Travel

Amalia Laufer
Chernovtsy
Ukraine
Interviewer: Ella Levitskaya
Date of interview: November 2002

Amalia Laufer lives in an old Jewish neighborhood of Chernovtsy where the ghetto was located during the war. Her house is small and shabby. There is a small room and a kitchen that also serves as a dining room. There is a bed, a table, two chairs and a wardrobe. Amalia lives alone and has a cat. She usually does not communicate with strangers, so I was introduced to her by a volunteer from Hesed, who visits her. Amalia is a short thin woman with thick black hair. She has polyarthritis and hardly ever leaves her home. There is a candle stand on the table. She lights candles on Sabbath. She keeps her mother's prayer book open on the table. Her mother had this book with her when they came to the ghetto. During our conversation Amalia switches to Yiddish. She quotes the Torah and mentions biblical stories when recalling episodes from her life.

My family history 
Growing up 
During the War 
After the War 
Glossary

My family history

My father's parents lived in Kabaki village, Kosov district, Stanislav province, Poland [today in Belarus]. I have very little information about my father's parents. My grandfather, Duvid Laufer, and my grandmother, Mariam, died before World War I. They were farmers. They were doing all right, I believe, and they were religious, like all other Jewish families in smaller towns and villages.

My father, Leizer Laufer, had three older brothers. They were born in Kabaki. I never met them. They moved to America after their parents died. My father wasn't really good at writing and didn't correspond with his brothers. I don't know anything about their life in America. My mother said they were nice people. My father was born in the winter of 1892. He told me that his mother gave birth to him on Chanukkah hoping that his life would be like a holiday. But one's dreams don't always come true.

My mother, Reizl Laufer [nee Gofer], was born in Vizhnitsa, a big Ukrainian village on the bank of the Prut River. Vizhnitsa is a village of timber floaters. Timber floated down the river and the men from Vizhnitsa were pulling it to the bank to take it to a timber cutting and drying facility. The timber was stored until it got sold to merchants. Vizhnitsa is located on the foothills of the Carpathian Mountains, and its inhabitants kept sheep. My mother's father, Haim Gofer, owned a small food store. My grandmother, Haya, helped him in the shop. My mother was born in 1894. She had four sisters. My grandparents hired a teacher from cheder for their children to teach them to read and write. I only saw my grandfather and grandmother once. My grandfather died in 1923 and my grandmother in 1930. My parents and my older brothers went to my grandfather's funeral, but when my grandmother died my mother couldn't go to her funeral because she had to stay with us.

My mother and father were introduced to one another by matchmakers. This was a customary approach to marriages back then. There were no divorces at that time because families discussed all the details in advance, and young people didn't expect any surprises. Love came later and was based on care and respect. I believe love means care for and respect of one another and one's children. My mother came from a traditional religious family. She was raised to believe in God, her family observed all traditions, and she was taught to honor and respect all Jewish laws. My parents had a Jewish wedding - my mother wouldn't have got married without a chuppah. After the wedding my mother moved to Kabaki.

Kabaki was a Ukrainian village. There weren't many Jews there and no synagogue or cheder in the village. About seven kilometers away was Kuty village whose inhabitants were Jews in their majority. There was a synagogue and a cheder in this village. In Kabaki there were only ten Jewish families. Two families had stores. One of the owners was called Simkhe-Yan Zukerman. There was also a tailor and a shoemaker. Haim Dudinskiy, a blacksmith, lived nearby. He was a tall and strong man. His three sons were as strong as their father. They also worked in their father's forge. Whenever I was passing by their house I heard them hammering away. The rest of the Jewish families were farmers. There were no conflicts between Jews, Poles and Ukrainians. There were no pogroms 1 in the village. The Jews of Kabaki only went to the synagogue in Kuty on big Jewish holidays. They also had their poultry slaughtered by a shochet in Kuty. There were kosher stores in Kuty, but for most of the time the Jews of Kabaki koshered their utensils and food themselves and prayed at home.

Growing up

My parents had seven children: three sons and four daughters. I was the youngest and my mother called me 'my little finger'. My oldest brother, Mayer, was born in 1913, Moshe-Leib in 1914, and Joseph, my youngest brother, in 1916. My sister Mariam, named after my father's mother, was born in 1917, Reisia in 1919, and Amalia in 1920. Amalia died in infancy though. I was born in 1921 and was given her name.

My mother always wore a long dark skirt, shirt and shawl. According to Jewish tradition she cut her hair after she got married. My father had a long beard and wore a yarmulka. My parents were very religious. My father prayed at home on weekdays. On big holidays he went to the synagogue in Kuty with my mother. They spoke Yiddish at home and Ukrainian and Polish with the neighbors. My father and mother were very kind.

We lived in a small wooden house, plastered and whitewashed on the outside. Most of the houses in Kabaki had thatched roofs, but our house had a tin- roof. There was one big bedroom for my parents and the girls. The sons slept in a small room without a stove. There was also a kitchen with a big stove and a stove bench. In cold winters we spent long hours on this bench. The stove was stoked with wood. Wood was expensive and my parents bought enough to cook. In fall we [children] were collecting brushwood in the forest to fill up the wooden shed in our yard. This brushwood was left from wood cutting activities that stopped in winter, so we tried to get as much brushwood as possible during the fall.

My father dug a well in the yard. There was an orchard near the house with apple, pear and plum trees. In the backyard there was a stove to cook in summer. There was also a chicken yard. My mother kept chickens, geese and ducks. There was a pond near the village where all our neighbors took ducks and geese, and they stayed there all day long. We had a cow. From early spring to late fall it was tended in the village herd. Families tended cows in turns. My older brothers, when they were old enough, also tended the village cows. In winter our cow was in a cowshed, and we had to store enough hay to feed it. My father rented a hayfield. In summer we went to mow grass once every two or three weeks. We dried it and stored it in the big attic of the shed. The hay lasted as food for the cow in winter and we had milk, butter, sour cream and cheese for both the family and to sell. My mother sold dairy products to her clients. The schoolteacher was one of my mother's clients. She said that Ukrainian farmers added water to milk and that my mother never cheated like that. People knew that my mother was an honest and decent woman.

We had two hectares of land that my father inherited from his father. We worked on this land since we were small children. My mother never begged for anything. She bought what she needed, but she never begged. She used to say that charity began at home. We took grain to the mill in the village to have it ground into flour.

We grew potatoes, corn, rye and wheat, working from dusk till dawn. We did the weeding of the field. That way we managed to do the farming ourselves. It was only during the harvest season that my parents hired employees and paid them with potatoes and wheat. My mother made rye-bread, sufficient to last for a week. When she took freshly made bread from the oven she sprayed every loaf with water, covered it with a white napkin and took it to the storeroom. It stayed fresh for a whole week.

We were a traditional religious family. My parents observed all Jewish traditions and raised us religious. On Friday my mother made challah. On Friday mornings she got up to start making dough for the challah and dumplings. She made gefilte fish, chicken broth and boiled chicken for Sabbath. She also cooked cholent, stew with potatoes, beans and carrots in a ceramic pot. She capped the pot with dough and put it in the oven to keep the food warm for Saturday. It was not allowed to light a fire in the stove on Saturday. My mother also made a big bowl of pancakes, and we ate them with milk. On Friday evenings we got together for a prayer. My father recited a blessing on the holy Saturday, the children and the food. My mother lit Saturday candles and said a prayer over them, then we sat down for a festive dinner. We didn't work on Saturday. On big Jewish holidays, such as Pesach, Yom Kippur and Rosh Hashanah, we went to the synagogue in Kuty. I remember my mother carrying me when I was small. On Saturday Jewish families got together in a minyan to pray.

We didn't have much pastime. We had to work about the house and in the field from morning to night, but sometimes in the evenings in winter our parents told us biblical stories and Jewish legends.

My brothers didn't go to cheder. My mother taught them to read and write. She taught us Yiddish and Hebrew. She also knew Polish and German. Her parents had hired a teacher for her when she was young. She learned a lot from her teachers and her parents, was very intelligent and a very good teacher.

In 1927 our father fell ill and died within a few days. There was no hospital in the village. My father was buried in the Jewish cemetery in Kuty because there was no Jewish cemetery in our village. My mother and father had six children and now she was all alone to raise us. Life became more difficult, but she taught us never to beg for anything. She used to say that if God took away our breadwinner He would help us. On weekdays we had boiled potatoes and mamaliga [corn flour meal], rye-bread and malai [pudding from rye and corn flour]. We also had apples, pears and plums. We never stole fruit from orchards like other children did. We had our cow and my mother sold milk and butter. She didn't keep any butter for us, because she needed the money to buy clothes and shoes.

There was a Polish elementary school in the village. It was free of charge, and children of all nationalities could study there, but if they wanted to continue their education they had to pay. We went to this school. We studied all subjects in Polish. We spoke fluent Polish and German. My mother always told us to wear clean and decent clothes to schools. She bought shirts and blouses at the store for us to wear to school. She didn't give us any food to have at school, so we didn't eat anything until evening. Later we were provided with free lunch at school. It wasn't kosher food, but we had no choice - having some food was better than having no food at all, and my mother was glad that her children weren't starving.

My mother always followed the kashrut. She even had different pieces of cloth to wash utensils for dairy and meat products. She also had different casseroles and pots for dairy and meat products and we had to be careful to use the right utensils. She was very strict about it. When we ate a slice of bread and a piece of meat we had to wait at least six hours before we could have some milk. When we had milk we could have meat about 10-15 minutes after rinsing the mouth. My mother made potato dumplings with meat. She bought 300 grams of meat from peasants at the market. Meat was rather expensive at that time, like it is at present. She sprinkled meat with salt, left it for an hour and then dipped it into water for half an hour to make it kosher. After that she boiled and ground it and divided it between the children. Everybody had enough and we never argued about food.

Before Pesach she took all her kitchenware to the attic and brought down fancy utensils and tableware. She knew all rules. She made gefilte fish, chicken and stuffed duck or goose. We did a general cleanup of the house before Pesach so that not a single breadcrumb was left in the house. The whole family sat at the table. After my father died my older brother Mayer conducted the seder. He turned 13 years old and came of age according to Jewish tradition.

My mother had a poultry yard. She sold eggs and geese. She usually kept one goose for the family for Pesach and other holidays. She also left a bucket full of eggs for holidays. She made dumplings from eggs and matzah, pancakes and sponge cakes from matzah meal at Pesach. We also had cream and milk on holidays.

Gershl Raizman, a farmer in the village, had a separate room with a stove to bake matzah, and all Jewish families helped each other to make it for Pesach. We needed a lot of matzah for our big family considering that we weren't allowed to eat any bread during the holiday. My mother cooked a lot of food for Pesach. She used to say that she wanted her children to have enough food and not to beg for anything on a holiday.

We fasted on Yom Kippur and before Rosh Hashanah from the age of 5. We didn't go to the synagogue because it was so far away from our house, but we prayed at home. Nobody worked on this day. Before Yom Kippur we went to the cemetery where my father was buried, and my brothers recited the Kaddish.

There was an entertainment center in the village where young people got together in the evenings, but my mother didn't allow us to go where the goyim [non-Jews] went. She told us to study, do our homework and clean the house. She kept us busy to keep us away from the center.

My three brothers moved to Buenos Aires in 1932. My mother accepted their decision. She wanted her children to be happy and was hoping that they would have a better life in a different country. They borrowed some money from a farmer in our village, later they sent the amount to my mother and she gave it back to the farmer. They learned to drive a car and became drivers. They married Jewish girls and had children. We corresponded until 1940, but the contact stopped due to the war.

When my sisters grew up matchmakers began to come to our house. Once the father of a son came to my mother and asked for her consent to his son marrying Mariam. He was a Polish man from Rivno. He promised her to build a big house for the young couple in Kabaki. My mother refused and said that while she was alive her daughters would never marry anyone but Jewish men. She told him that she didn't want her daughters to hear things like, 'You damn zhydovka [kike], don't go to the synagogue, go to the Catholic church', from their husbands. So, the man left.

Later a Jewish man from Zhabiye village in Kolomyya, not far from where we lived, proposed to Mariam. He had a house and kept sheep. He was two years older than Mariam. My mother and sister liked him. Mariam and her fiancé had a Jewish wedding with a chuppah in Kabaki. There weren't many guests at the wedding, just close relatives and friends. The rabbi said a prayer, the bride and bridegroom sipped wine from a wine glass, broke the glass and signed the ketubbah. There were tables laid in the yard of the synagogue for men and women. They danced and sang. When the party was over Mariam moved to her husband in Zhabiye village. Zhabiye was a Ukrainian village. There were farmers and cattle breeders in it. There were several Jewish families. It was only a small village so there was no synagogue, only a small prayer house.

I finished my 4th year at elementary school in 1933. There was no work in the village for me. I could have become a housemaid for a richer family, but my mother didn't want me to. She thought that there was enough work to do at home. Our schoolteacher liked me. She told my mother that I needed to continue my education in town, but my mother hated the thought. She believed that for a girl it was most important to get into a successful marriage and be a good housewife. She thought that I had sufficient education to live my life in our village. She couldn't imagine a different life for a girl. She said that she would teach me everything I needed to know about life. Reisia also stayed at home. We worked in the garden and about the house and there was more than enough to do.

During the War

Germany attacked Poland in 1939, but the war was still far away from us. Three families of Jewish refugees came to the village. They went to live with richer Jewish families that had bigger houses. These refugees told people what Hitler was doing to Jews. We were horrified, but we were hoping that Hitler wouldn't reach us. In 1940 the Soviet army came to Poland and the country was divided. A bigger part of the Carpathians, Belarus and Zakarpatiye became a part of the USSR. The Soviet power came to Kabaki and took land away from the richer families. We weren't rich and thus weren't arrested for this reason, but the authorities expropriated half of the plot of land we had. We had one hectare left. Our place became part of Ukraine, and we were ordered to speak Ukrainian. Many local farmers resisted the Soviet power. Young people escaped to the woods and joined partisan units, but the Soviets pursued them and killed them like wild animals.

At the beginning of June 1941 my three brothers came to visit us. Their families stayed in Buenos Aires, because it was too expensive to take them on the trip. They brought us gifts: dresses, sweaters and cardigans. They brought a big flowered shawl for my mother and thin stockings and high- healed shoes for us. We had never seen anything like it before. My brothers had changed a lot since the time they left Kabaki. They were wearing suits and ties. They brought pictures of their wives and children. They had Jewish wives, but my brothers became very estranged from religion. They observed very few traditions and only went to the synagogue on holidays. They liked their new life and were planning to take us to Buenos Aires when they could.

On 22nd June 1941 the Great Patriotic War 2 began. My brothers went to visit Mariam and her husband in Zhabiye before the Germans approached Kabaki. Mariam and her husband invited them to celebrate Sabbath with them. We were expecting them back on Sunday afternoon. We woke up early to start making dinner when we heard shooting. Our Ukrainian neighbor, who respected my mother a lot, stormed into our house to tell her that the Germans were in the village and killing Jews. We hid in her hayloft and stayed there until the next morning. In the morning her husband came and told us that the Germans were killing families who gave shelter to Jews. They had already killed a villager whose housemaid was a Jewish girl and burnt his house. The man apologized for not being able to hide us any longer. He was afraid for his family and the baby in the cradle. He also told us that the Germans had burnt down the synagogue in Kuty. When the Jews in Kuty got to know that the Germans were in the village they went to the synagogue to pray to God to rescue them. The Germans locked the door from the outside, poured gasoline onto it and set it on fire. All people inside perished.

We went home. The door to our house was open. We went in and saw my three brothers in blood on the floor. They had all been killed. My mother couldn't contact their families. We didn't even bury them. On the next day the Germans ordered the Jews to come to the square for registration. My mother and Reisia decided to stay and hide in the attic of the shed. They tried to convince me to stay at home, but I just couldn't disobey the order. All Jews came to the square. The Germans were taking them away and shooting them in groups. When there were only a few Jews left I said in Yiddish, 'Kill me so that I don't have to see how you kill all my loved ones'. Their commanding officer replied in German and I understood what he said, 'I can't'. He put his hands on my shoulders, turned me around and pushed me slightly in the direction of the street. I went home. 50 or 60 people were killed that day, and I was the only survivor of the tragedy.

People told us that the Germans killed my sister Mariam and her 11-month- old son in Zhabiye. A German soldier grabbed the baby and hit his head on a tree and shot my sister. She was 23. Her husband returned to the village a few days later and was shot, too. The Germans shot all the Jews in Zhabiye.

We had to leave Kabaki. We packed some clothes and a little food and left the village at night. On the road local young men stopped us, took away our luggage and threatened that they would call the Germans if we didn't give it to them. We had no food left. Early in the morning we came to a neighboring village, and a villager invited us into his house. His wife gave us some meat and mamaliga. We didn't eat the meat, because she said it was pork. The villager took us to a chapel and told us to stay there until dark. His wife gave my mother a small pillow. When it got dark he told us to go to the wood and promised to bring us some food. We didn't really believe him, but he did bring us food. He said that he knew who we were. He knew that we were Jews from a neighboring village, that we had survived miraculously and that we were no tramps but had our house and livestock. He wanted to help us. He told us to move at night to be on the safe side. My mother thanked him for his help and said that God would bless him for his courage.

I don't know how many nights we walked. In the daytime we were hiding in the woods fearing that the Germans or the Romanians might find us. Later I found out that we walked over 100 kilometers. We reached the Jewish neighborhood in Chernovtsy. We came to the old Jewish hospital and saw candles burning inside one of the houses. It was Saturday. We knocked on the door and asked the hosts to let us in. There was a ghetto in Chernovtsy, but outsiders weren't allowed to go there. The newcomers were sent back to where they came from to be shot there. The Jewish woman that opened the door said that she was afraid to let us in because they were ordered to let nobody in on the penalty of death. She had small children and was afraid for them, but then she took pity and let us in for a short while.

Our hostess was from Tarnov, Poland. She didn't have any food for us. She was very poor. But at least she had a house to live while we had left behind everything that we had owned. My sister went to the Jewish community, but they told her that they had nothing to give to us. The rabbi gave her a little money out of his own pocket. We were starved, but alive.

We had been staying in the ghetto for about two months when our hostess told us that the Germans were going to raid the ghetto and check everybody's documents. She asked us to leave her house. Her husband worked at the laundry in the ghetto. He took us to the laundry. He hid my sister and mother in the laundry, and I was waiting outside when policemen approached me and asked my name. He gave me a sign to remain silent and told them that I was a deaf and dumb girl from the village and came to ask for a piece of bread. He said he knew me and that I wasn't a Jew. They left.

Then a Jew from the synagogue said that he knew an empty house. He said we could settle there, but the community couldn't help us with food. We cleaned a room and it became our lodging. My mother didn't work in Chernovtsy. She was very sickly after what she had to go through. My sister and I went to work. I became a housemaid for a local Jewish woman. I washed the floors, cleaned her apartment, fetched water and did her laundry. There was an old people's home nearby, and I washed floors there, too. I was given a meal there, but I didn't eat it. I took the food to my mother. My mother asked me whether I had had something to eat, and I assured her that I did, when in truth I felt nauseous from hunger.

My sister also worked in the old people's home. There were no other jobs. Jews had to wear the star of David on the sleeve and chest. I looked like a Ukrainian girl and nobody took me for a Jew, so I didn't wear the star. When my mistress saw that I didn't have a star of David on my sleeve she asked me how I went outside without it. And I replied that God helped me. I said that I believed in God and that the place for the star of David was in the synagogue, not on a sleeve. My mistress gave me her old clothes, because I didn't have any. Her husband had a good job and provided well for his family. My mistress treated me to a meal every now and then and made sure that I ate it in her presence. But I returned each day to the ghetto to my mother and my sister. My mother was spending her days sitting in the room waiting for my sister and me to bring her some food. She was very weak and couldn't work. My sister was earning very little money, and I was their only hope and support. Life was very hard.

At some point, Jews were sent to Transnistria 3. By the beginning of the war there were 90,000 Jews in Chernovtsy. Before the Soviets came to power in 1940 there were several synagogues, yeshivot, cheders, Jewish theaters and clubs and the population of the town knew Yiddish. The Germans and the Romanians brought 60,000 Jews to the old Jewish neighborhood in Chernovtsy which had about 5,000 Jewish inhabitants before the war. It was stuffed and overcrowded with people. There were two or more families in the smallest rooms in this neighborhood, houses and entrances to houses were stuffed with people. People even lived in the streets. 90,000 Jews were taken to Transnistria. Only 10,000 survived. 16,000 Jews remained in Chernovtsy.

Marian Popovich, the mayor of the town, wrote a letter to the Romanian king in Bucharest explaining to him that there weren't enough people left in Chernovtsy to do all the work required to support the infrastructure of the town. He saved many Jews from extermination and deportation to Transnistria. Israel awarded him the title of the 'Righteous Among the Nation' posthumously. In 1943 the deportation of Jews stopped. The mayor issued certificates to the 16,000 Jews, who were left in Chernovtsy, stating that they weren't subject to deportation to Transnistria. Gendarmes let them alone during raids and richer people paid bribes for their freedom. We were sort of lucky to get to this ghetto. In other ghettos there were mass shootings of the inmates, whereas we managed to survive.

We didn't observe any Jewish traditions or celebrate holidays during the war - life was too hard, and the only thing we concentrated on was to save our lives. My mother used to pray quietly for her deceased sons in the corner.

After the War

In 1944 my employer left for America and offered me to go with her. She told me that she knew what the Soviet regime was like. She lived under the Soviet power and was afraid of arrests and deportation to Siberia 4. She said that Stalin was no better than Hitler. I told her that I couldn't leave my mother, that if I went there would be nobody left to give her food. Now I sometimes think - why did God pay me back with problems and bad luck for my kindness? I was a caring and decent daughter.

The Soviet army came to Bukovina in 1944. I went to work in the neuropathologist office as a cleaning woman for two years. We were very poor. My sister came to my work place once and said that she wouldn't agree to work there. She probably thought it was humiliating to be a cleaning woman. Besides, it was very hard work for a miserable salary. I replied that one has to take a job when it's available to be able to buy at least a piece of bread. Later I fell ill with pneumonia and got to hospital. When somebody brought me a piece of mamaliga and a glass of milk my nurse stole this food from me. People were hungry, even in the hospital. The doctors didn't believe I would survive, but I said that I would if such was God's will. One Jew from the synagogue brought me oranges and said to me that I was a righteous woman and God would help me. I survived. I went to the synagogue to thank that man.

My sister Reisia moved to Palestine in 1946. My mother was very sickly and I couldn't leave her. Besides, I would have been afraid to go to a place I knew nothing about. We had no information about Palestine or what it was like there. Reisia became an accountant there. She got married and had a son. She corresponded with us for a couple of years, but then she stopped writing. She had her own life and wasn't really interested in ours. Besides, I worked and didn't have much time left for writing letters. Reisia died in Israel in 1982.

I worked at the down and feather factory in Chernovtsy for 35 years. Our director, Fridman, was an old Jewish man. He lives in Germany ow. I was a laborer and stuffed pillows with down and feathers. I was the only Jewish woman at the factory. It was very hard work. Male employees teased me and laughed at me calling me 'this greedy zhydovka [kike] who doesn't drink or smoke and wants to earn all the money'. I got so tired of this word 'zhydovka' that now I try to stay away from the goyim [non-Jews]. I stuffed 1,000 pillows per day when the standard number was only 300. I started work at 6 a.m. and stayed at work after-hours. I tried to earn as much as I could. I had to provide for my mother, who needed care and medication. I had a bite for lunch and got back to work when all other employees were taking their lunch break. I was awarded a medal 'For remarkable performance' and my portrait was on the Board of Honor. I also received other awards and the management was satisfied with my work. I never went on sick leave.

In 1947 there was a famine. I could only afford to buy some food for my mother whereas I was starving. My mother and I celebrated Jewish holidays. On Yom Kippur we went to the synagogue to pray. We mentioned all our dear ones in our prayers. On Rosh Hashanah we always put an apple with sugar on the table. We didn't follow the kashrut because there were no kosher stores where we lived. I had to work on Saturdays. My mother told me that it wasn't a sin. However hungry we were, we never ate bread on Pesach. My mother received a little bit of matzah at the synagogue. Even when we only had a piece of matzah on Pesach, it was enough for us to feel the spirit of Pesach. I never celebrated Soviet holidays. We have our Jewish holidays to celebrate. I didn't have any friends. I didn't have time for friends because I had to work.

I met Simhe Gruber, my future husband, at the factory. He was the son of a poor Jewish shoemaker from Telkhov, in the Carpathians. He was born in 1920 and finished a Russian lower secondary school. He worked as a mechanic at a plant. We got married in 1953. We just had a civil ceremony. We didn't have money for a wedding party. Shortly after I got married my mother died. She was buried in the Jewish cemetery in Chernovtsy. I followed my mother's will to have a traditional Jewish funeral.

We lived in the same house in the old Jewish neighborhood where we had settled down in the ghetto during the war. This is where I still live now. Our son, Leonid, was born in 1955. He was named after my father, Leizer, the initial letters of their names are the same. We spoke Yiddish at home and Russian everywhere else, so Leonid knew both languages. When my son was about one year old, I found out that my husband was seeing an accountant from our factory. I divorced him. When he saw me at the factory he pretended we didn't know each other. He didn't want to see our son. I have no information about him. I don't even know whether he's still alive.

After the divorce I took on my maiden name again, but my son kept his father's surname, Gruber. There was nobody to help me raise my son, and there were no kindergartens in our neighborhood. I tied him to the leg of the table to be on the safe side and went to work. When I returned home from work he clutched to me and begged me to stay at home. But I had to go to work to provide for him. I worked all day long, and he stayed at home alone.

I tried to raise my son religious. I taught him Hebrew and spoke Yiddish with him. I told him about the religion and traditions of our people. We didn't celebrate holidays. I had to go to work on holidays if they fell on weekdays, but I told my son about them. We always had a piece of matzah on holidays [Pesach], but we also ate bread.

Leonid finished a Russian secondary school and entered a trade school. He had Jewish, Russian and Ukrainian friends. He was a pioneer and a member of the Komsomol 5 league like any other Soviet child. He went in for sports. In summer he went swimming with his friends, they played football and went to discotheques. He became a welder and got a job at a construction site. He was highly valued at his work. He married a nice Jewish girl from Chernovtsy. They have two children: Semyon and Anna. In 1990 he moved to America with his family promising to take me there as soon as they had settled down. More than ten years have passed since then. My son has a good job in America, but he doesn't need me. I'm alone.

Such is my destiny. My son has his own life. He doesn't write to me, and I don't know how he is doing. I don't ask anything of him. I don't want him to support me, I only want him to tell me about his life, his family and his children, but he doesn't. My grandchildren don't write to me either. His friends told me that I have a great-granddaughter in America. I wish for Leonid to be in good health and happy with his children and grandchildren.

I'm living my life trying to make the best of it. My mother and father lived their lives like that. I have a miserable pension and don't receive any allowances for my stay in the ghetto. The authorities told me that my stay there was unofficial. I need money to pay for the house and utilities. I need to think about tomorrow. There's nobody else to take care of me. However, I don't understand Jews that move to Germany. The Germans killed my family. Let God punish them. I believe that the Germans would kill innocent Jews again if there was a war.

I'm a religious Jewish woman. I celebrate Sabbath. On Friday evenings I light candles. I know all the prayers by heart. I live according to God's rule. I don't do any work on Saturdays. God said that the seventh day is a day of rest. I try to do all work on weekdays. On Friday afternoon my time comes to stand before God because I have to give this time to him. I know all the commandments and most of the Torah by heart. I get challah in Hesed. I fast on Yom Kippur and before Rosh Hashanah. On the 2nd day of these holidays I sit at the table after the evening star appears in the sky. I can't go to the synagogue - I can't walk. I get meals delivered from Hesed and am grateful to them. They also bring me medication. Thank God I have enough to eat.

Glossary

Jacob Mikhailov is a tall and lean, grey-haired man with bright blue eyes and with a crew-cut framing bald head. Jacob is very sociable and hilarious. He enjoys joking and laughing. He was willing to share a lot about his life, and the life of his family with me. He lives with his wife Elena in a two-room apartment in a building constructed in the 1970s in the city of Moscow. Elena takes credit for an impeccably clean and cozy apartment. There are a lot of books in the apartment. Jacob and Elena are avid readers. They like to share opinions of the books they read. Every day their only grandchild Artyom, the most important family member, comes to see them. Jacob loves his grandson very much and pays a lot of attention to him.

My family background

Growing up

During the war

After the war

Marriage life and children

Recent years

Glossary 

My family background

I know little about my father's family. I never met my paternal kin. My father didn't talk much about them either. My father, Mark Vengrovich [he later changed his surname to Mikhailov because of communist ideology], was born in 1897 in Warsaw. It was the territory of the [tsarist] Russian empire at that time. As father told me grandfather was a merchant of Guild I 1, a very wealthy man. They lived in the center of Warsaw. I also know that my father had a younger brother named Genrich. When my father left home, Genrich was in his junior year at a lyceum. When I was in my teens I remember that my father got a message from Genrich saying, 'Still alive and kicking.' That's it. No news came from Genrich after this time.

Father went to trade school in Warsaw, but didn't finish it. My father was fond of communist ideas, and he left home when he was 16. He stopped being in touch with his family then. He went to Russia, and never came back to Warsaw. I practically don't know anything about my father's prenuptial life. Father adhered to revolutionary ideas, and then became a member of the Communist Party. The party was banned, so its members took alias known to other party comrades. My father's party alias was Mikhailov. Then his surname was changed to Mikhailov as well. This name was written in the documents. In February 1917, when the Provisional Government 2 was in power, my father was imprisoned for revolutionary activity [during the Russian Revolution of 1917] 3. Before getting married my father lived in Kharkov [in today's Ukraine, 440 km from Kiev]. I don't know how he happened to get to Kharkov from Moscow.

My mother's family lived in Chernigov [180 km from Kiev], a beautiful ancient city in north-western Ukraine. Chernigov seemed small to me. It's difficult for me to describe how I perceived the city in my childhood. I used to stay with my grandparents for the whole summer. I went to the forest with other children. We also went to the rivers, played in my grandmother's house. I didn't see that much of the city. I remember the greenery of the city. I was six the last time I was in Chernigov, before the war. I'm certain there was a Jewish cemetery in Chernigov, which is still there. There might have been several synagogues. But I wasn't interested in that in my childhood. As an adult I went to Chernigov with my daughter, and it was a totally different city: modern, with multi-storied buildings, not looking the way it did in my childhood. [Editor's note: in Chernigov the Jewish population numbered more than 14,000 in the 1910s and app. 10,000 in 1926 (30 percent of the total population). The last synagogue was closed down by the authorities in 1959. In 1970 the Jewish population of Chernigov was estimated at 4,000.]

My maternal grandfather, Abram Nitsberg, was born in Chernigov in the 1850s. Grandmother Sophia Nitsberg was also born in Chernigov. I don't know exactly when she was born nor do I know her maiden name. All I know is that she was ten years younger than my grandfather. Grandmother's Jewish name was Sarah. But the grandchildren called her Sonya. Grandfather was a stubby man of medium height. He had a long beard. He wore a black silken kippah on his head. Grandmother was short and buxom. She wore traditional Jewish clothes: long black skirts and dark long-sleeved blouses. She wore a black kerchief on her head, and during solemn occasions she wore a black lace shawl. Grandmother was very kind; her eyes radiated kindness. Probably all grannies are kind, but mine seemed to be the kindest.

Grandfather worked in a sort of work association. He sold fish. I don't know what his job was like; all I know is that he didn't own the business. Grandmother was a housewife. My grandparents had a cow. They also had a kitchen garden and planted vegetables there to feed the family. They lived well and didn't starve. Grandmother contrived to feed her many children. I knew all my mother's brothers and sisters, but two. I know when my mother and her eldest brother were born. The difference in years between the brothers and sisters wasn't big - approximately two years. My mother's eldest brother, Noy Nitsberg, was born in 1879. I don't know the second's brother name. The third brother's name was Jacob. Then Solomon and Naum were born. In 1899 my mother Maria whose Jewish name was Miriam was born. Then Mikhail and Revekka followed. The youngest one, Revekka, was born in 1906, when grandmother was about 50. Grandmother was ashamed of her belated motherhood, and sometimes used to say that Revekka was her granddaughter, one of her son's daughters. Her sons were married at that time and had their own children.

I don't know for sure, but I think my maternal grandparents must have been religious. It couldn't have been otherwise at that time. Grandfather paid a lot of attention to the secular education of his children. My mother finished a full course at Chernigov lyceum, and I think she wasn't the only one who got educated in the lyceum. All children knew Yiddish, which was their mother tongue, but they also were proficient in Russian and spoke foreign languages. The children didn't get primary Jewish education.

Noy, my mother's eldest brother, was a pharmacist. He had his own pharmacy in Chernigov before the revolution of 1917. Then it was nationalized and he worked as a pharmacist in the state apothecary. He was married, and his only daughter moved to Moscow after the revolution. When he grew old and sick, his daughter took him to her place. He died in 1949 in Moscow.

My mother's second brother left for the USA in 1905. My mother told me that he married an American woman there, who gave birth to two children. They must have stopped writing to each other after the revolution of 1917 as the new regime disapproved of having relatives abroad, moreover corresponding with them. [It was dangerous to keep in touch with relatives abroad] 4 My uncle was an artist. I think his children became musicians, at least one of them. My mother told me that her brother was a good artist, who painted a lot of pictures. When he was asked to sell a picture, he said it wasn't for sale. He made the paintings for himself. He didn't sell any of his pictures. I don't know what he lived on in America.

I never met my mother's third brother, Jacob either. I was named after him, and know about him from my mother. Jacob was very gifted in anything he tried to do. Adolescent Jacob was drafted into the army during World War I. He was captured by the Austrians. His captivity probably wasn't so bad since he even managed to send his picture from there. When he came back from captivity, Jacob became a revolutionary. He took part in the revolution, then in the Civil War 5. Before being drafted Jacob was in love with a girl from Chernigov. Jacob exerted his every effort for the revolution. In 1918 the Soviet regime assigned Jacob Nitsberg the first party secretary in Chernigov. He perished accidentally in 1919. It was found out that White Guards 6 were planning to blast the bridge across the Dnepr. Jacob was to divulge that plot. One of the plotters - Jacob's lyceum comrade, a White Guard - shot at Jacob and killed him. When he was arrested he said, 'I couldn't have acted otherwise. Even if I hadn't killed Jacob, I would have been killed as a White Guard.'

One of the streets in Chernigov was named after Jacob Nitsberg. In 1950 it was renamed, it seems after Kirov, but I don't know the present name of this street. Probably the municipal authorities thought it to be indecent for the streets to be given Jewish names. When I grew up, I decided to find Jacob's grave no matter what. When my daughter left school, we went to Chernigov and found out from the old residents where Jacob was buried. We walked along the Jewish cemetery and found his grave and the tomb. It should still be there now.

Uncle Solomon lived in Chernigov and worked with the Ispolkom 7. Solomon's wife was named Basya. They had three daughters. I remember my mother's next brother, Naum, the way he looked and the way he talked. He was an officer, but I don't know where he served. He lived in Chernigov. He had two daughters and a son.

I knew the youngest siblings, Mikhail and Revekka very well. Mikhail worked with the NKVD 8 for many years. He left the organization before the war and began working for a construction company. Galina, Mikhail's wife was from Leningrad. She had two children, a daughter and a son. They lived in Kharkov before 1936 and when Kiev became the capital of Ukraine they moved to Kiev. [Editor's note: before 1934 Kharkov was the capital of the Ukrainian Soviet Socialist Republic, in 1934 the Government of the USSR decided to move the capital to Kiev. All governmental structures moved to Kiev as well]. During the Great Patriotic War 9 Mikhail was drafted into the army, and his family was evacuated to Central Asia. During the defense of Kiev, Mikhail happened to be in the siege, and when he broke through he went to the partisans' squad. He perished there, and the circumstances remain unrevealed. When Galina and her children came back from evacuation to Kiev and got to know the news about Mikhail, she moved back to her hometown, Leningrad. Their children still live there.

The youngest in the family, Revekka, lived with her family in Kharkov. Her husband, Pavel Lev, was the closest relative to me. He treated me very well and we bonded. Revekka and Pavel had an only daughter, who was very feeble. Revekka was a housewife, paying utmost attention to her daughter and husband. The daughter died before the war. When the Great Patriotic War was unleashed Pavel went to the front. Revekka was evacuated. Pavel went through the war and stayed in the army for a while. Revekka stayed with us in Moscow at that time. When Pavel came back from the army, we tried to talk them into staying in Moscow with us, but Pavel was longing to get back to Kharkov. In the end, he left. Revekka died in Kharkov in 1976. Pavel didn't live long afterwards. I cared for Revekka and Pavel very much. I used to visit them almost every year. Then I came to their funeral, which was secular. They were buried in a city cemetery. The last time I was in Kharkov four years ago, I went to their graves.

My mother didn't tell me whether there were Jewish pogroms in Chernigov before the revolution [see Pogroms in Ukraine] 10. Their family house was located on the street where Chernigov's vice-governor lived, so it was serene and quiet there. With the outbreak of the Civil War, the whole family was to move to Sarapul [today Udmurtia, Russia, about 1,800 km from Chernigov]. At that time Chernigov was plundered by Gangs 11, Denikin 12 troops, sometimes Jews were killed. My mother caught typhus fever in Sarapul; it was hard for her to convalesce. Then, the family returned to Chernigov. Mother finished the lyceum with distinction, and wanted to go on with her education. She left for Kharkov and entered the Medical Institute. Father studied at the Institute of State Economy; he graduated from it in 1924.

My parents met in Kharkov. I don't know the details of how they met. They got married in 1921. Of course, it wasn't a traditional Jewish wedding as they were convinced communists. I think they didn't have any wedding, just a mere registration. My mother was in her second year, when I was born. My mother went to her parents in Chernigov before delivery, and spent a couple of months there after parturition. I was born in Chernigov on 19th June 1925. My mother had to quit her studies after she returned to Kharkov. 

Growing up

Even though our family stayed in Kharkov only until 1930, I remember our house very well. It was a U-shaped five-storied brick house with a front yard. It seemed huge to me at that time. The house is still there. There was the Kharkov Opera Theater next to our house. We could hear the opera performances as if we were in the hall. Then, the opera theatre was moved to another building, and was taken over by the Russian drama theater. We lived on the fifth floor of the communal apartment 13. There was a common kitchen, toilet and bathroom. There was centralized gas, sewage and running water. We had two rooms. There were five more families in our apartment. I don't remember all of them. I recall a woman, who lived next door. Her name was Marusya, she was Russian. Her daughter was my coeval. There was also a Jew, Hanna, who worked with the NKVD.

One room was taken by my parents, the other room was mine. I don't remember how the rooms were furnished. I can only recall my father's oaken desk, which has been kept until now, and the bookshelves with the books. There weren't a lot of books. That was mostly father's specialist literature. Father worked in the chemical industry. He wasn't an ordinary worker.

My parents spoke only Russian at home. If they wanted to conceal something from me, they would exchange a couple of Yiddish phrases at times. I wasn't very good at Yiddish. Father also spoke good Polish. Our neighbor was a Pole, and my father was always happy to communicate with her in her mother tongue.

I spent the whole summer in Chernigov with my grandmother. All grandchildren were brought together. Mother's sister Revekka also used to come there with her husband and daughter to spend the summer. They were happy times. Grandmother cooked. Pavel and Revekka played with the children. We went for strolls to the forest, the beach, and performed puppet shows. The elder read fairy-tales to the younger ones. Sometimes my uncle took all boys angling. We left at dawn, and came back for breakfast. All grown-ups spoke Russian with the children. The house was spacious and there was enough room for everybody. It was a two-storied brick house with a basement. Mother's brother Solomon was the host. His family was on the first floor, grandmother took the second floor. The basement was taken by tenants. There was a fountain in the yard in front of the house. It was probably the only fountain in Chernigov at that time. There was a beautiful orchard behind the house. There was a variety of fruits there.

When I was in Chernigov with my daughter looking for Jacob's grave, I was shown the street where my grandfather had lived. Strange as it may be, I found grandfather's house surrounded by new multi-storied buildings. I entered the yard and recollected everything: the place where pen and coop were, the summer kitchen etc. The orchard had turned into a jungle, teeming with weeds. It was fall, and there were big piles of apples and pears under the trees. I wanted to get in and ask the new hosts to see the place that had been dear to me since childhood, but nobody was in. I picked up an apple and enjoyed its familiar fragrance.

There are certain scraps of my childhood in my memory. I remember my grandmother to cook cherry jam in a huge copper basin. I reached to pick a cherry and scalded my arm heavily. I was taken to the doctor and I remember how he praised me for not making a sound during the treatment of the wound and bandaging. I remember how Grandfather used to send me to the bakery for challah, and I removed the crunchy crust and ate it on the way home. Maybe grandfather got so mad because the challah was meant for Sabbath. I don't remember my grandparents to celebrate Sabbath at home; frankly speaking, I preferred to spend time with my cousins rather than with the adults. Once, my grandfather gave me a pocket watch. I was keen to know why the hands were moving, so I dismantled the watch into tiny pieces. Grandfather scolded me, but my grandmother stood up for me. She picked up all the parts and took them to the watchmaker, and they were put together again. Grandmother forgave her grandchildren entirely no matter what we did. We were very rarely punished. I remember how I lolled out my tongue in front of my grandmother. Late at night, after Uncle Solomon came back from work, he flogged me for lolling out my tongue. Such little incidents were not in the way for my love for my relatives. I always kept in touch, called and sometimes came for a visit.

Once, my grandparents came to Kharkov to see us. They spent a week and left. All of us talked them into staying longer, but grandmother didn't want to leave her household for a long time. I was six, when I visited my grandparents for the last time. I came to them from Moscow before schooling.

In 1929 my father was transferred to the Ministry of Chemical Industry in Moscow. My father left by himself. My mother and I followed him after he had been given the apartment in Moscow. The apartment was located on Krasnoprudnaya Street. We had a two-room apartment with all modern conveniences. It was a separate apartment, which was a rare thing back in those times. Most of the people continued living in communal apartments. My father's apartment was on the 3rd floor, but we changed it for the 5th floor as one of the residents asked for it because it was hard for him to climb the stairs. My father wasn't against it. He thought he wasn't entitled for a better living than others. Later, in 1935 my father was offered a four-room apartment in the center of Moscow, on Ananyevskiy Lane. Father tried to persuade mother's brother Mikhail to move to Moscow. Mikhail didn't want to move, so Father turned down the apartment saying that there was no use in such a big apartment for us.

When we moved to Moscow, my mother started working. She worked for some company for a while, and then she was offered the position of an economist in the planning department of the Ministry of Foreign Trade. Mother worked there until her retirement. She was loved and respected. No matter that my mother was offered to join the party for a number of occasions, she refused it saying that she was apolitical. We were well- off. My pre-war childhood and adolescence were the best period of my life.

I was closer to my mother than to my father. She was an open-hearted and benevolent person. I always felt her love. Father was different. He also was very decent and honest, but he was constantly busy and he couldn't find time for me. Mother also was very busy. Before the war, I saw my parents once a week, on Sunday. They went to work two hours after I left for school. When I left, they were asleep. When they came back, I was asleep. Nevertheless, I think my parents taught me a lot, and influenced my mettle. One could interminably reiterate that you should be decent, honest and fair, but without setting one's own example all that nurturing would be futile. My parents should be given credit for all good things I have as they taught me with their good example to follow.

Of course I wasn't on my own. From the time I left for Moscow in 1939 I had a nanny. Her name was Vera. She came from a village in either Poltava or Chernigov oblast. She wasn't just a nanny, she was also a housekeeper. She was a very close person to us, a member of our family. She went to see her kin, caught a cold and died. My parents went to her funeral. It was hard for us to get over Vera's death. We commemorated her for a long time. My parents were never arrogant towards people inferior to them. My father had a car with a personal driver, and there wasn't a single time that the driver wouldn't eat with us if we were having a meal. We knew everything about our family, and he knew about our things in the house. My parents taught me to treat people this way.

In 1935 my grandmother was afflicted with pneumonia and passed away. She was about 75. Then my brother Solomon died after her. Grandmother and Solomon were buried in the Jewish cemetery in Chernigov. After Grandmother's death, my grandfather stayed with Solomon's family. Basya, Solomon's wife took care of him. In 1939, my grandfather had a cervical hip fracture. He was quite senile, aged about 90. The fracture was very complicated, and there was no hope that the bones would knit together. Grandfather was bedridden for a year. Basya and three of her daughters looked after him. In 1940 my grandfather passed away. He was buried next to Grandmother. I cannot tell for sure, but I think the funeral wasn't in accordance with the Jewish rites, as my grandparents were atheists.

In 1932 I entered pre-school. At the age of seven I went to a pre- school class. At that time pupils were only accepted to the first grade of secondary school from the age of eight, but at schools there were classes of preschool preparation. We were taught the alphabet and rudimentary figures and other things to get ready for the first grade. I cannot say that I was a good student. I was very fidgety and was often summoned to the principal's office with other boys. We were not hooligans, but often frolicking. None of the school subjects were my favorites. Though, there was a time in the fifth or the six grade when my friend and I went to the literary circle held by our literature teacher. But I reckoned on that: we could have poor marks during lessons, and then both of us could compose some poem and would be given good marks for the quarter. I was mostly attracted to football during school time. I'm still keen on it. I was in the fifth grade when I appeared in the stadium for the first time, and I have been fond of football since then. I tried not to miss the matches of my favorite football teams. Now, I am not that big of a fan any more. I think nowadays football is a travesty. Back in those times people played for the sake of the game and love of football, deriving pleasure from scoring a goal. Now money is the pivot.

I was in the first grade when I was accepted to the Octiabriata [Young Octobrist] 14, then I became a pioneer [see All-Union pioneer organization] 15. I wasn't a Komsomol 16 member in school, though. When the Great Patriotic War was unleashed I finished the eighth grade, and I was not eligible for the Komsomol yet.

There were a few Jewish children in my class. We didn't feel any difference between Jews and non-Jews. Both teachers and classmates had the same attitude towards different nationalities. Anyway, I never came across any collisions.

Mother wanted me to know a foreign language. A German lady who had stayed in Russia for a long time, taught me German. Our classes lasted for several years and I was pretty good at German. By the way, as soon as the war started, she was fired and nobody knew what happened to her next. She was most likely unhappy.

In 1933 Hitler came to power in Germany. I was too little to be interested in that. I was politically aware after I became a pioneer. Pioneers were interested in the events in Germany, discussed at our meetings, and condemned fascism. Anti-fascist movies such as 'Professor Mamlock' 17 were shown in the cinemas. We saw this movie for several times, read the articles about the atrocities of the fascists. Of course, we thought fascism to be a crime.

We had a clear understanding of what fascism was when the war in Spain [Spanish Civil War] 18 was unleashed. It goes without saying, that all of us were on the Republicans' side. War chronicles were shown in the movie theaters at that time. Spanish orphans, whose parents were killed in the war, were brought from Spain. We desperately envied adults who were able to be volunteers at war. An adopted Spanish boy of my age lived in our house. I made friends with him. We remained friends as adults. All of us hated fascism and detested Hitler. I don't know how it was with the grown-ups, but we, the children, couldn't comprehend how a peace treaty, the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact 19, could possibly be concluded with Hitler. I remember the arrival of Ribbentrop in Moscow. My mother said surprisingly that his face was pleasant.

In 1936 arrests commenced [during the Great Terror] 20. My father was deputy head of the leading committee and he testified to that. He used to get back from work and tell us about new appointments of other people to leading positions. I knew that it meant the former leaders' imprisonment. I don't know what my father was thinking at that moment; maybe he was hoping that it wouldn't touch him. There was a time when my father worked with Polina Zhemchuzhina, Molotov's 21 wife. Once I used to come to my father's work and heard him talking to Zhemchuzhina. My father introduced me to her. She patted me on my shoulder and gave me two big oranges.

I was shocked by the arrests of enemies of the people 22, such eminent militaries as Yakir 23 and others. They were idols for us, the boys. My mother had known the family of Turovskiy, deputy commander of Kharkov, since childhood. They were born in Chernigov, and Turovskiy lived there for a while. Once my mother took me to the cinema to see a documentary on military maneuvers, and Turovskiy was in that movie. Then, after a while, he turned out to be an enemy of the people. I couldn't believe the things published in the press, and I couldn't comprehend how it could have occurred. It didn't make any sense to me. I tried to talk to my father regarding that. He also used to say, 'I cannot understand how people who went through exile, civil war and prisons all of a sudden turn out to be the enemies.'

We had such talks; neither my friends nor I ever took it personally. Some of my schoolmates' parents were 'enemies of the people.' They kept on studying at school, and their teachers treated them the same way they had before, without making them reject their parents and condemn them. Only later I understood that it was the teachers' merit. [Editor's note: in the USSR it was characteristic for teachers to be ideological workers, and their job was to identify and besmirch the children of enemies of the people, making them publicly reject their parents, who were unwanted by the regime. If it didn't happen in this case it was the teachers' merit.]

During the war

In 1939 Hitler attacked Poland and our troops were mobilized there [see Invasion of Poland] 24. My aunt's husband Pavel was drafted into the army and dispatched to Poland. Fortunately he had been demobilized before the Finnish campaign started [see Soviet-Finnish War] 25. I remember my uncle's tales about the war in Poland. During the Polish war and the 'liberation' of Western Ukraine there weren't even enough rifles for all the soldiers. There was one rifle for several people. There were no battles though. Our army had to be more careful with the Polish than with the Germans, who came to a certain point and stopped. The part of Poland where our troops came was very antagonistic against our army and they were vindictive towards the Polish division. There were cases when a Soviet soldier came to the barbers for shaving and was killed with a razor blade.

We were brought up with propaganda. We were raised with movies as 'Esli Zavtra Voyna' [If War Comes Tomorrow, USSR 1938] and such like. We were convinced if somebody dared to attack our country, he would be defeated and there would be little blood-shed on foreign territory. Frankly speaking, I wouldn't have imagined that such a powerful state could be attacked. I couldn't even think that Germany would attack the USSR after the Molotov-Ribbentrop pact had been signed. Of course, such propaganda was a mere profanation and duping, but only later on I came to understand that.

On Sunday, 22nd June 1941 our family was about to move to a dacha 26. But in the morning my father was given a call and told that the driver had lingered on and should postpone moving until next week. I was happy to hear that as my friends were going to Sokolniki stadium to play football. I joined them. When we got to Sokolniki we saw a throng of people clustered by the loud-speaker. We stopped and were told that a paramount important message from the government was about to be announced. We listened to Molotov's speech, who said that treacherous Germany had attacked the USSR. We went back home. All day long we were discussing when our troops would be crossing the border. People outside had likewise talks. The next day we would ask each other with hope whether our troops had crossed the border. There was no information on the radio for a while, only optimistic promises that the enemy wouldn't cross our territory. Only a few days later we found out that Minsk had been captured by the Germans. They didn't even say a thing about the battles with the enemy on this territory. Then, when the Germans were deep in the country, for thousands of kilometers, there was nothing to say, but, 'After severe fighting our soldiers had to retreat from such and such city ...'

At the beginning of 1941 father was transferred to the Ministry of Coal Industry, which was evacuated to Molotov [today Perm, 1,250 km from Moscow] in June 1941. Moscow wasn't bombed at that time. Bombing started in August. Mother left her job, and the three of us were evacuated. We traveled in a crammed freight car for five days. There was provision in Moscow shops still, so we took some food with us. It was possible to buy things at the stations. We were lodged in a private house in Molotov. The hosts gave us a six-square meter room for the three of us. First there was some food in Molotov, and we ate at a canteen. About a month later the food cards [see Card system] 27 were implemented.

Then mother's sister Revekka came back from Kharkov. She was first evacuated to Novosibirsk [about 3,000 km from Moscow] and stayed with her husband's brother. Her husband Pavel was at the front. Revekka stayed with us for a while and then left for Novosibirsk. I went to the ninth grade of the local school. Mother worked in some office. In half a year my father was called to Moscow. My mother and I stayed in Molotov until July. Mother wanted me to finish the ninth grade. There were battles for Moscow and we were constantly listening in round-ups. I didn't even admit a thought that the Germans might take Moscow. I was sure that our army wouldn't give up Moscow, and it happened so. We lived from one round-up of the Soviet information bureau to another.

When my father came back to Moscow, there were some people in our apartment. In a year by court ruling our apartment was given back to us, and in July 1942 my mother and I came back home. The director first didn't want to let my mother go home. He gave in after receiving a governmental telegram signed by the deputy minister of foreign trade with the request to let my mother go to work in Moscow. Mother regained her work in the Ministry of Foreign Trade. I went to the tenth grade in September. I wanted to go to the army as a volunteer that is why I had an independent tenth-grade course for two months and passed my exams pre-term. In November 1942 I was issued a certificate of ten-year compulsory education.

Our life in Moscow during war times considerably differed from the pre- war period. Mass air raids stopped, and bombing was occasional. The Germans were thrown out of Moscow. There were air-raid shelters in Moscow, but some people were used to bombings and didn't leave their apartments during bombing. Many houses were demolished during the siege of Moscow, but our district wasn't devastated at all. Of course, we were hungry, but we managed somehow. It was more difficult to get over the cold. Central heating was turned off and the winter was severe. One room was locked, and the other was heated by a self-made stove. It was heated with anything we could possibly find: furniture, boards and branches I was looking for on the streets and in the parks.

In December 1942 I was drafted into the army. I hadn't reached the drafting age of 18; I was 17 at that time. We were brought together by groups in the military office. My group was sent to Yaroslavl [about 200 km from Moscow] to the gun school. I was sent back home as they told me there that I wouldn't go through the examination commission. I celebrated the New Year of 1943 at home in Moscow. I was summoned to the military enlistment office a couple of months later and was sent to the military engineering school near Moscow. I was told by the physical evaluation board that I was fit for the troop duty, but not for the military school. The doctor asked what school I was supposed to enter and I told him military engineering. The doctor must have thought that it was some kind of a technical school and came to the conclusion that I was healthy.

I recall the time spent in the military school as a nightmare. We were trained even harder than in any other military schools. As a matter of fact, the training looked more like a teasing. There were two platoons. The first consisted of males with unfinished higher education, and the second platoon was comprised of boys with secondary education. I was in the second platoon. Calling our commanders martinets would be an understatement. Platoon commander Glukhov, the former front-line soldier, having been awarded, was a malicious person, though straightforward and not mean. Our division commander, who had earlier been involved in prosecution, was a real sadist. If the attendee was given extra duty for misdemeanor, he didn't give him work, he was waiting for everybody to fall asleep, and then woke up the penalized lad giving him an assignment to clean floors or toilets. What he enjoyed the most was to wake up the entire platoon at night, tell everybody to align outside and make them running to the assault course. There was no need in that; he just had fun teasing us. We couldn't stand up for ourselves. Then, approximately one year before our leaving to the front they were scared the reckoning was coming for our teasing. But they were removed three month in advance. We didn't even know the reason for their dismissal. They were taken over by the school leavers. I was in the school for a year and two months. It was a large training period considering war time. As we were to become combat engineers we were trained very thoroughly. The commander used to say that the sapper would make a mistake only once and we were taught not to make any errors.

I was given the rank of a junior lieutenant after I finished school. I was sent to the 1st Ukrainian front. Shortly after my arrival I was sent to the combat engineering squad and assigned the commander of the combat engineers' platoon. The previous commander was in hospital, and I stood in for him. In couple of months I got a higher rank - lieutenant. Then the previous commander came back from hospital, and I was transferred to the 5th paratroopers' regiment of the 2nd guard airborne division. I was there until my first wound.

Combat engineers were responsible for mine planting and mine clearance. I was supposed to join the reconnoiters, as the intelligence didn't head out anywhere without a combat engineer because the fields were planted with mines. The combat engineer was to go first and set up the route in the mine field for the reconnoiters and others. When tanks were to attack, combat engineers were supposed to check the route for them. Of course, we didn't have time to clear the whole mine field. Combat engineers moved in front of the tanks, cleared mines, and then the tanks followed the combat engineers.

Mines were buried, but they could be seen. Of course the tankers couldn't see them as the distance was too big. Sometimes they had a hunch where the mine was, even though they didn't see the mine. Anti- personnel conventional mines could be condoned as they wouldn't destroy tanks, while antitank mines would blast a tank that is why it was mandatory to clear those types of mines. [Editor's note: Originally developed in World War II, the PMD-6 antipersonnel mine is a rudimentary pressure-activated blast device in a wooden box. As wood rots, the mine mechanism may shift, and the device often sets itself off or becomes inoperative.]

Our task was also to maintain a caution crossing. There were special well-equipped squads with bateaus for this mission. But we lacked such squads and caution crossing was provided by ordinary combat engineering troops with expedient means. Once we had to ford across the river Latoritsa in Western Ukraine. Our squad approached the river. We couldn't approach the bank as the Germans launched a severe gun attack. The regiment commander gave an order to ford the river at night under the cover of darkness. I remembered what we were taught in school. We got long boards and bound them together with rope and wire and then brought them to the river in carts as soon as it got dark. We had a raft with the length of 70-80 meters. We also prepared long six-meter rods to push off from the bottom. I and five more people got on the raft and tried to veer it across the river with the help of the rod. But the rods were too short and didn't reach the bottom. The river wasn't very wide, about 50 meters, but it was deep, deeper than eight meters. The river stream pulled the raft along, and we had to pull against. We were lucky that the wind direction didn't allow the Germans to hear the splashes coming from us.

My watch showed 4am. The dawn was before soon, and the Germans would just shoot us down. I saw the commander on the bank waving his hands and making signs to veer the raft. What were we to do? It was December and our raft was getting covered with ice. Surprisingly enough I didn't even think about the fact that I didn't know how to swim. One slip and I would be in the water sinking like a stone. We couldn't reach the bottom with the rods. The only way out was to swim to the bank and get the rope tied to the raft. One of the soldiers undressed and swam in the freezing cold December water. He swam for two meters and had a cramp. Another soldier followed him. We tied him up with the rope for him to get on the raft if he had to. We were lucky. The soldier reached the bank. As soon as they hauled on the rope from the bank, the raft was veered across the river and the entire squadron crossed the river, landed at the other bank and succeeded in attacking the Germans.

I was lucky not be wounded at war no matter that I was in the skirmishes. I really considered myself a fortune minion, who couldn't possibly be wounded. I don't know why but I was convinced of that. The first time I was wounded was in Hungary in 1944. We came to a hamlet after receiving the message from the headquarters that it was occupied by our troops. I went halfway on the tank turret, and then I got off to check whether there were any mines getting a hold of the tank weapon. Then all of a sudden shooting was coming from that hamlet. It turned out that it was occupied by Germans. The tanks turned around and retreated; I was close to the tanks. But I couldn't move forward way too far as a mine fragment hit my head. I was unconscious for a while. When I came around I saw a local Hungarian woman sitting by me. She tore a piece from her chemise and bandaged my head. I was hospitalized with that wound. Then I came to the understanding that I could be wounded, not killed.

I was sent to the 7th air-borne regiment of the 2nd guard airborne division after I was discharged from hospital. The combat engineering commander perished and I was assigned new platoon commander and stayed there until the end of the war.

I didn't join the Party while in the army. The political instructor used to annoy me with requests to join the Party after I had become officer and platoon commander. I declined saying that I wasn't a Komsomol member, and besides at the age of 19 wasn't eligible to be a party member. In the end I was pushed to become a Komsomol member.

It was mandatory to take any city on the eve of some Soviet holiday. It was common practice no matter that the situation wasn't auspicious for that. It should have been the time of respite, but we had the order to liberate any city at any cost. It meant thousands of casualties just for reporting to the supreme, e.g. 'Comrade Stalin, to commemorate the anniversary of the great October Socialist Revolution Kiev has been liberated.' I remember how in 1944 an article appeared in Pravda [one of the most popular communist papers in the USSR, issued from 1912 till now, with the circulation exceeding eight million copies during the Soviet period] saying that in severe battles the troops of the 4th Ukrainian front took the passenger terminal and the town of Chop [Zakarpatska, Ukraine]. Yes, Chop was taken but it couldn't be retained as the Germans put on more pressure. Then there were more casualties in attempts to liberate Chop.

I went to reconnoiter many times. Then I was involved not only in combat engineering but also in reconnoitering. I recall one case. I was sent to reconnoiter with a group of people and I was told that we should cross the front line. I wasn't told who these people were. When I came back to the squad I was told that those people were German anti- fascists who had come through the front line to their military divisions to propagate against Hitler. I thought their mission to be very hard. They could have been killed at once if not disposed to the Gestapo. Then I understood that Germans and fascists were two different things. There were Germans who fought against Hitler.

I was wounded the second time in Poland, not far from Poznan, in the direction of the river Oder. It happened in March, 1945. The altitude by the Oder was 936 as marked on the maps. First the altitude was taken by us, and then it was taken by the Germans after our retreat. There were few people and the personnel wasn't replenished no matter that our commandment was constantly asking for it. The general headquarters cabled the following: 'Finish the war with the means you've got without awaiting replenishment.' We had more equipment than men and more officers than soldiers percentage-wise. Soldiers weren't that willing to attack as they knew the war was coming to an end, and they didn't want to die. Combat engineers also tried to escape jeopardous assignment obviating the risk.

Combat engineers didn't have to assault, but we couldn't condone the orders. Gun soldiers who were to defend the headquarters were under my command. These were several combat engineers and infantry men. We reached an altitude in the evening and it was getting dark. All approaches to the altitude were lined with the corpses of our soldiers, who had made the attempt before us. But we had to act no matter what. I tried to convince the soldiers to attack. But nobody moved. Everybody wanted to live. Frankly speaking, I had to kick and shove them so they could get up. Then the words came - 'For the Motherland! For Stalin!' - and we attacked. A fragment reached an arch of my gun and the spent bullet broke my finger. Then the fragment pierced my leg. In the ardor of the battle I felt no pain. Only later I felt that I couldn't walk, and my leg pulled back. When the altitude was captured, I told the commander over the phone that the order had been fulfilled and asked for a permit to be hospitalized. Luckily the bone wasn't touched and I wasn't sent to the rear regiment. I stayed in the hospital for three weeks and then I returned to my regiment.

When we arrived in Germany, the hunt for trophies began. We could enter any devastated German house and take anything we wished. I couldn't even think of anything like that, but the older soldiers, especially the rustic ones, were seeking what might be in need. I recall that one of the elderly village guys found a 50-meter roll of silk. He wrapped himself up in that silk and walked around. I suggested that he should put that silk in the cart as nobody would take it anyway, but he didn't give in. He found his life very precious since he found that trophy. When we were having lunch, he went to the basement so as not to be killed in an accidental skirmish. Strange as it may be, he was the only one to die during a skirmish: the vault collapsed in the basement where he was hiding.

Most of us didn't hate the Germans. In battle it's different: an extermination of the vicious foes. We were calm towards captives and civilians. There were no people around who hankered for the death of the families of German soldiers. I had to participate in cross- examinations of the Germans because I spoke pretty good German. None of the captives recognized that he was a military. Some said they were barbers, others were builders; they named any profession that came to their mind. We treated captives in a good way. I remember that captured Germans slept along with our soldiers in the basement, and the weapons were close by. None of the Germans made an attempt to get a hold of a weapon. Captives were fed together with us. I saw the columns of captured Germans lead by two elderly soldiers. It was hard for one of them to carry a gun as it was heavy, so he put it on the shoulder of a captive. The Germans didn't try to escape or disarm the sentinel. They understood that the war was over, and they wanted to remain alive.

There was no anti-Semitism at the front. Nobody was interested what nationality the comrades were. There were other criteria: would your comrade give you a hand when you are in a quagmire, would he defend you from a skirmish or would he share rusk and water with you? There were Russians, Ukrainians, Georgians and Moldovans [also see Moldova] 28 among my front-line friends. There was no national feud.

For my friends and I the war was over not on 9th, but on 12th May 1945. The commandment was apprised that the German squad under the command of colonel-general Sherner was trying to break through to the Americans. Our front was to block their way. Part of our gun-machine battalion captured some hamlet, located 40 kilometers south-east of Berlin. We didn't take part in the liberation of that hamlet. Our squad, headed by the operational squad of the regiment, walked across the field and blocked the road. There were knolls ahead of us and shooting started from there. There must have been a spotter there, who spotted the fire. The shells were blasted behind us, then in front of us. I understood that we had come into a plug as they say in artillery.

There were three more soldiers with me. The shell landed right between us. I fell down after the blast. I was in a jersey and the cotton wool was erased by the shell fragment and my back was scolded. The map case was thrown away by the blast. The other three soldiers were killed. They perished on 12th May 1945. The regiment commander told me to submit a report for those killed in the last battle to be posthumously awarded and for their relatives to be apprised of that. One of those soldiers was my friend Vladimir Bishnar, a handsome good-humored Moldovan, only two years older than me. I couldn't write to his family, just couldn't stand the thought. I wanted to go to Moldova after demobilization and tell his family what a remarkable man Vladimir had been and how he had perished and my witnessing it. One thing is to write a letter, going to see them was a different thing. I didn't manage to do that. I kept my map case like the apple of my eye as it contained the addresses and pictures, and it was stolen during my trip on the train. There was nothing I regretted more in my life. That is why I couldn't meet up with Vladimir's family.

During the war I was awarded with the Order of the Red Star 29 and the Medal for Valor 30. Besides I got many medals for the defense and liberation of many cities. I was awarded with an Order of the Great Patriotic War 31, 1st Class, for my last battle on 12th May 1945.

