Travel

Neuman, Aron
Wien
Österreich
Interviewer: Tanja Eckstein
Datum des Interviews: Februar 2003

Herr Neuman ist ein kleiner, gebeugt gehender Mann von 86 Jahren. Er ist einsam und unglücklich, denn seit dem Tod seiner Frau, im Jahre 2000, lebt er allein. Herr Neuman ist überaus freundlich, spricht sehr schnell und sagt nach jedem zweiten Satz: ‘Ja, ja - so ist das‘ oder: ‚kurz und bündig‘, worauf ein Schwall von vielen Sätzen folgt. Trotz der Familie seiner angeheirateten Tochter Sonja, die in Wien lebt, spricht er oft vom Tod, den er sich herbei wünscht, obwohl er sehr glücklich mit den Enkeltöchtern ist. Sein Sohn mit Familie lebt in Australien und besucht ihn alle zwei Jahre. Durch seine Herzkrankheit darf Herr Neumann nicht mit dem Flugzeug fliegen.

Meine Familiengeschichte
Meine Kindheit
Palästina
Während des Krieges
Polen
Nach dem Krieg
Von Israel nach Wien
Glossar

Meine Familiengeschichte

Ich heiße Aron Neuman und wurde am 17. April 1917 in Wodislaw, in Polen, geboren. Meine Großeltern väterlicherseits habe ich nicht kennen gelernt, sie waren schon tot, als ich geboren wurde. Der Großvater hieß Rubin Neuman, an den Namen der Großmutter kann ich mich nicht erinnern. Ich weiß, dass sie beide sehr religiös waren. Der Großvater hatte in Wodislaw einen Lederwaren Großhandel. Meine Großeltern sprachen jiddisch. Sie hatten viele Kinder, es waren vielleicht acht Geschwister. Alle Kinder wurden streng religiös erzogen. Mein Vater und seine Geschwister besuchten eine russische Schule, weil Wodislaw bis zum 1. Weltkrieg zu Russland gehörte – natürlich gingen sie auch in eine Jeschiwa 1. Ich habe fast keinen von denen gekannt. Ich kann mich aber an Erzählungen erinnern.

Mein Vater hieß Michael Neuman. Er wurde 1878 in Wodislaw geboren. Er war Sägewerksinhaber und Landwirt.

Mein Onkel Joel Neuman war der älteste Bruder meines Vaters. Er hatte mit seiner Frau fünf Kinder: Mosche, Chaim, Josef und Schlomo - an den anderen Namen kann ich mich nicht erinnern. Onkel Joel war Zionist. Zwischen 1920 und 1922 ließ der Onkel die Maschinen seiner Textilfabrik in Warschau [Polen] zum Hafen nach Danzig [Polen] bringen und nach Palästina verschiffen. In Tel Aviv existierte aber noch kein Hafen, die Maschinen waren schwer, und sie fielen beim Ausladen ins Meer, und das Meerwasser hat die Maschinen zerstört. Dadurch hatte er alles verloren. Er kam mit seiner Frau nach Warschau zurück, war ein gebrochener Mann und erkrankte an Krebs. Mein Vater fuhr zu seinem Bruder, kam nach der Beerdigung zurück und sagte: ‚In meinen Armen ist er gestorben!’

Die Kinder vom Onkel Joel waren in Palästina geblieben. Damals war auch Ägypten unter englischer Herrschaft. Der älteste Sohn Mosche war ausgebildeter Textiltechniker und ist nach Kairo gegangen. In Kairo [Ägypten] hat er einen reichen Juden kennen gelernt, der eine gut gehende Fabrik gehabt hat und eine einzige Tochter, die noch nicht verheiratet war. Sie haben sich verliebt und geheiratet. Mosche erbte die Textilfabrik und ist in Kairo geblieben. Seine Mutter ging nach dem Tode meines Onkels Joel zu ihrem Sohn Mosche nach Kairo.

Ich weiß nicht, warum Mosche und seine Frau so früh gestorben sind. Seine Mutter und seine Geschwister haben alles geerbt, es verkauft und sich Existenzen in Palästina aufgebaut.
Josef hatte zwei Söhne, die waren Piloten beim Militär und einer war 1948 im Unabhängigkeitskrieg 2 als Flieger dabei. Er arbeitete später für EL AL [israelische Fluggesellschaft] als Flugkapitän, und als ich einmal nach Israel geflogen bin, holte mich mein Cousin Josef vom Flughafen ab und sagte: ‚Du bist mit meinem Sohn geflogen, er war der Kapitän deines Flugzeuges.’ Schlomo war der jüngste Sohn, mit dem hatte ich noch in Israel Kontakt, aber auch er ist schon gestorben.

Meir Neuman hatte ein Lederwarengeschäft in Wodislaw [Polen]. Er war verheiratet und hatte vier Kinder: Nathan, Josef, Bronja, und noch eine Tochter, deren Namen ich nicht mehr weiß. Diese Tochter war verheiratet und hatte sechs Kinder; alle wurden im Vernichtungslager Treblinka [Polen] ermordet. Bronja hatte mit ihrem Mann ein Kind. Sie wurden im KZ Auschwitz ermordet. Den Onkel Meir haben die Deutschen erschossen. Er war einmal gestürzt und hatte sich das Schlüsselbein gebrochen, dadurch konnte er sehr schlecht gehen. 1942, als die Deutschen die Stadt ‚judenrein‘ machten, hatte er sich zu dem Sammelplatz auf eine Wiese geschleppt und auf der Wiese wurden er und ein dicker Jude, der Herr Friedberg, erschossen. Seine Tochter, deren Namen ich vergessen habe, stand mit ihren Kindern dabei. Onkel Meir und Herr Friedberg wurden am Rand der Wiese begraben. Alle Mitglieder dieser Familien wurden ermordet.

Eisig Neuman hatte eine Frau und viele Kinder. Wie viele Kinder sie hatten, weiß ich nicht. Das waren alles sehr gläubige Juden, deshalb waren es auch Großfamilien. Ich glaube, Onkel Eisig war von Wodislaw nach Bendzin [Polen] gezogen und lebte dort. Aber ich kannte die Familie nicht.

Eine Schwester meines Vaters, von der ich den Namen nicht mehr weiß, hatte einen Herrn Manella geheiratet. Dieser Manella war beim russischen Militär fünf Jahre Arztgehilfe. Er arbeitete dann als Arzt in Wodislaw, war sehr begabt und half vielen Leuten. Der Onkel starb, bevor die Deutschen kamen, die Tante wurde im KZ Auschwitz ermordet.

Der Großvater mütterlicherseits hieß Alter Ptasnik. Er wurde 1853 in Dzialoszice [Polen] geboren und war Sägewerksbesitzer. Er war groß, hatte einen langen weißen Bart und ging mit einem Stock. Er lebte in Dzialoszice und war sehr religiös. Selbstverständlich trug er immer einen Hut oder ein Käppi. Da die Großmutter in den 1920er-Jahren gestorben war, lebte er allein in einer kleinen Wohnung. Ich fuhr oft mit dem Fahrrad zu ihm und brachte ihm Lebensmittel. Er hatte eine rabbinische Schule besucht und war soweit ausgebildet, dass er meine Schwester Esther verheiraten konnte, dazu hatte er die Befugnisse. Die Hochzeit fand bei den Eltern in Sendzishow [Polen] statt und war sehr feierlich. Ich kann mich erinnern, wie der Großvater kam und sie traute. Er saß dabei auf einem Sessel, der extra für ihn vorbereitet war. Es wurde Klezmer-Musik gespielt, einer hatte gedichtet und alle besungen. Auch viele Christen waren dabei.

Im Jahre 1942 wurde mein Großvater in Dzialoszice von den Deutschen zusammen mit anderen Juden - Männer, Frauen, alte Leute - zum Friedhof geführt. Dort haben sie ein Grab ausheben müssen, wurden erschossen und verscharrt.

Meine Mutter hatte mehrere Brüder und Schwestern, die ich aber nicht sehr gut kannte. Eine Schwester war mit Herrn Zuckermann verheiratet. Sie hatten ein Geschäft am Marktplatz und Onkel Zuckermann war Stadtrat im Rathaus. Er war ein sehr kluger Mensch - beliebt und bekannt im Ort. Diese Schwester meiner Mutter half dem Großvater sehr viel. Von der Familie Zuckermann überlebten zwei Brüder, Mosche und David. Sie starben später in Israel

Mein Onkel Abraham Ptasnik hatte einen weißen Bart wie der Großvater. Seine gesamte Familie, Kinder und Enkelkinder hatten sich nach dem Überfall der Deutschen bei polnischen Familien versteckt. Sie wurden verraten und alle erschossen.

Benjamin Ptasnik hatte sechs Kinder. Sein Sohn Pinchas Ptasnik überlebte das KZ in Plaszow [Polen] und ein KZ in Deutschland. Er lebt in Israel, hat zwei Töchter und ist an Alzheimer erkrankt. Alle anderen Mitglieder dieser Familie wurden ermordet.

Jacob Ptasnik ließ seine Frau und zwei Töchter in Polen zurück und floh auf die russische Seite. Dort wurde er bei einer Razzia in einer Stadt mit 9 000 Juden zusammen erschossen. Seine Frau und die zwei bildschönen Kinder waren mit mir im Arbeitslager. Die Kinder wurden im Vernichtungslager Treblinka [Polen] ermordet, seine Frau überlebte den Holocaust.

Meine Kindheit

Meine Mutter hieß Sima Neuman, sie war eine geborene Ptasnik. Sie wurde 1882 in Dzialoszice geboren.
Meine Eltern hatten sich vor dem 1. Weltkrieg durch einen Schadchen, das war ein Heiratsvermittler, kennen gelernt, der die Kinder vom Großvater Neuman und vom Großvater Ptasnik vermittelt hat. Sie sind sich begegnet und haben geheiratet. Mein Vater war in Sendzishow sehr bekannt und beliebt. Er war so klug, dass sogar Christen ihn bei Streitigkeiten manches Mal als Schiedsrichter befragten. Sendzishow war ein kleines Städtchen, in dem sich mein Vater nach dem 1.Weltkrieg zwanzig Hektar Land gekauft und eine Landwirtschaft aufgebaut hatte. Wir hatten ein großes Haus mit sechs Zimmern.

Meine Mutter war sehr religiös, betete jeden Samstag, zündete am Schabbat 3 Lichter und kochte koscher. Sie war Hausfrau und Mutter und arbeitete in der Landwirtschaft mit.
Wir waren sechs Geschwister. Ich hatte drei Brüder - Martin, Karl und Josef - und zwei Schwestern, Hanna und Esther. Ich war das jüngste Kind, 18 Jahre jünger als mein ältester Bruder Martin.

Martin wurde 1899 in Wodislaw geboren. 1921 musste er zum polnischen Militär und wurde sofort an die Front gegen die Russen geschickt. Polen führte 1921 Krieg mit den Russen. Ich war damals erst vier Jahre alt. Nachdem mein Bruder gemustert worden war, musste er sich umziehen, ihm wurde ein Karabiner umgehängt, und er wurde nach Warschau geschickt. Der Zug hielt vorher noch einmal an der Bahnstation in Sendzishow. Weil mein Bruder mich so sehr geliebt hat, lief er schnell noch einmal nach Hause. Er hat so geweint, mich an sich gedrückt und geküsst und mich ganz nass gemacht mit seinen Tränen. Dann musste er in den Krieg ziehen. Aber Gott sei Dank kam er zurück. Martins Frau hieß Mala. Sie hatten drei Kinder: Ewa, Dolek und Isidor. Diese Ehe kam nicht durch einen Schadchen zustande. Sie haben sich verliebt und geheiratet, das war eine richtige Liebesgeschichte. Die Tochter Ewa wurde 1924 geboren. Sie war neunzehn Jahre alt, als sie erschossen wurde. Als die Deutschen kamen, wurde sie mit vier anderen von einer polnischen Bauersfrau versteckt und 1943 von Polen verraten. Alle vier wurden erschossen, das Haus der Bauersfrau angezündet und zwei ihrer Söhne gehenkt. Dolek, Isidor und Martin waren mit mir im Zwangsarbeitslager. Isidor, Izio haben wir ihn genannt, ist mit seiner Mutter Mala nach Treblinka deportiert und ermordet worden. Er war dreizehn Jahre alt. Martin und sein Sohn Dolek haben das KZ Buchenwald [Deutschland] überlebt. Martin hat nach dem Krieg eine Christin geheiratet und starb 1964 in Polen an einem Herzinfarkt. Dolek heiratete auch eine Christin, hatte zwei Töchter und starb vor fünf Jahren in Kattowitz.

Mein Bruder Josef wurde 1910 geboren. Er war Inhaber zweier Sägewerke in Sendzishow und verheiratet mit Helena Sternfeld. Sie hatten eine Tochter Dunja. Helena war blond und ihre Eltern hatten ein großes Gut mit 400 Morgen Land und dreizehn Knechten. Sie waren sehr reich. Ihr ältester Bruder hatte in Paris Medizin studiert und wurde Arzt. Er lebte in Paris, verliebte sich in die Tochter des japanischen Gesandten in Paris und heiratete sie. Sie haben einen Sohn. Helenas Bruder war ein schöner, großer, blonder Mann. Nach dem Einmarsch der Deutschen in Paris wurde er in der japanischen Botschaft versteckt. Von der Familie Sternfeld konnten sich alle - außer dem Vater - mit falschen Papieren retten. Den Vater haben die Deutschen verhaftet, als er einmal in der Stadt war, um etwas zu besorgen. Er wurde nach Treblinka [Polen] deportiert und ermordet.
Nach dem Einmarsch der Deutschen bekam mein Bruder Josef einen österreichischen Ariseur. Der beste Fachmann von uns war der Josef, und der Österreicher war kein Fachmann; er brauchte meinen Bruder. Das meldete dieser Österreicher der Gestapo, deshalb durfte Josef dort bleiben. Er bekam ein Zimmer und leitete das Sägewerk. Sein zweites Sägewerk wurde liquidiert, alles verkauft und das Geld an die Deutschen überwiesen. Das Sägewerk war mit einer Mühle zusammen gekoppelt. Der Leiter der Mühle, ein Pole, war der Bezirksleiter der Untergrundbewegung Armia Kraiowa [polnische nationalistische Heimatarmee]. Er riet Josef, sich falsche Papiere zu beschaffen.

Mein Bruder Karl wurde 1903 in Wodislaw geboren. Er war drei Jahre beim polnischen Militär. Gleich nach dem Militär ging er nach Oberschlesien und heiratete in Krakau [Polen] seine Frau Rina. Er bekam ein bisschen Mitgift von seiner Frau – auch er hatte Ersparnisse - und kaufte mit dem Geld einen Holzplatz in Königshütte [polnisch: Chorzów, Polen]. Das war ein großer Holzplatz mit viel, viel Holz, auch mit Edelhölzern. Es ging ihnen sehr gut. Sie bekamen zwei Söhne: Fred ist 1934 geboren und Reuven 1940, schon während des Krieges. Bei Kriegsausbruch war Karl der Reichste der Familie. Er hatte den Holzplatz sehr gut geführt und viel Geld verdient. Als der Holzplatz nach Kriegsausbruch beschlagnahmt wurde, war er meiner Meinung nach eine Viertel Million Dollar wert. Karl wurde während des Holocaust mit seiner Frau und den Söhnen in Warschau von Polen auf dem Dachboden versteckt. 1950 emigrierten alle zusammen nach Israel. Fred und Reuven maturierten sie in Israel. Reuven studierte in England Innenarchitektur und arbeitete später in der Firma des Vaters. Fred lebt in Australien. Mein Bruder Karl starb 1990 in Israel.

Meine Schwester Esther wurde 1914 geboren. Sie und Raphael Mandelmann lernten sich kennen, verliebten sich und heirateten. Sie hatten ein Söhnchen, Mietek. Das Kind wurde 1939 geboren, und meine Schwester flüchtete mit Mietek nach Warschau. Sie hatte eine Adresse bekommen und war bei einer Witwe versteckt. Solange sie Geld hatten, konnten sie bei der Witwe bleiben. Als sie kein Geld mehr hatten, die Witwe war auch sehr arm, versuchte sie, meine Schwester mit Tabletten umzubringen. Um Mietek hat sie sich gekümmert, den liebte sie. Eines Tages hatte mein Bruder Karl in seinem Versteck einen Traum: Der Großvater Alter Ptasnik, der die Schwester Esther getraut hatte, kam zu ihm und wollte ihn mit einer Krücke schlagen. Du hast deine Schwester vergessen, du kümmerst dich nicht darum, was mit deiner Schwester passiert! Am nächsten Abend nahm Karl sich eine Droschke, fuhr zu dem Versteck unserer Schwester Esther und fand sie bewusstlos auf einem Strohsack. Er brachte Esther und Mietek zur Droschke, fuhr zu den Leuten, die ihn und seine Familie versteckten, und sie nahmen auch Esther und Mietek auf. Nachdem es Esther wieder gut ging, bekam sie ein anderes Versteck. 1946 ging Esther nach Deutschland und arbeitete in einem DP Lager 4 in Wasseralfingen, weil sie in die USA emigrieren wollte. Dort lernte sie einen Juden, einen Überlebenden des Ghettos in Lodz kennen, der Koslowski hieß. Esther ging mit Mietek in die USA und wurde dort sehr gut aufgenommen. Eine jüdische Organisation schickte sie in ein kleines Städtchen. Dort bekam sie eine herrlich eingerichtete Dreizimmerwohnung mit allem drum und dran, voller Kühlschrank, alles war da, und überall standen Geschenke. Wie sie reingekommen ist in die Wohnung, hat sie angefangen zu weinen. Da haben die Leute vom Komitee sie gefragt, ob die Wohnung ihr nicht gefällt: ‚Doch’ hat sie gesagt, ‚aber zum ersten Mal nach dem Krieg habe ich eine Wohnung, ein Dach über dem Kopf.’ Sie war die erste Holocaust-Überlebende, die in dieses Städtchen kam. Sie lernte Englisch und Mietek ging in die Schule. Alle paar Tage fand sie Pakete neben der Tür von jüdischen Mitbewohnern. Nach einigen Monaten kam Herr Koslowski, er hatte sich in sie verliebt. Sie heirateten und gingen zusammen nach San Francisco, weil er dort einen Bruder hatte. Das war der größte Fehler, den sie gemacht hat. Sie hätte mit ihrem Sohn in dem Städtchen bleiben sollen. In San Francisco eröffneten sie ein koscheres Delikatessengeschäft. Sie musste schwer arbeiten, es war eine schlechte Ehe, und Esthers Sohn, den Mietek, hat er gehasst. 1970 traf ich meine Schwester mit ihrem Mann in Israel. Wir hatten uns viele Jahre nicht gesehen. Herr Koslowski starb 1972 oder 1973 an Krebs.

Zwölf meiner Familienmitglieder wurden durch die Hilfe von Polen gerettet, aber es gab auch Polen, die uns hassten. Der Mann von Esther, Raphael Mandelmann, und der Mann meiner Schwester Hanna, Nathan Neuman, wurden von Polen mit Knüppeln erschlagen. Die Schlimmsten waren die Arbeiter und die Bauern auf dem Lande. Der Pole, der das Gut meines Vaters von den Deutschen übernommen hatte, hat uns heraus geschmissen. Er hatte Angst, dass einer von uns überleben und er nach dem Krieg wieder alles verlieren würde. Die Polen waren überzeugt, dass die Deutschen den Krieg nicht gewinnen konnten. Da hat er mit seinen Söhnen meine zwei Schwager, die versteckt waren, ausspioniert und im Wald erschlagen.

Meine Schwester Hanna wurde 1906 geboren. Sie war mit unserem Cousin Nathan Neuman verheiratet. Sie hatten einen Sohn, Shmuel. Hanna wurde nach Treblinka [Polen] deportiert und ermordet und Nathan wurde von den Polen erschlagen. Shmuel war mit mir im Zwangsarbeitslager, er war dreizehn Jahre alt. Als das Lager aufgelöst wurde, musste er in Polen in einer Rüstungsfabrik arbeiten, überlebte drei KZs, bis er im Mai 1945 im Alter von sechzehn Jahren im KZ Mauthausen von den Amerikanern befreit wurde. Er ging nach Palästina und lebt in Israel.

Mein Vater betete täglich. Es gab keine Synagoge in Sendzishow. Jeden Samstag musste ich mit dem Vater zum Bethaus gehen. Das Bethaus war im Wohnzimmer eines Juden. Jeden Morgen legte er die Tefillin 5. So lange ich zu Hause war, musste ich das auch tun, obwohl ich nicht wollte. Und ich musste bei einem Religionslehrer lernen - ein halbes Jahr, eine Stunde täglich - aber das wollte ich auch nicht. Ich bin oft weggelaufen. Jeden Freitag zum Schabbat zündete meine Mutter Lichter und meine Eltern beteten. Die ganze Familie saß dann zusammen, solange wir zusammen waren. Koscher 6 konnten wir einkaufen - ohne Probleme, denn es gab einen jüdischer Metzger, der schlachtete das Vieh. Manchmal musste ich mit dem Fahrrad geschlachtete Hühnern oder Puten holen. Wir hatten Geschirr für Milchiges und Geschirr für Fleischiges. Meine Mutter war eine sehr gute Köchin. Vater war in dieser Hinsicht sehr einfach, für ihn war alles gut; er klagte nie. Wenn Mama etwas nicht so gut gelungen war, aß er alles auf und sagte: ‚Kinder, aufessen! Mama hat das gekocht, sie ist eine gute Köchin.’ Das war eine gute Ehe, sehr gut eigentlich. Hände haltend sind sie in den Viehwaggon nach Treblinka gestiegen. Das weiß ich, weil ein Augenzeuge es mir in Israel erzählt hat.

Sendzishow war geteilt, es war ein Städtchen mit einem Bahnhof, der 1 ½ Kilometer vom Städtchen entfernt war, ganz in der Nähe wohnten wir. Die meisten Bewohner waren arm.
Vor dem Krieg lebten in dem Ort 280 lebendige jüdische Seelen und 2000 bis 2500 Polen. Alle haben sehr gut zusammen gelebt, es war für mich kein Antisemitismus zu spüren.

Die Geschwister, die vor dem 1. Weltkrieg geboren wurden - Martin, Karl und Hanna - sprachen jiddisch und russisch, denn sie gingen in eine russische Schule. Die Jüngeren - Josef, Esther und ich - waren schon unter einer polnischen Regierung geboren, wir gingen in die polnische Schule. Wir waren nur zwei Juden in der Volksschule, aber ich hatte viele polnische Freunde. Wir jüngeren Geschwister sprachen sogar zu Hause untereinander polnisch, mit den Eltern jiddisch, aber sonst polnisch. Auf dem Gymnasium habe ich später auch Deutsch gelernt.

Untereinander stritten wir uns manchmal und hauten uns sogar. Ich habe meine Schwester Esther, die Ältere, gehauen, ich war ein Räuber! Ich bin mit ziemlichen Schwierigkeiten zur Welt gekommen, im siebenten Monat bereits, und ich habe so wenig gewogen, dass sie mich nicht gleich nach acht Tagen beschneiden wollten. Aber dann untersuchte mich der Arzt, mein Onkel Manella, der der Mann einer Schwester meines Vaters war, und sagte, man kann es machen.

Ich habe immer sehr viel gelesen, bis heute noch. Weil ich so viel gelesen habe, wurde ich als Schulbibliothekar ausgewählt. Aus der Schulbibliothek habe ich ein paar hundert Bücher gelesen. Ich hatte deswegen Streitereien mit dem Vater, denn er kam um zwölf oder ein Uhr in der Nacht, um das Licht zu löschen, und ich habe noch gelesen: Schulbücher, Romane, Erzählungen, auch Bücher von Karl May. Ich habe alles buchstäblich verschlungen. In der Bibliothek standen 300 oder 350 Bücher, die habe ich alle gekannt. Ich hatte ein Zimmer für mich allein, nur gab es kein elektrisches Licht, sondern Petroleumlampen, die ich mit einem Zündholz anzünden musste. Die Küche war zwischen meinem Zimmer und dem Schlafzimmer der Eltern. Mein Vater sah trotz geschlossener Tür das Licht, löschte es und nahm mir die Lampe weg. ‚Schlafen sollst du, nicht Lesen.’ Einmal zerriss er mir ein geliehenes Buch, es war zwei Uhr nachts. Mein ältester Bruder Martin hatte zwei Zimmer und eine Küche für seine Familie dazu gebaut, vier Zimmer hatten die Eltern. Wir waren zu Hause nur noch zu dritt, die anderen Geschwister waren schon ausgezogen. Wir waren alle Zionisten und lebten mit der Vorstellung, nach Palästina zu gehen. Aber dann ging es meinen Brüdern und Schwestern sehr gut, da wollten sie nicht mehr nach Palästina.

1934 übersiedelte ich zu meinem Bruder Karl nach Königshütte. Ich ging dort aufs Gymnasium, maturierte und arbeitete nebenbei auf dem Holzplatz meines Bruders.
In Königshütte lernte ich Jungen von der zionistischen Organisation ‚Betar‘ kennen, die nahmen mich zu ihren Versammlungen mit. Ich war damals 17 Jahre alt und dort waren sehr schöne Mädels - ich bin gleich eingetreten! Der Anführer der Organisation war Jabotinsky, ein strenger Zionist. 1936 hielt er Vorträge in Krakau. Einige von unserer Gruppe, die Geld hatten, fuhren dorthin. Ich kann mich bis heute an seine Worte erinnern, die haben sich in mir tief eingegraben. Er sagte ungefähr so: Wo ich hinkomme, beklatscht man mich und nimmt mich gut auf. Aber keiner hört mir zu und tut, was ich euch rate. Ich sage euch, es haben sich in Europa zwei Walzen gebildet. Die braune hitlersche und die rote kommunistische, und es kommt zu einem Zusammenstoß zwischen diesen zwei Walzen und das Judentum wird dazwischen zerquetscht. Rettet euch, die Richtung soll Palästina sein. Nehmt, was euch sage ernst! Diese Sätze werde ich bis zu meinem letzten Atemzug nicht vergessen.

Palästina

Ich wollte weg, aber ich war noch nicht 21 Jahre alt und konnte nicht ohne Genehmigung der Eltern fahren. Ich ging zum Vater nach Sendzishow und bat ihn, er soll mir erlauben, nach Palästina zu gehen. Er antwortete: ‚Bist du verrückt geworden, du willst nach Palästina fahren? Dort wirst du Straßenbauarbeiter! Hier hast du eine Zukunft, deine Geschwister haben Holzplätze, zwei haben Sägewerke. Du wirst einen Holzplatz aufmachen, heiraten und wie deine Brüder Geld nach Hause bringen.’ Als ich 21 wurde, bezahlte ich 700 Zloty für die Fahrt nach Palästina. Das Monatsgehalt eines Facharbeiters waren damals 100 Zloty. Legal konnte man nicht nach Palästina fahren, die Engländer ließen nicht so viele Juden hinein.
Menachem Begin war seit 1939 Führer des ‚Betar‘. Ich traf ihn auf einem Vortrag in Königshütte. Er organisierte die illegale Auswanderung von jungen Juden.

Nach dem 1. August 1939 ging ich mit einem Rucksack von zu Hause weg. Auch mein Bruder wollte nicht, dass ich gehe. Aber nachdem ich den Jabotinsky gehört hatte, sagte ich zu meinem Bruder: ‚Karl, verkauf‘ jetzt den Holzplatz, jetzt kannst du eine Menge Geld dafür haben. Und dann musst du weg von hier.’ ‚Was redest Du? So ein Geschäft werde ich aufgeben? Das Geld fließt doch.’ Das sagte mein Bruder. Auch zu meinem Vater sagte ich: ‚Verkauf die Landwirtschaft und geh weg!’ Diejenigen, die Geld hatten, konnten ohne Erlaubnis nach Palästina auswandern. Der Vater antworte: ‚Was soll ich? Auf meine alten Tage werde ich irgendwo gehen?’ Keiner hat auf mich gehört, keiner wollte weggehen. Es ist allen gut gegangen. Ich habe mich von den Eltern verabschiedet. Mein Vater hat geweint und gesagt: ‚Sohn, fahr gesund und komm gesund zurück.’ Es roch schon nach Krieg!

Ungefähr 1 500 Mädels und Buben aus verschiedenen Ländern sind Menachem Begin gefolgt. Wir hatten zwei Personenzüge, in jedem Coupé saßen acht Jugendliche, und wir fuhren zur rumänischen Grenze. Polen und Rumänien hatten damals eine gemeinsame Grenze. Die rumänischen Grenzbeamten sollten bestochen werden, die haben sich bestechen lassen, aber es hat sehr lange gedauert, und es war eine große Ansammlung. Vermutlich hatte die englische Botschaft davon erfahren und interveniert. Als die zwei Züge an der Grenze ankamen, wir hatten keine Visa, blieben wir einen Tag in den Waggons, dann mussten wir raus auf eine Wiese, alle 1500 Leute. Nur Rucksäcke und Decken hatten wir. Zwei Wochen haben wir auf der Wiese auf die Weiterfahrt gewartet. Nach zwei Wochen hat uns Begin versammelt und gesagt: ‚Wir kommen nicht durch, es gibt Hindernisse, ihr müsst zurück nach Hause. Jeder von Euch bekommt 50 Zloty für die Rückfahrt, wir werden später kleine Gruppen bilden und euch wegschaffen.’

Während des Krieges

Ich kam eine Woche vor Kriegsausbruch zurück. Die Straßen waren leer, es war schon Kriegsstimmung. Mein Vater hatte gesagt: ‚Komm gesund zurück nach Hause!’ Und ich bin zurückgekommen und habe den ganzen Krieg mitgemacht!

Als die Deutschen einmarschierten, bin ich mit einem Fahrrad aus Kattowitz geflüchtet. Meine zwei Schwestern mit den Schwägerinnen und mit den Kindern waren schon in Sendzishow, nur wir vier Männer blieben noch in Kattowitz und in Königshütte. Ich war der Letzte. Als die Bahnstation bombardiert wurde, war niemand mehr da. Meine Brüder waren auch schon weg. Ich ging zum Onkel Meir und wohnte einige Tage bei ihm. Am Freitag den 1. September 1939 begann der Krieg. Am darauf folgenden Dienstag marschierten die Deutschen in Königshütte ein. Um zu meinen Eltern zu gelangen, musste ich über eine Brücke. Dort standen zwei junge deutsche Wehrmachtssoldaten und aßen Brot. Einer brach ein Stück ab und wollte es mir geben, aber ich nahm es nicht und er sagte:
‚Beim Marktplatz stehen Namen wie Friedberg, Rothmann, Rothstein auf den Schildern der Geschäfte. Was sind das, Deutsche?’
‚Nein, das sind jüdische Geschäfte.’
‚Ach so, jüdische Geschäfte. Sind Sie auch Jude?’
‚Ja, ich bin Jude.’
‚Ihr werdet jetzt was erleben, der Hitler wird es euch zeigen.’
‚Sagen Sie bitte, warum?’
‚Ihr habt den Christus gekreuzigt.’ Das war meine erste Begegnung mit den Nazis.

Meine Eltern lebten in unserem Bauernhaus, hatten fünf oder sechs Kühe, und es gab noch genug zu essen. Meine Mutter und meine Schwägerin Mala haben Brot gebacken, auch den Schabbat haben meine Eltern noch gehalten. Der Vater hat weiter gebetet, aber wir Kinder nicht mehr, keiner von uns! Bis 1942 mussten wir Juden alle möglichen Arbeiten verrichten: im Winter Schnee schaufeln, Straßen reinigen, alles Mögliche. Ich wurde zum Sekretär der jüdischen Gemeinde bestimmt. Als Sekretär musste ich alle Juden registrieren, Listen aufstellen und Lebensmittel verteilen, die die Deutschen den Juden zugeteilt hatten. Selbstverständlich war das sehr wenig, aber wir konnten noch irgendwie leben.

Die Bahnstation wurde ausgebaut. Dafür gaben die Deutschen polnischen Firmen die Aufträge. Jerzy Malinowsky, ein Ingenieur aus Warschau, war Besitzer vieler Firmen. Er rettete vielen Menschen das Leben. Er hatte einen Kompagnon, einen Deutschen, der ihm Aufträge besorgte und bekam den Auftrag, acht große Holzhäuser für die polnischen Bahnangestellten zu bauen. Täglich kamen ein, zwei Waggon Schnittholz an, die er eingekauft hatte. Sie suchten einen Holzfachmann, da habe ich mich dort gemeldet und wurde aufgenommen. Ich musste einen Holzplatz gründen, das hatte ich bei meinem Bruder gelernt.
Ich bekam zwanzig Juden für die Arbeit, dort waren schon siebzig Leute, die das Arbeitsamt vermittelt hatte. Die Waggons mussten ausgeladen, und das Holz ins Lager gebracht und fachmännisch gestapelt werden. Nach drei Wochen kam der Direktor Malinowsky - er war schon über fünfzig Jahre alt und sehr reich - gab mir die Hand und sprach mit mir über die Arbeit. Er hat sofort erkannt, dass ich ein Fachmann war.

Inzwischen waren schon viele Städte ‚judenrein‘, die Gefahr wurde immer größer. Mein Bruder Karl meldete sich bei einer anderen Firma freiwillig zur Arbeit und schickte seine Frau mit den zwei Kindern nach Warschau.

Der Vater sagte zu mir, dass ich meinem Bruder Martin, den Frauen und den Kindern helfen soll. Ich ging zum Leiter des Holzplatzes, aber er wollte keine Juden mehr beschäftigen.
Kurze Zeit später kam der Direktor Malinowsky wieder. Er war sehr zufrieden mit mir und den Arbeitern, und ich nutzte die Gelegenheit und bat ihn, meine Familie im Lager aufnehmen zu dürfen. Ich habe geglaubt, uns dadurch retten zu können. Er hat mir gestattet, 250 bis 300 Juden aufzunehmen, und wenn nötig, noch eine Baracke für die Menschen dazu zu bauen. Daraufhin habe ich meinen Vater, meinen Bruder Martin, die beiden Söhne Dolek und Isidor, meine Schwester Hanna, ihren Sohn Shmuel, die Schwägerin, drei Cousinen und Cousins und  einen anderen Neffen zu mir geholt. Alle wollten sich retten. Malinowsky ließ dann eine Baracke für die Frauen bauen.

Meine Mutter wurde von 1942 bis Anfang 1943 von einem Polen versteckt. Es begannen die Deportationen, und wenn sie zu wenige Leute für die Waggons hatten, gingen sie in die Firmen. Die SS, die Litauer und die Ukrainer umstellten unser Lager. Als wir um fünf Uhr die Arbeit beendet hatten, hörten wir: ‚Juden raus!’ Dann führten sie eine Selektion durch. ‚Was macht der alte Jude hier,‘ fragte ein SS Mann den Dolmetscher und deutete auf meinen Vater. Der antwortete: ‚Das ist ein tüchtiger Tischler.’ Mein Vater war Tischler wie ich Priester bin, aber er durfte bleiben. Meinen Neffen, den Izio, nahmen sie mit, zwei Cousins, meine Schwester Hanna, meine Schwägerin und andere Verwandte. Geblieben ist mein Vater, mein Bruder Martin mit dem Sohn Dolek und Shmuel, der Sohn meiner Schwester Hanna. Shmuel war 13 Jahre alt, den hatten sie übersehen. Er blieb am Leben und lebt noch heute in Israel. Wie sie uns einsperrten in die Baracke, als die anderen weggeführt wurden in die Waggons, hat mein Vater bitterlich geweint. Er hat den Izio sehr geliebt, das war sein liebstes Enkelkind. Dann hat er zu uns gesagt: ‚Meine Kinder, ich werde euch was sagen. Ich habe mein ganzes Leben lang gebetet und an Gott geglaubt. Heute sage ich euch, es gibt keinen Gott, der Himmel ist leer. Warum hat der Herrgott Kinder auf die Welt bringen lassen, die man jetzt umbringt? Warum?‘ Und ich sage auch heute, wie mein Vater: Der Himmel ist leer, es gibt keinen Gott!

Danach habe ich mir fürchterliche Vorwürfe gemacht, weil ich sie alle geholt hatte. Ich habe zwei Tage nichts runterschlucken können, nicht einmal Wasser. Ich habe mich nicht rasiert, bin verwahrlost. Am dritten Tag in der Früh, ich war wie betäubt, traf ich den Direktor Malinowsky. Er sagte: ‚Machen Sie sich keine Vorwürfe, Herr Neuman, Sie sind nicht Schuld, Schuld sind die deutschen Barbaren. Sie sind jung, Sie sprechen fabelhaft Polnisch, Sie sehen nicht aus wie ein Jude, Sie müssen jetzt an sich denken. Ich weiß, was hier passieren wird. Hauen Sie schnell von hier ab.’
‚Wohin soll ich abhauen Herr Direktor, in den Wald? Es kommt der Winter, ich werde doch krepieren im Wald, und einen anderen Ausweg habe ich nicht.’
‚Verschaffen Sie sich polnische Papiere. Ich komme in zwei, drei Wochen wieder. Zeigen Sie sich mir am Fenster, wenn Sie weg wollen. Ich verschaffe Ihnen am anderen Ende Polens eine Stelle, aber machen Sie schnell.’

Mein Bruder Josef hatte von dem Österreicher, der als kommissarischer Leiter seines Sägewerkes eingesetzt war, erfahren, dass er sich einen Fachmann suchen und den Juden Neuman bis zum 30. oder 31. Dezember zur Gestapo bringen soll. Seine Frau hatte er schon in Sicherheit gebracht, alle hatten polnische Papiere. Er hatte kein Geld mehr, aber auch er hatte schon polnische Papiere. Er bat mich, den Direktor auch für ihn irgendwo in Polen um Arbeit zu bitten. Er war gefährdet, er musste schnell weg. Ich bat den Direktor, wollte sogar auf meinen Platz verzichten, denn mein Bruder hatte Familie und ich nicht. Aber der Direktor besorgte meinem Bruder sofort eine Arbeit.

Polen

Mein Bruder schrieb mir aus Baligrod [Polen], dass ich kommen soll, aber ich hatte kein Geld. Ich brauchte 1 500 Zloty, da habe ich meinen Mantel für 375 Zloty verkauft. Ich hatte großes Glück: Zwei Männer kamen zu mir mit der Bitte, dass ich eine wertvolle Uhr für sie verkaufen soll, sie wollten dafür Fünftausend Zloty. Was ich mehr bekommen würde, könnte ich behalten, bei einer geringeren Summe bekäme ich zehn Prozent. Nach der Arbeit im Lager schlich ich mich hinaus. Ich fand eine Familie, die mir 6250 Zloty für die Uhr gab. Ich bekam sogar noch eine Eierspeise aus sechs Eiern, ein großes Brot und zwei frische Würste. Ich hatte nun die 1 500 Zloty und konnte mir falsche Papiere machen lassen. Eine Woche später bekam ich die gefälschte Kennkarte auf den Namen Adolf Drabinski - das war im November 1942. Mein Bruder hatte eine Kennkarte mit dem polnischen Namen Eduard Socha. Ich habe mich von meinem Bruder Martin und seinem Sohn Dolek und von Shmuel, dem Sohn meiner Schwester Hanna verabschiedet. Vier Leute meiner Familie sind noch dort geblieben. Mein Vater war schon zerbrochen, schon kein Mensch mehr. Wie ich mich vom Vater verabschiedet habe, habe ich ihm noch die Hand gegeben, ihn geküsst und umarmt. Dann gab ich ihm 300 Zloty. Mein Vater sagte: ‚Mein lieber Sohn, meine alten Augen werden dich nie mehr sehen.’ Es war furchtbar!

Die Deutschen stellten später eine Falle auf. Auf Plakaten stand geschrieben, es gäbe vier Ghettos in Polen, wo die Juden Asyl bekämen und dort gut leben könnten. Ein Ghetto lag in der Nähe, einhundert Kilometer entfernt, und viele ältere Juden wollten dahin. 150 Zloty bezahlten sie pro Person für den Transport auf einem Lastwagen. Der Vater nahm dafür die 300 Zloty, die ich ihm gelassen hatte. Nach meiner Flucht war er sehr krank geworden. Er ließ die Mama fragen, ob sie mit ihm in das Ghetto gehen wolle. Sie antwortete: ‚Wo du hingehst, gehe ich auch hin.’ Nach einer Woche oder zehn Tagen wurden sie umzingelt und in Viehwaggons verfrachtet. Ich traf später einen Bekannten, der zur Arbeit aussortiert worden war und überlebt hatte - Lefkovits hieß er. Er sah meine Eltern, wie sie Hände haltend in den Waggon reinmarschiert sind. Das war das Ende, sie wurden in das Vernichtungslager Treblinka deportiert und dort ermordet.

Zwei Polen, die mich aus dem Lager kannten, haben mich auf meiner Flucht begleitet, um mir im Notfall zu helfen. Wir sind in Przemysl [Polen] angekommen, und am nächsten Morgen bin ich ins Büro auf die Kathedralna 3 gegangen, so wie der Direktor mir das gesagt hatte. Ich werde das nie vergessen. Die Polen haben mich noch immer begleitet und zu mir gesagt: ‚Wenn du hier nicht aufgenommen wirst, nehmen wir dich sofort mit nach Warschau. Wir haben schon einen Platz für dich vorbereitet.’ Sie hatten mich sehr gern. Im Büro saß am ersten Schreibtisch ein Mann, den ich gut kannte; es war mein Vorgesetzter aus dem Zwangsarbeitslager aus Sendzishow. Ich war selbstverständlich ohne Judenstern, ich schaute ihn an und er mich:
‚Sie wünschen?’
‚Mein Herr, mich schickt der Direktor Malinowsky.’
‚Wie heißen Sie?’ Dann zwinkerte er mir zu.
‚Adolf Drabinsky‘, sagte ich.
Ich hatte verstanden, ich brauchte keine Angst haben. Auf einmal war ich frei!

Mein Bruder war schon nicht mehr dort, den hatten sie in ein Sägewerk weiter geschickt.
Mein ehemaliger Vorgesetzter nahm mich mit zum Abendessen. Es gab gutes Essen, wir saßen wie Menschen an einem Tisch. ‚Hören Sie, ich bin religiös und ich glaube an Gott. Ich war eigentlich ein Judenhasser. Ich habe auf der Uni studiert, und auf der Uni war schon der Numerus Clausus für Juden eingeführt. Die Juden mussten links sitzen, manchmal wurden sie auch verprügelt. Ich war der Meinung, sie sollten auswandern - nach Palästina oder Madagaskar - aber sie töten, die von Gott so wie wir erschaffen wurden, dagegen bin ich.‘
Er hat uns später sehr geholfen. Zwei Tage später fuhr ich zu meinem Bruder. Es ging ihm gut. In dieser Zeit kam auch seine Frau Helene mit der Tochter Dunja zu ihm. Nach ein paar Tagen musste ich in ein anderes Sägewerk, ganz in die Nähe von Baligrod. Meinem Bruder wurde die Leitung des gesamten Büros übertragen, und er bekam viele Aufträge.

Ein Dreivierteljahr später schickte uns Malinowsky einen Brief mit einer Lohnerhöhung. Die Preise waren gestiegen, und er hat unsere Gehälter erhöht. Josef, als Leiter des Sägewerkes, bekam statt sechshundert, eintausend Zloty und ich bekam zuerst vierhundert und dann sechshundert Zloty. Das waren sehr gute Gehälter. Er bat uns um Passfotos, die wir ihm schickten, und wir bekamen von ihm ein Empfehlungsschreiben von dem Generalgouverneur Hans Frank 6. Darin stand, dass wir für die Deutsche Wehrmacht arbeiten würden. Bei Kontrollen gab es dadurch nie Probleme

Einmal kam er uns auch besuchen. Sein Mitarbeiter war ein bulgarischer Ingenieur, der hieß Petrow Krum, der wusste alles über Malinowsky und half ihm sogar einen Juden aus dem Gefängnis in Stanislau [heute Ukraine] zu retten. Zwei Tage waren sie unsere Gäste. Er hat uns nicht vergessen, und als die Russen anrückten, hat er seinen Chauffeur geschickt, damit wir uns vor den Deutschen in Sicherheit bringen können. Leider wurde der Chauffeur von den Deutschen nicht durchgelassen, er musste zurück nach Krakau. Nach dem Krieg hat mir Malinowsky, der dann als Professor an der berühmten Universität in Krakau lehrte, die Geschichte erzählt. Ich möchte veranlassen, dass für ihn ein Baum in der ‚Allee der Gerechten‘ 7 in Jerusalem gepflanzt wird.

In Baligrod lebten ungefähr zwanzig polnische Familien, und zweitausendfünfhundert Ukrainer. Am 6. August 1944 ist eine Bande Ukrainer in dieses Städtchen eingedrungen
Die Deutschen stellten gemeinsam mit den Ukrainern eine SS Division auf, um gegen die Russen zu kämpfen. Aber als sie in die Ukraine kamen, sind viele Ukrainer desertiert und - die Deutschen waren schon fast fort - haben alle Polen umgebracht, die sie erwischt haben, auch meinen Bruder Josef und den Juden, den Malinowsky mit seinem Chauffeur aus dem Gefängnis befreit hatte. Beide wurden auf dem christlichen Friedhof in Baligrod begraben.

Ich habe mich versteckt und nach drei Tagen bin ich auf mein Fahrrad gestiegen und aus der Stadt geflohen. Mit einem Polen war ich sehr eng befreundet, Michael hieß er. Auch er war geflohen und hatte sich mit anderen im Wald versteckt. Wie er mich gesehen hat, hat er mich umarmt und geküsst und fast geweint. Ich blieb drei Monate dort in den Wäldern, in den Karpaten. Mein Freund Michael wusste nicht, dass ich Jude bin. Mit ihm hatte ich einmal ein Gespräch und da sagte er zu mir:
‚Weißt du, wenn der Krieg zu Ende ist, möchte ich eine Pistole haben und Deutsche und Juden erschießen.’
‚Deutsche gut, aber warum Juden? Was haben die Juden dir angetan? Die Juden waren keine Mörder, sie waren keine Räuber, sie waren keine Gauner. Vielleicht haben sie deine Mutter beim Einkaufen von Lebensmittel um 10 Groschen betrogen. Warum sagst du nicht die Ukrainer, die deinen Vater und Schwager erschossen haben? Warum nicht Ukrainer und Deutsche, die waren doch unsere Feinde?’
‚Eigentlich hast du Recht. Aber man sagt doch, die Juden haben Christus gekreuzigt.’
‚Das war vor 2000 Jahren, weißt du wie das wirklich war? Kann jemand das bezeugen‘, antwortete ich ihm.

In Sanok wurde ich Anfang 1945, der Krieg war noch nicht ganz zu Ende, als Sekretär der Stadt eingestellt. Die Deutschen waren schon weg, Polen und Russen kämpften zusammen.
Wir fuhren von Ort zu Ort, die Leute mussten ihre Pferde bringen, die wir dann gekauft haben. Ich habe Pferdepässe ausgestellt und alles genau registriert.

Nach dem Krieg

In der Zwischenzeit war ganz Polen befreit. Ich erfuhr, dass aus meiner Familie 129 Menschen ermordet wurden, und dass meine Schwester Esther und ihr Kind lebten und meine Hilfe brauchten. Ich nahm mir Urlaub, steckte Wodka und Tabak für die Russen und geschmolzene Butter, Wurst und etwas Geld ein und fuhr von einem Ende Polens ans andere, um sie zu suchen. Da die Bahnstrecken zerstört waren, fuhr ich mit russischen Lastautos. Es dauerte lange, bis ich meine Schwester und ihren Sohn Mietek gefunden hatte. Meine Schwester wollte unbedingt in unser Elternhaus nach Sendzishow. Ich besorgte mir einen Geleitbrief von der Kreishauptmannschaft, schrieb in Polnisch und in Russisch, dass ich unterwegs sei, und die russischen und die polnischen Einheiten mir helfen sollten. In Sendzishow angekommen, gingen wir zuerst zum Bürgermeister, den ich kannte. Dann ging ich mit einem Sekretär zu unserem Haus und stellte den Mörder meiner Schwager zur Rede: ‚Ich weiß alles, was Sie hier getan haben. Wenn Sie nicht binnen 24 Stunden verschwinden, rufe ich den KGB.’ Er verschwand sofort.

Vieles war wie früher. Meine alten Schulfreunde rieten mir aber, nicht zu bleiben, da die polnische Untergrundbewegung auch gegen die Russen aktiv war, und viele Juden waren Kommunisten. Meine Schwester blieb in unserem Elternhaus. Ich fuhr nach Sanok zurück und begann dort, in einem Büro zu arbeiten. Dann bekam ich einen Brief, dass mein Bruder Karl mit seiner Frau und den zwei Söhnen aus Warschau in Sendzishow angekommen sei. Sie hatten überlebt und wollten mich sehen. Ich gab meine Arbeit auf und fuhr wieder nach Sendzishow zurück. In der Zwischenzeit waren aber alle in die Wohnung eines Cousins nach Kattowitz übersiedelt, weil sie Angst hatten, im Haus in Sendzishow zu bleiben. Ich fuhr nach Kattowitz und habe endlich alle Überlebenden getroffen. Mein Bruder Martin mit seinem Sohn Dolek kamen aus dem KZ Buchenwald. Wir haben sie kaum erkannt, so abgemagert waren sie, nur noch Haut und Knochen.

In Kattowitz lernte ich meine erste Frau Stefanie kennen. Sie wurde am 19. Februar 1919 in Lemberg geboren und war eine Überlebende des KZ Buchenwald [Deutschland] und des KZ Ravensbrück [Deutschland]. Sie war keine Jüdin und hatte im Untergrund gegen die Faschisten gearbeitet, war in Krakau verhaftet und fürchterlich geschlagen worden. Ich half ihr, und dann blieben wir zusammen und heirateten. Ich habe ihr aber gleich gesagt, dass ich Jude und Zionist bin und nach Palästina will. Nach dem Pogrom in Kielce 8 habe ich gesagt, dass ich genug habe. Die Polen hatten ein besseres Auge als die Deutschen, die haben genau erkannt, wer Jude ist. Viele Juden sind zu dieser Zeit aus Polen geflohen.

Über Wien kamen wir nach Deutschland in ein DP – Lager 9. Es waren Dreitausend Juden in diesem Lager, darunter viele Kinder aus Russland. Deshalb wurde eine Schule eröffnet, und ich wurde Lehrer für Jiddisch, Mathematik und Gymnastik. Dann kam ein Delegierter vom Joint 10 ,und ich wurde auf Kurse geschickt. Meine nächste Station war Esslingen am Neckar, dort hatten war ein Erholungsheim für jüdische Kinder. Es waren 120 Kinder aus verschiedenen Lagern in einem fürchterlichen Zustand, verlaust und verwahrlost. Zuerst waren wir sechs Männer und zwei Frauen, die sich um die Kinder kümmerten. Milch konnte ich beim Bauern nebenan kaufen, und der erzählte mir eine Tages folgende Geschichte:
Vor dem Krieg waren in dem vierstöckigen Haus, das der Rothschild-Stiftung gehörte, 120 jüdische Waisenkinder untergebracht. Ende 1942 hielt der Gauleiter auf dem Marktplatz eine Rede, hetzte Bewohner erfolgreich gegen die jüdischen Kinder auf, woraufhin sie zu dem Gebäude zogen, eindrangen und die Kinder vom vierten Stock aus dem Fenster warfen. Die Kinderleichen haben sie im Zentralheizungskessel verbrannt. Das sind Tatsachen! Ich habe keine Angst darüber zu sprechen, ich bürge dafür [Anm. der Interviewerin: Auf Anfrage an die Stadtverwaltung Esslingen wurde der Vorfall nicht bestätigt]. Meine Frau übernahm die Küche des Heimes. Die Kinder, davon viele Halbwaisen, waren zwischen drei Monaten und einem Jahr bei uns.

Mein Bruder Karl war mit seiner Frau und den Söhnen nach Belgien zu den Eltern seiner Frau gezogen, die den Krieg in Belgien überlebt hatten. 1950 emigrierten sie nach Israel.

1949 wurde das Erholungsheim aufgelöst. Ich wollte sofort nach Israel, aber meine Frau zögerte. Mein Bruder Martin, der in Kattowitz lebte, schrieb mir in einem Brief, er hätte eine chemische Fabrik gekauft und bräuchte meine Hilfe. Er wollte, dass ich sein Kompagnon werde und wir gemeinsam diese Fabrik leiten. Da ging ich mit meiner Frau nach Polen zurück. Kurz nach meiner Ankunft wurde die Fabrik von den kommunistischen Behörden beschlagnahmt und verstaatlicht. Ich fand Arbeit in einem verstaatlichten Schuhgeschäft und wurde als Leiter eingesetzt. Nach einem halben Jahr wurde mir die Leitung eines Pelzgeschäftes angeboten, es war das größte Pelzgeschäft in Polen. Martin eröffnete eine Putzerei und heiratete eine Christin. Sein Sohn Dolek studierte, heiratete auch eine Christin, und sie bekamen zwei Töchter.

Ich war sehr beliebt. Ich habe mich mit vielen Leuten angefreundet. Kattowitz liegt in Oberschlesien, dort war der Antisemitismus nicht so groß, wie in Zentralpolen. Man sagt, Polen und Schlesier hassen sich. In Kattowitz lebten sehr wenige Juden. In einem Privathaus war ein Bethaus eingerichtet. Juden können zu Gott überall beten, denn Gott ist überall.
Ich ging nur zu Rosch Haschana 9 und Jom Kippur 10 ins Bethaus, denn da betet man für die Seelen der Ermordeten.

1957 bekam ich durch einen Bekannten einen Reisepass und durfte meinen Bruder Karl in Israel besuchen. Karl lebte in Tel Aviv. Meine Frau konnte nicht mitfahren, das haben die polnischen Behörden nicht erlaubt. Ich blieb zwei Monate in Israel. Karl arbeitete zuerst auf dem Eisenplatz eines Cousins, der ein Sohn des Bruders meines Großvaters war. Das war der Bruder, dem in den 1920er-Jahren die Maschinen ins Meer gefallen waren. Später hat er einen eigenen Eisenplatz gegründet. Ich bin nach Polen zurück gefahren. Ich habe gut verdient, meine Frau leitete ein Café in Königshütte, das war sechs Kilometer von Kattowitz entfernt, und wir hatten eine Luxuswohnung in Königshütte.

Am 6. Januar 1959 kam unser Sohn Jacob als 6 ½ Monatskind zur Welt. Er wog ein Kilo und zweiunddreißig Gramm und musste drei Monate in den Inkubator. Ich habe ihn dank eines jüdischen Freundes, der Apotheker beim KGB war, retten können. Er besorgte mir Medikamente, die in Polen nicht zu bekommen waren.

Mein Bruder Martin starb 1964 in Kattowitz an einem Herzinfarkt.

Im Jahre 1967 war der Sechs-Tage-Krieg 11 in Israel. In Folge dessen hielt der polnische Premierminister Goumulka eine schrecklich antisemitische Rede, in der er sagte, die Juden seien die fünfte Kolonne des Zionismus. Mir war immer bewusst, dass ich Zionist bin, und ich habe einmal einen Bekannten gefragt, ob er wisse, was Zionismus ist. Ich erklärte es ihm: ‚Zionismus ist eine Bewegung der Juden, die sich einen eigenen Staat aufbauen wollen.‘ Er aber antwortete: ‚Zionismus bedeutet, arbeiten für den Kapitalismus.’ Plötzlich bekam ich Angst, meine Freunde kamen nicht mehr, und die Stimmung wurde sehr antisemitisch. Juden wurden aus ihren Stellungen entlassen, viele Juden waren in der Arbeiterpartei und wurden ausgeschlossen. Ich hatte von 1949 bis 1969, also 20 Jahre in dem Pelzgeschäft gearbeitet. Mein Direktor rief mich zu sich und sagte: ‚Neuman, für dich habe ich bei der Partei garantiert, du bleibst so lange bei uns, wie du willst, es wird dir nichts geschehen, du bist einer der besten Geschäftsführer.‘ Es waren 150 Geschäftsführer unter dieser Direktion. Ich hatte sogar ein Silberkreuz für meine Verdienste bekommen.

Von Israel nach Wien

Mein Bruder hat mir aus Israel geschrieben, dass er einen Eisenplatz eröffnet habe, und ich sein Kompagnon werden soll. Meine Schwester Esther schrieb mir aus den USA:
‚Weg von dort, weg von den Antisemiten.‘ Ich habe meiner Frau ein Ultimatum gestellt:
Entweder ich gehe nach Israel und sie kommt mit, dann ist es gut, wenn nicht, möchte ich aber unseren Sohn Jacob mitnehmen. Jacob war damals 10 Jahre alt. Er war mit polnischen Kindern aufgewachsen, wusste aber, dass ich Jude bin und er sagte: ‚Wenn der Papa ohne mich fährt, springe ich vom 6. Stock aus dem Fenster.’ Er hat mich sehr geliebt und bis heute verehrt er mich. Wir fuhren alle zusammen nach Israel. Zuerst besuchte ich einen Ulpan [Sprachkurs] in Carmiel. Das war ein besonderer Ulpan. Ich hatte in Israel eine Freundin, die kannte ich noch aus der Zeit vor dem Krieg aus Königshütte. Ihr Mann war ein höherer Beamter, der brachte mich in diesem exklusiven Ulpan unter. Ich bekam dort eine eingerichtete Drei-Zimmer-Wohnung.

Nach sechs Wochen rief meine Schwägerin an, sie hätte eine Wohnung bei Tel Aviv für uns gefunden, ich soll kommen. Die Wohnung war klein, ich hatte aber meine Möbel aus Polen mitgenommen, die Hälfte musste ich dann davon wegschmeißen. Eigentlich wollte ich lieber wieder nach Carmiel, aber mein Bruder Karl wurde krank, und man bat mich, meinem Neffen Reuven bei der Arbeit zu helfen. Araber und Juden arbeiteten zusammen auf dem Eisenplatz. Ich übernahm die Buchhaltung des Betriebes. Schon in Polen wurde ich als Pedant bezeichnet. Die Araber haben mich geschätzt, ich war pünktlich, ich war genau und jeder hat bis zum letzten Groschen sein ihm zustehendes Gehalt bekommen. Im Jahre 1973 war der Jom Kippur-Krieg 12. Am Anfang sah es sehr schlecht für Israel aus. Die Araber kamen nicht zur Arbeit, es war aber auch nicht viel zu tun. Als ich nach Hause kam, sagte meine Frau: ‚Stell Dir vor, der Rasem, er war Araber und Vorarbeiter, ist mit seinem Auto gekommen und hat gesagt: ‚Frau Neuman, wir hören die arabischen Sender, wenn es gefährlich wird, nehme ich euch mit zu uns nach Hause.‘ So sehr hat er uns gemocht.
Leider hielt mein Bruder nicht, was er mir versprochen hatte. Ich hatte einen Freund aus Kattowitz in Wien. Er hatte am Mexikoplatz ein Geschäft aufgemacht und bot mir an, ich könne mit ihm zusammen arbeiten. Aber meinem Sohn ging es sehr gut in Israel, er hatte viele Freunde. Er war der einzige Blonde zwischen den Kindern, sie nannten ihn Gingi, das heißt Rothaariger oder Weißhaariger. Alle haben mich überredet, in Israel zu bleiben, und ich blieb. Nach acht Jahren musste ich wegen meiner Frau Israel verlassen. Sie drohte mit Selbstmord, wenn unser Sohn zur Armee eingezogen werden würde. Ihre polnische Freundin in Israel hatte auch einen Sohn, und sie fuhren gemeinsam in die Schweiz und brachten die Buben in einem jüdischen Internat unter. Meine Frau blieb bei Bekannten in Deutschland und in Österreich. Für unseren Sohn war es sehr schwer, dass die Familie getrennt lebte. Meine Frau wollte aber nicht nach Israel zurück, also flog ich nach Wien, da hatte ich einen Bekannten, der Juwelier in der Wollzeile war und ein Freund meines Bruders Martin. Der Juwelier war bereit, Jacob als Lehrling in sein Geschäft zu nehmen. Wir mieteten eine Wohnung in Wien im 2. Bezirk in der Blumauergasse und pachteten im fünften Bezirk das Kaffeehaus Pam-Pam.

Nach fünf Jahre Arbeit in dem Geschäft, beendet Jacob die Berufschule in Wien. Fred, der Sohn meines Bruders Karl, war Juwelen-Großhändler in Australien. Er kam einmal nach Wien, sah meinen Sohn und war begeistert über seine Kenntnisse. Er bot ihm eine Stelle in Australien an, und mein Sohn ging mit ihm nach Australien. Ich übernahm bei unserem Freund in dem Juwelengeschäft den Posten meines Sohnes und arbeitete dort 14 ½ Jahre.

Meine Frau starb 1981. Nach dem Tod meiner Frau habe ich eine Freundin aus Königshütte gebeten, zu mir nach Wien zu kommen. Wladislawa wurde 1931 in Königshütte geboren und sie war Ärztin. Bei ihr hatte meine erste Frau unseren Sohn entbunden. Dadurch hatten wir uns kennen gelernt. Ihr Mann war gestorben, und sie lebte mit ihrer Tochter Sonja allein. Ende 1981 trafen wir uns in Wien. Ich konnte als israelischer Staatsbürger nicht zu ihr nach Polen fahren, es gab zu dieser Zeit keine diplomatischen Beziehungen zwischen Polen und Israel. Als ich nach Israel emigrierte, hatte ich meine polnische Staatsbürgerschaft abgeben müssen, das haben die Polen verlangt, bevor sie mir das Reisedokument gegeben haben.
Ich hätte ein Visum für Polen beantragen müssen, und meistens gaben die polnischen Behörden Leuten wie mir kein Visum. Dann kam der Kriegszustand in Polen 13 und die Verbindung zwischen uns brach ab. Meine Schwester Esther aus San Francisco besuchte mich in dieser Zeit in Wien. Sie hatte durch Beharrlichkeit geholfen, die Verbindung nach Polen zu Wladislawa herzustellen. 1982 traf ich Wladislawa in Rumänien, danach kam sie mit ihrer Tochter Sonja für immer nach Wien.

Sonja war sehr fleißig, sie belegte am Goethe-Institut einem Deutsch-Intensivkurs und konnte schon nach einem halben Jahr das Gymnasium besuchen. Sie wollte wie die Mama Ärztin werden, und sie hat es geschafft. Sonja hat geheiratet, hat zwei Kinder, und ich bin ein sehr glücklicher Opa.

Ich war mit Wladislawa 18 Jahre sehr glücklich verheiratet. Sie starb in Wien im Jahre 2000. Ich hätte nie gedacht, dass ich sie überleben werde. Ich bin seit ihrem Tod allein. Mein Sohn Jacob hat zwei Kinder, aber er lebt mit seiner Familie in Australien, und da ich herzkrank bin, darf ich nicht nach Australien - weder mit dem Flugzeug noch mit dem Schiff - also kommt er alle zwei Jahre zu mir nach Wien, meine Enkelkinder bringt er alle vier Jahre mit.

Österreich ist eigentlich meine Heimat geworden. Ich habe in Österreich persönlich nie Antisemitismus erlebt. Ich benehme mich gut, und mich hat noch nie jemand angepöbelt, ich bin hier beliebt bei vielen Leuten, auch in dem Haus, in dem ich wohne.

Nach dem Tod meiner Frau war ich in Kattowitz. Ich traf einen Staatsanwalt, mit dem ich befreundet war, der hat mich bei sich aufgenommen und hat mich herumgeführt. Ich habe gesehen, wie verwahrlost es dort ist, und ich weiß, wie es einmal ausgesehen hat.

Einmal in der Woche gehe ich ins jüdische Alters-und Tagesheim, dem Maimonides-Zentrum. Dort sind viele alte Leute. Wir erzählen uns Witze, wir sprechen über Politik, über die Vergangenheit und werden dort gut betreut, haben Unterhaltung, Gesang, Tanz oder Gymnastik.

Zweimal im Jahr gehe ich in den Tempel, zu Rosch Haschana und zu Jom Kippur.
Einmal hat mich ein Bekannter zu ESRA 14 mitgenommen. Sie haben dort ein Interview mit mir gemacht und mich davon überzeugt, dass ich einen Antrag an die Claims Conference 15 stelle, weil ich einen Anspruch auf 250 Euro monatlich als Überlebender des Holocaust habe. Zuerst wollte ich diesen Antrag nicht stellen, ich brauche das Geld nicht unbedingt, und ich will nicht betteln. Im Dezember kam ein Brief aus New York, in dem sie mir mitteilten, dass mein Antrag einer von Tausende Anträgen ist und alle bearbeiten werden, ich muss Geduld haben. Aber eigentlich warte ich nur noch auf den Tod, so ist das, was kann man machen? Der Tod gehört zum Leben, und das Leben gehört zum Tod.

Glossar

Életrajz

Bányai Jánosné egy régi, VI. kerületi bérház egyik emeleti, utcára néző lakásában él. Pár évvel ezelőtt súlyos agyvérzése volt, ezért bizonyos eseményekre, évszámokra, dátumokra nem tudott pontosan visszaemlékezni, illetve összekeveredtek az emlékek. Ennek ellenére rengeteg történetet, emléket idézett fel még gyerekkoráról, felmenőiről. Manapság az egészségi állapota miatt már csak ritkán tud kimozdulni lakásából, de a családja – fia, lánya és unokája mellette van – segíti őt.

Ükapám anyai ágon Herskovits Mózes, ő Erdélyben élt. Reich Lotti volt az ükanyám, ő 1827-ben született, Orgoványban talán. De ezt kivéve az egész család Erdélyben, szanaszét szórva: Szigeten [Máramarossziget], Palotamezőn [Palotamező nevű helységnevet az 1910-es népszámlálás már nem tartalmazott. – A szerk.], Kolozsváron, Csengeren. [A felsoroltak közül Csenger sohasem tartozott Romániához. Nagyközség, Szatmár vm. (ma Szabolcs-Szatmár-Bereg megye); 1910-ben 3300 lakos, a járási szolgabírói hivatal székhelye, csendőrőrs, gőzmalom, dohánybeváltó hivatal, takarékpénztár, posta- és távíróhivatal. – A szerk.] Az ükapám kereskedő volt, földbirtokos, és elszegényedett, mert valakiért jót állt, valami váltópapírt írt alá valaki helyett, és minden földje elúszott. Aztán a gyerekek cseperedtek, lett neki négy gyereke. Bikszádon éltek, Bikszád volt a fészek. [Bikszád –  kisközség, Szatmár vm.; 1910-ben 1700 román és magyar lakos; fürdője volt 160 vendégszobával; négy gyógyforrás ivókúrára; Trianon után Romániához került. – A szerk.]

A nagyanyám apja híres rabbi volt, jómódban éltek Csengeren. Ott is volt – azt hiszem – hat gyerek: négy lány és két fiú. De az őseim közül többen is Bikszádon születtek, és magyar zsidók voltak. Nagyon műveltek voltak. Ez az az ág, ahol a lányok is tanultak.

Nagyanyáim testvére volt Stern Sámuel, aki itt lakott a Damjanich utcában. Az volt anyám nagybátyja, aztán volt Mózes, Erdélyben. Volt még Érsekújváron [Érsekújvár – város, Nyitra vm., 1910-ben 16 300 lakos, Trianon után Csehszlovákiához került, ma Szlovákia – A szerk.] egy gazdag földesúr, Stern Hermann. Volt több földesúr is az ősök között, volt egy dédapa földesúr, és volt egy nagybácsi földesúr, anyámnak a nagybátyja. Azt hiszem, nem volt neki családja, gyereke, de nagyon gazdag földesúr volt.

Stern Sámuel megúszta a háborút, ő tanító volt, a felesége tanítónő, volt neki egy fia, az jogász-ügyvéd. Nagyon aranyos népek voltak. Úgy hívták a fiát, hogy dr. Sömjén Pál. Egy nagyon aranyos, bűbájos ember volt, nagyon szerettük. Nagyon jó volt mindig elmenni ide a Damjanich utcába a gyerekekkel. Végre egy olyan hely, ahol tárt karokkal fogadták az embert. Nagyon gyakran találkoztunk, szoros kapcsolat volt köztünk. Mára kihalt a család. A lánya is meghalt 46 éves korában. Utoljára halt meg a Pali felesége, Annus. Annus devecseri lány volt, annak is megölték a szüleit, orvos volt az apja.

Stern Sámuel egyik testvére, Mózes, nem tudom, mivel foglalkozott. Csak azt tudom, hogy volt egy nagyon szép, Olga nevű lánya. A családom minden ágában van egy Olga. Nem tudom, mivel foglalkozott a lány, sose láttam, csak hallottam az egyik unokatestvéremtől, és mutatta is a képet róla. Tudom, hogy Erdélyben lakott, talán Kolozsváron. Szét volt szóródva egész Erdélyben a család.

A Herskovitsok nem voltak se gazdagok, se szegények, de ha mégis szegények voltak, nem mutatták. Ha foltozott volt a ruha, az ki volt mosva és ki volt vasalva, azt látta mindenki, hogy milyen rendezett emberek. Ha szegény valaki, nem jelenti azt, hogy el kell hanyagolnia magát.

Anyai nagyapám Herskovits Jakab volt. Akkortájt halt meg, amikor a legkisebb lánya, az egyik nagynéném született, 1895-ben. Lehetett olyan 35 éves. A szíve vitte el. Ő kocsmáros volt. A nagypapáról annyit tudtam, hogy egyszer egy évben, amikor az évforduló volt [lásd: jahrzeit], gyertyát gyújtottunk. Többet nem tudtam meg róla.

Anyai nagymamám nagyon okos asszony volt. Gazdagok voltak. Ő háziasszony volt, háztartásbeli. Akkoriban a jómódú emberek nem dolgoztatták az asszonyaikat. Arról nem beszéltek, hogy mi történt, amikor meghalt a nagypapa. Nyilván szétosztották a vagyont a gyerekek között. Anyai nagymamámat, szegényt, 83 éves korában elvitték Auschwitzba.

Anyukám Herskovits Eszter. Született Bikszádon 1894-ben. Anyukámnak nem volt iskolai végzettsége. A nagymama egyedül maradt a sok gyerekkel, és az utolsó gyerekének születésekor megvakult. Fiaiból kántortanító lett. Herskovits Sámuel Vecsésen élt később, [Vecsés: nagyközség Pest-Pilis-Solt-Kiskun vm.-ben, 1910-ben 7400 lakossal. – A szerk.]. Herskovits Dezső Dombóváron, neki volt tíz gyereke.

Sámuel volt a legidősebb testvér. Vecsésen lakott, volt családja, öt gyereke. Volt neki egy Halmos Laci nevű fia, magyarosította a nevét, aki bankigazgató volt az Értékforgalmi Bankban. Behívták munkaszolgálatra és meghalt.

Anyukám következő testvére, a Dezső, az első világháborúban katona volt. Volt tíz gyereke. Amikor meghalt a felesége, ott maradt a tíz gyerekkel. Elosztotta a rokonok közt a gyerekeket. Egyébként nem tudott volna dolgozni. Ez a tíz gyerek megszokta az önállóságot. Sokan feljöttek Pestre, és itt Pesten sokan életben maradtak. Aki nem Pestre jött, az meghalt munkaszolgálatban. Két gyereke bujkált, Klári Pesterzsébeten, Olga pedig Budapesten. Olgának mind a két gyereke meghalt a háborúban, az egyik éhen halt, a másik súlyos betegség következtében. A háború után szült két újabb gyerekeket, és 1957-ben kivándoroltak Izraelbe. A fiát a 21. születésnapján, a háborúban  ölték meg Izraelben, hősi halott lett. Klárinak egy ruhaüzlete volt a Belvárosban, de ő olyan családon kívülinek érezte magát.

Dezső Jenő nevű fia is bujkált valahol. A háború után jól ment neki, megmaradt az üzlete itt Pesten, egy nőiruha-üzlet, abból éltek. Volt két gyereke. A 12 éves fiával kocsin mentek valahova, összeütköztek egy teherautóval, és a fiát a fő ütőerén találta az ütés. Azonnal meghalt. Maradt egy kislánya is Jenőnek, nem sokáig bírta elviselni fia halálát, nemsokára meghalt ő is.

Dezső bácsi egyik fia, Pali valahogy mint munkaszolgálatos, megúszta a háborút. Aztán kivándorolt New Yorkba. Szívbetegség következtében halt meg.

Dezső bácsi fia volt Miksa is, és neki született egy nagyon szép  fia. Jött ide hozzám, hogy írjam meg a testvéreimnek – mert ők már akkor Amerikában voltak –, hogy segítsék ki, mert neki nincs senkije Amerikában. Az apa kórházba került rákkal, és abban az időben mindig kérdezte, hogy mikor megy már a fia. Kaptam egy levelet az öcsémtől, hogy intézik, és hamarosan mehet. De olyasmit is írt benne, hogy nem lehet elintézni egyik napról a másikra. Itt intézzünk el mindent, ő meg fogja oldani, hogy mielőbb mehessen a fiú. Bementem Miksához a kórházba, műtét után volt, és tudtam, hogy áttétes, nem tudják megmenteni. Felolvastam neki, hogy a fia mehet Amerikába, mindent elintéztek, minden a legnagyobb rendben van. Ezt hazudtam, kegyes hazugság volt. Szegény, nagyon szerettem az unokatestvéremet. Jancsi ma New Yorkban él.
Anyukám többi testvéréről nem tudok túl sokat, volt a Hanna, Sára és a Fáni néni, mind Auschwitzban haltak meg, a legfiatalabb, Erzsi élte csak túl

Apukám családja inkább széthúzó volt, mint összetartó. A szűk családdal sem nagyon tartották a kapcsolatot. Amennyire összetartó volt a Herskovits család, annyira széthúzó volt a Mermelstein család.

Az apai nagypapámat Mermelstein Manónak hívták, az 1930-as években halt meg. Egyszer voltam náluk, Tiszaújlakon laktak laktak. Volt két kis házuk, az egyikben lakott a lánya, Zseni, a másikban nagypapám. Zseninek már családja volt, három kislánya, Manci, Etus és Ella. A férje utazó ügynök volt. Zseni fiatalon meghalt tüdőbajban, talán nyolc éves volt akkor a legidősebb gyerek. Zseni férjét ismertem, az járta Kárpátalját. Ott maradt egyedül a gyerekekkel. Utazó volt, sok zsidó házalt mindenfélével. Manci még él. Apám oldaláról annyit tudok, amennyit Manci mesélt nekem.

A nagypapám fésűs mester volt, ő gyártotta a fésűket és árulta is. Ebből el tudta tartani a családot. Járták a városokat, a vásárokat, nagyobb városokban árultak: Munkácson, Ungváron, Beregszászon, Nagyszőlősön. [Ungvár – város, Ung vm., 1910-ben 16 900 lakos, Trianon után Csehszlovákiához került, 1938 és 1944 között ismét Magyarország, 1945 és 1991 között Szovjetunió, 1991 óta Ukrajna; Nagyszőlős (Nagyszöllős) – nagyközség, Ugocsa vm. székhelye volt, 1910-ben 7800 lakossal (a lakosok 41%-a tartozott az izraelita felekezethez). Trianon után Csehszlovákiához került, 1938 és 1944 között ismét Magyarország, 1945 és 1991 között Szovjetunió, 1991 óta Ukrajna – A szerk.], Utazgattak a nagyanyámmal együtt. Ott is volt egy csomó gyerek. Volt a Márton, – ő volt az apám. Volt a Zseni, az Olga, Hermann, Dóra és Libi. Zseniről már beszéltem. Libi elpusztult Auschwitzban, nyolcéves lányával együtt. Olga még a háború előtt kiment Palesztinába, van egy lánya és egy fiúunokája, akik Amerikában élnek. Dórát, aki itt lakott Pesten, deportálták, de életben maradt. A férjét meg az ötéves kislányát bevitték a pesti gettóba [lásd budapesti gettó]. A férje ott éhen halt, a kislány életben maradt. Egyik, addig bujkáló unokatestvére hozta ki a gettóból, mikor felszabadultak. Elvitte, leáztatta róla a ruhát, mert rühes volt, kiütéses volt meg minden. És nála volt egy pár hónapig, míg megjött az anyja. Életben maradt az anyja. Nagyon okos kislány volt. Mikor az apja már nagyon gyenge volt, osztották a szelet kenyereket, a kislány odaadta a saját kenyerét az apjának.

Az apai nagymamámat 83 éves korában elvitték Auschwitzba. Talán jobb annak, aki korábban meghalt…

Apukám, Mermelstein Márton 1897-ben született Tiszaújlakon [Tiszaújlak – nagyközség, Ugocsa vm.; 1910-ben 3500 lakos; Trianon után Csehszlovákiához került – A szerk.].

A nagypapa, Manó nem volt vallásos. De a papám vallásos volt, egyedül a családban. Volt öt testvére, de csak ő volt vallásos, tanult, mindig tanult. Nem is szerették a testvérei, mert mindig tanult. A testvéreinek dolgozniuk kellett, apámnak pedig tanulnia.

