Travel

Rosa Rosenstein
Vienna
Austria
Interviewer: Tanja Eckstein
Date of interview: July 2002

I met Rosa Rosenstein in the summer of 2002. I was very excited about interviewing her, as it doesn’t happen very often that I meet respondents of such an admirable age – after all, she was already 94 years old then, so almost a century old – and who, on top of that, came from Berlin, my hometown. Her Berlin dialect was unmistakable and after a short time we became close friends. Since she had trouble walking and had poor eyesight, I repeatedly went into the room adjoining the living-room to fetch her cigarettes and an ashtray. Sometimes, after she had opened the door for me, she wasn’t able to walk back into the living-room, and so we sat close together on a small bench in the long corridor, directly in front of the door to her apartment, and she would tell me stories of her life, funny ones and sad ones. I loved her stories and never grew tired of visiting her over and over again. Her incredibly lively way of story-telling, creating images out of sentences, will probably remain a unique experience in my activity as an interviewer.

Rosa Rosenstein passed away in February 2005.

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

My family background

I didn’t know my great-grandparents. My grandparents and my parents were born in Galicia 1.

My family on my father’s side was called Braw. The only Braws that exist, down to the present day, are part of my family. There is Brav with a ‘v’ and there is Braf with an ‘f,’ but we write our name with a ‘w.’ My brother has done some research and says that the name comes from the Hebrew expression ‘biraw,’ which means ‘son of the rabbi,’ ‘raw’ standing for rabbi.

I never met my paternal grandparents because my grandmother, Rivka Finder, nee Braw, died before I was born. I was named after her, Rosa in German and Rivka in Yiddish. I never met my grandfather, Zwi Finder, either. Allegedly, he married a young woman after the death of his first wife, who died of cancer at the age of 54, and moved away, so my father had no contact with his father at all. Before she died, my grandmother had my father promise to take care of his younger siblings.

My father, Jakob Braw, was born on 6th June 1881 in Gorlice, near Tarnow [both in Poland today]. He had six siblings: Gitl, Chana, Gusta, Zilli, Reisl and Nathan.

Gitl died before World War II.

Chana, whose married name was Federman, had three children. They were all killed during the Holocaust.

Gusta, whose married name was Eberstark, had six children. They were all killed, too.

Zilli went to Berlin where she met a certain Mr. Weinhaus, and in 1914 she moved to America with him. They got married on board the ship. In New York they owned a poultry store together with her sister Reisl and her husband. Zilli lived to the age of 104.

Reisl and her husband moved to Berlin from Galicia. He was a baker and his name was Wind. Their son, Josef, was born in Berlin. In 1915 they immigrated to New York via Mexico. She died in New York.

Nathan went to Berlin and was full of the joys of life. He caught a cold and died of pneumonia at the age of 26. He was buried in the cemetery in Weißensee [a district of Berlin].

My grandfather on my mother’s side, Angel Arthur Goldstein, was born in the vicinity of Cracow [today Poland]. He was the manager of an estate. Back then, Jews owned estates. The owner of this estate lived in Cracow and my grandfather managed his estate in the vicinity of Cracow. I remember that we had a picture of my grandfather at home, showing him with his long white beard and wearing a kippah.

My grandmother, Bacze Goldstein, nee Schiff, was born in 1850. She had two wigs, which I always had to take to Grenadierstrasse [in Berlin] for combing.

My mother, Golda Braw, nee Goldstein, was born in Tarnow on 1st August 1884. She was the only daughter and had seven brothers: Jonas, Heinrich, Adolf, Hermann, Ignatz, Janik and Nuchem. Her older brothers lived in Berlin.

Uncle Jonas, Joine in Yiddish, had a piano store in Berlin. His first wife died of the Spanish flu. He left Berlin with his second wife, Hella, and their children, Reuben and Dorit, after Hitler’s rise to power in the 1930s 2 and immigrated to Palestine. Dorit first lived in a kibbutz. Her brother Reuben left the kibbutz in the late 1950s and resumed his studies, which had been interrupted by their immigration to Palestine. He became a professor of modern philosophy at the University of Tel Aviv. He got married to Nelly; they didn’t have any children.

Dorit and her husband, Jakob Ross, who was also from Berlin, moved to the Moschaw Atarot kibbutz, north of Jerusalem, along with Uncle Joine and Aunt Hella. The kibbutz was vacated during the War of Independence [in 1948] and the members were resettled in the deserted Templar village Wilhelmina [ca. 20km east of Tel Aviv]. Dorit and Jakob have three sons, Ilan, Gad and Ehud, who have children, and partly grandchildren themselves. Joine died in the 1950s, Hella in the 1980s. Jakob passed away a few years ago, Dorit a couple of weeks ago.

Adolf owned a newspaper kiosk. Adolf, his brother Heinrich and their wives moved from Berlin to Canada. The former only had one daughter, the latter had two daughters.

Hermann was a very handsome man. He worked in Berlin in my father’s tailor’s shop and got married to Mizzi, who was a Catholic and converted to Judaism. In 1926 they immigrated to Canada, where he died young.

Ignatz was my father’s [business] partner at first and then became the manager of an estate in Poland. He was married to Barczszinska, whom they called Bronka. They didn’t have any children. Bronka survived the war by hiding in a monastery. Ignatz was killed during his escape to Budapest.

Jannik was taken prisoner during World War I and was sent to Siberia.

Nuchem was the youngest of the siblings. He was an ensign. He was a rank higher than a common soldier from the very beginning, but died during a gas attack instigated by the other side and spent a long time in hospital. He later got married in Galicia.

I only remember my maternal grandparents from the time I was approximately five or six years old. They lived in the western part of Galicia, which was part of the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy then, and only became part of Poland in 1922. A large part of what is Poland today belonged to the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy.

In 1913 we went to visit our grandparents in Galicia with our mother from Berlin. We got these beautiful coats, shepherd’s check coats, and little white hats with cherries dangling from them.

Our grandparents never came to visit us in Berlin. My grandfather died of a heat stroke in 1913 – he was in the field to supervise the harvest. After that, my grandmother was on her own, so my mother took her to Berlin and she lived with us. My mother’s brothers came to Berlin when they wanted to see their mother. And in this way, we still got delicious food because one of them was stationed in Romania during World War I, where they still had everything. He brought us rucksacks full of flour and rice.

My father was a tailor and worked from home. In later years we had a men’s wear wholesale and retail store. My father wasn’t drafted into the army; he was given his medicals four times during World War I, but was deferred every single time because he had horrible varicose veins. And that made him fortunate. He was at home and could take care of us. He drove to the farmers and got food for us, so we wouldn’t starve. He also resoled our shoes. My mother was good at everything, too. We never went hungry. When food became more scarce we ate swedes. The whole house stank of it. The jam was also made from swedes and so was the bread.

Growing up

My mother was engaged to my father for a very long time. It was an arranged marriage. They were distantly related. My parents got married in Galicia on 7th February 1907. I was born ten months later, on 25th December 1907, in Berlin. The name on my birth certificate is still Rosa Goldstein, after my mother. My parents first had a Jewish wedding. At some time, they had to get married again in a registry office, because otherwise the marriage wouldn’t have been acknowledged. Afterward, a note on my birth certificate said: ‘Jakob Braw acknowledges Rosa Goldstein as his daughter and she bears the name of the father.’ I still have this birth certificate.

My sister Betty came next; she was born in 1909. Erna, born in 1911, was the third, and Cilly, born in 1913, was the youngest sister. My brother Arthur, Anschel in Yiddish, was the youngest. He was born in 1915, during World War I. We still call him Anschi. He and his wife only recently came to visit me

All of us five siblings are very close. Every one of us has a different character, but we were never cross at one another. Sure, we all had different opinions, but we never really had a row with each other. And that only happens in few families.

My parents were foreigners in Germany. I was never German either. I’ve had three nationalities, but I was never German. First, I was Austrian. At the time I was born in Berlin, I was Austrian. I was born in 1907, but Poland was only founded in 1922. So then I was Polish, as a dependant of my parents, as I was still a minor. Then I married a Hungarian, so I became Hungarian, and after the war I married an Austrian, so I was Austrian again.

My mother cooked kosher. There were only Jewish shops on Grenadierstrasse in Berlin. There was the kosher butcher Sussmann; there were poultry stores, where everything was kosher. This was where you went shopping. In our home everything was kosher. Blue, for example, was for dairy products, for those we had blue-checkered tea-towels. And the red-checkered ones were for meat products. We also had separate dishes for meat and dairy products and they were also washed separately. The table-cloths were extra, red for everyday use, on other occasions white ones were used. That was a very beautiful thing in our home.

The Pesach dishes were stored away in a huge suitcase stored in the attic that had a drop-down ceiling. It was a festive act when we brought them down. Also, my mother bought geese and fried the fat out in the Pesach dishes, so we could have goose dripping. The goose liver at Pesach was delicious!

My parents went to Jewish prayer houses; one was called ‘Ahavat Zedek,’ the other one ‘Ahavat Chaim.’ The prayer houses were located in some large backyard.

In Berlin, we lived in a large four-room apartment on Templiner Strasse. The toilet was inside the apartment and we also had a bathroom. It was a very primitive bathroom, but it had a bath-tub and a large stove, which was heated with wood, so we could have hot water for a bath.

We four sisters shared a room. It was small and there was a window in the corner. There were two beds on each side and a large chest of drawers with a mirror stood next to the door. Each girl had her own drawer for underwear, another drawer for all kinds of stuff, and on top of that we had a cupboard for our clothes.

We always got new clothes for the high holidays, at Pesach and Rosh Hashanah. At the latter, we always got winter things. Those were beige coats, ready-made. Of course, I immediately tore the side. It was then sowed and darned, but nonetheless it looked shabby after a while. Then we got new coats again, but at that time I already wore my sister’s old one, as mine wasn’t in good shape any more. I didn’t care about clothes at all. My mother scolded me. She told me, ‘Rosa, couldn’t you stand in front of the mirror for at least five more minutes?’ My mother always said, ‘You ought to have been a boy. How can one tear one’s clothes like this?’

I always got clothes at the same time as my sister. Her things hung in the cupboard for half a year and any time she took something out, she asked me, ‘Well, how do you like this?’, and then hung it back. When she started wearing her things, mine were already gone – cleaning rags. I didn’t pay attention to what my hair looked like or to what I wore. The main thing was that the skirt was wide enough and the shoes didn’t pinch, so I could run around comfortably.

I only started going to the hairdresser when I had my hair bobbed, and did that only because of the work in my father’s store. Before that, we had long plaits; our hair was plaited early in the morning before we went to school. My father prepared our breakfast, which we took along to school. Since my mother helped my father in the store, he wanted her to rest. So we went to her bedside and she plaited our hair.

My brother slept on a divan in the little room facing the street. There was also a desk in his room and a large armchair stood next to the tiled stove. Back then everyone had a tiled stove. We heated it ourselves in winter.

We only had a maid when we were little, as my mother helped our father in his tailor’s shop. One of the maids was called Elsa, the other one Emma. Both were from Pomerania. The maid lived with us, but we only put up a bed for her. Back then things were primitive. The girls came from the country and were happy to make a living. Emma was a Sabbatarian 3, she only went to Jews. Sabbath was her holiday, she worked on Sundays. Sabbatarians – that was a sect – didn’t eat pork either.

I went to a Jewish girls’ school, today they call it Higher Education Facility for Girls. French was compulsory, while English was an optional subject. Of course, I was too lazy to study English, so I only learned French. Back then there was no nursery school. You started in the ninth grade and it went up to the first grade. The ninth grade was what is today’s first grade, and the first grade was what is today’s last. It was called lyceum.

I had no contact whatsoever with Christians. My parents didn’t either, only business-wise, but privately, they didn’t. However, I did have a Christian girlfriend when I was young; she lived in the same building, and I went along when she went to confession.

For three hours, three times a week, we studied Bible history and learned to read Hebrew with Dr. Selbiger – that was the name of the teacher. We only learned to print; we didn’t learn cursive writing. I knew all the prayers, as I had to pray. My grandmother kept an eye on me in that respect. In the early morning we said the ‘Modim anachnu lo,’ and in the evening the ‘El Male Rachamim,’ that was the evening prayer.

My sisters went to the same school. I then had to leave school, I was told what to do. It was decided how long I was allowed to go to school and then I had to switch to business academy because my father needed me in the shop. At first I had to do some kind of practical training in another company. We had a Jewish secretary, and when she got married I took over her job. We also had a men’s wear retail store. I was in the company where they did the sewing, while my sister Betty, who finished the same business academy as me, worked in the retail store.

At this business academy you had to learn everything in half a year: typewriting, stenography, accounting, and all that at a great speed. I had class-mates who were 20 years old, while I was only 15, but I was much better than the others. My mother never went to school to enquire about my studies. There weren’t any complaints.

I got 100 marks in pocket-money for the work in my father’s store. I wasn’t even registered with the health insurance scheme. If I had been, today I would get another pension from Germany. My sister Betty, on the other hand, worked in the public prosecutor’s office and gets a great pension from Germany.

We always had Zionist leanings 4. My brother, for example, was a member of a Zionist-socialist organization from the age of 14 and wore those blue shirts that they had.

All my siblings were in Jewish organizations with Zionist tendencies. There were German Jews who said, ‘For God’s sake, this is no place for us, our home is Germany.’ But for us, it was different, after all we were Poles. I was in the Jewish sports club Bar Kochba. It was a Jewish association, half sports, half entertainment. In the summer we trained in Grunewald, doing track and field athletics, in the winter we were in the gymnasium. I was afraid of climbing the pole or balancing on the parallel bars, but I enjoyed other games such as dodge ball and medicine ball.

I made friends through these Jewish organizations, including boys. For example, we made a trip to the countryside at Whitsun. There was a train to Frankfurt on the Oder; this was third or fourth class, and you’d sit on the floor on top of your rucksack and had a blanket to lie on. We took the night train, which was exciting. We then slept by a lakeside, both girls and boys. Some nights we spent in some farmers’ haylofts. I had this good friend, Martha, who was always by my side.

As you know, Berlin has wonderful lakes. On Wednesday we always went out in paddleboats, and we also went canoeing. I couldn’t swim, but we went rowing. I started learning swimming three times, but gave up after the third time. When I tried for the first time, the swimming instructor held me on a fishing-rod and I had to do the movements. The second time, I got a board and I had to push that board ahead of me. In the end, the instructor said, ‘And now without the board.’ That I didn’t do. I was a coward. I was afraid, I do admit, but such is life.

During the summer my parents rented a summer apartment. When we were still small, we spent our first summer vacation in Fichtenau by a lakeside. We took beds and dishes with us. My father came to join us on weekends. He was working while we spent the time with our mother. Mother cooked, and we – just like at home – ate noodle soup.

We had everything, you know. We had delicious food, bought the very best; we used to roast geese. Sometimes I swapped sandwiches with the children at school, so I could have bread with lard instead of my buttered bread with cheese. We didn’t lack anything.

My father did everything for his daughters. My sister always says, ‘Whatever do you want? You were always Dad’s darling.’ My father was a good person. He was there solely for his wife and children. My father didn’t smoke, my father didn’t drink. The only thing he did was: In the early morning, before he went to the workshop, he had a sip of slivovitz. A little glass of slivovitz for breakfast. Sometimes, when my mother asked, ‘Tell me, Jakob, what do you want for lunch,’ he said, ‘You know what, I’ll just have some rice pudding with sugar and cinnamon. That’s the best.’ That was my father. While we, of course, had to have smoked briskets of beef, bought at Sussman’s on Grenadierstrasse! It was the same story with clothes. When my mother told him, ‘Jakob, you desperately need new shoes, you desperately need a new suit,’ his reply was ‘No.’ But whatever I asked for, I always got.

My father adored my mother. She was a bookworm just like me. She only went to school for a year in Galicia, while her seven brothers all studied. Grandfather always said it was enough for a girl to be able to write her name and know how to bake bread and make butter. They were from the countryside after all, so that was enough. My mother taught herself how to read and write. She told me that the first thing she bought when she came to Berlin – later, she also worked in Berlin – was Grillparzer. A whole series of books by Grillparzer. [Grillparzer, Franz (1791-1872): Austrian dramatist, best known for his works ‘The Golden Fleece,’ ‘King Ottocar’s Success and Downfall,’ ‘The Jewess of Toledo’ and ‘A Fraternal Struggle in the House of Habsburg.’]

We had a real library at home. There were four daughters, and there was this one worker, an elderly man, who always said: ‘Of the five women in the Braw family, the mother is the brightest and most beautiful. When we immigrated after Hitler’s rise to power, my heart bled, because we had to leave all our books behind.

