Travel

Leonid Averbuch
Odessa
Ukraine
Interviewer: Nicole Tolkachova
Date of interview: July 2003

Leonid Averbuch’s apartment is located in the historical city center of Odessa, in a house built in the 1950s. The apartment is large enough and modestly furnished. In the sitting-room stands a big book-case. There are a lot of books, photos of Leonid from the different periods of his life, card indexes of famous Odessa citizens and chanukkiyah. In the corner near the window is a big writing-desk with a computer on top of it. Leonid is a man of average height, has a bronze sun-tan and a beard that makes him look like a sailor. Despite of his age he is full of energy and strength. Due to his public and literary activities Leonid Averbuch is well-known, not only in the medical circles of Odessa but also in the Jewish community.

Family background
Growing up
During the war
Post-war
Glossary

Family background

One of my maternal ancestors Itzhak Zaltzberg was born into the family of Aaron Zaltzberg, a salt miner, who came from the city of Salzburg in Austria to Odessa in 1806. My grandmother Betia Zaltzberg had a copy of the entry in the birth register about Itzhak’s birth, certified by the rabbi of Odessa in 1915. This entry disappeared during the Great Patriotic War 1 when our family evacuated.
Itzhak was my mother’s great-grandfather. His wife Shendel Zaltzberg-Shapiro was born in the town of Akkerman [since 1944 Belgorod-Dnestrovskiy] in 1810. They had eleven children. Two of their sons, Samuel and Wolf, were my great-grandfathers since my maternal grandmother and grandfather were cousins.

My grandfather Gedali Zaltzberg was born in Odessa in 1865. In winter 1872 his 28-year-old father Samuel Zaltzberg was hit by a horse-drawn sledge. He fell ill, developed galloping consumption and died in the same year. His wife Ita Zaltzberg, the daughter of a wine maker from Odessa called Gluzbar, died half a year after, so deeply struck she was by her young husband’s death. Seven-year-old Gedali became an orphan and his uncle Israel Zaltzberg, who owned a leather raw material supply business in partnership with his brother Wolf, adopted him. Gedali didn’t go to cheder. At the age of ten he went to grammar school. When he was 14 his uncle Israel died of pneumonia. After Israel’s death Gedali went to live with the family of Uncle Wolf, who was a very religious man and wasn’t quite so fond of commerce. Gedali was a business-oriented man. He knew German and French and became the representative of the company. Gradually Uncle Wolf transferred all responsibilities to him. Wolf’s wife Braina even addressed Gedali requesting monthly housekeeping allowances from him. Wolf and Braina had six children; two of them died in infancy. After they died Betia, born in 1875, became the oldest child in the family. Then there were three sons: Israel, Avrum and Moisey. Gedali liked his cousin Betia very much. He prepared her for the Jewish elementary school run by the Reivich sisters that she finished successfully.

In 1888, when Gedali turned 23 and Betia 17, they got married with Wolf and Braina’s consent. They rented apartments in Odessa before the [Russian] Revolution of 1917 2. They lived in the center of town like many families of intellectuals. My grandparents spoke Yiddish, but they also spoke Russian fluently. My grandmother also spoke Ukrainian and my grandfather knew German, French and Polish. Grandfather Gedali didn’t wear payes or a beard. He had a mustache. He liked fancy clothes. My grandfather didn’t wear a kippah at home, but he always wore a hat to go out. He went to the synagogue on holidays. Before the Revolution he often traveled abroad on business.

Before they had children Gedali and Betia visited Palestine. They visited the island Khios, Smirna and Haifa. Grandmother Betia told me a lot about this tour. I even remember the song with which Arabic kids teased travelers from Russia in Haifa, but my grandmother didn’t know the meaning of it. At the end they said ‘Maskok hamzir’ – Russian pig. One of the boys hit my grandmother on her eye with a pickle. My grandmother said they visited a kibbutz and mentioned the name of Belkind. He was probably an activist in the Zionist movement. [Israel Belkind (1861–1929): one of the founders of the pro-Palestinian organization Bilu in Russia, moved to Israel in 1882; got involved in educational activities and founded the first Hebrew school in Yaffa].

My grandmother told me that she was sympathetic with the revolutionary movement and gave shelter to revolutionaries in her apartment in Odessa. The October Revolution didn’t have a major impact on my grandfather’s family since they weren’t rich. After the Revolution my grandfather worked in a supply company, but then he fell ill and remained ill for a long time. My grandfather died of bladder cancer in Odessa in 1933.

After he died Grandmother Betia lived with her sons Wolf and Samuel on the first floor on 19, Kuznechnaya Street in the center of town. They had a well-known neighbor: Maliarov, the former owner and director of the private grammar school that my uncles finished. Every Sunday I went to visit Grandmother Betia. I played in their big yard and the adults could watch me from the window. They had running water and electricity and stove heating. There were five cozy rooms with expensive furniture. I remember a big cupboard with a marble board. There were crystal decanters for strong drinks, cups and wine glasses.

My grandmother was a wonderful housewife. Sometimes they hired housemaids who were usually young girls coming from villages to town to look for a job. My grandmother made delicious Jewish food on holidays – gefilte fish, fluden and strudels with jam, nuts and apples, but they didn’t follow the kashrut. They ate pork. On Sabbath the family had a festive dinner. I remember that there was matzah at Pesach. Grandmother Betia’s birthday was on the day of the first seder [according to the Jewish calendar] and she used to say, ‘My birthday is on the first seder’. There was nothing specifically Jewish in the house; there were no mezuzot on the doors. Grandmother Betia dressed in the fashion of the time. She didn’t wear a kerchief. She spoke Yiddish at home occasionally, but she preferred to read books in Russian. She was well educated and had a thorough knowledge of opera music. They liked music in the family.

My grandmother’s maternal cousin Sophia Wainshtein finished the private music school of Vasilenko in Odessa where she studied playing the piano. She was married to Alexandr Levinson who studied singing in this same school. Sophia accompanied him. Alexandr took on the pseudonym of Davydov. He became a soloist at Mariinskiy Emperor Theater in St. Petersburg. Sophia followed him to St. Petersburg. They had two daughters: Tamara and Tatiana, born before the Revolution. In the middle of the 1920s Davydov moved to Paris where in 1934 he worked with Fyodor Shaliapin [well-known Russian singer (1873-1938)]. In 1936 Davydov returned to the USSR and taught singing in the school of Mariinskiy Theater.

The Davydovs were evacuated to Novosibirsk during the Great Patriotic War. In 1944, when they returned, the family parted: Alexandr Davydov moved to Moscow to the actors-pensioners house and the wife with the daughters went to Leningrad. He hoped to have better conditions in this house. He died there in 1944. His family continued to live in Leningrad. Sophia and her daughters often came to Odessa in summer. My mother and uncle Samuel visited them in Leningrad. Sophia died in the 1950s. I never saw Davydov, but I knew his family very well. His daughter Tamara and I were friends. Tamara died in 1998. She was a master of performing and was awarded the title of ‘People’s Actress’.

During the Great Patriotic War my grandmother was evacuated to Tashkent [3,200 km from Odessa in present-day Uzbekistan] with her son Samuel’s family. When my grandmother was dying in Odessa in 1946 Uncle Samuel, who was an atheist, asked her, ‘Would you like to have somebody recite a prayer at your funeral?’ She replied, ‘No, I don’t want any bought prayers’. Grandmother Betia and Gedali had four children. They were all born in Odessa.

My mother’s older brother Wolf was born in 1894. He finished the private grammar school of Maliarov in Odessa and studied at the Medical Faculty of Novorossiysk University [since 1919 Odessa University]. When World War I began he went to the front. He was shell-shocked and got in captivity. He returned home in 1918. Sometime afterwards he became epileptic. This was a consequence of the shell shock. Uncle Wolf was a doctor. He was single, although he was handsome and a big success with women. He believed he didn’t have the right to marriage due to his illness. Wolf died in evacuation in Tashkent in 1942.

My mother’s other brother Samuel was born in 1897. He also finished the grammar school of Maliarov. Samuel entered the Faculty of Natural Sciences of Novorossiysk University in 1915 and then continued his studies at Kiev Polytechnic College. Once, during the Civil War 3, when he was traveling home from Kiev by train, the train was attacked by Petliura 4 troops. They were looking for Jews, but he managed to hide.

In 1929 the Soviet government sent Samuel to advanced training at Hettingen University and Hanover Polytechnic College in Germany. Samuel was a construction engineer. Before the Great Patriotic War he taught the subject of ‘resistance of material’ at Odessa Industrial College. He married Mina Vysokaya in 1938. She was a lecturer at the Odessa Conservatory. They didn’t have children. During the Great Patriotic War uncle Samuel lectured at Tashkent University, Tashkent Textile College and the Academy of Armored Troops of the Soviet Army. During the war he joined the Communist Party. He knew the theory of Marxism-Leninism well.

In 1949, when he was a lecturer at Odessa Polytechnic College, Uncle Samuel was accused of cosmopolitism [see campaign against ‘cosmopolitans’] 5. I was waiting for him in the hallway of the conference-room where a meeting took place. The subject of the meeting was my uncle’s ‘case’. His friends and students spoke at the meeting criticizing my uncle. Later they apologized and confessed to him that they had been acting against their will. It was true because if they had refused to speak against him they would have had to share his fate. After the meeting I accompanied my uncle to his home. He didn’t speak on the way, but when we arrived at his place he said, ‘Well, I should expect an arrest now, I suppose’. He was so shocked that he went to bed in his clothes and shoes. He slept 48 hours. Later he went to the Central Committee of the CPSU in Moscow. He managed to resume his membership in the Party, but not his job. He moved to Penza, where he worked at Penza Industrial College, and then to Kishinev, where he was also a lecturer. He returned to Odessa in the 1960s after he retired. My uncle was a communist, but these events left a deep imprint on his heart. Samuel’s wife Mina died in 1977. Uncle Samuel lived the rest of his life with me. He died in
1986. We buried him in the Tair cemetery [the town cemetery] in Odessa.

My mother’s younger sister Ida Zaltzberg was born in 1901. She studied at Odessa Conservatory with Oistrach and Dankevich. [Editor’s note: David Oistrach (1908–1974): Soviet violinist, pedagogue, one of the greatest musicians of the 20th century; Konstantin Dankevich (1905–1984): popular Soviet composer, pianist and pedagogue. He taught in Odessa and Kiev Conservatories. In 1984 Odessa Music School was named after him.] Then she worked in the music school at the House of Scientists in Odessa. I remember my parents took me to her classes. In my memory Aunt Ida is a beautiful, well-dressed and bright woman. I associate her with the first symphonic concert in the Odessa Philharmonic that I went to. Her former fellow student Konstantin Dankevich was a conductor. After the concert he came to see us. He threw me in the air. He was a very tall man. I was about four years old then. Ida’s husband Moisey Barero, a Jewish man, had a daughter from his first marriage. Ida didn’t have children of her own. In 1941 Ida, her husband and her stepdaughter were killed in the ghetto in Odessa. She was 40 years old.

My mother Malka Zaltzberg was born in 1899. She studied at the Liberson private grammar school. The director of this school was a relative of ours. Later she studied at the grammar school of Shyleiko and Richter. My mother didn’t get any Jewish education at home. She was the peacemaker in the family – she always smoothed conflicts between family members. In 1919 my mother finished a six-month course of medical nurses and entered the Medical Faculty of Novorossiysk University. She graduated in 1922. She became a doctor at the central tuberculosis outpatient clinic called White Flower. Later this clinic joined the Odessa Scientific Research Institute of Tuberculosis.

My paternal great-grandfather Mordko Goldshtein came from Bogopol’. [Editor’s note: Bogopol’ was a Jewish town in Baltskiy district in Podolsk province. At the end of the 19th century 5,909 of 7,226 inhabitants of Bogopol’ were Jews.] He had five children: two sons, Abram and Haskel, and three daughters. There were different stories told in our family about the life of his older daughter Rachel, born in 1855. She was married to a big businessman in Kiev called David Benderski. I remember one of those stories. David had a lover who was a seamstress. He bought her an apartment. It happened so that he died when he visited her. This seamstress called my aunt to inform her on what had happened. My aunt went to the house of her husband’s lover with two broad-shouldered clerks of her husband. Those clerks carried her husband out of the house pretending that he was dead drunk. In the same way they took him into his bedroom. Rachel managed to prevent a public scandal by this smart conduct and plotting. There were two other daughters besides Rachel: Lisa, born in 1856, her name in marriage was Sher, and my grandmother Esther, born in Bogopol’ in 1854. My grandmother got married in 1885.

My paternal grandfather Leib Averbuch was born in Kishinev in 1865. My grandfather studied in cheder. After they got married my grandparents settled down in Bogopol’. Grandfather Leib was a senior man at the synagogue. He didn’t have any other job. My grandmother was the breadwinner in the family; she lent money to Christians. They were very religious and spoke Yiddish at home. Grandfather Leib wore a beard and mustache. He didn’t have payes, but he had whiskers. He wore a hood and a yarmulka in the synagogue. That’s what my father told me; I didn’t know my grandfather personally. He died in 1905 in a fire accident at the age of 40. He was asleep when his house caught fire. He must have suffocated in the smoke. I don’t know where the other members of the family were at that moment.

After this accident, the family moved to Odessa. I don’t know what made them move. I know that my grandmother and her children lived on Avcinnikovski Lane in the center of town. My grandmother’s brothers supported her. Before the Revolution they leased fields and were better off than my grandmother. Uncle Abram, born in 1952, had fancy clothes and looked like an aristocrat. He was very tidy and staunch. My parents believed that after the Revolution Uncle Abram lived on the money that he managed to hide from the expropriation by the Soviet authorities. Uncle Abram was married. He died in his late 60s, before the Great Patriotic War. Uncle Haskel made the impression of a sloppy and quarrelsome man. He had two daughters who lived in Leningrad. He became a widower before the war. He perished in Odessa ghetto in 1941.

My grandmother had two sons and two daughters. My father’s younger brother Haskel Averbuch was born in 1890. He finished a private drama school in Odessa. He was fond of acting. During World War I Haskel was recruited to the army at the age of 24. He was awarded two St. George Crosses 6 of the 3rd and 4th grades and a St. George medal. After the February Revolution Haskel took part in a congress of veterans of the war. He met A. F. Kerensky 7 at this congress. When Kerensky came on a visit to Odessa in May 1917 Uncle Haskel served as a mission officer for him. Kerensky solicited for his promotion to an officer’s rank and he became an ensign. After the October Revolution Haskel joined the Bolsheviks and was chief of militia in Odessa. When Denikin 8 troops entered Odessa he was arrested and sentenced to death for cooperation with the Soviet power. He was executed on 28th September 1919. My grandmother Esther kept some insignia of his officer’s valor: his dagger, orders and a medal, but she destroyed them in 1937 [during the Great Terror] 9.

My father’s younger sister Rosa, born in 1892, was raised in the family of her mother’s childless sister, Rachel Benderskaya, in Kiev. Rosa would have become the heir of a significant fortune of the Benderskiy family, if it hadn’t been for the October Revolution. The family’s property was expropriated by the Soviet authorities. Rosa finished the Medical Faculty of Novorossiysk University and married Konstantin Chertkov who came from a well-known Russian family of merchants in Odessa. Aunt Rosa and her husband left for Moscow in the 1930s. Her husband worked as an advisor at the Ministry of River Transport of the USSR, Aunt Rosa was a doctor, a throat specialist. They didn’t have children. Rosa’s husband died in the late 1960s. Aunt Rosa died at the age of 92 in 1984.

My father’s second sister Tsylia was born in 1896. She was a pharmacist. She lived in Odessa, was single and had no children. During the Great Patriotic War she was in evacuation in Tashkent with us. At the end of her life Aunt Tsylia moved to her older sister Rosa in Moscow. She died in 1956.

My father Grigori, his Jewish name was Gershon, was born in Bogopol in 1888. Like all other Jewish boys he studied in cheder. When his family moved to Odessa he became an apprentice to a pharmacist. It was a popular profession among Jews since it gave them the right to live beyond the [Jewish] Pale of Settlement 10. He finished the extramural Faculty of Chemistry and Pharmacy and was the director of a pharmacy at the same time. In 1927 my father received an apartment on Preobrazhenskaya Street in the center of town. It was a communal apartment 11. There was another Jewish family that lived in this apartment: the family of doctor Moisey Finegold. My father lived in this apartment with Grandmother Esther and his sister Tsylia.

Growing up

My parents were introduced to one another by their relatives. My father was eleven years older than my mother. My mother was 27 at the time. They went to the theater together. My mother worked and didn’t allow my father to pay for her tickets. My parents got married in Odessa in 1927. They had a civil wedding. There was no chuppah. Theirs was a pre-arranged marriage that grew into a solid reliable relationship. After they got married the newly-weds settled down in my father’s apartment on Preobrazhenskaya Street. The house where they lived belonged to an insurance company called Russia before the October Revolution.

We had four rooms in this apartment: my parents’ bedroom, were I slept as well, my grandmother’s room, my aunt Tsylia’s room, and a small room near the kitchen where the housemaid lived. The Russia insurance company provided furniture for our apartment before the Revolution. It was stylish mahogany furniture decorated with bronze. I remember a big mirror with a glass table, a low table and armchairs. My grandmother had an ancient chest of drawers in her room and an oak folding table. There were beautiful chairs with carved chair-backs. There were Moldavian carpets on the floors. After 1939 we got a radio set. There was a bathroom in this apartment, but my family didn’t use the bathtub since it was a communal apartment. I remember when I was small I was washed in a basin and when I grew older my father took me to the sauna. Most of our neighbors were Russian. The relationship between the neighbors was friendly enough and very reserved.

I was born on 31st October 1930. I remember well my nanny Olesia, a nice and caring old Ukrainian woman. I use to put my head in her warm jacket feeling very comfortable. She left when I turned three years old and our housemaid Irina Bessarab looked after me. I associate Irina with the famine of 1933 12. In 1933 Irina came from a village. She was thin and had her hair shaved since she had typhoid. She was taken to the kitchen. All she could say was, ‘Madam, may I have something to eat?’ Only after she had had some food, she could speak properly. She became a beautiful full-bodied woman. When she got married she lived in our apartment with her husband for some time.

I didn’t go to kindergarten. I studied with a teacher who had a Froebel 13 diploma; there were graduates of this institute in Odessa. Many of them knew foreign languages and taught children to speak a foreign language. My teacher Polina Ianovna Galka didn’t know any foreign languages, but when she fell ill or went on vacation we had a replacement, Victoria Georgiivna Moskalyova, who taught me French. There were seven other children in my group. This group gathered at the teacher’s home. We, children, brought our breakfast with us. We went for a walk on Primorski Boulevard or to Teatralnaya Square, or the Palais Royal [this is how Odessites call the garden near the Odessa Opera House], or Gorodskoy garden. Then we went to her house, where we had our breakfast, played games and learned to read.

I went to Novy Market with Grandmother Esther who bought kosher food products for herself. I remember my grandmother Esther well. She dressed like all other women in town. She wore long dark skirts and dark shirts. In winter she wore woolen clothes and in summer a fustian. She never wore light colors and even at home she wore a kerchief. Grandmother Esther didn’t quite have political preferences, but since her favorite younger son was shot by Denikin troops she hated all Whites 14; however, this doesn’t mean that she favored the Reds 15.

Grandmother Esther observed the kashrut. She didn’t trust my mother or the housemaid to prepare food for her. She bought her quarter of a chicken from one and the same seller, I think. Frau Frieda, a German milkmaid, delivered dairy products to our house. She came from Grossliebental, a German colony 16 near Odessa. Early in the morning, at 7am, she already knocked on the backdoor. When asked, ‘Who’s there?’ she replied, ‘Frau Frieda, I’ve got milk for you’. She wore a checkered kerchief. She had a big milk can from where she poured milk with a big mug that had a long handle. At times poultry tradesmen came to the yard shouting, ‘Want a chicken? Quarter chicken or chicken legs?’ There was a period before the war when there weren’t enough food products and bread was sold in limited quantities. Each family left a linen bag with a name at a store and then these bags were delivered on carts to the houses. The tenants came outside to pick up their bags. There was a bread rate per person. It wasn’t a famine because there was enough bread being delivered. There was a period when there was no sugar in stores and people bought caramel candy instead.

My parents treated each other with love and respect. After my father finished the Chemistry Engineering Faculty of the Industrial College in 1936 he worked as a chemical engineer at food enterprises in Odessa. I don’t remember the specific companies he worked for. My mother worked as a doctor at Odessa Scientific Research Institute of Tuberculosis. My parents worked a lot. They liked to spend their evenings with the family. We were doing all right, though we couldn’t afford any luxuries. My parents went to the theater and visited friends. Most of their friends were Jewish, but my mother also had non-Jewish friends. At home my parents spoke Russian and only switched to Yiddish when they didn’t want me to understand the subject of their discussion. My father spoke fluent Yiddish, but my mother didn’t know it quite so well. So when they switched to Yiddish my father teased her a little about the mistakes she made.

Both my grandmothers told me something about Jewish traditions, but I took it as a vestige of the past. I didn’t make this particular point to them, but I thought it was something that had nothing to do with me. Every Friday evening Grandmother Esther covered the table in her room with a yellow tablecloth and invited us to dinner. Her brother Abram and Haskel visited my grandmother on this day. They were almost the same age and often quarreled and Grandmother Esther had to help them to make it up. By next Saturday they were arguing again. My grandmother observed Sabbath. She didn’t go to the synagogue when I remember her, because she was very old.

My grandmother had religious books. She prayed from the siddur, read the Torah in Hebrew regularly and knew the weekly sections by heart. [Editor’s note: The Torah is divided into 54 parts; one is to be read each Sabbath. Two such parts are sometimes read on a single Sabbath; otherwise the cycle could not be completed in one year.] My father was an atheist, but I remember clearly that on one of the Jewish holidays – it may have been Yom Kippur – he put on his fancy suit and a dark hat and went to the synagogue. I don’t know what synagogue my father attended, but I think there was only one synagogue in Odessa at the time.

We didn’t have a big collection of books at home, but in our family we read a lot. There were subscription editions before the war and we had books by Balzac, Maupassant, Pushkin 17 and Lermontov 18. My father was very fond of Lermontov and often sang ballads using his lyrics. I was also good at literature for a boy of ten. My parents took care of what I read. They brought me books to read. I read books by Soviet children’s authors: Chukovskiy, Marshak 19 and Mikhalkov. Later I got the History of Animal World by Brehm. I took to liking adventure stories. Later my parents enrolled me on the list of readers in the library of the House of Scientists. My parents also went to the town library: my mother went there to prepare her dissertation and my father went there every now and then. My mother knew three foreign languages and my father knew two. My parents subscribed to the Bolshevik’s Banner communist newspaper.

Every summer our family rented a dacha [cottage] at the seashore. In 1938 Uncle Samuel built a dacha and we stayed there all together. When I was small we traveled to the dacha on a horse-drawn cart. I sat beside the balagula [coachman] on his seat and several times I even used the whip on the horse. Later we had our luggage transported on a truck and I used to sit in the cabin. I also remember how the husband of my mother’s friend Bella Goldman Rovinski, a Jew, deputy chief of the regional military hospital, gave us a lift in his cabriolet with a convertible tarpaulin top on their twin daughters Lilia and Maya’s birthday.

I remember people speaking in a whisper about the arrests in 1937. One of my parents’ closest friends, doctor Yakov Kaminski, was arrested in 1937. His wife Vera knocked on our door at 7 o’clock in the morning and asked us if she could stay with us for a while since her husband Yakov had been arrested. She had made the rounds of several of their acquaintances, but they didn’t even open their doors to her. My parents let her in, gave her a cup of tea and tried to console her. In the evening my father took her to her home. They supported her throughout Yakov’s time in exile, which lasted 20 years, and when he returned they remained friends. In 1938 my grandmother Betia’s brother Avrum Zaltzberg was arrested and executed without even a trial or investigation. In the same year my grandmother Esther died and was buried in the 3rd Jewish cemetery. We didn’t find her grave after the war. I guess it had been destroyed.

I turned eight in 1938 and my father took me to submit my documents to school in August. The director of the school, Riabukha, tested every child. Since I could already read and write and knew poems by heart he enrolled me in the 2nd grade. In January 1939 Riabukha was shot for deviations from the Party policy in the field of education. I liked to study. In the 3rd grade I was even awarded a diploma for my school successes. My first teacher was Maria Dmitrievna Dorokholskaya. We all liked her a lot. We also liked Valentin Alexandrovich Zhukov, our teacher of physics. He took part in the Spanish Civil War 20. He wore a Navy jacket and had an Order of Honor. Olga Moiseyevna Erlich was our teacher of rhythmic and singing. We sang in a choir and played in a so-called noise orchestra: we played castanets, triangles, etc. We often had morning concerts at school where we sang, recited poems and gave amateur performances. My father took me to the navy club in the Town House of Pioneers.

There were many Jewish children at school. I remember Bernard Shchurovetski. He was one year my senior. I remember him running ahead of a group of boys waving his hand as if he was holding a sable shouting, ‘Follow me, Jewish battalion!’ In 1948 he was arrested for Zionism when he was a student of Odessa University. He was sentenced to ten years in prison. As for the prewar period I want to say that the notion of the Soviet people wasn’t something abstract. It had its grounds. I never faced any anti-Semitism before the war, although we made quite clear the nationality we belonged to.

I met my schoolmates after school. We played the ‘cossacks and bandits’ game [an equivalent of ‘Cowboys and Indians’] and football, mostly with balls made out of cloth. We also played ‘mayalka’ tossing up a bag filled with millet or sand. The one that tossed it up for the longest time won. I also had friends in the yard. We played a stick game. There was a wooden stick and a board – a bat. We drew a circle and put the stick in the middle. Then we hit on its edge with a bat and when it popped up we had to throw it with the bat as far as possible.

I had a friend whose name was Ivetta. She was the daughter of our co-tenants, the Finegolds. She was three years older than I and had a big influence on me. Ivetta played the piano and I danced to this music with her friends or we danced to the radio. I fell in love with all her friends in a row. We played this bottle game: We stood in a circle and twirled a bottle in the middle. Then the two that the neck and bottom of the bottle pointed at kissed.

On weekends my parents and I went for a walk and to the theater. They took me to children’s performances at the Tyuz theater [theater for young audiences in the USSR], the Opera, the Philharmonic, and to symphonic orchestras. We often went to the cinema where we watched Soviet films. My father spent more time with me than my mother did. My favorite holidays were 1st May and October Revolution Day 21.
My father and I went to parades, bought flags and balloons. In the middle of the 1930s people began to celebrate New Year and decorate trees. At first Soviet authorities forbade Christmas trees since it was considered to be a religious Christian tradition. There were also so-called ‘fore post clubs’ when children got together in a room or hall in the district where they lived. We had concerts and other events there and played games.

My mother had a few relatives in America. One of them was my grandmother Betia’s brother Israel Zaltzberg. Uncle Israel was a communist in America, but he owned a factory. He visited Odessa in 1935. He visited my grandmother in her apartment in Kuznechnaya Street. There was a reception and there were photographs taken. He brought me some gifts. Our relatives corresponded with him before his arrival, but after he left all such contacts were kept secret since it became dangerous to disclose them [it was dangerous to keep in touch with relatives abroad] 22.

During the war

In 1939 Soviet troops came to Western Ukraine and Western Belarus. My father was recruited to the army and took part in those campaigns. The beginning of the war in 1939 was practically not discussed by the mass media. Sometime before it, the USSR entered into the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact 23 with Germany. I remember the German Consulate in Odessa on the corner of Petra Velikogo and Sadovaya Street and two big red banners with white circles and black swastikas on them.

I was ten when the Great Patriotic War began on 22nd June 1941. My father was assigned to a military unit and although he had had myocarditis some time before and was 53 years old he joined this unit. When my mother mentioned that he could probably do something to avoid going to the front he replied that when fascists attacked the country a Jewish man had to be in the armed forces. He left that same day and never returned. This was at least the fourth war in his life. He went to the front-line forces in Bessarabia 24.
He served in a medical unit of Primorskaya army and was responsible for logistics supplies to medical institutions and subdivisions of Primorskaya army in Sevastopol. He perished there during the defense of Sevastopol in July 1942. I still have 16 letters that he wrote from the front.

In July 1941 my mother, Aunt Tsylia and I evacuated from Odessa. We went to Novorossiysk [700 km to Odessa by sea] by the military boat Dnepr. From there we took a train to Krasnodar – this was my first train trip. We got off at Zatoka station in Stanitsa Slavyanskaya on the way to Krasnodar. We got accommodation with a Kazak family, the Kulikovs. They didn’t care what nationality we belonged to. They treated us as if we were their family. They shared their food with us. Then we went to Rostov where we reunited with Uncle Samuel, his wife, grandmother Betia and Uncle Wolf. We went to Kalach by boat along the Don River, from there we took a train to Stalingrad, then we went to Kuibyshev down the Volga and from there we took a train to Tashkent.

In evacuation my mother was the manager of the X-Ray department at the Institute of Tuberculosis in Tashkent. In 1943 she defended her dissertation for the title of candidate of medical services and in 1947 she was awarded the title of senior scientific employee. I went to the 5th grade at school in Tashkent. In a year we moved to another district and I finished my 6th and 7th grades in another school. My classmate Lyonia Yusupov – his mother was Russian and his father was Uzbek and was the First Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist party of Uzbekistan – helped me to get a recommendation from his father to join the Komsomol 25. I became a Komsosol member in 1944 before I turned 14. In August 1944 during my vacations I began to work as a medical statistics specialist in the institute where my mother worked.

Before the war I didn’t face anti-Semitism except for the word ‘zhyd’ [kike] that I heard several times, but during the war there was open anti-Semitism. It was intertwined with the hatred to people in evacuation. The local Russian population, Russian people who were in evacuation in Tashkent and Uzbeks demonstrated it. Uzbeks knew the word ‘yakhuda’ [Jew in Arabic] and even at the market when a Jewish customer tried to bargain with them they said ‘Jebrei’ [mispronunciation of Jew], go away and come back tomorrow’. Once a group of local boys brutally beat me up, kicking me with their feet on my face and calling me ‘zhydowskaya morda’ [a Jewish mug].

I went to the synagogue for the first time in Tashkent in 1944. There was a meeting with a former inmate of the Warsaw ghetto who had managed to escape. My uncle Samuel took me there. On our way to the synagogue he told me a little about Jewish traditions. I cannot remember the details of what this man told the audience. He spoke German and there was an interpreter. [Editor’s note: this man most likely spoke Yiddish and not German.] My uncle Wolf died of a brain tumor in Tashkent. I heard the mourning prayer recited by a man from the synagogue for the first time in my life at his funeral.

Post-war

We returned to Odessa in October 1944 with the Odessa flour grinding factory. We arrived at Odessa-Malay station and from there we were taken to the hostel of the flour-grinding factory by truck. During the war Dumitrasku, the editor of the Russian weekly newspaper Molva, lived in our apartment on Preobrazhenskaya Street. When we returned it was inhabited by comrade Melnichenko, the chairman of the water transport district council. He occupied all six rooms of our apartment, although two families had lived in the apartment before the war. When the Finegold family – our co-tenants – arrived, Melnichenko did us a big favor: he vacated two rooms for their family and two rooms for us. He stayed in our apartment for quite a while. Actually all our belongings were gone. After returning to Odessa Grandmother Betia lived with us. She died in 1946. She was buried in the Jewish section of the second international cemetery. No Jewish rituals were followed.

I went to the 8th grade when we returned to Odessa. It was a different Odessa and so was I. I had new friends at school. I had many Jewish classmates. The director of the school Osip Semyonovich Stoliarski was a Jew. There were many Jewish teachers. There was anti-Semitism in postwar Odessa. Probably people contracted it from the fascists during the occupation. I often heard people say, ‘The Jews are back telling us what to do’.

In 1946 I entered Odessa Medical College. Since I was under 16 and didn’t have a passport I was admitted as a candidate student and was enrolled only after I obtained my passport. There was no anti-Semitism in college. There were many Jews in college: veterans of the war, mature people. I was an active Komsomol member and a member of the Komsomol committee of the college. In 1949, when I was a 4th-year student I married my co-student Sophia Rudman. She was a very interesting person. She was very musical, had the best marks in gymnastics and was a great success with young men.

Sophia was born in Odessa in 1928. During the war she was in evacuation in Tokmak, Kyrgyzstan, with her mother. Sophia is a Jew. Her grandfather lived in Moldavanka 26 where Jews lived in their own neighborhood and observed Jewish traditions. Sophia’s mother knew a little Yiddish and was a very sociable woman. She kept in touch with her Jewish surrounding. We didn’t observe the Jewish holidays in our family, but we bought matzah at Pesach. My wife’s mother could even make it. Basically, we didn’t observe any Jewish traditions or the kashrut.

In my 6th year of studies I began to specialize in lung diseases. After finishing college in 1952 my wife and I got a [mandatory] job assignment 27 to the village of Malorita in Brest region, Belarus, where we worked as phthisitricians. In 1952 during the time of the Doctors’ Plot 28 I got into trouble. Phthisitricians use to get into this trap. I treated my patients with pneumothorax. During this procedure an air bubble may get into a vein. If it gets into a venous vessel it may cause embolism. One of my patients – the agronomist Nikolay Misyuk had brain embolism once. I remember that in his case I had to fix his head in the lowest position with his feet up to force this air bubble out. I did this and he recovered, but he had hemorrhage in his retina. Nikolay appreciated what I did for him, but his wife wrote a letter to the prosecutor’s office complaining that Jewish doctor Averbuch wanted to kill her husband, an agronomist, to cause damage to the socialist agriculture. I was called to the prosecutor’s office where they had a talk with me, but at some point of time it all ended. When we were leaving Malorita we already knew that this Doctors’ Plot was just that. Stalin had died by then. His death was a hard blow. Besides, we were afraid that the new leadership of the country would strengthen its dictatorship. I dedicated one of my poems to Stalin’s death.

In 1953 I entered the clinical residency at the Institute of Advanced Training of Doctors in Minsk. My tutor was Professor Agranovich. Simultaneously I studied at the extramural postgraduate school in Moscow where my tutor was Alexandr Rabukhin, one of the biggest phthisitrician in Kiev. He was also a Jew. There were many Jewish doctors in the USSR while in phthisiology almost all of them were Jews. It was a difficult profession, but Jews wanted to have it.

Our daughter Irina was born in 1953. In 1955 my wife and I returned to Odessa where we rented an apartment, and we often went to see my mother. After my father’s death my mother didn’t marry again. She went on to work as a phthisitrician. She died in 1989 at the age of 90 and was buried in the international cemetery of Odessa.

After returning to Odessa I began to write my dissertation. Simultaneously I lectured at Odessa Medical College. My tutor made it clear to me that I didn’t have a chance to keep a job at the college because of my Jewish nationality. In January 1959 I began to work as a registrar at the regional tuberculosis outpatient clinic. I was appointed its manager in July of the same year. I often traveled on business to Ukrainian towns, Moscow and Leningrad.

I began to travel abroad in 1960. Those were countries of democracy: Hungary, Romania and Bulgaria. When I visited Hungary in the 1960s I understood how serious events were during the Revolution of 1956 29, what tragedy it had been for the people of Hungary and what the real role of the USSR had been. About the events in Czechoslovakia in 1968 [Prague Spring] 30 I remember that we listened to foreign radio stations. We understood that it was a blood-shedding suppression of the people’s movement. My friends and I had a negative attitude towards this.

We lived a stable and wealthy life. We communicated with Uncle Samuel and Aunt Rosa who lived in Moscow, and Lida, the daughter of Avrum Zaltzberg. We got together on birthdays or Jewish holidays. In summer we stayed at the dacha. Our son Grigori was born in 1965. My children always knew that they were Jews and identified themselves as Jews. However, they didn’t get any Jewish education. My children knew about the Holocaust and about members of our family who had perished in the ghetto and about their grandfather who had perished at the front.

Our daughter Irina studied in a secondary and a music school. She was a concertmaster and took part in concerts with children’s groups. After finishing school she finished the Music College in Vitebsk since it was difficult for a Jewish girl to enter the Music College in Odessa. After finishing this College Irina was the manager of a band that worked on a cruiser. She was also a soloist and played keyboard. Irina married a Russian man, Alexandr Rakov, a musician. In 1978 they moved to Australia. I cannot say that I was happy when my daughter left. I wasn’t sure whether it was the right decision, but it turned out it was. They live in Sidney where they opened a computer design company. Irina is a musician there. Their daughter Caroline was born in 1979. She finished a technical college in Sidney. Her specialty is computer graphics. I visited them in 1991. It was a wonderful trip and a happy meeting with my darling daughter and granddaughter Caroline.

Sophia and I divorced in 1968. Two years later Sophia married a Russian man. Since her second husband was Christian they celebrated Christian and Jewish holidays. They made Easter bread and painted eggs at Easter. They also observe Jewish holidays, but without strictly following all traditions. My son Grigori lived with his mother. He identifies himself as a Jew, although he is not even circumcised. Grigori finished school in 1972 and then studied at the Faculty of Physical Education of Odessa Pedagogical College. After his 4th year in college he was recruited to the army. He served in anti-missile troops in Zaporozhye. After his army service Grigori worked in a children’s home and then was a teacher of physical education at school. In 1991 he moved to Australia, to his sister Irina. He lives in Sidney and works as an assistant doctor.

I married Irina Chaikovskaya in 1969. Irina is Ukrainian. She was born in Vinnitsa in 1938. During the war she was in evacuation in Tashkent with her mother. My second wife finished the Faculty of Philology of Odessa Pedagogical College and the Faculty of Defectology of Moscow Pedagogical College. She is a speech specialist and an Honored Teacher of Ukraine. [Editor’s note: Honored Teacher of Ukraine is a state award.] We’ve been married for over thirty years now.

The 1970s were stable years in our country: no arrests or suppression. We were wealthy and had many opportunities to spend our spare time as we liked. My wife and I read a lot, went to the theater and symphonic music performances. Famous musicians and the best theater groups of the USSR often came on tour to Odessa. In the 1970s there was more space for criticism of the government. My professional life has always been the focus of my life. I was the manager of the tuberculosis clinic for 44 years. I was also involved in scientific activities. I have over 65 publications and one monograph. In 1994 I was awarded the title of candidate of medical sciences based on my scientific work. I have never been a party member.

In 1967 during the Six-Day-War 31 and in 1973 during another war [the interviewee is referring to the so-called Yom Kippur War] 32 I felt pain in my heart and wished victory for Israelites. I was terribly upset about the termination of diplomatic relationships of the USSR with Israel. I was convinced that it was a mistake of the Soviet government. I felt like protesting against the USSR’s support of the enemies of Israel. I always felt great interest in Israel. I always wanted to visit there and was very happy when I got an opportunity to do so in 1999. I admired the country and felt proud for the people. I sympathized with those that were moving to Israel, but I never considered this option for myself.

When perestroika 33 began in 1986 I had hopes that they would build socialism with a human face. I need to say at this point that I still feel sorry that socialism is a utopia. I’m really sorry that such is reality. This utopia is even more dangerous since it is so attractive.

The Jewish life has revived in Odessa. In 1997 I became a volunteer and member of the Board at the Jewish charity organization Gmilus Hesed. During this period I turned to Judaism to learn more about traditions and the history of the Jewish people. I remain agnostic to a certain extent. I’m not a religious Jew who goes to pray at the synagogue every day. I don’t follow the kashrut either, but I greatly respect the Jewish traditions. I know a lot more about the traditions and history of my people now and this gives me the feeling of solidarity with my people.

I go to the synagogue on high holidays. I take part in charity events. I’m the Deputy Chairman of the Board of Gmilus Hesed. I write in Russian for the Jewish newspapers Or-Sameah and Shomrei-Shabbos and the magazine Migdal Times. I write articles on Jewish subjects as well. I collect and publish materials about famous Odessites. I give lectures about outstanding Jewish Odessites and the history of anti-Semitism at the Open Jewish University at the educational center Moria. I write poems and prose. Some Odessa publishing houses published my volume of poems and a book of memoirs about Odessa and Odessites. Besides, my book about Jews who worked for the Soviet intelligence service has been published in two editions.

Glossary

Alena Munková
roz. Synková
Praha
Česká republika
Rozhovor pořídila: Zuzana Strouhová
Období vzniku rozhovoru: říjen 2005-březen 2006

Paní Alena Munková, rozená Synková, se narodila v roce 1926 v Praze do rodiny dentisty Emila Synka. On sám byl politicky i odborně činný a jeho bratr, Karel, vedl před válkou známé pražské nakladatelství a knihkupectví, které převzal od svého otce, Adolfa Synka. Její maminka zemřela na rakovinu, když Alena Munková-Synková končila první třídu. Otec se podruhé oženil, ale i druhá manželka za pět let zemřela na rakovinu. Těsně před zákazem smíšených sňatků 1 se otec oženil potřetí. Vzhledem k tomu, že Emil Synek byl tímto manželstvím chráněn, byl k transportu do koncentračního tábora nejdříve povolán starší bratr paní Munkové, Jiří, který do transportu nenastoupil, přežil válku ve skrytu. Paní Munková byla povolána o něco později, také sama. Odjela do Terezína 2, kde ji před dalším transportem do Osvětimi chránilo to, že byla považována za míšenku. Po válce se vrátila do Prahy, kde nějakou dobu žila se svou nevlastní matkou, která válku také přežila, ač byla i s otcem paní Munkové zatčena gestapem, zřejmě na základě nějakého udání, a oba skončili v koncentračním táboře. Otec však zahynul v Osvětimi. Vystudovala novinářskou fakultu na Vysoké škole politické a sociální v Praze a nastoupila do hraného filmu na Barrandově [známé filmové studio v Praze – pozn. red.], odkud však byla kvůli svému židovskému původu vyhozena. Po několika peripetiích se však k filmu nakonec vrátila a až do důchodu pracovala jako dramaturg kresleného a loutkového filmu. Dnes žije v Praze se svým manželem, Jiřím Munkem, architektem, a je stále velmi aktivní.

Rodina
Dětství
Za války
Po válce
Po roce 1989
Glosář

Rodina

Můj dědeček z otcovy strany se jmenuje Adolf Synek. Narodil se 1. listopadu 1871. Podle kartotéky na židovské obci v Praze to bylo v Mitrovicích, psáno německy Mitrovitz. Ale nevím, v českém překladu to může být Mladá Vožice u Tábora. Všichni Synkové pocházeli z jižních Čech, od Tábora. Setkala jsem se s takovou publikací, nedávno vydanou, o starých firmách z tohoto kraje, kde bylo těch Synků spousta. Tam to bylo nejspíš takové krajové jméno. Dědečkův bratr Bohumil se však psal s měkkým i, to byla nejspíš otázka rodných listů. I já jsem s tím měla problémy, když jsem šla do penze, protože některé doklady mám s měkkým i a některé s tvrdým. Pokud vím, otcovi prarodiče pocházeli z Mladé Vožice, ale nic bližšího o nich nevím. Statkáři to asi nebyli, spíš bych řekla, že to byli nějací zemědělci nebo obchodníci. Nevím, to bych musela hádat. Dědeček zemřel  20. ledna 1943 v Terezíně, kam šel 20. listopadu 1942.

Dědeček vysokoškolské vzdělání určitě neměl, byl vyučený a to zřejmě někde ve Vídni. Jeho rodným jazykem ale byla čeština. Celý život pak pracoval jako knihkupec a nakladatel, to tenkrát bývalo obvykle spojeno. Proslavil se tím, že měl monopol na světoznámého Haškova Švejka 3. Pak měl ještě takovou edici, která se jmenovala „Malá díla velkých autorů“, nebo nějak tak, a to byly klasické knihy, od Thomase Manna [Mann, Paul Thomas (1875 – 1955): německý spisovatel, filantrop a esejista. V roce 1929 získal Nobelovu cenu za literaturu – pozn. red.] počínaje, nevím kým konče. Jak dědeček to nakladatelství získal, nevím, ale bylo v Praze 7 na Letné, v Janovského ulici, která se, myslím, stále ještě nepřejmenovala. Pamatuji si, jak jsem k němu jako malé dítě chodila na návštěvu. Knihkupectví bylo dole v přízemí, takže jsem si vždycky stoupla na parapet okna a on mě sundával z toho okna dolů. Nakladatelství potom převzal strýc Karel, někdy v roce třicet šest, a celé se to stěhovalo do Vodičkovy ulice. Je to obchod proti ulici V Jámě. Kromě nakladatelství a knihkupectví tam ještě byla takzvaná „Dětská síňka Karla Synka“, kde byly i nějaké hračky.

Můj dědeček měl dva bratry, Bohumila a Rudolfa. Bohumil Sinek se narodil 19. října 1872 a 10. července 1942 šel do Terezína. Zemřel v Treblince, ale kdy, to nevím. Rudolf Synek se narodil 5. ledna 1876 a 25. dubna 1942 šel do transportu a odvezli ho do Varšavy. O tom, že šlo něco do Varšavy, jsem předtím nic neslyšela. Do Lodže 4, to ano, ti šli v jednačtyřicátém. Ale takhle to stojí v kartotéce, která je na židovské obci [v Praze]. S křížkem, že tam zemřel. Kdy, to se neví, ale asi v roce čtyřicet tři. Když tam odjížděl už v dubnu čtyřicet dva, tak to déle určitě nevydržel. 

O jeho bratrech vím jenom to, že asi byli ze zámožnější vrstvy, protože Bohumil Sinek byl majitelem minimálně jednoho domu, který jsem pak měla zdědit. Bohumil totiž své vlastní děti neměl. Ale těch domů bylo asi víc. Pamatuji si, že bydlel na rohu tehdejší Sanitrovy ulice. Ten dům, jehož byl majitelem, byl ale jinde, v Bílkově ulici. Také si pamatuji, že jsem v tom domě byla, když byl pohřeb T.G. Masaryka 5. Tenkrát jel totiž kolem pohřební průvod, a tak se nás tam sešlo asi padesát, z mého pohledu strašně moc lidí, bylo tam velké pohoštění a dívali jsme se. Šlo zřejmě o samé příbuzné, o jejichž existenci jsem ani nevěděla. To mně bylo asi tak osm, devět let. Tehdy jsem měla pocit, že ti lidé snad nepracují. Na druhou stranu to už byli pánové v letech, tak nevím. Třeba to byli nějací tehdejší podnikatelé, nevím, to bych si opravdu vymýšlela. 

Čím byl Rudolf, nevím. Vzpomínám si jen, že měl velký knír. Měl dvě dcery, Martu a Irmu. Její manžel se jmenoval Iltis, po válce vedl časopis na Židovské obci. Měli spolu dceru Ruth. Ale potom se rozvedli a Irma s Ruth emigrovala do Chile. A pak jsem se náhodou dověděla, a není to tak dávno, že obě zemřely v Izraeli. Že se z Chile, nevím kdy a proč, přestěhovaly do Izraele. Zřejmě po dlouhých letech. Marta byla ještě po válce tady v Praze, ale o ní nevím vůbec nic. Najednou prostě nebyla, zřejmě zemřela.

Babička se jmenovala Terezie, za svobodna Löfflerová, a pocházela odněkud ze Slovenska. O jejích rodičích nic nevím. Ale asi to nebyli bůhvíjak majetní lidé, protože šla sloužit do Vídně. Ale to je jenom moje hypotéza. Vzdělání měla nejspíš základní. Dědečka potkala ve Vídni, kde pracovala jako služebná. Tam se pravděpodobně také brali, protože můj tatínek, Emil Synek, se tam narodil, ale poměrně brzy se stěhovali do Československa. Zemřela v roce 1939 v ústavu pro choromyslné. Její sestra a maminka těchto dvou sester byly také duševně nemocné, takže mám takovou dobrou anamnézu. Co přesně za nemoc měla, nevím, ono se to tenkrát asi ještě ani neklasifikovalo. Možná to byla nějaká demence nebo něco takového. Já sama, jako desetiletá, jsem na ní viděla značné stopy nesoustředěnosti a odtrženosti od života. A vím, že v  takové té veliké vyšívané tašce, jakou tenkrát dámy nosívaly, měla hrozný nepořádek. Čili ony už tam byly nějaké zárodky schizofrenie nebo nějaké nervové nemoci. Jinak byla mimořádně hodná, laskavá a ve svých vnucích se samozřejmě viděla, jak to normálně u babiček bývá. Pohřbená je na novém židovském hřbitově v Praze, to jsem našla teprve teď nedávno. Na starém hřbitově se v té době už nepohřbívalo. Ale nemá náhrobek, protože to už bylo v roce 1939 zakázané. Ten budu muset nechat udělat. Jestli ona sama nějak židovsky žila, to nevím, u nás se o tom vůbec nemluvilo.

Rodina Synkova byla naprosto asimilovaná. S dědečkovými bratry, Rudolfem a Bohumilem, jsem se, pravda, nestýkala, takže nevím. Pokud jde o dědečka Adolfa, tak si vůbec nepamatuji, že by něco bylo, že by slavil nějaké svátky, ačkoliv jsme jak my, tak dědeček, bydleli na Letné, blízko sebe, takže bych si pravděpodobně něčeho všimla. Ale já si na nic takového nepamatuji. Vím jen, že můj otec, který byl velmi liberální, mě nechal takzvaně osvobodit od náboženské výuky, protože chtěl, jak mi pak říkal, abych si jednou vybrala sama. Ale podle mne to byla chyba, protože to patří ke vzdělání. A pamatuji si, že se to před dědečkem tajilo. Že by se prý býval zlobil, takže tady nějaké tradice zřejmě byly. Navíc jeho dva synové, jak můj otec, tak můj strýc Karel, si vzali za manželku křesťanku. U strýce to byla již jeho první žena, u mého otce až druhá a třetí.

Dědeček z matčiny strany se jmenoval Bohumil Steiner. Narodil se v roce 1871 v Kovansku, okres Nymburk. Příslušným však tehdy do Kolína. Žil v Kolíně, kde obchodoval s látkami, na ten obchod si pamatuji. Zemřel 20. září 1932, rok před smrtí mé matky, neboli své dcery, Marie. Pravděpodobně v Kolíně, protože jsem někde měla doklady o tom, co babička platila pohřebnímu bratrstvu, a to všechno bylo v Kolíně. Na starém kolínském židovském hřbitově musí někde nejspíš být. 

Babička z matčiny strany se jmenovala Hermína, za svobodna Fialová. Narodila se 10. srpna 1869, takže byla o dva roky starší než dědeček, což bylo v té době velmi neobvyklé. Muži bývali naopak třeba o dvacet let starší. I já mám mladšího muže, takže jsem v „tradici“. Po dědečkově smrti se babička přestěhovala se sestrou mé matky, Annou, z Kolína do Prahy.

Kdy přesně, to netuším, ale ono asi chvíli trvalo, než bývalý obchod zlikvidovali. Dědeček měl totiž v Kolíně obchod se střižním zbožím, v takové uličce blízko náměstí. Pamatuji se, že se tam šlo rovnou z ulice a že tam na tom dvoře - jako bych to před sebou i teď viděla - bylo dláždění, které bylo tak prorostlé, že ta travička vykukovala kolem dláždění. Jako dítě mě tenkrát velmi zajímalo, jak to, že tam, mezi dlažebními kostkami, roste tráva. Takový barevný vjem, to vám zůstane na celý život.

V Praze měly má babička s tetou Annou také nějaký malý obchod, na Smíchově, ale hned zkrachovaly. Pak ho měly na Žižkově a zase zkrachovaly. No, neuměly to, babička to asi nikdy nedělala. Zemřela někdy za války, nejspíš v roce 1942. Jestli měla nějaké sourozence, to nevím. Já jsem s nimi pak ztratila kontakt, protože po smrti mé první maminky se otec podruhé oženil a ačkoliv ta druhá maminka byla velice hodná, tak se mého kontaktu s tou původní rodinou bála. Ale já jsem na Žižkov tak jednou za rok beztak chodívala. Pamatuji se, že bydleli v Miličově ulici 5.  Ale jakmile jsem tam vešla, tak se babička rozplakala,  protože jak mě viděla, tak jí hned bylo líto, že jí umřela dcera. V mé paměti byla taková velice subtilní, taková správná babička, věchýtek. Ale to už je po těch letech nejspíš trošku konstrukce.

V mé paměti byl dědeček vysoký a babička malá. I moje maminka a teta byly poměrně malé, to jsem asi zdědila po nich. Ale dědeček Steiner, ten byl vysoký. Takže alespoň můj bratr, Jiří, není takový prcek. To jsem mu hodně záviděla. Já mám ale zase po dědečkovi oči, jejich tvar, posazení, pohled, barvu. Otec měl oči šedivé, matka byla tmavooká, ale já mám po dědečkovi oči dost intenzivně modré. Geny jsou geny.

Co se náboženství matčiných rodičů týče, tam si na nic nepamatuji. K dědečkovi jsme jezdili, pamatuji si, jak si se mnou hrával a dostávala jsem od něj ústřižky látek. A vím, že dědeček s sebou brával mého bratra Jiřího, který je o pět let starší než já, na jarmark, kde vždycky vystavoval své zboží. Ale nevzpomínám si, že by třeba slavili nějaké svátky. 

Můj otec, Emil Synek, se narodil, jak jsem říkala, ve Vídni. 1. června 1894. Vyučil se zubním technikem a laborantem a pak si udělal nějaké zkoušky, takže byl takzvaně dentista. Což znamenalo, že mohl i trhat zuby a vůbec mohl dělat všechno na úrovni zubního lékaře. Na Letné měl svou vlastní velkou zubařskou praxi. Byl také zřejmě velmi činný v grémiu zubařů, dělal nějaké přednášky a já nevím, co všechno. Ve své profesi byl velmi aktivní, pořád se vzdělával a studoval desítky odborných časopisů. Byl u nás myslím jedním z prvních, kdo měl rentgen. Pamatuji se, že byl od Siemense, ta firma ho k nám dodávala z Německa. Ale nebyl lékař, byl dentista. Byl mimochodem velmi populární, protože zadarmo spravoval zuby tehdejšímu fotbalovému družstvu Sparta 6. Pro něj bylo koneckonců charakteristické, že mnoha lidem, když neměli peníze, spravoval zuby zadarmo. Říkával, že si to přirazí na bohatých. Dnes by nemohl existovat, během roku by zkrachoval. Měl totiž silné sociální cítění, což bylo ostatně v bohatých židovských rodinách časté.

Za první světové války byl tatínek v armádě, ale kde a jak dlouho, to nám nevyprávěl. Ale vím určitě, že nám říkal, že v roce osmnáct byl v uniformě, když se strhávali rakouské znaky. On měl tenkrát z toho převratu v roce osmnáct velký zážitek.  Moc dlouho na vojně ale asi nepobyl, protože byl nějak raněn. I když kdo ví, jak to bylo, protože tatínek byl hodně proti válce zaujatý, byl odjakživa antimilitarista.

Otec měl jednoho bratra, Karla. Ten byl o něco mladší než on, myslím, že se narodil někdy kolem roku devadesát šest [1896]. Za manželku si vzal Vlastu, za svobodna Kolářovou. Ta se vyučila zubní laborantkou u mého otce, kde se se strýcem seznámili. Vlasta nebyla židovského původu, takže strýc by býval díky tomu smíšenému manželství válku přežil, ale oni se kvůli majetku rozvedli. Asi v roce čtyřicet nebo čtyřicet jedna. Teta se asi bála s židem žít. Neřekla bych, že to bylo jen naoko, protože spolu pak už ani nežili. Myslím, že strýc pak bydlel u svého otce, ale přesně nevím. K nám chodíval na oběd. Už před odchodem do Terezína měl strýc otevřenou tuberkulózu – pamatuji se, že jsme vždycky myli všechno nádobí hypermanganem - a v Terezíně této nemoci podlehl,  v roce čtyřicet tři.

Karel měl s Vlastou dvě dcery, René a Milenu. René je o rok mladší než já, narodila se 23. září 1927. Pamatuji se, že když jsme chodívaly do obecné školy, tak jsme šly vždycky do školy spolu, protože oni také žili na Letné. René se pak provdala za Igora Korolkova, který pocházel z ruské emigrantské rodiny, a společně po válce emigrovali do Holandska. Ona stále ještě žije, v Amsterdamu, a její manžel před dvěma lety zemřel. René se tady před emigrací vyučila švadlenou a potom studovala filosofickou fakultu, ale nedostudovala. V Amsterodamu pak měli velký módní salón s mnoha zaměstnanci, kde vyráběli takovou lepší konfekci. Druhá dcera, Milena, provdaná Kuthejlová, se narodila v lednu třicet sedm, myslím. Vystudovala vysokou ekonomickou a pracovala v televizi, kde dělala redaktorku časopisů o televizních programech. Myslím, že tam snad ještě teď jako penzistka - ona je o jedenáct let mladší než já – pracuje v knihovně. Přesně nevím.

Moje sestřenice za války do transportu nešly, protože to byly míšenky. Málokdo ví, že pro děti ze smíšených rodin existovala podle Norimberských zákonů 1 hranice třicátý pátý rok. Děti které se narodily před rokem třicet pět a nebyly zapsány na Židovské obci, což obě sestřenice nebyly - z toho také vyplývá, jak byla naše rodina nábožensky zaměřená - tak byly takzvaní árijští míšenci. Děti narozené před pětatřicátým rokem, které na Židovské obci zapsané byly, byly židovští míšenci. A děti, které se narodily po pětatřicátém roce, tak byly židovští míšenci, ať byly zapsaní nebo ne. Já sama to vím, protože mě za míšenku také považovali, což mi zachránilo život.  Co se náboženství týče, jak jsem naznačovala, strýc Karel nijak židovsky nežil, svátky vůbec neslavil. Nevím, jak hluboce vnímal svůj židovský původ, ale oni mu to pak Němci připomněli.

S rodinou strýce jsme se samozřejmě stýkali, rodina držela pohromadě. Já jsem se často vídala i se sestřenicí René. Můj otec byl jeden čas v Živnostenské straně 7, protože on byl ze zásady pro střední cestu, a jeho bratr, strýc Karel, ho prý přemlouval, aby volil Národní socialisty. Ale nevím, jak to dopadlo. Můj otec byl snad v té Živnostenské straně v rámci Prahy 7 i nějak činný, ale nic přesného nevím. Velmi se angažoval také v grémiu zubních lékařů, kde měl nějaké přednášky a snad i nějakou funkci, nevím jakou. Můj otec byl vůbec velice společenský, velice často chodil večer ještě pryč, do kaváren a tak. Já jsem v rámci těchto skupin jako jedenáctiletá hrála nějaké divadlo a chodila jsem do Sokola 8. Tam jsem měla i svůj první konflikt, kdy na mě křičeli „židovko“. Otec byl činný ve Svazu Čechů-židů 9, kde byli soustředěni asimilovaní židé, kteří se ztotožňovali s českým národem. Vydávali týdeník Rozvoj, který otec odebíral.

Moje maminka se jmenovala Marie, rozená Steinerová. Narodila se 9. srpna 1898 v Kolíně – byla o čtyři roky mladší než můj otec - a zemřela ještě před válkou, v roce 1933, na rakovinu. Jak jsem se pak dozvěděla, na rakovinu zemřel i její otec rok před ní.

Jak se seznámili s otcem? To nevím, maminka byla z Kolína a otec z Prahy, ale tenkrát se páry zřejmě všelijak dohazovaly a vyprávělo se - to berte v uvozovkách - že otec potřeboval bohatou nevěstu, aby si mohl založit zubní ordinaci. Do té doby byla maminka doma, jak se tehdy na mladé dívky slušelo a patřilo. Žádné vysokoškolské vzdělání určitě neměla, ale nádherně hrála na klavír. Bývala taková silně melancholická a celé dny hrávala. Ani jaké střední vzdělání měla, netuším. Možná k nim někdo chodil a dával jí hodiny. To by tak asi odpovídalo té sociální skupině. Mladé dívky měly umět vařit, šít a hrát na klavír.

Ani nevím, jakého byla náboženského založení, mně bylo šest let, když zemřela – bylo to na konci první třídy obecné školy – a už poslední dva roky byla nemocná.

Maminka měla jednu sestru, jmenovala se Anna Schwelbová. Narodila se 10. 12. 1904.  Byla asi třikrát vdaná a s jedním z manželů, jakýmsi Neumannem, měla syna Zdeňka, který byl o dva roky starší než já. Myslím, že ten Neumann, ale to nevím jistě, možná to byl Schwelba, byl holič nebo kadeřník, něco takového. Anna se synem a se svou matkou, mou babičkou Hermínou Steinerovou, šli do transportu už někdy začátkem roku 1942 a možná ani nešli přes Terezín, ale rovnou někam dál. Myslím, že zahynuli někde v Polsku.

Dětství

Já se jmenuji Alena Munková a narodila jsem se 24. září 1926. Na to ani nesmím myslet, to je hrozné. Narodila jsem se v Praze a kromě Terezína jsem nikde jinde nežila.  Mám jednoho bratra, ten je ročník dvacet jedna. Narodil se 26. listopadu. Vlastním jménem je Jiří Synek, ale je znám také pod svým uměleckým jménem František Listopad [Listopad František (nar. 1921): vl. jm. Jiří Synek, český básník a prozaik – pozn. red.]. Jeho umělecké jméno uvádím proto, že je ve světě i tady pod svým pseudonymem dost znám. Vyšlo mu několik knížek a také dělá divadlo. Rodičům se přede mnou narodilo ještě jedno dítě, ale to brzy zemřelo. Žádné jiné sourozence tedy nemám, ani nevlastní. Můj otec se totiž ještě dvakrát oženil, ale s žádnou z těch žen dítě neměl a ani ony samy ve svém předchozím manželství dítě neměly. Byly rozvedené a bezdětné, když si ho braly.

Mé dětství je velice spjato s Letnou, kde jsem žila. Skutečně jsem tam do toho chodníku byla vrostlá. Jak se říká, že je člověk vrostlý do půdy, tak tady to byl chodník, vydlážděný chodník. Na Letné jsem znala všechny obchodníky, lítala jsem tam do parku a do Stromovky. A ztráta toho místa, kde člověk prožil dětství  - a jistě je to tak pro každého - se již nikdy nedá obnovit. To si na to člověk tak trochu hraje, ale je to pryč. Po válce jsem se sice ještě na Letnou vrátila, ale všechno bylo jinak. Ale dodnes, když jedu kolem Letné, tak mě píchne. Dodnes cítím i tu vůni, jak to tam vonělo. Já si velmi vybavuji barvy, a vůně snad ještě víc. Myslím, že dětství člověka formuje, ať chce, nebo nechce. Nebo také deformuje.

Takže před válkou byla Letná celý můj svět. Mám takovou vzpomínku na dvorek domu, kde jsme bydleli. Ten existuje dodneška, bylo to v přízemí, na rohu, číslo 1. Tehdy to byla Belcrediho třída, teď je to, jestli se nepletu, Milady Horákové. Pak tam udělali banku a teď je tam, myslím, KFC. No, čím dál hůř. Tenkrát, když se vešlo do domu, a já se dokonce domnívám, že ty dveře jsou stále skoro stejné, v hrozném stavu, tak na konci takové chodby, která se ohýbala do L, se vcházelo do bytu. Ale z druhé strany, hned za těmi domovními dveřmi, byly další dveře a ty vedly do čekárny a do ordinace. Čili celé přízemí bylo rozděleno na otcovu zubní praxi a byt. Pak tam byl samozřejmě dvorek a tam jsem si hrála. Věšely se tam koberce, byly tam takové dva stromky a bylo to tam docela špinavé. A v přízemí dole v domě byl vetešník, jmenoval se Andrle. To byla tajemná postava a já jsem nikdy neměla odvahu jít dolů do suterénu. Mimochodem, v těch bytech tenkrát bývalo sociální zařízení na chodbě, nikoliv v bytech. Ale ten záchod byl samozřejmě jenom náš.

Nepamatuji se, že bychom měli v tom prvním období služebnou, protože maminka byla doma a protože tam byla domovnice, která posluhovala, a zřejmě tam také chodil někdo prát. Takže tam možná byla výpomoc, posluhovačky a něco takového. Já to mám samozřejmě už v hrozně mlhavé paměti. Ale služebná jako taková by tam ani neměla kde bydlet.

Než jsem nastoupila do školy, tak jsem byla doma, ale podle vyprávění chodil můj starší bratr Jiří ten poslední rok, než šel do školy, do francouzské školky. Ale pamatuji se, jak jsem s maminkou v Břevnově, a dokonce vím asi kde bylo schodiště, po kterém mě vodila do taneční školy. To mi bylo pět.  Dokonce jsem prý v nějaké té taneční škole pro malé děti měla vystupovat v divadle, v tehdejším Německém divadle, což je dneska Státní opera vedle Hlavního nádraží. Ale otec to zakázal, že nechce, aby ze mě vyrostlo něco u divadla. Přestože byl takový volnomyšlenkář, tak se v něm něco konzervativního ozvalo. Pamatuji se, že jsem z toho byla hrozně smutná. Maminka to asi nevybojovala, nebo nechtěla, to nevím.

Na žádné společné dovolené nebo výlety si nepamatuji, to mám už opravdu v mlze, možná by si vzpomněl bratr, ten je přece jen o pět let starší. Já si pamatuji jen ty cesty do Kolína k dědečkovi.

Pak jsem nastoupila do první třídy. Z té doby si pamatuji, že pro mě před školu chodil učedník z otcovy laboratoře. Já jsem vždycky přišla s rozvázanými tkaničkami, tak mi je vždycky zavazoval. Na to mám velmi silnou vzpomínku. Ten učedník klekl a zavazoval mi boty. To je docela roztomilé. Nevím, jestli jsme měli vždycky tělocvik, nebo proč jsem je neměla zavázané. Ale tenkrát se nosili šněrovací kotníkové botičky, nikoliv sandály. Myslím si, že to už byla maminka moc nemocná, a tak se o mně nikdo moc nestaral. Že to je důsledek toho, že nebyl nikdo, kdo by mi řekl: „Musíš si to sama zavázat.“ Proto to vyprávím, ne kvůli těm botám. Že jsem byla trošku, ne úmyslně, ale situací, která byla v naší rodině, vlastně malinko outsider.

Ale to bylo dané tím, že maminka umírala, a ta rakovina se, myslím, táhla docela dlouho. Vzpomínám si, jak jsem v pokoji, v jakési jídelně, a vedle leží moje maminka a s ní je babička Hermína, která přišla na návštěvu, a maminka hrozně pláče. Ony nevěděly, že já poslouchám. A maminka říká: „Co bude s těmi dětmi, co bude s těmi dětmi?“ A babička ji těší. Pro mě to byl hrozný zážitek. Jednak jsem nechtěla, aby věděly, že to slyším, a pak, pro to dítě, to se vám najednou něco otevře, že ani ten dosah přesně nevíte, protože ta slova nejsou úplně vyplněná obsahem, a přece víte, že je to něco hrozného. Že je to něco strašného, nespravedlivého, krutého, něco, čemu se ani nemůžete bránit. To byl pro mne v tomhle raném věku jeden ze strašně silných okamžiků. To mně bylo šest. Já jsem na to později napsala i takovou báseň. Také si pamatuji, jak mi připadalo hrozné, když to pak ve třídě učitelka oznámila a říkala: „Chudince vaší spolužačce…“.  To bylo strašné.  I když ona třeba myslela, že je to tak v pořádku, nevěděla, jak jinak reagovat. To člověk vůbec nemůže soudit.

Ta učitelka se mimochodem jmenovala Helena Tůmová a byla to stará panna, protože za první republiky 10. Pamatuji si, že byla velice přísná, ale všechno, co umím, tak vlastně umím za těch prvních let, kdy nás učila. Všechno, co umím z češtiny, umím od ní. Ten základ byl perfektní.

Na to, co se dělo po smrti mé matky, se nepamatuji, tam mám tmu. Jen si vzpomínám, jak se stěhujeme do dalšího bytu. Otec se totiž podruhé oženil, ale ta druhá žena za pět let také zemřela na rakovinu. To pro otce muselo být šílené, naprosté vykolejení. Mně bylo dvanáct, takže to bylo nejspíš v roce třicet sedm, třicet osm. Ta žena se jmenovala Marta, původním jménem Poláková, pak Erbenová a po mém otci Synková. Takže byla jednou rozvedená. I ona byla zubní lékařka, čili se zřejmě seznámili v profesních kruzích. Byla evangelička, z evangelické rodiny, ale to vůbec nehrálo roli. Žádné konfliktní situace jsem s ní neměla, ona byla prima. Když pak těžce onemocněla, tak jsem u ní hodně sedávala, protože to mně už bylo jedenáct, dvanáct. Ale pamatuji se, že můj bratr jí odmítal říkat maminko a říkal jí Marto. Vzbouřil se. No, on byl tenkrát naplno v pubertě. Byly kvůli tomu děsné konflikty, ale otec ho nezlomil. Já sama jsem jí říkala mamko. Ani ne maminko, ale mamko. Žádný blok jsem ve vztahu k ní neměla, ale trochu jsem z ní měla strach. Ona byla veliká a tmavá a byla poměrně, jak už lidé z evangelického prostředí bývají, nebo bývali, takoví přísní a ušlechtilí. Něco takového tam bylo. Navíc už taky nebyla nejmladší a těžko k dětem hledala cestu. Ještě ke mně jakž takž, ale k mému bratrovi ji asi nenašla nikdy. Sama děti neměla, byla to samostatná, emancipovaná žena - těch žen, které studovaly medicínu, tenkrát také nebylo tolik - takže jsem přesvědčená, je to tedy moje dedukce, ale určitě správná, že to pro ni byl problém, vzít si muže se dvěma dětmi. A ten kluk byl navíc ještě v pubertě a vzpurný. To víte, že otec se tou situací také trápil.

Jak jsem říkala, má druhá matka byla také zubní lékařka. Z našeho původního bytu vznikla ordinace pro ní, udělali jsme tam i velkou čekárnu a laboratoř, kde se zpracovávaly zuby. V té laboratoři jsme měli několik zaměstnanců. My jsme se přestěhovali na tehdejší Bělského třídu, teď je to, myslím, ulice Dukelských hrdinů, do moderního čtyřpokojového bytu s veškerým komfortem. Tam už jsme s bratrem měli dětský pokoj, byla tam velká jídelna, pánský pokoj, ložnice rodičů a samozřejmě kuchyň a pokoj pro služebnou, kterou jsme tenkrát měli. Jednu jsme měli dlouhou dobu, když zemřela i ta druhá matka, tak tam ještě byla. Říkalo se jí Fančo, vím, že byla z Boskovic u Brna, z Moravy. Těch moravských děvčat bylo ve službě asi dost a vím, že se s nimi asi velmi solidně zacházelo. Fanča si z toho, co si u nás vydělala, například postavila domek v Ďáblicích.

Rodiče mé druhé matky Marty žili ve vesnici Kluky u Poděbrad. K těm jsme jezdívali často, skoro každou neděli, protože můj otec byl vášnivý automobilista. Každou chvíli jsme měli nějaký nový vůz. Řekla bych, že jsme byli asi tak střední třída. Neměli jsem domy, otec to nikdy nechtěl. Ale nová auta jsme měli pořád, tři roky a už zase nové auto. Rodiče si asi také dopřávali slušnou dovolenou, i když ani nevím kolik ročně vydělávali. Často jezdívali do Tater [Vysoké Tatry: pohoří na Slovensku – pozn.red.]. Ale otec vždycky říkal, že nešetří. A to udělal strašně dobře. Říkával, že když má ve státě fungovat ekonomický systém, tak peníze musí přijít do oběhu. To byla jeho deviza. Naprosto moderní myšlení. A také z legrace říkal, že chce, aby si mě někdo vzal z lásky a ne pro peníze. Tenkrát se holčičkám šetřilo na věno. A udělal dobře, protože si ty peníze užil. Pak se stejně o všechno přišlo. Velmi moderně si zařizoval i tu svou zubní praxi. Měl jeden z prvních rentgenů od Siemense.

Pamatuji se také na sourozence mé druhé matky. Měla dva bratry a jednu sestru. Dokonce vím, že ten jeden bratr byl univerzitní profesor, Polák, a že jeden čas přednášel v Bratislavě. Křestní jméno nevím. Ten druhý, samozřejmě taky Polák, byl ředitelem nějakého cukrovaru někde u Prahy. Sestra žila v Poděbradech, ta se jmenovala Karla, byla vdaná, nebo možná rozvedená, a byla nějakou úřednicí. V těch Klukách se pak sourozenci scházeli, protože ta rodina byla poměrně rozšířená. Byli tam snad také nějací bratranci, já už přesně nevím. V Klukách byla krásná zahrada, u takového většího venkovského domku. Tam mám velmi intenzivní vzpomínky na zahradu plnou květin, samozřejmě s houpačkou a tak dále. Do různých statků v okolí jsme chodívali pro čerstvá vajíčka… Pamatuji se na takové veliké krásné rozlehlé statky, aspoň mně se zdály veliké. Potraviny se odtamtud zřejmě vozily i do Prahy a na hranicích Prahy byl pak takzvaný akcís. Neboli četníci. A když jste dováželi potraviny, tak jste museli platit daň. To se samozřejmě nikdy neplatilo. Vím, jak lidi vyprávěli, že třeba vezli pár vajíček a říkali: „Nic nemám“ a všichni ti, co to vozili, měli pak hroznou radost z toho že jako provezli pár vajíček. Ale byl to spíš sport, taková legrace. Také si pamatuji - dědeček s babičkou měli služebnou, asi nebyli moc chudí - a ta se mnou vždycky šla do nejbližšího lesa, kde byly hrobečky psů. Zřejmě po nějaké místní šlechtě, to nevím. Bylo to směrem z Kluk, ale nikoli na Prahu, ani na Poděbrady, ale na druhou stranu. Než se dojede do Poděbrad, tak je tam velký hřbitov, potom odbočka na Kluky a kdybyste tou odbočkou jeli pořád rovně, tak tam byly velké lesy. A tam ty hrobečky byly. A ne jeden, víc. Ti psi tam měli i jméno. Pro dítě to prostě byla atrakce. Tenkrát nebylo běžné, aby se, snad kromě nějakých šlechticů a hrabat, pohřbívali psi. A tyhle hroby musely vzniknout ještě za Rakouska.

Kromě výletů do Kluk za rodiči mé druhé matky jsem o prázdninách jezdívala do penzionátu, bylo to v Doksech. Měla jsem se tam naučit německy, ovšem protože tam byly samé české děti, kromě německých vychovatelů, tak jsme mluvili jenom česky. Bylo to u Máchova jezera, takže já mám krásné vzpomínky na Máchovo jezero, kde jsem se v těch devíti letech, kdy jsem tam byla, asi naučila trochu plavat, ale to já už přesně nevím. Jedny prázdniny, to mně možná bylo devět, deset nebo možná jedenáct let, jsme byli zase v jiném penzionátě, v Nadějkově, to je v jižních Čechách, jehož majiteli byli příbuzní mé první maminky, jmenovali se Segerovi. V Nadějkově měli statek a v létě tam byl zřízen nějaký tábor, kam jsme byli s bratrem pozváni. Ta paní Segerová byla pravděpodobně sestřenice mé matky. Měli dva syny, jeden byl asi o dva roky starší a druhý asi o čtyři, jeden se jmenoval Milan a druhému se říkalo Hansi, neboli to byl Jan. Toho Milana jsem po válce potkala při jednom setkání dětí z Terezína. Oba jsme se divili, že jsme přežili. On v té době už žil v Izraeli, kde si vzal Evu Diamantovou, kterou si pamatuji z Terezína. Není to tak dlouho, co mě oslovil jejich syn. Měl hroznou radost a říkal: „Konečně se o těch Steinerových zase něco dozvím.“ Ale řeknu Vám, že jsem necítila, že je to nějaký můj příbuzný, chci říct, že není pravda, že se v člověku hned ozvou nějaké příbuzenské city. On už se narodil v Izraeli, a i když mluví česky, záleží strašně moc na tom, kde člověk vyrostl. I když já se vždycky velmi obávám, abych nepropadala nějaké falešné sentimentalitě, takže se takovým pohnutkám bráním.

Za války

Na začátek války vzpomínky mám a celkem ještě dost ostré, protože jsem nebyla vychovávaná v duchu nějakého židovského uvědomění, a tak to tenkrát pro mne znamenalo jakési novum. Kromě toho jsem byla v pubertě. Najednou spadla jakási rána z nebe ve smyslu toho, že válka byla vlastně začátkem nejdříve ne úplně uvědomělého, ale potom samozřejmě víc a víc intenzivněji uvědomělého pocitu, že nepatřím mezi společnost, ve které žiji. Vyhodili nás ze školy 11, nesměli jsme pokračovat. Začal jeden zákaz za druhým, nevím přesně od kterého data. Můj otec, který byl, dá se říct, nervově labilní, se čím dál víc hroutil. Já jsem se najednou dostala do situace, že jsem se začala bát lidí.

Takový první náraz přišel už před válkou, kdy na mě v Sokole nějaká holčička křičela „židovko“. Já vůbec nevěděla, o co jde. My jsme byli naprosto asimilovaná rodina, ale ono to nevyplynulo nijak programově, to vyplynulo ze způsobu života. Podle mě je velice důležité, že pokud se lidé chovali přirozeně, tak z jejich způsobu života všechno vyplynulo. Ne tak, že by si řekli: „Já budu to, nebo to.“ Dneska je trošičku sklon k tomu, že lidé předstírají a málo myslí. Ale tehdy ta generace, a dnes je to viděno jako postoj v něčem trochu naivní, byla přesvědčena, že jejich způsob života je správný a že se tak musí chovat.

Se začátkem války jsem byla upozorněna, že nás lidi sledují. Pravděpodobně to byli také lidi naproti v domě - tenkrát ve všech domech na Letné bývali domovníci. To bývali spíše sociálně slabší vrstvy, i když ne všichni. Jak tomu je od věky věků, začala samozřejmě i závist. Stíhal nás jeden zákaz za druhým a já jsem najednou slyšela o tom, že musíme mít ve svých průkazech velké J, Jude, že se musíme pohybovat jenom v určitých ulicích a v tramvajích jezdit jenom v zadním voze. Já dodneška chodím do prvního vozu, to je podvědomí a to už je to hodně dlouho. Jako židovské rodiny jsme měli označené i tehdejší potravinové lístky velkým J. Měli jsme menší příděly a mohli jsme nakupovat jenom v určitých hodinách. Otci, který byl na té Letné přece jenom známý a oblíbený, nosili někteří obchodníci potraviny. Sama jsem byla svědkem, jak byli překvapení. „Pane Synek,“ prý, „na Vás se také vztahují židovské zákony?“ Pro ně to bylo nepochopitelné. Ono se to také tady za první republiky tak nereflektovalo, aby se o někom říkalo, že je nebo není žid. Na menším městě nebo na Moravě a Slovensku to ale možná bylo něco úplně jiného. Já říkám jen svou zkušenost. Pamatuji se, že vyšel zákaz nebo příkaz – to byl jeden z prvních Norimberských zákonů - že slovo žid se musí psát s velkým Ž. To bylo pro mě něco, co jsem už vůbec nepochopila, jen jsem pochopila, že to má být hanlivé. To se nikdy předtím nepsalo. Já jsem s tím dodnes nesmířená, tady se žid s velkým Ž užívá pořád, ačkoliv jsem žádala ve svých článcích, aby to tak nebylo. Já si totiž myslím, že je to hrozně, hrozně špatné, protože od toho se pak odvozují další věci. Všichni užívají jen velké ž, ale to je národnost, ne náboženství, a proč se to vlastně vždy bere jako národnost? [V českém jazyce se žid v náboženském pojetí píše s malým „ž“ a Žid v národnostním pojetí s velkým „Ž“ – pozn. red.]. Nemůže se to užívat stále. V roce třicet čtyři bylo nějaké sčítání, no tak se pár lidí přihlásilo k židovské národnosti, tak to pak to velké ž. I stát je Izrael, ne Žid. A další věc, náboženství na vysvědčení se nepsalo židovské, ale izraelské. Nebo mojžíšské. Mě to totiž strašně uráží a myslím si, že to podporuje antisemitismus. Vyvolává to představu, že se nějak izolujeme. Kvůli tomu jsem měla na obci v Praze velké rozmíšky, i s rabínem Sidonem [Sidon, Karol Efraim (nar. 1942): od roku 1992 pražský a zemský rabín – pozn. red.], se kterým si jinak tykám, my jsme spolu byli kdysi zaměstnaní. On to ví, zná mé názory. I z obce totiž vychází všechno s velkým ž a to je dost zásadní. Někdo by sice říkal, no neblázni, malý ž, velký ž, ale to není pravda. Z malých věcí se skládají velké.

Ještě ke všemu byla ohrožena otcova zubní praxe, ale potom dostal povolení jenom pro židovskou klientelu a tím jsem měla možnost mu dělat asistentku. V té době se muselo všechno odevzdávat, hudební nástroje, domácí zvířata a otec měl jako zubař zlato. No, myslím, že pak už nesměl se zlatem pracovat, existovaly různé náhražky. Potom mohl už jen plombovat, protože laboranty musel propustit a zůstal mu jen pan Porges, který byl židovského původu, šel jedním z prvních transportů. Takže pak tam už otec nikoho neměl, byl na všechno sám a to mohl dělat tak maximálně plomby, ale nějakou složitou protetickou práci určitě ne.

Já jsem mu pomáhala, takže jsem nikam na žádné vyučování nechodila jako chodily jiné židovské děti, což jsem se dozvěděla až po válce. Možná, že když se pak mezi sebou scházely a hrály si, tak je to posílilo. A že také měly i nějakou tu legraci, i v těch nejhorších dobách přeci bývá legrace. Ale já jsem ji neměla, já jsem byla v úplné izolaci. Spolužačky se poté, co jsem přestala chodit do školy, samozřejmě vůbec neobjevovaly, lidé se báli s námi stýkat. A to jsem hrozně těžce nesla. Můj vzdor se projevoval tak, že jsem chodila bez hvězdy 12. Můj otec šílel a trnul, já jsem se mu už bohužel nemohla nikdy omluvit. Teprve později jsem všechno pochopila, jak si s námi dětmi užil.

Ze všech těch zákazů mně nejvíc vadilo to, že jsme nesměli do školy a že se přerušil ten normální dosavadní běh. Nejde ani tak o učení, ale o to, že jste byla najednou vyřazená ze společnosti. Nesmíte do biografu, nic. Mně ani tak nevadilo to nakupování, ale to, že nemám ty možnosti druhých dívek. Neměla jsem ani náhradu v jiné společnosti. Pamatuji si, jak mi jednou otec zprostředkoval - a já si myslím, že to bylo někde v Dlouhé třídě, že se dokonce jmenovali Aschermannovi, ale to si nejsem jistá – návštěvu na nějakém odpoledni, kde se sešli lidé z židovských rodin. Já jsem tam šla, ale bylo mi to úplně cizí. Snad jsem se tam měla s někým seznámit, ale já jsem byla úplně… no, nešlo mi to. Zřejmě mě viděl nějaký tatínkův pacient a řekl: „Proč nepošlete dceru, my máme sešlost.“ Já nevím, třeba tam měl někdo narozeniny. Nevím, jen si pamatuji, že jsem z toho byla taková rozmrzelá a že už mě nikdy nikam nedostal.

Tehdy za války také začal můj veliký komplex, protože já jsem si říkala, že já mezi židy nepatřím, prostě nepatřím. V tom hrála roli i ta moje puberta. Já jsem chtěla být jako jiní lidé a došlo to dokonce tak daleko, že jsem otci vyčetla, proč moje první maminka byla také židovka, že bych aspoň byla jenom napůl. Toho jsem pak později strašně litovala. No, tatínek se snažil, vysvětloval, on se na mne nikdy nezlobil, byl takový klidný. Snažil se mi vysvětlit, že to není nic špatného a že to bude všechno, až skončí válka, jiné. Pamatuji si, že mi říkal: „Tu hvězdu,  kterou máš teď nosit, tu pak budeš nosit jako čest, to bude jako když se vrátili legionáři z první světové války.“ Hluboce se mýlil. Hluboce. Ale díky tomuto velkému komplexu, který jsem skutečně intenzivně prožívala, jsem si vlastně zachránila život.

Za války s námi naštěstí žila moje třetí matka, Anna Mandová, která si vzala mého otce těsně před zákazem smíšených manželství, takže strašně moc riskovala. Navíc jí to příbuzní rozmlouvali, pochopitelně ze strachu o její budoucí existenci. Samozřejmě byla nežidovského původu, katolička, naprosto tolerantní. Celkově byla skvělá, laskavá. Podle mě hotový anděl. Mého otce léta milovala, on jí ošetřoval zuby jako pacientce. Otec byl velmi - já mu tedy nejsem podobná - pohledný muž, který vůbec nevypadal židovsky. Narodila se 9.3.1897 v Kolči u Slaného. Pracovala jako švadlena. Šila jen tak, jak se šilo po domácnostech, i pro firmu Rosenbaum. To byla taková velká firma, kde se vyučila a pak tam byla první střihačkou. Takže to byla paní, která něco uměla.

V té době, když už to bylo čím dál tím horší, to už se o otci psalo v „Árijském boji“ - to byl takový štvavý plátek - a nosili se hvězdy, tak měl nějaké pacienty, kteří se jmenovali manželé Kristlíkovi. Ti byli ortodoxně věřící křesťané, snad katolíci. Mého otce i s tou třetí matkou zvali někde v Holešovicích na takovou zahrádku, aby byl venku, a on tam chodil, měl přikrytou hvězdu a oni to věděli a nebáli se. Z Letné do Holešovic, to byla vlastně jedna čtvrť a otec byl velice známý, takže to bylo riziko. Ti manželé na něj měli takový vliv, že se začal upínat k Bibli. Četl jak Starý, tak Nový Zákon, Bibli měl na nočním stolku. Ta poslední léta mu to zřejmě velice pomáhalo. Co přesně z toho četl, nevím, ale potřeboval nějakou víru a to už je jedno jakou. To je otázka duševní krize a on byl labilnější nátury. Byl velmi citlivý, velmi společenský a na druhé straně zase míval deprese. Ono to všechno bylo způsobem života v té době. Myslím, že aby to vydržel, tak potřeboval v něco věřit. Nemyslím, že v jeho příklonu k Bibli hrály nějakou roli jeho křesťanské manželky. Obě nebyly pobožné, nepamatuji se, že by chodily do kostela. Tatínek měl dokonce i křestní list, mně a zřejmě i jemu ho vystavil farář na Strossmayerově náměstí. Tenkrát jsme mysleli, že to pomůže, ale ono to bylo samozřejmě nanic.