81 éves vagyok. Énnekem van zsidó nevem. Az a nevem, hogy Bráhá, áldás. Bányai Jánosné, Mermelstein Olga. Születtem 1923. május 10-én Bikszádon, Szatmár megyében. Csecsemő koromban elköltöztünk Kárpátaljára, Husztra. [A Máramaros vm.-ben lévő Huszt nagyközségnek mintegy 10 ezer lakosa volt 1910-ben; a lakosok 23%-a tartozott az izraelita hitfelekezethez. A község etnikailag erősen megosztott volt: a lakosság fele (51%) rutén nemzetiségű, 34%-a magyar és 15%-a német származású volt. Trianon után Csehszlovákiához került (1920-ban 12 000 lakosa volt), az első bécsi döntést követően Magyarországhoz került (1938–1945). Az 1941-es népszámlálás adatai szerint Huszton – ekkor már városi státusza volt – 6023 fő volt a zsidó vallásúak száma, a város népességének 28,5%-a. A város 1945 és 1991 között a Szovjetunióhoz tartozott, 1991 óta pedig Ukrajnához tartozik. – A szerk.]

Nagyon szép kisváros volt, elég sok zsidó lakott ott, kevesen jöttek vissza a háború után. Ott valahogy elvegyültek az emberek, nem számított akkor, hogy ki a zsidó, ki nem. Jól megvoltunk a keresztényekkel is, barátkoztunk, bejártak hozzánk, mi is jártunk hozzájuk, együtt babáztunk. Nem volt ott az égvilágon semmi gond abból, hogy zsidók vagyunk. Ott sok ruszin élt, nagyon rendesek voltak, jóban voltak velünk, de anyukámnak hiányzott a magyar nyelv. A jiddist megtanultuk mindannyian. Mi valahogy külön voltunk a nagycsaládtól. Majdnem mindenkitől. Szüleim távoli unokatestvérek voltak. Apám vallásosabb volt, mint anyám. Anyám már modernebbül gondolkodott abban az időben. Ez volt a baj, de nem voltak veszekedések. Néha-néha összekaptak, azt mondta apám, azért van, mert nem volt elég vallásos az anyám.

A szüleim vásározók voltak. Egyszer egy héten volt nagyvásár – kisváros volt Huszt, akkoriban 25 ezer lakosú. Ott kiraktak egy asztalt, tele volt mindenfélével, és jöttek és vették a cukorkát, meg mit tudom én, még miket árultak, ami éppen volt. Aztán édesapám abbahagyta, és utazó ügynök lett. Rolómintákkal járta a cseh városokat, azokkal kereskedett. És abból meg tudtunk élni. Minden héten 50 koronát és 50 fillért küldött. (Az  50 fillért portóra.). Nem sokat volt otthon apám, mindig utazott. 14 éves koromban láttam utoljára. Mindig úton volt.

Az utolsó 15 évében többnyire egy helyen élt, Prágában, egy híres rabbinál dolgozott. Hogy pontosan mit csinált, azt nem tudom. Csak azt tudom, hogy ott élt, az volt az állandó címe. Nem voltunk soha nála. Nem voltunk annyira jómódúak, hogy utazni tudjunk. Én csak azért utaztam, és azért ismertem meg már a háború alatt az erdélyi rokonságomat, mert meg kellett szerezni a magyar állampolgárságomat [lásd: Külföldieket Ellenőrző Országos Központi Hatóság].

Éltek rokonaim Szinérváralján, Remetemezőn, Bikszádon, Somkútpatakán, Szatmárnémetiben, Kolozsváron. Ez egy nagy család volt. [Az összes említett helység Romániához került Trianon után. Kolozsvár kivételével mindegyik Szatmár vm.-ben volt, Szinérváralja nagyközség, Remetemező és Somkútpataka kisközség volt. Szatmárnémeti városnak 1910-ben már közel 35 ezer lakosa volt. Vallásfelekezetek szerint a lakosok a következőképpen oszlottak meg: 20-20% volt a római, ill. görög katolikusok aránya, 38% a reformátusoké és 21% az izraelitáké. A város a trianoni döntést követően Romániához került. 1925-ben már 45 000-en lakták. Az 1941-es népszámlálás adatai szerint lakosságának 24,9%-a, 12 960 fő volt izraelita vallású. – A szerk.] 

Az anyukám mindig kötényben járt otthon, és a kötényben mindig volt aprópénz. Ha jött a koldus, mindig adott. Voltak ,,saját” koldusaink [lásd: snorrer]. Biztos, hogy több pénzük volt, mint nekünk. Mégis adott, segített, és erre tanított minket is. Én is olyan voltam. Segíteni, segíteni, és nem bántam meg. Sok barátom volt. Nagyon szerettek, én is szerettem őket. Nem volt különbség, hogy zsidó vagy keresztény.

Magyar állampolgárok voltunk egészen 1918-ig, mindig magyarnak éreztük magunkat. Szerettem nagyon Erdélyt is. Anyám annyit mesélt róla, jó volt hallgatni. Nagy volt a család, és mindenkinek volt valami története.

Mermelstein Jakab a bátyám. És hatvan éve már Jack. 1921-ben született Somkúton, Szatmár megyében. [Somkútpataka – kisközség, Szatmár vármegye, 1910-ben 1200 román lakossal, Trianon után Romániához került. – A szerk.]  Akkor éppen ott éltek a szüleink. Elég sokat vándoroltak.

Az öcsém, Mermelstein Ignác 1926-ban született Huszton. Mind a hármunknak, nekem és a két testvéremnek magyar és jiddis az anyanyelvünk, és természetesen ruszinul is tudtunk. Erdélyben magyarul beszéltünk. Huszton kevesen beszéltek magyarul, ezért meg kellett tanulni a ruszin nyelvet is. Ruszin iskolába jártunk mind a hárman. [Ruszinok: Galíciában és Kárpátalján, valamint Bukovinában élő, ukrán nyelvjárást beszélő keleti szláv népcsoport elnevezése. – A szerk.]

Én tudtam magyarul is, tanultam egy kicsit németül, a jiddis és a német nagyon hasonlít. Jó néhány nyelvvel elboldogultam, és még tovább fejlesztettem az angollal. Muszáj volt megtanulni angolul egy kicsit, mert ha mentem az öcsémékhez Amerikába, akkor csak angolul kellett beszélnem az ottani rokonságukkal . Azt mondták, hogy elég jól beszélek, de most már semmit nem tudok angolul.

A testvéreim zsidó iskolába  is jártak. A zsidó iskola fél napig tartott, vagy délelőtt, vagy délután. Kötelező volt a mi családunkban, apukám ragaszkodott hozzá [Alighanem a héderről van szó. – A szerk.]. A felmenőim között voltak kántorok, tanítók. Ott volt Huszton a zsidó iskola is, oda járt a két fiú. Apám is tanult, és azt akarta, hogy tanuljanak a fiúk is héberül. Megtanultak imádkozni. Én is tudok imádkozni.

A bátyám elemi iskolát végzett, akkor az volt divatban. Nagyon tehetséges volt. Zsidó gyerek létére, a folyosón kinn voltak a rajzai, olyan tehetséges volt. És nagyon ügyes volt, sok mindenhez értett. 15 éves korában átvette varrónő anyámtól a munkát. Sose tanult varrni, gyönyörűen megvarrta a nadrágokat, férfinadrágokat. És aztán 15 éves korában ő lett a családfenntartó. Tiszteltük és szerettük, mert olyan szorgalmas volt. Látta, hogy anyám kínlódik a három gyerekkel. Nagyon messze laktunk a várostól, hat kilométerre. Gyalog kellett menni, és cipelni a ruhákat, meg hozni a kiszabott munkát, és akkor a bátyám átvállalta. Sokat kínlódott anyám, de nem panaszkodott soha.

A bátyám szabó lett. De egy életművész is. A semmiből is tudott valamit csinálni. Grillázst készített gyerekkorában, becsomagolta és árulta. Volt zsebpénze, és anyámnak is jutott belőle. Mikor már nagyobb lett, akkor fűzött gyöngyöt csinált, meg színes óraláncot. Mindig kitalált valamit. Nagyon tehetséges volt.

Apukám vallásos volt. A neológ [lásd: neológ hitközségek] és az ortodox [lásd: ortodox hitközségek] között valahol középen volt. Minden nap ment fürdőbe [lásd: mikve] és templomba, és csak azután pakolta ki az árut. Nagyon kényes volt a tisztaságra. Kalap nélkül nem ment ki az utcára [lásd: kápedli]. Rendes kabát, rendes ing [Azaz nem viselt a haszidokra jellemző öltözéket; lásd: kaftán; haszid öltözék. – A szerk.], és kis szakálla volt.

Mi, többiek nem nagyon voltunk templomba járók. Anyám egyszer-kétszer egy évben, a nagyünnepeken elment. A fiúk is mentek, a lányoknak nem kellett templomba járniuk. Viszont kellett hittant tanulni. Meg hébert is. Elemi iskolában végig tanultunk hittant.

Gyerekkori ünnepekre emlékszem. Szegények voltunk, de péntekenként mindig megtartottuk a szokásos ünnepi vacsorát. Pénteken rendesen kellett főzni. Kalácsot, friss kenyeret, húslevest csináltunk [lásd: szombat; bárhesz]. Ez volt a szokás, ezt mindig megtartottuk. Anyukám úgy átérezte, nem dolgozott szombaton, nem melegített szombaton, olyanokat főzött, amiket nem kellett melegíteni [lásd: szombati munkavégzés tilalma]. Gyerekkoromban aszalt szilvát főztünk meg aszalt almát, és minden héten kellett lennie kalácsnak. Alig tudtuk kivárni az időt, hogy minél előbb ehessünk kalácsot. Itt az én háztartásomban már nem lehetett. A férjem, Bányai János dunántúli, nagykanizsai volt, a szülei is megtartották a szombatot.

Szombaton a fiúk elmentek a templomba, anyám pedig elment a szomszédba kicsit beszélgetni. Engem is elvitt. Később egyik barátnőmhöz mentem, és mikor jöttek haza a fiúk, akkor volt az ebéd. A zsidó családoknál a sólet volt a fő ebéd szombat délben. De mi nem szerettük a sóletet. Anyám ritkán csinált. Salátát viszont csinált, tarhonyát marhahússal vagy csirkehússal, húslevest minden mennyiségben. Almakompótot csinált, gyújtott gyertyát [lásd: gyertyagyújtás], és ha apám otthon volt, imádkozott hozzá. Ez olyan meghitt, békés volt. Egész más, ha a családfő otthon van.

Van egy olyan szokás a szédernél [lásd: Pészah], hogy akkor nem szabad kenyeret enni. Előtte mindent el kell takarítani, és mindent a világon el kell mozdítani [lásd: homecolás]. Kitakarítani gyönyörűen, és edényeket cserélni. Mi ezt megcsináltuk, ez jó elfoglaltság volt, kicsit más, mint a mindennapok. Egyszer szédereste jutalmul apám nekem adott egy darab maceszt, hogy dugjam el [lásd: afikómen]. Azért jár valami ajándék. Eldugni eldugtam, de arra már nem emlékszem, hogy mit kaptam. De nagyon büszke voltam, hogy én dughattam el a darab maceszt. Azt meg kellett őrizni jó ideig.

Aztán voltak a nagyünnepek, a hosszú ünnepek [lásd: nagyünnepek], akkor anyám is elment a templomba. Fehér ruhába öltöztek az asszonyok. Volt a Purim, aztán volt a hosszúnap [lásd: Jom Kipur], volt a Szukot, a sátoros ünnep, ezeket mind betartottuk, és anyám akkor mindig elment a templomba. Aztán tartották a gyásznapot a halottakért, gyújtottak gyertyát vagy kis lámpát, anyám számon tartotta, nehogy véletlenül elfelejtsen megemlékezni a szeretteiről.

Sokszor voltam beteg. Nem voltam komoly beteg, egy kis megfázás, egy kis láz, ez, az, elég volt ahhoz, hogy ne érezzem jól magam. Mivel egyetlen lány voltam, nekem kellett takarítani meg az öcsémre vigyázni. Mikor beteg voltam, akkor meg a testvéreim takarítottak. Huszton földes szobában laktunk. Minden héten nagytakarítást kellett csinálnom. Anyám vitte a aa megvarrt ruhákat, visszafelé bevásárolt, és hozta a főznivalót. A házat minden évben ki kellett meszelni kívül-belül. Minden héten föl kellett tapasztani. Anyám mániákusan tiszta volt. Nekem kellett mosni is, ilyen heti mosást kellett megcsinálni. A nagymosáshoz jött a Mariska, anyám egyik ismerőse, és ő csinálta.

Anyám dolgozott, és amikor elment otthonról a városba, nekem kellett vigyázni az öcsémre. Nagyon nagy teher volt az nekem. A bátyám iskolában volt, én voltam az öcsémmel együtt. Nagyon veszélyes hely volt a házunk környéke, a ház előtt volt egy kanális. És az ment egész a Tiszáig. Nagyon kellett vigyázni, hogy ne essenek bele a gyerekek. Gyerekkorom azzal telt el, hogy az öcsémre vigyáztam. Utáltam az öcsémet, mert le voltam kötve, én meg nagyon szerettem játszani. Most a testvéreimmel legjobb barátok vagyunk.

Apámnak én voltam a kedvence. Nem sokat látott engem, de egyetlen lánya voltam. Annyi szeretet áradt felém. A fiúkkal szigorúan bánt,  mert azt akarta, hogy ők is tanuljanak. De a fiúkat nem nagyon érdekelte a vallás, bár jártak zsidó iskolába.

Apám mindig küldött valami csecsebecsét, ruhára valót, gyöngyöt, bizsut, néha narancsot, szóval mindig küldött csomagot. Meg küldte haza az 55 koronát és 50 fillért.
Nagyon szerettem játszani. Voltak barátnőim. Nagyon szerettem babázni, meg építeni, sárból építettünk házat, bútort meg mindent. Meg anyámtól kértem  kis rongydarabkákat, azt vittem, és jól eljátszottunk a parasztgyerekekkel. Akkor a gyerekek maguknak varrtak babát. És aki ügyes volt, az a barátnőjének is varrt egy babát. Meg bútort csináltunk meg babaszobát.

Én nagyon szépen kézimunkáztam. Egyszer nem mertem hazamenni, mert ötöst kaptam kézimunkából. Akkoriban az egyes volt a legjobb osztályzat. Sírva mondtam el, hogy ötöst kaptam kézimunkából. Anyukám megfürdetett, lefektetett, nem volt semmi. Nem tudtam, hogy nem az én hibám, hogy azért kaptam, mert nem adott pénzt kézimunkára. De ezután mindig volt kézimunkám.

Sokat estem gyerekkoromban. Köves utcán kellett járni, és akkor divat volt a harisnya. A harisnyám mindig kiszakadt, mikor iskolába jártam. Hazamentem, megint elestem, anyám későn jött haza, árult napközben, este meg kimosta, megfoltozta [Talán inkább: megstoppolta, azaz sajátos öltésekkel, többszálú cérnával, ún. stoppolófonallal „befoltozta” az akkoriban viselt, pamutból készült ún. flórharisnyán a lyukat. – A szerk.] a harisnyát, másnap újra felvettem. Később én is foltoztam. Amikor megfoltoztam, anyám, aki egyébként nem gyakranosztotta a dicséretet, megdicsért, ,,jól van kislányom", és erre nagyon büszke voltam. Az embernek szegényen is jó lehet, ha úgy rendezkedik be. Nem is kívántam mást, megvolt mindenünk, a szüleink igyekeztek rendesen öltöztetni, iskolába járatni minket.

Arra emlékszem még ebből az időből, hogy egyszer elment anyám látogatóba a rokonaihoz Erdélybe, és hozott egy zsák süteményt. Akkoriban élt az anyja is, a nagynéném is. Anyukám mesélte, hogy örültek neki. A zsák sütemény még olcsó volt abban az időben, az 1930-as években.

Ott Kárpátalján nem volt senkink, hontalanok voltunk. Apai nagypapámékhoz nem nagyon jártunk, mert nem volt pénz utazgatni. Egyszer voltunk ott hárman, gyerekek egy esküvőn, és az nagyon jó volt, mert volt egy nagy kert. És volt egy kemence, és én mint vendég ott aludtam a kemence tetején. Ez nagyon érdekes volt. Akkor kaptam ruhát, az is ritka dolog volt, ruhát kapni. És én nagyon boldog voltam. Nagynéném, Libi esküvője volt. Ő is Auschwitzban végezte. Munkácson laktak [Munkács: Bereg vm.-ben fekvő város, melynek 1850-ben még csak 6000, 1910-ben már 17 300 lakosa volt. A várost a Galícia felé irányuló kereskedelem – fa, marha, gabona, bor, sör, ásványvizek, gyümölcs – lendítette fel. 1910-ben Munkács lakosainak 44%-a tartozott az izraelita hitfelekezethez, ez volt a legnépesebb vallási felekezet a városban. Munkács a trianoni békeszerződés értelmében 1919-ben Csehszlovákiához került (lakosainak száma 1921-ben 21 000, 1930-ban 26 000 fő volt), majd 1938-ban, az első bécsi döntés után átmenetileg ismét Magyarországhoz. Lakosainak száma ekkor már 30 000 fő körül mozgott. 1945-ben a Szovjetunióhoz csatolták (Ukrán Szovjet Szocialista Köztársaság), 1991 óta pedig Ukrajnához tartozik. – A szerk.], onnan vitték el. Rendes esküvő volt [lásd: házasság, esküvői szertartás], szép fehér ruha volt rajta. Mikor ment ki a kapun a templomból, akkor konfettit dobáltak. Annyira tetszett, voltam olyan öt-hat éves. Jó kaják voltak akkor, szóval jól buliztam. De anyám mindig mondta: viselkedni kell! Hát viselkedni kellett, nem szabadott rendetlenkedni.

Én mindig szerettem dolgozni, és mindig volt munkám. Mindent elvállaltam. Az első munkám az 14 éves koromban volt, mikor az elemit elvégeztem. Amikor végeztem, elmentem egy családhoz két ikergyerekre vigyázni. Az anyjuk tüdőbajos volt. Olyan 11 évesek voltak, én voltam 14. Vigyázni kellett rájuk, olyan volt, mint mikor a nagy testvér vigyáz a kisebbre. Ott adtak enni, adtak tiszta ruhát, nem volt semmi gond velem. Takarítani nem kellett, mert én is gyerek voltam. Bár akkor már takarítottam otthon, korán kezdtem, keveset játszottam, sokat kellett otthon dolgozni.

Aztán mikor már nagyobb voltam, a Fő utcán kezdtem el dolgozni egy kalaposboltban, elsőrendű helyen. Nagyon meg voltak velem elégedve. Olyan boldog voltam. Ez egy jó hely volt. És így összeszedve a filléreket, mentem ipariskolába tanulni. Kalaposságot tanultam. Kérdezte anyám, mi akarsz lenni? Varrónő akarsz lenni vagy masamód? Mondom, masamód, az olyan jól hangzott akkor. Női kalapos. Bár varrónőnek is biztos jó lettem volna. Mert az alapja már megvolt. Otthon láttam.

Én tudtam a magyarul, mert anyám magyar anyanyelvű volt, de nem tudtam írni, csak úgy megtanultam anyámtól beszélni. Aztán beírattak ruszin iskolába, és ott elvégeztem nyolc osztályt ruszinul. Később az ipariskolában már tanultuk a magyart. Magyarul kellett iskolába járni, magyarul kellett tanulni, és akkor megtanultam a magyart. Jól mentek a dolgok, nem volt semmi bajom. Akkor ha volt munka, akkor nem volt semmi baj.

Hála istennek, nem voltak konfliktusaink Huszton. Mert nekünk mindegy volt, hogy zsidó vagy nem zsidó. Olyan szerencsések voltunk, anyám mindenkivel jóban volt. Jöttek, tessék megvarrni a nadrágot. A térdénél kiszakította a gyerek a nadrágot, tessék már megcsinálni. Péntek este mindig volt kalács nálunk. És akkor kaptak a gyerekek egy karéj kalácsot. Anyám meg megcsinálta a nadrágot a gyerekeknek, és hát nem is fizettek. És ez így ment.

Nem éreztem azt, hogy minket valaki idegen bántana, senki, soha. Soha senki nem mondta énrám, hogy „büdös zsidó”. Szegény anyám, de sokat segített ilyen apróságokat. Parasztoknak, szegényeknek.

Az volt nehéz, hogy mi magyarok voltunk. Voltak ott asszonyok, rendes asszonyok, keresztények, akik szerettek volna anyámmal beszélgetni, de nem tudtak magyarul, csak ruszinul. Ruszin volt a többség. Anyukám nem tudott ruszinul. Vagyis nagyon rosszul beszélt ruszinul. Ez volt a nehézség. Egyéb semmi.

Sok zsidó is volt Huszton. A zsidók általában kereskedelemmel foglalkoztak, üzleteltek, az asszonyok többnyire nem dolgoztak. Anyám dolgozott, mert apám beteg volt egy időben, és meg kellett tanulnia varrni, hogy valamiből megéljünk. A gazdagabb zsidók meg olyan furán viselkedtek a szegényekkel.

Huszton volt vagy három Mermelstein család. Hallottam, hogy Munkácson is voltak, meg Beregszászon is voltak. Az egyik kibucban van egy névsor a vészkorszakban megöltekről, és apám neve is benne van. És egy csomó Mermelstein van a listán. Onnan tudom, Munkácson is voltak. Ezek általában gazdagok voltak. Fások, fakereskedők voltak, mindenféle kereskedelemmel foglalkoztak. Akkor földdel foglalkoztak, üzletük volt, fűszerüzletük, csemegeüzletük. És az egyik osztálytársamat is Mermelsteinnek hívták, én szegény voltam, ő gazdag volt. Mikor ipari tanuló voltam, bejött az üzletbe kékrókával a nyakán [A kékróka kékbe játszó színű szürke sarki róka prémjéből készült nyakbavaló, az első világháború után igen drága prémféle volt Európában. – A szerk.] – mert elegáns negyedben volt a kalapos üzlet –, és odaszólt nekem: Jó napot! Nem köszöntem neki vissza. Mért köszön nekem jó napot, amikor nyolc évig együtt jártunk iskolába? De láttam őt, mikor nagyon szerencsétlen volt.

Amikor a magyarok bejöttek hozzánk Husztra [lásd: első bécsi döntés], jött a zsidótörvény [lásd: zsidótörvények Magyarországon]. Anyám nagy magyar volt. Csütörtöki nap volt. Jönnek a magyarok, jönnek a magyarok! – mondta az anyám. Olyan boldog volt, hogy jöttek a magyarok, lesz kivel beszélni. Erdélyben sok magyar volt. Huszton sokkal kevesebb. Megcsinálta a kovászt csütörtök délután, utána elment a városházára fogadni őket. Hát nem sokáig örülhetett.

Jött a sírás, mikor majdnem egyszerre el kellett menni mind a három gyerekének! És jó, hogy elmentünk, mert életben maradtunk. Ha ott maradunk, akkor biztos nem éltük volna túl. Meg munkánk sem volt, nem volt mit enni. Bejöttek a magyarok, kellettek a papírok, hogy magyarok vagyunk. Én elindultam a rokonokhoz, hogy meglegyenek a papírok. Összeszedtem a papírokat. De közben ott voltam pár hetet a rokonoknál. Majd szétszedtek, hogy itt van az Olgica, Esztinek a lánya, engem még soha nem láttak. Pedig én Bikszádon születtem, én is erdélyi vagyok.

Összeszedtem az állampolgárságit, és egy darabig csend volt. 1944-ben a magyar állampolgársággal együtt megölték szinte az egész családot.

Apámat 1941-ben ölték meg, Prágából vitték el, és nem tudtunk róla semmit. Később megtudtuk, hogy Theresienstadtba vitték. Most láttam a múzeumot, voltam Izraelben. Egy kibucban csináltak egy múzeumot, csak azokról akik Theresienstadtban voltak, és ott van az emléktáblája apámnak. Az öcsém találta meg.

És akkor ott maradt anyám három gyerekkel. Igaz, hogy már nagyocskák voltunk [A három testvér 1921-ben, 1923-ban, illetőleg 1926-ban született. – A szerk.]. Az öcsém, Ignác elemista volt, mikor jöttek a zsidótörvények. Kidobták az iskolából, és nem tanulhatott. Én nem dolgozhattam. A bátyámat, Jakabot (későbbi nevén Jacket) meg behívták munkaszolgálatra Kőszegre. Anyám munkáját is elvették, addig egy varrodában volt bedolgozó varrónő. Akinek dolgozott, az is egy zsidó kisvállalkozó volt, volt egy üzlete, de az is megszűnt.

Volt, aki fölakasztotta magát. Volt egy nagyon aranyos fűszeres szomszédunk, az már idős volt, és amikor mondták, hogy viszik az embereket, se szó, se beszéd, fölakasztotta magát. Szabó Zoli bácsinak hívták. Nagyon jó szomszéd volt. Elég sok szegény ember lakott arra, és ő pénz nélkül adta ki az árut, felírta egy kis füzetbe. És azt mondta az illetőnek, hogy fizethet a jövő héten vagy két hét múlva, és megbízott benne. Így tartotta fönn az üzletet. A szegény ember mindig kifizette az adósságot. Ez volt az a bácsi, akinél gyerekkoromban cukorkát vásároltam, és újságpapírba csomagolta a cukorkát.

19 éves voltam, amikor el kellett jönni Husztról. 19 éves koromig egy zsidónál dolgoztam, aki női kalapos volt. Bezárták az üzletet, három segédet elküldött, engem megtartott. A lakásán, egy eldugott kis sötét szobában, félhomályban dolgoztunk neki. Nem tudom pontosan, úgy emlékszem, hogy körülbelül egy évet, de lehet, hogy kevesebb volt. A lényeg az, voltam, hogy dolgozhattam.

Aztán még sokkal nehezebb idők lettek. A bátyám munkaszolgálatban nemhogy nem keresett pénzt, hanem küldeni kellett neki meleg sálat, meleg kesztyűt, meleg ruhafélét. Az öcsém meg semmit nem tudott még.

Erdélyben egyik nagybátyám, Dezső bácsi az anyjánál nyaralt, és ott volt anyám is. Dezső bácsi azt üzente: ,,Olgikám, menj föl Pestre, ott van nekem egy lányom, nagyon ügyes és nagyon szorgalmas, fog neked segíteni állást találni." Akkor jöttem föl Pestre. Az öcsémet, aki 16 éves volt, magammal hoztam. Kivettünk egy hónapos szobát a Dob utcában. Aztán találtunk egy jobbat a Kossuth Lajos utcában, a volt Úttörő Áruház mellett. Az öcsémmel nem bírtam. Mindig fölugrált a mozgó villamosra. Elküldtem Dezső bácsihoz, aki Dombóváron volt kántortanító. És a saját tíz gyereke mellé odafogadta az öcsémet. Ott akkor még lehetett tanulni, nem kérdezték, hogy zsidó vagy keresztény-e az a gyerek. Az öcsémet villanyszerelőnek íratta be a nagybátyám [lásd: ipariskolák]. És aztán munkaügyben jártak egy sváb embernél. Ott előjött, hogy te milyen vallású vagy. Azt mondta az öcsém – nem beszélt jól magyarul, mert mi otthon jiddisül beszéltünk –, hogy zsidó vagyok. És akkor a segéd megrúgta, hogy miért mondta meg, hogy zsidó. Azért nem rúgták ki, mert amúgy szorgalmas gyerek volt, hagyták, hogy dolgozzon. Az öcsém ott tanult villanyszerelést. Akkoriban anyámnak már nem adtak munkát, a bátyám munkaszolgálaton volt.

Dezső bácsi tanácsára fölkerestem lányát, Olgát, azt mondtam neki, hogy „szervusz, én vagyok az Eszti néninek a lánya". Anyám Olgának nagynénje volt. Erre ő: ,,Már hallottam rólad, gyere, Olgicám" – mindig így nevezett – csinálok egy forró fürdőt. De ő nem csak velem volt ilyen, mindenkivel ilyen volt. És amikor kitört a háború, akkor elvitték munkaszolgálatra a férjét az én későbbi férjemmel együtt. Az ő férje meg az én férjem testvérek voltak, és elvettek két unokatestvért, mert mi unokatestvérek vagyunk Olgával.

Mikor megkerestem Olgit, ott lakott a későbbi férjem, az Olgi sógora. Így ismerkedtünk meg. Olyan boldog volt, mikor meglátott engem. Túlzottan tudott szeretni. Annyira szeretett, hogy mindig velem akart lenni, az én hangomat akarta hallani.

1942-ben, amikor feljöttem Pestre, már kalapos voltam. Mint mindenki, kerestem munkát. Volt pár rongyom, azt igyekeztem rendben tartani. Vásárlások nem nagyon voltak. Volt egy spirituszfőzőm, azon főztem magamnak a reggeli teát, meg volt egy telefon. Nem nagyon használtam. Már nem voltam olyan kislány, már 19 éves voltam. Rosszul fizettek, alig tudtam az albérletet fizetni. Nem voltam sokáig az első kalaposboltban, csak rövid ideig. Aztán elhelyezkedtem máshova, a Vámház körútra. Ott nagyon jó dolgom volt. Sokat kellett dolgozni, de jól kerestem. A tulajdonos egy házaspár volt, a férfi zsidó, a nő meg német volt. Addig dolgoztam ott, amíg el nem vittek.

Az öcsém Dezső bácsinál lakott, de ellátta magát. Lassan ők is elszegényedtek. Az a pár év nagyon nehéz volt. Egyszer csak becsukódott az ember előtt minden ajtó. Nem tudott dolgozni, nem tudott kenyeret venni, tejet venni, semmit.

Anyám írt: ha tudsz, menj ki a Telekire, és vegyél a bátyádnak egy nadrágot, és keressél valami lábravalót is neki.  Kimentem a Telekire – az ócskapiacra –, és vettem neki egy nadrágot. Még azt is írta anyám: nehogy baja legyen a testvérednek, mert munkaszolgálatban csak egy levelet szabad kapni, és a többit nem adják át, ezért ha van valami üzennivalód, vagy tudsz valamit küldeni, akkor írjál nekem haza, és én majd továbbítom a testvérednek. Pesten összeszedtem egy kis pénzt. Nagyon szerencsés voltam, mindig volt munkám. 28 pengőt kerestem egy héten. Elintéztem, elküldtem.

Nekem ne küldjél semmit, írta anyám, mert nekem megvan mindenem. Miből van neki mindene? Az állásából kirúgták, mert zsidó volt. Nem tudtam elképzelni, hogy honnan van neki mindene. És még azon a nyáron – 1942-ben volt ez –, az öcsém, Ignác hazautazott, és  kiderült, honnan van  anyámnak. Elment cselédnek.

Az öcsém meglátta, amúgy is érzékeny gyerek volt, és úgy sírt. Mondom, mit kell azon sírni? Örülj, hogy van munkája, és van ennivalója. Aztán túltette magát rajta, de nagyon fájt a szíve. Aztán csak eltűnt anyám is. Elvitték Auschwitzba. Krematóriumba került, onnan tudom, hogy én is Auschwitzban voltam, és ott találkoztam egy osztálytársnőmmel, ő mondta, hogy az ő anyjával együtt látta, tudta, hogy kit merre sorolnak be, besorolták őket a krematóriumba. Ez volt a vége.

Dezső bácsi gyerekei, Miksa, Herskovits Miksa, aztán a Herskovits Jenő, Lali és Jolán följöttek Pestre. Akkor jöttek, mikor már valamit sejtettek. Aki nem jött fel, az meghalt.

Olga, akihez én jöttem, egyedül maradt a gyerekekkel, a férje munkaszolgálatba került. Tíz évvel idősebb volt, mint én, én voltam a kis Olgi. Varrónő volt, nagyon jó varrónő. Rotschild Kláránál [Divattervező, 1934-ben divatszalont nyitott, 1945 után állami alkalmazottként a Clara Szalon művészeti vezetője volt. – A szerk.] tanult. Ha varrt egy ruhát magának, nekem ugyanolyan ruhát varrt. Annyira jóban voltunk, egyforma ruhát is viseltünk. Volt neki két kislánya, az egyik négyéves volt 1944-ben, a másik két éves. Mind a kettő elpusztult. Pesten bujkáltak. Bombatámadás érte azt a házat, ami mellett bujkáltak, és akkor bementek a házba. Ott voltak egy pár órát, aztán elindultak az utcán. Egy keresztény nő megszólította Olgát, mondta, hogy riadó van, miért mászkál az utcán. Befogadta őket. A nő férje nagyon haragudott, hogy befogadta. „Nekünk sincs ennivalónk, mért hozod ide az asszonyt két gyerekkel? Nem tud a gyerekeknek enni adni!" - mondta. Nem is tudott, és éhen halt a lány. A Gabi. A másik gyerek, Zsuzsa kórházban halt meg, valami betegsége volt.

A háború után elköltöztek a férjével Mezőhegyesre, ott volt főkönyvelő a férfi, de 1956-ban kirúgták az állásából. Fogták magukat, és kimentek Izraelbe. A háború után született két gyerekük, sikerültek voltak, ügyesek, tanultak. Az egyik hat éves volt, a másik tizenegy éves, amikor kimentek Izraelbe. A fiú a 21. születésnapján hősi halált halt. Olga volt a kibuc nagyasszonya, mindig sokan voltak nála, mert nagyon szerették, és dolgozott élete végéig. Nem tudott otthon maradni. Az Olgi ott Izraelben is varrt. A férje, Sanyi meg narancsüzemben dolgozott szegény kint.

Itt, Pesten később vitték az embereket pár héttel. Összesen talán egy hónap alatt szedték össze a zsidókat és vitték el. [A Budapesten élő zsidók többsége megmenekült. 1944. december 5-ig be kellett költözniük az akkor fölállított gettóba – mintegy 75 ezer embert zsúfoltak itt össze, a gettó január 18-i fölszabadulásáig mintegy 5000 ember halt meg a gettóban; mások bujkáltak, esetleg sikerült bejutniuk valamelyik védett házba, de ez sem volt garancia a megmenekülésre. Budapest fölszabadulásáig több ezer embert hurcoltak el munkaszolgálatra, hajtottak el halálmenetekben Ausztriába, hurcoltak koncentrációs táborokba vagy öltek meg a nyilasok. De olyan méretű, szervezett, koncentrációs táborba deportálásra, mint ami a vidéki zsidósággal történt 1944 májusától, Budapesten már nem volt idő. – A szerk.] Nagyon gyorsan ment. Engem szintén kitettek az állásomból. Jött egy nyilas, és azt mondta, hogy egy negyed órán belül csomagoljam össze a legszükségesebb dolgaimat, és jöjjek vele. Minek, hová? Majd meglátja. Összecsomagoltam, elvitt Csepelre. A csepeli téglagyárban dolgoztam egy darabig. Ott találkoztam egy lánnyal, aki élete végéig nagyon jó barátnőm volt. Mindvégig együtt voltunk. Ő volt dr. Mándy Stefánia, művészettörténész [Mándy Stefánia – költő, művészettörténész, műfordító. – A szerk.]. Stefka már 25 éves volt, művészettörténész lett, már tanított, mielőtt behívták volna munkaszolgálatra, már kész ember volt. És a jó barát életet is tud adni. Nem csak én, egy páran életben maradtunk azért, mert sikerült összeszedni néhány embert magunk köré, akikkel nem csak arról beszéltünk, hogy jaj, de éhes vagyok, de jó lenne egy kis mákos tészta. Mándy Stefánia előadásokat tartott nekünk, sok mindent tudott, amit mi nem. 20 év körüliek voltunk, fiatalkák. És ez volt az, ami megmentette az életünket.

Csepelről Budakalászra vittek minket hajóval. Ott voltunk öt napig a szabad ég alatt. Végig esett az eső. Előbb elvették tőlünk a gyűrűt, az órát. Menyasszony voltam már, a karikagyűrűt, a láncot, mindent elvettek. Ruha csak annyi maradt, ami rajtam volt. Aztán bevittek minket egy szobába. Azt mondták, ha valakinek kell vécére menni, akkor menjen. Sorban elmentünk vécére, és az egyik lány 50 pengőt eldugott a vécében. Akkor összefogtak minket, és bevittek egy másik szobába. Csendőrök, tollas csendőrök jöttek, és elkezdtek minket verni. Csupa lány volt. És csak vertek minket, mert senki nem szólalt meg, nem is volt köztünk az illető, aki elrejtette a pénzt.

Aztán feltettek minket arra a bizonyos Auschwitzba menő vagonra. Öt napig voltunk vonaton. Illemhely nem volt, fekhelyről nem is beszélve. Napokig ott voltunk bezárva, se enni, se innivaló, semmi. Reggel adtak valami löttyöt. Volt, aki egy gyerekkel a kezében megbolondult ott a vagonban, volt, aki meghalt. Aztán megérkeztünk. Ott aztán elkezdődött a szelektálás. Egyik jobbra, másik balra. Akit munkaképesnek találtak, azt munkára vitték. Levágták a hajunkat kopaszra, levették az egy szem ruhát, és adtak valami rongyot. Nekem például egy fekete csipkeruhát adtak, és aztán mikor jöttek a nagy melegek, ráragadt a csipke a nyakamra, a testemre. Tudtam nevetni, hogy ki vagyok csipkézve.

Nagyon szomjasak voltunk. Már rég kiszálltunk a vagonból, már megfürdettek minket, már lenyírták a hajunkat, adtak csipkeruhát, és még mindig nagyon szomjasak voltunk. Egyszer csak hoztak egy vödör vizet, mindenki rámászott arra a vödörre. Nekem is jutott egy korty víz. Én életemben nem fogom elfelejteni, hogy az a víz milyen finom volt, soha! Soha ilyen jóízűen nem ettem, nem ittam, talán ez mentette meg az életemet. A szomjúságba majdnem belehaltam, nem csak én, mások is. Ezt külön büntetésnek éreztük.

Sokat éheztünk, vertek minket. Úgy beverték a fejemet egyszer egy nagy bottal hátulról, a barátnőim csak nézték, hogy éltem túl. Nagyon éhesek voltunk, lehajoltam egy krumplihéjért, és ezért verték be a fejemet. Sorban: elvittek terhes anyákat, nem hozták őket vissza. Gyerekkel kísérleteztek. Négyszer voltam a Mengele előtt. És mind a négyszer életben maradtam. Ott volt a teherautó. Aki nem tetszett neki, akiről úgy látta, hogy nem munkaképes, rögtön felrakták a teherautóra. És a harmadik szelektálásnál már nagyon sovány voltam.

Mindig gyűjtögettem – hiába vertek fejbe – a krumplihéjat. Sáros volt, de ettem. Volt egy kis csomagban félretéve, nagyon féltem a szelektálás előtt, megettem gyorsan. Stefka szegény, az meg mindannyiunk nevében beszélt, amikor osztották az ételt. Egyszer káposztaleves vagy krumplileves volt, de krumpli nem volt benne. És káposzta se. Azt mondja Stefka: nincs benne krumpli! Akkora pofont adtak neki! Nagyon sajnáltuk. Másnap megint sorban álltunk a kis csajkánkkal. Az ételosztó kérdezi: elég a krumpli? Azt mondta a Stefka: elég. Kapta volna tovább a pofont.

Volt olyan, hogy hajnalban kizavartak minket egy szál ruhában. Üvöltöttek és vertek minket. Pocsolyát meregettünk, én egy forgácsdarabbal piszkáltam a megfagyott szemetet, hogy könnyebb legyen fölszedni kézzel. Jött az őr. Akkora pofont adott váratlanul, azt mondja: dobd el azt a forgácsot, szabad kézzel csináld! Eldobtam. Sokan megbolondultak. Volt egytestvérpár is, az egyikük megbolondult. Tehetetlenül nézte a testvére, nem tudott mit tenni. Makói kislányok voltak.

Összejöttünk és hallgattuk Mándy Stefániát. Nagyon tetszett, amiket mondott, és nagyon büszke voltam, hogy közel vagyok hozzá. Nagyon okos volt, már érett ember. Hoffmann Klári meg franciául tanított minket. Úgyhogy volt egy kis kultúra, és az nagyon sokat segített. Nekem olyan idegen volt a francia nyelv. Már tudtam jiddisül, magyarul ruszinul és németül. De a francia nekem valahogy nagyon nehéz volt. Nem jutottam a francia nyelvvel semmire. Úgyhogy nem is nagyon érdeklődtem utána.

Sokszor tervezgettünk. Ki mit enne, ki mit főzne. Az egyik ezt enne, a másik azt enne. Nagyon rossz volt, ha kajáról beszéltünk.

Tizenketten feküdtünk egy priccsen. Ha az egyik meg akart fordulni, akkor mind a tizenkettőnek kellett fordulnia, mint a heringeket, úgy helyeztek el minket. A vécé messze volt, külön volt. Jártunk eleget a vécére, mert nagyon sokat fáztunk éjszaka. Hidegek voltak az éjszakák. Láttam a krematóriumot, a füstöt, és mindig kerestem az anyámat. Nagyon anyásak voltunk, az az igazság. Mindig kerestem az anyámat, a háború után is az utcán, mindig kerestem egy kendős asszonyt.

Aztán elvittek minket munkára Auschwitzból Liebauba [Az alsó-sziléziai kisvárosban, Liebauban /ma Lubowka, Lengyelország/ a gross-roseni koncentrációs tábor egyik altábora működött. – A szerk.]. Pár hónapot voltam Auschwitzban. Jelentkeztünk munkára, és egy gyárba kerültünk. Örültünk, hogy dolgoztunk. Mikor először adtak enni, rendes gulyást kaptunk. És olyan nagy boldogság volt, hogy hónapok óta végre eszünk valamit, hogy azt nem lehet elmondani. Mondtuk egymásnak, Istenem, milyen szerencsések vagyunk, milyen jó lesz itt nekünk. Volt melegvíz, igaz rozsdás volt, de az is valami. Körülbelül egy fél évet ott vészeltünk át. És milyen tetvesek voltunk, és éhesek, és rongyosak! Minél többen voltunk, annál könnyebben bírtuk azt az éhezést és verést és azt a hajtást,  Mindent kibírtunk. Nagyon sokan kidőltek, sokan meghaltak.

Egy fegyverládagyárban dolgoztunk, nehéz fúróval kellett azokat a csatokat vagy mi a fenét fúrni. Olyan nehéz volt, hogy a nyakamon keletkezett egy nagy tályog. Volt ott egy betegszoba, oda beraktak. Mit ad Isten, jött a Mengele oda is utánunk. Na, mondom, megtalált. Biztos voltam benne, hogy elvisz. Nem vitt el. És ez valami olyan isteni csoda. Biztos, hogy Istentől volt, mert ilyen nem fordulhat elő. Hogy valaki ott fekszik betegen, és ott hagyja. Igaz, már közel volt a felszabadulás, de hogy ilyesmi megtörténik? Csak kevés ilyen csoda van.

A felszabadulás nagyon jó volt. Én vettem észre, mondtam, gyorsan, gyorsan gyertek ide! Akkor hányan voltunk abban a teremben? Voltunk vagy harmincan. És akkor mindenki elöl akart lenni. Látták, hogy dobálja a sapkáját egy francia katona. Voltak ott francia hadifoglyok is. Bejött hozzánk. Addigra a németek elszaladtak, nem volt egy sem. Olyan boldogan fogadtuk őket! Azt nem lehet elmondani. Én megálmodtam a felszabadulást. Azt álmodtam, hogy tavasz van, és virágzik az orgona. És Jean, az egyik katona meg még többen szaladgálnak az orgonával vidáman, és mindenkinek osztanak. És ez így volt. Májusban virágzik az orgona. Megálmodtam az igazságot! Azóta már nagyon sokszor gondoltam rá. Ott voltunk még három hétig. Volt mosakodás, ruhát kerestünk, nem volt sehol sem. Ennivalót kerestünk. Ebbe is majdnem belehaltunk. Teleettem magam melasszal. Ilyen sárga cukor, félkész cukor. Az ember csak falta. Ettem, és olyan rosszul voltam. Jaj, de nem csak én, a többiek is.

Aztán már módjával, kevesebbet ettünk. Nem tudnám megmondani, hogy mit ettünk. Akkor már nem figyeltünk annyira az evésre, hanem arra, hogyan szervezzük meg a hazautazásunkat, meg egyáltalán arra, hogy emberi körülmények között aludjunk. Kerestünk egy elhagyott lakást. Találtunk is, egy elhagyott német lakást. Szép, polgári lakás volt, és vászonfüggöny volt az ablakon. Leszedtük a függönyt, Kati, a másik nagyon jó barátnőm,  tudott varrni, én is tudtam. És a függönyökből varrtunk magunknak ruhát. Eldobtuk azokat a rongyokat, amik rajtunk voltak. Jött egy nő, kérdezte, mit csinálunk. Mondtuk, ruhát varrunk. Hogy miért vettük le a függönyt, ha hazajön a gazdája, mit fog szólni. Mondtuk, a felét vettük le, ha fáj neki a függöny, nekünk sokkal jobban fáj a nagy veszteség és a bánat. Fogott egy vázát és földhöz vágta. Mondtuk: Magának a függöny fáj, nekünk meg a hozzátartozóink fájnak meg a mi fiatal életünk. Nézze meg, hogy nézünk ki. Nincs egy ruhánk, semmi. És akkor megdöbbent a nő, és elment. Aztán jött egy orosz autó. Megérkeztek az oroszok, és adtak nekünk enni. Vánszorogtunk. Elkísértek. Így jöttünk haza.

Elkísértük a Stefkát, először őt, ő volt az, aki vezette a csoportot, és ő volt, aki Auschwitzban kapta a pofonokat sokszor helyettünk is. Úgy sajnáltuk őt, úgy kiállt a többiekért. Az édesapját megölték, az édesanyja szerencsére életben maradt. Volt még egy társunk, a Winkler Kati, őt is hazakísértük, a Sütő utcában lakott. Mind a két szülője életben maradt. Itthon voltak a gettóban. A másik Katinak is megölték az apját, a mostohaanyját, édesanyja már a háború előtt meghalt. Megölték az egyik testvérét, és szegény a háború után elvesztette a másik fiútestvérét is, ő betegségben halt meg. És a többieknek is ugyanúgy megölték a hozzátartozóit, a többi is olyan árva volt, mint én.

Időnként találkoztunk a háború után, és ez nagyon jó volt. Évente, és ahogy teltek az évek, sorban elmentek, meghaltak. Korán haltak meg, elég fiatalon. Mi hárman, a Kati, a Stefka meg én sokáig élünk. Stefka is 83 éves volt, mikor meghalt. A Kati fiatalabb, mint én, két évvel, én is már 81 éves vagyok. Sose hittem volna, hogy ennyi szenvedés után megélem a 81 évet.

A háború után itt voltunk Pesten egy albérletben a barátnőimmel. A vőlegényem még nem jött haza. A háború alatt vőlegényem volt, munkaszolgálatos volt, aztán Mauthausenbe került, és nem vették el tőle a képemet. „Mindig reád gondolok, drága szerelmem, és könnyű lesz a legnagyobb szenvedés is. Budapest, 1944. június 28.” Voltak még további szerelmes levelek, csak azokat nem találom. Tőlem elvették anyám utolsó képét, úgy sírtam. Hát, éltünk egyik napról a másikra. Az volt a szerencsém, hogy tudtam alkalmazkodni az emberekhez, és tudtam úgy beszélni, amit akartak hallani.

És a Joint adott ennivalót meg valami ruhát. Kaptam egy kabátot, egy ruhát meg ennivalót. Ki volt írva a névsor, néztem, esetleg nem találok-e valakit. Kerestem a bátyámat meg az öcsémet. Egyszer csak látom – Mermelstein Ignác, Prága. Olyan boldog voltam! Nem tudom, hogy került oda. Gyorsan Pestre jött, és találkoztunk itt a Bethlen téren. Aztán elkezdtük keresni a bátyámat. Vártuk, hogy majd csak hazajön. Szép sorban jött haza, aki kibírta.

Egy nap mentünk a vőlegényemmel, aki akkor már itthon volt, a Dohány utcai zsidó templomnál, és valaki kiabál az utca másik oldaláról: Olga! Az Aréna úti [ma Dózsa György út] iskolában van a Jack (akkor még Jakab)! Hát azt se tudtam örömömben, hogy fussak, hogy meglássam őt minél előbb. Odamentem, Úristen, hogy nézel te ki? – kérdeztem tőle, és elkezdtem sírni. Eltolt magától. Mit sírsz, azt mondja, örülj, hogy élek. Tífuszon estem keresztül. Tudod, hogy hullottak az emberek? Mint a legyek. Legyél boldog, hogy így látsz engem, hogy föl tudtam kelni, és haza tudtam jönni. Mert a többiekre rágyújtották a lágert, és elégették őket.

Az öcsém Theresienstadtban volt. A bátyám Kőszegen, munkaszolgálaton. Aztán Bergen-Belsenben. A család szétszóródott, és ezt el kell viselni. Nem is az volt a legnagyobb szenvedés, hogy nem vagyunk együtt, hanem az, mikor megtudtam, hogy anyámat elégették Auschwitzban. Láttam a krematóriumot, de nem akartam elhinni, hogy embereket és gyerekeket égetnek. Hosszú évekig nem beszéltek gyerekekről. Másfélmillió gyereket elégettek, ártatlan gyerekeket! Meg öregeket, és erről senki nem beszélt. Másfélmillió gyereknek az emléke. Szabad ég alatt, teljesen szabadban, mintha szabad lenne az ég, és csillagok, mind csillagokká változtak a gyerekek. És hosszú évtizedek óta minden nap folyamatosan olvassák a neveket. Én ott voltam a Jad Vasemben. Rettenetes, rettenetes.

Van nekem egy listám. Mártírjaink halálának az 50. évfordulóján csináltam egy feljegyzést a gyerekeimnek és az unokámnak. „Mártírjaink halálának 50. évfordulójára, hogy ne felejtsétek a régi áldozatokat soha!” És akkor itt elkezdtem sorolni, hogy – Herskovits Eszter, 49 éves volt, Huszton élt, Auschwitzban ölték meg. Ő volt az édesanyám. Édesapám, Mermelstein Márton, 44 éves, Prágából vitték el, Theresienstadtban ölték meg 1941-ben. Nagyanyám, Stern Júlia, 83 éves volt, Remetemezőn élt, Erdélyben, Auschwitzban ölték meg. Édesanyám testvérei: heten voltak, hatot öltek meg közülük. Herskovits Sámuelt (65 éves volt) és feleségét (63 éves volt) vitték Auschwitzba, egyik fiát, Lászlót, 43 évesen munkaszolgálatra vitték. Nem tudom, hol halt meg. És volt még egy fia, Ernő, ő Salgótarjánban élt, szintén munkaszolgálatos volt, a feleségét, Elzát Auschwitzba vitték 32 évesen. A gyerekük háromévesen került Auschwitzba. Herskovits Dezsőt (62 éves volt) és feleségét (58 éves volt) Dombóvárról vitték el Auschwitzba. Volt tíz gyerekük, ők Pesten voltak, a tíz gyerekből, hála istennek, csak egy halt egy pusztult el, Károly (26 éves). Őt Dombóvárról behívták munkaszolgálatra. Hanna (58 éves volt), aki Kolozsváron élt, két gyerekével, Fridával (32 éves volt) és Mártonnal (28 éves volt) vitték Auschwitzba. Sárát (56 éves volt) Szinérváraljáról vitték el. Fáni nénit (52 éves volt), a férjét, Sámuel Lajost (52) és két gyereküket, Évát és Józsefet Remetemezőről vitték el. Tehát meghalt anyámnak az összes testvére, kivéve a legkisebbet.

Apám részéről, ez kicsit hiányos: 49 éves Libi nagynéném, apám testvére, Auschwitzban. Lánya, Judit nyolc évesen, Auschwitzban. A férje 57 évesen, Auschwitzban. Még egy kislány, az Olga, kilencévesen, Auschwitzban. Stern Hermann, apám nagybátyja, Theresienstadtban halt meg, Érsekújvárról vitték el.

Férjem, Bányai János halottai vészkorszakban:  apukája, Brand Adolf, 62 évesen, Auschwitzban, édesanyja, Kálmán Judit, 53 évesen, szintén Auschwitzban halt meg. Nagyanyja, Kálmán Zsigmondné, 83 évesen, Auschwitzban. Nagybátyja, Brand Zsigmond, 64 évesen, Auschwitzban. Brand Béla, a férjem unokatestvére munkaszolgálatos volt, nem tudom, hol. Kálmán Béla, anyjának a testvére és felesége 50 évesen, Auschwitzban halt meg. Marika kislányuk tíz évesen, szintén Auschwitzban. Bányai Gabriella, a férjem testvérének az első kislánya, hatéves volt, itt halt meg a bujkálás alatt, és meghalt a kisebbik lányuk, Zsuzsika is. Ide írtam, hogy a fentieket lejegyezte egy Auschwitzból megmenekült, 11506-os számmal megbélyegzett asszony. Ez maradt meg nekem. Rettenetes. Mindőjüket ismertem.

A férjem, Bányai János nagykanizsai, született 1916-ban, 87 évesen halt meg tavaly. Most egy éve. Eredetileg órás volt, aztán elvégezte a közgazdasági egyetemet, aztán elvégzett egy vasipari technikumot, szeretett tanulni, sokat tanult. Végül órás volt mindvégig. Volt műszaki vezető is, de ő annyira szerette az órásságot, hogy lemondott. Órásként is ment nyugdíjba, szegény. Élete vége felé végén megvakult, sokat kínlódott.

Ők eredetileg Brandok voltak. 1929-ben ki akartak vándorolni Amerikába, mert már voltak Amerikában rokonaik. Azt hiszem, ketten vagy hárman voltak Amerikában, és ők is készültek kivándorolni. De valamiért nem sikerült, nem tudom, miért. Akkor magyarosítottak Bányaira. És 1929 óta ők Bányaiak.

A szüleinek volt egy kis fűszerüzlete Nagykanizsán, nagyon jól ment a bolt. A dédit úgy hívták, hogy Markovics Lina. Kálmán Zsigmondné Markovics Lina. Az anyósomat úgy hívták, hogy Kálmán Gizella. Az apósom Brand Adolf volt. A férjemnek volt egy bátyja, Bányai Sándor, a felesége Bányai Sándorné az unokatestvérem, Olga. Apósomat, anyósomat és anyósom anyját is megölték a háborúban.

Az esküvőmön 1945-ben mind vidámak voltunk. Pedig sírni kellett volna az esküvőn. Nem sírtunk, mert valaki mindig direkt csinálta, hogy ne legyen sírás. Úgysem tudunk ellene tenni semmit sem. Egy kölcsönruhában voltam a saját esküvőmön, az unokatestvérem barátnőjétől kaptam. Ő kapott egy sötétkék ruhát – volt egy ilyen segélyszervezet, attól –, és azt kölcsönadta. Zsidó esküvő volt, a Dohány utcai templomban esküdtünk. Nem volt fehér ruha meg fátyol, hanem az a sötétkék kölcsönruha, az is megfelelt. Új cipőt tudtam venni, a cipő az a sajátom volt. Meg aztán a sajátom volt az a pár barát, aki körülöttem volt. Semmi nevetnivaló nem volt akkoriban, de vidámak voltunk, hogy megértük azt is, valaki esküszik közülünk. Ki hitte volna, hogy valaha is hazajövünk. Mindenki csak a halálra gondolt ott, főleg, mikor láttam a krematóriumot füstölni.

Úgyhogy én voltam az első, aki sietett férjhez menni. A férjem mindjárt odaköltözött, ahogy hazajött a munkaszolgálatból. Különben is már előtte menyasszony voltam. Akkor minden jó volt, mert szabadok voltunk. És könnyebb életre számítottunk. Azt hittük, ha Auschwitzból szabadulunk, akkor minden rendben lesz. Az én esküvőmön nem volt rokon. De ott volt az a társaság, akikkel együtt voltam Auschwitzban. És akkor így néztünk ki a háború után három hónappal. Már tudtunk enni, és tudtunk mosolyogni. Tudtunk örülni valaminek. Hogy végre valami jó kezdődik, egy új élet.

Olyan hűséges barátságok csak akkor és ott [Auschwitzban] szövődhettek. Találtam egy képet, ahol rokon nincs, csak deportáltak, barátok, akik Auschwitzban összebarátkoztak. Tartottam a kapcsolatot a lányokkal, akikkel együtt voltam Auschwitzban. Nyolcan voltunk szoros barátságban, és annyira szerettük egymást. Segítettünk egymásnak életben maradni. Azért volt jó. Nem vonultunk félre Auschwitzban, hanem az ember keresett magának valakit, akihez szóljon. A sok rossz, nehézség, szenvedés mellett jó volt, hogy ott voltunk egymásnak, mert tudtunk egy kicsit szólni egymáshoz.

Az egyik lánynak a nagybátyja kórházigazgató volt itt Pesten. Mondta a barátnőm, ha szülni mész, menj az én nagybátyámhoz, nem kell fizetni, levezeti neked a szülést ingyen. Egy évvel a háború után még nagyon nehéz világ volt. Nem tudom, hogy ki tudtam volna-e fizetni, és jólesett, hogy mondta. Mintha családon belül lettem volna.

Az én gyerekeimnek nem volt soha se nagyanyjuk, se nagyapuk. Ha akadt is egy-egy rokon, nagynéni, nagybácsi, unokatestvér, az is előbb-utóbb távol került, mert igyekezett minél messzebb menni a szülőhazájától. A férjemmel egyformán szerencsétlenül jártunk, hogy az egész családunkat kiirtották. Hogy lehet élni 80 évig? És akkor itt a csoda, hogy lehet. Ő is ideges volt, ő is beteg volt, és mégis fölneveltünk két gyereket. Ez olyan isteni csoda. Sokat szenvedtünk nagyon.

Az esküvőm után hamarosan szétszéledtek a testvéreim a világban, és sose látjuk egymást. Hiába maradtunk életben, ugyanúgy nem látom őket, mint akiket megöltek. Sokszor annyira fáj nekem. Nagyon hiányoznak. Háromszor láttam őket összesen a hatvan év alatt. Ez nagyon fájdalmas, és ahogy mi kinézünk, 80 körül már nem is fogjuk látni egymást. Az is jó, hogy néha fölhívnak. Nemrég volt a születésnapom, és fölhívtak mind a ketten. Nagyon jó volt hallani a hangjukat. Így éltem le az életemet, mert a férjem nem akart kivándorolni. A bátyám meg az öcsém elmentek egy üres zsákkal 1945-ben. Én akkor mentem férjhez. Fölkiabáltak: jössz? Mondtam, nem mehetek. Azt mondták: akkor Isten áldjon! Vittek volna engem is, de a férjem nem akart menni. Akkor még itt volt neki az egyetlen testvére. És úgy érezte, ez a hazája. Maradtunk.

A testvéreim viszont úgy érezték, nekik itt semmi keresnivalójuk nincs. Ha egy ország képes a lakosságából nem tudom, hány százezer ártatlan embert meg gyereket kiirtani, akkor nekik itt nincs keresnivalójuk. Kell nekik egy új haza, amely befogadja őket! Nekik is fájt, hogy el kellett menni, itt hagyni a barátokat, és mondom, mi nagyon összetartottunk. Persze vagyon nem volt, azt nem volt nehéz itt hagyni. Ami volt, azt széthordták, nem volt mit siratni. Auschwitzban volt mit siratni.

Elmentek Csehszlovákiába, ott voltak egy darabig. Utána Franciaországba mentek, a bátyám ott maradt öt-hat évig. Megtanult franciául. Utána Kanadába ment, ott ismerkedett meg a feleségével. Ott éltek három évig, míg összeszedtek annyi pénzt, hogy tudjanak utazni. Utána elmentek Kaliforniába, Los Angelesbe, és nagyon szépen összeszedték magukat. Volt, hogy napi húsz órát dolgozott a bátyám.

Az öcsém Izraelbe ment. Szegényt nem fogadták be sehol, mert nem ismerték. Volt ott egy nagynéni, Olga, aki soha nem látta, és nem akarta befogadni. Csak annyit engedett, hogy föltegye a padlásra a holmiját. Ez csak a Mermelstein családban fordulhatott elő. Engem a Herskovitsok olyan szeretettel fogadtak. Pedig nem voltak közeli rokonok.

Az öcsém nagyon szorgalmas volt. Először mint villanyszerelő dolgozott, egyszer baleset is érte. Akkor megírtam neki: pakolj és gyere, ha élni akarsz! Hagyta magát rábeszélni. Hazajött, de csak látogatóba. Később átképezte magát szabónak. Aztán ő is Montrealba ment, és már együtt költözött tovább a bátyámmal Los Angelesbe. Los Angelesben a legelegánsabb negyedben volt neki ruhaüzlete. Egy eladója is volt. Három fia van az egyiknek, a másiknak kettő. És egyik gyerek se lett szabó.

Ez a lakás is. Meg kellett halnia egy öregasszonynak ahhoz, hogy legyen lakásom, mert itt lakott egy öregasszony. A férjemnek egy volt munkaszolgálatos bajtársa mondta, hogy sajnos az édesanyja nem jött vissza. Üres a lakás, eladom nektek a lakást, mondta. Aztán végül egy szoba lett belőle, mert a másik szobában már laktak.

A férjemnek megölték az apját és az anyját. A férjem családja jómódú volt, üzletüket  Nagykanizsán, a kis raktárral együtt kifosztották. Ott maradt üresen a ház és az üzlet is. Mindent elvittek. Aztán 13 ezer forintért eladták a háború után a négyszobás lakást és az üzletet. Egy csendőr is jelentkezett, a szomszéd. Megmentett leglább néhány értéket, emléket a férjeméktől, s oda is adta neki. Így maradt meg a férjemnek egy dupla fedelű aranyóra, egy fülbevaló, egy aranygyűrű, és egy lánc, amit nekem adott. Nagyon megbecsültem, mert az előző láncot a csendőrök elvették tőlem, leszedték a nyakamról.

A férjem megmaradt ékszereiből 35 gramm aranyért vettük ezt a szobát. Csak ezt a szobát, a másik szobában egy társbérlő [Társbérlet – A bérlakás-gazdálkodás egyik sajátos eszköze volt a háború után, amikor (szovjet mintára) egy-egy lakásban – többnyire a háborúban elpusztultak vagy külföldre távozottak, internáltak átlagosnál nagyobb alapterületű lakásairól volt szó – több családot helyeztek el: a konyha és a mellékhelyiségek közös használatban voltak, és egy-egy család kapott kizárólagos használatra egy szobát. (Az is előfordult, hogy az eredeti tulajdonos/főbérlő mellé költöztettek további családo/ka/t egy-egy lakásba azzal az indoklással, hogy az eredeti tulajdonosnak/főbérlőnek „nem jár” akkora lakás, és az sem volt ritka, hogy  maga az eredeti lakó „vett maga mellé” társbérlőket, mielőtt a tanács kiutalta volna idegeneknek a lakás egy részét.) 1960-ban a budapesti összlakosságnak még 7,8%-a, 136 ezer ember lakott társbérletben, 1970-ben már csak 3,9%-a, 73 ezer ember. A társbérletek vagy úgy szűntek meg, hogy az egyik lakó fokozatosan hozzájutott a lakás többi részéhez, vagy a társbérletet leválasztással több önálló lakássá alakították. – A szerk.] lakott. Egy vidéki postás, a konyhában lakott a családjával, amikor idejöttünk, és a legszebb szobában nyulakat tartott. Szépen éldegéltek. Aztán jöttünk mi, és a nyulakat ki kellett telepíteni. Tizenhárom évig éltünk társbérletben.

A háború után elvégeztem egy gyors- és gépírótanfolyamot. Amikor bölcsődében dolgoztam, elvégeztem egy másik tanfolyamot, és gondozónő lettem. Ahol munkát lehetett találni, ott dolgoztam. A bölcsődében bölcsődevezető lettem, mert nagyon szorgalmas voltam. Rettenetesen igyekeztem. Aztán 30 évig dolgoztam a Zrínyi Nyomdában mint papírgazdálkodógazdálkodó. Onnan mentem nyugdíjba.

A férjem nagyon sokat volt beteg a munkaszolgálatban is, meg amikor hazajött, akkor is sokat volt akkoriban kórházban, annyira tönkrement. Nem tudott beletörődni a szülei elvesztésébe, nagyon szerette őket. Nekiállt tanulni. Dolgozott és tanult, ami nagyon megterhelte. Aztán valahogy a vallás miatt nem tudtunk kijönni. Ő ateista akart lenni, én meg zsidó akartam maradni, emiatt elég sokat veszekedtünk. Kifogásolta például, hogy mi jiddisül is beszéltünk. Nem volt szabad. Pedig ő is zsidó volt. Munkaszolgálatos, sokat szenvedett. Nem veszekedtünk, inkább vitatkoztunk. Mert én féltettem a gyereket. Zsuzsi hét évvel idősebb, mint a fiam, Gyuri.

A lányom születése után újra rossz állapotba kerültem. A háború után meghíztam, utána meg állandóan fogytam. És olyan gyenge voltam. Dolgoztam, a család meg a munka, nehéz volt eljutni odáig, ahol most vagyok. A lányommal hét hónapos koráig itthon voltam, aztán muszáj volt elmenni. Beadtam bölcsődébe, és ott kapott egy vérmérgezést. Elvittem az orvoshoz, azt mondtam, ez a gyerek beteg, hányt, nem akar enni, sír. Azt mondta a kolléganőmnek az orvos – jó ismerősöm volt az orvos –, hogy bolond ez az asszony, azt mondja, hogy ez a gyerek beteg. Nézzék meg, milyen gyönyörű. Mondom, lehet, hogy gyönyörű, de ez a gyerek beteg, szeretném kivizsgáltatni. Akkor adott egy beutalót a kórházba. Bevittem, és a gyerek napról napra rosszabbodott, annyira, hogy mindent kihányt, amit adtak neki. Sok gyerek volt ott, és elég sok halt meg akkoriban. A lányom csak nem gyógyult. Azt mondták, óránként kell etetni kiskanállal anyatejjel. Felvágták a lábát itt, a kezét itt, mind a kettőt, és a combján, ahol van egy lyuk, olyan mélyedés. Szóval vérrel próbálták táplálni, mert az anyatej az kijött mindig sugárban. Három hónapig volt a kórházban, míg végre meggyógyult. És hogy gyógyult meg? Aznap már haldoklott. Fennakadt a szeme, mondta az orvos, „Édes fiam, maga is látja”. Én akartam vért adni neki. Az orvos azt mondta,  „Maga?”. Úgy néz ki, mint egy tüdőbajos. Húsz órát bent voltam vele. Nem akartam, hogy idegen vért kapjon. Végül idegen vért kapott. Hét évre rá megszületett a Gyurka.

Zsuzsinak érettségije van meg két év konzervatórium. Meg egy könyvtárostanfolyamot végzett.

1956 őszén Pali, a férjem unokatestvére meg én elvittük a lányainkat balettra. A gyerekek akkor 10-11 évesek lehettek, nagyon jóban voltak. A gyerekek táncoltak, mi meg ott ültünk, és vártunk. Egyszer csak halljuk, hogy nagy lárma van. Szemben volt egy Sztálin szobor, az eltűnt [A Dózsa György úton álló Sztálin szobrot 1956. október 23-án ledöntötték a talapzatáról, majd a Blaha Lujza térre vontatták, és ott szétdarabolták. – A szerk.]. Azt mondja a Pali, hűha, menjünk haza, itt valami nagyon-nagyon fura dolog kezdődik. Fogtuk a gyerekeket, abbahagyták a táncot, és szétoszlottak az emberek, mindenki rohant haza a gyerekével. Aztán később, amikor sorban álltunk kenyérért, akkor hallottam, hogy kiabálják: mi nem félünk, csak a zsidók félnek! Gondoltam, amikor elkezdenek szelektálni, hogy mi magyarok nem félünk, csak a zsidók félnek, az már baj.

Elhatároztam, hogy elmegyünk Kanadába. Akkor a testvéreim már Kanadában éltek. Meg is írtam a testvéreimnek, hogy mennénk, és nagyon rendesek, készségesek voltak. Megírták, hogy intézkednek, és ahogy lehet, csinálnak valamit. Persze nem lehetett olyan gyorsan, mert nem csak mi és az én rokonaim kértük, hanem nagyon sokan mentek ki akkoriban. Nagyon lassan mentek a dolgok. Aztán telefonon beszéltem a testvéreimmel, elmentem a Paliékhoz, és onnan beszéltünk. Az öcsém kérdezte: akarsz jönni? Mondtam, nagyon akarok.

Elintézte, megküldte a pénzt, de nem tudtunk disszidálni se, mert a határnál elfogtak minket. A fiam három éves volt, a hátamon vittem, aludt végig. A határnál fölébredt, és elkezdett bömbölni. Nem tudtunk csenben kiosonni. A férjem testvére is jött a két gyerekével, akik a háború után születtek, ők is visszajöttek. Őket 1957-ben kiengedték, mert a sógorom nem volt katonaköteles. A férjem meg igen. Legalább négyen vagy öten mentek ki a családból, mi nem tudtunk kimenni. És a férjem nem is nagyon akart. De mikor a testvére ment, már ment volna ő is, de akkor már késő volt. Úgyhogy mi lemaradtunk. Pedig mi voltunk a legjobb helyzetben, a pénz a kezünkben volt.

Akkor nagyon magányosak lettünk. Utóbb már nem akartunk illegálisan menni, és kértünk útlevelet. Nem adtak nekünk útlevelet, mert katonaköteles volt a férjem. A testvérét kiengedték, mert sosem volt katona, gyenge volt a szeme. Úgyhogy ő simán kiment a családjával. Bár ne ment volna ki, mert itt életben maradt volna a fia. A nagyfia 21 éves volt, mikor hősi halált halt Izraelben. Aztán elment az apja is utána, nem bírta elviselni a szíve.

Magányosak voltunk, de nagyon jó szomszédjaim és nagyon jó barátaim voltak. Nem csak az auschwitziak, hanem szereztem barátokat. Ha hallok egy jó szót, az nekem elég. De ha undorral néznek az emberre, meg megjegyzéseket tesznek, akkor azt nem viselem.

Volt egy telkem is. A pilisszentlászlói telkem 30 évig megvolt. Az elpusztított szüleim után kaptam egy nagyobb összeget, és a testvéreim is ideadták az ő részüket, és 1969-ben megvettem a telket 12 000 forintért. Egy darab erdő volt, csodálatosan szép hely. Akkor olcsók voltak a telkek, az OTP-n keresztül vettem. Aztán vettem hozzá egy kis faházikót. Szintén 12 000 forintért, és bevezettettem a villanyt, az már sokkal többe került, de nem rögtön, 10–15 év múlva lett villany. Valami 40 000 forint volt összesen, de nagyon spóroltam, mert azt akartam, hogy lakható legyen. Egy helyiségből állt. Aztán ügyesen berendeztem. Famaradékból bútort fabrikáltunk, és volt, amikor négyen voltunk ott. Két ágy volt, ha Zsuzsiék kint voltak, matracon aludtak. Befértünk. Aztán volt, hogy az unokám meg az apja kint aludt sátorban. Szép nyarak voltak. Szerény volt, de nekem jó volt. A zuhanyozó például kint volt a kertben, mert a szobában csak egy lavór fért el. A zuhanyból öntöttünk vizet a lavórba, kitettük a kertbe, és a napocska megmelegítette. Később a vizet is bevezettettük.

Dolgoztam szorgalmasan, és ha kaptam valami külön pénzt, akkor azt nem hoztam haza, hanem vittem a takarékba, hogy majd jó lesz valamire. Így aztán összehoztam ezt a szép kis pilisi telket. Nemrég el kellett adni, mert már nem bírtam kijárni.

A férjem is kijárt a Pilisbe. Elváltunk negyven éve, de zsidó rítus szerint nem váltunk el [lásd: válás], csak hivatalosan. Húsz évig éltünk házasságban. A válásunk után néhány évvel megismerkedett az élettársával, nagyon rendes zsidó asszonnyal, akivel aztán én is összebarátkoztam, ma is gyakran beszélünk telefonon Szegény férjem tavalyelőtt, 88 éves korában meghalt. Nagyon sajnáltam, és nagyon hiányzik. Jó lenne, ha még élne. Az emberi élet véges, sokszor mondom. Nem bánnám, akárhogy is, csak élne.

Zsuzsi 1973-ban férjhez ment, néhány éve elváltak. Ő kertészeti technikumot végzett, de nagyon szereti a zenét, sokáig énekelt különböző kórusokban, konzarvatóriumba is járt.A fiam újságíró. Nyomdaipari szakközépiskolában érettségizett – nyomdászként is dolgozott, méghozzá a Zrínyi Nyomdában, mielőtt újságíró lett – jogi egyetemet végzett. Megnősült, majd elvált. Nagyon jó gyerekek.

Csontritkulásom van, és mindig attól félek, hogyha összetörik valahol, az már nem forr össze. És látom, hogy nincs semmi erőm. Az unokám nagyon erős, mindig fogja a karomat. Nagyon jószívű, nagyon rendes gyerek. Ő a lányom fia, Gábor. 1977-ben született. Ma egyetemre jár.

Gábor 12 éves volt, amikor megmondtam neki, hogy ő zsidó, apja keresztény, anyja zsidó:. Tudod, anyád után zsidó vagy. Én nem vagyok zsidó, mondta, nem vagyok semmi se! És rángatta a vállát. Megsértődött, hogy azt mondtam neki, hogy zsidó. Kiderült, hogy miért tiltakozott annyira. Még kicsi volt, általánosba járt. Zsidóztak a gyerekek. Ő is zsidózott: Zsidó vagy, zsidó vagy! Később elmesélte, hogy azért volt annyira felháborodva. Ezek után elment a gyerek nyaralni, Szarvasra, abba a zsidó társaságba [ifjúsági zsidó tábor]. Az nagyon tetszett neki. Ott sportoltak, úsztak, jó kaja volt, szóval jó volt. Hazajött, mondta, hogy milyen nagyszerűen érezte magát, sokat tanultak, úszkáltak, és azt mondták, hogy jelentkezzen, aki Izraelbe akar menni, megismerni Izraelt. Kérdeztem, te akarsz menni? Nagyon szeretnék menni, de nincs pénzem. Mondom, akkor adok neked pénzt.  Elment, és beleszeretett Izraelbe. Jöttek a levelek. Ez egy csodaország, milyen szép. Minden csodálatos, mindenki kedves, mindenki jó, megtalálta a helyét. Amikor hazajött, kezdett mesélni. Meg kéne tanulni a nyelvet, ki kéne oda újra menni, mert nagyon barátságosak az emberek. Jól van, kisfiam, ha menni akarsz, nézz utána, mondtam. Nem került sokba, úgyhogy elment. Két és fél évig ott volt. Megtanult írni-olvasni héberül. Amikor egy fél éve volt kint, már jöttek a levelek, hogy milyen jó itt, gyertek ti is. Én is mindig Izraelben akartam élni. Úgy gondoltam, megyek én is, megkapom a nyugdíjamat, megleszek. Kimentünk mi is a lányommal, és kivettünk egy lakást.

1998-ig voltam Izraelben az unokámnál, egy fél évet, de már beteg voltam. És nagyon messze volt az orvos, beszélni sem tudtam vele, mert orosz volt. Naponta kellett orvoshoz járni, ő nem értett meg engem, én nem értettem meg őt. Aztán gondoltam, hazajövök gyógyíttatni magamat. Szépen itt maradtam. Sokat voltam kórházban az utolsó tíz évben. Szinte rendszeresen vittek kórházba. Olyan betegségem van, hogy sokszor rosszul vagyok az agyvérzés óta. Aztán a gyerekek is hazajöttek.

A lányom az 58. évében van. Nyugdíjban van. A fiam 50 éves. Mindig mondja, hogy 120 éves koromig éljek. Kérdezem, hány barátodnak vannak még szülei? Egynek se. Na, látod. Én vagyok most már az utolsó, meg a Kati, akivel együtt voltam Auschwitzban. Kati két évvel fiatalabb nálam. De neki azért rossz, mert mind a két testvére meghalt.

A testvéreim a háborúban elhagyták a jóistent, és nem hittek semmiben se. És úgy is nevelték a gyerekeket, és a gyerekeik mégis vallásosak lettek. Van köztük olyan, aki állandóan imádkozik Izraelben. A másik szintén vallásos. New Yorkban lakik, szép gyerekei vannak.

Mostanra sajnos vagy hála istennek, úgy összekeveredtek az emberek, hogy minden további nélkül keveredik a zsidó a kereszténnyel. A lányom is egy keresztény fiúhoz ment hozzá. De soha erről nem beszéltek, hogy te zsidó vagy vagy keresztény. Jól összejöttek, olyannyira, hogy az unokám már a zsidó vallást gyakorolja. Én nagyon örülök neki, hogy valamit megőriz a zsidóságból. Én a hagyományokat megtartom, de amúgy nem nagyon járok sehova sem. De örülök, hogyha tele van a templom, hogy nem felejtik el a vallást.

Péntek este meggyújtom a gyertyát, van egy ilyen gyertyás csillárom, és akkor emlékezem legalább az ősökre, ha már nincsenek itt. Mást nem tudok csinálni. Nem voltam rendes vallásos én sem. Nem tudtam, mi az a vallás. Én hiszek Istenben, de nem vagyok vallásos. Tartom az ünnepeket, a szokásokat, minden olyasmit tartok, amit anyám tartott.

Az igazat megvallva a rendszerváltás engem se meg nem rázott, se nem örvendeztetett meg. Én már beteg voltam, öreg voltam, és azt reméltem, hogy jobb lesz, mint volt, jobb lesz a gyerekeknek, mint volt.

