either. At that time I had to work while studying in order to support myself. I received 100 levs a month, with which I had to pay my rent and the other expenses. My flat wasn't always heated and sometimes I had to sleep with my gloves on. My life from 1944 until 1950 was very hard. The food I ate in the university canteens was poor and never varied.

In the 1950s my father started work as a clerk in a company in Sliven, and my mother in a Jewish sewing co-operative. After I married in 1956, I invited them to live with me in Sofia because their health was poor and they needed my care.

I didn't receive aid from Joint 13 in Sliven. I remember that the Jews in Sofia received some aid in the form of blankets and clothes. I myself didn't have a new dress even at the time when I graduated from university. Then my mother sent me a well-preserved dress of hers, onto which I sewed a pink collar that my landlady gave to me. I put it on for the graduation ball at university. At that time I felt very self-conscious about my clothes.

My parents were not present at my wedding. My husband and I married in 1956, with only the registrar present, and lived with my husband's parents in Sofia. My husband's sister, Ema Geron, and her family also lived there and the apartment was quite crowded. So, after one year we went to live in an attic in the center of Sofia, which we turned into an attic apartment. We bought it with many loans and we still live in it now.

I have two sons: Yoni was born in 1957 and Mishel in 1961. My children didn't study in a Jewish school. We didn't raise them to feel Jewish in particular; we brought them up to feel cosmopolitan. My husband and I are left-oriented and believe in the socialist idea. We also raised our children in its spirit. I think that the Jewish school is crucial in raising a child to feel Jewish and my two children didn't go to a Jewish school. For example, my oldest grandson in America, who has graduated from the Jewish school in his hometown, is proud of his Jewish origins.

During the Jewish holidays, the Jewish traditions were observed by my husband's parents. We often celebrated the holidays with them. We also celebrated Fruitas 14. My mother-in-law made pouches - with different kinds of fruit and nuts in them - for my children, too because when I started to work as a doctor I was very busy. However, to this day I always light a candle on Chanukkah. When my mother- and father-in-law were no longer alive I didn't have enough time to pass the Jewish traditions on to my children. I have worked on Sabbath, because at some point in time Saturday was a working day in Bulgaria.

My husband is an electrical engineer. He worked in the State Planning Committee for quite a long time. He was dismissed at some point in the 1970s because his sister, who was a psychology professor and chairwoman of the Association of Jewish Sports Psychologists didn't return to Bulgaria after one conference abroad and went to live in Israel. Then the head of the State Planning Committee told him that he couldn't continue to work there because his sister had 'escaped' from Bulgaria. He didn't regret his dismissal because there he had much work to do. He always worked until late then and I had to look after our little children. I love my husband and after he was dismissed, I supported him and told him I would follow him even to the countryside if he found a job there. My husband started work in the Energoprojekt Institute. There he was in charge of the planning of the production of the electrical stations in Bulgaria. He retired from this job. My husband and I were very active mountaineers and often in the summers went on holiday to the Bulgarian mountains.

I finished studying in 1950, my profession is microbiology and immunology. In January 1951 I started work in the Infectious and Parasitic Diseases Institute, where I was assigned to the laboratory doing research on tetanus. Later I became head of that laboratory. I became a second degree research associate , and in 1973 I became a first degree research associate , which is equivalent to a professor's degree. From 1973 until 1990 I worked in the institute as head of the laboratory and head of the department for vaccines and prophylactics, which involved 1,500 people, working on all kinds of vaccines. I also headed the production department of the institute. In my life I am the most proud of my personal achievement in the sphere of medicine. I was the first person in Bulgaria to introduce active immunization against tetanus and whooping-cough; furthermore I discovered that old people can develop immunity against tetanus.

I could say that there was some anti-Semitism in the institute where I worked. In the 1950s when the trial against the doctors [Doctors' Plot] 15 was taking place in the Soviet Union, there was a director at our institute, who was preparing to dismiss all doctors of Jewish origin working in the institute. Four Jews worked in the institute and the director said that he would fire us for our inefficiency at work. But the real situation was quite the opposite, because each of us had accomplished achievements in the research area. I myself was awarded for my contribution to the research work in the institute only three months before the director decided to dismiss us. Then we decided to file a complaint at the Central Committee of the Bulgarian Communist Party. They called the director and made him cancel his plan.

Before I became a first degree research associate , I defended my dissertation and wrote a doctorate. My husband was very understanding. Once, when I had to develop a new method for identifying the antibodies in human blood, I had to go to the institute and examine the mice on which I experimented. Although my husband was very tired, he didn't hesitate at all, but accompanied me. He was ready to do anything to help me continue with my research activities. When I had to write my dissertation, he did all the household chores so that I would have enough time.

It so happened that two Jewish women, a colleague of mine and I, were applying for the professor's degree. At that time the director of the institute had changed - now it was Prof. Shindarov. He was a kind and honest man. He had completed his education in the Soviet Union and he was a distinguished scholar. We were close and I asked him if he wasn't worried about proposing two professorships for Jewish doctors at the academic council. He told me that he was doing the right thing and the two of us deserved our professor's degrees. Our reviews were absolutely positive, at that time the reviews were made by three professors. Thus, there were no objections and we became first degree research associates.

There were people in the institute who were very good specialists in their areas. For example, I reviewed the whole world literature on the issue of vaccines against tetanus. I myself translated articles in French, German, Italian, English, Spanish and Russian. With some help, I also used Japanese and I was very proud that the Japanese researches had also written about me and my discovery that old people can develop immunity against tetanus. On the whole, in order to advance in my career, I had to rely completely on my own skills. The fact that I was a member of the Bulgarian Communist Party didn't help me at all and I always fought for everything. [During the communist regime in Bulgaria members of the Bulgarian Communist Party were often treated in a privileged way ]. Now I'm a member of the Bulgarian Socialist Party.

From 1948 until 1963 I didn't see my sister Luisa at all. I wanted very much to go and see her, but the police didn't allow us meet her - neither my mother, nor me. In the summer of 1963, before I left for Israel, I had an interesting experience at the institute. During a meeting at which more than 30 people were present, doctors, chemists and pharmacists, I requested to have my whole annual leave amount of 40 days. Then the head of the institute answered that production was increasing and there was a lot of work to be done. He asked me why I was requesting such a long leave. I answered in front of everybody that I had a sister living abroad, whom I hadn't seen for more than ten years. This separation was very painful for me since I had absolutely no news from her. My colleagues at the institute weren't ill disposed towards me. In the end, I was granted the requested leave and my husband and I traveled to Israel to visit my older sister Luisa. Our son remained in Sofia at my parent's place.

During the wars in Israel in 1967 [Six-Day-War] 16 and 1973 [Yom Kippur War] 17 I was also very worried about my sister and her family. I think that during those wars Bulgaria was not firmly against Israel. I remember that my colleagues at the institute encouraged me not to believe the news we heard about the war.

My son Yoni graduated as an engineer and is a specialist in radio and television equipment. He worked in an institute and there he became a research associate. Afterwards he married a Jew named Ameliya Bidgerano. They had a son, Vitaly, who is now a university student in the US. Yoni went to Hungary where his wife, who was a doctor, was preparing her dissertation. My son had a good job in Bulgaria, but he was ready to work anything, only to be with his wife. After his wife finished her dissertation, she took part in a conference of young scholars in London and there she met a doctor from America, who offered her a job in the US. She agreed and my son's whole family left for the US in 1991. But things went bad there. Less than a year after they left, my son's wife died in a tragic accident during an excursion.

Yoni remained to live with his child in Minneapolis. He was invited by the professor, with whom his wife worked, to work as a laboratory technician. In this way, he found a job and decided to stay in the US and look after his son by himself. Four years after the death of his wife, my son met another woman, who is also a Jew. Her name is Lora. They liked each other and got married. His new wife is involved in charity activities. My son has two children from his new marriage - a boy and a girl. Their names are Noah, who was born in 1998 and Eliyana, who was born in 2001.

In 1994 my husband and I visited our son in the US for the first time. We went for three months to look after our grandson. In Minneapolis summers are very hot and winters very cold. When I was in America, I was impressed to see people put small statues in their yards at Christmas time, picturing, for example, the birth of Christ or the Virgin Mary.

My other son, Mishel, has been in love with photography ever since high school and decided to pursue it as a profession. After he did his military service, he applied to the College of Photography in Sofia and became a professional photographer. Now he works as a photojournalist for the Noshten Troud newspaper [an evening weekly focusing on nightlife and crime]. He is married to a Jew, whose name is Jana,nee Kohen, and has two boys - Emil, who is eight years old and Mihail, who is seven years old. His wife graduated from the School of Economics and works in the Statistical Center.

I think that the opening up of the Eastern European countries to the West is very useful. I only wish that the economic situation of Bulgaria were better. I retired with a relatively big pension in 1990. I worked in the institute for 40 years: I started work there as a young doctor and left as a professor when I retired at 66 years of age. After the inflation, after 1990, my pension decreased drastically. Life became harder. The retired intellectuals in Bulgaria are at a very disadvantaged position. All retired people in the West live a better life. I know that they can even afford some charity donations with their saved money. My pension is such that I cannot afford to travel where I want to. A colleague of mine, a retired doctor living in Austria, has enough income to give some aid to the poor families living in the Vienna suburbs each month. What's more, he invites guests from abroad for a long time entirely at his own expense. I cannot afford to invite a guest even to a restaurant.

I have many acquaintances abroad, since I have traveled many times before to take part in conferences, and the situation here depresses me. It humiliates you, making you unable to help your children. I have always loved Bulgaria; I have always liked it. Years ago, my husband and I had opportunities to travel abroad. I have visited many countries in Western Europe - Spain, England, Germany, Hungary, Poland. I have been there for conferences and I went on excursions.

Glossary

Tili Solomon
Iasi
Romania
Interviewer: Francisca Solomon
Date of interview: June 2005

Mrs. Tili Solomon is a 74-year-old woman who takes care of her appearance and is very sociable. She used to live in Iasi in a three-room apartment, located in the vicinity of the railroad station. After the death of her husband in 2004, she chose the aliyah and joined her daughter's family in Beer-Sheva, Israel. At the time of this interview she was embarrassed and, at the same time, upset because her apartment wasn't in perfect order anymore: there were boxes everywhere, as she was preparing to sell the place and move to Israel for good. What one could still notice was the comprehensive bookshelf in the living room, with many titles. She was also preoccupied with finishing the work on her husband's tomb in time. Yet her face radiated with joy because she was soon to be reunited with her children and settle in Israel, thus fulfilling her lifelong dream.

I don't really know any details about my great-grandparents because they died long before I was born. Instead, I have quite a few childhood memories involving my grandparents: both maternal and paternal ones. They were all born before 1900, around 1870-1875. My father was born in 1900, so his parents must have been born in the 1870s. I don't know how many generations of ancestors had lived in Iasi before them. But I know that my grandparents were born in Iasi and died here. They were all buried in the Pacurari Cemetery [Editor's note: Pacurari is the Jewish cemetery in Iasi.].

My maternal grandfather, Volf Shaim, was a bricklayer. I don't think he had any siblings, at least, I can't remember any; we were little children back then. Here's a detail that I recalled yesterday. After World War I, immediately after 1918, he left for America on his own, planning to work as a bricklayer: people probably thought that America was the land of milk and honey. So he left his wife and six or seven children at home and went straight there. Of course, he came back after a short while. I think the reason why he went alone was that he wanted to see for himself what the situation was like: whether he could take his children there and somehow earn his living. I don't know how long it took him to figure out there was no future for him there and return to his children. His absence may have had an influence on his wife, who died right away. As for him, he remarried.

His second wife was called Clara, who I actually met. She lived with him for many years, including the war period: World War II. She didn't have children of her own and raised his very nicely and made sure they all married well. They applied for emigration with their children. But it was a time when most applications were rejected. Because they were pretty old, they got the approval but their children didn't. In 1950 or 1951 they emigrated [see Mass emigration from Romania after World War II] 1 to Israel. My grandfather, who had worked as a bricklayer in Romania once, believed that he could do this in Israel too and be somebody, despite his age. Since his children were denied the right to emigrate, my grandfather and his wife were all alone and signed up for an old age home. When they left for the station, they rode in a carriage and Clara had a bouquet in her hand. And all the daughters, sons-in-law and their children accompanied them in other carriages, as if it were a wedding procession. We kept in touch with them by mail. Back then we didn't have a telephone.

My maternal grandmother, Sifra Shaim, was a housewife. In those days, it was unusual for women to have jobs. They lived in Iasi on Aron Voda Street, in a large house with an entrance lobby, bedroom, elegant dining room, bathroom, another room, kitchen, large basement filled with goodies, and a summer kitchen. They later bought a gas stove. I never saw a gas stove in my parents' home, but the old folks bought themselves one right after 1944: my grandfather just brought it home one day. The house had a nice courtyard with a lot of ivy on the side; it was paved, and had a table with two benches on one side and also on the opposite. I remember that my grandfather's second wife, Clara, who was, in fact, our grandmother too, used to go to the synagogue on Sabbath and holidays, observed the kashrut, kept separate dishes for milk and meat products, and sometimes went with her daughters to the mikveh.

My mother, Clara Herscu [nee Shaim], Jewish name Haia Hinda, was born in Iasi, in the house on Aron Voda Street, around 1902. She had three younger sisters. The first one who was born after her was Toni Smilovici [nee Shaim], of course, the last name is her husband's; she was born in 1904, was a housewife and died in 1974 in Iasi. Her husband's name was Leon; he was born in 1901 in Iasi, and was a tailor. They had a son, Nelu, who was born in 1929 and died in 1994. Nelu was an economist. Paulina Scheinfeld [nee Shaim], my mother's second sister, was born in 1907 in Iasi. She was a housewife. Her husband's name was Strul; he was a hakham and did ritual slaughters, especially with poultry. They had a son, Avram, born in Iasi in 1932, who currently lives in Germany, and is a light industry engineer. He's married and has a son who's a surgeon. Paulina died in 1993 in Rehovot, Israel. Ceanca Siriteanu [nee Shaim], my mother's third sister, was born in 1920. Her husband's name was Sergiu and he was an accountant. They had a daughter, Sorana, who was born in 1944 in Iasi and currently lives in Israel. She's a chemical engineer. Ceanca left for Israel and was buried in Rehovot too. She died in 1997.

My mother was a housewife. She was a very beautiful woman. Someone once told me, many years after, 'I liked to passing by your window only to see your mother.' Her hair was always done and she was always fixed up. She wouldn't leave the house unless she looked perfect; she'd say, 'How can I go out if my hair isn't combed and done?' A truly beautiful woman: I say it with no hesitation. And so were her sisters. They were all beautiful and elegant girls.

My paternal grandmother, Debora Herscu, was a woman with little education. We, the children, all lived helter-skelter, so to speak, on Socola Street. The old man, Moisa Herscu, adored us. He was a grain merchant; he traded grain and there was even a time when he owned a grain store. I mean, it wasn't a grocery, he sold food and forage. This was around 1925, after he completed his military service. He also had the nickname of Moisa Stramola because he always wore a kopola [kippah]. I remember my father and grandfather once worked for an employer who did business with walnuts. He bought them from peasants, his employees cracked them and dried the kernels, and he then exported them to I don't know where. It was a seasonal job, in fall usually. The employer's name was Herman Schneer. He died during the pogrom [in Iasi] 2 with one of his sons, and one of his sons- in-law. In our house, Schneer was thought to be a very clever man. He used to pay his employees on Saturday evenings. On one of those evenings my grandfather wasn't satisfied with what he got and refused the money, claiming he deserved more. The employer told him, 'Let me tell you something. You may not be satisfied, but take the money first, then negotiate.' These words were remembered in my family for a long time.

My father had a brother whose name was Pincu [Avram]. He was a grain merchant too. My grandparents' house on Socola Street was rather modest. They used firewood for heating in winter. The stoves were ordinary, not made of terracotta, and there were no gas stoves back then. All they had was the so-called Primus stove. Later, some lamps were introduced, but they were worse than the Primus because they smoked heavily. During the war [World War II] we all gathered there; each family occupied a room. It was very difficult, but we did it to be together.

I only know that both my grandfathers wore kippahs, but I don't recall them having beards; they were religious, but not extremely devout. This was also true for the grandmothers: they didn't wear wigs and only put on a kerchief when going to the synagogue or cemetery. Both my maternal and paternal grandparents used to go to the synagogue on Friday evenings and especially on Saturdays, and they observed the kashrut. I remember that on holidays, especially on Purim, the whole family and some friends would gather at my maternal grandparents' place on Aron Voda Street. They had a rather good material situation and could afford to serve abundant meals, with cookies, chocolate cakes, traditional hamantashen: small cakes whose shape was reminiscent of Haman's hat. All the guests chatted, ate and had fun. My mother sometimes went to the mikveh, but we used to go to our maternal grandparents' because they had a bathroom; back then, few people had the chance to take a bath at home. They also went to Zisu Herman's, a communal bath. When my paternal grandfather died, the women sat shivah, i.e. they sat on the floor for seven days in his memory. My family used to say that his former employer, Herman Schneer, for whom my grandfather had worked in the walnut business, had personally come to express his sympathy, and this was a great honor for us.

My father had two brothers and a sister. Avram Herscu was born after my father, in 1903 in Iasi. In the beginning he worked as a grain merchant, just like my father. I was very fond of him. He was a great adventurer. During the war he served in the Red Army. Then he came back to Romania, stayed for a short while and left for Israel via Hungary, Austria and Germany. He stayed for a while in Germany, got to Israel, then returned to Germany, where he got married. His wife's name was Toni. He owned a restaurant there. Eventually he went to Israel again and died there in 1981 or 1982. The next brother was Ilie Herscu, born in 1906, a grain merchant too; he married a woman named Reghina who was from Campulung la Tisa [Northwestern Bukovina] 3 and spoke German fluently. I can tell you that she, her sister and mother stayed in Campulung and were deported to Transnistria 4; her mother died there and her sister returned. My father's sister was called Nety Herscu. She was born in 1912, was a housewife and married a man named Iosif; he had some roots from Bukovina too, but his family had moved here when he was a child. I'm not sure whether he spoke German like my aunt. He was a watchmaker. They had a daughter, Dori, who's currently living in Israel.

My father, Burah Herscu, was born in May 1900, in the house on Socola Street in Iasi. He was a grain merchant: he traded grain and there was even a time when he owned a small store where he sold hay, oat, grains, rye, bran, salt lumps, animal supplies, i.e. for cattle.

My parents got married in 1927 in the beautiful temple in Unirii Square. Since they lived in different neighborhoods, my mother in the Targu Cucu area and my father on Socola Street, they must have met through a common circle of friends; young people who went together to various shows and films. On Friday and Saturday evenings, they organized parties with dancing and snacks, at their places. This is how they met; they liked each other and got married. The wedding party took place in a very fancy hall where such events were organized. I think its name was 'Sport si muzica' [Sports and Music]. Many Jews used to go there, maybe Christians too, but it was very expensive and Jews usually had a better material situation. My mother used to tell us that balls were organized in this hall on Saturdays; young men and women would meet there to dance and snacks were served. In 1928 my sister, Silvi, was born. My mother was a very pedantic woman and dressed us in beautiful and neat clothes, but nothing fancy. My mother didn't have a job. In that period women didn't work. I had a rather hard time living with my parents.

My father was very talkative and read a lot. He enjoyed reading Sholem Aleichem's 5 books. I remember how he used to sit in bed in winter and read; at a certain point, he would start laughing and we didn't know why: he had come across something funny. So he would read us a fragment from Sholem Aleichem's book to amuse us. We didn't have an actual bookshelf, but he borrowed many books and newspapers. My mother read too. My father particularly liked the Jewish authors, he was happy whenever he came across someone like Aleichem. There was a bookstore on I. C. Bratianu Street, and they also lent books. My sister borrowed from there too. My parents probably borrowed from family and friends as well.

I was very fond of my father. My sister was my mother's favorite and I was my father's. I used to go with him to the marketplace and enjoyed accompanying him to the synagogue on Friday evenings. There were a few other children there, little girls and boys, and he often took me with him. My father was a big fan of amusement in general: he took me to the cinema and theater. I also went to several performances at the Jewish Theater [in Iasi]. Here's a little detail: it's nothing, but I'll say it, since we're telling stories now. It was my birthday and I woke up next to a huge bouquet of lilacs. My father had brought them for me because it was the lilac season. I think this happened right before the war, and I was probably very young. But, as you can see, I can remember this. I can still visualize the scene of me waking up with a huge lilac bouquet in my bed. It's amazing how such small things can touch your heart.

My father did his military service around 1925. He was assigned to the firemen. He had many stories from his army days. I remember my family used to say that if my father woke up at the sound of a fire engine's siren, he would jump through the window in his underwear or his pajamas and run after them to see where the fire was and give a hand.

I was born in Iasi in May 1931. My sister, Silvi, is two years and a few months older than me. She currently lives in Israel. I remember my sister had a friend, Coca Pomeranz, who had two brothers: Dedi and Sandu. I was the youngest and always insisted on going with her to her friends, but they would often leave me at home. They would send me inside to ask for my parents' permission, or so they claimed. I would ask for some sort of guarantee, to make sure they wouldn't leave in the meantime. To make fun of me, because I was so naive, they would give me a hairpin or button, something unimportant. This way they could leave without me, and it would make me upset and I would cry.

I've just remembered a game they used to play. I was desperate because I had no idea how it worked. They took two small pieces of paper and stuck them on their forefingers. And this is what they sang, 'Two swallows are picking up woodchips; one of them is Lina, the other is Paulina; when Lina flies, Paulina flies too; when Lina comes back, Paulina comes back too...' The paper stayed stuck on the forefinger and they changed it using the middle finger. And when they got to the part where Paulina and Lina come back, they brought those fingers back. I was little and couldn't understand how this flying away and coming back worked. So I kept nagging my parents to tell me how that was possible. This is a story I remember many times and laugh on my own every time I do.

We were a Jewish family, but weren't very religious. We observed all the holidays though. When a holiday, like Purim, was near, my father would try to tell us something about its traditions. On New Year's Eve, Rosh Hashanah, he told us why the Jews had started counting the years long before Christ was born, and many other things. They wanted us to know the basics about the holidays.

The eight days of Passover were observed rather strictly. We ate latkes; they were made of matzah flour to which they added an egg, salt and pepper, and they were roasted in oil. We occasionally ate potato salad with eggs. There was no question about having bread at home in that period. Wheat flour and rice were forbidden. On the seder evening my father went to the synagogue. We had to wait for him to come back before we could eat. My sister and I were already half asleep by then. My father read the Haggadah and my sister or I asked the mah nishtanah. During the war we baked a sort of unleavened bread: simple or with eggs. It was round and I can still see it before my eyes. We kept it in a special cupboard which was cleaned before Passover. The hakham would slaughter poultry, but this didn't only happen on Passover, poultry was always slaughtered by the hakham, to observe the ritual.

Purim was a happy holiday; every year we went to our maternal grandparents' where there was a large meal. Both my grandmother and mother made cakes, especially hamantashen. We dressed up and visited our relatives. The streets were full of fiddlers, usually Gypsies, who made a buck thanks to Purim. Passover, Rosh Hashanah, and other high holidays were very pleasant times. I remember that, on the first day of Rosh Hashanah, we used to go near a stream and shake our pockets. This custom was called 'ba da tashlehs' [Yiddish for 'at the pockets']. The entire Socola neighborhood used to go shake their pockets by the Bahlui River, which ran nearby. This meant that you shook off your sins and entered the New Year a renewed person. Others went to Zisu Herman's bath to shake their pockets. My parents went to the synagogue and took us with them; we would find a place to play there. I remember the children dug a hole in the ground and, as it was chestnut season, we played with chestnuts by that hole. These are my childhood memories which I cherish so much.

On the eve of Yom Kippur there was the 'shlogn kapores.' For this custom, they had to use a cock for a boy and hen for a girl. The chicken had to be donated to the poor afterwards. We usually went to our grandparents' as they were the ones who performed the ritual. A prayer was said and the chicken was swung around the child's head. This was supposed to erase the child's sins. Other times this was done with money which was later donated. On Yom Kippur there was a big fast. Everyone fasted; we, the children, fasted less strictly, for only half a day. But when we grew older, we began to fast the entire day. In the evening we would all sit at the table and, in the end, it became a pleasant holiday, because we all sat together and ate the traditional soup.

On Sukkot, those who could afford it built a sukkah. I can't remember having one at our place when I was a child. I think the men in the family went to the synagogue, where a sukkah was erected. I think people used corn stalks to make the walls of the sukkah, which was a sort of hut where you were supposed to stay. I saw it at our neighbors' houses and in the courtyards of the synagogues. Others improvised a table inside and sat at it.

My favorite holiday was Channukah. We would light candles: first my father, then my sister and I. They say only boys should do it, but there were only girls in the house. During the eight days of Channukah we made red beat borscht at least once; it had varnishkes, a sort of bow-tie pasta made of potatoes. Our maternal grandparents always gave us money, not gifts. They called it Channukah gelt. When we got a bit older, my sister and I tried to avoid going to our grandparents' on the very days of Channukah because we were ashamed to receive money. I had two cousins, one of them was older than me, and the other younger, who weren't embarrassed at all and had no problem with going to pick up their share. If we went the following week, the two of them laughed at us, 'Who didn't go on Channukah doesn't get the Channukah gelt!' Eventually, our grandparents gave us the money: it didn't matter that we hadn't visited them when we were supposed to. Of course, it was a small incentive for us, but it was something to remember over the years. Our parents sometimes gave us Channukah gelt too.

Most of the city's population was Jewish. There were a few neighborhoods inhabited exclusively by Jews. On Sarariei Street, Christians were predominant, but certain quarters had only Jews. Very few of us were devout: a few women wore wigs and few men wore caftans and payes. But my family, like most of the Jewish population, observed the Mosaic religion to a great extent. As far as I remember, Iasi had many synagogues and prayer houses. Counting from Podul Ros to the Marzescu School, no, I don't even go as far as the Marzescu School, to Tesatura [factory], there were at least ten synagogues, well, prayer houses, where my parents used to go. There were four of them only in a small corner. Further away, after Targul Cucului [Editor's note: quarter of Iasi, where the Jewish population was predominant until World War II], there were others: two or three on Halei Street, and just as many on Independentei Boulevard, which was called I. C. Bratianu back then. The one at Kantarski survived for a long time. Not to mention the Cahane synagogue on Stefan cel Mare Boulevard: this was only demolished in the communist period, in the process of urban systematization [see Systematic demolitions] 6. Today there are only two synagogues left in Iasi, both of them Orthodox 7. One of them is the Great Synagogue in Targul Cucului, where a service is held only on Saturdays. I think there is also a Friday evening service in the other synagogue, on Palat Street, where the few Jews from Podul Ros gather.

Before and during the war the city had a number of paved streets and it had streetcars between Socola and Copou, and between Nicolina and Pacurari. There weren't many cars, but there were a lot of carriages. We had neighbors who owned a few horses and carriages; they hired cabmen who drove the carriages and made money for them. In the evening they retired and others replaced them. A cousin of mine, Nelu, particularly enjoyed coming to Socola Street. They lived downtown, six or seven streetcar stops away. He remembered that, when they had to leave, my father went to where the carriages were on duty in the evening, and asked whether there was anyone going downtown to give them a ride from Socola Street to Alecsandri Street, where they lived. These last years, my cousin remembered this and told me: 'I really liked to come by your place!' 'Why is that, Nelu?' 'Uncle Buca [Mrs. Solomon's father] used to go next door to Iancu Fonea's and ask whether there was a carriage going downtown to take us home.' This was a great pleasure for him.

Our neighbors were Jewish. There weren't more than four or five Christian families in the entire neighborhood, from Podul Ros, Bahlui River, to the Marzescu School. It would have been inconceivable otherwise. Ninety-five percent of the inhabitants on Socola Street were Jews. The entire neighborhood was like that. Further away, towards Targul Cucului, on Aron Voda Street, where my maternal grandparents lived, it was the same thing. In fact, these were the two neighborhoods inhabited only by Jews.

As I lived on Socola Street, I went to a Romanian school, the Marzescu School; I studied there for two years, until 1940. Then several Jewish schools were founded because all the Jewish children were kicked out from the public schools [as a result of the anti-Jewish laws in Romania] 8. So, whether we wanted it or not, we had to go on. I attended the third and fourth grades at the Stern School on Palat Street. There was a shortage of teachers. For instance, one of my teachers in the third elementary grade was a chemist, Miss Blumenfeld. I started the fifth grade at the ORT 9 school on Sfantul Lazar Street. Half of the day was for learning a trade and the other half was theory. All the teachers were Jewish. There I learnt a little Hebrew and a little Yiddish, both speaking and writing, but it didn't really stick with me.

Yiddish and Hebrew were taught in those schools regularly. The ORT school had a tailoring and an underwear workshop. I was with the latter. I wasn't an outstanding student and couldn't say whether there were teachers that I preferred and teachers that I disliked. I remember I once wrote a composition with my sister's help when I was in elementary school. We were supposed to describe a cat or something like that; and I slipped a certain word. Anyway, that particular word got me a ten or a 'very good': I think this is what they used. Still, it wasn't my own doing, but my sister's. Another time, in an anatomy class, we were told to draw a heart and describe it. I got a ten or a 'very good' again because I really liked that subject. [Editor's note: In the Romanian grading system, the maximum grade is 10 and the minimum passing grade is 5.]

I studied Hebrew at the ORT school. In that period my father was no longer with us, having been sent to forced labor, and my mother was sick. Taking care of two children on her own wasn't easy; she didn't supervise me enough, so I got a failing final grade in Hebrew. I was supposed to get a prize for handiwork: they gave separate prizes for each subject. Because of my failing grade in Hebrew, when they called out the prizes, they said, 'Herscu Tili, prize for handiwork', but, in fact, they didn't give me anything: neither the diploma, nor that little piece of fabric which was given to us in recognition of our merit. I cried all the way from school to our house. My eyes were swollen. 'What happened?' they asked me at home. 'My friend Molca got a prize for handiwork and I didn't!' My problem wasn't that I hadn't got the prize, but that she had gotten it and I hadn't. I had to take private lessons. There was this young lady who taught Hebrew, a very nice young woman who did pro bono work for our school. I think she emigrated to Israel right after the war. She worked without compensation to help the Jewish community. My mother went to see her with tears in her eyes; she told her about my situation and that I wanted to continue my education. The lady recommended to us a girl who was two or three years older than me and I took some lessons with her that summer. I was able to pass my exam and enter the next grade. However, the fact that I didn't get that prize is something I'll always remember.

I started a very close friendship with a girl who was my age, Malvina Fischel. She had a little brother two or three years younger than her; his name was Michel. His Jewish name was Mehola. I became very attached to them. I went to their place more often than they came to mine. Throughout the war period I kept going there. We were in the same class at the Stern school, and then in the fifth grade at the ORT school. I also went to the sixth grade and maybe started the seventh, but she stopped after the fifth. He mother was very ill and I think her father prevented her from going to school so that she could help her mother at home. Her father was a carpenter and made custom-made furniture. He had a workshop. I went there a few times with Malvina and her little brother; I think that was the first time I ever saw a carpentry workshop. Right after the war they moved to Bucharest and our friendship ended. Today I'm over 70 years old, I'm an ole- hadas [emigrant] to Israel and would be very happy to find her and meet with these people who were my childhood friends, again. The Fischels were very devout. On Saturdays, they didn't light a fire or warm up the food; I don't know, but they had a way of keeping it warm. They were very devout indeed.

Here's a memory from the war days, in the 1940s. There were private grocery stores on our street. The closest one was about one hundred steps away from our house. One day, I think it was Friday, my father sent me to buy some pies. I remember they were puffy and dipped in sugar a bit and well baked: I can still see them today, so many years later. So I probably went to buy them for breakfast. At that moment I think the air raid sirens went off. When that happened they kicked us out of the grocery store; they wanted to close the door and couldn't have foreigners on the premises. So I had to run all the way from the store to our house, lest the bombing caught me on the street. I entered through the courtyard; my mother and sister were already in the trenches, while my father was waiting for me, because he knew I was away. The house had a porch with two small cupboards. They sort of replaced the refrigerator: in summer food was kept there, because it was cooler. My father and I sat on the floor between those two cupboards and heard the sound of the air raid. The first thing one could hear was the sound of the planes which flew over the city. We stayed there for a while. Then we heard the sirens again: they probably knew when the planes withdrew. And we came out. When we came out, my mother looked very worried, 'Oh my God! Where have you been? Relax, it's over now.'

Right after the war broke out, the Russians occupied Bessarabia in June 1940 [see Annexation of Bessarabia to the Soviet Union] 10. My father decided that we should move there. It was a sort of frenzy resembling the one about the aliyah, in the 1950s. Jews would pack two or three suitcases, and rush to the station to catch the train for Bessarabia. They thought it was better for us to stay there under the Russian occupation than here, in Romania, where the persecutions against Jews had begun. We took the train. I think it was my first train ride and I thought traveling in cattle cars was normal. There was total chaos: we were very crowded and surrounded by luggage, baskets, suitcases, bundles and the like. When the train got to the border we were told the border had been closed and that we couldn't cross it anymore. We waited in the field. My father and some younger men went to inquire about our situation. It started raining heavily. We had no food, because we had probably taken very few things with us. My poor mother held my sister and me in her arms, while my father and some other people were trying to get the trains moving again, so that we could at least get back home.

It was night when we got to Iasi. Where to go? It was a long way to our street and we were probably afraid too. Aron Voda Street, where my grandparents lived, was equally far. The relative who lived closest to the station was my mother's sister, Toni Smilovici, on Alecsandri Street. But she lived opposite the prefecture. Don't ask me how my father managed to get a carriage. One of our suitcases was stolen in the process. My father gave the cabman the address and we were taken there. When our relatives saw us they went, 'Oh dear, weren't you afraid to come here at night? Look, the prefecture is right there.' We slept over. In the morning they took us to my maternal grandparents' place. I don't remember how exactly we got there. We were afraid to go back to our place. The policemen who watched the street knew that the 'jidans' [offensive word for Jew in Romanian] had gone to Bessarabia 11. Still, five or six days later, we regained our house and the neighborhood policemen kept yelling at us, 'So, you wanted to go to the Bolsheviks?' This is pretty much what the situation looked like back then. This attempted departure affected my father so much, that he never wanted to leave again.

A neighbor of ours from Socola Street, also a Jew, of course, had a radio set. After the war began, in 1940, one or two of the neighborhood people, my father included, would risk going to that man's place to listen to the news in the evening. But it didn't take long till the radio sets were confiscated: maybe a few months later, I can't remember exactly.

Before the Legionaries 12 there were the Cuzists 13, for a shorter period. But it was during that very period that my father was hospitalized for an operation. My mother, who had two little children to take care of, had a hard time. She had to divide her time between going to the hospital and looking after us at home. At that time, the Cuzists saw my mother and, probably knowing she was Jewish, told her something that made her come home very upset.

It was difficult for us during the war, as my father was sent to forced labor camps. He had an extremely hard time: he kept going to places where the work was the most difficult. There was a place on Socola Street, about three streetcar stops away, on the outskirts of the city; they called it the 'Engineers Corps.' He had to walk to get there because we couldn't afford the streetcar tickets. The work there was the most difficult and only the Jews were assigned to it. Of course, they did it under military supervision. He came back home every night, but he was always full of scratches and dried blood. He was in a pitiful state. I don't know what exactly he did there, but I suppose he had to work with steel wire. It was a convict's work. One of us had to wash and disinfect him every night. I think this is why he died so young: he hadn't even turned 60.

In the meantime, my mother got very ill because she had two children to look after and my father was always away. She could hardly support our home. Her sisters rushed to help and her father brought her physicians. She underwent treatment and began to recover. Seeing what was going on at home, my father fled from the 'Engineers Corps' and became a deserter. This happened in 1940 or 1941. He was found, tried and sentenced to one month of imprisonment for being a deserter from labor. When he was released we had a big meal at our place, with potato dumplings. My mother also made a sort of cake like they used to back then: a few layers, milk cream and something to give it color. I distinctly remember the night he came back as it was very late, 11 or 12pm, and we were already asleep.

In 1941 there was the pogrom. Anti-Semitism burst out in Iasi. All the Jewish men on Socola, Nicolina and Crucii Streets were seized and taken to the bank of the Bahlui River, where machine guns had been installed, ready to shoot them. Only one neighbor got away. I think he had a mistress who lived opposite his house, a German woman who simply kept him at her place and refused to hand him over, although she already lived with a man. I later found out that this man was assigned to Tesatura [Editor's note: weaving mill in Iasi, founded before the war. In the communist period it became a state-owned textile enterprise.]; he was actually a German spy who had been sent to Romania. All the Jewish men were lined up on the river bank, ready to be executed. There was this police sergeant, Manuta; he had been a neighborhood policeman and knew all the Jews. He wasn't really an anti-Semite. He treated the neighborhood Jews decently. He often took bribes in order to let the merchants practice their trade in peace, but didn't ask for much; it was a way of making an extra buck.

It was Sunday. In that period he was the prefect's chauffeur. He drove downtown, he must have lived in Podul Ros, and saw what was happening on the river bank; he saw them [Jews] lying on the ground awaiting the execution. He probably went back and told the prefect about it. I don't know what really happened, but the fact is that they were all released instead of being shot. My father was among them. We didn't even know what was going on in the city. [Editor's note: Mrs. Solomon can't tell precisely how the release order was issued, but she thinks it was a less official action; she suspects Manuta of having persuaded the prefect.] After the war, somewhere between 1948 and 1950, Manuta was tried in Bucharest for things he had done during the war. I don't know what else he had done, but as you know, many people who only did their job during the Antonescian period 14 were prosecuted after the communists came to power. Manuta came to my father and maybe to some other neighbors too, and asked him to appear as a witness in his trial and testify about what had happened to the Jews on Socola Street who were close to getting shot by the Bahlui River. My father went to Bucharest and testified two times. As far as I remember, thanks to the people's testimonies, the man was acquitted.

I think my husband Aurel told me that he had been at the prefecture 'that Sunday.' Jews were being shot there. Aurel and some others were forced to wash the pavement with a hose. There were so many bodies in the courtyard that Sunday that the water flowed to the gutters on the street mixed with blood. On Monday morning two of my uncles who lived there went to their workplaces together. One of them was a watchmaker and had a workshop on Stefan Cel Mare Boulevard. When he got there and saw what was going on in the street, instead of opening the store he entered the courtyard, where some horrified relatives of his asked him, 'How did you get here? There's big trouble in Iasi.' The other one went further away. He was a clerk and worked for another Jew named Kratenstein who owned a small factory. He was supposed to get to I. C. Bratianu Street. Nobody knows whether he made it or not. But his wife and my cousin, who are now in Israel, claim that he was murdered on the street that Monday morning; he didn't get to the train. On Monday, 30th June 1941, the Jews who survived the pogrom of the previous day were forced to board cattle cars and were taken to Ialomita. Most of the bodies were unloaded and buried in mass graves in Podul Iloaiei and Targu Frumos. Few of them managed to stay alive: this is why they called them the death trains. My poor uncle never came back. My cousin asked me to light two candles for him; she is sure he ended up in the mass grave.

I also remember a schoolmate from the Marzescu school, a boy; whenever he walked on Socola Street, he would call me, 'Jidauca, jidauca!' [Offensive word for female Jew in Romanian.] When I spotted him from a distance, I hid inside the house or the courtyard so that he wouldn't see me and have his way with me.

It was still during the war, but the front had moved towards the Russians. One night the planes came. I think they were English, the Russians' allies; or that's what they told us. The sirens went off. Because it was night, they used some sort of lamps, so that they could see every house in the neighborhood. One of our neighbors had Romanian or German soldiers quartered with him. The attackers saw the soldiers and fired with the machine gun or dropped a bomb; they may have hit the soldiers, but they also hit that family of seven: husband, wife, two children, husband's brother, an old woman, and another brother who was a bachelor. There are seven tombs at the cemetery: the Aba Pesah family. The following morning all these bodies were loaded in a cart and you could see their shoes and feet stacked one over the other; seven dead people.

In 1942 or 1943 they made us wear the yellow star 15; it was a little piece of black cloth as wide as the opening of a glass, with a yellow star with six corners on it. It was attached with a safety pin. One day they simply told us that, as of the following day, we couldn't leave our houses without wearing that star. I remember that a neighbor of ours, an old man with a beard, went to the toilet one Friday and forgot to wear his yellow star. They beat and insulted him in a terrible way because of that. The yellow star wasn't worn by Jews countrywide. After I went to Israel I found out that there were cities where they didn't wear it. My brother-in-law used to live in Braila and told me that they didn't have to wear the yellow star there.

We could only go shopping after 10am. Purchase gas, for instance. We could only queue for gas after 10am, while the rest of the population could buy gas throughout the entire day. This was the same for bread too.

From 1943 until the spring of 1944 my father was sent for forced labor to Ghidighici [today Moldova], in Bessarabia. Then, in spring 1944, at the time of Passover, the Russians broke through the frontline and began to advance towards Iasi. My father was sent straight to Harsova, in Constanta County, to the other end of the country. He probably dug trenches. He once managed to come home from Harsova and stay for five days. They only allowed him to do that because they thought his child had died. I was that child. [Editor's note: The Herscu family managed to obtain a false death certificate for Tili Herscu in order to get the father home to the so- called funeral of his daughter.] He was escorted by an armed Romanian soldier. He had been given five days and had to return on Saturday. He reported to the [Military] Circle, to a man named Cotaie, and was given his return pass. My father then told the soldier escorting him, 'You know what? Let's pretend we got to the station too late and missed the train and let's postpone the pass for 24 hours. Since I'm here, I'd like to spend the Saturday with my wife and children.'

On Saturday they went to the Circle to pick up the pass for that day, which was the last day of his leave of absence; they intended to leave the following day, on Sunday. If someone asked them why, they would simply say that they had missed the Saturday train. So they didn't even go to the station on Saturday, only to the Circle. Instead of going to the train, they came home. This happened on Saturday at noon. On Sunday the frontline gave in and the Russians entered Iasi. Had he left on Saturday, this event would have caught him on his way back to Harsova and who knows how long it would have taken him to find a train to get back home. This was the only time he got lucky during the war: he happened to get his five-day leave of absence at the right time. Because of the Russians' arrival, he was able to stay in Iasi with his family.

Here's another story from the war days. It was a Friday morning. We didn't have tap water, so I had to carry two buckets of water because it was bath time for us children. I was always the one who carried the water. I used to have a neighbor who claimed her arms had stretched because she had carried too many buckets of water. I think I can say the same now. This happened in 1944, when the frontline was very close: it had reached Stanca Roznovanu located 10-15 kilometers from the city. So I went to another courtyard to get water. I was returning with the buckets full. Because the frontline had gotten so close, there was no time to sound the alarm when there was an air raid. We just heard planes and falling bombs. Our very neighborhood was hit that day. I was carrying the buckets, my mother was standing at the door waiting for me to return, and the few people who were in the street were trying to take cover. My mother waved at me urging me to abandon the buckets and come home running, as we didn't have time to get shelter. But I just couldn't make myself leave those buckets, for which I had worked so hard. Eventually, I carried them all the way home, but we didn't make it to the shelter.

I didn't have any brothers. I only have a sister who currently lives in Israel and is two years and a few months older than me. She was born in Iasi too. She finished the first four elementary grades in a Romanian school: the Marzescu school. Then she went for two years to the Commerce High School, until the war began and we were kicked out from the public schools. She didn't continue her education. After the war she was an activist in a Zionist youth organization, Hashomer Hatzair 16 [Mrs. Solomon was active in Hanoar Hatzioni 17, a branch of the Zionist organization for children and teenagers.]. This is how she met her husband. They met in 1947 or 1948 at the 'ahsara' [Editor's note: Hebrew for preparation for emigration to Israel under the guidance and with the financial help of the Zionist associations]. These Zionist organizations were dissolved in 1948 or 1949. Her boyfriend went home to Braila, where he founded an agricultural snif [Editor's note: Hebrew for branch; used here in the sense of agricultural settlement], which didn't work out. Because they weren't getting the results they expected, they moved to Piatra Neamt or Targu Neamt. The boys got jobs and provided the money, while the girls stayed at home and cooked, cleaned, did the laundry, and ironed. It wasn't enough, but they still got help from certain organizations like the Joint 18 who must have sent them many aids. My sister invited her boyfriend to Iasi; then he invited her to Braila, his native town. While she was there, they had a quick civil marriage. So she was still Miss Herscu when she left and returned as Mrs. Gottesman.

After a short while they had an actual wedding. Two or three years later, in the 1950s, my sister gave birth in Braila. In that period people had started to apply for emigration to Israel. My sister did that too, but, as she had had a second child in the meantime, she got a negative answer. Her father-in-law left, while she stayed in Braila with her two children and only one salary [her husband's]: a very difficult situation. They had to wait for two years before their application was approved. Living in Israel wasn't easy in the beginning. They only had one room; it was winter and raining, and the water infiltrated inside, so they had to place pots and basins here and there to collect the drops. Their little boy was about eight years old by then and the girl was still little. When they were preparing to leave and were packing the things in Braila, the boy asked, 'Mother, why are we leaving?' She replied, 'You'll see, Marius. It will be better for us there.' When the kid saw the pots and the rain drops falling inside the house and how they stayed there, he said, 'Mother, remember how you told me it would be better for us? What's so good about this?' She said, 'Patience, the good will come.' Today my sister has five grandsons. Her two children have very good material situations. The boy worked for many years in Africa, in Johannesburg.

I remember summer 1948 or 1949, when I went to a moshav in Vatra Dornei. I was still a member of the Hanoar Hatzioni. It was pretty nice. There were girls and boys, we had a campfire every evening and made a mamaliga as big as a cart's wheel. Everyone grabbed a piece of mamaliga and had a ladleful of milk and that was our dinner. Some recited poems, others sang something; it was nice. We went to the Hanoar about two times a week, and also on Friday and Saturday evenings. They usually organized something every day: singing, games, etc. We were divided into several groups and each group had a menahel [director, manager] who spoke about certain issues in Israel. When the State of Israel was proclaimed in 1948, the Zionist organizations were still legal in Romania and their representatives organized rallies of celebration. Girls in white blouses and navy-blue skirts and boys in white shirts and navy-blue pants marched on the streets.

After the war we didn't get involved in politics. We sort of supported communism though. Because anti-Semitism had given us such a hard time during the war, many Jews began to support Communism. Maybe some of them did it for material profit too. But neither my husband nor I were party members. And we also had relatives abroad. If you were an ordinary party member, having relatives abroad wasn't a big problem. Usually, only people in higher offices had this sort of problem.

In 1946 there was inflation [see Financial reforms in post-war Romania] 19. Before that there was a drought which lasted for one or two years or maybe more, and we had a food shortage. One kilogram of wheat flour cost millions. It was a very hard time. I, for instance, worked as a tailor for an employer; we settled for a certain sum but, by the end of the week, when payday came, the money couldn't buy me anything anymore. Inflation was booming. Money wasn't worth anything. You couldn't buy anything. Then they made the stabilization. A decree announced that people could exchange a fixed amount of money. No matter how much money you had, the State only exchanged a minimum amount. This happened in 1946 or 1947. I think the monetary reform was in 1951. Things were totally different then. My father worked for a food store. The evening news announced there would be a change with the money. My father didn't know anything. A neighbor came and told him, 'Look, Mr. Herscu, they just said on the radio that they are changing the money; something is about to happen tomorrow and I have some money. Couldn't you help me? Sell me some merchandise and I'll return it later.' My father told him, 'All right, but it's closing time now. Come here tomorrow and we'll do it.' The following morning he found a financial inspector at the door of the store; he inventoried the merchandise and any scheme became impossible. This is how I went through the stabilization process and monetary reform.

I met my husband in a common circle of friends. We sort of liked each other from the beginning. We dated for a while and, at a certain point, he proposed. We had a small engagement ceremony at home, only with the family. Almost one year later we got married: in 1957. We had a religious ceremony before the rabbi; I would have never considered marrying someone who wasn't Jewish. We had a beautiful wedding with guests: my sister, brother-in-law from Braila and his parents, my husband's relatives from Bucharest, a sister of my mother-in-law, and a brother of my father-in-law. We had a civil ceremony several months before the actual wedding. Today the custom is to have them both on the same day or one day apart. We got married on Purim, on a Sunday; we agreed with our parents and in-laws to have the wedding on Purim. The religious ceremony took place at the Cahane synagogue, and the meal for the family was organized in a synagogue in our neighborhood. The only shortcoming was the cold: it was winter and, although we installed a stove, we couldn't heat the large synagogue well enough. But I couldn't say that the wedding was a failure. After we got married we used to meet up with some friends every week, usually on Saturdays, and go to the cinema, theater, pool, or Ciric Forest for a picnic. It was nothing fancy, but we enjoyed spending time with them.

Three years later, in 1960, I gave birth to a little girl, Beatrice. May God help her! She's a grown-up woman now and has a boy who's almost 14. My husband was very happy when he learnt we had a girl. After I had the baby, he told me something very interesting. When I was pregnant he dreamt of a park with many children in it; a little girl came towards him, so he considered this a sign that I would give birth to a girl. But he didn't tell me about it at the time. After the baby was born he told me the story, 'You know, it would have been a surprise for me if you had given birth to a boy, because, you see, I had this dream...' We often make connections between dreams and reality and really pay attention to the dreams.

My husband, Aurel Solomon, was born on 4th August 1929 in Iasi. He was an electrician. When he was a teenager his father sent him to be the apprentice of a neighbor who was a sort of mechanic. But he always came home dirty and his father didn't like it, so, after a while, he sent him to the streetcar company. This was in 1950 or so; he worked for about two years there. They called it training at the workplace, because he hadn't gone to a vocational school. Then he was drafted into the army, where he spent three years and three months. It was bad luck. When the normal three- year period was over, instead of discharging him, they called him up for an extra three months. He had many stories to tell from his army days. He was very picky with food; there were many things which he had never tasted and didn't plan to taste either. While he was in the army his parents were forced to send him parcels so that he wouldn't starve. When he returned, the streetcar company hired him again and he worked there until his retirement. His work record counts 40 years spent in the same place.

After the war I let my parents know that I wasn't planning to continue my education. I wanted to get a job. There were two sisters in our neighborhood, young girls, who worked as tailors. My father knew their father very well. They were Jewish, of course. So he talked to him, 'Look, David, why don't you ask your girls if they need an apprentice?' One or two days later the reply came, 'Sure, tell your girl to come; my girls do want a new apprentice.' I went to their place, met them and stayed there. It wasn't easy at first because I adapt myself to change very slowly. I cried a lot in the beginning. But, eventually, I didn't want to leave anymore. I worked there from 1944 until 1950: six years. In 1950 the employer told us she didn't need the girls, working at her place, anymore; she had a boyfriend and they wanted the house all to themselves. So I went to a famous tailor on Nicolina Street, Madame Ilie: this is how they called her. I worked there for only a few weeks, but I couldn't say why I didn't like it.

It was the time when people were preparing to go [In the 1950s there was the first large wave of emigrations to Israel.]. Those who had filed their applications couldn't know for sure whether it would take a week or a month to get an answer, so they started ordering clothes. But they didn't just want a dress; they kept coming with a lot of fabric. So I thought that instead of working for Madame Ilie, I could stay at home and work there. The problem was that I didn't have a sewing machine back then. But we had a neighbor who told me, 'That's not a problem; whenever you need to, you can come to my place and use my sewing machine.' It was something temporary, of course. So I stayed at home and worked from 1950 until around 1954, when working at home became more and more difficult: there were inspections and I was starting to be afraid of getting caught. Times had become more difficult. I got a job at Tesatura, at the section for recycling waste [remnants of fabric less than one meter long], where I learnt to make shirts, women's blouses, and underwear. I worked there for about three and a half years.

In the meantime I got married. Then my section was closed and they wanted me to do something completely different. I didn't like that, so I resigned. I worked for two years or so for a tailor on Stefan Cel Mare Boulevard. He was the neighbor of one of my uncles and had a workshop where they made shirts. After 1960 there came a time when all the small craftsmen had to join the cooperative associations. Of course, he was forced to join as a foreman with his sewing machine and all. He asked me whether I wanted to work for the cooperative too. What was I supposed to do? I had a small child and a mother whom I was supposed to support. So I joined the cooperative. However, because I had a small child, they let me work at home. When my kid grew up a little and my mother got used to her, I told them, 'I want to come to work every day and make as much money as everybody else.' I think I started going to the cooperative on a daily basis in 1962 or 1963. My co-workers were very good people. In the beginning, there were several Jewish girls and the foremen were all Jewish. As time went by, some retired and some left for Israel, so I ended up being the only Jew. I couldn't say I didn't feel all right though. However, I was happy to retire in 1986. Times were getting difficult again. When winter came serious power savings were made.

I remember one of my co-workers was a lady named Bela Davidovici; she was Jewish and a party member. She organized this ritual: every morning at 10am, when people had breakfast or a snack, a young girl would read the editorial from a local newspaper or a party organ, be it 'Scanteia' [The Spark], or 'Flacara Iasului' [The Flame of Iasi]. There was a time when someone from a gym took us outside to exercise for five minutes; he had us carry weights. But this didn't last for long. We went there to earn money, not to exercise. When the communist holidays came they made us go to parades: on 1st May, 23rd August [1944] 20. We had to be there because otherwise we could have been in trouble. For instance, if you missed a parade, the head of personnel had you stand in front of the entire staff the following day and asked, 'And why didn't you come to the parade?' Then there was the patriotic labor. In fall they sent us to harvest corn.

In the communist period I went on vacation from time to time. I once went to the mountains, to Predeal, on a 'Mother and child' ticket. These tickets were sold through the cooperative and they were only for the mother and child. The husband could come too, but had to pay the full price. The ticket had a big discount: it included accommodation, and transportation at a very small price. We took the train from Iasi to Mangalia. There were many such programs: individual or family tickets were sold by the trade unions or the cooperatives. I also went to the seaside on my own, but I had to save a lot of money to afford that. I only went abroad twice, and both times to Israel, where I visited my sister. I first went in 1973 or 1974, and then I went with my husband in 1987 or so. I can't say we had difficulties in getting the necessary papers. And plane tickets weren't as expensive as they are now. I kept in touch with my relatives by mail. After I had a phone installed, I called them.