Židům ale pomáhala jenom hrstička lidí. Já nikoho neobžalovávám, já to konstatuji. A když to potom sečtu, tak to se všechno podepsalo na tom, že ti lidé pak ty útrapy, co následovaly, o to hůře vydrželi. Protože už tam šli poničení, psychicky, což zase působí na fyzickou podstatu člověka. Vidím toho svého tatínka, on to byl subtilní, štíhlý muž, velmi hezký. My děti už jsme se tak nepovedli. Do té doby byl krajně společenský, byl to úspěšný zubař a někdy o tom i přednášel a pořád se o tom učil. Aby byl stále lepší a lepší, takže se tomu věnoval i vědecky. Teď najednou, když se to všechno mělo sečíst a vydávat ovoce, tak se to všechno zhroutilo. Samozřejmě že ho poznamenala úmrtí těch dvou manželek. I mé dětství ta úmrtí ovlivnila. Najednou se začalo řešit naše židovství. Tím se předtím vůbec nikdo nezabýval. Nikdo ani nevěděl, že můj otec žid je, on v té fyziognomii nic židovského neměl a i to jméno je české. Dokonce, když se podruhé oženil, vzal si také zubařku, nežidovku, která ale trošičku židovsky vypadala, tak k němu chodili pacienti a říkali: „Ale pane Synek, vy jste si vzal židovku?“ Až těsně před obsazením, když začali vycházet takové listy jako Árijský boj [časopis českého fašistického hnutí Vlajka – pozn. red.],  tak tam už jsme byli. Tatínek byl najednou „Ten Žid Synek“.

Tenkrát jsme žili ve velikém napětí. V našem bytě bylo neustále napětí, protože ne jednou, víckrát, u nás někdo zazvonil – pamatuji se například na jednoho českého policistu, byl zřejmě vysoce postavený, a ten prošel náš byt a ukázal obrazy, které mu otec musel dát. Kromě toho jsme měli pořád strach z Němců a z udavačů, poněvadž v novinách hnutí Vlajka 13, to byl za války takový fašistický  český plátek, byly o mém otci různé udavačské články. Jako jak to, že pan Synek spravuje zuby, a tak dále. Takže jsme prožívali strach a napětí, a dá říct, že můj otec byl takový nervní a že na mě se to samozřejmě přeneslo.

Jakousi útěchu jsem hledala v knížkách a už tenkrát jsem také psala takové veršíky, to mi bylo třináct, čtrnáct. Četla jsem jenom poezii. Prózu jsem četla jen málo. Byla jsem hodně ovlivněná literaturou, takovou možná až trošku výlučnou, zvlášť na můj věk, kterou mi dával můj o pět let starší bratr. Ten v té době ležel jenom v knížkách, byl oproti mně velmi cílevědomý a načerpával vědomosti. Pro něj to bylo také vlastně jeho budoucí povolání. Slovem se zabýval, a já také, ale zase jinak. Byl mi vzorem, ale také jsme se  samozřejmě hádali. V tom dětském pokoji mě v noci strašil, pomocí světla a tak. To jsem ho občas nenáviděla. Ale ovlivnil moji četbu a tím příklonem k poezii jsem potom byla taková málo realistická. Moje myšlení bylo ovlivněné jistou snovou záležitostí, nepřijetím skutečnosti. Ten rozpor jsem měla velmi, velmi silný.

Velice jsem byla ovlivněna četbou, například  už jako velmi mladá jsem četla Pitigrilliho [Segre, Dino (1893 – 1975): pseudonym Pitigrilli, italský spisovatel – pozn. red.]. Vím, že na mě strašně zapůsobila scéna, kdy jakási žena přijímala svého milence v rakvi. Dodneška nevím, jak se to jmenovalo. Tak ráda bych si to znovu přečetla. A pak existovala slavná kniha italského autora Amicisho [Amicis, Edmondo De (1846 — 1908), italský spisovatel a žurnalista) – pozn. red.], Srdce se jmenovala, a tam byly povídky, nad kterými jsem probrečela večery a noci, protože byly hrozně smutné a krásné. To bych si také chtěla třeba znova přečíst. Byla tam například povídka Sardinský bubeník, jak za nějaké války sestřelili dvanáctiletého kluka, to byl chlapeček, který přešel nějaké strašně vysoké hory v Itálii, nevím přesně které, aby našel svou maminku, kterou s rakovinou odvezli na druhý konec Itálie. Z toho jsem byla úplně vyřízená. Pak mě například ovlivnilo, že jsem četla klasickou českou literaturu, Němcovou 14 počínaje. Mně se to líbilo všechno, Jirásek [Jirásek Alois (1851 – 1930): český prozaik a dramaik – pozn. red.] například. Dodneška myslím, že tím, že z toho udělali školní četbu, tak ho zdiskreditovali. Ti klasičtí autoři uměli své řemeslo, tam je úžasné zacházení se slovem. Pamatuji si, že jedinou knížku, kterou jsem si vzala do Terezína, byl Mácha 15, jeho Máj. Nic jiného. To se mi velice líbilo. Tenkrát to vůbec bylo trošku jiné. V mém mládí, ovšem už po válce, byla móda číst Dostojevského [Dostojevsky, Fjodor Michajlovič (1821 – 1881): ruský spisovatel a filosof – pozn. red.] a nosit tu knížku, aby to ostatní viděli. Teď je to muzika. To je úplně o něčem jiném. To tenkrát vůbec nebylo, když jste tenkrát chtěla působit intelektuálně, tak jste musela být znalá v literatuře. Těsně po skončení války jsem již četla Zámek od Franze Kafky 16, vyd. v Mánesu 1936-1937 a byla jsem tím velice ovlivněna, i když jsem tomu moc nerozuměla.

Otec byl také náruživý čtenář, ale určitě ne poezie. On četl časopis Přítomnost 17, ten redigoval Peroutka 18, to bylo opravdu pro intelektuální čtenáře. Měsíčník s krásnou žlutou obálkou. Ten titulní list si graficky dodneška pamatuji. Když jsme za války nikam večer nesměli, tak nám otec předčítával. No, nebyla televize. Pamatuji se, že četl román, Katrin vojákem a Katrin svět hoří,  který pojednával o první světové válce. Bylo to dramatické. Četl nám kousek po večeři, my jsme potichu seděli. To dělával hlavně po smrti druhé matky, protože byl v hrozné depresi, osamělý. U nás se hodně odbírali knížky ELKu [Evropský literární klub (ELK): vznikl v roce 1935 z iniciativy nakladatelského podnikatele Bohumila Jandy (1900 - 1982) a jeho bratra Ladislava Jandy (1898 - 1984) – pozn. red.] , moderního evropského literárního klubu. Kromě Přítomnosti odbíral i další noviny, Rozvoj, což byly noviny, které patřily Svazu Čechů-židů. Ty noviny tam chodily, ale já jsem je nečetla a  Přítomnost také ne. Vůbec mě to nezajímalo, protože to byly  politické a dejme tomu částečně filozofické i kulturní články.

V létě 1942 dostal můj bratr předvolání k transportu. Samozřejmě sám, protože otec byl chráněný sňatkem s nežidovkou. Ale nenastoupil a nechal dopis, že spáchal sebevraždu. Pak následovaly velmi nepříjemné situace, protože my jsme s ním byli v kontaktu a tu spojku jsem dělala já. Buď já nebo moje nevlastní matka jsme mu nosily, co potřeboval. Bylo to tak strašně riskantní. Všechno bylo plné strachu a rizik. Myslím, že ta atmosféra strachu mě zformovala na celý další život. Od té doby jsem už vždycky měla blízko k úzkostným stavům. Nechci říct k depresím, to je silné slovo. Byly to spíš úzkostné stavy. Strach z neznáma. Později jsem si uvědomila, že mě to nějak předurčilo k takovému, v podstatě trvalému, mírnému nedorozumění se světem jako takovým. K otázkám, proč jsem, proč dělám tohle a proč dělají lidi tamto. Jde o takový pocit, že já stejně nemohu sdělit to, co cítím. V podstatě nikomu. A že se s tím trvalým nedorozuměním musím smířit. Mám takovou příhodu, ryze abstraktní, jenom, abych to blíž vysvětlila. V tom bytě na Letné, kde jsem bydlela, se z takového velkého pokoje, kde se večeřelo, muselo do pokoje, kde já spala, přejít dosti rozlehlou předsíní. Vypínač, aby se v té předsíni rozsvítilo, byl úplně na druhé straně. Takže jsem musela projít tmou. Dodneška mám ještě intenzivní vzpomínku na to, jak jsem seděla a nebyla jsem schopná jít spát. Nikdo to nevěděl, otci jsem to samozřejmě neřekla. Pamatuji si, že jsem veškerou svou energii, nebo sílu - je to spíš symbol, co teď říkám – vložila do toho, abych prošla tou tmavou předsíní. Když jsem přišla do dětského pokoje a rozsvítila tam, byla jsem úplně vyčerpaná. Myslím si, že tohle krajní vyčerpání z té cesty, která je dneska ve vzpomínce tak krátká, ale tenkrát se mi zdála nepředstavitelně dlouhá, je symbol celého mého života.

Tohle období plné strachu trvalo až do prosince čtyřicet dva, kdy jsem dostala předvolání do transportu já sama. To jsem viděla otce naposled, úplně se zhroutil, protože nemohl vůbec nic dělat. Už předtím žil v hrozném napětí, v hrozném strachu, a pak najednou… Já jsem pro něj byla malá holčička, i když jsem už nebyla tak úplně malá. Jistě si také všechno vyčítal. On byl totiž tak krajně spravedlivý, tak absolutně humanisticky založený a idealizoval si svět – i když tenkrát to snad ještě šlo, já už si ho dneska neidealizuji a myslím, že nejsem sama - že pořád věřil, že není možné, aby bylo Československo pryč a aby se ten československý stát o své občany nepostaral. Stala se taková příhoda, že po anšlusu 19, po zabrání Rakouska, přijel do Prahy nějaký jeho vzdálený bratranec, který pak jel přes Prahu dál. Byl u nás a vyprávěl, co se tam dělo za hrůzy. No a můj otec, když ten bratranec odešel, řekl: „To není možný. On je asi blázen, potřeboval by do ústavu pro choromyslné.“ On tomu nevěřil, nechtěl tomu věřit. Nebyl asi sám, to muselo být pro ty lidi tenkrát úplně hrozné, ta bezmocnost. Tenkrát byl navíc ještě muž hlava rodiny, která se o ty své příslušníky stará. Tohle se trošičku přece jenom změnilo.

Já totiž měla možnost před válkou emigrovat, ale otec mě nepustil. Když jsem byla hodně malá, když stonala ta moje první maminka, měla jsem u sebe vychovatelku slečnu Šaškovou. Tahle slečna Šašková, to bylo asi v roce třicet devět, jela do Anglie do nějaké rodiny jako vychovatelka také k nějakému zubaři. Měla mě zřejmě nějak ráda a tak přišla za otcem, že mě vezme sebou a že se tam vyučím. Otec řekl, že to nepřichází v úvahu. Pamatuji se, že i později se o emigraci kolem nás mluvilo, ale my jsme neměli žádné kontakty, říkalo se, že určité židovské rodiny měly hodně peněz a informace, takže ti ještě nějakou tu možnost emigrace měly. Ono nebylo lehké dostat z nějaké země povolení, takzvaný affidavit, abyste se tam mohli vystěhovat. To byla mnohdy otázka peněz. Nic přesného o tom nevím, jen že affidavit málokdo dostal. Měli ho třeba přislíbený, ale pak k tomu nedošlo. Vím, že rodina Petchků byla hrozně bohatá. Ta dokonce vyvezla všechny své zaměstnance, celý vlak. Ale já jsem přesvědčena, že i kdyby to mému otci někdo nabídl, tak by ho odmítl.  My jsme třeba ani nevěděli o té Wintonově akci 20, jak vyvezl židovské děti. O tom jsme se vůbec nedozvěděli. I když my jsme také nebyli v nějakém větším styku s pražskou židovskou obcí. Ale možná že to nebylo jenom tím. Zapsaní jsme tam byli. Židé například dostávali předvolání, ještě dokud byli v Praze, na odklízení sněhu. No tak to jsme dostávali každou chvíli. Otec a bratr. To bylo takové ponížení, s hvězdou jste odklízeli sníh a ještě na vás lidi pokřikovali. Vždycky bylo hrozně obtížné se z toho vyreklamovat. To byla takzvaná pracovní povinnost. Takže v evidenci jsme byli.

Transport jsem čekala, věděla jsem, že přijde a bála jsem se. Když jsem pak dostala to předvolání, věděla jsem, že já musím jít, že už nemůžu udělat to, co můj bratr. Ještě týden, než nás odvezli, jsme byli v takzvané karanténě vedle Veletržního paláce. Věděla jsem, že otec je jen pár domů daleko, ale s tou hvězdou za mnou ani nemohl. Ale někoho poslal, protože přes nějakého strážného jsem dostala krabičku bonbónů s dopisem. V tom Veletržním paláci jsme byli za takových docela špatných podmínek. Já jsem tam z toho všeho dostala teplotu. Tenkrát se mě tam ujal skvělý člověk, Gustav Schorsch, který se bohužel nevrátil. Úplnou náhodou měl číslo vedle mě. Ten transport se jmenoval Ck a já měla číslo 333, asi ty trojky byly „šťastné“. Když se tam do té karantény vešlo, tak tam byly podle těch čísel položené matrace. Schorsch mě tam viděl, že jsem sama a že brečím. Ten týden, než nás odvezli, mně velmi pomohl, a pak i celou dobu v Terezíně, dokud ho neposlali dál. Když věděl, že stůňu, nebo že něco není v pořádku, vždycky se přišel podívat. Dělal tam divadlo, přednášky a vůbec byl kulturně činný. Byl o hodně starší než já, o devět let. Už měl po maturitě a jako student už hrával divadlo. Byl zakladatelem divadélka 99 na Národní třídě. Byl to mimořádný divadelní talent. Po válce o něm vyšla knížka Nevyúčtován zůstává život.  Mimo jiné, já jsem potom o něm po převratu, teď v devadesátých letech, napsala scénář. Ten film existuje a běžel v televizi. Bohužel jsem mohla použít jenom výpovědi dalších lidí, existují jeho fotografie, ale toho autentického materiálu bylo málo, kromě nějakých her, které dramatizoval. Ty se hrály už i v Národním divadle. Byl to mimořádný člověk, vzpomínalo na něj hodně lidí, jeho tehdejší spolužáci a tak dále.

Co se s otcem dělo po mém odjezdu přesně nevím. Myslím, že mu tam pomáhali, že tam někdo z těch letenských obyvatel, jednak z bývalých pacientů, nebo z těch živnostníků, chodil. Všichni ti obchodníci se tam znali. Myslím si, že se tam otec musel s někým stýkat, protože se mu povedlo během toho roku, co já už byla v Terezíně, propašovat, zřejmě přes české četníky, kteří nás v Terezíně hlídali, dopis. Ten mám dodneška schovaný. Je krásný, plný náznaků. Psal ‘Jiřina je v pořádku‘, to byl můj bratr, Jirka. Kontakt s bratrem pak zřejmě udržovala nevlastní matka. Ale jak ona, tak můj otec, pak byli asi rok po mně zatčeni. Tu zubařskou praxi měl až do zatčení. Potom tam byl zřejmě nějaký Němec, protože v ordinaci po válce zůstalo celé zařízení. Když jsme se vrátili, tak to má nevlastní matka pronajala takzvaným vdovským právem.

V Terezíně jsem už nebyla jen sama se sebou, tam se vytvořilo jakési společenství. Ti lidé tam byli ve stejné situaci. Když jsem tam přišla, byli jsme v takzvané šlojsce [Hamburská kasárna, tzv. šlojska: ubikace žen a od r. 1943 zejména holandských vězňů. Současně hlavní místo odbavování transportů – pozn. red.], to je taková karanténa. Tam jsme se museli hlásit a já jsem, právě z toho hrozného komplexu, že jsem něco jiného, nahlásila, že jsem míšenka. Vůbec jsem nevěděla, že to byl první transport, kde šly míšenci, jinak by to prasklo a já bych tady teď neseděla. To byla úplně iracionální záležitost. Ono to vypadá, že jsem si to vymyslela, ale skutečně tomu tak bylo.

Po nějakém čase jsem v Terezíně přišla do dětského domova. Tam byly děti tak od jedenácti, dvanácti let nahoru, myslím tak do patnácti, šestnácti let. Přesně nevím. Já jsem tam patřila mezi nejstarší. Mladší děti byly s rodiči. Například můj muž, který je mladší než já, tak ten byl s maminkou. Do dětského domova se dostaly i děti, které přijely do Terezína s rodiči, já byla spíš výjimka, že jsem přijela sama. Byl tam ale už můj strýc, tatínkův bratr. Ten tam ležel na takovém nemocničním pokoji, kde byli lidi s tuberkulózou. Občas jsem za ním šla. V Terezíně byl v té době také tatínkův otec. Ten zemřel velice brzy a posléze i strýc. To bylo ve čtyřicátém třetím roce. Jiné příbuzné jsem tam už neměla.

V Terezíně jsem se spřátelila s Věrou, tehdy Bendovou, která byla také míšenka, ale opravdová. Ležely jsme vedle sebe na kavalci - ty byly tříposchoďové - my jsme byly až nahoře. Ta jediná o mně věděla pravdu, já jsem musela někomu říct, jak to se mnou je. Vždycky, když jsem byla předvolaná – míšenci bývali předvoláváni na komandaturu - tak jsme obě nespaly. Dodnes jsme samozřejmě ve styku. Žije v Oltenu ve Švýcarsku, kde jsem za ní po převratu byla na návštěvě. Jako míšenka jsem v Terezíně mohla zůstat, to mě chránilo před dalším transportem. A tu mou nejlepší přítelkyni také. Z našeho pokoje, my jsme bydleli na devětadvacítce v L410, většinou všichni odešli transportem dál. A někdo se po válce vrátil, někdo ne. Také, když se tam uváděl ten Brundibár 21, tak se za ty děti, které odvezli, museli dosadit zase nové. Já sama jsem v Brundibárovi neúčinkovala, já jsem nikdy neuměla zpívat. S Schorschem jsme pak zkoušely hrát divadlo, Klicperu. Ale já jsem hlavně psala. Takové blbosti, různé básničky. V nich se nejčastěji ozývalo takové to vzpomínání, například na přítelkyni, která zůstala v Praze, nebo povzdech nad tím, co jsem ztratila. Byly to samé takové sentimentální věci, se sklonem k romantickému vyjádření. Nedávno jsme měly nějaké setkání s děvčaty z Terezína a ony říkaly: „Prosím tě, my jsme myslely pořád na jídlo a ty sis psala básničky. My jsme si říkaly, že nejsi normální.“

Lásku jsem v Terezíně samozřejmě prožívala také. A ne jednu. Myslím, že jsem tam byla nejmíň pětkrát zamilovaná. Já to tedy nikdy nepočítala a ono mě to také vždycky brzo přešlo. Já to nikdy příliš dlouho nevydržela a to jsem měla ještě dlouho po válce. V Terezíně jsem možná trošku vyčnívala, byla jsem úplně blond, plavá, modrooká. Možná to také něco vypovídá o té době, bylo to třeba jenom na pár dní, ale intenzivní. Ovšem byl tam jeden, dva takové silnější vztahy. Ani jeden se nevrátil. Jeden se jmenoval Jiří Kummermann. Ten hoch, ačkoliv mu bylo sedmnáct, už komponoval. Nějaké noty, nějaké úryvky, mám dodnes schované. Byla tam i jeho maminka, bývalá tanečnice, ani ta se nevrátila. Protože já jsem věděla, že asi v Terezíně zůstanu, tak jsem měla nějaké ty noty u sebe. Ale po válce jsem je dala jeho příbuzným. Ten vztah byl asi dosti intenzivní, protože jsem ještě dlouho v tom pětačtyřicátém myslela, že by se mohl objevit. Pak to byl Karel Stadler, toho jsem znala z Prahy, protože to byl kamarád mého bratra. Mimořádně vzdělaný hoch. Byl asi o čtyři, pět let starší, kdežto ten hudebník byl stejně starý jako já. Takže mně imponoval a já jsem se styděla, že jsem proti němu úplně hloupá. Nebyla jsem jediná, kdo tam prožíval lásky. Samozřejmě přes den jsme se vídat moc nemohli, ale zákaz vycházení byl až po osmé, takže večer jsme ještě mohli být venku.

Terezín byl pro mě byla úžasná škola. Za prvé bych nebyla taková, jaká jsem, ale to je přirozené. Ale hlavně se mi tam zjevily takové hodnoty, které bych třeba vůbec nemohla poznat. Například co může udělat pro člověka přátelství, ale nejen to. Jak důležitý je vliv umění. Tam se lidé, kteří do Terezína přišli, a byli to profesoři, umělci, skutečně všichni snažili předávat to, co uměli. To by se nemohlo v normální situaci vůbec stát. V Terezíně bylo všechno vypjaté, tam nebyla normální situace. To je samozřejmě viděno zpětně, tenkrát jsem si to nemohla uvědomit. Prožívali jsme tam mezní situace. Jednak tam byl fenomén strachu z dalšího transportu. Nikdo nevěděl, kdy kam bude muset odjet. I když to, že může přijít konec, to si nikdo z naší generace nechtěl samozřejmě vůbec připustit. Já jsem takřka do konce války nevěděla, že existují plynové komory. To bylo tím, že jsem byla v Terezíně. Tam to možná někdo věděl, ale myslím, že většina ne. Až pak v tom pětačtyřicátém, když se lidé vraceli. V Terezíně jsme pochopitelně měli i legraci. A ty lásky. Všechno bylo intenzivně prožité, tam se totiž nemohlo počítat s časem. To je, myslím, ať pro puberťačku, tak pro dvacetiletého nebo i padesátiletého člověka velmi neobvyklá situace. Tam vůbec nebyl ten pocit, že vám čas jenom takhle zbytečně protéká mezi prsty. Intenzita té doby byla i v tom, že jsme měli hlad. Všechno bylo intenzivní. Takovou intenzitu jsem předtím, ani potom, nepoznala. Všechno, co tam ty děti dělaly, buď si něco kreslily, nebo psaly, tak to bylo v naprostém nasazení. Celé to vedení se pro ně snažilo dělat maximum. Protože jedinou naději na přežití tam podle nich měli ty děti, nebo ti mladí. Ono to pak tak sice nebylo, ale i tak se snažili. Nevím, jestli nějaký stát nebo nějaká skupina, nějaký malý národ, dělá v normální situaci tolik, kolik se tenkrát dělalo v těch vypjatých chvílích v Terezíně. Tenkrát šlo úplně o všechno. Také bylo zapotřebí pomoci těm dospělým i mladým, aby vnímali, že si musí na sebe dávat pozor, aby nešli mravně dolů. To všechno bylo strašně důležité. Musela jste si zachovat pocit, že nejste v nějaké díře.

Tu otázku, proč jsem se vrátila já a ne někdo jiný, takový pocit výčitky, to máme asi všichni. To už bylo mnohokrát reflektováno. Já na to samozřejmě nemám odpověď a ono si to ani nelze vyčítat. Ale myslím, že to procento těch nejlepších, kteří se nevrátili, je hodně veliké. Také nevíte, co by bývalo bylo z těch dětí. Určitě tam bylo mnoho nadaných lidí a tím prožitkem, tou intenzitou, o které jsem mluvila, to všechno ještě zesílilo.

Po válce

Co mají lidé, kteří přežili, společného? Na to nemám vyhraněnou odpověď. Myslím, že většina těch lidí, co se vrátila, je dnes mnohem tolerantnější než lidé bez tohoto prožitku. Ale ještě samozřejmě záleželo na tom, do jakého způsobu života jste se dostala. I ten vás formoval. Jestli zůstal úplně sám, nebo mu zbyl alespoň kus rodiny. Jeho myšlení a intelektuální zařazení. Život sám. Lidi jsou různí. Také se jich plno vystěhovalo a ti, když sem přijedou, jsou také úplně jiní. Ale nějaký společný osud, něco tam je. Ne že bychom si byli úplně blízcí, ale je tu něco, že se hned mohu lehce vcítit. Někomu, kdo tím neprošel, bych to musela strašně vysvětlovat, abych mu to mohla přiblížit. Tady nemusím. Zcela jistě máme společný zážitek, to nás spojuje. Těžko říct, možná nás spojuje nějaké přehodnocení hodnot. Větší tolerance, to určitě. Samozřejmě že jsou nějací jednotlivci, nějaké výkřiky, ale ještě dneska, když se s lidmi setkávám, tak je mi od první chvíle jasné, kdo přežil. Také si myslím, i když si možná dělám iluze, že ti, kteří přežili, nepodlehnou tomu, že by byli zaměření jen na ekonomické věci. Myslím, že jsou trošičku míň ovlivnitelní dnešním způsobem života. Že jsou trochu víc sami sebou. Přece jenom je tam něco, nějaká zkušenost, která je odlišuje. Kdybych měla shrnout, co mi pobyt v koncentračním táboře vzal, pak mi vzal minulost. To zpřetrhání minulosti, to je něco, s čím se musím smířit.

Na návrat domů jsme se strašně těšili. Ale samozřejmě jsme se neměli kam vrátit. Já najednou nevěděla, co mám dělat. Jak žít, proč vůbec a hlavně nebylo s kým se poradit. Bratr, který také přežil, se o mě moc nestaral, on měl svých starostí dost. Ten tady lítal, to už zakládali noviny a on byl jmenován důležitým redaktorem, šéfem kulturní rubriky. Dostali tehdejší německé noviny, takzvanou Mladou frontu 22, a on byl vlastně zakladatel. Bylo mu třiadvacet a J.Hořcovi [Hořec, Jaromír (nar. 1921): známý český básník, spisovatel, novinář a publicista – pozn. red.], pozdějšímu šéfredaktorovi, bylo, myslím, čtyřiadvacet. Neměl na mě absolutně čas. Pamatuji si, že jsem se šla tenkrát po návratu hlásit na tehdejší národní výbor, už nevím, jak se tomu říkalo, protože jsem potřebovala legitimaci. Tam mi dali dvě spodní prádla, kalhotky a nějakou košilku a asi pět kapesníků.

Můj otec válku nepřežil, zahynul v roce čtyřicet čtyři, v Osvětimi. Mám dvě data. Jedno je únorové, druhé je květnové, přesně se to neví.  Na podzim čtyřicet tři ho zatkli, šel přes Karlovo náměstí, kde byl na výsleších, přes Malou pevnost 23 do Osvětimi, nešel normálním transportem. Zatčen byl nejspíš  kvůli mému bratrovi. Zatčená byla i moje nevlastní matka, která se ovšem po válce vrátila. Ale ta také nevěděla, proč je vlastně sebrali. Je pravděpodobné, že tam bylo i nějaké udání. Prošla koncentračními tábory Ravensbrückem 24 a Barthem [Barth: tábor přislouchající pod koncentrační tábor Ravensbrück – pozn. red.]. Vrátila se až později, až koncem června 1945, a byla těžce nemocná. Matku jsem po válce pokud možno podporovala,  vždyť jsem si díky ní zachránila život, protože nevěděli, že ona není moje pravá matka. To kdyby bývalo prasklo, tak by byl konec. Zemřela, když jí bylo pětaosmdesát, to by mělo být někdy v roce 1983, protože byla rozená 1898. Porazila ji tramvaj, ztratila orientaci a do té tramvaje narazila hlavou.

Jen na okraj, zjistila jsem, že v Pinkasově synagoze, kde jsou jména mrtvých z koncentračních táborů, je i jméno mého bratra [v letech 1992-1996 bylo na stěny synagogy ručně přepsáno 80 tisíc jmen českých a moravských Židů, kteří zahynuli za nacismu – pozn. red.]. Jako že je mrtev. Jak jsem říkala, když dostal předvolání do transportu, zanechal dopis, že spáchal sebevraždu, a ztratil se. V kartotéce je veden jako mrtvý. No, teď už s tím nemůžeme nic dělat, je to tam. Podle jednoho lidového rčení tedy bude dlouho živ. Docházelo i k dalším omylům. Například, můj otec byl zatčen, nešel transportem, nicméně v koncentračním táboře se také ocitl a nevrátil se. Ale v Terezínské knize [Terezínská pamětní kniha obsahuje jména židovských obětí nacistických deportací z Čech a Moravy v letech 1941-1945 – pozn. red.] není. Nevím, jestli ho tam dali dodatečně, to už jsem nezjišťovala. Já panu Kárnému, který tu knihu společně se svou ženou dělal, říkala, že tam není, ale že také umřel v Osvětimi. Podobných případů je víc, lidí, kteří nešli normálními transporty, ale byli zatčeni nebo se ztratili jako můj bratr.

Zpočátku jsem bydlela s mým bratrem, který dostal na Letné byt, a potom, když se vrátila má nevlastní matka, tak jsme šly do toho bytu, kde kdysi bývala zubní ordinace. Tam ale snad kromě toho zubního zařízení nic nezůstalo. Tenkrát po návratu z Terezína, jsem měla hlavně hlad. Matka tady měla příbuzné, sestru, strašně hodnou, a k nim na Smíchov jsem chodívala na oběd. Oni mi dávali z vlastního. Vypadá to divně, ale já si myslím, že ona nebyla žádná organizace, která by se starala o ty lidi, kteří se vrátili. Vůbec mě nenapadlo zajít na židovskou obec. Možná jsem tam měla jít, určitě by mně byli poradili. Vždyť tady byly nějaké výpomoci, jak jsem se později dozvěděla, z Ameriky 25. Podávaly se nějaké žádosti o odškodné. No, já jsem o tom nevěděla nic a nic jsem nedostala. Až teď to po převratu to, co mají všichni.

Takové první dva roky, než jsem se rozkoukala, jsem skutečně nevěděla, jak se mám chovat. Já věděla, že se zdraví, a co mám říct, když vejdu do obchodu, ale způsob myšlení druhých lidí jsem vůbec nemohla pochopit. Všichni mi byli cizí. Nechápala jsem, jak myslí, proč třeba udělají to, co udělali. Já jsem vždycky chtěla vědět důvod chování. Například má teta, ta, co se rozvedla s mým strýcem kvůli onomu nakladatelství, nebyla židovka a válku přežila. Po válce vedla prodejnu, která k onomu nakladatelství patřila. Ona mi nabídla, abych tam prodávala knížky. Tak jsem tam nějaký čas prodávala. Pak mi řekla: „Nemáš dostatečně štíhlý pas, koupím ti šněrovačku.“ Já jsem to vůbec nechápala. Proč tam mám prodávat knížky a proč mi to koupí. Je to banální příklad, ale já jsem tomu nerozuměla. Nedokázala jsem se jí zeptat. O to šlo. Měla jsem se jí zeptat, proč mně koupíš to nebo tamto, nebo proč tady mám prodávat knížky? Ona by mně to jistě bývala vysvětlila. Ale já se jí nezeptala. Nebo další příklad. Na Letné byla nějaká děvčata z Terezína a ta mě zatáhla do Svazu mládeže 26. Já jsem tam zase chodila a vůbec jsem nevěděla, proč tam jako jsem. Spoustu věcí jsem tenkrát nechápala, dokud jsem nepotkala dívku mého stáří, jejíž tatínek byl zubař, kolega mého tatínka. Pan doktor Vaněček. Ten mě pozval k nim a dal mi peníze. Ta Věra jediná říkala: „Ty musíš chodit do školy.“ Nebýt jí, tak jsem to všechno nechala plavat. Ale i ona mi musela vysvětlit, proč musím chodit do školy a já tomu beztak úplně nerozuměla. Možná že jsem byla úplně zanedbaná, nebo možná spíše osamělá. Myslím, že to bylo z osamělosti. Přitom později jsem platila v životě za společenskou a ne introvertní. Ale až moc pozdě. Tenkrát jsem ale určitě byla v naprosté introverzi. Myslím, že je to důsledek toho, co jsem říkala, toho zpřetrhání pout s minulostí.

Postupně se naštěstí vyskytlo několik příbuzných, kteří mi také pomáhali. Například bratranec mé vlastní první maminky, který měl seznam lidí, ke kterým si dala schovat věci sestra mé první maminky, Anna. Obcházel se mnou ty lidi a teď oni to většinou nevraceli. Zažila jsem takovou velmi nepříjemnou situaci, kdy říkali: „Jé, vy jste se vrátili.“ Ani se mi o tom nechce mluvit. Ono je to navíc obecně známo. Co se školy týká, vysvětlili mi, že si musím vyběhat stipendium. Po sociální stránce byl ten náš život po válce totiž velice špatný. Vystudovat jsem nakonec mohla jenom díky tomu stipendiu, které jsem dostávala jako válečný sirotek. Vyplácel mě tenkrát Úřad pro válečné poškozence. Myslím, že byl v Karlíně. Bez těch peněz bych byla neměla ani na rohlík.  

Můj bratr stačil před válkou maturovat na Jiráskově gymnáziu a po válce se zapsal na filosofickou fakultu. V roce čtyřicet sedm byl poslán tehdejším Ministerstvem kultury do Paříže, kde vydával týdeník informující o tehdejší střední Evropě, který se jmenoval Parallele cinquante, Padesátá rovnoběžka. Těsně po únoru 27 se měl vrátit, byl tam na rok. Ale emigroval a zůstal venku. Tajně tady ale byl a díky mému tehdejšímu příteli, výtvarníku Jiřímu Hejnovi, se kterým jsem dlouho byla, jsme mu pomocí sádry předělali razítko na pase. On se ještě po únoru dostal ven.

Vysokou školu jsem začala studovat na jaře čtyřicet šest, kdy ji vlastně otevírali. Vybrala jsem si novinářskou fakultu na Vysoké škole politické a sociální. Ta se skládala ze tří fakult, politické, sociální a novinářské. Ta škola byla zaměřená i pro budoucí diplomaty, tedy ta fakulta politická a sociální, ne novinářská. Už jako puberťačka jsem se zabývala psaním básniček a za války taky. Kromě pohybu, tancování, byla mým nejsilnějším zájmem literatura, takže to znamenalo, že to musela být nějaká škola, kde se pracuje se slovem. Představovala jsem si, že bych pak mohla třeba žít v nějakém cizím městě a být dopisovatelkou. Třeba v Paříži. No, byla jsem úplně blbá. Ta novinářská fakulta byla něco nového. Mám dojem, že za první republiky nebyla, ale nejsem si jistá. Žurnalistiku bylo asi možné studovat někde jinde, to přesně nevím. Ale pro mě to bylo novum. No a pak jsem věděla, že tam na mně nebudou chtít latinu. Bála jsem se, že i na té filozofické fakultě by mě latina, případně řečtina, chyběla. Maturitu jsem si vlastně dodělávala až dodatečně v rámci té fakulty. To tenkrát šlo. Tahle škola bylo zaměřená čistě prakticky. Bylo tam hodně ekonomie a práva, ze všech oborů něco. Nevím, jestli to bylo dobré, ale mně to přišlo mnohem schůdnější, protože mně chyběla celá léta vzdělání. Myslela jsem si, že to spíš zvládnu. Na fakultu nebyl problém se dostat, kdo se přihlásil, ten mohl studovat. Tenkrát se samozřejmě hlásili i ti starší, kteří třeba za války nemohli studovat. Ale bylo tam velké síto. Ty čtyři roky a diplomní práce, málokdo dokončil. Ti lidi šli možná do praktického života, nebo je to nebavilo.

Já jsem byla v zimě 1949 hotová. Ty největší průšvihy byly až od padesátého roku. Nepamatuji si přesně, jak se tam profesoři měnili. Ti, kteří byli ortodoxní marxisti, začali samozřejmě dělat různé kariéry. Například Ladislav Štoll [Štoll, Ladislav (1902 – 1981: český marxistický literární kritik – pozn. red.], který pak byl velmi ortodoxní a myslím, že zkazil mnoha lidem život. To byl velký ideolog přes kulturu. Měl slovo ve všech oblastech kultury a jistě byl i spolupracovník různých ministerstev a tak dále. Několik profesorů naopak zase emigrovalo. Například profesor Machotka [Machotka, Otakar (1899 – 1970): český sociolog – pozn. red.] odjel do Ameriky. Původně, to bylo na té fakultě zajímavé, tam byli profesoři paritně podle čtyř politických stran. Aby to bylo vyvážené. Pak to samozřejmě padlo a ti lidé odcházeli, sociální demokraté a tak. Také nás tam učila společenskou výchovu paní, která byla později mnoho let zavřená. My jsme jí říkali Alča Palča, ale jmenovala se Palkosková. Byla z takové velmi bohaté pražské rodiny. Z té společenské výchovy jsme si dělali legraci, ale měla pravdu, bohužel, společenská výchova vzala za své. Lidé se dnes neumějí chovat. Na  psychologii tam byl prof. Tardy, křestní jméno si přesně nevzpomínám. Ten zase emigroval do Švýcar. Zvláštnost je, že nám dali ing, já jsem tedy inženýrka. To proto, že jsme tam měli ekonomii, ale je to nesmysl, dělali to podle sovětského vzoru.

Po studiu jsem v padesátém roce nastoupila do hraného filmu na Barrandově [známé filmové studio v Praze – pozn. red.], kde měli zájem o studenty,  do takzvaného lektorátu. To bylo takové první síto, kam se posílali náměty. Bylo nás tam asi pět. No, divím se, že mě tam zaměstnali. Měla jsem tam ale úžasného šéfa, takového jsem už nikdy nezažila. Moc mě naučil, jak bych tak řekla, o literární tvorbě pro film. Jmenoval se ing. Karel Smrž [Smrž, Karel (1897 – 1953): český filmový historik, publicista a dramatrg – pozn. red.], jeden z filmových průkopníků vůbec, ještě z první republiky, zakladatel českého filmu. Mimo jiné jsem se tam skamarádila s Hanou Žantovskou [Žantovská, Hana (1921 - 2004): prekladatelka, básnířka a spisovatelka – pozn. red.], překladatelkou, skvělou paní, která zemřela před dvěma lety. Byla to výsostná překladatelka z angličtiny a básnířka. V té době jsem se také seznámila s mnoha jinými lidmi, do toho okruhu naštěstí patřil Josef Jedlička [Jedlička, Josef (1927 – 1990): český prozaik a esejista – pozn. red.], spisovatel, Jan Zábrana [Zábrana, Jan (1931 – 1984): český básník a překladatel – pozn. red.] nebo malíř Mikuláš Medek [Medek, Mikuláš (1926 – 1974): český malíř – pozn. red.]. Díky těmhle lidem jsem se dostala z té izolace těsně po návratu. Bylo to opravdu dobré a některá přátelství také dodneška trvají. Třeba spisovatel Putík Jaroslav [Putík, Jaroslav (nar. 1923): český prozaik – pozn. red.], s tím se scházíme, filosof Ivan Dubský [Dubslý Ivan (nar. 1926): česý filosof – pozn. red.] je můj kamarád také z té doby. Někteří už bohužel umřeli. Ale díky těmhle všem lidem jsem teprve začala pořádně žít.

Na lektorátu jsem byla asi rok a půl a už mě vyhodili. To začala padesátá léta a když mě jako nespolehlivou vyhazovali - to byl tehdejší Jiří Hájek [Hájek, Jiří (1919 – 1994): český literární a divadelní kritik – pozn. red.], který pak vedl Plamen [Plamen: literární měsíčník. Jiří hájek byl šéfredaktorem měsíčníka v letech 1959 – 1968  – pozn. red.], ne ten ministr, ale literární kritik, velmi vášnivý – jako důvod mně řekli, že nemají nic proti mně osobně, ale že jsem nespolehlivá, protože jsem židovského původu 28. Já jsem tenkrát skutečně neměla vůbec peníze a ta moje nevlastní matka na tom také byla špatně, tak mě vlastně přátelé Jedličkovi živili. Dávali mi peníze, ačkoliv Manka Jedličková pak ještě dostudovávala medicínu a Josef Jedlička, který byl na filosofické fakultě, vylítl, když tam byly prověrky. On byl první, se kterým udělali monstrproces. Byl nařčený jako trockista.

Těch lidí tohoto druhu, se kterými jsem se v té době stýkala, bylo tolik, že vám je ani všechny nebudu jmenovat. Byli skvělí. Dokonce jsem byla požádána, abych o nich napsala, ale já nic takového psát nechci, protože já si nejsem jistá, jestli je moje paměť natolik dobrá. Pokud nemohu napsat něco přesného, tak to psát nebudu. Mohu napsat nějaké dojmy, to já mám něco v šuplíku, ale nerada bych, abych svou nepřesnou pamětí měnila historii. To strašně špatně snáším. 

Ta padesátá léta byla těžká. Slánského procesy 28 a já jsem pak také měla velké maléry kvůli bratrovi, který zůstal venku. To jsem netušila, jaké nedozírné maléry z toho vzniknou. Byla jsem kvůli tomu u výslechů. Pamatuji se, že když pro mě přišli, tak jsem vůbec nevěděla, o co jde. V té době se mně začaly vracet takové nepříjemné, depresivní stavy. Strach z budoucnosti. Začala jsem se bát. Dostala jsem strach, který byl velmi silný, přestože v mládí by to tak nemělo být. Vždycky jsem měla konflikt ne proto, že bych si ho zavinila svým jednáním.

Já sama jsem emigrovat nechtěla. Ve čtyřicátém osmém jsem sice byla v Paříži, ale zůstat jsem tam nechtěla. Možná za jiných okolností. Bylo to komplikované a také jsem si myslela, že zase vyjedu. Nikdo si neuměl představit – možná někdo starší, kdo byl fundovaný i politicky, ale já jsem tenkrát ještě byla opravdu naivní - že bych tam zase třeba za dva roky nemohla. Až později, v  osmašedesátém, když jsme měli tříletou holčičku, jsem na emigraci pomýšlela, ale můj muž se toho bál. Jedním z jeho důvodů bylo, že tak krásné město, jako je Praha, nikde není. Tak dramatické ve smyslu architektury. Manžel je totiž architekt. Já jsem si zase nemohla představit, že nebudu používat češtinu. Ne jako obživu, ale že to, k čemu jsem měla sklony, k takovému tomu nedorozumění, bude ještě horší. Ne, že se ten jazyk nenaučím, já jsem v té době jakž takž mluvila anglicky, to bych se naučila. Německy určitě. Ale já si myslím, že ztráta mateřského jazyka je strašná. A nejen pro lidi, kteří s ním pracují. Bratr tu měl na filosofické fakultě před několika lety přednášky a vyprávěl, že se emigranti, protože neuměli pořádně řeč, museli začít živit obrazem. V televizi. To byla moc zajímavá úvaha.

Bratr žil v Paříži původně se svou dívkou, která mu za války pomáhala skrývat se před gestapem. Tenkrát mu pomáhalo hodně lidí. Také to někteří odnesli zatčením. S tou se ale po nějaké době rozešel. Později se tam seznámil s mladou dívkou z Porta, z Portugalska. To byla jeho první žena, jmenovala se Julieta a měli spolu dvojčata. Když ve Francii hrozil převrat, tak spolu odešli do Portugalska. Tam jsme se po dvaceti letech sešli, v roce šedesát osm 29, za Novotného 30. To jsem tam mohla jet. Teď žije v Lisabonu, naučil se portugalsky stejně jako tehdy francouzsky, protože on je jazykově docela nadaný. V Portugalsku kromě toho, že přednášel slavistiku, pak byl na divadelní a filmové škole, byl také ředitelem Národního divadla v Lisabonu. Vydával jednu knížku za druhou a dodneška režíruje opery, všechno možné. Přestože je mu už hodně let, je tak strašně činný, že myslím, že až jednou přestane, rovnou umře. Asi bez toho nemůže být. Objektivně vzato, je mimořádně vzdělaný, mimořádně pilný, mimořádně schopný a mimořádně egocentrický. Jak by jinak taky dokázal, to, co dokázal. V tom je vypjatý egocentrismus, který je soustředěný na svou tvorbu. Ještě než emigroval, tak mu tady vyšlo pět knížek, venku pak také a teď po převratu zase. On se zpátky z emigrace nevrátil, už by tady nemohl žít. Ale občas do Čech jezdí. Jako režisér a poradce spolupracuje s místními divadly a vycházejí mu v České republice básnické i prozaické knížky. Po válce dostal od prezidenta E. Beneše 31 vyznamenání za ilegální činnost a v devadesátých letech od prezidenta V. Havla 32 ocenění za šíření naší kultury v zahraničí.

Ta jeho vypjatá egocentričnost mi strašně vadí, ale na stará kolena jsem pochopila, že je to k němu klíč. Není sám. U lidí, kteří něco dokázali, to není jinak možné. Pro ně je jejich tvorba středem světa a všichni ostatní jim slouží. On byl vždycky silná osobnost, to já jsem nikdy nebyla. On přes tu tmavou předsíň nemusel chodit. On je opravdu mimořádně vzdělaný a šikovný a vypadá skvěle. Měl víc žen – samé Portugalky, většinou z jeho profese -  a víc dětí. Svých dětí má šest a dvě vyženil. Jeho nejmladšímu dítěti je devět let a to mému bratrovi bude teď v listopadu osmdesát pět. Ani jedna z jeho žen nebyla židovského původu. On své židovství nijak nezapírá, ale také se s ním nijak neohání. Židovsky vůbec nežil, ani stínem. My jsme tak nebyli vychovaní.

Po tom vyhazovu z Barrandova jsem dlouho, asi dva roky, nemohla najít zaměstnání, neprokádrovali mě ani do fabriky. To byly zlé časy, ale všechno se přežilo a nakonec jsem uvízla zase zpátky ve filmu. Předtím jsem nějakou dobu ještě pracovala v nakladatelství Naše Vojsko, ale když to na mě zase kádrově prasklo, musela jsem zase ven. Zpátky k filmu jsem se dostala někdy v padesátém čtvrtém pomocí mé spolužačky z fakulty, protože ona byla sekretářkou u Z. Nejedlého [Nejedlý, Zdeněk (1878 – 1962): český historik, hudební vědec a kritik, publicista a politik – pozn. red.]. Prostě to nešlo normálně. Nejdříve jsem pracovala ve filmové knihovně. Ta byla v Klimentské ulici, ale spadalo to pod Ústřední čs. film. Tam jsem dávala dohromady takové ročenky. Co se  kdy udělalo, jaké filmy se vyrobili a tak. To mě samozřejmě šíleně nebavilo. No, ale pak jsem se dostala do tiskového oddělení Ústřední půjčovny filmů na Národní třídě. A v roce šedesát tři jsem se odtamtud dostala jako dramaturg kresleného a loutkového filmu. Na začátku jsme sídlili na Klárově, kde je teď metro. Tam byl pavilón, to zbourali. Pak jsme byli na Barrandově. Tam jsem byla až do konce, do důchodu a hodně mě to bavilo. Také jsem dost dlouho přesluhovala. Myslím, že jsem šla do důchodu v roce převratu, že už mi bylo třiašedesát. Ale i potom jsem tam občas něco dělala. Pracovala jsem v dramaturgii a pak jsem pro ty děti začala i něco psát. Tam se přece jenom dalo dělat leccos, to nebylo pod tak přísným politickým dohledem, i když jsme tam také měli maléry. Já dokonce dostala nějaké důtky, protože jsme Škvoreckého [Škvorecký Josef (nar. 1924): český prozaik, esejista a překladatel – pozn. red.] text převedli do animované podoby. Ten mimochodem také patřil mezi mé kamarády. 

Vdaná jsem byla dvakrát. Můj první manžel se jmenoval Josef Till, architekt. Narodil se v roce 1924. Už ani nevím, jak jsme se seznámili. Brali jsme se v roce padesát pět a byla jsem s ním čtyři roky. Děti jsme neměli. Ten první muž byl hodný a laskavý, ale pil. To byl hlavní důvod našeho rozchodu. Stále ještě žije a dosud jsme v dobrých vztazích. Zajímavé je, že jeho maminka byla Ruska, kterou si přivedl jeho otec jako legionář za první světové války. Až dodatečně jsem si uvědomila, že tady je vždycky jakási afinita k lidem, kteří nejsou tak úplně normální, stejně jako já jsem nebyla úplně normální. Já byla židovka a on napůl Rus. Zpočátku to ani nevíte, to se dozvíte až ex post, že je také jiný.

Když jsem se v roce šedesát tři vdávala podruhé, vzala jsem si žida. Ale ani tenkrát jsem zpočátku nevěděla, že prožil to, co já. Mě nenapadlo, že by to mohl být také žid, on vůbec nevypadá. Ale myslím, že ten společný prožitek nás pak asi spojil. Ty pocity odcizení, které člověka provázejí, to jsme si nemuseli vysvětlovat. Pochopili jsme se. Manžel se jmenuje Jiří Munk. Je mladší než já, narodil se v Brandýse nad Labem,  2. listopadu 1932. Seznámil nás můj první manžel, oni spolu pracovali. Jeho otec byl Adolf Munk, právník, a jeho matka se jmenovala Olga, rozená Náchodová. I ona pocházela z právnické rodiny, ta praxe zřejmě patřila jejímu otci, ale to nevím jistě. Vím, že měla sestru a když tenkrát nějak brzy ztratily maminku, tak je vychovávala nějaká teta. Nějaké velké svátky tam v tom Brandýse snad slavili.

I rodina mého muže mohla emigrovat, myslím, že žádali o affidavit a měli jet do Rhodesie [Rhodésie: vnitrozemský stát jižní Afriky. Od roku 1964 Zambie. V Zambii je zemědělství extenzivní, velmi zaostalé a z velké části jen samozásobitelské – pozn. red.], do jižní Afriky. To je snad dnešní Zimbabwe. Jeho dědeček byl statkář, velice úspěšný, ač žid, tak byl úspěšný v chovu prasat. Byl to široko daleko znalý odborník. Pokud vím, tak Rhodesie byla v té době jediná, kdo přijímal, a přijímali jedině zemědělce. Také jste museli mít nějaké peníze. Myslím, že nějaké peníze poslali, dost velké a Němci to zabavili do takzvaného vystěhovaleckého fondu. Říkali, že za ty peníze židy vystěhují na Madagaskar a Čechy do Patagonie. Těch pár lidí, co se vystěhovalo, byli bohatí, měli informace a nějaké kontakty.

Do Terezína jeli, myslím, hradeckým transportem nějak těsně v lednu čtyřicet tři, měsíc za mnou. Otec mého muže v Brandýse likvidoval místní židovskou obec a o všechno se staral, takže šli všichni z rodiny do transportu o měsíc později než lidi v Brandýse. To bylo také jejich štěstí, protože ten předchozí transport, ve kterém šli všichni židé z Brandýsa, šel rovnou dál, do Polska. Z toho se snad téměř nikdo nevrátil.

V Terezíně žily malé děti s matkou a starší s otcem. Maminka mého muže dělala pro válečný průmysl na slídě, proto v Terezíně zůstala a chránila tak své nejmenší dítě, mého muže. Manželův otec šel bohužel se starším bratrem mého muže, Viktorem, z Terezína dál. Jeho otec se nevrátil, zemřel v Osvětimi. Viktor ano, ale v hrozném stavu. Před několika lety bohužel zemřel. Manželova sestra Helena se za války v Terezíně provdala - to se pak muselo po válce nějak obnovovat – a tím manželstvím si zachránila život. Její manžel, Rudolf Kovanic, byl v jednom z prvních transportů, oni to ghetto dávali dohromady a byli pak chráněni. Na konci války bylo vybráno několik desítek mladých manželství a ti šli výměnou do Švýcar. Tam je zavřeli do dalšího tábora. Ven směli samozřejmě až po válce, to pro ně přijelo nějaké auto z tehdejšího Československa.

Manželův bratr Viktor byl výtvarně mimořádně nadán. Studoval na tehdejší UMPRUM [Vysoká škola uměleckoprůmyslová v Praze] nebo na jiné výtvarné škole. Ale byla tam nějaká studentská vzpoura. Všichni odvolali, jedině on ne a od té doby se izoloval a přestože byl velmi výtvarně nadán, dělal tady za Prahou nějaké nálepky. Až po letech, teprve po jeho smrti - zemřel na rakovinu kůže - se mi podařilo, že měl ve Španělské synagoze velkou výstavu. On opravdu fantasticky maloval. Ta výstava měla velký ohlas. Psali o tom třeba v Revolver Revue 33. Za jeho života ale nechtěl žádnou výstavu dovolit, ani nic prodat. Své obrázky dával sourozencům, k různým příležitostem. Pár jich máme doma. Oženil se velmi pozdě, protože byl dlouho nemocný. Jeho manželka se jmenovala Jitka. Žili u Karlových Varů 34 a on tam dělal všechno možné, ale pak balil trumpety. Nábožensky nijak nežil.

I můj muž byl nadaný, zase hudebně. Už v první třídě přemlouvali jeho rodiče, že s ním musí něco dělat. Ale jeho matka se sice z koncentračního tábora vrátila, ale nikdy nebyla samostatná a najednou tady zůstala sama s dětmi, nebyla schopná dělat vůbec nic, ačkoliv jí bylo asi padesát. To bylo strašné. Manžel vystudoval architekturu, stejně jako můj první muž. Jako žert říkávám, že jsem u té profese už zůstala. Léta pracoval jako architekt, ale teď už nechce. Byl odborník na obchodní sítě, napsal o tom knihu. Chtěl dělat hlavně památky, ale k tomu se nedostal. Tenkrát se vlastně žádná pořádná architektura nedělala, to byl socialistický realismus. Teď po převratu, když by mohl začít, tak už to bylo tak zkorumpované, že to by nevydržel. Úplatky, všechno na základě úplatků.

Po roce 1989

Na osmdesátý devátý rok 35 si pamatuji dobře. Byl mráz a já jsem chodila s Barrandovem, s animovaným filmem, na Václavák s klíči [v průběhu Sametové revoluce, lidi obrazně vyjádřovali nespokojenost s komunistický režímem tím, že během demostrací cinkali klíčemi — pozn red.]. Byli jsme naivní, absolutně naivní. V té první radosti ze změny jste tak otevření, naivní. Neuvědomovali jsme si, že lidi se nemůžou změnit. Lidi zůstali stejní. To nadšení mě brzy přešlo. Šlo to dolů, ale ono to samozřejmě muselo jít dolů, protože po stránce mravní to šlo dolů už od roku třicet devět. Jinak to nebylo možné, ten mravní sešup je dlouhodobý.

Po převratu jsme měli problém s restitucí. Ve čtyřicátém osmém jsem měla mít podíl na dědictví po Bohumilu Sinkovi, bratrovi mého dědečka Adolfa Synka. Válku mnoho příbuzných nepřežilo a někteří, kteří emigrovali, se dědictví vzdali. Tenkrát po válce jsme se kvůli dědické dani domluvili, že se to napíše na mou sestřenici Milenu, která byla v té době jediná neplnoletá a daň platit nemusela. Já sama jsem na daň neměla. Po převratu ale celý ten dům – a je to veliký majetek, veliký dům v Bílkově ulici 11, čtyřpatrový, dole obchod – restituovala sama. Tam nešlo o tisíce, ale o hodně milionů. Já samozřejmě na tu naši dohodu nemám svědka. Takže teď nemám alespoň starosti s penězi. Nejsem typ, který by s nimi uměl zacházet. Vem to čert. Ale jí jsem potom vzkázala, že si to musí ona vypořádat se svým svědomím. Můj bratr jí mohl samozřejmě žalovat, protože ten byl po válce v zahraničí a ničeho se nevzdal, ale taky se na to vykašlal. Ale je to něco, co po stránce mravní nemohu pochopit.

S manželem jsem měla jen jedno dítě, dceru Hanu. Narodila se 24.6.1965. Čili měla starou maminku. Já jsem dlouho nechtěla děti, ale přemluvili mě. Vystudovala v Praze na pedagogické fakultě výtvarnou výchovu. Jako druhý obor si musela vzít ruštinu a když byl převrat, tak se na ni hned všichni vykašlali. No, byli hloupí. Člověk ruštinu nemá rád, což je ale blbost. Jednou bude zapotřebí. Na filosofické fakultě pak dostudovala psychologii, ale pedagogickou, ne tu klinickou. No, je to prostě na nic. Školu dostudovala a snaží se žít na volné noze, ale je to průšvih. Dělala jeden film, o takové zapomenuté figurce z první republiky, výtvarníkovi Robertu Guttmannovi [Guttmann Robert (1880 – 1942): známý pražský malíř a sionista. Zemřel v lodžském ghettu – pozn. red.]. Našly se nějaké obrázky a něco o něm, bylo toho poměrně dost, a ačkoliv to i režírovala a neměla žádné zkušenosti, tak to nebylo špatné. Také napsala hezký scénář o strýci Viktorovi, protože i o něm je plno materiálu. Navíc s ním dělali rozhovor, takže je materiál i slovní. Jenže to potřebovalo podporu od fondu státní kinematografie. O to jsme se pokoušeli třikrát, ale marně. Také dělala nějaké obálky – ty byly docela nápadité – ale je to špatné, těch možností moc nemá. Ona není v žádném týmu a individuálně se to vůbec nedá dělat. Mimo jiné jí teď bylo čtyřicet a už je stará. Snažila se najít si zaměstnání, ale to je vyloučeno. Proč by vzali ji, když můžou vzít dvacetiletou, které dají půlku platu. Od minuty mohla jít učit. Ale řekla, že než by šla učit, že bude radši bezdomovec. Děti nemá, má psa, kterého velmi miluje. Myslím, že děti mít ani nemůže. Je velmi společenská a vypadá velmi mladě. Lidi jí často tykají. Myslím, že moje sklony ke stavům úzkosti, se bohužel přenesly i na moje dítě. Ona je velmi nervově labilní. Myslím, že druhá a případně až třetí generace těch lidí, co byli za války zavření, je také poznamenaná. Jsou vždycky takoví extrémní. Buď jsou strašně aktivní a asertivní, nebo zase opačný extrém. To ale posuzuji jen z toho mála lidí kolem sebe, co znám.

V Izraeli jsem byla jednou s cestovní kanceláří, to byl skvělý zájezd. V programu byly jak židovské, tak křesťanské památky, jinak bych s ním nejela, protože já chci vidět maximum. Úžasný dojem na mě udělal Jeruzalém. Krásné město, ta historie tam voní, jak bych tak řekla. Když jsem tam přijela poprvé, zdálo se mi, že je tam všechno moc bílé. Ale pak jsem najednou viděla, že to tam patří. Prý to dokonce měli nařízené od starosty, že cokoliv se staví, tak to má být bílé. Pokud jde o emoce, nejvíce na mě zapůsobila poušť. To se mi strašně líbilo. Stíny na poušti. To mě výtvarně oslovilo. A to jsme jí pouze projížděli, šlo jen o to, co jsem viděla z autobusu. Jela jsem tam spolu s manželem na osm dní, což ovšem není tak moc. Samozřejmě jsme nemohli vidět všechno, ale viděli jsme dost. A měli jsme štěstí na skvělý doprovod. Byli tam dva lidi z Prahy, jeden byl na moderní Izrael, ten byl dokonce povoláním zubní lékař, prostě nadšenec. Věděl všechno. Druhý průvodce byl na historii. Pak tam byl ještě třetí, to byl místní Izraelec, který dělal organizační věci. Ta cestovka se jmenuje Ars viva, to je taková cestovní kancelář pro výtvarníky a architekty, my jsme s nimi už byli víckrát. Hodně jezdí po muzeích, je to více zaměřené umělecky. Po nákupech tam ti lidé nechodí.

V Izraeli se mi moc líbilo. Možná se tam ještě někdy podívám, nějaké známé tam mám, co jsem s nimi byla za války, ale nic bližšího. Tel Aviv jsme viděli hrozně málo, on nám nezbyl úplně čas, ale myslím, že se nic nestalo, to je moderní město. U moře v těch hotelech jsme také vůbec nebyli, na to také nebyl čas. Celé tři dny jsme strávili v Jeruzalémě, dokonce jsme bydleli v hotelu v té staré části. Byli jsme tam mimo jiné v nádherném Muzeu moderního umění. Mají tam sochy instalované venku, to je málokde. A co tam toho mají, to jsem ani nemohla pochopit. Jižní Ameriku, Austrálii. Úžasné.

Co se politické situace týká, jsem naprosto skeptická. Nemyslím si, že se to dá nějak vyřešit. Myslím, že dneska žiji ve světě, ve kterém se bohužel nedá vůbec nic vyřešit. Já nevím, čím jsem starší, tak na většinu otázek nemám odpověď. Přála bych si, aby tam vedle sebe žili nějakým slušným způsobem, ale obávám se, že to není možné. Když Izrael vznikl, ani jsem o tom nevěděla.  Pohybovala jsem se v úplně jiné společnosti. Až trošičku za té šestidenní války 36 ke mně něco proniklo.

Na emigraci do Izraele jsem vůbec nemyslela, chraň pánbůh. Já bych bez té české krajiny zemřela. Čech si samozřejmě zvykne na všechno, to je druhá pravda, ale jak mu je, to je zase třetí pravda. Já mám jednak strašně ráda Prahu, i když je zničená, ale je to kus mého dětství a mládí. Pak se mi líbí krajina v naší zemi, je nádherná, proměnlivá, najdete tady všechno. Momentálně mi vadí jenom to, že všechno je čím dál tím povrchnější. Nebo nekultivovanější. Všichni lidé se chtějí mít dobře, nebo lépe, to je normální reakce, ale bohužel se využívá toho nejspodnějšího, primitivního nazíraní a jede se přes konzum. Já jsem prostě člověk dvacátého století, nikoli jednadvacátého. To ze sebe nesmažu. To dvacáté století nás poznamenalo, já jsem například na štíru s technikou. Ten náš úhel pohledu je přece jenom jiný. Stejně jako já jsem se smála svému dědečkovi, když vykládal o Rakousku-Uhersku a o první světové válce. Mysleli jsme si, že si vymýšlí.

Já sama jsem víru nikdy neřešila, to pro mě téma nebylo, což asi není běžné. Podle mě je to anachronismus, způsob, jakým se projevuje židovská ortodoxie, je anachronismus. Těch 640 nebo kolik zákazů [Micva: náboženský předpis či přikázání které je Žid povinen plnit. Podle talmudské tradice je celkem 613 přikázání, 248 kladných a 365 záporných – pozn. red.]. Pak mi tam nejvíc vadí postavení ženy, které je pro mě naprosto ponižující. Ale když to tak někdo přijme, pak je to v pořádku. Ale tohle je to, co by mě nejvíc odrazovalo. Ale ono by mě to odrazovalo i od jiných náboženství. Tohle je opravdu anachronismus, i když se říká, že díky tomu se to zachovalo. Ale já si tím nejsem tak jistá. V zahraničí jsou i rabínky, v Americe. To by se tady zbláznili. Asi před čtyřmi lety se nám podařilo prosadit, aby byla na Židovské obci anketa. Dělala ji agentura, která je na to specializovaná. Účelem té ankety bylo zjistit, jaké směřování židovské obce si představují její členové. Jestli ortodoxní, nebo ne, a co si přejí. Těch otázek bylo samozřejmě víc. Z té ankety vyšlo osmdesát procent liberálně smýšlejících a dvacet procent ortodoxních. Co myslíte, že se stalo? Nic. Převálcovali je. Těch dvacet procent kompletně převálcovalo těch osmdesát procent.

Víra je podle mě otázka filozofická, to nesouvisí jenom s židovstvím. A to, myslím, nemám dodneška vyřešené. Víra je dar a já jsem ho nedostala. Takže to neznamená, že to odsuzuji. Naopak si myslím, že ti lidé mají možná život snazší, nevím. Když jsem se něco dozvěděla o buddhismu, pokud se to dá vůbec za náboženství považovat, tak to je jedině sympatické. Ale nevím, jestli to v praxi takhle je. Ale když to někomu pomůže, tak je to v pořádku. Podvědomě nějaké hledání v každém člověku samozřejmě je a je jedno, jak se to jmenuje. Určitě si každý klade otázky o smyslu života, více nebo méně hluboké.

Po válce mě vůbec nenapadlo na židovskou obec jít. Až později, když jsem potřebovala nějaké potvrzení, asi že jsem byla v transportu. Tenkrát mě tam potkal jeden velmi vzdálený příbuzný, nějaký pan doktor Iltis, který vedl tehdejší židovský časopis. Ten, když mě viděl, říkal: „Jé, vždyť ty jsi psala básničky.“ Byl to takový droboučký pán, vodil mě tam po nějakých kancelářích a říkal: „Podívejte se, tady je jedno dítě.“ No, mně už bylo devatenáct, nebo kolik. Pamatuji se, jak jsem šla do nějaké místnosti plné matrik, kde hledali nějaké údaje, aby mi mohli dát to potvrzení. Mě to strašně deprimovalo. Byla tam taková tma. Vzala jsem si ten dokument a už jsem se tam nevrátila. Já jsem v tom roce padesát měla spíš tendenci dělat, že tam vůbec nepatřím. 

Když jsem šla do penze, to bylo po převratu, tak jsem měla pocit, že bych možná měla těm přeživším židům nějak pomáhat. Měla jsem dojem, a asi jsem měla pravdu, že ti přeživší budou často v situaci, kdy si nebudou rozumět ani se střední, ani s mladou generací. A že je nutné něco vysvětlovat. Vlastně mě k tomu svým způsobem donutily ty sdělovací prostředky, protože se mnou dělaly rozhovory na toto téma. I já jsem splatila jakýsi svůj dluh, když jsem napsala scénář o Gustavu Schorschovi [Schorch, Gustav (1918 – 1945): český divadelní režisér židovského původu. V lednu 1945 zastělen při likvidaci koncentračního tábora Fürstengrube – pozn. red.], který mi tenkrát v Terezíně velice pomohl. Byla jsem ráda, že se to mohlo realizovat. Tak jsem musela do toho židovského prostředí vniknout. Ale já sama jsem sekularizovaná, nemohu se sebou nic dělat a taky nevím, proč bych se měla najednou přetvařovat, protože je to zrovna móda. Já jsem především občan České republiky a pak náhodou, díky Hitlerovi, jsem spadla do nějaké další škatulky. Já si myslím, že jakýkoliv extrémní směr vede  k určitému nedemokratickému projevu a k omezení druhého člověka. To ve mně v podstatě vyvolává často až takovou přehnanou reakci, že se nechci nechat někam zařadit a že chci být samostatná. Vede to k jistému osamění a osamělosti. Když nechcete nikam patřit, musíte být smířená sama se sebou. To se mi moc nedaří. Nedávno, asi před rokem, sem jezdil nějaký Rakušan, spisovatel, a ten se mnou dělal rozhovory. Když jsem byla kdysi ve Vídni, tak nás někdo v rámci výročí holocaustu seznámil. V tom rozhovoru je jako nejdůležitější motto, že nejsem smířená a nikdy nebudu. I když vím, že se věci nedají změnit. Je to možná dětinská revolta, ale vyjadřuje to můj postoj.

Já měla s antisemitismem nepříjemné zážitky. Hned po válce jsem se šla přihlásit do Svazu politických vězňů. Oni mě nepřijali, že židy neberou. Že to nebyla odbojová činnost.  Pak nám lidi nechtěli vracet to, co otec někde před válkou schoval. Pak, když mě vyhazovali z Barrandova. To říkali, že proti mně nic nemají, ale ten židovský původ… že jsem prý nespolehlivá.

V těch nejhorších životních chvílích mně hodně pomáhalo cvičení u Jarmily Kröschlové [Kröschlová, Jarmila (1893 – 1983): česká tanečnice, choreografka a pedagožka – pozn. red.], výrazový tanec. Člověk se musí někdy zastavit, soustředit a uvolnit se. Začalo to tak, že můj bratr žil po válce s tanečnicí René Zachovalovou, která mu za války pomáhala. Ta byla v taneční skupině Jarmily Kröschlové. René mě tam zavedla, ale já jsem tam chodila jenom krátce, protože se to platilo a já neměla peníze. Takže chvíli trvalo, než jsem se tam zase mohla vrátit, ale s malými  přestávkami tam chodím dodneška. Někdy i učím. Ale je to jenom můj koníček, ne profese. Jarmila  Kröschlová byla skvělá, učila na konzervatoři všechny herce pohybovou výchovu. Žila dlouho, když zemřela, bylo jí přes devadesát let. Měla dokonce povolené soukromé vyučování, přestože to bylo potom v padesátých letech zakázané. Učila herce a chodily jsme k ní i my. Ale její taneční skupina už se nerealizovala. Ještě jsem viděla Dvořákovy [Dvořák, Antonín (1841 – 1904): český hudební skladatel – pozn. red.] Slovanské tance, brzy po válce, kde ještě tančila ona. To jí bylo hodně přes padesát. Byla to krásná žena, vysoká. A napsala teoretické knížky, které jsou podle mě vůbec nejlepší v Evropě. Jedna se jmenuje O pohybu, a druhá Nauka o tanci.

My jako její pohrobci a potomci si pronajímáme od Lidové školy umění v Dittrichové ulici pod Karlovým náměstím taneční sál, jednou týdně dopoledne na dvě hodiny, protože děti chodí odpoledne. Chodí tam několik letitých žákyň. Jsme tři, které jsme zůstaly z těch všech lidí, které trochu můžeme učit, což je žena Ivana Vyskočila [Vyskočil, Ivan (nar. 1929): český dramatik, prozaik a herec – pozn. red.], spisovatele, Eva Vyskočilová, pak Míla Babická a já. V úterý máme dvě hodiny za sebou a chodí tam tak po deseti lidech, takové „staré báby“. Ale kdybyste viděla, to je jak kouzelný proutek, když si vezmou ta trika. Je na nich vidět, že celý život něco dělaly. Opravdu. No a pak jdeme na kafe. Známe se strašných let. Učit je strašně zajímavé, moc ráda je někdy pozoruji. Tělo mluví, to je úžasné, i způsob, jakým pohnete rukou a já z toho jejich pohybu o nich vyčtu plno věcí. Každý se hýbe trochu jinak a také někdo to pochopí lépe a ten cit v těle se mu lehčeji probudí. To, co mi teď cvičíme, je v podstatě uvolňování, taková gymnastika, co všechno se dá třeba dělat s ramenním kloubem. Abyste o něm věděla.

Musím říct, že mě pohyb mockrát zachránil před hlubokými depresemi. A že mi to dalo víc než všechna slova, i víc, než všechna literatura. Když se začnete hýbat, tak se trošku osvěžíte a trošku to pročišťuje. Taková deviza té Jarmily Kröschlové, když to shrnu do jedné velmi povrchní věty, byla, že chtěla, aby dal člověk do souhry pohyb s myšlením. Tím se dostanete do rovnováhy, uvolníte se a v tom okamžiku zapomenete, že existujete. Myslím, že je hrozné, když se pak člověk nemůže hýbat. Hrozné. Mám jednoho přítele, filosofa, který už jenom sedí a leží. Má vůli, píše, vydává knížky, nicméně je to strašné. Já Jarmile Kröschlové za moc vděčím. A nejsem sama.

Co dodat: moje zaujetí slovem se po skončení války a studií a po různých peripetiích a trýzních v době totality projevilo v dramaturgické, scénáristické i žurnalistické práci. Kromě knížky „Motýli tady nežijí“, která zachycuje kresby a básně vězněných terezínských dětí, 1942-1945, a byla přeložena do mnoha jazyků, kde jsou moje verše, často inspirující hudebníky a autory pořadů o holocaustu, jsem napsala - později převážně se svým manželem Jiřím Munkem - scénáristické předlohy k večerníčkovským dětským animovaným seriálům [večerníček je krátká, nejčastěji kreslená pohádka pro děti vysílaná v pravidelný čas večer – pozn. red.], které často uvádí televize. Posléze i ke krátkým animovaným filmům a k několika dokumentům. V poslední době nám s manželem vyšly dvě dětské knížky o večerníčkovských psích hrdinech - Štaflíkovi a Špagetce. Kolik filmů jsem dramaturgovala nelze spočítat.

Další výčet mých různých aktivit není důležitý, protože na konci veškeré činnosti si člověk klade otázku po jejím smyslu. Dodržela jsem alespoň zčásti otcův odkaz? Odkaz matky, která mi tolik chyběla a která se naštěstí nedožila hrůzných válečných let? Otázky bez odpovědí se vrší kolem mne stále ve větší míře. Takže zbývá pouze jediné obtížné úsilí. Smířit se.

Glosář:

Estera Migdalska
Warsaw
Poland
Interviewer: Anna Szyba
Date of interview: August-September 2005

Mrs. Migdalska is a young-at-heart person concerned with her seriously ill husband whom, during the interview, she leaves alone at home. She has a very nice smile and a photographic memory – pitiful that those “photographs” cannot be exposed… We meet at the Schorr Foundation at Twarda Street in Warsaw. She is a great storyteller, though she sometimes gets sidetracked, as there are many memories she doesn’t want to omit. She is happy she can tell her story to me, because, she says, she has never brought herself to write it down. She loves talking about the pre-war times and about her children. She is not very eager, though, to talk about her husband’s family.

My family history
Growing up
During the war
After the war
Family life
Anti-Semitism after the war
Recent years
Glossary

My family history

My name is Estera Migdalska and I was born on 1st May 1930 in Warsaw. My father’s name was Eliasz, and my mother was called Sara, her maiden name was Denenberg. Both my father’s family and the one from my mother’s side were religious. My father’s family lived in Kielce [a town about 180 km south of Warsaw].

My father’s mother was called Ruchla, nee Swizer; I don’t know where she was born. She was still alive in 1939; they said she was 70-80 years old then. She died during the war. I remember she was religious, with all the restrictions, as she even wore a wig; she didn’t have her own hair, some gray, short remnants. She was a very lovely, very warm, very charming grandmother. She loved her grandsons and granddaughters very much and I have very fond memories of her.

My father’s father, Jankiel Dajbog, Grandmother Ruchla’s husband, I don’t know when he was born either; he died when I was around four [in 1934 or 1935]. I remember very little of him, as I visited Kielce maybe twice during his lifetime. I know that he was very rigorous and stern; in fact all men from the Kielce branch of the family were like that. I don’t know whether it was their harsh life, or personality-related factors.

My grandfather from Kielce taught children Hebrew. In fact, he was brought to Kielce from Brest-Litovsk [until 1939 a city in Poland, now in south-western Belarus, some 100 km from the Polish border] to organize primary education for children. I don’t know whether it was to be for cheder, but I can find out because in the book about Kielce [published by the Kielce Compatriot Society in Israel in 1957] there is a page devoted to Grandfather. It says there that the Hebrew classes were primitive – lacking a curriculum and teaching methods, but that starting the teaching of the language in Kielce was nonetheless to his credit. My father went to Kielce for Grandfather’s funeral. Grandfather was buried at the Jewish cemetery.

I don’t know how many siblings Grandmother Ruchla had, but I know she had a sister in Pinsk [until 1939 a city in Poland, now in south-western Belarus, close to the Ukrainian border]. I don’t remember her name, but her husband’s surname was Wertheim. I didn’t like her because she just kept on picking on all those grandchildren of hers, with whom I was friends, and on me too, she was just kind of demanding. I remember she once admonished me for combing my hair on a Saturday, that she didn’t expect something like that of me. I couldn’t understand that because at home no one prohibited me from washing myself or combing my hair on Saturdays. Not even my grandmother, her own sister!

I don’t know how many siblings Grandfather Jankiel had. He certainly had a brother in Brest, but I never saw him. I was once in Brest as a child to visit that family. My father was traveling throughout Poland at the time, I have the impression he didn’t have a job, and he was using the time to visit his various relatives. I knew his [Grandfather Jankiel’s brother’s] two sons: Jasza and Sjomka Dajbog.

My mother’s father, Hersz Denenberg, was an inland ship-owner. Together with my grandmother and my mother they lived in Kiev [today the capital of Ukraine], though they were from Pinsk, but he had a vessel of some kind in Kiev. And they were basically well-to-do, but then in, 1917, the revolution in Russia 1 broke out, the ship was confiscated, and they returned to Pinsk. I know that long afterwards my mother was trying to recover that ship through legal action, but I don’t know whether she achieved anything or not.

My grandfather from Pinsk died when I was six, in 1936. I remember I went to the hospital to say goodbye to him, but he was no longer recognizing anyone. That was the one and only Jewish funeral that I have ever attended. Very traditional. After bringing him from the hospital, they placed Grandfather on the floor. I don’t remember whether it was a day or two, how long it is you lie there. [Editor’s note: Traditionally, the deceased person is buried on the day of death or the following morning]. Some Jews came and they held prayers. My mother sat barefooted on a little kind of stool; it even has a religious name, the thing [shivah].

Then they came, put him on a plank bed, he was wrapped in a shroud, and they carried him on that bed through Pinsk, and I remember they stopped by the synagogue. I guess that stop’s purpose was for those from the priestly origin to go out, they bade him farewell there, they didn’t go to the cemetery. I guess my mother was from the priestly caste. Later, at the cemetery, I remember how they were arranging him and putting those potsherds on his eyes. He was buried at the Jewish cemetery in Pinsk.

I certainly spoke Yiddish with my mother’s father Hersz, and with Grandfather Jankiel probably too. I can compare the two. The one, my father’s father, was, let’s say, a singing man, but also a hard one, stern and demanding. My maternal grandfather, in turn, was a very kind, very nice man.

Grandfather Hersz’s wife, my grandmother, my mother’s mother, was called Estera Rachela, her maiden name… I don’t know, Denenberg after her husband. My mother told me she was 18 when Grandmother Estera died [in 1918]. When they returned to Pinsk, Grandmother fell ill and then she died.

There was always a story about how Grandmother had those beautiful earrings on, how my mother took them off, and in the early years of her marriage she brought them to a pawnshop, and through all those years until 1939 I remember there was the problem that she couldn’t buy them back, and it was so painful for her. We had a portrait of Grandmother Estera at home. I can still see it – the tall woman in the photo, in a lacy collar, but, above all, a tall hair-do, I don’t think it was a wig, rather a kind of bun.

Grandmother Estera had a sister, Nojma Bojm, who lived in Pinsk, and a brother, who lived in Warsaw at Towarowa Street. I don’t remember his name. I remember a gray-haired man, with a very shapely face, a trimmed white beard and white hair. As he was a widower, he had a housekeeper, and I think she was Jewish. And I remember sitting on some platform in their kitchen and her treating me with various kinds of tidbits. I also remember that Grandmother Estera’s brother had two daughters, and that the apartment was rather large, but the furniture was heavy, so the overall impression was kind of cramped. I think those two daughters weren’t married because we always met them there. I know it was always a great event when we went to visit Uncle. I don’t remember them visiting us, my mother’s other relatives would often come, in fact, our home was always full of people.

My father was born in Kielce in 1895. He had four siblings. Uncle Ajzyk was born in 1898. He lived in Kielce. He probably worked as a bookkeeper, there was some industry in Kielce. He had two children. He must have married much earlier than my father, as by 1925 he already had a son, and in 1928 his daughter Hela [from Helena] was born. Soon after giving birth to Hela, Aunt died in the course of a medical procedure. Today, as an adult person, I think it may have been an abortion. She probably died the same year that I was born [1930], so I only know her name was Ida, and I remember her photo, also a very interesting person in that picture.

Aunt died and Uncle Ajzyk Dajbog married a very beautiful Russian-Jewish lady. She was called Usja, it was an abbreviation of some name. I remember that she was a very beautiful lady. She was wonderful to me, very kind. Uncle Ajzyk probably married some good money there, because he had a large apartment at Glowackiego Street in Kielce, with a bathroom, two entrances, and a maid. It was a home with the kind of luxuries I could only dream of, and I loved to go there.

My aunt was extraordinarily good to me, and to my grandmother too. I loved her very much, but her family was acting strange and had an unsympathetic attitude, I believe, towards Abramek [from Abram] and Hela. They didn’t like their father’s new wife either. The marriage produced Michas [from Michal], who, when the war started, was perhaps six years old. And Aunt Usja’s family was very much looking after that Michas, while continuously sneering at Hela and Abramek. And my memories of them aren’t very nice.

The next one after Uncle Ajzyk was Aunt Gienia, born in 1901, I don’t know what her husband’s surname was. His first name was Maks, their son was called Aronek [from Aron], and already a couple of years before the war Aunt moved in with the boy at Grandmother’s. It surely wasn’t that Uncle Maks had died, so they must have divorced. For what reason, I don’t know. Before she came to live with Grandmother, I had visited them, they lived in the countryside. I remember feeding the hens, so it must have been a farm of some sort. Uncle Maks was a Jew, but he looked like a peasant, something in the vein of Tevye the Milkman [main protagonist of Sholem Aleichem’s ‘Tevye and His Daughters’ and the musical ‘Fiddler on the Roof’]. Aunt Gienia was a teacher, I don’t know what specialty.

After Aunt Gienia came Uncle Noach, born in 1903, who was the only one of the whole Kielce family to survive the Holocaust, and I spent many years with him after the war. When the war broke out, he had already been married for some time. His first wife, Marjem, nee Ostrowicz, came from a Jewish family, a rather well-to-do one too, I guess, as her father had a farm. They had one son, Julek [from Julian], who was a year younger than me [born in 1931]. Uncle Noach had completed a cadet school and was a reserve officer. And I remember how he came once for some military exercise in his uniform, and I felt so proud.

The youngest of my father’s siblings was Uncle Srul, born in 1907, who secured a university degree. Uncle Noach completed a junior high school, and Srul completed a high school and entered a university. He graduated from the law faculty around 1935, and married Aunt Dora in 1939, right before the war. I happened to be in Kielce on vacation when I learned [about their wedding]. One of the first bombs that were dropped on Warsaw hit their apartment and while they luckily happened to be outside, I remember Father telling me the apartment got completely destroyed, and how he had to share his clothes with them.

In fact, Father had been helping them earlier as well, as Uncle Srul had lived with us. There was an incredible hunger for knowledge in that family, a drive for everyone to learn and get ahead in life as far as possible. Perhaps in all Jewish families… but here it was really exceptionally strong. My father completed only four grades and had to go to work because my grandparents weren’t coping, they had five children, plus the two of them, that was seven mouths to feed. Still, I remember from before the war that my father was a brilliant autodidact and achieved a lot educating himself and reading a lot.

My mother was born in 1900, and she came from the Kresy [common name for pre-war Poland’s eastern territories], namely from Pinsk. She was the only child, born more than twenty years after her parents had gotten married, when they no longer thought they’d ever have a child. All my relatives in Pinsk, whenever I’d be there, would always be telling me how they were celebrating my mother’s birth, how long it took, a week or two, and how my grandparents would basically do just everything for her.

My mother completed a high school in Kiev, and I remember that, at home, on the cupboard there rested a medal on a chain, and that it was a distinction for excellent performance at the high school finals. I actually studied the medal often, but I don’t remember what it showed. And I think Mother could even play the piano, I remember a photo at home somewhere showing her playing and Father standing beside her, listening.

I suppose my parents’ marriage had been arranged, in fact, I guess it was typical for Jews in those spheres. My mother came from Pinsk, my father from Kielce, but that’s no proof yet [that their marriage was arranged] because the sister of my grandmother Ruchla lived in Pinsk. My mother was five years younger than my father. I don’t know when precisely they got married. I was born in 1930, and there was one child before me that died at birth, so I guess they got married around 1927. So neither was my mother very young then, nor was my father very young. I remember no stories about their wedding. Perhaps they weren’t telling me about that yet because I was only nine [by the time the war broke out].

I remember my mother as truly religious. Perhaps she wasn’t that strict, didn’t wear a wig, but she was, let’s say, a progressive religious Jewish lady. I remember her praying. Whenever we were sick, she’d pray for our health. I remember that on Friday she’d light the candles, I remember there were mezuzot at home, and when she was carrying me to bed in the night, I always knew I’d kiss the mezuzah.

My father was a bookkeeper. In my early years, I remember, he worked at a cosmetics plant, it was called L’ami de Paris. It burned down, probably because someone set it on fire. I remember my father had a lot of trouble because of that, he was being summoned for interrogations. During the period when he worked there, my mother walked door-to-door with the cosmetics, trying to sell them. During that time, she’d leave me [with a nanny]. I know this didn’t last long, because Mother proved a poor salesperson. I don’t remember a nanny at our home, so I had to be very little then. But later I got in touch with that nanny again because at some point my mother helped them get a basement apartment in our house, and the nanny with her daughters moved in there.

Around 1935, Father got a job at a radio-technical company at Elektoralna Street, where he worked until 1939. I’m sure they were making radios because from time to time Father would bring home radios for testing. And I think he was friends with the boss because when in 1939 we went for a stroll to the Saski Gardens, the gentleman took a lot of photos of me.

My father was the most important person in the house, which was because of tradition, I think. I remember everyone had their place at the table and if I sat on Father’s chair when he wasn’t home and my mother saw it, she’d be very angry at me. Everything was subordinated to Father. However hungry we’d be, we’d always wait until he came back and only then sit down to have dinner. I remember him as very exacting and always expecting me to be a top student. He was always giving me parables on how it was necessary to study and all.

Growing up

I was born and lived at 32 Dzielna Street. Dzielna was a cobbled street, and many a time I got hurt on those cobbles. Our apartment had two rooms with a kitchen, a toilet, no bathroom. A washtub stood in the kitchen and there we took our baths. It wasn’t a very large apartment, which means we were hardly well off. My father contributed to the marriage only what he was earning, and the estate of my mother’s father had been divided into plots and handed out to the peasants, so Mother didn’t contribute much either.

There were four of us: my mother, my father, me, and my sister. We also had subtenants, because you had to make some extra money. All the rooms were always occupied, especially that you entered the sleeping room from the kitchen. We slept in the sleeping room but also used the kitchen and the dining room on a normal basis. The tenants slept in the dining room, there were two sorts of couches there. My father’s brother, Uncle Srul, slept in the kitchen.

I remember precisely how the apartment looked like, the photos on the walls, the pieces of furniture. On the desk stood a big, old-fashioned crank-powered gramophone. I loved it when they always played Jewish songs, and Father would sing Jewish songs to me. I remember a light-colored wardrobe. A mirror was set in its door, and when Father was shaving himself or knotting his tie, he’d always sing. I was supposed to feed him the lines of the text. I remember which songs he sang, the one that comes to mind above all is ‘Margaritkes.’ And the earliest one I remember is ‘Lulinke, main kind,’ a lullaby; they had been singing it to me even before my sister was born. We had this thick songbook, I liked to browse through it, though of course I couldn’t read.

To this day I have a fondness for Jewish songs. Those songs are on records today, and when I am somewhere and I don’t even know what song it will be, as soon as I hear the first chords I feel warmth filling my body and a moment later I hear a song from my childhood playing.