After Khrushchev's 32 speech at the Twentieth Party Congress 33 covering Stalin's trespassing I brooded on how great Stalin's role was in defeating Germany. Alas, my thoughts were very wistful. Even now we don't know for sure how many casualties we had in that war. It is known that the Germans had nine million casualties. [Editor's note: regarding different resources, battle casualties of the USSR were between 8,6 and 13,6 million soldiers, of Germany between 3,45 and 4,75 million soldiers. Total military casualties of World War II in Europe number between 27 and 55 million people.] Germans are very punctilious, they consider everything. We still don't know the exact figure; all we know is that it considerably exceeded the casualties of the Germans. It should have been vice versa. They were assaulters, who were supposed to lose more than the defenders. People say that 30 million soldiers perished. But this figure is unrealistic. There were so many unburied soldiers. At present people are still finding human bones when they dig in the kitchen garden. Our state doesn't look into the issue of their burial or collecting data about them, some other people are doing that.

I consider it to be amoral for the state to treat people who defended the country, the way it does. During the defense of Kiev in 1941 the Germans captured three armies, 600,000 people. There is a story line about the Stalingrad battle 34 and 330 captured Germans, and there is nothing said about those 600,000. Our army was decapitated during terrible pre-war repressions. When they talk about genius commanders, who won the war I don't agree. Of course, they played their part, but the victory was gained at the expense of the soldiers, millions of their lives. There was nobody at the head of command at the beginning of the war. Junior officers became regiment commanders. Their careers were made during the war.

When Stalin understood that the war was to turn a different course, he released the remaining commanders from the Gulag 35 e.g. Rokossovskiy 36, and appointed them as commanders. Those who became generals and marshals by the end of the war began the war as lieutenants and captains. Having believed that Germany would be our ally, Stalin started to rearm the army at the end of 1940. When the Germans attacked, our army was in the middle of rearmament. Many of the large military plants were on the territory, occupied by the Germans. Only in 1942 weapon production was launched at the evacuated plants, e.g. Ukraine. Production was also implemented in new places, but it was a time-consuming process. Then arms, tanks and jets were produced in Ural and Siberia. Before, the ammunition consisted of rifles and guns dating back to World War I. [Editor's note: it took more than a year to move the plants from the center of the USSR to the East in order to launch production of new armament. Prior to the year 1942 the Soviet Army was armed with the kind of weapons and machines which were used in World War I.] 

After the war

I still remained in the army for another year after the war was over. I was dispatched to Western Ukraine. Banderovtsi gangs [see Bandera] 37 were in full swing at that time, and many military officers were sent there to fight against those gangs. We had the battle experience which the graduates of the military schools didn't acquire. The front-line experience was very important as the situation back in those times appeared belligerent. In a year the division commander called me and suggested I should stay in the army as a career officer. I said that I wanted to continue studying. The commander said that he understood me and sent me to the physical examination board. I still keep the old certificate of the medical board, where it was stated that I was banned from military service. I showed that certificate and I was qualified restrictedly fit. So, I had the chance to be demobilized. Otherwise, I would have had to stay in the army.

I came back home. I forgot everything I had learnt in school. I entered the preparatory faculty of the Moscow Mechanics Institute, which became the engineering physics institute. I entered the institute the following year. Though there were some problems. I was given a considerably lower mark for the entrance exam in mathematics. I still was accepted, in another department though. I submitted the documents for the engineering and physics department and I was accepted to the instrument making department, where the competition was lower.

When I was a sophomore student I bumped into the mathematics teacher who had taken my entrance exam. He came up to me and apologized for giving me a lower mark. I was so taken aback that the only thing I could say was that I was OK studying at another faculty and regretted nothing. I cannot say for sure, but I think that case referred to anti- Semitism, I don't have any other explanation for it. Anti-Semitism wasn't displayed during the years of my studies, though I knew it existed. A different attitude towards Jews could be felt after the war. Anti-Semitism was streamlined with the commencement of cosmopolitan processes in 1948 [see campaign against 'cosmopolitans'] 38. At that time I thought that the process was against certain scientists and cultural activist, not against Jews in general.

I think my parents felt the jeopardy of what was going on. My mother worked at the Ministry of Foreign Trade and she was offered to work in the Ministry of Internal Affairs. When she told my father about it he said that she should flatly refuse although the offered salary and position were better. My parents' job was connected with secretive and sensitive materials. Every time they were supposed to fill in certain forms to get access to these materials. During the war and for some time after the war, my father worked in the Ministry of Defense Industry and Armament, and then he was transferred to the Ministry of Heavy Industry. He worked there until his retirement. Once my mother filled in a certain section in the form regarding her relatives living abroad and wrote that her elder brother had lived in the USA since 1905. The head of the special department called her in and told her to rewrite the form without mentioning a word about her brother. It shows that they treated her in a good way and that she was appreciated. When she was to be awarded with the 'Medal for Distinctive Service' in 1948, she was the only one whose name was crossed out from the list of nominees. She was given a medal instead of this order. [Editor's note: the 'Medal for Distinctive Service' was established by the Decree of the Presidium of the Supreme Council of the USSR on 27th December 1938 for awarding those workers, collective farmers and officers who showed distinctive and exceptional results at work, who advanced development of science, technology, culture.]

In December 1952 I graduated from the institute. Father didn't retire, though he was severely ill. He needed my help. Apart from working for the Ministry of Construction, he was also a member of the municipal party committee, which was a rather high position. According to my mandatory job assignment 39 I was to go to the Ministry of Defense Industry and Armament. My father, previously employed there, called the secretary of the party committee of the ministry. I don't know the subject of their conversation; I assume my father was asking him to help me stay in Moscow. But nothing came of it. Then my father resorted to the deputy minister of the Ministry of Construction of Heavy Industry Enterprises, who called the deputy minister of defense industry and armament. But it didn't work out either.

There was no stopping my father. He had an appointment with the minister of construction of heavy industry enterprises, Reiser, one of the few Jewish ministers, and it brought no result either. [Reiser, David Yakovlevich (1904-1962): Russian-born state activist of Jewish origin. In 1953 he was the deputy minister, later minister of the USSR construction ministry.] I was sent to the closed institute of defense industry and armament in Izhevsk, located 1,000 kilometers from Moscow. I had stayed there for a year, then there was a decree of the plenum of the central committee of the party regarding 'Strengthening of agriculture' and I was offered to go to a kolkhoz 40.

The issue was very serious. I came to the instructor of the central committee of the party. I explained that I would be useless in the agricultural industry with my education in instrument building and no experience in rustic living and with agricultural machinery. The instructor listened to me very carefully and totally agreed with me. She wasn't the one who could have issued a resolution, so she called the secretary of the regional committee of the party in Izhevsk for him to decide on the spot. I had an appointment with him when I got back to Izhevsk. He was aware that agriculture wouldn't suffer a loss without me, but he unofficially recommended me to go. I was sent to a village in Izhevsk district and appointed chief engineer of the tractor station. I didn't know anything about agricultural equipment, but I had organizational skills, other issues were taken care of by the chief mechanic. I bought and established the necessary equipment, and I provided them with building materials, but I didn't have to maintain this equipment, for this purpose there was a mechanic. So I didn't have to have a thorough knowledge in production. There was a forestry nearby, and I got acquainted with the mechanic. He told me that his nephew was to graduate from the institute soon and his mandatory job assignment was to be in Kazakhstan. I suggested that his nephew should be appointed for my position as his relatives were there. He wrote to his nephew and got a positive reply. The nephew came, I told him about the functions of the chief engineer and we both went to the regional committee of the party. I introduced my successor to the secretary, and he signed my resignation letter. In 1954 I returned to Izhevsk to my previous position. In 1957 I left for Moscow, my home.

In January 1953, when I was in Izhevsk, the Doctors' Plot 41 commenced. Of course, I didn't believe the things written in the articles. I couldn't envisage a doctor, who had been treating the top circles of the government for many years, to poison people. It was a libel. Many people believed that. There were some of my acquaintances who believed that Jews would be able to commit anything, including the assassination of Stalin. There were some younger people who considered Stalin to be a criminal, who should have been exterminated a long time ago. Such talks were very hazardous at that time. We were lucky that there wasn't an NKVD stooge among us, and that we weren't arrested. Common people unconditionally believed everything they broadcast on the radio or things written in the newspapers. People refused to go to the Jewish doctors in the polyclinics. Anti-Semitism was acerbated. The street in Chernigov named after my mother's brother Jacob Nitsberg was renamed at that time. Soon, to commemorate a certain anniversary, my mother received a letter saying that she was invited to Chernigov to take the floor and talk about her brother. My mother knew that the street had been renamed. She didn't even answer the letter and said she didn't want anything to do with those people.

On 5th March 1953 Stalin passed away. It was both a shock and a tribulation for me. My mother reiterated one and the same line in her letters after Stalin's death: 'How are we to live without Stalin now?' I had no such thoughts.

I remembered the Twentieth Party Congress, where Nikita Khrushchev divulged crimes committed by Stalin. I believed Khrushchev at once. I still think a new page in history was turned, removing the old one full of terror. It wasn't accepted by everybody. My father didn't know what happened at the party congress as he was in hospital. When he was discharged from the hospital, he went to the central party committee and read a publicly closed letter with Khrushchev's speech. My father was so astounded that he stayed in bed for a few days feeling unwell. Father saw things happening around him and he wasn't so gullible not to understand what was going on. After perestroika 42 they started publishing the list of people who had been shot [see Rehabilitation in the Soviet Union] 43, where I found many familiar names, former employees of my father. He might have stuck to the opinion of the majority that Stalin's surrounding was to blame, not Stalin himself. There are many people nowadays who disbelieve the repressions, the fact that millions of innocent people had been shot and exiled to the Gulag. Mother told me that after the exoneration many people came back to the ministry. When my mother asked her former employee who was falsely convicted and imprisoned for 14 years, what had happened to him in the Gulag, he told her to ask no questions. I can only imagine what horror he had to go through if he didn't want to recall things.

After the Twentieth Party Congress I was sure that our life would dramatically change for the better. Of course, certain things changed. We didn't have to fear repressions. One could speak his mind; anti- Semitism slightly faded in every day life, though it remained on the state level. When I came back to Moscow in 1957, I wasn't able to find a job. My name was Russian, and I didn't look very Jewish. When I came to the human resources department I was offered a job, and after I filled in my nationality in line #5 [see Item 5] 44 I was apprised immediately that the position wasn't vacant any more, and that they'd just forgotten about it.

I took pains to be employed by the construction bureau of the non- ferrous metals plant Tsvetmetavtomatika. Then I was assisted in the transfer to the scientific and research institute of heating appliances. My non-Jewish surname complicated my life. Very often I was offered interesting and more lucrative jobs, and when they saw the line with my nationality, they backed off. Once my mother told me that there would be a new committee by the Ministry of Foreign Trade and there were vacancies. She kept me informed and told me to go there for an appointment. I was received by the deputy head of the committee of the Ministry of Radio Industry. He told me about the field to be involved in, and what I would have to do, and then asked me a question, 'Is there anything bothering you?' He must have noticed my tension and then asked me another question, 'Are you Russian?' I replied, 'No.' Then an explicit question followed, 'Are you a Jew?' - 'Yes.' And the last question was, 'Is it indicated in the form?' Then he told me that such issues could be tackled only by his boss. Then he added that I would have another appointment, and that the position had been taken. Things were very clear to me, and I never went back there.

Marriage life and children

I was married late, in 1961. I met my future wife, Elena Fanstein, at my friend's place. Elena was younger than me. She was born in December 1933 in a town outside Moscow called Noginsk. Elena's father, Emmanuel Fanstein, was chief accountant of the powder plant in the city of Roshal. Elena's mother, Basya Fanstein [nee Ostrovskaya] was a housewife. There were three children in the family: the elder son, Valentin, born in 1929, Elena and the junior, Leonid, born in 1939. At the beginning of 1941 Elena's father was arrested. There was an arson at the powder plant, probably caused by technological malfunction, but the whole management of the plant was charged with arson and sent to the Gulag according to article #58 of the criminal code. [According to this article any action directed against upheaval, shattering and weakening of the power of the working and peasant class should be punished.]

During the war Elena's family was evacuated to the town of Yaloutorovsk, Tumen oblast [about 1,800 km from Moscow]. It was a very hard time for them. Elena's parents lived in the town of Rouzhin, Zhytomyr province. Her grandmother died before the war and her grandfather, Shalom Ostrovskiy, objected to evacuation and was shot by fascists along with other Jews of Rouzhin in 1941. Then Elena's elder brother was taken to Moscow by his relatives, and they assisted him in entering a vocational school. After the evacuation Basya moved to Moscow with the two younger children. Elena's father was pardoned in 1945, but he couldn't join his family as he lived in exile for a while. However, he surreptitiously visited them in Moscow. Then he came to Moscow and found a job connected with business trips. Frequent trips gave him an opportunity not to attend political classes and general meetings.

Elena finished school and entered the engineering and economic institute. After graduation she stayed in Moscow and had a mandatory job assignment to a design institute to work as an economist. Her elder brother tried to enter Moscow University [M. V. Lomonosov Moscow State University, the best university in the Soviet Union, also well-known abroad for its high level of education and research], but it was unrealistic for a Jew to enter such an institution. He graduated from the polytechnic institute and worked as a researcher in the scientific and research institute. Elena's younger brother made an attempt to enter the institute of military translators, and didn't succeed. The following year he entered the textile industry institute and then worked as an engineer. Elena's elder brother's wife gave birth to a girl in 1959. Their daughter was named Marina. Leonid, the younger brother, had three daughters: Elena born in the first marriage in 1961, and another Elena, born in 1970, and Alla, born in 1976, in the second marriage. Both brothers lived in Moscow. Valentin died in 1994. Leonid immigrated to the USA in the 1980s with his family. They have a happy life in San Francisco.

Our wedding was ordinary. We got registered in the marriage registration office and had a wedding party in the evening with our kin and friends. We lived with my parents. Father died a few months after our wedding. He was buried in the city cemetery. Of course, the funeral was secular as my father had been an atheist and a party member. He kept on reiterating why I didn't join the Party and wondered if I hadn't changed my mind.

When my father was still alive he asked the local authorities to give him another apartment. Our apartment was on the fifth floor and there was no elevator. It was hard for my parents to walk upstairs. Father was offered other apartments, but those were worse than ours. After my father's death we were given an apartment in the residential area of Moscow. The house was located not very far from the metro, and there was an elevator. Of course, that apartment wasn't equal to ours, but we agreed to it, because of the elevator. We still live in that apartment.

In 1963 our only daughter, Victoria, was born. Elena kept on working. Mother was retired at that time and helped us raising our daughter. Victoria grew up like other Soviet children. She went to school, joined the Oktyabryata, the pioneers and the Komsomol. My mother spent most time with her. My wife and I worked hard and were pressed for time. We tried to spend the weekend with our daughter. We went for a stroll, to the theater and the circus. My mother died in 1981, the year when Victoria finished school. We buried her next to my father in the city cemetery.

After school Victoria entered the Moscow State Medical Academy of Veterinary and Bioengineering named after Skryabin. She got married during her last year of studies. I don't want to talk about her husband, as those recollections are hurting. Victoria's last name remained unchanged after she got married, but her son, born in 1988, was given the surname of his father: Bogachev. When my three-year-old grandson was asked in the kindergarten, 'Who is your dad?' he replied, 'Grandpa.' Victoria stayed in Moscow after her graduation. It was difficult for her to find a job, but her friends gave her a hand.

When our grandson, Artyom, was born, Elena retired so that she could help our daughter. I tried to spend my spare time with Artyom. The boy needed to have a masculine upbringing because he wasn't very fortunate with his father... Of course, Grandpa couldn't be the father, but I tried my best for my grandson not to feel that he was forsaken by his father. I love Artyom very much and I think he loves me, too. Probably I didn't raise him properly. I brought him up the way my parents did. My grandson is different from his coevals. He knows a lot about the Great Patriotic War from my tales and from many books he read. My daughter didn't have an easy life as we brought her up way too intelligent for nowadays - not pushy. Artyom is like that as well. What can we do? Would it be better if we raised a mean person who would do anything to achieve the stated goal? His life would be difficult. I know it from my own experience. Because I'm the same, and I'm not going to change. I didn't betray, did no harm to anybody. I have a clean conscience with myself and with my kin. That's the most important. My grandson is with me, sharing my principles. Once, my grandson and I were walking together, and one woman said to my grandson that he was lucky to have such a grandfather. I replied that I was a happy grandfather for having such a wonderful grandson. Now Artyom is 16. He is in the tenth grade. In a year he will have to choose his profession. I hope he will be happy.

I had trouble in my life for telling the truth all the time. Many people disapproved of it. If I heard about things impartial I always stood up for justice to prevail. I couldn't ask for myself, but if others needed my help I fought tooth and nail. Of course, there were a lot of ill-wishers because of that. Now, to crown it all I can say: no matter that I haven't achieved anything in life, my conscience is clean. I did no malice, and was not envious. My mother takes credit for that. It was she who taught me those things. There is a certain moral boundary that I will never step over. Any decent person is a friend for me, I cut indecent ones dead, I just don't communicate with them. I can understand and forgive many things, but not betrayal.

We used to celebrate birthdays of our family members and Soviet Holidays - 1st May, 7th November [October Revolution Day] 45, Soviet Army Day 46, New Year's Eve, but the most festive occasion for us was 9th May, Victory Day 47. The whole family goes to the Grave of Unknown Soldier, where we meet with front-line soldiers. My grandson has attended since the age of three. The rest of the holidays were just mere days-off - an occasion to get together with friends and have fun. We danced, sang, and enjoyed having a chat with dear people. Neither Elena nor I thought of the gist of the holiday. 

Recent years

In the 1970s mass immigration of Jews to Israel started. I sympathized with those who wanted to immigrate. I helped my friends, who were on the verge to change their lives. I didn't want to leave, though my wife craved for it and even insisted on our immigration. At that time her younger brother left; and Elena thought he was right as he did it for the sake of the future of his children. Many people didn't understand why a well-off person gave up an apartment, a car, work and left the country for uncertainty. I didn't have a wish like that. I think my upbringing was the reason for it. Besides, my mother was flatly against immigration, and I didn't want her to stay by herself.

I was very keen on the things going on in Israel. I followed the news in Israel and was interested in the life of this country. Israeli people are worth respecting and admiring. They made the country flourishing, achieving the highest level in medicine and science. This small country surrounded by adversaries, has a good defense system against assaulters. In 1967 the Six-Day-War 48 was unleashed, and then in 1973 there was the Yom Kippur War 49. The term 'Israeli military clique' appeared in our press, and I disapproved of it. Common people sympathized with the Israeli struggle. They understood that it wasn't Israel that unleashed war and admired its blitz victory in that massacre.

At the end of the 1980s Mikhail Gorbachev 50, General Secretary of the Soviet Communist Party Central Committee announced perestroika. I didn't take him seriously, thought him to be a prattler, who couldn't even answer questions properly. Of course, we felt certain fruits of perestroika. Liberty was obtained. We were able to get previously banned literature. Libel in the press was over. Any person could go abroad without an approval from the regional party committee, and we could also invite foreigners. We were bereft of those rights during Soviet times. Now we had the opportunity to profess any religion we wanted. Synagogues and churches opened up. During Soviet times there was only the constitution and that was it. After the first year perestroika began to decline to a certain extent. I understand that the former party nomenclature tried to clutch at the past and put a spoke in the wheel. Preposterous things were going on - elite vineyards were exterminated in the Crimea under the pretext of struggle for teetotalism. Certain campaigns commenced and then were done away with very rapidly. Then it happened so that in Moscow products started vanishing from the stores like during the war times. Food cards were introduced. Then there was an outbreak of unemployment. People of retirement age were fired. All those things brought the breakup of the great and powerful state of the USSR [1991].

I was not to be fired. In 1990, I decided to retire, when I turned 65. I wanted to spend more time with my grandson, and start enjoying my life. I have been offered to come back to work for five years since my retirement. The management talked me into it in the year 1995. I am still working.

After the breakup of the USSR my life has been getting better gradually. Of course, we have a hard living nowadays, and I'm worried about the future of my grandson. What a nuisance, our country having defeated Germany in World War II, is considerably lacking behind in many spheres. Those people who fought against Germany receive compensation from Germany, but not from their country.

I think that young people are supposed to know their history and the history of the most terrible war in particular, as well as the storyline of the extermination of an imminent global fascist dictatorship. There is a railway college in Moscow where one of the regiments of our division was formed during the war. Now it is a museum of our division. I have been attending it for many years and held speeches on 'Classes of Valor.' For the first time I went there with the chairman of the war veteran council, a former party activist. When he took the floor, I noticed that people weren't listening to him and paid no attention. He was talking of the things that could be read in any textbook, so the story was thin for them. Then I took the floor with the stories about my front-line experience, the same I told my grandson, and they displayed an interest. I understand that they were aged 15-16, and I was a little bit older when I went to the front. I understand them, their problems, even though I'm an elderly man. I went there for many years, but now there are no classes of valor in their curriculum.

During perestroika the [Moscow] Council of the Jewish War Veterans 51 was founded in Moscow. I became its member. It was about 15 years ago. I have been the presidium member of this council for many years, and worked in the group of assistance to the needy. I paid a lot of attention to seeking those who needed help. Then, when I came back home, I rejected that position. I cannot just be there and do nothing. I had no time for that.

The first time I came to the synagogue was also during perestroika. There was only one synagogue for the entire city of Moscow after the war. The most ancient synagogue, and the only acting synagogue during the Soviet regime, was located in the heart of Moscow, on Spasoglinichevskiy Lane. The synagogue was ceremoniously opened in 1989. Now it is called 'Sinagoga na gorke' ['Synagogue on the hill' in Russian]. Then another one was restored at Malaya Bronzy. I've been very aloof from religion all my life. It was the way I was brought up by my parents and it was too late for me to be re-nurtured. I got to know our rabbi. He is a very interesting man and we both enjoy each other's company. We don't broach religious subjects, there are other common topics we find. We used to attend concerts of Jewish songs, but then it got more difficult for me to go because of my health problems.

Recently a new Jewish public center has been built. Many interesting people come there, including journalists and writers. I was there once, and I like it very much. We also have a Jewish charitable organization, Hama [Hesed] 52, which is very helpful to people. Unfortunately our Jews enjoy receiving more than giving. When I worked for the Council of the Jewish War Veterans, there was one entrepreneur from Pyatigorsk, who organized our trip to Israel. He paid for our round trip, and we had to take care of the accommodation. I've always dreamt of going to Israel. My daughter gave me the money and also informed her acquaintances that I would stay with them. I didn't have a foreign passport, and I was enrolled in the last group to have time to process the necessary documents. I was the head of the third group, where we selected people who were involved in the work of the council. But there were people who had nothing to do with the council and asked me to send them to Israel just because they had some relatives there. We tried to explain our selection process but heard their indignation in return. I understand that all bread is not baked in one oven. But why are there so many mercantile people among the Israeli? By the way, I didn't manage to go to Israel, some of the members in the second group refused going to the airport by electric train and wanted the sponsor to cover taxi expenses. The sponsor was so perturbed that he said he would do nothing from now on. Our group had Israeli visas, when we were apprised that our trip had been cancelled. So, I didn't go to Israel in the end.

I would like to live long enough to see Russia a civilized European country. I would be happy not to see things overshadowing our country. I would like my grandson to find himself in his life after he finishes school. I would like that useless blood-shed in Chechnya [see Chechen War] 53 to be over. Nobody knows what for somebody's grandchildren perish. And the most important is for our children and grandchildren to know about war only from tales of such veterans as I am. 

Glossary:

Mimi-Matilda Petkova
Sofia
Bulgaria
Interviewer: Patricia Nikolova
Date of interview: August 2003

Mimi-Matilda Buko Petkova creates the impression of a strong and fighting woman, accustomed to defending her position to the end and able to survive all circumstances and changes. She is motivated by moral imperatives like: honesty, justice, existential freedom, social equality and social solidarity. But she believes in them only when she sees them realized in practice. She is tolerant and believes in values such as liberalism, democracy and respect.

I was born in the most beautiful town in Bulgaria, the capital of the Second Bulgarian Kingdom - Vidin, which was once named Bdin, back in the 12th century. The Second Bulgarian Kingdom was declared after the rebellion of the boyars Asen and Petar in 1186. This rebellion overthrew the power of Byzantium over the Bulgarians. The new territory of the Bulgarian state was between the Danube River, the Balkan Mountains and the Black Sea. The capital was the town of Tarnovo. Petar was declared king, and later on Asen too. If one stands exactly there, at the curve of the Danube, one can see Calafat [Romanian town] across the river. And the lights of Calafat are the lights of life: at first they come wide, then the Danube shrinks them, and then they fade away in one ray, for good. This memory of mine is unforgettable.

My ancestors came from Spain. They were called Bizanti. They were banished by the queen [see Expulsion of the Jews from Spain] 1 and passed through Italy. My ancestors spent some time in Toledo, where they were known as the Bizanti family, but when they passed through Piza, they renamed themselves Pizanti. Then they left for Turkey. Some of them stayed in Odrin and the others went to Bulgaria. [The contemporary Bulgarian State came into existence as late as 1878. Her ancestors settled in the Eastern Balkans, a part of the Ottoman Empire that became Bulgaria in the 19th century.]

The father of my great-grandfather was called David. I don't know anything else about him. His son Saltiel was my great-grandfather. He died as a volunteer in the fighting at Shipka Mount [see Liberation of Bulgaria] 2. My grandfather had three sons. One of them, Judas, was the father of Haim Pizanti, who was a famous personality in Bulgaria - founder of the communist party in the Vidin region and friend of Dimitar Blagoev 3. He was married to Sultana, who along with Vela Blagoeva, the wife of Dimitar Blagoev, was in the leadership of the women's organization in Vidin. In 1923 Haim Pizanti, his wife and three kids immigrated to Russia. There he was sent to Siberia, where he died during the repressions. His daughter, Renata returned to Bulgaria. Here she married the famous economist Jacques Natan. They also had three children: Dimi, Valeri and Tania. The first two have already passed away. At the moment the only heir to the Pizanti family is Tania Paunovska. Her son Vladimir Paunovski worked as an editor with the Sofia Jewish organization Shalom 4. Now he is the director of the museum at the Sofia synagogue.

Saltiel's second son was David, named after my great-grandfather. He had five sons from his wife Sarah. They were: Buko, Saltiel, Leon, Alfred and Sason. Their children were the parents of Jacques and David Pizanti who own the company of ladies' wear 'Pizanti' in France.

My great-grandfather Saltiel's third son was Isaak - my grandfather. He was married to Mazal Mashiah. He died in the Balkan War in 1913 [see First Balkan War] 5. They had two sons and two daughters. My grandfather was very religious. He was a tailor.

My father's name was Buko Isak Pizanti, but he preferred to be called Saltiel. He was born in Vidin on 20th December 1897. After I got married and moved to Sofia, he came to live with us. He was a very strict, but fair man. He never broke his word. He was not a complete atheist, because he kept my grandfather's tallit as a relic, as well as his kippah. When he went to the synagogue, he would put on his tallit and kippah at home. He seldom went to the synagogue though.

His siblings in their order of birth were: Liya, Israel and Sarah. When Liya was 16 years old, she got onto a carriage in Vidin, which turned over and... that was it. So only three of them remained.

My grandmother was a widow and supported her children by working in other people's houses. They were very poor. My father bought corn from the villagers and gave them some of the money in advance from a company, whose owner was Sason Pinkas. When the crop was ready, they transported it to Sofia and he paid them the rest of the money. After 9th September 1944 6 my father was employed in the trade business. He died of asthma on 16th March 1970. This is an illness he got while he was a common worker - his job was to turn the ears of corn over so that they would get damp before they were loaded onto the barge.

In 1918 my father fought as a volunteer in World War I. He had a medal of valor despite his death sentence. My father was a volunteer in the 6th infantry division [of the Bulgarian Army] during World War I. He was sentenced to death for organizing a mutiny. His sentence was N1009, issued on 12th April 1918.

Before he married my mother in 1920 my father went from Vidin to Sofia on foot and with no money to listen to a speech by Lev Trotsky 7. He was a member of the Komsomol 8. I remember my grandmother telling us how she boiled him three eggs for his journey. He ate them and sometimes the villagers he met on his way gave him something to eat too. And since he was afraid that he would tear his shoes, he took them off, flung them on his shoulder and walked barefoot. When he reached the Iskar River, he washed his feet, put his socks and shoes on and walked the remaining 10 kilometers to Sofia. Later the people there bought him a ticket for his journey home. So, he was quite wild. He married in 1920. Three years later he took part in the events of 1923 9.

He was imprisoned, because he had organized a mutiny. He was court- martialed. He was imprisoned in a barge together with his accomplices with the aim to sink it in the Danube near Vidin. But the international community managed to save them. In the end, in 1925 he was sent to prison, although he had nothing to do with the terrorist act. [Editor's note: the interviewee is referring to the bombing of the Sveta Nedelia Church] 10

My father's trial was very frightening. He had a death sentence. I wasn't allowed at the trial, because I was young, but my mother and my sister Liza went there. My mother was deaf. When Liza returned, she cried all the time. My father was beaten a lot, they hanged him with his feet upwards for 24 hours beating him on the heels. When my father was in prison, whatever we ate, my mother always divided it into five parts. She gave him his part when she went to see him every Friday. I also went to visit him: we had to wait in line before we were allowed to go in.

In prison my father made us shoes out of little laths nailed with tapes - instead of soles. My mother would knit some straps on them. I went to the front, wearing such shoes, trudging through the mud with them. They gave me some nice clothes only after the first fights.

I know many of my father's adventures. He went to fight for Bulgaria as a volunteer. But when Bulgaria lost in World War I - we were on the side of the Germans [see Bulgaria in World War I] 11. The then Communist Party ordered them to abandon their positions. He headed the mutiny, which was against this order. When he was sent to solitary confinement to wait for the trial, his friends brought him food and water secretly. His guards gave it to him, probably because they saw that he was right. When he was a prisoner of war in 1919 in Thessaloniki, he got malaria and the English treated him in a wonderful way. They gave him all the necessary medications. He told me about the barge in 1923, the people in the hold: they had no water, not enough air... By the way, in 1923 the police arrested my father at home while he was asleep. My mother got so scared that both her eardrums burst. My mother remained deaf for the rest of her life.

My father went to the synagogue, but he was an atheist. My mother was very strict on rituals. Everyone at home spoke Ladino, but my parents talked to each other in Turkish when they wanted to say something that the children shouldn't understand. They knew Turkish perfectly. Naturally, they knew Bulgarian as well.

The best synagogue in Bulgaria was in Vidin. It was very acoustic. I went with my mother on the balcony. She often went there. When Sabbath di Noche [Sabbath Eve] came, we always went there. I remember the paschal sweets, which the chazzan Meshulam gave to us. We had a shochet and he was the father of my uncle. There were a number of rabbis. I carried the chickens to be slaughtered at the synagogue. We didn't do that very often because we had no money. When I was 13 years old, my father gave me a bracelet for my bat mitzvah, telling me, 'From now on you are a woman.' I still keep it.

My father read more than my mother. He liked various Soviet books - from 'Dead Siberia Fields' to books devoted to Lev Trotsky. My father also loved singing. When we gathered with my father's sister and her husband at home or with my mother's brother and his wife, he always sang Ladino songs: 'Una morte union', '?tra muher nokero', 'Una chica corazon'.

My mother's name was Sarah Avram Pizanti, nee Lidgi, but everyone called her Freda. She was born on 8th August 1895 in Vidin. And she died on 30th October 1985. Her mother died when she was giving birth to her last son. My mother didn't know her father, because she was seven years old when he died. So, I didn't know any maternal or paternal grandparents.

My mother was a diabetic. She was almost illiterate. During the Law for the Protection of the Nation 12, she worked as a housemaid for the rich Jews. I, as the youngest child, went with her, peeling onions, potatoes etc.

My mother observed all holidays, especially Yom Kippur. We gathered with her brother and my father's sister. They didn't eat because of the holiday and we, the children, stayed in the shupron [shed for coal and wood], where they gave us something to eat. One day, on the evening of Yom Kippur after the shofar played in the synagogue and the family gathered, my father came back from the synagogue with the words: 'Come on, I'm hungry...' My mother brought him a dish of stuffed peppers. And suddenly she cried out: 'Buko!' and she fainted. Everyone started to fuss around her. When she came to, she said: 'Look, what you have on your tie!' And on his tie under his chin he had a piece of spaghetti. My mother was horrified that he had eaten during the day. 'How could you do that, Buko!', she said.

My father was a firm communist whereas my mother wasn't a member of any party. She was always afraid for him. She would tell him in Ladino: 'You will eat us out of house and home and ruin our children.' The house, the family, the home - that was my mother. She sewed clothes on a sewing machine so we were always neatly dressed. We, the sisters, passed the clothes to each other. The coat, which I wore at my wedding, in fact, belonged to my sister.

My parents knew each other from early on, because they were neighbors. They dressed like the others. My mother told me that her brother bought her cheap high-heeled shoes. The other sisters wore slippers with heels. My mother was raised by her brother, who also raised his other brothers and sisters. The shoes she was talking about were a bit above the ankle, with laces. Once she cut them from top to the bottom with a knife and he made her sew them together again. Then she continued to wear them for quite some time. Uncle Yako, her brother, bought my mother her first nice pair of shoes when she got engaged. That made her very happy.

At home we most often celebrated Yom Kippur, Fruitas 13 and Pesach, of course. My mother made delicious dishes from matzah and other things. I remember some wonderful paschal sweets, which we received at the synagogue. Often Uncle Yakim came on Pesach and my father would tell him, 'Come on, mumble something!' He was the son of the shochet and started like this, mumbling under his nose: 'Mmmmmm, uuuuuuuuh,' and did not say one word!

I loved Fruitas very much - the holiday, at which tanti [aunt] Sarah, my father's sister, filled some silk bags with fruits for us, because we had no money. It was my favorite holiday. She put dates, oranges, tangerines, nuts and plums in the bags. She would also put one lev in each so that we, the children, would have some money for the cinema or something else.

My mother loved telling a story, with which she wanted to warn us not to be too greedy and to make do with what we had: At midnight on Fruitas the trees kiss each other and God fulfils the wishes of all the people. At that moment an elderly woman stood at the window of her house, which was bolted with vertical bars. She managed to squeeze her head through the bars. When the trees started kissing, instead of saying 'Da mi grande cabizera!' ['God, give me wealth'], she said: 'Da mi grande cabeza!' ['Give me a big head'] And God granted her wish. She stayed with her head protruding outside for a whole year, and when the next Fruitas came, she said: 'God, please, I don't want anything - give me my head back!' And so she was back to normal. The moral of the tale according to my mother was: 'Do not want a big 'cabizera' - literally a pillow, and symbolically a 'state'. Better to want something small and God will fulfill it, otherwise he will punish you. I told this story to my children and my grandchildren. One should be satisfied with what one has and fight for as much as his or her strength allows.

My sister Veneta was born on 6th August 1925. Veneta finished junior high school. She was a seamstress. She married Haim Alhalel. Veneta always had a very sick heart. I remember that I waited for a whole night and half a day for her daughter Sonya to be born. Then I took her from the maternity home and brought her home as if she were a child of mine. Veneta died in Sofia from cardiovascular insufficiency on 24th February 1993.

Liza, my other sister, was born on 22nd January 1922. She finished her secondary education in Vidin high school. She had a college education and was a pharmacist. She married Tsvetan Penev. Liza has two sons, one of them is Fredi - named after my mother, and the other - Valentin. Liza died in 1995 after she had fallen down and broken her leg.

Both my sisters spoke Ladino. Liza knew Italian. They also lived in Vidin. When Liza married, she went to live in Byala Slatina and then I also went there to study in the technical college. I lived at her place for a while. But when I married too, everyone came to Sofia: my parents, Liza, Tsvetan, Veneta and Haim.

Once Veneta and I found the notebook in which my father wrote down what amount of money he had given to whom. Usually there was a fair on 28th August in Vidin. All children went there and their parents bought them confetti. So, we decided to make ourselves confetti from this notebook. That was such a disaster: the money of the owner of our house got completely mixed up. I still remember my father taking the notarial act of the house and giving it to the owner - if he didn't manage to collect the corn, the owner was free to sell our house. But the villagers were very honest and everyone brought him the corn. At the end of August, beginning of September my father came home with a big paper, in which sausages and warm bread were wrapped. He also brought back the notarial act. This happened in 1938-39.

At that time Jews were mostly merchants. For example, my father's cousins - the five sons of David - worked in Bourgas then, making contracts with companies importing Citrus fruits by sea. The market in Vidin took place every Friday. It was a colorful, typical village market. The women sat on the ground with their baskets and kerchiefs, because there were no stalls. You passed and they would shout at you: 'Come here, come there...' I loved it when my mother was walking around the market and she walked around three times so that she would be able to get the cheapest products. When my father worked and wasn't in prison, he often brought from the market a donkey cart with watermelons and melons. We, the three sisters, would line up with my father at the front, and we passed them to each other... If someone missed a fruit and dropped it, we ate it. I also remember that there were times when we couldn't afford to go to the market.

Before I was born, my father lived with my mother in the village of Gradets, Vidin region. I was born there. We had some very good friends - Uncle Lozano and Uncle Rusko. When the Law for the Protection of the Nation was passed, they brought us pumpkins, maize, flour and other stuff. The Jews could go to the market, but they could shop only with special talons, called food coupons, and only at specific times of the day.

Our house had two entrances. We paid for it in installments. At first the landlords lived with us. We lived in one of the rooms and my father paid them every month. We didn't have a garden. There was a cobblestone yard with very clean tiles. We washed them with a hose. We also had electricity. There were a number of extensions - a hen-house, a toilet and ? shupron. When my father paid the last installment, Uncle Stamen, the landlord, slaughtered a hen and opened a bottle of wine. We had a big mulberry tree in the yard; they sat under its shade, drank and sang... My father sang very well: 'Un amorte...un amor...' So the house became ours. This also happened in 1938-39.

We didn't have servants. As I said, my mother went to cook in other people's houses and I helped her. In 1941 when the Law for Protection of the Nation was passed a man called Ivan the Beast, the police chief, came and banished us from the house. We went to live under the hen-house and the shupron. We slept on the floor. All our belongings, the beds, the dishes, etc. remained with the Beast. At that time my father was in prison. Ivan the Beast returned from the Aegean region, when the Aegean Jews were all shipped to Majdanek 14. [Jews from the Bulgarian occupied Yugoslav and Greek lands, Macedonia and Aegean Thrace, were deported to Nazi death camps.] From there he brought home so many clothes and other stuff that his wife didn't know what to do with it all.

I didn't go to kindergarten; my mother took care of me. I studied in a Bulgarian secular school. I loved two subjects: history and Bulgarian language and literature, because history was related to my ancestry and I simply love Bulgarian poems. I wasn't sent to a Jewish school, because my father was an atheist and I had already begun my studies in the Bulgarian elementary school in the village of Gradets, where I was born. My favorite teacher was the one who taught me to write. His name was Tsankov; I remember him from the first grade. Our teacher from high school, who taught us Russian and French, from the forth until the eighth grade was Russian. Her family name was Belcheva, nee Galkina. She was a very cordial and charming woman. When she was talking, we couldn't take our eyes off her. She was the reason I loved Pushkin 15. I even named my daughter Tatyana after the female protagonist in 'Eugene Onegin'.

As I mention earlier, I didn't study in a Jewish school, but the Ivrit of the Jewish school, when he met me on the street, would shout, 'Pizantika, you must come to my class!' However, my parents had decided otherwise.

Uncle Stamen, the owner of the house, lived in the yard of our house. He was very tolerant. At the back of the yard on the other side, our neighbors were Jews. Haim Alhalel lived there. He fell in love with my sister Veneta and they later married. They had a big pear tree and when he climbed it to pick them, the pears would always fall in our yard and I couldn't explain why.

Aunt Ayshe, a Turkish woman, lived on the opposite side. She was also very nice. But two houses away from us, there were fascists, Branniks 16, Legionaries [see Bulgarian Legions] 17. They hurled stones at our house, shouting: 'Jews, leave our country!' This happened when the Law for the Protection of the Nation was passed, at the beginning of the 1940s.

I had many friends as a child. We lived in the Jewish neighborhood. At that time the town was small: around 19,000 people lived there, 8,000 of who were Jews. Rozanov was chairman of the Jewish organization. Later I was a member of a Jewish UYW 18 group. Our leader was the now well-known professor Avram Pinkas, a renowned surgeon. Our group also included Marsel Varsano, Leon Pinkas and Beka Aladgem. He was very pleased with me. I took part in all track tracing games, etc. In Hashomer Hatzair 19 I learned for the first time about Keren Kayemet Leisrael 20; I also learned the song 'Pumpkin, pumpkin' and other stuff. I didn't have much free time, because I often went to work with my mother. We cleaned and cooked in other people's houses.

Despite all the friends I had in Vidin and all the love I got from the Bulgarians - and there were also Armenians and Turks among my friends - I also remember a lot of hatred. I will not forget how when the Law for the Protection of the Nation was passed, the headmaster made us line up in front of the school. The high schools then were divided into girls' and boys' ones. In March 1941 we were already wearing yellow stars. Mr. Cholakov, the headmaster of the girls' high school, said, 'Mimi Pizanti, Beka Arie, Fifi Kohen and the others - two steps ahead. You are not wanted in our school from now on.' I left. The high school was quite far from home - I mentioned that we were close to the Jewish school - and I cried all the way home. My father wasn't in prison yet and he said, 'You don't need it. The socialist times will come, we will make our own schools, you will go to study in Russia, don't cry...' I will never forget that.

I was six years old when I first got on a train. My uncle in Sofia adopted me; he came to Vidin and took me in 1931. In accordance with the tradition, it was normal in a Jewish kin, that a family who had more children, gave one of them up for adoption to a childless brother or sister. That's what they did with me. Since I was the youngest, my father gave me to the family of his brother and his childless wife to look after me. I lived nine years with my uncle, until 1939. That is, until the Law for the Protection of the Nation was passed and Izie was born [nine years after Mimi's adoption the family had their own child, Izie]. Then my mother took me back.

Before the Law for the Protection of the Nation, once a year my father and I went to a fair. There we bought kebapcheta [grilled meatballs], which were served in big clay dishes and were delicious.

I remember the military parades and the holidays during which our school went to manifestations. 24th May 21 was a very nice holiday. We took part in the manifestations. All students were taken to church and we, the Jews, had to wait outside. Apart from me, I remember that Becca Arie, Fifi Koen and Viko - I don't remember his family name - also studied in that school. So, we played in the yard of the Bulgarian church.

I spent only one of my holidays at Moshava, a camp of Hashomer Hatzair. It was in present-day Velingrad. I remember that I ate very little. And my mother told me: 'If you eat French beans the whole summer, you will go to Moshava, if you don't eat, you won't go.' So, I grew to like French beans. I remember that my grandfather's brother kir David ['kir' means 'mister' in Turkish and it was also used in Bulgarian at the beginning of the century], who had five sons, had 50 levs in coins with the image of King Boris III on them. He went to my mother and said, 'Take these 50 levs and pay for Moshava. When her father comes out of prison, he will give it back to me.' Of course, my father didn't return it, but the important thing is that I went to Moshava and I liked it. That was my only vacation. During my other vacations I stayed at home and worked. There was no other way. I worked in the 'Arda' cigarette factory and in vegetable gardens for a guy named Tarzan. I still remember him standing at the beginning of a vegetable row and yelling 'Come oooon!' Even now when I'm doing something and someone stands behind my back, I start to shiver all over. I was a child at that time, after all.

Victoria Ilkova was a classmate of mine, a Wallachian [Romanian minority, living in various parts of Bulgaria, among them Vidin, by the Danube]. During the Law for the Protection of the Nation, when we were expelled from school, her brother was a political prisoner and in one cell with my father in Vidin prison. She lived in the Wallachian quarter of the town - Kum Bair, which was quite far from our home. But she came to our house, carrying lots of products wrapped in a canvas and hidden between her trousers and her panties. She brought us flour and meat and thus helped us. I will never forget her kindness. We survived because the Bulgarians were nice and tolerant with us [and so were the Wallachians, the Romanians].

After 9th September 1944 the police chief Ivan the Beast was arrested, because he beat political prisoners in the army. His wife Penka took their luggage and went to the village of his mother. We were very poor, so there was nothing they could take from us. But we had a red dress that I will never forget. At the port we were waiting to be taken to the barges and my mother had sewn for us bags for our most precious things. They told us, 'Leave you luggage and go', because they thought there was gold in it. Later I saw Rumyana, the daughter of the police chief in our red dress. And it was the only nice dress at home and my sister Veneta and I had taken turns to wear it. For the fifth anniversary of our marriage my husband bought me red cloth so I could have a red dress sewed for myself.

Speaking about the tolerance of our neighbors: we had a big mulberry tree in the yard. I was a very wild child and because of that my mother beat me up with the tongs occasionally. Once she chased me - I don't remember why - and I quickly climbed up the tree. But I slipped and my head got stuck between two branches. I couldn't free myself. At that time Uncle Stamen was painting his house and he had a tall ladder for masonry. They put my feet on it and tried to untangle me from the branches, but with no success. Haim's son-in-law came. He was a tinsmith, brought a tin, climbed up the ladder and placed it gently in front of my head. So, they were able to cut the branch. When they brought me down. I couldn't sleep for one week because of the horror I had experienced. One cannot forget such an experience; I was a very wild child.

The first anti-Semitic incidents were very frightening. They happened in high school and in other places and especially once we had to wear the stars, and they put a board on our door, which read 'A house of a person of Jewish origin' at the beginning of the 1940s. Before my father went to prison, he had put vertical wooden laths on the windows, like blinds, so that the glass wouldn't break when they hurled stones at the house. We sat in the dark most of the time, because the anti-Semites passed frequently near our house. Naturally, they were all members of pro-Nazi youth organizations such as the 'Branniks', 'Ratniks' 22 and 'Legionaries'. They were very similar to the Hitler Youth [Hitlerjugend] 23 in Germany. These incidents happened on Tsar Simeon Street. Such things cannot be forgotten.

I remember the anti-Semitic attitude of some of my classmates. In high school our class decided that no one should wear badges, otherwise they would be 'fined'. And when the Law for the Protection of the Nation was passed, we put on our yellow stars. When I went to school the first day, Rumyana, who was the chairperson of the class and the daughter of the police officer of our living estate, shouted, 'Take that off or we will fine you!' I told her, 'I cannot take that off, or your father will imprison me.' Her aim was to insult me. She knew that we, the Jews, wore 'Magen David' by force, but she pretended that she didn't know that, calling it merely a 'decoration'. However, I also had some good friends, for example, Kanna Semkova, Nadezhda Mladenova, Ilinka and Yanka with whom I shared a desk. When that happened, they told me, 'Don't pay any attention to her, don't cry, she is simple-minded'. But I could feel the humiliation. For example, I had to go to a supplementary examination in gymnastics in the former fifth grade, present-day eighth grade, because my teacher was head of the Legionary organization and a Brannik in Vidin. This Mrs. Stefka Ivanova made me dance Paydushko 'horo' [folklore ring dance]. I wasn't able to dance it properly and I had to go to a supplementary examination. I sat for it in spring, failed and had to sit for it again in fall. So, I just about managed to avoid repeating the grade. When 9th September 1944 came, I went to the front, so I didn't go to that supplementary exam, but I had the gymnastics class recognized as passed.

At the end of April, beginning of May the same year - my father was already in prison - a representative of the police came: Milushev from State Security. He handed me an order. One of us had to go to work in the State Hospital in Vidin where there was a ward especially for Germans, because the ferry to Calafat had already been built. The wounded soldiers from the Eastern front were transported to Vidin hospital, bandaged, and those who could handle it were transported to Germany by plane. Those in serious condition remained in the hospital.

At that time I was 14 and a half years old. Dad was in prison and my mother decided that from the three sisters it was safest for me to go through this period. So, she said to that State Security representative that I would go. They put a notice under the yellow star with my name and saying that I had the right to go out every morning between 6 to 6.30 am, to pass along Tsar Simeon Street to the State Hospital and return the same way by 5-5.30 pm in the evening. According to the Law for the Protection of the Nation all Jews were allowed to go out only at certain hours.

I will never forget the horror I experienced in the hospital. From 1941 until 1944 I worked in two rooms as a hospital attendant - I cleaned the urinals, washed and changed the clothes of the patients, cleaned the rooms... there were 16 Germans! All the time they pinched me and insulted me, saying 'Jude kaput!', etc. Since there was no food at home, I collected the leftovers and took them home to support the family. Maybe that's the reason why I found a partner quite late - in 1948. After all that I felt terrible. You also have to bear in mind that my great-grandfather died as a volunteer on Shipka Mount and my grandfather in the Balkan War [First Balkan War], my father fought in World War I and I myself fought in World War II... In January 1943 I stood at the port in Vidin waiting to be sent to Majdanek concentration camp. But the bishop came, put his hand on my head and told me, 'Don't worry child, you will not go.' He consoled me in this way.

When we had to wear the yellow stars in 1941, we weren't allowed to leave the neighborhood - Kale Husan. We could go to the neighborhood shops, but only during specific hours. Our homes were houses with yards, and between them there were little doors, the so-called 'kapidzhik', through which one could pass into the neighboring yard. We, the children, often roamed the whole neighborhood and then returned to our homes without going out into the street: from one yard into another, from one yard into another. If we saw some fascists or policemen coming, the little doors solved the problem right away. In this way we saved some people who were about to be arrested. For example, the well-known anti-fascist Asen Balkanski, commander of a Yugoslav brigade, hid in our basement for quite some time. In the end, he was transferred into a wagon and only later did we find out that on the border with Yugoslavia, in the town of Kula, they caught him and shot him down as a political prisoner...

I went to the front when I was 17 years and three days old. The Germans withdrew on 5th September. The partisan squad climbed down the mountains on 8th September, smashed the prison gates and so my father was freed. It was such a happy moment, we all gathered on the square, all people regardless which party they belonged to. It was 10th September 1944. Then we heard that the Germans were coming back. They had forgotten to blow up the ferry over the Danube, to Calafat. And the Soviet army was on the Danube border. The commander of the partisan squad - Ivan Vitkov Bakov summoned us, 'We have to organize a volunteers' team until the Soviet armies come and the situation in the regiments is normal again. You have to stop the Germans!' We had the third Drinski regiment, but they did not go then.

So on 10th September wearing these shoes sewn by my father and a summer dress I got on the truck. My sister Veneta caught up with me and said, 'Our mother is crying, they will kill you, get off, father is not in prison any more, get off!' I was very wild. I said to her, 'I will be killed, not her, why is mother crying?' So, I left. In the village of Voynitsa we were stopped, because the Germans had already passed through the border town of Kula and headed for Vidin. The village of Voynitsa is six kilometers from Vidin. We were given weapons, although we were not instructed how to use them. I carried a manihera gun, although I saw a gun for the first time. They showed us how to shoot.

At one point two motorcycles with two people on each one - German scouts - overtook us. Our boys aimed at them, killed one of them, the motorcycle fell, the other ran away and the others escaped and returned within an hour. We shot at the tanks, but the bullets rebounded. Kostya, a Soviet soldier, who had been a captive of the Germans and had come to welcome the Soviet army, grabbed two grenades, put two more on his belt, shouted, 'For the fatherland' and threw himself at the first tank. He pulled out their plugs and blew the tank away. The other tank withdrew. So Kostya died, at the threshold of freedom. He was the first Russian soldier who died on Bulgarian land. That is why there is a notice in Voynitsa: 'The Russian soldier Kostya died here.'

I have a big sin with regard to my parents: not only did I run away from them to go to the front, but also I didn't write them a single line. In the fights in Yugoslavia a Jewish girl died. She was from Silistra. Her name was Solchi. The kulaks 24 had killed her husband and son. I was 17 years old then; she was 25, that is, eight years older than me. They called her 'the Jewish girl'. They called me '6 by 35' because I was small and I carried a lady's gun [a smaller gun]. A friend of my father went to Vidin and my father asked him about me. 'Buko, they killed a Jewish girl, but I don't know her name...' Then they recited the Kaddish for me at the synagogue, believing that I was dead.

I returned at the beginning of June, because I was with the occupation soldiers. It was Sunday and my father was at home. He told me, 'How could you do that? Why didn't you write us a single line...' Then, for the first and last time, I saw tears in his eyes. And my mother told me, 'Loca! [Ladino for 'crazy'] And we gave our last oil to the synagogue...'

There was a coupon system at that time. The first thing I did when I came back was to apply to take my exams. Two teachers prepared me: one in maths - her name was Bronzova - and one in literature - I don't remember her name. I didn't know much. I was allowed to study in the eighth grade, which is the present-day twelfth grade. It was very hard for me and yet, I managed to complete my secondary education. Then I worked in the District Committee of the UYW since my father had no money to support me; he supported my older sister at that time, in accordance with the tradition. Then she married in the town of Byala Slatina and I went to study in the secondary technical school there. I met my husband Tsvetan Georgiev Petkov there. We were in the same youth UYW leadership. Then we both were members of a brigade 25 in Pernik. Later he went to a school for officers in reserve in Sofia and I went to work in the Agriculture Ministry in Sofia where we married.

The war gave me many things. I spent 46 days and nights on the battlefield. First, it helped me reconsider my life. Secondly, it made me firmer: more honest, more sincere and stronger. It could sound vain, but it made me the only Jew in Bulgaria with two medals of valor. So, I also defended the Jewish lobby in that war. Not only me -there were 2,848 Jews, 48 of them died, 240 of them were women.

Naturally, after the Law for the Protection of the Nation was abolished, we had more freedom. We had only our house, and everything in it was broken. At that time I wasn't in Vidin; just after the end of the Law for the Protection of the Nation I went to the front. My sister continued to study, the other one continued to work, and my father also worked.

I didn't emigrate, because we fought for Bulgaria. When I was at a symposium of Jewish medal holders 50 years after the end of World War II and Vivian, a medal holder from France, was called, the whole audience was clapping and shouting, 'Vi-vi-an! Vi-vi-an!' When Mimi Pizanti from Bulgaria was called, nobody clapped, but everyone stood up. For ten minutes they chanted: 'Bulgaria! Bulgaria!' [Mimi was associated with Bulgaria, which had saved the Jews within its territory.] That's why, my dear Bulgaria, you are my fatherland. It's true that Israel is the fatherland of my ancestors. Israel is the cradle of the Jewish people, but I was born here, my sisters and parents died here, my ancestors died here and my end will also be here.

My husband was born on 3rd March 1927 in the village of Dobrolevo, Vratsa region. My mother-in-law was a priest's daughter. Imagine a village in which one mother-in-law has four daughters and only one son, and the daughter-in-law - a Jew. In 1950 that was quite something. 'She is Uvreika, uvreika...' ['Jewish woman' in the local dialect; in proper Bulgarian it is 'evreika'] said the villagers. Only when my son was born and I named him Georgi after my father-in-law, he crushed some grape, treated the people on the street and said, 'She might be a Jew, but she gave my name to her son...'

My daughter Tatyana was born on 27th October 1951. She graduated from high school with a gold medal [awarded to excellent students] and from the textile machinery course at the Machine Electrical and Technical Institute. Then she specialized in industry design and now she is associate professor at the New Bulgarian University, teaching 'fashion'. Tatyana married Veselin Penchev, an engineer and forester. They have a son, Stephan, who will have his bar mitzvah this year.

My son Georgi was born on 27th September 1956. He graduated from the Russian high school and has a university degree in nuclear power engineering. He is unemployed. He is married to Ira, who is from Plovdiv. Ira was born on 24th October 1956. She is a historian and works in the Bulgarian State Archive. Their son is the first-born heir of the family - Ognyan Georgiev. He graduated from the French high school and has a university diploma in Economics of Military Industry. At the moment he works with the Europe TV station as an editor and news reporter. My son's second son, Valeri Georgiev, is six years younger and was born on 11th November 1986. Now he is a student in the 10th grade of the French high school. His character resembles mine; he is very disobedient and wild.

When my mother-in-law was visiting, we observed all Bulgarian holidays with no exception. When my mother was visiting, we observed all Jewish holidays. There were a lot of national holidays at that time - we observed 9th September 1944, 7th November [October Revolution Day] 26, 24th May, etc. But my children know that when the mother is a Jew, the children are Jews too. So, with Tatyana or Stefan, the Jewish strain in our family will be over. Stefan went to Sunday school at Shalom; Ognyan went to a Jewish youth camp in Szarvas in Hungary. At home we observe Fruitas, Pesach, Sukkot and Yom Kippur. We all eat matzah with no exception.

I was the founder of the section 'Disabled People' at Shalom along with the late Dr. Avramova and the late Lazar Sarchi.

In 1948 my uncle, who adopted me when I was nine months old, invited me to go to Israel with him, but my father didn't allow me to. My uncle's wife was killed in Bulgaria and there he married for a second time, a woman who had a son and a daughter. Once, my uncle sent me a letter asking me whether I could sell his apartment here. This was absolutely impossible; it was 1950. I had some very close friends from the war front. I promised him that I would do it if he sent me a warrant of attorney, because you cannot sell a property without having a document granting you that right. And I received a letter from his son-in-law, Moshon, saying that I was very cunning and wanted to steal my uncle's apartment. It said that the communists had already stolen everything the Jews had and since I was a communist and had fought at the front I should be able to sell the apartment without my uncle sending me any documents. And that if I had such good connections to sell the apartment, why hadn't I arranged to have a permit to come and visit Israel? The letter insulted me so much that in the period February-April I sold my uncle's apartment without any warrant of attorney and without keeping a single coin for myself; all the money was directly transferred to my uncle's account.

I also sold the house of Uncle Strel's nephew in Rousse. He had a workshop for shirts - 'Elen-Serdika'. His wife Berta was a rich woman, with a diploma in obstetrics. She was killed in her own home in 1947 - the day when Tito 27 visited Bulgaria. The reason was not an anti-Semitic but a political one. Berta was a famous communist. Selling his house was very hard but I managed to do it in 1959. I was so insulted by Moshon that on 8th March 1960 I applied for a visit to Israel. I decided that I should show them that I can go there. But the authorities refused to give me a foreign passport. They wouldn't let people go to Israel if they didn't have next-of-kin relatives there - mother, father, sisters or brothers.

The head of the passport department was General Georgi Stoyanov - a friend of mine from the war front, and yet he didn't let me go. Ten months of waiting passed and on 8th March 1960 I went to the hairdresser's, put on my new clothes, took my two medals of valor and the party ID and I went to the Department of the Interior. I went to the waiting room and two strong young boys asked me 'What do you want, comrade?' I said, 'I came to be greeted by the minister on the occasion of 8th March'. [International Women's Day] 'But you cannot enter, who are you?' While we were arguing, the door opened, the minister came out and asked, 'What's going on?' I said, 'I came so that you would greet me on the occasion of 8th March', and I entered. And he said, 'Do you have an appointment?' 'No, I don't have one, it's 8th March today'. And I remember him taking out a yellow daffodil from the vase and saying 'Here you are! Happy 8th March! Now, tell me, why are you really here?' And I told him everything. 'Why can't I go? I have a ten-year-old daughter here, a five-year-old son, a husband I love, my sisters and my parents. Their children are here - if I escape, they will suffer...' He watched me for some time and said, 'But where do you think you are?' I answered, 'In the office of comrade Solakov, Secretary of the Interior'. 'This is impossible,' said he. 'Why?' I asked him. 'Because, this isn't decided by the ministry, but by the Political Bureau.' I said, 'is that so? Here is my party ID, give it to the Political Bureau and tell them that if they don't believe me, I don't believe them either.' 'But you cannot do that, this is not the Central Committee...' And I said, 'Goodbye'.

So, I left the party ID there and left. March, April, May and June passed and in the middle of July General Stoyanov rang me one evening at home, 'Mimi! Come to my office tomorrow, alive or dead!' I thought that my husband and I would be fired and that my family life was over. I went and he told me, 'Here is you foreign passport, here is your visa, here is your party ID. This is not the way to return your party ID! Where do you think you are?' And I said, 'I'm in Bulgaria, I fought next to you and I think I can return that party ID.' So, in the fall of 1960 I went to Israel. Naturally I visited Israel as a Jew, not as a communist. However, I've always felt a communist, up until today.

I had many problems at work for being a Jew, but my name protected me. On 10th November 1989 28 I was already a pensioner; I retired in 1982. Before that I worked in 'Energoprojekt' [a state firm] as control specialist. I was also in charge of the party affairs; the party secretary was my boss, in the 'political prison' department. I had a colleague, who was filling in for me when I was absent, whose brothers immigrated to Brazil in 1939. So, he wasn't allowed to leave the country at all. In 1981 his eldest aunt died in Macedonia. He wanted to go there, but he wasn't allowed. So, I went to the personnel department and asked them who was in charge of Energoprojekt. They told me, 'State Security'. After calling a lot of my friends, I found out who was the person in charge there. I asked him, 'Why don't you let Mitsakov go? He is a very useful employee. He has a daughter and a mother, and Macedonia is close.' 'What will he do in Macedonia? He can't go, comrade!' 'And what do you think he will do?' 'He will persuade his brothers to come back...' 'How can you think that? They left in 1939, they already have families, work, children, grandchildren etc...' 'No, he can't go.' I told him, 'Listen, boy, here is my party ID. If Ivan Mitsakov doesn't come back, do what you like with my family and me!' They let him go. I warned him, 'If you don't come back, I will kill your daughter!' He came back, but on his way home his car radiator broke, and he stopped in a forest to repair it. When he finally passed the border, he stopped in the first village to call me. And he said, 'Mimi, I'm in Bulgaria, don't worry!'

And a second case: The best specialist in our department was Emil Kontev. He won a post in Algeria as a councilor to the minister, but the authorities sent a communist there, some incompetent man. I asked the head, 'Pesho, why?' 'But Emil's grandfather had a water-mill...', said he. 'Are you mad? He will build the image of Bulgaria, a smart man should go, so that he will present us positively!' So, they allowed him to go. When Emil Kontev came back, he asked me, 'What do you want me to give you as a gift for helping me spend six years there, having a great time?' I said, 'Give me something for my hands, not for my mouth.' He gave me a bread knife as a present and I still use it, remembering late Emil. Then they changed my job, because they said the non-members of the party had a bad influence on me.

I wrote a letter to Jan Videnov, who was Prime Minister at that time. It read: 'If you don't exclude Lyubomir Nachev from the party, I will return my party ID.' [Editor's note: Lyubomir Nachev: Secretary of the Interior in Videnov's cabinet, whom Mimi considered incompetent, moreover his name was associated with public scandals.] They didn't reply. After three months I sent my party ID to Yanaki Stoilov [Socialist Party member and activist] and wrote to them: 'I don't want to be a member of such a party.'

I was very insulted by Germany, because they don't think that those three years I worked for free in Vidin hospital as a child was slave labor. I received financial aid from Switzerland.

Glossary

Zoltan Shtern
Uzhgorod
Ukraine
Interviewer: Ella Levitskaya
Date of interview: April 2003

Zoltan Shtern is a man of average height, slim and lively. He has thick gray hair and very young eyes. We met in Hesed in Uzhgorod. Zoltan still works as a lawyer regardless of his age. He has a busy schedule and could hardly find time for this interview. Hesed is near his office in the town collegium of lawyers and we decided to meet there to save time. He speaks slowly as if weighing each word. It must be his professional trait. Perhaps, the story that he told me about the years that he spent in the Gulag 1 camps may seem incomplete, but it was difficult for him to recall this period of his life and he asked my permission to skip the details.

My paternal grandmother and grandfather were born and lived in the village of Rososh, in Svaliava district, Subcarpathia 2. This was a small village. There were about 30 families living there and about ten of them were Jewish. My grandfather, Nuchim Shtern, was born in the 1860s. I don't remember my grandmother's name. She was a few years younger than my grandfather. When I knew my grandfather he was retired. I think he earned his living as a coach driver. My grandmother was a housewife. They were poor. I only saw them a few times and remember very little about them. I can't tell what my grandfather looked like. All I remember about my grandmother is that she was short and always wore a kerchief on her head. They had four or five children. I didn't know any of them. My father, Moshe Shtern, was born in the 1890s. He never told me about his childhood or youth.

My father's parents were religious. There was no synagogue in Rososh and my grandfather went to the prayer house in the neighboring village of Holubino on Sabbath and Jewish holidays. There were only men praying there. Women prayed at home. My father's parents celebrated Sabbath and Jewish holidays and followed the kashrut. I can't remember any details. They spoke Yiddish and Hungarian in the family.

My grandmother died in 1939. She was buried in the Jewish cemetery of Lubino near Rososh. It was a Jewish funeral. They also buried the dead from the villages of Pasika and Holubino which had no Jewish cemeteries there. Grandfather Nuchim died one year later, in 1940. He was buried near my grandmother. Lubino no longer exists and my grandparents' graves are gone. There are floods in Subcarpathia. They wash away villages and that's what happened to Lubino. The residents of the village moved to other places. The same happened to Rososh.

I know a lot more about my mother's parents. They lived in the village of Pasika in Svaliava district. My grandfather, Kaske Aisdorfer, was born in Pasika in the 1850s. I don't know where my grandmother, Rosa Aisdorfer, came from. She was born in the 1860s. Her Jewish name was Reizl. I don't know her maiden name. Some of my grandfather's relatives lived in Pasika, but I can't remember any of them.

Grandfather Kaske was a short stout man. He had a big black beard with streaks of gray hair. My grandfather wore a kippah at home and a hat to go out. He didn't have payes. Only Hasidim 3 wore payes in Subcarpathian villages. My grandmother was a short slim woman. She wore plain clothes like all other women in villages. She always wore a dark kerchief on her head.

My grandfather owned a water mill. The villagers paid him with money or flour for grinding the grain. My grandparents were quite wealthy. My grandmother was a housewife after she got married.

