Travel

My grandfather Avram Danon - I do not know when he was born - lived in Bjeljina with his wife, Sara. They met at a party in Bjeljina, and were married soon after. They loved each other very much and the fruit of that love was 13 children - eight sons and five daughters. My grandfather had a cepenak - a small Turkish space - in the market in the center of the town. This shop was organized like a typical Turkish shop: during the winter there was a mangala, a wood stove, burning in the center; customers could pass by and immediately see everything in the store. Grandfather was an exceptionally hard-working man, and I can imagine how much he had to work to support 15 people. The children grew up in a certain degree of poverty. My father told me how he never had his own clothing or new shoes, only hand-me-downs from his older brother. He would have to roll up the sleeves; they were never shortened by a tailor. As he grew, he would unroll the sleeves until he outgrew the shirt and passed it down to his younger brother.

When my father, Isidor, was 13, he reached his bar mitzvah, the age, according to Judaism, from which a young man begins to fight for his own survival. My father told me that his bar mitzvah was a big and festive celebration; the chief rabbi from Bjeljina came, and my father received many presents. They made a special point to accent the bar mitzvah because it gave strength to the young boys, who were, in fact, still children, to keep on a serious life path. After the bar mitzvah, my grandfather told my father, in short, "Now that you are an adult, it is time that you start to work and earn money." My grandfather said he would give him some start-up capital. This consisted of some 20 molds for making soaps, which were cooked and then cut with a knife. He went to the market, took a box, covered it with newspaper and began selling. By evening, he had sold all the soap. When he counted the money, he realized he had made twice as much as his father said they were worth. The next day he went to his father's shop, paid for more soap, and little by little he became a relatively rich man. He was incredibly hard-working, industrious, smart, sweet and honest; everyone he came into contact with wanted to talk with him and do business with him. By the time he was 15, he had saved a certain amount. He hired a carpenter to build a stand in the marketplace, and he sold his goods from the stand, protected from rain and sun. He also went to a tailor, who made him a suit to improve his appearance. He looked like a businessman, and he always advanced.

There were many poor Jewish women who knew how to bake, so he hired them and began to sell homemade cakes at the market. At the time, Bjeljina had a tense border with Serbia, so the garrison had been strengthened with a big military presence. The main customers for those cakes were soldiers and students.

In time, he went to Tuzla to begin a business. He worked with manufactured goods, and the work went well. One day he went to Gracanica, near Tuzla, to get goods for his shop. Walking down the street, he noticed two girls passing by. He took note of one in particular. She was extraordinarily pretty, with lovely eyes, beautiful hair, a nice figure. He followed the girls. But the problem was how to learn who they were. He went a few steps ahead of them, stopped at a store and took another good look at them. At that moment an old man came out of the store and told him they were the daughters of Cadik Danon, a merchant from Gracanica. He decided to go to synagogue to meet them. It was Friday night, and he met Cadik Danon who invited him to dinner. My parents met, liked one another, and within a very short time they married. Isidor began his new life with his beloved wife, Dona.

It was fortunate for my grandmother that she first had daughters who could help her take care of the younger children, primarily sons. The problem was marrying off all these girls. At the time, there was no chance to marry without a dowry. They were lucky that both my grandfather and grandmother were nice-looking and all their children were nice-looking; pretty girls are married off more quickly.

Grandfather and Grandmother were both Sephardim. They spoke Ladino with the children and the children responded in Ladino. Religious customs were regularly observed. Every Shabbat was celebrated with two candles, and all the holidays were celebrated first in temple, then at home. All of this occurred not long after the Turks left Bosnia, which means during the Austro-Hungarian occupation of Bosnia, so my grandfather, like all Jewish men, wore a fez. At the time, even members of other religions wore fezzes and they knew who was of which faith based on the color of the fez: Turks wore a deep red fez, Jews wore a dark brown fez; this is how they distinguished one another. My grandfather continued to hand down all Jewish customs and all the feelings that a Jew should have, and this was the same with my father, who wanted to raise us in a Jewish spirit and strictly observed the rules that were customary among Sephardi Jews. The Sephardi Jews were religious, but they were in no sense Orthodox. They were not too religious like the Jews in Poland, Ukraine.

The Jews socialized together. This helped ensure that marriages were, in general, Jewish. A Jewish man was obliged to marry a Jewish woman and vice versa. If the opposite happened, it was considered a great misfortune and an embarrassment to the family. This also was true for the other religions. When I was small, my two uncles Hajim and Gedalja were unmarried. Hajim married my mother's cousin Batseva and Gedalja married my mother's cousin Dona, who lived in Istanbul.

I never went to my grandmother and grandfather's; they died before I was old enough to visit them. When Grandmother Sara died, the grave was constructed according to Jewish law. The coffin was made from unrefined wood; she was washed and dressed in
a white sheet. The rabbi put a lump of dirt under her head and she was buried. When the family came home, according to Jewish law, they were all obliged to sit on mattresses on the floor for seven days. Family members brought them food and all 13 children sat there for these seven days. Grandfather literally stopped eating and lost his will to live. After a
month he died, as well. Again a funeral was held, Kaddish was recited and the children were left without parents. Fortunately, they were all grown up; the daughters were already married. Life went on in the same way with the older children helping the younger ones.

My father was the second-eldest son. Majer, the eldest, contracted tuberculosis and died, so that my father became the "pater familias," playing the role of head of the family. I remember one occasion when his eldest sister and the youngest brother, both of whom lived in Bjeljina, quarreled. One day a letter came from his eldest sister in which she asked my father to intervene as head of the family in her dispute with Gedalja. My father understood that this was not something serious. He invited them to Belgrade, where we lived. They came and, in short, he told them: Kiss and make up.

My mother's parents were also in love with one another and they had nine children, eight daughters and one son. They lived in Gracanica. They were also traditional, but not Orthodox. They celebrated all holidays at home. On his deathbed, my grandfather asked my father, his son-in-law, to take care of his family. My father was an exceptionally good and generous man and he promised to maintain the family, and he did help as much as was possible. The hardest thing was to marry off eight girls, each of whom needed a dowry and a husband. My father played the biggest role in marrying off all these girls. The family got along well, they all loved each other; it was like one soul and one body.

Childhood memories

I remember, I was still quite young and we were still living in Sarajevo, celebrating one Pesach, the holiday that recalls the Jews' salvation from slavery in Egypt. All the traditions connected to that holiday relate to fleeing from slavery and the Jews' 40-year stay in the Sinai desert. I remember my father put a piece of matzah in a big cloth napkin and he put it on my back, as a symbol of how the Jews quickly baked their bread so that they could get on the road to the Red Sea and Sinai during the night.

While living in Sarajevo, until 1934, we were members of the Hashomer Hatzair Zionist society, known as Ken. The organization's goal was to once again create Eretz Israel, based on socialist principles, and we prepared ourselves to go to Palestine, which was part of the British Empire. There we intended to work on kibbutzim. When we moved to Belgrade in 1934 we enrolled in the local Hashomer Hatzair. We socialized mainly with Jews. There were many friends; unfortunately all are dead and I will not mention them because it would make me cry.

During the war, my generation suffered the most. I was 18 when the war began. In Belgrade we lived very well; we socialized mainly with family. My father's family was mostly in Belgrade and my mother's family, in Sarajevo. Our house was a meeting place for the whole family for holidays and different parties. We would get together, sing Sephardi poems; I remember the sad Sephardi ballad "Adio kerida non kjero la vida."

One day my father received a letter from his younger brother in Sarajevo, saying that his business had failed. He had a coffee-roasting enterprise, but he was not skilled and capable enough, so that enterprise went bankrupt. My father invited all his brothers and sisters to come to Belgrade at the same time, a week when there was no work. They gathered in our big dining room and my father said: "We have gathered here to see what we are going to do with our Mihael. You all know that he is not so hard-working and not so capable, but he is our brother. We helped him two previous times and you know that Jewish tradition says that one must help three times. This means we are still obliged to help him." Everyone agreed, and my father wrote how much he thought each brother and sister should give. First he read his own name and the biggest sum, then he read the rest of the names and what he thought they should give. Everyone agreed, Father found a shop at the Jovanov market, where he and three other brothers had shops, gave him merchandise and made the shop functional. Mihael came from Sarajevo with his wife and daughter, and they lived a nice life until 1941, when the pogroms began.

My father was an exceptionally good man and he wanted to help people, especially Jews. One day in the synagogue, a Jew from Dorcol told him about a poor woman who had a young man she wanted to marry, but she did not have the financial means to get married. My father told the man to invite the young girl to his shop. That day, there were only a few customers in the shop. I had come to help my father. A pretty, dark-haired girl came in, she had beautiful big eyes and pretty, curly hair. Father called over one of the apprentices and began to cut material for the dowry. I remember that he first took materials for blankets, then sheets and pillows - two big bundles of textiles. The young girl began to cry because she was embarrassed. I brought her a chair. When everything was prepared, my father had the delivery boy put them on a cart. I watched her go down the street, happy, thinking that soon she would marry and her greatest wishes would be fulfilled. What is interesting is that my father never told anyone. I remember sitting with my mother after the war, and telling her the story from the beginning to the end.

When we arrived in Belgrade we moved into an apartment on Jovanov Street, in Mr. Alkalaj's house. We had a beautiful three-room apartment with floor-by-floor heating. My father had a shop on Visnjicev Street in the Jovanov market. This was considered the Jewish market because all the shops were owned by Jews. There were four other brothers and one sister in the same market. We lived very well without problems. With respect to the country itself, Jews had full rights. I did not experience any anti-Semitism personally, nor did my family. This is because the Serbs were always inclined to be friendly to Jews.

In Sarajevo I went to the first grade of elementary school at Maria's Palace, and afterward in the second grade they enrolled me in the Kolo Srpskih Sestara School, an elementary school where there were better conditions. I had a wonderful teacher, Lala Susnic, who thought of us as if she were our mother. We loved her, listened to her and we learned a lot from her. During all of my schooling in Sarajevo, I went to Hashomer Hatzair, where we socialized, sang and danced. We wore gray shirts like on kibbutz, and we prepared ourselves for our eventual departure for the kibbutz. In Belgrade, the atmosphere was much warmer than in Sarajevo because Dorcol, the neighborhood where I lived, was Jewish. It was full of Jews who knew each other, socialized and helped one another.

I enrolled in a secondary school for engineering, which was, in general, a school for children from modest backgrounds and poor financial situations. When they finished this secondary technical school, which lasted four years, they had a skill and were able to support themselves. I enrolled in the architectural division; one of my sisters enrolled in architecture and the other in medicine.

In 1939, World War II began. The Jews were nervous because they knew that Hitler had the worst intentions for the Jews. However, there was hope because the English and French were big powers, and it was hoped that they would resist Hitler. However, in 1940, Hitler carried out a surprise attack via Belgium on the French, who capitulated two weeks later. Everyone was upset, but optimism was greater than pessimism. There was hope that we would survive, that we would defend ourselves and somehow avoid the worse-case scenario. However, on March 27, 1941, the Tripartite Pact, which Yugoslavia had signed, was dissolved, and on April 6 the Germans began a surprise bombing campaign in Belgrade. We were on Jovanov Street, in Dorcol. The Germans bombed that Jewish neighborhood especially hard. We fled to a village near Belgrade. When the bombing was over, we returned home, took the necessary things and naively headed toward Thessaloniki on foot. However, we did not even manage to reach Mladenovac, 50 kilometers south of Belgrade, before Yugoslavia capitulated, and the army disintegrated. I saw with my own eyes how the army fell apart, gave over the weapons and was captured. When we arrived in Belgrade the Germans were already there and immediately began a census of the Jews in the Pozarna command. They made lists, and everyone had to wear a yellow band and go to work cleaning the city, which was destroyed by the German bombing. It was clear what was going to happen so we decided to go to our uncle's home in Tuzla, thinking it would be better there because it was part of the Independent State of Croatia. My older sister, Ina, remained in Serbia with her husband.

In Tuzla, the first few months were relatively calm. Then they started to make us register as well. They took us into forced labor in German garrisons, to a distant village where there was a sawmill, and we loaded planks and the like. When the partisan movement began, the repression started in earnest. Every day we read announcements about which Serbian partisan villages had been burned down and who had been killed. At the end of 1941, my younger sister, Sida, and I participated in the uprising, and we received permission from the anti-fascist organization to join the partisans. We made this request much earlier but were denied because our house was a shelter for messengers traveling from Sarajevo to Zagreb. Before leaving, we went to our parents and simply said we were joining the partisans. We asked a relative who had escaped from Sarajevo to Mostar to send someone with documents to take our parents to Mostar. We left into the pitch-dark night. I remember there was a curfew until 7 a.m., and my sister and I left at 6 a.m. The streets were empty except for the mounds of snow that squeaked under our feet. A three-man Ustashe patrol passed us. I hugged my sister so they would think that we were lovers, and not be suspicious. We reached an illegal apartment in Krek and waited there for four days. However, our messenger never arrived. On the fourth day, a comrade came to tell us that we could not go to the partisans, but would not say why. We returned home and only later learned the reason: On Majevica, a mountain above Tuzla where the partisan movement had a presence, Chetniks attacked the partisan headquarters. There were many dead, including the messenger who was supposed to come for us. They slaughtered him. We were in Tuzla a few more days. One day, as I was finishing lunch, two Ustashe came. They had knives on their bayonets. They took me to the prison; there were already a lot of Jews there, including my father. This was the first round, and they only took Jewish adult males. We were all sentenced to Jasenovac. There was no trial; we only received the sentence stating that we had been condemned to Jasenovac. 130 of us were taken to the camp. Of these 130, I am the only one who survived that dreadful Golgotha known as Jasenovac.

Jasenovac was the biggest camp in the Independent State of Croatia, a quisling state. It was said that almost all of Croatia was strewn with these camps. Jasenovac devoured about 700,000 people: 25,000 Jews, some Gypsies and 650,000 Serbs. They were all innocent people who were taken there solely based on their origins. They say that it was one of the cruelest camps because the killing was done manually. The Ustashe killed people in the most bestial manner. They left the people without food so that they were weak, to ensure that resistance was impossible. They killed with knives, hammers and wooden axes, like the ones used to chop wood in the forest. People fell from hunger and exhaustion. The worst was when the Ustashe would grab someone in front of all of us, put his hand behind his back and slaughter him. I saw with my own eyes how one Ustashe, after slaughtering someone, licked the knife on both sides and said: "Oh how sweet Jewish blood is."

One day the Ustashe took 20 of us young and strong men to a big meadow near Jasenovac and ordered us to dig a pit. It was clear that this was a grave. By its size we could tell that it was going to be a massive killing. When the grave was dug, they ordered us to move 10 meters away. They brought between 200 and 250 Jewish and Serbian children - exhausted, hungry with ripped and dirty clothing - and one by one brought them toward the pit. One Ustashe used a hammer to hit each child on the back of the head and threw him in the grave. I expected they would kill us as well, but we were fortunate. Watching all of this, I wept like a small child. Standing next to me was a Jewish man who was older than me, about 30 years old. He was obviously religious, and he turned his head toward the heavens and said: "God, if you exist send lightning from the clear sky and strike these criminals." The Ustashe continued to kill the children. You could hear the screaming voices of children who were to be hit, the dull fall of children into the pit. The man next to me again turned his back to this cruel picture, made the same plea loudly. He fell to his knees and wept like a small child: "God was silent and the criminals did their work."

It was clear to me that there was no salvation in the camp; no one was getting out of this hell alive. The only way to survive was to escape and join the partisans. One morning when we were lined up in front of the barracks, an Ustashe came looking for people who had done construction work in the past. The day before, I asked the head of that construction group to take me into the group since I had finished a secondary technical school. This is how I got out of the camp. We went about 100 meters, where the Ustashe had their barracks. We were supposed to build several rooms for officers in those barracks. I was cutting planks of wood on the barracks' stairs when I realized that someone was holding the plank. I saw a young man in Bosnian village clothing holding the plank. When I thanked him, he said he could see I was having trouble and wanted to help. He asked me what I was doing there; I told him I was a prisoner and he innocently asked me what I had done. I told him I was a Jew. He said, "Of course you are not imprisoned because of that." It confused him. When it came time to get food at the kettle, he sat next to me, ate half of his portion of beans and then offered me some. I devoured those beans. Then he reached into his bag and gave me a piece of bread that his mother had prepared for him. He had volunteered for service in the Ustashe. I asked him why and in a Bosnian dialect he told me: "A town crier came to the village, a drummer who brings news, and told us that those who voluntarily enlist in the Ustashe will serve for only one year, will receive a salary and their family will receive pensions. Those who do not go voluntarily will be forced to be home guardsmen, they will have to serve two years, they will not receive a salary and their families will not receive pensions. I concluded that it was wiser for me to volunteer."

The next day I came to the same work place. All the young men were dressed in Ustashe uniforms with wide belts. They had had a political lesson in which it was stated that Ante Pavelic was the father of all Croats, the Independent State of Croatia was the mother of all Croats, and no one other than Croats had the right to live there, the rest needed to be killed. In the afternoon, I expected that young man would again offer me food. But he looked at me in an unfriendly manner and threw in the trash the food he did not eat. Ten days later, in March, there was a rain storm. The water was so strong that it broke the levee that was protecting the camp. They woke us at midnight, gave us shovels, hammers, spades and took us to the levee. We worked all night shoveling dirt, but the water advanced so aggressively that it was all washed away. When dawn came, I was so tired from filling up the hole, I stood for a minute to rest. Suddenly I felt a strong strike on my back. I barely could hold myself but leaned against the hammer I was holding. When I looked up to see who had hit me, I saw the young man who had given me half of his beans on his first day with the Ustashe. When he hit me I turned toward the Ustashe officer standing under the levee; he nodded to the young man to continue. A boy was standing next to me with a shovel, and he was constantly pouring earth on the stream of water. This Ustashe, whose name was Muhamed, hit him on the head with a club. He fell to the ground. It was obvious that his skull had been broken. He fell in such a way that his body stopped the flow of water from the levee. Then the officer jumped up the levee and told him he could continue to hit people. He killed another five or six people who they put on top of the water flow, and that is how they stopped the water. We were ordered to pour earth over the bodies and to stamp it down with mallets. That is how the water was subdued.

Because of the flood, I was transferred from Jasenovac, with my father and other prisoners, to Stara Gradiska. The conditions for escape were even worse; Stara Gradiska was a fortress that the Austro-Hungarians built on the border with Turkey. Fortunately, one day I overheard that the Ustashe were going to select people for agricultural work. I cleaned myself up: I wiped off the mud, brushed off my clothes, shaved and brushed my hair. In the afternoon, there was the selection. Every line-up was dangerous because one never knew if they were selecting for killing. When I saw they were choosing young and strong men, I understood that this was not a trick; it was really for agricultural work. They choose about 20 of us. We were transported by train to an agricultural estate that formerly belonged to the Orthodox Church in Fericanci. Once again I was lucky. The Ustashe needed guards for the cattle they had stolen from the Serbian villagers; I was chosen to look after the cows. While we guarded the cows, the Ustashe guarded us. Since that summer was quite dry, there was no grass and they took us north to Obradovac, another Serbian village where the Church owned land. There we made connections with the villagers and planned our escape. The villagers brought us food, and were ready to help us in any manner.

The original plan was to attack the Ustashe, to kill and to save ourselves. There were 30 of us and 20 Ustashe. The man who cooked for the Ustashe had access to the anteroom where there were rifles, bombs and weapons. We thought that Dragan, the cook, could steal some bombs, and we would sneak up on the Ustashe while they slept, throw bombs at them, steal more weapons and kill them. However, they caught Dragan writing illegally to his parents, took him to Fericanci and slaughtered him. Another possibility arose while I was watching the cattle. The 10 milk cows grazed in the meadow. The Ustashe would come to check on me from time to time; there were always two of them guarding the prisoners while we watched the cattle. One afternoon as the cattle cooled off in the shade, a villager cutting oak nearby started eating, turned toward me and began whistling. This was a sign that he wanted to give me something to eat. I went over, and he asked me if I wanted to eat, cut me a piece of bacon and bread. I devoured the food. Then he asked me how it was with the Ustashe. To be safe, I said it was good for me. He told me he knew the Ustashe well. With that, he unbuttoned his shirt and showed me a still-unhealed knife wound on his chest, where they cut him. I asked him how he survived and he told me that he did not admit to anything and they let him go. He told me that his was a village of the national liberation council and that it could be arranged that the partisans attack our camp and liberate us during the night, and we would attack them from the inside. We waited months for the partisans to come, but they did not.

These two plans were created so that the Ustashe would be destroyed and the prisoners saved. After our first plan, partisans from the area appeared and the Ustashe brought another 10 men, so that we were 30 and they were 30. The partisans were not going to come, and we made an alternative plan. We decided to use the 10 minutes we had for getting the cattle from the camp to the pen to flee, if the Ustashe were not with us. When we seven returned from herding, the Ustashe left us and returned to the camp. We continued the 100 meters to the pen, and saw that we were alone. We jumped through the wires. We had to run across a meadow that was more than 1½ kilometers long, and we were constantly waiting for the machine guns to start firing on us. Once we reached the forest, it was easier. The villagers had left us seven clubs - which we needed more for the psychological help. The next morning we had already found the partisans and were divided into units. Of the seven of us, three died in battle; four lived to see liberation.

The seven of us escaped from camp on September 12, 1942. We were six Jews and one Croat, a veterinarian and member of the Party. He was arrested because he was a party activist at the veterinarian faculty. His name was Zorislav Golub. I advanced quickly in the partisans. We were all well received without a trace of anti-Semitism; they were happy and satisfied to have such qualified and capable people. All of us who had escaped from the camp distinguished ourselves with great bravery and courage and fought selflessly against fascism. We were all decorated and received promotions. After only three months, I became a company commissar. I was wounded in February 1943 and was hospitalized. I was operated on without any pain medicine in the worst and most meager conditions. Later, since I was an invalid, I was transferred to the command area. In 1944, I became a commissar of the Vocin airport where the English mission was stationed and where English planes came to give support to the partisans. In 1945, I returned to my brigade, the XII Slavonska, and became the head of the brigade's propaganda department. I came to Baljburg with the brigade on May 15, 1945, two weeks after the German capitulation. In Vocin, we surrounded a group of a 100,000 Ustashe who surrendered thanks to the English who were there with tanks.

Post-war

In May 1945, I came to Belgrade for medical treatment and to see if any of my family had survived. I found my brother-in-law's sister, who called my sister Ina and her husband. That evening, we saw one another again for the first time after four torturous years. They did not end up in camps; they were in the partisans and were decorated for their work. After a few days my younger sister, who was in the Dalmatian division, came to Belgrade, and a few days later my mother, who was in Bari, arrived. Our father was killed in the most bestial manner in Stara Gradiska.

After the war, we all began to work. My younger sister finished her studies; my older sister worked in administration; and I enrolled in the gymnasium, to compensate for the time I had lost, and I worked at Jugopetrol at the same time. In two years, I finished four years of gymnasium, graduated and enrolled in the architectural faculty in Prague. The period of the Informbiro arrived, when Tito broke off relations with Stalin; I returned from Prague and continued my studies in Belgrade. I graduated and began to work as an architect. I retired as the director of the planning firm Jugoprojekt, a large consortium planning firm.

I have had contact with the Jewish community since the first day after the war and uninterrupted contact with our people. I go to events and participate as much as I can. In 1999, I received an award from the Federation of Jewish Communities of Yugoslavia for my work. I wrote a book entitled "The Danon Family Tree Stump, a Memory of Jasenovac," in which I described the suffering to which the people of Yugoslavia were exposed, specifically the Jews. I received the first prize and used the prize money to print the book, which was published in 2000. The book is being translated to English, and I hope an English version will make its way around the world. I believe that this truth should be heard by all people, all nations, all countries because it is something that must not be allowed to happen again. There were such terrible things that the human mind cannot comprehend how terrible they were, or how it was possible to survive. From my family, which was a large family - my father's parents had 13 children who each had their own spouses, children, daughter-in-laws, son-in-laws, grandchildren and my mother's side - 45 people were killed. This includes the youngest, Avram, who was 2 at the time of his death, and the oldest, my father's sister Rifka, who was 60. This stuns me, but at the same time, it gives me strength to write. It is my wish that this book will be read by as many people as possible so that people will be careful to intervene in time against enemies and misfortune. One should never stop fighting, and one needs to take preventive measures so that evil does not happen, and if it already happens then only active fighting can save people and humanity.

In the fall of 1949, at the university, I first met Olga Mogin. It was love at first sight. We dated for 1½ years; however, one of her colleagues made an intrigue with her mother and we split up. I had two unsuccessful marriages, as did Olga. By chance, Jasenovac helped me return to my first love. In 1995, I was divorced and Olga was a widow. Olga was at her friend's weekend house. After lunch, she laid down on a chaise lounge on the terrace. The television was on. She had almost fallen asleep when she heard a familiar voice. I was in the midst of my first television interview about Jasenovac and the Holocaust. She had a good cry while listening to me. Afterward she called me on the phone, and we soon married.

Sophia Stelmakher

Sophia Stelmakher
Chernovtsy
Ukraine
Interviewer: Ella Levitskaya
Date of interview: February 2002

Sophia Stelmakher and her husband live in an apartment that they bought recently in a new neighborhood of Chernovtsy. Her son and his family live in their own apartment. Sophia and her son have a very warm relationship. I came to Sophia's house two mornings in a row and both times I saw her son visiting her on his way to work. Sophia had a leg fracture and hadn't left her home in half a year. She is a very friendly and sociable woman who looks younger than her years. Sophia and her husband spent three horrible years in the Jewish ghetto in Rybnitsa when they were children. They lived in one and the same building. When Sophia was telling me about this period of her life she couldn't hold back her tears, but she was willing to tell me the details since her memories are fresh and don't leave her. Sophia is a very kind and responsive woman and has a very warm relationship with her beloved husband and many other people. She has many friends and her house is always open for people. Sophia blankly refuses to be photographed saying that she doesn't look that good and wouldn't like to be looked at by so many people. There are no photos of her after 1963 in her family album. She wants her dear ones to remember her young and attractive.

My family backgrownd

My family backgrownd

My mother's parents lived in the small town of Rybnitsa that was in Odessa region before the Great Patriotic War 1 and after the war it became a part of Romania. [Editor's note: before 1917 - Russia, 1917-1922 - Russian Federation, 1922-1991 USSR, now Ukraine.] My maternal grandfather, Isaac Bekker was born in the 1860s. I don't know exactly where he was born, but it was a small town in Odessa province [Russia]. My grandfather came from a Jewish family with many children. I didn't know anyone from his family. He studied at cheder. His father was a poor craftsman who could hardly provide for a big family. My grandfather's family couldn't afford to pay for his education. When he turned ten he became an apprentice to a Jewish shoemaker. Apprentices spent two years working for free receiving meals and training. After the training was over an apprentice could go on working for his master and would be paid for his work. My grandfather became friends with the son of the owner of the shop where he was apprenticed. He went to grammar school. My grandfather took his textbooks and studied. This student of grammar school began to help my grandfather. My grandfather did so well that he passed exams for four years of grammar school and later for eight years of grammar school. It took him five years. He continued working for his master saving money. When he got enough money to pay for one year at university my grandfather went to Odessa in 1880. At that time there was a five-percent admission restriction [five percent quota] 2 for Jews in all universities. My grandfather passed the admission exams. He was an excellent student and after the first year of studies the dean solicited that my grandfather had his fees waived. My grandfather was allowed to get training at the Odessa clinic of veterinary medicine. Upon graduation he was offered a veterinary job in Rybnitsa. There was no veterinary clinic and my grandfather received his patients at home. My grandfather was the only member of the family to get a higher education.

My maternal grandmother, Sarah Bekker, nee Mirochnik, was two or three years younger than my grandfather. She was born into a family of doctors in Odessa. Her family was wealthy and intellectual. Their wealth was based on their practice. My grandmother told me that all her father's brothers were doctors. My grandmother finished grammar school and entered Pedagogical Institute in Odessa. It wasn't usual for women in those days. I guess she met my grandfather when she was a student. I don't know any details. My grandmother told me that when she got married her husband, my grandfather, bought a small house in Rybnitsa; that took place about 1895. My grandmother waited until he earned enough money to buy one. Nobody helped them. I think they had a religious wedding but I don't know it for sure.

Rybnitsa was a small town surrounded by orchards and vineyards. I guess the Jewish population constituted about one third of the population in Rybnitsa. Jews resided mainly in the center of the town along with Moldavian and Russian doctors, teachers and lawyers. Russian and Moldavian farmers lived on the outskirts of the town. Jews were involved in crafts: they were shoemakers, blacksmiths, tinsmiths and tailors. There were also Jewish doctors and lawyers. There was a synagogue in Rybnitsa before 1917. The Soviet powers struggled against religion, and the synagogue and Christian church were destroyed in the process. One of the religious Jews arranged a house of prayer in his house and men came to pray there. This religious Jew's grandson learned to play the shofar and one could hear the sound of it at Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. This was at the time when the Soviet regime struggled against religion 3. Fortunately, nobody reported this prayer house to the authorities, otherwise the owner of the house and its attendees might have been punished severely.

I remember my mother's parents' house: it was a stone building with its narrow façade facing the central street. It was typical of the town. The biggest room was my father's office. There was a small side room where he stored his instruments and medications. There were two other rooms and a kitchen with a backdoor. There was a small shed and a toilet in a small yard. They had plain furniture: a table, chairs and beds. There was a big Russian stove in the kitchen that served for heating and cooking. There was a well in the yard.

My grandmother had tuberculosis when she was young and later she suffered relapses of this disease. My grandparents had more than ten children. I don't remember how many exactly. The children were born weak and died in infancy. Only three survived: my mother's older brother, Grigory, born in 1898, my mother Evgenia born in 1902, and my mother's younger sister Polina, born in 1908. Their Jewish names were Gersh, Genia and Perl, respectively. My grandmother was a housewife and looked after the children. She was a very smart and intelligent woman.

My grandfather was very religious. He went to the prayer house mentioned earlier, on Saturdays and Jewish holidays. He also prayed at home in the morning and in the evening with his tallit on and a prayer book. We, children, knew that we were not supposed to distract grandfather when he was praying. I still have my grandfather's tallit as a keepsake. My grandmother wasn't religious at all, but she celebrated holidays. I don't know whether she followed the kashrut.

My grandmother had a big wooden box with dishes and utensils for Pesach. My grandfather and grandmother had no bread during all eight days of Pesach. They only had matzah. Matzah was baked by a group of women living in the same neighborhood. They traveled from one house to another to make matzah for the whole family. My grandmother made gefilte fish, chicken, baked honey cakes, strudels with jam, raisins and nuts. My grandfather couldn't close his office for holidays since cattle couldn't wait that long. For this reason my grandfather even had to work on Saturday sometimes, but he never did any work on the first two days and the last day of Pesach. My grandparents fasted at Yom Kippur, as my grandfather used to say 'from the star to the star'. They also celebrated Purim and my grandmother made delicious hamantashen. At Chanukkah our grandparents gave us Chanukkah gelt. My grandmother and grandfather spoke Yiddish to one another and Russian to their grandchildren.

My grandfather was a slim man of average height. He wore black jackets of thin wool and dark shirts. He had a well-groomed gray beard and moustache and thick gray hair. My grandfather wore a yarmulka at home and a big cap when going out. As far as I remember he only wore a hat when he went to the synagogue. My grandmother wore fashionable clothes. She never wore traditional Jewish outfits: long dark skirts and dark blouses. I can't remember what she wore in winter, but in summer she wore nice skirts and light blouses with embroidery and lace. She didn't wear a wig. At the time I remember her she had bright gray hair curling round her face and gathered in a knot on the back of her head. She never wore shawls - only a kerchief sometimes at home when she was cooking. In winter my grandmother wore a nice fur hat and she had nice summer hats decorated with artificial flowers. When going out during the summer, she took her light parasol with lace on the edge. My grandmother was short and wore high-heeled shoes even when she was old.

My grandfather was a very kind man. He loved his granddaughters dearly and we loved him. He always had some sugar candy or little toys in his pocket for us. My grandmother was more reserved. I'm sure she loved us much, but she didn't show it. She was a very reserved and cold person and often looked arrogant. She didn't play with us or tell us fairy tales - it was our grandfather that did that. My mother took after my grandmother and was also cold and austere.

My mother told me that there were Jewish pogroms 4 in Rybnitsa before and after the [Russian] Revolution of 1917 5. Rybnitsa was near Odessa where there were the 'black uniform units' [Black Hundred] 6 that often initiated pogroms. When the black units started a pogrom in Odessa the local black units became active and got together to initiate a pogrom in Rybnitsa. They killed men and raped and beat women. They robbed and destroyed Jewish houses. Christians used to hide Jews in their cellars and houses during pogroms. My grandfather and Grigory were hiding in their Ukrainian neighbor's house, and my grandmother and her daughters found shelter in another house. Christians used to hang an icon on the front door and pogrom makers went past such houses. In their majority those taking part in the pogrom were local tramps and drunkards. Also, some farmers were among them, but since my grandfather took care of their cattle they didn't touch his office. I guess they realized that it was in their own interests to have a vet available in the village. There were victims in almost every pogrom. There was a Jewish cemetery in Rybnitsa and there were inscriptions on many gravestones 'Killed during a pogrom'. The Germans destroyed this cemetery during the war.

My grandfather made good money, but my grandparents were not wealthy people. They spent money to buy food and clothes and the remaining amounts were spent on providing education for the children and buying books. My grandfather bought books on medicine and veterinary matters and my grandmother bought fiction in Russian and French. They also bought some books in Yiddish. All children received religious education at home. They had a Jewish teacher to teach them to read and write Yiddish and Hebrew, and they studied the Torah and the Talmud. My mother could read and write in Hebrew. Children also studied music. I remember my mother's violin. Inside there was the inscription 'Stradivarius', but of course, it wasn't an original instrument. My mother kept this violin until the war and often played it.

There were many books in Yiddish and Russian at her home. All three children studied in a grammar school in Odessa when they were nine or ten years old. It was a private school. There were separate schools for boys and girls. Rybnitsa was 150 kilometers from Odessa and during their studies the children lived in the boarding school, which had classrooms, a canteen and bedrooms for few pupils. The children could go home at weekends. Jewish children had no classes on Saturday. I don't know whether Jewish students had to forego their religious rules, kosher food for example, and traditions at school. My mother had two close friends, Jewish and Russian, from grammar school. She said that she was a very short girl. She did well at grammar school and finished every year with honors. My mother told me that when she came home on vacation after she finished the 1st grade my grandmother told her to walk along the street holding her diploma of honor so that everybody might see how smart her girl was.

Of three children, only my mother's brother managed to finish grammar school before the Revolution of 1917 and enter the Medical Institute of Kharkov University. My mother finished seven years of grammar school. After the Revolution the grammar school was closed and my mother returned to Rybnitsa. The next year my mother went back to Odessa where she entered the Faculty of Philology of Odessa University. Her younger sister, Polina, entered the Faculty of Mathematics in Odessa University after finishing school.

My mother's older brother Grigory got married upon graduation from the Medical Faculty of Kharkov University and got a job assignment to Gomel in Belarus. His wife, Raissa, a Jew, also studied at Kharkov University - two years junior. When Grigory got a job assignment in Gomel, Raissa quit the University and followed Grigory. She had completed three years of medical education and worked as a nurse. Grigory and Raissa weren't religious. They had three sons. During the Great Patriotic War Grigory was a military doctor at the front. After the war he and his wife visited us in Rybnitsa. This was our first meeting after many long years of separation. In the last years of his life Grigory had lung problems. Doctors advised him to get a change of climate. He and his wife moved to the town of Reni in the south of Moldova. His children didn't move with him. He died there in the 1960s. His wife and children moved to Israel in the 1970s.

My mother didn't tell me much about her years at university. I know that she rented a bed from a Jewish woman who had a daughter. She also had meals with them. Her father sent her money to pay the rent and pay for meals. Since my mother needed more money to buy textbooks, notebooks, etc. she gave private lessons. She graduated from university with honors. She had a job offer in Odessa, but she decided to return to Rybnitsa. She got a job as teacher of Ukrainian and Russian languages and literature in a lower secondary school in Rybnitsa. At the beginning my mother stayed in a school dormitory, where she shared a room with two other teachers. Later she received a room at the school. I spent my childhood in this big room and I remember it well. It was on the first floor at the rear of the two-storied school building. The room faced the school garden and the trees shadowed the room. There was my mother's bed and my bed and a wardrobe in the room. My mother's younger sister Polina came to stay with my mother upon graduation from the Faculty of Mathematics of Odessa University. Polina had lung problems, like her mother. She had tuberculosis with hemorrhages. She was weak and sickly and my mother always took care of her. My mother tended to her and fed her when Polina was ill. Polina lived 82 years thanks to my mother. Polina was smart and pretty. She settled down with us in our room and began to work as a teacher of mathematics at school. Polina wasn't married either.

I was born on 29th December 1935. I was named Sophia and given the Jewish name Sarah. My cousin, Polina's daughter, was born in the summer of 1936; I didn't know her father. She was given the same name, Sophia. I don't know why we were named after our grandmother who was alive - it was against the Jewish tradition. I never knew my father. When I was a child I never gave it a thought why my last name was Bekker, the last name of my grandfather. When I was a child my mother told me that my father was working in the Far North and after the war she said that he had perished. I wasn't surprised, since there were many fatherless children after the war. Only when I had a son at the end of the 1950s my mother told me the truth about my father, though she never disclosed his name. She was probably afraid that I would want to find him and didn't want it to happen.

My father graduated from the Faculty of History of Odessa University and came to work at the school in Rybnitsa where my mother was working. My mother told me that my father was a tall handsome man. He was a member of the Communist Party and was soon promoted to director of the school. I believe they liked each other and began to live together without marrying officially. My mother had no idea about housekeeping and didn't wish to learn. When my mother was a child she lived with her parents and my grandmother did all the housekeeping. Later at boarding school she was provided with everything she needed and when at university she had everything done by her landlady. When my mother began to work at school she had meals at the school canteen. She thought housework was a sheer waste of time that she could spend reading or playing her violin.

When I was born there was a lot more work to do. At the beginning my father changed my diapers, washed me and got up to tend to me at night if I cried. It was perhaps my mother's helplessness about routine work about the house that made my father leave when I was six months old. Before the war my mother received money from him, but then he stopped sending her money. He may have perished during the war, but I will never know for sure. My mother didn't communicate with him. That's why I don't know anything about my father's family or background. After my father left my mother was appointed director of school, although she wasn't in the Party.

Polina and her daughter always lived with us. They had their beds in the opposite corner of the room. There was a desk by the window and a kitchen table near the door with a Primus stove on it where my mother did her cooking. We were always pressed for money and my mother cooked simple and inexpensive food: soup, cereal, boiled or fried potatoes. It wasn't really Jewish food. We rarely had meat. There were shelves with dishes and utensils over the table. There were bookcases by the walls. My grandmother gave my mother her collection of books and my mother spent all her money buying books. She usually bought fiction, Russian and foreign classic and books by Soviet writers and poets. We cherished our books.

My mother had an austere style in clothing. She wore dark dresses with white lace collars that reminded you of a school uniform or dark suit. In warm weather my mother wore dark skirts and white blouses. She cut her hair short and never had it waved. She thought a teacher wasn't supposed to dress up or do her hair in a fancy manner.

Neither my mother nor her sister and brother were religious people, but my mother always identified herself as Jew. She could speak Yiddish and Hebrew and knew the Torah. My mother never prayed or celebrated Jewish holidays. The only exception was Pesach. In all eight days of Pesach we didn't have any bread at home - only matzah.

Before I turned one year old my grandmother and Polina took care of me. My mother only came to feed me at intervals. At one I went to a nursery school. I can remember back as far as when I was three. I was in kindergarten. I was a sociable girl and had many friends. I don't know whether there were Jewish children at kindergarten. There were children of other teachers. We were raised to be patriotic. We learned poems about Lenin and Stalin and sang songs. I remember a song 'Thank you, our dear country, for our happy childhood!' My mother picked me up from kindergarten in the evening and put me to bed at home.

I was five and a half when the war began. On Saturday 21st June 1941 we went to bed and I was thinking about the weekend that I was going to spend with my mother. She promised to take me for a walk on Sunday morning. We woke up to the sound of an explosion. I began to cry, but my mother calmed me down and I went back to sleep. In the morning there were rumors in Rybnitsa that the war had begun. My mother got a phone call from the department of public education of Rybnitsa - they told her that although official evacuation had not been announced she had better leave Rybnitsa since she was the only Jew at the school. My mother got a horse-drawn cart, packed promptly, put Polina, Sophia and me on the cart and we went to pick up grandmother and grandfather. They refused to go with us. They were reluctant to leave their home and they didn't believe that something bad might happen. We got on our way, but when we reached the village of Krutye about 20-30 kilometers from Rybnitsa we saw German soldiers. My mother turned the cart back to Rybnitsa. In a few days the Germans occupied Rybnitsa. During first few days the Germans were just looting the houses. They took away my mother's violin and almost all the books even though they were all Russian.

One day all Jews in Rybnitsa were ordered to get together in the central square. People were told to take few things with them, but mainly money and valuables. My mother, Polina, Sophia, my grandfather, my grandmother and I went there, too. We were all lined up and set on the way somewhere convoyed by German and Romanian police. My grandfather was walking with my mother and I heard him whisper to her 'Run away - save the children'. When we stopped for a night I heard my mother and Polina arguing in whispers. My aunt was trying to convince my mother to escape while my mother said that we had to share everybody else's destiny. My aunt told her that it was impossible for all to escape and that Russian families back in our town would be able to give shelter to one Jewish family, but not to all Jews.

When it got dark the four of us began to move towards the woods. I believe God was our guardian since nobody noticed us. My mother carried me or sometimes I walked by myself and we got to Rybnitsa before dawn. My mother knocked on the door of an acquaintance of hers, asking her to give us shelter. This was Zhenia Ryzhkovskaya. She and her sister hid us in their houses and supported us later. I shall always be grateful to these people. We stayed with them for several days. We were hiding in their cellar since there were police raids almost every day. One day Zhenia told my mother that a part of the town was fenced with barbed wire and the Germans were taking people from other locations to that area. Later Zhenia went there to find out what it was. She returned and told us that it was a Jewish ghetto. My mother decided that we should go to the ghetto since we couldn't put Zhenia's life at risk. The Germans threatened to shoot anybody that was helping Jews.

The four of us went to the ghetto. We entered the ghetto through a gate with a Romanian guard. Nobody asked us where we were from or why we had come to the ghetto. They probably hadn't registered inmates of the ghetto as yet. We began to look for a place to live. All houses were full, and we settled down with a Jewish family from the town of Roshkany. That family consisted of three members: Avrum Stelmakher, his wife Beilia and their eight-year-old son Shmil. Avrum was a cooper and his wife was a housewife. Shmil had finished the 1st grade at school. They had two small rooms, one of which they gave to us. They only spoke Yiddish and Romanian. We starved and froze. Later Avrum fixed a stove and we could cook on it when we had something to cook. Adults were taken to work every day. If somebody got too weak to work he was shot. In this ghetto Jews were often killed, especially men. Several times doctors from hospital came to select boys to take their blood for transfusion later to wounded soldiers. We often had to hide Shmil in the wardrobe and let him out at night. Many inmates were dying every day. There were epidemics of enteric and spotted fever and no medicines whatsoever. Inmates starved or froze to death. Polina was ill almost all the time.

Inmates of the ghetto were sent to work. The Jewish administration made daily lists of inmates that were to go to work. My mother went to work one day for herself and another day for Polina. We had few clothes to exchange for food and they didn't't last long. Russians, Ukrainians and Moldavians in Rybnitsa were helping us. If it hadn't been for them we would have starved to death. Zhenia and Polina Ryzhkovskaya brought us food. There were others that helped us - only I don't remember their names: my mother's colleagues and parents of her pupils. They were at risk bringing food to the barbed fence of the ghetto, but their children also crawled under the wire to bring food and warm clothing to where we lived. Many people in the ghetto were saved thanks to these kind people.

I remember that inmates of the ghetto were taken to a construction site for a park. When construction was finished Germans put a portrait of Hitler at the entrance. Since the Jewish administration of the ghetto knew that my mother was a teacher they suggested that I should make a speech in German or Romanian at the opening ceremony. I didn't speak German or Romanian. My mother made notes with the text that I had to learn by heart. I was different from other members of the family. I mean I wasn't that quick and smart and I remember my mother crying - she was afraid that I wouldn't be able to remember the words and that we might be killed for that. We studied day and night. I remember the day of the ceremony. High-ranking German and Romanian officers attended the opening ceremony of the park. I was taken to the stand, but I couldn't say one word from fear. A gendarme pulled me off the stand and beat me so hard that I was more dead than alive. I remember this well.

There were many children in the ghetto that studied at schools before the war, but began to forget even the alphabet in the ghetto. My mother installed benches in the yard of our house and began to gather children to teach them. My mother thought it was her duty to teach children in the ghetto. She went to work in the morning and after work she conducted classes for children. She had to do it in secret since if the authorities had found out about it they would have had her shot. They shot inmates of the ghetto for even smaller infractions. They studied mathematics, languages and history and my cousin and I patrolled the area around the house. If we saw a gendarme we began to sing and the children scattered. We didn't study, we were on lookout. I didn't even know my ABC. In the evening my mother taught me to count and do mathematics, but it was too dark to learn to write or read. We had no lighting.

In March 1944 the Soviet troops came close to Rybnitsa. There were rumors in the ghetto that the Germans were going to shoot all inmates in the ghetto before retreating. Zhenia Ryzhkovskaya came to take us to her home from the ghetto. We escaped from the ghetto at night and came to her house. There were battles for several days before the Soviet troops entered Rybnitsa. The people of the ghetto survived. We were overwhelmed with happiness. Inmates of the ghetto and other people hugged and kissed Soviet soldiers. We returned home. Many houses were ruined, but not the school building. We settled down in our room.

After the war

I went to the 1st grade and my cousin went to the 2nd grade at school. She was smarter than I was and she had no problems with studies. My mother and Polina worked at school. My mother was a teacher of the Russian and Ukrainian languages and the director of the school and Polina was a teacher of mathematics. I wasn't very successful with my studies and my mother was very unhappy about it. She wanted her daughter to be an exemplary pupil, of course. The only top grade, 'five', that I had at school was in history. I was very fond of history. I was a sociable girl and had many friends. I sang in a choir and attended dancing classes. I became a Young Octobrist 7 and then - a pioneer at school. I became a Komsomol 8 member later than others due to unsatisfactory grades in some subjects. I was very upset about it. I enjoyed being involved in public activities. There were quite a few Jewish pupils in our class. Some people from the ghetto stayed in Rybnitsa, some people came back from evacuation. We didn't face any anti- Semitism. There were no grounds for it in our town, where the population had been helping and supporting inmates of the ghetto during the war.

In 1946 my mother's older brother Grigory and his wife came to see us. We had lost track of him during the war. Everybody was happy to see them. The adults couldn't stop talking and were happy to have survived this horror and found each other. Afterwards we kept in touch with him until he died.

In 1947 my mother married Peter Segul, a Jewish man whom she had met a long while before. He also came from Rybnitsa. He was born in 1900. His father was a shoemaker who had several children. Peter was good at music. After the war he finished a conservatory somewhere and returned to Rybnitsa. Peter got a job as a music teacher at the school where my mother was working. He got married and had two daughters. Peter went to the front at the beginning of the war. His wife and daughters perished at the very beginning of the war. He heard that his family perished after he returned from the front. Peter was a very nice and kind person and I liked him a lot. He taught me music; he became a real father to me.

In 1948 a former pupil of my mother's that she met incidentally in the street, told her about what happened to my grandmother and grandfather. This girl was also in that group of Jews from which we had escaped. The Germans took this group to Dubossary in Moldavia. Germans ordered old and sick people to dig twelve graves and when they were done, the Germans shot them. Many Jews were still alive when the Germans filled the graves. The girl saw Germans burying my grandmother and grandfather alive after they pushed them down the pit. She said that the soil stirred over the graves for quite some time after this happened. My mother returned home in a shock. Grigory and his wife were visiting us at that time. The three of them and Polina left for Dubossary to find the graves. When they returned my mother announced that we were moving to Dubossary. My mother had already made arrangements regarding a job for her and her husband at a local school. My mother wanted to live close to her parents' graves. Our family, Polina and Sophia moved to Dubossary. We rented an apartment until we received an apartment from the school. This was a standard two-bedroom apartment in a recently built house. My mother and Peter were schoolteachers and this apartment building was built for schoolteachers. We lived like most Soviet families at that time. Life was miserable. We didn't have enough food. Teachers got very low salaries. To buy food we had to stand in long lines, but we didn't lose hope that life would improve in due time

My mother took care of all twelve graves. She planted flowers and cut grass on the graves every spring. There was an obelisk installed at the place of this mass shooting of Jews. It was funded by local authorities and individuals that wanted to make a contribution. They are common graves with the lists of victims on the gravestone. Every year on 9th May, Victory Day 9, people from all over the world go there to honor the memory of innocent victims of fascism.

I have no recollection of the events of 1948, the campaign against cosmopolitans 10. I was too small to understand. I remember Stalin's death in 1953. I was ill and had to stay in bed. I had fever and felt miserable. My mother had had her radio on since the morning. She had already heard the news of his death and was crying bitterly. In the afternoon there was to be a mourning meeting at the stadium and my mother was supposed to make a speech. When I saw my mother leaving I asked her to stay; I was afraid to be alone. My mother yelled at me, 'I'd rather you'd died than he!' Even after the 20th Congress of the Party [Twentieth Party Congress] 11 my mother believed that Stalin was innocent and that his subordinates were evil while he was unawares of millions of innocent victims, executed and worked to death in camps. I was confused; I always took my mother's opinion for granted, but there was something wrong in this case. Stalin should have known about what was happening. But if he was a criminal, how could people believe him implicitly and call him their father? I believed what Khrushchev 12 said at the Congress, but I developed a strong aversion to politics and ideology afterwards.

In 1954 I finished the 10th grade in Dubossary. My cousin and I went to Kishinev. I passed the entrance exams for the Medical Institute and Sophia took the entrance exams for the Polytechnic Institute. Sophia had a better knowledge of subjects than I did, but she got a 'satisfactory' grade in compositions. 'Satisfactory' wasn't good enough to enter the institute. When my mother heard about it she said it was unbelievable. She came to Kishinev and managed to convince the management of the Polytechnic Institute to show her the composition. There were no grammar mistakes, but there were a few extra commas. My mother said that the color of ink was different, but it didn't help. Sophia had to return home. She entered the Polytechnic Institute in Kishinev next year.

When I was in the 10th grade at school I met a young Jewish man that was on military service in Dubossary. He was a driver for an officer. His name was Alexandr and he was two years older than I was. His parents lived in Chernovtsy. We began to see each other. He visited me in Kishinev when I became a student at the Medical Institute. His term of service was nearing its end and he proposed to me. He said that he and his parents were common people and that I didn't need higher education either. I didn't really enjoy studying and I decided to leave the institute. I took him to Dubossary to introduce him to my mother. When I told my mother that I didn't want to continue my studies my mother said that I had to finish a medical school and get a profession before getting married. I entered a medical school in Dubossary. Alexandr went to his parents in Chernovtsy and waited for two years until I finished medical school.

In 1956 I received my diploma and went to Chernovtsy. My mother also came to Chernovtsy to discuss the wedding arrangements with Alexandr's parents. When Alexandr's mother opened the door she began to hug and kiss my mother all of a sudden. They both cried and laughed speaking Yiddish. We didn't understand what it was all about. My mother told me that this was Beilia Stelmakher and this was the family that shared their dwelling with us in the ghetto for three years. Alexandr turned out to be that boy named Shmil that had been hiding in the wardrobe. Of course, I didn't recognize him. We were children then and many things had changed since then. Our mothers remembered each other. This was miraculous, but it was true. We met twelve years after liberation.

We got married. We didn't have a traditional Jewish wedding since only my husband's parents were religious, while the rest of us were far from Jewish traditions. We had a civil ceremony in a registry office and our mothers arranged a festive dinner for us. Just the immediate family was at this dinner. After the wedding my mother left and I stayed with my husband's family. They had a small two-storied house. I wasn't used to the traditional Jewish way of life. My mother-in-law only cooked traditional Jewish kosher food, which I wasn't used to. There was little choice of food products at that time, but she was one of these housewives that could make the nicest dinner out of nothing. My mother never learned to cook and I was used to plain food. I could have a glass of milk and a slice of bread for dinner and see nothing unusual in it. I didn't understand how one could spend so much time cooking. Gradually I got used to their way of life and began to learn to be a housewife in the same traditional ways. My in-laws only spoke Yiddish at home. I didn't understand a word and decided to learn Yiddish. I did learn it.

Before World War II the Jews constituted over 60% of the population of Chernovtsy. During the war many Jews perished in the ghetto in Chernovtsy or in Transnistria 13. There were fewer Jews left after the war. After the war the border with Romania was open for some time and many Jews left the USSR to go to Romania, Israel or other countries. Many people that lived during the Soviet regime for a year before the war could never accept it and kept leaving. However, there was still a Jewish population: one could hear Yiddish in the streets and the synagogue was open. There was a rabbi. The local population treated Jews nicely. There were community arrangements for matzah and other needs during holidays.

My husband's parents were religious people. They celebrated Sabbath and all Jewish holidays. On Saturday my father-in-law went to the synagogue alone and on holidays his wife joined him. This was a legal working synagogue till the 1970s. They always made matzah at Pesach. My mother-in-law made traditional Jewish food at Pesach. Even in the first years of our life together when there was a lack of everything she managed to get fish and chicken for Pesach. She made gefilte fish, chicken broth with matzah and strudels. On the first evening of Pesach my father-in-law conducted the seder according to Jewish rules. My husband and I always participated in it. Alexandr's parents always fasted at Yom Kippur and Rosh Hashanah. My husband and I weren't religious, but we respected his parents' belief. We tried to do no work at home at Sabbath to please our parents and took part in celebrating Jewish holidays.

My husband was a driver and I got a job as a midwife in a maternity hospital. I had a good relationship with my colleagues. I never faced any anti-Semitism. Of course, I cannot say that there wasn't any anti-Semitism, but I witnessed no instances of it. I worked in the hospital for 22 years and the attitude towards me was always good. I retired quite a while ago, but my former colleagues often visit me and come to see me on holidays.

Our son was born in 1957. We named him Igor so the first letter of his name begins with the same letter as my grandfather's name: Isaac Bekker. He was circumcised. I had a short maternity leave and came back to work when my son was three months old. My mother-in-law took care of the baby. My work was quite near where we lived and she took him to my workplace for me to feed him. My mother-in-law began to feel ill because she had lived three years in the ghetto, but she raised our son nevertheless. Igor was a nice boy. He wasn't particularly good at his studies, but I hadn't been either. His teachers and classmates treated him well. After finishing school he entered the College of Refrigeration Units. After finishing college our son married one of his classmates, a Jewish girl. In 1980 their daughter Diana was born. Regretfully, my son's marriage didn't last. His ex-wife and his daughter live in Germany now. After perestroika 14 my son and his friend opened a company involved in the manufacture of plastic bags. That's what he does now. He got married again. His wife is Jewish. They didn't have a traditional Jewish wedding. She is a dentist. They don't have children yet.

When Jews began to leave for Israel in the 1970s my husband and I thought about trying our luck. When my mother heard about it she said that this is the country where I was born, where we went through good things and bad things and this was where our dearly departed were buried. She was categorically against my departure and after thinking about it I agreed with her. My cousin Sophia and her daughter and Grigory's sons left for Israel. Many of my husband's relatives left. We visited them several times. Of course, Israel is such a gorgeously beautiful country! It's like a blooming oasis. I admire those courageous and hardworking people that built this country on bare stones. The people I love live in this country.

I also traveled to Canada and USA at the end of 1990 at the invitation of our friends and my husband's distant relatives. Well, home is best - they have a different life in those countries. I do not fit in there. When I went to Rybnitsa recently (where I was last before we moved to Dubossary in 1948) I felt so much at home. I felt like this was the most beautiful place in the world. Of course, it was difficult to recognize Rybnitsa - so much has changed. It's a nice little town with beautiful new houses and a cozy hotel. It is true - of all places I've been, Rybnitsa is the most beautiful town. One can go on a visit to another country, but one has always come back to the country where one has spent one's life. I can't understand people who survived through the horrors of the Great Patriotic War that move to Germany. I understand that a few generations of Germans have changed, but I can't forget the horrors that I went through. When I hear the word 'German' I recall a German soldier that after another mass shooting of Jews in the ghetto threw a three-year-old child alive into a pit with dead bodies and began to backfill it with soil.

We've always had Jewish and non-Jewish friends and I never paid much attention to their nationality. We didn't celebrate Soviet or Jewish holidays, but we liked to get together with friends and have a good time. We discussed books that we read and shared our joys and sorrows. Our friends used to visit us for a cup of tea. We sang our favorite songs and danced.

The beginning of Perestroika in the 1980s didn't raise any emotions in me. I didn't care after the disappointment I had felt after mother's words about Stalin's death. I cared about my family, work and friends and that was it. However, there were visible changes. One could get books that had been forbidden and the Iron Curtain 15 that separated our country from the rest of the world fell down. We got an opportunity to go abroad and invite friends from abroad who hadn't been allowed into the USSR. I liked the changes in our life during Perestroika.

My husband's father Avrum Stelmakher died in 1988. We buried him according to the Jewish traditions in the Jewish section of a new town cemetery since the old Jewish cemetery was closed. His wife sat shivah after him. In the same year my stepfather Peter Segul died in Dubossary. His grave is near where my grandfather and my grandmother were buried in one of twelve graves of Jews shot by fascists. There wasn't an open cemetery near these graves, but my mother could do it. Teachers and pupils of the school where my mother worked look after those graves. After my stepfather died my mother joined my husband and me. She was 86 and she couldn't live alone. My mother- in-law died in 1990. She was buried according to the Jewish tradition. Her grave is near her husband's. My mother died in 1993. My mother was an atheist and we buried her in the common way.

Jewish life has been restored to Chernovtsy in the past ten years. There are Jewish newspapers, TV and radio programs. This all makes so much difference for those of us who lived our lives in the Soviet regime. My husband and I are atheists. We don't know any prayers or Jewish traditions, but we are so happy that Jews can feel like Jews rather than just Ukrainian people. There are many Jewish communities and the Jewish culture is being restored. In 1999 Hesed was established. My husband still goes to work - our pension is too low to make ends meet. I liked Hesed and attended clubs, lectures and meetings there. I met many people that became my friends. I don't go there any more, regretfully. Since I broke my leg I haven't left home. My new friends haven't forgotten me. They often come to see me and I always look forward to seeing them. Our life has improved.

1 Great Patriotic War

On 22nd June 1941 at five o'clock in the morning Nazi Germany attacked the Soviet Union without declaring war. This was the beginning of the so-called Great Patriotic War. The German blitzkrieg, known as Operation Barbarossa, nearly succeeded in breaking the Soviet Union in the months that followed. Caught unprepared, the Soviet forces lost whole armies and vast quantities of equipment to the German onslaught in the first weeks of the war. By November 1941 the German army had seized the Ukrainian Republic, besieged Leningrad, the Soviet Union's second largest city, and threatened Moscow itself. The war ended for the Soviet Union on 9th May 1945.

2 Five percent quota

In tsarist Russia the number of Jews in higher educational institutions could not exceed 5% of the total number of students.

3 . Struggle against religion

The 1930s was a time of anti-religion struggle in the USSR. In those years it was not safe to go to synagogue or to church. Places of worship, statues of saints, etc. were removed; rabbis, Orthodox and Roman Catholic priests disappeared behind KGB walls.

4 Pogroms in Ukraine

In the 1920s there were many anti-Semitic gangs in Ukraine. They killed Jews and burnt their houses, they robbed their houses, raped women and killed children.

5 Russian Revolution of 1917

Revolution in which the tsarist regime was overthrown in the Russian Empire and, under Lenin, was replaced by the Bolshevik rule. The two phases of the Revolution were: February Revolution, which came about due to food and fuel shortages during World War I, and during which the tsar abdicated and a provisional government took over. The second phase took place in the form of a coup led by Lenin in October/November (October Revolution) and saw the seizure of power by the Bolsheviks.

6 Black Hundred

The Black Hundred was an extreme right wing party which emerged at the turn of the twentieth century in Russia. This group of radicals increased in popularity before the beginning of the Russian Revolution when tsarism was in decline. They found support mainly among the aristocrats and members other lower-middle class. The Black Hundred were the perpetrators of many Jewish pogroms in Russian cities such as Odessa, Kiev, Yekaterinoslav and Bialystok. Although they were nowhere near a major party in Russia, they did make a major impact on the Jews of Russia, who were constantly being oppressed by their campaigns.

7 Young Octobrist

In Russian Oktyabrenok, or 'pre-pioneer', designates Soviet children of seven years or over preparing for entry into the pioneer organization.

8 Komsomol

Communist youth political organization created in 1918. The task of the Komsomol was to spread of the ideas of communism and involve the worker and peasant youth in building the Soviet Union. The Komsomol also aimed at giving a communist upbringing by involving the worker youth in the political struggle, supplemented by theoretical education. The Komsomol was more popular than the Communist Party because with its aim of education people could accept uninitiated young proletarians, whereas party members had to have at least a minimal political qualification.

9 Victory Day in Russia (9th May)

National holiday to commemorate the defeat of Nazi Germany and the end of World War II and honor the Soviets who died in the war.

10 Campaign against 'cosmopolitans'

11 20th Congress of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union in 1956

Khrushchev publicly debunked the cult of Stalin and lifted the veil of secrecy concerning what was happening in the USSR during Stalin's leadership.

12 Khrushchev, Nikita (1894-1971)

Soviet communist leader. After Stalin's death in 1953, he became first secretary of the Central Committee, in effect the head of the Communist Party of the USSR. In 1956, during the 20th Party Congress, Khrushchev took an unprecedented step and denounced Stalin and his methods. He was deposed as premier and party head in October 1964. In 1966 he was dropped from the Party's Central Committee.

13 Transnistria

Area situated between the Bug and Dniester rivers and the Black Sea. The term is derived from the Romanian name for the Dniester (Nistru) and was coined after the occupation of the area by German and Romanian troops in World War II. After its occupation Transnistria became a place for deported Romanian Jews. Systematic deportations began in September 1941. In the course of the next two months, all surviving Jews of Bessarabia and Bukovina and a small part of the Jewish population of Old Romania were dispatched across the Dniester. This first wave of deportations reached almost 120,000 by mid-November 1941 when it was halted by Ion Antonescu, the Romanian dictator, upon intervention of the Council of Romanian Jewish Communities. Deportations resumed at the beginning of the summer of 1942, affecting close to 5,000 Jews. A third series of deportations from Old Romania took place in July 1942, affecting Jews who had evaded forced labor decrees, as well as their families, communist sympathizers and Bessarabian Jews who had been in Old Romania and Transylvania during the Soviet occupation. The most feared Transnistrian camps were Vapniarka, Ribnita, Berezovka, Tulcin and Iampol. Most of the Jews deported to camps in Transnistria died between 1941-1943 because of horrible living conditions, diseases and lack of food.

14 Perestroika (Russian for restructuring)

Soviet economic and social policy of the late 1980s, associated with the name of Soviet politician Mikhail Gorbachev. The term designated the attempts to transform the stagnant, inefficient command economy of the Soviet Union into a decentralized, market-oriented economy. Industrial managers and local government and party officials were granted greater autonomy, and open elections were introduced in an attempt to democratize the Communist Party organization. By 1991, perestroika was declining and was soon eclipsed by the dissolution of the USSR.

15 Iron Curtain

A term popularized by Sir Winston Churchill in a speech in 1946. He used it to designate the Soviet Union's consolidation of its grip over Eastern Europe. The phrase denoted the separation of East and West during the Cold War, which placed the totalitarian states of the Soviet bloc behind an 'Iron Curtain'. The fall of the Iron Curtain corresponds to the period of perestroika in the former Soviet Union, the reunification of Germany, and the democratization of Eastern Europe beginning in the late 1980s and early 1990s.

Elka Roizman

Elka Roizman
Chernovtsy
Ukraine
Interviewer: Ella Levitskaya
Date of interview: November 2002

Elka Roizman and her husband live in a small private house in a quiet neighborhood. When I came to see her she was in pain suffering from osteochondrosis, but Elka didn't cancel our interview. She speaks Russian with a slight Romanian accent. She recalled more and more details in the course of our interview and was surprised that her memory brought back so many details. When she talked so enthusiastically about her past her face was glowing and her voice sounded very young. and different. Elka is an interesting person. She reads a lot and is deeply interested in what is going on in the world.

My father Shloime Braiman's parents came from the town of Yedintsy, which belonged to Russia before 1918. After 1918 Bessarabia 1 became part of Romania. I don't remember my father's parents. My grandfather, David Braiman, died in the 1910s and my grandmother, Elka Braiman, died in 1919, long before I was born. They had seven sons: my father and his older brothers. Their family was religious, like all Jewish families at that time. My grandparents observed Jewish traditions, prayed every day, went to the synagogue on Saturdays and holidays, observed Sabbath, celebrated Jewish holidays and followed the kashrut.

The majority of the population of Yedintsy, about 5,000 people, was Jewish. There were also Russian, Moldavian and Romanian inhabitants. Jews in smaller towns were mostly craftsmen. In Yedintsy many Jews were shoemakers, tailors, barbers and tinsmiths, etc. There were also Jewish doctors, lawyers and teachers. And there were tradesmen: vendors and owners of bigger stores. There were two synagogues, a Jewish elementary school and cheder. Jewish families lived in the center of town. Land was rather expensive in the center of town and they bought plots of land just big enough for a house and a minimal number of yard facilities. Russians and Moldavians lived on the outskirts of the town and had enough land to grow fruit and vegetables. Every Monday farmers from surrounding villages came to sell their products at the market, and the rest of the week the local population from the outskirts of town sold their products at the market. Dairy products and fruit were delivered to people's homes. There were no pogroms in Yedintsy Throughout the history of Moldavia there was onland no conflicts between the different nationalities in the local population.

I don't know anything about my grandparents' house because after they died their children left their parents' home to get jobs and support themselves. My father's oldest brother, Zeidl Braiman, was 9-10 years older than my father. He must have been born around 1882. Zeidl lived in Zheredevka village, about 5 kilometers from where we lived. His wife's name was Miriam. They had no children. Miriam's sister, I believe her name was Rokhl, lived in the same village. Uncle Zeidl and Miriam's sister owned a water mill. Besides, my uncle had a dairy farm. He kept cows and calves. He had employees on his farm.

My father's second brother, Fivish Braiman, and another brother, whose name (I don't know,) moved to America in the 1910s.

The next brother, Ishye Braiman, was born around 1886. He lived in the town of Beltsy. He was a very handsome man with refined features and a full beard. He had a son and a beautiful daughter. His daughter studied at grammar school in Beltsy, and his son worked with Ishye. They had a farming and trading business. After grammar school Ishye's daughter married a rich merchant's son. This merchant sold grain abroad. They had a traditional Jewish wedding. The bride and bridegroom were standing in a big chuppah in the middle of a huge hall. The rabbi said a prayer, and they exchanged rings. Then they sipped wine from a crystal wine glass. They wrapped the glass into an embroidered napkin and threw it onto the floor. Then the wedding party began. This took place in 1935, and I was there, but I was only 4 years old then.

During the Great Patriotic War 2 my father's older brothers, Zeidl and Ishye, and their families perished in a ghetto in Transnistria 3.

The next brother, Idl Braiman, was born around 1887. He lived in Yedintsy. His wife's name was Esther. They grew wheat. They had two daughters, Tzeitl and Pesl. During World War II Idl and his family were in the ghetto in Bershad. Idl's wife Esther died of a disease, cold and starvation. Idl returned home with his daughters. Tzeitl made clothes and sold them at the market. She fell ill with tuberculosis after the harsh living conditions in the ghetto and died a few years later. Uncle Idl had a job as a guard. Pesl went to school. She heard about the rabbi of Chernovtsy who helped orphaned children to move to Israel. Pesl talked to him, and he helped her to obtain all the necessary documents for emigration. She moved to Israel in 1946. Her mother's older brothers, who lived in Brazil, found her there. They were rich and had no children. Pesl moved to Brazil where she got married and had two daughters. She corresponded with us and sent us parcels with fabrics and clothes. In 1954 Pesl came to Yedintsy and took her father to Brazil. Uncle Idl died there in the 1970s. After his death Pesl, her husband and their children moved to Israel. She still lives there.

My father's other brother, Yosl Braiman, was born in 1889. He lived in Yedintsy. Yosl married a rich girl. Her name was Manya. Her dowry included fields and cattle. She had finished grammar school. Yosl and Manya had two sons. One son was a little older than me, and their second son was born in the ghetto in Bershad. The whole family survived in the ghetto. After the war their older son graduated from the Academy of Agriculture and held high official positions. The younger son was an engineer. Uncle Yosl died in 1976. His wife and two sons moved to Israel. His wife died there in 1988. The older son died recently, and the younger one lives in Israel with his family.

My father was the youngest child in the family. He was born in 1891. I know very little about his childhood. He didn't like to talk about it. He preferred to talk to me about his work. My father and his brothers were managers of landlords' estates. My father did his job very well. He made sure that everything was in order and that there was no theft or loss of harvests. There were Russian and Moldavian landlords but no Jewish ones. Jewish men worked as managers for them, as a rule.

My father and his brothers studied at cheder. Neither my father nor my uncles were deeply religious, but they observed traditions. Every morning and evening my father put on his tallit and tefillin and prayed. He could read and write in Yiddish and knew all prayers in Hebrew.

My grandmother on my mother's side, Dina Kotliar,) was born in Karpachi village in the 1870s. Before 1918 Karpachi belonged to Russia, and afterwards it became part of Romania.

Karpachi was a big village with about 500 houses. The majority of its population was Russian and Moldavian. There were 15-20 Jewish families in the village. Almost all Jews were farmers. They had gardens and orchards and kept livestock. Besides, Jews owned stores where they sold food and other essential goods. Garments and shoes were sold in nearby towns. There was no anti-Semitism in the village. People were good neighbors and respected each other's culture and religion. There was no synagogue in Karpachi, so Jews went to the synagogue in a neighboring village. When Moldavia became part of Romania, the Romanian authorities allowed Jews to build a synagogue in the village. My grandfather and grandmother were honored to lay the first stone for this new building. There was also a traveling shochet. He worked for several villages. He notified people in advance when he was going to come.

My grandmother had two older brothers I knew: Mones and Ksil. My grandmother and her brothers were very close. My grandmother told me a lot about her childhood and her life. She got engaged when she was 9 years old. Karpachi was close to Lvov, which was called Lemberg at that time. [Editor's note: Lemberg belonged to the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy at that time.] There were big fairs in Lemberg and people from all the surrounding villages went to these fairs. The fairs lasted for a month. People made deals of all kinds at the fairs. My grandmother's parents were very religious. They met another religious family at a fair. This family had a 10-year-old son and my grandmother's parents had their 9-year-old daughter. They reached an agreement that their children would get married when they came of age and that before that time they would be mekhutonimk [Yiddish for 'in-laws'].

When they returned from the fair, they told my grandmother that she was a fiancée. She didn't quite understand the meaning of it, but she liked the idea. When she turned 16 she got married. My grandparents had a wedding with a chuppah according to Jewish traditions, and her husband stayed to live in my grandmother parents' house. A year later they had a baby girl that died in infancy. Later it turned out that my grandmother's husband was ill with tuberculosis. The rabbi conducted a divorce ceremony. Divorces were rare at that time. There had to be a valid excuse to break off a marriage. My grandmother's reasoning was convincing: They couldn't have children due to her husband's disease.

Later matchmakers introduced her to my grandfather, Itzhak Kotliar, who also came from Karpachi. He was born in the 1860s. He was a widower by the time he met my grandmother. My grandmother was 20 and my grandfather was about 30 when they met. He was a melamed at cheder. They had a traditional Jewish wedding, and my grandmother moved to his house. He had two children from his first marriage. My grandmother raised them as her own sons. One of them moved to America when he was in his teens. Shmil, the younger one, stayed in Karpachi. He had a big house with a store that he owned.

My grandfather was a tall gray-haired man with a white beard. He wore trousers with suspenders over a shirt and a dark jacket. On Jewish holidays he wore an expensive, new black jacket. He always wore a yarmulka. He enjoyed dancing Jewish folk dances. He was an honorable attendant of the synagogue and a respected man in the village. My grandfather prayed every morning and evening and read religious books every night after work.

My grandmother was a beautiful slender woman. She didn't wear a wig. On weekdays she wore a kerchief, and on when she went to the synagogue on Saturdays and Jewish holidays she wore a beautiful shawl. My grandmother didn't wear traditional Jewish clothes such as (dark skirts and blouses). She wore fashionable skirts and light blouses. She made her clothes herself.

My grandparents had six daughters. My mother, Leya Braiman [nee Kotliar], the oldest one, was born in 1902. In 1940 the Romanian area around Karpachi became part of the USSR. When the Soviet authorities issued her Soviet passport her name was written into it as Lisa. The newly established authorities even tried to give them Christian names. My mother never got used to her new name and was called Leya her whole life. My mother's sister Rivke was born in 1903, Frodl in 1904 and Surah in 1906. Rukhl was born in 1911 and the youngest one, Khone, in 1914.

When her daughters were still small my grandmother worked for a landlord. His estate was across the Prut river on the other side of the village. He had a big mansion and kept livestock. My grandmother stayed in his mansion for a month or two in a row and made clothes for his family. Her daughters were with her. My grandfather was a teacher at cheder and took care of the house. He managed with the housework just fine and also did the cooking. They had a room for themselves. Other employees looked after my grandmother's daughters when they were playing in the yard while she was busy with her work. My grandmother told me that the landlord was a very decent and educated man. He had meals with his employees at a long table, joked and talked with them. My grandmother only ate kosher food, and the landlord ordered his cook to make special food for her. My grandmother sewed for the landlord for a long time. I remember that my grandmother took a pile of bed sheets once and we went to the landlady together. She was very happy to see my grandmother. They hugged and kissed, and when we left she gave us sweets and other treats.

My grandparents' house was very different from other houses. The entrance door opened into a big room. This must have been a hallway, but my grandmother had a stove installed there. She had her sewing machine there, and in summer the family lived in this room. The door from this room led into a smaller room. It was warmer and in winter we usually lived there. This room again led into the kitchen. There was another stove there with a stove bench where the children used to sleep. My grandmother also baked bread in the stove twice a week. From the kitchen one could get into the bedroom.

My grandmother taught her daughters how to sew. They were of big help to her. She did the cutting and her daughters sewed things together. She received orders at home. My grandmother had a big table with heaps of pieces of fabric on it. I remember her working at this table. They made dresses, skirts and blouses for peasants. They were paid with food for their work. Peasants had a wedding season in the fall, and my grandmother and her daughters had a lot of work making new dresses for the brides and bridegrooms and for their guests and parents. My grandmother and her daughters even worked at night to get more work done and make more money. They had a glass of water to wet their eyes to stay awake. My grandmother and my mother worked on the sewing machines, and the others sewed on buttons and finished the clothes so they were ready by morning. My mother said that she worked so hard for such long hours that it became difficult for her to stretch her back.

All my mother's sisters were very smart. They were educated at home. My grandfather taught his daughters Hebrew and religion, the alphabet, the basis of mathematics, literature and history - everything that he was teaching at cheder. Two younger daughters, (Rukhl and Khone,) studied at grammar school before the war, but they were external students. I remember that they went to take exams somewhere in Romania one winter day wearing their heavy winter coats. That was in the 1930s.

1914 was a very difficult year. People didn't have enough food. My mother told me that my grandmother fed the family with mamaliga, a popular meal in Moldavia. When mamaliga got cold it could be cut into pieces. My grandmother gave each girl a piece of mamaliga. The girls went to the kitchen garden and ate their mamaliga with spring onions that they nipped off onion plants. Later my grandmother kept two cows and chickens and had a big orchard.

All the daughters, except for the youngest one, got married and had children. Only Aunt Riva had a love marriage. There was a quarry not far from my grandparents' house where her future husband, a Jew, worked as an accountant. Riva was a very pretty and vivid girl, and he fell in love with her. The other sisters met their husbands through matchmakers. There weren't enough young men in the village, but matchmakers were looking for partners in other places. My mother's youngest sister, Khone, was single. She was introduced to a teacher from Beltsy at the beginning of 1941, but the war destroyed their plans of getting married.

My mother's sister Surah died in 1938. She was tall and beautiful like her mother. She died after an abortion. Abortions were illegal, but there were people who agreed to conduct them. They often ended tragically due to unsanitary conditions. Surah had two children.

During the Great Patriotic War my mother's sisters Frodl and Khone died in a ghetto. Only my mother and her sisters Riva and Rukhl survived the war. They lived in Chernovtsy after the war and made their living by sewing.

My parents also met each other through matchmakers. They had a traditional Jewish wedding in Karpachi. After the wedding they moved to Yedintsy where my father came from. They didn't have a house and had to rent an apartment.

In was born in Yedintsy in 1931 and named Elka after my grandmother on my father's side. My brother was born in 1934. He was named Ersh-Ber when he was born, but after the Soviet power was established he was called Boris. My father was working for a landlord. Soon after my brother was born my parents decided that it would be easier for them to make their living in a village. They could grow vegetables and keep livestock. They moved to Karpachi. In the beginning my parents rented a house from a Moldavian woman. The landlady lived in a small hut next to the house that we rented from her. She was a very kind woman. Her children had their own families and lived separately. When my parents were at work the landlady took care of my brother and me. We were very fond of her and called her 'vuina anika' [Moldavian for 'darling mother'].

My parents worked at the sugar factory in Repichany village, across the river from where we lived. This factory operated during the sugar treatment season, from the beginning of fall to spring. The rest of the year my parents stayed at home and took care of us, children. My mother did the housework and made clothes for us. In 1936 my mother bought a house in the village. There was a plot of land next to it. It was a small house, and my parents bought construction materials to build a new house on this plot of land. After my mother bought this house she quit her job to be a housewife. She had a big kitchen garden and grew flowers. She also kept chickens, geese and ducks. She sold poultry to poultry dealers.

At some point my mother fell ill and was told to drink goat milk. She bought two goats. She had enough milk for the family and sold the remaining milk to the neighbors. My father also took on other jobs when there was no work at the sugar factory. He was a grain dealer. He bought grain from local farmers and sold it to wholesalers. Moldavian farmers kept sheep. My father purchased sheepskins from them in spring to sell them to leather dealers.

My mother also sewed at home. She bought a sewing machine after she got married and made very beautiful clothes for her clients. My mother was a beautiful woman and liked beautiful clothes. She liked to buy new clothes for the money that she made. I always wanted to learn how to sew, but my mother refused to teach me. She said that I wouldn't have time for myself if I learned how to sew.

My mother could also weave Moldavian carpets and spin wool. In winter a painter from town painted hanks of yarn in different colors. There were looms in almost every house. We also had one. On winter evenings women used to make carpets. We had homemade carpets on the floors, on the sofa and on the walls.

There was an assistant doctor in the village, but there was no doctor, hospital or pharmacy. It's hard to imagine now how we managed back then. When my mother had a stomachache our neighbor brought her herbs and an ointment. My mother also had appendicitis and was taken to the Jewish hospital in Yedintsy. There was a Jewish and a Moldavian hospital in Yedintsy. People were charged for surgeries, but post-surgery treatment was free.

My mother and her sisters had many non-Jewish friends. We had a Moldavian neighbor, who had many daughters and a son. He arranged two wedding parties for his son because his fiancée was a Moldavian woman. One party was for all their Moldavian relatives and friends and took place in the afternoon, and the other party was for the Jewish guests and took place in the evening. They had so many Jewish friends! He had to arrange a separate party for his Jewish guests, because he had to have kosher food made for them. My father went to the shochet to have chickens slaughtered for the wedding. The kosher food for the wedding was cooked at our home.

We all spoke Yiddish at home. When my parents wanted to discuss something and didn't want us to understand them they switched to Hebrew. My brother and I knew Yiddish, Moldavian and Romanian. We had books at home. Most of them were religious books: the Torah and prayer books. We also had fiction in Yiddish and a few Romanian books.

When I turned five I went to cheder in our village. The cheder was housed in the synagogue. There were tables and benches and an aron kodesh. It was a one-storied synagogue. There was a section for men on the right side and one for women on the left. My brother also studied at cheder. On Fridays and Saturdays Jews came to the synagogue to pray, and on the remaining days of the week children studied there at cheder. We learned prayers and verses, but I can't remember any of them now.

My parents were religious people and raised us religiously. We always observed Sabbath. My mother cooked meals for two days on Friday. She also baked challah. In the evening the family got together for a prayer. My mother said a prayer over the candles, then she lit them, and afterwards we had dinner. Nobody worked on Saturdays. My father and I visited my father's brother Zeidl and his wife Miriam on Saturdays. They didn't have any children and were very happy to see us. We went to see them on foot, stayed with them the whole day and returned home afterwards.

We celebrated all Jewish holidays at home. Before Pesach my parents went to the nearest town to buy matzah. It was sold in big 10-kilo flax bags. Matzah was kept on the stove at home to keep it dry. My mother also had special tableware for Pesach, which was kept in the attic. It was taken from the attic to be used during the holiday, and our everyday utensils were taken to the attic instead. My mother also used her everyday kitchen utensils if she didn't have enough special ones, but she made them kosher before she used them. We ate matzah and mamaliga but no bread. There was a woman in the village who made and sold matzah flour. My mother cooked gefilte fish, boiled chicken, and made hacklings from goose fat and stewed geese. She made honey cakes, strudels, cookies and pancakes from matzah flour. She also made puddings from potatoes and matzah and eggs. My father always conducted the seder ceremony on Pesach. He had a prayer book in Hebrew and my mother had one in Yiddish. [Editor's note: The interviewee probably meant a Haggadah.] My grandmother Dina, my mother's sisters, my father's brother Zeidl and his wife, our Jewish and non-Jewish neighbors visited us, or we visited them, to celebrate.

I've had a critical mind since my childhood. I could never just take things the way they were. I always needed an explanation. Pesach was celebrated in April when it was still cold. Every person had to drink four glasses of red wine, and one glass was put on the table and nobody was supposed to drink from it. My mother opened the door singing, 'Borech habaa, borech habaa'. I studied Hebrew at cheder and knew that it meant, 'Welcome, welcome. Once I asked my mother to close the door because I got cold. I asked her whom she was waiting for anyways, and she explained that it was Elijah, the Prophet and that the spare glass of wine was meant for him. I didn't ask my mother any more questions that time, but the following year, when she opened the door and sang 'Borech habaa' and my father said a prayer, I looked very closely at that spare glass. Nobody came in to drink from it! When my mother closed the door I declared that she was probably telling me a lie. She told me that Elijah, the Prophet wasn't a man but a spirit and that he had wings and was invisible. He didn't have time to sit down at the table. He flew in to give his blessings and flew out again. It was a plausible explanation, and I believed it.

On Purim my mother made hamantashen. She also made poppy seed cookies that were boiled in honey and honey cookies with raisins and nuts. The tradition on Purim was to take treats [shelakhmones] to neighbors. Some poor person was hired to take them to other people. He got paid for doing this and also received treats for his family. A tray, covered with a white napkin, was filled with pieces of honey cakes, poppy seed cookies, hamantashen, walnuts, apples, oranges and a handful of raisins. Another napkin was put on top of it. My mother used to send this tray to my grandparents first because they were the senior members of the family, and to other relatives, friends and neighbors afterwards. They sent their treats to us in return. On Shavuot we only used to eat dairy products after we returned from the synagogue. My mother made cottage cheese puddings, macaroni soup with milk, cheesecakes and dumplings with cottage cheese.

My brother and I enjoyed visiting my grandmother, who lived close to us. All her grandchildren enjoyed playing in her big yard. My grandmother always had delicious food for her grandchildren. She was always busy doing something, even when she grew very old.

I got very fond of reading at an early age. My parents wanted me to get a good education. Education was expensive, and I remember one evening when my parents discussed how much money they would be able to save. One year at grammar school cost 10,000 or 20,000 lei - I can't remember exactly. They decided that they couldn't afford it, and sent me to a Romanian secondary school in the village. Education there was free. The director of this school was my father's friend and he admitted me one year before I reached the standard school age. I was a very industrious pupil. I never forgot how eager my parents were to give me an education. I appreciated the opportunity to go to a school free of charge. My brother went to cheder at that time. He was too young to go to school.

My father leased a field in 1939, and my brother and I helped him to work on it. We sow seeds and weeded the field. There was a poor Ukrainian family that didn't live very far from the field. When my brother and I were alone in the field they kept shouting, 'Zhydeniata are pups and zhydovka is a bitch!'. [Editor's note: This was a common arhyme in Ukrainian.] There were no anti-Semitic demonstrations in the village at that time, and we were very disturbed about this. We were afraid to go to the field alone. When we were with our parents those children didn't dare to say or do anything of this kind.

In 1936 fascist organizations appeared in Romania. The two biggest ones were the Iron Guard 4 movement and the Cuzists 5. They openly propagated anti-Semitism and threatened that they would put an end to Jews when they came to power.

German troops arrived in Romania in 1939. The USSR demanded Moldavia and Bessarabia threatening to start a war otherwise. In June 1940 our area became Soviet territory. All richer people were immediately arrested and imprisoned or sent into exile to Siberia. Our Moldavian neighbor was very rich. His younger daughter was the same age as I, and we were friends. He was arrested and tortured to death at the interrogations. We weren't rich and therefore didn't have any problems with the Soviet authorities.

Our school became a Russian school. We had a young Russian teacher who didn't know any Romanian. She tried to talk with us, but we couldn't understand what she was trying to say. A year passed and then the war began.

Since our territory had become part of the Soviet Union, a frontier military unit was deployed in outr village. Once we were woken up by the roar of explosions, and on 22nd June 1941 I saw a wounded soldier with his head in bandages. The commanding officer of the unit ordered us to leave the village. We went to the neighboring village, where the majority of the population was Jewish. One of the richer Jews accommodated as many people as he could fit into his house, including us. Soon battles on the border began. We went to Yedintsy, where my father's brothers Idl and Yosl lived. My father's older brother Zeidl also went there from Beltsy. We settled down in Yedintsy. My mother thought that we would be staying in Beltsy for some time and hired a young Jewish teacher to teach me school subjects. She was afraid that I wouldn't be able to catch up with the other children at school once we returned home.