Az a fontos, hogy hagyják az embereket élni, azért születtek, hogy éljenek. Hát hagyják őket élni. És a szegény ember is élni akar. Legyen neki minden napra ennivalója, legyen cipő a lábán. Én tudom, mi az a szegénység. Az én időmben is voltak szegény emberek, akiknek volt sok gyerekük, és volt egy pár cipőjük. Volt 3-4 gyerek, akkor felváltva jártak iskolába. Vettek egy jó nagy cipőt, ami mindenkinek jó, és akkor ma te mész iskolába, holnap te mész iskolába stb. Ez így igaz, mert én köztük éltem. Még nem jöttek helyre a dolgok. Majd ha mindenkinek lesz ennivalója, utána gyűjthetnek az emberek, amennyit csak akarnak, úgysem viszik a sírba magukkal.
 

Életrajz

Vince Jánosnét városmajori otthonában látogattam meg. Az alig 40 éves ház, ahová lánya, Judit születése után költözött férjével, Jánossal, még mindig rendezett, jó állapotú. Otthonában – néhány éve, férje halála és a közelmúltban Izraelbe alijázott Marci unokája távozása óta Bickó kutyával élnek kettesben. A lakás magán viseli két értelmiségi ember ízlését, sok száz könyv, külföldről hozott, inkább eszmei értéket képviselő tárgyak, rézkarcok, puha párnák, kényelmes bútorok, több, olvasásra, keresztrejtvényfejtésre vagy jóízű beszélgetésre hívogató, meleg fényt árasztó sarok.
 
Anyai dédapám, Hoffmann Manó, aki tíz évvel a születésem előtt halt meg, néptanító volt, állami elemiben, alsó tagozatban tanított vidéken, és amikor nyugdíjba ment, a fiához-menyéhez [Hadinger Ede és felesége] költözött a Thököly út 17-be.  Dédanyámról nem hallottam sokat, ő nagyon mélyen vallásos volt. Nagyszüleimtől, szüleimtől túl sokat nem hallottam róluk. Kóser háztartást vezettek. Dédapám óriási étvágyáról volt híres. Menye, a nagyanyám mindig kínálta, egyen papa! Én? Eszem! Nem, papa, maga nem eszik, hanem fal…

Apai nagyanyám, Hirsch Leonóra 1860-ban született, valahol a Délvidéken, úgy emlékszem, Zentán, sokgyerekes zsidó családból származott, ahol nem tudom, miért, németül beszéltek – nem jiddisül, az irodalmi németet beszélték egymás között. Apai nagyapám, Deutsch Ignác papírügynök volt, egy úton rosszul lett, többet nem látták, meghalt. Feltehetően vidéken lett eltemetve, hogy hol, nem tudom. Nagyanyám szerint nyilván infarktust kapott, hiszen nagyon kövér ember volt, s nem volt jó a szíve. Ez idő tájt apám hat-hét éves lehetett…

Hét gyerekkel maradt özvegyen a nagyanyám, s a legfiatalabb két és féléves volt. Nagyanyám legidősebb fiútestvére jómódú bőrgyáros volt, úgy hívták a bőrgyárát, hogy Hirsch Jakab Színes Bőrgyár, ő segítette őket [Feltehetően a Hirsch A. Jakab Bőrgyárról van szó. A Hirsch család a 19. sz. közepétől bőrkereskedelemmel foglalkozott a Belvárosban. Hirsch Jakab fia, György kezdett bőrgyártásba Újpesten. Kezdetben l0-l2 emberrel és leselejtezett gépekkel gyártottak kesztyű- és díszműbőröket. Igazi gyárnak 1940-től tekinthető a bőrgyár, amikor már a magyarországi kecskebőrök 65%-át dolgozták fel. Saját bőráruházuk volt a Károly körúton. A gyár a második világháborút kisebb sérülésekkel átvészelte, 1948 márciusában a többi újpesti bőrgyárral együtt államosították, neve Díszműbőrgyár lett. – A szerk.]. Nem rendszeresen, az igaz, hanem ha jelezték, hogy rászorulnának. Ő fizette például a lakbérüket, ami akkoriban nem volt kis pénz, több mint száz pengőt tett ki, az akkori álomfizetés, a kétszáz pengő felét.  Nagyanyámék összkomfortosan laktak a Thököly út 38-ban – ma is ugyanúgy néz ki a ház, mint akkor, nyolc egyforma, úgynevezett Beszkárt ház volt –, egy háromszobás lakásban, de nem túl nagy kényelemben, személyzet nélkül, és a nagyanyám mindent maga csinált, még sajtot is, és nem is vezetett kóser háztartást. Végig ott maradtak abban a lakásban, fel sem merült, hogy kisebbe költöznének. Nagyanyám rendkívül művelt nő volt, zeneileg is, pedig soha nem tanult semmilyen hangszeren, könyvtáruk sem volt, kölcsönzött könyveket, így szerzett műveltséget.

Hirsch Jakabék a Honvéd utcában laktak, nagyon szép polgári lakásban, háztartási alkalmazottal. A feleségét Ilkának hívták. Jakab bácsi nagyon kellemetlen természetű, mogorva ember volt. Többször hívott meg bennünket ebédre, de ezek az ebédek csendesen teltek el, szinte szótlanul.

Nagyanyám bölcsen és nagy rezignációval fogadta az özvegységet, egész nap horgolt a Városligetben, a gyerekek meg egymást nevelték. Olyan is volt, hogy a nagyanyám hazajött, és teljes csend volt a lakásban, hét gyerek – négy fiú, három lány – mellett! Ez azt jelentette, hogy a nagyobbak gombfociztak, és a kicsik az ablak közé voltak zárva. És ha a gyerekek azt mondták, hogy: „Mama! Éhesek vagyunk”, akkor a nagymamám azt felelte: „Nyaljatok sót! Attól szomjasak lesztek, vizünk korlátlanul van.” A lányok gyönyörűek voltak, és valamennyien jómódú fiúkhoz, bankfiúkhoz vagy tőzsdésekhez mentek feleségül, ami akkor nagyon sokat jelentett. A fiúk jóképűek voltak, és nem szerelemből nősültek. Mindannyian érdekből házasodtak, egyre gazdagabb nőket vettek feleségül.

Az első fiú, Pali textilszakmát tanult, és háromszor nősült: az első felesége a Miskolczy Márta volt, a családban csak így emlegettük, hogy Pali elvette az Újpesti Tarkánszövőt [A Miskolczy Kendőgyár érdekeltségébe tartozó Újpesti Tarkánszövő és Kikészítőgyár Rt.-ről van szó. – A szerk.], aminek a tulajdonosa Márta apja, Miskolczy Ignác volt. Őt gazdag zsidó gyárosokkal együtt a Rabbiképző épületében verték agyon a nyilasok. Ebből a házasságból két lány született: Judit, aki harminc évesen súlyos depressziója miatt öngyilkos lett, és Mariann, aki ma is él, hetven év felett van, a férjét Szegő Jánosnak hívják, mérnökember, és hűtőgépgyáraik vannak Brazíliában. Ők nagyon jómódúak most is. A második felesége a „Preisz Pékség”, azaz Preisz Annus volt, majd a Techel és Tusák Paplangyár tulajdonosának lányát vette el. Több bérháza is volt, a Szemere utcában és a Benczúr utca 1. is az övé volt, szobalány, szakácsnő, lány a gyerekek mellett. Nagyon elegáns volt a Szemere utcai lakás, ott voltunk sokszor. De mindig éreztetve volt velünk az, hogy mennyivel jobban élnek, mint mi.

Paliék annyira nem voltak vallásosak, hogy karácsonyt tartottak, ahová mindig meg is hívtak engem, és az ajándékok a fa alatt voltak. Elég furcsán éreztem ott magam. Pali katolikus papként bujkált egy kispesti parókián, így menekült meg. Talán 1948-ban mehetett ki Brazíliába, ott cukrászdát nyitottak, és kábé húsz évig ebből éltek. Mariann 1956-ban ment ki az apja után.

Andor, a második fiú Gyöngyösön elvette Kardos Klotildot, a „Kardos Fatelep” tulajának lányát, aki rendkívül csúnya nő volt. Gyermekük nem született. Anyám mesélte, hogy látta őket vőlegény-menyasszonyként, és amikor Klotild odahajolt Andorhoz, hogy megcsókolja, az ellökte magától. Anyám úgy mesélte, ő már akkor érezte, ez nem lesz jó házasság. Mégsem válás vetett véget a házasságuknak, a fasizmus lerendezte, mindketten Auschwitzban pusztultak el.

Miklós elvette anyám unokatestvérét, aki zongoratanárnő volt, Hadinger Ilonát, s később ők hozták össze anyámat apámmal. Miklós munkaszolgálatban halt meg. Miklóséknak egy lányuk született, Klári, aki mindvégig titkolta zsidóságát, és Angliába ment férjhez. Utolsó, harmadik férje a londoni repülőtéren a feltálalandó menüket állította össze, s nem tudta, hogy milyen vallású a felesége. Egyszer voltak látogatni Magyarországon. A feleség nevetve mesélte – erre emlékszem –, hogy nézték otthon a tévét, egy operaénekes adott elő áriákat, és a férj megszólalt: „Nézd, ez a hülye zsidó énekel, ahelyett, hogy dolgozna.” És Klári ezen akkor is csak nevetett. Klárinak az első házasságából született gyermeke, a második férje pedig kereskedelmi hajós volt, ott is éltek, a hajón.

A negyedik fiú az apám volt, Dezső Árpád. Ő magyarosította a nevét kábé tizenhét-tizennyolc éves korában Deutschról Dezsőre. Az okát nem tudom, és a testvérei közül a lányok voltak azok, akik nem magyarosítottak, a fiúk igen.

A három lánytestvér: Jolán, Ilonka és Katica volt. Jolán férje, Vajda Marcell terménytőzsdés volt, egy fiuk született, aki Izraelben élt és dolgozott, a Bank Hapoalimnak volt az igazgatója. Kétszer nősült, a második felesége csodálatos nő volt, aki már ott, Izraelben született, ezredesként szolgált az izraeli hadseregben, majd leszerelt, s ezután a jeruzsálemi polgármesternek lett a titkárnője. Még él, nyolcvan év körüli lehet. Egy közös gyerekük született, és gondolom, néhány unokájuk van most. 1990 körül látogattuk meg őket, nagyon kedvesek voltak velünk.

Ilonka Pesten élt, három-négy éve halt meg, a századik születése napját követő pár héttel. A századik születésnapját nagyon szépen ünnepelték meg, zászlókkal, tükörre helyezett hatalmas tortával. Az ő férje hitközségi vezető volt. A fiuk a tévénél volt vezető állásban. Ilonka néni valamennyire még elment templomba, nyaranta üdült az ortodox hitközségi üdülőben, hiszen elvárták tőle a férje beosztása miatt, de nem volt vallásos.

Jolán és Ilonka a Szent István park 25-ben volt a zsidóüldözéskor (ott halt meg a nagyanyám is), ami védett ház volt. Bár a védett házakba csak menlevéllel lehetett menni, annak akkor nem sok gyakorlati jelentősége volt a zsidók biztonsága szempontjából.

Katica, a harmadik lány – ellentétben a másik kettővel – buta és rosszindulatú volt. Brucker Henrikhez ment feleségül, akinek svájci textilképviselete volt. A férj súlyos cukorbeteg volt, ami Auschwitzban szünetelt, talán az éhezéstől. Nagyon későn érkezett haza onnan, 1945 szeptemberében. Katica hamis papírokkal vészelte át, bujkált a holokauszt alatt, például a nyaralójukban a Rómaifürdőn, erdélyi menekültnek adva ki magát.

Minden gyerek érettségizett, és olyan szakmát tanult, amivel meg lehetett élni. Nem egyházi iskolában tanultak. Például az apám a bőrszakmát, Miklós vegyészetet, Pali textilszakmát, Andorról nem tudok, a lányok mind tudtak varrni is. Egyikük sem élt vallásos életet.

Az anyai dédapa, Hadinger Lipót Tolna megyében, Györkönyben volt sokgyerekes mészáros [Györköny – nagyközség volt Tolna vm.-ben, 1891-ben 2800 főnyi, főleg német lakossal. – A szerk.]. Minden gyerekét tizennégy éves korában önállósította. Ez azt jelentette, hogy például nagyapám, Hadinger Ede, aki csak négy elemit végzett, tizennégy éves korában kapott egy szarvasmarhát, és avval gyalog elindult Budapestre önálló életet élni, majd ő is mészáros lett. Akkoriban a Garay téri piac még nem ilyen formájában létezett, illetve épületrésze nem volt, így ő standon árult. Egyre nagyobb tételekben. És húsz-huszonkét éves korára már fióküzletei voltak: a Szív utcában, a Garay téren, a Cserhát utca sarkán. Több alkalmazottja is volt, segédjei voltak, akik nála szabadultak fel, ő vizsgáztatta le őket. Hitközségi szállító is volt, és nagyon fiatalon, huszonkét éves korában meg is nősült.

Egy Hoffmann Hermin nevű, nagyon szép, nagyon okos, szellemes, elegáns, igényesen öltözködő, vallásos nőt vett feleségül. Herminnek nagy szerepe volt az üzlet fellendülésében, rengeteget segített, dolgozott a férjének. Róla alig tudok valamit, négy évvel a születésem előtt halt meg gyomorrákban. A testvére vagy unokatestvére Stern Samu volt, a hitközség akkori elnöke. Nagyapa is ismerte a vallást, de nem volt bigott vallásos. 

Hadinger Ede, mint mondtam, kóser mészáros volt. De a háztartásuk csak a húsok, felvágottak szempontjából volt kóser. Nagyapám üzlete és lakása két háznyira volt tőlünk, a Garay tér 12-ben. Saját házban. Az első emeleten az egyetlen erkélyes lakás az övé volt. Három szoba volt, az egyikben egy óriási zongora és egy tonettszekrény volt, a középsőben, az ebédlőben egy nagy ebédlőasztal, egy dívány volt, ezen kívül csak a hálószoba volt. A háztartását egy Katica nevű alkalmazott vezette, aki vidékről érkezett, és úgynevezett „szombatos” volt [lásd: szombatosok]. Később derült ki, hogy rendszeresen lopott nagyapámtól.

Nagyapám nagyon jó szakember volt, a Mészáros Ipartestület [Mészárosok és Hentesek Ipartestülete] alelnöke volt tizenvalahány évig. Egyszer elvitt magával a Hűvösvölgybe, ahol átadtak akkor egy Aggok Házát idős mészárosok számára, nagyapám mondott avatóbeszédet, ő szervezte az egészet. Tekintélyes ember volt, mindenkit ismert, és mindenki ismerte a szakmában. Kóser mészáros korától adott arra, hogy templomba járjon: a volt Aréna úti [ma Dózsa György út] templomba nagyobb ünnepekkor, Sábátkor pedig a Thököly útra, egy kisebb imaházba.

A Garay téri üzlet pincéjében – kicsit nagyképűen – az volt kiírva, hogy „szalámigyár”, öt-hat nem zsidó alkalmazottal folyt a húsfeldolgozás és egy mesgiáchhal, Kohn úrral, akit a hitközség küldött oda. Latabárék is nála vásároltak. Ugyanakkor, hitközségi szállítóként kórházakba is vittek húst. Emlékszem, maga az üzlet is szinte a mennyezetig csempézve volt, fehér-bordó díszítéssel, pultok voltak, tőke, ahol a húsokat vágták, azt naponta sikálták például, és a mesgiách, mivel szépen is rajzolt, ő csinálta az ártáblákat, amihez rajzokat is mellékelt, például a párizsihoz az Eiffel-tornyot. Semmilyen fűtés nem volt, télen dermesztő hideg volt, anyám, ha néha kisegíteni ment oda, borzasztóan szenvedett emiatt. Egy idő után elválasztották a helyiséget, mert a kóser vágodának külön kellett működnie, és a csirkéket például Friedmann úr vágta csak le. A pincében, amely világos és tiszta volt, az országban az elsők között üzemelt nagy hűtőkapacitás,  egy óriási szoba végig hűtőnek volt kialakítva, ahol olyan minőségű felvágottakat csinált, hogy például a hagyományos Budapesti Nemzetközi Vásáron kábé 1940-ben, „Hanna Szalámigyár” néven működő pavilonjában sorba álltak az emberek [Az első BNV – ezen a néven – 1925-ben volt, de előzményének tekinthető az 1906-ban először megrendezett Tavaszi Árumintavásár, amely később a Keleti Vásár nevet kapta. – A szerk.]. Az asszony [Hermin] rendkívül szorgalmas volt, öt órakor már az üzletben, a pénztárban ült, télen-nyáron. .

A nagyapámnak, emlékszem, nagy baráti köre volt, minden áldott nap összejöttek a nagypapa lakásában alsózni a barátai: a Mészáros Ipartestület elnöke, a Kollár úr, egy állatorvos, a Bojniczer és egy Jánosi nevű mészáros, aki valami funkciót töltött be a testületnél. Kártyázás közben bort ittak, és engem annyira idegesített az, hogy ugyanazt a mondatot ¬– „Mit mondott a kabai asszony? Igyunk egyet, komámasszony!” – vagy ötvenszer elmondták.

Az anyai nagyapámat azért nem szerettem, mert belém nevelték, hogy „a nagypapát szeretni kell”. Érzelmileg ellenálltam. Nagyapa rendkívül erőszakos ember volt, nem tűrt semmiféle ellentmondást, hiába szerettem volna vele vitatkozni, nem lehetett. Sokat jelentett, hogy ő jómódú ember volt, a család pénzügyi helyzetét mindig ő tette rendbe, mivel apám hol állásban volt, hol nem. Bőrkereskedése volt, és hol tönkrement az üzlete, hol pedig B-listára tették [A B-listázás az állami alkalmazottakat érintette. Nincs utalás arra, hogy Vince Jánosné apja valaha is állami alkalmazott lett volna, úgyhogy ez valószínűleg tévedés. – A szerk.]. Anyagilag tőle [a nagypapától] függött a család. Velem is gavallér ember volt, mégsem szerettem. Sokszor ölébe vett, különféle beceneveket adott nekem és zsebpénzt! Ha bementem az üzletébe, annyi pénzt adott, hogy két-három napig főzhettünk belőle. A házasságuk, egész biztos, hogy nem volt jó, mert a nagyapám egy durva, goromba ember volt, a nagyanyám meg egy finom, szellemes, okos nő volt. Ennyit tudok a nagyanyámról, meghalt még az én születésem előtt, 1922-ben.

Anyám, Hadinger Erzsébet a Váci utcai leánygimnáziumban érettségizett. Nagyon művelt nő volt az anyám. Otthon francia- és némettanárnő foglalkozott vele, mindkét nyelven szépen beszélt is. Görögöt tanult az iskolában, és borzasztó ügyként kezelte, és évekig mesélte is, hogy egyszer megbukott belőle. Volt egy franciatanárnője, aki később nagyon elszegényedett, idős is volt már, őt támogatta anyagilag. Anyám, úgymond, úrilány volt – ezt akkoriban így mondták –, és nem dolgozott, egy úrilány nem dolgozik. Tárlatokra járt, a festményeket nagyon szerette, volt is érzéke a művészetekhez. Rajzolni is tanult, tehát ő azt tette, amit szeretett, aminek örült. A házasságkötése [1922] előtt a Thököly út 17-ben lakott [A nagypapa tehát valamikor 1922 körül vett saját házat a Garay tér 12. szám alatt, és akkor költözött el a Thököly út 17-ből. – A szerk].

Anyámnak egy testvére volt, a Hadinger Gyuri – ő később Hidasra magyarosította a nevét –, aki a Szent István Gimnáziumban érettségizett, és nagyon nagy törésként élte meg kamaszként anyja halálát. Amennyire kedvvel, szívvel végezte nagyapám a szakmát, a mészárosságot, Gyuri, aki szintén kitanulta, sose szerette, csak az apja miatt lett mészáros. Kizárólag a zene érdekelte, a zeneszerzés. Táncdalokat szerzett, több lemeze is megjelent tudomásom szerint. 1947-ben nősült először, de ettől a feleségétől elvált. A második felesége keresztény nő volt. Piroskának hívták, keramikus volt, gyermekük nem született. Tartottuk velük a kapcsolatot. Valamikor az 1990-es évek vége felé halt meg, az értesítőn keresztény temető volt megjelölve, és Jánossal úgy éreztük, mi nem vehetünk részt egy olyan szertartáson, ahol egy hajdani kóser mészárost nem a hagyománynak megfelelően búcsúztatnak.

A szüleimet az apám öccse, a Dezső Miklós hozta össze. Az Andrássy úti Lukács cukrászdában mutatták be őket egymásnak. Terveztek egyházi esküvőt is, de nagyanyám halála miatt, illetve a gyász miatt csak polgári esküvőt tartottak, ami a hetedik kerületi elöljáróságon volt. Körülbelül egy évig albérletben laktak a Dózsa György úton [akkor: Aréna út], mert közben készült a lakásuk: nagyapám vett egy földszintes házat az Alpár utcában [ma: Ida utca], ráhúzatott egy emeletet, és így oldódott meg a lakásgondjuk.

Mi az Alpár utca 4-ben laktunk, és egy sarokház választotta el a két lakást egymástól, de a házmesterlakáson át lehetett vágni, bemenni az ajtójukon, kijönni a konyhájukon, és már a Garay tér 12-ben is voltunk. De a lakás olyan elhanyagolt és koszos volt, hogy amíg átmentünk, visszatartottuk a lélegzetvételt. A házmester – akiről később úgy hallottam, a nyilasokhoz csapódott – mindkét házban dolgozott.  Mindennap találkoztam nagyapámmal, ha bementem az üzletbe, de vasárnaponként nála, nagyapámnál ebédeltünk. Az ebédeket a háztartási alkalmazottja, a Katica szolgálta fel. Nagyapám nagyon kényelmes ember volt, nagyon ritkán járt hozzánk, de elvárta, hogy mi menjünk hozzá. Meg a kóved miatt is. Nagyapám diktátor típusú ember volt, senki nem mert ellentmondani neki. Nagyapa és apám kapcsolata szívélyes volt, de nem volt meghitt. 

Háromszobás lakásban laktunk, nem voltak szomszédaink, a földszinten rendőrőrs volt, miénk volt az emelet. A hálószoba amolyan típusos hálószoba volt. Egyszerű bútorokkal berendezve, drapp, festett bútorokkal. Ágyak, toalett-tükör, éjjeliszekrények és egy dívány keresztben az ágy előtt. Két szekrény is volt, egy akasztós és egy polcos. A gyerekszoba volt az enyém, festve volt a fal, kiskoromban mesejelenetek voltak fölül. Minden este, amikor felkapcsolták a villanyt, jó estét kellett köszönni, ez nem tudom, miért volt így. Nagyon szerényen volt berendezve, sokáig megmaradt például a pólyázóasztalom és a rácsos ágyam. Egy kis vaskályha is volt, ami majd szétrobbant a forróságtól, de csak a környékén volt meleg. Az ebédlő tapétás volt, dohányszínű tapéta volt a falon kék mintával, elég nyomasztó volt számomra. De nagyon elegáns volt. A berendezést egy újpesti műbútorasztalos, Polgár Alajos csinálta, aki minden évben eljött, megnézte és végigsimogatta a bútort, hogy rendesen ápoljuk-e – mint a saját gyermekét –, és a faragásokat kis kefével kitisztogatta. Volt egy zongora, Palik és Fia gyártmányú, azon egy tisztaselyem terítő, egy Gorka váza [Föltehetően Gorka Géza (1894–1971) műve. – A szerk.], amiben szárazvirágcsokor volt. Volt egy nagyobbítható asztal is, óriásira lehetett kinyitni, kék ripszhuzatú hat székkel, komód és kredenc is volt, szép porcelánokkal. A lehetőség megvolt arra, hogy sokan üljük körül az asztalt, de mindig csak az asztal fele volt, fél abrosszal terítve. Egy gyönyörű türkizzöld majolikakályhánk volt, ami nagyon látványos volt, csak éppen nem fűtött rendesen. Úgyhogy az egész családi élet télen mindig a kályha körül zajlott, mindenki rátapadt, egymást lökdöstük, hogy meleghez jussunk. A konyha olyan hideg volt, hogy a szódavíz is megfagyott. A fürdőszobában fűteni kellett az óriási rézkályhát ahhoz, hogy melegvíz folyjon a csapból.

Anyám nem tudott ugyan főzni, de a háztartási alkalmazottat [Őket akkoriban cselédeknek hívták. – A szerk.], Szkuhala Zsófit be tudta tanítani. Szóban elmondta, amit ő a gyakorlatban nem tudott volna megcsinálni. Tőlem pedig már tizenhat éves koromban elvárták, hogy főzzek! Zsófit imádtam. Ő Szerbiából jött, magyarul rosszul beszélt, németül viszont jól. S ha anyám azt akarta, hogy ne értsek valamit, akkor németül beszélt a Zsófival. Tizenegy évig volt nálunk. Nem mi voltunk az első munkahelye, ő akkor harminc-negyven év körül lehetett. Hosszú vörös haja volt, amit kontyban hordott, és én nagyon szerettem fésülgetni a haját, néha megengedte. Nem volt túl kedves, de én nagyon kötődtem hozzá. A konyhából nyíló kis szobában aludt. Nem ültünk vele egy asztalnál, ő a konyhában evett. Ez volt a szokás. Volt cselédkönyve is. Mindenkivel jó kapcsolatban volt, nagyon érzékeny ember volt Zsófi. Ha anyám keresett valamit, és nem talált, rögtön azt gondolta szegény, hogy rajta keresi. Pedig nálunk nem számított, ki mennyit eszik. Zsófi mondogatta ilyenkor: „Ja nem kapom enni, már menem is.” Majd jött egy rendelet, talán 1940-ben, hogy a külföldi állampolgároknak el kell hagyni Magyarországot. Zsófi köszönés nélkül ment el, mert annyira fájt a szíve. Hazautazott, soha többet nem hallottam róla [Az 1940. április 25-én kiadott, 500/1940. számú belügyminiszteri rendelet alapján a hatósági engedély nélkül Magyarországon tartózkodó külföldi állampolgároknak a rendelet megjelenését (illetve érkezésüket) követő 24 órán belül jelentkezniük kellett a rendőrhatóságnál. A külföldiek tartózkodási helyüket a rendőrhatóság engedélye nélkül nem hagyhatták el. Amennyiben nem kaptak engedélyt a további itt-tartózkodásra, a tartózkodási engedély lejártával kötelesek voltak elhagyni az országot. – A szerk.]. Lett utódja, de ahhoz semmilyen érzelem nem fűzött.

Volt egy mosónő, az jött nagymosásra. Az szinte szertartásszámba ment, mert előző nap beáztatták a teknőt a mosókonyhában, aztán lúgot főztek. Még a napi koszt is ehhez igazodott, jó laktatós ételt kellett főzni, általában bablevest és valami tartalmas tésztát. A háztartási alkalmazott volt, aki vasalt, de annak is megvolt a módja, mert előzőleg fleichtolni kellett a ruhákat [azaz belocsolni], és a lepedőket kihuzigálni. Ehhez engem hívtak segítségül. Aztán nedvesen állt egy darabig [szorosan összetekerve], majd faszenes vasalóval ki lett vasalva. A szidolozás [Azaz főleg rézből, esetleg ezüstből készült holmik, kilincsek, küszöbsínek, esetleg ablakpárkányok stb. kifényesítése a Sidol nevű speciális tisztítószerrel. – A szerk.] péntekenként volt – tehát mindennek meg volt a maga ideje.

Apám rendkívül szerényen öltözködött, annyira szerényen, hogy előfordult az is, hogy foltozott ingben járt. Ha a gallér elkopott, akkor a hátából csináltak újabbat. De ő szeretett azzal demonstrálni, hogy nálunk páváskodjanak a nők. A férfiaknak nem kell. Igaz, csináltatott cipőben járt, de az akkor nem számított luxusnak. Az anyámnak nagyon jó ízlése volt, az én ruháimat is ő tervezte, és a Dembinszky utcában varrta meg egy nagyon ügyes varrónő. Házivarrónőnk is volt, rá nem bízott anyám komolyabb szakértelmet igénylő munkát, ő évente jött hozzánk foltozni. Mivel nagyon spórolt anyám, egyre olcsóbb varrónőnél varratott. De akkoriban bármilyen anyagi körülmények között éltek az emberek, javíttatták a ruháikat. Kabátot például egy Jelenfy nevű férfiszabó varrt nekünk az Elemér utcában, de az első kabátomat egy török szabó varrta, a nevére is emlékszem, Szarajlin Bukasinnak hívták.

Végül is nem éltünk rosszul, ha apámnak éppen volt állása, és jól keresett, a szüleim állandóan félretettek pénzt, gyűjtöttek nekem hozományra a Magyar–Olasz Bankban. Annyit, hogy szinte két háromemeletes házat lehetett volna belőle venni. Egész életükben spóroltak. Lakbérre nem volt kiadásunk természetesen, ha csak azt tették volna félre, az is száz pengő feletti összeg lett volna.

Apám szociáldemokrata vezető volt, szemináriumokat tartott. Rendkívül művelt volt, irodalomban, történelemben és ideológiailag is. Igen egyszerű emberek is jártak hozzá az Alpár utcai lakásba: fűtők, szénhordók, többnyire tanulatlan emberek. Bejöttek, köszöntek, én nem voltam olyankor bent a szobában. Volt köztük egy cipész is, Guzli Dávid, akinek apám odaadott később egy koffer holmit, hogy vigyázzon rá. A háború után visszaadott mindent. És elmondta, milyen kellemetlen volt neki a sárgacsillagos holmikat őrizni. Akkor már apám nem élt, amikor visszahozta a bőröndöt. Azt hiszem, apám összekötő volt a kommunista párt és a szociáldemokrata párt között, de ennél pontosabban nem tudom.

Anyámat egyáltalán nem érdekelte a politika. Ő inkább művészekkel, festőkkel jött össze, apámnak külön társasága volt. Közös barátaik nem nagyon voltak, mivel az ízlésviláguk merőben más volt. Néha közösen elmentek egy-egy evezős összejövetelre a Rómaira, a Podolecz-csónakházba. Társasági életet főként rokonokkal éltünk, például sréhen szemben lakott egy orvos nagybátyám: Dr. Sonkoly Ödön, aki korábban a Zsidókórházban, majd a Visegrádi utcai rendelőben volt szülész-nőgyógyász, és nyolcvanegy éves korában nősült először. Vele vagy délelőtt, vagy délután, de minden nap együtt voltunk mi, ketten, anyám és én. Nem kínálgatott bennünket semmivel, nagyokat nevettünk, és járkáltunk a lakásban.

A nagyszüleim még valamennyire vallásosak voltak, de a szüleim már nem. Nem vezettünk kóser háztartást. Sertéshúst természetesen nem ettünk, bár anyám egyfajta sonkát, ami sertéshúsból volt, nagyon szeretett, és a tejes–húsos szétválasztása sem volt tartva [lásd: étkezési törvények]. A nagyünnepeken kívül ritkán jártak templomba. Imaház volt a környékünkön az Aréna úton – ez most Dózsa György út –, közel a Thököly úthoz, a második vagy a harmadik ház lehetett. Legalább egy kilométernyire volt zsinagóga innen, s nagyobb ünnepeken gyalogoltunk. A zsinagóga az volt, ahol most vívóterem van. Jeles ünnepeken olyan helyre mentünk, ahol rabbi volt. Jom Kipurkor a huszonöt órás böjtöt megtartották a szüleim.

A Hanukát nem tartottuk, de otthon trenderliztünk. Tulajdonképpen mindig az evéssel járó és az örömünnepeket tartottuk meg szívesen, mint a széderestét, de azt csak a vacsoráig. Nem olyan nagyon régen tudtam meg, hogy ahogyan akkor csináltuk, az csak a felét jelenti a szédernek. A forgatókönyvet, a Hágádát az apám olvasta fel, hogy mit kell csinálni a nagyapámnak, aki levezette a szédert, és én mondtam gyerekként a má nistánót, nagyon lámpalázasan. Nagyapám testvére, a Cili néni jött el hozzánk Újpestről, ő csinálta meg a szédertálat, hogy minden rajta legyen [A szédertálon a következő rituális ételeknek  kell hagyományosan rajta lenniük: kárpász (ez általában petrezselyem), keserű fű (friss torma vagy saláta), hároszet, egy tálka sós víz, csontos sült hús (lábszár vagy csirkenyak) és fõtt tojás. A kárpász a tavaszt, a termékenységet, a reményt jelenti. A keserű fű a rabszolgaságban sínylődő zsidók keserű sorsát jelképezi. A hároszet a habarcsot jelenti, amellyel a zsidók az egyiptomi építkezéseken dolgoztak. A sós víz a zsidók könnyeit idézi. A tojás, amely a gyász hagyományos jelképe, a Templom lerombolására emlékeztet. Végül a hús azt jelképezi, hogy „kinyújtott karral” szabadította meg az Örökkévaló Izraelt. – A szerk.]. A vacsorát követően már nem folytatódott a felolvasás, de a négy pohár bort azért elfogyasztottuk [Széderkor kötelező négy pohár bort elfogyasztani. Azért ennyit, mert a Tóra négy különböző kifejezést használ Izrael kiszabadítására: „megszabadítalak benneteket”, „megmentelek benneteket”, „megváltalak benneteket” és „népemmé fogadlak titeket”. – A szerk.]. Az ennivaló hagyományos volt: maceszgombócos húsleves, utána csirkesült, marhahús, tarhonya, savanyúság, kompót, macesztorta. És a nyolc nap alatt nem ettünk más, mint amit lehet ilyenkor [lásd: Pészah]. 

A szüleim „kicselezték”, nehogy antiszemita benyomások érhessenek, mert elemibe még nem, de később zsidó iskolába járattak. Elemibe 1932-től az Aréna útra írattak be – ahová zömmel zsidó gyerekek jártak –, ez volt az az iskola, ahova még anyám is járt néhány évig. „Kert-iskola” vagy „Park Iskola” volt a neve. Köhögős, gyakran megbetegedő gyerekek jártak oda. Télen-nyáron oldalt nyitott pavilonokban tanultak a gyerekek a hátsó kertrészben. Ez már beépült azóta. Négy évig jártam oda: volt ott elemi, polgári és ingyenkonyha a szegényeknek. (A gyerekek nem kaptak enni sehol, csak később, a Zsidó Gimnáziumban volt étkezés.) Klári néninek hívták a tanárnőt. Néhány osztálytársamra emlékszem, például Neumann Györgyire ¬– vele a Zsidó Gimnáziumban is együtt jártam – és Goldberger Mártára, Halász Katira. Érdekes volt felnőtt emberként, megváltozott külsővel viszontlátni őket. Én csak zsidó gyerekekkel barátkoztam, anélkül, hogy bárhol, bármi atrocitás ért volna, talán ösztönösen. Iskolai rendezvények alkalmával néha szavalókórus jött előadást tartani, de állami ünnepekre és az ezekkel kapcsolatos programokra ebből az időből nem emlékszem. Talán az volt furcsa, hogy pár gyerek március tizenötödikén úgynevezett magyaros ruhában, a lányok pártában jöttek. A zsidó ünnepekkor nem mentem iskolába, de otthon sem egészen „szabályosan” tartottuk meg az ünnepeket, hiszen utaztunk járművön Sábátkor [lásd: szombati munkavégzés tilalma], otthon nem imádkoztunk ünnepeken sem. Viszont keresztény ünnepekkel soha nem foglalkoztunk, nem volt karácsonyfám sem. Olyan volt például, hogy Mikuláskor kitettem a cipőimet, de anyám szenet meg krumplit tett bele. Ezen nagyot nevettünk, ezt ő viccnek szánta. Húsvétkor meg hozzánk is locsolók jöttek, mert pénzt vártak tőlünk. Adtunk is.

Szabadidőm nem nagyon volt, a szüleim mindent belém akartak nyomni. Némettanárnő járt hozzám, aki mozgásművész is volt, úgyhogy egyúttal tornára is tanított. Egy óra német, egy óra torna hatéves koromtól, ehhez kilenc évesen még hozzájött az angol nyelv is. Később egy igazi, komoly mozgásművész iskolába is jártam, a Szabó József utcába. Ékes Klárának hívták a tanárnőt, és a saját lakásában tanított. Ott volt egy öltözőszoba a tanulóknak. Klára néni előtornázott, mi pedig utánoztuk. Volt évzáró ünnepély, betanított koreográfia, amikor a szülők megnézhették a gyerekeket. Magas volt a tandíj, a szüleim fizették. Később ez a tanárnő építtetett egy saját házat a Stefánia úton – a Thököly úttól a második ház –, ahol már zuhanyozó volt, nagyobb tornaterem, nagyobb öltöző.

Nyaranta az egész család, az egész háztartás lovas stráfkocsival leköltözött nyaralni, házakat béreltünk ki. Olyanokkal mentünk, akikkel Pesten is összejöttünk. Barátokkal, például Altmannékkal, ahol egy fiúgyerek volt. Meg rokonokkal is – például apám húga, Bruckerék a gyerekekkel, az unokabátyámmal, Pistával és az unokanővéremmel, Verával. Vele szinte együtt nőttünk fel, hiszen sréhen szemben laktak, ő is oda járt iskolába, ahová én, és csak kilenc hónap volt kettőnk között. Már Pesten készültek a szülők ezekre a közös nyarakra. Volt egy óriási utazóládánk, akkora, amibe öt ember is belefért volna, és abban vittük az egész háztartást, fazekakat, lábasokat, mindent. Vittük természetesen a háztartási alkalmazottat is. Nagyon szép helyeken jártunk, és nagyon szívesen mentem mindenhová. Családonként, közel egymáshoz béreltek a szülők házakat. Voltunk Mátyásföldön, Gödöllőn, Visegrádon is. Apám például Gödöllőre minden nap lejött, de Visegrádra csak hétvégén, péntek este vagy szombaton. Őt pihentette már maga az utazás is, és ha hajóval érkezett, azt nagyon élvezte. Ha apám lejött, akkor nagyon sokat foglalkozott velünk, gyerekekkel. Erdőbe vitt bennünket kirándulni. Mivel Gödöllőn egy vacak kis strand volt, átvitt minket Öreghegyre, aminek gyönyörű nagy strandja volt. Mentünk a Szent Jakab-tóhoz is. Különböző társasjátékokat játszottunk együtt, barkochbáztunk is. A szülőknek színházasdit adtunk elő az Altmannék kertjében, az unokatestvérem, Brucker Vera volt a kötéltáncos, de a kötél le volt fektetve a földön, és úgy „egyensúlyozott”.

Anyámmal tökéletesen harmonikus volt a kapcsolatom. Olyan volt, hogy azt hittem, nélküle létezni sem tudok majd. A szemünk villanásából értettük a másikat. Teljesen egymásnak éltünk, minden este hozzám bújt az ágyba, és megbeszéltük, ami aznap történt. Állandóan hülyéskedtünk. Anyámnak fergeteges humora volt, rengeteg viccet csináltunk. Amikor skarlátos voltam, és nagyon súlyos betegen feküdtem, hogy felvidítson, felöltözött férfiruhába, zsirárdi kalapba [Vízszintes karimájú, lapos szalmakalap, amely 1900 körül kezdett elterjedni, először férfi-, majd női viseletként. – A szerk.], bottal, férfiingben elkezdett táncolni. Külön gyermekorvosom volt, a mindenkori nyaralóhelyeken is. Nagyon féltettek engem, miután születésem előtt egy testvérem, Péterke mellhártyagyulladásban meghalt. Két és fél évesen úgy halt meg, hogy egy trombitát fogott a kis kezében. És az ő fényképe volt a szüleim ágya fölött, ami engem nagyon nyomasztott.

Amikor az elemi iskolát befejeztem, a Zsidó Gimnáziumba jártam az Abonyi utcába, ami nagyon közel volt, és nagyon nívós iskola volt. Nagyon szigorú és puritán iskola volt, senki nem tudta a másikról, szegény-e vagy gazdag. Ez nem volt téma. Rendkívüli, szinte válogatott jó tanárokkal. Olyan tanáraink voltak, akiknek nem kellett minket pedagógiailag fegyelmezni. Lenyűgözően érdekesen tanítottak. A tantárgyismereten kívül is szuggesztív egyéniségűek voltak. A tanítást csak élvezni lehetett. Az osztályfőnököm doktor Tímár Magda volt, nagyon művelt teremtés, ő a latint tanította nekem. Anyaként vigyázott az osztályra, nem hagyta volna, hogy igazságtalanság érjen bennünket, mindig kiállt értünk.

Volt egy matematikatanár – mellesleg utáltam a tantárgyat –, Péter Rózsának hívták, aki több tanárral együtt a felszabadulás után egyetemi katedrát kapott, és könyvei jelentek meg a matematikaoktatásról. Az ő óráin némán ültünk, nem kellett fegyelmezni bennünket, annyira magával ragadott a lelkesedése. Glaserné Neumann Vilma az irodalmat tanította, ő amolyan széplélek volt, ha valami szomorú dologról magyarázott, el-elsírta magát. Adorjánné Betz Klára [Becz Lászlóné Adorján Klára] angolt tanított, és nagyon jól. Volt egy énektanárunk, a Sziráki Márton, ő közvetlen modorú ember volt, sokat foglalkozott velünk. A rabbinkat, doktor Kandel Sámuelt – őt a gettóban ölték meg – nagyon szerettük, rendkívül sokoldalúan művelt ember volt. Olyan rabbijaink voltak, akik nem gépiesen tanították a hittant, hanem megmagyarázták a Tóra összefüggéseit és a Tóra előírásának a hatását a társadalomra, hogy a tórai törvények hogyan tették jobbá az egészségügyet, az oktatást. Az igazgatótól, doktor Zsoldostól viszont féltünk. Nem bántott senkit, de volt olyan gyerek, akire rákiabált, és az bepisilt [Zsoldos Jenő (1896–1972) – irodalomtörténész, nyelvész, 1920-tól a Pesti Izraelita Hitközség leánygimnáziumának (később Anna Frank Gimnázium) tanára, 1939–1965 között igazgatója. 30 éven át állandó munkatársa volt a „Magyar Nyelvőr”-nek, főleg szótártörténeti dolgozatokat publikált, a reformkor nyelvével és a munkásmozgalom szókincsének kutatásával foglalkozott. – A szerk.].

Háromszor egy héten délután hat óráig voltunk iskolában. Rettenetesen nehéz volt, mert felvettek egy csomó olyan tárgyat, amiről azt hitték, hogy ha például zsidó lányok gyakorlati dolgokat – neveléstan, háztartástan, varrás – tanulnak, akkor majd megállják a helyüket az életben. Sport alig volt, és hétvégeken is jártunk iskolába. Pénteken előbb mehettünk haza, szombaton istentisztelet volt ott, az iskolában, amin kötelező volt a megjelenés – természetesen én is mindig ott voltam –, és vasárnap is volt tanítás. Én ipari tagozaton jártam négy osztályt [lásd: Zsidó Gimnázium], ami azt jelentette, hogy a gimnáziumi anyagokon túl még varrni és főzni is tanultunk. Késő estig voltunk az iskolában. A megterhelés annyira igénybe vett fizikailag, hogy egy alkalommal a dobogón álltam, és összecsuklottam.

Volt háztartástan–neveléstan óra is. Hamvas Anna tanította a háztartástant. Az iskola alagsorában egy gyönyörű, tíz tűzhelyes konyha volt, a fél osztály főzött, a másik fele ezalatt másik tantárgyat tanult, és a végén együtt fogyasztottuk el, ami elkészült. Ugyanis a főztünket meg kellett enni. Volt egy alkalom, olyan tortát csináltunk, aminek a receptúrájában nem volt liszt, csak tojás, cukor és őrölt mandula. És a tanárnő mondta: „És most a masszát tepsibe tesszük.” Néma csönd lett, senkinek nem volt mit tepsibe tenni, megettük menetközben. Kóser sütést-főzést, sőt még diétásat is tanultunk. Frau Kohn, egy német menekült zsidó nő volt a vallási felügyelőnk.

Egyik tantárgyat sem szerettem túlságosan, de kötelességből igyekeztem mindent jól csinálni, a szüleim elvárásának megfelelni. Nem mondták, hogy tanuljak jól, de ez benne volt a levegőben. Nem direkt módon, de én dicsérettel lettem nevelve. Ezért a legkisebb letolástól már borzasztó jelenetet rendeztem, mert nem voltam hozzászokva, hogy büntessen valaki vagy lehordjon. Nem mindig kaptam apró ajándékot, ha jól sikerült egy dolgozat vagy jól feleltem, de emlékszem, még egy sikeres foghúzás után is kaptam valamit.

A gimnáziumban jól éreztem magam, mint mindig, megtaláltam a baráti körömet. Az osztálytársaimmal minden születésnapot megünnepeltünk, Zsúrokat rendeztek a szülők. Anyám például egyszer kitalálta, hogy egyik születésnapomon dirndlizsúr legyen.

Két évvel az érettségi előtt kitelepítették az iskolát a Wesselényi utca 44-be, ott is érettségiztem 1944-ben, sárga csillaggal a mellemen, miközben az ablakok alatt német katonák meneteltek, énekeltek.

Apám a bőrszakmát Hirsch Jakabtól [apai nagymama testvére] tanulta meg, ő segítette hozzá, hogy üzletet nyisson, először az akkori Landau utcában [ma Vasvári Pál utca]. Aztán egyszer nem tudta a bőrt szállító többi nagykereskedőt kifizetni, még az 1930-as években történt ez. Apámat elhagyta a szerencséje, és több alkalommal is tönkrementünk. Apám lelkileg is összeomlott. Akkor ezt úgy hívták, hogy inszolvens lett, csődöt jelentett. Először még valahogyan magához tudott térni, de már nem ment jól, és nem is szerette az egészet. Betörtek hozzá falbontással, és minden áruját elvitték. Ez az István úton volt, ahol először a 6-os szám alatt, majd a 16. szám alatt működött már kiskereskedőként, a Bethlen téri templommal szemben. Egyetlen alkalmazottja volt, Rosner úr. Őt a zsidótörvényekkor [lásd: zsidótörvények Magyarországon] el kellett bocsátania [A 2. és 3. zsidótörvény és a rendeletek egyedül a nem zsidó háztartási alkalmazottak tartását tiltották, illetve azt szabályozták, hogy mekkora méretű műhelyben/üzemben hány zsidót lehet alkalmazni. – A szerk.].

Aztán illegálisan dolgozott az apám, feketén, tanácsadóként, a Magyar Lajos Gépszíjgyárban, ahol a tulajdonostól, aki zsidó volt, a második zsidótörvény miatt elvették a gyárat, és odaadták Havaldának, aki előmunkás volt ott. Nem ő túrta ki a Magyart, hanem kinevezték oda. Ez lett a Havalda Gépszíjüzem a Hajós utcában, az Operaháznál. Voltunk ott vagy tíz éve, emlékeztek apámra. Havaldáék nagyon rendes emberek voltak, egy év alatt gazdagodtak meg, egy szoba-konyhás lakásuk volt a kezdetben, majd a Sváb-hegyen lett villájuk. Eltették a holmijainkat is, és ami megmaradt, azt tulajdonképpen ők őrizték meg. 

Apám rendkívül öntudatos zsidó volt, és ha valahol, valami rosszízű dolgot érzett, tapasztalt, verekedett. Az én apám összeverte azt, aki antiszemita megjegyzést tett. Azért is vitték el. Végül is, amikor [1944.] október tizenötödikén a Horthy-proklamáció volt, egy napra le lehetett venni a sárga csillagot a házról. Az apám levette, odament hozzá egy férfi, és azt mondta: „Te büdös zsidó! Azt hiszed, ez végleges?” Apám leszállt nyugodt léptekkel a létráról, és összepofozta. Harmadnap elvitte egy tizennégy éves nyilas gyerek, akinek azt mondta – mintegy felmentésként –, „Te biztosan nem magadtól jöttél, téged küldtek…”. Nem jött vissza.

Nekünk, zsidó lányoknak és asszonyoknak negyvenöt éves korig be kellett vonulni a zuglói KISOK-pályára. Ez [1944.] október végén volt, apámat, szegényt, október huszadika körül vitte el a nyilas suhanc. Zuhogó esőben, sártengerben ültünk egész nap, majd a Rákos-rendezőn fölültették vonatra a társaság egyik felét, a másik felének azt mondták a rendőrök, hogy jöjjenek holnap, mert ma létszámfelettiek. Úgyhogy hazamentünk a hátizsákkal a Nefelejcs utca 12-be – itt volt egy lakás, ami az anyám unokatestvéréé volt. A Nefelejcs utcai ház csillagos ház volt, de többet nem mentünk [a KISOK-pályára]. Állandóan úton voltunk, állandóan költöztünk. Azért kellett ennyit költözni, mert egyre összébb költöztették a zsidókat. Egy részüket a Dunába lőtték [lásd: zsidók Dunába lövése], egy részüket deportálták, és kevesebb csillagos házra volt szükség.

Tizenegy hónapig egyik helyről a másikra mentünk, egyre kisebb csomagokkal. Laktunk az Alpár utcában, aztán a Nefelejcs utcában, a Pozsonyi úton, ami védett ház volt, onnan elvittek a Teleki téri nyilas házba, onnan eljutottam a svéd védett házba, a Tátra utcába, aztán onnan megint vissza a Pozsonyi útra. Sokszor voltunk étlen-szomjan. Le voltunk fogyva rettenetesen. Hetek elmúltak, amikor ivóvíz sem volt, nem működött a vécé sem, és negyven ember is volt egy lakásban – ez a Pozsonyi út 40-ben volt. Hoztak sebesülteket is, olyat, akinek egy lövés szilánkja átvágta a veséjét. Ő ott vérzett el. A megalvadt vért léptük át a szoba közepén. Kimenni, élelmet szerezni zsidóknak nem lehetett, kijárási tilalom volt. Le voltak zárva a házak, és fegyveresek őrizték. A csillagos és a védett házakat egyaránt, ez 1944 decemberében volt.

Engem egy alkalommal, december elején lehetett, elvittek a nyilasok a Teleki tér 10. szám alá, ahol még vizet sem adtak inni [A Teleki tér 4–10-ben (az egykori Antiszemita Párt egyik gyülekezőhelyének – Teleki tér 8 – szomszédságában) volt nyilasház – gyűjtőház –, ahova 1944 őszén „utcán elfogott, lakásokból kirángatott zsidókat hoztak be… . Egy csoportjukért, ötven-valahány ember, akiket december első napjaiban elhurcoltak a nemzetközi gettóból (Tátra utca 15), Wallenberg emelt szót. Nap mint nap ki tudott innen menteni néhány embert, mindenkit azonban ő sem” – olvasható a „Zsidó Budapest” c. munka 480. oldalán. – A szerk.]. Feküdtem néhány napig egy lakás egyik szobájában, s kiderült, hogy anyám másod-unokatestvérének, doktor Várkonyinak a lakása. Mindennap sorakozót tartottak a nyilasok, és vitték az embereket a Józsefvárosi pályaudvarra deportálni. Ekkor apámat már elvitték, tán nem is élt (az egyik Holokauszt füzetben egy névsorban olvastam néhány éve a nevét [Az interjúalany az 1992-től publikált Holocaust füzetek sorozatra gondol, amelyet a Magyar Auschwitz Alapítvány ad ki. – A szerk.]).

Tíz nap múlva a svédek visszahoztak a nyilas házból. Azt hazudtam, hogy svéd védlevelem van, mert úgy láttam, csak azokat viszik ki, a többieket deportálják, de elvették a nyilasok. Egy magyar tábori csendőr és a svéd követség tisztviselője jött minden nap, és megkérdezte az adataimat. Egy lista volt nála, belelestem, s onnan olvastam ki valakinek – Friedländer Kittynek – az adatait, akiről tudtam, hogy valóban van védlevele. Megígérték, hogy három napon belül értem jönnek. Így is történt.

A Tátra utcába vittek egy védett házba, ahol egy hatalmas anyakönyvben ellenőrizték az adatokat, és kiderült, hogy nem én vagyok Friedländer Kitty, mert nem tudtam „anyám” leánykori nevét. Nagyon elszégyelltem magam a hazugság miatt, és a kijárási tilalom ellenére visszaszöktem anyámhoz. Anyám már olyan állapotban volt, hogy nem tudott felkelni, nem tudott mozdulni. Egy nyilas volt épp akkor a lakásban, aki anyámat akarta elvinni, de amilyen állapotban volt, helyette engem választott. Szegényke elkezdett zokogni: „Most mit csináljak? A gyerekemet már egyszer elvitték, most jött vissza, és most újra?” Rám nézett a nyilas – lehet, hogy nem is az volt, akinek látszott, hiszen sok cionista öltözött be akkoriban egyenruhába, hogy mentse a zsidókat [lásd: haluc fiatalok]. „Maradjon, feküdjön az ágyba”, mondta nekem a nyilas. Így úsztam meg.

[1945.] január közepe táján már percenként változott a ház meg a Pozsonyi út és környéke „tulajdonosa”. Ejtőernyővel jöttek oroszok, akkor azt hittük, vége, a környék tiszta. Kimentünk, s már ismét német katonákat láttunk. Legalább ötször cserélt gazdát felszabadulás előtt a környék. Én azt gondoltam, hogy a szovjet katonák rögtön szeretni fognak bennünket, meg is szólítottam egy őrt a kapuban, és – nem is tudom, hogy jutott eszembe – kértem, táncoljon. Érdekes volt, mert meg is tette. Anyám, amikor ezt elmeséltem neki, azt mondta: „Te, ez az ember percenként teszi kockára az életét, ne tekintsd olyannak, mint akinél táncot rendelhetsz.” Húsz háznyira tudtunk végre vizet szerezni, egy nagy vejdlingben cipeltük.

Március elején találtam egy kétkerekű kocsit, amilyet a zöldségesek használtak, és azon toltam el a Nefelejcs utcába anyámat is és a nagyapámat is. Ez egy gyönyörű, hatszobás lakás volt, s abban a szobában, ahol haldokoltak, gyönyörű mintájú tapéta volt. Szegény anyám, amikor hallucinált, alakokat vélt felfedezni rajta: „Odanézz, ott jön apád, lehet látni!” Nagyapám március 23-án, anyám március 26-án halt meg. Segítséggel eltemettem őket a Kozma utcai temetőben.

A rokonokról szinte semmit nem tudtam, pedig az apai nagymamám három háznyira lakott tőlünk, a Szent István park 24-ben [máshol: 25.], én a Pozsonyi út 40-ben [1944-ben]. Ez egy gyönyörű ház most is, a halljában egy fehérmárvány aktszobor van medencével, melyben békeidőben aranyhalak úsztak. Ott több mint negyven halott volt felslichtolva. A nagynénik, apám testvérei, Jolán és Ilonka a védett házban élték túl a soát. Ők kerestek és találtak meg engem. Hónapokig jártam hozzájuk ebédelni gyalog, mert nem volt még villamos. Ők az Újlipótvárosban laktak, én a hetedik kerületben, a Nefelejcs utcában, és mindennap mentem hozzájuk ebédelni, s az volt a kötelességem, hogy utána hálából ki kellett takarítani a lakást. És ez már automatikusan, magától értetődően ment.

Ebben az időben, úgy 1945 áprilisától volt, hogy minden szerdán egy orosz katona vitt engem másokkal együtt a Gorkij fasor 8-ba, az úgynevezett Wodianer villába közmunkára [A könyvkiadó és könyvkereskedő Wodianer család egyik villája a Liget fasor – ma Városligeti fasor – 45. szám alatt volt. A ház 1907-ben épült. – A szerk.]. Egy összeköpködött lépcsőházat kellett felmosnom. És ahogyan dolgoztam, Mozart zenét hallottam. Abbahagytam, amit épp csináltam, és megkerestem a zene forrását. Egy gyönyörű oszlopcsarnokban ült egy kopasz, szemüveges orosz tiszt, és zongorázott. Odasúgtam neki németül: „Chopint nem tud játszani?” Fel sem nézett, meg sem nézte, ki szól hozzá, és már váltott is. Negyedóra múlva megjelent, és megkérdezte: „Ki volt, aki tőlem Chopint kért?” „Én”, feleltem. „És ki vagy te?” „Egy zsidó lány vagyok, aki teljesen egyedül maradt, de nagyon szereti a zenét.” Odaszólt a legénynek, aki ránk vigyázott: „Ez a lány többet nem takaríthat, nem moshat követ!” Ezután becsomagolt nekem ennivalót, és rendszeresen gondoskodott rólam a későbbiek során is. A tisztiszolgája hozott kenyeret, vajat nekem, s ez tartott nagyjából három hétig.

A nagybátyám, anyám öccse fél év múlva jött haza tetvesen, teljesen lerongyolódva, három év ukrajnai munkaszolgálat után. Mezítláb jött, a cipőjét a partizánok rabolták el. Egy klottnadrágja maradt, abban volt télen a havasokban. Később is, minden reggel, mivel megszokta, az ablakhoz állt, és a tetveket kereste a ruhájában. Vele együtt költöztem később a régi otthonunkba. Visszaigényeltem a régi, Alpár utcai [ma: Ida utca] lakásunkat, amiből egy szobát, a régi ebédlőt használhattam, a nyilas, aki 1944 tavaszán elfoglalta, ott maradt, a holmijaink eltűntek. Szörnyű volt. Például kimostam az ágyneműmet, lelopta a szárítókötélről, ha felkapcsoltam a lámpát, leoltotta. Hemzsegtek a lakásban a poloskák, borzalmas állapotok voltak.

Hogyan kezdtem újra? A semmiből. Semmink nem maradt. Talán csak a bútor. Eszembe sem jutott, hogy kivándoroljak, az volt a természetes, hogy itt éljek. A családból egyetlen unokatestvérem ment ki, még 1938-ban. Voltak persze barátaim, akik ezt az utat választották, különböző helyekre mentek el. Egyedül maradtam. Senkim nem maradt. Se nagyanyám, se nagyapám, se anyám, se apám. És akkor a rokonság elhatározta, hogy valamit kell még tanulnom, hogy el tudjak helyezkedni, hogy ne nekik kelljen eltartani engem. Tizennyolc-tizenkilenc éves koromban gyors- és gépírást tanultam, 1945 márciusában elhelyeztek a Jointnál, a Sas utca 14-ben. Az egy óriási apparátus volt, ahol akkor ötezer ember dolgozott. A Jointnál először kifutó voltam pár hónapig, aztán gyors- és gépíró lettem a jogi osztályon. Az egyik legkitűnőbb ember mellé, dr. Friedmann Endre, a jogi osztály vezetője mellé kerültem, akitől rengeteget tanultam. Ő később kiment Amerikába, és a Nemzetközi Jogászszövetségnek lett az elnöke. Olyan fantasztikus és nagy tudású ember volt. Egészen addig voltam ott, amíg meg nem szűnt a Joint 1949 novemberében. A Joint magyar neve Országos Zsidó Segítő Bizottság volt [Az OZSSB nem a Joint magyar neve volt, hanem a Jointtól és máshonnan érkező segélyek elosztását lebonyolító szervezet. Lásd ott. A Jointot pedig 1953 folyamán utasították ki az országból. – A szerk.]. Minden önéletrajzomba ezt írtam, amikor el akartam helyezkedni, és soha senki nem kérdezte, minek a rövidítése ez.

Az első férjem kollégám volt, Arányi István, a szomszéd szobában dolgozott. A jogi osztályon volt egy iratszekrény, és ahogy magasra akartam feltenni egy aktát, a szobában éppen bent lévő pénzügyi vezető gúnyosan megjegyzést tett arra, hogy milyen szép kombiném van. Ott állt egy kolléga, akit addig nem ismertem, és odaszólt: „Engedje meg, hogy bemutatkozzam! Arányi István vagyok, és most jöttem Sopronbánfalváról (ott vezetett egy otthont, ahol a volt deportáltakat egészségileg és fizikailag följavították, mielőtt Pestre jöttek volna), és legközelebb, ha magasra kell föltenni aktát, ne hagyja, hogy ilyennek ki legyen téve, majd én segítek.” Hívott, menjek vele az operába. Így kerültünk össze.

A férjem Budapesten született 1912-ben. Érettségi után a textilszakmában helyezkedett el, egy nagykereskedőnél, a Radványnál a Wesselényi utcában. Három évig volt Ukrajnában. Szörnyű körülmények között volt munkaszolgálatos. Borzasztó dolgokon ment keresztül, tele volt a feje sebhellyel, olyan helyen volt, ahol a legnagyobb hidegben, mínusz harminc fokban, hajnalban kivezényelték őket. Ott az udvarban és a saját vizeletükben kellett feküdniük addig, amíg bele nem fagynak. Sikerült megszöknie onnan, és aznap érkezett haza, amikor a feleségét Mauthausenbe deportálták. A kétéves gyereke egy vöröskeresztes otthonba került a Rózsadombra, amit a nyilasok kifosztottak. Az anyja mondta, hová vitték a kicsit. A gyereket teljesen felfújódva, apátiában találta az édesapja. Elvitte magával Sopronbánfalvára abba az otthonba, amit vezetett, feljavították. Együtt neveltük a kisfiút, Gábort tizennégy éves koráig. A Joint után az első férjem a Hungarotexnél volt állásban, és a haláláig ott dolgozott. Gábort az apja halála után egy ideig én neveltem. A kinevezett gyám, Radvány Károly, aki a férjem gyermekkori jó barátja volt, ragaszkodott ehhez. De aztán úgy látta, hogy Gábor egy férfit jobban respektálna, és 1956-ban Brazíliába vitte, ahol a nagynénje és anyai nagyanyja élt. Most hatvanhárom éves, könyvkiadással foglalkozik változatlanul Brazíliában, elvált, két felnőtt lánya van, ritkán ír nekem.

Én 1950-ben elhelyezkedtem a Szabványügyi Hivatalban először adminisztrátorként, aztán üzemmérnökként dolgoztam ott. A Könnyűipari Műszaki Főiskolán tettem különbözetit, amihez a ruhaipari végzettségem adott alapot. Műszaki főelőadó voltam, és a konfekciószabványokat csináltam: munkaruhákat például, hogy milyen méretű legyen. Bizottságokban voltam benne, nemzetközi tárgyalásokra jártam, ahol az egységes méretezést tárgyaltuk, ami azóta már régen megoldódott. Felelős beosztásom volt. Harminchárom évet töltöttem ott. Szinte valamennyi vezető zsidó származású volt, kiváló értelmiségi társaság gyűlt össze, és nem volt szakmai féltékenység, mert mindenkinek önálló munkaköre volt.

Többször jelentkeztem a pártba, apámra való tekintettel és saját felfogásomra való tekintettel. Legszívesebben szociáldemokrata lettem volna, de arra akkor nem volt lehetőség. Mindig közölték, hogy polgári származásom miatt nem vettek fel, hiába mondtam, hogy azon én nem tudok változtatni. Volt valami statisztika, aminek meg kellett felelniük, ha munkásszármazású lettem volna, felvettek volna. 1952-ben jelentkeztem először, majd 1955-ben feladtam. Semmilyen ünnepségen való részvételt nem erőltettek ránk, nem volt kötelező kivonulás, az állami ünnepekből annyi volt csak, hogy munkaszüneti nap volt. Ennek ellenére mentünk önként, szívesen, nagyon kollegiális, jó légkörű kollektíva volt. Az 1950-es években egy rövid ideig még DISZ-titkár is voltam. Emlékszem, egy március tizenötödikei ünnepségen kellett beszédet mondanom, s annyira izgultam, hogy előtte való este azt álmodtam, hogy a beszéd minden második oldala elveszett, és én összevissza beszélek.

Olyan remek volt a társaság, hogy a munkaidő után is összejöttünk, uszodába, kirándulni jártunk együtt. A közvetlen felettesem, akivel gyakran voltam külföldön együtt kiküldetésben, egy nagyon kellemes ember volt, és Erika ma is a barátnőm. Vele már öt éve egy szobában dolgoztam, amikor kiderült, hogy ő is a Zsidó Gimnáziumba járt. Szóval baráti társaság alakult ki, a férjek-feleségek is összebarátkoztak. A legjobb barátom, akinek a férje nehézipari államtitkár volt, ő sincsen már, meghalt. Az 1950-es évek első felében igazán lehetett társasági életet élni. Nem volt még televízió, az ember minden estére csinált programot: vagy egy nagy séta, vagy beülés vacsorázni, ami fillérekbe került – olcsóbb volt a vendéglő, mintha otthon ettünk volna. Szívesen jártunk a Moszkva étterembe a Gorkij fasorban [ma Városligeti fasor], ahol zene volt, és táncolni lehetett. Aztán volt a Rózsa utcában egy hely – mi zarándokhelynek hívtuk, mert tele volt előtte az utca magánautókkal –, ahol olyan tartalmas leveseket adtak, hogy azt sem tudtuk, milyen leves, mivel mindenféle zöldség volt benne. 1956-ban ez a társasági élet lanyhult, a televízió hatására majdnem teljesen megszűnt [Magyarországon a rendszeres műsorszolgáltatás 1958-ban indult meg, heti négy nap adásidővel (összesen nem egészen 20 óra). – A szerk.], és sokan elhagyták az országot a barátaim közül.

Egy alkalommal találkoztam antiszemita megnyilvánulással a munkahelyemen, de azt magam megoldottam. A párttitkár azt mondta, hogy „egy társaságban voltam, ahol egy orvos, egy ügyvéd és egy zsidó volt”. Azt feleltem, hogy „miért nem előbb mondtad, akkor abból megéltem volna, nem tudtam, hogy egzisztencia zsidónak lenni”.

Sokat utaztam az 1950–60-as években már, többször voltam a Szovjetunióban, az NDK-ban, de Nyugaton is gyakran, Franciaországban, Angliában. Nyugatra 1964-ben mentem először [lásd: utazás külföldre 1945 után; kék útlevél]. Évente három-négy alkalommal voltam külföldön. Ezek szakmai utak voltak, a szocialista országokat szinte csak én képviseltem abban az időben. Úgy néztek rám, mint egy unikumra. Nagy sikerem volt mint egy szocialista országot képviselő szakembernek. Külföldön csak angolul folyt a tárgyalás, társalgás. Ezek az utazások általában egyhetesek voltak. A Hivatalban külön „útleveles” volt, majdnem mindent ő intézett. Könnyedén kaptam útlevelet, vízumot, bár kikérdeztek, ki marad itthon a családból. De soha semmilyen kéréssel nem fordultak hozzám, vagy ellenszolgáltatást kértek volna. Dehogy! A [Szabványügyi]  Hivatal nevében utaztam, a nevükben szóltam, ha kellett.

1956-ban [lásd: 1956-os forradalom] minden nap bejártunk dolgozni, gyalog, a Lövölde térről az Üllői útra, hiszen közlekedés nem volt, a legnagyobb lövöldözés közepette is. Ennivalót, hideg élelmiszert ott kaptunk. Rengeteg romot meg halottat láttam, borzasztó volt. A Szabványügyi Hivatal előtt feküdt egy szovjet katona, több napig, klórmésszel beszórva. Az oroszok sok halottat szállítottak a tankokon is, rá voltak a holttestek kötözve a tankra. Nem félelem volt bennem, hanem irtózat. És én ezt akkor ellenforradalomnak tekintettem, a megítélése később más lett. Romos lett a város, és nagyon sokan haltak meg. Akkor voltak antiszemita hangok. Fiatal egyetemisták a házban lévő kollégiumból elfoglalták az irodákat azzal a címmel, hogy arra már nem lesz szükség, hiszen ez egy baloldali szervezet, nem tudom, mire érthették ezt a megjegyzést.

A férjem 1956 januárjában halt meg, gyomorfekélyben. Özvegyen maradtam, és mivel nagyon rosszul bírtam az egyedüllétet, elkezdtem válaszolni házassági hirdetésekre. Borzasztó furcsa figurák jelentkeztek, végül találkoztam egy nagyon értelmes, nem zsidó emberrel, akiről attól függetlenül is, hogy állandóan azzal traktált, hány nővel volt dolga, éreztem, hogy nem hozzám való.  Nagy zavarban volt, és azt mondta nekem, ne haragudjak, ő is érzi, hogy mi nem vagyunk összeillők, de van egy barátja, egyetemi évfolyamtársa, akit szívesen bemutat nekem. Ettől féltem kicsit, hátha ő sem lesz zsidó, mert rossz emlékeim voltak már nem zsidókkal kapcsolatosan – a sok megaláztatás, a fasizmus. De miután elmondta, hogy a barátja önkéntes volt az angol hadseregben, Palesztinában, megnyugodtam. Úgyhogy összehozott bennünket. Budán, a Krisztina presszóban találkoztunk először 1958. március tizenötödikén. Kettesben maradva, csak annyit mondott a későbbi férjem, Vince János: „Itt ül az utolsó nő az életemben.” És április negyedikén, kétheti ismeretség után már bejelentkeztünk a házasságkötő terembe.

A második férjem székesfehérvári, 1916-ban született. A Jókai utca 6. szám alatt éltek. Az édesapja alkoholista volt és láncdohányos, a gyerekek dolga volt a cigarettatöltés. Édesanyja paplankészítő volt, ő tartotta el a családot, mert a férjének nem volt munkavállalási engedélye. Ugyanis mivel 1919-ben a székesfehérvári direktórium tagja volt [lásd: Tanácsköztársaság], rendőri felügyelet alatt állt. Rendszeresen kellett jelentkeznie a rendőrségen, és csak feketén dolgozott, besegített egy ottani szabónak. Az egyik szobájukban nem is volt bútor, csak javításra hozott paplan, azon nőttek fel a gyerekek, mert ágyuk sem volt. A férjemnek volt egy testvére, Weinberger György, akit Mauthausenben egy meszesgödörből húztak ki a halottak közül, később Olaszországban élt egy ideig, majd Amerikában telepedett le, ott is halt meg.

A férjem Székesfehérváron érettségizett – ahol csak az elemi volt zsidó, a középiskola már nem –, nagyon szorgalmas és sikeres gyerek volt, országos tanulmányi versenyeket is nyert [1842-ben alakult a zsidó elemi iskola, amely később az innen elszármazó híres orientalistának, Goldziher Ignácnak a nevét vette fel. – A szerk.]. Úgy tartotta fenn magát, mivel a szülei nem vállalták a taníttatását a középiskolában, hogy két-három tanítványt szerzett magának, velük tanult, így nem került a szüleinek pénzbe. A tanításért pénzt kapott, s az is jó volt, hogy külön nem kellett készülnie a tanításra, mert nála gyengébbeket oktatott, és ezekkel a gyerekekkel együtt járt iskolába. Akkoriban négyezer zsidó élt a városban [Ez a szám minden bizonnyal erős felülbecslés, Lásd: Székesfehérvár. – A szerk.], és rendkívül erős kasztrendszer volt. Voltak szegény zsidók, zsidó polgárok és dúsgazdag zsidók is, kevesen, de nem vegyültek egymással. Még a gyerekek sem jöttek össze. Jánost néha meghívták gazdag családok is, mert okos és kedves fiú volt, táncosnak jó volt a zsúrokon. Élt ott egy csodálatos, művelt fiatal rabbi [Feltehetően dr. Hirschler Pálról (1907–1944), a neológ hitközség rabbijáról van szó, aki elpusztult a holokausztban. – A szerk.], egy idősebb is, a nevekre nem emlékszem, és két zsinagóga is működött: egy neológ és egy ortodox. Mindkettőt lebombázták. A férjem a neológ zsinagógába járt imádkozni.

János két évig egy francia biztosítótársaságnál dolgozott, a Foncière-nél [A Foncière Általános Biztosító Intézet 1904-ben alakult Budapesten, első vezérigazgatója Schön Vilmos volt. – A szerk.]. 1938-ban vagy 1939-ben az egyik rabbi azt mondta neki: „Fiam, itt borzasztó dolgok következnek, ha mozogni tudsz, ha teheted, menekülj Magyarországról.” Ekkor ő felutazott Pestre, hogy elintézze a vízumot. Nem emlékszem, milyen követség vagy külképviselet intézte, de nem a cionisták voltak, arra emlékszem. Az épület előtt megszólította egy férfi, és kérdezte tőle, hová akar utazni, majd ingyen a kezébe nyomott egy vízumot, amivel el tudott utazni [Palesztinába] egy olyan hajón, amin ötször annyian voltak, mint ahánynak szabad lett volna. Bulgáriából indultak, de előzőleg pár napot ott töltöttek. Amikor megérkeztek, az angolok hetekre internálták őket [Palesztina ugyanis brit mandátum volt, és az angolok éves bevándorlási kvótát állapítottak meg, amitől még a háború alatt sem voltak hajlandók eltérni. Ezért megpróbáltak minden bevándorlókat szállító hajót elfogni, és az utasokat Ciprusra internálták, ahonnan minden évben csak bizonyos számú embert engedtek legálisan bevándorolni Palesztinába. – A szerk.]. Majd egy közösségbe került, és egy falut, mosávot alapítottak a mostani Rehovot helyén. Mindenkit valamiféle szakmunkára jelöltek ki, Jánost egy jemeni cipészmester mellé tették. Gyakorlott szakember volt, gyönyörűen beszélt ivritül, de semmilyen más nyelvet nem tudott, úgyhogy a férjem kénytelen volt megtanulni. A szakmát nem tanulta meg, de a nyelvet igen, és később akcentus nélkül beszélt.

1940-ben aztán önként jelentkezett az angol hadseregbe, egészen 1946-ig angol katonaként a Zsidó Brigádban harcolt. A zsidó katonáknak nem volt becsületük az angolok előtt, mert nem ittak. Az angol kiképzőtisztek viszont folyamatosan. Egyszer a férjem a szabadnapján Tel-Avivban berúgott, és attól kezdve már tudta a nevét a felettese. 1946-ban a legjobb minősítéssel szerelt le. Akkoriban az volt a szokás, hogy a katonai feljebbvaló írásos véleményt adott. Ő a legjobb referenciát kapta, úgyhogy ezzel angol területen boldogulhatott volna.

Neki honvágya volt, és elhatározta, hogy hazajön. Először Olaszországba ment, ott találkozott az öccsével, akit halottnak hitt, és együtt voltak pár hónapig. Az öccse nem akart Magyarországra jönni, elutazott Amerikába. A férjem abban a reményben, hogy a menyasszonya várja őt, hazajött. A volt menyasszonya nem jött haza a deportálásból, de táviratozott neki Palesztinába: „Gyere haza, mert az első adandó alkalommal jövök én is.” Nem jött. A húga is, János is várta, de nem jött. Aztán ők összemelegedtek, és összeházasodtak. Az első felesége is székesfehérvári volt, akárcsak a férjem. Kilenc évig éltek együtt. Egy fiúgyerek származott abból a házasságból. A házasság megromlott, elváltak.

Három hétig voltunk egy alkalommal Izraelben, látogatóban, nekem nagyon tetszett, csak úgy érzem, nekünk a férjemmel előbb kellett volna találkoznunk, akkor kimentünk volna. Negyven év körül már nem lehet új életet kezdeni olyannak, akinek nem olyan a szakmája, amivel rögtön el tud helyezkedni. A férjem állandóan bánta, hogy hazajött. Imádta Izraelt, minden érdekelte az országgal kapcsolatosan, gyönyörűen beszélt ivritül. Izraelben rengeteg barátunk volt, amikor ott voltunk, mindig máshol laktunk. Például Ramat-Ganban, Jeruzsálemben, Beer Seván – ott egy kerámiaművésznél, Májer Juditnál, ő van egyedül már csak a barátok közül, a többiek mind meghaltak…

János nem volt vallásos, ő baloldali, a zsidó néphez tartozó, úgynevezett cionista zsidó volt. A zsidó ünnepeket nem templomba járással tartottuk meg, hanem ajándékokat vettünk egymásnak, és olyan ennivalókat főztem, ami akkor a hagyomány szerint szokás volt.

A férjem munka mellett – a Művelődésügyi Minisztériumban dolgozott osztályvezetőként vagy tizennyolc évig – elvégezte a közgazdasági egyetemet. Utána a Báthory utcában lévő Művészeti Alap gazdasági igazgatója lett. János köteles volt hivatalból minden jelentősebb kulturális eseményen ott lenni, minden kiállításra meghívták, volt jó pár olyan, amit ő nyitott meg. Ingyenjegyünk volt minden színházba és moziba is. Oda mindig ketten mentünk. Volt baráti társaságunk is, a János volt katonatársa az angol hadseregből, a Laci, szegény, már régen meghalt, és a Radványék, akik hazajöttek Brazíliából, azok nagyon jó barátaink voltak, velük szinte naponta találkoztunk. Ösztönösen, talán nem tudatosan, de kizárólag zsidó emberekkel barátkoztunk. És egymáshoz jártunk látogatóba.

1960-ban megszületett a közös gyermekünk, Judit. Nem volt rendes lakásunk. Az Alpár utcai lakást otthagytam, és még az első férjemmel vettünk egy Király utcai társbérletet, ami akkor nagyon olcsó volt. Közösen laktunk egy lumpenproletár, részeges házaspárral, akiknek a barátai sokszor ott feküdtek részegen az előszobában. Jánossal minden elkövettünk, hogy önálló lakáshoz jussunk. Vele csak két évet laktam a Király utcában, 1960 januárjában hosszú részletre vettünk egy lakást itt, a Csaba utcában, és az inflációval egészen jelentéktelenné vált a fizetnivaló, amiről azt hittük, hogy képtelenek leszünk egy életen át törleszteni.