My mother, Mira Aisdorfer, was born in the 1890s. I don't know all of my mother's brothers and sisters. There were six or seven of them. My mother's older brother whose name I don't remember moved to Galanta, a big resort town in Czechoslovakia, in the early 1920s. He went to work in a restaurant there and got married. Another brother, Kalman, was two or three years older than my mother. He lived in Pasika. The Hungarian fascists shot him in 1942. I don't know any details. Her younger brother, Iosif, went to work in the village of Vary near the Hungarian border in the early 1930s. Some people there took illegal emigrants to Israel. In 1933 Iosif was taken to Israel via the Netherlands. He lived his life there and died in 1985. When I traveled to the USA in the 1990s I tried to find his family in Israel from there, but I failed. I also knew two of my mother's sisters. I don't know whether they were older or younger than her. One of them, Sima, lived in Pasika with her husband. They had two children, a son and a daughter. The fascists killed their son. Their daughter, Rukhl, is in the USA. I met with her and her children when I traveled there. My mother's other sister, Rivka, got married and moved to her husband, who lived in a village in Svaliava district near the border with Hungary. They all perished during World War II.

My mother's parents were religious. Pasika was a small village, but it was still bigger than Rososh. There were about 60 families living there and about 15 of them were Jewish. The Jews were craftsmen for the most part: tailors, shoemakers, blacksmiths and saddle makers. There were also tradesmen among them. There was no synagogue in Pasika, but there was a prayer house. Women were allowed to come to the prayer house four times a year: at Pesach, Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur and Purim. The men went there on Sabbath and on Jewish holidays. On weekdays my grandfather prayed at home in the morning and in the evening. They raised their children religiously. My mother could read and write in Yiddish and Hebrew and knew the prayers. I don't know where she got her religious education. The boys studied in cheder and the girls usually studied with a visiting private teacher. The family celebrated Sabbath and Jewish holidays at home and followed the kashrut. They spoke Yiddish and Hungarian at home.

My parents got married through matchmakers. It was customary with Jews at that time. Of course, they had a traditional Jewish wedding. It couldn't have been otherwise at that time. In smaller towns Jews observed all traditions. They lived in close communities and everybody watched everyone else and people were concerned about rumors or their neighbors' opinions.

After the wedding my parents settled down in a house that my father bought in Pasika. This was an adobe house. Sun-dried bricks were a common construction material in Pasika. Only wealthier people could afford wooden or stone houses. There were two rooms in the house. The bigger room housed my father's shop and the other room served as living quarters. There was also a kitchen with a big Russian stove 4 for cooking and heating.

My father had a small store. Every now and then my mother or my older siblings helped him there. The assortment of goods included kerosene, salt, flour and bread. My father brought bread from a bakery. He earned very little and they could hardly make ends meet. My mother had twelve children. Five died in infancy. All of us had Hungarian names written in our official documents and a rabbi issued a birth certificate with a Jewish name. All sons had their brit milah in accordance with Jewish traditions. My oldest brother, Vili, was born in 1914. His Jewish name was Josl. Then came my older sister Jolana, born in 1917. Jolana's Jewish name was Hana. I was born on 1st September 1919. My Jewish name is Esotskhar. Then came my younger brother Miki, Mekhl in the Jewish manner, born in 1921. My other two brothers, Yankel and Herman, and my other sister, Sima, were much younger than Miki: they were born in 1928 and in the 1930s, accordingly.

There was very little land near the house where we had a wood-shed and a stable in which we kept our livestock. There was no garden or kitchen garden near the house. My grandfather Kaske, my mother's father, gave us a plot of land of about 1,500 square meters where we grew potatoes for the family. We were a big family and mother was always concerned about food provisions. At first my mother kept a goat of a breed from Czechoslovakia. This goat gave more milk and it was delicious. Then we had a cow that we kept in the stable in the yard. There were also chicken and geese there. One had to keep livestock to make a living.

My father was a thin man of average height. He didn't have a beard or payes. He wore a black yarmulka called 'shrama' in local dialect. My mother wore a wig after she became a married woman. Sometimes she wore a kerchief.

My parents were religious. My father had a tallit and tefillin. He went to the prayer house on Sabbath and Jewish holidays and prayed at home on weekdays. We celebrated Sabbath and Jewish holidays. My parents weren't fanatically religious, but they strictly observed Jewish traditions. We knew that the situation was radically different in Russia and Ukraine after the Revolution of 1917 5: that religion had no big place in life and that Jews didn't have an opportunity to lead the life they wanted in this respect. During the Austro-Hungarian and Czech rule, the Jews observed their traditions.

The Jews in Subcarpathia didn't know any oppression during the period of the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy before 1918 or afterwards when Subcarpathia became a part of Czechoslovakia. During Czech rule Jews even enjoyed more rights than before. They could hold official posts and even own big enterprises. Religiosity was appreciated. There was democracy in Czechoslovakia. President Benes 6 respected and supported the Jews. There was rabbi Chaim Shapira 7 in Mukachevo. President Benes awarded him the title of doctor of sciences.

We only spoke Yiddish at home. In Pasika all Jews spoke their mother tongue, Yiddish. In towns, like in Mukachevo, many Jews spoke Hungarian even when this area belonged to Czechoslovakia and children learned this language from their parents who were used to speak it. I believed that Jews had to speak their own tongue. We also spoke fluent Czech.

There was no shochet in our village. He came to work in our village from Holubino once a week. All Jews always waited for him to come to the village: they didn't eat any meat unless it came from the shochet. Nobody slaughtered any poultry, but the shochet. Then my mother kept the meat in water for six hours to make it kosher.

We celebrated Sabbath. Our mother cooked food for two days. It wasn't allowed to even warm up food on Saturday and she left pots with cholent in the oven of our Russian stove to keep it warm until the next day. We always had gefilte fish and challah on Sabbath. The family always got together on Friday. My mother lit the candles and said a prayer over them. Then we all said a prayer and my father blessed the food and we all sat down for dinner. My father didn't work on Saturday. He went to the prayer house and when he came back home he read the weekly portion of the Torah to us and told us stories about the history of the Jews.

We started preparations for Pesach long before the holiday. One Jewish family in Pasika made matzah for all the Jewish families. The other families gave this family orders in advance and they knew the quantities they had to make. My mother also stored one to two hundred eggs for Pesach. Many eggs were used throughout the eight days of the holiday: they were used for cooking and baking pudding or cookies. The chickens and geese were taken to a shochet. My mother melted goose fat to do all cooking on Pesach. She made geese stew and boiled chicken. Every day we had chicken broth with matzah and boiled chicken for lunch. We didn't eat any bread. My mother also baked strudels with jam and nuts and cookies. On the eve of Pesach we took the fancy crockery from the attic where it was kept in a box. My father conducted the first and the second seder. My older brother and I knew Hebrew and we posed the traditional questions [the mah nishtanah] to him. The adults were to drink four glasses of wine at seder. There was one extra glass for Elijah the Prophet 8. The door was left open during the seder for him to enter the house.

On Rosh Hashanah everyone went to the prayer house. My mother made a festive meal and always put a saucer with honey and slices of apples on the table. We dipped the apple slices into honey and ate them to have a sweet and happy year to come. On Yom Kippur the adults fasted for 24 hours. [Editor's note: According to tradition, Jews have to fast 25 hours on Yom Kippur.] Small children fasted after coming of age, boys at the age of thirteen and girls at the age of twelve. At Chanukkah mother lit one candle more each day. The shammash was lit on the first day of Chanukkah to keep burning throughout the holiday. All guests gave children some money. As for Purim and Sukkot, I don't remember how they were celebrated.

At the age of six I went to cheder in Svaliava, seven kilometers from Pasika. There was no cheder in Pasika, but my parents wanted me to have a Jewish education. My older brother Vili also studied in this cheder. I commuted to Svaliava by train. A monthly ticket cost me 10 Czechoslovak crowns. My parents gave me money to buy a ticket, but sometimes I spent this money to buy sweets. I then commuted by train for free and I only paid for a ticket when the conductors caught me. I left home in the morning and came back in the afternoon.

At the age of seven I went to a Czech elementary school in Pasika. I attended classes in the morning and in the afternoon I went to Svaliava where I had private classes with a rabbi. I studied Hebrew and learned to read and write in Hebrew and Yiddish and also studied the Torah and the Talmud. There were several Jewish children in the Czech school. The attitude toward us was very friendly. I studied well. There was a state school in Svaliava where children could finish the 5th-8th grades. Those that planned to enter the Commercial Academy in Mukachevo had to finish another year at school. My parents rented a room for me at a Jewish family's place in Svaliava. My landlady cooked for me and did my laundry. I spent my weekends at home. Besides going to secondary school I had classes with a rabbi until I had my bar mitzvah.

I had my bar mitzvah in the synagogue in Svaliava when I turned 13. I prepared a small speech, a droshe. I had to recite a section from the Torah and comment on it. My parents and relatives were at the ceremony. My parents brought vodka and snacks for the attendees. I can't remember what my droshe was about, but there was something else that made my bar mitzvah quite memorable. There was some vodka left and my parents told me to take it home. I did carry it home, but well, some was gone on the way... Since that time I've hardly ever drunk alcohol.

In 1930 there was a fire. There was a factory near our house. The fire started there and then spread onto our house. The fire was put out promptly and didn't cause much damage. However, a flood in 1932 destroyed our house. The village council decided to elevate the level of the street and spread about half a meter layer of soil. Then our houses turned out to be half a meter below the surface. In spring the river flooded the streets and houses. Our house was washed down within two hours. We moved to my mother's father. Those villagers that suffered from the flood sued the government and the government accepted the lawsuit. We received compensation, but it wasn't enough to build a new house. There had to be high foundations to protect the house from floods.

My parents had to take out a loan from the bank. In 1934 they completed the construction of a big brick house on the spot of our old house. There was sufficient room for a shop in the new house. However, my parents failed to pay back their debts to the bank. The bank ordered us to move out and put our house on sale in 1936. We didn't have a place to live and local communists insisted that the bank allowed us lodging at least on the verandah. There was a Communist Party during the Czech rule. The communists helped us to take our belongings onto the verandah. I cannot say how they managed to obtain permission for us to lodge in the house that belonged to us, but the outcome was that we lived on the verandah for almost two months. My parents informed my mother's brother Iosif, who lived in Israel, about what had happened to us. [Editor's note: Israel came into existence in 1948; Iosif must have lived in Palestine under British mandate.] Iosif came from Israel and bought out our house from the bank for a much lower amount than my parents invested into its construction. We moved back into our house.

I finished nine years in Svaliava and in September 1936 I entered the Commercial Academy in Mukachevo. The building of this academy is still there. It provided very good education and its graduates had no employment problems. It wasn't easy to enter this academy. Within the current educational system this academy would be equal to college. It prepared high- skilled specialists. Professors that left Russia after the Revolution of 1917 worked in the academy. Besides special subjects students studied foreign languages, shorthand and typing. I was an excellent student throughout all years of my studies and always helped other students that weren't doing so well. There were Jews, Czechs, Hungarians and Ukrainians in our group. There were no negative attitudes towards Jews. There was no anti-Semitism at that time. My brother Vili had also finished this academy and went to work as an economist at a factory.

In 1938 Hungary occupied Subcarpathia. Mukachevo was occupied in October 1938. I was a student of the Academy then. Hungary was an ally of fascist Germany. On 15th March 1939 Hungary occupied Svaliava district. I returned home before I finished my 4th and last year. There was an affiliate of the academy operating in Svaliava and I decided to finish my studies there. The Germans already held many official posts. When I continued my studies we had to greet our lecturer with 'Heil Hitler!'. It was an order that the representative of the Germans in the administration of the academy issued. After finishing my studies I became an economist and accountant.

After Subcarpathia was occupied Hungary began to implement anti-Jewish laws [anti-Jewish laws in Hungary] 9 and oppress Jews in every possible way. Jews had no right to own stores or enterprises; anything that might have brought any profit to its owner. A Jewish owner could either sell or transfer his property to a non-Jewish owner. Otherwise the property was taken into state ownership and the government used it at its discretion. My father had to transfer his store to a Ukrainian owner. My father began to work for him. He did everything he used to do when the store belonged to him, but now he received a miserable salary for his work.

Men that were fit for the army service were obliged to register at the gendarmerie once a week. Every week I walked six kilometers from Svaliava to register at the commandant's office. At times the gendarmes tortured and beat me. In August 1940 I decided to escape and cross the border. I didn't have much choice. Germany occupied Poland in September 1939. Polish refugees going via our village told us about fascism and the way the fascists treated the Jews. They were all heading for the USSR that seemed a rescue from fascism to them. Czechoslovakia was occupied by the fascists and there was only the USSR left. [Editor's note: Czechoslovakia was split, the Czech part was occupied by Germany and the Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia was created, while Slovakia became a German satellite.]

We heard about life in the USSR after the Revolution of 1917. Unfortunately, we only had access to the official propaganda: radio and newspapers. I imagined the USSR to be a country of equal possibilities, freedom and justice. I also remembered how the communists had helped us when the bank chased us away from our house. If I had known the truth about the USSR or what they did to refugees who were trying to escape from the fascists - I wouldn't have gone there. Well, I went through this. I've lived through four disasters in my life: fire, flood, Stalin's camps and life in the USSR.

I couldn't tell my parents that I was crossing the border. My mother seemed to have an inkling that something was going to happen: she kept crying telling me, 'stay...'. I reached an agreement with a guide who took refugees across the border. We were to get together in a village, 30-40 kilometers from Pasika. I don't remember its name. On 20th August 1940 I left home without even saying goodbye to my parents. I still feel sorry about it, but at that time I was planning to take my parents to the USSR as soon as I settled down there. Three other people from my village joined me. There were three from Svaliava and others whom I don't remember. There were 54 of us in total. The majority were young people and there were older people, too, with their wives and children. Almost all of us were Jews, but there were a few Ukrainians as well.

On the night of 21st August we got to the border with the USSR. The guide took us to the border, showed us the way and returned home. We crossed the border, took a nap and decided that we had to look for a frontier guard. That was where the story started and it was a big story. The frontier guards found us before we found them. We were glad at first, but then our joy ebbed away when they ordered us, 'Stand up, line up, a step to the left, a step to the right shall be considered as an effort to escape and then we shall apply our weapons'. I will never forget these words. My other life began on 21st August 1940.

We were taken to a camp in Skole, Lvov region [120 km to Lvov]. There were 1,500-2,000 inmates in the camp. We weren't told what we were charged with and we sincerely didn't understand why we had been arrested. The camp was in horse stables. We slept on three-tier plank beds. We were provided one meal per day. We ate with wooden spoons from wooden plates. After three months we were taken to prison in the town of Striy, Lvov region [75 km from Lvov] by train. There were about 300 of us in the train and there were many guards. We stayed several months in prison in Striy. Groups of prisoners arrived every day. Most of the prisoners were people that had crossed the border. There were people from Subcarpathia, Polish and Ukrainian residents.

In winter 1941 we were taken by freight train to a big camp in Starobel'sk. The trip lasted seven days. We were given one meal per day. We were given salty herring, but no water. There were a few thousand inmates in the camp. The camp was in a former monastery where barracks had been constructed. There were people from Subcarpathia, Poles and Ukrainians. We stayed there for a few months. I don't remember how many. There were numerous guards in the camp. We didn't work in this camp. We were allowed to stay in a barrack or walk in the camp. We were given prisoner clothing.

On 11th June 1941 we boarded a freight train again to travel to Vladivostok [about 2,000 km in the Far East]. We arrived at Nakhodka bay near Vladivostok. When the train stopped in Irkutsk we overheard through our barred windows that Germany had attacked the USSR. [This was the beginning of the so-called Great Patriotic War.] 10 This was on 22nd or 23rd June. From Vladivostok we were taken to Nakhodka by trucks with tarpaulin tents. We stayed there several days and from there we were taken on a barge called 'Jurma' to Nogaev bay in Kolyma. Again, there were numerous guards. We sailed nine days. Many of us were seasick. It was such pain. It was cold and we only wore prisoner robes.

In Nogaev bay we were lined and marched to the distribution point in Magadan from where prisoners were distributed among Gulag camps. We stayed in the distribution camp for about two weeks. I was in a group of about 400 prisoners sent to Moliak camp. From there we were sent to Obiedinenniy camp on trucks. This was in winter 1941-42. Barracks in Obiedinenniy mine were in the process of construction and some of them didn't even have a roof. There were two and three-tier plank beds and gasoline stoves. In a barrack for a hundred inmates there were two gasoline stoves on the opposite ends of the barrack. We took turns to warm up near the stoves. Every prisoner could get close to the stove two to three times a night. Most of the prisoners died from hunger and cold in Obiedinenniy mine. We didn't go to work there.

In early 1942 the president of Czechoslovakia, Masaryk 11, the follower of Benes, signed an agreement for assistance and support with the USSR. Those residents of Subcarpathia that were born during the Czech rule were Czechoslovak citizens and Masaryk asked to review their cases. [Editor's note: Masaryk resigned from his office in 1935 and was succeeded by Eduard Benes. As the head of the Czechoslovak Provisional Government in London it could only have been Benes who signed such an agreement with the Soviets.] Then we were transported to Moliak camp. This camp had heating and we got food that wasn't too bad. We recovered within three months and then the camp management decided that we were fit to go to work. Moliak was a gold mine. There were open developments of gold and there were underground mines. There were rich gold veins and nuggets of gold. Once I found a nugget. There was a bonus given for it, but where could we spend the money if there were no stores in the camp? We weren't allowed to leave the camp and there was nothing we could do...

In summer 1942 I was summoned to the director of the gold mine. He announced that I was sentenced to three years in a high security camp for illegal crossing of the border. The director had just received our documents, but actually, it was my third year in imprisonment. This was not the worst sentence under article 80 of the Criminal Code of the USSR. When a person was accused of espionage the sentence was over five years. If a person had relatives abroad the sentence was over eight years of imprisonment. I was sentenced to three years for illegal crossing of the border. How this verdict was reached when there were no interrogations or investigations - who knows.

In late 1942 I was sent to Burkhala mine. There were several mines: Northern, Western, Susuman, Yagodny; I'm beginning to forget their names. We were sent to different mines and did similar work to what we had done in Moliak. In 1943 many former citizens of Czechoslovakia were summoned to the distribution camp in Magadan from where we started on our way to Kolyma. I was the only Jew among them. All Czechoslovak citizens were released and sent to a Czech legion formed in Buzuluk under the agreement between Stalin and Masaryk. However, when they read the list of this group my name wasn't on it and I stayed in the distribution camp, and after two or three weeks I was sent back to Burkhala without an explanation. I continuously requested appointments with the director of the camp asking for an explanation. I had been sentenced to three-year imprisonment. It had expired a while before and nobody had extended my sentence. I kept writing letters to all Soviet and party leaders: Stalin, Beriya 12, Kaganovich 13, Molotov 14; all of them. There was no response. I worked at Burkhala from 1943 to 1947. We weren't paid for our work, of course, we didn't get any food, no medical care, the conditions were terrible: there were barracks for 100-200 prisoners, hardly any heating, severely cold climate. Summer only lasted a few weeks and there were frost up to minus 40 degrees for the rest of the year.

Throughout this time I had no information about my relatives. The camp inmates weren't allowed to correspond with their families. It happened only once that I bumped into some short report in a piece of newspaper I got incidentally, saying that the Soviet troops had crossed Pasika liberating Subcarpathia. At least I knew that my village was still there.

On 30th January 1947 the director of the camp called me. He looked confused and said that he had already had problems since my sentence had been over for a long time and I was still kept in the camp. I was sent to the human resource department of the mine to obtain documents. I didn't quite know the way. They just explained to me that I had to cross a pass in the mountains and turn a few times before I came to the village. It was a miracle that's hard to describe: for the first time in many years I had no armed escort - I was free! I don't think I felt cold.

In the human resource department I obtained the certificate of release from the camp and a job assignment to work in Burkhala mine as an employee. The date of release in my document is 30th January 1947. I returned to the office of the chief engineer in Burkhala. He asked me where I wanted to work and I answered that I wanted to return home. He explained to me that I only had the right to live in Kolyma. I knew several Jews that were shoemakers and tailors in Magadan. To leave Kolyma I needed a permit without which I couldn't even get a train ticket. Besides, I didn't have money. I worked as a laborer in the stables for two weeks. Then I was summoned to the office again.

They reviewed my documents that said that I had finished the Commercial Academy in Mukachevo. I was sent to work as a worker in a store at the mine and they promised to make me a shop assistant in a short while. There were four shop assistants in that store. This was a store for residents and employees selling meat, sausage, butter and sugar per food coupons. I had been a worker there for two months when the director of the store was transferred to a store in Yagodny mine and I took his place. I lived in a hostel near the store. When I became director I received a room of my own in this hostel. I received a salary and had sufficient food. The people and management of the mine treated me well. Throughout this period I kept writing letters to Moscow. I was writing these letters and I never got any response. I didn't even know whether my letters ever left Kolyma.

In December 1947 I was summoned to the office of the mine. They told me that I was allowed to leave Kolyma. However, it was next to impossible to leave Kolyma in winter. The rivers were frozen and the planes were only for the management to fly on business. A few days later the manager of the mine and his family were going on vacation and he offered me help. I was so happy to get this offer: I could go to Magadan in a bus. This was in February 1948. The temperature was minus 50 and there was heating in the bus. I obtained an official certificate saying, 'Released from the camp and is allowed to go to the continent' [the European part of the USSR].

I was sent to the town of Voronovitsa in Vinnitsa region [20 km to Vinnitsa, 215 km to Kiev]. From Magadan I flew to Novosibirsk via Yakutsk. It was faster to go via Khabarovsk, but I would have had to wait for a whole day for the plane via Khabarovsk and I was too impatient to be on my way. From Novosibirsk I took a train to Moscow. I wasn't allowed to live in big towns, but it was all right to travel through them. I stayed in Moscow a day and took a train to Vinnitsa. In Vinnitsa I rented a room from a poor Jewish family. A few days later our district militiaman came to tell me that my point of destination was Voronovitsa. I have no idea how he knew about where I was to go, but you know, that was how information spread in the USSR. I went to Voronovitsa where I rented a room from an old woman. I had to go to work, but all I could think about was going home.

I called the village council in Pasika and asked them to find someone from the Shtern family. I told them when I would call back. When I called again Bela Shtern was on the phone. He wasn't a relative, just had the same surname as I. I talked to him. He said that none of my relatives were in Pasika, but he didn't offer any details. He promised to send me money to travel home and said that he would tell me what I wanted to know when I came there. I kept writing to Kiev trying to obtain permission to travel home since Subcarpathia belonged to the Ukraine already. I also requested an appointment with the chairman of the regional executive committee in Vinnitsa and the KGB 15 office, but there was no response.

Throughout the few months of my life in Voronovitsa I had meals in a diner. It was inexpensive and I had to be saving for my return home. I was lonely and wished I could talk to someone. I met a young waitress there. I told her that I wanted to go home, and was waiting for permission and money to buy a ticket. Later this woman turned out to be a KGB informer. Once a KGB officer came to the diner where I used to have meals. He checked my documents and took me to the district militia office. I was kept there for several hours. They checked my documents, apologized and let me go. For the rest of my life they watched me and kept me under control. Shortly afterward I received permission to go home. In October 1948 I left for Subcarpathia. I left Kolyma in February and only in October, eight months later, did I manage to reach home.

Shtern sent me money and I bought a ticket to Lvov. I didn't have one kopeck left. In Lvov acquaintances from Subcarpathia helped me to buy a ticket to Uzhgorod. Upon arrival I had to register at the KGB office. They were aware of my arrival and waited for me. From Uzhgorod I got a truck ride to Pasika. I didn't have a penny left. The villagers were happy to see me. They helped me to get to Bela Shtern, who had moved to Svaliava. He treated me like one of his family. He told me that in 1944 the Hungarians summoned young men to forced labor at the front and the remaining Jews - women, children and old people - from Subcarpathia were sent to concentration camps. Only a few survived. My parents, my older sister Jolana and my younger siblings Yankel, Herman and Sima perished in Auschwitz in February 1945. I thought that my brothers Vili and Miki also perished. A few years later I got to know that they had survived. They were liberated by the Americans and knowing that Subcarpathia became Soviet they decided to move to the USA. Shtern also told me that my mother's parents died in 1942, but I don't know where they were buried.

I lived with Shtern and he treated me like his family. He shared his food and helped me to get me clothes. I lived like this for a month. I had to start looking for a job. I met my childhood friend, my fellow student from the academy in Mukachevo. I used to help him with his studies when we were students. He became the prosecutor of Mukachevo. He asked me where I wanted to work and I said that I would agree to any work I could get. My friend had a good relationship with general Andrashko, the prosecutor of Uzhgorod region, and knew that the prosecution office needed a logistics supervisor. My friend phoned Andrashko and asked him to employ his friend Zoltan Shtern.

I went to the prosecution office in Uzhgorod. The general asked what I wanted to do and I said I wanted to be logistics supervisor. Andrashko considered my response and then said 'No, you shall not work as logistics supervisor'. I thought it had something to do with my sentence in the camp, and was about to leave, when he continued, 'You shall not be logistics supervisor, you shall be investigation officer'. I began to refuse: firstly, I was a convict, and my sentence hadn't been canceled, secondly, I was no lawyer. The general said he didn't believe my sentence and made me investigation officer in the prosecutor's office of Irshava district.

My colleagues were very nice and friendly. They helped me to get into the essence of this job. It took me a couple of months to learn everything about this job. From Irshava prosecutor's office I was transferred to the prosecutor's office of Uzhgorod district. I entered the extramural department of the Faculty of Law of Lvov University. The regional prosecutor signed a request to admit me to university and I became a student without any problems. I took a holiday to go to Lvov to pass my exams. I was an excellent student and my lecturers treated me well. I never faced any anti-Semitism in Subcarpathia. Anti-Semitism developed only when the new arrivals from the USSR began to prevail. These people became the source of manifestations of anti-Semitism, as far as I'm aware of it.

In 1952 the Ukrainian prosecution office got to know that I had brothers in the USA. It was dangerous to have relatives abroad 16, particularly, if it was a capitalist country, even though we had no contacts. One could be fired or even be subject to more severe punishment. The General Prosecution Office issued the order of my dismissal. This is what was written in my employment record book: 'Fired per order of the general prosecutor of the Ukrainian Soviet Socialist Republic'. Even though I was shocked at the loss of my job I was happy to get to know that my brother Vili and Miki were alive. The KGB officers informed me about it. Of course, they spilled no details and I couldn't correspond with them, especially because I was a former convict.

By that time I had finished three years at the Faculty of Law. I decided to take advantage of this sudden unemployment factor and switched to the daytime schedule of studies. I got accommodation in a hostel in Lvov and attended classes every day. I was the oldest student in my group and my fellow students treated me with respect. When I worked in the prosecutor's office my management offered me to join the Communist Party. They said it was good for my career. I became a candidate to the Party then and in 1953 I was admitted to the Party when I studied at university. There was a party meeting in the concert hall of the university when I was to be admitted to the Party. There were about 600 professors and students present. I briefly told my story. There was silence in the hall when I finished. Then people started coming to shake my hand or give me a pat on the shoulder. Of course, I mentioned that I was a Jew. I never concealed my Jewish identity. I wrote in all forms that I was a Jew. If I did otherwise it would be humiliating myself.

Frankly speaking, there is a lot of good in the idea of communism. What Stalin and his followers did to it is a different story. I felt it myself. Until I got to the Soviet Union I didn't know what was going on here. 1,500 or 1,600 camp inmates had been killed before I arrived at Moliak. So many people perished. And this was just one of many camps where all the inmates were exterminated in one day. I tied this to the name of Stalin, but at the same time I couldn't believe that the leader of such a huge country could be so cruel. Whatever there was to it, it's true that during World War II people fought in the name of Stalin. Millions believed him unconditionally. Of course, people were aware of some things, ignorant about many others or closed their eyes on some.

I remember well the Doctors' Plot 17 in January 1953. Many Jewish students were expelled and professors were fired from Lvov University. I was left in peace. I didn't know why, but I stayed. Later, when I talked with friends that were doctors in Mukachevo, they told me that many weren't just fired, but also sent to camps. They were released after Stalin's death in 1953.

Stalin's death on 5th March 1953 wasn't a big loss for me like it was for the majority of the Soviet people. I was an outsider, different from those who grew up during the Soviet regime. Besides, people that went through the camps were disillusioned. I understood that Stalin had to know what was happening in the country and nothing could happen without his blessing. I felt this and Khrushchev's 18 speech at the Twentieth Party Congress 19 confirmed my conviction about the criminality of the Stalin rule. After the cult of Stalin was denounced at the Twentieth Party Congress I was rehabilitated 20 in October 1962. The regional court of Lvov reviewed my case and determined that I was subject to oppression in fascist Hungary as a Jew and there was nothing criminal about my crossing the border to the USSR.

I graduated from university in 1954. My friends working in the Subcarpathian regional executive committee sent the university a request for issuing me a job assignment to work there. Upon graduation I received a job assignment to the Subcarpathian regional executive committee. I was employed as manager of the legal and protocol department of the executive committee. I worked there for three and a half years. I had very good relationships with my management and even got a raise from the Council of Ministers of Ukraine. My salary as a manager was 690 rubles and the Soviet of Ministers added 300 rubles for excellent performance. This was a lot of money: few people in the USSR earned this much. I had rented a room before, but the executive committee gave me a one-bedroom apartment.

In the house that we had owned before the war there was a two-year local school. The local administration allocated funds for the repair of this house and the school director appropriated this money and bought a house in a neighboring village. Then he suggested that I claimed my rights on our house. My parents had been the owners of this house. I had my inheritance documents for the house issued according to the rules. Since I didn't feel like disowning the children from their school building the secretary of the district party committee proposed that I sold the house to the school. They could only pay the cost of the insurance evaluation of the house which was half the price of the house. I agreed, but then they deducted the cost of the repairs supposedly completed. To avoid the inspection of the building which would for sure have proven that no repairs had been done whatsoever the school director made an agreement with a local journalist who wrote an article saying that I was taking away the building from the children. Of course, if there had been an investigation I would have been proven innocent, but nobody felt like clearing things.

The regional party committee decided to remove the source of conflict from the executive committee. And I was this source. They forced me to submit my letter of resignation since otherwise they would have fired me under a criminal code and they would have had no problem in plotting charges against me. My boss, the secretary of the executive committee, was reluctant to let me go, but he couldn't fight with the secretary of the regional party committee. I quit the executive committee and became secretary of the Trade Unions of Governmental Employees where I worked for several years. When I worked as investigation officer I met the chairman of the regional court, Martin, who later became chairman of the collegium of lawyers.

In 1965 he convinced me to start working as a lawyer. That was when I became an attorney and I've never regretted taking this decision. I'm happy doing this work. I can protect people. I was awarded the title of 'Honored Lawyer of Ukraine'. I was the only lawyer in Subcarpathia that was awarded this title. There's a militia colonel, my good friend, and prosecutors and judges with this title, but I'm the only attorney. This title allows me an increase of my salary of 85 hrivna [about USD 16] that I will be receiving from January 2004. It's important for me. I receive a 157 hrivna [about USD 30] pension like the majority of the pensioners in Ukraine. My capital are my friends, that is, that I have many and nice people that I meet a lot. Many people know me in Uzhgorod. They trust and respect me. I have Jewish, Ukrainian and Hungarian friends. I don't care about nationality. A decent personality is what matters. However, it happened so that most of my friends are Jews. Jews are my people. I've always thought about them and it hurts to witness demonstrations of anti-Semitism.

I've always been a Jew in my heart. I've had faith in God and always prayed at home in the morning. I couldn't observe Jewish traditions or celebrate Jewish holidays at home since I worked for the government and was a member of the Party. The state struggled against religion 21 and religious people were persecuted. If I had been seen at the synagogue I would have lost my job and party membership card. Considering my conviction it might have been even worse. I also celebrated Soviet holidays since it was necessary to do so.

In 1961 I married Prascovia Goncharenko, a Ukrainian girl. I met her at a party. Prascovia was a student of the Faculty of Philology of Uzhgorod University. My wife is much younger than I am. She was born in a village in Sumy Region in 1936. I've forgotten the name of this village. Her parents were kolkhoz 22 farmers. After finishing secondary school Prascovia entered Uzhgorod University. Her childhood dream was to become a teacher. We saw each other for about half a year and then we got married. We had a civil ceremony and in the evening we had a wedding party to which we invited our acquaintances. My wife took my surname after we got married.

Upon graduation from university she was an elementary school teacher. She loved children. Every now and then strangers approach me in the street telling me that my wife was their first teacher. I can tell you frankly that I appreciate it. In the 1970s the school management applied to the higher authorities requesting the approval of Prascovia's award of 'Honored Teacher of Ukraine'. That was when my Ukrainian wife faced anti-Semitism. The director of the regional department of public education didn't like her Jewish last name of Shtern. He didn't forward her documents to Kiev. I got to know about it several years later.

Our first son, Evgeni, was born in 1962 and Victor followed in 1964. I tried to teach my sons Jewish religion and Jewish traditions. Regretfully, they were far from conceiving them. My sons were pioneers and Komsomol 23 members and lived in accordance with the laws of the USSR. They didn't identify themselves as Jews and were just Soviet people. In those years we didn't observe any religious traditions at home. We didn't celebrate Soviet holidays either. We celebrated our birthdays and our children's. We invited friends, had parties, listened to music and talked. We spent vacations traveling to Subcarpathia or to the Crimea with the family.

Evgeni wanted to become a teacher like his mother. After finishing school he entered the Faculty of Mathematics of Uzhgorod University. Upon graduation he became a teacher at a secondary school. He's a very good teacher and children like him. Victor finished the Faculty of History of Uzhgorod University. But, unlike Evgeni, he wasn't attracted by the idea of being a schoolteacher. He worked at school for some time upon graduation and then entered the Faculty of Law of Uzhgorod University. Upon graduation he obtained his license and became an attorney. He works well and I'm not saying this just because I'm his father.

My sons are married. I have four grandchildren. Evgeni has a Jewish wife. They have two sons: Evgeni, born in 1984 and Alexandr, born in 1987. They both study in Israel under a Sokhnut 24 student exchange program. Evgeni has finished school and is a university student. The younger one is still at school. He goes in for sports. He is a candidate for a master of sports in fencing. My grandsons are very happy in Israel. They often write me and call me. They have great perspectives and I'm very happy for them. Evgeni and his wife are going to move to Israel. I'll be missing them, but I understand that their children are there and therefore, their future is in this country. They study Ivrit. My son has quite a good command of Ivrit. Well, all I can do is pray to God for peace in Israel. My younger son, Victor, has a Ukrainian wife and they also have two sons: Sergei, born in 1987 and Andrei, born in 1994. They go to school.

When many Jews were moving to Israel in the 1970s I helped and supported them, but I myself never considered this option. I was born and grew up on this land, I like Subcarpathia and cannot imagine living in a different country. It's not that easy to cut off everything that was your life and leave. However, everybody must make his own decisions.

In the late 1980s perestroika 25 began. At first I was skeptical about it: I didn't believe in positive changes and believed the totalitarian regime to be unshakable. Later I saw that life was changing. Perestroika gave us a freedom we weren't used to. We could correspond with our friends and relatives living abroad, travel and invite them here. Mass media and television started to say things that in the past people were afraid to even mention when they talked in a whisper: about the lawlessness and repression in the USSR. An avalanche of information about our miserable life in the USSR depriving us of human rights fell upon us. However, many people tried to ignore it: it destroyed their understanding of the USSR, the Communist Party and many other things. Of course, from a material point of view life became more difficult: the standard of living became lower and there was unemployment that didn't exist before. As for me, I believed it was vitally important that we gained freedom. Anti-Semitism mitigated during the perestroika. Religious people weren't persecuted any more.

I've found my brothers in the USA. They live in Long Island, New York. They were very happy to hear from me. They thought I had perished. I've visited them five times since then. They are married, have children and grandchildren. They are pensioners. My brothers are members of the Jewish community. My older brother Vili is very religious. His older daughter's husband, his son-in-law, is a rabbi. He lives in Israel and lectures at Jerusalem University. Vili's family observes all Jewish traditions; they follow the kashrut, celebrate Sabbath and Jewish holidays. On Sabbath the family goes to the synagogue. My younger brother Miki isn't so deeply religious, but he and his family also go to the synagogue. Recently my older brother had a surgery. I always look forward to my younger brother's calls to tell me about how my older brother feels. He is 89 years old, not young any more. I cannot afford to call them in America: it's too expensive.

There are a lot of good things about the USA. I used to think that rich people built their riches on a dishonest basis stealing and lying while millionaires in the USA do a lot of charity and help the poor. However, basically I think that people in America aren't so open and friendly. I think it's better here. My brothers were telling me to move to the USA, but I never considered this option. I like my work and I like the people here. They treat me with respect. I think I would miss this if I left.

Another happy event in this country is that Jewish life began to revive. The synagogue began to operate in Uzhgorod. There were mostly older people attending the synagogue in the past, but after Ukraine gained independence younger Jewish people began to go to the synagogue, too. It never happens now, like it did before sometimes, that there aren't enough men for a minyan at the synagogue. I'm a Jew, I've been a Jew and I will always be a Jew. Lately I've attended the synagogue on Sabbath and Jewish holidays. I pray at home every day. I ask God for my brothers' health, for the health of my family and peace in Israel and Ukraine.

Many things have changed lately. Hesed plays a big part in the social life of Jews here. It opened in Uzhgorod in 1999. Hesed takes care of all Jews: from infants to old people. It provides assistance to the old and needy and supports them when they need medical care. It's also important that Hesed also supports our spiritual life. There's a number of clubs and studios in Hesed where everyone can find something to his liking. Older people appreciate the opportunity to socialize. I still work and don't suffer from loneliness while old people that don't go to work are very sensitive about an opportunity to talk. They get together in Hesed, which offers them interesting lectures, literature and music parties. We also spend Jewish holidays in Hesed.

Glossary

Chaim Henryk Ejnesman
Podkowa Lesna
Poland
Interviewer: Marta Cobel-Tokarska
Date of interview: October – December 2004

I met with Mr. Ejnesman four times. Chaim Ejnesman is a charming, elderly gentleman, tall and blue-eyed; he hasn’t yet regained full mobility after suffering a stroke. He’s very modest and shy. In fact, only during our last meeting did he manage to relax enough to look me in the eyes, joke and answer more freely. Unfortunately, Mr. Ejnesman doesn’t have the temperament of a storyteller; he is not talkative. In addition to that, his memory doesn’t serve him well; I asked him about certain issues several times and still he didn’t manage to reach some far-away memories.

My family history
Growing up
During the war
From Poland to Ukraine
After the war
Glossary

My family history

My family was large: the Tenenbaum and Ejnesman family. The Ejnesmans, from my father’s side, lived in Ostrowiec Swietokrzyski. I didn’t know them; I had only heard about them. We never went there, to Ostrowiec, from Radoszyce. My father would sometimes go there, but he never took us with him. On my father’s side, they were all very religious, more than on my mother’s side. I don’t remember my grandmother, as I never did meet her. But I do remember what my grandfather’s name was – Mordka Ejnesman. He made leather; he had a small factory, a tannery in Ostrowiec.

We all lived in Radoszyce. We kept in touch more with my mother’s family because they were close by. I remember my grandparents from my mother’s side; that is Grandfather died early, but I remember my grandmother very well. She was a good granny, like grannies are. Her name was Chaja Tenenbaum. I don’t remember my grandfather’s name. It’s been so many years. Grandfather Tenenbaum was a councilor in the community. My grandmother died before the war, I think I was little then. And my grandfather also died early. I didn’t know any of my grandfather’s or grandmother’s siblings. It was a large family, all of them born in Radoszyce. They spoke German perfectly, because they all studied in Austria. They were a merchant family. Everything was – ‘biznes’ [Mr Ejnesman uses the English word – business]. They did well.

They were more of a modern family, not that they ate treyf food; they kept the Saturday tradition and everything, but not as much. Because on my father’s side it was different, there was no possibility of playing with Poles. On my mother’s side that was different. [The mother’s family had contacts with Poles, for example business contacts.] So, how did they meet up? How did my parents meet? Well, like it used to be then, through a matchmaker: they courted and they made the match. After all, they didn’t go to a disco, because there were no discos then. My parents spoke Polish and Yiddish. It was really a true Jewish family. You can’t say there was no assimilation; everything was normal. My mother was at home and took care of the children, and my father worked.

My father’s name was Chil. I don’t remember which year he was born in. He was a very pious man. Not that he’d wear sidelocks, no, but he was pious. He’d wear a chalat [kaftan]; he had a different one for weekdays and for holidays. For the holidays: Saturday, Sunday or Yom Kippur he had a shiny satin one. We celebrated all the holidays at home. My father was an ordinary person, like me. He went to a rabbinical school: a yeshivah. I don’t know if it was in Kielce, or maybe in Ostrowiec. He was a good singer. He had a vibrant voice. I’d always think that the ceiling would fall down when he was singing. He would have been much more successful in America than in Radoszyce. He had a beautiful voice. So beautiful!

I’d also sing, I inherited this talent, yes. But when I had the stroke [in 1990, in Canada], something got damaged there. After all, I used to go along with my father and sing with him. He’d always take us, my older brother and me. I was already able to help him in many things. I’d sing the Kol Nidre with him. On Saturday, the holiday, one could never go anywhere, one had to stay with my father, because I had to sing with him.

My father worked for a cotton-wool maker, where they made wool for blankets. He supervised there. There was a carding mill; this wool would be spun and he’d cut it when it was finished. But during the holidays he was only a cantor. He’d get up at 5am and go to the prayer house, because he had to get to work by 6am every day. And he went to the rabbi to pray, every day in the morning and evening, before sunset.

In Radoszyce there were two rabbi brothers. Their last name was Finkler. One was a rav, the second one was a rabbi; in Yiddish that’s a rav and a rebbe. Everyone knows what row and rebbe means. The rav is the one you go to see when you feel something’s wrong. And he was supported by the community. And the rebbe, the second one, lived only off the gifts of people who’d come to see him. The row took care of all the matters of local Jews. He was a wise man. Both brothers were wise. After the war, already in Canada, in Toronto, I met the sons of this row, those who survived; the rebbe didn’t have any children. And the row had two sons left. Alive. They hid in the forest and they survived. And one son, the third one, died when he left the partisans in the woods. After the war they went to Canada. Before the war one of them taught Hebrew in Szydlowiec, this Finkler. And the second one was young, like me.

On holidays, especially on Yom Kippur, my father would go to Ruda Maleniecka [a small town several kilometers from Radoszyce]. There was a tiny prayer house there; not many Jews lived there and they didn’t have their own cantor. So he’d go there and sometimes take me with him. I remember when my father went there once for a wedding. And then, after the wedding, the musicians drowned. They went for a swim and they drowned. It was so unfortunate, so much talk, everyone talked about this.

My mother’s name was Laja, maiden name Tenenbaum. She spoke Polish well. She went to school in Austria; I know that, because it was often mentioned at home. So she spoke perfect German. When she was absent-minded, she’d speak German to us, but it was almost like Yiddish, so we’d understand everything. My mother kept the house, she took care of us, and she cooked by herself. We weren’t rich enough to have a nanny. Just like my father, she could also sing, she’d walk around humming all kinds of songs. She was gentler than Father. She ran a store. A kind of general store, everything was sold there, paint, lime, etc. in the market square in Radoszyce.

She had beautiful dark eyes. She wore a sheitl; after all, she had no hair. But I heard that when she was young, she had long wavy black hair. I had such hair as well. These waves. Though I look more like my father, and my sister Mania looked more like my mother. My mother was pretty. Sure she was, but it doesn’t matter. They are all dead by now anyway. It’s been so many years since the war. There’s simply nothing to talk about. You’ve got to come to terms with it. It’s difficult, but you’ve got to. I haven’t got even one picture of my mother.

My mother had many siblings: there was Uncle Szmul Aron, Aunt Bela, Uncle Icek, Aunt Tauba, Aunt Sara and one more aunt, whose name I don’t remember. They were all quite well off, both those, who lived in Radoszyce and those, who lived elsewhere. They could afford anything.

Uncle Szmul had a rye warehouse in Radoszyce. And other grocery products, Uncle Icek lived in Radoszyce, next to the church on Koscielna Street, in a large brick house. I don’t even know what’s there now. Uncle Icek had a large stationer’s store. There were all kinds of accessories there, paper, books, everything. He had Jewish books as well, I remember. Now this would be something like a bookstore. I knew my way to that store, because I used to carry all kinds of goods there. Teachers would give me a piece of paper with an order, what to bring, for home and for school, and my uncle would send me. I always helped him. Then my uncle got married to a lady from Opoczno. They met through a matchmaker. He could have married in Radoszyce, but he didn’t. He was one of the wealthier people in town. His store was the only one in the area. He sold supplies to teachers everywhere. He could have even afforded a car, but he didn’t have one. There were only a few people in Radoszyce who were as wealthy as Uncle Icek, for example the one who owned a gas station; I don’t remember his name.

There was also Aunt Tauba in Kielce. She lived on Bodzentynska Street. I remember this exactly; I just don’t remember the number. Before the war I went to Kielce many times, because Uncle Szmul Aron used to buy rye and take it to Kielce, to Grossman’s mill. My uncle had a car and we’d go there twice a week. There weren’t as many cars then as there are now. There were maybe two or three trucks in Radoszyce. I didn’t even see any small cars. So when we’d go to Kielce with my uncle, we’d visit Aunt Tauba. Her husband had died, so she was left alone. She had two sons in Paris [France] and her daughter got married in Canada. Aunt Tauba used to tell us, when she’d come to Radoszyce, that she had a daughter in America. At that time you wouldn’t say Canada. Just America. That was the cousin I met in Edmonton [after the war, in the 1950s Chaim Ejnesman immigrated to Canada]. But she’s dead now, too.

My mother had one more sister in Lodz. I have to think what her name was … yes, Sara. She lived in Lodz, on Zydowska Street, and her husband worked at Szajbler’s. This was some kind of workshop, but I don’t remember what they produced. I stayed with them for three years. First my sister Mania lived with that aunt, then, when she’d managed to put away some money, she rented an apartment and then she sent for me. Aunt Sara ran a kosher house. She kept all the holidays, but there was a different system there. My uncle sometimes had to go to work at Szajbler’s on Saturdays. Not always in the morning, he could go in the afternoon sometimes. He worked there in a warehouse; they had to take inventory, so he had to go. In Radoszyce it was unheard of to work on Saturdays.

There was one more aunt, I don’t remember her first name; her last name was Przytycka. She had a kosher restaurant opposite the rabbi’s house, there on Zydowska Street. She also had some daughters and a son. A large family. My aunt had a house on the corner and there was a well next to it. When the customers came to the restaurant, they’d go wash their hands there. This I remember well. And I would carry water from that well to my aunt’s house. These customers were mostly Jews from Czestochowa; on Sundays they came by car to visit our Rabbi Finkler. They had no rabbi there, so they came all the way to Radoszyce. [Editor’s note: It’s very unlikely that there was no rabbi in Czestochowa.] They drank coffee at the restaurant. I saw this grinder they used to make that coffee. There was also a samovar at the restaurant. We didn’t use to drink coffee at home, just grain coffee, ‘Inka,’ there was no real coffee.

And on my father’s side there was an uncle in Bodzentyn: Nusen Ejnesman. He was very pious as well. His children attended a rabbinical school. After the war, when I was supposed to leave for Australia, I got a letter from Kielce, from a lawyer [a copy of this letter still exists, it’s dated 1961], and it stated that my uncle in Bodzentyn had a store and someone had supposedly sold that store and signed with my name. So they ordered me to come to court immediately, because they didn’t know it wasn’t me [who sold the store]. I didn’t go, because I was afraid. There were such disturbances then, so I thought: I managed to survive, why should I take risks now? This was after the pogrom in Kielce 1, so I was afraid to take the train. [Editor’s note: The reason why Mr. Ejnesman didn’t go to court was probably a different one, because the events he was afraid of took place 15 years earlier]. And I couldn’t do anything, because it wasn’t easy then: just make a phone call, catch a train and go.

The second uncle on my father’s side, I don’t remember his name, left for Brazil, for Rio de Janeiro. My father never mentioned this; perhaps because he didn’t know himself that he had a brother in Brazil. I found out only after the war, from this cousin in Edmonton. This uncle was pious, like my father’s entire family; I’m sure he was among the very pious people there.

We also had an uncle in Konskie, but he wasn’t my father’s brother, but some cousin. I don’t remember what his name was. He had a small factory, which produced brass knobs, for kitchen cabinets. I went to Konskie several times; I stayed there for some weeks. My uncle would work and I would help, I cleaned these knobs. But I don’t remember what street this was on in Konskie. I don’t remember Konskie at all. It must have been somewhere close to the market square, because I remember going there. In three weeks, how could I have gotten to know the place? During the days I worked and on Saturdays we didn’t work, so I would quickly walk through the town. Kronenblum, I think, had this iron factory. And Hercfeld. Yes, Hercfeld and Kronenblum. We’d go to this Kronenblum to get these knobs. They weren’t finished then, because it was my uncle who would make them yellow [these were brass knobs, which become yellow after they have been polished]. That’s why I remember.

I also had a more distant uncle in Warsaw. I don’t remember what his name was. First, my brother Hilel went to work in Warsaw, and then he sent for me. He lived on 13 Nalewki Street, because 15 Nalewki was a connecting house, with the yard backing out on Zamenhofa Street. I remember this precisely. It was the same at my uncle’s house; the house was kosher. My uncle was pious, too, and so was my aunt. They were both the same. My aunt would cook kosher food, always. On Saturdays fish, and afterward they would go to the prayer house.

Growing up

I was born in Radoszyce, on Zydowska Street, on 8th August 1921. My name is Chaim. Now it’s Chaim Henryk. Even in my passport it’s Chaim Henryk. They added the name Henryk in Canada. This was because I entered a new society, and it wasn’t proper, maybe. I don’t know. Perhaps so it would be easier to spell? In any case, now I use both names. For example, when I go to rehabilitation, they call me Henryk. But when I come to the [Jewish] Committee, they call me Chaim. In my identity card it’s written: mother Laja, father Chile. Anyway, Chaim is no different from Henry. And today no Jew is called what he used to be called.

There were six of us: three boys and three girls. I was the second. Hilel was two years older. And Jankiel was younger than me. When I left for Lodz, I was 14 years old and Jankiel was six or seven. He stayed at home in Radoszyce. My sisters were: Mania, who was older, and Rywa, and the youngest one, who was born when I was already in Warsaw; I don’t remember what her name was. Mania could sing very well. She lived in Lodz, 7 Wolnosci Square. When I stayed with her in Lodz, she was only engaged; she hadn’t gotten married yet. Her fiancé was a boy from Lopuszna. She met him in Lodz, at Debinski’s, the dance school on 15 Poludniowa Street. And the other two younger girls, they stayed at home with Jankiel.

My brother Hilel left for Lodz before me, and then some factory owner took him to Warsaw. He was tall, just like me; he didn’t have a belly. We attended the same elementary school together. He later used the name Mojzesz as well; I think he had two names. He left Radoszyce two years before I did. Then he took me to Lodz, I went with him right away and that’s where I learned to work. Then Hilel took me to Warsaw. I was the closest to him, but he died, I don’t know where. When the war broke out in Warsaw, there was mobilization. Hilel signed up on the first day and I never saw him again. No one knows if he died somewhere or escaped and left, but we looked everywhere and couldn’t find him.

Well, my mother had her hands full with us. She needed help with the house. My sister had already left for Lodz, she was older, so there were four of us left at home; then I left and then there were three at home. But it was still difficult, in spite of that. We tried to send them some money, and we used to send them one or two zloty each week, for cigarettes for my father. My father smoked Wandy, I remember, the cheapest brand. I remember these cigarettes although I never got into that habit. I never tried smoking cigarettes. Such things weren’t appealing to me.

In Radoszyce we lived in a house on Zydowska Street, with my aunt and uncle. It was a large house. Aunt Bela, my mother’s younger sister, lived downstairs. Uncle Szmul Aron lived on the other side, and we lived upstairs. There were three rooms. My parents had one room and the children had one; there were no separate bedrooms. Girls slept separately and boys slept separately. There was a kitchen, too. There was no water in the house. You had to carry it from the well. By the time I left [for Lodz in 1934], there was electricity. There was this water-power plant in Ruda Malenicka. But earlier there’d be a lamp, a kerosene lamp. There was no garden. The house was right next to the street. There was a backyard, but we never planted anything there. There were other people living on the side of the backyard. A cart driver, who used to go to Lodz every week. He’d leave on Sundays and come back on Fridays, for the Saturday ritual.

Our house was made of bricks, but old. Grandfather Tenenbaum built it. And these other houses on Zydowska Street, they were old wooden houses; they must have burned down long ago. There was a mezuzah above the door in our house. There’s a mezuzah in my house [currently, in Podkowa Lesna]. My wife brought it from Israel. There were no Jewish houses in Radoszyce without mezuzahs. When you built a house, it had to be there. Even if someone wasn’t very religious, either way, he still had a mezuzah. Everyone did. Our house in Radoszyce was normal. It was a Jewish house. We always celebrated all the holidays: Purim, Pesach, Yom Kippur, Simchat Torah. I remember all these holidays.

Sabbath was Sabbath. My father didn’t work; he went to the prayer house on Saturday, like a chazzan did. He had to sing. I remember how my mother prepared for Sabbath. She made fish: she cooked it in the morning and then she’d always finish on Friday afternoon. My mother cooked broth, noodles and these broad beans. I remember there was always challah and how my mother would always light the candles on Friday evening, I remember it all.

My mother cooked soup, so there’d be soup for Saturday. Vegetable soup. That’s why she went to buy vegetables on Wednesday. Everything was good. My favorite soup was kreplakh: dumplings with meat. The dough would be kneaded, like it is now for pierogi. And this was added to broth. My mother would usually make this for Saturday. And on weekdays, we’d first eat soup and potatoes, then a little piece of meat, because meat was expensive, especially kosher meat. It still is expensive. I can see the difference in price, in this small kosher shop on Grzybowska Street. Kosher meat can’t be taken from the back. When they killed a cow, they had to take half of it to the Polish slaughterhouse, because Jews wouldn’t buy such meat. I don’t remember if that was the front or the back. In Radoszyce there were only two stores that sold kosher meat. 

It was always different then; my mother would bake everything for the holidays. You wouldn’t go to a store somewhere and buy it. At that time, there were no such things. She made everything by herself, at home. We’d take different cakes and chulent to the bakery. They’d be left there for the night, so they’d be warm for Saturday. There was no oven at home. I’d take them there on Friday afternoon and pick them up on Saturday. When the baker baked bread, he’d put it all in the oven. I used to go to the baker’s, because my brother was still little. This bakery was close by, on the market square. We’d come back from the prayer house at noon or 1pm and then I’d go straight to him to pick up the chulent. Potatoes, beans, meat – it was all good. There’s a restaurant in Canada where they sell chulent. But it’s best when it’s homemade. My mother made the best chulent at home.

It was very pleasant on Sabbath. We didn’t do anything: my father or anyone. It was all so quiet at home. It was like that in Lodz as well. Everything was closed. You’d stay at home. Well, we kids went out to play, but my parents stayed in the house. We ran around the backyards. Well, what were we supposed to do? We played ball or something. That’s how you’d live. We’d go see my uncles and aunts after the prayer house, in the afternoon.

Sabbath goy - yes there was one, he’d come to everyone on Zydowska Street. There was a small village near Radoszyce and he came from there. I remember that he was there as many years as I was in Radoszyce. The same one all that time. A Pole, I don’t remember his name. Older than me. He was maybe 20 at that time. But I don’t remember if he got paid or whether they’d give him something, I don’t know. He must have gotten something; he went along the entire street. There were several of them, not just one. After all, it was a large street. And so many Jews living on each street. Each street had their Sabbath goys. He’d just make sure there was a fire in the furnace. There was no electricity in my time. Uncle Icek had light. There was light on that street, on Koscielna. And we’d light the lamps in the evening. After saying Mincha and Maariv, you could light them yourself.

And for Sukkot we had a special booth in the backyard. This would be built, like a small garage is now; the walls would be made of bricks and some pine branches on top. The booth would be there all the time, for good. This was at our neighbors’, we shared a backyard, there was this addition. We’d decorate it nicely on the inside. These colorful ribbons and chestnuts. I remember it all. And we’d eat there in the evening. We’d take out the table. We ate different cakes, and broth with noodles. My mother would bring the food from the house. My sister Mania, when she was still at home, she used to help my mother. And then she’d always come from Lodz for Sukkot. But we didn’t sleep there. No, on Sukkot you don’t sleep in the booth, you just eat there. [Editor’s note: Orthodox Jews also sleep in the booth.] You go home for the night. Sukkot was very nice. You’d pay visits, my father wouldn’t work, they’d take us to see my aunt.

For Chanukkah we’d always get gifts, it was called Chanukkah gelt, from my uncle. He’d always give something to everyone. One zloty or two. But he’d give something to every child. My uncle had no children of his own. This was the uncle who had the bookstore – Icek. We’d go and visit him and he’d give us money, or cakes or something. He could afford it. He was well off. We’d keep this money for candy. Or we’d play the spinning top, the dreidel. Poles used to make these dreidels and sell them. There was this special village where they made them, somewhere on the way to Mniow [a town between Radoszyce and Kielce]. And we’d always buy dreidels there. I remember all this well. And there was a special meal for Chanukkah, I forget what it’s called… Latkes! Yes, potato pancakes. They’d be salty or sweet, different in each town. Ours were sweet, fried in oil. A little sugar would be put on top. In Lwow [today Ukraine], I know, they’d put onions on the latkes. In Radoszyce they were sweet. And we wouldn’t add any sour cream. My mother also baked all kinds of cakes. I remember carrot cake and apple cake, apple pie, I remember this, too. We’d light candles. Every day, starting on the first day. That’s how it was at our house.

And when Purim came, there was dancing in the street, lots of fun. They’d dance in the rabbi’s backyard, so it was like a carnival. There was no theater. But children would dress up. They’d go from house to house; everyone would give them something. Some candy or something. We used to do this as well, yes, we used to dress up. You’d put an apron over your head. You’d dress up like this, like a clown.

And for seder, we’d all sit together; there would be both sweet and bitter dishes at the table. I forgot what this is called in Polish. A kind of horseradish – maror. We’d always be asked why this night was different from others and we’d have to answer. I always answered, because the other children were too young. When I left, then I think my younger brother would say this. And my father would tell the Haggadah - why this night is different from others. And we’d eat matzah. We still eat matzah at my home.

I also remember what weddings were like in Radoszyce. They used to be merry, with Jewish songs. After all, there was klezmer music. There was a band at cheder. It really wasn’t some large choir, just a few musicians. They used to play and sing at weddings. My father didn’t sing at weddings. When the wedding was very pious, then he’d go. I remember the chuppahs. They smashed the glasses - Mazel Tov.

I was 13 when I had my bar mitzvah. It wasn’t very festive, only my family attended. It was in Radoszyce, at the prayer house; first, the ceremony, then prayers and that was it. And then there was some continuation at home. In those days you wouldn’t do it like it’s done now, there’d be some vodka, some jelly, all homemade. Beef jelly, from the cow’s feet. Also some broth with noodles, chicken, beef; we didn’t eat ham or anything.

There was a butcher. He also did the circumcision when I was born. I forgot what his name was, but he was called mojl [mohel], not butcher. He was on Zydowska Street, next to the rabbi. You’d take chickens there, and everything was kosher. All he was there for was to slaughter chickens. The butchery and meats were separate.

On Wednesdays there was a market, on the market square. There was this market square with shops all around it. They used to sell everything there; sour cream, milk, cheese. They’d all bring their stalls. And not just groceries, for example, our cousin was a hatter, he had eleven sons and one daughter; he made hats and sold them there, at that market. People would come and trade there, bakers, carpenters, everything was sold there. They would come from the region, Ruda Maleniecka, and Mniow, I remember, because that’s on the way to Kielce. Some 20 kilometers from Kielce. We had a shop there as well, at Aunt Bela’s grocery store. You’d always put something out on the street: herrings, flour, sugar. There weren’t only Jewish stalls at this market, but others, too. Cows, horses, everything would be sold there. My mother did the shopping, and sometimes I went with her. There was a dairy in Radoszyce. A kosher dairy, and we bought cheese and milk there all week long, because it wasn’t kosher at the market. But on Wednesdays my mother used to do her shopping at the market. Carrots, parsley, vegetables, fruit, all these things.

Everything was there in Radoszyce: A rabbi, prayer houses, matchmakers. It was a Jewish town. It was a small town: there were cobblestones on the streets, Jewish shops around the market square. In Radoszyce a Jew even owned the gas station. His name was Molasa. Jews ran everything. Uncle Szmul Aron from my family operated the wheat and rye purchasing place.

There was a mikveh on Zydowska Street. Yes, we went to the mikveh every Friday. And always on Wednesdays, or Thursdays, the women went there. A separate day, but the same mikveh. It wasn’t far from my aunt’s restaurant; it was in the same building. The mikveh was on the corner. It was run by the man who lived there. I don’t remember his name. It’s been so many years. And it was a large house, with this kind of a swimming pool downstairs. It was as long as the house was. You’d take the stairs and go down. I don’t remember if you had to pay. But probably yes, because this had to be maintained somehow. So there must have been some fee. The Jewish religious community operated this; after all, there was a Jewish community in Radoszyce.

There was a large cemetery, but it was far away. Very far from town. I never went there for funerals. At that age, I wasn’t interested in cemeteries. But we’d always know when someone died. There would be a procession through the town, on Zydowska Street and then they’d turn. It was so far away that I don’t think anyone destroyed it. [Editor’s note: The last burial at the cemetery in Radoszyce took place in 1942. The cemetery, like most Jewish cemeteries in Poland, was destroyed during the war; after the war it gradually got completely devastated.]

In Radoszyce there was one church and four or five prayer houses, and they were close to our house. The town was 70 percent Jewish. And that was all on our street, on Zydowska. This street ran straight from the market square for some two kilometers, and only Jews lived there. Some Poles lived there, too, including the mayor, who lived near the rabbi, on the other side. But I don’t remember what his name was. He was an older man. We had many neighbors. But Jews didn’t live only on that street. My uncle lived on Koscielna, right next to the church. There was no ghetto. Young people, both Polish and Jewish, would meet on Sunday evenings on the market square. There, next to the firemen’s depot. There were dances, a firemen’s band would play and they’d be merry and dance. I didn’t. I was a little too young. The police station was on the other side of the market. This street with the police station was a shortcut to Uncle Icek’s house. Because otherwise, you’d have to go all around to Koscielna Street. But on foot, next to the police station, you could go straight to Uncle Icek’s.

In Radoszyce everything was as it should have been. Sukkot was Sukkot and Sabbath was Sabbath, and that’s all. On Sabbath it was very quiet, because the stores were mostly Jewish, so they were closed. There was no possibility of anyone opening a store on Sabbath. They were closed on Sundays as well. That’s how everyone respected the second religion. When the rabbi walked by, everyone really showed respect. Yes. And when a priest walked by – it was the same. They were all born there, raised there, and everybody knew everybody else there. Radoszyce was a hole. Like a village. But was that good or bad? I don’t know. What to do, that’s how you lived and that’s how you should live. My children wouldn’t want to live like that. But it was a good life. Calm. We were never hungry. If it wasn’t for the war, that’s how you’d live your entire life.

I went to a Polish school in Radoszyce and to cheder as well. I went to school in the morning; then straight home to eat; my mother always made lunch. And then to cheder. And then back home to do homework. The entire day was busy. Where the school was, there was also a children’s playground, and you could play ball and everything.

I got used to speaking Polish, there was no problem. I always adapt easily to everything. Anyway, I had some Polish friends, we played together, but I don’t remember their names anymore. So that’s why I spoke Polish well right from the start. Our teacher’s name was Ogonowska. I don’t know if she’s still alive. She was my teacher until third grade. And her husband was the principal, Ogonowski. I also remember her father, he had an orchard, and he’d always give us a bucket of apples. About half of the children at school were Jewish. It was an elementary school. Boys and girls. They went there together.

I studied Yiddish, I went to cheder all the time. Both during school and before. But I don’t remember all of this, it’s been so many years. If I was to use it, I speak a little Yiddish. [Editor’s note: Mr. Ejnesman knows Yiddish perfectly.] There were three cheders in Radoszyce. On Zydowska Street there was one shul and one cheder. And a third one at the rabbi’s. The shul was somewhat more modern. There they wouldn’t teach that, say, driving was forbidden on Yom Kippur. They were kind of reformers, those who went there. Some rich people, who kept their distance, they’d go to the shul.

This cheder was in a private apartment. A female teacher taught us. She was older, although, it might have seemed to me like that then, perhaps she was 20 years old and I’m saying that she was older. Why a woman? I don’t know. After all, there was a melamed, but he taught other children, and in the shul. I don’t remember what his name was now; I didn’t go to see him. Two girls, sisters, taught us. The one who taught us was Chaja, I don’t even remember the second one. This second sister taught the older children Hebrew. She didn’t teach the younger ones. We had these groups there: Smaller children and older ones. Girls also attended separately; they had a different teacher. In the same house, but on the other side. It seems to me that this Chaja taught us until seventh grade. They graduated from these schools, they didn’t just teach, they must have graduated from a special school, a school for melameds, to teach us how to read and write in Yiddish. No, they didn’t attend these schools in Radoszyce, I think it must have been in Lodz. Or in Piotrkow, or Konskie. I don’t know.