After two weeks the Soviet army began to retreat, and German and Romanian units arrived in town. The German units moved on and left an area of about 400 kilometers east of the Bug River under Romanian supervision. Pogroms began in Yedintsy. Romanians began to shoot at young Jews in the streets. I remember how my teacher came to us and asked us to hide him because he had been shot at. A gendarme came after him, took him out and shot him. Many men were shot on that day. In the afternoon the Jewish population was chased out of their houses. We were taken to the seminary building. Children, old people and women were kept there until late in the evening. Then they announced that those who wished to go home could do so. The people who left were shot when they were on their way home. On the following day they told all men to step aside. My brother begged them to leave our father alone. My little brother stood in front of them telling them to shoot him instead of his father. He was crying in despair. My father was left alone.

On the following day we got on our way. There were about 1,000 people on this march and many more joined from the towns and villages that we passed. My father's brothers Yosl and Idl, my mother's parents and her sisters were with us. We were staying in fields overnight. We were whipped and didn't get any water. Older people fell down in exhaustion and gendarmes shot them. My grandparents perished on the way, but I don't know where exactly. We were dirty and had lice. We came past a river but weren't allowed to go down to the riverbank to drink some water. Local gendarmes shot people if they tried to get close to the water. I wanted to go down to have some water, but my father slapped me and said, 'If you do that I will kill you myself rather than let these fascists kill you'.

We reached a Moldavian town about 40 kilometers from Yedintsy. They fenced an area in a field on the outskirts of town with barbed wire. We lived there for two months. Adults worked on the road construction site. My mother was there, too. Local villagers brought some food to exchange it for clothes or valuables. We were starving. I have no idea how we survived. My mother got some flour in exchange for a few clothes. She boiled a little bit of flour and this was our food. After two months we got on our way across the Dnestr River to Ataki and from there further on to Mohilev- Podolsk in Vinnitsa region. The town was ruined, the houses were destroyed and the streets were covered with broken glass. When we were allowed to take a rest in the field we scattered around looking for something eatable. It was September and there were remains of corn and cabbage in the fields. We ate them raw. People also found beans in the field and boiled them over a fire. Once, when we were about to get on our way again, we discovered that my brother was missing. My father went back to the field and found him fast asleep with a piece of cabbage in his hand.

We came to Transnistria where we were distributed to various ghettos. We were to go to the ghetto in Ternovka village, close to Bershad, in November 1941. There were huts with no windows there - they used to serve as sheds for the dairy farm. There were haystacks near the farm, and we closed window openings with hay and also slept on hay. Lice were eating us alive and our bodies were horribly sore. Later we found an abandoned sauna building and settled down there with another family. We slept on ground floors. My mother told me later that out of 500 families that were in this ghetto in the beginning only about 50 survived.

My father fell ill with pneumonia. There was no hospital in Ternovka, but the Romanian soldiers refused to take him to hospital. My brother and I were allowed to accompany my father, but no further than Bershad. My brother and I went to the nearest village to get a horse and a cart to take our father to hospital. We got one from some old people, put our father on it and walked behind the cart all the 18 kilometers to the hospital in Bershad. Nobody stopped us on the way. My father's brothers Yosl and Idl were in the ghetto in Bershad. Yosl's wife was pregnant before the war began. Her younger son was born in Bershad. He was very weak, but fortunately he survived. My father was admitted to the hospital. My brother and I stayed with Uncle Idl. My father's brothers Yosl and Idl were in the ghetto in Bershad. Yosl's wife was pregnant before the war began. Her younger son was born in Bershad. He was very weak, but fortunately he survived.

Our father got better somehow. During the winter a local woman hired us. My mother and I went to her home to knit sweaters, socks and stockings for her and her children. One evening our employer told us not to be afraid if we saw strangers in her house late at night. Her husband was a partisan. The partisans lived in the forest and came to the village late at night. Our employer cooked for them and they came at night to pick up the food. They spoke Russian, so we couldn't understand them. I remember that the woman's husband's name was Todoska. The partisans had a meal and left early in the morning. Once partisans attacked the ghetto and killed one Romanian guard and two policemen. After that a German unit came to the village to fight against the partisans. They captured people in the streets. Inmates of the ghetto were among the captives. They were shot in the vicinity of the village. Once the Germans noticed some people in a haystack and rolled over it with a tank. When the bodies were brought to the ghetto it was impossible to look at them. The fascists did terrible things.

Ternovka was a Ukrainian village. I don't know whether there were any Jews there before the war, but there was no synagogue in the village. We didn't observe any Jewish traditions or celebrate holidays in the ghetto. Only a few older Jews got together for a prayer, but there were no younger Jews among them. At that time God forgot about us, and we forgot about God.

In March 1944 we were liberated by the Soviet army. I remember the first Soviet tank entering the village. The Romanians had left a day before. We were so happy and couldn't stop crying and kissing the Soviet soldiers that got out of the tank. I remember a young soldier who gave my brother and me a piece of bread. We went back home, but what we saw in the village when we returned was even more horrific than what we had faced in the ghetto.

An acquaintance of ours told us that there was a Cuzist organization in our village. Members of this organization were our acquaintances, and they had their knives ready to slaughter Jews when the Germans arrived in the village. There was a knife for each Jew and there was a label on each knife with the name of the future victim. Two Jews, Gedale, (hewho lived on the outskirts,) and Sabina who lived in the center of the village, left the village first but returned later. The villagers took them to the Prut river and put them into a boat. Villagers were standing on both banks of the river and whenever the boat approached a bank they were throwing stones until the boat turned over and the man and woman drowned. They begged for help, but nobody came to their rescue. None of those who had been their neighbors, went to church and considered themselves decent parishioners came to help. They forgot one of the ten commandments: 'Do not kill' ['Though Shalt Not Kill']. It was all their own doing because they weren't forced by the Germans or Romanians to do this. Since that time I've had a critical attitude towards religion and people who make a show out of their beliefs. I can firmly state that there was anti-Semitism before and after the war, and it will never vanish. One can never know what's on the mind of a person calling himself your friend.

Our house had been completely plundered. There were no construction materials, doors, windows or even roof sheets left. When my mother entered the house she saw her prayer book on the floor covered with bricks and broken glass. I still have this book. There were no clothes or any of our other belongings left. My mother saw our possessions in our neighbors' houses, but only one family returned our things. My mother was told that her friend Olga was the first among the robbers when the German and Romanian units came to the village. Apparently she said that she would chop my mother like a cabbage if she saw her. I still don't understand why. My mother used to sew for her for free, and they looked after each other's children when one of them needed to go out. Of course, I'm not saying that all people plundered houses or threw stones onto that couple in the boat.

My parents didn't want to stay in the village and live side by side with people who would smile at you but sharpen their knives behind your back. We decided to move to Yedintsy where my father's brothers, who had returned from the ghetto, lived.

Almost the entire Jewish population of Yedintsy had perished, and there were many vacant houses. We found a small house in the center. There was a kitchen close to the house where my mother grew vegetables. My father got a job as a sheepskin supplier with a supply company. My mother earned some money by sewing. Some time after the war we began to celebrate Sabbath and Jewish holidays and went to the synagogue on holidays.

I started to go to school again in 1944. Children who had finished three classes before the war went to the 6th grade. I was too old to go to the 4th or 5th grade. I had taught my brother to read and write in Yiddish and Moldavian in the ghetto and he could go to the 3rd grade after the war. We went to a Russian secondary school even though we didn't know Russian. There was a Russian and a Moldavian school in Yedintsy. Most of the Jewish children went to the Russian school because Russian was the state language. My classmates were children of militaries from the frontier military unit based in Yedintsy. We didn't know one single Russian letter or word, and our teachers didn't know Moldavian. We didn't understand most of what they told us, but we tried hard and slowly learned Russian. It took me about a year to improve my Russian.

I finished 8 years of this school. I wanted to continue my education. My mother's sister Riva lived in Chernovtsy where I could go to a higher secondary school. Riva became an invalid in the ghetto due to the hard living conditions. She earned her living by sewing at home for a garment shop. My aunt was very poor. Her family lived in a one-bedroom apartment with a very small kitchen in the attic of a building. Riva had four children. Two of them moved to Israel in 1946 and the two others, a son and a daughter, stayed with her. When I came to live with them her son was in the army.

Aunt Rukhl lived nearby. She also sewed for a living. Jews constituted more than half of the population of Chernovtsy before the war, and there were many Jews left after the war. The Jewish community was strong. There was a synagogue, and my aunts and I went there on Saturdays and holidays. Aunt Riva couldn't afford to observe Sabbath at home because she had to earn money to support her family, but she celebrated Jewish holidays. She always tried to make traditional Jewish food even though she was very poor. She always had matzah for Pesach. She cooked chicken and gefilte fish even if that meant that we had to eat bread and have tea without sugar on weekdays. We fasted at before Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. My friends and acquaintances attended the synagogue regardless of their age.

In 1948 life began to change in Chernovtsy. The Jewish school and Jewish theater were closed and Jewish (writers, actors, musicians, diplomats and scientists) were persecuted. They were declared to be cosmopolitans 6. They were fired and sent into exile and many of them were physically tortured. It was hidden fascism of the Soviet regime, but we only realized that much later.

I got a job as a receptionist at a polyclinic and studied in the evening. I was the youngest student at this evening school; the oldest one was 55. It was a special two-year higher secondary school for people who worked but wished to complete their secondary education and get a certificate. Many of the students were ex-soldiers, and there were also teachers who had been demobilized from the front.

Aunt Riva taught me how to sew and was glad to get an assistant. It had always been my dream to learn how to sew, and I was happy to get a chance to make my dream come true. It turned out to be a very handy skill. I took advantage of it to make clothes for my daughter and myself when it wasn't possible to buy things in stores. I spent my summer vacations with my parents in Yedintsy.

There were quite a few Jewish doctors at the polyclinic and the hospital. Most of them were lecturers from the Medical College in Chernovtsy. I wanted to enter this college after finishing 9 classes at school, but a doctor I knew advised me to complete my higher secondary education and go to the Medical Institute [University].

It was difficult for a Jew to enter a higher educational institution. When I finished school I went to Beltsy in Moldavia. I entered the Faculty of Biology at the Pedagogical Institute. There were eight Jewish students out of a total of 75 students at this faculty. Most of the students and teachers treated us very well and made no segregation. You see, people are different regardless of their nationality: There are thieves, scoundrels, blockheads or genius representatives... Anyway, I had the highest grades at the institute and graduated from it with a red diploma. [Diploma with distinction in former communist countries.]

I was a student when the Doctors' Plot 7 began. (6). I was at the library once when a Moldavian student came and told me that he heard on the radio that Jewish doctors wanted to poison Stalin and other members of the government. I thought I would faint. I couldn't believe it, but there were people that actually believed this malicious calumny. Only Stalin's death in March 1953 put an end to the Doctors' Plot. When the news about his death was announced on the radio all of us burst into tears. I lived in a hostel at the time. All the students were in the hallway listening to the radio and crying. We all cried - Moldavians and Jews. We weren't aware of the actual state of things. Only the Twentieth Party Congress 8 _revealed the truth, but I still learn new terrible details about the period of Stalinist rule from people that went through many ordeals.

When I was in my final year at the Pedagogical Institute I met my future husband, Olter Roizman. He was born in the Moldavian village of Brichany in 1930. His family was very poor. His father, Shymon Roizman, was a shoemaker and his mother, Molka Roizman, was a housewife raising four children. Olter's two younger sisters perished in the ghetto in Transnistria, and his father perished at the front. His mother and older sister survived in the ghetto, but his mother was exhausted after the ghetto and died in 1946. His sister lived in Storozhynets. After his service in the army Olter came to Storozhynets to look for a job. He had a lower secondary education and failed to find work. He decided to go to Chernovtsy where he had acquaintances. They were my aunt's neighbors and gave him accommodation. Before my departure for Beltsy I had a picture of my aunt, her daughter and me taken and left this picture with my aunt. Olter mentioned to our neighbor that he would marry a nice girl if he met one. This neighbor saw a picture of me and asked my aunt if she could introduce her to Olter. He visited my aunt and saw my picture. Later I received a letter from my aunt's daughter saying that a young man wanted to meet me.

I visited them on New Year's Eve in 1953 and Olter and I met for the first time. We had been talking for a while when the neighbor's daughter came in to invite us to her engagement party. This neighbor lived on the first floor. We had lemonade and cookies and stayed there until morning. We had a lot of fun. Olter's acquaintances, who knew me fairly well, told him that we weren't a good match and that he needed to find a more common girl, but Olter was determined to marry me. He proposed to me. Of course, I wanted my husband to be an educated man, but Olter was reliable, and I understood that he would be able to provide for me.

We got married in 1954. We had a wedding party at my parents' home in Yedintsy. There were 60 guests at the party. We had a chuppah and there was a rabbi from the synagogue. He conducted the wedding ritual, and then we sipped wine from a wine glass. Afterwards we broke the glass according to the tradition. Of course, the authorities didn't approve of worship, but Yedintsy was a small town, far from Chernovtsy where we lived and worked. Old traditions and rules were still in force in the town and the authorities were loyal in that regard. It wouldn't have been possible to have such a wedding arranged in Chernovtsy - we would have been reprimanded or even fired.

Upon my graduation in 1954 I got a job assignment in a Moldavian village. [The interviewee is referring to a mandatory job assignment.] 9 I knew Moldavian and Romanian. I got married in the middle of my academic year and I returned to work after the wedding. The director of the school wanted me to stay until the end of the academic year. Olter stayed in Chernovtsy. I joined him after the academic year was over. Olter got a job at a plant. He was an apprentice and later became a worker. We didn't have a place to live and settled down in my aunt's kitchen. I couldn't find work. Besides I had health problems. I had miscarriages and the doctors told me that this was due to the years that I spent in the ghetto. My first baby was stillborn. And then, in 1959, I finally had a baby girl. I named her Dina after my beloved grandmother. I had to stay at home to look after the baby.

In 1957 my husband received a plot of land in the center of town. It was in the same street where my aunt lived. We bought construction material and built a small house. It took us about two years, but the house was completed before our daughter was born.

My husband and I observed Jewish traditions, but my husband had to work on Saturdays because it was an ordinary working day. However, we celebrated all other Jewish holidays. We followed all fasting requirements and went to the synagogue on Jewish holidays. I cooked traditional Jewish food. We had matzah, gefilte fish and chicken on Pesach. Matzah was baked in private houses in Chernovtsy: Jews whispered the addresses of these houses to one another and secretly brought flour to these houses at night to pick up matzah the next day. If the authorities had found out the addresses of these houses they would have closed them and arrested their owners, but Jews kept this knowledge to themselves and nobody revealed it to the authorities. My aunt taught me how to bake. My colleagues respected my traditions. Only official authorities were fighting against religion; common people always showed understanding. We weren't used to Soviet holidays, but we joined small celebrations at work.

My husband and I visited my parents in Yedintsy every year. They liked Olter and became his family. My father retired in 1962, and my parents agreed to move in with us. My mother looked after our daughter, and I began to consider getting a job. I found a temporary job at a kindergarten and worked there until I retired. Our son Michael was born in 1966. My husband named him after his grandfather.

My brother Boris finished 8 years of school in Yedintsy and entered a college for mechanics in Bronziany. After finishing college he became chief mechanic at the vehicle yard in Yedintsy. A year later he went to serve in the army. When he returned his school friend and distant relative invited him to a wedding where he met the bride's best friend, a Jewish girl called Hanusia. She was finishing her studies at the Chernovtsy Pharmaceutical Institute at the time. They began to see each other and got married shortly afterwards. My brother moved to Chernovtsy and began to work as a chief mechanic at the Central Post Office Vehicle Yard. He worked there until he retired. Hanusia was a pharmacist in a drugstore. My brother and his wife observe Jewish traditions and celebrate Jewish holidays. They have two daughters who live in Chernovtsy. One of them is an accountant at Hesed; the other one is a businesswoman. The older daughter's son studied at school in Israel and now he's in the army there.

I never faced any anti-Semitism at work. I'm not saying that there wasn't any, but everything depends on people. I worked among intelligent people and they understood that there are no bad nations just bad people. I was judged by my actions rather than my nationality. Apart from me there was only one other Jewish woman at work, but I had very warm relationships with all of my colleagues.

We spoke Russian and Yiddish at home. My parents always preferred Yiddish and Moldavian to Russian. My children have known Yiddish since their childhood. When they grew up we began to study Hebrew with them. My daughter entered the Chernovtsy Medical School and became a midwife in a polyclinic in Chernovtsy after she finished her studies. She married her fellow student, Semyon Gofman, in 1978. They had a traditional Jewish wedding. We arranged a wedding party in a restaurant and a chuppah at home. A rabbi from the synagogue conducted the wedding ceremony. There were only our closest relatives and the rabbi at the celebration at our home. The rabbi conducted the ceremony under the chuppah, said a prayer, then the bride and bridegroom sipped wine and broke the glass. After that they had a civil ceremony at the registry office and a party at the restaurant. My granddaughter, Elizabeth, was born in 1982. When Elizabeth was 7 my daughter moved to Israel with her. It took her some time and effort to find a job there, but gradually things improved. My granddaughter served her term in the army and now she is a first year student at university. My daughter and son-in-law work. My daughter is a nurse at a maternity home.

My son finished the Chernovtsy Road Transport College and got a job in Chernovtsy. He is a valued employee. Michael married a Ukrainian girl. I wanted him to marry a Jewish girl, though. I was afraid that my son might face anti-Semitism in his own family. Thank God, this didn't happen. They love each other dearly and have two wonderful children, and that's the most important thing for me. My older grandson, Roman, was born in 1988 and my granddaughter Anna was born in 1995. My son and his family live in Chernovtsy. My son doesn't observe any Jewish traditions, but it's his life and his family and he should know what's best for him.

My father died in 1982 and my mother in 1983. They were both buried according to Jewish traditions in the Jewish cemetery in Chernovtsy. Every year on Rosh Hashanah my husband and I go to the cemetery. My husband recites the Kaddish, and I hope that some time our son will pray for us.

My husband and I visited Israel in 1990. My husband's brothers and our daughter and her family live there. I admired the country. I felt at home, but moving there was never an issue for us. We couldn't leave our parents, and they were too old to move.

My husband and I are pensioners now. We have a lot of free time. I can spend more time reading. I read a lot about the history of the Jewish people. It's a tragic history. Although there has been no anti-Semitism on the state level after the USSR fell apart I have a feeling that it's still there. It's true that Jews can openly go to the synagogue, have communities, watch Jewish programs on TV and listen to Jewish radio. However, there are newspapers in Ukraine that openly blame Jews for all the problems in Ukraine saying that Jews have embezzled the country. And the writers of these articles are respectable people. Intelligent and educated people should know that there are different people regardless of nationality or belief. I believe these authors try to gain popularity - at least in certain circles of society. They choose a Jewish subject hoping to have followers that are not used to think about things themselves. That's the wrong path. There was a slogan in Russia once which stated, 'Beat the kikes to rescue Russia'. They exterminated or chased away all Jews, but it didn't help Russia. I think, these people are all like Hitler. Hitler also took this path. The authorities either can't or don't want to put an end to it. I'm afraid for my grandchildren and for the future of the world. The world will be on the edge of collapse until people learn to respect each other.

When Jewish organizations, such as Hesed, were established in Chernovtsy they took their place in the life of our family. My husband and I receive food packages. We have such a miserable pension, so that's a great support. I attend a number of clubs at Hesed. My son and I attend a course of Hebrew. Every week I attend a club for older people. I made new friends at Hesed. I go to the club for 'Students of the Torah' and attend the literature club on Wednesday. My husband and I often spend Sabbath and holidays with our friends at Hesed. Our friends often come to see us, we listen to music and have tea. We also discuss world news and books.

Glossary

1 Bessarabia

Historical area between the Prut and Dnestr rivers, in the southern part of Odessa region. Today it is part of Moldavia. Bessarabia was part of Russia until the Revolution of 1917. In 1918 it declared itself an independent republic, and later it united with Romania. The Treaty of Paris (1920) recognized the union but the Soviet Union never accepted this. In 1940 Romania was forced to cede Bessarabia and Northern Bukovina to the USSR. The two provinces had almost 4 million inhabitants, mostly Romanians. Although Romania reoccupied part of the territory during World War II the Romanian peace treaty of 1947 confirmed their belonging to the Soviet Union.

2 Great Patriotic War

On 22nd June 1941 at 5 o'clock in the morning Nazi Germany attacked the Soviet Union without declaring war. This was the beginning of the so-called Great Patriotic War. The German blitzkrieg, known as Operation Barbarossa, nearly succeeded in breaking the Soviet Union in the months that followed. Caught unprepared, the Soviet forces lost whole armies and vast quantities of equipment to the German onslaught in the first weeks of the war. By November 1941 the German army had seized the Ukrainian Republic, besieged Leningrad, the Soviet Union's second largest city, and threatened Moscow itself. The war ended for the Soviet Union on 9th May 1945.

3 Transnistria

Area between the Dnestr and Bug Rivers and the Black Sea. The word Transnistria derived from the Romanian name of the Dnestr River - Nistru. The territory was controlled by Gheorghe Alexianu, governor appointed by Ion Antonescu. Several labor camps were established on this territory, onto which Romanian Jews were deported from Bessarabia and Bukovina in 1941-1942. The most feared camps were Vapniarka, Ribnita, Berezovka, Tulcin and Iampol. Most of the Jews died between 1941-1943 because of horrible living conditions, diseases, and lack of food.

4 Iron Guard

Extreme right wing political organization in Romania between 1930-1941, led by C. Z. Codreanu. The Iron Guard propagated nationalist, Christian-mystical and anti-Semitic views. It was banned for its terrorist activities (e.g. the murder of Romanian prime minister I. Gh. Duca) in 1933. In 1935 it was re-established as a party named 'Everything for the Fatherland', but it was banned again in 1938. It was part of the government in the first period of the Antonescu regime, but it was then banned and dissolved as a result of the unsuccessful coup d'état of January 1941. Its leaders escaped abroad to the Third Reich.

5 Cuzist

Member of the Romanian fascist organization named after Alexandru C. Cuza, one of the most fervent fascist leaders in Romania, who was known for his ruthless chauvinism and anti-Semitism. In 1919 Cuza founded the LANC, which became the National Christian Party in 1935 with an anti-Semitic program.

6 Campaign against 'cosmopolitans'

The campaign against 'cosmopolitans', i.e. Jews, was initiated in articles in the central organs of the Communist Party in 1949. The campaign was directed primarily at the Jewish intelligentsia and it was the first public attack on Soviet Jews as Jews. 'Cosmopolitans' writers were accused of hating the Russian people, of supporting Zionism, etc. Many Yiddish writers as well as the leaders of the Jewish Anti-Fascist Committee were arrested in November 1948 on charges that they maintained ties with Zionism and with American 'imperialism'. They were executed secretly in 1952. The antisemitic Doctors' Plot was launched in January 1953. A wave of anti-Semitism spread through the USSR. Jews were removed from their positions, and rumors of an imminent mass deportation of Jews to the eastern part of the USSR began to spread. Stalin's death in March 1953 put an end to the campaign against 'cosmopolitans'. 7 Doctors' Plot: The Doctors' Plot was an alleged conspiracy of a group of Moscow doctors to murder leading government and party officials. In January 1953, the Soviet press reported that nine doctors, six of whom were Jewish, had been arrested and confessed their guilt. As Stalin died in March 1953, the trial never took place. The official paper of the party, the Pravda, later announced that the charges against the doctors were false and their confessions obtained by torture. This case was one of the worst anti-Semitic incidents during Stalin's reign. In his secret speech at the Twentieth Party Congress in 1956 Khrushchev stated that Stalin wanted to use the Plot to purge the top Soviet leadership.

8 Twentieth Party Congress

At the Twentieth Congress of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union in 1956 Khrushchev publicly debunked the cult of Stalin and lifted the veil of secrecy from what had happened in the USSR during Stalin's leadership.

9 Mandatory job assignment in the USSR

Graduates of higher educational institutions had to complete a mandatory 2-year job assignment issued by the institution from which they graduated. After finishing this assignment young people were allowed to get employment at their discretion in any town or organization.

Danuta Mniewska

Danuta Mniewska
Warsaw
Poland
Interviewer: Maria Koral
Date of interview: March/April 2006

Mrs. Danuta Mniewska lives in Warsaw in a new apartment building. Despite the broken leg she had suffered several months earlier, she gave me the impression of a very vigorous person. She emphasized, she never liked to sit idly. During our meetings, she told me her life story in a colorful and moving way, particularly the wartime events. Mrs. Mniewska appeared to be a cheerful person, always ready to altruistically help other people, and she is a committed member of the Jewish war-veteran associations and social and cultural clubs. She remarked on several occasions that she has never made her Jewish descent a secret.

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

My family history

I know nothing about my great-grandparents. My paternal grandparents lived in Grabow, in Leczyca County [some 50 km north-west of Lodz]. My grandfather's name was Josef - not Josek, but Josef - Mniewski. Grandmother's name was Frajda, nee Tajfel. She was born in Wloclawek [some 100 km north of Lodz] and came from a wealthy and educated family. Several of her relatives completed university studies - there was a dental surgeon, an architect - so that was a 'better' family. As for my grandparents - they certainly weren't white-collar workers. I don't know what they did, it was all a secret.

My father was born in Grabow in 1900. His name was Beniamin, and his parents called him Benjumo, the Jewish way. I know from family accounts that his two elder sisters, both in their teens, I suppose, died of influenza. To save my father, his parents went with him to the rabbi. The rabbi told them to dress him in white, and that was how he had to be dressed until the age of three. His parents obeyed that very scrupulously. I don't know those sisters' names, no one spoke about that. Death was generally something that you didn't discuss with children.

My father had his parents twisted around his little finger - the two daughters had died, and he was the youngest one, so he did what he wanted, he was like sacred. My grandparents wanted him to become a rabbi, but that of course was out of the question - he rebelled awfully. Didn't want to wear those robes, dressed the civilian way. But he certainly had a bar mitzvah. He studied at home with private tutors. I don't think he ever tried to pass the high school finals, he didn't need it - he didn't even think about higher studies because he married early.

It was in Grabow my father met his future wife, my mother. I have no idea what their wedding was like. His parents were strongly opposed to the marriage, but my father was terribly in love with my mother. She was a poor girl and my grandmother didn't want her beloved son to marry a girl without dowry - she wanted a princess for him. And the ladies disliked each other, disliked each other terribly.

My mother was born in Lodz in 1901. Her name was Ewa Ryza. Her parents were Grandfather Israel and Grandmother Mala; I don't remember her maiden name. I think they came from Lodz, though I'm not sure. It was a beautiful story, their marriage, I learned about it years later and I was moved. My grandmother was an orphan and when she was just ten years old, and my grandfather was eleven or twelve, they got engaged. Afterwards, when they were about to marry, people started telling my grandfather, 'Come on, drop it, you don't have to. You promised, but you don't have to. She's a poor girl, she has nothing.' And he said, 'What?! Not only is she an orphan but I'm to do such harm to her, humiliate her by abandoning her this way?' And he married her.

My grandparents had six kids: three daughters - the eldest one was Cela, then Ewa, and the third one was Bela, and three sons - Maks, Josef, and the youngest one, Szoel, or Szolek. All, I think, were born in Lodz. During World War I, my mother moved with her parents and relatives to Grabow, because it was a small town and life in Lodz was rather hard. And they spent the war there. I don't know what my grandparents did in Grabow.

That was where my parents met each other and got married; I think it was in 1922. My sister Helena was born in 1923, and I was born in 1925. My name was Gusta, or Guta. But when I was still a child my parents started calling me Danka [diminutive for Danuta] and it stuck. When I was two years old, my parents moved from Grabow to Lodz. They had a contact there, because, as I understand it, my mother's parents and their children had already gone back to Lodz. My mother no longer wanted to live in Grabow after they had all left.

My father's parents stayed in Grabow. They were recluses, didn't keep in touch with anyone, or no one wanted to keep in touch with them. They were completely alone - an old man and an old lady. Grandfather had nothing to do with those Jews from Grabow. Why were they so reclusive...? I don't know how they earned their living, I was a small child, I didn't pry, didn't ask - I wasn't interested in that at all. I know my father helped them a lot.

In Lodz we lived in a Polish neighborhood, because there were more Poles than Jews. Not in one of those ghettos there, like Baluty [a poor, predominantly working-class neighborhood inhabited before the war mainly by Jews], but near Hallera Square, on 1 Maja Street. People used to say 'pasa Szulca' before the [first world] war so I suppose it was 'Pasaz Szulca' [pasaz - here: street]. It wasn't downtown - it was somewhere between downtown and the suburbs. We lived in apartment #71, in a three-story tenement house, quite a decent one. The landlord was a Jew named Zdanowski. The barracks of the 28th Kaniowski Rifle Regiment were right next door, so many officers lived in the area. And many Germans. It was a very beautiful street - lined up with wonderful chestnut trees.

My parents had two rooms with a kitchen on the first floor. There was electricity, coal-fired tiled stoves, a toilet. A servant who lived with us slept in the kitchen. She was Polish, her name was Regina Kus, a young girl; she may have been eighteen or nineteen. She came from the countryside and stayed with us for a couple of years.

My parents were both very handsome. My father had a somewhat Semitic look, he wore glasses and had a crooked nose. He was a very intelligent and wise man, but he had no specific profession. In those days, Jews took up whatever occupation they could. I know there was a period when my father had a halva factory in partnership with one Mr. Liberman. I remember both: the name and the guy - a small, plump individual. I visited the factory once - I don't remember where it was - a large factory room. I guess they operated for some two years, but then went bust. Mr. Liberman went to Argentina and my father was left with the debts to pay.

Then my father worked as manager at several large houses in Lodz. My father was a great guy, a wonderful man. He was a very active Zionist, a member of the Hatechija party [Editor's note: no information on a party of that name could be found]. That was for grown-ups, and the youth organization was called Hanoar Hatzioni 1. I know it was a conservative party - not the revisionists, not Jabotinsky 2, but the center-right. I don't know when it was founded, who was the leader. My father went to party meetings but I don't know where they were held. I never met any of his fellow party members. He subscribed to the periodical Haynt 3, which was in Yiddish. He spoke Polish, Yiddish, Hebrew and fluently German; he was familiar with German literature.

My mother was lovely. Lively, cheerful, liked by everyone, very vigorous, and she liked to work. She ran a colonial store, a grocery. It was a single room, on the first floor, in the same house on 1 Maja Street where we lived. The servant, Regina, helped her.

My mother loved to party, she went to dance with her friends to the Tabarin. It was a dancehall at Narutowicza Street, in fact, it was still there for many years after the war. My mother had a wonderful voice, so much so that when some guy once heard her at some charity ball, he approached her and said he would pay for her education, that he would take her to Vienna so that she could study at the conservatory there. But she was a married woman and my father said no. She wasted such a wonderful, strong voice - a soprano. She sang Polish and Ruthenian songs at home, I don't remember precisely what. She had very many virtues, but as far as the intellectual ones go, she had none - to read a book, or even an article in a newspaper...

My mother obviously went to a Polish school as a girl, because she could read and write Polish. We spoke Polish at home. But when talking to my grandparents, my parents switched to Yiddish. My maternal grandparents called her Chawcia [Polish diminutive for Chave]. They spoke poor Polish, understood everything, but speaking was a problem. Those were people who had attended the cheder, received Talmudic education. I understood Yiddish but I spoke Polish to them. I remember this funny episode with my grandfather: I may have been eight or nine years old. My grandmother sneezed, and my grandfather kept waiting. Then he uttered, 'When Grandmother sneeze, Granddaughter do nothing?'

When my grandparents came from Grabow, they moved into an apartment at Zeromskiego Street. Then they moved to 1 Maja Street because an apartment at #73, next door to us, had been vacated - a very modest one, just a room with a kitchen. My grandfather had a house finishing business, had employees, craftsmen, and they finished newly-built houses - wall painting, windows, that sort of thing. Grandfather didn't look like a Jew at all - had a gray beard, blue eyes. In fact, all the relatives from the maternal side, as I remember them, were very handsome, not Semitic-looking at all. Fair-haired, blue-eyed.

Grandfather wore a Jewish-style peaked cap, and at home, I think, he wore a yarmulka. He had a tallit and went to the synagogue, of course. My grandmother was small, petite, very delicate. My grandfather did everything - carried her wigs to the hairdresser, cooked fish in aspic every Friday. If there was a high holiday, we went to my grandparents'. Above all, for Easter [Pesach] - I remember the seders, the solemn dinners. Then the sad holidays - the trumpets [Rosh Hashanah]. From time to time we went to them for the Saturday chulent. I remember the Feast of the Booths [Sukkot]. I liked it very much, I wanted to eat in that booth because it was so nice, so much greenery. The booth stood in the yard, against the wall.

I don't remember any special holiday dishes. Of course, my grandparents kept a kosher kitchen. I know that when they visited us, they never touched anything - they didn't trust my mother with respect to kosher food. Because my grandparents lived very close to us, the official version was that we separated dairy from meat, but in fact no one paid attention to that in our house.

For the holidays [Pesach] there was matzah, not because it was ritual food, simply because it was a delicacy. Handmade, round and thick. There were many Jewish bakeries in Lodz at every corner. And there was a rabbi who made sure the right kind of flour was used and there were no pieces of bread anywhere.

For the high holidays, like Judgment Day [Yom Kippur] or New Year [Rosh Hashanah], my parents went to the synagogue to pray for the dead. My father did so very reluctantly, he was an atheist, but he did it for my mother. And my mother did it for her parents. A mezuzah hung on the doorpost, Grandfather wouldn't have otherwise entered such an apartment. My mother loved her parents - God forbid offending them in any way! She lit the candles on Friday night. I remember she always embraced those candles, then covered her eyes with her hands and sighed. And when she sighed, I would cry.

We didn't celebrate any other holidays at home; there was no need, because we always went to my grandparents'. The other grandparents, the paternal ones, who stayed back in Grabow, I didn't know well. There was some contact between my father and the Tajfels, his maternal-side relatives. I remember that once his cousin from Wloclawek visited us who was very keen to get married. I remember that girl because it was a sensation for us - to arrange a marriage for her. But I don't think anything came out of it - she didn't find a husband.

Growing up

For a year or a year and half I went to a kindergarten at Gdanska Street. I may have been four. The place was co-ed. Two ladies ran it, in Polish. I was the lead actress, as various shows were staged - a prince came, the princess died, etc. - and I was always the top of the bill. I also remember going with my mother to see Little Red Riding Hood; that was a major experience. It was at the Scala on Srodmiejska Street [presently Wieckowskiego], where the Nowy Theater was after the war. They staged shows for kids to make some money. And the girl ran away from the wolf, ran around the whole house, and the wolf behind her - there was screaming, there was crying, I huddled up against my mother, screaming as well.

My father was a stay-at-home, a very calm man. He sat at home with us girls. The children didn't bother him at all. My sister and I quarreled all the time. She didn't want to play with me, I didn't want to play with her. I remember periods when my father read me stories from the 'Ogniwo', which was a magazine, partly in Hebrew, partly in Polish. It featured beautiful, deeply moving stories for children. My sister wasn't interested. I'd sit on my father's lap and he'd read those stories to me and I'd listen, holding my breath. If there was something sad, I'd cry, and he'd stroke me on the head - he loved it when I cried because it meant I was a sensitive, good child.

Later, when I was able to read myself, I had a couple of beloved books - The Paul Street Boys [by Ferenc Molnar (1878-1952), Hungarian writer], all those Rodziewiczowna novels [Maria Rodziewiczowna (1863-1944) Polish author of highly popular romances and novels of manners].

At the age of six I went to elementary school, at Zeromskiego Street. After a couple of days they moved me to second grade because I could already read and write well. I hadn't studied before, but I could. And that ultimately proved my misfortune, that destroyed me, that ease - because I didn't feel like studying at all. I went there for two years, I think. When I was to go to fourth grade, my parents moved me to the school where my sister went - at the corner of Zielona and Zakatna Street, which was later renamed to Pogonowskiego [in 1936]. Zielona was a rather long street, running from the Hallera Square, I think, to Piotrkowska [Lodz's main street]. On the way it crossed Zeromskiego, where my grandparents lived, and there was the so- called green market there - an open-air market, and then those streets across: Gdanska, Wolczanska, Kosciuszki.

There were some 40 of us in the class, only girls, only Jews. It was a Polish-language school, the only difference being that we didn't go to school on Saturdays but instead on Sundays. I remember we started every day by singing 'When the Lights of Dawn Arise' [religious song with words by poet Franciszek Karpinski, (1741-1825)]. That's how it was, we knew it, I don't know whence, but we had in our blood. Let alone the fact when Marshal Pilsudski 4 died in 1935, there was massive national mourning - we all wore the black ribbons.

My sister and I went to a ballet school. Actually, ballet school is too serious a word; the place had no official qualifications. It was called the School of Dance and Arts. The classes took place in a rented room somewhere, I don't remember where. I was eight or nine years old at the time. My sister was good at it and I wasn't. From time to time a show was staged for the girls to demonstrate what they had learned, the parents were happy that they had such talented children -everything was alright.

I went to gymnasium automatically - upon completing six grades, when I was 13. It was the Eugenia Jaszunska School at 18 Poludniowa Street [presently Rewolucji 1905 Roku Street], on the other side of Piotrkowska, not far from where we lived. The classes started at 8am and ended at 2pm, there was no school on Saturdays. The students - only Jews, thirty-something girls in the class. The building was a tenement house, a three-story one, I think, which had been converted to a school. That was the kind of school that the average man could afford.

The headmistress I remember as a very old lady. The deputy headmaster and math teacher was called Cyrusz. Mr. Jackel taught German - a great teacher. There was also Hebrew and religion, unnecessarily, because we tormented the teacher so hard I actually pitied him. His name was Hurwicz. He had to earn his living and here no one wanted to even think about Hebrew and religion, we teased him terribly. It was complete mockery, really.

I really didn't like to study. I had to be given private lessons. My sister was the same. We were in the same class because I skipped one grade in elementary school. Our father always complained, 'We're paying so much for your education and you don't want to study.' It was thirty zlotys a month. When you had two children to pay for, it was a very substantial expense.

You also had to pay for the private lessons, of course. The coach taught us everything, she was our distant maternal-side cousin, Regina Milichtajch. A very talented and diligent girl, she completed the renowned Ab Gymnasium at Zielona Street [Jozef Lajb Ab (1863-1941): educator; founder, owner and headmaster of the Girls' School of Commerce, converted 1918 into an arts- oriented Girls' Gymnasium, named after him from 1931, and awarded official gymnasium status in 1938]. Jewish kids went there, but all the classes, of course, were in Polish. Regina was a great student, and her parents were poor. So it meant a lot to her to be able to earn the extra few zlotys.

I always liked to do what I felt like doing. I was deeply involved with theater. Performances were staged at school, and there was also a cinema fans' circle. I was in charge of that and I remember I went to the Capitol movie theater at the corner of Zawadzka Street [presently Prochnika] and Zachodnia, to ask the manager to give us a discount. It made sense for him to admit some kids and he gave us a free ticket for each ten so we all went to that cinema, to all screenings. We loved those actors, after all: Tyrone Power [(1913-1958), American actor], Greta Garbo [(1905-1990), Swedish-born American actress].

When I was still in elementary school, eight to nine years old, I joined the Gordonia 5, simply a home-inherited tradition. I wasn't there long, a year and half, but I remember everything very vividly. My sister joined too. It was a scouting organization. On Zeromskiego, in a tenement house, there was that big room. Attendance was usually quite high - some thirty kids, boys and girls. We sang Hebrew songs, recited poems, danced the hora 6. There was talk about Palestine.

The elders, who ran the whole thing, may have been some 20 years old. They organized summer camps, rented barns from peasants near Lodz, and we slept on hay, on straw. It was a beautiful period. I remember the stalking game - there was a flagpole and you kept guard. And when it was my turn to keep guard with another boy, I started crying, I got terribly frightened bad people were coming because I heard that heavy breathing. In fact, we both shivered and held hands. We eventually raised an alarm and then it turned out it was just cows. We were so frightened, we didn't know all that. It was wonderful.

In the summer we went to visit my grandparents in Grabow, always by bus - there was no other possibility. There was a privately-owned coach company, or a few, and they operated buses that departed from Lutomierska Street in Lodz. The route was Ozorkow - Leczyca - Grabow [towns 20, 35 and 50 km north-west of Lodz]. It wasn't far but you rode for some two hours. In Grabow, the bus arrived at the market square, opposite my grandparents' balcony. Grandfather always stood there and waited for his little darlings.

I didn't like to go there, somehow I wasn't attracted to them, I didn't have anything to talk about with them. They loved my sister very much, the first grandchild, I was in the background. I remember Grandmother, I see her in my mind's eye. An old woman, like all ladies - when I was a girl, I saw her as old even when she was just 40. She wore a wig, kept kosher. Grandfather wore a Jewish-style cap, but I don't know where and how he prayed.

They had a nice apartment, a room with a kitchen, on the second floor. And there was a balcony, the only one in the whole market square, in Grabow's sole storied house. There was no running water; I guess the shabesgoyim brought it from outside. I remember the stairs, sprinkled with yellow sand so that it was clean. And on the first floor a grocery, a general store in fact: this and that... The owner's name was Mrs. Stankiewiczowa. Once or twice a week there was a fair in the market place, many peasants came. So it was a kind of half-town, half-village, the true shtetl, very many Jews lived there, chiefly tanners. I know there was a Jewish cemetery. I remember that if there was a funeral, we weren't allowed to go there; we weren't allowed to watch - only from afar. All those small towns looked the same, I was always extremely fond of them.

I remember one summer, in 1935 or 1936, I spent with my mother in Busko Zdroj [health resort some 160 km south-east of Lodz]. I went there with my mother only, as her chaperone, so that she always had someone to accompany her. We lived in a boarding house. One night I woke up and my mother wasn't there. I burst into tears - where is Mama, where is Mama?! My mother, it turned out, had gone to a dance but told the woman next door to come to me if I woke up. I remember that because it was a terrible experience.

Two or three years before the war my mother launched a boarding house of her own near Glowno [town 30 km north-east of Lodz]. It was a summer-resort area, dachas 7, boarding houses, in villages like Nowy Ciechocinek, Stara Ciechocinka, Nowe Zakopane, Nowa Ciechorajka, but how the place was called where my mother had the boarding house, I don't remember. It was a single- story house, or a villa, with a dozen or so rooms. During the season my mother lived there, I think. She had employees, because you had to cook, you had to clean, you had to serve the food. Young married couples were the typical clientele. I didn't tell Poles from Jews at the time, but I guess it was for Jews. The business was in operation until the war, in fact, it only started picking up steam.

What was happening in Poland in the 1930s 8 hurt us terribly. I remember in Lodz, in the house where we lived, also on the first floor, there lived a young married couple - very nice people. His name was Saul Jerozolimski. He had a wife and a little baby girl. I liked them very much, and they liked me too, so it was a mutual affinity. And they emigrated to Palestine. It may have been 1935. I don't know what happened to them. They exchanged letters with someone from our house, perhaps with my parents too, and once they wrote it was being hard for them. My parents never thought about going to Palestine, they had no money for that. You had to have some foothold there - a job, a house. I don't think they would have gone to a kibbutz - my father would have agreed, but my mother would certainly have not.

My mother's brother Maks and her eldest sister Cela lived abroad. It was a romantic story with Uncle Maks, I learned about it only later. He had a fiancée and they even bought the rings, all that stuff. But in the meantime he fell in love with his cousin, Pola Milichtajch, who was related to Regina Milichtajch, my private teacher. In fact, I don't think the cousin loved him, but he loved her very much. And they made an agreement - he kidnapped her and they went to Germany, it was back in the 1920s. Their three daughters - Bella, Ruth, and Hanna - were born there.

Bella was two years older than me, and Ruth and Hanna were a tiny bit younger. They came to Poland, to Lodz, from time to time because they had families here. It was always a feast, there were gifts, each child got something. I spoke Polish to my auntie and uncle, they spoke Polish well. And with the girls I spoke German because, as a gymnasium student, I had already developed a basic knowledge of it.

They lived in München-Gladbach [presently Mönchengladbach]. They owned a very elegant fur store - a corner building adjacent to three streets, so it was a really large store. Besides that, they also owned a textile factory. And because Uncle was mad about girls, which was actually public knowledge in the family, one of his employees in the factory accused him of flirting with her. And in 1935, I think it was, he got a year and half for 'Rasseschänden' [German for: defilement of the race], was one of the first prisoners of Dachau 9. After a year they made him an offer: if he agrees to leave Germany immediately, they'll cancel the final six months of the sentence. He accepted that gladly, got released, and came to Poland, to his family.

His wife, Aunt Pola - Paula in Germany - stayed back to run the business: the fur store, the factories. Uncle spent several months in Poland, then left for Italy, for Milan. There he started settling down, his two daughters came to him. And Aunt wound up all her businesses to cash in. The mayor of München-Gladbach helped her to leave. In 1938, my aunt and her eldest daughter were expelled to Zbaszyn 10. My father went to pick them up and together they returned to Lodz. Aunt Pola was a vigorous, very wise person - in August 1939 she secured a passport with an entry visa to some South American country with the right of transit through Italy. And there she met her husband and her daughters.

Back when they were still in Germany, my mother's and Uncle Maks's youngest sister, Bela, stayed with them for a couple of years. I think she studied there, worked, I don't know exactly. I remember when she came back from Germany - smelling of the West - all elegant, beautiful. In Lodz she got married. His name was Feliks, I don't remember the last name. They lived in Lodz on Sienkiewicza Street. I know they had a store selling citrus fruit, that kind of thing, but it didn't do well. It wasn't a successful marriage. My grandparents virtually couldn't bear the sight of him because of his inability to provide for her. The family hated him, and he virtually prohibited Aunt from seeing us. Perhaps they loved each other in their own way... They had a lovely daughter, Hania, much younger than myself.

My mother's second brother, Josef, also lived in Lodz. I don't remember where, I don't know what he did for a living. He had a wife named Lonia and two children - a boy named Mietek and a girl, whose name I can't recall. They were more or less my age, a difference of a year or two at most. Our aunts and uncles spoke Polish to us and their children, though of course they knew Yiddish, and to my grandparents they spoke Yiddish. I also remember that all of my mother's brothers played violin.

My mother's eldest sister, Cela Grajman, emigrated with her family in the early 1930s to Palestine. Her four kids had been born in Poland: Rachel, Szmuel, Bracha - my age - and the youngest one, Salomon; they called him Salek. Uncle went first. Later, when Aunt joined him with the kids, it was very hard for them, as they had nothing to live on. Their kids, in their teens, joined the Haganah 11.

Around 1937 my grandparents with their youngest son, Szolek, joined them in Palestine. It was very hard for them there - Grandfather suffered from anemia. Szolek dreamed of staying and begged his parents, cried like a child, for them to let him stay, that he would settle down somehow. Grandfather didn't want to agree - Szolek was supposed to take over the management of his business in Lodz. And so my grandparents returned with their son in 1938, returned to Poland...

I didn't experience any anti-Semitism before the war. But you heard things. I remember when the pogroms took place, in Przytyk 12, there was talk about that, people were scared. Then, when the boycott of ritual meat 13 came, I was already a teenager, I may have been twelve years old, so I understood certain things.

I also remember my grandfather telling me a story - he had that house décor business - about the daughter of the owner of one of those big houses who one day came home - they had a beautiful apartment - and, following one of those anti-Semitic affairs, started throwing out, breaking all those crystal vases, shouting she didn't need all that, she didn't want to be a second-rate citizen. She was roughly my age and I was greatly impressed - such courage, and she was right, after all, why consent to such a life when you can arrange things quite differently.

In 1938, when all Poles marched towards Zaolzie [in October 1938 Poland annexed Zaolzie, an area in northern Czechoslovakia inhabited mostly by ethnic Poles], and there was a huge demonstration, it all started, of course, with the beating of Jews. So I was close to all that. And later, we didn't even want to think about that...

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

My father was heavily involved in the Zionist organization, so when the Germans marched in [German troops occupied Lodz on 9th September 1939] and started arresting people - Jews in the first place - my parents decided to go to Czestochowa [large town 100 km south-west of Lodz], to their friends, Mr. and Mrs. Szymkiewicz. Those were friends back from Lodz, they used to live on the same street as us. A mixed marriage, him a Jew, her a Pole. He was a violin player at the Lodz Philharmonic, she was from Czestochowa. And so in December 1939 my parents closed down the store, locked up the apartment. Everyone was fleeing from Lodz, because Lodz was very dangerous.

I remember, when we stood in a queue for bread, for butter, the first one to be taken from the queue was myself, my sister was the last one, and my mother they didn't touch at all - she had great looks. My sister is also a blonde, I was dark. [Editor's note: the harassment by German soldiers of people with Semitic looks was an early form of persecution even before ghettos were created]. And so we left, for three or four months, we thought, because after three months the war was supposed to end and we would return to Lodz, return home. So my parents took only the bare necessities, just to manage somehow. We left with my grandparents, on the same wagon.

Mr. and Mrs. Szymkiewicz rented an apartment for us, a studio, in a working- class neighborhood called Rakow, in the suburbs of Czestochowa, near a steel plant. I don't remember the street name. We lived together with my grandparents. That was just to wait out - there was no electricity, only carbide light, water in the yard. My parents were selling out the things we had taken with us. In fact, everyone lived off petty trade. There was no work, unless you were a young man and joined the Jewish police 14. Well, doctors, craftsmen - tailors, shoemakers - they had work.

A Polish woman lived next door to us, was a very good neighbor. When she bought pork fat, she also bought for us - me and my sister - and made lard, so that we could eat, because butter was expensive, meat was expensive. And that small pot of lard always stood in her kitchen - we'd take a slice of bread and go to Mrs. Nowak. We liked that very much. My grandparents probably guessed we ate pork, but didn't want to show they knew. They surely ate only kosher, that wasn't difficult, because they ate little, and only simple foods.

We weren't allowed to go to school. But there was a lady, Ms. Skapska, who had been displaced from Poznan, and she taught me and my sister English. I loved her because she was a great teacher. She was able to keep your attention, and I was making such great progress - my orthography was excellent, my pronunciation was excellent. She was enchanted with me, I was enchanted with her. But one day she came to us and said, 'Listen, I'm scared. I need the money, of course. So please, don't be angry with me, but I'm scared.' And that was the end... Then came some other teacher - but it wasn't the same, I no longer felt like learning English.

I had very many friends there, Poles, of course, because there were virtually no Jews 15. We were all roughly the same age. We went to the church for service, that was where young people met. And so I knew all the ceremonies - how to cross yourself, how to pray, how to sing. As far as religion was concerned, I was able to go to the Aryan side right away.

And life was getting tougher. Aunt Bela came with her husband and daughter to join her sister and parents. They didn't live in Czestochowa but in the vicinity, the place was called Gidle, I think [a small town 30 km north- east of Czestochowa]. Her husband had a job - I don't know whether it was a German company - in any case, he operated a special tractor of some sort. They really lived from hand to mouth there. Then we lost touch with them.

My parents corresponded with my mother's elder brother, Josef. As soon as the Germans moved in, he left Lodz with his wife and kids and went to Tomaszow Mazowiecki [40 km south-east of Lodz, 100 km north-east of Czestochowa], where his wife's family lived. My parents and Uncle Josef wrote letters to each other, because Jews weren't banned from using the postal service.

One day we had to sell a fur coat. Uncle wrote to us from Tomaszow that he would find a buyer there but first he needed the fur coat. There was no one to take it there, we all wore the badges 13 by then, there was a death penalty for Jews for riding on the bus or train. I was almost 15 years old and I said, 'I'll go, I'm not afraid. I'll take off the badge, borrow a school ID from a friend of mine and I'll go to Tomaszow. I'm sure I'll do well.' My parents debated for a long time. Finally they packed the coat into a suitcase and on a Sunday morning I went by train from Czestochowa to Piotrkow [75 km north-east of Czestochowa] where I changed to a bus. I felt very grown-up, that they had decided to rely on me at all, that I would carry out such an important transaction, and that as a Jew - so it's part adventure, part being of help to my parents.

So I'm in Piotrkow, having to wait for a longer while for the bus to Tomaszow. And at some point there sits next to me a boy several years older than myself - very nice, very handsome. It's nice, and he says, 'Have you already been to mass today?' And he offers - there's a church nearby, he lives opposite it - to take my suitcase and we'll go to mass. I wasn't afraid to go into a church because I knew perfectly well how to behave. I gave that suitcase to him and started thinking to myself: 'He is able to tell from my eyes, everyone knows Jewish girls have dark and sad eyes. Or perhaps he is a thief? I can't return home without that coat, if I don't have it, I'll have to commit suicide. So not only will my parents lose the coat, they'll also lose their child...'.

I'm standing in the church, praying to God - no matter which one - and my only prayer is 'God, let all this end happily.' After mass the boy comes along with me to carry that suitcase. He says, 'Give me your name and some address so that I know who you are, so we can keep in touch somehow.' So I gave him the name and address of the friend from whom I had borrowed the ID. I returned home all proud, didn't say a word to my parents about that encounter. And a couple of days later that friend comes to me and says, 'What have you been up to again? Do you know I've received a love letter?!' It was from that boy... Those were the small tragedies of small kids - I was 14 and a half and thinking about suicide...

In 1941 all Jews from those suburbs around Czestochowa were ordered to move to the ghetto. We took up residence at Dreszera Street, near Joselewicza. It was a large house with annexes. We were allotted two kitchens by the Judenrat 17. In one annex were my parents; in the other were Grandfather, Grandmother, me and my sister. It was living in terrible, cramped conditions, living in constant fear.

I told my parents I'd go to the hospital to apprentice as a nurse. The provisional hospital was in a two-story building on Przemyslowa, and it was the only hospital in the ghetto. I know from other people's accounts that before the war the Jewish hospital was in a completely different place, in Zawodzie, I guess - a large, wealthy, very good hospital financed by the Jewish Community [today's L. Rydygier Hospital at Mirowska Street in the Zawodzie neighborhood, built in 1908]. But during the war I knew only the one at Przemyslowa. And indeed - I went there, gave people injections, washed the patients. Then I worked in the operating room, pouring the rubbing alcohol, tying up the aprons.

It sometimes happened, if someone was very rich and they had to operate him, that they brought professors from Cracow. I remember professor Zubrzycki [January Zubrzycki (1885-1969): obstetrician, gynecologist], professor Glatzel [Jan Glatzel (1888-1954): surgeon, author of new operating methods, propagator of modern surgery teaching], I think also Achmatowicz [Leon Achmatowicz (1894-?)], a great surgeon, an ethnic Ukrainian, and a sworn Jew-hater. The ghetto hadn't yet been closed. The full-time doctors were, of course, all Jews.

When I remember that hospital, it's really hard to believe that in such conditions it was so clean, so tidy. One of the directors was Doctor Jerzy Dobrzynski. They kept us on a short leash, we knew what to do, we learned a lot. Then came my sister, our parents had told her to find something to do. I, two years younger than her, was always the first to learn something. But the real reason why I worked there was a doctor, Mr. Rozenowicz, whom I was mad about - we were all infatuated with him. In any case, I remember working at that hospital as something that gave me a lot.

I remember that there, in the ghetto, my grandparents still celebrated the Jewish holidays, the religious Jews kept us together. One time Grandfather asked Uncle Maks, with whom my parents were in contact by mail, to send that sort of lemon from Milan - it was called the etrog [for Sukkot]. And indeed, it arrived. To this day I remember the address to which my parents wrote to Uncle in Milan: Via Frati Bronzetti 1, Milano.

It was 1942, May, June. One day my father received a letter from his parents in Grabow. I see him turn completely white in the face and I hear, 'How is this possible? Have they gone mad?' And my father starts crying, it was the first time in my life when I saw him crying. It turned out that they had written a farewell letter: 'By the time you'll be reading this, we'll be gone. The trucks are already waiting outside. We'll all be gassed.' A group of Jews came to us then. The elders were horrified, the youth laughed, didn't believe it. But that letter was the first sign that something horrible was taking place, because until then there was talk, there were fears, but nothing specific had so far happened.

Then came to us my parents' friends, came on their own with an offer to give shelter to me, my sister and my mother - but not to my father because he had Semitic looks. And my father said, 'You won't go anywhere. We're young, we're healthy' - they were barely above 40. 'If they take us to a camp, we'll work. We're staying together'. And he didn't let us go.

Then came the 'Bekanntmachungen', announcements, that the residents of this or that street were to line up on the street on this or that day at this or that hour, take food provisions with them. Someone came to us and said, 'Something incredible is happening. There are fifty cars, 100 people in each. At some point the Polish railway personnel get off, the Germans get in. Some hours later the train returns completely empty, clean. What happened to those people - five thousand people...' Panic starts - some believe, others don't. Someone fled from a transport, came and said, 'Save yourself...' People were going mad - started building shelters for themselves, underground bunkers. Sodom and Gomorrah.

When the rumors started we were going to a camp - no one yet knew it was a death camp - people started preparing bags of biscuits for the way. You bought bread, on the black market, I guess, sliced it and dried it. And then you kept it in a kind of pillowcase, to ensure ventilation. But people probably never got to eat that bread because they took it for the bleak hour, to the camp, where they were immediately killed.

It's the first day of the deportations, 22nd September 1942, and our street has been named. It's terribly hot, and my mother is pacing the room in a warm coat - up and down, from the door to the window, like a lioness - and trembling. My father still had some money, some gold rubles, so he gave two to my sister and two to me, sewed them into the sleeve of my jacket. And he said, 'Remember not to touch it. You can touch it only if you need to buy bread or to save your life. And go to the hospital, you'll be safer there'. And I flew out of the apartment. Quite like in those Chagall 18 paintings - simply flew... How can you bid somebody goodbye if you know you won't see them again... We already knew for sure at that point that it was death coming.

And suddenly I'm at the hospital. There's this doctor, Rozenowicz, 19 years older than myself, whom I was infatuated with, like a young girl. He came from a very good family on the distaff side, the Markowicz family. He studied medicine in Italy, after which, in 1938, I guess, he passed the Polish exams in Poznan, so he was a rightful gynecologist. And he tells me, 'Danusia, doctors can save their family members. I want to marry you. The rabbi lives on this and this street'. He couldn't go with me because he had just undergone an ulcer surgery, so he gave me his ID or passport and a declaration saying: 'I, Bronislaw Rozenowicz, want to take Miss so-and-so to be my wedded wife'. And so I went.

I didn't even know how to address the rabbi. I'm telling him, 'Listen, sir, I want to get married, he can save my life as a doctor. I'm begging you, this has no legal significance whatsoever'. No, he cannot do it. I'm starting to cry, and he says, 'Well, okay, but let your mother come to me'. I say: 'How can my mother come to you? I don't know whether she's still there...' And at that point I remembered about the coins sewed up in my sleeve. He took them and issued the document. And that was when my friendship with God ended, something died in me.

I returned to the hospital. I was already calm; I was a doctor's wife. There were many people there, above all doctors with their families. And my sister. The whole thing didn't last longer than two weeks because the liquidation of the Czestochowa ghetto went very swiftly. [Editor's note: the operation of removing Jews from the so-called large ghetto lasted from 22nd September to 6th October 1942].

The last day was such a horror one can never forget it. There were some 80 patients in the hospital - adults and kids, infants too, because there was a maternity ward there, it was the only hospital in the ghetto. I remember the terrible yelling, 'Raus! Raus!' [German for 'Get out!'] - The way they did it. Three trucks came. The doctors from outside the hospital got aboard with their families and they left. Shortly afterwards they returned - the Jewish cemetery was nearby, they were killing them there. Then another dispatch - the patients able to walk, the personnel helped them come down. Those were taken to the cemetery too. Then the bed-ridden ones, who had to be taken down to the courtyard. There the Germans told the doctors to give them a shot of morphine. Several young doctors refused. They were immediately executed, and when the rest saw they had no choice, they started giving them those injections.

Not all patients fell asleep quickly - they lay there, breathing, still alive. And the Germans told the staff to strangle them with towels - wrap a towel or blanket around their neck and pull at both ends. Then, whether they were still alive or not, you had to throw them onto the truck. There were three or four newborns - warm, just taken away from their mothers. And up they landed on that pile of corpses, like a bag of potatoes... The last transport also went to the cemetery. And that left us, the staff - 20, 30 people - doctors, nurses, orderlies. We were taken to the 'Umschlagplatz' [German: transit point, originally the place in Warsaw from which Jews were transported by train from the ghetto to the death camps, here used as a category] where the selection took place. My husband, I and my sister were young and healthy, and we went to the right side, to life...

The labor camp in the small ghetto [several streets in the north-eastern part of the liquidated ghetto] had already been set up. It was the oldest Jewish quarter in the city, ramshackle houses; I don't know how people lived there before the war. A tiny camp - an enclave - surrounded by barbed wire. There were Jewish and Polish policemen, several Germans, the Ukrainians of course too. We secured a room in the loft of a two-story wooden shack and we were all three there.

At first the work was to clean the deserted neighborhood - you had to tidy things up, people needed for lodgings. Besides, the better things were being sent to Germany, so we segregated them, cleaned the apartments. That was a good job, we worked inside, and it had already gotten cold - it was mid-October. There was running water in those apartments, you could wash yourself, cold water, of course, no one dreamed of hot water anymore - but it was still a luxury. Besides, if you needed to change your underwear, you simply picked something from the things that had been left and changed.

You could also find something to eat - some biscuits, a bit of flour, some groats. Upon returning from work we received a plate of soup, even with pieces of horseflesh, and a bit of bread - there was a kitchen in the camp. In fact, food wasn't a problem there. I remember, for instance, when Jews, in collusion with the German guards and the policemen, brought a calf into the camp - dressed it in a coat, took it under the arms and brought it in. You could also smuggle in food for money or if you knew the right people.

There were supposed to be 4,000 people there, but there were more. Children and old people sat hidden in various hideouts, all those tiny shelters. In the same house where we lived, locked up in a room, my husband's aunt and uncle, Roman and Gienia [Genowefa] Markowicz, were hiding. Their two sons worked in the camp - Lucek [Lucjan] and Bolek [Boleslaw] with his wife Bronka [Bronislawa]. Their niece, Mirka [Miroslawa] Markowicz, was also with us in the camp.

Uncle Roman Markowicz was a very wise man. Before the war, he owned a textile factory in Bielsko [130 km south of Czestochowa] - very rich people. One day, at the camp, he told me that I had to change my job and join the column of those going to work on the Aryan side, so that I was in touch with the Poles. The point was to secure false papers for us 19. There were groups of people at the camp that worked at the Hasag 20, the Rakow [steel plant], the Czestochowianka or the Peltzery [pre-war textile factories, working for the German military industry during the war]. And so I joined one such group, of some 15 people, who worked at a large square at the outskirts of Czestochowa where the rubbish from all over the city was being brought.

Our job was to separate rags, glass, paper from that rubbish - it's called recycling these days. The company running that was called Ravo. We weren't guarded by Germans but by Ukrainians, Latvians, and the 'saulis' [Lithuanian for 'riflemen', a paramilitary organization that collaborated with the Nazis during the war]. The work was very tough, and it was already severe winter, but the square was where all the trade took place. The Aryans came to us - some produced false documents, others brought food, still others bought dollars from the Jews. And indeed, I secured those false IDs - I still had one of those gold coins my father had given me.

Uncle's various employees also came there - it was the only place because they weren't allowed to enter the camp. Uncle put great trust in his manager, Mr. Pastuszko - he was his 'banker.' And rightly, because he was a very decent man. Another one, Domzal, a young Home Army 21 soldier, took money from the 'banker' guy and brought to us. Uncle started thinking about setting up some hideout on the Aryan side; that eventually we'd have to escape from that camp. He asked a worker from his factory, Mrs. Siminska, to find someone who for money would prepare a hideout - a shelter.

The one who agreed to do it was called Klimczak. His wife was opposed to it, was afraid - they had a five-year-old daughter. A little house was bought in his name on the outskirts of the city, a neighborhood called Piaski, beyond the Jewish cemetery. He was to organize everything there, build a room for eight people. The house was now his property, and after the war he was also to receive a two-story house in Czestochowa and two building lots.

At the end of November the shelter wasn't yet ready, we were still in the camp. And one night I return from work to the so-called home and there everyone's crying, wailing. There was a raid; they were looking for people hiding away. Uncle and Aunt hid somehow, but Bronka, their daughter-in-law, and her mother were gone. Someone told us that two dead women lay by the fence. It was a frosty night, the moon shone, you could see everything. Bronka's husband and his brother crawled up to the wire. And indeed, they lay there. They buried them. They return home and it turns out the IDs are gone. No one knows what happened to them, whether the Germans took them or the Jewish police, the Polish police... Or perhaps Bronka and her mother took them before they ran away? So Bolek and Lucek return to the fence, dig them up, but find nothing.

Within a couple of hours we had to organize an escape from the camp. That wasn't a problem - you simply joined a column going outside. There were no Germans there, only Polish and Jewish police. Aunt, I and Uncle and Aunt's niece, Mirka, went to Klimczak's apartment. There was only one room there, the door was always open, no one bolted doors in those working-class apartments - if the neighbor wanted to enter, she simply entered. And we were hidden in a 'done' bed. During the day we had to lie flat under the eiderdown, you weren't allowed to move. During the night we went out. And the men and my sister went to the house that had been bought, pretending to be the foreman's helpers. That may have lasted some two weeks.

Then Uncle and Aunt hid with Domzal's father, and we set up in the shelter. The place had been prepared quite decently, three young people made the design. Both cousins completed technical studies before the war, Bolek in Belgium, Lucek - I don't know where. The house had some 90 square meters of floor space, a kitchen, two rooms. One of the rooms had been shortened, and the missing space was the shelter - a tiny room, 6 square meters. A three- level bunk bed, three people per level. You latched the door from the inside, and outside was turpentine, shoe polish, various kinds of chemicals so that when the dogs came, they wouldn't be able to nose out people. And a tiny narrow corridor where you had to squeeze through sideways.

In the daytime we sat in a room with a view of the road, far from the window, and kept guard, so that if someone went through the gate, we'd raise an alarm and - down to the hole. In the night Klimczak slept there with his wife. We stole power from a nearby pole, had electric heating. We also had a radio - Domzal's father had brought it, even though listening to radio was punishable by death. Klimczak's father, a simple old peasant, but of great decency and goodness - a wonderful man - brought us food.

I remember Uncle tried at the time to make sure we had as many such hideouts as possible, where you could flee in the case of an emergency. He paid someone to prepare another such cache, I don't remember in which part of the city. One day he said we needed to go there to check whether anything had in fact been prepared. He sent me. And I remember there were heads in every window watching me - watching the hunted Jewish animal. Everyone knew the Jews were preparing something but they were decent enough not to inform on us. I found the people who had taken money from us - of course they hadn't prepared anything. I returned to the shelter safely, I don't think anyone followed me.

One day Uncle and Aunt come to us and say: 'The old guy Domzal said someone had ferreted out there were Jews in his house, and he's afraid to keep us any longer'. And they stayed with us. A couple of days later we see someone enter through the gate - and so we all right into the hole, fast. A guy comes in a black leather coat, high-top boots. And he says: 'We know you're here, eight people' - and lists everyone's name and surname. He takes Uncle by the hand, 'What a beautiful skin, so delicate, it'll be good for gloves'. And he says it has to cost, the money will go to the underground. And so all the money he had Uncle had to withdraw from that guy Pastuszko. And we had to wait - either it'll work or it won't. We no longer had any means of escaping.

The man that came to blackmail us was called Zygmunt China 22. He was a high-ranking Home Army officer - the head of the Czestochowa area executive. We eventually became such friends with him that when we had no money, he'd bring us gold 20-dollar coins, if someone was sick, he'd help. Even his wife came to visit us on holidays, the Catholic ones. My husband and cousins started preparing materials for underground newsletters. They sat all day in front of the radio, listening to all the stations - they had studied abroad so they knew several languages. China did the rest.

I remember one day came a wagon with slaughtered pigs and rams. Zygmunt's people had carried out a raid on some Volksdeutscher farmer 23. And we had to dress all that meat. Officially, it went to the boys in the forest. But those that brought the stuff were robbers and the best stuff went to the AK leadership, leaving only bones for the partisans. So it was such a house - not only Jews, a radio, but also the meat...

Everyone argued with everyone else in the shelter - when you're under one roof, there's no way to avoid it. We didn't matter at all - neither me, nor my sister or Mirka - because we were young. But all the others argued constantly. It was horrible - we were afraid someone would get angry, go outside, and say, 'There are Jews here.' And that'd be the end.

One night Lucek had an appendix attack and screamed with pain. They gave him - there was a doctor, after all -something. He calmed down, fell asleep somehow. And two hours later there's banging on the door: 'Aufmachen! Aufmachen!' [German: 'open the door']. Shouting, terrible shouting, the landlord had to let them in. We trembled. We were afraid they would hear the rustle of the straw on which we lay, we trembled so hard out of fear. I needed to pee - because of the nerves and because it was the night... My husband and I slept on the third bunk, Bolek and Lucek below us, and Uncle and Aunt were at the bottom. So I'm on that top bunk and I think; 'Well, what do I care, I simply have to pee'. So they, on the second story, put their hands under the trickle so that the Germans wouldn't hear it... Bolek had already prepared his poison so that, when they entered, he'd manage to swallow it.

They searched for us for two hours. And didn't find us... They even searched for us in the well outside, in the garden. They took our landlord. We waited for a whole day, locked up in the shelter, afraid to even move. In the night, we went out to see whether the house had been sealed. Klimczak's father came and said his son had been taken, but that they had already contacted Zygmunt China. And Zygmunt arranged for the young Klimczak to be released. He bought him out, the AK had access to corrupt German officials. I don't know precisely what, where, and how. Perhaps my uncle knew, but the others didn't, we weren't let in on those things.

We lived there for a full two years - from December 1942 to January 1945. Towards the end of 1944, when the Germans were already fleeing, they seized part of the house and put four pilots there - they lived behind the wall. We behaved as if we didn't exist - silence, lock and bar. When they went out, Klimczak would knock on our door and tell us we could go out. Someone sat in front of the window at all times, so there was always time to go into the hole. That lasted for a month. Such miracles happened too.

A month before liberation Zygmunt China came to us. He told us the AK had passed a death sentence on us, that they wanted to liquidate us - so that after the war no one would know that they blackmailed us and took all our money. 'They'll throw in a couple of grenades to get rid of you. Because the Germans have issued an arrest warrant for me, I told them I'd hide with you: "If you waste them, you'll waste me. But I want you to know that I'm going to join them."' That's what he told us, but whether it was the truth, I don't know. And indeed he came to hide with us.

In mid-January [16th January 1945] the Russians marched in and he immediately went out of hiding. We were afraid the Germans could still come back. And on the same day the NKVD 24 arrested him. I think it was his wife who contacted us and told us about that. I was a young girl, unaware of things; I only knew he had been arrested. He spent two years in a camp in Siberia. He returned seriously ill, lived in Zabrze [60 km south-west of Czestochowa], founded some small business, I think. And soon afterwards he died. And with Domzal, the young AK member, we remained on the best possible terms. No one said anything about Zygmunt's blackmail offer even though we knew it was Domzal's doing, that it was him who had told Zygmunt about us.

After the war

After a couple of days we went out. We met a Russian officer - he had a very Semitic face - and we told him we were Jews and had been in hiding here. He told us: 'Flee from here, flee west as soon as you can'. When we went out, first of all we had nothing to put on ourselves. I had boots taken off dead German soldiers - odd ones. Rozenowicz had a paper suit. First we went to the Jewish Committee 25. And there they issued us a document - like they did to others - that we had been in a camp in Czestochowa, the Hasag. They gave us some clothes, allotted some lodgings, gave some food - we almost became human beings again. My sister, Helena, was with me all the time.

We went to Rakow, where we used to live with our parents - to see whether someone had shown up. And Mrs. Szymkiewiczowa told us: 'At the end of 1943, I received a letter from your father. He was no longer in the camp; he was hiding away in a haystack. He gave me the address and asked me to come to him. So I went to Kosow near Treblinka 26. I met with him'. My father cried terribly, promised her they'd be together - she had lost her husband - and asked her to find me and my sister. But we were already in the shelter...

He had been selected in Treblinka as young and healthy and worked with the segregation of things, looking for jewelry, for gold. The Germans kept replacing them - these ones went to the gas, new ones came in their place. So they were preparing to escape [in August 1943]. Szymkiewiczowa said that when she saw him, he had a lot of jewelry and money on him. He wanted to be able to buy himself out if there was any trouble. So I guess someone tracked him down and murdered him. What else could it have been...? My sister and I didn't go to Kosow. That would have been just opening old wounds...

We went to Lodz. There was the Jewish Committee, registering all the survivors. We went to 1 Maja Street where we had lived before the war. And when we sat on the stairs, we suddenly started crying so hard that we no longer wanted to go inside - we ran away. Those were such unspeakable tragedies...

Our family from Czestochowa was sent with a transport to Treblinka. Grandfather reportedly led Grandmother by the hand when they marched to the 'Umschlagplatz. 'Slowly, slowly,' he was saying - on top of everything else she had just suffered an attack of palsy. And so he led her up to the train... My grandparents and my mother went to the gas right away. Aunt Bela, her husband and their daughter also died in Treblinka. It's a pity that girl, Hania, wasn't saved. She may have been five or six then. She didn't have Jewish looks at all. But how could she have been saved...? Uncle Josef, his wife and kids - no one survived. Szolek, my grandparents' youngest son, was in the Lodz ghetto 27. He had already been married to a girl that bore him a child in the ghetto. Of course they died. My husband's father, a dentist, and his mentally retarded younger sister also died in Treblinka.

The only other survivors were Aunt Cela in Israel and Uncle Maks in Italy, with their families. Uncle Maks, his wife and their daughters were in Milan. And for a long time no one bothered them there. In 1943, I guess, a priest came to them and said: 'Get dressed, we'll take you across the Alps to Switzerland'. So they locked up the apartment. And they found themselves in Switzerland, in an internment camp. Then, when the war ended, they got on a train, came to Milan, pulled the keys out of their pocket, opened the door, and they were in their apartment - untouched. My parents also locked away their Lodz apartment in 1939, but they never returned there...

My sister and I got in touch with Uncle Maks, and he wrote us that even before leaving Milan he had received a letter from our father in Kosow. So it was true that he had managed to escape from Treblinka, because there were now two people, Mrs. Szymkiewiczowa and Uncle Maks, who had been in touch with him. As far as my father's family is concerned, someone from the Tajfels from Wloclawek survived - but I didn't know them at all, those were perfect strangers to me.

We parted with my husband's uncle and aunt, the Markowicz's, as they immediately fled to the West. They were terribly afraid of the Bolsheviks 28, because they were the so-called bourgeois. I think they went to England, all five, Mirka included. After the war Bolek and Lucek found it hard to start normal lives. Uncle and Aunt had one more son, Tadeusz, who had completed medicine studies in Italy. He spent the war there; I think he was in the army, though I don't know which one and when. He died shortly after the war. All of them died very quickly. And Klimczak got the house and the building lots - everything that had been agreed. That was financed by Uncle together with Rozenowicz, because the house was owned in half by my husband, so he contributed too. And that's it.

My husband also had a house in Czestochowa that he inherited after his parents, on Druga Aleja [part of Czestochowa's most elegant street, Aleja Najswietszej Marii Panny]. There we lived in three rooms with my sister. My sister and I got very close when we realized that our whole family was dead. We started working right away at a gynecological hospital on Swietej Barbary Street near Jasna Gora 29.

However, I wanted to study. I enrolled for a high-school course for adults, I was already twenty-something, and passed the high school finals. 'Passed' is perhaps saying too much, it was all phony - I cribbed all math from the guy sitting next to me. I wanted to study medicine, that was the easiest thing to do - I worked in a hospital, had some foundations for that. But then I quickly changed my mind and in 1949 decided to take an admittance exam to the Theatre School in Lodz [State Institute of Theatre Arts, reactivated in Lodz in 1945, from 1946 as the State Theater Academy in Warsaw with a provisional seat in Lodz].

We had distant cousins in Lodz, Regina and Karola Milichtajch. Regina was our private tutor before the war. Both survived in the Lodz ghetto and at the last moment were sent to forced labor in Germany. Until the end of the war they worked at some German farm. Then they returned to Poland to see if anyone had survived. And it was then we got in touch.

I arrived in Lodz virtually naked and barefoot, utterly penniless, because Rozenowicz said he was opposed to the whole idea of me studying. I didn't even have money for the streetcar fare. For a short time I stayed with those cousins. Karola, the younger one, studied at a nursing college, and the older one, Regina, had the pre-war high school diploma, so she was a white-collar worker, because the pre-war diploma was a big thing. She worked at an official labor union organization.

I borrowed a little bit of money from them to get me through the initial period and became self-dependent very quickly. I didn't know that if I had gone to the Jewish Committee, they would have helped me - I'd have been assigned a place in the dorm, received an allowance. But even if I had known about it, I would have refused - I wanted to be like everybody else. Only everyone knew I was a Jew - the word spreads, so I saw no point in hiding my ethnic descent.

I applied. It was a competition-type exam, as is usual in art schools. I remember the anxiety; I had prepared several pieces for the exam. And reportedly I performed very well. The question of looks was also important - I was a pretty girl. How this helps in life... Out of several hundred candidates only 20 were admitted, chiefly girls.

The president was Leon Schiller [(1887-1954): outstanding director working for theatres in Warsaw, Lwow and Lodz]. The classes took place in very good conditions - in the beautiful Poznanski mansion [built 1904, owned by the heirs of Israel Kalmanowicz Poznanski, Lodz's largest industrialist at the time and one of the wealthiest in Europe]. We had classes on the first floor, and on the second one was the Musical Academy, where it in fact remains to this day. That was at the corner of Gdanska and 1 Maja, the street where I had lived with my parents before the war. When I was to pass in front of our house, I always made sure not to get too close - I only stretched my neck to see whether it was still there: here the two windows, here my mother's store...

A distant relative of those cousins of mine had a tiny room on 11 Listopada Street [Obroncow Stalingradu after the war, presently Legionow]. She was emigrating to Argentina. I moved in there. She gave me a bag filled with feathers for the pillow, because I had nothing, and now I had a room and an iron bed, and the couple that owned the whole apartment were very nice. But one day some guy was allotted the room where I slept. They came to me: 'You have to leave!' So I lay down on my bed and said: 'I'm not going anywhere!' And they took me with that bed out to the hall! On the next day I went to the housing office and started crying there. And as I was pretty, they gave me three addresses in no time.

I studied and worked. There was a gynecologist whom I knew from the period when I had been with my husband. He made procedures and he offered me the job of his assistant. I applied anesthesia, made intravenous injections, reportedly with great skill. Then I went to a knitting cooperative and got a job - I brought home huge bags of unfinished gloves and sewed up the fingers. I was officially registered as a knitter, had a labor union ID. I sat until two, three in the morning, but it was still good, I felt so happy.

I also gave people injections. Once a dentist I knew called me and said he had a penicillin patient for me - those days you administered penicillin every three hours, so if I had a patient, I had to move in with them. And I was allotted a very nice room on Gdanska with a Jewish family, the Feldons. Those were very wealthy people, they quickly made big money after the war. They had four grown-up sons and one of them fell ill. I moved in with them and they were greatly impressed: such a young, pretty girl and working so hard. They offered to pay me a scholarship so that I wouldn't have to work so hard. They very much wanted to ensnare me, but that was the gilded youth of Lodz, I wasn't interested in that.

Many people were eager to help me, but I was doing great myself. And at the end of my freshman year at the academy I was given a role - a Film School team visited us and they hired me for a movie they were making. It was a group of young filmmakers who were shooting a production with the assistance of their professors. They came to the Theater School in search of nice girls. And they chose me. The movie was a terrible bore, called 'The Two Brigades', really nothing to talk about [a 1950 production shot by the students of the directing faculty of the State Film Art College under the artistic leadership of Eugeniusz Cekalski]. Well, but what did I care - I had something to do, I could earn some money, and the very fact that from among all those girls they had chosen me meant a lot in itself. So I no longer had money problems.

In my third year of studies I met Kazimierz Dejmek [(1924-2002): director, actor, co-founder and director general of the Nowy Theater in Lodz, one of Poland's leading stages in the 1950s; minister of culture and art (1993- 1996)], he was the school's president [1952-55]. I fell in love with him. He was married, but I didn't destroy the marriage, God forbid - he had already left her.

He was born in 1924 in Kowel [presently Ukraine, some 60 km from the Polish border]. His mother was a housewife and his father worked in the prison administration. He had a younger brother named Heniek. Kazik was in the second grade of gymnasium when the war broke out. After the war, he passed the actor's exams extramurally with Schiller in Lodz. And then he was appointed president of the School. He had top-level connections in the party 30, and the party had immense confidence in him. And such a young boy was appointed an academy president. He held the office for a very short time - he didn't like the job, never wanted it, they forced him, had no one else.

I was deeply infatuated with Dejmek. And one day I received a letter from my husband saying he saw what was going on and was asking me to come back so that we could start all over. Before that, he insisted we get married by license, but I didn't want to because I knew it wouldn't work anyway. I was his wife only in religious terms and we had in fact divorced each other by mail because the paper from the rabbi had no legal force.

After two years Rozenowicz sent me a suitcase with my things and on top of that lay that document. I thought: 'I can't tear it to pieces like a piece of litter because my conscience won't allow me - so many things we went through together, so much of everything... If I could, I'd burn it in the fire'. I put it aside with a bunch of photos I had. My husband spent the rest of his life in Czestochowa. He died in the early 1990s. He was a very good doctor. When I sometimes meet Jews from there and they find out I was Rozenowicz's wife, they exclaim, 'Rozenowicz?! Why, he is the legend of Czestochowa!'

My sister settled in Czestochowa. Shortly after the war, in 1946, I guess, she went to Wroclaw [city in Lower Silesia, from 1945 within Polish borders, 140 km west of Czestochowa] and enrolled in a cosmetics school. There she completed an occupational course. When I left for Lodz in 1949, she was living in Czestochowa with Rozenowicz, her brother-in-law. When I said I wasn't going back, she moved out. She had a boyfriend, his name was Janek Tenenbaum. He came from Czestochowa, never completed any school, never had the opportunity.

Janek fled east in 1939 31. He found himself in Siberia, he may have been 18 then. He experienced terrible things - cold, hunger, dirt, diseases. His mother had died before, and during the war he also lost his father and his younger sister Lilka who was deeply involved politically - she was a communist and died there, I think, in the east. That left only him and his other sister, Sonia, who before the war went to Paris and studied dentistry there. She married a Polish Jew, a graduate of the technical university there, I think.

After returning from the Soviet Union, Janek worked at the Czestochowa steel plant, had a job in the supply department. My sister married him, they had two children - Bronek was born in 1951 or 1952, and Lilka a year or two later. My sister and brother-in-law applied for emigration and in 1954 or 1955 left for Israel. They lived in Ramat Gan. My brother-in-law's sister, Sonia, helped them a lot. She had no children of her own, an unsuccessful marriage, so they were virtually all she had. It was thanks to her they bought an apartment, then they swapped it for a larger one. Hadn't it been for her, it would have been very hard for them, they'd have had nothing to live on. Then my brother-in-law got a bank job, and my sister worked as a beautician - one room in the apartment had been turned into her office.

In 1953 my son Piotrus [diminutive for Piotr] was born. I worked at the Nowy Theater in Lodz. Those days, a theater actor had to be versatile; you had to sing, dance, play in contemporary dramas and classical tragedies. Life was hard for me there because my second husband was the director general there and he had a policy of anti-nepotism. For instance, when the director said he wanted to give me a role, my husband would first offer that role to all the other girls. And only when the director said: 'I don't want anyone except Mniewska', he'd agree. He destroyed my professional career. But, well - you can't have everything.

In 1960 my husband was appointed director general of the Narodowy Theater so we moved from Lodz to Warsaw. There I didn't do anything, just drew my wages. In 1968 I played in the Dziady, played is too big a word - I stood and sang 32. It was virtually no role at all, but I took part in all the rehearsals, all the shows. And on stage I stood right besides Holoubek when he recited the Great Improvisation - that took well over 10 minutes [Gustaw Holoubek, born 1923, outstanding Polish theater and film actor and director]. And he was so brilliant and so wonderful that there was no show where I wouldn't start crying. Tears are trickling down my face and I can't even wipe them away because I'm an Angel, I can't move.

So that's one thing I had - great experiences. But the show didn't run long - the authorities ordered it off the bill. My husband was fired from the job, expelled from the party. And all of us - people connected to him - left too, of course. I came to the Ateneum [theater in Warsaw] but that was also only to draw the wages and sometimes fill in for someone else. I had a very hard life in theater - humiliating.

And then again a new period began in our life. My husband got a job - Satanowski [Robert Satanowski, 1918-1997], the conductor, was doing something in Norway and he had very good connections there, so he secured a directing contract for my husband in Oslo, Norway. My husband spent a month there, after which he got a job in Yugoslavia. Piotrus and I also then applied for passports because all our previous applications had been turned down. I moved the heaven and earth for Piotrek [diminutive for Piotr] to be allowed to take his high school finals extramurally before out departure - so that he could immediately go into university once we left. I hired private teachers. He passed the exams, it was 1970. We left in 1971.

We lived in Belgrade. My husband worked, had a full-time contract at a theater, then moved to Novi Sad. The only point was to have the money to pay the rent because wages there were like in Poland. It was winter, oil heating, very primitive conditions. A horrible period, feeling like a complete stranger. My husband then got a job in Germany so he left. And I sat there alone with Piotrek and our dog. The dog had a hard life too because the Serbs don't like dogs, find them disgusting. I remember the period like the occupation era, really horrible.

Piotrek started studying physics even in Belgrade, but later changed his mind. He went to work in Paris where my brother-in-law's sister, Sonia, lived with her husband - my son didn't move in with them but they helped him. Then he went to Italy and worked there, he also spent some time in Vienna. What did that give him? It's given him the fluent knowledge of French, Serbo-Croatian, a good knowledge of Italian.

He returned to Poland in 1973 or 1974. And the two of them, he and my husband, decided he would do the Theater School in Lodz [created in 1959 by merging the State Acting College and the State Filmmaking College, since the 1970s under its present name of the Leon Schiller State Film, TV and Theatre College]. It was a tragedy for me, I know the profession... But it turned out it wasn't so bad after all - he really is a very intelligent boy. He played the lead role in the 'Hospital of the Transfiguration' based on Lem's novel 33 and won a debuting artist award in Brussels [in a 1978 Edward Zebrowski film]. He played quite a lot in movies, I didn't see him in theater, I didn't want to - I was afraid to.