My sister and I were the first generation in our family born in Warsaw. I was less than three years old when my sister Chana was born on 6th February 1933. I remember she was born in our apartment, and I remember the moment when I suddenly terribly wanted to see my mother, and they let me in and I snuggled up to her. Then they took me to the kindergarten for the rest of that day, the place was called ‘Freblowka’ [from the teaching system developed by F. Fröbel]. And when I got back home from there, my father, all happy, told me I had a sister. That’s how I came to remember it, for I actually felt a kind of grudge, and felt it for quite a long time afterwards. This means there was some envy there.

My parents went to synagogue, though not on every Saturday but rather on the main holidays, for example Rosh Hashanah or Judgment Day [Yom Kippur]. On those days, my mother went no matter what, and then she’d go to the bevy. I think I accompanied her once or twice. I don’t remember precisely where the synagogue was. I think it was a prayer house near our house, at 7 Dzielna Street. I remember it was in the courtyard. And just before the war, when I was older, I remember standing with my father in front of the synagogue. Obviously you could hear everything from there, I don’t know whether it was full or my father didn’t want to go inside. Besides, I know that Father didn’t fast on that day at all, and he even told me, ‘Just don’t tell your mother!’ He went there because of tradition, not because of any spiritual need.

Our home was absolutely kosher, Mother observed it not only for her own sake but also to avoid a situation where some relative would visit us and they wouldn’t be able to eat dinner with us. I remember how she’d kosher the cutlery if we happened to mix the dairy ones with the meat ones. In the kitchen, under the sink, a hole was cut out in the planks, there was soil there, and you put a fork or a knife there, and after it had been there for some time, it was kosher.

Mother permitted us to eat out. For Christmas Eve, the nanny would take me to her home. Mother knew I’d be eating something there and would only ask me that I don’t bring anything home. Father didn’t have anything against that at all, because, if he could, he’d probably not even eat kosher at home.

I remember how Mother would bless us with a living fish or chicken, swirling it around our heads. You stood in the kitchen over the sink so that if the fish slipped out of your hand, it would land in the sink. I don’t remember whether it was because of some holiday, or simply because of Mother’s spiritual need. Perhaps it was a regional tradition stemming from the Kaparot, because Mother came from the Kresy. It was usually a fish, because you had to kill the animal afterwards, and with a chicken you had to go to a shochet, whereas a fish you could kill yourself.

Our home was very traditional and all the holidays were celebrated the traditional way. Guests were always invited. Not necessarily from the family, often friends or our subtenants. As Father was the eldest member of the family, he was obviously well acquainted with the ritual, and it was him who’d hold the Pesach seder, or organize the Chanukkah. That, or explaining the Purim, as he was doing for us, the children. So the knowledge about tradition was being passed on to us by our not-very-religious father rather than by Mother. Father simply had the ambition of making us familiar with the Jewish tradition. I knew the biblical stories about the various holidays. Except the fact that I had a course on that at school, I learned a lot from my parents who had been telling me those stories as kind of children’s tales.

My favorite holiday was Pesach, because of how long it lasted, of the special food, the preparations, the people, the laughter, the songs. I’m sure Mother always hired some help before Pesach. If anyone, it was Gienia, the daughter of my nanny. The next holiday I remember well was Chanukkah. As each day you lit one candle more than the previous one, I’d light one candle the first day, then my sister would light two the second day, then I’d light three, and there’d be a quarrel: ‘Yes, but I lit only two yesterday, and she’s lighting three.’ Father would say then, ‘Yes, but tomorrow you’ll be lighting four.’ We loved lighting the candles. We’d be choosing them, picking the color, and so on.

Of the Pesach dishes, I liked matzah fried with eggs very much, or scrambled eggs with matzah flour. And I remember that one year my grandmother from Kielce came for Pesach to spend the holiday with her oldest son; Grandfather was already dead, and those other sons of hers didn’t observe the holiday were closely. She came, and I remember she made me those scrambled eggs with matzah flour. I know certainly that I didn’t always like the fish. Broth with meatballs! And I very much liked roast duck. In fact, all my children love it to this day. But probably my most beloved dish was the chulent. And it would probably still be, as I miss it very much, but I haven’t been able to find such chulent anywhere. When my mother made chulent, it’d be taken to the bakery, because you have to bake it in those ovens.

From time to time we’d all go to eat out; there was this family-run Jewish restaurant, very good, right near the Jewish Theater on Dzielna 2, in the direction of Karmelicka Street. I remember we went there from time to time, and they also had good chulent. During the war, well, I probably didn’t even remember there had ever been a thing called chulent. After the war, there still were some Jewish restaurants. If I went to one, I’d always order chulent. Before 1968 3, you could get chulent at the Amika on Kredytowa Street. After 1968, the [Amika] staff all left. And in those Jewish restaurants of today, the new ones, it’s not the same thing at all. It neither looks nor tastes anywhere near like the old chulent. I can’t make chulent myself, even though my friends tried to teach me.

And, in Pinsk, there was one more dish that I’ve never seen around here. For dinner they served not potatoes, but potato cake, baked in those Russian ovens as well. It was called teigachtz. I loved it, I could eat it cold between the meals, rush into the kitchen, grab a slice and run back to play. It didn’t have to be hot. I don’t know how they made it, but it could have been grated potatoes mixed with boiled potatoes. I’ve tried to order it in several places, but it’s not the same.

And one more thing: cabbage with raisins. It’s also very good, and I often served it at my home in adult life. I made it from memory only, as I never saw a recipe anywhere. You prepare it more or less like Christmas Eve cabbage, and then it’s only a matter of adding raisins and sugar. The flavor should be sweet-and-sour. You can also make it with sauerkraut. So if I cooked sauerkraut for Christmas, I’d leave some for bigos [Polish traditional food, similar to Irish stew] and some for the cabbage with raisins.

Our family read a lot, and the whole house was full with books by Sholem Aleichem 4 and other Jewish books, though not necessarily by Jewish authors. I read ‘Pinocchio’ [fictional character that first appeared in ‘The Adventures of Pinocchio’ by Carlo Collodi in 1883] and ‘Robinson Crusoe’ [novel by English writer Daniel Defoe (1659/1661-1731), first published in 1719 in Yiddish. Whatever there was in Yiddish, my father would make sure I read it. However, I can’t say how familiar my parents were with Polish literature. My father was very serious about Jewish culture, the writers, I was also being taken to Jewish theater. I saw Bobe Jachne, I guess it was by Goldfaden 5. There was this theater on Dzielna [Scala] and I saw it there.

Of course, Father also read the papers. I know he read one Polish one, and I’m not sure whether it wasn’t ‘Nowosci.’ But how the Jewish one was called I don’t remember at all. I remember I was learning the letters of the alphabet from those papers and I’d cut out the letter ‘n’ because I liked it very much.

We spoke mostly Yiddish at home, my parents certainly spoke Yiddish to each other, and Father certainly spoke Yiddish to us, while Mother talked to us in Polish. My parents thought it very important that we knew Yiddish but that we weren’t isolated from Polish either. I don’t know about my sister, but I understood both Yiddish and Polish well, so if my parents didn’t want us to understand a conversation, they’d switch to Russian. Every time I returned home from my grandfather in Pinsk and started talking, my mother, I remember, found my [eastern] accent offensive. Mother completed a Russian high school but her native tongue was Yiddish, just like Father’s.

There was always a lot of talk at home about World War I. I knew that Poland had been partitioned 6 and became independent, I was raised on that. On 11th November 7, we’d go with Father to the Victory Square and watch the ceremonious change of guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. I remember Pilsudski’s funeral 8, Pilsudski’s death. In fact, as far as Pilsudski is concerned, we knew a lot about him as children. He was a kind of hero for us, a moral authority. And I remember the funeral day in May 1935. Some ceremony was being held in the church, I stood at the fence, there was a crowd of people, and the mood was mournful.

I remember 1st May. [Editor’s note: workers’ holiday established by the 2nd International, celebrated annually since 1890 with mass rallies, demonstrations, parades, etc. It was illegal in pre-war Poland.]. I remember how I was five years old and it was my birthday and my father said he was taking me to see the parade. And I remember Mother was really scared, but Father just took me and we went to Smocza Street, I remember he gave me a piggyback ride. Joining the parade was out of the question, of course, because as soon as it would reach Nalewki Street, the police would step in.

In his youth, my father belonged to the Zionist organization Hashomer Hatzair 9, and later, after he had left it, he sympathized with the Bund 10, though I don’t think my parents were Bund members as such. Father wasn’t a member for sure, though I know that he was involved in union work at his company, and that union meetings were often held at our home; if they had some problem to discuss, they’d hold a meeting, and Father would preside.

In our house, two floors above us, was located that famous communist public library called Zycie 11, and the police would very often raid the place; in fact, the library is even mentioned by Mrs. Ronikier in her book ‘In the Garden of Memory,’ I think her grandmother used to borrow books from there [Joanna Olczak-Ronikier, ‘In the Garden of Memory,’ 2002]. So the general mood and the atmosphere were definitely leftist.

My political consciousness was growing to the rhythm of my contacts with our subtenants. Those subtenants were usually KZMP 12 members. They liked me very much, and would talk to me about the Soviet Union, about communism. One guy was actually a KPP 13 member, and if he needed to hide away from the police, he’d hide with us.

Among our subtenants were two cousins of ours from Brest: Sjoma and Jasza, the sons of Grandfather Jankiel’s brother. They came to Warsaw in search for work. Sjoma was a KZMP member, a bricklayer, a genuine proletarian, a worker. I loved him very much, and after the war I never happened upon any trace of him. A wonderful young man, ailing, hard-working, carrying the bricks on that yoke. And it was him who was telling me all those wonderful stories about life in the Soviet Union.

Jasza worked at some confectionery factory as a simple worker. Shortly before the war, it could have been 1937 or 1938, he was getting married. And as he had no other family here except us, and the wedding was traditional, my mother was the one to stand with him under the chuppah. I remember I was so proud Mother was the most important person during the ceremony, kind of standing in for his own mother.

The wedding took place at Nowolipie Street. And I remember, you know, children love sweets, that there was food and drink, there was halva in all possible forms. It was all at the same place: the wedding and the buffet. I guess that’s how the Jewish weddings looked like, as that’s the only one that I’ve ever seen. I remember the bride sitting with a white cloth over her face, though I don’t remember whether it was the groom who was taking it off or somebody else. During the war, Jasza spent time in a Soviet labor camp and after the war, when he was passing through Poland, we met.

I remember my Warsaw neighborhood from my childhood, it wasn’t very interesting: Dzielna, Gesia, Smocza, it was an area where rather poor people lived [all these streets were located in the Jewish quarter before the war]. I remember we lived on the ground floor and the windows of our room faced a small kind of garden that the janitor kept there. I remember we played in the yard, but it was a mixed kind of story. It was like that: there were Polish kids, and there were Jewish kids, and mostly I was playing with the Jewish ones. I don’t even know which group was more numerous. There were often conflicts in that yard, but there were also friendships. I remember boys who had a bicycle and everyone could in turns take a ride on it, but I also remember that they wouldn’t always allow me to.

We were friends with a Polish girl that lived in the front. Her name, if I remember it well, was Lilka. And I remember a situation where she took some toy away from me that was mine and I wanted it back, and told her to give it back to me. And at that point her grandmother, I think it was, came out and I remember how she twisted my ear for supposedly being a liar. I remember we always played very nicely, also at her home. I don’t remember her coming to play with me at my home. Perhaps because we were the poorer ones and couldn’t offer the conditions [she was used to]. Their apartment, in turn, was beautiful, a really luxurious place.

It is somehow symbolic that we lived virtually two steps away from the Pawiak 14, and I think it was actually the female ward, the ‘Serbia’ [common name for the building within the Pawiak facility where in 1939-1945 a female ward was located]. We were one house away. A guard from the Pawiak lived in our house. I remember her leaving for work, always in uniform. And virtually opposite our gate was a church, the one that survived after the whole ghetto had been destroyed. [St. Augustin church, 18 Nowolipki Street. During the German occupation, already in the ghetto area, it was open for several months for Catholics of Jewish origin]. When I was little, my nanny would sometimes take me there, and there were no conflicts, only sometimes some devotees would be standing at the gate and would start shouting at Nanny for bringing a Jew to the church.

I remember I was on the beach one day [in Warsaw] and some hoodlums set their sights on me, a Jewish child, and they threw me into water. I couldn’t swim; I could have been six or seven, it was before the war. And again the nerves, someone pulled me out. Also I remember that when you went to the Krasinski Gardens, you’d often meet with aggression. Father came from work one day all shaken – someone had given him a beating. He had been walking through the Saski Gardens. Only later I did find out it was the period in 1937, 1938, when university students were attacking Jews, and it was them who beat him up 15.

As for the Warsaw of my childhood, I remember visits to an amusement park, very nice. There was one in the Praski Park. I remember walks down the Vistula bank. In 1939, we went for a walk on the Vistula, the river had flooded, we went to see how it looked, and I remember I returned with my new shoes all wet, because, on our way back, the river was already so high, you had to wade in water.

I remember I liked Marszalkowska Street very much. My parents would take me and my sister for a stroll and we’d walk down Marszalkowska. The beautiful shops, the shop window displays, and the detail that I remember best are Singer sewing machines. There was a large store, a window display, and human-size dolls sitting at those machines. There was also a confectionery store on Marszalkowska with windows that you couldn’t see and I’d always be fooled when father said, ‘Come on, reach out, treat yourself!’ and I’d hit the glass with my hand trying to snatch a candy.

We also had other relatives in Warsaw besides the ones I’ve already mentioned. Mother had some cousins from her side, though I don’t know whether maternal or paternal. They lived at Ogrodowa, I often visited them. They visited us often too. They were called the Lauenbergs. Those were Aunt Fania, Uncle Eliasz, and their daughter, Raja. I remember I even once went with them to Swider [one of pre-war Warsaw’s favorite summer resorts, some 30 km east of Warsaw] for vacation.

I think other Lauenbergs from the same line lived on Waliców [street in Warsaw’s Wola district]. Those were better off, I know that mother went to them from time to time to ask for a loan. They lived close to my school at Krochmalna. I’m not sure but I think they kept a pharmacy. Eliasz Lauenberg’s mother and his brother Nachman lived in Pinsk. Nachman’s son, Dawid, everyone called him Dodek, was in Pinsk when the war started, then he was arrested by the Russians, sent to Siberia, from where he somehow managed to get through to Palestine.

When I turned six, my father decided it was time for me to go to school. He came one day and said, ‘Tomorrow you go to school.’ And he took me to a school at 36 Krochmalna Street [a seven-grade Bund school] that was called Yidishe Folksshule, or Yiddish Popular School. He was proud I’d be studying Yiddish. As there was also a kindergarten there, my sister went there with me. We were on the same floor.

I remember the school as one of the best periods in my life. Wonderful, warm, friendly, sympathetic. Very much pro-community. With such great teachers. There were three schools of the kind in Warsaw, at 36 Krochmalna Street [the Chmurner], at Karmelicka [no. 29, the Grosser], and at Mila [no. 51, the Michalewicz]. I have no idea where precisely the one at Mila was, but the one at Karmelicka I visited once, as that was from where I was leaving for a summer camp. All three were elementary schools, that is, seven grades. And I remember my parents’ plans to send to me to a gymnasium to Vilnius, as there was a YIWO 16 center there.

A school apron was obligatory for all students. It made us all identical. We didn’t wear coats, like the high school ones with insets, which I regretted very much, but I had a short navy blue coat with a light-colored collar, and I remember I wore a badge on my beret, I’d swear it looked like an open book and four letters C-I-Sh-O, which stood for Centrale Yidysze Shulorganizatsye 17. I think the school was operated by the CIShO. And I think the Bund was its patron. I certainly remember it was leftist. I know the police often visited the place, at least that’s what my mother, who was on the parent committee, told me. Some of the teachers were Bund members for sure.

I remember songs we were singing, those were revolutionary songs, and I remember that when the war in Spain 18 broke out, and we went with the whole class to the Saski Gardens, we wore red bowknots tied to our coats. There is something I wonder about that we weren’t afraid we’d be beaten up, but still we went there and sang about Madrid, about Barcelona, there is a Yiddish song about it.

The school was a per-fee one, it wasn’t a public school. I only remember there was talk that the fees varied depending on how much a given family could pay, so that no child would be excluded. Most of my classmates came from mid-income families, and there were a few from more affluent homes, who cared about the quality of teaching and character formation, as that was what the school was known for. There were a few students from poorer homes, too, such as myself.

It was a co-ed school. We certainly learned to write and read, also arithmetic. I didn’t know the Hebrew alphabet when I went to school, so it was there I started to learn it. First with play-dough, I remember, we were making those letters, I’d bring them home and show them to Father. We didn’t study religion, but rather Jewish history and tradition. I remember there was a course where we’d read all those Bible-based legends.

Typically for the lower grades, I had only one teacher, Ms. Zonenszejn [or Zonszajn]. A woman in her thirties, I guess. It seems to me that if she entered here now, looking the way she did back then, I’d recognize her. I remember what the headmaster looked like, a slender woman, but I don’t remember her name. We had a music teacher, a tall dark-haired man. Someone else taught us eurhythmics. A lady played the piano, we did the exercises to the music. That was taking place in the large hall. I liked my teacher very much. And I liked the eurhythmics lady, and the music man. [Marek Edelman, remembers that the headmaster’s name was Oruszkes, and the music teacher was called Tropianski.]

It wasn’t so in that school that everyone ate when they wanted; instead, after the third lesson, there was the long break, everyone pulled out their lunch on a napkin, waited, and the teacher stopped at every child to check what you had. Sometimes this or that kid had nothing, and in such a case we’d share with them. I remember one time when I wasn’t hungry and lied I had forgotten my breakfast, I suddenly had more than I had actually brought with me. Then the [teacher] would wish us ‘bon appétit’ and we’d all eat together. Such equality was very strictly observed.

There was no school on Saturday. You could take per-fee music classes. It cost little, while permitting many children to start their music education. It is there I started playing the piano. We didn’t have a piano at home. I went to practice at school, or to the teacher’s home somewhere in Waliców. The theory classes took place at the teacher’s home. On Saturdays, we went for ‘solfeggio’ and music theory classes at school. We hurried for those classes after dinner. We went by foot, as we were so poor we didn’t even go to school by tram, to save the few pennies, and it was a long way. It had to be a special occasion for us to take a tram or a horse cab. If we were really very tired, we took the ‘0’ bus that stopped near our street.

Sometimes, perhaps twice during the school year, we went with school to a TOZ 19 bathhouse at Gesia Street. It was a kind of swimming pool, and I guess our clothes went to the disinfection chamber, as we had to wait for them.

I completed three grades before the war, and that school really gave me a lot, as I later went through all kinds of foster homes, various situations, dormitories. Everyone knows me as a person well prepared for social intercourse, helpful, conscientious – it all came from there, and I always told my children that I had been taught all that at that school, that’s what I think, perhaps at home too, but most of such altruistic things I learned at school.

In my class, I was close friends with Wisia Folman. She was, I guess, the only classmate I kept in touch with outside school. She was an only child. Her mother was a pediatrician, her father also a doctor, I think, and they lived at Chlodna Street. Their home wasn’t Orthodox, but I guess something of the tradition must have survived there, that they didn’t feel assimilated, if they sent the girl to a Jewish school. They probably also wanted to bring her up modestly, nicely, with a lot of knowledge. Not as a petty bourgeois. I remember that at her home we spoke Polish. Wisia was one of those better-off kids at school. They not only had a maid but even a governess! I remember her as a pretty girl. A very nice, very pleasant home where I used to spend a lot of time. Upon my mother’s consent, they’d take me to cinema. Wisia also invited me for her birthday party, a very sumptuous one. There were a lot of kids, the guests received gifts. The last time I saw Wisia was in 1939. I don’t know what happened to her.

Wisia’s governess was Jewish, I remember she even played in a Jewish show for students at the Nowosci Theater 20. I also played at the Nowosci. In 1939, for the end of the school year, our music school staged ‘A szlitn weg’ [Sled Way]. It was a children’s symphony, written by some German composer. Virtually all students took part. I played the triangle. Generally, if we went anywhere with school, it was to the Nowosci, I think the school had an agreement of some sort with it. Perhaps because the theater was owned by Ida Kaminska 21.

Once, and only once, I went to a summer camp organized by my school. In 1939, my parents decided I’d go, perhaps because I had grown up somewhat, or perhaps because you had to be of a certain age, because I don’t remember any smaller kids there. It was during the summer recess, in July. We gathered [in the school building] at Karmelicka. The hygienist examined us for cleanliness, there was some paper to fill.

The camp was near the Medem Sanatorium 22, so it must have been Miedzeszyn [town 20 km south of Warsaw]. We were divided into age groups. I’d swear I was in the youngest group because we wore panties but no bra, and the next group wore bras. A certain story is actually connected to this. I wore no bra, and yet, at the age of nine, I had already developed sizeable breasts. Those older boys in charge of distributing food would every time be just keep gaping at me, until finally one day the teacher took me to the side and asked me to wear an undershirt and shorts. It was only then that I got embarrassed, because I had had no idea that something was wrong.

Everything was so organized. I remember each day of the camp, all identical. I don’t even know whether I could tell Saturday from Sunday, Sunday from another day. Washing. Irrespective of the weather, there were tubs outside, some taps, after which we’d gather for the roll call. We’d sing a song, a very revolutionary one. Then some notices or letters would be read out.

Then the breakfast. The house where we lived had porches, with tables and benches placed alongside them. I don’t think they had to observe kashrut or non-working Saturdays, as no one checked on us at all. It was because of that socialistic, irreligious philosophy, I guess, that they didn’t pay attention to kosher food. There were also duties. Simple tasks that were to prepare us for real life. After dinner we took a rest, everyone had to be quiet. You had money deposited by the teacher, and after dinner you could take some, there was a small store, you could buy something. But they’d also look to see whether each child had money for that chocolate bar. The atmosphere was very good.

What I also remember from that summer camp is that on the day of departure for Warsaw I got a fever, fell sick, had to lie in bed, and I didn’t return home. I was very happy because I didn’t feel like returning at all. I won a few days for recovering, then a few days until someone would turn up who’d take me home. I stayed with the next batch. I think one girl from my batch had paid for two, so she was there with me. I know it was a great time. I wonder now how come it was that neither of my parents came for me. Was the budget so tight they couldn’t afford the train ticket? Or did they simply not care? I don’t remember my parents as not caring [for us]. And here they waited for an opportunity for someone to take me to Warsaw.

For vacations I often went to relatives to Kielce and Pinsk. I don’t remember how long those stays lasted. Perhaps it was weeks, perhaps a month, perhaps it was days. I don’t recall ever going with my parents. My father would take me to the train station and find someone who was going in the same direction. He’d buy a special guardian booklet next to your ticket, fill it, and I’d travel in the company of a stranger. There, in turn, someone would pick me up at the station. I could have been five or six. I guess it was a question of money because I don’t remember Father ever going with me to Kielce. He went for Grandfather’s funeral, that I remember. He was with me in Kielce, that I also remember, but that was the only time.

Pinsk was a place where I felt at home. I remember it with great fondness and great longing. I simply felt at ease there. Grandfather had a house, and that house was kept by my grandmother’s sister, Nojma Bojm, because he was a widower. You woke up, went out to the backyard, there were friends – you didn’t go to the downtown. There was a garden. I remember sweet corn, which I loved, and cucumbers. I see it all kind of radiantly.

Uncle Eliasz Wertheim, the son of the sister of Grandmother Ruchla (the one that forbade me to comb my hair on Saturday), this is my father’s maternal-side cousin, lived in Pinsk. He and my father were close friends. Uncle Eliasz had a small factory that made wax pencils, color ones. They were made in the courtyard. I very much liked to go there and watch the whole process. When I was in Pinsk, I think I was actually spending more time with them than at Grandfather’s.

Eliasz had four children; one of his sons, Szymek [from Szymon], was a year older than me, his daughter Gitele, or Gitla, was a year younger, and with those two I was very close. He also had two elder children, daughter Klara, and son Fajwel. In 1940, the elder daughter got married. A beautiful girl. With the elder son [Fajwel] they must have had some major problems, I remember he had been sent to Otwock to a reformatory and once escaped from there and came to us, to Warsaw. My mother took him back there so as to avoid any trouble.

I had many girl friends in Pinsk. I played with kids from the nearby houses, as those were Jewish houses, as in a shtetl. It seems to me that Belarussian kids were coming too, though I’m not sure. Nor can I recall which language we spoke when playing, I think it was a mixed kind of one, as each of us knew both Polish and Yiddish. I know one thing, though, that upon returning to Warsaw, I had a nasty, eastern accent, I was drawling, singing. In Kielce, however, I was still the well-behaved, quiet, good child that obeyed the adults. It was a bit more stern there [than in Pinsk], though Grandmother was very kind and loved me very much. And I have fond memories of Kielce, because I had many cousins there, many relatives, which I didn’t have in Pinsk.

During the war

When the war broke out 23, I was in Kielce. After returning from the summer camp I spent a few days at home, after which they put me on a train the usual method and I went to Kielce. It was August, and towards the end of the month I was supposed to go back home. War hung in the air, the mobilization had already been announced, and you couldn’t get into a train, all were crammed with soldiers.

During that time, my father’s brother, Uncle Ajzyk, got his mobilization orders. I remember how we went to see him off, it wasn’t 1st September yet. He went to the front. He was subsequently taken prisoner of war, but the Germans released them and he returned home. I know nothing more of either him, Grandmother, or Aunt Gienia. None of my relatives survived from the Kielce ghetto 24. And when I was supposed to go back home, I couldn’t any more. I think Kielce was bombed right on 1st September, as I remember that three or four days later, the Germans were already in town, communications with Warsaw had been cut off.

I returned to Warsaw sometime towards the end of the year [1939], some lady was going back and she took me with her. What I remember from the trip is that there were some Germans on the train and, knowing Yiddish, I understood a bit of what they were talking about. They were looking out the windows and wondering why everything was so destroyed, so ruined, and who the hell had done it.

It took us something like 48 hours to get to Warsaw on that train. We arrived, and there was a curfew, and what can you do, there’s no way to go home. And I remember that lady fixed it somehow so that German soldiers escorted us off. This was the beginning of the war, so it wasn’t yet like it was to be later. In any case, they didn’t ask us whether we were Jews and they walked us off right to the front door.

When I came home, I could hardly recognize it, many things weren’t there anymore, having been sold. Father had sold many books, but, instead of bringing the money home, and he was a collector of rare books, he’d only buy new ones. I know the budget was very tight, there was no income anymore, and no provisions had been hoarded up.

Before my return from Kielce, my father had made an attempt to run away with my sister, in a group with other people, to Pinsk, to wait things through there 25, and it was then he sold many things to have money for that. But my sister broke down, she got hysterical at the border, cried she wanted go back to Mama, and Father had to go back with her.

After my return, preparations started for another journey in that direction. My father and I set off somewhere in early 1940. Even before the ghetto was set up 26, because afterwards fleeing was no longer possible. It’s hard for me to talk about it, because we left Mother behind. Obviously the calculation was that she would watch over those few things that we had left, that the war would soon be over. Perhaps there was no money to pay for us all – the guides charged per head, after all. What did Father hope for, how did he think we’d meet Mother again? I don’t know, maybe he thought we’d find each other [after the war] if all of us survived. It’s hard to say.

My sister stayed with Mother. The parting was very hard. Mother plead, begged for Father not to take me, I remember the argument in the kitchen when my father actually got angry: it was out of the question that I’d stay. I had to go to school. I don’t remember being emotional in any way about leaving. Perhaps because that was precisely how I had been brought up – riding the train with this person, riding the train with that person, I don’t know, perhaps I was simply unemotional.

We had to cross the bridge in the evening to get to Praga [Warsaw district on the right bank of the Vistula], sleep there, and then from one of the train stations we went in the direction of Sadowne [70 km east of Warsaw], and there we got off. There were six or seven of us. There were two kids, me and Mietek, the son of our neighbor, a tailor. We were in one group with my father’s brother, the one that had studied law [Uncle Srul], and with Aunt Dora [his wife]. We got off, it was Sunday, a church opposite the station, a crowd of people in front of it. We got off that train, with backpacks, and were supposed to meet the guide. He was to take us over to the Russian side. You had to cross two borders, the German one, and then the Russian one.

Earlier, following the Ribbentrop pact 27, the Russians were letting people in, and many people fled then and got through the border easily. When we were fleeing, the Russians had already closed the border, and the Germans could basically arrest and murder us, and the Russians arrest us, certainly, or simply refuse passage. And that guide’s job was to show us the way so that we’d meet neither the Germans nor the Russians.

And there, right in front of the church, a scene just like from that Lanzmann film [‘Shoah’ by Claude Lanzmann], those churchgoers attacked us. I don’t remember whether those were the youths only, I remember they snatched our backpacks, we were robbed of everything. And only Aunt Dora refused to let go of her things, and we went back to Warsaw, to spend the night at Praga. From there Mietek and I went on foot to Muranow, back home. The adults had decided to send us forward, because they didn’t want to stick their heads out in the case of a roundup [and it was necessary to let the families know about the unsuccessful excursion].

My mother almost fainted when she saw me. And that time she went with us to Praga. We spent a week there, and Mother again organized funds for an escape. I remember the second departure better because my mother and my sister this time came to the station to see us off. I had a heart-shaped brooch, you know, a little thing with a photo of Shirley, I think it was, [Shirley Temple, born 1928, American actress], and Hanka [from Chana] had always been pleading that I give it to her, and I’d always refuse. That time, at the station, she asked me again, I broke down, that’s how I remember it today, and I gave it to her. And that was the last time... I can still see the scene, the platform, and me with Mother. I even remember how she was dressed. She was in a collarless coat, a dark one, and a small toque, a kind of small hat. I don’t remember, though, how my sister was dressed.

And so we embarked on the same voyage again. This time in Sadowne we managed to find a guide who took us on a horse carriage to the other side of the bridge on the Bug river. The Germans somehow didn’t bother us. Then we left the carriage behind and the guide started leading us through some woods and fields. It got dark, I remember we were walking, and there were some ditches, my father fell into one and pulled me with him, and we both got wet.

After that we’re walking a long time through the woods, and suddenly, out of nowhere, there appear two guys on bicycles, and they’re like, you know, typical szmalcowniks 28. They were Polish. As I remember it today, they were middle-aged individuals, in peaked caps, the so-called cycling caps. And they started demanding money, that we give them everything we have. We didn’t have much to give them, we refused to give anything, and they simply rode away to let the German gendarmerie know, and all of us, including the two Poles and the guide, were subsequently arrested.

The Germans put us in a barn, on some hay, we lied on the floor. I cried all night – I was afraid, and Father was trying to calm me down. The extermination of Jews in those border areas had already begun. The ghetto in Warsaw had not been set up yet at the time when we were leaving, and here some cleansing, deporting was already under way. 29

In the morning, the Germans took them all away, what they did to them – I don’t know. Us they took somewhere through some woods, and at the edge of the woods told us to empty our pockets. They didn’t take everything. And they told us how to go to circumvent the Russians. We didn’t really believe them, and so we went in the opposite direction, until at some point we walked into the neutral strip, right in front of the German barrier, and the Germans guards go, ‘Stop, where are you going?’ We made up a story that we were fleeing from Russia to the other side. They said, ‘Sorry, but you can’t go, the border’s closed.’ They said they wouldn’t let us through, but at least we knew which direction the Russians were.

Still, it was broad daylight, we couldn’t [walk] on the neutral strip, so we turned, and there, still in the neutral zone, was some cottage, and we went there. We waited until it got dark, and the man that lived there agreed to take us through. We set off in the night, and suddenly we happened upon two Russian border guards, and we heard them ask, ‘Where are you going?’ in Russian.

Aunt Dora took matters in her hands from there and started talking to them. They said the border had been closed, it’s forbidden, they can’t let us through. But because in my pocket I had two wrist-watches that we were supposed to give to someone in Bialystok [a town 190 km north-east from Warsaw], she bribed them with those watches. The Russians were extremely greedy for watches those days. And they took those watches, let us through, and told us, ‘Now, if anyone stops you, tell them we’ve returned you because you wanted to cross to the German side.’ And this way we crossed the border.

After that we parted with Aunt Dora and Uncle Srul, they went to Luck [a town 390 km south-east of Warsaw, today western Ukraine], and we went to Bialystok and from there by train to Pinsk, where we took up residence in Grandfather Hersz’s house. Grandfather had died some time before, but Grandmother Estera’s sister, Aunt Nojma Bojm, still lived in the house.

During that time, we kept in touch with Mother. The postal service still worked. Seldom, but letters from Mother were arriving, I was writing her, and my sister, whom we had left illiterate, sent us a postcard: ‘Daddy, I’m writing this myself and with my right hand,’ she was a lefty, you know. They were begging for food and writing about hunger; those letters were very desperate. Father must have been regretting bitterly leaving them there and fleeing just with me. Not that we should have stayed, but that, no matter what, we should have all fled together. He was doing all he could, wrote letters to Stalin, to Molotov 30. Tried hard, in his naïve belief, of course, that he’d manage to bring Mother and Hanka to Pinsk. I don’t remember whether we sent them any food. If anyone sent them anything, it was Father who at the time was living separately. My aunt and I certainly couldn’t afford to.

I lived for over a year in Pinsk [until June 1942], I went to school, and at first it was actually a Jewish school, but then they transformed it into a Russian one, and I didn’t relocate because I wanted to stay with the same kids. In fact, those weren’t Jewish kids only, which was probably why they transformed the school into a Russian one. I stayed, and that was a very good decision, because the knowledge of Russian would prove very important for me in my later life. My father worked out of town, coming only once a month to Pinsk to visit me at school, and he was very cross at me for not transferring to a Jewish school. In June, the summer holidays began, and, virtually a few days before Hitler invaded Russia 31, Father came for me and took me to his place [where he lived out of town].

In early July 1941 we again had to flee from the advancing Germans, this time into the Soviet interior, and somehow we ended up in the Kharkov area [a city in north-eastern Ukraine, close to the Russian border], thinking that the war wouldn’t get that far and we’d be able to wait things through. We were there for a month or two, and in October, when a new German offensive started, we had to flee again.

This time it was on foot, walking through mud so deep you had to watch not to lose your shoes. We were walking like this for 10, 15 kilometers a day. Until we reached some train station and got by train to the Saratov district [city in Russia, some 1900 km east of Kharkov], and there father simply reported to the authorities and applied for work. They sent us to the countryside, a small town, a village, actually, called Balanda [730 km north-east of Saratov], and there we stopped, they already treated us as refugees. We settled there, it was late fall 1941.

On 13th July 1942 my father was taken for trench digging, to the work squads. I don’t know whether he tried to extricate himself from that somehow or not, because he left me right on the spot. But he wrote: ‘One has to fight somewhere, one has to do something, and you try to find some children’s home.’ But a year had passed before I found a children’s home, and in the meantime I was going from place to place, babysitting or doing something else, for food, for shelter. I was twelve years old and completely unprepared for living on my own, for hard work. After a year the head of the local education department got interested in me, she met me in a queue somewhere and asked why I wasn’t in school, so I told her I didn’t have the possibility, and she referred me officially to a children’s home.

In 1943, I landed in a children’s home in Balanda, and remained there until 1945. There were no Jewish kids there. Between 1941 and 1944 I met neither any Poles nor any Jews. In the children’s home, I went to school on a regular basis. Life in the home was difficult. Most of the kids were abandoned children, usually aggressive ones. They threw knives, killed each other, even the little ones went to plunder with the older kids. It was very bad. But there was a small group of us, the war orphans, and we wanted to study, wanted to read, so we kept close to each other and supported each other, as otherwise it would have been very hard for me.

During that time I didn’t know what was happening with my parents. I got only one letter from my father in August, and apart from that I didn’t know what was happening to him. I didn’t know what was happening to my mother. I knew that the ghetto had been set up, as we were exchanging letters even when I was in Pinsk, so I knew that Mother and Chana were in the ghetto. But you didn’t hear yet of the Germans dissolving the ghettos. Some reports were coming through, though, so it certainly wasn’t like I didn’t worry.

In 1944, my teacher fell sick and asked me to go to the shop to buy bread for her. Waiting in the queue, I heard someone speak Polish. It was something like April, May 1944. I was very happy to hear Polish and approached the speakers shyly, and said I was also from Poland and understood everything they said, only I was no longer able to speak the language myself. Those were two Jewish women from Poland, and they asked me where I was staying, and a couple of days later they came to the children’s home to ask the headmaster that she permit me to visit them every Sunday.

It turned out there were several refugee Jewish families in Balanda, including three from Poland. The third one was not only from Poland but actually from Kielce, and her name was Roza. It is in fact thanks to her that I returned to Poland at all. We started talking, Kielce wasn’t such a big town, and finally she says she remembers the Dajbogs. That there was a family of this name. And these families started hosting me in turns every Sunday.

After the war

1945 came, and the Ukrainian territories were gradually liberated. Some of those families re-evacuated themselves; left. The Union of Polish Patriots 32 assisted them in those operations. There was actually talk of me repatriating too, but someone would have had to adopt me, as otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to leave. I, however, didn’t want to be adopted by anyone, because I was already a big girl, fourteen years of age. I simply knew I had parents of my own, that is, I still thought I had them. And I knew that if my father returned, he’d be looking for me, so I didn’t go.

After all those families had left, only one stayed, a Ukrainian family, from Proskurov [a town in Ukraine, name changed in 1954 to Khmelnytsky]. Eventually, they also started preparing to leave. They came to the children’s home to ask me what I intended to do, because they had arranged with the other families (each left some money for me) that whoever would be leaving the last, they’d pull me out of that backwoods [Balanda]. And I decided to leave with them [for Proskurov].

I was taken care of by Aunt Roza Gershleibovna Sudman. A wonderful person, she was in Balanda with her parents, her father was a wonderful grandfather, who, just like my own, was called Hersz. And her mother, Chana. There was also Bronia, her sister. Roza’s husband was called Lev Isakovich Shpilko [he and her brother were in the army at the time]. They had a daughter, seven years younger than me. Her name was Klava.

In Proskurov, we lived in a single house, but everyone had a place, a room, for themselves. The house had no sewer system, it was awful, old. Roza’s parents were Orthodox Jews. In principle, they observed all the rules and bans. Roza’s father was some kind of an activist at the community. Aunt Roza, though they had the money to pay for it, completed only seven grades and was unable to enlist for any high school because Jews weren’t admitted. Her younger brother and younger sister several years later completed their high schools and graduate studies without difficulty.

So not only I did find myself among Jews again, I found myself back in the Jewish tradition. During the war, they observed only so many Jewish traditions they could, so as not to starve, and, in fact, it was permitted in such circumstances; Roza’s father certainly didn’t take his kippah off, he observed what he could. When we returned to Proskurov, Grandfather Hersz went to the synagogue again, he was the ritual butcher. He was the butcher and also the man in charge of circumcising children. For Yom Kippur, the whole family fasted. I was already past the age that exempts you from fasting so I fasted as well.

We spoke Russian. At home, my hosts spoke Russian, Ukrainian, and Yiddish. Roza spoke to her parents in Yiddish, but between themselves the youths spoke Russian. I hadn’t spoken Yiddish since my parting with Father, but I understood everything. When asked, I’d reply in Russian.

Soon, sometime in 1946, Aunt Roza’s husband returned from the war. He was taken at the same time and enlisted for the same work squads as my father, but he said he had never met him. He worked as the director of a scout center, he was a teacher. He was very fond of his family, a very warm man. He genuinely accepted me, I really don’t know how, because the whole thing [their taking me into the family] had happened during his absence. I remember he was very proud that I was doing well at school.

I went to a normal Russian school in Proskurov. I don’t know whether there were any Jewish schools in Russia at the time, in Proskurov there certainly weren’t any. Klava went to the same school as I did. In fact, in the whole town there was only one Ukrainian school [and] one Russian one. The Ukrainian one was actually closer to home, but there I’d have to speak Ukrainian, which I didn’t know.

In 1946, in the fall, suddenly there arrives a telegram for Roza Sudman, she calls me: ‘Firochka,’ the diminutive for Esfir [Russian for Estera], ‘Firochka, read it,’ because the telegram was printed in Latin letters. I remember the signature as if it was today: ‘Noach.’ And I faint, for the first and last time in my life. The next thing I remember is everyone tugging me and shouting: ‘What happened, what happened?’ And then I read it to them: ‘I need information about Esfir, please.’ And the signature: ‘Noach.’

Uncle Noach was a reserve officer and he received a mobilization card in 1939, I think he was supposed to turn up at his unit somewhere in the Kresy. He couldn’t get there, he found himself in Luck, and stayed there. His wife, Aunt Mania, was in Kielce with Julek. She was subsequently executed by the Gestapo for food trading, which is something I know from a book [Krzysztof Urbanski, ‘The Extermination of the Jewish Population of Kielce 1939-1945,’ Kielce 1994]. Of the living, I was the last one to see them all. When we were fleeing with Aunt Dora and Uncle Srul, they decided to go to Luck and stay with Uncle Noach.

In 1940, the NKVD 33 came to the place where Uncle Noach worked and took him straight from there to a transport. He managed to notify Aunt Dora and his brother, and they hurried to join the same transport, because they realized they’d all be taken away sooner or later and they wanted to be together. They were sent to Siberia and ended up in a camp.

Aunt Dora was pregnant [when they took them], and she gave birth in the camp to a girl, Hania, it was 1940. When an agreement was later signed by the Polish and Russian governments, they were released from the camp and settled compulsorily in Jambul [city in southern Kazakhstan, near border with Kyrgyzstan], Kazakhstan. [Editor’s note: on 30th July 1941, Wladyslaw Sikorski, head of the Polish émigré government in London, and the Soviet ambassador in Great Britain, Ivan Maisky, signed a treaty on collaboration in the war against Germany.]

Noach worked in a de-lousing unit there and contracted typhus, and subsequently passed it on to his brother. During this time, the Polish army was organizing itself, Noach was sick with typhus, couldn’t go with Anders 34. He recovered, but Uncle Srul died. A couple of months earlier, Hania, the little baby girl, had died, and several months after Srul’s death, another daughter, Izia, was born. So that was literally a marathon: a child’s death, the uncle’s death, the little girl’s birth in those conditions. Izia was born in 1943, Hania was born in 1940 in the camp. As soon as the 1st Kosciuszko Infantry Division 35 was organized, Uncle Noach joined it. He went with it the whole way down to Berlin, and from there returned to Warsaw.

It so happened Uncle Noach was in Wroclaw in the fall 1946, and somewhere on a street he was approached by that Kielce woman [from Balanda], Roza. ‘You must be Mr. Dajbog from Kielce,’ she says. ‘I am.’ ‘Well, your niece is in this place.’ And she gave him the address of my aunt Roza Sudman. Some two weeks after that telegram, I received a letter from Uncle, in which he wrote he was already in Poland, that he was in the army, and that my parents were dead. I was surprised, because I didn’t know how he knew.

It turned out that, again, someone had been with my father, and that man survived, and found himself in Poland, and because they, Noe [from Noach] and my father, were identical like twins, that man accosted Uncle Noach whether he wasn’t a Dajbog. Uncle Noach says he is, and the man pulls out my father’s military ID photo. ‘Yes, that’s my brother,’ says Noach. And the man says, ‘It happened right before my eyes, it was near Stalingrad, we were digging trenches, there was an air raid, and he failed to dive into the trench before the bomb fell.’ The official version I learned from the Soviet authorities was that my father was missing.

Uncle then started efforts to bring me back, I also started efforts to be repatriated. But repatriation had officially ended. Efforts for me to be able to be repatriated continued for a year, until 1947. In late 1947, an official letter arrived for the Proskurov education department to escort me to a gathering point near Moscow where the remaining formalities were to be completed. That gathering point was a children’s home, there wasn’t much to eat, but there were children, orphans of some high-ranking officers, there’s a school, there were music classes. We were a group of perhaps 15 kids. From small children to three older girls roughly of my age, and one more older girl from Bialystok.

If I’m not mistaken, at least six of us were of Jewish origin. There were two sisters, there was a girl with whom we became close friends, there was a girl from a Polish children’s home that was returning to Poland, and, at some station, when the train was standing still, the other kids threw her out off the train because she was Jewish. She fell under a passing train and lost her fingers. The teachers didn’t react at all 36. Her name was Zlata, I think. She had been left in a hospital, and now she was [returning] with our group. I don’t think she had anyone.

There were all kinds of kids. Kids who had been in the camps, who had gotten lost in flight, had been in prison, or kids who had been alone so they tried to survive and in many cases broke the law. Finally they’d gathered the whole group, completed all the formalities, it took some three months, and in February we returned to Poland, to Warsaw.

Upon arrival, we were loaded onto trucks and taken somewhere to Swider, there was some kind of a children’s home there. I think they must have set it up during that time – there wasn’t anybody there except us, it was empty. They put us there and in the morning they started letting know the families.

My uncle came for me right the next day, I think. I immediately registered with the Jewish Committee 37, they were conducting kind of interviews there with young people, and they persuaded me to move to a dormitory, it was officially called the Józef Lewartowski Youth Home, on Jagiellonska Street, that I’d be with my peers, that I’d learn to speak Polish better. [Editor’s note: the Józef Lewartowski Youth Home, supervised by the Central Committee of Polish Jews, was opened in January 1948 and closed down in 1952.] And here Uncle had a single room in a three-room apartment. There was him, there was his wife, a child was to be born in a few months’ time. So I was actually happy to go there, and I stayed for three years at that dorm [on 28 Jagiellonska Street].

Above all, it wasn’t a children’s home. Soon we became friends, everyone had their war experiences, we were all equal, everyone helped each other. It was chiefly young Jewish people who lived there, but there were some Poles too. There was a guy named Staszek Kuczera. In principle, however, it was an institution supervised by the Jewish Committee and financed by the Joint 38. We had full board there. Good Jewish cuisine, though I don’t think it was kosher, no one bothered about that anymore. From time to time some packages from the UNRRA 39 arrived.

A year later a whole group of young people starting education at various schools took up residence at the dorm. We called them the ‘sprats’ or the ‘sardines,’ for the girls were 14-15 years old, and we were 18, 19 years old. One sprat has stayed, she’s involved in various organizations here. Some of the others have left Poland. And the people from the dorm have scattered away. I lived there for three years. The dorm inhabitants come here almost every year, some haven’t left, some keep together in Israel, all come to visit.

During that time, I completed two grades of high school because on arrival I was good for first grade. I went to the best school in Warsaw, a great school, with wonderful professors, like Mr. and Mrs. Libera, she was a Latin teacher, he was a professor of Polish. He helped me a lot in starting to speak and write Polish correctly. He practiced with me during the breaks, forcing me to write all kinds of essays, and, thanks to that, two years later I passed the high school finals, and passed them easily.

Family life

In 1950, I enlisted for the telecommunications department, today the electronics department, of the Warsaw Polytechnic. In 1954, I completed my studies and received the title of engineer. And I told myself it was time to go to work. I had already achieved more, remembering all the time about my father’s hunger for knowledge, and about the dream for each generation to achieve more than then previous one. I did what I could. Then I went to work. First it was at the Kasprzak radio plant, but then our division was spun off, and the Warsaw Radio Company RAWAR was established. There I met my husband.

My husband’s name is Marian Migdalski. He is Polish. He was born in Sandomierz in 1926. His mother died in the early 1930s. He had two brothers. The elder one, Zbigniew, worked with their father as a seasonal construction worker, and my husband was home, taking care of the younger brother, Julian. He spent the occupation years in Sandomierz. He was very eager to study. After the war he started making up for the lost time, completing several grades a year, and in 1949 he started studies at the Wroclaw Polytechnic, which he completed in 1953 and was sent to work in Warsaw. When I met my husband, he was a party member, and in my freshman year I also joined the party.

My husband knew from the very beginning about my Jewish descent. In fact, I’ve never hidden it. Neither from my neighbors nor from anybody else. I’ve always felt very strongly Jewish, have never been ashamed of it, and that’s why I think I’ve always been respected, because it seems to me that people always knew that I was somehow strong, insensitive. If anyone acted anti-Semitic, I’d simply stop talking to such people.

We got married in 1954. The ceremony was non-religious. The wedding was a modest affair, little more than a simple party. None of us had anything. I had only started working, he had been working for a year but for an extra year had to provide for his brother so that he could study. So we were starting from scratch. My friends at Kasprzak bought us a blanket. I borrowed a pillow from the Dajbogs [Noach and Bronia]. There was nothing in the shops, I only managed to buy a kettle somewhere, and I remember we boiled water for tea in that kettle, and potatoes too, because you couldn’t buy any pots anywhere.

In 1955, our daughter Hania was born, and the name wasn’t accidental, of course, it was after my little sister Chana. I wasn’t permitted to write Chana, but only Hania. I had always dreamt that if I had a daughter, it’d be Hania, and then if I had another baby, my husband would choose the name for it. In 1959, Andrzej was born, my husband chose the name, the first letter of the alphabet; I accepted it. I’m not worried that he’s Andrzej, because my daughter Hania gave their children second names after my father and uncle Krzysztof’s second name is Eliasz, Alik’s [from Aleksander] is Noach. So the cause has been preserved.

I was always telling my children about the war. After all, they didn’t have grandparents, didn’t have aunts, didn’t have uncles. So they learned what that war meant and that [their family] had been murdered. Since the very beginning, since the moment they understood anything, they knew we were Jewish. In fact, I took them for all the ceremonies at the ghetto. My husband, if he only had time, went with us, naturally.

As far as religious holidays are concerned, that’s precisely the problem of people like me who weren’t taught much about tradition at home. I learned little at home, and my husband didn’t contribute much Polish tradition either. So we had to be creative. I was able to say at home, if I knew, that it was the Chanukkah that day, but we still had the Christmas tree, though we never held the Christmas Eve dinner [a Polish Christian tradition] because I didn’t know how you do it. My husband wasn’t able to tell me, he doesn’t bother about those things at all. My children, both Andrzej and Hania, hold the Christmas Eve dinner at their homes, and on Christmas Day they come to us for a special dinner. So it’s always been a mixture of traditions, and I have to say that didn’t give my children any foundations. They’d pick and choose what suited them for themselves.

My Hanka [from Hania] didn’t have to pass the entry exams and she enlisted for a psychology course at Warsaw University. Andrzej didn’t have it so easy. He had been talking about biology from the day he was born. And of course he went to study biology. Today he works at the Polish Academy of Sciences’s Biophysics and Biochemistry Institute. He got married but they divorced. They have no children. They have long been divorced and now, for instance, she is in America, her parents are here, and he’s taking care of them. He’s generally a successful man.

In fact, my daughter is too. She has a degree in psychology. She’s married. Her husband is a mathematician. A very talented man. He’s a software developer. Shortly before the introduction of the martial law 40, they went for a vacation, the martial law met them in Canada, and they never returned. He works at a psychiatric hospital, he’s the head therapist there. And my grandsons were born there, Krzysztof in 1983, and Aleksander, or Alik, in 1986. Their first language was Polish.

Hanka combines the different traditions at her home. There’s a photo where her sons sit at the table in skullcaps, it’s Pesach, but later it’s Christmas, and their Polish friends come to visit them for Christmas Eve, and it’s the proper Christmas Eve dinner, there’s a tree. There was a Sunday school in Canada for lay, non-religious children, where they had lessons about, among other things, Jewish culture and tradition, the holidays, Hebrew classes too, if anyone wanted. Krzysztof and Alik attended that school.

The boys are grown up now, Krzysztof is halfway into his university studies, he has completed the third year. Alik has been a bit at odds with school. A very talented boy. He loves music, he’s set up a music studio for himself, writes songs, alas, school’s been less important for him, and it’s been like that for a couple of years now. And he’ll probably be continuing his education in evening courses now.

Another person who lives in Canada is Izia, the daughter of Aunt Dora and Uncle Srul. Hania has been in touch with her. After the war was over, Izia’s mother, Aunt Dora, returned to Poland from Jambul, it was 1945. She accidentally got right into the Kielce pogrom 41. Soon afterwards they left for Palestine. When Izia was getting married, I received an invitation to attend her wedding in Israel, and of course I didn’t get the passport, I couldn’t go. [Editor’s note: In the communist era in Poland, the passport was a privilege]. In 1969, Izia and her husband left Israel, settled in Montreal, then moved to Calgary. Izia teaches Jewish tradition and culture in Calgary.

I never talked to Aunt Dora about the pogrom. With Izia, on the other hand, I did last year, with the help of her daughter. She remembers that some man pulled her out [of the crowd during the pogrom], because she looked Polish. She started crying, ‘Mommy!’ so the man somehow also pulled her mother out, and hid them in the nearest gate. She remembers that, and doesn’t even want to think about coming to Poland.

Anti-Semitism after the war

In 1968, I quit my job because the whole anti-Semitic campaign had started and it wasn’t a nice place to be at the time. Besides, my husband believed I should quit, no one had been forced to quit, if there were any other Jews there, they stayed, but as long as I was there, it was awkward. Especially that my husband worked in an executive position, so that wasn’t very good. [Editor’s note: During the anti-Semitic campaign, ‘family liability’ was introduced, for instance, spouses of people of Jewish descent were being fired from their jobs]. I was trying to find a job for some time, but I saw strong reluctance against hiring Jews.

For three years I had no job, wasn’t even trying to find one. One thing that the mood was as it was, and the other that during that time my son Andrzej got asthma and for three years I was virtually a nurse and a teacher at the same time, trying to make sure he wouldn’t miss a year at school. In 1971, I got a job at the Vacuum Electronics Institute at Dluga Street. I had worked for 15 years at RAWAR, and my second job until retirement, another 15 years, was at that institute.

The year 1968 was a very hard experience for me. Above all, Uncle [Noach] left. Upon returning to Poland after the war, he worked at the Defense Ministry’s bookkeeping department until about 1955. Then he worked for a couple of years at Jewish cooperatives. He had two sons. In 1968, Marek was in his second year of studies, and Julek hadn’t yet completed high school. Uncle said there was still time for at least them to have a peaceful life. That he no longer wanted the shocks, things like the Kielce pogrom, the Jewish Doctors’ Plot 42, and all those things he had to go through.

His wife was Jewish. Basically, she was most Zionistic of us all. Uncle Noach had been a Zionist in his youth, but no longer at the time. But he said, well, he’d surely not create a new life for himself, to the contrary, he’d be changing things for worse as he was living on a retirement pension and he’d not transfer the pension to Israel – but at least he’d take the boys out. And in 1968 he emigrated with his sons and wife to Israel. For me, that was an incredible shock.

Many of my friends left, after all, many of the people I knew were Jewish. Virtually every day we went to the Gdanski Station [from which the trains carrying Jewish emigrants were leaving for Vienna, where they would decide which country they would ultimately emigrate to] to see them off. Uncle Noach left for Israel, said he was too old to go for any other country, but the younger ones were leaving for Canada, for the United States. They were receiving a passport saying that its bearer was not a citizen of Poland. From Vienna, they went to Italy, or Denmark, somewhere from where they’d go to their ultimate destination.

I wasn’t afraid when the hate campaign was going on, and I kept in touch with those who had left. I told myself that if they tried to harass me, I’d be prepared, but still it hurt. Fortunately, I myself didn’t have to make the decision to leave. Leaving simply wasn’t an option. In another situation, I’d probably have been contemplating the decision, I’d probably have left, if only because of my uncle. But I don’t regret it that I’m in Poland, that I haven’t left.

As far as my Jewish identity is concerned, I’ve never abandoned it. Perhaps I was more active in this area at some periods of my life and less in others. I’ve carried my Jewish identity from my childhood to this day. I’ve always had the sense, typical for all Dajbogs, that we don’t have to assimilate, that we can be, as partners, as a minority, but still a member of this nation. Before going into retirement, I didn’t really have the time to be particularly interested in the activity of Jewish organizations. In fact, Uncle Noach didn’t venture into that area either. We certainly always attended the annual ghetto uprising celebrations 43. During that time, I was interested in books about Jewish issues, if only I could get my hands on something...

Recent years

I’ve been to Israel. Once, in 1979, illegally. [Editor’s note: between 1967 and 1989 the Soviet bloc countries maintained no diplomatic relations with Israel]. I went simply through Vienna because I wanted to see my Uncle [Noach]. I knew he was ill, had a tumor, had been operated. And the second time I went with Andrzej in 1996, to attend the wedding of Marek’s daughter, Michal. I spent two months [in Israel] then, Andrzej spent two weeks. I was taking single-day and several-day excursions throughout the country; I had very many friends there, so I had places to sleep in Haifa and near Haifa, in Tel Aviv, in Jerusalem. I was partly driven about. And I spent those two months very actively. I liked the country very much. I’ve never tried to go again, for various reasons. Andrzej has very nice memories of the trip. He’d join English-language tourist groups and do a lot of sightseeing. At the wedding, Michal held the chuppah, which made him feel very proud.

Hania was in Israel illegally before me, she wasn’t even married yet. She decided to do it but we never dared to tell my husband about it. Firstly, because it hadn’t been agreed upon with him, and secondly, because he’d surely have been scared. He did know about my illegal trip and he accepted it, so I guess he’d have accepted it in this case too. I actually didn’t know, I only learned after she got back. I suspected something was going on, because she disappeared so suddenly, she was in London at the time, I guess. They arranged everything over the phone, she went there, and did a lot of sightseeing as well.

In 1975, I visited Roza Sudman in Proskurov. Her husband had died in 1956. Her parents were also dead. Since my return to Poland, my carers stopped writing me to avoid trouble with the authorities. In 1973, I was in Moscow and wrote them a letter, described my story and gave them my Warsaw address. About a month later I received a very warm letter from them, that I’ve kept to this day. Roza was inviting me to visit them, and I went there. I met her whole family, the students, the teachers, I was in fact received with all the honors, as a guest from the West.

In any case, there were still many people in Proskurov, but there was already a trend for Jews to be leaving, whoever could, he was leaving. Klava with her two sons and her husband are in Israel. Her sister Bronia is in the USA with her sons and her grandchildren and their families. I managed to meet them, because they visited me here in Poland.

In 1988, I retired and went for a year to Canada to nurse my grandchildren. On 4th July 1989, I stood in line before the consulate to cast my vote in those memorable elections. [Editor’s note: On that day, Poland’s first free parliamentary elections after the war took place]. I returned to Poland on 5th June, at the moment of those great changes that I welcomed with joy, because my problems with the passport were finally over, earlier I could neither go to visit Noach, nor was I at Izia’s wedding, nor did they let me go and visit Hania. I never received the passport at the first request. And now it’s in my drawer. I can also invite people to visit me here. Most of my relatives I saw for the first time. Even my grandchildren I knew initially only from photos, though happily I was able to meet them even before 1989.

In Poland, I feel most at ease among Jews, and among some Poles too. After I retired [in 1988], I immediately got involved in Jewish life. I’m a member of the TSKZ 44, the Children of the Holocaust 45, the Jewish Historical Institute Association 46. In any case, I try to be as active as possible, I read a lot, books and magazines; I collect Judaica.

Glossary

Райна Блуменфелд

Моите прадеди са дошли от Испания през 15 век, след като са били изгонени от кралица Изабела и са били приети от Османската империя. Всички евреи, които са дошли от Испания, се наричат сефарди. Езикът, който говорим, е старият испански - ладино, който е много ценен, защото почти никъде не се говори. Доколкото ми е известно, този език се поддържа само в Толедо и все по-малко хора го знаят – предимно от моето поколение. Младите не знаят ладино, защото ние не успяхме да им го предадем и затова се превърна в изчезващ език. До 1944 г. [9 септември 1944 г. е датата на комунистическия преврат в България] ние сме говорили този език, като дете аз също съм го говорила. Предавал се е от поколение на поколение, но след 1944 г. започна асимилация на еврейското население в България и този език “замря”. Самата аз чувствам голяма вина в себе си, че не съм научила децата си на този език. Те не го разбират и дори когато със съпруга ми сме искали да скрием нещо от децата си, сме разговаряли на ладино.

Спомням си баба ми по бащина линия и дядо ми по майчина линия от времето, когато съм била на около 5 години. В началото на 20-ти век дядо ми и баба ми по бащина линия са имали дванадесет деца, но четири са починали още когато са били много малки от болести. Семейството на баща ми живееше заедно в един двор в еврейската махала, известна като “Ючбунар” - по точно в  “Коньовица” на ъгъла на улиците “Позитано” и “Перник”. Това е къщата, в която е живяло семейството на баща ми и в която съм се родила на 15 януари 1929 г.  Къщата съществува и в момента.

Баща ми е имал брат, който е загинал в Балканската война, а една негова сестра е отишла в град Пловдив като слугиня в богато еврейско семейство, но там се случило така, че синът на собствениците на къщата, в която е роботила, я е  изнасилил и тя не е понесла позора - хвърлила се е в река Марица, където се е  удавила. Така в София са останали четирима братя и две сестри, които са живели заедно в един двор. Малките им къщи бяха разположени на близко разстояние една от друга в общ двор. Братята на баща ми се казват Аврам, Сабат и Яков. Баща ми се казва Йосеф, въпреки че е първороден син и според Библията той трябва да се казва Аврам. Баща ми беше англофил и съм чувала, че често е спорил с брат си Аврам, който е бил русофил. Сестрите на баща ми се казват Бука, която е по-голяма и Естер, която наричахме Стерина. Майка ми и баща ми са били най-много уважавани като най-големи в семейството.

По-голямата сестра на баща ми Бука е имала четири момичета и едно момче. Едното от момичетата нелегално заминава като девойка за Палестина през 1932-1933 г. След нея е заминал и синът на леля ми. По това време се е налагало да заминават нелегално и по различни пътища. През 1939 г. са решили да заминат и останалите в България леля Бука, съпругът й Буко и децата им Рени и Мати. Решили да пътуват с турска гемия, която не е била много стабилна и близо до турския бряг гемията е потънала и цялото семейство се е удавило. Много малко хора са успели да се спасят при потъването на тази гемия.

Тъй като баба ми по бащина линия се е казвала Рейна, във всички семейства на нейните деца се е слагало името на бабата. По рождение и моето име е Рейна, под същото име съм завършила гимназия и не зная по какви причини, когато постъпих на работа в министерството на вътрешните работи, получих документи с името Райна. Заради тази печатна грешка съм с името Райна. Въпреки това всички мои познати и роднини ме знаят като Рейна.

Родителите от страна на майка ми са от град Берковица. Майка ми е останала още съвсем малка сираче - когато е била на 5-6 годинки майка й умира. Баща й се е оженил повторно, но за много лоша жена, която се е отнасяла много зле с майка ми. От втория брак на баща си, майка ми има природени пет братя и сестричета. Още като дете тя е помагала в отглеждането им, натоварвала се  е много и като резултат е получила гърбица от много работа.

Баща ми Йосeф Израел Сабитай беше тенекиджия и водопроводчик. През 1928 г., една година преди да се родя, е имало много големи студове. Тогава са се спукали много водопроводни тръби и чешми. Това е отворило много работа за баща ми и той с много усилия е успял малко да се замогне и на мястото на едностайната къща е успял да построи къща с две стаи и кухня и с вътрешна тоалетна, което по това време е било много голяма рядкост. Имахме и топла вода от бойлер на въглища, който баща ми като голям майстор беше свързал с печката. В тази къща сме се родили четири деца – едно момче и три момичета. Всички деца спяхме в една стая - аз и сестрите ми на едно легло, а брат ми на диван. В по-малката стая живееха майка ми и баща ми. В такива условия израстнахме и живяхме така до 1946 г., когато брат ми замина за Франция и освободи канапето. Баща ми е основал еврейското дружество “Мицва Цион” през 1928 г. Това дружество се е занимавало с благотворителна дейност и е подпомагало по-бедните граждани от еврейски произход в София. Баща ми взимаше участие в обществения живот на евреите в София като заедно с другите по-заможни граждани на София от еврейски произход участваше в разпределението на парични средства и предмети към най-бедните си сънародници чрез дружеството “Мицва Цион”.

Къщите в еврейската махала бяха разположени нагъсто двор до двор. До нас живееха само еврейски семейства. На съседната улица имаше и български семейства и аз лично имах много добра приятелка, която се казваше Кристинка. По-късно като девойки сме излизали пак заедно. Отношенията ни бяха винаги много добри. Но имаше и такива моменти, когато български момчета ни закачаха с израза: “хайде, Моше, на(към) Палестина!”. Майка ми ме учеше да им отговарям: “е хайде, ама не ни пускате!”. Тези моменти не ми бяха много приятни, но иначе хората се отнасяха към нас много добре. Освен това майка ми беше много милостива жена и винаги, когато останеше в повече храна, ме караше да я занеса на по-бедните хора.

Семейството ни живееше сравнително добре, защото баща ми се беше позамогнал от работата си като водопроводчик и тенекиджия и даже беше открил склад за старо желязо. Къщата, която беше построил на ъгъла на улиците “Перник” и “Позитано”, за онези години беше една от най-хубавите в махалата. През зимата се отоплявахме с въглища и имахме една барака, която беше пълна с въглища. Майка ми даваше по една кофа въглища на всеки, който й поиска – на никого не е отказвала и винаги се е смилявала над по-бедните. По онова време имаше много бедни хора. В нашата махала живееха по-бедните еврейски семейства. По-богатите евреи живееха в по-централната част на София. След излизането през 1939 г. на “Закона за защита на нацията”, по-богатите евреи трябваше да напуснат центъра като нямаха право да обитават района отвъд булевард “Христо Ботев”и те се пренесоха към нашата махала.

Моят брат Израел е учил в еврейско училище, където е изкарал и прогимназия. Еврейско училище имаше на улица “Осогово” в нашата махала и в центъра - на мястото на хотел “Рила”. В момента тече голям спор за земята под хотела, защото еврейската общност е завела дело да си върне този имот. Сградата на централното еврейско училище е била разрушена по време на бомбардировките на София през Втората световна война. Голямата ми сестра е учила в еврейското училище до четвърто отделение. Когато дойде време и аз да започна училище, родителите ми ме изпратиха в българско училище по неизвестни за мен причини и не съм учила иврит. Ходила съм на забавачница в предучилищна възраст преди да започна в ходя в училище “Васил Левски” на улица “Димитър Петков”, където бях до четвърто отделение. След това завърших Тринадесета прогимназия на улица “Пиротска”. Любимият ми предмет беше химия. По-късно започнах много да харесвам астрономията и съм прочела много книги в библиотеките по астрономия. Силно впечатление ми направи фактът, че най-светлата звезда в небосвода не е Венера, а Сириус – съзвездието-куче.

Брат ми Израел е роден през 1923 г. и е архитект. През 1946 г. замина за Париж като делегат на една еврейска конференция и остана там. Когато е бил малък всички са се обръщали към него с умалителното Израелтико. Затова после му остава името Тико и всички го наричахме така. Документите, които си е извадил във Франция, вече са на Тико Жозифорд – от Йосеф става Жозифорд. Той живее от много години там. Има семейство и три дъщери, които са вече доста големи, но не са омъжени. Има две специалности – архитектура и урбанизъм. За да може да преподава, трябваше да специализира в Алжир, където живя десет години и след това се отдаде на професурата си. Брат ми успя да дойде в България едва след 19 години от заминаването си, тъй като по това време се е водил невъзвръщенец, който е емигрирал без официално позволение от властите. Успял е да дойде благодарение на това, че не се е казвал Израел Йосиф Израилов, а Тико Жозифорд. Затова не са могли да установят кой е всъщност. Пристигна през Югославия с автомобил със съпругата си и едното си дете.

Голямата ми сестра Ребека е родена през 1925 г. и работеше като шивачка. Омъжи се и има две деца – Мариана и Марио, които също си имат семейства с по едно дете. През 1986 г. за нещастие я блъсна полицейска кола и почина. Другата ми сестра се казва Зюмбюла, която наричахме Зелма. Тя е родена през 1931 г. и е завършила медицина. Има една дъщеря – Стела. Дълго време рабоги в България като лекар и след това замина за Алжир, където брат ми беше на специализация. Той взе при себе си и майка ми и сестра ми. Там сестра ми работи известно време и се омъжи за един белгиец. Съответно отиде да живее в Белгия, където прекара десет години и се сдоби с едно момиченце. Раздели се с белгиеца и се върна в България. Сега е пенсионерка. Нейната дъщеря завърза добри отношения с едно момче в Белгия и сега живее с него във Виена. В момента моята сестра е там и помага в отглеждането на тяхното бебе.

Аз се омъжих за разлика от другите и навярно за мой късмет за младеж, който е “ешкенази”- немски евреин. По онова време беше голяма гордост ако можехме да се кръстосаме, защото немските евреи бяха едно стъпало по-високо от нас, испанските евреи - сефардите. Съпругът ми се казва Хаим Барух Блуменфелд. Произходът на неговия баща идва от Румъния.  Неговият баща е избягал от румънската армия през Балканската война [1912], озовал се е в град Хасково, където е срещнал  майката на моя съпруг. След като се оженили, първо им се родила дъщеря, която е с четири години по-голяма от Хаим. Когато той е едва на шест месеца, заминават за Палестина. Майка му е била плетачка на машина, баща му - тенекиджия като и двамата са заминали с оборудване, което им е било необходимо, за да упражняват занаята си. Живели са в Палестина шест години, но там не са  успели да се адаптират. Продали са всичките машини и през Турция са се върнали в България. Запознах се със съпруга ми в София през 1946 г. Имахме три години любов преди да се омъжим. Аз се омъжих когато бях на 19 години - през 1948 г. и се преместих да живея на улица “Братя Миладинови”, където ми се родиха двете дъщери. Така в нашата къща на улица “Перник” останаха да живеят майка ми и едната ми сестра. През 80-те години получихме апартамент и тогава майка ми и сестра ми отидоха да живеят на “Братя Миладинови”.

Моят съпруг Хаим Блуменфелд е учил в еврейско училище до пети клас, който представлява първи гимназиален клас. След около четиридесет години, когато се възобновиха връзките на България с Израел, изведнъж всичките му знания се възстановиха. Трикратните ни посещения в Израел и многото гости, които започнаха да идват, възстановиха напълно неговия иврит и той започна да говори много свободно и много хубаво езика. Всички много му се чудеха, но изглежда ивритът се е учил много добре навремето в София.

Имам две дъщери, които вече са големи, омъжени са и имат по две деца. Малката ми дъщеря, която се казва Зоя, има две момчета, които преди две години се изселиха в Израел. Там успяха бързо да се устроят много добре с помощта на нашите роднини, които успяха да се изселят през 1948-1949 г. Много бързо се адаптираха и  научиха езика; дори вече успяха два пъти да си дойдат в България. Аз съм ходила три пъти до Израел – през 1966 г., 1987 г. и 1992 г.

До 1944 г. празнувахме всички еврейски празници така, както трябва. Празнувахме си еврейската нова година, Песах - в продължение на осем дни, през които вкъщи ядяхме само безквасен хляб – маца и бойо [В по-стари времена по-бедните евреи са замесвали питки само със вода и брашно без сол и квас – това е т. нар. “бойо “] Спомням си, че имахме домашна помощничка, която изпращахме при съседите ни да яде хляб, защото вкъщи хляб не се внасяше. За Великден всички домакински съдове трябваше да се подменят, за да са чисти и пасхални. Тези съдове се изнасяха само за празника и се прибираха в мазето през останалата част от годината. Цялото приготовление за празника се правеше от майка ми. От тази маца тя правеше баница, а от накисната и изстискана маца заедно с яйца се пържеха прословутите “бурмоелос”- сладки или соленки, които се превръщаха във всекидневна закуска. Майка ми излизаше на двора и на един котлон с въглища всяка сутрин ни приготвяше “бурмоелос”. Майка ми правеше и кюфтета от праз, които наричаме “фритикас” от праз. На масата имаше и всичко, което можеше да се приеме като кашерна храна. Когато трябваше да се готви пиле, мен ме пращаха в синагогата, където пилето трябваше да се заколи по ритуален начин от шохета. В квартала имаше специална месарница, където ни продаваха кашерно месо – предимно телешко, а свинско месо не влизаше вкъщи.

Специално за Песах нашата къща, тъй като беше най-голяма, се изпразваше от мебели – от легла, гардероби и други и всичките семейства, които живееха в двора, слагаха по една маса в празната стая и там се събираха да приготвят ястията, които са необходими за празника. Баща ми като най-възрастен четеше “агада-та” [ Ладино е езикът на сефардските евреи и пълното заглавие на историята на евреите на този език е “La agada des moestros padres” ] или еврейската история на ладино. На масата винаги имаше маца, бойо и една специална смес, която се приготвяше от орехи, някакъв мармалад, фурми и стафиди. Всичко това се смесваше и се поставяше в лист от маруля. Това се правеше за благоденствието на страната, където тогава беше Палестина. Това ястие се нарича “ахароса”. Когато баща ми четеше историята, на децата се връзваше в една салфетка по едно парче от бойо и маца и ни даваха да си го метнем на гърба, за да сме готови за Палестина. Всеки трябваше да си вземе и да хапне от ястието, което се споменаваше в историята.  На другия ден майка ми и баща ми се обличаха хубаво и отиваха на синагога. Майка ми задължително слагаше шапка, а баща ми дълъг талет, изработен от копринен шантун с традиционните черни ленти и с ресни накрая, и кипа.

Семейството ни празнуваше Шабат. Майка ми пазаруваше и готвеше още в петък. В събота вечер се събирахме цялото семейство. Сервираха се традиционните ястия – например пилето, което е заклано в синагогата, баница “пастел” с телешка кайма, купена от кашерната месарница, пилешка супа или супа топчета от тази кайма и си спомням, че дори да има една круша на масата, баща ми я режеше на четири и даваше по едно парче на всяко дете. На синагога се ходеше в петък вечерта преди Шабат, както и в събота сутрин на самия празник. Обстановката на Шабат винаги беше по-специална и по-тържествена от другите дни. Трапезата беше винаги богата и пълна с кашерна храна. На Шабат баща ми четеше също историята на еврейския народ на ладино.

Празнувахме и Пурим. Тогава ходехме маскирани по улиците и децата изнасяха програми, за които им даваха пари. Празнувахме Фрутас – деня на плодовете. Първият ден на този празник е когато в Палестина цъфтят бадемите. Самата аз съм родена на този празник. Датата на празника Пурим се мени спрямо официалния календар и затова рожденият ми ден не винаги съвпада с празника. Винаги празнувам рождения си ден на 15 януари. Тогава майките ни навързваха 40 вида плодове в една торбичка  и на сутринта, когато се събуждахме, намирахме по една такава торбичка до леглото. Тогава главната еврейска улица беше “Позитано” и там имаше много магазини, от които можеше да се купят такива плодове. Всяко семейство купуваше според възможностите си плодове, за да може да отнразнува Деня на плодовете.

Другият голям празник е празникът на светлината или както го наричаме – Ханука. Историята на този празник гласи, че след като римляните са опустошили храма и са поставили там своите идоли, пет хиляди бойци, които са се нарекли макабейци, освобождават храма и искат да запалят свещта да гори в храма, но не могат да намерят онова специално олио, което трябва да гори. Накрая намират в едно канче съвсем малко от това олио, което трябва предварително да се обработи, за да гори. Става така, че това малко количество олио е горяло в продължение на осем дни и затова за този празник има специални свещници с осем свещи и всеки ден в чест на този празник на светлината се пали по една от тези свещи.

На големия празник Кипур не се яде цял ден докато не залезе слънцето. Последнното приемане на храна е от предишната вечер в шест часа. Спомням си, че и децата не ядяхме в памет на всички загинали за Палестина (тогава). Ние, децата, държахме само по една дюла в ръката, която да миришем и си показвахме езиците, за да докажем, че не сме яли – езикът като е бял доказва, че не си ял и си издържал през тези часове, през които не трябва да се яде.

Като малка знаех много игри, които вече не се играят. Момчета и момичета играехме на “Кралю-Порталю”. Тази игра се знаеше не само от еврейското население в София.  Две момчета се хващат за ръце и ги вдигат високо. Всички останали се нареждат един зад друг и преминават между тях. През това време пеем песнта “Кралю-порталю, отвори порти, че ще замине царската войска. Отворете, затворете, само един оставете!” При последната дума двамата, между които преминаваме, свалят рязко ръцете си и хващат някого. Последният, който остане, застава да държи високо ръце и така всичко се повтаря. Играехме и на мъжката игра”джелик”- изкопавахме дупка, слагахме парче дърво върху нея и с друго дърво трябваше да го изхвърлим колкото се може по надалече.

Когато бях малка много често ходехме на почивка. Това се налагаше, защото баща ми страдаше от ишиас и всяко лято отивахме на топли бани в Горна баня [село до София, което сега е квартал на София]. Тогава натоварвахме една каруца с домашен багаж, наемахме една стая в селото и изкарвахме по един месец. Три години ходихме в Горна баня и три години - в Овча купел. Майка ми тогава се грижеше много добре за четирите си деца и всяка сутрин ни приготвяше “шато”. Приготвя се от хубаво разбит белтък, след това се слага жълтък, разбърква се и се добавя захар и това се яде с хляб. Няма да забравя един случай, когато цялото ни шестчленно семейство се бяхме събрали в една беседка в Овча купел да се храним. Тогава една жена, която също беше квартирантка в къщата като нас, попита майка ми дали всичките  деца са нейни. Майка ми отговори с една поговорка на ладино “Окото ти – в кошница!”. Това означава нещо като предпазване от чужди лоши мисли.

През 1939 г. излезе закона за защита на нацията и на евреите бяха сложени жълти значки. Вече бях навършила 10 години и затова сложиха и на мен. Спомням си, че в стопанското училище, където съм учила, освен мен имаше и още едно момиче от еврейски произход - и двете носихме значки. Това не беше особено голям проблем, защото другите момичета не обръщаха внимание на това.

Преди да ни изселят започнахме да разпродаваме покъщнината си. Идваха хора от селата, които купуваха на безценица мебелите ни. Не продадохме абсолютно всичко. Много вещи останаха в къщата. Например майка ми беше приготвила един куфар чеиз за нас, трите момичета. Беше го дала на свои познати да го съхраняват, но така и не го видяхме повече. През 1943 г. ни изселиха в град Фердинанд [днес Монтана]. Там ни изолираха в един еврейски квартал [населено от местни евреи място в града] с два часа право на излизане. Получи се нещо много куриозно. В София баща ми имаше един работник в тенекиджийската работилница,  който се казваше Пено. Този Пено пък имаше работилница във Фердинанд. Баща ми влезе във връзка с него и този път баща ми стана негов работник. Тогава нямахме право на работа, но баща ми отиваше там нелегално и му помагаше в работилницата.

Фердинанд беше малък град с население около 5000 души. Живеехме в много лоши условия. Първоначално бяхме настанени в едно училище заедно с още десет семейства. Все пак ние, децата, не сме почувствали нещата така, както нашите родители, които се бореха за насъщния ни хляб. От друга страна, вече като младежи, може би еврейският ген е такъв, живеехме изключително организирано и това ни помагаше да се справяме с несгодите. Имахме разрешение от властите да излизаме само между 17 и 19 часа. През останалото време това ни беше забранено. През тези два часа свобода неизменно се събирахме и си правихме литературни вечери с много поезия и песни. Тогава не скучаехме, четяхме много, разменяхме си много литература. Спомням си, че съм прочитала по над 50 страници за един час. Имахме един богат и интензивен културен живот, защото нямахме друго занимание. Не ни позволяваха да работим и да излизаме и затова имахме възможност за такива занимания.

След известно време ни позволиха да си наемем квартира и ние заедно с едно близко семейство, които ни бяха съседи в София, наехме една тристайна селска къща. Собствениците отидоха да живеят в плевнята, а в едната стая на къщата се настаниха моите родители, във втората стая се настаниха мъжът и жената от другото семейство, а на нас, децата, ни сковаха два реда дървени нарове в третата стая, където спяхме общо шест деца. Така прекарахме времето до 9 септември 1944 г.[ Датата на комунистическия преврат в България]. През това време дойде известие, че къщата ни е продадена. В съобщението беше обявена сумата, за която е продадена къщата и данъците, които са били начислени. Подканваха баща ми да си вземе парите от продажбата. Тогава баща ми заяви, че няма къща за продаване и че не желае да вземе никакви пари. Така продажбата на къщата не се осъществи.

Когато се върнахме около 9 септември 1944 г. , заварихме в нашата къща да живеят чужди хора. Заведохме веднага дело, за да си я възвърнем. През това време живеехме при един от братята на баща ми, който разполагаше със стая и кухня като на нас ни отстъпи стаята, а той живееше в кухнята. След време успяхме да си върнем къщата, която още съществува на улица “Перник”. В момента тази къща стои празна. Дълго време там живя моята племенница, но тя си построи апартамент, в който се премести. Опитахме да я дадем под наем, но нещата не потръгнаха и предпочитаме да я държим празна.

Спомням си, че след 1944 г. получавахме помощи от еврейската фондация “Джойнт”. Специално парични помощи не сме получавали, а предимно храни и дрехи. Можехме да получим по шест дрехи на човек и ние като шестчленно семейство получихме доста дрехи. Голямята ми сестра се беше научила да шие и взимахме големи дрехи по заръка на баща ми, които сестра ми преправяше. Спомням си, че тогава за първи път опитах маргарин, даваха ни и шоколади, одеяла. Тези помощи започнаха от първите години след войната и продължиха до 1948-1949 г., когато по-голямата част от евреите се изселиха в Израел. По време на голямата криза в България в началото на 90-те г. също получихме голяма помощ с храни.

След 9 септември 1944 г. като ученичка бях член на Единния младежки ученически съюз и имах леви убеждения. След това станах член и на Революционния младежки съюз. Клубът на тази организация се намираше в квартала ни на улица “Странджа”. Там се запознах с моя бъдещ съпруг. Той беше член на комунистическата партия, а аз – не.

Преди да ни изселят бях изкарала една година в професионално училище. След това нямахме право на образование, но като се върнахме издържах изпит за шести клас и след една година се дипломирах. Започнах работа като търговски работник в магазини и складове. На работното си място никога не съм имала проблеми заради еврейския си произход. По-скоро усещах една скрита асимилация на евреите, която се изразяваше в невъзможността да говорим открито ладино и в притеснението от по-различните ни имена. Моят съпруг не разрешаваше вкъщи и по улиците да се говори на ладино и когато трябваше да съобщаваме имената си за издаване на някакъв документ, или да се удостовери самоличността ни, съпругът ми винаги ме караше да съобщавам първо моето име, което звучи като по-българско - особено след грешката, според която от Рейна станах Райна. Неговата фамилия Блуменфелд беше неразбираема за българите. Имахме случай, когато дори една медицинска сестра се затрудни да изпише фамилията му. Въпреки това аз много се гордея с фамилното си име. Дори когато се роди втората ни дъщеря, когато разбрах, че е момиче съжалих, че няма кой да наследи това име [Жените в България по традиция приемат фамилното име на съпрузите си].

Искам да подчертая, че мъжете евреи изтърпяха огромно натоварване по време на изселването и на техните плещи падна цялата грижа за изхранването на семействата им. Много млади мъже починаха заради огромния тормоз, на който са били подложени. В това число влиза и баща ми, който ни напусна едва на 47 години. Бащите на много мои приятелки и роднини също си отидоха млади вследствие на това, което са преживели.

Когато се роди първата ни дъщеря трябваше да я кръстим с име от рода на съпруга ми. Халдейците [немските евреи] обаче имат обичай да не кръщават дете с име на жив дядо. Затова първата ми дъщеря беше кръстена на името на прадядо си от страна на съпруга ми, който се е казвал Херцел. Затова я кръстихме Херцелина Блуменфелд. Преведено това означава “сърдечна”, “цветнополска”. Втората ми дъщеря се казва Зоя. До шестия ден след раждането още се чудех какво име да й дам. Тогава попитах по-голямата ми дъщеря, която вече ходеше на детска градина и тя пожела малката й сестра да се казва Зоя. И двете ми дъщери имат смесени бракове – женени са за българи. Имат по две деца – синовете на Зоя се казват Мартин и Андрей, а Херцелина има син Виктор и дъщеря Ирена. Синовете на Зоя зачитат еврейските традиции и имат намерение трайно да се установят в Израел.

Голямата ми дъщеря Херцелина е фармацевтка и се занимава с две аптеки. Добре се е устроила, но сега е изключително заета с проблемите, които в момента има дребният бизнес в България. Отделя цели дни за бюрократични неща. Съпругът й е текстилен инженер и му е много трудно да си намери работа. Малката ми дъщеря е икономистка. Нейният съпруг също е икономист и едва преди няколко месеца успя да си намери работа във фирма за марков алкохол.

През 1948-1949 г. всичките ми роднини заминаха за Израел. През следващите години връзките ми с роднините в Израел бяха ограничени. Моят съпруг работеше в системата на министерството на вътрешните работи и заради това неговата сестра не успя да замине за Израел. През 60-те и 70-те години отношенията между България и Израел не бяха много добри. Имахме известни проблеми с властите, били сме викани за обяснения. Едва когато съпругът ми беше изпратен в Съветския съюз на обучение, неговата сестра се възползва и през 1964 г.замина. Викали са ни и заради това, че брат ми емигрира във Франция през 1946г. и беше обявен за невъзвръщенец.

Със съпруга ми бяхме на почивка в Унгария след събитията от 1956 г. Бях против така предизвиканите военни действия още повече, че там видях съвсем млади мъже с побелели коси от ужаса, който са преживели. Сега оценявам положително отварянето на Източна Европа към Запада. Така се преустанови делението и конфронтацията между световните общества. С тази промяна се получи едно облекчение в световната политика.

Пенсионирах се през 1984 г. Една жена на 55 г. може още много да работи, но съпругът ми си беше счупил крака и аз бях принудена да остана вкъщи да го гледам. Преди политическата промяна в България от 1989 г.[падането на Тодор Живков от власт] животът ни беше по-добър. Съпругът ми имаше много добра заплата, след това и пенсия. Имахме много добър живот, пътувахме много, имахме добри приятели. Непрекъснато посещавахме кина, театри, ресторанти. Аз съм свикнала с този начин на живот и сега културният живот много ми липсва. Преди 1989 г. със съпруга ми ходихме често на курорт и дори когато ни предложиха място край морето, съпругът ми го отказа, защото можехме да отидем на почивка където пожелаем. Голямата ми дъщеря обаче се запали от идеята да има вила за почивка и с голямо желание ходи на Лъкатник, където има място с къща.