I lived at home until my wedding day. My first husband was also a tailor, but above all he was a Hungarian. Oh, he certainly was a handsome young man! I was working at my father’s, in a factory building with large windows. My desk stood at the window. On the opposite side there was a men’s ready-made clothes factory, and there was this good-looking man sitting at the sewing-machine. We kept smiling at each other. I didn’t know who he was; he didn’t know who I was. One day a messenger came up – back then traders went from shop to shop – with a big box filled with candies and said, ‘This is from the young man across the way.’ That’s how it all started. I accepted the gift, of course, and said thank you.

I was not yet 18, but I was happy, and why not? But I always worked long hours. If you work in your father’s shop you can’t just finish work at 5pm. My mother always phoned my father, asking, ‘When are you going to send the girl home?’ In the workshop, I had to sew on buttons, help prepare things for dispatch, accompany the domestic servant to the train station when parcels were being sent by train. I had to do all that.

We made and sold men’s ready-made clothes ourselves. For a while, we had our own retail stores: one was on Hermannstrasse in Neukölln, the other one on the corner of Neue Friedrichstrasse and Klosterstrasse. Back then many people bought on tick, paying in installments since they were poor. A suit, for example, cost 35 marks. So a file card was made showing an amount of 10 marks and this sum was cashed. My sister did that. There were only few Jews among the clientele in the retail store, but there were many Jews in the wholesale store, who bought entire suits. Those were people from the provinces. Parcels were sent to Essen, Düsseldorf, Duisburg. We also had a traveling salesman who had swatches and samples of material.

One day I went home earlier. I had been in the shop on the corner of Neue Friedrichstrasse and Klosterstrasse and walked via Hackische Markt to a large bookstore on Rosenthalerstrasse. I was looking at the books. I bought books, I borrowed books and I read books in libraries – only books. So I’m standing there, looking at the books and all of a sudden I hear a voice behind me, slowly saying, ‘Isn’t that beautiful?’ I turned around, and there he stood. He had the same route home as me; he was living with his sister. He asked if he could walk me home since he was going the same way. So I said, ‘If you please.’ On the way, it turned out that he was the nephew of the owner of the place where he worked, while I was the daughter of the owner of the place across the way. He had thought that I was an employee, and I had thought he was a simple worker. His name was Maximilian Weisz, we called him Michi. He was born on 30th November 1904 in Nitra. That’s how it started.

After that he sometimes accompanied me on my way, and then he started inviting me. That was always on a Saturday evening; one didn’t have time during the week, of course. Our meeting place was at the underground station on the corner of Schönhauser Allee and Schwedterstrasse. I dressed, got ready, and I also went to the hairdresser’s – I always went to the hairdresser’s on Saturday after I started working in my father’s store. My parents knew that I had a rendezvous and my mother told me, ‘Come on, hurry now, you’re going to be far too late.’ And I replied, ‘If he’s really interested, he will wait.’ So I went down to the underground station, and there was no one there. I thought, ‘Well, I’m late.’ Then, after five minutes or so, I saw him come running, completely out of breath. What happened? Well, I apologized for being late. He, however, thought that I was waiting at the other station, so he had run to the next station and back.

Next to the zoo, there was a restaurant called ‘Schottenhamel,’ a very elegant restaurant. He said he hadn’t had dinner yet, so we took the underground to Willhelmstrasse stop, I think it was, somewhere up there at the Linden. We went into the restaurant and it was very elegant, but I was kosher. He ordered a meat platter, while I had coffee and cake, as I didn’t eat treyf food. I had told him that I was kosher, but I didn’t know any kosher restaurants, as my parents never went to restaurants. Afterwards they played music in that restaurant.

I got three really beautiful dresses during my engagement: a black satin dress with white satin insets, a white-blue crêpe de Chine dress and a dark-blue and Bordeaux dress. After all, I couldn’t possibly go out with him in the rags I had. These three dresses were made in an elegant dressmaker’s store.

My family accepted my fiancé as a son. He was hard-working and so was I. We only went out on the weekends. Some seven or eight months passed. My parents didn’t approve of it and said that they wouldn’t allow me to hang out like this, that I would get a bad reputation. This was at the time of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur and my parents were in the temple and so was I. Of course, we didn’t work on the holidays.

Maximilian didn’t work either, because his uncle was Jewish and no one in the company was working. He came to the temple to see me: The youth always gathered there, we were standing around chatting with friends. There, my parents invited him for tea at Rosh Hashanah. Two of my mother’s brothers and their wives were also there. So we were sitting there and suddenly my father said, ‘Let’s go to the room next-door.’ Then my uncles and father asked Michi to join them. I thought, ‘What’s going on here?’ After a while, they came out laughing; Michi was beaming, and then I was told that they had asked him what his intentions were because they didn’t agree with dragging things on, as I would only get a bad reputation. Well, he told them that he intended to marry me. And that was the end of the story. And I was very upset that they’d done this.

I had enough admirers. For example, there was this relative from Poland who wanted to marry me. He was eight years older than me. When he was in Berlin for the last time I was 14. When he left, I was 15. Sometimes he took me to a circus show, sometimes to an afternoon performance of an operetta. His father had a butcher’s and was a horse trader in Oswieczim [Auschwitz, Poland], as was usual for Jews in the province. He had to return home because he was the only son. When he said goodbye, he told me, ‘Rosa, when you are 18, I will marry you.’ And I, always having had a big mouth, replied, ‘Sure you will.’

One day, I received a letter, which, however, was addressed to my father. He asked me if I remembered, now was the time, I was 18 years old. I was so proud of this letter. I wrote back to him, saying that I had received his proposal, but that three years had passed, we both had changed, looked different, etc. He replied, asking me to send him my picture and he also sent me his. I sent him a passport picture on which my hair is standing in all directions. And he replied that one couldn’t see much on that picture, so I wrote to him, ‘If you are interested, why don’t you come to Berlin?’ I wasn’t attracted to him at all, but it made me proud and I was realistic: He was a good match. I was very sober back then, I had no fantasy whatsoever.

Then the reply came: He wouldn’t be able to come, he didn’t have a passport; I should come instead. I was about to organize myself a passport, when my mother interfered, ‘Rosa,’ she said to me, ‘Think about this. You, a girl from Berlin, with your intelligence. Do you seriously want to marry a Pole?’ At that time it was Poland already. ‘You don’t know a single word of Polish. Do you really want to live in a small town and work in a butcher’s?’

I didn’t write to him any more. Besides, I was in love with Sammy, a friend from my youth. We lived in the same building. I met him when I was ten or eleven and he was four years older. Back then he was always strutting past me, while I was still playing with dolls. When I was almost 18, he was in love with me, too. Whenever he got a chance, he grabbed and kissed me. Once we were on summer vacation. I was there with my brother, who was still little at the time. Sammy wanted to sleep with me. His sister was my friend, a stunningly beautiful girl, my age, and I said to him, ‘Sammy, what would you think, if your sister, Nina, did that?’ And he replied, ‘She doesn’t do things like that.’ That was the end of the story. I never saw him again.

Sammy was an American citizen, born in the States, and so were his siblings. His parents lived in America and then returned to Germany. Two months later he was gone. He went to America. I don’t know if he’s still alive; if so, he must be 100 now. I wonder whether he ever knew why we broke up. You see, that’s how proud I was.

I didn’t like what my father and uncles did to Michi, but never mind. Michi beamed, while I was very embarrassed, but we went to the cinema afterward. That all happened in November, and his birthday was on 30th November. I remember that for my birthday, which is on 25th December, I got a marvelous crystal plate. That was the first plate I got as a present and I was wondering, ‘A plate as a birthday present?’ But the cutting was extremely beautiful. Michi was very generous; I often got presents from him.

Then we had a real Jewish engagement party – that was on 8th March 1928. His mother and sister came from Budapest to attend the celebration. There were 80 people altogether. Back then we had a four-room apartment, and three rooms were cleared for the party. My mother made the whole dinner herself. I had girlfriends and they were all there and I got a lot of presents. It was a really big celebration. The last room was used as a checkroom. We had an apprentice in the shop, who came and helped out as a checkroom attendant.

I remember that there was fish, and there was soup, and there was also farfl, tarhonya, with poultry and all kinds of things. A few years earlier, my mother had pickled sour cherries in spirits, for liqueur. Back then she still bought spirits to pickle sour cherries. And she said, at the first family celebration, that bottle would be opened and drunk. Well, that took a few years.

During my engagement period I was crocheting sofa pillows, in a special manner, and I was also knitting sofa pillows. And for my engagement I got pieces of needlework from my girlfriends.

Then Michi set up on his own. Before that, he had worked with his uncle. He bought and hired machines. Back then there was serious housing shortage. He worked with his brother-in-law and I said, ‘That’s okay as long as we’re not married, but afterward I will be your partner.’ And so it happened.

I was the first of the siblings to marry; after all, I was also the oldest. The civil wedding was a year later. Michi wasn’t even of age at the time. In Hungary one only attained legal age at 24. He still needed his parents’ approval. When we got married, he was already 24, but when he handed in the papers for the wedding, he was still a minor. He was a foreigner and so was I. In Germany they were very strict about that back then. I was Polish by descent. I needed a certificate of no impediment to marriage from Poland. We handed the matter over to lawyers, who took care of everything. The thing you needed was money; otherwise you ended up running from one authority to the next.

Well, then we got married. I insisted on the temple on Oranienburger Strasse. We went to Leipziger Strasse to buy lace for the wedding dress. On Leipziger Strasse there was also ‘Michels,’ a silk store – and what a wonderful store! There we bought the embroidered bridal veil. Then flowers had to be ordered, the bridal bouquet and myrtle, the restaurant and the food. The large department store ‘Tietz’ was on Alexanderplatz, and before that was the Kupfergraben, and there was a kosher restaurant there. Opposite it was Grenadierstrasse and the Jewish neighborhood, including the restaurant where we ordered the food.

The civil wedding, which was only an act, took place seven weeks before the Jewish wedding. However, I still signed with my maiden name. I didn’t realize that I was actually already married. The witnesses at the civil wedding were my father and Michi’s uncle. We went straight back to work afterwards. I went to the mikveh; my mother’s cousin dragged me there. The wedding was on Sunday and I went to the mikveh on Saturday evening. On Saturday afternoon and evening all my girlfriends came to our place. They had a good time, my fiancé was also there, and I had to go to the mikveh. The woman there checked my fingernails to make sure they weren’t dirty and I was doused.

Before the wedding we drove to a photographer whose studio was at the beginning of Schönhauser Allee. He was Russian by birth, his name was Pergamentschik and he was one of the best photographers in town. Then Hitler came to power and Pergamentschik immigrated to Palestine and opened a studio there.

The temple on Oranienburger Strasse was the most beautiful temple in Berlin, and, it was even said, the most beautiful one in all Europe. We invited people only for the ceremony and others for the meal in the restaurant afterwards. According to tradition, two married couples have to accompany the bride to the chuppah; they are called ‘unterfirer’ [Yiddish for bridesmaid and groomsmaid]. In our case they were my parents and Michi’s sister and his brother-in-law, who also lived in Berlin. [Editor’s note: According to tradition, the bride’s and the groom’s mothers accompany them to the chuppah.] Two little girls, the daughters of a friend, were scattering flowers. Everyone was very elegant. We followed the girls, then came two young boys carrying the bridal train, and the wedding party followed. My four girlfriends wore elegant dresses: light green, light blue, the third was mauve and the fourth pink.

Then the wedding ceremony followed. However, before one is wed, they ask for the certificate from the registry office. In Germany that was law because a Jewish wedding wasn’t acknowledged here – in Austria and Czechoslovakia it was, though. People there didn’t have to go to the registry office at the time. Therefore, many couples went to Czechoslovakia to get married because they didn’t have the necessary papers.

My wedding dress train was carried by two little boys in sailor suits who were quarrelling. They were five years old, one later became my nephew, the other one was the son of a girlfriend. One boy was pulling the train this way, the other one was pulling it the other way. I permanently had to hold on to it.

Afterward we went for the meal at the restaurant on Kupfergraben, directly on Alexanderstrasse. Next to it stood the large department store ‘Hermann Tietz.’ One of the wedding guests was a printer, a really lovely boy, who had printed the invitations and place cards for us as a wedding gift. As for the other wedding gifts, they were what people usually gave as gifts back then. Today they make lists. From one guest I got a sofa blanket, a chaise longue blanket, which I still have today. From others I got bedside rugs, eiderdown quilts and crystal.

The food was good; my mother had made the fish, real Polish carp, served cold with a jelly sauce and barkhes. It was cold outside and the waiters didn’t feel in the slightest like serving; we had to urge them to. There were only two or three waiters. The plan was to dance after the meal; after all there were a lot of young people there. But the music was horrible, too. My girlfriend’s brother was a wonderful pianist and could play anything by heart; he could play without music. So he sat down at the piano and started to play, and then we were able to dance properly.

Afterward we went to our apartment, which was already completely furnished. We had found an apartment on Alte Schönhauser Strasse, which formerly housed a police station. It became both our apartment and workshop. The apartment was big and there was a huge study with three windows facing the second courtyard. I also had a beautiful bedroom and, of course, the windows were also facing the courtyard. My father went shopping with me and so we could buy the most beautiful bedroom wholesale. The owner of the shop, a wholesaler, told me later that a musician had bought exactly the same bedroom. It was mahogany, very dark mahogany with inlaid work in silver. I also got a beautiful dining-room. The workshop was already set up, the cutting machines were already there; my husband had already worked in the apartment before the wedding. Some of the wedding presents had already been brought to the apartment, too.

Then the wedding night followed and in the morning I heard the key turn in the door. My husband jumped out of bed and into his trousers and ran outside. It was my father! He wanted to heat the room, so it would be warm by the time I woke up. He even heated the bedroom. You should have seen how upset my mother was!

Our daughter Bessy was born on 10th December 1929, exactly ten months after the wedding. I got married on 10th February and she was born on 10th December. My husband and I were both still very young, but fortunately I had my parents to help us. The first six weeks I stayed with my parents, while my husband stayed in our apartment. He came to see us and I went to see him. During the day I went there and worked a bit, while the child was with my parents. I knew I had to be back in three hours to feed the child, but I was only ten minutes away from my parent’s place.

My father was ‘dislodged’ and I slept in the room with my mother and the baby. We didn’t have a cot at my parents’, the baby slept between us in the bed. At home, Bessy had a beautiful white cot, of course, and also a white baby carriage, which my sister had given me as a present. My father didn’t allow me to go outside with the child, because it was terribly cold. He only allowed me to do so after six weeks, and then only when he came along. When my second daughter, Lilly, was born, my father said, ‘I have six daughters.’

When Bessy was two-and-a-half years old I took her to Hungary to visit the in-laws and my husband’s relatives. My husband stayed in Berlin, as we had the workshop and he couldn’t leave.

My father-in-law owned a bakery. The family lived in a suburb of Budapest, in Ujpest, which means New Pest. Ujpest is a twenty-minute tram-ride from Budapest, which is a beautiful city. On the one side, there is the Old Town; on the other side is the modern business city. There were wonderful coffee shops. You could sit on the quay at the Danube and you could go on a trip aboard a steamer – I felt at ease there. Then I returned to Berlin. They had packed a beautiful goose and goose liver and salami for me. In those days people still went by train, and from Berlin to Budapest the journey took 20 hours. I went back to Berlin onboard the Orient Express.

I arrived, everyone was very happy, and nine months later, on 6th May 1933, my second daughter, Lilly, came into the world. And I didn’t want that, I only wanted to have one child. Back then it was popular to only have one child. All my girlfriends and my sister-in-law, my husband’s sister, only had one child. My husband’s sister wanted to help me. She told me I should drink tea, sit in hot water and jump from the table, but nothing helped. Finally I told my mother that I was pregnant and she did not mince words: ‘What is that? Don’t do it! What’s another child? Why don’t you want to have it? The age difference is just right!’ But the worst thing was that she told my daughter about this once she had grown up. And from then on my daughter always told me, ‘You didn’t want to have me.’

My husband, who hadn’t been kosher at all when he lived with his parents in Budapest, conformed to my rules completely. It wasn’t difficult to live kosher anyways, you could get everything. In Grenadierstrasse, Dragonerstrasse and Mulackstrasse there were only kosher shops and devout people. There was this one devout Jew, who they said did penance, as he had been a lout in his youth, hanging around with girls, with Christians – so he was this impossible guy. Then he got married and did penance, only wore the long coat and white socks and grew a beard – and he was a redhead. He had six children and lived on Grenadierstrasse.

This street was the center of the Eastern Jewry in Berlin. They spoke Polish and Yiddish there. You could find second-hand dealers, butchers, fish stores, vegetable stores, bakeries and Jewish restaurants. My husband and I often went out for dinner; we loved kishke with farfl, which was really good there. Farfl is a kind of pasta, tarhonya is grated barley dough [egg barley]. Kishke is a dish made of stuffed beef casings. You make the dough from flour, fat, a little bit of semolina, salt, pepper, a bit of garlic and use that to stuff the beef casings. And that is cooked or fried along with the tarhonya. You make a hard dough and grate it on a grater and get smaller and bigger pieces, and those you fry in fat. That’s delicious, oh dear, I often cooked that myself, too.