Upon returning to Poland I was really fed up with all that - that wandering around the world, not having my own place. I said, 'I'll buy myself some land, settle in the countryside,' I hit upon the idea of setting up a fruit orchard. It was 1975, I think. I wrote to Pieniazek [Szczepan Pieniazek, born 1913, biologist, pomologist, nestor of Polish orcharding]. He wrote back immediately. I went to meet him at the Institute [The Institute of Pomiculture and Floriculture in Skierniewice, 40 km north-east of Lodz]. He told me what and how and where, and took me to the orchard. I bought 10 hectares of land in the Kutno province and started with the basics, with planting. I worked like a horse, people helped me greatly. I also had a permanent contract with a theater in Lodz. It's not far from Lodz to Kutno, 50, 60 kilometers. I had a compact Fiat, I'd drive to the rehearsals, the shows, and drive back.

I had had the orchard for three or four years when there came such a bumper crop I couldn't manage it - such large apples! I signed a contract with a cooperative but then they told me, 'We have so many apples ourselves we can't take your crop.' And then Piotrek came to visit me - his marriage was falling apart. He met boys in the village who agreed to help us. He went three times a week to a market in Gdansk [sea port, 230 km north of Kutno], to a middleman, bringing back incredible amounts of money. He started building a cold store, buying machinery - he really got down to it with great vigor. I handed everything over to him as a younger farmer. We built - I had already started - a large, nice house. The farm was such that excursions from abroad came to view it.

Piotrek met Ewa, his second wife. They settled in the countryside. My marriage crumbled, we got a divorce. After the boom had passed - business became slow - I went to Elblag [city 260 km north of Lodz], to play in a theater there, because I was just one year short of retirement age and I no longer wanted to be in Dejmek's theater.

When the very good period had ended, Piotrek started thinking about getting rid of the farm. His film friends visited him often in the countryside and he felt the attraction again, started missing his chosen profession. He moved to Warsaw, found a job at the public TV, worked as a producer. And slowly he moved up the ladder. Today he still works for the public TV; he has been one of the directors of the TVP1 channel for two years now. His wife is a Theater School graduate, who works at the TVP too. Currently she is the second director of the 'Sensations of the 20th Century' series [semi- feature historical documentary].

My grandchildren are a very nice trio. The eldest, Pawel, owns a business - something to do with car racing. Cars, races, that's his passion. But what exactly it is about, I don't know. He's a nice boy, has a great wife. Kasia [Katarzyna], my second grandchild, is 20, and studies sociology. She passed the entry exams splendidly - at first try, with such a high score she is on a full-time course at Warsaw University. She's a very bright girl, with an open head, a great memory, smart, but very introvert. Marysia [Maria], the youngest, is 18 and has no idea what she wants to be. She's a pretty girl, with a lot of charm.

They were raised the same way as Piotrek was. As children they knew their grandmother was a Jewess, that their father was a half-Jew. They regarded it as normal, were even fascinated at first, now it's passed. Piotrek, when he was a kid, didn't want to talk about it all. And he knew everything because he always listened. When I watched a film about those things, he sat besides me and just stroked me...

I visited Israel for the first time in 1960, I think. Aunt Cela, my mother's sister, was still alive, though she had been paralyzed. I also visited the farm of Rachel, her eldest daughter. Her husband was a German Jew, a graduate of philosophy in Germany. I don't know when he left there, but after the war he received compensation and with that money they were able to buy a piece of land in Israel. Part of the farm was a 'pardes' [Hebrew: orchard] - oranges, and they also had large henhouses.

They had kids, three boys: Nir, Icyk, I don't remember the name of the third one. And they all worked. Those boys later left the countryside, all have tertiary education - technical. They live in Israel, and by now have surely become grandfathers. Rachel, their mother, is 90. Her brother, Szmuel, is dead.

The other cousin, Salomon, I don't know at all. He lives in Australia and has made some very big money there - owns some factories. And the fourth of the siblings, Bracha, is in Israel. She lives in Ramat-Aviv. She was a radiologist, never married, is more closely in touch with the family than anyone else, and knows about everything. She always calls me on the high holidays. We speak German, she doesn't know Polish.

After 1956 34 she and Szmuel visited Poland as tourists. They wanted to see the cities they had heard so much about in their childhood - all four, after all, were born in Poland. The cousins in Israel are great patriots, but they feel cheated. They were there during the toughest period, sacrificed their early years for the country, donated their blood to it, and then came Jews with big money, who bought themselves beautiful apartments and simply mocked those fantastic young people. And the latter had to work for their living; no one gave them anything, so there was also envy. And now my cousins believe they have lost their lives and that this is not how they thought it would be.

My sister still lives in Ramat Gan. Her husband is dead; he died sometime in the 1970s, I think. Their children live in Haifa. They are well educated, especially Bronek, who's an IT engineer. He is a talented man; he has worked for Rafael [major Israeli defense company] since the beginning of his career. He holds a very significant position there. He got married as a young boy. In fact, they have recently gotten divorced. He has two grown-up kids, a girl and a boy.

Last year he came to Poland with them to show them where he was born, where the whole family lived. We spent a couple of nice days together. His sister, Lilka, married a diamond cutter who had been born and raised in a kibbutz. They have three children. Lilka was a Tanach teacher at elementary school. Both Lilka and Bronek speak only broken Polish but they understand it.

My sister speaks Polish, of course, but she also speaks fluent Hebrew, after living there for so many years. When she was leaving for Israel, I asked her to take my photos and my marriage certificate from my first marriage. When, many years later, I came to visit her, I wanted to put all that stuff in order. I open the box and right on the top lies the certificate. I say, 'I'm begging you, tear it into pieces. I have no conscience to do it...' Cousin Bracha was with us then, and she says, 'You want to destroy it? Have you lost your mind?!' And she called the Yad Vashem 35 and says there's a document from 22nd September 1942 - the first day of the action in Czestochowa. And the document has found itself in the Yad Vashem, this is the most beautiful ending I could have imagined.

I went to Israel regularly. I have a few friends there, people who left Poland, whom I knew from before the war, the occupation era, or after the war. I 've been to Eilat, on the Red Sea, more than twenty times; I also have a girl friend there, much younger than myself, whom I met in Israel. I also have a friend from Gordonia who lives in Petach Tikva - Abrasza Inspektor. He spent the war in the Soviet Union. Upon returning he affiliated himself in Lodz with people who were preparing for swift emigration to Palestine; he was a teacher in a Tarbut school 36. And he left very early, it was 1950 or 1951. He also worked as a teacher in Israel, in a vocational school, I think.

After 1968 37 my Lodz cousins, Karola and Regina Milichtajch, emigrated to Denmark, to Copenhagen. Regina was a [PZPR] party member and was heavily involved in all those left-wing stories, a valued employee of the Labor Unions. They didn't want to go, only their sons, who were past high school, had already begun their studies. In Copenhagen, Karola worked in a hospital, and Regina at the National Library. Both are alive but they are old, especially Regina, who is over 90 and very ailing. The father of her son, Oles, wasn't a Jew. Oles himself married a girl from a mixed marriage. They converted to Judaism, had a religious wedding, she bathed in the mikveh... They are a happy couple. They bought themselves a part of a detached house in Komorow [a residential suburb of Warsaw] and want to return to Poland after they retire.

I never encountered any anti-Semitism directed against me after the war. I never went around with a placard saying I was a Jew, but everyone knew; it was no secret. I currently hold the position of treasurer with the veterans [The Association of War Veterans and Persons Wronged by the Third Reich], but I want to leave them and move to the TSKZ library 38. Its manager has died, she was 95, active until the last moment. Someone has to carry out the stocktaking, I'll gladly do it, for free, of course, I need no remuneration. I simply want to be doing something. After all, we are the last Jews here.

When trips to Germany were being organized, I accidentally joined one of those, in 2001. I went there a total of three times to meet young people, and I loved it. After so many years I had the cheek to conduct those meetings in German - and I did great. I had such good contact with those young people, saw they were interested, and I felt satisfaction that I was doing something good. I told them about my wartime experiences. About the liquidation of the hospital. As an interruption, I told them the story about how I went to Tomaszow with the fur coat. And the first thing I said was about the rabbi so that they didn't think I was partial, that I saw evil only with others and not with my own. You must say the truth - a son of a bitch, period! What can I think about people like that?

I feel a very strong bond with Jewry. Those are two different things - religion and being part of a nation. I'll put it like Tuwim 39: [I feel Jewish] not because of the blood of my veins but because of the blood that has been shed. This is a completely different story, this is an incredible bond, that you lost everyone only because they happened to be Jews. And betray them?! How can you conceal your descent, deny, disown your family, relatives...? It has always been in me and will always be, and I'll never abandon it. But still - despite the tragedy that I experienced - I wouldn't give away a single hour of my life. Not a single hour.

Glossary:

1 Hanoar Hatzioni

(Heb.: Zionist Youth), a youth scouting organization founded in 1931 by a break-away from the Hanoar Haivri organization Akiba. It aligned itself with the centre-right current of Zionism, and its program placed great importance on educating young people in accordance with the principles and values of the Judaic tradition.

2 Jabotinsky, Vladimir (1880-1940)

Founder and leader of the Revisionist Zionist movement; soldier, orator and a prolific author writing in Hebrew, Russian, and English. During World War I he established and served as an officer in the Jewish Legion, which fought in the British army for the liberation of the Land of Israel from Turkish rule. He was a member of the Board of Directors of the Keren Hayesod, the financial arm of the World Zionist Organization, founded in London in 1920, and was later elected to the Zionist Executive. He resigned in 1923 in protest over Chaim Weizmann's pro-British policy and founded the Revisionist Zionist movement and the Betar youth movement two years later. Jabotinsky also founded the ETZEL (National Military Organization) during the 1936-39 Arab rebellion in Palestine.

3 Haynt

Literally 'Today', it was one of the most popular Yiddish dailies published in Poland. It came out in Warsaw from 1908-1939, and had a Zionist orientation addressing a mass of readers. In the 1930s it attained a print run of 45,000 copies.

4 Pilsudski, Jozef (1867-1935)

Polish activist in the independence cause, politician, statesman, marshal. With regard to the cause of Polish independence he represented the pro-Austrian current, which believed that the Polish state would be reconstructed with the assistance of Austria- Hungary. When Poland regained its independence in January 1919, he was elected Head of State by the Legislative Sejm. In March 1920 he was nominated marshal, and until December 1922 he held the positions of Head of State and Commander-in-Chief of the Polish Army. After the murder of the president, Gabriel Narutowicz, he resigned from all his posts and withdrew from politics. He returned in 1926 in a political coup. He refused the presidency offered to him, and in the new government held the posts of war minister and general inspector of the armed forces. He was prime minister twice, from 1926-1928 and in 1930. He worked to create a system of national security by concluding bilateral non-aggression pacts with the USSR (1932) and Germany (1934). He sought opportunities to conclude firm alliances with France and Britain. In 1932, owing to his deteriorating health, Pilsudski resigned from his functions. He was buried in the Crypt of Honor in the Wawel Cathedral of the Royal Castle in Cracow.

5 Gordonia

Pioneering Zionist youth movement founded in Galicia at the end of 1923. It became a world movement, which meticulously maintained its unique character as a Jewish, Zionist, and Erez Israel-oriented movement.

6 Hora

The best-known folk dance of pioneers in Eretz Israel. The dance is chiefly derived from the Romanian hora. Hora is a closed circle dance. Israeli dance is an amalgam of the many cultures and peoples which settled in Palestine, and then Israel. The original sources were Eastern European styles, Arabic and Yemenite.

7 Country house, consisting of small huts and little plots of lands

The Soviet authorities came to the decision to allow this activity to the Soviet people to support themselves. The majority of urban citizens grow vegetables and fruit in their small gardens to make preserves for winter.

8 Anti-Semitism in Poland in the 1930s

From 1935-39 the activities of Polish anti-Semitic propaganda intensified. The Sejm introduced barriers to ritual slaughter, restrictions of Jews' access to education and certain professions. Nationalistic factions postulated the removal of Jews from political, social and cultural life, and agitated for economic boycotts to persuade all the country's Jews to emigrate. Nationalist activists took up posts outside Jewish shops and stalls, attempting to prevent Poles from patronizing them. Such campaigns were often combined with damage and looting of shops and beatings, sometimes with fatal consequences. From June 1935 until 1937 there were over a dozen pogroms, the most publicized of which was the pogrom in Przytyk in 1936. The Catholic Church also contributed to the rise of anti-Semitism.

9 Dachau

The first Nazi concentration camp, created in March 1933 in Dachau near Munich. Until the outbreak of the war, prisoners were mostly social democrats and German communists along with clergy and Jews: a total of ca. 5000 people. The guidelines of the camp were prepared by Theodor Eicke and prescribed cruel treatment of the prisoners: hunger, beatings, exhausting labor. This was treated as a model for other concentration camps. Dachau also had a training center for concentration camp staff. In 1939 Dachau became a place of terror and extermination, mostly for the social elites of the defeated countries. Some 250,000 inmates from 27 countries passed through Dachau, and 148,000 of them died there. Their labor was exploited for the arms industry and in quarries. The commanders of the camp during the war were: Alexander Piorkowski, Martin Weiss and Eduard Weiter. The camp was liberated on 29th April 1945 by the American army.

10 Zbaszyn Camp

From October 1938 until the spring of 1939 there was a camp in Zbaszyn for Polish Jews resettled from the Third Reich. The German government, anticipating the act passed by the Polish Sejm (Parliament) depriving people who had been out of the country for more than 5 years of their citizenship, deported over 20,000 Polish Jews, some 6,000 of whom were sent to Zbaszyn. As the Polish border police did not want to let them into Poland, these people were trapped in the strip of no-man's land, without shelter, water or food. After a few days they were resettled to a temporary camp on the Polish side, where they spent several months. Jewish communities in Poland organized aid for the victims; families took in relatives, and Joint also provided assistance.

11 Haganah (Heb

: Defense): Jewish armed organization formed in 1920 in Palestine and grew rapidly during the Arab uprisings (1936-39). Haganah also organized illegal immigration of Jews to Palestine. In 1941 illegal stormtroops were created, which after World War II fought against the army and the British Police in Palestine. In 1948-1949 Haganah soldiers were trained in Poland and Czechoslovakia.

12 Pogrom in Przytyk

The most notorious pre-war pogrom of Jews in Poland. It took place in Przytyk, a small town near Radom, during the spring fair on 9th March 1936. Because tensions in the town had already run high for some time due to a brutal boycott of Jewish shops carried out by the Polish nationalists, Jews organized a 20-strong, armed self-defense squad for the duration of the fair. On 9th March, following an incident with a nationalist urging the boycott of Jews, peasants attending the fair started demolishing the Jewish stalls. The self-defense squad intervened, shots were fired. A Pole, Stanislaw Wiesniak, was fatally wounded. That further aggravated the situation, with the peasants forcing their way into Jewish homes and stores, demolishing them, breaking windows; 20 people were heavily beaten up and two - Mr. and Mrs. Josek and Chaja Minkowski - were killed. Order was only introduced by police forces brought in from nearby Radom. Several weeks later a trial was held: the Jew accused of fatally shooting the Polish peasant was sentenced to eight years in jail, two others to five and six years, the Poles accused of murdering the Minkowskis were acquitted. The Przytyk pogrom sparked strong protests in Poland and abroad, becoming the symbol of Polish anti-Semitism of the 1930s.

13 Campaign against ritual slaughter

In pre-war Poland the issue of ritual slaughter was at the heart of a deep conflict between the Jewish community and Polish nationalist groups, which in 1936-1938 attempted to outlaw or restrict the practice of ritual slaughtering in the Sejm, the Polish parliament, citing humanitarian grounds and competition for Catholic butchers.

14 Jewish police

Carrying out their will the German authorities appointed a Jewish police in the ghettos. Besides maintaining order in general in the territory of the ghetto the Jewish police was also responsible for guarding the ghetto gates. During liquidation campaigns most of them collaborated with the Nazis; in the Warsaw ghetto each policeman had to supply at least five people to the Umschlagplatz every day. The reason for joining the Jewish police, first of all, was based on the false promises of the Germans that policemen and their families would be saved. In the Warsaw ghetto the Jewish police was headed by Jakub Szerynski; during the 'Grossaktion' (the main liquidation campaign in the summer of 1942), the Jewish Fighting Organization issued a death warrant on him, and he was to be executed on 20th August 1942 by Izrael Kanal. The attack failed, Szerynski was only wounded, and in January 1943 he committed suicide.

15 Jews in Czestochowa during the war

according to the 1931 national census, 25,600 Jews lived in Czestochowa, out of a total population of 117,000. The Germans marched into the city on 3rd September 1939. On 1st October a 24-strong 'Judenrat' (Jewish Council) was created, with Leon Kopinski as chairman. A large number of Jews from Lodz, Plock, Cracow, as well as the nearby towns such as Krzepice, Przyrow, Olsztyn, Janow, or Mstow were resettled to Czestochowa. When the ghetto was created on 9th April 1941, it had a population of some 48,000. It was located in the north- eastern part of the city in an area bounded by the river Warta and the streets Mirowska, Garncarska, Mostowa, Senatorska, Rynek Warszawski and Jaskrowska. The majority of the Czestochowa ghetto's inhabitants died as a result of the first deportation action between 22nd September and 8th October 1942, when the Germans sent 40,000 people to the Treblinka death camp. Close to 1,000 Jews were employed at the so called "Pelcery" factory, run by the company Hasag Apparatenbau. For the remaining over 5,000 Jews the so-called 'small ghetto' was set up. Some 1,500 people stayed within its bounds illegally. During the deportation action, a Jewish Fighting Organization (ZOB) unit was created, led by Mordechai Zylberberg. From December 1942, the unit was in touch with the Warsaw ZOB. On 4th January 1943, the second liquidation action was started; in its course, a small group of fighters led by Mendl Fiszlewicz attacked the Germans. Some 4,000 Hasag employees were left in the city. In June 1943, the company launched three new plants: Rakow, Warta, and Czestochowianka. Among the workers there were also Jews from Lodz and from the Plaszow camp, chiefly from Germany, Austria, Czechoslovakia, and Hungary. When, in July 1944, Hasag moved its Skarzysko-Kamienna plant to Czestochowa, there were 11,000 Jews in the city. On 15th January 1945, the plants were evacuated to Germany. Their personnel survived the war.

16 Armbands

From the beginning of the occupation, the German authorities issued all kinds of decrees discriminating against the civilian population, in particular the Jews. On 1st December 1939 the Germans ordered all Jews over the age of 12 to wear a distinguishing emblem. In Warsaw it was a white armband with a blue star of David, to be worn on the right sleeve of the outer garment. In some towns Jews were forced to sew yellow stars onto their clothes. Not wearing the armband was punishable - initially with a beating, later with a fine or imprisonment, and from 15th October 1941 with the death penalty (decree issued by Governor Hans Frank).

17 Judenrat

Jewish councils appointed by German occupying authorities to carry out Nazi orders in the Jewish communities of occupied Europe. After the establishment of the ghettos they were responsible for everything that happened within them. They controlled all institutions operating in the ghettos, the police, the employment agency, food supplies, housing, health, social work, education, religion, etc. Germans also made them responsible for selecting people for the work camps, and, in the end, choosing those to be sent to camps that were in reality death camps. It is hard to judge their actions due to the abnormal circumstances. Some believe they betrayed Jews by obeying orders, and others think they were trying to gain time and save as many people as possible.

18 Chagall, Marc (1889-1985)

Russian-born French painter. Since Marc Chagall survived two world wars and the Revolution of 1917 he increasingly introduced social and religious elements into his art.

19 Aryan papers

Jews hiding during the war by adopting a false Aryan identity had to produce documents confirming their new personal data. Such documents were mainly the Kennkarte, that is identity card, and also birth certificate, proof of address, an employment card, and so on. Having a birth certificate and proof of address was enough to apply for a Kennkarte: therefore many people tried to obtain only a Christian birth certificate, for example from priests. Aryan papers were produced by underground organizations including Aid Organization for Jews 'Zegota', which used the services of a 'legalizing cell' of the AK; altogether it produced 50,000 false documents for its charges. The papers could also be obtained for a large sum of money on the black markets (mainly in town markets) from professional forgers and from employees of city halls. Sometimes Polish friends of Jews gave them their own documents.

20 Hasag (Hugo Schneider Aktiengesellschaft Metalwarenfabrik)

German industrial group manufacturing metal products, including ammunition. Founded in Leipzig in 1863. Its rapid expansion dates back to 1932 when Paul Budin, member of the NSDAP and the SS, became chief executive. The company started then making munitions for the army. From 1934, the company found itself under special protection of the party and the state. During the war, Hasag's factories in Germany employed Polish forced laborers as well as concentration camp prisoners. Hasag operated six forced labor camps for Jews in occupied Poland. The first of those, initially meant for Poles, was set up in Skarzysko-Kamienna and employed over 10,000 personnel. After September 1942, Polish workers were replaced with Jewish ones. During that time, Hasag set up a camp in Kielce (the Granat plant) and the first of the Czestochowa camps (the Pelcery plant), with Jews from the local ghettos as workers. The next three Czestochowa camps - Warta, Rakow, and Czestochowianka - were set up in June 1943. The Hasag camps employed a total of 15,000 prisoners. In August 1944, the prisoners from the Kielce camp were sent to Auschwitz and Buchenwald. The Skarzysko-Kamienna camp was moved to Czestochowa. In January 1945, the Czestochowa plants were evacuated to Germany. The 11,000 of their Jewish forced laborers survived the war.

21 Home Army (Armia Krajowa - AK)

Conspiratorial military organization, part of the Polish armed forces operating within Polish territory (within pre-1st September 1939 borders) during World War II. Created on 14th February 1942, subordinate to the Supreme Commander and the Polish Government in Exile. Its mission was to regain Poland's sovereignty through armed combat and inciting to a national uprising. In 1943 the AK had over 300,000 members. AK units organized diversion, sabotage, revenge and partisan campaigns. Its military intelligence was highly successful. On 19th January 1945 the AK was disbanded on the order of its commander, but some of its members continued their independence activities throughout 1945- 47. In 1944-45 tens of thousands of AK soldiers were exiled and interned in the USSR, in places such as Ryazan, Borovichi and Ostashkov. Soldiers of the AK continued to suffer repression in Poland until 1956; many were sentenced to death or long-term imprisonment on trumped-up charges. Right after the war, official propaganda accused the Home Army of murdering Jews who were hiding in the forests. There is no doubt that certain AK units as well as some individuals tied to AK were in fact guilty of such acts. The scale of this phenomenon is very difficult to determine, and has been the object of debates among historians.

22 China Zygmunt

code name Landrat, military police sergeant. From 1942 head of the Home Army's special sabotage-and-execution squad for the Czestochowa City district, responsible for executing sentenced passed by the AK's Special Military Court on informers, collaborators, and particularly cruel Germans. In the fall of 1943, as AK second lieutenant, transported to Warsaw a radio transceiver, assembled in Czestochowa, that during the Warsaw Uprising in August 1944 became known as the Blyskawica (Lightning).

23 Volksdeutscher in Poland

A person who was entered (usually voluntarily, more rarely compulsorily) on a list of people of ethnic German origin during the German occupation was called Volksdeutscher and had various privileges in the occupied territories.

24 NKVD

(Russ.: Narodnyi Komissariat Vnutrennikh Del), People's Committee of Internal Affairs, the supreme security authority in the USSR - the secret police. Founded by Lenin in 1917, it nevertheless played an insignificant role until 1934, when it took over the GPU (the State Political Administration), the political police. The NKVD had its own police and military formations, and also possessed the powers to pass sentence on political matters, and as such in practice had total control over society. Under Stalin's rule the NKVD was the key instrument used to terrorize the civilian population. The NKVD ran a network of labor camps for millions of prisoners, the Gulag. The heads of the NKVD were as follows: Genrikh Yagoda (to 1936), Nikolai Yezhov (to 1938) and Lavrenti Beria. During the war against Germany the political police, the KGB, was spun off from the NKVD. After the war it also operated on USSR-occupied territories, including in Poland, where it assisted the nascent communist authorities in suppressing opposition. In 1946 the NKVD was renamed the Ministry of the Interior.

25 Jewish Self-Help Committees

Spontaneous committees of Jewish self- help were established on territories liberated from German occupation, with the aim of providing material, medical and legal support to Jews who were revealing their identity. The committees established contact with the Department for Aid to Jewish Population [Referat do spraw Pomocy Ludnosci Zydowskiej], which was created in August 1944 by the PKWN (Polish Committee of National Liberation, the first communist government on Polish land) and they received resources via the PKWN. When the Central Committee of Polish Jews (CKZP) was established in 1944, the local committees subordinated themselves to the central one. New ones were created at the same time as local representation of the CKZP. In June 1946 there were 9 committees at regional level, 7 district ones and 50 at the local level. The committees organized orphanages, soup kitchens for the poor, schools, boarding houses, and shelters for the homeless. They registered persons who came to them, provided assistance in searches for family members, offered financial help, as well as help in finding employment. Their activity was mainly funded the American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee (Joint).

26 Treblinka

Village in Poland's Mazovia region, site of two camps. The first was a penal labor camp, established in 1941 and operating until 1944. The second, known as Treblinka II, functioned in the period 1942-43 and was a death camp. Prisoners in the former worked in Treblinka II. In the second camp a ramp and a mock-up of a railway station were built, which prevented the victims from realizing what awaited them until just in front of the entrance to the gas chamber. The camp covered an area of 13.5 hectares. It was bounded by a 3-m high barbed wire fence interwoven densely with pine branches to screen what was going on inside. The whole process of exterminating a transport from arrival in the camp to removal of the corpses from the gas chamber took around 2 hours. Several transports arrived daily. In the 13 months of the extermination camp's existence the Germans gassed some 750,000-800,000 Jews. Those taken to Treblinka included Warsaw Jews during the so-called 'Grossaktion' [great liquidation campaign] in the Warsaw ghetto in the summer of 1942. In addition to Polish Jews, Jews from Austria, Belgium, Bulgaria, Czechoslovakia, France, Greece, Yugoslavia and the USSR were also killed in Treblinka. In the spring of 1943 the Germans gradually began to liquidate the camp. On 2nd August 1943 an uprising broke out there with the aim of enabling some 200 people to escape. The majority died.

27 Lodz Ghetto

It was set up in February 1940 in the former Jewish quarter on the northern outskirts of the city. 164,000 Jews from Lodz were packed together in a 4 sq. km. area. In 1941 and 1942, 38,500 more Jews were deported to the ghetto. In November 1941, 5,000 Roma were also deported to the ghetto from Burgenland province, Austria. The Jewish self- government, led by Mordechai Rumkowsky, sought to make the ghetto as productive as possible and to put as many inmates to work as he could. But not even this could prevent overcrowding and hunger or improve the inhuman living conditions. As a result of epidemics, shortages of fuel and food and insufficient sanitary conditions, about 43,500 people (21% of all the residents of the ghetto) died of undernourishment, cold and illness. The others were transported to death camps; only a very small number of them survived.

28 Bolsheviks

Members of the movement led by Lenin. The name 'Bolshevik' was coined in 1903 and denoted the group that emerged in elections to the key bodies in the Social Democratic Party (SDPRR) considering itself in the majority (Rus. bolshynstvo) within the party. It dubbed its opponents the minority (Rus. menshynstvo, the Mensheviks). Until 1906 the two groups formed one party. The Bolsheviks first gained popularity and support in society during the 1905-07 Revolution. During the February Revolution in 1917 the Bolsheviks were initially in the opposition to the Menshevik and SR ('Sotsialrevolyutsionyery', Socialist Revolutionaries) delegates who controlled the Soviets (councils). When Lenin returned from emigration (16th April) they proclaimed his program of action (the April theses) and under the slogan 'All power to the Soviets' began to Bolshevize the Soviets and prepare for a proletariat revolution. Agitation proceeded on a vast scale, especially in the army. The Bolsheviks set about creating their own armed forces, the Red Guard. Having overthrown the Provisional Government, they created a government with the support of the II Congress of Soviets (the October Revolution), to which they admitted some left-wing SRs in order to gain the support of the peasantry. In 1952 the Bolshevik party was renamed the Communist Party of the Soviet Union.

29 Jasna Gora

Marian sanctuary and Pauline monastery in Czestochowa. In 1382 the church was given by Prince Wladyslaw Opolczyk to the Pauline monks he had had come from Hungary. A few years later the monks were entrusted with the keeping of the painting of Our Lady of Czestochowa, the object of a cult, believed to be the work of St. Luke the Evangelist. Soon afterwards the monastery became one of the most-visited centers of pilgrimage in Europe. The wars waged in the Polish-Czech borderland regions, in the proximity of the monastery, prompted King Sigismund II Vasa to fund the fortification of the Jasna Gora hill. The monastery became a fortified stronghold, which enabled it to repel the attack of the Swedes in 1655. The defense of Jasna Gora from the Swedes under the leadership of Abbot August Kordecki became the legend of the monastery. Today Jasna Gora is the leading Marian center in Poland and receives more than 3 million pilgrims a year.

30 Polish United Workers' Party (PZPR)

Communist party formed in Poland in December 1948 by the fusion of the PPR (Polish Workers' Party) and the PPS (Polish Socialist Party). Until 1989 it was the only party in the country; it held power, but was subordinate to the Soviet Union. After losing the elections in June 1989 it lost its monopoly. On 29th January 1990 the party was dissolved.

31 Flight eastwards, 1939

From the moment of the German attack on Poland on 1st September 1939, Poles began to flee from areas in immediate danger of invasion to the eastern territories, which gave the impression of being safer. When in the wake of the Soviet aggression (17th September) Poland was divided into Soviet and German-occupied zones, hundreds of thousands of refugees from central and western Poland found themselves in the Soviet zone, and more continued to arrive, often waiting weeks for permits to cross the border. The majority of those fleeing the German occupation were Jews. The status of the refugees was different to that of locals: they were treated as dubious elements. During the passport campaign (the issue of passports, i.e. ID, to the new USSR - formerly Polish - citizens) of spring 1940, refugees were issued with documents bearing the proviso that they were prohibited from settling within 100 km of the border. At the end of June 1940 the Soviet authorities launched a vast deportation campaign, during which 82,000 refugees were transported deep into the Soviet Union, mainly to the Novosibirsk and Archangelsk districts. 84% of those deported in that campaign were Jews, and 11% Poles. The deportees were subjected to harsh physical labor. Paradoxically, for the Jews, exile proved their salvation: a year later, when the Soviet Union's western border areas were occupied by the Germans, those Jews who had managed to stay put, perished in the Holocaust.

32 Students' Protest in March 1968

on 4th March 1968 the Minister of Education decided to expel from Warsaw University two students: Adam Michnik and Henryk Szlajfer. A few weeks earlier these students gave a French press correspondent an account of the militia breaking up a demonstration on 1st February. The demonstrators were youth protesting against a ban of the staging of the play Dziady (a strongly anti-Russian drama from the 19th century) in Teatr Narodowy (National Theater). On 8th March 1968 students organized a rally in the courtyard of Warsaw University. They passed a resolution demanding restoration of student rights to Michnik and Szlajfer, as well as annulling legal action against the arrested demonstrators from 1st February. During the rally units of militia and so-called workmen activists came into the courtyard and started beating the students with truncheons, breaking up the rally. The next day a demonstrating solidarity rally was conducted at the Warsaw University of Technology, and was also attacked by the militia. In the following days such rallies were organized in several large academic centers. About 1600 among the detained students were expelled from the universities, 350 arrested, many young men drafted into the army. Those professors from Warsaw University and other higher education facilities in Poland, who showed solidarity towards the students, were laid off work.

33 Lem, Stanislaw (1921-2006)

Writer and essayist, author of science fiction novels. Debuted in 1946 with the novel 'Man from Mars', some lyric poems, popular science articles, and short adventure and war stories. Following the publication of his contemporary novel 'Time Saved' (originally 'Hospital of the Transfiguration'), which was heavily censored, Lem devoted himself to science fiction. He was a pioneer in this genre, and his works quickly became classics. His science fiction novels also address the issue of the consequences of civilization and scientific progress ('Solaris', 'The Futurological Congress', 'Fiasco'); while some contain parodies of and grotesque twists on the sci-fi theme ('The Book of Robots'). Another group of works are collections of fictional reviews and introductions to non-existent books ('A Perfect Vacuum'). In his essays Lem describes the impact of technological progress on the evolution of human philosophy. His most famous essay is 'Summa Technologiae'. Lem's works have been translated into several languages, and have also been adapted for the screen.

34 Polish October 1956

the culmination of the political, social and economic transformations that brought about the collapse of the dictatorial regime after the death of Stalin (1953). From 1954 the political system in Poland gradually thawed (censorship was scaled down, for instance, and political prisoners were slowly released - in April and May 1956 some 35,000 people were let out of prison). But the economic situation was deteriorating and the social and political crisis mounting. On 28th June a strike and demonstration on the streets of Poznan escalated into an armed revolt, which was suppressed by police and army units. From 19th to 21st October 1956 a political breakthrough occurred, the 8th Plenum of the PZPR Central Committee met under social pressure (rallies in factories and universities), and there was the threat of intervention by Soviet troops. Gomulka was appointed First Secretary of the PZPR Central Committee, and won the support of many groups, including a rally numbering hundreds of thousands of people in Warsaw on 24th October. From 15th to 18th November the terms on which Soviet troops were stationed in Poland were agreed, a proportion of Poland's debt was annulled, the resettlement of Poles back from the USSR was resumed, and by the end of 1956 a large number of people found guilty in political trials were rehabilitated. There were changes at the top in the Polish Army: Marshal Rokossowski and the Soviet generals went back to the USSR, and changes also to the civilian authorities and the programs of political factions. In November 1956 permission was granted for the creation of workers' councils in state enterprises, and the management of the economy was improved somewhat. In subsequent months, however, the process of partial democratization was halted, and supporters of continuing change ('revisionists') were censured.

35 Yad Vashem

This museum, founded in 1953 in Jerusalem, honors both Holocaust martyrs and 'the Righteous Among the Nations', non-Jewish rescuers who have been recognized for their 'compassion, courage and morality.'

36 Tarbut

Zionist educational organization. Founded in the Soviet Union in 1917, it was soon dissolved by the Soviet authorities. It continued its activity in Central and Eastern European countries; in Poland from 1922. The language of instruction in Tarbut schools was Hebrew; the curriculum included biblical and contemporary Hebrew literature, sciences, Polish, and technical and vocational subjects.

37 Gomulka Campaign

A campaign to sack Jews employed in the Ministry of Internal Affairs, the army and the central administration. The trigger of this anti-Semitic campaign was the involvement of the Socialist Bloc countries on the Arab side in the Middle East conflict, in connection with which Moscow ordered purges in state institutions. On 19th June 1967, at a trade union congress, the then First Secretary of the Polish United Workers' Party [PZPR], Wladyslaw Gomulka, accused the Jews of lack of loyalty to the state and of publicly demonstrating their enthusiasm for Israel's victory in the Six-Day-War. This marked the start of purges among journalists and people of other creative professions. Poland also severed diplomatic relations with Israel. On 8th March 1968 there was a protest at Warsaw University. The Ministry of Internal Affairs responded by launching a press campaign and organizing mass demonstrations in factories and workplaces during which 'Zionists' and 'trouble-makers' were indicted and anti-Semitic and anti-intelligentsia slogans shouted. Following the events of March, purges were also staged in all state institutions, from factories to universities, on criteria of nationality and race. 'Family liability' was also introduced (e.g. with respect to people whose spouses were Jewish). Jews were forced to emigrate. From 1968-1971 15,000-30,000 people left Poland. They were stripped of their citizenship and right of return.

38 Social and Cultural Society of Polish Jews (TSKZ)

Founded in 1950 when the Central Committee of Polish Jews merged with the Jewish Society of Culture. From 1950-1991 it was the sole body representing Jews in Poland. Its statutory aim was to develop, preserve and propagate Jewish culture. During the socialist period this aim was subordinated to communist ideology. Post-1989 most young activists gravitated towards other Jewish organizations. However, the SCSPJ continues to organize a range of cultural events and has its own magazine - The Jewish Word. It is primarily an organization of older people, who, however, have been involved with it for years.

39 Tuwim, Julian (1894-1953)

Poet and translator; wrote in Polish. He was born in Lodz into an assimilated family from Lithuania. He studied law and philosophy at Warsaw University, and was a leading representative of the Skamander group of poets. His early work combined elements of Futurism and Expressionism (e.g. Czychanie na Boga [Lying in wait for God], 1918). In the 1920s his poetry took a turn towards lyricism (e.g. Slowa we krwi [Words in blood], 1926). In the 1930s under the influence of the rise in nationalistic tendencies in Poland his work took on the form of satire and political grotesque (Bal w operze [A ball at the opera], 1936). He also published works for children. A separate area of his writings are cabarets, libretti, sketches and monologues. He spent WWII in emigration and made public appearances in which he relayed information on the fate of the Polish population of Poland and the rest of Europe. In 1944 he published an extended poem, 'My Zydzi polscy' [We Polish Jews], which was a manifesto of his complicated Polish-Jewish identity. After the war he returned to Poland but wrote little. He was the chairman of the Society of Friends of the Hebrew University and the Committee for Polish-Israeli Friendship.

Vera Burdenko

Vera Burdenko and her sister Lilia Korolik

Vera Burdenko
Kiev
Ukraine
Interviewer: Zhanna Litinskaya
Date of interview: April 2002

My father Ierahmil Korolik was born into a very rich family in Kiev in 1898. His father Morduh Korolik was a merchant of Guild I 1. He was born in Kiev around 1865. My grandmother's maiden name was Golda Gorodetskaya. She was born in 1872. I don't know her place of birth. My grandfather and grandmother lived in the center of Kiev. They were not subject to the residential restrictions that had an impact on other Jewish people in tsarist Russia [see Jewish Pale of Settlement] 2. I don't know what kind of business my great-grandfather was involved in. I believe that he was in the same business that his son was, and his son must have inherited this business from him.

Grandfather Morduh had many houses that were on lease. I don't know exactly how many he had or their location but I remember my father and I passing some big houses and my father telling me that those had been my grandfather's before the [Russian] Revolution of 1917 3. They were one-storied, but they seemed huge to me, perhaps because I was small then. The family lived in one of those houses before the Revolution. I don't know how many rooms they had, but from what my father told me they lived quite a luxurious life. They had expensive furniture in their apartment, a grand piano, crystal chandeliers, velvet curtains and cozy sofas. This was a rich home of a respected man.

My grandfather was a very religious man: he observed all Jewish traditions and said his prayers. They followed the kashrut and celebrated Sabbath - my grandfather came home early on Friday and my grandmother lit the candles. They weren't even allowed to strike a match on Saturday, therefore the festive dinner was cooked and served by housemaids. However, they had housemaids anyway, and my grandmother didn't bother herself with the cooking or cleaning of the house. Of course, she handled and supervised the housekeeping. My grandmother gave all necessary products to the cook herself.

They led a luxurious way of life. My grandmother went to fashionable shops; she dressed beautifully and was quite unlike the Orthodox matrons in their shawls and wigs. She had fashionable hats and capes, jewelry and fur coats. She wasn't as religious as my grandfather Morduh. She didn't pray every day, but all Jewish traditions were to be observed in the house. She wanted to support her husband in his belief. My grandfather had all religious accessories at home: tallit, tefillin and the Talmud. After my grandfather died in the early 1930s my father kept his tallit in a drawer of his desk. We, children, had no idea what it was and asked my father permission to borrow it for one of our games. My father, however kind and nice, strictly forbade us to take it.

My grandfather Morduh made a significant contribution to the development of the Jewish community in Kiev. He provided money for the building of a synagogue, which is located in the area that belongs to the Transsignal Plant today. During the Soviet power it became another facility at the plant, but it was returned to the Jewish community in 2001. That's the synagogue that was built by my grandfather and I'm pleased to know that.

My grandfather and grandmother Korolik had two children: my father and his younger sister Esphir, born around 1902. I only have one picture of her when she was a child. Esphir was married to a famous obstetrician in Kiev. His last name was Medovar. They had no children. When the war began her husband was recruited to the army. Esphir went into evacuation. She had a heart attack on the train and died in August 1941.

My father finished school and led a very secular way of life. He was a fashionable young man. He wrote poems and was fond of theater and music and free from any responsibilities or obligations.

The Revolution put an end to this luxurious way of life in 1917. The Bolsheviks expropriated all real estate of the family, leaving them to live in a small house. They took away all valuables: silver, jewelry, gold and their savings. After the Revolution my grandparents lived in a two-storied wooden house on Kerosinnaya Street. We often visited them when I was a child. I remember a small garden near the house where we used to play. My grandparents lived on the second floor of the house and when we went upstairs we could already smell the delicious food that my grandmother was cooking for us. I remember little triangle pies with poppy seeds that my grandmother made for Purim. I didn't know the name of this holiday back then but I remember how delicious and joyful it was. At Chanukkah we, kids, always got some money and sweets, and there were always doughnuts and potato pancakes on the table. Well, my grandfather's house is associated with the smell of doughnuts to me. There was stuffed fish, chicken broth and stuffed chicken and many other delicacies on the table.

I don't know how my grandparents made their living after the Revolution. I believe my grandfather managed to save some valuables from being expropriated. They led a modest but fairly good life. After my grandfather died in 1932 my grandmother Golda lived with us for some time and then she moved to her cousin. I don't know whether my grandmother followed any traditions at the end of her life, but she wasn't fanatically religious anyway. I guess she went to the synagogue, although I'm not sure about it. But she probably observed the high holidays, such as Yom Kippur and Rosh Hashanah. She died in 1946 in evacuation in the Middle East.

My mother Evgenia Welkomirskaya was born in 1888. She was born in Poland, but where exactly I don't know.

My grandfather's name was Wazlav Welkomirskiy. He was born around 1860. He may have been given a Jewish name when he was born, but they lived in Poland and he probably changed it. I have no information about his education. It must have been some technical or some kind of higher education because he worked at the railcar shops as a skilled worker and then as an engineer in Kiev. They moved to Kiev long before World War I, some time around 1900. I don't know why they moved. My grandfather received an award from the Russian government. It was a beautiful red ribbon and the words 'Hero of Labor' were written on it. He was awarded it in the first years after the Revolution. My grandmother's name was Welkomirskaya. I don't know her first and maiden name. I know very little about my grandparents on my mother's side. They died before I was born. I guess, they died in the early 1920s. The Welkomirskiy family wasn't religious. At least, I can't remember my mother ever telling me about any religious traditions in their family.

My mother was their only daughter. Her parents weren't rich but she received a good education. She finished a grammar school in Kiev, located on Fundukleyevskaya Street in the center of Kiev. Later this street was called Lenin Street and now it is Bogdan Khmelnitskiy Street. My mother became a private teacher in rich families when she was young and worked as a governess in the summertime when the rich left the city for their country houses. I have a picture of my mother at the time when she was working for one of those families. At the same time my mother studied in a private music school.

After finishing school she went to St. Petersburg Conservatory, passed all the exams and received a diploma of the Petersburg Conservatory signed by Ilia Glazunov [a famous Russian pianist and composer]. This diploma gave my mother the right to teach music. She returned to Kiev and began to give private music classes. She was invited to the house of my father - to teach him and his sister music. My father was much younger than his music teacher but he fell in love with her immediately. He kept silent for several years, although my mother understood that her student wasn't indifferent to her. When he told her of his love she got scared and left, refusing to teach him music any more.

My father told his parents that he couldn't live without Evgenia and asked their permission to marry her. Of course, they were against it. Firstly, my mother was ten years older than my father; an age difference which wasn't quite typical in Jewish families. Secondly, she came from a lower class of society. My father had a big argument with his parents. The result was that he took his razor, underwear and a book of poems and came to my mother. They were living together, which was against any moral principles of society. Their first baby was a boy. He didn't even reach the age of one. He died approximately in 1920. Later my parents had a civil ceremony and only after that they were allowed to visit their parents. My father could never forgive his parents that they didn't accept my mother. They did accept her later, but my husband couldn't forget that they were dead against their marriage.

My father had no education besides school, and my mother insisted that he entered a higher educational institute. He entered the extramural department of Kiev Engineering and Construction Institute. He worked as a foreman and then engineer on a construction site even before he finished his studies at this institute. My father always came home late and was very tired. I remember my mother telling us not to bother him because he had to do his homework. But my father always found some time to spend with us. He was very fond of his children. Upon graduation my father went to work at a plant and then at the Ministry of Construction. My mother was teaching music privately and that was what our family lived on.

I was born in Kiev in 1925 and was the oldest of the children. My sister Lilia was born in 1929. She was born a weak and sickly girl. She got ill with tuberculosis when she was three years old. It was lung and kidney and osseous tuberculosis. She couldn't walk for a few years. She was confined to bed. I loved her a lot and spent lots of time with her. I read books to her when my mother went to her classes. Lilia learned to read when she was very young and was reading too much. Reading had an impact on her sight. In 1932 my mother had twins - Anna and Tamara, but we called them Asia and Tasia at home. My mother was 45 and she wanted no more children. But abortions weren't allowed at that time and my mother had no option. Our life was very poor and miserable then. I remember we kept potatoes under the grand piano - it was the only dry spot in the apartment. My mother made potato soup and some second course dish - this was our main food. Once Lilia and I took out a couple of potatoes and ate them raw while waiting for our mother.

I started school in 1933. It was an ordinary Russian secondary school. There were children of many nationalities, including Jewish children, who studied there. There was no issue of nationality then - we were all Soviet children and we were all equal. I was a poor pupil. I mostly got grade '3' - out of the '5' grade system. I took no interest in mathematics or physics and these subjects were very difficult. However, I read a lot and knew Russian literature well.

My biggest hobby was music. My mother taught music to me and Lilia. Lilia recovered and went to the same school where I studied. Our family was rather poor. I remember my mother giving us jam sandwiches for lunch at school. I was ashamed of these sandwiches. Many other children had sandwiches with fish, sausage or cheese. I tried to eat my sandwiches when nobody could see me. If there were children around, I would suffer from hunger and never take my 'poor' sandwiches out of my bag, so that nobody would see them. Lilia took such things easy and enjoyed eating everything that my mother gave us. She managed to exchange her sandwich for something more delicious. In exchange she solved problems in mathematics or wrote compositions for other children.

We lived in a big four-bedroom apartment on Tarasovskaya Street in the center of Kiev. This was the apartment of my mother's parents. Later the authorities gave two rooms to two young workers that came from provincial areas. I remember them well - the two young girls in red shawls. The apartment was furnished with pre-revolutionary furniture that belonged to my mother's parents. There were two instruments: my mother's piano, which she had had since her childhood, and the grand piano, a gift of Morduh, my father's father.

We had a big kitchen and my mother cooked on the Primus stove. We didn't have a bathroom and the family went to the sauna twice a week. We had a housemaid because my mother couldn't handle the housekeeping just by herself. The housemaid was a common Ukrainian woman. She came to Kiev in 1933, during the famine 4, and stayed with us. She slept on the sofa in the living room and my parents and the four of us, children, slept in our bedroom.

In summer we often went to the village where Glasha - this was our nanny's name - lived. My mother spent a lot of time with us: she taught us music and French. We had a rule: we had to speak French on certain days and the one who broke this rule had to learn a poem or a fable by heart and recite it. We went for walks in the Botanical Gardens not far from our house or to the railway station. At that time it was a usual thing to go for a walk to the railway station.

My father was working a lot. He was a real Soviet man. He became a member of the Communist Party in the early 1930s. He believed in the five-year plan 5 and in socialism and communism and he used to convince us even in the most difficult years that those were temporary difficulties in our country and that everything would be fine some day. My parents' friends often came to our home. We celebrated 1st May and October Revolution Day 6. Everybody enjoyed these holidays, we danced and sang Soviet songs.

We spoke Russian at home. We didn't celebrated any traditional Jewish holidays. We only heard Yiddish when we visited our grandparents. They always celebrated Jewish holidays and my father used to take us to his parents especially for the holidays. I cannot say exactly what kind of holidays they celebrated, nobody told us anything about them, about their history. They must have been afraid that we might mention it at school and cause problems, of course, because in the 1930s religion was already persecuted by the authorities [see struggle against religion] 7. We started getting this information about the past only recently, in the 1990s. I believe the celebrations were at Chanukkah, Purim, Rosh Hashanah, and we, kids, always got money and sweets. My mother hardly ever visited my paternal grandparents. She always remembered that she had been rejected by her husband's parents. We had many books at home. My grandfather gave his collection of books to my father and my father added new books to it. There were books by Russian and Jewish writers and international classics, all in Russian. My parents led an ordinary life of the Soviet intelligentsia.

Everything went fine until unjustified arrests and repression began in the late 1930s [during the so-called Great Terror] 8. We, children, didn't quite understand what was happening. We saw that our parents were upset and depressed. My father often came home from work looking pale and lost. My parents went to the room and closed the door behind them. They used to talk for a long time. Later we got to know that one of my father's closest friends had been executed. My father was called to the NKVD 9. They forbade him to help his friend's family. But he did support them. And he did it openly. It was difficult because my father's salary was very small. And the money that my mother made was a modest support of our family budget. Often we had nothing left before the next pay day. This support that my father decided to provide was dangerous and also hard from a material point of view. But my father thought it was a question of honor and he openly visited his friend's wife and helped her as much as he could.

These people were our neighbors. Once we, children, started teasing the children of this man that was executed. We didn't quite understand what we were doing. My father hit me for the first time in my life. He said I was the oldest and was supposed to understand how mean it was on our part. We never did it again. Every day my father was saying goodbye to my mother before going to work, because he didn't know whether or not he would be back. It was especially frightening at nighttime. They used to arrest people at night. However, providence must have protected my father. My mother's cousin was arrested. He was an actor. His stage name was Kardiani and that was the only name that I knew him by. He probably said something politically incorrect and was arrested right on the stage. Nobody ever saw him again. In the middle of the 1950s his children received documents confirming his rehabilitation 10 and his death certificate. He died in one of Stalin's camps [see Gulag] 11.

The war was a complete surprise for us. I remember 22nd June 1941, the first day of the [Great Patriotic] War 12. We were wondering what a war was like and what was ahead of us. My father was sure that the war would be over within a few weeks and that Kiev wouldn't be left by our army and that there was nothing to worry about. Nobody in our family ever spoke about Hitler exterminating the Jewish population. I think my parents forgot that they were Jews. In the middle of July Jews from Western Ukraine appeared in the Botanical Gardens: children, old people and women. They lived in the open air, tents or on the ground. They presented a horrible sight. They were telling people the truth about the extermination of Jewish people by Germans. Then the Minister of Construction, my father's boss, called my father. He told him to get ready and leave with the family.

We went to the railway station on a horse-drawn cart. Asia and Tasia were enjoying themselves. They found everything interesting. But Lilia and I seemed to begin to understand that a war was no game and that we were to go through a hard time. Still, the reality turned out to be much more frightening than any of our childish concerns. We were going by train. We were in lack of food and water. My father got off the train when it stopped to look for some food. We were giving away anything we could in exchange for food.

At first we lived in the village of Korzovo, Kuibyshev region. It was a distant village and we lived in a house that had been deserted by its former tenants. My father went to work on a collective farm 13. My mother and I planted some vegetables in the garden. Although it was already summer we hoped that we would be able to do some harvesting. The collective farm gave my father a piglet to breed and slaughter afterwards. This piglet lived with us in the house. We called him Vaska. We gave him food and played with him. He was like a dog to us. He was very smart and nice. When the time came to slaughter him we all cried so hard that the adults had to take him to the neighbor's yard to slaughter. We cried for a long time remembering our Vaska. We refused to eat the meat and sausage and our parents had to sell these products or exchange them for other food products. I have horrible memories of the evacuation. It was destitution and starvation all along. This was life full of search for food and hard work.

Later, in 1943, my father was called to join the labor front and he left for Kuibyshev. We joined him some time later. We lived in a big house in Kuibyshev. My father worked at a military plant. My mother was constantly doing different work to earn a little. She gave music lessons or did the washing and cleaning for richer families. I finished school. My younger sisters also studied. But Lilia fell ill with osseous tuberculosis. She was confined to bed again. While staying in bed she learned to sew and made clothes for me and my little sisters. She was very good at it. She could make a nice dress or skirt from a little piece of fabric. She could even make beautiful hats. After the war we wore what Lilia was making us for a long time. Lilia had to stay in bed for almost two years, until the time when we had to return to Kiev.

Post-war

We returned to Kiev immediately after the war was over. It took my father some time to obtain a request from his workplace and permits for the members of his family. It was necessary to have the relevant documents and permits to be able to go back home from evacuation [see residence permit] 14. When we returned to Kiev Kreschatik [the main street of Kiev] was in ruins. Many buildings in Kiev were ruined. Our apartment on Tarasovskaya Street was occupied. Our furniture and what was even more important - our piano and grand piano - were in this apartment. My mother couldn't work without her instruments. We had to get them back. My parents had to appeal in court for what was theirs. In a few years' time my father received an apartment in a new building on Tverskaya Street, where I live to this day. My sisters and me continued to study in school.

I entered Kiev Music School. After finishing it I entered the flute department at the Conservatory. Lilia studied at the conducting/choir department of Kiev Music School. She met Igor Ivaschenko, a nice, young Ukrainian man, and married him in 1949. All of us lived in this three-bedroom apartment on Tverskaya Street: my parents, Lilia, her husband and their daughter Irina, born in 1951, Asia, Tasia and I. My bed was in the bathroom for quite some time - our bathroom was a big room - and we used to look at things with a sense of humor. We always had guests at home. My younger sisters' friends used to visit them right after their classes were over, conservatory students used to come by and we all enjoyed ourselves and felt comfortable, although our living conditions were always rather difficult. Later Tasia entered Kishinyov Conservatory. It became more and more difficult for a Jew to enter higher educational institutions or find a job.

I need to say that my family didn't face any problems associated with the anti-Semitism of the late 1940s - early 1950s. I remember my father having some problems at work but things must have come to a quite satisfactory solution. The persecution of Jewish lecturers began at the Conservatory. Many of them were dismissed and many had to move to Siberia, to the North or to smaller towns because they couldn't find a job in Kiev. However, students weren't involved somehow and these processes went past us.

I faced anti-Semitism only when I was obtaining my [mandatory] job assignment 15. I had a request from Kiev Opera House sent to the Conservatory asking them to issue a job assignment to me at the Opera House. But of course, because of my nationality the Conservatory assigned me to go to Donetsk. There were quite a few Jews in the Conservatory, talented violinists or pianists and they were all sent to smaller towns; not one of them could stay in Kiev. I was a 4th-year student when I married Yavorskiy, a music expert. He was a Jew and he was many years older than I. We didn't last a year together. His attitude towards me was fatherly and he patronized me even after we got divorced in 1950. He was very well-known in the Kiev musical circles but even he couldn't help me to stay in Kiev.

I worked at Donetsk Opera House for three years. In 1953 Stalin died. There was a meeting in the concert hall and the actors went onstage to hold a speech, and they cried and each of them said that we had lost 'our father', etc. My friend and I were sitting in the audience. And all of a sudden we burst out laughing. It must have been either out of nervousness or because we just couldn't bear the hypocrisy of it all. The master of ceremony came to reprimand us. He threatened that they would ask us to leave the ceremony. So we had to calm down. We were afraid that they might dismiss or arrest us afterwards.

In Donetsk I met Lekov, the choreographer of Donetsk Opera House. He was a handsome man and women adored him. I fell head over heels in love with him. We lived together and I came to Kiev when I was pregnant. Lekov came with me and we settled down at my father's place. Lekov got employed by Kiev Opera House and was chief choreographer there for some time. He treated me nicely for a while. Then he got loose and fell for another woman. It was all so scandalous. My family just told him to get lost.

Lilia was very sympathetic and stayed with me all this time. A few weeks later I gave birth to my son. This was in 1955. I was single - Lekov and I never got married - and we gave Zhenia my father's last name; and the patronymic accordingly: Evgeniy Mikhailovich Korolik. My mother died in 1956. (Photo 7) Our apartment was empty by then. Igor Ivaschenko was offered a job with the Virskiy Folk Dance Group. Igor was a very talented pianist and conductor and he was very popular with employers. All kinds of groups tried to employ him. But Virskiy gave him a room and then, in a year's time a good two-bedroom apartment.

Asia and Tasia got married in due time. My father, my son and I stayed in the apartment on Tverskaya Street. My father didn't remarry for ten years after my mother's death. He loved my mother and couldn't forget her. Besides, he felt responsible for me and my son. I didn't have a job and I was dependent on my father and Lilia. I must say that Lilia lived very well at that time. Her husband Igor went abroad on tours and they were very well-off. And she always remembered that her sister needed help. She always bought or made things double - one was always for Vera, me.

In order to cheer up a little I took to visiting the amateur Russian Folk Orchestra. I met a horn player there, Valeriy Burdenko, a Jew, and he fell in love with me. Valeriy was 14 years younger than me and grew up in a traditional Jewish family. His father was deeply religious. His whole family was religious. His parents were fasting at Yom Kippur. They cooked traditional food and observed Sabbath, went to the synagogue regularly and followed the kashrut. Valeriy was used to the Jewish way of life, but he wasn't religious himself.

Valeriy was an only son and his parents sincerely wished for him to be happy. And happiness suggested that all Jewish rules should be remembered: in religious Jewish families a wife had to be younger than her husband, hold a lower social position and education. She couldn't have been married before, or have a child. If she didn't meet all these requirements neither the parents nor a rabbi would have allowed such marriage. Of course, his parents were dead against our marriage. I, too, thought and told him that the differences made it impossible for us to be together. But Valeriy didn't give up. He visited me and he played with my son. He was so caring that I gave in. I also recalled that my mother was ten years younger than my father but that they loved each other so much and lived a long life with this love.

I married Valeriy and never once regretted it. He adopted my son and gave him his name. My son is called Evgeniy Valerievich Burdenko now. Our son Sasha was born in 1964. ???? We were an ordinary Soviet family and celebrated communist holidays and birthdays, visited relatives and friends. There was nothing related to the Jewish way of life in our life then. Sasha finished an ordinary Russian secondary school. There were no other schools in the Soviet Union then. Simultaneously he learned to play the piano at the music school. He was very gifted when it came to music. He tried to enter Leningrad Conservatory; we didn't even try to submit documents to Kiev Conservatory knowing its anti- Semitic atmosphere. It turned out to be no easier in Leningrad. My son successfully passed all his exams in his category, but got a '3' in the history of the Party. Sasha went to the army and then entered Kiev Conservatory and finished it.

Sasha and his Jewish wife - she too is a musician - moved to Germany. He lives in the vicinity of Munich, he is a recognized musician, he published records and CDs and he has students, too. His son Yuliy was born in 1998. My older son Evgeniy lives in Kiev. He and Valeriy opened a car company. His wife Zhenia and he have two children: their son Kirill, born in 1986 and their daughter Daria, born in 1989. So, I'm a happy wife, mother and grandmother.

My father got married for a second time in 1966 after I got my life under control. He went to live with his wife Maria Lvovna, a Jew. They lived together for six years until his death in 1972.

My sister Lilia divorced Igor Ivaschenko when their daughter Irina was ten years old. Later Lilia married a musician ten years her junior, and her daughter Irina is eight years older than her husband. Therefore, it is our family tradition. However, all women in our family have been loved and cared for by their husbands. Lilia worked as a singer at Kiev Ukrainian Drama Theater for many years. In 1998 she died after terrible pain of cancer. Her daughter Irina lives in Kiev. She is a TV producer.

My younger sisters Asia and Tasia live in Israel. Tasia finished Kiev Radio Engineering College. She married Misha Markov, a Jew. They met at the plant where she used to work. They have two daughters: Maria, born in 1960 and Elena, born in 1964. They all moved to Israel in 1989. They left for the sake of Misha. He had a weak heart and needed a surgery that wasn't possible in our country. Although they were leaving at the time of perestroika 16, the departure was still a humiliating process when it came to resigning from work, obtaining all necessary documents and especially - at the moment of departure. The train was available five minutes before departure. Adults and children were crying and yelling, throwing their luggage through the windows. There was a disdainful behavior by the service personnel - this whole scene could only be compared with evacuation. But Asia's family went through it. Misha had a surgery in Israel. He worked many years before he retired. They got to love Israel; its religion and culture has become theirs. Misha became an active member of a party, but which party exactly I don't know, and takes part in the political and cultural life of Israel. They live in Ashdod.

Asia got educated at Kishinyov Conservatory and worked as a music teacher for some time. She married Alexei Reshetnichenko, a Ukrainian man. He was a sailor and worked as an engineer after his retirement. Asia and Alexei have a daughter, Tatiana, born in 1959. Tatiana was married to Miroslav Vishnevetskiy. They were friends since school. Miroslav was a very intelligent and energetic man, but he put all his energy into criminal business. As a result Miroslav disappeared - he was most likely murdered - and Tatiana and her two children had to escape from the country urgently. The criminals never left her alone: they demanded huge amounts of money and threatened to kill her and kidnap her children. And the only prompt way to escape was emigration to Israel. Asia, Tatiana and the children left for Israel in 1997. Alexei stayed in Kiev to arrange the sale of the apartment. But he died shortly afterwards - it must have been all the tension and nerves. Tasia waited for Miroslav several years, but then she married an Israelite when she understood that Miroslav wasn't among the living. Asia lives near Tatiana in Ashdod. She gives private lessons. She rings up her grandchildren.

So, it was destiny that the members of our assimilated family who didn't know Yiddish, Jewish religion, tradition or culture moved to Israel. . As for me, I returned to Jewish traditions some time before. My husband Valeriy grew up in a family that observed all Jewish traditions. At the beginning of our life together I tried to follow this way of life to please him. But in due time I understood that I was really drawn to my roots - the Jewish culture, language and traditions. We don't know Yiddish and don't know the holidays or traditions. We don't remember or don't have any idea about how to go about them. It's too late to start things now. We were raised as atheists and we still celebrate all Soviet holidays, although there is no USSR any more. But it's our life and we can't change anything about it.

I believe this is the way many Jews in this country lived their lives. But I'm interested and I'm trying to learn more about the Jewish culture. When my husband and I went to visit my sisters in Israel I felt that I stepped onto my motherland. I like Israel very much and if the children wanted to go there we would emigrate to this country. But Sasha is all right in Germany and Zhenia likes it in Ukraine. My husband and I try to be with our children: we live in Kiev and travel to Germany to visit Sasha. My husband and I went to the synagogue, founded by my grandfather Morduh, several times. I'm not a religious person but I was excited to enter this synagogue. It is wonderful that Jewish life has been restored in Ukraine and that we have Jewish newspapers, synagogues and cultural centers. I hope that our grandchildren will be closer to the Jewish way of life than we, children of the Soviet country.

My family background
Growing up
My school years
During the war
Post-war
My husband
My present-day life

1 Guild I

In tsarist Russia merchants belonged to Guild I, II or III. Merchants of Guild I were allowed to trade with foreign merchants, while the others were allowed to trade only within Russia.

2 Jewish Pale of Settlement

Certain provinces in the Russian Empire were designated for permanent Jewish residence and the Jewish population was only allowed to live in these areas. The Pale was first established by a decree by Catherine II in 1791. The regulation was in force until the Russian Revolution of 1917, although the limits of the Pale were modified several times. The Pale stretched from the Baltic Sea to the Black Sea, and 94% of the total Jewish population of Russia, almost 5 million people, lived there. The overwhelming majority of the Jews lived in the towns and shtetls of the Pale. Certain privileged groups of Jews, such as certain merchants, university graduates and craftsmen working in certain branches, were granted to live outside the borders of the Pale of Settlement permanently.

3 Russian Revolution of 1917

4 Famine in Ukraine

In 1920 a deliberate famine was introduced in the Ukraine causing the death of millions of people. It was arranged in order to suppress those protesting peasants who did not want to join the collective farms. There was another dreadful deliberate famine in 1930-1934 in the Ukraine. The authorities took away the last food products from the peasants. People were dying in the streets, whole villages became deserted. The authorities arranged this specifically to suppress the rebellious peasants who did not want to accept Soviet power and join collective farms.

5 Five-year plan

five-year plans of social and industrial development in the USSR an element of directive centralized planning, introduced into economy in 1928. There were twelve five-year periods between 1929-90.

6 October Revolution Day

October 25 (according to the old calendar), 1917 went down in history as victory day for the Great October Socialist Revolution in Russia. This day is the most significant date in the history of the USSR. Today the anniversary is celebrated as 'Day of Accord and Reconciliation' on November 7.

7 Struggle against religion

8 Great Terror (1934-1938)

During the Great Terror, or Great Purges, which included the notorious show trials of Stalin's former Bolshevik opponents in 1936-1938 and reached its peak in 1937 and 1938, millions of innocent Soviet citizens were sent off to labor camps or killed in prison. The major targets of the Great Terror were communists. Over half of the people who were arrested were members of the party at the time of their arrest. The armed forces, the Communist Party, and the government in general were purged of all allegedly dissident persons; the victims were generally sentenced to death or to long terms of hard labor. Much of the purge was carried out in secret, and only a few cases were tried in public 'show trials'. By the time the terror subsided in 1939, Stalin had managed to bring both the Party and the public to a state of complete submission to his rule. Soviet society was so atomized and the people so fearful of reprisals that mass arrests were no longer necessary. Stalin ruled as absolute dictator of the Soviet Union until his death in March 1953.

9 NKVD

People's Committee of Internal Affairs; it took over from the GPU, the state security agency, in 1934.

10 Rehabilitation in the Soviet Union

Many people who had been arrested, disappeared or killed during the Stalinist era were rehabilitated after the 20th Congress of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union in 1956, where Khrushchev publicly debunked the cult of Stalin and lifted the veil of secrecy from what had happened in the USSR during Stalin's leadership. It was only after the official rehabilitation that people learnt for the first time what had happened to their relatives as information on arrested people had not been disclosed before.

11 Gulag

The Soviet system of forced labor camps in the remote regions of Siberia and the Far North, which was first established in 1919. However, it was not until the early 1930s that there was a significant number of inmates in the camps. By 1934 the Gulag, or the Main Directorate for Corrective Labor Camps, then under the Cheka's successor organization the NKVD, had several million inmates. The prisoners included murderers, thieves, and other common criminals, along with political and religious dissenters. The Gulag camps made significant contributions to the Soviet economy during the rule of Stalin. Conditions in the camps were extremely harsh. After Stalin died in 1953, the population of the camps was reduced significantly, and conditions for the inmates improved somewhat.

12 Great Patriotic War

13 Collective farm (in Russian kolkhoz)

In the Soviet Union the policy of gradual and voluntary collectivization of agriculture was adopted in 1927 to encourage food production while freeing labor and capital for industrial development. In 1929, with only 4% of farms in kolkhozes, Stalin ordered the confiscation of peasants' land, tools, and animals; the kolkhoz replaced the family farm.

14 Residence permit

The Soviet authorities restricted freedom of travel within the USSR through the residence permit and kept everybody's whereabouts under control. Every individual in the USSR needed residential registration; this was a stamp in the passport giving the permanent address of the individual. It was impossible to find a job, or even to travel within the country, without such a stamp. In order to register at somebody else's apartment one had to be a close relative and if each resident of the apartment had at least 8 square meters to themselves.

15 Mandatory job assignment in the USSR

16 Perestroika (Russian for restructuring)

Gisya Rubinchik

It was not easy to talk to Gisya Rubinchik. She was constantly turning her eyes towards the door of her sick son's room. Thus it was sometimes embarrassing to ask her about details of various events. People like her can be called great martyrs - so many ordeals she had to withstand! A cultured, educated and noble-looking person, at her 83 years of age, she has preserved a tenacious memory, expressive speech, and most importantly, an unusual courage.

My family background

I was born in 1919 in the town of Shklov located on the Dnieper river. When I was young there was a magnificent park in this town, second after the one in Minsk in size and beauty. Shklov was a small, green, and very picturesque town. It's famous in Russian history. When it was still a village, Catherine II 1 declared it one of her favorites. Poles lived there, Belarus and a lot of Jews, too. They were generally craftsmen. Everyone lived in peace and friendship. The doors of our house were never locked.

My father's name was Evsei Lapis. Evsei is a Russian alteration of the Jewish name Ieshua. Later, when I received my passport, an illiterate employee of the passport bureau put down my patronymic absolutely wrong: Gamseyevna. My real name is Gisya Evseyevna, but she wrote it down the way she heard it: Gamseyevna. My father came from Shklov. When he was young, he worked with his father in a mill, which stood on the bank of a lake, above the Dnieper river.

My father had three brothers. The eldest was Moisei, and the younger ones were called Abram and Honya. They moved to Petrograd after 1917, when the Pale of Settlement 2 was abolished. He also had three sisters. Fanya was a real beauty. She lived with her husband in Smolensk, and then moved to Lvov. For the first 10 years of their marriage they had no children. Then a daughter, Zoya, was born, who now lives in Germany. My father's youngest sister, Liza, was an active communist. She married one of our relatives. I don't remember what kind of kinship that was, maybe one of her cousins. Then she divorced him, married a Russian guy and left with him for Murmansk, a seaport in the north of Russia. Her second husband, Smirnov Sergei Alexandrovich, was the secretary of the Murmansk regional committee of the Communist Party and supervised personnel allocation in all parts of the region.

The third sister, Haya, lived with us after the death of her husband. When her husband, Vladimir Shur, was still alive, their family lived in the neighboring settlement Kopys on the Dnieper river. Their older son was called Lev. Their second son, Zyama, fell from a swing and struck his head against a stone. I was still small, when he died. Their third child, Mishenka, was born in Shklov, where Aunt Haya moved to get help from her mother, my grandmother Sore-Riva Lapis [nee Shafkid]. Right then Haya's husband, Vladimir, committed suicide. As it became clear later, the reason for this act was nonsense, or better, his kindness. Someone had borrowed 90 rubles of community money from him and hadn't paid back the debt. Vladimir was supposed to report it. He felt such remorse, as if he had embezzled the money, and hung himself. It was such a horror, I remember, when it happened. Haya fell ill after this news, bleeding from her throat. The children and she had found shelter in our house, although it was already rather crowded, because other people lived in the second half.

Unfortunately, I don't remember when exactly my parents were born. My father was born around 1885. I don't know anything about his education. He served in the army from 1914 to 1918, participated in World War I, and then in the Civil War 3. He was a very strong person, strong-willed and brave. He didn't join any party and stayed away from politics. He was awarded a St. George Cross 4 for his service at the front. I remember, we had a photo that showed my mother and my father's sister sitting, and standing behind them were my father and his friend, a Russian, with St. George Crosses on their chests. It was a very rare award for Jews. Father returned from the war as an invalid: he lost a leg and one eye. He was treated in a hospital in Petrograd.

I don't know too much about my mother Maria Gershevna Lapis' family. Here's how I learnt about her difficult childhood. I remember that once I was very offended with my mother for something. I was sulky and angry, and suddenly my grandmother, Genya Orman, the wife of my grandfather Gersh Orman, came to me. My mother was crying in the bedroom: I hadn't been eating or talking for three days in a row. She said to me, 'Okay, let's go over to our place, since you don't listen to your mother and upset her so much!' Without thinking twice I put on my coat and went with her. This all happened in winter. We walked slowly, and she told me that when my mother was only 12 years old, her mother died. My mother was very gifted and wanted to study. She had an inclination to literature and even wrote compositions for her cousin, who was a student in grammar school. But she couldn't continue her education because from the age of 12 she had to do all the work around the house. She even had to step on a bench to light the oven. It was then that grandfather Gersh married the younger sister of his deceased wife: grandmother Genya, who was actually my mother's aunt. And I had thought to that very day that grandmother Genya was my real grandmother. Her story shocked me so much, that I rushed home to apologize to mother. I stood on my knees, promised never to misbehave, and she, certainly, forgave me. I cried all night long, and my parents couldn't understand why. I was very upset.

My father got married soon after he returned from the front. So my mother married an invalid. She was only one year younger than my father. Mother and him loved each other very much and had known each other from childhood, because they were cousins. That means that my grandmothers were sisters. Their father, Ilda Shafkhid, lived to 93, and, as they said, preserved a clear mind, a tenacious memory and all his teeth to his very last days.

Growing up

We lived with my father's parents. They were deeply religious people, strictly adhering to traditions. My grandfather's name was Yankel Lapis. I remember him praying and reading old books all the time. They were Jewish books, principally the Talmud. Grandmother didn't read books, she did all the housework. Grandfather had a tallit and tefillin, and, of course a kippah. He wasn't a rabbi, but read so much, knew so much about Jewish history, was such a wise and fair person, that 'Yankel Lapis from Shklov' was almost considered a saint by everyone in town! I can't remember any specific case, but people used to come and consult him.

When I studied at school, he even helped me to do my maths homework. He already had a poor vision then and therefore used to put a stool on a table, to be closer to the source of light. And, he read that way, too! He used to tell me stories from the Torah, but by now I have almost forgotten them all. Since I was a pupil in a Soviet school, where we didn't study any religious subjects, my grandfather couldn't study with me. Of course all Jewish traditions were strictly kept and respected in our house. Everything was done exactly in accordance with traditions. The oven wasn't lit on Saturdays - meals were prepared beforehand. And, certainly, all holidays were celebrated, including Pesach, and Sukkot. Grandfather made a sukkah out of fur-tree branches in the kitchen garden and lived there as long as it was necessary. I was a pupil then and remember this very well: He lived there for seven days, slept, ate and prayed there.

We attended the synagogue, too. There were two synagogues in Shklov. One of them was a big, two-storied synagogue. Women were praying separately from men, on the second floor. The other synagogue was one-storied. We went to the small one more often, because it was closer to our home. When I lived in Shklov with my parents, we visited the synagogue every week, and, of course, on major Jewish holidays.

On Fridays my mother used to put a clay pot with coffee and milk into the Russian furnace, and baked cinnamon buns. These buns, I think, were called plekhah. She also baked crackers: cut the dough, sprinkled the slices with sugar and dried them in the oven. Such a tasty thing that was! I took them to school to treat my friends. On Saturdays, after visiting the synagogue, grandfather Gersh usually came to see us. He worked as a forest warden and also lived in Shklov, but in another district.

Both Yiddish and Russian were spoken in the house, but adults mostly spoke Russian with the kids. I spoke some Yiddish with my grandfathers and grandmothers, and sometimes with my parents. I remember Yiddish a little bit; I could write in Yiddish, and I remember the names of the months.

All the housekeeping was done by my mother. She was skilful in everything she did, and besides, she was very quick. The family had a small kitchen garden. At one stage there was even a cow, but later all dairy products had to be purchased at the market. My mother carried heavy buckets and iron pots, and she brought water from three blocks away! She worked day and night. I don't know how she could handle it all. While we lived in the family, my brother and me helped her as much as we could.

Grandfather Yankel's home, where we lived, was a one-storied wooden house, but rather a large one. A part of the house was later taken away from him, when the so-called dispossession of the kulaks 5 began. We lived in terribly poor conditions. Father was an invalid and couldn't earn much. He worked in a company for the handicapped as a cutter of footwear. It was very difficult for him to walk. His artificial leg was of poor quality. He got wounds from wearing it. He was always sick because of these wounds. When I was small, I enjoyed it when father took me in his arms and told me episodes from his military life. Unfortunately, I can't remember any details of his stories any more.

Before my grandfather was deprived of one half of his house, my father's older brother, Uncle Moisei, lived with us. Once his wife, Aunt Brokha, took a large pot of boiling water out of the stove and put it on the big round table, around which I was playing with her daughter Nina. I wasn't even 4 years old, my cousin was even younger. We were running and romping along. And suddenly I missed my trajectory and hit the table, whereupon the pot with boiling water fell onto me. After that I had to spend one and a half years in bed, and had to learn how to walk anew. Probably, this event was the first in a chain of misfortunes that haunted me throughout my life.

Here's one more episode from my early childhood that I remember. It was the day when Lenin died in 1924. I was no more than 5 years old. My cousins Yasha and Boma came running to break the news to us. They were about 10 years old and loved to tease me. They said that Lenin had died. I dressed quickly to run into the street and see what was going on - I thought it had happened in our town. And the boys threw a fur coat over me. I was crying, because they didn't let me attend Lenin's funeral.

My parents, and everybody else, wore very simple clothes. They were no suits or any fashionable clothes. In winter they wore short fur coats, and women wore checkered woolen kerchiefs. Jewish women didn't wear wigs in Russia in the 1930s. Both men and women wore Russian countryside-style clothes: a vest, a shirt and a frock coat. Men didn't wear kippot, only peaked caps. Kippot were only put on in the synagogue. All in all, it was a peasant's outfit. But we [children] were treated and dressed in better clothes.

Our parents also wanted us to get an education, and we tried our best to study well. Up to the 4th grade I went to an elementary school. I even remember, what my first teacher's name was - Evgenia Ignatievna. Later I changed to another school, where I studied up to the 8th grade. And it was in a third school that I finally completed my secondary education, the 10th grade. All schools were Soviet schools. I studied German at school, but I didn't like it. It was an ordinary Soviet school with Komsomol 6 and pioneer organizations. I had very good teachers. My teacher of chemistry was Irina Antonovna. She was so graceful, swarthy and slim - I liked her very much. Therefore I took a great interest in chemistry. Later, in Leningrad, at a conference in the Institute of Experimental Medicine, where I worked after graduating from the Medical Institute, I met her again. She had quit teaching and was studying to be a pathophysiologist. We became colleagues.

My brother, Yuda, was born on 8th March 1921. He didn't go to cheder, because there were no more cheders after the Revolution of 1917. He studied in an ordinary Soviet school like me, with kids of various nationalities: Poles, Russians and Jews. I also had a sister, Sonya. She was born in 1930 and a small, thin, fair, and blue-eyed girl - that's the way I remembered her all my life. My mother had such a hard time with them! They were very often sick, their teeth grew slowly, and they even fainted sometimes.

Mother told us that they had once given shelter to refugees from Latvia. It was a woman and her three daughters who had fled from the Germans, when they seized Riga in 1917, and settled in Shklov. My mother taught them Russian. She didn't speak German. When they returned to Western Latvia they lived in the town of Tukum. After they left, they kept sending letters to each other for a long time. And they didn't forget to put a ribbon or a handkerchief into the envelopes. When one of the daughters got married, they even sent mother an invitation to the wedding party, with a golden stamping. But my mother couldn't really leave her home for such a trip. And when, at the beginning of 1930s, a terrible famine struck Belarus, they used to send us parcels with products: butter in blocks, as large as bricks, and even cereal. I remember how I inscribed their address in German on large envelopes with small mica windows.

Our neighbors were people like us, very simple people. I remember some old ladies coming and asking mother to write a letter in Russian. And she never declined. I had a friend, Raya Dankevich. Her father was Belarus, and her mother was Polish. They were probably against our friendship, but never showed it. Later, during the war, as I was told, they became betrayers and cooperated with the Nazis. But as kids, Raya and me often ran to visit each other through our adjacent kitchen gardens. Her brother, Senya, was my brother's classmate and even tried to court me - by putting a line in my copybook or giving me a note every now and then. We often frolicked in their house. Their mother, Sophia Alexandrovna, was a very strict woman, and even made her children kneel down and beat them with a rope for mistakes they had made. As to us - we weren't ever beaten by anybody of our family.

Nobody ever paid any attention to people's nationalities at school. We made friends, fell in love. My first love was called Vladimir. He was fair- haired, brown-eyed, from a Belarus family. He joined our class in the 10th grade and was a big troublemaker. I frequently fought with him. I was rowdy and always talked back to anyone. I remember a school party in the 10th grade. We were reciting poems. When somebody read verses, I always had tears in my eyes. After the party we had a discussion about who was reading what at the time. I said that I was reading a novel by Balzac, Splendeurs et misères des courtisanes [English title: A Harlot High and Low]. It turned out that Vladimir was reading the same book. And he called me by the name of one of the heroines - Esther. This is how our love affair began.

From my childhood on I was a romantic person, taking great interest in literature and poetry. And I still like to draw, mainly portraits. Even now, that I can hardly see any more, my hand reaches out for paper. I was fond of walking in the forest and always had my head in the clouds. My husband used to joke that he brought me down from the heavens onto the earth.

My brother loved to read, too, we had a lot of Russian books at home - purchased or borrowed from the library. We used to read even late at night. I wrote very good compositions. The director of our school always read my compositions out loud to the other children. I had beautiful handwriting, too.

I lived in Shklov until 1937. After leaving school I went to Smolensk to enter the Medical Institute. I went there with my friend Raya, though my mother advised me to pursue drawing. I studied for two and a half years in Smolensk. Then my parents decided that it was better for me to live closer to my brother, who was a student at the Leningrad Aircraft Institute by then. So in the winter of 1940 I found myself in Leningrad, and continued as a student of the 1st year at the Medical Institute.

It was in Leningrad that I saw my father for the last time. He came to visit my brother Yuda, me, and his brothers, Abram and Honya. It was the first vacation in my father's whole life. For the first time he had a rest from his work, from his household chores. Before he left, my father and I went on a ride in a tram. When the tram turned from Kuibyshev Street to the Revolution Square, I suddenly felt my heart stand still due to a bad presentiment. I felt as though I was seeing my father for the last time. I was almost choking from tears, something was squeezing my throat and chest. I could do nothing, and neither could I explain my condition to my father. That happened in the spring of 1941. There were only a few months left before the beginning of the Great Patriotic War 7.

During the war

When the war began, I lived in a student hostel in Leo Tolstoy Square, and my brother was staying in a hostel in Moskovsky Avenue. Soon we had to move to other places. The war turned our lives upside down. All students were ordered to take part in defense preparations. We [medical students] dug trenches near Kingisepp. When we were unloading heavy beams, one of them fell down on me, injuring my hip joint. Since that accident I have had trouble walking. When we returned from trench works, we were commissioned to night and day shifts in a hospital in the old center of Leningrad. In the meanwhile, lectures in the Medical Institute continued. A marine hospital was arranged in our hostel facilities. We had to move over to Petrovskaya Embankment. Later that building was hit by a German bomb, and we were left homeless.

In the beginning my brother took part in defense work in Moskovsky Avenue. The front line was very close to the hostel of the Aircraft Institute, and they built anti-tank obstacles. The hostel was in the zone of artillery bombardment, and my brother moved over to the flat of Uncle Abram, in the center of Leningrad. Uncle Abram was at the front, and his family in evacuation. The apartment was occupied by their relative, Aunt Rose, and her adopted son, Yasha. The first winter of the blockade 8, 1941-1942, was the most awful one. The temperature fell to 30 degrees Celsius below zero. People were starving. My brother was could not work any more. But Aunt Rose made the poor boys take out the slops and carry water to the third floor. They had to live one way or another! My brother was weaker than me, he had been suffered from a liver disease since his childhood. I supported him as much as I could.

After shifts in the hospital and lectures at the Institute, I used to walk a long way through the city in the nipping frost, and brought my relatives bread. When Aunt Rose died, and Yasha followed her shortly after, Yuda gave himself up to despair completely. Each time I came, he said, that I would be burying him on my next visit. I remember him lying there, unable to get up any more, wasting away in front of my eyes, and I tried to convince him, 'Come on, Yuda, brace yourself up, this nightmare will be over soon'. But on 14th March 1942 I found him dead. A few days before, on 8th March, he had turned 21. I buried him myself.

My sister Sonya, who had only turned 11 at the outbreak of war, remained in Shklov with our parents. At the beginning of the war I lost contact with them. I still have my mother's last letter from 27th June 1941. She wrote, 'Maybe we can survive this thunder-storm, as we did in 1918...'. She couldn't imagine what would happen to them, what vile atrocities the Germans would commit. They were all buried alive in Shklov, in the mound between the lake and the Dnieper River, in the very same place, where the mill once stood, where my father and grandfather worked. [This was the famed Shklov killings.] 9 For three days the ground was stirring on that spot, and groans of people were heard from under the ground. All my relatives were murdered there: my mother, father, both grandfathers, both grandmothers, my sister Sonya, Aunt Haya and her son Misha; and, thousands of other Jews. I didn't know about it back then. After the war I wrote many letters to official bodies in Minsk and many other places. I was searching for exact information, but it was in vain. I got no answer whatsoever. Later I learned everything about this tragedy from eyewitnesses.

After the war

I studied and worked throughout the war, from 21st July 1941 to 29th March 1944. But I had to interrupt my studies, because I was physically unable to attend lectures. I worked as a nurse in the hospital of the First Medical Institute then.

I received my diploma in 1946. After graduation I was directed to work in the House of Sanitary Education. When I came there, the managers were surprised. They didn't need practical doctors. So I was told to look for another job myself. I found one with the Institute of Experimental Medicine without any patronage and despite my nationality. There was no anti- Semitism yet. The only thing I was concerned about was my lack of experience. I remember walking down the corridor looking for the director's office. The director asked me what I was interested in. I said that I liked chemistry and knew how to draw. 'OK,' he remarked, 'we need someone who can work with the microscope and draw in the Histology Department.' But actually there was a vacancy only in the Department of General Comparative Morphology, headed by professor Nasonov. And my chief, Michael Abramovich Brown, was a wonderful man. Following the reorganization of the Institute I was transferred to the Department of General Pathology. I worked there for almost 30 years until my retirement. I had no time to defend my candidate's thesis due to family circumstances, but I passed the exams all right.

I have to say that my colleagues treated me well. I didn't feel any humiliation. Even in the most gruesome times, during the so-called Doctors' Plot 10. We, just like employees of other Soviet establishments, constantly had political training: we studied Marxism-Leninism, Stalin's works and historical materialism. We were permanently engaged in all sorts of political seminars and meetings. I was often appointed secretary at these meetings because of my nice handwriting. I remember how we condemned the 'poisoning doctors' in our Institute. And everyone believed it was true, including me. The paradox of the Soviet regime consisted in the fact that people were made to believe the most improbable things and even renounce their relatives. This is what one can call mass foolishness.

I'll tell about one particular case. My mother's elder brother, Lev, was married to a Russian woman, a physiatrician called Anna Sergeyevna Plotkina. They had two daughters, Inna and Rita. They lived in Volgograd. They lived very well, but when this case against doctors began, Uncle Lev's wife kicked him out. He came to Leningrad to stay with us and his older daughter. I was already married then and had an invalid son. Uncle Lev remained with us, until he settled in his own flat.