Judit lányom nem járt zsidó iskolába, abban az időben nem volt sem általános, sem középiskola felekezeti [A Zsidó Gimnázium a felekezeti  iskolák 1948/49-es államosítása után is a Pesti Izraelita Hitközség tulajdonában maradt, és megtartotta felekezeti jellegét. A gimnázium 1952-ben elköltözött az Országos Rabbiképző Intézet épületébe, és 1965-ben felvette az Anna Frank nevet. – A szerk.]. Két házzal feljebb írattuk be általános iskolába és aztán gimnáziumba [Judit egy jó nevű első kerületi gimnáziumban érettségizett. – A szerk.]. Judit már asszonyként, gyerekek mellett végzett egyetemet. Először szociális munkás szakon végzett egy főiskolán, majd szociológiát tanult egyetemen. Ott egyetlen vizsgája volt hátra, amikor meghalt. Sok állása volt, és végül családgondozó lett a nyolcadik kerületben, ahol főleg cigányokkal foglalkozott. Szerette és sajnálta őket, mert utált mindenféle megkülönböztetést. A kliensei nagyon szerették őt, el nem lehet mondani, mennyi apró ajándékkal lepték meg

A zsidóságról, mint mondtam már, pici kora óta rendszeresen hallott, érdekelte is a történelmi, történeti része, és annak ellenére, hogy otthon nem ünnepeltük meg, öntudatos és lelkes zsidó lett, nagylányként péntekenként elment a Rabbiképző zsinagógájába Scheiber professzor [lásd: Scheiber Sándor] istentiszteleteire. Oda gyakran engem is elvitt magával. Ott egy nagyon jó társaság alakult ki, a főrabbi nagyon meghatározó egyéniség volt, a fiatalok imádták, és boldog volt, akinek egy darab szombati kalácsot adott. „Nézd meg a gyönyörű kezét, amivel a kalácsot osztja”, mondta a lányom. Otthon, mint akkor, amikor még csak ketten voltunk Jánossal, nem tartottunk ünnepeket, de sokat meséltünk neki a zsidóságról, a szenvedésekről is. Amikor az apja először ment hivatalosan Nyugatra, 1966 körül Londonba, Judit egy aranymezüzét kért és kapott tőle.

A lányom rendkívül problémás kamasz volt. Többször virrasztottunk ébren vagy mentünk el a rendőrségre, amikor nem jött haza időben. Volt, hogy néhány házzal arrébb volt egy társasággal, de nem jelentkezett. Megkönnyebbültem, amikor elköltözött tőlünk, és örültünk, amikor férjhez ment. A párja nagyon rendes keresztény ember. Szegény férjem nagyon nehezen, csalódásként élte meg azt, hogy nem zsidó emberhez ment feleségül. A vejemnek még az elején mindent elmondunk a zsidóságról, és arról, mit jelentett ez a mi családunkban, hány ember életét jelentette, és milyen megaláztatásokat. Ez nagyon megrázta őt, addig semmit nem tudott erről. A vejem rendkívül ügyes kezű ember, ha faanyag kerül elé, csodákat hoz ki belőle. Ez a szakmája is, asztalosnak tanult érettségi után, de jó pár dologba belefogott ezen kívül is. Volt mentőssegéd és beteghordó is. Két gyermekük született, Marci 1985-ben született, Sára pedig 1992-ben. Nem kaptak különösebben vallásos nevelést otthon, inkább zsidó öntudatra nevelték őket. Nem tartanak semmilyen zsidó ünnepet, de keresztényt sem. Sára rendes állami iskolába jár, Marci végig a Wesselényi utcai Amerikai Alapítványi Iskolába járt, most idén érettségizett.

1983 óta, amióta nyugdíjas vagyok, dolgozom a hitközségnél. Bár nem vagyok templomba járó vagy kóser háztartást vezető ember, de mégis amiatt, hogy dolgoztam a Jointban, gondoltam erre. Nem akartam csak a háztartással foglalkozni, éreztem, még sok energia van bennem, ezért tartottam fontosnak a további munkát. Domán István főrabbit közvetve ismertem, s ő szólt nekem, hogy lenne az újságnál, az „Új Élet”-nél most felvétel, jönnék-e. Nagyon nehezen vettek fel, pedig azt gondoltam, hogy a hitközségnél előny az, ha valaki a Zsidó Gimnáziumban érettségizett. Hetek teltek el, amíg végül felvettek az „Új Élet”-hez. Előfizetéseket, hirdetéseket intéztem, korrektúrát csináltam és imprimatúrát. A lap akkori főszerkesztőjét Kecskemétinek hívták. Nem volt rabbi, újságíró volt. Őt követte Domán István főrabbi, aki rendkívül művelt, tájékozott ember volt. Mivel nem nagyon tudott szervezni, nagyon izgalmas volt, mert sokszor éjfélig ott voltunk a szerkesztőségben. Ugyanaz a munka, ami ma délben befejeződik, akkor éjszakáig tartott. Volt úgy, hogy értem jött a férjem a nyomdába, hogy olyan későn ne járkáljak az utcán. A mostani főszerkesztő szintén rabbi, őt Kardos Péternek hívják. Van érzéke a dolgokhoz, megbízható és szorgalmas. Huszonkét-huszonhárom éve itt dolgozom, a hirdetésekkel, előfizetésekkel foglalkozom.

A rendszerváltás éveiben, de már előzőleg is nekem nagyon furcsa volt a hitközségnél, olyan volt, mintha a háború előtt lennék valahol, olyan kategóriák voltak, amiket én korábban nem is hallottam, hogy „gazdagon ment férjhez”, vagy „nem rendes ember, de gazdag, és ezért szeretni kell”, szóval egy külön világ volt a hitközség. Nekem az volt szokatlan, hogy otthon, nálunk az embereket a tudásuk, a képességük, a produktumuk és nem a bankbetétjük alapján ítélték meg. Maga a rendszerváltás hangulatilag nem volt érezhető. A hitközségnél szerintem kapitalista szemlélet volt korábban is. Azt nézték, kinek van jobb nyugati kocsija, akinek keleti autója volt, azt kinevették. Igaz, élénkebb, pezsgőbb lett az élet, sok irodalmi és zenei rendezvényt tartottak, lehetett válogatni közülük, és ezt az újságon is észre lehetett venni.

A hagyományokhoz, a tradíciókhoz való viszonyom mindig egyforma volt, hiszen zsidó vagyok, annak is vallottam magam mindig, soha nem tagadtam meg a zsidóságomat, büszke is voltam rá, zsidó nevelést kaptam, zsidó iskolába jártam. Bennem semmi nem változott.

Másfél éve veszítettem el az egyetlen lányomat, Juditot – aki látszólag sosem volt beteg, rosszul lett az utcán, kórházba került, és egyetlen hét alatt meghalt, tele volt rákos daganattal – és a férjemet, aki hétévi betegség után ment el. Engem rákos daganattal operáltak, és a műtétem után alig három héttel eltemettem a férjemet is. A nagyobbik unokámmal, Marcival élek [Nem sokkal az után, hogy az interjú készült, Marci kivándorolt Izraelbe a nagyanyja tudta nélkül. – A szerk.]. Sára Gödöllőn él az apjával. Egyikünk sem dolgozta még fel a gyászt. Erőmhöz mérten maximálisan igyekszem ellátni és megadni neki mindazt, ami szükséges. Dolgozom, olyankor elfeledkezem kicsit mindenről, de otthon, a megszokott tárgyak között nagyon nehéz, nagyon fáj. Már nincs türelmem olvasni, de azért a „Népszabadság”-ot naponta átnézem. Néha keresztrejtvényt fejtek, a televízióban a híradókat angolul, németül is megnézem, ezen kívül nem sok műsor köt le.

Angel Mirou-Mairy
Athens
Greece
Interviewer: Nina Hatzi
Date of interview: February 2006

Mairy Angel is a petite woman, 85 years old. In the last decade, due to health problems, she has been living in Athens where her two daughters Lucy and Ellie reside.

Her apartment is full of memories brought from her house in her home town Thessaloniki where she lived all her life.

From the furniture to the serving trays there is a story to be told. Sitting in her armchair, holding the photographs of her family members that perished during the Holocaust, she seemed as if she had been prepared to share her wonderful, as she calls it, prewar life.

On the other hand she was reluctant to share her postwar life but eager to offer her blessings and a warm hug instead.

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

• My family background

My maiden name was Mirou-Mairy Samuel Karasso. I was born in 1921. I was born prematurely. My mother had typhus. The doctor said he could save either the mother or the child. My father chose the mother. My grandmother Mirou [Karasso, nee Bernadout] took care of me for three months. She placed me in a small doll’s box.

She called the best doctor in town. The doctor said to boil milk and water every day, mix it with sugar and open my mouth and feed me. He also said to wrap my fingers with cotton so they wouldn’t stick to one another. That’s why they called me: ‘Εsta es la de los algodones’ [Judeo-Spanish: She who was born prematurely]. I don’t remember my grandmother Mirou. She died a few years after I was born. My mother told me this story.

Then I was released into life. When they took me out of the doll’s box something even worse happened to me. They dressed me in light clothes. So I got pneumonia. There were no antibiotics back then. And I died. They called my father to come back from Chalkidiki where he was working. [Chalkidiki: one of the prefectures of Greece located in the southeastern portion of Central Macedonia. It consists of a large peninsula in the northwestern Aegean Sea, resembling a hand with three ‘fingers.’]

They wrapped me in linen, as it is customary for Jews to do when somebody dies, and waited for the haham [Judeo-Spanish: rabbi] to come to perform the funeral the next day. When the haham came he saw my knee bended. He called everybody to look at my eyes, to see that I was alive.

And I am still alive! How great is the Almighty! My mother gave birth to six children. I was the oldest. From my family only my brother who lives in Israel now [Alberto Karasso] and I survived. Fifty-five thousand Salonica Jews perished. It was G-d’s will for me to survive and live up to this day.

My father’s father was called Abraham [Alberto Karasso]. He died young leaving his wife and two children, my father [Samuel Abraham Karasso] and his sister [Regina], in great poverty.

My grandmothers, Mirou and Jamila, were sisters. Thus my parents were first cousins. Mirou Karasso was my father’s mother. Her family name was Bernadout. I don’t know when she was born. When she died I was three years old.

She was the one that saved me and that’s why I got her name. She was a widow with two children. So my father from a very young age started working. He didn’t have the chance to get educated. He was selling sugar at Egnatia Street [in the center of Thessaloniki] to provide for his family.

In 1917, after the Fire of Thessaloniki 1, he bought land from a Turk. It was a big piece of land where he built our house, the house I was born in. It was a big house with four bedrooms. My grandmother’s room was the best one. But she didn’t live long enough to enjoy it. My father told me so. And when my brother Alberto was born, he got my grandmother Mirou’s room.

Grandmother Mirou was wearing traditional andari 2 clothes. It was not modern at all. She died wearing this outfit just like the Turkish women did. After the war I found in a box my grandmother’s wedding dress. My mother had prepared this box and sent it to Nikiti [seaside village on Chalkidiki] during the war. Most of the wedding dress was ruined. I kept what was good and put it in frames now hanging on the walls of my living room.

I don’t remember my father’s sister’s name. I think it was Regina. She was a widow. She had two children, but she visited our house alone. She would come once a week in the morning and leave at night to help my mother. We were many children and there were many things to be done. She was mending the socks.

My father’s name was Samuel Abraham Karasso. I cannot tell when exactly he was born. It must have been at the end of the 19th century. My brother should know exactly. He was approximately 60 years old, or a few years older, when he died. He was caught [by the Germans] at the end of 1943.

My father was illiterate. His father died and since he was the only boy in his family he started working from an early age. Thus he didn’t have the chance to be educated. But he was a hard working man and became a very successful and wealthy businessman in later years. He had a very big shop on Egnatia Street. It was a food market store.

After the Fire of Thessaloniki he met someone with whom they became business associates. They had shops also at Nikiti and Ormilia [village on Chalkidiki] and several other places in Chalkidiki region. They traded oil, honey, everything that had to do with food. Twenty years my father was in this business! And when my father left [hiding from the Germans] his associate was the one that betrayed him.

I remember better my mother’s family. My mother’s father was called Simantov Ezrati. He was a jeweler. He made and sold jewelry. He made wedding rings. My granddaughter, too, is making jewelry. But she studied first. Grandfather Simantov had a gambling problem. He was playing cards all day long. I don’t remember when Grandfather Simantov died.

My mother’s mother was called Jamila or Jema Ezrati, nee Bernadout. Grandmother Jamila’s economic status was very good. While her sister Mirou was very poor, she married a wealthy man. This is luck. Her house was near Miaouli Street, in the center of Salonica.
She didn’t speak Greek, only Judeo-Spanish 3. Even my mother didn’t speak Greek. Not a word!

I remember well Grandmother Jamila. It is Grandmother Mirou that I don’t remember at all. Grandmother Jamila was a very beautiful woman. You could see her beauty from her fine skin, her white hair. While Grandmother Mirou was wearing traditional clothes, Grandmother Jamila was always very elegantly dressed.

Grandmother Jamila frequently visited our house. She stayed with us very often. I always wanted her to sleep in my bed with me. I was very selective. I didn’t let anyone else, apart from Grandmother Jamila, even sit on my bed. But my mother didn’t like me sleeping with an elderly woman, although she was her mother.

Grandmother Jamila always said to my brother and me that when she would die she wanted as a last wish for us to kiss her hand. And we always reassured her that we would do so.

Every year my parents would go to Loutraki [small Greek seaside town near Corinth, famous for its hot springs]. Grandmother Jamila would come to stay with us until our parents returned. She was eating, drinking and sleeping with us. But around 1938 she wasn’t able to do so any more. She got sick and didn’t come to stay with us any more. So we went visiting her until she died. Grandmother Jamila died in 1940 when the Germans entered Thessaloniki.

My mother had twelve siblings. My grandmother gave birth to Flor, the oldest one, my mother Rachel, the youngest one, and in between to seven boys, Solomon, Maurice, Azriel… The rest I don’t remember. Others died, others I don’t know anything about.

My mother and grandmother were depressed because of a family problem: Around 1917, my mother’s brother Solomon had an affair with a woman. Back then things were not as they are nowadays. Thessaloniki had many ‘faubourgo’ [Judeo-Spanish: working class areas]. His family didn’t want him to marry this woman because she was not of their status. So he left her for a while. But her brother came with a gun and threatened him. So in the end he married her. Nobody from his family went to the wedding. If my grandfather had still been alive, maybe things would have been different.

I don’t remember Solomon’s wife. I think Anna was her name. They had four children. I didn’t know my cousins either. They were living in an alley in Hirsch 4. I cannot remember very well because whenever I visited them I was unwanted.

Solomon’s wife threatened my grandmother that if she ever stayed with them, she would take her revenge for not being wanted in the family. My grandmother’s answer was that she had so many children that she wasn’t worried where she would go when she would grow older.

However, all of her children except Solomon and my mother went abroad and in the end she had no choice but to go there. Solomon’s wife wouldn’t let my mother visit her mother. Aunt Anna said that it was prohibited for the rich woman, meaning my mother, to visit.

So my mother sent us, the children. But back then we didn’t go out as often as they do nowadays. We stayed at home. I was twenty years old and I was restricted as if I were ten.
I do remember going there. Aunt Anna was sarcastic. She was calling me the rich girl. But during the war food was scarce and Grandmother Jamila needed to be fed. So I went there with food that my mother had prepared for her and I was feeding her.

Grandmother Jamila was worrying because I was so thin. But I was explaining to her that fat women were not in fashion any more. And every time I went there Grandmother Jamila gave me something as a present. Sometimes she gave me her rings. This ring that I am still wearing, my grandmother gave to me.

It used to have a sapphire but I lost it. A few days before Grandmother Jamila died she gave me her diamond ring. I still have the diamond ring, and I will give it to my younger daughter Ellie since my eldest Lucy has her own.

I had an appendicitis operation at the time when Grandmother Jamila died in 1940. I woke up that morning and no one was at home. My father might have gone to work but I found it strange that my mother and brother were not at home. Wondering what was going on, I went out on the balcony.

The Kapon and Levy families were living in our neighborhood and apart from being neighbors we were also friends. Vida Kapon, who survived the Holocaust and whose daughter still lives in Thessaloniki, saw me and asked me why I hadn’t gone to my grandmother’s funeral.

My father, my mother and my brother had secretly gone to the funeral. I went crazy. I had given my word to my grandmother that I would kiss her hand goodbye when she died. I got dressed very quickly, took the tram, and went there. When my father saw me he explained that he was afraid for my health and this was the reason they didn’t tell me about Grandmother’s death.

They had not yet buried her. I grabbed her hand and started kissing her hand. I still can feel her cold body at my lips. I had done my duty as I had promised her and this gave me comfort.

My mother’s name was Rachel Karasso. I named my daughter Ellie after her. [Editor’s note: The name Ellie is derived from the affectionate form of Rachel, Rachellica (little Rachel).] My mother’s family name was Ezrati. She was born in 1900. She was 43 years old when she died.

My mother never described the house she was living in as a child. The only thing I knew was that it was in the Dikitirio area [in the center of Thessaloniki], at Olympou Street. She stayed there until she got married after World War I.

My mother was playing the mandolin. She enjoyed sitting on the balcony, playing the mandolin. But her brothers used to grab her at her hair and take her in the house. It was considered improper for a young woman to sit on the balcony playing the mandolin. She was insubordinate. She wanted to do things in her own way.

She didn’t want to marry my father, not only because he was her cousin but also because he was illiterate. She wanted to marry someone of her choice. But her brothers were planning to leave Thessaloniki and go to live abroad. Before leaving, her brother Azriel obliged her to get married to my father despite her will.

After the marriage her siblings left for France. All of her siblings that went to France perished during the Holocaust. My cousins, the children of Azriel, survived. I have contact with them. They came to visit me in Greece. Also, my eldest daughter Lucy keeps contact with them when she visits France.

My mother was ‘roja’ [Judeo-Spanish: red-haired]. She was a very beautiful redheaded woman. My youngest sister Renica [Rene] looked like my mother. I never saw her with white hair. She didn’t have any white hair, just like I don’t. I have very few white hairs despite my age. She was always dressed elegantly. She had her clothes made at Olga Boton, a well-known couturier. I remember her as a well-dressed young woman.

Although my mother was very educated, she didn’t speak Greek. This was the reason why she was betrayed later on.

She was a capable woman. I didn’t know anyone else like her. She managed to take care of six children and the whole house on her own. She was able to have everything prepared by noon. In the afternoon she rested.

My mother was very religious. She kept the Sabbath. She didn’t use fire, cook or do any other housework. We had a non-Jewish girl to take care of things. Every Friday my mother polished her nails and had her hair done. There weren’t hairdressers for women so she went to the barber’s shop on Sygrou Street [in the center of Thessaloniki where Monastirioton Synagogue is located].

My mother always sat in the first women’s row at the synagogue. She sat there wearing her stylish clothes and her gold jewelries. Money was not a matter in our family. My parents were rich.

My daughter Lucy reminds my of my mother’s character. And now that she is growing older she looks like her with the only difference that my daughter is blond.

• Growing up

We were five siblings. I am the oldest. Next is my brother Abraham – Alberto Karasso, born in 1922. He lives in Israel, but his daughter still lives in Thessaloniki. Then came my sister, Jema Samuel Karasso. Jema was 15 years old when she died. She was much taller than me with beautiful legs. She was a lovable young girl.

My father’s friend Franco’s brother was in love with her. When he learned that my sister had perished in the Holocaust, he got married to Polimnia and went to live in the United States. But every time he visited Thessaloniki he came to my house asking to see Jema’s photographs. And each time I showed him the photographs that I had found after the war, the photographs that my mother had hidden along with other family valuables.

In-between Alberto and Jema there was a girl that died in infancy. The woman that was helping my mother with the housework was carrying the infant in her arms and fell down the stairs. Thus the baby died.

After Jema were Isidor and Rene. Isidor was 13 years old when he died. Rene, or Renica as we called her, because she was youngest one, was only nine years old when she died. All of them had blue eyes.

The life I had at my parents’ house was the best part of my whole life. Our residence has a history its own. My father bought a piece of land from a Turk after the Fire of Thessaloniki in 1917, because the Turks were leaving Thessaloniki after 1912 when the Greeks came. Later on, when he got married, he built the house where we lived. After the war my brother found at the Mayor’s Office the paper on which it said that my father Samuel Karasso had bought this piece of land.

Our house was one of the best in Thessaloniki. There were nineteen wooden steps leading to a beautiful entrance. We used to count the stairs as a game when we were children. The stairs led to two entrances. One was the entrance that was leading to the living room. This was the main entrance. The other with the big balcony led to the kitchen. When a ‘chamalis’ [Turkish: hamal; folk expression for delivery service] came to our house bringing things he would enter from this second entrance directly into the kitchen.

Our house had four bedrooms. One room my father built for his mother. My father had been working from a very early age to provide for his family. He saved money and built this house. It had three balconies. One was just in front of the living room. Half of the balcony was covered, so when it rained you could still sit there.

The living room was big. Some of the furniture that I still have today at my home used to be in our living room. These two armchairs that I have in my living room were from my parents’ home and, together with a sofa, were the main furniture of our living room. We also had a dinner table with chairs in our living room. The table was stolen, but I still have the chairs in my own living room.

In the living room we had a ‘salamandre’ [big coal stove] for heating the room. Many Jews had it because it had a cover on the top that opened and they would place the food there to keep it warm during Sabbath. Almost all Jews of Thessaloniki were religious.

Besides the ‘salamandre’ we had a ‘magali’ [metallic container in which coal was placed] for heating the house. ‘Magali’ looked like furniture that opened and you put wood inside. The more wood you put, the more heat it produced. Back then we didn’t have central heating.

Our house had two front and two back bedrooms. My room was at the back and it was cold during winter. So I would give a drachma to my youngest brother to go lie on my bed and warm it. My brother was a very naughty boy and every time he was asking for more money. He was nagging that he was stretching his whole body to warm my bed so I could go to sleep in warmth. He was asking for two drachmas.

Isidor and Jema were sharing the same bed. On of them was urinating during the night but they wouldn’t tell which one was. Later on Jema had her period so our mother separated them and she found out that it was Isidor who was urinating at night.

There was a long corridor in our house where the bathroom was. The bathtub and the water heater with wood were in a separate room from the toilet. Next to the bathroom and the toilet was a small balcony. There we placed the wood we used for heating during the winter. Then there was the kitchen. Our kitchen was very big. It had a table and a stove.

We had electricity in our home. We had chandeliers that provided a lot of light. The chandeliers that I have in my living room and my bedroom now are from our old house.

On the ground floor was another house that my father was renting out. This house had windows. Three mosaic stairs led to the entrance of this house. This house was rented usually to Jews. Later on we rented to non-Jews, too. I remember my father coming on ‘Noches de Shabbat’ [Judeo-Spanish: Eve of Sabbath] and greeting the people that were renting the house by saying ‘Shabbat Shalom’ [Hebrew: Have a good Sabbath; the customary greeting among Jews on Friday and Saturday].

Kaity’s Sason mother, has passed away, Sarika was living in this house for two years. Her husband had a small candy factory on Pavlou Mella Street [in the center of Thessaloniki]. They were very good people.

We also had a storehouse at the ground floor. My mother put a variety of things there. We had an iron door outside with a Magen David. Under the Magen David was written 1923, the date the house was built. We were infants when my father built our beautiful house. This is all I know about it.

My mother insisted on teaching us from a very young age the address of our house, which was 33 Olympou Street, and the address of my father’s shop, which was 90 Egnatia Street. I remember the nice and gracious way she was telling us again and again these two addresses in a way we could not ever forget. I’ve got old and this has stayed with me.

Our relations were very good. We grew up with plenty of love and caring. We were all very close to one another. I never heard my parents quarreling. I never heard shouting in our house. Never!

There was a significant age difference between my parents and also they were first cousins. So my father was always doing what my mother wanted. I remember this very clearly. I also remember that every night when my father came home from work at Modiano Market [built in 1923 by the architect Eli Modiano, son of the biggest banker of Salonica, Saul Modiano], he was telling my mother all the news of the day: who came to the shop, what he bought, where he went, whom he saw, who was sending his greeting to her. He counted very much on her opinion in business matters. I thought that this was the natural thing to do.

We were not snobbish, and that although we had one of the best residences of Thessaloniki, with separate bathroom and toilet, which was rare back then. Eighty-five years ago, we were very timid. As children, and later on as young adults, we were not permitted to go out much. Back then it was not as it is nowadays. Today even adolescents are permitted to hang out a lot.

We were a very connected family with close relationships. I remember my father coming back from work at noon and again in the afternoon. At night he would ask me to sit with him for ‘usicos’ [Judeo-Spanish: rare expression for appetizers combined with ouzo (aperitif like Pernod)].

He would have a bite of food and then he would tell me that I had to eat, too, since I was drinking. This was his way to make me eat. Although I was the eldest, I didn’t have much appetite, while my siblings would consume whatever food was given to them. Sitting every night with my father I learned how to drink ouzo. I never drank anything else but ouzo in my life. And in spite of my age I still like it.

My eldest brother and I were always very obedient. Only my youngest brother, Isidoricos, was disobedient. My mother would show him the heels of her slippers as a threat. She never hit us. She would hit with the heel of her slipper at the window instead, thus breaking it. Then she would go to our neighbor Sofia Govatzidaki, who had a telephone, in order to call our father and tell him to send somebody to repair the broken window.

We spoke a mix of Spanish and French in our house. It was a mixed language. Everybody in Thessaloniki was speaking this language. We were not the only ones. My mother [like many Jews of Thessaloniki] didn’t know Greek at all, not even a word. This was the reason that many were betrayed [during the German Occupation].

In our house lived a girl who was helping my mother with the housework. She was a Greek Christian from Chalkidiki. Her family was very poor and they gave her to my father to feed her. I think her name was Maria. She was the one that learned Spanish to communicate with my mother. She was the one switching on the light on Sabbath.

Every Sunday my mother would take her to Saint Mina’s Church so she could observe her own religious customs. Occasionally I went along with them. I would light a candle in the church. It does not matter to me which religion is yours and which is mine.

Every Monday Mrs. Eleni would come to help with the laundry. My mother had a big pot where they would put ‘alisiva’ [or aleshiva: detergent made with ashes mixed with water] and wash the clothes. We were so many people living in this house: my parents, five siblings and the girl helping with the housework. But my mother was very competent.

On Mondays my father’s sister came, too. She was helping with sewing socks. She would stay with us until late at night. I don’t remember other relatives apart from my father’s sister, Aunt Regina, and my mother’s brother, Uncle Solomon. The rest of my mother’s siblings had gone to France.

We had many good neighbors. First of all was the Kapon family. It was a big family, they all lived in our neighborhood, and I knew them all. Bella Kapon, Lina Kapon and her sister Aliki, who has already died. Also Giannakis, then called Bino Kapon. We called him Benico because he was the youngest. I also knew Veta Kapon, who was married and had a child.

Nearby lived Mimi Rousso, Betty’s Ferera father. He had a house in an alley close to our house. Our house was on the main road because by chance it happened so. I also knew Buena Franco before the war. Her father and my father were close friends from a very young age. Mrs. Rene Frances, nee Saltiel, also lived close by.

We used to play tombola [group card game usually played by children] together. Now her name is Rene Arditi, mother of Sakis and Rita Arditi. She was single then. She had Spanish nationality. During the war she was sent to a forced labor camp.

We had Christian friends, too. They loved us a lot. We had a very close relationship with the Govatzidaki and Manias families. On St. Nicholas’ Day my mother would go with the best presents to visit Niko Mania and congratulate him on his name day. Our Christian friends would visit our house on ‘Roshana’ [Judeo-Spanish: Rosh Hashanah]. Since we Jews didn’t have name days, they would come on this particular day to wish us all the best for our New Year. My mother would prepare a big feast to welcome them.

We didn’t have problems with our Christian friends and neighbors as far as I can remember. There were many Christian girls in school, too. They loved us.

I remember that from our part we were proper, too. At Easter, when the Epitaph procession was passing in front of our house at five o’clock in the afternoon we would go out to watch it. In addition, I would take the girl we had at home to Saint Mina’s Church.

During the Christian Easter week some were yelling that Jews killed Christ. But there was no problem. Nobody harmed us. They couldn’t recognize us. We, the younger ones, were talking Greek in order to be able to go out at this age. We could not hide or talk French or Judeo-Spanish.

The problems we had were our own fault. Many spoke Judeo-Spanish only and not Greek and that was wrong.

There was no anti-Semitism. Only very few were anti-Semites, the 3E 5, which, although I was young, I remember. They set a whole Jewish neighborhood on fire 6. They were Venizelo’s organization and very much against Jews.

My childhood years were wonderful. I cannot remember the pre-school period. I cannot remember my first day at school. I wasn’t born ‘properly.’ My mother would wake up early in the morning and go straight to the kitchen. There we had a very big table and heating. She would prepare for us milk, cocoa or ‘salepi’ 7, as it was customary back then, and slices of bread with marmalade. We were so many kids to get prepared to go to school.

• My school years

There were many Jewish schools in Thessaloniki. Although my father was rich, my mother didn’t want to send us there because they were far from home. We went to the French Missionary School. And my father was wondering all the time why my mother preferred the French School.

He was worried that I might become a nun because I never wanted to dress up nicely. I was always dressed like a nun. There was also a case of a Jewish girl that became a nun. She was in our school. This worried my father.

I cannot remember my school’s address. It was near the Stock Market. We crossed Sygrou Street and turned to Egnatia Street. There the tram was passing and my mother was much afraid of this conjunction. From the window of our house my mother could see us at Sygrou Street coming back from school. This was the reason she wanted us to go to a nearby school.

We were escorted when going to school. There was one girl, a ‘Judia’ [Judeo-Spanish: Jewish woman], a little older than us and she proposed to escort us to school each morning. We were going to the same school. My mother agreed for my eldest brother Alberto and me, but not for the younger ones.

We returned from school escorted by the girl that was living with us, helping my mother with the housework. As we came back from school we would stop and buy one fresh tasty ‘coulouri’ 8 with our pocket money and then return home.

I will never forget: as we entered the door my mother was already waiting for us with the ‘mistraba’ [or mastraba: Turkish and Judeo-Spanish: tin cup] of milk, and a semi-boiled egg to drink it with the milk right in front of the door. She would see us coming from Sygrou Street and she was waiting for us just behind the entrance door. Oh, God, how disgusting this was! This was the reason I hated coming back from school. And then, after we entered the house, she gave us a big slice of cake.

In the afternoon a teacher would come to teach my eldest brother Alberto and me Greek. In 1912 the Greeks entered Salonica and we had to learn Greek. Most of the Greek history I know is what I learned from when my children went to school. Until then I didn’t know much about Greek history.

My school years are unforgettable. We went to a very good school. The classrooms were very big. We weren’t many children in each class, no more than fifteen. My brother Alberto went to Saint Jean Baptiste de la Salle 9, which was only for boys. I went to Saint Vincent de Paul 10, which was only for girls.

They didn’t allow us to speak a single word of Greek or Judeo-Spanish. If we did so, they lowered our grade. ‘Conduite neuf, conduite dix’ [French: grade for behavior nine, grade for behavior ten]. It went up to ‘quinze’ [French: fifteen]. So at ‘récréation’ [French: school break] we were speaking only French because they would lower our behavior grade otherwise. Back then things were different. When my daughters, Lucy and Ellie, went to French Missionary School, many things had changed. Even the teachers were different.

A law was issued saying that students of Greek nationality where not allowed to go to an elementary school of another nationality. So all of my siblings and I were expelled from the schools we went to and were transferred to other schools for one year. We had to finish elementary school first, then go back to our previous schools.

I was transferred to Alchech School 11, one of the best Jewish schools in Thessaloniki, for one year to finish elementary school and then continue at a gymnasium 12 of my choice. The lessons were in Hebrew and French. My younger siblings went to Pinto School 13. One of my father’s employees was escorting us to the school.

I developed psychological problems. I wasn’t paying attention in the classroom, I wasn’t studying, I wasn’t eating. All day long I was crying. Within six months I became a skeleton. My mother was very afraid of my health. So she went to ‘ma mère’ [French: the highest nun in hierarchy] of my previous school.

She said that she was not interested in the graduation diploma. She was just interested in my well-being. She begged her to take me back. And they did so and took both my eldest brother Alberto and me back. Until now I keep my school at a very special place in my heart. I have only good memories of kindness and happiness from my school.

We didn’t have teachers at Saint Vincent de Paul. We had only nuns. And I loved them all. But the dearest of all was ‘soeur’ [French: Sister] Odile. She was very pretty. There was a rumor among the girls of my age that she had a love affair that didn’t end up well and thus she became a nun.

I was a very good student. My grades were always ‘très bien.’ I liked very much ‘Ηistoire de la France’ [French: History of France]. I didn’t like Science, Physics at all. My mind couldn’t grasp it.

We were wearing a black uniform with the emblem of our school. We were also wearing a blue beret in winter and a white one in the summer.

During prayer hour we were standing there. ‘Au nom du Père et du Fils et du St. Esprit…’ [French: In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost…] they were saying while making the sign of the Cross. At the religion lesson we were staying in the classroom during the period that the Old Testament was taught.

When they reached the chapters of the New Testament ‘las Judias’ [Judeo-Spanish: the Jewish women] left the classroom except the days that it was raining. Other times we stayed because we didn’t want to insult them. But we didn’t take grades for this lesson. Most of my schoolmates were Jews, and very few Christian.

When there was a Jewish holiday we didn’t go to school. The nuns knew the Jewish holidays and they did not consider us ‘absente.’ ‘Absente jamais de la vie.’ [French: Absent, never ever.] The nuns loved us very much. I remember my brother Isidor taking the cross that the nuns had and kissing it. And I told my father about this. But my father was afraid of me becoming a nun, not for my brother.

I remember something else. If the nuns learned that we were sick, they would come to visit us at home, to talk with us, to bring us books. There is no comparison with the nuns of the school that my daughters went to.

In the afternoons we weren’t doing much. We were doing our homework. At four o’clock a teacher would come to teach us Greek.

I was an ‘abonnée’ [French: subscriber] at our school library. I was taking books to read at home. ‘L’ histoires d’amour’ [French: love stories]. ‘L’ histoires d’amour but non pas très d’amour. Ce n’est pas permit pour les soeurs.’ [French: It was not permitted to the nuns to show too much affection.]

My father thought that reading caused me to be weak. I was going to the bathroom, taking a book with me. Once my father found out and threw the book over the balcony. My mother was trying to explain to him that books weren’t the reason for my bad appetite and that he ought to let me read.

My mother was reading books, too, when she was young. In the fire, before World War I, her house burned down and she had no books to read any more. When she got married she didn’t have any more time to read. But she was still reading the newspaper L’ Indépendant 14 in French. I was not reading newspapers; I was only reading books. This was my preference and still is.

Our Jewish education was our mother’s responsibility. My father knew only the Kiddush. He was illiterate but my mother knew almost everything. My mother taught us about the holidays, Roshana, Kippur, and Pesach. She was reading the Haggadah.

She was teaching my eldest brother Alberto and me from Purim until Pesach how to read the Haggadah. Our Haggadah was in Judeo-Spanish, not in Hebrew. I didn’t know Hebrew. I never learned it. So many times I went to Israel and I didn’t learn even a word!

We were attending the Monastirioton Synagogue 15. Sygrou Street was full of Jews. My mother and Aruesti 16 were very dear friends. When they were building this synagogue, Aruesti because she was ill, asked my mother to supervise the workers and watch the ‘arabades’ [Turkish: two or four-wheel carriage used for the transportation of people or goods.]

She was standing there counting what they did.  They made the best Cal [Hebrew: Kahal: flock or synagogue ] of Thessaloniki. It was built all with marble. At the entrance there was a big stair made with marble leading upstairs to the women’s section. My mother’s seat was in the first row because she had helped at the construction of the synagogue. This synagogue still exists because the Red Cross used it during the German occupation.

I remember the synagogue’s tevah the day my eldest brother Alberto had his bar mitzvah. In the morning he sang at the Cal. All the monks, the ‘frères’ from his school Saint Jean Baptiste de la Salle came. His fellow boy scouts also came because he was in a boy scouts team. Then we had a reception at our house.

The tables were set from the living room to the balcony. It was in September. The year I don’t remember. For one whole week my mother had ‘mosos de boda’ to help prepare pies for the reception. [Mosos de boda: Judeo-Spanish term for young men to serve as helping hands, occasionally in the preparation of an event.] In the afternoon we had a reception again. My parents’ friends came with their children. We were dancing all night long.

That night my father’s associate told him that he had spent so much money for just a feast for his son. My mother, who didn’t trust him in the first place, heard what he said. Then she said to my father that although he was the first to come to congratulate them, he had also said spoken ill of them.

My other brother Isidor’s bar mitzvah was when we were in the ghetto 17. On Thursday all men went to the synagogue and that was all. A few days later they left for Auschwitz.

The only thing I can remember was Isidor’s brit milah. I was going in between people in order to go up front to see what they were doing to my brother. And when I saw cutting and blood I fainted. One of my father’s friends grabbed me and took me to another room. I remember this because it took me a long time to recover. Everything was done at home back then. There weren’t hospitals and clinics. The births were done at home, too. We had Doctor Matalon, the gynecologist come over.

On Sabbath we didn’t go to school. On ‘Noches de Shabbat’ we would go bring oil to the synagogue. [Editor’s note: Sephardim pour oil in a big bowl standing in front of the tevah. There is a wick in the middle of the bowl which is lit and its light is preserved by adding oil.]

This was the most important. Every Friday my mother would give me a big glass of oil to go to the Cal. She was saying to me ‘Mairy, please, mucho regalada mia, tu sos fija mia, regalada [Judeo-Spanish: ‘My everything, my beloved one, my daughter, my beloved one’], go and put oil and say: ‘Salu buena a papa, salu buena a mama, salu buena para todos los fijos, y el Dio que te de ganas para comer.’ [Judeo-Spanish: Good health to the father, good health to the mother, good health to all the children, and may God give you appetite to eat.] As for the latter, ‘Esto no te lo vo disir,’ [Judeo-Spanish: ‘This, I will not say’] was my answer.

I always had poor appetite. My mother kept asking me why I was torturing her. They gave me injections because I wasn’t eating. And my father, whose darling I was, was worried. But men went to work all day long. It was my mother that had to deal with my feeding and she was suffering because of me.

Then we came back from the synagogue, dressed in our best clothes and sat down at the table. If we had ‘mousafiris’ [Turkish: misafir: guest] he sat with us. On Sabbath, but also at every other dinner, my father wanted all the family seated around the table.

Usually he would come a little bit earlier, and he drank ouzo first. He would ask me to sit with him and drink. Only me he wanted to share him company, nobody else. My mother prepared for him ‘usicos.’ We very much liked ‘wuevesicos en haminados’ [Sephardic recipe of preparing hard boiled eggs; baked eggs in onion leaves]. My mother would also prepare bread with caviar, baked bread with cheese, ‘kefticas de patata’ [Judeo-Spanish: meatballs with potato]. I remember tasting them all. My father was insisting that, since I was drinking ouzo, I had to eat something.

We placed a big candle on the table. My father would recite the Kiddush. We all ate nicely together. The first classical plate for ‘Noches de Shabbat’ was fried mullet fish. Then we ate whatever my mother had cooked. My mother was an excellent cook. She made okras, peas and ‘kefticas de pouero’ [Judeo-Spanish: meatballs with leek], which I liked very much. Later on I cooked them, too. She cut the leek and boiled it. Then she smashed it in the ‘machina.’

Because we didn’t had mixer back then, my mother had a machine to cut the meat. Then she squeezed the leek very hard to dry and added the chopped meat and eggs and fried it. They were delicious. I ate one or two. The others ate many. Everybody ate a lot; I was the only one who caused difficulties when it came to food.

My younger brother, Isidor, on Saturday morning, when he woke up, wanted to eat beans. We usually had beans on Friday for lunch, but he was asking for them on Saturday morning. Usually on Saturday morning we ate ‘pasteliko,’ pie with spinach and cheese, and cake. My mother made a lot of cakes.

The Sabbath sweet was ‘tupishti’ [also called ‘pispiti’ by Romaniotes: a kind of cake with almonds or nuts usually with syrup]. My oldest brother Alberto liked it very much. So my mother made a portion especially for him. He was sleeping in the room that Nona [Grandmother] Mirou used to sleep in.

My mother was putting Alberto’s portion of ‘tupishti’ in his room, on the bedside table that used to belong to Nona Mirou. Isidor secretly went to the drawer taking his eldest brother’s pieces. When Alberto didn’t find his sweet on his drawer he would ask my mother where it had gone.

Then my mother would tell Isidor: ‘A Dio Isidor [Judeo-Spanish: Oh my God, Isidor] you ate it fijo’ [Judeo-Spanish: son]. Then Isidor was complaining that he could have ‘tupishti’ only on Sabbath while his brother had it for the whole week.

On Sabbath day my mother met up with friends. Either they would come to our house or my mother would go to theirs. I spent the day reading. On Saturday night, after Sabbath, I would go to Alcazar Cinema with my friends. The cinema owners were Jews.

Roshana is the first day of the Jewish year. As I mentioned before, we Jews didn’t have name days for our Christian friends to come and visit us. Thus they would come on this day to honor us. My mother did many preparations for this day. They would wash the curtains and put the carpets in the living room.

Then they polished the ‘tradico’ [Judeo-Spanish: small tray for serving sweets] where they put the sweets they offered to the guests. Usually they served apple sweets. We would eat a spoon of apple sweets and say ‘Aniada Buena’ [Judeo-Spanish equivalent of Happy New Year].

On Roshana it was customary to make pies. I remember my mother making leaves of the dough. They were so big and many that she would place them on the backing sheets. Then she cut them and made ‘rodanchicas’ [Judeo-Spanish: small round pies usually made for Rosh Hashanah] and ‘pastelicos.’ She made ‘rodanchicas de calabasa’ [Judeo-Spanish: small round pies made with yellow marrow], spinach pies and ‘kefticas de pouero.’ Our Christian friends liked them all very much. They would even come to the kitchen to taste them before we formally served them.

We didn’t confront anti-Semitism. We considered Thessaloniki as our homeland. More than 55.000 Jews were living there.

During Roshana we visited our Jewish friends and neighbors, the Kapon families, Buena, and others. We were very interrelated. On Roshana we would go to the synagogue. It was very nice. On the upper level were the women. I remember my mother, always elegantly dressed, sitting in the first row.

On Kippur we were fasting. We ate at night then we began fasting. In the morning I would visit my friends or they would visit me. My mother would say to me that I could have a glass of milk without my friends seeing me. I would answer that I was not fasting for my friends on Kippur.

On Kippur we would go to the synagogue. First of all I would go in the evening, before I started fasting, with the glass of oil like on Fridays. I had to go before five o’clock. My mother was staying at the synagogue all day on Kippur. We would all go dressed nicely. Back then the children had learned to remain seated in the synagogue very quietly.

The custom to go to the synagogue with the glass of oil on the eve of Kippur I also observed later on in my life. I would go with my daughters, Lucy and Ellie, nicely dressed. My friends would ask me why I was going with the glass of oil and I would answer that this was a tradition I kept to remind me of my mother. It was impossible for me to go to the synagogue on Kippur eve without the glass of oil.

We used to end the Kippur fast with a spoon of orange sweet. Then we would eat chicken soup with lemon, which I was cooking, too, later on in my life. Then we would eat whatever my mother had prepared. Usually it was okras, which were easily digested after a whole day of fasting.

Then my father would go to a pastry shop and bring sweets home. Usually he brought ‘baisedes’ [sweets made with the white part of the egg and sugar; it looks like a white biscuit] or whatever else he would find. There were many Jewish pastry shops in Thessaloniki back then.

Sukkot was not very important. We had a sukkah. My mother would cover the veranda with bed sheets and decorate it. My mother was very religious. Only when it was raining it was difficult with the bed sheets. We were sitting and eating there.

On Purim we exchanged gifts. My mother would prepare plates with various sweets wrapped very nicely. She would tell us where to go with each plate. And we returned with plates from those we visited. Before the war we were going back and forth exchanging visits and plates with ‘Judias’ friends. We were very close to one another back then. My brother often complained of being tired going from one house to the other.

On Purim we had ‘novias’ [Judeo-Spanish: brides; big caramels representing various figures, mostly brides or grooms; traditionally made for Purim]. It was a candy-like lollipop. We would buy them from someone who specialized in making them. They were made in various shapes. We would offer ‘novias grooms’ to unmarried girls to find a husband soon, ‘novias baby boys’ to pregnant women, ‘novias knives’ to learn to cut your dowry and so on.

I don’t remember going to the synagogue on Purim. There were organized luxurious dancing nights where they would go formally dressed. I didn’t have the chance to go because I was too young.

Pesach was the nicest of all holidays. The house was wonderful. The preparations would start one month ahead. First they started by cleaning the house, the curtains and, especially meticulously, the kitchen since all the cooking was done there. They whitewashed the kitchen. Then they would polish all the tins and boxes and placed them on the ‘cheminée’ [French: fireplace] again. They were made from aluminum and I still have some of them to remind me of my mother.

Then we had pascual 18 ‘tentzeredia’ [tenzteres in plural; Turkish: tencere: folk expression for the kitchen utensils]: pots, casseroles, plates, knifes, forks, spoons, everything. They were kept in a separate box at the warehouse. Then the non-pascual were placed separately in another box at the warehouse.

We bought the ‘massa’ [Judeo-Spanish: matzah] from the ‘fabrica de la matzah’ [Judeo-Spanish: factory producing matzah] at an alley near Carolou Dil Street [in the center of Thessaloniki near Modiano Market]. They made two types of ‘massa.’

The premium one, which was thinner and whiter, and the regular one, usually bought by the poor Jews living in ‘faubourga.’ My father would go there with a big wooden box we had especially for ‘massa’ and bought it. They would place it in the box wrapped in a clean bed sheet.

The lamb was the most important. It was kosher of course. At Modiano Market there were many Jewish butchers. That’s why many envied us. The ‘chamalis’ would bring the meat and the fish from the market to our house. The fish was cooked ‘peche en salsa’ [Judeo-Spanish: sweet water fish with sauce cooked in sour prunes] with vinegar. I didn’t eat it because I didn’t like it.

On Pesach everything was prepared at home. They prepared a lot of things. First they made ‘charoset’ [sweet, dark-colored, lumpy paste made of fruits and nuts]. Then they did ‘masicas’ [Judeo-Spanish: small matzot] and ‘masicas de vino’ [Judeo-Spanish: biscuits made with matzah]. ‘Masicas de vino’ my mother made especially for me because I liked it very much since it didn’t contain a lot of sugar. Sweets I do not like. They also prepared ‘biselicas’ [Judeo-Spanish: peas], ‘prunas’ [Judeo-Spanish: prunes], ‘kefticas de pouero,’ ‘mousaka’ with onions, and alichugitas [Judeo-Spanish: stuffed lettuce] with lamb.

Then they made bumuelos 19. They would smash the ‘massa,’ add many eggs and milk and fry them. We had a special casserole with seven semi-rounds at the bottom. They placed the mixture in the seven semi-rounds and when they were fried they placed them on a plate and served them with honey on top. I never helped my mother with the cooking.

Every Pesach we would all sit at the table and read the Haggadah. First my father would recite the Kiddush with pascual wine. This wine was made in Thessaloniki. There were two people that had a factory that made kosher wine. We were almost 57,000 Jews in Thessaloniki. All the market was Jewish. I knew one of the owners but cannot recall his name. For Pesach they gave us pascual wine. They brought it home.

We all read the Haggadah, first my father, then my brother Alberto, my mother and I. From Purim our mother would teach us the reading of the Haggadah. It was a simple book without drawings in Judeo-Spanish language. We were singing: ‘Este pan dela afriyssion que cumieron nuestros Padres en Tierra de Ayifto...’ [Judeo-Spanish: This bread of unhappiness that our fathers ate in the land of Egypt.]

I also remember the Ten Plagues that my father was throwing in a bowl and we were turning our heads the other way so we could not look. Then my mother would throw away the content of the bowl. [Editor’s note: This is a traditional Jewish custom in Greece.] We would read the story of how we passed through the Dead Sea. We were reading everything.

We had a big plate in the middle of the table. Whenever something was mentioned one, usually my father, would raise it for everybody to see it. I remember everything: ‘las tres masas escondidas’ [the three hidden matzot], ‘el wuessesico de carne’ [the bone of the lamb’s leg]. Then we had the ‘bucados’ [snacks] with ‘massa’ and ‘charoset’ as was customary among Jews. We had to read up to the end of the Haggadah before eating, although we were very satisfied with the various ‘bucados.’

When the reading of the Haggadah ended we would bring to the table a variety of dishes for dinner. First we had ‘massa amojada’ [wet matzah], wet and wrapped in a napkin. I liked it better this way because it was soft, not dry. Others ate it dry. Then we would eat fish, peas, and lamb. We ate very many things. Then we had pastry made with matzah. After having pastries we sang.

Our living room was big and on Pesach we would set a long table and whoever was alone was invited to our home. Also the neighbors from downstairs would come upstairs to our place and we would all celebrate together. Then they would say goodbye: ‘Toda Raba’ [Hebrew: Thank you].

The first morning of Pesach it was customary to have ‘bumuelos’ for breakfast. My mother would yell: ‘Come ‘fijicas’ [young girls], come ‘regaladas’ [my beloved], come to eat ‘bumuelicos frescos’ [fresh bumuelos].’

Pesach was the nicest holiday. It was the most joyful one. We didn’t go to the Cal except to take oil there. Pesach was a home-oriented holiday. On the first and the second day the dinner was very formal. Then we had three days and then the last two dinners. Eight days in total.

The first day my mother’s brother would come to visit her. It was customary to visit people in the neighborhoods and friends during the eight days of Pesach. It was the Easter Week for Christians, too. The nuns from our schools would come to wish us all the best for Pesach. That’s why I have kept them in my heart.

On the last evening we would go to a nearby field and take some sand. Then, at every corner we passed by we would place some sand. This was a custom we had. Everybody was doing it.

Then our father would take us out for dinner. He would rent a ‘paitonaki’ [landau, carriage with horses] to take us to a Jewish tavern where the cooking was kosher. Our father couldn’t take us somewhere non-kosher. And this is how Pesach ended.

My pre-war life in Thessaloniki was like a fairy-tale. These were the best years of my life. Life at my parent’s home was wonderful. I never heard disputes. We were close to each other without egoism. Despite my age, my brain still works perfectly and I remember everything very clearly.

Back then everything was different. First of all there was this age issue: although we were 20 years old we were constrained. We couldn’t wander around. I cannot say about others, but I was sitting at home like an idiot, always at home with my parents. My life was restricted. My friends in the neighborhood were restricted, too.

Our neighbors were good people. We were going out and played with Alingou and Hadjinikolaou, whose grandson Nikos [Hadjinikolaou: famous Greek TV news journalist] is working at Alpha [private TV Channel in Greece]. We were playing ‘tsilikia’ [street game played with two wooden sticks], war and peace and who was running faster. I was the fastest of all. Nobody could beat me. Even today, after a leg operation I had, I don’t have problems walking.

I had many friends, Christian, too. Christians helped us a lot. My father would give me pocket money every week and every Thursday I would go to Alcazar Cinema. It was only us girls that went to the cinema. With boys we were just playing in the neighborhood.

My mother insisted that I don’t wander around far from our house. I was only going out with my brother Alberto, holding his hand. But I remember once something very rare happened. My brother was ill and didn’t go to school. As I was leaving school to return back home, my schoolmate Beatrice proposed that I should go with her to her house.

She reassured me that she was living nearby. I was always naïve, thus I followed her. When we arrived at her house she went upstairs. I believe she lived in the Vardaris 20 Jewish neighborhood. I wasn’t sure where I was since I didn’t go out often.

Night started falling and it was getting darker and darker. Beatrice was not coming down. I started wandering around crying. I saw women with naked breasts and legs. I lost my mind. This area was called ‘La callegea de las negras’ [the street alley of the prostitutes].

They were Jewish women that went to bed with men for money. But they helped me. I was a tiny girl crying. A ‘Judia’ woman came up to me and asked me why I was crying. I explained that I was lost, that I didn’t know where I was. She took me to the central road were there was a policeman.

The policeman asked me where I lived. And it came automatically out of my mouth: the home address that my mother used to teach us. The policeman told me not to cry any more since he was going to take me back home.

It was dark by now. I usually returned from school at 4pm. My mother went crazy. My father was crying. They were wondering what had happened to me. My mother was crying as she thought they had lost me. When the policeman brought me home my father took him in to give him a treat. As for me, this was the first time that my father hit me. This is all I can remember about this incident.

Thessaloniki was beautiful. We were connected to one another in this town. We were more than 57,000 Thessaloniki Jews but we also had many Christian friends. We loved our hometown. The Jewish Community of Thessaloniki was one the richest in Europe. My father was paying ‘pecha’ [Hebrew: communal tax] to the community. Only my father was involved in community matters. Women weren’t involved in such things back then.

Women didn’t even go to the market. My father would go to Modiano Market every Thursday to buy meat and fish and ‘chamalis’ would bring them home. The milkman brought milk to the house. My mother would buy the vegetables. The traveling vegetable seller was passing outside our house shouting: ‘Zarzavaji [ambulant vegetable merchant] Rashelica zarzavaji, come down…’ My mother would go to buy spinach, leek, whatever vegetables she needed.

One of the things that my mother insisted on teaching us was how she would clean the chicken before cooking it. It was like going to school: here is the stomach, the intestine that goes to the stomach, here is the liver, and here is the bile. Then she would put it in the sink with salt for one hour to dry out all blood. Then she would rinse it with water seven times. The meat she would then cook in salsa [sauce]. She would make the mincemeat separately using the ‘machina.’

More than half of Thessaloniki’s inhabitants were Jews. The best marketplace was Jewish and on Sabbath it was closed. Most of the Jewish shops were closed on Sabbath. That’s why some envied us. The wholesale market was at Emporiou Square.

All the wholesalers were Jews. One of them was Franco. He had a factory producing ‘halva’ [sweet made with sesame paste and sugar] and ‘matzounia’ [soft lollypop-s jellies]. He also had a bus with a sign ‘Sweets and Matzounia.’ He was selling his products all over Greece. Later on his business went down.

I remember my sister Jema, during the German Occupation, was asking for ‘halva.’ My father would ask his friend Franco to give him some for his daughter. Franco’s brother was in love with my sister Jema. When he came back from Auschwitz and saw that my sister had not returned, he married Polimnia, who was Christian, and they went to the United States. They were economically ruined as most of the Jews were after the war. The first time he came visiting Greece he asked me to show him Jema’s photographs. So I did, and he started crying.

The only wholesaler at Emporiou Square that was not Jewish was Hadjinikolaou. His family and ours were close.

We, as children, never went to the market. There was nothing else beyond Sygrou Street and 33 Olympou Street. We just went to the market twice a year to buy shoes on Rosh Hashanah and Pesach. My mother would have us seated one next to the other in the shop and let us try shoes, one by one. The owner of the shoe shop was Christian. But he knew Judeo-Spanish so well that there was no problem communicating with my mother, who didn’t speak Greek at all.

We had a couturier that was sewing Mairy’s, Jema’s and Renica’s clothes. We were always very well dressed. I was usually reluctant wearing new things. My mother would buy the textiles for our clothes from Cohen at Egnatia Street. Cohen was a Jew.

We would go out only with my father to the movies or to a restaurant. My father insisted on going to eat first, and if I ate we would go to the cinema. I went along with his proposal. We were at the movies, at Titania Cinema, when the war was declared.

Every summer we went on vacation to Chalkidiki for two months. My father had a business associate at Nikiti and he was renting us a house. It was a small house. All the children would sleep together in one room. The house was near the sea. My eldest brother Alberto would arrange for a small boat.

Once I remember that suddenly Vardaris [northern wind stemming from the river Axios or Vardaris] started blowing. My brother couldn’t manage the boat. We were screaming for help until somebody heard us and came to rescue us. Despite my age I can still remember details as this one. Even though my body is damaged, my mind still works well.

Every year my parents would go to Loutraki to drink water from the Karandani spring [an area near Loutraki, in Corinthos, famous for its hot springs and mineral water.] They both had liver problems and the doctor suggested going there once a year. They usually took my youngest siblings, Isidor and Renica, with them. In 1940 they proposed to take me along. My father loved me very much and he wanted me to see the beauties of the countryside. We went at the beginning of September. The war was declared a few days after our return to Thessaloniki.

• During the war

I was with my parents at the movies. The next day, on 28th October, the war was declared. Then our Golgotha started. The first bomb fell at my school. It closed and we never went back to school. When in 1940 the war was declared, I still needed two more years to take my degree. Thus I have neither ‘Bacheau’ [French elementary school diploma] nor ‘Baccalaureate’ [French high school diploma].

When the Alvanico War 21 ended, the Germans came to Thessaloniki. This was the beginning of the end. The Germans marched into Thessaloniki in 1941, in 1942 they gathered us and in 1943 they restricted us. And that was it.

The day that the Germans marched into Thessaloniki my father took one of his employees and came to the house to remove the Magen David from the front door of our house. He also erased with lime the inscription ‘1922,’ commemorating the year in which our house was built.

My father changed his profession. He didn’t want to have anything to do with the food market so he became a metal merchant. The merchandise of the shop was divided in two; half belonged to my father and half to his associate. We took the clothes out of the cupboards and staffed them with rice, pasta, oil, and honey.

During the German occupation we didn’t have a food problem. Every night we sat all together at the table and ate from what we had. I sat there, without appetite, playing with the food on my plate first and then ate a bite or two, while others were dying from starvation.

The government was distributing yellow bread called ‘bobota’ [bread made of corn]. The girl we had at home collected our portion at the bakery and then she gave it to the poor. We had white flour that farmers from the villages were giving to my father. Thus we made white bread at home.

There was a factory just opposite our house. The refugees were gathered there. Every day they were carrying out with ‘arabades’ the dead. Each morning, as soon as I got up, I went to the window to count how many had died. My father was worried because after this I wouldn’t eat.

I remember that many of the poor Jews living at ‘fabourgo’ were dying. The Jewish Community of Thessaloniki asked my father to take home a small girl to feed. My father agreed. I cannot remember her name. She was five years old. When she came my mother found out that she had lice.

So she told her to go back to her mother and stay there until she had no more lice. Then she’d be welcome to come back. My mother did this because she was afraid that we would get lice, too. She came back a week later. She stayed overnight. We had space for her to sleep. All day long she was singing.

My mother told me how with the ‘koussouria’ [from the Turkish ‘koussur’: leftovers] she was eating she became unrecognizable. She put on weight and her cheeks got red. My mother cursed me to have a child that would torture me with food as much as I tortured her.

My daughter Ellie would fall asleep with a bite of food in her mouth. I was the eldest and ‘mi mou aptou’ [Greek: very sensitive]. This girl would sit at my feet and call me mademoiselle. But I resisted such special treatment and insisted that she sat next to me and call me Mairy. All my life I preferred simplicity. When the time came that we had to leave our house to go into hiding, she insisted to come with us. She was screaming when her mother came to pick her up from our house.

We were put in ghettos. The border of our ghetto was Egnatia Street. We we were not allowed to go beyond that. The rabbi came to the Kehila [Hebrew: synagogue] and told us that a law was issued by the community that we had to wear a yellow star. All the Jews had to wear it in order to be distinguished from others. But for me there was no yellow star. I took it off and went wherever I wanted.

Our house was located in the Kehila de los Monastirlis 22 ghetto because it happened that our house was there. If we had been living in another area we would have needed to wander around to find somewhere to live. But this way we could stay in our house until the end. Because our house was in the ghetto, one room was confiscated: a couple that had no place to stay came to live with us. Their house was situated near Aghia Sophia [Church, a replica of St. Sophia of Constantinople].

The rabbi [of Thessaloniki] was responsible for what happened. He came to Cal Monastirlis and told us that there was nothing to worry about. He advised us to give all our assets to the Germans and go work for them. He lied to us.

From then on our father restricted us. We could not leave the house. I never saw the ‘defile’ [French: procession] going to Baron Hirsch. Our father wouldn’t let us, especially me because I was very sentimental. But I remember something else: Once a rabbi came to our synagogue. The Germans cut his beard and beat him.

There were people that helped us. I remember Christian women crying because the Jews were deported. I have a friend now, her name is Sevasti. She told me that back then she told her mother to go and buy from the Jews that were leaving because they were selling their assets for a piece of bread. Her mother answered, crying that she didn’t want to acquire things this way. Also, Archbishop Damascinos went to Merten and told him to take him and send him to Auschwitz.

[Editor’s note: Dr. Max Merten was the Wehrmacht’s officer in charge of the city of Thessaloniki from 1941 to 1943. After the war in 1957 he came to Greece on a visit and was caught by the Greek authorities. In 1959 he was tried as a war criminal in Athens and was incarcerated but soon after a Greek presidential decree allowed for him to be extradited to be tried in Germany. Once in Germany he was let free and practiced law until his death in 1976.]

We had many good friends that loved us. One of them was Manias. He came one day and told our servant that he wanted to see my father. The German army had confiscated his house. He had four Germans living in his house. He told my father that the Germans would issue a law that whoever had a Jew business associate, the Germans would take the Jew’s share. Manias proposed to my father to transfer his business share to his name in order to be protected. Nikos Manias was an animal merchant. He was very rich. He was not in need of our money.

My mother, who was a fast thinker, advised my father to agree with Manias’s proposal. But my father said that he didn’t want to insult his associate with such a deal after 20 years of partnership. What an insult! I was present when my father was discussing a false contract with his associate. I heard my father’s associate telling my father that we Jews were like the fly that fell in the milk. He continued by saying that we couldn’t hide and sooner or later the Germans would find us. He also proposed to my father to go on our own free will wherever the Germans wanted to deport us. My father declined Manias’s proposal and made a false contract with his associate. And it was my father’s associate that gave my family away to the Germans in exchange of getting my father’s business share.

When the war started and my father changed his job from food to metal merchandise, the merchandize was split in two, and because we were afraid that it would be stolen from our warehouse, my father gave part of the merchandise to Manias.

Manias had our supplies, our assets, and money from us. And we had something safely kept aside. We were living next to the Manias family. They loved us. He wanted to help, especially the children. So, in 1943, Nikos Manias, the head of the family, came and proposed to my father that for my brother Alberto and me he could issue false identities and send us to Athens. Manias issued the false identities. My brother and I were the first to leave the house. We stayed hidden until it was time for us to be sent to Athens.

My parents and my youngest siblings, Jema, Isidor and Renica, left later than us. They went into hiding in Chalkidiki. They could not go far. The Germans would have found them and caught them because apart from my sister Jema, none of the family members spoke Greek.

When I left to go into hiding I only took the necessary things. I only took clothes and my coat and I was very well dressed with those. During the war period I refused to wear new clothes. My mother prepared a new coat for me but I never wore it. She was telling me that the war was still going on and the old coat was worn out. Poor mother! If she had known what was going to happen to her. But I insisted that I wouldn’t wear new clothes while people were dying. I was very sensitive in these matters.

Manias had paid 30 pounds for each false identity. My brother’s new name was Nikos Angelidis and mine was Mairy Angelidou. I didn’t change my first name, only my last name was different. My brother Albertos and I first went into hiding in a house at Evangelistra area [a Christian cemetery area at the lower hill of the old city of Thessaloniki]. It was Easter. Mrs. Zoi hid us for one month.

She had a very nice family. She treated us very well and got compensation, of course. She was paid for hiding us, but it doesn’t matter. It is the person that matters. I still remember her. After the war she came to my husband. I told him to give her whatever she asked for. And he gave her money.

During the period we were hiding with Mrs. Zoi, I went with her to Aghia Sophia Church. The only thing that made a big impression on me was that for the first time I saw something like a huge doll hanging and people were calling it ‘Ioudas’ [Judas] and beating it. People were screaming that he killed Christ. I had never seen anything like that. I was very frightened.

After a month we went by bus to Athens. We never saw the trains taking away the Jews from Thessaloniki. I was traveling with my brother Alberto and a man who escorted us. On the bus was Mrs. Pardo with her daughter and her grandson. She said to me: ‘y tu sos Judia?’ [Judeo-Spanish: you are also a Jewess?]. I was scared. I pretended that I didn’t understand the language she was talking to me.

On the bus my brother Alberto sat in the front while I was in the back. The driver stopped the bus at Ekaterini [or Katerini: capital of the district of Pella, 30 km from Thessaloniki] and we got out. The driver asked me if I was related to the man, pointing at my brother Alberto, who was sitting in the front. I answered that I didn’t know him. The man that was escorting us to Athens had told us not to reveal that we were siblings.

Then the driver went to my brother and asked him if he knew me, and my brother’s answer was negative, too. Furious, the driver said that I couldn’t continue the trip with them. I started crying although this was a chance for me to go back again to my mother, since I had regretted being separated from her.

But my brother Albertos was reluctant to leave me alone. Everybody in the bus was upset. One man stepped forward. He claimed to be chief commander from the ‘mountain,’ from Andartiko 23. He threatened the driver that in case he didn’t take us both he would betray him to the resistance. The driver didn’t say anything else after that and we continued our trip to Athens.

When we arrived in Athens the man that was escorting us took us to a hotel. Nikos Manias introduced us to his brother Sergios and asked him to take care of us. Mrs. Katina, Sergio’s wife, was afraid to hide us because my brother Albertos was circumcised. But every Sunday they would invite us to eat meat at their home. At our age we needed to eat meat, but we did not.

A while later I met a friend whom I knew from Thessaloniki, Michel Michael. I had had a little love affair with him. The Michael family were ‘Judios’ [Judeo-Spanish: Jews] from Drama [town in East Macedonia]. Their mother, Saul and Michael were living in the small house under ours that my father rented to them. The eldest brother, Mario, was married and he was living on Egnatia Street. Mario had four children.

Michel Michael was a militiaman at Baron Hirsch. He saw my father, my mother and my three younger siblings, Jema, Isidor and Renica, entering the train with the last Jews to leave from Thessaloniki. My father was in a hurry to get on the train because he was afraid that the Germans would hit my youngest siblings and that they would tell them that my brother Albertos and I were hiding in Athens. My father asked Michel, since he was going to come to Athens, to find us and take care of us.

We met with Michel Michael at Syntagma Square [in the center of Athens where the Greek Parliament is]. He found us a house in Sepolia [suburb of Athens], not telling the owners that we were Jews. The period that Athens was under Italian occupation things were good for us. But when the Germans came Michel went to the ‘mountain’ because he was an army officer during Alvanico. Everybody wanted to escape from the Germans.

During the period of the Italian occupation my brother was selling oil at Athinas Street [trade street in the center of Athens]. Sergio himself took him to Megara [farming area in Attica region, close to Athens] to buy oil. And he was selling the oil ‘mezurica, mezurica’ [Judeo-Spanish: measure by measure].

We were actually renting a room in a house. We had the outer room. We paid one pound per month. They didn’t know that we were Jews. We told them that we were from Komotini [town in West Trace, Macedonia], not from Thessaloniki because this would have raised suspicions.

Mrs. Vasiliki who was renting us this room was illiterate. She was sleeping in the kitchen with her two sons. She had two beautiful daughters, too. She gave them for payment to men to go to bed with them. She was also babysitting the babies of various girls. She was bottle feeding them in exchange for payment.

Once a man came to the house and saw me. He told Mrs. Vasiliki to ask me to go to a bar with him at night. When I heard this I was flabbergasted. I told my brother Albertos about the incident. My brother went and told her that I had a psychiatric problem and that I often screamed nonsense. He told her to leave me alone because I might get insane if I go out.

Every day a policeman was visiting us and my brother gave him oil without getting money from him. The policeman was complaining that he wouldn’t come again if my brother insisted giving him oil for free. My brother Albertos told him that he felt like he was giving it to our mother, who was living at Komotini, and this was the reason that he was not asking to be paid for the oil he gave him.

I also remember another story from the period we were living at Mrs. Vasiliki’s house. One day she came and told me that although she had no complaints, there was another woman that had asked to rent our room. Her name was Esther. Mrs. Vasiliki wanted to give her the room because she was a Jewess and needed a place to hide. Mrs. Vasiliki wanted to save her. She didn’t know that we were Jews, too. Athens was under German occupation by now.

Now, where would we go? Michel had already left for the mountain to give us an advice as an older man. Until then every time Esther was coming to visit Mrs. Vasiliki I was hiding. My brother Albertos, although he was younger than me, was very clever and he still is. He told me not to worry. He advised me next time Esther came I should go out so she could see me. So when Esther came Mrs. Vasiliki wanted to introduce us. I came out to meet Esther. When she saw me she disappeared. She understood that I was Jewish. She never came back again.

When the war ended I met her again at the Cal at Meledinou Street. [The interviewee is referring to the Beth Shalom Synagogue, the main synagogue of the Athens Jewish Community on Melidoni Street.] She came hugging and kissing me. She survived but her son did not.

The Germans had issued a law that every Friday they were giving out food at Meledinou Street to those Jews that were in need. Many Jews signed up in exchange for food. And they were all caught on 25th March. Esther’s son had signed up and he was caught and sent to Germany.

My brother wasn’t in need of signing up. We had much more food than what we could consume. But my brother had two friends that did sign up. Every day the three of them would leave early in the morning, pretending they were going to work. They didn’t want the neighbors to get suspicious. Both of them were caught, too.

Every Sunday I was going to the church so the neighbors wouldn’t get suspicious. In the house opposite ours there lived a policeman. He understood that we were Jews in hiding but didn’t betray us. A judge was living in our courtyard. He, too, knew that we were Jews but didn’t betray us. He told me so when the war ended.

My brother didn’t want to leave me alone. He would come at noon for lunch. I was asking him, while we were eating, if he had any news from our mother. He was telling me that all were very well, adding that our mother and our sister Jema were sewing hemlines. So we would raise our glass to the health of our mother. In fact my brother was listening to Radio London. He knew about the crematoria. But he never told me about it for almost two and a half years.

Once my brother Alberto came home and told me that we had to leave for Cairo. I couldn’t disagree. He was the one going out and wandering around. He explained that he had found two men, he had given them money and they would take us with a small boat to a place, which I cannot recall, and from there we would go to Cairo.

In the morning my brother left, pretending that he was going to work. I prepared our things, put them in our small suitcase and waited. I waited and waited and had no news from my brother. It was night by now and I thought he had been caught. Suddenly I heard the key turn in the door. My brother had returned, black and blue from the beating. I took care of his wounds and he explained what had happened.

The people that he had given money to take us to the place from where we could leave for Cairo betrayed him to the Germans. The Germans caught him. They knew that he was Jewish and that he had a sister hiding in Athens. My brother denied everything. They took down his pants and saw that he was circumcised.

They were beating him so he would tell them were I was hiding. The German officer then called a policeman to escort my brother to a place where they would execute him. And guess who that policeman was! He was the man that my brother was giving oil to for free every day.

How everything is well thought out by the Almighty! The policeman took him pretending he would take my brother for execution. He took my brother outside and let him escape. My brother ran back home. This happened in June. A while later we were liberated.

Things got more difficult as days went by. But my brother was reluctant leaving me alone in Athens. Mrs. Katina Manias proposed that she could hide me alone. They were very good people. They loved me very much. So my brother Alberto left for the ‘mountain’ and I went to stay with Sergio Manias’s family. They had a house like a palace at the end of Acharnon Street [near the center of Athens].

We were liberated in July. [Editor’s note: Athens was actually liberated in September 1944]. I was with the Manias family when we were liberated. My brother was still at the ‘mountain.’ We didn’t know whether he was dead or alive. The day we were liberated the bells of the churches were ringing, airplanes were flying. Then the English came. Those that were at the ‘mountain’ started coming back.

• Post-war

When the war ended my brother Albertos went directly to Thessaloniki. He wanted to check what had happened to our house. He told me that he wanted to prepare the house before our mother’s return. In our house we had left an army officer from Poligyros [town in Central Macedonia; capital of Chalkidiki]. He divorced his wife but she continued staying at our house. So my brother went back first.

Mrs. Katina proposed that I should stay and have fun with them. We would go to theaters, thus I stayed. But the ‘Kinima’ 24 started. Greeks started fighting among themselves. Mrs. Sergios and Mrs. Katina were so much afraid that they went hiding with the English. I stayed with their children and their two servants. The Mania children and I were having a good time. We were staying in, eating, drinking and having fun.

But at some point we had to learn what was going on outside the house. We went out and we were caught because Mairy Mania, Sergio’s and Katina’s daughter was holding a newspaper of the other party than the one that caught us. We didn’t know where they were taking us. I think it was some mountain.

I approached the people that had caught us and told them that I was Jew and that these people had saved my life. Somebody heard me and said that he would help us escape. And as we were making a turn somewhere, Mairy, Mania’s servant Nitsa, the man that said he could help us and I started running to the opposite direction than the one they were taking us and we were saved.

When the ‘Kinima’ ended Katina and Sergios came back. Mairy Mania gave me some money and told me to go to the house I was hiding and give the money to Mrs. Vasiliki as a gesture of appreciation. Mrs. Vasiliki’s family was poor and illiterate.

I went to Mrs. Vasiliki without knowing what had happened to them. Mrs. Vasiliki hugged and kissed me and said that although she saved me her son was not saved. She had sent her son Yannis to Andartiko to bring back money to his family and there he was killed. Yannis, a very nice kid, had passed away. I started crying because I could not believe that such a good boy had died this way. Anyway that was it.

I returned to Thessaloniki in 1945 with the boat ‘Eleni Embirikou.’ I was traveling with Mario Michael. I was expecting that his brother Michel would come with us but he had died. That’s why I later got married to Alfredo. All Michael family members are dead now.

Only a daughter is living in Thessaloniki and another one in Turkey. Life goes on. My brother was expecting me at the port of Thessaloniki. Alfredo was there, too, and saw me, and when he returned to his house he announced that the one he wanted to marry had just arrived and he would marry her, meaning me, no matter what.

First thing I did upon my arrival was to go to our house. It was just as we had left it. I started trembling. I thought I was hearing my mother’s voice from the kitchen, calling me. I was in great distress. I had no idea at that point what had happened to them.

People started coming back from the camps. I was holding a picture of my mother and another of my sister Jema and went around asking if anyone knew anything about them. Their answer was that they had been burned in the crematorium. I thought they were crazy.

My brother knew the truth from the start because he was listening to Radio London. When I asked him he would answer that everybody was very well. And I believed him. I didn’t know and I couldn’t imagine such a thing. Later on my brother told me the truth.

He asked me not to wander around any more asking about my relatives. He explained that these people that had returned from Auschwitz were not crazy and that they were telling the truth. I started hitting him because for more than two years he had been lying to me. I was in a very bad psychological state for more than one year.

My father, my mother and my youngest siblings, Jema, Isidor and Renica, went to Chalkidiki. The merchants that my father used to collaborate with told him to go there. From Chalkidiki they would pass across to Aghios Nikolaos of Aghion Oros [Mount Athos, the third ‘finger’ of Chalkidiki Peninsula]. From there they would travel with a small boat to Volos [capital of Magnisia district]. If they managed to arrive at Volos, which was under Italian occupation, they would be safe. But the boat didn’t come and they were betrayed.

My father’s associate went to the mayor of the village where they were hiding on Chalkidiki. He told the mayor that if he didn’t send the Karasso family back to Thessaloniki to the Germans, the Germans would come to the village. My father didn’t want to bring damage to the village, so he returned and the Germans never came to this village.

My parents and siblings were the last Jews to leave Thessaloniki along with the Thessaloniki Jewish Community Board members. Michel Michael told us so. As soon as I learned the truth about my family members I gave my mother’s crystal chandelier to the Cal in the memory of Smoel Karasso’s family.

As more Jews were returning to Thessaloniki group marriages were being performed.

We started meeting those we knew from before. I found my girlfriends. Fridda Medina came back from Auschwitz because she spoke German. She told me that my sister Jema was working in Auschwitz for a while. The younger ones went directly to the crematorium.

On the day of Kippur the most gifted girls of Thessaloniki, among them my sister Jema, were selected and sent to the crematorium. Fridda is living in Israel now and I miss her very much. Nina Molho, the daughter of Rabbi Molho, came back, too. They were hiding somewhere in Thessaloniki. Only one didn’t come back: Margo Walker was gassed in Auschwitz.

Fanny and Bella, two young girls of my sister Jema’s age, returned from Auschwitz. They didn’t have a place to stay. My brother proposed to offer them my sister’s room. My brother brought his friends to live in our house, too. All the boys were sleeping on the veranda.

It was summer. So Bella and Fanny came to live with us. Allegri Kapon said to me how could I take them in without even knowing them. I didn’t care; I would give them my sister’s room to stay. And with God’s will they left my house as brides.

On the other hand my neighbor Sylvia didn’t have a place to go. The Jewish Community of Thessaloniki was not yet organized. They put up the ones that came back and had no place to stay at the school. Not all women are the same. Some upon return wanted to go to bed with men.

They were ten people in each room. Sylvia was very good looking. When she went to lie down a man came on top of her. When she realized what was going on there she tried to slash her wrists. She survived the Germans and tried to commit suicide here. She was sent to the hospital immediately.

In the hospital she met her future husband. Her husband has died now and Sylvia lives at the old-age home. We used to be neighbors. Every night I would visit her and ask her to tell me about the camps. She would narrate everything in great detail so I know everything.

Before he left, my father gave our house to an army commander, Mr. Laliotis. He divorced his wife. When we returned Lalioti’s family, his wife and two children, went to my mother’s room and they wouldn’t leave our house, no matter what. We couldn’t take back our house. She gave us my room only. The bathroom was locked. It was stuffed with food. We couldn’t even shower.