There was a Jewish kindergarten on Gipsstrasse and a Jewish elementary school on Auguststrasse. The director of the Jewish elementary school had been one of my class teachers at the Jewish high school. When I took my daughter Bessy to her, she said, ‘What, you’re already bring me your daughter?’ You see, we four girls were in that same school. That’s something you don’t forget so easily.

My sister Betty, who is only one year younger than me, is the exact opposite of me. She doesn’t talk as much as I do, and she clung on to me wherever I was. My husband and I went away for three months after our wedding, since we hadn’t had a honeymoon. So we went on vacation for five days over Whitsun. The day after we left, my sister arrived. She slept in the same room as we did.

My brother’s name was Anschel like Rothschild, in German Arthur. We called him Anschi. My brother was and still is a wonderful person. He was a Zionist from the moment he was born. In Berlin he joined Hashomer Hatzair 5. My father told him to study, but Anschi said that they didn’t need any doctors and university graduates in Palestine, that what they needed for the building of Palestine were farmers. After two years of grammar school he moved out of home and in with his organization, I think it was Habonim 6, and then they left for Palestine. I went to the station to say goodbye.

They went to the Hule area up at Galil [Upper Galilee in northern Israel]. There was only marshland with mosquitoes and wasps there, and that had to be cleared. They worked there and slept in tents. He got malaria and typhoid. He went through a lot. My brother lives in Haifa today. He and his wife Rosel were in the Bund 7 together, so she’s a friend from his youth. He became a locksmith and worked hard from morning to evening. Arthur has two daughters: Ruth, whose married name is Dickstein and Jael, whose married name is Rappoport. He made it possible for both his daughters to get a very good education.

My sister Betty was dismissed in 1933 on racist grounds, and that’s when my mother pricked up her ears. In December 1933 Betty moved to Palestine. In Berlin, she had worked at the court and was given civil service status. My mother, who was very circumspect and wise, said, ‘Betty, it’s pointless, we all have to leave and you will be the first to go to Palestine.’ Back then the British asked for a certificate, which you got if you had a certain profession, for example in agriculture, and if you had enough money you could buy such a certificate.

Betty did hachshara 8 and the Palestine Office 9 sent her to Poland, where she lived in a commune. She had to wash the bloody skins of the animals they skinned there. She said she found it really disgusting, that it was horrible. She left behind the clothes she wore there; she didn’t bring them home. She was so sensitive. When I asked her, ‘Betty, do you have a pair of stockings I can borrow?’ she replied, ‘Not borrow, you can keep them.’ God forbid, she even made a fuss when someone put on her dressing-gown.

We weren’t allowed to send over any money by then. However, through all our passports we could send 10 marks a month. My father collected a few hundred dollars through these transfers in Palestine.

Betty first attended the WIZO 10 school in order to learn how to cook. WIZO was this women’s organization. That lasted for half a year. She worked in the house of Chaim Weizmann’s 11 mother, where she met her future husband, Perez Chaim. He was an electrical engineer and worked at Rutenberg, which was a large power company in Israel. His father was a theologian. They don’t have children.

The next one to immigrate to Palestine was Erna. She was four years younger than me. Erna spent a lot of time at home, as she had poor eyesight. She was operated on one eye, and couldn’t see very well with the other, either. She was born like this and my mother always felt sorry for her. Erna has to spare her eyes: she will stay at home, she will cook, run the household. We could do needlework, knit and all kinds of other things, but Erna wasn’t allowed to – she had to spare her eyes.

In Berlin there was a Jewish club called Nordau [named after Max Nordau] 12. Erna met her future husband, Heinz-Werner Goldstein, in this club. He was so proud of his ‘Germanness.’ We would permanently hear: ‘Back at home…’ Even when he lived in Israel, he still compared everything. ‘Back at home it was like this…’ We even started to jokingly call him ‘Back at home.’ He wanted to attend the High School for Politics, but then Hitler came to power and he couldn’t. So he went to France in order to get a certificate. He worked in the vineyards there.

My sister’s love of her youth was Max Selinger. He was a very good violinist; my sister was good at the piano, and they always played together in our apartment – we had a piano at home. We all really liked him. Well, his mother had other plans for him.

So Erna went to Palestine with Heinz-Werner, but he couldn’t get a job and ended up delivering newspapers. My sister worked as a cleaning lady, and later she ran a kindergarten in their apartment. He did any work he could get. They had two children, Aliza and Dan. After Heinz-Werner’s death my sister sold her apartment in Haifa. Her daughter and son-in-law contributed some money and bought her an apartment in Raanana, so they could be together every day. She only had to go across the street to see them. And they furnished her apartment in Raanana exactly like her old one in Haifa, so she wouldn’t miss anything.

Cilly moved to Palestine along with our parents in 1939. In Berlin, Cilly had worked for the Palestine Office. She traveled all over Germany to visit rich Jews and collect money for the Youth Aliyah 13. She was already married at the time and wanted to immigrate to Palestine with her husband, Rudi Abraham, but at the Palestine Office they said; ‘We need your help, we need your collecting skills.’ She had a very special appearance: she was an elegant woman and beautiful on top of that. She was always told, ‘If you want to go to Palestine, you won’t have to wait.’ She was traveling around, collecting money. She knows everything. She can write books, translate in four languages, and she was a press spokeswoman of Ben Gurion 14. In America, she was consul under Eisenhower 15 and lived in New York for one-and-a-half years.

She’s the youngest of us four girls and has the best education. We all had to do what our father said, while Cilly could do whatever she wanted, I don’t know why. And that, although I was his favorite daughter. She went to grammar school and did her finals just before the Nazis came to power in 1933. She then spent one-and-a-half years in Latvia, on hachshara in Riga, where she met her first husband, Rudi Abraham. He was from Berlin and had studied to become a lawyer. He was still an apprentice, and underwent in-service training back then. She married him and moved to Palestine with him. He had to start his studies from scratch, as Turkish law was in force in Palestine at the time. First, however, he had to learn the language. Cilly was in America at the time; he was in Palestine on his own and they grew apart. She was away for two-and-a-half years. The marriage fell apart.

While in America she met her second husband, Joshua Brandstetter. He was 23 years older than her. He was the bohemian type, and made films. He brought Israel’s Habima troupe 16 to America and got the actors engagements. He also painted. The two of them remained together until he died of kidney failure.

During the War

My father was arrested in 1938, immediately after Crystal Night 17, and deported to Poland 18. He was allowed to take 10 marks and a small briefcase along with him. I remember that we gave him his gold watch on a chain to take along. We still had relatives in Poland, and I always acted as intermediary. Since I was married to a Hungarian, I wasn’t afraid yet. I organized myself a visa for Poland. I wanted to see my father and bring him money. When I returned from the passport office, my mother was coming up to meet me and said, ‘You don’t have to travel to Poland, Papa has received permission to come back and pick me up and we will move to Palestine together.’

When my father returned from Poland we started to pack everything. My younger daughter was supposed to start school at the time, as she was six years old. My sisters didn’t give up and managed to get the entry permit from the British. My father left heavy-heartedly because I remained behind with my family. He said, ‘It’s a crying shame.’ He had a hard time to part. ‘It’s a crying shame. I go and leave my child behind.’ And he added, ‘I won’t rest until I manage to get you over there.’

My father had saved some 300 dollars: in three 100 dollar bills. Now he had to pack. The boxes were already gone. Our silver cutlery was in there, too. We packed them in the apartment. I had ordered a crate of beer. The customs officers were drinking, while the Jewish forwarding agent was packing, even my silver candlesticks – it was legal to take them. And we thought that the boxes would be shipped straight ahead, if the customs officers packed directly in the apartment. But as luck would have it, they were opened again at the customs post. They took out all the silver things. But the Jewish packers, as I told you we used a Jewish forwarding agent, repacked them; they succeeded in doing that. So in the end everything was shipped off just fine.

But where do you hide 300 dollars? I had my underwear, the silk one, for instance, which slipped easily, fixed to these clothes-boards you could buy ready-made. It was tied up with pink ribbons, so it would lie properly. My mother had the idea to make such a board – she organized a piece of carton and some colorful fabric embroidered with little roses – and slipped in the 300 dollars. It was not quite as beautiful as the original ones and it was also a bit smaller. Only my parents and I knew where the money was.

My parents, my youngest sister Cilly and I went to Alexanderplatz to check in the luggage. My sister was standing on one side; I was standing on the other. The customs officer took out every single piece and put it next to the suitcase, including the clothes-boards. And all of a sudden he said, ‘So, tell me, where are you hiding your dollars?’ My father was restless, he repeatedly went outside. And my sister said quite unashamedly to his face, ‘You know, if I wanted to smuggle dollars, I’d find a much better way of doing so.’ Upon that he put everything back into the suitcase. My father said, ‘Resi, one 100 dollar bill is yours.’ And he kept that 100 dollar bill until I went to Israel for the first time. However, I never saw my father again. He did learn about the birth of my son, who was born in 1945, but he passed away two years later, in 1947.

My husband said, ‘Nothing can happen to us in Hungary.’ Three weeks after the outbreak of war you had to black out your apartment, and food ration cards were introduced. Of course, Jews got less. Apart from that, we could only go shopping at certain hours and not during the whole day. So then we packed our suitcases and went to Budapest, because my husband claimed in Budapest nothing would ever happen. However, to be on the safe side, I had organized entry permits to Palestine for my children.

We found a small apartment, two rooms and a kitchen, in Ujpest. The boxes with my things from Berlin had already arrived. We had sold the furniture. Those were emergency sales. For my bedroom, which had cost 4,000 marks, I got 400. But I sent things ahead of our departure from Berlin: bed sheets, curtains, silver candlesticks and silver cutlery. For my wedding I had received stuffed quilts, made in Poland. My mother ordered the goose feathers, real ones, there. I wanted a certain size. The average size for a feather bed was 1.40 meters, but I wanted them to be 1.50 meters. So those were made in Poland. In Budapest they had white linings and mine were red. I had also sent some of my things to Israel [then Palestine] with my mother, in case we immigrated to Palestine.

‘Stay in Hungary,’ my parents wrote. Back then you could only enter Palestine if you had a certificate stating that your profession was needed in the country. It was said that we could only enter with capitalist certificates. And this certificate included a capital of so many thousand British pounds. My parents wrote to us, saying that the capital would be deposited for us in Holland so that we could enter as capitalists. Much to our misfortune, though, the Germans invaded Holland.

My sister-in-law gave me her kitchen; she was a rich woman. Then she gave me a table and chairs. And my husband was even able to work. In Berlin, he was self-employed. But he went to Budapest; it was only a 20-minute ride on the tram. Opposite our apartment was a Jewish girls’ school. The Jews in Hungary still lived a good life. My girls had already gone to school in Berlin. The older one had finished four grades of elementary school and the younger one was in first grade back then.

At that time many Jews lived in Budapest, I think around 200,000.

My mother-in-law didn’t approve of me because I wasn’t Hungarian. Her son had married a German and she didn’t like that. But my father-in-law was very nice to me. At the beginning I didn’t know a single word of Hungarian; later I learned the language. In any case, most Hungarians spoke German. My mother-in-law even wrote me letters in German. My husband had a brother, who worked in his father’s bakery; he was also a baker. That brother was my mother-in-law’s favorite. He was the only one who survived the Holocaust; all the others were deported to concentration camps and killed. He inherited an awful lot after the war. A year later he had lost everything because he couldn’t handle money. He maygarized his name. They were called Weisz; I was called Weisz, too. My children, and especially Bessy, said after the war, ‘Let’s bury the hatchet. Family is family.’ They were poor people; this was under communism. My daughters bought children’s clothes for his grandchild. I often visited Budapest, but I didn’t live with them, as they were very poor.

I had a rich friend and his wife there. He had been in the camp with us, that’s where the friendship started. He was wonderful. His name was Ferry and he was a shoemaker. He had his own workshop and made elegant shoes. He died of liver cancer.

My husband went to work, my children went to school, that wasn’t a problem. But I didn’t have any friends, just family. There was the rich daughter, my husband’s sister, who owned two houses and a beautiful store. She often invited us to lunch on the holidays. In 1938 she got baptized, along with a friend of hers, also a rich woman. My sister-in-law only had one son, Stefan – Pista was the short Hungarian version of his name. Her friend had one daughter. My father-in-law was terribly angry that his daughter had got baptized. He had this wry sense of humor, and once he asked the two women, ‘Why did you do this?’ And my sister-in-law’s friend said, in order for her daughter to make a better match. Upon which my father-in-law murmured, ‘Oh, so she can marry a boozy goy [non-Jew]?’

At Christmas, my sister-in-law had a big Christmas tree. She had a cook, she had a shop-assistant in the store; she was elegant; she had fur coats. We all went there for food; we were invited, my Jewish children and I. And all of a sudden this friend of hers lies down under the Christmas tree and says, ‘Oh, what a great feeling to lie underneath a Christmas tree.’ I thought I’d explode! Her daughter, my sister-in-law’s son and the maid had been to church in the morning. And the children came home and showed us the pictures of saints they had got at church. They were ten years old, just like my Bessy. And the little one said how wonderful it was to be a Christian and showed the pictures to my Lilly. Lilly was six or seven at the time. And she spoke very little. The older one was a chatterbox like me, but as for the younger one, what she said hit home. She was standing there, looking at the pictures of the saints. My older daughter was arguing about what was better: to be a Jew or to be a Christian. And the little one just listened and then all of a sudden blurted out: ‘Well, but deep inside there, your blood is Jewish.’

In the evening, my husband and father-in-law sat in the coffee shop and watched the other people play cards. I was at home with the children. It was already dark, when my father-in-law came up to me and said, ‘Resi, I need Michi’s papers. There were detectives in the coffee shop and Michi only had his passport.’ The passport was issued in Berlin. It was a Hungarian passport and still valid for another two years. He proved his identity with this passport and they said that it could’ve been forged and arrested him.

I didn’t have my husband’s certificate of family origin; it had remained in Berlin when he got the passport. The next day everything was quiet. It was Purim. On the second day – my daughter Lilly was in bed, as she didn’t want to go to the Purim celebration at school, and Bessy was at school – I was in the kitchen and was ironing. There was a knock at the door and two men came in. They asked me who I was, introduced themselves, saying they were from the immigration department, and would I be so kind to come with them. They wanted to take me and the children. Lilly was at home, and my neighbor went to fetch Bessy from school. I had a Jewish neighbor and told her to inform my in-laws at the bakery about what had happened, that we had been arrested.

So we went there, but I didn’t give them my passport. After all, they had taken my husband’s passport away. So I didn’t show them my passport. That was out of the question! Then they took my children and me to an internment camp by tram. There my husband saw us. When he saw us he had a crying fit. I tried to comfort him and said, ‘Michi, the main thing is that we are together.’

We lived in barracks built on to the temple. I was allowed to go to our apartment, accompanied by a detective, to fetch bedclothes; I was even allowed to take an eiderdown quilt for the children, so they’d be able to sleep better. There were bunk beds in the barracks. The girls were up top and I slept on the bottom. There were separate barracks for men and women. At daytime we were guarded by detectives, at night by policemen. There were approximately 40 to 50 people there. After some three or fours weeks, they sent us to the province, where they had closed camps at the Czech border. Those were former customs houses. People from the Jewish community came to see us and took care of us. The watchmen were Hungarians.

I still had the exit permits for my children. I always wrote Red Cross letters – via my cousin in Argentina, who forwarded them – and thus we were still in touch with my family in Palestine. My brother-in-law wrote from Palestine: ‘Send the children, please send the children. We will raise them as if they were our own.’ And they were right, in Palestine the children would be safe. 

The Jewish community in Budapest organized it all. My sister-in-law had made sure that the children got onto a list and received the entry permit for Palestine. The children got passports that didn’t state a nationality. Lilly didn’t want to leave; she was eight, and Bessy was eleven when they left. In the end, they agreed, but the younger one told me that her sister had beaten her until she said ‘yes.’ This way, she saved her life. I was allowed to accompany the children to Budapest. My husband, who was in the men’s camp, was only allowed to take them to the bus stop. That’s where he said goodbye to them. And that was the last time, the very last time, they saw their father.

We first had to go to the station and take the train to Budapest. A detective fetched and accompanied us. Lilly was standing at the window with tears running down her face. They went to Bulgaria by train, then crossed over into Turkey by ship and from there, went by bus via Syria to Palestine. My parents welcomed them in Palestine. They already had a beautiful apartment there, and took in the children.