I got married in 1945. We had no wedding celebration at all. What kind of a wedding party would it have been anyway, in 1945, after everything that we had gone through?! I got acquainted with my husband, Pavel Abramovich Rubinchik, a Jew, at a friend's home. He came from Bryansk region, from the settlement of Zhukovka. He was an engineer, fought at the Leningrad front and was wounded. His wife was evacuated to Kuibyshev during the war, fell in love with another man there and left Pavel. After the war he worked as chief engineer at a Leningrad factory called Weaver.

My husband was 13 years older than me, he had two daughters from his first marriage, and he missed them a lot. His first wife wrote that she couldn't cope with the older daughter, and that he should take her into his new family. He persuaded me. I agreed and cried because of her behavior every other day. His daughter was very spiteful, disliked me and was jealous of her father.

We lived in a communal apartment 11, two rooms were occupied by my husband's relatives. Then we moved to another flat. Our son, Misha, was born in 1947. The delivery was terrible. My son was born disabled. From that moment my excruciating torment began. I corresponded with Academician Filatov 12 and addressed other prominent medical specialists, but my son remained completely helpless. He sees nothing, hears nothing and cannot speak. And he had a bulk of other diseases. How horrible it was in a shared flat with the ill child! How our neighbor scoffed at us! It was another, terrible blow to me when my husband died in 1968. I buried him in the Jewish cemetery.

I moved to another flat with my son after the death of my husband. Some people helped me. The flat was hard to obtain. So many doors I had to knock at: the district party committee, the city department of national healthcare, and so on. I had to go through many hardships.

I haven't left my home for as long as three years now, because of my illness. I'm almost blind. But when I think back of everything that I lived through, I consider myself a happy person. God saved my life, while all my folks were buried alive. Nothing remained of them, just a few photos survived by miracle.

I did not lead a religious life. We only had atheism and the Soviet political propaganda before the war, when I was a student, and even after the war. I was a scientific worker and thus didn't need to be a member of the Communist Party. Luckily, I didn't experience any anti-Semitism or political repressions. I don't really know what's going on elsewhere in the world, even in Israel, because I'm completely preoccupied with the health of my sick son and my own. I regularly get various kind of support from Hesed, and I appreciate it a lot.

Glossary:

1 Catherine the Great (1729-1796)

Empress of Russia. She rose to the throne after the murder of her husband Peter III and reigned for 34 year. Catherine read widely, especially Voltaire and Montesquieu, and informed herself of Russian conditions. She started to formulate a new enlightened code of law. Catherine reorganized (1775) the provincial administration to increase the central government's control over rural areas. This reform established a system of provinces, subdivided into districts, that endured until 1917. In 1785, Catherine issued a charter that made the gentry of each district and province a legal body with the right to petition the throne, freed nobles from taxation and state service and made their status hereditary, and gave them absolute control over their lands and peasants. Catherine increased Russian control over the Baltic provinces and Ukraine. She secured the largest portion in successive partitions of Poland among Russia, Prussia, and Austria.

2 Jewish Pale of Settlement

Certain provinces in the Russian Empire were designated for permanent Jewish residence and the Jewish population (apart from certain privileged families) was only allowed to live in these areas.

3 Civil War (1918-1920)

The Civil War between the Reds (the Bolsheviks) and the Whites (the anti-Bolsheviks), which broke out in early 1918, ravaged Russia until 1920. The Whites represented all shades of anti- communist groups - Russian army units from World War I, led by anti- Bolshevik officers, by anti-Bolshevik volunteers and some Mensheviks and Social Revolutionaries. Several of their leaders favored setting up a military dictatorship, but few were outspoken tsarists. Atrocities were committed throughout the Civil War by both sides. The Civil War ended with Bolshevik military victory, thanks to the lack of cooperation among the various White commanders and to the reorganization of the Red forces after Trotsky became commissar for war. It was won, however, only at the price of immense sacrifice; by 1920 Russia was ruined and devastated. In 1920 industrial production was reduced to 14% and agriculture to 50% as compared to 1913.

4 St

George Cross: Established in Russia in 1769 for distinguished military merits of officers and generals, and, from 1807, of soldiers and corporals. Until 1913 it was officially referred to as Distinction Military Order, from 1913 as St. George Cross. Servicemen awarded with St. George Crosses of all four degrees were called St. George Cavaliers.

5 Kulaks

In the Soviet Union the majority of wealthy peasants that refused to join collective farms and give their grain and property to Soviet power were called kulaks, declared enemies of the people and exterminated in the 1930s.

6 Komsomol

7 Great Patriotic War

8 Blockade of Leningrad

On September 8, 1941 the Germans fully encircled Leningrad and its siege began. It lasted until January 27, 1944. The blockade meant incredible hardships and privations for the population of the town. Hundreds of thousands died from hunger, cold and diseases during the almost 900 days of the blockade.

9 Shklov killings

From 12th July 1941 to 27th June 1944 the town of Shklov (Mogilev oblast, Belarus) was occupied by the Germans, who killed 7,504 people in Shklov alone. The 3,000 Jews of the town were shot by the Germans in September 1941.

10 Doctors' Plot

The Doctors' Plot was an alleged conspiracy of a group of Moscow doctors to murder leading government and party officials. In January 1953, the Soviet press reported that nine doctors, six of whom were Jewish, had been arrested and confessed their guilt. As Stalin died in March 1953, the trial never took place. The official paper of the party, the Pravda, later announced that the charges against the doctors were false and their confessions obtained by torture. This case was one of the worst anti-Semitic incidents during Stalin's reign. In his secret speech at the Twentieth Party Congress in 1956 Khrushchev stated that Stalin wanted to use the Plot to purge the top Soviet leadership.

11 Communal apartments

The Soviet power wanted to improve housing conditions by requisitioning 'excess' living space of wealthy families after the revolution of 1917. Apartments were shared by several families with each family occupying one room and sharing the kitchen, toilet and bathroom with other tenants. Because of the chronic shortage of dwelling space in towns shared apartments continued to exist for decades. Despite state programs for the construction of more houses and the liquidation of shared apartments, which began in the 1960s, shared apartments still exist today.

12 Filatov, Vladimir Petrovich (1875-1956)

Outstanding ophthalmologist and scientist, head of the Eye Clinic at Odessa University. One of the most important achievements was the tube flap method of plastic surgery offered by Filatov since Word War I.

Rakhil Givand-Tikhaya

Rakhil Givand-Tikhaya with mother Rebecca Givand and aunt Tatiana Vodotiyevskaya.

Rakhil Givand-Tikhaya
Kiev
Ukraine
Interviewer: Vladimir Zaidenberg

My name is Givand Rakhil Grigoriyevna, and I was born on January 23,1928, in Kiev.

My parents, Gersh Shimonovich Givand and Rebecca Yakovlevna Givand, lived indowntown Kiev on Tarasovskaya Street, while my mother's mother, mygrandmother, Sonya Eidelman, lived in a private house on the left bank ofthe Dnieper River, in an area called Slobodka.

My great-grandmother, Genya Grubman, also lived in that house. Iremember her very well. She was very old, but was always glad to see me.She often told me stories about the histories, traditions and religions ofJewish folk. At home, my great-grandmother no longer worked around thehouse, but she was a very wise woman, and many people turned to her foradvice on how to deal with one or another of life's situations. Great-grandmother was very religious. I don't remember how religious holidayswere celebrated at her house, but I know for sure that all the Jewishtraditions were kept very strictly while she was still alive.

She had a special place in the synagogue. She read the Torah out loudand other women repeated the passages after her. She was one of the fewwomen there who could read and understand the Torah, so she read it for theother women who came together in the synagogue, and then explained it tothem.

My great-grandmother died in 1936. I remember her funeral very well,first of all, because it was the first funeral ceremony I had everattended, and secondly, because it was carried out according to Jewishtraditions. I remember entering the house on the day of the funeral andsaying "Hello" to everyone. An old Jewish man replied, "Child, you shouldnot say "hello" today - you have a dead body in your house". My great-grandmother was lying on the floor, on straw, with no coffin. The ceremonyincluded neither music nor flowers. Two candles were lit behind her headand prayers were read out loud by the men, while the women listened fromanother room. Great-grandmother was taken to the cemetery without a coffinand was buried wrapped in a cloth. I remember that the men said many, manyprayers that day, in a language I could not understand. I also rememberthat my grandmother and my mother tore their dresses. My mother explainedto me that this was done in accordance with Jewish law.

My grandmother, Sonya Eidelman (maiden name: Grubman), also lived inSlobodka. I never knew my grandfather, as I was born after he died.

I know about my grandfather from the stories told by my mother. Hisname was Yakov Eidelman. I believe he had no education, but by nature was avery gifted person. He worked with his hands and was involved in commerce.Before the Revolution, he was quite rich. He had lived in America, where hehad run his own business. People said he even owned his own houses there.He wanted his wife and children to join him there, but since his wife wasvery ill and doctors had forbidden her to cross the ocean on a steamship,he had to return to Russia.

In Slobodka the family owned a house and a shop. The shop traded infoodstuffs and necessities. My grandfather was very prosperous. The shopwas located in their house. Many residents of Slobodka, both Jews andUkrainians, bought products from his shop and treated my grandfather andhis family with great respect.

My grandfather was very religious. When he left America, he broughtback with him a lot of different talit, as well as other religious objectsfor the synagogue. My mother said that he would always wear a yarmulke anda hat. His day always started with prayer. In his house, they always keptSabbath and every Jewish holiday. Grandmother was also very religious, andthey both attended a synagogue in Slobodka. There were two synagogues inSlobodka at that time, but I remember only one of them, the big one. It wasdirectly across from the tram stop where we got off when we came from thetown. Every Saturday, my grandfather went to this synagogue.

Jewish pogroms began during the Civil War (1917-1922).It happened in 1918 or 1919. The army of General Denikin was in Kiev then,and its soldiers attacked and ruined Jewish homes, killing men, rapingwomen, and confiscating and destroying property. During the pogroms theJews would hide in their houses and basements, but my grandfather was acourageous man, who feared nothing and was convinced that nothing wouldtouch his family because the local Ukrainian population was very nice tohim. He hoped they would protect him. But as it happened, no one had timeto protect him for a soldier suddenly ran up to his house, stabbed himthree times and left. My grandfather lost a lot of blood and died rightthere, at the doorway of his house.

My grandparents had four daughters and a son. The eldest daughter andthe son died as babies from scarlet fever; I don't even know their names.Three daughters were left: Tatiana, who was born in 1902, my mother, whowas born in 1904, and Maria, who was born in 1913.

Before getting married all of them lived in grandfather's house inSlobodka. I remember that house very well. In the beginning of the 1930sthe house was remodeled. In the old house all the rooms were small, whilein the remodeled house they were united and made large. The house was madeof wood with an iron roof; there were two porches that faced the street andthe backyard. There were four large rooms and a kitchen. The toilet and thewell were outside. The house had good wooden furniture, for my grandparentswere not poor. There were also nice bronze candleholders and beautifulsilver dishes.

They had no garden in the yard, but auxiliary premises and a barnwith two cows. I remember these very well because every time we came tovisit I always had fresh milk to drink.

My grandmother had no servants; she had to work around the house onher own. That is why when grandfather died, my mother and her sisters hadto start helping around the house, milking the cows, and selling the milkin order to survive.This is all I know and remember about my relatives on my mother's side.

My father, Gersh Shimonovich Givand, was born in 1904 in the town ofVolodarka, outside Belaya Tserkov, in the area of Kiev. His parents, mygrandparents, Shimon and Anna Givand, were also killed in pogroms. Besidesthat, my father's elder sister Rukhlya was also killed. The pogroms wereterrible; entire Jewish families were murdered. I cannot tell you abouttheir deatsh in more detail because my father never told me much, sparingmy childish sensibility.

I know that following that pogrom three brothers remained: my fatherwas the eldest, then came Israel, born in 1908, and finally the youngest -Naum, born in 1912.

An interesting incident in the life of the middle brother, Israel,follows. During one of the pogroms, when Jews were being killed, a richneighbor, whose name I don't know, had hidden his money in Israel's shoe.Nobody knows what happened to that man, he may have been killed, too, buthis money remained in Israel's shoe. Once, when Israel saw that GeneralDenikin's soldiers wanted to throw his neighbor Lipa Novichenko into awell, Israel ran up to them and said, "I will give you money, if you'lljust let this man go". The soldiers took the money and let Lipa go, andLipa bowed down with gratitude before my father and his brothers for therest of his life; he also helped them a lot.

After they lost their parents, the brothers were put into anorphanage, but I don't remember much about that time. I know that Lipahelped them a lot, including with their education. Unfortunately, all threebrothers were killed in the Second World War.

My father finished forestry college around 1927, and then worked inan organization that dealt with the transportation of wood. He had a goodposition and our material life was pretty good.

My mother had no secondary education, because after the death of herfather she had to stop studying in order to help in the shop and around thehouse.

I don't know how my parents met, but when they married they moved toNo. 16, Tarasovskaya Street. My father worked at a plant then and he wasgiven a room in a basement. That's where I was born. It was in the citycenter, and "kikes"1 were forbidden to live in that street. I canremember the sign that said that - it was fixed to one of our houses.Later, we moved to another flat on the same street, in house No. 8.

The room was in a communal flat, and was quite large. We had goodfurniture for that time, and many books, including books in Yiddish; italso had a piano, which I was learning to play. Apart from us, there werefive more neighbor families in the flat. We had a communal kitchen with atable, and a closet for each family. There were two toilets, but they werecommunal, so in the mornings we sometimes had to queue. We had a commonelectricity-meter, and every family paid according to the number of peoplein each. The relations between the neighbors were quite peaceful; I don'tmean that we were all friends, but we never quarreled.

In general, we had mostly Jewish families in our flat, but there wasalso one German.

I remember one old Jew, our neighbor, who lived alone. Everyone calledhim grandfather Nudelman. I loved him very much. He was very religious, andhe taught me Yiddish. He told me, "If you mom does not want to tell yousomething in Yiddish, come to me." So, I learned my first Yiddish wordsfrom him. My parents spoke Yiddish only when they did not want me tounderstand, so every time it happened, I ran to grandfather Nudelman and hetranslated for me what they had said.

At our house we did not celebrate any Jewish holidays because myfather was a member of the Communist Party and feared that someone at hisworkplace might learn that he celebrated Jewish holidays at home and reporthim to the authorities. My mother exchanged whispers with grandfatherNudelman and arranged religious celebrations on their own. On Pessach, shewould bring matzoh from grandmother, and the family would celebrate thisholiday with grandfather Nudelman. During the Second World War. GrandfatherNudelman was killed in Babi Yar (site of mass killings of Jews by Germansin Kiev).

But I remember very well how Jewish holidays were celebrated at mygrandmother's in Slobodka. On Pesach, all of her daughters with theirchildren would come together. On the eve of the Passover they would takeout all the bread, and wash and clean the entire flat. Then from the atticthey would take special kosher plates that were kept there in special boxesduring the whole year. They put matzoh, boiled potatoes, horse-radishes,boiled eggs, fish and everything else that was necessary on the table. Idon't remember who led the seder or how, but I remember how nice it wasafterwards. My grandmother had a gramophone on which she played Jewishrecords with songs on them, and we enjoyed ourselves. I don't remember theother holidays much. I remember that on Yom Kippur my mother always fasted,but I did not understand why. I also know that the husband of my mother'ssister Tatiana attended the synagogue regularly until it was closed a yearor two before the war [World War II]. Then he began to go to a house whereJewish men came together to pray.

My school years

In 1935 I started going to school, a Russian school. But there werechildren of different nationalities among the students: Russian, Ukrainian,and many Jewish. I was a very good student; I liked studying very much. Myfavorite subjects were humanities - literature and history. We also hadteachers of different nationalities, and the Jewish children at schoolnever sensed any anti-Semitism. For friends, I had children of differentnationalities, and we all were equal. I had music classes with a teacher athome, and our German neighbor taught me the German language. I don't knowhow she would have reacted to the war and to fascism because she diedbefore the war began, in 1938.

I was a young Pioneer and sang in the school band. I liked to wear thered Pioneer tie, and liked all the Pioneer demonstrations and ceremonies.But I never went to the Pioneer summer camps, I always spent summers withmy mother. We sang Soviet songs, both Russian and Ukrainian, and performedat amateur concerts. We even won prizes at school.

My father liked it very much. We always celebrated Soviet holidays athome - the Great October Revolution Day, and May Day, on May 1. My fatherliked big celebrations, so they invited a lot of guests, no matter whattheir nationality was. They had friends among the Russians and Ukrainianstoo. Relations between people of different nationalities were good backthen. Tables were full of delicious food, because my father liked whenpeople said, "Look, how Givand celebrates this holiday." He emphasizedcelebrations on Soviet rather than Jewish holidays, because repression andarrests started in those years, and he was frightened. My mother wasconcerned over the fact that she could not celebrate any Jewish holidays athome, and, as I mentioned before, she would bring matzoh from Slobodka andwould celebrate the Jewish holidays with grandfather Nudelman. I remembervery well how I was warned not to tell anyone that we had matzoh at ourhouse. By the way, not only Jews were afraid to celebrate their nationalholidays. I don't remember any Russian or Ukrainian children bringingEaster cakes on Easter. Their parents were also afraid that somebody mightlearn that they celebrated religious holidays. In those days the practiceof any religion was outside the law.

In 1937 repression and arrests started. I remember this very wellbecause we had a chair next to the door in our room, and a white bag wasalways lying on that chair. There was always fresh bread and some underwearin that bag - my mother was preparing for an arrest. Many Soviet workers,even common people, were arrested back then, including, some of ourfriends, but praise God, my father was spared.

In general, I had a happy childhood. I went to school, my family hadno financial need, and I was dearly loved by my parents, because I had nobrothers or sisters. My mother took me to resorts, for instance, toZheleznovodsk. In summer, my parents often rented dachas outside Kiev - inIrpen or Vorzel. My father received special tickets at work for rest inhealth centers and rest homes. So, in general, our life was good.

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

I knew nothing about Hitler or fascism. We were never told about it atschool. Perhaps the senior students knew something about fascism, but wewere too young to know. My parents probably knew about fascism and thethreat of war, and were concerned, but they spared me and did not tell meanything - until the war broke out, my childhood was marred by nothing.

On June 22, 1941, shells and bombs began to explode in the sky overKiev, and my mother would call me at the balcony and tell me, "Look,military exercises are underway". A little later, German bombs began toexplode.

One morning, there was a ring at the door, and my father was given acall-up paper from the military enlistment committee. He was an officer,who was in charge of political ideology in the army. But he was in thereserves, because the first time he had been called up was in 1939 duringthe Finnish War. Afterwards he was left in Kiev because peace was signedand he was too late to be sent to the front. This time, since he was anofficer in political ideology, he was taken to work on the mobilization ofpeople. People born in his year - 1904 - had not been not called up yet, sohe worked with the enlistment committee. But when he heard that both of hisyounger brothers were called up, he did not think it possible to stay inKiev and went to fight with them. None of them came back.

It so happened that we did not even have a chance to say goodbye to myfather. This is how it happened. As soon as the war broke out, my motherand I began to prepare for evacuation. My father told us that we would needto leave because Hitler would kill all the Jews - he already knew about it.Our mood was terrible. It was scary. I remember there were a lot ofrefugees from the western regions of Ukraine in Kiev, mostly Jews. Theywere settled in the Botanical Garden, not far from our house. It was awfulto look at them: old men, women and children, who had already seen theatrocities of the fascists. They lived on the bare ground, in tents. Mymother often went to see them, to give them some food and to talk to them.I remember she cried a lot. That is why there was no question in our familyabout whether we should evacuate or not. We knew about the fascists;certainly, we did not know what degree their persecutions would reach, buthad learned enough to be frightened badly.

The main question was how to evacuate from Kiev quickly with ourrelatives. Even though the government already knew about the atrocitiescommitted by the fascists against the Jews, no special Jewish evacuationwas organized.

The husband of my mother's elder sister Tatiana Ofman worked inDarnitsa at the train station. He arranged for us to be put on the trainand taken to evacuation. My uncle came to pick us up and put us on thetrain, and there we waited for several days. We did not take manybelongings with us because we thought we were only leaving for a week ortwo. We just took along some bed linen, my blanket, some clothes, and food- as much as a woman and a girl could carry. My mother kept looking out ofthe train windows to see if my father was coming. But my uncle told her,"Riva, don't wait for Grisha." He told us that my father had gone to thefront as a volunteer and purposely did not come to say goodbye to us. Hehad told my uncle, "If I come to say goodbye to Khila and Riva, I will notbe able to leave them. I will die with them." Neither of his brothers -Israel or Naum - came to say goodbye to us either. They all left, and theyall were killed.

We, however, went on to evacuation. With us we had mother's eldersister Tatiana Ofman with her children, Yelizaveta and Abram, along withmother's younger sister Maria Vodotiyevskaya with her children, Viktoriaand Yakov, and grandmother, mother's mother.

The families of my father's brothers, that is, the families of Israeland Naum stayed in Kiev - they were too late to move out. Both familieslived in one big flat, which occupied the whole floor of a house. Therewere 15 of them. One of the relatives worked in the People's Commissariatof the Interior, and she was promised a car to evacuate her family. Butwhen the car was provided, it was too late, Kiev was already encircled.They had to return and all of them were murdered at Babi Yar.

We traveled in heated railway cars and stopped first in Lozovaya.There was a terrible bombing raid there. For some time we lived in Lozovaya- my mother worked there on a collective farm and I helped her. But thisdid not last long. Soon, we were put on open railway platforms next to somemachine-guns and taken to Stalingrad and then to Perm. In the beginning welived at the Perm train station. Each of us had a corner in whch to keepour belongings. We received a piece of bread every day and some sort ofsoup. We washed in the toilet room at the station. During the day, ourmothers cleaned and washed floors at the station. It was very hard livingthere, but we could not leave because my cousin Yelizaveta fell sick withmeasles and was in Perm's hospital. We could not leave without her.

And there we were on that terrible day of September 29, 1941, when ourtroops surrendered Kiev. It was Yom Kippur, the Day of Judgment, and allthe adults, all the Jews who were at the train station fasted. I alsofasted for the first time in my life, and since that time I have beenkeeping this fast every year of my life. I still remember that day, whenall of us, roofless, fatherless, miserable Jews, were fasting and prayingfor our nation, for victory, for our fathers to come home alive, for ourMotherland. It was very had because on the eve of the fast we ate somesalty fish and we were very thirsty, but we could not drink, for it wasforbidden. All of us endured - we thought if we endured, everything wouldbe okay.

Then we wandered around the country. We stayed in Kokanda, where I gotill with meningitis and missed two years of school because of it. Livingthere was very hard - my mother worked at the collective farm to survive. Iremember being hungry all the time: we woke up and went to bed hungry. WhenI was ill, my mother sold everything we had in order to buy penicillin,otherwise I would have died. So, we were left with nothing - not even a bed-sheet or blanket. The only valuable my mother had was her wedding ring, andshe could not let it go. For a long time I walked on crutches because mylegs became infected and would not move.

At that time, the wife of Lipa Novichenko, who was rescued by Israel,found us. Lipa was no longer living, and his wife's second husband, GeorgyIvanovich Geshko, was the director of a film studio. He was Ukrainian, buthe helped us a lot. They took us to Tashkent and gave my mother work in thestudio's canteen; I went to school and our life became easier. I attended aregular secondary school, but there were many evacuated Jewish childrenthere. We stayed with a Russian family, renting a part of a room from them.Everyone treated us with compassion, and I don't remember being offended byanyone despite our Jewish origin. We had no news from my father or hisbrothers, but my mother and I lived with the hope that he was still alive.

During our evacuation in Tashkent, we learned about Babi Yar and thetragic fate of hundreds of thousands of Jews in the occupied territories,as well as the fate of Isare's and Naum's families.

As soon as Kiev was liberated we decided to go home, even though weknew there was nowhere to go. We knew this because Mr. Geshko went to Kievimmediately after its liberation on November 8, 1943, and from thereimmediately wrote us a letter. He had visited us there before the war, sohe went to see in what kind of condition our house was. It was gone. Therewas an ammunition warehouse next to it, and when the Germans wereretreating, they blew it up, so that every house around it was also burntdown.

We returned to Kiev together with the film studio. We traveled in goodrailway cars, but when we arrived, we had nowhere to stay.

We were given shelter by our neighbors, the Rymars, a Russian familywhich showed us a lot of compassion, and we stayed in their basement for along time. We had no possessions of our own: only one pair of shoes and 100rubles. A loaf of bread at the market cost 100 rubles. The Rymar familysaved us at that time. During the occupation they stayed in Kiev, and theytold us all the details about Babi Yar and related to us the horrors of theoccupation. Their life was not easy either, because some of their ancestorswere Jewish, and they also had to hide in Kiev.

In 1945 I received a letter concerning the death certificate of myfather, and later, another one concerning the deaths of his brothers Israeland Naum Givand. Because their families were dead, there was nobody else toreceive those letters. The brothers were killed somewhere outsideKremenchug during the first year of the war.

Post-war

In 1945 I attended a Russian school, but not the same one I hadattended earlier. In this school I learned all about anti-Semitism. Amongthe students, there were many Jewish children who had returned fromevacuation. The attitude of the non-Jewish children to us was horrible -the word "kike" could be heard on every step. Our teachers also secretlysupported the anti-Semites, offending us, and telling us that we had had agood time in Tashkent during the war - they said that to us, who lost ourfathers. They gave lower grades to the Jewish children, and constantlyfound fault with us. We had a girl in our class who managed to escape fromBabi Yar. I don't remember her name, I only know that somehow she hadcrawled out alive. She was teased, called a kike, and nobody had anycompassion for her - neither students, nor teachers. I still remember myafter-war school years with horror.

My mother continued to work at the film studio's canteen, and itsdirector continued to take care of us. We were given a room in a communalflat on Gorky Street, and we lived there for many years.

In 1948 I finished school and enrolled at the Light Industry Institute(the University). I had entry privileges at the university because myfather was killed in the war, and I passed all my exams with excellentmarks.

The beginning of the 1950s marks the start of an openly anti-Semiticcampaign know as the "Doctors' Case" and the fight against thecosmopolitans. When Staling died in 1953, I was part of the guard of honornear his portrait. We certainly did not link the government's policyagainst the Jews and all the repressions of the Soviet people with Stalin'sname. This policy of anti-Semitism certainly affected all of us Jewishstudents. Most of all, we felt it when graduates were sent to certainplaces of work after graduation. In those years, after graduation from auniversity, we could not work just anywhere, but had to work for threeyears at any place the university would send us.

I graduated from the university with honors, and according to therules I was supposed to be offered a good position, but I was one of thelast to be called up, and was offered a position in Siberia. This Irefused, because I could not leave my mother alone, so I did not sign thepaper. This process was repeated several times, until finally, I was sentto Kishenev, Moldavia. I worked in Kishenev for only a few months beforethe Control and Revision Department checked with my organization and toldthe director to "fire the kike." I was fired. But I was very happy toreturn to Kiev. I was not the only Jew who had such an experience. None ofthe other graduating Jews from our university were sent to a good place ofwork, either.

In Kiev I was once again reminded that I was a Jew. Having graduatedfrom a university, I still could not find a job. Only due to another Jew -the director of the "Nefteizmeritel" plant, was I hired to the Experimentaland Design Bureau, where I worked until my retirement on pension.

My mother was sick for many years, and I was very attached to her, soI had no time or opportunity to think about marriage. For many years Iremained single. My mother died in 1980. Finally, in 1986 I married.

My husband

My husband is the poet and writer Naum Meyerovich Shtilerman (Tikhiy).He was born on September 14, 1922, in the village of Emilchino, in theregion of Zhitomir.

His father, Meyer Shtilerman, was a druggist. They lived in thatUkrainian village. Naum's mother, Raisa Shtilerman, did not work outsidethe home; she was a housewife, and raised her children, her son Naum andtwo daughters, Dina and Buzya.

In 1937, Naum's father was arrested, charged with being a German spy,and was sent to penal servitude. He was imprisoned in the SolovetskyIslands. He was a very ill man, practically blind. There he contractedtuberculosis. He returned home only after Stalin's death, and soon died,too.

Naum and his sisters had attended a Ukrainian school, but were placedin a Jewish class. It was not a class in which Yiddish or Hebrew was thelanguage of tuition, but was simply a class into which all the Jewishchildren from the neighboring villages were collected. According to myhusband, relations between the Jews and Ukrainians in their village werewonderful. Even though Yiddish was spoken at home, my husband also spokefluent Ukrainian and considered the Ukrainian language to be his nativetongue.

My husband is grateful to the Ukrainian people because when it becametoo late for his mother, Raisa Shtilerman, to be evacuated, and she had toremain in the occupied territories with her daughters Dina and Buzya duringthe war, they found shelter with Ukrainian families in Korostyshev. Thepeople who rescued them were later awarded the title "Righteous Gentiles".Raisa Shtilerman died in 1990 in Israel, but her daughters Dina and Buzyaare still living there.

Naum entered the University before the war, at the age of 15. Hewanted to study in the Philology Department. He was a very gifted person.He passed all of his high school exams early and then aced his entranceexams. He was accepted even though his father was a member of a repressedminority. Perhaps he was accepted because he had gained entrance into theUkrainian Department, which was "out of fashion" in those days - everyonewanted to study only the Russian language and literature.

Back in the university, Naum began to compose poems in Ukrainian. Hebrought his first collection of poems to a famous Ukrainian poet, who wasalso Jewish, Leonid Pervomaisky (Ilya Gurevich (1908-1973), a famous andpopular Ukrainian Soviet writer. Pervomaisky is his pseudonym, which he hadto take so that his works could be published in the USSR. He was born intoa family of workers. His first publication appeared in 1924. He wrote inRussian and Ukrainian, poems and novels. He also translated from theGerman. During WWII he was a correspondent at the front.) He looked throughit and said, "Everything is fine except your last name. Shtilerman shouldnot be there. Translate it into Russian: "Shtil" means "quiet", so signyour name like this - Naum Tikhiy (Quiet)".

My husband could not print any of his poem collections before the war.After the war, he officially changed his last name, so that it is no longerhis pseudonym - otherwise, his poems would have never been printed.

During the war, Naum was in the army, but since his father had beenrepressed, he was not allowed to fight in the battle, and after the war hecould not join the Communist Party until his father was rehabilitated.

After the war Naum graduated from the Philology Department of theUniversity, and devoted his life to poetry. Twenty-five of his poeticcollections in Ukrainian have been printed. But all his life he felt anti-Semitism not on a common, but on an official, state level.

The first time he was not awarded the Shevchenko Prize was because hewas not a Communist Party member, and he was not accepted into the Partybecause of his father. In order to sweeten the situation, he was insteadawarded the Pavlo Tychyna Prize (another Ukrainian poet). In Tychyna'shouse, which is a museum, there is a portrait of my husband. He was alwaysaccepted there and his poems were read there. In general, people treatedhim kindly, understanding that he deserved much more than just Tychyna'sPrize. Several times his books were presented for the State Prize, butevery time another poet was found, who was more pleasing to theauthorities. In 1995 his other collection of poems was published and againhe was named for the Shevchenko Prize. But simultaneously, a book writtenby the wife of Drozd, the Secretary of the Writers' Union of Ukraine, wasalso named for the prize, and so she was the one who got it. But the nextyear, when the leadership of the State Prizes Committee changed, the poetYavorivsky, who was its chairman, sent a letter to the publishers, whocalled us and invited my husband to nominate his book for the State Prizeagain. The book was nominated on September 23, 1996. The response of theUkrainian poets was wonderful. The poet Nikolay Rudenko wrote on Naum'sbook, "Naum, this is what never dies". This happened on September 23, 1996.But on September 27, an article appeared in the "Literaturnaya Gazeta"newspaper claiming that Tikhiy is not a Ukrainian poet, but rather aUkrainian-speaking poet, because he is just a Jew who speaks Ukrrainian, sohe cannot be awarded such a prize. My husband was so shocked by thisarticle and took it so seriously that he died of a heart attack the nextday.

My husband was a very talented man of two cultures. He would establishdays when we were to speak only Yiddish with him so that he would learnthat language well. When we were in Israel, at the Wailing Wall, at Yad-Vashem, he was very impressed, and that is where he wrote his poem"Conception" about Jewish women's fates in ghettos. But Ukraine andUkrainian people were also very close and dear to him. He died too early,he was only 74. So, my happy family life was very short.

Among the members of our family, I am left alone. Mother's sistersMaria and Tatiana died in the early 80s; their children, my cousins, liveabroad, in Israel and America. The closest people to me now are myhusband's children from his first wife - his son Sergey and his daughter.Sergey is the director of a big newspaper in Kiev, and even though he isnot Jewish according to his passport (his mother, Naum's first wife, wasUkrainian), he still identifies himself with the Jews, attends events inthe Jewish community, and cooperates with leaders of Jewish organizationsin Ukraine. My husband's children are grateful to me for becoming a truewife and friend of their father, who made the last years of his lifesweeter. We have wonderful relations with them, even better than childrensometimes have with their own parents.

For my whole life I have honored the memory of my father, hisbrothers and all the Jews who died at the front or in Babi Yar. In 1945, Istarted going to Babi Yar on September 29, the anniversary of that terribleshooting of the Jews of Kiev. Since 1945, three Russian pilots have alsobeen coming to Babi Yar every year on September 29. At the end of the warthese pilots were kept in the Syretsky concentration camp for prisoners ofwar, and they were made to eliminate the traces of Babi Yar. Prior to theirretreating, the fascists wanted to eliminate all the traces, using theirprisoners of war, who uncovered and burned corpses. So, these pilots werecoming back for many years to honor the memory of innocent Jewish victims.Then only one came, then none.

In Babi Yar I met the famous writer Viktor Nekrasov, who also camethere every year. To this place he brought his last flowers, redcarnations, before he left the Soviet Union. He was exiled from the SovietUnion for his activities in defense of democracy, as this displeased theSoviet authorities. I was surprised that he did not even say "Hello" to me;he simply passed by me, put down his flowers, and left. He did not want todraw the attention of the Security Services officers to me, because theywere watching him closely.

On September 29, 1961, on the 20th anniversary of the shooting, manyyoung people came to Babi Yar not only from Kiev, but also from Moscow,Leningrad, and Tbilisi. Each of us carried a candle, and we placed a wreathin the form of a six-point star at the site. You can't imagine whathappened there! All the participants were arrested, right then and there,on the sacred place where the shooting took place, they were put intopolice cars and taken away. It was a great shame. Nevertheless, I continuedto go to that place every year. The Security Service told my employer thatI attend anti-Soviet rallies, and I was summoned to the personneldepartment and was asked intimidating questions. But each year, I continuedto go to Babi Yar, and all of my coworkers knew that.

A monument has been erected in Babi Yar, even two of them - a statemonument and a Jewish menorah; a monument to children was erected there in2001. The president, ambassadors, and high-profile activists in culturestage rallies and meetings there now, but very few of those who go therenowadays went there when it was forbidden.

I consider myself religious. Immediately after the war I began toattend synagogue again, first with my mother, and later with my husband. Myhusband and I contributed to the maintenance of the synagogue. Every timehe was paid royalties, we gave part of them to the synagogue. That is why Ieven had my own place in the synagogue, and where there were lines formatzoh, we got ours free of charge.

My present-day life

I read all the Jewish newspapers printed in Kiev, attend the Jewish"Khesed" and "Kinor" centers and the synagogue, when I can. Unfortunately,I don't know Hebrew. I have a Russian Bible, and when I come to thesynagogue, I read from it.

My husband and I traveled to Israel several times: he was invitedbecause he translated the poems of Israeli poets into Ukrainian. I sense myconnection with Israel and could probably move there if it were not for oldage and loneliness.

I celebrate all the Jewish holidays, Pesach, and especially YomKippur. I remember my first fast on September 29, 1941, very well - whenwe, evacuated Jews, were praying to God for the liberation of Kiev, ournation, and our country, and for our parents.

Jewish Ukrainians are now certainly more able to identify themselvesas Jews, without hiding or being ashamed of their nationality. But I thinkthat deep inside, anti-Semitism still exists in our Ukraine, only it ishiding for a time. And I would like the young Jews of Ukraine to return totheir roots, to know their language, their history and religion, and I praythat they will never have to go through the horrors our generation had toendure. Thank you, that's all.

Gavril Marcuson

Gavril Marcuson with Cornelia Paunescu in Geneva

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

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

Family background

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Family background
Growing up
During the War
After the War
Glossary

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

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

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

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

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

Bucharest

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Going to school

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

During the War

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After the War

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Glossary:

1 Gheorghiu-Dej, Gheorghe (1901-1965)

Leader of the Romanian Communist Party between 1952 and 1965. Originally an electrician and railway worker, he was imprisoned in 1933 and became the underground leader of all imprisoned communists. He was prime minister between 1952 and 1955 and first secretary of the Communist Party between 1945 and 1953 and from 1955 until his death. In his later years, he led a policy that drifted away from the directives coming from Moscow, keeping the Stalinist system untouched by the Krushchevian reforms.

2 10th of May (Heroes’ Day)

national holiday in the Romanian Monarchy. It was to commemorate Romania’s independence from the Ottoman Empire, granted in 1878 by the Treaty of Berlin. As a result of a parliamentary decision, Carol I of Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen was proclaimed King of Romania on 10th May, 1881.

3 King Carol I

1839-1914, Ruler of Romania (1866-1881) and King of Romania (1881-1914). He signed with Austro-Hungary a political-military treaty (1883), to which adhered Germany and Italy, linking this way Romania to The Central Powers. Under his kingship the Independence War of Romania (1877) took place. He insisted on Romania joining World War I on Germany and Austro-Hungary’s side.

4 King Ferdinand I

1865-1927, King of Romania (1914-1927). He supported Romania’s engaging in World War I on the side of the Entante, against the Central Powers, thus putting the interest of the nation beyond his own German origin. The disintegration of empires in the aftermath of the war made it possible for several provinces to unite with Romania in 1918, after a democratic referendum: Bessarabia (in April), Bucovina (in November) and Transylvania (in December). On 15th October 1922, Ferdinand was crowned king of the Great Romania at the Reunification Cathedral in Alba Iulia, a symbol of the unification of all the Romanian provinces under the rule of a single monarch.

5 King Carol II (1893-1953)

King of Romania from 1930 to 1940. During his reign he tried to influence the course of Romanian political life, first through the manipulation of the rival Peasants’ Party, the National Liberal Party and anti-Semitic factions. In 1938 King Carol established a royal dictatorship. He suspended the Constitution of 1923 and introduced a new constitution that concentrated all legislative and executive powers in his hands, gave him total control over the judicial system and the press, and introduced a one-party system. A contest between the king and the fascist Iron Guard ensued, with assassinations and massacres on both sides. Under Soviet and Hungarian pressure, Carol had to surrender parts of Romania to foreign rule in 1940 (Bessarabia and Northern Bucovina to the USSR, the Cadrilater to Bulgaria and Northern Transylvania to Hungary). He was abdicated in favor of his son, Michael, and he fled abroad. He died in Portugal.

6 King Michael (b

1921): Son of King Carol II, King of Romania from 1927-1930 under regency and from 1940-1947. When Carol II abdicated in 1940 Michael became king again but he only had a formal role in state affairs during Antonescu’s dictatorial regime, which he overthrew in 1944. Michael turned Romania against fascist Germany and concluded an armistice with the Allied Powers. King Michael opposed the “sovietization” of Romania after World War II. When a communist regime was established in Romania in 1947, he was overthrown and exiled, and he was stripped from his Romanian citizenship a year later. Since the collapse of the communist rule in Romania in 1989, he has visited the country several times and his citizenship was restored in 1997.

7 Caragiale, Ion Luca (1852-1912)

Very important Romanian playwright, prose writer and journalist, representative of the classical trend. He was a contributor for the most renowned humor gazettes of liberal orientation, and for liberal and conservative newspapers. Refusing to comply with the aesthetical and social taboos of his time, he made a deep analysis of the Romanian society in all his works, from plays and literary prose to humorous sketches, politically-biased columns and epistolary literature. In 1905, he settled in Berlin together with his family. He was the father of the prose writer and poet Mateiu I. Caragiale and of the poet Luca I. Caragiale.

8 Eminescu, Mihai (1850-1889)

considered the foremost Romanian poet of his century. His poems, lyrical, passionate, and revolutionary, were published in periodicals and had a profound influence on Romanian letters. He worked in a traveling company of actors, and also acquired a broad university education. His poetry reflected the influence of the French romantics. Eminescu suffered from periodic attacks of insanity and died shortly after his final attack.

9 Legionary

Member of the Legion of the Archangel Michael, also known as the Legionary Movement, founded in 1927 by C. Z. Codreanu. This extremist, nationalist, anti-Semitic and xenophobic movement aimed at excluding those whose views on political and racial matters were different from theirs. The Legion was organized in so-called nests, and it practiced mystical rituals, which were regarded as the way to a national spiritual regeneration by the members of the movement. These rituals were based on Romanian folklore and historical traditions. The Legionaries founded the Iron Guard as a terror organization, which carried out terrorist activities and political murders. The political twin of the Legionary Movement was the ‘Totul pentru Tara’ (‘Everything for the Fatherland’) that represented the movement in parliamentary elections. The followers of the Legionary Movement were recruited from young intellectuals, students, Orthodox clericals, peasants. The movement was banned by King Carol II in 1938.

10 Legionary Movement (also known as the Legion of the Archangel Michael)

Movement founded in 1927 by C. Z. Codreanu. This extremist, nationalist, anti-Semitic and xenophobic movement aimed at excluding those whose views on political and racial matters were different from theirs. The Legion was organized in so-called nests, and it practiced mystical rituals, which were regarded as the way to a national spiritual regeneration by the members of the movement. These rituals were based on Romanian folklore and historical traditions. The Legionaries founded the Iron Guard as a terror organization, which carried out terrorist activities and political murders. The political twin of the Legionary Movement was the ‘Totul pentru Tara’ (‘Everything for the Fatherland’) that represented the movement in parliamentary elections. The followers of the Legionary Movement were recruited from young intellectuals, students, Orthodox clericals, peasants. The movement was banned by King Carol II in 1938.

11 Iron Guard

Extreme right wing political organization in Romania between 1930 and 1941, led by C. Z. Codreanu. The Iron Guard propagated nationalist, Christian-mystical and anti-Semitic views. It was banned for its terrorist activities (e.g. the murder of Romanian Prime Minister I. Gh. Duca) in 1933. In 1935 it was re-established as a party named ‘Totul pentru Tara’, (‘Everything for the Fatherland’), but it was banned again in 1938. It was part of the government in the first period of the Antonescu regime, but it was then banned and dissolved as a result of the unsuccessful coup d'état of January 1941. Its leaders escaped abroad to the Third Reich.

12 Codreanu, Corneliu Zelea (1899-1938)

Founder and leader of the Legion of the Archangel Michael, also known in Romania as the Legionary Movement (1927), which pursued paramilitary activities and political terrorism. In 1930 Codreanu founded the political organization of the so-called Iron Guard movement. This extreme right-wing organization propagated exclusive nationalism, ‘Orthodoxism’ and anti-Semitism. By the end of the 1930s it became a mass movement and came into conflict with King Carol II of Romania. Codreanu was arrested and shot on the king’s orders in 1938.

13 Liga Apararii National Crestine (National Christian Defense League) (new)

Romanian fascist organization named after Alexandru C. Cuza, one of the most fervent fascist leaders in Romania, who was known for his ruthless chauvinism and anti-Semitism. Cuza founded the National Christian Defense League, the LANC (‘Liga Apararii National Crestine’), in 1923. The paramilitary troops of the league, called lancierii, wore blue uniforms. The organization published a newspaper entitled Apararea Nationala. In 1935 the LANC merged with the National Agrarian Party, and turned into the National Christian Party, which had a pronounced anti-Semitic program.

14 Legionary rebellion

failed coup intended by the legionaries in January 20-27 1941, which culminated with the pogrom of the Jews in Bucharest; after its defeat, Ion Antonescu established military dictatorship.

15 Red Assistance (new) – started in 1922 at the IV

Communist International. The aim of the communist aid organization was the material and moral support of the communist movement, their families as well as victims of fascism. The organization worked illegally in Transylvania and the rest of Romania, and was able to enlist the help of numbers of young people in it’s work. Financial support for the assistance program was procured through donations.

16 23 August 1944

On that day the Romanian Army switched sides and changed its World War II alliances, which resulted in the state of war against the German Third Reich. The Royal head of the Romanian state, King Michael I, arrested the head of government, Marshal Ion Antonescu, who was unwilling to accept an unconditional surrender to the Allies.

17 Patrascanu, Lucretiu (1900-1954)

Veteran Communist and respected intellectual, who successfully conducted an underground communist activity before the Communist Party came to power in Romania in 1944. Following this he was in charge of the Ministry of Justice. He was arrested in 1948 and tried in 1954. He was allegedly accused by Gheorghe Gheorghiu Dej, the leader of the Romanian Communist Party, of helping Antonescu in his war against the USSR and of being a spy for the British secret service. In fact, he was the only rival from an intellectual background Dej had. His patriotism, which he openly expressed, was interpreted by the communists as chauvinism.

18 Sebastian, Mihail (Hechter, I

) (1907-1945) (new): novelist, literary critic, playwright, essayist, PhD in Economic Sciences and Law from Paris. His most important works were published in the 1930’s; they had a semiautobiographical character and aroused vivid literary and doctrine-related debates. He was an editor for ‘Revista Fundatiilor Regale’ (‘The Magazine of the Royal Foundations’) from 1936 until 1940, when he was fired because he was a Jew. In 1941, he became a teacher at the Jewish High School ‘Cultura’ (‘The Culture’), then at the Onescu College, a Jewish improvised university, where he held a class of comparative literature. He died as a result of an accident.

19 Ceausescu, Nicolae (1918-1989)

Communist head of Romania between 1965 and 1989. He followed a policy of nationalism and non-intervention into the internal affairs of other countries. The internal political, economic and social situation was marked by the cult of his personality, as well as by terror, institutionalized by the Securitate, the Romanian political police. The Ceausescu regime was marked by disastrous economic schemes and became increasingly repressive and corrupt. There were frequent food shortages, lack of electricity and heating, which made everyday life unbearable. In December 1989 a popular uprising, joined by the army, led to the arrest and execution of both Ceausescu and his wife, Elena, who had been deputy Prime Minister since 1980.

20 Romanian Revolution of 1989

In December 1989, a revolt in Romania deposed the communist dictator Ceausescu. Anti-government violence started in Timisoara and spread to other cities. When army units joined the uprising, Ceausescu fled, but he was captured and executed on 25th December along with his wife. A provisional government was established, with Ion Iliescu, a former Communist Party official, as president. In the elections of May 1990 Iliescu won the presidency and his party, the Democratic National Salvation Front, obtained an overwhelming majority in the legislative body.

Alice Klímová

Alice Klimová

Alice Klímová

roz. Justitzová
Praha
Česká republika
Rozhovor pořídila: Lenka Kopřivová
Období vzniku rozhovoru: březen – červen 2006

PLEASE NOTE - this is only the transcript of the interview, the final edited version will be uploaded later

Kazeta č. 1, strana A:

B: Tak, nevím od jakého začátku chcete?

A: No, Tady je rodokmen, tak já bych možná ze začátku vyplnila nějak trošku ten rodokmen, abych věděla zhruba nějaké ty obrysy o Vás. A potom podle toho scénáře, co jsem Vám dávala, tak asi podle toho.

B: Dobře.

A: Vy se jmenujete Alice Klímová?

B: Ano.

A: A rodné jméno?

B: Justitzová. Psáno německy. Jo?

A: Ano.

B: Justitzová.

A: A kde jste se narodila a kdy?

B: V Praze. 5.7.1928.

A: A kromě Prahy jste žila někde jinde ještě?

B: No, tak těch šest let v Anglii a pak asi patnáct let, jak já tomu říkám druhý exil, v Litvínově. My jsme museli v padesátých letech z Prahy pryč.

A: A vaším mateřským jazykem je co?

B: Čeština.

A: Ono těch otázek je tady víc, ale já myslím, že během toho rozhovoru k nim stejně příjdem, tak mě se to zdá takový jako hodně zdlouhavý. A za války jste byla v Anglii? Celou dobu?

B: Ano.

A: Máte nějaké sourozence?

B: Měla. Měla jsem sestru, ta už zemřela v roce 1981. Starší.

A: A jak se jmenovala?

B: Emílie. Provdaná Passová. Dvě „s“.

A: A kdy a kde se narodila?

B: V Praze. 22.listopadu 1922.

A: A zemřela tedy kdy?

B: 5.6.1981.

A: A váš manžel?

B: Manžel, Robert Klíma. Z Ostravy. Nebo byl. A narozený 7.4.1920.

A: On je židovského původu?

B: Ano.

A: A jeho mateřský jazyk?

B: Taky čeština.

A: A žije ještě?

B: Ne, ne. Už zemřel. 5.listopadu 1983.

A: A nějaké děti máte?

B: Mám syna. Jiří Klíma. Také datum narození?

A: Ano, to taky.

B: 24.května 1949 v Praze. A dcera Věra Egemová.

A: Egemová?

B: Egemová, narozená 17.února 1953 v Mostě.

A: A máte vnoučata? Kolik a jaké?

B: No, takhle. Jedno od dcery. Syn má jednoho adoptovaného a ještě dva co vyženil, protože první manželka mu zahynula, takže se oženil podruhé, takže celkem pět. Samý kluky.

A: Všichni? A váš tatínek se jmenoval jak?

B: Bohumil.

A: A kdy a kde se narodil?

B: 14.10.1894 v Praze. To už je prehistorie. A maminka Lída. Lída, byla rozená Glauberová a ta se narodila 12.6.1894 taky v Praze.

A: No, a ještě tatínek žil celou dobu v Praze, celý život?

B: Ano, matka taky.

A: Matka taky? A jejich mateřským jazykem bylo co?

B: Nejsem si úplně jistá. Tatínek čeština a u matky možná němčina, nevím. Ale každopádně obojím se mluvilo. Mluvilo se česky i německy doma.

A: Jako u nich doma? U matky?

B: U matky a i my jako děti, částečně, protože vím, že babička mluvila raději německy než česky. Dědeček zas ne. Takže to bylo takový smíšený.

A: Tak jste se to alespoň naučila.

B: No, jo a ne. Mluvit, ale nikdy jsem se nenaučila číst a psát. No a dneska jsem většinu toho pozapomněla. Takže pokud nějaké slovo vypustím, tak mám relativně slušnou výslovnost, ale ty znalosti tomu vůbec neodpovídají. No, to jako dítě se tu výslovnost naučí samozřejmě rychleji.

A: A jakou práci dělal tatínek?

B: Tatínek měl svůj podnik na elektro, no, výroba elektrod na sváření. Takovej malej podnik to byl.

A: A měl nějaké sourozence?

B: Měl, celou řadu. Ani Vám nepovím přesně kolik. Tři sestry, dva bratry. Pak, já si nejsem jistá jestli nějaká sestra nezemřela úplně jako malá. To nevím přesně.

A: Pamatujete si jak se jmenovali, třeba?

B: Kamila, provdaná Moravitzová. To byla sestra otcova.

A: Jo a psáno Moravitzová?

B: Tz, ano. A Olga Epsteinová a Hermína Tuková. A bratr byl Karel Justitz a Rudolf.

A: A pamatujete si od někoho z nich nějaké biografické data?

B: Vím, že ten Rudolf zemřel asi v roce 1937. Proč, to nevím. Jinak všichni zahynuli v koncentráku. To vám nepovím. Ačkoliv možná, kdybych někde hledala, tak bych to našla. Trváte na tom?

A: No, když tak potom někdy ještě.

B: Jo? Já to někde myslím mám.

A: A tatínek přežil válku?

B: Ne.

A: Nepřežil.

B: On tam zemřel.

A: A kde zemřel?

B: V Osvětimi.

A: V kterém roce?

B: Prosím?

A: V kterém roce?

B: 1944. 28.září 1944.

A: A váš dědeček z tatínkovy strany se jmenoval jak?

B: Toho jsem nikdy nepoznala. Oba jeho rodiče už nežili, když já jsem se narodila. Vím, že babička teda z otcovy strany byla Emílie a ta zemřela asi čtrnáct dní před narozením sestry. Proto jako byla pojmenovaná po ní. A nějak si teď nevybavím dědečka.

A: A z maminčiny strany teda?

B: Z maminčiny strany, babička to byla Otýlie, rozená Hellerová a ta se narodila 8.8.1870. a dědeček Julius Glauber, 1.dubna a 1866 nebo 1867, to přesně nevím a zemřel duben nebo květen 1933.

A: Babička zemřela kdy?

B: Já mám dojem že 1942. Pokud vím, všichni zemřeli v Osvětimi, babička v Treblince. 1942 nebo 1943, nevím přesně.

A: Maminka měla nějaké sourozence?

B: Ano bratra, Bedřich. 1.4.1894 v Praze, ale potom, po první světový vojně, asi od 20. roku nebo kdy, žil v Drážďanech. Po křišťálové noci potom se s rodinou vrátil do Prahy.

A: Maminka zemřela kdy teda, v kterém roce?

B: 1.října 1944.

A: Taky v Osvětimi?

B: Ano.

A: A víte něco o sourozencích prarodičů? Byli nějací?

B: Babička moje z matčiny strany měla sestru. Vím, že krásně pletla.

A: Jo?

B: Laura, Laura se jmenovala, ale jak příjmením? To už nevím. A jestli byla svobodná? To netuším. A z otcovy strany ti zemřeli ještě dřív než já jsem se narodila. O těch nevím nic.

A: A oni byli o kolik starší?

B: Já nevím. Tehdy se taky dřív umíralo, že jo? Dědeček z matčiny strany, jak říkám, ten zemřel v roce 1933, čili tomu bylo 6O a něco.

A: Tak stručný rodokmen teda je.

B: Dobře.

A: Tak já bych šla teď podle té struktury toho, co jsem posílala. A kdyby to šlo, tak že bychom prvně probraly tu tatínkovu rodinu, co si na ně pamatujete nebo nějaké spolužáky nebo tak.

B: No, to byly jenom skutečně, říkám, prarodiče otcovy jsem neznala a nic o nich jako nevím samozřejmě. Jedno co bych mohla říct, že to byla rodina, která držela velice pohromadě. Taková ta soudržnost, to určitě. Každou sobotu, vím, že se stýkali vždycky v nějaké kavárně. Jo, to bylo takové nepsané pravidlo. To ano.

A: A měli nějaké sourozence? Jo, měli, ty velké.

B: Jo, to byly ty tři sestry a ten jeden bratr, jak říkám, ten už zemřel dřív, podstatně.Takže ten ne. Měla jsem celkem dvanáct sestřenic a čtyři bratrance. A z toho snad jenom jedny sestřenice byly mladší, všechny byly starší než já a já jsem po nich po všech musela dědit. To bylo jako pravidlo tehdy, že jo? Přece se to nevyhodí, když to ještě může k něčemu sloužit. Tak to jsem jako, i když sestřenice jsem měla ráda, ale ony za to nemohly, že jo, pro to jsem je moc nemilovala. Ale první vlastní výbavu jsem dostala až když jsem jela do Anglie.

A: Aha, a do té doby jste všechno teda dědila?

B: No, tak většinou, tak ne stoprocentně, ale většinou, že jo. No a říkám, byly starší. Protože, když mě bylo, dejme tomu, osm a jim šestnáct, no tak to byl obrovskej rozdíl, že jo. Takže jsme se to té míry nestýkali, ale vím že jsem jako v některých jsem chodila, že jo, když už chodily, já nevím, nějak hezky oblečený a podobně jak to bývá, no. A jinak nevím co bych jako mohla povědět.

A: A vy jste také chodila do té kavárny s nima?

B: Ne, ne. To pro nás ještě nebylo, to se nedělalo.

A: A kde oni bydleli nebo odkud pocházel tatínek, z Prahy, které části?

B: Tatínek, z Libně. A já když jsem se narodila, tak jsme bydleli v Dejvicích. Nynější Kafkové, tehdejší Bachmačská. A když zemřel dědeček, tak jsme se přestěhovali do toho bytu, kde oni bydleli, což byla Sokolská, roh Sokolské a Žitné. Obrovský byt to byl, šesti pokojový. Dneska je to myslím prázdný a zpustošený. I když to byl nádhernej barák. První dům v Praze, který měl ústřední topení. Tam jsme byli jenom rok a pak jsme se stěhovali na Vinohrady. Takže do dneška Praha pro mě obnáší Vinohrady a Dejvice. No, takže tam jsem bydlela až do svého odjezdu.

A: No a prarodiče, co dělali? Co dělal dědeček? Jaké měl zaměstnání?

B: Z otcovy strany, nemám tušení. To nevím vůbec nic.

A: A nevíte třeba jak byli nábožensky založeni?

B: Byli všichni židé. To určitě. Já můžu jenom říct, že jako, co se týče mých rodičů, mý rodiny, že se dodržovaly svátky a tím to asi tak začínalo a končilo. Jo? Aby se v týdnu chodilo, já nevím, na bohoslužby, no tak to určitě ne. Jo, jak někteří ti ortodoxní mají košer. Tak to v žádném případě. Ne. To v žádném případě. Akorát ten Nový rok a, co to je, roš ha šana, že? Tak to chodili rodiče do synagogy, já snad taky. A na ten seder o velikonocích nebo kolem Velikonoc, že, tak to se chodilo k té tetě Kamile, na tu večeři. A co jsem já těžce nesla, že jsme nesměli mít stromeček doma. To jsem chodila ke kamarádkám. Tak to jsem cítila jako, no, prostě mi to bylo líto.

A: A sestře ne?

B: Já nevím, nějak jsme o tom nemluvily. Mě to nenapadlo. Nebo byla nad to povznešená. To už nevím.

A: A chanuku jste slavili?

B: No, tak že se zapálil ten svícen. To tak pro mě co se týče náboženství pro mě začínalo a končilo. No, tehdy bylo všude, ve všech školách, více méně, povinné náboženství, jo. No, takže já jsem chodila na to židovské náboženství, které bylo na jiné škole, to bylo tam „na smetance“, myslím, se tomu říkalo. A protože jsem měla ještě řadu jiných aktivit jako, já nevím, klavír a, já nevím, nějaký tělocvik a tak dále, tak, že jsem si stěžovala často na bolení hlavy, což mě tíží dodnes, tak rodiče usoudili, abych nebyla tak přetížená, že můžu jako klidně oželet to náboženství. Takže v páté třídě jsem už na náboženství nechodila, což jsem byla velice ráda.

A: To jste potom stejně už někdy jela do Anglie, ne?

B: No, tak to bylo od září do konce školního roku, že jo, ten poslední rok.

A: Neříkal Vám teda třeba tatínek něco ještě o těch prarodičích?

B: Ne, ne. Bohužel Vám nepomůžu.

A: Tak to nevadí.

B: Jediný, pokud Vás to zajímá, že, nějak, jsme příbuzní s malířem Alfredem Justitzem. Ale jak, nevím. Už dvacet, třicet let furt chodím, že to zjistím, ale ještě jsem se k tomu nedostala. A asi nedostanu. Já jsem hrozná, co?

A: Hlavně, že máte ten dojem, že to tak teda je.

B: To určitě, to vím bezpečně. Jestli to byl strýc mého otce, nebo co, nevím. To já teda moc nevím.

A: Tak kdybychom mohly udělat ty prarodiče z maminčiny strany.

B: Ano.

A: Tak o nich víte co teda?

B: Tak vím, že dědeček spolu se svým bratrem měli velkoobchod s kávou.

A: Tady v Praze někde?

B: Konkrétně dneska v Opletalově ulici. Tehdy to byla ulice Lützovova. A dnes je to Opletalova. A maminka tam chodila dělat takové ty sekretářské práce.

A: A ještě jako když měla vás už?

B: No, údajně, když já jsem se narodila, tak někdo mě tam nosil ještě na kojení, prý.

A: A jak to tam vypadalo v tom velkoobchodu?

B: Vím, že to bylo do suterénu. Ale víc nevím.

A: A měl to teda až do té doby než zemřel?

B: Jo.

A: A pak se s tím stalo co?

B: Nevím. Vím, že babička něco ještě nějakým těm starším zákazníkům prodávala. Nějakou tu kávu, jo. Ale co jinak, a co ten prastrýc můj, jako to nevím.

A: A mohla by jste mi nějak dědečka popsat?

B: Velice laskavý, hodný, milý člověk. Taková jedna vzpomínka z té Sokolské. Tam měl, po čem je dneska velká poptávka, ty psací stoly s takovou tou jako roletou. On u toho seděl a v pravém spodním šuplíku, tam míval kočičí jazýčky a když jsem přišla, tak si mě posadil na klín, vytáhl jeden ten jazýček, to nebylo zvykem tehdy dávat celý tabulky čokolády nebo co je to dneska, že jo, jenom po kouskách. „Jednu kočičku, pro mou kočičku.“ Tak to samozřejmě si pamatuju, že jo. Byl to takový ten, jak ve filmu se říká, takový ten hodný, laskavý dědeček.

A: A měl on víc vnoučat nebo jen Vás a sestru?

B: Ne, ještě od toho Bedřicha, co jak říkám, žil v Drážďanech, tak ti měli dvě děvčata.

A: Jo, ale tak stejně jste se asi moc nevídaly že?

B: Ale jo, ta jedna to je támhle ta, zrovna.

A: Aha.

B: No, často jsme se nevídaly, ale i když bydleli v Drážďanech, tak tahle Věra, to byla moje nejmilejší sestřenice.

A: Jo?

B: No, jsme se měly velmi rády. I když ona byla asi o devět měsíců mladší, ale i tak. Jsme se milovaly.

A: Tak mi o ní ještě něco řekněte taky ještě.

B: Nezapomeňte, že to už je, kolik, víc jak šedesát, pomalu sedmdesát let, to těžko můžete takhle popsat nějaké pocity nebo něco. Byla to strašně milá dívenka. Nevím, co bych Vám řekla.

A: A jak často jste se viděly, asi tak.

B: To vám neřeknu, to nevím. Já vím, že jsem dostala třeba nějakou fotografii ze srpna 1938, nějak nemám v paměti, že byli v Praze, ale je to z Prahy, takže to přesně nevím. Já jenom vím, že Vánoce 1937 jsem byla u nich v Drážďanech, to vím. Ale jak často oni jezdili sem, tak to si nepamatuju. No a ta starší Eva, ta byla o den starší než moje sestra. Jestli náhodou, pokud se hrabete tam v různých těch, já nevím, archivech nebo kde co, v tý obci, tak možná, že jste narazila na knížku, ani nevím jak se jmenuje, od Alfred Kantor, který namaloval obrázky z Terezína a té, z Auschwitz už ne, ale z Terezína. Nenarazila jste na to?

A: Asi bych musela vidět ty obrázky teda.

B: Protože s tím, ona ta Eva chodila. Taková velikánská láska.

A: V Terezíně?

B: Ano.

A: A ona se teda taky nevrátila?

B: Ne. Jsem to někomu půjčila.

A: Tak to nevadí, já se na to podívám jindy.

B: On to vesměs maloval zpaměti. On se zachránil. Tak. Co by jste ještě ráda?

A: Ještě, ještě jak dědeček vypadal?

B: To bych vám mohla ukázat fotografii, jestli chcete.

A: Tak to můžem stejně asi udělat potom dohromady ještě.

B: Až potom dohromady, dobře.

A: A tak babičku, kdyby jste mi popsala.

B: Babička, menší, hodná.

A: Veselá, živá nebo tak?

B: Veselá, no to bych váhala, asi tak. To veselejší možná byl dědeček. Babička nějak…, tak já si ji hlavně pamatuju po tom, co dědeček zemřel, protože pak jsme spolu bydleli.

A: Na té Sokolské?

B: Na té Sokolské a pak na Vinohradech. Jo? Takže možná že zvážněla právě z toho důvodu, že ovdověla, to je možný. To vám nepovím. Ale jako že by…, jako tatínka si pamatuji jako nesmírně vtipného člověka, jo? Věčně legrace. Tak to bych o babičce říct nemohla. Jo? Ale taková ta hodná babička, že jo, která dávala vylízat ty hrnce, a takovýhle to jo.

A: A trávily jste spolu hodně času?

B: Jako nemůžu říct, že by chodila se mnou na procházky nebo tak, to nějak nemám v paměti. To tak spíš doma, že se něco tak povídalo nebo to.

A: A předtím ještě když žil dědeček, tak jezdili jste společně na nějaké výlety?

B: Ne, to nějak nemám v paměti. Možná jo, ale jak říkám, nemám to v paměti.

A: A mohla by jste mi když tak popsat ten jejich byt, jak vypadal?

B: Jo, i když to už je sedmdesát nebo víc let. Vešlo se, bylo to v prvním patře, a dlouhá taková nudlovitá chodba a doprava, tam byly ještě další dva pokoje a tam bydlela prababička. Ale ne když jsme se tam nastěhovali, to ne. Já vím, že to jsme si dělaly legraci se sestrou, vždycky, že měla plyšový kanapíčko. Takový to s těma třásněma. Jo? Já to mám v paměti ještě dnes. No a pak doleva byla velikánská kuchyně. A pak byly čtyři, šest pokojů. Ty dva měla ta prababička vzadu. A čtyři. A to byly rachejtle obrovský. To byly strašně veliké místnosti, vysokánské stropy. A já tak nějak mám před sebou hlavně ten pokoj kde měl ten dědeček ten psací stůl, ale víc už si jako nevybavuju. Velikánská koupelna, kde se nějak topilo na tu teplou vodu. Tam byl nějaký kotel nebo co to bylo. Velká „špajz“ u tý kuchyně. Prostě to byly strašně velký místnosti. Pro to dítě působí všechno mnohem větším dojmem, že jo. Ale i dneska když se koukám zvenčí, jakej prostor to zabírá, no tak to je vidět, že to muselo být hodně veliký.

A: A teď tam teda nic není?

B: Ne, byla tam Druope, něco na , oční optiku kdysi, co tam je dneska nevím, ale e vidět, že ten dům chátrá velice. Sestra se v tom bytě narodila.

A: Jo? A babička s dědečkem měli nějakou výpomoc doma?

B: Jo, kuchařka, která jim vařila, uklízela.

A: A co dělala babička, když dědeček byl v obchodě?

B: Taky, jako vařila, dohlížela. No, dohlížela. Aby prostě, chod domácnosti byl, jak si představovala.

A: A ona taky pletla jako ta její sestra.

B: Nepamatuju si, to si nepamatuju.

A: Takže takové ty materiální poměry, ve kterých jste žili byly asi?

B: Zaopatření, řekněme, byly slušný. Rozhodně bych neřekla, že jsme patřili k nějaký bohatý tý. Ale taková ta střední vrstva.

A: A byl dědeček nějak orientovaný, politicky?

B: To netuším.

A: A nebo babička, v nějakých organizacích?

B: Myslím, že ne.

A: A oni košer taky nějak?

B: Taky ne. Ne.

A: A jinak chodili nějak pravidelněji do synagogy?

B: To nevím.No, tak když zpětně takhle uvažuju, tak ani nějak tu babičku nevidím, že by nějak chodila, ale možná jo. Ale jako k tomu židovství se jako celá rodina hlásila, to určitě. Ne jako národnost, to ne.

A: To jste měli českou?

B: Jo, to určitě. Ale rozhodně se k tomu jako hlásili. Nakonec já taky. A do tý synagogy nejdu, ani na ty svátky.

A:. A tak mohla by jste mi říct nějakou vzpomínku na ty prarodiče třeba?

B: Ne. To vám neřeknu. Jediný co jsem si zapamatovala s tím dědečkem a ty kočičí jazýčky. Jo? To, ale jinak, vám opravdu nic. Tak mě bylo čtyři a půl, když dědeček zemřel. Nevím, co si pamatujete z těch let a jste o dost mladší. Takže to opravdu vám nepomůžu.

A: Tak já bych teď vzala třeba maminku. A vaše maminka byla mladší než ten její bratr?

B: Jo, o tři roky.

A: Tak mi ji když tak popište nějak víc, jak si na ni pamatujete.

B: Maminka, jak bych to řekla, já to přeženu. Měla trošičku takový ten aristokratický způsob chování. Jo. Vždycky za dámu. Samozřejmě to s aristokracií nemělo vůbec nic společného. Ale vždycky, jak já říkám, jako za dámu, oblečená vždycky, dbala na to. Řekla bych, že na svoji dobu byla i celkem vzdělaná. Měla státnici z angličtiny, což tehdy bylo dost nezvyklé, že jo. Říkám, mluvilo se česky i německy. Myslím si, že ona měla víc německé školy. Ale to nemůžu zaručit, to nevím. Otec česky, to jo. I když také mluvil stejně dobře německy. Tatínek byl v první světové válce raněný, takže mu, myslím v roce 1933, museli brát ledvinu a vím, že ona se vzorově o něj starala. Opravdu s nesmírnou péčí a láskou. Takže na to byla zaměřená, že. A samozřejmě zaměřená, byla to žena v domácnosti, protože tehdy bylo velmi vzácné, že by žena chodila do práce. To byly opravdu jen takové ty velice chudé rodiny, kde to bylo z ekonomických důvodů. Rozhodně ne jako dneska, že někdo dělá kariéru. Takže byla doma, no a věnovala se nám, holkám a, dneska by se tomu řeklo zájmový kroužky, což tehdy nebylo, samozřejmě. Takže vím, že mě vodila, tehdy se tomu říkalo rytmika, dneska by se tomu říkalo spíš gymnastika.

A: Já jsem taky chodila ještě na rytmiku. A taky se tomu říkalo rytmika.

B: Jo? Já myslela že to zmizelo po válce.

A: Tak možná my jsme takový zastaralý kraj.

B: A to je kde.

A: No, na Jižní Moravě, pod Brnem.

B: Aha. No, vím, že to bylo jak je Palác Metro. Na Národní, tam.

A: Tam jste chodila?

B: Ano.

A: A sestra taky?

B: Ne, ta ne. Na klavír k nám docházela, jako ta učitelka. To byla, svatej člověk. Protože někdo tak hudebně nenadaný jako sestra a já, to se musí hledat. A já ji zbožňovala. Ona měla, jak já říkám, svatou trpělivost nad náma. A pravda je, že já dneska když poslouchám hudbu, já si nejvíc vychutnám ten klavír. Takže něco to asi dá. No tak, zkrátka se starala, abychom měly tyhle ty aktivity různé, aby jsme měly to, co se v slušné rodině „nosilo“ či dělalo. Tak asi takhle. Taky samozřejmě dbala, aby rodina držela pohromadě. No, jako asi téměř všude, sourozenci se štěkali, hubovali si, že jo. Tak to těžce maminka nesla, když padlo slovo jako „kráva“ nebo něco takového. Žádný sprostý slovo, to prostě neexistovalo. To jako, to se nesmělo. To jenom když nebyla v doslechu. To tatínek byl tolerantnější v tom, ale maminka v žádném případě. No, tak asi takhle.

A: A byla přísná na Vás?

B: Ne. No, takhle, když se něco řeklo, tak to platilo. Tak asi takhle. Ale jinak. Prostě jako ne. Vzpomínám si, když jednou jedinkrát v životě jsem dostala od tatínka naplácáno. A to jako vím přesně. V sobotu večer zase chodili nejlepší přátelé mých rodičů k nám. A to muselo být, jak jsem říkala, že ti příbuzní jak žili v těch Drážďanech, tak po křišťálové noci se přestěhovali do Prahy a první, já nevím, dva, tři měsíce bydleli shodou okolností ve stejném domě jako my. A teďka, tahleta Věra a já, jsme měly jsme vlézt do vany, se jako vykoupat. A já jsem pořád otálela a nechtěla jsem do té vany, protože před tím známým mých rodičů, před tím pánem jsem se styděla se svlíknout. A já jsem to nechtěla říct. A furt, a že musím do školy tohle, a že si musím naplnit pero, no, věčně jsem si vymýšlela. No a potom tatínek už toho měl plný zuby a dal mi přes zadek. Jo? No, ale říkala ta známá potom, že s ním nebyla celý večer řeč, protože pořád „ Já jsem naplácal svoji holčičku!“ a to furt omílal, prostě se z toho nemohl vzpamatovat. Takže tohle neexistovalo, nějaké bití nebo něco takovýho. Říkám, neuvědomil si nějakou tu přísnost, nebo co. To jako ne.

A: A byla s nimi tedy sranda? S tatínkem?

B: A tatínkem jo. S tatínkem věčně. Ten pořád nějaký vtípek. A tak dále. Tyhle ti známí, nejlepší přátelé jejich, ti, nevím přesně kdy, ale ještě v roce 1939, odešli z Prahy do Polska, a z Polska na Ukrajinu a skončili na Sibiři, ale oni byli chemici. Jo? No a v roce 1946 se vrátili domů. No, takže šťastní, že nás našli. A tak od nich jsem se pak dozvěděla hodně. Protože mě bylo jedenáct, když jsem odjížděla. Takže, ti nám jako vyprávěli různý věci, já nevím, co tatínek dělal. Třeba, když se šlo k nim, tak oni neměli mléko, protože neměli děti a rádi pili černou kávu. Kdežto můj tatínek rád trochu toho mlíka. Tak si bral sebou lahvičku, dal si ji do náprsní kapsy dovnitř a teď, takhle ten špunt vyndal, že si odstříknul to mlíko. Tak to byly vtípky mýho tatínka. Jak říkám, to vím od nich. To já si nemůžu pamatovat, tohle to. Tak to byl můj tatínek.

A: A s Vámi něco prováděl? Jako s dcerami? Takového veselého?

B: Nevzpomínám si. Je to možné, ale nevzpomínám si. Vím že ten strýc, ten matčin bratr, ten taky. Ten byl nesmírně vtipný taky. A ten vždycky říkal, že musí nechat vyrobit, jé jak on tomu říkal, takový přístroj na plácání dětí, jo. A pořád, že to nemůžou zhotovit, a tohle ještě chybí a tam to a že to nemůžou doručit, ale určitě že to přijde a pak, že dostanu pořádný výprask.

A: A kdy že dostanete?

B: No, až ta mašinka přijde, jo? No, tak takovýhle legrácky on dělal děckám. Tak to si pamatuju. Jak říkám, maminka ne, ta byla možná trochu vážnější. Ale ten strýček a tatínek, to byli srandisti, velicí.

A: A co maminku třeba zase bavilo?

B: Řekla bych, že čtení asi. Vím, že životní výkon její byl, jsem náhodou dostala zpátky, jedna z velice mála věcí, že vyšila takový goblén, jako takhle na stěnu. A sestře upletla dva svetry. A to byl vrchol jejích ručních prací. Ona rozhodně na to nebyla. Tak to určitě ne. Řekla bych asi, že chodili docela rádi do divadla, na opery. Protože vzpomínám, jak tatínek si každou chvilku prozpěvoval nějaké melodie z různých árií. To ještě dneska, třeba z Carmen. To vím. Ale jinak?

A: A brali vás také do divadla?

B: Ne.

A: Ani na nějaké dětské představení?

B: Nevzpomínám. Jediné co vím, že jsem byla dvakrát v kině, to byly začátky kinematografie, tehdy, že jo? Teďka nevím který bylo první, myslím že první bylo Sněhurka a sedm trpaslíků. To bylo kino Flora tehdy. A pak kino Blaník, myslím to bylo, Mickey Mouse. Protože tehdy to byly úplné prvopočátky kinematografie. Tak to byl zážitek obrovský, že si to dodnes pamatuju. Jo, Hurvínek a Spejbl, myslím. Myslím, že jsem byla jednou na Hurvínkovi, možná dvakrát. To jo.

A: O tom mluvil i pan Auerbach. Taky o Hurvínkovi a taky o Sněhurce.

B: Taky jo? To jo, no. Protože doma se přísně dbalo, já musela být v sedm hodin v posteli.

A: Pořád?

B: Jo. Ospalá jsem nebyla nic, ale prostě sedm hodin a bez milosti. Takže nějaké ty večerní ty. No samozřejmě, že byly odpolední divadla, že jo, a podobně. Ale to se muselo přísně dodržet.

A: Pro sestru to platilo taky?

B: Ne. Ta byla skoro o šest let starší. Tak ta ne. Určitě měla nějakou hodinu, kdy musela být doma, to určitě. Ale nepamatuju si do kdy.

A: A kde se vaši rodiče vlastně seznámili?

B: Kde? Tak to nevím.

A: A když tak mohla by jste mi něco říct o jejich mládí, jestli víte?

B: Ne.

A: Ani o tatínkově, a co on vlastně dělal?

B: Tatínek měl ten obchod s těmi elektrodami. Nejprve dělal nějakého obchodního cestujícího. Snad ještě když já jsem se narodila chodil s tím kufříkem a s tím obchodoval. To nevím. No a pak měl ten svůj podnik.

A: A kde ho měl?

B: Kde? Nejprve ve Srašnicích, průběžný, a pak v Libni. Dneska tam nahoře v Holešovičkách, jak se jede dolů, tak po pravé straně, takový hezký baráčky, ještě tam stojí.

A: A jak to bylo velké ten podnik?

B: Asi tam bylo dvanáct, nejvýš patnáct zaměstnanců. Jestli. Takže malé.

A: A byl jediný majitel, nebo tam měl společníky nějaké?

B: Jediný.

A: A chodila jste se tam někdy podívat?

B: Jo, velmi často.

A: Jak to tam vypadalo?

B: No, to už si nepamatuju. To jsem tam chodila ráda, mě tam měli taky rádi, byli rádi, když prohodili slovo, nějaký. To jo. Tak když jsme bydleli na Vinohradech, tak to do tý průběžný nebylo daleko. Já jsem snad chodila i pěšky sama. Tenkrát ten provoz nebyl zdaleka takovej jako dnes, že jo. No a pak se přestěhovali do těch Holešovic tak to už ne. Ale vím že jsem tam chodila asi mě maminka tam vozila, protože to už jsem sama těžko mohla. To už bylo daleko. Vemte si tam nějakou sušenku.

A: Mám si na Vás vymyslet nějakou otázku další. No, mohla by jste mi popsat, jak to vypadalo u vás doma?

B: Na těch Vinohradech?

A: No, tam, kde jste asi nejvíc bydlela.

B: No, to byla vila, jak se říká činžovní v podstatě, my jsme bydleli v přízemí, majitelé v poschodí a v druhém poschodí, tam byla dvougarsonka a tam byli právě ten strýc s tou tetou z Drážďan, ale to jenom pár měsíců. A v suterénu, tam byla jednou pokoj, kuchyň a jednou kuchyň, ale na chodbě záchod a voda atd. No, tak se dříve kolikrát bydlelo, že jo. Nevím do jaké míry znáte Vinohrady. Víte kde je Orionka?

A: Ano.

B: Tak ta ulice dolů, to je Říčanská a na konci té ulice, pak vedou schody dolů jako do Vršovic. A podél těch schodů to byla ta vila, ve které jsme bydleli. V podstatě. Ta ulice se jmenovala Na zájezdu, hned doleva se zahnulo. Tak v té vile jsme bydleli. Byl to krásný byt, čtyřpokojový. Ovšem tak jako tenkrát se to dělalo, že koupelna byla, se šlo přes ložnici. Byla tam krásná obytná hala, proti té hale byl obývací pokoj. V tom spali rodiče. Pak jídelna, pak babička měla pokoj a tady byla ložnice, kde jsem spala se sestrou a za tím byla koupelna. A pak tadyhle byla kuchyň. Atd. Byl to opravdu krásný byt, se zahradou. Protože majitelé, ti pak v květnu odjížděli, měli někde nějakou chatu. Tak ovoce ze zahrady, my jsme tam byly jediné děti, jsme si směly natrhat my, že jo. V podstatě ta vila patřila synovci Škody, toho plzeňského Škody, tak to dostali svatebním darem, tu vilu. Doufám, že taky dostanete něco takového.

A: No, to bych ráda.

B: Že jo? Takových by mohlo být víc, že jo. Byla to opravdu moc hezká vila. Tam jsme bydleli. Samozřejmě mám i krásné vzpomínky. Jednak bydlení hezké, že jo. A domov. Do školy jsem chodila. …

Kazeta š. 1, strana B:

… Když pršelo, tak jsem dostala padesátník na tramvaj. To byly dvě stanice. No a to byl prostě národní sport, koukat jezdit na černo. Ne,že jako jsem ten padesátník potřebovala, ale tak z hecu asi. Jak to dělává většina omladiny.

A: A chytli vás někdy?

B: Ne, nevzpomínám. Ne. To ne. To byly právě dvě stanice. Ale jinak jsme chodili pěšky vždycky. Dobrodružný. S kamarádkama na té cestě jsme se potkávaly.

A: A vy jste celých těch pět let chodila to téhle školy?

B: Akorát, začala jsem chodit do první třídy, jak jsme bydleli v tý Sokolský, jo, od toho září do ledna a v lednu 1935, jsme se pak přestěhovali do tý vily do těch Vinohradů. Takže dá se říct, že jo. Jo. Až na ten, ani ne, půl roku.

A: A proč jste se přestěhovali z té sokolské?

B: No, protože to byl strašně velikej byt, řekla bych až, já nevím. Rozhodně v té vile to bylo takový světlejší, příjemnější, že jo, s tou zahradou tam. Kterou jsme měli my k dispozici tak to rozhodně bylo příjemnější. Krásný místnosti.

A: A oni tam bydleli před tím prarodiče i se svýma dětma nebo jenom sami?

B: V tý Sokolský?

A: Ano.

B: no, tak děti už, to znamená moje matka, byly už dospělý, co já si vzpomínám, že jo, provdaný. Tak no asi jo. Říkám moje sestra se tam narodila tak asi matka s tím mým strýcem tam pravděpodobně taky bydleli.

A: ještě jsem se vlastně chtěla zeptat jaké měl tatínek vzdělání?

B: Nevím přesně, to jako si nejsem jistá. Maminka určitě maturitu měla. Jestli otec, tak to si nejsem jistá.

A: Maminka to měla na gymnáziu¸ nebo jinde?

B: Jo, pravděpodobně. Jestli nějaký Lyceum, nebo jak se to nazývalo, to nevím. Jo? To nevím. Ale jak říkám, určitě měla maturitu a měla tu, státnici na filosofické fakultě z angličtiny.

A: A jak se dostala k angličtině?

B: No, proč ne?

A: No, to je pravda. A tatínek v první světové válce byl kde na frontě?

B: Nevím. Jako mě to nikdy nenapadlo se ptát. Vás by napadlo se ptát jako osmi, desetiletá holka?

A: Ne.

B: Jo. Takže.

A: No, já jenom kdyby náhodou o tom nemluvili třeba.

B: No. Se sestrou se bavil mnohem víc. To já vím. Říkám, byla o těch šest let starší, takže to já vím že tam se jako bavili velice často. No a mě v životě nenapadlo nějak se jí vůbec na co ptát protože mě stejně tak nikdy nenapadlo že tak brzy umře, že jo. Jí bylo padesát osm. To jako bych nikdy nepředpokládala. Člověk je vždycky chytrej až když je pozdě. Dneska bych měla sto a tisíc otázek na ni. To už bohužel nedoženu.

A: A jak jste spolu vycházely jako děti?

B: No, jak říkám, jako děti jsme se každou chvilku rafaly hádaly a nadávaly, protože ona měla červenej penál a ještě k tomu na zip. A já ho měla hnědej a na zip nebyl. Tak takovýhle hlouposti mi vadily, i když můj byl z mnohem lepší kůže. No, ale já byla jako malý dítě věčně nemocná, nějaký ty chřipky a bronchitidy a tak dále. V ten okamžik ta by mi byla snesla modrý z nebe. Většinou to byly nějaký takový skleněný figurky nebo něco. Tak to jsme se milovaly, no jen mi bylo dobře, tak už jsme zase byly v sobě. Ale v momentě, když jsem byla, když jsme byly v Anglii, já si nevzpomínám, že bychom se byly někdy pohádaly. A to už mi byla více matkou než sestrou. A bylo nás víc, co měli třeba sestru nebo nějakýho sourozence v Anglii, ale já myslím, že nikdo neměl takovou sestru jako já. Ta byla naprosto jedinečná, jak se starala o mně.

A: A jaká byla povahově?

B: Jak říkám, zlatej člověk. Ne jenom ke mně. Jo. Mimořádně hodná. Ta by se rozdala na všechny strany, ale jestliže z nějakého důvodu někdo se jí znelíbil, tak prostě byl odepsanej. Jo? Prostě už s tím člověkem nekomunikovala. Jo? Při její, buď černý nebo bílý, jo? Ale říkám, doslechla se, že někomu není dobře, tam mu šla něco napéct a už to tam nesla a koukala co může zařídit, pomoct, a tak dále. Ale kolikrát na úkor vlastní rodiny, že jo. Protože v těch poválečných letech nebylo nic. A my měli dvakrát nic, že jo. Ale ta by se byly rozdala na všechny strany.

A: A co ji třeba bavilo?

B: Ta se velice zajímala o literaturu. To vím, že dostávala kapesné, které si ušetřila a nechala si třeba za ty peníze svázat Jiráska v kůži. Jestli by to udělala dneska ještě, to teda pochybuji. Jo? Ale tehdy jako jo. Ta byla skutečně, bych řekla, velice taková všestranná. A říkám, co se týče tý hudby, my jsme byly opravdu, jak se říká, ten hluch. Ale o tu hudbu se zajímala. Převážně bych řekla tu literaturu. Na sporty nebyla, to určitě ne. Mě nic nenapadá.

A: Maminka hrála taky na klavír?

B: Ne.

A: A tatínek taky na žádný nástroj?

B: Ne.

A: A vás bavilo co, když jste byla malá?

B: v podstatě nic moc. Já vím, že rodiče byli zoufalí, že jsem se neměla ke čtení. Já jsem nějak nechtěla číst. A až pak, nevím jak se mi dostalo do ruky, to dodnes vzpomínám. Knížka, která se jmenovala „Irča vede jedenáctku“, autorka nějaká Hüttlová. A byly to takový ty dívčí románky.

A: Já jsem to četla taky, tohle.

B: Jo? To ještě existovalo?

A: No, já jsem nevěděla co mám dělat. Byla jsem jednou někde, asi u babičky, jsem to tam někde vyhrabala.