I remember we’d go there twice a week for an hour and a half in the afternoons on Tuesdays, and Thursdays. There were different hours for different groups. There were vacations in cheder. But at a different time than in school. Usually there was a break for the holidays. It would start with Rosh Hashanah, then Yom Kippur and Sukkot and that’s all. I don’t remember exactly. I learned Yiddish, but I don’t remember anything now, nothing goes into my head now. I get the ‘Midrasz’ [socio-cultural monthly magazine in Polish, published since 1997] and the ‘Folkssztyme’ 2, but I can’t read anything anymore. I used Polish, I always read, and I didn’t use Yiddish. And I forgot. I never studied Hebrew. My father didn’t teach me Hebrew either. Perhaps he could speak it, I don’t know. I was eleven years old, in fifth grade, when I stopped going to school.

Then I started learning a trade: I made sweaters, gloves. The neighbors had this plant. There was work after they brought the materials from Lodz. We’d do it and then Kajlt Dizel, the cart driver, would take the sweaters, gloves and various undergarments to Lodz. It was difficult to support a family in Radoszyce. I went to work in Lodz in 1934. I was 14 years old [Editor’s note: The interviewee was 13 years old in 1934]. My sister was in Lodz and she took me in. All of Radoszyce lived in Lodz. When you grew up a bit, right away you’d go to Lodz, Skarzysko or Kielce. They’d also go work in Konskie. Konskie is 18 kilometers from Radoszyce. There’d be a bus leaving from the market square every hour. I went to Konskie so many times. Konskie was a county town; you couldn’t compare it to Radoszyce. There was nothing to do in Radoszyce. In Radoszyce there was carpentry, textiles and some other trades. Nothing more: just blacksmiths that shoed horses, and made carts. There were no factories, you’d have to go to the city looking for work.

And so this first time I went to Lodz in a horse-drawn cart. With this neighbor who used to go to Lodz every week. I helped him and he took me along. I came to Lodz and my aunt found me a job at her neighbor’s nearby. It was a textile company on Old Market Square that made various undergarments, for men and women. I carried the goods, because they had to be carried to the overlock. I got practically nothing for that, just enough for bread.

That was the first time I saw a large city. I never understood how the radio worked. There was no radio in Radoszyce. And at my aunt’s there was a radio; I heard something playing, so I looked and they made fun of me, because I didn’t know at first who was singing there, inside. And life was different in Lodz. There were cars. Streetcars. A different life. My aunt lived in a tenement house on Zydowska Street, upstairs. She had a nice apartment in Zydowska, where Stary Rynek [Old Market] is. Only Jews lived there. Close to Kilinskiego Street, where Biderman had a factory. Baluty was a Jewish district: Zgierska, Nowomiejska, Stary Rynek. There was a prayer house on Stary Rynek. I liked Lodz better: the people, there were Jewish organizations there, you could go somewhere, not like in Radoszyce; there weren’t many such things even in Konskie. People lived differently in Lodz. You wouldn’t worry about everything being kosher, exactly. At home there was a different bowl for milk and for meat. But not there!

There was no cinema in Radoszyce. But there were cinemas in Lodz. I went to the morning screenings. Yes, the Zacheta cinema in Lodz. Dymsza [Adolf Dymsza, a popular Polish comedy actor before the war] always starred. For children. It cost ten groszy, but you could stay there, and they wouldn’t throw you out. On Saturday mornings I would go to the prayer house with my uncle and aunt and then I had some free time. My aunt knew that I’d go to the cinema. We’d also go to the club. A Jewish club; it was a Zionist club, Hahalutz 3. My parents never spoke about politics at home as they weren’t interested. I never belonged to any parties, only to that club. We’d always do some reading there, stay for a few hours and then leave. It wasn’t like it is now; there was no television. I never went dancing, I was too young. Those who came to the dances were older, mostly 20 - 25 years old.

In Lodz I met Jozek. He lived in Lodz, on Brzezinska Street. He’d always invite me to his house. His mother was more assimilated. He never said that his mother was mixed. When I came there, she would never say such things to me [that she was half-Jewish]. Anyway, I was young, why would she talk to me about such things. Jozek didn’t come back either, he died somewhere during the war. I don’t know what happened to him. That’s how life is.

With regards to anti-Semitism, I remember these events in Lodz. But I didn’t have any problems; I walked around the town in peace. I could speak Polish fluently, because I went to a Polish school. But those, who wore sidelocks, could have had some problems. You had to be careful in Baluty. But well, you had to adjust to everyone, no matter what. You had to adjust to everything; you can’t do it differently, can you? But in Radoszyce, we’d never play separately. At school, on the street, always together. Anyway, Mrs. Ogonowska would never allow such things [the discrimination of Jewish children]. We played together and that was it. That’s how it was. Everything depended on the town, on the mayor, whether he was heating up the atmosphere for someone to be against Jews or not. Maybe in Konskie, it was a larger town, after all. But not in our town. It was calm at home.

I stayed with my aunt for three years, I worked there, and my older brother Hilel had a clothing warehouse in Warsaw. They made sweaters, socks, etc. He was a kind of manager, as you’d now say. And one day he told me, ‘Come to Warsaw, you’ll get better wages,’ and he took me from Lodz to Warsaw. I went and worked for a year there. And indeed, the wages were better. I could finally send several zloty to my parents and they were a bit better off. Before the war broke out, I was working in Warsaw, on Zamenhofa Street, also in the textile industry. I never went back home. And I never had any contact with anyone from my family again.

During the war

In 1939 I went to Lodz to see my sister and aunt. The Germans found me there and I couldn’t go back to Radoszyce. The first day of the war, 1st September 4. I found out that the war had broken out, because there was some uproar on the streets of Lodz. They said there was a war, that the Germans had bombed this and that. I think they first talked about Garwolin [a town about 50km south-east of Warsaw]. I wasn’t in Lodz when the bombs went down. I was there only for a little while when they were organizing the ghetto. The ghetto was in Lodz 5 in 1940, I think, I was there for five months. No one knew anything at that time. They kept us locked up in Baluty. I don’t remember the date. I know that when they started sending people off to forced labor, I ran away from Lodz back to Warsaw [probably in fall 1940].

In Warsaw I was alone. My brother had been drafted into the army. I lived there at my aunt’s, on 13 Nalewki Street, still the same address. Were there any regulations in Warsaw against Jews? I, for one, don’t know. I wasn’t interested in such things, in politics. Nothing changed in our lives, I only know that I ran away and they stayed. There were posters or something like that, I’d never read these things. We didn’t have a store in Warsaw, so I wasn’t interested. I wasn’t in the Warsaw Ghetto 6.

From Poland to Ukraine

Then, later [in 1940, before the ghetto in Warsaw was formed], when I walked out on the street, the Germans started doing these round-ups and then it wasn’t yet important whether you were Jewish or not, only if you were young. So they took us to Zoliborz [a district of Warsaw] to dig trenches. They gave us shovels and that’s it. I did that for several weeks. I remember, under Kierbedzia Bridge. That’s where I ran away from, because it was raining and there was no one to guard us. I ran east with one other guy. It was difficult to get some transport to Lublin, so we walked. We went to Lublin because it was closer to the eastern border. Everyone said that it was better to run away to Russia, even my sister said so. They had no ties with the communist party, that’s just what they came up with. We walked through Garwolin, where planes had bombed everything.

We stopped in Lublin for one day. We looked around and there were cigarettes on the street, everything on the street, so we kept on walking. And then, as we were walking, German planes came. I moved around a tree, on my knees, and my friend lay down in the ditch. The Germans shot from planes, they even shot at cows. And they killed my friend, but they didn’t get me.

I kept on walking until I got to Lwow [today Ukraine]. We stayed there somewhere next to the church [refugees from territories occupied by the Germans]. In front of the presbytery, near the parish, there was a large hall next to the church. People slept wherever they could find some space, on the floor, on the stairs, it wasn’t like staying in a hotel. There were many refugees. Thousands: both Polish and Jewish. I was alone, so I slept wherever I lay down. They gave us some food at the presbytery; they’d always cook some soup for refugees and give it to everyone, without asking who you were.

They took me to Siberia from there. Not just me, they took everyone. The Russians didn’t tell us it was Siberia, they told us we were going home. Then we traveled for 24 days by train; those were cattle trains. They didn’t tell us where we were going. Then we started thinking that it can’t be to Warsaw, because it doesn’t take that long to get there. They gave us food: a loaf of bread and that was it.

We arrived in Arkhangelsk, which was already Siberia. There was a place where they divided us into different colonies. Trains with prisoners arrived there. But I was no prisoner, because I had no sentence! I went to the Komi SSR. I was there with some young fellows, many were in the army from Lodz. There was even a general. But this general didn’t want to work, so he died. He’d always say, ‘I won’t ever work for these ‘kacaps’’ [Polish word meaning idiots, cads; in this case, Russians]. So I told him, ‘Mister, you can’t do this, you’ve got to survive somehow!’ But he was maybe 60 years old anyway. Or older. And his son Jozef was with me. We worked together.

I can’t complain, I was a ‘stachanowiec.’ [Editor’s note: in the period 1930-1950 in the USSR – an efficient, leading worker, etymology – from the last name of a miner from Donetsk [today Russia]: Alexey Stakhanov (born 1905)] I got bread, like I should have; I didn’t have any problems. I was young, still strong for work, so I worked. Several times I was sick with ‘cynga’ [scurvy] from malnutrition, and that’s normal. They’d give us some food in the morning, at 6am, when we left for work, then they’d give us some soup with bugs, and that was all the food we got. And bread. And it was hard work in the woods; we cut trees and built iron roads [railroads].

I don’t know if we were all treated the same; I‘m not saying we all were. I can only speak for myself. No one admitted if they were Jewish or Polish. No one said anything. There really were no such questions. Where are you from? From Poland and that’s all. And I spoke Polish normally. I lived in a barrack, 75 of us lived there, each one had this bunk. No, no, I didn’t have any problems. I can’t talk about something that wasn’t there.

I was there until 1941. Then we got away. They began setting up Anders’ Army 7, so they let us go. Along with Jozef, the son of this general who died, we left for Buzuluk [in Russia, near Kuibyshev, Orenburg oblast]; he joined the army, and I started working. I wasn’t suitable for the army; they said I was too weak, too emaciated. I had to improve a lot, get better, and I had scurvy and my hair was falling out. So they sent me to work in Kazan [in Russia, the capital of Tatar Autonomic Socialist Soviet Republic, near Kuibyshev]. We went there, there were lots of us. They assigned us to a steel mill. We worked there and I belonged to the Polish Patriots’ Association in Kazan. I even had an identification card. I got food from them many times as a kind of benefit. I also got parcels from UNRRA [United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Administration, an international organization created on 9th March 1943 in Washington, which organized aid for allied countries, which were the most devastated by the war, in the period 1944-1947], which were sent there. Oh, and coffee, or something.

I was in Kazan for about a year. I don’t remember the exact date or month, because it’s been 60 years. And then I belonged to ‘wojenkomat’ [army drafting committee]. They supervised us, because we were there kind of like in the army, but we were workers assigned to trudarmia 8 for labor.

They assigned me to Kirovograd, which is in Ukraine. And then they sent me to Oleksandriya, in the Kirovograd district. There were maybe twelve of us; some of us were sent here, others there, others to a kolkhoz 9. I worked in the Maslozavod factory. Where they made butter. In a dairy. It was different there; you could eat a piece of cheese of something. I wasn’t starving there, I can’t complain. I always fared well. What could I do? I had to get by. And I don’t know how many people were left there, those who couldn’t get by. There was a cemetery there; thousands of people died there. Very many people died.

It was there, in Ukraine, where I met my first wife. She was Russian. Her maiden name was Kulbyk. She was Tania Kulbyk. She had a child, a son; his name was Wladek [Wladyslaw]. He was my adopted son; he always lived with us, there in Poland, and later in Canada. Wladek just died recently; he had been sick. And she died recently, too. She wasn’t Jewish. We got married there, in Russia. A kosher house? There was no possibility, no way!

After the war

I remember that on 9th May 10, or some other day, we were working in this dairy and they announced on the loudspeaker, in Russian, that the war was over. After all, we could speak Russian, and also Ukrainian. So that was it. Then they gave us an address, where we were to show up in Lwow, at a repatriation center. I went there, to Lwow, I remember this like it was today, and they told me that they’d let me know when it would be my year to be sent back to Poland 11, because they’d take people from different years separately. The war ended in 1945. And in 1946 we left Ukraine. We went back to Poland by train.

Some news from Poland did reach Siberia, but I didn’t get anything, because nobody wrote to me and nobody knew where I was. But the guys, who received letters from home, read them to us. I didn’t know what was happening to my family. I was sure that, because the family was so large, the ones in Radoszyce, and they were young people, like this cousin who had eleven sons, I thought that they were always so strong, so I thought that someone could have survived in hiding. I later met this Finkler, this son of our rabbi from Radoszyce, and I asked if he had seen someone from my family. He said that they weren’t with them in the woods. I don’t know how they died. When I left in 1939, they were still alive. I looked for them, but there was no one left. I don’t know how come that there’s no one left from the Ejnesmans or from the Tenenbaums. Where did they all go? When I came back from Russia, I went to Lodz and I found Chaim Tenenbaum’s name on the list of surviving Jews. Uncle Szmul Aron’s, my mother’s brother’s son. Before the war he had a store in Radoszyce, a house, he had everything. But I never found him. He had left – where, I don’t know. So I didn’t go back home. I went to Walbrzych.

I didn’t choose to go to Walbrzych, they did [the repatriation committee]. They would send people to Wroclaw or to Walbrzych, but mostly to Walbrzych, because that city was empty, the Germans had left; at least we got an apartment. When someone would go to work in the mines, like I did, he’d get an apartment. I wanted to go to Lodz, but there were no apartments left, there was nothing, they asked, ‘What will you do there?’ I didn’t meet anyone; I didn’t see anyone. Yes, in Walbrzych you’d begin your life anew.

In Walbrzych I registered with the Jewish Committee 12 at once. I belonged to TSKZ 13 and Bund 14. Bund was a Jewish organization. It was on Moniuszki Street. We had meetings there, we could sit, read. As a miner I got these packages from the Jewish Committee, they have my file at The Jewish Historical Institute 15. Those were times when people would sign up even if they weren’t Jewish, because they had heard that there was some aid. I even met one of them [non-Jews pretending to be Jews], he didn’t even know what the holidays were and so on. I didn’t need to do this, because my name was Chaim Ejnesman. I have a clean conscience; I don’t need to lie. And it’s all written down. But in Russia they changed my name from Chaim to Giennadij.

So I worked in the mine and later they organized the Dua textile cooperative, so I went back to working in my trade. I was the chairman of the audit committee there, because I knew all about it. I worked there until our departure. My sons were born in 1947 and 1950, respectively. They are called Morys and Sam. We sent our children to a Polish school. There was no school in Walbrzych, where they taught Yiddish. If you wanted to learn Hebrew, you had to go to the rabbi. There was a rabbi in Walbrzych and a slaughterhouse, everything was there. [Editor’s note: in 1949/1950 most Jewish institutions and services were nationalized or liquidated. Mass emigration of Jews in the 1950s and then in 1968 brought to an end the development of the Jewish community in Lower Silesia.] I went to a prayer house on Slowackiego Street. They knew me. I went there for Sukkot, Yom Kippur, Rosh Hashanah. There were many Jews. They came from Russia, and then they left, went here and there: to cities.

Then [in the 1950s] all kinds of disturbances began and, although I wasn’t feeling it, people from Bund predicted something bad would happen. And they started saying that we should leave, so we needed to leave. So we did; the committee organized such things. Many people left Poland at that time. It was a difficult decision to make, to leave Poland. I had a job in Walbrzych, we had an apartment and yet, we decided to leave. I think I didn’t want to stay in Poland any longer, what for? Everyone would leave for wherever they could, such were the times. The Jewish Committee found me a supposed cousin in Australia. I got these papers and I left for Paris [probably in 1959]. Such transit. We stayed there, they supported us, gave us a place to live, from social services. We got a small room in a hotel, we stayed there. And we went to eat at a canteen, where there were people from all over the world. We stayed in Paris for three years. People told me, don’t go to Australia, because it’s too hot. Better go to Canada. So I said that my head hurts when it’s too hot. And I waited until they found me a cousin in Canada. In Edmonton; this was Aunt Tauba’s daughter, from Kielce.

So we went to Canada. My cousin’s friend, Dudzelzak, helped us then. She called him and told him that I was coming and he took us in. We decided to stay in Ontario and that’s where we stayed until we left for Poland [1992]. We got by. I worked in so many places; first I worked on Golfring Place… I can’t recollect everything; it’s too much. I worked everywhere, wherever I could. Then I opened my own store, worked there with my family, a store with men’s clothing, and then we also ran grocery stores.

My wife Tania didn’t like it there; she wanted to go back to Russia. But how could I go back to Russia. We broke up. I was alone for seven years, then I met my second wife [we got married in 1973]. Her name is Otylia, nee Jablonowska. She’s from Lwow, born there in 1930. After the war she ran these deluxe stores in Gliwice. [Editor’s note: delicatessen – grocery stores offering products considered luxurious at the time of market shortages in the Polish Democratic Republic, for example colonial goods, citrus fruit, etc.] And then her husband died, she came to Canada. She had an aunt here. She doesn’t come from a Jewish family, but she did business with Jews. She’s just interested, that’s all. Thank God, that it all worked out like this. Otylia is very talented. She made all these portraits by herself, and this is handmade. [Mr. Ejnesman is referring to cross-stitched paintings, hanging in the living room.] I can’t complain, everything is all right. We later opened this store together, men’s and women’s clothing. The boys found jobs. We also have two daughters [they are Otylia’s daughters: Jolanta and Anna Barbara], they’re in Canada as well. We were there together. Now we have eleven grandchildren: Deren, Tina, Monica, Sasza, Nina, Natasza… I don’t even remember all of their names. And even more great-grandchildren.

During the time I was in Canada, I had no contacts with Poland. Never. I didn’t have anyone here. Only my wife had a sister in Poland. This sister also has a Jewish husband; he had to assimilate during the war. He was in the army. He’s dead now. Yes, they were a good family, I can’t complain.

One day I got sick in Ontario [in 1990], they took me to the hospital with a stroke and I had to leave. There are no possibilities there. There you have to be rich when you fall ill. And I had a Polish passport, because I never gave it back. I never took Russian citizenship, or any other.

My wife brought me to Poland [in 1992], to a sanatorium in Iwonicz. I was there for several months and I was getting better. A lot better. We even wanted to buy an apartment there, in Krosno. But they convinced us to move closer to Warsaw. I didn’t care much. Because after this stroke, I was in bad shape for quite some time. So they got this house. And we’re living here, [in Podkowa Lesna]. I wouldn’t want to live in Warsaw, because there’s too much noise. But this will have to be sold. It’s difficult to maintain a house now. Our children are in Canada and we stayed here. They come here from time to time to visit us.

I registered as a war veteran in Warsaw, that’s when we started going to the Jewish Theater 16, to TSKZ. People visited me from Spielberg’s Foundation, they were making a movie. We celebrate Jewish holidays, because my wife likes that. She goes to the rabbi to get the matzah; by now he knows her better than he knows me. She’s more involved, but because I can’t walk, how could I get involved. And life goes on, thank God, we’re living all right. I go to rehabilitation, they take me; you live as long as you can, don’t you?

It’s so difficult, recollecting everything. So many years have passed, and you still need to live. You can’t just lie down in your grave when you’re still alive. I’m the only one left of all of them, only because I ran away to the east. I don’t know where they took them; maybe to Piotrkow Trybunalski. There was no ghetto in Radoszyce. There was one in Konskie – then maybe to Konskie. I never did find out, there wasn’t even anyone I could ask. But you must live. What else to do. I probably won’t find anyone now. I’m so old by now, they were all even older. You have to come to terms with it, can’t change that, can you? Nothing will change.

This is the entire story of my life. A man can’t remember like he used to, these dates, months, they keep getting mixed up. Like Wedel’s mix [a type of chocolates popular in Poland].

Glossary:

Teodor Kovac
Novi Sad
Serbia
Interviewer: Ivana Zatezalo
Date of interview: March 2003

As previously arranged, I arrived at Mr. Kovac’s place for our interview. He opened the door for me, helped me take off my coat and took me into the room. He was really good-mannered, a real gentleman. He and his wife, Ana, welcomed me in a really friendly way. First they offered me juice and wonderful home-made cookies. Only after that, said Mr. Kovac, we would start the interview. There was a beautiful wooden table with six chairs in the room. We sat opposite each other and relived the story of his past.

My family background
Growing up
During the war
After the war
Glossary

My family background

I’ve found documents that say my ancestors lived here in Backa [part of Voivodina] 1 ever since the beginning of the 19th century. They are all from here or from Slavonia. [Today it is split between Croatia and Serbia. Slavonia is the area between the Drava, Danube and the Sava rivers.] I don’t remember my great-grandfathers and my paternal great-grandmother. I only remember my great-grandmother on my mother’s side. She was born around 1840 and was about 92 years old when she died in 1932. She was born somewhere here in Backa. I don’t know exactly where. I don’t know about their financial situation, nor their living standards. They were probably poor like everyone else at that time. They must have been religious as other people back then. I don’t mean Orthodox, but they probably observed all the holidays that were celebrated anyway.

I know that my great-grandfather, my grandfather’s father, was married twice. He had several children from his first marriage, then his wife died. He remarried and had many children with his second wife, too. She also had several children before, so probably all together there were 15 or 16 children. With the exception of my grandfather, and apart from those who died, they all went to America. During World War II the contact to these relatives stopped, so I’m not in touch with their descendants.

My grandparents on my father’s side died ten or even more than ten years before I was born. My paternal grandfather was called Adolf Kovac and he was born in Ruski Krstur [Bacskeresztur before 1920]. He was born as Kohn; later he changed his family name. In 1896, during the celebration of the thousand-year anniversary of the arrival of the Hungarians to Pannonia, the Jews collectively changed their names to Hungarian last names. [Editor’s note: There was never a collective magyarization of family names in Hungary. It is true, however, that voluntary magyarizations accelerated towards the end of the 19th century, and the 1896 Millennium Exhibition in Budapest gave a special impetus to such efforts.] Magyarization of family names was a sign of belonging to a certain milieu. Gratitude was expressed this way to the Hungarian nation which acknowledged the equality of Jews. It was the first time in two thousand years of Jewish history in the land of Hungary that full equality was given to Jews. [Civic rights were granted to Austro-Hungarian Jews in 1867, the year of the so-called Compromise of 1867.] The Hungarian part of the Dual Monarchy was ethnically so mixed, that Hungarians hardly comprised 50% of the population. The rest were Serbs, Croats, Slovaks, Romanians, Ruthenians and Ukrainians. The Hungarians willingly accepted this kind of declaration of loyalty of Jews. In 1896 my grandfather changed his last name to Kovacs. [Kovac is the Serbo-Croatian spelling of the Hungarian Kovacs.]

I don’t know what education my grandfather had. I think he must have attended cheder and Jewish elementary school, as all other Jews at the time. He was engaged in everything. I know that for some time he was a manager of a quarry in the village of Paragovo and probably lived either in Paragovo or in Kamenica. I remember that I found a prescription before the war, which was written and prescribed to my grandfather by Jovan Zmaj. [Zmaj, Jovan Jovanovic (1833-1904): well-known Serbian poet, physician and academician.] I don’t remember from what year it was. My grandfather had a cold and Jovan Zmaj prescribed him some cough-syrup. Because of that prescription I know that he lived either in Kamenica or in Paragovo. My grandfather was moderately religious, he wasn’t Orthodox though, he was far from that. I don’t know what his mother tongue was. It wasn’t Yiddish though, probably Hungarian, but I don’t know for sure. He also spoke German. My father told me that my grandfather served in the army for a long time. I don’t know for how long and I don’t know where. He died just a few days after World War I broke out, that is, sometime in August 1914. I don’t know anything about his brothers and sisters.

My father was called Arpad Kovac, and he was born in Pivnice [Pinced at the time] on 27th February 1893. It is a village in Backa. He graduated in Novi Sad. His parents moved to Novi Sad while my father was still small. My grandfather was doing business at the quarry in Paragovo at that time. My father spoke all three languages very well: Hungarian, Serbian and German. He also knew French very well. My father wasn’t religious, not at all. He went to school in Novi Sad, and he also studied in Pest [Budapest]. After finishing law school, he worked as a lawyer in Titel for a year and a half. Then World War I broke out and he joined the army. After the war he returned and opened an office in Novi Knezevac, where I was born. He was killed in 1941 around 12th or 13th October. He was deported along with the Jewso of Banat 2 to Belgrade and probably he was killed in Jabuka [infamous Serbian concentration camp].

My father had two brothers and two sisters. One of his brothers was called Boldog Kovac. He was a lawyer in Novi Sad, on Mileticeva Street. He was about seven or eight years older than my father, and he was born somewhere in Banat, I think in Kucura. He lived at the corner of today’s Jevrejska Street and Bulevar where the Sveca boutique is located. He died of a stroke in 1939. His daughter was married and lived in Belgrade.

Boldog’s wife and daughter perished along with the Jews from Belgrade and Banat in Sajmiste 3. His son studied food industry technology in Germany. He received his doctorate in 1933 when the Nazis came to power, and then left for Palestine where he survived the war. He died 10-15 years ago. His wife died, too. He has a son, who works as a physicist at the University of Tel Aviv. He’s probably already retired. He has a son and two daughters, but I don’t know their names.

My father’s oldest sister, Piroska, was a lawyer. Her husband’s family was quite wealthy and among the richest citizens of Novi Sad, not only among the Jews but among all the citizens; they had everything. They owned a farm in Sremski Karlovci, even today they call it after his name, though 60 years have gone by.

Piroska’s husband, was called Rot. His parents had a fabric store, so they called him ‘Stoff-Rot’ [Fabrics-Rot]. He managed to go with his wife and a three-year-old child to England from Novi Sad. They first went to Switzerland, from Switzerland to Portugal, and then from Portugal to England. Piroska went to London to give birth to the child there in order to get English [British] citizenship. Back then England was something America is today. She gave birth on the day World War II broke out. Afterwards they came back here. They survived the war, but Piroska’s husband died shortly afterwards in 1946 or 1947; he was buried in Novi Sad.

They had three daughters and a son. One of them committed suicide shortly before deportation, I don’t know how she did it. The other daughter managed to leave for England from Hungary with her husband and her small child during the war. Leaving for England wasn’t an easy thing to do back then. From England they traveled further on to Chile. The third and oldest daughter was a doctor. She managed to survive in Budapest by declaring herself Hungarian. She was very talented when it came to languages and thus spoke several languages without an accent. From her looks it was easy to conclude she was Jewish but she managed to survive. After the war they all met.

The three sisters had a brother, George. He had been in labor units and survived and came back to Novi Sad. He was somewhere near Szeged [Hungary]. Since Szeged was liberated before Novi Sad he arrived in Novi Sad just before the Hungarians left Novi Sad. [The interviewee is referring to the Hungarian occupation of Yugoslavia] 4. He fled from Yugoslavia, and his sister, the doctor, left legally from Yugoslavia and they all met in Chile. Georg became a journalist and today, I hear, he is the publisher of a Spanish journal or weekly newspaper in America. He grew up in Chile, so Spanish is his third mother tongue. Georg also made the last interview with Che Guevara. He managed to get to Che Guevara when he was besieged and made him give an interview. [In 1967, directing an ineffective guerrilla movement in Bolivia, Che Guevara was captured, and later executed by government troops.] Here newspapers presented the success of ‘our man’ from Novi Sad. Once he called, that’s how I knew he was alive. Now I don’t have any contact with him any more.

My father’s other sister, Aunt Ernestina, was a big Zionist, just like my father’s younger brother Balint. Once my aunt and uncle traveled to Palestine to visit my uncle’s son who lived there. In those times it was a big adventure. They traveled by ship because it was impossible to travel any other way. They spoke some French, the other passengers on the ship also knew French, so they understood that my uncle worked for the government. He was the Minister of Justice of Yugoslavia.

Aunt Ernestina married a court clerk, named Ede Almai. He had an exceptionally nice handwriting. When the Jewish Cultural Home [teachers’ school today] was being built on Petra Drapsina Street, he wrote a charter. His calligraphy was put into a coated box, which was built into the foundations, and it’s still there today.

Ernestina’s family lived in Pavla Pap Street. Ernestina and her husband were both deported and killed in Auschwitz. Today their former house is half destroyed. They had a daughter, and I’ve heard that she died of tuberculosis during World War II. She was buried in the Jewish cemetery in Novi Sad. Up until a few years ago her photo was engraved on her tombstone. I don’t know how, but it suddenly disappeared.

My other uncle, Balint, lived on Mileticeva Street. He died shortly before World War II. He had a heart attack. I don’t have any other information about him.

My maternal grandfather, Adolf Berger, was born in Vrbas [Verbasz before 1920], here in Backa. They didn’t magyarize their family name. He was a rather introverted person. At that time Adolf was considered a Scandinavian name. Hitler hadn’t yet been heard of. My grandfather was religious; every Friday and Saturday he would go to the synagogue. He didn’t wear a beard, a kippah or a hat, though. They regularly followed the news and listened to the radio. He read in Hungarian and German, too. They had a subscription to Politika [a daily newspaper, which still exists in Serbia and Montenegro]. My grandfather wasn’t a member of any organization.

My grandfather had seven sisters, but not a single brother. These sisters, except for one, all lived in Subotica [the second city of Voivodina], but shortly before the war they gradually all moved to Novi Sad. They all perished. I don’t know their names and dates of birth.

My grandparents’ apartment was situated in today’s Avgusta Cesarca Street. They had two rooms facing the backyard. It looked like a family house located in the middle of the city. There was water and electricity, and they heated the house with coal and wood. There was a garden, too, with flowers and vegetables, but they kept no animals. They were mainly in contact with their neighbors and with Jews. To my knowledge, they had no other friends. They used to go on vacation because my grandfather worked at the railroad and had the opportunity to travel for free. I don’t know whether they took my mother along with them.

I don’t know much about my grandmother’s and grandfather’s childhood. I know that, while my grandfather was at high school his mother died and his father remarried later. The stepmother wasn’t very motherly. My grandfather finished high school in Baja [today in the south of Hungary] and enrolled in medical school in Vienna. In those days medical science in Vienna was among the best in the world. He had no money to pay for his studies, so he dropped out a year later.

My grandfather had a hard life. Austria-Hungary was economically expanding and gaining strength: railroads were built extensively and there was a constant demand for railroad personnel. He completed a course and started working at the railroad [the Hungarian State Railways]. Soon he became station manager in Dalj [today Croatia, called Dalja before 1920], then in Borovo [now in Eastern Slavonia, Croatia] and after World War I he got transferred to the main office of the railroads in Subotica, from where he retired. After he retired, he came to Novi Sad and they bought a house. My grandfather didn’t serve in the army because he worked at the railroads, and railroad workers were exempt from service.

My maternal grandmother was born in Dalj on the Danube in 1874. Her name was Irma Veltman. The Veltmans came from Curug [in Voivodina, called Csurog before 1920]. A few years ago, a man told me that they still call a house in Curug as ‘Veltman’s house’. One of the Veltmans, Martin Veltman, went to Palestine in 1938. He was a lawyer in Novi Sad. There he became Meir Tuval. For some time Palestine didn’t have enough personnel, so they hired ambassadors under contracts and he, too, was hired as an ambassador. During the war he was called Meir Marcika, the representative for Sochnut 5 in Istanbul with a mission to try to help European Jewry. He has a son, I think he has a daughter, too, but I don’t know for sure. His son is called Sadija; he was a professor of political science at several universities, including Tel Aviv and Washington. His main interest was to create peace among warring parties, to conclude peace treaties. He wrote a study on Somalia and was here, too. So, the grandson of a Curug Jew became an expert on Somalia... They still speak Serbian well.

At home my grandparents mainly spoke German and Hungarian but they were also quite fluent in Serbian. My grandmother didn’t wear a wig, she wasn’t observant to such an extent, but she kept a kosher household. Sabbath was observed, they went to the synagogue every Friday and Saturday, and of course on holidays. Neither my grandmother nor my grandfather was very much into politics, but my grandmother was rather active in a Zionist organization for women.

My mother was their only daughter. She was called Olga Berger. My mother was religious. She regularly lit candles on Fridays. She went to the synagogue on holidays. Also, she didn’t allow us, my brother and me, to eat pork; we had kosher food. When we ate bacon with my father in his office sometimes she pretended she didn’t see us. My father wasn’t religious, although we celebrated Jewish holidays together. My mother was a housewife.

My parents probably met, like others at that time, through a shadkhan – a matchmaker. They got married on 10th December 1912 in Slavonski Brod [in Croatia, called Brod in 1912]. I know that the wedding took place in the synagogue. Besides they also had a civil marriage.

As far as I know, my father held no position in the Jewish community. They were politically non-committed, they didn’t belong to any party. Father served in the army during World War I, and I think he once said that he worked himself up to the rank of lieutenant.

They didn’t socialize that much with the neighbors. My parents mainly socialized with Jews. One neighbor was a farmer and had a coach. He was a sort of country coach. The other neighbor was a tailor. Sometimes they went on vacations. At that time they mostly went to spas, but not that often. My parents were in touch with their relatives, but there weren’t any in the village. Their relatives mainly lived in Novi Sad; outside Novi Sad they only met occasionally.

They dressed just like other middle-class citizens did at the time. We weren’t rich, but we weren’t poor either. I remember that my father bought a house in 1928; and then he added an annex to it. For village conditions it was quite a big house with a big plot of land facing the street. I remember when water supply was introduced and when they built the bathroom. That was at the time I was attending school already. There are artesian wells in Novi Knezevac [Banat], and one well was near our house; it was so rich with water that around 15-20 houses got connected to that well and supplied with water. Only during the summer, when the gardens were watered in the afternoon, the pressure declined, otherwise we had plenty of water. We had a garden, where we grew what we liked to grow. We had pets, a dog and a cat, which was pretty common. I also had a squirrel and a hedgehog. We had servants, among them a maid. We had books in the house, but no religious books, and the library was a mess. I remember that one summer I put everything in order and catalogued the books: there were around a hundred books, mainly fiction. Newspapers arrived regularly. There was no public library in the village.

I have one brother, Karlo, who is nine years older than I. He was born in Titel in 1914, three weeks before World War I broke out. Karlo went to university and became a lawyer. He lives in Novi Sad.

Growing up

I was born on 24th April 1923, in Novi Knezevac, which is a fairly small place in Banat. It’s a district town though. Back then there were no boulevards in Novi Knezevac, it was paved like the villages in Voivodina [with cobble-stones]. Electricity was supplied periodically. At the beginning there was only electricity from noon to midnight, or to 10 or 11 o’clock in the evening; later there was electricity all day.

There were many Jews in Novi Knezevac, around 70 people in total. Jews were, like everywhere in Voivodina, mainly merchants. My father was a lawyer, there was a Jewish doctor, a banker. There was a small synagogue, which the Germans used as a warehouse during World War II, and it continued to be used as such after the war. There was no rabbi, no mikveh, no talmud torah, no yeshivah. Unless my parents forced me I didn’t go to the synagogue. I had a bar mitzvah though.

I don’t remember what my favorite subject was in school. In the 1st and 2nd grade there was only one teacher; he was a good teacher. He died not too many years ago, probably when he was 98 or 99. The 3rd grade was taught by a female teacher, and the 4th by another one. The teacher from the 4th grade lived long, too, when she died I was still working, but I was about to retire. They were good teachers. I had some classes outside school; my parents made me learn music, but they were quickly convinced that it was useless, since I showed no interest.

I had no problems in school for being a Jew. In our class it was the same as in Novi Sad: there were Serbs, Hungarians, Slovaks, Germans and Jews. Several of us were Jews. As a child, I don’t remember anti-Semitism; that was long before Hitler. I remember, in my birth-place the store was just opposite the house where we lived. The owner was a Serb merchant whose wife was half German, half Romanian from Romanian Banat. She spoke poor Serbian, and she would often get together with my mother and they would speak German with each other.

There were several restaurants in Novi Knezevac, one of them belonged to a Jew called Jelinek. It was a casino, a noble restaurant. The second restaurant belonged to a Hungarian, and there were more, but I’ve already forgotten their names. [Middle class] gentlemen mainly went to the casino.

Before the war I attended the school in my birth-place, there were only four grades in elementary school. The 8-year high school I attended here, in Novi Sad. Novi Knezevac is 130 kilometers away from Novi Sad, so it was impossible to travel daily. I lived in Novi Sad at my maternal grandparents’. When the war broke out in Novi Sad [April 1941] I was a graduate; we graduated during the occupation..

Sometime in 1931-1932 we heard about Hitler. Anti-Jewish laws, the so-called ‘Koroscevi’s law’, were introduced in Yugoslavia in 1940. Koroscevi was the minister of education, he had introduced that law in the first grades of high schools and universities. At the same time a law was introduced according to which Jews weren’t allowed to trade with groceries, so it wasn’t only an educational law, therefore we all called it ‘Koroscevi’s law’. [Editor’s note: In October 1940 the Yugoslav government enacted two anti-Jewish laws. One established a numerous clausus for Jews in secondary schools and universities, and the other excluded Jews from trading in certain food items.]

I remember Hitler’s rise to power very well, especially the beginning of World War II. I even remember the Spanish Civil War, the Japanese invasion of China and the Anschluss 6.

During the war

Karlo was already a lawyer in 1937; he started his training period in my father’s office, and from there he was doing his exams. He was just finishing his exams when World War II broke out. As a reserve officer he had no war disposition, so in that chaos one unit would send him to one place, the other unit to another place. He arrived in Ujvidek and from here he went on with a troop that was leaving the city. They put him into the barracks [today’s Vidovdanska elementary school] in the evening. He stayed a few days, then the troops went over the bridge to Fruska Gora, in a long column, and the last men blew up the bridge. When they retreated they would take the poles with them. The second bridge was Kraljevic Tomislav Bridge. The whole night they walked in chaos until they arrived in Ruma. The Germans were there and locked them up in wagons in order to take them into captivity. Since the Germans didn’t have enough men, the wagons remained without guards and when the train stopped for the first time after Ruma, those captives from Backa got off and walked to Ilok. In Ilok they crossed the Danube and arrived in Backa Palanka. That way Karlo made it back to Novi Sad and stayed here.

During the Holocaust I spent a full three years and two months in many camps along with my brother Karlo. Apart from short periods of time we were mainly together. We were arrested together, and released together.

Banat was the first place in Europe where, with the help of the local Germans, Jews were cleared out. They were very proud that Banat was ‘judenrein’, clear of Jews. Hardly more than four month after German troops entered Banat, there were no more Jews. They had all been deported. Men were killed soon after deportation and women were in Sajmiste in Belgrade. If they didn’t die of the cold of winter, they were murdered in gas trucks. The gas was released into trucks, which women were locked in. They suffocated. My parents were also killed quite quickly. No one survived. I don’t know if my mother was taken to Sajmiste, whether she died in winter, either froze to death or died from a disease, or if she had survived only to be suffocated later; I don’t know. [Editor’s note: In the Banat the Nazis placed the Jews in camps during the summer and in September 1941 deported them to Belgrade. All Serbian Jews were then deported to various concentration camps and killed. In August 1942 a German report stated that the ’problem of Jews and gypsies had been solved; Serbia is the only country where this problem no longer exists’.]

Both my parents perished. My mother was deported with the Jews of Banat. Novi Knezevac is in Banat. [Banat came under direct German military administration after the occupation of Yugoslavia, in 1941.] My father was deported with the Jews of Banat to Belgrade. First they took them to Novi Becej and put them in a warehouse, where they stayed for probably around five weeks. Then they took them with barges to Belgrade. They released the women and took the men to Topovske Supe 7 in Belgrade; and from there, after a few weeks, they would take them group by group. Most of them were killed in Jabuka, near Pancevo [southern Banat, on the Danube]. A smaller number, about 50 to 60, was killed in Deliblatska Pescara [near Bela Crkva in southern Banat], but most of them were killed in Jajinci [camp near Belgrade]. It was a prewar military rifle range, and there they killed them one by one.

I don’t know where my father was killed, probably in Jabuka. Jabuka is isolated, there is nothing in close range, under it is a large swamp and above that a dike. There is no place to flee, even if someone had tried to flee he had nowhere to go since they had closed it from the sides, under it was water and above it was a settlement. They had put them there and then executed them. Gypsies buried them.

Women and children under the age of 14 were released to find their way in Belgrade. They weren’t allowed to leave Belgrade and had to cope with the situation in any way they could. Those who had no one to go to were given accommodation by the Jewish community: they were put in two synagogues. My mother lived with Uncle Balint’s daughter. She lived in Belgrade and my mother settled at her place. They were taken away on 10th December and brought to Sajmiste. In February there were one or two transports every day. They suffocated them in gas trucks in Jajinci. They buried them first, later, in 1943, they exhumed and burned them – that’s where my mother perished.

My brother and I survived. My father’s two brothers had died before the war. One uncle’s whole family – his widow, his son, his daughter, brother-in-law and his eight-year-old granddaughter – was killed during the Novi Sad massacre 8. The other uncle’s son left for Palestine in 1933 where he survived the war. His daughter, my cousin, stayed in Belgrade and she perished, I suppose she was with my mother so they perished in Sajmiste. She got married quite late and had no children. Her husband was probably killed in Topovske Supe.

My grandmother’s house in Novi Sad, where I attended gymnasium, remained. I remember when we went back. My grandmother had a female lodger who was in the house when my grandparents bought it, after they came here from Subotica in 1920. The lodger was there when we returned to Novi Sad a day before the Christmas Eve in January 1945. [Editor’s note: Orthodox Christian Christmas is on 6th January.] We knocked on her window, she wouldn’t open the door since she was afraid. There was a black-out in the whole city, it was still war, she was alone at home, and didn’t open the door for us. I had managed to save the key of the gate to my grandmother’s house. My brother and I opened the gate and knocked on the backyard door, saying who we were. The woman opened the door and almost fainted when she saw us. She told us that some Hungarians lived in the house, who had been moved there by the Hungarian authorities. Novi Sad wasn’t bombarded, only a few bombs fell on the city. There were a few Hungarian houses among those damaged. After my grandmother was deported the Hungarians who had lived there were accommodated in my grandmother’s house. They got frightened, since they noticed we were looking for something. The following day they left the house.

After the war

You see, when we returned in January 1945, everything was frozen. My brother went to the city, he told me exactly where he had buried the documents and I went to dig them up. I didn’t have anything else to dig with, so I tried to dig up that frozen soil with a knife. Those Hungarians who had moved in were watching through the window, and when they noticed that I was trying to dig up something, they said: ‘You know we took coal from the basement, and chopped wood, but they didn’t tell us it was yours. We had noticed that the soil here has been dug before. We took out some kind of special cans for fat’.

My grandmother had put something into those cans; we didn’t know what. I don’t know what they stole, because I don’t know what had been in there. ‘Look, they said, ‘we will return it to you’. They got frightened because they noticed that we had been digging, which meant we were looking for something. They thought we were suspicious of them. And the following day they left the house, so it remained vacant. Up until two or three years ago I have been collecting documents here and there. I dug up those documents that belonged to my brother, they weren’t damaged very much, the only damage was from the moisture. Sometime in 1959 we got a very small amount of money for that house.

My brother, who was a lawyer – a very rare profession at the time – was placed in the military administration of justice. He stayed in Novi Sad.

I only became a graduating student after the war. I left the army, and reported at the headquarters of the army in Novi Sad. It was in July or August 1945; when Tito 9 or the state issued the order that the war was over, and that everyone who had been a graduating student needed to be demobilized in order to go back to his studies. I went to the headquarters for demobilization. I handed over the papers to lieutenant commander Jure Mihajic, and later on I read in the newspapers that he had been a Yugoslav military attache in Bucharest. He told me: ‘Stay here and help me with demobilization.’ I stayed another six weeks to help with demobilization because at that time, being a graduating student was much more rare than today. I demobilized hundreds in order to help my lieutenant commander. He was an honest person.

In Belgrade I stayed in the Jewish students’ dormitory. I stayed there from the first day up until I received the papers for my diploma. No doubt, I would have stayed in Belgrade after graduation, but I didn’t have an apartment, and in those times getting an apartment was something you could only dream of. Then I left for the countryside. I stayed and I worked here and there. I came to Novi Sad, because an opportunity arose to come here and also to get an apartment.

I wasn’t a member of the Communist Party, and my opinion about the regime was the same as everyone else’s who didn’t stand out politically. I could never stand Stalin, and even though I was still a child, I remember those trials in Russia [during the so-called Great Terror] 10. They always seemed vague to me. All of Stalin’s associates, at the time, became spies and agents of foreign countries, which, even as a child, I didn’t like. Then, when he made a treaty with Hitler on the eve of the war, he caused trouble, and I had enough of him once and for all.

I cannot say that I had problems only because I’m Jewish. I’ve always had problems. I had problems because I wasn’t a party member, it wasn’t a plus at that time not being a party member. Probably I could have achieved more if I had been in the Party, but it didn’t bother me. I went to our village to see if we could get any money for the house, since it hadn’t been nationalized but expropriated for some more important needs of society.

The house had been demolished and they ordered a small amount of money to be paid. Those times even that little money meant a lot for me. I went to the party secretary. First they told me that he was in a meeting, but when he heard that I had come from Novi Sad, he came out. He was a short person. I told him that he should pay for the house. He was first looking at me and then said, ‘What do you want? You should be happy that you stayed alive!’ I became angry and wanted to hit him. It was the time of the Informburo Resolution 11 and he would have filled me with more holes than Swiss cheese has, so I only swore at him and left. It was an anti-Semitic incident, other than that I didn’t experience anti-Semitism.

After I graduated from university I got married and then my wife Vera and me left because I didn’t have an apartment in Belgrade. A year later I went to the village and stayed exactly five years. I came to Novi Sad in 1947 and I’ve been here since. It has been 46 years. I was a doctor and I practiced.

I’m in my second marriage now. My first wife, Vera, was Serbian. As most Serbs, she spent the war at home in Srem [southern Voivodina, the area in between the Danube and the Sava rivers]. My daughter, Olga, is from my first marriage. From my second marriage I don’t have children.

My second wife, Ana, was born in Novi Sad. She worked in the hospital. I never met her parents. We are both retired now. I work in the Jewish community as much as I can. I used to hold some positions in the community.

I’ve always had an exceptional pro-Israeli disposition, and I still do today. I’ve been in Israel 13 or 14 times so far. My wife worked in Israel for about four months after she retired. It happened by pure chance that we both got jobs in Israel, so we both worked there, at the Dead Sea.

Our daughter, Olga, has partly been raised Jewish, and she says she identifies herself as a Jew. She was born in Belgrade on 2nd August 1952. She has lived in Novi Sad ever since kindergarten. She finished medical school, specialized in biochemistry and worked as a biochemist in the laboratory of the medical faculty. I don’t have any grandchildren.

I’m a doctor and I’ve practiced my profession. I wasn’t religious since I was raised in the youth movement Hashomer Hatzair 12, and it wasn’t a religious organization. I served in the army towards the end of the war, for only a few months. I’m bilingual; my mother tongues are Hungarian and Serbian. Apart from that I also speak German, and a little bit of English.

After the fall of communism nothing has changed, when the Berlin wall was brought down, nothing essential has changed. We are a secular community, and have no particular religious life. Rosh Hashanah and holidays were celebrated though.

It’s difficult to say why I didn’t emigrate to Israel. I don’t know why I didn’t go. My brother thought that he had no perspective there as a lawyer. I had only been a student then, what would I have done there? He didn’t go, I didn’t go either.

I have received assistance from the Swiss compensation fund and from the Claims Conference.

Glossary

Josip Papo
Belgrade
Serbia
Name of interviewer: Ida Labudovic
Date of interview: August 2001

Growing up
During the war
After the war

Growing up

I was born in 1923. I spent my entire childhood with my older sister in Makarska, and it was the nicest childhood that one could have. We were always on the street; we only went home to sleep and eat. I was the only Jewish boy and my sister, the only Jewish girl. (There were also Ela and Ester, but they were very young. They now live in Israel.) When we played with the other children, there was no difference between us.

Until elementary school, my childhood was very pleasant. I went to kindergarten, but enrolled late. This caused me to experience my first fear of school and that fear lasted my entire life, whenever I had to learn something. I had a good teacher. Classes were divided between rich and poor children, working-class children. As a Jew, I was in the working-class classroom. We all got along well in this classroom, much better than among the rich children who were always jealous of one another. In the fourth grade, Vito Marinovic, a French teacher, came to Makarska. He was an Ustashe and humiliated me. I resisted, but he prevented me from passing the class and I failed the grade. At the school meeting the next year, the teachers' board decided to throw me out of school. Some other girls and boys were punished along with me. I immediately turned to the secretary of the Communist Party in Makarska, who found a way to get me into another school, and I was able to finish elementary school. We fit in to life in Makarska and got along with all the youth there. We lived in the Marineta neighborhood, and all of the kids from that part of town socialized together. There were no differences between us. We each had a nickname. I was Jozi, from Joseph. One Hungarian woman called me that and some one else heard it, and the nickname stuck. Every month we played a new game until the swimming season began. We did not have toys like today. We would aim at a flat stone until we hit it and it fell over. We played “klic pic” – we hit smaller sticks with a bigger one, and the one that went furthest won. We played hide and seek. We all played together and there were never any fights between us. We were divided only by the different areas of the city. We also played war between different parts of town, and would throw stones at each other in jest. We played football with a ball made from socks. All of this was until it was swimming season. Since the beach was for foreigners, we swam on the side. We had a rowing club where I went for years. We had a four-man boat and one helmsman. When we were a little older we enrolled in the “Sokol” athletic club, where we learned volleyball and practiced on different apparatuses. We also learned how to present ourselves in public. Life was very dynamic. We all gathered on the seafront. When we were older we started to get involved in politics and before the war we joined the anti-fascist youth group. In Makarska, 90 percent of the citizens were anti-fascists.

My father and mother met each other in Sarajevo. Jewish women in Sarajevo went to dances. My paternal grandmother had instructed my father that, when he went to the dances and shakes hands with a girl, he should touch the palm of her hand. If her hand is smooth, she is lazy. If he feels calluses, if it is rough, a worn hand, then she is a hard-working woman. That is how the love between my parents began.

My father was a recruit in the Austrian army. My mother remained in Sarajevo. World War I was a difficult time. My father, who did some smuggling, helped my mother’s whole family, because my grandfather Sabetaj had already died. In 1919, at the end of the war, my parents married. They immediately moved to Dalmatia. The decision to move to Makarska saved us. We survived the war untouched. In Makarska, we were entirely equal with the others, even in 1941. I was in prison – but as a communist youth, not as a Jew.

My maternal grandfather died in 1912, before I was born. My grandmother Bojna lived a very difficult life in Sarajevo and her sons had to support her. She always had things to do. She was very thin and quiet. My clearest memory of her is that when she finished her work, she would knit socks. The next day she would undo the socks and make new ones, day after day. When we visited Sarajevo, she would make dilece, a famous Sephardic dish. She knew Hebrew letters and would use them to write everyone’s name or make a Magen David. She always wore a tukada. She spoke Ladino and Serbo-Croatian with the children.

I was one of nine grandchildren. One sister was married to a tailor named Sabataj Moric. My aunt Klara lived in Belgrade with her sons Sabataj and Moric. Aunt Sara lived in Tuzla with her two children; they were killed before the war. The eldest son had three children: Djusta, Sabetaj and Braco. Djusta and Sabataj were saved.

We went to Sarajevo once a year during the school vacation. We stayed with grandmother Bojna. It was a house across the street from Hotel Europe. It had huge rooms with rounded windows; once it was probably a warehouse. When you entered there was a hallway, and between the apartments there was a wooden terrace. It had a big kitchen and pantry. In one corner there was a water pot where we got our drinking water. Above the bed there were pictures and details about when we were all born. The beds and closets in the bedrooms were carved. Everyone would gather around the big table. Above the table there was a luster with the lamps that we lit for Shabbat. Once I was there for Tu B’Shvat, we sat around the table, passing around shoeboxes with fruit. I visited to Sarajevo with my mother and sister; my father would stay at home and work.

I was extremely close to my sister. When we came to Belgrade in 1948, they found a shadow on my lungs. At that time, I was with my sister and her daughter Blanka. Even though it was dangerous because of the illness, my sister said she could have another child, but she couldn’t have another brother. When she died, I went crazy from sadness. The relationships in our home were such that we were very close. That is how it was in general in Makarska. My sister always took care of me, she gave me pocket money, and I followed her when she did not have a boyfriend. We shared everything. She, in contrast to me, seized life, as if she knew she would die early.

My father was a merchant and my mother a housewife. We owned the shop that was registered in my mother’s name because my father did a little of everything. He finished one year of Jewish school and then spent nine years in the Austrian army. He spoke German, Hungarian and Ladino and learned them all while he was in the army. The textiles sold in the shop were mainly supplied from Sarajevo, and my father also sold seasonal goods, souvenirs. Since the shop was not big enough, we opened a larger store in which they sold many souvenirs, especially in the summertime. They did not sell any kinds of ritual items in the store, only those things that were used by the people of Makarska and those from the surrounding villages. There were a lot of confections, pants, jackets and coats. My father brought the merchandise in trunks from Sarajevo.

The store functioned until 1941, when we emptied all but a section of it. At the beginning of 1942, we received orders to hand over the store keys to the municipality, which would take over the store, since the confiscation of Jewish property had begun. The day before I had to turn over the keys, I opened the store and permitted the young people to take whatever they needed, to empty the store, leaving only one piece of each item. Afterward, the municipal authorities took the keys and sealed off the store.

We changed apartments in Makarska three times: the first time to Marineta, the next time to an apartment on the seafront with big rooms, and finally to a three-room apartment with an attic on the main street. The furniture was modern. In a separate space, there was a workroom.

Mother had a prayerbook in the house. My father prayed when he woke up. At home, my mother made the traditional foods for the holidays, which she learned to make growing up in Sarajevo. She made ruskitas, fritulikas and other pies. My father and mother observed the holidays, but they did not raise us in that manner. For Yom Kippur and the fast, my father would take me to the synagogue in Split. We would be there until 10 or 11, and then go to the seafront and look at the boats. We read the Haggadah on Pesach and we made sure that there was no bread in our house. Nonetheless, the most important thing for me was to play outside with my friends.

In Makarska, I went with the other children to the Catholic church. When my nona from Sarajevo heard this, she came to Makarska to admonish me. Then I acknowledged that this was not for me. Once, I got a stomachache from eggs that I got from the friar.

Among the Jewish families in Makarska, there was one family that lived next to us, and we occasionally socialized with them. This was the Albahari family, and they also had a shop. Mr. Albahari died from a heart attack in Vienna in 1931 or 1932. When his wife returned from Vienna, everyone came to our house the first day to mark the death. I remember this because I was playing downstairs in front of the house when my sister threw hot water out the window on me while she was making coffee for the guests. I still have a scar from that. Albahari had two small daughters, Sida and Ela, and I think his wife’s name was Mazalta. Mazalta’s sister lived with them so she would not be alone. In 1941, they went to Split. After the war they went to Israel, and Mazalta’s sister went to America.

In Makarska there was a Levi family, a husband, wife and two children. The daughter married in Split and the son was Moric Levi, who at one time was the secretary of the Jewish community of Belgrade. They never socialized with anyone. No one ever came to their house; they lived absolutely isolated. They never came to the cafes; they had no friends; they called one another “Mother” and “Father,” which was always very funny to us. They fled to Split to be with their daughter during the Italian capitulation. They were all killed in the Sajmiste death camp.

In Makarska there was also the Bilbaum family. They were a husband and wife who had no children. They educated the wife’s nephew, Mara Klemina, who worked with them. When they died, after the war, there was a question about where to bury them. Since my father had already died, Mara Klemina asked my mother if their names could be on our family monument.

There was another Papo family in Makarska with an adopted daughter, Klara. Mr. Papo was the director of finance in the Makarska district. They left before the war, but I do not know where they went. She married a doctor, Levi, and lived in Belgrade. The two of them are both buried in the Jewish cemetery in Belgrade. This Dr. Levi helped me after the war in the hospital during my treatment for pneumonia. In Makarska, there was also a Jakov Fiser, who made doughnuts. He was killed at Banija.

After finishing elementary school, I went to Sarajevo to a technical secondary school. During this time, a law was passed that Jews could not go to school, so I had to leave in the middle of the year. However, through the Party, which was quite strong, I went back to Makarska, and the Party found a way for me to continue in a technical school in Split, which I finished. While I was still in school, I became a member of the Federation of Communist Youth of Yugoslavia, and later in life this would help me greatly. The Party took care of me.

My father socialized with workers and people who worked on the waterfront. When the war began, they helped him a lot.

During the war

In 1941, all people who were considered suspicious were captured. I was among the 40 communists. The Ustashe were in power and, because I was a Jew, they contemplated liquidating me. The Italians, however, did not allow it. They released me from prison last. In the summer of 1941, I was in prison and I remember that it was Ante Pavlevic’s birthday. The Red Berets came from Zagreb. That night they captured all the leftists, and I was among them. We were first taken to the Sokol dormitory. When they brought me to the room where the Ustashe were, there was a beaten-up man from the camp whom I knew. Since they had just ripped me from my bed, I was sleepy and confused when the Ustashe asked me what I was. I said I was a Croat. The prisoner heard that, but he did not say anything. Had he, I am sure they would have beaten me until I could no longer stand. Filip Torkar, the most prominent communist, and I were in prison the longest. They started to intervene on behalf of my release. My mother went to the head of the town, who said there was no one to get me out of prison. While there she met our friend Milan Kovic’s father, Kreme, a high-ranking official, who offered to get me out of prison. They let me out of prison, and a few days later I fled to Split. I was lucky that the Ustashe had not yet become well organized and that when permission was requested for someone to go to Split that person received it.

I was in a dangerous situation again, this time in Makarska in 1942. I was on a bench when I was approached by an anti-fascist with whom I had worked illegally. I sensed he was acting strangely. I left him and went toward the beach, and he followed me. I sat for a while on the beach, and then I changed clothes and went swimming. When I turned around, I saw him with two carabineers on the spot where I had been. I swam underwater as far as I could, and made it to the other side of the shore where they could not see me. I asked a friend to get my things and take them home, if there were no carabineers. I swam a little further and got out, and went to get my things from my friend. I immediately went to the village of Batinic, above Makarska, a little below Biokovo. When I arrived, I explained what had happened and said I could not return until the situation improved. I told a partisan that I thought the young man was an Ustashe agent. The partisan said they had been looking for this person. In the middle of the night, the partisan went to Makarska, where he found the agent in a café, but he could not get to him.

The partisans in Batinic had made bunkers that were covered with boards and beams. You could lay in them, but not stand up straight. There were two holes so air could circulate. I spent two nights there. On the third night, they said the Ustashe agent left Makarska. I then returned to Makarska. The agent knew I was in an anti-fascist organization.

The Party had a man who was an officer in the gendarmerie. He was a Serb and his wife was a Croat. Through a third person, he informed us when there would be a raid so we always knew. Once I hid in the deck of a boat from Hvar for seven days.

There were other similar incidents. After the first time I was captured, I was frequently on the run and hiding, and I was always prepared for that. I had a lot of luck. One time I took some confidential material and the gendarmerie followed me. As if I had a sixth sense, I did not leave from the house where I delivered the materials. Instead I jumped the fence in one, then another, garden and from there I escaped. The neighbor told me that two gendarmes waited for a half-hour for me to leave.

Through a connection, I escaped to Split, which was under Italian control. My parents also came there. We stayed there until mid-1942 before returning to Makarska, where things were peaceful. Our house was being used as the headquarters of an illegal movement. My sister was connected to the Party already back in 1936. I was the leading organizer of the secondary school youth, and my sister was on the anti-fascist women’s board. Suddenly they began transferring Jews from Split to Makarska and Baska Voda. There were many Jews there – a great many from Bosnia and Serbia. In December 1942, the Italians were supposed to hand over control to the Ustashe. All the Jews from Makarska were gathered and interned on the island of Brac. There were Jews there from Belgrade; I remember the Vari and Albahari families.

The Ustashe knew which boat we were taking, a big boat called “Jordan.” During the night, they broke the motor. We all boarded, and control was gradually passed from the Italians to the Ustashe. Major Fenga from Bari came on another boat, which towed us to Baska Voda. There were about 80 of us. The man who maintained the Ustashe warehouse called my father before we boarded and gave him beans, flour and polenta, knowing that we might be without food for a long time. I later found this same man in a partisan camp and helped liberate him. Nonetheless, I never wore a “Z.”

We arrived at Baska Voda, then Sumartin on Brac. All the Jews were kept in a hotel that was under construction. From here I was able to make contact with the Party. They arranged for metal beds to be sent from the village for us. The Italians gave us food. There was a bakery in the village in which we were permitted to bake bread. The Italians gave us flour. None of us were tormented. I became a member of the Committee in the village. The Jews who were imprisoned around Brac and Knin were transported to Sumartin. There were about 130 of us.

In May of 1942, big boats arrived and transported us to Split, where a big ship with Jews from Dubrovnik and the surrounding area were waiting for us. We were transported to Rab. My family – my mother, sister and father – were with me the whole time, until the departure for Rab, when we split up. My mother and father went to one village, and my sister to another. I was in Lika, in two villages, Ponori and Goric. I remember there were about 30 Jews there. We lived normally for as long as it was liberated territory. At the end of 1942, the German offensive began, and we received orders to move out of there. I visited some Jewish families, but none of them wanted to go. A month and a half later, we were still there. The Germans let them move around freely so that they would feel at ease and the Germans could see where they had buried their precious possessions. After this, they all finished in Jasenovac.

While I was still studying in Split, the Communist Party bought me Italian identity papers. The false papers enabled me to move around freely. On Rab, there was a real concentration camp, with wires, towers and barracks. There were two camps, Brac and Dubrovnik, which were separated by wires. Dubrovnik had brick barracks and we had wooden ones. When we arrived, they gave us jackets with black boxes, so it was known we were Jews. On the other side of the island, there was a camp with Slovenians. In the camp they did not mistreat us; we even organized ourselves and had our own police. There were three groups of us, one went out during the days on reconnaissance, and the other two groups at night. Every hour we went to the fence of the Dubrovnik camp and lit a match as a sign of peace.

With me in my group was Mimo Atijas. Our friendship lasted 50 years. I was the best man at his wedding. Once we stole a typewriter from the clinic and when there was a shift change among the carabineers, we moved it from one barrack to another. Ernest-Simko Spicer, a writer from whom we sought advice on everything, and his wife were with us, too. The Italians even took us swimming, and in the Dubrovnik camp there was a school where one could hear lectures. This lasted until September, the time of the Italian capitulation, when we along with the Slovenians took control of the camp. We were in the camp another 10 days. We were well organized. I was in charge of the hospital. We started to leave – some went to the partisans, some remained on Rab and were captured by the Germans. I was very weak and unable to walk. I found the secretary of the Federation of Communist Youth of Yugoslavia and remained in the Committee until the end of 1943, when a decision was made that I go to Istra.

It is necessary to have a lot of luck; those that remained alive are those that had it. What my father told me is true: One must always be ready to get up and move on. Only those who had a sense of fleeing survived the war. Our father, who spent 8 years in the Austrian army, instilled this feeling in us. He did not even see Germans during the war. Nonetheless, my father was befriended by a German major who came to Makarska when Yugoslavia capitulated, but since we had already moved to Split, the German looked for him and found him in Split. The German asked him what he could do for him, and my father requested that the German bring my uncle Jakov and his family from Sarajevo. But Jakov did not want to leave his apartment; he believed nothing bad would happen. He was killed in Jasenovac with his family. Almost all of our family from Sarajevo was killed. When my father decided to go from Sarajevo to Dalmatia, we did not know it would save us. In Makarska, no one tormented us until 1942. We survived the camp because we were young. Everywhere we found people from the Communist Party who provided us with help.

In Makarska there was no anti-Semitism. Everything we left in our apartment was returned to us when we came back in 1945. We lived in an old rented house with four rooms and an attic where we did our cooking. My father retired and died in Makarska. Anti-Semitism occurs because Jews separate themselves from the nations with whom they live. In my opinion, there would not be anti-Semitism if they got along with everyone. We create anti-Semitism with our actions. My theory is that one must live with all people. I have friends who are Slovenians, Croats and Serbs. Until now I have never experienced any anti-Semitism or other unpleasantries. When I married Ljiljana, no one in my family complained that she was not a Jew.

After the war

After the war, I worked for the Croatian government in Zagreb. From there, I moved to the Youth Committee. After two and half years in Zagreb, at the beginning of 1948, I was sent to work in the federal internal police in Belgrade.

I came to Belgrade with my sister and her husband. We shared an apartment with Ljiljana, my wife’s mother and father. It was their apartment. We had two rooms, and they had three. At that time, little Blanka was born. In 1949 I married, in 1951 our son Bojan was born, and in 1954 our daughter Vedrana was born. At that time, I enrolled in the law school. I passhatteed Latin and the other tests that I did not have in the secondary school and I began to study law. I graduated three and a half years later. I continued to work in the state police. However, at this time, the Rankovic affair surfaced, and I could easily lose my job. I decided to take the state test, to work in the state service, and I began working in the court, first registering cases and mail, and I listened to cases. I spent nine months at the court. In 1968, I passed the bar exam. I began working as a lawyer and after a few months I started to work for the “Dunav” insurance company. I left this company when I understood that the work was not entirely honest. You know, before the war we were all raised in the spirit of honesty. I began to work as a lawyer again, which I still do today.

I do not mix in the life of my children. I speak only when they ask for my opinion. I have good relations with my entire family. A long time ago, my father told me that the school of life is very expensive and a fly cannot enter a closed mouth.