Until 1960 I lived on Socola Street with my parents. Then the systematization began and our house was demolished to make room for apartment houses. My father died on 5th or 6th April 1960, a few months before the house was demolished. But by then, we already knew we had to move out. My father died of a heart condition. We got a new place on Cuza Voda Street. I was pregnant already. We got two rooms, a kitchen, and bathroom in a basement. We were actually three people, not four, because one could hardly notice that I was pregnant. We had tap water, plumbing, water closet, but there were many downsides too. For instance, whenever it rained heavily, the apartment got flooded. At that time most of the Jews got new apartments either in the basement or on the last floor, so there was a sort of discrimination. I lived there for 24 years. In 1984, when the date for my daughter's wedding had already been settled, my husband received a three-room apartment on Garii Street. After they got married my daughter and her husband lived with us until my son-in-law received a studio apartment. My mother died in January 1986. She lived with us until she passed away. After the Romanian Revolution of 1989 21, a law was passed in 1990 or 1991, allowing the tenants to buy the apartments in which they were living. With tremendous efforts we managed to buy this apartment. This year I sold it in order to leave for Israel to be with my daughter.

My daughter is a chemical engineer. She went to college in Iasi. She has been living with my son-in-law and grandson in Beer Sheva, Israel, for nine years. She works for a large pharmaceutical factory. She's a very sociable person and likes to have many friends. She always had a very nice circle of friends when she lived in Iasi. They were girls and boys who threw parties, anniversaries, and hung out together. Most of her friends were Jewish, but they gradually left. In time, she made new friends at her workplace. They were Christians, but were very good kids; they were special, educated, and never showed the slightest sign of anti-Semitism. The Jewish Community used to have a youth choir composed mainly of students. The choirmaster was Izu Gott. Many friendships began through this choir. They sometimes went to the seaside [the Black Sea], in Eforie Nord, and the choir members got a place at 'Mira' Villa.

When my children got married, the [Jewish] Community offered them a ten day stay at this villa. This was their honeymoon. My daughter had to do her internship in Gheorghe Gheorgiu-Dej [the name of the town of Onesti during the communist period]. She spent three years there. It was very difficult at first. Her husband worked in Iasi, so she came home pretty often. This way, I didn't miss her too much. When she returned to Iasi she was unemployed for a long time. Then the Revolution came. This made them go to Israel. They now have their own house and everything they need, but they have to work very hard. I encouraged them to choose the aliyah. I was very happy when they decided to. I told them that, even if they had a hard time in the beginning, things would gradually improve. They come to Romania pretty often. They still have relatives here and hope they will be able to maintain the ties with them. They miss their country sometimes.

I remember how the Revolution [of December 1989] started. It was Friday, at about 1pm. My husband had already retired. I looked outside from the balcony and saw a kind of fuss that seemed to foretell something. A cousin of mine had already told us that on Thursday there had been open fire on the revolutionaries in Timisoara. But we didn't imagine things could get so serious. We turned on the radio and heard something rather confusing. Then we turned on the television and saw what was going on in the country; we began to follow the unfolding events. We didn't know what would follow. We thought things could get messy for us, considering that we were Jewish and all that chaos. But things were quiet in Iasi compared to the other cities.

I can't say that the change of the regime had any influence on how we asserted our Jewish identity. We observed the same traditions in the communist period and after. I went with my family to the synagogue and cemetery before the holidays and told my daughter what had happened to us during the war. We didn't build the obstacles on our own, it was the communists: we just kept on observing our Judaic traditions. For instance, in the communist period, I always celebrated Pesach: I cleaned the house, prepared the special dishes, had the hakham slaughter the poultry and went to seder evenings organized by the Community. We didn't wear the tallit in the street, but people did come to seder. Matzah was distributed through the Community: it was brought from Israel. And we had a waiting list for beef. When a beast was slaughtered in a kosher way we bought meat from the Community. At that time our chief rabbi was Moses Rosen 22, a very clever man who knew how to negotiate with the authorities on our behalf: that's why we didn't feel any restrictions.

When my father-in-law died in the 1980s my husband was still working, but he went to the synagogue every day for a whole year, in the mornings and evenings, to recite the Kaddish. He did that for his mother too. Once a year we organized a Yahrzeit, the commemoration of a departed member of the family. I would prepare a pound cake and bottle of wine and took them to the synagogue. We used to go to the cemetery before the holidays, especially before the high holidays. This is how we understood to observe the tradition and pay respect to the dead.

Before my husband died, we received a very substantial and timely help from the Federation [of the Jewish Communities in Romania] for one year. We got food and money for the heating in winter. When my husband's condition worsened, they sent us a woman once a week to help us around the house. I also received a compensation for the suffering endured during the Holocaust: there was a certain amount from Germany, Austria, Switzerland, from the Claims Conference.

I really wanted to emigrate, but my husband never agreed. We went to Israel as tourists; he liked it, but didn't want to stay. He wasn't a sociable man at all and maybe this is why he didn't want to leave for good. Yet, a few years ago, we had made up our minds and were determined to leave. We prepared a lot of papers and were planning to go to the Sohnut 23 to apply for emigration. But my husband got sick and never recovered. He died last year. And now I'll go to my children in Israel on my own.

Glossary:

Ronia Finkelshtein
Kiev
Ukraine
Interviewer: Inna Zlotnik
Date of interview: November 2002

Ronia Finkelshtein lives in the Pechersk neighborhood in the center of Kiev. She is a tall slim woman with gray curly hair. She has kind and vivid hazel eyes. She lives in a three-bedroom apartment on the first floor of a building constructed shortly after the war. She has all necessary comforts in her apartment. She has a collection of books on history and archeology and works by Russian writers and poets from the 1960-70s. The furniture in her apartment is 1960s style. It has become difficult for Ronia to leave the apartment, and Hesed has appointed an aid to help her about the house. Hesed provides food packages to her every month. Ronia's nephews call her from Israel, Moscow and Poltava. Her acquaintances and friends often come to see her. Ronia is a kind and sociable person and people like to be of help to her.

My family background
Growing up
My school years
Beginning of the war
Post-war
The Doctors' plot
Retirement
Glossary

My family background

My grandfather on my father's side, Moisey Finkelshtein, was born in Cherkassy in the 1860s. All I know is that my father came from a working- class Jewish family. He told me that Cherkassy belonged to Lithuania at some stage, then to Poland, and at the time my grandparents lived there it was part of Russia. The town had Polish, Jewish, Lithuanian, Ukrainian and Russian inhabitants. Jews constituted almost half of the population: There were about 1,000 Jewish families. There were several synagogues in town.

My grandmother was a housewife. The family was religious: They observed all traditions and celebrated holidays. My grandmother died when my father was a small boy, and my grandfather passed away in 1920, shortly before I was born. I wish I had asked my parents more about my grandparents during my childhood. After my grandmother died my grandfather remarried. I dimly remember my father mentioning his sisters, or perhaps, they were his stepsisters. Frankly speaking, I wasn't really interested in them. They lived in Cherkassy and perished during the Holocaust.

My father, Abram Finkelshtein, was the oldest child in the family. He was born in 1890. Two years later his sister Runia was born, Lisa followed in 1895 and Yunia in 1898. My father and Yunia finished cheder and the girls studied at home with a teacher. When my father was 13-14 years old he left for Poltava [350 km from Kiev]. Poltava was a big industrial town. My father was a laborer, then he finished an accounting course and got a job as an accountant.

My father's sisters and his brother also moved to Poltava after the Revolution of 1917. Runia finished a school for medical nurses and worked at the Jewish children's home. Lisa finished an accounting course and worked as an accountant. Uncle Yunia graduated from the Industrial Institute in Kharkov and became an engineer. When they left their parents' home in the 1910s, they stopped observing Jewish traditions. Young people were under the influence of revolutionary ideas at that time and atheists in their majority. Lisa got married. Her daughter, Vera, was born in 1930. Lisa, Runia, Vera and our family lived in Chkalov in the Ural [3,500 km from Kiev] during World War II, and after the war we returned to Poltava. Vera became a journalist and got married. She has two children: her daughter, Victoria, is the director of a swimming pool, and her son is a doctor. Uncle Yunia got married, too. He has a daughter, Ira. During the Great Patriotic War 1 he was at the front, and after the war his family returned to Kiev. Yunia was the chief engineer at the Geological Department.

My grandparents on my mother's side were born in Poltava, or in a town near Poltava, in the 1860s. After their wedding my grandfather rented an apartment and they settled down in Poltava. Now Poltava is a big town, a regional center. At the end of the 19th and the beginning of the 20th century Poltava was an industrial center: there were several plants, factories, smaller enterprises and shops. There were also theaters and libraries. Jews constituted about one third of the population in Poltava. There were also Ukrainians, Russians, Poles, Lithuanians and Belarus. My grandmother told me that the Jewish community was prosperous at the beginning of the 20th century: there were ten synagogues, a yeshivah, a cheder, a Jewish hospital, an old people's home and a Jewish library in town.

My grandfather' name was Moisey Izrailevich and my grandmother's name was Polina Izrailevich. They weren't a very wealthy family. My grandfather didn't have a house of his own. I remember the small building in which they were renting an apartment. They had a big verandah and two rooms, poorly furnished.

My grandparents were very religious and my mother, being their older daughter, did her best to please them. My mother, Adel Finkelshtein [nee Izrailevich], went to the market to buy a chicken and took it to the shochet to have it slaughtered, and she bought all kosher food for them. My grandfather knew Hebrew. He prayed every morning and evening and recited a blessing before every meal. They had a mezuzah on the door: a small box with a prayer inside. They touched it with their hands and kissed it before going into the house. It was believed to protect from evil. I liked the big bookcase in my grandparents' home: I enjoyed looking at the books. I couldn't read at that time and don't know exactly what kind of books they were, but I remember some bigger volumes in Hebrew and the Torah among them. The rest of the books were in Russian. My grandparents spoke Yiddish, especially when they wanted to conceal the subject of conversation from us. They also knew Russian. They celebrated all Jewish holidays and honored traditions. They went to the synagogue every Saturday and on Jewish holidays.

My grandfather was an accountant at the timber warehouse, and my grandmother was a housewife. She wore a white silk kerchief. She was a beauty: She was slim and tender and had a caring heart. My grandfather loved her dearly.

They had six children. Their oldest son, Savva, was born in 1887. My mother Adel was born in 1890, Sonia in 1892, Nyura in 1896, Aron in 1898 and the youngest, Tania, in 1902. Savva and Aron finished cheder, my mother and her sisters studied in grammar school for a few years. After that my mother didn't work or study. She was helping my grandmother about the house.

Savva didn't continue his studies after finishing cheder. His parents couldn't afford to pay for his education. Uncle Savva was a worker. He had a Jewish wife and three children: two daughters, Sarah and Nyura, and a son, Aron. Sarah had a son and a daughter, Sabina. When they were in evacuation in Leninabad their son fell ill and died. Uncle Savva died in Leninabad during the Great Patriotic War. After the war his wife, Sarah and Nyura moved to Ashgabad in Middle Asia. Sabina married a Russian man there and moved to Zhukovskoye near Moscow with her husband, and her mother Sarah. Sarah died there. Sabina and I correspond, and she often calls me.

Sonia married an accountant, Michael Rabichkin, a Jewish man. He worked at the sugar factory in Kolomak near Kharkov. Aunt Sonia moved to Kolomak. Their son, Boris, was born in 1914. Shortly after the revolution the Rabichkin family moved to Kharkov. Boris studied at the Jewish school. He spoke Yiddish fluently and even read Hugo in Hebrew. [Editor's note: Victor Hugo, French poet and novelist.] After school he couldn't enter a [higher educational] institute, as new Soviet laws only allowed young people from working class families to study in higher educational institutions. He finished an industrial school and became a worker at the Locomotive Repair Plant in Kharkov. Later he became a correspondent for the plant newspaper. He got married and had a son, Erik. His marriage didn't last long - they divorced. Boris entered the Faculty of Literature at the Pedagogical Institute in Kharkov. He married a Jewish woman, Fania Shtitelman. In the late 1930s their son, Sima, was born.

Nyura married a Jewish man, Ilia Gershinovich. Their son Volodia was born in 1926. In the 1930s the Gershinovich family moved to Moscow. During the Great Patriotic War Aunt Nyura and Volodia were in evacuation in Leninabad, Middle Asia, and after the war they returned to Moscow. Volodia finished a military school there and married a Jewish woman. They had two children: Galia and Alik. Their family often moved from one place to another because Volodia was a military man. Aunt Nyura lived in Poltava.

Aron finished a military college in Leningrad. He married a Jewish girl called Marusya and they had a son, Jacob. Aron served in a military unit in Leningrad and Marusya was a housewife. He finished a tank school shortly before the war. During the Great Patriotic War he went to the front and perished. Aron and Marusya were in the blockade of Leningrad 2. They starved to death.

My mother's youngest sister, Tania, graduated from the Pharmaceutical Faculty of the Medical Institute in Kharkov and worked as a pharmacist in a pharmacy. She was single. During the Great Patriotic War she lived in Chkalov in the Ural with Aunt Sonia's family. After the war she moved to Kiev with them and lived there until she died in 1982. She was buried in the town cemetery.

My mother's sisters and brothers were not religious: they didn't observe traditions or attend the synagogue.

My father worked as an accountant in Poltava in 1913 and could provide well for his family. I don't know how my parents got acquainted. Aunt Nyura told me that my father was engaged when he met my mother, but when he saw her, he fell in love with her at first sight. He left his fiancée and married my mother. My mother's parents were religious, so my parents had a traditional Jewish wedding. My grandmother told me that there was a chuppah installed in the yard of their house: a velvet canopy on four posts. My mother wore a fancy wedding gown and a white veil covering her head and face. My father wore a new suit. The rabbi said a prayer, gave his blessing and pronounced the marriage contract. My mother's relatives, neighbors and my father's friends came to the wedding. There were tables laid in the yard and klezmer musicians playing at the wedding party.

My father rented a room on the first floor in the center of Poltava. My mother became a housewife. My sister, Luda, was born in 1914. My mother was told that Jewish tradition didn't allow to name a child after a living relative, but she paid little attention to this. She liked the name Luda, which was the name of one of my mother's cousins. The girl was very pretty, blonde and had blue eyes, but there was something wrong with the way she was fed. The baby died of dyspepsia at the age of 7 months. My mother was grieving and wore mourning clothes for a long time. The revolution of 1917 didn't change my parents' life style. My father continued to work as an accountant and my mother remained a housewife.

Growing up

I was born on 22nd August 1920. I was named Ronia after my deceased great- grandmother on my mother's side. It's an ancient Jewish name. We lived in a 20 square meter room my father was renting from a Jewish landlord. We had a leather settee, my wooden bed and my parents' bed with nickel balls. My father had a desk with carved legs and a bookshelf. There was a small yard near the house with a big lime tree, two old apple trees, a few jasmine bushes and a dogrose plant.

My mother was a very nice and kind woman. She took care of my father, me and my grandparents. My father first worked as an accountant and then as an inspector at the Oil Sales Company. He loved me a lot and spent plenty of time with me: he bought me books and toys and allowed me to do anything I wanted. Naturally, I loved him more than I loved my mother.

Aunt Nyura lived in our neighborhood, so my cousin Volodia and I were growing up together. We spoke Russian at home. My father and mother knew Yiddish and Hebrew. My mother studied in Russian at the grammar school and got more accustomed to speak and write in Russian. When our parents wanted to conceal the subject of a discussion from their children they switched to Yiddish, but it didn't really work the way they had expected. We grew up in a Yiddish environment hearing it in the streets and at our grandparents' home.

Our landlord sang at the synagogue, and my mother and I went to listen to him. The synagogue was a one-storied building in Komsomolskaya Street. Men prayed on the ground floor and there was a special area for women. There was a bigger two-storied synagogue in Gogolevskaya Street. My father wasn't religious and didn't go to the synagogue, but my mother attended the synagogue on all big holidays. I liked Jewish holidays. I remember the celebration of Rosh Hashanah, Chanukkah, Pesach and Purim. My mother made traditional Jewish food for our family and for my grandparents. We didn't follow the kashrut, but we didn't eat pork and didn't mix meat and dairyproducts. My grandmother, though, followed the kashrut strictly and my mother made kosher food for her. Our family got together at the table at my grandparents' on Jewish holidays.

My mother had special dishes and utensils for Pesach that she kept in the storeroom for the rest of the year. Before Pesach she did a general cleaning of the house. She removed all bread and flour from the house. We celebrated the first day of Pesach at my grandparents'. The table was covered with white tablecloth and there was gefilte fish, chicken, sweet and sour stew and red wine. My parents hid matzah under a pillow for the children to search for it. My grandfather put on his tallit, sat at the head of the table and said a prayer. My cousin, Volodia, and I were supposed to take the matzah from under the pillow on the chair beside my grandfather in a way that he didn't notice. It was a challenge.

I remember how Volodia and I looked forward to Chanukkah because we got some money on this holiday. We celebrated it with our landlord. I liked it because he used to give me a silver ruble while my grandfather only gave me 50 kopecks. On Purim my mother made a sweet honey dish - hamantashen - triangle pies stuffed with poppy seeds. I remember my mother making teyglakh: she made small balls from eggs and flour, baked them and dipped them in boiling honey. Then she put them on a board, pressed them into a thick layer and cut them into small cubes.

My grandmother wanted to raise us religiously. I remember my cousin Volodia often saying to my grandmother, 'There is no God!'. I begged him to say to her, 'Yes, there is a God' because I saw how hurt she felt hearing this heresy. But he was stubborn and kept saying, 'There is no God and that's it!' This was the period of the official struggle against religion 3, and Volodia and I were growing up under the influence of this propaganda of atheism.

My grandfather had acute problems with his stomach ulcer in 1925. At that time my grandmother was dying in the room next door. She died from pneumonia within three days. I didn't go to my grandmother's funeral, but my mother told me later that she was buried in the Jewish cemetery and that there was a rabbi at her funeral. My grandfather was grieving over his wife and didn't recover for a long time. Aunt Tania lived with him, but my mother took him to our home after a little while, because Tania didn't take proper care of him. She didn't observe Jewish traditions. My mother cooked kosher food for him, lit candles on Saturdays, and we celebrated all Jewish holidays.

When I turned 5 I went to the group of a German governess, Mata, who had finished the Froebel Institute 4. There were 6 children in her group, Jewish and Ukrainian. We went to walk in the park and she spoke German with us. I learned to read and speak German that way. She also taught us manners, and we played a lot. There were several parks in the center of Poltava: a beautiful pioneer park and a birch garden.

I saw a chuppah in our yard at about the same time. Our neighbors' daughter had a wedding ceremony. Our neighbors were wealthy people and they made a beautiful chuppah on four posts. The bride was wearing a wedding dress and had her head covered with a light shawl. The rabbi said a prayer. It was a beautiful sight.

The son of our landlord and his family lived in a two-bedroom apartment next door. He had two sons: Misha and Izia. They were a little bit older than I and we often played together, but they didn't really enjoy my company. They were boys and had different interests. They were a wealthy family. It was the period of the NEP 5 and they had two cinema theaters in the center of Poltava: 'Record' and 'Coliseum'. Misha and Izia took me to all movies. We watched 'A Thief from Baghdad', 'New York', 'A Kiss from Mary Pickford' and others. I don't remember what they were about, though.

There was a theater in the center of Poltava, but there was no theatrical group in the town. Theaters from other towns came on tours. I remember opera and ballet performances: 'Red Poppy', 'Bayaderka', 'Swan Lake' and 'Sleeping Beauty'. There was no Jewish theater in Poltava, so no Jewish theater groups came on tour.

In 1928, at the end of the NEP period, these cinema theaters were nationalized and our landlords moved to Leningrad. We occupied one of their rooms, and my grandfather lived in his own room. I had many toys: Aunt Lisa and Runia, who lived nearby, gave them to me. They brought a beautiful doll from Kharkov. Later I got skis and skates. Misha, Izia and I were fond of walking on stilts and were very good at it. I also played chess and dominoes.

My school years

When I was 8 I went to a Russian secondary school near our house. There were many Jewish children in our school. They didn't know Yiddish because their parents believed it was better for them to study in Russian schools to make their further education easier. In 1929 our house was transferred to the military. We received a two-bedroom apartment in a two-storied building near a big market. I had a room of my own, my parents lived in the bigger room. My mother bought a new cupboard and put my grandfather's bed behind the cupboard. We also had a wardrobe and two sideboards. There was a bookshelf in my parents' room. I also remember a desk covered with heavy green cloth and a low marble table. I had a wooden bed, a wardrobe and a book stand with my textbooks in my room. I liked reading, but we didn't have many books at home. We borrowed books from one another at school. We mainly read Russian classics. I remember books by Sholem Aleichem 6 and Jewish writers in Russian. There were many children in our yard. We played together, planted flowers and fed dogs. I had Russian and Jewish friends.

When we moved to a new apartment I went to another school. It was a Russian secondary school. I became a pioneer at school. The admission ceremony took place in the cultural center of the knitwear factory named after Nogin. I was to turn 10 in three months' time. When I came onto the stage and the commission asked me how old I was, my classmates began to whisper that I should tell them that I had turned 10. I couldn't lie and said that I would be ten soon. I was very concerned that they wouldn't admit me because children only became pioneers after they had turned 10. I was admitted, and when I got my red necktie I felt very happy. There were also badges with pioneer fire flames. I remember how proudly we were marching home past the synagogue. We ran into the synagogue, but were told to get out of there. We couldn't understand why. My grandfather was skeptical about my becoming a pioneer, but he understood that it was the trend at the time. I continued to celebrate Jewish holidays with my family, but I didn't tell anybody at school about it.

We had various clubs at school, such as a defense club and a physical culture club. We issued wall newspapers and took an active part in electoral campaigns. We went around the town on trucks holding posters. On Soviet holidays we arranged amateur concerts, recited poems and sang Soviet songs. I studied well. I was good at all subjects, but my favorite one was mathematics.

My grandfather died in 1932. He was buried in the Jewish cemetery. I wasn't allowed to go to the funeral, but my mother told me that there was a rabbi there. After my grandfather died our family celebrated fewer Jewish holidays until we stopped celebrating them completely. The Soviet power struggled against religion. When the older generation was still alive their families celebrated Jewish holidays, but later I didn't see any family that observed any traditions. In our family only my grandparents were religious, and the following generations lost their commitment to the Jewish way of life. Of course, they all followed the covenants and carried God in their hearts, but there was no outward demonstration of their faith. They didn't go to the synagogue or follow the kashrut. However, my mother tried to keep some traditions: We celebrated Pesach and had matzah at home. My mother fasted on Yom Kippur. She fasted until I strictly forbade her to when she grew older. She had diabetes. I gave her injections and told her that it was said that if a person was ill this person was released from strict obedience to religious rules.

I had a Russian friend, Lyusia, who was lame. Her mother used to say, 'Ronia, how I wish that Lyusia married a Jewish man. Jews are such good husbands. He would take care of her'. It was a common opinion that Jews made good and caring husbands at that time. And Lyusia did marry a Jewish man when the time came.

I became a Komsomol 7 member in 1936, when I was in the 9th grade. It was a natural flow of events - from pioneers to Komsomol members. I never took part in public events, but it didn't ever occur to me that I might skip Komsomol. When I was in the 10th grade we were allowed to put up a Christmas tree at school, it was so lovely! Some traditions have ancient roots, and the tradition to decorate a Christmas tree dated back to the times of Tsar Peter [Peter the Great] 8. It was hard to eliminate old traditions from people's lives and many people kept having a tree. Christmas Trees were forbidden before with the excuse that it was a waste of trees. [Editor's note: Actually, Christmas trees were forbidden by the Soviet power as vestige of the bourgeois past.]

There was one Jewish lower secondary school at the Jewish children's home in Poltava. Aunt Runia, my father's sister, worked at this school as a medical nurse. She took children home to make them familiar with life at home. I had many friends from this school. Vera, the director of this children's home, was a very nice and kind woman. She was like a mother to the children. She spent all her time with them, and they loved her. They had clubs at school and organized amateur concerts. To complete their secondary education these children went to ordinary schools. There were some of the children from the children's home in our school. They lived in the children's home until they finished secondary school. My mother invited many of them to our home to treat them to something delicious - she cooked traditional food or gave them tea and sweets, just to support them and let them know what the warmth of a home feels like.

Two of my uncles were arrested in 1937 [during the so-called Great Terror] 9. One of them was my mother's brother Semyon. He was a prosecutor in Kharkov. He was a very smart and intelligent man. The other one was Nyura's husband, Ilia Gershinovich. He was chief engineer at Dnepro power station, and later worked for Kaganovich 10. My aunts went to numerous authorities to find out what they were charged for, but they got no explanation. Only when the process of rehabilitation began [following the Twentieth Party Congress] 11, we found out that our relatives had been executed in 1937 and only found 'not guilty' in 1953.

Back then a terrible tragedy struck my Jewish friend Musia Drobnis, my schoolmate. Her father was Chairman of Sovnarkom [Presidium of the government of the USSR]. He was a big official. He left Musia's mother and moved to Moscow in 1923 when one daughter was a year and a half and the other 3 years old. The girls' mother worked at the stocking factory. Her ex- husband helped her every now and then, but they were very poor. In 1937 Musia's father was the director of a huge industrial enterprise. He was charged for derailing trains and arrested. Musia's family became impoverished. I remember them buying jam and eating it with brown bread. They enjoyed it so much that I felt extremely sorry for them.

The girls' mother was also arrested. She was accused of distributing anti- Soviet flyers. We didn't believe it. We knew that she went to struggle for the Soviet power when she was 13. Musia and her sister were expelled from school and forced to move out of their apartment. Their lives were ruined, they didn't have any means of living and had to do any work they could find. They were treated as members of families of 'enemies of the people' and couldn't even hope to get a better job or any further education. After 1953 Musia's parents were rehabilitated posthumously - it turned out they had been executed in the late 1930s.

I finished school in 1938. My friends Shura and Nina and I submitted our documents to the Kharkov Chemical Technological Institute. We were admitted. I lived in a hostel in the first two years. There were four of us sharing a room: Dora, Shura, Nina and I. We enjoyed ourselves, went to the cinema, theater and to parties, read books and went for walks. When I became a 3rd year student I moved in with my Aunt Sonia. Her son had graduated from the Institute before the war and lived with his wife Fania, an archaeologist, in his own apartment.

Beginning of the war

After my 3rd year I went for practical training to Zaporozhiye [250 km from Kharkov]. On 22nd June 1941 we went on an excursion to the Dnepro power plant near Zaporozhiye. It was a beautiful sunny day. We got off the bus and saw a crowd of people listening to a radio on a post. It was Molotov's 12 speech about the beginning of the war in the USSR. I knew that Europe was in war, but we were assured by propaganda that Hitler wouldn't dare to attack the Soviet Union. We rushed back to our hostel, and our management called the Institute and told us that we were to go back to Kharkov. We managed to get train tickets and returned to Kharkov within a few days.

I soon received a letter from my parents in Poltava. They wrote that my father had got an assignment to the oil terminal in Orsk, Ural, and my mother and I could go there by train. My mother wrote that the train was to stop for a longer interval in Donbass, and I could join her there. She had had some time to pack our luggage, which made our situation during evacuation easier. We met two days later in the town of Solnechnoye, Donbass. From there we headed to the Ural. We saw bombed down trains on our way and our train avoided air raids only by some miracle.

We managed to get to Chkalov [3,000 km from Poltava]. Zholtoye village, where the oil terminal was located, was between Chkalov and Orsk. My mother and I were waiting for our father to arrive. We were helpless without him. My mother had never worked before, and I didn't have a profession. Some time later my father's sisters, Runia and Lisa, and Lisa's daughter, Vera, arrived in Zholtoye. We were informed that my father had arrived at the oil terminal, but that he was ill. He had pneumonia before the war. He had left Poltava on a truck and caught a cold which resulted in tuberculosis. He was very ill, but there was no hospital or medication in Zholtoye.

There were six of us living in Zholtoye: my father, my mother, Aunt Lisa, her daughter Vera, Aunt Runia and I. We all lived in one room where my father was lying in bed, ill with tuberculosis. My mother's sisters Tania and Sonia, Boris, his wife Fania and their son, Sima, also arrived in Chkalov, Ural. My father went to work, even though he was ill. From September 1941 to May 1942 my mother and I looked after him. My mother went to the neighboring villages to exchange clothes for food for my father: We got butter and white bread. We didn't have much luggage, just some dishes, a few clothes and books, but we had to exchange all for food. I put on my father's winter boots and coat and went to Chkalov - I don't know how I found my way in the snowstorms - to get white bread for father because he couldn't eat brown bread. He couldn't digest it. The illness was stronger. My father died in May 1942. The area where we lived was flooded, and we couldn't get to the nearest cemetery in Orsk. We buried my father near the station in Chkalov.

My mother didn't work and we had to decide what we were going to do. I corresponded with my co-students and they sent me an invitation to come to the Institute. My mother and I decided that it was best for me to complete my education and get a profession. My Institute was evacuated to Alma-Ata in Middle Asia [2,000 km from Chkalov]. My mother and I arrived in Chirchik [4,000 km from Poltava]. There was a rich market in Chirchik. I couldn't resist the sight of grapes. I ate some and fell ill with typhoid. It resulted in pneumonia. I stayed in hospital for two months. My mother also lived in this hospital.

We had sold all our belongings and were starving. We couldn't make a living and went to Leninabad [5,500 km from Poltava] where Aunt Nyura and Volodia lived. Aunt Nyura was a doctor at the preserved food factory. At that time students of the Odessa Technological Institute came for training to this factory. Aunt Nyura introduced me to some students, and they told me to study at their Institute in Stalinabad, as one got a stipend and food portions there. My mother and I went to Stalinabad, and I studied at the Odessa Technological Institute for a year and a half. We stayed in the basement of a hostel in the unfinished House of the Government. There were six of us: four students from Odessa, my mother and I. My mother and I shared a bed, which was a usual way of living at that time. Our co-tenants, Lyusia and Fira, were Jewish, and Luba and Tania were Russian.

In August 1944 the Institute was to re-evacuate to Odessa, but the director didn't allow me to take my mother with me. I said to him, 'In that case I'm staying too. I'll find a job and a place to live'. He felt sorry for me and allowed my mother to come with us. In Odessa we lived in the hostel and shared a bed again. My mother was too old to go to work, and we lived on my stipend and the food that I received at the Institute. In January 1945 we went to have practical training in Leninakan, Armenia, and I sent my mother home to Poltava. I couldn't take her with me - the tickets were too expensive. Our house had been destroyed, and my mother stayed with my father's sister Lisa. Lisa, Runia and Vera were back from evacuation. My mother helped them about the house. After a month and a half I returned to Odessa.

Post-war

I remember Victory Day on 9th May 1945. We celebrated it in Odessa. It was a day of great joy. I remember the fireworks, the trees in blossom, people infatuated with victory, hugging each other, crying and dancing. I graduated from the Institute a month later and got a job assignment to the packed food factory in Kiev. I was an engineer there and received a room in the factory hostel. My mother came to me from Poltava. However, soon this factory was closed as an non-profitable enterprise. I lost my job and place to live.

My father's brother, Yunia, who was chief engineer at the Geological Department in Kiev, helped me to get employment at the Laboratory of Secret Testing at the Geological Department. My cousin Boris, his wife Fania and their son Sima returned to Kiev from Chkalov. Boris and Fania worked at the Institute of Archaeology and lived at the Institute - there were five rooms for the staff. I moved in with Boris and Fania, and my mother left for Poltava again.

Boris, Fania and I were very happy to learn that the state of Israel was established in 1948 and that the Jewish people finally had their own home country.

I worked at the Geological Department for five years. In the early 1950s, during the campaign against cosmopolitans 13, five employees of our laboratory, including me, were fired because we were Jews. I had access to sensitive information before. This access was cancelled, and my photo was removed from the Board of Honor. I was looking for a new job, but Jews weren't employed.

Later the Geological Department offered me a job at a geological expedition near Genichesk [700 km from Kiev]. There was a vacancy there because it wasn't an attractive location to work at. I was offered the position of the manager of the laboratory. The expedition site was 35 kilometers from the railroad. We were searching for nickel and cobalt - this was also sensitive area, but I was allowed to go there. [Editor's note: Natural resources deposit areas were state secrets in the USSR.] I took my mother with me. I lived with her and a friend of mine in a small room. I was glad that my mother was with me. She was a great cook and a very hospitable person, and my colleagues liked to visit us. Those were two beautiful years in my life (1952-1954). We were a great team of geologists and enjoyed working together. We got together in the evening to sing songs, discuss the latest news and books that we had read, had tea and danced. Life seemed wonderful to us.

The Doctors's plot

Soon we heard rumors that the Soviet power was planning to deport Jews to the autonomous Jewish region of Birobidzhan 14. It was a trying period: the Doctors' Plot 15 was at its height. We were living in fear. We got up in the morning and listened to the radio. Of course, we didn't believe in Jewish doctors being murderers. We were old enough to understand that it was a plot. Then Stalin fell sick, and again we rushed to hear the news on the radio. On 5th March 1953 Stalin died, and there was mourning all over the country. My first thought was, 'What's going to happen now? If there were persecutions before what would they do to the Jewish people now?'. My mother and I remembered the repression of 1937 and didn't feel any sorrow about Stalin's death, but many people sincerely believed in his impeccability and cried. I was concerned about the uncertainty. Many years later Aunt Sonia recalled the time when Stalin died and said to Boris 'How we lowered our eyes to hide our joy from other people'.

Our expedition was over in 1954, and we returned to Kiev. We had no place to live and Aunt Sonia gave us shelter in her house. They exchanged their apartment in Kharkov for one in Kiev. I began searching for a job, but due to state anti-Semitism it was almost impossible. I never faced everyday anti-Semitism. My colleagues always treated me nicely. Uncle Yunia helped me again: He got me a job at GIINTIZ [State Institute of Engineering and Technical Survey]. We completed surveys for the construction of sugar factories and other industrial facilities. I submitted my request for an apartment for my mother and me. Meanwhile we were living with Aunt Sonia and Uncle Misha in their 30 square meter room. Their son, Boris, and his wife, Fania, played an important role in my life.

After the war Boris and Fania worked at the Institute of Archaeology in Kiev. Boris had finished the Faculty of Literature at the Pedagogical Institute, but he specialized in archaeology and had inventions in that field. In the early 1960s the Institute of Archaeology sent him to a reserve in Olvia [400 km from Kiev] where he was the director for two years. Boris was successful with his work in archaeology. He also wrote poems and short stories, but he wasn't ambitious and didn't publish his writings. Fania was very smart. She was the manager of the antique section of the Museum of Western and Oriental Art in Kiev in the 1970s. I liked to visit her at home. She always had gatherings of interesting people: archaeologists, historians, poets and writers. Her friends became my friends.

I got along well with my friends at GIINTIZ. We went to all concerts at the Philharmonic and the Conservatory. I liked performances of Russian and Ukrainian drama - there was no Jewish theater in Kiev at that time. Neither my friends nor I went to the synagogue. Of all Jewish holidays we only celebrated Pesach. My mother always got some matzah for Pesach, but we didn't really follow all the rules when we celebrated this holiday. We didn't light candles on Saturdays either. It wasn't customary in our circle.

When I was 43 I received an apartment. My colleague and I got a two-bedroom apartment in the Otradniy neighborhood, far from the city center. I got a room and my colleague got a room. My mother and I shared my room. My mother didn't have a right for this apartment as she wasn't an employee of our Institute. She was very happy that we had a dwelling of our own, but she only lived in this apartment for three years. She passed away in 1966. She was buried in the Jewish section of the Baikovoye cemetery.

Retirement

I retired in 1975. I received a good pension of 132 rubles. I would have stayed at work longer, but I had to retire: Fania and Tania were very ill and we had to look after them. Boris, Fania and I decided to exchange our apartments for a three-bedroom apartment in the center of the town. It was better to live together to look after Boris' parents and Aunt Tania. Aunt Sonia and Uncle Misha died in the late 1970s, Aunt Tania passed away in 1982. They were all buried in the Jewish section of the Baikovoye cemetery.

Looking back I realize that I lived my life looking after my relatives: I gave them injections, took them to hospitals and looked after them. I haven't got my own family. I never met the man that would have made me feel like changing my whole life. My relatives always came first in my life.

Sima moved to the US in the 1970s. Boris, Fania and I visited him in 1990. It was my first trip abroad. We went to New York, Philadelphia, Chicago and Washington. We visited many museums. I am very happy I've been there, but during our visit Sima died in a hotel. Fania was grieving over him, and it was a great loss to Boris. Sima's daughter, Helen, moved to Israel shortly after Sima died. She almost convinced Fania, Boris and me to move there, too. We even had our documents processed, but at the last moment we changed our mind. To change life so dramatically at our age was just too much. Erik, Boris' son from his first marriage, also lives in Israel. I visited Israel in 1990. It's a wonderful country. I liked everything there. We traveled a lot, but I couldn't wait to go back home, to my town and friends.

Fania died of an infarction in 1992. Boris and I missed her a lot. Our friends supported us and often came to see us. Boris and I receive food packages at the synagogue twice a year. [The synagogue in Kiev supplies food to needy Jews at Rosh Hashanah and Pesach to support poorer people.] Once, when I was on my way to the synagogue to collect half a kilo of butter, I met an old non-Jewish woman. She asked me what I was going to get at the synagogue and when I told her she commented, 'How wonderful that you get support. There's nobody who thinks about us'. Frankly speaking, I felt ashamed of being privileged compared to many other old people who are less fortunate.

Boris died in 2000. I seldom leave my home now. A few years ago a fence fell on my back and injured my spinal cord. I have a nurse from Hesed called Nina Antonovna. She comes to help me around the house. There is another woman, Katia, who comes to cook. I receive a pension of 151 hryvna and I can pay these women. My niece, Galia Gershinovich, also supports me. She's a journalist in Moscow. She once said to me, 'Aunt Ronia, just imagine how happy my father would have been to know that I support you'. She sends me 600 rubles each month and this amount is almost enough to cover my monthly rent and living costs. It's very touching of her to support me. I can't pay her back anything except for my cordial appreciation of what she does for me. I understand that she doesn't have too much herself, but she still finds it possible to share what she has with me.

My cousin Vera lives in Poltava. She is a journalist with the radio. There is also my cousin Ira in Kiev. All my nieces and nephews are married to Russians: Sabina, Savva's granddaughter, is married to a Russian man, my brother Volodia's children Galia and Alik are married to Russian men with Kazakh and Tatar ancestors. I believe, love is the essential thing in a marriage, and nationality doesn't matter that much.

I am very happy that I'm not alone: Nina Antonovna and Katia take care of me, my nephews and nieces from Israel, Moscow and Poltava call me, Galia supports me by sending some money and my friends come to see me. The curator from Hesed brings me food packages twice a month. She also invites me to attend lectures on history, traditions and the culture of the Jewish people and go to concerts, but I'm too old to go. I am glad that people haven't forgotten me - it makes my life easier.

Glossary

Yakov Honiksman
Lvov
Ukraine
Interviewer: Ella Orlikova
Date of interview: December 2002

Yakov Honiksman, a Professor of History, lives in a cozy apartment in one of the nicest districts of Lvov near the Polytechnic College where he taught history of economy. There are many history books in his apartment. Yakov always reads lots of books. He is an author of a book about the Holocaust in Lvov region. He is a scientist and a very busy man. He still works a lot, writing books and studying historical sources. Therefore, I could hardly convince him to spend more time with us since it was a problem for him to find time for this interview in his busy schedule. He has the selective memory of a man of science. He doesn't keep in his memory, anything he believes to be insignificant. Yakov has a distinctive manner of speaking, but he has a strong Polish accent. Yakov and his wife Rita are very nice and hospitable people.

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

My family background

Lublin town, where my parents lived, is one of the oldest Polish towns - it was mentioned back in the 10th century - on the Bystrzyca River in the southeast of Poland. The first information about Jews goes back to the 14th century. At that time a district where Jews settled was founded: Piaski zydowskie ['Jewish sands' in Polish]. Jews were tradesmen and craftsmen: tailors and leather specialists. Gradually the size of the Jewish population increased and at times it constituted almost half of the population of the town. Big, beautiful synagogues were built. Lublin was called 'Yerushalayim de Polin' - Polish Jerusalem. Jews owned bakery and leather industries that were the most profitable of all. Throughout the history of Jewish residency in Lublin there were anti-Semitic demonstrations, Jewish pogroms and periods of unfriendly attitudes of the Polish population. At the time when I was born, in 1921, the Jewish population constituted 37,337 Jews, 35 % of the population.

My paternal grandfather came from the small town of Krasny Stav in Lublin province. People told me that residents of this town were beekeepers. By the way, Jews kept bees and sold honey during the period of feudalism. I guess, my great-grandfather was in this business. His last name Honiksman, or Ghoniksman in Polish, comes from 'honik' - honey and 'man' - man. I transliterated this last name into Russian as Honiksman. At the end of the 18th century Jews got their last names from the Austrian Government [Editor's note: Yakov has studied the history of Polish Jews all his life. This is literally what he said, although it is anachronistic]. Wealthier Jews could pay for more beautiful names like Goldman, Zilberman, Rosenthal and poor people got simpler names like Schwester [Smith], Portnoy [Tailor], Stoliar [Joiner] - after their profession, etc. My grandfather died long before I was born. I visited Krasny Stav only once in my life when I was a boy and I didn't care about history then. I don't remember any relatives on my father's side, I don't even remember whether I ever met any of them. In my family we never mentioned my father's relatives.

I am a son of Samuel, Jewish name: Shmil, Honiksman, born in the town of Krasny Stav near Lublin, in 1885. My father couldn't read or write and I believe he didn't even go to cheder where all Jewish boys studied, as a rule. He was a very religious person. He knew many prayers by heart, but he couldn't read his prayer book. My father didn't know how to sign papers and he wrote some sort of o-shaped signs. He came to Lublin when he was very young. He became a cabinetmaker's apprentice. My father was a failure in life. He was poor and often had no job, although he was a good cabinetmaker. He was an amazingly honest and decent man, but he often got into unpleasant situations due to his illiteracy.

I remember, he got an order from a rich Polish master to make a few new pieces of furniture for his rooms. My father took me with him. I was ten years old. I polished some items of furniture the whole day until I fell asleep. At night my father woke me up. As he was taking apart an old table, he unscrewed a leg and found it was a hiding place with valuables, diamonds and gold. My father sent me to the master and gave him everything he found. I remember it as clearly as if it were today: the master gave my father ten zloties. This was also a lot of money for us, but now, after I've lived a long time, I think that being as desperately poor as my father was at that time, I don't think I would demonstrate such utter honesty regardless of my conviction that one cannot touch what belongs to someone else.

My father got married in 1916. I don't know what my father first wife's name was. Their son Haskel was born in 1918 and shortly afterward my father's wife died of typhoid. My father's situation was miserable. They lived in a small room behind a partition in the shop where my father worked. My father had to find a wife immediately since he couldn't cope with the baby alone. The owner of the shop introduced him to a young woman, my future mother: Mina Grinberg, whose Jewish name was Mindlia.

My mother's father Moisey Grinberg was a rabbi in the small town of Ostrow Lubelski in Lublin province. I guess my grandfather was born in the 1860s. I saw him only once when I was four years old, but I remember him well. He was a tall Jewish man with a big half-gray beard. He was handsome. My grandfather was a rabbi of Hasidism 1. He seemed mean to me, as he looked at me in a way that made me feel awkward. Since then I've never really liked Hasidim. I believe the family was very religious, but I know no details. We traveled on a cart to see my grandfather through some woods, through the night. When we arrived in the morning a noisy bunch of Jewish people met us. I remember it well. Ostruv-Lubelski was a small town. I remember a small house that we entered to say 'hallo' to grandfather. I don't know how so many people could fit in it. They laughed and joked and seemed to be taking no notice of my grandfather's strict expression. They spoke Yiddish.

My grandfather's wife died long before I was born. They had many children. I remember his beautiful daughters, but I don't remember their names. His younger daughter was getting married when we were visiting, but all I remember is the noise and enjoyment. This was the last time I saw my grandfather. He died in 1933. I remember his daughters visited him in Lublin. They got married and moved to America in the 1920s. Their brother Max Grinberg, born in 1890, I think, was a tailor. He must have been a good tailor. He moved to New York, USA, when I was born. There he became an activist in the Communist Party. He was an optimist and believed in the Soviet Union. He sent us 5 or 10 dollars on holidays. In 1939 we lost contact with him. My mother told me that my Grinberg cousins were some high- ranking officials in Odessa. In the 1980s I found out that there were party officials with this last name, but I don't know whether they were our relatives. They disappeared. I searched for information about them and it turned out that they were exterminated in 1937 during the period of Great Terror 2; they were exterminated by Stalinism.

My mother was a very beautiful woman. She was born in 1894. Her father gave his children good elementary education. My mother could read and write in Yiddish, knew Hebrew and could understand and speak Polish. She said that they had a teacher from cheder and then they had another teacher that taught them Polish, German and arithmetic. She married a Jewish man from Odessa in 1914. They had a traditional Jewish wedding with a chuppah and rabbi in Lublin. In 1914, when World War I began, my mother's husband was recruited into the army. I guess he didn't have secondary education. My mother heard later that he had married in Odessa. For a Jewish woman that had recently got married this was a terrible thing to hear. My mother felt hurt. However, she was a strong woman. She obtained a permit from the Austrian authorities to cross the Russian border, go to Odessa and demand a divorce from that moron. She returned to Lublin with a certificate of divorce, but she couldn't expect to find a good match. She worked as a seamstress in Lublin for several years and was glad to get a chance to marry my father, a cabinetmaker that had no education and had a baby. I loved my parents and they loved me even more. My parents had a traditional Jewish wedding with a chuppah and a rabbi in 1920.

My mother treated my father's son Haskel with warmth and when he grew up there was understanding between them. Occasionally, when my mother had some free time I saw her reading books in Yiddish. Unfortunately, I never took any interest to ask her what she was reading. My mother's attitude toward religion was more like a tribute to traditions. She followed everything as required by Jewish rules. But when it was a question of something that was necessary for her children my mother could violate any rules or bans. I started to develop tuberculosis and somebody told my mother that I needed to eat pork. She bought cheap ham remains at the market. I liked bread and ham. She would stand in front of me so that my father didn't see what I was eating. She went to the synagogue at Yom Kippur, Rosh Hashanah and Pesach and I remember she blessed and lit candles every Saturday [Sabbath].

My older brother Haskel became enamored of revolutionary ideas when he was very young. He left our home and traveled on his own business. My father often had to search for his whereabouts. He joined the Communist Party of Poland when he was very young. We had our home searched twice. They didn't find anything, but we were told that he was involved in illegal activities. He had some education, but I don't know any details. Later he attended some course at university. In 1937, war in Spain [Spanish Civil War] 3 began and Haskel volunteered to go to the war. Shortly afterward we came to know that he perished. My father went to the synagogue and someone there said, 'Shmil, your son is gone.' Father asked, 'How did he die?' There were shoemaker, tailor and other trade union newspapers in Yiddish. Some newspaper wrote that Haskel Honiksman had perished in Spain in September 1937. Since my father couldn't read, someone else read this to him. He came home and told us this sad news.

Growing up

In December 1922 I, Yankel in Jewish, Yacob in Polish, Yakov in Russian Honiksman, was born. My younger brother Mordekhai [in all languages] followed in 1925. I already studied at cheder. Then I went to a Polish elementary school. My brother also went to cheder and to the same Polish school. We looked much alike. My brother studied well and could have grown into a very decent man.

My sister Faina, Fraida was her Jewish name, was born in 1928. She was a very nice and kind girl. She was always with our mother. In even the hardest times, my mother tried to make her something fancy, altering old clothes to make lovely outfits. When circumstances parted us in 1939, she was studying at the 2nd grade of a Polish school.

We lived in Shyrokaya Street in the Jewish neighborhood near the synagogue. This street as well as many others, was destroyed by Germans in the 1940s. I remember a big yard with large three-storied buildings around. At least they seemed big to me. There were stores and sheds in this yard and we lived there in a room that wasn't designed as a dwelling. We were very poor and didn't have enough food. My mother went to the Jewish community, which provided free meals. My mother brought some rice boiled in beef broth - of course, it was kosher food. I still remember this soup - it was very delicious. Our mother watched Mordekhai and me eat.

Every Friday evening our father covered us with his tallit to bless us. This was a tradition and he always followed it. [Editor's note: this is not the Jewish tradition, but that is what Yakov said.] My mother was the head of the house. She felt her superiority since she was educated and could sign her name while our father had no education whatsoever. I felt more respect towards my mother. I took after my mother. We had a quiet family. There were no arguments. Our father didn't drink. On holidays only, he drank a 50 ml shot of kosher wine. We understood that a Jewish man should keep up standards. Of course, our mother wasn't happy when our father lost his job, she would say, 'Shmil, why aren't you working?', but he just did what he could. Our mother didn't like it that he couldn't provide for the family.

I went to cheder at the age of three. My first teacher's name was Yankel and I also remember my prayers. I remember how I failed to get to the toilet and dirtied myself on the way home. This painful studying lasted until I reached the age of six or seven. It was difficult to study at the age of three. We had classes from 9am to 2pm. Then we had two hours for lunch and then studied from four to seven. We couldn't wait until a day was over and we could go home. We didn't have a carefree childhood. I had a bright memory and at six I knew half of my prayer book by heart. My father was very proud of me. He was very religious. He could only speak Yiddish and could not read. He was so proud, he made me read to his acquaintances. They nodded their heads saying 'alter kop' - an 'old head' in Yiddish [Editor's note: Yakov's father was proud of him and emphasized that he was far advanced for his years]. My father always took me to the synagogue with him. At 13 I had my bar mitzvah in the prayer house where men gathered for ceremonies. My father introduced me and I spoke on the subject of some Biblical story. [Editor's note: it is on the bar mitzvah ceremony that boys are first called up to read from the Torah and then they have to give a lecture about a given section of the Torah.] Everybody liked it and my father was very happy. When my Polish improved I began to help my father do shopping at the market.

When I was six or seven my father decided that I should go to the yeshivah. There was a yeshivah in Lublin with Rabbi Mayer Shapiro at its head [1887- 1934]. He was an outstanding scientist. My father sent me there since they provided meals. I did well at this school. However, since my stepbrother Haskel was under the influence of communist ideas, he thought that I needed to have a general education and my mother listened to his opinion. A year or a year and a half later she sent me to a Polish school. I began to live a dual life. At 7am I left for the yeshivah and at 2pm I arranged my payes behind my ears with invisible hairpins and put my yarmulka in my bag to avoid any mockery from my schoolmates and went to the Polish school. Of course, this dual life couldn't last long. Haskel insisted that I left the yeshivah. When I was ten I quit the yeshivah and just attended the Polish school. My parents had no objections to this. They gave me an opportunity to make my own choice.

I liked studying at this school. There were four Jewish pupils in my class. The rest of my classmates were Polish. Polish children openly mistreated us. I was shortsighted and wore glasses. I sat at the first desk in class. I shared my desk with a short Polish boy. His father was a policeman. My family was poor and when my father bought me a notebook it was quite an occasion for me. The boy messed up my notebook and it happened several times until I began to fight with him. Other boys began to shout, 'Why are you fighting here? Go into the yard' in Polish. We went into the yard where we continued fighting. Other Polish boys shouted, 'Mariam, beat this zhyd' [kike]. Other Jewish boys hid away. When I became desperate I grabbed a piece of steel and hit the boy on the head. He fell down bleeding and a teacher called an ambulance for him. The director of the school called me to his office and said, 'I hope I will not see you again at this school.' I was twelve then. What was I to do? My parents thought I should study a profession, but my father couldn't help me to find a craftsman that would teach me. He only spoke Yiddish and there was no way that somebody in a well-standing shop would even talk to him.

I took my school certificate and went out looking for a job. I had excellent marks in my certificate and spoke fluent Polish and a leather craftsman employed me in his shop. This leather craftsman was a Jew. His name was Zygmunt Zygielwarc. My brother Haskel said to me, 'You are a genius and need to continue your studies.' He talked to my master and I was allowed to continue my studies. I went to the first evening school for working people in Lublin to complete my secondary education. I lived at home. This leather craftsman lied to us. He agreed with my father that I would work as an errand boy for a year until he approved my contract and forwarded it to the chamber of crafts and commerce, but I worked for him as an errand boy for four years and he paid me peanuts for my work.

My father had no luck with his jobs. We didn't pay our rent for four or five months and based on a court order, we were evicted. The owner of our dwelling was a wealthy Jew. My father begged him to let us live in this room, but he refused. An officer of the court and a policeman came to throw our belongings into the yard. We lived in the open air in this yard for three months. My mother earned some money by doing laundry for our neighbors. In 1937 my father rented a room from a 70-year-old Jewish man. He leased his room to us under the condition that my mother would look after him and we would pay 15 zloties per month. We hoped that this room would come into our possession if he died. We had a room in a Polish district, in 86, Krul Liatoshynski Street. This house is not there any longer. Poor Polish workers lived in this district.

My brother Haskel was a communist and brought communist books to our home. We enjoyed reading those books. I worked for this leather craftsman for four years until he fired me. I was 16. My master had three or four apprentices. On 1st May I decided to make a speech and told them that they shouldn't work on this holiday, but go to the working people's demonstration. I made a very emotional speech, but other employees laughed at me and weren't interested at all. However, I continued to demonstrate my revolutionary spirit. At last my master lost his temper and said, 'Just get out and I hope I will never see you again - we could all be arrested for this.'

At about the same time, in the middle of the 1930s, I gave up going to the synagogue. I had observed all holidays and fasted before and had gone to the synagogue with my father, but then I said, 'Father, I'm not going to the synagogue tomorrow,' and the next day was Yom Kippur. My father asked me why and I told him that I didn't believe in what was written in the religious books. I began to prove that there were many discrepancies in the Torah. My father told me to get out of the house. In a couple of days my mother found me at the home of some acquaintances and took me back home.

In fall 1936 I began to attend a school for people working at the plant. My master fired me right before my exams in May 1939. I had another year of school, but I had no money to pay for my studies and so I quit school. Wherever I went to study afterwards I told people that I had a secondary education.