On my husband’s death notification it said: cardiac arrest. I was told later that he’d died of spotted fever. He was sent to Russia, to Kiev [today Ukraine], for labor service. They had to dig and search for mines. I was allowed to leave the internment camp and still had the small apartment. I worked for a lawyer, but had to register with the police every eighth day. I was the widow of a laborer. I received a widow’s certificate.

My parents-in-law already lived in my sister-in-law’s house – after all, she had two houses. She took in her parents as well as one sister with her child and another still unmarried sister. Then came the year 1944. Eichmann 19 arrived in Budapest to establish ‘order.’ Because of my green widow’s certificate I was free, and had to register. My husband was dead, so I had advantages. I wanted to see how my husband’s family was; I didn’t want to dissociate myself from them. I went to their place by tram. It was the day Eichmann arrived in Budapest, 21st or 22nd March, I remember that date to this day. When I got off the tram I was arrested.

I was taken to a house, which was filled with some 400 people, all Jews. We were locked up there and no one knew what would happen. We were then crammed into a transport vehicle and we drove and drove and drove. There were no windows, so we didn’t know where we were going. All of a sudden we were unloaded and found ourselves in a huge courtyard. I looked around and saw many captured men on the other side. And there were about 400 of us women. In the middle of the courtyard was a water pump, which we drank from with cupped hands. We were standing there and standing there and it gradually got dark. We were suddenly called into the building, the women separately. An officer sat there, writing down our names. That was arranged alphabetically, by group, starting with the letter ‘A.’ Well, I was one of the last, since my name, Weisz, starts with a ‘W.’ I was among those still standing and waiting outside; we didn’t know what was going to happen, but no one came back out.

In the end it was our turn. We, i.e. those whose name started with a ‘W,’ went inside and there sat this tall, handsome man. Whether he was a policeman, I don’t know, but he wore a light-green uniform. When it was my turn, I put my husband’s death notification on the table and said, ‘I don’t speak Hungarian.’ He looked at me, then looked at the death notification, then looked at me again and said in German, ‘You are an Israelite?’ I said, ‘Yes.’ What else could I say? And he looked at me again. Then he asked me where I was headed. And I said, ‘I wanted to go visit my parents-in-law and that’s when I was brought here.’ I never showed him my passport.

Then we were taken into a huge room and there we were some 400 women again. It was the remand prison of Budapest, close to the Keleti station. It was nighttime. We were locked up, and by that night Budapest had already been bombed: at daytime by the Americans and British, at nighttime by the Russians. We were sitting there and permanently saw the flares the Russians fired before they dropped bombs. The women prayed for the next bomb to hit us. For, you know, we expected the worst, the very worst. We were in there for four days: we had arrived on Tuesday and were released on Friday. They didn’t know where to take us. The men were deported, that we knew. But they didn’t know where to take the 400 women. They didn’t have trains. That was our great fortune.

When they released us we had to give them our addresses, and I was afraid to return to my room. But we had a Viennese friend in Budapest, a widow, who had been married to a Hungarian. The husband had been a Christian and they had a daughter, Susi, who was 15 back then. When she opened the door for me, she couldn’t believe her eyes: ‘Resi, you are alive?’ And what can I say, I opened the door to the room and there sat my future husband, Alfred Rosenstein, with a friend. I knew him from the internment camp. He saw me, and back then we didn’t have a relationship yet, nothing at all, and he came running towards me, hugged me and said, ‘Resi, no one will part us again!’

My [second] husband, Alfred Rosenstein, was born in Vienna on 17th April 1898, the fifth child of Süsie Rosenstein – born in Rohatyn, Galicia ‑ and Beile Rosenstein, nee Bienstock. Süsie, a descendant of ‘HaShalo hakadosh’ [famous rabbi and forerunner of Hasidism], was a tailor or textile dealer and died in 1929. Beile died in London in 1945.
Alfred’s siblings were: Moritz, Franziska, Samuel, Josef, Cilly and Hedi.
Moritz Rosenstein, whom they called Mur, was a chemist and partner of an oil refinery in Vienna. He was on a business trip in London at the time of the Anschluss 20 and remained there. He never returned to Vienna, and died in the 1950s. His daughter, Hanni, lives in Tel Aviv and has two grown-up daughters; his son fell in World War II.
Franziska Wessely, nee Rosenstein, fled from Vienna to Yugoslavia. She lived with false papers in Slovenia and committed suicide when the Ustasha 21 knocked on her door. They, however, only wanted to ask the way to some place they were headed.
Samuel Rosenstein fled to Holland with his wife and two children. He and his family were killed by the Nazis.
Josef Rosenstein was an insurance salesman. He also fled to Yugoslavia, where he was killed by the Ustasha.
Cilly managed to immigrate to Australia via England. She died in 1962. Her daughter, Fairlie Nassau, who was born in 1945, lives in Melbourne and has two grown-up children.
Hedi Pahmer [nee Rosenstein] married a Hungarian and moved to Budapest with him. She was deported to Bergen-Belsen 22 concentration camp, where she survived the war. Afterward she also immigrated to Australia.

Rosa’s son, Zwi Bar-David, nee Georg Rosenstein, shares some memories of his father:
My father’s family lived in Vienna’s third district, on Untere Weißgerberlände. He went to elementary and secondary modern school. In 1916 he was drafted into the k.u.k. army 23 and served as an artilleryman at the Italian front 24. After World War I, he worked with his brother Moritz, played football at Hakoah 25 and spent a lot of time with friends in coffee shops. Until his escape to Hungary he lived with his mother; allegedly he was her ‘spoiled darling.’ During immigration he was in an internment camp, and, following the German invasion, in hiding. He met my mother and her first husband at the camp. Following her husband’s death, they got closer and that’s how I came into the world.
In 1948 Alfred and my mother – they got married in 1947 – and I returned to Vienna. We first got a room in an apartment in the Russian-occupied part of the city. We gradually took over the whole apartment. My father tried to get by as a salesman as best he could. The economical situation, however, only improved somewhat with the beginning of the German reparation payments. Alfred died of stomach cancer in 1961.

I knew my future husband from the camp. He was so charming; the women were crazy about him. My husband first moved in with me. Not only him, a friend of his moved in, too, and then my niece from Hungary came to live with us as well. She had got a Christian birth certificate through a friend, and then fled. Jola was her name, and she was a stunningly beautiful girl. A Christian friend of my parents’-in-law knew my address in Budapest, and so she came to stay with me. My husband shared a bed with his friend and I shared one with her. Later she immigrated to America. She met a widower, whose wife didn’t survive [the Holocaust], and his little son. He fell in love with her and they went to Italy together. She sent me a postcard from Rome, saying that she had married and would go to America with him. She later had four children, two girls and two boys.

We had a mutual acquaintance, a Jew from Yugoslavia, who had been in the camp with us. He had bought false papers a few months earlier. But he looked like ten Jews. Well, he bribed the janitor of a villa and we, nine of us, were then hiding from the mass deportations in one room of that villa. The janitor took money to hide us, he was easy to bribe. In the end, when it was all over, when we were already dancing in the streets, 60 Jews suddenly appeared from the villa next door - the janitor had been hiding them in return for money and jewelry, in coal cellars and what not. This is why I said, in Budapest you could get anything, if you had money.

I knew I was pregnant and I said to myself: either the child will perish with me, or I do something. And my husband said, ‘You won’t do anything. If we survive, we will have a child.’ He didn’t allow me to do anything. But I went to see the doctor in the ghetto anyways. He told me, ‘I won’t do anything! Do you want to die of sepsis?’ You see, he didn’t have instruments, nothing at all. My husband immediately said, ‘There’s no way you are going to do this. We will get married.’ Our son, Georg, was born in Budapest on 27th June 1945. It took a bit longer until we married. At that time, our son was already one-and-a-half years old.

We were lying in the room wearing our coats – there were no windows any more – and all of a sudden I heard a voice speaking into a megaphone: ‘This is the Russian Army. People of Budapest, wait! We will liberate you.’ Budapest is surrounded by a hill. It took days for them to get across. ‘Hold on, we will liberate you.’ That’s what they said in German, Hungarian and Russian. And so we waited. One fine day, it was a Sunday, I was standing at the window, there was a deathly silence and I saw a Russian with a fur hat and machine-gun coming through the garden towards the house. I turned round and said, ‘There’s a Russian here.’ And one guy ran down into the garden and hugged the Russian. When he – his name was Steiner – returned, his watch was missing. But he said, ‘Never mind.’

My girlfriend was hiding somewhere else. She was Czech and was hidden in a coal cellar. She always said, ‘The first Russian horse I see – I will kiss its behind.’

 Post-war

After the liberation, I walked through the city of Budapest, and I was standing at the fence of the temple, watching the Russians bury the dead from the ghetto there. Survivors were allowed to take their dead relatives and bury them privately. Tony Curtis 26, the film actor, who is Hungarian, a Jew from Budapest, had a tree planted there, a beautiful willow that shines like gold. One can have the names of the murdered written on its leaves.

I stayed in Hungary. I said, ‘I won’t go to Vienna until we have our own apartment there.’ And my husband always said that they didn’t have anything to eat there yet, no meat or, well, just pork. I felt fine in Hungary and said, ‘I’ll only leave once we have our own apartment and once there is enough food.’ And so he traveled back and forth, and always came back with the news: not yet, not yet.

Before the war, my husband’s sisters had a restaurant called ‘Grill am Peter,’ which, however, was Aranyzed. Then my husband wanted to put in a claim for reparation payment in order to get back the fortune. The restaurant actually belonged to his eldest sister, who was killed in the Holocaust. She had furnished it for the siblings. My husband’s siblings were in Australia and had handed the restaurant over to the Nazis back then. Upon that, they received a certificate stating that they had received 5,000 marks and could thus immigrate to England legally. One of the sisters married a man and went to Australia with him. The other sister was deported to Bergen-Belsen and survived with severe injuries. She had to learn to walk again and, after that, she also moved to Australia.

My husband filed a lawsuit – back then there were restitution courts. And there were always only two judges. The Aryan who took over the restaurant had died. Her son took it over. At the first hearing my husband was offered 35,000 schillings as reparation. Our lawyer was Dr. Pik, who would later become president of the Jewish community. He had gone to school with my husband. At the second hearing they offered him 65,000 schillings. Then, the lawyer said to my husband, ‘If they are already willing to pay 65,000, there will be more.’ At the third hearing three judges were present. Two said the restaurant had to be returned. You see, my husband didn’t want the money; he wanted the restaurant so that we would be able to build a life for ourselves. The third judge said it wasn’t fair to take away the young man’s livelihood since he didn’t have anything to do with the Aranysation. That was already the attitude back then. The young man got the restaurant because the three judges agreed. My husband didn’t get a cent for the restaurant.

My husband had a certificate stating that he had been persecuted on racist grounds and was in a camp. Back then the districts of Vienna were shared out among the victorious powers. The major of our district was a communist, and my husband was allocated an apartment thanks to this certificate.

Initially, I didn’t want to go to Austria; I wanted to move to my children and parents in Israel. But my husband said that he didn’t have a proper profession to go to Israel. He was a businessman and worked for his brother, who owned a large oil company. He worked as a salesman. That wasn’t the right profession for Israel. There, you had to have money, money to set up on your own. So what was he to do at his age? After all, he was ten years older than me, so not young any more. He wanted to go to Austria to put in a claim for reparation payment and get the money so we could immigrate to Israel.

I stayed in Vienna because I didn’t want my children or relatives to maintain me. I went to Israel for the first time in 1949 with my son. Back then you still went by ship. When my husband got his first reparation payment, which was 16,000 schillings, he said, ‘You go, to see your children.’ The money wasn’t enough for both of us to go.

The journey by ship took five days. It was beautiful. My mother was still alive then. She had a nice two-and-a-half room apartment in Tel Aviv. My sister had a beautiful apartment, directly by the sea, on Hayarkon [a street by the sea in Tel Aviv]. Later, they built hotels there and you couldn’t see the ocean from her apartment any more.

My daughter Bessy was already married to a certain Mr. Aharoni and had a five-month-old baby. She married at the age of 18 while she was in the army, the Israeli army. Later she worked for the city council, taking care of elderly people.

Lilly, who was called Drill after her wedding, came to live with me in Vienna for a year. She was exactly 18 then, that was in 1951. She had gone to school in Israel, but, of course, she could speak German. My mother never learned Hebrew. I never saw my father again, that was terrible. Lilly wanted to become a teacher for handicapped children from the very beginning and went to study for it at a school in Vienna.

My son moved to Israel after his final exams. That was shortly after my husband’s death [in 1961]. He lived in a kibbutz there and studied psychology. He changed his name to Zwi Bar-David. He married Ilana, whose family on the mother’s side is also from Berlin, from Scheunenviertel, and they had two daughters and a son. Because of his son’s muscle illness, he, his wife, my then three-year-old grandson Ofir and their younger daughter, Noemi, moved to Vienna. His older daughter, Noga, lives in Israel and works as a nurse. My grandson did his final exams with very good results this year and currently studies at the Technical University of Vienna.

I didn’t like the Austrians. I always regarded them as Nazis. Once, at the beginning of the 1950s, I spent two months in Israel. When I came back to Vienna and went to my local baker to buy bread, the baker’s wife asked me, ‘Mrs. Rosenstein, where have you been for so long?’ I said, ‘I was in Israel.’ And she looked at me and said, ‘You’re Jewish? You don’t look Jewish!’ Upon which I said, ‘Why, Mrs. Schubert? Because I don’t have horns on my head?’ And she said, ‘For Goodness sake, no, I didn’t mean it like that. We had a supplier, a Jew who supplied flour, and he was a decent person, too.’ That was at the beginning of the 1950s. Nothing much has changed over the years. Haider 27 and Stadler [Ewald, politician from the Austrian Freedom Party (FPÖ)], too, give us enough opportunity to think about it. Even if you want to forget, you can’t. We’re confronted with it again and again.

In Germany I didn’t feel any anti-Semitism. I was laughing and joking around with Christian laborers in my father’s workshop. Many of them also knew when our holidays were. I would have loved to go back to Berlin after the war. I think my husband would have liked to go, too. But it wasn’t possible. Then there was his unfortunate sickness: he had cancer and died in 1961 at the age of 63.

I didn’t want to remarry. I was advised to, and there was even this one man, a friend of my husband’s, who proposed to me. My husband had been dead for only two years, it was Christmas, my family lived here and my children were still young. I wasn’t interested. I only had two men in my life, and I know that both loved me. Neither was an arranged marriage; they both got to know me the way I was. My first husband ran after me for a whole year.

I went to Berlin with my sister; back then it was still divided into East and West Berlin. We had an acquaintance from our youth, a neighbor, Sali, who was already in the West, and we wanted to go to East Berlin, our home. You had to change 25 marks into East German marks. And he said, ‘For God’s sake, don’t go, who knows what’s going to happen to you there, you may get into trouble.’ And he talked us out of it. Later I was in East Berlin with my granddaughter. And I didn’t go to the house where we used to live; I simply couldn’t.

Glossary

Toman Brod
Prague
Czech Republic
Interviewer: Lenka Koprivova
Date of interview: February – October 2005

Mr. Toman Brod lives with his wife in a cozy and very tastefully furnished apartment near the center of Prague. In his study, where the interviews took place, he has many books, for the most part historical literature, for Mr.

Brod is a historian. In his research, he has devoted himself primarily to the subject of Czechoslovak-Soviet relations, the Czechoslovak resistance movement in the West during the time of World War II, the Holocaust and World War II as a whole.

Recently he had a book published, which he himself considers to be his life’s work: ‘The Fatal Mistake of Edvard Benes 1939-1948: Czechoslovakia’s Road Into The Soviet Yoke.’

Mr. Brod is capable of talking about his life in a very interesting and captivating manner. Doing this interview with him was a great pleasure for me.

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

• My family background

I never knew my grandparents on my father’s side. They died before I was born, and so everything I know about them, I know only from stories. My grandfather was named Alois Brod and was likely born in the first half of the 19th century. He lived in a village a little ways away from Caslav, it’s called Vrdy-Bucice, and there he had a mixed-goods store. It was definitely a large store, perhaps the largest in the vicinity.

You could buy anything there: textiles, shoes, tools, sweets, groceries. Behind the store there were also stables and also many fields belonged to it. My grandfather had a lot of employees. In fact, everything I know about him, I know from one of them, from Mrs. Anna Kopska, who later worked as a cook for my parents as well, and then after the war lived with me and took care of my daughter.

My grandfather probably wasn’t very religiously inclined, allegedly he used to have ham brought to him in the washroom, so that my grandmother wouldn’t see it, for she was more Orthodox. My grandfather had siblings; for sure I know that he had a brother, Josef, whose descendants are still alive today, some here, some in America.

Mrs. Kopska also used to tell me that my grandfather used to sit in front of the house, and on Sunday, when children would be on their way to church, he would give out sweets to them. And he used to say, ‘look, what a grimy child that is, if it washed itself, how beautiful it would be.’