After the war I became a member of the Zagreb Jewish community. However, the community was very tight-knit and I was opposed to this. Therefore, I did not participate very much. In Belgrade, I was in conflict with the Federation of Jewish Communities of Yugoslavia, which did not fulfill its promises and did not help my sister, who died in the hospital. At the same time, the women’s section organized the departure of children for Israel. My sister’s daughter went to Kibbutz Gat on one of those trips. For that reason I did not belong to the community for a long time. I was insulted. However, I returned to the community because of my grandchildren. I feel coldness toward the community. It is a very cold place. But at the same time, I feel that I am a Jew and that I am a part of those people killed during the Holocaust. My son, Bojan, is not connected to the community, but has a lot of Jewish friends. My daughter Vedrana is active. Ljiljana and I have three granddaughters, a grandson and one great-granddaughter. They are involved in the community.

The only thing I want to be involved in is organizing the commemoration at the cemetery of the Djakovo camp. This is a women’s camp in which 566 women and children were killed and the one grave, among all the camps in Europe, where it is known who are among the dead. The names are there. 

Aleksander Fredi Mosic
Belgrade
Serbia
Name of interviewer: Ida Labudovic
Date of interview: January 2002

For my own reasons I will begin presenting myself from an unusual perspective. I have my own name, family name which appears in all my documents but I also have a nickname, Fredi, by which I am known to all my friends. You probably sensed that I pronounced that in the German manner, the Viennese pronunciation, that is because my mother was Viennese and my father a Belgradian. My mother was Ashkenazi and my father Sephardi. He was even a fifth generation Belgrade Sephard. When I was born I was given the name Avram. Later, during WWII, I was forced to change that name to Aleksandar. I will tell you about why I did that during the second half of our conversation when we come to WWII, Holocaust, the period of the partisans, and the like. Thus, I am originally Avram Mosic, professionally I am called that today, I have a passport with that name and an identity card with Aleksandar Mosic.  I am a chemical engineer, I have a diploma from 1947. As I mentioned already my parents are of a mixed marriage from the Jewish perspective—my father was Sephardi and my mother Ashkenazi. Since they married on January 5, 1913 when WWI broke out my parents situation was very difficult as mother was an Austrian and father a Serb. Based on the fact that Austria attacked Serbia that family, that is that marriage, was a very uncomfortable situation from the standpoint of state security of the Kingdom of Serbia, from the standpoint of social relations which existed at that moment, so that my parents escaped to Sofia via Nis. From Sofia I do not the exact path they followed, whether it was through Romania or Austria or Greece or Italy but they ended up in Switzerland as my mother had highly risky pregnancy. They lived in Switzerland during WWI so that I was born in Zurich on May 21, 1919. Even though in all my documents it is written that I was born in Zurich I never was Swiss and I only saw Zurich for the first time when I was sixty years old. During one of my travels I went to see my birthplace.

Growing up
During the war
After the war

Growing up

My parents returned to Belgrade, via Vienna,  immediately after WWI. My grandfather and grandmother’s families still lived in Vienna at that time. I had two maternal uncles there Hannes and Fritz and aunts Emma and Edith and we spent some time in Vienna. Hannes inherited grandfathers shop for men`s ready-made clothing and Fritz was a partner at Penichek and Rainer fur trading. My first visual memory is of the Viennese train station. It is difficult for me to say whether I was two or three at the time, but I remember the scene from the east train station in Vienna, where the trains leave for Budapest and Belgrade, where I saw a train being assembled on the other track and I was astounded how those wagons travel without a locomotive, namely locomotives pushed the wagons. The wagons only had a motorman who at the right moment stopped them. I think that I could not have had less than three years. Immediately after that comes our arrival in Belgrade. At the Belgrade train station there were no cars rather carriages. Upon our arrival in Belgrade we got into a carriage, we  climbed up the steep Balkan Street and went to my grandmother Mosic’s apartment.

Grandfather Mosic had already died from Parkinson’s disease, I don`t remeber him and grandmother still lived on Knez Mihailova Street, across from the so-called Grand Passage. This building, built in the urban baroque style, still stands today. Halfway between Kneginje Ljubice and Obilicev Venac. We lived there a very brief time and I am amazed at myself that I still remember this even today. Grandmother Bukas was well educated; she spoke German language and was a typical Sephardim. She spoke judeo espagnol and I visited her often for a lunch as she cooked my favorite dishes mirinjenu (made of eggplant) and pastel (meat pie).

We  moved later to 31, 33 or 35 Strahinica Bana a house that still exists today. We entered our apartment on the third floor and I remember very well the balcony where I was allowed to play. That street is my first “homeland”, essentially where I began my childhood. For those who does not know Belgrade I will tell you that Strahinica Bana is in Dorcol. In the part of Dorcol above Dusanova Street. The buildings were modern at that time, built at the turn of the century. A lot of Jews lived on that street. Most were Sephardic Jews, because there was a large concentration of  Sephardic Jews in the area of Dorcol. Sephardic Jews were darker colored, they dressed differently, spoke judeo espagnol. Sephardic women wore darker clothing with pearls. There were Ashkenazik Jews in several houses, but their numbers were significantly fewer. Afterwards I learned that Ashkenazik Jews were mainly concentrated near the Savska Padina and in all other parts of Belgrade up to Smederevska Derma and Cubura.  These were the outer areas of Belgrade, after these areas there were vineyards and in the twenties this was the periphery. Ashkenazi Jews were scattered all the way to there, while the Sephardic Jews were truly concentrated in Dorcol. I do not believe that when speaking in Serbian one must define what Dorcol is. On one occasion three or four years ago I wrote a book in German called “Jews of Belgrade” for an intellectual circle in Berlin and there I described more clearly what Dorcol was. In Dorcol was a Synagogue Bet Israel, Kal Nuevo (New Synagogue) in Cara Urosa street, which was robbed and destroyed at beginning of the war. Kal Vieju (Old Synagogue) was demolished in 1946 as it was completely destroyed during the war. My childhood therefore begins on Strahinica Bana Street which I want to describe to you. It was a street of Jews from the middle class in good apartments, nice houses, the street was treelined and with asphalt in the center or checkered track, on the sides there was still macadam road and the outer part of the sidewalk was treelined, these trees still stand today, however the street no longer resembles what it once was. It was a peaceful street on which we later, when I was already in the lower grades of the gymnasium, today these are the higher grades of elementary school, played football without fear of cars. Today this is not at all possible.

My father was a merchant and had a unique store with dental material which was called »Dental Depo«. Today those types of stores are called the same in German and French. Father ran that store and had excellent contact with all dentists in Serbia, and when I say Serbia I mean Vojvodina, Sumadija and Pomoravlja, in brief father was the one who supplied dentists in eastern parts of the Kingdom of Yugoslavia. After living on Strahinica Bana, if my memory does not fail me, we moved to Balkanska Street. That building no longer exists, it was hit bya bomb in 1941 or 1944, I do not know if it was hit by a German bomb or an Allies bomb. The building was in the immediate vicinity to the »Luxor« movie theater, which today is called »20 oktobar«. It was at the corner of Pajsijeva and Balkanska streets. Pajsijeva Street remains very clear in my memory because it was steep. I used to sled down Pajsijeva Street. That was the period before elementary school. 

My grandmother, I cannot say exactly when she left her apartment on Knez Mihailova Street, since she was already a widow, a young widow since my grandfather died in 1920 or 1921 from Parkinson’s, moved to Marsala Pirsuska Street. Grandmother moved and joined my paternal aunt Neli Nehama, nee Mosic, she married Josif Demajo, family. This family had two sons and a daughter, who were older than me. And as was customary among close relatives I admired them and they were examples for me. I was young and they were already merchants or students at the Commercial Academy and in their twenties. Grandmother lived with my aunt and uncle, in that house they spoke Ladino or Jewish Spanish. We differentiate between Ladino and Jewish Spanish in that Jewish Spanish is a literary language and Ladino is a type of spoken language, a bit of a dialect. I understand Ladino to be the lower level of language of educated Sephardic Jews. So, at home my grandmother and uncle spoke Ladino and Jewish Spanish which enriched my childhood. Because I listened to Ladino throughout my childhood and it remained in my ear, today I can understand Spanish, be it Jewish Spanish, Catalina, Mexican,  even though I cannot speak it.  I can always get by in spoken Spanish. Having listened to one romance language in my childhood helped me a great deal later, when I went to gymnasium and had to learn French, based on which I later learned Italian. So that my knowledge of romance languages and my love of romance languages begins from my pure Sephardic surroundings. At home my parents did not speak Ladino even though my father spoke Ladino, rather they spoke Serbian and German because my mother was from Vienna and did not know Ladino. My father completed his commercial middle school education in Germany. If I am not mistaken, many years have passed, it was a commercial academy in Mahtbrajt, I do not know what part of Germany that is. Certainly during father's schooling in Germany he mastered German and spoke it without any kind of foreign accent. I have to say that the Mosic family paid a lot of attention to education of children. My grandfather Mosic was an industrialist, he had a hat factory which among other places sold in Vienna and that is how Grandfather Mosic of Belgrade came to know Grandfather Nojvelt in Vienna. This relationship between my grandfathers resulted in my parents marriage. In my parents family German and Serbian were spoken. My mother tried very hard, she was a good bride, she was a very good young wife and she understood it to be her obligation to learn Serbian and she learned it. The truth is she sometimes made mistakes with the cases but today with the greatest amount of love and admiration I excuse her because she never claimed to know perfect Serbian but she spoke it. During my childhood I already learned German as well. The fact that I grew up bilingual later had a great impact on my upbringing, schooling and interests. I grew up bilingual, actually knowing two and a half languages, I spoke Serbian and German and understood Ladino. When I came to middle school, I must remind you that in those days school lasted four years, and after that one went to the lower gymnasium and then to the higher. When I came to the lower middle school already in the second grade I began to learn French as part of the curriculum and it was very easy for me. I am certain that the ease with which I learned French was a consequence of my two and half language upbringing. By the way, let it be said, I already mentioned middle school, it was called »Realka« and this no longer exists today, today this type of school is the mathematics gymnasium, so that I did not learn Latin nor Greek only modern languages. Upon graduating I already spoke fluent French. In the fifth grade then and the first grade today, I began to learn German, which was a breeze for me. I would like to draw attention to one thing, the knowledge of language which a child brings from home is very limited. The vocabulary from home life is limited and does not surpass 1000 words. My mother was a very well educated woman and she knew that she needed to develop German language for me parallel to Serbian. I subscribed to a German or Austrian magazine, which I received regularly and enjoyed reading, because it was very good. When I graduated from the gymnasium I spoke three languages fluently, with a vast vocabulary, with full knowledge of grammar and syntax. At the university I used only Serbian textbooks, but later in the higher years there were no Serbian textbook so I used German and French textbooks parallel and in the end I graduated with a knowledge of technical terms in three languages. We will leave my early childhood to graduation. We will continue with that in the second half.

Now it is interesting the life of a Jewish family with both Ashkenazik and Sephardic components. My mother socialized well and got along with the Mosic family, I want to tell you that my two aunts also knew German, so they accepted my mother very well. My aunts who my grandmother lived with were Nehama or Neli and the elder one was Sarina or Sara, her married name was Alkalaj. Both aunts spoke German well and my uncle, my aunts younger brother, also did. They all knew German and they accepted my mother nicely. My mother, perhaps out of sentimental reasons, remains a very clear memory for me. When she came from Vienna she had an affinity towards the Belgrade Ashkenazik circles, she socialized with her friend with the same name, Elza Flajser, the wife of the famous Belgrade glass and porcelain merchant Benjamin Flajser who had a shop on Terazija and was the court supplier. We socialized with the Flajsers, and the two ladies had the same name like my daughter Elza. From my father's side I had very close contact with the Sephardic milieu which was in this area. My grandmother lived on Tadeusa Koscuska with the Demajo family. Jews families such as: Gabaj, Tajtacak, my uncle Mosic, Karaoglanovic lived on the whole row of apartments and houses on Jevremova Street, and on Cara Urosa Street. Today, since unfortunately that Jewish milieu disappeared during the Holocaust it will be interesting for me to tell you that the Sephardi Jews after the plague in Belgrade I think in XVII century moved from Savska Padina to Dunavska Padina and from then on Dorcol was the Jewish center. At the same it was always a multi-ethnic milieu where a mix of people lived and there were always excellent relations between the Jews and the Serbs, Cincars, Albanians and Turks as long as they lived in Belgrade. Because of this mixture in Dorcol all those who lived there learned great national tolerance; an attribute unique to Dorcol. To a great extent this spread to today's Belgrade which ends at Cubura and Smederevska Derm. Due to Dorcol, which represents the old center, Belgrade today is nationally a very liberal city. This was especially true before WWII and not to say WWI which I do not remember.

I remember best the period between the two world wars. We played in Dorcol among ourselves and we did not care at all who was of which religion or nationality, in general we knew each other by nicknames. In the school where I studied in close proximity to the Sabor church there were a lot of Jewish students. Around 30 students were in the grade, and if someone was called Adanja, and someone Mosic or Bararon they were Jews, but as was said earlier we knew each other by nicknames and no one paid attention who was of which religion and we did all this playing in Kalemegdan. There were also harmless children's fights between the students of Realka and the First Male Gymnasium, but there were no injuries. That was how territory was possessed and they were child's play that is played in every neighborhood in every city and in retrospect it is very cute. I knew all the kids from my generation in Dorcol. Now I will tell you something about Dorcol, when Jews in the XVII century moved to Dorcol from Savamala, that is the Sava mahala, this is a Serbian and also Sephardic verbal contraction, it is then mala with a long »a« , they moved northward from Dusanova Street that is between Dusanova Street and the banks of the Dunav. Today this remains Jewish Street, once it was Mojsijev Street. It is between Tadeusa Koscuska  and Dubrovacka Streets. We have a picture in the Jewish Historical Museum of how it looked in the XIX century. However, after the Turks left in the second half of the XIX century an economic boom came to Serbia and to the Jewish communities. Those families that were poor moved into the middle class, they moved to the west from Jalija via Dusanova Street to the area called Zerek, slope from Uzun Mirkova Street to Dusanova. Today there are still Jewish residents on Strahinica Bana, Jovanova, Jevremova streets to Uzun Mirkova and Vasina streets. When I was a kid all the Mosics already lived in this part of town, therefore all the Mosics fell into the middle class. My grandfather was an industrialist and had a hat factory. That hat factory was on Banatska Street, today it is Mike Aalasa. That building no longer exists, and the Mosic's economic standing was good. Due to this I can tell you that they were elegantly dressed in European clothing, without any trace of the Turks, oriental clothing, which existed until the period before my childhood especially among older women. My aunts, all dressed in the European style. Also the houses were arranged in those circles if I can say on par with what I saw at my aunts and uncles in Vienna, it was that level. Concerning pure Jewish life, we went to the synagogue on Cara Urosa Street. This was the Sephardic synagogue Bet Israel, which was built before WWI. It is well known that King Petar I placed the corner stone, on the occasion of dedicating the synagogue he was present, and relations between Serbs and Jews were excellent. Since my father was a Sephard we were members of the Sephardic community and went to that synagogue. As a student I had to go to religion classes during which we learned tefila, praying customs and Biblical history. Friday night for every Erev Shabbat I had to be in synagogue. I also had to be in synagogue, independent of my parents desire, for each holiday. It is true that sometimes we skipped these religious services like we ran away from classes in the gymnasium. Yes I was an excellent student but I was also a little bit of a hoodlum. We felt very at home in synagogue, we knew the gabai who took care of Synagogue, cantor, rabbi, chief rabbi. We also knew to read Hebrew from the prayerbook, which we called tefila. However we did not learn the language, exactly what those prayers mean, but we did know the meaning of certain blessings. We learned these blessings because they are much shorter. When we had to read prayers or psalms from 10 to twelve lines from the book were read them but we did not know what we were reading. I had a Bar Micva when I was 13 years old. I do not have a lot to tell about this, I had a Bar Micva in the same way that other boys had one. We were prepared for this in Jewish school. Today I still remember that one Saturday at the end of the morning service, I had to give a speech in which I had to show that I knew something about Judaism. I remember that I spoke about Maimonidies and while preparing this presentation I acquired a special respect for a man who is a humanist and philosopher. It was very interesting for me; studying his life was easier for me than studying his teachings because I was too young to understand his philosophy. It was very interesting to me because it showed me life of the Sephardi Jew before the expulsion from Spain. This awakened in me a special affinity for this Roman-Jewish culture.

My mother occasionally went to the Ashkenazik synagogue, not because she was of Ashkenazik religious determination, rather simply because that is where her friends were. Mother was also a member of a Jewish women's society, which I no longer know. It is barely felt that my mother and father were from two different, Ashkenazik and Sephardic cultures. For example my mother taught me to say the Sema Israel before going to sleep. She did not teach me to say it in the Ashkenazik manner, rather she adopted the Sephardic manner. She wanted to entirely fit into the Mosic family therefore I did not say Sema Jisroel rather Sema Israel. We did not observe kashrut at home, because it was very hard to do this at home however there were families that did observe it. Pork we practically did not eat, simply it was fatty and we did not question this. My mother did not say kosher, rather kasher. And with that one can see her desire to enter the Sephardic milieu.

At grandmother and grandfather's in Vienna it was a different style, here one could notice the difference between the cultures of Vienna and Belgrade. Yes both cities are on the Danube, but Vienna was a city of the Tsar, much richer and more orderly. Belgrade, before WWII, was much more orderly than it is today, this terrible condition is an entirely other theme of urbanism and social problems. I happily went with mother to Vienna where my uncles and aunts pampered me, because except for me there was only one other grandchild, so that the entire Nojvelt family really pampered me. Till 1935 when uncle Fritz got a son I was the only child and for that reason everyone fondled me. I got to know Vienna as a pre-schooler and especially as a student. I got along very well there due to my knowledge of German. Vienna was very interesting to me: it had a zoo, lovely parks, the Prater amusement park. The life of my ancestors and  relatives in Vienna I have the impression that the lives of my ancestors and relatives in Vienna were less full of Judaism than the Mosic's in Belgrade. They were rich merchants. My grandfather, my uncle inherited it, had a men's fashion shop, clothing, in the middle of the main commerce street in Vienna, Kertnerstrase, which is comparable to Knez Mihailova Street in Belgrade. My uncle was richer, I think, than my father, and his standard of living was a half of degree higher than my parents. I remember my uncle's apartment which was very richly furnished, uncle had a car before we did, so that from this perspective maybe I was spoiled with a high standard of living. As a young boy I went with my grandfather and grandmother every summer on vacation. Summer vacation I spent two months with grandfather and grandmother around Vienna in the Alps in nice orderly places and that is how I acquired my affinity for nice and orderly surroundings. Later, this carried over to my life, but I will talk about that when I discuss my professional career, how that additional upbringing from Vienna influenced my career.

There were many prominent people in the Mosic family. Some of them are not called Mosic. In the extended family there was the very respectable Aron Alkalaj, who was the general secretary of a mortgage bank, an exceptionally well educated man and very prominent in economic circles in Belgrade. Another friend of ours, I do not know to what extent we were related, among Sephardis many are relatives, I did not know who was related to whom but I knew them through the friendly relations between my parents and these families. One was Avram Levic, the head of the ministry of finance. He was the one who was entrusted to carry Miroslav's Gospel during the withdrawal through Albania. I know that there is some controversy concerning whether it was him or someone else, but in any case his name is associated with the withdrawal through Albania and the saving of the Miroslav Gospel. I will give an example of the type of circle my parents socialized in. One of the famous and respected Jews of Belgrade was Solomon Alkalaj, doctor president of the Sephardic Jewish community who was married to the sister of an aunt of my aunt, that is to say a distant relative. Solomon Davidovic, urologist, when he operated on me to remove a birthmark he was a docent at the medical faculty. When I was 13 I had caecum (appendix) and I remember that he operated on me in an emergency operation at the »Zivkovic« sanatorium. In my happy memories I remember a grocery store on Kralja Petra Street, who had a grocery store on Rajiceva Street. In the period of my childhood it was a street that stretched all the way to the French embassy. In that row of shops, there were the Koen brothers, there were more Jewish than Serbian grocery stores and many horse drawn carriages passed by there which brought and took merchandise around Belgrade or to the train station, that is how things worked then. There were no trucks. Then along Kralja Petra Street, store next to store was owned by Adanjas, Bararons, Almozlinovs, pharmacy, all of which were well stocked stores and respected people. These people's children were my school friends, in the elementary school and secondary school. Since I mentioned school I cannot skip our religious studies lessons. I must tell you that for some unknown reason I did not go to the religious lessons, somehow elementary school passed and I did not get grades from religion classes, I do not know how this happened. When I entered the Realka secondary school, this could no longer go on and I had to go to the religious studies lessons in the first and second grade. Ashkenazi religious lessons were held in the newly constructed synagogue on Kosmajska Street. That is the sole remaining synagogue today. The headquarters of the Ashkenazi community and the rabbinate were located in that building. I did not go to that building even though I did socialize with Ashkenazik Jews. I went to Jewish school in the Sephardic community on Kralja Petra Street, in the Jewish communal religious school which took care of the synagogue and school and religious lessons, which was obligatory. The school was where the Jewish Historical Museum is today, on the first floor of the building, the Jewish community building at. When I went to Jewish school we had classes two afternoons a week. We had two professors: one was professor Solomon Kalderon, who was educated to be a professor of history and worked at the First Male Gymnasium, before that he was a professor in Sapac. He taught us Biblical history. That is the part of the Torah which describes the Jews, Israel and Judea. We liked those classes very much because he was an excellent professor, not only a first class historian but a good lecturer too. I went to the classes very willingly. The other teacher was according to academic levels a step higher, Dr. Juda Levi, I think he was a doctor of philosophy or theology or both and he was educated as a rabbi. He was an exceptionally well educated and a good man but he was not a good teacher. He was supposed to teach us about the customs in the synagogue that which is called tefila. We mastered certain texts from the tefila, but we could not learn Hebrew language which was part of the educational program for his subject as it was too difficult for us. Was it because he was not a gifted linguist, was it because we only had a few classes, I do not know, but it is a fact that I did not learn Hebrew and today I still do not know it. That is how we passed the religious lessons. I can tell you that when I finished middle school I knew more about Biblical history than I did about the religious services and more than I knew Hebrew. Learning Biblical history I think instilled in me the feeling of belonging to the Jewish people, because through learning the Biblical Jewish history one comes to understand Jewish ethics. Dr. Levi did not even talk to us about that, it was not his duty. And professor Kaledron, whether it was his job or not I do not know, but I learned that with him. Many years later I came to understand that which would be called philosophy of Judaism, when I tried to understand the essence of Jewish monotheism. But that is a theme which falls into my memory of my later years. Jewish school was the only mixed school because earlier schools were divided between male and female. I have to say that this had its nice side as well. There first loves were born. These were very innocent and naïve, but then we already entered puberty and girls interested us, and we interested them, but there were different forms of interest.

Speaking about that Jewish youth world and life I must deal with two more forms of socializing. Dances, tango, waltz and others, were organized in the big hall of the Jewish community. Ashkenazi girls came to these dances, as well as boys, but the girls were of interest to us because they were different from us. And you know how it always is, I think that it is a good side of life, that which is a little bit different is more interesting. And those Ashkenazi girls were very interesting to us. We danced with them very eagerly, and we happily socialized with them and after that there were walks in Kalemegdan. It was different, maybe it was great courage, but it is better that I say this as the opinion of one of many boys. Jews in every country take on some of the characteristics of the nation in whose milieu they live and that is how it was with us in Belgrade where there were 80% Sephards and 20% Ashkenazi since the end of XIX century till 1941, approximately speaking, commenting on the difference of origins of Jews. Spanish Jews came from Spain and brought with them certain Mediterranean characteristics both physical and cultural. They were swarthy, temperamental, they had strongly developed lyric poetry and poetry. They had their wonderful Spanish love songs as poems which expressed their joy, love and sorrow and this was that cultural tradition. As a young boy, I could differentiate Sephardic from Ashkenazik mentality which was more utilitarian. They were very hardworking, systematic in their facial features German influence was visible. This means that Ashkenazi Jews experienced that German influence just like we experienced a Mediterranean influence. This was blond hair, blue eyes and a bit different behavior and this was interesting to us. And I think that we were interesting to them. The other type of socializing was associated with Zionism. Zionism had its own focus and center in Zagreb. It is understood that it was came to Belgrade where it was also strong. Zionist youth socialized entirely independent of whether they belonged to this or that community, there was no type of division in fact there was ideological resistance to any type of division. In the Zionist Ken, headquarters of the Zionist youth, there was a special atmosphere. In Zionist Ken were premises of Hashomer Hacair and other Zionistic organizations as Tehelet la van and Betar. I was not part of the Zionist movement, because I was too engaged with other things. At that time I was studying music, French and I was very busy. Zionism interested me as such. However, we have to take something else into consideration. Since Belgrade was nationally very liberal, in Belgrade there was no anti-Semitism. Tolerance and national liberalism are the best catalyst for assimilation. I think that the Belgrade Jews were closer and more strongly assimilated than Jews from the Austro-Hungarian Empire of the day, who for centuries and decades were oppressed socially and religiously and whose caution towards the surroundings were far greater. All of which made them better Zionist than we were. This explains why Zagreb and Novi Sad had stronger Zionist organizations than Belgrade. The Zionist of Belgrade had as a façade scouting organization, whose headquarters were in the Ken on Solunska Street, if I am not mistaken. Jasa Amuli, my playmate and schoolmate with whom I lived in the same street till 1941,  can tell you much more about this.

In the upper grades of the gymnasium I had my first encounter with anti-Semitism imported in Serbia. And this was connected to the growth of Nazism in Germany. The Nazis infiltrated and bought out the politicians of the day: Dimitrije Ljotic with his group Zbor, the Cicvaric brothers with the weekly paper »Balkan«, who first published the Serbian translation of the »Protocols of the Elders of Zion«. When I encountered that I was astonished, because before that I did not have any contact with anti-Semitism. The appearance of the »Protocols of the Elders of Zion« was an intellectual shock for me. I thought of it as idiotic, as something incomprehensible and not serious. At that time I did not have enough political education to understand the history surrounding the »Protocols of the Elders of Zion« and to understand the purpose of this publishing. This was the beginning of my encounter with anti-Semitism. This was a very personal encounter with anti-Semitism. During the second year of my studies I fell in love with a colleague, Radica, who was in the first year, and it lasted one academic year. During the summer one of our docents won her heart, he later married her. Later I learned that her future husband, a functionary in Ljotic's Zbor, blamed her because she had a boyfriend in her youth that was a Jew. When I learned this I was upset, because this was incomprehensible for me. My entire youth to the beginning of the war I never had a conflict with anti-Semitism. I never saw this girl again, she went with her husband to America.

During the war

At the beginning of the war I was a student in my VIII semester. The war began in September 1939 and I enrolled in the chemical engineering department of the chemical engineering faculty in September 1937, that means that at the beginning of 1941 I enrolled in the eighth semester. We were very good students and we felt the war growing near and we hurried to graduate before war broke out. It did not succeed. In April 1941, I had passed exams, colloquiums and lab work I would have graduated in March, at the latest June 1942, if there had not been war. When war broke out I was a loyal citizen of the Kingdom of Yugoslavia, even though I had not served in the army because I was exempt. On April 6, I went to the military district to register as was the obligation. At the military district they told me I was to go to Sarajevo where there would be a battalion of educated students. My friend, Mose Koen, who unfortunately was killed later, and I made it to Umka, embarked on a freight train and that is how we arrived in Sarajevo. In Sarajevo I met up with another two or three of my fellow students of chemical engineering, Jews. One or two days we spent in Sarajevo gathering, thinking and finally we went back to the barracks to sign in. At night an officer was on duty who gave us a room to sleep in and the next morning to change clothes. In other words we took off our civilian clothes and became soldiers. That night around midnight a reserve corporal or first sergeant came into our room. His last name was Altarac, but unfortunately I do not remember his first name. I am very grateful to him. That night Altarac was the non-commissioned officer on duty. He asked us where we students were from. It was obvious that he recognized us as one Sephard to another Sephard. He told us: tomorrow in the morning before the shifts change while it is still dark get out of here while you still have your civilian clothes. No one will stop you. With this army you will end up either in captivity or in a concentration camp. Disappear however you know how. It is best for you to head south towards the sea. Thank him.

How we succeeded to reach Herceg Novi, is a long story which I will not discuss here, but we made it. I spent some time in Boka Kotor and then in Dubrovnik. When the Ustache took over the civilian government in Dubrovnik I heard again through a friend that in the morning the Ustache were going to take control and I went back to Boka Kotor by bus, and then by boat from Boka Kotor to Split where I lived from June 1941 to October. In October the Italian police confined me to Korcula, and I spent two years there. During the second year of my confinement on Korcula I made contact through  an organization that existed then which had several of our young Jewish refugees, connected to the background organization of the NOB (The People's Liberation Battle). I got connected with them in November 1942, so that I have war service. In September '43 I entered a combat unit of the NOV (People Liberation Army), in the 26th  division, on Pelješac in coast artillery, that is in the marines, and that is how I, a young man from Dorcol, became a marine. I survived the end of the war on Vis, in a marine workshop where I was stationed because I was a student of chemical engineering so they expected that I would do the work of a technician, which I did myself and I can tell you that due to mechanical part of my education which I had at the chemical engineering faculty I got by very well at the marine workshop and I learned a lot of mechanics. I waited for October 1944 when Split and Belgrade were liberated on Vis, I returned with the marines to Split and then to Trogir, where I worked in a shipyard. I met my wife again who I met for the first in 1941. Our acquaintance developed into love and we married in May 1945, 5 or 4 days before armistice. My wife was a student of agronomy three years in Zagreb and then in Belgrade.When WWII began she showed a great sympathy towards Jewish refugees and she risked her life bringing 100 Napoleon coins from Belgrade to Split to a Jewish family Rais from Sisak.

My war ended in Split where I was stationed after Trogir in a marine workshop, from there to the Spilt shipyard which again served as a good part of my education, because I learned a lot at the shipyard.

Mama suffered a great deal. She tried to escape and hid herself in Obrenovac, then in Loznica and then she was captured on May 9, 1942 and she was killed in Banjica. We were wrong in our estimation that women will not be in such a danger as man. My mother suffered terribly. This is one tragic story among many others from the Holocaust. My father succeeded with fals papers through southern Serbia, Kursumlija and Albania to reach Dalmatia and I do not where exactly but he boarded a boat. We saw one another again on Korcula. We met, he knew that I was on Korcula. For some time we wrote to one another it went through Zemun so that father knew that I was on Korcula and he simply one day disembarked. Someone ran to me and told me your father is on the coast. That is how I was with my father until fall of Italy. Then they transferred my father, along with the other refugees, not only the Jewish refugees but also the Dalmatians, to southern Italy and to Esat, and the rest of Italy. Father survived and mother perished. The rest of the members of the Mosic family were also killed. The death of each one is a story unto itself.

After the war

In Split I married in May 1945. It was a civil wedding as it was a mixed marriage. Quickly, after that I asked for a transfer to a river flotilla. Instead of that I was demobilized, because it was already the time of the armistice.  I came to Belgrade. At the beginning I did not have anything, not even a place to stay. I moved into a one room apartment of my parents, we slept on the floor. I got the idea into my head to finish my degree, in contrast to many of my friends, to mention Jasa Almuli who started a political career, and became a journalist. I wanted to be an engineer. I returned to the chemical engineering faculty, walking in the hallways on the first floor I met a famous professor of mathematics Radivoja Kasanin. Before this he only saw me twice in his life once during the first year in a seminar and the second time in July 1938, when I passed the test. We passed by one another and I said hello. Then I hear a voice behind me: Stop Mosic! How did you survive the war? How are your parents? What happened to Karijo, Benvenisti, Singer? My legs froze. After seven years he correctly asked about the Jews from my generation. I was speechless. That kind of memory and friendship towards Jews I will never forget. I happily and frequently retell this anecdote. Professor Kasanin I remember also as a scientist and an exceptional professor, but his humanity I will never forget. I graduated in 1947 and I have to thank the army for this, because I was returned to the army as a chemical engineer and I worked in a military laboratory on the analysis of explosives. My thesis concerned the method of analysis of smokeless powder. This was purely practical work because our army had confiscated  a large amount of smokeless powder, this was a trophy and it had to be classified which is what I worked on. I was demobilized in '48 because I was not a member of the party, and in '48 after the Infobiro resolution it was very important to the army to have trustworthy people. I was not trustworthy because I was not a member of the party. I was happily demobilized, and I did not know how easily members of the party ended up on Goli Otok easier than those outside the party. We who were outside the party were marked as pro-Western. Then I went to work in a soda factory in Lukavac as the head of the laboratory. The man who had this job prior to me was also a Jew but I no longer know his name he went to Israel and his position was vacated. I worked there for three years and I started to worry how I would send my children to school since Lukovac did not have a school. Andre was born in '46 in Belgrade and Elza in '48 also in Belgrade but in Zemun. It was of great concern to me that my children not have a worse education than I had. At that time my brother-in-law from Split called to say that the Zagreb newspaper »Vjesnik« published information concerning a concourse for a job with an oil refinery in Sisak. I applied and won the position. We moved to Sisak in 1952. I spent 12 years there from '52 to '64. These were good years, nice years. I am a Belgradian, from Dorcol, a Jew and I climbed from an assistant head of a laboratory, which was like an apprentice, to the technical director of a refinery, which is not a small thing. In '64 we returned to Belgrade. While I was in Sisak I became a member of the Zagreb Jewish community and while I was in Lukovac I was a member of the Tuzla Jewish community. There were no Jewish activities there nor did I have time for any. In Zagreb I also was not active in the Jewish community, but I was a member. In Sisak there were two or three other Jewish families and the wife of a doctor was a representative of the Zagreb Jewish community in Sisak. When I returned to Belgrade I enrolled as a member of the Belgrade Jewish community.

When the 67 war broke out they also broke off diplomatic relations with Israel. Nota bene I must say that  in Sisak in '56 I was accepted to the party, because without this I could not become a technical director. Since it was estimated that I was the person for that job I had to become a member. In Pacevo I  again held a high position, because we built a refinery and I was one of the few refinery experts, I received that position and the apartment in which we are sitting. Consequently, I rejected to give a contribution to the unfortunate Arabs and blood for Egyptians. I knew exactly what was happening in the Middle East as my father was in Israel. This then caused me to leave the party and I saw that my place is in the Jewish community. My father left for Israel with first or second Aliya in 1949, with his second wife.

I told Kadelburg, who was a President of Federation of Jewish Communities in Yugoslavia at that time,  this and that thing happened to me, and Kadelburg happily tells me that we need such people. And that is how I started to collaborate first with the Jewish Historical Museum. Then Kadelburg brought me into the Executive Board of the Federation and I can tell you that I hope I was useful, because I had knowledge which I gathered during the time of confinement on Korcula. I only dabbled in Judaism. The Holocaust brought me to be more occupied by Judaism. Of course I brought that to the Federation as well as my knowledge of languages. In Paris I very easily spoke French, in London, Washington and New York I spoke English and when it was necessary in Vienna I spoke German. It was significant to the Federation that they have someone who could do this so easily. This was true until 1994 when a argument broke out between me and the late Aleksandar Demajo and Cadik Danon, because Brane Popovic as president of the Jewish community and his ex-wife Tamara frontally argued against the warriors and we had a tempestuous meeting of the board of the Jewish community where I threatened to leave the community, because you who were born after the war cannot tell me some things. Then for some time I was truly passive because I was deeply upset and then I got over that and again began to collaborate, now without any title and without money I work. I`m President of The Memorial Committee of Jewish Community Belgrade and member of editing for book We survived, edited by Jewish Historical Museum.

I am too old to work. I think we have finished for today. At the end I would like to say that I am very interested in the Kladov transport. This was the tragedy of Austrian Jews who were caught in 1939 actually 1940 in Kladov in the ice and who were the victims of a game of the British Foreign Service. They were transferred to Sabac, and there they were killed, and the women died in the »Sajmiste« camp. The story about the Kladov transport remains a bit in the shadow, but this year we will erect a memorial plaque in Kladov. I hear that Zeni Lebl received an award from the Federation of Jewish communities for her history of the Kladov transport. It is of great interest to me to see her work, because I think I know a lot about the Kladov transport.

With a great admiring I`m related to the Jewish ethics. As I become more mature professionally and socially it was more and more clear to me that founds of the Jewish ethics are in unique understanding of abstract monotheism.

Anna Lanota
City: Szymanowek, Warsaw
Country: Poland
Interviewer: Aleksandra Bankowska
Date of interview: September - October 2004

Mrs. Lanota is a charming, distinguished elderly lady.

Benevolent and kind, she often assists with translations from Hebrew and Yiddish – recently she was a consultant for the translations of memoirs written in Yiddish for the book by Anna Bikont entitled ‘My z Jedwabnego’ [We of Jedwabne].

She helps Centropa to find new interviewees – thanks to her we made an interview with her cousin Zuzanna Rosset.

Our conversations took place in her home outside Warsaw, where she lives with her daughter and son-in-law. She talks calmly, patiently and thoughtfully, choosing her words with care.

• My family history
• Growing up
• During the war
• After the war
• Glossary

My family history

My mama’s family comes from Zdunska Wola [about 45km south-west of Lodz, central Poland]. My grandfather, Szmuel Pilicer, was born there in the 1850s. It was a very poor family. He married when he was 15. His wife Ryfka [Pilicer] was two years younger than him. Her wedding was a shock to her.

She told me that during her wedding she went out onto the threshold of the house and played with her doll, and when her father saw it, he hit her and said, ‘You’re a married woman!’ But she didn’t even understand what getting married was all about; the doll meant more to her.

After the wedding Grandfather bought a weaving loom, and what he wove on it, he sold. He was able to look after money. When the expansion of Lodz [in connection with the Industrialization] came in the 1880s, Grandfather and his brother set up a textiles factory on Sienkiewicza Street, became rich, and bought three or four townhouses. When I was small Grandfather no longer worked; he had handed his factory over to his children and lived, very well at that, from renting out apartments.

Grandfather Szmuel was very learned in religious matters, and so became an arbiter in conflicts. That wasn’t an office connected with the Jewish community organization; he simply had authority among the Jews of Lodz as a wise, honest man, and people would come to him to have their quarrels about unpaid bills of exchange, sureties, or marital affairs like divorces resolved.

They were ordinary commonplace matters that the Jews didn’t want to go to court with, because that took a long time and was costly. He didn’t take money for it. My grandparents lived in Lodz on Dzielna Street.

Grandfather had two rooms separated off from the rest of the apartment; in one was a waiting room and in the other he received callers all day long. Whenever I went there, there was always someone sitting in the waiting room and someone in Grandfather’s room.

Grandma Ryfka kept a very welcoming house. She had a large family from Zdunska Wola, and her brothers and their families would come to visit her at all the holidays, because she was the only one of all the siblings who was wealthy. We always spent the holiday of Purim with her.

Moreover, almost every afternoon Grandma’s daughters would go there with their children.Grandma and Grandfather Pilicer had eight daughters – Sara, Cesia, Pola, Bronia [Bronislawa], Hanka [Hanna], Mania [Maria], Hela [Helena] and Jehudit, my mama – and three sons: Mendel, Simcha and Josel. 

When I was still small Mama would often take me to my grandparents’. Grandma would give me aniseed cookies or candies. Sometimes we would go out shopping, and then she would buy me makagigi at the Turk’s shop [grocer’s store owned by a Turk]. Makagigi looked a little like khalva, it was very sweet and oozed a thick, rich, sticky substance. I liked it a lot.

Grandfather Szmuel was miserly and couldn’t bear to look at Grandma’s hospitality. He didn’t reproach her for it, and gave her money for it, but he couldn’t stand the sight of it. We grandchildren were terribly scared of Grandfather. He was a very stern man, a dictator in the house; I never saw him express feelings, even towards his own mother. He never ate at the table with us; only on Fridays was he at the Sabbath supper, and on Saturdays at lunch, but even then he ate very little. On normal days he kept a strict diet; he ate only semolina three times a day. Sometimes he liked to drink a glass of spirit with his food. He was never ill, he simply lived very ascetically.

There were two maids working at their house, Jewish girls from a small town. Grandma didn’t want to have Polish or German girls in the house because it had to be kosher. I never in my life saw a non-Jew at Grandfather’s.

Grandma bought at Jewish shops; only sometimes did she buy candy for the children at the Turk’s shop. At my grandparents’ home the language was Yiddish, not Hebrew. They didn’t approve of the Zionist movement, because they believed that only when the Messiah came would Palestine be for the Jews. Grandfather and Grandma were very religious.

My father’s family owned the estate of Skryhiczyn near the little town of Dubienka in the Lublin province. There was a short time in Tsarist Russia when Jews were allowed to buy land [the decree of Alexander II of 5 June 1862], and then my grandfather’s mother, Ita Rottenberg, bought Skryhiczyn from a German.

Jews rarely owned land. Skryhiczyn was later the property of my grandfather, Szmuel Rottenberg, and his brother Chaim. Grandfather had one manor and his brother another. My grandfather’s manor was burned down during World War I. Grandfather died in 1915 in Odessa [today Ukraine], so I never knew him.

My grandparents had ten children: Zlata, Hena, Fajga, Chaja, Masza, Natan, Henoch, Josel, Mordechaj, and Szlomo, my father. After Grandfather’s death the estate was divided up into farms for each of the children, each one with 60 hectares of land plus so many hectares of woodland and meadow.

Each of the children built themselves a separate house. The manor was rebuilt, too, and my father’s sister, Aunt Hena, lived there, and my grandmother Ryfka Rottenberg. It was a fairly large, sprawling single-story manor, with a porch and with a very nice orchard and a vegetable and flower garden. Most of all I liked the iron gate at the entrance and the fence that encircled the garden.

During World War II there were Germans in the manor, after the war a co-operative, and after that both the fence and the house were taken down, what was wooden was taken and burned, and what was brick was dismantled and taken for bricks.

Now all there is there is grass, nobody builds anything there. The land belongs to farmers who were given it after the agricultural reform. [As a result of the agricultural reform of 1944 large landed estates were divided up into small farms and given to farmers.]

My second grandmother, my father’s mother, Ryfka Rottenberg, I remember only vaguely; I was six when she died. She was born in the 1850s, in Warsaw, I think. Her maiden name was Kral. She lived almost all her life in Skryhiczyn.

I remember that when she stood at the well pulling up the pail of water she seemed very tall to me. But she was a tiny woman. She looked like a peasant woman; she wore a white headscarf tied under her chin. She was short-sighted.

My father was her youngest child, and she loved him very much. Even when he was already married, she would call him Szlojmele, which used to drive him crazy, because that is what only small children are called. He protested, but it was of no avail; Grandmother would forget and soon afterwards would say the same thing.

In my father’s home Yiddish was spoken, but the children grew up in the country among Ukrainians and Poles, and spoke Ukrainian and Polish to them. My father spoke Polish with a Ukrainian accent. The Ukrainian peasants were Father’s friends; they swam together, dived, watered their horses, raced on horseback; they were quite close.

In both Skryhiczyn and Dubienka there were few Poles but lots of Ukrainians. Skryhiczyn was basically a Ukrainian-Jewish village. The only Poles were the priest, the priest’s housekeeper and her two children, the pharmacist and his family, and the teachers at the elementary school. I don’t remember any Polish peasant families. Both my uncles had separate apartments for their farm-hand and his family, in the same house. They were Ukrainians.

Not all, but the majority of the Ukrainians had a hostile attitude towards Poland. They had their own organization, ‘Ridnaya Ukraina.’ [Editor’s note: There wasn’t an organization called Ridnaya Ukraina but one called ‘Ridna Skola,’ which means educational organization in Ukrainian.]

I think there was a communist organization there too, but a conspiratorial one. I remember one Ukrainian, called Radiuk, who lived on my father’s plot. He had the same approach to both Poles and Jews – he lived on our land because that was where he lived, he had to work somewhere, didn’t have his own land, but he was against us.

At the beginning of World War II, when I was roaming the Ukrainian villages with my distant relations Ita and Olek Kowalski, far beyond Vladimir Volhynski, the Ukrainians didn’t want to give us, as Poles, even a glass of water.

Olek got mad once and said to them, ‘I spent four years in prison as a communist, and now I can’t even get a glass of tea off you.’ When they heard that he’d been in prison under Polish rule, everything came out for us at once, even ham.

My mama came to Skryhiczyn from Lodz for the first time as my father’s fiancée in 1905. My parents’ marriage was definitely organized by a matchmaker. Mama might not have liked Father, and then she wouldn’t have married him, but she did like him.

They were both 17. After her first visit to Skryhiczyn Mama promised herself that she would never live there in her life. She was horrified. She had been brought up in a wealthy family, in the city. And in Skryhiczyn there was no electricity, just candles and kerosene lamps, there were curtains instead of blinds, there was no sink or bathroom – the water had to be brought to the bath in pails.

Relations with the servants and farm-hands were familiar, too, which annoyed my mother.

And relations within the family were entirely different, too, less traditional. In my Mama’s family the man was the master of the house, and children and young people had to show him respect. But here it was a little different. My Mama saw all this and said that it was out of the question that she should live there. Father gave in; he was the only one of his siblings not to live in Skryhiczyn.

My mama was a woman of great faith. She didn’t go to the mikveh and she didn’t wear a wig, but she kept a kosher kitchen and observed all the holidays according to the commandments, even those that were the hardest to keep.

For instance, she always fasted on Yom Kippur, even though she had a heart complaint and she found it difficult. On the other hand, Mama had graduated from the 7th grade of gymnasium, which was a lot at that time, she spoke Polish like a Pole and was very widely read. She always used to say to me that women should work.

That was her true creed. She encouraged me to become a dressmaker or a dentist, because then the woman can work at home and can bring up the children. She also had clear-cut political views. She always spoke of the Russian progressive intelligentsia with great sympathy, but considered the Bolsheviks 1 to be animals through and through.

During World War I my parents lived in Odessa with Father’s sister, Masza. When the revolution broke out [Russian Revolution of 1917] 2, Mama saw such terrible things that whatever one said afterwards she was very negative. Father agreed with her.

My father was religious too. He dressed in traditional costume: long dark coat and always a hat. Every Saturday and at the holidays he went to the shtibl, a place of prayer in a private apartment. He considered the synagogue to be for Jews who were less rigorous in observing all the bans and impositions, so he didn’t go there.

He worked as a gang foreman in my uncle’s factory, the spinning factory on Sienkiewicza Street in Lodz. On the whole the workers there were Polish. Father had a close colleague there who was a Pole, and he came to our house almost every day. I think he was called Podgorski. He held the same position.

I was born in Lodz in 1915. I was the eldest child and the only daughter. I had three younger brothers. The eldest was called Cwi Rottenberg, but we called him Rysiu. He was born in 1917. I remember him starting to walk. We were living in Skryhiczyn then, and he saw a goat racing along the street and wanted to catch it.

Rysiu finished elementary school in Lodz and went on to a technical high school for the textile industry. He did his school-leaving exams there and started work as a dessinateur [French for draughtsman, designer]. A dessinateur draws the designs according to which the cloth is to be woven. My brother worked in that capacity until the outbreak of the war.

At the beginning of the war Rysiu married Tusia, I can’t remember her surname, and he and his wife wanted to cross to the east [to eastern Poland, which had been occupied by the Russian forces]. The Germans caught them; his wife got free somehow, but he was arrested.

They held him for a whole year in Pawiak 3, and there he worked in his own trade and taught others. My parents were in the Warsaw ghetto 4, so when he came out of prison he went, with his wife, to the ghetto. He started work in a co-operative that made brushes.

I saw him for the last time in that co-operative in August 1942 during the first deportation from the Warsaw ghetto. I got out of the ghetto then, you see, and it was only afterwards that I found out that when they rounded Tusia up for deportation, he went with her into the wagon.

My second brother was called Mietek, but his Jewish name was Mordechaj. He was born in 1920. He graduated from elementary school and vocational school, but he didn’t work before the war, didn’t get the chance. He was the only one of my brothers who was very religious.

He didn’t wear the traditional robes, but he was a very devout Jew. He had similar friends, too. He didn’t advocate the Zionist ideology or any other. He was very sensitive to music. I know nothing else about him, because I left home young to go to Warsaw to university, and I didn’t live with my parents and my brothers after I was 16. I met him during the war; he was in Warsaw and worked with my elder brother for the brush-makers. He perished in the first deportation, too.

I also had a third brother, called Zalman; he was born in 1924. We used to call him Baby, because he was the youngest of us. He was very intelligent. He was born sick; he needed something sewn into his spine, and the doctor, who knew how to do it and usually did it well, damaged a nerve when he was operating on him.

After that my brother’s legs were paralyzed; he did walk, but in special ‘machines’ [devices stiffening the legs]. But the worst thing was that he had a weak heart. The doctor told my parents that he would live to be nine. He lived 14 years, caught influenza, and died in 1939, before the war.

Growing up

Our family lived on Pusta Street in Lodz, opposite the Ettigon’s factory. We were the only Jewish family in the building. There were just Germans living there. We played with the Germans in the courtyard, on the rug-beating stand.

The German women didn’t have anything against our playing with their children. But my mama never invited those children to our apartment, and those children never invited me in. We talked to them in Polish. The Germans had a German gymnasium just like we had a Hebrew one.

As the gymnasium had state entitlements to issue the school-leaving certificate, it also had a state curriculum, and all subjects had to be in Polish. That’s how they knew Polish. Except as well as that, they had German language, German literature and German history. It was similar at the Hebrew school.

Some time afterwards we moved, because my parents couldn’t keep up the high rent payments any longer. We moved into a house that was owned by my grandfather. We didn’t have to pay him. That house is still standing on Sienkiewicza Street. The apartment had four rooms and a kitchen.

On the left there was the fairly big kitchen and bathroom. We had a coal-burning stove, but there was also gas. You entered the rooms from the corridor. The furthest along was my parents’ bedroom. We also had a dining room. That was where my youngest brother slept.

Next to the kitchen there was a small room where my middle brother lived. As I was rarely at home, because I left home early [to study in Warsaw], my bed stood in my eldest brother’s room. We had a maid when I was small, but later someone just came round to clean. Mama cooked herself.

We spoke Polish in our house. I know Yiddish from my grandmother, but not only, because we read both the Polish and the Yiddish press at home. There were two big Yiddish newspapers in Poland then: [Der] Moment 5 was one, and Haynt 6 was the other.

There was also Nasz Przeglad [Our Review] 7, a Jewish newspaper in Polish. And the Polish newspaper was Glos Poranny [The Morning Voice] 8. But books we read mostly in Polish. We had an awful lot of them, because my mother read a lot. When I was a schoolgirl Mama enrolled me at the library. They were private lending rooms at that time, where you had to pay. We used Mrs. Birencwajg’s library, which was on Piotrkowska Street [the main thoroughfare in Lodz].

I remember the first edition of Sienkiewicz’s Trilogy [popular, 3-part historical adventure novel by Henryk Sienkiewicz (1846-1916)], which was published as a supplement to one of the illustrated weeklies.

They were little green hardback volumes, fabric bound, I think. I couldn’t put it down. I remember that we also had a German encyclopedia, Brockhaus, at home [one of the first big general encyclopedias, published 1796-1805 in Amsterdam and Leipzig].

Mama often took me and my brother to the Philharmonic. When the ‘Habima’ Hebrew theater from Vilnius 9 came to Lodz, I went to their performances. It was very high standard. To this day I remember the extraordinary performance of An-ski’s 10 The Dybbuk 11, as if I had those scenes before my eyes. But in our family we didn’t tend to go to the theater much.

That was a big outlay. My family’s financial standing was average to low. We were never short of food, but it was very hard to buy clothes. Later on, they couldn’t keep me in Warsaw, and I had to pay my own way when I was studying.

We celebrated the holidays and Saturdays very ceremoniously. Every Friday evening Mama lit two candles and said the blessing. After that there would be the Sabbath supper. My parents, brothers and I sat at the table together.

We would eat fish Jewish style [gefilte fish, minced fish] with challah, then clear chicken soup with pasta or beans, broiled chicken, compote, and cake. I didn’t go to school on Saturdays because Saturdays were free at my Jewish school.

In the morning my father and brothers would go to the prayer house. I was incredibly privileged, because I got breakfast in bed from Mama. My father used to gripe at me about that: ‘What’s wrong, can’t you get up?’

They would come back from the prayer house at 12 and then there was the Sabbath lunch. My father smoked cigarettes, and because it wasn’t permitted to smoke from Friday until Saturday evening, he didn’t smoke, but it used to make him terribly mad.

After dinner we always sat by the window all together and waited for the first star, so that Dad could light up. That was very nice; we felt that we were a family, that we were together, that that was something very good.

The most solemn festival for the Jews was Yom Kippur. It was believed that on that day the Lord God allotted people for life or death for the next year. So devout Jews asked for mercy.

On the eve of Yom Kippur, Father sat me and my brothers down on little stools, took a live hen, swung it above our heads, and spoke a formula in Hebrew that means: ‘This is my sacrifice.’ It was meant so that the hen took all the sins on itself. That’s an old custom.

On Yom Kippur we didn’t eat anything the whole day for 24 hours from one evening until the next evening. That was always very difficult for us, because my mother had a weak heart, and she desperately wanted to fast. And then in the evening she would go to the prayer house for the service as well.

The atmosphere there was so heavy that Mama when she came home was exhausted. She went straight to bed; she was very weak. But she always fasted. One time I went to the shtibl with Mama at Yom Kippur. There was a separate room for women and a separate one for men. The cantor sang the song Kol Nidre very beautifully.

I also remember Pesach. Dad made a search in advance, so that there was not a single breadcrumb, or humetz [chametz], in the house. Once it was all cleaned very carefully, Father took a cockerel feather and checked in every nook and cranny on the floor.

In the evening there was the extremely pleasant Pesach supper. We would put a large cup on the table for the angel [prophet] Elijah. Dad sat in his death shirt. Jews were buried in such shirts. They are sewn from white fabric, they have a collar like on Russian shirts, and they have gold embroidery at the neck.

Father would hide a piece of matzah from us [the so-called afikoman], under the cushion he was resting on. We knew where the matzah was, but we pretended we didn’t know. When one of us found it, Father would give each one of us a piece, before we started eating.

Then the youngest child asked four questions [the mah nishtanah], why we celebrate Pesach. Father answered the questions reading from the Haggadah, the story of the exodus from Egypt. At the end of the Haggadah was a song about the kid, which we liked the best.

Only after reading the Haggadah did we start to eat. There had to be a few important dishes, for instance charoset. Charoset is this thick, dark-colored substance, not very nice; it tastes like earth. Then we would eat sliced apple with honey [Editor’s note: this was a dish usually served at Rosh Hashanah, New Year].

Then we had gefilte fish, clear chicken soup, broiled or fried chicken, and compote. For seven days we ate matzah instead of bread. All that time we didn’t go to school.

Most of all I liked the holiday of Purim. Then we would send Grandma Pilicer and all the aunts living in Lodz gateaux [layer cakes] and bottles of wine. They would send them to us too, so we had a lot of sweet things.

In the evening Grandma Ryfka Pilicer would hold a festive supper for the whole family. She served a lot of good things to eat, things that we never had: grapes, pineapples, special triangular nuts, and a lot of different kinds of sweets. At Purim humentashe [hamantashen] are made, triangular cookies with poppy seeds and raisins.

The children played with a greger [or grager, Yiddish for ‘rattle’]. On that day Grandfather would give all the children 2 zloty each. He would do it grudgingly, but very solemnly. Each one would go into his room alone, and Grandfather would ask, ‘Whose are you?’, because he remembered his own children, but not his grandchildren very well, because he had an awful lot. When you answered he would kiss you, give you 2 zloty, and wish you good health.

Another very solemn holiday in our house was Chanukkah, because my mother’s birthday was at that time. At Chanukkah, candles were lit in a special, beautiful candleholder for seven days. [Editor’s note: this holiday lasts 8 days in the Diaspora, and 7 in Israel.] And at Sukkot my father and my brothers ate their meals in a shelter [sukkah] that they built on the balcony. The German children in the house were very bemused that we did something like that.

We would go to Skryhiczyn on vacation, sometimes the whole family and sometimes just me. The trip was difficult because [railroad] tickets were expensive, but most of all it was hard to transport my youngest brother, who walked so poorly, so Mama would often stay in Lodz with him and we would go to the country alone.

I was very attached to the family of Aunt Masza, my father’s sister, and I spent every vacation with her, sometimes even a few months. In the country I always helped with the harvest, tying the stooks and threshing. Father would come quite often.

When we were small there weren’t any nursery schools, just what they called ‘sets.’ A few families would get together and hire a ‘bonne’ [nurse], who looked after the children, played with them, showed them their letters, and took them out for a walk for an hour or an hour and a half.

Our set was made up solely of children from my mother’s family. My cousins, I and my brother Rysiu went. We were five to six years old. We spent a few hours a day there, from 10 in the morning until dinner.

I was seven when I went to the elementary school at the Hebrew gymnasium on Piramowicza Street. It was a girls’ school, but there was a Hebrew boys’ gymnasium just the same. You started gymnasium at the age of twelve and it went on for four years.

All the subjects at my school were taught in Polish, apart from Hebrew language, the history of the Jews, and religious studies, which were in Hebrew. In religious studies we read the Torah and the Prophets.

The teachers and the pupils were all Jews. On the whole the teachers came from Cracow, probably because in Lodz pure Polish was not spoken in all families, but in Cracow the Jews spoke beautiful Polish.

There were no teachers at our school without a university education. The headmaster, Brandstaetter, was a German teacher. I also remember our class teacher, Mr. Ellenberg, and our math teacher, Mr. Szarybroder.

I hated school. The drill annoyed me, the fact that you had to go, this had to be done, that had to be written down. I did it all, but it was unbearable. I was a good student. Most of all I liked learning Polish literature, German, and German literature.

Languages were taught over a very long period then, six years, so to this day I know German and Hebrew well. I liked nature too, because we were taught that on excursions outside the city. I liked Latin as well, perhaps because the teacher was nice.

There were a lot of lessons. They started at 8 and I would go home at 4. Mama would give me mid-morning snacks to take to school, and there was a buffet at school, too, where you could buy something to drink and to eat.

At home I had to eat dinner alone because everybody had eaten earlier. After that I read books, went to friends’ houses, or they came round to me. After supper I quickly did my homework. On Saturdays I would arrange to meet my friends and we would go to the park.

My maternal grandfather, Meir Pilicer, had a very big, very pretty garden next to his house. In the spring we would play there on the swings, and play cricket and serso [a game involving throwing rings and catching them on sticks].

Gymnasiums such as the German or Jewish ones had restricted state approval, which meant that they could award the school-leaving certificate but the examination had to be invigilated by someone from the education office.

The questions for the school-leaving exam were the same as in Polish schools. You took Polish, mathematics, Latin and I think physics, a written and an oral exam in every subject. I took my school-leaving exam in 1932.

They sent us an invigilator from the education office who was a German and a Nazi. I think they must have sent him to the Jewish gymnasium on purpose. He flunked 14 out of 30 girls, often for silly things, for instance for turning their heads and looking behind them.

Several of them he refused to admit to the oral exam. The girls who didn’t get their school-leaving certificate that time got together and straight afterwards went to Palestine together. The same man from the education office had been at the school-leaving exams in the boys’ Jewish gymnasium, and the lads had warned us what kind of a person he was.

My father believed that a woman didn’t even need to graduate from gymnasium, because in any case she would soon be getting married and having children. But for my mother it was obvious that I had to have a profession and my own income.

As usual she convinced my father. I was interested in psychology, because at that time it was something entirely new. My mama didn’t like that choice; she said, ‘What will happen – well, you can’t make a living from that.’ And my grandfather didn’t understand what psychology is at all.

Once he met me and asked, ‘What are you studying?’ I said, ‘Psychology.’ ‘And what are you going to do?’ I told him that I was going to be a teacher, and he said, ‘A teacher? The worst profession in the world! You have to work so hard and study at the university to go on and teach other people’s children afterwards?’ He thought it incredibly stupid.

I left home to go to university in Warsaw when I was 16. My mother’s sister, Pola Wegmajster, lived in Warsaw. At the very beginning I lived with her in a house on Walicow Street. Within two weeks I had rented a room with an unrelated family, together with a girl I had met at university.

I couldn’t rent a separate room because that cost 30-40 zloty and was too dear. [These days a craftsman earned around 60 zlotys monthly. Mrs. Lanota couldn’t earn much more as a student.] I earned money teaching private lessons.

Professor Baley from child psychology found me very good lessons at 2 zloty a lesson, teaching mentally handicapped children. Sometimes I would get lunch in return for a lesson, for instance from my aunt, for teaching my cousin math. I had to earn my meals, my rent and my fees. Sometimes my mama would send me a food parcel.

For a long time while I was at university I had internships at the Centos 12 house in Otwock. My immediate superior was my cousin Ida Merzan [her father’s sister’s daughter]. I worked with mentally disabled children, young ones, five to seven-year-olds.

Most of them had Down’s Syndrome or schizophrenia. There were other mental illnesses too, but there weren’t any seriously handicapped children there. Healthy children lived there too, from high-risk families.

We had outstanding professors: Witwicki, Kotarbinski, Baley, Krauze, Tomaszewski, Nawroczynski. [Eminent Polish theoretical psychologists; Tadeusz Kotarbinski (1886-1981): philosopher, professor at Warsaw University and rector of Lodz University] Kotarbinski was one of my examiners for my Master’s exam.

I wrote my Master’s thesis on memory in children. I was studying at a time when the Endek 13 and ONR 14 hit squads were harassing Jewish students and enforcing the so-called ‘bench ghetto’ 15 at the university.

But in our department, in Prof. Baley’s seminar class, when a classmate stood up once and said that Jews should sit separately because they were a worse race, Baley said this, ‘Sir, please leave the room, and I am warning you that you will not pass my class, please enroll somewhere else, because you are not doing your Master’s with me.’ And indeed, in spite of interventions, he was not accepted after that into the seminar class. That was the only such incident in our department.

I personally didn’t come into contact with any anti-Jewish harassment such as there was in medicine or law, or at the entrance to the university on Krakowskie Przedmiescie Street [Jewish students entering the university’s gate were beaten by students from ONR or Endek groups].

I knew of it, of course. It didn’t go on in our department simply because there were no positions to be had after psychology, no great openings, so people didn’t flock to do it in such great numbers. The numerus clausus [see Anti-Jewish Legislation in Poland] 16 was not in force in psychology.

I had an awful lot of friends at university. They were mostly young left-wingers. Leftism was a world view; I define it very broadly [i.e. not only in terms of party membership]. For instance there was a girl among us who came from a very Catholic home, but not an Endek one.

In any case they weren’t such crass young people as in medicine or law. We were involved with the Communist youth organization Zycie, which operated at the university. [Editor’s note: Zycie, literally ‘Life,’ was an Independent Socialist Youth Union, a students’ organization, existing in the years 1923-1938 in several Polish universities, and connected to the Polish Communist Party.]

We knew there was great poverty in Poland. We believed the Soviet Union to be just, that they governed well there, that Marx and Lenin were right. We read Marxist books, such as Lenin’s ‘What Is To Be Done?’ [A book by Vladimir Ilyich Lenin, written in 1902, in which he formulated his concept of the revolutionary socialist party.], but also ones by the anarchist Kropotkin. [Kropotkin, Pyotr (1842-1921): Russian political activist, theoretician and organizer of the anarchist movement.] We carried out enlightening work. I used to meet workers from the communist group that met on Wisniowa Street.

Once I lived with two friends on Marszalkowska Street with a Mrs. Front. One of those girls worked with MOPR 17, the International Workers’ Aid Organization, which was run by Ms. Stefania Sempolowska [(1870-1944), social activist, writer and benefactor of political prisoners]. That was an aid organization for political prisoners. Stefania Sempolowska used to send us people who had been let out of prison, mostly Ukrainians.

The idea was for them to spend the night with us, receive money and clothes, because they used to come in terrible rags, and only then would they go on to their families. My friend also used to send parcels of food and cigarettes to the prisoners. We all used to help her.

Once we organized a Christmas party for the children of political prisoners. We were given a large room in the Zelazna and Panska Street area by some trade union for the occasion. We cooked everything at home. I made a huge pot of cocoa milk. There was a Christmas tree, and the children got sweets and small practical presents, not just toys. The children were happy.

I lived with various friends, usually ones that I met at university. Most of the students in the psychology department were women. Once I lived on Marszalkowska Street with a painter, Natalia, and students from the Academy of Fine Arts used to come to see her.

At that time the boys and girls that studied there were the most sociable, fun, intelligent that you can imagine. Once or twice a large group of us went to Kazimierz [a little town and famous health resort near Lublin, about 180km from Warsaw] on the Vistula with Prof. Pruszkowski. [Pruszkowski, Tadeusz (1888-1942): portrait painter, professor at the Academy of Fine Arts, pedagogue.] We used to organize get-togethers, talks, sometimes we would dance, but they weren’t noisy parties, definitely without any alcoholic drinks.

We used to go to the theater, to the opera and to the philharmonic a lot – the very cheap tickets; we had to stand. In Lodz there wasn’t an opera house, and it was in Warsaw that I went to the opera for the first time in my life. I went with friends to see ‘Faust.’

It amused me greatly that Mephisto lay there and sang: ‘I die, I die.’ I started laughing, and the usher came up to me and said, ‘Please do not laugh, it’s too loud.’ I couldn’t stop, and he took me out. I also went to the philharmonic frequently, because I simply can’t live without music.

The tickets to ‘Qui pro quo’ [well-known Warsaw cabaret, 1919-1931] were very expensive, but even so we got in often. That was a first-class cabaret. Jarosy [Jarosy, Fryderyk (1890-1960): director and master of ceremony in cabarets in inter-war Warsaw] was the master of ceremony, very witty; Ordonka sang [Ordonowna, Hanka (1904-1950): popular singer of the inter-war period]; sketches were put on.