During the war

I had to look for a job. On 1st September 1939 World War II began. Hitler attacked Poland. Of course, we understood that it was inevitable. We read the newspapers and knew about the tension, Hitler coming to power and his attitude toward Jews. All poor people had big hopes for the Soviet Union and so did poor Jewish people. Polish newspapers wrote about Stalin's terror and the famine in 1933 4, but we believed it was bourgeois propaganda intending to blacken the Soviet reality. We only believed what the Communist Party said. All poor people believed that the Soviet Union was paradise on Earth. My friends and I attended underground party meetings and distributed communist flyers and newspapers. We dreamed about communism and equality. However, I didn't continue with this kind of activities since I was busy with my studies and earning money for bread for the family. I remember my mother's brother Max Grinberg wrote us that he had to go to Birobidzhan 5 where people had a just and happy life. I wanted to move to America and wrote him that I wanted to study in America. I hoped to make a good life there after I became a leather craftsman, but he kept saying that it wasn't a good idea. All poor Jewish people thought the same. I was a very active and emotional youth.

On 1st September 1939 our town was bombed. Our small house caught fire. This was at Rosh Hashanah. Older people didn't do anything about it. They kept sighing and praying and I yelled 'Don't pray, just fight the fire!' We 15 and 16-year-olds carried in buckets of water until the fire died down.

Later, it was Sukkot, Soviet troops arrived. How happy and euphoric we were. The first thing they did was loot the Jewish stores. They forced store-owners to open their stores in order to buy what they wanted. We were surprised since Jews weren't allowed to work on holidays. Since nobody knew what Soviet money looked like we accepted some bond paper notes. We didn't understand what was going on, but we still believed that everything was for the better. All Jewish families were overwhelmed with joy. We were happy to live under a red banner.

Our joy faded when in October 1939, under the Molotov-Ribbentrop pact 6 between the USSR and Germany, Lublin became a part of Germany. On 17th October Soviet troops left the town and German armies invaded the streets. Germans captured Jews in the streets and sent them to work. I was also captured and taken to work. We loaded furniture from wealthier Jewish families and it was removed to a storage facility. But we were very surprised that when it was time to get a meal we were made to stand in different lines: for Polish and Jewish people. Polish workers got enough bread while we didn't. In a few days we were allowed to go home. My mother said that I had to get away. My friends and I decided to leave.

I remember Pinia Goldberg, my friend. His father was a tailor. He made clothes for villagers. His family was very poor and Pinia had as strong faith in the Soviet Union as I did. However, I was more handsome and active and girls liked me more. Pinia's sister, a dressmaker, was married to a barber. They had children. Their family was poor. We formed a group of 20- 30 people and started moving to the east. There was another assimilated Jewish family with us. I liked their daughter Esther. She was a beautiful girl and had a beautiful voice. She sang on the local radio. We were friends and she joined me. She had a beautiful face. She was 17, the same age as I was.

We were planning to cross the Bug River to get to the Soviet Union. We walked, but after three days the girl fell ill and became feverish. In three days we had to return home. My mother told me again that I had to get away. I regret so much that I left the girl, my brother and sister in the town. They should have come with me. We would have gotten through all the disasters. I left home again on 23rd October 1939. I had a certificate from the evening school with me and when I was stopped I explained that I was heading to my uncle in Brest [a town in Belarus on the border with Poland 180 km from Lublin]. Many people, Jews for the most part, were moving to the east. We walked at night and during the day we found shelter in the woods or abandoned sheds. It was getting colder and it got dark early. I don't remember how long our trip was, but it seemed very long to us.

We reached the Bug River. Someone from our group made arrangements for us to cross the river on a boat that belonged to a Polish villager. I had a gold watch that my parents had given me for my bar mitzvah and my mother had given me her gold earrings for the road. I gave all this for crossing the river. This villager and his neighbor took us across the river on their boats. We had to be very quiet since we were so close to the border. I remember that I found shelter in a chicken-coop. I remember a woman with a baby. Her baby burst out crying and we were afraid that somebody would hear us. I don't know what the mother did: she probably smothered her baby or something. I only remember that she looked terrible afterward, but nobody cared since everyone was thinking about his or her own business.

I remember that we heard patrolling soldiers speaking German. They said that anybody coming close to the river would be shot without prior notice. They left and the Polish villager told us that he had given them all he had gotten from us. We had to pay him again, but I had nothing and some other refugees gave him something for me. We reached the Soviet territory at 4 in the morning. We headed for Brest, the nearest town where we hoped to stay and get a job. We had covered three or four kilometers when a Soviet border patrol surrounded us and ordered us to board a truck. We traveled about 15 kilometers until we reached some headquarters. The commanding officer ordered some villagers to give us food. Then he had a discussion with each of us. They asked me who I was. I showed them my employment record book and told them where I studied and worked. They asked me where I was going. I said, 'To my uncle's.' 'Where does he live?' 'In Brest.' 'What street?' '23, Pilsudski Street.' Of course, I just made it up. They told me I was free to go. They released all the younger people and we went to Brest. Later we heard that some older people had to go back and the Germans executed them as soon as they reached their territory. We walked through the night and reached Brest in the morning.

We didn't have anything with us. We were hungry and went to get free food provided by the local military. I met my friend Pinia who had got there before us. I was very happy to see him. We decided to stay together. We went to the railway station where we stayed overnight. That same night we enrolled on the list for work and in the morning we boarded a train for cattle transportation that moved off with people singing and holding red banners. They knew how to imitate a happy life of workers and peasants. In two weeks we reached Krichev in the east of Mahilyow region, about 150 kilometers from Brest. We got a bowl of soup at the stations provided by the military. I had a mug into which they poured this soup. We were optimistic and enthusiastic. My co-travelers were sent to cement plants, coalmines or wood cutting facilities. I was lucky, as I always had been.

About 25 of us moved on by truck. In the evening we arrived at 'Mayak' kolkhoz 7. We came to the cultural center of the village. It was 7th November [October Revolution Day] 8 and there was a celebration in the center and an optimistic Jewish man was making a speech in front of villagers. His speech was interrupted and we were distributed to the houses of collective farmers. I spoke some Russian that I had picked up back in Poland. My friend and his sister were accommodated in a house of a poor villager while I got accommodation in the house of the wealthiest one. Some time passed, but we didn't get any food. The kolkhoz was supposed to receive some food supplies for us, but this didn't happen. We began to harvest potatoes in a field. It was cold and we were falling ill, but we kept working. I stayed in the house of the director of the kolkhoz shop. He had a daughter. She was 15. Her name was Katia. She was a pretty, but dumb blond girl. I began to help her with mathematics and after about a week she tried to kiss me. I got very angry. Her mother had treated me so well and cared about me. The girl said, 'Mama wouldn't know.'

My friends didn't have enough food and I began to steal some from the house where I lived. Other guys decided to move on. My friend, his sister and her family also left. Later they showed up in Minsk and he found me in the late 1940s. I had some stupid argument with Katia and decided to leave them, too. I had to walk 15 kilometers across a forest. They said there were wolves there so I had matches and some paper with me. Somebody told me that if I bumped into a wolf I had to burn paper to protect myself. I got on a train at the station. There was a conductor who asked me for my ticket. I said I didn't have one. He began to yell at me, but other passengers stood up for me saying that I was a refugee and didn't really understand the language and he finally left me alone. In the morning we arrived at Mahilyow [320 km from Kiev, in the east of Belarus, on the Dnepr River]. There were thousands of refugees in Mahilyow. Somebody explained to me that I wasn't supposed to leave the kolkhoz without a permit, but that I could obtain one at the local executive committee office [Ispolkom] 9. I went there. There was a Jewish man at the head of this office wearing a Stalin hat [a khaki cap popular with many Soviet officials parroting Stalin]. This officer didn't even want to see me, but there were women working there; they sympathized with me. One gave me a bun and another gave me some milk. I told them that I needed a document issued by their office, to allow me stay in Mahilyow. I was there a whole week. I slept at the railway station until those employees got him to sign this permit.

I remember that they allowed me to work as a loader at a garment factory in Mahilyow. I earned 152 rubles. I carried 10 kilogram packages to the fabric cutting shop on the third floor. There were only Belarus loaders at the factory and all other employees were Jews. I slept in old barracks 10 kilometers from Mahilyow. All refugees stayed in those barracks. It was a severe winter and many people got frost-bitten feet. I didn't suffer since I was strong. One of my co-tenants, a Jewish man from Germany, froze to death. He didn't get up one morning in December. I wrote a letter home telling them where I was. I was so concerned about them and hoped to get a letter from them, but there was none. Once I met pretty girls from Vilnius [Lithuania] at the post office. I always liked pretty girls and I began to ask them questions. They told me that there was a course where they trained teachers of history. The next day I went to this teacher's college and told them that I wanted to study. I lied for the first time, that I had a secondary education.

In late December 1939 I passed my exams successfully and was admitted to a group of rural elementary school teachers. I had to work and study. I left my barracks at 4am and walked 10 kilometers to the town where I worked from 7am 'till 4pm and then attended classes. Somebody told me to talk to the management of my college and request a stipend. I did so and was approved to receive a stipend of 175 rubles - that was more than I earned. I also got accommodation in the hostel at 39, Lenin Street. There were five other tenants in my room, Belarus boys. They never asked me about my nationality. They asked me my name. I said, 'Yasha.' I liked it in the hostel. I had a bed with a white sheet. In the morning I attended classes. I had friends and nobody called me 'zhyd.' I liked everything there. I also attended a theater studio for Polish Jews. To cut a long story short, we had a wonderful life.

I didn't have any information about the situation in Poland. In 1940 I received a letter from my mother. There was a photograph of my brother Mordekhai and a short note from my mother. She wrote that she was very happy that I wasn't with them since they were in a very tough situation. She didn't describe any details. There were many refugees at this college. We spoke poor Russian and there was a group of about 20 of us studying Russian. Our teacher was a young Jewish woman. I learned a little, but I could never tell the difference 'pisat' ['write' in Russian, stress on the 'a'] and 'pisat' ['pee' in Russian, stress on the 'i']. It was a puzzle for me. We had to take a Russian exam and I couldn't imagine how I was going to manage. I knew that at best I would still make 20 mistakes while five mistakes was the maximum. My friend Lyova Rotenberg sat with me and wrote a dictation instead of me. I got three out of five for it and passed my exam. All students left for vacations and I stayed.

The rector of my college helped me to get a job. There was a big chemical plant and a recreation center near Mahilyow. I went to work as an entertainer there. I got a wonderful meal: two eggs and bread and butter. However, since I spoke poor Russian they sent me away in two weeks since I failed to do my job. In order to continue my studies I had to take several exams. I went to the library where I learned everything by heart and recited pieces word by word at the exams. Teachers were amazed at my memory and admitted me to the second course of the Faculty of History of Mahilyow Pedagogical College. I was the happiest person in the world: I was a student, had a place to live and received a stipend.

In fall 1940 I had practical training at school. There were young girls in the 9th and 10th grades, staring at me. Once I got a note from a schoolgirl in which she wrote that she knew that I came from Poland and that Jews were oppressed and abused there and that she was happy to meet me and hoped to support me. She was in the 10th grade and I was a 2nd year student. We started seeing each other. She was a Jewish girl and her name was Rosa Sheinina. Her father was the director of confectionery factory. Theirs was a rich family. I began to court her.

Once a teacher of mathematics, a Jewish man, asked me whether I knew Hebrew and Yiddish. I said I did and he offered me a job as librarian at the Jewish library in a small house near our college. I became a librarian and worked from 4pm. I read books and Rosa visited me there. We flirted when there were no visitors. I was happy. I had obtained a Soviet passport by then. It was a 'category 24' passport [Passport 24] 10 It meant that I wasn'tt allowed to reside in 24 large towns. I joined the Komsomol 11 and became an active Komsomol member. I liked taking part in meetings and attending parades on Soviet holidays. My friends and I marched along the main street of the town carrying red flags, portraits of the leaders and posters with communist slogans. We were proud of our country and believed that everything happening was just. I liked the Soviet system and didn't think about any difficulties or contradictions.

This was 1941. I met with Rosa and read books on history in the library. I was passing exams and everything went well. On 22nd June Lyova Rotenberg, another boy and I were taking a walk discussing Russian classics when we heard on the radio that the Great Patriotic War 12 had begun.

We had about five exams ahead of us. Students of our college were immediately mobilized to remove all furniture from a school in the neighborhood where they were going to deploy a hospital. We worked all night. In the morning I went to the college to take an exam in medieval history. Professor Alexandr Kogan from St. Petersburg came to me, hugged me and held me tight for some time. It turned out that all Polish refugees, German teachers and senior students had been arrested at night. I was lucky that I hadn't been in the hostel that night. I don't know - they might have arrested me, too.

I was called into our Komsomol Committee, which enrolled me on the lists of a 'fighting battalion.' We were to capture German parachutists that landed in the area. We got wooden rifles. There were 800 of us in this battalion. We were distributed in groups of three. There were many refugees from Minsk in Mahilyow and we understood that the situation was difficult. I hoped to see my friend Pinia who used to write me from Minsk, but I didn't find him. I also looked for him after the war, writing to various agencies, but I didn't get any information and never found out what happened to him or his sister.

We were sent to the woods near Mahilyow. In a week I found out that there were 24 of us left from the 800. The rest of the fighters had perished. I was so upset, especially that I had never found any parachutists. There was panic and confusion around. I saw an officer shooting two other officers who were retreating. He approached them on a truck and shot them. I returned to Mahilyow where I met Rosa's father. We went to the railway station where he put me on a train. His wife and Rosa were there already. I was evacuated with the Sheinina family. This was 5th July. Our trip lasted for about a month until we reached Chistopol' in former Tatarstan [a small town on the Kama River flowing into the Volga]. Rosa's father was recruited to the army on the way. We were accommodated in a room. Rosa lost interest in me and I had no feelings left and I decided to go to a bigger town. Chistopol' was a small town, overcrowded with evacuated people. There was no job or place to study. I heard there was a barge from Chistopol' to Kuibyshev [today, Samara, a regional town on the Volga, about 2300 km from Kiev. During the war many governmental agencies were evacuated to this town]. I got on this barge. The only luggage I had was a suit that I put in my case. I put this case under my head to sleep on it. When I woke up in the morning I didn't find either the case or the suit there. When I reached Kuibyshev I remembered that this was one of the 24 towns in which I wasn't allowed to reside. When the barge was nearing the harbor I jumped off to avoid document control officers. I decided to find the Pedagogical College.

The Pedagogical College was located at 65, Stepan Razin Street. There were a few people unloading books and I decided to join them. I worked a little and addressed their supervisor. I said I was hungry and he sent me to their canteen where I had a bowl of soup and returned to work. We worked until evening. This same supervisor sent me to Nadia, the manager of their hostel. Nadia accommodated me in a room where I was alone; other students were still on vacation. The next day I went to work again. Then I went to get registered at the college. They admitted me to the third course. I unloaded books until the academic year began and had meals at the canteen. There was only one thing I didn't like: this supervisor Nadia came to my room every night. She was about 30 and I was 19. She was a beautiful woman, but I had other things to think about.

I became a student. I got a residence permit 13 to live in this hostel even though I had a 'category 24' passport and wasn't allowed to live in Kuibyshev. They stamped my passport along with other passports without taking a closer look. Students received 400 grams of bread per day. It wasn't enough for me. The academic year began and then there were six of us in the room. Four were Russian guys from the Volga and one was a Jew. His name was Fima. He was from Mahilyow. He kept himself separate and kept his own food in his locker. There was no anti-Semitism between us, but we didn't really like Fima. Once we broke the lock on his locker, got his bread and pork fat from there and ate it. All Jews forgot kashrut rules and ate what they had. When he came back he began nagging about it. We saw that this shlemazl [a weak person in Yiddish] was worthless. We had no respect for him. He perished on the way to the front later.

My other co-tenants were my friends. In fall 1941 our college began to make a wood storage for winter. We went to an island on the Volga where we cut wood and made rafts for wood transportation. A raft had to be tied to the wood underneath. We had to stay underwater for about ten minutes to make a knot. Once my safety rope broke and I almost drowned. The others rescued me, pulling me out by my trunks. I knew that other guys liked me. Once they invited me to a pancake celebration. [Editor's note: this is the Russian version of mardi-gras, it's called 'maslenitza', from the Russian word for 'butter', maslo. It is usually celebrated in the last week of February when people bake pancakes and organize all sorts of out-door activities; burning the symbolic figurine of winter. Although it is totally pagan, it prefigures the 40 days of fasting, which in turn culminates with Easter.] I had pancakes there. We also worked together in the harbor unloading melons and watermelons. We shared everything we earned or had. We lived like a commune. There were also girls that lived in the next-door room, we involved them and they cooked for us. I was happy living in this hostel. I became deputy editor of our students' newspaper, even though my Russian was poor. I shared my ideas with the editor, a student of the Faculty of Biology, and he wrote the articles.

I met a young beautiful woman at the college. Her name was Tamara and we began to see each other. Later my friends told me that she was married to Professor Aizezian, of Philosophy and that they had a child. I had a problem again. I began to avoid her, but she followed me. She was a refugee from Belarus and her husband was an old Armenian. I had an exam in June 1942. Professor Aizezian was very strict and nobody expected to get a good mark. All students wanted to get higher marks since our stipend was based on how good our marks were. I was sure that he knew that I was seeing his wife. I learned an important lesson from this man. He said only one phrase to me, 'The tragedy of history is that people that had no idea about history took to implementation of great ideas.' He gave me an excellent mark and I never saw his wife again.

We took exams for the third and the fourth year due to a ministry directive which reduced terms of studies. There were five or six young graduate men. We received our diplomas at the military registry office. We were to be sent to the Military Academy in Baku. Once I jumped off a tram between stops and was captured by a militiaman who took my passport. When they found out that I had violated my ban to live in Kuibyshev they put me on the list of the Labor army. We did any sort of hard work. I was sent to work as an equipment operator at a special expedition of the Oil Ministry of the USSR.

I had to join a field group in Kokand [a small town in Uzbekistan, 3,000 km from Kiev]. My journey there took seven or eight days until I arrived at the 'Karakum geological group.' Kokand was a small town on the Sokh River flowing into Syrdarya in Fergana region, Uzbekistan. There were few pise- [rammed earth] walled houses in the town. Uzbek people wore heavy cotton gowns and tubeteika caps that looked like a kippah to me. [Editor's note: tubeteika is a small cap worn by men in Middle Asian countries; it's very much like a kippah.] There were a few Jewish specialists who had come there from the European part of the Soviet Union before the war. During the war the population of Kokand expanded due to the arrival of evacuees.

Camels were the main form of transport. We were to collect yellow stones and some sand and send these to Moscow to be studied . We were told that they were studied to find oil and it was only 20 years later I came to know that they had been looking for uranium. In a few weeks I went into the desert in a vehicle. There were about 200 Tajik and Uzbek people there already. They were wild, uneducated people and I was to be their supervisor since I had an education. I was to explain to them what they were supposed to do. Once every two to three weeks we got food supplies and we loaded stones that we'd collected, to be taken away. Once nobody came for three or four weeks.

We were starving, but we weren't allowed to leave our work area. I took a risk, although I didn't know it was a risk. I asked the workers where they lived and it turned out that the nearest houses were 100 kilometers from where we were. I told them to bring any food they could from their homes. They returned in one week's time and the food they brought lasted for another couple of weeks. When my supervisor came and I told him what I had done, he cursed me and said that I deserved to be shot. I told him that I had to do it to save people and he replied that I could have written them off if something happened. This was when I came face to face with the Soviet mentality. They didn't care about an individual. An individual didn't matter to them.

In fall 1943 I was sent to Moscow to take secret maps there. The head of the laboratory offered me a job in his technical library. I did technical translation work, from German and Polish. I had the status of an employee on a business trip and every now and then I had to return to Kokand. In Kokand I met my first wife. Her name was Ninel Venediktova. I corresponded with Rosa Sheinina and she gave me the address of her friend Ninel, who was a student of a teacher's college in Kokand. I fell in love with Ninel. She was a pretty Russian girl. She was 18. Her mother came from Kiev. She was a business-oriented woman. She went to the Northern areas of Russia to sell fruit from the south; her daughter stayed alone. Ninel's mother was very unhappy that her daughter's boyfriend was a Polish Jew, but when I fell ill with typhoid on my way to Kokand and was removed from the train when I fell unconscious, she took a very active part in my life. She got in touch with my management and got penicillin for me. She visited me in hospital every day.

When I recovered I went back to Moscow. I liked Moscow. I could attend lectures at university and borrow books from the biggest libraries. I met Professor Vladimir Picheta, the Academic [1878 - 1947, Soviet historian, author of works about the history of Poland, Lithuania, Belarus, specialist in Social and economic history]. He was an outstanding scientist and author of significant studies. This was 1944, when the liberation of Poland began. I wrote a very important essay for the time. There was an outstanding historian in Poland - Lelewel [Joachim Lelewel (1786-1861): Polish historian, politician and supporter of the November Uprising of 1830. He was an ideologist of the Polish liberation movement, a democrat- internationalist and founded the basics of a number of disciplines in the Polish historical sciences]. Marx was his friend. Nobody wrote about him and I decided to write an essay and showed it to Picheta. Picheta liked the essay and told me to enter his post-graduate school.

I was very weak after having typhoid and due to my health condition I was expelled from the labor troop. I wasn't allowed to live in Moscow. Ninel and her mother returned to Kiev from evacuation. I had to obtain a residence permit to live in Kiev.

I entered Veterinary College in Kiev and obtained a certificate confirming that I was a student. On the basis of this certificate I got registered at the hostel of this college. However, I took no interest in the Veterinary College. I lived in the family of my future wife in a communal apartment 14 in the very center of Kiev. Ninel got pregnant and we registered our marriage on 13th August 1944. I studied in college and worked as a loader at a wood-cutting facility. I wanted to be a teacher, but when I was told that a teacher earned 550 rubles per month - this was the price of a loaf of bread - I went to the university. I had an appointment with the rector of the university. He said that if I were a graduate of their university I could become a post-graduate student. During that year I passed 13 exams and got a degree from Kiev University. There was another rector though, and when I came to see him he said, 'We are encouraging national specialists.' This was April 1945, after Victory Day 15. For the first time I faced state anti-Semitism. I lived in Kiev for a year. I didn't get along with my wife or my mother-in-law. She used to say 'What kind of a Jew is it that cannot provide for his family?' I went to Lvov since I was told that it was easier to get an apartment there.

I arrived at Lvov on 9th May 1945. This was Victory Day. Expecting a telegram from my mother-in-law or wife, I went to the post office and received a telegram that said that I had a daughter and that she was named Victoria - 'victory' in Greek. We were overwhelmed with victory and hoped that life would improve. We believed that everything would be wonderful from then on. The situation was horrible in Lvov. People were arrested and then disappeared. I didn't understand what was going on. People were scared.

My closest ones - my father, brother, mother and sister perished in Lublin ghetto. Only few years ago I found out that they were on the lists of those exterminated in Lublin ghetto on 7th November 1942. I received a document from Lublin confirming that Mordekhai Honiksman and Samuel Honiksman were on the list of those that were exterminated. My mother and sister were not mentioned in any lists. They perished without being included in any lists. I don't even know where their ashes are buried.

I visited Lublin several times in the 1990s. The town had changed a lot since I was last there 60 years before. There is a multi-storied building at the spot where our house was. It became a very different town.

Post-war

In Lvov I went to work at a garment shop, but I didn't like it there. I attended the library of the Academy of Sciences. This was in 1946. I saw a man lying in a tram stop. I thought he wasn't well, but when I came closer I saw that he was drunk. He was mumbling something in Polish. I took him home where he had a big collection of Jewish books. I went to see him the next day. He introduced himself: Professor Tadeus Zadarecki. He was a Polish orientalist, a Professor of Lvov University. He owned a library and needed an employee there. He offered me a job at the library. They spoke Ukrainian there, while I didn't know a word in Ukrainian. They asked me what languages I spoke. I said, 'Polish, Russian, Yiddish and German.' They believed me and in 15 minutes I became a senior scientific worker of the Jewish department of this library of the Academy of Sciences. I quit the shop where I worked. I also lived in this library.

There were two other Jewish employees there. They told me that Zadarecki had a beautiful Jewish wife before the war. She and their child were taken to the ghetto during the war. He tried to rescue them, but they were killed in the ghetto. It was so hard on him that he took to drinking. I began to work at this library on 15th April 1946. I was happy to work there. We collected books from all the ruined Jewish houses and synagogues. We got many books from the Jewish community, which had one of the richest libraries. It's enough to say that there were 43 incunabula's [ancient printed books] before the war that were all stolen. My readers were Jewish intellectuals, writers and scientists. It was the Jewish elite.

My wife joined me in Lvov. We found a three-bedroom apartment, but we still didn't have a good life together. She didn't understand me. In 1947 I went to the Department of History at the Pedagogical College and they employed me as an assistant at the Department of Marxism-Leninism. I kept my job at the library, but my wife didn't find my earnings sufficient. We had arguments and rows with her. My mother-in-law also moved in with us. She became the mistress of our home. She was very good at making money. I left home and lived at the library.

I worked at the library from 1946 to 1948. In 1949, the campaign against cosmopolitans 16 began. All Jewish writers were arrested. I thought I would be arrested, too, since I knew all those people. The library was destroyed. 19 boxes of books were moved to the Academy of Sciences in Kiev. The library ceased to exist. In May 1949 I was declared a cosmopolitan at my college. I didn't know about it since it was announced at a party meeting that I didn't attend since I was a Komsomol member. When my boss saw me in college, he said 'Yakov, why are you here? You could be arrested. Go away. They've declared you a cosmopolitan. You are fired.' I lost my job and expected arrest every night.

I had a friend. He was also a Polish Jew. He worked in an archive and he advised me to get a job at the archive since I knew several languages. I went to see the director of this archive. His wife was a Jew. He looked like a typical man of half-Jewish origin. He took me to a colonel at the regional department of the Ministry of Internal Affairs where I wrote an 18- page letter, requesting them to employ me. In a month I received a permit to become an employee of the archive of the Ministry of Internal Affairs in Lvov. I worked at the logistics department and had no right to enter a sensitive - secret department. [Editor's note: the secret department of the Ministry of Internal Affairs kept materials about political trials, arrests of innocent people, fabricated cases, etc. Residents got partial access to those archives only in the early 1990s.] I did more than I was authorized to and collected a big archive of files for joint-stock companies of the oil industry. I wrote a letter to the Academy of Sciences asking them whether I might write a thesis on the basis of these documents. They replied that these documents could be the basis for both scientific candidate and doctor's thesis. Later the archive got the order 'fire' with no explanation. I was fired and so was another Jew, Grossman. This happened in 1951.

I had no food and no place to live. I lived, at one time, with a Polish countess 15 years older. She was a very beautiful woman, an aristocrat. I learned a lot from her, including manners. I remember her with very warm feelings. She was an artist. I lived with her for six months. Later I heard that she was arrested and sent into exile. I lost track of her.

I found a job as a teacher of history and German language in a village in Lvov region since I couldn't find a job in Lvov. I worked there for nine and a half years. My colleagues treated me well. I became deputy director and then director of this school. I was also responsible for the collection of money for state crediting. It was a mandatory procedure, although newspapers wrote that the population gave money to their country ruined by the war voluntarily. In May, state officers came to institutions and declared how much one owed and if people refused they beat them with sticks. However, I managed to convince people. I joined the Party. I still believed in communism. I didn't understand many things, but I also needed this for my career. I became a representative of the regional party committee for collectivization 17. People respected me. There was another Jew - a doctor. People also respected him.

At the beginning of 1952 another period of arrests began. I was very afraid of being arrested. My wife said, 'We don't need you.' My wife and my mother- in-law spoke against me to my daughter. I was afraid that they might act against me and got a divorce. I was a bachelor for four years. I was desirable as a fiancé throughout this time.

I was glad when I heard that Stalin died on 5th March 1953. I didn't know what the future might be, but I knew that one of the greatest bandits had died. He was another Hitler, only even more treacherous since Hitler spoke directly and openly while Stalin complimented somebody and then at night this person was arrested and taken away. I had realized this many years ago, but I had remained a follower of Marxism.

Married life

In 1955 my friends introduced me to my future wife Rita Vilkobrisskaya. Her parents were Jews. She was born in 1930. She is a very pretty, nice and absolutely naïve person. She finished the Faculty of Economy at the Lvov Polygraphists College. Rita's father was a high-ranking military officer, but he had passed away by the time we met. Rita received a secular education and her Jewish roots were abandoned. This family believed in Stalin's ideas fanatically. They said that Rita's father died along with the name of Stalin.

Rita and I were dating for some time until I asked her, 'Rita will you marry me?' and she replied, 'Yes.' We had a wedding party at a restaurant on 10th January 1956. My guests were about ten close friends and her guests were her father's former military comrades. They were Russian and there were very few Jews. Rita and I never argued. She is so timid, but she is the closest person I have. I am still affectionate towards my wife. She is so very nice and sweet. My scientific achievements are due to her. During the first years of our marital life she lived in Lvov alone and I came from the village at weekends.

I worked on my scientific candidate thesis on the subject of economic development of Eastern Poland at the beginning of the 20th century. In October 1960 I defended my thesis in Moscow. The subject of my thesis was the history of the Polish economy. I was awarded the scientific title of candidate of economic sciences. I got a job in Lvov where I became deputy director of an evening school. I gained a standing in my scientific field, but authorities kept emphasizing that they needed national personnel. There was no open anti-Semitism, but it was clear that the reason why it was so hard for me to find a job was my nationality.

Rita worked as an economist in an institute. She was fired along with 10-15 other Jewish employees. I went to see the secretary of the district party committee and asked him, 'Have you received an instruction to get rid of Jews?' He was shocked, 'This cannot be.' Our leadership didn't like direct accusation of being anti-Semitic and my wife got back her job. I couldn't find a job for about a year until I finally got a job offer. There was a vacancy for a lecturer at the Oil College in Drogobych [a small town, 100 km from Lvov; center of the oil industry]. I worked there for 17 years: as a senior lecturer and then as a dean for half a year.

Then I wrote my doctor's thesis. My wife stayed in Lvov. Her mother was very ill and she couldn't leave her. I received a small apartment, but again, every weekend and on holidays I went to Lvov. After I defended my thesis I got a job at the Institute of Social Sciences in Lvov. I worked there only a year. I was the only Jewish employee. The management tried to get rid of me. They wanted to use me in their struggle against the so- called Ukrainian nationalists. I refused to get involved in dirty plotting and they said, 'We won't be in your team.' I quit. I felt depressed; I was looking for a job again. Two months had passed when a former colleague of mine invited me to Ternopol [regional center in the west of Ukraine, 130 km from Lvov]. Again I traveled at weekends and on holidays. I worked there for two years, but I understood there was no future for me there. I wanted a promotion and was thinking about my career while I couldn't expect anything where I was at that time. Nobody offered me a promotion. I started looking for a job again. There were promises that never came true. I traveled to Poland where I read lectures.

We were an affectionate family. We traveled to the Crimea or Caucasus in summer as tourists. We enjoyed traveling. We didn't celebrate Soviet or religious holidays at home, but we had birthday parties. We got together with friends on birthdays and weekends to listen to music, discuss books. We made good money, went to theaters and to the cinema and to restaurants with friends.

I was over 50 and the situation with having no job affected my health. When I left another institution where I'd received a refusal, I fell. A crowd of people gathered and I was taken to hospital. This was my first infarction. When I was in hospital my wife brought me a newspaper where I read there was competition for a position of professor in Lvov Polytechnic College. When I was released from hospital I went to this college where I got the job. This happened in early April 1976. From then on I worked at the Faculty of Economy of Lvov Polytechnic Institute where I taught history of economy until 1992. So I became a professor and was happy about my degrees. I was the only Jew in this faculty. I took my job very seriously and people treated me well. I always identified myself as Jew and never forgot about my origin or my relatives who had perished, but after I left Lublin I didn't observe any Jewish traditions.

When perestroika 18 began, Jewish life began to revive in the town. In 1985 we celebrated the jubilee of Sholem Aleichem 19. I was there, of course. I attended other meetings of Jewish intellectuals. The party leadership of the college reacted immediately. They were all informed promptly. The secretary of the party unit asked me, 'Have you become a Zionist? You demonstrate too much interest in Jewish life.' However, the flow of time changed all attitudes. The attitude toward Jews changed in society. I was glad about such great progress in Jewish life. I believed that Ukraine had to be an independent country to progress in its development. In 1990 I submitted my request to quit the Party. They asked me, 'Why?', and I replied, 'I disagree with the policy of the Party'. But more and more often I recall the words of my teacher Aizezian that people that make history have no idea about it.

In 1989 I became one of the founders of the Jewish Sholem Aleichem Society 20. I began to work on Jewish subjects. I didn't write about Jewish subjects before 1992, but now I have six books, about ten brochures and over 200 articles. My books were published and became popular. The books published by the Lvov Jewish Sholem Aleichem Society are: 'Catastrophe of Jews in Western Ukraine', 300 pages, published in 1998, 5,000 copies; 'Jews of Brody Town 1584-1944', 2001, 2,000 copies; 'Yanovskiy camp', 1996, 3,000 copies; 'People, years, events. From our ancient history', 1998, 3,000 copies; '600 years and two years', about the history of Jews in Drogobych and Boryslav, 1999, 2,000 copies, and others. I have come to the end of my life - my 80th birthday, with significant accomplishments.

I visit the Sholem Aleichem Society and Hesed - these institutions are housed in the same building. Many people are interested in Jewish subjects, even those that didn't disclose their Jewish identity in the past years. My daughter Victoria Venediktova is one of such people. She works as a teacher and I have no contact with her.

My wife and I never considered departing for Israel. I have a lot of things to do here while there I would be merely a pensioner. I am a Polish - a European Jew and I belong here.

I've always remembered that being a Jew is a great responsibility. If anybody accepts a bribe, large or small, he would be called corrupt, but if I accept one people would say 'all zhydy are the same.' I must think not only about myself, but also about my people.

Glossary

Simon Gutman
Riga
Latvia
Interviewer: Svetlana Kovalchuk
Date of interview: February 2002

Do you know how old I am today? It is in the militia that they ask you the year of your birth, but for ordinary people it's good enough to know how old you are. I turned 94 in September 2001. And in my soul, I feel very young. I'm an artist, caricaturist by specialty, a humorist, and also an actor. My daddy's surname was Gutnomen-Gutman. It was in the Soviet times that we simplified it, abridged it to Gutman. My father's full name was Israel Solomonovich Gutnomen-Gutman, and he was born in 1873. He died in Kharkov in 1919, at the age of 46, of a heart attack. He was old, in my childish view.

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

My family background

I know very little about my grandfathers and grandmothers. They traded in wood and lumber, mainly in Latgalia. About my daddy I can say that he was a good businessman. He wore rimless glasses, smoked Zefir cigarettes, and always knocked down a small glass of vodka before dinner. He was a lumber trader, but then he bought a cinema in Dvinsk. It was called Grand Electro. He bought the equipment for his cinema in Germany. This I remember very well. And when the front was very near Dvinsk, during World War I, my father was in Dvinsk all the time - the profit was quite good. There was a front zone, a large garrison. The Germans couldn't seize Dvinsk for three years. Only in 1917, when the Russian army fell apart, only then Dvinsk was taken.

About 1915, my father sent our family - mum, me and my two brothers, to Zilupe, formerly Razumovskoye. And later we lived in the vicinity of Moscow, in Pavlovski Posad. There I studied at school. We were three brothers. The eldest was Yakov and then came my twin brother, Solomon, and I. Solomon, or Salya, as we called him, was 20 minutes older than me. I was very small - no bigger than a scoop. Daddy took mum to the maternity house. Later, when he went back there on a cart to find out who was born, he was told, 'A boy!' - and he answered, 'Okay, that's fine!' Then, a couple of hours later, he went there again asking, 'Well, how's that boy?' And they told him, 'You've got another one!' Daddy apparently told the carter, 'Just don't you go in that direction again!' That was later told as a joke. Yakov was two years older than we, born in 1905. We had a governess in Dvinsk.

My elder sister Nyuta, born Anna Israelevna in 1903, had a sick leg. Mum took her to Berlin for medical treatment. She was eleven years old then, and on the eve of the war mum took her to Switzerland, and my sister stayed there. She learned German and French in Switzerland. Daddy helped her financially. When the West was cut off completely, my sister helped there working in mountain sanatoriums around Lausanne. She worked as much as she could to justify her stay in the sanatorium. She returned to Riga, to our uncle's place, via Finland in 1921. We only met in 1923.

Before we left for evacuation, we lived on 20 Rizhskaya Street in Dvinsk. Once, when mum was seeing her sister Tirtsa off to Vilnius [today Lithuania], she took me and Salya to the station. They were standing in front of the railway car and talking and had temporarily forgotten about us. And we didn't know what to do. We were six years old at the time. Salya was a dashing guy and he said, 'Let's go!'. So we addressed the cab driver, 'Hey, old man, have you seen our mum?' - 'What does she look like?' - 'She is tall and beautiful.' - 'No, I haven't.' - 'Take us home then.' And off we went to 20 Rizhskaya Street, right down the road, near the station! It seemed to us a long way to walk, but very close on a horse-cart. Just imagine, my mum turning around at the railway station, and both of us being gone! She cried, panicked and was scared to death.

My mum's name was Berta Borisovna; her maiden name Aronovich. Her mother, my grandmother Sheina Aronovich, was married three times. All her husbands died one after the other. Mum was a single child from my grandmother's first marriage. With her second husband, Velvel Israeltan, my grandmother had a whole bunch of children - my mother's stepbrothers and stepsisters. She lived with her last husband in Copenhagen, Denmark, but returned to her daughter from the second husband, Aunt Tirtsa Koldobskaya, nee Israeltan, to Vilnius. There she lived and there she died. Aunt Tirtsa's husband was a prominent businessman. Grandmother died in the summer of 1931. Mum went to Vilnius to attend the funeral. Aunt Tirts? died in Vilnius in 1936, before the war.

Let me tell you about the Israeltans, the family of my mother's stepbrother. They are the most apparent victims of the Holocaust of all my relatives. Bella Karpovna, nee Rabinovich, my uncle's wife, called me around 20th June 1941, and asked, whether it was possible for them to leave with me. And I didn't know myself what to do.

My uncle's name was Solomon Velvel - they also called him Solomon Vladimirovich - Israeltan. The state of Israel wasn't yet established, but the surname already existed. We called him Uncle Sam. He had been to the USA several times and spoke good English. They lived on ?ntonievskaya Street in Riga, in a large beautiful apartment with wall-paintings, ornaments and pictures. It is he who gave shelter to Nyuta after she returned from Switzerland in 1921. And whenever I went to Riga, I stayed in their apartment. He was the manager of a large textiles shop, owned by Kazatsky, a Jew. This big shop was situated on the corner of Krishyan Baron and Elizavetinskaya Streets. When the Soviet power was established, he was appointed the shop's manager. The relatives of his wife - the Rabinovich family - lived in Dvinsk and were engaged in the trading business. Uncle Sam sent them the goods.

His wife, Bella Karpovna, wasn't as beautiful as she was imperious and clever. They had wonderful, educated sons Yulik or Yuly, and Vovik or Velvel. They were proficient in German, Latvian and Russian, but they didn't speak Yiddish. My uncle and aunt only spoke Russian at home. Velvel married a nice girl in May 1941. I visited them on the occasion and we had a lot of fun. He sent her to a sanatorium in Sigulda [a town 50 km from Riga]; she was pregnant then. You can imagine, the war began, and she remained alone in Sigulda, expecting a baby. I was told that Yulik and Vovik were shot by Nazis at the very beginning of the war. Aunt Bella and Uncle Sam perished in the ghetto in Riga. In the 1960s I accidentally met their former housemaid in the street, Tanya, a simple Russian woman with a Nizhniy Novgorod accent. It was she who told me that my aunt and uncle had been in the ghetto and that she had brought them food suppressing her fear.

Growing up

My mother and grandmother lived in Griva district in Dvinsk. Financially they lived under very low standards, and my mother had to read books under the blanket. She was persecuted at home for wasting kerosene and candles. Daddy was much older than mum. I don't remember exactly how much older. My mother's attitude towards my father wasn't so romantic. He bought a carriage, a horse and used to take her for a ride. I learned that from my sister. Mum communicated more with her than with us.

Our language at home was exclusively Russian. However, mum spoke good Yiddish. As she was going to go abroad to bring my sister home, she attended courses in French.

In 1917 daddy took us from Pavlovski Posad to a resort on the coast of the Azov sea, in Berdyansk, for six weeks, and there we ended up staying for four years - during the revolution [see Russian Revolution of 1917] 1 and the Civil War 2 in Russia. We lived poorly, having taken to Berdyansk almost nothing, only my mother's fur coat, a coat of seal skin, which we sold, and just enough food for the winter. Daddy wasn't a religious man, but it was a generally accepted rule to visit the synagogue. When he occasionally went to Berdyansk, where there was a choral synagogue, he used to attend the service. He had a special silk cloak. I remember, he would point towards us in the synagogue and say in Yiddish, 'These are the performers of my funeral rites'.

There was that turmoil in Russia, and daddy still stayed in Dvinsk. In 1919 he was once more making his way to us with a train transporting some Austrian captives. The train was heading south. They robbed him of his purse and all his documents. He couldn't do a thing, they would just throw him out of the moving train. He was already sick, had heart attacks, and his whole body was shaking. Traveling was no good for him, but he still kept coming back to Dvinsk. So, during his last trip, he stopped in Kharkov, at my mum's cousin. He was put into a hospital and he died there of what they now call an infarct. Mum buried him in Kharkov. She went especially from Berdyansk to Kharkov to be present at the funeral ceremony. It was very difficult to get there.

We went to the synagogue when daddy died. My brother and me would go there daily, three times a day, to recite the Kaddish - the prayer of repentance. My elder brother, Yakov, didn't go. There were situations during the Civil War, when there was shooting, but all the same we used to attend the synagogue. My brother Solomon was fanatically religious in those years. He even read prayers for the night, lying in bed. But, you see, to offer a prayer you need a kippah! So he pulled a blanket over his head to say the prayer. Mum was religious, too. That was her family feature. She spoke extremely good Yiddish. And we haven't learned to speak Yiddish, whereas she taught all of her sons Hebrew. Wherever we lived, a teacher came to us, we always had a teacher of Hebrew. Many words I know up until today. A comrade taught us to read in Yiddish, when we were in the Komsomol 3. He was a highly principled, noble lad. He had taught us, and I felt somewhat comfortable at once. I still read in Yiddish today.

In Pavlovski Posad we went to a secondary school, and in Berdyansk to a grammar school. During the four years in Berdyansk I saw everything - the Civil War, the landing of troops, the anarchists of Makhno 4, the Red army, the White army 5, bombings. If I could recollect it all, you could shoot a whole film about it. In our Berdyansk home we met very interesting people. The second studio of MHAT [the Moscow Academic Arts Theater] came for guest performances, and the famous actors used to stay in our house - Stanitsyn [Viktor (1897-1976), real name Geze], Khmelev and so on. The elite of the Russian theatre. We had never been to the theater before, and they used to take us. Fantastic impressions! My elder brother was sick, he suffered from some mental disease. In 1921 my mother managed to obtain a free ticket for a group tour and our entire family went to Moscow. Imagine a free tour, at such complete poverty! We prepared for the journey, took some crackers. The journey from Berdyansk to Moscow was a whole epopee; too many details! We saw the starving people from Volga region at the stations, small children corpses! We were robbed, everything was stolen! We arrived in Moscow sick with measles, and that illness was a final blow for the mental condition of my elder brother. He was put into a hospital in Moscow, and there he died in 1922.

In Berdyansk we sympathized with the White troops, the environment was wholly bourgeois - shop-keepers, small retailers. And when from 1921 to 1923 we again lived in Pavlovski Posad, I became 'Red' under the influence of my comrades. We were publishing a newspaper! We collected money for the construction of planes, when Curzon 6 announced the ultimatum to the Red Russia. What a joy it was, when mum had finally taken our money to Moscow, and they printed a list of our names in the newspaper Izvestiya.

Salya and I liked to draw since we were children, but he drew better than me. He used to copy pictures by Russian artists from postcards. He liked water-colors, but he didn't use water; he used his tongue instead of water. His lips were always colored with paint. I copied flowers from cards. Mum found a drawing teacher in Berdyansk. I also did some modeling. I used to draw my teachers and schoolmates at lessons in Dvinsk.

We returned to Riga in September 1923 the three of us - mum, my brother and I. We arrived in Riga and stayed some time with my Uncle Solomon Israeltan, and then moved to Dvinsk. Our cinema was still there, but it appeared that the premises were already occupied. Mum tried to earn some money. We managed to make ends meet somehow, with mum borrowing some money sometimes.

The cinema attracted me and my brother. We were known in Dvinsk as the family of Gutman - the former director of Grand Electro - so they let us into the cinema free of charge. Once a mechanic at_ppolo cinema entrusted me with turning the handle of the manual film projector; his elder brother worked for my father in Grand Electro. Now they don't do it anymore! And there was a problem: when I thought the film was about to finish, I started to turn slowly, and the spectators were indignant! Wow! That's how I let myself down - and I stopped to go to the cinema from that moment on! It was really embarrassing!

We studied in a secondary Jewish school in Dvinsk. All subjects were taught in the Russian language. Of course we had to pay for the school. My brother and I participated in the Komsomol movement in school. The Komsomol had a very strong influence in Latgalia. The Komsomol organization was underground. Only the youth clubs were legal; we attended those as well. I wasn't the most active member, but I was in prison for some time, nonetheless! I was in Riga's Central prison, in the solitary cell, but only for one month. In Daugavpils [formerly called Dvinsk] I served a short term, too. I had close connections with one comrade; we rented a room together. And when the members of our central committee were arrested, they were searching apartments and I was also put under arrest. They finally released me, but I remained under the supervision of the police. Later I was acquitted! In Riga, when I started to work, I had no links with the Komsomol any more. But the police knew me. I was always shadowed.

Later, when I arrived in Riga in 1928, my sister helped me to get a job with the Jewish theatre on 6 School Street. Every inch is familiar to me there. I'm the only living employee of that Jewish theater. All the rest are dead by now! Michael Io - his stage name was Io, but his full name was Ioffe - was the chief artist of the theatre. There were many actors, I made sketches of them all. What wonderful acquaintances we had! From America, from Poland, from different countries! In the first season I worked in a workshop. I thought, let them think there, in Dvinsk, 'Wow, Simka is an actor in a theatre!' And in fact it was like this: take a brush and do the wall-painter's job!

During the first year I worked in the decoration workshop, and the next year I was offered the position of a stage property-man. What is a property- man? Well, I was supposed to prepare everything: the tools, the guns and so on. If they were going to eat on stage, I was to cut the bread. I prepared the wine, but diluted it with water; it was just for make-belief. Our guests included the American stage director Adler, and Clara Young. She was 70 years old then, but behaved like a young girl on stage. I met the local actors as well: Einas, Shapiro, Ronich, Peter Surits. There were a lot of amusing episodes. The actor and director Rubin once came from Moscow, from the theater of S. Mikhoels 7; he staged Sholom Aleichem's 8 'The Big Money' in our theater. That was a great performance! All in the modern style - the decorations, the actors' make-up, and the stage manager's fantastic ideas!

In my life I was lucky to see in close up how the famous stars like Mozhukhin [Mozhukin, Ivan (1889-1939): Russian-born actor, died of tuberculosis in France]. In the middle of the 1920s the French director Turzansky [Turzansky, Viktor (1891-1976): director, born in Kiev, today Ukraine.], a Russian emigrant was shooting a film with Russian actors Mozhukhin and Kovanko [Kovanko, Natalya (1899-1967): actress born in Yalta, died in Kiev]. The film was based on the novel by Jules Verne and was called 'Michel Strogoff'. The film was shot in Dvinsk, they thought that the nature was suitable there - Siberian! All the town did nothing except watching how the film was being shot! The Dvinsk garrison of the Latvian army participated in these shootings - they played the Russian army. I took part, too!

I studied in a number of art schools in Riga. I attended the arts studio of the Riga graphic artist Roman Suta 9, I was his 'disciple' and took part in the exhibitions. One exhibition was in 1932. They chose some pictures for the museum, including mine. I created it in my mind, when they were taking me from Dvinsk jail to Riga central prison. It is now that they transport prisoners in a special truck, but back then the guards were just convoying me along the pavement. I kept the impression from that walk for a long time! Sitting in the solitary cell, I began to draw sketches of that image. In spring they let me out, and in summer I finished the picture. And when there was an exhibition of our studio, supervised by Roman Suta, my picture was bought for the Arts Museum. The picture is entitled 'Escorting of a prisoner'.

I remember the studio of Yan Liepin on Mariinskaya Street, in the court yard. When I went there, a few more or less skilled pupils were sitting and drawing. I sat down, too, and took a sheet of paper. And here enters a naked model! Holy smoke, I held my breath! I almost fainted! Well, really! Boys use to spy, through a hole in the fence, and here she comes out in what she was born! I started to draw, and during the break I looked at the other sketches. And the other guys represented the model not in her natural size, like me, but made her look stout - with heavy legs and arms. I asked, 'Where do you see such arms and legs? The model is of quite normal stature!' And they answered, 'You should draw what you think, rather than what you see!' Well, that's the Latvian style! Later I got used to it.

My brother was staying in Dvinsk at that time. When he arrived in Riga, he found a job as an ordinary transport worker, and used to carry heavy bags. Then he left for Slovakia, the city of Brno. He studied there for about two years. It was a rare thing for Riga Jews to get a higher education. And he was studying to become a foreman in textile factories - he learnt how to make carpets, tapestries. Having returned from Brno, he worked in Dvinsk in a small textile factory. The bosses and owners of such small factories were usually Jewish. And when the Soviet power was established, he was appointed director of that factory.

Married life

In 1931 I got acquainted with my future wife, Ida Ruvimovna Kvasnik, born in 1917. I met her in Stropy. The remarkable Stropy Lake! She was sitting there on a bench near a kiosk for the holiday-makers, and I approached her and started a conversation. I'm of a deleterious character to women! I liked to fall in love back then. I had affairs with women disregarding age. That's why I had two infarcts. Back then it was a country-side romance - I took her on boat trips, though I could hardly row at that time.

I was enlisted for the army that year. She used to come down to the walls of the Dvinsk fortress, where I served in Zemgalskaya division. Once I was punished for coming late, thus violating the strict order, because I was spending time till late at night with her! And I had a watch that I had won in a soldiers' lottery - this watch worked all right while I was walking, but as soon as I stopped, it stopped too. Oh, it was a romantic story! I had a very good and beautiful wife. She was younger than me, but she's dead by now; during her last years she was very seriously ill.

We married in 1936. Did we have a chuppah? Let me just tell you this: I wasn't religious, and to this day I am not. Her father, who came from Lithuania, was religious. Her mum died two or three years before our wedding, of breast cancer. Her father spoke Russian, as everyone from Lithuania, with a very strong accent. Well, there was something like a chuppah, but I preferred not to disclose this to people! We had a kind of chuppah at some relatives' home, in an apartment. I yielded to their request to avoid a scandal. My wife wasn't especially religious. She spoke good Yiddish, but didn't go to the synagogue. They lived poorly, although they ran a small grocery store, in the house where they lived. The apartment was miserable. Her younger sister Rosa was plump and chubby. Her brother looked kind of unhealthy.

We had no property at all at first, we were renting furnished rooms, and only once we stayed in them for the summer season. In summer we usually rented a cheap cottage in Melluzhi, Yurmala. By that time, in 1938-39, I had some savings, money I had earned as an artist, and I could afford to rent the rooms in town in summer as well. We paid about 35-40 lats a month. After we started to live together, my wife stopped working. We could hardly afford buying anything. The first time we bought some furniture was in 1940, in the Soviet times!

I had an attraction for cinema, inherited from my father, and I went to work in film advertising. They gave me photographs, and I made drawings for the ?RS company. That company used to show Soviet and American films. I made posters for the Soviet films. The posters without text were used all over the pre-Baltic countries. Later I gave the originals of my posters to a cinema archive. Simultaneously, I made some additional money as a caricaturist. I signed my pictures Gutman.

By 1940 everybody knew how the situation was likely to develop. In 1939 Moscow presented an ultimatum to Ulmanis 10 and there were Soviet military bases at sea. The bases needed protection! The war was going on in full swing all around, and the people's state of mind was quite predictable! We knew that nothing good was going to come out of it. On 17th June the Soviet troops entered Riga. On the 21st there was a demonstration at the central prison: all communists were granted amnesty. On that very day I decided to go to Riga from our summer residence. I saw an incredible show! Crowds of people moving, carrying red banners. It was something tremendous! Just recently, for a red cloth, thrown at night on wires, you were sentenced to several years of imprisonment.

Not far from the prison, behind the railway, a crowd of people gathered waving trade union flags. They were mainly Latvians. Suddenly a Soviet airplane appeared, and there one elderly Latvian lady exclaimed, 'Look, our eagles are flying!' When I nowadays narrate this story to Latvians, they cannot believe it! Later, communists began to come out of the prison and the crowd greeted them warmly. Then we all headed for the presidential palace and the presidential banner was hanging there. The Latvians shouted, 'Nost so kabatlakatinu!' [Remove that handkerchief!]. There was a bunch of dare-devils, who tied an Ulmanis portrait to a bicycle, wrapped it in a prisoner's uniform and were riding along that way! All these historical events were tremendous! But I noticed angry faces in many windows as well. It should be remembered, you know, the climax was yet to come!

In 1940 there were meetings with many well-known Soviet artistic figures. We received a prominent Soviet film director Grigori Aleksandrov and actor Lyubov Orlova. Then we had a meeting with writer Mikhail Zoshchenko 11. I worked with the Riga magazine Crocodile then.

I didn't care about nationalization. They did what they considered necessary, but I kept my distance from it! The New Year celebrations of 1941 were very cheerful! We all gathered in the house of the Jewish community, on School Street; there was a remarkable ball!

There was a Jewish newspaper in Yiddish, a communist newspaper, and I was drawing good caricatures for it. Ulmanis expected the events and declared, that in each house there should be a pair of top-boots and a shirt, as reserves for the army. I remembered that declaration! And I made a caricature, which consisted of two parts. Part one - Ulmanis shows the boots, and part two - the boot of history, the Soviet boot, kicks him out! That caricature didn't survive, but apart from that I have a large number of caricatures at home! Especially from 'The Soviet Latvia'!