My grandmother was named Marie, nee Friedlanderova. She probably also came from Bucice or somewhere around Caslav. She was a housewife and her faith was most likely stronger than my grandfather’s. She cooked kosher, didn’t eat pork, but whether she attended the synagogue, that I don’t know. She probably also had siblings, but I don’t know anything about them.

Both of them had German as their mother tongue; however, both of them spoke very good Czech with their employees. They had four or five children, later it was a very widely branched out family. I don’t remember all of them though, because afterwards my father didn’t associate with a number of them.

The sons were named Arnost, which was my father, Jindrich, he later lived in Pardubice and had a fountain pen factory, he often visited us, then Alfred, who was mentally ill and died in Bohnice. My father also had a sister, but he didn’t associate with her, I myself didn’t meet her until in Terezin 1. She was named Hermina.

My grandparents on my father’s side died sometime in the 1920s, before I was born. My father then took over their store, for some time he and my mother ran it, but then he sold it and they moved to Prague. After the war I went to Vrdy-Bucice to have a look around, and at that time that store was still there, in fact after the war you could still see the sign, Alois Brod, of course now it’s completely different.

My father was named Arnost Brod and was born on 28th November 1878 in Vrdy-Bucice. I think that his mother tongue was German, but he spoke Czech without any problems. Until the end of his life he wrote in kurent [also called black-letter script], that pointy German lettering, so even when he was writing a Czech letter, he had sharp edges, he didn’t draw arches, so from this I judge that he went to German schools, after all in those days that was normal.

For sure, he only had a high school education, he had no title. His religious inclinations were probably no great shakes. If they had been, he certainly would have led us in that direction, which though didn’t happen. He was never in the army, he didn’t even have to join up during World War I, and that was most likely because he was important for the war effort, because he worked in supply.

When my father moved to Prague, that was sometime in the second half of the 1920s, he became a grain wholesaler. He sold and bought wheat from farmers, and in Prague he sold it on the commodities exchange. From time to time, once a week, he went to Caslav on business, he had this big shopping bag and the farmers would bring him eggs, butter, various vegetables...

About my grandparents on my mother’s side, I don’t know much either. I never even knew my grandpa [Eduard Pick], he died before I was born, that was also sometime in the 1920s. My grandmother [Anna Pickova, nee Kernova] I faintly remember from my childhood, she died when I was three.

When I was small, I wasn’t very interested in them. And when I did start to become interested, there wasn’t anyone left who could tell me something about them. I know that my mother’s father was named Eduard Pick. He married Anna Pickova, born Kernova, and lived in Ledec nad Sazavou, where they had a sawmill. So they were industrialists, you could say. Probably they also spoke German.

They had several children: the sons Jindrich, Karel, Jiri, and the daughters Olga, that was my mother, Stefa and Anna. After their father’s death, the sons took over the sawmill and together continued in the lumber business; they did business in Prague and vicinity and their sawmill was, I think, in Satalice. To more easily integrate into Czech society, they changed their name, they became the Petrovskys. That was sometime after World War I.

The oldest brother was named Karel. He married a Christian woman; she was a bit of a clotheshorse. During the war he stayed in Prague, because he somehow managed to have himself declared a child born out of wedlock, via some fraud he got a different birth certificate, so he wasn’t considered a Jew, and after February 1948 2, he moved away to Brazil.

Jiri Petrovsky was born in the year 1897, so he was seven years younger than my mother. He had two wives; his first wife died, she was some Italian woman, and he probably met her when he was at the front in Italy during World War I. His second wife was named Anna and was born in 1907. From his first marriage he had a daughter, Vera, who was here during the war, she wasn’t considered to be Jewish, so survived the war and died afterwards in America, because she had leukemia. With Anna, his second wife, who was a Jewess, Jiri Petrovsky had a little boy, Ivosek [Ivo], who was born in 1935, and together they were transported to Lodz, where their trail ends in the fall of 1941.

Jindrich Petrovsky was born in the year 1891. His wife was named Ruzena and they had two children together, Eva and Mario. They were also a relatively rich family, they owned some buildings in Prague, later we even lived with them. Jindrich Petrovsky didn’t survive the war, the rest of his family did.

Anna Ungerova-Pickova married and then lived in Vienna. She had a son, Otto, who, after she died in the 1920s, returned to Prague. Him I remember very well, we saw each other often, for example, he used to come and visit us at our summerhouse. Later he was also in Terezin and Auschwitz. He survived, and after the war he married his Christian girlfriend. Otto was this kindly person; he had a personality very similar to my mother’s. He died in the year 1984.

Stefa Pickova was born in the year 1886 and was mentally handicapped. She died in the year 1944 in Riga.

• Growing up

My mother was named Olga Brodova, nee Pickova. She was born on 29th January 1890 in Ledec nad Sazavou. Her mother tongue was also German I think, but she spoke Czech perfectly, her handwriting was also clear. When she spoke, the same as when she wrote letters, she crossed over fluently from one language to the other. Both languages were completely normal back then. Unfortunately, I don’t know much about my parents’ youth, I was born very late, and when I was a child, these things didn’t interest me.

I don’t know when and where my parents met, but their wedding was in July of 1912; they were married in Bucice, by a rabbi. My mother then also helped in the store. In the 1920s, they moved to Prague. We were by no means rich, but we did live in a nice building on the riverfront; I’d say that we were part of the well-situated middle class.

My parents waited a long time for children. They had already been together 15 years when my brother Hanus was born in 1927. At that time, they had already given up hope that they could have a family. My father also already wanted to retire, but when children came, he had to once again restart his business, to support the household.

I think that my mother managed to get pregnant when they were on vacation in Italy, that somehow the local climate favorably affected her. So my brother Hanus was born in 1927 and I was born two years after him, on 18th January 1929.

My father was a somewhat conservative type, who was of course glad that he had sons, because at his age he had no longer hoped that he would have any offspring. So he was very proud, he took care of us, gave us precise orders as to what we could do and what we couldn’t. He checked what time we were going to sleep, checked how we were bathing ourselves.

He was a person who, as long as he had the time, took very good care of his family. Unfortunately he had very little time; he was basically already an old person. When he died at the age of 60, everyone said that he had already been an old man, that his time had come.

Today that’s nonsense, 60-year-old people are fundamentally very active, but as I say, already when he was 50 he wanted to retire, and didn’t do so only because we were born. Well, so I have him in my memory as a person who of course tried to somehow play with us, but I think that at his age he didn’t understand children much any more.

My mother was a woman with a completely calm disposition, who was flustered by absolutely nothing. The children could romp about and yell and she would sit after dinner at the table and crack nuts. And the children could demolish the house, or more precisely the hallway, furniture, and it didn’t faze her. But, of course, our father was somewhat more nervous, hot-tempered.

When our parents argued, it was mainly in German, so that we couldn’t understand them. But eventually we understood them anyways. Our mother was very gentle, kind-hearted, I remember her as being a very gentle and kind-hearted woman.

As a teenager, I didn’t always act very nicely towards her, that’s of course also true, but later she showed herself to be, that’s already another history, as a very courageous woman. Even though she never worked, in those horrible conditions in Terezin that she had to experience, she showed herself to be a very adaptable woman; she worked as a nurse for mentally and physically handicapped children.

My mother was a very passionate card player. She had lots of lady friends, who just like her, played bridge. It was this social circle, that came to visit her, or she would go with them to coffee houses, because they mainly played in coffee houses.

This society of women met at our place for various tea parties, afternoons, various women’s matters were discussed. Some of these ladies spoke Czech, some German and they would fluidly switch from one language to the other.

With some of these lady friends of hers, who had children, we used to go to our summerhouse, as summer holidays were then called. It’s interesting that they were all assimilated Jewish families. Really, our family friends were again only Jews.

We didn’t associate much with our mother’s siblings and their families. Yes, we knew about each other, but they were more these bigwigs, they moved about in different social circles. They owned buildings, were members of auto clubs, rode horses... In contrast to this, my father’s brother Jindrich visited us often.

His wife Berta was also Jewish, they adopted a child together. My uncle had a fountain pen factory in Pardubice; however, it didn’t do very well, and so he would always come to borrow money from my father. He was a very kind-hearted person, whom we always respected and loved. He was younger than our father, and so he also acted differently toward us.

When our father died, we lived close to each other in the Old Town, we would regularly go for Sunday walks with him, he would show us Prague’s sights. Uncle Jindrich died along with Aunt Berta in Auschwitz, but their daughter perhaps wasn’t even in a concentration camp, and later immigrated to Australia.

My brother Hanus was two years younger than me. For sure he had a better disposition, for I was a terrible, annoying child. I was a poor loser, even today, when I lose at chess, it bothers me, but if in those days I for example lost in some children’s sport competition, I was really a very unpleasant child. While he was prudent, would try to calm me down in various possible ways, that it’s only a game, and so after a time the anger would leave me.

Hanus, I think, was that contemplative, scientific type. Here I have one of his books of composition exercises that he wrote when he was 15 years old. They’re these philosophical, essay-like ponderings. Even back then one could see that he was a contemplative person, that he was interested in the future.

For example, here he writes: ‘About my life I would just like to write that I was born...other details are unfortunately unknown to me, I don’t know when and where I will die, what sorts of interesting incidents I will yet live to experience. Hanus didn’t live to experience many more interesting incidents.

I would suggest, that I be given this task again after a certain number of years, then I will be able to write more, having behind me a larger part of my life and with that also a larger number of interesting experiences.’ Already as a boy, he was interested in politics and political-historical things;

I think that in this respect he was quite serious for his age, and also in this respect stood quite above other boys with his interests and his knowledge. Then, during the war, when he was 16, 17, he was perhaps part of some Communist cell in Terezin.

Otherwise, I think that my brother and I were this normal pair. Sometimes we fought like cats and dogs, like all siblings sometimes fight or egg each other on. But we of course also played ping-pong together, soccer, went swimming in the summer, skated; I really do think that we were a normal pair.

We neither loved each other a lot, nor did we hate each other. Well, of course in childhood it’s a different relationship than in adulthood, so maybe that relationship would have changed. Back then I was jealous of Hanus, he was older, stronger, so I tried to keep up with him. We had mutual friends and so on.

Our family was largely assimilated. We practically didn’t know anything about any Judaism. Though I was circumcised from childhood, that’s about all. I never visited a synagogue during the entire time of the First [Czechoslovak] Republic 3, I first found out about Judaism in 1938, when various anti-Jewish measures [see Anti-Jewish laws in the Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia] 4 began, and when there already was a difference between Christians and Jews.

Perhaps because of their experiences with the Hilsner Trial 5, they told us: you should identify yourselves as Czechs, that will give you a certain amount of protection, but a Jew will always have problems. Probably because of that. I don’t know, I never talked about it with them; I didn’t have time, because they all died before I was old enough.

An inseparable part of our family was certainly also Anna Kopska, our cook. Anci [Anna] was born in 1892 in Vrdy-Bucice, and when she was 17 she started working for my grandfather. Then she also worked for my parents, and after the war she took care of me and my family.

During the time of the First Republic it worked that way, that every middle-class family, like ours was, had a governess and cook. We got especially lucky with our Anci. Not only because of her being an excellent cook, but also because of her immense devotion and good-heartedness that helped us very much during the war.

Mrs. Kopska was a widow. Her marriage is a mystery, apparently she had been married for only a short time. Her husband was some coachman and died of tuberculosis. Anci never talked about it. But she had a son, Pepek, who she had when she was around 18, certainly still during the time of Austria [the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy].

When he died in the middle of the 1960s, he was something over 50. I don’t know where he grew up, the first time I saw him was when he returned from the war as a grown man. One morning a stranger came over, I was home at the time, and suddenly I hear Mrs. Kopska greeting him.

Pepek then married, had a child and lived with his family in Zleby u Caslavy, where they built a house. Mrs. Kopska probably helped him out with it a lot financially, because she wasn’t too happy that Pepek divorced a few years later, left the house to his wife and moved to Prague. But I remember the house in Zleby very well to this day; we used to go there during summer vacations, and that’s where we were when we heard that my father had died.

A few years ago I went to Zleby to have a look, and I even met up with Pepek’s ex-wife. Back then she had been a young, beautiful woman, now this old, hunched-over lady came out. Our meeting years later was interesting. Pepek worked in some factory in Prague, and when we left for Terezin, he and his mother took care of our apartment.

Of the things that Anci cooked for us, I’ll for example never forget her blueberry dumplings. No one makes those any more these days. They were large dumplings, most likely from cottage cheese dough, and they had a very thin shell; it was an art to make them so that the shell didn’t tear.

Another delicacy for me was her sauerbraten, also absolutely unrivalled. And her plaited Christmas cake, that probably doesn’t even exist any more today. Maybe it wasn’t only her recipe, but in general nothing made now can equal the Christmas cakes that were made before the war. They had an indescribable taste and indescribable aroma. When you broke them in half, the dough formed these little needles. And they were full of raisins and almonds and all kinds of goodies. So that was an amazing thing.

Tomato sauce! At our house we had tomato sauce with rice, but Kaja Marik, my childhood hero, ate tomato sauce with dumplings, so I asked Anci to also make it for me with dumplings. Her bread dumplings were absolutely superb. What I on the other hand didn’t eat much of was cream of wheat.

That I only started to like when I was in Terezin, understandably so, but after the war I didn’t like it again. And so my granddaughter, who as opposed to me likes it very much, pesters me at breakfast time to eat porridge with her. I also didn’t eat fish, I didn’t like those bones in them; for example at Christmas I would always have a schnitzel instead.

Mrs. Kopska made excellent schnitzels. Of course, we didn’t eat meat every day; we also cooked ordinary foods, like for example spinach with eggs and potatoes, semlbaba. Potato salad! That’s again something that no one can manage to make any more, she made it with her own homemade mayonnaise, and salami or ham was also put into it. And more things, all goodies. I liked hanging around the kitchen when Anci was cooking, and I always managed to get a taste of something. Like that sweet dough that you could scoop up with your finger and eat raw...The delicious marble cakes that Anci made!

I was a nervous child, so in the morning before going to school I didn’t eat much, I’d perhaps only drink some white coffee or some tea. I got a mid-morning snack to take with me to school, which I didn’t eat until around 10am, when my stomach began working. So our family for sure didn’t eat breakfast all together, after all, my mother was mostly still asleep when we left for school. But we ate dinner together, my father if he was home, my mother always.

And that was already a certain ritual. We ate in the dining room, which was festively set, Mrs. Kopska served us... But Mrs. Kopska or the governess, didn’t eat with us, they ate in the kitchen. It was this certain detachment that was observed, it was further expressed for example by my mother and father addressing Mrs. Kopska as Anna, while she addressed them as Milady and Sir. They addressed each other formally. We addressed Anci informally and for us she was Anci.

My father was practically never at home, so my mother was the head of the household. My mother never cooked, that wasn’t proper for a well-to-do woman, though she did go do the shopping. She took care of the shopping, and it wasn’t any problem. She didn’t carry any bags, she only picked out things in the store, paid, and they then delivered it to our apartment. In fact, we had a delicatessen right in our building where you could go shopping. My mother also took care of the finances, she kept the books.

The Prague of my childhood was an idyllic city. Though back then there were already cars in Prague, but what was that, a couple of cars here and there. In my time, there were still horses! I remember brewers’ horses, coal merchants’ horses, postal horses.

Prague was really this village, where you could normally walk down the street and crossing it was no problem, though even back then people said that it was congested, but if they would have seen what it looks like today...We lived on Palacky Nabrezi, that’s between the Palacky and Jirasek bridges, today the Dancing House is on that stretch of riverfront.

We had a beautiful five-room apartment on the second floor of this burgher’s house from the late 19th century, which stands there to this day. Our apartment had a children’s room, then on the right side was a kitchen, on the left our parents’ bedroom, then a dining room, a so-called gentlemen’s room, used for receiving guests, and the last room was an office, used by my father to conduct his business affairs.

Our apartment had a beautiful balcony with a view out on the Vltava River and Hradcany [the Prague Castle]. Basically, it was a beautiful, pleasant, gracious apartment, and also very well furnished for the times. Not luxuriously, but nevertheless very well, comfortably.

My brother and I shared a room. Here we each had our own bed; our nanny slept in the room next to us. Here we used to play, had our toys, read...Otherwise we didn’t walk about the apartment all that much. Into the dining room, to the bathroom, yes, of course, into the gentlemen’s room only if there was company over, but otherwise we stayed in our room, where it was warm and where we had our world.

When I had the time, and time I used up quite a bit of, I would stand at the window and watch life on the Vltava River. There were still rafts on the river then, but already also steamboats. From where I was I could see two harbors, one was right under our windows, the second by the Jirasek Bridge. And one of my childhood amusements was to watch the steamships, I always hoped that an arriving steamboat would drop anchor at my harbor.