Mimi Rousso knew the police commander. He told us that the only way to throw her out was if she did something violent against us. Lalioti’s wife had placed flowerpots on the big veranda. Fani took them and put them in my room on a big table I had there and locked the door. The woman started screaming, asking for the key and insisting that the pots were hers. Fanny and Bella were standing outside my room. I was trembling. My brother went and called the police.

She called her ex-husband. Laliotis was claiming that my father had sold the house to him. But my brother had already got the papers of inheritance at the Mayor’s Office where it was written that the house belongs to the heirs of Smoel Karasso, Alberto and Mairy Smoel Karasso ne di [French: born by] Rachel. I told him that he could take all our belongings but he couldn’t take the house.

Laliotis was so furious that he broke the door. He threw the flowerpots down. We closed the door immediately and waited for the police. The police officer said that now we could officially throw them out because they had broken my room’s door.

The police officer called Laliotis and told him that they had to leave our house first thing in the morning or else they would loose all their belongings. The next day they left taking with them all our belongings. The only things they left were two armchairs, the dining chairs and whatever was in my room. They stole everything we had.

We started cleaning the house and inviting grooms. Every Sunday we would cook and sit altogether for lunch. And every night we went out. Bella was married to a very good man. He was a ‘tenekelero’ [Judeo-Spanish: tin smith] from Kapani [popular covered bazaar-market in Thessaloniki].

Fanny had an affair, too. She was in love with someone from Block 10. [Editor’s note: Block 10 was a cellblock in Auschwitz where women and men were used as experimental subjects for German doctors. Although Block 10 was in the men’s camps, the experiments were mostly conducted on women.] She was very beautiful.

Everybody told her that she couldn’t have kids with him but she loved him so much that she didn’t care. They were married and went to the USA and lived happily ever after. Her husband has died now. Bella also got married and went to the USA.

Things were not easy at first. We were not given help from the Jewish community or from the government. Originally we thought that we could take back my father’s shop. My father’s associate agreed to meet with my brother Albertos. But when he saw that my brother didn’t have the paper that said that the agreement he had with my father was fake, he turned my brother away.

My brother Albertos was very courageous. He was working here and there after the war. Then his friend Alchech gave him medicines to sell at pharmacies on commission. He was very capable and hardworking. But after a while my brother Albertos was called to the army. He would be sent to Athens were there was still the ‘Kinima.’ Two of his friends had already died there. He had survived the Germans and didn’t want to die because of the rebellion. So he left and went to Israel. Things were very hard for him there.

When I learned that Michel Michael had died I wanted to leave for the USA since all the members of my family had perished. But my brother didn’t let me. I was very obedient. So I got engaged to my future husband Alfredo Angel.

• Married life

My husband Alfredo Angel was born in 1909 and died on 1st May 1983. He was a textiles merchant. He was born and raised in Thessaloniki, and so were his ancestors. I didn’t get married again when he died, although I was still young and beautiful then.

I got married on 6th July 1946 at Cal Monastirlis. It was very difficult for me. I was crying all the time. I was thinking of my mother saying what a marriage she would organize for me when I would get married. All our friends and relatives came to the wedding. Thessaloniki started having Jews again. Approximately 2,000 returned. Now approximately 500 Jews are living in Thessaloniki.

My daughter Lucy was born on 26th August 1947. I cried when she was born because I didn’t give birth to a boy. But she was beautiful, like a dolly. Five years and a few months later I gave birth to my second daughter Ellie-Rachel. They are both wonderful kids that I still torture. [The interviewee means that she has them look after her in her old age.]

Lucy’s friend often asks me how both of my daughters became so magnificent. My answer is that I never quarreled with my husband in front of my children. This was the way I was raised by my parents. For every problem I faced I went downstairs to Jenoula and Miko Saias. They solved all of my problems.

The happiest days of my life, my wonderful life, was my prewar life. And it had ended. At least I raised two very good children.

My husband and I gradually started repairing my house. We made a new entrance. My room was what used to be my mother’s room. I spent the whole day with my daughters in Nona Mirou’s room. Only at night I would return to my room. At the piece of land at the back of my house three shops were built. One was a grocery store, the other a shoe-repair place. The owners came from villages.

Both of my daughters went to Calamari School [post-war French missionary school]. My daughter Lucy sat exams to enter college but she was not accepted. Thus I sent her to Calamari. I found my siblings’ school photographs and went to ma mère. I told her: ‘Elle sont allée à Auschwitz,’ [French: They went to Auschwitz.]

When she saw the photographs she hugged me and started crying. If I was going to gain something it was with the help of these photographs, since all of my siblings and I had gone to this school. I asked if she could give me a discount on the monthly payment because I wanted my daughter to be admitted to this school.

Their father’s job was not going so well because in the meantime nylon was invented and cotton, which my husband was selling, wasn’t so popular any more. Still in tears, her answer was that my daughter would be admitted without payment. I thanked her and told her that I had a younger daughter, too. Her answer was that both would be admitted without payment. So I never paid a penny.

I am very ashamed of what I am about to say but at first, when I realized that six million had perished during the Holocaust I lost my faith. But when I got married and Lucy was born I had to pass on a faith to my children. I couldn’t take them to the church. I was a Jew and I took them to Cal and started all over again.

I tried to keep some of the Jewish customs, but not all of them. First of all I cooked on Sabbath, not very much cooking, just fish. Every Friday we would go to the small Cal [a small synagogue built after the war near the building of the Jewish Community of Thessaloniki] but without the glass of oil that my mother used to give me to take every Friday. I was just lighting a candle. After the service we would all go to the Jewish Community Club where we were offered ‘pastelicos.’

We did celebrate the holidays after the war but not with such grandiose as we did before. We celebrated Pesach, Kippur and Rosh Hashanah. On Noches de Kippur [Judeo-Spanish: Erev Kippur] I would go with the glass of oil to the synagogue in memory of my mother.

I never learned how to cook with my mother. I never went to the kitchen to see how she was doing it. The cooking customs I learned were from Veta Franco and Kapon, who were married before the war. Sarina Michael, who was living downstairs, also taught me a lot. All of them knew various Jewish cooking customs.

Kehila Monastirlis was the same as it was before the war. The only difference is a plaque in memory of the 98 percent of the Jews of Thessaloniki that perished during the Holocaust. This synagogue opens only for the high holidays.

There is nothing more to say about my post-war life. From then on everything was ordinary in my life.

It is very recently that I came to live in Athens. I had an accident. I fell and I was hospitalized at Erikos Dynan Hospital in Athens. For two years I had a metal apparatus in my leg. I’ve had problems walking because I am old, too. I was living with my daughter Lucy for four years. My son in law, Mimi Bezas, is an extraordinary man. Four years he was taking care of me and paying all my expenses.

After all the wealth I had with my father, now the Jewish Community of Thessaloniki is helping me with the expenses.

We celebrate Pesach at Yvette’s, my son-in-law’s sister’s house. Now they are saying it in Greek so the children can understand. They don’t know Hebrew or Judeo-Spanish. Mimi pretends that he can read some Hebrew. So now I cannot recite anything because they are reading the Haggadah Ebreo [Judeo-Spanish: Hebrew] or in Greek that I don’t like at all. Rosh Hashanah we celebrate at my daughter Lucy’s house, with fish and everything that is customary. We celebrate with my children, my grandchildren and my four great-grandchildren, the one better than the other.

The first book I read when I returned to Thessaloniki was ‘L’ histoire d’ Anne Frank’ [French: The Diary of Anne Frank]. But it was when I visited Auschwitz and lit candles and recited the Kaddish for my beloved ones that my soul was put to rest. I saw everything in Auschwitz. I saw even the boxes with the poison [Zyklon B] that they were throwing from the window at the crematorium in order to kill them. Everything in Auschwitz was very well preserved. I was there during the commemoration of the 60th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz-Birkenau.

My sister Jema was sent to work from Auschwitz to Birkenau. It was two and a half hours walking distance. [Editor’s note: The distance between Auschwitz and Birkenau is approximately 1.5 km. However, because the people were sick, weak, starved and exhausted as well as terrorized and beaten by the Nazis along the way, it took them longer to cover that distance.]

I did the same distance in a wheelchair because I couldn’t walk. When I arrived at Birkenau I fell on the crematorium and started crying. I was screaming: ‘they were burned; they were burned’ just at the same place that they were reciting the Schema before being burned. [Shma Israel (Hebrew: Listen Israel): the first two words of the major Jewish prayer]

I did Haskavah. I lit candles for my siblings, Jema, Isidor and Renica, and two for my mother and my father. I started screaming: ‘Mamica mia regalada [Judeo-Spanish: Mother, my beloved one] salu buena Mimi’. Mimi has some health problems. Mimi for me is better than a son. Then I started saying the names of my beloved ones. I could not stop crying. My daughter Lucy didn’t know how to take me away. But I did what I felt I had to do. And now I can die in peace. This was the reason that I went to Auschwitz.

When we left from Birkenau it was raining. Mimi, my daughter Lucy and Morris Chatzis were pushing the wheelchair. I liked Morris because of his nice way of talking. I also read his journal ‘Krissara’ 25. In an issue dedicated to our trip to Poland he had a picture of me in the wheelchair.

On the bus returning home Morris asked me to sing a song with him. And we sang [singing in Greek]: ‘Ta kaimena ta niata ti grigora pou pernoun… san kandili…, san asteri…’ [‘Youth goes by very quickly, like a candle, like a star...’]

• Glossary

1 The Fire of Thessaloniki: In the night of 18th August 1917, an enormous fire, fed by the famous Vardar wind, destroyed the city centre where most of the Jews lived. It was a region of 227 hectares, where 15,000 families lived, 10,000 of them were Jewish families which were deprived of their homes.

The Jews were hit the hardest, since more than two thirds of the property destroyed by the fire was Jewish and only a tenth of that immense fortune was insured. Nearly all the schools, 32 synagogues, 50 oratories, all the cultural centres, libraries, clubs, etc. were annihilated.

Despite of the aid of a sum of 40,000 golden pounds collected from all over the world, the community never recovered from that disaster.

The Jewish face of the city that had been there for more than five centuries was wiped out in 36 hours. 25,000, out of 53,000 of the stricken Jews that belonged mostly to the lower and middle class, were forced to live in the working-class districts that were hastily built in a rudimentary fashion. (Source: Rena Molho, ‘Jewish Working-Class Neighborhoods established in Salonica Following the 1890 and the 1917 Fires,’ in Rena Molho, ‘Salonica and Istanbul: Social, Political and Cultural Aspects of Jewish Life,’ The Isis Press, Istanbul, 2005, pp.107-126.)

2 Andari or anderi: dark long outfit with sleeves, open in the front, usually worn by men.

3 Ladino: Also known as Judeo-Spanish, it is the spoken and written Hispanic language of Jews of Spanish and Portuguese origin. Ladino did not become a specifically Jewish language until after the expulsion of the Jews from Spain in 1492 (and Portugal in 1495) - it was merely the language of their province. It is also known as Judezmo, Dzhudezmo, or Spaniolit. When the Jews were expelled from Spain and Portugal they were cut off from the further development of the language, but they continued to speak it in the communities and countries to which they emigrated.

Ladino therefore reflects the grammar and vocabulary of 15th-century Spanish. In Amsterdam, England and Italy, those Jews who continued to speak 'Ladino' were in constant contact with Spain and therefore they basically continued to speak the Castilian Spanish of the time.

Ladino was nowhere near as diverse as the various forms of Yiddish, but there were still two different dialects, which corresponded to the different origins of the speakers: 'Oriental' Ladino was spoken in Turkey and Rhodes and reflected Castilian Spanish, whereas 'Western' Ladino was spoken in Greece, Macedonia, Bosnia, Serbia and Romania, and preserved the characteristics of northern Spanish and Portuguese.

The vocabulary of Ladino includes hundreds of archaic Spanish words, and also includes many words from different languages: mainly from Hebrew, Arabic, Turkish, Greek, French, and to a lesser extent from Italian. In the Ladino spoken in Israel, several words have been borrowed from Yiddish.

For most of its lifetime, Ladino was written in the Hebrew alphabet, in Rashi script, or in Solitreo. It was only in the late 19th century that Ladino was ever written using the Latin alphabet. At various times Ladino has been spoken in North Africa, Egypt, Greece, Turkey, Yugoslavia, Bulgaria, Romania, France, Israel, and, to a lesser extent, in the United States and Latin America.

4 Baron Hirsch camp: one of the poorest Jewish working class neighborhoods near the old railway station in Salonica. During the German occupation it was turned into a ghetto, the so-called Baron Hirsch Camp, where the Nazis assembled the Jews before they deported them.

5 3E (Ethniki Εnosi Εllados): lit. National Union of Greece, a fascist nationalist organization, founded in 1929 by George Kosmidis. It had about 2000 members, of whom the majority was immigrants. [Source: J. Hondros, 'Occupation and Resistance: the Greek Agony,' New York, 1983]

6 Campbell Fire (Pogrom on 29th June 1931): Responsible for the arson of the poor neighborhood Campbell was the Ethniki Enosis Ellas - National Union Greece, short: EEE also known as the 3E or the 'Iron Helmets.' This organization was the backbone of fascism in Greece in the period between the two World Wars. It was established in Thessaloniki in 1927.

The most important element of the 3E political voice was anti-Semitism, an expression mostly of the Christian traders of the city in order to displace the Jewish competitors. President of the organization was a merchant, Mr. G. Cormides, there was also a secretary, a banker, D. Haritopoulos, and chief spokesman Nikos Fardis, editor-in-chief of the newspaper Makedonia.

The occasion for the outbreak of anti-Semitism in Thessaloniki was the inauguration of the new Maccabi Hall in June 1931. In a principal article signed by Nikos Fardis, from Saturday, 20th June 1931, it was said that Maccabi of Thessaloniki had placed itself in favor of an Autonomous Greek Macedonia.

The journalist "revealed" the conspiracy of Jews, Bulgarians, Communists and Catholics against Macedonia. Two days later, the Ministry of the Interior confirmed the newspaper's allegations despite the strict denial of the Maccabi representatives. All the anti-Semitic and fascist organizations were aroused.

This marked the beginning of the riots that resulted in the pogrom of Campbell. Elefterios Venizelos was again involved after the 1917 fire, speaking at the parliament as Prime Minister, and talked with emphasis about the law-abiding stance of the Jewish population, but simultaneously permitted the prosecution of Maccabi for treason against the state.

Let alone the fact that the newspaper Makedonia with the inflaming anti-Semitic publications was clearly pro-Venizelian. At the trial, held in Veroia ten months later, Fardis and the leaders of EEE were found not guilty while three refugees were found guilty, but with mitigating circumstances and therefore were freed on the spot.

It is worth noting that at the 1933 general election, the Jews of Thessaloniki, in one block voted against Venizelos. [Source: Bernard Pierron, 'Juifs et chrétiens de la Grèce moderne,' Harmattan, Paris 1996, pp. 179-198]

7 Salepi: hot soothing beverage usually drunk in winter, made from roots of orchids mixed with flour and boiled with water or milk.

8 Coulouri: small round bread with a hole in the middle, like a bagel but much thinner, with sesame on top, sold usually in the streets, primarily in Thessaloniki.

9 Saint Jean Baptiste de la Salle: French missionary school founded in Salonica in 1888.

10 Saint Vincent de Paul: French missionary school founded in Salonica in 1783.

11 Alchech School: private Jewish elementary and high school for boys, founded at the end of the 19th century. It was also called Francoallemande because students were taught both French and German.

12 Gymnasium: Greek equivalent of high school. It used to be 6 grades, but nowadays it is 3 years, followed by three Lyceum years.

13 Pinto School: private Jewish elementary school for both boys and girls

14 L’Indépendant: commercial Jewish newspaper written in French. It was published from 1909 to 1942. Editor: A. Matarasso.

15 Monastir Synagogue [Monastirioton in Greek]: founded in 1923, inaugurated in 1927 by the Aruesti family who during the Balkan Wars (1912-1913), along with other Jewish families of Monastir (today Bitola), sought shelter in the Jewish Community of Thessaloniki and settled in the city. This synagogue survived the destructions during World War II because it was used as the headquarters of the Red Cross.

16 Aruesti: The Aruesti family sought shelter in the Jewish Community of Thessaloniki – along with other families from Monastir – during the Balkan Wars (1912-1913). Ten years later, in 1923, the Aruesti family founded the Monastirioton Synagogue, which today is the main and oldest synagogue in Thessaloniki.

17 Thessaloniki Ghettos: Until the German occupation there was never a ghetto in Thessaloniki. During the occupation the Germans created three main ghettos: 1. Eastern Thessaloniki: Fleming Street Ghetto, 2. Western Thessalonica: Sygrou Street Ghetto, 3. Baron Hirsch Ghetto in the Baron de Hirsch neighborhood. These were formerly neighborhoods with a dense, yet not exclusively Jewish population. (Source: Mark Mazower, Inside Hitler's Greece: The Experience of Occupation, 1941-44, New Haven and London)

18 Pascual: Judeo-Spanish: kosher for Passover; appropriate for use or consumption during the week of the Jewish Easter (Pesach or Passover), a time when the Jewish people do not eat food that raises, e.g. bread

I, Inna Ilyinichna Rajskaya, was born in Leningrad in 1933. My paternal great-grandmother and great-grandfather – the parents of my paternal grandmother  - were from Belorussia. Great-grandfather Elkona Borishansky ran his own business -- he dealt with drapery and was a fabric merchant. His wife, my great-grandmother, was a housewife -- I don’t know her name. I do know that the family lived in Minsk and that in addition to their house in Zakharievskaya St. there, they had a big estate  in the Rodoshkovichy region.

My family background

Growing up

During the war

After the war

Husband and children

Recent years

My family background

Their daughter, my father’s mother, was called Feiga-Tsipa Elkonovna Shif, nee Borishanskaya. She was born in 1867 in Minsk. She had many sisters and brothers, but I don’t know their names. After the [1917] Revolution some of them emigrated to the United States, but unfortunately the family lost contact with them. I myself never knew my grandmother; she died when my father was 14.  My grandmother’s family was quite wealthy: after all, great-grandfather was a merchant. Everyone was remarkably kind; they brought up not only their own children, but supported other, poor families. I remember hearing about one family that they supported greatly - the Mazel family. All the children in my grandmother’s family, especially the girls, had their schooling at home: their parents hired tutors who came to the house. One of those teachers was my grandfather Iosif.

Iosif Ilyich Shif was born in 1870, but where – I don’t know. He lived his entire life in Minsk. I know little about his family, just that they were not very prosperous but tried nonetheless to educate their children. In 1890 Grandpa completed his education in pedagogy and became a teacher in a Jewish school in Minsk. He taught young children both in his own family and in other families, among them the Borishanskie children.  And so it happened that my grandmother, Feiga-Tsipa Elkonovna Borishanskaya, and Grandpa Iosif fell in love and later got married.

Grandpa wrote a book in Hebrew titled “Mesikhta dereh erezh”, a science fiction treatise about commerce. It was published in Minsk in 1912. We have this book at home. My father told me that the apartment they lived in was a large one. It was situated in the center of Minsk, and every child in the family had his own room. It was a house with all conveniences. Besides that place in Zaharievskaya, they had a big estate near Minsk with a vast orchard. They had their own horses. In addition, they had housekeeping servants, cooks, nurses, teachers, and governesses in the family.

After the Revolution the family, like others, was stripped of all their properties, and  the apartment in Zakharievskaya was confiscated. They had to buy a small house in Minsk not far from the Opera theater.
It was a modest one-story building, but it was always scrupulously clean; my aunt maintained it rigorously. There were gorgeous plates and dishes and very beautiful silver spoons. Our family still has, for example,  family heirlooms such as silver spoons with the inscription “A spoonful of happiness” written on them  in Yiddish. These  were presented by my grandfather to a niece as a wedding present. When I got married, my aunt (she was alive at that time) gave them to me, and now I handed them down to my daughter.

The family was numerous and very hospitable; relatives and friends were always staying with them. My Grandpa Iosif’s   elder brother,  a rabbi lived with my grandfather’s family. He was a very religious man, and thanks to him even after the Revolution Jewish traditions were followed in the house. I remember that when we visited Grandpa, I often used to see his brother reading Jewish religious literature. They always told me that one must not interrupt his studies. Everybody in the family treated Grandpa very kindly and with great respect and tried to behave in such a way that he would not scold them.  There was a wonderful atmosphere in the family; they were able to treat each other with great kindness and affection. Even when one of the children was naughty, Grandpa stopped him not with a peremptory shout, but in ironical way. I remember very well how my Dad used to tell us: “Be quiet, grandpa is praying!”

My father, Ilya Iosifovich Shif, was born in 1904 in Minsk. From 1911 until the Revolution [1917] he studied in a Jewish school in Minsk. From 1920 till 1926 he worked in Minsk as a worker.  In 1926 he moved to his elder brother’s [Elkona’s] in Leningrad, where he worked as a metalworker at the Metal plant and later was an accountant at the same plant. That’s where he met my mother.

My mother, Anastasia Nicolaevna Shif (nee Kuznetz) was born in 1902 in St. Petersburg. She didn’t know her own family, other people brought her up, and I know nothing about her parents. Unfortunately, I don’t know anything about how my parents met or about their wedding.  At first they didn’t have anywhere  to live and rented a tiny room. But after two years  a room in the flat where my father’s brother [Elkona] was living become vacant, and my parents took it. That is where I was born in 1933. We lived together in the same flat with my uncle’s family until the war broke out in 1941. The family was a religious one and followed all the traditions. We observed Rosh-Hashana, Pesakh, Hanukkah and other holidays. My father’s cousin (who also lived in Leningrad) was a frequent guest in our house, and we always ate well. But I don’t think we followed the laws of kashrut, and neither my parents nor uncle attended synagogue.

During the war

During the war my father went to the front as a private. He served on the Leningrad front. Their unit was surrounded, and for several months they  tried to break through this encirclement. Father told me about brutal fighting, especially with the Finns, during which our badly uniformed, poorly armed forces sustained great losses. Father got along very well with his fellow soldiers and officers. Though he was just a private in a reconnaissance unit, he was a rifleman. He got wounded and was sent  to the rear – to a hospital in Sverdlovsk. When he was released from hospital he came back to Leningrad and somehow  got a pass so that my mother and I could also return from Chkalovskaya region (where we had be evacuated). So in June 1944 Mom and I got back to Leningrad. After the war my dad worked as a director of a “Lentextiltorg” shop.

After the war,  army buddies of my father who visited Leningrad stayed at our flat. I remember that very well. The flat in which we lived was a big communal one that had six rooms. Our flatmates were my uncle and aunt and two other Jewish families. One of these families also had its roots in Belorussia, but I don’t know anything about the other family. In addition, there was one more family – a Russian one, a very intellectual couple who had suffered in  1937. All these flatmates got on very well,  regardless of their nationality.

My father came from a big family. Everybody spoke Yiddish and Russian in his family, and  the elder brothers and sisters also had a good command of German and French. All the children were close. I had close relations with my relatives.  We visited my aunts and uncles who lived in Minsk very often, and they visited us in Leningrad, too. My parents had close relations with father’s cousins, too. One of them, father’s cousin Elkona Borishansky, lived in Moscow but visited us very often and stayed at our flat for a long time. 

My father’s sister  Sore-Elka was born in 1888, and after her mother’s death [1919] she took the place of a mother for the younger children. She studied in Germany like her brother Elkona, and he and she visited Minsk on vacation.  Sore-Elka got married to a certain Ura. She died in 1943.

My father’s sister  Eli-Sheva was born in 1895 and lived with her father and elder sister in Minsk. In the war they were all put in a ghetto and died in 1943.

My father’s elder brother Elkona Shif was born in 1890. He moved to Leningrad after the Revolution. He was a highly educated person and studied in Berlin until 1917. He  worked as an economist in Moscow and for a few years before the war was a bank executive in Leningrad. He had great authority and even after he fell ill with Parkinson’s Disease,  the bank used him as a consultant and sent employees to his home to ask his opinion. During the war he  was evacuated to Sverdlovsk. His wife, Bella Solomonovna Shif, a doctor, was drafted into the army and later transferred to a hospital to Sverdlovsk. Uncle Elkona died in 1953.

When Uncle Elkona got sick, not only my mother, but I, too, had to nurse him, as he was totally bedridden. He taught me a lot about my Jewish identity. He told me family stories, and from these I learned a lot about my grandmother, about my aunts, and about their children. He say so directly, but I now realize that he made clear nonetheless  that everything that was  happening in our country was unrighteous. I took care of him and talked to him a lot, and I am obliged to him for the awareness  that I am a Jew.

Another of father’s brothers was called Max. He was born in 1893 in Minsk, graduated from a commercial school, and worked as a division head at the Ministry of Commerce in Belorussia. At the beginning of the war he was involved in the evacuation of the documents of the People's Commissariat, so he sent a car for his family in order to evacuate them from Minsk. But his father and sisters remained in Minsk. He learned of that only after a month, when Minsk was already occupied by the Germans. Max survived the war and died in 1946. In 1941 learned that his children, Yasha and Fanya , had escaped from the ghetto.

Fanya was a prisoner in the Minsk ghetto from 1941-1942. Her grandfather, two aunts and her mother were shot before her very eyes. She and her mother’s older sister tried to escape. The Germans fired at them. But Fanya managed to get to Rodoshkovichy, near Minsk, where her family used to rent a summer cottage, and from there went on to join a group of partisans,  where she met her future husband, Yasha Axelrod.  She and her family now live in Chicago.

Cousin Yasha Shif was born in Minsk in 1923 and finished school in 1941. When the war started, he was caught in the Minsk ghetto. Later he managed to escape and join the partisans. He was wounded in 1944. After the liberation of Minsk, Yasha went back there and entered law school, which is where he met his future wife, Roza. They had a daughter named Rita. He worked as an attorney in a legal advice office near Minsk, but now he and his family live in New York.

It was a miracle that our cousins survived the war. I maintain very close relations with them to this day, even though we are spread all over the world: they live in America, so we haven’t seen each other for many years and communicate only by means of mail and phone conversations.

Growing up

I was born in Leningrad and was reared for the most part at home. I don’t have any brothers or sisters. From the age of five I attended a German kindergarten not far from our house. There two sisters – both former teachers – taught us to read and write, and they also taught us German; my uncle [Elkona] insisted on that, as he had a perfect command of German and wanted me to know it, too. In 1941 I was sent into evacuation with children of the employees of the Mariinsky theatre. These children were leaving for evacuation, and I was taken with them through family connections. During the evacuation I was at first in an orphanage near Kostroma, then the orphanage was moved to Kostroma itself. In September of 1941 Mom arrived; she took me and we together to the  Novotroitzk settlement in the Urals, where her distant relative Abram Alexandrovich Dobrovinsky, was a site manager of the building of the Orsko-Halilovsky metallurgical works.

After the war

When Mom and I came back from the evacuation, we found our room already occupied by other people, but since Father had fought in the war and was a disabled veteran, these people left and we got our room back. To tell the truth, there was practically no furniture in our room; apparently everything was burned during the blockade. Only a very few things that had belonged to our family remained, and these were only the things that had been taken and kept for us by a neighbor. After the war my father was in very poor health, and he soon had a heart attack. He wasn’t able to work the way he did before the war. Still, our family was exceptionally united, Father and Mother had a lot of friends who visited our house very often -  for the most part these were Jewish families or mixed families in which the husband or wife was Russian.

Later, I started to study from the fifth grade. I liked history, chemistry and geography very much; probably because I had great respect for  the teachers I had for these subjects. I particularly remember my history teacher, Raisa Solomonovna Ermanok - she was an outstanding teacher, a small, nice woman, who  after the war treated all the children in the class with great kindness and interest. I didn’t feel any discomfort at school because of my Jewish parentage; clearly we had good teachers and a good student body, too.

As soon as I graduated from school in 1951 I applied to the University to study in the chemistry department. Even though I had good grades, they didn’t accept my application, and one of the senior women who sat in the selection committee quietly explained to me that it would be better for me not to apply to this department. It was clearly because of the climate of mounting public anti-Semitism. This was the first slap in my face. Why it was the first slap? Because I felt for the first time in my life that I was a social outcast because of my nationality! Then I applied  to the Pedagogical Institute, but this time to another, department – geography, not chemistry – and I was accepted.  I graduated in 1955.

After graduation I married Albert Grigorievich Rajsky. Albert was a friend of the husband of my girl-friend Tsilya Ravich; he and  her husband had studied at the “Dzerzhinka” higher naval academy and served in the North. My husband is Russian, born in 1932 in Uglich, into the family of a clerk. His father was killed at front during the Great Patriotic War [World War II]. His mother had brought up my future husband and his elder brother alone. Both of them were naval academy graduates. 

When I began to look for a job, I again had serious problems. This was because outwardly I didn’t look typically Jewish, and everything went on in the right way until I showed them my passport [which said I was Jewish].

Husband and children

In 1961 my husband was demobilized from the Navy because of me, or, rather, of because of my nationality. They gave him no hope of being promoted to a higher  rank because his wife was Jewish. So he had to leave the Navy and started to work as a ordinary engineer in Leningrad.

At that time I worked in a Leningrad middle school, first as a teacher, then as a head of the curriculum department and later as the director. At present I am retired. It was only thanks to a schoolmate - she was my very close friend, and I communicate with her to this day – that I got my job. My friend had also graduated from the Pedagogical institute and worked at a school. In the middle of the school year her school had a vacancy for a geography teacher. The director of that school was a Jew named Safray, and thanks to him I got the job. He appealed to Gorono [the city’s public education  department] and said that he felt I was the right person the post. Gorono assigned me to the job, so I got fixed up, but with great difficulties. It was the second slap in the face I experienced. I also experienced a very unpleasant situation when they were confirming my appointment as school director. This took place  in the district party committee, and when the head of Gorono read out my biography, everyone woke up to the fact that I was a Jew. But they nevertheless confirmed my appointment.

Unfortunately, I have a very bad command of Yiddish, and I only understand it a little. I regret that I don’t know Yiddish, that I can neither write nor speak it. My father knew spoken Yiddish but didn’t know how to write. Why do I regret this? It is better to know than not to know, isn’t it? Lenin said in his time: «As many languages you know, as many times you are a man». That is, I could understand the culture and world outlook of my native people through the language. Now I only realize that I am Jewish, but I don’t know how to say it in Yiddish.

My daughter Elena was born in 1961. She graduated from the school in Leningrad, then from the Financial economics institute. I have two granddaughters, Anastasia, born in 1989, and Alexandra, born in 1991. My daughter’s husband is Jewish on his mother’s side; his father is Russian. Nevertheless both I and my daughter continue to feel, to realize, that we are Jews. We tell a lot about Jewish culture to our little girls: to my granddaughters. Besides, my husband – their grandpa - takes an active interest it, too: he reads books on Israeli history, on Judaism. Anastasia knows quite a bit about Jewish culture and about Israel. She knows about all our relatives, with whom we correspond or communicate by telephone, knows where they all live.

Recent years

Why didn’t we ever go to Israel? It was connected with my husband’s work:  first because of his military service, second because for 26 years he worked at the famous “Rubin” enterprise, which is now well-known all over the world because of the tragic events with “Kursk” [the nuclear submarine that exploded and sank]. He had so-called “zero access” classification [that means he had an access to very secret documentation], so we never even considered such a trip --  we realized that they would ever have allowed us to leave.

Throughout my life, I’ve had friends of different nationalities. I have several friends with whom I’ve been close from my youth. I was on friendly terms with a girl named Naimi Yakerson, who lived in our house, and who now lives with her family in Israel. My second close girl-friend, of whom I have already mentioned, was Tsilya Ravich, we are close friends to this day. We spend a lot of time together, and visit places or go to the country when we had a chance. I have one more girl-friend, Lyalya Simkina, who moved to Poland. We often see each other, Lyalya Simkina has even visited me, and I’m the first person that Musya Yakerson visits when she comes from Israel.

Most of my friends are Jews. But now, unfortunately, we are dispersed over the world. Our closest friends, the  Khanins,  now live in New York, though they visited us not long ago - in May. We always traveled a lot and tried to show to our daughter many places in Russia. We traveled often to Belorussia, where my cousins lived  before the emigrated to the United States [after the 1917 Revolution].
After the Revolution, my parents were afraid to keep in touch with the relatives who had emigrated to America. Only  my father’s cousin Elkona Borishansky, who lived in Moscow, maintained contact with them, but after his death those relations ceased somehow. Now I maintain close contact with my cousins – Jakov Shif and Fanya Axelrod, who live in New York and Chicago; and also with my nieces. We often communicate by telephone and write letters. They try to help us a little in some way. Certainly, all the recent changes in life in Russia are pleasant to a certain extent, because now there is no anti-Semitism – to be sure, I mean the state attitude toward Jews, not anti-Semitism in private life.

When Putin was in New York and met with Americans in our Russian Consulate, there were Jews present. And generally speaking, the attitude towards Jews now has become better. Unfortunately, however, anti-Semitism can be often felt on the everyday level. My son-in-law often have problems because he has a very Jewish appearance, and more than once drunk members of NRE [Russian National Unity is the neo-Nazi youth organization in Russia] taunted him, and even threatened him  – it is very unpleasant. Certainly, I would like Russia to join the European world and not to create something special, something Russian, which is what many people are still trying to do here.

[Inna Ilyinichna is an intellectual woman of 68. She remembers many details of the life of her paternal ancestors well and is very proud of her relatives. She often  emphasizes the  harmony in which they lived. When she tells about their lives, one can feel that she suffers for her relatives who have perished in a ghetto. Inna Ilyinichna considers it her duty  to recount the  intellectual beauty and strength of mind of her relatives to those, who investigate the  life of Jews before and after the Holocaust. She wants to keep alive for future generatio the memory of the grandeur of her kinsfolk.]

Perle Liya Epshteyn
Tallinn
Estonia
Interviewer: Ella Levitskaya
Date of Interview: September 2005

I interviewed Liya Epshteyn in the hotel. Liya is not a very tall woman. She is very agile, energetic and brisk. Her hair is curly and her eyes are bright. Liya is very affable and good-wishing. She is good company. When we started conversation, there was no tension, typical for unacquainted people. Liya said that after a difficult operation she had to go through, she changed her attitude to life completely and understood that the most important thing was love of everything around us and to love oneself. I could feel Liya’s attitude towards people around her, which was like a warm wave. I wish that wonderful woman a long life, and as for joy, she will find that herself.

The story of my father’s family goes back to Great-grandfather David Epstein. Even Father did not know where my great-grandfather was from. In adolescence he was drafted into the tsarist army. He was a Cantonist 1. It meant that Great-grandfather came from a poor family – boys from wealthy families were not assigned to the Cantonists. He served in Nikolai’s army 2 for 25 years. It was the term of service for the soldiers at that time.

Having been demobilized from the Nikolai’s army, the soldiers enjoyed great privileges. For their service the state granted them a large plot of land and money to get married and start their own business. There was a pale of settlement for the Jews 3 in Tsarist Russia. As per decree of the tsar Cantonists-Jews were permitted to settle anywhere they wished, even if Jews were banned to live in that place. That is why upon finishing the army service Great-grandfather was able to settle in Tallinn sometime in between 1840 and the 1850s, even though Jews were generally not permitted to reside there. Since that time all generations of our family had lived in Tallinn.

Great-grandfather got married in Tallinn. I do not remember the name of my great-grandmother. I do not know what my great-grandfather did for a living. I did not know any of their children, but my grandfather. My paternal grandfather Lazar, in Jewish Leizer, Epshteyn was born in the 1850s. When Grandfather was an adult, he became a trade dealer. He probably was prone for commerce as he rather swiftly became the owner of a readymade store in downtown Tallinn starting from a chandler. Garments for men and women were sold in my grandfather’s store.

Grandfather was famous for being exclusively honest. Epshteyn in Tallinn was associated with honesty, if someone wanted to say that all was square, they said, ‘Like with the Epsteins.’ In his childhood, my grandfather received Jewish education. He was a religious man. Grandfather married a lady from Tallinn. Grandmother’s name was Gute-Mere. Her maiden name is not known to me.

The grandparents had seven children: four sons and three daughters. The eldest was Moses, then Solomon, and Rosa. The fourth child of the family, my father David, was born in 1894. Then Sarah, Berta and the youngest, Boris 4, were born. Boris’s Jewish name was Ber.

Yiddish was spoken in my father’s family during his childhood. Everybody knew Estonian and Russian. The family was religious. Jewish traditions were observed. Sabbath was marked at home as well as Jewish holidays. Of course, my grandparents were more religious than others. I would even say that they were pious, sticking to Jewish traditions in full compliance. As for the next generation, their children, they were not as religious. They definitely observed Jewish traditions, but in a more secular way. Religion was a pivot in Grandfather’s life. He was constantly making donations at the Tallinn synagogue 5, contributed a handwritten Torah.

All children in our family got a good education, as grandfather looked into that. There was a Russian lyceum in Tallinn. It was called Nikolayevskaya after the Russian Tsar. Father and his siblings finished that lyceum. Father obtained higher education at Berlin University. He graduated from the Medical Department, then he went through internship in urology. Upon graduation from the university my father had to confirm the diploma, issued in Germany. He was supposed to pass exams in the Medical Department of the University in Yuriev – now the city of Tartu. It was called Yuriev in Tsarist Russia. As soon as Father passed the exam, he was entitled to practice medicine on the territory of the Russian Empire.

Father’s elder brother Moses also studied at Berlin University. Moses was specialized in gynecology. He became the best gynecologist in Tallinn of that time. I do not know what education was obtained by father’s elder brother Solomon. He finished lyceum for sure. He had a store in Tallinn. Father’s younger sister Sarah finished the Sorbonne [University in France]. She was proficient in French and taught that language. The youngest, Boris, studied at the Economy Department of Vienna University. Upon graduation he came back to Tallinn, worked as an accountant in Grandfather’s store. I do not know what education father’s sisters Rosa and Berta got. Both of them finished lyceum, but I cannot recall, if they went on with their education.

Grandfather Lazar died in the early 1920s, long before I was born. He was buried in the Jewish cemetery in Tallinn. The funeral was in accordance with the Jewish rite. Grandfather’s grave is still there.

During World War I, the Germans occupied the territory of Estonia. After the Germans, Estonia was captured by Bolsheviks 6. The Germans gave power to the temporary government of Estonia, but the Russian Bolsheviks, supported by Estonian communists, wanted Estonia to become Soviet. They commenced military actions from Narva and almost reached Tallinn. The Estonian army fought them, with the assistance of the troops of England, Finland and the Russian White Guards 7.

During the Estonian War of Liberation 8 my father and his elder brother Moses discontinued their studies and joined the Estonian liberation army. Since they were knowledgeable about medicine, both of them were medical assistants, but they also took part in military actions. When the war of liberation was over, Estonia gained independence 9. Father never told me about his experience in military actions.

In the 1990s, during my stay in Israel, I visited a museum in Tel Aviv, where I was given the list of Estonian Jews, who took part in the Estonian War of Liberation of 1918. My father and Uncle Moses were in that list. There I also found out about the origin of my surname, Epstein. The last name Epshteyn is common among Jews. It turned out that this name stems from Austria.

Moses was married twice. I do not remember his first wife. Their daughter Anna became an outstanding Estonian ballet dancer. His second wife’s name was Revekka. I do not remember her maiden name. They had a son, Alexander. Solomon was married to a certain Mervits. Their daughter Miriam was born in 1919. I cannot recall the first name of Rosa’s husband. He came from a wealthy and respectable family in Tartu by the name of Klompus. They had two daughters, Natalia and Tamara. Sarah married a certain Klas. Sarah had two children: daughter Irene and son Lazar. Berta married a certain Roubinovich. I do not remember the name of her only daughter. She is currently residing in the USA. Boris married Mihl Minkov. She was called Manya in the family.

Mother’s family lived in Belarus. My maternal grandfather, Shaye-Itse Levin, and my grandmother Perle-Esse are from what today is Belarus. It was Polish territory at that time, so my grandparents were fluent in Polish. Grandmother even looked like a Polish lady. She had fair hair and blue eyes. Mother said that Grandfather fell in love with her at first sight. I do not know, what education Grandfather received. Grandmother finished three grades of Jewish school. She was a very cultured, tactful and intelligent woman. She was a wonderful mother and grandmother. I loved her very much.

Mother’s family lived in the town of Korotkovo of Mogilev province [about 200 km from Minsk]. It was a truly Jewish town. Grandfather dealt with timbering, and Grandmother was a housewife. My grandparents had six children, who were born in Korotkovo. The eldest was a son, Shmuel-Sakhne, then Haim and Bentsion were born. Then three daughters were born: Rahil, Sarah, who was called Sonya in the family and my mother Revekka. Her Jewish name was Riva-Breine. Mother was born in 1900.

I do not know when exactly and for what reason my mother’s family moved to the Estonian town of Narva bordering on Russian [about 200 km from Tallinn]. All I know is that Mother finished a Russian lyceum in Narva. All her siblings were educated. Though, I do not recall if Mother’s sisters studied anywhere beside the lyceum. Mother’s brother received higher education. Shmuel-Sakhne and Haim became lawyers, and Bentsion became an economist. 

Shmuel-Sakhne married Anna Rogovskaya. Their only son Simon subsequently became a prominent lawyer in Tallinn. Haim’s wife was Sarah, nee Gloushkina. They had three daughters. She immigrated to Palestine in the 1930s and died there. I don’t remember the name of the first daughter; the other two daughters were twins, Jenny and Doris. Bentsion was married to Tsipa, nee Bovshevar. Tsipa came from a very famous Jewish family. Her father and other relatives were rabbis, Jewish religious figures. Bentsion and Tsipa did not have children.

Rahil was married to a Jew from Tallinn named Rosenfeld. Their son Isai was born in 1919, their daughter Bella in 1920. Sarah’s husband, Michel Auguston, was from Riga, after getting married Sarah lived in Riga. They had a son, Isai. All of them were married only to Jews, and had traditional Jewish weddings. All of them, but Sarah, lived in Tallinn.

The Estonian Jewish community of the 20th century was very strong and rich. Jews were always treated loyally in Estonia. Even when Estonia was part of the Russian Empire, there were no Jewish pogroms, like in other places all over Russia 10. There was an admission quota for the Jews in higher education institutions in Tsarist Russia. The number of Jews in any university could not exceed 5 percent out of the overall number of students 11. There was no admission quota in Estonia. Not only Estonian Jews came to enter Tartu University, but also Jews from other regions of Russia. They even came from Latvia, as there was an admission quota at Riga University.

There were several Jewish students’ corporations 12 at Tartu University. There was a Jewish Students’ Aid Fund 13. There were a lot of doctors, lawyers, teachers among Estonian Jews. Children’s and youth Zionist organization were acting in tsarist times. Synagogues and prayer houses were built. Jewish schools, Jewish lyceums were open and the tsarist government was not in the way. The only restriction for the Jews was that they had no right to be officers in the army.

When Estonia gained independence, Jews became equal citizens of the country. The pale of settlement was abolished. There was no state anti-Semitisms. There was barely any anti-Semitism in everyday life in Estonia. In 1926 Jews were granted cultural autonomy 14 by the Estonian government. It greatly influenced the further development of the Jewry in Estonia.

My parents met at charity ball in Tallinn. Such charity balls were held annually. They were arranged by the Jewish community of Tallinn, and numerous students’ and Zionist organizations. Auctions and raffles were held there, and some things, like flowers, pastries were sold. Rich families contributed vases, jewelry and all kinds of things. They were sold at a much more expensive price and the earnings were donated for charity.

At that time mother’s siblings lived in Tallinn and she often came from Narva to see them. Mother was a beauty. Grandmother said, when they were living in Narva, the infantry regiment of his Majesty Emperor was positioned there. All officers of the regiment came to have a look at Mother. Once, Mother was selling flowers at some charity event in Tallinn. Usually the most beautiful girls from Jewish families were invited to sell flowers and pastries. Father saw Mother and fell in love with her at first sight. Mother liked him, too.

I do not know how their relationship went, but they got married in 1924 in Tallinn. My parents were wed under the chuppah, in accordance with the Jewish rite. Probably we have Jewish traditions in our blood. After getting married, my mother moved to Tallinn from Narva. Shortly after the wedding Grandfather Itse-Shaye died. Then Grandmother Perle-Esse moved to Tallinn, where her children were living.

My parents rented an apartment on Suide Street. When I was born, our family moved to a four-room apartment in a two-story house on Kaupee Street in the center of Tallinn. Our family lived there until the outbreak of the Great Patriotic War 15. We left for evacuation from that house. I was born on 23rd February 1930. I was named Liya.

Father worked as a urologist. Mother was a housewife. It was not in connection with the fact that married Jewish women traditionally did not work, but took care of the house and children. At that time, young people did not adhere to that tradition. Many young women obtained higher education, got married and kept working. People with higher education were rather well-heeled and could afford maids, who took care of the household, and governesses for their children.

Mother was always rather feeble. In her adolescence she was afflicted with exophthalmic goiter. Soon her decease got so exacerbated, that mother was practically incapacitated. Of course she physically could not work. Mother was treated by renowned doctors. Father took her to spas in Italy, Switzerland, but there was no use in that. She felt a little better, but her decease was not cured.  

It is not known to me whether when being a student Father was a member of any Zionist organization, but he was a convinced Zionist 16. Father contributed money as an aid to Palestine, and in 1933, Father, the husband of his sister Berta, and his relative David Gofstein went to help build Palestine for three years. It was not a duty or an order. Father thought it was a matter of honor to help Palestine. Jews from all over the world built Tel Aviv. Father, Roubinovich and Gofstein also took part in its construction, though by that time they were good experts in their field and respectable married men.

We had a real Jewish house, though my parents were not as religious as my grandparents. Both my parents and their numerous siblings sacredly observed Jewish traditions. Kashrut was observed at home. There were separate utensils for meat and dairy dishes, Paschal dishes, which were used only in the Paschal period. It was kept in a special cupboard and it was taken out only on the eve of Pesach, when the house was thoroughly cleaned and every day dishes were put away before the end of Pesach.

At home dishes of Jewish cuisine were cooked. I do not remember everything, but there were gefilte fish and hamantashen. Of course Sabbath was observed at home, and Jewish holidays were celebrated. Though, Father could not help working on Saturday as people could get sick anytime. If he was called to see a patient on Saturday, he never refused. On holidays Father always went to the synagogue. We marked Jewish holidays at home in accordance with the rite. During holidays our family went to see my maternal grandmother.

I don’t remember if our family celebrated Estonian state holidays. The only thing I remember is that on Estonian Independence day the state flag was hung. I was born on 23rd February and the Independence Day was on 24th February, so I remembered it.

I had a nanny in early childhood, who spoke German, therefore the first words spoken by me were in German. In general, our family spoke several languages. Since childhood Father spoke Yiddish and German. Father was proficient in German as he had studied in Germany for several years. My parents spoke only Yiddish with each other and my grandmothers. Mother preferred Russian to German as she grew up in Belarus, then in Narva, and the latter bordered on Russia. The majority of the population there spoke Russian. Thus, I spoke German with Father, and Russian with Mother. I played with Estonian children in the yard, so I quickly picked up Estonian. My parents were also fluent in Estonian. It was natural for us. One could not live in the country without knowing its language. When I grew up, my nanny left her job and I was taught by a governess.

We had a large four-room apartment. Father made a lot of money, so we were well-off. Mother often went abroad with some of our relatives. My parents did not buy expensive furniture. There were not inclined to buy things, which were too conspicuous. In 1939 Father bought a car. At that time it was a rare thing, but he did it to please Mother. Besides, he had to visit patients at night at times, and so a car was very handy.

On weekends we went out of town and spent time on the coast and in the forest. It was safe to live in Tallinn. Life was calm. People could go out any time of the day, even in pitch dark night and there was nothing to fear. There were constables on duty for twenty-four hours. They were riding along the streets and made sure that there was order. People were different at that time. They used to respect people around them.

I loved reading since childhood. I learned how to read long before school, and was glued to books. I read in Estonian and Russian. My parents bought me books for children. In 1938 I went to a private Estonian lyceum. I did well. There were three Jewish girls in my class, including me. Teachers and students treated us well, and we did not feel ‘strange’ and ‘foreign.’ One of the girls in my class was shot by Germans in Tallinn in 1941, the other one is still alive. There were Jews Estonians, Russians among my lyceum friends.

By the way, when Mother finished lyceum she kept in touch with her friends from lyceum. They often came to see her in Tallinn. Her bosom friends were two Russian women, Zoya and Vera Luzhkova. My chum was an Estonian girl, who lived in our house. We went to and back home from the lyceum together.

I remember in 1940 Soviet troops entered Tallinn [see Occupation of the Baltic Republics] 17. There were tanks, trucks with soldiers and people on the curbs throwing flowers at them. It was peaceful. Maybe my parents discussed it, but not in my presence. They did not express things that children were not supposed to hear. It seems to me at that time adults did not discuss their matters in the presence of children. I had my own room and I spent my time there reading.

Father kept his previous job, and remained untouched. Our lyceum was renamed into school and we kept studying the way we did. Father’s brothers Solomon and Boris suffered. Solomon owned a store, and Boris ran Grandfather’s store after his death. He had worked there as an accountant when Grandfather was alive. Both stores were taken over and nationalized by the Soviet regime. First, commissars 18 were assigned to the stores, who watched the work process and got familiarized with the course of business. Then the owners were ousted.

Uncle Boris had other troubles beside that. On 14th June 1941, when the Soviet regime was involved with mass deportation of Estonian citizens 19, Boris and his family were deported. Boris was charged with being a bourgeois, an ‘enemy of the people’ 20, and sent to the Gulag 21, and his family was exiled to Kermez, Kirov oblast.

Hardly had we got over the shock in connection with the deportation of Uncle Boris’s family, another tribulation came on 22nd June 1941: we found out about the outbreak of the Great Patriotic War. Molotov 22 held a speech which was broadcast on the radio and informed that Germany had attacked Soviet Union without having declared war. The battles were held in frontier towns.

My parents were very worried. Father decided that all of us ought to get evacuated. Unfortunately, not all of our relatives were of that opinion. My maternal grandmother Gute-Mere was very sick and could not leave. Aunt Rosa, with whom Grandmother was living, could not let her stay alone. Rosa and her husband stayed in Tallinn, her daughters Natalia and Tamara were evacuated. Father’s brother Solomon, Mother’s elder brother Shmuel-Sakhne stayed in Tallinn, too. Both of their sons were drafted into the army. Solomon’s daughter Miriam was enrolled in the lines as a volunteer. Mother’s sister Sarah Auguston and her husband did not manage to get evacuated from Riga. Her son Isai was drafted into the army. The rest of our relatives were evacuated.

Unfortunately, many friends and pals of my parents stayed in Tallinn. People were daunted with deportation and feared the Soviet regime more than the fascists. Besides, the local population treated Germans as vernacular, as Germans always lived in Estonia. Nobody expected the Germans to do harm and exterminate Jews. Maybe some people were merely sluggish. It was easier not to take any actions, just stay than going towards uncertainty.

We were evacuated on 3rd July 1941. The husband of Father’s sister Sarah Klas was working for the militia and he had a permit to enter the territory of the Soviet Union, but it was not of great essence as the trains were ready to leave and those who wanted to go into evacuation, could get on them.

I vaguely remember our departure for evacuation. I remember vividly how we went across Narva Bridge. There was a raid of German aviation. The bridge was being bombed and we were scared. I was afraid that the bridge would explode when our train was to cross it. We were lucky to cross the bridge. Then there was a monotonous trip. We were on the road for a long time. There were occasional bombings. It took us a long time to get to the station Uvelka of Chelyabinsk oblast. We did not stay there for a long time. There was an evacuation point in Uvelka, wherefrom we were sent to Kopeysk, Chelyabinsk oblast [about 1500 km from Moscow].

We were housed in the barrack for evacuees in one room with Father’s sister Sarah Klas and her daughter Irene. Father was mobilized in the evacuation hospital, as he was a doctor. People who were severely wounded were brought from front-line hospitals in sanitary train and taken to the evacuation hospital. People who had light and medium injuries, were treated on spot, but those who had serious wounds and required complicated operations and long treatment were taken from the front line to evacuation hospitals. There was a hospital in Kopeysk, and Father could come home overnight. Mother could not work.

When schooling began, I went to the local school. I did not feel anti-Semitism there. I was treated in a good way. We took two suitcases of clothes with us. Almost all things were stolen from one of them, but still something was left. Mother took warm clothes for me. I went to school in a woolen skirt and shirt and I looked different than the local children. I was even teased ‘woolen factory.’ Locals were very poor and there was a vast difference in our outfits.

It was not the only difference between us. Our upbringing and mentality also differed. It was hard to get used to the fact that a person could promise something and not keep it without any serious grounds, but simply because of forgetting about his promise. We were taught since childhood that promises must be kept. People did not keep promises, but they were very kind. Russians are very good and sympathetic. They treated us very well and with empathy since we had to leave everything and flee from the Germans.

Of course, it was easier for our family as compared to others. We knew the language. It did not matter that we had an accent and did not speak clearly, but we could speak. It was probably easier for me than for my parents, as children easily adjust to new environment, and accept it right away. I became a pioneer 23 at school. I also took it naturally.

In spring and fall all school children were sent to the field during the season. It was new for me. I was not used to that. I saw what others were doing and copied them. I even liked physical work. In spring we planted cabbage seeds and weeded. Then we did harvesting. I remember how all of us were told to pick potatoes from the field. We were working all day long. My cousin Irene and I had to take the horse-drawn cart and take out potatoes from the field, filling that cart. I recall the steppe, night, gleaming spots of light. It came from the wolves. Their eyes were sparkling in the dark. We were frightened of course. My cousin ran to the village to ask for help, and I stayed with the horses by myself. I remember it as if it was yesterday. I was so scared! We were unscathed.

All of us received food cards 24. We could get bread, some cereal and a little bit of oil. In general, all evacuees were in the same boat. I cannot say that I was hungry. We understood that there was a war and everybody was destitute. It was shameful to complain of one’s life. We got by with the things we got on our cards.

Life was hard on my mother. She was unwell and she had to do work about the house. She had to bring water from the well, stoke the stove. At first we did not even know how to do that, but we were learning gradually. It appears to me there is no way out, you learn easily in necessity.

We were looking forward to come back home. We listened in rounds-up on the radio, read newspapers, hoped to get word of the liberation of Estonia. We wrote letters to Tallinn, Riga, and hoped that somebody would respond us. We did not know at that time, that the Germans murdered all Jews in Estonia, Latvia. They did not respond to us and we comforted ourselves with the idea that they might have moved to another place.

When the battles for liberation of Estonia started, we were waiting for daily messages on the course of battles and were happy to hear that the Estonian Corps 25 had fought back part of the Estonian land. My cousin Miriam was in the Estonian Corps. She went through entire war. Isai Rosenfeld, the son of mother’s sister Rahil was also in Estonian corps. The son of mother’s sister Sarah Auguston was in the lines of the Latvian division 26. We received their letters from the front.

The evacuees were rejoicing, when we heard that Estonia had been liberated from fascists it was like a holiday for the evacuees. Everybody congratulated each other, rejoiced thinking that soon we would have a chance to go back home. Father went to the Estonian representative office in Leningrad. Shortly upon his arrival, we started packing. All of us, who were evacuated from Estonia to Kopeysk, came back home on one train. My cousins, who were in the lines survived. They came back home. After war Isai Rosenfeld stayed in the army for a while. He was a military commandant in the German city Zwickau.

We came back to Tallinn, but it was not the place we saw when we were leaving. A lot of houses were destroyed and the shambles were still there. In 1944 the large Tallinn synagogue burned down during bombing. There was no light in the streets, and in the evening it was hard to walk around in the darkness. But all of us were at home, and that feeling could not be compared to anything.

Our house was not destroyed. We settled in our apartment, which was not occupied by anybody. Our relatives, who were coming back from evacuation, stayed in our place. Many of them had nowhere to go as either their apartments were destroyed or their houses were occupied by other citizens. There were a lot of people, but we did not feel any discomfort. We had lived in a wooden barrack for four years and were able to survive, what could we be talking now!

All of us, even I, a child, changed our views and we perceived things differently after evacuation. We were not obsessed by recollections of the good prewar times, we were just living. Food cards were used until 1947. We managed to get food somehow. Besides, there was a market, where we could buy some products. We were not picky. We were happy with what we had, and were not thinking of things we would like … Thank God we came back home safe and the most dreadful was behind.

In Tallinn we found out about the extermination of Jews in Estonia, concentration camps, executions in Tallinn prison. All our relatives, who were staying in Tallinn, perished. Grandmother Gute-Mere was shot. Aunt Rosa with her husband, Solomon with wife and mother’s elder brother Shmuel-Sakhne with wife.

We knew that Mother’s sister Sarah Auguston, who lived in Riga, and her husband did not manage to leave for evacuation on time. They happened to be in Riga ghetto 27. We could not get information on them, but we understood that they were not alive. Suddenly, we got a letter from Isai, Sarah’s son, where he said that Sarah was alive and had come back to Riga. Her husband was shot in Riga ghetto, but Sarah was sent to the Kaiserwald concentration camp 28, wherefrom she was sent to a concentration camp in Germany. She was liberated there by the troops of the allies. Sarah came back home. She walked across Germany, Poland, Lithuania and Latvia. She was the only one from our family, who managed to survive during the German occupation.

Then we found out more about the atrocities of the fascists. During the first postwar years in Tallinn there were actions taken. The graves of those who were executed in Klooga 29 and other concentration camps, were dug up and lists of those who perished in occupation were made.

After the war there were no Jewish schools in Tallinn. There were Russian and Estonian schools. Before the war I went to an Estonian lyceum. Since I went to Russian school in Ural, I went to Russian compulsory school in Tallinn. There were new subjects in school: history of the KPSS, history of the Soviet Union. I joined the Komsomol 30 at school. We had mandatory events: subbotniks 31, pioneer and Komsomol meetings. We did not think over it, there was no brainwashing in connection with the latter. We knew that we were supposed to do that.

Anti-Semitism appeared after war. Though, we personally did not feel it. We merely knew that there was a biased opinion against Jews. Our acquaintances told us about it.

In 1948 the state of Israel was founded 32. It was a great joy for all of us. My father, who had been involved in the construction of Tel Aviv for three years, was really happy for the Jews, who finally had their own land, their own country. At that time the Soviet regime treated Israel loyally, and as a matter of fact, the Soviet Union was the first country that facilitated the foundation of the state of Israel. In a while the attitude towards Israel drastically changed. At that time official mass media called Israel an aggressor and the Israeli army – the winner of the Six-Day War 33 and the Yom Kippur War 34 – bandits and occupants. We rejoiced in the victories of Israel, and its calamities were our calamities.

Father worked in the students’ policlinic of Tallinn Polytechnic University, first as a therapist and then as a member of the medical examination board. He retired at the age of 75. The nurses liked him very much. In general he was loved by the entire personnel of the hospital. He was a very good doctor and a very good man.

Father was not affected by the Doctors’ Plot’ 35, which commenced in January 1953. He kept on working and the patients made appointments with him beforehand. It was much easier in Estonia as compared to other parts of the Soviet Union. Local authorities were able to smooth over the situation. Everything was quiet. Though, there were rumors that the trains were ready for deportation of all Jews to Siberia. I think it was not just mere talking, as there is no smoke without fire.

We were lucky that Stalin died in March 1953 and life was calmer. It was the time when the Jews said: if someone was against our peoples, he would end in disgrace. Now I understood that Stalin’s death was for the better, but at that time I burst into tears and could not calm down. I was a student of the Riga Teachers’ Training Institute and came home on holidays. I was so befuddled with propaganda: ‘Stalin is the father of all peoples,’ ‘Stalin is our leader and teacher,’ that I sincerely believed in that. There was Stalin’s portrait in each classroom and a large Stalin bust in the assembly hall. All my postwar school years went by under Stalin’s portrait. I hung his portrait on the wall in my room at home. I remember Father looked at it ironically, but Stalin was an idol for us.

Of course, my parents perceived Stalin’s personality in a different way. Only once Father told me that one day I would understand who Stalin really was. My parents were very skeptical to my sobbing and lamentation in connections with Stalin’s death. I understood that Father was right only after Khrushchev’s speech 36 at the Twentieth Party Congress 37. I did not doubt his words. All of us saw how people were deported from Estonia on 14th June 1941 only for the reason that they achieved such a living wage owing to their intelligence and work. How could they be sent to the camp for that? They did not rob, plunder, they worked, and mostly several generations worked to provide welfare for the family.

Some of those who were exiled managed to come back home. But almost all of those who were in the camps perished. After the party congress it seemed to us that our life would be freer, and many of the artificial Soviet bans and restrictions would be abolished in our life. Soon, our illusions were dispersed. Anti-Semitism and our isolation from the rest of the world were still there. The only thing was there were no mass repressions.

My parents and our kin kept on observing Jewish traditions. At that time the Soviet regime began struggling against religion 38. We understood that Father should not go to the synagogue, but no regime could ban marking Jewish holidays at home!

My grandmother was the most ardent stickler for Jewish traditions in our family. All I know about Jewry is from her. She always made the family get together on Jewish holidays. Grandmother cooked Jewish dishes and did other things in accordance with the tradition. She even baked matzah and challot herself, if she could not buy them. All generation of our huge family got together– children, grandchildren. Now it seems a dream. I remember how all of us rejoiced in family reunions, celebration of the holidays. We came to see Grandmother on the day-off. We danced, sang, chatted. Grandmother was a pivot of our family, keeping all of us together. When Grandmother died in 1970, there were no family gatherings like when she was alive. Some of the people left, others died… Neither Epsteins nor Levins stayed.

I often recall Grandmother’s cozy apartment, full of my relatives, when I am passing by her house. Now that small two-story house is squeezed between new multi-story buildings. Probably it will be demolished soon and a new multi-story building will be constructed in its place. Once I could not help walking to the apartment where my grandmother used to live. There was some office there and I asked for permission to stay there for a little bit.

We did not mark Soviet holidays at home. Those, who were working, were to attend festive demonstrations on 1st May, 7th November 39 with their organization. For us Soviet holidays were ordinary days-off.

My father wanted me to become a doctor. He talked me into entering the Medical department of Tartu University when I finished school. I was always afraid of blood and the mere thought of it made me sick. Father persistently said that it was a trifle and I would get use to that. When I finished school, I firmly told my father that I would never become a doctor. I understood, if I stayed in Tallinn, Father would keep convincing me to study medicine. I had penchants for languages and I decided to enter the Philology Department.

At that time Jews from all over the Soviet Union came to enter Tartu University. It was easier for Jews to enter in Tartu than in any other city of the USSR – as there was no anti-Semitism at Tartu University. The only criteria considered were the results of exams. They did not try to cut Jews at the exams and were totally unbiased towards them. Even many professors came to Tartu from the Soviet Union. The entire pleiades of young scientists, who could find a job, came to Tartu and became professors at the university, scientists who were internationally recognized.

As a philologist I remember Yuri Lotman 40, who could not find a job in his native Leningrad. Not only Lotman benefited by accepting an offer from Tartu University, but the university as well. Tartu University offered job to a lot of people like Lotman, both mathematicians and physicians and other intellectual people. Of course, I ought to go to Tartu. Having felt no anti-Semitism in our postwar  Tallinn and having forgotten about my nationality, I went to Leningrad University. It was  a protest against father’s plans of making a doctor out of me. Of courses, I did not pass entrance exams in Leningrad. From there I left for Riga, where mother’s sister Sarah Auguston and her son Isai were living. I passed exams in Riga Teachers’ Training Institute, Philological Department. I was specialized in Russian language and philology. I lived with aunt Sarah. I did not feel anti-Semitism, when I was a student. Both teachers and students treated me loyally. My friends were Russians, Letts.

When I graduated from the institute I got a mandatory job assignment 41 to teach Russian language and literature at Tallinn Accounting College. Of course, I was happy to come back home. I worked in that college for several years, and it was closed down and all teachers were transferred to an Estonian compulsory school. Being a school teacher is hard even for those who like their profession. It was like an incessant horror for me. At college the students were more grown-up and they were aware that they ought to study. It was hard for me to work with schoolchildren. I came home emaciated and I had to check the papers and get ready for the next day’s classes. I spent more time on the discipline in the classroom than on teaching.

I worked at school for 14 years, and understood that I could not go on with that any more. I saw a job opening in Tallinn conservatoire. They needed a teacher of Russian language and literature. Eight people were applying for that position, but I was selected. I worked there for 21 years. My students were adults and they were willing to study and found the classes interesting. It made me happy and I tried finding challenging materials for my classes and got ready for each class as if it was an exam. The students loved me. Even now, when I see my students in the street, they are thanking me for my classes, which they were pleased with. Of course, I am happy to hear it.

When I was working at school, Father convinced me to finish the English Department of Tallinn Teachers’ Training Institute extramurally. I was angry and said that I was not willing to study. Father used to say, ‘Learn, while you are alive, then you will appreciate my words.’ It was hard to study, but now I am very happy that Father convinced me to study. If the language is not used, it is easy to forget it, but still my reading and listening comprehension skills are good and my speaking skills are basic. I regret not to have studied French with Father’s sister Sarah Klas, who studied at the Sorbonne and was proficient in French. Though, it was in my childhood, if I was more mature I would welcome such an opportunity. It is so good to know any language!

I did not join the Party. In spite of the fact of being a teacher, which was an ideological position, I could obviate it. The school’s political officer told me couple of times that I should join the Party since I was supposed to raise my students in accordance with the communist ideology. I used to say that the best of the best were supposed to be in the Party and I did not deserve it. Every time we talked about it, I would say that I was not ready. The political officer did not insist, just made suggestions. There was a more loyal attitude toward this issue in our republic as compared to other ones in the USSR.

In the late 1960s the Soviet regime permitted Jews to leave the USSR for permanent abode in Israel. Many of our relatives immigrated. The daughter of Father’s sister Berta Roubinovich is living in America. The twins Jenny and Doris, the daughters of Mother’s brother Haim Levin, immigrated to Israel. They are still living there with their families. The daughter of mother’s sister Rahil Rosenfeld Bella is residing in Israel. Their family is Orthodox. They have two sons and 15 grandchildren. Bella’s brother, Isai Rosenfeld, also lived Israel. He passed away in 1996.

My favorite cousin Isai Auguston and his wife are living in Cleveland, USA. Isai left Latvia, when it became independent [see Reestablishment of the Latvian Republic] 42. It was not their choice. Their children were leaving, and Isai with his wife did not want to part with them. Now Isai and his wife are living in the seniors’ community in Cleveland. Isai is nostalgic about his home, Riga. He often writes me in his letters: ‘Feel happy, that you never got to immigrate, have your own apartment, vernacular walls, chance to walk along native streets … You do not have a disease called nostalgia, for which there is no cure. Rejoice in every day you spend at home.’

At his age, it is hard to change your mode of life, you whereabouts. The older the man, the harder it is for him to find new friends and adapt to a new life style. Besides, Isai is a very active man, it is hard for him to loiter. He is a historian. He was a history teacher, one of the founders of the Jewish school in Riga. When he retired, Isai founded the Museum of Latvian Defense in Riga. He visited places, liberated by the Latvian division, gathered documents, photographs and it appealed to him. If he found things to do in Cleveland, he would not suffer from nostalgia.

My father was happy to have an opportunity to leave for Israel. He, a Zionist, thought Israel to be the symbol of revival of the Jewry, the dreamland. I was also willing to leave. Unfortunately, we could not do that because of Mother. She was very sick and the doctors prohibited her to change climate. There was no way we could leave Mother here.

We lived in our house on Kaupmei Street for 20 years, until 1975. Then it was made into an office and we were offered another apartment. We moved there with my parents. I have been living here by myself since my parents died. The house, where I spent my childhood, is still there. There were different offices in that house, even Sochnut 43. I often passed by it and could not believe it was for real. What happened, or had not happened. What is going on? I am looking at the windows and recall: this is my room, here is Father’s study. I spent my childhood here. We left that house for evacuation and came back here after the war. This house keeps the memories of my childhood, my young and happy parents. The past vanished into thin air. Life went by, but the house is still there.

A few of my cousins stayed in Tallinn. Both daughters of Rosa Klompus, Natalia and Tamara, died of cancer. The daughter of Moses Epstein, my father’s brother, Anna Exton, was a famous ballet-dancer in Estonia. Now she is the director of the Tallinn choreography school. The grandson of Father’s sister Sarah Klas, the son of Irene, Michael Belinson lives in Tallinn. He is the headmaster of our Jewish school. Irene’s brother Lazar died. My cousin Miriam Arounum, the daughter of Father’s brother Solomon lives in Tallinn. She is 86. Simon Levin, the son of mother’s elder brother Shmuel-Sakhne, who perished during occupation, followed in the footsteps of his father. His is a famous attorney in Estonia. His younger brother Alexander is a mathematics teacher.

In 1984 my mother passed away, and in a year Father died. Both of them were buried in Tallinn Jewish cemetery. I have a plot left for myself next to them. I even had the stone set up with my name, Liya Epshteyn. My date of birth is engraved already, and the date of my death will be when I die. 

In 1985 I turned 55. In accordance with the Soviet law women can retire at that age. They did not hold me up at work saying that there are a lot of unemployed young teachers. Of course, now I look at it differently, but I was really worried at that time. When my parents died, I was scared to stay alone in that empty apartment. I was offered a job as an assessor in the peoples’ court. I was not paid much, but it was OK combined with my pension. I worked there until the age of 65, as then I was not to resign in accordance with the legislation. People over 65 could work for the state.

In the period of independence of Estonia 44, all employees were supposed to know the state language, that is, Estonian. The employees at the court knew me very well and treated me fairly. They recommended me for a position of an Estonian teacher in the Tallinn municipal prison. I was supposed to teach the staff of the prison. Now this prison is a museum, but at that time it was a real prison, located in the old fortress. There was an air of despondence. I got unwell. When the doctors said that I had an oncological disease, I left work. Soon, my position was downsized.

I went to Israel in 1990. My aunt Rahil and her husband were still alive. Their family immigrated to Israel in the 1970s and we met after almost 20 years of separation. We were so happy to see each other. My cousin Bella and her sons invited me to come for a visit. I traveled all over the country and saw a lot. I was greatly impressed by Israel. This is a country, where each stone is breathing with history. I liked the people living there. They love their country and work on its thriving and fight for it! Let God send peace to this land, let there be no bloodshed and death of people.

I found out about my disease in 1998, and in 1999 I underwent a very serious operation. I feel fine, though I am living as if on a volcano, thinking what will happen next. I went through chemotherapy after the operation and it was hard on me. I was totally helpless, could not do anything. I was greatly assisted by the Jewish community of Estonia 45. The nurse came over, brought me products, cooked for me and cleaned the apartment. I would not have made it if not for the community. It took time for me to recuperate; I do not even want to recollect it.

In such a hard time for me I understood a very simple verity: there is nothing more important than life and we have to rejoice in every day we live. I was as if reborn after my operation and understood that there were truly important things to ponder over, without focusing on trifles. I knew I had to do my best to get better. Sometimes I hear the conversation of the ladies in the community and they make me laugh: Dear God, they are talking about the lunch served today!

Now I take thinks differently. When I was about to be operated, I was not sure if I would walk out the hospital. Now I look and feel better than most of my coevals, who consider themselves healthy. Your life makes you understand things. There are only two ways – keep to bed and tell oneself that life is over, or fight for one’s health. There are no relatives left. There is nobody to look after me. I do not want and I cannot be a burden for anyone. The medicine is expensive. It is hard to get to the doctors.

I try to be healthy myself. I strive to take walks more often, go to the community for physical training classes, swim in the sea until the temperature goes down to 13°С. When it gets colder, I do not feel like swimming, but I am forcing myself to. Every morning I pour cold water on me. It is hard for me to get used to that, and now I take such treatments not as a necessity, but as pleasure.

I try not to take pills, and if needed I take herbal treatment. I feel healthy and brisk. The only thing I understood that I should not make are long-term plans and worry about things which may take place in a year or two. One should live the present day, the present hour and find joy even in little godsends. There are enough joyful moments in our life, we just should strive to see them. We should learn how to rejoice in a sunny day, first spring flowers, red foliage in fall. We should love all surrounding us, and love ourselves, and only then we have the harmony, and no malady.

There was a period of time when I gave private classes in Estonian. My life was hard from a material standpoint, and that extra money was very handy. Now our government raised pensions and I decided to give up private lessons and live for myself. There was a time when I taught our rabbi Estonian. Now he has another teacher. The Jewish community helps me a lot. Once a week I get products. The community pays for my medical insurance. The Estonian government highly esteems the Jewish community and it is also respected by foreign sponsors. They take care of us, the elderly. I do not feel lonely owing to the community. I celebrate all Jewish holidays there. I feel that I am taken care of by the community and it is very important for a lonely person to know that someone remembers about you and cares.

Mr. Kofkin, a Jew from Tallinn, is helping our community a lot. He is currently residing in Switzerland. He established the fund of the Kofkin family. Thanks to that fund our community can help lonely elderly people and develop programs for young people. He is a very kind man. It is not enough to be rich, one should also know how to share his riches with those who were and are not as lucky in this life. Thanks to Kofkin our community will pay for a four-day trip in November of four lonely people to Toivo. I could never even dream of such a vacation. It is a very expensive resort. Last year we went to a trout place. It was a very scenic place in the forest. We were treated to trout there. These are the presents of our community.

When the Soviet Union broke up in 1991 I took it as conformity. In the West, the Soviet Union was called empire of wickedness and I agree with this definition. It seems to me that the process of the breakup of such a huge empire into independent countries could have been made in a gentler and less painful way to people. But it happened in such a way that all those processes impacted lives of many people and broke many people’s lives.

At any rate, things could have been less rough in such a small country as Estonia. It seems to me our government made a mistake in the first years of independence. When they came to power, the non-Estonian population in Estonia was more than a third, made up of those who came from the USSR. Many people settled in Estonia after war and many people came here in the 1980s in connection with the construction of the Olympic center in Tallinn. Most of those people did not even know that prior to 1940 Estonia was an independent state. In the euphoria of independence, people forgot about that mass of people. They were called occupants, immigrants and demanded that they should learn the state language –Estonian, or leave the country. I think our present problems stem from that approach.

It should have been explained to that mass of Russians that now it was an independent country, with Estonian being the state language and everything would be in that language, and give those people five years to study the language, let them work, study the language and take the exam in Estonian citizenship in five years. I think this approach to be right – even if a person does not know the language, he is a valuable asset, and why should the state lose that asset in the period of this person studying the language, if his knowledge and experience could be used for the benefit of the country. I think it is a constructive approach.

And what do we currently have? People who did not know the language were fired. Many people did not know the language, as Russian was the state language in the Soviet Union. People were at a loss, having no idea what to do. As a result, the best people, qualified experts, left the country as they there was a demand for them in other place. The country lost people, who might have done something precious for the country. Now they are thinking, started teaching the language to those who wish. There are state language courses, though they are very expensive. If a person passes exam, he is refunded half of the paid amount.

Of course, I disapprove of people who are living in the country without knowing its language at least on a day-to-day level, but still they should be given a chance to work and learn the language. That is why we have so many homeless people and vagrants. If a person lost his job, how would he pay for his apartment? So, he would lose it as well.

There is another example. The veterans of the Soviet Army, who liberated Estonia from fascists, are considered to be occupants. There is a monument in the center of Tallinn, devoted to a Soviet soldier/liberator. They are demanding to take it away, but those people did not spare their lives to oust the fascists from our land, and now they are blamed. Those things speak of the aggression on both sides. There is a reason for everything.

There are very few of us, indigenous Tallinn Jews. Even if we are not acquainted, we recognize and greet each other. They say that our Estonian Jews, and the Jews who came from the Soviet Union, are completely different in mentality, views and upbringing. Yes, we, local Jews, have different views on certain things, as compared to the Jews, who came from the Soviet Union, but there is no vast difference between us. It all depends on a person. We merely should know how to have a worthy and tactful demeanor, respect somebody else’s life, other people’s opinion and there would be no misconceptions. All of us are equal, all of us are Jews. We have to be one family. In good families people know how to get over misunderstandings peacefully, with love and respect for each other.

Glossary:

Ferenc Szabados
Budapest
Hungary
Interviewer: Laszlo Banyai
Date of Interview: March 2004

The interview was conducted at the Szabados home in the eighth district of Budapest. Unusual for this district, Feri and his wife have a three-bedroom house with a courtyard. The house and yard has been owned by his wife’s family for many years. Before the war, the family lived from the production of pickled goods. Feri worked as a free-lance general tailor. Although he’s in his mid-eighties, his eyes are sharp and smiling. He is prepared to answer my questions, and is visibly excited to do so. He attends the Nagyfuvaros street temple with his grandson Robi. They always walk home, this is when Feri talks about the past, and Robi listens with interest.

My name is Ferenc Szabados and I was born in Ilk in 1920. Ilk was a pretty poor, backward village in Szabolcs. There couldn’t have been more than a thousand residents. Of these, fourteen or fifteen families there were Jewish. Some families, like ours, had a lot of children, but you might stumble on Jewish families without children, too. My guess would be that about fifty Jews lived in the village. The village Jews were very poor, there were even hoeing peasants [day laborers] among them. One or two families were merchants. But none of them got rich. Any one of their businesses might have fit into a plastic bag. Some eeked out a living door-to-door. They sold potatoes, or milk. And there were Jews who went from one village to the other. They sold lime, and onions. One came with a nag, one horse pulling a wagon, and he would yell, “Onions, lime!”. Anyway, they were very poor. The merchants, they sold everything. The horse dealers mocked the Jews, but there wasn’t much difference between the two.