They were often by Tuwim 18. I remember his ‘Queen of Madagascar.’ We also used to go to avant-garde plays that Jaracz put on at the Ateneum. [Stefan Jaracz, Stefan (1883-1945): actor and theater director, founder of the Ateneum Theater in Warsaw.]

Perzanowska acted in them [Perzanowska, Stanislawa (1898-1982): actress and director]. We went to every new play; it was a social duty. I used to go to the cinema, but to my taste today the films then were terrible, like Harlequins [cheap romantic novels, similar to Mills & Boon]. I don’t remember any films that I was especially taken with.

I finished university in 1936. I carried on working at Centos in Otwock. Just before the war my friends from university Erna Justman and Jurek Bauritter and I had plans to open a home for retarded children in Srodborow. Erna’s parents had given her a bit of money; my family lent me some, too.

We took a house, paid the rent, but we didn’t have either a table or any beds. We even had bookings; one child even arrived, but the war broke out and its parents took it away. Fortunately there weren’t any more. [The interviewee is referring to the fact that it would have been a problem to send away more children or to stay with a large group of children during the war.] In short, working in such a place was our idea of earning a living.

The Jewish community in Poland knew about the persecution of the Jews in Germany. When Hitler came to power [on 30th January 1933, Adolf Hitler was appointed Chancellor of Germany], the Germans began to resettle all the Jews that had Polish citizenship.

The Poles made a camp for them in Zbaszyn 19 and later those Jews were helped by the Jewish community organizations. The Poles didn’t take Hitler seriously. I read ‘Mein Kampf’ [the book by Adolf Hitler, in which he laid out the principles of Nazism]; I couldn’t comprehend it. We thought he was a bit crazy, abnormal. We didn’t know that he had such an army of Germans behind him.

Neither then nor later did I want to immigrate to Palestine. I wanted a Jewish state; I believed it was necessary. But that didn’t move me like the misery that I saw with my own eyes. But a lot of my family from Skryhiczyn went there even before there was terrible anti-Semitism and Hitler.

My cousins didn’t really have any other alternative, in fact, because they didn’t have any money to go to school or university. But they knew all about farming and could work hard. They were attracted to Palestine.

Several kibbutzim, among them Kineret, were established by members of my family: the Rottenbergs, the Szydlowskis, the Pryweses. My mama, later, during the greatest persecutions, in the war, said that when the war was over she was going straight to Palestine, that she wasn’t going to stay in Poland.

We young people didn’t really believe that there would be a war. Only one friend was adamant that war was certain to break out, and offered us, his friends, the chance to go to Canada. He didn’t have a grosz [one zloty, the Polish currency is divided up to 100 groszy.] – neither did we – but he thought up a way to organize a trip to Canada for those who wanted to go and come back, and they would pay our fare, too.

And he managed to organize it; he stayed in Canada and saw the war out very peacefully. But none of our gang went; we thought it was simply madness, because we thought there wouldn’t be a war.

During the war

When the war broke out [see Invasion of Poland] 20, I was in Otwock. On 5th or 6th September, with my cousin Ida Merzan and her husband, I set off for Skryhiczyn. We went on foot. The road was full of evacuees, the fires could be seen from far off, every five minutes there were bombardments, the Germans were shooting at people from airplanes, people were trying to escape... We lost each other right away. That was a problem, because we had given Ida all our money.

I went on alone. I had left in high-heeled shoes, very uncomfortable ones, so I threw them away and went barefoot; my feet bled. Some soldiers took me a little way in a truck. I reached Chelm. I walked along the road; I must have looked terrible, because a Jewish woman came out and invited me in.

She asked me about everything, and it turned out that she knew the name of my relatives, the Rottenbergs. She bandaged my feet and even though it was Saturday and she was a very devout person, she ordered her son to harness a horse to the cart and take me to my aunt’s. It took me ten days to make the journey to Skryhiczyn from Otwock.

Shortly after me, Ida reached Skryhiczyn, slightly wounded. I didn’t stay with my aunt for long. The Germans were advancing very fast. A few people decided to go further east, as far as possible from the Germans. I set off with my distant cousin Ita, her husband Olek Kowalski, and two other guys.

We knew the area well, we knew where there were fords on the Bug [river, after September 1939 forming the eastern border of Poland], so we crossed the river without coming up against any Germans, Russians or our border guards. We went straight to Vladimir Volhynski, through Vladimir, and we passed Kovel.

A little way beyond Kovel we were sitting at the side of a dirt track, we had lit a fire and were roasting a goose that we had bought from a peasant farmer. Suddenly a cart went past, driven by a woman, who shouted: ‘Bolsheviks, Bolsheviks!’

An hour later leaflets bearing Molotov’s 21 speech were dropped. We didn’t believe it. We were disoriented [see Annexation of Eastern Poland] 22. We returned to Kovel. On the way we joined up with a detachment of the Polish army; the men wanted to fight.

In Kovel the detachment set up their guns as if they wanted to defend the town. They didn’t want the assistance of me and my cousin Ita at all; and anyway, Ita was pregnant, so the guys stayed with them and we went into the town. In the morning the Polish army had vanished, the guns that they had set up were gone. The guys came back to us.

That day or the next a Soviet tank rolled into Kovel. It was driven by a young boy. People surrounded him and asked him how things were in their country. He answered that they had everything, that things were very good, and altogether excellent.

This old Jew asked him about trading, and he answered that everything was state-controlled, so trade was too, and that they had everything in great quantities. And the Jew asked, ‘Listen, but who trades in parsley?’ The boy answered, ‘What do you mean, who? The state, everything is state-controlled.’ The Jew turned away and said in Yiddish, ‘What kind of a state is it that trades in parsley!’ People fell about laughing.

It’s true that in September the Jews welcomed the Red Army. [The Soviet occupation was a total catastrophe for the Poles, because Poland had lost its independence. For Jews it was better than German occupation and, for a few people, something even better than Polish rule before war.] I saw it myself.

Jewish towns in eastern Poland were terribly poor. And because there was poverty and the young people knew that there was no way out, it was very easy to believe in the Soviet Union. It was said, which wasn’t true, but I believed it, that there were no differences between nations or between religions. There was no truthful news. As for welcoming the Soviet Army when they were chasing the Germans out, I would have gone myself; after all, the Germans were the ones who wanted to kill me.

We stayed in Kovel. On the way my skirt had got ripped and I wanted to buy some material to sew myself a new one. I went into a Jewish shop and asked for 70 centimeters, and the shop assistant said, ‘Why 70? Take as much as you can.

You’ll see what’s about to happen here, I strongly advise you to take as much as possible.’ I thought to myself that he had gone mad; I bought the 70 centimeters and left. The next day the Soviet forces came and raided the shops like locusts, buying whole bales of materials, stockings, everything. Once Ida asked one of them, ‘Why are you buying so many stockings?’ He answered, ‘What do you mean, why? As presents.’

We had to live off something, so I reported to the education office for work. The officer, his name was Bohonko, told me to fill out a form and write on it my background. First name and surname, and education. In the ‘background’ rubric I didn’t know what to write.

My father was a worker, but my family, both the family from Lodz and the family from the country, were rich folk, so I had a most unfortunate background. But I wrote the truth, that one of my grandfathers was a ‘pamieshchik,’ that means someone who has a lot of land, and my other grandfather was a factory owner.

Bohonko read it and said, ‘Did I ask you to write about your grandfathers? I am going to rip this up and you are to write only about your father.’ He did so, I obeyed him, and only afterwards did I understand that he had saved me from exile. [In 1940-41 the Soviet occupying authorities organized 4 large-scale deportation campaigns of Polish citizens into the heart of the USSR, including those who had inappropriate social background, e.g. landowners].

I was sent as a carer to an orphanage. As soon as they came, the Soviets had merged the Jewish orphanage with a Polish one that had been run by nuns. The nuns were fired, but the other employees of both homes stayed.

Someone sent from Ukraine was made director, and the previous director of the Jewish home became a carer. I had small children aged five to seven in my care. The Polish orphans were pleased, because under the nuns as well as going to school they had had to work in the garden.

They had been fed worse than the nuns too, but we lived and ate together, children and carers. There was very little food, in fact really only millet for every meal. We couldn’t bear it, but the children were hungry.

Once we ran out of spoons for the small children. I didn’t suspect that buying spoons would be such a difficult thing. The boss sat down at the telephone and called first Kharkov, then Kiev; in the end somewhere they said that they had spoons.

They sent a large box, and I, delighted, opened it, but there were those painted wooden Russian spoons, huge ones – they wouldn’t even have fitted into the children’s small mouths. The boss said that the bigger children could eat with those spoons.

He knew that that was impossible, he was angry, but that was what he said. But I went round houses where Jews lived and asked them to donate me spoons for 20 small children. They gave very willingly.

I took them back to the home. I thought the boss would throw me out of my job, he shouted at me so much, he was so angry that I had begged for a state orphanage from private homes. But he didn’t throw the spoons away – that was all I had feared.

I spent less than a year in Kovel. My relations, the Kowalskis, who I had traveled with in September, had settled in Lwow. I went to them. It’s not far from Kovel to Lwow, it takes three to four hours by train. But then it was really difficult.

You had to have a ‘komandirovka,’ a permit to get on the train, a ticket, and in addition to that there was a woman standing by every carriage guarding it, and if she didn’t like the look of someone she didn’t let them on at all. I couldn’t speak Ukrainian, so I couldn’t communicate with her, but I mingled with the crowd and somehow got on the train.

I spent the first few days in Lwow with the Kowalskis. Olek worked in a factory and had got a room there. I was assigned to work in a home for handicapped children on Sykstuska Street. I moved in with a friend from university, Danka Barzach, with a Mr. and Mrs. Adler on Bonifratrow Street, a side street off Lyczakowska Street. (I remained friendly with Danka until the end of her life. She died a few weeks ago.)

We slept together in one bed. Our hosts were extremely nice and helped us enormously. Mr. Adler, as a surveyor, would go into the country to survey land and would always bring back some victuals, and Mrs. Adler would sew clothes for us, and give us thick soup after which we could go for a long time without food.

After that, while I was working on Sykstuska Street, I got a meal once a day. The children in that home were very severely mentally and physically handicapped. You couldn’t communicate with them; most of them couldn’t speak; some couldn’t walk, couldn’t eat.

There were about 20 of them in my group, and I the only carer. And in addition to that, the older, teenage children were sexually aroused; we had to watch them, because what would have happened if a girl like that had got pregnant? We had to be careful altogether, that they didn’t fall, didn’t get out, didn’t get lost.

When the war broke out in June 1941 [the so-called Great Patriotic War] 23, the parents of those children took them home. All of a sudden that job came to an end. Right after that the Germans came. I very much wanted to go east.

Olek Kowalski called me that they were going, and were waiting for me at the station. But when I arrived at the station the train had already left. So I went back again and was there when the Nazi army entered Lwow [30th June 1941]. The Ukrainians were shooting at Poles from the windows.

German tanks were rolling down Lyczakowska Street. They were covered in flowers. Ukrainians came with bouquets of flowers, women dressed in very pretty Ukrainian skirts and blouses threw themselves at the Germans. They received them like liberators.

Detachments of the Wehrmacht holed up throughout the town and soldiers rounded people up to work. They caught me twice, but not as a Jew, as a Pole. The first time it was uniformed German women who caught me, and wanted me to wash the floor in their room.

Although I spoke German and they could communicate with me, they treated me like a subhuman. They let me go home as soon as I had washed the floor. The second time I was caught and taken to a Wehrmacht camp. An officer wanted me to wash his gloves. The gloves were smart, light colored, from pigskin. I knew I couldn’t wash them in water, only in gasoline.

He wanted to give me gasoline from the automobile, but that is contaminated, so I told him that the right gasoline could only be bought from the pharmacy. He gave me a few groszy to go to the pharmacy, buy the gasoline and come back. I took the money and went home – I wouldn’t have gone back to him of my own free will.

Some time later a friend of mine, Cynka Fiszman, told me that there was a job as a governess at the home of Mrs. Schorr, the wife of the doctor Mojzesz Schorr 24. Mrs. Schorr was very nice. Her daughter Fela, whose husband had died, lived with her, with two children, as well as the son of her other daughter, who had gone to New York before the war for the World Exhibition and couldn’t get back.

She had left her child with her sister. That boy was the eldest, red-haired, pleasant, the nicest of all of them. Mr. Schorr had been arrested before that; by then I think he was dead, but they didn’t know it. And the writer Adolf Rudnicki lived there too [Rudnicki, Adolf (1912-1990), born Aron Hirschhorn, popular Jewish-Polish writer]. I used to go there for a few hours a day, take the children for a walk and teach them. I had a very pleasant life there.

In Lwow I met Edward Lanota, my future husband. He was born in 1905 in Stryj in Eastern Galicia 25. He came from a family of Jews who converted to Catholicism a long time ago. He himself was a non-believer.

He had graduated in agricultural studies in Cracow, but had always worked as a chemist. When he finished his studies, he moved to Lwow. After the outbreak of war in 1941 he went to Warsaw.

Right from the outset the Germans issued a decree that all Jews had to wear white armbands 26 with the blue Star of David. I didn’t wear the armband, because it annoyed me, and in any case I had always believed, right from the Polish times, that the authorities are not to be obeyed – authority is all very well, but I had my own common sense. I would take the boys’ armbands off whenever I went out for a walk with them in the park.

It was not only the Germans, you see, but the Lwow hooligans also tormented the Jews, even children. When Mrs. Schorr found out that I took their armbands off, she was terrified that something awfully bad might happen because of it, and said that she couldn’t agree to it. We came to the conclusion that I would simply leave.

So then Rudnicki said that you could get to Warsaw via Przemysl and Cracow. Before that, all that time I had been sending letters and parcels with flour, sugar and butter to my family. I don’t know when and why, but all my Lodz family had moved to Warsaw.

Now they were all in the ghetto in Warsaw. I had no intention of going into the ghetto, of course, but I did want to see my parents. Mrs. Schorr gave me a little money, and as well as that Rudnicki gave me a typhus vaccine [The typhus vaccine developed by Rudolf Weigl (1883-1957), a professor at Jan Kazimierz University in Lwow].

He told me that I would be able to sell it in the ghetto and then I would have money to live on for the first few days. Some Romanian in a Wehrmacht greatcoat took me to Przemysl by car for 20 rubles or marks. I went to Warsaw on the night train, incredibly crowded, sitting on the floor.

In Warsaw I went to see my friend Szczesny Zamienski, on Szopena Street. Later on he was a journalist, with the pseudonym Dobrowolski. We had met in Lwow, and when he was leaving he said to me, ‘In case you need it, here’s my address, you can come and stay with me.’

A boy on a rickshaw took me there; that was the first time I’d seen a rickshaw. The Zamienskis weren’t very happy, because Szczesny’s wife was Jewish, and half her family was living with them, and they had terrible trouble, because they wanted to rescue them. And I wanted to see my mother, father and brothers.

In the evening Szczesny went with me up to the fence surrounding the ghetto. It was a high, wooden fence guarded by a Polish policeman. Szczesny went up to him and said, ‘Please let this lady in, because her mother’s in there.’ The policeman didn’t want any money – he slipped a plank aside and I went into the ghetto.

I remember that terrible impression; that was how you might have imagined hell, pitch black on the streets, you couldn’t see anything, the streets full of people, some of them were sitting on the sidewalks and stretching out their hands. I had my parents’ address; Leszno [Street] was very close by, but I completely lost my sense of direction.

All the time I was in the ghetto I was dazed – I think it was necessary to defend myself from it. In the end I made it to my parents. They lived with several other families in one apartment.

Mama opened the door to me. I didn’t recognize her. She had had typhus and become a tiny, very thin old woman; she had never looked like that. It was only when she said ‘Hania’ and I heard her voice that I realized it was Mama. My parents and my middle brother Mietek were there; the elder Rysiek lived with his wife separately.

My parents had a tiny room; in the corner there was a stove that they cooked on. There was nothing to eat in the house. I took out my money and the Weigl vaccine to sell. Mietek went down and bought some food.

My family was living off the parcels that they got every week from Mama’s sister Pola, who had been very rich and had managed to salvage the remnants of her fortune. That was all they had. Rysiek had sold lilac on the street in the spring. After that he worked at the brushmakers’.

The very next day somebody got me a job in the ghetto. A rich man with a kind heart had set up a small orphanage in an apartment on Leszno Street, close to Bankowy Square, and took children off the streets there.

He had equipped it with beds and bed-linen, and had food, clothes and simple drugs such as aspirin and ointments brought in. I don’t remember his name. He took me and another woman on [as carers]; we lived there, and got food.

We didn’t earn anything. There were no more than 20 children. The man collected children that he found on the streets and brought them to us. Many of them died at once; it was already too late to save them.

That was the worst for me, when they died. They thought they were in heaven – washed, bathed, in bed, in the warm – but it lasted a day or a few hours. There were a few orphans that weren’t so emaciated yet, and they stayed with us.

Towards the end of 1941 Cousin Motl from Skryhiczyn came to see my parents. He told us that the Germans had taken all the Jews away to some place, where they had had Poles come with wagons too.

A ‘dushegubka’ was standing there, that is a kind of vehicle where they poisoned people on the spot. [Editor’s note: ‘dushegubka’ Russian for ‘mobile gas chamber.’ Motl came from Lublin region, which was an area where many Ukrainians lived, so the inhabitants used many Ukrainian and Russian words.]

Beforehand they undressed the people and gave the clothes to the people who had come in their wagons. Among them was a peasant from Skryhiczyn who knew Motl, pulled him out of the line to the ‘dushegubka’ and hid him under the clothes on his wagon. Motl came to us and told us everything. People didn’t believe him, because they thought it was impossible, but my Mama and all of us believed him because someone had come who was an eye witness.

So when on 22nd July 1942 the Germans and Latvians surrounded the ghetto and the deportations began [see Great Action] 27, I knew for certain that it was to death. The next evening, when things had calmed down a little, I ran to my parents.

They had already gone; but some soup, still warm, was standing on the stove, and photographs lay scattered on the floor. I wanted to get my parents out, and I flew off to the ‘Umschlagplatz’ [literally ‘transshipment square’ in German. It was located near Stawki Street where Jews were gathered by force before deportation].

I had no money, but I thought that somehow I might succeed. As I was running towards the ‘Umschlagplatz’ I came to a small square on Gesia Street, and there Germans were rounding people up into a truck. There were taking them straight to Treblinka 28 in it.

When I saw that, I ran up to the fifth story of a house that stood to one side, but a Jewish policeman [see Jewish police] 29 ran in after me, forced me to go down, and put me in the line to the truck. I saw that some people were giving the Germans pieces of paper, and then they ordered them to leave the cordoned off area.

They were evidently some kind of passes. I had nothing of the sort. But I showed the German a folded piece of blank paper. He didn’t take it, but let me go at once, but not on the side towards the ‘Umschlagplatz,’ but the opposite side. I didn’t get to my parents.

I went back to the orphanage. There came a day when they took children from orphanages. Our house was almost butted up against the [ghetto] wall, so we told the children to escape. All the children that could walk, even the five-year-olds, left the apartment.

I don’t know what happened to them later, whether they made it to the Aryan side or perished in the ghetto. The ones that were lying in bed dying stayed. The Germans came; I don’t remember whether they shot the children lying there – I was totally in shock.

I remember that one German came up to me, took the pendant that I was wearing round my neck in his hand, and said, ‘You have only six weeks to live with that pendant,’ and went. I don’t know whether he wanted to frighten me or warn me. They only took the children. They left me and the other carer.

Then I went to my friend from university, Hania Rabinowicz. Her mother was very ill and could no longer walk. Hania had packed a rucksack and said that she was going to the ‘Umschlagplatz’ on her own, because they were giving out bread there, her mother couldn’t go, so her mother would stay and she would go, because it was resettlement, so what was all the fuss about.

I told her what I knew, that it was not resettlement at all. She didn’t believe me: ‘What are you talking about, going round spreading doom!’ She kissed her mother and went. Of course they [the Germans] shot her mother after that, and Hania went to Treblinka.

I thought they had taken my brother Mietek with my parents, but it turned out that they hadn’t. I found out by chance that both my brothers were at the brushmakers’. I went to them. The co-operative was a room on the first floor, on Leszno Street, there were tables there and lots of people working, making brushes. Aunt Sara, my mother’s sister, and her daughter, found us there. Both of them were killed almost straight afterwards.

Once I saw through the window that a large group of Jews with rucksacks was collecting in the courtyard. I realized that they wanted to go just like that friend of mine. I told my brother I would go down and tell them what was going on. But my brother said, ‘Don’t do that, because they’ll just rip you to shreds.’ But I went down and told them all I knew.

They answered that I was saying that on purpose to create a revolt; the Germans had said they were going to be resettled, they were giving everyone a loaf of bread, so they were going, and people like me would cause a massacre. They got so angry and shouted at me, so I didn’t hear them out, I went back upstairs.

I spent two or three days at the brushmakers’. A friend from university, Rozenfeld, came to me and said, ‘Here you are, 200 zloty, tomorrow morning at 5am a commando of Jews is leaving the ghetto to go to work, tag along with them and give the German who lets them past this 200 zloty; either he’ll let you go or he’ll shoot you.’ [Rozenfeld, Michal (1916-1943): communist, member of the Polish Workers’ Party (PPR) 30 and Jewish Fighting Organization (ZOB) 31, in the Warsaw ghetto, fought in the rising in April 1943, killed in the partisan army in the Wyszkow forest in the summer of 1943.]

Before that, Poles and Jews in hiding outside the ghetto had called me and said, ‘Get out, Hania, get out, tell everyone it’s to the death.’ They had been told by railroad workers that the trains from the ghetto went to Mlawa, and not somewhere way east, that they were overcrowded and came back entirely empty.

They knew how it really was. I took the 200 zloty and said that I would go. My brothers said to me, ‘When you get out, if you survive and have the chance, remember to get us out too.’ I got out then; it was perhaps 14th August, at 5 in the morning with the group, who were all men, in fact.

I gave the German the money and walked very slowly, because I thought that if he wanted to shoot me, let him shoot. But he didn’t even look round. I got in a rickshaw and went to the Zamienskis’. They had called me in the ghetto beforehand, and knew that I was coming out.

There were lots of Jews at the Zamienskis’, the family of Szczesny’s wife. He had got me a place to stay with a Mrs. Niwinska, but I was only with her for a very short time. I don’t remember how I got my false papers – I had them, of course, in the name of Krawczyk, I think, and the profession written in them was seamstress.

Before the end of 1942 I married Edward Lanota. The way we did it was that somebody in the Warsaw office who forged documents wrote us out a certificate that we were married. My husband’s data were true. We simply registered as a married couple. We lived on Kopinska Street at first. But after that we had to keep on the move, split up, because he was wanted by the police after escaping from jail.

When my husband had come to Warsaw from Lwow he had joined the PPR [the Polish Workers’ Party]. Together with this Janka Bir he had made bombs, taken part in campaigns to blow up trains going to the front. They made the bombs in an apartment on Mazowiecka Street [in Warsaw].

They arranged that if there was a flowerpot standing in the window it meant that they could go in, and if there wasn’t, they couldn’t. My husband was on his way to the apartment and the flowerpot wasn’t there, but he had gone up too close and turned back suddenly, and then they arrested him.

He was in Pawiak, they tortured him terribly. He asked for cyanide to be sent in for him. They sent him some, he swallowed the poison, and came to in the mortuary. He asked the guard to let him out, but he was afraid they would count the bodies, so he reported him to the Germans.

They sent my husband to Majdanek 32. He managed to hide a sledgehammer, and when the train moved off, he opened the door of the wagon and jumped out. He got to some farmer, and he put him in touch with a friend from Warsaw, Zbyszek Paszkowski, to come and get him with some clothes, because Edward only had his prison stripes.

Paszkowski came, and that was how my husband got free. After that the Germans put up wanted letters with his name on them in the streets. He always carried a gun after that; he said that he wouldn’t be taken, that he would shoot at them and at the end at himself.

I don’t remember how I met Krysia Stalinska. She was a very important person to me, and helped me a lot throughout the occupation. She wasn’t Jewish. She was blonde, very tall, plump. We liked each other tremendously. I often lived with her. Once we lived in the German quarter [a representative part of Warsaw where apartments were assigned mainly to Germans], with a Mrs. Hammer.

She was a German from a well-known Warsaw family of slaughterers. She didn’t want to accept the ‘Volksliste’ and her family disowned her. [Editor’s note: a Volksdeutscher 33 was a person, who accepted the Volksliste.

From this time he was treated by German authorities like a German citizen, and had various privileges. Volksdeutsche were considered by Poles as traitors.] She lived on Belwederska Street; she rented out two rooms there. There, together with Krysia, we printed the clandestine newspaper Glos Warszawy [the Voice of Warsaw, a political and social paper published in Warsaw in 1942-1944].

Glos Warszawy was published by the PPR. I became a member of the Party then. Bienkowski and Sawicka contributed to that paper. [Bienkowski, Wladyslaw (1906-1991): communist activist, journalist and politician; Sawicka, Hanka, real name Anna Szapiro (1919-1943): activist in the communist youth movement, organizer of the Fighting Youth Union during the occupation.]

They would bring us their articles. Then our friend, a typesetter, would come round; he would come in through the window so that the janitor didn’t see him, and he set every letter by hand, laying out the text in the type cases.

When he left, Krysia and I would print; we put the paper in the cases, rolled the roller across, and so on many times. We printed everything by hand. It took us all day. And because we made a lot of noise doing it, we told Mrs. Hammer that we were ironing stockings and that that was how we made our living. Once the whole edition was ready, Janek Tarlowski would come round, take it and distribute it.

We didn’t live from ironing stockings at all, but from selling cheesecakes. I baked the cheesecakes, terrible ones; most of the filling was potato, not cheese. Early in the morning Krysia would go round the shops and sell them. You had to eat them the same day that they were baked, or the potatoes went black. If she didn’t manage to sell them we ate them ourselves, together with Mrs. Hammer.

Once we did an awfully stupid thing. On 1st May a whole group of boys and girls gathered in Skaryszewski Park to celebrate the holiday. Each of us pinned a red flower on. Suddenly Polish policemen surrounded us and said, ‘These are Jews.’ But out of all of us I was the only Jew – all the others were Polish.

Halina Kaczmarska, a dark-haired girl, was there, so was Janek Tarlowski, and a few others. I was standing next to Krysia, and the policemen said to us, ‘You ladies may go, but we are taking them in to the lock-up.’ And they took them. Luckily they let them out straight away.

The PPR had contacts with the ghetto, but I personally had none. While the uprising in the ghetto [see Warsaw Ghetto Uprising] 34 was in progress I had to be very careful; I was afraid to leave the house.

I saw the ghetto burning, I saw the merry-go-round outside the ghetto, and people behaved appallingly. I’m sure there were some who found it horrendous, but the Warsaw street, the great unwashed, joked about it.

They thought that Jews were escaping from that hell, so if someone looked slightly different, or they thought so, they would either demand a ransom or denounce them to the police. It didn’t happen to me once.

Only once, when I was standing on the street waiting for a tramcar, Rolf, a German, a friend of mine from the neighborhood in Lodz, walked past. He was in a black German police uniform. He recognized me, I recognized him at once too. He looked at me, then turned his gaze upward and pretended he hadn’t seen me. He would have had to take me in to the Gestapo.

Some time later the PPR’s main printing press was denounced and Mankiewicz, who ran it, was arrested. Mankiewicz knew our address and that of Janek Tarlowski. We were told to move out. We rented a room with this woman.

Once I broke a glass and said to her, ‘Madam, I’ve smashed a glass.’ The woman answered, ‘You’ve smashed a glass? O my lady, you ladies aren’t going to be living with me any more, because you are Jews.’ I asked, ‘How did that come into your head?’, ‘Only Jewesses say “I smashed” a glass; Polish girls say “I broke.”’ Perhaps that’s true, I don’t know. We had to move out.

At that time, after the ghetto uprising, there were mass arrests in Warsaw, so we were sent to the AL [Armia Ludowa, People’s Army] 35 partisans near Wyszkow. We spent several months there in the summer of 1943. The detachment was 15-16 strong, of which three were girls.

The leader was Janek Bialy [‘White Janek’ Szwarcfus (1914-1943): communist, member of the PPR, fought in the Warsaw ghetto uprising, killed in the partisan army in the Wyszkow forest in the summer of 1943].

I met that guy Rozenfeld there, the one who had given me the money to get out of the ghetto a few months earlier. Within the detachment I was responsible for intelligence, which means I had to find out when and where trains with Germans going to the front would be traveling, and also when they would be requisitioning food from the farmers – butter and pigs. The boys would then take the things back off the Germans and give them back to the farmers.

They would also attack gendarmerie stations. I also used to go to the village for bread. We took food off the Germans. Once we got a huge amount of eggs. There was nothing else, so we ate scrambled eggs, and hard-boiled eggs in place of bread.

The farmers were not well-disposed towards us, because they were very frightened of the Germans, but although they knew that there were partisans in the woods, nobody ever denounced us.

During a break once Janek was cleaning his gun, I was sitting next to him, and his gun went off. He didn’t know that there was a bullet in it, he was careless, and he shot me in the foot. It was a big wound. They bound it up for me in a towel, because we didn’t have any dressings.

They decided to send me back to Warsaw. Krysia Stalinska went with me. In the night they stopped a train and ordered the driver to take me into the cab, because the Germans didn’t go in there. The driver let me in at once and off we went.

We got off in Warsaw in the middle of the night. There was a curfew. Krysia went for a pass. I couldn’t walk, my foot hurt terribly. A German came up to me and asked what I was doing there. I pretended I didn’t understand. Just then Krysia came up with the pass and told him that I was from the country, I had been chopping wood and had cut myself. He didn’t ask anything else. We got in a carriage and went to our friend Kalinowski’s house. He lived in Ochota [a district of Warsaw], and was a cobbler.

I couldn’t stay there because it was one room, he had customers coming in, there was too much traffic. Opposite lived his friend Wawrzyniak, albeit with his wife and children, but in two rooms. I moved in there. Krysia went back to the woods. They sent a doctor, Ludka Tarlowska, to me.

When she saw my wound she said, ‘I don’t know what will happen, you’ve got a break and a wound, you may get gangrene, because it’s so dirty.’ I answered, ‘There won’t be any gangrene, because there can’t be, it’s out of the question.’

She cleaned me the wound, put my leg in wooden splints and bound it up. And nothing happened; it just took a very long time to heal. After that she sent me high lace-up boots to keep my leg stiff once I started walking. I limped a bit, but later not even that.

Some time later Krysia came from the woods with a whole bag of guns to be repaired. While she had been in Warsaw our whole detachment had been killed. A forester had let them stay the night in the attic of his hut, and then went and told the Germans that he had a partisan detachment in his hut.

The Germans surrounded the hut, a shootout ensued; they defended themselves but were all killed, none of them survived. I can’t remember how we found out about that. But we decided to have the guns repaired anyway. We put them in bags. We got to Narutowicza Square.

Somebody pointed to us, perhaps because I was limping and she’d come from the woods and you could see it. They flew at us, out of the house where the SS lived, to the right of St. James’s Church. They went up to Krysia, she ran to a tram and asked the driver to move off, but he didn’t make it in time, the SS were already there.

She pulled a gun out and shot. They took her away. I never heard of her again. An SS man ran to me too and wanted to see what was in my bag, but when he heard the shot he turned round, and then I escaped. After the shot people started to run away, and I mingled with the crowd.

I ran to some friends’ house, who lived on Narutowicza Square. I spent a few hours there. My husband sent our friend Jadzia Koszutska to take me to Kolo [a district of Warsaw], where he was living at the time. We had to go after dark, because I was still wearing lace-up boots, and it was summer and nobody was dressed like that. In Kolo there were blocks of one-room apartments with kitchen annexes. We lived there until the uprising.

Just before the Warsaw Uprising [1944] 36 my husband went to see Zbyszek Paszkowski, who lived in the Old Town. I was alone when I heard shooting. Jadzia Koszutska came to see me and told me that the uprising had broken out and that we were going to the Old Town to meet them.

We went on foot, and all the way we didn’t meet a single German or a single insurrectionist. Only when we burst onto the Market Square did we see a procession of people with red and white flags. They were singing ‘Rota’ [a very popular patriotic and anti-German song written by Polish poet Maria Konopnicka in 1896] or some other patriotic song.

We stood bewitched. Suddenly freedom had come to the whole of the Old Town, it was incredible – rarely in one’s life does one have a feeling of such happiness. I experienced it then. We joined the demonstration. My husband dashed out of a café, because they had gathered there, and from then on we were together all the time.

Right at the start of the uprising my husband said to me, ‘There won’t be victory here, only defeat,’ but it didn’t occur to us not to fight. To fight the Germans was happiness; it was suddenly freedom after so many years. We knew we would lose, but what did that have to do with our will to fight? Nothing.

Though I don’t know why ‘Bor’ [General Tadeusz Komorowski, pseudonym ‘Bor’ (1895-1966), a commandant of the Home Army (Armia Krajowa, AK) from July 1943 to October 1944] had to stage the uprising then – 200,000 people died – Polish intelligentsia and youth. It is portrayed as heroism. I think that the heroes were the people who fought, but it was the heroism of people betrayed by their leaders.

In the Old Town I divided up the food among the boys on the barricades. Later I printed our newssheet. It came out every day, it was four pages long. The printing shop was on Freta Street. I certainly built barricades, and had a gun, but I don’t remember standing on the barricades.

Later on we went round making holes in cellar walls to be able to move from house to house without going up onto the street. People were angry with us. The Old Town was simply massacred, they bombarded it terribly; houses collapsed, people were killed under them, there was no escape. The Germans sat on the roofs and shot at passers-by, and there was nothing to eat. So the people blamed us, the insurrectionists.

On 26th August [1944] my husband was killed. We were in the same house; he was standing nearer the street and I was standing nearer the courtyard. I was printing the newspaper, and suddenly a bomb with a time delay fell on the house.

The last thing I heard was my husband calling: ‘Hania!’ I said, ‘I’m here,’ and some guy standing next to me threw me out onto the street through a hole in the wall. The bomb exploded, that guy was killed instantly, and I lost consciousness.

I was wounded in the head and the leg. I was taken to a hospital in a cellar. I regained consciousness there and they bandaged me up. I found it hard to walk on that leg, and I think I had a slight concussion, because I was constantly dazed.

Only later did they tell me that my husband had died. He was buried in a mass grave for the insurrectionists on Krakowskie Przedmiescie Street, next to the statue of Mickiewicz.

Then Gustaw Rozlubirski [Lt. Edwin Rozlubirski, pseudonym ‘Gustaw,’ one of the AL Commanders in the Old Town] decided that our entire group was going to Zoliborz [a district of Warsaw]. Zoliborz was holding out and hadn’t yet been badly hit.

Our path through the sewers had been mapped out by Inka Solska a long time before. We went down into the manhole. I strapped myself to Jadzia Koszutska so as not to get lost, and we set off. Walking through the sewers was terrible, you got hallucinations, you thought you were about to get out.

In some places the sewer was high and you could walk upright, and in some you had to crouch down low. There were stormwater sewers, sewers where there was a lot of water, which you couldn’t turn into because the water would drown you.

Huge rats flew past us. We didn’t get lost because Inka had marked the route well. The Germans knew that we were down there so they stood at the manholes and threw grenades in. But the grenades exploded in the water and didn’t do much damage.

The actor Wesolowski, a friend of Jadzia’s, was walking in front of us; he got hit by a grenade but walked on. [In May 1943 the Warsaw ghetto insurrectionists had used the sewers as an escape route.]

A few hours later we emerged onto Inwalidow Square [in Zoliborz, which was the district of Warsaw that the insurrectionists held the longest]. We went to friends’, washed – we were terribly dirty – and had to throw away the clothes we had worn in the sewers, and we got new ones.

There was a fairly large AL organization there, under Zenon Kliszko [(1908-1989): politician, PPR activist, one of the founders of the AL, after the war a deputy to the Sejm, secretary of the PZPR’s Central Committee]. Some time later, when the defense of Zoliborz was coming to an end, a 20-man detachment was formed and ordered to go to Kampinos [a forest near Warsaw]. Jadzia and I were the only women in it.

We had to be very careful because the Germans had strung wires between Zoliborz and Bielany [a district of Warsaw]. We walked by night, and in the morning we reached Wawrzyszewo; at the time it was a little village on the edge of Warsaw. A woman gave me a basket of tomatoes.

The whole of the boundary of Warsaw was manned by Kalmyks 37, the Germans’ auxiliary army. Jadzia and I went up to one of them and I said in Russian, ‘My children are beyond there, I’m taking them tomatoes, you have to let me through.’ And I had this pretty watch, which had always been broken; I had been given it by my employer in the ghetto.

The Kalmyk wanted me to give him the watch, so I gave it to him and he showed us how to pass so that the Germans didn’t see us. It turned out that we needn’t have asked him at all because the path was through a large field of rye. We showed the boys to follow us. And that’s how we got out.

We reached Laski [a village just outside Warsaw], arrived at a home for the blind run by nuns. The nuns made us extraordinarily welcome, gave us food and drink, and put us in touch with a ferryman, because we wanted to cross the Vistula.

On the way to him, going through the wood, we met a detachment of the ONR. [The ONR didn’t have detachments during the war; the armed organization ideologically close to the ONR was the National Armed Forces (NSZ) 38.]

They were all on horseback, and during the day they stood on the road and weren’t afraid of the Germans at all – I don’t know if they had an agreement with them, but there was something fishy about it.

An older man was walking with us, who had fought in the uprising, a worker, unshaven, neglected and tired. They pulled him out and said that he was a Jew, and if he was a Jew they would smash him up. But he wasn’t a Jew and they let him go. They didn’t take any notice of anybody else.

The ferryman told us that the Germans patrolled the river every minute and that we would have to cross between the patrols. He gave us a very big boat, we all fitted in it, more than ten of us. His son took us across, a boy of perhaps 15.

As we were approaching the other bank, the boy noticed that there was somebody on the beach. From the boat we saw a machine gun planted in the sand and a uniform on the machine gun. It was beautiful weather, and a German had undressed and was sunbathing totally naked.

There was nothing for it; we had to land. Jadzia and I got out first, and the German closed his eyes in shame and started trying to cover himself with sand. We disappeared quickly into the undergrowth.

We hid in a barn. Some Germans came and took all the men off to work. They left Jadzia and me. We went to Legionowo. The Germans had evacuated all the residents from the area because the front was about to be there.

Legionowo was completely deserted, the houses were open, there was furniture and bed-linen in them, so we could sleep in clean beds, but there was nothing at all to eat. We were terribly hungry; sometimes we were eating raw beets from the fields.

We were indifferent about what we ate, and I was pregnant and constantly hungry. We went into a hut and opened up the cellars looking for potatoes, and we found a large demijohn of cherries in spirit. We started to gobble up the cherries.

Suddenly a Kalmyk came in and demanded our papers. He said that we were bound to be Bolsheviks, because there wasn’t anyone here; the Bolsheviks had sent us, and he was going to take us to the Gestapo.

He didn’t take us to the Gestapo, but to the borough authorities. There was a German sitting there, the Kalmyk led us in and started reporting to him in broken German. I couldn’t bear to hear him speaking German, and at one point I said to the German,

‘You can hear how he speaks – he’s an idiot, I’ll tell you how it was: we were staying with our aunt and we took some cherries, I live here; they left me because I’m wounded, and this is my cousin, who’s helping me. And he’s talking rubbish about Bolsheviks.’

I think I was so brave because I was drunk from the cherries in spirit. The German told the Kalmyk to leave, and asked us if we knew what the Bolsheviks did to women. We said we didn’t know. So he said, ‘Women under the Bolsheviks work hard laying railroad tracks.’

We could hardly keep from laughing, because I thought he would say that they rape them, but no, oh no, they lay rails, such heavy work for women. The German gave us a pass for the train to go west to Kalisz, because this was the front and no-one was allowed to be there.

We told each other that if we succeeded we wouldn’t get on the train, but if not, tough. The Kalmyk, when he saw us going to the station, sitting down on the bench and waiting for the train, stopped following us. Then we stood up and went back to Legionowo.

We went into a hut. It was evening, the shooting was awful, but we were used to it since the uprising, so we lay down under feather eiderdowns and fell asleep. But suddenly it went quiet. Jadzia went to the window, lifted the curtain and said, ‘There are gendarmes coming towards us.’

We decided that we’d had enough; if they ordered us to go we would go to Kalisz. But I wanted to see the gendarmes too, and I lifted the curtain a little too far, the man we thought was a gendarme saw me and said, ‘Zdrastvuytie.’ [Russian greeting] They were Russians, and just after that the Polish army arrived.

Because Jadzia’s sister Wanda lived in Wawer [a place near Warsaw], which was also already occupied by the Russians, we went to her. We knocked, her neighbor came out and said that Wanda had gone to Lublin.

At that we both started crying terribly, as if the greatest misfortune had befallen us, because Wanda wasn’t there. Everyone in Wawer wanted to feed us because we had come from the uprising. We overate terribly at that time. Soon we decided that we would go to Wanda in Lublin.

In Lublin I lived on Szopena Street, in a house left by some Germans. I worked in the daily newspaper Glos Ludu [The People’s Voice, the PPR daily newspaper, founded in Lublin in 1944, then moved to Warsaw, in existence until 1948]. In May [1945] I had my baby, Malgosia.

Three months later I went to Lodz. My cousin Ida Merzan was living there then with her husband and daughter. They had just come back from Russia. I went to see them. I reported for work at the publishing house ‘Ksiazka i Wiedza.’ Zbyszek Paszkowski was mayor of Lodz at the time, and he allocated me an apartment on Gdanska Street, two rooms and a kitchen.

It was an apartment that a Gestapo officer had been living in, but before that it must have been Jewish because the furniture all had labels in Yiddish underneath. I received my apartment furnished and fully fitted. I have to admit that before the war I’d never seen a refrigerator.

In that apartment there was a large steel cupboard with a cable to plug it in to the electricity. I thought it an oddity, something abnormal, and my cousin and I threw it out into the courtyard.

That cousin was called Estera Rottenberg, and she was a nurse. She had survived the war in Vladimir Volhynski. My cousin Ewa Prywes had also survived the war in Warsaw; she was totally unlike a Jew, so she didn’t go into hiding.

We often met up during the occupation. Hanka Szydlowska survived; she and her brother Szmulek [the children of Mrs. Lanota’s father’s nephew Mordechaj Szydlowski] had been in hiding in the partisan army deep in Russia. She was a child at the time.

The ones who survived in Russia were Ida Merzan, Zuzanna Mensz [Zlata Horowicz’s granddaughter], Ita and Olek Kowalski and their child and Ita’s mother, Mietek and [his mother] Hanka Perec and their family, and apparently the son of my cousin Mincberg. No-one else, I don’t think.

After the war

All those who had been in Russia came back to Poland after the war. Before the end of 1945 my cousin Chadasz from Israel [Palestine at the time], from the Kineret kibbutz, came to visit me. He had been fighting in the British army, and I think he was returning from Germany then.

He had come to take us back with him to Israel. One had to cross two borders illegally, so I told him at once that that would be impossible, because I had a small baby. But Estera and Hanka went with him. I didn’t think about emigrating there, not even when the state of Israel was established.

I had started working, and I found my job extremely interesting. Besides, I had never been a Zionist. I think that if Israel had come into being earlier, maybe the Holocaust wouldn’t have happened, or at least not on such a scale. There should be a Jewish state.

Later on I remained in touch with my family in Israel by letter all the time. I went there to visit several times; I had to go via Paris, get a visa from the embassy there, and go on to Israel from there. But I never wanted to stay there permanently.

I can understand why Jews who had never had any contact with Poles before the war left Poland afterwards. It was an unbearable ordeal, because they didn’t know anyone during the war to help them, or who wouldn’t denounce them; they lost their whole family. It was awful to be a hunted animal.

I can understand that it was hard to stay here afterwards. I didn’t feel like that, because I was able to do something with my head, that as if when I sensed that there was grave danger leading to madness or suicide, I didn’t see everything in all the horror.

It’s as if my brain divided, and you experience life a little like unreality, because you can’t accept it. But it was people who helped me most of all during the war, especially Krysia Stalinska.

The Kielce pogrom 39 was a terrible shock. I always knew that I lived in a society that on the whole believes in all kind of anti-Jewish rubbish, but to do something like what was done in Kielce... I found it terrible. And all those lies that surrounded it...

Poles don’t understand the Holocaust. People who witnessed it can’t understand their attitude. Poles are brought up in traditions of national uprisings [Uprisings in 1830-31 and 1863-64, armed Polish insurrections against the Russian authorities in the battle for independence], resistance, but half of what people are brainwashed into believing is a lie.

The fact that masses of people collaborated with the Gestapo is concealed. [The scale of collaboration with the German authorities in Polish society is to this day the subject of research and conflict among historians.]

The nation is made out to be a nation of heroes. And suddenly all the Jews from everywhere are transported here and murdered. In the Polish subconscious there is the feeling that they should have saved the Jews.

They can’t come to terms with the fact that they were ordinary, that they weren’t heroes, that it was beyond their mental and physical capabilities and they couldn’t help. They have to explain to themselves why they behaved as they did and not differently, so some people invent theories that Jews are like that, that Jews are different, Jews dominate us, Jews calumniate us.

After the war there were Jews in the authorities: Berman, Minc, Zambrowski [see Jews in the PZPR] 40. But in the Party itself there were an awful lot of anti-Semites. My friend, a Jew, told me that just after the war, in 1945, he was at a reception in the Soviet embassy in Warsaw, and some big guy had come from Ukraine.

At the reception he proposed the toast, ‘I hope that in a year’s time you will have no Jews left in Poland.’ That was a communist, a member of the very top level of authority in Ukraine. My friend told me about that in complete shock; he couldn’t explain it, and I can’t either.

I had a positive attitude to the communist authorities in Poland. I was in the PZPR [the Polish United Workers’ Party] 41. You had to go to party meetings, on courses in Marxism and Leninism. I didn’t, because I didn’t have time, I was editing a weekly publication and I had a small child, but I didn’t object to it.

Although all the time I had the impression that something was wrong, that Bierut 42 and Gomulka 43 were the wrong people. I never blamed the idea itself, only always the people. I had a group of friends who thought the same, from the beginning, from 1945. But I was distant from AK circles [see Home Army] 44, where people were being arrested en masse.

A lot of communists were arrested, too, Mankiewicz, for instance, who I had worked with during the war. He was sentenced to four years in prison, or even more. The same thing happened to several of my acquaintances.

When ‘Ksiazka i Wiedza’ moved to Warsaw, I went with my baby. That was in 1946, I think. Warsaw was totally razed, it was absolutely unrecognizable. My baby and I lived in the room where I worked. Malgosia lay on the desk I worked at, and at night we slept on a mattress. I don’t know how my friend Marecki managed to get me an apartment in Bielany, on Zjednoczenia Avenue. I earned very little at ‘Ksiazka i Wiedza.’

In 1948 the magazine ‘Przyjaciolka’ was launched [a women’s weekly, still on the press market] and I was given the position of editor-in-chief. Then I earned good money. As the editorial office was a long way from my apartment, on Wiejska Street, I approached the publisher and asked them to exchange my apartment in Bielany for one closer to the office.

I was given one, a little smaller, and in fact I still have it today. In 1949 ‘Przyjaciolka’ had a circulation of 2 million, and I got a medal for that then. My photograph was printed in some newspaper among others with the caption ‘The foremost women in our country.’

Three or four years after the war I took in an orphan, Ela Dzikon, the daughter of my friend from Skryhiczyn, Stasia. Stasia died of cancer just after the war, when her daughter was four. The little girl was taken in by her aunt, Stasia’s sister, who worked in Muszyna as the director of a holiday center.

I went there and saw that the girl was being treated very badly. She was dirty, lice-ridden and altogether in a terrible state. On the spur of the moment I said I would take her to live with me. Her aunt at first thought that I wanted to take her because of the cow that Stasia had left her daughter.

When I told her that I didn’t need a cow in Warsaw and that she could take it, she was pleased. Ela was pleased to be coming with me too. She and Malgosia grew up together.

In 1959 I was thrown out of ‘Przyjaciolka.’ They sent a woman from the Central Committee [of the PZPR] to carry out an inspection, and I threw her out. I was summoned to the Committee and they told me that it was unheard of for their people to be thrown out.

Starewicz, the Committee’s main man for the press, said that it was him or me, because he couldn’t tolerate his employees being treated like that. My superiors were a little worried that circulation would drop, and that was money, so they didn’t all vote against me. But they threw me out.

After ‘Przyjaciolka’ I was out of work for a whole year. I was offered the paper of the ZBOWiD [Union of Fighters for Freedom and Democracy, an organization of veterans that existed in the period 1949-1990], but I didn’t want to work there.

I went to Professor Zebrowska and she gave me a job at Warsaw University. I taught a child psychology class and helped her to gather materials for her work, and conducted research in kindergartens.

At the same time I worked in a psychology clinic. After a year’s break I once again started work for a magazine, this time for ‘Wiedza i Zycie’ [Knowledge and Life, a popular science monthly] as the assistant editor-in-chief. The chief was a good friend of mine from back before the war. I worked there until I retired, i.e. until 1975. I carried on working in the clinic even longer, until I was 80.

In 1968 an awful lot of my Jewish friends emigrated [as a result of the Gomulka Campaign] 45. I was working at ‘Wiedza i Zycie’ then and didn’t have any problems, because it was a backwater. I once went to a meeting of journalists from several Warsaw newspapers, where a Moczar man gave a paper [supporter of Mieczyslaw Moczar, Minister of the Interior, initiator of the anti-Semitic campaign of 1967-68]. But the journalists resisted him.

After 1968 I stopped going to party meetings altogether. I formally surrendered my ID a year or two later.

My daughter was arrested for participation in riots at [Warsaw] University, but they let her out quickly. After that she worked at KOR 46, and she was in ‘Solidarity’ 47, she was very involved in that. A lot of my friends worked for ‘Solidarity,’ but I didn’t. Work for the Party was not at all important for me either. I’m not cut out for social work, and even less so for party work. I had nothing against the changes in Poland, but I didn’t get involved in it.

Polish anti-Semitism today is a comedy – why, there aren’t any Jews in Poland. But there are so many anti-Semitic publications that you’d think there were mad armies of Jews here. Not long ago my friend told a funny story.

Her daughter, a quarter Jewish, lives in Wilanow. She was having a house built. This workman came and started sounding off about Jews, saying, ‘I hate Jews.’ She asked him, ‘But have you ever seen a Jew?’ ‘No, I’ve never seen one.’ ‘So why do you hate them?’ ‘Because my father told me to.’

A simple man, never known a Jew and never will now, but hates them. I know Jews who are afraid to tell their neighbors in Warsaw that they are Jewish because they know that they are anti-Semitic. I don’t know what they’re scared of, because they don’t have any social relations with them anyway.

I didn’t bring my daughter up religiously, because I am a non-believer, but I brought her up to be aware that she is Jewish, and that that is something good, something to be proud of. My grandsons, Piotr and Jan, whose father is a Pole, consider themselves Jews.

We always celebrate Pesach, and Christmas in the winter, not as religious festivals, but because we like them. The happiest festival is Pesach. My grandsons and their friends come round. We sit down and read the Haggadah, in Polish, because no-one understands it in any other language any more; we put the cup on the table and open the door for the prophet to come in.

When the boys were small they believed that the prophet had come, because the wine in the cup went down. I used to hide matzah from them and they used to pretend that they didn’t know where.

After reading the Haggadah we eat supper. There is matzah instead of bread, and a host of festive dishes: fish, chicken soup, charoset. We have a special cookbook and cook using it. It’s a very happy day, like it was at my parents’.

Glossary

Maria Krych
Warsaw
Poland
Interviewer: Agata Gajewska
Date of interview: October-December 2004

I meet with Maria Krych in her apartment at 26 Pulawska Street. In the war-damaged Warsaw of the 1940s and 1950s this modernist, comfortably furnished building was a real luxury. For this reason it was used for housing higher officials of the communist party. Mrs. Krych moved in there in 1947. Today, the house has lost signs of its past greatness. There’s a multitude of books in Mrs. Krych’s apartment, they’re everywhere. The impressive collection includes a vast number of books in Yiddish – Mrs. Krych has translated several of them into Polish. Literature, translations – that was her way of keeping in touch with Jewish culture, which she wanted to pass on to her daughter.

My mama came from a Hasidic family 1. Her maiden name was Meisels and, as it turns out, this was the family of the famous Rabbi Meisels 2. At first, I didn’t want to believe it, but it has been confirmed to be true. He was some direct relation, probably a great-grandfather. But I don’t know more details about my great-grandparents. None of them were alive during my lifetime. They all came from Lublin and dealt, in one way or another, with trade. I don’t know much about my mother’s parents. Mama’s dad was a very strict Hasid. Mama’s mother kept house.

There were four sisters in the family. The oldest one was called Rywka, then there was Chaja and later Estera. Mama was the youngest. She was born in 1883. Her name was Ajdla – Adela. Rywka and Estera moved to Zamosc [85 km from Lublin], where their husbands were doing business. Chaja stayed in Lublin [Chaja Meisels lived in Lublin, but later she moved to Warsaw with her husband]. They all died during World War II, nobody was left.

Dad’s family were also merchants. Their name was Goldwag. Grandma’s name was Chaja, and Grandpa’s – Dawid. After Grandpa’s death, that is, in the early 1920s, Grandma Chaja moved to our home and was the only one of my grandparents’ generation whom I knew closely.

There were five siblings in that family: four brothers and a sister. My father’s name was Josef and his brothers were Mendel and Jakub. I don’t remember the name of the third one. Dad was born in 1883. They all lived in Lublin. That’s where they died during the liquidation of the ghetto 3.

Mother and Father met in Lublin. I’m sure a matchmaker made the match. It couldn’t have been otherwise at that time. My parents were the same age. When they got married, they were 20-something, maybe 24. They were both religious. They had Jewish education. Dad, of course, went to cheder, but he didn’t go to yeshivah.

They both knew Russian. They attended a Russian school, not a public one, but a Jewish school where they learned Russian. [Editor’s note: There were no schools for girls at the turn of the 19th and 20th century in Lublin, therefore it was not possible for Adela Meisels to have attended one. She probably received an informal education at home]. They didn’t speak Polish at all, although they understood a lot.

When my parents got married, they went to Zamosc. Father got a job there and an apartment, because one of Mama’s sisters, Rywka, married rich. Her husband’s name was Awigdor Inlender. Inlender was one of the richest people in Zamosc. He was a merchant and he had his own trade company. He mostly sold textiles, but not only that. Father worked there for a long period of time in a textile store, but he became independent [that is, opened his own business] shortly before the war.

Father was a talented merchant, very talented. When he started his own business he worked in the wood industry in Zamosc. He was doing quite well for himself. He made good money, but I don’t know exactly how much.

Mother kept house, she didn’t work. She was an excellent housekeeper. At some point she taught herself how to sew and bought a sewing machine. She sewed for the entire closer and more distant family. But she didn’t get any money for that.

Four children were born shortly afterwards, so she had her hands full. The oldest son was born in 1909. His name was Bernard. It was a Polonized name. Of course, he had a Jewish name on his birth certificate, it was Dow, Dow-Ber [cf. Polonization of Jewish first and last names] 4. The second son was called Izrael. After the war he changed it to Jerzy. He was born in 1910. The youngest one, Michal, was born in 1914. I was born in 1913. They named me Perla.

My parents’ apartment was on 3-go Maja Street. It was one of the main streets of Zamosc and it had cobblestones. That was my childhood home. I was born there and I lived there until the war broke out. As I mentioned, the building belonged to my Mama’s sister Rywka. My aunt rented out the apartments there – there were about 50 of them. Aunt Rywka lived there as well. They had a beautiful apartment. When Mama’s second sister, Estera, got married she also started living in the same tenement house.

We lived on the second floor. There were three rooms in the apartment. My parents, of course, had a room, the boys had a room and I had a room. For those times, those were rather good conditions. The house was pretty well furnished. There was no heating, but there was running water. When I went to Zamosc after the war with my brother and sister-in-law the house was still there.

We were very close with the family, especially Mama. She mostly kept in touch with that rich sister, Rywka, and with Estera. We often met up in each other’s apartments. The contacts were very frequent. Most often we’d meet at Aunt Rywka’s, because she had a large apartment and she loved inviting friends and family over. The entire close family gathered at Aunt Rywka’s for the holidays.

On holidays, on Saturdays and Sundays, my parents often went to the park for walks. They rarely went to the theater. They wouldn’t go to restaurants either. They sometimes left town. There was a so-called ‘bypass’ in Zamosc… It was a road going around the city, where the entire town went for walks on Saturdays and Sundays. You’d walk on foot along the road. It was a very pleasant walk. And the park was beautiful. We had a biology teacher at our gymnasium whose name was Miller. He was the one who organized that park. He set up a small zoo there and took care of the animals.

Dad used to read books, although it’s hard for me to say which books. He used to read Moment 5 and Haint 6, those were liberal Jewish newspapers. I can’t recall which political party he sympathized with. He was quite distant from Agudat 7, but he was also not close to Bund 8. He was a liberal man. Mother didn’t use to read newspapers. 

There were quite a few wealthy Jews in Zamosc. Jews who could afford living in nice buildings, downtown. But there were also districts of poor Jews. One was called Nowe Miasto [New Town]. But there were contacts between these groups. You’d often go to these poor districts. Anyway, friends from school lived there. Each Thursday the wealthier Jews would give out alms in front of the synagogue. All the poor Jews came there for help. It was horrible!

A very poor shoemaker lived in the same house we were living in. His wife had died. He only had a daughter, who was in a teachers’ training college, she was studying. Everyone hoped she would support the family. And that’s what happened indeed.

But the poorest Jews were living in nearby towns. For example in Izbica – a town full of mud. As if it had been forgotten by God and by people! During World War II all Jews from Zamosc were taken to Izbica and later deported to Treblinka. [Editor’s note: Mrs. Krych is confusing two towns. She is referring to Izbica Lubelska, where a transitory ghetto was organized in 1942 for Jews from the Lublin ghetto]

There was one synagogue in Zamosc. There were also meetings for prayers [minyan] at houses and people often met in rooms; when ten men met, they could recite prayers. But Father went to this city prayer house. It was a very beautiful building [a brick structure, erected in 1610-1618, operating until WWII. During the war the Germans opened a carpentry plant inside, therefore destroying the interior; renovated in the 1960s, currently serves as a library]. I think a library was organized there during the war.

The main goal for one of my cousins who lives in Israel [Yoram Golan, previously Goldwag, grandson of Chawa Meisels – Mrs. Krych’s aunt – and Mosze Dawid Goldwag, Mrs. Krych’s father’s brother] is to have the prayer house returned to the Jewish community. They promised him they’d do it. But I don’t know if he will be successful… I don’t know.

We celebrated all the Jewish holidays at our home, Sabbath and Havdalah, candles were lit. Mother went to the synagogue only on high holidays. Sometimes she’d take me with her. I especially liked Yom Kippur and New Year’s. They’re completely different holidays than Pesach or Channukah. They were very solemn. Those were true Jewish holidays. Jews celebrated them in a very warm-hearted manner…

Did I like going to the synagogue? No. I went, because my mother made me do it, but I wasn’t keen on it. I stopped going to the synagogue when I was in the higher grades of gymnasium [at the age of 16-17]. Even my parents didn’t insist on it, didn’t remind me… We didn’t discuss this at home, why I didn’t go. By that time the boys also stopped going to the synagogue with Father. Those were different times…

There was a Jewish elementary school in Zamosc. I attended that school from age seven to age ten. The principal was a very progressive man. His name was Weiner. He wasn’t closely connected with Jewish life and that’s how he raised children. And that was the school they sent me to.

The language the classes were taught in was Hebrew [it was probably a Tarbut school, with lectures in Hebrew]. All subjects were taught there, even science and geography. Polish was also taught there; that’s why I say he [Weiner] was a very progressive man. [Editor’s note: Polish was a compulsory subject in all ethnic minority school in interwar Poland]. I also learned it by myself. That’s why when I started attending a Polish gymnasium I could speak, read and write in Polish. I had to know Polish, because everything took place in Polish in secondary school.

I also spoke Polish with my brothers at home. Children, friends, all spoke Polish among themselves. I liked the Polish language. It’s a very beautiful language. I like Polish literature, I like it a lot. I used to read Mickiewicz 9 and Sienkiewicz [Henryk (1846-1916): Polish journalist, novelist and short story writer from the turn of the 19th and 20th centuries, Nobel Prize laureate in 1905]. But I especially liked Mickiewicz.

When I was ten years old I went to a Polish gymnasium. It was a public gymnasium, there were no others then. A Jewish gymnasium was set up later, but I was already used to the Polish one. All my brothers also graduated from that Polish school.

I remember our headmistress, a very, very nice and valuable woman. Her name was Madler and she taught biology - the school was very strong in this subject. She was single; her husband had died during World War I. They later moved her from Zamosc to Bialystok and that’s where Germans arrested her and sent her to Auschwitz. Perhaps because she was a teacher and a headmistress, perhaps she did something else, I don’t know. [Editor’s note: During the occupation the Germans murdered many Polish state officials and members of the intelligentsia according to previously created proscription lists.]

Anyway, her sister-in-law, also a Mrs. Madler, was my homeroom teacher, but she was a very unpleasant woman – an anti-Semite. She treated Jewish children in a different way than Polish children. She always addressed Polish children with their first names and Jewish children with their last names. She was not pleasant. You could see that she was not a good person. This homeroom teacher was definitely an anti-Semite. I couldn’t say that about any other teachers.

Jewish children were mostly friends among themselves and Polish children were friends among themselves. There were four Jewish girls in the class and they sat together, separately from the rest. But I didn’t have real problems with manifestations of anti-Semitism at school.

Although there usually were no close contacts between Poles and Jews in Zamosc, I had Polish friends. They knew very well that I was Jewish. After all, I had a Jewish first and last name. They had different attitudes towards me.

I had this one friend, her last name was Banachiewicz and her first name was Mira. Mira is an old Slavic name. She told me how her father searched the calendar for a Slavic sounding name and he finally found one. At first they lived in Warsaw, but when her father died, the mother took the children to Zamosc, because she had wealthy parents there. They were very well off.

There was no anti-Semitism in that house, absolutely none. She was friends with me and with other Jewish girls. We often visited each other at our houses. It often happened that Mira stayed with us for Sabbath or one of the other holidays. I usually didn’t visit them for Christian holidays. They used to invite their entire families then, not us.

Mira also told me about her grandmother, how she told Polish children, when they were unfriendly towards Jewish children on the street, not to do it, because there is one God and he is the same for everyone. It was a very decent family. I was friends with Mira for a long time even after the war. We used to visit each other. She died a few years ago.

During our gymnasium years, we went for a vacation each year. We’d go for the entire summer holidays, that is, for three months. We would go to Krasnobrod, Jozefow and other towns nearby Zamosc. Father would always rent a summer house for us there. Those were holidays in the countryside. We would go for walks, in the forest... like children on vacation. But we only went with Mom. Dad stayed in Zamosc and worked. He only came to join us on Sundays.

We had a very good childhood. My oldest brother was accepted at the Medical Academy in Warsaw. Jerzy – also in Warsaw – studied law. The family gave them money for as long as they could. But still, accommodation in Warsaw was very expensive, so they weren’t doing too well for themselves. But Bernard managed to graduate. The material conditions at our house were not bad until the boys got arrested.

My brother Jerzy was a communist. Michal was one, too. Only the oldest one, Bernard, was not. He didn’t belong to any other party either. When Michal and Jerzy started going to some meetings, rallies, my parents were not very pleased. My parents suffered a lot because of my brothers’ involvement in the communist movement.

Jerzy was studying at the Faculty of Law at Warsaw University, but when he was in his 4th year, two months before graduation, he was arrested for communist activities. [Editor’s note: Due to its anti-state character, communist activity was considered illegal in interwar Poland and active members of the communist movement were thrown into prison.] He spent four years in jail [probably between 1931 and 1934].

My parents hired a lawyer for him and very intense efforts were made to shorten his sentence. He didn’t stay in the Zamosc jail for long; they took him to a prison in Drohobycz. It wasn’t a very bad prison [that is, it was a low-security prison].

Later, in 1932, they arrested my younger brother, Michal. He was 18 years old then. He was a very talented boy. Michal didn’t manage to study anything, because he had just graduated from gymnasium and then he disappeared. [Editor’s note: Immediately after graduation from secondary school Michal Goldwag was accused of communist activity and convicted with a court sentence]. At first, in the first level court, he got five years.

Father didn’t have money to save him, because it had all gone to save Jerzy, so there was no help for Michal. But an appeal was submitted and, because he was young, he was 18, the appeal court shortened his sentence to two years. He spent the two years in Wronki. It was a very hard prison. When all those jail stories started, the material situation of the family really got worse.

At that time [1931] I passed the public secondary school final exam. I was 19 years old. I had various interests then. I used to read Russian literature. Because although Russian was not taught at school, I learned it from books and handbooks. I also took French at school – my parents made sure I did. I also had Latin at school. And it was my favorite language. I was really interested in history and ancient culture. I wanted to be a teacher.

I tried applying to the Faculty of Classical Philology in Warsaw. This was in 1931. I prepared, but I didn’t do well at the [entrance] exam and I didn’t get in. So I went back to Zamosc.

Sometime later Mother got me a job. I worked as a book-keeper at my Uncle Inlender’s, Aunt Rywka’s husband. He had a textile warehouse then. I didn’t like that job. They really took advantage of me. I was overwhelmed with the atmosphere there, it was so bourgeois! You could see they only cared about the company’s profit.

Of course, communism was very important for me. Some time in the 1930s I went to a meeting of the KPP 10 in Zamosc. Some friends of mine took me there. That’s what the environment was like – my brothers were in the Party, so were girl-friends, and other friends. There were Jews and Poles there. You’d somehow let them influence you and start participating in what your acquaintances were doing.