B: Jo. Tak to mě chytlo. A tak jsem postupně pak začala trošku číst. Díky tomuhle tomu. Jo? A dneska si neumím představit život bez knížky, že jo. Ale tehdy mě to nějak… No, nějak si nepamatuju. Já jsem byla furt, jak říkal tatínek „ty seš víc na rukou a na hlavě, než na nohou“, věčně jsem někde hopsala, nějaký ty stojky a hvězdy a todle, takhle jsem se vyblbla. Ale nějaký vyhraněný zájmy jsem nějak jako neměla.

A: Jako v rytmice, tam to?

B: No, tam. Ale, já nevím, jako kdekoliv, když jsme byli někde venku, že jo. Hlavně v létě, na tý trávě. Tak to jsem tam někde takhle se snažila se vyblbnout.

A: A jak se tam bydlelo, na Vinohradech?

B: Krásně.

A: Tak mi to nějak popište. Jak to bylo dostupný.

B: No, ono dodnes, jo, to je tak zvaná vilová čtvrť. Jo? Velice příjemný prostředí, jak mám vždycky tu představu, že to bylo takový prosluněný, světlý. Jo? Nějak ty zimy se mi vymazaly z paměti. Vždycky člověku utkví v paměti to příjemný a milý, že jo, než to záporný. Dostupný. No tak, já vím, že jsme chodili pěšky třeba až na Václavák. To tehdy bylo docela běžný. Jo? Když si pomyslím. Nebylo to tak daleko od Flóry, a jít ten kus pěšky, to dneska by asi málo kdo udělal. Ale my jsme to jako, neříkám často, ale docela, prostě, nebylo to nic mimořádnýho. Jo? To jako rozhodně se chodilo víc tehdy všude než dneska. Pravda, že, myslím v roce 1937, to bylo, že pak tatínek měl auto. No, ale to jezdil on do práce a z práce a my, pokud se jezdilo někam v neděli ven. Jo? Poněvadž jako, tak jak je to dneska běžný, ani omylem, to jako neexistovalo tehdy. Že jo? No, říkám, bydlení tam bylo velice příjemný. Dneska je to to, co jako bylo po těch schodech dolů už ty Vršovice, tak tam byla ještě celá řada takových volných strání. Já vím, že jsme tam chodili sáňkovat třeba v zimě. To je všechno zastavený dneska. Jo? To už jako není. No a pak u tý školy, že jo, tam byly parky. Já vím, že se se mnou chodilo dost často do těch, do Riegrových sadů třeba, že jsme chodili. Takže tam jako bylo kam chodit na ty procházky. A chodilo se. Ne jako dneska. Rozhodně víc. Prostě takový příjemný.

A: A do Prahy, jako do města, jste se dostala často?

B: Tak dvakrát týdně jsem chodila na tu rytmiku, to jo. A to vždycky před tím, mě maminka vzala k cukráři a koupila nám věneček, žloutkovej.

A: Tak na nervy.

B: Asi. No, já byla hlavně strašně mlsná. Říkali mi taky Lízo, to nevím jestli to byla nějaká, jestli, že jsem všechno musela vylízat. Nebo mlsná koza Líza. A nebo jestli to byla nějaká zkratka jako Alice, ta Líza, to nevím jak jsem k tomu přišla. Jinak nevím, tak jako. Tak šlo se někdy do toho města, jako. Ale mimořádně často, to bych neřekla.

A: A když jste bydleli kousek od té „Orionky“ bylo to cítit?

B: Jo, to maminka říkala: „když budete holky hodny, tak smíte jít okolo a čuchnout si“. Jo, to bylo cítit. To bylo cítit. A před tou „Orionkou“ tam stál takovej vozík a prodával ovoce. A na cestu jsme dostaly, já už si nevzpomínám kolik, asi padesátník, korunu, si koupit nějaký ovoce do školy. No a po válce jako já jsem dlouho neměla odvahu jít okolo toho domu. A pak jednou v roce 1947, byl ten mládežnickej festival, no, zkrátka nějak jsme tam dělali dlouho večer a já jsem bydlela tehdy na Hanspaulce a nic nejezdilo, to noční tramvaje nebyly ještě. Tak kamarádka bydlela právě v tý Ruský, blízko a říká „tak pojď přespat k nám“ a musela jsem jít právě kolem toho baráku. Ona to nevěděla. No nic. To jsem překonala a ráno, když jsem se vracela, tak tam byl pořád ještě ten stánek s tím ovocem. A ten prodávající povídá: „tak co dělá sestra?“. Mě spadla čelist a povídám: „Odkud víte, že mám sestru?“. „Vždyť jste tady bydlely a chodily jste každý den.“ On mě poznal. Já jeho samozřejmě ne. Věděl, že rodiče jako zahynuli. A že prostě sestra a já jsme zůstaly. Takže to jsou taky takový drobný vzpomínky.

A: Jo to jo, no. A co vás bavilo ve škole? Chodila jste ráda do školy?

B: Ale no tak, jo, snad jo. Já bych spíš řekla co mě nebavilo. To byly ruční práce. To, v žádným případě. A vzpomínám jako dnes, že v páté třídě jsme museli dělat ažuru, nějakou zástěru, jednoduše, a tadyhle byl řádek ažury. A já jsem byla úplně nemožná. Tak, no, vzala jsem to domů, no a maminka byla stejně tak neschopná. Nicméně mi s tím nějak pomohla. Jo? Ale rozhodně to nebyl můj oblíbený předmět. Tělocvik snad byl nejoblíbenější. A krasopis, ten jsem taky nemilovala. Jo? Ale jinak celkem tak nějak. Jsem to v průměru absolvovala. Asi tak.

A: A učila jste se dobře?

B: No, tak premiantka jsem nebyla. Vždycky tam byla tak jedna až tři dvojky, asi tak. Určitě ty ruční práce a ten krasopis. Takhle. Samozřejmě tehdy byly jenom dívčí a chlapecký třídy. Že jo.

A: Jaké jste měla kamarádky?

B: Kamarádky. To byla Alena Hromádková. Její otec byl vrchní, ježíš, já nevím jak se to nazývá. Českobratrská církev. Co je jako vrcholnej ten.

A: Nemají oni biskupy?

B: Biskup snad nebyl. Já nevím. Každopádně byl něco v tom. A taky už byl ohrožený, právě z této funkce, hned po okupaci. Vím, že bydlela v Moravský, což byla souběžná ulice s tou naší školou. A ta už odjela v dubnu 1945, celá rodina. Jeli do Švýcarska a odtud pak do Ameriky. Já vím, že se pak vrátili, ale. I když jsem se nějak snažila, jsem se jí nikdy už nedopátrala. Další byla Věra Vrbenská. O jejím osudu jsem se dozvěděla vlastně až po válce. Její otec byl zakladatel, myslím, socialistické strany, nebo něco takovýho. A oni měli nějakou vychovatelku a ten otec se s tou vychovatelkou zapomněl. Ale říkám, to jsem se dozvěděla až po válce. A ta Věra je právě, vlastně to byla dcera tý vychovatelky. No a ten otec její s tou legální manželkou, ještě měla bratra, ti jeli do Moskvy. A já mám takový dojem, že on tam snad nějak zahynul za války. Na nějakou nemoc, nebo co. A ta Věra s tou, co by vychovatelkou, ty žily řadu let za války v ilegalitě. Ve sklepě. A nějak přežily. No a shodou okolností po válce jsem ještě chodila dva roky na střední školu. To bylo v Dejvicích, tak zvaná repatriantská třída. No a ta Věra tam byla taky. Takže jsme opět seděly vedle sebe, no. A pak byla ještě jedna kamarádka a s tou jsme jely společně do té Anglie.

A: Takže židovka, byla?

B: Ano.

A: A ty ostatní byly židovky nebo nebyly?

B: Ne, ne, ne. Byly tam asi. Ještě vím, že tam byla nějaká Dorantová.

A: Od vás ze třídy?

B: Ano. Ta nepřežila. A Růžena Železná. Ta přežila. To je co si pamatuju. Nikoho nenapadlo jako tohle nějak rozlišovat. Ještě co se týče tý Růženy, s tou Zuzkou, která byla jako taky v tý Anglii. Pak jsme se nějak úplně ztratily. No a úplně náhodně jsme se pak zase setkaly, my jsme odjížděly 29.června 1939, a 29.června 1989, čili přesně po padesáti letech, jsme se znova setkaly.

A: A cíleně nějak?

B: No, tak našly jsme se. Jo? A to datum bylo, více méně, náhoda. Jo? Ale pro obě nesmírně významný. Jo? No a protože, ona už, více méně, zapomněla česky. Protože byla jenom v anglickém prostředí a rodinách. Tak přinesla sebou nějaký dopisy. A mezi nimi právě dopisy, hned po válce co dostala, od tý Růženy. A z toho jsme se dozvěděly, že ona přežila koncentrák a my obě zíraly, ona to musela být židovka teda. Že jo. To jsme nevěděly. To si takhle kamarádky člověk nevyhledává, jestli je žid nebo ne. Ta přežila.

A: A přátelé vašich rodičů byli židi, nebo nebyli židi?

B: Většinou jo. Já bych řekla, že jo.

A: A tady jste říkala, že za vámi chodili nejčastěji. Kdo to byl?

B: Jmenovali se Kasovi. Jestli vám to něco říká.

A: Ne.

B: No, těžko. Protože jako.

A: A měli nějaké děti?

B: Ne.

A: Jo, to jste říkala. A přežili?

B: Přežili. No, přežili.

A: A jak to tak na tatínka přišlo s tou ledvinou?

B: To nevím. Jestli to byl nějakej průstřel nebo co, to nevím.

A: A byl dlouho doma?

B: To si vůbec nepamatuju. A tak když já jsem se narodila určitě ne. No a jestli hned po válce, nebo co. To nevím.

A: No a chodili jste třeba na nějaké vlety s rodiči? Nebo ne?

B: V létě. To určitě. Protože celé prázdniny jsme vždycky byly někde venku, to pronajali někde nějakou místnost nebo dvě, že jo. A tam jsme byli. A to když bylo pěkně, tak jsme byli vždycky u vody. Já spíš ve vodě od rána do večera. A když počasí jako na to nebylo, tak to jsme dělali výlety na dost dlouho. To vím.

A: A kam jste třeba jezdili?

B: No, první vzpomínky jsou na Dobříš. A pak hlavně Malá skála. Tam po tom Českým ráji jsme toho jako prochodili dost.

A: A jezdili jste tam jenom vy? Nebo ještě někdo, jiná rodina?

B: Vím, že ještě jedna rodina právě. S těma jsme jezdili. Tak jednak aby, tatínkové byli v Praze v práci, že jo, tak maminky jednak aby měly společnost a my děti taky. Že jo. No a ta rodina, s kterou my jsme jezdili. Nevím jak rodiče na ně přišli. Já si je pamatuju od nepaměti. Ti měli dvě holky. Ta starší byla stejně stará jako moje sestra. A ta mladší byla, myslím, o rok starší než já. Já jsem se s tou svojí docela dobře kamarádila, snášela. Sestra tu jejich moc ne. Ale zajímavější byli rodiče. Ta maminka byla židovka. Otec nikolivěk, ale ještě k tomu to byl němec. Myslím. Jo? Ale jako rodina byli perfektní. No a vzpomínám si, že, já nevím jestli do bylo šestnáctýho, sedmnáctýho března. Čili den, dva po okupaci. Jo? Hned. Že mě tatínek vzal, a šli jsme se podívat tam, kde oni bydleli. Oni bydleli kousíček jak bylo kino Flora. Teďka je tam ta pojišťovna, že jo, kousek. Tak Velehradská se to jmenuje. A jenom se šel tatínek podívat jako do oken, kde bydleli a tam visel hákovej kříž. Tak to, tudletu hrůzu jako vidím ještě dneska. To mi nikdo nemusel moc vykládat a vysvětlovat, ale hákovej kříž, to bylo, prostě, největší nepřítel, samozřejmě. Jo? A to jsem prostě nebyla schopná pochopit a polknout. Že jo? No, jak po válce jsem se dozvěděla, že jeho měli k tomu aby se rozved a on to odmítl. Jo? Čímž vlastně zachránil tu manželku i ty holky. Jo? Ta manželka, myslím, to byl únor 1945 a ty holky snad taky, šly do Terezína. Poslední tři. No, nicméně samozřejmě přežily. Jo? Ale pro mě, jak říkám, to byl šok. Protože to vidím dodnes. Vlajka vlála. No a když jsem k nim přišla. Nevím jestli to bylo po mým návratu, ale přišla jsem tam na Vánoce 1945, nebo kolem Vánoc. Protože k nim jsme chodili na ten stromeček. A taky když se vstoupilo, měli takovou halu. A to bylo před válkou, po válce. Vždycky tam měli takovej velikej stůl. A teď koukám a na tom stole byla, něco mezi ubrusem a dekou, co se dávalo na jídelní stoly. Takový ty brokátový ty. No a to tam bylo, to bylo mojí maminky. Jo? No a ještě, maminka měla takovou krabici na šití, jak se to takhle otvíralo. Jo? To tam taky bylo. Povídám: „jé, to je maminky!“. Kdyby měli tu duchapřítomnost aspoň to tam nedat, když věděli, že přijdu. Jo? „To nám dala maminka, abychom jim posílali balíky, když jeli do Terezína.“ Možný to je. Asi jo. Jestli je posílali nebo ne, já nevím. Jo? Mě jenom strašně vadilo, že to tam nechali, když věděli, že přijdu. Jo?

A: A ani vám to potom nějak nedali nazpátek?

B: Ne, vůbec ne, ne. Fotografie jsem od nich dostala. Ty nepotřebovali.

A: Aha. Takže rodiče to schovali všechno k nim?

B: No všechno ne.

A: No, jako to co chtěli nějak zachránit?

B: Já nemám tušení co tam nechali. To nevím. Jo? Já, byla jsem, a asi už zůstanu, strašně naivní. Protože. Vím, že když jsem. Sestra se vrátila z Anglie asi o tři měsíce dřív jak já. No a ta zjišťovala jestli někdo přežil a kde co je. A zřejmě, to mi došlo až tak během šesti let, možná, že musel být nějaký dopis. Asi u těch Škodů, kde jsme bydleli. Bych to tak tipla. Kde maminka, tatínek nebo oba popisovali u koho co je. Jo? Protože sestra mi říkala, že byla tam a tam a tam a každý odmítl něco vydat. Cokoliv. Jo? Proto já říkám, to mi došlo až po x letech, odkud věděla, že ty věci tam jsou. Jo? Takže když mi nevydali tady i krabičku na šití, jo, tak to je samozřejmě prkotina. Takže. Tak asi takhle.

A: Takže potom se vám vrátily po válce jen ty fotografie?

B: V podstatě fotografie, ale, což je úplný unikát, tady ta Míšeň. Ty hrníčky. Jo? A sice to můj strýc věnoval mamince jako svatební dar. Celou jídelní soupravu Míšně pro dvanáct osob. To bylo v době inflace v Německu a bylo to „za babku“. Jo? Strýček byl fotograf, chemik, doktor chemie, fotograf. A pravděpodobně ho ilegálně zaměstnal nějaký fotograf na „Tyláku“, na Tylově náměstí. Protože nesměli zaměstnávat židy. V roce 1946, já už nevím jak na nás přišli, ale přišel nějakej takovej pikolík, asi šestnáctiletej, že pracuje u toho fotografa tam a tam, a abychom tam přišli, že tam pro nás něco má. No, tak jsem se tam vydala, no a ukázalo se, že zřejmě to byl strýček, který tam dal tohleto. Jo? A ještě tam byly dvě Míšeňský figurky a pár sklenic. Ty byly rozbitý. Ta paní schovávala i ty střepy. Jo? No, začala pátrat po válce, že, jestli strýček nebo moji rodiče nebo někdo přežil. A zjistila, že jedině sestra a já. Celej rok nás hledali. Jak nás našli to už nevím. Jestli jsem se vůbec ptala tehdy, to nevím. Až nás našli, aby nám mohli tohleto vrátit. A lidi, které jsme znali, věděli, že jsme se vrátili s holýma rukama, neměli jsme nic. Jo? Tak ti všechno zapřeli. Tohleto, říkám, to je naprosto unikátní, aby byl někdo takhle poctivej a dával si tu námahu. Já jsem tehdy chtěla tý paní dát ty dvě figurky, vím, že to byl nějakej pes a, myslím, kočka nebo oba psi, to už nevím. No, vzpomínám jenom, jak jsem se s ní až hádala, aby si to nechala. Jo? Protože já nemluvím o tý hodnotě. Když ale pro mě to bylo v podstatě jediný co jsme měli po rodičích, že jo. Takže to bylo něco tak mimořádnýho. Ale říkala „vždyť to máte po rodičích“. Řekla jsem: „tak mám tohle to, ale za to, že vy jste to takhle opečovávala a nás takhle hledala“. No, tak nakonec jsem jí to vnutila, že si tohle nechá. Ale říkám, to bylo naprosto ojedinělý, tohle to. Nebo moje učitelka na klavír, se kterou jsem se sešla. Ta zase s výčitkami svědomí povídala, že tatínek přišel za ní, jestli by mohl u ní nechat jeden prsten, prý nějakej. A ona říká: „já to odmítla, protože kdyby tohle u mě našli, tak jsem měla prostě strach a odmítla to“. No a byla celá nešťastná, že to odmítla, že aspoň to bychom byly měly. No ale už bylo pozdě. No a teď celá bezradná, že někdo jiný si k ní dal dvě kostky mýdla. A ty dotyčný se nevrátili. Co má dělat? Takže tu tam se našel někdo poctivý. Že jo? Ale bohužel velmi málo. Velice málo. No. Takže asi takhle jsme dopadli.

A: Vy jste teda byly jediní z rodiny, kdo se vrátil?

B: Jo.

A: A váš tatínek byl nějak politicky orientovaný?

B: Já nevím. Ale tušila bych, že trošičku tak nějak směřoval k tý levici. Jo? Pochybuju, že byl organizovaný. Vím, že byl členem svobodných zednářů, a ti rozhodně jako nebyli nějací levicoví, zase. Jo? Ale sestra, ta byla členkou jedné mládežnické organizace a ta byla velice levicově zaměřená.

A: Jak se jmenovala?

B: Roten Falken, se říkalo, jako rudí sokolové.

A: Aha. No, pan Auerbach říkal něco o rudých skautech, že on byl členem.

B: Tak to bylo něco jinýho, to nebyli skauti. Jo? Čili, když tohle jí dovolil, tak asi musel mít taky nějaký tyhlety, jak bych řekla, sklony nebo jak. Jo? Pochybuju, že byl organizovaný. Ale asi měl, řekněme, nazvěme to sociální cítění. Jo? No, v podstatě já jsem přes tuto organizaci se dostala do Anglie.

A: Přes ty Roten Falken?

B: Protože ten vedoucí jel do Anglie, tam se spojil s obdobnou organizací. A ten napsal takovej oběžník, s tím, že tady je celá řada dětí ohrožených, a že by bylo třeba je dostat do Anglie. A kdo je ochotný si nějaké to dítě vzít k sobě. Nevím proč, že limitovali tehdy věk mezi deseti až šestnácti, myslím. Jo? A sestře už bylo šestnáct a půl, takže já jsem jela místo ní. Jo? Když já odjížděla, tak vůbec nebyla řeč, že by jela ona. Čistě náhodou ona přišla až tím dalším transportem. Tak, jo? A pokud vás to zajímá. Tak, aby se naučila pořádně německy. Číst a psát. Tak ji rodiče dali potom na německé gymnázium. A v roce 1934, tam přišla nějaká dívenka z Berlína, protože tatínka zavřeli do koncentráku a on byl novinář. No a nějak se spřátelily ty holky. Já vím, že ona chodila k nám občas. A v létě, když jsme jeli na ten letní byt, že jela s náma. A tak. A tatínka pak pustili. Maminka byla dětská lékařka. A jeli do Anglie. Já vím, že když já jsem přijela, tak byli na nádraží, tam na mě čekali. A to jsem si po létech dala dohromady. Tím, že ona byla dětská lékařka, sestra tam přijela s tím, že půjde rovnou do nemocnice se učit jako ošetřovatelka. Čili to musela zařídit tahleta maminka tý lékařky, že jo. A tím se dostala sestra do Anglie, že jo. Protože podmínka těch dětských transportů byla, že každý to dítě muselo mít kam jít. Jo? A ještě zaplatit padesát liber. Kdo to zaplatil za ni já nevím, ani ne kdo za mě. To už je zase jiná věc. Takže sestra přijela hned tím dalším transportem po mě.

A: Taky s Wintonem?

B: Taky s Wintonem, ano. No, já když jsem odjížděla, tak jsem měla povoleno padesát kilogramů. Ona jela o osmnáct dní později a už mělo povoleno jenom dvacet. Takže ty podmínky, ale ve všem, velice přituhovaly, že jo. Takže třeba už bych byla nesměla na gymnázium, ještě bych ale byla směla na tak zvanou „měšťanku“. Že jo, ani to dlouho netrvalo. A židovský děti nesměly vůbec už chodit do školy, že jo. Nesměly chodit do parků, a já nevím, do kina, nikam prostě. Na žádná veřejná místa. To už jsme naštěstí nezažily. Tohle to.

A: A nějaké teda to zhušťování té atmosféry? Ano nebo ne?

B: Prosím?

A: A nějaké to zhušťování té atmosféry? Jako po té politické stránce. Že byl Hitler v Německu a tak? To jste vnímaly?

B: Vnímaly. Já jako ani ne jedenáctiletá pochopitelně do té míry zdaleka ne. Ale pamatuji si, že k nám chodil, jestli to byl nějakej študák nebo co, je to možný,prostě nějakej mladík, myslím, dvakrát týdně na obědy. Jo? čili buď ze Sudet nebo taky z toho Německa, po tý křišťálový noci, anebo, prostě vím, že to bylo od podzimu. Jo? taky. Mě to všechno docházelo až tak nějak zpětně. Jo? Pamatuju si jak dnes na ten patnáctý březen, byla to taky středa, jako teďka bude středa opět. Že jo? A tak trošku padal sníh. No a když jsme přicházeli k tý vodárně v tý Moravský ulici, tam, no, viděla jsem tanky. To v životě nezapomenu, když desetiletý dítě jde kolem tanku. A nemáte tušení proč a co. Jo? Když ty hlavně na vás míří. Jo? šla jste kolem těch německých vojáků. Teď ty čepice s tím kšiltem. No, nepůsobí to dobře. Rozhodně ne. Jo? Vím jak tehdy říkali jak vyjídali ty obchody. Hlavně šunku. Jo? jinak to, že se už se začínal zabírat některým židům i majetek, že museli přihlásit. Tak to mě rodiče neříkali. To mě jako nějak uchránili. Já jsem až, není to tak dlouho, v nějakých dokladech našla, že už tatínek musel, já nevím, přihlásit tu jeho továrničku nebo dílnu nebo co. Že jo. Že už se jednalo o tom, že tam bude nějakej ten jak tomu říkali ten Trojhändler, nebo co, ten správce, že jo. Tak to už se připravovalo. To jsem se dozvěděla až po mnoha a mnoha letech. Že jo. Ale už to bylo těsně před mým odjezdem. Že jo. Tak zřejmě dělali co mohli, rodiče, aby mě uchránili od všeho nepříjemného. Tak jako to, že když se naskytla ta možnost, že mám jet do tý Anglie, tak s úsměvem na tváří „to je ohromný, ty se máš, ty pojedeš do Anglie, to bychom taky chtěli, to určitě pojedeš k moři“, jo, prostě udělali z toho senzaci pro mě. A já jsem se těšila. Jo? Pochopitelně ani oni nemohli tušit, že už se neuvidíme. To nevím, jestli by byli takhle dokázali tohle to. A v podstatě když došlo k tomu rozhodování mají, nemají. Tak to byli zase ti jejich nejlepší přátelé, kteří je přesvědčovali, aby nás poslali. Jo? Protože říkali: „podívej se jak se zachovali v Rakousku k židům, co byla křišťálová noc v Německu, nemůžete čekat nic dobrýho, ať aspoň ty holky jsou v bezpečí“. Nebo to jsem byla tehdy jenom já, že jo. takže díky jim, že přemluvili rodiče, aby mě poslali. A oni tohle všechno dokázali s úsměvem na tváři to takhle naservírovat. Dneska, když se vžiju do tý jejich role, tak mi jde mráz po zádech, jak to dokázali. Takže, když někdo dneska přijde a řekne „Jéžiš, co ty sis musela všechno prožít.“. Říkám: „já, já vůbec ne, rodiče“. Já byla vždycky nějak chráněná. Já měla štěstí, že jsem přišla k hrozně dobrý rodině, mladý, milý. A celej život nade mnou měla ochrannou ruku moje sestra. Já jsem nepoznala, co to je nemít kolem sebe lásku. Což je strašně důležitý, že jo. neměla jsem ten pocit, že jsem nechtěná, nežádoucí, což ta moje kamarádka, se kterou jsem chodila do tý obecný, ta to měla. Ta přišla do rodiny, kde nebyla žádaná a chtěná. Jo?

A: A proč si ji tam vzali teda?

B: No, tak byl to hlavně on. A oni byli v domnění, tak na šest neděl. No a pak vypukla válka. Jo? a zřejmě ta manželka toho pána. Ta paní. Ta tomu tak nakloněná celá nebyla a asi ta trpěla nějakou poruchou duševní, že se chovala tak jaksi divně. Takže zdaleka ne, měl každý takový štěstí. Že jo.

A: A vaši rodiče se chystali emigrovat?

B: No, byli by rádi, kdyby to bylo možný. Ovšem to jako bohužel nešlo. Po okupaci. No, prostě nebyla možnost, že jo. Jednou, když už tady byla okupace, no tak každej se vzdal majetku a všeho možnýho, že jo. To bylo podplácení, podplácení. Dneska když slyším, že někomu se podařilo ještě v roce 1940 se dostat ven, jo. ale jim bohužel ne.

A: A někdo z vaší rodiny emigroval?

B: Jeden, jéžiš, jak byl příbuznej, maminka měla bratrance, sestřenici. Tak to asi bylo, jestli to byl bratranec z druhýho kolena nebo něco takovýho. Tak ten, nevím jak, skončil asi v Palestině a pak byl v severní Africe s naší armádou. Československou. A ti pak v roce 1943 se dostali do Anglie, že jo. A v roce 1944 pak do Francie a pak jako. Tak to snad jedinej. A ještě jeden přibližně stejně příbuzný. Jeden ten co by bratranec, jak říkám, z kdo ví, kterého kolena, ten přežil koncentrák.

A: Který koncentrák? Osvětim?

B: Asi. To nevím přesně.

A: A vy jste se setkala s nějakým antisemitským projevem ještě než jste odjela?

B: Ne. Já v podstatě ani před tím, ani nějak pak. Manžel jo. Já celkem ne, spíš tak bych řekla okrajově a velice tak v těch padesátých letech. Ale jako osobně v podstatě ne.

A: A sestra nebo rodiče nebo někdo z rodiny?

B: Sestra taky bych řekla že ne. No, rodiče tak ti to pocítili na vlastní kůži, na vlastním těle. Že jo.

A: No, ale před tím ještě?

B: To nevím, to nemůžu říct. To ne. Ale aby někdo vysloveně jako mi řekl „no jo, co vy židi..“ a vždycky hned něco tak to ne. To ne. Ještě tak možná, jak říkám, má to být vtip, že jo, někdo to i používá. „On je to žid, ale je to dobrej zubař.“ Jo? Tak to já říkám, to je takovej ten skrytej nebo nevinej antisemitismus. Že ty lidi si to ani neuvědomujou. Tak asi tak. Tak s něčím podobným možná. Jo? To jo. Ale v podstatě jedna kolegyně, se kterou jsem učila řadu let, i ta je trošku ten typ. Ale kdybych jí řekla, že je, že má sklony k antisemitismu, tak ta by se durdila, čertila a nikdy by to nepřiznala. Jo? Ale jednu, dvě poznámky tohoto typu jako utrousila. Jo? Ale jinak nemůžu říct.

A: A bylo to o vás tak jako známý, že jste židovka?

B: Já jsem se s tím nikde netajila. Jo, to jako. Dcera moje ta teda nosí hvězdu, i za totality. Já ne. Ale já jsem s tím nikdy tajnosti nedělala. Já se nemám za co stydět. Tak co by jste ještě ráda?

A: Ještě něco o tom vašem odjezdu do Anglie.

B: No, odjezd. Tak jak jsem říkala, že to bylo s úsměvem na tváři, kdy jsem dostávala nové šaty a podobně. Takže pro mě to bylo ohromě vzrušující. Já jsem se , jak říkám, měla na co těšit. No, ten poslední den, ten mám jako velmi živě v paměti. To byl 29.červen. Byl to čtvrtek a shodou okolností zrovna končila škola. Takže já jsem dodělala přesně pět tříd obecné školy. A blízko nás, kde jsme bydleli, asi před rokem nebo tak, tam začal prodávat někdo italskou zmrzlinu, která byla mimořádně dobrá. A maminka moje ta moc na sladký nebyla, ale tuhletu zmrzlinu od toho Itala, tu měla strašně ráda. No a já byla ten typ, který si vždycky všechno šetřil, kdežto sestra, ta všechno musela sníst hned, že jo, a tak. No, nic, takže jsme tam dost často chodili. A jako na rozloučenou mě vzala tam k tomu Italovi na zmrzlinu. Kde takovej velkej kopec stál korunu, takže to mě jako koupila a ještě k tomu se šlehačkou. A to byly dvě koruny. To bylo tehdy hodně peněz, že jo. Tak to jsme snědly tam, v té cukrárně. Nebo, to nebyla ani cukrárna jenom tu zmrzlinu tam prodával. No a pak odpoledne přišli se rozloučit právě ty drážďanský sestřenice. A kufr, ty zřejmě už byly nějak podány na nádraží. Jestli už, já nevím, den před tím, týden před tím. To nevím, to si nepamatuju. Jenom, že na cestu jsem měla ruksak, ovšem to se nedá srovnat s tím co je dneska. To byl jenom plátěnej pytel. No a mám v paměti, že babička mi dala na cestu půl kila meruňek. Což tehdy jako, ještě asi to byl dovoz nějakej, nebo co. No, takže na nádraží jsme šli asi v sedm hodin. Rodiče a sestra. Babička zůstala doma. S tou jasem se rozloučila doma. No a vidím ještě dnes, jak holčičky malý mačkaly panenky. A chlapečkové zase medvídky a tak dále, že jo. Někteří ti tatínkové se snažili ještě někomu honem nějaký anglický slovo naučit nebo podobně. A každej vždycky: „a piš!, a piš!“. Že jo. A pak najednou jsem tam viděla ty známý mých rodičů. Protože ti už žili v ilegalitě. Tak přišli na nádraží jednak se mnou rozloučit a žili každej sám už. Takže se tam setkali. To bylo těsně než odjeli do toho Polska. No a pak jsme jako postupně nastupovali do toho vlaku. Vím, že jsem seděla u okna. A každej jako, že jo, nataženej krk z toho okna pak. A jakmile se začal vlak, jak se dal do pohybu, tak najednou vidím, že se tatínek rozplakal. A moje poslední slova jemu bylo prostě: „Tati, nekrop tady a nedělej mi ostudu!“. No, tak to bylo poslední co jsem, já jsem řekla. To už se táta neudržel, že jo. Protože nikdo netušil na jak dlouho, kdy se vrátí.

Kazeta č. 2, strana A.

A: A sestřenice se nepokoušeli? Nebo jejich rodiče se nepokoušeli?

B: Ano, já jsem si to nějak neuvědomila, ale když jsem před lety procházela korespondenci co jsem dostávala do Anglie. Tak tam jsem našla dopis právě od strýčka, kde píše, že Věra dalším transportem přijede za mnou a bude v Newcastle. No a to je ten poslední transport, který už neodjel. Takže. Každej se snažil. No, každej. Devadesát pět procent. Že jo. Děti, dospělí. Ale ne každej měl to štěstí. Že jo. Tak to, zrovna to měl být jeden z největších transportů, asi dvě stě padesát nebo tři sta dětí a pokud vím, tak z toho snad nikdo nepřežil. Ona tam měla taky jet, no.

A: A co na to říkaly vaše kamarádky, že pojedete?

B: Nevzpomínám, nevzpomínám tohle. No tak, do jaký míry. Ty děti si taky nemohly uvědomit, co to je, když odjíždíte od rodičů do cizí země, kde neznáte jazyk. Nevíte ke komu. Nevíte kam. Akorát Anglie. Nebo Británie spíš. Že jo. Protože někteří byli i ve Skotsku. Či kde jinde. Tak to nevím. To si nevzpomínám. Opravdu. Jak na to reagovali.

A: A učila jste se před odjezdem angličtinu?

B: No, velmi krátce, ale že bych něco se byla naučila, to si moc nevzpomínám. Vím, že to bylo. Ten dům bych ještě měla popsat. Jo? Teď si nevzp. Pod „pavlákem“ kousíček někde. K nějaký paní jsem chodila. Velmi krátce. Takže dá se říct, že jsem neuměla nic. Asi tak. Že jo. Když chodíte jednou týdně půl roku, tak to nemůžete se zase tolik naučit.

A: A maminka se snažila vás něco naučit?

B: Ne. To si nevzpomínám. Ale to je to nejhorší. Učit vlastní děti.

A: no, a když ona měla teda tu státnici z angličtiny, tak pracovala nějak jakože něco s tím dělala?

B: Myslím, že ne. Jestli to uplatnila v tom velkoobchodě svýho otce, to nevím. Jestli to nějak i tak daleko šlo. To nevím. To si nevzpomínám. Nevím.

A: A vzala jste si něco takového typického, nebo, sebou do Anglie?

B: Co jsem si vzala, to byla Babička od Boženy Němcové, kterou jsem dostala na rozloučenou od tý mý učitelky na klavír. Tu mám dodnes. No, to jo. A jinak si nevzpomínám. Něco. Možná ještě nějaký ty knížky, to jo, ale jinak to bylo ve směs takový praktický. Oblečení asi.

A: A vy jste teda nevěděla kam pojedete?

B: Ne. Ne.

A: A jak jste se to dozvěděla?

B: No, až na místě. Až na místě. V podstatě až jsme dorazili. Tak nás bylo asi patnáct. Právě z té skupiny, že jo. Tam na nás čekal ten, řekněme, pražský vedoucí. I ten anglický a mí přátelé, teda přátelé mých rodičů. A jeli jsme. Východní část Anglie. Do jednoho tábora, abychom se trošičku aklimatizovali. Což bylo takový jako jejich dárek nebo něco podobnýho. Což bylo velice milé, pěkné. Spali jsme pod stanem. A protože já jsem odjížděla pár dní před svými narozeninami, tak tihle ti přátelé mých rodičů tam za náma, za mnou tam přijeli. A vím, že přivezli zmrzlinu. Ta byla velice podobná jako ta ruská zmrzlina v těch oplatkách. Tak to byl tehdy ten ….. Icecream. No a přinesli toho víc, aby bylo pro všechny. Tak to si vzpomínám, že nám strašně chutnalo. No a pak nás rozvezli po těch různých rodinách. Nebo jestli si přijely ty rodiny pro nás. To už nevím. No a protože rodina, ke které já jsem měla přijít ještě neměli postel pro mě. Takže jsem byla pár dní u jiné rodiny, která bydlela velice blízko a vzali si taky jednu tu dívku. Já myslím, že ona byla ze Sudet. Ale to není podstatný. Takže jsem byla tam několik dní. No a vzpomínám jak dnes, že jsem byla na záchodě a přijdu zpátky do pokoje a tahle ta, já myslím, že se jmenovala Lia nebo Lea nebo nějak tak, strašně plakala. A já povídám „co se děje?“. „Mě se stejská“. No, v tu ránu se mě stejskalo taky. Takže jsme měly duo, slzavé údolí. No, a obě dvě jsme napsaly zoufalý dopis domů, jak se nám stýská. A že přeplavu moře. A já nevím co všechno. Dopis jsem hodila do schránky a už mě bylo dobře, už jsem o ničem nevěděla. No, pár dní na to jsem dostala zoufalej dopis od maminky. Že jo. Celá nešťastná. Že si určitě zvyknu brzo. A že zatím tatínkovi dopis neukazovala. Že jo. No a teďka tetičky všechny psaly. Ať se uklidním. Říkám, já už jsem dávno o ničem nevěděla. Že jo. No tak tatínkovi ukázala ten dopis až když jsem začala psát zase normální běžný dopisy. Ale dítě si vůbec neuvědomí, co může způsobit. Co tohle to pro ty rodiče bylo. Protože nikdo mi vlásek nezkřivil. Nic. Jo? No a tak potom jsem přišla do tý svojí rodiny. Že jo. Ti byli velice mladí, hodní, milí. Měli čtyřměsíční mimino. Já měla svůj pokoj pro sebe, velkej, krásnej. Že jo. Už tam byla i ta postel. No, říkám, měla jsem štěstí. Byli to hrozně milí lidi. Navíc to nebylo daleko od Londýna. Takže tím pádem, jako, bylo možný se vídat se sestrou, která byla v tý nemocnici. A měla jednou za čtrnáct dní, teďka nevím, myslím, že celý den, volno. No, já jako dítě jsem jezdila jako na poloviční jízdný. A to bylo kousíček autobusem a pak už to bylo jenom podzemkou vlastně. I když to bylo předměstí Londýna. Že jo. Takže to jsme se každou druhou sobotu scházely. No a to mini, mini kapesné, které ona dostávala. Tak to všecko jako věnovala na mě. Buď do kina, na zmrzlinu nebo prostě. Aby mě vždycky udělala nějakou radost. Že jo. Což teda opravdu udělala. A při tom, jak jsem se po letech dozvěděla, tam měla hlad v tý nemocnici. Tak ne, aby si něco koupila na přilepšenou, tak to všecko investovala do mě. Že jo. No. No bohužel květen 1940. Ten odnesla ona hlavně. Protože já už jsem u té rodiny nemohla zůstat déle. Protože ten pán musel rukovat. Oni čekali další dítě. No a na mě by nedostali žádnou podporu. A ta podpora u těch vojáků byla tak malá, že měli co dělat z toho vyžít a ještě k tomu splácet hypotéku na dům. Takže jsem pak jela, se odstěhovala k jiné rodině a současně sestru vyhodili z nemocnice, coby cizinku. To byly výjimečný případy. No a ji to potrefilo. Takže ona byla na dlažbě. Doslova a do písmene. Že jo. No a podařilo se jí díky tomu všemu, jak měla málo jídla a ještě tohle, že si, jak se ukázalo asi o deset nebo více let později, že měla tuberu pak z toho. No. No takže. Já jsem pak přišla k jedné rodině. To byli čtyřicátníci. Bezdětní. Hodní, ale velice takoví, jak bych řekla, jednoduchý lidi. Kde sice jsem měla svůj pokoj, ale koupelna tam nebyla v tom baráčku.

A: Vůbec?

B: Ne. To se chodilo do společných nějakých těch lázní. Nebo něco takovýho.

A: Aha.

B: No a zřejmě v tom městě musela být velice silná židovská komunita. Protože se doslechli, že tam žije židovské dítě v nežidovské rodině. Což oni nemohli přenést přes srdce. Já klidně. Oni ne. No, takže se stalo, že jsem se tím pádem dostala do židovské rodiny. Cožpak to by nevadilo. Ale oni byli strašně ortodoxní. Jo? To už byli lidé tak kolem šedesátky. Původem to byli emigranti buď z Litvy nebo z Lotyšska. Ze sedmnáctýho roku. Jo? No a, říkám, já tohle jsem nebyla vůbec zvyklá. Já jsem znala jen ty nejzákladnější svátky. Ale tady. Vzpomínám, že v pátek odpoledne jsem musela třeba natrhat novinový papír na záchod, protože se nesmělo trhat ani. Jo? Kapesník se nesměl nosit v kapse. To se muselo uvázat takhle na zápěstí. Jo? No, takový detaily. Já v životě o tom neslyšela nic. Jo. No, tak jsem brzy se přizpůsobila, protože dítě ve dvanácti, ve třinácti, to je jak vosk, tvárný. A hlavně já byla přesvědčena, že když tohle budu všecko dělat a dodržovat, že zachráním rodiče. Jo? No, stalo se, že tam taky jsme byli vybombardovaní v baráku, v kterým jsme bydleli, že celá část toho domu byla zasažena. Takže jsme se vystěhovali jinam. No a teďka sestra chtěla, abych za ní přijela. Jo? A to bylo dost daleko od Londýna. Protože já měla poloviční jízdné a ona jako neměla na to, že jo. I když už mezi tím práci sehnala. No a ta rodina „kdepak, v zádným případě, Londýn je tak bombardovaný, to jako nemůžeme si dovolit vzít si na sebe“ že kdyby se něco stalo, že jsou za mě zodpovědní. A pořád ne, ne, ne, že to nejde. No až sestře zřejmě došlo, co je hlavní důvod, tak potom jednou napsala, že tam vedle ní bydlí nějakej rabín a u toho, že bych mohla bydlet, a abych přijela na Vánoce. Najednou to šlo. Jo. No. Takže jsem jela za sestrou na Vánoce do Londýna, byl to pátek večer. Pochopitelně vlaky zpoždění, za války, už tma. No, hned jsme se našly. Rok a půl jsme se neviděly. Možná ještě malinko víc. A první moje bylo: „tady mám kufry, odnes mi je“. Protože já jsem je nesměla nosit, ale ona židovka mohla. No, ta jenom lapla po dechu. No, popadla kufr, že jo. No a teď jsme přijeli. Ona bydlela v Hostelu takovým, s několika čechy. A teďka něco jíst. A povídám: „ne, to není košer“. „Co budeš jíst?“ „No, já nevím.“ Teďka utahaná, tak spát „zhasni, mi“. Já jsem nesměla zhasínat. Já jsem si z ní dělal poskoka, jo.

A: A ona to snášela?

B: No, všechno jako ha, ha, ha, chi, chi, chi, jo? Ale to byl předstíranej smích. Takovej z tý nervozity. Jo? Tak mě bylo třináct a půl a jí bylo devatenáct. A ona měla tuhle zodpovědnost vlastně, za mě. Jo? Tak ona jako předstírala smích, ale musela z toho být úplně zničená. Jo? No, ukázalo se, že, v uvozovkách, onen rabín. Říká vám něco jméno Lüben? To bývával velice známý pražský rabín. A tohle to byl jeho, myslím, synovec nebo vnuk nebo něco takovýho. Jo? Ovšem, žádnej ortodoxní žid. Nic. Jo? Ale byl to prapůvodem nějakej rabín. No, a teďka. Já furt. Já nevím co jsem jedla jestli suchej chleba nebo co. Já vím že tam měli košer margarín, protože ten byl lepší, ale z jinýho důvodu ne. No a teďka někdo tam napek i vanilkový rohlíčky. Sliny se mi sbíhaly. Já disciplinovaná, že jo. Nic. No, ale teď jsem si sedla vedle toho Lübena a koukám jak všechno baští. Příští den naživu, nic mu nebylo. Všecko přežil. A teď byl Štědrej večer nebo Štědrej den a byla husa, knedlík, zelí. No tak to už košer ne košer, to už jsem nevydržela. No, takže tím jako padlo tady částečně to moje velké ortodoxtví, no a hlavně sestra byla zděšená, ne jenom z tohohle, ale já zapomínala česky. Já jsem přijela a já jsem mluvila s anglickým přízvukem, hledala slova a tak dále. No a ona věděla nebo zjistila, že tam je ta československá škola, státní, no tak se jí podařilo, že jsem se tam dostala. Já jsem se ještě vrátila, tam na sever, k tý rodině. No a o dva nebo tři měsíce později, už jsem byla ve škole.

A: A tam jak jste bydlela, tam nebyl nikdo, žádny Čech nebo něco takovýho?

B: Tam na severu?

A: Ano.

B: No, tak nevěděla jsem o tom, ale teďka po letech, když se objevily ty seznamy, tak jsem našla někoho, kdo tam bydlel taky. A my jsme o sobě nevěděli, ovšem. Jo, ještě. Já jsem byla celkem rok a půl v tý rodině. A, já nevím, po půl roce možná dýl, si oni vzali ještě jedno dítě. Myslím, že byla taky ze sudet. A měla mladší sestru a ta byla u jejich syna. Ale to byla taková, jak bych to řekla, nevýrazná, taková myš, nic neříkající osůbka. A, ve kterým to bylo roce? 1998 nebo kdy. Zkrátka, měli jsme sraz tý naší československý školy v Anglii a jeli jsme na nějakej výlet. A přede mnou tam jeden manželskej pár z Izraele. „A napadá mě, jezdíte někdy do Prahy?“ „No, někdy.“ Já jsem říkala: „no, když příště, vyhledejte mě, ráda se s vámi sejdu“. A já nezapomenu, jak ona tak podivně se na mě koukla. Tečka. Asi rok a půl na to dostanu dopis z Izraele. Jméno mi nic neříkalo. Otevřu ten dopis, no a to byla podepsána Sibi. No a to byla ta dívenka, se kterou já jsem u tý ortodoxní rodiny bydlela. A jak na mě přišla? Ta její sestra mladší, se provdala za jednoho mýho spolužáka. A já se domnívám, jak se na mě tak divně podívala, že jí asi něco tam nějak bliklo. Jo? No, proč trvalo rok a půl než tohle dali dohromady a ta mě napsala. Já nevím. No, tak jsem samozřejmě byla velice překvapená, že jo. Hned jsem jí odpověděla. Já ten dopis ještě nehodila do schránky snad ani a už jsem měla odpověď. No, já nejsem žádnej psavec. A tak jsem sice odpověděla, ale zase už ne tak hbitě. Mezi tím jsem dostala dva, tři dopisy od ní, kde jako předstírala, že ještě nenapsala, jo. A furt že mi tak děkuje. A teďka ještě takovou tou staroangličtinou mi psala. No, já jsem za chvilku byla, prostě jsem neměla tušení o čem jí psát. Přitom jsem cítila, že by šíleně ráda, abych ji pozvala a přijela, aby přijela sem. No tak já za prvé tady ten pidi byteček, ale já už jsem viděla jak bych se jí musela, ne čtyřiadvacet, ale nejméně osmadvacet hodin denně věnovat. Jo? Tak to jsem si jako nechtěla ani připustit k tělu. Ale jak říkám, já hlavně neměla tušení, o čem si s ní psát. Takže já jsem, více méně, tu korespondenci končila. A teďka, no mezi tím, ale velmi záhy na to, ta její sestra zemřela. Jo? Na rakovinu. A teďka na tom posledním srazu, to bylo v červnu, tam ten její švagr byl, na tom srazu. No a říkal: „hele, ona tak tě prosí, kdybys jí napsala“. Já jsem řekla: „Petře, já to vím, ale já nevím, co jí psát“. Jo? Říká „ona tak strašně touží po přátelství a žádny si nemůže udržet“. Ona je, zřejmě, já ji nechci odsuzovat, ale domnívám se, že je takovej ten typ, co umí lézt na nervy. Já si myslím. Já se domnívám. „Viděla jste ten film Síla lidskosti, od Mináče?“

A: No, ale …

B: Ten dokument? Tak ona tam je taky v tom filmu. On Mináč byl v Izraeli. A to já jsem se ho ptala : „hele, jaká ona je?“. „Praštěná“, mi řekl. Jo? Tak já jsem to nějak vycítila, že je trošičku nějak. Prostě, že má nějaký problémy, asi. Jo? A on jako byl hrozně hodnej. On to myslel dobře. No, tak jsem jí jenom jako napsala pozdrav, že jsem se setkala s tím švagrem. A že to bylo hezký a milý. No, naštěstí tu korespondenci neobnovila. Pak mě, myslím, ona psala, že. Ona měla ještě jednoho bratra v Anglii. Že ten zemřel. No, tak jsem napsala, co by, kondolenční dopis. Jo? Ale, říkám, já nemám tušení, o čem bych si s ní povídala. No, tak tohle to. Jak říkám, svět malej a plnej náhod. Že jo. No. Asi takhle.

A: A s těma anglickýma rodinama jste nějak udržovala kontakt?

B: U kterých jsem byla?

A: Ano.

B: No, tak z toho města v podstatě ne.

A: A jak se to jmenovalo teda to město?

B: Barrow in Furness. To je sever. Severo západ. A tam byly doky. Proto to taky bombardovali tolik. Tak s těma rodinama ne, ale s tou první rodinou, ke který jsem přišla, ano. S výjimkou těch padesátých let, kdy se jako nedalo ani dobře. No ale, když se mi podařilo do tý Anglie dostat, tak určitě jsem se u nich zastavila. Samozřejmě. Tam byl opravdu moc hezkej vztah. A oni se pak odstěhovali na západ Anglie, jihozápad. Tak to ještě s manželem jsme tam jednou byli. Tak to taky, to bylo strašně milý. Já vím, že jednou jsem někde byla a oni přijeli ještě a jenom jsme si sedli na oběd na nádraží a hned zase odjeli. Jen abychom se viděli na chvilku. No a pak jsem tam byla 1994, 1996, to jsem u nich byla tak den, dva, možná tři. A to on už dost špatně chodil. No asi rok nebo dva na to, zemřel. No, ta paní ještě žije. jí bude teďka v září devadesát. Ale bohužel je úplně hluchá a nefunguje jí ta krátkodobá paměť. Ona do detailu řekne, jaký to bylo, když jsem já přijela v tom devětatřicátým roce. Kdy, kde, co, jak. To má perfektně zafixovaný v paměti. Ale co měla k snídani, to určitě vědět nebude. Ona nepíše nikdy. Ale aspoň na Vánoce nebo mě k narozeninám vždycky poslala lístek. No a teďka asi rok, dva ne. Tak jsem měla strach jestli se něco nestalo. A volala jsem. A prostě že to číslo neexistuje. Tak mi syn na internetu vyhledal adresy a telefony, ona má tři syny, tak jednoho z nich, tak jsem mu zavolala. Tak jsem mu nechala vzkaz, hned mi volal zpátky, že teďka bydlí blízko toho prostředního syna. Dal mi telefon. No, takže občas to dělám tak, že zavolám tomu synovi nebo ta snacha to zvedne, já ji znám, že jo, my jsme se setkaly. A ta ji zavolá, že budu volat, protože ta by buď neslyšel ten telefon nebo nevěděla kdo volá. Tím jak špatně slyší. No tak hovory jsou. Ví kdo jsem: „jé, to jsem ráda, že tě slyším, jak se máš?“. Tak řeknu, že dobře. Pak se zeptám jak ona se má. Ale to neslyší už. To neví. A „Jak jsi stará, teďka?“ tak to jí řeknu. To zase neslyší. „No, já už musím být taky pěkně stará, kolikpak asi mi je, no, už asi nemám daleko od devadesátky?“ Tak jí řeknu, kolik jí je. No, zkrátka hovory á o voze, ona o koze. Je to jako svým způsobem smutný, ale vím, že jsem jí udělala ohromnou radost, že jsem zavolala, aspoň. No. Takže občas takhle ten styk udržujeme. No a já právě jsem i psala tomu synovi. Já jsem říkala, že jsem si dělala obrovský starosti, co s ní je. Tak myslím, že on ví. On má moji adresu, telefon. Tak že kdyby něco bylo, že by mi dal vědět.

A: A třeba kdyby jste jí napsala dopis, nebylo by to takový lepší?

B: Jo a ne. Ale ona na to nikdy nereaguje. Ona nikdy i v době kdy byla v pořádku. Jo? Tak v podstatě nikdy jako toho moc nenapsala a teď už vůbec ne. No, tak já se snažím třeba k vánocům, že jo, nebo na ty narozeniny. To jo. Ale vím, že to nebude mít odezvu.

A: Ale tak asi ji to potěší stejně.

B: Jo, určitě. To samozřejmě.

A: A bylo to těžký pro vás se usadit v Anglii?

B: Vůbec ne. To vůbec ne, protože, jak říkám, to byla nesmírně hodná rodina. S tou sestrou jsem se vídala. Ten jazyk jsem se naučila poměrně brzy. Ta sestra týhle paní byla učitelka. Takže já jsem šla, čemu by se říkalo, i když bych byla patřila věkově do šestý třídy. Tak jsem šla do pátý, právě k tý její sestře. A ta se mně nesmírně věnovala, hlavně po vyučování. A tak. Takže, když jsem v tom květnu 1940 přijela na sever, to už nechtěli věřit, že nejsem Angličanka. Jo? Jedině, že to byla škola, prostě, kde se neplatilo. To byl nejhorší typ školy. Jo? Protože neměl kdo by za mě zaplatil nějakou lepší školu. Takže jako jsem se tam toho moc nenaučila.

A: V které, v té české škole?

B: Ne, ne, ne, ne, ne. V tý anglický. Než jsem přišla to tý český. Jak jsem byla u těch ortodoxních židů. Jo? Tak to, tam jsem se toho moc nenaučila. Že jo. Vím, že se tam učilo šít, vařit a takovýhle věci.

A: Takže to byla nějaká rodinná škola nebo něco?

B: Ne, ne, ne, ne, ne, ne. To byla něco, čemu se tady říkalo „měšťanka“. Ano. Byla tam angličtina, byla tam, já nevím, něco alá dějepis, zeměpis. Ale jen takový ty nejzákladnější základy asi. No. A i ta úroveň těch dětí, ta byla hodně nízká. Protože já jsem pak vlastně byla o třídu výš než, věkově. A pořád jsem ještě byla jako, hodně excelovala nad nima. Já nejsem žádný studijní typ. Jo? Takže jako škola dobrá to rozhodně nebyla. Takže pak když jsem přišla do tý český školy, tak jsem měla co dohánět. Že jo. No. Tak tam už to byla zas o něčem jiným.

A: A sestra udělala tu zdravotní školu někde?

B: Ne, protože ji vyhodili. Tak tu bohužel nedodělala.

A: Ona studovala v Anglii teda tu zdravotní?

B: Jo. Jo.

A: A nedodělala ji.

B: Jo. Jo.

A: A před tím pracovala v nemocnici.

B: Ano. No, to bylo v nemocnici přímo. Jo? Se to učilo. Takže potom jednu dobu dělala v nějaký redakci, zase vydávali český nebo československý časopis. A pak přešla do továrny na munici. Že jo. Protože každý se musel nějak zapojit do toho válečného úsilí. Takže dělala v továrně. A asi pak půl roku dělala nějakej kurz chemie. Protože, když se vrátila, tak šla rovnou do Terezína. Tam odvšivovat a proti tyfu a takovýhle ty. Záležitosti. Takže se snažila, získala takový rychlokurz, řekněme. No.

A: A ona byla celou válku v Anglii?

B: Ano.

A: Teda v Anglii, v Londýně?

B: Ano. Tam se provdala, těsně než odjela.

A: Ještě za války?

B: Ano.

A: A za Angličana, nebo?

B: Ne, za Čecha. Vojáka. Takže takhle. Podstatně horší samozřejmě bylo, když jsme se vrátily. Když jsme neměly vůbec nic, neměly jsme kde bydlet, kde spát a nic. To byly krušné doby.

A: A do kdy jste udržovaly kontakt s rodiči?

B: No, v podstatě než vypukla válka. To se mohlo normálně psát, což znamená červenec, srpen.

A: To byla chvilka.

B: Chvilička. Ano. Velmi krátká. Zřejmě tatínek měl někoho v Holandsku, protože vím, že jsme pak dostávaly dopisy přes Holandsko. Ovšem to byl taky necelej rok, když Holandsko padlo. Jo? Takže pak ty jejich nejlepší přátelé. Oni měli ještě jedny. Jedny co šli až na tu Sibiř, že jo. A tydle ti byli v Anglii a pak do Brazílie, jeli. Tak přes tu Brazílii. Jenomže to trvalo někdy rok, než byla odpověď. Jo? To trvalo strašně dlouho. Takže to bylo pár dopisů. Protože. A ještě než šli do Terezína, tak měli povoleno přes Červený kříž psát. A to bylo dvacet pět slov i s tak zvanou „placenou odpovědí“. Kde jsem zase já nebo sestra, mohla taktéž těch dvacet pět slov napsat. Co člověk napíše do pětadvaceti slov? „Máme se dobře, myslíme na vás a jsme zdrávi a v pořádku.“ Že jo. Víc se napsat nedá. No, to bylo jenom do té doby, než šli do Terezína. Konec.

A: A do Terezína šli kdy?

B: V roce 1942, v listopadu. Takže tím všecko skončilo. Tak co by jste ještě ráda věděla?

A: Ještě bych ráda věděla. No, když já jsem si to napsala a nemůžu to po sobě přečíst.

B: Aha. To se mi stává taky.

A: Taky to je takový „krasopis“. Něco o té české škole mi řekněte.

B: No, ta původně byla zřízená vlastně pro děti vládních činitelů a vojáků a letců. Takže ze začátku tam těch dětí nebylo tolik. Postupně přibývaly. Tam byli už třeba před válkou zástupci Bati, zástupci Sigma pumpy, několik rodin. Tak ty děti chodily do těchto škol. Taktéž případně jiné rodiny, které emigrovaly. Byli tam i, teda, rodiče s dětma. No, a postupně jsme tam začaly přibývat i my, takzvané Wintonovy děti. Že jo. Jak se kdo o tom dovídal nbo z různých důvodů. Takže ta původní škola, kde jsme byli v tom Hentonhallu už kapacitně nestačila. Jednak. Jednak byla už taky v dost špatném stavu, takže jsme se na podzim 1943 přestěhovali do Welsu. Což původně byl hotel a byl předělaný právě na to, jako internátní škola. Takže jsme pobývali tam. Byla to nádherná krajina. Tam nikdo nevěděl, málem, že je válka. Že jo. Takže po tý stránce jsme byli taky chráněný. No, až na pár výjimek, se tam téměř každýmu líbilo. Byli jsme tam velice spokojení. Nebyly mezi náma žádné rozdíly. Jestli tam někdo měl nebo neměl rodiče. Já si vzpomínám, že jeden chlapec, tatínek byl na vojně a maminka se snad na krátkou dobu nastěhovala tam do tý vesničky, a ten ředitel nedovolil, aby ta maminka tam za klukem chodila, protože ostatní taky nemají maminku tam. Jo? Tak na jedný straně jo, na druhé vím, že se scházeli tajně. Tak. Samozřejmě. Ale abychom se necítili takhle nějak, nějaké rozdíly. Ti co tam někoho měli, tak občas dostávali nějakej balíček. Že jo. Nějaký ty mlsoty a podobně. No a dvě moje kamarádky nejlepší, jme neměly nikoho, nikdo nám nic neposlal. A jednoho dne se rozdávala pošta a já dostala balík. Bez odesilatele. V tom balíku bylo pečené kuře a nějaká jabka. No a ten dotyčný, já jsem pak přišla na to, to byl ten co rozdával, prostě jako sekretář ředitele. Jo? Si zřejmě všiml, že my tři holky nedostáváme nic a věděl, že se rozdělíme. Což, samozřejmě, jsme taky udělaly. A každá z nás má dodnes v paměti, jak jsme vzaly to kuře a ohlodávaly a šly tam před školu. Tam bylo takovej trávník, prostě takový prostranství. Tam jsme šly a ty kosti jsme házely za sebe. Já nevím jestli jste viděla ten film Jindřich VI. Jo? A to on právě ten Loten, když hrál toho Jindřicha, jak to dělal, jak jedl jo, to kuře. Mlaskal. Ten tuk mu tak to. A jak házel ty kosti za sebe. A my dělaly totéž. Jo? Takže prostě z toho vzniklo kamarádství opravdu na doživotí. Tak moje nejlepší kamarádka ta Věra Gissing. Ta se pak vrátila do Anglie. To je kamarádství, které se nenajde jen tak honem. Jo? Kde, já nevím, kdybych ve dvě, ve tři v noci zazvonila tak otevře a prostě udělá všecko, první, poslední. Totéž já tady. A ne jenom ona. Ale to jsou tak mimořádně silná pouta, protože ty osudy naše jsou tak pevně spjaty, že jsme byly spolu v takové té kritické době našeho mládí. Kdy jsme spolu vyrůstaly. Že to zanechalo vliv na nás jako na stálo. Ten průvodce v tom filmu Síla lidskosti, ten Joe Schlesinger, to je světoznámý novinář dnes. Čili už v důchodu, sice. To je pravda, ale pořád ještě něco dělá a žije teďka v Kanadě. Já jsem byla v roce, je to dva a půl let, myslím, jsem byla v Americe, kousek od New Yorku. A, no zkrátka jsem říkala, že tam budu a jestli je nějaká šance, že by přijel. Jo? No a říkal jestli to jen trochu půjde, tak že jo. A až tam budu, ať mu dám vědět. Tak jsme pak spolu mluvili. Říkal, že škoda, že to nabylo o týden dřív nebo později, to už si nevzpomínám. No, protože potřeboval stejně do New Yorku. No, kvůli mně předělal celej pracovní program, kde měl, já nevím, dělat nějaké interview s, já nevím, kolika ambasadory. A celej ten štáb televizní a všecko. No a přijel za mnou. Na, já nevím, dva, tři dny nebo kolik. Z Toronta, kousek od New Yorku. No, to každej neudělá. Že jo. Říkám, to opět svědčí o nějakých těch poutech nebo. Já jsem tam byla teďko v listopadu, tak to bohužel nemoh, opravdu, to byl velice vytíženej. Ale sešlo se nás pár zase. No, dvě ty děvčata byly z New Yorku, jeden přišel, jeden přijel z Washingtonu. To taky. Washington, New York, to je tak „kousek“ cesty. Jo? A jenom na ten oběd. Jo? Tak to já chci jenom ilustrovat jak jsme pevně, jako, jaký pouta jsou mezi náma. Jo? A není to jenom o tom. Já říkám, že kdokoliv by potřeboval pomoct tak. Ředitel tý školy. V podstatě jedinej, kterej ještě žije, tomu bylo v prosinci sto. Pořád duševně, jéžiš, kéž bychom byli my takhle duševně čilí jak je on. A nějak jsem to připomněla tam, tak okamžitě mi dali peníze, abych tady něco koupila pro něj a něco uspořádala. Jo? Naprosto samozřejmě. To není otázka jestli na to mají, nebo ne. Ale taková ta pozornost. Jo? Si vzpomenout. Si udělat radost, jeden druhýmu. Tak říkám, to jsou taková. Teďka právě byly taky dvě děvčata tady, z tý školy. Tak ta jedna, která byla mimořádně nepořádná. Takovej flegmatik a propadala a já nevím co všechno. Dneska to je člověk tak mimořádných schopností. Organizaček a všeho jiného. Neznám nikoho, kdo by uměl všecko tak hbitě zařídit a zorganizovat. Já nevím jestli jste slyšela o tom, že prodává remosky v Anglii. Jo? Tak ta byla úplně před krachem, ona i zachránila. Protože zařídila, že se prodávají teďka remosky v Anglii. Která sem vozí nespočet turistů. Jo? Každý rok. Jo? Teďka má něco, s nějakou školou hotelovou, nebo co. Takovou výměnnou akci. Teďka říkala, že přijede zase v dubnu, kvůli nějaký tý hotelový škole. Jo, oni pak přijedou k ní. Ať si lověk vzpomene na co chce, tak všecko zorganizuje. Zařídí. Neuvěřitelně schopná. Jo? No, tak to je taky taková dobrá kamarádka.

A: A kolik vás tam bylo, na tý škole?

B: Tak to vám nikdo nezodpoví. Protože, jedni přišli, druzí odešli. Že jo. Někdo odmaturoval, někdo zase třeba ten poslední rok, pokud tam měli rodiče, tak je vzali, aby aspoň se naučili pořádně anglicky. Tak je dali do anglický školy, že jo. Takže to nikdy se nedá říct přesně. Já bych to velmi zhruba odhadla, takových sto padesát. Ale velice zhruba. Jo? Takže to, říkám, nedá se to tak přesně určit.

A: A těch Wintonových dětí tam bylo kolik?

B: Teďka zrovna jsme o tom mluvili a někdo říkal, že to mohlo být takových pětadvacet procent. Jo? Pokud, to bych musela vzít seznam a asi nějak to dávat dohromady. No. Ale díky tomu, že jsme byli v tý škole, tak jsme o sobě věděli. Že jo. Ti co ve škole nebyli, ti se velmi těžko dohledávají teďka. Tak to zase vymyslel ten režisér Mináč, nějakou akci, v domnění, a řekla bych že správnou, že celá řada těchhle těch lidí potom, po válce, se odstěhovala do jižní Ameriky. Že tady nikoho neměli a ta jižní Amerika ta přijímala jak nacisty, tak ty co přežili koncentrák. Ti přijímali prostě každýho. Takže je velmi dobře možný, že se tam nachází celá řada těch dětí.

A: A do Československa se vrátilo kolik dětí?

B: Tak počet vám neřeknu.

A: Tak zhruba tak, v procentech.

B: Nevím, nevím. Protože se vrátily nejenom jako ty Wintonovy děti, ale i ty co byli třeba s rodičema. Jo? Ale velká většina se potom buď ještě v šestačtyřicátým nebo v osmačtyřicátým a téměř zbytek v osmašedesátým pak zase někam, se vrátili. A dneska jsou, do slova a do písmene, po celým světě. Až v Tasmánii třeba.

A: Tak to máte známé všude.

B: Doslova, ano. Celá řada jich je v Izraeli, v Severní Americe, Kanada, pochopitelně Anglii. Zajímavý, že ne ve Francii. Tam je nějakej spolužák. Asi dva nebo tři. Ale z Wintonových dětí ne. Jo? No, a tady ještě tak do nedávna mohlo být takových patnáct, osmnáct. Bohužel celá řada už jich zemřela. Takže dnes jich tady je tak dvanáct, možná čtrnáct. Víc ne.

A: A většinou v Praze?

B: Jedna je v Českým Krumlově. Jeden v Kolíně. A jedna je v Zadní Třebáni. Jeden byl v Ostravě, ten už deset let nežije, ale jinak prostě z Prahy. No. Asi tak.

A: Co jste dělali třeba v té škole, když jste neměli školu?

B: Půjčili jsme si kolo a jezdili tam po těch kopcích. Tam je nádherná krajina. Překrásná. Obzvlášť o víkendech. Ping-pong jsme tam hodně hráli. Tam bylo kousíček, to patřilo ještě k tomu areálu, jezero. Takže na takovou, já nevím, dvacetiminutovou procházku to bylo moc hezký. Kluci měli svoje fotbalové družstvo. My zase volejbal nebo házená. Dost tomu sportu jsme se věnovaly. No a každou sobotu večer byl nějaký program. Třeba se hrály hry. Někdy česká, někdy anglická. No, tak to se muselo nacvičovat. Že jo? Nebo nějaké kvizy. Tak někdo musel ty otázky dávat dohromady, že jo. Nebo diskusní, nějakej večer. Já nevím, rovnoprávnost žen. Nebo co budeme dělat až se vrátíme. Že jo. A takovéhle věci. Někdy to byl poslech gramofonových desek. Tancovačka. Všechno možný. Čili na řadu těchhle akcí bylo nutno se připravit. Že jo. Ne vždycky. Ale záleželo na věku. Že jo. Většinou to dělali ti starší.

A: Jo, jo. A …… - učili jste se hodně??????

B: Jo. Většinou jo. Měli jsme tam knihovnu, takže bylo možný si pučit nějaký knížky.

A: České nebo anglické?

B: Obojí. I slovenské. Jo? Samozřejmě, kolik těch knih mohlo být. Nebyly učebnice. Ty psali učitelé sami. Takže pro ně to musel být mimořádně náročný úkol. Ne, jenom, že nebyly učebnice, ale my jsme do tý školy přišli každý s naprosto jinými znalostmi. Jo? Protože dítě rychle se naučí, ale stejně rychle, nebo ještě rychleji zapomene. Takže z tý češtiny jsme toho mnoho zapomněli. A každej chodil do jiný anglický školy. Jo? Třeba já vím, že v tý třídě co jsem byla já, byla jedna dívka a já, co jsme neměli nikdy frančtinu. Protože ve všech anglických školách, těch trochu lepších, ta frančtina byla a celá řada jich přijela přes Francii. Takže francouzsky uměli. Že jo. Uměli každý jinak i tu angličtinu. Dějepis, zeměpis, matematika. V každým předmětě jiná úroveň. Jo? Takže tohle skloubit nebylo jednoduchý. Nehledě na to, že jsme byli puberťáci, rodiče tam nebyli, že jo. Byla to internátní škola. Ale zajímavý přes to všechno k žádným, takovýmhle, nemravnostem nedocházelo, jo. Že samozřejmě lumpárny že jsme dělali. To bez pochyby. Ale já myslím, že žádný takovýhle hrozné přestupky tam nebyly.

A: Co jste dělali za lumpárny?

B: No, já nevím. Schovávali něco kantorům. A, no, prostě to, co se běžně dělá. Asi tak nějak. Si moc nevzpomínám. Že jo?

A: A ti učitelé vám dělali i vychovatele, potom po škole? Nebo to nedělali?

B: To jsme měli sestry na to. No, učitelé taky. Měli službu. Že jo. No, a já si vzpomínám, že jsem si vysloužila dvojku z chování.

A: Jo?

B: No, protože na latinu jsme měli učitelku. Ten typ, strašně hodnej, ale neudrží si kázeň. Jo? A navíc ráčkovala. A když někdo neuměl slovíčko, tak ona vždycky „tak třikrát!“ což znamenalo třikrát napsat. Jo? No, pochopitelně já jsem slovíčka nikdy neuměla. Tak já rovnou: „Třikrát!“ Tak se naštvala a říká: „Ne, pětkrát!“. Tak já příště: „Třikrát nebo pětkrát?“. A ona: „Desetkrát!“. No, a takhle holt jsme se bavili, že jo.

A: Až z toho byla dvojka z chování.

B: No, přesně tak. Jo? Takže takové jsem byla dítko.

A: A ty židovské zvyky vás ještě držely ve škole?

B: Ne, ne, ty mě velmi rychle opustily. Tak jak rychle jsem je nabrala, tak mě zase opustily.

A: Pan Auerbach říkal, že tam byl i nějaký rabín.

B: Jo, byl. Ano. Byl. Rabín a katolický kněz a protestantský. Docela ten rabín Stránský pak jednu dobu byl vrchním rabínem v New Yorku. Už nežije samozřejmě. Jo, to jako. Ale to všecko bylo na bázi dobrovolnosti. Že jo. No.

A: A taky s vámi dělal nějaký program? Jako že by se taky zúčastnil rabín vašeho volejbalu nebo tak?

B: To si myslím, že ne. To si nevzpomínám. To ne. To vím, že tam jak bylo to jezírko, tak tam byl takovej domek, kam se jako dávaly ty loďky. A to bylo prázdný nějak v tu dobu. A asi tam ten katolický kněz měl to svoje náboženství nebo mše nebo co. Jo? A bylo tam taky mešní víno. No, co páni kluci neudělali? Nějak se tam dostali a to mešní víno vypili. No, tak průšvih velikej. …

Kazeta č. 2, strana B:

B: … A přece se snažil ten rabín o potrestání. Jo? A ten katolickej kněz říká: „no, byla to klukovina, tak jako nechte to“. No, ten jako trval na přísném potrestání. A mezi jinými tam byl i Julius Sidon, což je nevlastní bratr současného rabína. Jo? A já myslím, že on to odskákal ale nevině. Já myslím, že on tam snad ani u toho nebyl, ale někdo něco prásk a jeho pak snad i, jestli, vyloučili nebo co. To snad ne. To už nevím. Ale vím, že on to nějak odskákal. Tak takové běžné klukoviny se dělaly, že jo. Pak přišli maturovat letci. No, a hrdinové, ale před tou maturitou byli rozklepaní, jak já nevím co. Že. Jak bývá každej. Tak oni taky. A v prvním patře, tam byla ředitelna, pak ten sekretář tam měl svoji kancelář. A všude na dveřích tam byly cedule a taky tam byl záchod. A co neudělali ti páni hoši, než že zaměnili ty cedule. A tam, kde byl ředitel dali, že tam je záchod. No. Takže teďka, když tam ti letci chtěli na záchod, no tak vrazili, že jo, dovnitř, a tam ředitel. A ten za stolem. Žádnej záchod, že jo. No. Tak zase jako velkej průšvih. „Kdo to udělal?!“ Tak takovýhle běžný věci, který se na školách dělaly, tak to se dělalo tam taky. Že jo.

A: A nejmladší děti byly jak staré?

B: No, takhle. Tam byly české jesle, školka, obecní škola, střední škola.

A: Taky v tom areálu?

B: Ne, ne, ne. Jesle, školka, ty byla někde úplně jinde. A ta obecní škola, ty byla v tak zvané Meisenhall. Což bylo kousek od toho, kde původně byly ta střední škola, a když my jsme se přestěhovali, tak oni šli, myslím i tam, částečně, a to bylo pak už dost daleko. Že jo. My jsme pak byli v tom Welsu a oni byli, to bylo západní Anglie. Kousek. No. Tak ti pak byli tam. Ale společně jsme nebyli. To byly vždycky jiné budovy. Ze začátku ta obecná a střední škola nebyly daleko od sebe, ale byly to jiné budovy. Chodil tam dnešní senátor Outrata. Ten chodil snad do první třídy, tam. Bývalý velvyslanec v Londýně Pavel Seichter. Taky tam chodil. A taky jenom do první třídy. Že byli malinký, že jo. Ti tam měli rodiče. Jo? Takže asi takhle. Já si jdu ještě pro nějakou vodu. Nechcete taky?

A: Já ještě pořád mám ten čaj. Děkuju. Tak já zase popřemýšlím nad otázkama.

B: Dobře. Jen papejte.

A: Když povídáte tak já tady nechci žvýkat, do toho. Měli jste nějaké informace o tom co se děje doma?

B: No, myslím, že to bylo kolem roku 1944. Se objevilo něco v novinách o krutostech v koncentračních táborech. Jo? Tak to se k nám taky dostalo. Ale, asi mládí má určitej takovej ochranný filtr. Protože já jsem si nepřipustila, že něco takového by se mohlo týkat mých rodičů. Ani jsem si nebyla jistá, že jsou v koncentračním táboře. Že jo. Ani to jsem s jistotou nevěděla. Tak to ano. Ale sami Angličané tomu nechtěli nějak ani moc věřit. Že jo. O tom byly určité pochybnosti. Ze začátku. No, a v roce 1945, já si na to tolik nepamatuju, ale jiní ano, že po válce už teda přišly do školy dlouhé seznamy lidí, kteří přežili. A jak každý nad tím stál a hledal někoho. Já si na to nějak nepamatuju. Ale řada jako mých spolužáků ano. Jo?

A: A jako to byly seznamy lidí, kteří přežili a vrátili se do Prahy?

B: No, já nevím, kam se vrátili, ale přežili. Jo? Vím, že ta moje nejlepší kamarádka Věra Diamantová. Ta dostala zprávu, nějaký telegram, že maminka a teta přežili. A všichni jsme se s ní nesmírně radovali. Že jo. Jsme se těšili s ní. No a asi měsíc na to, dostala další zprávu, že maminka zemřela na tyfus. Jo? Tohle, to byla zpráva, konec dubna, začátkem května. A ona zemřela 10.května. Prostě na pochodu smrti. To měla. A to už zemřela tý svý sestře v náručí. Čili tetě tý Věra. Ta teta přežila teda. Já ji znala a já jsem snad u nikoho neviděla tak hluboký smutek v očích po celou tu dobu. Se s tím prostě nedovedla vypořádat. Ona byla jediná co přežila. Že jo. A ta sestra její jí zemřela takhle v náručí.

A: A ona se teda potom starala o tu Věru?

B: Jo. Jo. No, spíš obráceně. Věra o ni. Jo. Jo. To byl tak zdrcenej člověk, zničenej. Takže tohle to tak nějak postupně. A myslím, že každý z nás celý léta doufal, že se někdo někde objeví. Že jo. Protože celá řada těch lidí, co přežila koncentrák třeba se ani nevrátila do Prahy a rovnou jeli, já nevím, do Izraele nebo do Ameriky. Nebo někam. Že jo. Tak jsme si po celou dobu dělali iluze, ale myslím, že nikomu se nenaplnily.

A: A vy jste se to dozvěděla jak, co se stalo s vašima?

B: No, v podstatě sestra to všechno zjišťovala. Jo. Ta se vrátila hned v červnu 1945. Já po tom, nás repatriovala škola, tak my jsme se vrátili koncem srpna 1945. No a to už jako věděla, že zatím nikdo nepřežil. Což neznamenalo, že by se někdo třeba pozděj neobjevil. No, bohužel, neobjevil. Že jo. Protože i ti kdo přežili a měli někde někoho tak taky je hledali. Že jo. Se snažili. Protože byly místa, jako u Hybernů, že jo, kde byly dlouhatánský seznamy těch, kdo přežili. A u toho přišpendlený cedulky „Jsem na živu“ a, já nevím, „Franto, ozvi se mi na tu a tu adresu“ třeba. Jo? Takže tímto způsobem lidi se hledali. Každou chvilku v rozhlase byly nějaký výzvy, že jo. Těch způsoby bylo spousta. Někdy někde se našli lidi, ale spíš častěji ne než jo. Protože. Manželova matka třeba přežila. Že jo. No, tak každej dal ihned vědět kam to bylo jen trochu možný. Že se setkali pak. Protože myslím, že taky byla určitá místa, kam převáželi ty lidi co přežili. Do nějakých, já nevím, domovů nebo něco podobnýho. Že jo. A i třeba my, co jsme se vrátili z Anglie, když tady nikoho neměli, no tak taky. Do takových domovů a když jim nebylo ještě šestnáct, tak je dali do sirotčince. Moje sestra chodila dennodenně pěšky, protože nic nejezdilo od konečný, myslím to byla jedenáctka tenkrát, z Liboce na letiště, aby mě prostě nepropásla. Jo? Aby mě někam nestrčili a ona nevěděla kam, a já zas nevěděla kde ji hledat. Že jo. Tak dennodenně chodila a to už byla v jiným stavu. Akorát ten pátek, než já jsem přijela, přiletěla ta moje nastávající švagrová, což ale tehdy nikdo nevěděl, že jo, ale sestra ji znala. A ta jí řekla, že přiletím v pondělí. Tak tu sobotu a neděli než jsem přiletěla nebyla. Jo? Ale, říkám, aby mě, prostě, neprošvihla. Jo? Takže jinak by se byli těžko hledali, ti lidi. No. Říkám, ty dali do nějakýho domova. A teďka když nám bylo sedmnáct, že jo. A teďka najednou, celou dobu se vždycky o nás někdo staral, buď v tý rodině nebo v tý škole. Že? A teďka najednou, kde seženeš peníze, kdo ti bude dávat podporu, nějaký potravinový lístky, do jaký školy mám jít, že jo. Dokončit aspoň tu maturitu. A takovýhle věci. No, a nikdo nikomu nic neřek. Nikdo neporadil. Jo? Jenom je tam strčili někam a starej se. Jo? A v podstatě ti lidi, co přežili, taky. Jo? Chápu, byl konec války, takže každej měl hlavu jak škopek. Ale že by úřady byly nějak vstřícný, jestli k těm, co přežili nebo i k nám dětem, nějak myslím, že dvakrát nikolivěk. Že spíš každej se staral co se dá urvat. Z bytů po němcích, a kdekoliv jinde. Že jo. To jako na to byli velice bystří. A my co jsme žili v Anglii a zvyklí na skutečnou poctivost, tak to nám vůbec nepřišlo. Jo? Tohle to. Takže trvalo hezky dlouho, než nám byl přidělen nějakej byt. Cokoliv. Že jo. I když švagr jako zahraniční voják na to měl přednostní právo.

A: Takže to jste potom bydlela u sestry?

B: Jo. Ale nejprv, asi tak ty první, já nevím, čtyři měsíce, prostě kdokoliv známej, neznámej měl volnou postel a nechal mě tam přespat. No. No a pak konečně, že jo. Se švagrem. To byla dvougarsonka, i když pěkná. No, ale sestra, jak říkám, těhotná, švagr a jeho sestra se vracela ze Švédska, takže jsme tam byli čtyři dospělí. Jo? No, ta se brzo odstěhovala do nějakýho podnájmu, pak. Že jo. No a pak se narodilo mimino. Ale pak byl problém vůbec najít postel, na kterou si lehnout. Čím se přikrýt. Nějakej talíř, hrnec. No, v obchodech nic nebylo, že jo. To opravdu byly těžký doby. Tohle to. Každej přesvědčenej, když jsme byli v Anglii, co všechno jsme si nepřivezli. No, někteří na tom byli finančně líp. Jo? Já určitě ne. A moje sestra taktéž ne. Že jo. Takže my jsme měli opravdu jenom to nejnutnější.

A: A peníze jste měli jenom ten sirotčí důchod teda?

B: No, já jsem pak dávala nějaký hodiny angličtiny, abych měla ještě něco. Že jo. Protože ten sirotčí důchod jsem nechala sestře jako na živobytí. Což bylo jak nic. No. Takže. Jak říkám, ono se ani za ty peníze v podstatě nic nedalo koupit. Ale aspoň na tu tramvaj abych měla a podobně. No. Tak to rozhodně snadný nebylo.

A: To musel být hrozně velký šok, vrátit se z té Anglie sem po válce.

B: Ano, to jo. Člověk by si řekl války, že jo. Samozřejmě to je hrůza. Tak ty hrůzy války snad docházely až o mnoho let později. Ale tohle to bylo nesrovnatelně horší. No, a pak ty padesátý léta, to bylo ještě, to tomu dalo korunu. Jsme museli z Prahy pryč. A manžel dělal jako slévač, on byl tedy vyučenej slévač, to je pravda. Ale i tak, ani to nestačilo. V roce 1953, když byla měnová reforma, tak ho potom vyhodili, na hodinu. Jako nespolehlivej.

A: Za měnové reformy?

B: Jo.

A: Jak to?

B: Ostatní všichni stávkovali. Jo? A on ne. Ostatní zůstali. Jeho vylili. No, proč? Protože byl žid a byl v západní armádě. To jako nepotřeboval nikdo nikomu vysvětlovat, že jo. I když to nebylo takhle úředně řečeno. No. Takže pak šel do dolů. No, to odnesl pak zdravotně. Že měl vředy, dost dlouho byl doma. Samozřejmě jsme se snažili vehementně se dostat zpět do Prahy, což nešlo, protože byt vám nedali, když nemáte zaměstnání. Zaměstnání vám nedali, když nemáte trvalý bydliště. No, jak za feudalismu. Že jo? Tak to byl takovej začarovanej kruh. No. Tak až pak, že tchýně tam měla garsonku, tak se tam přihlásil. A dostal zaměstnání. No, bohužel zemřela brzo. No, alespoň nám zůstala ta garsonka, kterou se nám později podařilo vyměnit za něco většího. Takže jsme se tím způsobem dostali zpět do Prahy. Už se nám „dýchalo“ trochu líp.

A: Jo a víte teda nějak jaké byly ty osudy vaší rodiny od té doby co šli do Terezína?

B: No, v podstatě ne. Byli v Terezíně. No a pak.

A: A nesetkala jste se s někým třeba kdo by je znal a kdo přežil?

B: Sestra s někým, ale myslím, že nic moc se nedozvěděla. Jo? Jestli to je pravda nebo ne. Ale někde jsem se, ale i tohle četla, že slibovali. Tatínek šel 28.září a ty ženy nebrali. Jo? A ty zoufale chtěly za tím manželem. Protože nikdo nevěděl kam. Jo? Jenom věděli, že to bude ještě horší jak Terezín. Jo? Ale že to jsou v podstatě vyhlazovací tábory, to v Terezíně se nevědělo. Takže všichni chtěli sebou, nebo za nima, takže skutečně maminka šla 1.října. Ale to už zřejmě už nežili. Jo? Takže to jsem někde se i doslechla. Ale taky někdo, údajně snad, řekl sestře. Protože, nevím kdy, ale každopádně v lednu 1945, se dostalo snad čtyřicet, padesát lidí do Švýcarska. Moje tchýně byla mezi nimi. Jo? Prý to někdo, byla možnost, že maminka taky by tam se dostala. A ona že ne, že chce za tatínkem. Jestli to je pravda nebo ne. To se nikdy nedozvím. Ale víc jako zpráv, to jsme neměli. Že jo. Asi tak.

A: A s vaším manželem jste se seznámila kdy?

B: Čtyři dny před odjezdem z Anglie. A sice právě švagrová, tedy budoucí švagrová, že jo. Ta měla, kolik tehdy, jestli desetiměsíční miminko. A ti co byli v tý československý armádě, ti už byli tady. A dostali týdenní dovolenou, kdo chce jako ještě do Anglie. Protože tam měli třeba rodiny nebo jiné známé, příbuzné. Že si chtějí dát do pořádku svoje věci. Tak mohli jet. Tak on přijel do Anglie zpátky z Prahy. A právě šel z švagrovou a tam jsem já ho uviděla. Pro mě to byla lásky na první pohled. Ale on měl nějakou Angličanku tam. Tak ji chtěl přemluvit. Ale ta se nedala. A říkal, že jde švagrovou jako doprovodit a že se hned vrátí. No, já jsem čekala, čekala. Nedočkala jsem se. Pak jsem se dozvěděla, že přijel až asi v sedm hodin ráno a hned zase jel dál někam. No až pak v Praze jsme se zase setkali.

A: A kdy jste se vzali?

B: V dubnu 1948.

A: A vy jste potom nastoupila ještě do školy tady?

B: Ano. Ano. Já si ještě dodělala poslední dva ročníky gymnázia.

A: Na vysokou jste se hlásila?

B: Na vysokou jsem šla. Protože tehdy otvírali pedagogickou fakultu, obor mateřské školy. Já sice dětičky měla ráda, ale abych šla na první nebo jinej stupeň, tak jsem si řekla, že kdyby měl někdo zlobit tak, jak já zlobila tu latinářku, tak jsem si řekla „tak to teda ne“. Tak jsem šla, jak říkám na ty mateřské školy, protože to bylo jenom na jeden rok, tehdy. No, a už jsem jako věděla, že mám vážnou známost, tak že budou v brzku vdavky. A jako jsem byla natolik sebekritická, že vysloveně studijní typ nejsem. Tak jsem šla jenom na tohle to, což bylo ukončeno státnicí. No. Pak ještě dálkově jsem si dodělala na první stupeň. No.

A: A manžel teda za války dělal co?

B: No, vojáka.

A: Celou dobu?

B: Ne, on když přišel, tak dělal v nějaký továrně.

A: Do Anglie emigroval?

B: Jo. Přes Polsko.

A: A sám nebo ještě s někým?

B: S bratrem.