Сега с клуба “Златна възраст” към софийската ни организация “Шалом” посещаваме концерти и театри винаги щом има такава възможност. Малко е трудно това, че трябва да се прибирам късно вечер, защото сега има голяма престъпност. Имам една приятелка от блока, в който живея и въпреки, че тя е много по-млада от мен, излизаме и се прибираме заедно. Винаги взимам по две покани за театър или концерт – едната е за моята приятелка - и така задоволявам страстта си към културните мероприятия.

Дъщеря ми намира, че се разнообразявам много добре и повече от нея. Тъй като имам инвалидност втора група, участвам в ръководството на секция “Инвалиди”. Там също имаме организационен живот. Събираме се един път в месеца, правим си съобщения и се опитваме веднъж в месеца да посетим някое театрално или музикално представление. Билетите се плащат от общността. Този месец ще посетим представлението на музикалната рок опера “Исус Христос Суперзвезда” в Държавния музикален театър “Стефан Македонски”. Там съм гледала великолепни мюзикъли, но за тази рок-опера чух негативни коментари. Все пак Андрю Лойд Уебър е голямо име като композитор и ще отидем на представлението.

Бях на гости на брат ми във Франция в годината, когато почина съпругът ми. Брат ми ме покани, за да ме разведри, тъй като бях много съсипана. Ходихме и в Италия на фестивал на Росини. След това бях на гости на племенницата ми във Виена. Тя ни заведе два пъти на синагога, която беше много хубава, но нашата в София е още по-хубава. Организацията там обаче е по-добра. Канторите в синагогата във Виена бяха много добри тенори и пееха великолепно. Толкова много ми хареса, че когато излязохме, аз, сестра ми и племенницата ми запяхме една еврейска песен на иврит. Тогава една жена дойде и ни прегърна, защото й бяхме направили впечатление, че сме еврейки и знаем тази песен.

Пътувала съм три пъти до Израел – през 1966, 1987 и 1992 г. За половин век Израел се превърна от пустиня в градина. Въпреки всички усилия на еврейската държава, положението на хората продължава да е тягостно заради конфликта с арабите. Хората в Израел живеят ден за ден и правят всичко максимално добре, защото живеят в несигурност за утрешния ден. Синовете на дъщеря ми Зоя живеят и работят там от две години и благодарение на еврейската солидарност на роднините ми успяха да се устроят добре. Смятам, че Америка трябва да насочи усилията си в борбата срещу тероризма и в Израел, където в последно време терорът върху населението се увеличи.

В момента аз съм вдовица от близо две години. Моят съпруг почина през 2000-та година от много тежко заболяване. С него съм живяла много добре и сега много ми липсва. Живея сама вкъщи. Децата ми си имат своите ангажименти. Добре са устроили живота си и нямат време за мен. Еврейската общност ми помага да си разнообразя живота. Посещавам в понеделник и сряда клуб “Здраве”, където няколко години бях касиер. Участвам в клуб “Ладино”, където се надявам да възстановя познанията си по този език. През лятото ще се проведе събиране на евреите, които говорят ладино - “Есперанса”, където и аз ще взема участие. Посещавам клуб “Златна възраст”  и всички мероприятия, които се организират.

I was born in 1915, still in the Tsarist times. I was born in Chashniki settlement, in Vitebsk province [today Belarus]. I lived there until I was 14 years old. My maternal grandfather’s name was Bera Dvorkin. He had a nickname, ‘Kharakovers,’ after the village of Kharakovichi, where he had come from. Grandfather owned an inn in the middle of the settlement, near the marketplace. 

He had a lot of authority and was very often asked to witness conclusion of deals. Wealthy people gathered in his house, such as Jewish businessmen, Polish pans [Polish nobility] and Russian officials. They discussed difficult issues to find mutually acceptable solutions. I remember how Grandfather took me to the synagogue, where we sat in the front row. We were considered kohanim; we were blessed separately from the others.

My family background

Growing up

During the war

After the war

Marriage life and children

Glossary 

My family background

Grandfather Bera was married twice. He loved his first wife very much, but she appeared to be infertile. According to the Jewish law he gave her a divorce letter after three years of marriage and got married for the second time. His second wife gave birth to two sons, Mulia and Folia, and eight daughters including Dynia, Sarah, Dvoira and Musia; all the rest died in childhood. All children were born and grew up in Chashniki. They were members of the local Jewish community and their families were engaged in crafts and trade. In the 1920s one by one they moved to Leningrad [today St. Petersburg]. The big city with its opportunities attracted them and they wanted to provide their children with a good education. At the end of the 1920s after the NEP 1 was abolished, the local authorities imposed exorbitant taxes on traders and craftsmen and threatened them with repressions in case of non-payment. After that no relatives of ours remained in Chashniki. They all escaped persecutions. Grandmother died early. I don’t remember her at all. Grandfather died in 1918.

My mother’s name was Dynia Bera Dvorkina. Mother was born in 1879, the year Stalin was born. She was very beautiful. Besides, she was a smart, strong-willed, practical and very thrifty woman. She was considered an enviable bride in the village but didn’t get married for a long time. She turned all the young men down, as she didn’t like anyone. She was around 30 years old when she met my father. They married shortly after.

Abram Plotkin, my father, came from Parichi settlement near Bobruisk [today Belarus]. There was a village nearby, all inhabitants of which were Plotkins. Some families of our relatives lived in this village. Father was educated in his own way, though he never got any certificates. He served as a manager for local landlords and worked at several places.

My parents had three children. My elder brother – I don’t remember his name – was notable for his intractable temper. He studied at cheder and constantly clashed with the teacher. The latter began picking on him. One day my brother hid a stone in his bosom and brought it to cheder and dropped it on the teacher’s foot. The teacher became furious and beat him mercilessly. After that my brother was ill for a long time and died soon after. Back then teachers had the right to use forms of corporal punishment, but not cruel ones. Such cases were left without any investigation in a small borough, as the inhabitants were afraid to make complaints to the authorities.

My sister Sonya [Sofia] was four years older than me, she was born in 1911. She was my elder sister. She had an inborn flaw – a curved face, no one knew why. She was treated but to no avail. When she was 16, she moved to Leningrad in order to continue her studies and lived there independently, under the supervision of our relatives, who had left before.

Father fell ill with tuberculosis when he was 40 years old and died soon afterwards. In 1916, during World War I, he was summoned to Orsha for the Army draft. He left for Orsha with open tuberculosis. The medical commission found him fit for army service, though his consumption was in its final stage. Mother brought him home. He could barely walk, came home, lay on the bed and died. I was six months old, when he died.

After Father’s death in 1916, my mother didn’t get married and remained a widow for 14 years with two children on her hands; she raised me and Sonya. I was a naughty and sickly child. At first I fell sick with tuberculosis. The local medical attendant, an experienced and intelligent person, advised my mother to treat me with badger fat. I was given it as a drink and recovered. In 1919 I fell seriously ill, I ate too many sour cherries and poisoned myself with cherry stones. It happened to me often: as soon as sour cherries ripened, I climbed onto the tree and ate far too many of them. But this time I was near death. Mother was running around like crazy, she didn’t know what to do. She ran to the synagogue to see the rabbi. The rabbi told her, ‘He should be given another name at the synagogue.’ According to the rabbi’s advice I was named Itzhak, in honor of a Hassidic tzaddik. My new name was solemnly proclaimed at the synagogue. After that literally on the second day I recovered: either the name helped or it was over by itself. Three days later I was as good as new. But no one called me Itzhak. As a child I was called Meishke. My name according to my passport is Moisey Abramovich. 

Growing up

One of the most striking impressions from my childhood was connected with Polish anti-Semitism during the Civil War 2. When in 1920 the Soviet-Polish War 3 broke out, the Polish troops at first quickly moved across the territory of Belarus. Mother sent me to the village and arranged for me to stay with an old Jewish acquaintance. She thought it would be quieter there, but the Polish soldiers entered the village. I hid on the stove 4. A Polish officer in beautiful uniform and konfederatka [black or colored square Polish hat] tore out a tuft of hair from a man’s beard, brought his fist to the man’s nose and said, ‘Well, kike! As many zlotys as you have hairs! Or I’ll knife you.’ Ever since then I distrusted Poles, though Stas Fialkovsky, a Pole, was my best friend since my student years.

Our Chashniki settlement was located on the bank of the river Ulla, approximately 80 kilometers from Vitebsk, the province capital. Lepel borough was even closer; it was the center of the district. Orsha was also near. Later, at the end of the 1920s, a railroad was constructed between Lepel and Orsha. This railroad passed not far from Chashniki. It was three kilometers on foot to the nearest railroad station. Chashniki is not a historically famous place. Perhaps Shlomo Ansky should be mentioned, he was the founder of the Jewish ethnography in Russia. [Ansky, Shlomo (1863-1920): born Shlomo Zanvl Rappoport; Russian-Jewish writer and playwright, author of the famous play ‘The Dibbuk.’] He came from our borough, from a family of timber traders, the Rappoports, who grew rich during the times of Tsar Nikolai I. Only Jews lived in Chashniki. It was a pure Jewish borough, Belarusians lived in villages around. Everybody spoke Yiddish in the borough. Even Belarusians, who came to the marketplace, spoke Yiddish. We had a very solid national system there. No bilingualism. Jewish mono-lingualism. Mother spoke only Yiddish to me.

The small borough looked ordinary, like all boroughs, and looked more like a village than a town. Dirty streets, it was impossible to walk along them in spring and fall, no boots lasted long enough. It was better to go outside in winter, when the ground was covered with snow; or in summer when the soil dried out and dust stood rooted to the ground.

My mother inherited three houses from Father, who died in 1916. The biggest house served as an inn. Peasants from villages arrived with horse carts to the fairs and on market days. They entered the yard, left their horses there and went to trade. During the day, at lunchtime they came in for tea. Mother put on a huge samovar for them, first one and then another. Dozens of men and women sat at the table and drank tea with baranki [type of bagels]. Those who were wealthier bought home-brew from my mother. The marketplace was in the middle of the settlement. Food was there in abundance, one can only dream of it nowadays. All Jews had vegetable gardens. They had enough potatoes and beetroot. If someone bought something, it was usually meat, though Jews had their own goats, ducks and chickens. For every winter Mother fed 15-20 geese and a couple of dozens of hens, which grazed at the backyard. No one counted them. Two or three barrels of pickled cucumbers and sauerkraut were procured for the winter as well. We were able to live without buying food at the market.

A small paper factory was constructed in the borough in the late 1920s. One of the Jews took a contract and started a mechanical mill with a kerosene engine. There were a lot of shoemakers in our shtetl. They didn’t only patch up, but also made boots, shoes and ladies’ shoes. There were also specialists who felted valenki [Russian felt boots]. Nobody makes such valenki now. There was one medical assistant for the whole borough.

I remember Zusia Vasserman, our neighbor. This very quiet, modest Jew had a very warm attitude towards me and my mother. He sold apples. He drove around villages on his cart, bought apples from peasants, stored them in his cellar and sold them at the marketplace in winter. He paid a lot of attention to us and took me with him on his commercial trips. One day, early in the morning he invited me to go on a trip with him. I snatched a slice of bread and got onto the cart. When we left the borough, a big Gypsy band drove out of the forest: horses, carts, wagons; Gypsy women in flower-patterned skirts; swarthy children. [Editor’s note: Russian Gypsies can be divided into two big groups, the Roma and Luli. Historically, the Roma first appeared in Russia in the 16th century but it was only at the beginning of the 19th century that they came to Moscow and St. Petersburg. They tended to live in separate communities and often faced prejudice. During World War II they suffered from Nazi persecution along with the Jews.] They all made noise, danced and their jewelry jingled. I still have the picture in front of my eyes. Zusia’s wife was my mother’s friend. Later on she fell seriously ill and became jealous. So Mother stopped communicating with Zusia and told me to stay away from him. At the end of the 1920s when the authorities began pressing the traders, Mother many times advised Zusia to wrap up his business and leave. But he clung to his house, his small business he was accustomed to. He was afraid to break away and start from scratch. As a result, he was dispossessed, exiled and vanished without a trace.

All borough boys were busy with games. Every summer battles started, street against street. We all prepared clay ‘shells,’ ran and threw them at each other on command. After that we ran to bathe in the river. Timber was procured upstream and floated down the Ulla. We got onto these rafts and dived into the water. The current was very strong. Once I was drawn under a log by the stream. There was no air to breathe. I choked and lost consciousness. Fortunately, a man passing by noticed me and dragged me out with his boat-hook. In winter we went ice-skating. When Mother gave me real skates, I became so keen on it that I stopped going to school: in the morning I just went to the ice-rink instead of going to school. I had to repeat a year, the third grade. Mother refused to buy me a bicycle as a punishment. I asked her very much, but she was inexorable. It was the most ‘acute pain’ of my childhood and I still remember it.

Besides playing with my pals I liked music. My teacher taught me to play the violin when I was five years old. I played in his family orchestra. There were eight musicians: two sons and a daughter of his, a local blacksmith, a drummer and a trumpeter. He played very well and loved music. We played at weddings and formal events. We marched at the head of the column during holiday demonstrations, playing the ‘Budenny March’ or ‘Slavianka’s Farewell’ [Russian military marches]. We played freilakhs and other Jewish melodies at weddings. When theater performances took place at the House of Culture, we played any music, which came to our minds, in the foyer.

I went to cheder when I was five, in 1920. We studied the Torah there. I studied the Hummash for two years. We didn’t come to studying the Talmud. All studies at cheder were in Yiddish. We learnt prayers in Hebrew by heart, without understanding the meaning of the words. I didn’t have time to learn Hebrew. We weren’t taught to read and write in Russian. I revolted in 1922 and flatly refused to go to cheder, as it ‘was not in fashion anymore.’ All my friends quit. ‘Mother, I will not go to cheder anymore.’ ‘What?’ She began to beat me, but I remained inexorable. The melamed, the cheder teacher, came and complained about me, ‘Your son doesn’t visit me anymore.’ She told him, ‘What can I do? The time is gone, not only he quit.’ The synagogue also was empty, only the old people gathered there. I was seven years old at that time. I didn’t go to school yet.

In 1922 I went to school. The school was considered a good one. The building and the basic team of teachers remained from the pre-revolutionary times 5. All the studies were in Russian. In primary grades our teacher was a Pole, ill with consumption. He taught us arithmetic, reading and writing in Russian, other subjects and kept a strict order. I was even left in the third grade for another year because of truancy. They didn’t want to transfer me to the 5th grade of high school because of my social origin [between 1918 and 1936 the ‘exploiters’ were disabled, deprived of their rights, including the right for free education.] Mother managed to arrange it. I remember only the teacher of geography, a very intelligent Russian woman. Everything I know about geography, I remember from her lessons. I didn’t manage to finish the 5th grade. In February or March 1929 my mother had to suddenly escape from Chashniki. She was threatened with arrest and trial. I was left alone and quit going to school.

At the end of the NEP in 1928-1929 all my relatives were out. Some were evicted, some were bereaved of their property. Their property was taken away like this: all of a sudden the financial inspector, the tax service inspector, sent a subpoena ordering to come for tax charging. And the amount of tax exceeded the cost of the house, all household and income ten years in advance. Even if one had sold oneself to slavery, it still wouldn’t have been possible to pay the tax. So people left everything and fled, in order to avoid prison because of failure to pay.

Mother was dispossessed at the beginning of 1929. The financial inspector sent her a paper, which said that she had to pay a tax amounting to 5,700,000 rubles. It wasn’t possible to earn such an amount of money in a lifetime. The paper was just written at random. If one didn’t pay the tax, one was prosecuted. So smart people left their houses and escaped. Those who didn’t manage to escape, were prosecuted, exiled to Solovki or Kazakhstan 6. Mother was warned by friends that in the evening she would be taken away and arrested. My mother was a very smart woman. As soon as she heard it, she didn’t wait for any miracle to happen, she fled. She got onto a passing cart and went to the railroad station. She went to the neighboring station, not the closest one, in order not to be tracked down. She took a train from there to Leningrad where our relatives, who had left before, lived. Mother couldn’t take me with her. If we had been caught, we would have both been exiled.

I was left alone with three houses. And above all, I had stocks of jam for five years maybe. I also had a dog as ‘dowry.’ It happened in February or March 1929, two or three months after my birthday. I was 13 years old. That’s why I had no bar mitzvah. I was left all alone and there were no relatives around; no one to take care of me.

My music teacher promised my mother that he would put me on a train as soon as possible and send her a telegram to meet me in Leningrad. And so he did. Three or four months after my mother had left he tapped on the window and told me, ‘Meishke, we shall leave at 3 at night.’ He was a wonderful man, a person with a pure soul. He had a big family. He knew it was a risk to assist the dispossessed, but he did everything honestly. A cart approached at 3am. The teacher came with his sons. He told me, ‘Give me your sack and get in.’ They loaded my belongings onto the cart and secretly at night took me to the station. Secretly, so that no one would know where I was going. The dispossessed were watched. If they found out where I was going they would start looking for my mother there. She was already condemned, deprived. All her property was taken away, because she didn’t pay the tax and fled. We had to go three kilometers to the station along a forest road. We came to the station. He bought a train ticket and accompanied me to Orsha, where he put me on a train to Leningrad. He sent a telegram to my sister Sonya in order to organize our meeting. The mail service worked better in those times. It cost one kopek or half a kopek to send a telegram. I had some luggage with me on the train – a sack full of holes, two times bigger than me. I traveled on the train for 15 hours and ate bread with jam. I put as much jam as I could carry into the sack: two whole pots. It was my first distant trip, and on my own. I was 13.

I arrived in Leningrad in the afternoon, at Vitebsky Station. My sister Sonya met me there. My sister brought me to a house opposite Vitebsky Station. The apartment was on the eighth floor. There was no elevator. She rented a corner of a room. The corner was separated with a screen and she wasn’t allowed to use the rest of the room. I was totally out of my mind and didn’t understand anything because of fear and uncertainty. I didn’t stay with my sister long. She had a very strict landlady. She allowed me to stay one or two days with my sister, not longer. My sister went to school at that time; she was in the final grade. It was a famous and very good school located near the Art-and-Industry College.

Later Aunt Sarah showed mercy and said, ‘Bring him to me, to 2 Chaikovskogo Street.’ So I lived with her in summer and fall 1929. Aunt Sarah had three children. She was a housewife and her husband was a goldsmith. He had a workshop of his own. He did everything himself: met the clients, took orders and made golden articles. His income was rather good. The family was quite Jewish, but the husband drank and every day came back from work a little tipsy. Sarah had an unusual two-storied apartment with a nursery upstairs and a parents’ room downstairs. When she left for the summerhouse 7 I stayed as a guard in the apartment. I wandered about the yard for two weeks and then signed up for a pioneer club 8 for children.

Mother couldn’t take me in right away. After my mother arrived in Leningrad she lived incognito with one of her sisters on Grazhdansky Prospekt. Then her sisters found her a Jewish fiancé. They got her acquainted with a representative of the working class with the help of some well-wishers. Iosif Borisovich Barvish worked as a glue-maker at a factory manufacturing musical instruments. He came from Kazan [today the capital of Tatarstan region, Russia], arrived in Petrograd [today St. Petersburg] at the beginning of the Revolution. His wife died and he had four grown-up sons. He was an unsophisticated man, a nice one, hard-working, without interest in lofty matters and politics. After his wife had died it became difficult for him to cope with his sons. They were serious grown up people but none could cook and keep the house. Three days after Mother was introduced to this man they decided to get married. She was satisfied with his social origin; she would become the wife of a worker and wash off her past sins as a dispossessed person. He thought it convenient that he would have a wife who would feed him and his sons.

When Mother got married, Barvish had five rooms in a separate apartment on Znamenskaya Street. Such conditions were perfect at that time. Since Mother married Barvish and they registered the marriage, she became the wife of a proletarian, a worker. She didn’t tell anyone that she had been repressed, she held her tongue. She kept the house, fed her new husband’s sons. As soon as Mother found out about Barvish’s job she started to ask him to bring home some glue. He began to bring back a small bar of joining glue every day. Mother, being a born entrepreneur, sold these bars secretly at the marketplace. In those times there was a shortage of all goods. The well-being of the family grew significantly owing to my mother’s underground activity. As a result everything developed rather well.

Later when she pegged her place substantially, she told her husband, ‘I also have children.’ He didn’t know anything either about the boy or the girl. First Sonya appeared, as if by chance arrived in Leningrad, without a place to live. She fitted in well, though she was with a ‘flaw,’ a warped face. Barvish had four sons and no daughters. He accepted her and decided to adopt her. She was Plotkina and became Barvish.

Since 1929 Sonya lived with our mother. She finished school and graduated from the Timber-Processing Academy in Leningrad. All her life she worked as an economist in the field of wood processing at the A. V. Lunacharsky musical instruments factory. She was considered a good expert. Her work was very hard; she was the head of the Labor and Salary Department of the whole factory. A lot of people in their team hated her. Bonuses and other payments depended on her. There were always those who wished to get a bigger bonus and other perks. But she did everything according to the rules. It was impossible to compel her, she didn’t take bribes, she didn’t indulge anyone and thus everyone considered her bad. My sister loved me very much. She didn’t have any private life; she lived with our mother all her life and died several months after her, in 1971.

Later, at the end of fall 1929 Mother took me by the hand and brought me to her husband. Here was a son, who appeared ‘accidentally.’ As if she didn’t know that I was brought here. ‘There’s nowhere to place him.’ Barvish was a very nice man. Besides, he was very much pleased with the new housewife. I was allowed to stay. Thus, I began to live in my family again. I lived like his legitimate son. Barvish accepted me. But he adopted my sister legally, she became Barvish, and I remained Plotkin. All his four sons lived with us.

Barvish’s elder son, Chaim, took the Party courses. He was a member of the [Communist] Party, a very ideological and committed person. He worked as a secretary of the Party organization at the ‘Bolshevik’ 9 plant shop. In 1933 Chaim was summoned to the Central Committee of the All-Union Communist Party and was present at Stalin’s reception. He was appointed Manager of the MTS – machine-and-tractor station on the Kuban [river]. He had a hard time there. We began to get information that it was restless there. He married a Cossack 10 woman. It cost him a lot. His wife’s relatives began to dislike Chaim because of his Jewish nationality. The Cossack woman herself never came to see us. We were informed before the war that he was killed by the Cossacks.

The second son, David, worked at the SOMP [State Optical-and-Mechanical Plant] as the head of the Planning Department. He had a good salary and he had a nice wife. Lusia was a very nice and sociable woman, she managed a perfumery store, she also sang well. They had a son, Vladimir. He became a very good design engineer and participated in designing submarines. When the war broke out 11, the SOMP, a modern plant, producing strategically important goods, was promptly evacuated to Kazan. David left for Kazan with the plant. He left Lusia and started a new family. After the war he stayed in Kazan and died there.

The third son, Mikhail [Matos], was the manager of a restaurant on Nevsky Prospekt. He couldn’t trade or steal. He always ended up losing. His only merit in the face of the Soviet Power was that he had served in the cavalry as a young man and was a brave Red cavalryman and joined the Bolshevik Party. That is why the authorities entrusted a restaurant to him. My mother proposed her niece Lyuba to him as a wife. They got married and lived in harmony. Right before the war the restaurant went broke under his management. Either some criminals robbed it, or the employees embezzled it. Matos returned to the army, served all the way up to the rank of a captain and was in command of a battalion. Unfortunately, marriages weren’t stable during the war. Matos found himself a very beautiful Russian wife. They served in one unit. They had a son. After the war Matos returned to Leningrad with his new wife and soon died from stomach cancer because of an unsuccessful operation.

The youngest son, Victor, sold kerosene in a store before the war. He was the most unfortunate one, an unprepossessing and slowwitted person. My mother married him off to Tsylia, a very rich and practical woman from Chashniki. Tsylia was a real bourgeois there. She had a big brick house in Chashniki. She wasn’t a beauty, nothing to look at really, but she fitted the role of a housewife. So Victor married Tsylia. Under her skillful control he became manager of the kerosene store and the wealthiest of all brothers. They had a son, Aron. Everybody considered him a booby, though he graduated successfully from the Electrical and Technical Institute, became an engineer, a radio electronics specialist. He married a very practical girl, who took him to America as soon as Jews were allowed to emigrate from the USSR. They live in the suburbs of Chicago now and prosper. Victor and Tsylia stayed in Russia and died in Leningrad. Such were my new relatives.

By 1929 I had finished only five grades: four grades of elementary school and one grade of high school. I had to continue my studies or find a job. There was unemployment at that time. Nobody waited for such a ‘responsible employee’ as me, nobody kept a place for me. In August I went to the labor registry office. It was located on Maxim Gorky Prospekt. I came there and told them that I was 14. They replied, ‘Grow up.’ I came back in two days and said, ‘I am 15.’ ‘Well, a 15-year-old is fine. We are taking on apprentices for the FWS [i. e. factory and works school] located in Malaya Okhta [industrial district north-east of Leningrad]. There is a cooperative of the reinforcement trust. They train metal workers, lathe operators. Do you want to go for this training?’ I said, ‘If you accept me, I will go.’ So they put me on the list. I went to the FWS with an assignment and became an apprentice. 

When I came to the FWS with an assignment from the labor registry office, I found out that it wasn’t just a high school. Working personnel was being trained there for industry; they were dealing with sanitary engineering and taps. I was considered a worker and had to study at the FWS for three years in order to acquire the qualification of a metal worker and a lathe operator.

Besides learning the future profession at the FWS we had lessons based on the high school program. The school was to provide us with education at the level of a seven-year school, i.e. education level of the 5th, 6th and 7th grades. We studied mathematics, technical drawing and other secondary school subjects. We also had one lesson of Russian per week. There were also political literacy lessons – about the October Revolution, about the Winter Palace being taken by storm, though in reality there was no storm, and so on and so forth. All studies were conducted rather primitively. In fact my knowledge remained at the level of the 5th grade from the school in Chashniki.

A lot of attention was devoted to public activity, the Komsomol 12, participation in various events. In summer we were taken to kolkhozes 13 to help the agricultural workers to weed the fields and harvest. There were also girls at school, no less than half of all students. There weren’t many Jews but there were some, especially in the Komsomol organization. There were no special relations between Jews there. I decided to join the Komsomol. My social origin was an appropriate one now; I came from a worker’s family. I became a Komsomol member and was accepted at the general meeting.

Soon Mother insisted that I enter a part-time music school and continue to learn to play the violin. I loved music, entered the school gladly and passed the exams successfully. I told one boy at the FWS about my success. He appeared to be either very ideological or simply mean. He spoke at one of the Komsomol meetings, having changed the issue in such a way, ‘Some of our workers want to become musicians and give up our working class job. We should not tolerate such people in the Komsomol.’ The Komsomol meeting resolved that I should quit the music school, otherwise I would be expelled from the Komsomol. I decided to quit the music school.

In 1932 I finished the FWS. I was assigned 14 to work as a turning-lathe operator at the Lepse foundry, where I did my practical work. My salary per month was 30 rubles. It was almost nothing, however, for those days it was enough to buy bread. It was as if I made my contribution to the family budget and justified my existence.

I was to make railroad joints at the plant. I could not succeed in it. My stepfather gave me some practical advice, ‘Take a look at your neighbor’s tools.’ So I peeped at my neighbor’s tools in the shop when he turned away for a moment. He had a chasing tool, the same as ours, but produced in Germany. I told Mother about it and she found a tool seller and bought me German chasing tools, and moreover, nitrated ones. They practically don’t wear out, because their surface is treated with nitrogen. She bought three pieces for me.

On the sly I put the German chasing tool on my machine and cut 600 joints during my shift, all of them perfectly done. I completed my monthly work at once. When I successfully handed in my joints the next day, our supervisor came.

The foreman was a born anti-Semite, though there were few Jews at the plant. He was envious: this ‘kike’ was able to master something that he himself wasn’t able to do. He began to watch me, looking under my hand, spying on my work. So I took a sick-leave at the polyclinic and didn’t come to work for three or four days. I warned everybody that I was sick and couldn’t come to work. He forgot about me. When I came to work again I made 500 joints without any rejects. The standard daily work was 25 to 30 parts per shift at most. My picture was placed on the Board of Honor with the inscription ‘udarnik’ [shock worker] Plotkin. I was 17 years old.

After that the anti-Semitic foreman conceived a dislike for me and began to torment me with night shifts. He put me on night shifts every other week. It was very hard for me. I couldn’t stand night work. I couldn’t stay conscious after one or two sleepless nights and fell asleep upright. I was afraid to fall asleep and fall into the machine. I complained to my mother, saying that I couldn’t go to work at the plant. I asked her to take me away from it, though I liked the lathe operator job.

Mother found OBLONO [National Education regional department] courses, which trained teachers of polytechnic labor. Young workers were taken for these courses and trained to be teachers in six months. Graduates were assigned to work at schools as teachers of polytechnic labor, bench work and timbering. I left the foundry in 1934 and signed up for these courses.

There was a special science named pedology – a theory developed by the pedagogue L. S. Vygotsky [1896-1936], studying young people’s personalities during the awkward age. This science was very much in fashion. It was based on the fact that at the age of 15-17 the teenagers’ psyche has its certain peculiarities, both boys’ and girls’. This science was very important for a teacher, as one should know a child’s psyche. We had a pedologist at our courses. He told us about the teenager’s soul and what his interests were. The teenagers were interested not in the work itself, but in relations that were generated from the common cause. Boys are mostly interested in girls and vice versa. Later a decree was introduced, stating that pedology was a pseudo-science. It was subject to damning criticism and banned. Now the ideas of that science are used by pedagogues all over the world. Only in this country, at the end of the 1930s, it was banned and declared a pseudo-science.

In summer 1934, after finishing the OBLONO courses, I was assigned to work as a teacher of labor and drawing in Chagodoschensky district of Leningrad region. Now Chagodoscha is part of Novgorod region, but at that time Novgorod, Pskov, Petrozavodsk and Murmansk were part of the big Leningrad region. I was accepted as a teacher to a high school in the village of Pervomayskoye. It was a beautiful location with a lot of forests. Pervomayskoye was a traditional center of glass-production. There were several small glass-works around.

I was accommodated in the former manor-house, a wooden house with a stove. I lived there all alone. In winter it was sometimes terrifying, when the wolves howled. I taught village children labor according to CLI method, as I had been taught at the FWS. I showed them elements of the working movement for the purpose of developing automatism and labor skills. In any case there were no real tools at school, except for a carver’s mallet, wooden hammer, and an axe, which they knew how to use better than I did. I couldn’t draw, so I contented myself with talks about how to draw. There were more experienced teachers at school, mostly middle-aged women, who forgave me all my mistakes because of my young age. I was 19. There was a wonderful teacher of physics, exiled from Leningrad for his inappropriate social origin; and an experienced teacher of chemistry. They got married later.

The most difficult trial was conversations related to foreign and internal policy with the collective farmers, kolkhozniks, from neighboring villages on the instructions of the local village Soviet [local authority]. It was a very hard time. I didn’t have any understanding of politics and didn’t know what to say. However, everything turned out fine. Apparently my listeners knew even less than I did.

The following year polytechnic labor was abolished at schools. There weren’t enough resources to support the good idea of polytechnic education. The country wasn’t able to furnish schools with necessary equipment and tools. I had to return back home to my mother.

I had to find another job. I went to work as a lather operator at the plant named after the Second Five-year Plan, located on Ligovsky Prospekt. The plant manufactured paper-producing machines. It was a complicated and modern production for those times. I handled my job well and worked there until September 1935.

Working youth entered technical schools and institutes at that time. I also wanted to obtain real education. Mother went to LITMO [Leningrad Institute of Fine Mechanics and Optics] and found out that there was a rabfak 15 there. The rabfak ensured high school education for young workers, who didn’t have a chance to finish school, but wanted to get higher education. Four years at rabfak were equal to nine grades of high school. I submitted an application to the rabfak and said that I had finished FWS. I was taken in to the 4th year right away. FWS was considered equal to seven grades. Besides I was a worker who came straight ‘from the machine.’

We were taught mathematics, physics, literature, the Russian language, technical drawing and several other subjects. We also had social science. We had a wonderful teacher of literature. I still remember him. He didn’t give us lectures, but arranged discussions about literature. Our whole group listened to him with their mouths open. I can’t remember if he was Russian or not. There were no differences between Russians and Jews at that time. Only the social origin mattered: if one was a bourgeois, one wouldn’t be accepted anywhere, but if one was from a workers’ family, one would have clear passage everywhere. The selection was social, not based on intelligence or nationality.

I graduated from the 4th year of rabfak in 1936 and entered the LITMO. I took two exams; mathematics and physics. I got two poor marks for both. But since my social origin in my papers was stated as proletarian by my stepfather and I myself was considered a worker, I was accepted and taken in to the 1st year of studies. Other boys and girls had excellent marks but they didn’t pass the entrance exams. Social origin was the most important issue at that time.

I wasn’t the most successful student and had no big achievements in my studies. I strived after knowledge, but my school education gaps and my shyness were an obstacle. The educational level in LITMO was very high. Our teachers were leading specialists in the field of optics and mechanics. They set up their own scientific and pedagogical schools. Their students held the highest positions in the optical industry, fine mechanical engineering, computing equipment manufacturing. The intellectual and professional level of the environment in which I spent five years as a student of the institute, was very high. I was not distinguished by capabilities and success against such a background, but the knowledge and skills I obtained, proved useful to me in my practical work.

My public activity was more successful. I made friends with Max Mikhailovich Rosenberg, a Communist, Chairman of the trade-union committee at the Institute of Fine Mechanics and Optics. He got me engaged in trade-union work. I was entrusted with the social sector. I was mostly busy with distribution of tickets to health centers and rest homes.

Irina Nagibina studied together with me at the institute: when I was a 5th-year student, she was a 2nd-year student. She was a tall and beautiful girl with fair hair. I liked her very much. We were friends. We didn’t even think about the fact that she was Russian and I was a Jew. It wasn’t significant at that time. Her father worked in Gostiny Dvor and being a salesman, had a lot of important contacts. He didn’t like the fact that his daughter had a Jew as a friend; however, he died in 1940. 

During the war

At the beginning of June 1941 I ate too many plums at the market and found myself in the Botkinsky barracks, the municipal infectious diseases hospital, in a couple of days with typhoid fever. Right before the war there was a rumor in our ward that all walking patients, those who could walk, should be discharged. Space was to be made for a military hospital. I was discharged on 18th June. No one knew that I was discharged and no one came to meet me. I went outside, got into the rain and hardly made it home. I dropped on the bed at home and stayed in bed. At night I had high temperature and we called for a doctor. The doctor was very much surprised, ‘How could he be discharged in such a condition?’ I stayed in bed on 22nd June, when Molotov announced on the radio that Germany had attacked us and war had broken out.

We didn’t know the truth at that time, we knew nothing. We didn’t know, how strong and predatory that enemy was, which wanted to eliminate Russia, Ukraine, Belarus, to exterminate all Jews and resettle all Russians and others beyond the Urals. We didn’t know that our leaders hadn’t expected the German invasion and were taken aback; we didn’t know that Stalin sank into depression and hid himself during the first days of the war. When the first confusion was over, we began to receive reasonable instructions from above and we started to work. The Germans advanced quickly to the East, so most important enterprises of Leningrad, its defense industry, which was always the support of the Russian state, were prepared to be evacuated. The required number of cargo cars was allocated for evacuation of the most important defense enterprises. Special trains marked with a letter carried everything away to the East, both the equipment and the employees.

I was subject to the military draft, but all LITMO students had a draft deferment. The institute was considered a military one, as it trained engineers for the defense industry. However, the situation at the front was very difficult. Volunteers were enlisted to the People’s Volunteer Corps. At the end of June a friend of mine came from the institute, ‘Look, we all got signed up for the People’s Volunteer Corps, what about you?’ ‘I am ill, I can hardly walk.’ ‘It doesn’t matter, write an application, we will take it there.’ I wrote an application. The medical commission for the People’s Volunteer Corps was set for 3rd July. I received a call-up paper. I was sick, but I got up and went there. I didn’t want to be a deserter during wartime. Mother went to see me off.

The commission was located in the Palace of Culture named after the First Five-year Plan, behind the Mariinsky Theater. Mother brought me there. There were crowds of people, hundreds, thousands of draftees. We were waiting for two or three hours. I was so weak after having typhoid that I can’t even remember how I stood there. The examination was quick. ‘What do you have?’ ‘A call-up paper.’ ‘Go to the medical commission.’ I came to the commission, the doctors checked my sight, my hearing, my legs and my arms. ‘Suitable.’ Then one doctor, an old 60-year-old woman, asked me, ‘Why do you have such a heart beat? Are you scared or something?’ I explained that I had been in Botkinsky barracks with typhoid. ‘Move away from the others.’ After that I was handed over to a different commission. They started to touch me all over again and told me I had heart complications after typhoid. They gave me an army deferment for two months. I was issued a note about deferment and I dragged myself home, understanding nothing. That piece of paper saved my life.

All our students from the 5th year, except for three people, who got deferment, were sent to the People’s Volunteer Corps Division. Several days later, the 50 boys, who didn’t have any military training, were sent to Luzhsky Line, to defend the far approaches to Leningrad. They were bombed on their way and incurred their first losses. In the middle of August the German tanks broke through our defenses and all our boys perished. No one survived. There was a rumor that in the last battle the secretary of the Party organization of our year and his assistants gave themselves up and went over to the German side.

Two days after the medical commission the same friend of mine visited me, ‘Why are you sitting here? The Dean’s office is looking for you, they want you to come immediately.’ I had already finished five years at the institute. Only the diploma remained. I went to the institute. The Scientific Work pro-rector jumped on me, ‘Where have you been?’ ‘I came as soon as I heard you were looking for me.’ ‘Go to this room, there is a commission. The Defense Ministry has assignments for all those who graduated from this institute, without defending a diploma. Go there and they will tell you what to do.’ I went to the commission and told my name. ‘We have been looking for you. Here is an assignment from the Ministry. Where would you like to go? Pick a place. There is Novosibirsk, Tomsk, Sverdlovsk, Izhevsk and another dozen of cities. Pick any plant you want – a firearms plant or an artillery plant…’ All graduates were already drafted to the People’s Volunteer Corps, so there were a lot of free assignments. I started to think, ‘What plant would be farther from the frontline?’ These ministry assignments were for the whole Soviet Union: central regions, Siberia, the Far East, the Urals. I read, ‘Kaluga, Ryazan, Voronezh… that’s bad, the Germans are close there… Izhevsk.’ I counted quickly that it was 1,500 kilometers to Izhevsk. ‘I choose Izhevsk.’ ‘Fine. You will go to Izhevsk and work at an arms plant. Sign here, take the ticket and go.’ I was assigned to the Izhevsk arms plant as an engineer-researcher to work with CME – control and measurement equipment.

Everything was happening so fast, no one understood anything. I had to say good-bye to my relatives. All my friends and relatives got together in our apartment on Vosstaniya Street. We had a real feast, because the assignment papers were accompanied with a trip advance payment, a tremendous amount of money for that time. We drank champagne.

Then Irina Nagibina, my first girlfriend, came running: ‘Oh, you’re leaving, what about me?’ ‘Stay with your parents.’ She told me when we said good-bye, ‘Don’t forget me.’

In the morning of my departure day I packed my things, took my ragged light coat, shoes, my cap and left for the Moscow railroad station. Everybody who could, came to see me off. I left together with my friend and institute-mate Stas Fialkovsky. Our train was one of the last ones, which left Leningrad. In the middle of August the Germans broke through near Kingisepp and Luga, later near Gatchina and at the beginning of September barred all the ways to and from the city. We didn’t have any misgivings about the future Leningrad siege terrors 16. 

Our train departed successfully. There was real pandemonium at Bologoye station. There were troop trains with refugees from the Baltic Republics and Belarus; crowds of evacuated people. Then we continued our trip. The next station was in panic. Deserters from the frontline and refugees cried that the Germans were killing everybody. Those who could, have to save their souls. We continued the trip. Soon we arrived in Kazan. We had to change trains there. So we went to look for that train, but the way to Izhevsk appeared to be barred. Some nice people told us, ‘Instead of waiting for the train, go to the dock three kilometers from here, take a boat and get to your place.’ So we did. It took us four days to get to Izhevsk, the capital of the Udmurtsk Autonomous Republic.

We immediately went to the plant in Izhevsk. We had no place to stay – no apartment, no hotel. We came to the personnel department and showed our papers. ‘We have been waiting for you. I will give you an assignment to the chief engineer.’ The chief engineer, a real Jew called Moisey, told me, ‘Moisey Abramovich Plotkin – this is very good. We have a lot of such people. I will issue an assignment for you to this department and you will have to register there.’ I was taken on the staff and the personnel department allocated me and my friend a separate apartment in the center of the city.

120,000 people worked at that time at the Izhevsk Arms Plant. That was a large-scope production. The plant produced machine-guns, rifles, antitank guns, TT pistol, later it began to produce Tula revolvers. We didn’t make anything new. These were tested shooting weapons tried in battles. They were produced in different times and in various quantities.

I got to the CML, equipped with the most modern American equipment. I was the only Jew among Russians, Tartars and Udmurts, mostly women. Almost half of all employees, including the manager of the Laboratory, were sick with open tuberculosis.

Everybody at the plant waited for a big specialist to arrive. I was yesterday’s student and didn’t even know the nuts and bolts. I couldn’t understand why I was assigned as an engineer, if any experienced worker or lab assistant knew and was able to do more than me. The lab manager, an old plant employee, saw that I didn’t understand anything. He gave me certain educational tasks and followed me like a nanny during the first three months. Soon I began to grasp the basics.

Meanwhile the Germans approached Moscow. In December 1941 L. P. Beriya 17, the almighty and formidable People’s Commissar of Internal Affairs visited our plant. All plant managers and specialists were gathered. Beriya said several very common words: ‘The army requires rifle armament. Everybody knows about our tremendous losses. The Army is lacking arms. You have to save the country. You now produce this amount, but by 1st February, i.e. in two months, you have to produce daily two sets of rifle arms for a division.’ We fulfilled the task.

At the beginning of 1942 a new plant, specialized in production of revolvers, was constructed on the basis of our big plant. Militia and partisans were equipped with such revolvers. There was a refugee camp with people from West Belarus and Ukraine arranged at the plant. It wasn’t possible to enlist them for the army, as they didn’t have Soviet citizenship. There were a lot of Jews and Poles among them. There was a construction base. They were told to build big wooden barracks at that base. They built those barracks. There was a lot of timber. Later revolver-making machines, brought from the Tula plants, were placed in those barracks. After a while they started to produce parts, but it was difficult to assemble revolvers. When a lot of these parts were produced and first samples were assembled, the military representatives rejected them. The assembled samples didn’t shoot. Military representatives refused to accept them.

At that time I fell sick with tuberculosis because of defective food and got covered with eczema. But I came to the plant every day. I was appointed head of the CML. We were looking for the reason which would explain the production of rejects. It appeared that the drawings and the produced articles had little in common. Each Tula expert contributed his own share of knowledge and experience to each produced part. Tula experts had magical hands, they didn’t work according to the drawings. The ‘Tsar-template’ that was used to assemble the article, the main pattern, was lost in evacuation. Without it nothing worked. So we took away a reliable and tried revolver from our old security guard, disassembled it into the smallest parts and used it as a model. Revolvers assembled with the use of these new patterns began to shoot. Our team gave me a nickname, the ‘King of Calibers.’

In 1942 Irina arrived. After evacuation from Leningrad she managed to obtain an assignment to the Izhevsk Arms Plant in order to be closer to me. She fell sick with typhoid, she was covered with lice and got into the hospital upon arrival. I visited her and took care of her. We got married soon after. Our daughter Genrietta was born in August 1943. It was a compromise solution: a sonorous foreign name, neither Jewish, nor Russian. Our relations were very good at that time. The problems came later.

In 1944 our forces thrust the Germans back from Leningrad. But the evacuated weren’t allowed to freely return home, it had to be organized. Irina dreamt of going back home and decided to abandon everything. She left for Leningrad together with the Artillery School, which was returning from evacuation. She left me and our six-month-old daughter. I couldn’t forgive her for such betrayal. Besides, the role of a ‘nursing father’ was a hard one for me. I was very busy at the plant. So I had to send Genrietta to a 24-hour kindergarten. Those were hard times.

After the war

I stayed in Izhevsk up to the beginning of 1946. I had a good reputation at the plant, but I lived alone among strangers. My wife, with whom my relations were not broken off completely, had already returned to Leningrad, as well as all my relatives. I took my daughter Genrietta to Leningrad in 1945 and left her with my mother and sister Sonya. She lived there alone without her parents’ care. My wife sent me an invitation after she successfully managed to find a job at LITMO. They asked me to stay at the plant and promised to recommend me for a government decoration, but I decided to leave. I came back to Leningrad on 1st February 1946.

My relatives had stayed in Leningrad, besieged by the Germans. They stayed there all through the winter of 1941-1942, the hardest starvation time of the blockade. Such is the fate of the Jewish nation!

Uncle Folia, Mother’s younger brother, was a very important and businesslike person, a watchmaker and a jeweler. We thought he was very rich. Just like Mother, he managed to escape from Chashniki to Leningrad right on time and lived in Pavlovsk. He had a house of his own, kept a cow, which produced 50 liters of milk daily. This cow provided milk to all summer residents, who lived in Pavlovsk. He had a family, a wife and a daughter. This was all before the war. When in September 1941 the German troops suddenly approached Pavlovsk, he managed to escape to Leningrad with his wife to his sisters. He took only several gold pieces with him, which he kept for a rainy day. In the morning he went outside and tried to sell them in order to buy some food. But he was arrested by a military patrol and tried for jobbery during wartime. This saved his life. The thing was that all prisoners were taken out of Leningrad at the beginning of the siege. Their life at the camp on the Big Land was hard, but not as desperate as in the besieged city. After the war Folia was released. He returned home and lived the rest of his days quietly.

My stepfather, Iosif Barvish, was about 70 in 1941, but he still worked. He continued to make joiner’s glue. That glue was organic, produced out of bones and gristles. He brought some glue home from work. Mother cooked galantine out of it. She added something to it, some water and divided it into equal parts. Thus they maintained their strength a little bit.

Later my stepfather poisoned himself with this glue and died. It happened in February 1942, at the peak of the blockade. He brought a half-bar of glue and Mother cooked a large plate of galantine. She cut it into small pieces, distributed it, wrote down the sizes of portions and hid it. There were no fridges at that time and all food products were kept outside the window. Mother kept watch over it, so that no one would filch their last food. The neighbors could find out about it and filch it. Soon everybody went to bed. Stepfather woke up and felt hungry. He knew where the plate with galantine was and ate not only his portion but another piece, and went back to bed. Suddenly he felt an attack of diarrhea and then dysentery started. He died soon after that. One shouldn’t eat a lot of that galantine, as the human body can’t digest it.

Mother and Sonya stayed in besieged Leningrad until summer 1942. Later they were evacuated, barged across Ladoga Lake 18 and put on a train to Novosibirsk [large industrial center in Western Siberia]. The troop train traveled across Siberia and on the way local managers chose specialists they required among the evacuated. Mother and Sonya settled in the village of Cherepanovo near Novosibirsk. Sonya was taken on as an accountant at the local kolkhoz, she was received very well. Mother also found a good job for herself. They helped her dig up a big vegetable garden and plant potatoes and millet. When the first crop was gathered, Mother started to cook pasties with potatoes and millet and sell them at the station. She was a real entrepreneur. She could make money out of nothing in order to feed the family. When I came to visit them she gave me a whole sack of millet. However, on my way back the sack was stolen in the train, while I was asleep.

Our compatriots, Jews from Chashniki borough, had a tragic fate. I never visited the place after 1929, though I had some information from our relatives. There were about 2,000 Jews in Chashniki when the German occupation began. The Belarusian policeman brought them together, took them to the swamp nearby and shot them. All of them. Old people and children. There were no Jews left after the liberation. Only Belarusians.

Having returned from evacuation, my mother and sister Sonya discovered that their apartment, located on the corner of Vosstania Street and Ryleyeva Street, was occupied by somebody else. So they were moved to a room in a communal apartment 19 one storey higher, where another eight families lived. There was one toilet for everyone, it was horrible! There was a bath in the bathroom but it never worked. There was only a tap. I had to stay with them.

The situation with work appeared to be better. I met my institute-mate Gelman, who worked as a chief technologist at ‘Radiopribor,’ a new plant set up on Koli Tonmchaka Street in the Moscow district. He invited me to work with him as the head of the CML. I worked for 40 years in this position, having started the metrological service for an important military plant.

However, my personal life was not that successful. Relations with my wife didn’t improve, in spite of reconciliation efforts. There was nothing in common between us. Her relatives disgusted me. We became strangers and soon got divorced. Our daughter Genrietta stayed with me. She only hindered Irina in her career.

My cousin Vera, the daughter of my mother’s sister Musia, was married to Abram Meyerovich. She got me acquainted with her husband’s Jewish relative, Marianna Abramovna Meyerovich. We got married soon. It happened on 28th August 1948.

The Meyerovich family came from Pochep, located on the border of Russia and Ukraine. Pochep was not a town, but a sort of borough before the Revolution, a small town in Chernigov province. Now it is a district center in Bryansk region. Their ancestors owned a private printing-house in Pochep. They printed books and magazines. All their sons and their whole family worked in that printing-house. They were considered a wealthy and prosperous family, middle-class for those times. They were someone who is called ‘ikes’ in boroughs, which means cultured respectable people with a developed dignity.

Kusiel Meyerovich moved to Petersburg before the Revolution. He settled in Petrogradskaya Storona and, being a craftsman, obtained a residential permit 20. His wife Nishama gave birth to 14 children. They all grew up and obtained an education. Kusiel died in 1913. His grave can still be seen at the Jewish cemetery. By 1929 all Meyeroviches moved to Leningrad from Pochep to be closer to their relatives. Their whole family clan gathered in Leningrad. Their relations were very warm. They visited each other often and gathered at the table on Jewish and Soviet holidays, eating gefilte fish, chicken galantine, beetroot with garlic and other Jewish meals.

My father-in-law, Abram Semyonovich Meyerovich, was the elder son of Simcha, Kusiel’s elder son. In 1923 he married his distant relative, Miriam Yudovna [Maria Yuryevna] 21 Medvedeva. In 1924 their only daughter Marianna, my wife-to-be, was born.

Before the Revolution, Abram Meyerovich finished a vocational school, obtained engineering education in the 1920s and worked at a bread-baking plant. He was arrested in 1932 in connection with a slanderous denunciation, accused of participation in a Zionist organization; they tried to get a testimony from him against the bread-baking plant general manager, a Jew. He was a courageous and physically strong man, so he passed the ordeal. He didn’t slander anyone and didn’t sign anything. Meanwhile his relatives found some acquaintances who managed to get a release for him. 

During the war, Abram Meyerovich was in technical units of the Baltic Navy aviation, took part in the defense of Leningrad, liberation of the Baltic countries and the seizure of Koenigsberg 22. His wife and daughter were in evacuation in Omsk at that time and worked at an aircraft plant. A lot of their relatives starved to death in besieged Leningrad. In 1947 Abram Meyerovich was demobilized and the family was re-united in Leningrad. After the war he worked at the ‘Krasnaya Zaria’ plant, specialized in production of communication means, until he retired. Maria Yuryevna graduated from the Library Institute and worked in a library at the Kulakov plant. They lived at Petrogradskaya Storona in two rooms in an apartment, which they inherited from their parents. This four-room apartment completely belonged to the Meyeroviches before, but after the war a lot of locals had to make room for others. There was not enough space for everyone to live.

Marriage life and children

When Marianna and I got married, we didn’t know each other well enough. We liked each other when we met. She promised to be a faithful and devoted wife, but there was no time for the mutual feeling to grow stronger. I wanted to put my personal life in order as quickly as possible and to bring up my daughter in a normal family environment. Marianna was a 5th-year student of the Medical Institute at that time and her marriage allowed her to stay in Leningrad when it came to getting an assignment. Otherwise she should have been sent to work in some far-away countryside district of the country with hard conditions.

Nevertheless, our marriage became a really happy one. We matched each other very well and got closer and closer every year. Marianna appeared to be a real Jewish wife, totally living in the interests of the family. She brought up Genrietta as if she were her own daughter. She supported me in all my life struggles. 

In 1949 our son was born. Jews have a tradition to name their children with traditional family names, in honor of their grandfathers. But in 1949 it would have been cruel to give the name of Abram or Simcha to a child. Anti-Semitism increased in the country. So the children were given Russian names, but at least the first letter matched. We gave our son the name of Konstantin in honor of his great-great-grandfather Kusiel.

We lived with my wife’s parents, the six of us in two rooms. I always appreciated the kind and benevolent atmosphere in our home. Even some tiffs with my mother-in-law, inevitable in every married man’s life, didn’t prevent me from feeling our family and our home as a reliable and strong rear.

The beginning of our family life clashed with the campaign aimed against cosmopolitans 23 in the USSR. We found ourselves in a difficult atmosphere of anti-Semitism, both state and domestic. Eighty Jews were fired at our ‘Radiopribor’ plant, mostly qualified engineers, who held average managing positions. Only four Jews remained, including me. The fact was that my position wasn’t needed. The salary was low, only 92 rubles. There were no promotion prospects. Besides, the job of the head of the CML is very responsible and requires highly specialized knowledge in the field of metrology. Only this saved me from being fired.

My wife graduated from the Medical Institute and couldn’t find a job for a long time. Finally she was taken on in a microbiologic laboratory at the Children’s Infections’ Hospital in Leninsky district. The laboratory was headed by a famous microbiologist, Doctor of Medicine, Moisey Solomonovich. He himself was mercilessly expelled from the Medical Institute because of his Jewish origin. This prominent scientist had to work in a district children’s hospital for many years. Marina worked under his supervision during the first two years without a salary. She had to wait until one of the employees retired and the position with a salary became vacant. After that she worked in that hospital for 40 years.

The most dramatic story happened to my wife’s uncle Boris Girshbert. He was a wonderful specialist in chill casting and worked at the Kozitsky plant as a leading mold designer. In the heat of the ‘struggle against cosmopolitans’ he was suddenly fired. He couldn’t bear the shock and died of a heart attack in 1953. His wife Raisa and little daughter Marianna were left without any means for living. We helped them as much as we could until Marianna grew up. Now she has adult children and she is a very successful businesswoman.

A lot of Jews had a hard time in those years. The most heavy blows fell on the most talented and bright people, those with leadership capabilities. On the whole, our family lived like all Soviet people in the post-war decades. We worked a lot in good faith, getting modest salaries. I made more than 50 inventions and innovations in the field of metrologic equipment. I was awarded the ‘Best Rationalizer in Leningrad’ memorable insignia for the sample heating muffle furnace that I designed.

In summer all our family left for the summer-house, which we rented in the country-side. Most of all we liked to spend our time in Zelenogorsk, though we have been to several places. Sometimes I went to the South or traveled along the Volga River with my wife. I still remember these rare trips like real holidays.

During the war and after it I was several times offered to join the Communist Party. The positions I held weren’t very important, but rather responsible, that is why a 100 percent controllable and manageable person should have held them. I quite shared the Communist ideals at that time, but refused to join the CPSU. I pretended that I wasn’t ready to take such a responsible step. But in fact I was simply afraid. I feared that in case of a serious check-up of my papers they would find out that I was a fake proletarian and that my mother had been ‘dispossessed.’ While Stalin was alive one could be seriously punished for false information in the questionnaire. Later this danger was not real anymore, but the fear was still there. I even told my children the true story of their grandmother only in 1989, on the eve of the USSR’s break-up [as the Berlin Wall fell in 1989, irreversible changes took place in the Soviet block]. This was the way the Soviet power brought us up.

This fear sat deep inside us and was transferred to our children. When my daughter was 16 years old, she had to obtain a passport. She said she was Russian. At her school all Jewish boys and girls wrote ‘Russian’ 24 when asked about their nationality.

My children’s youth fortunately fell into Khrushchev’s 25 thaw period, when all anti-Jewish restrictions were relaxed. They managed to obtain university education and make a lot of Russian friends. My daughter graduated from the Faculty of Mathematics–Mechanics at [Leningrad State] University, and our son graduated from the Faculty of History. However, I was always against his humanitarian interests. My daughter happily worked all her life as a teacher at the sub-faculty of Mathematics at the [Leningrad] Polytechnic Institute and our son was constantly driven from place to place. After five-seven years of work at most modest positions he had to leave because of insults and persecution, in order to vacate the place for another ‘original Slavic talent.’ He stayed in Pskov for 20 years, between 1980 and 1999. He was not able to find a job in his native city.

After the Six-Day-War 26 in 1967, at the beginning of the 1970s we were given the possibility to immigrate to Israel. Talks about leaving became an obsession among my relatives and friends. We listened to the programs of the ‘Voice of America’ 27 and BBC about Jewish life. Our friends stealthily shared with us news received from their relatives 28, who had left for Israel and the USA. I remember how we gathered at Victor and Tsylia Barvish’s place to see their son Aron off to the USA. We sat at the table and during several hours spoke only about the departure problems, perspectives to find a job ‘there,’ and so on. Later Tsylia retold me in detail and with pride the rare letters from her son.

However, I had to avoid these plans and even these conversations, as I had absolutely no possibility to leave the USSR. I have worked in the military industry all my life and had access to secret information, including documentation marked ‘OV’ [short for ‘very important’ in Russian]. Systems, the components of which we produced, are still the basis of Russia’s defense potential. The perspective to join the army of unemployed Jews, who received a refusal, didn’t attract me at all. That is why the problem of departure was not really considered in our family.

My children were brought up in the Russian cultural environment. Their life is quite successful. They had some problems with their ethnic origin, especially our son. But they didn’t dare to lose contact with their ‘pre-historic motherland’ and start life all over. They began to take an interest in the life of their nation and the Jewish community in Petersburg during the last several years. They participate in the ‘Hesed Avraham’ 29 charity center programs: my daughter conducts one of the ‘warm homes,’ two dozens of old Jews come to see her every week to talk and spend time; my son collects materials for the Jewish museum.

My grandchildren have a different fate. My daughter has two children: son Ilya and daughter Julia. In 1989 they were 20 and 17 years old correspondingly. They both announced that they are tired of ‘changing color,’ that they want to be real Jews, so they left for Israel. Ilya became an Orthodox Jew, he wears traditional clothes, is keen on Jewish mystics; he married a charming Jewess from a family of Orthodox Jews from Belgium. His wife gave birth to three wonderful children, my great-grandchildren. Julia turned out to be a very talented girl with a strong personality. She entered the Hebrew University in Jerusalem and defended a Master’s thesis in sociology. Her dissertation was considered the best graduate’s work of 2000 in the field of sociology and anthropology in Israel. Now she is working for a Doctor’s degree. I see the future of our family in our grandchildren and I like this future.

My daughter has been to Israel four times to visit her children. My son also has been to Israel at the Yad Vashem 30 seminar. They brought back brilliant, unforgettable impressions. 

Many of my friends and relatives have died already. Mother died in 1971 at the age of 92. Sonya died right after her, six months later. My father-in-law died untimely, in 1965, he was only 65 years old. My mother-in-law was ill for a long time after that, she couldn’t get over his death. She lived with us until 1983. Almost all relatives of mine, my wife’s relatives and my friends also died, and their children left for Israel, the USA or Germany. Only some remain in Leningrad.

In 1994 not long before my 70th birthday my wife Marianna died. I was sick for a long time after such a blow of fate and couldn’t come to my senses. Fortunately, my children supported me. My daughter has been taking care of me for several years. I also receive great support from the Jewish Charitable ‘Hesed Avraham’ Center. In 1999 my son finally decided to come back home from Pskov. He lives with me now and I don’t feel lonely anymore.

Glossary:

Gavril Marcuson
Bucharest
Romania
Interviewer: Anca Ciuciu
Date of the interview: November 2004

Mr. Marcuson is a tall man aged 91. He’s a writer (he wrote ‘Potemkinistii in Romania’ [‘The Potemkinists in Romania’], ‘Rascoala taranilor din 1907’ [‘The Peasants’ Uprising of 1907’]) and a translator specialized in the French literature (he translated Chateaubriand, Louis Hemon, Honore de Balzac, Villiers de l’Isle-Adam, Alfred de Musset). The passion to read more and to find out more is what keeps him alive. He reads extensively, from literary works to the newspapers which he buys every day, from a newsstand close to his home. He lives in the center of Bucharest, in an all-house area whose architecture and gardens are reminiscent of the interwar period. On reaching the second floor, one finds Mr. Marcuson surrounded by his books and his memories, in a very warm room. His wife, with whom he was and is still in love, died in 2000, but she looks back, always smiling, from the numerous photographs in every corner of the room.

Family background 
Growing up 
Bucharest 
Going to school
During the War
After the War
Glossary: 

Family background

I hardly knew my paternal grandparents, Aizic and Ernestina Marcussohn, from what my father told me about them. They lived and died in Iasi. I don’t know what my paternal grandfather did for a living, and I can barely recall my paternal grandmother. I met them in Iasi during World War I, when my family, like so many other people from Bucharest, sought refuge in Iasi, since the capital had been occupied by the German troops [between November 1916 and November 1918]. I remember how my grandfather once had me drink tuica [alcoholic beverage obtained by fermenting and distilling plums or other fruit], while my mother was away, and I got drunk and fell under the table. My mother came back, found me sleeping under the table and started a terrible fight with my grandfather because he had let me drink. I was so little that I had hit my head against the table. I was as tall as the table.

My father had two brothers and a sister; I never met any of then. They spent their entire life in Iasi. His brothers were called Heinrich and Lazar Marcussohn. Actually, I’m not sure he even had a sister. I just think he did.

My father was born in Iasi, in 1888. He studied in Vienna, at the Commerce High School. He was a very gentle man and I’m glad I resemble him – I inherited his phenotype, appearance and nature. He looked after us and loved us in a way that was more intelligent than my mother’s, because he was more intelligent and more cultivated. He never scolded me and beating was definitely out of the question. He was a literature enthusiast, he could read German, and he had a German library. He was a subscriber to ‘Der Kampf’ [‘The Fight’], a social democratic magazine published in Vienna. He was also a subscriber to the Romanian-speaking press and to the Jewish press. He read two newspapers every day: ‘Dimineata’ [‘The Morning’] [Ed. note: Romanian daily newspaper published in Bucharest between 1904 and 1938, with interruptions], and ‘Adevarul’ [‘The Truth’] [Ed. note: Romanian newspaper of democratic opinions. It was published in Iasi as a weekly between 1871 and 1872, and then in Bucharest, as a daily, between 1888 and 1951, with interruptions.], which came out in the afternoon. He would read ‘Dimineata’ in the morning and ‘Adevarul’ in the afternoon.

Here’s something that I remember. My father had bought me a lamb, a black lamb which I used to play with. One day, while my father and I were having a walk in the large courtyard, I noticed my lamb was missing. ‘Where’s the lamb, father?’ And my father, who, like I told you, was a gentle man, but sometimes lacked tact, told me ‘You want to know where the lamb is? Come with me and I’ll show you!’ And he took me to the back of the courtyard, where we found a wooden panel with a black skin nailed upon it. ‘There’s the lamb!’ he said. When I saw that, I understood what had happened, despite my being very young, and I started kicking and screaming. Yes, I had realized my father had slaughtered it. To make things worse, my father added – and I still remember his words, decades later – ‘Oh, enough with the screaming, my boy, you already ate some of it!’ On hearing I had ate a part of my friend, my screaming became even louder.

My father was an accountant and a tradesman. He wasn’t a religious man. He had his own business – he sold welding devices and carbide –, but didn’t actually owned a company. He worked with his brother-in-law, Filip Weisselberg, for a while, and, after he and my mother divorced [before World War II, in the 1930’s], he bought a house in another neighborhood and continued his welding devices business. My father died in Bucharest, in the 1960’s.

I believe my maternal grandfather, Isac Weisselberg, was born in 1855, in Targu Neamt, but I’m not sure. He lived in the places where his children were born: Husi, then Bucharest. He was a tradesman, a wine wholesaler. My maternal grandparents were deist, and they were religious people. My parents were deist too, but they weren’t religious. I remember that my maternal grandmother, Frederica Weisselberg, had black hair even in her old age – it hadn’t turned gray. She loved me and my brother, Octav, and she talked to us. She didn’t go out and she dressed modestly.

I grew up in the house of my maternal grandparents – this is where I spent my childhood. My earliest memories come from the time of World War I, when I was 3 or 4. I remember that our house was among the many places where the German army was quartered. I distinctly remember how the German soldiers came in with their helmets and all and they yelled ‘Ruhe, ruhe!’ And I asked my mother what ‘ruhe’ meant. My mother, who could speak a little German, told me it meant ‘silence’. They hit my grandfather in the head with the butt of the rifle. I didn’t witness this scene, but I remember seeing my grandfather right after – his head was bleeding and blood was flowing down his bald skull. Then, in the following days, a nurse came by every day to bandage up his wound. My father wasn’t home. I don’t know where he had gone, to Iasi maybe. Only my mother, a sister of hers, my grandfather and myself were home. We got along well with the German soldiers who had occupied our place. I remember them leaning against the wall with their helmets on and singing out loud. I remember those songs, they were German folk songs, naïve and childish. I learnt my first German words from them. The soldiers had nicknamed me ‘Zigeunerkind’, which meant Gypsy child, because I was small and dark. I remember when our army entered the city and my grandfather told me ‘Go to the gate and shout: long live the Romanian Army!’ And I did that every time they passed. I remember the Romanian troops marching downtown on Viilor Dr. My maternal grandparents were buried at the Filantropia [Jewish cemetery]. I don’t know when they died [some time after World War II].

My maternal grandfather had 16 children. Only 7 of them lived to be adults - three boys and four girls: Sabina, Filip, Rasela, Evelina (my mother), Victor, Neuman, and Lucia. I knew them pretty well, because they lived in Bucharest. Rasela was the only one who lived in Botosani, but I met her too.

The elder of the siblings, Sabina Michell [nee Weisselberg], lived in Bucharest. She was a housewife. Her husband’s name was Iosef Michell. They had a daughter who died when she was 16, Laureta [diminutive form for Laura]. FilipWeisselberg was a tradesman, a businessman, and his wife, Rebeca Weisselberg, was a pharmacist. They didn’t have children. Filip owned a company that sold ploughs and was called ‘Plugul’ [‘The Plough’]. He also sold welding devices, carbide, which was used for the autogenous welding, and so on and so forth. Rasela Goldschlager [nee Weisselberg] was a housewife and lived in Botosani. She didn’t have children. Victor Weisselberg was a lawyer, and his wife, Adela Weisselberg, was a typist with some company. They didn’t have children. Neuman Weisselberg was a chemical engineer at the Zurich University; his wife, Stephanie Weisselberg is still alive - she is to turn 100 this April [2005]. They have two sons, my cousins: Mircea Weisselberg and Isac Weisselberg. Both of them are engineers and live in Haifa. Their mother lives in Tel Aviv, in an old age home. The last of the girls is Lucia Isersohn [nee Weisselberg]. Her husband, Herman Isersohn, was a physician. They had a daughter whom they named Lauretta, after the one who had died in our family. Lauretta is now a physician in Canada.

My mother, Eveline Marcussohn [nee Weisselberg], was born in Husi, in 1892. Her education consisted of some years of high school. She wasn’t a religious person. She was a rather simple woman, and she spoke some French. My grandfather only sent the boys to college. One of them became a chemist, another one became a lawyer, and another one became an accountant; but the girls never got to college. Girls were despised. Men are the ones who lead. Even at the synagogue, women have to stay separated from the men. My mother was a housewife. She loved us as much as she could, looked after us, and fed us - we weren’t picky when it came to food. She was a gentle woman. She got upset once in a while, but didn’t beat us. Neither my brother nor I ever got beat by our parents.

My brother, Octav Marcussohn, is nine years younger than I am. He was born in 1922, in Bucharest. I used to teach him, kid with him, take him walking in the streets. I would tell him in Dealul Spirii, where we lived: ‘Octavica, today I’m going to take you to some streets where you’ve never been before! You’re going to love it!’ And I would take him and we would go down the streets leading to Antim Monastery. He loved it indeed. I would show him the houses, and, when we passed by a pretzel shop, I would buy him a pretzel, like the elder brother that I was. I remember Cazarmii St., which turned into a snow sleigh slope in winter; I used to play there.

We were close, although we didn’t think alike. I was a left-winger, while he was a right-winger, but we didn’t fight each other over this. He didn’t think like I did, he was anti-Soviet and a Zionist. He went to the Mathematics Faculty in Bucharest. He was a very good student. He and a fellow-student of his, Halanai, a Spanish [Sephardic] Jew, were the best in their graduation class. The Ministry of Education wanted to send him to Moscow for a PhD. This prospect scared him so much, that he fled to Israel, in the 1950’s. He is now a retiree in Tel Aviv. He didn’t work while in Romania. In Israel, he was a math school teacher. He has been a retiree for a long time now. He doesn’t have children and he was never married. He writes me extraordinary letters, but he never forgave me for supporting the left. Yet he loves me. I keep his letters, they are brilliant. He is so cultivated! Math is not the only thing he knows. The fact that I had a brother in Israel – I never kept it secret. The people I worked with were understanding enough.

Growing up

My name is Gavril Marcuson [the initial name, Marcussohn, was shortened to Marcuson in 1968]. I was born in Bucharest, on 28th October 1913, in the house of my maternal grandfather, an old house on Viilor Dr. Back then, the place was at the outskirts of the city. Today, it’s in a semi-central neighborhood, because the city developed so much.

We changed our house for a statelier one located on Uranus St., which had belonged to the richest man in the Dealul Spirii quarter, Nita Stere. It was a very nice house, with brick stoves and gas light. Inside there were large rooms with high ceilings. My maternal grandparents lived there with most of their grandchildren. Like I said, my maternal grandfather had no less than 16 children, of whom only 7 lived to be adults. Most of these seven sons and daughters lived with us, with my parents and me [in the same house], but they had their own apartments. My grandfather hired Italian bricklayers – most of the bricklayers in Bucharest were Italian at that time –, and they added an extra floor to the house; the following people moved there: the families of two brothers of my mother’s, Filip [Weisselberg] and Victor [Weisselberg], my mother’s sister, Sabina [Michell], and my parents and me. Filip, who was a businessman, lived upstairs with his wife, and he also had an apartment at the ground floor, where his offices were.

There were a lot of rooms. Mine had been obtained by dividing a larger room in half by building a wall across. This division was made so that my brother and I may have separate rooms. So a half of the former room was mine, and the other half was Octavica’s. We had one of the first telephones in Bucharest. It was non-automatic and the number had four digits. What’s funny is that I even remember that number: 3851. Whenever we wanted to reach someone, we would pick up the receiver and hit the cradle, and a lady operator would go ‘Hello?’ Then we would say ‘Please put me through this or that number’, and wait… It wasn’t automatic. We had gas lamps, and used wood and charcoal – brown coal or mineral coal – for heating. We had a large courtyard and a beautiful garden, with beds of strawberries and flowers, and a metal pavilion which had the year of its erection carved on it: 1886. This is the house where I grew up, playing courtyard games with my friends from the blind alley opposite the house.

My parents weren’t religious, but they weren’t atheist either. They were indifferent when it came to religion. My father observed some of the holidays and, for instance, didn’t eat meat and cheese. I observed that too and I had got used to it – even today, I find it difficult to eat cheese after I had eaten stake. On Passover, my father would buy matzah and we would eat it, but we would also sin by eating ordinary bread. We didn’t live a traditional life.

In my childhood, I went to the synagogue on special occasions, for the New Year [Rosh Hashanah], maybe for Purim, but I don’t remember going on Friday evening. We went to a synagogue on Antim St. This street was only a few hundred meters away from our house. [Ed. note: This was probably the Resit Daath synagogue at 13 Antim St., dating from 1897. It was demolished in 1987, in the process of urban systematization.] The synagogue was modest. It was located in a house, towards the Antim neighborhood. Not far away, there was a Jewish elementary school – I forgot how it was called.

Bucharest

Dealul Spirii, the neighborhood where I grew up, was typical for Bucharest. We were neighbors with the Dragos family. Their son became an undersecretary of state during the war [World War II]. Further away lived the family of a Frenchman, Legat, who was a photographer and owned a photo cabinet, the Legat Photo Cabinet. On the opposite side of the street lived an Italian bricklayer whose name was Perisotti. There was also a Romanian shoemaker, Vasile Anagnoste, a veteran social democratic militant; he was a very intelligent and cultivated man, and I enjoyed talking to him. He had a bordei [Ed. note: very modest house, usually made of clay; a shanty.] on the Uranus blind alley, which he referred to as ‘his quarters’. He worked at the Schull footwear factory. There was also a French driver who lived on that blind alley. His son was my schoolmate. His father used to beat him up for nothing with the car crank. Back then, automobiles weren’t automatic, so the driver had to insert a crank in front and rotate it until the engine started. Well, the men beat his son with the crank, and I still remember, more than 80 years later, how the boy once told me: ‘You’ve got such a great father!’ ‘Why do you say that?’ I asked him. ‘Because he never beats you and he buys you boots!’ He was impressed because my father didn’t beat me and I was never barefoot. Another schoolmate of mine lived on the blind alley too – his name was Marius Condrea. I remember all our other neighbors: the pretzel maker at the corner, the grocer at another corner. The grocer’s daughters were renowned ballerinas at the variety show theater. When I grew up, I would go from time to time to eat mici [grilled minced meat rolls] at the Florescu restaurant on 13 Septembrie Ave. I also remember the druggist lady on another corner and the male druggist who succeeded her.

People from Oltenia came to our courtyard. They were real Oltenians, from Gorj [County]. [Ed. note: These were people who had come to Bucharest from a distance of over 100 kilometers, and had settled at the outskirts, where they gardened and grew animals, thus supplying the city with food.]. Each of them carried two large baskets with fruit, vegetables, flowers, and big jars of yogurt which they poured with a spoon. We would buy all sorts of things – fruit, vegetables, eggs, cheese. Of course, there was also the marketplace. My mother went there with a lady cook who worked for us and looked after the house. However, they didn’t go to the marketplace too often, because it was the marketplace that came to us. Charcoal was carried using a yoke too. It was because of the charcoal that I got lost when I was 4 or 5. We lived near Viilor Dr. and I started to follow a charcoal tradesman. I thought it was interesting, the way they used to walk around with their yokes and cry ‘Get your charcoal!’ I had never heard anything like that, so I followed him until I got to another neighborhood, and my grandfather showed up and took my by the hand. The poor Oltenians were barefoot and lived in very poor conditions. Nowadays, there aren’t any barefoot people in Bucharest, but, back then, this was a common sight. Many walked barefoot in summer. This is why my neighbor’s son, whom I played with, was impressed to see me with boots on. He walked barefoot, and so did other friends of mine. We don’t have this anymore nowadays, and we owe it to the communist regime. Before the time of Gheorghe Gheorghiu-Dej 1, it was common to see barefoot men and women. Wearing boots in summer was considered luxury. I remember there were people who walked barefoot while carrying their boots in their hands, so that the soles wouldn’t wear down. They must have gone to a place where they had to have footwear.

Back in those days, Bucharest was full of charm, poetry and picturesqueness. Streets and houses used gaslight. There were street lamps. When it got dark, a lamplighter passed by, opened the little window to get to the lamp, and used a lighter to light the gas. In the morning, the same man came back to extinguish the lamp. [Ed. note: Street gas lighting was replaced by electric lighting after World War I.]

In the 1920’s, public transportation used horse-powered streetcars. There were two horses pulling each car. When the vehicle reached the lower area at Izvor and had to climb the Arsenalului hill, there was a boy who harnessed two extra horses, so the conductor drove four horses to go up the hill. I had a streetcar card. The horse streetcar came down 13 Septembrie Ave., took Uranus St., passed by the Arsenal, got to Victoriei Ave. – where the Zlatari church lies today –, and then continued its way on Carol St. – which is called Franceza St. today –, on Serban Voda Ave., and got to the Bellu Cemetery. This was one of the lines [Ed. note: approximately 3 kilometers long, going from west to south]. The electric streetcar went from Cotroceni to Obor. [For a while, horse streetcars were operated concurrently with the first electric streetcar.] The inhabitants of Bucharest used to call it ‘Electricul’ [‘The Electric’], because it was the only electric streetcar in the city. Streetcars were small. There were also summer streetcars – they were open cars with benches. Streetcars had a collector, who sold the tickets, and a conductor. They were widely used, just like today’s streetcars are. But the city had far less inhabitants than it has today. When I was born, there were between 200,000 and 300,000 people. Today, there are two million. There were very few motorcars in Bucharest. Most of them were Fords and, when they rode, all the tin they were made of jingled. These were the cheapest cars. There were also some luxury cars – Buicks and Chevrolets. Gradually, the electric streetcars became widespread. Much later, after World War II, trolley-buses were introduced – I was already old by then.

We had our photo taken once in a while – it was a real event. Technology was very different from what it is today. A light was turned on, you were supposed to stay still, and they photographed you. There was a trendy photo cabinet called ‘Julietta’, located on the corner of Victoriei Ave. with the boulevard, on the spot where an apartment house lies today – one of those geometrical buildings, with nothing but right angles and lines. ‘Julietta’ was owned by a Jew. I can’t remember his name. A second photographer who was in vogue was Mandy, on Campineanu St. He was Jewish too. These two photographers called themselves suppliers of the Royal Court, and were allowed to photograph the members of the royal family. They turned photography into an art. I have some pictures that were taken at ‘Julietta’. Next to Mandy’s was a famous tailor’s shop owned by the Cohen brothers, suppliers of the Royal Court. They were Jews too, of course. After the war, they emigrated to Israel. It was a men’s tailoring shop. I don’t know if they also made women’s clothes, but I believe they didn’t. The Cohen brothers made you look like they wanted to – thinner, stouter; they were artists of their trade.

There were some extraordinary stores on Victoriei Ave. There was the ‘Giaburov’ carpet store, owned by some Armenians, and Dragomir Niculescu’s grocery, where ‘Romarta’ is today. The rich people of the time – Parliament members, bankers – would come and buy ladlefuls of caviar. They would tell the owner: ‘Dragomire, make it one kilo, two kilos!’ I remember the Otetelesanu terrace, where the Telephone Company Palace lies today. The writers used to come there. I went there too, and I heard Florica Florescu [Ed. note: lyric artist renowned at that time] sing. I went to the Gambrinus terrace. When going to the old National Theater, I would sit in the circle. I paid 10 lei for a seat. There were actors who claimed they only performed for the gallery, for it is the gallery alone that confirms a great actor. The National Theater had special acoustics, it was very pleasant and had a curtain that had been painted by Traian Cornescu; behind it was the velvet curtain. I remember the Lyric Theater – this is how the Opera was called back then. It was bombed by the Germans [during World War II], and was demolished. It was located in Valter Maracineanu Sq., next to Cismigiu [Park]. This is where I saw my first opera and ballet performances. I remember the Athenaeum fresco painted by Traian Petrescu, if I’m not mistaken. Extraordinary! The entire Romanian history around the Athenaeum’s hall.

People went for a walk on Victoriei Ave. every day, but especially on Sunday morning. The promenade place was between the Military Circle and the Royal Palace Sq., opposite the University Library. This is where people walked back and forth, and there were so many of them, that the sidewalk became too narrow and there were people who walked on the street. Victoriei Ave. was divided into three lanes: the left and right lanes were for motorcars riding to and from the Palace; the middle lane was for carriages. At the time, there were numerous carriages in Bucharest – perhaps there were more carriages than cars. One of the city prefects, Gavrila Marinescu, had the sidewalks bordered with chains, so people could no longer walk on the street [around the 1920’s]. No man would go out without wearing a hat – this was out of the question. I remember I once went out without my hat, and my mother came running after me with a hat in her hand, and told me: ‘How can you go out like this? People will think you’re crazy! Take the hat!’

On 10th May 2, I used to go to the military parade – I never missed one. The band would play, and then the various arms would defile: artillery, infantry, military engineers. In the end, the royal family would show up. When King Carol [I] 3 was buried, I was a year or two and I attended the funeral with my nanny. I remember King Ferdinand 4 and King Carol II 5, who was the most intelligent of the kings. I remember Prince Michael [King Michael I] 6. I didn’t love the members of the royal family, but their pictures were all over the press. All you had to do was open a newspaper and come across the pictures of the king and of the princes. I remember Prince Nicholas [Ed. note: (1903-1977), prince; son of King Ferdinand I and of Queen Maria, younger brother of King Carol II], who drove a speed car that was unusual for Bucharest.

Every year, the king inaugurated Mosilor Fair. This fair opened in May, on the Thursday of the Mosi [Ed. note: The fair began after the celebration of the Christian-Orthodox Easter and lasted a month.]. I would go there every year. There were people who made a living out of all sorts of lotteries and circus displays – the bearded woman, the fishtail woman, the strong man who could break chains and things like that. It was a rather common amusement. There was a restaurant that served millet beer and mici. I used to go to the fair with my parents. When I got older, I would go there on my own and stare at various sights. One could shoot at targets and win something if one had a hit. The prizes usually consisted of handcrafted objects – dolls and trifles like that.

Going to school

I used to go to the Golescu School, the School for Boys no.3. Back then, boys and girls went to separate schools – there were schools for boys and schools for girls, and high schools for boys and high schools for girls. Let me tell you a story from my first day of school [in 1919]. My mother dressed me up nicely, put the newly-bought schoolbag on my back, with the language textbook and the arithmetic textbook (we, the kids, all called it arithmetic) in it, and sent me to school. I had been to school on another occasion, long before that, when my grandfather had taken me to register me, but I had forgotten where the place was. [The school was close from home.] So I took Cazarmii St. to get to school, but I didn’t find it. Time was running out, because I had to be there at 8 a.m. I tried another street, and yet another, but the school was nowhere to be found. I was very shy and didn’t have the guts to stop a pedestrian and ask about the location of the Golescu Elementary School no.3. I just stood like a fool by the sidewalk and was about to cry because I didn’t know where the school was. As I was standing there, now knowing what to do, I saw a man approaching – he was a middle-aged gentleman elegantly dressed and I felt confident about him. It had seemed to me that all the other pedestrians were in a hurry, so I hadn’t dared stop them. So I went to him and timidly asked him whether he knew where the Golescu School was. ‘Come with me, I’ll show you’, he said. So he took me by his side and asked me, along the way, what my name was, what my parents did, what grade I was in. And so, he kept asking questions and I kept giving answers until the school appeared before me. Happy to have found it, I rushed to the gate, but the man stopped me and said ‘Let me go in first, because I’m older, and you’ll enter after me’ So he went through the school’s gate into a courtyard that was full of pupils who were playing. They all gather around me and ask me the same question: ‘Hey, are you Mr. Movila’s son?’ ‘No’, I said, ‘I’m not Mr. Movila’s son!’ A pedagogue soon showed up among us and he got us to our classroom and arranged us in the desks. And guess who enterer the classroom after that? The very gentleman whom I had met earlier. He was the master, Mr. Movila! Even more than 80 years later, it feels like yesterday. I remember him, with the class register under his arm. He came in, got to his desk and told us: ‘Children, I will now call out your names in order. When each of you hears his name, stand up and say «Here». Have you understood?’ We all went ‘Yes!’ So he began to read out our names, and every boy stood up and said ‘Here’; suddenly, I heard him say Marcuson Gavril. I stood up and said ‘Here! But, you know, my name is not Gavril!’ ‘What is it then’, he asked me. ‘My name is Gutu [diminutive form of Gavril], this is how they call me at home!’ To which the master replied: ‘They may call you Gutu at home, but, in the official records, your name is Gavril. And we shall call you Marcuson Gavril. Now sit down!’ And then he addressed the entire class: ‘Children, do you know what Marcuson did? He was supposed to get to school, but he was such an idiot that he missed it!’ There was a terrible laughter. They all laughed at me, and I didn’t know what to do. The master told them the story of me standing by the sidewalk, looking desperate because I couldn’t find the school. From that moment on, my classmates nicknamed me ‘Idiot of the class’. Even in 4th grade, they still referred to me as ‘the one who was such an idiot that he missed the school’.

Mr. Movila, the master, was a composer who was renowned at that time. A while ago, I heard some of his songs played on the radio. His name was Juarez Movila – he had a Spanish first name, a revolutionary’s name. He edited a magazine named ‘Curierul Artelor’ [‘The Arts’ Courier’], and the pupils’ parents – at least the well-to-do ones – had to buy subscriptions. Only 3 issues or so were published – we were subscribers too. How did the classes go? The master would enter the classroom, and we would stand up and remain standing. There was an icon on the wall. We would turn our faces to the icon and one of the boys would recite ‘Our Father’; then everybody crossed themselves and sat down, and the class would start. Seeing all my classmates cross themselves every day, I began to imitate them – you know how little kids are, they’re like monkeys –, without being aware of the meaning of this gesture. This went on until one day, when the master came to me while the prayer was being recited; he put his hand on my shoulder and he gently told me: ‘You will not cross yourself’ I didn’t understand that, because I was an ignorant when it came to those things. I hadn’t turned 6 yet, because my parents had sent me to school following the German system. I was the youngest in my class. So I didn’t know what my master meant and didn’t say anything. When I got home for lunch, my father used to ask me everyday: ‘So, did he examine you?’ If the answer was yes, two other questions would come: ‘Did you know the answers?’ and ‘What grade did you get?’ That day, he asked me, as usual, whether the master had examined me. ‘No, he hasn’t’, I replied, ‘but there’s something else: the master came to me during the prayer, put his hand on my shoulder and told me not to cross myself’. My father was so amazed, that he became speechless. After a while, he asked me: ‘Did he also say this to any of the other boys?’ And I said ‘No, only to me’. My father asked me this question because he knew there were two other Jewish boys in my class – but they must have been better trained than I was, so they didn’t cross themselves. My father didn’t add anything. After we ate, he took me aside and began to brief me – like they would later call it. He spoke to me about God and about religion; he told me there are several religions and that our family had a different religion than that of my classmates, that crossing ourselves was something we didn’t do and so on and so forth. That was the first time I heard someone speak about God and religion.