During the war

1941 - the smell of a thunder-storm hung in the air! I remember that morning, Sunday, 22nd June [the beginning of the so-called Great Patriotic War] 12, I was in our office. I remember the speech delivered by Molotov 13. And then we hid in a cellar as the Germans were bombing the city. On Wednesday the 25th the Fifth Column riflemen started to fire from roofs! From all roofs! It was horrible! Everything was prepared! We were sitting and asking each other, especially Jews, 'What now?!' Everyone was panic- stricken!

In our film company we had our own transport base. Mister Gudkin, a Jew, was in charge of that base. He later went to Israel, I don't know if he's still alive. He worked as a film mechanic with the 'Cinema-Town', and then he got that transport supervisor position. And so, here comes a truck, and my wife and I approach it. We were told that all men were supposed to stay and defend Riga! But where were the rifles?! Everybody kept looking at each other! The truck stopped and my wife boarded it with a bag and pillow, among other women and children. I stayed. Then came Gudkin and said, 'There, pal, get in the truck, if you want to go.' We both wrote some kind of passes for each other, saying that we were accompanying the groups, otherwise they wouldn't have let us out! That's how we left with the women.

On the way we passed by 'Cinema-Town'. There were crowds of people! They raised their hands! But it was impossible to take everybody! It was a dramatic scene! So we headed for Pskov along the highway. We saw dead bodies on the road. Somewhere far away, planes were flying low. In Pskov, in turmoil, I got over to the truck in which my wife was. Bombing began. The Germans were bombing Pskov. Later we reached the railway station, got on a train and went in the direction of Yaroslavl, Gorky. Finally, we found ourselves in Sharya, Gorky region.

The heat was awful, we were thirsty all the time. We were assigned to a wood-processing plant to work. We were accommodated in a school and given some bed linen. We worked for several weeks, preparing the logs. What for, do you think? Logs for Donetsk [the biggest coal basin in the Ukraine]. The front needed coal! In August a message was received, saying that men from Latvia were ordered to join the Latvian Battalion. I was enlisted as well. There came the moment of farewell! We went to Gorky. I swear to you, when the train was approaching the station, the howling of the women was unbearable! A nightmare! In no country do women scream as loud as in Russia when they see their men off!

From August till December I was in Gorokhovets camps. The Latvian Battalion was being formed there. Our everyday life? Nothing worth talking about! We took a hot shower in a tent. Four of us at a time - standing. Those who were taller than me were all right, but I was left only with dirty water dropping down on me! Then we were jumping out, barefoot, in October, running through the woods over cones and thorny grass. The same pot that we used for dinner we used for washing ourselves, too. The commissary in charge was arrested later and tried in the military tribunal.

On 3rd December 1941 we approached the city of Naro-Fominsk, where the Latvian Division was fighting. I was a private and remained in this rank until the end of the war. My first impression of the war was when I saw young inexperienced soldiers in a truck coming from the front line - all blood-stained and bandaged! When I saw it, I understood what it was all about. Shortly after I fell ill with an acute form of dysentery. It was hard to feel sick in the frost and while on the move! When we came to a halt, I told the commander that I felt unwell. But the military have no such word in their vocabulary - unwell that is. You are either okay or wounded in the army. So we were lying there and then the 'Katyusha' [a powerful Soviet rocket artillery unit] suddenly struck! Such an explosion, so many flames! I was moving with my last ounce of strength.

All this was happening around 1st January. I wasn't sent to hospital at once. I had been to a couple of first-aid posts first. On 1st January 1942 we were passing some sanitary unit, and they gave me a bowl of hot tea with a lump of sugar! I haven't ever drunk a tastier cup of tea! It was hot, it was sweet! Finally I reached the hospital. It was the hospital for infectious diseases of the Western front. Practically all the staff was from Belarus. The commissar, having learned that I was an artist, ordered at once, 'Leave him here! We need him.' A country woman from an adjacent village worked as a nurse there. She prepared the bed for me in the following way: she lifted me with her left arm and made the bed with her right one. That's how weak I was! Afterwards I stayed in the same hospital for a long time, until summer, with the attendants team. I was in charge of linen in the laundry. It was necessary to control the cleanliness of linen very strictly. If the boss saw an insect, you were dismissed. Then we were brought to the region of Vyazma, to the front line. I was enlisted to the Urals division; I was reluctant to go to the Latvian Battalion again.

On 12th September 1943 I thrust myself out from the trench, and was hit on my left arm. Bleeding profusely I crawled to my comrades and they gave me first aid, bandaged me - my arm was twisted the wrong way and broken. I was taken by cart to a sanitary unit. Then I got on a sanitary train, and found myself in Kuibyshev region, the station of Shantala, in a hospital. In that hospital I stayed from September to February 1944. Then I went to my wife in Stalinabad [today Dushanbe, Tajikistan].

My mum, my sister and Salya's family set off from Riga on foot. A friend, a military officer, helped them. Nyuta had always limped, so she was put on a horse. And Salya had two boys by then. How we found each other after the war, I cannot recollect. Fact is, that I had visited them, my mum and sister, in Chelyabinsk region in 1943. The family of my brother went somewhere further. My wife went via Tashkent to Stalinabad. There she found work in the directorate of a power station construction project. She had a room there. I joined her after I recovered.

From Stalinabad I returned with my wife to Riga in March 1945. We had an apartment on _k_s Street. Mum and Nyuta joined us in the fall of 1945. In November 1946, on the eve of the November holidays, my mother died in a hospital; she was extremely exhausted from the time in evacuation. My sister was very devoted to my mother, and mum suffered greatly from the fact that she had to leave her alone. She worked as a nurse in a polyclinic. She was often sick and was frequently treated in hospitals. My sister never married. She had a boyfriend, as she told me shortly before her death, a businessman from Dvinsk. He courted her for quite some time and seemed to be in love with her, but when he understood that she had nowhere to live, he broke up with her and she didn't see him again. My sister died five years ago. She was 90 years old when she died.

Many of my friends had no children before the war! But after the war the situation changed sharply. The law of nature! My son was born in May 1945, just before Victory Day 14. My son's name is Lyova, or Lev, a name inherited from our Jewish grandfathers, almost all of them had double names. My brother's name is Solomon, but in honor of our grandfather his real name is Zalman-Mendel. I'm Simon, but in honor of our grandfather I'm Simom-Shleme. Lyova was first called Ruvin-Leibe, like the father of my wife, but then we decided to give him a name in honor of Leo Tolstoy 15. He graduated from the Polytechnic Institute, the power faculty. In the army he served in Kaliningrad region. He worked here, got married and has a daughter. After some time his wife had the idea to leave for the USA. They lived in Houston. He worked under contract. Then they moved to Colorado, the State of Denver. He now works as an interpreter in the Hague, Holland, translating from English to Russian. But he divorced his wife. His daughter must be around 23 by now.

Post-war

My second son, Naum, was born in 1951. He is named in honor of grandfather Nakhman, on my wife's side. He is very devoted to me. I always consult him, I consider him to be the boss. Not I am the boss, but he is the boss for me. Naum failed to enter the Academy of Applied Arts, he didn't get enough points at the exams. He worked as an artist in the Aurora cinema, but when all the cinemas were closed, he actually remained without work. He is married and has a son.

My twin brother was absolutely different from me. But somehow we always had similar ideas. He was taller than me. In the beginning he was frantically religious, but when we both changed our views in Pavlovski Posad and Dvinsk, he became an outermost left-winger. He was politically more to the left than me, but he was never touched by the police. I was a less active Komsomol member and still I managed to serve several terms in prison somehow. He was severe, strict, and very erudite. In his apartment there were a lot of books. He was very interested in politics. His appearance was unlike mine.

After the war he came to Riga and worked in the advertising department of a film company, made large posters for cinema, and worked in the Lachplesis cinema. He worked there for a long time and had a good reputation. He didn't like melodramas, broken hearts and things. For example, he was contemptuous of the film by Sergei Bondarchuk, 'Fate of a Man'. Emotional break-down! Fie! He didn't care much about himself, but he was very devoted to children!

My brother got married even earlier than I. He was a good artist. Our father could only play the accordion and our mother could sew. There wasn't anything artistic in their characters. Salya's son, Naftoly Gutman, is also an artist, an old man by now, too. And Naftoly's son is an artist as well. Salya's daughter chose a musical career, although she was reluctant to study music as a girl and her parents had to push her. Anyway, she has become a good musician. She's a teacher in a music school. She has left for Germany with her second husband and children. My brother died a few years ago, of pancreas disease. His widow lives in Germany now. The eldest son of my brother, Sergei, was kind of a ne'er-do-well fellow. They found a job for him, in a commodity railway terminal, but he was squeezed to death between carriages there. He was only eighteen.

Gudkin invited me to work in the cinema company in 1945. I stayed there all the time, up to my retirement age. I became a member of the Union of Artists of Latvia and took part in many exhibitions. There were exhibitions of caricaturists, placard-artists, and performances by the front artists. Readers of The Soviet Latvia of the elder generation know me very well. My caricatures were constantly published. The caricatures were political. During the Palestinian-Israeli conflict in 1967 [see Six-Day-War] 16 I was telling everybody, that I wasn't Simon Israelevich, but Simon Aggressorovich! Yes, I'm a humorist, an actor, a film director, and when I feel high emotionally, I can write verses. I wrote verses not so long ago. When I worked at the film-studio, I composed poems for amateur performances. I retired rather late. My labor experience is 45 years. My wife worked in the ticket office at the Pioneris cinema for a long time.

Glossary

Moisey Goihberg
Kiev
Ukraine
Interviewer: Zhanna Litinskaya
Date of interview: July 2002

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

My family background

My paternal grandfather and grandmother, Moisey and Zlata Goihberg, who were born in the 1860s, lived in Ivanovka village, in Mohilev-Podolsk district in Vinnitsa province. Ivanovka was a very picturesque village on the bank of the Murafa River. Ivanovka was a small village with a population of 500 people. There were 3 Jewish families in the village, including my grandfather's family. The Jewish families earned their living in the retail trade of essential goods, fuel, grain, etc. They had good neighborly relationships with the Ukrainian population.

My grandfather Moisey was a decent and honest businessman. He was an orderly man. He wore a small beard. My grandfather owned a store where he sold haberdashery, tools and all other essential commodities. He often went to purchase merchandise in Mohilev. In such cases my grandmother Zlata was his replacement in the store. Farmers greatly respected my grandfather's family. My grandfather often gave them food products on credit and sometimes lent them money without charging them interest. They always paid their debts on time.

My grandfather's family observed all the Jewish traditions and celebrated the Jewish holidays. They honored the Sabbath and tried to follow the laws of kashrut. I don't know whether other Jewish families in Ivanovka had a similar level of religiosity. However, I wouldn't say that my grandparents were really religious. They didn't pray and they didn't go to the synagogue in Mohilev, which was about 20 km from Ivanovka. They only went there once a year, at Rosh Hashanah. There was no synagogue in the village. My grandfather kept his store open even on Saturday if it was necessary.

My grandfather Moisey and grandmother Zlata had 4 sons and a daughter. My father Iosif, the oldest, was born in 1893. Motia was born in 1895, Meyir in 1899, Zicia in 1903, and their sister Rachel was born in 1905. There was no school or cheder in Ivanovka and the children received their religious and secular education in Mohilev. The boys finished cheder and Russian elementary school. Rachel also went to the Russian school. This was all the education my father and his brothers got. But they were very intelligent people and achieved many successes in life although they didn't have a classical education. They spoke Yiddish at home and Ukrainian with their neighbors.

Sometime in 1918, during the Civil War 1, my grandfather went from Mohilev to sell merchandise. He was coming back with 2 or 3 farmers from his village when they were attacked by either Petliura 2 or Denikin 3 units. They beat my grandfather and stole his commodities. The farmers begged the bandits to leave my grandfather alone and tried to convince them that he was a very nice man, but it didn't help. They killed my grandfather and threw his body into the Dnestr River. This happened in the fall, and the following morning the river froze. My father and his brothers went to the river to search for my grandfather's body, but they couldn't find it. My grandfather Moisey wasn't even buried.

After my grandfather's death my grandmother Zlata was inconsolable, but she had to provide for her children. She lived in the village for some time. Around 1921 she moved to America with 3 of their sons and their daughter. They had crossed the Dnestr to Romania and from there left for America. I don't know whether they observed Jewish traditions in America.

Motia and Meyir opened a small commission store in New York. Later, they expanded their business. By the time World War II started they owned two big stores. Motia had two children, a son and a daughter. His daughter fell from a horse in the 1930s and died. His son died in a car accident some time later. Motia died in the mid-1970s. Meyir's daughter inherited her father's business. Meyir died around 1978.

Rachel ran her own business, too. She lived in New York. She owned a laundry. Rachel was married but had no children. She died in the late 1960s. All my relatives abroad were rather wealthy people. My grandmother Zlata lived with Meyir's family. She died in 1938.

It happened so that Motia, Meyer and Rachel went to America from Rumania. Zicia's life story is different. Zicia thought it took too long to obtain all the necessary documentation to move to America. He decided to cross the American-Canadian border illegally. He was arrested and sent back to the Soviet Union. He lived with us until 1928. Later Zicia married a very distant relative who lived in Brazil and left with her. He first worked as a laborer and later he became a distributor of some goods. He was very successful and became a board member at the Savira Company, a garment factory. In the mid-1960s when the iron curtain 4 was removed Zicia visited Kiev. Zicia was eager to see his older brother. He stayed almost two weeks with us. Zicia lives in Rio de Janeiro now. He retired at 90 and his daughter and son took over his business. He will turn 100 in 2003. I don't know whether he has been observing the Jewish traditions in Brazil.Rachel had her business, too. She owned a laundry. Rachel was married but had no children. She died in the late 1930s. All my relatives abroad were rather wealthy people. My grandmother Zlata lived with Meyer's family. She died in the late 1930s.

My father was married by the time of his mother's departure. This was one of the reasons why he stayed in the Soviet Union. In 1918 or 1919, soon after my grandfather was killed, my father was captured by members of a gang, who wanted to kill him. They took him to Yaruga, the neighboring town. Then all the men of Ivanovka, Jews and Ukrainians, went to Yaruga to fight for my father. They came to the ataman [headman or leading cossack official of a town] and demanded that he released Iosif. However strange it may seem they managed to rescue my father. I don't know how they managed this. The bandits probably released my father because so many people came to ask for him.

That same year my father met my mother, Lisa Voloshyna. She lived in Yaruga, this typical town within the Jewish Pale of Settlement 5. There were many Jews in Yaruga. They lived in peace with the Ukrainians. There were no national conflicts. There were 3 synagogues and rabbis in Yaruga. There also was a Christian church. People in Yaruga respected the national traditions of one another.

My mother's parents, Gersh and Blima Voloshyn, were born in the 1860s and came from Yaruga. Grandfather Gersh had brothers and sisters. I only know his sisters Esphir and Hana. Esphir married Naum Liber, a Jew. The last name of Hana's husband was Balaban. Hana's daughter Mura married her cousin, Itshak Liber, Esphir's son.

My grandfather Gersh Voloshyn was a vine grower. I don't think the wine his vineyard produced was kosher wine. He sold it to Jewish and non-Jewish customers. He owned 2 hectares of vineyard, which enabled him to have a comfortable life. His sons helped him with the work at the vineyard. They all worked very hard, but my grandfather was a very cheerful and merry man and there was always a lot of laughter in my grandparents' house. My grandfather's wife, Blima, was a housewife. They had four children: my mother's older brothers Moisey and Osher, my mother Lisa, and her younger sister Rachel. Their family wasn't very religious. They went to synagogue and celebrated all the Jewish holidays, mainly in tribute to tradition. They spoke Yiddish at home, but they were fluent in Russian and Ukrainian. My parents also spoke Yiddish to one another, but they spoke Russian to me. My grandfather Gersh had brothers and sisters. I only know his sisters Esphir and Hana. Esphir married Naum Liber, a Jewish man. The last name of Hana's husband was Balaban. Hana's daughter Mura married her cousin Itshak Liber, Esphir's son. During one of the pogroms that often happened in Yaruga in the 1920s my grandfather's family was hiding in the vineyard adjacent to the forest. It was a late, cold and rainy autumn. My grandfather caught a cold that resulted in the exacerbation of his tuberculosis. My grandfather died around 1921. My mother's brother Moisey, born in 1882 and Osher, born in 1892 studied at the cheder like all Jewish boys. I don't know whether they studied at the elementary school. They worked in their father's vineyard from an early age and left to study in Leningrad in the early 1920s after their father died.

Moisey and his wife Fania had 3 children: two sons, Srul and Misha, and a daughter named Tania. Moisey was a shop assistant at a food store. When the war began Srul and Misha went to the front. Srul perished defending Leningrad and Misha returned from the war as an invalid and didn't live long. Uncle Moisey, Fania and Tania stayed in Leningrad. Tania was a volunteer medical nurse and was awarded the medal 'For the defense of Leningrad'. After the first and hardest winter of the blockade of Leningrad 6, Moisey, Fania and Tania were evacuated to Middle Asia. They stayed there after the war. Moisey and Fania died in the mid-1960s. Tania died in 1990.

Osher lived in Leningrad. He lived in Leningrad with his wife Luba, and son Grisha. He was a laborer at a plant, I don't know which one. Like his older brother, Osher remained in Leningrad during the blockade. In 1941, during the first winter of the blockade, Osher and Luba were on the edge of death from starvation. Grisha who was about 8-10 years old could still walk, and they gave him a tablecloth to exchange for some bread. It happened on a late evening. Grisha left and never returned. It was a terrible time when even cannibalism was known to have happened. Osher died, too, during that winter, but Luba survived.

My mother's younger sister Rachel was born in 1898. Her husband, Moisey Serson, their two daughters, Dusia and Riva, and their son Naum lived in Yaruga and worked at my grandfather's vineyard. My grandmother Blima lived with them. The Germans occupied Yaruga in the summer of 1941. They exterminated some of the Jews there and moved on. Yaruga, as well as the rest of Vinnitsa province, was in Transnistria 7. All the Jews of Yaruga were taken to the ghetto. Rachel, her husband Moisey, their daughters and my grandmother Blima were in the ghetto. Life there was horrible, with starvation, cold, diseases, tortures and raids. The Jews in the ghetto surrendered their jewelry or other valuables in order to ransom themselves from the Romanians. Rachel's family survived. They were liberated in 1944. My poor grandmother Blima starved to death in the ghetto. After the war Rachel's family stayed in Yaruga. Rachel and Moisey died in the mid-1970s. My cousins Dusia, Riva and Naum live in New York. They moved to America in the 1970s.

My mother was born in 1894. My mother only finished elementary school, but she read a lot, mainly Russian and foreign classics in Russian. She was an intelligent person for her time. She worked at the vineyard along with the other children.

My parents married in 1920. They had a traditional Jewish wedding with a chuppah in Yaruga. But they didn't have a big wedding party. They just arranged a dinner for guests. This was a difficult time when the remnants of gangs attacked the villages. At first my parents lived in the house of my paternal grandparents in Ivanovka.

Growing up

I was born in Ivanovka on 23rd May 1921 and was named after my grandfather Moisey. There was a midwife in Ivanovka named Palashka who helped with my mother's delivery. The inhabitants of Ivanovka treated Jewish families very well, but there was still danger from pogroms. Three of Ivanovka's Jewish families decided that it was better to live in a Jewish environment, and so they left. I was 6 months old when my parents sold their house and moved to my mother's parents home in Yaruga. A few weeks later, the other two families from Ivanovka also moved to Yaruga.

There, my father bought a vineyard. It was hard work taking care of the vines. In the spring they had to unearth the vines and tie them. In the autumn they harvested the grapes and made wine and in winter they sold the wine. This work paid well and provided for my family's living. Besides, the family really enjoyed working with sweet juicy grapes. I grew up and began to help my father at the vineyard which was located on the southern slope of the Ivanov hill. We spent the hottest time of the day in a small lodge on the hill. At harvest time my father and I stayed at the vineyard overnight.

We lived near my grandmother Blima and Aunt Rachel. My father bought half of a house. We had two rooms: a dining room, a bedroom, and a kitchen. The toilet was in the yard. My mother was a wonderful cook. She baked delicious bread. There were mainly old wooden houses in Yaruga, but our house was made of stone. The houses were close to one another, very much like those in Marc Chagall's 8 paintings. I can't remember the titles of his pictures, but the village resembled the images created by this artist. There were no gardens near the houses. There was a shed near our houses where we kept two horses before the collectivization 9. I also used to keep rabbits in this shed. My mother bought vegetables and meat from the local Ukrainian farmers - it wasn't kosher. My mother was a wonderful cook. She baked delicious bread.

The Jews lived in Yaruga and the Ukrainian farmers lived in the adjacent village. The Jews were involved in vine growing and crafts and the farmers grew wheat and vegetables and raised livestock. The craftsmen included tailors, shoemakers, roofers, coopers, barbers, and so on.

There was a church in the central square in Yaruga - it seemed very big and beautiful to me when I was small. Many years later I saw its green cupolas and crosses in my dreams. My father and I visited Yaruga once after the war and I was surprised to see how small the church actually was. There were 3 synagogues in Yaruga. Each one was attended by members of different professional guilds. This was a tradition. Perhaps, it was for the sake of seeing and talking to one another. Besides, they all contributed money and it was good to know that the money went to their own group. My parents attended the largest synagogue of vine growers only on holidays. There were rabbis, a schochet and a melamed in Yaruga. There was a cheder at the synagogue. I didn't attend it, but I remember other boys going to the cheder wearing kippot and carrying huge volumes of the Talmud.

On Sundays there was a market in the central square where farmers from the surrounding villages came to sell their food products. They came on horseback or in bull driven carts or on foot. Those who came on foot put on their shoes before they entered the town, as they were walking barefoot. Girls, women and men wore beautiful embroidered blouses and shirts. Men wore sheepskin hats at rakish angles. The market lasted a whole day. By the end of the day many men got drunk and there were fights. But they didn't touch Jews. I don't remember one single expression of anti-Semitism in pre- war Yaruga. This bright, colorful market existed until the late 1920s.

There was also a cultural center or club in Yaruga. People turned one of the bigger sheds into a club. There was an amateur theater organized in this club in the late 1920s. They staged some plays by Jewish writers; one of them was Sholem Aleichem 10, whose plays were staged in Yiddish. The local Jews spoke Yiddish. They communicated with the Ukrainian farmers in Ukrainian. Ukrainian farmers also knew some Yiddish. My parents also talked in Yiddish to one another, but they spoke Russian to me. I also remember the musician. He had something like a street organ. There was a dove on his organ and for a small fee it picked fortune-telling notes out of a bag. This musician was blind and I felt sorry for him. My mother always gave me some food to give him.

My mother was a very kind woman. I felt that she wanted to warm up and feed all needy people. My father was also kind and intelligent. He was a very respectable man in Yaruga and people chose him to be a judge in resolving routine disputes.

My parents weren't religious people. They went to synagogue only once or twice a year. I don't remember them praying at home. However, they honored and celebrated the Jewish holidays, the Sabbath in particular. On Fridays my mother cooked Sabbath dinner. We had a nice dinner on Friday, but nobody said a prayer or lit candles. Mother made stuffed fish, chicken broth, cracklings and pastries. She didn't cook on Saturday. She wouldn't even light a fire. My parents didn't work on Saturday. They rested, read books or went to see their friends or relatives. So work on Saturday became my chore. My parents didn't follow the rules strictly and they thought it was all right for me to do it. My mother always invited poor people and visitors to our Sabbath dinners.

Pesach was my favorite holiday. Firstly, there was warm weather on this holiday. We could run barefoot on the grass outside. Our feet could feel the warmth of the soil. The housewives prepared thoroughly for Pesach, buying eggs, chicken and geese. Two or three families in Yaruga had machines for making matzah. My neighbors had one of these machines and we bought matzah from them. I watched them making matzah. It was all so very interesting to watch them making the dough and putting pieces of it into the machine, then to see the thin sheets of matzah coming out of the machine, and afterwards I like to watch the people packing the matzah into baskets and covering them with clean cloths. At home preparations for the holiday started in advance. We did a major clean up. Chametz was removed from the house. We also took fancy dishes down from the attic. The food at Pesach was very delicious. There were mandatory dishes on seder night: matzah, bitter greens, chicken, potatoes, eggs and kosher wine. My father didn't conduct the seder ritual, a tradition for religious Jews. We just had a fancy dinner. We also sent treats to our Ukrainian neighbors at Pesach, and they sent us their treats at Christian Easter. This exchange was customary among Jews and non-Jews in Yaruga.

When I turned 13 my grandmothers demanded that I had bar mitzvah, the celebration of the coming of age of Jewish boys. Circumcision is traditionally done in infancy. My father invited a man who knew Hebrew and Jewish traditions to teach me the prayer that I was supposed to recite. So, I had my bar mitzvah in secret at the age of 13, because at that time the authorities did not allow religious rituals. A rabbi presided at the ritual and many of our relatives and friends attended. My mother made a lekkah, a type of traditional egg caketraditin. She cut it into small slices, put a few into a letter, and sent them to my grandmother Zlata in America.

Our town was small and poor. We didn't have electricity or radio. Only the central street was paved. Sometimes in the spring the unpaved streets turned into impassable mud roads. On holidays the town changed. People dressed up and couples walked in the central square. Later there was another entertainment besides the Jewish theater. It was a cinema that came to town once a week. The cinema showed silent movies, but we enjoyed them. The film projector was manual and sometimes when operators got tired they allowed us to turn the handle, which was the greatest fun ever for us.

People in Yaruga were very cheerful. They were simple and naïve and often became the subject of funny stories and jokes. Thus, old miller Meylekh, a Jew, once went to Odessa on business. He decided to stay at the apartment of our relative Maria Meylekh. When he came into a typical yard in Odessa he looked around him, saw no one, and decided to change his clothes. He took off his clothes and was standing there in his underwear, ready to get dressed. At this moment he heard someone on a balcony say, 'Manya, you have a visitor!' Poor Meylakh froze in the middle of the yard. It is a true story - he just believed that he was in a safe corner and was shocked to know that he was watched.

Once in 1929 my mother took me to Odessa. My doctor, Mashkovskiy, had advised her to take me to the sea, and so we went to Odessa, where we had relatives. I was afraid that we would look too provincial in Odessa. But, as a matter of fact, we were treated very nicely. This was the first time I had ever seen a big town, and I admired the huge houses, streetcars, parks and the sea.

In the late 1920s, during the period of collectivization and dispossession of kulaks 11 someone named Firyubin came to supervise these processes. Firyubin was a communist, although he had no education whatsoever. He organized a meeting, and the people attending the meeting took a unanimous decision to join the collective farm 12 voluntarily. But in reality this decision was not voluntary. Before this meeting Firyubin and his assistants made the rounds of all the families, offering them the chance to enroll in the collective farm. If people didn't agree they were declared kulaks and enemies of the Soviet power. Some of these people ran away and others were sent into exile to Siberia. My father entered the collective farm. There were 3 collective farms in Yaruga. The Jewish farm was the vine growing and wine making collective farm. My father soon became chief vintner of thee Jewish farm. The two other collective farms were Ukrainian. One of them was agricultural and the other obtained sandstone and manufactured stone mills.

My school years

There were two schools in Yaruga: a Jewish elementary school and a Ukrainian lower secondary school that had 7 grades. The only difference between the two schools was the language of instruction, no special Jewish subjects were taught in this school. . The Jewish school was closed some time in 1935-36. In 1928 I went to the Jewish elementary school. After we finished elementary school, our entire class attended the Ukrainian secondary school, and we had no problems there. We were all fluent in Ukrainian. However, I still do my counting in Yiddish because I'm accustomed to it. The Jewish school was closed down some time in 1935-36.

I enjoyed studying very much, and began to learn chemistry, physics and botany with great interest. I studied well. I had a good voice and liked reciting poems. During the Soviet holidays there were meetings held in the central square. A stand was installed from where the chairman of the village council, chairmen of collective farms and other officials delivered their speeches, and from where I usually read a greeting from the school. I rehearsed my speech at home and my mother and father took my preparations extremely seriously.

In the early 1930s there was a great famine in Ukraine 13. We were hungry, but no people starved to death in Yaruga or the surrounding villages, because the collective farm managed to sell enough wine to provide for those who worked there. My father helped another family that had moved with us from Ivanovka to survive through those years. It was the family of a widow with 3 children. My father supported the widow and her family until her children finished their education and could earn their living.

I studied for two years in the Ukrainian secondary school. In 1934 our family left Yaruga. My parents wanted me to get a good education and so did I. It was hard to say good-bye to our house, to the town and the Ukrainian village where I had many friends. It was especially hard to say good-bye to my grandmother Blima. She was a very nice, kind grandmother. I used to call on her during intervals at school, and she prepared a nice tea for me and gave me cherry jam. I didn't know that I was saying farewell to my grandmother forever. It was hard to leave everything that I loved, but I was looking forward to a new and beautiful life.

We moved to the town of Ovruch in the Zhytomir region. My father was offered an opportunity to establish a transport agency from scratch: to purchase horses, build stables and employ the staff. My father was a very intelligent man, and he managed to do everything promptly. He was chief of this transport agency until the beginning of the war. We received a two- room apartment in the building where the office was located. It was more comfortable than our house in Yaruga: we had electricity, a radio and a bathroom.

Ovruch seemed a big town to me. It had beautiful houses, asphalted streets, a park, a stadium and a library. I read several books in Yiddish and Ukrainian every week: books about faraway countries, islands and seas, adventures and traveling. I became very fond of books.

Ovruch was mainly a Jewish town. There were several synagogues and a Jewish lower and upper secondary school. Jews held leading positions in the municipal council and the town party committee. There was also a Ukrainian secondary school and a Russian secondary school for children of the military. I studied in the Ukrainian secondary school because I had already been in a Ukrainian school and it was easier for me to continue there. I became a Komsomol 14 member and was very fond of various social activities. I was assistant chairman of the Kkomsomol committee and was responsible for conducting meetings and propaganda for the Soviet authorities. I was also editor of our newspaper and carried the flag at the parades on holidays.

It was during the so-called Great Terror 15 that the arrests of innocent people began. People were surprised at how it could happen that party and trade union leaders came to be branded enemies of the people. It was amazing that outstanding cultural and party leaders, comrades of Lenin, were arrested and declared enemies of the people. My father didn't believe this. A freight forwarder from my father's office was arrested. He vanished and nobody knew what happened to him. Every night when I went to bed, I would say inwardly good-bye to my father. I wasn't sure that I would be seeing him in the morning. Fortunately, he survived the ordeal.

After reading the book Investigating Officer's Notes by Leo Sheinin 16, I decided to enter the Faculty of Law after finishing school. But my father wanted me to become a doctor. I obeyed my parents, and never in my life did I regret it.

There were two medical institutes in Kiev; one of them was in the regional hospital, formerly a Jewish hospital. I gained admission to the Kiev Medical Institute #2. I had no problems gaining admission, as there was no anti-Semitism before the war. At first I lived in the hostel, but it was very hard living there. There were 10 of us sharing one room. It was too noisy to study, so my parents rented me a room in the home of a Jewish family living near Sennoy Market.

I liked Kiev very much: its streets and parks, museums and theaters. I spent all my free time walking in the town. I'm still surprised that I managed to finish two years of school successfully before the war. We went to the Opera, buying the cheapest tickets, listened to symphony concerts, and attended performances at the Jewish Theater located in Kreschatik, the central street in Kiev. I had relatives in Kiev, my Aunt Mura and her husband Itshak Liber who was her cousin. Mura was a dentist at the Communications College and Itshak was a violinist. Their son Vitia was a very talented young man. He knew several foreign languages and studied at the Kiev Institute of Motion Picture Engineers. We were friends and I often visited their hospitable family.

During the war

On the morning of 22nd June 1941 I was lying in bed reading the History of the Russian Communist Party manual, preparing for my exam in Marxism- Leninism, when my landlady Fania ran into my room to tell me that she heard stories told by farmers from Zhuliany [formerly a suburb of Kiev, presently a town neighborhood with an airport] that Zhuliany was being bombed by German bombers and that the war had begun. I ran to see my cousin Vitia. I couldn't believe that this could be true. Vitia was listening to Churchill's speech on the BBC. Churchill was talking about Germany's treacherous attack on the Soviet Union, and said that Great Britain was going to support the Soviet Union. So we heard about the beginning of the war even before we heard Molotov's 17 speech. I remember crowds of people on Kreschatik Street listening to Molotov's speech. It was a sunny day, but it seemed that there was a cloud over Kreschatik, so serious and grave were the faces of the people.

On the very first day of the war, my fellow-students and I went to the military registration office to volunteer to go to the front immediately. But we were medical students, so we had to continue our studies. Vitia, my second cousin, the son of Aunt Mura and Uncle Itshak, went to the front and perished during the defense of Kiev in the first months of the war. We finished our second year of studies at the Institute. The hospitals of the Institute began to receive the wounded. We helped to carry the wounded patients to the hospital. We also organized a unit to fight against parachutists. We patrolled the ravines coordinating our patrol duty with our schedules at the Institute. This was the area of Babi Yar 18. There were 20-30 of us armed only with pistols. We were lucky to have met no parachutists. If we had, there would have been no survivors in our group, because parachuters were well armed. At that time we didn't know that Babi Yar, where we used to walk before the war, would become a mass grave for hundreds of thousands of people. We were also responsible for meeting trains of refugees from the West. These were mostly families of the military. We took them to the Botanical Garden where they fell asleep either on benches or on the ground. Kiev was often bombed and we were on duty at the Institute. We were not allowed to leave our posts during air raids. It was frightening to be there alone, and I tried to stand beside a support wall just in case a bomb hit the building.

The front was nearing Ovruch and my father decided to move his transport agency to Kiev and transfer it to the authorities. My father had about a dozen carts with open platforms. My father and other Jewish men decided to move their families from Ovruch on these carts. When they arrived in Kiev nobody wanted to accept the horses. My parents moved on to Kharkov and I stayed on in Kiev. In August 1941 our Institute evacuated. The teachers went by train and the students went to Kharkov on foot. It was fun at first. The weather was nice and the road was smooth for the first 30 km. But then it became much more difficult. We covered 500 km in about a month. We stayed in villages and farmers gave us food and milk. Sometimes we felt like staying in those villages. We came to Kharkov at the end of August. My parents found me in Kharkov. They moved on to the Gorky region with some acquaintances of theirs. We didn't know whether we were ever going to see each other again.

Our Institute settled down in the very center of Kharkov. Our classes began on 1st September. We received a very small stipend that was not enough for our living expenses. Some other students and I went to work as nurses at the hospital. We worked at night and studied during the day. Two weeks later evacuation from Kharkov began. The hospital was to be evacuated and the issue of the Institute was still up in the air. The hospital management allowed us to evacuate with them. When we were boarding the train on 19th September we heard on the radio that Kiev had surrendered.

The trip took over a month and at the end of October we arrived in Krasnoyarsk, Russia. I was met there by my relatives from Kiev, Aunt Mura and Uncle Itshak. Mura evacuated with the Communications College from Kiev. They insisted that I tell my parents to come to Krasnoyarsk. I sent them a telegram, but it probably took too long before they received it. At that time there was a staff inspection at our hospital. The commission fired those few students that were working there. Their argument was that the students had to study. Our Institute was evacuated to Cheliabinsk. I didn't want to go that far away from where my parents were supposed to be. I went to Novosibirsk and was admitted to the 3rd year of Novosibirsk Medical Institute. I had to earn my living and got a job as a nurse at the radio factory. I went to classes in the morning and stayed overnight at the factory. It was a very cold winter and we didn't have enough food. Those students that came from Novosibirsk and were living with their families often took us to their homes to treat us to a meal. Soon my parents came to Krasnoyarsk and I spent my winter vacation of 1941-42 with them.

My father was mobilized into the army, but due to his age he didn't have to go to the front. Instead, he was sent to the logistics department of the Kiev Communications College that was located in Cheliabinsk. He organized a farmyard where they grew vegetables and raised pigs. In 1944 the College reevacuated and my father and mother and Mura and Itshak came to Kiev. In Kiev my father organized another farmyard and was demobilized in 1945.

After I finished my 3rd year in Novosibirsk a representative of the Military Faculty of Moscow Institute #2, located in Omsk came to enroll students for the 4th year. I submitted my application and went to Omsk in August 1942. This Military Faculty was very different from an ordinary faculty. We lived in the barracks, wore military uniforms and had to march everywhere. In May 1943 the Institute was reevacuated to Moscow. The headquarters of the Military Faculty and Military Clinics were located in the old building of Moscow Hospital #2. Well-known doctors and scientists lectured there. Soon we were given the rank of lieutenants of medical services. By that time we were allowed few freedoms. My friend Volodia Shteinberg and I rented an apartment. We were lucky with our landladies. They were two very nice women who worked at the booking offices of the Stanislavskiy and Nemirovich-Danchenko Theaters. All the theaters and other cultural institutions in Moscow were operating in 1943. We often went to plays at these theaters, as well as to the Bolshoi Theater 19 and the Philharmonic. We also went to the Jewish State Theater to watch Tevye the Dairyman by Sholem Aleichem and King Lear staged by the well-known theatrical producer Mikhoels 20. At the end of 1943 we passed our state exams and became professional doctors. We were also promoted to the rank of captains of medical services. We received our diplomas and a personal stamp. I still keep it.

In January 1944 I was sent to the Karelian front. I became commander of the sanitary unit for the infantry regiment. I got a baptism of fire in February. I volunteered to go to the rear of the enemy as a doctor with a battalion. The chief of headquarters who heard of my desire to go to the rear of the enemy asked with a hint of irony, 'Captain, can you ski? Can you shoot an automatic gun, hold the all-round defense and camouflage? So, what are you butting into, you newly born doctor?' He noticed that I was hurt by his comments and advised me to be careful and to follow what the others were doing. I didn't realize then that the chief of headquarters was worrying about me and wanted to save my life. Later I became a doctor for the medical and sanitary battalion and senior doctor of the regiment, but I always remembered the wise chief of headquarters and my dangerous campaign into the rear of the enemy.

I became a member of the Communist Party at the front. I believed it was my duty to be a communist and to face the most dangerous and difficult tasks. In 1944 we were transferred to the Murmansk area, liberated the town of Petsamo, came out to the Norwegian border and liberated the town of Kirkenes, the main navy base of the enemy. Kirkenes was practically destroyed and the fascists took all food stocks when retreating. Every day there were lines of Norwegian children with bowls lining up before the military cooks. Our cooks tried to give food to all needy people.

In November 1944 we left Norway to deploy in the vicinity of the town of Petsamo, in the tundra. I faced anti-Semitism for the first time there. Once we were sitting in the company of doctors. There were women doctors there, as well as the director of the hospital and the visiting chief of headquarters of the regiment. We were talking with him and he said to me, 'You are a good guy, even though you are a Jew'. I froze, but kept silent. The chief of headquarters was senior in rank and if I had decided to sort things out with him it might have cost me several years in prison camps. At dawn on 9th May 1945 I woke up to the sound of people shouting, 'Get up all! Victory!'. People all around were saluting and shooting their guns.

Post-war

My division doctor was appointed human resources manager at the sanitary headquarters of the Belomorsk Military Regiment. He offered me a position as his assistant. I served under him for two years at the construction of the Belomorcanal 21 in Belomorsk, and in 1947 he also helped me to get a transfer to the Kiev Military Regiment. My parents lived in Kiev after the war. My father received an apartment from the Kiev Communications College. I worked as a doctor at the military unit for some time and demobilized after few months. I left my well-paying position with a salary of 2,000 rubles for the position of a common doctor with a salary of 600 rubles. But I was eager to do scientific research in medicine.

I was introduced to my future tutor, Professor Boris Polonskiy, the best urologist in the country. I studied urology under his supervision. Soon I became a registrar at the Onco-Urological Department. I studied urology from zero. Professor Polonskiy patiently taught me everything he knew and could perform well: the science of urology, and practical skills. Soon I began to perform surgeries and soon I was performing complicated surgeries successfully.

At the beginning of 1953 when the Doctors' Plot 22 started along with other anti-Semitic campaigns stirred up in Moscow, I was going through a hard time. In February 1953 I performed a surgery on an elderly man. All the other doctors refused to operate on him. They were afraid that the patient would not survive the operation. At the end of the surgery my assistant told me that by negligence we had transfused the patient with the wrong blood type. This meant death for the patient. We quickly retransfused the patient with the appropriate blood. By some miracle the patient survived. This annoying mistake that was not my fault had serious consequences. The chief doctor of the hospital believed it was his task to get rid of Jews. If the patient had died I would have been taken to court. Before his release from hospital the patient, who didn't know what had happened during his surgery, asked a nurse for my name, saying, 'My granddaughter is a schoolgirl. There are articles in newspapers about doctors that poison people. I want to go to my granddaughter's school to tell children about this wonderful Jewish doctor, Moisey Goihberg. All the other doctors refused to operate on me, but he performed this surgery and saved me.' Every day I opened newspapers with horror. There were satirical articles with Jewish names (specifying their real names in brackets). Assistant Professor Krisson and a few other Jews were fired from our clinic. The party district committee issued a decree stating that it was difficult for a Christian to get employed because many people of different faiths got jobs.

Stalin died in 1953. I cried for him along with many other people not because I loved him, but because I was afraid that things might get worse. In 1954 they found a possibility to get rid of me. There was a party decree about strengthening the villages. I was called to the district health department and ordered to become head of the district health department in the town of Stavysche near Kiev. I had my objections, saying that I was a practicing surgeon doing scientific research and had never been an administrator. But I was told, 'You have worked enough in Kiev. Somebody else will take up your job.' Only I and another Jewish woman were sent to the village from our clinic. I worked for a year in Stavysche and did well. I also performed surgeries at the local hospital. After a year I was allowed to return to Kiev. I don't know whether it happened because I was a talented surgeon, or because my tutor Polonskiy pulled strings for me, or whether it was due to a general improvement of the situation.

We were enthusiastic about the decisions of the Twentieth Party Congress 23 denouncing the cult of Stalin. I was secretary of the party unit and received a letter at the district party committee that I had to read to the communists concerning the murderous deeds of Stalin and his colleagues. I did this with pleasure. I stopped doing anything for the party at that time.

My life after that was quiet. I defended my candidate's thesis although I was an ordinary doctor-registrar. In 1965 the Institute of Urology was established in Kiev and I was a successful applicant for the position of senior researcher. I worked successfully in that post until 1984. After I turned sixty I went to work as a consultant at the Kiev Oncological Clinic.

I've had a happy private life. I met my wife Mara Khersonskaya, a Jew, in Vorzel near Kiev in the early 1950s. Mara was born in Kiev in 1928. Her father Mikhail Khersonskiy was a party activist. Before the war he was secretary of the Podol 24 party committee. When the war began Mikhail volunteered to go to the front and perished defending Kiev. Mara's mother worked at the Torgmash Plant before and after the war. They were a very intelligent family without any religious prejudices. During the war Mara and her mother were evacuated to the Riazan region. Before we met Mara had graduated from the Philology Faculty of Kiev State University and worked as a schoolteacher of Russian language and literature. We had much in common: we both loved literature and poetry, and were fond of theater and classical music. We courted for two years. After we got married I was sent to Stavysche. At first we lived at Mara's apartment and later we moved to my parents. In due time we bought a big cooperative apartment. That's where we still live.

My father worked at the logistics department of Kiev Garrison. He died in 1976. My mother died in 1984 at the age of 90. My daughter Natalia was born in 1956. She was an ordinary Soviet child. She became a pioneer at school and then a Komsomol member. In the summer she went to pioneer camps. She had many friends. She knew that she was a Jew from early childhood, but we didn't follow any Jewish traditions or lead a Jewish way of life. She tried to enter the Kiev Conservatory after finishing music school. But this was the period when it was next to impossible to enter a cultural institution, especially in Ukraine. My daughter went to Russia and entered the Sverdlovsk Conservatory. She graduated successfully. Upon graduation she returned to Kiev. She is a pianist and works at a concert organization. She married Oleg Samsonov, a Russian, in Sverdlovsk, but divorced him later. I have a lovely granddaughter named Masha. She is a student at the English Faculty of the Kiev Institute of Foreign Languages.

I have identified myself as a Jew all my life. I have been interested in everything Jewish. After the war it was not safe to be a Jew and celebrate Jewish holidays. We went to my parents' to celebrate. My parents celebrated Jewish holidays until the end of their lives. They didn't go to synagogue or pray, but my mother always laid a fancy dinner table and had matzah at Pesach. They bought matzah secretly from some people in Podol, and fasted on Yom Kippur. In recent years the attitude towards Jews in independent Ukraine has changed dramatically. We have an opportunity to observe traditions and study the language, history and religion. There are many Jewish charity, cultural, religious and youth organizations in Kiev. I have the opportunity to compensate for all those years when we were just Soviet people without any nationality. I read a lot, attend lectures and sometimes make speeches at various Jewish organizations. Unfortunately, I have never been abroad. It was impossible in the past and now we are too old and we can't afford to travel. But I'm still happy. I like Israel and am interested in that country, but I never considered emigrating there. I would only go if Israel needed me as a doctor. However, it would still be difficult for me to move, because I was brought up on the foundations of Russian culture. I love my motherland. I'm a Russian intellectual of Jewish nationality. And now, when all conditions for the development of the Jewish nation have been created in my beloved Ukraine, I am happy.

Glossary

Galina Shkolnikova
Saint-Petersburg
Russia
Interviewer: Inna Gimila
Date of interview: June 2002

Galina Idelevna Shkolnikova is not a very tall woman. She is slim, has straight grayish hair and a high forehead and wears glasses. She lives alone in a three-bedroom apartment that is full of books. Her children have families of their own and live in Saint-Petersburg. She is active and mobile; in the summer she visited her husband's brother in Astrakhan. She is an engineer by occupation and is now retired. Her speech is correct and she very scrupulously corrected inaccuracies in her biography's text. She is a very calm and intelligent person.

My family background
Growing up in wartime
Post-war
My school years
Married life
Glossary

My family background

I was born in 1938 in the city of Leningrad. My paternal grandfather, Mordekhay Abramovich Farber, was born in 1868 in the town of Alushta, Tavricheskaya province. I only know that he had a sister and a brother. He had a serious quarrel with his brother early in life and didn't keep in touch with him after that. None of the relatives knew the reason for that quarrel. They assumed that it was about the difference in their material status. I don't know what education my grandfather had either. His job was related to forestry.

My paternal grandmother, Doba Yuliyevna Farber [nee Moina], was born in 1872. She became an orphan at an early age and was raised by her relatives. I don't know if she had brothers or sisters. She didn't have any education and took care of the household.

In the beginning my grandparents lived in the town of Berislav [150 km west of Kiev]. They had seven children and their first child, a girl, died as an infant. After that my father Idel was born, then Sarah, David, Isaac, Abram, Revekka and Rakhil. Grandfather Mordekhay worked in Nikopol, Southern Ukraine, as a log storage manager and had a house with a big garden on the bank of the Dnepr river. During the NEP 1 he organized a swimming pool and a boat-house in the garden, where his younger sons Isaac and Abram worked as boatmen.

Grandmother Doba and her daughters were keen on sewing and clothes- designing, besides keeping the household. They liked to wear beautiful and fashionable clothes. Aunt Rakhil and her daughter Eleonora still preserve this passion.

The Farber family was very close; the children subsequently left for various cities but always kept in touch with each other. My grandparents tried to provide education for their children. The two older sons graduated from the commercial school in Nikopol; the younger sons didn't manage to study there and finished Soviet schools, but all the seven boys got higher education.

My grandparents' mother tongue was Yiddish, but they spoke Russian in the family. They switched to Yiddish when they wanted to conceal something from the children or the maids. The boys studied Hebrew, probably in cheder. I don't know if the girls studied Hebrew. They all - grandfather, grandmother and their children - spoke very good Ukrainian.

My grandparents were religious people. All Jewish traditions were observed and all holidays were celebrated in the family. They attended the synagogue. Grandfather Mordekhay solemnly trampled on the New Testament on Sabbath, which was specially kept at home for that purpose, showing his belonging to Judaism and his denial of Russian Orthodoxy. However, all their children grew up as atheists. They left their home early in order to get education, and they lived their own life, which was common for Soviet intellectuals of that time. They never observed Jewish traditions.

My grandfather died in Nikopol in 1931, and, obviously, as a pious man, was buried according to the Jewish custom. After his death my grandmother moved to her older daughter Sarah and helped her to raise her little son, who was born in 1931. In 1934 a tragedy happened. The boy went for a walk with his grandmother, was hit by a car and killed. After that my grandmother moved to her son, my father Idel, who lived in Leningrad. She lived with our family and died in besieged Leningrad at the end of 1941. She didn't keep the Jewish tradition alive after she moved in with her children, because they were atheists. She was buried in the Volkov cemetery, but her grave doesn't exist any more because a bomb hit the place.

In my opinion, a lot of our relatives had successful lives. God was merciful to them: they survived repression, genocide and the war, though some of the relatives perished during the Holocaust. My father's older sister, Sarah Matveyevna Shevchenko [nee Farber], was born in 1898. She took the patronymic of her father's common name. She graduated from the Agricultural Institute in Dnepropetrovsk and worked as a veterinarian. Her Russian husband worked as an agronomist. They had three children: two daughters, Kima and Alvina, and a son, Leonid, who died at the age of 3, when he was hit by a car. Their family lived in Moscow. During the war they were in evacuation.

After the war public anti-Semitism started. [The interviewee refers to the campaign against 'cosmopolitans'.] 2 I think it's much more difficult for half-breds to endure it than for 'pure' Jews, especially if the mother is Jewish. They are torn between their natural love for their mother and the intention to conceal their identity of a 'despised' nation. My cousins found themselves in such a situation. Kima fell in love with her university mate. They studied at the Legal Faculty of the MGU [Moscow State University]. Kima was expecting a baby, and they planned to get married, but the fiancé's parents found out that the bride's mother was a Jew and flatly objected to the marriage. Their son was under their thumb. Kima now rests in the Promised Land. Her son, his Russian wife and their five children live in Israel.

Kima's sister Alvina concealed her marriage to a Russian from her mother for three months. They all lived together later on because Alvina's husband was from Moscow. Everything seemed quiet on the surface, but her husband was warped any time he heard the name of his mother-in-law. Sarah felt it and got very upset. She died in Moscow in 1968.

David Markovich Farber translated his father Mordekhay's name into Russian as Mark and so did his older brother, my father. All the other children used the name Matvey for their patronymic. David was an accountant, an economist. His wife was a Jew and worked as an accountant too. They were in evacuation in Siberia during the war. Their son Yuriy, born in 1927, was in the book trade. They lived and died in Moscow.

My father's other brother, Isaac Matveyevich Farber, got his education in Dnepropetrovsk. He was a talented engineer, worked in Baku and married Rimma Lvovna Chernyaeva, a Jew. They had no children. Isaac died young of cancer in Moscow and was buried there.

My father's younger brother, Abram Matveyevich Farber, also got his education in Dnepropetrovsk and was an engineer, too. His wife was a housewife. They lived in Moscow. Abram worked at Sovmin [Council of Ministers]. He was a very cheerful and witty man and liked to play tricks on everybody, including himself. He participated in the war, returned to Moscow after the war and worked at the Institute of Oil. He continued to work even when he was dying of cancer. His children, a son and a daughter, also became engineers.

Revekka Matveyevna Farber married a Russian, but didn't change her last name. Her husband was in the war, beginning with the Finnish war 3 and concluding with the war with Japan 4. He was a politruk [political official]. She was a doctor, an epidemiologist, and worked in besieged Leningrad during the war. Her daughter, Victoria, born in 1937, graduated from the Electro-Technical Institute named after Bonch-Bruyevich. Revekka died in Leningrad in 1970 and was buried in the 'Victims of 9th January' cemetery 5.

My father's younger sister, Rakhil Matveyevna Farber, born in 1909, graduated from the Dnepropetrovsk Agricultural Institute as an engineer- technologist in wine-making. She moved to Voronezh after graduation and married Abram Davidovich Gilevich, who worked as a commodity researcher in the book trade. During the war they were in evacuation in Siberia, and they lived in Lvov after the war. Aunt Rakhil's daughter graduated from the Lvov Medical Institute. It seems to me that anti-Semitism was felt less in Russia as compared to Ukraine, especially its western part. In any case, my cousin took a lot of efforts to move from Lvov to Moscow during the Soviet times, before the Soviet Union broke up. The reason for moving was anti- Semitism, both in everyday life and in state enterprises. At present she lives in Moscow with her mother and son and works as a radiologist. Aunt Rakhil is my only aunt who's still alive.

My maternal grandfather, Yankel-Movshe Yosel-Girshevich Yezersky, was born in 1860 in the town of Volkovysk, Grodno province [200 km from Minsk], which was part of the Russian Empire at that time. He was an Irregular Army warrior in 1878 [Editor's note: This was a form of draft to the Russian Army during the Russian-Turkish war of 1877-1878, which was aimed at the liberation of Bulgaria.] He probably obtained Jewish education because he worked as a melamed in his youth. My mother later wrote in all Soviet questionnaires that she was the daughter of a teacher.

My maternal grandmother, Riva Simkhovna Yezerskaya, was born in 1861. She didn't get any education and was a housewife. In the beginning my grandparents presumable lived in Brest-Litovsk, where their three older children were born: Froim-Peisakh, Iosif and Feiga. As the family grew bigger, my grandfather's salary as a melamed became insufficient to make a living for the family. With the help of a relative, he opened the 'Butter- Cheese-Yezersky' store in the town of Yekaterinoslav. Unfortunately, I don't know, how big the store was or how many employees worked there. At that time my grandfather changed his last name to Yezersky, probably for the advertisement to sound more euphonious. Before that the family name was Katzman or something the like. The change happened in the 1890s. Later all members of the family were called Yezersky.

After a ten-year period another three daughters were born in Yekaterinoslav: Shprintsa-Rochel, Lyuba and Sima, my mother. The three older children didn't get any education; the three younger ones had the opportunity to study. They went to a gymnasium and also learnt to play the piano.