In the winter the Vltava would freeze over, there was a skating oval on it and we used to go skating there, we would also go for walks on it, for example we would take our sleds all the way to Vysehrad. Well, and then of course there was snow, in the winter Prague was full of snow. Prague was covered by snow each winter, and it was real snow, not mud, like it is today. So that was also a certain romance, a certain idyll.

Otherwise, Prague, fairs, well, that was a huge thing in those days, back then there were still those Czech fairs. Prague had more of them, but for me there were two main ones. They were held on Karlovo Namesti [Charles Square] twice a year, a Christmas fair and a St. Joseph’s fair. There were various attractions, merry-go-rounds and magicians and a half-man, half-woman, animals, some monkeys, a shooting range and of course all sorts of goodies, especially that what we weren’t allowed at home.

For example, we weren’t allowed to eat speck sausages. If our father had seen us eating them, he would have had a stroke. But that was our greatest delicacy, to buy a sausage there for 50 halers. We did get some allowance, always when some acquaintance would come to visit, mainly Uncle Jindrich to come borrow money from our father, so when he would get it, he would give us a crown or two. In those days a crown was a huge amount of money, back then 5 halers would get you a gummy snake that you could chew, some candy for 10 halers, and for 50 halers those sausages.

We didn’t even know what to do with a whole crown, what to spend it all on. Or the cotton candy, disgusting, all those were our delicacies. All around the park on Karlovo Namesti stood booths with attractions, and the mood was amazing, there was music playing everywhere, there were candles and the scent of frankincense...

I also loved roasted chestnuts, there were always old ladies standing outside with these locomobiles, round ovens with a smoking chimney, inside of which there were chestnuts roasting on a spit, and the old ladies sold them for a crown a bag. Now I buy chestnuts perhaps only when I go to Vienna; there they probably still have those old recipes, otherwise not.

And I also liked whipped cream and ice cream, that I could eat for breakfast, lunch and supper. But we weren’t allowed to just go to any stand, our father first had to approve some confectioner and then we could shop there. Ice cream cost 50 halers a cone.

We loved fruit, melons, mandarin oranges, oranges, bananas; back then you could of course get all that. But we weren’t some sort of free-spending family. Yes, we were well off, there was certainly no lack of money, but we didn’t throw it around. When we got 50 halers to go to the fair, we were happy.

Our governess definitely had to account for each crown that she spent on us. Back then money was scarce, so we respected it; after all, we hardly ever got our hands on it. Everything that we needed was bought for us, so perhaps only when our uncle came to visit would we get a crown or two, but otherwise not.

I was a passionate collector of toy soldiers, back then these plaster soldiers were popular; I had a whole army of them. One cost about two or three crowns in the toy store, so when I saved, earned a crown here or there, I could go to the toy store and buy a soldier. Soldiers were also the best present that I could possibly get.

As was the custom in those days, our family also had a nanny. Back then the way it worked was that the children were given to the nanny to take care of, and she made sure they behaved, walked them to school and from school, went with them to the playground and for walks. We had several nannies, not all of them stuck it out with us, and neither did we stick it out with all of them. They were all Christian girls. We used to call them Miss, so I don’t even know their names any more. The first left because she got married.

Then we had this robust lady, Krajcova she was named, she was very sports-oriented. She also left, our parents weren’t happy with her. And then we had one, by then we were already bigger boys, around nine or ten, and she was German. She tried to teach us German, which we of course refused, because German was the language of our enemy.

We were ashamed of it when she spoke German to us, we forbade her to talk to us in German in front of our friends. I think that this nanny left when [the] Munich [Pact] 6 happened. With our nannies we went for walks, to the theater, played various games...Basically we got along, mainly when they didn’t speak German to us in front of our friends. We had about five nannies, but these services ended in 1939, after our father died. There wasn’t money for it any more, our mother kept a smaller household, so we said goodbye to that beautiful apartment.

Anci Kopska also took very good care of us. Not only would she cook or bake what we wanted, but for example I could go and knock on her door and say: ‘Listen, I’d like, if you’d be so kind, for you to read me a bit from Bozena Nemcova 7.’ So Anci would come, when she had the time, and read it to me. Whether she read for herself when she had time off, I don’t know. I actually remember almost nothing of what she did in her spare time. I used to go to the kitchen only for food; otherwise I was in our children’s room. She knitted, yes, a lot of that, maybe she occasionally went to see a movie, but otherwise I don’t know.

• School years

Our school was on Pstrossova Street, in a building where in 1890 Eliska Krasnohorska’s Minerva had been founded, the first Czech high school where girls could study. In our time though, it was a boys’ school. This is because in those days children were educated separately; schools weren’t co-ed like they are now. And also in other ways school in those days was completely different from how it is now.

In the first place, it was ruled by an absolutely natural and observed authority and discipline: there was such order that today’s children would scarcely be able to imagine it. My impression is that today’s teachers are more tamers than educators. Back then, whatever the teacher said, was law. Mr. Teacher said this, so I have to do it like this.

Of course in those days there already were also women teachers. But I think that they were all single, that they weren’t allowed to be married. Basically they weren’t supposed to have other responsibilities, so that their own children wouldn’t take time away from teaching.

In school I liked for example drawing or composition. I think that I liked school as such. It was a duty that I understood in some way. Of course that I was glad when I didn’t sometimes have to go, like every child is glad, but that it was some sort of shock for me to go to school, that certainly can’t be said.

On the contrary, at the end of summer holidays we looked forward to returning to it, that again there would be boys that we played with the previous year, that maybe some new ones will arrive... The teachers addressed us by our last names.

As soon as I arrived at school in the first grade, I was Brod, and when the teacher called someone by his first name, that was an honor. He was the teacher’s pet, he might then be addressed familiarly with a diminutive, but otherwise it didn’t exist... And we of course envied him that.

Though we liked school, we also liked being ill. For one because we didn’t have to go to school, but also because our mother, governess and Anci took very good care of us.

I remember there being some sort of difference between boys that were better and worse off, I do, however it wasn’t in that we wouldn’t be friends, that we wouldn’t play soccer together, but when someone had a birthday, we always got together more with others from that middle class, as it were.

So a certain class aspect did exist. On the other hand, our teacher said to us: ‘look here, we’ve got some poor children here, so maybe, if you can, at Christmastime bring some clothing or shoes that you don’t need, some toys that you don’t need, and we’ll give it to the poorer children.’

Or I also know, that when the father of some boy left for Spain to fight for the Spanish Republic [see Spanish Civil War] 8, the teacher said: ‘this boy here has no father, so if you’re from those so-called better families, invite him over once a week for dinner.’ So I know that one boy used to come over to our place sometimes for dinner. Like I said, if he knew how to play soccer, he was our friend, and no one cared if he was rich or poor.

And of course, it’s true that we were big on sports, we were soccer fans, at least my brother and I were. We also actively played soccer, but with more enthusiasm than skill, we were fans of Sparta 9 and Slavia 10, we followed their performance, and that was something, when during the World Championship in 1934 in Italy, our soccer players reached the finals.

[Editor’s note: the year 1934 brought great success to Czechoslovak soccer at the World Championship in Italy, although the Czechoslovak Republic lost 2:1 to the home team in the finale.] They lost, but it wasn’t all fair. Then they got a hero’s welcome in Prague: they arrived in an open coach and everyone covered them in flowers; I was there too.

Soccer players of those times weren’t gladiators, millionaire slaves, that let themselves be sold back and forth for millions; they were people that really played for prestige and with enthusiasm, for the love of it. With patriotism. For them it was a real point of pride to represent Czechoslovakia in the international arena. In those days patriotism wasn’t a cliche, it was a real, deep feeling.

I was a Sparta fan, Hanus a Slavia fan. In fact, before he died, our father bought my brother a Slavia and me a Sparta sweater. I knew the entire Sparta team roster, I had it hanging above my bed, and always on Monday our teacher, Mr. Pokorny, he was this older man with glasses, would come up to me and say: ‘Brod, how did you end up on Sunday?’ So I reported: ‘Mr. Teacher, sir, we won.’ I would say we. ‘So you won? That’s amazing news.’ And so then I would describe to him how it was that we won.

We also read a lot. My brother and I used to fight over books. It goes without saying that we read books by Karl May, Robinson [Crusoe], Tarzan, Kaja Marik, all the books by Foglar... we devoured books. And we fought as to who would get to read a book first. We got books on birthdays and Christmas, it’s not like today, when as soon as a child wants something, it gets it immediately.

In those days gifts were bought only at Christmas and for birthdays. Later we could also buy them with money we had made. My mother also read a lot. Our father, as I said, wasn’t at home much, and when he did come home, I was maybe already asleep. Children didn’t go to bed as late as today, at 11pm. At 8, that was it, bedtime. Our mother also used to give us the newspaper to read.

In the summer we used to go to a summer house. If I remember correctly, in the beginning it was only around Prague, when I was a small child we used to for example go to Revnice. The first bigger holiday event was Doksy, Mach Lake, then for a few years it was Libverda, that’s near Liberec, where we went for about three years, but because it was in the border region, where it wasn’t all that pleasant to be in the 1930s, we spent our last summer vacation, in 1938, at Mala Skala near Turnov.

We would always go there for two months, the two of us, our mother, the cook, and the nanny. Our father had work, so he wasn’t there regularly, he would come when he had the time, and then would again leave for Prague. Besides us there were also other families there, some three, four would always be there. They were Jews.

Some of them were our relatives; some were more distant relatives with whom my mother was in closer contact than with her own. They were women that played bridge with her, and who had children, so we spent our summer vacation with them, we knew them from childhood. We spent beautiful, calm, secure times together.

I think that about three times a year, for Christmas, during spring break and at Easter, we used to go to the mountains. Our father would say: ‘you’re pale, you’re city children, at least once in a while you have to have mountain air, you have to go skiing.’ So we would go to the mountains. To Spindleruv Mlyn, and to Harrachov, always to the same hotel, to this day it still stands there.

Well, as a skier I was no great shakes, but it was fun. We skied downhill, uphill you had to walk, back then there were no ski lifts yet, and those hills were more these pastures, not ski runs, those I didn’t have the courage for. You went, stopped against some fence, and walked uphill again. Other than this we hardly did any traveling around the country, nor to other countries. At school we used to go on these day-trips...

You know, we were raised as Czechoslovak patriots. It was a time of that fresh republican patriotism, the Republic was new and we were immeasurably proud that we had our president, Masaryk 11, that he was a person respected and liked world-wide and we used to sing a song about him:

Old father of ours,
you’ve got gray hairs,
while we’ve got your head,
we know we’ll be well led.

It’s some traditional folk song, but we of course referred to the President with it. Our principal was a former Legionnaire. He would always lead us down to the gym and there he would project slides for us, photos from the Legion, the life of the Legionnaires in wagons, in Siberia, and bear cubs that they used to bring for the President.

Every 28th October we would celebrate, at school there would be a big celebration, then we would go to the Emauzy Church, where there used to be, and now again has been renewed, Maratek’s memorial to fallen Prague Legionnaires. [Editor’s note: on 28th October 1918 Czechoslovakia gained independence from Austria-Hungary.]

I don’t know if there was some sort of speech, but in any case the entire school would gather there and celebrate the holiday. 7th March was also a big holiday: the birthday of President Masaryk. All of Prague was decorated, flags were hung out, every store had a picture of the president, everything was absolutely natural and absolutely spontaneous, everyone admired Masaryk and everyone was glad that that’s the way it was.

Nothing was decreed. Of course, it was mainly Czechs who were enthusiastic about the Republic; for other nationalities it wasn’t all that great, but we, the Czechs, were proud of the fact that we had a republic and that we had our president.

In 1937 President Masaryk died. I saw his funeral, our father got us a place in the windows of the Dunaj Palace, that’s on Narodni Trida [National Avenue], and from there we watched the procession that wound its way through Prague’s streets, I don’t remember details, but I do remember the overall feeling.

So that was the time of the First Republic. We thought that it was an absolutely secure, reliable existence, of course in the 1930s there were already reports getting through, of war in Abyssinia, war in Spain. It reached us children, we already read the papers and were interested in these events, so we did feel that there existed some sort of danger, but otherwise our childhood wasn’t affected by it.

We kept on playing soccer, kept on playing cops and robbers, just with the awareness that there were some clouds gathering on the horizon. For me it was even worse, in that the clouds were also gathering above our family, by coincidence our father died on 28th October 1938, and on 30th October the Munich Pact was signed. So for me the state and family catastrophes were really one and the same. Thus ended my carefree childhood.

We started to notice that the situation was thickening. In the middle of October 1938, Jiri Pick and I, Toman Brod, two Jewish boys, took up a collection for the defense of the state at school, not in Pstrossova Street, which had been closed, but in Stepanska Street, and collected over 200 crowns, which in those days was a huge sum.

We gave it to our teacher and our teacher was very moved by our initiative, which was of course useless, but it was a show of patriotism, we really felt that we lived with this republic, and that its end would be a catastrophe.

• During the war

In the fall of 1938 our father was in the hospital for about a month. Already before that he had been ill; he used to visit the spas for treatment. His condition got worse though, and he had to be operated on, I guess it was because of his prostate or something like that. However he didn’t cooperate with the doctors very much, and I think that this is why he died.

He was afraid of life, afraid of Hitler. He was buried in the Jewish cemetery on 28th October. Neither my brother nor I took part in the funeral, at that time we were outside of Prague, in Zleby. Shortly after our father his brother Alois also died, it was also in the fall of 1938.

After his death we had to move out of the apartment on the riverfront, not because we were thrown out, but simply because there wasn’t the money to keep such a large apartment. We moved into an apartment that was on Veletrzni Street. It became available because its former owners, German Jews, had committed suicide after [the] Munich [Pact], they jumped out of a window.

Our cook came with us, but we no longer had the nanny. I started attending school in Holesovice, it was a Czech school. Once again we would go to Letna to play. Back then Letna was still this Wild West, it wasn’t that beautiful plain it is today, neither the park nor Stalin’s monument were there yet, just wilderness, where we played Cowboys and Indians and soccer.

Before the war I practically never met up with anti-Semitism. During my whole time at school I never heard the word Jew, or some anti-Semitic comment. We were Czech boys and we played soccer together, fought together, and I don’t know what else.

We went on outings together, and if someone was a Jew, that wasn’t important then. Of course, others have different experiences, but up until the war, I really didn’t meet up with any anti-Semitism. Actually, once I did, but it was a trifle: in our building, still on Palacky Nabrezi, lived this Member of Parliament, a National Democrat, named Branzovsky, a lawyer, who tended towards the extreme right.

Once he wrote ‘Jews out’ or something like that on our door. I didn’t understand it, I figured that some kid had scrawled some stupidity, but my father was very agitated by it. Of course no one knows if it was really he that wrote it, but they suspected him. After that Branzovsky was involved in the National Unity party.

[Editor’s note: The political party National Unity (NS) was founded in 1934 with the credo ‘Foreigners unwanted, our own protected’.]

Back then, at the end of the 1930s, that was probably the first display of anti-Semitism, which though wasn’t directed at me, but at my father, our whole family. During the war, that was a different situation, even after Munich it was different, we could already see that something was up, that the annexation of the Sudetenland 12 was no joke, even though as children we understood it only superficially. But I can only talk about anti-Semitism in official displays, among children there was absolutely nothing like that.

The apartment on Veletrzni Street was still under our name, but we weren’t there long, Uncle Jindrich Petrovsky convinced us to move into ‘his’ building on today’s Obranci Miru Street. But a few months later the Germans threw us out of there. The thing was, that at that time the Germans were going around and looking at Jewish apartments, and an apartment that they liked, they confiscated.

So I remember that one day some German lady in a fur coat came to our place, started to look it over, and was saying, ‘ja, schön, schön, schön’, that meant that she liked it, and so we had to abandon it and move to the Old Town, where Jews from Prague that had had to leave their apartments were concentrated.

We lived in an apartment together with two other families. But because our cook was a Christian, she rented a two-room apartment under her name on Masna Street, and we actually lived there with her. We would only go to Kozi Street in the Old Town to sleep.

The whole building on Masna Street knew that there was a Jewish family there, but no one ratted on us. Likely it was a peculiarity, maybe not really a peculiarity, but for sure it wasn’t common, but that’s the way it was.

Because the anti-Jewish measures were increasing, and we, the children, could for example no longer go play at a normal playground, our playground became the old Jewish cemetery. It was open, there were benches, old people would sit there and children would run about among the tombstones. We played various games, made first contacts with the opposite sex; at that time we were 13.

I had actually already begun to be interested in girls earlier, but it was this pure and innocent thing, it was a certain co-education, a certain new experience. So-called first loves were born, which didn’t last long, a few months at most, up until the spring of 1942.