I received my membership card even before the war broke out. I was a regular member of the KPP. I didn’t hold any positions of very important functions. I had two brothers in jail, and so I was more or less aware of what kind of danger was associated with belonging to the communist party, but I didn’t get into the kind of trouble my brothers did. I was still young and everything was just starting out. I didn’t spend much time on party activities in Zamosc. Later, in Warsaw, it was a lot more.

I went to Warsaw in 1935. I had an aunt there and I stayed with her. Her husband was my father’s brother. Their name was Goldwag as well. Uncle’s name was Mendel and Aunt’s name was Chajka. They lived on Gesia Street. It was in a Jewish district. There were two rooms there and this one tiny little room. I paid them some money, not much, from what I had saved in Zamosc. I lived there, in that tiny room. Their children – two girls and a boy – lived with their parents in the second room. They were very poor. They didn’t have jobs and had a hard time supporting those children.

When the war broke out, Aunt didn’t know what to do with the kids. Uncle Mendel was in America at that time, visiting a brother who was doing well and had sent for Uncle to get him educated there. So Aunt wrote to my brother Bernard in Lublin - he was a doctor there - asking if he could do something for the girls. He sent for them and employed them in his hospital. But what kind of a job was that? Not much.

It all ended when the war broke out [the Great Patriotic War] 11. The girls died immediately, in the summer of 1941. Bernard’s entire family, who were in the ghetto, died, too. [Editor’s note: Mrs. Krych’s brother, Bernard Goldwag, died with his family during the liquidation of the Lublin ghetto; only the son, Chil Goldwag, survived from Chawa and Mendel Goldwag’s family.]

I didn’t work for the first two years of my stay in Warsaw. I occasionally swept up the snow in the winter. I looked for work and couldn’t find anything. I lived from my savings in Zamosc. My family helped me a bit. I suffered like this for two years and then, in the third year, I got a good job. A friend of mine, also from Zamosc, worked in a printing house and arranged with her boss a job for me.

At first I was supposed to help his two sons with schoolwork – they were such rascals, it was horrible, they were spoiled rotten! But after some time this boss started liking me, he felt he could trust me. He offered me a job in his office, he employed me in the printing house for 80 zloty per month plus lunches [by way of comparison: an average teacher’s salary in the 1930s was approx. 120 zloty, an office worker’s salary – 200 zloty, a tram driver’s – 600 zloty]. I was also supposed to keep taking care of those boys. And that’s when I started doing well. That was a good wage. I could support myself, and support myself well.

I worked there, starting in 1937, for two years, until the war broke out 12. The war caught me and my younger brother in Warsaw [Michal, after serving his term in jail, moved to Warsaw and was involved in KPP activity while doing odd jobs for a living]. Michal volunteered for defending Warsaw and died immediately, in unclear circumstances. He was 25 years old.

I only got home after Warsaw surrendered, several weeks later. I went on foot to Zamosc, to my parents [approx. 230 km]. I left Warsaw with a group of friends. But we later split up, because they wanted to go east. [Editor’s note: When the Soviet army entered the eastern part of Poland on 17th September 1939, some residents moved into Soviet occupied territory in an attempt to escape German persecution.] I kept saying that I have to go home and I walked alone. It took me several days.

When I reached Zamosc, I didn’t find any family members there. They had all run away from the Germans and had gone to Lwow. So I followed them to Lwow. That’s where I stayed with my parents, my brother Jerzy and my sister-in-law, whom he had recently married. Bernard was a physician in Lublin at that time.

My sister-in-law’s name was Eleonora. That was the name on her birth certificate. Her family also came from Zamosc. Eleonora was a communist activist. This sister-in-law was raised by the sister of Isaac Leib Peretz 13, who was like a grandmother to her [Eleonora Epstein’s real grandmother died young. A friend of the family – I.L. Peretz’s sister – Mrs. Goldsztajn took over that role.]

I can’t say much about that family, but this grandmother was an exceptional woman. When the Jewish militiamen [policemen, forces created by the German authorities, consisting of Jewish residents] came to get her to deport her to a death camp [probably the camp in Belzec], she didn’t go with them. She simply told them she wouldn’t go. So they shot her right away.

She had two sons. One was in the Soviet Union, and that’s where he died, and the second one was here, in Poland. He was an engineer. He had two daughters. Their mother was a doctor. Two charming girls. They were living next to us in Zamosc. Both were captured by those Jewish traitors, when their mother and father were not at home. And they both died.

My sister-in-law’s brother was a real hero. His first name was Jozef, last name Epstein 14. He wrote a book [Les Fils de la Nuit, Paris, Grasset, 1982]. He was a wonderful man. He was very smart and very brave. He belonged to the communist movement before the war. His father somehow managed that he got away with it, didn’t go to jail, but he sent him to Czech lands. Jozef went through Bohemia to Spain, where he fought in the civil war 15.

Later he moved to Paris and was in the French opposition. He became the vice-commander of Paris. That was a rather high position. But they arrested him. He had a trial, along with twenty-something other communists from various countries, mostly Jews. They were all sentenced to death.

In Lwow, there was, of course, a Jewish district. [In fact, since 1867 there was no formal Jewish district in Lwow. Most Jews, however, lived within the same area, not far from the city hall.] But when we came from Zamosc [in 1939] there was no ghetto yet  16. We couldn’t rent an apartment, but the Jewish community organized some kind of accommodation for us. We lived at somebody’s place, many families together. The conditions were horrible.

My brother Jerzy and I, we worked. My parents didn’t work, naturally. First I worked as a cashier in some institution; I can’t remember what institution it was. Later I took a teacher’s course and started working. I went to a village and worked in a Ukrainian school until the Germans attacked Lwow 17. Then I returned to my parents, to Lwow.

When the Germans marched in, men, especially those in danger of being arrested for communist activity, escaped to the Soviet Union. Jerzy also left Lwow on foot and was soon in the Soviet Union.

I lived with my parents at first. Later, when it was dangerous and they were looking for me because of my communist activities, I moved to my aunt Ester’s, my mom’s sister, who escaped with us from Zamosc to Lwow. Ester’s family consisted of four people, I was the fifth one, and there were also two men, who paid rent. The apartment was small. Everything looked very, very poor.

One day some people came over. It turned out it was the commanding officer of the Jewish militia [police]. They had an arrest warrant for me for communist activity. But they couldn’t find me. It happened during the time [Fall 1941] when a German order came out that Jews have to give away all furs - fur collars, mittens, coats... and my parents, like all Jews, had to give them up.

So, when the police came for me, my sister-in-law came forward instead of me. She said she’d manage better than me. She told the police that the warrant was because of a fur. The kept my sister-in-law in jail for several hours, and we didn’t know what was going on with her. Finally I told my father I didn’t like it, and that I had to go to the militia [police] to find her. But in the meantime they realized they mistook my sister-in-law for me. They said that if I don’t come forward, they’ll keep my sister-in-law and my parents. My father tried to stop me, but he couldn’t, and I went there immediately.

They let my sister-in-law go, and arrested me. They arrested me, because they found documents saying I was a member of the communist party when I worked as a teacher in some village near Lwow. When I was arrested, it was the second half of 1941. It was the early period of the German occupation, and it was still possible to arrange things in exchange for money. So my family bought me out. I remained under Gestapo supervision and had to go there every week.

Not much later, however, an order of a higher instance came out, sending people like me [accused of communist activity and under Gestapo supervision] to Auschwitz. And that Jewish militiaman [policeman], who had arrested me earlier, told my parents about it. Jewish militiamen usually didn’t help people who were in danger. It’s not true that they helped! But it somehow happened that this militiaman had a friend from the same city, who was my sister-in-law’s aunt, and she put in a good word for me.

He spoke to the militia [police] commanding officer, and he agreed to let me go for a golden watch. He got the golden watch, but because they ordered to have me deported to Auschwitz, I disappeared from home. But I assured them, that if they arrested my family, as they said, I would come forward - like I did when they took my sister-in-law. Tension lasted three days, but they left my family alone.

In Lwow I stayed with comrades, Polish, and later they helped me go to Warsaw, to the ghetto 18. Where else could I go but to the Warsaw ghetto? I had no one anywhere else. Those who helped me had contacts in Warsaw. I had contacts thanks to them and they somehow fixed me up.

I went there by train. It was at the turn of 1941 and 1942. I had no documents, but no one asked who I was and where I was going. I went to the ghetto, to Aunt Chajka. I stayed there, in the same apartment I had lived in during my first stay in Warsaw, on Gesia Street. I stayed in the ghetto until July 1942. Then the huge liquidation action of hundreds of Jews started in Warsaw 19.

Then my eldest brother, who was a doctor in Lublin, said, that, allegedly, I got a job at an estate in some village. He wrote to me and asked me to come. I didn’t sneak out of the ghetto – I just left. It somehow happened that they didn’t stop me. I was stopped later by ‘szmalcowniks’ 20 and they took everything I had. I had 1,000 zloty, which was enough to support me for a few months, and which my brother somehow managed to get. Someone owed him this money and he asked them to give it to me. They left me only with a little money, 20 zloty, to cover the trip… I bought a ticket and went to that village.

But nothing came out of that. My brother Bernard, he tried his best. He wrote to me that he had spoken to some manager of an estate close to Lublin, and that he’d hire me. So I went there, and when I arrived, that manager proposed that I live with him, and he’d take care of me. When I told him that was out of the question, he threw me out immediately. And that was it.

But there were some Jewish boys at that estate, who had escaped from nearby towns and villages. They worked at this estate, picking hop. And I joined them. They were mainly Jewish boys, and I was the only woman. Those boys were very, very well-mannered. I got no such propositions from them like I did from that manager.

We worked there for a couple of months. They didn’t pay us, of course, only gave us food…And then, in the fall, when there was nothing more to do there, the boys went back to the nearby villages. They came from there and had friends there. They were hiding in forests, because we kept hearing news about planned liquidation actions of Jews in the region. So I stayed in that estate by myself.

Only one of those boys stayed. He told me that there was a very nice navy-blue policeman 21 there in the area, who was looking for a maid - of course the best one would be Jewish, since he wouldn’t have to pay her - and that I should go to that policeman’s house. I did that. They accepted me and I stayed there for a few months, till next fall.

That Polish policeman’s last name was Kaminski. They were decent people, helped others. They took care of the needy. If someone came by, they always gave them food or some old clothing. They never gave money, of course, but they gave food. They shared whatever they were eating.

That lasted until the great frosts in 1942. I think it was in the fall, in November, when my boss, the policeman, went to work and immediately came back. He said there is an order that all Jews have to go to the square in that city at 11 o’clock and that means the liquidation of all the Jews. So it meant I had to disappear… and I disappeared.

Later, after the war, when I felt sure and safe, I went back to that village. I found the wife of that policeman and told her that I owe my life to her husband. And so, if he ever were in some trouble, he could always contact me. I left my address and name. But nobody ever contacted me. He had his own life. He was a policeman and that was the essence of his life – to track down thieves and that’s it. He never came back to me on my offer. And I never saw them again.

I picked my things and went to Lublin on foot, which was some 18 kilometers. I had my eldest brother there, Bernard. I stayed with him for a few weeks, until the liquidation of the Lublin ghetto, when the deportations started. [Editor’s note: The interviewee most likely means the liquidation of the so-called ghetto B after the main ghetto in Lublin was liquidated. Ghetto B was occupied mainly by Jews working for Germans, and by Jewish doctors. The Jews who lived there were not taken during the liquidation action in 1942 to the extermination camp in Belzec, but moved to the forced labor camp in so-called Majdan Tatarski.].

My brother had some sort of a way to hide there, but only for himself and his wife. I had to take care of myself. I contacted a communist party cell in Lublin. Those were the contacts already made during the war. The party helped me obtain false documents. They were changing names of their people then. My first and last name, Perla Goldwag, was changed to Maria Kowalewska. And it stayed this way. After the war people usually kept the names from the occupation. It changed a bit later, but until today there are people who have those names. I changed my last name one more time, when I got married.

I had to go my own way. I went to Warsaw, where I had comrades from before the war. And they somehow helped. They directed me to one lady who hired me as a maid. I got this address from my friend, Janina Psiserowa, who I worked with in the printing house before the war, taking care of the manager’s children. She was Polish, a very decent person. Once I sent two Jewish women who looked Semitic to her, and she helped them. And later I went to her myself. But she couldn’t help me herself then. She had a mother-in-law who knew everything about it and who said there is no way she should still be helping Jews.

So Janina wrote a letter to one family. She lied that I lost my documents, was waiting for the new ones and needed a job. I did laundry, washed floors, I did everything there, but without any pay. I never got any money. But I didn’t work there for long.

It was a very anti-Semitic family. They were a married couple with two  young children and an old mother who used to visit them. Every evening they used to start conversations about the liquidation of Jews and making soap out of Jewish fat [reference to rumors concerning the production of different chemicals from human fat obtained from the bodies of the victims of death camps]. They liked it a lot. They didn’t know I was Jewish. They were surprised that ‘You’re not laughing? You don’t find it funny?’ and so on. I couldn’t take it any more. One Saturday I left the house with no documents, no money, nothing. That was late fall [1943].

I left. I had friends, printers, from the time I worked at the printing house before the war. One of them, a Pole, used to take care of me and was helping me until I worked in Warsaw before the war, and even later, during the war, he kept helping me kindly. During my previous stay in Warsaw I even slept at his place once. So I went to him, I knew his address, but this time he didn’t welcome me. He just didn’t. He said he’s going to another room and sent his wife to talk to me and this wife kicked me out.

Then another printer helped me a lot. His name was Smolenski. We had a very close relationship even before the war. When I left Lwow and went to work as a teacher in a village, the money I was getting I used to divide into three parts – one for my parents, one for me and one for him. He had been seriously wounded during the September Campaign 22 and he needed help. Now he could repay his debt.

So after some time of wandering about Warsaw, I went to the partisan forces and that was it. I joined a unit in the forests near Deblin. I remember that we slept in holes dug in the ground. When it comes to food, some of it was bought, because the partisans had some money. Most of the partisans came from that area, so it was easy for them to get and buy something.

Every once in a while we organized various combat actions. I never took a direct part in them, but helped the partisans any way I could. They were a mix: there were Jews, Russians, and Poles.

After a while the Russians went to a different forest, and they wrote to me that they wished I had come with them, because they could use me. But I wasn’t able to go with them because I had horrible ulcers all over my body. My daughter still has that letter from those Russians.

I worked like that until 1944. In 1944 the war ended in those areas. [Editor’s note: On 3rd January 1944 the Red Army crossed the pre-war boundaries of the Republic of Poland and placed pro-Moscow local government in Lublin]. We returned to Lublin, where life was going back to normal. There was one partisan there, a Pole. His name was Miroslaw Krajewski. He was a communist. We had known each other for over a year then. He helped me a lot then.

This comrade Krajewski, when our group came to Lublin, took care of me and took me to Gomulka 23. And Gomulka hired me. Miroslaw was shortly after that killed by Russians, maybe out of jealousy or something… he died horribly, I don’t want to talk about it.

I worked as Gomulka’s assistant. I was his secretary. I did everything that needed to be done at the moment – wrote down meetings’ proceedings, that kind of thing. Initially I was the only person in the secretariat. Then it changed.

They also gave me housing. There was a house where our people lived – I got a room there. Those were hot times. The workday wasn’t regulated. It used to happen that I worked nights.

The cooperation with Gomulka was working out very well. Gomulka was a very kind man. He was, however, edgy at times and acted on it. I used to meet the entire Political Office, the entire Central Committee in Lublin. [Editor’s note: Mrs. Krych means departments of the temporary communist government - Polish Committee of National Liberation]. Everyone was there, of course. But there was no time for social life. Those were different times.

News about the family was coming in slowly. I knew Mother died in 1941. [Mrs. Krych doesn’t remember how she learned about that]. They were taking all Jews out of their houses. They were announcing that all Jews must come forward, and if not… you know what. No one knows where they took Mother. We could speculate, because they used to take people from Lwow to Belzec. But it’s just speculations, no one knows for sure.

They didn’t catch Dad because he went to work and he wasn’t home. I don’t remember who told me about Mom’s deportation. My sister-in-law was living then, Father was alive. I used to get some news from them. For some time I would get letters from the family in Lwow when I was in Warsaw.

Later there was the final liquidation action. [The Great Action in Lwow ghetto took place from 10th September to 23rd September 1942.] They took everyone. My sister-in-law went to the meeting place. She had a three-year-old boy then, his name was Lucjan. When she was on a train, she wrapped him in a pillow, threw him out of the window and jumped out herself. Many women did that. But, after she had jumped and was looking for her little boy, he wasn’t there. She never found him. It so unfortunately happened to her! She herself survived. I think the communist partisans helped her.

We never heard of how and when our father died, and until this day we don’t know what happened to him. Bernard, who was a doctor, was killed. He died in Majdanek 24 during that great massacre in February 1943. [Editor’s note: The interviewee is actually referring  to the so-called “Aktion Erntefest.” On 3rd November 1943 about 18,000 Jews from various concentration camps around Lublin were moved and killed in the concentration camp in Majdanek. This was the largest mass execution of all of the extermination camps.]

I was hearing news about the Holocaust rather slowly. When in July 1942 they started taking Jews to Treblinka 25, initially nobody in Lwow knew about it. [Editor’s note: Jews from Warsaw were taken to Treblinka, Jews from Lwow, like from Lublin, were taken to the camp in Belzec]. The Germans said those who came forward voluntarily would get 1 kilogram of bread and jam, but obviously that turned out to be a lie. Finally, when one boy escaped from there, he told us what was going on there. Everyone found out from him. I didn’t believe him at first, but in the end everyone knew what was going on.

There was also news about various pogroms in Poland, during the war and after the war. Now there is a lot of talk about Jedwabne 26, but there were more stories like that. During the war, I remember, naturally, the Kielce Pogrom 27. Kielce – that was a provocation, horrible provocation. First they accused Jews that they had murdered some Christian child to make matzah. [That was referring to a Christian superstition about Jews murdering Christian children for ritual or medical reasons.] And then it turned out that child went back to his parents and had been at his uncle’s. [According to Mrs. Krych the provocation against Jews living in Kielce was an accusation made by Poles living in Kielce that Jews kidnapped the boy. When she talks about the provocation, she does not mean what many Polish historians believe to be true that the provocation was made by the communist government]. Of course, people heard of those things and couldn’t be unaffected by them.

Out of my family only my brother Izrael survived the war. After the Germans entered Lwow, many young communists escaped to the Soviet Union. Along with his comrades, my brother went somewhere far, far north. He tried to join Polish units following the Red Army [Kosciuszko Infantry Division] 28 and in this way return to Poland. But it wasn’t easy for Jews and they didn’t accept him. [Editor’s note: The number of Jews in the 1st Division was limited in order to maintain the ‘Polish character’ of the division. In order to join the army Jews had to change their last names to Polish ones.] So he stayed in the Soviet Union and worked somewhere far north.

I helped him come back. I think it was in the year 1945. Since I worked directly for Gomulka, I asked whether I could add my request to find my brother to correspondence of the Union of Polish Patriots, in short ZPP 29. I immediately received an answer saying he was alive. Through the ZPP I found out his address and that’s how I got him to come back to Warsaw.

After the war Izrael changed his name to Jerzy and took the same last name as mine – Kowalewski. He started to work. He was a reporter. He was a political commentator. At the end he worked for a longer time for Trybuna Ludu [official media publication of the Central Committee of the Polish United Workers’ Party, newspaper with the highest circulation in the Polish People’s Republic]. He died a few months ago [2004].

I stayed in Lublin until the liberation of Warsaw. [Editor’s note: On 17th January 1945 the Red Army along with the 1st Division entered Warsaw, which had been destroyed by the Germans and abandoned by both Germans and civilians] Later the entire government went to the capital city. I continued to work for Gomulka for some time.

At the end of 1945 I was moved to a different job. It was also a job for the KC [Central Committee] office. It was the so-called General Department of the Central Committee – administration and so forth. It lasted for quite a long time. I worked there until the 1960s.

After some time I met my husband. His name was Henryk Krych, he was Polish. He also worked for the KC. He worked in the personnel department. He was born in 1914. He was sent to work in Germany during the war. He worked for a ‘Bauer’ [German: farmer] near Gorzow. [Editor’s note: During the war Poles were sent to Germany for forced labor in German plants and on farms.]

I don’t remember the date when we got married. We formalized our relationship in 1947, but we had been living together earlier. After a short time, in 1947, we moved to the apartment at 26 Pulawska Street, because that was the house for party officials. It’s a beautiful building built before the war.

Our son was born in 1948. He was called Michal, like my younger brother who died in the Warsaw Uprising 30. Our daughter was born in 1951. Her name is Malgorzata. But it wasn’t a good marriage. We lived together for over ten years, but things weren’t working out. This marriage was one big mistake. My husband didn’t get along with my son at all. We had to split up. We got a formal divorce [in 1964].

I raised the kids by myself. Later we kept in touch, yes, he used to come… but we weren’t close any more. He belonged to the Party almost until he died. A few years before PZPR 31 was dissolved, he got sick and retired. He’s dead now. When did he die? I don’t remember [1990].

When the state of Israel was founded 32 we were all very happy. We thought a new chapter in history was opening. A lot of people chose to emigrate. I was tied to Poland, to all things Polish, and wasn’t thinking about emigrating. Later my daughter wanted all of us to leave. But my son didn’t want to. I couldn’t leave him alone. He hadn’t begun college yet and he wasn’t working.

That ‘Jewish note’ remained in my daughter. Not in my son. He was a boy scout [during the communist period, the ideology of the scouting movement did not emphasize ethnic identity]. We used to talk about Jews, what it means to be Jewish, Judaism, but he had a different approach. He has got a university degree in mathematics and is working at the Faculty of Mathematics at Warsaw University down to the present day.

Malgorzata has always felt Jewish. Everything Jewish she considered nice and valuable. But back then there weren’t very many opportunities to take part in Jewish life. Her friends were mostly Polish. She liked to read and used to read anything she could find about Jews. Even here, before she left the country, she started taking Hebrew at the university. I was teaching her Jewish [Yiddish] a bit then. Until today she buys and reads a lot of Jewish books.

My daughter has always been offended by anti-Semitism although she never experienced it herself. She went to school where there was no anti-Semitism. After she graduated from university – she was 33 years old then – one of her friends from the United States let her know that her boss was looking for someone from Poland to work for him. And she went there. She’s been working there since [Dr. Malgorzata Krych is a researcher at the Washington University School of Medicine]. She left in 1984. She met her husband in America. She’s very close with him. Her husband is a practicing Jew and they celebrate some of the Jewish holidays.

In the 1960s I began translating Yiddish literature. It was like this: a friend, a Jew [Rozka Lampe, the wife of the well-known communist activist Alfred Lampe] lived next door, and she was assigned to translate ‘Historia Bundu’ – ‘The History of Bund’ [Editor’s note: a book published by the internal KC PZPR publisher, it wasn’t possible to establish the bibliographic details]. Together we translated three volumes. It was a collective work written by members of Bund. I did this still during my work for the KC. I was earning extra money this way, because I wanted to buy a second apartment.

Somehow we finished that translating job. Later, in the 1960s, I left the KC. And when we finished ‘The History of Bund’ I wrote to an editor of Dolnoslaskie Publishing House, asking if I could do some translating for them. I had to send him a sample of my work. He agreed and I started working for them.

I translated ‘Di mishpoche Karnovski’[‘The Karnowski Family’] by Israel Singer 33 and later a few books written during the uprising in the ghetto, including works by Cywia Lubetkin [1914-1978, an activist of the youth organization ‘Dror’ in the Warsaw ghetto, a soldier during the ghetto uprising in 1943 and during the Warsaw Uprising in 1944, after the war the founder of the ‘Fighters of the Ghetto’ kibbutz in Israel], ‘Zaglada i Powstanie’ (‘Extermination and Uprising’), and Elie Wiesel 34.

After some time the JHI [Jewish Historical Institute in Warsaw] 35 asked me to translate ‘Di Brider Ashkenazi’ [‘The Brothers Ashkenazi,’ a novel by I. J. Singer, considered to be his greatest work]. That was a rather big book. I translated it and they published it. Israel Joshua Singer – that’s definitely my favorite author. Not Isaac Singer 36, but his brother. He is closer to me, since he deals with social issues.

For example, his book ‘Towarzysz Nachman’ [‘Towarzysz Nachman’ is the title of the Polish translation, the book is known to the English reader as ‘East of Eden,’ original Yiddish title: ‘Khaver Nakhman’]. That’s a novel, a large novel. He, sometime in the 1930s, predicted what would happen – what would happen to communism, he predicted it all. [The book describes the life of a communist activist, Nakhman, prosecuted by the Polish government, who escapes to the Soviet Union believing that the vision of a communist country came true there].

I belonged to the Party until the PZPR was dissolved. Today I don’t consider myself a communist. The ideology was good at the beginning, moved a lot of people, young and old. At first I believed everything was heading in the right direction. I wasn’t the only one to believe that. I thought there would be no more anti-Semitism, that equal rights, brotherhood would prevail. A lot of young people thought that…

I had this belief for quite some time, until they started turning away from the ideology [their deeds did not correspond with the ideology they proclaimed]. First of all, there were those events where workers were going out on streets and dying. [Mrs. Krych most likely means events in December 1970 when by the order of the communist government workers who went on strike were shot at]. A lot of them died. Then I started thinking how it was. After all that I couldn’t believe in communism any more.

What affected me the most? Mainly getting rid of the communists – those best, most devoted. That affected me a lot. The entire leadership of the early 1940s and 1950s, those were very devoted communists, ideologists. It’s a great pity they were removed [from the government].

Turning away from the ideology happened progressively. It’s hard to tell, but it was happening somehow slowly, naturally. The process began already during the war. People somehow stopped believing, were losing their faith. The March events 37 were a surprise, naturally. Gomulka was a huge authority to me, no doubt. I didn’t use to think he could take part in such events. We all suffered a lot, of course, and we all condemned it.

There is no communism today. I’m wondering, will it stay this way? One communist reporter wrote after all those events, that it won’t stay this way, that communism won’t go away without any trace… But is it possible that what used to be could come back? No, I don’t think so.

I feel a very strong connection with Judaism. My parents were Jews through and through. I never denied I was Jewish. Never. I learned something because I am Jewish. I know the history of Jews, I know all those horrible events, and I’m not indifferent to it. I was never indifferent.

I didn’t cut off contacts with the culture after the war. But everything was happening in Polish then. At home, or among friends, we never talked in any other language but Polish. I had Jewish friends, but they weren’t the majority. There were some [Jewish friends] and some [Polish friends].

I kept in touch with Jewish culture through literature. I also belonged to a veterans’ organization [Association of Jewish War Veterans and Victims of Persecutions during WWII] 38, but now there’s nothing in me left to give, and I don’t belong to any organization. Same with Jewish magazines. I used to subscribe to Midrasz [Jewish social-cultural magazine published since 1977] and Slowo Zydowskie [Polish for ‘Jewish Word,’ Jewish bi-weekly magazine published in Polish and Yiddish, first published in 1947 as Folkssztyme] since they started coming out.

I used to read and keep reading, but it’s not the same reading any more… I used to go to various meetings and shows in the Jewish theater. Now I don’t attend any of those anymore, because I’m not able to… There’s no way, I’m not strong enough.

Glossary

Ludwik Krasucki 
Warsaw 
Poland 
Interviewer: Marta Janczewska 
Date of interview: January – February 2004 
 

• My family background
• Growing up
• During the war
• After the war
• Glossary

• My family background

I was born in Warsaw in 1925. My parents came from two different social groups, both typical of prewar Jewish Warsaw and prewar Poland.

To be precise, my mother’s family, the Krasucki family, was a venerable, well-off Warsaw family, descended from and linked to a long line of prominent figures in the Jewish community.

My grandfather Naum alias Nikodem Krasucki was a descendant of the first Rabbi of Warsaw, whose beautiful tomb still stands in the Jewish Cemetery in Warsaw.

That ancestor of my grandfather – Rabbi Shlomo Szlajman (Zalman) Lipszyc, who was born in 1765 in Poznan and died in 1839 in Warsaw – served as a rabbi in Warsaw from 1819.

He was the first Rabbi of Warsaw, as it was only then that a rabbi for the entire city of Warsaw was appointed. At that time, the city became capital of the Congress Kingdom 1, following the demise of the Duchy of Warsaw 2 and the final defeat of Napoleon.

My great-great-great-grandfather is the author of the well-known book ‘Chemdat Shlomo’ [Splendor of Shlomo, a book of religious writings] which has seen several re-editions, most recently in Israel in 1961.

The memory of Rabbi Lipszyc was very much alive in the family. He was a man of patriotic, pro-Polish convictions – which was a source of pride for the family.

Thus, the Krasuckis have been a family of writers for generations. It was a family of Jewish intellectuals, people who traditionally concerned themselves with religious inquiry and philosophy.

I must say, however, that they weren’t Orthodox in their outlook. On my mother’s side of the family there had never been a single Orthodox Jew. They were representatives of the Jewish Enlightenment. 

My grandparents from Mother’s side got married around 1892. My mother’s mother – Cyla alias Cecylia Krasucka, nee Schoenfeld, was born about 1870in Hamburg and died in the Warsaw Ghetto 3, probably in 1942.

Grandma came from a prosperous Jewish family from Lowicz or the environs of that town, which is on the Western fringes of the Mazovia region. The family business was processing industry. They owned flourmills and distilleries as early as in the 18thcentury.

At that time, grain was exported to America via Germany. In the 1830s my grandma’s father, that is my great-grandfather, decided to move to Hamburg to sell grain and flour to America without German intermediaries. In this way the Schoenfelds acquired a vast fortune.

My grandma was also born there as ‘Fraeulein’Schoenfeld. Having made their fortune, the Schoenfelds returned to Warsaw. When the family was living in Germany, my grandma resolved to get a medical degree.

And in fact, she was already well advanced in her medical studies when she had to interrupt them because of her family’s return to Warsaw. 

While she didn’t finish university in Germany, she nevertheless came back to Poland convinced that for the Jews there was nothing better than Germany and that no good could come to Poland from the East.

My mother also adopted those views of hers. That was the cause of the incredible tragedy Grandma experienced on hearing the news about Hitler and developments in Germany, which I remember witnessing as an already reflective teenager.

She declared that such a thing was impossible; she would read the papers and burst into tears. She couldn’t comprehend what was going on over there. Couldn’t accept the facts. I don’t know if Grandma had any siblings; anyhow, she inherited the Schoenfeld fortune. 

My mother’s father, Naum alias Nikodem Krasucki, was born around 1868in Warsaw and was killed in the Warsaw Ghetto in 1942. Grandpa was a rather short, very handsome man with a small beard.

He had studied law but never graduated: he probably went to university in Poznan for a while. He was fluent in Polish, Yiddish and Russian, as he was born in Russia; he had an excellent command of German and some knowledge of French, as well as Hebrew, as he had naturally received, as was traditional in that family, a sound religious education. He was able to read books in Hebrew without difficulty.

Among the newspapers that could be found in his home – and I used to browse through them, especially when there were many sporting events on – were: Gazeta Polska [The Polish Newspaper, a daily published in Warsaw in 1929-1939, organ of Pilsudski’s party] and Nasz Przeglad [Our Review, a Polish-language Jewish daily published in Warsaw in 1929-1939] – an excellent, splendid newspaper, perhaps the best Polish Jewish paper of the time.

Next, he bought some newspaper written in Yiddish, which, I believe, was a Bund 4 paper. That reflected Grandpa’s philosophy that one should listen to different opinions. Grandpa had a huge library, filled with religious and secular works.

He didn’t belong to any political party, but held centrist views; he considered Pilsudski 5 – to be the man in Poland in whom the Jews should put their hopes. 

Grandpa and Grandma Krasucki were engaged in some business, but unfortunately I don’t know any details about it; in any case, theirs was a very wealthy bourgeois family.

Incidentally, their financial status had suffered somewhat due to Grandma’s pro-German sympathies. Namely, towards the end of World War I Grandma talked Grandpa into believing that the Germans wouldn’t lose the war.

The upshot was that they kept a part of their fortune in German marks, and that investment subsequently lost its value. They were still very wealthy, but in childhood I heard them saying that if it hadn’t been for the war, they would have been really rich!

Theirs was a very wealthy home. Suffice it to say that they were close friends of the Szereszewski family, the owners of the largest banking house in Warsaw [Szereszewskis – before WWII a well known Jewish family of manufacturers and merchants in Warsaw; in 1864 Dawid Mose Szereszewski established a very popular credit bank, which was in operation until 1939]. 

Grandpa and Grandma Krasucki lived in the most prestigious part of Warsaw – on the corner of Nowowiejska and Sluzewska Streets. Nowowiejska was an almost fairy-tale street of the Warsaw of the time – beautiful tenement buildings.

My grandparents had a six-bedroom apartment on the third floor, which also included a maid’s room, a huge kitchen, and a bathroom. Many years had to pass before I learnt to appreciate it. The apartment was fitted with beautiful furniture, there was a grand piano, and fine paintings hung on the walls.

When I would drop in to gobble down my ‘befshtychek’ [literally ‘little steak tartare’], which Grandma used to prepare for me, I ate it with exquisite cutlery; when the family sat down around a large expandable table, the table was set with the best china.

I used to drop by my grandparents’ to plunk around on their grand piano. For a time, one of the rooms was rented by Leon Kruczkowski, the writer, who liked me very much and used to lend me books [Kruczkowski, Leon (1900-1962): Polish left-wing writer].

The Krasuckis were people who had been brought up and remained immersed in the Jewish tradition, but they were open-minded in their attachment. Both dressed in the European style; Grandma didn’t wear a wig. I talked with them in Polish, whereas Grandpa spoke to Grandma in Yiddish, mostly when they didn’t want me to understand their conversation.

When eventually I was able to learn German, which I did with incredible speed, they continued to believe that I couldn’t understand them while in fact I frequently understood what they were talking about, thanks to my knowledge of German.

Oftentimes I would be mystified as to why they didn’t want me to hear them speaking, as they weren’t discussing anything particularly horrifying. Grandma spoke excellent German, like a native; her Polish was also very good, but it grew richer by the year, which means that her Polish was ‘in statu nascendi’[coming to being], that she was in the process of learning it. She spoke a slightly different variant of Yiddish, since I remember that during their conversations Grandpa kept uttering a kind of ‘eh’ sound, and Grandma had to repeat what she had just said a second time.

In terms of myself, Grandpa Krasucki had a very strong influence on the formation of my views; I loved him very much and he was very good with me. Grandma was warm-hearted and good, but she wasn’t a figure of authority in my eyes, whereas Grandpa represented the genuine intellectual authority for me.

In my family, it was my grandpa who provided, in various ways, my link to the Jewish religion, and more precisely to its customs. He consideredreligious issues, Talmudic aspects, less important, but believed that the Jewish religion consisted of a set of customs that every Jew should respect and observe.

Grandpa used to tell me frequently that the most important thing was to believe in and act in accordance with God’s commandments and to respect Jewish tradition because it represents the customs of our people that unite and distinguish it.

On the other hand, he didn’t attach much significance to what I might call religious zeal or exactitude, even though on occasion I did see Grandpa praying dressed in a tallit.

I also recall that he used to go to the synagogue, though I’m not sure if he did that every Friday. And it was Grandpa who had bought that engrossing book on the history of the Jews, in which I read with bated breath about Moses, the walls of Jericho, all the kings, etc. 

I remember, too, that it was Grandpa Krasucki who took me to a religious service on the Day of Atonement [Yom Kippur]. The shul we went to served a section of the city, which didn’t have many Jewish inhabitants.

The prayer house stood in the courtyard of one of the houses on Mokotowska Street, on the odd-number side; it seems that the tenement belonged to the Erbsztajns, a well-known Jewish family.

I felt very proud to be there with my grandpa, for he knew many of those present and many people knew him; as Grandpa was greeting everybody, I found it fascinating: here was some distinguished professor from Warsaw University, there an owner of twelve tenements, next was some guy about whom the newspapers had written that he had committed some huge fraud but he wouldn’t let them lock him up.

That was the richness of prewar life. As thinking, sensitive child, I took the Day of Atonement seriously, of course; I knew that it was a day for self-reflection and examination of my relationship to God. The purpose of the Day of Atonement is to recognize one’s own faults. 

Regarding kosher food, two kitchens were kept simultaneously at my grandparents’. Namely, Grandpa ate kosher, and everyone in the household knew which dishes were milk-based and which contained meat; there were two types of plates – I remember all of that.

On holidays, everything was done in accordance with Jewish tradition, of course. But when I showed up there after playing basketball, or after a game of tennis as was the case just before the war, just to see Grandma and Grandpa, and, while there, to plunk around on the grand piano or sometimes to play chess with Grandpa, then Grandpa would eat his kosher food while I got my rare ‘befshtychek’, because Grandma believed that a rare ‘befshtychek’ was an absolute must for her boy, and that wasn’t kosher.

In other words, in that household a kosher kitchen was kept for Grandma and Grandpa, and all the guests that came to visit them on holidays or on other such occasions participated in it, but other than that, when we called on them, we ate non-kosher. 

Helenka, the maid at Grandparents’ house, always made sure that Grandpa had meals prepared in accordance with the law, but when I or any of my cousins came, then her only concern was to make the food tasty and serve it fast, as we were always in a hurry.

With respect to kosher food, I recall the following incident: Mom took me to a summer vacation place in Lesna Podkowa [a small village near Warsaw, a popular vacation spot of middle class families in the prewar period]; Dad would come up to see us on Saturday afternoon, and Grandma Krasucki also came on occasion.

Grandma used to arrive laden with packages in order to bring some goodies for her poor little Ludwik. Father would get mad and try to explain that we weren’t starving, after all, etc., and then he would ostentatiously invite everybody to a restaurant.

In Lesna Podkowa, the regular restaurant was good, whereas the Jewish kosher one was, pardon the expression, a sorry excuse for a restaurant.

Therefore, Father and Grandma held the following frank discussion: ‘Mom, if you insist on eating kosher, then we will go to the kosher place, but if we are to enjoy our meal, then let’s go to the non-kosher restaurant.’ Grandma’s reply was: ‘you know what, we won’t tell Grandpa, let’s to go the good restaurant.’

Grandpa and Grandma Krasucki had seven children. At the time when I was born and then started to become acquainted with the family, two of my grandparents’ children, their eldest and middle sons, were already dead.

The eldest son, Emmanuel, was a very distinguished engineer who had had a successful career; having completed a technical degree course in Zurich, he later joined the faculty of Zurich Technical University.

He was a very eminent mechanical engineer who lectured on issues to do with various types of engines, and designed several types of engines himself. Regrettably, his designs were subsequently used by the Germans to build submarines during World War I – a fact of which I’m not proud. 

My mom’s second brother, Nehemiasz, was an outstanding draughtsman. He, unfortunately, led quite a colorful lifestyle and ended up with tuberculosis. For the family, that was a real tragedy, as he was very much liked and loved by everybody.

My mom always claimed that he was my grandma’s favorite son. Just before the start of World War I, he was sent as a tuberculosis patient to his elder brother, who had already become a lecturer at Zurich Polytechnic.

Unfortunately, just as in Thomas Mann’s ‘Magic Mountain’, he was treated for his lung disease in Switzerland and died from tuberculosis soon after the end of World War I. 

My mom was the eldest daughter. She graduated from the music conservatory in Warsaw and ought to have become a professional pianist, but suffered from stage fright and got so nervous in front of an audience that she never managed to give a decent performance.

Thus, she ended up as a music teacher. Because she graduated from the conservatory with a good reputation, she taught at one of the music high schools in addition to giving private lessons.

As our living conditions weren’t particularly representative, she gave her lessons in Grandma and Grandpa’s apartment. 

My mother’s sister Felicja was to have been a physician. Unfortunately, her medical studies were interrupted by her marriage. However, her husband Rudolf Wielburski, a stockbroker, was very successful, so she didn’t do badly by marrying him.

The Wielburskis had two sons, Julian and Edward, who were older than me. The third sister, Roza, had some pedagogical education, but she was a teacher only incidentally, and primarily a housewife.

Later on, she married Hersz Borowski. The Borowskis had a son, Aleksander, who was younger than me. The youngest sister – Brandla, or Auntie Bronia, was a lovely girl.

As a matter of fact, I was on friendly terms with her as she was the youngest of them all. Bronia was a brilliant artist. When she made a set of puppets that were exhibited at the Paris Expo world fair in 1936 or 1937, the entire family took pride in her.

Everybody was there: Chaplin and Greta Garbo, political leaders, Pilsudski, and so on – an entire row of wonderful puppets, which received very good press. Bronia belonged to the jazz generation, frequented cafés and met various people.

In the end, before the war she married a nice, wealthy young man whose last name was Wrobel.

Her husband was in the automobile accessory business. By chance, in that family everyone had Polish surnames; of the Krasucki girls, one married a Wielburski, another a Borowski, and the third a Wrobel. All of them were Jews, of course. My mom was the only one to marry a man with a Jewish last name, Jakub Kaferman. 

Mom also had another brother, Izrael alias Jerzy. He was one of my childhood heroes. Uncle Jerzy worked at the Szereszewskis’ bank. He was a sporty type, a very handsome man. He played tennis and took me to important matches and other sporting events. 

I don’t know whether my grandparents had any siblings. There must have been some other family, as there were also some other Krasuckis and other Schoenfelds.

The intellectual and literary predispositions of the family are attested by the fact that my aunt Janina Zawisza-Krasucka was a famous translator, who, before the war, translated ‘Anne of Green Gables’ and all the other books from that series [by Lucy Maud Montgomery (1874-1942)].There was also a Doctor Krasucka – a left-wing social activist. Unfortunately, I don’t know how we were related. 

My mother’s entire family, her parents and siblings, together with their families, were killed during War World II. They were all in the Warsaw ghetto. I’ve never found out whether they died in the ghetto or were murdered in Treblinka 6 extermination camp. 

My father came from a different social background than my mom. Father’s family had Litvak roots 7; they came from the Vitebsk region. The eldest son of that family to receive an education was my grandpa, Chaim Kaferman, born between 1868 and 1870in Homel.

He too was a very handsome man, but his beard was much longer than Grandpa Krasucki’s. Unfortunately, I only heard about Grandpa Kaferman from others as he had died from a heart attack in 1924, or one year before I was born.

Grandpa Kaferman had been, first in Lublin, and subsequently in Warsaw, a representative of a large Russian company, ‘Three Anchors – Gubkin & Kuznetsov,’ tea merchants.

He had a secondary education, but I recall, somewhat vaguely, that it was said that the company had sent Grandpa abroad for a year, probably to Germany, to learn how to do business European style.

Grandpa was promoted steadily up through the firm, so that prior to his death he was its representative for the whole of Poland. Anyway, after the October Revolution the owner of the company, Mr. Sokolnicki, escaped from Russia and settled in Milanowek near Warsaw, and it was for him that Grandpa continued to work.

In 1893 or 1894 Grandpa married in Lublin a native of that town, Hena Roter [1870-1942]. Grandpa Chaim spoke fluent Russian and German; he spoke Yiddish with his wife, and with his children – Yiddish or Polish. Grandma Hena could speak Polish, to be sure, but with a strong Yiddish accent. 

Right before World War I the family moved to Warsaw. The financial position of the Kaferman family, while by no means bad, was nevertheless quite different from that of the Krasuckis. The Kafermans belonged to the lower middle class.

Especially after the death of Grandpa, for Grandma it was a struggle to make ends meet as she found herself alone with a bunch of kids. The Kaferman family lived on Ciepla Street, close to the intersection with Twarda Street; that is, on the edge of the northern district of the city.

[The northern section of Warsaw was poor and inhabited mostly by Jews.] The family had to be concerned with keeping their heads above water; in that social environment Yiddish was heard more frequently. 

Grandma Kaferman was a charming, rather short lady, who was very good and warmhearted towards me. She managed the household. Her apartment wasn’t far from my school and I used to drop by frequently for Sabbath dinner.

It is with Grandma’s apartment that I associate traditional Jewish holidays and traditional Sabbath dinners. Grandma was more religious, but she didn’t wear a wig. She would bless the candles, the entire family would sit down around the table; Grandma’s sons had their heads covered – something that wasn’t required from me.

One of my father’s brothers would say what was supposed to be said on the occasion. He was very religious and went to the synagogue every Friday.

If I were to describe my own point of view on this matter, I would say that I understood that I was a Jew and that the holidays and the Sabbath represented tradition, but in my mind it was all very loosely connected with the issue of religious beliefs.

• Growing up

I was a boy and came under the authority of my parents, especially that of my father, and Grandma didn’t dare to actively shape my religious views. 

Grandma was a great cook. If my own mom was a dunce in culinary matters, Grandma Kaferman was a genius. The food she served was incredibly delicious. To this very day I remember her Jewish-style goose and caviar, cholent, her fantastic carp, a meat-based dish, which was called ‘shalei moostet’ [shelakhmones], and more.

Grandma didn’t have a servant in the house, but there were her daughters, my aunts, who were very good; they had jobs and helped to keep house. 

The eldest son in the family was my father, Jakub Janusz. One of the daughters, Chawa, or Ewa, who was his elder, married a Mr. Lewin and moved to Cracow. Next came a whole galaxy of sisters.

The youngest girl and another slightly older sister were the only ones who survived, stayed alive through the Holocaust, in the following way: in 1936 Wonia married a Mr. Richter, who had emigrated to Palestine previously and then come to Warsaw in the hope of getting married here; he met Wonia and together they left for Palestine.

My father’s youngest sister, Lucja, married a Mr. Margulies; they both survived the war in Siberia, and immigrated to Palestine in 1948. Besides those two sisters, there was Aunt Natalia, Aunt Jozefa, and Aunt Pola, who married a Mr. Blumenkopf.

Their daughter – Dzidka or Jadwiga Blumenkopf – was in the ghetto in Korczak’s 8 orphanage and died with the rest of the orphanage.In addition to those sisters, my father had two younger brothers: Jozef and Tadeusz.

All of them were killed in the Warsaw ghetto, with the exception of the Richters and the Margulies. 

My father, Jakub Janusz Kaferman, was born in June 1897 in Lublin, and went to a Polish gymnasium [grammar school] there. As a good student, he was given a scholarship, so that when the family moved from Lublin to Warsaw, my father stayed behind in Lublin to finish school in order not to lose his scholarship.

He came to Warsaw only after getting his high-school diploma, and then started to study chemistry at Warsaw University. Father was a mad PPS activist 9, had the typical political traits of a PPS activist, meaning that his views were strongly leftist in the social sense, he was very much in favor of Polish independence, and thought the Bolsheviks were madmen – at once a staunch leftist and an anti-bolshevist. 

In 1918, my father and his fellow university students were disarming Germans, and as a student of Warsaw University, he took part in the 1920 war [see Polish-Soviet War] 10.

He was wounded in the Battle of Warsaw 11, as a second lieutenant in the famous, the legendary 36thinfantry regiment, the Academic Legion, a regiment composed exclusively of student volunteers.

Father was wounded in his left leg, in exactly the same spot where I was wounded while serving with the partisans in World War II. When my father got wounded, which happened some 200-300 meters from the place where the legendary Father Skorupka died [Ignacy Jan Skorupka, 1893-1920, Catholic priest and chaplain of the Polish Army], they transported him to Warsaw to a military hospital in Ujazdow [a district of Warsaw], where my mother was a volunteer nurse. That’s how I became a child of the Battle of Warsaw in the 1920 war. 

A very handsome man, Father captured Mom’s heart; subsequently, they had a romance. Marriage wasn’t on the cards for a long time, because Mom’s family put up desperate resistance; it was a misalliance. But in the end there was a wedding...

Since on account of his convictions, Father was a personal enemy of God, there was only a civil wedding. Father believed in general that religion is stupidity.

He used to say that everyone should be a decent person and act in accordance with some principles, that the Ten Commandments is just the code of behavior of a decent person, etc., but he refused to take part in any form of religious marriage ceremony.

A solution was found in the end – my parents got married in a civil ceremony in Katowice. As a result, I bear my mother’s last name.

Even though their union was formalized, the difference between the law in Silesia and in Warsaw was such that I was a legitimate child in Katowice but not in Warsaw.

[Editor’s note: After Poland regained its independence, different marriage codes, as inherited from the legal systems of the Partitioning Powers, remained in effect.

Thus, the Russian marriage code, under which only religious marriage was permitted, continued to be in force in Warsaw, which had been under Russian rule prior to World War I.

In Katowice, located in the former Prussian-ruled zone, a civil marriage ceremony was obligatory. That mixed legal regime remained in place throughout the interwar period.] 

Though nobody told me officially, I know that I had an elder brother, and the fact that Mom was pregnant with him probably had something to do with my parents’ getting married.

My brother died a few days after his birth, and I, who was born two years later, was an only child. The Krasuckis resigned themselves to having such a son-in-law and eventually came to like him. 

The house we lived in was No. 7 Hoza Street. Father worked as a chemist and his professional life was peppered with ups and downs. For example, he was the first person in the world to successfully candy pears.

Unfortunately, he got cheated on the patent, which he sold for 300 zloty. He thought he had got a good deal, but in fact he had sold the patent on which others made thousands.

Besides, whenever he got a job anywhere, after one, two or three years he would get into some trouble as a PPS activist, so we were constantly in a see-saw situation.

Some time later Father went to work for ‘Three Anchors,’ the same company which employed Grandpa. As an expert on food chemistry, he worked on the expansion of a drying plant for mushrooms intended for export, near Bialowieza Primeval Forest [immense forests near Bialystok, in Eastern Poland].

If there had been ups and downs in previous years, 1937, 1938, and 1939 were a period of relative prosperity in my family because Dad was working all the time.

When my father found himself in financial straits, then my grandparents from Nowowiejska Street helped us in a discreet way. On the other hand, Father always helped his own family one way or another, regardless of our situation.

But it was always done discreetly, in a manner that was respectful of the feelings of his relatives. Mom also was in favor of assisting Father’s family. In general, theirs was a good marriage. Mom gave private music lessons, but when the Depression came, she had few lessons. 

On Hoza Street we had a second-floor apartment. There were two large rooms and one small room plus a kitchen; the downside was that we had to walk downstairs to the toilet when I was a kid.

There was running water in the apartment, but to go to the toilet we had to walk down to the first floor. Later on, when Dad earned some money, my parents had a toilet put in inside the apartment.

There was a balcony on three sides. It was a decent place to live, if perhaps not as comfortable as the apartment of Grandpa and Grandma Krasucki. 

We moved in PPS circles. I grew up in an environment that was politically charged in the positive sense. In the building where I lived, one of the front apartments was occupied by Kazimierz Czapinski, president of the Society of Worker Universities, a leading PPS activist.

[Kazimierz, Czapinski (1882-1941): Socialist activist, killed in Auschwitz concentration camp; Society of Worker Universities (Towarzystwo Uniwersytetow Robotniczych – TUR): a cultural and educational organization founded by the PPS in 1923.]

Dad’s party colleagues frequently met in our flat. Stanislaw Dubois 12 came to our apartment four or five times. It was a tremendous experience for me when Niedzialkowski came once [Niedzialkowski, Mieczyslaw (1893-1940): PPS activist and member of Parliament, murdered by the Germans].

From time to time my father would send me to Warecka Street, to the editorial offices of Robotnik [The Worker – a Socialist daily published in Warsaw] when an article had been confiscated, to try to get a copy. 

My parents’ friends were from both the Polish and Jewish communities. For Dad, the most important were his comrades in arms; that is, the circle of war veterans. His front-line comrades and their wives visited us.

If I were asked what each of them thought about the Jews, which party they voted for, I wouldn’t have the faintest idea. 

My parents spoke both Polish and Yiddish, save that between themselves they spoke only Polish.

I was a witness to a number of incidents when my father, as a PPS supporter, would get hot under the collar when among my mom’s family, which included very rich people and the dominant point of view might be described as politically centrist. In that family circle, my father represented the left.

I remember that when he once got into an argument with Rudolf, the husband of my mom’s younger sister Felicja, at first they spoke in Yiddish for a short while.

Then, when he was completely enraged, Dad said: ‘This I can explain to you only in Polish,’ and he switched into Polish. That is, for my dad Yiddish was no good for such refined problems.

Dad spoke Yiddish with his mother, but if I was present, they would exchange a few words of greeting in Yiddish, and then would turn to Polish lest I thought that they were talking about me behind my back. 

I was born in 1925 in Warsaw, two years after my parents got married. Since I learned to read and write quite early, they sent me to a kindergarten for Jewish children, which had Bundist leanings. It was located on Twarda Street.

I felt comfortable there. In that kindergarten I spent only a couple of weeks and I don’t remember unfortunately what language we spoke there, but it was Polish, probably. 

I was a gifted child. When I went to elementary school – I was sent to a normal public school on Hoza Street – Mom arranged for me to be placed in the second grade from the start. I could read, write, and count.

At seven I finished the second grade, terribly bored and with all A’s. By then I had read all the books written by [James Oliver] Curwood and [Karl] May, as well as[Jack]London’s ‘Martin Eden’.

On the initiative of the headmistress, I was assigned right away to the fourth grade. In that way I completed elementary school at the age of ten. 

At the age of eleven, I was admitted to the first gymnasium grade at the Warsaw Merchant Congregation Gymnasium on Walicow Street in Warsaw [founded in 1906, in the prewar period it was a very popular gymnasium].

It wasn’t a Jewish gymnasium, but the kind of progressive school to which Jewish parents readily sent their children. That school was the first so-called experimental semi-boarding school in Poland.

We were taught by the best teachers. The headmaster was the famous Taubenszlacht, the director was Ordynski, and our history teacher was Lukaszewicz – who was to become president of Torun University after the war.

My Polish teacher and our class teacher was Stefan Zolkiewski [1911-1991, literary historian and critic]. His wife Wanda Zolkiewska, a writer, whom we dubbed Izyda, also taught Polish, and most of the boys were in love with her.

Lubelski, who looked like a caricature from Der Stuermer, taught German. Biology was taught by Michajlow, who was to become a distinguished biologist and deputy minister of higher education [Wlodzimierz Michajlow (1905-1994): Professor of Zoology].

That was a dream-come-true school. To this day I remember the attendance register from the third and final grade which I completed in 1939: Abramski, who was a Pole, next Antkowski, then came Altman, Birek, and Borensztain.

That meant that 60 percent of the students were Poles and 40 percent were Jews. Among the faculty there were both Poles and Jews. 

I was an all-As student but was constantly in trouble on account of my behavior, which didn’t involve any acts of thuggery on my part, but rather distribution of cribs, boredom, etc.

At the same time, in the company of boys two years older than me, I developed a kind of resourcefulness, stamina, an ability to adapt to difficult circumstances, and that skill later on had a number of consequences that were reflected in my experiences under the occupation [see German occupation of Poland] 13. 

Since I was a tall, overgrown boy, I made the school basketball team early in my school career. Ten players are needed for a basketball game – five players on the court and five on the reserve bench – and that ‘ten’ included six Poles and four Jews.

With childhood I associate the memories of summer vacations, which we used to spend near Warsaw: in Lesna Podkowa, Urle, Radosc, or Zielonka. Mom sent me to Radosc as a reward for graduating from elementary school.

There was a boarding house there for Jewish children from good homes, whereas I was quite a rascal who enjoyed a good fight and liked to climb trees – I was cut from a different cloth.

I felt awfully miserable in that boarding house because I had to wear this yellow sleeper suit and play cerceau [hoop]. On top of that, they kept telling me that the model I should live up to was a lovely boy wearing a check outfit, whose name was Zabotynski.

After three days of that talk, I couldn’t stand it anymore and threw a plate full of buttered cauliflower at Zabotynski.

The kid, who was quite a mamma’s boy, naturally burst into tears, the girls started to squeal, and the owner of the boarding house phoned Mom and told her:

‘I will give you back your money, but your son is sure to grow into a thug; I would appreciate it very much if you came and took him back.’ Mom fired back: ‘I have confidence in my son; please give him the money and he is old enough to return home by himself.’ In the morning, I ate my breakfast and left that wonderful vacation place by myself. 

I began to earn money while a gymnasium student: I shared the same desk with this noodle whose name was Rysio Meisner and who had very rich parents. They figured that I could be a mentor to Rysio and help him in his studies.

I was exempted from school tuition thanks to my good grades, plus I made 30 zloty a month from the Meisners. That was a huge amount of money! Of that sum, I gave 15 zloty back to my parents, which made me terribly proud of myself.

During my school years, my hobbies were sports, books, and music. My parents were both music lovers and I was brought up in a cult of music; Mom used to take me to matinee performances at the Philharmonic Hall and organized morning music concerts at my elementary school.

When a gramophone appeared in our apartment at one point, my friends were at a loss why we didn’t have any records with popular hits, just Chopin, Beethoven, and Mozart.

I recall that when I was twelve my parents took me along to the Grand Theatre to see ‘A Night in Venice’ [an operetta by Austrian composer Johann Strauss (1825-1899]. I remember how proud and happy I felt when I heard the first bars of the overture.

What I say about my artistic and cultural experiences, about my exposure to art, also relates to my sense of belonging to the Jewish people. Dad used to buy The Worker and Our Review.

He read Our Review as a Jew, and The Worker as a PPS member. I read both those newspapers. Our Review was a newspaper that carried excellent theater reviews and published wonderful serialized novels; for example, Vicki Baum [1888-1960, a popular Austrian writer] or ‘Colas Breugnon’ [a novel by French writer Romain Rolland (1866-1944)] in installments.

In that paper one could read a great deal about culture and the Jews. It was from that source that I learned who Tuwim 14 and Slonimski 15 were. Mom also paid attention to that issue when she gave me books to read. Reading The Jewess from Toledo [by Lion Feuchtwanger] 16, I was aware that it was written by a Jew.

I knew that regardless of the language in which a particular book had been written, be it German, English, French, or Polish, it was written by a Jew and it was about my people. When listening to Mendelssohn-Bartholdy [Felix, (1809-1847), German composer, conductor and pianist], I learned from Mom who the Mendelssohn family was. 

My parents weren’t nationalists of any sort, but they did teach me to be proud of my Jewishness. I believe that my sense of belonging to the Jewish people, an unquestionable fact from a genetic or genealogical point of view, consists simply in my attachment to this people, the sense of my being part of it, the respect I have for its customs, the pride I feel for its achievements and the distress I suffer because of its negative characteristics, of which it has quite a few, to be sure. 

My attitude toward religion developed under the influence of the social circle in which I grew up. My father was a smart man who never talked down to me.

What he told me went more or less like this:

‘If in order not to become a scoundrel, a thief, a thug or a bum, you need to fear God and His punishment, then you must be religious. If you can be a good man without that fear, then remember that I am a decent man without religion.’ Having to deal with opposite poles – an atheistic father and his religious mother, that is, Grandma Kaferman, and Grandpa Krasucki – I had to find a way out of that dilemma.

The path I adopted was that of cautious conformism. It meant that when I found myself at a Friday religious dinner at Grandma’s, then I participated in it with gusto. When I happened to be at my other Grandma’s and got my ‘befshtychek’as usual, then my own conscience remained untroubled, even though I was aware that Grandpa ate kosher.

Of course, I wasn’t boycotting the Jewish religion, as I absolutely felt no need or desire for that, but I understood its interpretation, which was very wisely imparted to me by Grandpa Krasucki, according to which that religion was the customs of my people.

So if I’m supposed to eat matzah on a certain holiday, I will eat it not on account of God, but because of my identification with that tradition. 

My mom was irreligious, but at home my parents took care to preserve the outward forms of Jewish holidays, which meant that we had matzah, for example. Father wasn’t opposed to them, for he made a distinction between religion and customs.

In fact, he enjoyed the customs and found the cooking tasty and splendid; he would even demand traditional Jewish dishes from Mom, such as Jewish caviar. He believed that those customs should be respected because they were the customs of our people, but eating matzah doesn’t need to have much in common with religion. 

My father fought a desperate battle to have me exempted from the obligation to receive a final grade in religion. For him, it was a matter that had to with the Free Poland for which he had fought.

Father said: ‘my son is a Jew, no question about that. However, I don’t want him to study religion if he doesn’t have to.’

As it was impossible not to have a grade in religion in elementary school, the headmistress, Mrs. Wysznacka, also a PPS member, suggested to me the following solution: ‘If you wish, you can come and sit in on the Roman Catholic class. If you are curious, you can go to the Protestant classes.

Besides, it would be a good thing if you could drop in on the teacher of Jewish religion on Hoza Street.’ So I went to see that teacher; he gave me a textbook and discussed issues of Judaism with me. 

I took very seriously the view that I should be a decent person without fearing God. I finished elementary school with an A in religion, even though I didn’t fully deserve it since I hadn’t studied any particular religion systematically.

In any case, when our entire school went to the Savior church for the opening of each school year, then I would go along on occasion but not always.

In general, I went motivated by curiosity or in the expectation that once the service was over, we would go to play soccer, for whenever we went to church, we didn’t have to go back to school afterwards.

On Yom Kippur I didn’t have to attend school, I was entitled not to go to school, and in fact, I didn’t. I was just a regular school kid, so when given a chance to have a day off school, why the hell should I go to school?

When I was 13, Grandpa and Grandma Krasucki arranged a bar mitzvah for me on Nowowiejska Street. Personally, I wasn’t too keen about it, but my father and I decided that I had to go through that ceremony since it was required by Jewish custom. However, I didn’t attach any great significance to it. A teacher was hired to prepare me.

I remember that during the ceremony I managed to mutter some words on my own, for more I had to look at my crib notes. Still, to this day I know the Hebrew characters. 

On the whole, I didn’t encounter any manifestations of anti-Semitism in my social circle, because of the neighborhood we lived in, the PPS community, and the type of school I attended.

On the other hand, my dad hit me only once in my life and that was related to an encounter with anti-Semitism. It happened like this: When I was about ten, there were twin brothers, Kazik and Maniek, whose last name I don’t recall, who also lived at 7 Hoza Street.

Those two boys were the terror of the courtyard. The two of them beat me up, probably because I was a Jew. I went home crying and told my father what had happened.

Father slapped me in the face and said: ‘Go back to the courtyard and take care of this business!’

My father was keen on bringing me up as a man, and he simply got mad that I was sniveling instead of trying to handle the problem. I waited for a moment when the brothers got separated, and then thrashed each of them separately.

I came home covered in scratches but happy. Then Dad was terribly nice to me and he took me later to a fine movie house, ‘PAN’, on Nowy Swiat, where we saw Charlie Chaplin in his film Modern Times. That was Father’s reward to me for not giving in to those kids.

In our gymnasium it was accepted that boys made friends with each other in school, shared a desk, played sport together, and everybody got the same treatment. I remember an incident that happened in our school: in my class there was one Altman, he was an excellent student; he has remained in my memory because I used to compete with him constantly.

A boy whose name was Gobanowicz beat up Altman at school. The next day I went up to Gobanowicz and said to him, ‘You shit, you won’t hit smaller kids.’ I punched him on his snout and we started to fight.

I beat him up horribly, and that affair had a very unusual ending. The parents of that Gobanowicz, who were Endeks 17, came to school protesting that Jews were bullying their son.

So Zolkiewski, our class supervisor, called up my mom from the school – the telephone number in our apartment was 83559; I remember that number to this day – and told her laughing: ‘Mrs. Krasucki, there has been a complaint against your boy.

He is bullying Poles.’ Zolkiewski was a wonderful man. Mom went to the school, and later on that story was recounted as a funny anecdote. But terrible things happened, too. Once I was given a soccer ball and went out along with other boys from my school to play soccer.

A bunch of hoodlums came along and when they found out that the ball was mine, they took it away from me. If that hadn’t been a Jewish ball, then perhaps they would have given it back.

In terms of my friends, I had three groups of buddies. The first group comprised the boys with whom I had been friends since elementary school and who went on to attend the same gymnasium.

Among them was a Polish kid, Zdzisiek Goscinski, a friend with whom I shared a desk both in elementary school and in gymnasium. The Goscinskis lived on Hoza Street right across from us. His father worked for the ZUS [Social Insurance Administration], and was a member of the PPS.

That was another bond that existed between us. In the future they were to provide assistance to my mother. When my mother escaped from the ghetto, they arranged a ‘Kennkarte’ [German identification document] for her and gave her all the appropriate advice.

That group also included Julek Konopka, the son of Jerzy Roland, a well-known actor; Roland – was his stage name.

Julek was a child of a mixed marriage – his dad was a Pole and his mother was a beautiful Jewish woman, who was a dancer at the Grand Theater.

The other members of that group were two brothers, sons of a Warsaw streetcar driver. The five of us used to play tennis and bridge together, and go to matinee showings of westerns. 

My second group of buddies were the kids with whom I played basketball. And the third group were friends with whom I shared intellectual interests. That group included Adamski, a Polish kid.

I was the editor of a classroom newsletter, which was called The Creaky Desks, while Abramski wrote a serialized novel for consecutive issues of that newsletter.

In addition, I penned satirical poems. The third buddy was one Marek Hausman. He was a Jew, the son of a physician; he had a twin sister.

They lived somewhere on Szpitalna Street in the downtown district. That Marek Hausman was a fantastic kid, an awfully voracious reader. Abramski was interested in literature, too; by then he must have already read every book: Lechon 18, Lesmian 19; my knowledge of half of world literature came from him.

Marek Hausman – he was the stuff of a great university professor; he was a walking encyclopedia. We discussed books, debated politics, and went to see ambitious films that addressed serious issues.

I remember how profoundly affected we were by the famous pacifist feature called Comrades in Arms. An excellent movie – I remember it to this day.

I and my buddies from that third group had a dream that when we all went to university, albeit to different departments, we would be like a Masonic lodge of sorts, an inseparable trio of buddies. 