There was a Jewish shoemaker family in the village, a carpenter and a spice merchant. There weren’t any other Jewish shoemakers in the village, but there were one or two Christian ones. But what was shoemaking? They didn’t make shoes, they only fixed them. Except for the occasional merchant shoemaker, who also sold them. The postman was Jewish, and when anti-Semitism flared up later, they took away his license and gave the postal rights to a Christian. The postman had to go to Vasarosnameny for the mail, and then sort through the letters. They didn’t let Jews buy the peasants’ produce and take them to market. They said, 'if a Hungarian toiled for it, a Jew shouldn’t profit from it.' The Jew had to take the produce to Pest and sell it at the daily price. He came back and handed out the money honestly. There wasn’t any friction, well, the occasional remark that somebody stole, somebody cheated me. But when the Christian took the produce to Pest, he didn’t come home until there wasn’t a penny left in his pocket, but literally, I’m telling you. He drank it, squandered the whole thing. Then the peasant got nothing for his pains, didn’t get any money. The pub owner was a Jew, but he never drank his profits. In 1939, they took his license away [anti-Jewish Laws]1. That put him out of business, because they took his livelihood away. There was only one pub in the village, though the spice merchant sold palinka [brandy]. The peasants often got drunk, the Jews, however, never drank.

The peasants harassed the Jews, the Jews harassed the peasants, but it never came to violence there. In spite of this, the relations between them weren’t bad, they weren’t poisoned. My father, for example, would come home from another village with material, to make clothes – he worked for another Jew. When the peasants came by in a wagon, they’d stop and ask why he’s walking, then pick him up. They brought him home, and didn’t pass him by. There were some who did, but that’s what he’d expected from them.

Relations with the peasants were normal. They gave us flour on Friday nights, and on the Sabbath they lit our fires. And they didn’t ask anything for it. The landowners had about 15-20 hold of land [one hold=0.52 hectares, or 1.42 english acres], their situation was fairly good. But the serfs, who had one or two hold, and rented from the landowners, their situation was pretty bleak. Poverty was high. They had to work for other people, so their family wouldn’t starve to death.

The simple peasants weren’t bad people. But the notaries and gentleman judges, the Vasarosnameny gentry were all anti-Semitic, each and every one. They demeaned us, and generally didn’t expedite the Jewish cases they were solicited to do. They wouldn’t grant a market license or refused them, until they could find out how long the person had been residing in Hungary. They collected as many taxes as a person could bear. Or I’ll tell you this one example: the schoolmaster wasn’t an anti-Semite. He’d come over to talk. My younger brother was a very good student. But it didn’t matter anyway, because he always just got a satisfactory grade. Compared to the Hungarian children, who were worse students, they still got better grades.

My father, Jozsef Schwartz built the only orthodox prayerhouse [bes medresh] in the village. He knew everyone, and everyone in the village knew him, but then he was born there in 1888. I don’t know anything about his parents. When he began building the prayerhouse, everybody contributed a little something, even the peasants helped him with this or that, or some came to work. My father was the voice of the Jews, that kind of a superior, without official status or title. There was no rabbi, cantor or kosher butcher in the village. Once a week, the butcher came from the neighbor village, Gyure, to do the kosher butchering. At the beginning of the 1930s, I don’t remember exactly when, but they killed the Gyure butcher. Supposedly, everyone knew who the killer was. But they never caught him. In his place, they took some big man. Once they attacked him on the road to Ilk. That’s when he took out the khalef [Hebrew: a ritual knife used by a shochet for the preparation of meat.], then told the chump to just come on, if he wants to fight. I don’t have to tell you, he bolted. The so-called wealthier Jews were the tailor, the shoemaker, the carpenter, the spice merchant and the horse dealer. The rest were very poor.

From my father’s side, my uncles, Herman, Samuel, Abris and Sandor left for America, because at that time there was incredible poverty in Hungary, especially in Szabolcs. This was before the First World War. They left in 1920, but two of them (Herman and Samuel) later returned, because they weren’t happy there either. They didn’t know the ways there, and didn’t learn the language. Here they somehow made it by, although they were very poor. Both died before the war. Samuel had five children, but only one of them returned. Ida, Jozsef, Pepi and Rozsa didn’t come back [from Auschwitz]. Ignac survived and then died in Budapest in 1998. Herman had six children. Izodor, Simon and Sandor emigrated to America in 1945. Jeno went to Israel, and died there in 2003. Eva and Karola were deported and never came back. The other two (Abris and Sandor) stayed in America, so I’ve lost touch with them. Sandor had a lot of children, but we don’t know anything about them. My father’s two sisters lived in Pirics, a nearby village. Amalia Schwartz married Hermann, who died before the war. I don’t know what happened to Amalia. They had three children. Regina and her husband fled with their son to the Soviet Union, they were in a Gulag for five years, where her husband died. After the war, they came back and settled in Hungary. Miklos didn’t come back [from the war]. He had eight kids, only Arpad survived. He settled in Israel under the name Chaim. In 1928, Jozsef settled in France. His children, Rudi and Edit, are still living there today. I keep in touch with them. I don’t even know the name of my father’s other sister. She was also deported, with her husband, and her daughter, Rozsa. They never came back.

My mother was Karolina Unger. She was born in a village near Ilk called Lovopetri. Likewise, I know nothing about her parents, only that grandmother was called Bejle. I do know about one of my mother’s brothers, Vilmos Unger, who was also born in Lovopetri, in 1889. He married and had two daughters. I don’t know what became of them, if I recall correctly, they were deported to Vienna in 1939.

I don’t know how my parents met, nor when their wedding was. I was born in 1920. As for my siblings, Jeno was born in 1907, Erno was born in 1910, while my little brother Bela saw the world for the first time in 1922. My older sister, Berta was born in 1915, my younger sister Eva, in 1927. Eva was probably seventeen when she and my mother ended up in Auschwitz. Berta didn’t learn a profession, she helped around the house until she got married in the second half of the 1930s, also to a Samuel Schwartz (A very common name then), with whom she moved to Tiszaszalka. If I remember correctly, her husband was a merchant. They had two children, one of which was named Gabor. The other boy’s name I don’t recall.

My father didn’t dress in traditional clothes, but he always wore a kippah or a hat. I remember they made a photograph of him, and he was bare-headed in the picture. It annoyed him so much, that he drew a hat on his head. My father was a talker, but he wasn’t soft-spoken. He had a commanding demeanor. He had authority, because he whatever he said, he never changed his mind. The community respected him. It’s not surprising then, that he built the village’s only prayerhouse. My father was never political. He fought through the First World War in the Royal Hungarian Army 2, and was even held in Italian detention [Italian front] 3.

My father worked as a tailor, and this insured him a fairly narrow means for us. Mother directed the household. We had a cow and about 50-60 geese, but we didn’t make money from them. We ate them. My mother stuffed a goose for four weeks, and the liver swelled so much from that, that the neighbors came to gawk. My mother would have the kosher butcher slaughter one or two a week. My parents spoke Jewish [sic – Yiddish] with one another. We also understood what they said. If there were Christians in our company, they would flip over to Hungarian, because they didn’t want people to think they were saying something bad about them.

The house we lived in had a room and a kitchen. There wasn’t a bathroom, nor pipes or running water. We heated with an iron stove, for the Sabbath and weekend, we’d fire the oven, too. Wagons were seen here and there, don’t even mention automobiles. Our village was such a small place that it didn’t even have a market. Residents just exchanged whatever goods they could with each other.

We lived in Ilk at home according to orthodox rules. Our small community came to the prayerhouse my father built not just on weekends, but during the week, too. The Sabbath was celebrated strictly. Even though my father was a heavy smoker, he never took his tobacco out on the Sabbath. He liked the holidays, when you were allowed to smoke. It somehow connected to a good general atmosphere. My mother kept a kosher household. She cooked before the Sabbath. There would be a delicious chulent bubbling in the oven. We had a Shabesgoy, a shikse who lit the fire in the oven on the Sabbath. Her father was a wealthy peasant who supplied us with flour. We baked delicious ‘barkhes’ for him in the oven. That was his price. My bar mitzvah was in Ilk. That was the first time I put on a tefillin. I still know how you have to put it on your head below where the hair grows.

The four years of school in Ilk, I attended at the Calvinist school. There wasn’t a Jewish cheder in the village, surely because there weren’t enough Jewish children for one. We studied together with the peasant children. They learned the Calvinist catechism, but, honestly speaking, it only got through their heads really slowly. The truth is, we learned it faster than they did, and we weren’t even required to learn it. We even went to church sometimes, for fun. We even joined the choir. We got along well with the minister there. If there was going to be a wedding, that meant a lot of fun for all of us.

We went to Vasarosnameny to the Civil [school] 4. I moved there for that period. I went to a Calvinist school there. Strangely, I never experienced anti-Semitism in school. I even got along well with the teacher who came from Transylvania and was a ‘turulos’ [from turul bird –mythical eagle of ancient Hungarian folklore; used as a symbol by extremist Hungarian nationalists]. When my mother came to Nameny [Vasarosnameny], the teacher even complimented me, and said I had a big future to look forward to. What kind of future was possible for a Jew then?! We celebrated Miklos Horthy’s birthday 5, and mourned Trianon 6, but I don’t recall any other special political demonstrations.

Nameny was a lot bigger place than Ilk, almost a city. They had a number of prayerhouses, for there were 180 Jewish families living there. There wasn’t one neolog 7 among them, but there were some who were more religious than most. They dispersed to temples all over, according to their liking or their acquaintances. I remember there was a house of prayer for young people. The community in Vasarosnameny was serious. With kosher butchers, rabbis, jeshivas and mainly – why we went there – with cheders. We woke up at half past five in the morning, we prayed, and then started our studies. By eight we were already sitting in the Calvinist school, and in the afternoon we were learning in the cheder again. The Jewish community there supported us. They placed us at a merchant’s house, I slept there, but I ate somewhere else everyday. They organized who would have lunch for the Jewish kids from Ilk. We studied the Tora and Talmud in the afternoon, so we would progress in Judaism, too. I went home from Vasarosnameny every two weeks. We were so poor that I had to walk. I would have some fun by driving a wagon wheel in front of me with a stick the whole way. On the Sabbath, Jews who knew a little more about Judaism would come into the city and ask us questions. Every week they tested us.

I could have gone for more than three grades, since I won a scholarship on the basis of my good scholastic results. My father couldn’t even pay the reduced tuition. That’s how I ended up a tailor. I had apprenticed the tailor profession in Nameny. My older brother, Jeno also went to school in Vasarosnameny, and learned tailoring and sewing. All three of them made that same trip that I had. They learned their father’s profession as apprentices in Vasarosnameny. Jeno went up to Pest in 1930, and opened a tailor’s workshop on Baross street. Though, nobody ever left Ilk until then. Ilk was a village left behind, and they cursed him for leaving it. He was the family benefactor. He was a clever man. It went well for him, and pretty soon he sent money back home to us. When Erno and I finished our apprentice years, there was money for a ticket waiting for us at the post office. We all joined him and worked together as brothers. We sent money home every month, so our parents and sisters wouldn’t lack for anything. I joined my two older brothers in Pest in 1937. I was astonished when I saw my brothers eating treyf. Both changed their names from Schwartz to Szabados, Jeno in 1936, Erno in 1937.

I made primarily Jewish friends in Ilk and Nameny. When I suddenly found myself in Pest, we had Christian friends, too. We didn’t keep kosher. Mother wasn’t there to watch us. Until I went to forced labor in 1941, we regularly went on excursions, to the cinema, and to dance classes. Although most of our friends were Jews, we also made friends with Christians. It wasn’t a reason to exclude someone, because we saw everyone for the person they were. If they were respectable, we were made friends with them.

I wasn’t able to get accustomed to my new profession, because I was called up into workservice [labor battalions]8 on October 13, 1941, into the V/2 company, to Hodmezovasarhely. We got soldier’s uniforms, but they soon stuck a yellow armband on us, to differentiate that we were Jews, not fully-privileged Hungarian citizens. They took the uniform off of us later, at the request of headquarters. Then everybody was in civilian clothes. They left us the hat, but there was a national colored button on it, which they took off it, so we wouldn’t desecrate the Hungarian national colors. [The national guard ministry decreed in March of 1942 that the Jewish workservice should wear their own civilian clothes, and should sew a yellow armband on them, but in a lot of the groups the uniform had already been taken away by the end of 1941. Until the spring of 1942, there wasn’t general proscription of the yellow armband, but depending on the commander, this was also widespread.] I was put in the dispensary, in the sewing workshop. From that time, in November of 1941, they then took me to Korosmezo, in the Ukraine [this belonged to Hungary at that time]9 where we built tank traps and bridges. In the fall of 1942, (probably in September) we returned to Hodmezovasarhely. From then on, we were put to work in various parts of the country all the way up to September of 1944. We were in Orgovany, Pahi, and Csengodo, where they made us build military training areas. In the beginning of 1944, we went to Szeged. When the Russian groups reached the city [Budapest] in September 1944, they (the Hungarians) marched us through Sandorfalva, Baja, Mohacs and Pecs all the way to Kormend. From Kormend in the beginning of October 1944, they deported us to Eberau, Austria. I was in the Libenau camp in Graz, from where they took me in April 1945 to Hitzendorf, and then in May of 1945, at the end of the war, I was liberated.

I had made friends with a girl named Annus Ehrlich in Hodmezovasarhely. Before she was deported, she gave me a few pages of a prayerbook and asked me to pray for her, too. She also wanted to give me a jewelbox, but I didn’t have the heart to accept it. She said, if she doesn’t return, then I could have it. I knew that, the constables 10 would take it from her the first chance they had, but still I couldn’t accept it. I still don’t know what happened to her.

There was a band of fascists living in Hodmezovasarhely. They wrote in newspaper articles that we didn’t work. We just hang around and molest Hungarian girls. They connected us to everything. The city had already emptied out so much, only a few of us remained with our yellow bands. They called us into the Brigade commander and said that we shouldn’t listen to the lieutenant colonel’s words. Don’t do anything for him, work for him, because we’ll be immediately on the front. Hardly two days passed before the lieutenant colonel called us in to sew a suit for his son. Well, now what do we do? We couldn’t say no. On top of that, next to our quarters was a house where Jews were living, and they had been taken away the night before. We sewed his son the suit that night. If we didn’t sew that suit, they really would have sent us to the front. The commander said we should sew a suit for his son, because he also 'did for us'. That was all he let us know, that thanks to him we weren’t taken away, too. Now where was this great friendship coming from? He once asked me where I was from? I told him Szabolcs, and he also came from there. That word was enough for him to not have me taken to the front.

They took us to work in Orgovany, Pahi and Csengod. These are villages around Kecskemet. In these places, we built traps and trenches so tanks couldn’t get through. We built the obstacle out of wood and covered it in dirt. The forest was 15-20 kilometers away, and from there we brought the trees for the work. The whole thing was 2-3 meters high. Later in Germany, we did the same thing. Five in the morning we woke up, we got a little black water instead of coffee. We went there on foot. There they put a tree on each shoulder of two men, long trees, and those we had to carry to the location. There and back was a day’s work. We tried not to take the biggest trees but the smaller ones, there were young guys there. One of the sergeants took notice: "You want to take a little twig, a little branch?" He put such a big beam on us that we did ourselves in. We got back at twelve that night. We layed down, but at dawn we had to get up again and fetch more trees. We also had to transplant sod. We extracted the sod, so that we also took five centimeters of earth. We had to cut them into squares, which the grass held together. We placed these in rows next to each other. The commander counted to see how much each person did per day. If we didn’t do our daily amount, he would start to 'pony' us, that is, after work he would exercise us. Run, push-ups, squat thrusts and the like. Our tongues would hang out after he drove us like that.

At the start of 1944, we went to Szeged to the battalion headquarters. We spent four months in Szeged. Three Jews, and a company of Christians. Soldiers guarded us. They chose people from the three companies, to take to the front. Sometimes they’d say, "Everybody starting from the letter 'k' goes". Those who were picked out went to Hodmezovasarhely and from there they were taken to the front. A couple months later they took another group like that. I was always left behind, but then there was hardly a full company left, so they filled up the ranks with younger people. And a company went here, and again another company wanted to go, but then they said that those who want to go, can go and those who want to stay, stay. I did everything to avoid going. As a matter of fact, it’s because we had a very decent commander, a captain. Everybody wanted to go with him. If you’re going to have to go anyway, then at least go with a decent man. They went and the poor fellows never came back. The captain would return with a role call of who died where.

In Szeged, we worked and had boarding. Four of us worked in a tailoring workshop. There was a holiday, I don’t remember which, probably Easter or whatever, and then they said they’d give us leave, but somebody has to stay to tailor, so not everyone could leave. A boy and I both wanted to go first, and we argued over it. I had a buddy who said it was impossible to decide, because we both wanted to go home. I was pleading that my mother was home alone. We drew straws and I won. I went home for a week, then came back. When I saw my mother for the last time, I couldn’t tear myself away from her. She held onto me so tight, I couldn’t get away from her. We never met again. We felt somewhere unconsciously, that this was the last time we’d see each other.

My mother was still at home at the start of 1944. I went home, before I got back, the other boy had already gone, so we missed each other. I got an order to appear before Master Sergeant Szilagyi. I had to go back to Hodmezovasarhely. I didn’t really want to leave. I begged them not to take me. But no, I had to go. I continued fixing cast-off clothes. You have to know that the Master Sergeant was the world’s most evil scoundrel. An anti-Semite, and a horribly bad man. He wasn’t just evil with Jews, but with his family also, everybody. You could say he was a murderer. I didn’t want to go work for him. So I appeared before him. He really chewed me out. He called me all kinds of names and berated me. We started working there for this sergeant. He started to warm up to us. We were stationed in Hodmezovasarhely, but he lived in Szeged. Once he ordered me to take his bags out to the station. The others were already saying I was in his good books. If somebody asks me for something, I must be in their good books. I’ll just tell you that I once was sent to Szeged to shovel snow. We lived in terrible conditions and we were fed, but he didn’t let me go back to Hodmezovasarhely, where they might take me away. That was a really big thing for him to do. Well, how it happened was, I had to go to the commander’s for something. He sent me away to report to the lieutenant for something. He practiced with me for a half day on how to report and show respect, what and how to speak to him.

We tailors, shoemakers, carpenters worked for the Armored Division, and went wherever the battalion went. It was a military supply unit, which kept the equipment and uniforms in order. We sewed uniforms, and the shoemakers fixed boots. It’s enough to say that a traincar full of flour came for the Jews and the soldiers guarding us. The car arrived, and we had to carry the sacks up to the attic, and into the storage rooms. One time rice came, and we had to carry that up to an attic where there were no steps, just a ladder leaned against the wall. By the time we got that weight up those steps?! The sacks had no place to grab them, and the ladder was shaking under us. I picked up a sack of rice. It was terribly heavy, not like flour or corn. We had to carry them so the mouth of the sack was up, so the rice wouldn’t fall out the back, but I forgot about that during the heavy work. I pick one up, but the mouth was downward. As I went up the ladder, I could barely make it, my back almost broke, when the tied side of the sack opened and the rice fell out. Whoa, I was scared! The sergeant said to me, you stupid Jew, we told you to hold the sacks with the mouths up. He whipped my legs with a lash whip. He beat me because the rice fell out of the sack. His name was Janos Ebner. He was a vice-company commander. He fell into Russian captivity quickly. But he was lucky, and got into a good place. He knew Russian and they made him an interpreter. When they interrogated prisoners, he interpreted. I recognized him, and told the Russians how he had treated the Jews. They immediately took him out and separated him from the others. When they interrogated him, there was a Russian soldier standing next to him. He suddenly grabbed the soldier’s pistol and shot himself in the head.

One of the company commanders was an awkward, cock-eyed little insignificant man. We were in Szeged and I escaped one night. It was after curfew, we’d gone to bed, the roll call was read. Ten men were missing out of two hundred. He was so deaf, he didn’t even hear who was present and who wasn’t. My little brother came to Szeged to visit me, and laid down in my place. And he reported present a number of times. They mocked him.[the commander] When they were going to transfer him, we had a party, and then he told us what we had done to him. He knew about everything, that we went missing, and he didn’t do anything about it. It was decent of him.

So then we had to get ready to go to Bor 11. Bor was in Yugoslavia, and we heard a lot of bad things about it, I don’t have to tell you how we fell apart. We asked ourselves, "what is going to happen to us". It was bad news. They had only let us go home once from forced labor, at the beginning of 1944. We kept in touch by letter. Only once I telegrammed home to I ask them to bring my clothes to Hodmezovasarhely. Bring my boots, and whatever. I knew that the group going to Bor left on Tuesday by boat. They took them by boat on the Tisza, then over to the Danube. Master Sergeant Szilagyi called me over to him, and of course, for the first time inspected how well I could show respect. A true scoundrel. He says to me, if the company starts to leave I should just sew something for him onto his uniform. Don’t put any decorations on it, just sew the star onto it. That’s when it hit me. That’s how he arranged that I don’t have to go with the company to Bor, just because I’m also, as he put it, ‘a potato-munching Szabolcser’. I then had to telegram home again: don’t bring me clothes.

There were thirty of us, who didn’t go, who were entrusted with something to do. Well, then they came back saying, two people were missing from the transport. They took two more, but then five more went missing. I was really scared that my time was soon up. He ordered the other [tailor] boy and I to take inventory of everything in our quarters, while the company is withdrawing. "Determine how many windows are broken, what are the damages." When the battalion had gone, there were only seven of us. Of the seven five were rich enough, to pay off the good Lord [sic], not to take them. Us two tailors, me and my friend, who later settled in Australia, who didn’t pay off anybody, because we didn’t have a penny. It turned out later, that Szilagyi had a lieutenant captain-in-command, who was an even bigger scoundrel than he was. But in the house where he lived, there also lived a divorced Jewish woman, and the lieutenant had fallen in love with her. He fell totally under her influence, and even became friends with a Jew. The company withdrew under his command, and because of his Jewish girlfriend, they had it relatively good, despite the fact that they were sent to Bor. All the way up to the time that he was discharged because of it. In his place, came a lieutenant named Daranyi. He was such a murderer, that after the war, he was executed.

The Russians broke through in Hodmezovasarhely. Between it and Szeged, there’s a bridge. They took us across the bridge, on which bombs were hanging, we barely made it across when they blew up the Szeged Tiszabridge at Algyo. Then we went to a village, Sandorfalva. While we were there, they took us to dig trenches here and there. I don’t even know which villages we worked in, we were even in Szabadka [Subotica, Yugoslavia].

They took us to Kormend[Austrian border town] toward the end of 1944. There were a lot of Schwabians [ethnic Germans in Hungary] living there, with swastikas hanging off the houses. They were Volksbund. They took us to a two-story house, stripped us, and we had to sign a paper saying we were healthy, and there was nothing wrong with us. When we came downstairs, there were soldiers with bayonetted rifles on the steps. As we came down, they beat us, bing-bang, all the way down to the ground floor. I was beaten, but was also lucky. They didn’t hit my head, only my shoulder, and fortunately, at least it wasn’t broken.

It was the winter of 1944. It snowed, and there wasn’t a roof on the building. They locked us into a place. There wasn’t a roof and we almost froze. Then they took us to Kormend, to an underground bunker. There was a stable above us, and we had to go deep underground. You had the feeling you were entering a mausoleum. It was a mausoleum. It was full of Jewish boys. The guards tried to convince us to give them our luggage. The clothes, the good ones, we should give to the poor boys, because they’ll take them anyway. "Prayerbooks you should throw away", they said. "Hide them so nobody finds them". Someone among us, found their younger brother’s name carved in the wall. The guards wanted to take our money, too. They said, they’d be good to us, if we give them all our money. They were all villians. They only wanted money. There was a lot of despair.

So first they took us from Kormend to Austria by train. We got off at a station. A train came from the other direction and brought us all kinds of good food and gave it to us. They were German soldiers, those Hitler Youth. Twelve year olds, but all carrying guns. They heckled the Hungarians, a pox on them, but great that they brought us, they’ve got great things waiting for us to do. Yes, but they took us off the train at a station where there were loads of Jews all together – here was a row, and another here, and head high, so many. They were all dead. Then we fell apart, we thought we were dead. They took us to work in a little village called Eberau, near the border. Technical troops watched us, not military SS. In Eberau, the Jews built tank and armor traps. So if the Russians come with tanks, they’ll meet a big wall, and won’t be able to pass. The residents weren’t bad. They cooked for us there. We went for dinner, or some slop to eat. Then I hear a quiet thin voice say, "Is there by chance any person here named Feri Schwartz?".

He was an unfortunate, fragile little religious Jew, who was always praying. The poor guy was sitting in a ditch, I remember. He had come back from Bor. We were together in the forced labor, only he was taken to Bor, and I wasn’t. He was a young man from Szeged, Gyuri [Gyorgy] Reiter was his name, a lawyer. I also remember when he saw me he started crying. He said, "you, Feri, were always lucky, you didn’t have to come to Bor". And he also said, "if I’m with you, I’m sure to survive". Later he got lice. He was itching everywhere, and covered in bites. He scratched himself to pieces, he itched so badly. We were housed in a school, where Germans came. A one-armed German officer was in charge. They told us the sick would be taken to a place where Jewish doctors would take care of them. We were happy for them. Some among us were already getting weak, they couldn’t handle the rigors. They were taken the next day. My buddy reported in sick. Some guys going to work had seen, from a distance, that they were making the sick dig their own graves, then shooting them in the head.

All of a sudden, they blew the warning siren, that we had to pack immediately. They took us to the road leading West, thousands of people, but they didn’t take us on the highway. We left the village, then had to strike out up a mountainside. We went across this mountain for a day, and got down the other side, so we wouldn’t have to go through other villages. It seems they didn’t want us to be seen there. And they drove us, they killed them. When they took us towards the west, there was a camp. They wanted to bring us there. But the camp was temporary, they’d killed everybody there. By the time we arrived, the camp was empty. So then we went the whole way through the villages after all. There were SS-workers everywhere, they pushed us forward, further. Those who had taken us to the lager, suddenly just disappeared. At this time, the Germans were fleeing, they left in their horrible tanks, they were in trouble. They [the other prisoners] waited for the Russians to arrive. Many thought that the Russians liked the Jews. But they were taken prisoner.

We moved on. We slept in forests. We ate dead horses, anything digestible. We reported in at a lager on the road, in Libenau, next to Graz. We said we were Hungarians, and had come as work relief, and we’d like to work. We didn’t give away that we were Jews. The SS commander there – thank God – forbid us to work. He said Hungarians were not allowed to enter because there were typhoid-infected Jews inside. He sent us further on. We were very happy, because we had made it past the most dangerous point. We saw from outside that the boys inside were those who we’d left earlier. So we moved on, more precisely we were driven on. There were killers in every village who, to our luck, didn’t stop us, just let us pass.

One of the Germans was a commander, some assigned commander. Not SS, they’d just conscripted him, and put him with the Jews. You could talk to him. He told us the situation was dangerous. He let us know that he didn’t know what will become of us. He also told us not to go to him, because if they see him talking to us, they’ll immediately transfer him, and we’ll get a killer instead. We did our best to avoid him. That commander had some kind of plant, furniture factory in Hitzendorf, fifteen kilometers from his house. A boy from Mako knew where this village was, where the commander lived. When we arrived in Hitzendorf, this Hungarian soldier went to him, looked for him, and told him we were here. The Arrow Cross there, that is, the SS harassed him about where his Jews are. They put you with the Jews – they told him – so where are the Jews? Well, I don’t know what he told them, what lie he said. He put us in his factory. We slept in the plant, but didn’t work, there wasn’t anything to do. But he took us to work from there, and the SS from Graz would come and ask “who are they?”. He didn’t tell them we were Jews. “They say they’re work relief from Hungary, very good workers and good German friends.” So the SS would leave.

But the Germans were already falling apart. I saw some German soldiers playing around when another armed gang appeared, and they shot them. At the end, the situation was completely chaotic, they were escaping in any direction, it didn’t matter which. I was liberated, and neither the Germans, nor the English appeared, but we saw the Russians leaving. They never came into the factory, we never went out. We dragged on that way, there were about eighty of us. When it happened, then all the leaders, mayors – who knows what status these officials had – came from the surrounding villages to this wood factory. They thought that if they were with the Jews, nothing bad could happen to them. Thanks to that, the Russians took them and the Jews prisoner. They didn’t look at who was Jewish, who wasn’t. We were so happy, nothing mattered, "Come on over!". And then we were liberated, we were in the factory for about ten days.

The Russians robbed us of everything they could. They took my boots off my feet. I had a friend with me, who recently died in Szeged. He had a watch. We thought we could sell it to the Russians, and buy train tickets to go home. But in the chaos, when the Russians saw the watch, they automatically just took it. We didn’t care about anything anymore. Just let somebody come, and let this be over.

I’ll tell you how we got home. It wasn’t simple. In May of 1945, fifteen of us started for home. We had to go through Graz. We met Russian infantry. They were such simple people. They surrounded us, stuck us in with the other prisoners, and they wanted to take us in. There were a few Jews among the Ruskies [derogatory term for the Russians in Hungarian], one of which was an officer, though he was Jewish. And a high-ranking one. We went over to him. We explained that we are Jews, and the Russians want to take us prisoner. In that crowd, who knew who was Jewish or not, and then again who cared. The Jewish officer came over, took sixteen of us, and put us in a schoolhouse. He told us not to leave here because we’ll be taken, and never get back home. While we stood there, waiting, we got very hungry, and decided to leave anyway. That’s when the Russian accepted us, and we got out to the train station. There were French, English, German and all [nationality of] Jews there. They gathered everybody, and took us to the station in Graz, because the railway had been blown up earlier, and we had to put it back together. The Russians themselves even worked there, like workhorses. When we fixed the platforms, a train came and everyone got on. The Yugoslavs, the Czechs, the Poles were let go. When they found out we were Hungarian Jews they took us prisoner. They gave us a piece of bread. Eat, then let’s go. They took us into Graz, the Russians made us carry a piano, so they could ship it home by train to Russia.

At night, at the station, when the railway was fixed, which had to be fixed, a train came. Whoever could, jumped on it. They said the train was going to Szombathely. But we couldn’t tell anyone we were Hungarian Jews then either, because they would have taken us prisoner. We went past a lager. It spread out as far as you could see, full of prisoners. If they dump us in there with all them, nobody will get us out! We got across the Hungarian border. On every traincar, there was a Czech or Serbian flag. We stuck a Jewish star on ours – we had no idea of how anti-Semitic the Russians were, too. The residents told us not to leave because the Russians will take us to peel potatoes, don’t go home. The Russians were already in Hungary, so the war must be over. The Russians deluged the country, there were so many of them. So we got on a train, and arrived at Keleti Station [Eastern Railway Station] that night. It wasn’t possible to leave, because of the curfew. The city was full of Russians everywhere, so we slept on our rags, and waited for morning. One of us always stood guard, so the Russians wouldn’t kill us. In the morning, I went home to the workshop, and the Koszoru street apartment, where we had been renting. But I didn’t find anyone there. I didn’t know much about the family. I had seen how they took the Jews to Hodmezovasarhely, but I didn’t know more than that. I think my older sister had written a letter [in 1944], that she knew nothing about our mother. By the time I answered her letter, they had already taken her to the ghetto in Mateszalka, then to Beregszasz with the two little children. I went back to my hometown, to Ilk, because my little brother Bela was living there before forced labor. I found Bela in Ilk. They told him that I had been executed somewhere. We were very happy to see each other alive. A few people didn’t give back what they stole from the house. There were one or two, who were decent enough to give me back my clothes. These people, if they’d come from Pest, always slept at our house and always brought a fat goose. They were benevolent people. I went with Bela to Pest. We got together a sack of bacon, and sold it in Pest. I didn’t have a dirty penny. My brother Bela and I set about getting some work. I remember, we had one pair of trousers between us.

Our sisters, Eva and Berta didn’t return. Berta died with her two children in the concentration camp, in Auschwitz, but her husband Samuel came back from forced labor. As I understand it, he was sent to the Russian front but somehow fought his way home. He went out to Israel in 1957, where he remarried and had four children with his new wife. That’s all of their story, I don’t know anything more about them. Erno and Jeno were called up to workservice in Esztergom in 1942. From there, they went to Vac, then Budapest. They were taken away to Austria from there. Jeno was spiritually the stronger one, and Erno was thankful to him that he survived the forced labor. They were liberated in Mauthausen. Erno would have died for sure without Jeno. When he had to, he carried Erno on his back, stole food for him, and kept his spirits up. I know this because Erno succeeded in struggling home. Jeno was shot in Austria by a drunken Russian soldier. My older brother wasn’t the only victim. Erno died without a descendant. We bid farewell to my little brother Bela five years ago. His two sons are still living. I said the kaddish for a year for him, and since then I’m going to synagogue again. My mother was taken from home to Auschwitz. She never returned. But nobody from our village returned except us. Except for my two brothers, and two cousins also survived. My two older cousins went back to the village, to Ilk, and lived there until 1956, when the villagers threatened their lives. They started abusing them, which had only been a rare thing earlier on. One went to Canada, the other to Israel in December of 1956, while it was possible to leave the country.

We were in our twenties, and hadn’t been able to work yet, when they took us into forced labor. We had just begun our careers, and we had to go to forced labor. When I realized that one of my older brothers and my younger brother were still alive, we thought we should start something together. Erno and Bela and I started working in Pest. Jeno had been a well-known tailor in the area before the war. If I went somewhere, I would say I’m Jeno’s brother, and I’d get credit everywhere, anything. That’s how we struggled through, I’m not saying we got rich, but we did a lot, and whatever we had to, all the way to the end.

The workshop was a tailor shop on Baross street, where my brother and I, together with Erno continued working. I never became political. I didn’t join the Party, despite the fact that the Communists liberated us. There were party meetings, but I never participated, because I was working with my two brothers. Erno had a small business license. I was registered as an employee of his. Two or three years after the war, between 1947 and 1949, they searched our place. They said we were bourgeois, really, and they wanted to take our courtyard. They wanted to nationalize our house, but we were able to sue for it back. So they came in, and they wanted to occupy the apartment, and everything. They claimed we were rich. In the workshop, they were making a big deal out of what kind of beautiful shoes we had on. Imagine how beautiful shoes are on a person’s feet, if he’s naked!

In my twenties, I had been there for four years. Then it seemed like such a tiny event, and I had forgotten what I’d learned. But the kind of work I did and where, wasn’t really a problem. We were our own bosses, and didn’t have to make concessions to a higher-up. But because we were self-employed, and Jews, and private people, they put such a tax on us that we couldn’t make a living, nor earn even one percent of what they took in taxes. That’s how they wanted to force us into the union. If I had joined the union they would have relieved the taxes. They even said, join the union and then we’ll drop them. You see, we had to face them down because we didn’t want to join. In those little factories, there were little workers, but they weren’t truly tradesmen. But if there was a party member among them, he was made the boss. Unfortunately, my little brother Bela had to go work for them, because the danger of them nationalizing our place was threatening. The poor guy found work in the ‘Majus 1 Ruhagyar’ [May 1st Clothes Factory], and was very bitter about working. He had to work at night, and two or three shifts. He went in at ten in the evening, came home in the morning, like somebody who was drunk. "Join the party, we’ll make you a boss, immediately", they told him. He couldn’t do it, not even for the couple of pennies more. He just worked in the factory the whole time.

We slackened off on religious things from when we got back. The problem wasn’t how we were going to keep our religion, but rather, what are we were going to eat tomorrow, and what rags I could put on. I came home in shorts, and I didn’t have anything. I took a little work when I got home, and started to shape up. I had no scissors, to cut the pants with. There was high inflation then. There was a time when there were millions [bank notes in the millions]. My blinds broke in the workshop, I called a workman, the millions weren’t enough for the job. I couldn’t get used to it. On the border, when I was on my way home, I got a thousand pengo [Hungarian currency at the time], I thought I was a millionaire. You know what I got for a thousand pengo? By the time I got to Pest [Budapest], the inflation was so bad, it wasn’t worth anything.

The Horthy regime ended. The Communists never talked about anti-Semitism. During the Communist period, not one word was said about what happened to the Jews. They didn’t talk about it, but the Rakosi people [Rakosi regime] 12 were big scoundrels too. Gero and the other Jews [Rakosi, Gero and many of the communist leaders in Hungary were of Jewish origin.], they just didn’t notice that they were Jews, too. Still we were always scared that they might re-locate us. There was a time when they told us, my wife and I, to move out of our home. We moved quickly, because if they’d found us there, they would have taken us in, too. That was life. Those who came home, a lot of them were put out of their homes, and relocated. But during Communism there was never a word about what they did with the Jews. Today, a lot of them deny it. They say: it wasn’t true.

I never liked Party members, nor the whole party thing. Many who came home in 1945, didn’t find any family waiting. Well, the most natural thing was to get pulled toward the AVO [AVH] 13. They went to the Communists, not the Arrow Cross Party. They couldn’t understand, that for us it doesn’t matter what comes next, just let this [the persecutions] go away. I had a friend, Tibi, who said he lived off the Party, so he could get these killers back. He screwed a lot out them of their jobs. He lived for it.

When Israel was forming, I’d say that was among one of the greatest pleasures I’ve had. First the election [UN vote]. We didn’t sleep nights, we were up, waiting for the results. I could get [Radio] Israel and [Radio] Free Europe 14 in Hungarian. In the Hungarian news, the Arabs always won. [In 1967, the Soviet Union together with Soviet controlled Eastern Europe broke diplomatic relations with Israel. Earlier the Soviets were also in favor of the creation and support of the Jewish state with the hope to incorporate it into the communist world. Mr. Szamosi most probably refers to the post 1967 period when the Hungarian media was openly hostile towards Israel.] So then we heard about how rotten it was that they [the Israelis] were holding a million Egyptian soldiers prisoner, didn’t give them water. Luckily Nasser died. They shot his successor, Sadat because he made peace with Israel and visited Jerusalem. In 1946, a Palestinian killed the king of Jordan. How is it possible that a new generation grew up, and then another, and they still want to squeeze Israel out of there? They even took from what Hitler said about the Jews. If there had been no Holocaust, Israel would not have been born. The Holocaust contributed a big part in the birth of Israel. They wouldn’t have voted for it in the U.N. [suppose the Holocaust had not happened].

My wife’s father, Sandor Miklos, took this name in 1930. Before that his name was Weisz. He worked in the Ganz Mavag [major firm of heavy industry in Budapest] as head accountant, but in 1920 they fired him because he was Jewish . He couldn’t find a position, so he started a canning business. With my wife’s mother, Antonia Rakosi, they produced cabbage-cucumber-squash preserves and lived from that. At the beginning of the war, they lived in a star house 15. My father-in-law hid in the cellar. My mother-in-law had Aryan [sic - falsified] documents. There were really poor people living in this house. Before the war, they’d come over to my wife’s place, my mother-in-law would give them free pickled vegetables. How many of those were Arrow Cross 16 sympathizers! Constables lived in the school across the street. They wore police clothes and deported the Jews of Pest, and took the Jews away to work. And these constables came over, they had their wash done here, got manicures and everything, because they exploited the Jewish house, and could get everything cheaply. They even said they’d take my wife away, so there would be one more pillow for them. The Jews weren’t allowed to open their windows. The neighbors reported my wife for having her windows open.

My father-in-law was taken with the Jewish men on November 15, 1944. They took them to the area around Ferihegy, to Szentimre, to shoot them in the head. But he was lucky. He had been delivering goods to the butcher shops. Around Christmas, he’d always given the butcher boys cologne – and some present, pickles – so they might package their meat better. One of the butchers was also a high-ranking Arrow Cross, and he took my father-in-law off to the side. That’s how he got away. The rest were taken to Kiserdo [little forest] and shot to death. They organized mass-murders there, but I never heard anything about it, or that somebody had found mass graves. My father-in-law hid in the forest till the end of the war.

I met my wife, Gabriella Miklos, who was born in Budapest in 1928, in May of 1945, not long after we’d returned home. I had a relative in a neighboring house. Since I was totally alone, I went to see her, and as I was on the way up, I met her. That’s how we met. We were already engaged when her father died, and were married one or two months later. Our marriage was just a civil one, we didn’t make a big thing of it. We didn’t have a religious ceremony, because we would have had to wait until the mourning period was over. It wasn’t proper, and we were too scared, also.

It was unconditionally important that my wife be Jewish. First we had a girl, but she died at birth. Our second daughter, Zsuzsi was born in 1955 in Pest. She went here to the Dugonics street elementary school. There wasn’t any Jewish instruction, but she heard about religious things at home. In spite of the fact, that we didn’t keep too religious a household. Sometimes we’d light candles for the Sabbath, but not too often. We mostly celebrated just the bigger holidays, instead. We didn’t keep a kosher house, and still don’t. I went to temple during Pesach, the tent holiday[sic-Sukkot] and Yom Kippur. During Pesach, for example, I bought matzah, but we ate bread, too. We deliberately didn’t have Christmas, we were at least that Jewish.

Our house looks the same as it did then. It was always two and a half bedrooms. We had to rearrange it, so there wouldn’t be a third bedroom, because then there was another problem, they’d nationalize it. Some order came out, that for a certain amount of residents only a certain number of rooms could be in the family name. Those who had apartments bigger than the ordinance, moved to smaller apartments. My mother-in-law still lived with us then. The house here in the eighth district [of Budapest] was hers. A detached house with a courtyard. After the war, we worked a lot. We saved everything we could. Then later things got going, and I could even buy a car. But that was a lot later, I bought a Wartburg [East German brand] in 1965-66. There wasn’t a choice then; you could choose between a Wartburg or a Trabant [another brand of the same company]. At that time, you didn’t just have the money and go buy it – you paid for it, then waited for years until your name came up on the list. After that, we took the car out for excursions. We saw almost every part of this country. Wherever you could go, we went. Gasoline wasn’t expensive, three forints a liter. We even took a trip to the beach 200 kilometers away. Then we went to Vienna – when you were allowed to go out once every three years – and then to the West. We got fifty dollars [hard currency allotment], and we went to France. [The rest of the money had to be illegally smuggled out of Hungary.] We’ve traveled through France three times. But aside from that, we’ve been to Italy, and a little in Yugoslavia.

I had a constant relationship with my French cousin. My father’s sister, Amalia had a son, Jozsef who settled in France in 1928. France was in a terrible state after the war, and this cousin Rudi [Jozsef’s son] and his younger sister were just children, one was sixteen , the other thirteen. Their father sent them here in 1947 for three months, and we fostered them here. Rudi lives in Lyon. He visits us once a year, and we visited him three times. We write letters every week. Sometimes, we even call.

Once we went to Israel in 1990. As soon as the connections opened up more [1989 Political Changes in Hungary] 17, we went. Our relatives live there, my cousin’s son. He was a small boy when he left, we were young, too. We couldn’t make contact with the Israelis for a while. It wasn’t recommended to write to Israel. People were busy with defense. Mirjam’s family in Israel told us that it was very hard for them to get to the country. They could only get there illegally through Vienna then Italy. They arrived in 1948, when the U.N. voted for independence. In the beginning, they loaded the ships in the Haifa harbor. They didn’t get anything for it, just enough to eat. They lived near Latrun, where the Arabs were always shelling. We’ve been writing since 1990, but up to then we had no contact.

At the time, I thought about it, that we should make aliyah, but my wife’s father died in 1949. Her mother was alone, and we didn’t want to leave her by herself. When we brought the subject up, my mother-in-law was distraught that we might leave her alone. Long after, I understand her better than at the time. The same thing happened when this book came out, or some ad, that said you could go to America, or emigrate to Canada. Zsuzsi, our daughter had finished school. She had already married Gabor. And Zsuzsi read about this grant program, and she had everything. College graduate, multi-lingual, she was the right age, and she had two children. She fit perfectly, and when she would just start to talk about it, how good it would be to apply, I literally got sick.

I didn’t have a lot of friends. The friends I had were Jews. But they died early and young. I was with one of them, Miklos Kadar, in the forced labor, but he also died. Another boy I was with there, is still living. He built a very big carrier in Australia. Sanyi was a tailor and lived from that. In the beginning, he was poor but then he got rich. Even though he didn’t have more than two years of secondary school, he made these investments which made him rich. He invested, bought houses and sold them. He told me about it when he was here. I got a phone call from him, that I should look him up in the hotel on the island [Margit island in the Danube, between Buda and Pest], because he brought me something. He gave me 50 or 100 dollars. In fact, when Zsuzsi got married he sent 50 dollars. He was a very clever man. As a tailor, he was exceptionally clever. Besides that, he was so physically strong that in forced labor, he could have wrestled and thrown to the ground any of the Hungarian soldiers. In the division, only two tailors remained alive. Me and him. There was a tiremaking workshop there, where they made car tires. You had to lift it with one hand; of the 400 Hungarian soldiers, nobody could lift it except him. Once two killer constables, took him away just as we were leaving the Jewish temple. When they let him out, we couldn’t recognize him from his face. They beat him so badly, that we only recognized his voice. And all he said was be glad it wasn’t any of you, because you wouldn’t have survived it. And he was right, we really wouldn’t have survived that.

Our daughter, Zsuzsi, attended the College of Foreign Trade. She learned two languages. She has an advanced accreditation in Russian and English. Zsuzsi married a Jew. Her husband, Gabor Gemesi finished college. He studied vehicle electricity [in Hungary, auto mechanics are seperated into three vocations. One for body work, one for engine work, and one for electricity]. He works here in the courtyard, he opened a workshop here. He’s a tradesman and an entrepreneur. Zsuzsi usually comes to temple [synagogue] with me. It’s the most natural thing for her to come to temple with us, despite the fact that we didn’t really teach her religion. She heard us talk about this and that at home, but we never explicitly taught her religion. She must have heard something from my older and younger brothers. It was also natural for her to marry a Jew. Zsuzsi has also been to England. One of her colleagues emigrated, and she went to visit them for three weeks. When she was in England, Zsuzsi encountered problems, because her hosts were very religious. She had to learn that you wash meat and milk dishes seperately. Later the bank [where she works] sent her again, at their expense, for three months. The bank paid for her training.

We have two grandchildren. Eszter is seventeen, while Robi is eighteen years old. They attend the Lauder Javne School [Jewish school]. They’re good students and good kids. Religion is a big part of their lives. Robi is always hiding in Moses’ five books. He won two Bible competitions, and even went to Israel for a competition. Only once, we didn’t let him go. We didn’t want him to go because there was bombing going on. The relatives there even wrote that it would be better if he didn’t go then. He went once, and the other time, he didn’t. He always placed in the Judaism competitions, first or second. Of course, he brought every prize home from school, that he could. He really likes religion. Now he’s counting the letters in the Tora. He bought a book, “The Biblical Code”. He’s always busy with that.

When Communism fell in 1989, that did not touch us really. I had already retired by 1980, though I did work afterwards. If socialism hadn’t failed, then we’d be much farther along. And I dare say, that Hungarians are good workers. There was never a better time in my life than that time. You could vacation for pennies. My wife worked as a typist and shorthand secretary in the Ministry of Finance. It wasn’t a lot of status, but it was good work and sufficient money came out of it. We went on vacation with our relatives from France for a summer. With the four relatives and the four of us, we still only paid pennies. We could sit down in elegant places numerous times. So, life was good for a worker. After 1956 [revolution] 18, they even left us, the self-employed, alone. After 1956, you didn’t have to be afraid if you were a private businessman or self-employed. After 1956, the situation changed. It was a pretty good life. These people are lying about everything, which wasn’t true then.

I go to Nagyfuvaros street to pray. If I don’t show up, they call here and ask where I am. Unfortunately, it’s primarily the elderly who go there. There is the occasional young person. Back then, Tamas Raj was our rabbi, a dynamic but not a zealous man. He started up really dealing with the kids and young people in the area. I pay a tax to the religious community, ten or fifteen thousand forints, but I don’t use the services. What I give, I give to the temple. Back then, in the village, everybody went to temple. It was an exceptional event, if someone didn’t. Due to the war, that’s relaxed a bit. Poverty also plays in this. It wasn’t considered valorous in Communism to be a Jew. To write to Israelis was outright dangerous. You could only send a letter indirectly, that’s how the communists discriminated against Jews. Now at least, you are free to talk.

Today, I go to temple almost everyday, but that’s only been since my older brother died five years ago. I said the kaddish for him for an entire year. There are Jews from the Carpathian Basin at this temple. I know that they’re religious Jews and temple-going Jews, they are even prayer leaders. But when they come out of the temple, they get on the tram and go home [meaning Saturday] That’s the situation. My sister-in-law comes from a very religious family. She lights candles on Friday. Now I light candles, that is, my wife Gabi [Gabriella] does. But that’s due to the grandchildren. My grandchild was very little, barely five or six years old, when I started going to temple again, and my grandchild came with me.

Reparations got me terribly agitated. I always told my wife, they can leave me alone, I don’t want them, I don’t want to profit from that. I just received a half million [forints, about six months average salary] because of my parents. There’s no way I’ll buy myself even another crumb with that! It gets me so upset. And now that I’m older, even more so. I gave it to the children, instead.

GLOSSARY

Abram Kopelovich
Riga
Latvia
Interviewer: Svetlana Kovalchuk
Date of interview: August 2002

Growing up
During the War
Family background
My education
My family life
Alexander Germanovich Losev
Glossary

Growing up

My maternal grandfather, Zalman Beskin, died in 1938. I don't know when he was born, but he died in Vitebsk 1. I was three months old then. His wife, my grandmother Musya [Beskina], died in 1953 and she had been the head of the family since her husband died. Grandfather's brother Beskin, whose first name I forgot, was a merchant and lived in Kiev before the revolution 2. When his store was nationalized, about ten wagons were needed to take away all the goods from his shop. He had been a rich man and the Soviet authorities exiled him and his family to Yakutia [Northern Siberia] in 1924.

When I studied in Moscow, I saw Grandfather's nephew a couple of times, the son of this merchant. He was the deputy minister of trade of Yakutia! What his first name was, I, honestly, don't know. But the surname was Beskin! I think, that the Beskins live in Yakutia nowadays as well. My father Isaac Markovich Kopelovich 3, Jewish name Mordukh Idel Motl Kopelovich, was born in 1901 in Dvinsk [today Daugavpils in Latvia, 230 km east of Riga], and my mother Tsimlya Zalmanovna Beskina was also born in 1901, but in Vitebsk. They were a handsome couple. They got married in 1922 and had a chuppah. But he was a Trotskyist at that time. He was a Trotskyist until 1928, and when Trotsky 4 was defeated, expelled from the Communist Party [December, 1927] and exiled from Moscow, that was it. Later my father was Iosif Stalin's ideological follower. And my mother told him, 'Stop fiddling about with your Communist Party, I'm expecting another baby, who we are supposed to feed, by the way!' My brother earned something too by reselling things. He was born in 1924 and called Lev or Lyova. In 1928 my sister Sonya was born, Sofia.

My father's education was 'super-highest' - four classes. And Mum had completed eight classes - she wanted to study very much, but her father was very poor. Her uncle was very rich, but he wouldn't give the money for her education. I know only this fact: she wanted to study very much.

My father was a soldier in the Red Army 5 since 1919. There were four brothers, who had found themselves in Vitebsk [today Belarus] - Leib, or in the Russian way Lyova, then Khaikl, the eldest, then brother Girsh [Grigoriy], Uncle Grisha, and my father Isaac - the youngest. Uncle Grisha was the one who loved to sing Jewish songs. Whenever I hear singing now, I think of him.

Later, the border was drawn between Russia and Latvia 6. The brothers served in the army at the time and then they found themselves wives. So, these four Red Army soldiers remained abroad, that is out of Latvia.

When Daddy fought in the Civil War 7 he was a rather experienced soldier, so he asked his commander to visit Moscow for one day, as he was serving nearby. The commander allowed him to. He arrived at his uncle's home, and his uncle shook out the contents of his rucksack and put in a crate of vodka instead. Father came to his unit, reported to the commander that Soldier Kopelovich had arrived and heard: 'Hey, why don't you take off your rucksack first!'- 'I can't, it's too heavy! Help me!' So they took off the sack and it was full of vodka! Father was not given a gram, but at once was promoted to the rank of sergeant major. And by the end of the war he was a sergeant major.

Here in Dvinsk, there were seven relatives left, all 'Zionists' and 'super Communists.' The first to be executed in Latvia in 1935 was my aunt Sofia Kopelovich; she was a Communist. But the most interesting things happened later. In 1937, people in the USSR were permitted to make telephone calls to Daugavpils [before 1920 Dvinsk], Latvia. They didn't correspond with each other by mail, it was impossible 8. So they decided to call. Father was busy at work, so he didn't call. In the morning they went to see their friends who did call - and they found out that all of them were arrested. Therefore the brothers refrained from calling. They decided that the following day they would go to the post office and call their mother. But the following day those who called were in prison. And my father Isaac was a Communist, a commander, so he couldn't compromise himself like that. There was no communication between Dvinsk and Vitebsk. It probably existed before 1928-1930, but later the Stalin regime was very strict 9 and arrested those who tried to get in touch with their relatives. I vaguely know my Dvinsk relatives.

Daddy was an odd-job man, a baker mostly. The Communist Party directed him to be a shop manager. And he kept this position until 1941.

During the War

As soon as the war began 10 he was immediately sent to the front, but before he left he took all his relatives and put them all in a railway car and sent them to the Urals. As I was told - I was small then - we reached the Urals, and then headed for Dzhambul, in Kazakhstan. Mother's brother, Ierukhim Beskin, we called him Uncle Ira, was then working in Moscow as the director of a printing house, and we wrote to him and learnt who was where.

We arrived back in Vitebsk in 1944, and I started going to school. Father was still in the army, and we arrived right after Vitebsk had been liberated. The city was completely destroyed! They say Smolensk was destroyed, but in Vitebsk 95 percent of the buildings lay in ruins. I remember only the mess. I remember one bridge across which we were walking, there was a bridge to the brick plant that the Fascists wanted to blow up, and one soldier received the rank of Hero of the Soviet Union 11 for preventing that.

We were given a room in a barrack. And before Father returned in 1945, we lived there. Mum worked at the brick factory as an unskilled worker. We boys ran about, as I remember, played lapta [a ball game]. We were very good friends, I can hardly believe now that it is possible to live in such an amicable way. You ask if we lived poorly? That's not the right word! My grandmother used to give me 'a cake' in evacuation. And what this cake was? - a small slice of bread cut into tiny cubes. That was called a cake. Certainly, for the toilet - be it in winter or summer - you had to go outside. Before I left for Moscow to study, it was nothing for me to run to the toilet outside of the house barefoot in winter. No detrimental consequences whatsoever.

In 1945, my father was discharged from the army, returned home, and was given three German POWs, Fascists, to help him cut the wood and build two frameworks of houses and cement a deep cellar. Then the Germans were taken away, and he finished the work by himself.

After the war, he was just as strong an ideologist as before, but when I turned thirteen in 1951, he, the big Communist atheist, gathered ten Jews and carried out a bar mitzvah as if he was a fully ordained rabbi. Father retired at the age of 60 - in 1961. He still worked a little bit at different jobs. But at 69 years of age he died of cancer.

Father didn't want to return to Dvinsk after the war, because his mother and father had died there, and all our relatives had perished in the war. He told me that they were very religious.

Family background

My brother Lyova finished eight classes of the Jewish school in Vitebsk, and then they closed the school. We all knew Yiddish well, wrote and spoke the language. In our home, we only spoke Yiddish with our grandmother. And with others we could speak Russian, sometimes inserting Belarusian words. With Daddy and Mum I spoke Russian. When they wanted to hide something from me, they spoke Yiddish. And when they realized that I understood everything, they started to mix Yiddish, Russian, and Belarusian words. But both they and I knew that wasn't working.

Uncle Ierukhim Beskin, my mother's brother, left with a large group of friends for Moscow in 1925-1926. This was a group of 20 men - all of them became porters in Moscow, having had not much of an education. And gradually, step by step, they made their way into the world. Some of them returned to Vitebsk, some were killed during the war.

Uncle Ira fell deeply in love with a beautiful woman. The parents of the two parties were against their marriage. Galina Evgrafovna came from an old noble Russian family. They loved each other and registered their union. Grandma used to joke, 'My son cannot eat pork, but he cannot resist cold boiled pork!' Which was her way of referring to her daughter-in-law. But then Galina became very close with my grandmother. They had two kids. They agreed that if there would be a boy - circumcision, if a girl - christening. There was a boy, and later there was a girl. The boy was duly circumcised, the girl christened. The boy's name was Leonid, we called him Lerik. He eventually graduated from a legal college in 1952, but he could not work: in his passport Leonid's nationality was Russian 12, but his surname - Beskin - was specifically Jewish. Leonid's nationality, which he got from his mother, didn't make his life easier.

Eventually, at the end of his life he became the manager of the singer Iosif Kobzon [people's actor of the USSR, officially recognized singer]. He was engaged in theatrical business, was a manager, and came to Riga several times with various troupes. When Leonid Beskin died, Kobzon took on the funeral expenses. Leonid is buried at the non-Jewish Novodevichye cemetery, the most prestigious one in Moscow. It's right in the center of Moscow.

Galina and Uncle Ira are buried there, too. He was not a Communist; in fact, he became a rich man. His daughter Svetlana is in Damascus, they [she and her husband] received jobs at the conservatory there.

My eldest aunt is Anya Bessmertnova [nee Beskina]; her husband died under the wheels of a tram in Moscow. That's what I was told, but trams do not gain such speeds in Moscow to run over a man. He was a jeweler, so it's a dark and suspicious affair. They lived in Vitebsk and owned a big house there before the war.

Grandmother lived in Vitebsk with her younger daughter Tsilya Shagalova [nee Beskina (1900-1989)]. Granny was very religious. Father used to bake matzot, basically for her.

She cooked only kosher meals. She ate only dairy products. Uncle Ira used to say, 'Nobody has the right to help her. I am the only son - me!' Besides, after the war, he gave every one of his relatives 10,000 Rubles each to start building their own houses. And to his last day he supported his mum. Uncle Ira came to visit very often, together with his wife, sometimes in his own car. Aunt Galina Evgrafovna didn't like to offend anybody, so she visited all the relatives and ate everything she was given, although she knew that she would have to take purgatives later. She used to say, 'Well, why would I offend anybody?! But my diet, my fine figure!' They loved each other, those two.

I remember coming to see my grandmother and she would give me a Ruble: 'Go buy yourself some berries.' I went and I bought wild strawberries, which I could eat right in the market place, or, if it were other berries, I had to wash them first. Everyone loved her very much. At 89 she broke a leg while descending the porch. That was in 1952. And in Vitebsk there were very professional doctors then. The persecution of Jews had already begun and prominent experts from Moscow escaped to Vitebsk, and worked in the Medical Institute 13. They performed an operation, put her leg in plaster and said, 'With God's mercy she will be able to sit.' She sat, then she rose, then she walked on crutches and with a stick. After that, her case was described in many medical books, because it's a wonderful fact that she could get absolutely well at that age. When my cousin, who is now in Germany, studied there, she was told about this case by her professors. Then she said, 'It's my granny!' Grandmother died at the age of 89.

My education

The school I went to was a kind of an elite school. Our Physics teacher was the first person to be awarded the Order of Lenin 14 in Belarus. Our Russian teacher was in the circle of Vladimir Mayakovsky 15. My friend, Nikolay Tishechkin, became a people's actor of Belarus. I wasn't the only Jew in our class. There were no national issues whatsoever. Everyone was a member of the Komsomol 16, or a pioneer 17. We visited factories and we had all sorts of interesting field trips. Our life was very nice.

I graduated from the Moscow Polygraphic Institute. I was admitted the first year when Jews were accepted, in 1955. The supervisor of our school treated Jews very well, and she told me, 'Don't you think, that you are not going to be admitted because you are a Jew!' She was Russian or Latvian, I think.

I became a student of the mechanical faculty, specializing in mechanics and design of polygraphic machines. The food at our faculty was disgusting and because we were students of arts and humanitarian sciences, they fed us miserably. And suddenly, there came an announcement - that we were to go on strike! Nobody went to eat for two days. At that time the so-called Hungarian events 18 were happening. Instantly, all sorts of big shots descended on our school. And they immediately rectified the situation.

Sometimes we went skiing. Once we wandered into the residence of Khrushchev 19. They showed us to the exit rather quickly.

At school, every night we had dancing parties, especially on Saturdays. There was a separate campus, two kilometers from any residential area. I lived in a small room - there were only 18 of us living together - all nationalities. When you look at the picture of us, it is remarkable to see every ethnic type.

My uncle's wife, Galina Evgrafovna, personally taught me good manners and all the rules of decent behavior. She introduced me to Moscow's high society and taught me many things, including the right way to hold a spoon or a fork. You know, I was from a small town!

Uncle Ira was the director of a large printing house of the Moscow Theatrical Society. All posters, all tickets - were made there. As a student, I attended all the performances. Thanks to him, I saw a lot of theater plays. I went to the first Viennese ballet on ice, various festivals.

We graduated in 1960. After graduation, we had reunions every five years. On 5th May - the Publisher's Day. We continued meeting until Latvia became independent. Everybody used to come - even some foreigners, who studied with us. During these 30 years we were gathering every five years.

After graduation we had a 'free distribution' 20 - that means everybody was to look for a job independently. My brother Lyova worked here in Riga, and he was the head of a foundry shop. He had trouble with the Latvian language, which he didn't speak and needed to communicate with the workers in Russian.

I worked in the sixth printing house for half a year, that's where Sergey Eisenstein 21, the famous film-director, worked. They insisted on speaking only Latvian to me. So my brother sent me to the electric lamps factory, and asked his acquaintances there to hire me. It was a large production plant. So I went to the main engineer and he said, 'OK, start tomorrow.' I came the following day, though the first department - department of the KGB 22 - didn't want to accept me because I was a Jew and the factory was paramilitary. I began to work, and I worked there until my very retirement. I held all kinds of posts at the factory. I have achieved the rank of designer of the first category, there's nothing above it. I worked as deputy chief mechanic, the chief of design bureau, and my last assignment was the director of a shop.

My family life

Where can you find a Jewish wife? In the regional Komsomol Committee! I was an educated Communist. I finished the University of Marxism-Leninism as a Komsomol member, then took a philosophical training course. I was the secretary of the Komsomol organization of our workshop.

Once there was a session in the office of the third secretary of the Kirovsky district Komsomol Committee. I was the chief of the Komsomol lecturers' group, and my future wife also held some post. It was the time when various youth contests were fashionable. And there was one contest held right then at the factory 'Bolshevichk?'. And there comes my future wife, a young girl, and asks for two tickets. I didn't even now what kind of tickets they were. She bought two tickets and left, and I liked her.

And I told Valya, the member of the Komsomol Committee, 'Valya, I also need two tickets.' And she said, 'Abram, what, are you crazy? You never liked such performances.' - 'But I want to see one now.' 'Well, here you are.'

So I came there with my comrade. She came with a friend, too. And I invited her to dance although I wasn't an expert dancer. And she was a little bit offended because my friend was a real lady's man.

We didn't start dating for a long time. We saw each other about ten times, half a year. She was the first Jewish girl who I liked very much. And that's it. I didn't even know from the start that she was Jewish. And when I found that out, oy - she is Jewish! - OK, it's high time for me to get married! And I have never regretted it. We registered our marriage in 1965.

I was already a Communist, my wife was a Communist, so there was no chuppah, no Jewish wedding. Then it was impossible 23. Instantly, the authorities would have known about it. In 1966 our daughter was born. We couldn't afford a second child - she studied and we thought it would be too hard - nobody helped us financially. Debts, furniture on credit, apartment by installments - that was our life.

We lived in a rented apartment. It was possible to rent and then buy an apartment, so we wrote five applications to different co-operatives. Once I was in a collective farm 24 on an assignment. I came home on leave - and my wife wasn't there. And I was dressed in a felt jersey, just from the collective farm in the country. The neighbors told me she was at a party. I found her and she jumped up, delighted and happy. And I was standing there in dirty boots, you know, right from the village. And she exclaimed: 'I have paid for the apartment!' I said, 'No problem, honey, it's only 30 Rubles.' 'No, I mean the first installment for the apartment in the co- operative society! I had to borrow from this and that!'

And we received the apartment very fast. Then it was necessary to pay back the debts, and it turned out to be a prolonged procedure. It took us about 15 years to pay it all back. And we had to buy books too, and to settle our other bills. We began to travel a little when our daughter turned six. And then we started traveling more and more often. We never built or bought a summerhouse. However, we used summer residences provided by the state from time to time.

My wife's name is Anna [nee Maisel], she finished a Physics college here, and then worked at a prison school in Valmiera [a town 106 km north east of Riga]. Later she worked in another school as a teacher, and deputy director. She studied at post-graduate courses in Moscow. They didn't take her at university - as a Jewish person. But she found a job in the Institute of Improvement of Teachers' Qualifications. Later there was a vacancy of a scientific employee in the institute at the Ministry of Education. Soon she became the chief of the department of labor training in the Institute of Pedagogy of the Ministry of Education. It was considered a prestigious post. Then she was invited to read lectures. Now my spouse is the Dean of the faculty of Pedagogy and Psychology of the Latvian University.

When in 1991 the so-called freedom period began 25, my spouse Anna and Bregman Losev were the founders of Jewish schools. Anna created the first methodological instructions, first programs, and Losev analyzed the Jewish national questions. And they created the first Jewish school. Now, unfortunately, the schools have changed. Now the questions of money prevail, and then these questions were not so important. There was one goal: to create a Jewish school, so that Jewish children could learn about Jewish culture, Jewish life, and in general the basics of their national culture.

My daughter's name is Nelli, Muller after her marriage. She graduated from the university in the department of Physics, with an honors diploma. She was not offered a job in the university due to a simple reason - the position was meant for a relative of one of the bosses. And she entered the post-graduate courses in the Polytechnical Institute in Riga. When she was about to defend her thesis, Latvia became independent and all those changes started happening. And she left for America with her husband. She is a mathematician and works in a large travel company. And she carries out all mathematical processing for the company - absolutely all of it. She married a Jew, which is natural. It is a question of tradition and education. Both the Kopelovich and Muller families originated from Daugavpils. My daughter, granddaughter, and grandson are all Jewish, and the boy is circumcised.

I was a secular man. But, whenever I was on holiday with my wife, or I was traveling alone, I always found time for visiting a synagogue. Not because I was a believer, I just felt drawn to it. Besides, I liked to enter mosques and Christian churches.

But on 18-19th August, 1991, during the coup attempt against Gorbachev 26, we were on Baikal Lake [in Siberia], and we were very scared. There was no connection home to Riga, and besides they were showing all sorts of terrible stuff on TV, so we were very worried. It was in 1991, and we were in a place from where people can't be exiled any farther. It was funny! It was a Soviet tradition for television to show all sorts of cultural programs like the ballet 'Swan Lake,' Beethoven symphonies when some big Communist leaders died, like Brezhnev 27, Andropov, or Chernenko. And in these few days, we had too much culture and not enough news.

Up to the end of my life I will remember that I am a Jew. And I knew that I would marry only a Jewish girl. On Saturdays I started to attend synagogue. But of course, I don't observe all the subtleties of religion. First of all, it's a very long way to the synagogue if you go on foot. It's a great deal of walking. And you cannot ride on Saturdays. It's a serious infringement. And, secondly, my wife often comes late on Friday. If I'm at home, I light the candles. She sometimes works on Saturdays too, she cannot refuse. Well, how can one observe traditions in this situation? It is not allowed to put on the light, to do this, to do that. We cannot observe, even if we wanted to. The only thing we do, we don't eat bread at Pesach. When I worked, I didn't care what people said, I brought matzot and ate it. And my wife says it isn't very convenient, but still she abstains from eating bread. I keep the customs within reasonable limits - I would always put on a cap when I light the Friday night candles.

My sister didn't leave for Israel while Mum was alive. But when our mother died, my sister left. And then she died in Israel not long afterwards. We have a lot of relatives in Israel. The Zeltsers from Grodno [town in Belarus]: Sofia Zeltser, and her husband Alexander Zeltser. Their children are Musya, a doctor in Netanya, and Arkady, who is now working for a doctor's degree at the Jerusalem university. My brother Lyova left for Israel in 1992. My brother's son is now a doctor in Netanya.

My cousin Nina, Uncle Lyova's daughter, lives in Vitebsk. We regularly visit Vitebsk; our parents' graves are there. Two years ago we attended the festival 'Slavonic Fair' [an annual music festival called Slavyanskiy Bazar in Russian] there. I understand and speak Yiddish, too.

Alexander Germanovich Losev

I need to say some words about my dear friend Alexander Germanovich Losev [1923 -1997], or as we called him, Sasha. I have a picture with him in it. I knew him since July 1961. I came to Riga after graduating from the institute in Moscow, and he was a friend of my brother Lev Kopelovich. Losev came to Riga after having completed training in the studio of Solomon Mikhoels 28 in Moscow. He and my brother were sent to Latvia by Mikhoels to create the Jewish theater right after the war. Unfortunately, it was not the time for founding theaters. Life was very hard.

My brother went to work in the foundry; Alexander Germanovich finished the pedagogical institute and started to teach at an evening school. Then he got married, lived on Dzirnavu Street in one room in a shared apartment 29. Financially he lived very poorly. He was always engaged in issues of literature. His hobby is the history of interrelation between Russian and Latvian languages, Rainis [real name: Janis Plieksans (1865-1929): poet, playwright, translator and politician, considered the most distinguished Latvian writer of all time], Pushkin 30 and so on.

He finished post-graduate courses by correspondence, obtaining the degree of a candidate of sciences 31 and worked in the Institute of Pedagogical Studies at the Ministry of Education. In the beginning he was just a scientific employee, but he finished in the rank of a scientific secretary. He wrote a lot of articles and books. He was always interested in Jewish issues, Jewish literature. At the same time he had many Russian and Latvian friends. He had been granted a three-room apartment, where in one of the rooms was his study, full of scientific materials, books, and magazines. He was very cheerful, and liked to tell Jewish jokes very much. It was a sheer pleasure to sit and talk to him. He felt very young and we loved him very much. We lived very near each other, he frequently came to see us and called on the telephone.

When he died, there was a big funeral ceremony. All the Jewish community came, as well as the Orthodox Christian community, that's how well loved he was. He died in 1997, and he is buried at the Jewish cemetery.

Glossary:

Zuzana Minacova
Prague
Czech Republic
Interviewer: Dagmar Greslova
Date of interview: July 2006

Zuzana Minacova (75) was born in Bratislava, into an emancipated Jewish doctor's family. Her parents raised her in a non-religious manner, though she did have the opportunity to come into contact with Orthodoxy in her grandparents' family in Betlanovce, where she used to go for summer holidays, and where she had various adventures. Zuzana Minacova's idyllic childhood was however soon severed - she was only 8 years old when the Slovak State 1 broke out, and overnight her family was forced to deal with a number of restrictions and persecutions. Her initial experiences were while she was in hiding with her sister, however after someone informed on them, they were both transported to the Sered 2 collection camp, from there to Auschwitz, followed finally by a forced labor camp in Vrchlabi. She experienced the liberation as a 13-year-old girl. The war's events had forced her to prematurely grow up; after the war the cares and worries of other girls her age suddenly seemed alien to her. As she herself says, she wasn't interested in the difficulties of her classmates at school, she wanted to begin to live real life, to find work and do something fulfilling. This came to be - she became a well-known and successful photographer, and to this day is involved in this profession. She joined the so-called "new wave" of the 1960s, which expanded the expressive possibilities of photography. Her work is characterized by imagination, philosophical contemplation, poetic playfulness and experimentation. She is the author of photographic series such as Time, Waiting, Connections, Play, Stopping On the Way, Actors' Portraits, and Trees. Almost 60 years after World War II, Zuzana Minacova decided to "renew" her childhood family album, which she had lost during the chaos of World War II. In 1996, she began the "The Reconstruction of a Family Album" project, an evocation of her childhood through photographs. She involved her son Matej and his family in the project, as well as her friends and other familiar personalities, who took the place of her own relatives that she'd lost during the war, and of whom no photographs had survived. As she herself is a well-known photographer, she decided to reconstruct this album on the basis of her memories.

Family background">Family background

My father's parents were truly Orthodox Jews; during visits and summer holidays that I spent at their place, I had the opportunity to come into contact with religious life. My grandmother was named Maria Silbersteinova, née Hexnerova, and my grandfather was named Adolf Silberstein. They were both from Betlanovce, which is a small village near the Tatra Mountains in the Spisska Nova Ves region.

My grandmother's family had originally come from the Iberian Peninsula. The Hexner family left Spain when the Jews were being expelled from there at the end of the 15th century 3. They had originally wanted to settle in the Czech lands, but there was a law in effect here that a Jewish family could have at most perhaps only two children, so they settled in Slovakia. In their case it was a necessity, as they had a terribly large number of children! So my father used to crack jokes on this subject, though it was actually no joke, it was reality - when people asked him how it was possible that all those Hexners were one and the same family, he answered, 'It's like this: once there was this Hexner and he had twelve sons, each of those sons also had twelve sons, and those also twelve, twelve and twelve sons, and all of them are my relatives...' But I guess there's some truth to it, because the Hexners really were very numerous. Unfortunately, most of these relatives of mine died during the war in concentration camps, all of my cousins, aunts and uncles... I know of just one great-great-uncle, Erwin Paul Hexner, who immigrated to America and became a famous economist. From this whole large, branching family, only this one uncle survived.

It was said that my paternal great-great-grandfather, who had lived at the beginning of the 18th century in Betlanovce under the Tatras, had been a strong and handsome man. They say that once he was driving home some barrels of beer, and took a shortcut through the forest. In the forest he was ambushed and stopped by boys belonging to Janosik's band of outlaws 4, who wanted to take his beer. But he defended himself so handily that Janosik gave him a chance. He told him that if he managed to lift a 50- liter barrel of beer above his head, he could keep it. My great-great- grandfather managed it with ease, thanks to which Janosik took such a liking to him that he made him a part of his eleven-member band.

In the family it was handed down that when the outlaw Janosik was executed, it wasn't as it's commonly thought that his outlaws divided the money among the poor. Reputedly they divided the money among themselves. Thanks to this, my great-great-grandfather became a very rich man, and upon his return home he bought up the entire village, starting with the Catholic Church and ending with the Betlanovce renaissance chateau.

Betlanovce was a small town, where Grandma and Grandpa had a small general store. Grandma and Grandpa had a farm that they worked on. There was no synagogue in Betlanovce, or in the surrounding villages, so my grandparents decided to have one built. They initiated and financed its construction, so thanks to them there's a synagogue in Betlanovce. I figure this was probably sometime during the 1920s.

Jewish customs were observed in the family of my paternal grandparents; they cooked kosher food 5, separated their dishes for various foods and holidays, attended synagogue, and lived an Orthodox 6 lifestyle. I was a child, so I don't remember any details that clearly, but I do remember that my cousins, sister and I were always at my grandparents' during summer holidays, and had the opportunity to familiarize ourselves with true Jewish sentiments. We were still kids, so we often got things wrong, and then Grandma and Grandpa had to correct our mistakes, so I remember that we had to stick knives into the ground, where they had to stay for several days so everything would be ritually clean again.

Unfortunately, the idyllic summer vacations and carefree childhood at my grandma and grandpa's ended when I was eight. The Slovak State began, all those horrors and the persecution of Jews 7, and we stopped going to see our grandma and grandpa. Our parents had other worries, they had to worry about what to do, to hide whom where, how to survive. Starting at age eight, I was never in Betlanovce again. My father's entire family died in concentration camps. My father managed to save Grandma from the transport, he hid her in Bratislava until 1944, but in the end the transport didn't miss her, and she died in Auschwitz. I don't know the details of Grandma's hiding and subsequent arrest, I was too small to remember it; what's more, for a long time after the war, I had no desire to talk to anyone about wartime events.

My father was named Dezider Silberstein, and was born in Betlanovce in 1894. As a child he attended Jewish elementary school, but as an adult he no longer followed Jewish customs. My father wanted to become a farmer, and his brother Filip was supposed to go study. But Uncle Filip was a bad student, so their parents decided that he'd run the farm, and because my father on the contrary was a very good student, his parents sent him to school, although he would have preferred to be a farmer. He registered for medicine and became a doctor.

My father was the merriest person in the world. He liked to play various jokes; life with him was one big laugh. Unfortunately, after the Slovak State broke out, life was no longer very much fun. I remember one funny story, when as a joke, my father told me that an incredibly fat person was coming to our place for a visit, and that we had to prepare for it. He claimed that the man was so incredibly fat, that he wouldn't even fit through a set of double doors, and that he'd have to squeeze through them sideways. He also told me that we'd have to wash all our washbasins and pails, because we were going to be serving him food and drink in them. I was then terribly disappointed when that person arrived. He was very fat, but had no problems at all walking through the door, and what's more, he ate from a plate like everyone else at the table.

My father was very kind, for example once before Christmas he took me by the hand and led me to the couch in the living room. For a few seconds he took out from behind it a well-hidden doll, for which I had been yearning for a terribly long time. He told me that I'd get it for Christmas, but for me to forget about it again for a while, and mainly for me to not tell my mother.

I don't remember my mother's parents, neither Grandma Janka Löwyova, née Neumannova, nor Grandpa Emanuel Löwy, as they died before I was born. They're buried at the Jewish cemetery in Nitra. I know little about them; they were farmers in Nitra and had six sons and five daughters. When they grew up, they all lived around Nitra in southern Slovakia, and some of the sisters lived in Prievidze.