A: A pak vstoupil do RAF?

B: Ne. On byl voják, ne letec.

A: Jo. Jo.

B: Do armády. Myslím, že to bylo v listopadu 1941.

A: A kde bojoval?

B: No, tak byli všichni, že jo, nejprve v Anglii a pak hned jak se nalodili v roce 1944, tak u Dunkerque. Francie, Dunkerque a tam.

A: Ještě jste říkala, že jste vyprávěli v tom internátě, co budete dělat po válce. Co jste myslela, že budete dělat po válce?

B: No, tak mě bylo jasný, že v sedmnácti letech toho moc nedokážu, že jo. Ale myslím, že představu jsem žádnou neměla. Ne. Ne.

A: A když jste byla malá, měla jste představu co budete dělat?

B: Ne. Ne. Ne. Já jsem to nevěděla ani když jsem odmaturovala. Já věděla co nechci.

A: A co?

B: Medicínu, práva, kantořinu. Tak, odříkávaného chleba největší krajíc, jak se říká. Že jo? To byl taky důvod, proč jsem šla na ty mateřinky. Jo? A byl to hodně tvrdej chleba.

A: A proč jste se rozhodla zůstat tady? Neuvažovali jste o tom emigrovat?

B: Tak v roce 1948 rozhodně ne. Protože to jsem se zrovna vdala. Že jo. A nějak nám to nedošlo. Nebo nechtěli jsme. Já jsem pak velmi silně o tom uvažovala v roce 1968. Ale protože já jsem typ, který nejprv něco udělá, nebo řekne, a pak teprve přemýšlí. Tak jsem si říkala, tohle je příliš závažná věc. Kdežto manžel ten byl vždycky takový velice rozvážný. A všechno si důkladně promyslel. Tak jsem to rozhodnutí nechala na něm. Tak dlouho uvažoval. A nakonec řekl ne. Druhou emigraci ne. Mě bylo čtyřicet, jemu osmačtyřicet. V tom osmašedesátým zrovna jsem tam měla, jsme tam měli, kluka. Tomu bylo devatenáct. A ten řekl „ v žádným případě, když vy zůstanete tady, já se vracím domů“. Jo? Holce patnáct. A v podstatě naše kvalifikace byla, že oba jsme znali ten jazyk, což by bylo usnadnilo začátky, ale živobytí s tím člověk neudělá. A hlavně ne v těch letech. Dobře, udělali jiní, ale bylo to jako riziko. Jo? Takže nakonec jsme rozhodli že ne.

A: A vaše sestra tady zůstala taky, taky neemigrovali?

B: Ne. Ne.

A: A jak to potom, se odvíjel váš život dál? Po válce?

B: Po válce, no, tak jak jsem říkala. Odmaturovala jsem, šla jsem na vysokou ještě. Taky jsem se provdala. Pak jsem asi rok učila na tý mateřský škole. Pak se mi narodilo dítě. No, v padesátých, jednapadesátým roce manžela vyhodili ze zaměstnání.

A: Za to že byl žid?

B: No, více méně. Jo. On dělal tehdy na ministerstvu zahraničního obchodu. Jo. Tak řečeno to nebylo, že jo, ale spoustu lidí tam vyházeli tehdy. Že jo. To ještě mohl být rád, že ho nezavřeli. A teďka my jsme pak bydleli se sestrou a byli jsme domluveni. Zkrátka, my jsme měli zažádáno o první družstvo, které tehdy bylo. Tak zvaná Solidarita. A když ty byty přidělovali, tak nám to oznámení poslali na špatnou adresu, takže jsme ten byt nikdy nedostali. Jo? No, takže jsme o to přišli. Takže jsme neměli kde bydlet. Ten byl bez zaměstnání, že jo? No a tehdy taky byla tak zvaná akce 77 tisíc do výroby. Což bylo maskování, aby právě tady tyhle nepohodlné lidi dostali do fabrik. Že jo. Tyhle intelektuály. No, takže manžel nastoupila to tak zvaných „Stalinových závodů“, dneska „Chemické závody Litvínov“. Tam jsme dostali dočasně byt v Teplicích. Pak v Litvínově. No, takže jsme se přestěhovali tam, tam se taky narodila dcera. No a po tý měnový reformě, jak jsem říkala, ve třiapadesátým, ho vyhodili na hodinu z fabriky. Takže šel do dolů. A to záhy, jako, pak měl žaludeční vředy. A s tím byl každou chvilku doma. Až tam se vyskytl jeden velice slušnej člověk, který mu pomohl, že začal pracovat v „Báňských stavbách“. Takže tam částečně. A jak jsem říkala naše stálá snaha byla, se dostat do Prahy. Tak to už jsem říkala. Že jo? Takže ze začátku bydlel s matkou. No a pracoval jako redaktor v „Sentinelu“, což byla státní nakladatelství technické literatury. Takže tam pracoval. Překládal a tak dále. Pak byl na „volný noze“, překládal. Pak jednu krátkou dobu dělal v ………. No, prostě věnoval se překladům, že jo. No a já sem potom, když jsme se přestěhovali do Prahy, tak jsem začala pracovat v Artii. Taky tak zvaný tisk ve mzdě, což bylo zaměstnání, které se mě zamlouvalo asi nejvíce. Jenomže jsem tam zůstala pouze šest let. Pak se ze mě taky stala „persona non grata“. Po okupaci, že jo jsem dostala taky vyhazov. No, takže jsem hledala, kde zakotvit. No, takže pravděpodobně jediný, nebo aspoň jediný co jsem našla, bylo na plicní klinice ve Veleslavíně, kde jsem dělala od překladů vědeckých článků až po, že jsem chodila na poštu. Prostě děvečka pro všechno. Že jo. No, a pak manžel onemocněl. Takže úvěrem, když jsem mohla, jsem šla do důchodu, abych se o něj starala. Bohužel to bylo jenom pár měsíců. Pak zemřel. No a po jeho smrti jsem v podstatě začala učit angličtinu. V podnicích a ty kurzy. A dělám to dodnes. V případě ještě teďka chodím spolu ještě, buď s panem režisérem nebo někým jiným, tím Mináčem, po školách, kde se jim ukazuje ten film „Síla lidskosti“. No a já jim pak povídám svoje zážitky a pocity a tak dále. Takže mám takovej pocit, že aspoň malinko splácím dluh.

A: A vy jste se to jak dozvěděla o tom, že to organizoval Winton?

B: Když to v Anglii jako vyšlo na povrch. Tak ta Věra, moje kamarádky, nějak mi o tom psala nebo říkala. Ale každopádně měla tu videokazetu. Co bylo v Anglii ten pořad. Přijela s tím do Prahy. No, tady se nás několik sešlo a podívali jsme se na to. No a byla u toho moje dcera i můj vnuk. A ke své hanbě musím přiznat, že jím došlo víc než mě, vlastně co to všechno obsahovalo, obsahuje, o čem to je. Protože mýmu vnukovi zrovna bylo jedenáct, tak jako mě, když jsem odjížděla. Jo? A ačkoliv tehdá ještě anglicky neuměl, tak takhle mu kanuly slzy a plakal, protože, říkám, pochopil. Že jo. A moje dcera taktéž. Jo? Že to se týkalo hodně dětí, ve věku jak je její syn. Že jo. No, a pak v devadesátým roce, jsme měli sraz naší školy ve Welsu. A tam pan Winton přijel.

A: Jo?

B: Ano. Takže tam jsem ho poznala poprvé. A shodou okolností on bydlí velice blízko právě tý Věry. Takže kdykoliv jsem v Anglii, tak vždycky se vídáme. Že jo. Buď u něj, nebo u tý Věry. Nebo obojí. Že jo? No, takže je to kouzelný pán, kterýmu bude v květnu devadesát sedm. Nesmírně duševně čiperný, aktivní. Neuvěřitelný. A snad přijede v květnu do Prahy.

A: A máte nějaký program? Nebo jenom tak?

B: No, pan režisér Mináč chce ještě dělat takovej nějakej další kus filmu právě. Děti Wintona. A různý, prostě, ještě takový ukončení, řekněme, k tomu. Jo? Tak. Jednak a jednak takovej nějakej sraz nově nalezených jeho dětí. Protože pár se jich našlo. Tak v rámci toho by chtěl ještě něco dát dohromady.

A: Takže ještě pořád se ještě v tom pátrá?

B: Jo. Takhle. On angažoval jednu školu. A sice škola Mezinárodních vztahů. Jedna je diplomatická část, jedna Public Relations. No a několik těch studentů se tam o to velice zajímalo a dělají tak zvané detektivy, přes ty krajanské spolky a ambasády leckde. A prostě takhle přes internet. Vyhledávají. Protože celá řada lidí ani neví, jak se dostali do Anglie a pak takhle dál. Jo? Obzvlášť ti, co byli úplně malí. Že jo?

A: Byla jste někdy v komunistické straně? Nebo tak?

B: Byla. Ke své hanbě.

A: A kdy jste vstoupila?

B: V roce 1948. Ne, v roce 1946. 1946 ano. To mě bylo jen tak, tak osmnáct. Ano. Ale jak jsem říkala. Sestra byla dost levicově zaměřená. Čili ta už v Anglii vlastně vstoupila. A já byla hodně pod jejím vlivem. Ale spousta lidí jako opravdu poctivě, upřímně věřila. Že jo? Takže jsme se domnívali, že nám pomůžou zachránit. Bohužel tomu tak nebylo.

A: A třeba rok 1948, ten vás nějak ne to?

B: Až později. Až ty důsledky když se začínaly ozývat, že jo. Protože celá řada našich známých právě z Anglie, že jo, ti byli pozavíráni a tak dále. Že jo. Takže pak se nám začínaly teprve otevírat oči. Ale z toho rozjetého vlaku nešlo vyskočit. Takže až po tom roce 1968. že jo. To jsou ty osudové chyby.

A: A měla jste z toho nějaké vy, problémy, že jste židovského původu a že to, že jste byla v té Anglii?

B: No, jak jsem říkala. Nikdo mi to do očí neřek. Že jo. Ale taky kolem toho šestapadesátýho, myslím, taky. Že jo. Taky takové různé nepříjemnosti, že jo. Taky to bylo jako. A když mě vyhodili z Artie, tak taktéž. Že jo. Jedno s druhým. Oni vám to do očí neřeknou. Tohle to. To nějak vyplývalo ze situace.

A: A ten šedesátý osmy rok, tak to jste vnímala jak? Třeba tu okupaci? Nebo kde jste byla?

B: V Praze. Nebo vlastně konkrétně jsme nebyli v Praze. My jsme byli na dovolené. A syn byl v Anglii.

A: A co tam dělal?

B: Na brigádě. Co by? Se učit anglicky, samozřejmě. Že jo. Ale dostal tam povolení pracovat, což bylo výjimečný. A přijel jeden jeho kamarád z Francie. A nějak protože, takže, my jsme byli někde za Chrudimí, já už nevím kde to je přesně. Tak tam v těch místech. A prostě jsme se domluvili, že dcera s tím hochem pojedou do Prahy. Protože on chtěl do Prahy. Že jo. Se podívat. Tak že jo. Tak ráno, brzo, manžel je posadil na autobus a přišel zpátky. A přišel zpátky: „okupovali nás Rusové“. Já povídám „a tos je pustil jako do toho autobusu?“. Ten kluk mluvil jenom francouzsky, Věra jenom česky. No, jak se domluvili, nevím. No, ale přijeli na Florenc. Teď se všude střílelo. No, to bylo dobrodružství. No a my okamžitě sedli na první dopravní prostředek a nějak jsme jeli do Prahy. Že jo. No, tanky všude, že jo, střílelo se. Doprava nefungovala, nic. No a teď, sestra měla kluka na Slovensku někde. Tak taky celá nervózní, kde je, jak je. Mobily neexistovaly tehdy, že jo. No, takže bylo to víc jak dobrodružné. No, ten první rok celkem ještě šlo. Že jo. To ještě byla ta eufórie, jo, toho Pražskýho jara. Horší to bylo potom v devětašedesátým. To už pak začalo přituhovat. A dost. Takže když to odskákal manžel v těch padesátých letech, já zas v těch šedesátých. Jak jsem říkala, když mě vyhodili z tý Artie, tak jsem říkala nějakýmu soudruhovi. Jsem říkala: „No, v čtyřiačtyřicátým roce, moji rodiče šli do plynu za to. V padesátých letech, můj manžel dostal vyhazov na hodinu. A když teďka já dostávám výpověď a mám jedenáctiměsíční výpověď.“. Že jo, jsem říkala: „to je ohromnej pokrok, to moje děti mají ještě větší naději“. No jo. Takže.

A: Tak mi ještě řekněte o vašich dětech?

B: O mých dětech?

A: No.

B: Děti asi jako každé jiné. Jo? Asi si přehodili role. Kluk byl vždyky hodnej, mírnej. Kdežto ta holky, holka vždycky byla taková ta uličnice. Jak to někdy bývá. No, Jirka vystudoval slaboproud. No, byl zaměstnanej nejdříve v Adipně. A pak, jak se to jmenovalo, nějakej ústav obráběcích strojů. No a nějak krátce po Sametové revoluci dal výpověď a od té doby je na volné noze a překládá, hlavně technické překlady dělá. No a dcera, ta jako dost toho prostonala. Ta měla takové drobné chřipky, pak bronchitidy. A který měla i třikrát do měsíce. Takže jsme ji nechali opakovat, myslím sedmou třídu, protože skoro nebyla ve škole. Pak šla na střední. A to půl roku jakž, takž. Pak druhou půl roku dělala externě, protože pořád nemocná. V třetím ročníku chodila snad jenom dva týdny do školy. Pak dostala revma. Byla, já nevím v koliky, nemocnicích. No, odmaturovala, že jo. Chtěla na vysokou, tak díky, právě, mým průšvihům se nedostala. A krátkou dobu dělala v tý prodejně Sentinelu. A, kolik, ve dvaadvaceti se pak provdala. Pak měla kluka. No a začala dělat u rentgenu a je u toho pořád.

A: A co je bavilo třeba, když byli malí?

B: No tak, Věra, ta hlavně cvičit, cvičit. Ta dělala, závodně i, gymnastiku. A Jirka, no ten dodnes miluje lyžování. Do čtrnácti, do patnácti náruživě četl. Od tý doby konec. To už ho nějak tolik nebavilo. A no, co jinak. Tak bych řekla od všeho kousek. Asi tak. Oba mají svoje zdravotní problémy. Tak to je taky. Nemůžou udělat vždycky všechno co by chtěli, jak chtěli. Asi tak.

A: Kam jste třeba jezdili na dovolené, když byli ještě mladší?

B: No, tak to hlavně záleželo na finančních možnostech. A to byly velmi omezené. No, tak vím, že jsme párkrát byli někde u Ohře, což byla nějaká podniková, taková velice primitivně vybavená, boudička. Tam jsme byli. Pak jsme byli někdy někde u Lipverdy, na severu Čech. V Jevanech jednou, dvakrát. Jak se kde, co naskytlo.

A: A do zahraničí jste jezdili?

B: No, tehdy to nešlo. Když byli malí.

A: Ani nějaký to Bulharsko, nebo tak?

B: No, to jsme byli až někdy v sedmdesátých letech. Dřív to jako nešlo. Nejprve Rumunsko, pak Bulharsko. Bylo to všechno omezené. Jednak možnostmi a jednak finance. Ta nějak nikdy nepřebývaly.

A: A kdy jste se poprvé podívala nějak víc na Západ?

B: To bylo v osmašedesátým. Nejprve jel Jirka v šestašedesátým. To jel na tak zvané „Fruit picking“. A šedesát sedm jel manžel, já šedesát osm a Věra šedesát devět. Jo? No a pak byl konec, že jo. No a pak jsme jeli s manželem spolu, na příslib, jsme zázračně dostali, sedmdesát šest. A v osmdesátým to bylo na pozvání, ale tu už byl manžel nemocnej. No a to bylo, více méně, takový sbohem se švagrem. Ten žil v Americe a oni přijeli do Anglie, takže, aby se ještě viděli. No, manžel to nevěděl, že jo, do tý míry. Ale my jsme to věděli. No. A já jsem pak v pětaosmdesátým roce, jsme měli první sraz naší školy, po čtyřiceti letech. Takže to jsem byla. Což bylo opravdu úplně fantastický. Neuvěřitelný. I když po čtyřiceti letech máte pocit, že to jsou spíš čtyři týdny, co jste se neviděla s těmi lidmi. A s kým jsme se přátelili tehdy, tak znovu se to navázalo, to přátelství. To, kdo to nezažil, tak těžko pochopí, ty dojmy. To byl neuvěřitelný zážitek. To bylo překrásný.

A: A jinak udržovala jste s někým kontakt?

B: No, tak s tou Věrou, tu, tam. Pokud to šlo. Protože ona sem jezdila za tou tetou. Že jo? A, když byl Jirka, šedesát šest, šedesát osm. Tak byl u ní. Věrka taky. Jo? Tak s tou ponejvíc. No a hlavně potom v pětaosmdesátým, když se jako znova navázaly kontakty, tak od tý doby s celou řadou, zase. No. Velice mnoho. Takže, říkám, můžeme říct, že máme přátelé po celém světě.

A: Tak můžete jezdit, všude si na výlety a cestovat.

B: No, bohužel i to cestování něco stojí, že jo. Já vím, že když jsem byla poprvý v Americe. Tak já byla na tom východním pobřeží. No, tak to bylo neuvěřitelný je tam vidět, zase ty lidi. To bylo opravdu nádherný. Když každej je taky rád, že vás vidí. A měla jste pocit, že neobtěžujete nikde. Naopak. Jo? Že jste opravdu mezi dobrými přáteli. Kteří se snažili mi ukázat co se dalo. Že jo. Věnovali čas a všecko. Nesmírně příjemní. No. Tak to byly takovýhle milé zážitky.

A: No, a vaše děti jste třeba nějak vychovávali k tomu židovství?

B: No, nikolivěk vědomě. Oni vědí, že jsou židovského původu. Žádný nějaký ty židovské svátky nebo co, jsme nedrželi. Že jo. Vědí, že existují. Za totality Věra chodívala tam mezi tu mládež, tak zvané „děti Majzlovky“. Že jo. Bohužel po převratu se to hodně změnilo, takže už tam přestala chodit.

A: Jak se to změnilo?

B: No, už tam začala chodit jiná parta lidí, že jo. Už to nebylo ono.

A: A co to bylo přesně? Ty „děti Majzlovky“.

B: To byla mládež, právě která, mladí lidé, kteří se hlásili k židovství. A prostě takhle spontánně nějak se stýkali, že jo. Pobavit, popovídat, že jo. Třeba i na nějaký ty svátky, já nevím, tu chanuku. Ne kvůli, že by byli nějaký pobožný, to určitě ne. V žádným případě. Prostě z přátelskýho ducha. A tak nějak. No.

A: A její manžel je taky žid?

B: Ne, ona je rozvedená. Ale tak čtvrt. Její tchýně, ta už nežije teda, ta byla polo. Ale on má velké pochopení jako pro židovskou otázku. Velice.

A: A z té manželovy rodiny vlastně přežil válku kdo?

B: Jenom matka.

A: Jenom matka? A bratr teda.

B: Jo. Bratr byl taky v Anglii. A jeden bratranec, kterej pak emigroval do Izraele. Jo a jedna sestřenice, ale ta byla taky za války v Anglii. Vlastně celá ta rodina, i ti rodiče.

A: A ta matka byla kde jeho?

B: V Terezíně.

A: Jenom v Terezíně?

B: Jo. A ten bratranec jeden, ten myslím byl i v Osvětimi.

A: A osmdesátý devátý rok jste jak prožívala?

B: No, ve velké eufórii asi jako každej jinej. Že jo? To jsem s Honzou, tehdy čtrnáctiletej vnuk, každý den chodili na Václavské náměstí. Dcera byla nějak nemocná. No samozřejmě asi jako každý, obrovský iluze. Který se mnohým z nás rozplynuly do značné míry, ale zaplať pánbůh i za to, co z toho vzešlo. Že jo? To byl ten největší klad toho všeho. Ten režim byl svržený. A doufejme, že se nikdy nevrátí.

A: Ale preference jim rostou.

B: Ano. Bohužel, rostou hodně. Ale i tak nevěřím, že by se doslova vrátil ten režim co byl. Ne v tý míře.

Kazeta 3, strana A

B: Kde jsem bydlela, tak já odhaduji, že mi mohlo být tak.. něco mezi osmi a deseti.

A: To je před tou vilou tam?

B: Ano, na Vinohradech.

A: A nevíte, kdo to fotil?

B: To nevím, to nemám tušení.

A: Tak tohle, dvojka.

B: Tohle, podle toho jsem byla vybraná do toho transportu, to se posílalo, jo. Tohle, jestli se nemýlím, tak to bylo tak braný snad ve škole někde. Čtvrtá třída.

A: To je ta škola ještě česká tady?

B: Česká, samozřejmě. Tohle je tak přibližně ještě ze stejné doby, to mi mohlo být tak tři, čtyři roky, a tady jsem se sestrou.

A: Já bych teda ještě potřebovala nějaké fotografie Vašich rodičů.

B: To já strašně nerada dávám z ruky.

A: No, já Vám věřím.

B: Tohle, no, to samozřejmě originál je jeden jedinej... tohle. Možná, že mám fotokopii otce, to nevím, musím se podívat.

A: A kdybychom tam zašly společně za tím pánem, co to scanuje, že by to udělal na počkání?

B: No, tak jedině tak. A to je třeba?

A: No, oni to tam chcou.

B: Jedině tak. Protože i tohle dávám velmi nerada z ruky. To se přiznám.

A: Tak já nevím, kdy by se Vám to tak nějak hodilo?

B: Teďka přes ty svátky asi nefungujete, viďte?

A: Já tady budu, já klidně, ale zase nevím, jestli on pracuje, protože to je u něho v práci.

B: To jako by bylo tak nejvhodnější. Pondělí vidím na zubaře, ale možná, že v pondělí odpoledne...

A: Tak já se s ním dohodnu, jestli vůbec on bude v té práci teda.

B: No. Ve středu odpoledne to určitě ne, to učím. Jinak zatím nevím. Tak se domluvte a dejte mi vědět.

A: Dobře.

B: A to byste mi pak při tom vrátila.

A: Anebo možná, ono je to zbytečné, že bychom to pak udělaly všechno zaráz.

B: Jo, takhle, tak to jo.

A: Tím pádem byste to Vy měla pořád u sebe.

B: Jo, to jo, dobře.

A: A který jste dělala?

B: Jé, to už Vám nepovím. Já vím, že jsem dělala, a to už je hodně let, taky z obce, jak ona se jmenuje... Dvě ženy to dělaly... Vím, že jsem za ní byla, ne ve Střešovicích, v Břevnově, někde tam... jak ona se jmenuje?

A: Hyndráková, není to?

B: Jo, Hyndráková. Ano, to už je hodně dlouho, tohle.

A: Zhruba tak? Před deseti lety?

B: No, to určitě. Nevím, to bylo někdy v době, kdy přijel jeden spolužák z Izraele a taky jí něco povídal. Už si nevzpomenu, kdy to bylo, ale už jsem bydlela tady, a tady už jsem čtrnáct let.

A. Takže čtrnáct až deset let.

B: Jo. Asi tak nějak. Řekněme ten prostředek. Ale jinak... Zajímavé je, a to už je taky hodně let, se ke mě dostal jeden Číňan, který snad v Číně byl, já nevím, jestli mu bylo sedmdesát, osmdesát, ale žil tady před válkou, protože jeho otec byl tady velvyslancem. Tak žil tady, uměl česky, pak žil taky v Berlíně a když vypukla válka, tak se dostal do Švýcarska a žil ve Švýcarsku. Tak vystudoval historii a zaměřil se na moderní historii a taky přišel, tak jsme mu toho tady napovídala, protože on dával dohromady knihu. A úplně náhodou, je to tak dva, tři týdny, jak má Jana Klusáková vždycky v neděli tu Nedělní knihovničku, tak jsem zaslechla... takhle, on mi potom psal, že ta kniha už je v tisku a že to bude velice dobrý. Tak jsme věděla, že knížka vyšla, a pak jsem se dozvěděla, to může být takové dva, tři roky, že zemřel. A teďka ta Jana Klusáková o tom povídala, že to vyšlo v češtině, ta knížka.

A: A jak se jmenuje?

B: Mezi Berlínem a Prahou. Jang, jak on se jmenuje, já jsem kdysi měla jeho vizitku... to jsem asi vyhodila.

A: Ještě jste se nedívala, co tam psal o Vás?

B: Ne, takhle, protože jsem zjistila, že to stojí asi čtyři sta padesát korun, tak jsem si říkala, na ten odstaveček...

A: To si můžete okopírovat...

B: No. A tak. Já si nepamatuju, s kým vším jsem mluvila, ale bylo jich jako dost.

A: Tak já tam napíšu tu Hyndrákovou.

B: Jo, to určitě. To vím, to určitě, ale jináč... Pak jsem taky s Janou Klusákovou jsem v rozhlase byla, ten host Jany Klusákový jsem byla, a pak tady byl Jiří Vejvoda, když tady byla ta moje kamarádka Věra Gissing z Anglie, tak to jsme něco do rozhlasu povídaly taky, já si to nepamatuju, opravdu.

A: Tak toho máte opravdu hodně.

B: No, hodně. Já si to nepamatuju. Teďka hned po Vás přijde zase nějaká redaktorka, z toho, z Učitelských novin, ježiš pro noviny už hodněkrát, to si ani nepamatuju, vím, že ot bylo konec května nebo začátek června, protože manželka jednoho našeho spolužáka z té školy v Anglii dávala dohromady všechno o té naší škole. A tady se to mělo uložit do toho Národního archivu a já jsem byla s tím senátorem Outratou na letišti, když to přišlo, tak tam taky povídání do toho rozhlasu a snad v televizi... to bylo pak ještě, kolem toho byl článek v novinách...

A: Sbíráte to ještě všechno?

B: V podstatě jo, protože ze mě se stal takovej archivář. A díky tomu, když Matěj Mináč, víte, kdo to je, že jo? Začal děla ten dokument, tak začal dělat něco o panu Wintonovi, dostal se na mě, a to byl asi půl hodinovej rozhovor, celej udivenej, že ještě žije, a přišel ke mně a když zjistil, že já mám ty seznamy, a tam tu knihu výstřižku, tak to byl úplně v sedmém nebi, a tady mi prohrabal všechno, co se dalo, protože já byla úplně taková studna materiálu, že jo, no a stejně tak co se týče dost, i té školy. Ale už jsem si řekla dost, už to nemám kam dávat. Ale vyplatilo se to mockrát, že jo. Každou chvilku se něco děje, tak nějaký článek se hodí, že jo.

A: Letos máte taky sraz s tou školou?

B: Ne, ne ne ne. Nejprv jsme to měli po pěti letech, potom po třech, teďka ta, co ot organizuje, řekla že už dost, jednak že už toho ona má dost, že už jsme staří a nemocní a tak dále, no, bohužel je to pravda, taky vždycky, taky se stává, že někdo umře, že jo, tak začaly velké křiky a protesty, tak že ne, tak zase za tři roky, takže zase za dva roky. Snad.

A: Tak se máte na co těšit.

B: Ale jo. Tak jestliže ne to, tak já hlavně s tou Věrou, tak to se v rámci možností vídáme. Aspoň každej rok, že jo.Ona má těžce nemocnou dceru, tak jinak by asi častěji....

A: Jsem si četla ty dvě knížky od ní.

B: No. Ty Perličky, že jo, a tu Zachráněnou generaci.

A: A teď sjem byla v knihkupectví a úplně náhodou jsem tam našla knížku od Sylvie...

B: Součkový.

A: No, no. Tam měli v Levných knihách výprodej za třicet devět korun.

B: Jo? Takhle, já tu druhou nečetla.

A: Tohle je z Akademie.

B: No ono je obojí z Alademie. To první je myslím Psáno osudem a politikou, jo, tak tu mám, a tu druhou ne, to je něco s Masarykem myslím, říkala. Tak to nevím. To jsem nečetla.

A: No, ale tuhle jsem si koupila za třicet devět korun.

B: Jo? Tak to ani nevím, že je to takto zlevněný. No. To jo. Ona mi ji věnovala, tak ani nevím, za kolik se prodávala. Kde já ji mám? Já ji musela někomu půjčit? Ale to já si hlídám... Já vím, že jsem ji půjčila té...ale ta mi ji vrátila... To bych nerada o to přišla. Taky patří do toho mého archívu. No, takže už znáte řadu mých, to, no anglicky umíte? Tak by možná Vás zajímalo, to Vám ale nedám z ruky, jestli na internetu, tady ty Timezones, Joe Schlessinger. Je to možná víc pro mužské...

A: O čem to je?

B: Dá se říct taky jeho životopis. On je skutečně věhlasnej novinář. Světoznámej. Pracuje v kanadské televizi. A on v tom filmu, ta Síla lidskosti, tam dělá průvodce. A on v tom píše, tak to dětství taky, jak se dostal do Anglie, jak tam byl v té škole a tak. Potom tady utekl v padesátým roce, nebo jednapadesát, a stal se novinářem a pracoval na každém kontinentě. A jelikož je tak mladej jako já, tak ještě teďka nedávno mi psal, že jede na dva týdny do Bolívii a na jaře jako do Evropy, a že si odskočí do Prahy, aby se sem podíval. Takže ten je věčně vytíženej. Protože já, když jsem byla předposledně v Americe, tak za mnou z Kanady přijel. Jenom na den, na dva, což jsem si jako velice považovala, že se utrhl a přijel za mnou. A když jsem tam byla teďka v listopadu, tak to mu nevyšlo, že jo, on pořád pracuje ještě na plný úvazek.

A: A on má nějakou rodinu?

B: No,tak má dvě dcery. Manželka mu zemřela, to bylo akorát v době, jak tady byla premiéra toho filmu Síla lidskosti, proto nepřijel, a to bylo nula jedna. Takže žije sám. Ta jedna dcera se snad teď v léta má stěhovat z Ameriky do Kanady za ním, a druhá je v Americe. No, takže takhle. Dost jako, ta Susi taky psala něco... Říkám, tohle takové hodně politické.

A: Tak já si to zkusím někde najít.

B: Jak říkám, a internetu se to našlo určitě.

A: Celá ta knížka?

B: To nevím. To spíš kdyby se dalo objednat.

A: Ještě jsem se chtěla zeptat...

B: No, nono, povídejte.

A: Tam je jedna podsekce otázek, na které jsem zapomněla: Váš vztah k Izraeli.

B: Eh. Takhle. Rozhodně nejsem sionista. To v žádném případě. Ale pokud... považuji to za vlast židů, že jo, což neznamená, že každý žid tam má žít. Pokud chce, samozřejmě, že ano. A jelikož dva tisíce let bojují o tento svůj pidi státeček a napracovali se tam dost, nadřeli, a z té neúrodné půdy skutečně něco udělali, já myslím, že mají velikej nárok, nebo, naproste járok na tuhle půdu, a měli by je tam v klidu nechat lidé žít. Palestincům neupírají právo žít tam také, vedle sebe, ale musí je nechat v klidu.

A: Sledovala jste ty konflikty, které tam probíhaly? V šedesátém sedmém, sedmdesátém třetím?

B: No, tak studovat určitě ne, to v žádném případě, ale sledovala jsem, co bylo v rozhlase, v televizi, v novinách, no tak to samozřejmě. Já jsem tam byla jen jednou jedinkrát, ještě vlastně za totality, a v momentě, kdy letadlo dosedlo, tak mě.... no, já nevím, je to strašně působivé a strašně silně to působí. Já to neumím vyjádřit. Možná, že někdo, kdo se umí lépe vyjadřovat, tak jo.

A: No, tak to stačí, když je to působivé...

B: Velice. Velice. Velmi silně. Prostě člověk má pocit, ano, sem patřím. Ale na druhou stranu si neumím představit, že bych tam žila.

A: A nikdy jste o tom neuvažovala?

B: Ne. Takhle. Ta možnost se ani v praxi nevyskytla. Možná jen hned po válce, ale já toužila domů z té Anglie, že jo, a je pravda, že v pětaosmdesátým, kdy jsme měli první sraz té naší skoly, a byli tam taky naši spolužáci z Izraele, tak mi to nabídli. Že mi jako pomůžou a tak dále.

A: V tom pětaosmdesátým?

B: V tom pětaosmdesátým. Tak jsem řekla, děkuji pěkně, ale já už tady mám děti, rodinu, v těch letech už jako … těžko člověk jako mí kořeny, ani nevím, jestli bych po tom byla toužila. Těžko říct. Ano, podívat se, samozřejmě, ale žít tam? Těžko.

A: A co Vás nejvíc zaujalo, když jste tam byla?

B: Já nevím.

A: Celkově ta atmosféra? Ten dojem?

B: Ta atmosféra! Já to neumím vyjádřit, ale s kýmkoliv jsem mluvila, moje dcera tam byla taky, a stejněj pocit, jestli to je ta sounáležitost nebo co? Já nevím, já to neumím vyjádřitl. Těžko. Vy jste tam byla?

A: Ne, nebyla, nemám tolik peněz.

B: No. Já to neumím říct.

A: A ještě tam mě napadlo, ta Věra tam píše, jaká nadšená vlastenka v té Anglii ona byla. Vy jste byla taky?

B: Taky, ale ne tolik jako ona. A ona ještě dnes, když sem přijde, tak cokoliv, český chleba, to je to nejlepší, co existuje. Anebo, já nevím, když jí udělám vajíčka, tak český vajíčka jsou lepší než anglický, a i tak, a acylpirin náš je lepší než jejich aspirin.. prostě, nevím, o všem je přesvědčená, že všechno je lepší. No. Takhle, zase není tak neobjektivní, taky ví a zná, jaké jsou tady nedostatky, hlavně jaké byly, takže to umí rozlišit. Ale jo, já taky nemám ráda, když jsem v cizině a někdo řekne něco nehezkého o naší republice. To velmi špatně snáším. Tohle. I kdyby na tom bylo kousíček pravdy, tak to nerada slyším. Tak po té stránky vlastenka jsem, to určitě. Já si na své děti můžu hubovat jak chci, ale žádnej cizí mi na něj sahat nesmí. Asi takhle.

A: Ještě mi tam chybí, kdy měli Vaši rodiče svatbu? Víte to?

B: To vím. Devětadvacátého ledna devatenáct set dvacet dva.

A: A oni měli nějakou židovskou?

B: Asi. Asi. To nevím. To ještě bylo hodně dlouho před mým narozením. A i kdyby, tak to asi... ale řekla bych, že jo, ale zaručit to nemůžu.

A: Jo, Vy jste tam ještě mluvila o prababičce. Pamatujete si na ni?

B: Vůbec. Jo, jojojojo. Ano, Jenom vím, že měla vzadu v Sokolské tam dva pokoje a měla červené plyšové kanapíčko. Jinak nic. Musela být hodně stará. A asi z toho pokoje ani moc nevycházela. A dlouho jsem ji nemohla zažít. To určitě ne. Protože my jsme se do té Sokolské v roce třicet tři, když dědeček zemřel, jsme se tam stěhovali a jestli ještě tehdy žila nebo krátce potom zemřela... a mně bylo pět let, když jsme se tam stěhovali. Tak co si z toho můžu pamatovat? Můžu Vám udělat nějaký čaj, kafe nebo něco?

A: Ne, ne.

B: Tak vodu nějakou?

A: Tak jenom obyčejnou vodu.

B: Bublinkatou, nebublinkatou, ochucenou?

A: Bublinkatou. Děkuji.

A: Pak jsem se ještě chtěla zeptat, s těmi Rudými sokoli jste potom ještě byli nějak v kontaktu?

B: Ne. No, takhle. Ta první rodina, u které jsem byla, jo, tak ti patřili do té organizace, že jo. A vím, že se občas, asi v létě dělali nějaké tábory nebo něco takového. Vzpomínám, že na jednom z nich jsem byla, ale víc nic.

A: A když jste měla prázdniny v té škole, tak jste byla kde?

B: No, asi u té rodiny … ale nějak. To mě vůbec nenapadlo tohle. Čili to asi na mě žádnej dojem nenechalo, asi se nikam nejelo, to už nevím. To nevím. Když jsem byla v té české škole, to jo, to jsem jezdila do Londýna za sestrou.

A: Když jste byla v české škole, tak jste jezdila na prázdniny za ní?

B: Jo, to jo. Ale když jsem byla u těch rodin, tak to si vůbec nevzpomínám. To mi nějak vypadlo z paměti, úplně.

A: Děkuji.

B: Prosím.

A: A jaké jídlo s u Vás vařilo?

B: To nemám tušení. Já jenom vím, že jsem byla strašně vybíravá, já jsem byla hrozné dítě, a maminka nesnášela česnek, tudíž špenát se dělal bez česneku. A to byl vždycky problém, abych ho snědla. Já si nepamatuju, to opravdu nevím. Odjakživa jsem byla mlsná, všechno sladké jsem měla ráda, ale co se vařilo nevařilo...

A: A co Vám chutnalo?

B: No, říkám, všechno sladký.

A: Všechno sladký.

B: Ale to si opravdu nepamatuju. Já jsem nikdy moc na jídlo nebyla, hlavně nejsem. Jsem nejradši, když to nemusím vařit, ale nevzpomínám, opravdu.

A: Ještě jsem se chtěla zeptat, jak jste oslovovala sestru?

B: Mimko. Celá řada lidí jí říkala Mílo, doma se jí někdy říkalo Mimi, já jí říkala Mimka.

A: Tak děkuji, mě už k tomu žádné další otázky nenapadly, když jsem to dělala.

B: Dobře. Tak já Vám tady tohle to doplnila. Ještě teďka, když jsem přišla domů tak jsem honem na to.. když tak se na to jukněte, jestli to tak vyhovuje nebo ne.

A: Je, Vy jste mi to doplnila anglicky, děkuji.

B: No, jo, když to je v angličtině, tak jsem si říkala...

A: Jo, je to lepší.

B: Tak na to jsem jako velice velkej prevít, to dávám velice nerada z ruky.

A: Já jsem myslela, že mu to zanesu teď rovnou, ale on už teď odpoledne nebude v kanceláři, takže mu to zanesu zítra dopoledne.

B: Dobře.

A: Tak do konce týdne by to mohlo být hotový.

B: Já tady docela mám od tatínka tohle, jestli to stačí?

A: No, tak jo, tak se řekne, že nemáte nic lepšího.

B: Já teda ten originál samozřejmě mám... Tak co chcete konkrétně?

A: Tak Vás, když jste byla malá, rodiče, sourozence...

B: Já tady mám tohle, co je pro mě velice vzácná fotka, to jsou rodiče a sestra.

A: A ze kdy to je?

B: Tak třicet osm, třicet devět?

A: A to je před vaším domem?

B: Jo. No, tak náš nebyl, ale v něm jsme bydleli.

A: A sestře bylo tenkrát kolik už?

B: Patnáct? Tak stačí to, coby sestra? Pak tady mám ještě nějaké jiné, ale říkám, čím míň toho dám z ruky, tím jsem radši. Tady mám zrovna ten originál...

A: Ale tak já si klidně půjčím jenom tu kopii.

B: No, nerada bych, jestli to stačí... tohle byla moje maturitní...

A: A jaké jste, Vy jste neměla žádné problémy, když jste se vrátila do Československa? Jak se na Vás dívali?

B: Takhle, já jsem chodila do takzvané repatriantské třídy, což znamená, že každému tam nějaký ročník chyběl. Buď byli totálně nasazení, pak tam byl jeden hoch, co byl v Terezíně, a byli tam asi dva spolužáci, co byli v Anglii se mnou taky, ani neívm, proč ti ostatní, proč... ale většinou končili v kvartě. Věkově jsme patřili do septimy. Já vlastně v Anglii končila v kvintě, takže bych měla pokračovat v sextě, ale já hlavně neměla kde bydlet ze začátku, každou chvíli jinde, každý se domníval, že když jsem přijela z Anglii, tak musím mít kdovíco, kdovíjaké hadříčky, no tak bylo nám sedmnáct, tak která holka se nechce parádit, že jo, za války nic nebylo. Já vím, že za války nebyly taneční. A tak maminka jedné spolužačky, že budeme chodit do tanečních, a že mě vezmou s sebou a že mě bude dělat jakoby garde, a já říkám, děkuji pěkně, ale já nemám žádné šaty na sebe. No to nemohla pochopit. Já, která přijela z Anglie... Já neměla. Nejenom, že tam všechno bylo na příděl, ale my neměli ani jak vyčerpat příděl, protože já neměla za co si co koupit. Že jo. Takže to nikdo nepochopil, tohleto. Prostě jsem byla takovej outsider. A já vím, potom, když jsme měli taky takovej nějakej ten sraz, tak tam jedna spolužačka, která taky v osmačtyřicátém nebo kdy emigrovala, skončila ve Vídni, a pak mi říkala, po dvaceti letech, teďka teprve chápu, jak ti bylo, jak jsi se cítila, když jsi přijela jako emigrantka zpátky jaký to bylo. Jo. Ale na to ona musela být taky v té emigraci, aby to pochopila. Nikdo jinej to nepochopil. Já abych měla aspoň si mohla koupit legitimaci na tramvaj, tak jsem dávala hodiny, abych měla nějakou tu korunu. A prostě žila jsem naprosto jiný život než ostatní.

A: A cítila jste to ze strany nějakých lidí, že by se k Vám stavěli nepřátelsky, kvůli tomu, že jste …

B: No, tak nezapomenu jeden incident jedné naší češtinářky, když jsme dostali za úkol psát, tehdy se tomu říkalo kompozice, dneska by se tomu říkalo slohová práce, jako domácí úkol, české divadlo za okupace. Já jsem za ní šla a říkám, prosím vás, já tohle nemůžu napsat, já tady nebyla. Já o tom nic nevím. Já nevím, kde čerpat nějaké informace... No tak máte rádio, můžete poslouchat rádio. Já jsem říkala nemám. Já nemám žádnej domov, já nemám nic, kde něco čerpat. No byla krajně nepříjemná. Mně se to samozřejmě strašně dotklo, že neměla trochu pochopení, to mě nenapadlo jí cokoliv vykládat o svém osudu, jak jsem žila nebo žiju... ale největší šok byl pro mě, když jsem se dozvěděla snad po dvaceti letech, že vlastně ona, no, asi už nežije, byla židovka, byla v koncentráku, seděla s tou Gustou Fučíkovou, ale to jen tak mimochodem, a já jsem si z toho vydedukovala, že to byl takový, já nevím, antisemitismus je těžko použít tady, ale že, já nevím, že já jsem se musela mít ohromě dobře, když jsem byla v té Anglii, zatímco ona byla v tom koncentráku. No měla, ve srovnání s ní. O tom není pochyb. Na druhou stranu ona měla pochopit, že já jsem bez rodičů a že tne můj život taky nebyl na růžích ustlanejch. Tak nějak tu zlobu si chtěla vylít na mě. Tohle u mě zůstalo to nepochopení. A že úřady nevycházely vstříc, to je jako bohužel víc jak známo, hlavně po osmačtyřicátém. Tak to jsme cítili velice, možná manžel ještě víc než já.

A: Myslíte, že jste měla větší problémy kvůli tomu, že jste židovka, nebo že jste byla v Anglii? Nebo kombinace obou?

B: Kombinace obou. Já bych řekla, že manžel měl větší problémy, že jo, taky byl v té Anglii, a taky tne nesprávný původ, abych tak řekla. Mně se to nedávalo tolik najevo, ale, taky mu to nikdo neřekl do obličeje, ale vyplývalo to z toho. To nesla ta doba s sebou, že jo. Asi takhle. Tak mi teďka řekněte, co všechno... jsem nucena Vám propůjčit. Tak to je babička, to je matka. Co se týče rodičů mého otce, tak o těch nevím nic a taky nemám žádné fotografie, protože ty zemřeli dávno před tím, než jsem se narodila. Jo. O těch nevím nic. Jo, takže, co z toho.

A: Možná že tu matku.

B:Tak. Tohle taky?

A: No, pokud by to šlo...

B: Dobře. To je maturitní, tohle to je, buď tohle, nebo nějaká jiná, to se dávalo..

A: To jste taky Vy?

B: No, nonono. Buď podle toho nebo podle nějaké jiné mě vybírali, nebo, kam jsem ji dal, to je to stejné větší, že jo?

A: Vy jste mi nějaké ty fotky donesla.

B: No, nonono, já teďka koukám, kam jsem je dala. To je asi tak ze současnosti teďka, jo, tady to je. Tak buď, myslím, že podle téhle, ta se posílala. Tahle. To byla nějaká školní, tak co ještě byste ráda?

A: Tak asi tuto, možná i toho tatínka na oskenování...

B: Tohle nebo tohle?

A: Tak která se Vám líbí víc?

B: Tohle.

A: Tak tohle. To je tak ta stejná doba? Ten třicátý osmý?

B: No, určitě.

A: A máte nějaké fotky z Anglie?

B: Možná, že tohle, ale to je jako věkově víceméně... já bych řekla, že ne. Myslíte jako z doby válečný? Myslím, že ne.

A: Ještě mě napadlo, měli jste tam nějaké kapesné v té Anglii?

B: Něco jsme dostávali.

A: Od státu?

B: Ne. To byl takzvaný Czechoslovak Trust Found, ale asi to nějak s vládou muselo souviset. Už jsem se ptala několika lidí, jestli si pamatují, kolik jsme dostávali, ale nikdo si nepamatuje. Takže já vím, že to bylo tak na tu pastu na zuby a případně poštovné nebo tak, ale jinak...

A: Oblečení jste třeba dostávali od nich taky? Nebo to jste si museli kupovat z toho kapesného?

B: Z toho kapesného nikolivěk, vím, že jednou prostě nějakej svetr mi někdo koupil, a jinak taky jsme snad měli možnost jít na Mezinárodní červenej kříž, a to jsem snad využila jednou, že jsme potřebovali nějaké deky, a ty byly pletené. Tak to jsem tady potom po válce tu vlnu rozpárala a ještě ji asi mám. No, tak to mi sestra většinou asi něco dala, když někdo něco odložil... Tak z té válečné, jestli najdu něco skupinového.. Pochybuju, pochybuju...

A: Jak často tam jezdil za váma do té školy někdo z československé vlády?

B: Tak to nevím. Jednou, dvakrát... Vím že ještě, když jsme byli v tom Hinton Hallu, že tam byla jednou Hana Benešová... Tak já nic nemůžu najít.

A: Tak to nevadí, tak kdybyste potom našla třeba něco z toho srazu?

B: Z toho srazu? Tak těch je hodně. Aby se to nepomíchalo.. Jo, tak to fotil ten Joe Schlessinger a tohle byla jeho manželka. Tihle jsou ze Švýcarska a tihle dva jsou z Izraele. Jo, tak když jsme měli první ten sraz, tak jsme každý u stolu našli pohled, ot je to městečko, a každému tady něco napsali. Což bylo strašně hezké.

A: Z toho městečka ti lidi?

B: No, ano, ti obyvatelé. Tak tady je taková skupinka.

A: Tak nějakou skupinku, kde byste byla Vy a třeba ta Věra.

B: Tady třeba, ale to zase nejsme tak moc vidět.

A: Anebo máte nějakou fotku s Wintonem třeba?

B: Určitě jo. Tady jsem, tady jsem jednou přinesla tu vlajku. Tohle je ta budova, dneska je to opět hotel. Tady nám přišly dětičky zpívat. Tady je zase Věra, tady jsem já...

A: A tady to je kdo?

B: To je taky spolužák, ten je z Izraele zrovna, taky.

A: To je z toho osmdesátého pátého ty fotky?

B: Jo. Z toho posledního nemám ani jednu. To je těch fotek čím dál tím míň. Protože já nefotím, tak jak někdo pošle, tak tentokrát mi nikdo nic neposlal... Tohle to je pozdější... Jo, to je teďka, dva tisíce pět.

A: Tak poslal.

B: Jo. To je ten Joe Schlessinger, to je ta Věra, tady to je Milena, Lady Milena, a to je Eva Krušinová, ta žije tady.

A: Tak mohla bych tady tuto?

B: Nono.

A: A mohla bych si kdyžtak půjčit i tady tu školu, jak tu máte tu fotografii?

B: No, nonono. Jako samotnou tu budovu, jo? Tady je to. Tohle je taky hezký. My jsme na tom prvním srazu tam zasadili lípu. Taková malinká, dneska už je to strom velikej, tak tohle tam nechali přidělat. Tak si s tím pohraju později. Takže, jeden, dva, tři, čtyři, pět, šest, sedm, jo? Stačí.

A: Jo ještě nějakou tu novější.

B: Tak tady, jeden, dva...

A: To jenom jednu.

B: No, právě, tak kterou?

A: Tak tuhle. Ještě kdyžtak nějakou Vaši poválečnou.

B: Poválečnou máte tady.

A: Já myslím s manželem. Případně s dětmi.

B: No ježišmarja.

A: A nějakou s tím Wintonem.

B: Jo, s tím Wintonem. Nevím, kde hledat. To není ono, jestli ji najdu zrovna... Samozřejmě, že nenajdu... Todlencto bylo v roce devadesát osm, čili všem, co nám bylo sedmdesát.

A: Jo, to je paní Šímová tady.

B: Taky nic. No, tak tady je jedna, to není zrovna nejpovedenější. Tady je v Krumlově.Já vím, že nějaká je ještě z Václaváku, když tady byl poprvé, v tom jedna devadesátým.

Strana B:

B: ...no, kdekdo.

A: Co to je za strom, tady co máte před stromem?

B: To je sakura, ta japonská třešeň. Což je nádhera tuto dobu, a pak říkám, pak to bude fuč a my tady budeme mít takový růžový koberec. To jk všechny ty květy spadnou, takže je všechno na zemi..

A: To jste taky Vy?

B: Jo. Jsem se rozčílila.

A: Co Vám provedli?

B: Já nevím, furt něco. Pořád něco. Já byla téměř nejmladší, takže si mě dobírali.

A. A kam jste jezdila na lyže?

B: To bylo myslím Svatej Petr. Asi jednou nebo dvakrát. Já to nenajdu. Že by tady něco? Pochybuju... Tady je svatební moje, jestli Vás to zajímá...

A: Vaše sestra Vám šla za svědka?

B: Za svědka ne, ale byla tam. Já Vás zklamu...

A: Tak to nevadí, tady to stačí.

B: To je fotek, ale když člověk to hledá, tak samozřejmě to není... Furt. Nemám... Až to budu uklízet, až budete pryč, tak je najdu.

A: Tak až je budete potřebovat příště, tak budete vědět, kde jsou.

B: Ne, to už mezitím zase rozházím... já jsem to měla docela srovnaný, ale jak každou chvilku někdo něco chce a něco jiného, tak mám tady v tomhle takový maglajz. Ještě jediný, že bych něco měla, jak mám samotného Wintona... Tak to za chvíli donesu fotku...To jsou ty moje, jak říkám, archívy. Tady mám jednu jeho s manželkou... Z toho nevidím nic. To je ta Betty Maxwell, to byl velvyslanec tady, ale při jaké příležitosti, to nevím, co byl zač.

A: Já bych potřebovala nějakou, kde jste Vy s Wintonem.

B: No, podívám se, jestli něco najdu, ale nevím, nevím. Tady je jedna ze školy, to je naše tercie. Tak bohužel. Když, tak já jsem už ztratila Vaše číslo, tak mi ho napište, kdybych něco našla, tak bych Vám zavolala.

A: Nebo až Vám já přijdu vrátit ty fotky, tak potom.

B: No.

A: Chcete to mé číslo teda?

B: Jojo. Ale až se uvidíme, tak stejně... Taky si napíšu číslo, pak nevím, kdo to je...

A: Já jsem tam napsala i jméno.

B: Jo. Díky. Takže kdy myslíte, že byste to měla?

A: No, tak on to tak dělá do týdne?

B: Případně mu můžu říct, aby is tak trošku pohl, že bych Vám to vrátila už o víkendu. No, třeba.

A: Já taky budu radši, když už ta zodpovědnost na mě nebude. Mohla bych ještě tyhle dvě?

B: Ale jo.

A: Tohle, to jste mi říkala, to jste Vy před Vaším domem.

B: Před domem, ano. Tam jsme bydleli.

A: A třída asi tak která? Nebo rok?

B: Třicet sedm, třicet osm.

A: Dva. To jste Vy a Vaše sestra.

B: Ano.

A: A kde to mohlo být focené?

B: To je asi u fotografa bych řekla. No, to je fotograf, Staromák.

A: A rok?

B: To bych tak řekla, že mi mohly být tak tři roky, tak třicet jedna, třicet dva.

A: To je maminka, trojka. A co je to tak za rok, asi?

B: Nevím, něco mezi třicet šest a třicet devět.

A: Čtyři je tatínek, a taky ten třicet šest?

B: No, tak nějak.

A: Pět, to je Vaše fotka, když jste jela do Anglie...

B: Ano, ta se posílala, podle toho jsem byla vybraná.

A: Tak fotka je to pěkná...

B: Čili třicet devět. Určitě.

A: Tak šestka, to jsou rodiče a sestra před domem.

B: Mh. Tak třicet osm bych tipla.

A: Sedm to jste Vy u maturity.

B: Ano, to je rok čtyřicet sedm.

A: Vy jste měli nějaké tablo taky?

B: Hm.

A: Osm je Vaše svatební. Svatbu jste měli na Staroměstské radnici?

B: Ne, Clam-Gallasův palác. Tam se tenkrát oddávalo. To ještě nebyla radnice.

A: To je osm. Devět. Devět je sraz té Vaší školy.

B: Dva tisíce pět.

A: A ti lidi, co tam jsou, to je kdo?

B: No, tak Eva Krušinová, ta žije tady, ta dělala sestřičku a její manžel byl češtinář. A její vnuk je Pavel Zuna. A tady ot je ten Joe Schlessinger, ten dělal toho průvodce tím filmem, to je Lady Milena, která organizuje ty srazy.

A: To je ta za ním?

B: To je ta za ním. A Jinač je tady známá jako Lady Remoska, která zavedla prodej remosek do Anglie. To je Věra, to jsem já, a to je Uta, taky jedna spolužačka.

A: A ta bydlí v Anglii nebo kde?

B: Jo, v Anglii. Joe je v Kanadě, akorát Eva a já jsme tady, jinak ty tři jsou v Anglii.

A: A je to před tou školou?

B: Tady, to je ta budova, zboku to je. Čili asi tahle část. Když se jde, takhle se přichází tamtudy.

A: A sešli se tam i nějací učitelé na tom srazu?

B: Vždyť už nežijou. Jedině ten ředitel, kterému bylo sto v prosinci.

A: Ten tam taky jezdí za váma,

B: Ne, ten byl akorát jednou, když jsme měli v Krumlově ten sraz. V pětadevadesátým.

A: A on se vrátil do Československa?

B: Jo, on žije tady.

A: Tak to je devět. Desítka je ta škola.

B: Ano, ta škola.

A: A jedenáct jste Vy. A ještě teda toho Wintona?

B: Jo, tahle, jo?

A: No, nono.

B: To je taky v Krumlově, v pětadevadesátým.

A: A ti lidi?

B: To je Ruth Hálová, ta žije v Krumlově, to je manželka a to je Lia, nevím, jak se teď jmenuje, ta žije v Anglii.

A: A jaký měl Winton program, když tady byl?

B: No, tak přijel na ten sraz hlavně. Že jo. Tehdy.

A: Devadesát pět. Takže to byl sraz školy?

B: To byl sraz školy a on přijel, ano.

A: Aha.

B: A myslím, že ještě zůstal pak nějak den u Ruth... on se tady zdržel ještě... a pak tam jel na víkend? Já už si to nepamatuju. Opravdu.

A: A tak strávíte s ním hodně času, když tady je, že jo.

B: No, to samozřejmě. Takže je jich kolik?

A: Mělo by jich být dvanáct podle toho číslování. Takže já mu to tam zítra zanesu a hned Vám zavolám, kdy Vám to vrátím.

B: Dobře.

A: Děkuji.

B: … přátelé mých rodičů.

A: To jsou ti, co emigrovali kamsi pryč? Ti chemici?

B: Ano. A tohle to byla vlastně sestra mého švagra.

A: A oni se potom vrátili do Československa zůstali tady.

B: Ano. Oni byli bezdětní, takže my jsme jako jim tak trošičku dělali, no, oni byli trošku mladší než rodiče, asi deset let, ani ne.

Ida Kristina

Ida Kristina and her friends

Ida Kristina
Chernigov
Ukraine
Interviewer: Zhanna Litinskaya
Date of interview: April 2003

Ida Kristina lives in the very center of Chernigov, an old green town with ancient Christian monument in the Kiev Rus. Ida has a two-bedroom apartment in a nine-storied apartment building constructed 25 years ago. There is good furniture, bought in the 1980s, in the rooms. The apartment is very clean and decorated with embroidered or knitted napkins, fancy pillowcases and embroidered pictures of landscapes made by the mistress of the house. Ida is knitting something again since she has her knitting basket in the kitchen. She makes an impression of being a very reserved, but hospitable and amicable woman. She welcomes me warmly and apologizes that she may have forgotten some names or dates due to her age of 83 before we start the interview. We talk in the kitchen where a branch of blooming acacia was knocking on the window. After the interview we went into the living-room where we took turns to play the piano and sang Jewish and Russian songs.

Family background

My parents' families came from Chernigov region. I know very little about my father's family. They lived in Oleshevka, a Ukrainian village, where two or three other Jewish families lived apart from them. My grandfather's name was Zalman Rubin, but I don't know my grandmother's name. I don't know what my grandfather did for a living, but my father told me that his family was very poor but very religious. There was no synagogue in the village, of course, since there weren't even enough men for a minyan. Therefore, the Jews of Oleshevka often went to pray with other Jews in the neighboring village. There were five children in the family: three daughters and two sons.

My father's older brother, whose name I don't remember, was born about 1870. He lived in the town of Gomel in Belarus where he was a craftsman. He had five daughters. I saw two of them only once, around 1960, when my husband and I went on a tour to Belarus. We met with our relatives briefly and I only know that they had families and children and were wealthy. I don't even remember their names. We never corresponded or met again and I have no information about my cousins. My uncle died in evacuation in the 1940s.

My father's sisters were married. They didn't have any education and became housewives. They observed Jewish traditions and celebrated holidays in their families. However, they or their husbands weren't real believers and their children, who grew up in the Soviet times, were far from religion and didn't even celebrate holidays.

My father's older sister, Tsylia, born in 1872, was married. I don't remember her husband's name. He died in the early 1920s when I was just a child. Tsylia had three children: two daughters and a son. Her older daughter died in infancy. The other children, Basia and Michael, who I knew, lived in Chernigov with their mother. I have very little information about them. After the Great Patriotic War 1 they stayed in the town in the Ural where they had been in evacuation. Aunt Tsylia died shortly after the war in the early 1950s. Basia and Michael have also passed away by now.

My father's sister Riva, born in 1875, lived in Chernigov with her husband. Riva died in the early 1930s, shortly after her husband passed away. Her only daughter Manya got married. Her last name after her husband was Nepomniaschaya. Her husband was the manager of the planning department of Chernigov wool yarn factory. Manya finished an accounting school and worked as an accountant. During the war Manya, her husband and two sons were in evacuation. Regretfully, I don't remember her sons' names, but I know that they got a good education. Her older son was a journalist and worked in Leningrad. He died three years ago. Her younger son was at the front during the war. He was a professional military and retired from the army in the rank of lieutenant colonel. Now he lives in Israel with his family.

My father's younger sister Vera, her Jewish name was Dvoira, was born in 1880. She was married. Her husband died before the Great Patriotic War. Vera had no children. She was in evacuation during the war. She died in Chernigov in the middle of the 1960s.

My father, Yankel Rubin, was the youngest in the family, a nipper. He was born in Oleshevka in 1882. There was no cheder in the village. My father and his brothers and sisters attended classes with a melamed, who came to the village once a week. He taught them to read and write in Yiddish. My father didn't have the traditional bar mitzvah at the age of 13 since in 1895, shortly before he was to come of age, my father's parents died one after another. My father's older sisters and brother had their own families. My father became an orphan. A Jewish joiner, who lived in the same village as my father, took him to teach him his profession. So my father became his apprentice. My father followed his family to Chernigov in 1907. He became a skilled cabinetmaker. In 1907 my father met my mother through matchmakers and they got married a year later.

My mother came from a Ukrainian village in Chernigov region. Her father, Samuel Kantor, born in the 1860s, owned a small store in the village of Tarkhovka near Oleshevka. I don't know my maternal grandmother's name. My mother told me that they were a wealthy family. They had a big house and kept livestock: three horses and several cows. They were one of the wealthiest families in the village. My grandfather sold all essential goods in his store: haberdashery and household goods, tools, instruments and fabrics. Villagers often bought goods on credit and respected my grandfather for not charging them interest. My grandfather's family was very religious. They strictly followed kosher rules and celebrated Saturday. They often invited poor Jews from Tarkhovka and neighboring villages to share a meal with them. My grandfather prayed every day, before and after the [Russian] Revolution of 1917 2 when he lived in the family of his older daughter, Etl. He put on his tallit and tefillin and prayed for a long time. There were three daughters in the family: Etl, the oldest, born in 1885, my mother Leya, born in 1887, and the youngest Basia, born in 1898. There were other children in the family, but they died in infancy.

In 1905 escaping from pogroms 3 that rolled over Russia - Kishinev and Odessa, Kiev, Chernigov and towns in Belarus - the family left their house and belongings and moved to Chernigov taking only money and valuables. My grandmother died shortly afterward and my grandfather lived with his older daughter Etl.

Etl's last name after her husband was Levitina. Her husband inherited a store from his father, but after the time of the NEP 4 authorities expropriated his store and his belongings; he fell ill and died shortly afterwards. Etl had five children: four sons and a daughter. By the time their father died the oldest children were old enough to go to work to support their mother and their younger siblings. Etl didn't work. She stayed at home and helped her children with the housework: cooking, cleaning and fixing their clothes. Aunt Etl died in Leningrad in the middle of the 1960s. Her daughter, whose name I don't remember, finished a pedagogical college and worked as an English teacher. She married a Russian man, a commissar of division, and hero of the Civil War 5. They moved to the Far East and I had no information about her after that. One of their sons, Mikholka, perished at the front during the the Great Patriotic War. Boris and Matvey worked in cinematography. Boris was a cinema operator. As for Matvey, I don't know what exactly he was doing. Their younger son, Michael, became a professional military. They lived in Leningrad after the war and were married, but I have no more information about them. We weren't in contact with them.

My mother's younger sister, Basia, married a Jewish man from Gomel region. They lived in the town of Novo-Belitsa. Her husband, whose last name was Gomelskiy, was a member of the Party and worked as a secretary in the Gomel party committee. I never met him. I know that he perished during the Great Patriotic War. Basia and her children were in evacuation. She had six children: five girls and a boy. Basia died shortly after the war. Her daughter, Maria, also passed away and the rest of her children live in Israel and America. We don't correspond.

My mother Leya, born in 1887, got practically no education. However, she could read and write in Yiddish. My grandfather Samuel taught her and her sisters the basics of Jewish education. After my grandmother died my mother was busy with housework. She also learned sewing. My grandfather bought her a Zinger sewing machine and my mother earned some money by sewing at home.

In 1907 my mother met my father through matchmakers, which was customary in Jewish families. It was also a tradition that girls got dowry from their parents and my grandfather gave my mother 400 rubles, which was quite a lot of money for the time. My parents got married in 1908. They had a traditional Jewish wedding with a chuppah in the synagogue and many guests from Chernigov, Gomel and other nearby towns came to the wedding. At that time the population of Chernigov was almost half Jewish. There were several big synagogues near the ancient Christian churches, a cheder and several prayer houses. There were also Ukrainian, Russian and Belarus citizens. There were no nationalitly conflicts among the people. Jews were craftsmen in their majority; they made clothes, shoes and furniture, cut glass and owned stores.

After the wedding my father rented an apartment for his family. He became a very skilled cabinetmaker and could provide well for the family. My mother became a housewife.

My older sister, Riva, was born in 1910 and my second sister, Sonia, followed in 1914. Riva finished a lower secondary Russian school and went to work as a typist, an assistant accountant, an accountant and then became chief accountant with Energosbyt company [a power supply company]. At 23 Riva married David Strashnoy, a very nice Jewish man. They didn't have a Jewish wedding. They had a civil ceremony and in the evening our mother arranged a wedding dinner for relatives and friends. The young people considered themselves to be progressive people without any patriarchal illusions. David finished Kharkov Construction College. He worked with Gorplan company and the town executive committee in Chernigov. Their son Felix was born in 1935. He followed into his father's footsteps and became a construction man. He is an honored constructor of Ukraine. He lives and works in Chernigov. During the Great Patriotic War David went into evacuation with us, but then he was recruited to the army. After the war he returned home. Riva and Felix were in evacuation in the town of Mirzachul, Uzbekistan, with us. Their daughter, Ada, was born in 1946. Ada finished Polytechnic College in Chernigov. She moved to Israel in the late 1970s with her husband and two children. Riva's husband died in 1996. Riva moved to her daughter in Israel in 1997. She died at the age of 91 in 2001.

My second sister, Sonia, finished a lower secondary school and entered a veterinary school. When she was on a training session in a kolkhoz 6 she met a veterinarian called Leonid Safroniev. He was much older than Sonia and was married. His wife was severely ill. She died and Leonid came to Chernigov to seek my mother's consent to their marriage. My mother turned him down at first. It had nothing to do with his nationality; my mother just thought that Sonia was too young. Leonid continued to court Sonia and after a year my mother gave in. She wanted her daughter to be happy. They got married in 1932, and in 1934 their son, Edward, was born. Leonid was at the front during the Great Patriotic War. He served as a veterinarian. Sonia and Edward were in evacuation with us. After the war Sonia lived with her husband in Kazakhstan and then they settled down in Stavropol. Leonid was promoted to the rank of colonel and Sonia was a housewife. Leonid died in the 1970s, and Sonia passed away in 1978. Edward finished two colleges in Leningrad. He is a physicist. He lives and works in Novgorod. Edward was married, but he divorced his wife. They had no children.

When Sonia was about two months old my father was recruited to the tsarist army. World War I began and our father went to the front. Our mother received two letters from him and then she received the notification that he was missing. It turned out that he was in captivity in Austria where he stayed until 1918. Our father told us that prisoners of war were treated decently. They wore their uniforms and insignia. My father worked for a master in Austria and returned home as soon as he got a chance after the October Revolution of 1917.

My mother had a very hard life throughout all these years. She had practically nothing to live on. She even went to see a governor with her small children. She asked him to release our father from the army to support the family, but this was impossible at that time. However, the governor's wife felt sorry for our mother and tried to keep her busy to provide for the family. She gave her orders for making clothing and sent her clients, who paid well, to my mother.

Our father returned at the end of 1918. I was born on 17th August 1919. I was their youngest and favorite daughter, a 'love child', as my father used to say. My mother and father loved each other, even though they got married through a matchmaker, and my mother was happy that my father had come back from Austria.

At that time, during the Civil War, the power in the town often switched between Reds 7, Whites 8 and Greens 9. If a gang 10 came to town a pogrom was inevitable. When I was six weeks old a Makhno 11 gang came to town. Our family and our landlords, old Jews, found shelter in the basement. My mother told me that I screamed very loudly and she pressed me tightly to her chest to stop me from crying because if bandits had found us they would have killed us.

There were two rooms and a kitchen in our apartment. We lived in one room and the owners of the apartment in the other one. There was too little space for the five of us, of course. My father worked a lot saving money to buy a house. He continued to work for his master, the man that taught him his profession. Besides, our father brought a small machine for making cigarettes from Austria. My mother and my father made cigarettes and sold them. This was some additional income for the family. However, they didn't have a license for making cigarettes and at that time any private business was persecuted by the authorities. One of my first memories was that my mother closed the door to the room and windows when they were busy doing their business. They were afraid that somebody would see them and report them to the authorities. Finally, in 1935, my parents bought a small decrepit house with a ground floor and a half-destroyed ceiling. However my father was nimble-fingered. He repaired the house. There were three small rooms and a kitchen with a Russian stove 12. There was an orchard and a kitchen garden. My mother kept chickens and geese. We also had three little goats that followed me like puppies since it was my responsibility to feed them.

My parents went to the nearby synagogue on Saturday. There were several synagogues in Chernigov. My mother, my sisters and I went upstairs and our father stayed downstairs with the other men. Women prayed and cried and I couldn't understand why they were crying [Editor's note: the interviewee may remember the ceremony of Yom Kippur]. The synagogue was big. It was fancy inside. There were many children and a handsome man with a well- groomed beard wearing long black clothing; he was the rabbi. I couldn't see much from the balcony and was bored. I couldn't understand the words of the prayer recited by the women around me.

On Friday my mother made dinner. We got together at the table. My mother lit candles and prayed over them. My father said a blessing and we had dinner. Friday dinner was different from others; more plentiful and delicious. On Saturday morning our parents went to the synagogue. We went with them and waited for them in the yard of the synagogue. We had lunch after we came back from the synagogue. Lunch was still hot in the oven where it was kept from Friday. Nobody did any work on Saturday. We all rested. I remember a merry Simchat Torah in fall when a rabbi and Jewish men following him with Torah scrolls went around the square in front of the synagogue. At Yom Kippur my parents fasted and went to the synagogue. My sisters and I didn't have to fast. We celebrated Chanukkah, when our mother made sweet doughnuts with jam and gave us some money, and Purim when she made hamantashen pies.

The biggest preparations in the house were for Pesach: we cleaned and washed the house, dusted all rooms, covered sofas and beds with starched white cloths and washed the curtains. We washed all crockery and utensils with soda powder and koshered them at the synagogue. We didn't have special crockery for Pesach. We sometimes bought matzah at the synagogue and sometimes made some in our Russian stove. Before the holiday our mother took a chicken to the shochet at the synagogue to have it slaughtered. She made gefilte fish and chicken broth with dumplings made from matzah flour - we called them 'galki'. There was a silver dish on the table with all the different food on it which is required to be on the seder plate by tradition: an egg, horseradish, chicken bone. Grandfather Samuel came to the celebrations. He lived with Aunt Etl, but he liked to celebrate Jewish holidays with us. He liked to attend the seder that our father conducted. I asked my father the four traditional questions [the mah nishtanah] about the history of Pesach and he answered them.

We followed the kashrut, didn't eat pork and didn't mix meat and dairy products. This was before I went to school. Later, when I went to school and became a pioneer, we celebrated Jewish holidays, but it was just a festive meal and we didn't observe traditions. My parents went to the synagogue and celebrated holidays, but they mostly did it for the sake of Jewish traditions. They weren't extremely deep believers. At least, when religion was persecuted [during the struggle against religion] 13 and synagogues were closed in the middle of the 1930s they still celebrated holidays, but it was more like a habit. My father tried to get the day off at work on Saturday, but he didn't always succeed. They didn't always follow the kashrut, especially during the period of famine in 1932-33 14. We had to eat what we managed to get.

I went to a Ukrainian school in Leskovitsa in 1927. There were still Jewish schools in the town, they were closed later, in the late 1930s, but my father thought it was better for me to study in a Ukrainian school since religious persecutions had already begun. My parents were convinced that life would be easier for me if I spoke without a Jewish accent and that it would be easier for me to enter a higher educational institution since the language of teaching there was Russian, the state language. I was the only Jewish girl in my class; my classmates were Ukrainian and Russian. Most of my classmates were Ukrainian boys and girls from the neighboring villages. I got along well with my classmates and there were no conflicts. Nobody ever hurt me and basically nobody cared about nationality. After I finished the 4th grade I went to study at another Ukrainian higher secondary school. I got along well with my schoolmates. I liked studying at school. I became a Young Octobrist 15, and then a pioneer. I took part in public activities. I sang in our school choir. At home I had classes with a private music teacher. She taught me to play the piano. My music classes didn't last long since my parents couldn't afford to pay for my classes. However, I liked playing the piano and picked up tunes by myself.

When the collectivization 16 began and kolkhozes started to be organized in the 1930s we often had guests from villages. Our house was across the street from the prison and our acquaintances from Oleshevka and Tarkhovka, or acquaintances of our acquaintances or just strangers, came to visit their relatives that were arrested for being kulaks 17. All those people stayed in our house. Our father came from Tarkhovka and our mother came from Oleshevka and all their acquaintances came to see their relatives in prison. Prisoners' relatives arrived on horse-drawn carts that they parked in our yard. They tried to bribe the guard to take parcels with food to the prisoners, but only occasionally they managed to do this. I remember that I went to stand in line to the window to hand over parcels early in the morning and my mother or somebody else brought boiled potatoes or soup later. Those visitors rescued us from starving to death during the famine in Ukraine in 1932-33. They brought us potatoes, vegetables, pumpkin, sunflower seeds and pork fat. Yes, that's right, my mother and father ate pork fat during that period and there was no observance of kosher laws. We didn't have bread in the house, but we didn't starve. Many people stayed in our house. Their relatives were sent to exile [during Stalin's forced deportation to Siberia] 18: they marched in columns of 400-500 people under a convoy to the railway station and from there they proceeded by train. Many of them disappeared for good. Very few survived: most of them died on the way or in Siberia from hard work, hunger and the cold.

Many people starved to death during this period and I saw dead people in the streets of the town. But I was young and forgot bad things and kept thinking about bright and nice things. We celebrated Soviet holidays at school: 1st May and October Revolution Day 19. We went to parades. We celebrated revolutionary holidays at home. Riva's husband David and Sonia's husband Leonid were sophisticated people. David Strashnoy was a communist. He was well-known in the town and was elected town council deputy several times. Leonid was eager to join the Party. He even rejected his father, who was a priest, in public when the persecution of religion began. His father was sent into exile to Siberia and we never heard about him again. We didn't blame Leonid. We believed he was right and religion was opium for the people. Leonid became a communist while at the front in the 1940s.

I liked to go to the cinema with my friends. There was a jazz band playing in the vestibule before the screening of a film. I liked the young fair- haired pianist that played in the orchestra. I simply fell in love with him. I dreamed that we would be together. He rented a room from our neighbor. One evening this man came to our home and asked my parents their consent to our marriage. They were stunned since I was just 15 years old and studied in the 9th grade at school. Boris Kristin, that was his name, told my parents that he would wait until I finished school and my parents gave their consent. My parents didn't mind that he wasn't a Jew. I became his fiancée. I looked forward to coming of age and getting married.

Boris' grandmother was Czech and his grandfather was French. Boris' real last name was Kristain. I don't know how his family came to live in Russia. They lived somewhere in the south of Russia. Boris' father, Alexandr, was a postmaster before the Revolution. He died a long time ago, leaving his wife with 13 children. I didn't know them. I only knew Boris' sister Lidia and his brother Alexei. Boris was much older than I. He was born in 1906. He was very good at music. Besides working in the orchestra Boris played at a restaurant in the evenings.

A year and half passed quickly. Boris and I were never alone, we could only meet in the presence of adults. They probably stood guard over my virginity. He visited us at home and we had tea with our family. Sometimes he took me to the cinema holding my hand. Boris addressed me with the formal 'You' until we got married. He promised that after we got married he would take best care of me.

During my last year at school my parents prepared me for getting married. They bought me two dresses, a crepe de Chine one and a woolen one, fabric for a suit and a woolen coat. Before this I had walked in the street barefoot wearing my sister's clothes.

We had a small wedding party in 1936 when I was 17 years old. A big table for guests was set up in our garden. Our guests were musicians from the orchestra, colleagues from the cinema, my sisters and their husbands and our neighbors. Pronia Sereda, my schoolmate, also came to the wedding. We were life-long friends with her. She was Ukrainian.

After the wedding Boris came to live in our house and my mother gave us a room to live in. I was happy. My dream had come true: the most handsome man I had ever known was with me. He was also a very decent man. My parents liked him and my father, who was very ill at the time - he had lung emphysema, a typical disease among cabinetmakers - was very happy for me and said that he was sure that the family was in good hands.

Our son, Stanislav, was born in 1938. My mother adored him and helped me with everything. When my son turned a year and a half I decided to go to work. My husband believed that I had to be among people and find a job that I liked. I became an assistant accountant with a bookselling company where I worked for almost two years. My mother looked after my son.

I was happy and didn't see what was happening around me. This was the period of arrests [during the so-called Great Terror] 20. There were again crowds of downcast women at the gate of the prison waiting to meet with their relatives or get some information about them. The director of our company was also arrested. He was kept in prison for several months. I don't know what he was accused of, but he died in prison. Later people said that he was acquitted of all charges, but it was too late. Sonia's husband Leonid also had problems, but thank God, everything turned out all right. They lived in a village in Chernigov region were Leonid was a vet in a kolkhoz. He was charged for sabotage and for the death of cattle in the kolkhoz. Sonia and their child came to us in Chernigov and Leonid stayed in the village waiting for his arrest. It never came to it though, due to Poland joining the Soviet Union: he was recruited to the army.

In 1940 I was fired due to reduction of staff and I went to work as a secretary at the Mechanization College.

During the War

My husband Boris had to go to the annual military training on 15th June 1941. He served in VNOS troops [air observation, notification and communication]. When war was declared on 22nd June I was alone at home: my husband was in a barrack, my mother was at the market and my father went for a walk with my son. I was optimistic about this announcement: I just didn't know what a war was about. I heard that there was a war going on, but it seemed to be so far away. I couldn't imagine that somebody dared to attack our powerful country. I went to weed radishes and onions in our kitchen garden. When I went back home my mother was already in. She was crying bitterly since she knew what a war was like, but she couldn't imagine how horrible this one was going to be.

Soon residents of the town began to panic, especially Jews. They said that the Germans exterminated the Jewish population in the occupied territories and that it was necessary to evacuate. A few days after the war began Sonia and Edward arrived. They fled from Rava-Russkaya where Leonid was on military service without any luggage. We were in town until 20th August. Riva's husband, David Strashnoy, who was the director of the water supply agency in Chernigov made the necessary arrangements for us to leave Chernigov on a truck on 20th August. He couldn't go with us since he had the order of the Town Party Committee to hide the equipment by burying it.

Boris was a military man: he taught younger officers and soldiers military disciplines, theory and tactics, and he conducted political information classes. Boris was lucky to be on service in his own town and he came home every day. Many of his fellow comrades came from other towns and had to live in barracks. We understood that we were going to have to part soon. On 19th August he came home and said, 'Ida, I had a dream. My brother Alexei [he perished in WWI] came to me in this dream, I took my green suitcase and we left. Ida, I know that I won't be back from the war and that this is the last time we see each other'. It was the last time we saw each other and our last night together.

In the morning we boarded a big truck: my mother, my father, my sisters and I and our three children - each of us had a son. The family of joiner Shehtman - his wife and their three daughters - and some other people were on this truck apart from us. Boris held Stanislav for the last time, gave me a hug and a kiss and left. Grandfather Samuel stayed in Chernigov. He was over 80 and didn't want to leave. He told everyone that the Germans were cultured people and weren't going to hurt him. People told us later that my grandfather was shot during the first shooting in town. The cabinetmaker that actually raised my father and taught him the craft also perished. His Russian wife followed him and was shot, too. We heard this when we returned from evacuation.

On 20th August we left for the unknown. When we reached Nezhyn [a small town in the East of Ukraine, about 100 km from Kiev], we felt like refugees. We were thirsty, but not in one single house did we get anything to drink. They said 'zhydy are fleeing' ['Kikes' are leaving in Ukrainian]. On 23rd August some people that we met on the way told us that Chernigov was being bombed. So, we left at the last moment, so to speak. There were several trains in Nezhyn. Nobody asked in what direction they were going. We just boarded one. It was a freight train and we were going on an open platform with some equipment under tarpaulin cover. Our trip lasted a month. We often stopped on the way. The train was bombed many times. During one of them our mother and father ran to hide in the steppe and my sisters and our children stayed on the platform. We lay under a blanket and thought, 'Be what may, at least, if we perished, we shall all be together'.

We reached the town of Azov, Rostov region, 1,500 kilometers from home. We were accommodated in a kolkhoz; I don't remember the name. We got an apartment and were given food. We went to work at the kolkhoz: we picked stems of cotton plants for the manufacturing of aviation oil. We worked very hard and people respected us for that. In villages they judge people by how hard they work. My mother stayed home with the children. Later, when the front was getting closer and we began to pack to move on, other kolkhoz people said, 'Let the zhydy go, and you stay.' And when they found out the truth they said, 'You are Jews, too? Well, but you are nice people, so stay'. But we knew that the frontline was getting closer and asked the chairman of the kolkhoz to help us leave. He gave us a big cart, we put our children and luggage onto the cart and we walked 30 kilometers to the station. Walking was difficult for my father. His emphysema got worse and we had to make frequent stops.

At the station we got on a train that took us to Makhachkala, the capital of Dagestan in Northern Caucasus, near the Caspian Sea, 2,500 kilometers from home. We stayed there on the ground near the seaport for about two weeks. There were tens of thousands of refugees, there was no food or water. Later we boarded the 'Derbent' tanker; there were tanks with oil in the ship's belly and about 5,000 refugees on the deck. There was no water and many people were seasick. There were only two toilets on the tanker and after using it one had to stand in line to the toilet since it took two to three hours before one could get there again. We were sitting on the very top. We crossed the Caspian Sea to Kazakhstan. When we got off the tanker I saw that dead people were being taken off the tanker. The trip had been too hard for them. In some time we boarded a train. On 7th November 1941 we reached Golodnaya Steppe station in Uzbekistan, near Mirzachul town, 3,500 kilometers from home.

Mirzachul was a small town with a population of 7,000 consisting of half- ignorant Uzbek people. Many people were in evacuation there, but there were no arrangements made for us. Some locals were sympathetic with us, others were indifferent. Uzbeks didn't speak Russian and we couldn't speak their language, so we didn't mix. We rented a small room of nine or ten square meters and a kitchen in a pise-walled hut. Shortly afterwards Riva's husband, David, joined us. He had passed by Kharkov on his way to evacuation. He told us that he saw Grandfather Samuel before leaving Chernigov and and offered my grandfather to go with him, but my grandfather refused. We lived in this small room together: our family of ten people and the Shehtmans - there were four of them. We slept on the floor in the kitchen and in the room. Somebody slept on the table. My mother and father slept on the only bed in there.

David became the director of the district industrial association and helped my sisters and me getting employment. My sisters and I worked in a special cardboard shop. We applied a special casein mixture on carton sheets and dried them. Later this carton was used to make filling for bullets, I think. I received 600 grams of bread per day with my worker card and 400 grams for the child. I worked there less than a month. In late December 1941 my son fell ill with measles and then pellagra. There were no medications available. David and I took our son to a doctor, but he couldn't do anything. Almost all children under five died from pellagra in Mirzachul at that time. At the beginning of January 1942 my son died. My father made a small casket and buried my little son in the Uzbek cemetery. My father said a prayer. I kept crying and constantly thought what I was going to tell Boris when he returned and how to explain the loss of our son.

I went back to work. I was transferred to the spinning shop that produced cotton wool for the front. My mother made rope on a spinning machine at home. This rope was used to make bags to pack cotton wool and wound textile. Later I went to work in the knitting shop: I knitted gloves, socks and hats for the front. Sonia worked with me and Riva became chief accountant at the district industrial association. David was recruited to the army in early 1942. Sonia and Riva received food packages for being officers' wives. Since I was a soldier's wife, this privilege didn't apply to me.

Once, when I was standing in line for food our neighbor approached me and said, 'It's all right. Sometimes they write that a person perished while he's still alive'. I didn't understand what she meant. At home I noticed that my relatives looked sad and avoided my glance. I asked what had happened. Sonia showed me a letter from Boris' sister Lida that she had received a couple of weeks before. Boris' friend, who was recruited along with Boris from Chernigov, had written the letter. There were three friends and they had an agreement that each of them would notify the family if one of them perished. They didn't have my address and so that man wrote to Lida that Boris and the other friend had perished. This happened in summer 1942. I don't even remember how I felt. I stayed in bed and didn't talk to anyone. I didn't go out for over a month and stopped eating. Only my father could convince me to swallow some food. I didn't even feel the taste of it. But I was young and life went on. I went to work and began to talk with people again.

Life was hard. Although Sonia and Riva received food packages and my mother and I had workers' cards and dependants' cards for the children we never had enough food. Everything that we planted on the plot of land that we received, dried up since we didn't have the knowledge of how to grow plants in this dry soil. Once I bought a bucket of inexpensive cherries that I took to the station to sell. I walked 30 kilometers to sell them, but nobody bought them and I brought them back home. The cherries became wet and dark and my mother sold them to someone for peanuts.

My father didn't go to work. He was feeling worse. There was no goat milk that my mother had given to him at home, or decent food. In September he fell very ill and was getting worse and worse. Once in early October, before leaving for work I looked at him and said to my mother, 'Father will die today. Please bury him without me. It's too much for me to bear!' And it happened. A girl came to the shop where I was working and began to whisper something to the others without looking at me. I understood that my father had died, but I continued working. I loved him dearly and was unable to see him dead. I didn't go to the funeral. I was told that there was no casket since there was nobody to make one. They put planks at the bottom and on the sides of the grave, lay my father's body into a shroud and put in into the grave. A few weeks later, when my mother and I went to the cemetery, we couldn't find neither my father's nor my son's grave: jackals had destroyed the graves and eaten the bodies. That's what we had to live through.

In 1943 the situation improved a bit. We began to have hope for victory: we listened to the news from the front on the radio and cheered up. I was very young and life went on. I made new friends. We often got together and sang: my sisters and I and our friends that evacuated from various towns of the USSR. We sang Soviet and moving Ukrainian songs and Russian ballads. When Kiev was liberated in 1943 we organized a big celebration. By that time we received an apartment from the cotton factory in a barrack-type building. We had many neighbors. We laid a table and everybody brought what they had. We partied, sang and drank to our motherland, Kiev and Moscow and to the great Stalin, of course, all night long. Young men courted me, but it never occurred to me that I might get married again. I loved my husband and besides, I didn't receive a notification that he had died and I was hoping for a miracle. Efim, a Jewish man from Western Ukraine, visited me more often than anybody else. I didn't like him for his lack of education and hatred for the Soviet power. I didn't even say goodbye to him when we were leaving.

After Kiev was liberated we applied to obtain permission to go home. We wrote to the director of the water supply company where David Strashnoy had worked before the war and he mailed the documents that served as permission for us to come home. There was some confusion with me, though, since he wrote my maiden name Rubina in the permit while my last name at that time was already Kristina. I had to prove that I was Rubina.