I went to middle school at the Mihai Viteazul High School and to secondary school at the Spiru Haret High School. My teacher of Romanian was Petre V. Hanes, a PhD in Letters, author of textbooks and numerous literary history books, and founder of the ‘Prietenii Istoriei Literare’ [‘Friends of Literary History’] Society, which edited the ‘Prietenii Istoriei Literare’ Magazine. He is the one who made an important discovery from the literary history’s perspective, revealing that the ‘Cantarea Romaniei’ [‘The Song of Romania’] poem hadn’t been written by Balcescu, like everyone thought, but by Alecu Russo. [Ed. note: ‘Cantarea Romaniei’, the best known work of poet and prose writer Alecu Russo, is a poem in prose written in French and published in 1850, translated by Nicolae Balcescu.] Another teacher of Romanian was Scarlat Struteanu, PhD in Romanian Philology, author of a well-known doctoral thesis about the humor of Caragiale 7. French was taught by Benedict Kanner, PhD in Letters from the Sorbonne. Another French teacher, Alexandru Claudian, later became a professor of ancient philosophy at the Faculty of Philosophy in Iasi. German was taught by Bruno Colbert, PhD in Letters from Vienna, later a lecturer in German language and literature at the Faculty of Letters in Bucharest, and Stefan Motas Zeletin, PhD in Philosophy from the University of Erlangen, Germany, author of the then-famous work ‘Burghezia romana’ [‘The Romanian Bourgeoisie’] and later a professor at the Faculty of Philosophy in Iasi, just like Claudian. English was taught by Ioan Olimp Stefanovici-Svensk, PhD in Letters from London, former student of the famous English linguist Daniel Jones, who created the system of transliteration named Jones. Stefanovici-Svensk is the one who introduced the system of transliteration of the English language in Romania, and the first one who translated works by Eminescu 8 into English, in cooperation with the English poet Sylvia Pankhurst.

It is with particular pleasure that I remember Stefanovici, who didn’t only teach me English, but also phonetics. Thanks to this, I can speak any language better – not just English, I can speak Romanian better too. He educated my hearing. Stefanovici was a great teacher, but he is sadly forgotten today – who else remembers him? I remember my first class with him. He came in without saying a word, grabbed a piece of chalk and drew the quadrangle of English vocalism on the blackboard. When I later became an English phonetics professor myself, I showed my students the quadrangle that I had learnt in 5th grade. How could I forget Benedict Kanner, who taught me French and was the first one to slap me. I was in the 1st grade of high school, which corresponds to today’s 1st year of middle school, the 5th grade. He had me read from the textbook. It said there ‘Leve-toi!’ [‘Get up!’]. I read it as it was spelled and he slapped me. He had no idea that he was slapping a future colleague. How could I forget Colbert’s German classes, or the Romanian classes of Petre Hanes, who was so close to his pupils, or the philosophy classes of Ioanitescu, who had been a student of Maiorescu? [Titu Maiorescu (1840-1917): esthetician, literary critic and professor, co-founder of the ‘Junimea’ [‘Youth’] literary society in Iasi, where some of the most important Romanian writers of the time made their apprenticeship: M. Eminescu, I.L. Caragiale, I. Slavici etc. He elaborated the theory of ‘forms without essence’ which favored the use of local values over the import of Western literary patterns.] Ioanitescu would only teach logics by Maiorescu’s textbook, which had been unavailable for decades. In order to help me, my father wrote to a brother of his who lived in Iasi. My uncle found the textbook in some used books store and sent it to me. I was one of the few pupils in my class who had that textbook.

Even the teachers who taught arts and crafts were gifted people. There was sculptor Aristide Iliescu, and composer Ioan Croitoru, who taught music. Opera singer Grigore Magiari, who taught music too, brought a gramophone to class, played records and gave us musical education. The physical education teacher had studied in Sweden. The principal had sent him to Sweden to purchase apparatus for the gym that was built. This is how high schools were back then. History teacher Iuliu Moisil later became an Academy member and the founder of Romanian numismatics. This is the kind of teachers I had. Being a high school teacher was considered to be a great thing back then. When a high school teacher joined a party, the entire press announced that the honorable teacher X joined the Y party. Some of them were the heads of county party organizations, which was not an insignificant thing.

I made friends in high school, and I made friends in college. One of my friends from college was Mircea Stoe, who is dead now. He first became an attaché, then a legation secretary in London. When King Michael abdicated, he resigned. He settled in Sutton, a little town near London. When my wife had a convention in Paris, I went with her, crossed the Channel to England, and stayed at my friend’s until the convention was over. Mircea died of lung cancer, because of the tobacco. His wife still lives and we write to each other. A very good friend of mine, Alfred Reiner, a Jew, died at the earthquake [in 1977] with his entire family. Reiner was the manager of a printing house located close to Sfantul Gheorghe Sq. There was a time when I lived with him on Poenaru Bordea St., near the Court House – it was in the 1950’s, before I got married. I didn’t stay for long, but it was more than a year. At the earthquake, all those who lived in that apartment house died. The building had grown rather ramshackle [because it was old] and, when a truck passed by, you could feel the windows vibrate. Another apartment house was built on that spot. Another friend of mine was Idel Segal [a Jew], who was assassinated. He was an editor at the Scientific and Encyclopedic Publishing House and he carried around sacks full of manuscripts. Some thugs thought he was carrying something valuable. He wouldn’t let go, he was stubborn, and so they killed him in the street. This happened in the 1970’s. There was a very nice article about him published in ‘Romania libera’ [‘The Free Romania’] [Ed. note: Romanian information newspaper which was published during the communist period and continued to be published, in a renewed edition, after 1989]: ‘Death of a bookman’. I don’t have that issue anymore, I don’t know how I lost it, and I’m sorry about it. I had photocopies and gave them to everyone. They’re all dead! I haven’t seen my colleagues for years. The few who are still alive never leave their homes.

In the 1950’s, I had this initiative, that the graduating class of 1931 from the Spiru Haret High School meet al least once a month, so that we may keep in touch. I got the phone numbers of everyone, and I called them. It worked. In the years that followed, we would meet in the last Thursday of every month at the restaurant of the House of the University Staff. There were still many of us who came when we celebrated 50 years from our graduation. On that occasion, we met at the ‘Cina’ [restaurant] and we joined together several tables. That was a hell of a party. When we celebrated 60 years from our graduation, there were still some of us left. But when we had to celebrate 70 years, there was no one. You should know we were two classes with 40 pupils each, which gives a total of 80. Only 4 of them are still alive today, and 2 of them are Jewish. Back the, there were 3 Jews or so in one class, and another 3 in the other. All the former Jewish pupils lived long. Even those who are no longer among us, died in their eighties. The only remaining ones are a classmate of mine and me. And out of the 74 Romanians, only two are still alive. So you see, Jews live really long!

I had teachers of Hebrew and I studied it at home until the time of my bar mitzvah. This took place [approximately in 1926] in my parents’ home, in the presence of a Hebrew teacher that was well-known at the time – his name was Schreiber. He was also a poet and had written a volume of poems, ‘Randunelele Palestinei’ [‘The Swallows of Palestine’]. I remember that the ceremony was attended by some members of the family: my parents and my uncles – my mother’s brothers, but not all of them. I held a short, a very short speech in Hebrew, and then they gave me some presents. I later forgot Hebrew, since I didn’t have any books. I vaguely remember its words and letters today.

I was busy reading, exercising, biking – I was member of a biking club. There was a well-known, top quality printing house on Uranus St. It was called ‘Marvan’, and all its workers were biking enthusiasts. They had founded the ‘Marvan’ Biking Club, which I joined. Our rival was the ‘Prince Nicholas’ Biking Club. At the end of the week I used to go biking on Kiseleff Dr., where I would meet other bikers from ‘Marvan’ or from ‘Prince Nicholas’. We would bike together to Ploiesti, or in the direction of Oltenita or Giurgiu. We would cover several scores of kilometers on the highway in one day.

I usually stayed in Bucharest during my vacations as a child. I remember I once went to Sinaia, which I enjoyed a lot. My father once took me to the seaside [at the Black Sea] for a few days. Back then, Mamaia [one of today’s major Romanian seaside resorts] was a totally primitive place and the beach only had some wooden shacks. Another time I went to visit a sister of my mother’s who lived in Botosani, and I spent my entire vacation there. In Bucharest, I would go to the stadium of the National Academy of Physical Education, which wasn’t far from our home. I would run or jump, but, most of the time, I sat and looked at the athletes who were training. I had a very introverted temperament. My vacation was a sort of mixture of biking or athletic trials and very intense readings, which were rich for a boy my age. I was also interested in language issues, not just in literature. I could read French well – actually, very well, if I’m allowed to brag. I could read German and English. I could speak refined French, not just read it. I used to read mainly French literature, but I also read Romanian literature. These last years, I’ve been reading almost exclusively Romanian classic writers – from the chroniclers, the Vacaresti brothers, the pre-Eminescu poets and prose writers. I rarely open a French book. I have, of course, my favorites among the French poets too.

I used to go to silent movies. Movies were divided into acts – some had eight acts, some had nine, some had ten. The longest ones had 12 acts and there was a break after each act. If the projectionist was in a hurry, he would run two acts with no stop. The audience would protest, claiming it was tiresome; today they sit in front of the silver screen for two straight hours. There was a pianist who played while the movie was showing. I remember the actors of that time, especially the comic actors – Zigotto, the most popular comedian, an American Jew, Laurel and Hardy, and Harold Lloyd, the comedian with glasses. I remember Francesca Bettini, Douglas Fairbanks senior, because there was also a Douglas junior. I liked Douglas Fairbanks because he was an adventurer, he was sturdy, he was clever, and he could beat them all. I remember Fatty, who bore this name because he was obese. Whatever Fatty said appeared written on the screen. They were all very nice, these silent comedians. I remember the first talking movie, in 1930-something.

Before the war, in the 1930’s, I would go to the Hasefer Bookstore [Ed. note: It means ‘The Book’; today there is The Hasefer Publishing House.], where they sold books written by Jews or about Jews that couldn’t be found in the other bookstores. The place also hosted fine arts exhibitions. I spent pleasant moments in that bookstore. I seldom actually purchased something, because I didn’t have money, but I would go in and skim through the books – there was an intimate environment. I believe the manager’s name was Steinberg, he was a cultivated man. The bookstore was at the entrance of the Villacrosse Passage [Ed. note: in the historic center of the capital]. There is an apartment house on that spot now.

My father was a subscriber to all the Jewish periodicals, which he received by mail. I used to read all the Jewish newspapers, from the first page to the last. There was ‘Curierul Israelit’ [‘The Israelite Courier’] [Ed. note: ‘Weekly organ for the defense of the Jewish interests’ published in Bucharest in 1906-1916, 1920-1941, 1944-1945. It included editorials, debates, pieces of information, reports on foreign affairs and internal affairs, and advertisements.], a large paper, the best and most important, edited by Horia Carp. There was ‘Egalitatea’ [‘The Equality’] [Ed. note: Jewish magazine published between 1890 and 1940, interrupted during World War I and suppressed in 1940. It reflected: the fight for emancipation and cultural progress, the political fight for civil rights, the Zionist ideology. It also reported family events: balls, engagements, weddings, anniversaries and funerals.], edited by [Moses] Schwartzfeld. There was ‘Mantuirea’ [‘The Redemption’] [Ed. note: Jewish daily newspaper published in Bucharest between 1919 and 1922; a biweekly between 1944 and 1948. Zionist periodical promoting the Judaic culture, it included editorials, literary translations and commentaries on laws and decrees.] I remember a magazine called ‘Copilul evreu’ [‘The Jewish Child’] [Ed. note: Bimonthly youth magazine published in Bucharest between 1922 and 1940. It included biblical history, games, prose, letters in Yiddish and Ivrit.] As a child, I remember I read ‘Dimineata’ and ‘Adevarul’. The latter had a column that I particularly enjoyed – it was called ‘Frolics’. Schwartzfeld’s ‘Egalitatea’ had a column that I enjoyed a lot too – it was called ‘Ruffians in action’. I remember all the ‘Dimineata’ contributors of the time: Blumenfeld, Teodorescu-Braniste, Ion Teodorescu, Constantin Graur, D. Faur, Liviu P. Nasta, who wrote the foreign reports. I remember the caricaturists and drawers from ‘Adevarul’. Even today, I would take great pleasure in rereading the ‘Adevarul’ and ‘Dimineata’ of the 1920’s and 1930’s.

Only one classmate of mine [from the Spiru Haret High School], Vasilescu, became a Legionary 9. After we finished high school, I remember seeing him in the street, wearing the green shirt, and I didn’t dare approach him. You should know that the Legionaries not only didn’t talk to the Jews, but they didn’t even look at them. If, for instance, I was in the street, and I came across a classmate who was a Legionary, not only would he not return my greeting or stop, but he wouldn’t even look at me – he just looked the other way. They had been ordered not to look at us. This Vasilescu fellow may have joined the Legionaries, but he soon became very friendly with me. He had changed his convictions, realizing the absurdity and criminal nature of the Legion 10. He was just a naïve young man who had been fooled by a very skillful and clever demagogy. I never reminded him of those days and never reproached him for anything. So he was the only one who became a Legionary. Leaving him aside, there was never any discrimination in my high school. The teachers treated us, the Jewish boys, just like they treated all the others. There was a legionary teacher, the French teacher, Frolo. But he talked to the others about me and called me his favorite. He was an Italian-born Catholic. He was an Iron Guard 11 candidate in Roman County, where there was a Catholic population, but didn’t get elected. He was the only legionary teacher, but he was unbiased when it came to me; in fact, he was more than that – he loved me, because he could see I enjoyed French. I once even contradicted him, for it had seemed to me that he had made a mistake. His French classes were better than the ones at the University. While the literature courses at the University were held in Romanian, Frolo taught us literature in the most accurate French – so what I did with him was better than what I did in college. I graduated from the Faculty of Letters and Philosophy in Bucharest in 1935.

I remember when the first victim of the Iron Guard was shot. Contrary to the common belief, the first victim of the Iron Guard was not prefect [Constantin] Manciu [Ed. note: police prefect in Iasi assassinated by the Legionaries on 25th October 1925, in front of the Iasi Court House], who was shot by Corneliu [Zelea] Codreanu 12. Manciu was actually the second victim. The first victim was the Jewish student David Falic. He was shot right on the steps of the Cernauti University by a Legionary named Nicolae Totu. Dr. Bratescu, our well-known historian of medicine, mentions Nicolae Totu in his latest book, but he misspells his name, calling him Tautu. So Totu shot student Falic on the steps of the university, I don’t know why. I don’t know what happened to Totu, but I believe he got away with it, because he became a magazine contributor – I used to come across his name. Can you imagine? To think you can shoot a man to death and get away with it! This is the kind of justice we had back in those days!

I remember what the political situation in Germany was before January 1933. I was already 20 and no longer a child when Hitler won the elections. The problem was that the social democrats didn’t get along with the Communists – they could have form the majority, had they created the workers’ joint front. Hitler’s demagogy prevailed; he promised guns instead of butter – that was his slogan. I knew a Jew who lived in Germany – his name was Abeles. He came to Bucharest and we talked. ‘What do you people think about Hitler?’ I asked him. ‘Hitler isn’t serious!’ he said. ‘He won’t be in power for long! As for his anti-Semitism, he shouldn’t be taken seriously. He’ll loosen up, he’ll sweeten the poison! We’re not afraid of Hitler!’ The man I talked to fooled himself, and so did the entire Jewish minority in Germany. They all thought like he did. They underestimated the danger, they didn’t realize how colossally dangerous the situation had become. And Hitler, a man of his word, kept all his promises and did everything that was humanly possible to create a Germany free of Jews. Some left to America, England, France, but most of them stayed. I knew what went on. When I had the money, I bought the German press that was sold in Bucharest, at the downtown newsstands. I read Hitler’s newspaper and the most obnoxious magazine ever printed since Gutenberg invented type. It was called ‘Der Strumer’ [‘He Who Stirs the Storm’] and it was edited by one of the Strasser brothers. The lower part contained a slogan that was present in every issue: ‘Jews are our misery.’ This was the most shameful magazine I have ever come across. I bought two or three issues, but it was unreadable. The Romanian Jews were actually quicker to sense the danger than the German Jews, because they had got used to it ‘thanks’ to the Iron Guard and Cuza’s League 13.

During the War

I remember the [Legionary] rebellion [of January 1941] 14 very well. I was walking in the streets with no fear and stared around. On Atena St., I looked from a distance, because we weren’t allowed to get any closer, how the synagogue [the Iesua Tova] on that street was burning. The Legionaries had set it on fire and let no one, not even the firemen, to get near and extinguish the fire. After the war, the synagogue was built anew, and made even more beautiful than the old one. The Tables of the Law were fixed on the façade, and it is today one of the most beautiful synagogues in Bucharest. I had the fortune of not living in a predominantly Jewish neighborhood, like Vacaresti or Dudesti – I lived in Dealul Spirii, where nothing bad happened.

When the war came, the Germans kicked us out of our home [approximately in 1941], so we had to find shelter in another neighborhood. All of us moved in the Stefan cel Mare quarter, in an old house. Our place had been occupied by the Germans, who had set up an apprentice school there. We weren’t allowed to own radio sets. We had a large radio set which we handed over to the precinct police station. But I clandestinely kept a small galena receiver. That kind of devices were imported from Germany – they were small and cubic, and had a headset. In the evening, I would take out my radio and listen to Radio London, and then I would hide it, so that they wouldn’t catch me and send me to prison. I wouldn’t believe how intensely I followed the course of the war. I rejoiced like a kid for every town the Russians liberated in their march towards Berlin. I had my atlas before me and I kept track: ‘Here’, I would say to myself, ‘they conquered another town; they advanced for another hundred of kilometers’. I listened to all the news bulletins.

In 1941, when we entered the war against the USSR, the first thing that happened to me was that they kicked me out of the army and sent me to forced labor, to the shooting range. My father was too old to get sent to forced labor, and my brother was too young. I remember the first bombings caught me there. The Russians were bombing Bucharest, and we were working under military supervision and couldn’t take cover anywhere. We worked with our bare arms or with shovels to build the shooting range, and we got neither food, nor money. We worked like slaves – but the slaves in ancient times were fed at least. We worked from dawn till dusk. In winter, they would have us clear the snow in the streets. I remember I was once with a fellow-worker, a physician by trade, and we saw a German military approaching. He was a simple air force soldier and he began a conversation with me. I spoke German. He told me he was an antifascist, that he was a textile worker in his civilian life, and that he was from Augsburg. I talked to him, but I soon regretted it when I got home – I was scared. I realize now that the man had been honest, that he was a genuine German antifascist, and I’m sorry I didn’t keep in touch with him.

Then we got sent to Moldavia, to Onesti, where we built fortifications. I worked by the concrete mixer day and night. It was hard work, because I was supposed to carry cement sacks weighing 50 kilos on my back, and I couldn’t even lift them from the ground. A sturdier fellow-worker used to help me – he put the sacks on my back, then I took them where I had to and emptied them. We were led by a military school cadet, a tyrant who cursed us and persecuted us severely. My father would send me money from home, and so I was able to buy things to eat. The Jews in Onesti sometimes called us for minyans, and invited us to table afterwards. They saw I didn’t have a plate, so they gave me one, and a spoon, and they gave me soup, they fed me. The Jews in Onesti were very nice to us, very humane. Onesti was a shtetl, a small town which had relatively many Jews. But they weren’t any different from the other inhabitants – they dressed in the contemporary fashion.

[Mr. Marcuson describes the war period and his involvement in the underground activity of the Communist Party in the article ‘Amintiri din ilegalitate’ [‘Memories from my underground days’], published in ‘Cadran’ [‘Dial’], the literary notebook of the ‘George Bacovia’ cenacle, Bucharest, August 1971, p.6-7.] « In 1942, I found myself drafted for ‘compulsory labor’ at the printing house of the Central Institute for Statistics in Bucharest. This was the perfect occasion to come across poet Stefan Popescu, who was the head of that printing house back then, a man I had first met one decade ago, while a student at the Faculty of Letters. This was also the perfect occasion for the two of us to use the cover of our official activity in order to broaden our underground work in the service of… the Romanian Communist Party. So, the printing house was turned into a nucleus of antifascist resistance. There, in a backroom, we planed our actions: multiplying in hundreds of copies (only using a typewriter at first) some propaganda brochures; some of them had a literary character and were sometimes spotted in other places than Bucharest. (A clerk from the Statistics Institute who returned from Galati presented us one of our own brochures, which he had found down there.); setting up a fund of literary and science books which we sent to the political inmates, by means of their families; monthly collecting – from a group of well-to-do supporters – relatively large amounts of money for the Red Aid 15. Comrade Stefan – my superior – had exempted me from any professional obligations, so I could focus exclusively on these actions; I used my spare time to translate Soviet prose writer M. Ilin’s book ‘The World Is Changing’, which spread in 10,000 typewritten copies bound in cloth – immediately after 23rd August 1944 16, the book was officially published by the newly-found ‘Forum’ publishing house, thanks to the support Lucretiu Patrascanu 17.

There was no way we could use that printing house to print some of our own things. The fact that one of the employees lived with his family in the very building of the company was an obstacle impossible to overcome. I used to look with envy at the automatic typesetters and the printing presses and thought how much faster and better our work could have been done if we had used those machines instead of my typewriter. In the spring of 1944, my comrade told me, in an enthusiastic but worried voice, that he the Party’s Central Committee had assigned him to design a plan to print brochures and leaflets that were to be distributed to the population and the army, and asked me whether I knew a place where he could print a brochure. Knowing what the situation was at the printing house, I had to think of another place. I soon remembered I had once met – about three years ago, in a forced labor camp – one of the co-owners of the ‘Taranul’ [‘Peasant’] printing house in Bucharest. His name was Alfred Rainer, and he was one of my major contributors; thanks to him, an important share of the printing house’s income was directed to the purse of the Red Aid. I paid him a visit and I told him directly what I wanted from him. Rainer gladly accepted: he agreed to put his workshops and paper to our disposal, so that we could print whatever we liked. All we needed was a typesetter and a ‘puitoare’ [Ed. note: operator who inserted the blank paper into the printing press]. We found them in typesetter Sigol and ‘puitoarea’ Stefania Barbulescu. This is how our printing plan began, in the workshop of the ‘Taranul’ printing house, located at the heart of our country’s capital, not far away from Sfantul Gheorghe Sq.

The first manuscript that Stefan Popescu entrusted me with had twenty pages and was entitled ‘The Red Army Is Coming’. The cover bore the mention ‘The Publishing House of the Central Committee of the Romanian Communist Party’ (and I was informed that that was the first printed material to see the light of day with that mention on it in Romania), and it had to be multiplied in 2,000 of copies. At the second floor of the workshop, where the typesetting section was, I prepared a room where the typesetter was to work at night, when the place was deserted. We had get rid of the guard – he had been allowed to take a few days off. In the evening, Sigol entered the workshop, carefully camouflaged the window and, after making sure everything was all right, he began to work. Even today, I remember what he told me when I asked him if he enjoyed the text: ‘Every word is like a bullet!’

Typesetting was done manually, using small letters and crowded lines to save paper. It lasted three of four nights. Then we moved to the printing process. This was done in a Sunday, using a ‘flat’ machine in order to avoid making noise and being heard from the street – we didn’t use the motor, but we manually operated the wheel of the machine. We crammed the copies into a large suitcase which we placed in a previously designated location, from where Stefan was supposed to pick it up. We left the workshop one by one, making sure we weren’t followed, after burning the galley proofs, and removing all the traces of our action. We left the doors unlocked – Stefan was supposed to come in, collect the suitcase with brochures, lock the door, and place the key in the mailbox. In order to avoid the detection of the printing shop by the type that had been used, we asked Rainer to sacrifice the entire set of types: all the led blocks were put in a pouch which was thrown in the Dambovita River.

The following day, Stefan took care of the distribution, and hundreds of citizens found in their mailboxes the very first work published by the Publishing House of the Central Committee of the Romanian Communist Party. ‘The Romanian Communist Party’, they could read, ‘feels it is its duty to enlighten the public opinion in this difficult time, when the nation is at a crossroads, placed between life and death… The Communist Party knows this is no easy thing. It is with difficulty that its word reaches you, for it has to sidestep the barbed wire of a terror regime and – what’s more dramatic –, struggle with an entire mentality of mistrust, suspicion, fear… But, no matter how many obstacles may lie in its way, the voice of the Communist Party shall be heard and understood, because it is the voice of the national self-preservation instinct.’ But it wasn’t until the liberation day [23rd August 1944] that I found out the name of the one who had written those inspired pages: Mihail Sebastian 18. That day, a new kind of duty awaited us, the ones at the printing house: we had to print, that very day, the first official issue of the ‘Romania Libera’ newspaper. »

I became a Party member before 1944, while the movement was underground, because this was the only party that wasn’t anti-Semitic. When the Communists came to power, I was glad, because we had got rid of Hitler. Our only choices were Hitler and Stalin – there was no third option, and this is why I believe that thinking in black-and-white was not only permissible, but also unavoidable. I saw in the Soviet Union not the Good, but an evil that was lesser than Hitler’s Germany. There are many things that we found out after 23rd August 1944, and some are still to be found out. Can’t you see that Holocaust is being denied? I won’t be surprised if some historian shows up one of these days and claims that World War II is an invention of the Jews! The way they’re saying that the Holocaust is our invention. How did 6 million Jews disappear? They simply evaporated? Most of the people don’t know that the Jews are the only people in the world with fewer members than before the war. They haven’t managed to compensate for the 6 million victims through population growth. How did the 3 million Polish Jews disappear? There are now in Poland fewer Jews than in Romania… This was the largest murder in history! Never have the peoples known at any other time in history such an industry of assassinations!

After the war, our house on Uranus St. was returned to us, and we moved back.

After the War

I nurtured Zionist feelings, was a fan of the Zionist idea, had read Herzl, but I never thought it could actually happen. I thought it was a utopia, for I knew there wasn’t one single islet or one single piece of land on this Planet that didn’t belong to someone. How could I have foreseen someone would give the Jews 20,000 square kilometers? How did I find out about the creation of the State of Israel? I was at the State Central Library, in the Periodicals hall. I was reading ‘L’Humanite’, the daily newspaper of the French communist party, the only French paper that was available in Romania [in 1948]. So I was reading it, and I suddenly came across the map of Israel. I was utterly amazed. I spent hours and hours looking at the map of the new Israel and I couldn’t believe my eyes; we finally had our own country. I felt as if a miracle had happened – something that I never thought it would be possible. Think about it: from 70 A.D. until 1948, Jews from all around the world yearned for, hankered after and dreamt at night of Jerusalem. When two Jews parted, they didn’t say ‘Good-bye’, they said ‘Next year in Jerusalem!’

My mother made aliyah in the 1960’s. My brother and other relatives were already living in Israel. She stayed in an old age home in Tel Aviv. I visited her there and, when I returned, I got the news of her death. She died after I had visited her. She was 89 when she passed away [in 1981].

I thought of going to Israel, but I couldn’t speak the language. I would have found it difficult to live there. Imagine someone living in Romania and not knowing Romanian – how hard would things be for that person? I couldn’t practice an intellectual profession there either. I couldn’t do what I did in Romania, where I worked as an editor for a publishing house. I thought of leaving for Paris in high school. Had I done it after I graduated, it would have been a mistake. In 1940, the Germans entered France – they would have caught me and gassed me. At least I’m alive now. I should have left after 23rd August 1944, and the fact that I didn’t was another mistake.

In 1949 or so, I went to Poland and [East] Germany. We were four Romanians sent [Ed. note: by the Romanian State, in an official exchange with Poland and East Germany] to spend our vacations. Poles and Germans came in our place, to spend their vacations in Romania. On that occasion, I traveled across Poland, from one end to the other, and I visited a lot of towns and villages; and this is what I did in East Germany too. Warsaw was all in ruins as far as the eye could see. One couldn’t tell where the streets used to be. They couldn’t find a single house that was standing in order to accommodate us. Do you know where we stayed? Warsaw is crossed by the Vistula River. There was a small ship lying at anchor – it was probably destined for short cruises. Well, we slept in the cabins of that ship. They couldn’t find a room in all Warsaw. And when I say ruins, I mean that there was hardly a wall standing here and there. Things looked the same in Berlin. We were accommodated in a suburban commune, 10-12 kilometers away from the city. It had a few houses intact, and we also got a car. I didn’t see one single man my age in Poland and Germany – I was in my thirties. There were only women, children and elderly people. There weren’t any men. Hitler made the Germans who were my age disappear more than he had done with the Jews. I lived in Poland for a month, but I never saw a man my age. I saw one in Germany, but he was legless – he had lost his legs on the front. Let me tell you about the women’s attitude towards us, the men. The eyes of the Polish and German women begged for a little attention. Their behavior was decorous though. Few of them were aggressive and put their arms around our neck. Most of them were happy if we looked at them and said something to them.

I only held a job after 23rd August 1944. Before that, I lived from tutoring in English and French. I didn’t tutor as much as I could have, because I wanted to have time to read and go for a walk. I used to think and I still think that man’s greatest fortune is what the Romans called ‘otium’, that is spare time intelligently used. After the war, I became a regular employee. I first worked for the Communist Party – they called us instructors, but I actually did documenting for the propaganda section. I was a reference professional. I worked there for a long time, from 1945 until the 1950’s, when they fired me because of a trial in my family [which made Mr. Marcuson’s personnel file look bad]. Then I worked at the ‘Univers’ Publishing House, still in the 1950’s. I also taught French at the Foreign Languages Institute, but only for a few years. The institute was dissolved, but I don’t remember when – in the 1950’s or 1960’s. I was a researcher at the Party History Institute. I had some books and articles published. I retired while I was working for the Scientific and Encyclopedic Publishing House, in 1973. Things were fine for me when I worked there.

My wife, Cornelia Paunescu, was the daughter of some veteran social democratic militants. I wanted to talk to her parents, to ask them about their memories of the old, pre-World War I social democratic movement, the way I’m telling you things from my past right now. Her parents were well-known people; both her mother and her father had their picture in Atanasiu’s ‘Istoria socialismului’ [‘History of Socialism’]. Her father, Paunescu-Paltin, was already dead. There’s a street in Bucharest named after him – a small, pretty street, in the neighborhood where we used to live. They almost gave this name to the very street we lived on, but, eventually, another street, parallel to ours, got to be called Paunescu-Paltin. Her mother was a militant of the socialist women’s group. I went to talk to her, and it was on that occasion that I met her daughter. She told me, in her turn, some of her memories of the social democratic movement. It was ‘love at first sight’. And we got married. We were both middle-aged by then, in our forties.

My wife, Cornelia Paunescu, was born in 1911, in Bucharest. She wasn’t Jewish. She had two sisters: the late Blanche Nicolau [nee Paunescu], and Agatha Paunescu, who’s still alive and is a retiree. They spent all their lives in Bucharest. We got married in Bucharest, in 1957. There was only an official ceremony at the 3rd District Town hall – neither her, nor I was religious. Both my family and hers agreed to this marriage. I wasn’t a child anymore, I was confident I could choose what was right for me, and it turned out I made the best choice. Cornelia went to the Medical School in Bucharest. She was a scientist and she lectured at over thirty international conventions. She was the only Romanian docent with a PhD in pediatric otolaryngology – that was her specialty. As a physician, she attended the Korean War [Ed. note: 25th June 1950-27th July 1953] against the Americans and was the personal physician of Kim Il Sung [Ed. note: (1912-1994), president of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea from 1948]. There were doctors from all the other socialist countries there – East Germany, Hungary, Czechoslovakia, Poland, Yugoslavia, China. One day Kim Il Sung got sick and he asked who the best doctor was. So my wife treated him, and Kim Il Sung invited us to North Korea twice. Each time, we stayed there for a month, and we lived where Ceausescu 19 had been accommodated before us. North Korea is a very beautiful country. Pyongyang had been bombed by the Americans and the South-Koreans, so they had had to rebuild it and everything looked new. They made theaters, conference halls. All that was left of the old city was an entrance gate. We walked the streets of Pyongyang, with an interpreter with us, of course. We made the way from Bucharest to North Korea in the Transsiberian [special train]. We saw the entire Siberia, and all the cities North Korea and China. Siberia is huge and confines fabulous riches that are yet to be discovered. It’s splendid – from Moscow to the Chinese border, all you can see is birch trees. The first time we went, we took the Transsiberian to and from North Korea. [Ed. note: A one-way trip lasted for about eight days.] The second time, we took the Transsiberian to get there, but we took the plane from Beijing to get back. Today, China looks different from what it looked like when we went there, because they started building. We went many places [together]: England, East Germany, Italy, Soviet Union, China, North Korea, Bulgaria, Yugoslavia, Turkey.

Cornelia never told a lie in her entire life. She was very gentle and kind and she only had one flaw: she trusted people too much. She didn’t know what evil meant. She fluently spoke French, English and Italian. She had a nice humanistic culture [Mr. Marcuson points in different directions of the room, to several bookshelves] – that’s her English and American library, that’s the French library, that’s the Latin library, that’s the Romanian library, and that over there is the German library. She used to go to the hospital or to the Medical School, to lecture, while I used to go to the publishing house or the institute. We both retired on the same day, in 1973. Daily life wasn’t great from a political point of view; economically speaking, we had our problems too – there was a lot of queuing to do and all sorts of shortages. Stores didn’t look like they do now: they were shabby, and the shop assistants weren’t trained; it wasn’t easy to shop for things. We spent our spare time reading, going for a walk, going to see performances. I didn’t keep any Jewish traditions. One morning [in 2000], we had had lunch in the kitchen, ‘closer to the production site’, like we used to say. She was breathing rather difficultly, but I didn’t get nervous. I took her by the hand and helped her sit in an armchair, so she could carry on reading her novel. She fell. I thought she had stumbled against the carpet. But she was dead. I never knew one could die so easily.

We now live in a country which guarantees the freedom of opinion, so I’m going to exercise this right. The Communists built the largest palace in Europe and second largest in the world. [Ed. note: The Palace of Parliament, or ‘The People’s House’, the second largest building in the world, after the Pentagon, was erected on Ceausescu’s order. It currently houses the Romanian Parliament, an international conference center, and numerous museums.] The current regime would be unable to build such a thing or to furnish a palace that is singular in Europe. It’s emblematic of Bucharest, just like the Eiffel Tower is emblematic of Paris, the Kremlin of Moscow, and the Coliseum of Rome. A huge number of things were built. They don’t build anymore nowadays, and they’re not capable of finishing what was started and is almost done. Had Ceausescu lived another year, we would now have a new National Library, and some hundreds of extra apartment houses, nice apartment houses, with balconies and carefully designed curves. I ride in the bus 104 for kilometers and kilometers, and I see what was built by Ceausescu’s regime; and I also see the cranes from the deserted construction site of the National Library-to-be. They want to turn it into something else – apparently, these people don’t need a library, they don’t need books. However, I am moderately optimistic. We are, undoubtedly, on the right track. Of course, we may stumble from time to time, but it is on the right way that we stumble. I’ll vote for the social democrats [PSD – The Social Democratic Party] in the presidential elections; and I’ll vote for the Menorah [the sign of the candidate of the Jewish Community] in the legislative elections!

I used to listen to the BBC and the Voice of America on a regular basis. After I retired, I even used to listen to the same show twice – the first time in the evening, and the second time in the morning, when it was rerun. I couldn’t refrain from listening – I was too curious, and I needed those radios like I needed air. I remember Noel Bernard and his wife; I used to know other names too, but I forgot them.

I welcomed the Revolution of 1989 20, because I had become fed up with Ceausescu. I was in Bucharest when it happened. I walked in the streets, but I wasn’t in that crowd whom Ceausescu addressed – I kept away from crowds. What happened was inevitable. We simply had to enter Europe. I later realized that this wouldn’t have been possible with Ceausescu in power. Being part of Europe is a matter of life and death for us – our peace and prosperity are at stake. I feel frustrated because we are still so far behind, and our integration may be put off. But I hoe we’ll make it [in 2007]. My life improved after 1989. I was able to read the foreign press and a series of authors that had been unavailable before, and I could travel abroad – which I did almost every year, to the East and to the West.

Before 1989 (I forgot the exact year), someone from the [Jewish] Community came to me and asked me if I wanted to be a member. I said yes on the spot, paid my first fee, and I can say I’m an old member of the community. One Sunday morning, while I was at a conference held at the cultural center on Popa Soare St., we were all given some applications to fill. This is how we became members of the Association of the Romanian Zionists, which was recreated after it had been banned for several decades. When the winter holidays came, I received a greeting card from the Zionists, who have their headquarters close from here, on Kogalniceanu Blvd., where the Sohnut located is too. Despite there’s so few of us left, the community has an active life. The ‘Realitatea evreiasca’ [‘Jewish Reality’] Magazine is very good. [Ed. note: The magazine of the Jewish minority in Romania was known as ‘Revista Cultului Mozaic’ [‘The Magazine of the Mosaic Cult’] between 1956 and 1995, and changed its name to ‘Realitatea evreiasca’ in 1995. It includes articles about the cultic and cultural life of the community and contains a page in English and one in Ivrit.] It has some extraordinary articles, especially those by Eveline Fonea, Iulia Deleanu, Luciana Friedmann. I regularly attend the community conference center on Popa Soare St. on Sunday. I sometimes eat at their canteen.

I was always interested in religion, although I wasn’t a religious person. One may deny the existence of God, but one cannot deny the existence of religion. I’m a reader of the Bible and of religious literature. I only go to the synagogue on special occasions. Unfortunately, religious services only began after sunset, when the first star appears – this is when the Sabbath starts. Well, when the first star appears, I’m always at my place, because I don’t like to walk the streets at night. I only attend the synagogue when I can do it during the day. I was there for Sukkot and for the high holidays, but only to the gatherings that took place in the morning or early in the afternoon. The synagogue is not a church. A church is usually only a place for believers. A synagogue can be also a place for non-believers. The synagogue is Beit Ha Knesset, the house of the assembly – this is where the Jews assemble. There used to be concerts before the war. There was a singer, Silvia Feller. There are electoral meetings and conferences held at the synagogue nowadays too. I now go to the Choral Temple. I only went to the synagogue on Atena St. a few times [Ed. note: the Iesua Tova Synagogue built in 1827, still functional. The street is currently called Tache Ionescu St.]. Most of the synagogues disappeared. I used to go to the Malbim Synagogue [Ed. note: built in 1864, demolished in 1985; on its spot lies today the construction site of the National Library, near Unirii Blvd.]; I liked it a lot. I would also go to the Great Synagogue [Ed. note: built in 1846; since 1991, it has been sheltering the Memorial Museum of the Jewish Martyrs in Romania.] on Vasile Adamache St. I still go there to see the Holocaust exhibition.

I never denied my identity. Against people’s advice, I never changed my name of got baptized. There’s no point in denying one’s identity. If a Jew denies being a Jew, there will always be someone who will remind him! I have come to the conviction that Jews represent not only a religion, but also an ethnic group. Leaving aside the Mosaic faith, there is also a Jewish ethnic group, just like there’s a Hungarian, or a German, or a Bulgarian ethnic group. A Jewish baby is a rich being from the very moment it’s conceived in its mother’s womb. Being a Jew is a lucky thing. Jews cannot be compared to anyone. Of course, any nation could claim it cannot be compared to any other, but the Jewish history is really unique. The Jewish history begins 14 centuries before Christ and it is extraordinary. Jews survived thanks to their rabbis and their religion – it’s religion that prevented them from becoming extinct. Hebrew is the only classic language that could be reborn. Attempts were made in Europe to revive Latin – the French founded the ‘Le latin vivant’ [‘Living Latin’] Society, published magazines, but failed. The Greeks tried to resurrect the old Attic language, but failed. The Greeks of today still speak Demotic, the colloquial Greek language. The only ancient language that managed to survive and is now spoken by millions of Jews from Israel is Hebrew. Any pupil in Israel can now read the Old Testament in original, in Hebrew. And this is something extraordinary!

Glossary:

Ferenc Pap
Cluj Napoca
Romania
Interviewer: Ildiko Molnar

The family of my great-grandfather on my father’s side came from Germany; they must have been very young when they moved to what was at that time, Hungary. Eliezer Kohn, my great-grandfather, was born in Dunafoldvar in 1837. He became a Chief Rabbi there. In 1875, when my grandfather was born – he was the youngest child – the family was still living in Dunafoldvar. My great-grandfather was appointed in Bekescsaba after that, where he soon became a Chief Rabbi again. [This happened] at the time of the so-called Congress, when the denominations came into being: orthodox, neolog and statusquo [conservative]. My great-grandfather became a neolog; he was probably more liberal. He also wrote sermons. I still have one of his sermons, printed in 1881. I think that he wrote out his sermon himself in Hungarian and printed it, probably in Bekescsaba. It is not very long; I only remember that he strongly praises Francis Joseph. Great-grandfather died in 1907. I have no idea about his wife, but she was Jewish, that’s for sure.

My great-grandfather had eleven children; my grandfather was the youngest of all. One of his brothers was called Artur; he was a doctor somewhere in Transdanubia. And I think that he had another brother, called Guido, who was also a doctor. Unfortunately I know very little about his brothers and sisters.
My grandfather on my father’s side, Illes Pap, wasn’t religious at all. He needed no father, no religion, nothing. As a teenager he was sick and tired of the environment at home and he went to Budapest, and from that time on he was completely non-religious. He graduated from high school there, and then he also finished university in Budapest. He majored in languages: Hungarian and German, but he studied something at the Faculty of Philosophy too. The family believes that he gained two doctorates: one in linguistics and one in philosophy. Later he was a teacher of linguistics and literature, until the end. As a student in Budapest, he became a member of a literary group called the Kisfaludy Compan. He dealt with the works of Arany Janos [one of the most famous romantic poets in Hungarian literature], and with Lessing from German literature. He wrote a book on this.  Besides this there was an old series, sort of like “Everyman’s Library”, which was probably much cheaper, and my grandfather’s book about Ferenc Rakoczi [Prince of Transylvania, leader of the insurrection in 1703-1711] was published as part of this series.
Anti-Semitism in Hungary grew very strong at the end of the 19th century. At that time there was a radical party leader and Member of Parliament. Due to the disadvantages which were incurred [because of the Jewish name, Grandfather] Magyarized his name. It became Pap [preacher], because the neighbours always called them “the preacher-boys”, because my great-grandfather was a Rabbi. [Besides] everybody who was called Kohn or Kohen or something similar is [of] kohanite [origin]. The name Pap could have come from here as well. He magyarized his name sometime at the very end of the 19th century, and all his brothers and sisters followed him and “Papized”. There were eleven brothers and sisters, and he, the youngest, Magyarized his name, and then all of his brothers and sisters became Pap, too.
He met my grandmother Paula at the end of the last century [the 19th], probably in Vienna or Budapest, and I think they were distantly related, too. My grandmother’s father was a distillery owner in Vienna. I know of one of my grandmother's sisters; she was called Olga, and she lived all her life in Vienna. Her husband was a factory owner, a rich man. They also had children.
My grandparents got married sometime at the beginning of the [20th] century. My grandmother learned Hungarian and she also wrote in Hungarian a great deal. Auntie Ibolya was born in 1904, as a first child. She was already born as Pap. At the end of the century there was a well-known linguist called Zsigmond Simonyi. It was said that my grandfather would be his assistant, but university work was poorly paid and high-school work paid a little bit better, thereupon my grandfather went to Kassa [today: Kosice, Slovakia] as a teacher. My father was born there in Kassa, two years after his sister. Three or four years after that, they moved to Szolnok. There was an educational centre in Szolnok called the Commercial School; and my grandfather became headmaster there. And then the events of 1918-1919 intervened: the end of World War I and the so-called Soviet revolution [the Hungarian Soviet Republic]. It was interesting that within this chaos both my grandmother and grandfather took sides. My grandfather was a so-called radical bourgeois and it was said that my grandmother was communist. After a short time they came to Budapest. In Budapest my grandmother was a member of the so-called Council of the Hundred – which was a kind of a parliament – and became the head of some kind of reformatory school. Then in March, of 1919, I think, this movement came to an end. When the whole thing collapsed they went illegally to her wealthy sister in Vienna. My grandfather sent from there all kinds of CV's and self-recommendations, and the Jewish high school of Temesvar [today: Timisoara, Romania] accepted his application. That’s how they got to Temesvar in 1920 or 1921.
In Temesvar they lived in a tenement dwelling somewhere downtown. My grandfather taught Hungarian and German at the Jewish high school. There’s a little story related to this. My grandfather was a passionate smoker. Many times there was a cigar hanging out of his mouth even when he entered a class. Besides this, he had moustache too. They drew him like this, with the cigar. Well, he was a huge man and his students nicknamed him “The oldster”. A few of his ex-students are still living in Kolozsvar. He was a well-built, physically robust man, and my father reminisced many times, fairly shuddering, but also with humour, that he once ate for breakfast an omelette made of twelve eggs. My grandmother stayed at home and took care of the three children. On her own initiative, she lived out her intellectual inclinations. She wrote plays. One of her plays was performed inTemesvar. My grandmother died in 1929.
My grandfather’s second wife was called Hilda. She was much younger than my grandfather was. I don’t know where they met, but they got married sometime in the 1930s. She already had a grown-up boy at that time, I don’t know whether he’s still living or not, but at that time the boy went to Vienna. I think he was called Karlsten Erst. His second wife died in 1942; I didn’t know her.
My father had two sisters; he was the middle child. The eldest was Ibolya. She learned to play the piano and she taught the piano. Later, after the war – in my childhood – I remember that she was a cashier in some kind of ready-to-wear boutique or clothes shop. She got married in 1940 to a teacher from the Jewish high school in Temesvar, called Hauben, who came from Bucovina, from Cernovitz. He was appointed there in Temesvar, and he taught Latin. This uncle of mine knew some thirteen languages. They moved to Israel in 1962. My aunt didn’t work anymore there, and my uncle commuted to the university in Tel-Aviv from Netanya, where they lived. He taught there Latin and Old French. Meanwhile he went on some study-tours as well. They didn’t have children.
The youngest auntie was called Klari. She had three husbands; the last one was called Mihaly Suranyi. At first she lived in Brasov (Brasso) then in Bucharest. She was an official all her life. After retiring, in the middle of the 1960s she moved with her husband here to Kolozsvar, quite close to where we lived at that time. Her husband was a Gentile. I think he died in 1973, in the same year as my mother did. He was of mixed origin, a Hungarian-Romanian, but [in the family he was “the biggest Hungarian and Jew”]. They didn’t have children. My aunt died in 1994. They are both buried here in Kolozsvar.
My father had a rather eventful youth, because he (and his two sisters as well) went to Vienna with his parents in 1919. At that time, after World War I, there was a program that sent many of the children of the so-called defeated countries – and Hungary was a defeated country – abroad to “be fed up.” That’s how my father and my younger aunt got to London for a year. They attended school there. In the same period my elder aunt, Ibolya, went to one of her aunts on the mother’s side in Czechoslovakia, by the same right, and stayed there a while. This period lasted about a year, sometime around 1920. Then they all came back to Temesvar. My grandfather was a teacher already and they continued their studies there, in the Jewish high school. My grandfather was very strict, like some teachers are. He was especially strict with his own son. He taught him, and even more, he was also his form-master at one time. My father told me many times that he always had to be perfectly prepared, otherwise it meant big trouble.
The Jewish [aspect] at high-school was probably the fact that the whole high-school – the teaching staff and the pupils as well – were Hungarian-speaking middle-class Jewish people whose mother tongue was Hungarian, and to whom religiousness didn’t really matter. Probably they were obliged to go to synagogue on weekends. All of my father's classmates were Jews as well. Later on, over the course of decades, the company of friends dispersed. Very few of them remained in Temesvar. Some of them went abroad: to Hungary or to Anglo-Saxon territory. My father went to Kolozsvar. The Jewish high school was functioning until about the time of World War II. I think that in the ‘40s there was only a Jewish elementary school inTemesvar.
My father must have graduated high school in 1924, I think, and then the auntie from Vienna undertook his education. My father would have liked to be a doctor, but there wasn’t enough money for that, so he finished a one-year course in Vienna: the shortened, one-year course of an academy of commerce. That academy still exists; it is called the World Trade Academy.
[Then the father got to Temesvar, because he got a job there. He also met Ferenc’s mother there]
My great-grandfather on my mother’s side, Markus Rosenthal, started out as a leather manufacturer in Temesvar. Later, as a mature man, he had a leather shop in one of Temesvar’s neighborhoods. They had five children; the youngest was my grandmother, Gizella. She had two sisters and two brothers. The eldest boy was Zsigmond, the next one was a girl, Cecilia. Another boy, Jozsef, became a chemist in Papa. And another called auntie Rozsi, I think, her youngest elder sister. She got married to a manufacturer in Budapest.
Ferenc Klein, my grandfather, was a shop assistant in my great-grandfather’s shop and that’s how he got together with my grandmother, Gizella. My grandfather didn’t become an owner because he was too young. At that time my grandmother didn’t work, of course. My grandfather was there in my great-grandfather’s shop; he was in the store till the end of his life (he had a very short life). He died very young, of cancer, around 1909. My mother was born in 1909. I think she was a few months old when her father died.
My grandmother and my mother lived in Budapest until the middle of the ‘20s. In Budapest my grandmother worked for a long time in the factory [that belonged to auntie Rozsi’s husband]. In the meantime my mother learned choreography at a well-known ballerina’s school, Olga Szentpal’s school, and from there she went to Wurzburg, Germany, where she graduated. They went back to Temesvar only after that. My grandmother had a separate flat; she was an official. I think that in the first few years my mother opened a [dance-] school in Lugos and then in Temesvar.
Somehow or other, at the end of the 1920s she met my father, and they got married in 1930. They only had a civil wedding [they were not married by a Rabbi]. At that time my father was transferred from his post in Temesvar to Bucharest, and they lived there for a while. From there they went to Kolozsvar, before my birth, sometime between 1931 and 1934. My mother had a school of choreography here, the so-called school of rhythmic dance and art gymnastics. My father was known in Kolozsvar– and he also introduced himself – as the husband of Vera Pap. This means that my mother, with her posters, was more well-known, at least by name, than my father.
My father was appointed again to Bucharest; I was born there in 1935. From there we went to Temesvar, where my younger brother was born. In 1938 we moved to Kolozsvar indefinitely. There was a Franco-Romanian insurance company and my father came to Kolozsvar as its manager. Then in 1940, when there was the change of power, they offered to send him to a position in the same company in Romanian territory, in Torda [today: Turda, Romania], but he didn’t want to go. He was devoted to Kolozsvar.  After a short time, from 1938, the three anti-Jewish laws were introduced in Hungary.
They ousted the Jews step by step; they began with the artists and then they extended it to the others and brought other coercive measures. In 1940 or 1941 they dissolved the insurance company, and my father lost his job. My mother wasn’t even in an official post. After 1938, when they moved back to Kolozsvar, she didn’t have her dance-school any more. There was something that stated that Jews couldn’t have official posts, and then my father had a good friend, an old man who undertook to run the company in his name. Then this had to end too. Then my father dealt with selling books, and he wandered all over Transylvania with books. He told us for fun once, that when he came home, he went to a major railway station where he had book-business with the stationmaster. He introduced himself and the stationmaster told him that he would buy books from a man with such a nice name. He also stood him a treat, but he didn’t know that he was a Jew. This happened in the 1940s.
The persecution of Jews in Temesvar – as a town in southern Transylvania [which belonged already to Romania by that time] – was less than over the border, in northern Transylvania, which belonged to Hungary at that time. The persecution of Jews between 1939 and 1944 meant that from time to time, the able-bodied men were called in to labour service. For example, the husband of one of my mother’s cousins was in Karanszebes [today: Caransebes, Romania] in forced labour service, where they had to dig some ditches. We, just like the other members of the family, lived in Hungary, here in Kolozsvar. Kolozsvar [belonged to] Hungary between September 1940 and 1944.
In the summer of 1943 they took my father into the forced labour service. From that time on my mother looked after us; she invented a product, a masterpiece of fine workmanship. She had been preoccupied with industrial arts even as a child and she was in a terrible dilemma at that time: to choose to deal with industrial arts or to be a dancer. In the 1940's she took up her old knowledge of industrial arts and she made beach-bags. This was when plastic, the imitation of textile and leather, was brought to Hungary, and she made beach-bags and sold them in secret. And there was another thing; we let out one room to a lady who moved there with her daughters, and that’s how we obtained the bare necessaries.
[The day before the opening of the ghetto in Kolozsvar, Ferenc’s family got the opportunity to run away.]
On the 3rd of May 1944 a Romanian peasant from Tordaszentmihaly raised the price for a family – the Stossers – whom he wanted to evacuate to Romania.  And so they were taken away – they were deported – and none of them came back. They found the price the man asked too high. My mother used to visit these Stossers, their ex-neighbours, and that’s how it was revealed to us what they wanted to do. The Romanian man came to us very angrily and told us that if these people didn’t want to save their necks he would help us flee us for nothing. It looks as if that man knew more than we did. That is how it happened that he took us for nothing. We lived in Zapolya Street at that time. We started from there. We hid in an attic until it got dark, then late night, we met this man at a given place and he took us over the border. There was my mother, my younger brother and I, and a woman from the neighbourhood who found out somehow what we were up to and pleaded to come along. The woman’s husband was in forced labor service as well; he didn’t come back but died there. They had no children.
I remember that we went through the forest a lot and it was very tiring. We went by horse and cart until the end of the Gyorgyfalvi road where we met this man and from that time on he took us on a very remote road. This whole thing made us more mature than we should have been at this age (I was just nine years old and my brother was just six). We remember quite a lot of details. For example we remember very well that before the end of the Gyorgyfalvi road they took us into a watchman’s house in order to use up some time. The landlady was the sister of the man who took us over the border. At one point she told us: “Children, hide under the bed quickly, because the wolves are coming!” in fact there was some sort of patrol, some kind of control by the gendarmerie. After they noted that everything was okay and they didn’t find us, we could come out. The lady gave us each a soup plate of “krumplipaprikas” [stewed potato with sour cream, seasoned with red pepper] with the words: “Eat, just eat, children; this may be your last supper…” To the left, at the end of the Monostor [today: Manastur] neighbourhood there is the Gorbo valley; somewhere there we got across [into Romania]. So it was not at the usual crossing-place, at the Felekteto [today: Feleacu], where they tightened control and caught many people fleeing, but we went somewhere else. This man knew the area. He took us over the border and left us before Tordaszentmihaly. Once we got there we entered a Romanian peasant house, completely at random. The man there probably guessed what it all was about. My mother asked him to take us to Torda. In Torda she had an acquaintance, we stayed there about seven or eight days then we went to Temesvar by train.
In Temesvar my mother was actually at home, but for us children, it was the first time we had been there. My mother knew very well where to go and what to do. We went to the house where our relatives lived: my grandmother and her sister Cecilia with her family. We hid there. It was quite a big house; controls by the authorities were completely incidental or did not exist, so we didn’t have to fear them. However, sometime in July 1944, some self-seeking person denounced us. That’s how we found ourselves at the Temesvar police department for about three days. The way we got out of there, was that a friend of ours bribed the chief constable. 
On the 23rd of August 1944 was the royal shift of loyalties. The king had Antonescu and a considerable part of his government arrested and taken away.  The Romanian government then went over to the Soviets’ side. From that time on the military operations continued on the side of the Allies – American, English, French and Russian – against the Germans. Of course this change didn’t happen in a flash, especially in the provinces. The change consisted of the fact that at the very beginning of September, the so-called red troops came to Temesvar. Then we – just like many other people – despaired and started to seek refuge in a nearby village. On the way we met these troops and they told us to go back to the town because Hitler was “kaputt” [finished].
The liberation of Kolozsvar was on the 11th of October 1944, which means that the united Romanian and Russian troops defeated the Germans. I think that after a week my parents already came home to Kolozsvar. We were enrolled at school in Temesvar: my brother at a Jewish elementary school’s 1st grade and I in the 4th, and we finished school there. In the summer of 1945 we went back to Kolozsvar too. In those times there were enough houses. There were 17,000 Jews in Kolozsvar before the deportation and these people’s houses all became free in 1944. We children went to the all-ready house [the house had already been prepared]. Then I became a child again. I know that our parents had the opportunity to choose and they chose the flat – it was in a street towards the railway station – which though relatively quiet, wasn’t far from downtown.
At first my father was an official of a newly created Jewish organization which ran under communist guiding-principles. It was called the Democratic Union of Jews. For a while, my mother was the secretary of a retraining centre for Jews. At that time this wasn’t a governmental organization, the Jewish community of Bucharest [was the organizer of these centres, because] it wanted to give jobs to those who had lost their prospects. There were similar movements in every Central Eastern European state: to retrain for physical work those Jews who came back from the deportations and couldn’t continue the work they had done before. This organization’s name was abbreviated to O.R.T. It had many sections related to physical work: locksmith, turner, joiner, and things like that, and my mother was the secretary of this school for a while. In 1945 or 1946 they both got into their respective professions; my father became an official, a bookkeeper in a factory in Kolozsvar, then he got a position somewhere else. My mother became the teacher of the ballet class at the Pioneer Centre in Kolozsvar. The abdication or deposal of the king was at the end of 1947. During 1948 the communist government increasingly seized everything, step by step. The nationalization was concurrent with this. In ’48 my mother got into the Ballet High school of Kolozsvar where she was a teacher and a deputy-headmaster. At the same time, sometime in 1949 she got into the newly-made so-called Cluj Conservatoire. At that time it was mainly a Hungarian institution, actually, it was Hungarian and mixed. She taught the discipline called the basics of moving on stage. Then she remained here, also in the new united conservatoire, even after her retirement in 1965.
[In 1959, when the Hungarian Bolyai University was amalgamated with the Romanian Babes University, and today’s Babes-Bolyai University came into being, something similar also happened at the conservatoire]
I attended the Jewish high school in Kolozsvar from 1945 through 1948, until the so-called education reform, when it was closed down. There were a number of Jewish youth associations, not in the school, but outside of it, though many pupils took part in them. There was probably a sports organization too, but it was mainly education of Jewish consciousness. Some of these associations were more radical, so they were Zionist. They said the only way out, was for everybody to emigrate. Others adjusted themselves to the circumstances and said to themselves that this was an opportunity to create some sort of Jewish life in Romania. I wasn’t a member of any of them. In 1948, when they closed down all the denominational schools, the Jewish school among them, I took an entrance examination and went to the school from which I later graduated. This was called Classical High School. At that time there were only about six such outstanding school of this type in Romania: one in Kolozsvar, Temesvar, and Nagyvarad, two in Bucharest and one more somewhere else. This was the only type of school where they taught Latin and Greek.
My classmates knew that I was a Jew, but they didn’t care at all, at least they didn’t show it. But an interesting thing happened: In the first year, in 1945-1946 I attended a Romanian school. There were many people, at least two, who thought that it was a very temporary condition [referring  to the Jews]. During the breaks they passed their time by gathering around me and beating me up, as much as they could. Three years later, after 1948, one of them was my classmate in the Classical School and at that time he was the meekest lamb in the world, so his attitude underwent a complete change.
When I finished high-school I enrolled myself at Babes University, to the Faculty of History. I finished in 1956. After that I waited for a few months because the principal told me that I would get a job at the History Institution, but it didn’t work out. I did all kinds of jobs for seven years. My first post was at a daily paper of that period, called Igazsag [the truth]. I translated the Ager Press’s (Romanian news agency in Bucharest) incoming news for the foreign affairs column. This lasted about one and a half months at the end of 1956. There was no possibility of confirming me in my post. Andras Kovacs was the general editor at that time, and he later went to the Hét [the week]. At the beginning of 1957 I dealt with Romanian-Hungarian translations. Then came the time when I was a pioneer instructor. I was a so-called chief pioneer instructor, which was a paid job at that time. I didn’t have to teach them but just to take charge of their activities in all fields. After that, for one or one-and-a-half months again, I stood in for a teacher of History, and I taught in Hungarian. Then my first real post came. In the spring of 1957 I became a proof-reader at the Kolozsvar press, and at the end of summer I got to the Korunk [our times].  I was a technical editor there for about three years. There were redundancies everywhere; that’s how I got out of there. After that, for almost three years again, I worked in the Kolozsvar University Library. From December 1963, I worked in the Museum of History of Kolozsvar, at first as a museologist then as a chief museologist, then as a chief research worker. I completed my Phd in March 1981.
I devoted a lot of time to my thesis work. I also translated hundreds of articles. Mainly in the ‘50s and ‘60s the Hungarian scholars from Transylvania didn’t really speak Romanian properly. And I was the only one who had Hungarian as his mother tongue and attended a Romanian university. I translated from Hungarian to Romanian for almost everybody who dealt with history, art history, folklore and philology. Besides the thesis work [for the doctorate] I devoted much time to the editing of the “Acta Musei Napocensis”, the annual publication of the Museum of History of Cluj. [Ferenc sub-edited the annuals of 1984-1988 as an editorial secretary. The name of the museum today is The Transylvanian National Museum of History, in Romanian: Muzeul National de Istorie a Transilvaniei.] Besides this, I translated more than 20 books and excerpts too. At the present time I’m working on a very interesting manuscript from the 17th century.
I joined the life of the Jewish community later. In 1984 the president of the community at that time, Miklos Kertesz, who was a lawyer, (in his youth he was a good friend of my father), asked me to participate as a museologist in the preparation of Romania’s first Holocaust exhibition. As proposed by the president of the religious community we organized the exposition with Mark Egon Lowith [a Jewish painter from Kolozsvar, still-living at that time] and with an architect called Daniel Lidianu; I, as a museologist, Lowith, as the art designer of the whole thing, and the architect, who was also a member of the organizers. The preparation consisted of the acquisition and placing of the materials. In some places we definitely had to obtain and to arrange artificial materials which were the nearest to the original. 
For example we got so-called "Heftling" prisoner clothing from the Hungarian Opera and we dressed up a puppet in these clothes. There were pictures on the wall, which had to be arranged according to certain rules and there were many other objects in the exhibition. For example there was the so-called “Ilse Koch soap” as well. This Ilse Koch was the wife of one of the leaders of the Auschwitz camp. She told her husband: “Why should we lose this precious material? We have to make soap from the dead Jews’ bones.” They made many soap of this kind, and there was a household soap, which we exhibited. There were also many certifying documents made by the Americans, referring to which people were in this and that camp, and which were liberated here and there. There was enough material for a room. In the synagogue on Horea Street, to the right of the Torah, there’s a little room, and we created this exhibition there. I’ve been a member of the religious community since 1984; for me, this is just as natural as the fact that I’m a Hungarian too. But I go there mostly to pay the member’s subscription. The best way we can put it is that I’m a Hungarian Jew, there is no more to it.
I met my wife through a colleague of mine – from the University Library – who she was friends with. Neither she, nor my parents-in-law had any objections to me because of my Jewishness. We had only a civil wedding. We got married in 1972. We didn’t think about whether we should raise our child as a Hungarian or as a Jew. It was all the same to me. The child confirmed; she became a Reformed [Protestant]. But nothing really depends on this.  We don’t observe Jewish holidays at all, just Easter and Christmas.

Thomas Molnar
Budapest
Hungary
Interviewer: Mihaly Andor
Date of interview: April 2005

Thomas Molnar is a tall, old gentleman; he speaks Hungarian elaborately and without an accent. He spends a month in Hungary every year. During this time he meets his relatives, goes to the theater, or goes to see an operetta or an opera almost every night. The apartment, which he rents downtown, is equipped with Internet and a fax machine too, so he can arrange his routine work at home.

My paternal grandfather, Farkas Vilmos Molnar, was born in 1869 in Veszprem as Volf Vilmos Weisz. His father, Samuel Weisz, was a tailor assistant, his mother, Mari Weisz, nee Muller, was born in 1838 in Papa. I don’t know anything about my grandfather’s parents. I don’t know much about my grandmother’s parents either, but it’s there in a document that her father was Farkas Muller and her mother Netti Gerstl.

I don’t know much about my grandfather’s youth. I only know from the documents that between 1884 and 1887 he was an apprentice of Ignac Kohn, baker and confectioner master in Papa, and in the meantime he went to the industrial school in Papa. Then he served in the Hungarian Royal 17-infantry regiment as a soldier for twelve years and three months, and because he served ‘fairly,’ he was entitled to wear the ‘jubilee medallion.’ [Editor’s note: This of course doesn’t mean, that he was a soldier all this time, but the effective service was four years and for eight years he was a reservist] This is written in his demobilization papers he got from the military in 1911. In World War I he wasn’t called up for military service anymore. In 1896 he magyarized his name to Farkas Vilmos Molnar. He got married in 1897, and at that time he already lived in Budapest. According to the marriage certificate he was a baker’s apprentice.

My paternal grandmother, Roza Polnauer, was born in Enying in 1873. Her father was Tivadar Polnauer, a shoemaker’s assistant, her mother was Maria Hoffmann. I don’t know when they moved to Budapest, but at the time of the wedding the Polnauer family already lived in the same street. Before her marriage my grandmother had probably been a maid, too, because her employment card was issued by the Papa trade authorities on 25th August 1896, based on the maid’s card, also issued in Papa in 1892. She needed the employment card because between 25th and 30th October 1896 she worked as a knitter’s assistant at Samu Weis’ in Vagujhely [today Slovakia]. Her salary was 8 forints a month and full board. According to her marriage certificate she worked as a stockings knitter.

One year after she got married, in 1898, my father [Miklos Molnar] was born, and three years later my Aunt Margit [Rona, nee Molnar]. From then on my grandmother was a housewife. I only know about her that she was sickly all her life. I think she must have had quite a difficult life. They say that she was a very sweet woman; my father loved her enormously. They must have moved a lot, because the places where they rented an apartment are recorded.

Though my grandfather had learned confectionery, too, he was mainly a baker. He was a stubby, robust, very strong man, and he loved the girls. It seems that the situation in Hungary must have been very bad; he didn’t have a job, so in 1901 he immigrated to New York. I have found the money-orders with which he sent home sometimes 5, sometimes 10 dollars from New York, which was a big amount at that time. He was there for two years. When my younger brother was last in New York, he went to Ellis Island and looked at the records, and he found my father’s name there, too. He was in New York throughout and he worked as a baker. Then he was homesick and he came home. I don’t know details like where he worked and what exactly he did in New York, nobody ever talked about that. But I suppose that he worked as a baker. I know this only because I found the money-orders among the family documents. After he came back from America, he worked as a baker.

After World War I he opened a small shop on Vorosmarty Street no. 51, where they sold all kinds of trifles, but especially candy. This was a tiny little shop, and for a while they lived off it. At that time they lived on Szondy Street. I know this because my father told me that there was a statue nearby, on Ferdinand Square, I don’t know whose statue that was, but I know that they used to climb on it when they were small children.

In 1929, at the age of 56, my grandmother died. She was just on holiday. She had serious diabetes, and she went into a coma and instead of giving her sugar, they gave her insulin. So when I was born, my grandmother wasn’t alive anymore.

They had the small shop on Vorosmarty Street for quite a long time and at the beginning of the 1930s or perhaps already at the end of the 1920s, I don’t know exactly when, they opened the shop ‘Vilmos Molnar and Co.’ on Thokoly Street. The sign read ‘MOLNAR SWEET-SHOP CANDY.’ The associates were my father and my father’s brother-in-law, Janos Rona. The shop functioned so that they bought the goods from candy-makers and passed them on to retailers. They were in contact mainly with small factories. This is how we were in contact with Vilmos Anesini, who had a candy factory on Thokoly Street no. 8. He played an important role in our life later.

The business prospered, and later they opened another shop on Thokoly Street no. 8, too. It was worth opening a second shop relatively close, because this is a very busy place. It was opposite Keleti railway station, it was a very good place, a great place. They opened the wholesale section in the courtyard of Thokoly Street no. 14, and as a matter of fact that was the big business, which made them prosperous, not the two shops. My uncle traveled to the country, and my father was on good terms with the people in Pest. They mainly traded lollypops and candy. There were all kinds of other things too, but these were the big things.

At that time my grandfather didn’t do anything anymore, he only went to visit girls. My grandmother had died long before that. I was only a small boy then, I only remember that he lived with us on Muranyi Street, and he drank one liter of milk every day. He seemed an old man to me, but he was a very robust, strong man. He didn’t care about his grandchildren at all. I don’t even remember if he ever caressed me. I remember that at seder he hid the afikoman. He always hid the matzah under his hat, my younger brother Peter looked for it, and when he found it, he always asked my grandfather to take him to the English Park.

So in 1898 my father was born. He went to elementary and middle school. After middle school they made him a confectioner’s apprentice. Later he became a confectioner master. He took his confectioner’s master exam on 18th December 1939 in front of the examining committee. He was a soldier during World War I. He was a patriotic Hungarian, and he was very proud of being a soldier. He didn’t tell me World War I memories, but I know that it wasn’t bad for him there. He wasn’t in a place where there was a lot of shooting. I don’t know at which company he was, I only know that he wasn’t on the battlefront. He was a simple soldier, he had no rank. He was such a big Hungarian that in 1938 he wrote an article, which was published in the sweets trade professional newspaper. I don’t remember it exactly, but he wrote about how Jews should love the country, and that they should be rather Hungarians than Jews. Later, when I got smarter I thought about this, and I couldn’t understand how one could be such a big Hungarian, but somehow we never talked about this. In Australia I sometimes pulled his leg a little bit because of this.

Despite of the fact that my father had only completed middle school, he was a cultured man. He educated himself. His spelling was always perfect. He never made any mistakes. He had more than a thousand books, all kinds, but especially literature. For example, he very much liked Marai [Marai, Sandor (1900–1989): Hungarian writer and journalist. After living for some time in Italy, Marai settled in the US. Largely forgotten outside Hungary, his oeuvre has only recently been ‘rediscovered’ and republished in English and German, and is now considered to be part of the European Twentieth Century literary canon.], Jokai [Jokai, Mor (1825–1904): Hungarian dramatist and novelist. He was a great romancer, and his novels are widely known and popular among Hungarians.] and Kalman Mikszath [Mikszath, Kalman (1847–1910): Hungarian novelist and politician. Many of his novels contained social commentary and satire, and towards the end of his life, they became increasingly critical of the aristocracy and the burden that he believed it placed on Hungarian society.]

One could tell from his library that he was a big Hungarian. But the world literature was on the shelf as well. He loved Balzac, Don Quixote by Cervantes, and he had all the books of Lin Yutang. [Yutang, Lin (1895–1976): Chinese writer, essayist, critic] He loved poetry. Although he didn’t subscribe to the Nyugat [Editor’s note: The Nyugat (West) was the most important Hungarian literary and critical journal in the first half of the 20th century], he read Kassak [Kassak, Lajos (1887-1967): avant-garde Hungarian writer, poet, literary translator and artist], Kosztolanyi [Kosztolanyi, Dezso (1885-1936): Hungarian writer, poet, literary translator and journalist.] Margit Kaffka [Hungarian poet and novelist]. He loved Ady [Ady, Endre (1877–1919): poet, one of the most important poets not only in the 20th century but in Hungarian literature in general.] He had all of Ady’s poems and all his writings.

My father subscribed to the Elet es Tudomany [Life and Science]. I don’t know if this existed already at that time, but he subscribed to a magazine like that. And I saw Oszkar Jaszi’s paper, the Huszadik Szazad [20th Century] at home too. [Oszkar Jaszi (1875 –1957): leader of the Hungarian civil radicalism. He considered the Hungarian Socialist Republic the ‘new Middle Ages.’ He left the country at the end of April 1919, lived in Vienna until 1925, and then he immigrated to the United States. The Huszadik Szazad was a social science magazine, founded by Oszkar Jaszi. He was also its editor for two decades.] He liked Oszkar Jaszi very much; I remember that he had all of Jaszi’s books, too. I also read all of these, but not then, only later in Australia, where I have quite a nice sized library. Jaszi was a clever man, his book about the dissolution of the Habsburg Monarchy, what a book that is! But he also wrote what one should do, that one should make a federation in the Carpathian Basin [Editor’s note: The book by Jaszi mentioned here was first published in 1929 in Chicago.]

Otherwise my father wasn’t involved in politics actively, he was only leftist. He wasn’t a member of any party, but in his soul he was a social democrat, he voted for them. He liked to read the Magyar Nemzet [Hungarian Nation], which wasn’t such rubbish heap as now. [Editor’s note: Magyar Nemzet is a major Hungarian newspaper. The original, moderate conservative daily was founded in 1937.] It’s true that the Nepszava [The Voice of the People; Hungarian social-democrat daily founded in 1877] was the paper of the social democrats, but the Magyar Nemzet wasn’t bad either. And we shouldn’t forget the fact that he was already a capitalist at that time. I think he had been a trade union member only when he worked as a confectioner, but later as a shop owner he wasn’t anymore. But there wasn’t a trade union for shop owners anyway.

He had very many friends, but only three to four who were his very close friends. One of them was Vilmos Anesini, who hid us, then Oszkar Koves and Jancsi Reich. These were all in the candy business, in retail or in wholesale. Besides Anesini all were Jewish. My father liked to go to the café where he talked with his friends. And he also used to go and play tennis, and they went to soccer games every weekend. My father was a big MTK supporter. When he was young he also played soccer in some confectioner’s team, later he was a referee at games between craftsmen teams. [Editor’s note: MTK, the Association of Hungarian Sportsmen was founded by gymnasts in 1888. It came into being mainly due to the fact that the Hungarian sports associations didn’t employ Jewish sportsmen, so it gradually became the association of the Jewish middle class. (Source: Magyar Nagylexikon)]

Of course the café and the game was a man’s pastime, as was usual at that time. And then every weekend they played cards, there was a family card party, the men played as well. My mother didn’t play cards. But they went to the theater, to the operetta or opera together. Sometimes they took me along, too. My biggest experience, which I remember, was that we went to the cinema or to the theater, and afterwards they took me for dinner to the Savoy or the Emke. Lantos and Karady performed there, they were the big stars of that time. It was a huge experience for a teenage boy to see them. [Katalin Karady (1912–1990) was a celebrated movie star in the 1940s. She emigrated to the West in 1948.] But for example my father didn’t really play with me.

My father’s younger sister, my Aunt Margit was born in 1901. She also completed middle school, and then she learned stenography and typing. In 1924 she married Janos Rona, who later became an associate in our shop. He went to the shops in the country and sold the goods there. He was a cute nice man, the typical traveler who was always in a good mood. He was very good with his hands, he made me toys. In the shop, Margit was the accountant; she managed the office and the warehouse. True, that she had only finished four grades of middle school, but she was an intelligent woman. Their only child, Bandi [Endre] was born in 1925, and he graduated from Bocskai high school in 1943.

Janos Rona didn’t survive the war. He fled from the work service 1, he hid, and he died during an assault in 1945, a bomb killed him. When we found out that the garage where he had been hiding was hit, my father, Bandi Rona and I went to the Kerepesi cemetery with a pushcart to take him. They carried the dead there. The bodies lay in an open grave, my father climbed down into the grave, he looked for him, and he noticed his socks. He recognized him that way. On the way home Bandi stepped on a mine, which exploded. He got seriously injured, we didn’t. 

After the war Margit didn’t remarry, she raised Bandi, who graduated from university after the war and became a mathematics teacher. He got married in 1950. His wife, Agi [Agnes] Kreisler was born in 1927 in Budapest; she was liberated from Mauthausen 2 in 1945. She also graduated from university, but I don’t know what kind, and I don’t know what she does. Margit was ill many times, she had diabetes, asthma too, and she died in 1968. She was a sweet woman, I loved her very much.

Bandi and Agi had a child, Marta. Marta and her daughter Niki live here in Pest. Marta married twice, she didn’t go to university. I don’t know much about her. We didn’t get together with her too often. Bandi was at our place in Australia for a month at the beginning of the 1970s. But he never thought about emigrating. He wasn’t that type. He wasn’t that healthy either, and he died in 1976. He had heart problems. Agi has already passed away, too, in 1988.

My paternal grandfather, Mor Katz, was born in 1877 in Hajduszovat, and died in Budapest in 1952. He was a painter. My grandmother, Amalia Pollak, was born in 1880 in Vekerd, and she died in 1954 in Budapest. They got married in 1901 in Darvas. They had five children, all of them were born in Berettyoujfalu, and then sometime in 1913 or 1914 they moved to Budapest. My mother was born in 1902, then Marci [Marton] was born in 1904, he died during the war in 1945. He was hiding in a garage, and a bomb hit him. Marci had a daughter, who lives in Hodmezovasarhely, but we don’t keep in touch. I think she had a quarrel with Mom.

Then Bandi [Andor] was born in 1906, but he also died in 1945, he was hiding in some attic, and the poor thing burned to death. Rozsi was born in 1908, she was very sickly, the poor thing, she had heart problems since her childhood. She died in 1962. Her first husband was killed during forced labor. He was a very neat, nice man, I remember him well, his name was Jozsef Berger, and he was a kind of a poet, a writer. I don’t think that anything he wrote was ever published, but there was a journal-like copybook, in which he wrote the poems, I have it at home. He died in Bor 3. Then Rozsi – perhaps in 1951, when I wasn’t at home anymore – got married again, to a man called Dezso Schon. They didn’t have any children.

After Rozsi, Kalman was born in 1910. Kalman became a furrier; he had a prospering shop on Kossuth Lajos Street. The shop is still there, now his daughter runs it. Kalman magyarized his name to Koves sometime in the 1930s. He was first drafted into forced labor in 1939, and they let him home at the end of 1940. Then in 1941 they drafted him again. In 1942 he was wounded at the Don Bend, the Hungarians left him there. The Russians saved his life; they took him to the hospital. They healed him, and then they took him to Siberia, from where he came home at the end of 1947. He continued the furrier trade. He opened a shop again. In 1950 he married Gabriella Schneitzer. Gabriella, her sister and mother spent the Holocaust partly in a Swiss protected house, partly in hiding, but her father died in Mauthausen.

They had two children, Tamas Koves and Judit Koves. Tamas has a daughter, who is called Sandra, and Judit has two daughters, Andrea and Szilvi. They live here in Hungary. They observe Jewish traditions just the way we do. The grandchildren even less. They know that they are Jews, and that’s all. I don’t know what I am either. I think about this very much. What on earth am I? Hungarian? Australian? Jewish? I don’t know.

My mother only finished elementary school. They were extremely poor. My grandmother was ill all the time; my grandfather was never at home. He was a painter. My grandmother raised her four younger siblings: one girl and three boys. My grandfather was a careless man; at least they told me so. 

My parents met because they lived in the same house on Vorosmarty Street. My mother was a very firm person, she was a giant. If I think of what she went through, what she survived. After getting married she gave birth to two children, and she was a housewife. Sometimes she went to the shop to help, at Christmas or Easter when it was busier. When I was born the Molnar and Co. shop already existed, and we lived on Thokoly Street no. 12, in a rented apartment. I don’t remember much from the time I was a little child, only that I lived in a loving and warm milieu.

I remember that when I was a small child my mother took me to visit different relatives, who made a big fuss about me, which I was quite bored of. In any case it showed that they loved me. My favorite pastime was when they took me to one of the two shops or to the warehouse, which was close to our apartment. One of my earliest memories is the death of my second cousin, Marta Rona, who died at the age of 12, of meningitis, as far as I know. I remember what a horror and confusion there was, and Bandi Rona comforted me. Otherwise I only have good memories from my childhood; thank God I can only say good things. It was a closely knit family and everyone loved each other very much. I don’t say that there was never a loud word, because there surely was.

I grew up in really safe circumstances, and we always had everything we needed. I can’t say that there was luxury, but we had everything in the world. Always the best of food and plentiful. And we were in a very close relationship in the family, and not only with the immediate family, but also with the aunts, uncles and grandparents. And with both branches, the Rona branch and the Molnar branch. My cousin Bandi was like an older brother to me. He had quite an influence on my musical and literary interest. I went to the opera with him, he got me used to reading, he was a kind of a model for me. He was six years older than me; he was already a scout, when I was a cub. [Editor’s note: The scouts between 8-12 years old were called cubs]. We lived close to each other, too. Every Friday evening there was a family dinner, at which the Rona family also participated, and it was always at our place. It was never at the Rona’s because they only had a one-bedroom apartment. They stayed in this apartment throughout, though they were as wealthy as we were, since they were my father’s associates.

Our apartment on Thokoly Street was about 120 square meters. There were two bedrooms, a living room, a hall, kitchen, bathroom, toilet, a maid’s room, and a balcony overlooking the street. In the maid’s room a maid stayed. She cleaned, did the laundry, ironed and did the dishes. She didn’t have to heat, because we had central heating. My mother cooked, did the shopping and bossed everyone about. We were well off. We didn’t have a car or motorcycle, but we could have had one. My father didn’t want to buy one. His friends had a car. We always went with that on excursions or somewhere. We used to go out at weekends, to soccer games. My father was a supporter of the MTK and I was a fan of the Ujpest. [Editor’s note: The UTE is a sports association, founded in 1885]

In 1939 the family moved to Muranyi Street, to a three-story apartment. This was a bigger and nicer apartment, and there my grandfather lived with us, too. He moved in with us then. We had one room more than in the previous apartment. We lived there until 1942, and in that year my father bought a house in Zuglo. The plot was about 5000 square meters, and the house was about 100 square meters. Three rooms, a hall, bathroom, kitchen, maid’s room, big cellar and a balcony. There we had two maids, they lived in the same room, they were sisters. I don’t know why we needed two maids, my poor mother was often nervous. But she wasn’t in poor health, she was never sick. I had a governess too, a young German lady. During the war I almost knew German better than Hungarian. The governess lived with us, she slept in the hall. She had Hitler’s picture posted in her wardrobe. That’s why my mother fired her. I don’t know how this governess got to Hungary and how my parents found her. I had almost forgotten German completely, but when I was in Berlin not so long ago, I spoke German like a German. If one is obliged, it comes back. My vocabulary is very small, though.

The ones who lived on Thokoly Street were mostly Jewish. I remember the Deutsch family. Deutsch was a tailor; we were on very good terms with them. They had a daughter, Eva. On Muranyi Street there were only a couple of Jews, I remember the Reichs. This isn’t the Reich family who were my father’s friends. They had two daughters; Bandi Rona dated one of them. We had no contact with the non-Jews; we didn’t talk with anyone who wasn’t Jewish.

We were still living on Thokoly Street when I started going to the Bethlen Square Jewish elementary school, which was about a kilometer away from our apartment. Usually I went on foot there and back, and during these walks I first encountered anti-Semitism. Some ragamuffins used to bother the Jewish children, shouting abusive words, like dirty Jew, stinking Jew etc, and I learned at once that because of being Jewish I was different from the other Hungarian children. We never came to blows, and later I didn’t have any other personal experiences, because I went to the Jewish elementary school, then to the Jewish high school, and this diminished the chance of anti-Semitic affairs. Moreover my family gave me a feeling of security. If my father was there, I wasn’t afraid. Of course there was the entire era, the newspapers, the radio, everything. I started to feel fear for the first time when my father was drafted into forced labor. Of course, when the Germans came in I was afraid. I remember that once my father showed me in the cellar of our house the brick I had to take out, behind which the Napoleon coins were hidden. This was a very frightening experience for a 13-year-old child.

Nobody in the family was religious. At Yom Kippur we fasted, we held the seder eve, I had my bar mitzvah at the Bethlen Square synagogue, but not exactly when I was 13, because the Arrow-Cross men 4 were here at that time, only after the liberation in 1946. Jancsi had a bar mitzvah too, in Australia, but Peter for example didn’t have one. Neither my grandfather, nor my parents used to go to the synagogue. I went, because at the Jewish elementary and the Jewish high school it was obligatory to go on every Saturday. We were never kosher. There were thousands of other Jewish families like this.

I was quite a diligent pupil at the elementary school, with all excellent grades, but I didn’t really like school. I hated especially the religious subjects and I hated that on every Saturday morning and on all the Jewish holidays I had to go to the synagogue. I had brains, at high school I only had bad grades because I didn’t study, but in Hungarian and English I was always good there, too. I hated mathematics and physics. I became a cub quite soon. The Bethlen Square School belonged to the Kiss Jozsef scout troop [Jozsef Kiss (1843-1921) was a Hungarian poet], I was about seven to eight years old, and I was a cub. I loved that. We went on excursions and we camped.

I started reading very early and I read very much. First I read the westerns and detective novels, which were gradually followed by better and more serious literature as I was getting older. When I was ten I had already read most of the classical literature, not only Hungarian, but also the French, English and German masterpieces in translation. The books were from my father’s library, bur he didn’t tell me what to read. I was a voracious reader. They didn’t need to recommend anything to me. I had very few friends, and though I was on good terms with my classmates, I wasn’t really close to them.

Then followed the Abonyi Street Jewish high school. I might be partial, but there weren’t teachers like there anywhere else. I didn’t like mathematics, though my teacher was very good, I still didn’t like it. I was better at the humanities. I hated mathematics and physics. I always just somehow passed these two; regardless of this I liked the teacher because he was sensational. He didn’t like me, but he didn’t make me feel it, he was a really good teacher. He tried to make physics and mathematics interesting. I liked English, history and Hungarian. I only learned foreign languages – English and Latin – at school I didn’t need any private lessons. There were three English classes a week and I didn’t only do the homework, but I also read in English. I read Shakespeare in English when I was 12-13 years old. I had a very good dictionary; everything I needed was in there.

In high school there was a literary and debating society, but I wasn’t a member of that. I rather went in for sports. I went in for very many sports. I played soccer, ice hockey, handball and basketball. These especially at school, at the Jewish high school. I don’t remember how I started ice hockey. And the equipment for that wasn’t cheap either, but for these kinds of things there was always money. If the school team needed a ball for example, my father bought it and took it in. But I mainly played soccer. I played soccer day and night. I was the goalkeeper of the school team. When I was a 6th grader I was already a goalkeeper in the school team, which was mainly composed of 8th graders. Then in 1946 I had poliomyelitis, my arm became paralyzed, and from then on I was a left back.

So I was busy. First of all there was an excursion with the scouts every weekend. But at that time not with the Kiss Jozsef scout troop anymore, but with the Eotvos scout troop, because the Jewish high school belonged there. We had a patrol meeting once a week, and there was also the basketball and handball, so I was busy. And I read, too. I didn’t really have friends at high school either; I sometimes hung out with my classmates.

In my childhood I got very many presents. For my birthday, but sometimes even when there wasn’t any special occasion. I had everything. I had a Märklin, narrow-gage railway, lots of tin soldiers [Editor’s note: Märklin is a metal construction toy known all around the world and manufactured in Göppingen, Germany, since the end of the 19th century]. Then what I liked very much was puzzles. I also got lots of books. When I was younger I got hardbacks, which could be folded out, and I built very good houses and castles out of these. But I was quite a withdrawn child. I played alone even with toys like the tin soldiers. I only got a bike later, after 1945, because when I was small my parents were worried about me and didn’t buy me one. I learned to ride a bicycle on my own, and swimming, too. I went to the indoor swimming pool with Bandi, someone threw me in the pool, and I learned to swim. I didn’t go to these places with my parents; we were very independent.