My first girlfriend was Halinka, a Pole and daughter of a Polish police inspector. Even before I started to make money on my own, I saved the 30 groszy of the streetcar fare by running to school on foot, so as to be able to invite Halinka for ice cream at ‘The Italian’s’ on Aleje Ujazdowskie [vey popular cafe in prewar Warsaw].

It was thanks to those friends that no Polish family, no Polish boy or girl was exotic for me. I was free from any feeling of strangeness. Without that ‘training’ of being among Poles, to put it in cynical terms, familiarity with the Polish mentality, with the Polish boy, the Polish girl, with the contradictions inherent in the Polish character, I probably wouldn’t have survived the war. 

• During the war

Then came September 1939 [also see Annexation of Eastern Poland] 20. I remember when airplanes appeared in the sky and the war started.

On 3rdSeptember Britain and France declared war on Germany, so I along with thousands of other Warsaw kids congregated in front of the British embassy.

There we sang ‘It’s a long way [to Tipperary]’ [British soldiers’ song from WWI]; next we went to the French embassy, where we sang ‘Madelon’; the impulse drove us on to the Czechoslovak embassy on Koszykowa Street, which had already been closed, where General Svoboda [Svoboda, Ludvik (1895-1979): Czechoslovak Communist activist; in 1939, commander of the Czech and Slovak Legion brigade in Poland] appeared before us, so we yelled there: ‘Long live our Czech brothers!,’ and we had an awfully good time altogether, until we realized what war was really like. 

People knew who Hitlerwas and nobody had any doubts about that; on the other hand, we didn’t foresee then that it would take such a shape or form. Mother tended towards extreme pessimism.

The rest of the family, however, retained these positive notions about the Germans. Dad evacuated eastwards, obeying the famous order of Colonel Umiastowski 21, and got as far as Lutsk.

My father reasoned that this was a mortal enemy, and decided to escape from Warsaw as both a Jew and a Socialist. The rest of the family stayed put. I stood on Hoza Street when the German troops paraded in front of Adolf Hitler on Aleje Ujazdowskie. After all, I lived about 200-300 yards from the route of that parade. 

A few days later, a regular occupation was already in place. Several times, when I went to Walicow Street to find out what would happen to our school, on Zelazna and adjacent streets I witnessed the cutting off of beards and side locks of Jewish men.

One day they were looking for people to fill in trenches. As I was a tall kid, they took me along with some other Jews to do that work.

Mom found my documents and came to take me back, for the announcement was that only those over 16 were to report for labor; she was able to prove that I wasn’t yet 16 and took me home in triumph.

Mom had a very good appearance [i.e. she didn’t look Jewish], so that even after the introduction of the armband regulation 22, we didn’t put them on. 

I was such a proud kid that I felt hurt and humiliated by notices that said ‘No entry for Jews.’ My own helplessness and the constant threat of humiliation irritated me.

Moreover, my own assessment of what could befall us from the Germans was very pessimistic; my attitude was so naively patriotic – by what right have they trampled on my Poland!

I told my family that I couldn’t stand it any more, that it would all end very badly, and that I didn’t want to live under such conditions.

I realized that it was an entire system, that it was growing and there would be more of it. After all, in Wawer they had already killed a mass of people [a community close to Warsaw; in December 1939 the Germans executed 107 people there], so I reasoned: if they had knocked off a crowd of Poles, would they spare Jews?

I made up my mind to run away to my father. Mom was the only one in the family to approve of my departure, if after a long hesitation.

My family was focused on survival and clung to the belief that it would be possible to adjust and survive somehow. I said that ‘somehow’ wasn’t good enough for me, and while there was still the slightest chance, I was going to cross the border illegally to get to Dad in Lutsk.

My family had to accept my decision. Later on, they all moved to the ghetto and all of them, with the exception of my mom, died there. 

I left Warsaw in January 1940. At the time I was 14 years and a few months old. I found myself in the position of a grown-up man. After several adventures, I reached Dad. The first thing he told me was: ‘Son, remember that if you tell anyone that I was in the PPS, you won’t see me again.’

In Lutsk, Dad faced various complications both as an escapee and as a PPS member. I was also aware that I could get into trouble, but not for being a Jew. Our first problem was that we were to be deported as refugees.

[The reference is to mass deportations into the interior of the Soviet Union carried out by the Soviet authorities on the Polish territory occupied by the Red Army in September 1939.

Their first victims were members of the Polish intelligentsia, civic activists, etc. Those deportations took place in the context of terror.] Father, who wasn’t lacking in imagination, had the idea that we would board a passenger boat that cruised the river Styr and wait out the transports on that boat.

Thus, we traveled up and down the Styr for two days. We returned to Lutsk after the deportations had ended. Dad obtained a passport, but had to report to the police periodically. At that time Dad’s youngest sister, Aunt Lucja, was deported to Siberia with her husband. 

As a chemist, Father became ‘glavtech inspektor,’ which means chief technical inspector, in a cooperative of photographers. [Following the Soviet model, in the occupied areas] private photography shops were closed down and a cooperative of photographers was established in their place.

‘Nachalstvo’ [management] was brought from Kiev, but they didn’t have the faintest idea about photography. Later, Father became chief accountant in a restaurant that had just been nationalized.

After all, he had attended school under the tsarist regime, knew Russian, and was thus an ideal candidate for chief accountant. In this way Dad came to hold two jobs. All that time I attended a Polish school, and I also worked on the railroads for a period of time. 

In June 1941 the Germans came [see Great Patriotic War] 23. They behaved atrociously from day one. They really took their gloves off over there.

Besides the Germans, there were a great many Ukrainian fascists who informed, exposed, tormented, and generally geared up for the bloodbath, which in any case they carried out a year later.

Father was taken five days after the entry of the Germans. I don’t know who fingered my father, or whether he was denounced as a Jew or an educated Pole. One day I said good-bye to Dad and told him I was going to meet some friends, and when I came back, he was gone.

At first, they held them in the municipal park. I went towards the park; from a distance I could see a crowd of men, but I couldn’t get any closer, since anybody who got close was shot at.

The following morning they took them away somewhere; it turned out that they finished off all those men. I didn’t get to see Dad’s body. Only many years after the downfall of the Soviet Union was there an exhumation and a ceremony. 

My friends told me that I could count on them. Risking their own lives, they went with me to the Ukrainian police where they testified that I was a Pole, and that was how I got my identity papers. Nobody fingered me as a Jew. That was in Volhynia, where the Poles behaved very decently. 

In mid-September 1941, the Lutsk ghetto 24 was established. I saw my worst conjectures confirmed, which once again determined my subsequent fate. I said that I wouldn’t surrender to the Germans voluntarily and that I wouldn’t go into any ghetto.

All the adults around me were convinced that my attitude was foolish, but I dug my heels in. 

One of the people who went into the ghetto left me his watch with the request that I sell it and send him food. Several days later I managed to sell the watch and buy some pork fat and a small bag of flour and groats; next, I found a man who agreed to take it into the ghetto.

He told me that he had done it successfully, but ever since I have been tormented by doubt as to whether he told me the truth and if that other man, as he was dying in the Lutsk ghetto, didn’t think that I had swindled him.

I stayed in Lutsk as long I could, but when I started getting warnings from all sides that my position was becoming increasingly precarious, I decided to escape from the town. My teacher gave me directions to a Polish self-defense group that was being organized in the area.

The commander of that group – Master Sergeant Franciszek Adamowicz – took me in, and ten days before Christmas Day 1941 I became an underground fighter. The group comprised some Polish reserve officers, a few Russians – soldiers who had managed to escape from German captivity – and some Jewish boys from the areas of Klevan, Olyka, etc.

In that partisan unit I went through the entire training and took part in skirmishes with the enemy. We had to deal with the Ukrainian police all the time. The one guy about whom I know for sure that I shot at him and he took a tumble was a Ukrainian policeman. 

In spring 1942 I reported to Adamowicz that I wanted to go to Warsaw because my mother was there, and perhaps I could save her. I went to see a friend of my parents –Puhaczewski.

He was, of course, in the Home Army 25 or AK; that was soon after the AK was created. Puhaczewski knew that Mom was in the ghetto because she had called him up once.

Puhaczewski fed me and said: ‘we advise you against going to the ghetto. We will try and see if we can locate your mom, but I’m going to send you to Lublin region, where a partisan unit is being formed to receive airdrops.’

I spent several days in Warsaw; it so happened that the gentleman at whose place I was staying had a daughter of my age. So that girl and I went together, pretending to be some happy couple, to see the ghetto [they probably rode the ‘Aryan’ streetcar that transited the ghetto]. And in fact, I saw what it was like inside.

I must say that at that moment I felt something like fear at the thought that if I went in there, I would be done for, for sure. I saw those faces, saw everything, and it was terrifying.

I didn’t stand a chance. The upshot was that Puhaczewski told me that if he found my mom, he would take care of her in some way, and I was sent off to the partisan detachment. 

That is how I found myself in the detachment of Jaskolka in the Western Lublin region. That was the Pulawy-Deblin district. I arrived at the unit with a strong recommendation; a highly placed official in the Home Army had sent me to it, after all.

The mission of that detachment was to receive airdrops. In the partisan unit I passed for a Pole, but the commander obviously surmised that I was a Jew. He ordered me to report to him if anyone asked me unnecessary questions. He told me to keep in the rear during combat missions.

Contrary to common belief, the most important and the most exposed soldier in a unit is not the one who goes first, but the one who comes last.

Jaskolka knew that although the rear of the detachment was the most dangerous position, I could handle it; and while I was at the back no comrade from the unit would shoot me in my back: ‘You will hold your own against the Germans, and no one else will knock you off, either.’ Of course, nobody ever tried to knock me off; in fact, I felt rather comfortable with the other guys. Nobody in the unit said that they loved Jews, but there was general condemnation of the Holocaust.

I remember that once we entered some little town the day after its Jews had been taken away. We found a situation where local inhabitants were fighting, with knives drawn, over pots and eiderdowns that the Jews had left behind.

I remember that Jaskolka spat and said: ‘It boggles your mind; worse than animals, worse than pigs.’

In April 1943, I reported to Jaskolka that I wanted to go to Warsaw. He gave his consent several weeks later. I had great identity papers, a well-planned route, and I knew whom I could turn to for help.

I reached Warsaw without any problems; the rising in the Warsaw ghetto was in its third day [see Warsaw Ghetto Uprising] 26. There was no news of my family. It was known that horrific things were going on, but exactly what and how – that we didn’t know. Under the circumstances, there was no use in trying, and a few days later I was, consistent with the orders I had received, on my way back to the unit.

I wasn’t aware that Mom had come out of the ghetto in February 1942, two months before I arrived in Warsaw with the intention of getting her out.

Our neighbors, the Goscinskis, had arranged for a ‘Kennkarte’ for her, Mom had left the ghetto, and gone to the Lublin region.

There she became involved in underground education activities. My mother was the only one to leave the ghetto, while the rest of the family remained there.

Meanwhile, the train on which I was returning to my partisan unit in the Lublin region was stopped several miles before Radom, and all the young men were arrested, including me.

The Germans were looking for someone from the underground; they weren’t at all curious who I was. They were after someone else. That was how, in a matter that had nothing to do with me, without my being in any way connected with the person who had been reported to be traveling on that train, I ended up at the Gestapo in Radom.

The interrogation was horrible; I had matches put under my nails. I found myself in a totally absurd position. Had they asked me any questions that I could have answered, possible that they might have forced some information out of me, but they didn’t.

They simply wanted to identify the guy they had zeroed in on among the group of young men they had detained. 

From Radom they transported our group to the central Gestapo prison in Cottbus. There I was kept in several locations, and finally, in the first days of July 1943, I arrived in Stutthof 27.

I was held there as a Polish political prisoner; my files said I was a suspected partisan. I remained in Stutthof until 1945, then I went on a death march 28 as they drove us first toward Lebork [100 km west of the Stutthof concentration camp] and then back, because our troops were already near Kolobrzeg [on the west coast of the Baltic, site of a very fierce battle between Germans and the Polish Army in March 1945].

It was a death march as described in the literature; they shot anyone who couldn’t keep up; we didn’t get any food. Being a young man, I managed to hold out somehow.

• After the war

On 12thMarch 1945 we were liberated by the Red Army in Puck [50 km east of Lembork]. Naturally, my initial feeling after the liberation was joy, a sense of relief, but right after that came a desire to get on with my life, obtain food and a roof over my head. I was much older and my way of thinking was also very different.

When I had come to Warsaw in April 1943, I had seen a terrifying picture of a city in ruins. On Hoza Street where we used to live there was nothing, just a heap of rubble. Subsequently, someone told me that Mom had stayed alive until the Warsaw Uprising 29 and was killed during it.

Thus, I thought that there was no use in trying to find my mother, and that the rest of the family was dead. I decided to go to Lodz to the Goscinskis.

In Lodz I signed up for Lower Silesia and was one of the first settlers to arrive in Lubin county [see Settlers in Lower Silesia] 30.

In Lubin, where I arrived as the tenth or perhaps eleventh Polish settler, there were several Jews. Among them was the first physician who had miraculously survived the war in the Radom region; he was the only person capable of providing medical assistance there.

He and I talked about what to do next, but I didn’t have any intention of emigrating at all; I simply didn’t take that option into consideration. For me, emigration would be tantamount to putting up a white flag, to capitulation.

I reasoned that I wouldn’t allow anybody to squeeze me out of here, nobody could throw me out of here; I wouldn’t give anyone the satisfaction of saying that I had got out of Poland.

I understood those who were leaving; later on, I was happy for the establishment of Israel and I welcomed the good news that came from there.

It was members of my own nation that had chosen that path, and they are close to my heart, but myself, I have never wanted to depart from Poland. 

In 1946 my aunt Lucja and her husband returned from Siberia. We had long talks. They said they were emigrating not because they didn’t want to be in Poland, but because they had become acquainted with the pleasures of Siberia [Poles deported to the interior of the Soviet Union were kept in inhuman conditions and forced to do hard labor].

The new Poland wouldn’t be truly independent and they wished to get farther away from the Soviet Union that they had learned to hate heartily. I told them that I understood their point of view perfectly well, but I wouldn’t join them because Poland was my home.

In this country I am not a tolerated guest, a guest performer, nor had I found myself here by chance. Here I am simply at home, and that’s my view on that matter, while I have nothing against any other different viewpoint. 

The revival of Jewish life filled me with great joy. After all, Lower Silesia had a huge Jewish community; besides my own organization, the OMTUR 31, there was also Zukunft 32, a Bundist youth organization.

Bundist labor cooperatives were being established. Members of the OMTUR and the Zukunft paraded together dressed in blue shirts and red ties. That was a large and fine community.

I took sympathetic notice of the revival of religious life, even though, as I have already stated many times, that wasn’t an area in which I was interested. I didn’t hide my background or pretend to be someone other than I was in any way. I mean that I didn’t pretend to be either a Catholic or a pious Jew.

After the war, a change came over me that forced me to exist without certainty as to where I would sleep the next night. I simply turned into a brute. Twice I made a desperate attempt to build something like a home. On both occasions I had to accept with regret that I was simply not made for it.

In 1947 I moved to Wroclaw, and it was also during that period that I found my mom. The circumstances under which I found her were really incredible. Namely, my love from the Lutsk period, Alla, came to see me in Wroclaw.

When I was with the partisans, I thought that after the war I would go back Lutsk, find Alla somewhere, and perhaps together we could build something solid. She was the girl of my dreams. Alla gave me a powerful motivation to survive.

After the war, Alla and her mother repatriated from Volhynia to Czechoslovakia, and from that country Alla came to visit me in Wroclaw. I took her to Warsaw to show her the place where I had grown up.

In the courtyard of our house on Hoza Street, I was unexpectedly embraced and kissed by our prewar janitor. Alla and I spent several hours at his place; together we downed a bottle and told each other our wartime stories.

On the following day, my mom, who was already working on Wiejska Street [the location of the Parliament building], decided, for no clear reason, to have another look at the rubble of our former house.

Mr. Walenty came out to her and said: ‘Good morning to you, Mrs. Krasucki, but I must tell you that your son, that terrible rascal, has turned into a hunk of a man.’ At that moment Mom fainted.

Only after he brought her around did my mom start to interrogate him as to where I was, how to find me, what I was up to. Since our conversation had been accompanied by copious drinking, the janitor didn’t remember much; in the end it was established that I was somewhere in the west, probably in Lower Silesia, perhaps in Wroclaw. In the meantime I said good-bye to Alla and went back to Wroclaw. 

On Monday an excited colleague of mine brings me a newspaper where I read the following: Stefania alias Stella Krasucka, domiciled before the war in Warsaw, 7 Hoza Street, is looking for her son, Ludwik, who is most likely living in Lower Silesia, and then it said in brackets – probably in Wroclaw.

Please call such and such a phone number with any information.

There was a post office nearby; I ordered a long-distance call and had to wait four or five hours for the connection – that was how the phones worked then – at last they tell me to go the telephone booth and I can hear Mom’s voice... The year was 1947, the first days of April. At that time Mom was working in Warsaw in the Parliament library, which she had created after the war.

I joined the PPS and OMTUR after the war. Those were the early days, the first weeks after the liberation, and I had a rather blurred picture of what was going on in Poland, so I decided to follow my father’s example.

I went to Lubin as a PPS and OMTUR member. There I established local PPS and OMTUR organizations; founded the sports club ‘Zawisza Lubin’, and in general busied myself with dozens of tasks to become, in the end, the [county] secretary of the PPS. It seems that I distinguished myself, as they transferred me to Wroclaw, where I was named city secretary. 

Wroclaw was one of the cities where the local PPS organizations were strongest. In Wroclaw I had three times as many PPS members as there were members of the PPR 33.

As a result, it was in Wroclaw that the historical 27thand last congress of the PPS party was held. And I, a 22-year-old brat, was the host of that congress. In that way I became a PPS activist.

At the Wroclaw PPS congress, I gave a very good speech; Cyrankiewicz remembered me from that speech [Cyrankiewicz, Jozef (1911-1989): from 1945 secretary general of the PPS, implemented the Communist-imposed plan for the merger of the PPS and the PPR], and in spring 1948 I was promoted to the post of PPS provincial secretary in Gdansk. 

Naive as I was, I realized that the PPR would obviously have an advantage, but I didn’t expect that it would eventually take the shape of a headlong rush into Stalinism.

I tried not to allow any wrongs to be done to people under the guise of purging the party; especially that numerous experts had joined the PPS on the Baltic Coast.

Those were Kwiatkowski’s people [Kwiatkowski, Eugeniusz (1888-1974): prewar Polish Minister of Industry and Trade], who had built up Poland’s maritime economy before the war.

I opposed their expulsion from the party. The upshot of all that, combined with my past affiliation with the Home Army, was that while I was supposedly the local leader of the PPS, two days prior to the unification congress [at the Unification Congress held on 15thDecember 1948 the PPR and the PPS were merged, resulting in the founding of the Communist party, Polska Zjednoczona Partia Robotnicza (PZPR, Polish United Workers Party).

The PZPR was established on terms imposed by the PPR, following the expulsion of independent-minded leaders of the PPS], I learned that I was no longer to come to work, that from now on I wouldn’t be given any assignment. My party membership was suspended for almost a year after the unification. 

Under the circumstances, I decided not to waste my time and I enrolled on a German Studies course at Torun University. It was only in November 1949 that I was given another job.

I became head of the Department of Science, Education and Culture in Gdansk. I founded two theatres and brought about the establishment of the Baltic Opera; I still have friends from that time. 

In 1952 I was transferred to Poznan to a post that was similar to the one I had held in Gdansk [i.e., head of the Department of Science, Education and Culture].

On my departure, they had given me very good references, with the reservation, however, that I wasn’t ideologically sound, and lacked a sufficiently solid grounding in theory.

The head of the personnel department in the Central Committee then summoned me. One of the questions he put to me was: ‘Comrade, you were with the Home Army, and the Home Army was in general anti-Semitic, dominated by the Endeks.’

That wasn’t exactly the case, but rather a notion he had. ‘I would like you to tell me in your own words how you managed to stay alive?’ That made my blood boil, and I replied: ‘Comrade Tokarski, why should the two of us waste our time, as you have enough power to eliminate that mistake.’

[The question put by the personnel head was in fact anti-Semitic, as it implied that any Jew who survived the war must have committed contemptible acts. Krasucki’s response includes an allusion to the mass detentions carried out by the state security forces during the Stalinist period.]

In Poznan I finished my university studies in 1954. From 1954 I lived in Szczecin. The ferment that was to lead to the October crisis began in 1956 [see Polish October 1956] 34, and in early April 1956 I called for deep changes in the leadership of the Communist party, the rehabilitation of the PPS, and the return of Gomulka [Gomulka, Wladyslaw (1905-1982), a Communist activist who was removed from his post for a rightist-nationalist deviation in 1948, and was rehabilitated in 1956].

That caused a big commotion. Following the Poznan events [In June 1956 workers in Poznan staged strikes, which ended up in street fighting suppressed by military units], I was instrumental in organizing a big meeting of party activists in Szczecin, during which I presented a diametrically opposite assessment of the Poznan events, arguing that it was the last call for the reform of the system.

My PZPR membership rights were suspended and I was deprived the right to publish. On an earlier occasion, while I was already living in Szczecin, I did my first translations of Heine, and had a small volume of his poetry and a study about that German poet published. 

In late summer 1956 I was transferred to Warsaw. I worked in Trybuna Ludu [a daily published in Warsaw in 1948-1990, organ of the Central Committee of the PZPR] and in Zycie Warsawy [a popular Warsaw daily], and published articles in Polityka [a socio-political weekly, which expressed the views of moderately reformist groups within the PZPR].

In Warsaw I put into practice my idea that as a student of German culture I should specialize in the ‘Storm and Stress’ period, the era of the German Enlightenment and German Romanticism, and over several years, that is between 1958 and 1961, I lectured in the German Studies department. In February 1960, I successfully defended my Ph.D. thesis.

I am the author of four film scripts, including three written jointly with my friend Ryszard Pietruski [a popular Polish actor]. One of those screenplays served as the basis for a movie entitled Wilczy bilet [Outcast], which was shown for the first time in 1964. In the years 1965–1970 I taught German drama at the Drama School in Warsaw. 

During the March events of 1968 [see Gomulka Campaign] 35, a sort of proscription list was in circulation, which included the names of all the Jews. My name was added at the bottom.

That fact shows that they had a problem with my case because of my service with the Home Army and because I wasn’t an old-guard communist, but in the end they added my name as well.

Later I was barred from the meetings of the editorial team and subjected to all possible harassments. My salary was also cut. I was very good friends with Michal Lucki, a very talented reporter, who couldn’t bear the situation any more and decided to emigrate.

The editor-in-chief of Trybuna Ludu called me in and asked whether or not I intended to go. I said: ‘No, I can tell you right away that the only crime I will commit in Poland is that if you throw me out, I will slip back over the border illegally.’ 

Some of my colleagues at Trybuna Ludu behaved very decently towards me, but others didn’t. I must say that the openness, intensity, and sheer boorishness of the anti-Semitic campaign surpassed my wildest expectations.

As far as the official anti-Semitism cultivated by the PRL [the Polish Communist state] and the PZPR is concerned, I think that the main danger it represents has to do with the fact that the generation of protagonists of that campaign is still around in public life.

Much scum came to the surface at that time and has remained in public life ever since. For several years, I was to serve as a revisionist bogeyman within the PZPR.

There were attacks against me, as a hidden enemy of Socialism, in roughly every other newspaper. At the time I found them irritating; I never thought that one day those attacks would be a source of glory for me.

Throughout my life I’ve had both Jewish and Polish friends – that distinction didn’t mean anything to me. I’ve always had good friends who were Jews. I was friends with Arnold Mostowicz 36, Marian Turski [journalist and Jewish activist], my colleagues from Polityka, etc.

Those were normal relationships, just as I maintained friendly relations with many Poles all the time. 

In 1970 my mother died. She was buried in the Powazki cemetery. Mom was a typical representative of the Polish intelligentsia of Jewish descent, and the Powazki is the cemetery of the Polish intelligentsia.

Mom was also entitled to a grave there on account of her work for the Parliament. Anyhow, that institution took care of her burial. 

Mom had always kept in touch with our family in Israel, and I kept up those contacts after her death. I went to Israel for the first time in spring 1988.

My father’s two sisters lived there with their families: Aunt Lucja Margulies has two daughters, Batja (Bronia) and Vita, and Aunt Wonia Richter also has two children – Ryfka and Zeev.

Bronia is a physician; she and I have kept in touch; she used to call me up. As a matter of fact, they came to visit me before I went to Israel. Lucja, my Dad’s youngest sister, had an apartment in Israel that was crammed with Polish books.

They knew what plays were on in Warsaw, in which theater. They used to stand in long lines in order to buy a single new book that had just arrived in the famous Polish bookstore. 

While in Israel, I was instrumental in making possible the visit by Peres, as minister of foreign affairs of the incumbent government. That visit contributed to the ‘unblocking’ of relations between Poland and Israel.

As a well-known journalist, I had a conversation with one of Peres’ advisors, went to see various people, and the upshot was that Peres came to Poland after years of complete freeze in mutual relations. 

I’ve been married three times. From my first marriage I have a daughter, Monika, born in 1946, who has a degree in Polish studies, works as a radio journalist, and lives in Wroclaw. Regrettably, I have no grandchildren.

In the case of my daughter, who is a child of a mixed marriage, she is a Jewess to a greater degree than I am a Jew.

I tend to react to all issues that concern me as a Jew or those related with various aspects of a broadly understood Jewish concern in a common-sense sort of way, with due consideration, dispassionately, whereas my daughter’s response is similar in general orientation, but much more emotional.

Because of that, we tell each other in jest that while I am a 100 percent Jew, she is a 200 percent Jewess. She is simply allergic to any type of anti-Semitism, chauvinism, and xenophobia.

She is very much interested in the folklore and history of the Jews, reads a lot about these subjects, but is not religious. Like myself, she doesn’t have any emotional need to emphasize her identity, which used to be somewhat blurred; she simply considers that everything in her life is the way it should be. 

My first two marriages were short affairs. My third wife is Alina Elzbieta nee Kaniewska, born in 1931 in Warsaw. This is my true marriage; it is now just 43 years since that wonderful day in 1961 when we met for the first time.

I’m very close to my spouse; she is an ethnic Pole, very strongly attached to me, a woman who shared with me my fate and vicissitudes with stamina and fortitude and with the maximum of goodwill.

We are a tried-and-true marriage. My wife is from the intelligentsia; her father was a lawyer and was killed during the Occupation. Herself, she has a degree in music and has had a forty-year career as actress, singer, and concert soloist.

It is very important that my wife, who is stepmother to my daughter, has an excellent relationship with her; they understand each other perfectly, and importantly, they find it very easy to form a common front against me.

My own attitude to the events of 1989 37 was and remains a positive one; however, even then I perceived the potential threat of populism, was afraid that democracy would fall into the typical rut of Polish anarchy, the ‘liberum veto’ [the right to block any legislation by a single individual in the diet of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth in the 17thand 18thcenturies].

I feared a bit that a dangerous gap would open up in Poland between a small group of very wealthy individuals and the large mass of people whose very foundations of existence have been painfully shaken by the transformations. And these three fears of mine have been realized.

For the last four years I’ve been working for the Association of Jewish Combatants and Casualties in World War II. Prior to this, I handled compensations paid to Polish Jews from a Swiss fund.

Arnold Mostowicz invited me to participate in this work. While he was president of the Association, I was elected, on his initiative, its secretary general. Due to the poor state of his health I carried on the work, and subsequently I was elected president of the Association.

This is an important task in my life for two reasons. First, you age more slowly when you have plenty of work. Second, in my life I have done many things, which were – in my opinion at a given time – useful; I think now that some of them were positive, about a few others I think with a measure of irony or even embarrassment, but during all that time I never occupied myself with community work, in the narrow sense of the term, among Jews and for Jews.

The last six years are the completion and conclusion of my biography, and as such they are of great significance for me. 

Currently, several hundred young people in Poland have decided to return to their Jewish roots and are doing so with huge enthusiasm. I consider this development positive, but I don’t overrate its importance.

No multitudes of young enthusiastic Jews and Jewesses will appear in this country; this affair concerns several hundred individuals.

It is good that they are here, since their presence ensures a measure of continuity and some kind of survival, but it isn’t possible to change the facts of history. I’ve never shared the naive belief that there will be some great renaissance here.

Of course, it is with tremendous satisfaction that I greet any manifestations of this process, but I wouldn’t call it a renaissance, since renaissance is altogether a very big word. 

• Glossaries:

The Kingdom of Poland (other names: the Congress Kingdom, Congress Kingdom of Poland): founded in 1815 by a decision of the Congress of Vienna.

It extended throughout the lands of the Kingdom of Warsaw with the exception of the Poznan and Bydgoszcz provinces and the city of Cracow. It had an area (until 1912) of 128,500 km2and a population of 3.3m in 1816 and 10m in 1910.

The Kingdom of Poland was a monarchy linked by a personal union with Russia, with the tsar as king. It had a Polish Sejm (diet), government and army, but was not permitted to conduct its own foreign policy.

The constitution, though formally liberal, was systematically violated. The Kingdom of Poland was a center of the Polish liberation movement. In 1830 the November Uprising broke out; following its failure the Kingdom of Poland ceased to be a separate state and was henceforth to be an integral part of the Russian Empire.

After the January Uprising in 1863 the Kingdom was stripped of its separate identity altogether. In official documents the name ‘the Kingdom of Poland’ was replaced with the expression ‘the Country along the Vistula’.

In the second half of the 19thcentury the country was subjected to intensive Russification. In 1915 it was occupied by German and Austrian forces; the occupation lasted until November 1918. After 1918 the lands of the Kingdom of Poland became part of the independent Poland.

2 Duchy of Warsaw: state founded in 1807 by Napoleon. Formally a sovereign entity, it was in fact dependent on its alliance with France. The Kingdom of Warsaw comprised mostly Polish lands that had been annexed to Prussia (the 2ndand 3rdPartitions of Poland).

It covered an area of 155,000 km2and had a population of 4.3m. It was a constitutional monarchy linked by a personal union with Saxony.

In January 1813 the Kingdom of Warsaw was occupied by Russian forces; in March Tsar Alexander I convened a Provisional Supreme Council of the Kingdom of Warsaw, and in 1815 the kingdom was abolished by a decision taken at the Congress of Vienna.

3 Warsaw Ghetto: A separate residential district for Jews in Warsaw created over several months in 1940. On 16thNovember 1940 138,000 people were enclosed behind its walls.

Over the following months the population of the ghetto increased as more people were relocated from the small towns surrounding the city. By March 1941 445,000 people were living in the ghetto. Subsequently, the number of the ghetto’s inhabitants began to fall sharply as a result of disease, hunger, deportation, persecution and liquidation.

The ghetto was also systematically reduced in size. The internal administrative body was the Jewish Council (Judenrat). The Warsaw ghetto ceased to exist on 15thMay 1943, when the Germans pronounced the failure of the uprising, staged by the Jewish soldiers, and razed the area to the ground. 

Dora Puchalskaya
Ternopol
Ukraine
Interviewer: Zhanna Litinskaya
Date of interview: August 2003

Dora Puchalskay likes to wear warm woolen sweaters that she knitted herself and knitted leggings. Dora lives in a big three-room apartment alone: her older son Anatoli died recently after being ill for 17 years. Dora is in mourning, but she met me with pleasure. There is plain furniture in Dora’s apartment, but she has gorgeous embroidered pictures on the walls that she made herself. Dora embroidered sitting by her son’s bed in the evenings. She feels lonely and deserted after she lost her son. A nice downy cat Tom that Dora bought as a present on 8 March follows his mistress wherever she walks. He is Dora’s only consolation. Dora has a friend in the Jewish community and her neighbors also come to see and support her. Dora makes pastries and they have tea and talk about life for hours. Dora also spends a lot of time knitting and embroidering.

Family background
Growing up
During the War
After the War
GLOSSARY

Family background

My maternal and paternal ancestors came from Litin, an old district town in Vinnitsa province. I’ve never been in Litin, but my mother told me that the beginning of the 20th century its population was about ten thousand people. Almost half of them were Jews. There was Ukrainian, Russian and Polish population involved in farming for the most part. Jews dealt in crafts and trade like everywhere else within the Pale of settlement 1 of the Russian Empire. They were tailors, shoemakers, cabinetmakers, glasscutters. There was a synagogue in the center of the town, where most Jewish families traditionally resided.

My father’s parents Yakov (Yankel in the Jewish manner) and Riva Gitman lived in the center. They were born in Litin in the 1880s. They got married some time in 1905. Their wedding was prearranged by a matchmaker, which was customary for Jewish families. I don’t have any information about their families or my grandmother’s maiden name. The only education my grandfather had was cheder. He was a high skilled tailor. He made men’s and women’s clothes and provided well for his family. My grandparents had five children. Grandmother Riva was a housewife. My father told me that they observed all traditions and followed kashrut. They observed Sabbath and Jewish holidays. My grandfather didn’t work on Saturday. My grandmother and grandfather went to synagogue on Saturday and high holidays and fasted on the Day of Atonement. My grandfather wore a hat or a cap and my grandmother wore a kerchief that was a customs with Jews. However, they were not fanatically religious. My father and his brothers studied at cheder. Their parents gave their children an opportunity to determine their priorities in life and make up their own decisions. My father later they gave up religion.

Shmul Gitman, the oldest brother, who was affectionately called Shmilyk at home, was born around 1906. After the revolution of 1917 2 Shmul finished a Pedagogical School and worked as a teacher at a secondary school in Litin and then in Zhmerinka where he moved after he got married in the 1930s. Shmul was recruited to the army on the first days of the Great Patriotic War 3. He never returned home from the war and we don’t know when, where or how he perished. His wife, whose name I don’t remember, and their three children – sons Abram and Efim and daughter Maria, born in the 1930s, were in evacuation in Tomsk [about 2,000 km from Kiev]. Abram and Efim stayed in Siberia. From there they moved to Israel in the late 1970s. They finished colleges and became chemical engineers. Maria and her mother returned to Zhmerinka after the war. Maria and her family also live in Israel, also from the late 1970s. They occasionally send me greetings on holidays. I know that they are pleased with their life. 

The next child Fania was born in 1908. Fania didn’t have any education. She married a Jewish man who dealt in trade. His name was Abram Kipnis. Fania was a housewife. During the Great Patriotic War Abram, Fania and their daughters Raisa, Anna and Mara were in evacuation in Bugulma [about 3,000 km from Kiev]. After the war they lived in Zhmerinka. Fania died in 1980s. Her daughters moved to Israel in late 1980s.

My father’s younger sister Bertha – she was usually called Bella –, born in 1912 was everybody’s favorite in the family. In the late 1930s she married a Jewish man and moved to Leningrad where her husband lived. In spring 1941 Bella came to Zhmerinka to have her baby. She was there, when the war began. She, grandfather and grandmother and Fania’s family evacuated to Bugulma. Fania’s son Michael was born there. Bella’s husband perished at the front. In 1945 she married her husband’s friend who was in love with her. They moved to Leningrad. Bella had her second husband’s last name of Geller. In 1946 their son Yakov Geller was born. Bella died in Leningrad in the 1970s. Michael finished a technical school and Yakov finished a College of Economics in Ternopol. They’ve moved to the USA with their families. I’ve had no contacts with them.

My father’s youngest brother Pinkhus, born in 1915, lived his life in hometown. My father took care about him and called him ‘a little finger’ affectionately. In early 1941 he came to Vladimir-Volynskkiy where our family lived at the time. When the Great Patriotic War began he managed to send his wife and three children between 1-4 years of age in evacuation by train. It turned out later that their train was bombed near Vladimir-Volynskiy and they perished. Pinkhus was in occupation with us. During the war a Ukrainian family gave him shelter. After the war Pinkhus married a Jewish woman. They moved to Poland and from there to the USA. They didn’t have children. Pinkhus died in the middle of 1990s.

My father Lazar Gitman was born in Litin in 1910. He finished cheder and after the revolution of 1917 he studied at a Ukrainian secondary school where he met my mother and they became friends. They spent vacations in a pioneer camp and took part in pioneer meetings. They joined Komsomol 4 at school. After finishing school my father entered a Road Construction College in Vinnitsa. After finishing this college he returned to Litin and became a road engineer. My mother and father continued seeing each other, although my father’s parents were against their marriage. My father’s older brother Shmilyk was the first one to get married according to Jews traditions. Besides, my mother’s family was not as wealthy as my father’s and my father’s parents didn’t want him to marry a poor girl.

My maternal grandfather and grandmother Ghedali and Hana Richter also came from Litin. They were born in the late 1880s. I have no information about their families either. All I know is that grandmother Hana had two older brothers that moved to America in 1912 to avoid military service in the tsarist army. I don’t remember their names. My mother corresponded with them before the middle of the 1930s until corresponding with relatives abroad became unsafe [keep in touch with relatives abroad ]5. Grandfather Ghedali supplied fruit and vegetables for a tinned food factory before the revolution and during NEP 6. He owned a supply company that was nationalized 7 after the NEP. He continued working there. They had stocks of pears, apples and nuts in the basement of their house that saved them from hunger at the trying times. These stocks rescued them during famine in 1932-33 [famine in Ukraine] 8. Grandfather Ghedali and his family lived in a barrack-type house with another Jewish family. They lighted their house with candles or kerosene lamps and had a stove heating. My grandfather received this apartment from the factory where he worked and my grandparents lived there until the end of 1937. My mother’s family was not wealthy. Grandfather earned well, but grandmother Hana had stomach problems. They spent a lot of money on doctors and medications. Probably due to her illness they only had two children: my mother and her younger brother Aron, born in 1915. After finishing school Aron worked as an accountant in a military unit in Lvov. At the beginning of the Great Patriotic War he went to the front with his military unit and perished. He got married in early 1941. His Jewish wife, whose name I don’t remember, perished during occupation in Zhmerinka.

My mother’s parents were religious: they observed kashrut and Sabbath. My grandfather wore a kippah at home and a wide-brimmed hat to go out. My grandmother also wore a kerchief or a lace shawl. My grandfather and grandmother went to synagogue on Saturday and my mother stayed at home to set a festive dinner. They observed all Jewish holidays and fasted at Yom Kippur. They did a major cleanup of the house before Pesach and used special kosher crockery that they kept in the attic during the year. They bought matzah at the synagogue; in the 1930s they made it at home.

My mother Basia Richter was born in Litin in 1913. She was raised to observe the Jewish traditions and religion, but she was growing up during the first Soviet years inspired by the romantic feeling of construction of socialism. My mother studied in a Ukrainian lower secondary school. She said that her parents wanted her to study in a Jewish school, but since many other children went to a Ukrainian school my mother also wanted to study there. My mother was two years younger than my father and they didn’t communicate at school. They met in a pioneer camp in summer and had been together ever since. After finishing school my mother studied in a Pedagogical School. She became a primary school teacher. Although my mother was a Komsomol member, she observed Jewish traditions at home from respect of her parents.

After my father returned from Vinnitsa, their feelings toward one another took a new turn and they resumed seeing each other. They wanted to get married and my maternal grandmother Hana approved of this plan. She was very ill and was hoping to live to see her daughter well settled in life. Besides, during the famine of 1932-33 in Ukraine my mother’s family starved, even though they had fruit and vegetables in stocks. My mother told me how they made ‘bebka’, boiled water with a little bit of flour. My mother worked in a primary school and was forced to go to villagers’ home with a commission, which purpose was struggle against kulaks 9. My mother couldn’t help crying desperately seeing children swollen from hunger and the commission that took away the last piece of bread or jar of corns from them. She couldn’t refuse from participation in this commission for the fear of losing her job. My grandmother was hoping that my mother would have a better life with her husband, particularly that my father came from a wealthy family. My father’s parents were against their marriage, and my father didn’t dare to disobey them. My father’s younger brother Pinkhus sympathized with the young couple. He took them by their hands and they went to a registry office where they got married. When they told my father’s parents about their marriage my grandmother Riva got so angry that she didn’t speak to Pinkhus for few months blaming him for what he had done. She thought that my father would never dare to disobey his parents and she didn’t want to accept my mother. She was hoping that my father would have a traditional Jewish wedding marrying a rich girl. Therefore, my parents didn’t even have a small wedding party. After they got married they began to live at my mother’s home. Two or three months later my father got a job assignment in Zhmerinka, near Litin, in Vinnitsa region. My father got a room in a communal apartment 10 in a small one-storied building where I was born on 31 August 1933.

Growing up

I have dim memories about our life in Zhmerinka. It was a small town with a railway station. About half of its population was Jewish. There was a synagogue, like in all Jewish towns. Since my father joined the Communist Party in 1930, my parents stopped observing any Jewish holidays. We visited grandmother Hana and grandfather Ghedali at Pesach and Rosh Hashanah in Litin. Grandmother Riva also tempered justice with mercy in due time, particularly that Shmilyk got married shortly after my parents. Whenever we visited grandmother Riva and grandfather Ghedali I had an inner feeling that they didn’t treat my brother or me with the same care as they did Shmilyk’s children: they didn’t give us presents or show any affection.

In 1937 my mother gave birth to a boy. He was named Moro. My father didn’t dare to complete a brit milah for him since Soviet authorities struggled against religion 11 and this information came up my father might lose his job and be expelled from the Party. Therefore, my brother was not circumcised. During the war this saved his life. Shortly after Moro was born grandfather Ghedali died in 1937 and my mother moved grandmother Hana to live with us in Zhmerinka. My grandmother did the housework, looked after my brother and played with me. My mother went back to work at school. My father worked long hours, but when he came home from work he always tried to find some time to play with us. We didn’t go to kindergarten. My father loved my mother dearly, but he didn’t have an opportunity to spend much time with her. I remember that he bought her a stay in a recreation center for a month. We missed her a lot. Our father worked for a road construction company. He went to work even if he felt ill.

In 1940 our father got a new job assignment and we moved to Vladimir-Volynskiy in 370 km from Zhmerinka. Pinkhus and his family moved there shortly afterward. This town belonged to Poland [Annexation of Western Ukraine] 12 before 1 November 1939. When we moved there it was located in 8 km from a new border of Russia and Poland. There were many Jewish refugees who escaped from Hitler who occupied Poland. [Editor’s note: in September 1939 the Jewish population raised from 9 to 25 thousand people due to refugees.] Vladimir-Volynskiy was a lovely clean town. There was a big beautiful synagogue and nice stone houses with stores and shops in the town. There was a Catholic cathedral in the center. My father received a two-room apartment in a 2-storied house behind this cathedral in early 1941. We moved there from one room that we had from the school where my mother worked. It took us few months to repair the new apartment. We moved into it in the middle of June 1941. After our father moved our belongings to this new apartment, he went on a business trip. On 22 June 1941, when the Great Patriotic War began, our father was not at home. A day later fascists came to our yard. Our mother and we rushed to the basement. Our grandmother was confined to bed and stayed inside. Her bed was beside a window and when we got out we saw that the window was broken and she was covered with pieces of glass. Our mother hastily put away our father’s clothing and documents. He wore uniformed clothes that was in fashion with governmental and Party officials and my mother didn’t want fascists to find them. We knew from refugees that fascists were killing communists and Jews in the first turn. Of course, it was hard to believe that the situation was that bad. We didn’t believe at all that somebody would dare to attack us. It just happened and it was scaring. Pinkhus came to our house and mother began to excavate a hiding pit in the basement for him since Pinkhus was a communist.

During the War

The first days of occupation with army units in the town were relatively quiet until SS Sonderverband units came to town. They started operations against Jewish people. On 5 July they shot 500 men in the yard of the town prison. [Editor’s note: Dora mistakenly indicates the number of 500. Actually, about 150 men were shot on that day.] The rest of Jewish men were in hiding in homes and in the woods. When grandmother Hana died in early September 1941 there were no Jewish men in the town to take to bury her at the cemetery. My mother didn’t allow Pinkhus to leave the house and she had to carry grandmother to the cemetery with three old women who were our neighbors. It wasn’t too heavy load for them since my grandmother was as thin as a mummy when she died. Until her last day, when she was conscious, she prayed in Hebrew and asked mother to light candles near her at Sabbath. My mother was concerned that somebody might hear Jewish prayers, but she couldn’t oppose a dying person. My mother dug a pit and lowered my grandmother in there wrapped in my grandfather’s tallit. I don’t know whether there was a Kaddish recited over her grave. I don’t think my mother found it possible considering the situation.

We didn’t have any information about my father or his parents and relatives in Litin. After their initial operations, fascists made several raids shooting innocent at people. Our mother didn’t allow us to leave the house. In early 1942 the remaining Jews – women, children and old people - were taken to the ghetto in the former storage facilities at the market in the center of the town. The area was bared, but the gate was kept open for some time. We slept on the floor under a bast mat that we fond there since we didn’t have a chance to take things from home. When the ghetto was opened, Pinkhus stayed in his hiding pit and at night our mother took him to a Ukrainian family: my mother was concerned about him. Many young men were either shot or died doing hard work. Their son was in her class before the war and mother knew them well – unfortunately, I don’t know their names. Pinkhus stayed with them until the end of the war. I don’t know why we didn’t go to this family. Perhaps, our mother thought that fascists only exterminated Jewish men and wanted to rescue Pinkhus.

I have dim memories about our life in the ghetto. Our mother had a yellow star on her clothes, but I can’t remember whether we, children had to wear it as well. I remember the never-ending feeling of hunger and fear. Our mother went to work. She washed dishes in a diner for officers. She brought us leftovers that seemed a luxury to us. Sometimes our mother took us to the café when the gate was still open. Once a man wearing a policeman uniform approached us. He knew our mother. She was much loved and respected in the town. People in Western Ukraine traditionally respected teachers. He told my mother that when they closed the gate of the ghetto, our mother and we would perish. He suggested that if she agreed he would take us, children, to a village to help us to survive. Our mother said ‘I shall be with my children to the end. Get me a Ukrainian passport and help us to get out of here, if you can’. A day later this policeman took us out on a horse-ridden cart. All I remember is that his name was Sergei. It’s hard to imagine how hard it must have been for him to get forged documents for us. He gave our mother a passport for Vera Grigorievna. This was how my mother’s pupils who found it hard to pronounce her Jewish name called her. I’ve forgotten what last name there was in this passport. Sergei took two other Jewish families from the ghetto with us. He showed the guard my mother’s forged documents and documents for other inmates of the ghetto in his wagon and he let us out. On our way we dropped by our house to pick up some warm clothes and some other belongings valuable for our mother. Sergei took us to a remote Ukrainian village and disappeared for good. He was afraid that someone might report on him. At that time someone helping Jews was subject to death penalty while he rescued few Jewish families.

This was a beginning of our adventures. I don’t remember in what farms or villages we stayed. Our mother took to any work she could lay her hands on: she learned to mow, thresh, weed the fields, milk cows and look after cattle when she had never done any farm work before. Whatever valuables she had taken from home – some silver tableware and a golden ring – she gave to the first farmer that gave us shelter. We pretended to be Ukrainians when we stayed with Ukrainian families and Polish staying with Polish families. My mother was called Vera and I was called Galina in Ukrainian villages and Halina in Polish villages. My brother was called Tadeuzs, Tadik. He is still called in the family by this name. We never stayed long in one village. Our mother saw grandfather Ghedali or grandmother Hana in her dream telling her it was time to leave a village. Here is what they were saying ‘Get up, take the children and move on, there is going to be a calamity here’. In the morning we got dressed and went away. Several times after we left there were raids in those villages. I remember that we were hiding in a basement during a raid once. There were many rats in the basement and mother stayed awake a whole night protecting us from disgusting rats since they even could chew on children’s faces.

In one village its senior man suspected that we were Jews. My brother did not quite understand what was going on and began to speak Yiddish quite out of place. This senior man said to mother ‘You are Ukrainian, but your children are zhydy’. He grabbed Tadik dragging him into the yard to give him to policemen. It helped that he had not been circumcised. Mother pulled down his pants crying and begging the senior man to have mercy. When he saw my brother he left us alone. I don’t know whether he quite believed what we told him since we left that village at night. Once we got into a raid against Jews. We were hiding in a house. Fascists shot a girl of about 10 years of age by the window of the house. I will never forget her crying and begging. How the girl begged for fascists to let her live and how she wished to stay alive!

Besides constant fear that our Jewish identity might be revealed we also had to maneuver between Ukrainian and Polish people. During the Great Patriotic War there was deadly confrontation between Ukrainian and Polish residents in Western regions of Ukraine. Ukrainians were taking vengeance on their enemy for the past centuries of oppression [Ukrainian-Polish confrontation]13. Farm went against farm and village against village with axes, other weapons or just whips. Before our eyes Ukrainians slaughtered a Polish farm tenants. When they left there was nobody to bury the dead. Our mother dug a pit and dragged the dead there. I was helping mother and I believe our 5-year-old Tadik to have matured at that moment. At least he stopped being naughty using Jewish words. Neither he nor I could understand why people killed people, but we had seen death. My mother met one participant of this blood shedding massacre: he was a school director in Vladimir-Volynski. My mother was afraid that he might recognize her. Some time later he was arrested – I don’t know why, and taken out of the town. We don’t know what happened to him, but mother breathed with relief after he was gone.

Once a Polish group came to the Ukrainian village where we were staying. They took us into the yard. They told mother to step aside and my brother and I were taken to stand by the wall of a shed. They intended to shoot us. Mother began to scream in Russian, probably shock stricken as she was. She begged them in Russian to let her children go. Commander of the gang asked her who she was. She could do nothing, but tell them the truth. He ordered his men to take away their guns and they left.

We didn’t come to Vladimir-Volynskiy knowing from farmers that Germans continued to exterminate Jews there. One day in early 1944 my mother sent me to the market in town to exchange a piece of fabric for a piece of clothing for me. I went there with another woman. The ghetto was closed: all its inmates had been exterminated by then. [The ghetto in Vladimir-Volynskiy was liquidated on 13 December 1943.] However, there were frequent raids to identify Jews hiding in houses. This woman and I got entrapped in one of these raids. Fortunately, we managed to escape and to hiding in a house. When we returned to the village my mother burst into crying from sorrow and the joy of seeing me. She heard about the raid in town and she thought we had perished. She never let me leave her again.

Our wandering lasted for about three years. Every now and then our rescuer Sergei visited us. I don’t know how he found us in various villages. Probably local villagers mentioned to him when they saw us. He brought us gifts and had long discussions with our mother. I don’t know what was between them or whether there was something else besides friendship and support. In spring 1944 I understood that mother was pregnant. It’s hard for me to talk about it. It didn’t occur to me then, that it took two people to conceive a baby, and I didn’t think how my mother got a baby. My mother never revealed this secret. I didn’t ask her and she didn’t tell me anything even when she was dying. I don’t know who was the father of her child. Mother took her secret with her. I don’t know whether there were feelings between her and our rescuer or whether it was submission to crude forces hoping to rescue us on her part.

In spring 1944 Hitler armies were retreating. Villagers were ordered to march ahead of German units to make a live shield to protect retreating fascists in case Soviet units attacked them from the rear. We were also in this column. We were hungry and thirsty. It was hard for my mother to walk. There were air raids few times and we hid in ditches along the road. We came as far as the outskirts of Lublin in Poland. There was another air raid and we fell into a ditch and mother covered us with her body to protect from bombs. When we rose to our feet we saw that we had been in a sewage gutter. We were dirty with stinking faces. Mother asked our guard permission to go wash ourselves in the river. We washed our clothes and ourselves. We were there two days. Fascists moved on and we went back to the east where our home was. We only met Soviet units on the way. Mother couldn’t help crying telling them our story. Soldiers felt sorry for us giving us a piece of bread or a piece of sugar. Few times we had meals in their field kitchen facilities. We felt so happy to be going back home! Vladimir-Volynskiy was liberated on 22 July 1944. We returned home in early August.

After the War

There were other tenants in our house and we found an abandoned apartment. We stayed to live there since its owners never came back. During the war 22,000 Jews from Vladimir-Volynskiy and surrounding areas were exterminated. There were only five Jewish families living in the town after the war, including us. We survived by miracle. 

In September 1944 our mother went to work as a primary school teacher and my brother and I went to the first form at school. He was seven and I was ten years old. I had to do many chores besides studying. In December 1944 our mother gave birth to a boy. She named him Grigori after our grandfather. She went back to work and I looked after the baby washing and feeding him. I loved him dearly.

Shortly after the victory in July 1945 our father returned home. He kissed us and went to talk with mother in the kitchen. He didn’t say anything about the baby. He and mother talked through the night. In the morning father had reddish eyes from sleepless night. He kissed us ‘good-bye’ and left. Our mother cried a lot. She told us that our father had another family. Our father told her what had happened to him through those years. He was in Zhmerinka when the war began. He went to look for us, but then there were Germans everywhere. Our father knew that Vladimir-Volynskiy was occupied and believed that were already dead. He even mentioned that he thought he saw our mother’s coat on a woman in Lutsk and this was a final proof for him that we were dead. He returned to Zhmerinka, got a truck and drove his parents and aunt Fania and her children to the railway station where they got on a train heading to the east. He also went with them. In the train he met a Jewish woman. Her name was Fira. He was suffering and he found consolation and sympathy with her. They parted on the next day. Our father took his relatives to Bugulma, in Tatarstan. I don’t know for what reason they decided to stay there. Father was recruited to the army. He served in a road construction unit installing bridges for the front line units. Our father corresponded with this unit and knew that she gave birth to a girl in 1942. The girl was named Ella. Our father asked our mother to forgive him and tried to explain that what happened to him was a result of the pain he suffered from thinking that we were dead. I don’t know whether he asked mother about Grisha. He decided that he and mother had to forget what had happened to them and live together again, but our mother was a proud woman. She never forgave our father. She said she had suffered too much during occupation and couldn’t forgive his faithlessness. She didn’t mention that she was unfaithful, though. She was probably concerned that our father could be unfair to her illegal baby. Our father went to Kiev where Fira and her daughter lived. He lived with his second family, but he didn’t lose hope to return our mother.

Our father’s sister Bella returned from evacuation and visited us several times. Grandmother Riva also returned from evacuation and kept asking mother to come live with her in Zhmerinka. Grandfather Yankel died in evacuation in Bugulma in 1942. Our grandmother begged our mother to forgive our father and let him come to live with us, but our mother never changed her mind about it. Our father came again in 1947, but our mother refused him again. We have a photo of our father wearing a Soviet military uniform and aunt Bella in Zhmerinka photographed after our mother’s final refusal in June 1947. Our father signed the photo ‘This is the most terrible day in my life’. I saw grandmother Riva once or twice after the war. She lived in Zhmerinka and died in the early 1960s.

Our life was very hard after the war. There was famine in 1946-47. Our father didn’t support us. He was either offended by mother’s refusal or our mother probably refused from his help. Our mother’s salary was hardly enough for us to live half a month. It was especially hard in summer when mother received her 3-month salary, but this money melted away promptly. We received bread per bread coupons. We also got a glass of milk at school, but not in summer when we were on vacation. Our mother bought flour and made pies and buns. She sent me to sell them at the market. She was probably concerned that she would be recognized and arrested for her activities since private entrepreneurship was forbidden. She traveled to Moscow to see her distant relatives several times. She bought women’s underwear, stockings and fabric and I went to sell them in our town. We also grew potatoes and other vegetables in our small kitchen garden. Basically, we were trying hard to survive.

My brother and I were the only Jewish children at school. Our teachers and schoolmates treated us well. When the state anti-Semitic campaign known as struggle against cosmopolitism 14 began in 1948 our mother was very worried. She read newspapers and didn’t sleep at night. She probably understood the absurdity of what was going on, but she never discussed this subject with us. This campaign had no impact on our town where there were about two dozens of Jews left.

My brother and I finished school in 1951. A year later we entered the Agronomical Faculty of the Agricultural College in Verkhovka village, Obodov district Vinnitsa region. We were the only Jewish students in this College. We lived in a hostel. My brother didn’t finish his studies. We received a stipend, but it was not enough for him. He kept asking me to give him money. He was constantly hungry. Before finishing his studies he quit and went to our father in Kiev. Our father was doing well and Tadik lived with him and worked additionally. Later he returned home, but again went back to our father. For few years he traveled between home and Kiev.

I remember Stalin’s death in 1953. We, students, were crying. We didn’t know how to live without him. We stood a guard of honor by his portrait in our College with tears in our eyes. My co-students were Ukrainian girls from surrounding villages. They had a good attitude toward me, but I never mentioned to anybody that I was in occupation. At that time there was official hostile attitude towards survivors in occupation during the war.

I began to meet with a Ukrainian guy in College. His name was Victor Puchalski. He was born in Aleksandrovka village, Vinnitsa region in 1932. He was the only child in his family and his parents spoiled him a lot. During the Great Patriotic War Victor stayed in his village. He saw fascist atrocities against Jews and he came to respecting Jewish people. I told him that I was a Jew and that we were in occupation during the war. Victor and I fell in love and actually became a husband and wife during our last year in College. His parents were also positive about our relationships. Victor’s two uncles were married to Jewish women, so there were Jews in their family already.

After finishing our College we came to my mother in Vladimir-Volynskiy. My mother didn’t care about his nationality. She saw that we were in love and this was what mattered to her. I was pregnant. We went to submit our documents to the registry office, but they refused to accept them. They explained that Victor did not have a residential permit 15 to live in the town. In the residential agency they refused to issue this permit to him since he was in no relation to me. My mother wasn’t a member of the Party, but she went to the district Party committee anyway to obtain their approval of our marriage. She managed to handle this issue for us. Victor and I got married. We didn’t have a wedding party. My mother just made a small dinner for our family and Victor’s father Andrei Puchalski who came to our wedding.

In 1957 our son Anatoli was born. I stayed at home and my husband was an agronomist in a kolkhoz near the town. Victor was an honest man and didn’t allow anybody to steal in the kolkhoz. The management of the kolkhoz was not quite happy about this situation. Once Victor bought a sack of potatoes from the kolkhoz, but they delivered a cart full of bags of potatoes trying to bribe my husband. He told them to take it back. Since then his bosses kept picking on him and fired for some minor drawback. Victor couldn’t find another job for a year. He turned to higher authorities and regional party committee, but couldn’t find justice with them. Then he wrote a letter to Komsomolskaya Pravda newspaper [one of the most popular daily newspapers in the USSR]. He resumed his work after the newspaper interference. This time Victor was sent to work in a distant kolkhoz. I followed him there and my mother looked after Anatoli. I went to work as director of a store in this kolkhoz. I had a diploma of agronomist, but there was no employment for me. We didn’t stay long there since Victor lost his job again. We returned to Vladimir-Volynski and lived on my mother’s salary for almost a year. Victor’s parents and my father also supported us.

Some time later my father became director of construction material plant in Transcarpathian region with center in Ternopol town. His wife and daughter didn’t want to follow him to this provincial area and he offered us to come with him. My mother insisted that we accepted his offer. In 1959 Victor moved to Ternopol and got a job at the plant. Then he and my father returned to pick up my son and me and we left there. We lived in a one-room apartment that my father received for few years until Victor went to work at another plant and we received a 3-room apartment where we live now.

In 1961 our daughter Anna, named after my grandmother Hana, was born and in 1964 our daughter Evgenia was born. We were poor. I obtained a license for manufacture of flowers and wedding bouquets and made and sold my goods. I worked a lot at home sewing and knitting. My husband had stomach ulcer and went to resorts on vacation, but I couldn’t afford a vacation. My father’s family moved to Ternopol, but we didn’t keep in touch. They were very jealous about our father and I had nothing in common with my half-sister Ella. They were particularly jealous about my father and mother keeping in touch – by that time my father’s wife and daughter had moved to Ternopol. My mother never remarried. I think she always loved my father and hoped that they would be together one day, but my father never asked her again.

My brother Moro (we called him affectionately Tadik in the family) finished a Prosthodontic School and worked in Kiev. He was married three times. His wives were Jewish. With his latest wife Fira he moved to America in the late 1970s. They have a good life in New York. His son from his first marriage Fyodor and his daughter from the second marriage Izabella also live in the USA.

My second brother Grisha finished a school for electricians and worked in Vladimir-Volynski. In 1971 Grisha died in a car accident. My mother came to Ternopol: she came to live with me in 1967 when she retired. We buried Grisha in Ternopol. My mother was in deep sorrow and hardly ever left the house. My father died in Ternopol in 1978, We buried him at the town cemetery. His second wife and daughter live in the USA where they left in late 1980s.

Trouble has never left our family. My younger daughter Evgenia married a Ukrainian man after finishing school. His name was Grigori Kudiakov. Grigori went to serve in the army and my daughter gave birth to a boy. She named him Grigori after my brother who had perished. When the child was one year old Evgenia and her husband’s sister went to visit Grigori, her husband, in the north of Russia where he was on service. They stayed in a house. Grigori came to stay with them on a short leave. They stoked a stove in the house. They had a substantial dinner and they probably had a drink or few. They didn’t open a choke in the stove and were poisoned with charcoal gas. Grigori survived and Evgenia and his sister died. I didn’t think I could survive my younger daughter. One thing that helped me was caring about little Grigori. His father Grigori Kudiakov returned from the army and kept insisting that we gave his son back to him. He and his parents kept coming to our home abusing me and calling us ‘zhydy’ [kike]. They said they didn’t want the child to be raised in ‘zhydoski’ manner. I don’t know what they meant, but nothing good, I am sure. I decided against giving them the child of my beloved daughter. Grigori turned to court and the court decided to take my grandson from me. Then I packed and left with little Grisha. We traveled from one relative to another in Khmelnitskiy, Zhmerinka and Vinnitsa. We returned after Grigori promised my husband to leave my grandson to me and begged me to return to be able to see his son occasionally. We returned to Ternopol in 1985. My mother who had endured the death of my father, her son and granddaughter and was missing us, in addition lived only two months after we returned. She died in 1985. We buried her near the father’s grave.

However, trouble didn’t leave us then. My older son Anatoli entered a military school in Kamenets-Podolsk. After finishing it, he served in Georgia and then in Czechoslovakia. By that time he was married to a Ukrainian girl Maria. Then my son served in Latvia. His wife and their two daughters – Inna, born in 1976 and Anna, born in 1985 – were with him. In 1984 my son felt ill and came to me. He had to stay in bed. Doctors diagnosed that he had disseminated sclerosis. My son was ill for 17 years and for 15 of them he was confined to bed. His wife Maria and their children lived in the apartment that my son received in Ternopol. She also received his military pension, but she only rarely visited her husband. I was trying to do all I could to help my son live longer. My husband went back to live in his home village in 1992 there he grew vegetables in his kitchen garden. We separated since we decided that he could support us better living in the village and growing vegetables and fruit. Besides, my husband felt more comfortable living in a village. We lived separately ever since. My husband died in 2000. I stayed with my son cooking for him and giving food. I invited best doctors to consult him, but even now medicine is helpless against this terrible disease. We both enjoyed the time when I embroidered pictures sitting by his bedside. He liked the colors that replaced the colors of life for him. My son died in July 2003. He fell asleep and never woke up. Before he died he asked his wife to come to see him. She held his hands whispering something in his ear. She was probably saying her farewells and asked his forgiveness. I buried my son in accordance with Jewish traditions near my parents. Members of the Jewish community recited a prayer. Although Anatoli and my daughters were registered as Ukrainians, in his last years Anatoli read about Jews and Jewish life and felt closer to Jews. Anatoli’s daughters were raised as Ukrainian girls. Inna, the older daughter, finished a Pedagogical College in Ternopol. She is married and has two daughters: Svetlana and Ekaterina Soloviovs. Alla, the younger daughter, lives with her mother. They haven’t visited me after my son died. 

My daughter Anna lives in Khmelnitsk. She has a Jewish husband whose surname is Viller. After finishing the College of Economics in Ternopol, Anna went to work as an accountant. She works as an accountant for a private company now. She has a nice family. They observe Jewish traditions and they’ve raised their children Jewish. Their older son Evgeni, named after my daughter who perished, was born in 1986. He has finished school this year and is going to continue his studies in Israel under a students’ exchange program. Vitali, a younger son, born in 1889, goes to the 8th form at school.

Now I come to six graves of my close ones at the cemetery: my brother Grigori, my father and mother, my daughter Evgenia, my husband and my son Anatoli. The joy of my life is my grandson Grigori, Evgenia’s son. I’ve raised him Jewish, telling him about the Jewish history, traditions and culture and took him to a Jewish Sunday school. His father kept his promise: he often came to see his son and supported him, but never again tried to take him from me. My son-in-law hasn’t remarried. He comes to see me. Few years ago, in 1997 my grandson went to Israel under a students’ exchange program and decided to remain there. He serves in Israeli army now. Grigori observes Jewish traditions. He is religious, but he isn’t an orthodox Jew. He put a mezuzah on our front door. He calls me before each holiday, greets me and reminds me of what I have to do on each holiday. The other day he reminded me about fasting at Yom Kippur and I fasted. 

I’ve never been well-off in my life, but when perestroika 16 began in the late 1980s it made life unbearable. Therefore, I have negative feelings about perestroika. At the same time I am happy about a rebirth of the Jewish life. I am a member of thee Jewish community in Ternopol. There is a Hesed affiliate that provides assistance to old Jews. They deliver food packages and send a nurse to help me. Besides, I receive a German pension as victim of Holocaust and I can manage all right. We always observed Jewish holidays in the family, particularly when my mother lived with us. We bought matzah in underground bakeries before Pesach and observed Rosh Hashanah. I must say that my husband showed understanding to our needs. Now I observe Sabbath, light candles and pray over them on Friday evenings. I do not attend community events since I will be in the mourning for Anatoli for a year. I used to go to the community on Jewish holidays. I enjoyed the celebrations. I cannot attend them now. There is a lot of joy and entertainment at these celebrations while I feel like thinking about my son and praying for him. Then I would like to visit Grisha in Israel. Perhaps, I shall go there for good.

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