The family of Shehtman, the mother and three daughters, had died of pellagra in evacuation. We got to Tashkent where it was impossible to get tickets. There were crowds of people going home. We had to bribe employees at the station: 1,300 rubles for tickets and 1,200 for getting on a train without waiting in lines. There were crowds of people trying to get on a train. We boarded a military train that took us back to Chernigov. I was feeling very ill; I had pellagra and I was swollen from hunger and diseases. My legs were like lumps, I had a huge belly and high fever, and there was blood in my stomach. When we were getting on the train my mother didn't know whether I would survive this trip. I stayed on the upper berth in the train. I was unable to get up. A military doctor examined me and told my mother to buy good food for me at stations and when we reached another climatic zone with no heat my condition would improve. That was true. I remember that my mother bought me fish, sour cream, cottage cheese and fruit at stations. When we arrived at Chernigov I felt all right, only my belly was still swollen for a long time and people thought I was pregnant.

We arrived at Chernigov in November 1944. Immediately after we arrived I received the death notification for Boris at the district military registry office. My last hope was gone. There were other tenants in our house that were very aggressive when we arrived. They said, 'Zhydy are back'. However, an old woman, who lived in our kitchen met us saying, 'Welcome back, owners of the house' and left. We stayed in our kitchen several days until Sonia went to the executive committee, showed them our documents for the house with our names on them and we got back one room. In 1947 our whole house was returned to us.

I went to work as an operator at the post office. I did well at work and made many new friends and acquaintances. I also met with my pre-war friends: Pronia Sereda and others. Pronia, who had been in Chernigov during the occupation, told me about the brutality of the Germans in Chernigov and about my grandfather Samuel, who had been shot.

We arranged quite a celebration on 9th May 1945, Victory Day 21. We sang and danced in the central square, cried for our lost ones and laughed of joy that the war was over.

After the War

Life was very hard. 1946/47 were hungry years and we lived on food cards. David, who returned from the front with many orders and medals, helped us. He began to work at the town executive committee [Ispolkom] 22. Leonid also returned. He and Sonia and Edward got a job assignment and left for Kazakhstan. I was always hungry, but I was very proud. I was seeing a young man and when he invited me to a café or restaurant I declined, saying I didn't feel like eating, although I was hungry as usual.

I was 25 and I began to think about what I should do with my life. We had Jewish neighbors: Manya Belmont and her husband, who lived in the same street as us. Once Manya came to our house and said that she wanted me to meet her son, who had returned from hospital. They came to see us that evening and I met my second husband, Iosif Zalevski.

Iosif was born to a Jewish family in Chernigov in 1919. His father died in the early 1920s. His mother came from Novie Mliny Chernigov province. She didn't have any education. They had a hard life. His mother took various jobs; she sold ice cream, sewed and did laundry until she got married for the second time. After finishing a higher secondary school Iosif worked as a mechanic in the port. He was recruited to the army in 1939. When the war began he was on service in marine troops in the Crimea. Germans sent their landing troops at the very beginning of the war and Iosif was captured. Iosif pretended he was Ukrainian. He kept it a secret that he was Jewish by applying much soap foam in the shower and sleeping under a blanket at night. During a check-up in a concentration camp Iosif ran out into the snow naked to avoid the check-up because he was circumcised. I don't know in which camps Iosif was. All I know is that they were in Poland. He escaped three times and was captured twice. They beat him and put him back into the camp.

In early 1944 Iosif and his friend Alexandr made a hole into the floor of the railcar during transportation and escaped. People around told them they were in France. Iosif found partisans that helped them to get to Belgium. In Belgium Iosif got accommodation with a family of farmers that was aware that their tenant was a partisan. Iosif and his friend worked at the farm helping their landlords. They got a message about when they were needed at the partisan group. When Iosif and his friend returned to the farm they knew that if there was underwear drying on the line that meant Germans were in the village. This served as a warning. Iosif and his friend did mining and blasting work. He didn't tell me any details of his participation in the partisan movement. I believe he was a good performer since he got a wonderful letter of evaluation of his performance after Belgium was liberated in December 1944. Iosif liked his landlords very much. He said they treated him like a son.

When Belgium was liberated Iosif got an invitation to go to USA, but he turned it down. He was dreaming about returning home, but his motherland was not as welcoming as he had expected. All those that returned from concentration camps or occupied territories were subject to the so-called filtration. Fortunately, Iosif had a certificate that he was a blaster otherwise he wouldn't have escaped Stalin's camps. During the war Iosif was severely wounded and shell-shocked. He had splinters in his head and for a year and half after the war he spent most of the time in hospitals.

I liked Iosif. I looked forward to seeing him again. I thought he would invite me to the cinema or to a park. Two weeks passed. It turned out that he called me at work and asked Rubina to the phone, and was told that there was no such employee. I still had my first husband's last name, Kristina. About two weeks later he came to my workplace and invited me to the cinema. I cannot say that I fell in love with Iosif like I had with Boris. Besides, I had another fiancé. There was a nice Russian guy courting me. We went to the cinema and dance parties, but I wasn't in love with him. I felt sorry for Iosif. I saw that he loved me very much and I agreed to marry him. Of course, there was no such passion as in my first marriage, but I never regretted marrying him. We got married in 1947. We had a small wedding dinner with our relatives.

Iosif was a very ill man. He had trauma epilepsy and I often called an ambulance at night, but they were helpless. My husband was an invalid. He couldn't go to work and thought he was a burden on me. My husband decided to go to Kiev where doctors offered a surgery that might either improve his condition or be lethal in the worst case. He didn't want to continue living with his problems and decided for the surgery. Fortunately, the surgery was a success. The doctors removed the bone splinters, but they couldn't reach the steel splinters in his head. Iosif was acknowledged as a war invalid and had some privileges. He stayed in Kiev for a long term of rehabilitation. Kiev is a two-hour drive from Chernigov and he came home at weekends, holidays or just to stay home a couple of months before he had to start another course of treatment. I also visited him there when he couldn't come home. Only 13 years after we got married his condition improved significantly. While he was in Kiev Iosif finished Construction College and entered the Leningrad Water Transport Institute by correspondence, but he couldn't study there due to his illness. Iosif was the director of a hostel and then worked at a shop. I always tried to take good care of him.

I was eager to have a baby, but doctors told me that my husband's trauma epilepsy could have an impact on the baby and so we didn't have children. I took care of my husband as if he were a child. His mother died in the early 1950s; we buried her in the town cemetery. Iosif liked my mother very much. We got along very well. Iosif was grateful for my care and was very good to me. We had many friends and when my husband was feeling okay we went to the cinema or theaters. We traveled in summer. We visited many towns and historic places. We went to the Crimea and Caucasus, Middle Asia and the Carpathians. Every Sunday we went to a village on the Desna River on a motorcycle. We fished and made a fire. We always enjoyed being together.

My colleagues treated me well. In due time I was promoted to the position of supervisor at the post office where I worked for 35 years. There was a hard time in the early 1950s, during the Doctors' Plot 23. Although nobody said anything directly every Jew felt suspicious attitudes. We felt like outcasts. We didn't even feel comfortable to go out, but I didn't face anything like that at work. I remember Stalin's death. I didn't cry, but I remember the feeling of irreplaceable loss. We never took any interest in politics. We were busy with our own life. Nobody in our family was a member of the Party.

In the early 1960s we received a one-bedroom apartment in the center of Chernigov and later we received this two-bedroom apartment where I still live. My mother always lived with us. She liked Iosif a lot. We always celebrated Pesach. My mother managed to get matzah even at the time when one couldn't get it anywhere. There were underground bakeries in the houses of older Jews. They made matzah for sale. All religious Jews knew these addresses and placed their orders at night. We celebrated Purim and Yom Kippur. We had a festive meal, and there was always the spirit of a holiday in the house. For my mother it was important as a tribute to traditions and my father's memory and we respected her desires. My mother died in 1978; we buried her in the town cemetery.

Perestroika 24 didn't bring anything good into our life. We became poor in one day. We lost all our savings. Our pension in the past was sufficient for a vacation or medical treatment, our monthly bills and food. Don't we deserve this? In the late 1980s our pension was hardly enough for food.

Iosif and I lived 48 and a half years together. In the early 1990s we decided to move to Israel. It was always our dream to go there, but in the 1970s when the majority of Jews were leaving, my mother was ill and the issue of emigration was out of the question. We failed to leave since my husband fell severely ill. He died in 1995. His death didn't come as a surprise to me since he had been suffering for a long time before he died, but it was a terrible loss nonetheless. I didn't even have money to bury my husband. The Jewish community that was established in Chernigov helped me. I have been a member of the community since then. I attend every meeting or event and read Jewish newspapers. I don't go to the synagogue since I don't consider myself a believer, although I think there must be a God and I'm grateful to Him for my basically happy and interesting life. One thing I cannot forgive God is that He took away children's lives: the life of my son and others. They were innocent souls.

I attend the 'Warm House' in Hesed where I have meals with other old Jews like myself. However, I'm not a passive consumer - I try to give people what I can. On Jewish holidays our group from Hesed sing songs and I rehearse with my friends playing the piano. We celebrate holidays and birthdays together and get together at hard times, when somebody loses their relatives. We support each other.

In 1997 I visited my sister Riva and my niece Ada in Israel. I liked the country very much. I visited the country when it celebrated its 50th anniversary. Anyway, I don't have any friends there and I don't want to be a burden to my sister. I have the friends of my life here, at Hesed and our community - it's not about assistance, this is my life now!

Family background
Growing up
During the war
Post war
Glossary

1 Great Patriotic War

2 Russian Revolution of 1917

3 Pogroms in Ukraine

In the 1920s there were many anti-Semitic gangs in Ukraine. They killed Jews and burnt their houses, they robbed their houses, raped women and killed children.

4 NEP

The so-called New Economic Policy of the Soviet authorities was launched by Lenin in 1921. It meant that private business was allowed on a small scale in order to save the country ruined by the Revolution of 1917 and the Russian Civil War. They allowed priority development of private capital and entrepreneurship. The NEP was gradually abandoned in the 1920s with the introduction of the planned economy.

5 Civil War (1918-1920)

6 Kolkhoz

7 Reds

Red (Soviet) Army supporting the Soviet authorities.

8 Whites (White Army)

Counter-revolutionary armed forces that fought against the Bolsheviks during the Russian Civil War. The White forces were very heterogeneous: They included monarchists and liberals - supporters of the Constituent Assembly and the tsar. Nationalist and anti-Semitic attitude was very common among rank-and-file members of the white movement, and expressed in both their propaganda material and in the organization of pogroms against Jews. White Army slogans were patriotic. The Whites were united by hatred towards the Bolsheviks and the desire to restore a 'one and inseparable' Russia. The main forces of the White Army were defeated by the Red Army at the end of 1920.

9 Greens

members of the gang headed by Ataman Zeleniy (his nickname means 'green' in Russian).

10 Gangs

During the Russian Civil War there were all kinds of gangs in the Ukraine. Their members came from all the classes of former Russia, but most of them were peasants. Their leaders used political slogans to dress their criminal acts. These gangs were anti-Soviet and anti-Semitic. They killed Jews and burnt their houses, they robbed their houses, raped women and killed children.

11 Makhno, Nestor (1888-1934)

Ukrainian anarchist and leader of an insurrectionist army of peasants which fought Ukrainian nationalists, the Whites, and the Bolsheviks during the Civil War. His troops, which numbered 500 to 35 thousand members, marched under the slogans of 'state without power' and 'free soviets'. The Red Army put an end to the Makhnovist movement in the Ukraine in 1919 and Makhno emigrated in 1921.

12 Russian stove

Big stone stove stoked with wood. They were usually built in a corner of the kitchen and served to heat the house and cook food. It had a bench that made a comfortable bed for children and adults in wintertime.

13 Struggle against religion

14 Famine in Ukraine

15 Young Octobrist

In Russian Oktyabrenok, or 'pre-pioneer', designates Soviet children of seven years or over preparing for entry into the pioneer organization.

16 Collectivization in the USSR

In the late 1920s - early 1930s private farms were liquidated and collective farms established by force on a mass scale in the USSR. Many peasants were arrested during this process. As a result of the collectivization, the number of farmers and the amount of agricultural production was greatly reduced and famine struck in the Ukraine, the Northern Caucasus, the Volga and other regions in 1932-33.

17 Kulaks

18 Forced deportation to Siberia

Stalin introduced the deportation of Middle Asian people, like the Crimean Tatars and the Chechens, to Siberia. Without warning, people were thrown out of their houses and into vehicles at night. The majority of them died on the way of starvation, cold and illnesses.

19 October Revolution Day

20 Great Terror (1934-1938)

21 Victory Day in Russia (9th May)

National holiday to commemorate the defeat of Nazi Germany and the end of World War II and honor the Soviets who died in the war.

22 Ispolkom

After the tsar's abdication (March, 1917), power passed to a Provisional Government appointed by a temporary committee of the Duma, which proposed to share power to some extent with councils of workers and soldiers known as 'soviets'. Following a brief and chaotic period of fairly democratic procedures, a mixed body of socialist intellectuals known as the Ispolkom secured the right to 'represent' the soviets. The democratic credentials of the soviets were highly imperfect to begin with: peasants - the overwhelming majority of the Russian population - had virtually no say, and soldiers were grossly over-represented. The Ispolkom's assumption of power turned this highly imperfect democracy into an intellectuals' oligarchy.

23 Doctors' Plot

The Doctors' Plot was an alleged conspiracy of a group of Moscow doctors to murder leading government and party officials. In January 1953, the Soviet press reported that nine doctors, six of whom were Jewish, had been arrested and confessed their guilt. As Stalin died in March 1953, the trial never took place. The official paper of the Party, the Pravda, later announced that the charges against the doctors were false and their confessions obtained by torture. This case was one of the worst anti-Semitic incidents during Stalin's reign. In his secret speech at the Twentieth Party Congress in 1956 Khrushchev stated that Stalin wanted to use the Plot to purge the top Soviet leadership.

24 Perestroika (Russian for restructuring)

Güler Orgun

Güler Orgun
Istanbul
Turkey
Interviewer: Anet Pase
Date of the interview: May 2005

Güler Orgun is a small woman of 70, with small light brown eyes, short white hair, more Balkan in type than Turkish. She always has a smiling face. She looks like a gentle grandmother who always has a story to tell. She always wears a sort of loose checkered shirt on top of a high-collared T-shirt, slacks and flat-heeled shoes. She lives in the Cengelköy district on the Asian coast of the Bosphorus. She drives her own car. As she puts it, she likes to look for a different occupation, a different excitement every five years. She speaks English and French well, and Ladino and Spanish fairly well. In short, she is someone interesting, whom I always enjoy meeting and chatting with. Only after meeting with her and talking for some time, could I perceive the person beneath that soft appearance. Güler Orgun has a strong personality. She could decide to settle in Polonezköy, while living in Istanbul and being engaged in commerce. She was then able to end a lucrative business in Polonezköy and undertake something completely different. Güler Orgun now works at Shalom 1, in the publication of the monthly supplement El Amaneser 2. She also takes a course in Modern Spanish for the Sephardic Jews at the Cervantes Institute of Istanbul.

Family background

The house my mother's family lived in was situated in Sirkeci, on the European side of Istanbul. My mother's paternal grandmother lived with them. She was called appropriately 'La Senyora' [Ladino for 'the Lady'], as she was the real mistress of the household. However, I never got to know her real name. Beside my grandfather, La Senyora had also a son called Haim, who went to America and whom, therefore, those of my generation did not know.

My mother's maternal grandmother, Miryam Levi, nee Yafe, also lived with them. I believe she was born in 1847. We called her Nonika - the diminutive of nona, or grandmother. I remember her very well since I was six years old when she died. She was a tiny, dainty lady with white and wavy hair, and she always wore a 'tülbent' [muslin scarf] tied at the back of her head. Slim and small, she probably weighed no more than 45 kilograms. She must have shrunk in size with age, as many elderly people do. She always wore black.

Nonika died in 1943, probably at age 96. My mother thought that she was a real philosopher in all fields. Like many people in our society, she had a proverb or saying for every situation. Both Nonika and my maternal grandmother, who were born in Istanbul, knew French, but always spoke Ladino 3 at home.

Nonika had only one child, my maternal grandmother. When I was born, they had already moved to the neighborhood known as Bankalar [a district on the European side of Istanbul with an important Jewish population]. We, the children of my generation, never knew the house in Sirkeci. The women's days were spent doing housework. As far as I can remember, my family members then didn't go out very much, although they visited their neighbors quite a lot. The whole building was occupied by Jewish families. It was called Rashel Han and located on Bankalar Caddesi. The neighbors were indeed like close relatives. They included the Benaroyas. They went to each other's apartments with no notice at all, all the time.

My grandparents had not been able to pay their 'Varlik Vergisi' [Wealth Tax] 4 and most of their furniture, therefore, had to be confiscated. I am not sure whether I was just told about it or just remember it faintly, because I was barely five or six at the time, but I'm quite certain I saw the furniture being taken away by horse carriage, down Bankalar Street.

When the government enforcers came, only a room where Nonika happened to be in at that moment, had the door closed. When they tried to go in, they were told, 'That is a toilet and there is an old lady in there, let us not disturb her.' So they didn't go in. That is how the furniture of that one room wasn't taken away. Nonika said afterwards, 'Had I known the outcome in advance, I'd have stuffed more furniture in there.' But they had come without warning.

After that, very little furniture remained in the apartment - a few chairs, a wooden table, etc. That is why Nonika slept in an ingeniously improvised bed on chairs, as follows: She had six chairs, which she placed three by three, facing each other, and placed a plank on them and a small mattress on top. During the day, they put away the bedding and used the chairs to sit on. My cousin Meri tells me that Nonika loved her and frequently allowed her to sleep on her chair-bed together with her. Nonika had books in Ladino, written in Rashi 5 letters and read Meri stories from those books. Meri remembers this vividly.

We were lots of great-grandchildren. She had a brazier in her room. She gathered us around it, and burned cloves to exorcise us, literally. She murmured some things in the process. We sat with crossed legs around the brazier, while she exorcised us by turning her hand holding the cloves over our heads, to protect us from the evil eye. I remember her distinctly - her and those pleasant scents.

I found out recently, from family documents, that my father's father, Izak David Nassi was born in Istanbul in 1855. I believe the family moved to Romania from Istanbul, as they had cousins here, maybe children of cousins. There was a Mayir Araf and an Eskenazi family whom we used to see often. The Eskenazi family's mother was Rashel Eskenazi. She had two sons, Jak and Marsel, and two daughters, Viktorya and Suzan. Another relative of theirs, Beki Eskenazi, was married to a Yaesh. Their niece was an opera singer in Istanbul, a mezzo soprano, named Süzi Leal.

My grandfather got married in Constanza probably in 1894 and had children there. In Constanza, he worked in a bank called Marmarosh Bank, as a wheat expert, but applying his expertise to the insurance side of banking. Wheat is merchandise that is transported in bulk in big cargo ships. He could evaluate how many tons a shipment weighed just by looking at the wheat hold. Thus the bank could insure the goods. The skill strikes me as utterly extraordinary in retrospect. Later, when we looked at the documents he left us, we realized that he held the title of Doctor. I guess he was a Doctor of agriculture.

Constanza is a city on the Black Sea. My father's family used to live in a house built on steep rocks by the water. The house had a garden, nevertheless. When the family members went to bed, they fell asleep listening to the waves hitting the rocks. This was at the beginning of the 1900s. At that time, they had a horse carriage with a coachman. Their economic situation was quite good - living in a house with a garden, employing a coachman... This implies that working for the insurance department of a bank in those days paid well.

In Constanza, the family used to dress in uncovered [unveiled] fashion. In the only picture we have of my grandfather, he wears the modern clothes of a bank employee of that period, that is to say, a jacket, shirt, etc.

My father's father, my father and his sister used to speak Romanian among themselves. My father's mother, Neama Nassi, had passed away at a young age. They moved to Istanbul two or three years after her death, around 1920. My grandfather had been appointed to the Istanbul branch of the Marmarosh Bank for which he had been working.

Upon their arrival from Romania, the three of them - my aunt Viktorya, my father Henri, and their father Izak Nassi - settled in Altinci Daire [another district on the European side of Istanbul with an important Jewish population]. Afterwards, they moved to a rented apartment in the Findikli neighborhood [a district on the European side of Istanbul, on the shore of the Marmara Sea].

My grandfather worked for two years, but by that time, the Marmarosh Bank was not doing well. The management started to liquidate slowly, dismissing many of their employees. As the first to be dismissed were the elderly, Grandfather's turn came early. He did not work thereafter; he stayed at home and died in 1936 of cirrhosis of the liver.

My father always mentioned his father with respect. It was my mother who talked more about the character or other aspects of her father-in-law. She always mentioned him with love.

A silver pocket watch was passed on to us from my grandfather. My father used to take it out once a month, take it apart with care, clean it with some type of fuel and put it back in his safe. We also had another heirloom, a chiming clock, which hung on our wall. They had brought it from Romania. It was encased in carved wood, with a pendulum, and had been given to my grandparents as a wedding gift. I am lucky and proud to have both the pocket-watch and the chiming clock, which I shall cherish forever.

My father's mother was Neama Nassi. I know little about her other than her name and that she passed away in 1917, when my father was 14. According to my aunt Viktorya, she was in ill health nearly all of her life. This is why she is remembered mostly sitting in an armchair, with covers on her legs. We have a quilted baby cover she made herself - a cradle cover. The embroidery on it is unbelievably fine, with silver and colored threads. Although she was in poor health, she prepared that cover for a baby Viktorya might have one day. Unfortunately, she died in Romania at a relatively young age.

My mother's father was from Canakkale [a city on the Anatolian shore of the Dardanelles, with an important Jewish community at the time]. His name was Mose Benezra Finanser, and he must have been born, by my estimation, in 1865.

He came to Istanbul to work as a very young man. At first, I believe he owned a street stand, selling towels in the business district of Mahmutpasha [an important retail shopping district on the European side of Istanbul]. Then he married my grandmother, Ester Levi, who was only fourteen years old. They lived in a house in Sirkeci and had nine children together.

Later, my grandfather became an independent salesman of textiles; he sold textiles to shops and derived an income by getting a commission from the owner of the goods of the factory. Many of my uncles did the same or a similar job - one of them owned a wholesale textile shop himself - with the result that the textile business became the equivalent of a family profession or occupation.

At the purchasing power of that time, an earning of a golden lira by my grandfather in a given week, was enough to delight my grandmother who would say, 'This week we are fine, we'll have plenty of food to eat.' Despite their modest income, my mother told me they had a fine, merry life. In fact, she remembered those days with nostalgia. On special occasions like holidays, they would fill baskets with varied foods, hire a boat and go on picnics to the historic Kagithane [a recreation area, formerly a summer residence of the Ottoman Court], on the coast of the Golden Horn. Incidentally, the free day of the week then may have been Friday, instead of Sunday, and besides Saturday for religious Jewish folk. One year, I think they went to Beykoz on the Anatolian side for the duration of the summer.

In Sirkeci, they occupied a house with a big living room, all 16 of them. The 16 included: my grandfather's mother whom they called 'La Senyora,' my mother's grandmother, who was affectionately called 'Nonika,' my grandmother and grandfather, the nine children, plus some uncles and aunts, too, as I am sure of the number 16.

Remarkably, the only person working among those 16 people was my grandfather who, as noted, derived an income by selling textiles, on commission, to shop-owners for resale.

In the house's large living room, the family gathered around a big table, surrounded by couches with lots of cushions on them. Most evenings, after dinner, they told stories and sang songs, with special attention to the children, who dropped off to sleep, starting with the youngest, on the cushioned couches. As each child fell asleep, my grandfather would carry him or her to the upper floor in his arms, and place him or her on his bed. The children were not ordered to go to bed; they were allowed to stay right there, with the grown-ups, until they fell asleep.

My mother had a recollection about her father's military service. As my mother was born in 1900, she was 14 years old when my grandfather went to war at the outbreak of World War I 6. He was a fair man, blond, with blue eyes and pink cheeks. My mother remembered, 'One day, a certain time after he left, there was a knock on the door.' My mother answered it and saw a dark, almost black, thin man she didn't recognize. She ran to her mother saying, 'There is a soldier at the door.' It seems that my grandfather had 'dried out' while he was away and turned into someone emaciated and dark.

Incidentally, in normal times he would drink a small glass of raki 7 every evening, just one. So, when that was not possible, he lost his joy and good spirits. 'When he came back,' my mother remembered, 'he started to drink his raki again and soon regained his former weight and fair and pink- cheeked appearance.'

Although I had heard quite a bit about the house in Sirkeci from my mother, I was to learn something new concerning it years later. My uncle Izak had lost his sight due to diabetes and was about to go to Israel. We went to see him off and say good-bye properly. He gathered us around him, my children and all and Uncle Izak said, 'I remember something strange: when I was very small, we used to live in a house in Sirkeci. Another family occupied the upper floor, but we lived as if we belonged to a single household. We would go up an open flight of stairs several times a day. In the hall above, that family had at all times a big cushion, reserved for their grandfather - a blind and very old man. After feeding him in the mornings, they would place him on that cushion for the remainder of the day. A favorite pastime for us, children, was to go up and sit on that cushion with the old man, and listen to him talk to us. I never imagined that the day would come when I myself would become a blind grandfather.'

Thus, I learned that they shared that house with another family which had a blind grandfather. As time went by, the then children grew up, got married and some of them left home and that house. However, my eldest uncle Nisim never left; he always lived with my grandfather.

When the Surname Law 8 came into effect, my grandfather's family changed their surname from Benezra to Finanser, even though apparently they didn't have to. At that time, some of the registry officials accepted to register the existing surname, whereas others claimed that a new surname had to be adopted. This is why many people modified their names slightly, registering them as Tamfranko, Barmizrahi, Öztoledo, etc.

When my cousins and I were born, the family had already moved to Bankalar Caddesi. I remember the residence vividly. It was in an apartment building called Rashel Han. It had four rooms and a big hall where they ate, a kitchen, an alaturca bathroom, and a small toilet. Many people lived together in the apartment. There were ceramic-tile stoves almost in every room. In the rooms which didn't have a stove, they had a brazier.

As one entered the apartment, on the right-hand side, stood a big cupboard reaching the ceiling, where they kept their mattresses and beddings during the day. At night, they would spread them out. They could not have separate bedrooms for everyone, because they were so many.

On holidays, like the Anniversary of the Republic, one could observe from the windows the trams decorated with paper flags passing through Bankalar Caddesi. My grandfather sat cross-legged on cushions on the wooden sofa facing the street, smoked the 'narghile' [water-pipe], looking out of the window, and fondled his 'tespih' or beads on a string.

By the time I start remembering those days, my grandfather was no longer working, but he would unfailingly go to see each one of his children on a different day of the week. For example, he came to us on Tuesdays, always walking up Bankalar Caddesi, regardless of the distance. We lived in Taksim [a district on the European side of Istanbul] then, which wasn't near. We knew he would be coming on Tuesdays; so, on those days my mother cooked dry beans and pilav, his favorites, for him. On Fridays, he went to see Alber, and another child on other days, always walking and always wearing a regular suit and a tie - his uniform on those occasions.

'Sari Madam,' now a two-level road in Shishane [a district on the European side of Istanbul, at the corner of the Bankalar street], was an open-air garden/café then. My grandfather had a story about it. After he retired, and when the weather was nice, he used to go to Sari Madam to play backgammon passionately. Those familiar with the game know that backgammon is a game that often generates heated argument and even quarrel...

As grandfather's eyesight began deteriorating with age, his backgammon partners started to cheat by lying about the numbers on the dice he threw, and he started to lose. Never one to give up, he hired a young student whom he paid to sit beside him and read his dice, and he started winning again! This must have been the first and possibly the only occasion in the world when a 'dice reader' was employed... successfully, I might add, in this case.

During his lifetime, my grandfather gathered all of his children and their families in his home for the religious feasts. On a typical Passover seder, we were thirty to thirty-five people around the table. He used to read the Haggadah himself and performed all the rituals meticulously. At the conclusion of the seder, we each took turns kissing his hand. This, too, was part of the ritual. He sat at the head of the table and paid great attention to those traditions up until he passed away. When he died, that tradition died with him.

Throughout his life, Grandfather's children were very respectful, very affectionate towards him. His death and its aftermath made it clear to everyone - and certainly to me - that he, and primarily he, had been the one who had kept the family together. After his death, the various family members went their own ways. After him, there were no more festive gatherings or anything remotely like that. Some of the uncles tried to organize small reunions for a year or two, but they soon realized that it didn't work. The magic had gone with the beloved magician that he was - at least for his grandchildren like me. My grandfather died in Istanbul, in the Bankalar home, in 1952, at approximately 87 years of age.

My maternal grandmother, Ester Benezra Finanser, nee Levi, was born in Istanbul. She was 14 years old when she married Moshe Benezra. They had children immediately, twins, who didn't survive. A year later, my eldest uncle was born. My grandmother was 15 then. They had eight more children in the following years - seven boys and two girls in all - quite an achievement for my grandmother who was her parents' only child. This prompted my mother to say about her mother, 'I don't remember a time when she wasn't pregnant!' My mother was the third child, but the eldest girl.

I was told that when she was pregnant and there was no one in the room, Grandmother used to scrape the whitewash off the walls and eat it, probably to satisfy her need for calcium. Often, people would ask her which of her nine children was her favorite. She would reply, 'For me, each one of them is an only child.'

When my grandfather did his military service during World War I, my grandmother supported the members of the household - which were numerous - by sewing cloth sacks for an exporter of hazelnuts. The exporter supplied the rolls of cloth and my grandmother, with the help of the children, did the cutting up and the sewing. Grandmother knew how to sew other things very well, too, but she had enough of sewing clothes for all her children, and once told my mother, 'Don't ever learn how to sew, because if you do, you'll spend your whole life sewing.'

While they led a modest, family-centered life, they knew a certain Benbasat family, to whom they were very close. Every Thursday, my grandmother packed her children and went to spend the day with Madame Benbasat, her best friend! I believe the Benbasats lived in Sirkeci, too, in a mansion-like house, with many floors, and a large kitchen down a few steps from the street level. There, a number of servants and cooks worked seemingly endlessly. The kitchen's door was never closed, to allow them to serve food to the poor who happened to pass by.

Some of the children were probably already married when the core family moved from Sirkeci to Bankalar. They were by then a much smaller group. In the Bankalar home, there were Nonika, my grandmother Ester, my elder uncle's wife Sara, and my aunt Rashel, who was mentally disadvantaged, but could do physical work - a total of four women in one house, with no need for hired help, which they couldn't afford anyway.

They used to prepare all the traditional Sephardic dishes. I don't know if they followed the kashrut rules. Since the name of a Jewish butcher called Dalva in Shishhane was often mentioned, I suppose they bought kosher meat from him, although I am not sure if they kept a kosher house in all respects.

In the week of Chanukkah, in my grandmother's house, they used to hang a chanukkiyah on the wall. It was metallic, but I don't remember if it was made out of silver. They put oil in it. My grandmother made cotton-wrapped wicks for the occasion. Each night, the entire family gathered standing around the chanukkiyah and recited the appropriate prayer, after which they lit a wick, an additional one every night, until the seventh, when the feast was over. After the prayer and the lighting, they sat, sang songs, and told jokes. Every Friday night, too, my grandmother placed cotton wicks in a special glass, lit them and said a prayer. Once when asked why, she said it was 'for our dead.'

My grandmother stayed home most of the time. The rest of us used to go to see her. She was a tall, slender, darkish, graceful woman. She liked to wear dark clothes, brown or black house dresses, high-necked. When I knew her, her hair had already turned white. She wore her hair in a knot on the back of her head.

She owned a gold chain we called 'kolana.' Later, when she got older, that is to say, when she felt that her end was near, she broke the 'kolana' into pieces and gave a piece to each of her granddaughters, which we cherish as a reminder of her.

My grandmother's death was unusual in its speed and simplicity. One day, my aunt and my grandmother were alone at home for a few hours. Grandmother was sitting on a chair, looking out of the window. At one point she said, 'Rashel, will you fetch me a glass of water; I am thirsty.' By the time Rashel went to the kitchen and came back with the water, Grandmother had gotten up from her chair, lay down on the sofa and died. We always said, 'What a nice way to die. One minute, she was looking out of the window, a few minutes later, she was gone.'

My uncle Nisim, her eldest son, had died earlier. His death had affected her deeply and caused her to age, to become a really old woman, suddenly. It is said that the loss of a child is the worst thing for a mother. Grandmother was 83 when she died in 1968.

My grandfather had a brother called Haim. My generation didn't know or ever see him. Yet when my mother was still a child, he used to live with them. In 1907, he married Ermoza Zara. She was an aunt of the Zaras who had a shop in Galatasaray [in the center of Beyoglu (Pera), a district on the European side of Istanbul]. I heard that Haim Benezra went to America at the beginning of the 20th century, and that people wondered if husband and wife would separate as a result. However, after a while the wife joined him in America. We never heard of them again.

My father, Henri Nassi, was born in Constanza, Romania, in 1903. His family lived in a beautiful place in a farm-like setting - an independent, detached house built on steep rocks overlooking the sea. They had chicken that roamed in the garden and laid their eggs anywhere. My father, who was the youngest sibling, loved to search for the eggs, before he started going to school, and was delighted when he found some.

My father was very blond, with nearly white hair. My aunt loved her youngest brother; she used to say, 'He was like a small chick. When we wanted to call him for dinner time, we called: 'Dinner is ready, piu piu piu piu piuuu, Rikutsule!' [the Romanian diminutive for the name Henri].'

This was at the beginning of the 1900s. The family had a horse-carriage and a coachman who used to take the children to school. My father's greatest joy was to sit beside the coachman, especially when he was allowed to hold the reins and the whip.

Their mother-tongue was Romanian. My father knew a little Greek, but just picked up by ear. He came to Istanbul permanently when he was 17, but he never spoke to me about what he did in Romania until then. He was a realist; he lived in the present and thought mostly of tomorrow, never of yesterday. For him, memories were not relevant...

But this changed one special day in 1990, when my daughter was about to go to Scotland for her master's degree and doctorate. Before leaving, we went to see Grandfather and Grandmother one last time, in their home. He took my daughter aside, led her to a small room next to the living room and told her recollections of his childhood in Romania - something he had never done with anyone before, including me. I heard him tell my daughter that he used to sweep floors in a factory, worked at a printer's shop, and did other odd jobs in the summers or in the evenings after school.

My father was born and raised Jewish; I am certain, for example, that he had his bar mitzvah. He had the necessary instruction for it, which I'm sure he always remembered because he had a very good memory. However, a few years after coming to Turkey, and before getting married, he changed both his name and his religion in order to acquire Turkish citizenship. He adopted Islam on paper and the name Avni Tuncer.

When he and his father came to Istanbul, my father started working as an assistant accountant at the Marmarosh Bank, where his father was working. Both worked there for about two years, until 1922. Thanks to his gifts, such as his superior intelligence and very good memory, Father rose quickly to a good position in the bank's accounting department. But at that time, the Marmarosh Bank's financial situation and prospects started to deteriorate, forcing it to downsize, liquidate and dismiss many people, offering them an indemnity. Significantly, for our story, however, employees who resigned did not qualify for an indemnity. As they dismissed the older employees first, my grandfather's dismissal was impending.

The year was 1922, the end of Turkey's War of Independence 9, and the eve of the Republic. Father had already decided to go into commerce on his own. He felt strongly that he did not want to spend the rest of his life as a bank clerk. Besides, the bank was closing down anyway. But since father and son had both been on a fixed salary, they had not accumulated anything remotely resembling a capital.

Before my grandfather's dismissal was due, Father went to the bank's director and said, 'I would like to ask for a favor. You like me and you promoted me. I want to go into commerce on my own, and I need your help. You have been dismissing employees. Could you let me go by dismissing me, so that I can get an indemnity, which I can then use as capital, to start my own business?' At first, the director balked, asking my father not to leave, because the bank appreciated his work.

Later, Father would remember that day as 'the day I committed the greatest faux pas of my life. I told the director, 'Should I stay and remain an employee for the rest of my life?' I didn't realize that the director himself was an employee! It really was a disgraceful thing to say to the kind man. How could I do this! But the man was really mature. He didn't say anything in anger. He just repeated, 'Don't leave, stay,' etc.' But my father said, 'No, I've made up my mind, I'll go into business.' 'In that case,' said the director, 'I'll pretend I dismissed you and pay you the indemnity, but on one condition: You'll take your father along. If you both leave together, I'll give you two indemnities.' My father accepted.

So, with the three months' salary for both of them as capital, he launched his own business formally, with the proper legal registration and all. He was entirely on his own, which he liked. He rented office space in a historic building called Cermanya Han, in Sirkeci, on the corner opposite the establishment Atabek. Cermanya Han, which still exists, is a building with a round tower, which belonged to the Deutsche Orient Bank then, but is owned by the Yapi ve Kredi Bank at present. Father had two rooms on the sixth floor.

One of the first things Father did was to obtain or consult the commercial directories and yearbooks of various countries, which contain information on the manufacturing industries and companies, their products, addresses, etc. He also got himself a typewriter, and started sending 'offers of service' to those addresses.

My father had a talent for languages; he knew French, and he had also picked up some German. He contacted, among others, manufacturers of aluminum kitchenware, glassware, and injectors. There was no manufacturing to speak of in Turkey at the time; practically everything was imported. He wrote, 'I am a young man. I am applying to be your representative in Turkey.'

My father succeeded in obtaining lots of representation rights for a range of goods like thermometers, caps for carbonated-drink bottles, clasps for gloves, etc. He went to the wholesalers of such goods and got orders from them, which he, in turn, passed on to the factories abroad. After the goods arrived and the client paid the factory, the latter paid my father a commission, something like 5 percent, for his services.

Father was then twenty years of age and still a bachelor. The first years of being on his own were hard times, but he managed to support the family.

He got the representation rights of a very important essential oils producer in Switzerland, namely, Chuit, Naef et Cie., which later became Firmenich. This was a business owned by such a prominent family that, when Eisenhower visited Switzerland, he stayed at their mansion.

My father was hard-working, almost a workaholic, and was absorbed with the business day and night - just like I now think of El Amaneser day and night - and succeeded in controlling 80 percent of the market in essential oils. They called him 'Avni Bey, the Essence King.' When he earned this royal title, he hired a secretary and expanded the business. The secretary was a nice young woman called Viki Abuizak. She became like one of the family.

Incidentally, it is possible that Father took a Turkish name earlier because he thought it would help him when starting a business. I should note, however, that all his friends were members of the Jewish community; he never had any non-Jewish friends, ever.

Already while working at the Marmarosh Bank's accounting department, he was a member of the Jewish Amicale society, or club 10. On weekends, young people in pairs, a boy and a girl, used to visit the homes of members of the community, with money-boxes, and collected donations for the society. He thus took part in the social life of the community. Then he volunteered to do the accounting - a skill he had developed at the bank - for the community-run Or-ahayim Hospital 11 for no pay.

As the years went by, he was more and more busy with his commission work and could not spare time any more to work pro bono for the Or-ahayim Hospital. At that time, a young woman volunteered for the hospital job: my mother! They met as he was transferring the accounts to her. She fell in love with him immediately.

My father was not very tall, 1.74 meters, but largely built; he weighed 80 kilos. His hair, which was originally blond, progressively became light brown. He had brown eyes. He liked to dress elegantly, and had ties of all colors. My mother, Ema Benezra Finanser, was three years older than him. She was 'mignonne,' slim, 48 kilos, 1.58 meters, had bright blue eyes and light brown hair - all in all, a dainty lady.

After a few weeks, during which Mother took over the Hospital's accounting, my father was out of sight. About six months later, my mother was walking in Beyoglu - her family used to live in Bankalar caddesi - when upon reaching the Galatasaray Post Office, it started to rain torrentially. She took refuge under the eaves of a building, trying to figure out how best to cross the street.

Just then, she saw and immediately recognized my father holding a black umbrella and saying, 'Would you allow me to escort you across the street?' She promptly accepted. He opened his umbrella, gave her his arm, and they crossed the street arm in arm under the umbrella. Then my father said, 'How will you walk home? Please, let me accompany you there'... which he did.

That is the moment when it all happened. They made a date to meet again and started to see each other. This was in 1931 or 1932. In the months that followed, whenever he fetched or took her home, he would go up to her apartment and meet my grandparents, who liked him. In time, however, they started to attract people's attention, which gave way to gossip in the community. People said, 'Avni Bey is seeing a girl, but she is much too young for him.' Although my mother was three years older than my father, she was so petite and dainty that people thought she was much younger than him. My mother enjoyed relating this with a laugh.

Mother was in love with my father and probably so was he with her. He in particular was a serious person. They reportedly said such old-fashioned things to each other -always in French, their common language - that they made me laugh. For instance, my father said - we used to speak French, so I'll say it in French, because the thought and the words are so quaint: 'Je l'avais compromise: je devais lui promettre mariage." [French for: 'I had compromised her honor, so I had to promise marriage.']

But marriage was not possible. At least not yet, because he had an unmarried sister. At that time, according to tradition, as long as there were unmarried sisters at home, a man could not marry. That is why he said, 'I cannot get married until my sister does. If you accept this fact, we can live together and plan a life together, but marriage will have to wait until my sister herself gets married.'

My mother readily accepted, being so in love. My father then said to my grandmother, 'I want to ask your permission on a serious matter. Ema is my wife in the name of God, and in whose presence I gave her my word. But I cannot marry her because my sister is not yet married. However, please rest assured that I will fulfill all the obligations of a husband to her and never desert her. Please, allow her to live with me.'

Since my father had gone in and out of their house for some time, they had come to know, love and appreciate him for the serious and correct person he was. So, they trusted that he would keep his promise and granted him the permission he asked for. My mother moved to his family's home occupied also by her father-in-law and sister-in-law, and they all lived together for quite a long time, without their being married. I never heard of something so modern, especially so indicative of my grandparents' open-mindedness, in the 1930s!

This was a courageous decision, indeed. The interesting part is that the whole community, that is to say, my mother's father, a simple man who had come from Canakkale, her mother, the local Jewish community, all those who gossiped if they saw two people going out together, everybody accepted the situation. Nobody censured their living together without being married, and nobody turned their backs on them.

Their broad social life continued as before. It is noteworthy that their friendly relations with people of their own social level continued unaffectedly. Nobody seemed to care, maybe because they really considered themselves and lived like married people in every way, but just could not make it official, because of the sister's situation.

When after five years, my aunt got married, I believe - though no one ever admitted it openly - that it was just to end this untenable situation, as my mother had become pregnant with me. Also, they were not getting any younger. My mother was already 37 when she gave birth to me. So, in 1936, they had a double wedding - my father's and his sister's. I was born in 1937.

Five months after I was born, they moved to Talimhane in Taksim [a district on the European side of Istanbul]. My grandfather had already died by then. When I was maybe two, we started going to Büyükada [a summer resort on one of the islands in the Marmara Sea] for the summers. After summering in various rented houses until I reached five, we bought a house in Büyükada. We used to go to picnics there, with baskets filled with food; the grown- ups used to play cards or backgammon under the pine trees. My father also played a game called 'bezigue' at home.

My father proceeded with his business. He traveled to Europe two or three times a year; acquired more representation rights; and often went to Switzerland to visit that essential oils factory, which was still central to his business. Sales representatives came here from the Swiss factory as well; on those occasions, they visited the clients together.

My father also dealt in hardware, injectors, hot water bottles, hernia belts, etc. He imported all kinds of goods that are sold in pharmacies, other than medicines. The business was booming. He now occupied four rooms on the 6th floor of Cermanya Han. He employed an office boy and two or three qualified staff. When at work, he always wore a suit with a shirt and a tie.

In 1942, the Government imposed the so-called Wealth Tax. The Turkish name my father had acquired earlier helped him weather the infamous tax. Non- Muslims were heavily taxed, but Avni Tuncer, who had a capital of 30,000 liras, was assessed that amount. He was thus able to pay the tax and avoid being punished or fined. He struck bottom, yes, but his possessions were not confiscated. They took away from my grandmother's house, beds, cupboards, etc. but nothing from us.

On the other hand, the Anavi family I knew well did not fare as well, to say the least. They were in the paint business. Their assets, including real estate, were evaluated at 3 million liras at the time. They were taxed 1 million liras, which was not so bad, except for the sad fact that all goods and real estate had to be sold almost immediately. With everyone selling and liquidating their assets at the same time, prices plummeted. The Anavis' possessions worth 3 million liras brought just 700,000 liras, which they paid, but still owed 300,000 liras.

So, in order to force him to pay this debt, but more to punish him, Father Anavi was sent to Askale [labor camp in Eastern Turkey] to work in stone quarries, with the ridiculous daily pay of 125 kurus. How could anyone pay 300,000 liras with a daily pay of 125 kurus! But after several months, the ordeal ended when the tax was rescinded, and the Anavis did not lose their father, which was not true of all those who sent their loved ones to Askale.

Shortly after the Wealth Tax debacle, my father was drafted for the 20 Classes 12 by the Armed Forces, together with my uncles. He served for eight months in a place called Dumlupinar, planting trees. He never had anything bad to say about the treatment he received during his military service.

When World War II started, my father had a commission of 5000 franks owed him by the Swiss factory. He sent them a cable saying, 'Don't send me my commission. Don't even write me about it. Just keep it. I'll let you know when I want it.' They complied. In 1945, when the war was over, he wrote them, 'You can send it to me now.'

With that money as capital, he started his business anew, literally from zero. He was nevertheless, step by step, successful. He still had the factory representations - he had lost none of them. He started working on commission again. He had also started to import the essential oils for himself, as an importer. The customers placed their orders with him; he imported the goods on his own; and distributed, or resold them. He earned, in the process, both the commission and the profit from the import transaction.

In 1945, when my father started working again, I was eight. By 1947 or 1948, a couple of years after the war, business was doing so well that they could afford to send me to the English High School for Girls of Istanbul, which was an expensive school, and they could buy a house in Büyükada.

Father bought a car, too, a pre-war 1938 blue Nash. It was like a tank. He was the first member of the family to own a car. He hired a Greek chauffeur, to give him driving lessons. When Father was at work, the chauffeur worked the car as a taxi. At that time, the license plates for private cars and taxis were not different. In two to three months, Father learned how to drive. He used to take people for drives to the Bosphorus, to places like Tarabya [district on the shore of the European side of the Bosphorus], or on picnics to Circir [recreation area and famous drinking water source on European side of Istanbul]. We were very proud to own a car, as nobody we knew did.

The fruits of my father's hard work included then also a rowing boat, on which he installed sails after one year. He and I often went sailing together. Father learned to ride a bicycle at age 48. After that, we went touring around the island on our bicycles. We were friends, my father and I. We did all those things, including swimming, together. He taught swimming to my cousin Meri and myself by throwing us into the sea and saying, 'You'll learn to swim by splashing about.' And we did.

When we were in the city, not the island, we used to go to the cinema with the neighbors every Saturday afternoon, and had dinner somewhere afterwards. Despite his sweetness with me, Father had a hard disposition. I remember one of those post-cinema dinners with mixed feelings. When Father's order - fish with mayonnaise, I remember - arrived late, after everyone else was served, despite assurances that it was ready, Father was so upset that he dumped the plate down the waiter's head and left the restaurant in anger.

When their finances improved, my mother and father made a list of the things they wanted to do or acquire. As my father was very methodical, their wishes were prioritized: first, a house on the island, which they bought; next, a car, which they also got; and then, a trip to Europe and a diamond ring.

Post war

When the turn had come for the trip to Europe, my father could not get away from his business. He proposed to send my mother, anyway, but as she did not want to go alone, he sent her with his sister on a cruise to Italy, Nice and Marseilles. The year was 1950. The two of us, my father and I, remained behind and had a lot of fun together, as we were such good friends. He took me to eat delicacies like tripe and döner kebab, and taught me how to enjoy life. We had a splendid time, the memory of which lingers.

Then, before my mother was back from her trip, he was seized by a serious illness: meningitis. On her return, my mother found him in hospital. Meningitis is an illness with the dismal recovery rate of one in a million. If kids struck by it survive, they do so with severe brain damage; grownups simply do not survive... Then, all his friends told him, 'Avni Bey, if working all those years was worthwhile at all, it is for a day like this. Go to France.' My mother and father agreed, and they went to France. He was admitted to a hospital there, had brain surgery but came out of it in a coma. Every evening, the doctors told my mother, like a refrain: 'It is a hopeless case. Be prepared to lose him, because you probably won't find him when you return in the morning.'

He remained in a coma for 15 days straight and had to have a second brain operation. He still lay in a coma, surviving on serums, etc. On the third day after the second surgery, while still in a coma, my mother observed a faint movement on his lips. She put her ear to his mouth and heard him whisper, 'Je ne vais pas mourir, je ne peux pas mourir: J'ai une fille a marier.' [French for: 'I shall not die, I cannot die: I have a daughter to marry off.'] This shows how much he loved me, as well as his strong attachment to life.

After that, slowly, very very slowly, one eye, one lip, one finger a day, he started to recover. It took him three years to achieve a partial recovery, re-learning first sitting and then moving, first by wheel-chair and then on crutches. They stayed there for a full year, which I spent with my Tantika.

At that point, my mother came back, and my father was transferred to a rehabilitation facility in Switzerland. He remained there for about the next two years, moving about on crutches. He returned to Turkey when he was able to graduate to a walking stick and after an absence of nearly three years. He had a capital of 300,000 liras when he got ill; not a penny had remained by the time he was back.

For the third time in his life, Father had to start a business from scratch, with the added difficulty that he had lost his hearing with the meningitis. The ossicles were damaged - a condition that cannot be corrected with a hearing-aid because sounds are heard in such a distorted manner and with such interference as to cause a terrible headache. As he was very intelligent, he could communicate by guessing what people were trying to say. However, the kind of business he was in necessitated visiting customers, showing samples, and actually doing a 'selling' job.

Before Father had gone to France for treatment, the son of a cousin, Jak Eskenazi, was working for him. Jak was a very dynamic and hard-working young man, and had mastered the job. My father left him in charge, and was able to keep his representations. But he lost eventually and seriously. When my father came back, the same Jak Eskenazi, who also turned out to be clever, went to the essential oils factory in Switzerland and told them, 'Avni Bey is back, but he lost his hearing, and he is old and invalid. Take away his agency and give it to me.' And that is what happened, and this, in essence, is how my father lost the Swiss agency.

This was a terrible blow to him, because he thought of Jak as a son. He did not get over this for the rest of his life. To survive, he hired another person to continue with the other, insignificant agencies - dealing in goods like kitchenware, pots and pans, etc. - by sharing the commission fifty-fifty with him. That man followed up the contacts with the clients.

Understandably, my father's social activities practically ended after meningitis struck him at age 49, he spent three years in hospitals, and lost his hearing after that.

The year was now 1958. In the meantime, I had gotten married and divorced, and come back to live and work with my father. When we imported goods, the cases of merchandise went from Customs straight to the client's store. They would telephone and say, for instance, 'I'll pay on 20th June,' and my father would note on a small agenda, 'The firm Voreopulos-Behar will pay 3000 liras on 20th June.' I would say, 'Shouldn't we establish a contract, an IOU?' He would answer, 'Of course not. That man is a businessman in Tahtakale. If he says 20th June, there is no need for an IOU.' And come 20th June, the money would arrive at our office. Those were different times, when paying on time was a matter of honor, and a phone call sufficed.

After Taksim, we lived in a rented apartment in Shishli [district on European side of Istanbul] for a few years. In 1964, my father bought an apartment in Yeshilyurt [suburb on the European side of Istanbul, close to the airport]. It was the first time we owned our own home, not counting the small house on the island. Apartment buildings in Yeshilyurt are surrounded by gardens on four sides. Our apartment was in a three-story building, with seven dwellings. We bought an apartment away from the center of town for my sake.

After one year, I got married and moved to my husband's house, while my parents remained in Yeshilyurt. They were quite happy there. My father used to commute to his office in Sirkeci by train, which was easy for him in his condition.

Father was an authoritarian person; so, when I decided to marry a Muslim Turk, I faced the difficulty of introducing my future husband to him first, before telling my mother. I told my future husband to come to our office in Cermanya Han. Shortly before he appeared, I told my father, 'There is someone I am seeing. He wants to marry me. I invited him to come and meet you.' My father simply said, 'OK.'

Then Günel arrived; I introduced him; he sat down. There was a brief silence, after which my father said, 'I am going to ask you something.' Günel said, 'Go ahead.' My father asked, 'Do you like white [feta] cheese?' Günel was surprised and replied, 'I like it a lot.' 'Well, then,' said my father, 'I give you the girl.' My father liked to joke.

I worked with my father for nine years. By then, we represented an important Dutch factory which produced raw materials for the enamel industry, called Ferro Enamels. I worked until I became pregnant with my second child. I left in 1968, and my husband took over. He worked with my father for ten years, and the business really developed during this time, maybe owing to Günel's enterprising approach or to the business climate, or both... Yet by 1978, both of us had had enough of business life and decided to quit. We so informed the Dutch factory, and they designated another representative.

My father loved life so much, but his life was so limited after the young age of 52! Yet I never heard him complain. He had such a great personality! Only at the very end, in the last six or seven years of his life, when he could hardly see any more, due to cataracts in his eyes, and when, after a lifetime of reading, he could not even read the paper, he told me, 'You cannot imagine how bored I am, not being able to read anything.' That was the only complaint I heard from him in all his life.

After my mother passed away [in 1997], my father continued to live in Yeshilyurt. But one year before his death, his apartment was to be given to a builder, to be demolished and rebuilt. We could not take him with us, because our apartment in Cengelköy [district on the Asian shore of the Bosphorus] was too small, and my father's physically constrained lifestyle would not fit ours. He was not in a position to live by himself, either; so, he had a caretaker and a cleaning lady.

We rented two adjacent rooms for him in an old people's home on the road to Kayisdagi [district on the Asian side of Istanbul], moved his own furniture there, and arranged one of the rooms as a sitting-room with a sofa where his caretaker or I slept alternately. We furnished the second room as a bedroom for him, with his own TV set, etc. It was like a two-room suite. He lived there for seven months, until his death in 1999, at 96.

My mother's name was Neama, the name of her great aunt, but they called her Ema. Her surname was Benezra at birth but it was changed to Finanser, with the introduction of the Surname Law.

Mother was born in 1900. Birth dates were not known for sure in those times, because births were not promptly registered. My mother 'chose' the 14th of July as her birthday - the date of the French Revolution, which she loved. She had it registered and even celebrated it on occasion.

Mother attended the Alliance 13 school in her youth, reaching it from Sirkeci, where they lived, by crossing the Galata Bridge daily on foot and walking all the way to the School in Tünel. She was always the top or the second best pupil of her class. She wore to school the dresses my grandmother sewed for her, either light blue - like the color of her eyes - or white in color.

Mother had eight siblings. As she was the third child, she saw her mother pregnant most of the time and helped raise many of her siblings. She took so much care of her brother Eli, who was 18 years younger, that she loved him more like a son than a brother. She would tell me, 'He is not your uncle, he is your brother.' As I was an only child, this is how I came to have an uncle/brother.

In my mother's youth, her family had close relations with a family called Benbasat. When Mother finished the Alliance school, she started working for the wholesale drug supply company named Sisa-Benbasat, as an assistant accountant. She worked there up until she got married, and she liked to boast about knowing the place and price of some 3000 products the company sold. My mother was an all-around conscientious worker who enjoyed her work.

During World War I, when her father was drafted - possibly at the same time as a couple of his sons - Mother was the only member of the family with an outside income, which enabled the family to survive, other than the contribution of those hazelnut bags that my grandmother used to sew.

My mother carried a great responsibility, indeed, because she had to work not only to support the whole family, but also to pay all the school fees, given the importance they attached to education. She used to worry about what would happen to them if something were to prevent her from working.

The worry was to prove justified, in her eyes - at least initially. One day, she fell seriously ill and lay unconscious for five whole weeks, with a high fever. When she regained consciousness, her first thought was fear of what may have happened to the family. Then she heard people singing, children running up and down the stairs four steps at a time, on their way to play, foods being cooked and life going on. 'Right then,' said my mother, 'I realized that nobody is indispensable and that the whole burden of life is not just on one person's shoulder.' She made this her life's philosophy.

My mother liked to tell whoever would listen about her childhood in Sirkeci. With hindsight, I am so sorry we used to interrupt her. We said, 'Mummy, it's enough; you've already told us about it a hundred times.' We didn't take any notes of those gems. How I regret this now!

My mother was a member of the Amicale Society. Later, she applied to do the accounting for the Or-ahayim Hospital, a function which my father had been performing. She met my father as he transferred the books to her. My mother fell immediately in love with him, and courtship - in the form of going out together - followed.

As I mentioned earlier, tradition constrained my father from marrying, because he had an unmarried elder sister at home. Nevertheless, with my grandparents' explicit permission, my mother moved to my father's house, and they lived there as husband and wife for five years, at the end of which my aunt decided to get married - so that my father could at last get married, too - and they had a double wedding. I strongly suspect the double event was somewhat precipitated by my mother's pregnancy with me.

When my mother moved to my father's house in Findikli, my grandfather Izak Nassi and my aunt Viktorya lived there, too. My aunt used to do all the housework. When my mother joined the family, the two women started sharing the housework. They used to do the laundry by hand, then climb up to the terrace on the roof to hang it out to dry. All this manual work was difficult for my mother, who had always worked as an accountant and was not accustomed to do such housework.

Every evening, when the men came home from work, the four of them used to go to a pastry shop in Beyoglu to treat themselves to cakes. The cost came to 25 kurush. My mother would say, 'The daily wage of a cleaning woman was 25 kurush. Yet I could never convince them to give up eating those cakes in Beyoglu twice a week, and engage a cleaning lady with that money.' It is about this matter that they first fell out with my aunt.

Mother got married late, at age 36. Before getting married, she converted to Islam, together with my father. According to what she told me, they needed to go to the Mufti together to get the necessary permission. The Mufti asked them why they chose to convert to Islam. They candidly said that it was in order to get Turkish citizenship for my father, who was Romanian. The Mufti signed the necessary permission promptly without giving them a sermon or making the least difficulty. My mother was very impressed with that Mufti's maturity.

I was born in 1937, when my mother was 37. When I was five months old, my parents moved to an apartment in the Tas Apt. in Talimhane. It was a very nice apartment. It had two bedrooms, a small room for the maid or nanny, an L-shaped living-room where stood my piano, an entry hallway, a kitchen, a full bathroom, a small half-bathroom, and a closet. It had central heating and a bathtub in the bathroom, though not the built-in [encased] kind, but an enameled, self-standing one on four feet. Hot water was available just twice a week. Later, 10-15 years later, in the postwar years, we installed a gas heater.

We owned a radio, a record-player and hundreds of records. We also had a number of books at home, although we mostly borrowed books from the French Cultural Center Library at the French Consulate in Taksim. Thus, we had the possibility of reading a great number of books, which was important for Mother and I, who normally devoured a book in the span of two days.

My mother had a foot-operated sewing machine. To use it, she had to attend a sewing and machine-embroidering course at the Singer Sewing Machine shop, because her own mother had not taught her how to sew.

I don't remember Atatürk's 14 death because I was just a year old, but my parents went to the funeral and said they had never seen such a large crowd all in tears.

My parents hired an Armenian lady as a nanny for me. Her story is particularly interesting. Her husband had died during the Armenian Massacre. She fled to Istanbul from her village Keskin Maden near Ankara, with her two children of two to three years of age and worked as a servant at the Armenian Orphanage. Her children grew up there. Then she entered our service, renting a small apartment in Tarlabasi. She managed to take care of her children there and at the same time to work in various capacities in our house.

She formally lived with us, but she got up at four every morning; went to her children's apartment, which was at five minutes' distance; she made them breakfast, and prepared them for school. By the time we got up at seven, she was already back, to take care of us. I can truly say that she raised me. My mother was bed-ridden for two years with rheumatism. That lady did all the housework, cooked for the family and took care of me.

She also raised her two children, both of whom grew to become doctors. Her name was Nuritsa, and her sons, the doctors, were Jan and Minas Apkaryan. She worked for us until I was 13. Then, after they became doctors, her sons took her with them and did not let her work any more. The whole thing makes a touching story with a happy ending, I think.

As I grew up, my mother had also hired the younger sister of my Uncle Jak's wife, to act as a 'mademoiselle' [governess] for me. Vivi was 16 or 17 then. She stayed with us, and took me out for a stroll or to the park. I suppose she needed the income, and my mother took her in to help out. At one point, Vivi got married and left.

I should also note that when I was four, Madame Claire Kamhi, my Uncle Izak's mother-in-law, started giving me piano lessons at home. Then there was a Mademoiselle Nanasoff, a young White Russian woman, who also came home to give me ballet lessons. As the above shows, when I was a child, my mother made me do all those bourgeois things!

My mother treated me very well. However, as I had a nanny and a 'mademoiselle,' she didn't care for me physically and in a detailed manner. She mostly told me stories, fables and tales from the Bible. She did not feed or dress me; others did that generally.

We did not have special Friday, that is, Sabbath eve dinners. I did not have any formal religious training. The nearest thing to it occurred when my mother took me in her bed, where we sat, while she told me stories from the Bible: Moses leaving Egypt, Jacob's quarrels with his brothers, etc. She was such a great story teller; she made all those stories come to life, though more like sweet, semi-educational fiction than religious training.

We did our shopping at the corner grocery store. There were a green-grocer and a butcher, both in the neighborhood, in Talimhane. There were also a small dairy shop that sold products and eggs; and two grocery stores, the Nea Agora and the Taksim Pazari. We did not go to the open market; we didn't need to. An itinerant, street vendor used to pass by, with a horse carrying two large baskets overflowing with fresh vegetables and shout, 'Zarzavatciiii' ['vegetable man' in Turkish], and we bought what we needed from him thus: we lowered a basket tied at the end of a rope; he weighed the goods and put them in the basket, which we then pulled up.

A yoghurt vendor also passed by almost daily, with two flat containers of yoghurt from Silivri, balanced on a long stick resting on his shoulder. It was a kind of thick, solid yoghurt, which had to be cut with a spatula and placed on a dish. On winter nights, a sahlep vendor passed. All the vendors we dealt with were Muslims; the only Jewish shop owner in the neighborhood was a merchant of 'tuhafiye' [haberdashery].

Most of our neighbors were Jewish. They had close relations with my mother. They visited each other to have coffee. We, my nuclear family, spoke French at home and read the Journal d'Orient 15. My parents' common language was French, because my father, who had come from Romania, did not know Ladino when they met. My mother spoke Ladino with the neighbors.

My mother's favorite pastime activity was to play cards - a game called 'kumkam'- with the neighbors. They had set 'days' for it. They also got dressed up to do window-shopping in Beyoglu. Mother had a brooch and 'chevaliere' ring she always wore. She was always well groomed, with make- up and manicured hands. We had a Greek lady in our building, who came to our apartment for a day's work and sewed very elegant clothes.

My mother's brothers rarely came to visit us with their families. Mother, on the other hand, was very attached to them and called them often. They came to see her, but mostly by themselves.

My mother used to apply 'ventosa' [suction] cups to our back, to fight colds. The treatment worked as follows. You burned a piece of cotton dipped in alcohol and placed it in the ventosa cup, or 'cupping glass,' which sucked out the oxygen and produced a vacuum. Then and quickly, very quickly, you applied the cups to the bare back with a 'plop-like' sound, pulling the surface flesh in. She stuck five or ten of those to our back. These were kept on for a few minutes. The effect was hurtful and pleasurable, ticklish, at the same time. Then, they wrapped a piece of cotton around the end of a pencil, dipped it in iodine and drew horizontal and vertical lines two to three centimeters apart on our backs. As part of what I can call the 'ceremony,' mother also prepared infusions of linden tea or chamomile. We had hot water bottles as well.

In the summer, we went to Büyükada, where we rented a house. My mother took care of the move. The moving firm was called Emanetci Sultana but, in fact, we never saw Sultana herself, if she ever existed. A man called Leon came home, packed our stuff, transported it to the island and delivered it there. He wrapped everything in big 'harars' [large sacks made of haircloth]. Refrigerator, beds, everything traveled to the island in summer, and traveled back to town in fall.

Later, when we bought our own house, we acquired two or two sets of everything - one for each residence. Almost as a rule, everything we left in town during the summer, furniture and all was covered with bed sheets to protect them from dust.

When I turned five, my parents bought a small house in Büyükada. We spent three months a year there, coinciding with the schools' summer vacations. The house had initially three rooms; later on they added a room in part of the garden. In those years, there was no running water on the island. We had a cistern that stored rain-water, and a water-tank which we filled using a hand-pump. The house had a big, curved terrace and a small garden. A gardener came once a week to take care of the garden.

When we lived in Büyükada, we, the women, went to the Turkish Bath for Women every week. Like the rest of the children and womenfolk, in the evenings, we went to the quay, the boat landing, to meet my father returning from work by boat. Sometimes my mother would sit in an outdoor cafe by the sea and watch, with binoculars, my father and I go sailing.

After I reached school age, I attended the Aydin Okul elementary school in Taksim. We had a neighbor, Berta Rutli, who was a graduate of the English High School for Girls 16, and had a daughter, Nadya, of about my age. On her strong suggestion, my mother enrolled me in that high school when I was still in second grade. In those days, admission was through early enrolment, or registration, not through testing. Early on - as early as when I was in second grade - my mother knew in her heart that English would be an important language to learn. That's why and how I entered the English High School and learned English.

We did not eat out too often, but I remember going to Rejans, a White Russian Restaurant in Ayazpasa, to Fisher, Abdullah Efendi's and a place, I believe, called Piknik, which was a simpler, informal restaurant. In the summer, we went to a fish restaurant called Selekt on the Iskele quay by the sea, in Büyükada.

The year now was 1950. I was 13 and had started high school. My mother and aunt had gone on a trip. My father and his sister's husband were no longer on speaking terms, due to differences they had had in business. When my mother returned from her trip, she found my father in hospital with meningitis. Shortly thereafter, they went to Paris for treatment. I remained in Istanbul with my aunt for more than a year - the two of us, with my mother being far away, and no father!

When my father got ill, my mother sold the summer house in Büyükada, because they needed all the cash they could get. While they were abroad, I got engaged to Ceki Karasu. They knew nothing of it until they returned. But as both families were suitable and the people mutually acceptable, there was no objection. The result was that I got married at 17, at the Neve Shalom Synagogue 17. My parents had to sign for me because I was a minor. Three and a half years later, when I got divorced, they gave me again their full support. They were aged between 55 and 60 at the time.

I have always worked. When I was married and lived in Ankara, I worked as a secretary. In 1958, when I returned to my father's house after my divorce, one day I told my mother that I wanted to start working again. When she reported it to my father, he said, 'I need a secretary myself. Instead of working somewhere else, let her come and work for me.' That's when I started to work for my father.

We lived in that apartment in Talimhane [part of the district of Taksim, on the European side of Istanbul] until I was 23. In 1960, we left that apartment after 23 years and rented an apartment in Sisli. At that time, my mother said, 'Instead of paying two rents, let Viktorya move in with us.' And so she did. In 1964, for the first time in their lives, they bought their own apartment - in Yesilyurt, for my sake - because I had voiced the opinion that it was better to live away from the city. After about a year, I got married and left, while they remained in Yesilyurt.

In 1965, when I decided to get married to a Turk, I introduced him first to my father. Later, after I had gotten married, my mother told me one day that, when my father had heard I was going to marry a Turk, he had asked her how they ought to react, how they should take it. And my mother said then, 'We have no other alternative but to accept, because if the young ones have their minds set on something, they go ahead and do it anyway and if we oppose them, we'd be the losers. If you don't want to lose your daughter, you better say nothing.' And that is what they did, or didn't do!

The respective families did not socialize, although they paid each other a visit of courtesy. My husband Günel's mother had died when he was 14. He had been raised by his aunt. She invited us one day and we took my mother there. And the aunt came once to Yesilyurt to visit my parents.

When they lived in Yesilyurt, at first, they employed village girls as live- in maids. With time, they had help only once a week, then once in a fortnight.

In 1964, when they moved to Yesilyurt, my mother made a large circle of friends from the Jewish Community. For many years, they got together in each other's houses to play 'kumkam,' the card game I mentioned earlier. I still call them to inquire about how they are.

My mother was a lively, cheerful person, who enjoyed life. She loved telling jokes. One day, when my children were between eight and ten years of age, she called them to her side and said, 'You are old enough now; I can tell you adult jokes from now on.' My children remember her with a great deal of affection. They say, 'Who else has a grandmother who told her ten-year-old grandchildren adult no-no jokes?'

My mother also liked to have some fun on her own. When I started to go horseback riding as a sport, she started to attend the horse races at Veliefendi [racetrack of Istanbul] and do a bit of betting.

In 1995, when my parents got really old, I moved in with them. At that time, of my mother's eight siblings, only Eli, the youngest brother, was still alive. He used to visit his elder sister at least once a month. On such a visit, he said it was time to think about how they wanted to be buried. My uncle wished them to return to Judaism. For this reason, he went to the Chief Rabbinate, to inquire about what this entailed. He learned that they had to apply to the Mufti and get written permission. But they were already 95 years old and did not leave the house any more.

After thinking about it for a week, my mother told me that they had discussed the matter with my father and that, as they had a Muslim son-in- law and Muslim grandchildren, and as these were the ones who would continue the family, and while they would always remain attached to their past, with love and respect, they had decided to be buried as Muslims.

My mother lived all her life exclusively in Istanbul. She died in Yesilyurt on 16th May 1997, one Friday evening at 8 o'clock. She was exactly 97 years old. Early on Saturday morning, we applied to the Municipality of Bakirköy and got permission to bury her in the Altinsehir Cemetery, during the noon 'namaz.' The imam who conducted the service, probably understood that we were Jews in reality, because he said, looking us in the eyes: 'We now invoke all our prophets, from Moses to Muhammed.' This touched me so much that I still remember it with tears in my eyes and recall that very mature imam with gratitude.

Now let me tell you about my aunt Viktorya, my father's elder sister. Viktorya was born in 1895, in Constanza, a port city by the Black Sea. My aunt, Tante Viktorya, was very close to us. I called her Tantika. Women enjoy speaking and tend to share a lot; and so did my aunt. She spoke frequently about their house, whereas my father did not.

Viktorya was educated up to the secondary level. Interestingly, she attended a Greek school in Constanza. She knew Greek very well. Since her mother was ill most of the time, my aunt did housework from a very young age on, and was very good at it. She also knew how to sew very well. I have in my possession an old foot-operated Singer sewing machine which she had brought all the way from Romania to Turkey. It must be 100 years old, but is still in good working condition.

In 1917, when my father was 14 years old, their mother died. My aunt was 22 then. Being the only woman of the family, she had to take care of her father and three brothers, which meant keeping the house, cooking and acting as a mother to them. Of course, it is possible that they had help in the house, considering that they employed a coachman - you don't have a coachman and not afford a maid - but I don't remember any mention of helpers.

When they came to Istanbul in the 1920s, Tantika was a young girl. She loved people and established good relations with the neighbors in no time. She learned a great deal from the friends she made, yet she had some skills others didn't have and knew some things from Romania that people here did not know, like preparing chicken with dried apricots. Here's the recipe:

Put to soak 300 grams dried apricots for about an hour. Sauté pieces of chicken in a pan, in sunflower or olive oil until slightly brown. Add half a cup boiling water, salt and pepper, cover and simmer until juice is almost completely reduced. Transfer chicken to another dish. Place drained apricots in bottom of pan, add cooked pieces of chicken, cover with boiling water and simmer until only a small amount of sauce remains.

This is a typically Romanian dish. Viktorya knew and prepared Sephardic dishes Romanian style. When introducing me to certain recipes, she pointed to the differences between Istanbul and Romanian cooking. For example, she said that they never added bread crumbs to the meat when preparing meatballs, and that she had learned to do that in Istanbul.

She did all the housework herself. I know for certain that they did not employ any help in Istanbul. As I noted, she knew how to sew very well. She sewed all my clothes until I was seven or eight years old... She cooked and did the washing all by hand.

Viktorya was rather heavily built and had light brown hair. She was not particularly pretty, but walked keeping her body upright and with a self- confident allure which reflected her strong personality. She was of medium height. She valued cleanliness and orderliness, which were reflected in the way she kept herself - no hair out of place, so-to-speak. She liked to dress well, chic but on the formal side, suits in the winter, sun dresses or prints in the summer. She always wore jewelry: pins, earrings, rings. All in all, she was a doer, hard on herself. She never spent an idle moment. When she had nothing to do, she found something to sew.

My aunt was deeply sorry that her brother had to stay engaged for five years because she wasn't married. I believe this caused her to marry somebody who, under normal circumstances, would not have been her first choice, nor apparently vice versa. The groom's decision was facilitated by the lure of a small dowry and participation in my father's business. It is very likely, that Israel Levi married Tantika for the little amount of money and the job. Tantika was about 40 then, her husband a little younger.

It was not a successful marriage, to say the least. Nor did it lead to a fruitful business relationship with my father. After a few years, my father and he had a fight and separated, and were not on speaking terms. This was terrible for Tantika, who loved her brother dearly. For a long time, during the day, she would come to see us 'secretly.'

After about 15 years, the said Israel Levi found a pretty Greek woman and left my aunt, who went on living in her apartment. My father supported her. Later, we heard that he was paralyzed. I used to tease my aunt by telling her that it was a good thing she had divorced, because she would have had to care for a paralyzed man now!

When I was a child, my aunt did not live with us literally, but in practice she did, because she lived just one street away, and not having any children of her own, she came to us daily, right after sending her husband off to work and making her bed. She stayed with us practically till dinner time.

As she didn't do the shopping herself, she used to cook whatever was available, always imaginatively, always with pleasure. She loved being useful: she either did the housework or she sewed - mostly for others.

She was a most obliging person. If anything needed to be done in the house, she felt she had to do it. She worked incessantly. She was a truly good person. She lived in Lamartin Caddesi in Taksim and had a neighbor, who had to work during the day, despite having a boy of three or four. Tantika took care of that boy until he started school. She took him with her, gave him his lunch, put him to nap, and when he woke up, she dressed up and took him for a walk from Taksim to Galatasaray. All this without any pay, just to help a neighbor.

She took care of me, too - this way and much more. She was like a second mother to me.

She also loved going out a little every day. She went strolling in Pera, looking at the shop windows. Or she and my mother went to play cards, with friends. In those days, the women of our community used to meet in the afternoons to play card games like 'kumkam.' As they lived in the same neighborhood, my mother and Tantika had the same friends.

Then, in 1960, we had to leave the apartment where we had lived for 23 years, because the landlord's daughter had gotten married and needed it. Until then, we had been paying a rather low rent. When we were forced to move, our rent went up significantly. Then, as I noted before, my mother said, 'Since Viktorya comes to us everyday and only goes to her own apartment to sleep, we may as well all live together, rather than go on paying two rents.'

This appeared quite logical for economical reasons, but led to unforeseen friction between the now two ladies of the house. Viktorya was accustomed to being mistress of her own house. My mother liked to linger in bed in the mornings and got up at 10, do her housework whenever she felt like it, or just leave it for the next day. Therefore, when Viktorya got up at 8 and finished all the work, my mother got cross and said, 'I was going to do all that after I got up at 10!'

When this friction arose, my mother found that she had had enough of being together day and night with her sister-in-law and go to play cards together as well. My aunt got offended and stopped going out together. For a while, she had some friends and relatives apart from my mother. But she soon stopped seeing them and started to sit at home, seemingly unhappy, more and more.

All the hardships Tantika had suffered in her life were reflected - one might say - in her appearance, which was rather tragic. Through much of her life, she had been sad and somewhat gloomy, as opposed to my mother who had a cheerful disposition. Viktorya suffered from high blood pressure and chronic gastritis, and had to take all kinds of pills.

When I got married and had my own two children, Tantika preferred to come and stay with us and take care of them, and to help me out, which I needed because I was working. She was like a grandmother to them, came over on Monday mornings and went home on Friday evenings. She did this willingly and generously because that's the kind of person she was.

Then she got older. When my children grew up and started to go to university, I invited her over and fetched her on occasion, not to work but to spend a week with us from time to time.

All this time, she continued to live in my parents' house. In 1977, she suffered a slight paralysis, then recovered and lived another two years. Two years later, she had a relapse but did not recover this time. She was admitted to the Or-ahayim Hospital, where she passed away after three months, in the year 1979, at the age of 84.

My father's elder brother, David Nassi, who was three years younger than Viktorya, was born in 1898 and raised in Romania. The only thing I know about him is this: when he was 17, he volunteered to fight in World War I. He served in the Romanian army and fought from 1915 till 1918. When the war ended, he came home. Three months later, when he turned 20, he was called to do his military service. He tried to explain that he had served in the war as a volunteer for three years, but was told that volunteering was one thing, military service another. He got so infuriated that he ran away, deserting home, family, country, everything. They never heard of him again.

One day, 10-15 years ago, my telephone rang. Somebody speaking Spanish - almost as little as me then - said, 'I am Moshe Nassi.' I got terribly excited: it was my uncle David's son calling! He and his wife had come from Israel and were staying at a hotel in Aksaray. I immediately went to fetch them and took them to see my father. Their meeting was very emotional. My father told his newly-found nephew all the things he did not know about our family. He didn't even know that our grandfather's name was Izak, nor that he himself was named after a younger brother of his father, who had died at a young age. We gave him photographs.

Moshe, on his part, told us what had happened to David after he left Romania. David crossed to Bulgaria, where he started to work on a farm and married Blanca, the daughter of a Jewish family who also worked there. They had a boy and a girl, whom they named Moshe and Nehama. They emigrated to Palestine before World War II. My cousin Moshe is exactly my age, his sister Nehama seven years younger.

When Moshe turned ten, his father died. Their mother raised the children. As they lost their father at a very young age, they did not know much about his family background. I don't know how he found out that we were in Istanbul; apparently, he got our name and address from the Chief Rabbinate.

A year after Moshe's visit, his sister Nehama also came and met my father. That encounter was as, if not more, emotional as the earlier one with her brother. Nehama was only three when she lost her father. When she saw my father, therefore, she clasped both his hands and held them for the duration of the meeting. Now, we keep in touch with them by telephone and e- mail.

My father's second brother, Moiz Nassi, born in 1900, worked in the same bank as his father, as 'cash collector.' Every Friday evening, he would go to the various villages where the Marmarosh Bank had branches, by horse- carriage driven by a coachman, collect the cash, bring it to the main branch, and lock it in the main safe. On a winter day, when passing through a forest, his party was attacked and robbed by brigands, who killed the horse and the coachman, and left Moiz for dead. He remained lying in the snow for three days. When they finally found him, he had pneumonia and died three months later. He was about 18.

My eldest uncle, Nisim Finanser, born circa 1896, was in the wholesale textile business on commission, in Sirkeci, like his father. He was married to Sara Baruh and had two sons. He died in 1958 of a brain hemorrhage. His elder son Moris moved to Israel and died there. His younger son Alper is exactly my age. He still lives in Istanbul. Both Moris and Alper attended the St. Benoit French School.

Pepo Finanser was also in the same business. He was married to Rashel Tovi. They had a daughter, Esterika. They lived in Istanbul but emigrated to Israel towards the end of their lives. Pepo died there in 1971, as did his wife shortly after. Their daughter still lives in Israel.

Alber Finanser opened a wholesale textile shop in Asirefendi caddesi. He had a partner called Katalan. Alber's first wife died when she was only 23. They had a daughter, Meri, who lives in the USA currently. Alber got married again - to Estrea from Kadiköy. They had a daughter, too, Ayten. They lived in Yazici sokak, two or three buildings away from the famous Dogan Apt., which used to be called Botton Han then. They did their shopping from the window, with a basket tied to a rope.

Concerning the laundry, Meri told me that all the neighbors gathered on the roof terrace [taraca], lit up fires in the open, on which they heated water in enormous cauldrons, and did their washing all together. They then hung the washing to dry on ropes that were extended from each other's windows on opposite sides of the street, from one end to the other. I witnessed the laundry hanging in the streets thus all the time. Lots of photographs of this exist and attest to it, too.

Meri and Ayten attended the Ste. Pulchérie French School. After a long and successful career of 40 years as a dress-maker - she had an atelier in a part of her house, with 5 Mexican girls helping with the sewing. She made haute-couture 'sur commande' clothes for fashionable ladies who came to her house for the fittings - Meri went to university at the age of 69, got her BA in French, then went on and obtained her master's degree from Wake Forest University in North Carolina.

Alber Finanser lived in Istanbul, but moved to the US, to live with his daughter Meri, after his wife died. He died there in 1988.

My uncle Alber had many books written in Rashi letters, which were passed on to him from his father's household. Before going to America, he donated them to the Chief Rabbinate. I hope they kept them well.

Leon Finanser was a customs agent. He adopted the name Cemil Finanser. He was married to Süzan from Edirne. They didn't have any children. They moved to Israel in the 1970s. There, Leon adopted the name Ari Finanser. He died there in 1989. As far as I know, his wife Süzan still lives in Israel.

Rashel Finanser had typhus at the age of two and a half. The terrible disease, with its very high fever, caused brain damage. She did not develop well mentally due to that, but was able to learn housework, which she did very well. She worked at home every day until noon and went to the Sari Madam Tea Garden in the afternoons. All the women of the neighborhood who frequented that garden were very fond of her. She was a good, simple person. Maybe because of that, she was our favorite aunt, when we were children, because she liked to play with us.

Aunt Rashel lived with my grandmother, until my grandmother's death in 1962. Then she went to live with her younger brother Jak. Grandmother had made my mother responsible for Rashel's welfare after her own death. So, my mother arranged for all the brothers to contribute to her upkeep. Rashel was of great help at Jak's house, as she knew how to do housework, including cooking, ironing ... everything. She continued going to have tea at Sari Madam in the afternoons. But Jak died relatively young, of cancer.

After that, still on my mother's initiative and with her organizational skills, all the brothers contributed to pay for her to stay at the Old People's Home at the La Paix French Hospital. She was already quite ill with diabetes. She lived for about two years at the La Paix and died there of diabetes, in 1976.

Izak Finanser had a wholesale drug supply company, buying drugs from the various producers and distributing them to the pharmacies. He attended the St. Benoit French School. He married Naile Kamhi and had a daughter named Aysel, who attended the Ste. Pulchérie French School. Towards the end of his life, he lost his eyesight due to diabetes. His daughter Aysel, who lived in Israel, came to Istanbul in 1984 and took him there. Izak died there in 1986.

I don't know what Jak Finanser did for a living. He was married to Öjeni and had two sons, Moris and Viktor. Jak died in Istanbul in 1974. His wife and sons still live here.

The youngest brother Eli Finanser also attended the St. Benoit French School. He had a wholesale business of pharmacy equipment. He was married to Vilma Bubic and had two daughters, Etel and Rozi, both of whom attended the Ste. Pulchérie French School. Rozi then went on to the St. Michel Lycée and the Academy of Fine Arts, where she studied Textile Designing. Eli died in Istanbul in 1997. His wife and daughters still live here.

Most of my uncles' children are businessmen.

My mother's brothers went to the synagogue most Saturdays as well as on religious holidays.

I was born in Istanbul on 23rd February 1937. I am an only child. My mother was 37 years old when she gave birth to me. When I was five months old, we moved to the Tas apt. at No. 33/1 in Taksim, Talimhane, Sehit Muhtar caddesi. I remember this well because we lived there till I was 23.

When mother suffered from a severe case of rheumatism, my parents hired an Armenian nanny called Nuritsa for me. She always used to tell me two stories when she put me to bed; one was 'Tas Bebek' [The Stone Doll] and the other 'Asik Garip' [The Wandering Minstrel]. Unfortunately, I never heard the ending of these stories because she was so tired that she fell asleep before me. Apart from a nanny, I had a 'mademoiselle' who took me out to the park. I also took piano and ballet lessons then, thus fulfilling all bourgeois requirements.

When I was about two years old, we started going to Büyükada to spend the summers. There, in the evenings, we used to meet my father at the 'débarcadaire' [quay]. We hired a rowing boat and my parents swam.

When World War II started, I was barely three. What impressed me most then and has stuck in my memory, were the dark blue spring-roller blinds - we called them 'stors' - on the windows, which we had to pull down in the evenings in order to block out the lights. This was part of everyone's routine called 'black-out.' I still have those 'stors' which I keep in case they come in useful some day, because they were made of a very strong tarpaulin-like material.

Of course, basic foods like bread and sugar were rationed, but - thanks to my parents' care - I was not affected by that.

I never attended kindergarten, which made me feel deprived and was a source of frustration, because all my friends did.

The year 1942 saw the imposition of the 'Varlik Vergisi' [Wealth Tax]. My father's situation was affected less by the tax than by the war itself, but improved on the whole after the war. After several years of being a seasonal renter in Büyükada, he bought a house there, as well as a boat. After using it as a rowing boat for a year, he installed sails on it and took me sailing with him. We learned to ride a bicycle together, my father and I. He was 45 then, and I was eleven. We toured the island on our bikes, sailed and swam together.

During the summer, in Büyükada, my mother and I went to the women's Turkish Bath. It was a small hamam. There was a central place where everyone washed together, and three small, private cubicles on one side. Skinny women wearing bath-wraps made of thin cotton cloth, from the waist down, called 'peshtamal,' used to massage and scrub us, literally, with rough mitts that felt like steel wool.

We used to go to my grandparents' house every holiday without fail. My grandfather was very particular about that. We were a crowd of 35 people around the Pesach table. He read the Haggadah himself and performed all the Seder rituals.

In my parents' house, there was no observance of religious or traditional customs. We went to the synagogue only for weddings or funerals.

When I was a child, my father's elder sister Viktorya, who I called Tantika, did not live with us, but she came to our house every day and stayed until just before dinner time. She took great care of me and was like a second mother.

I attended the Taksim Aydin Okulu elementary school and the English High School for Girls.

My father was an authoritarian person but always indulgent with me. He was very fond of me; he talked with me and was concerned about me. I trusted him implicitly. Once, while in elementary school, I was having difficulties with my 'Yurttaslik Bilgisi' [Citizenship course] homework. I asked for his help. He sat with me for a couple of hours and explained it to me. He did it so well that I always got 'Pek Iyi' [a 'Very Good' mark] on that subject after that day.

Most of our neighbors were Jewish. Relations were very close. They all visited each other for coffee, coming to us frequently. They spoke Ladino among themselves. I consider French my mother tongue, because that was what we spoke at home.