While we still could, we tried to go out on trips somewhere. In the summer of 1940 we found out that somewhere in Jablonna nad Orlici some man was accepting Jewish children and youths, but also Christian children and youths, for stays at a summer house. He was the owner of this one old factory, which he provided for this purpose.

Of course, it was a secret, because at that time Jews were already not allowed to go to any communal camps, but he risked it and thanks to him we spent two nice months in the company of other young people. We went on walks, played some games, I think that we still didn’t know much about the war.

The war was far off, there was no bombing, and though food was rationed via coupons, we didn’t go hungry. In the beginning I was homesick, it was the first time that I had been away from my mother for that long, but in two or three days I got used to it and then I liked it there very much. Well, that was Jablonna, my last summer holidays.

Anti-Jewish measures became worse and worse. At first we weren’t allowed to go to restaurants, to the theater, to the cinema, shopping hours were limited, we weren’t allowed to own radios, telephones, jewelry was confiscated, we weren’t allowed out after 8pm, we weren’t allowed to go to the town square, to the park, to the Vltava river, we weren’t allowed to buy various goods…Of course this I already felt…

In the summer of 1940 they threw me out of school [see Exclusion of Jews from schools in the Protectorate] 13, after that I was only allowed to associate with Jewish boys and girls. This sort of ghetto was created, which didn’t allow us out, not many people wanted or were even allowed to associate with us. When some Christians came over for a visit, it was a secret. They didn’t want to take the risk and we didn’t want to endanger them.

When we could no longer attend public schools with non-Jewish children, home study started to be organized, that is, as far as Jews still had some sort of home. Jewish teachers privately taught us certain subjects. There were about eight, ten children in our group, boys and girls together. I don’t recall that we knew each other from before; we simply got to know each other and were friends.

For about a half, three quarters of a year we attended these groups, then in 1942 transports began leaving and so a Jewish school on Jachymova Street became free, that’s where today the Terezin Initiative 14 has its offices. I then attended this school for about two months in the spring of 1942. We were normally taught that what we were supposed to be learning at that age. It wasn’t until here that I started attending Jewish religion classes.

While it was still possible, we rode bikes, we had this group of about ten young Jewish people, and would go for example on trips to Roztoky or to Zbraslav, to Stechovice. The youth tried to make use of their free time somehow, and to spend it together. But this was only while stars [see Yellow star – Jewish star in Protectorate] 15 weren’t worn, after that it was bad.

When we had to start wearing a star, it was a real shock for me. Because everything, all those other measures didn’t really affect me that much. I went to the cinema anyways. Though there was a sign saying ‘Juden nicht zuganglich’ [Jews not allowed], it didn’t bother me, no one noticed me, so I kept on going. I didn’t go to the theater, that’s true.

After eight in the evening, for example when it was summer and it was nice out, I didn’t pay much attention to it, I still went out with the guys. But when the star started to be worn, that was when I first realized that I’m something that doesn’t belong in society, and that made me weep. Though it was basically foolishness, despite this, this measure affected me most of all.

At that time my mother took me to the dentist, I needed to have my teeth fixed, and told him about how I had reacted to this event; that was in September of 1941. He was this young doctor, and he said to me: ‘boy, you know, I think that we’re going to have much worse and more serious reasons for weeping, than this one.’

So I tried to cover my star up somehow, put a school bag over it or something, it was really horrible for me to walk around with it. Of course that this covering up was punishable, there were rats that watched out for it. Many anti-Semitic magazines were being put out, published by Czechs, one of them was called Aryan Struggle. In it was written, for example, that the Jew Winternitz was hiding his star, or that the Jewess Rudi Roubickova had been seen out after 8pm, talking to a white Jew, white Jew was a designation for Semitophiles, Christians that associated with Jews. Aryan Struggle was this denunciatory rag that was very dangerous, could bring a person denouncement, punishment, jail, even a concentration camp. Even Jews used to buy it a lot, of course while they still didn’t have to wear a star, even I bought it, it amused us in a masochistic sort of way. We kids would then draw Jewish caricatures according to it, Roosevelt, Roosevelt was Rosenfeld and that was a Jew, and Churchill was also a Jew, and Stalin was also a Jew, everyone was a Jew. Masaryk was of course a Jew. Really, we made fun of it more than anything else.

But the situation kept getting worse. It was no longer permitted to go outside of Prague; a Jew wasn’t allowed to leave his area of residence. It was forbidden to ride the train, ride in the streetcar or maybe just in the last wagons, later not at all.

The limitations kept getting worse and worse, but it was still life, when a person could lie down in his own bed, perhaps eat in a decent environment, and still have decent food. In Terezin it was something else again, though even that Terezin wasn’t the worst. Horror has its dimensions.

When I give a talk somewhere, I say that when someone lived in London or New York during the war, and imagined that he was in occupied Prague, he was horrified how it could be possible to live under such a Hitlerite dictatorship. And when someone lived in Prague, he was happy, that he could live in Prague and did all sorts of things so he wouldn’t have to go to Terezin.

And Terezin, that was another stage, another dimension of horror. And understandably Terezin, when we got to Auschwitz, we saw that it hadn’t been any horror, that there in that extermination camp was the real horror, and then on and on. Horror is a relative concept, it can descend into great depths, to great lows, before reaching its bottom, and then it can no longer be graded.

Some of our friends emigrated while there was till time, but no one in our family left the country. All of the Petrovsky brothers stayed here, because they had property here, they couldn’t take their buildings and factories and their farms on their backs. They said to themselves: ‘We’ll survive it.

After all, we’re not going to abandon our real estate that we have here, our sawmill, while it doesn’t belong to us any more, we still have to watch over it somehow.’ Karel, who had the Christian wife, collaborated with the Germans in some fashion, or perhaps she collaborated, so they were protected in some way, and thus stayed here. The others stayed as well, right up until the bitter end, when there was no longer any escaping.

That’s this Jewish characteristic, no one imagined that the worst would happen. We’ll live through it somehow. We can’t go to coffee shops, so we’ll play cards at home. We’re not allowed to attend the theater, that we’ll survive. After 8pm we’re not allowed to go out, so we won’t go anywhere. It still wasn’t dangerous.

What the Germans were doing, it was this tactic of whittling down. They didn’t say it all at once, so people got used to it. It was this mentality, though we’re oppressed, second-rate, it’s still livable. If they don’t allow us to shop in stores, we’ve still got some money, so we’ll buy on the black market. You could still get food.

There were Christians that helped us, of course: our cook, she also had her connections, and then there were friends from when we were still in that house on the riverside… This one Christian woman used to come over, Miss Janska. We always looked forward to her coming over, not only because of the news she would bring us, but also because to celebrate her visit.

Mrs. Kopska would always prepare open-faced sandwiches and excellent potato salad. So it was always this pleasant get-together.

Miss Janska listened to the radio, had connections with the underground, brought us secret magazines, especially Boj. Each time we threw ourselves at her and wanted to know what London was saying, we were waiting and waiting that the war would be over. In 1940 we were waiting, thinking that it couldn’t last long.

We very much believed that ‘dependable news one lady was saying,’ in Terezin it was called Latrinengeschichte [empty rumor]. And so it was until the end of the war: we were constantly waiting, thinking that it can’t last long.

Like the writer Milan Kundera says in his novel The Joke: ‘optimism is the opiate of the masses.’ But it worked precisely like that. Imagine that they would have told the Jews, that it’s going to last six years and that they’ll go somewhere to the East to extermination camps. Many would have committed suicide. Even so there were a lot of suicides during those times.

In May 1942 Heydrich was assassinated [see Heydrichiade] 16. Martial law 17 was proclaimed, but we still didn’t take it seriously. That day our mother left to go sleep in Kozi Street, but it was crowded, infested, dirty, that many people couldn’t maintain any hygiene, and so we two boys stayed that night as well, after martial law was proclaimed, in the apartment on Masna Street. The Hitlerites however were conducting inspections of all buildings, to see if there wasn’t someone unregistered there; they were combing through Prague, looking for the assassins.

Can you imagine what would have happened had they come there? We would have all been dead; they would have shot all of us as illegal and unauthorized inhabitants. Our mother wasn’t with us at that time, and of course found out from friends what was happening during the night, that SS and police patrols were going about, so she couldn’t sleep.

She couldn’t even go out at night, since there was martial law. So it wasn’t until 6am that she arrived, all terrified, to see if we were all right. We didn’t know about a thing, and luckily were all right, the German controls hadn’t come here. These are coincidences… the coincidence was that we were saved. And coincidences played a big role in my life later on.

The first of our relatives to be deported were my uncles Jindrich and Jiri Petrovsky with their families: already in 1941 they went with all their children to Lodz [ghetto] 18. My family, my mother, brother and I, went to Terezin on 27th July 1942. We packed our bags and along with them we were gathered at the so-called New Exhibition Grounds, where otherwise they exhibited tractors or something like that during trade shows.

Now people were gathered here before transport. We stayed there for about three days, it was pretty sad, we slept on only some mats. Then, in the morning, they led us off to the railway station in Bubny, from where we left, still in normal passenger rail cars, watched over by policemen, not for Terezin but for Bohusovice, because at that time there wasn’t yet a rail spur to the ghetto.

Our transport was named Aau and contained about a thousand people, under eight percent survived [to the end of the war]. From Bohusovice we had to walk about three kilometers, carrying our luggage, which though they soon confiscated and we never saw it again. I found myself in Terezin.

All ties were formed anew here. People lived in various barracks, in different buildings, different lodgings, it was necessary to make new contacts. Uncle Jindrich Brod from Pardubice, who arrived there around the same time we did, worked as a cook there. In fact, when he could, he always gave us something extra with our food.

My mother lived in the Hamburg barracks, I lived in school L417, and my brother lived in a different boys’ home. Even though she had never held a job in her life, my mother adapted quite well to the conditions there. She was a very courageous woman, who didn’t fall into any sort of despair, on the contrary, she provided us with some sort of security. In Terezin she worked as a nurse for mentally and physically handicapped children, and behaved well. We went to visit her almost every afternoon.

In the afternoon we would have lessons. And what was taught? Mostly they talked about food; it’s interesting that in concentration camps they always talked about food. There they’d cook in their imaginations, exchange recipes, talk about what’s the first thing we’ll make for dinner when they liberate us. Of course we studied mathematics, we studied history, religion, naturally.

At noon we had time off, and we would go visit our mother. In the afternoon there might have been some smaller chores: we took care of the garden, or played soccer, read and so on. We also sometimes went to see some performance, to see Brundibar or something else. Under the guidance of our tutors we also rehearsed a varied repertoire of our own, the girls joined us and together we put together some recitals, theater, concerts, played various games…

[Editor’s note: The children’s opera Brundibar was created in 1938 for a contest announced by the then Czechoslovak Ministry of Schools and National Education. It was composed by Hans Krasa based on a libretto by Adolf Hoffmeister. The first performance of Brundibar – by residents of the Jewish orphanage in Prague – wasn’t seen by the composer. He had been deported to Terezin. Not long after him, Rudolf Freudenfeld, the son of the orphanage’s director, who had rehearsed the opera with the children, was also transported. This opera had more than 50 official performances in Terezin. The idea of solidarity, collective battle against the enemy and the victory of good over evil today speaks to people the whole world over. Today the opera is performed on hundreds of stages in various corners of the world.]

For children life in Terezin wasn’t such a catastrophe. Of course, we knew that we were hemmed in by walls, that there was a certain restriction, but we didn’t perceive it as an immediate horror. Maybe the smaller children did, well, everyone experienced it differently, everyone has different experiences.

As I am saying, for me Terezin wasn’t so horrible. It may also have been due to the fact that we were 13, 14 years old and we were starting to live like young people, we were beginning to experience loves, we were forming impressions of what it was going to be like when we would once again be able to live like normal people; it was the springtime of our lives.

While we weren’t yet utterly destroyed, like in Auschwitz or other camps, while we were healthy and strong, fed after a fashion, really after a fashion, we also thought about pleasant things.

The head teacher in our boys’ home was named Ota Klein. He was this young guy, who was something over 20 years old. Actually, all the teachers were young people between the ages of 18 to 25. And understandably each one of them had his own idea of how to lead his section of the home.

For example, in No. 1, Eisinger, who was older, a Communist, led his class in a leftist way. They published a magazine called Vedem 19, which was leftist. On the other hand, Franta Mayer in No. 7 was a Zionist, and so the children were led towards Zionism.

Our teacher, Arno Ehrlich, was a Czech Jew, who led us in this pseudo-scouting spirit: we had various principles, we ‘hunted beavers’ [similar to collecting scout badges in various disciplines – Translator’s note] by Foglar’s example, we learned the Morse code and so on. I think our magazine was called Beaver, but unfortunately hasn’t been preserved. I don’t know why. In the end a number of boys remained in Terezin and could have saved it, in any case it didn’t happen. I remember that I drew some covers for it. Each issue had some sort of slogan.

One slogan for example was ‘help your fellow man’ – a scout helps his fellow man. And so as a symbol I drew two people shaking hands. The cover was symbolic; it was supposed to represent the concept of the entire issue. Thanks to his naturalness and his way of behaving, Arno Ehrlich was much respected and liked among the boys. He also went to Auschwitz, but he survived. Now he’s named Arno Erban and lives in America.

Friday evening was Erev Shabbat. Each home had to line up, and Otta Klein walked about and checked whether everything was clean, if boots were clean, if there weren’t bits of food in your canteen… Points were given for all this, and if someone had a mess, everyone lost points.

The boy in question then became the subject of derision, because he had ruined the entire home’s evaluation. You see, the homes competed among themselves as to who would have the best marks that month. You know, the teachers were always trying to in some fashion isolate us from that everyday ghetto life, from the everyday horrors of that prison. They tried, within the realm of possibility, to give us some sort of normal living conditions.

We competed in soccer; each home had its own soccer team. We played on some sort of field that had been built on the fortress walls. [Editor’s note: The town of Terezin is basically an old fortress, which was surrounded by walls – in places very wide ones.

As the town gradually developed, soil was piled up around some of the walls and so in places it reached the height of the walls – that’s why it was possible for a soccer field to be located ‘on the walls.’] Of course, the grown-ups also played soccer in the barracks courtyard. That was always a big event.

Several hundred, perhaps a thousand people would gather around and cheer for the individual teams. Other things also helped us free ourselves from the reality of prison. A performance of ‘The Bartered Bride’ was a huge experience, though it was a concert performance, without costumes, but with amazing singers:

German singers learned their parts in Czech, and sang it with such amazing style that it was said that that performance would have held up even on the stage of the National Theater. It was performed in the school gymnasium, and the effect of them singing ‘a good thing has happened, true love is victorious…’ – everyone was so moved they wept. It was a huge spiritual support.

We got packages that were sent to us by our former cook, Mrs. Kopska, and this on the other hand was a huge material support. It wasn’t a simple thing, the post office was accepting less and less packages, and if for example some anti-Semitic clerk was sitting behind the counter, he would peer suspiciously at them, in the sense of ‘what are you, Christians, doing sending packages to Jews?’ Another thing was finding the food, which wasn’t at all a simple matter, because food was rationed via coupons.

It was expensive. Where Anci got the money, I don’t know, perhaps her mother left her some cash. She even managed to send us packages to Auschwitz, when about twice there was the opportunity to do so. They were addressed to the Arbeitslager [labor camp] near Neuberun – no one knew where that was.

So we got one or two packages from her even in Auschwitz. Then it stopped. The packages weighed about five kilos, three to five kilos. Of course bread was sent, some flour, cream of wheat…simply basic foodstuffs. Maybe some salami, it was a big help. There wasn’t such a horrible hunger in Terezin, like there was later in Auschwitz, at least not for us, for the children, because we for example got packages that came for the other prisoners but were undeliverable, because they had either died or left for the East. The Jewish self-government then gave these packages mainly to the children.

Entirely different was the situation of old people, who died horrible deaths in Terezin. Over 30,000 people died here, mainly old people, and mainly from Germany. Young German Jews were sent from their homes to the East right away, old people were sent to ‘spas.’

They were told that they could purchase a stay at the spa in Terezin, if they pay for it, give the Hitlerites their home, sell all their belongings, and in exchange for that they can move to the Terezin spa, where they will have accommodations with a view out on a lake, on a park.

They then arrived in Terezin and saw in what conditions they would have to live here. In buildings packed from cellar to attic, in absolutely desperate hygienic conditions. If there were toilets at all, they were dry, water always only ran for a little while, there were bugs, dirt, disease…And so those that arrived from some sort of civilized environment to these horrible conditions, quite often died. They had it the worst here.

We children would of course see them from time to time. Not that we would go visit them in their homes, that was something so repellent, that we were disgusted, and it was also dangerous, there were bedbugs, fleas, it was simply horrible, horrible conditions.