Froim-Peisakh Yankel-Movshevich Yezersky had the common name of Yefrem Yakovlevich. He was a Ist Guild Merchant 6 in Kharkov before the Revolution of 1917. He owned a grocery store in the center of the town and worked as a seller after the store was nationalized. His wife, Fruma-Peisha Shlyome-Ziskelevna, was a housewife. They got evacuated to Alma-Ata during the war. We joined them and at first lived together. They had three children: Matvey, Feiga and Masha. They all got higher education. Matvey and Feiga were engineers, and Masha was a doctor. Matvey lived in Moscow, Feiga and Masha lived in Kharkov. They are not alive any more.

Iosif Yankel-Movshevich Yezersky was also a merchant before the war. He owned his father's store in Yekaterinoslav and was a commercial worker in Kharkov after the store was nationalized. His first wife died early, and he married again. He had a daughter, Pasha, and a son, Mikhail, from his first marriage and a son, Yakov, from his second marriage.

Pasha perished during the war in Dnepropetrovsk. She had a Russian husband. Her appearance was pretty international and she stayed on occupied territory. Their neighbors gave her away to the Germans. Her son, Vitya, was saved by her husband's parents. Pasha's husband perished in the war, his parents died and Vitya found himself in a children's home. The only person who tried to take care of him was Pasha's stepmother, Iosif's second wife. Iosif died before the war in 1937.

The children's home, where Vitya stayed, was very anti-Semitic. Teachers humiliated Jewish children in every possible way, and also his play-mates aimed at offending or even beating Jewish children. That's why he concealed his Jewishness as much as he could and was ashamed of his mother's Jewish stepmother, who was his only relative alive. Vitya was ashamed of her; he rudely cut short any assistance and care from her side when he was 14-16 years old and grew up a real anti-Semite.

Feiga Yankel-Movshevna Liberman [nee Yezerskaya] was born in 1886. She didn't have any education and was a housewife. Yiddish was her mother tongue; she spoke Russian poorly. She assisted in her brother Iosif's store in Yekaterinoslav and moved to Kharkov later. Her husband, Alter Liberman, died early in 1937. They had two sons, Abram and Zinoviy. Abram worked as a driver and Zinoviy got higher education and became a dentist. During the war Feiga was in evacuation. Both her sons were in the war and survived. Zinoviy was in a military hospital in Mongolia at the end of the war, where he continued to work for several years after the war. He got married there. His wife Nina had a daughter from her previous marriage. Their common daughter's name was Larisa, but we lost contact with her. Zinoviy died in 1976 in Kharkov, his mother Feiga also died there some time in the 1960s.

Shprintsa-Rokhel Yezerskaya didn't change her last name after she got married. She graduated from Lausanne University in Switzerland as a dentist. It seems that her brothers helped her financially so that she could study in Switzerland. Her husband was a real loafer; she earned the money and he spent it. The family lived in Brest-Litovsk and their fate was tragic. They didn't manage to evacuate during the war and all perished in the ghetto. Their two children, their son, Abram, a schoolboy, and their daughter Bella, perished with them. Bella had just finished school and already had a train ticket, dated 22nd June 1941, to Leningrad, where she wanted to enter the Pediatric Institute. Rumor has it that Bella didn't perish. She was a beauty and they said that a Polish officer was in love with her and saved her. Relatives were looking for Bella after the war but without success.

Lyuba Finkel [nee Yezerskaya] was born in Yekaterinoslav in 1897. She studied in a gymnasium like her sisters and ran away with a traveling theater actor when she was in the last grade. She married the actor and was cursed by her father. The marriage broke up very soon, Lyuba left for Kharkov in the 1920s and married Beinish Finkel, whose common name was Boris Aronovich. He was considered a rich fiancé in the NEP period. He owned a plant. When the authorities took away the plant, he worked in various cooperatives, and Aunt Lyuba worked with him. Later they moved to Leningrad and brought my parents there in 1931.

It was Boris's sister, Revekka Aronovna Finkel, a military doctor, who saved my father, when he was in hospital in Leningrad, heavily wounded. Lyuba and Boris evacuated from besieged Leningrad to the Ural in 1942. They came back in 1944 when the blockade 7 was lifted. They had a daughter, Irina, born in 1923. She graduated from the Construction Technical School in Leningrad and worked with a construction company. She reached the position of the head of the Planning Department. My parents kept in touch with the family and met often. It wasn't possible to observe Sabbath at that time because it was a working day and even religious Jews worked, if they were employed at public enterprises. So everybody gathered at Aunt Lyuba's place for lunch every Sunday. Aunt Lyuba was a very hospitable person. She died in Leningrad in 1963.

The family spoke Yiddish, Ukrainian and Russian, but the common language at home was Yiddish, my grandparents' mother tongue. Grandmother Riva didn't speak Russian well. When children quoted her in letters, they wrote her words in Yiddish using the Russian alphabet. Her older daughter, Feiga, also spoke Russian poorly.

My mother's parents were religious people. They observed all Jewish traditions: They had a kosher household, observed Sabbath, attended the synagogue and celebrated all Jewish holidays. Grandfather Yankel was an active member of the community and a synagogue warden; he donated a lot to it. He died in 1914 in Yekaterinoslav and was buried in the Jewish cemetery according to the Jewish tradition. A lot of debts were revealed after his death, since he took the debts of the synagogue upon himself.

After her husband's death grandmother Riva lived in Yekaterinoslav in her son Iosif's family, who inherited his father's store. In 1928, after the NEP was over, the store was nationalized. Iosif, his family and grandmother Riva moved to Kharkov, where Iosif's older brother, Froim, lived. My grandmother died there in 1938. I don't know if she was buried according to the Jewish tradition. My mother's parents had died before I was born, so I have never seen them and only heard about them from my mother.

My father, Idel Mordukhovich Farber, was born in 1897 in the town of Berislav. He spent his childhood and youth in the town of Nikopol, where the family moved to. Everybody in the family had a nickname. My father's nickname was 'Chief', as he was the older brother. The children made up a language of their own using various words from different languages, trying to hide what they were saying from adults. My father preserved words from this made-up language to his dying day. For example: child - 'wurf', or, something remarkable - 'wurfyak', something annoying - 'fortych', woman - 'yena', man correspondingly - 'yener' and so on. These are inexplicable words, as they contain no semantic roots of any words. They were just created by children as associative signals.

My father finished the commercial school in Nikopol. It was the year 1915, and he was drafted to the army. From that moment on and to his dying day he had the nickname 'Soldier', which he was very proud of. To tell you the truth, Grandfather Mordekhay took some appropriate efforts to enlist his son as self-determinative to the regiment. [Editor's note: a form of draft to the Russian Army during the years of World War I, which provided some privileges as compared to privates.]

I don't know if he managed to participate in World War I military operations. He was a soldier at the beginning of the Civil War [1918-1921], but soon returned home and later served in the Red Army as a corps man for four months. In 1920 he entered the Kharkov Technological Institute and graduated in 1924 as a chemical engineer. After graduation he was assigned to Donbass, the Donetsk coal fields in the south-east of Ukraine, where he worked at JSC Koksobenzol in the town of Artyom. There was a friendly team of young people, engineers and doctors, and he met my mother in that group.

My mother Sofia Yankel-Movshevna Yezerskaya was born in 1899 in the town of Yekaterinoslav. She finished the private Jewish secular gymnasium in that town and chose the medical walk of life. She entered the Medical Faculty of the Yekaterinoslav University in 1916. The Revolution of 1917 and the Civil War prevented her from graduating. She graduated from the Medical Institute in Kharkov in 1924 and left for Donbass to work as a 'traveling' doctor. She visited various villages on a cart; the hospital coachman led the horse.

When my parents met in 1925, my mother worked in a hospital at Pereyezdnaya station. They got married in 1927. They didn't have a religious wedding: my parents' friends, young Komsomol members 8 and some other people were present. My mother didn't change her maiden name after her marriage. It was written as Sofia Yakovlevna Yezerskaya in her passport, so her name and paternal name were already russified, though, in the record-book of 1917 of the Yekaterinoslav University, she wrote her name as Sima Yankelevna.

My parents lived in Donbass until 1931. They left under the following circumstances. One of the young engineers, who worked with my father, was fired. His friends decided that he had been treated unfairly and submitted resignation applications as a sign of protest. No one managed to find another job though, and everybody, except for my father, returned to their former workplace. My parents decided to leave Donbass for Leningrad, following the advice of Lyuba, my mother's sister, who lived in Leningrad at the time. It saved father because all his friends were later subject to repression on the basis of the notorious Mining Case 9. All in all, I have to point out that destiny was in my father's favor. More than once he found himself in situations where he could have perished, but God drew the blow of at the very last moment.

My father worked at the Institute of Applied Chemistry (GIPH) in Leningrad, and my mother worked as a district doctor in the Gavan Polyclinic. She wanted to work in a hospital though and as a result found herself in the Children's Hospital, located near the Volkov cemetery. The war caught them there in 1941.

Growing up in wartime

I was born in 1938, and by the beginning of the war I was two and a half years old. I had no brothers or sisters. When the war broke out, I was very small and obviously didn't understand what was happening. When Leningrad was besieged and the Germans began to bomb it, people had to go to the bomb- shelters during the bombings. I lived with my grandmother and, as my mother told me later, I liked the bomb-shelter very much because a lot of children gathered there. So when I heard the air-raid warning signal, I began to jump and run cheerfully around the table. By the time my 80-year-old grandmother managed to catch and dress me, the bombings were over. As a result we stopped going to the bomb-shelter.

My father was a very straightforward person and supported the ideas of the Communist Party. At the beginning of the Civil War he served in the army and became a non-party Bolshevik. My mother was indignant with him because, in her opinion, he couldn't 'read between the lines' and 'lived according to the Pravda editorial', that is, in compliance with the ideology of the Communist Party of the USSR. He didn't doubt its correctness. He was always distinguished by honesty, adherence to principles, and an acute feeling for justice. In addition to his main job he was occupied with trade-union activities. He was responsible for the distribution of tickets at the Mestkom 10 of his Institute, and didn't take summer-camp tickets for me, when I was a child, because he considered it a demonstration of nepotism.

During the first days of the war my father went to sign up for the People's Volunteer Corps, as he was not subject to the draft, but mother, being a doctor, was already transferred to the state of barracks. She insisted that he stay with my grandmother and me. He continued to work in GIPH, but was soon also enlisted to the state of barracks. I stayed at home with my grandmother. In August 1941 my mother made an effort to send us into evacuation, but the Germans had bombed a train with evacuated people near Mga, Leningrad region, so she decided against the idea. Thus we all found ourselves in the siege. My mother periodically visited us. In October and November 1941 a boarding school for employees' children was arranged at my mothers' hospital, which was by that time re-organized into an evacuation hospital, and my grandmother was left alone.

Twice a week, on the days when my mother was on duty and had to 'test the food' in the kitchen, my father walked more than 10 kilometers on foot from GIPH to mother's hospital, in order to have a bowl of soup. On his way back he walked almost the same distance in order to bring mother's bread portion to my grandmother. Once he came home and found my grandmother dead.

The three of us were evacuated in July 1942 across Ladoga Lake [The so- called Road of Life] 11 and found ourselves in Alma-Ata, the capital of Kazakhstan [2,200 km south-east of Moscow], where my mother worked as a doctor at the children's hospital. My father worked as an engineer at the Chemical and Metallurgical Institute. He was preparing for the defense of his doctor's thesis, but in January 1944 he was drafted to the army. Father was at the Leningrad frontline. He was an artillery-man, an ammunition carrier. In one of the battles a shell hit the ground and everybody, except for my father, perished.

My father was carried away from the battlefield, heavily wounded, and sent to the hospital in Leningrad. His left lung was shot and he had a lot of shell fragments in his arms and legs. It turned out, that the doctor in charge of his case was my mother's relative, Revekka Aronovna Finkel. She was a pulmonologist and held the rank of a major at the time. At the end of the war she was a colonel of medical service. She fixed my father up. After the treatment he continued his service in the army, but with the NKVD forces 12. He was in Bucharest, Romania, at the end of the war. After the war he returned to Leningrad and to GIPH and my mother returned to the Children's Hospital. Both worked at those places all their lives.

My most distinct recollections are connected with the time of our evacuation to Alma-Ata, when I was 4 years old. But I also remember our boarding school during the blockade. I recall my mother, being on duty, walking into our room, approaching each bed, bending over each child. And I was so jealous because she didn't come up to me immediately. I started crying bitterly. Even though she had explained to me that she was a doctor and had to treat me the same way she treated other children because some of them didn't have mothers. I understood it but didn't stop crying.

I also remember crossing the road across the Ladoga Lake on a motor boat and railroad bridges. In Alma-Ata we lived in a pise house with the family of my mother's older brother [Editor's note: A pise house was a house with walls built out of straw mixed with clay; the floor was also clay]. Later we got a room in the hotel, where the Lenfilm employees lived. I went to a kindergarten in Alma-Ata and learnt a song there. It went: 'A Jew slowly crossed the road' and so on. I was 5 years old and it was the time when mother commenced my Jewish upbringing. At that time and during my school years she kept telling me, 'Don't forget that you are a Jew and won't get away with something your Russian friends will be able to get away with'. My husband-to-be and many other Jews, with whom I spoke about it later, heard almost the same thing from their relatives. I was convinced that if I wanted to achieve something I had to work more and harder. It became my belief. I also said this to my children when the time came.

Post-war

The most striking thing in Alma-Ata was Victory Day [then end of WWII]. I heard about it when I was in the hotel entrance hall and on my way to the kindergarten. The kindergarten wasn't far away and I walked there on my own. I ran the whole way in order to tell the children about it, because almost no one had a radio at home. And still, when I recall that moment, I hear the happy screaming and see the cloud of dust, which was the result of our happy tramping and jumping around. There were a lot of other interesting things happening before that: the earthquake, our kindergarten's performance on the radio with the song 'My motherland is broad' and our trip to the Lysaya Mountain, where I tried to eat goat droppings, thinking they were berries.

I also remember a piece of a moth-ball, which I found on the hotel floor and put into my mouth, thinking it was sugar and incomparably delicious sweet beet, cooked in the drying oven, which my father brought sometimes from work. Once he came to the kindergarten in order to say good-bye before leaving for the frontline and gave me a paper bag of caramel and a book by Marshak 13. My friend and neighbor, a Kazakh girl named Tyulpana, taught me to read with the help of this book long before school.

I also remember Dzhambul's 14 funeral, upon which I incidentally came with Tyulpana, because we saw a crowd of people, passing by our hotel on their way to the theater, where the farewell took place; I also recall the departure to Leningrad and the view of the Aral sea, which we passed, and the first destroyed building in Leningrad, the Oktyabrskaya Hotel near Moscow railroad station; and the first salute on November holidays in 1945.

My father was very proud of his rank of a soldier. He stuck to a Spartan mode of life and walked a lot. Both in winter and summer he walked on foot from and to his work, approximately three kilometers. In winter he crossed the Neva river, which was covered with ice. Father loved his city very much and knew it very well. As soon as he heard about a new street, he went to explore it. He didn't go to the theater with my mother, but he liked to wander about museums on his own. He was always given some presents, but he didn't like new things and put everything into the closet. Mother used to joke about it saying that he had a 'museum of presents for comrade Stalin'.

My father worked as a senior research assistant at his Institute, although he didn't defend a doctor's thesis. In later years he worked at the Informational Department, was the academic secretary of GIPH and dealt with the distribution of precious metals for experiments. He spoke several languages besides Russian: English, German, Ukrainian, Latin and Hebrew, the language of the Torah. He had a phenomenal memory and neglected notebooks all his life. He was a very erudite person, and all employees addressed him with questions, as if he were a 'walking encyclopedia'. He was a real workaholic. When he took a vacation, he walked about Leningrad during the first week, then he would visit his relatives in Moscow and walk about Moscow during the second week, but when the third week came, he ran back to work. So, when he died, there were a lot of unused vacation days. After the war he never took a sick-leave. He took his first sick-leave two weeks before his death. He died in 1977, two and a half months after his 80th birthday was solemnly celebrated.

My father was a silent person and spoke very little. My mother used to say, 'He silences a whole room'. But when he told me something, it remained in my memory for a long time. One spring, before school exams, we had an hour off, and I went to the Orthodox Preobrazhensky Cathedral with my class- mates. We had hid our pioneer neckties under our dresses. We came from atheist families but we were curious like all children. We even tried to cross ourselves, exchanging smiles, imitating the believers.

In the evening I talked about this interesting event at home. My father was very displeased with me. He said, 'You are atheists, and you go to watch praying people, as if they were animals at the zoo. That's an outrage upon the feelings of pious people. You shouldn't do that.' I remembered these words forever and now when I enter a church as a tourist, I behave quietly, in order not to attract attention or disturb anyone. There was another incident when I climbed into the neighbor's garden with my friends and stole some cucumbers. Father was terribly angry and said, 'How dare you not respect other people's labor?'

My mother differed from my father when it came to temper. She was a sociable person, loved to chat and had a lot of friends. Her closest friend was her mate at the Institute, Nyusia, also a Jew, with whom she went to the theater and spent her vacation. In order to take me to the country- side, my mother worked in Komarovo, a resort village near Leningrad, in a district children's hospital. It only operated in the summer when a lot of children left Leningrad to spend summer holidays in kindergartens and pioneer camps, located along the Finnish Gulf. She worked there on assignment from her hospital. My mother had a very serious and responsible attitude to her job, just like my father had. She was keen on medicine. She never refused to help any of our neighbors in our big house, if they asked her to look after their sick children. She was even offended when they offered her money because she considered that assistance to sick people was her obligation according to the Hippocratic oath.

My mother's friend Nyusia listened to the 'voices', as they called it at the time in this country, that is, the radio programs Voice of America and Radio Free Europe. My father considered her anti-Soviet, didn't like her and left the room when she came to visit us. Influenced by her friend, my mother didn't quite believe in the 'correct party policy' but, just like father, had a good attitude towards Stalin. They were both very proud of him after the war. However, after the fake Doctors' Plot 15 of 1952-1953 they regarded the death of the leader rather calmly.

My father wasn't concerned about the case, but my mother was very upset. On the one hand, she was afraid to be fired, on the other hand, she suffered from undisguised suspicions, which the sick children's parents expressed towards a Jewish doctor. When usually very uncared-for children recovered, some parents apologized for their suspicions. Mother was mostly irritated by a phrase like, 'There might as well be good people among the Jews'. She often replied to it, 'They are in the majority'.

My mother was proud of her Jewish identity, telling us about the Great Jews and their contribution to the treasury of mankind, though Jewish traditions were never observed in our family. For instance, she told me about the great writer Sholem Aleichem 16 and about the scientist [Albert] Einstein. However, two customs were sacred to her and she observed them, as well as I observe them now - a separate pan for milk and the inadmissibility of food in the cemetery. [The interviewee is referring to the Russian custom of funeral repast.] 17.

Our family was not used to blame all losses on anti-Semitism. We treated the occurrence like bad weather. In such situations mother usually repeated her older brother's wife's saying, 'No need of fear for the Jews'. Mother very often used well-known folk idioms and Russian-Yiddish-Ukrainian proverbs in her speech. For example, 'Agitsyn parovoz' [heat in the steam- engine], which means 'nothing special'. My mother lived a long life. She stopped working and retired after an infarction in 1958. She lived with my family during the last years of her life and died in 1985 at the age of 86.

My school years

I went to school after we arrived in Leningrad in 1946. Only one fourth of my 42 classmates had fathers; out of those fathers some were mutilated and some drank heavily. I had a father and a mother, a good, normal family, so I was one of the lucky ones. We also lived in relatively decent conditions, as we had two rooms with a total area of 32 square meters in a communal apartment in the city center.

In 1949-1950 me and my school friends got into a difficult situation and my father had to rescue us. We were admitted to the pioneers, which we were very proud of. Under the influence of a movie called The Young Guard 18 we set up an organization of our own with the same name. The movie was about a secret youth organization that did really exist in the occupied town of Krasnodon in Donbass and fought against the German invaders. Later almost all members of the Young Guards were caught by the Germans and executed by shooting.

One fourth of our class-mates were members of our organization and our intentions were certainly the most noble: honesty, good studying and the like. We kept the secret for about half a year. When our class mistress, a Jew, found out about it, a scandal broke out, ending with a boycott and expelling us from the pioneer group. The complete terror of the situation became clear to me later, when I read about secret youth organizations being smashed by the authorities. I don't know what my parents knew about it at that time and what kind of rumors were spread.

It turned out that only I was admitted to our organization upon my word, all the others swore an oath, like real Young Guard members, but certainly with a different contents. I had tonsillitis at that time and it was resolved to admit me in my absence, just like Ulyana Gromova, the Young Guard heroine. When we understood that our silence might have a bad end, I was instructed to talk to my parents. They took the story very seriously and discussed it for a long time in the evening. The next day my father put on his worn soldier's blouse and all his medals, went to the Party's District Committee and told them about the situation. I don't know what kind of words he used in the conversation, but the case was dismissed. We were blandly scolded for hiding our good intentions from society, and our pioneer neckties were returned to us. This was how my father rescued us.

I finished school in 1956. Unfortunately, I didn't enter an institute [university] right after school because the competition was high, so I had to go work as a copyist at a Repair-Assembly Combine. My mother asked my father to arrange a job for me at GIPH, but my father, a man of principle, flatly refused to do so. In 1958 I entered the Leningrad Technological Institute of Cellulose-Paper Industry. I graduated as an engineer- technologist in 1963.

Everybody in our family liked to read, be that books, magazines or newspapers, and after the war we assembled a big library, which we still keep. This is our second library, because the first one, collected before the war, had been used for stove kindling in besieged Leningrad by people that stayed in our apartment when we had been evacuated. After the war a lot of classics were bought for me, a lot of literature about chemistry and medicine for my profession and history and art books, which I was very fond of. I didn't choose history to be my profession, because I considered this science to be too politicized. All books were in Russian.

I started to work at the Technological Department of the Giprobum Design Institute [State Design Institute for Paper Industry] and worked there as a technologist until I retired in 1996. We had a very nice and friendly team, most of the people were born between 1930 and 1939. We still keep in touch, call each other and meet from time to time. I liked the job and the business-trips, and even periodical emergencies, when we had to work till late at night and on weekends. However, there was something I really hated. Those were trips to sovkhoz fields and vegetable storages, which occurred regularly. [Editor's note: All townspeople were systematically engaged in agricultural works in kolkhozes and sovkhozes, collective and state economies, within the conditions of the chronic Soviet agricultural economical crisis.]

Married life

I got married rather late, in 1970, when I was already 31. We had a secular wedding at home, with our friends and some relatives present. My husband, Alexander Moiseyevich Shkolnikov, was born in 1933 in Leningrad. He graduated from the Leningrad Ship-Building Institute as an electrical engineer in 1957 and started to work at Gidropribor CIHD [Central Institute of Hydraulic-Engineering Devices]. He worked there all his life.

My mother knew Alexander's family very well. She worked with his aunt at the hospital and also spent her summer vacation in the village of Repino with her for 10-15 years. They often told me that Alik as they called him at home, was a wonderful man, but we didn't have a chance to meet before. One day we were sent to the theater together. We saw each other on and off for two to three years. Alexander often had to go on business-trips. When he left, we kept in contact by correspondence. We soon got married. Alexander's relatives accepted me very warmly. It was a very nice family, and the wife of Alexander's cousin, with whom they grew up, still remains my best and closest friend.

My husband's father, Moisey Mendelevich Shkolnikov, and his wife, Khana- Sarah (her common name was Anna) Abramovna Shkolnikova [nee Dvorkina] were both born in 1902 in the town of Zhlobin in Belarus, which was part of tsarist Russia. They had an economic education, lived in Leningrad and had two sons: Emmanuil, born in 1927 and Alexander, my husband.

When the war broke out, the children were evacuated from Leningrad with the kindergarten Alexander attended. At first they were brought to Yaroslavl and later to the Northern Ural. The boarding-school was located in the village of Vilva, Solikamsk district, Molotov region. Alexander's brother Emmanuil, a schoolboy at the time, lived at the same boarding-school. Their mother was later evacuated from Leningrad. She lived close to her children, but not with them, and worked as an accountant at a sovkhoz in the neighboring village.

Moisey Mendelevich Shkolnikov worked as an economist in the Purchase Department of the Oktyabrskaya Railroad before the war. He held this position up until 1943 in besieged Leningrad and was transferred to the Department of Military Reconstruction Works afterwards. Their organization was responsible for the restoration of railways, destroyed during the military operations. They reconstructed railways in Pskov, the Baltic countries and Dnepropetrovsk. He was allowed to take his family with him in 1944, so his wife and their younger son followed him to Dnepropetrovsk. After the war they returned to Leningrad and Moisey returned to his previous workplace. He died in 1958 and was buried in the Jewish cemetery in Leningrad. Khana moved to Astrakhan at the end of her life and lived with her older son. She died there in 1993.

Emmanuil completed secondary school in Vilva, in the Ural, in 1942 and entered the Second Leningrad Military-Navy Special School, which was evacuated from Leningrad and was located in the town of Tara, Omsk region. He finished that school in 1946 in Leningrad, but he was immediately transferred to the reserve because of poor sight. He entered the Leningrad Electro-Technical Institute of Railroad Transport and graduated from it in 1952. After graduation he left for Middle Asia to participate in the railroad construction in Tashkent. After his marriage he moved to the town of Astrakhan, where he still lives with his family. I visited them in the summer of 2002.

I always had good relations with my husband's mother and his relatives. When we got married, they gave us a one-bedroom cooperative apartment. Our son, Mikhail, was born there in 1971, and our daughter, Lyuba, followed in 1976. In the same year we moved in with my parents. We exchanged our one- bedroom apartment and two rooms of my parents in a communal apartment for a separate three-bedroom apartment.

We always got on well. My husband was a very nice man. He was known for his kindness, obligation and tenderness, and he never let anybody down. If he understood that his assistance was required, he always helped without waiting for a request. He was an optimist. I was always afraid of something bad to happen. He always calmed me down, saying 'Everything will be fine!' or 'Don't be afraid, we'll break through!' Alexander collected stamps and postcards. He liked old German movies and Charlie Chaplin, and he collected old books of the 'Life in Art' series about famous Hollywood actors. I collected books about artists.

He worked a lot, even after he was diagnosed with an incurable illness in 1991. He only stopped working in 1999, when he was confined to bed. He died in 2000, to my enormous grief. He was buried in the Jewish cemetery and rests in the same grave as his father. After his death I was in a very bad condition, and only a trip to my Aunt Rakhil and cousin Eleonora in Moscow and their sympathy softened my anguish a little. Afterwards I was able to carry on. My children are already grown-ups and have families of their own. My husband liked to joke that our children corrected our mistake: we got married late, they got married early, at the age of 19. Now they live separately from me. I live alone in our old apartment.

Our children didn't get traditional Jewish upbringing, though they identify themselves as Jews. Their mother and father are Jews, and they consider themselves Jews too, not from a religious but from a nationality point of view. Traditional Jewish customs were never observed at home and we only celebrated Soviet holidays: 7th November - the Day of the October Revolution, 1st May - the Day of the Workers' Solidarity, 8th March -Women's Day, and so on.

Mikhail graduated from the Leningrad Electro-Technical Institute named after Ulyanov-Lenin [LETI] in 1994 and works as a programmer. His wife Tamara is a Jew; they studied together. When they got married she quit, and now she looks after their daughter Asia, who was born in 1997.

My daughter, Lyubov Bugayeva [nee Shkolnikova], graduated from the Leningrad Institute of Fine Mechanics and Optics [LITMO] in 2000. She chose to get married to a Russian man, and I insisted that she rose the issue of her Jewish nationality before the wedding. My son-in-law told me that it didn't matter to him. All in all, I've met many Russian people in my life, to whom the person was important and not his or her nationality. Of course I've also met people who were the complete opposite, but I learnt not to communicate with them or to reduce such communication to the minimum. My daughter's husband also graduated from LITMO and now works in a mobile telephone repair shop. Lyuba doesn't work at present; she looks after their daughter, Anastasia, who was born in 1999.

My cousins and their children live in different cities and countries now. All my relatives, both on my father's and my mother's side, who lived in Ukraine left for either Russia during the Soviet times, or for Israel and Germany. Actually, and strangely enough, those who were born in mixed marriages, were the first to leave. We hardly keep in touch. Sometimes we call each other, and this goes for both relatives in other countries and other cities. It's very bad that we don't communicate more, but that's the way it is.

I'm certainly very worried about Israel and get very upset, when I see and hear about acts of terrorism and the victims. It's not a foreign country to us because Jews live there. The life of the Jewish community is reviving in our city nowadays. Jewish holidays are solemnly celebrated in the best city halls. I receive food parcels on holidays from the 'Eve' Jewish charitable organization and I attend cultural events that they organize.

Glossary

Alexander Gajdoš
Karlovy Vary 
Česká republika
Rozhovor pořídil: Martin Korčok
Období vzniku rozhovoru: srpen 2005

Pán Alexander Gajdoš v súčasnosti pôsobí ako predseda Židovskej obce Karlovy Vary. Naše spoločné interview prebiehalo na obci v priestoroch jeho pracovne.

Rodina
Dětství
Za války
Po válce
Glosář

Rodina

Starí rodičia z otcovej strany žili v čase otcovej mladosti v Nitre. Starý otec sa volal Bernát Goldberger a jeho manželka sa volala Terézia Goldbergerová. Žial už si nepamätám ako sa volala babička za slobodna a neviem ani to, odkiaľ pochádzali starí rodičia. Starí otec zomrel približne v roku 1936 alebo 1937 a babička pár rokov pred ním. Obaja sú pochovaní na židovskom cintoríne v Nitre. Zúčastnil som sa aj ich pohrebov. Pretože zomreli, keď som bol ešte mladý, pamätám sa na nich len veľmi matne. Starý otec bol zamlklí. Vždy sedel pred domom na lavičke s fajkou a len dumal. Mal svojho psa a ten sedel stále vedľa neho.

V Nitre bývali v štvrti pod hradom. V tom čase sa tam nachádzali malé prízemné rodinné domčeky. Nebola to však židovská štvrť. Židovskou štvrťou v Nitre boli Párovce. Starí rodičia bývali tiež v takom prízemnom rodinnom dome. Z dvora sa vchádzalo priamo do kuchyne. Okrem kuchyne mali ďalši tri izby. V jednej mali spálňu, potom bola ešte jedna malá izbička a napokon obývačka. Do tej obývačky sa chodilo asi tak, ako sa povie: „Raz za rok“. Elektrina a voda už boli v dome zavedené. V podstate tam viedli normálny život.

Žiadny z najbližších členov otcovej rodiny nepatril k pobožným Židom. Jeden z otcových [otec sa volal Heinrich Galik (changed from Goldberger)] bratov, Gyula [Gál (changed from Goldberger)] vlastnil obchod a dieľňu s rádiami. Otec mal štyroch súrodencov. Troch bratov a jednu sestru. Bratia sa volali Gyula, Rudi a Jožko, sestra Cecília. Cecília sa vydala za holiča, pána Horna. On však zomrel ešte na začiatku tridsiatych rokov [20. stor.]. Ja si na neho ani nepamätám.

Otcových rodičov som navštevoval každé leto. V podstate leto som trávil v Nitre. Väčšinou som býval u otcovej sestry Cecílie. Takže spával som u otcovej sestry a na obec som chodil vždy k niektorému z rodinných príslušníkov. Podľa toho, kedy ma kto pozval. Inak som väčšinu času trávil so svojim bratrancom, Alexandrom. Volali sme ho Sanyi, bol Cecilkiným synom. Chodievali sme sa spolu kúpať a tak. Do Nitry som prestal chodiť, až ked začala vojna.

Neviem aký bol materinský jazyk mojich starých rodičov ale so mnou sa rozprávali vždy slovensky. Okrem toho samozrejme ovládali aj maďarký a nemecký jazyk. Neboli pobožní ani neviedli kóšer domácnosť, ale sviatky sa v rodine držali. Starký mal obchod so zmiešaným tovarom. Mal jednu miestnosť a tam bolo všetko možné. Do obchodu sa vchádzalo hneď z kuchyne. Na dverách sa nachádzal zvonček, ktorý zazvonil, keď niekto vošiel. Niekto k nim potom vybehol z kuchyne a obslúžil. Inak si zvlášť na nejaké príbehy so starými rodičmi nespomínam. Mal som k nim ako dieťa určitý odstup. Ba dokonca ani neviem, kto bol susedom starých rodičov. Otec mi o nih neskôr tiež nezvykol rozprávať.

Mamičkiny rodičia pochádzali z Trstenej na Orave. Starý otec sa volal Markus Lubovič. Babičku sipamätať nemôžem, lebo zomrela ešte pred mojim narodením. Starý otec sa potom opäť oženil, ale ani meno jeho druhej manželky si už nepamätám. V Trstenej mal starký pekáreň. Nevedel by som však už o jeho pekárni nič bližšie povedať. Starý otec mal v čase mojej mladosti silnú cukrovku. Vtom čase ešte nebol inzulín, tak sa choroba nedala liečiť. Starý otec z nej takmer úplne oslepol. Nebol úplne slepý, ale takmer nič nevidel. Chodieval o paličke. Potom mu naši zohnali vo Vrútkach byt, kde sa presťahval spolu s druhou manželkou. Starali sa o nich mama spolu so sestrou Ruženou. Keďže vtedy starí ľudia nedostávai dôchodok, podporovali ich moji rodičia. Na meno druhej manželky starého otca sa už vôbec nepamätám. Rozprávala však maďarsky, pričom na Orave sa rozprávalo hlavne slovensky, aj medzi židovským obyvateľstvom. Starý otec ešte ovládal nemčinu a myslím, že aj maďarčinu. Obaja boli počas vojny deportovaní a zahynuli.

Starý otec mal so svojou prvou manželkou tri dievčatá. Moju matku, Sidy. Jej sestry sa volali Lina a Ružena. Z jeho druhého manželstva sa narodil syn Zoli. Lina sa vydala do Poľska za holiča do mesta Nowy Targ. Myslím, že sa volal Löwenberg. Ružena sa nikdy nevydala. Ostala stará dievka.

So starým otcom vo Vrútkach som trávil viacej času, ako s tým druhým zo Žiliny. Ale žiadny zvláštny vzťah sme si nevybudovali. Býval v byte jedna plus jedna, torý bol zariadený starým nábytkom. Z môjho vtedajšieho pohľadu nič moc. Vodu už mal samozrejme zavedenú. To, že koľko Židov žilo vo Vrútkach, neviem. Bola tam však celkom slušná komunita, s peknou synagógou. V tomto meste som mal dokonca aj bar micva. Starí rodičia z oboch strán boli neologickí Židia 1, to znamená, že veľké sviatky sa v rodine držali, šábes už pomenej a kóšer vôbec nie.

Otec sa volal Heinrich Goldberger. Narodil sa 17. júla 1898 v Nitre. Po vojne sa premenoval na Galík. To bola vtedy taká móda. Zomrel v roku 1978, mal presne osemdesiat rokov. Otec získal základné vzdelanie. Pracoval ako obchodný cestujúci. Týmto zamestnaním sa živil dovtedy, kým sa neosamostatnil. Neskôr si založil vlastný obchod v Žiline. Neviem kedy presne sa sťahoval otec do Žiliny, ale učinil tak kvôli práci a mojej matke. Pracovala totiž pre tú istú firmu ako môj otec. Bol to veľkoobchod Mendl a syn. Tam sa rodičia spoznali a neskôr sa vzali, lebo čakali mňa. Matka sa narodila v roku 1900 v Trstenej na Orave. To, že kedy zomrela neviem. Bola deportovaná a už sme sa o nej nič nedozvedeli.

Finančné zabezpečenie našej rodiny by som zaradil, medzi chudobu a strednú vrstvu. Keď boli zamestnaní u toho Mendla, mali celkom slušný plat. Keď sa otec osamostatnil, založil obchod so zmiešaným tovarom. Vzal si hromadu pôžičiek a potom prišiel krach na burze Wall Street a nastala kríza 2. Nebolo práce, prišiel exekútor a bol koniec. Ak sa dobre pamätám, otec mal ako prvý na okolí elektrický krájač na šunku a údeniny. Žiaľ, už po krachu burzy to nemal z čoho splácať. Okrem otca pracovala v obchode moja matka a ďalší zamestnanec, ktorý vykonával hrubé práce. Napríklad jazdil pre múku a pracoval v sklade.

Čo sa otcových politických názorov týka, ťažko povedať. Viete on sa so mnou ako s dieťaťom o takých veciach nerozprával. Predpokladám však, že bol sociálnym demokratom. Neviem to s určitosťou, len som to tak vydedukoval. Neviem o tom, že by bol otec členom nejakých spolkov a niečoho podobného. Tiež si spomínam, že za mlada slúžil ako vojak v 1. svetovej vojne ale nič bližšie k tomu neviem povedať. Vždy spomínal, že bol na vojne ale k nejakým konkrétnym historkám sa nedostal. Ak by sme sa mali rozprávať o otcových záľubách, tak on sa hlavne venoval obchodu. Okrem toho bol viac-menej sukničkár, to bol jeho koníček.

Rodičia sa medzi sebou zhovárali maďarským jazykom. S nami deťmi rozprávali slovensky. No o otcovi by som povedal, že bol sukničkár. To viete, mamu si bral preto, lebo ma už spolu čakali. Mama bola miernej povahy, dalo by sa povedať až uzavretej. Sama sa dokonca neukázala ani na ulici.

V Žiline sme bývali na viacerých miestach, podľa toho ako upadala naša finančná situácia. Vždy sme menili byt za lacnejší. Najprv sme bývali v centre nedaleko námestia, tam som sa narodil. Potom sme bývali smerom na celulózku. Neskôr sme sa presťahovali do časti mesta, kde bola budova vtedajšej elektrárne. Napokon sme museli prejsť do časti s mestskými činžiakmi, kde bolo najlacnejšie bývanie. Odtiaľ sme sa sťahovali do Vrútok. Z prvého bytu si už veľa nepamätám. Viem, že tam bola jedna veľká izba a ja som po nej jazdil dookola na trojkolke. Na ostatné miestnosti si už nespomeniem. Zo začiatku sme mali aj slúžky, ktoré varili a upratovali. Bývali spolu s nami približne do roku 1937. Vystriedalo sa ich viacero, takže si ich ani veľmi nepamätám. Ale keď som sa narodil, mal som dokonca aj kojnú. K žiadnej som si nevybudoval bližší vzťah. Že či sme mali za susedov Židov? My sme mali zakaždým niekoho iného. Veď stále sme sa len sťahovali. Ale boli to väčšinou nežidia. Rodičia nemali veľa blízkych priateľov. No tak otec mal nejaké známe, ženské, vdovy a ja neviem, niečo také. Tam sme občas chodili a inak nejak extra kamarát, tak to nemali. Tak to si nepamätám.

Sviatky sa v našej rodine nedržali veľmi prísne. V piatok mamička zapálila svičky a potom sa podávalo hlavne pečené kura. Neskôr, keď už otec nemal obchod a stal sa z neho obchodný cestujúci, v pondelok odišiel ale na piatok sa vždy vrátil domov. Jazdil po celom Slovensku. Predával múku pre rôzne mlyny. Do synagógy však veľmi nechodieval, to len na veľké sviatky. My sme navštevovali veľkú neologickú synagógu v Žiline. V Žiline žilo pred vojnou veľa Židov. Na sviatky bola veľká synagóga plná, napriek tomu, že za miesto sa muselo platiť a nie málo. Každý si tam platil svoje miesto.

Dodržiavali sme napríklad Roš hašana [židovský Nový rok – pozn. red.]. V tento deň sme sa doma navečerali a potom sa išlo modliť do synagógy. Inak si z toho večera nič zláštne nepamätám. Na Jom kipur [Deň zmierenia. Najslávnostnejšia udalosš v židovskom kalendáry – pozn. red.] sme sa potom postili, ale keď som niečo našiel, tak som si z toho uštipol. Jom kipur som však mal najradšej zo všetkých sviatkov. Všetko bolo biela a pôsobilo to tak slávnostne. No ale hlavne to, že sme sa na dvore synagógy zišli so všetkými kamarátmi. Vzadu vedľa synagógy bola židovská škola s veľkým dvorom a tam sme vyvádzali. Rodičia zatiaľ sedeli v synagóge. Občas sme sa tam aj my objavili a potom sme opäť zmizli. Chanuku [Chanuka: sviatok svetiel, tiež pripomína povstanie Makabejcov a opätovné vysvätenie chrámu v Jeruzaleme – pozn. red.] sme tiež ešte ako tak držali, hlavne sme v tom čase šli aj do synagógy ale napríklad Sukot [Sviatok stanov. Po celý týždeň, kedy sviatok prebieha, panuje jedinečná sviatočná atmosféra, pričom najpodstatnejšie je prebývať v suke – pozn. red.] a Purim [Purim: sviatok radosti. Ako hovorí kniha Ester, sviatok ustanovil Mordechaj na pamiatku toho, ako Božia prozreteľnosť zachránila Židov v perzskej ríši pred úplným vyhladením – pozn. red.] už vôbec nie. Dodržiavali sme ešte aj Pesach [Pesach: pripomína odchod izraelcov z egyptského zajatia a vyznačuje sa mnohými predpismy a zvykmi. Hlavný je zákaz konzumácie všetkého kvaseného – pozn. red.]. Večer sa čítalo z Hagady [Hagada: kniha zaznamenávajúca postupnosť domácej bohoslužby pri sédery. Hagada je v podstate prerozprávaním príbehu o východe Židov z Egypta podľa biblického podania – pozn. red.] a bol prestretý sviatočný stôl. Ale to ostatné, že by sme nejedli chlieb, tak to nie. Macesy boli, to je pravda ale jedli sme aj chlieb.

V meste boli aj ortodoxní Židia 3, síce ich bolo oveľa menej, no a oni držali všetko. S ortodoxnými Židmi som sa stretával aj ja. Dokonca ma otec poslal do ješívy v Žiline. Vyučoval nás taký malý zlostný chlapík. Dlho som sa však v tejto škole nevzdelával. Totiž moja mama už na tradície veľa nedala a doma sme nejedli kóšer 4. Preto bolo pre ňu normálne, že mi na olovrant zabalila žemľu so šunkou. Ten malý chlapík to uvidel, priskočil ku mne, vyviedol na dvor na „nakopal mi na zadok“. Povedal, aby som sa tam už viac neukazoval. To bol koniec môjmu náboženskému vzdelávaniu. Inak mne to vtedy ani nenapadlo, že čo som s tou šunkou spáchal.

Ako som už spomínal. Otec pochádzal z Nitry. Mal štyroch súrodencov, Július, každý ho volal Gyula. Ďalším bol Rudolf, nazývaný Rudi, Jozef a sestra Cecília. Najstarším otcovým bratom bol Jozef, on viedol obchod po starom otcovi. S rodinou žili v dome starého otca. Jeho manželka sa volala Malvína. Mali syna Tibora a dcéru Magdu. Obe deti prežili vojnu. Tibor sa vysťahoval do Ekvádora a Magda do Švédska.

Gyula bol približne o dva roky starší ako otec, to znamená, že sa mohol narodiť v roku 1896. Býval v Nitre spolu so svojou rodinou. Vlastnil obchod s rádiami, kde tie rádiá aj opravovali. Mal dvoch synov, Michala a Pistu [Pista, prezývka od mena Štefan – pozn. red.]. Vychádzali sme spolu celkom dobre. Keď som bol na prázdninách v Nitre, často som ich navštevoval. Chodili sme sa spolu kúpať alebo sme robili túry na vrch Zobor [Zobor: vrch pri meste Nitra (nadmorská výška 588 m), v pohorí Tríbeč – pozn. red.]. V Nitre bolo v tom čase kúpalisko pod hradom. Neviem, či to tam ešte stále je. Možno to už zastavali. Gyulova manželka sa volala Vilma, rodená Braunová. Bola to veľká dáma. Pochádzala z lepších kruhov. Bývali spolu na takzvanej Špitálskej ulici. V dome kde bývali mal Gyula aj obchod a dieľňu.

Tretí otcov brat sa volal Rudolf, čiže Rudi. On je o nejakých päť rokov starší ako otec. Vyštudoval stavebnú školu a pracoval ako architekt, v tom čase pán architekt. Rudi mal dvoch synov, Walter a Babi. Okrem nich mal ešte dcéru. Jej meno si už nepamätám. Bola trošku telesne postihnutá, mala menší hrb. Napokon však vyštudovala medicínu a stala sa lekárkou. Meno jeho manželky si už nepamätám. Počas vojny sa dostali do Terezína. Celá rodina prežila holokaust a po vojne utiekli do terajšieho Izraela.

Jediná otcova sestra sa volala Cecília. Vydala sa za pána Horna, ktorý mal v Nitre na Hlavnej ulici holičský salón. Obývali byt nad tým salónom s prístavbou smerom na dvor. Mali to zariadené celkom slušne. Jej manžel žiaľ veľmi skoro umrel. Mali jedného syna, volal sa Alexander, čiže Sanyi.

Druhú svetoú vojnu prežil len jeden z otcových súrodencov, Rudi. Ten sa potom spolu s rodinou vysťahoval v roku 1946 alebo 1947 do Palestíny. Po niekoľkých rokoch sa vrátili, znášali dobre tie klimatické podmienky. Ostatní otcovi súrodenci počas vojny zahynuli.

Mamička mala troch súrodencov. Dve sestry a jedného nevlastného brata. Najstaršia mamina sestra sa volala Lina. Vydala sa do poľského mesta Nowy Targ za holiča menom Löwenberg. Ja som toho pána ani nepoznal. Viem, že sa im narodili dve deti, ktoré s Linou počas vojny zahynuli. Prežil len ich otec, zachránil sa kdesi v Rusku.

Ďalšia mamina sestra Ružena tiež umrela počas vojny. Pred vojnou žila istý čas s nami v Žiline a potom i vo Vrútkach, kam sme sa presťahovali. S tetou Ruženou sme celkom dobre vychádzali. Znamená to asi toľko, že žiadne srdečné vzťahy to neboli ale ani napriek sme si nikdy nerobili. O mamičkinom najmladšom bratovi, volal sa Zoli, veľa povedať neviem. Bol o dosť starší ako ja, tak sme sa veľmi nekamarátili. Zomrel spolu s ostatnými počas holokaustu.

Dětství

Ja, Alexander Gajdos [rodený Goldberger], som sa narodil 8. apríla 1924 v Žiline. Meno som si nechal zmeniť začiatkom päťdesiatych rokov. Že prečo som si vybral práve priezvisko Gajdoš? To ani tak nezáležalo na mne. Volal som sa tak ešte v nemeckom zajatí, k čomu sa ešte dostaneme. No a pri zmene som musel uviesť tri mená. Nadiktoval som Gajdoš, Gordon a to tretie si ani nepamätám a úrad mi vybral Gajdoš.

Ako malé dieťa som chodil do škôlky. U nás sa to volalo óvoda. Mal som celkom dobrú pani učiteľku. Dokonca do tej óvody som chodil rád. Nejaké extra spomienky na tú škôlku nemám. Pamätám sa len to, ako sme sa hrávli na dvore. Potom som prešiel na obecnú židovskú školu v Žiline. Bolo tam päť ročníkov – od prvej triedy po piatu. Chodili sme tam spolu chlapci a dievčatá. Chodilo tam pomerne dosť kresťanských detí, pretože to bola lepšia škola ako ostatné. Vyslovene som nemal rád matematiku a nemčinu. V škole som mal najradšej telocvik. Mali sme jedného vynikajúceho učiteľa, ktorý to s nami vedel. Toho sme mali naozaj veľmi radi. Samozrejme veľa sme cvičili a hrali hlavne hádzanú. Tá bola jednoduchá a na dvore stačili dve bránky. Dobité ruky i nohy samozrejme patrili k hre. Náš telocvikár sa volal Braun. Chodievali sme spolu aj na krátke výlety po okolí mesta. Hlavne na Dubeň a na okolité hrady. V židovskej škole sa samozrejme museli navštevovať aj hodiny judaizmu. To neexistovalo, aby sa na ne nechodilo. Náš vzťah k náboženskej výchove bol asi taký, že sme sa stále s rabínom hrali. Na jeho meno sa už nepamätám. Bol to starý pán a my sme mu vyvádzali strašné veci. Napríklad si pamätám, že sme mali zvonček a v polovici hodiny sme zazvonili, niekto vykríkol „zvonilo“. On na to „keď zvonilo, tak zvonilo“ a bol koniec hodiny. Na chodbe nás stretol riaditeľ, bol to obrovský chlap s trstenicou, ešte sa nás pýtal kam ideme. My sme mu povedali, že rabín povedal, že zvonilo. On povedal: „Veď ešte nemohlo zvoniť.“

Riaditeľ používal aj telesné tresty. Napríklad s nami chodil aj jeden zaostalejší chlapec a ten vždy niečo vyviedol dievčatám. Napríklad kým cvičili, tak im zobral šaty zo šatne a tak. Mimo školy sme boli partia židovských chlapcov, všade sme spolu chodili a trávili spolu veľa času. Boli sme tak piati. Okrem nás bola ešte jedna partia židovských chlapcov a tak sme proti sebe bojovali, hádzali kamene a tak. Mali sme asi desať, jedenásť rokov.

Vo Vrútkach som sa pripravoval aj na obrad bar micva [Bar micva: „syn prikázania“, židovský chlapec, ktorý dosiahol trinásť rokov. Obrad, pri ktorom je chlapec prehlásený bar micvou, od tejto chvíle musí plniť všetky prikázania predpísané Tórou – pozn. red.]. Otec mi zjednal vyučovanie u istého rabína. Bol to mladý človek nižšej postavy. Pochádzal z Čiech a patril k neológom. Ten ma učil. Išlo hlavne o to, aby som sa naučil text, ktorý mám prečítať počas obradu. Iné sa tam po mne ani nechcelo. No a do bar micva som sa to nejako naučil. Samotná bar micva prebiahala v synagóge vo Vrútkach. Predvolali ma k Tóre, prečítal som text a to bolo všetko. Na nejakú oslavu doma si ani nespomínam, a nespomínam si ani na to, čo som pri tejto príležitosti dostal nejaké darčeky.

Vo veku mojich štrnástich som začal pociťovať protižidovské nálady. Vychodil som päť tried obecnej židovskej školy a potom som sa dostal do gymnázia 5. Z gymnázia ma vylúčili v tretej triede, potom som už nesmel chodiť v Žiline do školy. Ale inak sa nič zvláštne nedialo, len že som nemohol chodiť do školy. Že by nás nejak inak diskriminovali, tak to nebolo. Akurát tí sopľoši na ulici vykrikovali: „Žid, smrad, kolovrat!“, ale tie nadávky sme poznali aj predtým.

Práve v tom období sme sa sťahovali zo Žiliny do Vrútok, kde som nastúpil do štvrtej meštianky. Tde priamo vo Vrútkach ma na školu nevzali. Musel som každý deň dochádzať vlakom do neďalekej obce Varín. Židom som tam bol iba ja. V podstate si ma nikto nevšímal. Všetci učitelia boli v Hlinkovej garde 6, dokonca aj riaditeľ, pre nich som ako keby ani neexistoval. Sedával so v prvej lavici, ale ani raz ma nevyvolali, napriek tomu som dostal na vysvedčenie samé trojky. Bolo to v roku 1939. So spolužiakmi som vychádzal dobre, tam nebol žiadny problém. Bolo medi nimi aj pár Čechov, ktorých nevyhnali 7 zo Slovenska. Priatelil som sa najmä s tými, ktorí spolu so mnou dochádzali. Boli sme štyria, ktorí sme jazli vlakom z Vrútok do Varína a večer naspäť.

Za války

Okrem mňa sa rodičom narodila moja sestra Viera. Narodila sa v Žiline v roku 1927.  Vychádzali sme spolu dobre, ale nie až natoľko aby sme chodili spolu von. Každý z nás mal svojich kamarátov. Sestra žiaľ vojnu neprežila. Do lágru išla spolu s mamou, ale vôbec nevieme, kde zmizli. Napriek tomu, že sme po nich pátrali, stopa sa stratila. V priebehu vojny nás celú rodinu internovali v zbernom tábore v Žiline v roku 1942 a boli sme tam do vypuknutia Slovenského národného povstania v roku 1944 8. V tom období, medzi rokom 1942 a 1944, keď nešli žiadne deportácie 9, pracovali sme v tom žilinskom tábore.

V tábore bol v tom období celkom dobrý život. Chodili sme pracovať na výstavbu športového štadióna v Žiline. Aj môj otec tam pracoval. Štadión sa nachádzal neďaleko rieky Váh. Nebola to až taká ťažká práca. Dozorcovia, gardisti, z tábora nás tam doviedli. Oni potom niekde zaliezli, alebo sa rozišli na pivo. Bol tam jeden človek, ktorý nás navygoval a to bol slušný chlap. Mama pracovala v tábore v kuchyni a sestra nerobila nič.

Život bol v tom čase naozaj znesiteľný. Dokonca som chodieval aj do mesta. Ani hviezdu som nenosil 10, v živote som ju nemal. Nikdy som sa ani nedopočul o prípade, že by bol za to niekto niekoho udal. My, ktorí sme boli zo žilinského lágra, sme hviezdu nenosili. V tábre som býval s ďalšími piatimi chlapmi. Sem tam niekto utiekol, ale veľmi sa neutekalo. O tom, čo sa deje v Poľsku sme sa dozvedali od železničiarov, ktorí sprevádzali transporty po hranice s Poľskom. Železničiari nám priniesli správu o krematóriách v Osvienčime. Myslím, že od nich sa to rozšírilo.

Počas povstania 8 sa otec, matka a sestra ukryli v lesoch v okolí Rajeckých Teplíc. Tam ich potom všetkých chytili. Otca previezli niekam inam, kde mamu a sestru a tak sa mu podarilo prežiť. Otec sa dostal do Sachsenhausenu a potom do Buchenwaldu. No a matku so sestrou vzali do ženského tábora v Ravensbrücku a tam sa ich stopa stratila. Ja som sa počas povstania pridal k armáde. V Žiline bola vojenská posádka, no a celá táto posádka sa stiahla k Martinu, do Strečna. Pred vojnou som bol členom mládežnického hnutia Hašomer Hacair 11, ale nie preto som sa pridal k armáde. Človek sa pridával tam, kde bola nádej na prežitie.