I loved to go to the cinema and to the theater. Especially to the theater. I liked to go to the cinema, too, but not as much as to the theater. I was about nine or ten years old, when I first went to the Opera. Bandi Rona took me, and then my Aunt Margit bought me an opera pass, with which we could sit on the third floor. The first opera I saw was ‘La Bohème’ [Opera composed by Giacomo Puccini in 1896]. I would have liked to study music, too, but the war intervened, and then I couldn’t because of my paralyzed hand. I went for solfege to Anna Kurtag; she was Gyorgy Kurtag’s mother. [Kurtag, Gyorgy (b. 1926): contemporary Hungarian composer]. I wanted to become a conductor, but it came to nothing. My father also liked music, but he went to the opera with my mother three times a year at most. He wasn’t such a music fan as I was. When Peter was small, they didn’t really take him. Later, when he was eight to ten years old, then they took him, too, or he came with me, or he went to the cinema with the maid. At that time I already went with my scout comrades, they all liked music, too.

We went on holiday to Zebegeny twice every year. We never went to the Balaton, and we never went abroad either. I was on a holiday at some distant relative’s two times. They had a very nice daughter, who played the piano well, and she had the music of all the hits of the time. The entire family perished in Auschwitz. In Zebegeny we always went to the same place, to a farmhouse. This wasn’t in the village, but a kilometer away via Vac, in the middle of a beautiful forest, a ranch. We rented the entire house, the owners didn’t live there. It wasn’t only us, the immediate family, there. My mother’s sister Rozsi was there many times, Jozsi Berger was also there a few times, and the Rona family, too. We usually spent two months there, we were there in June and July, but when Peter had tuberculosis we were there all summer.

Peter caught pulmonary tuberculosis at the age of four or five, from a relative from Marcal called Muller, and the doctor said that he had maximum six months left. Then my mother took him to Zebegeny, and fed him with vegetables and all kinds of healthy food all day long. He rested a lot, my mother told him stories all the time, and somehow he got well again. Then, in 1954 he fell ill with tuberculosis in the kidney. The wanted to operate him, until they found out that he had tuberculosis in both kidneys, not only one of them. Streptomycin was invented in the west at that time, and then they wrote me to Australia, that this cure-all existed and that we should try it. I got hold of it, and sent them the Streptomycin, so Peter was the first one cured with this in Budapest. In the meantime Peter did a lot of sports. He went for check-ups to the Alkotas Street Sports Hospital all the time, where he was told that if he had no symptoms for five years, then he could consider himself cured of tuberculosis. And he is still alive: he is 69 years old.

When the 2nd anti-Jewish law 5 took effect, they didn’t take the shop, and we didn’t need a Strohmann 6 either. Maybe because my father had been a soldier. This candy thing was a fantastic business: in 1942 my parents could even buy a house. My father had never been drafted into forced labor, and when he was first drafted to Nagykata he ran away at once. From then on he was in hiding. So until the fall of 1944 this wasn’t a problem. The situation with Janos Rona was the same.

Then when in October of 1944 the tzores [Yiddish for troubles] started 7, Vilmos Anesini offered us to go to their place, and that he would hide us. Moreover my mother was pregnant with Jancsi at that time. They were so nice that his wife Bozsi [Erzsebet] registered my mother in her name, so that when she would need to go to the hospital, she would give birth as Mrs. Vilmos Anesini. Not many people did something like this at that time. Vilmos Anesini was my father’s best friend. He was a real gentleman. He was wealthy, he liked to live, he was a kind of a bon vivant, and he had racehorses. He and his wife were Catholics. From October 1944 until the liberation, which happened in Zuglo on 4th January [1945], they hid 13 persons, my father, my mother, me, my brother Peter, my Aunt Margit, Aunt Gyongyi [Janos Rona’s sister] among them, in the cellar of their house. In the cellar there was a separate toilet. We were hiding there, when they lodged German officers there. The advantage of this was that the Arrow-Cross men didn’t come in here. Of course the Germans could have noticed something, but we were lucky. I’m going to give their names [the Anesinis] to Yad Vashem 8, so that they can put them on the list, too. I should have done it a long time ago.

After the war the Anesinis divorced. Boske married one of the men they had been hiding; Vilmos married a woman called Mimi. From then on he had an awful life. After the liberation they took everything from him 9. When they took his factory, he got hold of some job. At the horse races there is a man who measures the horses. This was his job. The villa remained, it became Bozsi’s, and because she was very religious, some nuns lived with her, and when she died she left the house and the plot to the nuns.

In 1944 my grandfather was also hiding. He didn’t come to Zuglo [residential district on the Pest side] with us, I don’t know why. He was somewhere in the 7th district, maybe some woman hid him. On 3rd January 1945 he set off for Zuglo on foot, to come to us. He knew where we were. And as he was coming, a mine shrapnel killed him. My father found him there somehow, I don’t know how. Oh, yes, they found his wallet and his documents were there. He was 75 years old, but he was like an ox. If the shrapnel hadn’t hit him, I think he would still be alive.

Liberation came. I had never had such a disappointment before and ever since than when the Russians came in. I was waiting for them like for the Messiah. And when these…I don’t want to say, animals, because animals don’t behave like this. They were terrible people. My poor mother was standing there, seven months pregnant with Jancsi. A Russian idiot came in; he pointed a submachine gun at my mother, because she was wearing a blazer with gilded buttons. Bourgeois, bourgeois, he said, and wanted to shoot her. I stood in front of him, and then they wanted to fuck me, because they thought I was a girl. Then my father took my dick out, and showed it to them.

Despite this my father gave his vote for the communists at the first elections. He said that a Jew always had to give his vote to the left. But later he was also of the opinion that one couldn’t live in this country.

My fathered opened the shop. There wasn’t any merchandise of course, because the shop had been robbed. Among the stolen merchandise there was licorice, which was wrapped in bay leaves so that it wouldn’t go bad. They took the licorice, but they didn’t take the bay leaves, a sack full of bay leaves was left there. My father packed the bay leaves in small bags and he sold that. It’s amazing how many people wanted to buy bay leaves. A long queue stood in front of the shop. Then he got hold of Mauthner seeds from somewhere. This was a famous seed merchant. [Mauthner, Odon (1848–1934): seeds trader, gardener, horticulturist, who wrote about horticultural issues]. He got hold of pepper, tomato and all kinds of seeds, and he sold that. Then he got several rolls of silk, and he sold that. Later the candy makers started to make lollipops again, and that was a great article. My father and my Aunt Margit ran the shop. Slowly the factories started to work again, and in 1946 when the new forint was introduced 10, they printed a price list, and on it there were sweets like this: milk toffee, frutti, candy filled with rubbing alcohol, rum drops, orange drops, assorted drops, crumbly sour candy, grillage, Christmas fondant, sour candy, mint candy, silk candy. On the price list there was a greeting, which went like this:

Dear Customer,

The mailman knocks on your door and brings you the first candy price list in forints. We present ourselves again to our dear old customers, most of whom we have been serving for 20 years already. This little note is also a death-notice because my father, Vilmos Rona, and my brother-in-law, Janos Rona, whom you all knew and valued, died during the siege. We have lost irreplaceable colleagues with them. But life goes on, and we present ourselves to provide our dear customers with sweets again. We attach great importance to serve you to your satisfaction as we did in the past. If a fall in the prices of sugar occurs in the meantime, we will put cheaper prices on the invoice. We will ship with cash on delivery, the shipping costs and the production price of the packing will be paid by the customer.
Respectfully yours,
MIKLOS MOLNAR AND MRS. JANOS RONA

The shop operated until the nationalization 11. The nationalization happened in 1948, they didn’t even allow my father to go back to get his hat.

In the meantime I continued to go to high school where I got in contact with the Shomer 12. To tell you honestly, I wasn’t really interested in it. It was boring, too; it wasn’t as interesting as scouting. I only went there because I had had enough of this and I wanted to immigrate. I was in the 7th grade of high school at that time. They asked me if I wanted to go to Israel. My parents wanted me to go to Australia, but I answered that I wanted to go to Israel, and I thought that if I went there I would decide where to go.

The condition was to take with me three 13-14 year old children, two boys and a girl. They told us where to go in Sarospatak. This was in May 1949. We slept in Sarospatak all day long, and when it got dark we went to Czechoslovakia. As we crossed the border we were caught at once, the Slovakian policemen caught us. They took us to the lock-up in Kiralyhelmec [today Slovakia]. We were locked up there for four days, but we didn’t have a very hard time. Kiralyhelmec is a small village, and the local Jews found out that we were there and they brought us blankets and food. Then they gave money to the gendarmes and they let us go.

I was standing there in Kiralyhelmec with three children. The Jews from there told us to get on the train and go to Kassa [today Slovakia] and that in Kassa someone would wait for us. They arranged for someone to wait for us there. They bought the tickets and we got on the train. When the control came on the train, I hid in the toilet, and they didn’t check the children. I wasn’t caught. We arrived in Kassa, and there was really someone waiting for us there. The person in question took us to the Agudat 13, where there were around 100 Jews, who also wanted to immigrate. There was a big courtyard and there were rooms. We were there for two or three weeks, and then they told us that there was a transport. We got on the train and went to Pozsony [today Slovakia].

In Pozsony they were already waiting for us. The next morning we got on a bus and we smoothly went over to Austria. In Vienna they took us to the Rothschild Hospital. They used that as a reception center, the Hungarian Jews also went there, and they waited there to go somewhere: America, Canada, Israel. When we arrived, the Rotschild Hospital was full; there was only room in the corridor. This was a big Jewish hospital, with several buildings. The three children soon left for Israel, I haven’t heard from them ever since. I don’t remember their names either, only their first names. We had discussed with my parents that I would wait in Vienna and that they would come after me. I waited and waited and waited. They were supposed to come with a transport just like this. That was the last transport, and it was caught.

Peter Molnar’s account of the years when Thomas Molnar wasn’t in Hungary anymore:

From the time that Tamas had immigrated the only topic in the family was when we would follow him. In 1949 we made an unsuccessful attempt. A smuggler took us over to Czechoslovakia without any problems. We waited there in Kassa in a pension for two to three weeks, for which we partly paid with our own money, and we also got some money from the Jews there. Until then they had given the refugee status to every Hungarian and let them go to Vienna. One day they put us on a train, telling us that we would go to Vienna. But in the meantime Slansky fell and the politics changed. [Editor’s note: Czechoslovak politics really changed with the communist takeover in Hungary in 1948, but the imprisonment of Slansky only happened later, in November 1951. Rudolf Slansky was the secretary-general of the Czechoslovak Communist Party from 1945, then – just like Laszlo Rajk – he fell victim to the fight for power within the Party.] The train didn’t go to Vienna, but they took us back to Hungary. This train was full; there were at least 600 people on it. They put us up in Mosonmagyarovar. My younger brother, my mother and I were allowed to go home the next morning. My father came to get us a couple of days later. They didn’t make a big deal out of this.

The second emigration happened so that in 1950 my father met a man called Davidovics who smuggled people. By then he had smuggled 13 families successfully. We talked with them on the phone and they told us that everything had taken place in order. Davidovics told us that that was going to be his last trip, and that he was going to take his family, too. Then my father said that if he was going to take his own family, he would trust him completely. In order to be able to sell the house on Torokor Street, my parents rented a house on Matyasfold for a couple of weeks and we moved out there.

One day a covered truck came, there were 15-16 people on it, and we set off. Davidovics’ family was up there, too. This was an AVO 14 truck with fake papers. Outside the town Davidovics changed into a uniform and we went towards the border. On the way they stopped us several times, but we went through all the identity checks. The children got a sleeping pill, so that there would be silence. We arrived at the border, and there was an identity check there, and we went through that, too, and we went on towards no man’s land. Two border guards with machine guns noticed the truck from somewhere, and they wanted to stand in front of it. Davidovics didn’t stop, and they started to shoot. Davidovics stepped on the gas and he almost hit the two border guards, but there was mud on no man’s land, and the car stood in the same place, because its tires were spinning round, as he gave too much gas. Davidovics got frightened, jumped off the truck and they shot him dead at once. There was silence for a while, then cars came and took us to Rajka where there was a very small police station. They separated the adults and the children there. Then they took us to Csorna.

From Csorna they called Kalman Koves to come and get Jancsi who was five years old at that time. I was 13, they didn’t let me go. From there we got to the prison in Gyor. I was there for six weeks with 18 juvenile delinquents, still separated from my parents. It wasn’t bad there at all, they gave me food and drink, nobody hurt me, and I didn’t experience even the smallest anti-Semitism on the part of these small urchins. From here they took us to Kistarcsa 15. They took my parents there, too, but I still couldn’t speak with them.

In Kistarcsa they put me in a cell with an agent provocateur, a man around 30. We got along very well, there weren’t any 13-year-olds tougher and slier than me. I knew at once the reason why I had been locked up with this man. So that they would find out everything about the people smuggling, about Davidovics, because this was a very serious matter. This guy didn’t find out anything from me. I was with him for a while, and then they took me to my father’s. There were 18 of us in a room, and there I got the best education ever in my life. There was an ex-minister, a doctor, a lawyer, all political prisoners, who talked about everything in the world.

Besides, there was a hearing every day, I remember that once they heard Szilveszter Matuska’s case. [Editor’s note: Szilveszter Matuska blew up the railway viaduct in Biatorbagy in 1931, just when the international express headed for Vienna arrived there]. There was a judge, a defending counsel, witnesses, so that time would pass. Maybe I came to like theater here. Then the time of my parent’s hearing came, and one day they just let me go home. My father got four years and eight months, and my mother three years and eight months. With a rather strange connection, with Onody’s help, my father got a very good place. [Editor’s note: Onody, Lajos (1920–1996): manager of the Café and Restaurant Company from 1949; about 350 catering establishments in Budapest belonged to him. He was successful thanks to his extensive relationship system and innovative personality. It also contributed to his success, that he employed and protected the confectioners and cooks who had been famous before the war, and were politically untrustworthy. After a show trial he was imprisoned for seven and a half years in 1964, and he was released in 1969 as a wreck. Not long before his death he was honored by Yad Vashem as a “Righteous Among the Nations,” because he had saved the lives of many Jews during World War II.]

This Onody was on very good terms with the Anesinis, they used to go to horse races and play cards together before. Then he became a very big shot, he was the director general of the Restaurant and Canteen Company, but he was a very decent man. He arranged that my father was appointed to the Prefabricated Building Blocks Factory, to run the canteen there. This Prefabricated Building Blocks Factory was a prison in fact, where the prisoners worked for free. It wasn’t a very strictly guarded place, there weren’t murderers there. My mother got to the women’s prison in Kalocsa, and she worked at the dressmaker’s shop of the prison.

In the meantime my brother Jancsi [Janos] got to the Jewish orphanage, which was on the Buda side of the Arpad Bridge. It really pissed me off that I had a brother whose mother and father were alive and he had to be at a place like this. I went to visit him every Sunday. I will never forget that once in the winter I took him on a walk, because they let him out for an hour. It was terribly cold, and I asked him what he wanted. He told me to buy him an ice cream. I bought him the ice-cream and I saw that, as we were walking on the street, tears were running down his cheeks. I asked why he was crying. He told me to buy him another ice-cream. I told him, ‘My dear Jancsi, I only have enough money to go home by streetcar.’ The kid was crying and crying. So I said that I would buy him the ice cream. I bought him the ice cream, then I took him back to the orphanage. He looked like a shabby mouse. I only had enough money left to buy one line ticket, there wasn’t any money left to change lines, so I had to go back on foot on the Arpad Bridge. I remember that I cried all the way home, because my brother was at the orphanage, my parents in prison, and because we were living in such a fucked-up world.

At this time I lived at the Koves’. Uncle Kalman was my father in place of my father, and Aunt Gabi my mother in place of my mother. This is why the real close family relationship remained with them until this day. My mother was first released from prison after two years and six months, in 1953. They let off one year for her. When my mother was released we moved to the Ronas’. This was a one-bedroom apartment, but it was quite big. They brought Jancsi home from the orphanage. My mother went to work somewhere, where she sewed children’s clothes. This much was the benefit of the prison: she learned to sew.

They let off one year for my father, too; he was in the prison for three years and six months. When he came out he came to live at the Ronas’, and he was appointed obligatorily to the METRO building site. He worked the night shift all the time, and he liked being there very much, because he could sleep all night long. He only had to take care that the freezing equipment wouldn’t stop working, because the tunnel would have collapsed. He did this for a while, but in the meantime he started something else too. He thought of himself as being a confectioner, but he didn’t really know much about it, because he was rather a merchant. But he had to earn money somehow. He had a close friend called Gyuri Berger, who was a manager at a candy shop on Kiraly Street. My father started to make coconut bars and grillage in the kitchen at home, and I took this to the candy shop on Kiraly Street at night, Gyuri Berger let me in, and he put it among the state merchandise. He sold it, and they split the profits. In fact we lived off this and not the salary. This went on for a while, then again with Onodi’s help my father got a small booth behind the EMKE [café] on Rakoczi Street, where he sold coconut bars and grillage. He did the same here, he partly sold the state merchandise, and partly his own. And then the emigration came in 1956.

In 1956 my parents and my brother had their passport and a visa for Australia. I didn’t have anything, because I was of military age. We didn’t even hand in a request, because that would have harmed the others. But I was a representative ice hockey player, and I had been abroad a couple times before too. It had been arranged that the team would go to play in Vienna in the winter of 1956. We planned that when the team was going to be in Vienna, my parents would come out, and I would stay there. In the meantime the revolution 16 broke out, and in November one of my mother’s cousins, Zoli Gyenes, came to say goodbye. At this time the border was open, there was absolute chaos. Zoli asked my father why Peter wasn’t going to go with them. Then my father told me that Peter should go with them.

In the meantime I finished elementary school, and I went to a trade school to learn the mechanic trade. Already while going to the trade school I got to the Food Industry Maintenance Factory as a repairman, also with Onody’s help, and in 1956 I was working there. I stole a piece of paper with heading from the office, and wrote on it that Peter Molnar had to go to Sopron to repair a bread kneading machine, because otherwise the bread supply of Sopron would be endangered, so he had to be issued a borderland pass, and I stamped it. [Editor’s note: The Hungarian borderland was formed the following way: they designated a 15km long, 50-500-meter wide  borderland in 1950 on the southern, then in 1952 on the western border, into which one could only enter with the authorization of the police or of the border guards. Only the border guards could enter the 50-meter borderland. They protected both areas with special security measures (mine blockade, barbed wire fence). The southern borderland was wound up in 1965, the western in 1969. As a result of these measures the towns in the borderland slowly wasted away, the mines of the mine blockade, which was established in order to prevent illegal border crossing, blew up the cattle of the inhabitants that got there by mistake; identity checks became regular and also the resettling of those who were considered politically untrustworthy. (Source: Jozsef Saad /editor/: Telepessors, Budapest, Gondolat, 2004; A magyar hatarorseg tortenete, http://193.6.238.67/belugy/tortenet/hatm)].

My biggest regret is that nobody ever asked for it. On 23rd November I put on my coat, and I put an iron saw in my pocket, because I had seen in a movie that someone cut himself out the train car with an iron saw. We set off with the Gyenes family, who had a daughter who was two or three years younger than me, from the Keleti Railway Station. The ticket-inspector stood near the train and shouted, ‘Emigrants, take your seats!’ We got on the train and it went to Sopron. We got off and there they told us to set off that way and that we would get to Austria. We somehow got lost, but we knew that we had crossed the border, we only didn’t know where we were. We decided to wait until morning and sleep in the haystack.

The Austrians came at dawn; it was very nice of them to come to gather the Hungarians every morning. They wanted to take us to the ‘Lager’ [German for ‘camp’]. We discussed with Uncle Zoli that this wasn’t good for us, and when we arrived at a small village where we saw a bus stop we hid behind a house. When everyone had left we went there, waited for the bus and got on it. We didn’t know where it was going, but it took us to Vienna. I exchanged my hidden American dollars. We went to the Rotschild Hospital, but we didn’t like that at all, there were terrible conditions there. We moved into some pension, and called my parents to tell them that we were there. The Ronas had a phone. On the next day my parents got on the train with their normal passport and came there.

We were there for three to four weeks, then my parents set off. They already had the ship ticket, which Tamas had sent, but I didn’t have my papers yet. I went to the Australian embassy and I asked for a permission to reside in Australia, and I got it within a week. I got on a ship in Genoa, because the Suez Canal wasn’t open at that time, and we had to sail round Africa. [Editor’s note: On 26th July 1956 Nasser, the president of Egypt, announced the nationalization of the Suez Canal. In answer to this English, French and Israeli troops attacked Egypt, and the traffic on the canal was paralyzed for half a year.] On 10th February 1957 I arrived in Australia.

Thomas Molnar continues his life story:

So, I got to Vienna, I lived at the Rotschild Hospital. The Jewish refugees gathered there, it was enormously packed, it was a hovel. I had money, because I had got some from the Joint 17, and my father had also sent me money with a smuggler, who lived off this. He didn’t only bring me money, but others too, and he got a certain percentage for it. There wasn’t any reason for him to steal it, because there wouldn’t have been any business anymore. I acknowledged receipt of the money on the phone. We had several phones, one in the apartment and there was one at the shop, too. Ever since I remember, we have always had a phone.

I was in Vienna for a month and I was well off. In the daytime we used to go out to an expensive café to play cards. We ate something, and we stayed there all day long. At night we went to the girls. I met Ervin Katz there, with whom we traveled together on the ship. He wasn’t a relative, only a namesake. He has been my best friend ever since. He is a successful businessman, a millionaire. When I heard that my parents had been caught, Jancsi Reich sent me a visa. He had to accept that I was going to go to his place in Australia. There was a medical examination in Vienna, because the Australians were careful so that someone with tuberculosis or something like that wouldn’t enter the country. I was very anxious because the traces of my illness could be seen, one of my arms was thinner than the other, but it couldn’t be seen as much as now. But that wasn’t interesting, I passed the examination.

The ship set off from Genoa, but I couldn’t go there by bus or by train, because the Russians had encircled Vienna. [Editor’s note: Austria, 1945–1955: At the conference of the Ministers of Foreign Affairs held in Moscow in 1943, the representatives of Great Britain, the USA and the Soviet Union decided to restore the national sovereignty of Austria. In April 1945 the Soviet troops occupied Vienna, and by 9th May the allied powers liberated Austria from the German rule. As a result of the Soviet-Austrian negotiations on 15th May the representatives of the occupying powers and Austria signed a state contract, which restored the sovereignty of the Austrian Republic with borders from before 1939. On 25th October the occupying forces left the country, and on 26th October they enacted the eternal neutrality of Austria.] So the Americans took us to Munich by plane, and we went to Genoa by train from there. We waited there for a week for the ship to set sail. The Joint gave us some money there too, we were well off there too, and it is a very nice small town. I ate Italian food for the first time there, and I liked it very much. The voyage lasted for one month. We bought a bottle of brandy before embarking, because we wanted to celebrate my birthday on the ship, but we drank it before that. On the ship we met Andris [Andras] Nagy, who became a professor; he went to America later and worked at the NASA. At that time we rarely met, but it also happened that we met here in Pest, we had organized it that way on purpose.

The ship was entering port in Perth; it was a long way by train to Sydney from there. I arrived in Sydney on a Sunday morning, and I went to live at Laci Reich’s. Because there were three Reich brothers: Jancsi [Janos], Laci [Laszlo] and Gyuri [Gyorgy]. Jancsi’s family was like my parents to me. He made candy abroad too. He died only recently, at the age of 92. Laci is also past 90, he is still alive. Gyuri is the youngest; he is also past 70 already. So I lived at their place for one or two weeks.

I got a job at once. I went to a biscuit factory, where I pushed the ready biscuits on a pushcart to the oven. I thought that I knew English, but I didn’t understand a word, and they didn’t understand me either. The Australian accent was entirely different from what I had learned. But in a few months I got into it. I worked at the biscuit factory for three to four months, and my salary was 4 pounds and 4 shillings. I could pay the rent from this and just enough was left for me to not die of hunger. It turned out that this was a child’s salary, because if I had been past 18, I would have gotten double for the same work. I lived in lodgings in the district of Sydney where the other Hungarians and the Jews lived.

Then I transferred to clerk work to a spare parts factory, where I got 5 pounds. That was in the city, the transportation was easier. The biscuit factory was way out, I had to travel a long distance. I was at the spare parts factory for about six months, and then I met Laci Adler, who had been my classmate at high school, on the street. He told me, ‘don’t be stupid, tell them that you are 21 years old, and they will be happy to get a worker.’ Fact is that there was an enormous manpower shortage in Australia, and they didn’t ask for any papers. I could tell them what I wanted. Laci Adler was packing merchandise at a company, which made tools for sheep-shearing. This was a huge business, because there was a lot of sheep. I went to work there and I got an adult’s salary, 8 pounds and 9 shillings. That was a lot of money. I was there for a few months.

In the meantime I played soccer at a soccer club called Hakoah. I didn’t take part in the Jewish public life, but I only got together with Jews. Everyone was Jewish among my friends without exception. The Hakoah was also a Jewish soccer club, but I only went there to play soccer, and only for two years. Otherwise I didn’t get together with those with whom I played soccer there. There was the Maccabi 18, and there was a dance every Sunday evening there, and we sometimes went there to dance. But not because they were Jews, but because there were chicks there, and it was for free.

For my next stop I must first tell you, that there was a family in Sydney, who were my father’s very distant relatives, Sandor Fulop and his wife Ilonka, and their daughters Yvette and Marta. This Marta married a man called Miklos Sved. Sved and Fulop were associates in a men’s garment factory. They treated me as their own child, I went there for dinner every evening. At that time I went to evening school, I had to get a high school certificate with supplementary examination, and when I got there at 9 in the evening they either waited for me to eat, or they set the dinner aside for me. Somehow it happened that they were looking for a reliable man at the factory, and they told me to work there. My work was mainly quality control. I assigned the work to the home workers and I received it and checked how they had done it, and I paid them.

I worked there and in the meantime I went out with a girl who was Yvette’s friend. I was madly in love with her, we dated for two years, her name was Julika Horvath. She was Jewish, but they converted. When that was over, I met my first wife, Zsuzsi [Susan] Kaufmann. When we met, Zsuzsi was 18 years old, she was just going to graduate. When I married her she was 19 years old. Zsuzsi was born in Budapest in 1937 as Zsuzsa Hoffenreich. Her father died during forced labor. Zsuzsi and her mother Lili were hiding with fake papers. In 1946 they went to the west and met Jozsef Kaufmann at a Lager in Germany; he had returned from Auschwitz and in 1946 he also went there. From Germany they went on together to Paris, they got married there and Kaufmann adopted Zsuzsi. They lived there for two years. Kaufmann worked as a tailor and they went to Australia from France.

Joska Kaufmann also had a garment factory, and he was in great competition with the Sveds. They made the same kind of clothes and they wanted to sell them to the same shops. The Sveds didn’t approve of me going out with Kaufmann’s daughter, so in the end I gave notice to them and I left. At that time we weren’t engaged yet, but we were going to, we had been going out for about six months, so in the end I went to work for Kaufmann. At that time I had already had some experience in manufacturing men’s garment, so at Kaufmann’s I became the sales manager. I sold the entire capacity of the factory, I went from shop to shop like an agent. This went on for quite a long time, meanwhile I got married: in 1956 I married Zsuzsi. Also in 1956 my parents, Peter and Jancsi arrived. They were already there at my wedding. Then Vivienne was born in 1958 and Ronny in 1959.

I worked at Kaufmann’s but I wasn’t very happy, there was a big cultural difference between us. Kaufmann was an unschooled person from Mateszalka, who made a lot of money and he couldn’t behave himself. In 1961 I parted with him for good and I left. I opened a clothing shop in Parramatta. This is a district of Sydney. I opened the shop on credit. The owner of the house also helped with not asking for rent for the premises for a while. I did this for one and a half years, but the shop didn’t go well. I went back to Kaufmann’s in 1963, but not to the factory. He had three shops and I managed one of the shops in the center of the city. I was there from 1963 until 1965.

In 1965 I left again, and went to work at a women’s wear factory, where I was a production manager until 1968. They made women’s clothes and I was a time analyst there. I measured how much time they needed to make something. Because it wasn’t like that that a woman made an entire dress on her own, but one sewed the pocket, the other one the bib, and they were on piecework. But I never wanted to remain in this trade; I always wanted to continue my studies.

In the meantime our marriage got ruined mainly because of my wife’s parents, and from 1967 we didn’t live together. From then on I lived with my present wife, Sandra. But Zsuzsi and I only divorced in 1970. I married Sandra in 1975, but we had been together for eight years by then. Zsuzsi remarried too, but they had no children. We didn’t have any children in my second marriage either. While we were married Zsuzsi was a housewife, she only cared for the children. Much later, after we divorced, she graduated from the evening university and she became a social worker. She went to study after the war. The parents were wealthy and paid for it. They bought her a house and she raised the children there. 

My second wife is an angel. Her maiden name is Sandra Nixon, she was born in 1947, she comes from an Australian working-class family, and she isn’t Jewish. Her father, Tom Nixon died in 1979. During the war he was an Australian soldier, and he got in Japanese captivity, he was at the Burma Railway, which was a very ugly thing, it was like Auschwitz. Her mother is still alive, the poor thing has Alzheimer, she can hardly recognize anyone, she is 89 years old. [The Burma Railway: also known as the Death Railway, the Thailand-Burma Railway and similar names, is a 415 km railway between Bangkok, Thailand and Rangoon, Burma (now Myanmar), built by the Imperial Japanese Army during WWII, to support its forces in the Burma campaign. Forced labor was used in its construction. About 200,000 Asian laborers and 60,000 Allied POWs worked on the railway. Of these, around 100,000 Asian laborers and 16,000 Allied POWs died as a direct result of the project. (Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Death_Railway)]

I don’t remember where Sandra and I got to know each other, we met at some party. My wife was a very skillful secretary. She worked at several places, first at a broker’s office, later at the Money Market. They credit huge amounts of money at interest. These are international companies, which handle the superfluous money of the big companies. For example at a big company like MATAV a certain amount of money piles up every day, but they don’t sit on it, so that it wouldn’t bring any interest, but lend it out to someone every evening. So she worked at these kind of places. She didn’t finish high school. She attended a shorthand typist course. She could type very well, quicker than I spoke. Now she does all my work, she has been doing it for a long time. She didn’t continue her studies later either, but she educated herself. She is an intelligent woman. She likes to work very much, and she also loves music.

After the divorce I didn’t interfere in raising the children, but we are on very good terms, and they love me very much. Zsuzsi raised the children very well, she didn’t make them hate me, and we are on friendly terms, too.

I didn’t have many friends in Australia either. I have mentioned Ervin Katz, he is the one with whom we came together from Vienna. We’ve been on very good terms ever since. We used to get together with the families as well. And there was another one, Andris Nagy, whom I have also mentioned. I often got together with him, too, while he lived in Australia.

I enrolled for evening courses at university in 1967, at the Faculty of Law, which was four years at that time. Now it is five. At that time one could only become a lawyer if he had been a lawyer-in-training for four years, either after graduating from university, or during university. The salary of the lawyer-in-training was almost nothing. So I went to the evening university, I finished four years in three and a half years. 182 people started the university with me, and only 17 finished as soon as I did. In the last three years I was a lawyer-in-training, so during the day I worked as a lawyer-in-training, and in the evening I went to university. During this time my brother Peter supported me. He was quite well off at that time already.

By 1972 I had my diploma and after four years of being a lawyer-in-training they admitted me to the Law Society. First I remained where I had been a lawyer-in-training, but already with a regular salary. One year later I opened my own office in the city. I worked there for a while, but somehow it didn’t work out, so in 1973 I got a state position at the Department of Motor Transport, which is like the Ministry of Transport here. I worked there as a jurist for three years. From there I went to the Corporate Affairs Commission, which is also a state position. This supervises the stock-market and the companies so that they won’t cheat. I was there as a head of department until 1979.

In 1979 I went to Sir Peter Abeles’ huge multinational transport company, the TNT. I became the in-house lawyer, this is a kind of managing company lawyer. This was a very high position, with a huge salary. I had to deal with million dollar affairs every day. I had my first heart attack already in that year. I got better and I continued doing it. This was an awfully stressful job. In 1981 I had the second heart attack, then they had to operate me and I got a bypass. I went back to work, I tried to be less nervous, but it wasn’t possible, so I quit in 1984. I said that I wasn’t going to do it anymore. I didn’t work at all for one or two years, I was at home, but I had a lot of acquaintances for whom I made contracts of real estate sales. I was comfortably off with this.

In 1987 I decided to leave Sydney. I had had enough of this life. My wife and I set off to find a place to settle. We got to a small village called Woodburn. This is in the eastern part of [New] South Wales. We bought a house there on the riverbank, and I started to work there as a lawyer. It went very well, we lived off it comfortably. In 1992 I opened an office in the closest city, which is called Lismore. [Editor’s note: It is the administrative center of the northern region of New South Wales.] This office operated until 1999, but it went too well, and I didn’t want to work that much anymore, so I sold it. We bought a plot of 2 hectares, 4 kilometers south of Woodburn, almost in the middle of a forest. I built myself a house there. It is as if I lived in the middle of the forest. I had two dogs, now I only have one, one of them died. I worked from home, with telephone, fax and e-mail. I still work, but only a little. And I don’t undertake anything that’s stressful.

Both my children finished their high school education at the best school. My daughter Vivienne graduated from university, she is a psychologist. But she has never worked in her profession. She is extremely capable, she has 20-25 apartments, and she lets them out, manages them. Her husband is an electrical engineer, he also has a small factory, but in my opinion he only loses money by it. But my daughter made them prosperous. My son Ronny got an accountant certificate, but he has never worked as such either. He has a watch and jewelry shop. He started the business with Jancsi, but they sold it and separated.

Vivienne has two daughters. Jessica is 22 years old, and Melissa is 19. Jessica is studying at university, she wants to become a physiotherapist. She is in the 1st year. Melissa has just finished high school. Ronny has two sons: Nicholas was born in 1990, Simon in 1992. All of my four grandchildren went to Jewish schools, to Jewish elementary school, then high school.

In the meantime, in 1956 my parents and brothers also came here. My parents’ story is a sad one. Especially my father’s. My father wasn’t happy even for one minute in Australia. He was like a fish taken out of water. My father is a café gentleman. There aren’t such people today anymore. He was a man of the city, a cultured man. In Australia first of all there wasn’t a café. Secondly, it was awfully hot. He was always hot. He hated this humid air. Then he got into a void, because everyone was busy, everyone was working. He could only meet even Jancsi Reich once a week at most. Here in Hungary, he had been someone, a wealthy gentleman. He immigrated to Australia and he became a nobody there. He didn’t speak the language, he didn’t have money, and he had a job, which he didn’t like. Besides that he didn’t have company. The people he met were all people like this Kaufmann. In my opinion they hadn’t even gone to elementary school. They didn’t have any common topics. Moreover, he tried to fit in with them, because still the family and the grandchildren were there.

My mother could get along with these unschooled people much better, she could handle this situation better. She was very good tempered. Imagine, that my mother, who had already had a lot of problems at the age of ten, because she raised her brothers and sisters, and who lived through the Arrow-Cross era, then the Russian era, was imprisoned twice, was still cheerful. My mother had a very happy disposition. That’s why I’ve told you that she was a giant. All that she had gone through, and the way she did it, that’s something very special. But my father wasn’t happy in Australia. First he worked at Kaufmann’s factory. But what a job was that? It was horrible for him. He sewed linings or something like that. Then things changed, because things started to go well for my brother Peter.

When they came to Australia Peter was 16 years old. First he worked for six months on a plane at a big factory called Spurway, where he earned 23 pounds, with overtime 26 pounds. He was pretty well off with this for a while. Then in the environs where we lived, there was a milk bar, this is almost like an espresso, owned by a Jewish gentleman, called Mauthner, and my father joined. My mother took part in this, too: she cooked Hungarian food. In the milk bar there wasn’t a kitchen, so my mother cooked the food at home, and Peter took it there in kettles.

Later on Peter bought the milk bar. That Mauthner was a very nice guy, but they quarreled over a stupidity. The coffee machine was very old, and Peter said that they should buy a new one, and the guy got upset and said, ‘you young people just throw the money around.’ He offered to part, and said that Peter should buy the shop. Peter said that he would love to buy it, but didn’t have money. Then Mauthner said that that wasn’t a problem, and that he should only give him a certain amount of money, because he wanted to go to Munich. They wanted to lock him up, because he hadn’t been paying the maintenance for his wife. The milk bar operated from 1957 until 1960, and then it went bankrupt, because Peter spent all the money on cards and horse races. He bet on everything that could be bet on. Whether the fly would land or not, the registration number of the car coming towards us would be odd or even. But he wasn’t even 20, he didn’t care much about the world.

Peter Molnar continues his story

Then in the newspaper I found an ad that they were looking for a traveling salesman. A small jewelry wholesaler, Peter Stern, was looking for a traveling salesman. I had never done such a thing before, but I liked the idea very much. I applied for the job, saying that I wanted to try it. We found each other likeable, and I found out later that there were three applicants, but the other two didn’t come. I put the samples in the car, and traveled around the country. The boss told me that I could choose: he would either give me 10 percent of the turnover and then I had to pay all the expenses, or he would give me a salary and pay for the expenses. In the first week I added up the orders, and I saw that with the 10 percent I would get three times more than with the salary. I called him on the phone and I told him that I would choose the 10 percent. I did this for two or three years. I loved to do it, I loved the vagrancy, and I made a lot of money. This functioned so that I went into shops, showed the samples and they ordered.

I came home from a trip in 1962-63, and they told me that my father had had a heart attack. I went to the hospital, and my father lay there and he told me smiling, ‘Well, Peter, the ball almost went flat.’ I talked with the doctor, who told me that there wasn’t anything wrong with my father, only that he wanted to feel useful and do something. There was a certain kind of necklace then, which was very popular and I thought that I would sell that for ourselves, and then my father could pack that and invoice for it. He liked to do such things very much, and then he would have been busy and would have made some money, too.

I told Stern what I wanted to do, and he told me to not consider him stupid, because that was his business. Then what should I do? He told me that the only thing he wasn’t selling was the men’s jewelry, cufflinks, tiepin, and such, and that I should sell those. We started selling these in wholesale, I had everything needed for the cufflinks made, and my father glued them in and packed them in fancy boxes. We had our own brand and it was called Ambassador. We made it in the living room at home; my mother had heart failure ten times a day, because the floor was full with glue.

This business started to take shape, so we rented a small office. The business kept growing. These very cheap watches were made at that time, and we started selling them. Approximately a year later a very big company wanted to buy Stern’s company. They offered a very good price and a manager position for Stern. He got into it, and told me to go to work there. I didn’t go, and in fact his former business fell into my lap. I knew everyone, the ones we had bought the merchandise from, the ones we had sold it to, and I started to sell the entire collection.

I had a customer in the city, in a very good place, to whom I had sold a couple dozen pairs of earrings, and on the next day he ordered a dozen again. Then I said to myself, ‘this can’t be a bad shop.’ I visited the owner and talked to him. This was a very interesting thing. The owner was a lawyer who had a girlfriend, and he had bought the shop for her so that she could do something. Then I told him that I really wanted to buy that shop. He told me that he didn’t want to sell it, but he promised that if it were for sale, I would be the first to know. Once the phone rang, it was he. He told me that if I was still interested, the shop was for sale. What happened? Margaret wanted to have cash. She wanted 6000 pounds. I told him that I didn’t have that much. He asked me how much I had. I said I had about 1500 pounds altogether. He told me that it wasn’t a problem, and that we would make a contract, I would give him the 1500 pounds and the shop would remain in his name until I paid it. This must have been in September, and after the first Christmas I paid for the shop.

In the meantime Sydney’s first mall, which is still the biggest, started to be built, and I bought a shop there. This shop also went very well. It went so well, that I was afraid that someone else would come in here, too, so when a shop became vacant I bought it. It happened that I had seven or eight shops in the shopping center. I sold the same under other names in each. Then the managers of the shopping center told me that there was a remote corner where the shops weren’t prospering, ten of them had already been closed down, and asked me if I had an idea. I told them I did. I told them to make a duty free shop. This functions so that they pack the merchandise, they seal it, and it has to be taken on the plane that way, it can’t be opened, only after going home. I joined in the business with half a million dollars. It was based on the Japanese tourist and it went very well until 2000, until the Japanese financial crisis. From then on the Japanese tourists didn’t come.

In the meantime I joined in a Hungarian restaurant, and later I opened one on my own, and here I did something I had wanted to do all my life: I set up a cabaret like place with music. I brought to Australia for the first time Judit Hernadi, Gabor Maros, Antal Szalai the gipsy musician, and Bori Kallai. I like to do this very much, I earn some money with it, too. I have been doing it for five years now.

In the meantime, in 1970 I married Jackie Cook, who isn’t Jewish. She is a saleswoman. In 1979 our daughter Michelle was born, and in 1981 our daughter Amber. This is how Jackie and I met: when she left Birmingham in England she met a common acquaintance in Brisbane, and he told her to call me when she came to Sydney. She called me, and our love started right there and then. She was a very small child when her father divorced her mother, and she had childhood memories about her father mistreating her mother. When I married her I always told her to send a Christmas card to her father. No, no, no. Once she agreed and sent one, and then they got in touch, and a quite normal relationship developed between them over the phone. And when my daughter Michelle went to England she visited her grandfather with her grandmother, and the meeting went well. Mainly Michelle got along well with her grandfather, because my daughter loves being with relatives. Then the old man died, and it turned out that he had a nice house, and the three of them, my two daughters and my wife, inherited it.

Michelle now lives in Tokyo. She got there the following way: she attended the Japanese Faculty in Oxford, and when they got their degree, an American company offered a contract for the most talented students. She was among them, too, so she became a broker in Tokyo. Amber also graduated from university and she has an industrial designer degree, but she is unemployed at the moment. She works with me at the restaurant. Neither one of them is married.

Thomas Molnar continues his story

My parents came to visit Pest several times. In 1972 they already came for the third time, and then I went on holiday to Heviz, and my father got a heart attack in Keszthely and he died. He is buried here at the Jewish cemetery. Everyone from the family was buried at a Jewish cemetery. My mother was buried at the Jewish cemetery in Sydney.

Jancsi was eleven years old in 1956. He went to school here in Australia. He didn’t really like school, he wasn’t a good pupil, he wanted to work instead. He came to work for me at the clothing shop in Parramatta, he was there for a while, then he went to work at one of Kaufmann’s shops. And when Peter bought his first shop he worked there for about two years. Then he left the shop and bought an independent jewelry shop. When the lease agreement expired, he bought another shop at a very busy place, where he became specialized in watches. This one still exists and it prospers. They live off this.

He met his wife Michelle Martin at some party. Michelle was born in 1955 on Mauritius, and she is a half-bred. She lived off being a model for a long time, she was a beautiful girl. Their daughter Nicole was born in 1975. The marriage of Jancsi and Michelle is a great marriage. Michelle is a very good wife, she is hard-working, nice and honest. She used to work at the shop for a long time. She was a good worker. The shop is doing so well, that she doesn’t need to work anymore. Their daughter Nicole didn’t finish school, she dropped out of the 7th grade of high school. She married an aboriginal, or they lived together, they had a child, and then the aboriginal abandoned her. She is alone now. This is a problem. That girl is beautiful, and the grandchild is beautiful, too. She/he is bad as the devil.

Glossary

Gavril Marcuson
Bucureşti
România
Reporter: Anca Ciuciu
Data interviului: Noiembrie 2004

Domnul Marcuson este un bărbat înalt, în vârstă de 91 de ani. Este scriitor (a scris „Potemkiniştii în România”, „Răscola ţăranilor din 1907”) şi un traducător specializat în literatura franceză (a tradus din Chateaubriand, Louis Hemon, Honoré de Balzac, Villiers de l’Isle-Adam, Alfred de Musset). Trăieşte pentru pasiunea de a citi, de a şti. Citeşte foarte mult, de la literatură până la ziare,  pe care şi le cumpără în fiecare zi, de la chioşcul apropiat de casa lui. Locuieşte în centrul Bucureştiului, într-o zonă de case care aminteşte de Bucureştiul interbelic, prin arhitectură şi grădini. Urcând la etajul întâi, îl găseşti înconjurat de cărţi şi amintiri, într-o cameră foarte caldă. Soţia, de care a fost şi este îndrăgostit, a murit în anul 2000, dar din orice colţ al camerei priveşte din fotografii, mereu surâzătoare.

Amintiri din copilărie
Familia mea
Copilâria mea
La școală
Al Doilea Război Mondial
După Război
Glosar

Amintiri din copilărie

Pe bunicii din partea tatălui, Aizic şi Ernestina Marcussohn, i-am cunoscut prea puţin din spusele lui tata. Au trăit şi au murit la Iaşi. Nu ştiu ce profesiune avea bunicul patern, bunica paternă de asemenea vag îmi aduc aminte de ea. I-am cunoscut pe aceştia la Iaşi cu ocazia primului război mondial, când familia mea, ca atâţia bucureşteni, s-a refugiat la Iaşi, Bucureştiul fiind ocupat de trupele germane [între noiembrie 1916 - noiembrie 1918]. Ţin minte că o dată când mama lipsea de acasă, bunicul mi-a dat să beau ţuică şi m-am îmbătat, am căzut sub masă. Mama a venit din oraş, m-a găsit dormind sub masă şi i-a făcut un scandal nemaipomenit lui bunicul, de ce mi-a dat să beau. Eram aşa de mic încât cu capul mă lovisem de masă. Eram înalt cât masa.

Tata avea doi fraţi şi o soră pe care nu i-am cunoscut, nu i-am văzut niciodată. Au trăit toată viaţa la Iaşi. Pe fraţii lui îi chema unul Heinrich şi pe celălalt Lazăr Marcussohn. Nici nu ştiu dacă avea o soră, cred că avea o soră.

Tata s-a născut la Iaşi în 1888. A făcut studii la Viena, Liceul comercial. Era un bărbat înalt, chipeş. Era un om foarte blând şi eu sunt bucuros că semăn cu el, am moştenit fenotipul lui, statura şi firea lui. Se ocupa de noi, şi ne iubea într-un mod mai inteligent decât ne iubea mama, fiindcă era mai inteligent, mai cultivat. Nu mă certa niciodată, de bătaie nici vorbă nu poate fi. Era iubitor de literatură, citea nemţeşte, avea o bibliotecă germană. Era abonat la „Der Kampf” [Lupta], o revistă social-democrată, care apărea la Viena. Era abonat şi la presa românească şi la presa evreiască. Citea în fiecare zi două cotidiene: „Dimineaţa” [Notă: cotidian românesc de informaţii. Apare la Bucureşti între 1904 şi 1938, cu întreruperi.] şi „Adevărul” [Notă: ziar românesc de opinii democratice. Apare la Iaşi, săptămânal în 1871-1872, şi, cu întreruperi, la Bucureşti, zilnic între 1888 şi 1951.], care apărea după-masă. Dimineaţa citea „Dimineaţa” şi după masa citea „Adevărul”.

Iată o întâmplare pe care mi-o amintesc.Tata îmi cumpărase un miel, un miel negru cu care mă jucam eu. Şi într-o zi plimbându-mă eu cu tata prin curtea  cea mare, nu văd mielul. „Tată, unde-i mielul?” Tata, care cum vă spun, era un om blând, dar uneori era lipsit de tact, zice: „Unde e mielul? Hai cu mine să îţi arăt eu!” Şi mă duce în fundul curţii şi acolo rezemat de perete era o tăblie de lemn şi pe ea bătută în cuie o blană neagră. „Uite mielul!” Când am văzut, cât eram de mic am priceput şi am început să urlu, să dau din picioare, mi-am dat seama că îl tăiase, dar tata îmi zice, mi-amintesc şi astăzi după atâtea decenii: „Ce urli aşa mă, că ai şi mâncat din el!” Când am auzit că am mâncat din prietenul meu am început să urlu şi mai tare.

Tata era contabil, comerciant în Bucureşti. Nu era religios. Avea afacerea lui, vindea aparate de sudură, carbid, dar nu avea firmă, nu avea un nume. A lucrat un timp cu Filip Weisselberg, cumnatul lui şi după ce părinţii mei au divorţat [înainte de al doilea război mondial, în anii 1930], şi-a cumpărat casă în alt cartier şi acolo a continuat să se ocupe cu comerţul de aparate de sudură. Tata a murit la Bucureşti în anii 1960.

Bunicul din partea mamei, Isac Weisselberg, cred că s-a născut in 1855 în Târgu Neamţ, dar nu sunt sigur. A trăit în localităţile unde şi-a făcut copiii, la Huşi, apoi cei mai mici s-au născut la Bucureşti. A fost negustor, engrosist de vinuri. Bunicii erau deişti, erau credincioşi. Deişti erau şi părinţii mei dar nu erau credincioşi. Despre bunica din partea mamei, Frederica Weisselberg mi-a aduc aminte că la adânci bătrâneţi avea părul negru, nu încărunţise. Ne iubea şi pe mine şi pe fratele meu, Octav, stătea de vorbă cu noi. Nu ieşea din casă, nu mergea în oraş şi se îmbrăca modest.

Am crescut în casa bunicilor materni, acolo am copilărit. Primele amintiri sunt din timpul primului război mondial, când aveam trei-patru ani. Îmi amintesc că armata germană se încartiruise printre altele şi în casa noastră. Intraseră soldaţi germani de care îmi amintesc foarte bine, cu căştile lor, şi strigau: „Ruhe, ruhe!”. Şi am întrebat-o pe mama ce însemna „ruhe”. Şi mama, care ştia puţin nemţeşte, mi-a spus că înseamnă linişte. L-au lovit pe bunicul cu patul armei în cap, eu nu am văzut scena asta, dar îmi aduc aminte pe urmă că l-am văzut pe bunicul cu capul însângerat, cu sângele şiroindu-i pe chelie şi [apoi] venea zilnic o soră medicală şi îi pansa rana. Tata nu era acasă, era plecat, nu ştiu unde, poate la Iaşi. Acasă eram eu cu mama, cu o soră a mamei şi cu bunicul meu. Ne-am împăcat bine cu ostaşii germani, care ne ocupaseră locuinţa. Mi-aduc aminte şi astăzi cum stăteau rezemaţi de perete cu căştile lor în cap şi cântau cât îi ţinea gura. Îmi amintesc cântecele lor, cântece populare germane, naive, copilăreşti, pe care le cântau pe vremea aceea. De la ei am învăţat primele cuvinte germane. Pe mine mă porecliseră soldaţii „Zigeunerkind”, adică copil de ţigan, pentru că eram mic şi negru. Îmi amintesc apoi când a intrat armata noastră în oraş şi bunicul mi-a spus: „Ieşi în poartă şi strigă: Trăiască Armata Română!” şi ieşeam la portiţă şi strigam cât puteam. Şi îmi amintesc trupele române cum măşăluiau pe Şoseaua Viilor spre centrul oraşului. Bunicul şi bunica dinspre mama sunt înmormântaţi la [cimitirul evreiesc] Filantropia, nu ştiu când au murit [cândva după al doilea război mondial].

Familia mea

Bunicul matern a avut 16 copii, dintre care au trăit până la vârsta adultă numai 7, trei băieţi şi patru fete: Sabina, Filip, Raşela, Evelina (mama), Victor, Neuman şi Lucia. I-am cunoscut mai bine, erau la Bucureşti, afară de Raşela, pe care am cunoscut-o şi care a locuit la Botoşani.

Cea mare, Sabina Michell [născută Weisselberg], a locuit în Bucureşti. Era casnică. Soţul ei se numea Iosef Michell. Au avut  o fată care a murit la 16 ani, Laureta [diminutiv de la Laura]. Filip Weisselberg era negustor, om de afaceri, iar soţia, Rebeca Weisselberg era farmacistă. Nu au avut copii. Avea o firmă, vindea pluguri, se numea „Plugul”. Vindeau şi aparate de sudură, carbid, care folosea la sudura autogenă ş.a.m.d. Raşela Goldschläger [născută Weisselberg] a fost casnică şi a locuit la Botoşani. Nu a avut copii. Victor Weisselberg era avocat, iar soţia lui, Adela Weisselberg, era dactilografă la o firmă. N-au avut copii. Neuman Weisselberg era inginer chimist la Universitatea din Zurich iar soţia lui, Stephanie Weisselberg, trăieşte. În luna aprilie [2005] face 100 de ani. Au doi băieţi, verii mei: Mircea Weisselberg, inginer şi Isac Weisselberg, inginer. Ambii locuiesc la Haifa. Mama lor locuieşte în Tel Aviv, la un cămin de bătrâni. Ultima fată, este Lucia Issersohn [născută Weisselberg]. Soţul ei, Herman Isersohn, era de profesiune medic. Au avut o fată, Lauretta, după cea care a murit. Lauretta este medic în Canada.

Mama, Eveline Marcussohn [născută Weisselberg], s-a născut la Huşi în 1892. Avea câteva clase de liceu. Nu era o persoană religioasă. Era o femeie destul de simplă, ştia puţină franceză. Bunicul i-a dat numai pe băieţi la şcoală [la facultate]. Pe unul din băieţi l-a făcut chimist, pe alt băiat l-a făcut avocat, pe altul l-a făcut contabil, dar pe fete nu le-a dat la şcoală. Fetele erau dispreţuite. Bărbaţii conduc, iar femeile şi în sinagogă stau despărţite. Mama a fost casnică. Ne iubea în felul ei, avea grijă de noi, ne hrănea şi noi nu eram pretenţioşi la mâncare. Era blândă, uneori se mai şi supăra, dar nu ne bătea. Nici eu nici fratele meu n-am suferit bătaie.

Fratele meu, Octav Marcussohn, este mai mic decât mine cu 9 ani. E născut în 1922, la Bucureşti. Eu îl învăţam, glumeam cu el, îl duceam la plimbări pe străzi. Din Dealul Spirii, unde locuiam, îi ziceam: „Octăvică, astăzi te duc pe nişte străzi, pe unde n-ai mai fost niciodată! Să vezi că o să-ţi placă!” Şi-l duceam şi îl plimbam pe străzile care mergeau la vale, spre mânăstirea Antim. Şi-i plăcea şi lui şi îi arătam casele, treceam pe lângă simigerie, îi cumpăram un  covrig cu susan, ca un frate mai mare, sigur. Îmi amintesc de strada Cazărmii, unde iarna era derdeluş şi mă duceam cu săniuţa.

Aveam relaţii apropiate, deşi gândeam diferit. Eu eram de stânga şi el era de dreapta, dar nu ne luam de păr. El gândea altfel, era antisovietic, sionist. A făcut Facultatea de Matematici din Bucureşti. A fost un student foarte bun. El împreună cu alt coleg al lui, Halanai, un evreu spaniol [sefard], au fost şefi de promoţie şi Ministerul Învăţământului a vrut să-l trimită la Moscova pentru doctorat. El s-a speriat atât de tare, încât a fugit în Israel, prin anii 1950. Acum este pensionar la Tel Aviv. În România n-a avut serviciu, iar în Israel a fost profesor de matematică la o şcoală. E de multă vreme pensionar. Nu are copii, nu a fost niciodată căsătorit. Îmi trimite scrisori admirabile, dar nu mă iartă că am fost de stânga, nici până astăzi. Dar mă iubeşte. Am scrisorile lui, scrisori foarte inteligente. E atât de cultivat, mai ştie şi altceva decât matematică! N-am făcut un secret din faptul că am un frate în Israel. Au fost înţelegători oamenii cu care am lucrat.

Copilâria mea

Mă numesc Gavril Marcuson [simplificat din Marcussohn în 1968]. M-am născut în Bucureşti, la 28 octombrie 1913, în casa bunicului matern, o casă veche de pe Şoseaua Viilor din Bucureşti, care pe atunci era la marginea oraşului, dar astăzi este într-un cartier semi-central, pentru că s-a construit foarte mult.

Ne-am schimbat locuinţa pentru o casă mai arătoasă din strada Uranus, fosta casă a celui mai bogat om din mahalaua Dealul Spirii, Niţă Stere. Era o casă foarte frumoasă, cu sobe de cărămidă, cu gaz aerian. Casa în interior era făcută din camere mari şi înalte. Acolo locuiau bunicii mei materni cu cei mai mulţi dintre copiii lor. Bunicul meu matern a avut nu mai puţin de 16 copii, dintre aceştia au trăit până la vârsta adultă numai 7. Iar dintre aceşti 7, o bună parte locuiau împreună cu noi, împreună cu mine şi cu părinţii mei [în aceeaşi casă, dar] în alte apartamente. Bunicul  a adus zidari italieni, pe vremea aceea, zidarii din Bucureşti erau cei mai mulţi de origine italiană, şi au mai construit un etaj. Acolo a stat familia unui frate al mamei, Filip [Weisselberg], familia unui frate al mamei, Victor [Weisselberg], o soră a mamei, Sabina [Michell], părinţii mei şi cu mine. Filip, care era afacerist, locuia la etaj  cu soţia şi avea la parter un apartament cu birourile lui.

Erau multe camere. Camera mea era făcută din împărţirea în două printr-un perete a unei camere mai mari. Această împărţire s-a făcut pentru ca eu şi fratele meu să avem camere personale. Şi o cameră  o ocupam eu şi cealaltă jumătate era ocupată de Octăvică. Am avut unul din primele telefoane din Bucureşti, telefon neautomatizat, cu patru cifre şi foarte curios lucru că îmi amintesc şi numărul telefonului: 3851. Când vroiam să vorbim cu cineva, băteam în furcă, răspundea o domnişoară telefonistă: „Alo!” Şi noi ziceam: „Daţi-mi vă rog numărul cutare!” Şi aşteptam... Nu era automatizat. Lămpile [erau] cu gaz aerian, încălzirea era cu lemne, cu cărbuni, cu lignit sau cu huilă. Aveam o curte mare cu o grădină frumoasă, cu straturi de căpşune şi de flori, cu un chioşc de metal, care avea un mic drapel de metal, pe care scria anul în care fusese construit: 1886. Acolo am trăit în casa părinţilor, jucându-mă în curte cu prietenii mei din fundătura de vis-a-vis.

Părinţii mei nu erau religioşi, deşi nu erau nici atei, erau indiferenţi în materie religioasă. Tata ţinea unele sărbători, de exemplu, la masă nu mânca carne şi brânză. Şi respectam şi eu, mă deprinsesem şi eu aşa, până şi astăzi îmi vine greu după ce am mâncat o friptură, să mănânc o felie de brânză. De Paşte cumpăra tata azimă şi mâncam azimă, dar mai păcătuiam, mai mâncam şi pâine. Nu aveam viaţa tradiţională.

La sinagogă am fost în copilăria mea la ocazii, de Anul Nou [Ros Hasanah], poate de Purim, nu îmi amintesc de vineri seara. Mergeam la o sinagogă pe strada Antim, stradă care era în apropierea câtorva sute de metri de locuinţa nostră. [Notă: probabil sinagoga Reşit Daath, din strada Antim, nr. 13, datând din 1897. Sinagoga a fost demolată în 1987 în procesul de sistematizare a Bucureştiului.] Sinagoga era modestă, era instalată într-o casă, spre cartierul Antim, dar nu departe era şi o şcoală primară evreiască, am uitat cum se chema.

Am copilărit într-un cartier tipic bucureştean, Dealul Spirii. Aveam vecini o familie, Dragoş, al cărui fiu devenise în timpul război [al doilea război mondial] subsecretar de stat. Mai încolo era familia unui francez, Legat, care era de profesie fotograf şi avea un atelier fotografic, Atelierul Legat. Vis-á-vis era un zidar italian, îl chema Perisotti. Era şi un cizmar român, Vasile Anagnoste, vechi militant social-democrat, foarte inteligent şi cultivat, cu care îmi plăcea să stau de vorbă. În Fundătura Uranus avea un bordei [Notă: casă foarte modestă, de regulă din pământ], despre care când vorbea el zicea „casele mele”. Lucra la fabrica de încălţăminte Schull. Tot în Fundătura Uranus locuia un şofer francez. Cu băiatul lui eram coleg de şcoală. Obişnuia să-l bată pentru nimica toată cu manivela de la maşină. Pe vremea aceea automobilele nu erau automatizate, ca să pornească maşina şoferul  îi băga în bot o manivelă şi învârtea, învârtea până pornea motorul. Ei bine, cu manivela îl croia şi îmi aduc aminte după mai bine de 80 de ani şi ceva de ani cum într-o zi mi-a spus băiatul o vorbă pe care nu o pot uita. Mi-a spus: „Mă, ce tată bun ai tu!” „De ce spui aşa?” „Că nu te bate niciodată şi te poartă încălţat!” Se minuna că tata nu mă bătea şi că eram mereu încălţat. Tot în Fundătură aveam un coleg de şcoală, se numea Condrea Marius. Îmi amintesc de vecinii noştri, de simigiul din colţ, de băcănia din alt colţ. Fetele băcanului erau cunoscute balerine la teatrul de revistă. Mă duceam când eram mai mare din când în când să mănânc nişte mici la restaurantul Florescu de pe Calea 13 septembrie. Îmi amintesc de farmacista din alt colţ şi de farmacistul care i-a succedat.

Veneau la noi în curte oltenii. Erau adevăraţi olteni din [judeţul] Gorj [Notă: oameni veniţi de la peste 100 de kilometri de Bucureşti care se stabiliseră la marginea oraşului unde practicau grădinăritul şi creşterea animalelor care asigurau aprovizionarea bucureştenilor], care cărau două coşuri mari cu fructe, legume, flori şi vase mari cu iaurt, pe care îl scoteau cu lingura. Şi cumpăram de toate, fructe, legume, ouă, brânză. Dar exista desigur şi piaţă. La piaţa se ducea mama cu o bucătăreasă, pe care o aveam angajată şi care vedea de casă, dar nu prea mergeau la piaţă. Venea piaţa în curtea noastră. Şi cărbune se vindea tot aşa, cu cobiliţa. Aşa m-am rătăcit o dată,  pe la patru, cinci ani. Locuiam lângă Şoseaua Viilor şi m-am luat după un vânzător de cărbune. Mi s-a părut foarte interesant, ei umblau cu cobiliţele şi strigau: „Chiop, chiop, chiop, chiop, cărbunele!” Eu nu mai auzisem aşa ceva şi m-am luat după el şi am mers până am ajuns în alt cartier şi a venit bunicul şi m-a luat de mână. Bieţii olteni umblau desculţi, trăiau într-o mizerie. Acuma nu mai există desculţi în Bucureşti, atunci era lucru obişnuit. Vara se umbla desculţ. Şi vecinul meu cu care mă jucam, se minuna că mă vede încălţat. El umbla desculţ, prietenii mei umblau desculţi. Azi nu mai exista asta, meritul regimului comunist. Până la regimul lui Gheorghiu-Dej, veneau bărbaţi, femei desculţe, era un lucru obişnuit. Vara să porţi ghete era lux. Îmi amintesc că unii oameni mergeau desculţi şi ţineau în mână ghetele, să nu îşi uzeze tălpile. Probabil că se duceau într-un loc unde trebuia să fie încălţaţi.

Bucureştiul pe vremea aceea avea farmec, avea poezie, avea pitoresc. Luminarea străzilor şi luminarea locuinţelor se făcea cu gaz aerian. Erau felinare şi când se întuneca, spre seară, venea un lampagiu, care avea un aprinzător, dădea la o parte uşiţa, închizătoarea felinarului, aprindea gazul aerian şi spre ziua [dimineaţă] venea tot acesta şi îl stingea. [Notă: Luminarea străzilor cu gaz aerian a fost înlocuită de luminarea prin curent electric după primul război mondial.]

Transportul se făcea cu tramvaiul cu cai în anii 1920. Tramvaiele erau trase de doi cai. Când tramvaiul ajungea la vale, la Izvor, şi trebuia să urce dealul Arsenalului, era un băieţaş, care mai agăţa încă doi cai şi vizitiul mâna patru cai cu care urca dealul. Aveam şi eu abonament la tramvaiul cu cai. Tramvaiul cu cai venea pe Calea 13 septembrie, mergea pe Uranus, la vale, pe la Arsenal, pe Calea Victoriei, pe unde este acum biserica Zlătari şi o lua pe strada Carol, acuma se cheamă strada Franceză, pe Şerban Vodă şi ajungea la cimitirul Bellu. Ăsta era un traseu [notă: aproximativ 3 kilometri, pe direcţia vest-sud]. Tramvaiul electric mergea de la Cotroceni la Obor. [Notă: Tramvaiele cu cai au existat o perioadă în paralel cu primul tramvai electric.] Bucureştenii îi spuneau „Electricul”, că era singurul tramvai electric din Bucureşti. Tramvaiele erau mici, existau şi tramvaie de vară, care erau deschise, cu bănci. Era un taxator, care vindea bilete şi vizitiul. Erau folosite în mod curent, ca şi tramvaiele din ziua de astăzi, însă Bucureştiul avea o populaţie mult mai mică decât astăzi. Cănd m-am născut eu, cred că avea vreo 300.000 de locuitori, 200.000 şi ceva către 300.000 şi astăzi are 2.000.000. Existau foarte puţine maşini în Bucureşti. Existau mai ales Forduri, şi când mergeau, răsunau tinichelele din care era făcută maşina. Astea erau maşinile cele mai ieftine, existau şi maşini luxoase, maşini Buick, Chevrolet. Pe urmă s-a răspândit tramvaiul electric. Şi târziu de tot, după război, au apărut troleibuzele, eram deja bătrân.

Ne fotografiam când şi când, era un eveniment. Tehnica era alta, se aprindea o lumină, trebuia să stai nemişcat şi te fotografia. Era la modă un fotograf, „Julietta”, unde este astăzi un bloc, pe Calea Victoriei, colţ cu bulevardul, un bloc din acelea geometrice, numai din unghiuri drepte şi linii drepte. Acolo [era studioul] „Julietta” ţinut de un evreu. Nu îmi amintesc numele lui. Pe strada Câmpineanu, era un al doilea fotograf la modă, numit Mandy, tot evreu. Cei doi fotografi îşi ziceau amândoi furnizori ai curţii regale şi aveau dreptul să fotografieze pe membrii familiei regale. Din fotografii ei au făcut artă. Am şi eu câteva fotografii făcute la „Julietta”. Lângă Mandy era o croitorie celebră, fraţii Cohen, furnizori ai Curţii regale. Erau tot evrei bineînţeles, după război au emigrat în Israel. Era o croitorie bărbătească. Nu ştiu dacă făceau şi croitorie feminină, cred că nu. Fraţii Cohen te făceau cum voiau, mai slab, mai gras, erau artişti ai acului de cusut.

Pe Calea Victoriei erau nişte magazine nemaipomenite.  Era magazinul de covoare Giaburov, ţinut de nişte armeni. Era băcănia lui Dragomir Niculescu, unde acum este Romarta. Veneau bogătaşii zilei, parlamentari, bancheri şi luau cu polonicul icre negre. Îi spunea patronului: „Dragomire, pune-mi un kilogram, două kilograme!” Îmi amintesc de terasa Oteteleşanu, unde este astăzi Palatul Telefoanelor. Aici veneau scriitorii.  Am fost şi eu, am auzit-o cântând pe Florica Florescu [Notă: artistă lirică cunoscută în epocă]. Am fost la terasa Gambrinus. La vechiul Teatru Naţional mă duceam la galerie. Plăteam pe un bilet 10 lei. Erau actori, care spuneau că ei pentru galerie joacă, că numai galeria consacră pe marii actori. Teatrul Naţional avea o acustică deosebită, era foarte plăcut, avea o cortină foarte frumoasă pictată de pictorul Traian Cornescu şi în spatele ei era cortina de catifea. Îmi amintesc Teatrul Liric, cum se numea pe atunci Opera, care a fost bombardat de nemţi [în timpul al doilea război mondial], s-a demolat. Era în Piaţa Valter Mărăcineanu, lângă [parcul] Cişmigiu. Acolo am văzut primele spectacole de operă şi primele spectacole de balet. Îmi amintesc de fresca de la Ateneu, a lui Traian Petrescu, dacă nu mă înşeală memoria aşa îl chema. Admirabil! Toată istoria românilor de jur împrejurul sălii Ateneului.

Lumea ieşea la plimbare în toate zilele pe Calea Victoriei, mai ales duminica dimineaţa. Locul de plimbare era între Cercul Militar şi Piaţa Palatului Regal, vis-a-vis de Biblioteca Universitară. Acolo se plimba lumea încolo şi încoace şi era atâta lume că nu avea loc pe trotoar şi se plimba şi pe carosabil. Carosabilul era împărţit în trei, pe cele două margini, stânga şi dreapta, pentru automobile, spre Palat şi dinspre Palat, iar partea din mijloc era pentru trăsuri,  care atunci erau numeroase în Bucureşti, poate erau mai numeroase decât maşinile. Un prefect al Bucureştiului, Gavrilă Marinescu,  a pus în lanţuri trotoarele şi lumea nu mai putea să se plimbe pe carosabil [aproximativ în anii 1920]. Nu ieşea nici un bărbat fără pălărie, asta nu exista. Îmi amintesc că eu o dată am ieşit pe stradă fără pălărie şi în urma mea a alergat mama cu o pălărie în mână şi mi-a spus: „Cum pleci tu în oraş? O să creadă lumea că eşti nebun! Ia pălăria!”

Pe 10 mai  ieşeam la parada militară, eram nelipsit. Cânta fanfara şi apoi urma armata, diferitele arme, artileria, cavaleria, infanteria, trupele de geniu şi la urmă apărea şi familia regală. La înmormântarea regelui Carol [I], eu aveam un an sau doi şi am participat împreună cu dădaca mea. Îmi amintesc de regele Ferdinand, de Carol al II lea, care era cel mai inteligent dintre regi. Îmi amintesc de Voievodul Mihai [Mihai I]. Nu îi iubeam pe membrii familiei regale, dar se găseau fotografii, presa era plină. Ajungea să deschizi un ziar şi vedeai fotografia regelui, fotografiile prinţilor. Îmi amintesc de prinţul Nicolae [Notă: (1903-1977), principe; fiul regelui Ferdinand I şi al reginei Maria, fratele mai mic al regelui Carol al II lea], care conducea o maşină cu viteză pe atunci neobişnuită în Bucureşti.

Regele inaugura în fiecare an târgul Moşilor. Târgul Moşilor se deschidea în mai, de Joia Moşilor. [Notă: Târgul ţinea timp de o lună de zile, după sărbătorirea Paştelui creştin.] Mă duceam în fiecare an. Acolo erau oameni care îşi câştigau existenţa cu tot felul de loterii şi circuri, femeia cu barbă, femeia cu coadă de peşte, cel mai tare om care rupe lanţuri, şmecherii din astea. Era o distracţie destul de vulgară. Era un restaurant unde se putea bea bragă, se mâncau mici. Mergeam cu părinţii. Când m-am făcut mare mergeam şi singur şi căscam gura şi eu la diferite panorame. Puteai să tragi la ţintă şi dacă nimereai la ţintă câştigai ceva. Premiile erau diferite obiecte de artizanat, erau păpuşi, fleacuri.

La școală

Învăţam la Şcoala Golescu, şcoala de băieţi numărul 3. Şcolile de pe atunci nu erau mixte, erau şcoli de băieţi şi şcoli de fete, licee de băieţi şi licee de fete. Să vă spun o întâmplare în legătură cu prima zi de şcoală [în 1919]. M-a îmbrăcat mama frumos, mi-a pus ghiozdanul, nou cumpărat, în spate, cu cartea de citire, cu cartea de aritmetică (că noi toţi copiii îi spuneam artimetică) şi m-a trimes la şcoală. Eu mai fusesem o dată la şcoală, cu mult timp înainte, cu bunicul ca să mă înscrie, dar nu-mi aduceam aminte acum unde era şcoala. [Şcoala era aproape de casă]. Pornesc la şcoală pe strada Cazărmii, nu nimeresc şcoala şi timpul trecea şi trebuia la 8 dimineaţa să fiu acolo. Dau pe o stradă, pe o altă stradă, şcoala nu apărea nicăierea. Eram foarte sfios, timid, nu îndrăzneam să opresc pe un trecător, să-l întreb unde este Şcoala primară numărul 3 Golescu. Stăteam prostit la marginea trotuarului şi îmi venea să plâng că nu ştiam unde este şcoala. Cum stăteam eu aşa şi nu ştiam ce să fac, văd venind spre mine un domn aşa cam între două vârste, elegant îmbrăcat, care mi-a inspirat încredere. Ceilalţi trecători mi se păruseră grăbiţi, nu îndrăzneam să îi opresc. Mă apropii de el şi timid îl întreb dacă nu ştie unde este şcoala Golescu.-„Vino cu mine că îţi arăt eu!” Şi mă ia cu el, pe drum mă întreabă cum mă cheamă, ce fac părinţii mei, în ce clasă sunt. El întreba, eu răspundeam şi tot mergând aşa, el întrebând, eu răspunzând, apare în faţa mea şcoala. Eu de bucurie că am găsit şcoala am dat buzna să intru pe poartă, dar el mă opreşte şi zice: „Stai să intru eu mai întâi, că sunt mai bătrân, şi pe urmă intri şi tu!” Intră el pe poarta şcolii, curtea era plină de elevi care se jucau. Toţi mă împresoară şi îmi pun aceeaşi întrebare: „Mă, tu eşti băiatul lui domnul Movilă?”  „Nu!– zic eu – Nu sunt băiatul lui domnul Movilă!” Între aceştia vine un pedagog şi ne bagă în clasă şi ne aranjează în bănci. Cine intră în clasă? Domnul pe care îl întrebasem eu. El era învăţatorul, domnul Movilă. Parcă îl văd şi astăzi, după 80 de ani şi ceva, cu catalogul la subţioară, intră, se urcă la catedră şi ne spune nouă: „Copii, eu pe rând am să citesc numele vostru, voi când vă auziţi numele vă ridicaţi în picioare şi ziceţi: Prezent! Aţi înţeles?” „Da!” Strigă el catalogul, fiecare copil se ridică în picioare, zice prezent şi la un moment dat îl aud că zice Marcuson Gavril. Mă ridic şi eu în picioare: „Prezent! Da, ştiţi că pe mine nu mă cheamă Gavril!” „Dar cum te cheamă?” "Pe mine mă cheamă Guţu [diminutiv de la Gavril], aşa îmi spune acasă!” Zice învăţătorul: „Guţu îţi zice acasă, dar în acte eşti trecut Gavril. Noi îţi zicem Marcuson Gavril! Stai jos!” Şi pe urmă se adresează clasei: „Copii, voi ştiţi ce a făcut Marcuson? Trebuia să vină la şcoală şi de prost ce este n-a nimerit şcoala!” A fost un râs nemaipomenit. Râdeau de mine, eu nu ştiam ce să fac. Şi le povesteşte învăţătorul întâmplarea cu mine cum stăteam pe marginea trotuarului, disperat că nu găseam şcoala. De atuncea camarazii mei m-au poreclit „Prostul clasei”, ajunsesem în clasa a IVa şi tot îmi spuneau „ăsta care n-a nimerit şcoala de prost ce este”.

Domnul Movilă, învăţătorul, era un compozitor cunoscut pe vremea aceea. Acum câtva timp am auzit la radio nişte cântece compuse de el. Îl chema Juarez Movilă, avea un prenume spaniol, numele unui revoluţionar. Scotea o revistă, care se numea „Curierul Artelor” şi la care părinţii elevilor, cel puţin cei cu dare de mână, trebuia să se aboneze. Au apărut vreo 3 numere de revistă, noi eram abonaţi.  Cum decurgeau orele? Învăţătorul intra în clasă şi noi elevii ne ridicam în picioare şi rămâneam în picioare. În perete era o icoană. Noi ne întorceam cu faţa la icoană şi unul dintre băieţi spunea Tatăl Nostru şi pe urmă toţi se închinau, ne aşezam în bănci şi începea lecţia. Azi aşa, mâine aşa, văzând pe colegii mei toţi că se închină, din spirit de imitaţie, ştiţi că copiii mici sunt ca nişte maimuţici, mă închinam şi eu fără să îmi dau seama ce semnificaţie are acest gest. Până când într-o zi, în timpul rugăciunii, învăţătorul a venit la mine, mi-a pus mâna pe umăr şi mi-a spus cu blândeţe în glas: „Tu să nu te închini!” N-am înţeles, nu cunoşteam. Încă nu împlinisem 6 ani, părinţii mă dăduseră la şcoală după sistemul german. Eram cel mai mic din clasă. Nu ştiam şi nu am zis nimic. Întorcându-mă acasă pentru masa de prânz, tata avea un obicei, în fiecare zi mă întreba: „Ei, te-a scos la lecţie?” Dacă ziceam da, îmi punea alte două întrebări: „Ai ştiut să răspunzi? Ce notă ţi-a pus?” M-a întrebat şi atunci. „Nu m-a scos, dar să vezi, a venit domnul învăţător la mine în timpul rugăciunii şi mi-a pus mâna pe umăr şi mi-a spus: Tu să nu te închini!” Tata a rămas uimit, fără grai. După un timp a întrebat: „Şi a mai spus asta şi la alţi băieţi?” Zic: „Numai mie!” Tata mi-a pus întrebarea asta ştiind că în clasă mai sunt încă 2 elevi evrei, dar ăia, probabil mai instruiţi ca mine, nu se închinau. N-a mai zis nimic tata. Am mâncat şi după masă, m-a tras deoparte şi a început, cum s-a spus mai târziu, să mă prelucreze. Mi-a vorbit despre Dumnezeu, mi-a vorbit despre religii, mi-a spus că sunt mai multe religii şi că noi, familia noastră, avem altă religie decât ceilalţi coşcolari ai mei şi că noi nu obişnuim să ne închinăm, numai ceilalţi şi aşa mai departe. Atunci am auzit pentru prima oară vorbindu-se de Dumnezeu şi despre religie.

Cursul inferior [gimnaziul], l-am făcut la [Liceul] Mihai Viteazul şi cursul superior [liceul] l-am făcut la [Liceul] Spiru Haret. Profesor de limba română era Petre V. Haneş, doctor în Litere, autor de manuale şcolare, a numeroase cărţi de istorie literară, cel care a înfiinţat societatea „Prietenii Istoriei Literare”, care scotea revista „Prietenii Istoriei Literare”. El este cel care a făcut o importantă descoperire de ordin istoric literar, a descoperit că poemul „Cântarea României”, aparţine nu lui Bălcescu, aşa cum se credea până la el, ci lui Alecu Russo. [Notă: „Cântarea României”: cea mai cunoscută operă a poetului şi prozatorului Alecu Russo; poem în proză, scris în limba franceză, publicat în 1850, în traducerea lui Nicolae Bălcescu.] Un alt profesor de limba română a fost Scarlat Struţeanu, doctor în Filologie română, autorul unei cunoscute teze de doctorat despre umorul lui Caragiale. La Limba Franceză [era] Benedict Kanner, doctor în Litere la Sorbona. Alt profesor de franceză, Alexandru Claudian, mai târziu a devenit profesor universitar de filozofie antică la Facultatea de Filozofie din Iaşi. Profesori de germană [erau]: Bruno Colbert, doctor în Litere la Viena, ulterior devenit conferenţiar de limbă şi literatură germană la Facultatea de Litere din Bucureşti şi Ştefan Motaş Zeletin, doctor în Filozofie de la Universitatea din Erlangen, Germania, autorul celebrei lucrări pe atunci „Burghezia română” şi devenit ulterior, ca şi Claudian, profesor la Universitatea de Filozofie din Iaşi. La Limba engleză [aveam profesor pe] Ioan Olimp Ştefanovici-Svensk, doctor în Litere de la Londra, fost student al vestitului lingvist englez, Daniel Jones, cel care a creat sistemul de transliterare numit Jones. Este cel care a introdus în ţara nostră sistemul de transliterare a limbii engleze, primul traducător al lui Eminescu în engleză, în colaborare cu poeta engleză Sylvia Pankhurst.

Îmi aduc aminte cu plăcere în special de Ştefanovici, care m-a învăţat nu numai engleză, care m-a învăţat ce este fonetica. Vorbesc mai bine, nu numai engleza, orice limbă, vorbesc mai bine şi româneşte. El mi-a făcut educaţia auzului. Foarte mare profesor, Ştefanovici, uitat astăzi, cine îl mai ştie? Îmi amintesc prima lui lecţie. A venit în clasă fără să spună o vorbă, a pus mâna pe cretă şi ne-a făcut pe tablă patrulaterul vocalismului englez. Mai târziu, devenit eu profesor de fonetică a limbii franceze, am făcut studenţilor mei patrulaterul pe care îl învăţasem în clasa a Va. Cum aş putea să-l uit pe Benedict Kanner, care m-a învăţat franceza şi de la care am luat prima palmă. Eram clasa I de liceu, corespunzătoare cu anul întâi de gimnaziu de azi, de clasa a Va, şi m-a pus să citesc din carte. În carte scria „Leve toi!” (Ridică-te!) Şi eu am citit [cum se scrie] „LEVE TOI!” Şi mi-a tras o palmă. Nu ştia că trage o palmă unui viitor coleg, profesor de franceză. Cum aş putea să uit lecţiile de germană ale lui Colbert, lecţiile de română ale lui Petre Haneş, atât de apropiat de elevi, lecţiile de filozofie ale lui Ioaniţescu, care fusese studentul lui Maiorescu. [Titu Maiorescu (1840-1917): estetician, critic literar, profesor; este unul dintre fondatorii societăţii literare „Junimea” din Iaşi unde s-au format cei mai importanţi scriitori români ai vremii precum M.Eminescu, I.L.Caragiale, I.Slavici etc. Elaborează teoria „formelor fără fond”, prin care promovează introducerea valorilor autohtone faţă de preluarea unor şabloane literare occidentale.] Ioaniţescu nu voia să predea Logica decât după manualul lui Maiorescu, care nu se mai găsea de zeci de ani. Tata, ca să mă ajute, a scris unui frate de al lui din Iaşi, care a căutat la anticari manualul şi mi l-a trimis. Eram unul dintre puţinii elevi din clasă care aveam acel manual.

Până şi profesorii de aşa numitele dexterităţi erau oameni chemaţi. Era sculptorul Aristide Iliescu, compozitorul Ioan Croitoru, care ne preda muzica. Cântăreţul de operă, Grigore Magiari, care şi el ne preda muzica, venea cu gramofonul în clasă, ne punea discuri şi ne făcea educaţie muzicală. Profesorul de Cultură fizică avea studiile făcute în Suedia. Directorul liceului îl trimisese în Suedia ca să cumpere de acolo aparate pentru sală ceea ce s-a făcut. Aşa erau liceele pe atunci. Profesorul de istorie, Iuliu Moisil, ulterior, a devenit academician, întemeietorul numismaticii româneşti. Asemenea profesori am avut. Pe vremea aceea a fi profesor de liceu  era mare lucru. Când un profesor de liceu se înscria într-un partid toată presa anunţa că domnul profesor cutare s-a înscris în cutare partid şi erau unii şefi de organizaţie de partid judeţene, ceea ce era mare lucru.

Am avut prieteni de liceu, dar şi prieteni de facultate. Din facultate am avut un prieten, care a murit, Mircea Stoe. A devenit întâi ataşat, pe urmă secretar de legaţie la Londra şi când a abdicat regele Mihai şi-a dat şi el demisia. Se stabilise la Sutton, un orăşel de lângă Londra. Soţia mea a avut un congres la Paris şi eu am trecut mâneca [Canalul Mânecii] în Anglia, am stat în gazdă la el câteva zile cât a durat congresul. Mircea a murit de cancer pulmonar, din cauza tutunului. Soţia lui trăieşte şi sunt în corespondenţă cu ea. Am avut prieten foarte bun, Alfred Reiner, evreu, care a murit la cutremur [în 1977] cu toată familia lui. Reiner era directorul unei tipografii situate aproape de Piaţa Sf.Gheorghe. Într-o vreme, în anii 1950, înainte de a mă căsători, am locuit la el, pe strada Poenaru Bordea, lângă Tribunal. N-am locuit mult, dar mai mult de un an. La cutremur, toţi cei care erau în bloc au murit. Era un bloc şubred [vechi], simţeam când trecea un camion pe stradă, vibrau ferestrele. S-a construit acolo un alt bloc. L-am avut prieten pe Idel Segal [evreu], care a murit asasinat. Era redactor la Editura Ştiinţifică şi Enciclopedică, umbla cu sacoşele cu manuscrise şi nişte bandiţi au crezut că cine ştie ce are el acolo. El n-a vrut să cedeze, a fost încăpăţânat şi l-au omorât pe stradă. Asta s-a întâmplat prin anii 1970. A apărut un articol foarte frumos despre el în „România liberă” [notă: ziar românesc de informaţie care apare în timpul perioadei comuniste şi continuă în serie nouă după 1989]: „Moartea unui cărturar”. Nu am ziarul, nu ştiu cum l-am rătăcit, regret. Am făcut fotocopii şi le-am dat la toată lumea. Morţi toţi! De ani de zile nu m-am mai văzut cu colegii mei. Ăştia care mai sunt nu ies din casă.

Am avut o iniţiativă, prin anii 1950, ca absolvenţii liceului Spiru Haret din promoţia 1931, să ne întâlnim măcar o dată pe lună ca să ştim unii de alţii. Am făcut rost de telefoanele tuturor, le-am telefonat şi de atunci în fiecare lună, în ultima joi a fiecărei luni ne întâlneam la restaurantul Casei Universitarilor. Când s-au împlinit 50 de ani de la terminarea liceului eram încă destui. Ne-am întâlnit atunci la [restaurantul] Cina şi am pus câteva mese cap la cap. Am făcut un chef monstru. La 60 de ani încă mai eram câţiva, la 70 de ani nu mai eram. Trebuie să ştiţi că eram două clase de elevi, fiecare cu câte 40 de elevi, deci în total 80 de elevi. Astăzi mai sunt în viaţă 4, dintre care 2 evrei. Atunci erau vreo 3 evrei într-o clasă şi alţi 3 în altă clasă. Elevii evrei s-au bucurat cu toţii de longevitate, chiar aceia care au murit, au murit octogenari. Şi astăzi mai sunt în viaţă, eu şi un coleg al meu. Şi românii care erau 74 sunt tot 2. Vedeţi cât de longevivi sunt evreii!