From what I've heard, I know that my mother's brothers, so my uncles, were extremely merry people. Of my five uncles, only one got married, the rest were bachelors and lived at the expense of their sisters. During the summer my uncles worked on the farm, and during the winter they then lived a profligate lifestyle, and played cards at the casino in Monte Carlo. They lived like counts, but they weren't counts - they weren't all that rich, and neither did they have the kind of property to be able to afford such a luxurious lifestyle, so then their sisters' husbands had to pay off their debts. Because my aunts had married into rich families, their husbands paid the debts of these uncles of mine, so as not to cast the family in a bad light. They were definitely merry, forthright and profligate people! My uncles used to organize various hunts, trips into the countryside, they played cards for money, invited Gypsy bands to play at parties, there was no shortage of fun. But with the coming of war, this all unfortunately soon ended.

I used to like going to my relatives' during summer vacation, and used to have various adventures there, for example my uncle let one of my cousins drive an expensive car, and I accompanied him. Or once, when one of my uncles had been winning all night at cards at a party, he stuck a 500 crown note to my forehead, which back then was a lot of money, especially for me, a six-year-old girl! [Editor's note: In 1929 it was decreed by law that the Czechoslovak crown (Kc), as the Czechoslovak unit of currency, was equal in value to 44.58 mg of gold.]

One uncle, Jackie, was a violin virtuoso, and a very sociable person, an enchanting beau and seducer of women. Another uncle, Maxi bacsi [Hungarian for Uncle Max] decided to leave for America at the age of 15. He took with him part of his inheritance, and crossed the ocean. There he used his fortune to buy the Buffalo Bill Circus. Years later, when he returned to his native village, he brought with him his American wife, Paula, a horse and buggy, and a lasso, with which he roped the children in the courtyard. We had lots of laughs and fun with him.

Another uncle for a change decided to go to Chile. He was a big hotshot, somewhat frivolous, and yearned for adventure. Before he left, he had a lot of expensive, fashionable suits custom-made. When he left, his relatives got the bills for all this finery, and had to pay them.

My mother, Pavla Silbersteinova, née Löwyova, was born in 1898 in Nitra, and was the ninth of eleven children. She apparently attended Jewish elementary school, but as an adult, in her marriage, she didn't keep Jewish customs. My mother was the first girl in Nitra to graduate from high school. She couldn't even attend school, but studied privately at home, and then took the exams. The she went to study medicine, which in those days was absolutely exceptional, for a woman to go study like this. She became a doctor. I don't know where or how my parents actually met, but I think that probably in medical circles, as both my father and mother were doctors.

Growing up">Growing up

In childhood I played with all children, Jewish and non-Jewish. There was no need to set them apart. There's this general sort of Christian notion, that Jews are somehow incredibly close and support each other, but in my view this isn't true at all. It's true that after the war, there were organizations that helped refugees, such as for example Joint 8. But in my view, the situation today is different. Certainly, if you decide to immigrate to Israel, it's not the case that you'll have an advantage because you're a Jew.

Today, when I'm unfortunately already 75, I think that I'm a witness to times long gone. Both my parents were Jews, but the religious side of things wasn't observed much in our family. We already lived in a non- religious way. We lived in Bratislava on Stefanikova Street, in a beautiful five-room apartment. My sister and I had a Christian nanny. Our father was a well-known doctor, and had his practice in the same building. Curiously enough, the apartment we used to live in is now occupied by Slovak Police, so when I was renewing my ID a couple of years ago, I went to our apartment to pick up my documents! When the harassment and persecution of Jews began, I was small, but I remember that my father had to have a sign at his practice where it was written that he was a Jew. We also had to wear a yellow star 9 sewed to our clothing.

During the war">During the war

During the war, my mother and father hid with some people they knew. At one time before the war, my father had as a patient one Count Palffy, from a very well-known aristocratic family. The two of them had an agreement that if the Russians came, my father would hide Palffy and his family, and if on the other hand the Germans came to Slovakia, Palffy would hide our family. Palffy really did hide our father; in the beginning they also hid Grandma. Mother and Father were at Palffy's place for about three months, but he then decided to emigrate, packed up all his property, paintings and valuables, and left the country with his entire family.

Then my mother and father hid somewhere else. When the Slovak National Uprising 10 broke out in 1944, someone informed on Grandma and they transported her to a concentration camp. I don't know exactly where and with whom my parents lived during the war. After the war, I never discussed it with them. I myself didn't want to talk about what I'd lived through and seen in the concentration camp. I didn't have the least desire to return to those wartime experiences, and that's why I didn't talk to my parents about what they did during the war and how and where they lived, either.

My sister and I were in a different place, our father hid us there, with reliable people he thought, but they actually ratted on us and my sister and I ended up in a concentration camp. Our parents had no idea that they'd nabbed my sister and me and dragged us off to Sered and subsequently to Auschwitz. Those people ratted on us, but kept taking money from our father for purportedly concealing us. During the whole war, my sister and I didn't know either what our family was doing, whether they were even alive.

My sister, Anna, and I ended up in the Sered collection camp, where we were for about a week. Sered was a transfer camp before the trip to the concentration camps, I'd compare it to Terezin 11. After a week in Sered, we were transported to Auschwitz. I arrived there in 1944, when I was 13. To this day, I've still got a number tattooed on my forearm. I think that my sister and I were there for about a month.

After some time spent in Auschwitz, a selection took place, more precisely they were picking people for work in some distant factory. They said for everyone between the ages of 16 and 25 to step forward. It seemed to me to be a good age, so that it would probably be advantageous for me to apply, even though I was only 13 at the time. I stepped forward, but they threw me out, saying that I didn't belong. They left my sister with them, she was 15, and seemed to be satisfactory to them.

I began crying, and suddenly something like a miracle happened. Suddenly my distant cousin, who'd already been in Auschwitz since 1942, appeared. When she noticed the fuss I was making, she took me aside during an unguarded moment so that no one would notice me. She knew that if I cried and made a fuss I'd draw attention to myself, and so had no choice but to calm me down - she gave me such a cuff to the head that I saw stars, and it gave me such a fright that I immediately calmed down.

When the selection ended, my cousin unobtrusively mixed me in with those selected for work. By doing this she saved my life! And so thanks to her, I got into the Hohenelbe work camp, today Vrchlabi in Czech. Each person that survived a concentration camp survived, one could say, due to some miracle. It was a big life lottery, who survives and who doesn't survive, a string of the most varied coincidences. I think that due to the Holocaust, the world lost many geniuses, artists, inventors, and smart and interesting people, because six million people is a terribly immense loss.

There weren't only Jews in the Vrchlabi work camp, there were other nationalities as well, but the Jews had it the worst. In Vrchlabi we worked in the Lohenswerke factory; we manufactured radio tubes, weapons and all sorts of other things. Apparently towards the end of the war the Germans had a problem, because they had many people at the front, and so needed a lot of workers. I spent almost nine months in concentration camps, from September 1944 to May 1945.

Post-war">Post-war

In Vrchlabi my sister and I experienced the liberation. The Germans that had been guarding us there suddenly disappeared. About two days later the Russians came; with the Russian army came liberation. In a festive manner they put us on a train and were shooting salvos in the air; it was big celebration. Our train was overfull, so after about 40 kilometers it couldn't go on, and broke down. So we went on a train that had these boards attached to it, which we held on to, we held on to the windows, then we even sat on the roofs of the rail cars. My sister and I also had to walk part of the way. So in this adventurous fashion we made it to Bratislava after about a week's travels. When we arrived, we didn't know where we should go, so we went to our parents' friends. They knew that our parents had survived the war, so took us to them.

Of our family, only our parents, my sister and I survived. Otherwise all our other relatives died in concentration camps, except for my one great- great-uncle, Hexner, the economist who had immigrated to America. After the war my father returned to his medical practice. He died in 1961. My mother died in 1947 of a heart attack. After the war, my sister graduated from business academy, met a young man from Prague and moved to Czech; she married that young man, Mr. Engelsmann, and lives in Prague.

After the war I began attending school, but I didn't enjoy it much. I was almost 14 years old when I returned from the concentration camps. Everything in school and the cares and worries of my contemporaries seemed to me to be terribly trivial in comparison with what I had experienced during those months during the war. I said to myself that I wanted to do something worthwhile in life, to really work, and I didn't much care what it was, as long as it wasn't school. I was making up my mind between becoming a dental technician or a photographer. The life of an apprentice seemed to be very interesting to me, so I decided to become a photographer.

A little ways away from where we lived in Bratislava, at Na Palisadach, they opened an applied arts high school, which seemed to me to be very close to what I wanted to do. So I decided to study applied arts. The school was very well led. They accepted everyone, and then after three years the less capable ones got a vocational certificate, and the more capable ones could continue on and graduate. I identified more with the 'incapable' ones, and wanted to leave, while they were trying to convince me to stay, that school is the best time of your life, but I wanted to already go and work.

I remember saying to myself that it's possible that your school years are the most beautiful time of your life, but how is it then possible for life to be so boring? Is life really so uninteresting, that this horrific school is the best that will meet me in life? I couldn't reconcile myself with this idea, so I left school. I began to truly work, I started working at the film studios in Bratislava, and suddenly I realized that life isn't that boring! I enjoyed my work, and I'm a photographer to this day. I do what I really enjoy.

When the state of Israel was founded in 1948 12, I considered whether I shouldn't emigrate. Even before the war, my parents had considered us leaving for Palestine, as many of our friends and acquaintances had gone. One thing is to consider something, but the important thing is always what one really decides and what he does; we didn't decide to emigrate, and didn't leave. I've visited Israel about ten times. The first time I was there was after the revolution in 1989 13, back then Czechoslovakia didn't have an ambassador in Israel yet. President Vaclav Havel 14 arranged a special military flight, three planes in all, with a few of his friends and his personal guests, so I also flew with them.

I married the writer Jan Minac; my husband wasn't of Jewish origin. He was the brother of the famous Slovak writer Vladimir Minac. [Vladimir Minac (1922 - 1966): Slovak author of prose, essayist, scriptwriter, publicist, cultural and political figure] My husband and I met at a Youth Union meeting. At that time they were telling us that we all had to know Marxism. I had no desire at all to read those Marxist books! I found out that Jan was a soccer player who had a hemorrhage in his knee, and so was working in the library. I said to myself that instead of me reading those horrific books myself, it would be better for him to explain it to me. And so it happened that we began going out together, and in 1951 we got married.

When I got married, my husband and I had no place to live, so we sublet from one lady whose husband was being prosecuted in the communist show trials 15. With her we lived through all those horrors, the interrogations, the StB 16 used to visit her, it wasn't pleasant at all. I never fell for the Communist ideology, I think that I saw through Communism quite quickly. I was never a member of any party, and neither was my father ever in any party. There were a lot of people who fell for those Communist ideas, they believed the ideology, but that was never the case with me.

I've got to say that I never met up with prominent anti-Semitism, as our family didn't live in any religious fashion, we lived in Bratislava and my father was a respected doctor. He had both Jewish and non-Jewish clients, our neighbors liked him, he associated with acquaintances and doctors who weren't Jewish. We never had any problems with anti-Semitism, except for when the Slovak State broke out, then various measures against Jews arrived, but I was little, I was eight, so I didn't notice it that much.

I've got two sons. The older one, Jan, was born in 1953, and lives with his family in Canada, where he's a math professor at university. My younger son, Matej, was born in 1961, graduated from the Academy of Music and Dramatic Arts in Bratislava, and became a movie director. Matej makes both fictional and documentary movies.

It's peculiar, that although I never particularly led my sons towards Judaism, both of them are interested in it, and today know more about Judaism than perhaps even I do. I told them a few little things on the occasion of the Israeli war in 1967 17. I myself didn't want to return to the events of the war in my memories, I myself don't even watch any war movies, I don't participate in memorial events on the anniversary of the liberation, these themes upset me, and I don't want to recall it at all.

I moved to the Czech Republic in 1993, so at a relatively advanced age. It was actually a bit of foolishness and courage at the same time, that at a ripe old age I decided to live in a 'foreign' country. But my leaving Slovakia was motivated by the sentiments that began to develop there after the division of Czechoslovakia. Nationalist sentiments began developing, where I again saw the Slovak insignia and enthusiasm for Tiso 18; I didn't want to have to watch it any more, and to again be subject to those nationalist sentiments. I decided to leave for the Czech Republic. Today it's subsided a bit, but after the revolution in 1989, there was huge enthusiasm in Slovakia for the Slovak fascist state.

In 1996, at the age of 65, I decided to renew my old family album. In the chaos of World War II, I had lost most of my family photographs, and so I came upon the idea of reconstructing the album with the help of my friends and relatives, who became my models. Thus the publication 'Rekonstrukce rodinneho alba' [The Reconstruction of a Family Album] came about. Most of my relatives died in concentration camps during the war, not leaving behind even one photograph or memento; they were perpetuated only in my memories, and so it occurred to me to bring them to life through photography.

Thanks to the art of photography, to which I've devoted myself my whole life, one can stop time for a while and conjure up something that has faded over time. My family helped me: my son Matej played my father, Dezider Silberstein, and Matej's wife Karin played my mother, Pavlina Silbersteinova. My friends, actors and directors, posed as my uncles, aunts and cousins. While taking the photographs, I actually for the first time told my son Matej various family anecdotes, funny stories as well as personal tragedies. Matej decided to make a movie about our family.

My son, Matej Minac, makes movies on the subject of World War II and the Holocaust. He decided to make a movie about our family, as I was telling him various tragic stories about merry people. However, our family's tale was sad through and through, and so Matej was looking for something positive, so that the film would also contain a bit of hope. He read all sorts of books about the Holocaust, he scanned through all sorts of books in the library of the Jewish Museum in Prague, when one day he came upon the book 'Perlicky detstvi' [Pearls of Childhood] by Vera Gissingova. He was very captivated by her story, where she describes how as an 11-year-old girl she escaped the horrors of war and the certain transport towards death that Jews in a Europe gripped by Nazism were sentenced to.

Vera Gissingova writes: "We were a very diverse group of children, who had only one thing in common: we'd all escaped from Nazi-occupied Czechoslovakia. Some children escaped with their parents, but many, I among them, arrived alone, on a children's train transport. The fact that we managed to escape was mainly the doing of one man - a then 30-year-old stockbroker from London, Nicholas Winton 19..."

Thus thanks to Nicholas Winton's effort, 11-year-old Vera Gissingova was saved, while her parents, who remained in Czechoslovakia, were subsequently murdered in concentration camps. When my son Matej read this, he decided that he'd shoot a movie that would be based on my memories, but would also include the story of a boy who was saved thanks to Nicholas Winton's effort.

When he gave his treatment to one lady for translation, he found out from her that she herself was one of the children that was saved in this way. He became very captivated by the story, and decided to search for the other children that Winton had saved, 669 in all, and for Winton himself. He was immensely surprised to find out that Winton was still alive, and living in Maidenhead, near London. He contacted him and arranged a meeting.

In February 1998 he visited him at his home in England; Winton was very nice to him; with his typical English humor he dispassionately told him about his life, his family and grandchildren, about his interest in the opera he attended, though at that time he was almost 90. Matej was enthralled by Winton, and decided that he wouldn't make only a fictional film inspired by my life, but would also make a documentary about this remarkable man. And so came about a documentary film about Nicholas Winton, entitled 'Sila Lidskosti' [The Power of Good], which among other prominent awards, was given in 2002 an international Emmy for the best non-American documentary. It is narrated by Joe Schlesinger, a Canadian reporter working for the CBS TV station, who is also one of 'Winton's children.'

The documentary describes how Nicholas Winton, born on 19th May 1909 in Britain, where he became a clerk and stockbroker, decided in 1939 to save Czech and Slovak children. Out of modesty, Winton adds that he was only in the right place at the right time, and that everyone would have done the same as he. But that's not the way it was; he was the only one. As my son, Matej Minac, writes in his book, 'The Lottery of Nicholas Winton's Life: Following the trail of a unique endeavor to save children, unique in modern history.': This I couldn't understand. Why didn't he want to talk about it? Why was he pretending that people do this as a matter of course, and that it's utterly common? After all, he's an experienced and intelligent person, and must know that he behaved in a completely exceptional fashion. Thus I was presented with a great mystery, which I wanted to solve at all costs. I couldn't wait to start on the documentary. I was hoping that during my work on the film, I'd find answers to my questions: Why did this person do this in the first place? Why did he keep silent about it for a half century? How did he actually do it? (....) Not even in the Prague of 1939 was he indifferent to the grave situation of endangered Czech and Slovak children. He didn't allow himself to be discouraged by people who reminded him that he had neither the finances nor the time to save the children, and that neither would the Gestapo allow it. What's more, what democratic country would even be willing to accept these children! But they didn't know Winton, whose motto was: "IT'S IMPOSSIBLE - is not an answer!"

Nicholas Winton never talked about his activities in Czechoslovakia; not even his wife had any clue that during the war her husband had saved 669 children from the gas chambers. In 1988, Nicholas's wife, Grete Winton, decided to undertake a thorough housecleaning. When she began tidying the attic, she found an old suitcase. She opened it, and found in it a pile of documents. In the suitcase she found old documents, letters and photographs. She began to go through the documents, but didn't understand them, as they were written in a language foreign to her. By the diacritical markings above the letters, she judged that they were apparently written in some Slavic language; due to the word Prague, she finally decided that the documents were connected with Czechoslovakia. When she asked her husband what all those forms, photographs and letters were supposed to mean, he brushed her off by saying that it was ancient history. Grete was very surprised to find out that her husband had saved so many children from death during the war.

In the suitcase she also found a list of the names of all 669 children, and she found letters where the children's parents for example wrote how to care for their progeny abroad, what they liked, what was bad for them. She gathered that the children's parents likely didn't survive, but that these letters should find their way into the hands of those that they belonged to, that is, the children that had been saved. Grete approached various museums, whether they wouldn't be interested in the documents; she finally succeeded at the Yad Vashem Memorial 20 to the Victims of the Holocaust in Israel, where they were finally stored.

Not even 'Winton's children' had any idea who had been responsible for saving their lives. On official forms, there was only the name of some organization called the 'British Committee for Refugees from Czechoslovakia - Children's section,' which Winton had founded for appearance's sake, but no one knew anything more about it. So Winton's wife, Grete, turned to a British Holocaust expert, Elizabeth Maxwell, who decided to write letters to all 669 addresses of the families that had adopted children from Winton's list. She received 150 replies, and managed to get in touch with sixty of 'Winton's children.' None of them of course knew their savior, and they very much wanted to meet him.

In cooperation with the British BBC television station, Mrs. Maxwell discovered additional 'Winton's children.' As my son writes in his book, 'The Lottery of Nicholas Winton's Life: Following the trail of a unique endeavor to save children, unique in modern history.': "It occurred to the host of the program "That's Life", Esther Rantzen, to invite Winton and the children he'd saved into the studio. She however didn't tell anyone what was going to happen. Winton was under the impression that it was going to be a program about active old age, and that they'd invited him due to his extensive charity work, as he had built several senior citizens' centers around London. One of these is named after him - Winton House. But during the program, it became apparent that the audience around him were people whose life he'd once saved. Few were able to resist the huge wave of emotion that followed. Winton began weeping, and so did everyone around him. People watching the program were moved as well. The first person to be introduced to him was the writer Vera Gissingova. For years, she had been trying to find out who had been responsible for saving her, she had approached various refugee organizations, and had even written the Archbishop of Canterbury, but all had been in vain. And suddenly, there she was, sitting beside her savior! It was the most moving moment of her life. Right during that time, she was publishing her memoirs, and wrote five paragraphs about Nicholas Winton in the introduction."

Matej set out for the Yad Vashem archive, and examined all surviving documents about Winton's activities. There he found a scrapbook put together during the war by Winton's secretary, Barbara Wilson, who as a volunteer had helped him in his London office, opened by Winton after his return from Prague in 1939. Nicholas, his secretary and Nicholas's mother formed a three-member team that began organizing the rescue of Czechoslovak children. This team put together a list of countries that might be willing to accept the children and place them with foster families; they even approached the president of the United States of America, Theodore Roosevelt. He replied courteously, but with the postscript that currently the laws of his country do not allow any such an undertaking. Thus the only refuge remaining for children from Czechoslovak families was Britain.

Winton had brought with him from Prague a list of the most endangered children, which contained thousands of names. Parents had sent him photos of their children, the photos were glued to cards and accompanied by information about the children's abilities, interests and skills. He then sent the cards out all over Britain, offered them to refugee organizations, everyone who could help in some fashion. And so they managed to place children into many varied and sundry families and households; mostly they were taken in by good people.

The first train of children departed Wilson Station in Prague for England on 14th April 1939, the day before the German occupation of Bohemia. Subsequently up to 2nd August 1939 there were another seven trains dispatched. Nicholas Winton managed to secure the emigration of a total of 669 children from occupied Bohemia and Moravia 21, and from the Slovak State. The last transport of 251 children was supposed to leave Prague on 1st September 1939. The parents and all 251 children arrived at Wilson Station on 1st September. There were already 251 families ready in London that had promised to take them in. The departure was prepared, the children were already sitting in their seats on the train, their parents were weeping, but were hoping that sending the children to England was for their good. But the train never started. World War II broke out, and suddenly everything was off. The children had to get off, and no one ever heard of them again; they ended their lives in concentration camps.

At the National Archives in Washington, Matej managed to find period footage that some American news crew had shot at Wilson Station in 1939. The footage shows the 29-year-old Winton together with the children and their parents. Up until then, the employees of the archive had no idea what the footage contained, because it had remained in the archive, unedited, for the entire sixty years. It has never been shown, because right after it was shot, war broke out in Europe, and movie screens were flooded with the latest footage from the battlefield. My son Matej was its first viewer. He thus came by authentic materials which he could use in his documentary about Winton's 'Power of Good.'

Matej is preparing to shoot a continuation of the film about Winton's life, and Winton is supposed to come to Prague along with his children and grandchildren. Even though he's already 97, he's in excellent physical and mental condition, and is preparing to visit an observatory with Matej, because in the year 2000 Czech astronomers named a planetoid they'd discovered in Winton's honor.

In 1999 my son Matej made a movie entitled 'Vsichni moji blizci' ['All My Loved Ones']. The theme was based on my childhood memories, but as the story of my childhood seemed to him to be too sad, he incorporated Winton's rescue operation into the plot. Winton, who came to Prague for the film's premiere, very much liked the picture. The movie was shown at sixty prestigious international festivals, and received a number of awards; among others, it was also submitted to the Academy Awards for the Slovak Republic in the foreign film category.

Glossary">Glossary

Zuzana Mináčová
roz. Silbersteinová
Praha
Česká republika
Rozhovor pořídila: Dagmar Grešlová
Období vzniku rozhovoru: červenec 2006

Zuzana Mináčová (75) se narodila v Bratislavě v emancipované židovské lékařské rodině. Rodiče ji vychovávali nenáboženským způsobem, ovšem s ortodoxií se měla možnost setkat v rodině svých prarodičů v Betlanovcích, kam jezdila na prázdniny a zažívala různá dobrodružství. Idylické dětství Zuzany Mináčové bylo však záhy zpřetrháno – bylo jí teprve osm let, když vypukl Slovenský stát 1 a její rodina byla ze dne na den nucena čelit řadě restrikcí a perzekucí. Válku prožila zprvu se svou sestrou v úkrytu, po udání však byly obě odtransportovány do sběrného tábora Sereď 2, odtamtud do Osvětimi, po níž následoval ještě tábor nucených prací ve Vrchlabí. Osvobození zažila jakožto třináctileté děvče. Válečné události ji donutily předčasně dospět, po válce jí starosti jejích vrstevnic připadaly najednou cizí. Jak sama říká, nezajímaly jí starosti spolužaček ve škole, chtěla začít žít opravdovým životem, najít si práci a realizovat se. To se jí vyplnilo – stala se známou a úspěšnou fotografkou, v této profesi se realizuje dodnes. Zapojila se do takzvané „nové vlny“ šedesátých let, která rozšířila možnosti fotografického výrazu. Její tvorbu charakterizuje imaginace, filozofická kontemplace, poetická hra a experiment. Je autorkou fotografických cyklů Čas, Čekání, Souvislosti, Hra, Zastavení na cestě, Herecké portréty, Stromy. Téměř po šedesáti letech po druhé světové válce se Zuzana Mináčová rozhodla „obnovit“ svoje dětské rodinné album, o které přišla v chaosu druhé světové války. V roce 1996 se pustila do projektu „Rekonstrukce rodinného alba“, tedy zpřítomnění svého dětství skrze fotografii. Do projektu zapojila svého syna Matěje s rodinou a další své přátele a jiné známé osobnosti, kteří jí zpřítomnili vlastní příbuzné, o něž za války přišla, a po nichž jí nezůstaly žádné fotografie. Jelikož je sama známou fotografkou, rozhodla se rekonstruovat toto album sama na základě svých vzpomínek.

Rodina
Dětství
Za války
Po válce
Glosář

Rodina

Rodiče mého otce byli skutečně ortodoxní Židé, při návštěvách a na prázdninách, které jsem u nich trávívala, jsem měla možnost setkat se s náboženským životem. Babička se jmenovala Maria Silbersteinová, rozená Hexnerová, a dědeček se jmenoval Adolf Silberstein. Oba pocházeli z Betlanovců, což je vesnička blízko Tater v okrese Spišská Nová Ves. Babiččina rodina původně přišla ze Pyrenejského poloostrova. Když odtamtud byli na konci patnáctého století vyháněni Židé 3, odešli Hexnerovci ze Španělska. Chtěli se původně usadit v českých zemích, ale platil tu zákon, že židovská rodina může mít snad maximálně dvě děti, a tak se usadili na Slovensku. V jejich případě to bylo nutné, jelikož oni měli příšerně moc dětí! Takže můj tatínek na toto téma vtipkoval, ačkoliv to vlastně ani nebyl vtip, to byla realita – když se ho lidé ptali, jak je možné, že všichni ti Hexnerovi jsou jedna a tatáž rodina – tak odpovídal: „To bylo tak: byl jakýsi Hexner a ten měl dvanáct synů, každý ten syn měl zase dvanáct synů, a ti každý zase dvanáct, dvanáct a dvanáct synů, no a všichni ti jsou moji příbuzní…“ Ale asi na tom bude něco pravdy, protože Hexnerovi byli skutečně velmi početní. Bohužel, většina těchto mých příbuzných zahynula za války v koncentračních táborech, všechny moje setřenice, bratranci, tetičky a strýčkové… Vím akorát o jednom svém pra-prastrýčkovi Erwinovi Paulu Hexnerovi, který emigroval do Ameriky a stal se tam slavným ekonomem, dodnes se uděluje Hexnerova cena, která nese jeho jméno. Z celé početné rozvětvené rodiny se zachránil jenom tento strýček.

O mém prapradědečkovi z tatínkovy strany, který žil počátkem osmnáctého století v podtatranských Betlanovcích, se tradovalo, že to byl silný a krásný muž. Jednou prý takhle vezl domů sudy s pivem a zkrátil si cestu lesem. V lese ho překvapili a zastavili chlapci z Jánošíkovy zbojnické družiny 4 a chystali se mu jeho pivo sebrat. On se ovšem tak obratně bránil, a tak mu dal Jánošík šanci. Pravil mu, že když zvedne padesátilitrový sud plný piva nad hlavu, že si jej může nechat. Prapradědeček to s lehkostí dokázal, díky čemuž se Jánošíkovi tak zalíbil, že ho přijal do své jedenáctičlenné družiny. V rodině se tradovalo, že když byl zbojník Jánošík popraven, nebylo to tak, jak se obecně míní, že jeho zbojníci rozdělili peníze chudým. Údajně si peníze rozdělili mezi sebe. Díky tomu se prapradědeček stal velice bohatým člověkem a po návratu domů skoupil celou vesnici, katolickým kostelem počínaje a betlanovským renesančním zámečkem konče.

Betlanovce byly malá obec, kde babička s dědečkem měli obchůdek se smíšeným zbožím. Babička s dědečkem měli statek, na kterém pracovali. Ani v Betlanovcích, ani v okolních vesnicích nebyla synagoga, tak se ji rozhodli moji prarodiče nechat vystavět. Iniciovali stavbu a financovali ji, takže se zasloužili o to, že v Betlanovcích stojí synagoga. Počítám, že to mohlo být někdy ve dvacátých letech dvacátého století.

V rodině mých prarodičů z otcovy strany se dodržovaly židovské zvyky, vařila se košer strava 5, třídilo se nádobí na různé pokrmy a svátky, chodilo se do synagogy, praktikoval se ortodoxní 6 způsob života. Byla jsem dítě, takže na žádné konkrétní detaily si už příliš zřetelně nevzpomínám, ale pamatuji si, že jsme s bratranci, sestřenicemi či s mojí sestrou vždy u prarodičů byli přes prázdniny a měli jsme možnost se seznámit se skutečným židovským cítěním. Byly jsme ještě děti, takže jsme často něco popletly, a potom babička s dědečkem museli po nás chyby napravovat, takže si vzpomínám, že se musely strkat nože do země, které tam musely být několik dní, aby bylo vše zase rituálně čisté.

Bohužel, idylické prázdniny a bezstarostné dětství u babičky s dědečkem skončily, když mi bylo osm let. Začal Slovenský stát, přišly všechny ty hrůzy a pronásledování Židů 7, a my jsme přestali k babičce s dědečkem jezdit. Rodiče měli jiné starosti, museli řešit co dělat, koho kam ukrýt, jak se zachovat. Od osmi let jsem už v Betlanovcích nebyla. Celá otcova rodina zahynula v koncentračních táborech. Otcovi se podařilo babičku uchránit před transportem, skrýval ji do roku 1944 v Bratislavě, ale nakonec ji stejně transport neminul a zahynula v Osvětimi. Okolnosti babiččina skrývání a následného zatčení neznám, byla jsem moc malá, abych si to pamatovala, navíc po válce jsem se o válečných událostech velmi dlouhou dobu neměla vůbec chuť s nikým bavit.

Můj tatínek se jmenoval Dezider Silberstein, narodil se roku 1894 v Betlanovcích. Chodil jako dítě do základní židovské školy, ale pak v dospělosti už židovské zvyky nedodržoval. Tatínek se chtěl stát statkářem a jeho bratr Filip měl jít studovat. Ale strýček Filip se učil špatně, tak se rodiče rozhodli, že bude obhospodařovat statek, a protože můj tatínek se naopak učil velmi dobře, tak ho rodiče dali studovat, ačkoli on by raději statkařil. Zapsal se na medicínu a stal se lékařem. Můj tatínek byl nejveselejší člověk na světě. Rád dělal různé vtipy, byla s ním nesmírná legrace. Bohužel, po té co vypukl Slovenský stát, už život moc legrační nebyl. Vzpomínám si na jednu vtipnou historku, kdy mi tatínek z recese řekl, že k nám na návštěvu přijde strašně tlustý člověk, že se na to musíme připravit. Tvrdil, že ten pán je tak strašně tlustý, že neprojde ani dvoukřídlými dveřmi a bude se muset skrze ně protlačit bokem. Taky mi řekl, že budeme muset vymýt všechny lavory a kýble, jelikož mu do nich budeme servírovat jídlo a pití. Byla jsem pak hrozně zklamaná, když ten člověk přišel. Byl sice hodně tlustý, ale projít dveřmi mu nepůsobilo vůbec žádné problémy, a co víc, jedl z talíře jako všichni ostatní u stolu. Tatínek byl moc hodný, třeba jednou před Vánoci mě vzal za ruku a odvedl mě do pokoje ke gauči. Na pár vteřin z něj vyndal dobře uschovanou panenku, po které jsem už hrozně dlouho toužila. Řekl mi, že ji dostanu pod stromeček, ale ať na to koukám zase na chvíli ještě zapomenout, a hlavně ať to neprozradím mamince.

Na maminčiny rodiče, babičku Janku Löwyovou, rozenou Neumannovou, ani na dědečka Emanuela Löwyho si už nepamatuji, jelikož zemřeli ještě předtím, než jsem se narodila. Jsou pohřbeni na židovském hřbitově v Nitře. Vím o nich málo, byli statkáři v Nitře a měli šest synů a pět dcer. Když vyrostli, žili všichni okolo Nitry na jižním Slovensku, některé sestry žily v Prievidzi. Z doslechu vím, že maminčini bratři, tedy moji strýčkové byli nesmírně veselí lidé. Z pěti strýců se oženil jenom jeden, ostatní byli staří mládenci a žili na úkor svých sester. Strýcové v létě pracovali na statku a v zimě potom žili rozmařilým životem, hráli v kasinu v Monte Carlu. Žili si jako grófové, ale nebyli grófové – nebyli zase až tak bohatí a ani neměli takový majetek, aby si mohli takový přepychový život dovolit, takže potom museli manželé jejich sester za ně platit dluhy. Jelikož tety byly bohatě provdané, tak jejich manželé spláceli dluhy těchto strýčků, aby nebyla v rodině ostuda. Rozhodně to byli veselí, přímí a rozmařilí lidé! U strýců se odehrávaly různé hony, projížďky, hrály se karetní hry o peníze, zvali si cikánské kapely, aby jim k zábavě hrály, o zábavu nebyla nouze. Toto všechno ale bohužel s příchodem války brzy skončilo. Ráda jsem k příbuzným jezdila na prázdniny a zažívala jsem tam různá dobrodružství, například jednomu mému bratranci strýc dovolil řídit drahé auto a já jsem mu při tom dělala doprovod. Anebo jednou, když jeden ze strýčků při karetních hrách na večírku celou noc vyhrával, přilepil mi na čelo pětistovku [V r. 1929 bylo zákonem stanoveno, že koruna československá (Kč), jako dosavadní jednotka měny československé, je hodnotou rovna 44,58 miligramu zlata – pozn. red.], což tehdy byly velké peníze, zvlášť pro mne, šestiletou holku! Strýček Jackie byl zase houslovým virtuózem, byl velmi společenským člověkem, okouzlujícím elegánem a svůdcem žen. Jiný strýc, Maxi báči [maďarsky ujo Max – pozn. red.], se ve svých patnácti letech rozhodl odejít do Ameriky. Vzal si s sebou část svého dědictví a odjel za oceán. Tak si za své jmění koupil cirkus Buffalo Bill. Když se po letech vrátil do své rodné vesnice, přivezl si s sebou svoji americkou manželku Paulu, bryčku s koněm a laso, do něhož chytal děti na dvoře. Moc jsme se s ním nasmály a užily si legrace. Další strýček se pro změnu rozhodl odjet do Chile. Byl velký frajer, trochu lehkomyslný, toužil po dobrodružství. Před odjezdem si nechal ušít na míru spoustu drahých módních obleků. Když odjel, přišly příbuzným za celou tuto parádu účty, které za něj museli zaplatit.

Dětství

Moje maminka Pavla Silbersteinová, rozená Löwyová, se narodila v roce 1898 v Nitře a byla deváté z jedenácti dětí. Chodila zřejmě do základní židovské školy, ale v dospělosti, v manželství už židovské zvyky nedodržovala. Moje maminka byla první děvče, které v Nitře maturovalo. Nemohla ani chodit do školy, učila se soukromě doma a pak složila maturitu. Poté šla studovat medicínu, což v té době bylo něco naprosto výjimečné, aby žena šla takto studovat. Stala se lékařkou. Nevím, kde ani jak se vlastně moji rodiče seznámili, ale myslím, že zřejmě v lékařských kruzích, neboť tatínek i maminka byli lékaři.

V dětství jsem si hrála se všemi dětmi, židovskými i nežidovskými. Nebylo třeba rozlišovat. Obecně panuje jakási křesťanská představa, že Židé nějak nesmírně drží při sobě a že se navzájem podporují, ale podle mě to není vůbec pravda. Pravdou je, že po válce byly organizace, které pomáhaly uprchlíkům, jako například Joint 8. Ale dnes je situace podle mého názoru jiná. Rozhodně když se rozhodnete emigrovat do Izraele, tak neplatí, že proto, že jste Žid, budete mít nějaké výhody.

Dnes, když je mi, bohužel, už sedmdesát pět let, jsem, myslím, pamětníkem zašlých časů. Oba dva moji rodiče byli sice Židé, ale u nás v rodině se již náboženská stránka moc nedodržovala. Žili jsme už nenáboženským způsobem. Bydleli jsme v Bratislavě ve Štefánikově ulici v krásném pětipokojovém bytě. Měly jsme se sestrou křesťanskou chůvu. Otec byl známý lékař, provozoval svoji praxi ve stejném domě. Kuriózní je, že v bytě, kde jsme bydleli, je v současnosti sídlo Policie SR, takže když jsem si před pár lety vyřizovala občanský průkaz, šla jsem si vyzvednout doklady do našeho bytu! Když začalo pronásledování a perzekuce Židů, já jsem byla malá, ale vzpomínám si, že tatínek musel mít na ordinaci tabulku, kde stálo napsáno, že je Žid. Také jsme museli nosit žlutou hvězdu 9 přišitou na oblečení.

Za války

Tatínek s maminkou se přes válku skrývali u jedněch známých. Otec kdysi před válkou léčil jednoho grófa Pálffyho, což byla velice známá šlechtická rodina. Měli spolu takovou dohodu, že když přijdou Rusové, ukryje otec Pálffyho s rodinou, a v opačném případě, pokud na Slovensko přijdou Němci, že zase Pálffy ukryje naši rodinu. Pálffy otce skutečně ukryl, i babičku zprvu skrývali. Otec s maminkou byli u Pálffyho asi tři měsíce, ale ten se pak rozhodl emigrovat, sbalil si všechen majetek, obrazy a cennosti a odjel s celou rodinou do ciziny. Tatínek s maminkou potom tedy byli ukrytí někde jinde. Babičku, když v roce 1944 vypuklo Slovenské národní povstání 10, někdo udal a odtransportovali ji do koncentračního tábora. Nevím přesně kde všude a u koho rodiče za války žili. Já jsem se po válce o tom s nimi nikdy nebavila. Já sama jsem nechtěla hovořit o tom, co jsem v koncentračním táboře zažila a viděla. Neměla jsem ani nejmenší chuť vracet se ke všem těm válečným zážitkům, a proto jsem se ani s rodiči nebavila o tom, co oni za války dělali a jak a kde žili. My se sestrou jsme byly na jiném místě, otec nás tam ukryl, myslel si, že ke spolehlivým lidem, ale oni nás vlastně udali a já a sestra jsme se dostaly do koncentračního tábora. Za války jsme o sobě s rodiči navzájem nevěděli, byli jsme odděleni. Rodiče vůbec nevěděli, že mě a sestru sebrali a odvlekli do Seredi a následně do Osvětimi. Ti lidé nás udali, ale dále pobírali peníze od tatínka za to, že nás údajně skrývají. Ani my se sestrou jsme po celou dobu války nevěděly, co dělá naše rodina, jestli vůbec žijí.

Se sestrou, Annou, jsem se dostala do sběrného tábora v Seredi, kde jsme byly asi týden. Sereď byl přestupní tábor před cestou do koncentračních táborů, přirovnala bych ho k Terezínu 11. Po týdnu v Seredi jsme byly odtransportované do Osvětimi. Dostala jsem se tam v roce 1944, když mi bylo třináct let. Dodnes mám na předloktí vytetované číslo. Myslím, že jsme tam byly se sestrou asi měsíc. Po nějaké době strávené v Osvětimi přišla selekce, respektive vybírali lidi na práci do nějaké vzdálené továrny. Řekli nám, aby vystoupili z řady všichni, kterým je mezi šestnácti a pětadvaceti lety. Připadalo mi, že je to takový dobrý věk, takže bude asi výhodné, když se přihlásím, ačkoliv mi bylo teprve třináct. Vystoupila jsem, ale oni mě odtamtud vyhodili, že tam nepatřím. Sestru tam nechali, té bylo patnáct let a zdála se jim, že vyhovuje. Začala jsem plakat a najednou se stalo cosi jako zázrak. Najednou se tam objevila moje vzdálená sestřenice, která v Osvětimi byla už od roku 1942. Když si mě všimla, jak vyvádím, v nestřeženém okamžiku mě odvedla na stranu, aby si mě nikdo nevšiml. Věděla, že když budu plakat a vyvádět, že na sebe upozorním, a tak jí nezbylo nic jiného než mě uklidnit – vlepila mi takový pohlavek, že se mi zajiskřilo před očima, hrozně jsem se lekla a okamžitě zmlkla. Když selekce skončila, vmísila mě sestřenice nenápadně mezi vybrané na práci. Tím mi zachránila život! A tak jsem se díky ní dostala do pracovního tábora Hohenelbe, dnes Vrchlabí v Čechách. Každý člověk, který přežil koncentrák, přežil, dá se říci, nějakým zázrakem. Byla to velká loterie života, kdo přežije, kdo nepřežije, sled nejrůznějších náhod. Myslím, že svět byl kvůli holocaustu připraven o spoustu géniů, umělců, vynálezců, chytrých a zajímavých lidí, protože šest milionů lidí je strašně obrovská ztráta.

V pracovním táboře ve Vrchlabí nebyli jenom Židé, byly tam i jiné národnosti, ale Židé se měli nejhůř. Ve Vrchlabí jsme pracovali v továrně Lohenswerke, vyráběli jsme rádiové lampy, zbraně a všelijaké další věci. Němci zřejmě měli ke konci války problém, jelikož měli mnoho lidí narukovaných na frontě, a tak potřebovali dost pracovních sil. V koncentračních táborech jsem byla celkem téměř devět měsíců, od září 1944 do května 1945. Ve Vrchlabí jsme se setrou zažily osvobození. Němci, kteří nás tam hlídali, najednou zmizeli. Asi dva dny na to přišli Rusové, s Rudou armádou přišlo osvobození. Slavnostně nás vypravili do vlaku, stříleli do vzduchu salvy, byla to veliká sláva. Náš vlak byl přeplněný, takže asi po čtyřiceti kilometrech už nemohl jet dál, porouchal se. Jeli jsme tedy vlakem, kde byly přidělané takové desky, kterých jsme se přidržovali, přidržovali jsme se oken, pak jsme seděli i na střechách vlaku. Část cesty jsme musely se sestrou jít i pěšky. Takovým dobrodružným způsobem jsme se tedy asi po týdnu cesty dostaly do Bratislavy. Když jsme přišly, nevěděly jsme, kam máme jít, šly jsme tedy ke známým našich rodičů. Ti věděli, že naši rodiče přežili válku, tak nás k nim vzali.

Z naší rodiny jsme přežili já, sestra a rodiče. Jinak všichni ostatní rodinní příslušníci zahynuli v koncentračních táborech, kromě jednoho mého pra-prastrýce ekonoma Hexnera, který emigroval do Ameriky. Tatínek se po válce vrátil ke své lékařské profesi. Zemřel v roce 1961. Maminka zemřela v roce 1947 na infarkt. Sestra po válce vystudovala obchodní akademii, seznámila se s mladíkem z Prahy a odstěhovala se do Čech, za tohoto mladého pana Engelsmanna se vdala a žije v Praze.

Po válce

Po válce jsem začala chodit do školy, ale moc mě to tam nebavilo. Bylo mi necelých čtrnáct let, když jsem se vrátila z koncentračních táborů. Připadalo mi všechno ve škole a starosti mých vrstevníků hrozně malicherné v porovnání s tím, co jsem si já za ty měsíce za války prožila. Řekla jsem si, že chci dělat v životě něco pořádného, skutečně pracovat a bylo mi celkem jedno, co to bude, hlavně když to nebude škola. Rozhodovala jsem se mezi tím, jestli se stanu zubní techničkou, anebo fotografkou. Učňovský život mi připadal velmi zajímavý, tak jsem se rozhodla stát se fotografkou. Kousek od našeho bydliště v Bratislavě na Palisádách otevřeli střední školu uměleckého průmyslu, což mi připadalo hodně blízko tomu, co bych chtěla dělat. Tak jsem se rozhodla studovat umělecký průmysl. Škola byla velmi dobře vedená. Přijali každého a pak po třech letech dostali ti méně schopní výuční list a ti schopnější mohli pokračovat dál a složit maturitu. Já jsem se přihlásila k těm „neschopným“ a chtěla jsem odejít, oni mě přemlouvali, že mám zůstat, že studentská léta jsou ta nejkrásnější léta života, ale já jsem už chtěla jít pracovat. Pamatuji si, jak jsem si říkala, že jestli jsou studentská léta ta nejkrásnější léta života, jak je tedy možné, že život je tak nudný? To je život opravdu tak nezajímavý, že tahle hrůzostrašná škola je to nejlepší, co mě v životě potká? S takovou myšlenkou jsem se nemohla smířit, tak jsem odešla za školy. Začala jsem opravdu pracovat, nastoupila jsem ve filmových ateliérech v Bratislavě, a najednou jsem zjistila, že život není tak nudný! Práce mě bavila a fotografkou jsem dodnes. Dělám to, co mě opravdu baví.

Když vznikl v roce 1948 stát Izrael, tak jsem zvažovala, jestli neemigrovat. I před válkou rodiče uvažovali, zda do Palestiny neodjedeme, jelikož mnoho našich přátel a známých odcestovalo. Jedna věc je nad něčím uvažovat, ale důležité vždycky nakonec je, pro co se člověk opravdu rozhodne a co udělá, my jsme se nerozhodli pro emigraci, neodjeli jsme. Izrael jsem navštívila asi desetkrát. Poprvé jsem tam byla po revoluci 1989 12, tehdy Československo ještě nemělo v Izraeli velvyslance. Prezident Václav Havel 13 tam vypravil vojenský speciál, celkem asi tři letadla, kde bylo pár jeho známých a jeho osobní hosté, tak jsem s nimi také letěla.

Vdala jsem se za Jána Mináče, muž nebyl židovského původu. Byl bratrem slavného slovenského spisovatele Vladimíra Mináče [Vladimír Mináč (1922 – 1996): slovenský prozaik, esejista, filmový scenárista, publicista, kutúrny a politický činiteľ – pozn. red.]. S mužem jsme se seznámili na schůzi Svazu mládeže. Tenkrát nám tam vyprávěli, že všichni musíme znát marxismus. Já jsem vůbec neměla chuť číst ty marxistické knihy! Dozvěděla jsem se, že Ján je fotbalista, který měl výron v koleni, a tak dělal v knihovně. Řekla jsem si, že než bych ty hrůzostrašné knihy četla sama, že bude lepší, když on mi to vysvětlí. A tak se stalo, že jsme spolu začali chodit a v roce 1951 jsme se vzali. Když jsem se vdala, neměli jsme s mužem kde bydlet, tak si nás vzala do podnájmu jedna paní, jejíž muž byl souzen ve vykonstruovaných komunistických procesech 14. Prožívali jsme s ní všechny ty hrůzy, výslechy, chodili k ní estébáci 15, nebylo to vůbec příjemné. Komunistické ideologii jsem nikdy nepodlehla, myslím, že jsem komunismus brzy prohlédla. Nikdy jsem nebyla v žádné straně, ani můj otec nikdy v žádné partaji nebyl. Bylo spousta lidí, kteří těm komunistickým myšlenkám podlehli, uvěřil ideologii, ale to nebyl nikdy můj případ. Musím říct, že s antisemitismem jsem se nikdy nijak výrazně nesetkala, jelikož naše rodina nijak nábožensky nežila, žili jsme v Bratislavě a otec byl váženým lékařem. Měl klientelu židovskou i nežidovskou, sousedi ho měli rádi, stýkal se se známými a lékaři, kteří nebyli židovského vyznání. Neměli jsme žádné problémy s antisemitismem, akorát když vypukl Slovenský stát, tak přišla různá opatření proti Židům, ale já jsem byla malá, bylo mi osm let, tak jsem to až tolik nevnímala.

Mám dva syny. Starší Ján se narodil v roce 1953, žije s rodinou v Kanadě, kde je na univerzitě profesorem matematiky. Mladší syn Matěj se narodil v roce 1961, vystudoval Vysokou školu múzických umění v Bratislavě a stal se filmovým režisérem. Matěj točí hrané i dokumentární filmy. Je zvláštní, že ačkoliv jsem syny nijak zvlášť k židovství nevedla, oba dva se o tuto problematiku zajímali a dnes vědí o židovství možná i více než já. Vyprávěla jsem jim něco málo při příležitosti izraelské války v roce 1967 16. Sama jsem se k válečným událostem nechtěla ve vzpomínkách vracet, já sama se ani nedívám na žádné válečné filmy, neúčastním se vzpomínkových akcí k výročí osvobození, mě ta tematika rozrušuje a už vůbec na to nechci vzpomínat.

Do České republiky jsem se odstěhovala v roce 1993, tedy v poměrně vyšším věku. Byla to vlastně trochu pošetilost a odvaha zároveň, že se na „stará kolena“ rozhodnu žít v „cizí“ zemi. Ovšem k odchodu ze Slovenska mě přiměly nálady, které začaly na Slovensku po rozdělení Československa. Vzrostly nacionalistické nálady, když jsem znovu viděla slovenský znak a nadšení pro Tisa 17, už jsem se na to nechtěla znovu dívat a znovu prožívat ty nacionalistické nálady. Rozhodla jsem se odejít do Čech. Dnes už se to trochu vytratilo, ale po revoluci v roce 1989 bylo na Slovensku obrovské nadšení pro slovenský fašistický stát.

V roce 1996, ve svých pětašedesáti letech, jsem se rozhodla obnovit své staré rodinné album. Přišla jsem v chaosu druhé světové války o většinu rodinných fotografií, a proto jsem přišla na myšlenku zrekonstruovat si album za pomoci svých příbuzných a přátel, kteří mi stáli modelem. Vznikla tak publikace „Rekonstrukce rodinného alba“. Většina mých příbuzných za války zahynula v koncentračních táborech, nezůstala po nich ani jediná fotografie ani památka, uchovala jsem si je pouze ve svých vzpomínkách, a tak mi přišlo na mysl, že je skrze fotografii oživím. Díky umění fotografie, kterému se celý život věnuji, lze na chvíli pozastavit čas a zpřítomnit to, co už během času vybledlo. Pomáhala mi má rodina, syn Matěj ztělesnil mého tatínka Dezidera Silbersteina, Matějova manželka Karin představovala moji maminku, Pavlínu Silbersteinovou. Moji přátelé, herci a režiséři, pózovali jakožto mí strýčkové, tetičky, sestřenice. Při fotografování jsem vlastně poprvé vyprávěla synovi Matějovi různé staré rodinné historky, legrační příběhy i osobní tragédie, Matěj se rozhodl o naší rodině natočit hraný film.

Syn Matěj Mináč točí filmy, které se věnují tématu druhé světové války a holocaustu. Rozhodl se natočit film o naší rodině, tak jak jsem mu vyprávěla různé tragické historky o veselých lidech. Ovšem příběh naší rodiny byl veskrze smutný, a proto Matěj hledal cosi pozitivního, aby film měl v sobě i špetku naděje. Prostudoval všechny možné knihy o holocaustu, prolistoval všelijaké svazky v knihovně Židovského muzea v Praze, kde jednoho dne narazil na knihu Věry Gissingové „Perličky dětství“. Velice jej zaujal její příběh, ve kterém líčí, jak jakožto jedenáctiletá holčička unikla válečným hrůzám a jistému transportu na smrt, ke kterým byli odsouzeni Židé v Evropě zachvácené nacismem. Věra Gissingová popisuje: „Byli jsme velmi různorodou skupinkou dětí, které měly společné jen jedno: všichni jsme uprchli z Československa okupovaného nacisty. Některé děti utekly se svými rodiči, ale mnozí, já mezi nimi, jsme přijeli sami, v dětském vlakovém transportu. To, že se nám podařilo uniknout, bylo zásluhou přdevším jednoho muže – tehdy třicetiletého burzovního makléře z Londýna, Nicholase Wintona 18…“ Věra Gissingová se tedy v jedenácti letech díky akci Nicholase Wintona zachránila, zatímco její rodiče, kteří v Československu zůstali, byli následně zavražděni v koncentračních táborech. Když si toto syn Matěj přečetl, rozhodl se, že natočí film, který bude vycházet z mých vzpomínek, ale zakomponuje do něho i příběh o chlapci, který byl zachráněn díky akci Nicholase Wintona. Když dal svůj námět přeložit jedné překladatelce, dozvěděl se od ní, že ona sama je jedním z dětí, které byly tímto způsobem zachráněny. Velice ho příběh zaujal a rozhodl se pátrat po ostatních dětech, kterých Winton zachránil 669, i po samotném Wintonovi. Byl nesmírně překvapen, že Winton ještě žije v Maidenheadu kousek od Londýna. Kontaktoval jej a domluvil si s ním schůzku. V únoru 1998 jej navštívil v jeho domě v Anglii, Winton k němu byl velice milý, vyprávěl mu se svým typicky anglickým humorem s nadhledem o svém životě, své rodině a vnoučatech, svém zájmu o operu, kterou navštěvoval, ačkoli mu v té době bylo již téměř devadesát let. Matěj byl z Wintona nadšený a rozhodl se, že nebude točit pouze hraný film inspirovaný mým životem, ale že natočí o tomto pozoruhodném muži i film dokumentární. A takto vznikl dokument o Nicholasi Wintonovi, který se jmenuje „Síla lidskosti“ („The Power of Good“), a který kromě jiných významných cen získal roku 2002 mezinárodní cenu EMMY za nejlepší neamerický dokument. Jakožto vypravěč v něm účinkuje Joe Schlesinger, kanadský reportér televizní stanice CBS, který sám je jedním z „Wintonových dětí“.

V dokumentu se popisuje, jak se Nicholoas Winton, který se narodil 19. května 1909 v Británii, kde se stal úředníkem a burzovním makléřem, rozhodl v roce 1939 zachraňovat české a slovenské děti. Winton k tomu se skromností dodává, že byl jen ve správný čas na správném místě, že by přeci jako on jednal každý. Ale tak to nebylo, on byl jediný. Jak píše syn Matěj Mináč ve své knize „Loterie života Nicholase Wintona. Po stopách unikátní akce záchrany dětí, která nemá v novodobé historii lidstva obdoby.“: „Tak tohle jsem nechápal. Jak to, že se o tom nechce bavit? Proč se tváří, že něco takového dělají lidé levou zadní a že je to zcela běžné? Vždyť je to zkušený a inteligentní člověk a musí přece vědět, že se zachoval zcela mimořádně. Měl jsem tedy před sebou záhadu, které jsem chtěl přijít za každou cenu na kloub. Už jsem se nemohl dočkat, až se do toho filmového dokumentu pustím. Doufal jsem, že při práci na filmu najdu odpovědi na otázky: Proč to ten člověk vůbec udělal? Proč o tom půl století mlčel? Jak to vlastně udělal? /…/ Ani v Praze v roce 1939 nebyl lhostejný k těžkému osudu ohrožených českých a slovenských dětí. Nenechal se znechutit lidmi, kteří mu připomínali, že na to, aby dokázal zachránit děti, nemá ani finanční prostředky ani čas a ani gestapo mu to nedovolí. Navíc, která demokratická země by ty děti vůbec byla ochotná přijmout! Jenomže to neznali Wintona, který se vždy řídil heslem: ´NEJDE TO – nepovažuji za žádnou odpověď!´“

Nicholas Winton o svém působení v Československu nikdy nemluvil, ani jeho manželka vůbec netušila, že za války její manžel zachránil před plynovou komorou 669 dětí. Nicholasova žena, Grete Wintonová, se na jaře roku 1988 rozhodla pustit do zevrubného úklidu jejich domu. Když začala smýčit půdu, objevila starý kufr. Otevřela jej a objevila v něm hromadu dokumentů. Objevila v kufru staré dokumenty, dopisy, fotografie. Začala se písemnostmi probírat, ale nerozuměla jim, jelikož byly psány v řeči, kterou neznala. Podle háčků a čárek nad písmeny usoudila, že jsou psány zřejmě v nějaké slovanské řeči; podle slova Praha nakonec usoudila, že se dokumenty váží k Československu. Když se manžela zeptala, co mají všechny ty formuláře, fotografie a dopisy znamenat, odbyl ji tím, že to už je stará historie. Grete byla velice překvapená, když se dozvěděla, že její muž za války zachránil tolik dětí před jistou smrtí. Objevila v kufru i seznam jmen všech 669 dětí, objevila dopisy, ve kterých rodiče dětí psali, jak je třeba o jejich potomky v cizině pečovat, co mají rády, co jim škodí. Usoudila, že rodiče dětí zřejmě nepřežili, ale že by se tyto dopisy měly dostat do rukou těm, kterým patří, tedy zachráněným dětem. Grete se obrátila na různá muzea, zda by o dokumenty neměla zájem, uspěla nakonec v Památníku obětem holocaustu Yad Vashem v Izraeli, kam byly posléze dokumenty uloženy.

O tom, kdo se zasloužil o záchranu jejich životů, neměly tušení ani „Wintonovy děti“. Na oficiálních formulářích vystupovalo pouze jméno jakési organizace British Committee for Refugees from Czechoslovakia – Children’s section, kterou Winton naoko založil, ale nikdo o ní nic bližšího nevěděl. Wintonova žena Grete se tedy obrátila na britskou odbornici na problematiku holocaustu, Elizabeth Maxwellovou, která se rozhodla napsat dopisy na všech 669 adres rodin, které adoptovaly děti z Wintonova seznamu. Vrátilo se jí 150 odpovědí a podařilo se jí získat kontakt na šedesát „Wintonových dětí“. Nikdo z nich svého zachránce pochopitelně neznal a toužili se s ním setkat. Ve spolupráci s britskou televizní stanicí BBC paní Maxwellová objevila další „Wintonovy děti“. Jak píše syn ve své knize „Loterie života Nicholase Wintona. Po stopách unikátní akce záchrany dětí, která nemá v novodobé historii lidstva obdoby.“: „Moderátorka pořadu ‚That’s life – To je život‘ Esther Rantzenová dostala nápad pozvat Wintona a zachráněné děti do studia. Neřekla však nikomu, co se bude dít. Winton se domníval, že půjde o pořad zabývající se aktivním stářím a že ho pozvali kvůli jeho bohaté dobročinné činnosti. Postavil totiž kolem Londýna několik seniorských center. Jedno z nich nese jeho jméno – Wintonův dům. Během pořadu však vyšlo najevo, že ti diváci kolem jsou lidé, jimž kdysi zachránil život. Obrovské vlně emocí, která následovala, málokdo dokázal vzdorovat. Winton se rozplakal a rozplakali se i všichni kolem něho. Dojati byli i lidé u obrazovek. Jako první mu byla představena spisovatelka Věra Gissingová. Léta pátrala, kdo stál za její záchranou, obracela se na nejrůznější organizace pro uprchlíky, dokonce napsala arcibiskupovi z Canterbury, ale všechno bylo marné. A najednou vedle svého zachránce seděla! Byl to nejdojemnější okamžik jejího života. Právě tehdy vydávala svoji vzpomínkovou knihu a do úvodu dopsala pět odstavců o Nicholasi Wintonovi.“

Matěj se vydal do archívu Yad Vashem a zkoumal veškeré dokumenty, které se o Wintonově působení zachovaly. Objevil zde knihu výstřižků, kterou za války sesbírala Wintonova sekretářka Barbara Wilson, která mu jakožto dobrovolnice pomáhala v londýnské kanceláři, kterou si Winton otevřel po návratu z Prahy v roce 1939. Nicholas, sekretářka Barbara a Nicholasova maminka Barbara tvořili tříčlenný tým, který začal organizovat záchrannou akci na pomoc československým dětem. Tento tým vytipovával země, které by byly ochotné děti přijmout a umístit do adoptivních rodin, obrátili se dokonce i na prezidenta Spojených států amerických, Roosevelta. Ten sice zdvořile odpověděl, ale s dovětkem, že v dané době žádnou takovou akci legislativa jeho země neumožňuje. Jako jediné útočiště pro děti z československých rodin zbyla tedy pouze Británie. Z Prahy si Winton s sebou přivezl seznam nejohroženějších dětí, který čítal tisíce jmen. Rodiče mu poslali snímky svých dětí, snímky byly nalepeny na kartičky, a doplněny údaji o schopnostech, zájmech a dovednostech dětí. Kartičky poté rozeslal po celé Británii, nabídl je utečeneckým organizacím, všem, kteří by mohli nějakým způsobem pomoci. A tak se podařilo rozmístit děti do mnoha rozličných rodin a domácností, většinou se jich ujali dobří lidé. První vlak dětí, směřující z Wilsonova nádraží v Praze do Anglie, byl vypraven 14. března 1939, tedy den před německou okupací Čech. Poté bylo do 2. srpna 1939 vypraveno ještě sedm dalších vlaků. Nicholasi Wintonovi se podařilo zajistit vystěhování z okupovaných Čech a Moravy a ze Slovenského státu celkem 669 dětem. Poslední transport 251 dětí měl odjet z Prahy 1. září 1939. Rodiče a všech 251 dětí přišli prvního září na Wilsonovo nádraží. V londýně již bylo připraveno 251 rodin, které je přislíbily přijmout. Odjezd byl připraven, děti už seděly na svých místech ve vlaku, rodiče plakali, ale doufali, že poslat děti do Anglie je pro jejich dobro. Vlak se ale nikdy nerozjel. Vypukla druhá světová válka a najednou bylo vše odvoláno. Děti musely vystoupit, o žádném z nich už nikdo nikdy neslyšel, skončily svůj život v koncentračních táborech.

Matějovi se podařilo ve Washingtonském národním archivu najít dobové filmové záběry, které roku 1939 na Wilsonově nádraží v Praze natočil jakýsi americký zpravodajský štáb. Záběry zachycují devětadvacetiletého Wintona spolu s dětmi a jejich rodiči. Pracovníci archivu do té doby vůbec netušili, co tyto záběry zachycují, záznam totiž zůstal nerozstříhaný v archivu celých šedesát let. Nikdy se nevysílal, jelikož vzápětí po jeho natočení vypukla v Evropě válka a plátna zaplavovaly aktuální záběry z bojišť. Syn Matěj byl jeho prvním divákem. Získal tak autentické materiály, které mohl použít ve svém dokumentu o Wintonovi „Síla lidskosti“. Matěj se chystá natočit pokračování filmu o Wintonově životě, Winton má přijet do Prahy i se svými dětmi a s vnoučaty. Ačkoli je mu již devadesát sedm let, je ve výborné fyzické i psychické kondici, chystá se navštívit s Matějem jednu observatoř, jelikož čeští astronomové v roce 2000 na jeho počest pojmenovali po Wintonovi jednu novou planetku, kterou objevili.

V roce 1999 natočil syn Matěj hraný film „Všichni moji blízcí“ („All my loved ones“). Námět vycházel z mých vzpomínek na dětství, ale jelikož příběh mého dětství se mu zdál příliš smutný, vkomponoval do příběhu motiv Wintonovy záchranné akce. Samotnému Wintonovi, který přijel na premiéru filmu do Prahy, se snímek moc líbil. Film byl promítán na šedesáti prestižních mezinárodních festivalech a získal řadu cen, mimo jiné byl také nominován na Oscara za Slovenskou republiku v kategorii zahraniční film.

Glosář:

Revekka Blumberg
Tallinn
Estonia
Interviewer: Ella Levitskaya
Date of interview: September 2005

I met Revekka, or Rita, which is her more commonly used name, Blumberg in the Estonian Jewish community 1. Rita is involved in social work in the community. She is a visiting nurse. I had known Rita before conducting this interview, but it never occurred to me to ask her for an interview since I was sure she was born in the postwar years. She is a bright lady, dressed up to fashion, looking young with her hair cut short and vivid eyes. Only when it came to discussing the deportation 2, I heard that Rita had to live through all horrors of forced relocation to Siberia in June 1941. Rita willingly agreed to tell me the story of her life, however hard these recollections were for her. Rita is a very emotional person, and her story is not only interesting as a description of the facts, but also, her comments thereon. Rita told a very interesting story about her husband’s father Rachmiel Blumberg, who went back to Siberia many times after returning from the camps in Siberia to take with him as many children of “enemies of the people” 3 deported from Estonia as possible. Rachmiel is still well remembered and honored by many Estonians. The interview took place at Rita’s home. She lives in the center of Tallinn. There is a lot of light in Rita’s apartment: light colored walls, furniture and lots of pot plants. Rita’s dwelling is very much like herself: fashionable and showy, but all within good taste.

Family background
During the war
Our escape from exile
School years
Married life
Glossary

Family background

I spent my childhood and some of my young age in a distant area in Siberia where we were deported in 1941, instead of spending it in my hometown of Kaunas, Lithuania [2nd biggest town in Lithuania, 90 km from Vilnius]. All I know about my grandmothers and grandfathers is what my mother told me. Unfortunately they had passed away before we returned home. However little I know about my parents’ families is based on my mama’s reminiscences. These memories were so hard for her that I could not ask her to tell me the story of my family too frequently.

At that time I did not think about knowing too little about my roots, any details of my family’s life before I was born or about what my grandmothers and grandfathers were like. Life was about surviving at that time, and the past was almost a forbidden subject for me. It was far later that I started thinking about this trying to restore whatever little could be found and reconstructed.

I will start from my mother’s family. They lived in Lithuania, Klaipeda [about 300 km from Vilnius], which was called Memel during the tsarist time. My mother’s parents’ surname was Fisher. My grandfather died young leaving six children behind. Besides my mama, Hana-Leya, born in 1913, I only knew her brother David and sister Paula. Mama had another brother and two sisters. Unfortunately, I cannot remember their names. When my mama was telling me about them, I didn’t think it so important.

After my grandfather died the family moved to Kaunas. My grandmother was a housewife, when my grandfather was alive, which was common in Jewish families. The children were still young, all of them being of school age, and my grandmother did have a hard time in her effort to provide for them. Even when Grandfather was alive, the family was far from wealthy, and after he died they were actually left in poverty. It’s hard to say how my grandmother managed, but all of the children received good education. They finished a German gymnasium in Kaunas.

After finishing the gymnasium Mama studied in a Jewish religious school in Germany. She told me this school accepted the girls with good academic records and fluent German. The Jewish community paid their trip to Germany. Mama spent two years at this school. All children were raised to become decent, kind and hardworking people. It wasn’t only my mother saying this. I heard this from those people who had known my mother’s family as well.

After Mama returned from Germany she went to work. She spoke fluent German and went to work as personal assistant to the owner of a large shoe factory. This company had some contractual relationships with Germany, and Mama was responsible for correspondence administration.

My father’s family, the Levins, lived in Kaunas. There were many children, of whom I only knew my father’s sister and brother, who stayed in Lithuania. The older children moved to various countries before the 1920s. I have no information about them. My father was the youngest of three children who stayed in Lithuania. The oldest was his sister Shulamit, Shulia, and the middle brother’s name was Haim. My father, Yacob-Berl Levin, was born in 1902.

I don’t know what my grandfather was doing for a living. Mama did not like to talk about my father’s family. All I know is that they were rather wealthy. The family was religious like all Jewish families in Lithuania at the time.

My father took to commerce and life was gradually improving. My father had his own business before getting married. He dealt with fabric wholesale. He purchased fabric abroad and sold it to garment enterprises in Kaunas, Lithuania. It is my understanding that he was a medium level businessman, but this business supported him all right.

I don’t know how my parents met, though I know for sure that this was not a prearranged marriage considering that my father’s family was not really happy about it. They thought it to be a misalliance. My mother came from a poor family while my father’s family was a wealthier one. My father’s parents were probably going to have their son marry a girl with plentiful dowry, but my father went against their will. From whatever little my mother told me, I knew that her relationships with my father’s family were no good, and therefore, she avoided talking about them.

During the war

My parents got married in 1936. They had a traditional Jewish wedding. My father insisted that my mother left her job after getting married. My father had a nice apartment in Kaunas where the newly weds settled down. My mother’s family accepted my father. They had warm and kindly relationships. My father even employed my mother’s sister and brother. I was born in 1937, one year after my parents’ wedding. I was given the name of Revekka.

The language we spoke at home was Yiddish. Lithuania was the center of Jewish culture before the war, and now, after almost 50 years of Soviet rule, the Jewish culture has very deep roots. I remember the Kaunas of my childhood. This was a beautiful and green town. Vyshgorod, a neighborhood in Kaunas, was located on a hill, and there was a funicular connection with it. We lived on the main street, which was Laisvės Alėja at the time. There were many Jews in Kaunas. And, of course, there were synagogues, cheders and everything else that was necessary to support the life of a large Jewish community.

Thinking about my aunt Shulia, I believe my father was a religious man, considering that they grew up in one family and received similar education. I don’t think my parents were canonically religious people, though they observed all Jewish traditions. Even after the war my aunts had kitchenware for meat and dairy products, followed the kashrut, and I believe that this was the way of living in our family before the war. My father’s family strictly observed all Jewish rules, and my father was no exception in this regard. As for my mother, she was always religious, having received religious education in a German school.

I don’t remember how my parents felt about the annexation of Lithuania to the Soviet Union 4. My father’s business was nationalized, and our life became notably more difficult. I remember the day of deportation on 16th June 1941 very well. On this day many Lithuanian families were deported from their country, and their only fault was that they reached certain well-being through hard work and managed to provide for a decent life of their families. The deportation lasted for three days: from 14 to 16 June. [Editor’s note: The first major wave of deportation took place between 11th and 14th June 1941, when 36,000, mostly politically active people were deported. See 2]

I remember very well how this was with my family despite my being just a child. Two NKVD officers 5 came to our home and gave us half an hour to get ready. Nobody knew what was happening. Much depended on each NKVD employee. Some of them merely followed their orders. They were told that the ones to be deported were enemies of the people and deserved no mercy. These NKVD guys didn’t even give a thought to where the fault of those who were called ‘enemies of people’ was. They did their job with the same ardor as someone digging a pit or planting potatoes. Others were more merciful warning owners of the houses that they were to be deported, telling them what they should take with them and even helping them to pack.

Some of these guys took pleasure in bullying people to be the deported. This was the kind of people that we were to deal with. They were watching what Mama was packing throwing away what they thought was in excess of what we needed to take. They allowed only the minimum of things, just one set of underwear and everything else and later in exile this had its impact. Those, who had more belongings with them, could bargain them for food products or milk for their children, while we didn’t even have enough of what was necessary, to say nothing of excesses.

Then we were taken to the railway station where families were separated. Men were taken to one train, and women and children to another. At that time we were not aware that this was separation for a lifetime. We were hoping that we would be together, when we arrived at the destination. The carriage was packed with Lithuanians, Russians and Jews. They were all, whom the NKVD office believed to be wealthy, which meant they were criminals and alien elements.

The trip was horrific. Children and adults were crying. This was really a nightmare. There was no food or drinking water available. When the train stopped, those women, who had extra clothes, could bargain them for food. There was no toilet in the train, and its passengers were using buckets that were stinking. There were little windows below the roof, but they were not allowed to be opened. It was so stuffy in the carriage that people were fainting. A few babies died on the way. The trip was hard.

Finally we reached Biysk [the Altai Mountains, Russia, about 3500 km from Moscow], from where we were taken to a settlement on a peat field. We were accommodated in wooden barracks with two- and three-tier plank beds. Most of us spoke Lithuanian and German and hardly any Russian. Women were sent to work in the peat fields almost immediately. One of them stayed in the barrack to look after the children.

For over a year the women had no information about where their husbands were. It was cold inside the barrack and there was no food. The children were falling ill, and I also was near death a few times. Once I fell ill with whooping cough. I developed croup and could not breathe. There was an agronomist in the settlement. She had a horse and took me to the hospital. She saved my life. Many children died from diseases, cold and lack of food in the course of the first year. However, humans get used to many things, and our mothers also got used to these new inhuman living conditions.

Gradually all exiled were accommodated in local houses. There were only women, children and old people left in the settlement. Men were at the front. The family of our hosts consisted of Natasha, the hostess, her son of nearly my age and an old woman. Natasha was kind to us. At first the locals had a hostile attitude toward us. They called us bourgeois and some other insulting names that I didn’t remember knowing little of Russian. Later they started talking to us and asked questions, to get to know us better. Most of these common Russian people treated us well. They sympathized with us knowing that we were no enemies, but the same people as they were. Natasha, our hostess, treated me no different from her son. She read fairy tales to us in the evening and we shared whatever little food was available. Sometimes we received some balanda [soup], which was also rarely available.

I went to the local school for three years. When I first came to my class and told them my name, Revekka, or Riva, the pupils started laughing. This was a new name for them. I had a mop of thick chestnut hair, and the children teased me ‘Riva – a mane of hair’. Later they suggested they would call me one of the following Russian names: Rita or Rimma, since it was hard for them to pronounce my name. This was how I became Rita, and I got so well used to this name that it became my name. My true name is written in my documents, but I am commonly addressed by the name of Rita.

Dina Israelit, a Jewish girl, was my closest friend in the class. She also belonged to an exiled family. We are still friends, though Dina moved to Israel a long time ago. We were close to one another, and another thing that made us closer was that we shared the same things in life.

During the Soviet times school had a strong political background. Soviet education was a very important aspect. We were convinced that the Soviet Union was the country of happy childhood, and that we owed this to Stalin, the father of all people, who was taking continuous care of us. We were taught to be patriots, and Dina and I had a strong belief in everything that was instilled in our minds. We were set to very strong patriotic feelings.

In general, there were common children’s joys in my exiled childhood. We spent time together and went to bathe in the Biya River. I was an active girl. I attended a dance club at school. However, reciting a poem in front of the public was never an easy performance for me. I spoke almost fluent Russian, but I burred, and felt embarrassed about it. Therefore, I avoided this kind of performances, preferring dancing. However, this burring was no hindrance to my progress with the Russian literature and language classes. I was good at writing dictations and compositions, and my teachers praised me high. I am good at languages basically and find them easy to learn. Dina was always good at performing in front of the public. Anyways, later a teacher helped me to overcome my shyness. She just forced me to recite a poem on the stage, and afterward I was never again afraid of performing to the public. My childhood, even the way it was with me, was the best time of my life.

I’ve faced no anti-Semitism, and this is true. I’ve always been sociable and friendly toward my surrounding, and people have treated me nicely. I liked going to pioneer camps 6, when a child. I made many friends and was the focus of whatever events in those camps. I can remember a compliment I was told. They said I was one of them and one would never guess I was a Jew. It was said in such a manner as if this was a much appreciated thing. However, I never left it without response. Moreover, when hearing something of this kind, I always replied that yes, I was a Jew, and that Jews were no different from other people. I had nothing in my appearance that might indicate my Jewish origin, when I was young, but it did show with my growing older. I had fair eyes and auburn hair.

My mother and I were very poor. Mama, actually, was very lonely and very unpractical. Some women have a strong will and can find a way out of any difficult situation, but not my mother. She was a weak person and needed support and care of a strong man. When in Siberia, she lived with constant fear in this different environment. She could not understand why we were deported and feared that she might say or do something that might lead to another persecution. She wanted to forget whatever had to do with our past life and never talked to people about it.

About over a year later we heard that my father and other men from the Baltic republics were kept in a Gulag 7 camp. My father developed severe dystrophy in the camp, and when it became clear that his condition was threatening to his life they released him from the camp. This happened in 1943. One week before he died, my father was brought to us on a horse-drawn cart. He could not stand by himself. Actually, they brought him there so that he died elsewhere, but in the camp, where his death might add to their statistics. I have vague memories of this, but I can remember my feeling of horror. Jews and all other people, who were in exile, came to his funeral. I remember this day well.

Some time later Mama heard that her family, her mother and two sisters and their families died in the ghetto in Kaunas 8. My father’s mother also died there. They failed to evacuate and were taken to the ghetto during the first days of the German occupation. I cannot remember how exactly this information became available to my mother, but it broke her down completely. Mama could not manage what had fallen unto her: her husband died before her eyes and her family died. There was none of her kin left in this world. My friend Dina’s family supported us during this heart-break disaster.

Dina was luckier than me. Her family lived in Klaipeda before they were deported. Dina’s father was a wealthy man. He owned a textile factory. He was sent to a Gulag camp, too, but he survived. He was released from the camp and joined his family in exile. The father, the mother and the daughter were together. It was a miracle in itself, but then another miracle happened.

Dina was the youngest of three children. Her middle brother was 11-12 years older, and another sister was even older. During the First Estonian Republic 9 they left Estonia. Dina’s sister lived in England, and her brother lived in Africa. The family managed to locate Dina’s older sister. It was incredible in itself, but they did manage. Dina’s sister worked for the Joint 10, and through the Red Cross she managed to send parcels with food preserves to her parents. It was quite an event in our life.

I remember how Dina invited me to her home once telling me to say not a word about it to anyone. When I came there they treated me to some cream or mousse, I can’t remember what it was, but it was something so delicious and fluffy, something so very much out of this world that I felt like taking leave of my senses. Dina’s family was a great support to my mother, when she became a widow. They also cared about me and warmed me like a frozen sparrow. Dina’s father was particularly kind to me.

Our escape from exile

People started leaving the exile. When they were caught, they were forced to come back, but there were rumors that those who bought false documents managed well. Mama also decided to escape from exile. I can understand what was behind her decision. If we were caught we would just come back and continue living in exile. The risk was high, but it was justified. Mama had no documents whatsoever. When people who were deported arrived at their destination, their passports were taken away and replaced with a certificate indicating the only place of residence they were allowed. Each month they were supposed to make their appearance at the commandant’s office for the record.