Na Strečne sme boli v nejakej obrane. Kopali sme zákopy a mali za úlohu podržať záložnú líniu. Samozrejme neboli sme len pasívnymi pozorovateľmi. Raz sme dostali rozkaz zaútočiť na železničnú trať s tunelom. Ako sme sa tam približovali, zrazu sa objavil Tiger [Tiger: nemecký tank, sériovo vyrábaný od roku 1942 – pozn. red.] a začal po nás páliť. Stiahli sme sa do zákopov. Boli tam s nami francúzski partizáni, ktorí boli na Slovensku v zajatí a počas povstania sa im podarilo utiecť. Viac o ich osude neviem, veľmi som sa s nimi nestretával. V našom odiely sme boli len dvaja Židia, ja a môj vzdialený bratranec Elemér Diamant. Žial neviem, či prežil vojnu, lebo potom sa naše cesty rozišli.

Časom sme útočili na nejakých Nemcov ukrytých v lesíku. Tam po mne začal nejaký Nemec strieľať. Žiaľ aj ma trafil. Prestrelil mi rameno, guľka našťastie vyšla druhou stranou. Zranenie bolo pomerne ťažké, ale dostali ma z neho. Najprv ma z miesta, kde ma zasiahla guľka odtiahli. Ťahali ma po zemi a na bezpečnom mieste so mnou vybehli na cestu. Po čase pre mňa prišla sanitka a vzala ma do nemocnice v Martine. Tam som bol jeden deň, pretože Nemci prerazili frontu a granáty dopadali až na nemocnicu. Rýchlo nás evakuovali do mesta Sliač.

Povstalecké územie bolo už úplne malé. V podstate len miesta v okolí obcí Banská Bystrica, Sliač a Brezno. Všetko ostatné už bolo buť obsadené alebo obkľúčené. V Sliači sa ma opýtali, či môžem chodiť. Keďže chodiť som vedel, prepustli ma z nemocnice. Ešte som sa tam stretol s Elemérom, pretože on bol tiež v nemocnici. Počas bojov pri meste Vrútky sa dostal do nejakej mely a utrpel z toho šok. Oboch nás prepustili takmer súčasne. Ja som si to namieril na hlavný stan partizánov a on povedal, že už tam nepôjde, radšej vymyslí niečo iné. Tak sme sa rozišli a od tej doby sme sa nestretli. Z nemocnice som odišiel do Banskej Bystrice, na hlavný štáb. Tam ma vzali k strážnemu oddielu. Držal som stráž pred hlavným štábom v Banskej Bystrici na hlavnom námestí.

Nemci sa tlačili aj do Banskej Bystrice. Evakuovalo sa do hôr, Staré Hory [Staré Hory: horská obec v Starohorskej doline, okres Banská Bystrica – pozn. red.], Donovaly [Donovaly: horská obec situovaná medzi pohoriami Veľká Fatra a Starohorské Vrchy, okres Banská Bystrica – pozn. red.], Kozí Chrbát [Kozí Chrbát: v súčasnosti lesná rezervácia ležiaca na severnej strane Nízkych Tatier – pozn. red.] a tak ďalej až cez Chabenec [Chabenec (1955 m): je mohutný horský masív v Nízkych Tatrách – pozn. red.]. Na tom Chabenci napríklad zmrzol Šverma 12. Mnoho z nás tam vtedy dostalo dyzentériu [dyzentéria: vážna infekčná črevná choroba. Prejavuje sa ťažkou hnačkou s prímesou krvi a horúčkou, ktorú sprevádzajú bolesti brucha – pozn. red.]. Všetkých, ktorí sme ju dostali nás ubytovali zvlášť v jednej zemľanke [zemľanka: podzemný úkryt, obyčajne vojenský – pozn. red.]. Odtiaľ nás však poslal preč jeden miestny občan so slovami: „Tu nemôžete byť, my vás nemôžeme živiť, sami nemáme čo žrať!“ Oznámili nám, že nás vezmú na kraj lesa, kde sú dediny a sami si budeme musieť niečo zohnať od miestnych ľudí. V tom čase som sa zoznámil s jedným Čechom z Ostravy. Na jeho meno sa už žiaľ nepamätám. S ním sme to odvtedy spolu „ťahali“. Odviedli nás na kraj lesa a povedali rozchod. Tam nám oznámili, že sme stále vedení ako partizáni z odielu, ktorého meno si už tiež nepamätám. Povedali nám aj, že  keď niečo prezradíme, tak si nás nájdu.

Celé sa to udialo na prelome novembra a decembra 1944. S mojim českým kamarátom sme si našli celkom slušné miesto a jedným kopcom a vykopali si buker. Najbližšia dedina bola z toho miesta vzdialená na tri hodiny chôdze. Tak sme si povedali, že tu ostaneme a každý večer sa vyberieme do dediny, vyžobrať si nejaké jedlo a zásoby. Pretože, ak by napadlo veľa snehu, aby sme neumreli hladom. Našťastie v tom období ešte nemol sneh, pretože sme sa nachádzali kdesi v Nízkych Tatrách [Nízke Tatry: 80 km dlhé pohorie nachádzajúce sa na Slovensku – pozn. red.]. Takto sme denne chodili do dediny. Vždy sme sanajedli. Niekde nám dali fazuľu, inde zemiaky a tak. Pokiaľ to bolo možné, vzali sme si aj zásoby. Keď sme už mali dostatok zásob, povedali sme si: „No, teraz sa pôjdeme najesť naposledy!“

Tak sme sa išli naposledy najesť. Zabúchali sme u jedných na dvere a otvorila veľmi slušná selka. Povedala: „Ó vy chudáci!“ Hneď nám dala večeru. Potom si všimla naše oblečenie a so slovami: „Veď vás žerú vši, ja vám to vyperem“, nás nechala vyzliecť a uložila do postele, do perín! My sme jej povedali nech nás zobudí akonáhle sa začne rozodnievať. Na čo odvetila: „Samozrejme, samozrejme“. No a naraz buchoty v dedine. Nemci hulákali. Veci sme už mali vyprané, suché a rýchlo sme sa obliekli. Ešte sme jej hovorili „Prečo ste nás nevzbudila?“ „Mne vás bolo tak ľúto, vy ste tak krásne spali.“ Vylietli sme z baráku a hneď na námestí jedna hliadka s guľometom, na druhom konci ďalšia hliadka s guľometom. Nemci už chodili z baráku do baráku. Tak sme vyleteli zadom. Obišli sme námestie a dostali sa do úhozu. Už sme boli vonku z dediny. Naraz sa oproti nám objavili dvaja Nemci. Debili tam museli ísť práve tým úhozom a my dvaja dotrhaní civili im rovno naproti. Už sme sa minuli, už sme boli asi desať krokov od seba a naraz nás zastavili. Niečo sa im nezdalo a jeden z nich zakričal: „Hej partizán!“ Tak nás zobrali. Zhromaždili nás na námestí v strede dediny. Aby sme nešli len tak naprázdno, každému naložili s nábojmi. Takže sme mali čo niesť cez ten sneh, ktorý medzičasom napadal.

Napokon nás posadili do vlaku a odviezli do väzenia v Banskej Bystrici. Tam sme boli od začiatku decembra do konca februára. No a tam v tej väznici sme vegetovali tie dva, tri mesiace. Občas niekedy kravál, niekoho vyhnali na Kremničku 13. Vyháňali ich psami, gulometmi. Potom bolo týždeň ticho. Potom ich zase nahromaždili a zase ich potom išli vystrielať. No a my sme tam stále vegetovali v tej izbe. Bol tam jeden Ukrajinec, ja a ešte dvaja Židia. Nevedeli s určitosťou, že sme Židia ale mysleli si to. Naraz nás koncom februára vyviedli a prišiel nejaký Slovák, s vysokou šaržou. To boli Slováci. Strážila nás slovenská väzenská stráž. Krútil hlavou, že ako je možné, že sme stále tam. Oznámili nám: „Tí, čo tu boli pred vami, tak tých všetkých už pozabíjali v Kremničke!“ Na našu izbu akosi zabudli. Tak otvorili dvere a pýtali sa „čo tu robíte? Už tu nemáte byť!“ No my sme hovorili: „Nemáme tu byť?“ Podľa papierov malo byť celé väzenie prázdne. Kartotéky sa už ničili, lebo oslobodzovacia armáda už dobíjala blízke Brezno a oni už chceli evakuovať aj Banskú Bystricu.

Nás si teda zapísali a odišli, proste týždeň pokoj. Potom prišiel znovu iný a zase si nás zapísal. No a potom za tri, alebo štyri dni prišiel esesák s tým, že ideme na výsluch. Cez ulicu bol banskobystrický súd a tam mali sídlo. Tak tam nás odviedli na chodbu. Potom prišiel ďalší, pýtal si meno. Nadiktoval som Gajdoš, narodený v Žiline. Zapísal si to a odišiel.

Zachvíľku prišiel nejaký vysoký dôstojník, sudeťák 14, rozprával česky a hovorí: „Ja vám teraz dám prepúšťacie papiere. Bežte domov. Nie aby ste bežali na východ! Lebo, keď vás tam uvidia naši vojaci takto otrhane, tak vás postrielajú.“ Tak sme dostali papier a išli sme. S tým kamarátom z Čiech sme si povedali: „Čo budeme robiť? Samozrejme vybali sme sa na východ. Hneď v prvej dedine za Banskou Bystricou nás pristavil jeden chlap. My sme mu ukázali papiere, že nás práve prepustili a že sa potrebujeme dostať k partizánskej jednotke. Tak dobre, povedal. Tu máte večeru, vyspíte sa a skoro ráno vás prevediem k hlavnej ceste a ukážem vám, kadiaľ máte ísť.

Či sa tým ľuďom dalo dôverovať? Čo iného nám zostávalo? On vyzeral skutočne tak seriózne. Ráno nás previedol na cestu a ukázal smer. Mali sme sa dostať do obce Priechod, kde sa nachádzali maďarské jednotky, ktoré sa odtrhli od Nemcov. My sme teda šli tým smerom. Po čase sa kamarát potreboval vysrať. Tak si vyliezol na pole, poobzeral sa dookola a uvidel nejakú postavu v bielom ako tam stojí a pozerá sa na nás. Dali sme sa na útek. Bežali sme otvoreným poľom. Keď sme sa zastavili, že už sme dosť ďaleko, pred nami sme zbadali zástup nemeckých vojakov. Zbadali nás! Nemohli sme robiť nič iné, len im kráčať naproti. Samozrejme nás zajali a odiedli do nejakej dediny. Predviedli nás pred veliteľa so slovami, že nás chytili a buď budeme partizáni alebo banditi a treba nás zlikvidovať. Veliteľ sa nás pýtal, či rozprávame nemecky. Keďže som si niečo pamätal zo školy, tak som mu povedal, že nás práve pustili. Ukázali sme mu papiere. Potom sa začal hádať s ďalším vojakom, či nás zlikvidujú alebo nie. Vojak bol za likvidáciu, veliteľ proti. Napokon veliteľ rozkázal, že nasledujúcu noc budeme spať s ním v jednej izbe. Keď sme ostali sami, nám po nemecky hovorí: „Musíte spať so mnou, lebo on je nacista a ja za neho neručím.“

Na druhý deň nás poslal s vojakom späť do Banskej Bystrice, aby sa presvedčil, či nás skutočne pustili. Te človek, sudetský Nemec, ktorý nám vypísal papiere nás zbadal. Podišiel k nám a začal rozprávať česky, aby mu nás sprievodca nerozumel. „Vy dvaja, čo som vám povedal, že máte ísť rovno na západ a že sa nemáte motať!“ Nemecký vojak samozrejme ničomu nerozumel a hlásil, že sme banditi a máme falošné papiere. On mu hovorí „Vy hovoríte o mojom podpise, že je falošný?!“ On mu tak vynadal, že až! Ešte aj nám sa ušlo, že: „Čo čumíte, okamžite sa strate, ak vás ešte raz privezú, potom bude koniec!“ Tak sme zase vybehli von. Za nami vybehol ten nemecký vojak, sadol na voz a „utekal“ rýchlo preč.

My sme sa opäť vybrali tou istou cestou ako včera, napokon už sme ju ako tak poznali. Na druhý krát sa nám podarilo dostať do deniny Priechod. Hneď nás tam zadržala stráž. Pýtali sa, čo tu chceme. Povedali sme, že ideme za partizánmi. Tam sa nás ujal nejaký chlap v civile. Rozprával slovensky aj maďarsky. Povedali sme mu, že by sme sa radi pridali k nejakej partizánskej jednotke. No tak dobre ale najprv sa navečerajte. Tí Maďari sa ešte mali dobre, mali buchty s makom. Tak sme sa tam nažrali!

Územie, na ktorom sme sa ocitli bolo slobodné a to tým, že maďarská vojenská jednotka sa odtrhla od Nemcov. Nakoniec sa dostala reč k tomu, kde budeme spať. Oznámili nám, že nad dedinou je hájovňa s partizánskym oddielom. Bolo tam pár partizánov a Maďarov. Presunuli sme sa do tej hájovne. Tam sme dostali ďalšiu večeru, zase nejaké buchty a dobroty. Vyfasovali sme zelenú československú uniformu a flintu. Napokon sme sa pobrali spať. Mohlo nás tam byť asi päťdesiat, šesťdesiat ľudí. Ráno, mohlo byť tak päť hodín, nás zobudili výkriky a streľba. Dedinu Priechod ráno obkľúčili Nemci. Použili lesť. Keďže tam boli maďarskí vojaci, Nemci poslali napred iných maďarských vojakov, ktorí boli na ich strane. Tým sa podarilo dostať k strážam, pretože na ich výzvu odpoveali maďarským jazykom. Takto stráže odzbrojili a vošli do dediny. Ako ľudia vybiehali z domov, Nemci ich rovno strieľali, ako zajace. Časť mužov pozbierali a vyniesli na koniec dediny pod strmý kopec. Kázali im utekať. Ako utekali, všetkých postrieľali. Ujsť sa podarilo len jednému nemeckému chlapcovi, mohol mať tak šesťnásť, sedemnásť rokov. Tento chlapec sa ešte predtým pridal k partizánom. Bol jediným z mužov, komu sa podarilo prežiť. Nemci napokon dedinu vypálili. Niektorým ženám sa to podarilo prežiť a oni potom zostali žiť v tej vyplienenej dedine.

Odstupom času sme sa dozvedeli, že zradcom bol chlap, ktorý sa nás ujal po príchode do dediny a nakŕmil buchtami. Ak by nás večer nebol poslal hore do hájovne k partizánom, už by som tu nebol. Nás defakto zachránil. Jeho úlohou bolo zháňať zásoby a zároveň pracoval aj pre Nemcov ako agent. Nakoniec aj jeho chytli Rusi a popravili ho. My sme ostali istý čas v hájovni. Odtiaľ sme chodievali na hliadky k okolitým dedinám, napríklad k dedine Podkonice a tak. Všade už boli Nemci. Len sme počuli ako pri nás vŕzga sneh. Pretože ich hliadky prišli až na kraj dedín, k lesu a potom sa opäť stiahli. Napriek tomu, že od nás boli len na niekoľko krokov, nemohli sme s nimi ísť do boja. Bolo by to pre nás beznádejné. Vedeli sme, že by to bolo beznádejné. Cez Podkonice viedla aj hlavná ústupová cesta Nemcov smerom na Ružomberok. My sme sa z hájovne postupne presunuli do bunkrov v lese, kde sme držali hliadky. Odtiaľ sme koncom februára, začiatkom marca, pokračovali cez Chabenec a Nízke Tatry, do Brezna. Brezno už bolo oslobodené. Zdržiavali sa tam rumunskí vojaci. Tam nás rozdelili. Maďarskí vojaci, ktorí boli s nami, šli dole na juh. Česi a Slováci pochodovali smerom na Poprad. Pešo z Brezna do Popradu [priama cestná vzdialenosť medzi mestami Brezno a Poprad je približne  90 km – pozn. red.]!

Po príchode do Popradu som sa hlásil do Prvého československého armádneho zboru. Tam som bol ovedený do poddôsojníckej školy. Dostal som peknú uniformu, zbraň a tam som slúžil do júna 1945. Poddôstojníckuškolu v armádnom zbore som absolvoval s hodnosťou slobodník. Odvtedy som sa ešte prepracoval na podplukovníka československej armády. Po škole som odišiel s ostatnými vojakmi, v rámci výcviku, pešo z Popradu do Martina [priama cestná vzdialenosť medzi mestami Brezno a Poprad je približne 130 km – pozn. red.]. Kráčali sme tri, alebo štyri dni. V Martine sme sa stretli s prezidentom Benešom 15, ktorý prišiel z Košíc 16. Tam sme nastúpili na autá a poslali nás ako zálohu na Moravu, kde sa ešte bojovalo. Vojakom pred nami sa však vždy darilo frontu preraziť a tak sme sa my priamo bojov nezúčastnili. Takto sme šli za frontou, až do Prahy.

V Prahe sme ako vojaci chodili na „cvičák“. Nacvičovali sme napríkld boj v uliciach mesta. Bolo to na Bílej hore. Tam vybehovali babičky s maskami a pokrikovali: „Ježiš Mária, Nemci sa opäť vrátili.“ Oni nevedeli, že je to výcvik, a že používame len slepé náboje. V uliciach bol rachot a babičky sa preto chceli dostať do úkrytu. My sme im hovorili: „Babi, to je len tak, to nie je skutočné.“ Koncom júna nás poslali späť na Slovensko, do vojenského útvaru v Nitre, odkiaľ ma potom prepustili do civilu.

Počas môjho pôsobenia v Prahe som kontaktoval bývalého starostu Vrútok. Zároveň bol zástupcom veliteľa Hlinkovej gardy v meste, ale aj náš ochráca a rodinný priateľ. On mi povedal, že otec sa vrátil a žije v Žiline. Tak to som vedel. Počas môjho pobytu v Nitre som sa ubytoval u otcovho brata, Rudiho. Prežil vojnu v Terezíne 17. Spal som u neho na žehliacej doske. Po niekoľkých dňoch som sa vybral v nákladnom vagóne z Nitry do Žiliny.

V Žiline sme sa stretli s otcom, ktorý am už mal vlastný podnájom. Na obedy sme chodievali k jeho kamarátkam. Raz k jednej a potom zase k druhej... Z nášho majetku sa ná nepodarilo zachrániť absolútne nič. Aby som sa uživil, začal som pracovať ako inštalatér. Síce som nemal výučný list, no napriek tomu ma zamestnala jedna firma v Žiline. Majiteľom bol tiež Žid.

Po válce

V povojnovom období sa obnovil aj chod židovskej obce v meste. Počet členov židovskej komunity však neustále klesal. Otec sa odsťahoval ešte v roku 1945 do Karlových Varov 18. Rozhodol sa tak kvôli svojej kamarátke, pani Katzovej. Ona mala v Karlových Varoch známych, rodinu Kleinman. Otec sem prišiel v domnení, že si tu vezme do prenájmu penzión. V podstate všetci odchádzali do Karlových Varov v domnení, že sa uchytia. Ja som za nimi prišiel začiatkom jari v roku 1946. Býval som s otcom. Napokon vychádzali sme spolu dobre.
Otec sa zamestnal v kúpeľoch. No najprv bol v kyslikárni, kde sa plnili kyslíkové fľaše. Potom sa stal na riaditeľstve ubytovacím referentom. Odtiaľ odišiel aj do dôchodku. Ako dôchodca robil inšpektora na kolonáde. V podstate sa tam prechádzal celý deň od rána do večera a dohliadal na poriadok.

V tom období som sa zoznámil so svojou prvou, dnes už nebohou, manželkou. Za slobodna sa volala Irena Rothová. Narodila sa v roku 1926 v meste Kajdanove na Podkarpatskej Rusi. Kajdanove patrilo do okresu Mukačevo. Pochádzala z pobožnej rodiny, ale ona už nebola po vojne tak pobožná. Po vojne sa vrátila na Podkarpatskú Rus. Zistila, že všetky jej kamarátky, ktoré prežili vojnu, sa rozutekali po svete. Jeden z bratov jej mamičky žil v Karlových Varoch. Zhodou okolností to bol pán Kleinman, ku ktorému moja budúca manželka prišla. Zoznámil som sa s ňou u otcovej kamarátky, pani Katzovej. Prišiel som k nej na večeru a moja budúca manželka tam bola tiež. Pani Katzová a Kleinmanová boli kamarátky. Tak sme sa teda „náhodou“ spoznali. Svadbu sme mali židovskú, pod chupou [Chupa: baldachýn, pod ktorým stojí pár pri svadobnom obrade – pozn. red.], v Karlových Varoch, v roku 1946. To však vtedajšie úrady nepočítali za oficiálny sobáš. Civilný sobáš sme mali na jeseň v roku 1948. Svadbu, židovskú, sme oslavovali u Kleinmanových. Zišlo sa tam približne dvadsať ľudí.

Manželka prežila vojnu v Osvienčime, odtiaľ sa dostala do nejakej továrne a nakoniec vyviazla v Terezíne. Jej rodičia zahynuli v Osvienčime. Okrem rodičov mala ešte dvoch bratov. Obaja vojnu prežili a vysťahovali sa do Izraela. Volali sa Imre Roth a Béla Roth. S Imrem som sa stretol neskôr v Karlových Varoch. Bol tu dva alebo tri krát. Jeho brata som nvidel. Manželka sa s ním stretla niekde v Budapešti. Po smrti mojej manželky som s nimi stratil kontakt. Ale myslím, že už tiež nežijú. Manželka rozprávala maďarsky a jidiš, no a samozrejme česky. Ja hovorím česky a slovensky a dohovorím sa aj maďarsky a nemecky. V našej rodine sa držali po vojne väčšie sviatky. Šábes samotný sme veľmi nedržali, len manželka zo začiatku zapaľovala sviečky, neskôr už ani to nie. Taktiež sa oslavoval pésach. Manželka pripravila pésachovú večeru, polievku s macesovými knedlíčkami.

V Karlových Varoch sa po 2. svetovej vojne obnovil aj chod židovskej obce. Napokon, bolo tu dosť Židov. Časom sa však veľa z nich vysťahovalo. Odišli hlavne do Izraela a Ameriky. Tí, čo tu ostali, sa medzi sebou vždy „hrýzli“. Napokon, ako vo všetkých obciach. Samozrejme, bola tu aj modlitebňa, ktorá už dnes nestojí. Obec mala aj rabína a šamesa. Rabín však emigroval. My sme sa na židovskom živote v meste veľmi nepodieľali. Pár krát do roka sme šli so ženou do modlitebne. Hlavne na Roš hašana a Jom kipur. Chlapci s nami nechodili.

Osobne som vnímal vznik štátu Izrael pozitívne. Dokonca by som nenamietal, keby sme sa tam s manželkou boli vysťahovali. Ona tam bola za totality navštíviť svojich bratov. Myslím, že prvý krát v roku 1965. Hovoril som jej: „Vysťahujme sa.“ Jej odpoveď znela: „Ani za nič. Ja som to tam videla a viem, o čo ide. Ja tam nejdem!“ Jej mladšiemu bratovi, Bélovi, ktorý žil v Ber Sheve, sa celkom darilo. Mal firmu, ktorá vozila piesok na stavby. Starší brat, Imre, žil v Nathanyi. Prevádzkoval obchod s nábytkom. Občas skrachoval, potom sa postavil na nohy a zase dookola. Obaja jej bratia si založili vlastné rodiny. Čo sa náboženstva týka, ani jeden z nich nebol pobožný.

Irenka pracovala ako krajčírka. Dlhé roky šlila uniformy a medzitým aj doma známym. Proste šila stále. Po príchode do Karlových Varov som istý čas pracoval ako údržbár pre podnik Československé hotely. Chodil som po hoteloch spravovať batérie a podobné veci. No a potom som sa dostal,  do funkcie tajomníka okresu pre kultúru KSČ 19. Členom strany som bol od roku 1945. Napriek tomu, že som tam vstúpil s otcom, vravieval mi: „Ty nebudeš nikdy komunista.“ Hovoril mi to preto, lebo ja som komunistom nikdy neveril. Postupne začali Slánskeho procesy 20. Mňa sa však v podstate vôbec nedotkli.

Udalosti v roku 1968 21 som vnímal pozitívne. Pracoval som vtedy v národnom podniku a bol som predsedom odborovej závodnej rady. V podstate v roku 1968 sa v Karlových Varoch konala konferencia a smerovaní strany. Na tej konferenii vystúpili niektorí členovia okresu s novým spôsobom zmýšlania a sprdli okresného tajomníka komunistickej strany. Ja som bol vtedy vo volebnej komusii a na už sme stihli zvoliť nových ľudí do funkcií v strane, čo mi neskôr samozrejme priťažilo. Ja som však veril, že konám správne. Napokon mi vytkli, moju účasť na danej konferencii. Dospelo to až k tomu, že v roku 1970 ma vykopli zo strany 22. Predtým ma navštívili páni z ŠtB. Povedali mi, že nič odomňa nechcú, len aby som... Ja som im povedal, že nebudem nikoho udávať. Ako predseda závodnej ady som sa vždy snažil, aby bolo všetko spravodlivé a toho som sa aj držal. Neskôr som sa zamestnal ako technik u pozemných stavieb. Jazdil som po stavbách v okolí, napríklad Praha, Chomutov, Cheb, Aš, proste celý región. Veľa voľného času nebolo.

V Karlových Varoch sme zo začiatku bývali v malom studenom, vlhkom, prízemnom byte. Bolo to začiatkom 50. rokov 20. storočia. Napokon sa nám narodili dvaja synovia. Milan v roku 1953 a Roman v roku 1956. Synov sme sa snažili vychovať, ako slušných ľudí. Obriezku nemali, žena to po skúsenostiach z minulost nedovolila. Odvolávala sa na to, že im nechce pokaziť život... Samozrejme, že sme pred nimi ich pôvod netajili a vedeli o všetkom.

Časom sme dostali aj nový, krásny slnečný byt na Víťaznej ulici. Chodievali sme spolu aj na dovolenky. Na západ sa vtedy nedalo. Človek na to nedostal povolenie. Chodievali sme ako rodina do Bulharska. Manželka mala veľa kamarátok a ja som mal tiež jedného kolegu z práce, s ktorým som si rozumel. Trávili sme spolu veľa času aj mimo práce. Stretávali sme sa u nás, alebo u nich. Žiaľ, aj on už zomrel. Tiež sme s manželkou a deťmi jazdili na rôzne dovolenky pod stan. Irenka chodievala aj do kúpeľov. Hlavne do Františkových Lázní a do okolia Písku. Ja som ju tam samozrejme vždy odniesol a potom prišiel pre ňu, takže to som z tých kúpeľov akurát tak mal.

Môj otec sa po vojne ešte tiež oženil. Za manželku si vzal ženu menom Eda Kleinová. Pochádzala z Podkarpatskej Rusi. Edina sestra s manželom bývali v Prahe. Rozhodli sa, že v štvorici si kúpia v Prahe dom. Otec s manželkou obývali poschodie a jeho švagor s manželkou bývali dole. Samozrejme, zvykli sme ich navštevovať, tak dva-trikrát do roka. Otec zomrel v Prahe v roku 1978. Jeho druhá manželka tiež, približne desať rokov po otcovej smrti.

Irenka dostala začiatkom 90. rokov 20. storočia mŕtvicu. Ostala ochrnutá na pol tela. K tomu všetkému sa prieplietol zápaľ pľúc. Chorobe podľahla v roku 1994. Pochovali sme ju na židovskom cintoríne v Karlových Varoch. Medzitým dospeli aj naši synovia. Milan žije v obci Tachov. Je to približne šesťdesiat kilometrov od Karlových Varov. Vyučil sa ako elektromontér. V Tachove sa však v začiatkoch zamestnal ako krmič dobytka, pretože mu pridelili byt, za podmienok, že sa tam zamestná. Roman vyštudoval vysokú školu stavebnú v Prahe. Po štúdiách ostal žiť v Karlových Varoch. Kanceláriu má hneď vedľa židovskej obce. Projektuje stavby a vodí sa mu celkom dobre. Nikdy sa však neoženil. V kancelárii trávi celé týždne, aj víkendy a domov chodí večer o desiatej. Milan si vzal za manželku nežidovské dievča a vyženil si aj syna. Spolu sa im narodil ďalší chlapec. Obe ich deti sú už však dospelé.

Približne päť rokov dozadu som bol navštíviť Izrael. Bol som na poznávacom zájazde. Život tam bol taký, ako som si predstavoval. Ruch na uliciach, kaviarničky. Cesty sú tam prvotriedne. Mimo mesta boli všetky osvetlené, čo tu asi nenájdete. Hovoril som si, že je to celkom fajn. Čo sa životnej úrovne týka, to neviem. Nebol som tam až tak dlho, aby som to vedel posúdiť. Čo ma prekvapilo? Na šábes som bol akurát v Nathanyi. Čakal som, že v sobotu bude všade kľud. Ráno som vstal, vyšiel na okno a všade zástupy áut. Jazdilo ich toľko, ako vo všedný deň. Plné boli aj pláže a na uliciach neustal ruch.

Na prelome tisícročí som sa spoznal so svojou druhou manželkou, Miluškou. Pracovala v potravinách, kam som chodil nakupovať. Tak sme sa stále na seba usmievali, kým raz za mnou nevybehla, že má dva lístky do divadla. Pýtala sa ma, či by som s ňou nešiel. V tej chvíly som ostal v šoku. Musím povedať, že viac-menej sa mi samozrejme páčila. Odvetil som, že hneď neviem odpovedať, ale zistím, či na ten termín nemám program a ozvem sa. V tom čase som už pôsobil ako predseda židovskej obce v Karlových Varoch. Samozrejme, okamžite som si utekal kúpiť oblek a potom som sa vrátil do obchodu a povedal: „Áno, pôjdem do divadla.“ Dopadlo to tak, že sme sa vzali. Miluška nie je Židovka. Svadbu sme mali civilnú. S mojim synom Romanom sa hneď skamarátia. Milan bol zo začiatku trochu odmeraný, ale potom sa dalo všetko do poriadku. Miluška má z prvého manželstva troch synov a sedem vnúčat. Takže teraz sme celkom veľká rodina. Čo sa sviatkov týka, teraz doma nedržíme nič, pretože ona zrušila aj vianočný stromček, ktorý sme my s predošlou manželkou doma mali. Spočiatku sme spolu zvykli chodievať na kúpalisko, no a teraz väčšinou na záhradu.

Niekoľko rokov som pôsobil v predstavenstve židovskej obce v Karlových Varoch. Istý čas som bol miestopredsedom. Vtedajší predseda obce nespĺňal predstavy ostatných členov. Bol podľa nich arogantný. Napríklad niekomu nechcel dať macesy na Pésach, pretože sa neobjavil na obci dosť často a podobne. Zatvoril cintorín a pre kľúč sa muselo chodiť k nemu. Kľúč však nechcel každému požičať. Proste nebol obľúbený. Napokon na jednej výročnej schôdzi vystúpil pán Gubič, že by sa mala oddeliť náboženská funkcia vedúceho obce a funkcia predsedu obce. Napokon sa odhlasovalo, že bývalý predseda ostane ako duchovný vodca obce a mňa zvolili za predsedu. Bolo to približne pred siedmymi rokmi. Mojou úlohou je starať sa o majetok obce. Náboženské záležitosti majú na starosti rabín Kočí a šames Rubin. Tí majú na starosti náboženskú oblasť. Obec má čím ďalej, tým menej aktívnych členov. Môže ich byť asi tak desať. V predstavenstve je nás sedem, na tých sa dá povedať, že sú ako tak aktívny. Všetkých členov je približne 98. Nie všetci sú priamo z Karlových Varov. Máme členov aj v okolitých obciach a mestách, ako napríklad Sokolov a Jáchymov. Židovská obec má svoju modlitebňu, kde sa každý piatok a v sobotu schádzajú na modlenie. Niekedy nemajú minjan [minjan: modlitebné minimum desiatich mužov vo veku nad trinásť rokov – pozn. red.], sú len piati – šiesti. Ale Karlovy Vary sú lázenským mestom, s množstvom hostí, aj židovskými. Preto nie je ničím výnimočným, že sa tu zíde aj dvadsať chlapov. Niektorí z kúpeľných hostí, ktorí tu už boli viac-krát, automaticky prídu aj do modlitebne. Rovnako držíme aj väčšie sviatky. Na sukot sa na dvore budovy obce stavia aj suka.

Glosář:
1 Neolog Jewry: Following a Congress in 1868/69 in Budapest, where the Jewish community was supposed to discuss several issues on which the opinion of the traditionalists and the modernizers differed and which aimed at uniting Hungarian Jews, Hungarian Jewry was officially split into to (later three) communities, which all built up their own national community network. The Neologs were the modernizers, who opposed the Orthodox on various questions. The third group, the sop-called Status Quo Ante advocated that the Jewish community was maintained the same as before the 1868/69 Congress.

Alexander Gajdos
Karlovy Vary (Carlsbad)
Czech Republic
Interviewer: Martin Korcok
Date of interview: August 2005

Mr. Alexander Gajdos is currently the president of the Karlovy Vary Jewish community. The interview took place in his office at the community.

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

My family background

My grandparents on my father's side lived in Nitra when my father was young. My grandfather was named Bernat Goldberger, and his wife was named Terezia Goldbergerova. Unfortunately, I don't remember anymore what my grandma's maiden name had been, and I don't even know where my grandparents were from. My grandfather died around 1935 to 1937, and my grandmother a few years before him. They're both buried in the Jewish cemetery in Nitra. I was at their funerals. Because they died while I was still small, I remember them only very faintly. My grandpa was taciturn. He always just sat with a pipe on a bench in front of the house, and just pondered. He had a dog, which always sat beside him.

In Nitra they lived in a neighborhood down below the castle. In those days there were small family bungalows there. But it wasn't the Jewish quarter. The Jewish quarter in Nitra was Parovce. My grandparents also lived in one of those bungalows. From the courtyard you walked directly into the kitchen. Besides the kitchen they had another three rooms. In one they had a bedroom, then there was one more little room and then a living room. They went into the living room, as they say, 'Once a year.' The house already had electricity and running water. They basically lived a normal life there.

None of my father's immediate family members were devout Jews. One of my father's [his father was named Heinrich Galik (changed from Goldberger)] brothers, Gyula [Julius Gal (changed from Goldberger)] owned a radio store and workshop. My father had four siblings, three brothers and one sister. His brothers were named Gyula, Rudi [Rudolf] and Jozko [Jozef], his sister Cecilia. Cecilia married a barber, Mr. Horn. But he died at the beginning of the 1930s. I don't even remember him.

I used to visit my father's parents every summer. I would basically spend the summer in Nitra. Most of the time I lived at my father's sister Cecilia's place. So I slept at my father's sister's place and for lunch I'd always go to one of the family members' place. Depending on who invited me over. Otherwise I spent most of my time with my cousin, Alexander. We called him Sanyi; he was Cecilia's son. We used to go swimming together and so on. I only stopped going to Nitra once the war began.

I don't know what my grandparents' mother tongue was, but with me they always spoke Slovak. Besides this they of course spoke Hungarian and German. They weren't religious, nor did they lead a kosher household. But our family observed holidays. Grandpa had a general store. He had one room that was full of all sorts of things. You walked into the store right from the kitchen. On the door there was a bell that rang when someone entered. Someone would then run out of the kitchen and serve them. Otherwise I don't remember any special anecdotes about my grandparents. As a child, there was a certain distance between us. I don't even know who was my grandparents' neighbor. Later, my father didn't tell me about them either.

My mother's parents were from Trstena, on the Orava River. My grandfather was named Markus Lubovic. I can't remember my grandmother, because she died before I was born. My grandfather then remarried, but I don't remember his second wife's name anymore either. Grandpa had a bakery in Trstena. But I don't know anything else about his bakery. When I was young my grandfather had serious diabetes. Back then insulin didn't exist yet, so the disease couldn't be treated. My grandfather went almost completely blind from it. He wasn't completely blind, but almost couldn't see a thing. He used to walk with a cane. Then my parents found him an apartment in Vrutky, where he moved together with his second wife. My mother and her sister Ruzena took care of them. Because back then old people didn't get a pension, so my parents supported them. I don't remember the name of my grandfather's second wife at all. But she spoke Hungarian, while in the Orava region people spoke mainly Slovak, even the Jewish population. My grandfather also spoke German, and I think Hungarian as well. During the war they were both deported and died.

My grandfather had three daughters with his first wife. My mother, Sidy, and her sisters were named Lina and Ruzena. From his second marriage he had a son, Zoli. Lina married a barber in the town of Nowy Targ in Poland. I think he was named Löwenberg. Ruzena never married. She stayed an old maid.

I spent more time with my grandfather in Vrutky than with the other one in Nitra. But we didn't have any type of special relationship. He lived in a two-room apartment full of old furniture. From my point of view at the time, nothing much. He of course already had running water. How many Jews lived in Vrutky, that I don't know. But on the whole it had a decent-sized community, with a nice synagogue. I even had a bar mitzvah in this town. My grandparents on both sides were Neolog Jews 1, which means that the High Holidays were observed in the family, but the Sabbath less, and the kashrut not at all.

My father was named Heinrich Goldberger. He was born on 17th July 1898 in Nitra. After the war he changed his name to Galik. That was in fashion back then. He died in 1978, he was exactly 80. My father had a basic education. He worked as a traveling salesman. He supported himself this way until he went into business for himself. Later he opened his own store in Zilina. I don't know when exactly my father moved to Zilina, but he did it because of work and my mother. Because she worked for the same company as my father. It was Mendl & Son, a wholesale business. That's where my parents met and later they married, as I was on the way. My mother was born in 1900 in Trstena. I don't know when she died. She was deported and after that we didn't find out any more about her.

Financially, I'd classify our family between poverty and the middle class. When they worked for that Mendl, they had a relatively decent salary. When my father went into business for himself, he opened a general store. He took out a bunch of loans, and then the Wall Street stock market crash came, and the depression 2 began. There wasn't any work, the executor came and that was the end. If I remember correctly, my father was the first in the region to have an electric slicer for ham and smoked meats. Unfortunately, after the stock market crash he didn't have anything to make payments with. Besides my father, my mother also worked in the store, plus another employee that did heavier work. For example he used to go get flour and worked in the warehouse.

As far as my father's political opinions go, it's hard to say. You know, when I was a child he didn't talk to me about things like that. I assume though, that he was a social democrat. I don't know it for sure, I only kind of deduced it. My father wasn't a member of any associations or anything similar that I know of. I also remember that as a young man he served as a soldier in World War I, but I don't know anything else about it. He always mentioned that he was in the war, but never told any specific stories. If we were to talk about what my father liked to do, he mainly devoted himself to business. Besides that, he was more or less a skirt- chaser, that was his hobby.

My parents spoke Hungarian amongst each other. With us children they spoke Slovak. Well, and as far as my father goes, I'd say he was a skirt-chaser. You know, he married my mother because she was expecting me. My mother was of a mild nature, you could say even introverted. She even wouldn't go out on the street by herself.

Growing up

We lived in several places in Zilina, depending on how our financial situation was declining. Every time we moved into a cheaper apartment. At first we lived downtown, near the main square; that's where I was born. Then we lived over towards the cellulose factory. Later we moved to the part of town where the power station was at the time. Finally we had to move to where the city apartments were, which is where the cheapest places to live were. From there we moved to Vrutky. I don't remember much from the first apartment. I know that there was one large room there, where I used to ride around on a tricycle. I don't remember the other rooms anymore. In the beginning we also had servants that cooked and cleaned. They lived with us until about 1937. Several of them came and went, so I don't even remember them very much. But when I was born, I even had a wet nurse. I didn't develop a close relationship with any of them. Did we have Jewish neighbors? Each time we had someone different. Because we were always moving. But they were mostly non-Jews. My parents didn't have many close friends. Well, my father had some friends, women, widows and whatnot, something like that. We'd sometimes go there, and otherwise some extra close friends, those they didn't have. I don't remember it that way.

We didn't observe holidays very strictly in our family. On Friday my mother lit candles and then most of the time we'd have roast chicken. Later, when my father already didn't have the store and he became a traveling salesman, he'd leave on Monday but would always return home on Friday. He traveled all over Slovakia. He sold flour for various mills. But he didn't go to synagogue very often, only for the High Holidays. We used to attend the big Neolog synagogue in Zilina. There were a lot of Jews living in Zilina before the war. During the High Holidays the synagogue was full, despite the fact that you had to pay for a place there, and it wasn't cheap. Everyone had to pay for his place. We for example observed Rosh Hashanah. On that day we'd eat supper at home, and then go pray at the synagogue. Other than that I don't remember anything in particular about that evening. For Yom Kippur we'd fast, but when I found something, I pinched off a bit for myself. But I liked Yom Kippur the best of all the holidays. But mainly because I'd meet up with all my friends in the synagogue courtyard. In the back, beside the synagogue, there was a Jewish school with a big schoolyard, and we'd fool around there. Our parents would still be sitting in the synagogue. Once in a while we'd make an appearance there, and then we'd disappear again. We also more or less observed Chanukkah, mainly we'd also go to the synagogue then, but for example we didn't observe Sukkot or Purim at all. We also still observed Passover. In the evening we'd read from the Haggadah and the holiday table would be set. But the other things, like not eating bread, we didn't practice. We had matzot, that's true, but we also ate bread.

There were also Orthodox Jews 3 in town, though there were a lot less of them, and they observed everything. I also used to come into contact with Orthodox Jews. My father even sent me to the yeshivah in Zilina. This nasty little man used to teach us. But I didn't study at this school for long. You see, my mother didn't care about traditions very much any more, and at home we didn't eat kosher 4. So it was normal for her to wrap me up a bun with ham for teatime. That little man saw it, ran over to me, took me out into the courtyard and 'gave me a licking.' He told me to not show my face there anymore. That was the end of my religious upbringing. Otherwise, at that time I didn't even know what I had committed with that ham.

As I've already mentioned, my father was from Nitra. He had four siblings, Julius, who everyone called Gyula. Then there was Rudolf, called Rudi, Jozef and their sister, Cecilia. My father's oldest brother was Jozef; he ran the store after Grandpa. He and his family lived in Grandpa's house. His wife was named Malvina. They had a son, Tibor, and a daughter, Magda. Both children survived the war. Tibor moved to Ecuador and Magda to Sweden.

Gyula was about two years older than my father, which means that he was probably born in 1896. He lived in Nitra with his family. He owned a radio store, where they also repaired radios. He had two sons, Michal and Pista [a nickname for the name Stefan]. We got along fairly well. When I was in Nitra during summer vacation, I'd often visit them. We used to go swimming together, or we'd go hiking to the top of Zobor [a peak by the city of Nitra (588m above sea level), in the Tribec mountain range]. In Nitra in those days, there used to be a swimming pool below the castle. I don't know if it's still there. Maybe they've already built over it. Gyula's wife was named Vilma, nee Braunova. She was very much a lady. She came from better circles. They lived on Spitalska Street. In the building they lived in, Gyula also had his store and workshop.

My father's third brother was named Rudolf, or Rudi. He was about five years older than Father. He graduated from construction school and worked as an architect, in those days it was Mr. Architect. Rudi had two sons, Walter and Babi. Besides them, he also had a daughter. I don't remember her name anymore. She was slightly physically handicapped, she was a bit hunchbacked. But she ended up studying medicine and became a pharmacist. I don't remember his wife's name anymore. During the war they ended up in Terezin. The entire family survived the Holocaust and after the war they ran away to what today is Israel.

My father's only sister was named Cecilia. She married Mr. Horn, who had a barbershop in Nitra on Hlavna [Main] Street. They lived in an apartment above the shop that had an addition into the courtyard. They had it on the whole nicely furnished. Unfortunately, her husband died very early on. They had one son, who was named Alexander, or Sanyi.

Only one of my father's siblings, Rudi, survived World War II. He then moved with his family to Palestine in 1946 or 1947. After several years they returned, they had a hard time dealing with the climate there. The rest of my father's siblings died during the war.

My mother had three siblings, two sisters and one half-brother. My mother's oldest sister was named Lina. She married a barber by the name of Löwenberg in the Polish town of Nowy Targ. I never even met the man. I know that they had two children that died along with Lina during the war. Only their father survived, someplace in Russia.

Another of my mother's sisters, Ruzena, also died during the war. Before the war she lived for some time with us in Zilina, and then also in Vrutky, where we'd moved. Aunt Ruzena and I got along fairly well. Which basically means that we didn't have some sort of heartfelt relationship, but neither did we quarrel. I can't say much about my mother's youngest brother, who was named Zoli. He was quite a bit older than I, so we didn't hang out together much. He died along with the others during the Holocaust.

I, Alexander Gajdos [born Goldberger], was born on 8th April 1924 in Zilina. I had my name changed at the beginning of the 1950s. Why did I pick the surname Gajdos? It really didn't even depend on me that much. I already had that name when I was in German captivity, which we'll get to. Well, and when I was changing it I had to list three names. I dictated three names, Gajdos, Gordon, and the third I don't remember, and the officials picked out Gajdos.

As a small child I attended nursery school. In our part of the country it was called 'ovoda.' I had a fairly good teacher. I even enjoyed going to that nursery school. I don't have any particular memories of the nursery school. I remember only how we were playing in the schoolyard. Then I transferred to the elementary Jewish school in Zilina. It had five grades - from Grade 1 to Grade 5. It was attended by both boys and girls, together. A fair number of Christian children went there, too, because it was a better school than the others. I particularly didn't like math and German. My favorite subject in school was gym. We had one excellent teacher that knew how to handle us. We really like him a lot. Of course, we exercised a lot, and mainly played handball. It was simple, and all we needed were two goals in the schoolyard. Banged-up hands and legs of course belonged to the game. Our gym teacher was named Braun. We also went on short trips in the region around the town, especially to Duben and to nearby castles.

In the Jewish school we of course also had to go to Judaism class. Not going, that was impossible. Our attitude to religious upbringing amounted to us always fooling around on the rabbi. I don't remember his name anymore. He was an old man, and we used to do terrible things to him. For example, I remember that we had a bell, and halfway through the class we rang it, and someone exclaimed: 'it rang.' To which he said, 'if it rang, it rang' and class was over. In the hallway we ran into the principal, who was a huge man with a cane, and he asked us where we were going. We told him that the rabbi had said that the bell had rung. He said: 'But it couldn't have rung yet.'

The principal also used physical punishment. For example, this one slower boy used to be in our class, and he'd always do something to the girls. For example when they were exercising, he'd steal their clothes from the changing room, and so on. Outside of school we had this group of Jewish boys, we went everywhere together and spent a lot of time together. There were about five of us. Besides us there was one more group of Jewish boys, and so we used to fight each other, throwing stones and so on. We were about ten or eleven years old.

In Vrutky I also prepared for my bar mitzvah ceremony. My father arranged tutoring for me with one rabbi. He was a young person of shorter stature. He was from Czechia, and belonged to the Neologs. He taught me. The main thing was for me to learn the text that I was to read during the ceremony. Nothing else was required of me there. Well, up to the bar mitzvah I somehow learned it. The bar mitzvah itself took place in the synagogue in Vrutky. They summoned me to the Torah, I read some text, and that was all. I don't remember there being a party at home, and neither do I remember whether I got some presents on that occasion.

When I was 14, I began feeling anti-Jewish moods. I attended five grades of Jewish elementary school, and then got into high school 5. They expelled me from high school in third year, after that I wasn't allowed to attend school in Zilina anymore. But otherwise nothing special was going on, I just couldn't go to school. We weren't discriminated against in some way. Just some snot-nosed kids in the street would yell: 'Poo, smelly Jew!' at us, but that wasn't anything new.

It was right at that time that we were moving from Zilina to Vrutky, where I entered the fourth year of council school. Actually, they didn't accept me into school right in Vrutky. I had to commute by train every day to the nearby town of Varin. I was the only Jew there. Basically no one paid any attention to me. All the teachers were in the Hlinka Guard 6, even the principal, for them it was like I didn't even exist. I used to sit in a desk in the first row, but they didn't call on me even once, despite this I got all C's on my report card. This was in 1939. I got along well with my classmates, that wasn't a problem. There were also a couple of Czechs among them, who hadn't been chased 7 out of Slovakia. I was friends particularly with those that commuted with me. There were four of us that used to take the train from Vrutky to Varin, and back in the evening.

During the war

Besides me, my parents also had my sister Viera. She was born in Zilina in 1927. We got along well, but not so much that we'd go about together outside of home. Each of us had his own friends. Unfortunately, my sister didn't survive the war. She went to the camp together with our mother, but we don't know at all where they disappeared. Despite us searching for them, their trail disappeared. During the war they interned our whole family in the collection camp in Zilina in 1942, and we were there up until the Slovak National Uprising 8 broke out in 1944. During that time, between 1942 and 1944, when no transports were going 9, we worked in that Zilina camp.

During that time, life in the camp was on the whole good. We used to go work on the construction of a sports stadium in Zilina. My father also worked there. The stadium was located near the Vah River. The work wasn't all that heavy. The guards, Guardists, would lead us there from the camp. They'd then go sit inside somewhere, or all go their separate ways to go drink beer. There was one person there that was in charge of us, and he was a decent guy. My mother worked in the camp kitchen, and my sister didn't do anything.

Life during that time was really quite bearable. I even used to go into town. I didn't even wear a star 10, I never ever had one. I never even heard of a case where someone would have ratted on someone for that. Those of us that were from the Zilina camp didn't wear stars. In the camp I lived with another five guys. Here and there someone ran away, but escapes weren't very common. We learned about what was happening in Poland from the railway employees that were accompanying the transports to the Polish border. The railroaders brought us the news of the crematoria in Auschwitz. I think that it was through them that the news spread.

During the uprising my father, mother and sister hid in the forests around Rajecke Teplice. They then caught them all there. They took my father somewhere else than my mother and sister, and so he managed to survive. My father got into Sachsenhausen 11 and then into Buchenwald 12. Well, and my mother and sister were sent to the women's camp in Ravensbrück 13, and that's where their trail disappeared. During the uprising I joined the army. In Zilina there was an army garrison, and that entire garrison retreated towards Martin, to Strecno. Before the war I'd been a member of the Hashomer Hatzair 14 youth movement, but that's not why I joined the army. A person went there, where there was a chance of survival.

We were part of some defenses in Strecno. We dug trenches, and had the task of holding the reserve line. Of course we weren't just passive observers. Once we got orders to attack on a railway line with a tunnel. When we were drawing near, suddenly a Tiger [a German tank, mass-produced from 1942] appeared and began firing at us. We retreated into some trenches. There were French partisans with us there, who'd been in captivity in Slovakia, and during the uprising had managed to escape. I don't know anything else about them; I didn't meet up with them very much. There were only two Jews in our unit, my distant cousin Elemer Diamant and I. Unfortunately, I don't know whether he survived the war, because afterwards our paths diverged.

One time we were attacking some Germans hidden in some woods. There, some German began firing at me. Unfortunately, he also hit me. He shot me in the shoulder, luckily the bullet passed through and exited out the other side. It was a relatively serious injury, but they got me through it. First they dragged me away from where the bullet had struck me. They were dragging me along the ground, and in a dangerous spot they ran onto the road with me. After some time an ambulance came for me, and took me to the hospital in Martin. I was there for one day, because the Germans had broken through the front, and shells were falling on the hospital. They quickly evacuated us to the town of Sliac.

The territory held by the rebels was by then already very small. Basically it was only around the towns of Banska Bystrica, Sliac and Brezno. Everything else was either occupied or surrounded. In Sliac they asked me if I was able to walk. Because I could walk, they discharged me from the hospital. I also met Elemer there, because he was also in the hospital. During fighting in the town of Vrutky he'd gotten into some skirmish and ended up with shellshock. They discharged the both of us at almost the same time. I set out for the partisan headquarters, and he said that he wouldn't go there, that he'd think of something else to do. So we parted ways, and since then we never met up again. From the hospital I went to Banska Bystrica, to the headquarters. There they accepted me into the guard detachment. I stood guard in front of the headquarters on the main square in Banska Bystrica.

The Germans were pushing on into Banska Bystrica as well. People were being evacuated into the mountains, Stare Hory [mountain town in the Starohorska Valley, Banska Bystrica district], Donovaly [mountain town located between the Velka Fatra and Starohorske Vrchy mountain ranges], Kozi Chrbat [today a forest reservation located on the northern side of the Low Tatras ] and so on all the way beyond Chabenec [Chabenec (1955 m): a monumental mountain massif in the Low Tatras]. Chabenec is where for example Sverma 15 froze to death. At that time many of us got dysentery. They put up all of us that got it separately in this one zemlyanka [an underground shelter, usually military]. But a local citizen sent us away from there with the words: 'You can't stay here, we can't feed you, we don't even have anything for ourselves!' They told us that they'd take us to the edge of the forest where there were villages, and that we'd have to scrounge something up from the locals. At that time I'd gotten to know this one Czech from Ostrava. I unfortunately don't remember his name anymore. From that time onwards he and I slugged it out together. They led us to the edge of the forest, and told us to disperse. There they announced to us that we were still on evidence as partisans in that detachment, whose name I don't remember anymore. They also told us that if we betrayed something, they'd come and find us.

This all took place at the end of November and beginning of December 1944. My Czech friend and I found a fairly decent place behind some hill, and dug us a bunker. The closest village was about three hours' walk away from there. So we said to ourselves that we'd stay there, and each evening we'd go to the village to beg for some food and supplies. So that if a lot of snow fell, we wouldn't starve to death. Luckily at that time it wasn't snowing yet, because we were somewhere in the Low Tatras [an 80 km long mountain range in Slovakia]. In one place they'd give us some beans, someplace else potatoes, and so on. Whenever possible, we also took some supplies. When we had enough supplies, we said, 'All right, and now we'll go have something to eat one last time!'

So we went for one last meal. We knocked on the door at one house, and a very decent farmwoman opened the door. She said, 'Oh, you poor boys!' Right away she gave us some supper. Then she noticed our clothes, and so with the words, 'Why, you're being eaten by lice, I'll wash them for you,' she had us undress and put us into bed, under feather duvets! We told her to wake us up once dawn started breaking. To which she replied, 'Of course, of course.' Well, and suddenly a hubbub in the village. Germans yelling. Our things were already washed and dried, and we quickly dressed. We said to her, 'Why didn't you wake us up?' - 'It seemed a shame, you were sleeping so soundly.'