Am avut profesori de ebraică şi am învăţat ebraica acasă până la bar miţva. Bar miţva a avut loc [aproximativ în 1926] în casa părinţilor, în prezenţa profesorului de ebraică, foarte cunoscut pe vremea aceea, îl chema Schreiber. Era şi poet, avea un volum de versuri, „Rândunelele Palestinei”. Îmi aduc aminte că au asistat membrii familiei, părinţii mei, unchii mei, fraţii mamei mele, nu toţi. Am ţinut o mică alocuţiune, foarte scurtă, în limba ebraică şi pe urmă mi-au dat nişte cadouri. Pe urmă, neavând cărţi, am uitat ebraica. Îmi amintesc vag cuvintele şi literele astăzi.

Eu eram ocupat cu lecturile, cu sportul, cu bicicleta, făceam parte dintr-un club de ciclişti. Pe strada Uranus, era o tipografie, care se numea „Marvan”, cunoscută pe atunci, o tipografie de lux, şi lucrătorii acelei tipografii erau ciclişti pasionaţi toţi, întemeiaseră „Clubul ciclist Marvan”, din care făceam şi eu parte şi care avea un rival, clubul ciclist „Principele Nicolae”. La sfârşitul săptămânii obişnuiam să mă duc cu bicicleta la şosea, unde mă întâlneam cu alţi ciclişti din clubul „Marvan”, sau din clubul „Principele Nicolae” şi mă plimbam cu ei cu bicicleta până la Ploieşti, mergeam spre Olteniţa, spre Giurgiu, mergeam câteva zeci de kilometri pe şosea.

De obicei, în vacanţele copilăriei nu părăseam Bucureştiul. Îmi amintesc că am fost pentru o săptămână la Sinaia, unde mi-a plăcut foarte mult. Am fost o dată cu tata la mare [Marea Neagră], pentru câteva zile, pe vremea când Mamaia era o localitate cu totul primitivă şi pe plajă erau cabine de lemn. Altă dată am fost în vizită la o soră a mamei care locuia la Botoşani şi am petrecut toată vacanţa la Botoşani. În Bucureşti, mergeam pe stadionul ANEF [Academia Naţională de Educaţie Fizică], care nu era departe de locuinţa noastră, unde alergam sau săream, dar mai mult priveam la antrenamentele atleţilor. Eram foarte introvertit ca temperament. Vacanţa era un fel de combinaţie între ciclism sau încercări de atletism şi lecturi foarte intense, bogate pentru vârsta mea. Eram interesat de problemele limbii, nu numai de literatură. Ştiam bine franceza, dacă mi-ar fi permis să mă laud, foarte bine. Cunoşteam şi germana şi engleza. Vorbeam o franceză aleasă, nu numai că citeam. Citeam mai mult literatură franceză, dar citeam şi literatură română. În ultimi ani citesc aproape numai scriitori români şi numai clasici. Citesc începând cu cronicarii, începând cu Văcăreştii, poeţii şi prozatorii dinaintea lui Eminescu, rareori îmi mai arunc ochii pe o carte franţuzească. Am, bineînţeles, preferinţele mele şi dintre poeţii francezi.

Mergeam la cinematograful mut. Filmele erau împărţite în acte, unul avea opt acte, altul nouă acte, altul zece. Cele mai mari aveau 12 acte şi după fiecare act se făcea pauză. Dacă operatorul era grăbit rula două acte, unul după altul. Protesta publicul şi zicea că este obositor, dar acuma vede două ore neîntrerupt. Era un pianist cânta la pian când rula filmul. Îmi amintesc de actorii de atunci, mai ales de actorii comici, îmi amintesc de Zigotto, care era comicul cel mai popular, evreu american, mai târziu de Stan şi Bran, Harold Lloyd, comicul cu ochelari. Îmi amintesc de Francesca Bettini, de Douglas Fairbanks, tatăl Douglas Fairbanks, că a existat şi Fairbanks junior. Îmi plăcea Douglas Fairbanks fiindcă era aventurier, era voinic, era isteţ, îi bătea pe toţi. Îmi amintesc de Fatty, numit aşa pentru că era obez. Dacă Fatty zicea ceva apărea scris pe ecran. Simpatici comici, toţi muţi. Îmi aduc aminte primul film sonor prin 1930 şi ceva.

Înainte de război, prin anii 1930, mergeam la Librăria Hasefer [notă: în traducere ’Cartea’; astăzi există Editura Hasefer], unde se vindeau cărţi scrise de evrei sau despre evrei, care nu se găseau în celelalte librării. Se organizau şi expoziţii de pictură, de plastică, de sculptură şi aşa mai departe. Am petrecut clipe plăcute în librărie. Nu cumpăram decât rar, nu aveam bani, dar intram şi frunzăream cărţile, era o atmosferă intimă de cărturărie. Pe directorul librăriei mi se pare că îl chema Steinberg, era un om de cultură. Librăria era la intrarea în pasajul Villacrosse [notă: în centrul istoric al capitalei], acum s-a construit un bloc acolo.

Tata era abonat la toată presa evreiască, pe care o primea prin poştă. Iar ziarele evreieşti, toate, le citeam din scoarţă în scoarţă. Era abonat la „Curierul israelit” [notă: „organ săptămânal pentru apărarea intereselor evreieşti”, apare la Bucureşti în 1906-1916, 1920-1941, 1944-1945. Cuprinde editoriale, anchete, polemici, informaţii, cronica externă, cronica internă, reclame.], ziar mare, cel mai bun, cel mai important, scos de Horia Carp. Era abonat la „Egalitatea” [notă: revistă evreiască care  apare în 1890-1940, întreruptă în timpul primului război mondial şi suprimată în 1940. În paginile revistei s-au reflectat: lupta pentru emancipare şi progres cultural, lupta politică dusă pentru recunoşterea drepturilor cetăţeneşti, ideologia sionistă, dar erau consemnate şi evenimentele familiale: baluri, logodne, nunţi, sărbători şi necrologuri.], scoasă de [Moses] Schwartzfeld, era abonat la „Mântuirea” [notă: cotidian evreiesc, apare la Bucureşti în perioada 1919-1922, bisăptămânal între 1944 şi 1948. Ziar sionist, promovează cultura iudaică. Cuprinde editoriale, traduceri literare, comentarea unor legi şi decrete legi.]. Era abonat, îmi aducea acasă o revistă, care apăruse mai demult, „Copilul evreu” [notă: revistă bilunară pentru copii şi tineret, apare la Bucureşti în perioada 1922-1940. Tematica: istorie biblică, jocuri, proză, scrisori idiş, ivrit.]. Copil fiind, îmi amintesc că citeam „Dimineaţa” şi „Adevărul”. „Adevărul” avea o rubrică care îmi plăcea foarte mult, se chema „Năzbâtii”. Şi „Egalitatea” lui Schwartzfeld avea o rubrică care îmi plăcea foarte mult, se chema „Huliganii în acţiune”. Îmi amintesc toţi colaboratorii „Dimineţii” de pe vremea aceea: Blumenfeld, Teodorescu Branişte, Ion Teodorescu, Constantin Graur, D. Faur, Liviu P. Nasta, care făcea cronicile externe. Îmi amintesc caricaturiştii, graficienii „Adevărului”. Aş reciti şi astăzi cu plăcere „Adevărul” şi „Dimineaţa” din anii aceia, 1920-1930.

Un singur coleg de clasă cu mine la B [la liceul Spiru Haret],Vasilescu, a devenit legionar 1. După terminarea liceului îmi amintesc că a venit pe stradă îmbrăcat în cămaşă verde şi n-am îndrăznit să mă apropii de el. Trebuie să ştiţi că legionarii nu numai că nu vorbeau cu evreii dar nici nu îi priveau. Eu dacă mergeam pe stradă şi venea din sens opus un coleg de al meu, legionar, nu numai că nu mă saluta sau nu îmi răspundea la salut, sau nu se oprea, dar nici nu mă privea, se uita în partea cealaltă. Aveau poruncă nici să nu ne privească. Acest Vasilescu era legionar, însă după un timp a devenit foarte prietenos cu mine. Se schimbase în convingeri, îşi dăduse seama de absurditatea şi caracterul criminal al Legiunii. El era un naiv care se lăsase atras de demagogia foarte abilă, foarte inteligentă. Eu nu i-am amintit niciodată nimic, nu i-am reproşat niciodată nimic. El a fost singurul care a fost legionar. În colo, nu a existat, nu s-a făcut deosebire, eram tratat ca toţi ceilalţi de profesori, deşi unul dintre profesori era legionar, profesorul de franceză, Frolo. Le vorbea despre mine şi le spunea că eu sunt simpatia lui. El era catolic, italian de origine. A fost candidat al Gărzii de Fier în judeţul Roman, unde există populaţie catolică, dar n-a fost ales. A fost singurul profesor legionar, dar cu mine era de o imparţialitate şi mai mult decât imparţialitate, mă iubea că vedea că îmi place franceza. O dată l-am şi contrazis, mi s-a părut că a greşit ceva. Ne ţinea lecţii de franceză mai bine ca la Universitate, fiindcă la Universitate lecţiile de literatură se ţineau în limba română, el ne ţinea lecţiile de literatură în cea mai bună limbă franceză, ce n-am avut parte la Universitate. Am absolvit Facultatea de Litere şi Filozofie din Bucureşti în 1935.

Îmi amintesc când a fost împuşcată prima victimă a Gărzii de Fier. Prima victimă a Gărzii de Fier nu a fost aşa cum se crede prefectul [Constantin] Manciu [notă: prefect de Poliţie la Iaşi asasinat de legionari la 25 octombrie 1925, în faţa Tribunalului din Iaşi.], împuşcat de Corneliu [Zelea] Codreanu 2. Manciu a fost a doua victimă. Prima victimă, a fost studentul evreu David Falic. A fost împuşcat chiar pe treptele Universităţii din Cernăuţi, de un legionar, Nicolae Totu. Despre Nicolae Totu vorbeşte doctorul Brătescu, cunoscutul nostru istoric al medicinei, în ultima lui carte, dar în mod greşit îi zice Tăutu. Nu ştiu din ce pricină Totu l-a împuşcat cum spuneam pe treptele universităţii pe studentul Falic. Nu ştiu ce a păţit Totu, cred că nu a păţit nimic, pentru că ajunsese să colaboreze la reviste, vedeam numele lui. Auzi, să împuşti, să omori un om şi să nu păţeşti nimic. Cum era justiţia pe vremea aia!

Îmi amintesc de situaţia politică din Germania, dinainte de ianuarie 1933, când eu aveam 20 de ani, nu mai eram copil, când Hitler a triumfat în alegeri. Nenorocirea a fost că social-democraţii nu s-au înţeles cu comuniştii, ei puteau să aibă majoritatea, dacă făceau frontul unic muncitoresc. Hitler cu demagogia lui a triumfat, el a promis arme în loc de unt, asta era lozinca lui. Eu aveam o cunoştinţă, Abeles îl chema, un evreu care locuia în Germania. A venit la Bucureşti şi am stat de vorbă cu el. „Ce credeţi voi despre Hitler?” „Hitler nu e serios! Nu o să stea mult la putere! Iar în ce priveşte antisemitismul lui nu trebuie luat în serios! O s-o lase el mai moale, o să toarne el multă apă în vin! Nu ne e nouă frică de Hitler!” S-au iluzionat, nu numai omul cu care am stat de vorbă, toată minoritatea evreiască din Germania, toţi gândeau aşa. Au subestimat pericolul, nu şi-au dat seama cât de colosal de periculos este, iar Hitler a fost om de cuvânt, şi-a ţinut toate promisiunile, a făcut tot ce omeneşte i-a stat în putere ca să creeze o Germanie lipsită de evrei. Unii au plecat în America, în Anglia, în Franţa, dar cei mai mulţi au rămas. Eu eram la curent. Când aveam bani mai cumpăram presa germană, se vindea în Bucureşti la chioşcurile din centru. Citeam cotidianul lui Hitler şi citeam cea mai scârboasă revistă de când Gutenberg a inventat tiparul, se chema „Der Stürmer” [’Cel ce provoacă furtuna’], o revistă scoasă de unul dintre fraţii Strasser. Avea în partea de jos o lozincă, care apărea în fiecare număr, lozinca „evreii sunt nenorocirea nostră”. Cea mai ruşinoasă revistă din câte mi-a fost dat să cunosc. Am cumpărat vreo două numere, dar nu se putea citi. Mai degrabă decât evreii din Germania, evreii din România au simţit pericolul pentru că pe ei îi obişnuise Garda de Fier şi Liga cuzistă.

Al Doilea Război Mondial

De rebeliunea [legionară din ianuarie 1941]  îmi aduc foarte bine aminte. Mă plimbam pe străzi fără frică şi căscam gura. Pe strada Atena, am privit de la distanţă, pentru că nu ni se permitea să ne apropiem, cum ardea sinagoga de pe acea stradă [templul Ieşua Tova], căreia legionarii îi dăduseră foc şi nu permiteau nimănui, nici pompierilor, să se apropie să stingă focul. După război sinagoga s-a refăcut mai frumoasă, s-au fixat pe faţadă Tablele Legii şi astăzi este una dintre sinagogile frumoase din Bucureşti. Am avut norocul că nu am locuit în cartierele locuite de evrei, Văcăreşti, Dudeşti, locuiam în [cartierul] Dealul Spirii şi acolo n-a fost nimic.

Când a venit războiul nemţii ne-au dat afară din casă [aproximativ în 1941] şi ne-am oploşit în alt cartier, în cartierul Ştefan cel Mare, într-o casă bătrânească, unde am locuit cu toţii, cu bunicii. Casa fusese ocupată de germani şi se instalase acolo o şcoală de ucenici. Nu aveam voie să posedăm radio. Aveam un radio mare, care a fost depus la circa de poliţie, însă eu păstram, clandestin, un mic aparat cu galenă. Sunt aparate importate din Germania, mici, cubice, la care se asculta cu galenă şi cu cască. Seara scoteam aparatul şi ascultam Radio Londra şi pe urmă îl ascundeam să nu fie descoperit, că mă băga la inchisoare. Nu pot să spun cum urmăream războiul. Mă bucuram ca un copil de fiecare oraş pe care îl eliberau ruşii în mersul lor spre vest, spre Berlin. Aveam şi atlasul în faţă şi îmi însemnam, a mai cucerit un oraş, a mai înaintat o sută de kilometri. Ascultam tot, ştirile.

În 1941, când a izbucnit războiul nostru împotriva URSS, întâi am fost dat afară din armată şi m-au trimis la Poligon, la muncă obligatorie. Tata nu a fost, fiindcă era prea bătrân, iar fratele era prea mic. Îmi amintesc că acolo am trăit primele bombardamente. Ruşii bombardau Bucureştiul, iar noi lucram sub comandă militară şi n-aveam unde să ne adăpostim.  Am lucrat cu braţele, cu lopeţile la construirea Poligonului, nu primeam nici mâncare nici bani. Muncă de sclavi, dar sclavii din antichitate cel puţin erau hrăniţi. Se lucra de dimineaţa până seara. Iarna ne scoteau în oraş să curăţăm zăpada. Îmi amintesc că eram împreună cu un camarad, care era medic de profesie şi văd că se apropie de mine un soldat german, un simplu soldat aviator şi intră în vorbă cu mine. Vorbeam germana. Şi îmi spune că este antifascist şi că în civilitate este muncitor textilist şi că este din Augsburg. Am stat de vorbă cu el, dar ajuns acasă mi s-a făcut frică. Astăzi îmi dau seama că omul era cinstit, că era un antifascist german şi îmi pare rău că am rupt legătura cu el.

Pe urmă ne-au trimis în Moldova, la Oneşti, unde construiam fortificaţii. Lucram ziua şi noaptea la betonieră. Era o muncă grea, trebuia să car în spinare saci de ciment de 50 de kilograme, pe care nici nu reuşeam să-i ridic de jos. Îi ridica un camarad al meu, mai voinic, îi punea în spinare şi aşa îi duceam unde trebuia şi îi deşertam.  Aveam un elev de şcoală militară, un tiran, care ne înjura şi ne persecuta foarte rău. Îmi trimitea tata bani de acasă şi puteam să îmi cumpăr câte ceva de mâncare. Evreii din Oneşti ne chemau uneori la miniane şi cu ocazia asta ne invitau şi la masă. M-au văzut că nu am farfurie, mi-au dat o farfurie şi o lingură şi îmi dădeau supă, mă hrăneau ei. Erau foarte cumsecade cu noi evreii din Oneşti, foarte umani. Oneşti-ul era un ştetl, un târguşor unde evreii erau destul de numeroşi, dar nu se deosebeau de ceilalţi oameni, se îmbrăcau modern.

[Despre perioada războiului şi implicarea în activitatea ilegală a partidului comunist, domnul Marcuson vorbeşte în articolul „Amintiri din ilegalitate”, publicat în „Cadran”. Caiet cultural al cenaclului „George Bacovia”, Bucureşti, august 1971, p.6-7] >>Prin anul 1942, mă pomenesc mobilizat pentru „muncă obligatorie”, la tipografia Institutului Central de Statistică din Bucureşti; fericit prilej să îl reîntâlnesc acolo pe poetul Ştefan Popescu, pe atunci şeful acelei tipografii, pe care-l cunoscusem, cu un deceniu înainte, pe băncile Facultăţii de Litere. Şi fericit prilej pentru amândoi ca, sub acoperirea unei activităţi oficiale să ne lărgim împreună activitatea neoficială... în serviciul Partidului Comunist Român; prilej de a transforma tipograma într-un centru de rezistenţă antifascistă. Acolo, într-o odăiţă dosnică, am pus la cale planul acţiunilor noastre: multiplicarea, în sute de exemplare (deocamdată cu ajutorul unei maşini de scris) a unor broşuri de propagandă – unele, cu caracter literar – care s-au răspândit, uneori, şi în alte oraşe (un funcţionar al „Statisticii”, care se întorsese de la Galaţi, ne-a adus în dar, din acel oraş, una din propriiile noastre broşuri); alcătuirea unui fond de cărţi literare şi ştiinţifice pe care le trimiteam deţinuţilor politici din lagăre, prin familiile lor; colectarea regulată, lunară – de la un grup de simpatizanţi cu dare de mână – a unor destul de mari sume de bani pentru Ajutorul Roşu. Tovarăşul Ştefan – şeful meu ierarhic! – mă scutise de orice obligaţii profesionale, încât mă puteam ocupa în exclusivitate cu aceste acţiuni; iar în ceasurile de răgaz îmi foloseam vremea traducând cartea prozatorului sovietic M. Ilin, „Se preface lumea”, care de asemenea a circulat într-un tiraj de  zece exemplare dactilografiate şi legate în pânză – îndată după 23 august 1944, datorită  sprijinului lui Lucreţiu Pătrăşcanu 3, a fost tipărită la editura „Forum”, care tocmai se înfiinţase.

Chip să scoatem ceva la tipografia unde lucram nu era. Faptul că unul dintre salariaţii tipografiei locuia, dimpreună cu familia chiar în clădirea înteprinderii, reprezenta pentru noi o piedică de netrecut. Priveam cu necaz la maşinile de cules şi de imprimat şi fluieram a pagubă gândindu-mă cu cât mai repede, mai bine şi mai cu spor decât maşina mea de scris ar lucra maşinile tipografiei. Iată, de ce, atunci când în primăvara lui 1944, tovarăşul meu mi-a împărtăşit, emoţionat dar şi preocupat, că a primit din parte Comitetului Central al partidului sarcina de a realiza un plan de tipărituri-broşuri, manifeste către populaţie şi armată - şi m-a întrebat dacă, pentru început, nu i-aş putea tipări pe undeva o broşură, a trebuit să mă gândesc la altă tipografie. Mi-am adus îndată aminte că-l cunoscusem – cu vreo trei ani înainte, într-o tabără de muncă obligatorie – pe unul dintre coproprietarii tipografiei „Ţăranul” din Bucureşti, pe Alfred Rainer, unul din principalii mei cotizanţi, datorită căruia o bună parte din veniturile tipografiei ajungeau, prin intermediul său, în visteria Ajutorului Roşu. I-am făcut o vizită şi i-am spus, fără ocol, ce vreau de la dânsul. Rainer a acceptat bucuros: ne punea la dispoziţie atelierele sale şi hârtia necesară, ca să tipărim ce vom dori. Mai aveam nevoie de un „culegător” şi de o „puitoare” [Notă: persoană care punea foaia albă la maşina de imprimat]. I-am găsit în persoana zeţarului Sigol şi a puitoarei Ştefania Bărbulescu. Astfel a început, în atelierul tipografiei „Ţăranul” – aflată în inima capitalei – nu departe de piaţa Sfântul Gheorghe - realizarea planului nostru de tipărituri.

Primul manuscris pe care mi l-a încredinţat Ştefan Popescu avea douăzeci de pagini şi se intitula „Armata Roşie vine”. Purta pe copertă menţiunea „Editura Comitetului Central al Partidului Comunist Român” (şi mi s-a atras atenţia că este prima tipăritură care apare în ţara noastră cu această indicaţie), iar tirajul avea să fie de două mii de exemplare. La etajul întâi al atelierelor – unde se afla zeţăria – am amenajat una dintre încăperi, unde zeţarul avea să lucreze noaptea, când tipografia era pustie. Paznicul tipografiei a fost îndepărtat aprobându-i-se un concediu de câteva zile. Seara, Sigol intra în atelier, camufla atent ferestrele şi, după ce totul era în ordine, se punea pe lucru. Îmi amintesc şi astăzi ce mi-a răspuns când l-am întrebat, dacă îi place textul: „Fiecare cuvânt e un glonte!”

Culesul manuscrisului, care s-a făcut manual, cu literă măruntă şi în rânduri înghesuite, ca să economisim hârtia, a durat  trei sau patru nopţi; apoi am trecut la operaţia imprimării. Aceasta s-a făcut ziua, într-o duminică, la o maşină „plană” şi ca să împiedicăm zgomotul – care ar fi putut răzbate până în stradă – nu am folosit motorul electric, ci am învârtit manual roata maşinii. Tirajul l-am înghesuit într-o valiză mare, pe care am aşezat-o într-un loc dinainte stabilit, de unde, seara, avea s-o ridice Ştefan. Am părăsit atelierul cu toţii, pe rând, atenţi, să nu fim urmăriţi, după ce am ars în sobă colile rebutate, după ce am dereticat şi am îndepărtat cu grijă toate urmele acţiunii noastre. Am lăsat uşile deschise ca Ştefan să poată intra în atelier să ia valiza cu broşuri şi să încuie uşa, lăsând cheia în cutia de scrisori. Pentru ca tipografia să nu poată fi identificată după corpul de literă pe care îl folosisem, i-am cerut lui Rainer să sacrifice întreaga cantitate de literă cu acel caracter: plumbul a fost încărcat într-un săculeţ şi aruncat în Dâmboviţa.

A doua zi, prin grija aceluiaşi Ştefan, care făcuse "împrăştierea”, sute de cetăţeni au găsit în cutiile lor de scrisori, prima lucrare scoasă de Editura Comitetului Central al P.C.R. „Partidul Comunist Român – puteau ei citi – se simte dator să lumineze opinia publică în acest greu ceas în care naţiunea se află la răscruce, între viaţă şi moarte... Partidul Comunist ştie că lucrul nu e uşor. Cuvântul său străbate greu până la voi. El trebuie să îşi facă loc printre sârmele ghimpate ale unui regim de teroare şi- ceea ce e mai grav – trebuie să lupte cu o întreagă mentalitate de neîncredere, de bănuială, de frică... Dar oricâte piedici i-ar sta în cale, glasul Partidului Comunist va fi auzit şi înţeles, pentru că este glasul instinctului naţional de conservare”. Dar abia în ziua eliberării [23 august 1944] aveam să aflu numele celui care scrisese aceste pagini inspirate: Mihail Sebastian 4. Acum, pe noi, cei de la tipografie, altfel de sarcini ne aşteptau: trebuia să scoatem, în chiar acea zi, primul număr legal al ziarului „România Liberă”.<<

Am fost membru de partid încă înainte de 1944, din ilegalitate, pentru că partidul comunist era singurul care nu era antisemit. Preluarea puterii de către comunişti m-a bucurat, pentru că scăpasem de Hitler. Alternativa noastră era Hitler sau Stalin, o a treia posibilitate nu exista, de aceea nu este doar permisă, cred că este inevitabilă gândirea maniheistă. Vedeam în Uniunea Sovietică, nu un bine, dar un rău mai mic decât Germania lui Hitler. Multe lucruri le-am aflat după 23 august 1944, şi încă nu se ştie tot. Nu vezi că se neagă Holocaustul? Nu m-aş mira ca mâine poimâine să apară un istoric care să spună al doilea război mondial este o invenţie a jidanilor! Aşa cum spun că Holocaustul este o invenţie a nostră. Cum au murit 6 milioane de evrei, s-au evaporat? Majoritatea nu ştiu că evreii de astăzi sunt singurul popor din lume care astăzi este mai puţin numeros decât înainte de război. N-au reuşit să recupereze prin spor natural cele şase milioane de victime. Cum au dispărut cele 3 milioane de evrei polonezi, că astăzi în Polonia sunt mai puţini evrei decât în România? Cum au dispărut? Cea mai mare crimă a istoriei! Istoria tuturor popoarelor şi a tuturor secolelor n-a cunoscut o asemenea industrie a asasinatelor!

După Război

După război ni s-a dat înapoi casa din strada Uranus şi ne-am mutat din nou în vechea nostră casă.

Aveam sentimente sioniste, mi-a plăcut ideea sionistă, citisem pe Herzl, dar nu credeam că este realizabil. Credeam că este o utopie, pentru că ştiam că pe planeta nostră nu există nici o insuliţă, nici o bucată de pământ, care să nu aparţină cuiva. Şi cum puteam eu să prevăd, că cineva va da evreilor 20.000 de kilometri pătraţi. Cum am aflat eu despre întemeierea statului Israel? La Biblioteca Centrală de Stat, la Sala de periodice. Citeam ziarul „L’Humanite”, cotidianul partidului comunist francez, singurul ziar francez care se putea citi în România [în 1948]. Citeam ziarul şi am văzut la un moment dat harta Israelului. Am rămas uluit. Am stat ore întregi şi m-am uitat la harta noului Israel şi nu îmi vedea să îmi cred ochilor că avem şi noi o ţară a noastră. Am simţit că s-a realizat o minune, că s-a realizat ceva ce nu credeam niciodată. Gândeşte-te că din anul 70 după Hristos până în 1948, evreii din lumea întreagă au tânjit, au năzuit, au suspinat, au visat noaptea după Ierusalim. Când doi evrei se despărţeau, nu spuneau „La revedere!”, spuneau „La anul la Ierusalim!”

Mama a făcut alia în anii 1960 în Israel, unde erau fratele meu şi alte rude. A locuit într-un azil de bătrâni în Tel Aviv. Am vizitat-o în Israel şi când m-am întors acasă, am primit vestea că a murit. A murit după ce o vizitasem eu. Avea 89 de ani când a murit [în 1981].

M-am gândit să plec în Israel, dar nu ştiam limba. Mi-ar fi venit greu să trăiesc în Israel. Închipuiţi-vă că cineva ar locui în România şi n-ar şti româneşte, cum i-ar veni? N-aş fi putut să practic nici o meserie intelectuală. N-aş fi putut, ceea ce eram în România, redactor de editură. M-am gândit să plec la Paris din timpul liceului. Dacă plecam după ce terminam liceul, n-ar fi fost bine. În 1940 au intrat germanii, mă prindeau ca pe un pui de găină şi mă gazau. Aşa de bine, de rău, trăiesc. După 23 august 1944, trebuia să plec, am greşit că n-am plecat.

Am fost prin 1949, atât în Polonia cât şi în Germania [RDG]. Am fost trimişi patru români [Notă: de către statul român într-un schimb oficial cu Polonia şi RDG] ca să ne petrecem concediile, şi în schimb polonezi şi germani au venit în România să-şi petreacă concediul. Cu ocazia asta am călătorit în toată Polonia, de la un cap la altul, am văzut o sumedenie de oraşe şi sate şi în Germania la fel.  La Varşovia cât priveai cu ochii, în zare de la un capăt la altul numai ruine, nu se ştia pe unde au fost străzi. Nu s-a găsit pentru noi o casă întreagă unde să fim găzduiţi. Ştiţi unde am fost găzduiţi? Prin Varşovia trece fluviul Vistula. La mal era ancorat un vaporaş, probabil pentru plimbări, pentru excursii. Ei bine, în cabinele acelui vaporaş am fost găzduiţi. Nu s-a găsit o cameră în toată Varşovia.  Ca să îţi dai seama ce însemnă ruină, era ici şi colo câte un perete în picioare. Acelaşi lucru şi la Berlin. Am fost găzduiţi într-o comună suburbană, la vreo zece-doisprezece kilometri de Berlin, unde erau câteva case întregi şi aveam o maşină. Nu am văzut nici în Germania, nici în Polonia, un bărbat de vârsta mea, aveam vreo treizeci şi ceva de ani. Erau numai femei, copii şi bătrâni. Nu existau bărbaţi. Hitler i-a curăţat pe germanii de vârsta mea mai rău decât pe evrei. În Polonia n-am văzut bărbat de vărsta mea deşi am stat o lună întreagă. În Germania am văzut un singur bărbat, care  n-avea picioare, pierduse picioarele pe front. Să-ţi povestesc atitudinea femeilor faţă de noi bărbaţii. Din ochi ne implorau să le dăm puţină atenţie şi polonezele şi germanele. Erau decente, nu erau agresive. Puţine erau agresive şi ne săreau de gât, excepţii. Erau fericite dacă le priveam şi dacă le adresam cuvântul.

Am fost salariat numai după 23 august 1944. Înainte am trăit din lecţii de engleză şi franceză. Nu dădeam prea multe lecţii, deşi puteam să am mai mulţi elevi, ca să îmi rămână timp să citesc, să mă plimb. Consideram şi consider  şi astăzi că cea mai mare bogăţie a omului este ceea ce romanii numeau „otium”, adică timp liber inteligent folosit. După război am fost salariat, întâi am lucrat la Partidul Comunist, ne numeam instructori, dar eu lucram la documentarea secţiei de propagandă. Eram documentarist. Am lucrat mulţi ani. Am lucrat din 1945 până prin anii 1950, când m-au dat afară, din cauza unui proces în familie [Domnul Marcuson avea probleme acum cu dosarul de membru de partid]. Apoi am lucrat la o editura Univers, tot prin anii 1950. Am fost şi profesor la Institutul de Limbi străine, unde am predat franceza, dar scurt timp, numai câţiva ani. Nu-mi mai amintesc acum, 1950-1960, până s-a desfiinţat Institutul. Am fost cercetător la Institutul de Istorie al Partidului. Am publicat nişte cărţi, nişte articole. M-am pensionat de la Editura Ştiinţifică şi Enciclopedică în 1973, unde a fost foarte bine.

Soţia mea, Cornelia Păunescu, este fiica unor vechi militanţi social-democraţi şi eu am vrut să stau de vorbă cu părinţii ei să îmi povestească amintiri, aşa cum povestesc eu acuma, din vechea mişcare social-democrată, dinaintea primului război mondial. Părinţii ei erau cunoscuţi, fotografiile lor au apărut în „Istoria socialismului” a lui Atanasiu, şi fotografia mamei ei şi fotografia tatălui ei. Tatăl ei, Păunescu Paltin,  murise. Este o stradă în Bucureşti care-i poartă numele socrului meu. O stradă mică, frumoasă, în cartierul unde locuiam noi. Strada unde locuiam noi trebuia să se numească Păunescu Paltin, dar s-au apucat şi au schimbat numele şi atunci au dat numele altei străzi, paralele, numele. Şi mama ei, era militantă a femeilor socialiste şi am stat de vorbă cu ea şi cu ocazia asta am cunoscut-o şi pe fiica ei, care mi-a povestit şi ea amintiri din mişcarea social-democrată. A fost „love at first sight” [dragoste la prima vedere]. Şi ne-am căsătorit. Eram în vârstă amândoi, trecusem de 40 de ani.

Soţia mea, Cornelia Păunescu s-a născut în 1911, în Bucureşti. Nu este evreică. Soţia mea avea două surori, Blanche Nicolau [născută Păunescu] şi Agatha Păunescu, care trăieşte şi este pensionară. Toată viaţa au trăit în Bucureşti. Ne-am căsătorit în 1957, la Bucureşti. A fost numai o căsătorie civilă la primăria sectorului 3, fiindcă nu eram credincioşi, nici eu, nici ea. Atât familia mea cât şi familia soţiei au fost de acord cu acestă căsătorie. Nu mai eram un copil, aveau încredere în mine că ştiu să aleg şi am ales cât se poate de bine. Cornelia făcut Facultatea de Medicină din Bucureşti. Era un om de ştiinţă, a participat la peste treizeci de congrese internaţionale, cu comunicări. Era în România singurul doctor docent în medicină în specialitatea ei, autoarea primului tratat de pediatrie ORL. A participat ca medic la războiul din Coreea [notă: 25 iunie 1950 – 27 iulie 1953] împotriva americanilor şi a fost medicul personal al lui Kim Ir Sen [notă: (1912-1994), preşedinte al Republicii Populare Democrate Coreene din 1948.]. Erau acolo medici din toate ţările socialiste, din Republica Federală Germană, din Ungaria, din Cehoslovacia, din Polonia, din Yugoslavia, din China. Într-o zi Kim Ir Sen s-a îmbolnăvit şi a întrebat care este cel mai bun medic. Ea l-a tratat şi Kim Ir Sen ne-a invitat de două ori în Coreea. Am stat câte o lună de fiecare dată, unde stătuse înaintea noastră Ceauşescu. Coreea este o ţară foarte frumoasă. Phenianul fusese bombardat de americani şi de sud-coreeni, aşa că tot oraşul era nou. Au construit teatre, săli de conferinţe. Din tot oraşul vechi rămăsese numai o poartă de intrare. Ne-am plimbat prin Phenian, dar bineînţeles cu translatorul după noi. Am bătut drumul din Bucureşti şi până în Coreea cu Transiberianul [tren special]. Am văzut toată Siberia şi toate oraşele Coreei şi ale Chinei. Siberia este o imensitate, ascunde bogăţii fabuloase, care nu se cunosc încă. E o splendoare, [sunt] numai păduri de mesteceni de la Moscova până la frontiera chineză. Prima oară ne-am dus şi ne-am întors cu Transiberianul. [Notă: călătoria cu trenul, dus, dura aproximativ opt zile] A doua oară ne-am dus cu Transiberianul, dar ne-am întors cu avionul de la Beijing. China de astăzi este altceva decât am văzut noi, pentru că a început să se construiască. Am fost în multe ţări [împreună], în Anglia, Franţa, Germania, Italia, Uniunea Sovietică, China şi Coreea, Bulgaria, Yugoslavia, Turcia.

Cornelia era un om care nu a minţit niciodată în viaţa ei, de o mare blândeţe şi de o mare generozitate, un om care avea un singur cusur, avea prea mare încredere în oameni. Nu avea noţiunea răului. Ştia foarte bine franceza, engleza şi italiana. Avea o cultură umanistă frumoasă, [domnul Marcuson arată în diferite directii ale camerei, fiecare bibliotecă este un corp separat] aceea este biblioteca ei engleză şi americană, asta este biblioteca franceză, asta este biblioteca latină, asta este biblioteca română, dincolo avem biblioteca germană. Ea se ducea la spital sau la facultate, să ţină cursuri, eu mă duceam la editură, la institut. Ne-am pensionat în aceeaşi zi, în 1973. Viaţa cotidiană era proastă din punct de vedere politic, iar din punct de vedere economic erau greutăţile de atuncea, stăteam la cozi, nu găseam de toate. Magazinele nu arătau ca cele de acuma, erau sărăcăciose, vânzătorii erau needucaţi, nu era uşor să faci aprovizionare. Timpul liber ni-l petreceam citind, plimbându-ne, mergând la spectacole. Nu am ţinut tradiţii evreieşti. Într-o dimineaţă, [din anul 2000], luasem dejunul în bucătărie, cum ziceam noi, „mai aproape de locul de producţie”. Respira cam greu, dar n-am prevăzut nimic. Am luat-o de braţ şi am adus-o ca să se aşeze pe fotoliu, ca să continue să-şi citească romanul. A căzut. Am crezut că s-a împiedicat de covor. Era moartă. Nu ştiam că un om poate muri aşa de uşor.

Trăim într-o ţară unde există libertatea opiniei, libertatea opiniei există şi pentru mine. S-a făcut cel mai mare palat [Palatul Parlamentului] din Europa şi al doilea din lume. [Notă: Palatul Parlamentului sau ’Casa Poporului’, a doua clădire ca mărime din lume după Pentagon, proiect executat la ordinul lui Ceauşescu. Actualmente adăposteşte Parlamentul României şi numeroase muzee.] Actualul regim nu este în stare să construiască aşa ceva şi nici să mobileze un palat unic în Europa. Este lucrul emblematic pentru Bucureşti aşa cum şi pentru Paris este turnul Eiffel, cum pentru Moscova este Kremlinul, cum pentru Roma este Colosseum. S-a construit enorm, ceea ce astăzi nu se mai face, astăzi nu mai sunt în stare să termine ceea ce s-a început şi ceea ce este aproape gata. Dacă mai trăia un an Ceauşescu aveam Biblioteca Naţională şi sute de blocuri de locuit, blocuri frumose, cu balcoane, cu rotunjimi, bine gândite. Merg kilometri cu  autobuzul 104 şi văd ce s-a construit pe vremea lui Ceauşescu şi astăzi stau cu macaralele la Biblioteca Naţională, vor să facă nu ştiu ce, ăstora nu le trebuie bibliotecă, nu le trebuie carte. Pot fi cu moderaţie, optimist, suntem, fără indoială, pe calea cea bună. Dacă aflându-ne noi pe calea cea bună ne mai şi poticnim, asta e altceva, dar ne poticnim totuşi pe calea cea bună. Voi vota cu social democraţii [PSD], şi bineînţeles pentru Parlament voi vota cu Menora [semnul deputatului comunităţii evreieşti]!

Ascultam foarte regulat [posturile de radio străine] BBC şi „Vocea Americii”. După ce m-am pensionat ascultam chiar de două ori aceeaşi emisiune, o dată seara şi a doua zi dimineaţa, când se repeta. Nu puteam să nu ascult, eram curios, aveam nevoie ca de aer să ascult aceste posturi. Îmi aduc aminte de Noel Bernard şi de soţia lui, ştiam numele altora, dar le-am uitat.

Revoluţia din 1989 am privit-o cu simpatie, mă săturasem de Ceauşescu. Eram în Bucureşti. Mă plimbam pe stradă, dar n-am fost în mulţimea aceea, căreia i-a vorbit Ceauşescu, mă feream de mulţimi. Era inevitabil, pentru că trebuia neapărat să intrăm în Europa. Mi-am dat seama mai târziu, cu Ceauşescu nu intram în Europa. Pentru noi este o chestiune de viaţă şi de moarte a face parte din Europa, însemnă pace şi prosperitate. Mă necăjeşte faptul că suntem aşa de întârziaţi şi e posibil să fim amânaţi, sper să intrăm [în 2007]. Viaţa mea a devenit mai bună după 1989, am putut să citesc presă straină, am putut să citesc o serie de autori, pe care înainte nu-i puteam procura, am putut să călătoresc în străinătate, aproape în fiecare an şi în Răsărit şi în Apus.

Nu ştiu în ce an, înainte de 1989, s-a prezentat cineva la mine din partea comunităţii [evreieşti] şi m-a întrebat dacă vreau să fiu membru al comunităţii. Am acceptat pe loc, am plătit prima cotizaţie, pot să spun că sunt un vechi membru. Acum, într-o duminică dimineaţa, aflându-mă la centrul cultural din strada Popa Soare, la o conferinţă, ni s-au împărţit nişte formulare cu rugămintea să le completăm. Am  devenit membri ai Asociaţiei Sioniştilor din România, care s-a reînfiinţat după câteva decenii cât a fost interzis. Cu ocazia sărbătorilor de iarnă, am primit o felicitare de la sionişti, care au sediu aici, pe bulevardul Kogălniceanu, unde este şi Sohnut-ul. În ciuda faptului că am rămas aşa de puţini, comunitatea are o viaţă activă. Revista „Realitatea evreiască” este foarte bună. [Notă: Revistă a minorităţii evreieşti din România care apare între 1956 şi 1995 sub denumirea de ’Revista Cultului Mozaic’, iar din 1995 îşi schimbă numele în ’Realitatea evreiască’. Cuprinde articole legate de viaţa cultuală şi culturală a comunităţii şi are o pagină în limba engleză şi una în limba ivrit.] Are articole nemaipomenite, admirabile, în special ale lui Eveline Fonea, ale Iuliei Deleanu, Lucianei Friedmann. Frecventez regulat duminica [centrul de conferinţe comunitar] din strada Popa Soare. Uneori iau masa la cantina de acolo.

Religia m-a interesat întotdeauna, deşi n-am fost credincios. Putem să negăm existenţa divinităţii, dar nu putem să negăm existenţa religiei. Sunt un cititor al Bibliei, un cititor de literatură religioasă. Sinagoga o frecventez numai la ocazii. Din păcate slujbele religioase la sinagogă sunt toate după apusul soarelui, când apare prima stea, atunci începe şabatul. Ei, când apare prima stea, eu sunt în casă, nu umblu pe drumuri. Nu ies noaptea, decât la sărbători, când pot să mă duc şi ziua. Am fost la Sucot, am fost de sărbătorile de toamnă, la acele adunări care au loc dimineaţa sau după-amiaza devreme. Sinagoga nu este biserică, la biserică de obicei se duc numai credincioşii, iar la sinagogă se duc şi necredincioşi. Sinagoga este Beit Ha Knesset, Casa Adunării, acolo se adună evreii. Înainte de război se făceau concerte. Venea o cântăreaţă, Silvia Feller. Şi astăzi la sinagogă se ţin adunări electorale, se ţin conferinţe. Acum mă duc la Templul Coral, de puţine ori am fost la sinagoga din strada Atena [Notă: Sinagoga Iosua Tova, construită în 1827, încă în funcţiune; actualmente strada se numeşte Tache Ionescu]. Cele mai multe sinagogi s-au desfiinţat. Mă duceam înainte la Sinagoga Malbim [notă: construită în 1864, demolată în 1985; actualmente şantierul Bibliotecii Naţionale, lângă Bulevardul Unirii], îmi plăcea foarte mult. Mă duceam şi la Sinagoga Mare [Notă: construită în 1846, din 1991 muzeul ’Memorialul Martirilor Evrei din România’], din strada Vasile Adamache, unde mă duc şi acum să văd expoziţia Holocaustului.

Identitatea mea nu am negat-o niciodată, dovadă că deşi am fost sfătuit, nu mi-am schimbat numele, nu m-am botezat. Este şi inutil să îţi negi identitatea. Dacă un evreu neagă că este evreu, totdeauna se găseşte cineva care să-i aducă aminte! Am ajuns la convingerea că evreii nu sunt numai o religie, dar sunt o etnie. Pe lângă religia mozaică există o etnie evreiască, aşa cum există o etnie maghiară sau germană, bulgară şi aşa mai departe. Copilul evreu este o fiinţă bogată în clipa când se naşte din pântecele mamei sale. E un noroc să fii evreu. Evreii sunt un neam incomparabil. Despre orice naţiune s-ar putea spune că este incomparabilă cu alta, dar istoria evreilor este unică. Istoria evreilor care începe cu paisprezece secole înainte de Hristos, este nemaipomenită. Evreii au trăit datorită rabinilor lor şi datorită religiei lor, religia i-a impiedicat să dispară. Ebraica este singura limbă clasică care a putut fi renăscută. S-au făcut mari încercări în Europa să se renască latina, s-a înfiinţat în Franţa societatea „Le latin vivant”(„Latina vie”), au scos reviste, dar n-au reuşit. Au încercat grecii să învie vechea limbă atică, dar n-au reuşit. Grecii de astăzi vorbesc tot demotica, limba populară grecească. Singura limbă veche care a reuşit şi este vorbită astăzi de milioane de evrei din Israel, este ebraica. Orice şcolar astăzi în Israel poate citi Vechiul Testament în original, în ebraică. E ceva nemaipomenit!

Glosar:

Aristide Streja
Bucureşti
România
Reporter: Anca Ciuciu
Data interviului: Aprilie 2004

Aristide Streja este un pensionar activ, care la 82 de ani încă lucrează pentru comunitatea evreiască ca ghid  şi custode al muzeului Memorialul Martirilor Evrei ”Moses Rosen”. De profesie architect, fost şef de atelier la Institutul de Proiectare pentru Construcţii Tipizate, a proiectat şi construit numeroase clădiri publice şi industriale. A scris împreună cu Lucian Schwartz lucrarea “Sinagogi din România”(1996), o carte mărturie a stării în care se găsesc astăzi multe din sinagogile comunităţilor evreieşti din ţară. Lucrează în Sinagoga Mare, o clădire declarată monument istoric de Academia Română, construită în 1846 şi în care, în anul 1980 a fost inclusă expoziţia Memorialul Martirilor Evrei „Moses Rosen”, o amintire a Holocaustului evreilor din România şi a vechiului cartier evreiesc care exista odată aici. În urmă cu şaptezeci de ani Aristide Streja se juca cu alţi copii evrei în curtea interioară în timp ce părinţii ascultau slujba religiosă, a făcut aici bar mitzvah, iar astăzi din  biroul existent în anexele sinagogii, se preocupă de lucrările destinate menţinerii şi restaurării acesteia.

Familia mea
Copilăria mea
Viața religioasă
Al Doilea Război Mondial
Viața de după Război
Glosar

Familia mea

Bunicii paterni au murit înainte de a mă naşte eu şi înainte de a veni tatăl meu în Bucureşti. Au trăit şi au murit amândoi în Nămoloasa [comună în sudul Moldovei, în judeţul Galaţi] înainte cu mult de primul război mondial, lăsând o familie de câteva persoane. Pe bunicul îl chema Haim Maier Wechsler. Pe bunica o chema Feighe. Tatăl meu, care era cel mai mare, a trebuit să întreţină încă două surori. Nu ştiu în ce condiţii au murit, nu m-am interesat când eram copil şi când am  ajuns destul de mare erau nişte lucruri care nu s-au vehiculat.

Blimette Benjamin [născută Wechsler], sora tatălui meu s-a căsătorit cu Aron Benjamin. Blimette a avut trei copii: Mauriciu, Carol şi o fată, Bori. A emigrat în Israel, devreme, prin 1955. Blimette cu Carol au locuit în chibuţul Nir Itzhac, pe strada Doar HaNeghev.. Blimette a murit prin anii 1970, nu mai ştiu cum s-a întâmplat cu restul familiei. Noi am avut legătură cu Blimette, ne-a spus [în scrisori]cum trăia în chibuţ.

Despre Betti Lupu [născută Wechsler], sora tatălui, foarte multe lucruri nu ştiu să spun. Avea o educaţie de gospodină, nu avea o meserie anume, decât că era croitoreasă, învăţase să facă croitorie şi se ocupa de confecţii, reparaţii de lingerie, şi croitorie de damă. Soţul ei, Lupu, era bolnăvicios şi lucra împreună cu ea, avea un atelier de croitorie, casnic, nu o afacere. Principala susţinătoare a familiei era ea, care muncea foarte mult ca gospodină şi ca lingereasa. Au trăit în Bucureşti, nu ştiu să spun pe ce stradă. Erau nişte persoane religioase. Betti a avut trei copii, Adolf Lupu, doctor internist care în timp ce îndeplinea stagiul militar ca  medic ofiţer a fost ucis, împuşcat, de un ofiţer legionar 1 [în timpul celui de-al doilea război mondial] şi două fete, Fanchette Recu [născută Lupu], căsătorită cu Mişu Recu cu care a avut 2 fiice, şi Evelina [născută Lupu], căsătorită fără copii, care a emigrat în Israel. Betti a fost afectată [de moartea fiului]. A murit soţul întâi şi ea după aceea. N-a fost foarte multă vreme, pentru că după al doilea război mondial familia aceasta dispăruse.

Haim Maier Wechsler, tatăl meu, s-a născut în 1883 la Nămoloasa, şi-a schimbat numele înainte de 1910, în Iulius Wechsler. Tatăl meu s-a însurat la Ploieşti în anul 1912. Fratele şi sora mea, s-au născut înainte de război [Notă: 1916 este anul intrării României în primul război mondial]. Tatăl meu a venit în Bucureşti în jurul anului 1900. Părinţii lui fiind decedaţi, el s-a ocupat cu mici afaceri comerciale şi a putut  să  contribuie la întreţinerea  surorilor sale.

Pe bunicii din partea mamei, familia Letzler, îi cunosc mai bine. Pe bunica o chema Eva Letzler şi pe bunicul îl chema Maier Letzler. S-au născut pe la mijlocul secolului XIX. Bunica mea a murit relativ tânără. Bunicul meu s-a recăsătorit – nu oficial, dar la evrei dacă stai mai mult timp cu o femeie eşti ca şi căsătorit –, a trăit cu o altă femeie pe care o chema tot Eva. Apoi s-a căsătorit şi oficial la starea civilă. El fiind rabin şi şoihăt, cunoscut în lumea evreiască din Ploieşti, nu avea voie să se căsătorească chiar imediat cu altcineva. Am cunoscut-o foarte puţin pe bunica mea [prima soţie a bunicului]. Era subţire, era o femeie foarte draguţă şi crescută moral, foarte liniştită. Era femeie casnică, crescută foarte strict în religia iudaică. Sora mea, care era mai mare ca mine, şi fratele meu, învăţau la şcoala şi nu aveau teme de discuţii cu ea decât de îngrijirea copiilor [atunci când venea în vizită]. A fost bolnavă, a murit, nu ştiu exact când, aproximativ la sfârşitul anilor 1920. Nu ştiu nici de rudele bunicii.

Bunicul era foarte religios, avea un şil pe care îl păstorea la Ploieşti. Bunicul meu aveau o educaţie evreiască sută în sută şi bunica bineînţeles că avea tot o astfel de educaţie. Nu cred că ei aveau şcoala organizată de stat sau într-un fel oarecare, ei au învăţat la ieşiva, se învăţa şi ivrit, dar se învăţa şi româneşte. În casă foloseau limba română şi idiş. Nu cred că cunoşteau alte limbi. Bunicul, era îmbrăcat ca un rabin, cum să spun, în negru, cu caftan lung, cu baston, mergea cu baston. Eu l-am cunoscut, a venit pe la noi de sărbători şi sigur că mama mea a avut şi o educaţie religioasă. Copiii mamei, cum sunt eu şi fratele şi sora mea, nu erau foarte religioşi, când venea bunicul meu la noi îi făcea observaţii mamei că de ce îi lasă pe copiii ei să nu fie respectuoşi. Sora mea era mai liberală în cugetare, aproape comunistă, nu foarte religioasă, nu prea mergea la sinagogă şi când venea bunicul meu la noi îi spunea mamei mele: “Cum o laşi să nu meargă la sinagogă sâmbăta? Cum iţi creşti tu fiica cu asemenea gânduri?“. Bunicul Maier Lezler a murit înainte de al doilea război mondial, aproximativ în anii 1930. Rudele lui, dacă le-a avut, nu ştiu unde erau răspândite.

Am fost o dată la Ploieşti cu mama mea ca să văd casa bunicilor, era o casă parter, destul de derăpănată, dar probabil ca pe acea vreme nu era, şi avea alături o sală mai mare unde era şil. Şilul este numai un loc transformat dintr-o locuinţă sau o încăpere mică în care se aduna un minian de bărbaţi. Sinagogă se  numeşte un lăcaş care este construit special în care se poate face o adunare minian de bărbaţi şi o adunare de femei.

Bunicii materni au avut patru copii. Cel mai mic a murit, fiind bolnav. Numele nu-mi aduc aminte decât la cei trei care au trăit. Se numeau: Simon Letzler, băiatul cel mare, Pene Letzler, băiatul mai mic-copilul intermediar şi Estera Letzler, mama.

Simon Lezler, fratele mamei, s-a născut cam în 1885, la Ploieşti. A făcut studii juridice în Bucureşti, el fiind din Ploieşti, a fost angajat la o societate petroliferă americană şi a plecat în America chiar în anul precedent izbucnirii [primului] războiului mondial în România, adică în 1915. La început a fost vânzător de ziare şi pe urmă s-a angajat funcţionar tot la o societate petroliferă, având experienţă. S-a căsătorit cu o evreică de acolo şi au trăit relativ bine. Are patru copii, o fată, Ana Lezler, care a fost măritată, dar a divorţat şi care nu are copii, şi trei băieţi, Edy, Alfred şi Hary Letzler. Eu i-am cunoscut pe copiii lui. Unul din copiii lui, Ana Letzler a venit în România de câteva ori. Fraţii ei au copii şi nepoţi şi fiecare a avut o meserie intelectuală acolo, unul din ei a fost avocat. Aşa se continuă familia în America, în zona New York.

Pene Letzler, fratele mamei, s-a născut prin 1890, la Ploieşti. A mers la facultate în Bucureşti şi s-a făcut avocat. A fost un avocat de renume în Ploieşti şi făcut şi politică românească, fiind ajutor de prefect de Prahova. A fost locotenent în primul război mondial. Ca să fii avocat evreu în perioada 1930, când au început curentele antisemite în România, era foarte greu. A locuit în Ploieşti, a fost căsătorit cu o doamnă pe care o chema Mili Letzler, nici foarte bogată nici foarte cultivată dar au fost în dragoste. Era evreică. Era foarte greu ca un fiu de rabin să se căsătorescă  cu o femeie care nu este evreică, mai ales într-un oraş din provincie din România. Au avut o singură fată, Dora Letzler, care a studiat şi ea avocatura. Familia Lezler avea o situaţie financiară foarte bună, erau destul de bogaţi, locuiau în casă proprietate personală, ceea ce, era foarte mult atunci, iar casa era pe o stradă principală din Ploieşti. Era o casă de tip boieresc [Notă: Boierii sunt nobilimea românească, proprietari de moşii de regulă, cu case construite în general în stil autohton], cu parter si etaj, cu gard metalic, cu încă un pavilion special pentru femei de serviciu şi loc pentru maşină, cu maşină şi cu un loc pentru creşterea porumbeilor. În timpul războiului al doilea mondial, a fost dat afară din barou, nu a mai putut să practice şi bineînţeles politică nu a mai făcut, avea dosar prost, mizerabil, fiindcă era burghez sută în sută şi situaţia lui devenise foarte proastă din punct de vedere social. Era destul de bogat şi putea să trăiască. Fata lui s-a măritat cu un director de minister şi a venit în Bucureşti, a fost magistrată. A ieşit din magistratură în timpul periodei comuniste, pentru că a avut origine proastă [burgheză], şi pe urmă a fost casnică. L-a adus şi pe tatăl ei în Bucureşti, au vândut proprietatea lor de acolo [din Ploieşti] şi au luat mulţi bani, cu care au putut să trăiască şi să cumpere o altă proprietate în Bucureşti, în bulevardul Lacul Tei. El a murit de o boală de cancer de piele prin anii 1970 şi pe urmă a murit şi fata lui, prin anii 1980, tot având o boală, care atuncea nu s-a putut trata, degenerativă, de colagen. Simon şi Pene erau nişte evrei destul de moderni, nu erau religioşi, ţineau sărbătorile mai mult acasă şi cred că foarte rar mergeau la sinagogă. Nu erau religioşi în sens mistic, ţineau sărbătorile, ştiau că sunt evrei.

Estera Wechsler [născută Letzler], mama mea, s-a născut în 1888, la Ploieşti. A învăţat la pension şi cunoştea germana şi franceza şi idiş, bineînţeles, de acasă. Nu  mi-a povestit din copilărie decât faptul că ea a învăţat, că profesoarele au apreciat-o foarte mult, în special pentru talentul ei la pictură şi desen. Din păcate, sau poate din fericire, nu se poate şti, mama mea s-a căsătorit cu un negustor din Bucureşti şi a venit după bărbatul ei. A întrerupt studiile, ar fi vrut să meargă la Belle Arte [în Bucureşti], profesorii i-au spus să meargă mai departe la facultate. Bunicii mei aveau o educaţie religioasă, habotnică, şi ideile foarte religioase sunt ca fetele să se mărite, dacă e posibil cu un rabin, care ar fi sumum [maxim] ce ar putea să râvnească o fată. Asta a fost destinul mamei mele.

Mama a făcut multe picturi, am şi eu acasă acuma picturi făcute de mama mea. Mama mea a făcut foarte multe lucruri, atunci când noi eram copii, legate acest talent decorativ, ţesea covoare persane, după modele. Fratele meu, care era mai mare îi făcea, îi transpunea nişte modele decorative, pe care le găsea prin reviste, pe un canevas mare cu pătraţele şi mama mea se uita pe modelul care era mic şi pe canevasul pe care era desenat modelul şi ţesea covoare. Ţesea feţe de pernă decorative, una din ele am dat-o la un nepot de al meu şi una din pernele astea o mai am şi acuma la mine. Mama mea avea o cultură destul de importantă, ştia limbi străine, citea literatură şi în limbi străine şi în limba română. Şi tatăl meu a avut intenţia ca să ne dea  la şcoală, dar mama mea a ţinut cu dinţii chiar în sărăcia în care eram, ca noi să învăţam şcoala, şi liceu şi facultate.

Părinţii s-au cunoscut printr-un intermediar, adică probabil că cineva din Ploieşti, văzând că bunicul meu are o fată de măritat, s-a gândit cum să o mărite mai bine. Şi prin intermediar l-a cunoscut pe tatăl meu şi s-au purtat discuţii dacă este cazul să se căsătorească sau nu, dacă îi convine situaţia. Tatăl meu fiind, având o situaţie de negustor, pentru că majoritatea evreilor erau meseriaşi, croitori, cizmari şi aşa mai departe, situaţia de negustor era o situaţie bună pentru un evreu. Şi atuncea mama mea, care era mai educată, pentru era absolventă de pension şi pentru că cunoştea limbi străine şi pentru că s-a ocupat cu pictura şi aşa mai departe, adică mai instruită, a acceptat ca să îl ia de bărbat pe un om  care are o situaţie socială. Fiind o femeie foarte frumoasă a avut copii frumoşi, afară de mine. A acceptat această partidă cu tatăl meu în condiţiile în care amândoi au fost, au considerat că fac o căsătorie fericită, bună şi chiar aşa a şi fost.

Copilăria mea

Stăteam la curte, mai era încă o casă alături cu altcineva. Tatăl meu era comerciant fără salariaţi, el muncea şi, slavă Domnului, era în stare să întreţină aceasta gospodărie. Pe vremea aceea gospodăria era foarte laborioasă. Mama mea, afară că avea grijă de copii, spăla, nu erau maşini de spălat. O zi obişnuită pentru mama era foarte dificilă. Spălatul atuncea era în lighean, pe fiecare copil trebuia să-l spele în lighean, că nu erau băi să poţi să-i speli. Destul că exista alimentare cu apă şi canalizare de la reţele publice.. Asta era un progres  foarte mare. Era apă curgătoare [curentă] în bucătărie şi se spăla în bucătărie. Iarna era foarte dificil. În bucătărie se făcea cald cu lemne în sobă metalică. Aveam lemne în curte. Pe urmă mama trebuia să pregătească o activitate gospodărească foarte laborioasă. Pentru iarnă se pregăteau butoaie mari de murături, cu patlăgele verzi, cu gogoşari, cu varză, toate trebuind a fi aprovizionate şi preparate.. Mai ajuta şi tatăl meu. Era ca o gospodărie de la ţară acuma, dar asta era la oraş. Munca de femeie era foarte grea. Sigur că şi pentru bărbaţi era foarte greu, pentru că ei aveau sarcina să câştige bani şi să mai facă încă unele treburi acasă. Problema banilor într-o epocă capitalistă de început era foarte dificilă. Nu se muncea opt ore, se muncea 12-14 ore pe zi, adică era o viaţă foarte grea, mai ales pentru comercianţii mărunţi.

Tatăl meu vara era foarte ocupat fiindcă mergea la bâlciuri, unde am participat şi eu. Se făceau nişte târguri, nişte bâlciuri în diferite oraşe din Muntenia. Se organizau aceste târguri cu ocazii speciale, dar la intervale proprii acelor orăşele. Erau târguri comerciale, nu era ca azi să fie cinematograf sau orchestre. [Notă: Există şi astăzi astfel de târguri tradiţionale legate de anumite sărbători, unde diferiţi negustori şi meşteşugari îşi vând produsele.] Se vindeau mâncăruri, mititei. Fiecare oraş organiza într-o perioadă, putea să fie şi concomitent în două oraşe. Se făceau nişte barăci construite din lemn, acoperite cu pânza multe dintre ele, cu pământ pe jos şi unde se şi trăia, adică era o cortină şi în spatele ei era un pat, laviţe de culcat. Şi bineînţeles că closetele erau undeva departe, uscate şi publice, apa era de la fântână, adică viaţa era la marginea oraşelelor, pe un câmp organizat, aceste barăci una lânga alta şi cu teşghele din lemn şi se vindeau mărfuri. Tatăl meu vindea mărfuri de lingerie. De multe ori mergeam cu tatăl meu la bâlciuri, ca să-l ajut la vânzare, când aveam vacanţă, vara.

Părinţii mei au avut trei copii: Ştefania, Sebastian şi Aristide Wechsler. Ştefania Rubinger [născută Wechsler], sora mea s-a născut în 1914, la Bucureşti. E foarte greu de povestit epopeea surorii mele. În timpul celui de al doilea război mondial era căsătorită. S-a căsătorit cu un pictor, Rubinger, un bărbat de o frumuseţe extraordinară, înalt, spătos, un om de o cultură vastă şi talentat. Sora mea a învăţat la pension, dar bărbatul ei avea cultură artistică. Are lucrări în Israel, în Germania, în România. El a fost pictor scenograf în Bucureşti, la toate marile teatre din Bucureşti, la Opera de stat, la Teatrul Tineretului, la Teatrul Naţional şi a lucrat foarte mult timp şi la Teatrul Evreiesc de stat 2. S-au cunoscut întâmplător. El nu era bogat, nici ea nu era, erau doi relativ săraci, dar care s-au căsătorit din dragoste. Au locuit în Bucureşti şi prin 1970, au emigrat în Germania. Atunci Germania accepta să emigreze cei de limbă germană, de origine germană. El era născut la Cernăuţi, era de limbă germană, iar sora mea ştia germana. Ea a avut pensie în Germania, bărbatul ei a avut pensie mare, pentru că a lucrat foarte mult şi i s-a recunoscut activitatea. Au emigrat în oraşul Düsseldorf, au locuit acolo şi în continuare locuieşte sora mea, pentru că cumnatul meu a murit acum doi ani de zile [în 2002]. A murit călcat de un automobil pe trecerea de pietoni la vârsta de 92 de ani. Sora mea are şi ea acuma circa 90 de ani. Au doi copii extraordinari: Irina Rubinger şi Adrian Rubinger. Irina este mai mare şi s-a născut în timpul celui de al doilea război mondial. Adrian s-a născut mai târziu, el are vreo 52-53 de ani acuma, în Bucureşti. Au crescut amândoi în Bucureşti. Acum locuiesc la Paris. Când au emigrat spre Germania, au trecut prin Franţa şi au rămas acolo.

Irina Rubinger, era studentă la Biologie, a terminat biologia la Paris, a intrat în cercetare, a intrat în învăţamântul superior, a ajuns până mai demult conferenţiar la  o Universitate de Medicină din Paris. S-a căsătorit cu un actor român, Iulian Negulescu şi au avut o fată, Ilinca. Pe urmă a divorţat. Ilinca a urmat la Sorbona Literatura franceză, şi a încercat să studieze şi să activeze în arta dramatică teatrală. Acum lucrează în cinematografie. S-a căsătorit la Paris cu Julien Cohen. De curând a născut  o fetiţă care are acum câteva luni.

Adrian Rubinger, când a ajuns la Paris era student la arhitectură, adică dădea examen la arhitectură, la École des Beaux Arts. Acolo străinii aveau “numerus clausus”, adică dacă erai străin era un număr redus de locuri, era concurs, unul dintre cele mai grele concursuri de intrare la o înaltă şcoală, şi el a reuşit să intre la acest concurs la Paris în anul 1968. El a terminat Facultatea de Arhitectură la Paris şi pe urmă a plecat în Israel, a dat şi acolo nişte examene şi are o diplomă de arhitect şi din Israel. Nu ştiu exact perioadele când a fost el student şi când a absolvit ambele facultăţi. În Israel a cunoscut-o pe nevasta lui, Ester, o israeliancă, fiică de evrei români. Au venit la Paris, unde ea a terminat facultatea de psihologie, dar a predat mai mult ivrit la comunitatea evreilor de acolo şi la francezi care voiau să înveţe ivrit. Au două fete, Miriam şi Sara [Rubinger]. Miriam are douăzeci şi doi de ani, este două facultăţi,  studii iudaice şi psihologie. Sara, care este la liceu, împlineşte 16 ani. Ei sunt foarte religioşi. Ţin vinerea seară, sâmbată nu lucrează nimic, nu răspund la telefon, vineri şi sâmbătă, sunt acasă, fac rugăciuni, se duc la templu. Cu mine au păstrat nişte legături, suntem în dragoste. Cu toţi copiii ei şi cu ea şi cu nepoata, am fost la ei şi acum doi ani. De câte ori voiajăm la copiii noştri treceam prin Paris şi prin Düsseldorf, ca să ne vedem rudele noastre bune, frate şi soră, nepot şi nepoate. Cu toţi aceştia suntem în legătură afectivă şi ne iubim foarte mult. Şi Adrian este un  nepot care se comportă ca şi când ar fi fiul nostru.

Sebastian Sebastian, fratele meu, s-a născut în 1915, la Bucureşti. [A schimbat numele din Wechsler după al doilea război mondial.] A studiat întâi la Facultatea de Drept şi Filozofie, apoi a fost student la Facultatea de Arhitectură, pe care a absolvit-o în 1945. A absolvit studiile de Drept şi Filozofie şi a trecut la la Facultatea de Arhitectură, pentru că în 1940 de fapt evreii au fost excluşi din barou şi s-a văzut că nu poate fi o carieră bună.. Pe urmă a fost dat afară din Facultatea de Arhitectură [din cauza Statutului Evreiesc], dar după război şi-a continuat studiile tot la Arhitectură şi a devenit arhitect înaintea mea. Logodnica lui, Lola Gotfried, venea dintr-o familie înstărită, bunicul lor avea un magazin de încălţăminte pe Calea Victoriei. Înainte, magazinele de lux de pe Calea Victoriei, vindeau pantofi pe care era imprimat numele magazinului. Şi era un magazin cunoscut în Bucureşti, era un magazin de lux şi bunicul era foarte bogat. Bunicul a construit un bloc pe C.A.Rosetti, nr.36. Există astăzi acest bloc şi atunci când s-a făcut era foarte modern, avea încălzire, cu sobe de teracotă. Avea trei copii şi când el a  murit le-a lăsat în proprietate aceste apartamente. Cumnata mea are şi acum proprietate aceste apartamente, i s-a recunoscut, dar degeaba este proprietară, fiindcă locuieşte cineva acolo şi nu se poate face nimic. Fratele meu şi cumnata mea au emigrat în Franţa prin 1960 şi s-au stabilit la Paris. Fratele meu a lucrat ca arhitect angajat la Paris, n-a avut atelier propriu. Mai târziu datorită soţiei lui care era foarte întreprinzătoare au avut un magazin de gablonţuri şi ceasuri pe o stradă centrală în Paris. Mulţi ani a trăit din acest comerţ, mai mult decât din arhitectură.

Eu, Aristide Streja [Notă: numele schimbat din Wechsler după al doilea război mondial], m-am născut în Bucureşti în 19 decembrie 1922, într-o casă de pe Cheiul Dâmboviţei, Splaiul Unirii [Notă: era o zonă destul de aproape de centru, cu o populaţie evreiască destul de numeroasă].Părinţii m-au îngrijit şi educat. Am avut frate şi soră mai mari decât mine, cu şapte şi şase ani, decât mine. În primul meu an de viaţă, ei erau în clasele primare. Ei se jucau, şi ei erau copii când eu eram foarte mic, mama mea avea grija de toţi trei. Eu mă jucam atunci cu cercul, era una din distracţiile favorite, nu eram încă la şcoală. Când am avut 4-5 ani am avut scarlatină şi atunci mama trebuia să aibă grijă de mine în mod special, să mă izoleze, să nu se îmbolnăvească ceilalţi copii, era problemă foarte grea. Nu am fost la grădiniţă, că pe vremea  aceea, nu mergeau oamenii la grădiniţă. Am fost la şcoală pe Splaiul Independenţei, vis-à-vis era o fabrică de tăbăcărie, Fabrica Mociorniţa. Era şcoală de stat şi am făcut patru ani acolo. Nu mai am prieteni, sau nu am avut prieteni de la această şcoală, nu ştiu, eram prea mic. Am învăţat relativ bine. La şcoala primară nu-mi plăcea  nimic special, poate matematica. În rest mă jucam pe străzile alaturate, pe strada Aurora, şi aveam nişte prieteni care erau vecini. Fraţii mei aveau o oarecare grijă de mine, dar nu mă jucam cu ei, mai mult aveau grijă de mine ca să învăţ. Îi obligau părinţii să aibă grijă de mine şi nu prea le plăcea pentru că pierdeau timpul cu mine, dar mă iubeau, n-am avut conflicte cu ei.

Pe urmă am mers la liceu, la liceul Matei Basarab, pentru că fratele meu mersese la liceul acesta. [Notă: Liceul Matei Basarab este unul dintre cele mai vechi şi prestigioase licee din Bucureşti, situat în vecinătatea Sinagogii mari şi a cartierului evreiesc. Mulţi evrei din familiile de seamă au urmat acest liceu.] Şi la liceul Matei Basarab, am învăţat dintr-a întaia până într-a şasea, când m-a dat afară de la liceu în 1939-1940, din cauză că eram evreu. Am avut profesori foarte buni în liceu. Era directorul liceului, Stoenescu, care era profesor de matematică, am avut un profesor la istorie, Ion Tatoiu, care era autor de manuale şcolare. Un profesor excelent, venea în clasă, se aşeza pe bancă, şi povestea o istorie, ca un roman, ca o poveste. Când eram, mai mari, am avut un profesor la limba română Perpessicius, care era critic literar. [Notă: (1891-1971): critic, istoric literar şi poet; conduce revista “Universul literar” între 1925 şi 1927 şi deţine între 1934 şi 1938 cronica literară la “Radio Bucureşti”. Din 1929 până în 1951, fără întrerupere, este profesor de limba română la liceul Matei Basarab din Bucureşti.] La latină l-am avut profesor, pe Chiriac, avea şi el manuale de latină. Eu eram un elev destul de bun la latină şi luam note mari, mi-aduc aminte o dată m-a prins că n-am învăţat şi am luat nota 1, dar în general luam note mari. Nu am luat lecţii particulare. Am învăţat în liceu franceză şi italiană. La italiană am avut o profesoară tânără, Constanţa, şi învăţam de plăcere.

Liceul Matei Basarab, era recunoscut ca un liceu foarte bun. Liceul era de stat, dar la liceele de stat se plătea taxa. La şcolile primare nu se plătea taxa, era obligatoriu [să frecventezi] şi fără taxa, aşa era atunci, dar la liceu se plătea taxa. La liceele paticulare se plătea taxa şi mai mare. Era, de exemplu, un liceu particular [evreiesc], Libros se numea, unde se plătea taxa şi mai mare. Liceele evreieşti erau Cultura 3. Cred că şi la liceele evreieşti se plătea taxă, până când nu s-a mai plătit taxa, în timpul celui de-al doilea razboi mondial, când au fost daţi afară.

Când eram eu în liceu şi se înfiinţase străjeria, Marele Străjer era Carol II. Străjeria a fost înfiinţată de Carol al II lea . Noi eram adunaţi în curte în careu, era un fel de paramilitărie. Din anii 1930 au început manifestările antisemite în România şi s-a simţit chestiunea asta şi în liceu, că noi eram acolo consideraţi mai paria. În cadrul organizării străjeriei, toţi elevii erau străjeri şi evreii încadraţi ca străjeri, dar cum să spun, din punct de vedere moral puţin ostracizaţi şi în cadrul şcolii şi chiar de către unii elevi mai mari sau mai mici sau chiar colegi de-ai mei. Profesorii nu au avut atitudini antisemite. Deşi profesorii de latină (Chiriac) şi istorie (Ion Totoiu) aveau concepţii naţionaliste, exprimate în manualele ai căror manuale erau, elevii evrei silitori, printre care mă număram şi eu, aveau note mari la aceste discipline.

Noi nu aveam bani să plătim, o duceam de pe azi pe mâine şi mama trebuia să mă amâne, mă dădea afară de la cursuri dacă nu plăteam. Şi mama se ducea tot mereu la secretariat.“Vă rog foarte mult, uite, băiatul meu învaţă destul de bine, vă rog să mă amânaţi că nu pot să plătesc“. Ca să obţină o amânare, era destul de greu, condiţia noastră era destul de joasă. Purtam hainele de şcoală 2-3 ani până mi se făceau mici. Nu am lipsit, nu am fost dat afară din cauza taxelor, am plătit întotdeauna taxele, mai târziu decât trebuia, pentru că m-a amânat. Nu am rămas dator, dar am fost dat afară numai din cauza că au fost daţi afară toţi evreii din licee. Am terminat ultimii ani de liceu, la şcoala evreiască [Cultura B], unde am avut nişte profesori nemaipomenit de buni. L-am avut pe [Mihail] Sebastian [Notă : (1907-1945) romancier, critic literar, dramaturg, eseist. Are studii de doctorat în ştiinţe economice şi drept public la Paris. Este redactor la Revista Fundaţiilor Regale între 1936 şi până 1940 când este dat afară din cauză că era evreu. Din 1941 este profesor la liceul evreiesc Cultura B.], la limba şi literatura română, l-am avut pe Sanielevici.

Viața religioasă

În copilărie, acasă, mama mea, ca fiică de rabin sigur că ţinea toate sărbătorile. Mergea de multe ori la sinagogă şi tatăl meu era de asemenea foarte religios. În fiecare sărbătoare se ţineau tradiţiile evreieşti. De Paşte se mânca pască, se postea de Yom Kippur. Venea în vizită tatăl mamei mele din Ploieşti, care ţinea casher. Pe cât posibil ţineam casher pentru că mama mea se ducea [la haham] şi tăia păsările pe strada Mămulari. Ea cumpăra păsări vii şi se ducea cu păsările la tăiat. Nu-mi dau seama cât de strict se ţinea, dar se ţinea. Numai acuma nu mai există, se taie la abator şi rabinul se duce şi vede cum se taie.

Tatăl meu a fost un om religios, se ducea la sinagogă şi vineri, sâmbata şi în alte zile. Mergea la templu, la Sinagoga Mare, avea un loc, plătea pentru treaba asta. Pe mine mă ducea la templu, mergeam la sinagogă cu tatăl meu. Dar eu mergeam numai la sărbători. Stăteam foarte mult acolo, pentru că mai jucam şi cu alţi copii în curte, o curte destul de mare. Veneau la templu, întotdeauna a fost şi a rămas, zic eu, şi asta le spun şi altor copii care vin aicea, un centru comunitar. De exemplu, de Paşte sau de Yom Kippur, rugăciunile durează 3-4 ore dimineaţă şi se continuă şi după amiază încă trei ore şi durează foarte mult. Atunci dura mai mult şi se făceau pauze şi lumea ieşea în curte, şi în curte se discutau fel de fel de lucruri, printre care şi se aranjau căsătorii. Îi făcea cunoştinţă cu fata lui cutare, cu băiatul lui cutare, se discutau tot felul de lucruri. Se discutau şi în sinagogă, nu de Yom Kippur sau de Paşte, dar în alte zile, se discutau şi lucruri care nu erau neapărat religioase. Ca şi astăzi, se discutau tot felul de probleme interesând comunitatea evreiască din vremea respectivă, probleme sociale, filantropice, sioniste, donaţii pentru Keren Kayemet 4. Comunităţile evreieşti erau organizate în jurul sinagogilor, care aveau proprii comitete, preşedinţi, rabini,etc.

Hamişa Asar era sărbătoarea preferată, pentru că se mâncau fructe exotice, care erau în Palestina. Se mâncau curmale dulci, mană şi o serie întreagă de fructe afară de portocale şi lucruri din astea, nişte caise presate, pistel se numea pe vremea aceea. Erau scumpe şi se găseau, pentru că atunci, pe vremea aceea, societatea era capitalistă. Tradiţia ne dădea câte puţin şi ţineam această tradiţie.

La Sinagoga Mare am spus Bar Mitzvah. Eu nu am învăţat ebraică decât atunci când m-am pregătit pentru Bar Mitzvah şi de atunci până acum eu n-am mai învăţat ebraica. Dar ştiu ceva litere ebraice şi trei–patru cuvinte, dar nu ştiu astăzi să urmăresc, mai ales că se citeşte foarte repede. Mă duc astăzi la sinagogă vineri seară şi nu pot să urmăresc foarte bine, decât unele pasaje, ma interesează comentariile la pericopa saptămânii.

Ca prieteni pot să spun aşa, din ce ţin minte, pe Schwartzman, care era băiatul dirijorului corului de la Templul din Bucuresti. Era un muzician cunoscut în Bucureşti şi băiatul lui învăţa cu mine la liceu. Grimberg Bercu, el a fost suprabotezat Boris, cu care am mers pe urmă la facultate. L-aveam prieten din liceu, am făcut şi muncă obligatorie cu el. Am avut şi prieteni români, unul Vasilescu, dar când ne-am despărţit, adică când am plecat din şcoală, el a rămas în continuare să înveţe încă doi ani. După aia, noi nu ne-am mai întâlnit. Pe urmă am avut încă un prieten care era cu un an mai mic decât mine, tot la Matei Basarab învăţa, Aurel Zlota. Cred că din clasa  întâia de liceu, chiar mai devreme, din şcoala primară eram prieten cu el şi am fost prieten cu el până acum doi-trei ani, când el a murit. A fost cel mai bun prieten al meu de 60-70 de ani. Am mers împreună şi cu soţia mea când îi făceam curte, i-am făcut cunoştinţă  cu soţia lui. N-am fost un intermediar propriu-zis, dar l-am sfătuit să se căsătorească. Am fost ca fraţii, în timpul liceului, ne-au mutat în strada Udricani şi el stătea vis-à-vis de noi. Am avut prieteni pe doi fraţi de pe strada Udricani, unde am stat. Era un restaurant, o cârciumă, prin 1939-1940, şi ei locuiau la etaj, restaurantul era la parter, aşa cum se făcea atunci, adică parterul era comerţ şi sus locuiau ei. Jucam table cu ei câteodată. Dar cu Aurel Zlota, mergeam să dansăm cu fetele, era cu totul altceva.

Mergeam la cinema, ne plăcea foarte mult. Duminica mergeam la cinema. Erau două filme. În liceu am avut o aventură. Elevii de liceu atuncea nu aveau voie să meargă la spectacol, nici la cinema, n-aveam voie să mergem la spectacole care nu erau agreate de şcoală. Trebuia să mergem în uniformă, aveam numere, putea să ne reclame. La cinema era întuneric, nu se vedea. Un prieten avea o cunoştinţă, actor la Teatrul Tănăse şi ne-a băgat înăuntru prin intrarea actorilor. Noi n-aveam voie să mergem pentru că era un teatru de revistă cu femei, nu goale, dar nici îmbrăcate. De la intrarea actorilor, se mergea pe scenă, se dădea cortina la o parte şi erau trepte şi ne-a băgat acolo, pe urmă ne-a aşezat în primul rând. Când am intrat pe scenă era o actriţă dezbrăcată, adică numai în chiloţi, am rămas cu gura căscată şi nu numai căscată, ne-a cuprins şi frica că dacă ne descoperă cineva, ne dă afară din şcoală. M-am uitat înapoi şi am văzut în spatele meu  că toată sala şi balconul ne vedea, m-am ridicat repede şi m-am dus în ultimul rând sub balcon, cel puţin să nu mă vadă. Şi aşa am văzut spectacolul cu frica în sân.

Singurul lucru care puteam să merg atuncea era că mergeam cu bicicleta. Am învăţat să înot, mergeam la ştranduri, când eram mai mare. La Hipodromul din Bucureşti deobicei mergeam cu cumnata mea. Venea lume bună în general la cursele de cai, oameni care erau foarte bine situaţi, pentru că erau proprietari de cai, dar veneau şi oameni care făceau pariuri din pături sociale mai medii. Era un preţ de intrare acolo şi jocul la cursele de cai era destul de complicat, pentru că trebuia să studiezi posibilităţile de succes ale unui cal oarecare, erau programe pe care trebuia să le cumperi, erau o serie intreagă de condiţii în care oamenii trebuiau să studieze puţin ce se întâmplă la cursele de cai. Nu era ca un loz de loterie pe care îl cumperi, înseamnă că nu putea să vină orice neştiutor.

Al Doilea Război Mondial

Părinţii au avut de suferit foarte mult în perioada Holocaustului [din cauza legii anti-evreieşti].Tatăl meu avea un magazinaş, o afacere pe strada Şelari. S-a făcut românizarea, el a fost dat afară, s-a numit un administrator. N-a mai avut voie să facă comerţ şi n-a mai avut nici un mijloc de trai. Pot să spun că îi datorez mult, a fost nemaipomenit de inventiv, că nu avea nici o meserie. El a fost comerciant toată viaţa şi i s-a luat posibilitatea de a face comerţ. Cum am putut să trăim într-acea vreme nu pot să spun. Toată lumea era şomeră. În timpul rebeliunii , în 1941, am avut un prieten care a fost arestat. Unde locuiam, era o curte şi de jur împrejur erau apartamente. Noi am avut relaţii foarte bune cu vecinii. Când a fost rebeliunea legionară vecinii nu s-au dus să reclame că suntem evrei. Nu ştiu câţi din vecini au rămas, am avut alţi vecini. Noi am fost daţi afară [de militari] din casa de pe strada Legislator şi am plătit chirie într-un pod din strada Labirint. Am avut o casă într-un pod, aveam două camere, o bucătărie mai jos. Erau persecutaţi evreii, medicii evrei au fost daţi afară din instituţii, de peste tot. N-aveau voie să consulte decât evrei şi aşa mai departe.

[Notă: Tatăl era prea în vârstă ca să mai fie recrutat, iar fratele nu a făcut în acelaşi loc muncă obligatorie] Am fost cu munca obligatorie în trei-patru locuri: la Poligonul Cotroceni, la Institutul Central de Statistică, la dezăpezirea liniilor din Gara de Nord şi pe Calea Griviţei. La Poligonul Cotroceni se făcea un poligon de tragere pentru armată, se săpau nişte şanţuri şi se aduna tot pământul pe un deal. Adică noi săpam şanţurile, transportam cu roaba până la deal sus şi umpleam acest deal, bătătoream acest deal, pentru ca să oprească gloanţele. Se trăgea în sanţuri lungi de vreo doua sute de metri şi gloanţele trebuiau să se oprească în acest deal. Toată ziua, de dimineaţa până seara săpam acolo, căram cu roaba. Îmi aduc aminte şi că ploua, eram în noroi şi asta făceam luni de zile. Cred că un an de zile am stat la şanţurile astea. Şi toată ziua eram între şanţuri în pământ şi în  noroaie. Când veneam acasă, seara, era o plăcere să mergi în oraş, nu în noroi, să nu mai stai între şanţuri, să vezi nişte case.

În detaşamentele astea de muncă obligatorie aveam un locotenent de treabă, stătea sus şi supraveghea toate şirurile astea care mergeau sus. Supraveghea toate şanţurile astea în care se săpa ca lumea să lucreze, să nu stea degeaba, el era ca un supraveghetor general al întregului şantier. Fiecare şanţ avea un plutonier, care făcea apelul dimineaţa, trebuia să fii la o anumită oră, şapte dimineaţa, până la şapte seara, se lucrau doisprezece ore, seara se făcea apelul de terminare şi plecai acasă. Locotenentul stătea sus şi se uita peste tot, cum merg roabele, cum se săpa. Supraveghea toate şanţurile astea în care se săpau ca lumea să lucreze, să nu stea degeaba.  Eram obligaţi să facem o anume normă şi la un moment dat colonelul, care era pe tot detaşamentul ne-a adunat, ne-a pus să stăm jos şi ne-a spus că cei care nu-şi fac norma respectivă vor fi împuşcaţi. Aşa că să avem grijă să facem această normă. Eram la roabă şi la săpat.

Am fost şi cu prieteni, cu Grimberg Boris, care a murit şi cu care am fost la facultate. El era în tineretul comunist, atunci eu nu eram şi îmi aduc aminte că el îmi dădea ştiri, asculta la radio, deşi n-aveam voie să ascultăm la radio, Moscova sau Londra. Aflam de la el care era situaţia frontului, asta ne interesa foarte mult, pentru că dacă învingea Germania, noi eram nenorociţi, vai de capul nostru. Când a fost victoria ruşilor pe frontul de est, la Stalingrad, eram fericiţi.

La Institutul Central de Statistică, la secţia de desen-dactilografie, am făcut acolo munca obligatorie, neplătită. M-a întreţinut tatăl meu, nu ştiu din ce şi de acolo am fost repartizat  în iarna lui 1943-1944 la Gara de Nord, ca să lucrez la dezăpezirea liniilor din Gara de Nord. Toată iarna am lucrat acolo, înfofolit nemaipomenit.Trebuia să stau toata ziua să curăţ zăpada în aer liber, în geruri cumplite, în zăpada, în umezeală. După aceea în 1944, când a fost bombardat Bucureştiul, în special, pe liniile din Gara de Nord, pe Calea Griviţei în sus, noi am fost trimişi ca să dăm la o parte cărămizile. Au fost bombardate nişte case şi am fost trimişi acolo sa dezgropăm averile celor care au fost dărâmaţi. Fiecare voia să-şi salveze o mobilă, o plapumă, era o nenorocire. Noi dezgropam, încărcam cărămizile şi molozul în camioane, ca să eliberam străzile. Erau atacurile cu avioane, bombardamente şi când suna alarma, fugeam din Griviţei, în centrul capitalei, ca să ne băgam într-un subsol şi să ne apăram şi pe urmă mergeam înapoi după ce trecea alarma. Asta am făcut până când au intrat trupele sovietice.