Mama knew a family that had escaped one year before. Mama must have corresponded with them, considering that she also decided to take the risk. I matured in exile. I was only ten years old, but my mother talked to me and was seeking my advice and relied upon it as if she would upon her friend or sister’s advice. Mama explained to me that any spoken word might spoil the whole plan and then we would come back to Siberia again. We took a train having no documents. There were frequent raids on the way, when they were looking for the runaways, who had no right to leave the exile, to take them off the train. We were lucky enough to avoid being identified.

Mama and I plotted our new biography, according to which we came from Riga, from where we evacuated, and my father had died at the front line. Our documents were burned, when our train was bombed. I learned all details by heart. I learned what a white lie was for at an early age, however hard and even humiliating this felt. I knew I had to lie from then on, though I could not understand why life was all about lying like that. Lying was against my principle. When I was younger, Mama often told me that we were poor, but we had our honesty, and we had to do so that our good name was not spoiled. It was true that honesty was all we had. At times I have a tendency to think that his period in life was even more difficult than the exile. We faced a lot of humiliation and constant fear having to hide away all the time.

We arrived at Kaunas. My father’s older sister Shulia gave me shelter. Her marital name was Abelski, Shulamith Abelski. Her family survived the Holocaust. Aunt Shulia and her daughter evacuated. They returned to their former apartment from the evacuation. Aunt Shulia had a five-room apartment on Kestuchio Street in the center of Kaunas, but her family was also big. Her husband and daughters Pesia and Rina, her son Moisey and his wife Riva and my aunt lived there. My aunt’s older daughter went to study in London back in the 1930s, and did not want to come back, when the Soviet rule was established in Lithuania.

My aunt’s son and his wife had no children, and Riva was all heartbroken about this. Moisey and Riva were in the ghetto in Kaunas. The Germans selected younger and stronger inmates to go to work in Germany. Moisey and Riva were also taken to this train. Moisey and Riva were sportsmen, and when on the train, a few young people, also sportsmen, decided to jump off the train. So did Moisey and Riva, and everything went all right. They returned to Kaunas. The Germans also sterilized young women in the ghetto with injections. Riva was one of them, and she could never have children. This was a tragedy for her. She loved her husband dearly and it was her dream to have his baby. Moisey was her first and only love. Being unable to have a baby Riva thought she was defective and inadequate.

When I joined them, Riva came to liking me dearly and treated me like one of her kin. She asked my mother whether she would give her consent to my adoption, but my mother refused to give her consent, which only deepened the conflict between Mama and my father’s family, which had started with their marriage.

There was another thing about my mother’s relationship with my father’s family, which did not contribute to its positive development. My father’s brother Haim became a widower, when he was still a young man. He did not remarry due to his tight-lipped and unsociable manner. He liked my mother and was willing to marry her after my father died. It’s a common thing among Jews that a brother marries his brother’s widow or, at least, takes care of her. Haim proposed marriage to my mother, but she refused bluntly. This evidently added to my father’s family negative attitude.

It was due to this lack of good relationship between these two families that my mother never told me about my father’s family. It was my aunt Shulia, whom I stayed with for two years after we escaped from exile, who gave me some information. I learned a lot about Jews, Jewish traditions and the Jewish way of life from my aunt. My aunt helped me to restore my Yiddish, the language of my childhood. They spoke Yiddish in their household, though each of them had a good conduct of Lithuanian, German and Russian. I also had to speak Yiddish, and I’m grateful to my aunt for making me learn to speak it. I wish I had learned the ABC to be able to read and write in Yiddish, but I was too lazy to do that. I was just a child and wasn’t quite willing to take extra efforts to do things.

Two years ago I had a good chance to verify my appropriate knowledge of Yiddish at the congress of Lithuanian Jews from all over the world that was held in Vilnius. I enjoyed taking part in it. Different people got together like members of one family and one and the same culture.

There was one more thing that caused mutual dislike between my mother and aunt Shulia. My aunt Shulia and her family rejoiced at the official recognition of Israel by all countries in 1948 11. My aunt was eager to move to Israel and she got her chance. During a short period in between 1949 and the 1950s Lithuanian Jews were given an opportunity to reunite with their closest kin in Israel before the Iron Curtain 12 was drawn back. One of my father and aunt Shilua’s brothers moved to Israel back in the 1910s. He sent an invitation letter for the entire family, and my aunt wanted me to go with them. My aunt wanted me to have a future in Israel. She wanted me to leave the USSR, and believed that my deceased father would have liked it. My aunt asked my mother to let me go to Israel with them, but my mother was against it. She wanted me to stay with her, and I could understand this. Her refusal caused another conflict between my mother and my aunt, and this conflicted lasted as long as they lived.

I happened to meet with my cousin sisters in Israel during perestroika 13, when we were allowed to travel abroad. Regretfully, my aunt Shulia had passed away before then. When I was a child, I could not give full credit to my aunt, and it was only when I visited Israel that I realized how wise her decision to move the family to Israel was. My aunt had a strong will, and she was the core of the family. She guided and strengthened the family ties.

I can compare my life and the life of my cousin sisters in Israel. My reunion with them was a great shock for me. My older cousin can speak fluent Russian, and we could talk as much as we wanted with her. We met before I visited her in Israel. Pesia came to work for the Sochnut 14 in Novosibirsk where she taught Hebrew. She wrote me, and we started to communicate after a long interval.

Rena, the younger one, came to Israel at the age of seven or eight years, and she speaks poor Russian or Yiddish. Pesia graduated from the Department of Mathematics of Tel Aviv University. She has two children. Rena, the younger cousin, finished the Physical Culture College. She played in the volleyball team of Israel and took part in the World Cup. After finishing the college Rena went to the army where she served until she retired at the age of 45. Rena is full of energy, and she took to business. She is a tall and beautiful woman.

My cousins and I were as different as day and night. They have confidence and strong will. They are proud of their own life and their country. They are beautiful, and this is amazing since their soul reflects in their eyes. They are not shy Jewish girls like I was. They are real Israelites. Their self-sufficient attitude and their confidence in righteousness made a crucial impression on me.

The whole family adores Aunt Shulia, who insisted that they all moved to Israel back in the 1940s. They were still young and accepted her decision, but in reality Aunt Shulia just gave them a new decent life. Looking at my cousins and their children I was thinking that if all people living in Israel are like this, the country has a future. Their children are free people of the world, and how different they are from those browbeaten Jews having fear of everything around. They feel at home and masters of their own life in Israel. However hard the situation may be they know that these are objective difficulties and they take every effort to establish peace and joy in their country. The people of Israel are the Jews that we can be proud of.

Those years, 1940 to 1950, in Kaunas were very tense. There were continuous raids in the town. Militia guys could come to any family to check documents. Sometimes these passport control checkups occurred at night. They were looking for the people who had no passports. Mama lived at a different location for the sake of safety. I remember that when somebody rang the doorbell, I had to hide behind some bags so that they could not find me. My mother also had to hide away and she told me about it. I went to the fourth grade in Kaunas.

In Kaunas Mama found out the details of how her family had died. When it became clear that the Soviet army was approaching Lithuania, the German troops started elimination of the traces of their crimes. They were in a great hurry and took little notice of the ghetto inmates. Some Lithuanian support personnel gave inmates a chance to escape from the ghetto. They were already aware of preparations to exterminate the inmates. Actually, many inmates were burned alive during this action.

My mother’s brother and sister were offered a chance to escape. They came to a secret council with my grandmother. My grandmother was telling them that they should go and take this chance to escape, but they decided to stay with her, which they did. My mother’s sister’s daughter Frieda, who was 15 or 16 years old, was also there in the ghetto. She escaped along with a few other teenagers. The Lithuanian staff helped her to escape. They were hiding in a cellar at a Lithuanian household, before someone helped them to get to Kaunas. There were some Lithuanians killing Jews, but the others were rescuing Jewish people even at the risk of their lives. I met Frieda in Israel about eight years ago. She told me the story. She was the only survivor in my mother’s family. 

It took Mama almost a year before she managed to buy a passport. All those who managed to escape from exile already knew there was a man in Vilnius, who could help with a passport. Most of them were poor, and the locals collected money for them to buy necessary documents, clothes, etc. The Jewish community in Kaunas also collected the amount of money my mother needed to buy a passport. My mother went to Vilnius and when she returned she already had a passport. She had her maiden name of Fisher indicated in her new passport. My mother was Fisher, and I was Levina. My mother retained her name, and I changed mine to Blumberg after I got married.

However, despite our having new documents it turned out that it was still not safe for us to stay in Kaunas. It was a small town where people knew each other. Even some Jewish people might report to the NKVD that the Levin family had returned from exile illegally. If it happened this way, my mother would have had to go to prison for the violation of passport regime, and then we would have been made to return to exile. Also, they might have found out that my mother’s passport was a false one. Once someone warned my mother that she and I had been noticed in the town and that we had to be watchful. We had to go somewhere where people did not know us and we had to hide away again.

We knew that my friend Dina’s family also escaped from exile and lived in Riga. Dina’s parents, particularly her father, wrote my mother offering her their support and assistance. So, we decided to go to Riga. I was very happy about it. Dina is still my best friend and we are very close. She is my sister, even though she was not born to our family. Dina’s family had a great influence on me. They helped me a lot. Dina’s father was particularly kind to me. He was a very educated and interesting person. He gave his daughter very appropriate education. At that time people cared little about studying foreign languages while he gave his daughter an opportunity to study French and English, and this helped her a lot in life. I often attended Dina’s classes learning what she did.

School years

I had a Cinderella complex. I loved my friend dearly and did not envy her, but I felt bad about not being able to have as good a life as she did. My mother and I were very poor. At that time skating was very popular, but I could only dream about it. There was no way we could afford buying skates. I had friends in my class, but I hardly ever attended any events at school or my friends’ birthdays having no fancy clothes. I had one dress, which I wore to school, and I was embarrassed among my friends wearing fancy clothes. There were many things bothering me. I felt bitter about my mother being unable to provide the kind of life other children were having to me.

Mama did not always behave adequately, and those were hard times for me, when I witnessed that. It was additional emotional stress for me. It was not that I was ashamed that she was my mother, but it was painful to watch her condition. It took me some time to realize that Mama was ill. This was the result of deportation and life in exile.

Mama did not die in exile, she survived physically, but she was broken down spiritually, and her life was wasted. Of course, this situation was not common for all those, who were in exile. Perhaps, other people were stronger. Some had relatives, brothers or sisters to rely upon and get some support and assistance, while she had nobody. She spoke good literary Lithuanian, fluent Yiddish and had a good conduct of German, but she failed to learn appropriate Russian. She could explain herself in exile, but this was all she could. Perhaps, her mind rejected the Russian language subconsciously. Mama was not resentful, but inside she could not accept the Soviet regime, the system that broke her life.

I take after my father. Mama was a very beautiful and kind woman, but these features of hers turned out to be unclaimed. Moreover, she became timid and shy. She could have married someone and have her life ordered, but she didn’t accept this. She didn’t want anything. Mama was raised to be religious and she became devout, though she concealed this from all. Even I learned this only, when I was about 50 years old. Once we had a confiding discussion with her, and Mama told me that she had been praying through all these years. She read the prayers to me.

Mama spoke, read and wrote in excellent German. She even did some translations, but she never mentioned this to anyone. She was afraid of speaking it out. At first she feared to be arrested as a German spy, and things like this did happen during Stalin’s rule. However, her fear did not vanish after he died, though she already could make her living knowing the language. She could teach or do translations.

When we fled from exile, Mama made her past life and biography null and void. She lived her life in fear, and this fear that was inside her developed into sickness, phobia. My friend Dina’s mother also had problems. She could not work and she had problems with contacting people. However, she did not have to face this alone: her husband was there, she was well provided for and she knew she was well loved and cared for. Her situation was very different. However, Mama did not realize she was severely ill. Living in the USSR, we somehow ignored any indisposition until the pain became unbearable, and as for mental problems, people were not used to paying any attention, whatsoever. Only after Mama moved to Israel in 1970, since this was the dream of her life, she had medical examinations and treatment. 

I was a pioneer at school. All children became pioneers. They didn’t ask their consent. It was something that goes without saying. However, I did not join the Komsomol 15. It was necessary to tell one’s biography at the general meeting, which to me meant presenting a lie, which was not proper. It was wrong to start the life of a Komsomol member with lying. This was unacceptable to me, and I just decided to refuse from the Komsomol membership. I knew this was going to make my future life complicated and hinder my going to college, but I still did not want to tell lies.

When I turned 15, I had to quit my studies at the 8th grade at school and go to work to earn my living. Mama was very ill then and could not provide for both of us. It was hard to get any employment for me. I was 15, and labor code allowed going to work at the age of 16. The garment factory was the only place I could be employed. Young workers were in demand there. It took two to three months to learn working at the production line and it was easy. I remember they made men’s shirts.

After I learned this I went to the 8th grade in the evening school. I was the youngest in my class. I did well at school. After finishing the 10th grade I went to the Riga extramural textile affiliate of Moscow College. What I actually wanted was to go to the Philological Department at university to study English or psychology, but all of my adult acquaintances were telling me these were professions with uncertain perspectives that were not going to provide for a living. They were looking at things from practical perspectives. They were telling me that I had to get a practical profession, which could support and provide food in the future, and that this was the only right approach to choosing a profession. Therefore, I went to the textile college. I had academic leaves to take exams and worked the rest of the time.

However strange it may seem, even in the 1950s the Jewish life in Riga was in full swing. I met some Jewish guys and girls and went to the synagogue with them. It wasn’t that I was particularly looking for only Jewish friends, but I liked being among Jews. We could discuss Jewish topics and what concerned us freely. Whenever there was a non-Jew among us, we avoided these subjects. We didn’t want to impose our problems on other people. There were also young people from mixed families among us.

I remember Stalin’s death in 1953 very well. I was 16 at the time, no longer a child. Life had made me mature at young age. Some of my acquaintances were dissidents. Besides exile and resettlement, they were talking about political exile and arrests of cosmopolitans 16, ‘enemies of the people.’ I also heard at work that one or another Jew was arrested for cosmopolitism. I also remember the Doctors’ Plot 17 process well. Before March 1953 I knew much about the misdeeds of the Soviet regime, and therefore, I felt no sadness about Stalin’s death.

I remember hearing this news. I was visiting my acquaintances in Estonia then. We did not listen to the radio. A young girl, who was an Estonian school teacher, ran into the house. She was greatly excited and pronounced before stepping across the threshold: ‘Imagine what, the radio announced Stalin has dropped dead.’ She did say ‘dropped dead”. I was astounded at how she was not afraid of saying it openly. She was carrying a little dog, and she took a slice of sausage from a plate and gave it to her dog: ‘May you feast, too.’ I remember this. I was quite shocked by her conduct. I thought how could one be happy about someone passing away, but as for me, I felt no grieving. I felt no joy either. I just accepted the news.

Married life

In my college I met a guy from Tallinn. His name was Moris Blumberg. He was visiting his aunt in Riga. I liked him. He was mature for his age. Moris studied at the Polytechnic Institute in Tallinn. He was 22 years old, but he already had a clear goal in life. However, what united us most of all was that we had much in common about the life we had had. His family was also deported from Kiev, and we had much in common. Both of us were children of enemies of the people. It somehow turned out that we could openly speak about what he had never told anyone. This brought us closer to one another.

We corresponded a whole year. Moris often visited Riga. I remember how happy we were, when Khrushchev 18 spoke at the 20th Party Congress 19 saying that our resettlement was illegal and wrong. Khrushchev’s speech was like a ray of light for us, and we were hoping that the hard times had passed.

In 1960, when I was a 3rd-year student, we got married and I moved to Tallinn. My husband’s parents arranged a wedding for us. At that time it wasn’t possible to have a traditional Jewish wedding with a chuppah. This was just dangerous. My husband’s parents lived in Tallinn, but they came from Viljandi where they had relatives and friends. This was where our wedding took place. Moris’ parents were well known and respected in Viljandi, and there were about 80 guests at our wedding. It was a beautiful wedding. Our wedding was registered at the registry office of Viljandi. The wedding ceremony was conducted in the Estonian language. At that time I knew not a word in Estonian, and I had to be told when to say ‘yes.’

After the wedding we moved in with my husband’s parents. My mother stayed in Riga. Moris’ parents accepted me like I was one of them. My mother-in-law used to say she always wanted a daughter, but she only had two sons, and that I was like a daughter to her. My husband’s father also said I had become his daughter, and he would not allow anyone to hurt me. I found a family for the first time in my life. I had been deprived of a real family environment, when a child. It wasn’t before I got married that I felt I had parents.

When joining the Blumberg family, I felt like they were my original family, my home and everything my heart had always strived for, however subconsciously. I had missed the feeling of a Jewish home, and when saying ‘Jewish,’ that’s what I mean. I had this all in my new family. I can say only little about my own father, but I would like to say more about my second father, my father-in-law, Rachmiel Blumberg, a very nice person. I called him my ‘father,’ because this was what he was to me. He replaced my own father, who was taken away from me, when I was a child.

Viljandi was a small and very beautiful town. Before the war there were many Jewish families living in Viljandi. They were workmen, craftsmen, tailors, tinsmiths and entrepreneurs. Rachmiel Blumberg was born in 1897. He came from a large and very poor Jewish family. He became a tailor’s apprentice at a very young age. This was a difficult school of life. Besides his apprentice’s assignments he had to do whatever housework errands.

I remember a story from Rachmiel’s childhood that he told me. Once his master sent Rachmiel to deliver an order to a wealthy family. The housewife was making cutlets in the kitchen. She left Rachmiel waiting in the kitchen while she went to get the money. Rachmiel was as hungry as ever, and the cutlets’ smell was so tempting. He grabbed a cutlet and put it in his bosom. It was burning hot, and the scar on his skin remained there as the memory that stolen things were always a burning memory. 

Rachmiel became a tailor. They said in Viljandi that he knew his business however young he was. He was doing well and managed to open a garment store before long. In 1934 Rachmiel married Hana, a young and talented girl. She was 17 years younger than he. In 1938 their son Moris was born, and one year later his brother Rafail came into this world. The family business prospered and everything was going well.

When the Soviet rule was established in Estonia, many of Rachmiel’s friends left the country. They were also telling Rachmiel that he should leave, but Rachmiel believed he had no one and nothing to fear: he had lived a decent life and made his fortune through hard work and persistence. By that time he already owned a large store in the center of Viljandi.

It goes without saying that shortly after the Soviet rule was established in Estonia, the store was nationalized. Rachmiel’s employees wrote a letter to the NKVD requesting to let Rachmiel stay as director of the store. Rachmiel came from a poor family and lived a hard life, and he knew whatever concerns were worrying common people and treated them with sympathy. His employees thought much of him. However, their letter didn’t help, and Rachmiel lost his store and the job. Rachmiel took to tailoring again and had his clients.

Then 14th June 1941 came. Someone knocked on the door and Hana opened it. Those were NKVD officers. They told the family to pack promptly and leave. Rachmiel was sentenced to five years in a strict security camp in Sverdlovsk region. Hana and their two children were sent to the village of Sbornoye, in Tomsk region. Estonian and Jewish families resided in barracks. Moris was three and Rafail was one year and a half. Hana had to go to work. The term of their exile was indefinite. Rachmiel survived the camp. His craft helped him. He made clothes for prisoners and employees. Rachmiel was lucky that his expertise was in demand.

He was released in 1946 and granted permission to go back to Estonia. However, his wife and sons were sentenced to permanent residence in exile and were not allowed to relocate. Rachmiel had an entrepreneur’s mind and plotted a fantastic plan. At first he planned to take his children out of Siberia, and then he thought that he might as well consider other children. It was just his luck that in 1946 there was a secret direction issued to the NKVD, according to which underage orphans were allowed to go back to Estonia.

Rachmiel took care of his sons first. He told me funny episodes occurring during his trips. On his trip with his sons he bought them hats. The hats were too big. Moris could manage in his hat, but his younger brother’s hat was a nuisance continuously falling down onto his nose. Rachmiel made two holes in the hat for the eyes. Everybody was laughing at the way it looked, but the hat was spoiled. Rachmiel also bought his sons two pairs of shoes, and the sales assistant tied shoe-strings together. As it happened, he did two left and two right shoes separately. Rachmiel put the shoes into a bag, in which some thieves made a hole and stole two left shoes. Rachmiel, when he found this out, went asking the passengers on the train if one of them got two left shoes to bargain one for the right shoe, but no one responded.

When Rachmiel arrived in Estonia, he started asking, who had underage relatives in exile. Many people wanted to have their relatives back in Estonia, but this involved money to pay for the tickets, food on the way and even bribes. Very few could afford such expenses, and Rachmiel took to making leather coats. This job paid well, and Rachmiel managed to save some money. When he had the necessary amount, he traveled to Siberia to take a few children back home. He made five or six such trips. Rachmiel wanted to take back as many Estonian and Jewish children, as he could manage. This was a risky trick, but he managed all right.

There were numerous risks on the way as well: document checks, thefts and infections. Each time Rachmiel had a few children with him. He was asked why he had so many children with him, and he decided to say that he had been married a few times, and that he wanted his children to be with him. Of course, this was just an excuse, but one had to know Rachmiel to understand why people believed him. He could always find a common language with any person. People could feel his friendliness and appreciated his humor. Rachmiel knew how to convince other people.

Once Rachmiel and the group of children he had with him had to stay in Tomsk for a week. Rachmiel had to buy tickets and pack food for a week. He was very busy and had older children looking after the younger ones. To reward their effort he took the children to the cinema. Some of the children Rachmiel brought back to Estonia had to change their names since many people sympathized with those children and wanted to help them, while the others might report to authorities that those children were no orphans and that their parents were still in exile.

This was what happened to Andres, a well known cameraman and film producer in Estonia nowadays. His mother had stayed in exile, and Andres had to take another name. Andres returned to Estonia in 1947. Rachmiel was arrested, being reported to authorities. He had to spend some time in jail. The children he had with him had to go back to Siberia. However, this mission did not stop, and Rachmiel was its leader. This is what our father was like. I called him my father. He did replace my own father, of whom I only had vague memories. 

Rachmiel was a modest person. He never boasted or told us about this period of his life. I knew nothing of this experience of his. Once we started discussing education and that one had to study. Rachmiel told me then that he might have been considered a person having higher legal education thinking of what he had been through, when only his natural talents and life-long experience helped him to survive. He had to think of each and every detail to have his stories trustworthy and hard to verify at the same time.

Nobody has counted how many children he managed to bring back home, but according to what he told us there must have been 35 to 50 of them. Once I asked Rachmiel why he was doing this considering that the risk was great and that this might have had impacted himself and his sons. He replied that he knew that if those children had stayed in exile they were destined to not only hard life and famine, but also, to the assimilation, lack of their own cultural and language environment.

In Estonia many of them realized their personal and professional potential. Those children grew up and had their own life, but my father always believed them to be his own children. When hearing about their successes he smiled and said: ’Look, this is my boy!’ Many of them kept visiting him. Peter Kaup, one of them, who was a well known cameraman in Estonia, moved to Finland. When visiting Estonia, he came to see my father, and I remember their meetings. I can’t remember all of them, but my father did.

For some time I was the only member of the family, who was aware of these children being rescued, the only member, in whom my father confided. Even my husband and his younger brother knew nothing of this. Rachmiel, for some reason, wasn’t sure that they would understand his motives, considering that he put his family at risk and also, spent a lot on this effort.

We stayed with my husband’s family for about five years. Our son was born in 1961. We gave him the name of Nevil. My mother-in-law chose this name for him. Before the war she had a close friend living in Viljandi. Her name was Rita. She gave birth to a son, and his name was Nevil. When the Soviet rule was established in Estonia, Rita and her family moved to Australia. She had relatives there. Rita was trying to convince my mother-in-law and the family to join them, but Rachmiel refused bluntly. He was a patriot of Estonia and was sure that nothing bad could happen to him in his own country. My mother-in-law asked me to name my son Nevil. I liked the name.

The Soviet regime did not only fight religion 20, but also, the national identity, and all national rituals, including the Estonian and Jewish ones, were forbidden. However, my father-in-law could not imagine that his grandson was not going to have the brit milah ritual. At his request a mohalim from Leningrad arrived at our house to conduct the circumcision. My husband had a job and was a member of the party by then. He was not very happy about our decision to have our son circumcised. What he was saying was that we shouldn’t expose our baby to pain. Nevil was three months old then. To prevent my husband from feeling that he was violating the party rules, we let him be away from home at the time. Of course, Hana and I also worried that this would cause the baby some pain, but Rachmiel insisted that the tradition was observed to the full. 

I had very close, kind and warm relationships with my husband’s parents as long as they lived. My husband’s mother and I were so close that even my friends felt jealous about us. They were saying that such a relationship between a mother-in-law and her daughter-in-law could not be true. However, this is what it was like between us. I didn’t know how to make Jewish food and had a rather vague idea about Jewish traditions. She taught and educated me. We observed Jewish traditions in the family. We celebrated Jewish holidays.

My husband’s younger brother Rafail got a job assignment 21 and moved to Norilsk where he lived many yeas with his family before moving to Kostroma. This is where he lives now. My husband’s parents, my husband and I lived in Tallinn together before my husband received a room in a shared apartment 22. There were two other Jewish tenants in this apartment. A few years later my husband received an apartment.

On Jewish holidays we visited my husband’s parents. When my mother-in-law grew too old to cook, they joined us on holidays. I remember how happy I was to hear from my mother-in-law that there was nothing else she could teach me to do, and that I had become a better cook than she was. I was very pleased to hear this from her. This was praise for me, considering that Hana was a great housewife and was a model to follow.

My first years in Estonia were very hard. I had to learn the Estonian language. When living in Riga, I had a good conduct of everyday Latvian, and all official documentation was issued in Russian, while living in Estonia required knowing the language. At my work there was no one, who could speak Russian to me. I had to learn the language, and my husband’s family was very supporting.

I had to quit my college since there was no affiliate of the textile college in Estonia. Therefore, I entered the Tallinn College of light industry. I had classes in the evening. My specialty was clothing technology and clothing design. At that time I was pretty much short of time. I had to go to work, study and take care of the child. When thinking about our life in Siberia, I had a feeling that I was living somebody else’s life, that it was a rough copy or a rehearsal before real life. Resettlement took everything away from me. A baby is born to the family where each member of the family loves and cares for it, where it has a perspective of a happy life in the future, when all of a sudden this all collapses to be followed by the life with constant fear and the feeling that you are to blame for something, but you don’t know what exactly you are to blame for.

I had to be continuously hiding and concealing my past, my thoughts and feelings. I knew that even the fact that I had survived was a mere fortuity. I understood that each person had his own life and mine was not that bad, though I missed many things in my life. I wish I had known more about our ancestors, traditions and history to tell our son and now to my grandson. There is little I can tell him about our family, my grandparents and parents. We had a nice family, nothing to be ashamed of. Things could have been different for us.

I’ve been in contact with my friend Dina all my life. When I left Riga for Tallinn, Dina’s family took good care of me. I have faced no anti-Semitism while Dina had to face some. Besides having the unequivocal name of an Israelit, Dina also had a brightly expressed Jewish appearance. She did very well at school. In Dina’s school certificate there were all ‘excellent’ grades, apart from only two ‘good’ grades. After finishing school Dina was going to enter the Medical College. I believe medicine was Dina’s vocation, but she failed to enter the college. They intentionally reduced her grades at the entrance exams, even if it was a half point, but she finally lacked just a little to have the necessary number of points. Dina’s father grudged no money to pay for Dina’s private classes.

For three years in a row Dina tried to pass entrance exams to the Medical College before she gave up and entered the extramural Department of Economics at the Textile College where I was a student, only of a different department. Dina was a talented girl and did well with studying economics, though she had a longing for medicine. Medicine has always been her unaccomplished dream.

Another reason why I’ve faced no anti-Semitism might have been my choice of the place to study and work where there was little competition. I know of only one case at work, when my Jewish origin hindered my career. I had a chance of being employed by a department at the Estonian Ministry of light industry. There was a vacancy of curator for a few factories. My documents were transferred to the HR department, but they were returned.

It was a long time afterward that I got to know why I failed to get this position. Someone told me that there was no way for a Jewish woman, who was not a party member and whose mother resided in Israel to be appointed to this position. Who knew what to expect from me? What if I decided to move to Israel, too? However, I’ve never faced any anti-Semitism on an everyday level. I did know, though, that it existed both in everyday life, and on the governmental level, but it did not concern me.

It was Mama’s dream to move to Israel. She got a chance to make her dream come true during the mass departure of Jews to Israel in the 1970s. She received a letter of invitation from a distant relative. Mama wanted me to divorce my husband and join her, but it was not for me. Mama left in 1970, and our contacts stopped for a long time. At that time one couldn’t even imagine there would be time, when people got an opportunity to travel to Israel or invite their folks to visit them. My friend Dina’s family also moved to Israel at about the same time, and they supported my mother as much as they could there. I got a chance to visit my mother during perestroika after 18 years of separation. Since then I kept visiting her once a year or even more frequently. Mama died in Israel in 2000.

I was also eager to move to Israel, but my husband had problems in this regard. Moris worked at a defense enterprise and had a strict security access permit form. Having access to defense affairs he was not going to be allowed a permit for relocation. He had to resign and find a job, which was not associated with any access permits, in which case he might be allowed to relocate in ten years’ time. Anyway, this wasn’t Moris’ intention. He was fanatically dedicated to what he was doing and believed in the Soviet system. In short, he was an ‘appropriate’ person. Considering the job he had, he was not entitled to travel abroad for whatever purpose.

The only time he traveled abroad was in 1992, when we went to Israel together. When we returned home, I sensed that he had changed a lot. We tried to avoid discussing this subject. I knew that this was a sensitive subject for him. Perhaps, he realized that he was responsible for not giving me or our son a chance to live a different life. Well, nobody could tell what kind of life we might have had in Israel and what it might have been like.

Another thing was important: in the USSR we were living in a closed surrounding. We had no opportunity to compare and evaluate our way of life and the way other people lived in a different system and on a different land. In other countries people could rely on themselves, their own choices and persistence, while we depended on the system, and what we could change was very little. We, Jews, had to keep in mind that the land we lived on was not our own land and that we were second-rate people and had to play supporting roles and stay within permissible limits. The endless and permanent fear inside becomes some sort of a norm. You always pull yourself up: don’t thrust yourself forward, this is not yours, you won’t manage here, they won’t give you this job…

After our visit to Israel Moris understood that there are countries where people have equal initial positions, and each person is responsible for realizing them, while in the USSR we all appeared to be hostages and victims of the system. It’s true, though, that this did not only concern Jews. Moris was a very honest man. I would even say, this was a hypertrophied sense of justice. For him, doing something good to his surrounding was more important than doing some good to himself and his family. This was the way his father was, and he was the same.

Moris was a very tight-lipped person. He hardly ever shared his thoughts and feeling even with me, but I know that after our trip to Israel he started revising his value system. His career, his job, which cost him a lot of effort and life, in the long run, would surely have been much more successful in another country, and he wouldn’t have had to take such tremendous effort, and this thought was bothering him. The thing is, our system was squeezing whatever was possible from a person before dumping him or her. Nobody cared about people or took any interest in those, who could work no longer. Actually, Moris burnt himself at work, and then he passed away at the age of 61.

My husband was a very complex person. He was a born leader. He knew how to build up a team, and he was good at this. He had a strong charisma of a leader. His family and his child did not come first. I wouldn’t say he didn’t love us. No, he loved us as much as he could, but his work came first. It goes without saying that this approach had a negative impact on our marital life. Even my husband’s mood or his involvement in family activities depended on situations at work. However, Moris had broad outlook: he was interested in pictures and books. He started collecting books, when he was a student. My husband was fond of philately. Every now and then I asked him whether he was happy with his life working from morning till night and whether he wanted to do something different. Moris replied that he got at work whatever interesting the world could offer to the full.

It was true, considering that his surrounding was represented by bright individuals, very complete personalities. Their team was recognized on very high levels. For example, the team headed by Moris received the invention award of the Estonian government twice. I knew no details about the kind of work Moris was doing. All I knew was that it was related to the defense complex of the USSR.

I wouldn’t say that our life was secluded. We used to go to exhibitions and concerts, but Moris easily refused from going out, when this was for the sake of his work. Sometimes he came home from work half an hour after the concert we were planning to go to had started. Our life was highly dependent on his job, and his work was a determining factor. At some instants I thought, ‘that’s it, I can’t go on like this’. We had different attitudes in life and life values.

However, each time the thought of hurting his mother and father stopped me. The role my husband’s family, representing a real Jewish family, played in my life was so important to me that I put my decision aside. I was telling myself that I would not leave my husband like that, and that I had to fight and try to somehow change his attitudes. It was easy to say, but hard to do.

Now, looking back at the past years I understand that my husband gave much to me. I had to start work, when I was very young, and I missed the kind of life students were having with its joys and cultural things. I was rather delayed in my intellectual development. My husband and his family helped me to fill up this gap.

At home we celebrated Jewish and Soviet holidays. During the Soviet times the requirement to go to parades on Soviet holidays was mandatory. I went to parades, too. There were lists of those, who did not attend such events, made, and if I failed to attend an event, this would have had a negative impact on my career. However, I wasn’t quite fond of celebrating these holidays.

And there were other things involved. We lived in a rather spacious apartment in the center of the town. And there was a tradition that my husband’s team gathered in our apartment to celebrate holidays. They felt like staying together to celebrate. I liked those people, and had nothing against their visits. Well, of course, I had to cook a lot, but I didn’t mind doing this for my husband. Actually, this was the only reason why I got involved in the celebration of these holidays.

We spoke Yiddish to my husband’s parents, but in our family the language we communicated in was Russian. Our son Nevil studied in the Russian school. He was doing well at school. When he went to the 3rd grade at school, we sent him to a music school. He took violin classes. Nevil finished the Russian school and the music school and entered a music college. When he was still a student, he was offered to join a band as a solo-guitarist. It didn’t take him long to learn the instrument. He was 17 years old at the time. The band turned out to be really good, and they went on a few tours abroad.

Nevil entered the Tallinn Conservatory, but quit his studies after the second year. There was no department where he wished to study, and he didn’t quite like the department where he was actually admitted.

Nevil got married, when he turned 20, but this marriage was a failure. At the age of 25 my son was recruited to the army, and when he returned, his family fell apart. In the army Nevil started composing music, and after he returned to Tallinn he took to music with all seriousness. Nevil gathered an ensemble and they were tape recording their music. For a number of years my son was a rather successful musician. There are annual contests of guitarists in Tallinn, and twice in a row Nevil was a winner of this contest of guitarists. Music was his long-term business, but it brought no high profits to him.

While he was living with us, Nevil could afford to do what he liked without giving much thought to how much he was earning, but when Nevil remarried and they had a baby, he had to earn money to support the family. Nevil went to work at a record company, but some time later he opened an advertising firm of his own. At first he only dealt with advertising music before he expanded his business to advertising other things. He had to learn a lot and he liked this. He fit well in this advertising business, and his company has a good reputation. Unfortunately, his business leaves him little time for music.

Nevil married an Estonian girl. Of course, my husband and I wanted his wife to be Jewish, but there was nothing we could do about it. We are not the kind of parents, who can put pressure on their children. So our son married the girl of his choice, though his decision was a hard thing for my husband and me. I am not dead against mixed marriages. I know some mixed marriages that have resulted in very good families, but to have this, both spouses have to be cultured and educated people and have respect of the culture and religion of each other. If a marriage has this, it’s going to be good and strong. Respect of the partner has to make the foundation of such a marriage.

I have normal everyday relationships with my daughter-in-law, but I have no spiritual contact with her. I am not trying to impose my company or my ideas on her. I just know it makes no sense to do so. It’s impossible to change anything about it. Maybe, there is no need to change anything. She is still very young. She is eight years younger than my son, and perhaps, she will want to be closer to me and change something in our relationships, but it’s going to be her decision. When the soil is not ready yet, you can drop as many seeds as you want, but they won’t grow. This is what was happening in our family: for 10 years we were wasting the grains. Now our son lives his own life: he has a family and his job, and the rest of it comes after these.

Sometimes, growing older, people shift their priorities. What seemed of no significance becomes a top priority. Now I’m beginning to feel that his Jewish identity is gaining importance with my son, and his having a non-Jewish life makes this part of life rather difficult. I am his mother, and I know that he and I have this in our genes, though it has little expression in his actual doings as yet. This knowledge has not matured yet, but Nevil is very close to recognizing it. Their son Mark, my grandson, was born in 1995. He is a nice boy. He goes to an Estonian school. I believe I have a closer contact with him than with his mother.

My mother-in-law, Hana Blumberg, died in 1980. Rachmiel outlived her and died in 1985. They were both buried in the Jewish cemetery in Tallinn and had Jewish funerals. They live on in my memory, these two close people.

I’ve never limited the criteria of my choice of friends to their national identity. I still have Estonian and Russian friends. My friends are the people I feel closeness to. It’s not the national origin, but the personality that matters. However, I gather only my Jewish friends at my home on Jewish holidays. I make traditional Jewish food: gefilte fish, gehakte herring and tsimes. When we get together on Jewish holidays, I feel like remembering everything inmost related to our history and our life. It is important for me to be in the Jewish surrounding on such days.

I can’t say I was a great supporter of the Soviet regime, but I wasn’t a ferocious anti-Soviet opponent either. I actually knew that there was much injustice in the Soviet system. Many people could feel that, but life was going on, and each day demanded new efforts, and I had little time to think about such things. I was no different from other people, and the Soviet system was something given that was not possible to change.

The changes came with perestroika, when books, which had not been allowed before, became available: Solzhenitsyn’s books 23, ‘Doctor Zhivago’ by Boris Pasternak 24, etc. We shared those books reading and discussing them. This was an active period of time, when many people, who had never given a thought to such things as camps and persecution 25 started to reevaluate their views on life. My husband’s and my families knew the truth by no hearsay, but the majority was only beginning to find out the depth and tragic nature of what had happened.

I worked in the clothing industry for 17 years. I worked in the experimental department where we designed clothes to be introduced in production. I liked this job a lot, but in due time lots of standards were established and the element of creativity vanished. Everything was so plain and dull that I no longer enjoyed this work. I decided to do something different.

I was lucky to get a job at the publishing office at the Ministry of Communications. The publishing office reported to the Central Committee propaganda department. I was the only employee, who was not a party member, but they accepted me, anyways. I was responsible for the distribution of newspapers, magazines and books in Estonia. I liked this work and did it successfully and for a long time. It also involved communicating with other people. It was the process of mutual enrichment with good outcomes. I had this job for over 15 years.

The Estonian Jewish community was established during perestroika in 1988. This was the first officially recognized Jewish community in the USSR. I was very happy about it. I only wish my husband’s parents had lived longer to witness this. For many years Tsilia Laud, the head of the community, and I were friends. My husband’s parents and Tsilia’s family were friends. Tsilia worked at my husband’s plant for some time, and this also tied us together. Then Tsilia quit working at the plant and headed the WIZO 26 women’s organization.

I often attended meetings at the community and tried to contribute in its development. At first I was a WIZO volunteer before Tsilia offered me permanent employment with the WIZO, and I was more than happy to accept this offer. I had a lot of work to do. There were sponsors making contributions to charity funds. It was necessary to develop a database to determine the needs of the people under the WIZO care. I was involved in the social center establishment in our community 27. I had to gather a team of people I could fully rely upon. They were to be honest and capable of caring for elderly people, sympathetic and compassionate. I managed this task well, and now we are like a family.

There is a ‘warm home’ program in our social center. It’s my favorite program. It’s no secret that many older people suffer from loneliness more than they do from illnesses or lack of money. This program gives them an opportunity to communicate with other people. Some people agree to have a few people getting together in their apartment. We find people living in the same neighborhood and having common interests.

There is a house where those who had been subject to persecution get together. There is another house: a merely Jewish home where older people get together to speak Yiddish. We discuss whatever subjects in Yiddish. This gives us a chance to remember Yiddish and just speak the language of our childhood. Another nice ‘warm home’ in Tallinn is where former teachers and doctors get together. They are representatives of the same generation and culture having many interests in life. Some of them compose nice poems and the others recite poems by famous poets. They sing and play music, discuss the books they’ve read and plays they’ve seen. They make a joyful company, and having visited them one forgets how old one is.

It is my job to put together the people, who are sure to like each other and enjoy each other’s company. I believe this is a very good program. People find new friends and start to take care of each other. They visit those who are ill and know how their friends are doing. They celebrate Jewish holidays in the community and in their ‘warm homes.’ They feel the need to get together and this helps them to stay optimistic.

In 1991 the Soviet Union collapsed. Was it good or bad? I think this was the right thing to happen that our countries gained independence, though this is a double-edged weapon. I think, there are many more factors bringing our Baltic republics together with Russia than, say, Scandinavian or other European countries. There are two or three generations of people here, who felt very comfortable in the Soviet system. They feel nostalgic about the USSR, though they may feel reluctant about saying this aloud. Besides, I think that from the point of view of economy it would be better, if our Baltic countries were friends or, at least, retained good relationships with Russia. However, this has not been the case in recent years.

There was a lot of good in our Soviet way of life. Anyway, I believe it’s a good thing that we’ve rid ourselves of the USSR. We need to learn by ourselves and feel what it is like to live in a different system. Few people can remember their life in pre-Soviet Estonia. Their children and grandchildren lived during the Soviet period, and now they need to learn another reality. Anyway, whatever is to be will be the outcome of our conscious choice.

I remember how during the putsch 28 residents of the Baltic Republics made a living chain. People were standing holding hands, and they were not only the native residents of our countries, but also, Russians, Ukrainians and Moldavians. And people of all nationalities standing in this chain were thinking emotionally about one thing: we want the Soviet dictate no longer, we don’t want the ‘big brother’ to decide everything for us and impose its own choice on us. Now we can manage our own life, and they are not going to take this right from us.

People, particularly younger people, have obtained tremendous opportunities. They can get good education in whatever country they wish and they can get good jobs. Unfortunately, many of them move to developed European countries where they want to stay. Unfortunately, most of the residents in the Baltic Republics have the nature of individualists. They lack the ‘typical Russian’ feature: the sense of camaraderie, overall collective responsibility and the wish to do more for their country, rather than for themselves. This often becomes a hindrance with us.

My husband died in 2000. We buried him in the Jewish cemetery in Tallinn. Since then I’ve lived alone and my work prevents me from feeling lonely. People need me and I can help them, and this gives me strength to go on. There is still a lot to do, particularly about the nursing service, which is my responsibility. Many people truly need our care and assistance. It would be great, if we could establish a home for such people where they would receive continuous nursing services, medial care and whatever comforts they require.

Social aid is vital for many old people, but on the other hand, they worked hard and have the right to a decent life in their old age. Estonia has very high living standards and miserable pensions. I don’t know what would happen to us, if it were not for the assistance the community provides. I feel sorry that few generations of people, who grew up during the Soviet rule, developed no charity related traditions. It doesn’t occur to those, who have made fortunes, that there might come the day, when they need some help, too. Why do people from abroad provide assistance to us while wealthy people here have no intention to help the others?!

Nowadays, after my husband died, I often look straight into my heart trying to understand my life and my purpose in life. What happened in my childhood was terrifying. It’s frightful that the dreadful mark of ‘enemies of people’ turned many innocent people into outcasts and renegades. What was the fault of these people, particularly the wives of ‘enemies of people’ and their children? Later it turned out that none of them was guilty, but hundreds and thousands of lives had been destroyed, reshaped in the roughest and most barbaric way? This barbarism and this crying injustice should not be forgotten or forgiven.

We make a small group of former convicts. They are the people, who had had their heavy lot in life. They are rather withdrawn, and they don’t like to talk about themselves or about their past. What happened to us is associated with pain and dreadful loses. Memories and talking about what we have lived through mean feeling this pain again. We lived a larger part of life in fear and lies, though we know not what our fault is.

There is a series of programs based on the memories of those who had been resettled on the radio in Estonia. I would like this program to be given the name of ‘Guilty without any guilt.’ We, being the children guilty without any guilt, had to carry this dreadful injustice, which mutilated our lives. This was what the life of my generation was like. There are people from all over Estonia in our group. We meet on 14th June, the Day of Resettlement, each year. This is our memorial day. We are like a family. We are very close. What we had gone through brings us closer to one another.

Glossary

Interview Hilda Sobota

Meine Familiengeschichte
Meine Kindheit
Während des Krieges
Nach dem Krieg

Meine Familiengeschichte

Mein Vater, Siegmund Schwarz, wurde am 3.8.1866 in Mähren, in Nikolsburg geboren. Er hatte einen Bruder und drei unverheiratete Schwestern. Ich kenne nur die Vornamen von zwei Schwestern. Sie hießen Emma und Jenny. Die Großmutter, den Großvater und die Schwestern habe ich nicht gekannt. Die sind wahrscheinlich in Mähren geblieben. Zwei Söhne des Bruders meines Vaters sind nach Wien gegangen.

Bei dem Großvater und der bösen Stiefgroßmutter waren wir nur zweimal. Meine richtige Großmutter war gestorben, die habe ich nicht gekannt. Der Großvater hatte eine Fleischhauerei. Als meine Großmutter starb, hat der Großvater noch einmal geheiratet, allein hat er es ja nicht schaffen können, drei Kinder und das Geschäft.
Für die Stiefgroßmutter waren wir nichts, nur ihre wirkliche Familie zählte.
Sie lebten in Stupava, in der Nähe von Pressburg. Deutsch heißt der Ort Stampfen.
Mein Großvater war ein sehr frommer Jude.

Meine Mutter, Anna Schwarz, geborene Nasch, wurde in Stupava am 18.4.1870 geboren. Sie hatte zwei Brüder:
Ludwig Nasch hatte drei Töchter und zwei Söhne, blieb in Stupava und war Viehhändler dort.
Fritz Nasch wohnte in Wien, besaß eine Fleischhauerei im 19. Bezirk und hatte drei Töchter und zwei Söhne. Zu denen hatten wir sehr engen Kontakt. Was aus denen dann geworden ist, weiß ich nicht.

Die Mutter ist schon als junges Mädchen nach Wien gekommen. Wahrscheinlich hat sie irgendeine Tante aufgenommen und sie hat in Wien meinen Vater kennen gelernt und ist dann in Wien geblieben.
Ich kann mich erinnern, als wir der Stiefgroßmutter einmal beim Abwasch geholfen haben und wir haben ein fleischiges Messer in einen milchigen Topf gesteckt, hat sie uns das Messer weggenommen und es in den Sand hineingesteckt damit es wieder koscher wird.
Ich war zwei Mal in Stupava, einmal als junges Mädchen, vierzehn Tage auf Urlaub und einmal, da war meine Mutter gestorben, da sind wir auch hinunter gefahren, aber ganz kurz nur.
Vom dritten Bezirk hat es eine Straßenbahn nach Pressburg gegeben, aber wir sind mit der Bahn gefahren.
Ich kann mich daran erinnern, wie ich den Großvater das erste Mal sah, aber nicht erkannt habe. Wir haben damals noch nachmittags Schule gehabt, Handarbeiten, Turnen und so etwas.
Wir haben im dritten Stock gewohnt, und ich gehe die Treppen runter, da kommt in der Hauseinfahrt ein komisches Manderl mit einem komischen Hut, insgeheim habe ich das Lachen verbergen müssen, und er kommt zu mir und sagt: „Wissen Sie wo, die Frau Schwarz wohnt?“ „Ja, im dritten Stock, Tür Nummer zehn“ und ich habe mich beeilt, ich musste ja in die Schule. In der Schule habe ich dann von dem komischen Mann erzählt, - aber das war mein Großvater!
Mit der Verwandtschaft mütterlicherseits waren wir viel zusammen.
Wenn meine Mutter ihre Cousins und Cousinen besucht hat, hat sie uns Kinder mitgenommen.
An die Namen erinnere ich mich nicht. Ich weiß nur, wo sie gewohnt haben. Ein Teil hat gewohnt im neunzehnten Bezirk, bei der Kreuzung wo der „38“ nach Grinzing und der „39“ nach Sievering gefahren sind. Direkt in dieser Gasse haben sie gewohnt. Zwei Gassen weiter hat auch jemand von der Mutter gewohnt, mit dem wir Kontakt hatten.
Bei uns war die Mutter dominant, in jeder Weise. Vom Vater zum Beispiel, habe ich ein einziges Mal eine Ohrfeige gekriegt, die Mutter hat gedroschen.
Die Mutter hat sechs Kinder zur Welt gebracht, sie war eingedeckt mit Arbeit.

Mein Vater war Verkäufer in einem Herrenkleidergeschäft am Sparkassenplatz im Kleiderhaus Hahn. Das war ein bekanntes Geschäft im 14. Bezirk, jetzt ist es der 15. Bezirk.
Trotzdem die Eltern sparen haben müssen - der Vater hat ja nicht weiß Gott was verdient - haben uns die Eltern jeden was lernen lassen.
Die christlichen Kinder, wenn sie arm waren, sind als Fabrikarbeiter in die Fabrik gegangen, Wir haben alle was gelernt. Aber ich glaube, das haben alle jüdische Eltern gemacht, die haben lieber nichts gegessen.

Die Mutter mußte alles machen, waschen, kochen, putzen. Ich war acht oder neun Jahre alt, und da habe ich schon zu Hause den Küchenboden aufgewaschen.

Wir haben jeden Feiertag eingehalten. Damals war ja schon eine sehr schlechte Zeit, da war es Sitte, das die, denen es ein bisschen besser gegangen ist, am Freitag nach dem Tempel irgendeinen armen Juden mit nach Hause genommen haben. die Mutter hat am Freitag immer jemanden mitgenommen, so war sie.

Ernst, mein ältesten Bruder, wurde 1890 in Wien geboren. Ich habe ihn fast nie gesehen, er war schon sechzehn Jahre alt, als ich auf die Welt gekommen bin und er ist mit siebzehn, achtzehn Jahren aus dem Haus. Er hat als Verkäufer gearbeitet und ist nach Palästina ausgewandert und starb in Tel Aviv.

Frieda, meine älteste Schwester, wurde 1894 in Wien geboren. Sie war Schneiderin und heiratete Siegfried Reiss. Sie hatten sieben Kinder: Erwin, Leopold, Walter, Hans, Elisabeth, Anna und ich verstehe nicht, warum ich mich weder an den Namen noch an das Gesicht des siebenten Kindes erinnern kann.
Ihr Sohn Erwin wurde 1922 und Walter wurde 1924 geboren, Leopold 1926, Anna 1927, Hans wurde 1935 und Elisabeth 1937.
Hans wurde, ich glaube 1939, mit einem Kindertransport der Kultusgemeinde nach Oslo geschickt. Er fand Aufnahme in einer Rabbinerfamilie. Wir haben so sehr gehofft, er hätte überlebt, aber die ganze Familie wurde ermordet.
(Frieda Reiss, ihr Mann Siegfried und sechs ihrer Kinder wurden am 14.9.1942 von Wien nach Maly Trostinec deportiert und ermordet). Niemand hat überlebt. Erwin und Walter hätten sich retten können, aber sie wollten bei ihrer Mutter bleiben.

Meine Schwester Grete wurde Mai 1900 geboren. Sie war Kontoristin in einem Büro, war nicht verheiratet und hat bis zum Tode meines Vaters mit ihm zusammen gewohnt. Sie wurde nach Auschwitz deportiert und ermordet.

Mein Bruder Hans wurde 1903 geboren. Er war Verkäufer in einem Damenmodengeschäft. Er war in Wien mit Grete, einer christlichen Frau verheiratet. Sie bekamen eine Tochter, die hieß Inge. Er ließ sich vor dem Krieg scheiden, verlor seine Arbeit und wanderte mit ein paar Freunden gemeinsam 1935 nach Palästina aus. Dort heiratete er eine polnische Jüdin. Ihren Namen habe ich leider vergessen. Ihr Sohn Ariel wurde 1941 oder 1942 geboren. Er lebt in Israel.

Meine Kindheit

Ich wurde am 6.12.1906 in Wien geboren und meine jüngste Schwester Ella wurde 1909 geboren. Sie wurde Schneiderin und heiratete Ludwig Weizs. Sie besaßen gemeinsam ein Elektrikgeschäft. 1938 flohen sie nach Palästina. 1947 kamen sie wieder nach Wien, bekamen ihr Geschäft zurück und 1947 wurde ihr Sohn Willi geboren.

Von meinen Geschwistern lebt niemand mehr.

Ich habe nie Hilda geheißen bei der Mutter, immer Hilduschka oder Hildinko.
Unsere Wohnung war sehr klein. Von meinem zweiten Lebensjahr bis zu meinem neunten Lebensjahr haben wir in einer Zimmer-Küche Wohnung gelebt.
Ich habe mit dem Vater im Bett geschlafen, die Kleine mit der Mutter im Bett. Die Schwester hatte in einer Kommode eine Lade zum heraus ziehen, das war ihr Bett. Wo die anderen zwei, der Bruder und die Schwester, geschlafen haben, daran kann ich mich gar nicht mehr erinnern.
1915, als ich neun Jahre alt war, das war dann das erste Kriegsjahr vom ersten Weltkrieg, sind wir in eine andere Wohnung umgezogen. Da hatten wir dann ein Kabinett mehr, also Zimmer, Küche und Kabinett.
Da war der große Bruder schon nicht mehr zu Hause, wir waren nur noch fünf Kinder, und es war dann ein bisschen leichter.
Alle armen Leute haben so gewohnt wie wir.
Wir wohnten im Fünfzehnten Bezirk, damals war es noch der Vierzehnte, auf der Sechshauserstrasse. Die größere Wohnung war in der Braunhirschengasse.

Ich war fünf Jahre in der Volksschule und drei Jahre in der Bürgerschule.
Das waren normale Schulen, keine jüdischen, und dann bin ich zwei Jahre in die Handelsschule gegangen. Die war aber von einem jüdischen Verein gegründet, sonst hätte es sich die Mutter nicht leisten können, mich auf die Handelsschule zu schicken.
Ich habe eine phantastische Lehrerin in der Schule gehabt, aber die Ella, meine Schwester, hat Antisemitismus in der Schule gespürt. Damals war es so eingerichtet, wenn die Schülerin in Deutsch gut war, dann hat sie Anspruch gehabt auf Französischstunden. Ich bin in Französischstunden gegangen. Die Ella war bestimmt mindestens so gut wie ich, aber die Lehrerin hat gesagt „Nein“.
Das war in derselben Schule, aber es war eine andere Lehrerin. Die war antisemitisch.
In jeder Klasse waren drei oder vier jüdische Mädchen. Das waren damals nur Mädchenklassen.
In einer anderen Schule habe ich einmal in der Woche eine Stunde am Nachmittag Religionsunterricht gehabt.
An Schreiben kann ich mich nicht mehr erinnern, aber an das Lesen. Ein paar Buchstaben, nicht alle, aber ein paar Buchstaben kann ich noch.

Ich habe ja noch den Kaiser erlebt! Als er gestorben ist, das war 1916, da war ich zehn Jahre. Da sind wir auf der Mariahilferstrasse gestanden, und die ganze Mariahilferstrasse war gesäumt von Leuten, die zugeschaut haben, wie der Sarg von Schönbrunn in die Hofburg überführt worden ist.
Ich habe es ja nicht weit gehabt zur Mariahilferstrasse.
Wir hatten in der Nähe einen wunderschönen Park, damals hieß er Kaiserpark, jetzt Auer Welsbach-Park. Im Park sind die jüdischen Frau immer zusammen gesessen, und die Kinder dieser Frauen, das waren Freundinnen. Im Park war ein sehr großer Teich, der war für die Kinder zum Schwimmen hergerichtet. Dort habe ich Schwimmen gelernt.
Bei uns war ja das Theresienbad ganz in der Nähe, da sind viele Kinder Schwimmen gegangen. Wir nicht, wir sind in die Freibäder gegangen und der Teich im Kaiserpark war wunderschön. Es hat nichts gekostet, es gab Umkleidekabinen, also, sie haben schon viel für die Kinder gemacht.
Wir haben eine wunderschöne Kindheit gehabt. Die Mutter hat sich um uns gesorgt, wie eine Glucke, wenn sie auf den Küken sitzt. Wo sie konnte, hat sie geholfen. Das werde ich nie vergessen, das macht auch nur eine jüdische Mami.
Ich bin mit sechzehn in die Tanzschule gegangen, da ist die Mutter die ersten Male mitgegangen, damit sie sieht, ob ich auch einen Tänzer kriege. Ich habe mich dann eingewöhnt, und dann durfte ich alleine gehen. Am sechsten Dezember war das Nikolofest. Und da hat es geheißen, man kann Geschenke abgeben und wenn dann der Nikolo kommt, verteilt er die Geschenke. Ich habe mir gedacht, zwei Geschenke bekomme ich bestimmt von meinen zwei Tänzern, von jedem eines, aber gekriegt habe ich sieben. Ich habe mir den Kopf zerbrochen, von wem ich die anderen fünf bekommen habe. Nach langer Zeit hat mir einer, mit dem ich getanzt habe, gesagt, die Mami sei an ihn herangetreten und habe gefragt, ob sie ihm fünf Pakete mitgeben kann, denn wenn das Kind nichts kriegt, hat es Herzweh. Das war eine jüdische Mutter.
Wir waren bescheiden, und die Bescheidenheit ist mir geblieben. Ich schenke sehr gerne, ich gebe, was ich kann, aber für mich selber bin ich bescheiden.

Der Papa war nicht im Mittelpunkt, aber wir haben ihn respektiert. Wir haben einmal in der Woche Fleisch gehabt, sonst immer Gemüse. Der Vater hat die schönste Portion Fleisch bekommen, das war selbstverständlich bei uns. Der Vater hat ja auch das Geld verdient. Also der Vater war wer, aber dominant für uns Kinder war die Mutter.
Wir haben ihn oft im Geschäft besucht. Das Geschäft am Sparkassenplatz war ja ganz in der Nähe, wo wir gewohnt haben.
In das Geschäft sind sehr viele Christen einkaufen gegangen, obwohl sie gewusst haben, es ist ein jüdisches Geschäft. Sie sind sehr gut bedient worden!

Ich hatte eine Schulkollegin, das war eine Christin. Mit der habe ich zu Weihnachten immer den Christbaum aufputzten dürfen, da war ich immer begeistert.

In der Herklotzgasse war ein jüdisches Haus, das der Kultusgemeinde gehört hat. Im zweiten Stock war ein Waisenhaus, unten war ein Speisesaal, da haben wir von der Schule aus Essen gehen können, dann war dort ein Hort, da haben wir gespielt. Es war ein sehr schöner Turnsaal im Haus.
Ich war auch im jüdischen Turnverein. Wir haben sogar zwei Schauturner gehabt.
Schwimmen und Turnen habe ich geliebt. Und zum Sportverein Makabi bin ich gegangen.
Da war wahrscheinlich in jedem Bezirk eine Gruppe, bei mir im fünfzehnten war jedenfalls eine.
Es gab auch einen jüdischen Kindergarten in dem Haus.
Meine jüngste Schwester Ella hat dort ihren Mann Ludwig Weisz kennengelernt. Das war eine Kinderliebe. Da gab es einen Schrank mit Spielzeug, und um zwei Uhr, wenn die Schwester gesagt hat, „Holt euer Spielzeug“, ist meine Schwester sitzen geblieben und er hat es ihr gebracht. Immer! Sie hat sich um kein Spielzeug kümmern müssen. Sie haben 1932 im Turner-Tempel in der Turnergasse im damals 14. Bezirk geheiratet. Im April 1939 sind sie nach Palästina geflohen und 1947 wieder nach Wien gekommen. Sie waren fünfundfünfzig Jahre verheiratet.

Der Hausbesorger war ein Christ und die Tochter war meine Freundin. Sie ist zu mit zu mir gekommen und ich bin mit zu ihr gegangen. Wenn ich mit einem anderen Kind zusammen sein wollte, hat sie immer gesagt, “Hilda, ich bin deine Freundin, mehr brauchst Du nicht.“ Und so ist es geblieben. Das war eine Freundschaft, die viele Jahre gehalten hat.

Wenn wir Schluss gemacht haben im Turnsaal, sind wir oft, drei, vier oder fünf Mädchen, ins Raimundtheater gegangen. Das war ganz in der Nähe. Da war immer die Pause vom zweiten zum dritten Akt, und wir sind hinein gegangen. Ich glaube das „Drei Mäderl Haus“ habe ich zwanzig Mal gesehen, aber immer nur den dritten Akt. Und der Billeteur war so nett, der hat ja gewusst, wir haben keine Karten und kein Geld, aber es war der letzte Akt, und es hat ihm nichts ausgemacht.
Ich war mit meiner Freundin oft in der Oper, wir hatten nur Stehplätze, hin sind wir zu Fuß gegangen, nur zurück sind wir gefahren. Einmal, da waren wir im Burgtheater, und in der Pause sind wir so herum gegangen. Da ist so ein älterer Mann auf uns zu gegangen, und er hat gesagt, er muss jetzt leider nach Hause gehen und ob wir seinen Sitzplatz haben wollen. Da sind wir dann einmal gesessen. Das war wirklich sehr nett.
Sonst sind wir immer gestanden. Der „Faust“ zum Beispiel, der dauert ja wirklich entsetzlich lange. Wir sind zu Fuß ins Volkstheater gegangen, haben uns lange angestellt fürs Karten kriegen, und dann standen wir während der Vorstellung.
Das war keine Kleinigkeit, aber wir waren immer mehrere von der Handelsschule, die gegangen sind. Das hätte ich auch nicht missen wollen.
Der Alexander Moissi war ein phantastischer Schauspieler. Meine Freundin ist einmal mit der zweier Linie gefahren und hat nicht gewusst, wo sie aussteigen soll, und sie hat einen Herrn gefragt, ob sie jetzt schon aussteigen muss fürs Volkstheater, da hat er gesagt: „ Nein, die nächste Station, gehen Sie zum Moissi?“ „ Nein zu meiner Freundin“, hat sie geantwortet. Ich habe damals so lachen müssen, sie geht nicht zum Moissi, sie geht zu ihrer Freundin. Wir haben sehr viel in Theatern, in der Oper und im Musikverein gesehen.

Es gab viele jüdische Vereine. Ich bin zwei Jahre mit einem jüdischen Verein auf Urlaub gefahren, der Verein hat das bezahlt. Mein Bruder Hans aber war in einem christlichen Verein, wo musiziert worden ist.

Der erste Posten, den ich gehabt habe, war in einem Getränkegroßhandel. Da war ich im Büro. Die haben dann zugemacht, da bin ich in ein Bankhaus gekommen, die sind damals aus dem Boden geschossen. Da war ich zwei oder drei Jahre, da war ich sehr gerne. Dann war schon die Arbeitslosigkeit, da war man froh, wenn man irgendeine Arbeit hatte.

1926 ist meine Mutter gestorben, sie war siebenundfünfzig Jahre alt und hatte Eierstockkrebs.
Wir haben sehr geweint. Nachher, in den späteren Jahren, habe ich oft denken müssen, Gott sei Dank hat die Mutter diese Zeit nicht erleben müssen, daß ihre Kinder überall hin verstreut wurden. Es ist ihr viel erspart geblieben, sie hätte sich zu Tode gekränkt.
Der Vater hat uns dann den Haushalt geführt, er hat gekocht, sogar sehr gut gekocht.
Er war ja schon in Pension. Bis zu seinem Tod hat meine Schwester Grete, die nicht verheiratet war, mit ihm zusammen in der Wohnung gelebt.
Er ist, zum Glück, 1940 im Alter von vierundsiebzig Jahren gestorben.
Meine Eltern liegen auf dem Zentralfriedhof, da komme ich auch hin.

Ab 1935 war ich dann bei den Sängerknaben.
Durch eine Zeitungsannonce bin ich zu den Sängerknaben gekommen. Da waren viele, die auf diese Annonce hin gekommen sind. Und alle waren jünger als ich, aber ich wurde genommen. Später habe ich dann einmal die Sekretärin gefragt, warum sie damals mich genommen habe, da waren doch viele junge Mädchen, da sagt sie: “Schauen Sie, das werde ich Ihnen sagen. Ich habe zu Ihnen gesagt, daß wir ein Hotel in Hinterbichel, in Osttirol, haben und da müssen Sie dann auch dort hin, da gibt es viel Arbeit.“ Ich soll drauf gesagt haben: „Ach, das ist doch gar nichts, je mehr Arbeit, desto besser“ und das hat ihr eben so imponiert.
Ich war noch nicht verheiratet. Hinterbichel war ein wunderschöner Ort, ganz am Ende eines Tals. Da geht es schon zum Großvenediger rauf. Da haben wir ein wunderschönes Hotel gehabt, es waren auch lauter Barone dort, und die Sängerknaben haben serviert und jeden Sonntag haben sie ein Konzert gegeben.
Ich habe dort im Büro gearbeitet. Die Gäste haben sich bei mir angemeldet, und es war da ein schriftlicher Verkehr und ich habe die Rechnungen ausstellen müssen, wenn die Gäste abgefahren sind.

Damals war eine große Arbeitslosigkeit. Meine frühere Arbeitskollegin hat halt keinen Posten gekriegt, und in ihrer Wut oder Verzweiflung, hat sie bei den Sängerknaben angerufen: „Das ist doch eine Frechheit, ich als Christin bin ohne Arbeit, und die Hilda Schwarz, als Jüdin, hat bei Ihnen eine Anstellung bekommen“.
Die Sekretärinnen haben mir gesagt, daß der Rektor geschrieben hat, sie sollen mich behalten, sie sollen mich nicht weggeben, er findet, ich bin eine gute Kraft. Ich habe das dann auf meine Weise erledigt. Meinen zweiten Mann, den kannte ich damals schon, habe ich gebeten, da er auch mit meiner früheren Arbeitskollegin bekannt war, auch er war Christ, zu sagen: „Was sagst Du zu der Gemeinheit, die haben die Hilda hinausgeschmissen, weil sie eine Jüdin ist,“ und eine Ruhe war. Die hat sich nie wieder gerührt.
Als der Krieg schon aus war, habe ich sie zufällig auf der Straße gesehen. Sie ist auf mich zu gekommen und wollte grüßen, und ich habe mich umgedreht und bin gegangen, ich habe nichts gesagt. Wir hatten solange zusammen gearbeitet und waren wirklich gute Freunde.

1927 im Verein „Sozialdemokratische Gastwirte“ habe ich meinen ersten Mann, Gustav Koch, kennengelernt. Er wurde 1894 in Wien geboren. Er war auch Angestellter im Büro.
Er hat mir gleich gefallen. Seine Firma war neben meiner Firma und so sind wir bekannt geworden.
Wir haben im Turner Tempel geheiratet.
Er ist dann zu mir gezogen, in meine Familie. Mein Mann war vom ersten Weltkrieg kriegsbeschädigt. Ich hatte bei den sozialistischen Gastwirten einen ausnehmend netten Chef und der hat eine Freundin gehabt und diese Freundin hat einen guten Bekannten im Ministerium gehabt und dadurch haben wir 1935 eine Trafik gekriegt.
Weil ich bei den Sängerknaben war, haben wir uns eine Verkäuferin genommen für die Trafik und dann 1937 hat es geheißen, wenn wir die Trafik nicht selber führen, nimmt man sie uns weg, da habe ich dann bei den Sängerknaben gekündigt.
Mein Mann hat geraucht, aber ich habe nie eine Zigarette angerührt. Vielleicht hätte ich auch geraucht, aber ich habe als junges Mädchen und als junge Frau immer einen Lidränder-Katarrh gehabt, immer rot entzündete Augen, das hat gejuckt und weh getan, da war Rauch eine Katastrophe. Darum, sonst hätte ich vielleicht geraucht, aber dadurch nicht eine Zigarette.

Mein jüngerer Bruder Hans ist 1935 arbeitslos geworden. Es herrschte zu dieser Zeit große Arbeitslosigkeit und er hat sich mit ein paar Freunden auf den Weg nach Palästina gemacht. Er hatte sich von seiner christlichen Frau Grete scheiden lassen und die gemeinsame Tochter Inge blieb bei ihrer Mutter.

Während des Krieges

1938 hat eine sehr nette Frau die Trafik übernommen. Wir haben damals noch die Wohnung neben der Trafik gehabt. Die Frau hatte ein Kind, das war ein Jahr alt und ich habe dem Kind das Gehen beigebracht. Ich bin oft mit ihm spazieren gegangen. Das war eine einmalige christliche Familie, da hat die Freundschaft gehalten bis weit über den Krieg hinaus, bis sie gestorben ist.
Als wir nach Theresienstadt deportiert wurden, habe ich sie gefragt, ob ich ihr ein paar Sachen da lassen kann, Sachen, an denen ich gehangen habe. Das haben sie alles genommen und nach dem Krieg haben sie alles zurück gegeben.

Mein ältester Bruder Ernst ist 1939 nach Palästina emigriert.

1942 war ich schwanger. Da bin ich ins Rothschild- Spital gegangen und habe mich untersuchen lassen. Der Doktor hat gesagt: „Ich gebe Ihnen einen guten Rat, heute oder morgen werden Sie verschickt, bitte behalten Sie das Kind nicht.“ Ich war ihm dankbar.

Im Oktober 1942 wurden mein Mann und ich nach Theresienstadt deportiert. Theresienstadt war das „Vorzeigelager“ der Nazis. Es ist uns ja auch viel besser gegangen, als den Menschen in den anderen Lagern.
Wir wurden in Viehwaggons vom Dritten Bezirk nach Theresienstadt transportiert.
Als wir ankamen, mußten wir wochenlang am Dachboden schlafen. Die Koffer sind uns sofort weggenommen worden, gleich am Bahnhof, „Die Koffer bleiben da, die Koffer kommen nach“ hat es geheißen. Die sind natürlich nie gekommen, und wir haben da nur einen Polster gehabt und was zum Zudecken.
Ich habe zuerst in der Kindermarodenstube arbeiten müssen. Das war ein Spital. Ich mußte aufräumen, saubermachen, und die Medikamente von der Apotheke holen.
Jede Woche einmal wurden so an die zweitausend Leute zusammen gestellt und nach Auschwitz geschickt. Einmal haben sie nicht zweitausend Leute zusammen gekriegt, da haben sie die ganze Marodenstube, Ärzte, Schwestern und die Kinder nach Auschwitz geschickt. Zuerst wurden sie gepflegt, das waren ja lauter jüdische Ärzte da, und dann nach Auschwitz geschickt, damit man sie töten konnte.
Ich bin dann in die Wäscherei gekommen, die war außerhalb von Theresienstadt, da sind wir in der Früh immer aufmarschiert, sind abgezählt worden, und dann raus zum Arbeiten und am Abend wieder zurück. Da war ich bis zum Schluss, bis zur Befreiung.
Mein Mann und ich haben zusammen in einem Raum mit Wanzen und Flöhen gewohnt.
Man war in ständiger Angst, jeden Tag, man wusste ja, jede Woche müssen zweitausend nach Ausschwitz.
Zwei Mal in der Woche haben wir Brot, ein paar Deka Fett und ein paar Deka Zucker gekriegt. Das haben wir uns einteilen müssen und in der Früh gab es so einen Abwaschwasserkaffee.
Zu Mittag gab es jeden Tag achtundzwanzig Deka Kartoffelsuppe und achtundzwanzig Deka Kartoffeln. Am Anfang war das gut, aber wenn dann die Kartoffelzeit zu Ende gegangen ist, dann sind die faulen Kartoffeln abgewogen worden. auch nur achtundzwanzig Deka, und am Freitag haben wir einen ungefüllten Germknödel gekriegt, und das die ganze Zeit. Ich hab schrecklich dünn ausgeschaut.
Zum Glück, wir bekamen alle die Menstruation nicht mehr, das war wegen der Unterernährung.
Bei uns waren ja die Russen später als in Wien, in Wien waren sie ja schon im April 1945, in Theresienstadt am dritten Mai. Wir sind noch zwei Monate geblieben, bis wir nach Hause konnten.

Nach dem Krieg

Dann haben sich zwei Familien zusammen getan und haben einem Tschechen Geld und Schmuck gegeben und der hat uns nach Wien geführt. Wir hatten noch etwas Geld und Schmuck verstecken können. Der hat uns dann nach Hause gebracht, damit wir nicht mit dem Viehwaggon fahren mussten.
Die holländische Königin und der holländische König haben Flugzeuge geschickt, die Ungarn haben Autobusse geschickt, alle sind wirklich schön von ihren Ländern abgeholt worden, nur wir Österreicher nicht. Sie haben gesagt, sie wären ein armes Land, sie sind ja selber überfallen worden, aber daß sie am Heldenplatz „Heil Hitler“ geschrien haben, das haben sie vergessen.

Mein Mann und ich haben die Trafik zurück bekommen.
Als wir die Trafik vor dem Krieg gehabt haben, mein Mann war sehr gesellig und sehr gescheit, da hat es eine Menge Kunden gegeben, die sind sogar früher in die Trafik gekommen, damit sie plaudern können und sind dann zur Arbeit gegangen. Da war einer dabei, der war sehr, sehr nett und auf einmal, als der Hitler da war, ich habe meinen Augen nicht getraut, war der in der SA-Uniform. Wir waren für ihn erledigt. Er hat auf der Gasse nicht gegrüßt, kein Wort mehr geredet mit uns. Als der Krieg dann zu Ende war, habe ich ihn zufällig auf der unteren Favoritenstrasse getroffen. Er kam strahlend auf mich zu, und ich habe mich umgedreht, habe kein Wort gesagt und bin weggegangen. Der war für mich erledigt. Ich habe nicht geschimpft mit ihm, gar nichts, er war für mich erledigt. So wie wir für ihn erledigt waren, als der Hitler da war.
Ich kann mich aber auch an Kundinnen erinnern, die sehr, sehr nett waren. Das waren zwei ältere Damen. Als wir zwangsübersiedelt in die Novaragasse wurden, sind sie uns besuchen gekommen und haben Essen mitgebracht, und das waren Christinnen! Es hat auch solche gegeben.
Nach dem Krieg hatte ich eine Amtsbescheinigung, weil ich im KZ war, und da bekam ich in der Oper Stehplatzkarten, ohne mich anstellen zu müssen. Das war schon was und da bin ich viel mit meinem Mann gegangen.

1949 ist mein Mann gestorben.

Meinen zweiten Mann, Alois Sobota, habe ich eigentlich schon früher kennen gelernt, der hat nämlich als Kind schon im Haus ums Eck gewohnt. Er wurde 1907 in Wien geboren. Er hatte Schuhmacher gelernt und im Krieg mußte er einrücken.
1953 haben wir geheiratet. Er war kein Jude, er war Christ.
Er war etwas jünger als ich, und wir haben als Kinder zusammen auf der Gasse gespielt.
Damals konnte man noch auf der Gasse spielen, wir haben in der Rauchfangkehrergasse gewohnt, gleich beim Wienfluss, dort ist ja noch kein Auto gefahren, nichts, die Gasse hat uns gehört.
Ende 1953 habe ich die Trafik zurückgegeben und bin wieder in ein Büro gegangen.
Ich habe für eine Ex- und Importfirma gearbeitet, Rechnungen und Bilanzen schreiben, das war meine Arbeit.
Sehr wenige meiner jüdischen Freunde sind zurückgekommen. Zu den großen Feiertagen bin ich in die Synagoge gegangen..
Ich habe kein Schweinefleisch gegessen und ich muß, bis heute, einen besonderen Milchtopf haben.
1961 haben mein Mann und ich uns in Deutsch Wagram Grund gekauft und uns ein Haus gekauft. 1964 sind wir eingezogen. Das war ein Traum für mich. Als ich dann in Pension war, haben wir nur noch in dem Haus gewohnt, Sommer und Winter. Hinter dem Haus ist ein richtiger Garten, vorn ist ein kleiner Vorgarten.
Bis zu seinem Tod hat er im Büro der „Volksstimme“ (Tageszeitung der Kommunistischen Partei Österreichs) gearbeitet Drei Monate vor der Silbernen Hochzeit ist mein Mann 1978 gestorben, aber das waren fünfundzwanzig wirklich wunderschöne Jahre.

Nachdem mein zweiter Mann gestorben ist, bin ich das erste Mal zu meiner Familie nach Israel gefahren.
Mit Inge, der Tochter meines Bruders Hans aus erster Ehe, habe ich mich sehr gut verstanden. Sie hat zu mir gesagt: „Wenn Du willst, Tante, fahren wir nach Israel“ und wir waren vierzehn Tage in Israel. Das zweite Mal sind wir zu einer Hochzeit gefahren, und das dritte und das vierte Mal nur so auf Besuch.
Das Land hat mir gefallen, die Leute haben mir gefallen, alles hat mir gefallen. Auch mit meinem Bruder Hans habe ich mich sehr gut verstanden.
Mit Inge bin ich dann sehr viel zusammen gereist. Das war wunderschön. Leider ist sie sehr früh gestorben.

Die Deutschen kann ich heute noch nicht leiden. Mit den Deutschen verbinde ich automatisch Hitler.
Aber in Österreich habe ich mich wieder gut gefühlt. Mich hat die Politik immer interessiert.
Ich kann mich erinnern, während der Waldheim-Affäre war eine äußerst ungute, fast antisemitische Stimmung.
Das war ja eine wirklich ekelhafte Geschichte.
Jetzt der Haider, der ist ja nicht weniger ekelhaft.
Und das die FPÖ jetzt in der Regierung ist, das ist ja noch weniger angenehm. Das hat uns sehr geschadet.
Den Judenhass gibt es nicht erst seit Hitler, den Judenhass gibt es ja schon seit Jahrtausenden.
Immer, wenn in einem Land Not ist, sind die Juden schuld, da geht man auf die Juden los, um von der eigenen Schuld abzulenken, und das wird immer so bleiben.