We ran out of the house and right on the square, one sentry with a machine gun, at the other end another sentry with a machine gun. The Germans were already making the rounds from house to house. So we ran out the back. We skirted the square and got onto a path. We were already out of the village. Suddenly two Germans appeared in front of us. The idiots had to be walking right along that path, and we two ragged civilians were walking right towards them. We'd already passed them, we were already about ten steps apart, and suddenly they stopped. Something seemed suspicious to them, and one of them yelled out: 'Hey, partisan!' So they captured us. They gathered us all in the square in the middle of the village. So that we wouldn't be walking empty-handed, they loaded each one of us up with ammunition. So we had something to carry through the snow that had fallen in the meantime.

Eventually they put us on a train and took us to a prison in Banska Bystrica. We were there from the beginning of December until the end of February. And we vegetated there in that jail for those two, three months. Once in some hubbub, they'd chase someone out to Kremnicka 16. They would chase them out there with dogs, machine guns. Then for a week it would be quiet. Then they'd round them up again, and go shoot them all again. Well, and we were still vegetating in that room. There was one Ukrainian there, I, plus two more Jews. They didn't know for sure that we were Jews, but thought we were.

At the end of February, they suddenly led us out, and some high-ranking Slovak came over. They were Slovaks. We were guarded by Slovak prison guards. He was shaking his head, that how was it possible that we were still there. He told us, 'The ones that were here before you, they've all been killed in Kremnicka!' They had somehow forgotten about our room. So they opened the door and asked us, 'what are you doing here? You're not supposed to be here anymore!' Well, and we said, 'We're not supposed to be here?' According to the paperwork, the entire jail was supposed to be empty. The files were already being destroyed, as the liberation army was already conquering nearby Brezno, and they already wanted to also evacuate Banska Bystrica.

So they made a note of us and left, so we had another week's peace. Then someone different came, and again made a note of us. Well, about three or four days later, a member of the SS came, that he was going to take us to be interrogated. Across the street was the Banska Bystrica courthouse, and that's where they had their headquarters. So they led us there, into a hallway. Then another one came, and asked our names. I told him Gajdos, born in Zilina. He wrote it down and left.

In a little while some high-ranking officer came, a Sudeten German 17, and said in Czech, 'I'm going to give you your release papers now. Go home. Don't you dare go east! Because if our soldiers see you there in those rags, they'll shoot you.' So we got our papers and left. My Czech friend and I were wondering: 'What are we going to do?' Of course we headed east. Right in the first village outside of Banska Bystrica one man stopped us. We showed him our papers, that we'd just been set free, and that we needed to get to a partisan unit. 'All right,' he said, 'here's some supper, you'll get some sleep and early in the morning I'll take you to the main road and show you where you should go.'

Were those people to be trusted? What else could we do? He really did look very trustworthy. In the morning he took us to the road and showed us the way. We were supposed to go to the town of Priechod, where there were Hungarian units that had broken away from the Germans. So we went in that direction. After some time my friend needed to take a crap. So he went over onto some field, looked around and saw some figure in white, standing there and looking at us. We took off running. We were running through an open field. When we stopped, thinking we were far enough away, we saw a group of German soldiers in front of us. They saw us! We couldn't do anything else but walk towards them.

Of course, they took us prisoner and led us off to some village. They presented us to the commander, with the words that they'd caught us and that we're either partisans or bandits, and that we should be disposed of. The commander asked us if we spoke German. Because I remembered a bit from school, I told him that we'd just been released. I showed him our papers. He then began arguing with another soldier, whether they should kill us or not. The soldier was for killing us, the commander against. Finally the commander gave the order that that night we'd sleep in the same room with him. When we were alone with him, he said to us in German, 'You've got to sleep with me, because he's a Nazi, and I can't vouch for him.'

The next day he sent us with a soldier back to Banska Bystrica, to make sure that they'd actually released us. That person, the Sudeten German who'd issued us the papers, spotted us. He came over to us and began speaking Czech so that our escort wouldn't understand. 'You two, what did I tell you, that you're supposed to go straight west and that you're not supposed to wander around!' Of course, the German soldier didn't understand anything, and reported that we were bandits and that we had false papers. He said to him, 'You're saying that my signature is fake?' He gave him what for! We got it, too: 'What're you gawking at, get lost right now, if they bring you back once more, that's the end!' So we ran out again. The German solder ran out behind us, sat in the car and quickly 'ran' away.

We again set out in the same direction as the day before, eventually we more or less recognized it. The second time around, we managed to get to the village of Priechod. Right away sentries stopped us. They asked us what we wanted there. We said that we were going to the partisans. There some guy in civilian clothing took charge of us. He spoke both Slovak and Hungarian. We told him that we'd like to join some partisan unit. All right, but have some supper first. The Hungarians had it good, they had sweet poppy-seed buns. So we stuffed ourselves full there!

The territory we were on was free, because a Hungarian army unit had broken off from the Germans. Finally talk came around to where we'd sleep. They told us that up above the village there was a gamekeeper's lodge with a partisan unit. There were a few partisans and Hungarians there. We moved ourselves over to the lodge. There we got another supper, again some sweet cakes and goodies. We were each issued a green Czechoslovak uniform and a rifle. Finally we went off to sleep. There were about fifty, sixty of us there. In the morning, around 5am, we were woken up by yelling and shooting.

In the morning, the village of Priechod had been surrounded by the Germans. They'd used a ruse. As there were Hungarian soldiers there, the Germans sent ahead some other Hungarian soldiers that were on their side. Thus they managed to get to the sentries, because they replied to their challenge in Hungarian. So they disarmed the sentries and entered the village. As people ran out the houses, the Germans shot them straight off, like rabbits. They gathered up part of the men and led them off to the edge of the village under a steep hill. They ordered them to run. As they were running, they shot them all. Only one German boy managed to escape, he might have been about 16 or 17. Earlier, this boy had joined the partisans. He was the only man who managed to survive. Finally the Germans torched the village. Some of the women had survived, and they then remained and lived in that pillaged village.

Eventually we learned that the traitor had been the man who'd taken charge of us after our arrival in the village, and who'd fed us the cakes. If he wouldn't have sent us up to the gamekeeper's lodge to the partisans, I wouldn't be here today. He de facto saved us. His role had been to gather supplies and at the same time he worked as a German agent. In the end the Russians caught and executed him. We stayed in the lodge for some time. From there we used to go on patrols to the surrounding villages, for example to the village of Podkonice and so on. But the Germans were everywhere. We just heard snow crunching beside us. Because their patrols would go to the edge of the villages, to the forest, and would then return. Despite the fact that they were only a few steps away from us, we couldn't fight them. It would have been hopeless for us. We knew that it was hopeless.

The Germans' main road of retreat led through Podkonice, in the direction of Ruzomberok. We gradually moved from the gamekeeper's lodge to bunkers in the forest, where we posted sentries. At the end of February, beginning of March we continued through Chabenec and the Low Tatras to Brezno. Brezno had already been liberated. There were Romanian soldiers there. There they split us up. The Hungarian soldiers that had been with us went down south. Czechs and Slovaks marched in the direction of Poprad. On foot from Brezno to Poprad [the traveling distance between the towns of Brezno and Poprad is around 90 km]!

After arriving in Poprad I reported to the First Czechoslovak Army Corps. There I was accepted into junior officers' school. I got a nice uniform, a weapon and served there until June 1945. I graduated from junior officers' school in the army corps with the rank of lance corporal. Since then I've worked my way up to lieutenant colonel in the Czechoslovak Army. After finishing school I left with the other soldiers, as part of our training, on foot from Poprad to Martin [the traveling distance between the towns of Poprad and Martin is about 130 km]. We walked for three or four days. In Martin we met President Benes 18, who'd come from Kosice 19. There we boarded some vehicles and they sent us as reserves to Moravia, where there was still fighting going on. But the soldiers up ahead of us always managed to break through the front, and so we never participated in direct fighting. In this way we followed the front all the way to Prague.

In Prague, we as soldiers used to go on 'maneuvers.' We'd for example train for fighting in the streets of the city. It was up on Bila Hora [White Mountain]. Grannies were running out in gas masks and shrieking, 'Jesus Mary, the Germans are back.' They didn't know that they were just exercises, and that we were only using blanks. There was noise in the streets and the so the grannies wanted to get into the shelters. We told them: 'Granny, it's only make-believe, it's not real.' At the end of June they sent us back to Slovakia, to the army column in Nitra, from where they discharged me into civilian life.

During my stay in Prague I contacted the former mayor of Vrutky. He'd been the deputy of the Hlinka Guard commander in the town, but at the same time our protector and family friend. He told me that my father had returned and was living in Zilina. So that's how I knew about it. While I was in Nitra I stayed with my father's brother, Rudi. He survived the war in Terezin 20. I slept at his place on an ironing board. After several days I set out on a freight wagon from Nitra to Zilina.

In Zilina I met up with my father, who already had his own place rented. We used to go to his girlfriends' for dinners. One time to one's place, then to another one's... We didn't manage to get back absolutely any of our property. To make ends meet, I began working as a plumber. Despite my not having a trade certificate, I got a job with one company in Zilina. The owner was a Jew, too.

Post-war

In the postwar period, the functioning of the Jewish community in the town was renewed as well. But the Jewish community's numbers were continually declining. My father moved to Karlovy Vary 21 still in the year 1945. He decided to do so because of his friend, Mrs. Katzova. She had friends in Karlovy Vary, the Kleinman family. My father came here imagining that he'd rent a guesthouse. Basically everyone left for Karlovy Vary imagining that they'd do well. I joined them at the beginning of the spring of 1946. I lived with my father. After all, we got along well. My father got a job in a spa. First he was in the oxygen shop, where they filled oxygen tanks. Then he became an accommodation officer at the head office. He stayed there until retirement. As a pensioner he worked as an inspector in the colonnade. Basically he walked around there all day, from morning to evening, and watched over things.

During that time I met my first, today already deceased wife. Her maiden name was Irena Rothova. She was born in 1926 in the town of Kajdanove in Subcarpathian Ruthenia 22. Kajdanove belonged to the Mukacevo district. She was from a devout family, but after the war she wasn't that devout any more. After the war she returned to Subcarpathian Ruthenia. She found out that all of her girlfriends that had survived the war had dispersed all over the world. One of her mother's brothers lived in Karlovy Vary. As luck would have it, it was Mr. Kleinman that my future wife came to stay with. I met her at my father's friend's, Mrs. Katzova's. I came to her place for supper, and my future wife was there, too. Mrs. Katzova and Mrs. Kleinmannova were friends. So we met 'by chance.' We had a Jewish wedding, under the chuppah, in Karlovy Vary, in 1946. But the officials there didn't count that as an official wedding. We had a civil wedding in the fall of 1948. We celebrated our wedding, the Jewish one, at the Kleinmans'. About 20 people gathered there.

My wife survived the war in Auschwitz, from there she got to some factory and finally ended up in Terezin. Her parents died in Auschwitz. Besides her parents, she also had two brothers. Both survived the war, and moved away, to Israel. They were named Imre Roth and Bela Roth. I later met Imre in Karlovy Vary. He was here two or three times. I haven't met his brother. My wife met up with him someplace in Budapest. After my wife died I lost contact with them. But I think that they're not alive anymore either. My wife spoke Hungarian and Yiddish, and of course Czech. I speak Czech and Slovak, and can also get by in Hungarian and German. After the war we observed the high holidays. We didn't observe the Sabbath very much, only my wife in the beginning lit candles, later not even that. We also celebrated Passover. My wife would prepare Passover supper, soup with matzah balls.

After World War II, the activity of the Jewish community in Karlovy Vary was renewed as well. After all, there were enough Jews here. But in time many of them moved away. The left mainly for Israel and America. The ones that stayed here always quarreled amongst each other. In the end, just like in all communities. There was of course also a prayer hall here, which today no longer exists. The community also had a rabbi and a shammash. But the rabbi emigrated. We didn't participate very much in the town's Jewish life. A couple of times a year, my wife and I would go to the prayer hall, mainly for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. The boys didn't go with us.

I personally viewed the creation of the state of Israel as a positive thing. I even wouldn't have objected if my wife and I had moved there. During totalitarian times, she was there to visit her brothers. The first time was in 1965, I think. I told her, 'We'll move.' Her answer was, 'Not for anything. I've seen it there, and I know what it's like. I'm not going there!' Her younger brother, Bela, who lived in Beer Sheva, was doing quite well. He had a company that transported sand to construction sites. Her older brother, Imre, lived in Natanya. He had a furniture store. Once in a while he'd go bankrupt, then he'd get it back together, again and again. Both her brothers had families. As far as religion goes, neither of them was religious.

Irenka worked as a seamstress. For long years she sewed uniforms as well as for friends at home. Basically she was always sewing. After I arrived in Karlovy Vary, I worked as a caretaker for the company Czechoslovak Hotels. I used to go around hotels fixing taps and similar things. Well, and then I got the position of district secretary for culture for the KSC 23. I was a member of the Party since 1945. Despite the fact that I entered it with my father, he used to say to me, 'You'll never be a Communist.' He used to say that to me because I never believed the Communists. Gradually the Slansky trials 24 began. But basically they didn't affect me at all.

I looked upon the events of 1968 25 as being positive. At that time I was working in a national enterprise, and was the chairman of the company union council. Basically, in 1968 in Karlovy Vary there was a conference held regarding the Party's direction. At this conference, certain members of the district that had a new way of thinking stood up and slammed the district Communist Party secretary. At that time I was in the electoral commission, and we managed to elect new people to Party functions, which later of course worked against me. But I believed that we were doing the right thing. In the end they criticized me for participating in that conference. Things went so far that in 1970 they kicked me out of the Party 26. Before that, the boys from the StB came to see me. They told me that they didn't want anything from me, only for me to... I told them that I wouldn't rat on anyone. As chairman of the company council I had always tried for everything to be fair, and I didn't stray from that. Later I got a job as a construction technician. I drove around to construction sites in the area, for example Prague, Chomutov, Cheb, As, basically the whole region. There wasn't a lot of free time.

In Karlovy Vary we initially lived in a small, cold and damp ground-floor apartment. That was at the beginning of the 1950s. Eventually our two sons were born. Milan in 1953, and Roman in 1956. We tried to raise our sons to be decent people. They weren't circumcised; my wife wouldn't allow it due to past experiences. She said that she didn't want to ruin their lives... We of course didn't keep their origin a secret from them, and they knew about everything.

In time we also got a new, beautiful and sunny apartment on Vitezna Street. We also used to go on vacations together. Back then you couldn't go to the West. You couldn't get a permit to go there. We used to go as a family to Bulgaria. My wife had a lot of girlfriends, and I also had one colleague from work with whom I got along well. We spent a lot of time together outside of work as well. We used to get together at our place, or at theirs. Unfortunately, he's also since died. My wife and I also used to go with the children on various camping trips. Irenka also used to visit spas. Mainly Frantiskove Lazne and around Pisek. I of course always took her there and then would come back for her, so that's about all I got from those spas.

After the war, my father also got married. He married a woman by the name of Eda Kleinova. She was from Subcarpathian Ruthenia. Edina's sister lived in Prague with her husband. The four of them decided to buy a house in Prague together. My father and his wife lived upstairs, and his brother-in- law and his wife lived downstairs. We of course used to visit them, about two or three times a year. My father died in Prague in 1978. His second wife died as well, about ten years after my father's death.

Irenka had a stroke at the beginning of the 1990s. Half her body was then paralyzed. As if that wasn't enough, she also got pneumonia. She died of it in 1994. We buried her at the Jewish cemetery in Karlovy Vary. In the meantime, our sons grew up. Milan lives in the town of Tachov. It's about 60 kilometers from Karlovy Vary. He's an electrician by trade. But initially he worked in Tachov feeding cattle, because they granted him an apartment on the condition that he works there. Roman graduated from civil engineering in Prague. After finishing his studies he stayed in Karlovy Vary. His office is right next door to the Jewish community. He designs buildings, and is doing quite well. But he's never gotten married. He spends entire weeks in his office, weekends, too, and goes home for supper around 10pm. Milan married a non-Jewish girl, who already had a son. Together they've had another boy. Both their children are already grown up, though.

About five years ago, I went to visit Israel. It was with a tour group. Life there was like I had imagined it. Busy streets, cafés. The roads there are top-notch. Outside of town they were all lit up, which you won't find here. I said to myself that it's quite good. As far as standard of living goes, that I don't know. I wasn't there that long to be able to judge. What surprised me? I happened to be in Natanya during Sabbath. I was expecting that on Saturday everything would be quiet. In the morning I got up, went to the window, and everywhere there were traffic jams. There were as many cars as during a weekday. The beaches were also full, and the streets were constantly busy.

At the turn of the millennium I met my second wife, Miluska. She was working in the grocery store where I used to go shopping. So we were always smiling at each other, until once she ran out after me, that she's got two tickets to the theater. She asked me whether I wouldn't go with her. At that moment I was shocked. I've got to say that I more or less liked her. I answered that I can't say right away, but that I'll check if I'm free at that time and get back to her. At that time I was already the head of the Jewish community in Karlovy Vary. I of course immediately ran to buy a suit, and then I returned to the store and said, 'Yes, let's go to the theater.' It ended up with us getting married. Miluska isn't Jewish. We had a civil wedding. With my son Roman, she became friends right away. In the beginning Milan was a little reserved, but then it was fine. Miluska has three sons and seven grandchildren from her first marriage. So now we're a fairly big family. As far as holidays go, now we don't observe anything, because she even abolished the Christmas tree that my previous wife and I used to have at home. In the beginning we used to go to the swimming pool together, and now mostly out in the garden.

For several years I was on the board of the Jewish community in Karlovy Vary. At one time I was vice president. The president of the community at that time didn't meet the expectations of the rest of the members. According to them, he was arrogant. For example, at Passover he didn't want to give matzot to someone because he didn't come to the community often enough, and so on. He locked up the cemetery, and people had to go to him for the key. But he didn't want to lend the key out to everyone. He was simply not liked. Finally, at one annual meeting Mr. Gubic spoke up, that the functions of religious leader of the community and that of the community president should be separated. Finally they voted that the former president would stay as the community's spiritual leader, and they elected me president. This was about seven years ago.

My role is to take care of the community's property. Religious matters are taken care of by Rabbi Koci and the shammash, Rubin. They take care of the sphere or religion. As time passes, the community has less and less active members. There's about ten of them. There are seven of us on the board; about those you can say that they're more or less active. There are about 98 members in total. Not all of them are right in Karlovy Vary. We also have members in surrounding towns, like for example Sokolov and Jachymov. The Jewish community has its own prayer hall, where people meet every Friday and Saturday to pray. Sometimes they don't have a minyan, there are only five or six. But Karlovy Vary is a spa town, with many guests, Jewish ones, too. So it's nothing exceptional for even twenty men to gather here. Some of the spa guests that have already been here several times automatically also come to the prayer hall. We also observe the high holidays. For Sukkot we also put up a sukkah in the courtyard of the community building.

Glossary

Basya Chaika
Kiev
Ukraine
Interviewer: Tatyana Chaika

My family background
Childhood memories
Growing up
During the war
Returning to Kiev
Married life
Anti-Semitism in Kiev

My family background

My name is Basya. I was born in 1926 in Kiev. I was named after my grandmother - Basya Gorenstein, who died before the Revolution, that is, before 1917. I did not know my grandfather, Moshe-Leib Gorenstein either, because he died before I was born, but at home we had a big portrait of him that was made in Paris at the beginning of the century. In the portrait, my grandfather is a handsome and respectable man with a beautiful full beard and is wearing a yarmulke. He worked in commerce; he had his own bank in Kiev, according to his daughter - my mother, and they had a big expensive house. My grandfather was actively involved in charity - he sponsored Kiev's scientists and engineers. According to my mother, their home was Jewish, and they celebrated every holiday, Sabbath, and my grandfather attended synagogue every week. My mother said that on holidays, poor people came over to receive gifts from my grandfather and to be seated around his table. There were many poor people in those days who had lost their jobs and even their families, and the government of course would not help them.

Grandfather Moshe and grandmother Basya had six children. All the children finished secondary school and had secular educations. I remember almost all of his children, my aunts and uncles: the first one was Isaac, who was born in 1879 in Kiev and was killed in 1941 during the Holocaust in Babi Yar together with his wife, Hannah, and daughter. My cousin, the daughter of Isaac and Hannah, Manya, was handicapped, and she was pushed to Babi Yar in her wheelchair. The second daughter of grandfather Moshe and grandmother Basya, daughter Hannah (Khaika), born in 1883, was also killed in Babi Yar on September 29, 1941, together with her husband. Thus, out of the six children of grandfather Moshe Gorenstein, two were killed in the Holocaust. Together with their family members five were killed in total.

Then grandfather Moshe had four daughters - Malka, Rachel (my mother), Yelizaveta, and Lena, who survived the Holocaust in evacuation. All of them have passed away, and some of their family members perished during World War II (11 people), while others left Kiev for other places in the world. I know now only two of them: Alexander Pritsker - the son of aunt Hannah and Mendel Pritsker, and Marat Golik - the son of Liza Pritsker and Izya Golik. (by the way, Izya Golik was a cousin of his wife Liza. The Jewish tradition does not encourage such marriages, and in my childhood I heard a lot of bad things about it from adults.)

Childhood memories

I remember all these relatives from my pre-war childhood in Kiev very well. They lived poorly, two families in one little house on Turgenevska Street. After the Revolution, all of my grandfather Moshe's possessions were confiscated, and prior to the Second World War they remained very poor. I often went to see them there. They lived under very crowded conditions, but they were always so warm and welcoming. As I said, all of their children received higher educations, but in the Soviet times, they had practically nothing left of their wealth or their Jewish lifestyle. They lost them both.

I don't remember any Jewish holidays there and at home they spoke Russian. The oldest generation spoke Yiddish only when they did not want their children to understand them and their children were never taught it.

The first time I saw tallit and tefillin was with my father's father. His name was Aaron Pan. He came from the town of Kazatin, Kiev region. The family of grandfather Aaron was very poor, I never knew what he did, but his lifestyle was strongly Orthodox Jewish. He and his wife - my grandmother Hannah - kept their traditions until they died.

Aaron and Hannah had three sons: the oldest - my father Ber (later - Boris), Yakov and Nyuma. They also had daughter Genya, who died in 1917 in childbirth. Grandmother Hannah and grandfather Aaron brought up the son she bore - Zyunya Kuperman. Later, he became an aircraft designer. Prior to the war he worked as a chief engineer at the Makeyevka Chemical Plant. During the war and after the war, he worked at secret defense plants, taking part in the creation of the hydrogen bomb. Both during and after the war, we were forbidden to keep up a correspondence with him.

All three brothers received a good education: I think, they went to a cheder in Kazatin, and then - a secular school in Kiev. Uncle Yakov was a Communist, a military man who held a very high position; he was also a deputy of the Supreme Soviet of the USSR. He died in 1937 in Moscow from a stroke while speaking at a meeting to his electors. (A few months before his death, his cousin, whose name I unfortunately don't know, was arrested and shot the same night in Kiev). Uncle Yakov escaped his destiny - he died his own death. A street in Vinnitsa was named after him. I remember him very well: always a nice looking military uniform, a black car that took him everywhere, he and his wife Sarah had a luxurious flat in Kiev in Pechersk - a white bear skin on the floor of his huge study. He very seldom visited us, but I received birthday presents from him every year - large boxes of candies that we never saw in our life. Grandmother Hannah had a very hard time after the death of her son. He was her biggest pride in her life. Grandfather Aaron did not live to see his death; he died in 1936.

I also remember my uncle Nyuma. He, his wife and daughter Inna lived in the Pushkinska Street in Kiev before the war. After grandfather Aaron's death, grandmother Hannah lived with them. In 1941 Uncle Nyuma sent our whole family to evacuation and went to fight the Germans on the front. He died in 1942. His family kept kashrut, Sabbath, and all the holidays, which was an exception among the urban Jews of those times. The urban Jews of those days preferred to live just like everybody else. They usually were strongly assimilated. Many Jews, just like many other people around them, preferred to believe in the revolution, hoping that it would bring them more peaceful and better life. Urban Jews usually did not keep their Jewish traditions for only one reason: after the generation of their parents passed, they no longer believed in God and did not think there was any sense in keeping those old traditions of their parents. Not everyone thought that way, of course, but it was the majority, or it seems to me it was.

They spoke Yiddish in the family. Grandmother Hannah did not particularly like my mother and me for abandoning the tradition; she called us "goyim" [or "gentiles"]. She was especially irritated when I, being a young pioneer, argued with her that there was no God at all, neither Russian, nor Jewish. Grandmother Hannah died in 1942 in evacuation, in my mother's and my own arms. Before her death she said that I was her best granddaughter.

My father Ber, being the eldest son of Aaron and Hanna, had the hardest time making his way into the world. His constant duties to take care of the younger ones took a lot of his time. In order to pay for getting higher education, he tutored a lot of children in Jewish families of Kiev. He knew Hebrew well. The Revolution of 1917 changed little in his life, but made possible his marriage with Rachel Gorenstein, my mother, 1918, who was very rich before the Revolution. They made a very good couple. In love and peace they lived together till December 31, 1942, the day when my father died of a stroke. On the New Year night in the Urals, near the town of Krasnoufimsk, he went to get some wood, so that at least on New Year night my mother and I could be warm. He was brought home dead next morning.

Prior to the war, my father was the chief of the financial department of the Higher Police School in Kiev. My brother Yosif (7 years older than me, born in 1919) and I seldom saw our father- according to the then Soviet schedule he often worked even at night. He was quiet, calm, not very talkative, but very kind and agreeable). As far as I remember, he had no particular political preferences. It is funny that while holding such a high rank in the structure of the Interior Ministry, he was not a Communist. Neither was he an Orthodox Jew like grandfather Aaron, at least I never noticed that. He was simply a very good and hardworking man. My brother Yosif has fully inherited his character.

My mother, Rachel Gorenstein was the energy center of our family. She was born in 1897 in Kiev. She was the fourth and the most beautiful child of Moshe and Basya Gorenstein. As a baby she was taken around in a richly decorated stroller, and everyone said she was as beautiful as a rose. Rose became her second, and then main name. After the war and till her death in 1954 she was officially (in documents) registered as Rozalia Moiseyevna. The first twenty years of life, my mother lived as the daughter of a big Kiev banker; she finished a very prestigious and very expensive secondary school with honors; she knew foreign languages and wanted to continue her education. She dreamed of becoming a doctor. Moshe Gorenstein, however, explained to her that a good Jewish girl, even a very rich one, must be a good wife and mother, for which her education was already good enough. My mother felt offended by him for the rest of her life. After getting married she never worked outside the house.

Grandfather Moshe did not live to see his daughter Rachel-Rose as a wife or as a mother. In 1918 he had already passed away, and my mother had no proper Jewish wedding. (Kiev of 1918, with its pogroms and various anti- Semitic gangs was not a good place for Jewish weddings). My mother immediately switched to another life (we presume the interviewee meant that she dropped all contact to Judaism), and it was dangerous to remember or tell about that previous life during the Soviet times. My mother only shared stories with me about herself and her father who was a banker after the war, and she begged me to keep my mouth shut.

Growing up

I was born when my mother was 29. My brother Yosif was 7, he just started going to school. In 1926, we lived in downtown Kiev, at 49 Krasnoarmeyskaya Street in a big five-storey building. Seven unrelated families lived in a single apartment.. Every family had its own room, and everyone shared the kitchen, bathroom and toilet. Every family consisted of at least 4-5 people. In our small room four of us lived. Later we made two small rooms of this one room. Our neighbors were Russian, Ukrainian, and Jewish.

We were friends. It was the year 1933 - the year of famine. My mother, who used to help everyone in her childhood, shared our only food portion among all the children in our flat. My mother was a wonderful cook - the whole house asked her for recipes of Jewish cuisine. Jewish cuisine was that little detail of the Jewish tradition that I learned from my mother prior to the war. She taught me everything except kashrut because she never kept it. Sometimes grandfather Aaron came to visit us (grandmother Hannah almost never came to our non-kosher home, and when she did come, she never ate anything). For my grandparents, my mother had special kosher food and dishes. We also had a taleth and a tefilin for my grandfather. When my grandfather would leave, my mother would put these things away deep into the wardrobe, so that nobody else would see them. My father also brought real matzo for us on Passover from my grandfather, and it was a big secret. We could not share it with our neighbors, because it was against the law, but my mother's recipe of noodles was used by our whole international house.

In autumn of 1934 I went to school. I was 8 years old. From my preschool childhood I still have two vivid memories: the first one is related to the famine of 1933, when in front of my own eyes a homeless child stole the bread that my mother had just received on her bread-card. My mother began to cry, and I felt very scared. My second memory is about our big yard, where we were friends with children of at least five or six nationalities. One child was once called a kike so his parents filed a lawsuit against the offender. Court hearings were held, but I don't remember the result.

My first contacts outside my family before school were made in my yard. I was the leader in all games (mostly active ones). My friends were usually boys. I never liked playing with dolls, but since the age of 7 I liked embroidering and sewing very much. My Ukrainian neighbor taught me these skills, and she praised my abilities very much. She believed sewing was something I could always use in life, and she was right.

My first school, where I studied from the first through the third grade was school nr 15. It stood in place of today's Vatutin cinema. Then I went to a newly built school nr 131. (Schools in the Soviet Union almost never had any special names, only numbers. Sometimes they had both a name and a number, but a number was a must.) That school was Russian, and my parents could send me only there. I knew nothing about Jewish schools then, and Jews did not send their children to the few Ukrainian schools that existed at the time.

We had forty children in our class, all of different nationalities. There were many children with purely Jewish names that had not been changed yet. Among teachers there were many Jews, too, but students paid no attention to this fact: their political and human characteristics were much more important. At school, in the yard, at our shared apartment the language we spoke was Russian. We celebrated common holidays, with the exception of the first New Year, introduced in Kiev by Postyshev after it was forbidden during the Revolution.

At the age of 10 I joined young pioneers, just like everybody else. By that time I had become a strong atheist and internationalist. And just like everyone else, we children, began to look for spies. In 1937, a family was arrested in our house: a couple that was reported as Trotsky-followers. People said that the wife carried enciphered messages from Trotsky in her braid. After their arrest, a big truck came to take out their books. A year later our English teacher was arrested. Our class did not believe he was the "enemy of people", and we raised a real rebellion at school. In about six months he was rehabilitated and sent back to school, which was a rare case in those times. Almost the whole school went to visit him in hospital where he found himself after the prison.

Besides English, I also liked sports, track and field athletics, as well as gymnastics, but my mother believed that a Jewish girl from a good family should not go for sports, and she only allowed me to take dancing lessons. We also often went to the children's Jewish theater, which was not far from our school. There were plays in Yiddish, which were translated into Russian by an actor on the stage. I remember a play about a Jewish girl who fell in love with a Ukrainian guy, and their parents were against their marriage first, but then they saw how this couple was happy, and allowed their marriage. There were no arranged marriages among my relatives then, but right prior to the war such marriages became acceptable in Kiev.

In 1938 we met Spanish children in Kiev. I wanted to invite a Spanish child into our family very much, but my parents found it impossible. We wore Spanish caps and sang Spanish songs. We hated the fascists and prepared for the war, although everyone said there would be no war. In 1939, discussions about fascism became more serious, especially after Germany attacked Poland. At our house we had regular public lectures on the international situation, and children attended these lectures as well - everyone was interested in politics back then. We had special "political information hours" at school and at our amateur theater. We spoke a lot about the fascists, but never about their special attitude towards the Jews.

During the war

We were looking forward to June 22, because on that day our new central stadium was to be opened, and it was very close to us. But instead of this joyful news, we heard rumors that there were bombings somewhere in the city. We did not see the bombs yet, but went outside anyway. I think I remember seeing refugees from Western Ukraine in our Krasnoarmeyskaya Street on that day. I don't know how it could be, but they said that the Germans were shooting everyone in their lands. It is still a mystery how they could have reached Kiev by June 22. In the afternoon on that day we heard the first radio announcement that the war began. There were loud speakers on poles in the street, large black plates. People were crying and were getting ready to fight. Everyone expected Stalin to address the nation, but he did not. Instead, we listened to Molotov. Starting on June 23, the whole population of our building and other buildings were digging trenches. We had shifts of people who would stand on duty on the roofs to neutralize firebombs in time. Every house had air-raid shelters. When the bombing raids began - and in our street they began on the third day of the war - my mother and I did not go to those shelters, because my mother was afraid that she would be buried under the ground. I was not even 15 years old then. By the beginning of the war there were three of us living in Kiev: my father, my mother and me. My brother Yosif was studying at the naval college in Leningrad at the time.

This is how I remember the first bombing of my life. At night, the Germans flew and spread their missiles, so that it was light as day. Bombs did not fall often on our quarter; defense dirigibles "hung" over the city all day long, and antiaircraft guns were on every roof to shoot down the enemy. Nevertheless, in front of my own eyes, a bomb fell on the building next to ours - and destroyed it.

Later, bombing raids became awful, but during the first month there was no panic: people knew exactly what, where and when they must do. The only destructive component was the refugees. Every day their number grew, they were coming from the west, telling terrible things about the Germans. The city began to get ready for evacuation.

Evacuation was voluntary. People left with their organizations and establishments, not according to their residence or schools. People got registered at their workplaces, and companies evacuated their workers from Kiev. The first people who were evacuated - at the end of June - could take anything they wanted, even furniture. People were given a lot of place on the trains, but they did not take much, because everyone was sure that victory would come soon and evacuation would not be long. People expected to be home in one or two months. My father believed so, too. He was not going to be evacuated. He was liable for a call-up, and he expected it. They decided to evacuate my mother, my aunt (the wife of my father's brother) and me. My mother begged her brother Isaac and her sister Hannah to evacuate. They refused very firmly. They believed that the Germans they saw in Kiev in 1918 were a highly cultured nation, and nobody can expect any terrible things from them. Officially, nobody told us that the Jews had to be evacuated first of all. There were rumors to this effect, circulated by the refugees, but in our big family nobody really believed them. Only our family and two younger sisters of my mother's grandfather Gorenstein went to evacuation. When on July 7 we stood at the train station, waiting for our train having said good-bye to my father, he came back to us. He was released from the army for health reasons - he had heart problems. We were all put on the train. We had only one suitcase with us. Our railcar looked as follows: it was a big freight car, in the middle of which were two metal heating stoves and along which were several two- and three-storey plank beds, on which people and their belongings lied. Around 80 people could fit into such a car.

Right there, on the train station, there was another bombing. Everyone ran out of the train into the shelter, while my mother and I stood under the roof of the Kiev train station during the whole bombing raid, and then went back to our train. When we were crossing the Dneper, leaving Kiev, the bombing began again. We were crossing the bridge under bombs. Our train managed to escape, but the one after ours was destroyed and sank in the Dneper. We were taken to the Urals. It took us a month to get there by this train. We had to spend a lot of time at some stations. We would meet people from other trains, and then at the next station we would see that train burned out and people were dead. Our train was also often bombed. When it happened, the train would stop and all its passengers would scatter in the fields, while the German planes would fly very low and shoot people almost point-blank. This continued till Voronezh. After Voronezh the bombings gradually ceased, and the journey to Krasnoufimsk, in the Urals, was practically quiet. We did not have enough food on the train. Only small food portions were given out in a centralized manner, the rest we had to buy at the stations. Local residents offered us their products, and we had money to buy them, but even such small markets were often bombed.

Krasnoufimsk was a small town not far from Sverdlovsk, in the Urals. We arrived there on August 5, 1941 - my parents, Aunt Liza (my mother's sister), her husband, uncle Yakov, and me. Uncle Yakov worked at the railways, and due to his railway department we were evacuated. My aunt and uncle were settled in a room at the train station, and my uncle began to work at the railway depot. My parents and I were settled at the house of former White Guard soldier Orlov. We were put there by force, and he was forced to let us stay in his large summer kitchen, where we spent two years. The kitchen was big, but very cold, and in winters, when frosts reached minus 40 degrees Centigrade, the walls of the kitchen were covered with ice. Our landlord looked forward to the Germans' coming to the Urals. When he heard on the radio about cities captured by the Germans, he without any fear put icons around the house and played victory marches. Psychologically, it was very hard for us, Soviet people, to live with him.

I went to school; my mother did not work, only my father worked, so we had his salary and the money sent by brother Yosif, who fought at the front. We also had food cards, which gradually replaced money in 1941. Food was poor and usually frozen.

At the same time, there was absolute order in the city. There were no bandits, no hooligans in the streets. Food provision was poor but regular and well ordered. Special Communist Party and Soviet bodies were in control of it.

Right there in taiga, outside the city, plants that came from the Big Land were established, and a month later they began to put out planes, tanks and other military equipment. We turned out to be absolutely unprepared for winter: we had no clothes, and the Urals climate was very different from ours; it was extremely hard for many people. Some people lost a lot of weight, while others, including me, began to gain weight and looked as healthy as ever. Being almost always hungry I was rather fat, with pink cheeks, and nobody believed I was starving. I went to study at the 8th grade. Our class was big; there were mainly children from Moscow. I joined the Komsomol League there, and in the 9th grade I became the Secretary of the Komsomol School Organization. We did not only study - several months a year we spent on collective farms in the fields. We worked under awful conditions - without clothes and almost with no equipment. While studying, we also went to hospitals, read letters to the wounded, took care of them and provided political information to every stratum of population of Krasnoufimsk.

We had a radio at home, which was on day and night. It was very difficult for us to hear about the surrender of our cities; we cried hard when our dear Kiev was surrendered. Nothing special was said about Babi Yar or other places of mass shootings of the Jews. The usual formula during those times was: death of Soviet civilians. It was only in 1942 that we heard about the Jewish tragedy in Kiev. But we did hear it in an official radio program. We worried very much for our families. The attitude towards the Jews in Krasnoufimsk was fine. There were not many Jews there. I never heard the word "kike" from the local population. The only exceptions were former White Guard soldiers, many of whom were in Krasnoufimsk in exile. Their attitude towards the Jews was openly hostile.

At that time, we did not discuss the special attitude of the Germans towards the Jews. I don't remember ever asking this question. We were much more anxious about the situation at the front and famine, which was very strong since winter 1942.

We had almost nothing except bread, while its norm for students and non-working family members was 400 grams a day. At school, however, we were given a little bit more, but it was absolutely not enough. Every day I went to bed hungry.

We continued to keep the traditional Soviet lifestyle. We also tried to celebrate all the Soviet holidays and even New Year. For young girls, the military were the most handsome men and heroes. In spring 1942 I saw captured Germans for the first time in Krasnoufimsk.

Since March 1942, transport trucks with the captured Germans passed by Krasnoufimsk to go further into Siberia. The transport trucks were heavily guarded. There were three lines of guards around them. The Germans were guarded against the evacuated population, the Soviet people, who were ready to tear them apart, for many had already received letters about the death of their near and dear at the front. I remember the Germans were miserable, poorly clothed, half-frozen. Once a transport truck passed by us, and there was no one alive - all the Germans got frozen on the way and turned into ice.

We all were patriots of our country. Every schoolboy dreamed of fighting at the front. When I was at the 9th grade I went to the military registration and enlistment office, begging them to send girls to the front line. They certainly refused. In 1942, I was not even 16 years old yet.

The first loss we experienced in our family was my grandmother. She died in front of my mother and me in winter 1942. And on December 31, 1942, my father died. He had gone outside to chop wood so we wouldn't be cold. They brought his body in the next morning.

In order to make a hole in the frozen soil with temperature bellow 40 degrees and bury him we had to work three days with picks. So, my mother and I remained alone. My brother fought at the front. We knew practically nothing about his fate. Apart from bread, in winter 1942 we also had two sacks of frozen potatoes. Fresh potatoes were in our dreams until the end of evacuation. We did not starve to death only because my mother sold my father's only suit. It was very good, and we exchanged it for two sacks of flour. It lasted us till the end of summer 1943.

In June 1943 evacuation ended, and we were taken back to the territories released by the Soviet army. Now, in August 1943, we were coming home, and our way back was very much like our way to evacuation. We were in practically the same freight cars. Our journey to Voronezh was quiet, while after Voronezh bombings began again, and we again saw transports ruined on their way home, people killed ...

A little later a railway station in the Ukrainian town of Konotop was fully destroyed in front of us. Two weeks before that Konotop was liberated from the Germans. The front line was on the railway juncture Vorozhba. Kiev was still in the hands of the Germans. We could not go further. We were left in Konotop. Bodies of Soviet power were formed from our midst, the young people, Komsomol members, who were in evacuation, that is, who did not stay in the occupied territories. Local residents, who had stayed in the territories occupied by the Germans were not trusted with such work. Thus I began to work at the passport department of the Konotop police, and in two months, due to some circumstances, I became the chief of this department. I had just turned 16 at the time.

Our work at the passport department consisted of checking and re- registering residents of Konotop, putting Soviet stamps into their old, pre- war, and most often German passports. In their old pre-war Soviet passports people had big, two-page stamps - the German swastika, and we put our own Soviet stamps next to it into the passports of people we have checked.

People stood in long, several kilometers long lines to get to our department. We worked 12-14 hours a day. The flow of people did not decrease for several months. The reason was that without the Soviet mark in their passports, Konotop residents could neither find a job, nor get bread cards. Their passports were considered invalid. If I remember correctly, there were practically no Jewish names among Konotop residents I checked and registered.

Registration and checking of documents was a hard, responsible and sometimes dangerous task. Many people turned out to be without documents at all; many were hiding from the Soviet authorities or concealed their names, for different reasons, pretending to be somebody else. There were many deserters from the army and very many bandits. We had to filter out all of them, find them out and pass them on. Regularly, once or twice a week, we took part in special raids to check documents around the town.

At this work I grew very serious and suspicious. Two months later I was taken to be a court assessor in the military tribunal. The tribunal consisted of three people, it was a secret court: two assessors (I was one of them) and the chairman, sometimes a military lawyer, sometimes not. We judged all kinds of traitors: German policemen and other people who collaborated with the Germans. Information about them reached us through numerous sources, including the local population.

Two weeks before our coming to Konotop, the local population hung the man, a Ukrainian, who was chief of the police under the Germans; they hung him without any court judgment. Later we had all the necessary proceedings. We did not know the term "collaboration" then, but everyone knew the term "traitor of motherland."

A military tribunal was a secret, closed court hearing, but the procedure, as you can imagine, was kept very strict. There were many witnesses. Court hearings could last from two to ten or more days. We convicted a Ukrainian doctor, who was chief of the medical service of the concentration camp for prisoners of war in Konotop under the Germans and who gradually killed all the Soviet prisoners of war and betrayed those doctors who tried to save them. I don't remember ever convicting anyone for shooting the Jews in Konotop, although I'm sure there were such shootings. But we did not register such places or people who took part in them at that time. We convicted those locals who betrayed their fellow men, sending them to death.

I, as an assessor, had to sign death sentences more than once. Such a responsibility really changes a girl's character at 16. I was very radical and uncompromising. Local residents treated me with caution. When my friend and I turned up to the dance club, people fled from that place, often thinking we were on another raid. Several times people tried to kill me. My poor mother cried a lot because of me. But in the eyes of the local youth we were heroes, who accomplished justice.

I worked there till the beginning of 1944. In January, Uncle Yakov came to pick us up from Kiev. He took my aunt, but I could not leave because, as it turned out, after working for four months in the police, I became subject to call-up, that is, the military, and I could no longer move around without permission of the military command. We learned that our house in Kiev was ruined, so we had nowhere to stay anyway. My mother and I stayed in Konotop. At the same time Uncle Yakov told us about the death of the Gorenstein family in Babi Yar.

For another whole year, until 1944, when I was 17, I was the chief of the passport department and in charge of the passport regime in Konotop and its region. Without my personal signature on passes and stamps, no one could leave Konotop, no one could come and stay to live in it for more than three days. Some people tried to bribe me, promising big money and services, while I wore shoes with torn bottoms for that whole year.

In the beginning of 1945, after a very strict checking of the Konotop passport department by the regional Sumy department, I was sent there as the chief of the passport department of the region. It was an extraordinary career for a Jewish girl, unbelievable. In the center of the city I was given a 20-meter room with two beds - for me and for my mother, one chair and a huge suitcase, which served as a table. It was an unheard-of luxury in 1945.

There was more work in the region than in Konotop district, but two months later I was again promoted to the special unit of the Department of the Interior. My unit monitored all secret information about Sumy citizens. This information, first of all, related to people whose names were found in the German archive that was captured there, that is, people, who collaborated with the Germans during the occupation. We mainly checked and traced such people. As far as I remember, I never saw any case related specifically to the Jewish mass murders in Sumy, even though there were obviously mass Jewish burial places in Sumy. Besides, we received a large group of people, who returned from the German captivity or slave labor, followed by the German information archive, transferred to us. So, I had to deal with this work as well. It was at that work that I received my first officer rank - junior lieutenant.

Returning to Kiev

At the end of April 1945 I came to Kiev by miracle. One Russian colonel in Sumy learned that I came from Kiev but did not have a chance to go there after evacuation, so he let me go there for a month. Considering that nobody got any vacation then, I can only marvel at the fact. It is impossible to describe what I saw in my native city, how I saw my house, which resembled a skeleton on the burnt out street. I hardly escaped death there, when I was running up the half-ruined stairs to the second floor, to our apartment, where in the hole in the wall I saw the remains of our pictures. In the yard, where my whole childhood passed, I met my former neighbors; our meeting was very warm, but I felt like I came from a different world: they were free people, while I, at 17-years-old, was a very responsible and secret worker. It was hard for me to find my relatives. I stayed at Uncle Yakov's and aunt Liza's and spent the month there. First I hoped very much that I would remain in Kiev and be transferred here for work. My hopes ran high because in Sumy I was working together with the niece of Polina Zhemchuzhnaya, Molotov's wife. She gave me a letter of recommendation to a big boss in Kiev, and after seeing him, I almost got registered at work in Kiev. The only difficulty was the fact that even being able to give me work at the department of the Interior, this man was unable to help me find a flat. At that time, it was practically impossible for my mother and I - my brother was still at the Northern Navy - to rent an apartment and pay for it. Besides, after staying a short time, the situation in Kiev began to weigh heavily on me. Almost a third of the Gorenstein family had died. Nobody saw their graves - it was the whole Babi Yar. I learned that after our evacuation our neighbors took all of our belongings. I was told I could turn to the court, but I just couldn't do that. My best pre-war friend Lena turned out to be a complete stranger to me. It was very had for me to live in Kiev, and when I still had about five days of my vacation left, right after the Victory Day, I went back to Sumy.

The thought about Babi Yar, where my relatives lay, which was so close to Kiev, was unbearable for me. I remember that April 1945 well. People went around Jewish homes in Kiev, collecting money for a monument. As far as I know, no monument was built there within the next 20 or even 30 years.

The only good memory I had from Kiev then was the Victory Day. I celebrated it with my friends from my Krasnoarmeyskaya Street in Kiev. Since May 7, people gathered around loudspeakers outside, waiting for the announcement of victory. And we heard this announcement at 12:00 on May 9, 1945. "Hurrah!" could be heard all over the city; people shot into the air from guns and rifles. It was a celebration for every one personally and for the whole nation at large.

I remember that immediately after the Victory Day, people began to tell the Jews to emigrate to Palestine. As far as I remember, most people did not want to go. My family, and me first of all, were very negative about emigration, we wanted to stay and build up our country. Those who emigrated were traitors in my opinion.

In comparison with pre-war times, the attitude towards the Jews was considerably worse. It was a painful paradox. It would seem that after all the atrocities that the fascists did to the Jews in front of the whole of Kiev, they were to be at least pitied. But nothing of this sort was happening. A precedent was created - the Germans demonstrated that the Jews could be destroyed, and the daringness of this crime inspired fresh anti- Semitism, which in fact had never been absent in Ukraine. Nevertheless, it did not push my family towards emigration. We were Soviet patriots and could not imagine ourselves outside our motherland. But our internationalism, especially that of my mother, was greatly shaken at that time. At the end of 1944, unexpectedly for the whole family, my older brother Yosif married a Russian woman. He spent the war serving as an officer at the Northern Navy. He had been on a trawler and led military transportation vessels across mine fields. He married a woman from his ship crew. The family did not take the fact that she was older than him as painfully as the fact that she was Russian. Unlike the pre-war times that I have already described, this fact was taken very negatively. My mother said then that if it were before the war, she would not mind a mixed marriage with a Gentile, but the war tragedy, which we did not call Holocaust yet, left an impact on her understanding, and she was afraid of mixed marriages.

Anyway, my brother's marriage was to be recognized. And it was not the last trial for my mother, because soon afterwards I met my future husband, an officer, a captian of the Soviet Army, Alexey Chaika, and in 1946, despite vigorous protests of my mother and our whole Jewish family, we got married.

I should say that Alexey Chaika was not the first one who made a proposal to me. There were a lot of boys, mainly Russian ones, around me. There were Jewish boys as well, introduced to me by my Jewish relatives. But at one point I told them not to interfere with my life because I was going to find my spouse on my own. That's how it happened. I would date others for a long time, but it took Alexey Chaika only one month to make a proposal and to get my "yes." However, it was a "yes" from me, and not from my mother. She did not mind the fact that my future husband was 12 years older than me, but she greatly minded his military profession and nationality. Just like in the case with my brother Yosif, she reminded me, too, about how Russian husbands betrayed their Jewish wives and children during the occupation. It got stuck in her memory for her whole life. In addition, she was absolutely sure that some time later he would say something bad about my nationality. Just let me tell you at once: she was wrong. My husband and I lived together for 45 years, and our marriage was unbelievably happy.

Married life

Our wedding took place on April 25, 1946. The wedding was a military one; my husband's whole regiment and my colleagues came to see us. There were no relatives, except my mother, at the wedding. My uncle and aunt, members of our Kiev family, officially rejected me. But my husband was right in saying before our wedding that if our life together went well, all the relatives will recognize us again, but if our life went badly, nobody will need me anyhow. Since our life was good, we quickly reconciled with the whole Kiev family. Alexey, with his open and kind heart, quickly won the love of my relatives, and first and best of all, my mother's.

Since the end of 1946, my husband and I began to travel all over Ukraine. My husband served at the air regiment, and together with this regiment we moved from place to place. We never stayed at one place for more than six months. In snowy frosty December of 1947, in the town of Belaya Tserkov, not far from Kiev, our daughter Tatyana was born.

In the morning of that day, I had to unload a whole truck of coal - the winter was cold and a truck of coal was an unheard-of luxury in the then Belaya Tserkov. My husband brought the truck in the morning, but we could unload it only in the evening. I did not want to wait till the evening, I was afraid that somebody would steal it. So, I decided to unload it on my own, and that is why my daughter was born one full month early. She was born at night; there was no electricity for some reason, and candles were lit around me.

I had to quit work. Our frequent moving from place to place did not let me work properly, and then my newborn daughter required my full attention. The problem was that right before her birth I slipped on the steps and fell with a bucket of coal, and so when my daughter was one year old she already had fully developed traumatic cataract. She had two surgeries, on both eyes, in Kiev, but still her sight remained very weak for the whole life.

In 1955 our traveling came to an end: our daughter had to go to school, and since she could study only at a special school for children with impaired vision, and this school was only one - in Kiev, my husband had to transfer to the reserve, having declined a higher army promotion.

Thus, since 1955, I have been living in Kiev again. When I look back at my life in various military camps, I always remember cold and almost hungry existence, crowded houses with cockroaches everywhere and huge rats active at night. Once, a rat bit my young Tanya, so the whole house ran after this rat to show it to the medics and free the child from shots. But I also remember that we were all friends in these towns and villages, the team was always international, and all the holidays were cheerful and long, even though there was not enough food.

Anti-Semitism in Kiev

We could not imagine somebody saying anything negative or irrespective about Jews. Apart from punishing it as a crime, according to the Communist Party and Soviet authorities' policy, my husband would never allow it. Once, in 1952, the situation changed in connection with the Doctors' Case. We lived in Poltava, and my mother, with tears in her eyes, told my husband that our neighbor said that our fellow Jews wanted to poison Stalin. Since Stalin was almost a living god for my mother, this offense was horrible to her. Alexey went to talk to the offender. Since their talk did not seem to go the way he wanted, he used his official position and wrote a report to the chief of the political unit of his regiment, where he worked at the time. But to his surprise, the chief of the unit explained to him that he should not worry about it, because the man who offended my mother was not very wrong. Besides, he advised that Alexey, whose wife was Jewish (meaning me), he should keep quiet and low. So, my husband went to talk to the neighbor as man to man. It seems that this talk was much more effective. We never heard anything like that again. Soon after that Stalin died. And this terrible grief united Jews, Russians, and Ukrainians in our regiment. The old and the young cried without hiding their tears. The Soviet people had no idea how to live without their great Stalin. On March 5, the day of his death, two planes crashed in our regiment - one was taking off and another was landing. They collided on the runway. 22 coffins were in the regiment on that day; they were buried on the same day as Stalin.

We came across everyday anti-Semitism in full in Kiev. Then, in 1955, spoken Yiddish was freely heard in the streets. And almost as often as Yiddish was heard, so the word "kikes" was used against us or someone else. My Russian husband Alexey could not tolerate it. Naively he thought that there was no difference between people's nationalities. "A person's good nature is only important, the rest is not so important", he said often. By the way, his many relatives in the Russian village of Tetkino outside Kursk did not object to our marriage. In the very beginning they treated me well and later our relations became very friendly; finally, if they had any family questions, they first discussed them with me and only after that - with Alexey.

In general, the transition to Kiev lifestyle turned out to be hard for us. It was hard to go back to the old memories and Babi Yar. My husband and I, my daughter and our Jewish relatives went to Babi Yar almost every year, practically in secret. That place was dark, wild and dangerous. Rumors had it that the authorities were planning to build a stadium there.

I did not go to work. I worked around the house and helped my daughter to study. It was hard for my husband to start living civilian life. He began to work at the air factory and later was transferred to the design bureau of famous aircraft designer Antonov. He worked there util his retirement. It was hard for him to take the changes in the nature of relations as compared with his military brotherhood.