I never spoke Ladino myself. My cousin Meri tells me that when our grandmother spoke to me in Ladino, I answered in French, being so stubborn. And they thought I did not know or understand it!!! But I did understand everything. One day, I must have been around eight, during a neighbors' gathering, they told a somewhat spicy story, and I burst out laughing. Then they realized that I understood - and that put an end to it: they stopped telling spicy stories in my presence!

When I was eleven, we traveled to Izmir by train. Trains were very chic then, with sleepers known as 'Wagon-lit' and 'Wagon-Restaurant.' The trip lasted a whole day. My father was in the essential oils business. He had agents in Izmir, namely, two partners who were called Sadi and Krespin. We were invited to Krespin's house where I stayed for a month. They had a boy of my age, Daviko. This David had kites that he put together himself, with long tails made of newspapers. For the first time in my life, I flew kites in the fields, whirled tops, ran and played in the streets with other children, got tired, sweaty and flushed, in short, I learned how to be a child in Izmir. As an only child, I had been a quiet child at home, with my books. That is why Izmir has had and will always have a very special meaning for me.

At eleven, after finishing elementary school, I started attending the English High School. It was for girls only at that time. It was situated between Galatasaray and Tünel, in Beyoglu [Pera]. It still exists, but as the Beyoglu Anadolu Lisesi for boys and girls. I used to go back and forth by tramway. Those days, I received one lira per week from my parents as pocket money, which I tried to save by sometimes walking - or running - to school, because the tram cost 3 kurus, and I used that saved money to buy books.

In high school, all subjects were taught in English - sciences and math, literature, language, grammar and all. In the afternoons, Turkish Language and Literature, Grammar, History and Geography were taught in Turkish. The pupils were Turkish, Greek, Armenian, and Jewish. Foreign nationals could attend the elementary school and did. Among these, there were English, Italian and Greek nationals. The elementary school was for foreign nationals only, but when they reached high school, they joined in the 6th grade, with the Turkish nationals who came from the prep classes where they had learned English.

The subjects taught in English had foreign teachers, and those taught in Turkish had, understandably, Turkish teachers. There were no Jewish teachers. Most of the teachers were English and came from England under two to three-year contracts. Only in the preparatory classes, there were two woman teachers who seemed to have been there forever. My colleague Karen Gerson Sarhon, who is 20 years younger than I, learned English from the same teacher as I, 20 years later.

My friends and I used to visit each other in our homes after school hours. Of course, normally one has only two or three close friends.

On weekends, I went out with my cousins, especially with my uncle Alber's daughter Ayten who was my age, and her friends, because I was not an outgoing person and did not make friends easily when left to myself. Ayten went to Ste. Pulchérie French High School and had lots of friends from her class. I joined them and we went to the cinema at 4:30 on Saturday afternoons. We ate Profiterol chocolate cakes at the Inci patisserie. Hot dogs had just started to be popular then. We went to a place called Mandra in Tünel to eat hot dogs, and to drink 'tursu suyu' [pickle veggies' water] at a place in Sishane. In Beyoglu, across from the Saray Muhallebici, there was a place called Atlantik, which had started selling hot toast sandwiches with cheese.

We had books at home, but we borrowed many more from the French Cultural Center Library at the French Consulate in Taksim. In this way, my mother and I could read a great number of books, about a book every couple of days. Reading was my hobby; in contrast, playing the piano was a chore. I remember reading in bed, at night, with a small lamp, under the cover, till three or four in the morning.

When I became aware of what had been done to the Jews in Europe, I could not believe how such a thing was possible. Later, from books, I learned that similar treatment had occurred all along the centuries. For instance, in a book called 'The Last of the Just' [by André Schwarz-Bart (1928-2006), French author of Polish-Jewish origins]. I read in detail all the horrible things that had been done to Jews through one to two thousand years in different parts of the world. Then I realized that the mass killing was not new, just that it had gotten worse and worse as time went by.

After World War II, when there was a wave of Zionism, there emerged several secret societies in Istanbul. I joined one of them called Betar 18, together with some friends. We used to meet secretly, once or twice a week, in the houses of some of the members, about 10-15 young people. They taught us Zionism and a few words of Hebrew.

After attending a few times, a close friend and I thought, 'They tell us to go to Palestine. Why don't they go themselves?' This got on our nerves and we stopped going. Among all those people, I know only one who actually went to Palestine. But, of course, they say that about 35,000 people went when Israel was founded 19.

In 1950, when my father got ill and went to Paris with my mother, to be operated on, I remained a whole year with Tantika at the age of 13.

I met my first husband at a birthday party. I was 15. The party was five to ten minutes away from our apartment in Taksim, but when I left, he accompanied me home. Then we started seeing each other, meeting in Taksim and chatting. His name was Ceki Karasu. I was in the 8th grade.

That summer, Tantika and I went to Büyükada. Although his family did not normally go to Büyükada, Ceki insisted and they did that year. We continued seeing each other on the island. One day, we were strolling in the street when we saw someone Ceki knew. He said, 'Let me introduce you my fiancée.' He had not proposed, formally or otherwise, before then, but through his act of introducing me as his fiancée, we became engaged - almost out of the blue.

Being away in Paris, my parents became aware of all this only upon their return. But as the families were suitable, there was no objection; and all was well. I got married at 17, with my parents' authorization, which I needed because of my age.

We got married at the Neve Shalom Synagogue. As my parents had converted to Islam before they got married, I was born Muslim. In order to get married at the Neve Shalom, I had to go through the process of becoming Jewish. For this, I needed to get the Mufti's permission. He asked me why I wanted to change my religion. I said that it was in order to get married. He then asked, 'Have you thought it over carefully?' I said, 'Yes,' and he signed the permit.

On the other hand, in a ceremony prepared by the Chief Rabbinate, I had to undress and get completely immersed three times in a bath [mikveh] in the presence of several women, and repeat certain words in Hebrew, which I did not understand. I gather that, coming from a family who was originally Jewish, still registered with the Community and paying Kizba 20, I did not need to take any lessons about my 'new' religion. Afterwards - after my Jewish identity was officially noted in my revised identity card - I could get married at the Neve Shalom.

Then Ceki went to do his military service in Ankara and I went with him. We stayed there for one and a half years, then returned to Istanbul.

I had left school in the middle of the 8th grade in order to get married. Later I came to regret this. While Ceki was doing his military service in Ankara, I started studying in order to take the secondary school graduation exams by working at home, without attending any classes, which was allowed. When we were back in Istanbul, I took the exams at the Galatasaray Lycée and passed.

I remember the events of 6th -7th September 21 because I had to take an exam on that day. We were in Caddebostan, so we did not hear or notice anything. When later in the morning I went to Beyoglu, I was quite shocked to see the streets covered in broken glass, torn furs and destroyed goods. We had to step on all that to be able to walk. By that time, the disturbances had ended, but all the shop windows were broken and the entire street of Beyoglu was covered, to a depth of 30-40 centimeters, with destroyed goods. I can't remember if the exam did take place or not that day.

Ceki tried to work in my father's office for a while, but they did not get along well. He found an interpreting job in Ankara; so we went back and lived there for another two years.

Strangely enough, the only anti-Semitic incident that happened to me in all my life occurred in Turkey but not through Turks. During my first marriage, while I was living in Ankara, I was looking for a secretarial job. At that time, many international petroleum companies were establishing operations in Turkey to search for oil, and I applied to all of them.

That anti-Semitic incident I mentioned before happened at the British Petroleum Oil Company. They gave me a form to fill, which asked for my religion. None of the other applications had asked for that. I wrote 'Jewish,' upon which they called me for an interview and said bluntly and unapologetically whatsoever, 'We cannot employ you because you are Jewish.' I was shocked and asked, 'So what?' They replied that they were careful not to employ people from different ethnic groups. And I said, 'I was born and raised in this country, and this is the first time in my life that I am told that there is something I cannot do because my religion is different.' They said, 'Sorry, this is our company's policy' and I didn't get the job, although I was fully qualified. I got a job, nevertheless, at the Tidewater Oil Co., which was an American company belonging to Paul Getty.

Later, my first husband decided to go to the US to study and stay there. I helped him actively to apply to numerous universities, but when he got accepted, I did not wish to go with him and decided to separate. He left, and I stayed in Turkey. We had been married for three and a half years, without having children. I got married at 17 and divorced at 21.

This was not a particularly courageous thing to do, for it was fairly common to divorce. But in my case, it was an uncharacteristically courageous act, because Ceki had been a manipulative person, guiding me in every aspect of life. In time, I rebelled against this, being perhaps somewhat harsh because he refused to let me go. At that stage, my character, which was on the timid, docile and introverted side, had to change, and it did.

Then I returned to Istanbul, lived with my family and worked with my father, went horseback riding, traveled, had a wider and expanding social entourage, or circle of acquaintances and friends.

My parents were very supportive, although they probably were a bit sorry and would have wanted the marriage to have succeeded. But I could not bring myself to go to America with someone I did not love, leaving my family, and living under suppression. My close family consisted of three elderly people: my parents, who were already nearing their sixties, and the older Tantika. They would have had nobody had I left them, which I just could not do.

In fact, after I started working for my father, the last company I had worked for in Ankara, had a meeting at the Istanbul Hilton Hotel, and asked me to do some secretarial work for it. Then and there, one of the persons for whom I acted as secretary, someone from Italy, offered me a job in Italy at a salary sufficient to live decently there: 250 dollars per month, which was attractive and consistent with prevailing salaries in the West.

I thought about it a lot, but did not take the job. Maybe if I had, my whole life would have been altered, but I could not abandon my people here. Eventually, they all died practically in my arms, which makes my decision, in retrospect, appropriate.

When I started to work for my father in 1958, I learned the business. After a year, Mr. Grünstayn, who had acted as our sales person, that is, took the orders, left us and I started to visit the customers myself. By that time, we had obtained the agency of the Ferro Enamels Company of Holland, which produced raw materials, installations, machinery and equipment for the enameling and ceramic industries. I went to Holland to learn the business.

In those years, 1958-1959 maybe, I was the only woman who drove herself to factories to sell raw materials and machinery. I was extremely well received. Even in Holland, when we visited factories and foundries, they were surprised to see me, because even there, there were no women in this line of work, and it surprised them all that the first woman to do this should come from Turkey.

After my divorce, I went to the Istanbul Atli Spor Kulübü [Istanbul Horseback Riding Club] with a friend from elementary school, Rozi Arditti. Thereafter, between my two marriages, from the age of 21 to 28, I went horseback riding and on vacations frequently with friends.

In 1964, my family had already moved to Yesilyurt.

I met my second husband in 1965 through a friend, Sehnaz Akinci, at the horse-riding club. She lived on the same floor, in the same apartment, as a lady called Mina Urgan. I met her for the first time when I went to Sehnaz's apartment. Mina Urgan had had a beloved classmate at the American College, Saffet Orgun, who had passed away, and had a son, Günel Orgun. He was a young man of about my age, who had been married and divorced after three years. Mina thought that we should be compatible, and that being both divorcees, we could have some good time together. So, she introduced us. Günel had a motorboat. Mina asked my friend Sehnaz and me to a boat ride on a Sunday. We went and that is how we met.

At that time, Günel was on the verge of buying a farm by the sea in Datca [a town in southwest Turkey], together with four friends. The farm was called Mersincik and was situated at 18 kilometers from Bodrum, on the opposite shore, and could only be reached from there by sea. It was a dream- like place of 5000 dönüms [approx. 1250 acres]. Some 500 dönüms of it was flatland by the sea; the rest consisted of hills covered with trees that reached 800 meters. There were 1500 tangerine, orange and grapefruit trees, and a flock of 150 goats. The hills were full of olive trees of the variety grown for their oil.

Everyone dreams of owning a farm at some time or another, but the fact that Günel was about to realize that dream was one of the things that impressed me the most about him. Our mutual love of classical music also drew us to each other. We got married three months after we met, in 1965, and have been together for 42 years.

Mina Urgan, who had brought us together, was a retired professor of English Literature at the University of Istanbul. She later became famous with her best-selling book 'Bir Dinozor'un Anilari' [Memoirs of a Dinosaur] and its sequel, 'Bir Dinozor'un Gezileri' [Travels of a Dinosaur], where she mentions us, our family and our children.

We got married at the Üsküdar Registry Office. Günel is a graduate of Robert College 22. He had lots of friends from school, Turkish, Jewish, Greek, Armenians, etc., reflecting the diversity of RC's student body. His family was very Westernized. He teases me to this day by saying that my family is far more 'a la turca' than his. After all, my grandfather was from Canakkale, used to smoke the 'narghile' sitting cross-legged on the sofa, on top of cushions, played with worry beads, etc. In comparison, Günel's relatives were the avant-garde of the day, having been to Europe, studied at the Galatasaray Lycée, in short, much more Western than my relatives.

Shortly after we got married in 1965, Günel and I drove to Bodrum in my car. On the old highway, going from Milas to Bodrum, there was a very steep and curved road, winding through the pine forests, with a precipice on one side and a mountain on the other. That road was called 'Avram Yokusu' [Avram's Slope]. It must have been named after Avram Galante [Jewish historian who was also one of the first members of parliament after the Turkish Republic was founded], who was born in Bodrum. That road is no longer used, because there is a new highway going to Bodrum by the coast. A real pity.

From Bodrum, we crossed to Mersincik by boat and spent our honeymoon there. We had 2500 olive trees - of the eating-olives variety - planted. We did this by hiring 45 workers from the surrounding villages. They worked on daily wages and slept in caves that were around the farm. The wives of the 'kahya' and the workers cooked food in big cauldrons and baked bread in the oven situated in the garden. In 1965, Datca was a largely undeveloped place. As a result of the work we provided, a traveling open-air cinema came there, for the first time, because they got informed that our 45 workers had earned some money. Nothing like that had ever happened in the surrounding villages at that time.

When we got back, we rented a house on the Bosphorus, on the Asian coast. In those years it was cheaper to live in a 'Yali' [sea-side villa] than in an apartment in town. Günel worked in an automotive company called Tatko. He was in charge of the spare parts department.

Then we had two children: my son Orhan, born in 1966, and my daughter Gün, born in 1968. I worked in my father's office. My aunt Viktorya, who was like a grandmother to them, came to stay with us on Monday mornings and went back on Friday evenings. This continued until my son turned two. I stopped working when my daughter was about to be born, because Tantika had become too old to take care of two small children.

One day, my husband and I had a serious talk and considered the two alternatives open to us: either we moved near my parents' home in Yesilyurt and left the children with them when I went to work, or he quit his job and went to work with my father. We chose the latter because my father had a good business; we also reasoned that we could not leave him alone, as he could not hear well, could not drive, could not talk with the clients on the phone and that, in short, the business would collapse if we left.

I remember the particulars well: Günel used to earn 4000 liras per month, plus a bonus, at Tatko. He came to work with my father for 2500 liras per month. He worked there for about ten years, and the business prospered, thanks to his ability, regardless of how much the market situation may have contributed to it.

By the year 1971, we had saved up enough money to buy an apartment. But we had always lived in nice houses by the sea, with gardens, and could not envisage being squeezed in a town apartment. We looked at the choices a little away from the city in order to afford a house with a garden. We were lucky to buy a farm in Polonezköy [a village 15 km north of Istanbul, on the Asian side, founded by refugees of Polish origin, after the Crimean War] 23 for the price of an apartment in town.

We then started a poultry farm. Our intention was to stop working in business, as soon as the farm would support us because, by that time, Günel had had enough of city life in general and business life, in particular. The children, who were two and four when we moved to Polonezköy, later attended the village elementary school, which consisted of a single room where all 5 grades were taught by a single teacher. We had a very good life there. We owned cows, a few sheep, ducks, cats and dogs, and some 6000 chicken. Four families worked for us. We made a living by selling eggs.

There we lived a life completely different and removed from Jewish culture. We lived after all in a Catholic village populated by people of Polish origin. But my children have always been aware of my being Jewish, from what I told them and from visiting my parents' home frequently. They went to synagogue with me for weddings. After attending the wedding of one of my cousins, my daughter who was four, was so impressed that she said she wanted to become a bride when she grew up, thinking that it was a profession. Also, I usually cooked, and still do, Sephardic dishes like gratinated spinach and squash. As for circumcision, my son was circumcised at the age of eight, by a medical specialist.

We lived all year long in Polonezköy, summer and winter, for ten years. After elementary school, my children attended for one year a secondary school called Kültür Lisesi. I stayed with them in Yesilyurt, at my parents', and Günel stayed in Polonezköy, where I went with the children to spend the weekends. At the end of that year, the Kültür Lisesi was closed down. Then, the children went to boarding school, at the Esenis Lisesi, for three years.

However, we would have had to move to town, when the time came to attend university. So, we decided to get an apartment in town and bought one in Cengelköy, before they finished the lycée. Eventually they both succeeded in being accepted to the Bogazici University [24 ]. It's then that we sold the chickens, and stopped the poultry farming.

We always spoke Turkish at home, but I spoke French with Tantika, and hearing the language almost daily no doubt helped the children a lot. Proof is that while at the university, they took French courses at the French Cultural Center, and were able to speak it after just two months.

During the four years when the children were in university, we drove to the Aegean and Mediterranean coasts, the four of us, during the semester holidays.

While I managed the poultry farm in Polonezköy, my husband commuted daily by car to the office in Sirkeci. In 1978, he decided to quit commerce for good and informed the Ferro Enamels factory in Holland of his decision. They appointed a new representative, who was the technical manager of one of our customers. We offered to help him by transferring all our know-how and introducing him to all our customers. In fact, my husband worked with him for several months. Business turned out to be quite good the first year and the new rep earned a lot of money.

However, by the end of the year 1978 or 1979, Turkey was in a severe economic crisis, as a result of which imports stopped completely. Turkey had to reschedule its heavy external debt, accepting to repay it in installments in ten years. This affected us, too, since we had a commission due to us which we could not receive until the end of these ten years.

On the whole, though, our decision to stop the business when we did was quite fortuitous, as we would have been out of work at the end of one year. People who knew us thought that it was all pre-planned - that we had foreseen the situation and stopped in time. The truth is that is was just a matter of pure luck.

We had a similarly positive experience at a later date. In 1981, we sold our 6000 chickens and moved to town to prepare for our children's university studies. We had to do that because there were no dormitories available for people who were residents of Istanbul. So, we liquidated our poultry farm and bought an apartment in Cengelköy. Within a year after that, the poultry business collapsed, and people in it went bankrupt. In one case, the entrepreneur concerned - the Jewish owner of the Yupi poultry farm in Izmir - committed suicide. As things turned out, we stopped the poultry business just in time, again by pure chance.

My husband was 42 years old when he retired. His hobby was skin-diving and spear-fishing. When we moved to Cengelköy, he also started line-fishing with a friend who was a professional fisherman. They went out fishing by boat in the Bosphorus, the Marmara and Black Seas. Günel didn't engage in it for profit; he gave his friend all his catch but had a splendid time, which is what drove him to this activity. This he did for about four or five years.

After moving to Cengelköy, I, on the other hand, took a five-week course in hand-weaving rugs and kilims. After acquiring the necessary skill and familiarity with the business, I bought some looms and started a cottage industry, together with a friend, Belkis Balpinar, who was a graduate in Textile Designing from the Academy of Fine Arts. We worked together for eight years, Belkis doing the designing and I supervising the weaving. Our workers consisted of housewives from Malatya, who lived in a district called Kavacik.

We bought the raw wool [fleece] from Konya and had it carded and spun by hand. Then we dyed it ourselves by boiling it in big cauldrons on open fires in the garden. We produced many valuable kilims in this manner, only one of each design. I took care of the production end on my account, that is, Belkis paid for the preparation of the yarn and I, who owned the looms and employed the workers, produced the final product - the kilims themselves.

According to this arrangement, known as 'sur façon,' I financed the whole process of manufacturing and charged so much per square meter. In turn, Belkis, who paid me by the square meter produced, sold the kilims in exhibitions she organized in places like New York, Washington, San Francisco, London, Milan, and even Tokyo. She still does this; I, on the other hand, had to stop when my parents became too old and I had to move in with them.

The truth is that I never earned anything from the weaving business, because I felt that the workers were not paid enough, and kept raising their wages. I had, nevertheless, a wonderful time during those eight years, thanks to all those beautiful exhibitions, and meeting all those interesting collectors.

In 1988, my son Orhan graduated from the Mechanical Engineering Department of the Bogazici University and went to the University of California at Berkeley for his master's degree. When he was about to start on his doctorate, he changed subjects and studied Linguistics instead.

In 1993, he married Sharon Inkelas, a linguist like himself, and they had two sons, Jem in 1995, and Eli in 1998. Unfortunately they were divorced, though amicably, in 2006. The boys live with their mother, but my son takes them a couple of days a week, when they spend some time together.

In 1989, my daughter Gün graduated from the English Language and Literature Department of the Bogazici University. She went for her master's degree to the University of Edinburgh, and then for her doctor's degree to the University of Glasgow. In 1994, she married Stewart Carruth, a housing expert. They had a son, Jamie, in 2000, and a daughter, Lisha, in 2003.

After closing the business and the poultry farm, we rented out our office space and have been living off the income. We also have our retirement salaries. We still have the property in Polonezköy and spend eight months of the year there and only the four winter months in Cengelköy.

Every year, we visit our children in the USA and Scotland; they, in turn, often come to visit us in Turkey. Sometimes we all get together at my daughter's home in Scotland.

Jem and Eli, our American grandchildren, go to an elementary school which teaches half day in English and half day in Spanish. In 2002, I saw an ad of the Cervantes Institute about a course of Modern Spanish for Sephardi, and I immediately enrolled in it. Thanks to that decision, I can now speak Spanish with my grandchildren.

That course had another interesting outcome: It helped me remember the Ladino language I had heard and understood, but never spoke as a child. In that course, we started to prepare a dictionary in Ladino-Spanish-English- Turkish, which, in time, Antonio Ruiz Tinoco, who is a Professor of Spanish in Japan, installed on the Internet.

One day, I visited the offices of the Shalom periodical in order to buy a book in Ladino called 'En Tierras Ajenas Yo Me Vo Murir.' Gila Erbes, who was in charge of the bookstore, proposed that I should write a piece in Ladino. I wrote a couple of pieces in my free time, and thus met Karen Gerson Sarhon there. Karen was at that time organizing the Ottoman-Turkish Sephardic Culture Research Center. She asked me to talk about our Internet Dictionary at the opening reunion. This was the beginning of a deep friendship and fruitful collaboration.

Now, since 2004, we are publishing El Amaneser, which is a monthly supplement in Ladino of the Shalom Newspaper. Karen is the editor-in-chief of the publication, and I am the co-editor and coordinator. We receive by electronic mail articles from the whole world, largely from people who have not forgotten the language, and we publish them. Those people who see their pieces published become incredibly emotional and happy.

I am very pleased to be doing such a sentimental job at this stage of my life. My mother loved the Judeo-Spanish language very much. Although we always spoke French at home, she went back to speaking Ladino in the last two years of her life. And I feel that, with this activity, I do something that would have pleased her a lot.

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

1 Shalom

Istanbul Jewish weekly, founded by Avram Leyon in 1948. During Leyon's ownership, the paper was entirely in Ladino. Upon the death of its founder in 1985, the newspaper passed into the hands of the Jewish community owned company Gozlem Gazetecilik. It then started to be published in Turkish with one or two pages in Ladino. It is presently distributed to 4,000 subscribers.

2 El Amaneser

Istanbul Jewish monthly supplement to the Shalom newspaper. Founded as part of the activities of the Ottoman-Turkish Sephardic Culture Research Center in March 2005, it is published wholly in Ladino with subscribers and writers from all over the world. It is presently distributed to all Shalom subscribers plus an additional 250 who have subscribed only to El Amaneser.

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 Wealth Tax

Introduced in December 1942 by the Grand National Assembly in a desperate effort to resolve depressed economic conditions caused by wartime mobilization measures against a possible German influx to Turkey via the occupied Greece. It was administered in such a way to bear most heavily on urban merchants, many of who were Christians and Jews. Those who lacked the financial liquidity had to sell everything or declare bankruptcy and even work on government projects in order to pay their debts, in the process losing most or all of their properties. Those unable to pay were subjected to deportation to labor camps until their obligations were paid off.

5 Rashi alphabet

A Hebrew alphabet traditionally used for Rashi (Rabbi Solomon ben Isaac, 1040-1105) commentaries of the Bible and the Talmud, it is also the traditional alphabet of Judeo-Spanish. The Judeo-Spanish alphabet also used certain characters to denote the Spanish sounds that are alien to the Hebrew phonetics. Judeo-Spanish religious as well as secular texts were written in Rashi letters up until the introduction of the Latin alphabet, first by Alliance Israelite Universelle after 1860.

6 The Ottoman Empire in World War I

The Ottoman Empire entered the war on the side of the Central Powers in October 1914, as they were the ones fighting the traditional Ottoman enemy: the Russian Empire. During the winter of 1914-15 the Ottomans launched an ill prepared campaign in the Caucasus against Russia with the hope to be able to turn the local Turkish- speaking Russian subjects (Azerbaijan) to their sides. Instead, the Russian counter-offensive drove the Ottomans back behind the borders and Russia occupied North Eastern Anatolia. In the spring of 1915 the Entente was to occupy the straits (Bosphorus and Dardanelles) and ensure the passage of supply to the Russian Black Sea ports. British troops landed in Galippoli (Dardanelles) but were not able to expand their beachheads against the army of Mustafa Kemal Pasha (later Kemal Ataturk); they evacuated in February 1916. Although the Ottomans were able to resist the British in Mesopotamia (Iraq) in 1915, they finally took Baghdad in 1917 and drove the Ottomans out of the entire province. Although the Russians made further advance in Eastern Anatolia they left the war after the October Revolution and according to the Treaty of Brest-Litovsk (March 1918) the Ottomans were able to regain Eastern Anatolia. Due to the Arab Revolt supported by the British as well as the direct British military intervention the Ottomans lost both Palestine and Syria; Mustafa Kemal was able only to withdraw his forces intact to Anatolia. Sultan Mohammed VI (1818-22) was forced to sign an armistice with the Entente (October 1918) and as a result British and French battle ships reached the port of Istanbul. The Sultan finally signed the Peace Treaty in Sevres in August 1920, according to which the Arab and Kurdish provinces and Armenia were lost as well as the whole of European Turkey with Istanbul, and the Aegean littoral was to be given to Greece.

7 Raki

Anise liquor, popular in many places in the Balkans, Anatolia and the Middle East. It is principally the same as Greek Ouzo, Bulgarian Mastika or Arabic Arak.

8 Surname Law

Passed on 21st June 1934, in the early years of the Turkish Republic, requiring every citizen to acquire a surname. Up to then the Muslims, contrary to the Jews and Christians, were mostly called by their father's name beside their own.

9 Turkish War of Independence (1919-1922)

After the Ottoman capitulation to the Entente, Mustafa Kemal Pasha (later Kemal Ataturk) organized the Turkish Nationalist Party (1919) and set up a new government in Ankara to rival Sultan Mohammed VI, who had been forced to sign the treaty of Sevres (August 1920). He was able to regain much of the lost provinces; stopped the advancing Greek troops only 8 km from Ankara and was able to finally expel them from Anatolia (August 1922). He gained important victories in diplomacy too: he managed to have both the French and the Italian withdrawn from Anatolia by October 1921 and Soviet Russia recognize the country and establish the Russian-Turkish boundary. Signing a British-proposed armistice in Thrace he managed to have the Greeks withdrawn beyond the Meric (Maritsa) River and accepted a continuous Entente presence in the straits and Istanbul. In November 1922 the Grand National Assembly abolished the Sultanate (retained the Caliphate though) by which act the Ottoman Empire 'de jure' ceased to exist. Sultan Mohammed VI fled to Malta and his cousin, Abdulmejid, was named the Caliph. Turkey was the only defeated country able to negotiate with the Entente as equal and influence the terms of the peace treaty. At the Lausanne conference (November 1922- July 1923) the Entente recognized the present day borders of Turkey, including the areas acquired through warfare after the signing of the Treaty in Sevres.

10 Amical

Jewish youth club, formerly located on the first floor at the back of the Sisli Beth Israel Synagogue in Istanbul, and frequented by university students, who took part in social and cultural activities like theater performances, conferences and dance parties.

11 Or Ahayim Hospital

Istanbul Jewish hospital, established in 1898 with the decree of Sultan Abdulhamit II and the help of idealistic doctors and philanthropists. As a result of various fundraising activities the initially small clinic was expanded in 1900. Today, the hospital is still operating, serving both Jewish and non-Jewish patients with the latest technologies and qualified staff.

12 The 20 military classes

In May 1941 non-Muslims aged 26-45 were called to military service. Some of them had just come back from their military service but were told to report for duty again. Great chaos occurred, as the Turkish officials took men from the streets and from their jobs and sent them to military camps. They were used in road building for a year and disbanded in July 1942.

13 Alliance Israelite Universelle

An international Jewish organization based in France. It was founded in Paris in 1860 by Adolphe Gremieux, as a response to the Damascus Affair, with the goal to protect human rights of Jews as citizens of the countries where they live. The organization was created to combine the ideals of self defense and self sufficiency through education and professional development among Jews around the world. In addition, the organization operated a number of Jewish day schools and has done a lot to standardize the Ladino language. The Alliance schools were organized in network with their Central Committee in Paris. The teaching body was usually the alumni trained in France. The schools emphasized modern sciences and history in their curriculum; nevertheless Hebrew and religion were also taught. The Alliance Israelite Universelle ideology consisted in teaching the local language to Jews so they could be integrated to their country's culture. This was part of the modernization of the Jews. Most Ottoman Jews, however, did not take up the Turkish language (because it was optional), and as a result a new generation of Ottoman Jews grew up that was more familiar with France and the West than with the surrounding society. In the Balkans the first school was opened in Greece (Volos) in 1865, then in the Ottoman Empire in Adrianople in 1867, Shumla (Shumen) in 1870 and in Istanbul, Smyrna (Izmir), and Salonika in 1870s. In 1870, Carl Netter of the AIU received a tract of land from the Ottoman Empire as a gift and started an agricultural school, Mikveh Israel, the first modern Jewish agricultural settlement in the Land of Israel. The modernist Jewish elite and intelligentsia of the late 19th-century Ottoman Empire was known for having graduated from Alliance schools; they were closely attached to the Young Turk circles, and after 1908 three of them (Carasso, Farraggi, and Masliah) were members of the new Ottoman Chamber of Deputies.

14 Ataturk, Mustafa Kemal (1881-1938)

Great Turkish statesman, the founder of modern Turkey. Mustafa Kemal was born in Salonika; he adapted the name Ataturk (father of the Turks) when he introduced surnames in Turkey. He joined the liberal Young Turk movement, aiming at turning the Ottoman Empire into a modern Turkish nation state and also participated in the Young Turk Revolt (1908). He fought in the Second Balkan War (1913) and World War I. After the Ottoman capitulation to the Entente, Mustafa Kemal Pasha organized the Turkish Nationalist Party (1919) and set up a new government in Ankara to rival Sultan Mohammed VI, who had been forced to sign the treaty of Sevres (1920), according to which Turkey would loose the Arab and Kurdish provinces, Armenia, and the whole of European Turkey with Istanbul and the Aegean littoral to Greece. He was able to regain much of the lost provinces and expelled the Greeks from Anatolia. He abolished the Sultanate and attained international recognition for the Turkish Republic at the Lausanne Treaty (1923). Under his presidency Turkey became a constitutional state (1924), universal male suffrage was introduced, state and church were divided and he also introduced the Latin script.

15 Journal d'Orient

The main newspaper of the French-speaking Sephardi Jews in Turkey, it was published between 1917 and 1971 by Albert Karasu, his wife Angele Loreley and Jean de Peyrat idi. It consisted of four pages of daily news. The paper ceased publication on 25th August 1971, when Albert Karasu retired.

16 English High School for Girls

It was established by Lady Redcliffe, the wife of the British Ambassador, in 1849 on Bursa Street, Beyoglu, Istanbul. In 1979 Great Britain stopped subsidizing the school and the Turkish government took it over; it was renamed English Secondary. In 1980 new classes were introduced and it was renamed again and called Beyoglu Anatolian High School.

17 Neve Shalom Synagogue

Situated near the Galata Tower, it is the largest synagogue of Istanbul. Although the present building was erected only in 1952, a synagogue bearing the same name had been standing there as early as the 15th century.

18 Betar

Brith Trumpledor (Hebrew) meaning Trumpledor Society; right- wing Revisionist Jewish youth movement. It was founded in 1923 in Riga by Vladimir Jabotinsky, in memory of J. Trumpledor, one of the first fighters to be killed in Palestine, and the fortress Betar, which was heroically defended for many months during the Bar Kohba uprising. Its aim was to propagate the program of the revisionists and prepare young people to fight and live in Palestine. It organized emigration through both legal and illegal channels. It was a paramilitary organization; its members wore uniforms. They supported the idea to create a Jewish legion in order to liberate Palestine. From 1936-39 the popularity of Betar diminished. During WWII many of its members formed guerrilla groups.

19 Creation of the State of Israel

From 1917 Palestine was a British mandate. Also in 1917 the Balfour Declaration was published, which supported the idea of the creation of a Jewish homeland in Palestine. Throughout the interwar period, Jews were migrating to Palestine, which caused the conflict with the local Arabs to escalate. On the other hand, British restrictions on immigration sparked increasing opposition to the mandate powers. Immediately after World War II there were increasing numbers of terrorist attacks designed to force Britain to recognize the right of the Jews to their own state. These aspirations provoked the hostile reaction of the Palestinian Arabs and the Arab states. In February 1947 the British foreign minister Ernest Bevin ceded the Palestinian mandate to the UN, which took the decision to divide Palestine into a Jewish section and an Arab section and to create an independent Jewish state. On 14th May 1948 David Ben Gurion proclaimed the creation of the State of Israel. It was recognized immediately by the US and the USSR. On the following day the armies of Egypt, Jordan, Saudi Arabia, Yemen, Iraq, Syria and Lebanon attacked Israel, starting a war that continued, with intermissions, until the beginning of 1949 and ended in a truce.

20 Kizba

(Hebrew for 'taxation') Turkish Jewish community organization, which collects annual taxes from community members.

21 Events of 6th-7th September 1955

Pogrom against the ethnic Greeks in Istanbul. It broke out after the rumor that Ataturk's house in Salonika (Greece) was being bombarded. As most of the Greek houses and businesses had been registered by the authorities earlier it was easy to carry out the pogrom. The Greek (and other non-Muslim communities) were hit severely: 3 people were killed, 30 were wounded, also 1004 houses, 4348 shops, 27 pharmacies and laboratories, 21 factories, 110 restaurants and cafes, 73 churches, 26 schools, 5 sports clubs and 2 cemeteries were destroyed; 200 Greek women were raped. A great wave of immigration occurred after these events and Istanbul was cleansed of its Greek population.

22 Robert College

The oldest and most prestigious English language school in Istanbul since the mid-19th century, providing education to the elite of Turkey as well as other countries in the region. Robert College was born in 1863 in the village of Bebek by the Bosphorus, when Christopher Robert approached Cyrus Hamlin with his desires and found a receptive audience. Hamlin, an American schoolmaster, had been running a school, a bakery and a laundry in Bebek at the time. Robert was a wealthy American industrialist desiring to establish in Turkey a modern university along American lines with instruction in English. These two men, an educator and a philanthropist, successfully collaborated to found Robert College. Until 1971, it included two campuses: the actual Robert College exclusively for boys and the American College for Girls. In 1971, the American College for Girls and the Robert College boys' school united and co-education started under the name of Robert College at the previous American College for Girls campus. At the same time the Turkish government took over the boys' campus, which became Bogazici University (Bosphorus University). Robert College and today's Bogazici University were and still are the best schools in Turkey. Through the years, these schools have had graduates occupying top positions in Turkey's business, political, academic and art sectors.

23 Crimean war

1853-1956, in many respects the first modern war in History. The Russian Empire with aspirations concerning the Balkans occupied the Ottoman principalities of Moldova and Walachia in July 1853. The great powers fearing from a Russian advance in the region and wanting to preserve the European equilibrium sided with the Ottoman Empire in the conflict: Great Britain and France declared war on Russia in March 1854. Although the Habsburg Empire remained neutral its threats to enter the war forced the Russians to evacuate the two Ottoman principalities and they were occupied by the Austrians. In September 1854 allied troops landed on the Crimea in order to capture Sevastopol, the major Russian Black Sea port. The Russians defended the city heroically for 11 months under the command of V. Kornilov and P. Nakhimov. Allied commanders were Lord Raglan for the British and Marshal Saint-Arnaud, succeeded later by Marshal Canrobert, for the French. Military operations, which were marked on both sides by great stubbornness, gallantry, and disregard for casualties, remained localized. Famous episodes were the battles of Balaklava and Inkerman (1854) and the allied capture (1855) of Malakhov and Redan, which preceded the fall of Sevastopol. The accession (1855) of Tsar Alexander II and the capture of Sevastopol led to peace negotiations that resulted in the Treaty of Paris (February 1856). The Crimean war stopped Russian aspirations towards the Balkans and the Straits for another 22 years and rescued the position of the Ottoman Empire as a great power. It also resulted in spoiling the previously very good Habsburg-Russian relation.

24 Bogazici University

Successor of Robert College, the old and prestigious American school, founded in Istanbul in 1863. With the consent of the administration of Robert College it was founded jointly with the Turkish state in 1971. Since then the university has expanded both physically and academically and today it is growing in popularity.

Sarra Shpitalnik

Sarra Shpitalnik
Kishinev
Moldova
Interviewer: Nathalia Fomina
Date of interview: June 2004

Sarra Shpitalnik is an intelligent and gentle lady of average height. She has a nice low voice and wears her hair in a knot. During our conversation she looks at me intently through her glasses. I enjoyed talking to her very much. Sarra is a wonderful story teller. She willingly answered my questions. She is a person of great erudition. Sarra lives in one half of a one-storied house in Bayukany, a district of private cottages in Kishinev. There is a small garden near the house and a few fruit trees, which had been planted by Sarra's husband Moisey Shpitalnik. Sarra's husband died about a year ago, in 2003. Bianka, a sweet little dog, keeps Sarra company. The dog is infinitely devoted to her mistress. There are two rooms and a kitchen in the house. One room serves as a living room. There are bookcases, a TV, a small sofa and a table by the window. There is a collection of dolls in national costumes, which Sarra and her husband collected, in two huge glassed stands in the room. Sarra and her husband bought some of them on their trips and their friends gave them some as well. Sarra treats me to sweet cherries from her garden.

My maternal grandfather, Srul Orentlikher, came from the town of Starokonstantinov in Ukraine [a district town in Volyn province; according to the census of 1897 it had 16,300 residents and 9212 of them were Jews]. I even have a document confirming that he was a common citizen of Starokonstantinov. Grandfather Srul finished a private Russian gymnasium as an external student and was a private teacher of the Russian language. My mother told me that my grandfather was a follower of Baal Shem Tov 1. When my grandmother was pregnant with my mother, my grandfather perished during the Russian-Japanese war in 1905. He only left a message to call the baby Beila, if it were to be a girl.

My grandmother, Hava Orentlikher, daughter of Shmuel Brick, was born in Bessarabia 2, in Kishinev, in 1878. She had many brothers and sisters, but I only knew two of them: sister Sura-Feiga and brother Srul Brick. Srul suffered from diabetes and had his arms and legs amputated. I remember my father carrying him on his back. He died, when I was a young girl. Srul had a son, who was an actor of the Jewish theater. He lived in Dnepropetrovsk [today Ukraine] in the USSR.

My grandmother's older sister Sura-Feiga Zilberman had a dairy farm near Kishinev. During a pogrom in 1905 the pogrom-makers drowned their cows in the Byk River [this river flows in Kishinev] which was deep at that time. [Editor's note: a lot of pogroms took place all over the western provinces of Russia after 1905. When the Kishinev pogrom broke out in October, the first Jewish self-defense groups [see Jewish self-defense movement] 3 stood up to pogrom-makers.] Afterward, Sura-Feiga moved in with her daughters, whose names I didn't know, in Odessa. However, this wasn't the end of her misfortunes. Her daughters died during some epidemic. Sura-Feiga returned to Kishinev. One winter day she fell on the street and died. It must have been a heart attack. Sura-Feiga had many children, but I didn't know them. Her daughter Sonia was very close to our family. My mother loved her like her own sister.

I don't know how my grandparents met. I think they took things closer to heart in their time. When my grandfather perished, my grandmother lost her hair and forgot how to read and write: she suffered so much. She already had a son and was pregnant again. The tsarist government paid her a pension of three rubles. After Sura-Feiga died, she entered into a marriage of convenience with Zilberman, who worked at the slaughter house Beit-ha- Shkhita on Popovskaya Street, present-day Tsyrelson Lane; this building no longer exists. This is what my mother told me, I don't know any details about this marriage. All I know is that my grandmother didn't change her surname. Zilberman helped my grandmother to get a job as a cashier in the slaughter house. She lived in a two-bedroom apartment in the slaughter house which the community gave her.

My mother's older brother Haim was born in 1897. At the age of 17 Haim moved to Palestine. He secretly took a train to Constanza and from there took a boat to Palestine where the British drafted him into the army. He was to fight against strikers, but he couldn't fight against his own people and from there he escaped to France. He married Fira, a Jewish girl, who had come from Odessa. He changed his name to Philip. In 1928 his son Serge, who was a few months younger than me, was born. I've never seen any of them, but I remember that in 1937 my grandmother Hava visited Philip in Paris: there was a world exhibition there at the time. I was nine years old and remember this well.

My mother, Beila Molchanskaya [nee Orentlikher], was born in Kishinev in 1905. Since she had lost her father she was entitled to free education. At first, she finished an elementary Jewish school and then studied at the Skomorovskaya private gymnasium. They studied in Russian, but there was Jewish history and Jewish traditions taught at the school. My mother spoke Yiddish at home. Old Zilberman loved my mother more than his own children as she was a very kind and sweet child. My mother returned his feeling. During her exams to the eighth grade at the gymnasium she signed her first written work with the surname of Zilberman. Unfortunately, she failed her exams and didn't take other exams and so it happened that she finished only seven grades of the gymnasium.

My mother got a job as a cashier in a store. She was very sociable and had many friends. My grandmother leased one room to make ends meet. Once, a young provincial man came in. He wanted to rent a room. At first he didn't quite like the room with its ground floor, a trestle bed covered with a clean white sheet, and plain curtains on the window. He left, but returned some time later: something drew him back to this house. He was my father, Shlomo Molchanskiy.

My paternal grandfather, Meir Molchanskiy, was born in Bessarabia in 1854: I don't know the exact location. He lived in the Jewish farming colony in Dombroveni [Jewish farming settlement in Soroki district, founded in 1836. They grew tobacco and sheep. According to the census in 1897 there were 1,815 residents, of them 1,726 were Jews]. My grandfather Meir rented and later purchased a plot of land. I don't know any details of their everyday life, but I know that Grandfather Meir was deeply religious. When he visited us in Kishinev I always went to the prayer house in the yard of our house to call him for dinner. He prayed there with his head and shoulders covered with a tallit and had a tefillin on. He wore a long black tunic and a cap on his head. My grandfather had a big white beard and a moustache. His sons studied in cheder. I think that my grandmother, Haya Molchanskaya [nee Tsukerman], was the head of the family.

My grandmother Haya was born in Vertyuzhany near Dombroveni in 1860. She observed Jewish traditions and wore a wig. I remember when Grandmother Haya visited us in Kishinev, she used to press her hands to her cheeks while she watched Grandmother Hava and my mother do the housework, and she would say, 'Women, women, how you live and how I live' She had a very hard life: cooking, washing and fixing her husband and sons' clothes. My grandmother came to Kishinev wearing her only velvet dress. She also said when she died and the Lord asked her, 'Haya, what did you do on Earth?' she would say, 'Before the potatoes got cooked my sons ate them and when I baked loaves of bread, they were gone before I put them on the table.'

I visited Dombroveni twice when I was a child. My grandparents lived in a big village house with a big yard and a well in the yard. There were trestle beds covered with Moldovan hand-woven rugs. There was a good library of Jewish books in Dombroveni. Some residents were advanced readers in Yiddish and they almost arranged readers' conferences. I remember playing with other children there. I don't know whether there was a synagogue, but there was a cheder and a rabbi. His name was Steinberg and he perished during the Holocaust. Grandmother Haya died in 1939. She had problems with her liver, perhaps, it was cancer. My father went to see her in Dombroveni before she died.

My father had six brothers. They were farmers like their father. In the 1920s four of them moved to America. Srul lived in Pittsburgh in the United States. Brothers Velvel and Shmuel moved to Argentina. Leizer, the youngest one, lived in Sao Paulo in Brazil. I know little about them. Leizer made his way in life, but the others were very poor. Srul bought a house in Pittsburgh, but failed to pay for it and lost it. He was the only one who found us after World War II, and sent parcels with clothes and food through the Red Cross.

Haim, the oldest son, and his wife Montia lived in Dombroveni with my grandparents. They had five children: Iosl, Leib, Huna, Shyfra and Perl. In the late 1930s Iosl illegally crossed the Dnestr [the border between Romania and USSR] to the USSR and we didn't hear from him for a long time. My father's brother Avrum and his wife Golda lived in Vertyuzhany. I don't know what Avrum did for a living. He had eight children. The family was very poor. Rachil, one of his daughters, also moved to the USSR in the late 1930s. Grandmother Haya tried to help them and sometimes she even sold a piece of land.

My father, Shlomo Molchanskiy, was born in Dombroveni in 1897. My father was a very interesting person. He wanted to study instead of farming. He went to cheder where his teacher was Steinberg. At the age of eleven he became an atheist based on some conclusions that he made after studying some discrepancies in the Tanakh. His teacher Steinberg use to say that even if such a decent person was an atheist, it was alright. My father's brothers were against my father's intentions to continue his studies. He had a conflict with them and moved to the neighboring village where he taught Hebrew, the Torah and prayers that he already knew. He stayed one week with one family, and the next week with another, having meals with them. He was paid little, as one year later he visited home with just a bag of prunes and two new shirts.

Later, my father moved to Soroki and entered a Jewish gymnasium there. He rented a room from the Kerchman family. Mr. Kerchman owned a mill. My father told me that this mill was damaged during a flood. He had an affair with one of his landlord's daughters. My father didn't like to talk about it, but I know that this girl, I think her name was Mina, was a communist and an underground activist. She involved him in studying Marxism. In Vertyuzhany and Dombroveni there was a teacher. His name was Samuel Abramovich Magin and he came from Kherson, and propagated Marxism. He and his wife, Liya Isaacovna, were popular people in this area. My father remained life-long friends with them.

In 1918 Romanian forces came to Bessarabia. [see Annexation of Bessarabia to Romania] 4 Some were marauders. One soldier took away a watch and some other belongings from the Kerchmans, but my father remembered him and when he saw this soldier on a military parade in Soroki, he pointed out this soldier to the officer: 'This soldier robbed my landlords.' I don't know what happened to the soldier, but the officer told my father, 'You must leave Soroki within 24 hours.' My father came to Kishinev with no money, but he found his fellow countrymen there and they helped him. One of them was Samuel Abramovich Magin, who was living in Kishinev. He was an official in the EKO 5 Jewish colonization association funded from London. Samuel Abramovich hired my father to teach his sons, Dodik and Nyuka, Hebrew. He had always wanted to be a teacher and enjoyed teaching the boys, but to be able to earn more he took up a course in accounting. He hated accounting, but worked as an accountant till he died.

Shortly after he rented a room from Grandmother Hava, my parents fell in love with each other and got married in 1927. When I was born in 1928, my parents rented an apartment in the house across the street from where my grandmother lived on the corner of Tsyrelson Lane and Oktavian Gog Street. This house belonged to former Russian aristocrats: the Meche-Nikolaevichs. Maria Petrovna Meche-Nikolaevich liked our family, and I was her favorite. She had two good-for-nothing sons. Though I was only three years old, I remember how adults said that one was gay and the other one a card gambler. To cut a long story short, they brought their mother to bankruptcy. Fleshel, a Jewish man, bought this house and the annex in the yard. We lived there till I turned seven.

Those were happy years. There was a neglected garden near the house where our neighbors' children and I played Indians and made a great wigwam in the bushes. There was also beautiful 'bull-de-neige' in the garden [decorative bushes with ball-shaped white flowers], very rare in Kishinev. In the backyard there was a big scary dog on the chain. When I was two I once wandered there alone and the dog bit me on my cheek. My mother and her friend, who also rented a part of the house, soaked my cheek with a wet towel while they waited for the doctor. The doctor was everybody's favorite in Kishinev, Doctor Slissel, he said, 'Great that you didn't call for me at once, or I would have seamed the injury and she would have a scar, but now it will heal all right'. My father always tried to raise me as a brave child. Since the doctors told my mother that she could have no more children, he saw in me all of his unborn children: he loved children. For example, he put me on a two-wheel bicycle in my early childhood. By the way, I never learned to ride a bicycle. Well, my father wanted me to get rid of this fear of the dog and about a year later he took me to the back yard: 'Don't fear this dog, it's a good dog and you might have just slipped on the chain.' Well, then the dog almost tore off my father's lip and this time the doctor had to seam it.

I was a rather capricious and naughty child. I gave my mother a hard time and she sent me to various children's institutions. I went to a Jewish kindergarten for a year: for some reason it was called a 'Hebrew' kindergarten. All I learned there was counting to four. There was no Hebrew there. They taught us music. Once I conducted a noise orchestra where the children played various wooden trinkets on the stage of a club. I had a lovely marquisette dress on, which was pinned. Well, I gesticulated so hard that it got unpinned and fell off me leaving me in my panties in front of everyone. They drew the curtain, but I was so distressed about all the shame, particularly in front of the boys whom I liked: Boria Fleshel, our landlord's son and his friend, Syoma Leiderman.

My mother's health condition was very poor. She had problems with my birth: she suffered three days before the doctors pulled me out with forceps. As a result of this hard delivery she almost lost her sight. She took treatment in the Tumarkin private eye clinic. Doctor Faina Chegorskaya gave her injections in her eye: they were very rare at the time. To distract my mother's attention she told her various stories. She became a friend of our family. The doctors in Kishinev advised my mother to go to Vienna with her sight problems. My father somehow managed to get some money and we all went there and stayed there for a few weeks. I was five then.

I remember Schonbrunn [palace], Prater [amusement park in Vienna], and the bed of Maria Theresa [Austrian Archduchess (1717-1780) of the Habsburg family] in a museum. My parents went to the Vienna Opera House and I stayed in the hotel room. I remembered Vienna very well. When we went to Chernovtsy after the war I said right away that it resembled Vienna a lot: and this was true since it was an Austro-Hungarian town, too. In Vienna my mother was told that she could continue her treatment with doctor Chegorskaya, who went to Vienna for annual trainings.

My father worked as an accountant in a few offices to make ends meet. He also took part in public activities and worked for a number of Jewish organizations: he was a member of ORT 6, and worked for the League of Culture - Kulturliga [Jewish Kulturliga in Kishinev - public organization. It was spreading modern enlightenment among Jews.] My father had some ties with the communist underground movement. He wasn't a member of the communist party, but he supported communists: they used to type some communist posters on the hectograph in the slaughter house. It was said at home that even Anna Pauker [one of the leaders of the Romanian communist movement, Jewish] was hiding in the slaughter house.

My father also had some contacts with Zionists. He subscribed to a Zionist newspaper in Yiddish in Kishinev, 'Unzere Zeit' [Our time]: it was a must in each Jewish house to have it. We spoke Yiddish and Russian at home. I also remember that my father always somehow got the 'Izvestiya' [News, daily communist newspaper issued in Moscow]. I learned to read from this newspaper asking him, 'Which is this letter? And this one?' At the age of three I could read in Russian. My father was a sociable man. When we took a walk in the town, every minute someone stopped to talk to him. Somehow all kinds of people, craftsmen or very educated people, knew him. Our acquaintances from Dombroveni and Vertyuzhany always knew that they would find food and accommodation in our home. Our home was like a caravanserai.

My mother was very kind and found good in all people. If someone called another a complete fool, she commented, 'Right, but how nicely he treats his wife's relatives.' She never felt jealous or angry. I called her a 'Tolstoy follower' because she was so fond of Tolstoy 7. My mother was five when Tolstoy died and she remembered that day for the rest of her life. All the people in Kishinev repeated, 'Tolstoy died, Tolstoy died.' She didn't know then who he was, but remembered this. Despite her poor sight she used to reread his work, 'War and Peace,' and knew various extracts by heart. She was also fond of Galsworthy [John (1867-1933): English novelist and playwright, best known for his novel series, 'The Forsyte Saga'] and 'Jane Eyre' by Charlotte Bronte. My mother was a kind and jolly woman. She used to burst into a loud laughter which sometimes grew almost into hysterics. She and my father had a smooth loving relationship. I think if somebody had hurt my mother, my father would have killed him. Grandmother Hava treated her son-in-law with respect. In general, we were respectful towards each other in the family.

At the age of six I went to a Romanian elementary school. I had a very good first teacher. Her name was Yelena Bogos and I think she belonged to the local Russian aristocrats. On the first day she called my mother to school and indicated to her that the only thing I could say in Romanian was a greeting. My mother replied, 'Let her stay and then we shall see. Unfortunately, I can't help her since I don't know Romanian, and her father has no time to teach her.' People in smaller towns knew only Moldovan. Grandmother Hava knew Moldovan, but my mother didn't. However, I picked up the language promptly. I was much better at languages than my mother. After finishing the first grade I was awarded for being the best pupil.

By that time my father was earning well. When I was seven, we bought an apartment in the building in the yard connecting Yekaterininskaya Street and Chasovennyi Lane. There was running water, electricity and gas in the house. There were 26 apartments in the building and all tenants were Jews by some coincidence. It was a whole Jewish settlement: a real eshuv. There were all classes of Jews: from one who married a prostitute to very intelligent educated families. They spoke Yiddish, but knew Russian and many spoke Romanian. We had an apartment on the second floor which comprised four rooms: two had windows on the ceiling, always dirty. My grandmother, who worked and lived with us, had her own room, my parents had a bedroom and there was a living room. I slept in the living room, and had a desk covered with green cloth in my parents' bedroom. One of our relatives, who later perished during the Holocaust, had made this desk. My parents had a nickel-plated bed decorated with shining balls. The rest of the furniture was plain. We had many books in Russian and Yiddish at home. I had my own collection of books in Romanian and Yiddish.

My mother's cousin sister Sonia Gerstein, nee Zilberman, her husband and sons lived on the first floor. Her husband Haim was a bookbinder. Her sons Shmuel and Ershl were much older than me. Aunt Sonia was a housewife. She was a cheerful and charming dame. She and her husband took no interest in politics whatsoever. The Gersteins liked parties, guests and playing poker. We celebrated Jewish holidays together and were friends before and after the war. In late 1930, when Hitler came to power a depressing atmosphere settled all over Europe. There were fascists in Romania. Anti-Jewish laws were issued: Jews could only work for Jews, Jews couldn't have Christian servants and there were other restrictions. We heard about what was going on in Europe. We knew that Mr. Baron, the owner of the hotel in which we stayed in Vienna committed suicide before the deportation of Jews. Then my father said we had to move closer to the Gersteins.

At first, the Cuzists 8 failed with their first putsch. On our way to the gymnasium we saw dead bodies of Iron Guard 9 members, on the corner of Pushkin and Alexandrovskaya Streets. There was also a poster with the inscription threatening that this was what was to happen to all traitors. We were very inspired thinking that this was the end of fascism, but unfortunately, it wasn't. My parents' friends had continuous political discussions, debates and arguments at home. Some were anglophiles and some Zionists, but all of them liked the USSR and believed it to be the country of happiness. Most of our friends were Jewish. The Goldstein family was the closest to us. Zalman Goldstein was a printer and an active underground communist. In 1928 he took part in the trial of 114 that started in Cluj on 10th September. He and other prisoners went on a 45-day-long hunger strike to get amnesty. One of the political prisoners, Haya Lifshitz, starved to death. After the war, when I grew up, I asked Zalman, 'Why were there so many Jews among the communists?' and he replied, 'We just involved our friends in this underground movement, but there were Romanians and Russians there, too'.

Though my father was an atheist, he knew and honored Jewish traditions. He was a real Jew deep in his heart. He had a good conduct of Hebrew and Yiddish and was interested in everything Jewish. He read books mainly in Yiddish: Mendele Moiher Sforim 10, Sholem Aleichem 11, [Itshack Leibush] Perez 12. My father was friends with Yakov Sternberg, a wonderful Jewish poet, who lived in Bucharest [today Romania]. Yakov Sternberg was born in Lipkany, and so were other writers and poets like Eliezer Steinberg, Moshe Altman. Bialik 13 called this group 'Lipkany Olympus.' Yakov Sternberg was also one of the founders of the Jewish [State] Theater in Bucharest 14. He visited us whenever he came to Kishinev. I remember how he taught my mother to make coffee the Romanian way.

We celebrated Jewish holidays at home, though my father didn't go to the synagogue. Grandmother Hava played an important role here. She was very religious and observed all Jewish traditions: she followed the kashrut and didn't work on Sabbath. The rest of the family didn't follow the kashrut. We ate treyf food. On Jewish holidays my grandmother went to the choral synagogue. She fasted on Yom Kippur and spent a whole day at the synagogue. I would run there to see how she was feeling. My mother also fasted.

On Pesach we always had matzah at home and celebrated seder with the Gersteins. Aunt Sonia's husband, Haim Gerstein, conducted seder according to the rules: He read the Haggadah; his sons Shmuel and Ershel posed the four questions [mah nishtanah] and searched for the afikoman. I remember my father muttering that Haim messed it all up on our way back home. I also remember learning these four questions in Yiddish, I remember I had asked them somewhere, but I can't remember the place.

We celebrated Rosh Hashanah. My parents had many friends, they visited us for a meal and then we went to the town park. This was the season of nuts and grapes. We drank freshly squeezed grape juice. It foamed and was wonderfully delicious.

We also celebrated Chanukkah with Aunt Sonia: this was her birthday. I don't remember money, but Grandmother Hava always made latkes and dumplings filled with cottage cheese and potatoes.

On Purim we made shelakhmones, filled baskets with hamantashen, and other sweets, to take them to our relatives and acquaintances, but there were no performances.

I also remember Khamishoser bishvat, called Tu bi-Shevat at present. We always had Israel fruit on this holiday: raisins, dates, almonds, figs and horn tree pods. Pods had a divine taste, and they looked like acacia pods.

My grandmother and mother cooked delicious food: clear soups, borsch [a traditional Ukrainian beet soup], green soup, dumplings and of course, gefilte fish. My grandmother went to the market, but my mother went to the shops and took me with her. I remember the posh Fishman's store on Alexandrovskaya Street where we bought two sardines for my sandwich. We also bought sausages and I enjoyed watching them slice it. Alexandrovskaya Street changed its name several times. Now it is Stefan cel Mare Street [named after Stephan the Great, the ruler of the Moldova principality between 1457-1504. He conducted the policy of centralization]. In Moldova and Bessarabia everything changed with the arrival of new leaders: names of streets, leaders, regime and the country.

There was a big shoe store of Lapshuk on Alexandrovskaya Street. On Pushkin Street, Karaims [followers of the sect of Judaism founded in the 8th century] owned a 'Pamona' store, which sold citrus and other exotic fruits. There were smaller stores in the lower tower i.e. the haberdashery store of Matracht owned by Lukstick, and another store owned by Leiderman. There were excellent confectioneries in Kishinev. There was one owned by Gohman near where we lived. This building still stands on the corner. They served orange juice and Italian 'tutti-frutti' wrapped in aluminum foil, and also chocolate chestnuts. We went there occasionally, but I didn't have a sweet tooth. I liked bananas, which were expensive, but my parents used to buy me one banana.

There were horse-drawn carts and trams in Kishinev. Only wealthy plant owners like Shor had cars. Shor, a Jew, owned a distillery. There were a few libraries in the town: a municipal library in primaria, the Moldovan National Library was based in it. There is a rare books department in it. There was a Russian library of clerks on Mikhailovskaya Street: I used to read books in Russian there, when studying at the gymnasium. There were school libraries. There were two vocational Jewish schools for girls and many Jewish schools for boys: and all of them had libraries. People read a lot due to lack of other entertainment. There were two big cinema theaters: Odeon and another cinema; I don't remember the name. We even watched Soviet movies during the Romanian rule, 'Merry guys', 'Alexandr Nevskiy' and 'Happiness hunters' [(1936), about the establishment of Birobidzhan 15 in the Far East] that was shown under the title of 'Emigrants'.

In my childhood I used to spend my free time in the park near our house where there was a Christian church. We played 'one tsar gave another soldiers', and 'geese, geese, come home.' We also went to the town garden where there is a monument of Pushkin 16, but after 1938 it became dangerous for Jews, as young Romanian fascists, and Cuzist followers, had gatherings there. They were aggressive. Theaters from other towns came on tours to Kishinev: for example, the 'Vilner Truppe' from Vilnius. My parents went there, but I stayed at home. Jews lived everywhere in the town, but there were many in the lower part: the poorer part of town. Wealthier Jews resided uptown.

After finishing the fourth grade I entered Regina Maria, a Romanian gymnasium. We had good teachers. 25 percent Jewish children were allowed. There were 100 students in our 'A' and 'B' classes and among them, twelve Jewish girls in the A class and 13 in the B. We had strajer 17 uniforms. Strajeria was a student movement, something like boy-scouts. We wore dark blue culottes which were knee-length, white blouses and dark blue sweaters, belts with steel badges like the military had and many other badges: the Romanian emblem, etc. Every morning my grandmother helped with my clothes: pinning the badges and muttering in Yiddish 'noch a zwod, noch a zwod': 'one more nail and another one'.

We had religious classes. Christian girls had their own classes, one Catholic girl had a Catholic teacher and we, Jewish girls, studied prayers with a rabbi. We studied double Italian accounting from the first grade. Boys studied Latin and Ancient Greek, but we didn't. We studied French from the first grade and German from the third grade. In 1940 my father decided I had to study Hebrew. Since he had no time to teach me my parents hired a private teacher. Her name was Hana Levina. I often recall her. When my parents asked her how talented I was she replied, 'She has no special talents, but she is a very intelligent child.' I studied the Hebrew alphabet, but soon we had to terminate our classes. In summer 1940 the Soviets came to power. [see Annexation of Bessarabia to the Soviet Union] 18

During the War

In 1940 the Jewish population of Kishinev increased significantly: many Bessarabians working in Romania returned to Bessarabia and many arrived from Transylvania 19. We had to share our apartment with Jews from Transylvania. They spoke Hungarian and didn't know a word in Yiddish and my mother couldn't talk to them. Many Jews arrived from Russia [then USSR] and from Tiraspol, Odessa [today Ukraine]. We had no fear of the Soviet power: we were rather sympathetic. My father's acquaintances used to say a long time before this happened, 'Ours will be here soon,' and some tradesmen thought, 'when ours will come, we will become clerks in our stores.' However, my father got disappointed with the Soviet power pretty soon. He went to work in the Glavlessbyt timber sale office. When his new boss saw his new ball pen that Uncle Philip had sent him from Paris, he took it away saying, 'Is this a ball-point pen? It used to be yours, but now it is ours'. My father found this very strange.

Then arrests began. Our acquaintance Milstein, a tradesman, was arrested. The main cause of his arrest was that the new authorities liked his mansion. My father was a brave man. He went to the NKVD 20 office and said that Melstein had contributed money to the communist party, but they responded, 'Just be grateful that you are free and take your good leave.' About 60 years later a French-speaking man came to the Jewish library where I worked. He introduced himself: 'I am the artist Milstein.' He turned out to be the son of this man that my father had stood up for. He lives in Paris and recently sent me an album of his pictures.

Everything was new in 1940. Adults talked in whispers and the kids were like Pavlik Morozov 21 seeing kulaks 22 in all people. Our gymnasium like all others became a school. Students who finished the second grade of the gymnasium went to study in the sixth grade. I made one mistake in my first Russian dictation: I wrote the Russian word 'redka' ['turnip'] with a 't'. I got an 'excellent' mark. The teaching switched to the Russian language. Our French teacher moved to France, as she said: for religious motives. Some teachers arrived from the USSR. I was eleven and a half and I fell in love with our teacher of history, Pyotr Demianovich, from the USSR. He taught ancient history: it was fabulous; it's hard to describe his classes.

In 1941 the war began [see Great Patriotic War] 23. My father wasn't subject to recruitment any longer. Grandmother Hava, my parents and I decided to evacuate. At first we went to Vadul lui Voda with our luggage, but we had no passes and weren't allowed there. Then my father stood in line to obtain these passes that nobody ever looked at. I need to mention here that it was possible to evacuate from Kishinev. Only those who remembered World War I and thought that the Germans weren't going to do any harm stayed there. Many others were confused by receiving letters from Romania where their acquaintances wrote, 'We get along well with our new neighbors.' Many of my classmates stayed and perished with their families. After the war I only met two or three of them: Zlata Tkach, nee Berehman, from the parallel class, she is a composer in Kishinev, and Tova Nemirovskaya, nee Kalekstein, she lives in Los Angeles and calls me every second week since I became a widow.

Well, we evacuated. At first we stopped in Tiraspol where my father's office gave him his last salary and then we started on our long journey to the Northern Caucasus, literally under the falling bombs. We got to Ordzhonikidze, present Stavropol Krai. We stayed in a village in the house of very nice people, whose son was at the front. They gave us food saying, 'Perhaps, somebody will help our son as well.' We stayed with them for a month, but my parents didn't want to overburden them: 'We have to support ourselves.' And we went to a sovkhoz 24. There was a possibility to go to work. My father and grandmother worked in a field. My mother did the housework and I went to school, but then the front line approached and we moved on. From Makhachkala [today Russia] we took a boat across the Caspian Sea and farther to Uzbekistan from the coast.

We spent the winter in Fergana. My father worked as a loader at a plant. We rented an apartment from a Moldovan family. There were many Moldovan people there [Editor's note: nationality in the European part of Russia, Orthodox Christians]. My mother fell ill with pneumonia, but since they had icons in the house they didn't allow her to do her toilet in the house and having high fever she had to go outside. In spring, we found out that the Gersteins were in Bukhara and we moved there. We rented a room in the women's part of an Uzbek house, and our landlords moved to the men's part. The Gersteins lived in another room. My father was recruited to the Labor army and sent to the railroad construction in Cheliabinsk region [today Russia]. He sold his bread ration and sent us this money to support us. He ate his potato ration. My mother went to work as a cook in an office where she received white flour and no food products. We made noodles and 'zatirukha' [water added to flour cooked in the frying pan] from this flour.

My father respected my grandmother a lot and believed her to be a strong woman. He sent her a letter in Yiddish: 'Please take care of my family.' Grandmother Hava was very weak at the time. She was a diabetic like her older brother Srul. She had gangrene and then dysentery. She looked terrible and had lice, but she still gave us her bread ration which she was given in hospital. My grandmother died in 1942, we buried her in the Jewish cemetery before Yom Kippur. During the season of rain we found my mother's cousin brother, my grandmother's brother Srul Brick's son. He was an actor at the Jewish Theater in Dnepropetrovsk [today Ukraine]. He had a beautiful wife, also a Jewish actress, and a daughter of my age, but she was so arrogant that I couldn't be friends with her. I believe the subject of her pride was that they were wealthier than us.

I studied in a Russian school during evacuation. Our teachers were either evacuated or those who had been exiled in the 1930s, [during the Great Terror] 25, which wasn't to be mentioned aloud. There were local and evacuated children. I made close friends with Salomeya Kapor, a Jewish girl from Kaunas [today Lithuania]. Her parents were doctors. She was very talented and intelligent. Twenty years after the war my husband and I met with her in Kaunas. Salomeya was a good pianist. Her husband was Lithuanian and they had a son. Several years later Salomeya moved to England and I never heard from her again. I also remember my classmate Sima Zhytomirskaya. They were Ashkenazi Jews, but had lived in Bukhara for a long time. There was also a group of Bukhara Jews 26.

I also remember a very pretty girl, whose last name was Dolidze. Her mother was Georgian and her father was a German, who had been deported from the European part of Russia during the war. I don't know whether anti-Semitism existed in Uzbekistan at the time. Of course, some boys ran after my grandmother shouting 'zhydovka' [abusive word for Jewish females]. This might have happened, but generally one needs to understand that the locals gave us accommodation and food. I think they were rather loyal and tolerant. As for school, almost all the teachers and students were Jewish, so there was no question of anti-Semitism. I joined the Komsomol 27 in Bukhara.

The death rate in Bukhara was high. At one time I worked as a statistics operator in Bukhara. Each morning I received information about the number of people who died of typhus or enteric fever. I was only 15 years old and I couldn't bear to work there. It was hard to know this. My father returned to Bukhara in 1945, after the victory. He was sent to work as a manager for straw stocks for the front at a station in the Bukhara region where the trains stopped for one minute. I worked for him as an assistant accountant and there were two Uzbeks pressing straw. Our friend Doctor Bregman sent us an invitation permit to go back to Kishinev and we went home. The town was ruined: one could walk across yards from the railway station to Alexandrovskaya Street. The uptown was in better condition, but the lower part, which was a ghetto during the war, looked awful [see Kishinev Ghetto] 28. Our house had been torn apart. We stayed at Doctor Bregman's hospital at first, but it was impossible to live like that much longer.

My father got information about his relatives. Grandfather Meir was 80 when the Great Patriotic War began and he refused to evacuate. He said to his older son Haim, 'Whether one is poor or dead doesn't matter. I will stay.' We don't know any details about how my grandfather perished. The whole population was Jewish and all local residents were killed. Haim, his wife Montia and their younger daughter Perl left Dombroveni with a horse-drawn cart, but the Germans captured them. Our neighbors said they made them dig their own graves. Leib and Huna perished at the front near Stalingrad. Iosl perished in the Gulag 29. His daughter lives in Bochum in Germany. Haim's daughter Shyfra lives in New York.

Avrum and his wife perished. Only three of their eight children survived. Rachil was taken to jail in Tiraspol and sent to the Gulag. In the Gulag a Jewish doctor employed her as an attendant at the hospital and thus saved her life. Rachil got married in exile and had two daughters: Sofa and Muza. Rachil is 90 now. She lives in Israel, in the town of Ashdod. Avrum's daughter Ida lived in Kurgan in the Urals where she worked at a mine. This is all I know about her. Efraim moved to Israel in the late 1940s. He has passed away already. After the war the sovkhoz board moved into my grandfather's house in Dombroveni. Everybody told my father, 'You are an heir: go get what is yours,' but he replied, 'I don't want to go there, when there is no one there.'

The fate of our relatives in France during World War II was also tragic. Uncle Philip took part in the Resistance. His wife Fira perished in Auschwitz, her English citizenship didn't save her. They left their son Serge with a French man and he survived. Philip married a French woman who was in the movement with him after the war. We didn't know her. They lived in the south of France. Philip died in the 1960s. His son Serge lived with his mother's sister. After his father died they moved to America where he left the Orent part of his surname. I know that he lives in New Jersey State, and he is married with three children. He is a computer manager. My mother died 15 years ago, and Serge and I have lost contact since then.

Post-war

In 1946 I finished the tenth grade and wanted to study languages. I entered the French department of the Philological Faculty of Chernovtsy University. My parents and I moved to Chernovtsy. At the end of the war many Ukrainian families left the town following the retreating Germans and there were vacant apartments available. After the liberation of Transnistria 30, Jews from the ghetto rushed to Chernovtsy: we were a little late having stayed in Kishinev for a year. Those who came there in 1945 lived in nice apartments. Chernovtsy is a beautiful town. Our faculty resided in the former Metropolitan's residence, in the beautiful building of red bricks.

I lived the best years of my life when I was a student. We were divided into two groups. I was in a stronger group where all students were Jews and only two Ukrainians. Almost all students in our group were either veterans of the war or former inmates of ghettos in Transnistria. The political situation was rather severe: there were Bandera 31 gangs in the area. One day we went to the university and got to know that all third-year students had been arrested. The authorities had found out that they had Bandera flyers. At this time the campaign against 'cosmopolitans' 32 began. Ilia Gordon, a Jewish lecturer on foreign literature was sent away from Kiev [today Ukraine] to work in our town. The Party Bureau taped his lectures to review them later. We felt sorry for him and did our best to study his subject and obtain good marks in it.

Another demonstration of state anti-Semitism was that they closed the Jewish Theater in Chernovtsy. Actually, this was the Kiev Theater [founded in 1928], but after the war they weren't allowed to return to the capital and had to move to Chernovtsy. They were always sold out since Chernovtsy was a Jewish town then. Some actors went to work in Russian and Ukrainian theaters, but many lost their jobs after it had been closed down. I also remember another incident: the university announced a party for local young people. I thought since I was a Bessarabian girl I was to be a local resident, but they didn't let me in, or any Jew for that matter. Only Ukrainians were allowed to attend it. However, there wasn't much impact of this kind on our studies. Our group was very close. We often had parties, celebrated birthdays, went to the theater and cinema. Our groups welcomed the establishment of Israel. We were ready to move to Israel as volunteers. Our co-student Anatoliy Kogan, who later became a writer in Kishinev, could play the piano very well. He occasionally played the 'Hatikva' 33: there was a piano in the corridor of our faculty. Of course, we were a little afraid, but we were young and we were happy about Israel. Later, twelve former students of our group moved to Israel. Four still live there.

When I was in my fifth year of studies I went to Kishinev on vacation. I stayed with my aunt Sonia Gerstein. When I visited my acquaintance, I met a fifth-year student of the Agricultural College, who rented a room from her. His name was Moisey Shpitalnik. We liked each other and began to correspond. Moisey finished his college: students of the Agricultural College had graduate exams before we did since they were to do seeding in the fields, and received a job assignment to Floreshty [see mandatory job assignment in the USSR] 34. He came to Chernovtsy and said we had to get married immediately, so that I could get my job assignment in the same town. So we did.

My husband's father, Girsh Shpitalnik, was the manager of a timber storage in Rybnitsa; he was a high-skilled specialist in the woodworking industry. His mother, Sura Shpitalnik, was a housewife. Moisey's older brother, Israel, born in 1919, finished the Railroad College in Dnepropetrovsk. In May 1941 he got married, and in June the war began. Israel was a lieutenant during the war, taken into captivity and executed. His wife Tania and his parents were taken to a ghetto. My husband's sister Hana was born in Rybnitsa in 1922. My husband was born in Rybnitsa in 1928. Moisey went to a Jewish school. In 1937 the school was closed down and its director was arrested. The children were taken to a Ukrainian school. During the war the family made an effort to evacuate. They moved on foot and had a cow with them. Near Balty in Odessa region, they got in encirclement and were taken to a ghetto with other Jews where they were kept until 1944.

My husband told me that once Romanians beat him hard for having dropped a beam that was too heavy for him. He stuttered for a long time afterward. Later, he worked in a shop where they made valenki boots [traditional Russian winter felt boots]. He had a trophic ulcer from the sulfuric acid used for valenki making. Moisey said there were underground activists, who made valenki in such a manner that they fell apart promptly in the frost, but the Germans couldn't tell the difference. Israel's wife Tania died from typhus in the ghetto and the rest of them survived. Moisey's mother died in 1948 and his father died in 1955. His father came to our wedding with his second wife: she was a relative, who survived in the Odessa ghetto, while her family perished in the ghetto. Moisey's sister, Hana Vapniar, lived in Rybnitsa and worked as a medical nurse. She had no children. Hana died in 2001.

We got married in 1951 and moved to Floreshty where we lived for five years. I was a French teacher at school and my husband was a senior agronomist. There were 90 Jewish families in Floreshty at that time: a significant number considering that this was the postwar period. In our Moldovan school almost all the teachers were Jews: Lev Shoichet, mathematics teacher, he had graduated from a university in Bukhara, Shapiro - the Russian language and literature teacher, Schwartzman - biology teacher, Riva Chamelis - chemistry teacher, and Liya Darkhova - history teacher. Only one Moldovan teacher and a history teacher in the senior classes were non-Jewish. I don't think that I was a good pedagog: my students walked over me. When writing my diploma thesis in our university library, I got acquainted with bibliography and I started thinking about it. After I went to Floreshty my parents returned to Kishinev. At first, they stayed in a through room in their relatives' apartment, but later they collected some money. I translated the novel by Polevoy, Boris 35, 'Gold', into Moldovan and received a significant fee for this work. We paid this money to the owner of an unfinished house in Bayukany, as he needed money to finish the construction, and we bought half of this house from him.

We lived in Floreshty, when in 1953 the Doctors' Plot 36 began. However, it wasn't so severe in Moldova. Brezhnev 37, secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Moldova at that time, was rather mild. There were a few arrests, but they resulted from actual medical mistakes. Though the general atmosphere was depressing, it was still not as severe as in Moscow and Leningrad. However, there appeared rumors that Jews were to be taken to live in barracks in Siberia and Altayskiy Krai. When Stalin died in spring 1953, there was a meeting in Floreshty and I cried, of course. We were very concerned about our future. We knew a lot about 1937 and we weren't so shocked, when in 1956 the Twentieth Party Congress 38 took place and Khrushchev's 39 report was published afterward, though of course, it brought us hope for a better life and more democracy.

In 1956 my husband and I moved to Kishinev, to my parents. I had a higher education, five-year teaching experience and I also finished an extramural course in English. I went to district education departments, but they refused to employ me due to my nationality [see Item 5] 40. They just replied that they had no vacancies, even though they did have them. Then a friend of mine who worked at the Medical College, called me: 'You know they need a person who knows foreign languages in our library.' The Kishinev Medical College was founded on the basis of the Leningrad Medical College that had evacuated to Piatigorsk during the war. After the war they weren't allowed to return to Leningrad. The college functioned during the German occupation for half a year, and then the authorities blamed its employees for this. It moved to Kishinev.

This library had a good collection of foreign books that the college partially received as part of German reparations: a significant part of it belonged to Richard Koch, a Jewish doctor, who got political asylum in the USSR before World War II and lived in Piatigorsk. When I went to see the human resources manager, he got indignant, 'Who is this you've brought in here? Israel has attacked Egypt' [After Egypt entered into a military pact with Syria and Jordan for aggression against Israel, on 29th October 1956 Israeli forces attacked the Egyptian positions on the Sinai Peninsula]. Can you imagine any links between me and the Israeli attack on Egypt? However, he employed me, as he didn't have an alternative because I knew French and English, and had a rather good conduct of German. Later, I was sent to a two-year extramural training course for librarians and after finishing it began to work as a bibliographer.

We lived with my parents and I built up my marital life: my husband and I were friends. We managed to provide for ourselves and we remembered about 'cutting your coat according to your cloth.' In the late 1950s the situation with food was bad: I remember bread with peas. My husband worked as an agronomist in a sovkhoz in Gratieshty where he could buy cheap vegetables and fruits. My father worked as an accountant in hospitals or kindergartens. I worked and received additional income for my knowledge of foreign languages. We were given our first television as a housewarming party gift in 1958; it had a lens.

My husband and I were fond of classical music and had season tickets to the Philharmonic. When the opera theater opened in Kishinev we went to all the premieres. We also went to drama performances and the cinema. My husband and I often went on vacations together to Northern Caucasus, Poland, the Volga and to Pushkin's places. We particularly enjoyed this tour since we were both very fond of Pushkin. My husband was rather a prosaic man, but there he couldn't help reciting poems. This was at the time when Geichenko was director of the Pushkin preservation and he organized everything in the best way. We visited Mikhaylovskoye and Trigorskoye, the Sviatogorsk monastery where Pushkin was buried. This tour ended with spending ten days in Leningrad. Our friends in Kishinev comprised about ten Jewish couples. Moisey and I were the youngest in this company. We were more Soviet-minded while the others came from former Zionist organizations during the Romanian rule: Betar 41, Gordonia 42.

We often got together, celebrated birthdays, Jewish holidays and the European New Year. We always followed the events in Israel closely on television and radio. I remember when the Six-Day-War 43 began, my father turned 70 and we wanted to celebrate this birthday, but he said, 'Not while this is happening in Israel.' We were very concerned and couldn't believe that a small country like Israel could win. When all of a sudden victory came! Our friends got together in our home without any pre-arrangements and we had a feast. Moisey was quite a phenomenon in this respect: he could lay the table within 15 minutes and there was plenty of food on it. Moisey was very good at making great cakes. Our friends called one of his cakes 'shpitalnyi' [Shpitalnik's cake] after him. His gefilte fish was particularly popular. I wasn't as good in the kitchen as he was. In the circle of our friends we often said that when we move to Israel, Moisey would be a chef there, but he replied, 'I only like to cook for my friends.'

My father died in 1970. This happened on 22nd April, on the 100th anniversary of Lenin's birthday. My father fell very ill and we sent him to hospital where he died on the night of 1st May. We buried him in the Jewish cemetery. When in the 1970s Jews began to move to Israel, most of our friends left. At that time I was the director of the bibliographic department and I was so fond of the Medical College that I couldn't even think of quitting. Moisey couldn't leave his sovkhoz, and my mother didn't want to leave home. She used to say, 'I won't have sufficient space there.' Why did she say so, when she hardly ever went out at all? There was no logic in it, but her point of view was important for us and we decided to stay.

I worked at the Medical College for 34 years as director of the bibliographic department and I also held the position of junior employee translating articles from foreign magazines after work. I was good at foreign languages, and even translated from Dutch. One of my friends in college used to say, 'She knows everything, but Hungarian.' Many lecturers in the college are still very grateful to me: many candidates and doctor dissertations [see Soviet/Russian doctorate degrees] 44 went through my hands. I remember one of them: he suddenly bumped into a medical book in Japanese and somebody told him, 'Well, why don't you talk to Sarra Shpitalnik.' My reputation was working for me.

I liked literature and often conducted reviews of literary works in senior groups of students: curators of groups invited me. Most often I spoke on the subject of 'The character of doctors in fiction.' Later, I prepared and issued an annotated guide: 'Medical workers in fiction literature.' My second big bibliographic work in the Medical College was: 'Writers-doctors' about Russian, Soviet and foreign writers, who were doctors. Later, I published articles about fiction literature, medical workers during the Great Patriotic War in the 'Medical worker' the institute paper, articles in our professional magazine, 'Sovetskaya bibliografiya': 'Soviet bibliography' [published in Moscow since 1933] and other periodicals. I liked my work. It distracted me from thinking about our problem: we had no children.

We were a team in the library and there was no anti-Semitism. We celebrated birthdays and Soviet holidays together. The library wasn't far from my house and I walked to work. There was an affiliate of our library in Malaya Malina, a distant district. Once someone told me that our director said, 'We shall send this zhydovka to Malaya Malina and get rid of her.' She worked in my bibliographic department at first and was a party member and when the director of the library retired she replaced her. She was a little jealous that all the lecturers addressed me with their problems: just because I knew medical definitions, and languages. When she said, 'Sarra, you will go to work in Malaya Malina', I was prepared and replied, 'Great, there is bus 9 stopping by my house: it goes straight there,' and she was discouraged. Later, I returned to the central department and retired from there.

In 1984 I became a pensioner, but I stayed at work part-time. My mother broke her hip and could only get up from her bed when Moisey and I supported her. She spent most of the time in her room reading and watching television. When perestroika 45 began, my mother watched all information programs, particularly, when Gorbachev 46 spoke. She treated him with great sympathy and when he appeared on the screen, she said, 'It's like one's own father comes into the room.' As for me, I lost my respect for him, when he interrupted Sakharov 47 at the congress of deputies [The Congress of People's Deputies, founded in 1989, voted to end the Communist Party's control over the government and elected Gorbachev executive president.] However, we were enthusiastic about perestroika. There were many interesting publications in the press, something that we could only discuss with our closest friends, and there were books published which had been banned before.

My mother died of cancer in 1989. We buried her in the Doina, in the Jewish sector since the Jewish cemetery had been closed by then.

By this time the Jewish society appeared in Kishinev. It was something very different for us. There were lectures on Jewish traditions where material and courses in Hebrew were available. In the 1990s the rest of our friends moved to Israel. In 1990 my husband and I decided to move to Israel. We studied Hebrew for half a year. We obtained a visa, when all of a sudden I was overwhelmed with fear. Our friends weren't very encouraging: 'You have no children. You won't have anything to do here. Moisey wouldn't be able to find a job with his occupation, and you wouldn't get any allowances since you've not come of proper age.' This had such an impact on me that when we went to the cemetery to visit the graves of our dear ones, I said, 'Whatever you decide I'm not going.' He said, 'All right, if you don't want to go.' He went back to work though he was a pensioner, and I saw an announcement that our library needed a person who knew Romanian and Yiddish. I went to work there.

My husband and I visited our friends in Israel twice: in 1996 and 1999. We lived in Bat Yam near Tel Aviv. The telephone kept ringing: my former fellow students from Chernovtsy University and our friends from Kishinev wanted to talk to us. We went on tours to Jerusalem, Haifa, Zefat, on the Kineret Lake and I sobbed by the Wailing Wall. My husband was shocked that they managed to grow a garden on stones. Besides, our friend took us to the cactus garden in Holon. This was an amazing view: there were little cactus plants and huge trees and they were blooming beautifully. We took our second trip on a boat from Odessa since my husband could obtain a free ticket as a former ghetto inmate. We bought a ticket for me. We stayed with our friends in Haifa. During our first trip we were in Yad Vashem 48 late in the evening and didn't see anything. In 1999 we went there for the second time. When the tour guide heard that my husband was in the ghetto, she treated us particularly warmly. Israel is very impressive; I believe one has to visit there.

When the charity center Hesed 49 Jehuda opened in Kishinev, I went to work there as a volunteer. Before they got their own building they worked in our library partially. They generated the lists of needy Jews, distributed matzah, or clothes. Every month I lecture on Jewish literature for them. Now I'm working on a lecture on Kanovich, a Jewish Lithuanian writer, who lives in Israel now. We've had a club of pensioners in Hesed for ten years and I'm an active member there. In 1995 I celebrated the presentation of my book 'Jews of Moldova' at the library; it's an annotated guide in Romanian. In 2000, its extended and added edition was issued with a resume in English. Here in the library we celebrated my 70th anniversary [1998] and my husband and my golden wedding [2001]. Our colleagues asked Moisey to make his outstanding gefilte fish, and it was great. Moisey died two years after this anniversary. I buried him in the Jewish cemetery near my father and bought myself a place there.