Înainte de 23 august [1944], în 22 august, n-am ştiut ce se întâmplă şi ne-am prezentat. Era adunarea pentru ăştia care mergeau pe Griviţei, cu un locotenent. Locotenentul aduna o grupă întreagă. Noi am venit să ne repartizeze dar locotenentul asta n-a venit. Am plecat acasă, în 23 s-a anunţat la radio. După 23 august că au intrat trupele sovietice în Bucureşti. Am fost foarte bucuros, că am scăpat de nenorocirea asta. Pentru noi, trupele sovietice ne-au eliberat, eram entuziasmaţi şi entuziasmaţi de comunism. Din cauza asta am şi făcut cerere de intrare în partid. Dar în partid, n-am intrat în 1944, am intrat în 1947, sau 1948. În acelaşi timp eu am terminat liceul, la şcoala evreiască. Am luat bacalaureatul, am intrat la facultate, tot la facultate evreiască, Colegiul pentru studenţi evrei, la Arhitectură. [Notă: Colegiul pentru studenţi evrei a funcţionat între 1941 şi 1943, cu aprobări oficiale. Aici au putut continua studiile atât studenţii cât şi profesorii evrei daţi afară din facultăţi.] Profesorul nostru de proiect de arhitectură era  Hary Stern, arhitectul Stern, căruia îi datorez foarte mult, că m-a învăţat foarte multe lucruri.

Viața de după Război

După război ne-am întors înapoi în strada Legislator. Nu a locuit altcineva în casă, era comandamentul militar. N-am găsit modificări, dar a trebuit să zugrăvim, să ne acomodam. Am început toată familia să ne revigoram. Tatăl meu, datorită talentului lui a început să facă ceva afaceri acolo, tot în Şelari. În 1945, fratele meu mai mare a ieşit arhitect, eu eram student la Facultatea de arhitectură şi el împreună cu tatăl meu, a reuşit să facă o casă în centrul capitalei, pe strada Gabroveni, în Bucureşti. Era un teren pe care el îl avea în proprietate din 1937, dar în timpul legionarilor această proprietate nu era recunoscută, nu putea să facă nimic cu ea. A revendicat aceasta proprietate în 1945 şi a înscris terenul în cartea funciară. Era un teren foarte mic, s-a gândit să facă o casă. După război oamenii au început să facă afaceri acolo în străzile Lipscani şi Gabroveni erau tot felul de afaceri la negru, ei aveau nevoie de un birou mic, pentru că mărfurile nu erau acolo. Ce voiau să vândă sau să cumpere, ei făceau o tranzacţie şi aduceau marfa. Şi el a făcut birouri de 2/3, nişte birouri de 5-6 metri pătraţi, nişte cuşti. A pus o firmă:“Vindem birouri în această clădire“ . Nu s-a construit nimic, era numai firma şi şantierul care era deschis şi s-a adus o căruţă de pietriş acolo. În 1945 i s-a dat autorizaţie de construcţie, cu această autorizaţie de construcţie şi cu planul care i-a făcut fratele meu, i s-a cumpărat trei birouri, atâta i s-a cumpărat. Cu banii a cumpărat fier şi cărămida şi a început să construiască. Fratele meu supraveghea, am fost chemat şi eu acolo să supraveghez. Când a văzut lumea că începe să se construiască, au venit şi alţii şi i-au dat bani. A dat drumul mai departe la construcţie şi uite aşa, aşa s-a construit această casă. A venit un decret de naţionalizare a acestei case [în 1948] şi el a rămas pierdut, n-a mai avut nimic, nici un fel de venit. Eu şi fratele meu  am început să-l întreţinem pe tatăl meu, pe părinţii mei.

Aveam un prieten, soţia mea era verişoară cu el, şi acel prieten, a zis: " Noi nu aveam foarte multe fete în cercul nostru. Hai să facem cunoştinţă cu nişte fete! ".Verişoara lui avea şi ea nişte prietene şi toate stăteau în [zona] Dudeşti pe o alee. Şi ne-am dus să facem cunoştinţă şi eu am vrut să ne mai întâlnim cu verişoara lui şi cu el şi cu încă nişte fete. Aşa am făcut eu cunoştinţă cu soţia mea, în 1944, în timpul războiului. După război, am mers cu ea şi cu alte fete şi cu alţi băieţi, prieteni de ai mei, în excursii pe munte, în [Munţii] Bucegi. Eu între timp, am întreţinut relaţiile cu ea, am devenit arhitect şi în 1947 am fost angajat. S-a întâmplat, că tatăl ei a vrut să plece în Israel, a avut paşaport, şi din cauza unei rude, care a fost falsificator de timbre, el a fost arestat două-trei zile. Paşaportul tatălui l-a rupt, pentru că i-a fost frică. Şi din cauza asta, părinţii, n-au mai apucat să plece şi n-au vrut s-o lase să plece singură. A întârziat şi între timp ne-am îndrăgostit, iar în 1949 ne-am căsătorit. Când m-am căsătorit cu soţia mea, ne-am mutat pe strada Nicolae Golescu 20.

Chely Streja, [născută Weisbuch], soţia mea, s-a născut în anul 1927, la Brăila într-o familie evreiască, dar era mică de tot când a venit în Bucureşti, nu ştiu dacă avea doi-trei ani. Mama ei a fost născută la Tizmeniţa [Tysmenitsa], în Polonia, actualmente în Ucraina. Tatăl a fost născut, cred, la Roman. Amândoi erau religioşi, se duceau la templu, ţineau sărbătorile. În casă vorbeau româneşte, dar mama ştia şi poloneză şi cunoşteau idiş, soţia mea a învăţat ceva idiş, din faptul că se vorbea în casă.  A învăţat întâi la o şcoală românească, a fost dată afară de la şcoala românească şi a făcut liceul la o şcoală evreiască, cea mai mare parte, a făcut pe urmă, şcoala comercială. Era calificată în contabilitate. Am vrut ca să urmeze Academia Comercială, dar ea n-a mai apucat şi a intrat în producţie. Adică după război, ea a fost angajată, avea liceul terminat, şi ea a intrat în CSP (Comisia de Stat a Planificării).

A avut o serie de sarcini foarte interesante, la un moment dat nu ştiu cine şi-a dat demisia, sau a ieşit la pensie de la grădiniţă. Şi ea a fost directoare de grădiniţă şi a fost foarte iubită de copii. Pe urmă, ea a lucrat acolo la contabilitate, vreo 15 ani, dar a dat-o afară că avea rude în străinătate şi pentru că nu era membră de partid. Se pusese problema în Marea Adunare Naţională să nu fie un procent de unguri, de nu ştiu ce, mai mare decât de români, în raport cu populaţia. Şi ea, nefiind membru de partid şi nefiind româncă şi având şi rude în străinătate, şi în America şi în Israel au dat-o afară. [Nota: Cei care aveau rude în străinătate puteau avea probleme la serviciu în orice moment]. Ea s-a angajat, a avut mai multe oferte. S-a angajat la Centrala de Industrie Textilă,era o centrală cu mai multe fabrici, la contabilitate. Pe urmă s-a desfiinţat Centrala şi fabricile depindeau direct de minister şi a fost repartizată la o fabrică de pe Dudeşti. Noi stăteam în centru şi fabrica asta era destul de departe, mergea foarte mult cu tramvaiul pe vremea aia. Acolo a lucrat în continuare la contabilitate, asta este cariera soţiei mele.

Fiul meu s-a născut în Bucureşti. Noi nu i-am dat o educaţie specială religiosă. La noi în familie nu erau nişte manifestări religioase deosebite, de altfel în perioada zisă comunistă, când se făcea o propagandă nemaipomenită împotriva credinţelor religioase, el a învăţat la şcoală de stat unde, bine înţeles educaţia era anti-religioasă. Profesorii erau foarte buni şi a fost o generaţie de elevi nemaipomenit de bună. Unii dintre ei au emigrat şi au făcut cariere profesionale excepţionale. Fiul meu a avut o educaţie foarte bună familială, şcolară, universitară, sportivă. A făcut înot de performanţă cu un antrenor german, care l-a şi educat într-un spirit sportiv. A fost în echipa României de juniori la concursuri internaţionale din Cehoslovacia.

După ce a terminat facultatea, s-a căsătorit în 1977. S-a căsătorit religios la o sinagogă mică, Credinţa, din Bucureşti. A făcut stagiul militar la Ploieşti. După cinci ani de zile după ce au făcut cerere, autorităţile comuniste s-au îndurat de ei şi le au aprobat emigrarea. Au emigrat legal şi în străinătate au muncit nemaipomenit de mult, pentru că erau proaspăt emigranţi, nu au avut avere, nu au fost sprijiniţi cu bani în străinătate. Reuşesc să traiască acceptabil de 22 ani în străinătate şi au două fiice cărora le dau o educaţie generală şi evreiască foarte bună.

Vreau să spun că interesul pentru religie nu l-a avut în toată perioada de cincizeci de ani, cât a fost perioada comunistă, prin structura mea, din cauză că am fost educat în această perioadă deşi am avut aşa influenţe religioase mistice din partea părinţilor. Eu nu i-am dat băiatului meu o educaţie religioasă, mistică, deşi soţia mea este mai credincioasă. Eu nu sunt credincios, eu sunt numai religios. Noi am ţinut sărbătorile evreieşti în casă şi Paşte şi Yom Kippur şi post, toate sărbătorile importante evreieşti le-am ţinut. Soţia mea ştia mai multe, a ştiut întotdeauna mai multe. Aceşti cincizeci de ani  de comunism noi am ţinut sărbătorile, sărbătorile mari dar nu mai ţineam casher, nu mai mergeam la templu.

Despre religie am ţinut şi conferinţe la comunitate [Notă: la sala comunităţii evreieşti din Bucureşti, din strada Popa Soare, se organizează periodic conferinţe, comunicări], am scris. Astăzi  sunt foarte multe controverse. Noţiunea de evreu este foarte mult controversată. Unii consideră ca să fii evreu înseamnă să fii de religie mozaică, de religie iudaică, alţii consideră că evreu trebuie să fii din mama evreică cum este legea israeliană şi alţii, cum sunt unii rabini din Statele Unite, consideră că a fi evreu înseamnă de fapt altceva, înseamnă să aderi la tradiţia iudaică, la istoria comună iudaică şi la situaţia de a fi evreu. Că oamenii nu se nasc evrei ci devin evrei. Devin evrei prin asumarea situaţiei de evreu, adică a tradiţiei. Există o tradiţie iudaică, o apartenenţă istorică, o cultură iudaică. A-ţi însuşi, a adera la aceste valori iudaice înseamnă a fi evreu, a fi recunoscut ca evreu. Asta este mult mai important. De exemplu [Nicolae] Cajal 5 a spus despre Hanuka, că această sărbătoare reprezintă şi eroismul acestor evrei, care au rezistat asaltului trupelor siriene de atunci, deci e o sărbătoare naţională, o sărbătoare a eliberării. Desigur că este o sărbătoare în care s-a arătat minunea lui Dumnezeu, că a ars o candelă timp de o săptămâna. E o sărbătoare religioasă dar şi naţională şi eroică, are o serie întreagă de semnificaţii care sunt în afara sărbătorii mistice pur religioase. Aşa se întâmplă cu toate sărbătorile iudaice, care nu au numai o semnificaţie mistică, ci şi laică.

Se discuta [cu prietenii] puţin despre politica actuală a comunismului şi ce se întâmplă în străinătate în ţările zise capitaliste unde noi aveam rude.

În 1947 am ieşit arhitect, m-am angajat la început la UFDR, Uniunea Femeilor Democrate din România şi am făcut întâi un cămin de copii. Nu-mi mai aduc aminte pe ce stradă. Era într-o casă veche. Pe urmă m-am angajat la IPC, Institutul de Proiect pentru Construcţii, primul institut de proiectare din ţară de stat. În 1948,1949, m-am angajat acolo. Fratele meu era şi el angajat acolo. Din IPC s-a făcut IPCM, s-a făcut IPCT, s-a făcut ISCAS, ISPROM şi ne-a mutat dintr-o parte dar eu eram tot acolo. Timp de patruzeci de ani am lucrat la acelaşi institut de proiectări care s-a numit tot mereu altfel.

Am făcut proiectul meu pe la început de tot, la fabrica de ciment de la Turda, asta a fost o lucrărică. Pe urmă am făcut fabrici de ciment la Medgidia, în Bucureşti. Pe urmă, când s-a numit IPCT, am făcut împreună cu nişte foşti profesori la Arhitectură planurile, schiţe şi sistematizare pentru Mediaş. Pe urmă am făcut în provincie sute magazine pentru CENTROCOOP. Am făcut nişte proiecte tip şi s-au executat sute de magazine săteşti. Am făcut primul restaurant cu autoservire la Săvineşti şi aparatajele le-a executat Ministerul Chimiei [Combinatul de Fire şi Fibre Sintetice Săvineşti aparţinea de Ministerul Chimiei]. Am făcut o serie de proiecte pentru cămine muncitoreşti, internate şcolare. Am făcut în Bucureşti clădirea de pe strada Ion Câmpineanu, blocul 10 din Piaţa Palatului. Clădirea asta avea locuinţe la etaj şi la parter este o poştă şi un CEC. Am amintiri foarte frumoase. CEC-ul era cu o subpantă şi acest bloc are o trecere pe dedesubt. Era o stradă care dădea în Ion Câmpineanu şi nu puteam să o blochez şi am făcut o trecere pe sub casă. Am avut şi nişte ingineri foarte buni, unul dintre ei era evreu, care a făcut acolo minuni de vitejie ca inginer, pentru că casa asta a fost pusă peste o stradă şi din stradă venea o coloană foarte mare de canalizare şi un stâlp cădea pe aceasta. El a făcut un triunghi, adică stâlpul avea o despărţitură triunghiulară şi jos i-a făcut un tirant. Şi canalizarea trecea prin acest triunghi. Asta era cea mai importantă care s-a realizat. Am făcut şi proiecte experimental pentru magazine, cu acoperite cu nişte grinzi metalice şi cu o izolare termică deasupra şi cu nişte azbociment ondulat. La vremea respectivă, intre 1960-1965, era o inovaţie. Am fost angrenat într-un studiu împreună cu INCERC, Institut de cercetări, unde am proiectat o casă cu încălzire solară la Câmpina, pentru că acolo zilele solare neînorate erau mai multe în România şi iarna şi vara. Am făcut parter cu încălzire solară a casei printr-o seră care se face separat. În acoperiş erau puse nişte panouri solare şi apa caldă făcută în aceste panouri solare era trimisă prin pompe în calorifer ca să încălzească casa şi erau trimise şi pentru consum la robinet.

Prin 1975 le-am făcut o serie de alte proiecte care mi-au făcut plăcere foarte mare dar care nu au fost din păcate executate pentru că costau destul de scump. Acestea erau făcute ca proiecte tip şi pentru anumite oraşe trebuia să aibă o expresie locală. Se făcea un proiect pentru un anumit oraş, secretarul de partid al oraşului sau al judeţului avea un cuvânt greu de spus şi prefera să dea să facă acest proiect organizaţiei de proiectare din acel oraş sau din acel judeţ. Cam asta a fost, mi-a făcut plăcere pentru că  nu erau clădiri mari, clădiri importante dar mi-au plăcut. Am intrat ca simplu proiectant în acest institut şi până la sfârşit am ajuns şef de proiect la proiecte importante. Nu pot să spun ce aventuri am avut ca şef de proiect, că eu întotdeauna am avut fel de fel de aventuri.

Am făcut o deplasare [în anii 1950] cu o doamnă la Piteşti şi când m-am întors de la Piteşti în Bucureşti, am găsit un copil în tren. Într-una din staţii se urca o ţărancă, îmbrăcată foarte frumos cu un copil în braţe şi cu un bagajel. Şi se urcă unde erau trei locuri. M-am dat mai într-o parte, ca să-i fac loc şi a pus copilul pe locul care era liber şi a ieşit acolo. Am aşteptat să vie cu bagajele şi văd că pleacă trenul şi ea nu vine şi eu zic Probabil e pe platformă cu bagajele şi vine îndată. Colega mea zicea : “Să ştii că ne-a lăsat copilul aici şi a plecat.- Cum o să-l lase tu? Gândeşti că o mamă o să-şi lase copilul şi o să plece. Te pomeneşti că asta îşi rupe părul din cap că  a scăpat trenul. Să tragem semnalul de alarmă, să oprim trenu“l. În sfârşit după multe investigaţii am alarmat pe toată lumea era alarmată şi a venit conductorul. Zice: “Nu pot să opresc trenul pentru chestia asta. La prima staţie o să mă dau jos din tren, telefonam pe linia gării şi dacă găsim pe mamă acolo atuncea o să coborâm copilul. Trenul o să plece mai departe, îl lăsăm la gară şi să vină mama să ia copilul“. La prima gară se opreşte trenul, se duce conductorul la gară şi noi aşteptam, aşteptam, aşteptam. Nu se mişca nimeni. Vine conductorul înapoi. Zice: “Domnule, nu e, nu s-a găsit mama şi noi trebuie să plecăm. Dumneavoastră sunteţi anunţaţi în Gara de Nord că trebuie să veniţi cu copilul, dumneavoastră trebuie să aveţi grijă de copil, o să-l predaţi la jandarmeria din Gara de Nord“. Colega mea zice: “Eu plec şi lasă-mă în pace !“. Între timp merge trenul, noi mai legănam puţin copilul. Era cuminte săracul de el şi era un băieţel foarte drăguţ. A aflat lumea din tren că exista un copil şi au venit, au început să curgă ofertele. Dă-mi-l mie, eu am nevoie de un copil, cutare, cutare. Uite, eu sunt cutare. “Cum să ţi-l dau? Pe mine mă aşteaptă în Gara de Nord jandarmeria, eu trebuie să-l predau acolo, nu pot să ţi-l dau, ce e copilul meu? Păi, mergem noi. Veniţi în Gara de nord şi spune-ţi ce vreţi, înţelegi? “ Colega mea era foarte alertată. Când ajung în Gara de Nord, mă aşteptau la vagonul meu, la coborâre trei jandarmi înarmaţi. Şi pe mine şi pe colega mea ne băga la mijloc întâi, unul la spate, doi în faţă, aşa coloana toată, ne duce la jandarmeria din Gara de Nord. La biroul jandarmeriei se prezintă o doică de la «Mama şi copilul» [Organizaţie de protecţie a mamei şi copilului] şi se face un proces verbal: Declarăm, ca în staţia cutare s-a urcat cutare, cutare. Să confirmăm amândoi că este aşa. Eu mă duc şi dau un telefon la nevastă mea şi o întreb: „Putem să luăm încă un copil? Dacă eu mă duc acum să optez, aştia îmi dau copilul, eşti de acord?„ N-a fost de acord, dacă era de acord aveam azi un băiat mai mic.

Am avut multe aventuri la birou. Eu eram membru de partid şi mi s-a dat să fiu cu Gazeta de perete, unde era criticată secretara de partid, al cărei frate era în Comitetul Central. Eu eram şeful Gazetei de perete [Notă: Un avizier unde erau expuse diferite materiale propagandistice, fruntaşii în munca socialistă, critica exemplelor negative, etc.] şi mă trăgea la răspundere: “Cetăţene pentru ce te-a trimis Partidul acolo?“ Altădată îl criticam pe director. Directorul nostru mergea mai mult prin străinătate, nu prea venea în atelier să dirijeze proiectanţii, şi a apărut un articol cu o caricatură a lui în care scria N’y vue n’y connue [N-am văzut, nici nu cunosc]. Şi eu eram responsabil pentru treaba asta. Nu ştiu câte aventuri am avut, mă mir că nu m-a dat afară din partid. Tot felul de boacăne făceam.

În 1968 am fost la Paris şi în 1968 au intrat trupele sovietice în Cehoslovacia [Notă: Domul Streja se refera la Primăvara de la Praga], şi fratele meu a spus: “O să fie război“. Ceauşescu , imediat a ţinut o cuvântare în care a arătat că e împotriva intrării trupelor sovietice în România. Şi fratele meu a zis să rămân la Paris, să nu mă mai întorc şi el îmi aranjează să am o situaţie legală la Paris, refugiat din România comunistă. Puteam să fac asta. “Să las pe nevastă-mea cu copilul în România? Domnule, eu nu pot să-mi părăsesc familia, trebuie să mă întorc“. M-am întors, aveam viză pentru o anumită perioadă. În tren am mers cu vagonul de dormit şi nu era nimeni în tot vagonul de dormit, eram singur…şi tot trenul era cam gol, nu se întorcea nimeni în România de frica războiului. Am venit înapoi, nu mi-a părut rau. Ni se controlau bagajele de sus până jos, eram controlaţi extraordinar la plecare [din România] şi am avut foarte multe neplăceri. Desfăceau toate bagajele de sus până jos, să nu iau tablouri, opere de artă, bijuterii, bani. N-aveam voie să plec cu bani, îmi dădea voie să plec cu zece dolari, cu şase lei dolarul, ce puteam eu să trăiesc cu zece dolari?

Când a fost cutremurul din 1977, Europa Liberă  a transmis o emisiune în care spune că doamna Letzler din Statele Unite vrea să ştie de rudele ei din România, ce se întâmplă. Eu lucram la o întreprindere de stat comunistă, eram membru de partid şi americanii erau imperialişti, duşmanii poporului. Mă întâlnesc cu colegii mei şi spuneau: Europa Liberă, te caută Europa Liberă. Atunci această căutare de către Europa Liberă era un pericol, pe mine, membru de partid, lucrând într-o întreprindere de stat, şef de atelier. Organizaţia de partid m-a întrebat "Ce-i asta dom’le, te caută pe dumneata Europa Liberă? "Nu m-a tras la răspundere, dar a doua zi am primit un telefon de la Europa Liberă " Aici Redacţia Europa Liberă, cunoaşte-ţi anunţul care s-a făcut, aţi auzit? ", cu nevastă-mea a vorbit. Nevastă-mea: "Nu, nu cunosc. -Vi-l punem noi, acuma, că l-am înregistrat". Nevastă-mea zice: " Nu, nu-i nevoie". Şi după aceea, Europa Liberă probabil i-a transmis ei asta, şi ea se adresează din nou la Europa Liberă şi spune "vă rugăm foarte mult să nu-i mai transmite-ţi că poate să-i dăuneze". Europa Liberă transmite din nou "Doamna Letzler ne-a rugat ca să nu mai transmitem ca poate să-i dăuneze", iar vin aştia. Ascultam Europa Liberă în secret şi discutam ce se întâmplă în Europa Liberă, dar discutam şi despre cărţi şi despre toate problemele intelectuale care erau atuncea. Eram abonaţi la reviste de cultură care apăreau în România  şi cumpăram cărţi.

În comunism, viaţa intelectuală românească nu era proastă, erau scriitori valoroşi, erau piese de teatru, erau actori valoroşi şi noi aveam acces la toate manifestările culturale. Afară de activitatea profesională, în care la început mi se băgase pe gât arhitectura sovietică, eram abonat la nişte reviste, Arhitectura CCCP, în limba rusă în care eu nu înţelegeam nimic. Aveam în bibliotecă cărţi de arhitectură, pe vremea aia aveam istoria arhiecturii scrisă de sovietici şi tradusă în română, dar pe care acuma am vândut-o fiindcă nu mai face două parale. În casa noastră era literatură românească, literatura străină: franceză, engleză – soţia mea a învăţat şi germană, engleză şi franceză din liceu. Eu am învăţat engleza foarte târziu când eram de şaizeci de ani. Aveam literatură în special franceză, pentru că în timpul comunismului se făceau multe traduceri din literatură străină, editura era rusească dar traducerea era română. Eram în legatură cu fratele meu şi cu sora mea care ne trimiteau cărţi.

Unde am stat noi, pe strada Legislator, astăzi nu mai există. E zona în care s-a făcut Bulevardul [Victoria] Socialismului. [Notă: Actualmente Bulevardul Unirii. La ordinul lui Ceauşescu s-a distrus o porţiune de 4,5 kilometri din centrul istoric al capitalei, ca perspectiva de la Casa Poporului, a doua clădire ca mărime din lume după Pentagon,  să fie monumentală. Ironic pe acest bulevard se află astăzi majoritatea băncilor şi marilor concerne capitaliste.] Acolo era punctul de intersecţie al Căii Dudeşti cu Calea Văcăreşti, nu mai există nimic, s-a ras complet şi s-a făcut altceva. Demolarea [sistematică] 6 s-a făcut după ce a murit tatăl meu – tata a murit în anii 1970 –, foarte târziu în 1985-1986. Mama mea a locuit acolo până la cutremurul din 1977 şi pe urmă  a locuit la mine. Unde am stat noi [Str. Nicolae Golescu 20] a fost dărâmat parţial de cutremur, Ceauşescu a făcut aşa cu mâna, nu s-a ştiut ce înseamnă asta şi s-a demolat numai trei etaje de deasupra şi noi care eram la etajul întai am rămas acolo, fără acoperiş, fără etajele superioare. A plouat acolo, noi a trebuit să stăm într-un cămin studenţesc. Din căminul studenţesc ni s-a dat o casă în Drumul Taberei, că de acolo vedeam câmpul şi oile cum pasc. Şi pe urmă s-a pus acoperiş la casa unde am stat, în Nicolae Golescu şi am avut dreptul să ne mutăm înapoi dacă vrem. Şi ne-am mutat înapoi şi de acolo, am reuşit să ne mutăm în casa în care stăm astăzi, central, făcând un schimb de locuinţă în vremea comunismului.

La naşterea statului Israel [1948] bineînţeles am fost nemaipomenit de entuziasmat, şi o socotesc şi acum şi atunci că a fost o minune. O adevărată minune şi sunt în admiraţie pentru poporul evreu. Pentru că atunci când s-a făcut împărţirea Palestinei între evrei şi palestinieni, evreii deşi era o situaţie, împărţire foarte dezavantajoasă, statul evreu era despărţit foarte prost. Era făcut în aşa fel încât viitoare conflicte erau de prevăzut, dar evreii au acceptat orice fel de împărţire fiindcă era o renaştere a statului evreu, un punct politic. M-am gândit să emigrez în Israel, dar eu aveam părinţii aici, bătrâni, pe care mă simţeam obligat să-i întreţin, nu puteam să plec cu părinţii într-un stat nou format. Nu puteam să ne lăsăm şi părinţii sora ei era la Editura Politică, o dădea afară cât ai zice peşte. La războaiele din 1967 şi 1973 din Israel, eram cu sufletul la gură, dar rezultatul a fost destul de bun. Noi avem rude în Israel. Soţia mea are rude apropiate, toate verişoarele sunt în Israel. Am ţinut legătura, pe vremea aia nu prea puteam să telefonăm dar primeam şi trimiteam scrisori în continuu şi ne interesam de toate evenimentele, ascultam la Europa Liberă. Am fost împreună cu soţia prin 1980 în Ierusalim, în Tel Aviv, în Haifa, unde avem prieteni şi rude. Am fost de fapt să ne vedem rudele, dar am vizitat mare parte din Israel.

Mama a murit în 1982. Părinţii mei sunt înmormântaţi la cimitirul [evreiesc] Giurgiului. La înmormântare a participat un cantor obişnuit, nu un rabin. Eu spun Kadiş pentru comemorare, îmi amintesc de părinţii mei care au avut grijă de mine, mergem la cimitir.

În jurul anilor 1980 am fost în Moscova, în Leningrad [Sankt Petersburg]. În Moscova am fost de mai multe ori, am fost şi cu Uniunea Arhitecţilor, organizat de arhitecţi şi am fost şi cu Trenul prieteniei. „Trenul prieteniei” era organizat de  asociaţia de prietenie România-Uniunea Sovietică, o excursie. Am stat şi la Moscova şi la Chişinău, am trecut prin Transnistria, Transnistria atuncea era înarmată, era în război cu Moldova, era un război pur şi simplu. Am avut emoţii că trenul ăsta să nu aibă ceva de suferit. Am trecut prin Ungaria şi prin Cehoslovacia. Pe urmă am fost de mai multe ori la Paris, la Düsseldorf, în Germania, am fost pe urmă în Italia. Soţia mea a vizitat mai mult, a vizitat mai mult din Italia, eu am vizitat mai puţin, la Venezia, la Milano şi la Florenţa. Am fost pe Coasta de Azur, de la Paris am plecat în excursie, am vizitat cu un prieten de al meu Belgia, pentru că el era belgian. Pe urmă am fost în America, în Statele Unite, nu prea des, nu am fost în multe oraşe, la Washington, pe coasta de est. În Statele Unite am fost de mai multe ori, soţia mea a stat nouă luni de zile ca să îngrijească de prima fată şi pe urmă am stat trei luni de a doua fetiţă, am fost împreună trei luni de zile, dar ea a stat nouă luni şi mie nu mi-a dat voie, „Să se întoarcă întâi soţia şi pe urmă pleci”. Am fost şi în Canada de câteva ori. Adică am circulat destul de mult împreună cu soţia.

Eu nu mi-am închipuit că în România o să dispară Ceauşescu, când se făceau nişte manifestări nemaipomenite [manifestaţii cu ocazia zilei de 1 mai, de 23 august, cu ocazia vizitelor oficiale ale unor demnitari din străinătate etc.]. Ajunseseră aceste manifestări să fie formale şi oamenii participau obligaţi şi nu numai obligaţi, trebuia să semnezi. Eu eram şef de atelier atuncea şi trebuia să trimit pe oameni, trebuia să fac listă cine a fost, cine este prezent acolo. Şi pe urmă când se făceau manifestaţii nu aveai voie să fii cu o geantă sau cu o sacoşă, îi era frică lui Ceauşescu că se aruncă cu o bombă sau ceva. Din punct de vedere economic, era o criză nemaipomenită în industrie, nu se putea face planul pentru că nu existau resurse şi oamenii nu primeau salariile că nu s-a făcut planul. Era o situaţie nenorocită din toate punctele de vedere, dar nu mi-am închipuit cum o să se petreacă chestia asta. Şi a fost o surpriză nemaipomenită. Eram în Bucureşti şi când Ceauşescu a ţinut discursul în Piaţa Palatului [astăzi Piaţa Revoluţiei], m-am dus şi eu să ascult şi m-am dus chiar aproape, să aud ce spune. La un moment dat când a fost îmbulzeala asta mare am plecat şi eu m-am dus pe străzi şi pe străzi. Au fost împuşcături şi lumea a plecat, a fugit. Pe urmă eu am ieşit tot timpul şi se trăgea, chiar în blocul nostru s-a tras [domnul Streja locuieşte foarte aproape de zona Pieţii Palatului]. Am văzut tot ce s-a întâmplat, afară era armată, se păzea chiar la uşa noastră şi ceream voie să trec. “Dă-i, domne, drumul că trebuie să cumpere o pâine!”. [La revoluţia din 1989] au venit să-mi ofere arme ca să păzesc, dar nu mi-a dat voie nevastă-mea, cică „ăsta e nebun, umblă pe stradă şi se trage”. Eu umblam, ieşeam afară tot timpul. Nu-mi era frică, nevastă-mea era foarte fricoasă [din cauza mea], că mie nu-mi era frică. Când au fost minerii 7, au venit la noi pe terasă, adică eu am trăit toate lucrurile astea în centrul manifestaţiilor.

Am văzut magazinul Unic a început să dea alimente la oameni cu nişte preţuri mici, ca să fie alimentaţi cu pâine cu ce avea în magazin. Magazinul era pe bulevardul Bălcescu, unde e şi acuma, dar era un magazin mare. Pe urmă a apărut Informaţia, primul ziar al revoluţiei. L-am cumpărat şi l-am păstrat. Pe urmă a apărut România liberă, Liberalul, s-a manifestat partidul liberal, cu care eu nu prea am fost de acord, fiindcă publica o poezie a lui Nichifor Crainic. Nichifor Crainic a fost un poet care era extremist de dreapta ce să mai vorbim, a fost colaborator la nişte reviste legionare. Un partid cu tradiţie liberală nu poţi să publici în primul tău număr o poezie de Nichifor Crainic. [Notă: Nichifor Crainic (1889-1972), eseist şi poet. A absolvit studii de specialitate în filozofie şi teologie la Viena. Este principalul doctrinar al ortodoxismului gândirist, antisemit şi xenofob.]

M-am bucurat de libertatea nemaipomenită care dintr-o dată s-a dat voie să plece toată lumea din ţară, rudele din străinătate ne-au căutat şi am început să vorbim la telefon. După 1989 eu eram pensionar şi în această situaţie s-a schimbat foarte mult din punct de vedere al libertăţii. Acuma când am avut orizont intelectual şi moral deschis mi s-a părut o mare binefacere, deci asta am apreciat eu foarte mult la acestă revoluţie, nu avantajele materiale. Pot să plec în străinătate, pot să ascult radio, să văd televiziune. Că această libertate are şi părţi negative, asta este implicit, atunci când eşti dirijat nu mai ai nici un fel de responsabilitate, dar când eşti liber începi să capeţi şi nişte responsabilităţi.

Din cauza pensionării, am avut timp liber şi am devenit mai evreu decât am fost vreodată acuma la bătrâneţe, mai evreu decât unii care se duc la sinagogă ziua şi noaptea. Acuma am legături foarte strânse cu comunitatea pentru că mă interesează foarte mult situaţia comunităţii din toate punctele de vedere. Pe mine mă afectează direct toate evenimentele pozitive pe care le promovează comunitatea, asistenţă socială, continuarea activităţii religioase în temple, sinagogi, cultura evreiască care este reflectată şi în muzeu. Comunitatea asta întreţine şi restaurant caşer şi asistenţă medicală şi asistenţă pentru internări în spital şi o serie de lucruri şi operaţiile astea la ochi care le face şi pentru oameni care nu sunt evrei şi pentru că faptul că ţine legături cu statul în departamentul minorităţilor, în parlament, adică are o serie întreagă de activităţi, legături cu străinătatea, cu organizaţiile mondiale. Face nişte lucruri incredibil pentru o comunitate care grupează maxim 8.000 de evrei, 8.000 sunt foarte generos pentru că statistica arată 5-6.000. Deci, sunt înmărmurit de toate faptele pozitive,  cum este muzeul: Memorialul Martirilor [Evrei “Moses Rosen”].

Sunt afectat şi de toate lucrurile negative. Un lucru negativ care mă afectează, acum de curând este că ne-a părăsit [a plecat] rabinul Glanz. Că ne-a părăsit nu-i nimic dar am rămas chiar fără rabin. Şi pentru mine, eu frecventez cu interes vinerea seară la Templul Coral, nu înţeleg  ivrit, citesc traducerea rugăciunilor, pentru mine erau comentariile de la pericopa săptămânii. Îl apreciam extraordinar pe rabinul Hacohen, care are un dar al povestirii foarte pregnant literar, un dar al povestirii ca şi cum el a fost acolo, pentru că povesteşte ce au simţit evreii, cum au vorbit evreii cu Aaron şi să-l întrebe ce facem acuma dacă n-a venit Moise în patruzeci de zile, cum au fost îngrijoraţi. Acuma fiind părăsiţi de aceşti oameni şi pe mine mă afectează. Am fost la două trei sărbătoriri ale sâmbetei de vineri seară şi au fost nişte comentarii care nu m-au satisfăcut deloc. O dată a fost un ţadic, care se ocupă cu Tora, care studiază iudaismul. Nu ştiu în ce stadiu a ajuns, dacă învaţă de un an, de doi, de şapte, dar era îmbrăcat în caftan şi cu o pălărie neagră şi a spus câteva cuvinte despre pericopa săptămânii, care nu m-au satisfăcut deloc.

Sunt implicat şi aicea [la Sinagoga Mare, ca ghid al muzeului Memorialul Martirilor Evrei ”Moses Rosen”] şi înţeleg pe fiecare evreu care chiar dacă a scăpat [din Holocaust], este marcat toată viaţa de aceste lucruri. Eu am suferit nimica toată în comparaţie cu ei, am fost la muncă obligatorie, nu am fost deportat, dar sufăr pentru fiecare evreu care a fost deportat, care a murit în această perioadă. Consider că Holocaustul nu este o ardere  de viu, sau o ardere completă, este o perioadă istorică care se întinde de la 1930 la 1945, nu 1940-1944, asta este părerea mea. În Holocaust e adevărat că au murit 6 milioane de evrei dar au murit şi alţi oameni care nu erau evrei şi pentru care evreii trebuie să ţină minte şi să se roage pentru milioane de ţigani şi nu se ştie nici azi câte milioane de polonezi sau alte „naţiuni inferioare”.

Glosar:

Meyer Goldstein
Kiev
Ukraine
Interviewer: Zhanna Litinskya

Growing up
Our religious life
My school years
Continuing my studies
During the war
Post-war

Growing up

I was born on December 5, 1916, in the town of Korsoun-Shevchenkovsky, formerly in the Kiev province and currently in the Cherkassy region. Back in 1916 this town was called simply Korsoun.
The name of my mother’s father was Ariy Voskov; my grandmother’s name was Feiga. My grandparents came from Taganchi, a small Jewish town not far from Korsoun. At the end of the 19th century, after a pogrom, those who could flee, fled. My grandparents fled, too. Their first daughter had just been born, but on their way she caught cold and died. After that, in 1895, my mother, Sonya Voskova, was born in Korsoun.
In 1898, her sister Ita was born, then Vekha in 1902, Esther in 1907, Golda in 1909, and brother Munya in 1912.
Munya was a very gifted musician. All the girls received only junior education. Under Soviet rule, my mother, Vekha, and Golda worked in an artel of handicraftsmen as confectioners.  Later, Vekha married a printing plant worker and went to live with him in Cherkassy. Before the war Golda left for Kiev and worked in a newspaper. Ita lived in Korsoun. 
I grew up practically without a father, because soon after my birth, my father got ill, and then died when I was three months old. He got gangrene; his leg was amputated.
My father, Isaac Goldstein, was a confectioner. He worked under somebody else. He did not have his own business. He had no education. My mother told me that he was a religious man who went to synagogue, kept holidays and traditions, and prayed.
My father had brothers. His oldest brother Leib was a tailor. His second brother Menakhem was also a confectioner. My father was the third brother, while the fourth brother, whose name I don’t know, moved to America in approximately 1916. He died there in 1941, leaving a fortune in inheritance. In America he was a lawyer.
I never knew my father’s father. He was already dead when I was born. My father’s mother Rukhlya was alive and lived with her middle son Menakhem in Korsoun. They had no house of their own, but rented a tiny flat. The flat had only two little rooms. The first was occupied by my grandmother, while Menakhem and his wife Lea slept in the second one, which was bigger. I don’t remember that flat very well because I was there only several times when I was very young.
My grandfather Ariy Voskov became a father to me. My mother and I lived in his family, and I, just like other children, called him “father.” He made hats. He had a lot of orders, but we were poor, very poor, because not many people paid for his work. We never had a house of our own, we always rented. We often moved from house to house trying to find something cheaper. Usually we rented poorly furnished, cheerless flats with iron beds. All our family usually lived in two rooms. My grandfather would work in one of these rooms. I remember big wooden models, on which he pulled hats and great irons in our house. Grandmother did all the work around the house, cooked, cleaned, and raised children. She worked from early morning to late at night. She had to feed everyone, bring water from the yard, heat the oven, clean the rooms. Salaries were low and we did our best to survive. I remember when I was in the third grade stores began to sell very cheap toy pistols. Three days I spent crying before my mother. I will always remember it. I cried and begged her to buy one for me. But she… it’s not that she did not love me, but we were so poor… that thing cost 20 or 50 kopecks, but she could not tear this money away from the family. Those were Soviet times already, and my mother was working at the “Red Confectioner” artel. Her sister Esther also worked there.
When I was three or four years old there was a pogrom in Steblev, not far from Korsoun. Gangs would burst into Jewish houses, kill men and rape women. I did not understand what a pogrom was then, but later I understood it, when I saw how one woman was raped. Later she lived not far from us. She never got married and she had mental problems afterwards. During the pogrom my mother took me and fled from the town, together with one of her sisters.
My grandfather, Ariy Voskov, was a very religious man. Every day, morning and evening, he went to the synagogue. He put on his taleth and tefillin. No matter whether it was a work day or a day off, every morning and evening he spent in the synagogue.

Our religious life

We celebrated all religious holidays at home. I remember Passover. We brought all crockery down from the attic, and we always had very nice kosher crockery. All the family would sit around the table, and we cooked everything that had to be cooked according to the Hagaddah: eggs, one potato each, fish, chicken, horseradish, and matzos. Grandfather would lead the seder. This holiday I remember, but I don’t remember any other holidays.
As far as I remember, around 90 percent of families in Korsoun were Jewish. Two streets crossed downtown: Shevchenko and Lenin Streets. On one side there was the Ros River; over the river was a machine building plant, and dye-works. Then there were the smithies. The blacksmiths were all Jewish.
Most Jews in the town were craftsmen and traders. Craftsmen included tailors, hatters, shoemakers, roofers, and balaguls, those who had horses and carts, and took people to and from the train station, which was about five kilometers away from Korsoun. During Soviet times, all handicraftsmen united into an association called Shveinik, meaning “sewing industry worker.” All of Shveinik’s members were Jewish. This artel included my mother’s sisters Vekha and Golda as well as many other people whom I knew. Moshka Ocheretik was a craftsman. He led the self-defense unit of the Jews who defended the population from gangs during the Civil War.  Jews were all on friendly terms. They helped each other and defended themselves. And the Jews of Korsoun had good relations with Ukrainians. Many Ukrainians even spoke Yiddish as well as their native language.
The central streets of Korsoun had stone paving. In the very center of the town there was a market place and a big square with four synagogues. The largest synagogue was beautiful, made of stone, with nice big entrance over the steps. I remember it very well because my grandfather would go there and take me with him. On the first floor, where all the men stayed, there was a big hall with wooden benches. At that time I did not understand what those people and my grandfather were reading, and I was not interested in it. My mother and her sisters would go up to the second floor, but they went to synagogue only on holidays. There were three more synagogues in the town, but we never went there, so I don’t remember what they looked like.
Another picturesque area was Pomestiye, located on two islands on the Ros. There was a beautiful castle there, and waterfalls. There was also a very nice church. I still remember the sound of its bells and can sing it to you. For instance, when the service began, the small bell started – bong-bong-bong. Then, Bong! went the big bell. The church was very close to our house and I remember exactly what the bells sounded like. I can tell you for sure that I liked this church more than the synagogue then.
But in 1932 this church was ruined by order of the communists, because the country began to persecute religions.
And synagogues were closed down. Only one was left. Our synagogue, the most beautiful one, became a youth club, where youth and Komsomol members got together for their meetings. A Jew named Boguslavsky was its director. The second synagogue became a sewing workshop, and the third one simply stood empty. The smallest synagogue remained functioning. I don’t remember any manifestations of anti-Semitism in those years; it was the general state policy to close down all religious buildings. I remember it very well because I was 16 years old at that time. 

My school years

I was attending a seven-year Jewish school. All the subjects in it were taught in Yiddish. Most of all I liked mathematics and physics – I liked both subjects and their teachers. We also learned the Ukrainian language and literature, and the German language. Teachers of the Ukrainian language and literature were Ukrainians, while the rest of teachers were Jewish. It was a secular school for Jewish children, for whom Yiddish was the native language. We had no special Jewish subjects at all; Yiddish was simply the language of instruction.
I remember the major Soviet holidays: May 1, October Revolution, Paris Commune Day. On those days we went out to demonstrations together with adults, carried red flags, and enjoyed it very much. My grandfather Ariy never welcomed the revolution. He never celebrated any holidays except the Jewish ones. My mother and her sisters, like most Jews of their generation, were quickly assimilated and joyfully received the new order, believing in the Communist ideas. During the war my mother joined the Communist Party.
When I was in the fourth grade I joined the young pioneers. But my grandfather wanted me to attend the rabbi’s classes! So, I attended the rabbi’s classes at his house. Well, you know, we would sit at the rabbi’s, he would read to us and we would repeat after him. Later the rabbi complained to my grandfather about me, because I once met him in the street and saluted him! I saluted a rabbi like a communist pioneer! The rabbi got very upset and told my grandfather, who became indignant with me. But still, I remembered some of what the rabbi taught us. So, I knew Yiddish but never learned Hebrew very well.
At school I got very interested in electricity. All the lamps, chandeliers, and sconces that you see here in this room were made by me. I had always wanted to become an electrical engineer

Continuing my studies

I never thought I would become a teacher, but my fate went such a way that I found myself in the teacher’s institute. It happened so that after graduation from the seventh grade we all went to Nikolayev to continue our studies. There were eight of us, all Jews, five boys and three girls. In Nikolayev there was a Factory Plant College at the Andre Martie Plant, which today is a shipbuilding plant. We lived in a dormitory. There were five people in our room. There was one toilet and one kitchen for the whole dormitory, where lived a total of approximately 60 people. We lived well, trying to help one another and our families. It was a military plant and we received good portions of food there. On top of our meals in the canteen, we also received bread cards to buy one and a half or two kilos of bread a day. So five of us put these cards together and sent our bread to one family a week, in turns. This way I helped my mother to survive, because by then it was 1933, the year a famine was artificially created by the government.
Life was very hard, especially in villages. Young Ukrainians would go to the cities every morning to look for jobs to somehow feed their families and survive. Everyone’s life was hard.
Among my friends in Nikolayev was a girl, Anya Yakobson. We came from Korsoun together. I always cared for her, all my life. We were friends, then we dated…. One of her relatives from Nikolayev said that the Odessa Pedagogical Institute lacked students and we could try and enter it. So the whole group of us left Nikolayev for Odessa. We had nothing when we left. We did not even take our documents from the College.
In Odessa we were told that we could not be accepted without documents, so we were sent to the Worker’s Department (an institution of learning created by the Soviet authorities for youth without full school education). There we had exams. Only one other boy, Izya Kotlyar, and I passed those exams and were accepted to the third year, while the rest had to go home. In 1934 he and I studied at the Workers’ Department and then transferred to the Odessa Pedagogical Institute. I chose physics and mathematics because I liked them and also because at our school we had studied in Yiddish, so we did not know other languages well enough. We lived in a dormitory and were paid scholarship, but it was not enough. It was thirty rubles plus some kopecks. That is why, even though I was a Komsomol member then, I did no public work. I was never an active Komsomol member, I simply had no time for that. I worked at a bread store: at night I would bake bread, and during the day I would study at the Institute.
In our dormitory there were young people of various nationalities from different places – Russians, Ukrainians, Tatars, et cetera. I was on good terms with all of them. We never divided people by nationalities. Life was hard for everyone.
At that time arrests and what became known as the Stalinist arrests and show trials began. My mother’s brother Munya served in the army leading an orchestra, for he was a very gifted musician. But he lacked self-control. Once he did not like the food they were given and said so.  He was arrested. That’s all. He disappeared. We could not inquire about his fate. No one would answer such questions.
In the beginning of 1939 I graduated from the Institute. I was sent to the town of Pikov, a Jewish town in the Vinnitsa region. Then in the fall of that year, the Germans captured Poland, and our troops entered the Baltic countries and western Ukraine. The country was on the verge of war, but few realized it.

During the war

I was summoned to the military registration and enlistment office. They sent me home, to Korsoun, and ordered to wait for a call-up. So at the end of November we were taken to the Leningrad military district. The Finnish War began.
We found ourselves in barracks in Gatchin. It was extremely cold, about 50 degrees Centigrade below zero. All we had were summer uniforms. We had three-story plank beds. There were so many people that at night we could turn only on order. In the morning all of us were taken outside for physical exercises. Many of us were from the South and were not used to cold. So the second day many got sick, including me.
Relations in the army were friendly. Nobody offended me as a Jew. On our way there in the train some people laughed and made Jewish jokes, teasing me, but in my military unit nobody did that. I was respected.
I was put in a signalers’ platoon. One day we were walking, choosing observation posts. A lance corporal was walking in front of me. We had to follow a narrow path because everything around us was mined. He was must have been distracted by something because he stepped to one side. Immediately there was a terrible explosion. I ran to him and saw that he lost his leg completely. That was the end of his fighting. He was rushed into hospital and I heard nothing else about him. There were many victims in the Finnish War.
After the end of the Finnish War our division was sent to Tbilisi. The year was 1940.
I worked at the headquarters because I dealt with communications. It was May 1941. Since I had higher education, they offered to let me prepare and become an officer. They planned to make me a junior lieutenant and transfer me to the reserve. So on Saturday, June 21, 1941, I passed my exams for lieutenancy. And on Sunday, June 22, when we were at the training range, the Second World War began. We were put on platforms and taken to Makhachkala. There we were stationed for all of 1941 and almost all of 1942. I was lucky there, I got in touch with my mother. She was in Yangiyul in evacuation, and she got married there. She had known her second husband, Shlyoma Sklyar, even before the war, because they had worked together as confectioners. On their way to evacuation his wife died on the train, and my mother became his close friend.
Many people could not survive evacuation to the east. My mother’s sister Ita was in evacuation together with her in Yangiyul, and there she died from cold and starvation. Her sister Vekha got married before the war and lived outside Cherkassy. She had a daughter. During evacuation they ended up somewhere else far away, and the girl was run over by a car in front of her mother. Vekha’s husband could not live through that and committed suicide, so Vekha was left alone.
Esther was in Magnitogorsk, working at the canteen of a military plant.
For women, evacuation was extremely hard to bear. They worked for themselves, for their brothers, for their husbands, and devoted everything to the soldiers. They did not eat enough or sleep enough. Coming from the south of Ukraine, they froze in Siberia, but they did everything in their power to advance our victory.
Golda, my mother’s youngest sister, had the best education. Before the war she was an active Komsomol member. She worked in a Komsomol newspaper in Kiev. In evacuation she ended up in Sverdlovsk, caught cold and died there.
Almost all of my relatives were evacuated to the east. Only my father’s brother Menakhem and his wife did not want to be evacuated for some reason. Later, when the Germans were very close, he, his wife Lea and my grandmother Rukhlya went to Krasnodar. My grandmother died on the train and was buried right there by the railway. Menakhem and Lea lived for about six months in Krasnodar before the Germans entered, gathered all the local Jews and those who had fled there, thinking they had gone far enough, and shot them.
I don’t know about the rest. Izya Kotlyar also fought and survived. I don’t know where he is now. And I lost my Anya Yakobson during the war, I lost all trace of her, ah.…
My mother’s parents had died before the war.
My mother came to me in Makhachkala. I found a flat for her. When she came, Regiment Commander Damayev, who came from a famous Russian family of actors and who treated me very well, helped get food for her. Later, when the Germans began to bomb Makhachkala, I sent my mother away. I took her to the port and sent her away because we already knew by that time that the fascists killed Jews. However, the Germans never occupied Makhachkala.
We began to fight from Gudermes, the second largest city in Chechnya. The Germans had already occupied the Northern Caucasus, Krasnodar and Rostov, and reached Terek. And we began to take part in military actions in Gudermes. When we arrived there, the city was empty, there were no locals at all. Some locals, those who showed hostility towards the Russians, had been moved out by the authorities. But most of them went into the mountains.
From Gudermes I began to move westward with my regiment. We liberated Taman, then the south of Ukraine, Berislav (our division was called “Berislav”), Kakhovka, and many other cities and towns. We already knew about ghettos in the cities, about Jews being shot, about death camps. And right before the Soviet troops came into Nikolayev, which was close to my heart because I studied there, the Germans gathered all the young people so that they would not go to the Soviet Army. They told them they would be sent to Germany, and they shot them all at the train station. When we entered the city, they were lying there, all dead.
In general, there were no divisions between Jews and non-Jews or other nationalities during the war. In my regiment, the Battery Commander was Berdichevsky. The chief of the medical unit was Gleiman, and his assistant was a Jewish woman from Leningrad. She now lives in Israel. But in the headquarters I was the only Jew.
All were equal at war. All were in trenches, all were equally cold, lacked food, slept where they could and when they could, only in breaks between fights. We all wrote letters home and we were all killed equally, no matter what nationalities we belonged to.
Then we liberated all the capitals – Belgrade, Budapest, Vienna, and Prague. We ended the war in Prague and celebrated victory there. From there we were put on trains and sent to the Far East to fight against the Japanese.
The war ended, but they did not let me leave the army. My regiment commissar summoned me and said, “You will not be transferred to the reserves until you join the Communist Party.” So they forced me to do it. I was not ready to. In April 1946 I joined the Party, and in June I was demobilized.
I came to Kiev. I was called up in Korsoun, but I wanted to go to Kiev. Since I worked in the headquarters, they forged a document for me, to make it look as if I had been called up from Kiev. My mother was in Korsoun at the time.
Every year I went to Korsoun. All the Jews there were shot during the war. The last class of the Korsoun school, children who graduated in 1941, including my great-nephew – none of them returned from war. All of them were Jewish. Some of them were killed at the front, some were shot in Korsoun, and others were reported missing.
Many Jews were shot in Korsoun. Today, their remains have been reburied in the Jewish cemetery of Korsoun. A common grave and a tomb were created with an inscription that the Jews of Korsoun were shot there. But the Germans! What they did in Korsoun! They dismantled the house Menakhem had just built to get building materials. They put their headquarters in our Jewish school, and they paved the road to it with gravestones from the Jewish cemetery. They put these stones so that the inscriptions in Hebrew could be read. There I found stones from the graves of my father and grandmother. The Germans enjoyed stepping on Jewish names.

Post-war

After the war I came to Kiev and worked as a mathematics teacher in various schools.
In 1951 I married Klara Matveyevna Zhitnitskaya, born in 1926. My wife comes from Korsoun. Our parents knew each other. Her mother, Makhlya Zhitnitskaya, was a tailor and worked in the tailors’ artel. Her family worked in Korsoun, and like all other Jewish families was assimilated, but they kept some holidays and traditions. Klara graduated from a pedagogical institute and worked as a teacher in one of the Korsoun schools.
We met during one of my visits to Korsoun. I think it was in spring. When we married it was a hard time. We did not have a Jewish wedding. Anti-Semitism was rising in our country. It had absolutely no influence on me at work. But in the streets, in lines, on public transportation, people would stare or tease. And there were articles in newspapers and pamphlets featuring typically Jewish names like “Abram Abramovich.” When you read, you immediately knew who you were reading about: if it was a Russian, his name was Ivanov, if a Ukrainian, Shevchenko; if Jewish, Abrashka, Surka or something like that. I guess the anti-Semites liked that.
By the way, my mother, who was a Party member, was summoned to the district Party committee and asked, “Why are you called Sonya? Your real name should be Sarah or Surah. You should bear your real name.” She could hardly get rid of them. Sneers continued for a long time. Not only the Jews as a nation, but also Jewish names were despised.
It was hard to find a job for the same anti-Semitic reasons. But the director of the school where I worked was very nice to me. He hired my wife as well, provided nobody would know that she was my wife. In those years, Soviet bodies of power forbade relatives to work in the same organization, especially if they were Jews. For several years we managed to conceal that we were spouses. For that reason my wife did not change her last name.
In the street people would ask me, “Where did you fight? In Tashkent?” Nobody wanted to believe then that Jews fought at the front and were killed just like the others who defended their motherland. When Stalin died, anti-Semites got quieter. But in general, anti-Semitism was always present in our country.
That is why we had no Jewish wedding. We continued to keep some Jewish traditions, but very quietly, in secret. On Passover we always had matzo at home. We bought it from the only synagogue that remained in Kiev, where people baked and sold matzo under threat of persecution. We also celebrated Hanukkah. I was born on Hanukkah, so it was a double holiday for us.
In 1952 our daughter Faina was born. We gave her a Jewish name. She was a cheerful and kind girl. She had friends of different nationalities, but she always kept her Jewish identity in mind. Immediately after graduating from school she married a Jewish boy named Ilya Kobernik. That is why she did not continue her education. She stayed at home, bringing up children and working around the house.
My wife and I continued to work at school until retirement. We have taught more than one generation of children. In 1996 my Klara died. I feel very lonely.
Despite the fact that life was hard we never thought of emigrating. My granddaughter Sveta now lives in Germany. My daughter with her husband and younger granddaughter are planning to move to her, so they are selling everything. They are leaving soon. I told them I’m not going with them. I am old and I want my remains to be buried here, in my motherland.
Times have changed now. Anti-Semitism is certainly hard to uproot. But Jewish life in Kiev and in Ukraine is very energetic now. Synagogues are working, as are Jewish cultural societies, including the Kinor Jewish community center, where I like to go.
I receive invitations from them and go to their meetings. But I don’t go to the synagogue, I’m not religious.
I receive aid from the Jewish community, from the Khesed charity center. I get food parcels, hot meals and Jewish newspapers. I like talking to old people. Basically, I’m not going to leave this land. This is all. Thank you.

    Мазал Менахем Асаел

Моите прадеди са пристигнали на Балканския полуостров след гоненията в Испания преди около пет века. Семейството на майка ми е живяло в град Ниш, който се намира в територията на Сърбия. Преселили са се в България в София в началото на 20 – ти век. Майка ми Делисия има четири сестри и двама братя като единият от братята й се е удавил в река още докато са живели в град Ниш. Всичките сестри и братя на майка ми са родени в град Ниш, където е имало голяма еврейска махала. В семейството на майка ми се е разговаряло предимно на ладино. Знаели са и сръбски език, защото са живели в Сърбия. Майка ми знаеше много песни на сръбски език и пееше много хубаво. Предполагам, че е имало някаква причина, която е накарала семейството на майка ми да се премести от град Ниш, Сърбия в София, България. Това, че единият брат на майка ми се е удавил в река при град Ниш, също може да е повлияло на решението да заминат.

Дядо ми по майчина линия Бохор Бенямин е бил майстор баничар и с това е осигурявал прехраната на семейството си. Баба ми по майчина линия Лучия Бенямин беше много добра жена и се занимаваше с домакинска работа. След като са пристигнали в София, се установяват да живеят в еврейската махала, известна под името “Ючбунар”. Тази махала се намира на запад от центъра на София и беше населена с по-бедни евреи.  По-богатите евреи в София живееха в центъра на града, а по-бедните в махала западно от центъра. Дядо ми е открил собствена баничарница на улица “Позитано” и е правил най-хубавите баници в целия квартал. Предполагам, че баниците, които е правил, са били кашерни. Имал е специално място, където ги е правил. Повечето евреи от “Ючбунар” купуваха кашерна храна. Винаги се купуваше жива кокошка и се занасяше в синагогата в махалата на улица “Осогово”, за да я заколи шохетът. Материалното състояние на семейството на майка ми не е било добро, не са имали собствена къща и затова баба ми и дядо ми са живели под наем при най-малката си дъщеря Мазал. Когато са пристигнали в София, майка ми и нейните сестри и брат са били още малки и не са били семейни. Всички създават семейства в София. Дядо ми Бохор имаше красив талет и книги на иврит, които се четяха на празници. Дядо ми Бохор беше религиозен човек и редовно ходеше на синагога.

Сестрите и брата на майка ми вече имаха семейства във времето откогато си ги спомням. Най-голямата сестра на майка ми се казва Буча и има трима сина, които живеят в Израел. Другите сестри на майка ми се казват Ленка, Мазал и Бланка, а брат й – Марко. Съпругът на Мазал, най-малката от сестрите на майка ми, беше бояджия по професия. Неговото име е Леон. Неговият баща е бил хазан в синагогата и се е ползвал с голямо уважение в квартала. Те са имали шест деца. Един от синовете им по-късно е станал герой на Израел. Ленка има две деца, които също са живели в Израел. Вуйчо ми Марко беше бръснар, а леля Бланка замина за Белград през 1939 г., където се омъжи за български евреин. По време на Холокоста е била изпратена в концлагер и там е унищожена. След нахлуването на немските войски в Сърбия не получихме повече известие от нея. Леля Бланка има един син, който сега живее в Израел. Най-малката от сестрите на майка ми е живяла на улица “Брегалница” №9 при своя съпруг, който е имал собствена къща и там за известно време е живяла баба ми и дядо ми. Останалите сестри на майка ми и брат й са живеели под наем в “Ючбунар” – еврейската махала. Един братовчед на майка ми, чието име не си спомням, тъй като съм го виждала преди 1944 г. [Годината на комунистическия преврат в България], е заминал от Сърбия за Франция, а оттам може би и за Америка и така се е спасил по времето на Втората световна война. Впоследствие нямам известия за него.

Майка ми Делисия беше фризьорка по професия. Спомням си, че вкъщи имаше специални маши, които тя е използвала при работата си. Майка ми е работила  като фризьорка преди да се омъжи. Предполагам, че тя е научила този занаят още докато е живяла в град Ниш. Тя е ходила на училище в град Ниш до четвърто отделение.

Семейството на баща ми произлиза от София. Баща ми Менахем Ешкенази има една сестра – Естер и четирима братя. Единият му брат, който се казва Леон, е заминал за Америка много млад и не сме имали повече известия от него. Друг негов брат, Израел, е заминал перз 30-те г. на 20 век за Цариград [днес – Истанбул]. Той е притежавал фабрика за конопени изделия и е бил много добре материално. Има голямо семейство с шест деца  - двама сина и четири дъщери. Единият му син, Роберт, живее в Израел, а другият, Нисим – в Англия. Най-големият брат на баща ми се казва Рахамин и беше шивач по професия. До 1943 година, преди да ни изселят от София, поддържахме непрекъсната връзка помежду си. Баба ми по бащина линия е живяла известно време в Цариград при най-малкия от братята – Израел. Фактически аз не съм я виждала никога,  защото е заминала да живее в Цариград. Дядо ми по бащина линия е починал преди баба ми да замине в Цариград при най-заможния си син.

Баща ми е роден малко след освобождението на България от турско робство и тогава не е имало еврейско училище. Предполагам, че е ходил в начално българско училище. Преди да се ожени е бил наемен работник в София. Вероятно е участвал и в Балканската война през 1912 г. в Българската армия. Баща ми е бил пленник през Първата световна война през 1918 г. Нямам информация къде точно е бил пленен.

Баща ми е бил женен първоначално за друга жена, която умира много млада. По стечение на обстоятелствата майка ми е била шаферка на неговата сватба. Майка ми Лучия и баща ми Бохор са се омъжили през 1920 г. Запознали са се фактически чрез първата съпруга на баща ми, която е познавала майка ми. Родителите ми са се венчали в синагогата. По това време не имало граждански бракове и всички евреи са се женили в синагогата. Баща ми работеше дълги години като наемен работник в магазин за плодове и зеленчуци при един наш сънародник на площад “Света Неделя” в центъра на София. Спомням си, че баща ми винаги беше много изморен вечерта след работа и ме изпращаше до близката кръчма да му взема малко мастика. Аз тайничко си близвах по малко и така до днес обичам само това питие. Преди да се омъжи, майка ми е била фризьорка, но след това се е занимавала с домакинската работа.

На улица “Позитано” в центъра на София имаше едно еврейско кафене, където баща ми ходеше в събота да играе на карти и на табла. Спомням си, че там играеха на шоколадчета и ние, малките деца, отивахме в кафенето да видим дали бащите ни са спечелили шоколадчетата, за да ни дадат от тях.

Родната ми къща се е намирала на улица “Опълченска” и представляваше една “съборетина” – тухлена постройка на два етажа, в която сме живели с още няколко семейства. Имахме електричество в къщата. Всички обитатели на къщата бяха евреи. Имали сме съседка, която ме е кърмила след като съм се родила, защото майка ми не е можела, а съседката ни по това време е имала бебе. Тази постройка вече не съществува – на нейното място е издигната нова, в която в момента живеят децата на собствениците на предишната къща.  Баба ми и дядо ми по майчина линия живееха отделно на улица “Брегалница” при малката си дъщеря. Всичките ни роднини от страна на баща ми и майка ми живееха в еврейската махала.

Колко време съм живяла в къщата на улица “Опълченска” не зная, защото сме се преместили още когато съм била много малка. До изселването ни през1943 г. сме живели на много места под наем – на улиците “Овчо поле”, “Одрин”, “Сливница”, “Найчо Цанов”. Изглежда родителите ми са били материално много затруднени и са били принудени често да сменят квартирите си. Най-дълго сме живели на улица “Одрин” на два адреса – на №55 и на №37. Тези къщи вече не съществуват, тъй като на техните места са построени големи блокове. Когато живеехме на тази улица, вече бяхме пораснали с братята ми. От там моите братя заминаваха на трудови лагери през 1940’s. На улица “Одрин” сме живели в една къща с българи, но не съм усетила лошо отношение към нас, въпреки че единият от тях беше “бранник”1. Във всички къщи сме обитавали много малко пространство, което винаги е било недостатъчно за голямото ни семейство.

В София имаше две еврейски училища – едно в центъра на града и едно в нашата махала. В централното еврейско училище учеха децата на по-заможните евреи от центъра на града. Аз посещавах това на улица “Осогово”. В тово училище всичко беше безплатно за нас. Учебниците ни бяха безплатни и дори понякога получавахме дрехи и обувки. В еврейското училище съм ходила до завършването на трети клас като преди класовете учих четири отделения в същото училище [трети клас се равнявя на седми]. В еврейското училище учихме целодневно. Преди обяд учихме по различни общообразователни  предмети на български език, а след обяд учихме същото – писане, четене и смятане, но на иврит. В по-горните класове вече учихме и еврейска история. Eдин от предметите, които изучавахме, се наричаше “Танах” [История на еврейския народ]. Изучавахме историята на еврейския народ и петокнижието на Мойсей.  Имахме и часове по религиозна подготовка като всичко се преподаваше на иврит.

От еврейското училище се организираха лагери и екскурзии. В град Берковица имаше еврейски лагер, в който ходехме на почивка. На този лагер се приемаха децата от по-бедните семейства. Моята майка дори е идвала да помага в кухнята на такива лагери, за да може да отидем и двамата с брат ми Бенямин на почивка. Спомням си, че на един такъв лагер паднах отвисоко в един дълбок вир и едвам ме спасиха. От тези почивки съм запазила приятни спомени и много добри приятели, с които общувам и досега.

В еврейското училище имахме най-различни организации – “Макаби”, “Акива”, “Ашумер Ацаир”. “Макаби” беше спортна организация, която организираше състезания с международно участие. “Акива” беше организация на по-заможните младежи, а “Ашумер Ацаир” е скаутската организация, чрез която най-добре учехме иврит. След училище оставахме да играем игри и еврейски хора и се стараехме да говорим на иврит. Тези организации имаха много добър възпитателен ефект върху нас – научиха ни да бъдем организирани. Докато учех в еврейското училище всичките ми приятели бяха евреи. Те бяха предимно мои съученици и бяхме членове на “Ашумер Ацаир”. Еврейските организации съществуваха до 1943 г., когато започна изселването ни от София. Правителството на България ги прекрати още с излизането на “Закона за защита на нацията”2 от 1939 г., но те продължиха да съществуват неофициално.

След като завърших трети клас на еврейското училище, нямах възможност да продължа образованието си и започнах работа в тапицерско ателие. Работила съм до 1943 г., когато започнаха изселванията. Продължих образованието си след 1944 г. Завърших вечерна гимназия в София. Тъй като материалното ни положение не беше добро, всяка ваканция съм работила нещо. Спомням си, че като ученичка ходих да работя в една работилница за чадъри, която се намираше на булевард “Дондуков”. Работила съм и при една позната на майка ми, която се занимаваше с изработка на корсети. Една ваканция работих и при една българка, която имаше ателие за шапки.

Моите родители не бяха много религиозни и не ходеха често на синагога. Отиваха само на най-големите празници. Когато бях ученичка, празнувах повечето празници в еврейското училище. Само за Песах се събирахме вкъщи с всичките ни съседи. Понякога се събирахме и с роднини при една леля на баща ми, която живееше далече от нашата къща. Масата се приготвяше много тържествено. Правим “Седер Песах” – на масата трябва да има седем вида ястия, които се подреждат в една чиния. Всички ястия са кашерни. Правим и специално ястие от смляни орехи, захар и ябълки. Това ястие се слага върху лист от маруля и се нарича “марор”. Приготвяше се богата трапеза с маца и бойо [питки с вода и брашно без сол и квас]; на масата имаше само кашерна храна. Цялото домакинство вкъщи се поддържаше от майка ми.  Майка ми имаше отделни съдове, които изваждаше специално за “Песах”. Всяка година в еврейската махала минаваха майстори калайджии, които калайдисваха медните съдове, за да изглеждат винаги като нови. Също така това се правеше, за да нямат никакъв допир с хляба. Същите тези съдове се прибираха след празника до следващата година. За нашия “Песах” се правеха специални ястия. Когато наближаваше “Песах”, шоколадовата фабрика в София пускаше производство на маца, която купувахме за осем дена, през които не купувахме хляб. Въпреки че сме били много бедни, за “Песах” винаги ни купуваха нови обувки. Аз самата имах по-големи братовчедки от мен и преносвах техните дрехи. До еврейското училище в нашата махала имаше залепена синагога, която си имаше хазан,  шохет и служители. В тази синагога винаги сме носили пилета или кокошки, които задължително трябваше да бъдат заклани от шохета.

За Кипур правим “танит” – на този ден не се храним до вечерта, когато в синагогата изсвирва рог (“шофар “).Спомням си, че и децата не ядяхме в памет на всички загинали за Палестина.

В събота не се работеше и така зачитахме Шабат. Тогава не се палеше осветлението до определен час. Баща ми рядко ходеше на синагога на Шабат. Съботният ден му беше за почивка от напрегнатата седмица. Зачитали сме и останалите еврейски празници. През месец февруари е празникът на плодовете “Фрутас”, през март е “Пурим” – денят на маските и след това е Великден. Четиридесет дни след “Песах” е най-веселият празник на децата – “Лаг Баомер”, когато сме излизали на полето да берем трева. През есента имаме още един празник на плодородието – “Сукот”, когато се прави специална сламена колибка в синагогата и в нея се подреждат всякакъв вид плодове и всичко, което се събира след летния труд.

В края на 1930’s попаднах в българска среда. По това време вече имах лява политическа ориентация. През 1940’s трябваше да си сменим личните карти с розови3 и на някои им смениха имената. Имената на евреите се сменяха с типични еврейски, за да се подчертае еврейския произход на гражданите. Моето име също беше сменено – от Матилда трябваше да се прекръстя на Мазал. Трябваше да носим жълти значки, които да показват еврейския ни произход, но аз почти не съм я слагала, тъй като се движех в българска среда. Все пак винаги бях готова да я покажа, когато това беше необходимо.

През 1943 г., на 24 май, когато е празника на славянската писменост и култура, възникна спонтанен протест на еврейски  младежи против взетото решение от страна на властите да бъдат изселени от София нашите семейства. Много от нашите семейства вече бяха получили известия за принудително изселване от домовете им. През 1943 г. започнаха изселванията на евреите от домовете им с цел да се организира депортацията им към концентрационни лагери в чужбина. Острата реакция на българското население и на някои народни представители осуетиха тази депортация в последния момент. По това време вече бях член на Революционния младежки съюз [прокомунистическа младежка организация]. Родителите ми не успяха да спрат моята дейност в Революционния младежки съюз през Втората световна война, тъй като не им позволявах да разберат какво точно правя. Баща ми беше либерално настроен човек, но не се е занимавал с политика. Братята ми също нямаха конкретна политическа ориентация. Единствено аз от семейството ми се занимавах активно с антифашистка дейност. Всичко това се дължи на средата, в която попаднах, когато започнах да работя. Работих на улица “Клементина” №5 в един безистен, където имаше много работници – гогвачи, шивачи и др. и така се запознах и се свързах с ляво настроени младежи, организирани от Революционния младежки съюз.

На този ден се събрахме при синагогата в нашата махала, където пред множеството евреи излезе моят съсед Соломон Левиев от Революционния младежки съюз и призова да тръгнем на протестно шествие към центъра на града, където в градинката пред Народния театър цар Борис ІІІ трябваше да приветства софиянци по случай 24 май. Така тръгнахме в тази посока по тогавашната улица “Клементина” [сега – бул. “Стамболийски”] . Неочаквано по средата на пътя ни пресрещна конна полиция и започнаха да арестуват когото хванат. Аз успях да избягам заедно със Соломон Левиев в тогавашното село Княжево [ сега квартал на София].

След тази манифестация, на същия ден, започнаха арестите в домовете ни. Тогава  е арестуван бащата на младежа, с когото избягах и веднага е изпратен на трудов лагер. От този ден ние живеехме нелегално в София и се криехме от полицията. Аз не исках да се изселвам от София, но все пак това се случи. Моето семейство получи известие, че трябва да замине за град Дупница и моите родители ме принудиха да замина с тях. По това време двамата ми по-големи братя бяха в трудови лагери. В София при родителите ми бяхме аз и по-малкият ми брат. Семейството ми замина за Дупница в края на месец май. Аз обаче се върнах в София още на следващия ден без знанието на родителите ми. Майка ми и баща ми подозираха, че имам намерение да се присъединя към партизански отряд [въоръжени антифашистки отряди, които са се укривали извън населени места]  и не ме пускаха да се върна в София.

Върнах се в София с чужда лична карта с българско име, която получих от другарите ми от Революционния младежки съюз. В София живеех първоначално в квартирата на мой познат Борис Бранков и после се преместих при цялата нелегална група в квартал “Лозенец”. В Революционния младежки съюз членуваха и българи и евреи. Тази организация имаше лява прокомунистическа и антифашистка насоченост. Взехме решение да се присъединим към партизански отряд, но стана провал и ръководителят на нашата организация беше арестуван. Аз също бях арестувана през юни 1943 г. Тогава някой ме издаде, че съм еврейка и ме изпратиха в концлагера “Свети Никола” при Асеновград в южна България. Тези лагери бяха създадени като затвори за антифашисти и не бяха предназначени специално за евреи. Аз попаднах там предимно заради антифашистката си дейност, а не заради еврейския си произход. Там престоях до неговото прекратяване през ноември 1943 г. През тази година се смени българското правителство – на власт дойде правителството на Багрянов, който закри всички лагери за политически затворници, но създаде нови като лагера “Свети Кирик”. След лагера се върнах в София без никакви документи и пак се укривах в квартира на мои приятели. Тогава разбрах, че моите родители са преместени в Михайловград, който тогава се казваше Фердинанд.

Роднините от страна на майка ми също бяха изселени от София през Холокоста. Голямата сестра на майка ми, Буча, беше изселена със семейството си в град Пазарджик. Друга сестра на майка ми, Мазал, беше изселена в град Русе с голямото си семейство с шест деца. Всички са били изселени с изключение на Бланка, която замина за Белград и за нещастие е попаднала в концлагер. Роднините на баща ми също бяха изселени. Децата на сестрата на баща ми вече бяха големи и бяха изпратени в трудови лагери. Единият брат на баща ми, Йосиф, беше изселен с баща ми в Дупница. Родителите ми са прекарали в Дупница само няколко месеца, след което се преместват в град Фердинанд. Спомням си, че дядо ми по майчина линия почина непосредствено преди изселването през 1943 г. и дори не успяхме да му поставим паметник. Това се случи едва преди няколко години от мой братовчед от Израел.

Заминах във Фердинанд и там пак се включих в местната организация на Революционния младежки съюз в еврейския сектор. Организацията в град Фердинанд имаше български и еврейски сектор. Родителите ми живяха много бедно по време на изселването – в Дупница и в Монтана. Докато бях в град Фердинанд, се опитах да работя, за да помагам в издръжката на семейството си. Имахме една шевна машина, която ни служеше и за маса за хранене и за шиене. Аз самата шиех на съседите ни, за да можем да си купим нещо за ядене. Аз не бях професионална шивачка, но приемах поръчки за поправки на дрехи. Във Фердинанд съм гледала деца, правила съм  тухли, копаела съм лозя и всичко това нелегално от властите и полицията, тъй като имахме право да излизаме от къщи само за три часа.

Моите родители, аз и малкият ми брат Самуил живеехме в една малка стая. Другите ми братя бяха в трудови лагери. Големият ми брат Бенямин беше в “Свети Врач”, който се намира на юг при град Гоце Делчев. Там е работил в строителство на пътища. Другият ми брат, Елиезер, беше разпределен в трудов лагер при град Своге като и той е бил работник на пътен строеж. Трудовите лагери се отличаваха от концлагерите по това, че имаха по-свободен режим. Концлагерите бяха предназначени за престъпници и антифашисти ибяха като затвори. Работих като помощничка в магазин за хранителни стоки при познати хора на родителите ми. Докато работех, си криех значката и когато полицията разкри, че не съм от града и работя нелегално, не успяха да разберат веднага за еврейския ми произход и докато установят самоличността ми, аз успях да напусна града. През цялото време съм си крила значката и полицията не знаеше, че съм еврейка и съответно нямам право да работя и да излизам за повече от три часа от къщи.

През август 1944 г. се присъединих към партизанския отряд “Христо Михайлов” заедно с още 35 души от града. Всички наши действия се извършваха при строг ред, дисциплина и организация, тъй като бяхме преследвани от властите и живеехме в нелегалност. Имахме ръководен орган, който преценяваше кой може да се присъедини към отряда. След като се присъединихме към партизанския отряд, за една нощ преминахме около 40 километра и преминахме границата ни със Сърбия. През цялото време ни преследваше полицията. В Сърбия се срещнахме с тамошните партизани, с които нашият партизански отряд е бил постоянно във връзка. На 5 септември разбрахме, че Съветската армия е близо до река Дунав и ще влиза в територията на България. Тогава се върнахме в България, минахме през Фердинанд и на осми срещу девети септември бяхме в град Берковица4, където установихме новата власт на Отечествения фронт5.

Нещата се обърнаха и партизаните залавяха своите преследвачи и най-вече т. нар. “главорези”, които бяха прочути с жестокостта си към партизаните. Главорезите бяха упълномощени да преследват и избиват партизаните в България. През 1943 и 1944 г. е имало много разстрели на партизани. Навсякъде, където минавахме, установявахме народната власт. Местните хора познаваха своите преследвачи и хората, които са ги малтретирали, докато всички евреи в отряда бяха само от София.

Непосредствено след 9 септември 1944 г. останах няколко дни в град Берковица и след това се върнах в град Фердинанд, откъдето заедно с един братовчед от страна на баща ми се върнахме в София, за да търсим жилище, в което да живеят семействата ни. Намерихме квартира на улица “Найчо Цанов” и извикахме родителите си. Братята ми се върнаха от лагерите. На това място живяхме до заминаването на родителите ми и братята ми за Израел през 1948 г. Първи замина брат ми Бенямин, който е бил на временен лагер на остров Кипър две години, защото тогава емиграцията на евреи към Палестина беше затруднена от англичаните, на които  Палестина беше доминьон. Едва след обявяването на еврейската държава е успял да се придвижи до Израел. Аз не пожелах да замина с тях, защото имах убеждението, че мястото ми е в България, където трябва да участвам в изграждането на новата политическа и икономическа система под ръководството на Българската комунистическа партия.

Докато родителите ми бяха в България след 1944 г. продължихме да спазваме еврейските обичаи. Ходихме редовно на синагога на празниците. През 1948 г. получихме помощ от дрехи от фондация “Джойнт”. След 1944 г. в София имахме еврейска организация. Имахме и еврейска болница на улица “Позитано”, в която работеше мой роднина. В момента тази болница е профилирана като сърдечна клиника.

По време на изселването на моето семейство през 1943 г. бяхме принудени да се разделим с много ценни вещи и книги, тъй като нямахме собствена къща, а също и не можехме да вземем много предмети с нас. Затова от моите близки са останали твърде малко неща като спомен. Семейството ми имаше много красиви книги на иврит с кадифени корици и извезана върху тях еврейската давидова звезда, които са оставени в къщата, от която сме били изселени. От майка ми съм запазила едно килимче, което е изработено ръчно преди повече от сто години. Също така бях запазила специално облекло, което майка ми е обличала при раждането на децата си и специални чаршафи. Облеклото, което е обличала майка ми, беше от лъскав плат, подобен на брокат, розово на цвят, със златни и сребърни нишки по него. Тези вещи, които бяха останали от майка ми при мен, за съжаление се загубиха при едно изложение в еврейския културен дом.

Имам трима братя като най-големият, Елиезер, е от първия брак на баща ми. Той първоначално живя при майка ми и баща ми, след това го взе майката на неговата майка и след години  - след 1941 г. дойде да живее при моето семейство. През тези години трябваше да ходи по трудовите лагери, където изпращаха евреите на принудителен труд. Другите ми братя са Бенямин и Самуил. Всички са завършили еврейското училище в София. През Холокоста двамата ми по-големи братя бяха изпратени в трудови лагери, където са прекарали няколко години. Заминаха за Израел заедно с родителите ми.

Родителите ми се установиха в град Яфо, където и до днес живее единият ми брат Самуил. След като се установяват в Израел, баща ми е станал амбулантен търговец, а братята ми са работили черна работа. Само един от братята ми, Бенямин, успя да се устрои много добре. Другият ми брат - Елиезер, който се ожени там и създаде голямо семейство с пет деца, беше дребен търговец. Най - малкият ми брат, Самуил, работеше в една филмова къща – “Фокс Муви Тон”. В момента имам един брат в Израел и много племенници. Роднините ми по майчина линия също се установиха в град Яфо. Моите лели са се установили в Яфо, Бат Ям и Реховот.

Ходила съм около десет пъти в Израел. Всичките ми близки живеят там. Там имам брат, братовчеди и много племенници. От страна на баща ми остана само една братовчедка, която е дъщеря на най-големия му брат – Рахамин. Първият път пътувах със самолет. Само майка ми успя да дойде в България след заминаването си през 1948 г. - дойде да види дъщеря ми през 1971 г. Малкият ми брат Самуил идва почти всяка година напоследък в България. Поддържам връзка с него тъй като в момента обстановката в Израел е много тежка.

През същата 1944 г. постъпих на работа в милицията като оперативен работник. Там работих до 1952 г., когато се взе решение евреите да освободят ръководните постове. През 1952 г. в Съветския Съюз започна процес срещу лекарите. Тогава евреите там са обвинени, че работят против съветската власт. Тъй като България беше подчинена на Съветския съюз, всички евреи бяха изгонени от служба в милицията. По това време имаше много евреи в милицията – особено в моя отдел, който се занимаваше с печата, дружествата и училищата. От него бяха изгонени много квалифицирани служители, тъй като в моя отдел се изискваха познания и по западни езици. След като и аз бях освободена, намерих работа в Личен състав на Градското управление на дирекция “Народно здраве”. Тя просъществува за кратко време и след това преминах на работа отново в Личен състав на Материално-техническо снабдяване към Министерството на строежите, откъдето се пенсионирах.

До 1956 г. евреите в България трудно можеха да отидат при своите близки, които бяха заминали преди това. През 1957 г. успях да замина за Израел с големи затруднения със специалното разрешение на един от заместник министрите на МВнР. След 1952 г. в структурите на Министерството на вътрешните работи останаха да работят само някои оперативни работници евреи, които преподаваха криминалистика и право. По тово време поддържах редовна връзка с моите родители. От министерството ми съобщиха, че не може повече да поддържам такава връзка докато работя там. Аз предпочетох родителите ми в тази ситуация и затова бях освободена с мотива, че съм имала “неподходящо обкръжение” като служител на МВР. Това “неподходящо обкръжение” всъщност беше връзката ми с Израел.

През 1956 г. работех в министерството на строежите. Работих в Личен състав и трябваше да следя за настроенията на работниците, за да не се получи това, което стана в Унгария през същата година. Всичко това се осъществи с повишаване на дисциплината по работните места на хората. Министерствата взимаха мерки да предотвратят всякакви предпоставки за антисъветски настроения в България.

След като моите родители заминаха за Израел през 1948 г., аз се преместих в друга, по-хубава квартира, която беше в жилище на изселили се евреи. Там имах право да обитавам една от стаите. В това жилище се запознах с моя бъдещ съпруг. Съпругът ми Моис Шемая Асаел е роден в град Дупница. Той е оптик по професия. Завършил е полувисше образование в полувисш институт за оптика в София към Министерството на народното здраве и е работил повече от 40 години като оптик. Неговото семейство не замина за Израел, а купиха къща в София на улица “Софроний Врачански”, където заживях със съпруга ми около двадесет години – до 1970-та година. След това се преместихме в жилищен комплекс “Младост” [краен южен квартал на София], кадето живея и до днес.

За нас, евреите, беше добре, че властта беше в ръцете на Българската комунистическа партия. Това ни даде възможност да участваме и да работим в държавните институции.  Преди това [преди 1944 г.] не сме имали такава възможност и нашите права бяха потъпкани. Нямахме възможност да се образоваме дори и да искаме. През целия период на управление на Българската комунистическа партия аз съм поддържала официалната й позиция по отношение на събитията в Унгария през 1956 г. и в Чехия през 1968 г. Самата аз бях член на Българската комунистическа партия, а сега членувам в нейния наследник – Социалистическата партия.

Докато моите родители бяха  в България до 1948 г., продължавахме да спазваме еврейските обичаи, събирахме се на празниците, ходехме на синагога. След заминаването на родителите и братята ми за Израел, аз и съпругът ми се придържахме по-малко към еврейските традиции. Работила съм и в събота, защото в България дълго време беше работен ден. Значението на еврейските традиции постепенно загубиха своето значение, тъй като аз и съпругът ми Моис Асаел бяхме ангажирани с много работа – работили сме плътно по шест дни в седмицата.

Дъщеря ми Регина се роди през 1968 г. Тя искаше да наследи баща си и отиде да учи в техникум по оптика. Там обаче предпочете да се занимава с лазерна оптика. Работеше в “УчТехПром” [завод за лазерна техника], но след като спряха поръчките от Съветския съюз след политическите промени в България през 1989 г., беше освободена от работа. Сега работи в социални грижи в община “Младост”. Дъщеря ми се омъжи за българин и има две деца – Симона и Мартин.

Всяка година през 60-те съм ходила на почивка със съпруга ми. През 70-те всяка година съм водила дъщеря си на море. Тогава имахме работа и възможности за почивка на курорт. След като дъщеря ми стана ученичка, ходеше на почивка и през зимната, и през пролетната, и през лятната ваканция. До 1989 г. живяхме добре. След промяната в България от 10 ноември 1989 г. не живеем добре.

В еврейския културен дом си имаме група, в която се събираме и си говорим на иврит. Подобна група има и за говорещите на ладино. Аз участвам и в двете групи. Аз съм завършила еврейско училище преди 65 години и мога да говоря на иврит. В други групи се преподава иврит за тези, които искат да заминат за Израел. В момента се старая да помагам на семейството на дъщеря ми с каквото мога. Зачитам всички еврейски празници, ходя на синагога. Вкъщи имам специален свещник за еврейския празник на светлината - “Ханука”. Наскоро направих “Бат Мицва” на внучката ми Симона в централната синагога – на 12 г. момичетата навлизат в  живота. Присъстваха 120 души. Внучката ми си беше подготвила слово, което прочете пред присъстващите. Стана голям празник. Почерпихме гостите с кашерна храна.

                   Интервюиращ: Димитар Божилов
Преводач: Теодора Кърджиева