The exposure of the Stalin cult was very difficult for all of our families, both Jewish and Russian. For us, he was the highest authority, an example of a true person and a state leader. Even prior to the war our family had a tradition that at our family celebrations, even at birthday parties, the first toast was the toast to the health of Comrade Stalin. Even the death of my uncle's brother changed nothing in this regard. And 20 years later, it was hard to accept that everything we believed in were lies.

After these lies we became suspicious of everything. We also were skeptical about the existence of Israel. It seemed to us that it was all a nice joke. We had only Soviet sources of information about Israel. And in general, it all was too far from our everyday life of the end of the 1950s, when we had to do our best to forget that we were Jewish in order to live in peace, so that my daughter would study peacefully as well, because she had already run across anti-Semitism in her school.

The Jewish language , Yiddish, was gradually disappearing, as well as our Jewish names. Sometimes on purpose, other times - for pronunciation reasons, they were turned into Russian names: Moishe - Misha, Izya - Igor. And me, Basya, became Asya, not on purpose, but because my Russian neighbors found it easier to say it this way. In Jewish families full names were no longer given to children in honor of their late relatives - only the first letter of the name was left, the rest of the name was Russian, for instance: in honor of Leib or Lazar a boy was named Leonid, in honor of Rivka a girl was named Raisa. Before the end of 1970s I did not even know where the only Kiev synagogue was located. So, I was very surprised when my daughter Tatyana, who, as I believed, was brought up in the spirit of internationalism, when she was going to get her passport in 1964, demanded that in the "nationality" line she would be registered as Jewish. It was correct, but impossible. This so-called "fifth line" in the passport, that is, Jewish nationality, could put an end to her further career, institute studies, finding a good job; it threatened to cause a lot of troubles. I sincerely wanted her to register as Russian, according to her father's nationality, while my husband believed she could choose whatever nationality she wanted. He still did not understand the peculiarities of our Jewish fate. Neither begging nor explanations could influence her - only my bitter tears shed for many days impacted her, and she did what I wanted from her. I still don't understand what it was - a protest on her part, her ethnic identification or the fact that on the example of her Jewish friends she could see a special attitude towards the Jews. To be frank, I need to say that anti-Semitism did not affect me personally. It did not hinder my career, or my work, or my Communist Party membership, which started when I was 19. I was more concerned about those who were with me. My Jewish relatives became fewer and fewer. In 1954, my mother died; a few years before that Aunt Liza was gone, and then Uncle Yakov. However, in 1960s, my brother Yosif came home from the army. By the way, he received a second higher education - he graduated from the Higher Military Engineer Academy in Leningrad. After coming back to Kiev he found a job at the military plant, where he worked at a very high office until his death in 1981. He could not register his sons, Vova and Boris, as the Russians, because he divorced his first wife, who was Russian, and married a Jewish woman. But, being an optimist, he believed his boys would fight their ways in this life somehow.

In 1966, my Tanya finished school with honors and entered University, philosophy department, which was another surprise for us. Prior to that she had finished music school (playing violin), and we hoped she would continue her musical education in the musical college. However, she chose a different path, and in general she became independent then. I could start working again. I certainly did not go back to my previous, semi-military profession. Having finally completed my secondary education at the age of 40, I went to work at the structure of the Education Ministry. I worked there till 1985, when my granddaughter Katya was born.

In the 1970s, life around us was slowly changing, and I could find my place in it. I became a trade union leader at my work. At the same time more people began to emigrate to Israel. There was an instruction, coming either from the party or from the Soviet authorities, according to which trade union leaders had to do explanatory work with those who were going to emigrate. I had to do it many times, and it was always hard for me. It was a little easier because the first to leave was our director, in 1975. The next step according to this instruction was a special meeting with these people to expel them from the Communist Party if they were its members. It was a very painful procedure. We all tried to escape it, and there was a method: when a person knew he would leave, he had to quit his job, leave the party ranks and work somewhere as a street cleaner, for instance; he had to put himself in such a position that he would have nothing in common with his previous work. It made situation easier for him because he did not have to blush in front of his work team where he had worked for a long time, and it made the situation easier for the organization that had to do such a thing to him. The first people who left - in 1970s - seemed to have disappeared without any trace. Technically, correspondence with them was very complicated, and literally, it was dangerous for those who were left here and received letters from abroad. In the 1980s the situation began to change. We began to get news from those who left for another world, which was so unlike ours. We learned that their lives there went well. The attitude towards them began to change, first unofficially. My attitude was also changing, even though I was still against emigration. I thought we were being deceived again. Besides, I remembered the words of my mother in evacuation in the Urals. She said she was willing to go back to Kiev even if there would be no place to stay; she was willing to kiss the rocks of the Kiev streets, so that she would only stay home. I still think the same way. By the end of the 1980s, my few relatives also began to leave. They were leaving for the United States, Israel, even Australia, and we remained even fewer in Kiev. Correspondence with our relatives became more and more legal and free, and gradually communications with the free world became a tradition in our family.

By the end of the 1980s, there were much less Jews in Kiev, but my family increased: in 1985, my long-awaited granddaughter Katya was born. Her father, Tatyana's husband, is Viktor Malakhov, son of the famous sculptor, Aaron Foterman, and Belarussian doctor Tamara Malakhova. When he finished school and could not enter the medical institute after having passed practically all exams with excellent marks, he changed his last name for his mother's. Then he entered the philosophy department of the University, where he studied together with my daughter. They have been living and working together for the past 20 years.

My husband and I doted upon our granddaughter. His last words before he died in 1991 were concerning her. Unfortunately, he did not live to see her as a student and did not know that in the third grade her parents transferred Katya to the first Jewish national school of Kiev, which she finished with honors this year.

My granddaughter Katya is a person of the new time that began for us in 1991. She is absolutely free in her political, religious and national choices. Her father is Doctor of Philosophy and Professor of the National University in Kiev. This year, Katya passed exams with a very high rating and entered two universities at once: the National "Kyiv-Mohyla Academy" University and the State Jewish Solomon University. She studies at the philosophy department. Even now she speaks fluent Russian, Ukrainian, English, and Hebrew. She knows the Jewish tradition well. She loves reading the Torah and Talmud in original. It was with her that the Jewish tradition came back to our home. Katya tells me that the most valuable thing in life is free choice. She is probably right. But it is not easy for me to understand her. Neither in my childhood nor in the rest of my life did I have such freedom, but I also understand what a dear price was paid for this freedom.

I remember that my mother, being young, told me how in the 1920s, a famous Kiev rabbi invited her to join his family in their emigration to America. And she, a daughter of rich parents, from whom Revolution confiscated everything they had, nevertheless decided to stay in her motherland - and she never regretted it. I think I have her character; only at home I can enjoy full rights of a person. But I understand that my viewpoint is not the only right one, and it is very good that the whole world is now open. Let them leave freely, and let them be free to come back should they decide to do so. The most important thing, according to my granddaughter, is free choice. A free choice to remain really human. I am very glad that my Kiev is becoming more and more not only Ukrainian, but also Jewish: Jewish schools, synagogues, theaters, "Khesed Avot" - this is all very good; I just want people to live in peace. Because there is probably no greater evil than mutual hatred. I am especially afraid of national and religious hatred. And if religions or nationalities are able to separate people and make them hate one another, then something is wrong in this world. Because the most important thing is for all people to be happy. And they need very little for this: mind, kindness and peace of heart.

Adela Hinkova
Sofia
Bulgaria
Interviewers: Violeta Kyurdyan, Dimitar Bozhilov
Date of interview: September 2003

Adela Hinkova is a remarkable old lady. She hasn’t gone out of her apartment for many years, being unable to walk alone. Ringing the bell, you would first hear her quick ‘I'm coming’ and then, after a short break, the rattling of her walker, while approaching the door. In the beginning, you would be amazed by Adela’s stern look and explicit speaking. But when she smiles and starts speaking, you realize what a tender and loving lady she is. And she really loves talking, though unfortunately she gets tired very quickly. Once undoubtedly an extremely energetic person, she’s now seeing only a limited number of people, but she’s still full of energy, she still keeps her mother’s sewing machine, she regularly brushes up her memories and is eager to share the story of her life with the whole world.

My father
Growing up
Our religious life
My school years
During the war
My husband
Glossary

My father

My father’s kin is from Vidin. There was a Jewish quarter there; it was situated on the so-called Kale [Greek for ‘fortress’]. Only a couple of Jewish families didn’t live there. There was a big synagogue in Vidin, the second biggest synagogue on the Balkan Peninsula [after the Sofia Great Synagogue 1]. Later, it was used for storage for a certain time. Nowadays it’s in ruins. There were only four families from the Jewish community there. My father’s kin are said to have lived there for a long time. His name was Leon Yosef Ilel. There were a lot of families named Ilel in Vidin, which means that they were a lot of brothers and sisters. He remained without a father when he was a child. My father knew nothing about his father and they sent him to be an ‘argatin’ [a seasonal worker on the fields helping with harvesting], as they said in Wallachia [an Ottoman Danubian Province; the unification of Wallachia and Moldova formed the Romanian State that was recognized independent in 1878] and that’s why he knew Romanian very well.

Then he married. He had documents for buying an estate in 1895. He lived in that house with his family. His first wife Duda bore him four children. She was very beautiful. When she died early of tuberculosis, the youngest child was 14-15 years old. There was Grandmother Ester, my father’s mother, who lived in a secluded room, but I never saw her walking around or sitting at the table. She lay on some kind of chest; she even had lice or something of the kind. I know that she was very old.

I remember my father with very little hair. He had a short haircut. His hair was a bit grayish. Even when he died at 72 years of age, he did not have white hair. He didn’t have a hair prosthesis. He said it bothered him. He wore a suit. He always wore a suit; I don’t remember if he had any cardigans. He wore pants, a shirt and a jacket. In the summer I don’t remember seeing him without his jacket, wearing a shirt only. He also wore a bowler hat. When it got cold, he wore a fur-lined short coat. In the winter he wore overshoes, because there was a lot of mud around. I had to wash them, but the water in the bucket would freeze during the night. In the morning, he would take a wooden log and hit the ice in the bucket to crush it. And he said, ‘Come now, wash yourself!’ The ground in Vidin is kind of sticky, not crumbling. It stuck to the overshoes and you can’t image how hard it was to wash two pairs of overshoes with freezing hands.

I remember my father as a vendor of charcoal. Village people came from the country and brought him charcoal. All villagers around Vidin were Wallachians [ethnic Romanians]. There was no Bulgarian village around Vidin without Wallachians living in it. I remember him coming home all black. He went to the shop, two people helped him there, holding one side of the charcoal sack and placing its other side on the scales. The scales worked with weights. When he returned home, my mother [Adela’s father’s second wife] was ready to pour him water to wash himself. There wasn’t much water at that time. We didn’t have water in the yard, my mother and I went to a well, which was two houses down the road. We called it Tatli Bunar – which means ‘sweet well’ in Turkish. Its water was very nice. So she would pour my father water so he could wash himself. I would hand him a clean shirt and a towel.

He would sit at the table and send me to buy him a bottle of mastika 2. He loved drinking mastika. The bottle was with a glass plug and I would open it to try it, but it was so strong, I wondered how he could drink that stuff. He drank the mastika with boiled eggs. They were over-boiled, which is a religious thing: if the egg isn’t boiled hard enough, it’s not Jewish. It’s not kosher. My mother boiled the eggs with onion skins and they got brown. We all sat at the table ready to eat. My father would slice an egg for himself and an egg for us, he would give us each a slice of it and we would all wait while he ate and drank. Then my mother would serve the dinner. We all sat together at the table. The four of us lived together: I, my brother Santo, my mother and my father. The others [the other siblings] had their own families already. I don’t remember if they came to visit us. I was 13-14 years old when I saw them for the first time.

My father was responsible for our moral upbringing. I don’t know how many brothers he had, I know that he had a lot of cousins. He didn’t go to school. As a child, he worked as a servant. He knew very little: to sign his name in Latin letters and to use some Jewish alphabet, consisting of pothooks. He had a big notebook for the accounts. He was a naturally intelligent man, able to understand and learn much about people. He knew a lot of short stories and proverbs. He was very eloquent and everyone loved listening to him.

My father was a very nice man. He loved people very much and they loved him, too. They called him Bai [uncle] Aslan the ‘Mangal Komuru’ [Turkish for ‘charcoal vendor’]. Aslan means ‘lion’ in Turkish. He knew many languages for his times. He knew five languages. We spoke only Spanish 3 at home. We spoke Bulgarian very rarely. When he went to work, he spoke Turkish and Wallachian. If he hadn’t known Wallachian, he wouldn’t have been able to do his job. Fifty percent of the people at the market, where he had a shop, were Wallachians. He also spoke the Gypsy [Roma] language, because there were a lot of gypsies in Vidin.

With his [first] wife, Duda, my father had four children: two sons and two daughters. The eldest one was Buka. In fact, her name was Joya. Joya is a jewel in Ladino, a gem. And she was a beautiful woman. Some of the children, Nessim and she, were a little bit swarthy. Buka married early and left the house. Many years after that, she visited me with her youngest son Leon; she had three sons. He was named after my father.

The next child was Nessim: ‘Nes’ means a good sign [miracle] in Ivrit. He loved studying. After my father’s first wife died of tuberculosis, Duda’s brother Jacques lived in the house. Duda’s maiden name was Suzin. Her brother was the future factory owner Jacques Suzin. He went to high school and knitted lace to earn money. And since he was very neat, he would always lay down his pants on the bed during the night, so that they wouldn’t be creased in the morning. He went to Italy to study and then he got rich and became a factory owner. When my brother Nessim graduated from high school, Jacques invited him to Italy where my brother studied finance. During his studies he met an Italian woman, who was very beautiful. They lived together and they had a girl. Then he returned to Bulgaria; we made great preparations for his return. He stayed with us for a very short time. He went to Pleven to see his other sisters and then he went on to Yambol.

My uncle sent him machines, with which Nessim founded the factory ‘Tundzha’ in Varna. He produced American and Oxford textiles there. The yarn arrived from Jacques’ other factory. Some years after that Nessim married Rozeta, who was studying dentistry, but gave it up and lived with him. She was a very beautiful woman. She was from Burgas, from a well-off family: they had a house in Burgas and she had four or five sisters. During those times if you wanted to marry, you had to have 100,000 levs for dowry. That was the norm, taking into account that the monthly salary was 3,000 levs. And every other year her father married off one of his daughters. My father was fretting, ‘Rozeta married off yet another sister, Nessim must have given 100,000 levs again.’ When Rozeta’s parents died, they left them a small house in the center of Burgas as inheritance. In its place he built a big three-story building with two apartments on each floor. This was the first nice house in Burgas; they called it the ‘White House.’ It still exists today on Antim 1st Street.

The factory was nationalized in 1931. In 1944 4 when the communists came to power, he was offered a job as a director of a warehouse. But he felt offended and declined. So he moved to Sofia in 1948. He was among the first to leave for Israel. He didn’t do well there, because he was quite old and had no money. He went to Italy to look for Jacques Suzim, who, however, had already passed away. Jacques’ son told him, ‘He left me nothing. The fascists took everything.’ And then together with Buka’s elder son Solomon, he opened an atelier for children’s ready-made clothes. But Nessim gave that up, too, and stayed at home. I felt very sorry for him when I visited him in Israel. I would feel very sad when he told me, ‘You know, I visited Santo today and saved the money for one lunch.’ He died at the age of 82.

The third child of my father’s first marriage was Zhaneta. She and I had at least twenty years difference in age. She married in Pleven. There she gave birth to two children, who she named after her parents-in-law: the son Benyamin, and the daughter Zelma. Zhaneta’s husband was a very nice man. His business didn’t do well in Pleven and so he moved to a village, Stezherevo, in Svishtov region. There he opened a small shop and became a merchant. He treated all the people like brothers. When I turned 14, I was able to travel by myself. I got in touch with him and his family and visited them. I traveled by a steamer from Vidin and arrived at Svishtov. He came to meet me with a cart, because there were no buses at that time. So, I spent my summers there. I had a very nice time with them.

He had rheumatism and went to spa treatments. My sister would remain in the shop to work and I did the household chores. I learned to cook at that time. When the time came to go back to Vidin, he gave me fabrics to give to my mother as a present; she made robes from them. They lived there for quite some time and then they moved to another village: Aleksandrovo, in Lovech region. He lived well there, until the Law for the Protection of the Nation 5 was passed in 1941. Then he settled in Pleven.

My sister was very kind and loved by all. When she was young, she wanted to study, but Grandmother Ester didn’t let her. She was still energetic at that time. I remember now what Grandmother Ester told her, ‘Come on, tell your ‘gosposta’…’ [short for ‘gospozhitsa,’ Bulgarian for ‘Miss’]. But instead of saying ‘gosposta,’ she would say ‘posta’ which means shit in Spanish [Ladino]. And they laughed at her. My sister was a very good student and helped the other students. But they didn’t allow her to study and she remained with little education. She left for Israel with her two children.

One of her children [Zelma] got married and had two children, the other [Benyamin] couldn’t marry, because during the youth-brigade movement in Bulgaria, he became a brigade member and got sick. Instead of treating him, the doctor said that he had caught a cold. In fact he had tuberculosis. There was no penicillin at that time; he put on a lot of weight. He wasn’t able to marry, after all. So, he worked as a bank clerk in Israel. His father died in Israel. When he went to see the doctor for his high blood pressure, he died on the doctor’s couch. The son [Benyamin] often went to play roulette, when he came to Bulgaria. He also died of high blood pressure, when coming out of a restaurant. He left a large inheritance to Zelma, his sister, but she was already in an old-age home in a wheel-chair. So, the inheritance went to his cousins.  

My next brother Yosef was the last child from my father’s first marriage. He wasn’t swarthy, he was quite fair. He was a silent man. When Nessim was in Italy, he invited Yosef to study there. Yosef spent some time in Italy, but he could neither study, nor did he manage to learn the language, so he came back. I don’t know what work he did, I only remember him joining the army as a labor service man. He brought a green blanket from there. I saw this blanket around at home for a long time and we all knew that it was Yosef’s blanket.

After some years I understood that something went wrong during his circumcision. This didn’t prevent him from marrying a very beautiful woman, Loti, and having two children, both fair-haired like him. A girl, whom he called Duda Adela, after his mother and a boy, whom he named after his father Leon. He used to say, ‘Leon Yosef Ilel, the three names of my father, are back.’ But Loti thought that she had married a very rich man, while he didn’t achieve much financially. He lived with her until he left for Israel. There he divorced and married another woman. But he couldn’t find a proper job there. He became a carrier at the port. He was always depressed. He died soon after that in 1955. He always had an inferiority complex.

My mother [Adela’s father’s second wife] arrived in Bulgaria from Greece with her parents, probably in 1912 or 1913. My mother’s family lived in a number of places. My mother told me that they lived in Xanthi and Dedeagac [both today in Greece]. They lived in Turkey and after the First Balkan War 6 they lived in Greece. My mother could speak Greek and Turkish very well. She also knew Bulgarian, but not very well. She learned it when they moved to Vidin. Her father was a chazzan. Her parents educated their children well. Their son Solomon and their daughter with her husband Bentsion remained in Greece, while they came to Bulgaria with my mother, who was already 25 years old. They married her to my father, who was 25 years older than her.

My mother told me that when she went to my father’s house, she found a heap of ashes in the yard: the burned possessions of my father’s first wife. When she raked the ashes with a stick she found a cup handle. ‘I started everything anew,’ she said to me.

She arrived with one chest. We had that chest for many years at home. She kept her most valuable things there and a dress called ‘bindali,’ an ancient Jewish national velvet dress sewn with gold threads. I don’t know if she came with that dress or if my father gave it to her as a present when she gave birth to my brother Santo. There was a tradition to give nice presents to women who had given birth to boys.

Santo and I are both from my father’s second marriage. They always paid more attention to him, because he was a son, a man. The boy in our family was always much respected. He had privileges, for example, when he became 13 years old, he got more food, because he was a boy and so on.

Santo was born on 6th July 1913. That was during the war [Second Balkan War] 7, and for greater safety my father sent his wife to Silistra, which wasn’t a military zone. My father worked as a chazzan there. They called their child Santo, which means blessed and health at the same time. He didn’t like his name much and wanted to be called Sinto, not Santo. Ever since his childhood he had more limited interests, he wasn’t attracted to science. At home he would play with the football and he often broke the windows with the ragged ball. Once my father gave him a hard beating, because he had swum in the Danube and the Danube took a number of victims every year. Soon he went to a small shop to work. He decided to marry early. Relatives of ours, married to the Paparo family, introduced him to an unmarried woman from Sofia, Eti Grinberg. Her father was a German Jew. She had big blue eyes and she was a bit older than him, very neat and hard-working, but she didn’t want to live with us and so they lived on their own.

Eti had a younger sister and an elder brother, who tried to run away from fascism, feeling it was coming to Bulgaria; it was 1940 already. Fascism came, and Eti’s sister, mother and brother left. The mother and the sister drowned, the brother was able to swim and survived. But the stress he experienced damaged his nerves. He remained mentally ill all his life. The state supported him financially.

In 1939 Eti and her child, my brother and my father went to an English camp in Palestine. The child was two years old then. He was born in 1938 and is named after my father Leon. Later he was named Arie in Ivrit. Eti didn’t give birth to another child. She had caught a cold while walking in pattens [clogs, overshoes or sandals, held on the foot by leather or cloth bands] for a long time in the camp and she could no longer conceive. My brother polished diamonds, which was very hard work. She didn’t allow him to go out, bossed him around all the time. He spent a lot of time on that job. The dust from the polishing damaged his ears and he went deaf. He had an assistant, ‘metapel,’ a companion at home, a Bulgarian, an economist, who decided to stay in Israel, because the state helped and supported financially those who helped elderly people.

Growing up

I was born on 17th September 1917 on New Year’s Eve, on Erev Rosh Hashanah. That’s why I love this holiday so much. I had long hair when I was a girl and I asked my mother to cut it, because it was bothering me. And she did it. I don’t know how old I was then. My most vivid memory is from when I was seven years old. I dreamed of going to a children’s preschool, because I was the youngest one, everyone was going to school and I was left at home alone. So, the time finally came when I could go to a preschool in the Jewish school there, in the hall on the ground floor. My mother bought cotton print and sewed me a dress, of which I was very proud. A small piece of material remained and they made me a sack. They put a wooden slate, not a notebook, a small pencil as chalk and a sponge in there. I used it to draw pictures at home. I loved that.

As a child I didn’t have a doll, I had no toys, only a rope to jump on and play ‘eshetsi’ [small bones from the front leg of a ram to play with, very smooth and painted in various colors]. When the earth was damp, we played draughts. We had no other games. When I started going to the preschool, I decided that I was too old to play with the ‘eshitsi.’ I wanted to hide them from my brother and I went behind the house. We had a woodshed and it had tiles on the roof. I decided to hide them under the tiles. I climbed over a chair, but on going down I fell and hit my mouth on a chopped-off tree. One of my front teeth, which had just come out, broke and went black. It remained such until I was 45 years old and I had a crown placed on it. My mouth was swollen for a long time. I couldn’t eat, drink, smile, or talk. So, the winter came and I couldn’t go to the preschool anymore.

Our house was on a very interesting street: one of its ends was a dead one. No one would pass along that street and a vehicle would be a very unusual sight. We didn’t have electricity. We got that late, around 1922 or 1923. Until then we used a gas lamp and kept warm by using a stove built into the wall. My mother burnt wood and put its ashes in sacks. We put the ashes in the water, because it was very hard. When we lit the stove and when the smoke subsided and there was only ash, my mother would take the ash, put it in a tin near the stove and place a lid on it. My father lit the stove when he got back from work. We sat in the cold during the day and I was always moaning that I was cold. The house was old. The rooms were big and got warm very slowly. I had to clean the rooms. The floor was covered with wooden boards and I had to clean them. I have unpleasant memories of that. The rooms were big and there was a corridor where we gathered on Pesach.

There was also a small staircase, which was the place of my dreams. I sat there to learn my lessons, do my homework on my knee. There was little furniture at home: two beds for my parents, a table with some chairs for eating and a table for the flowers, which was a small and round one, with three legs. In the other room there were two beds for my brother and me, two wardrobes and a chest of drawers. My mother would hide the jam in that chest. But sometimes I would open the chest and eat the jam. One of the wardrobes was a brown one, the other with a black door, which could never be closed. My father was a good man, but he could repair nothing. We asked a friend of ours, Liko, for help when there was something to be repaired at home.

My mother took very good care of the house. We never had carpets, but we had rugs. My mother made bands from the old sheets, gowns, and cotton clothes. My father brought threads from the market, which were the base for the rugs, then put them in a cauldron with paint. This took a long time. My mother was very neat and when she had a lot of washing up she got up at 5am. She would make a fire in the yard, would put the cauldron with the water on the fire, then she put the sacks with ash in and started washing the sheets, which were eight in number. There was a trough, in which one could fully lie down and she rinsed the sheets three times in it. There were some vendors who sold us water from the Danube, it was very smooth and we kept it in a barrel in the cellar. When I returned from school, I would find her still washing the sheets. She also put laundry blue in the washing, which gave the sheets a nice tint. She hung the washing in the yard and it froze in the winter. Then we put it inside to get dry. There was a lot of hard work to be done. My mother starched all the bed covers so that the embroidery could be seen. She made the starch and did the starching herself.

My mother did the cooking. I ate very little and I was very choosy. I loved eating bread and drinking boza 8 most of all. There was a man who produced boza: Getso the Albanian man, and who brought it to us in little pitchers. During the week we ate yoghurt, cheese, whatever we found, but not sausages, because they were from pork and there weren’t any other at that time. They gave me yogurt for dinner very often, but I didn’t like it much. My father used to bring meat and chicken. He said, ‘Children should eat meat, so that they don’t get sick with tuberculosis.’ We had a neighbor, Parashkeva, who buried her two sons and then she herself died of tuberculosis. Around six people around us died of tuberculosis within a few years.

My mother was a workaholic. She couldn’t sit doing nothing. She could knit and embroider with a needle. In her free time she attended to her flowers. She loved flowers very much. Her favorite flower was the dahlia. We also had lily-of-the-valley, snowdrops, hyacinths, but most of them were dahlias. I hated the dahlias and I had reasons for that. Dahlias are sown from tubers; they are gathered in the fall, kept during the winter and sown in the spring. They should be kept in a warm place. My mother put them in a crate near the stove and I was very annoyed that there wasn’t enough space. The charcoal was on one side of the stove and the crate on the other. My mother had a very keen sense of smell; she could smell the scent of the flowers from afar. 

There were always people at home and my mother offered them jam. I wasn’t given jam, it was only for the guests. We madе jam from everything: plums, cherries, mostly of plums, because there were different varieties. We had quinces in the yard. When we grated them for jam, their stubs remained. My mother cut them, boiled them, drained the water, put some jam and it became some kind of puree, which she wrapped in paper and preserved in tins. It was called ‘tajiko.’

My mother made me work a lot. She didn’t take ‘I can’t do it’ for an answer. She worked a lot and made me work, too. But I also had to go to school, to see my friends so I sometimes avoided it. In 1927, when I was ten years old, they made a water pump at home. She made me save the water in a barrel for irrigation and I filled the barrel with a bucket. I filled it in and she would do the irrigation. Gradually I took up all the household chores, because they both [Adela’s parents] went down ill. I went out to buy medications, I had to go shopping, light the stove, and go to school and because of all the work to be done, I had to repeat my grade at school. My mother made me work, but my brother was exempted from that.

And so, I didn’t have a strong connection with my mother. My father was calmer and told me some warm words sometimes. All those years were very oppressive for me. There’s no photo from my childhood where I’m smiling, I’m always serious. Life in general was very hard.

Our religious life

At home my mother wasn’t religious, but she observed all the rituals and holidays. I was born on a Friday evening. On Rosh Hashanah, New Year’s Eve, my mother would make a special cake called ‘tispishtil’ in a special small copper pan. It was made of oily dough and sugar and walnuts were put in the middle. She always made such a cake, observed the traditions and the Saturdays.

We all loved Sabbath at home. We started celebrating the holidays from the evening and finished the next evening. If the holiday started at five o’clock, it finished at five the next day. Our building was old and we had big rooms. It was dark and the neighbors passed through the ‘kapedjik’ the evening before Sabbath. So, we passed through that door. [Editor’s note: ‘Kapedjik’ is a Turkish word: There are fences between the yards, which surround the yard and the house, but their gates are facing the street. In order to avoid going out on the dark street to visit the neighbors, they make a small door in the fence and that is called ‘kapedjik.’]

So the evening before Sabbath, a cousin of my father and his wife came to visit us. Most of the time, we went to visit them, because the woman was a tailor and she continued working while we were there. She talked and sewed at the same time. She told very interesting stories. Her husband, my father’s cousin, didn’t speak. He would always fall asleep and she would tell him, ‘Yosef…’ – that was his name. My father would tell ‘massals’ [Turkish for ‘stories’] and his cousin wouldn’t listen to them. My father was very good at telling fairy tales and ‘massals’ and I learned many of them. Every one of them has a moral.

Another family, the Ashkenazi, also came to visit us. Our house was big and there were neighbors in half of the rooms. On paper, they rented the apartments from us. But when my mother would tell my father, ‘Okay, but won’t we take our rent?’ my father would say, ‘What rent?’ He couldn’t imagine taking money from these people. Our neighbors were the Farhi family. They weren’t relatives of ours and I called them all ‘visina’ [neighbor]. They had children.

So, on Friday evening we would prepare, wash ourselves and dress up to be ready for Saturday. On Saturdays we didn’t cook, it’s forbidden to work, it’s ‘asur’ [Hebrew for ‘forbidden’]. My mother usually made some sweets. The most used word at home was ‘mitzvah.’ She went to the neighbor’s window and said, ‘Take it and taste it.’ And I asked, ‘But what will be left for me?’ She said, ‘This is mitzvah!’ and she gave it away.

There were special things to be done for Saturdays. Firstly, we had to buy chicken from the market. The chicken had to be slaughtered. I found the preparation for the Saturday unpleasant, because I had to take that chicken to the shochet on Thursday and then I had to carry it back dead and covered in blood and this was very unpleasant. After that my mother didn’t scald it with water, it was forbidden. She plucked it, scorched it with paper and then she cooked it.

After the Saturday ceremony, there was always food and the hen was slaughtered. There was a word we used a lot and it was the key of the holiday. It was ‘chametz’ and it’s very important for Pesach. And my father would always tell us a story. He always stressed that we were Jews, which was our leitmotif in a way. He would say that we had our morality and we should observe it. Then we started eating. We always bought pumpkin seeds. Vidin was famous for its nice pumpkins: they were sweet and had very big seeds. We always prepared vegetable pickles and medlars for the winter and stored them in a blanket in the attic. My brother or I would go upstairs and fetch some for the guests. That was the most pleasant day of the week, when we were eager to gather and listen to the stories, to learn something new.

I think my father wasn’t religious, because he spent most of his childhood away from home, working as a servant. When I was born, he was already old and got sick often. But he observed all laws. During the week he would smoke two to three cigarettes outside, if it was summer, or in the corridor, if it was winter, because my mother couldn’t stand the smoke and didn’t allow him to smoke inside. I asked him why he did that only in the evenings and he answered that he couldn’t smoke at work. But on Saturdays he didn’t smoke at all. [It’s forbidden to light fire on Sabbath.] While he was reading aloud, sometimes he would skip a passage, which a very religious Jew would never do. He winked at me, because I knew Ivrit, and I saw how he skipped some passages and was hurrying to finish the story, the legend, so that we could sit down to eat. He wasn’t one of those religious Jews, I don’t think there were such in Bulgaria. There are some Orthodox Jews in Israel; we call them ‘imbabucados.’ That word means ‘something which was too much’ in Ladino. They are too pedantic in a bad sense, because one can be pedantic for the sake of his work, but they were too pedantic - to the extreme.

My father went to the synagogue only on the high holidays. He didn’t have time to go there often, because he went to work. Once, on Taanit, when we were forbidden to eat and everyone would sit in the synagogue the whole day, he didn’t do that, but went to sleep, he found that unnecessary; he had the honor of playing the shofar. I loved the Taanit very much. Usually, on Saturdays we had a chicken slaughtered. One of the drumsticks was given to my father, the other to my brother, because he was a man, and I didn’t have one. When I was a child, I ate very little and was quite choosy. So, I sat at the table, eating nothing. Then my father would take the knife, divide his drumstick and give me half of it. But on Taanit, since they didn’t eat, they gave me the whole drumstick. And that’s why I loved that holiday.

And before Pesach the whole house has to be cleaned, no crumb of bread was to be seen anywhere. The wardrobes, the rugs, the curtains were cleaned, the whole house was painted again. I learned how to paint with distemper and oil paint very early. My mother tied the brush to a long stick and I painted the outside walls. Then we would go to the town’s bathroom. I said to my mother, ‘Now, we will become Chametz, too.’ Then we boiled all the dishes in ash, salt and soap – with no running water, but only with the pump in the yard. Everything had to shine. The tinsmith came to tin the baking dishes. Pesach is the greatest holiday. We didn’t eat leavened bread, only unleavened. In Vidin we made flat cakes from it. We made the cakes without yeast; they were as hard as stone. On Pesach we gathered in the corridor. This corridor led to all the other rooms. We would gather there and listen to the Legend [Haggadah], the book being read. Then we sat at the table.

My brother would be given a towel, a napkin for the waist and they placed a loaf of bread on his back symbolizing that he was carrying the bread our ancestors ate. The bread was then used in the cooking of various things, for example dumplings immersed in eggs for the soup. Usually at least two or three families came. My father would start reading the prayer. But before that, the unmarried woman in the family would hand a jug of water to the person reading to wash his hands because it was a sin if you didn’t wash your hands. He would start reading the prayer and from time to time he would wash his hands again. He would read about what troubles God inflicted on the Egyptians: ‘Snakes, lizards and natural disasters’ and he would repeat that on and on. [The interviewee probably means locusts instead of lizards and snakes.]

For Purim, my mother made sweet ring-shaped buns with ‘alkashul’ [the filling of the bun, made of honey and walnuts]. I loved them. There’s a belief that these sweets should be preserved exactly for Pesach. There’s one month between Purim and Pesach. They take place during the early spring. The snow had just started to melt. My mother took a big earthen jar and filled it with such buns. We had an attic full of mice and we could hear them running around. Once she made my brother climb up and put the jar there so that nobody would eat the buns before Pesach. But I loved them very much and usually I would go up, take one and close the jar again. And when Pesach came, my mother said, ‘Santo, go and fetch the jar, we will eat sweets now.’ Santo fetched the jar and it was empty. My mother shouted at me, ‘You ate them!’ and I said, ‘No, I didn’t, the mice ate them.’ My mother was angry that she wasn’t able to observe the ritual. On this holiday we give away food.

My mother would buy a chicken. She boiled it, stewed it, took some fruit and vegetables, filled the basket, put a white napkin with embroidery on it and went to give it to someone in need. That person was called ‘el mirkado’ [Ladino for ‘bought’]. This meant that we ‘bought’ him, that we had made a vow to help him. And my mother would bring him food on all high holidays. But that had to happen in secret. He wouldn’t have to feel offended that someone was helping him. She dressed officially and said she was going to her ‘kupets’ [dealer]. This was a different man every year. I understood that she was going to a different person by the way she cooked the food. She was convinced that that was the way to do it, although I didn’t agree with her on that.

At some point, my father started going deaf and then my brother [Nessim], who was in Italy, invited him there for treatment. He made himself a suit and left for Italy. He didn’t know any European language, but he left. I suppose the dust from the charcoals had settled in his ears and disturbed his hearing. And he returned with restored hearing. He also came with very nice clothes, which they bought for him there. When he returned, he opened a grocery store. But he sold a lot of goods on credit: sugar today, oil tomorrow. He couldn’t imagine turning someone away, because they had no money. So, the grocery store went bankrupt. There was a terrible economic crisis at that time, in 1929 9. He went to my elder brother Nessim, who was already the director of the ‘Tundzha’ factory. Nessim told him, ‘You go back to Vidin, I will send you the textiles, which stick out of the loom, and they have some machine oil on them and are a little bit torn.’ He sold them in his store.

There were around 15 small stores one next to the other, all rented by Jews, one of which was my father’s. They were very small, three square meters each. If some fabric was left unsold, he gave it to us to sew something for ourselves. I sewed myself a blouse for my graduation ball, because I had no money to buy one. Mostly Gypsy women came to the shop and they made loose Turkish trousers from the materials. They would buy a meter and a half of the material and my brother put on a sign ‘Shop for Textile Lengths.’

This shop was all we had. So, he worked like that for some time until one nice day a neighbor, Bay Ilia, asked him to stand surety for him. Don’t worry, he told my father, lend me 100,000 levs, and I’ll return it to you. But he lied. When the loan had to be paid, he refused to do it since he went bankrupt and every month the bank deducted 1,000 levs from my father’s earnings. My father used to have the habit of sitting in front of the store, because he didn’t have many clients. But he could no longer stand seeing the man who lied to him and left the shop to my brother.

Yes, my father was a very nice man. Once my mother’s brother Solomon with his wife and two children, Leon and Victoria, arrived. I’m not sure where they came from, Turkey or Greece, but their life had been difficult and they came to live in Bulgaria. My father found a house for them in Vidin. The daughter Victoria was in the higher grades, she was a very good student. But my mother’s brother left for Israel and was killed by the Arabs. He couldn’t find work in Bulgaria. His wife remained alone with the two children. I visited them in Israel, at that time the daughter, Victoria, had passed away and the son had made a career, he did business with Germans and didn’t want to meet us, the common people coming from communist Bulgaria.

And once when I was 13-14 years old, my father told me he had received a letter from the municipality. Some relatives from Dedeagac asked my parents to help them because they had no money at all. My father took the task to heart. So, this family arrived with their four daughters – one of them had studied in a French college and knew how to read. My father wrote to my brother asking whether he would like to hire them to work for him. And since we knew they would come with no luggage whatsoever, my father said in the municipality that the people would need some household stuff and asked everyone who could afford it to help them. So, my mother and I took the laundry basket and started from house to house, collecting buckets, rugs, pillows, a mattress, everything people could spare. We placed all that in an entrance below the staircase, which had no windows. My brother and I would say to the people, ‘For we are all Jews,’ and since it was religious to give away, everyone gave us what they could. The heavier things we put in the yard.

We loaded everything onto carts; my father borrowed a wagon for the household belongings and went to Yambol. My brother hired them there. The mother stayed at home, one of the daughters sewed bras, the father worked in the shop and the other daughters were spinners. That’s how they managed to survive. And thanks to the firm belief that if you are a Jew and your fellow man is in trouble, you have to help him. That’s the kind of man my father was!

My school years

When my parents enrolled me in the Jewish school, it was very hard for me at first, because nobody at home knew Ivrit. My brother knew a word or two, but he wasn’t interested in school. In the first grade we had a special teacher, who was also the director and also taught us gymnastics. Learning Ivrit was hard and the teacher, Mr. Koen, always said, ‘You have no textbooks, you should pay attention in class to what I say to you and you should repeat to yourself what I’m writing.’

At that time we didn’t know how to write yet and it was very hard. We studied the letters for a whole year. Mr. Koen would always give us new words. And here’s how I tried to learn them: the staircase at home had two big and three small steps. I jumped on the steps and I would say ‘I’ on the first step, ‘You’ on the second one, ‘He’ on the third one, I would go back – ‘We,’ ‘You,’ ‘They.’ I repeated them twenty times. Once my mother shouted, ‘Stop jumping on that staircase, you will break it!’ and I answered, ‘Leave me alone, I’m studying!’

When I passed to the second grade, my brother received some cubes as a present – when you rotate them, you make a picture. He asked me to give them back to him. I got very angry and threw them at him and hit him. My parents beat me very hard for that. He got sick. I thought it was because I had hit him, but it turned out that he had mumps. I was also not allowed to go to school for three weeks. After the three weeks, my mother, who had not had mumps as a child, also got sick. So, I had to stay home for another three weeks. Because of that I had to repeat the grade. I was very sad and depressed. I had been separated from my friends.

The Jewish school had four grades, and I studied five years. When I was in the second grade my brother went down with mumps. So, I was under quarantine for three weeks. Then my mother also caught it and our teacher in Ivrit, who was also the school headmaster, decided that I should repeat the year. We didn’t have any textbooks and I couldn’t catch up with the studies at home. I was happy when I received a ‘good’ [four out of six] as a grade. I studied a lot, because I had to repeat the grade. Once the teacher asked me to read aloud and I said, ‘Please, wait for me to take my pencil.’ I had the habit of underlining what I read in order to avoid making mistakes. The children laughed at me saying, ‘Are you reading with your mouth or with the pencil?’

Then I went to the junior high school. It was close to Kaleto [the old part of the town dating back from the Middle Ages]. I was happy that now we had a different teacher for every subject. One very nice teacher in mathematics said that I was very good at calculations. I remember her, Miss Vasileva. There were a lot of Wallachian students in the town. They wore bowler hats. They teased me a lot and called me Duda [short for Adela]. They would twist my arms and pull my hair. Once the Bulgarian teacher met me and I was crying because they had teased me. He asked me what my name was. I told him my name was Adela and he said that my name was very nice. He sent me to the teachers’ room to take a sheet of paper and a pen. He wrote down on the paper that there was no Duda at the school, but Adela. Then they stopped calling me Duda and I passed the three junior high school grades as Adela. This man was an idol for me, he taught me Bulgarian, taught me to read, to write and to think.

One third of the junior high school students were Jews. We were the best students in the school. I was a good student, studied a lot and was very good at mathematics. There was also a subject in religious studies at the school, but we, the Jews, were forbidden to take that class. In the winter when we had that subject, we had nowhere to go but out in the cold. We felt very offended and sad. In the summer we went into the yard, but there was nowhere for us to go in the winter. Wherever we went, they banished us. We were five or six students: three girls and two or three boys.

I would sing all the time. I had a very strong voice. Every day my father gave me money for breakfast. Once I decided to learn to play the violin. I bought a violin and I saved the five levs he gave me daily to pay for my violin lessons. But at one point I had no money to pay my tuition fee. I was in the second grade in the high school. Then I sold my violin; I realized that I had no interest in music. I paid my tuition fee with the money.

When my brother grew up, he started buying newspapers and I read the supplements, which published excerpts from short stories, novels. I signed up in the ‘Sviat’ [World] community house. The more years that passed, the thicker the books became. After I finished all the work at home around midnight, I had to study. Studying what? All night I read Russian classic literature. Then I read Tolstoy 10, Dostoevsky 11 and Western European literature: Sinclair and Emil Zola. I shared the room with my brother and I wasn’t allowed to light the lamp, because he couldn’t sleep. I saved money from what they gave me for breakfast. I bought myself a battery and read under the sheets during the night. I read using that little lamp with a diameter of five centimeters.

When I was a student in the second grade, we were about to celebrate Chanukkah in the neighborhood cinema. So, we prepared a performance, I was appointed to be first candle. My mother bought me a dress made of black velvet with a white collar. After me the second candle came on stage and then all the other five. I was very proud that I was the first one. We lit only one candle at home on that holiday. My father was more interested in having enough food on the table so that we wouldn’t catch tuberculosis.

School wasn’t the most important thing for me. I didn’t take part in school life. My attention was directed towards the Hashomer Hatzair organization 12. I became a member at the age of 13. In the last grade of the junior high school I was given a leaflet proclaiming the establishment of a Jewish state. A committee was organized and we went to the meetings. One of the requirements was that if the Jewish state was founded, we had to go and live there. My family didn’t approve of those meetings and forbade me to go there. I went there every evening, although my mother didn’t allow me. We loved singing and danced folklore dances there. We were divided into groups. There were people two years older than me studying in high school and two years younger than me in elementary school. We had lectures on different topics, for example, what religion was, we talked much about emancipation.

There was no television in those times and we passed the time reading and discussing the books. But we had different views on what we had read and we argued. For example, we argued about ‘Nora,’ by Ibsen. We argued about the emancipation of women, whether it was right, what its limits should be and so on. These were our everyday activities. In Hashomer Hatzair, we tried to build our personalities so that we would be able to lead the others and make decisions. We, the Jews, were a bit like sectarians; we had to be, because we weren’t preparing to live in peaceful conditions, we were preparing to go to Israel. There was no Israel at that time, but Palestine, which had a negative attitude towards us.

I had a friend at school, Sophie Pinkas. She was the first student in class. She showed me that life can be very different, not only those pastel rugs and no curtains. Her family was rich. Her father had a shop in the center of the town. She was very beautiful and every year they went to Belgrade [today Serbia and Montenegro] and brought her dresses. I envied her, because I didn’t have such things. I saw pajamas for the first time at their place. Once I stayed at their house and when we went to bed in the evening I put on my gown and she put on her pajama. I asked her, ‘Won’t we sleep, what’s that thing you’ve put on?’ And she answered, ‘But this is a pajama.’ I also saw a gramophone for the first time there. Since her mother was afraid of leaving her alone in the house, I came to keep her company, because my father was respected and they thought that I was a serious child. They had plush curtains at home, plush blankets, and baths. Once we went on the balcony and she sat on a rocking chair and invited me to sit down, too. I declined, because I was afraid to sit on it. Afterwards, our paths went in different directions.

My other friend was Luisa. She was a member of Hashomer Hatzair. But her mother made her give it up. She listened to her, but she was very pretty and she started dating a married man. She acquired a bad reputation and that was how it all ended.

I was in the town’s leadership of the Hashomer Hatzair then. But I was evicted, because we were being prepared for farmers and we were sent to the villages to do farm work. But when I started studying at university, they told me to choose between studying and farming. So, I told them that I couldn’t give up my studies and leave my parents alone.

When I finished high school, my father enrolled me in the free university in Sofia. But the university was closed for reasons unknown to me, so I was transferred to the university in Varna, where I continued my studies in the same field, Economics. There I got in touch with the progressive-minded people. I felt my place was among them.

At that time, my father got sick; he had a bladder stone and was always wetting his pants. My mother spent all her time looking after him and washing his clothes. The mineral baths opened in Yambol at that time and he went there for treatment. One day he slipped in the bath. He was a very tall man and probably weighed around 100 kilograms. Nobody in the family was as tall as him. So, he fell down, lost consciousness and they poured cold water on him. He caught bronchopneumonia. A Jewish hospital had just opened in Sofia and he was transferred there. My brother was on some business trip and they called my mother and me to tell us that he was in a very bad condition. He couldn’t eat. His tongue was swollen. I was very frightened. He couldn’t swallow. He died at the age of 72 at the hospital. The year was 1938.

There were some debts yet to be paid, and my brother did that. My mother and I remained at home. We buried him in accordance with the Jewish ritual: we sat [shivah] doing nothing for seven days. Relatives and neighbors would come to bring us food and the people mourning would do nothing. The rabbi would come during the day to read and when he left, we would eat the food brought to us. If there was no food, my mother would sit mourning and I would make something to eat. My brother made a big gravestone out of marble for him.

After my father’s death we came to Sofia, and my mother sold everything, even our water pump. It was very hard for me after my father died. I loved him very much. And we didn’t have any money, not even my brother. There was help from nowhere. We sold everything we had: clothes, the sewing machine, whatever dowry we had. I didn’t even have money to pay for my diploma. My sister Zhaneta gave me money for that and that’s how I graduated. We rented a room. I applied for a job. I worked in an attorney’s office for a whole year. I still have some knowledge in this field. He was dealing with claims against people in debt and I assisted him with the accountants.

This was an insurance company named OREL, which is still in that same building, it was then outside the town. I walked on foot for two hours to get to work. It was very cold. I arrived at work freezing, wanted to drink some tea, but my boss was looking at the clock. My salary was 2,000 levs, and a bottle of vegetable oil was worth 1,000 levs. We lived in the house of good people, but we had no money. After some time I found out that my mother went to various houses to do the washing so that we had enough bread. Our bread was a bit sour, made of maize and something else. When we cut it, it stuck to the knife, but I had to eat it, because I was working. It was a very hard year.

During the war

After a year, we were forced to move to Haskovo [in 1943, as a result of the anti-Jewish laws]. We weren’t allowed to work in Haskovo. We lived in a small corridor. We put a mattress there every evening and slept on the floor. People passed by there to get to their rooms. We didn’t have a man to take care of us. Men went and bought food in the black-market for their families, and we were given tomatoes to eat. I can’t eat tomatoes since then. It was already in 1943, and the fascists were going to lose the war and the regime wasn’t so rigid in some towns. So, my mother made me go to my sister [Zhaneta], and she herself went to Ruse, to a friend of hers. I went to my sister’s village [Stezherevo]. There several other girls like me and I were taking care of the grape vines. We were paid for that. And my sister helped me and that’s how I got through this. I tried to make shoes out of rope at a certain point, since I was without a job, but it was extremely hard. That was in 1944. Then I went to Pleven to work for the [Communist] Party, because I had already been involved in anti-fascist activities. But my mother and I wanted to get together, that’s why we both moved to Sofia. They didn’t want to let me go, because I had higher education.

My mother rented a room at a friend’s in Sofia. I found one for myself, too. It wasn’t a real room, but a room for the housemaids: with four doors, and extremely cold. What a life it was! Then I moved to another place, renting half a room. In 1948, we lived on my money, I worked and I was paid well. It was very hard for my mother, she wanted to go out and have a good time, because she had become a widow very early and there were candidates who wanted to marry her. She went to Israel, but my brother didn’t have a room for her, he had no apartment, but lived in a very miserable place. She died during a storm [in 1949]. It was an accident. She lived in a wooden shed, which fell down during a storm. At first she managed to get out, but then she went back to get the mezuzah from the doorframe. Unfortunately, at that moment the whole house fell over her.

There were no graveyards at that time and she was buried in a soldiers’ graveyard. I went to her grave five times. She’s placed at a distance from the other graves and has a big stone instead of a monument. I don’t know how they managed to move that stone there. Her name is inscribed on it. Now I only have my memories of her. She had her views that everything she did was right and that everything she did was for the children’s sake.

After 9th September 1944 I took an active part in the party activities in Haskovo where I had been interned 13, and then in those in Sofia. I worked in the district committee of the Bulgarian Communist Party [BCP] 14 for a number of years. I have always been very serious in my work. While the other employees used to work until 6 or 7pm, I usually stayed until 1am. However, this reflected on my nervous system and I got a nervous disorder. I could stand neither phone ringing nor music playing. The doctors advised me to leave my job for a while. At that time I had just married. My husband was a military officer and he was able to provide for me. I was a very good housewife also; I never wasted money and strictly allocated it.

My husband

My husband was a silent and calm man. A military officer, neither tall, nor short, good-looking. We had been corresponding with each other before that, we had taken part in anti-fascist demonstrations together. I met him in Stezherevo; he had a friend living there who introduced us to each other. He invited me to the theater, he was very well read. But later it turned out that he was from the ‘silent academy’ [i.e. he didn’t speak much]. He couldn’t graduate from the Academy in Svishtov. He was negligent, not trying too hard, an inert man. He did hard work and didn’t mind doing household work either.

We lived like that for 30 years and raised two children. I looked after the children and did everything that was expected of me. He knew only ‘no’ in his life. For everything I asked him to do or buy, he said no. Let’s buy a fridge – we shouldn’t, let’s buy a stove – we shouldn’t. We already had two granddaughters, when he met an old love of his and we separated. But even nowadays I’m in very good relations with his sisters, Lyuba and Vera. He went to live with this old lover from Svishtov, but we got divorced three years later. After less than two years he died. Everything we have and we have achieved was thanks to me. I supported the children by myself.

My son [Oleg] was lazy; he didn’t want to walk, only to sit in the baby carriage. When he grew up, he loved reading very much. He graduated from Medical University [in Sofia] and holds the professorship of Anesthesiology. He’s an anesthesiologist now. Even when he was a student at university, Oleg was always the chairman of various scholarly circles.

My husband didn’t want to have a second child. My pregnancy was very difficult. I had to lie in bed for a year. But I wanted a girl very much. My husband went to a summer camp with the army and I gave birth to my daughter [Vesela] after seven and a half months. She was like a mouse, weighing two kilograms. I cried a lot when she was born. Once I took her out on a walk in the baby carriage and a girl said to me, ‘Why are you walking with that doll in the carriage?’ ‘It’s not a doll, but a baby,’ I replied. As a child she wasn’t very tall, she was always sick. When she went to high school, she started growing in height. Now she’s quite tall. She didn’t help me a lot at home, but now she’s a good housewife. She’s a doctor; she graduated in medicine in Sofia, like her brother. But she’s not interested in scholarly work. My daughter also had an unsuccessful marriage. She divorced and now she’s looking after her child [Yulina].

I went to Israel a couple of times. I went for the first time in 1966 when I went to see my brother in Holon. He had married a German Jew, which I didn’t like much. They had just had a son and performed the circumcision. The next time I visited other relatives of mine. They loved inviting me to visit and when I went there, I carried three suitcases of presents for them. They loved it when I told them about Bulgaria, because my nephews were born in Israel. During totalitarianism I didn’t have any problems traveling to Israel.

It’s my fault that my children weren’t raised Jewish. I remember that when my son was in the first grade, he asked me what his nationality was. He had noticed that we celebrated Chanukkah and made sweets, which the other families didn’t. Then I said that he was a Bulgarian, because he lived in Bulgaria and spoke Bulgarian. My children were informed about their origin, but they didn’t feel Jewish.

I myself didn’t observe the Jewish traditions. At the moment my physical condition doesn’t allow me to cook. But people from the Jewish Home come and bring me matzah on Pesach and alkashul for Chanukkah. I receive ready-made food from the canteen of the Jewish Home every day.

In 1990 when there was a deep crisis in Bulgaria, my daughter and granddaughter went to Israel for four years. There my granddaughter learned Ivrit perfectly and graduated from her secondary education. Her knowledge of Ivrit helps her now in her work in the Historical Museum of the [Great] Synagogue. My granddaughter is very well-brought up and visits me every week.

To be honest, I don’t like present-day capitalism. It’s wrongly interpreted capitalism. Many economic problems aren’t solved in Bulgaria. I don’t accept the idea of having both very rich and very poor people. There are many such people now. Why should my daughter, whose job as an anesthetist is very hard, go and work at another place in order to pay her bills? Many Bulgarians hope that the situation will get better if we become a member of the European Union. Maybe that’s the only right way. [Editor’s note: Bulgaria became a member of the EU on 1st January 2007.]

Glossary