These people got no rations, there was no one left in Germany to send them packages, and so they would stand at the food distribution points and beg for soup. We children didn’t eat soup, because it wasn’t soup, it was some sort of warm water left over from boiling potatoes or something, so we would give it to them, we weren’t as hungry as all that. I also remember them picking out rotten potatoes…they simply lived in desperation, but that was the paradox of Terezin.

The paradox of Terezin was that on the one hand people were dying of hunger, desperation, dirt, disease, hopelessness, but on the other hand people played soccer, there were concerts, operas such as Brundibar, The Bartered Bride and so on.

In Terezin people sang, people died. And you have to put that together. For example, lectures. There were dozens and dozens of lectures. You know, the SS didn’t mind, the SS mainly said to themselves: the main thing is that you’re not preparing some sort of rebellion, that you’re keeping order that we’ve ordered you to keep. The Jewish self-government is to keep an eye on that, and as long as there isn’t some sort of disorder, you can do what you want. Maybe not.

More likely it was tolerated, rather than someone permitting it. But there were amazing lectures. Historical lectures, philosophical lectures, law lectures, musical theory, Jewish history… I’m saying that Terezin was in this respect the freest town in the entire Protectorate or Reich. Because there could be no thought of what was put on here, be it lectures, allegorical sketches or theater performances, that something like that could be held in the Protectorate.

So in this spiritual respect it was the freest place. Another paradox. Don’t forget, that Jews that met here were really the elite of all of Europe, whether they were German, Austrian or Czech Jews, whether they were painters, writers, musicians, doctors, scientists…it was simply an intellectual elite, that when it had the means, made itself known here. And again, it’s necessary to put this into the proper perspective. Of course, Terezin was for one a place where people died, that was one of its purposes, but it was also a place where one waited for further transport.

For young people life in Terezin wasn’t the worst thing. During their time there they managed to adapt to the local conditions, they managed to make some connections in the kitchen or with the guards, they went to work in gardens outside of the ghetto, so they would bring back some vegetables, they got packages… 

The longer a prisoner lives in certain conditions, and this doesn’t have to do with just Terezin, this is in every jail, the better he is able to make connections, orient himself, find where you can get what advantages, which guard is more sympathetic, which one you can talk to, who will help or how you can smuggle something in. People managed it, and those who managed to stay in Terezin until the fall of 1944, when the transports to the East were stopped, saved their lives.

While people that didn’t escape the transports, 99 percent of them died. In Auschwitz, in Treblinka, in Majdanek, in Minsk, or wherever they were sent. The biggest fear of young people in Terezin was the wait for the next transports to the East. In Terezin everyone tried to avoid the transports, and it really was the biggest luck of their life when someone managed it. How many people survived from those Eastern transports? And especially children didn’t survive. As long as children stayed in Terezin, they had a chance of survival. But children that were sent to the East, had practically no chance at all.

We left Terezin on the December transport in 1943, for Auschwitz. We got the summons on these strips of paper, and so we proceeded in the morning with the remnants of our luggage, the cattle wagons arrived, they threw some of our luggage into them, stuffed about 60 or 70 of us people into one wagon, plus they stuck in a pail of tea and another big pail as a toilet, and sealed the wagon.

I was saying to myself, this can’t be happening, how can we breathe in here, how are we supposed to survive the trip? It was one of the worst experiences ever. The shock, when from the, despite everything, civilized environment of Terezin, they all of a sudden transported us like cattle…

The tea was soon spilled or drunk, and the toilet overflowing, because one pail was simply too little for sixty people. Filth, stench, of course there were already several corpses, you couldn’t breathe, horrible thirst… Two days we rode on, two nights and a day or something like that, it was an utterly unimaginable experience. The thirst was terrible.

After those two days and two nights we were close to insanity from thirst, and what of those who were transported here from Greece or Crete for seven or twelve days without water, by then most of them were of course dead, and the rest would have given everything for a bit of tea.

We were that December transport that went to the family camp and wasn’t immediately liquidated. A second, similar one, went in May of 1944, and also wasn’t immediately liquidated. While the first transport, which left in September, and also went to the family camp, was completely destroyed on 8th March 1944. Before their deaths the prisoners had to write postcards post-dated to 25th March 1944. Based on these, those in Terezin didn’t believe that they were all dead. I think that they didn’t want to believe it, that it was an attempt to rather not talk about it, to rather not spread panic.

By me it was a huge moral failure: in the summer of 1944 there were reports from other sources coming to Terezin, so there they already knew that there were gas chambers in Auschwitz. And they, the leaders of the self-government, they let those people in Terezin, in fact they talked them into it, board the transports.

Why didn’t they say no, we aren’t going to organize the transports any more? Let the Germans do it themselves now. We’re not going to have anything to do with it. The Jewish council of elders didn’t dare to do this. What was the organization of those deportation transports like? The Germans might have said about someone, this one’s going on the transport, because he was smoking or stole something, but the others were to be selected.

Can you imagine what then ensued? When someone was selected for the transport, he tried to do a so-called ‘self-reclamation.’ That means that he went to see the representatives on the council of elders and said: ‘I’m indispensable, I don’t want to go, take me off the list.’ But, his place had to be taken by someone else. Do you understand this Hamletesque dilemma? It was a battle for life. One was saved, but another was sent to his death.

In 1943 they could still say that they didn’t know what was happening there, that they thought that they were work transports, and so they organized them. They didn’t know anything yet about Auschwitz, about Treblinka, they did think that there wasn’t anything good there, but neither did they know about anything concretely terrible. There was no certainty, only a suspicion.

But during the time that the Jewish council already knew what was going on there, and despite that still organized the transports, that I look upon as a failure. They should at least have said, ‘no more. You can’t count on us any more. We aren’t going to organize it any more.’ And it was a matter of only days.

On 28th October 1944 the last transport left, and in a few days it was over: the Hitlerites blew up the gas chambers. Whoever didn’t get onto that transport saved his own life.

I don’t have a right to judge, of course, because I know that those conditions… but you know, when someone takes on some sort of function, it’s not only a privilege. When he accepts some function, he then has to realize that the moment some sort of crisis develops, some sort of horrible dilemma, he must then be prepared to put his life on the line. And this doesn’t have to do with just this case.

Well, so what would have happened? Maybe something would have happened, I don’t know, maybe they would have put another, different system into place, but it would at least have been an act of some sort of resistance.

They unloaded us at Auschwitz, at that time there wasn’t yet a spur line to Birkenau. It was horribly cold there, it was a freezing December day, around us the barking of dogs and the SS and prisoners in that striped clothing. Before that we hadn’t seen prisoners in striped clothing, in Terezin we wore normal civilian clothes, there were no prison uniforms there.

We even had normal hair, we only wore the star. Everyone in Terezin was decently dressed. Now we saw those striped figures. They loaded us onto trucks and drove us, from Auschwitz it’s about three kilometers. While still in Terezin, the old prisoners said to us: when you see electrified barbed wire, and beside them warning signs, that there is high voltage, you’re in a concentration camp. And this is exactly what we saw from the truck.

So I said to myself, concentration camp, that was a concept. Of course no one knew exactly what it meant, but those rumors and stories, what was going on here, just that inspired horror. We didn’t know about extermination camps, but just the concentration camp was enough for us.

Now I said, ‘so now I’m suddenly out of that relatively civilized environment of Terezin in a concentration camp.’ They threw us on some pallets, luckily they didn’t make a selection, led us off to the showers, where they stripped us, shaved us, tattooed numbers on us and gave us some prison rags, they were already disinfected and were horrible, plus wooden shoes and we looked like scarecrows.

Eventually we managed to exchange these rags for some better ones. The first impression was so terrible, and the horror of those buildings, they probably used to be stables, maybe for horses, and now they had six or seven hundred people stuffed into them.

On top of that of course the brutality of the functionaries, the SS… Basically the entire shock of arriving in Auschwitz was horrible. You know, those are the various degrees of horror. Now we had once again sunk to a lower level, to a higher category of horror.

Luckily I got into the children’s block, which was led by Fredy Hirsch 20, and this was a certain relief. During the day we could stay in the children’s block, and so in some fashion separate ourselves from that horrible life outside, we didn’t have to continually be looking at the SS and at that whole horror of the rest of the camp. It was an amazing privilege that Fredy Hirsch managed to obtain.

He was an extraordinarily charismatic person, who impressed even the Germans. He had this military bearing, so they in some fashion respected him, and thanks to this the children’s block was created. In it were children up to the ages of 14 or 15, I think that I shaved off a year or so, to be able to get into it. In it we had a teacher who tried to occupy us somehow: the small children played or sang, the older ones had some sort of studies; it helped us to for at least a while forget the excruciating hunger.

Interesting people used to come see us, for example, once a former journalist who had participated in the Olympics in Berlin in 1936 came by, and he spoke to us about what the atmosphere there had been like, how Hitler had the feeling that the Aryan race must be victorious, but when Jesse Owens defeated a German and got four gold medals, Hitler could have had a fit. And we were overjoyed that that Negro had beat Hitler, and so we were filled with hope that one day we would also beat Hitler. Not all were successful, but at least some were.

When there were roll calls at the camp, this meant that once or twice a day the prisoners had to line up in groups of five and the SS would walk around and count them; they took place outside, no matter what the weather. We children again had the advantage that we could do the counting in our block, in relative warmth.

Not that it was hot or anything in there, but it wasn’t freezing either, because there was actually some sort of heating. For example, Fredy Hirsch arranged for the small children to get better food, like perhaps getting thicker soup. But what the sense of that was, why they fed those children for six months and then sent them all into the gas, that I don’t know.

Hitler’s chief doctor Dr. Josef Mengele used to walk about there. He was this man who was always in a perfect uniform, always wore white gloves, he looked very distinguished and acted very kindly towards the children, like an uncle. Simply no one would have believed that he’s a murderer. This was of course all a big fraud, a sham.

The prisoners in the family camp had a note in the central registry, ‘Sonderbehandlung nach sechs Monaten.’ Special handling after six months. This was a code; special handling meant death in the gas chambers after six months. We had it too.

The fateful June 1944 arrived. But the situation had changed, there was an invasion, the front was approaching. Germany needed workers, so the Hitlerites apparently realized that it would be a waste of human resources if they liquidated healthy people. And so they picked several thousand healthy men and women and sent them to work camps. Some of these people survived.

They picked my brother as well. He however didn’t survive, he apparently died in the spring of 1945, either due to illness or during the death marches. My mother had already undergone an operation for cancer in Terezin – they removed one of her breasts – and now couldn’t pass the selection, so they left her there. I also stayed, because I was a boy of fourteen, unfit for labor.

One hot summer day, some boys say that it was on Thursday, 6th July 1944, I don’t remember the date, it’s possible, Mengele came to the camp and one boy found the courage to come near him and said to him that we were one more group of boys, who were capable of working:

‘They aren’t yet emaciated and sick, it’s true they’re not sixteen yet, but are willing to work.’ Mr. Mengele was apparently in a good mood, and was so kind that he didn’t have the boy shot on the spot, and he actually organized a selection in the children’s block, which was already empty.

I remember that he was standing on the right, and we, naked with clothes and shoes in our hands, marched past him. He then indicated whether we could survive, or couldn’t. He pointed about ninety boys in the right direction. The registrar then recorded their numbers. I had the luck to be among them. He sent us to the neighboring camp.

That was our salvation. Not the salvation of all, but of those ninety boys almost half survived. It was this miracle, pure chance. On 10th July there was another mass murder, which was perhaps even bigger than the one in March, about seven thousand people from the Terezin family camp were murdered over two nights. Women with children, old, sick people, they simply all died in the gas chambers. It was the end of the family camp. It was also the death of my mother.

Then we arrived at the men’s camp. Because there wasn’t room anywhere else, we were assigned to a block that was designated for the penal commando, for prisoners that were guilty of something and so were put into an especially tough work group.

We however were not subject to the duties of the ‘Strafkommando.’ Our block was closed, it had its own courtyard that was enclosed by a wall, and on the other side of that courtyard was the ‘Sonderkommando,’ prisoners that worked in the crematoriums and in the gas chambers.

From these people we learned what had happened to the family camp. Of course we suspected it; it was they that finally confirmed it. They told us how exactly it had taken place; one prisoner showed us a box full of gold teeth. He probably smuggled them in, and then tried to exchange them for food or cigarettes or something like that.

Every little while sirens would go off, that meant that some prisoner had escaped. Lots of people tried to escape. As soon as it was found out, the barbed wire was electrified: you see, the wire wasn’t always electrified, only in the event of some crisis, like when the transports were going to the gas chambers. But now a state of emergency was declared, the wires were charged with high voltage, and most of those that tried to escape were caught.

They were led back in a horrible fashion, accompanied by taunting music, some sort of march, then they gave them a sign to hold, how happy they are to be back again, they led them to our block’s courtyard, beat them horribly, and a few days later, when they had barely regained their health and hadn’t died straight away from the beating, they hung them. The gallows stood in the middle of the camp and the entire camp had to come watch the execution. And of course we were also witnesses to people being tortured in the courtyard of our block.

After some time we again got our bearings. For the first time we got the chance to go outside of the area of the highly guarded camp. We had this hay-wagon, about eight of us boys pulled it, and we would for example go for wood for the crematoriums. It was stacked up in the courtyard there, and the functionaries told us to bring it, that it was needed for heating, cooking...

On the way we passed a spur line around which were piled things that had remained from some transport. For example when Hungarian Jews arrived, there were lots of things lying there, because they hadn’t had a chance to clean it up yet. We found for example loaves of bread, salamis, shirts, shoes, jam... those were all amazing possessions.

So we loaded it up under the wood and smuggled it into the camp, in this way we helped ourselves out and improved our lives. As well, when someone would, say, work in the kitchen, peeling potatoes, he could tie up a pant leg, dump some potatoes in it, smuggle them out and help himself out in this way; it was a good opportunity. In time we were able to orient ourselves in the camp, we saw where it was possible to come by some things, so a trip out of the camp was always useful.

Here I spent three months, but once at the beginning of October I was in the kitchen, peeling potatoes and suddenly someone called out that they were picking out boys for another transport to someplace else, outside of Auschwitz. I found out that it was my friends, so I ran out, made my way in among them, and again some SS soldier was pointing right, left. He pointed me in the opposite direction of most of my friends, but suddenly, on some impulse, I ran over behind his back without him seeing me, to the larger group.

So maybe it was better, maybe it wasn’t better, but in any case I’m alive, so I guess I saved my life. They took our group of twenty or thirty boys to the Gross-Rosen camp 21 in Silesia, and there it was an utter catastrophe. Yet another dimension of horror. It was already fall, cold, we had only summer clothing.

There was no possibility of getting something more, to go get some packages, for some remnants of food, the only thing remaining was work. Slave work in the forest at a sawmill, in the freezing cold, in hunger, infested by thousands of lice.

In Auschwitz the lice had been at least somewhat under control. There was some sort of cleanliness, when a louse was found, you went for disinfection. You see, the Germans were very afraid of spotted fever, which was transmitted by lice. But here... it was something catastrophic.

You can’t imagine, what it’s like, to be constantly lice-ridden, lice multiply geometrically, you can’t exterminate them, you kill one and in a little while there are ten in its place. You sleep under a blanket that moves. And when for example old people can’t defend themselves... well, it was simply one big catastrophe.

The winter of 1944-45 was moreover very cold, we were in the mountains, either the Orlicke or Anderspass, it was somewhere close to Broumov, on the other side of the mountains. We chopped down trees, which was hard work, but worst of all was that horrible winter, that constant freezing cold and the constant hunger, the whole hopelessness of it. The food was meager, a person couldn’t come by anything extra any more. There was nothing in the fields, we looked for frozen acorns, but you couldn’t find anything, it was winter.

While we had looked down upon those German Jews in Terezin, now I also picked rotted potatoes, if I had the chance to get to them. We were really becoming ‘muselmen.’ People whose bones were covered only by skin. I then fell ill, I went to the headquarters; it was my certain salvation. The food was still nothing much, but it was more or less warm, I was in bed and didn’t have to go out into that horrible freezing cold and do that horrible work. It was a certain liberation.

After a few days, at the end of January 1945, they took me to yet another camp, so I lost touch with the rest of the boys. Of those thirty boys, only two of us unfortunately survived. Of those that stayed in Auschwitz, about forty survived. They also got into different camps, but on the whole had better conditions.

Perhaps if I hadn’t run over, I would have survived in a more comfortable fashion... who knows. Out of the ninety, forty survived, and from our twenty or thirty only two of us survived: I, and this one Dutch boy. I don’t know of anyone else. That Dutch guy is already dead, he was named Durlacher. So from that group I’m the only one alive.

Then I got into this one factory, really more of a repository of the ill, who practically weren’t going to do any work at all, and were just waiting for death. There were old people, the ill, you can’t imagine what sort of hygienic conditions ruled the place, the lice and of course hunger.

Those few months before the end of the war, that was a battle for life. I was really calculating what would happen first, whether I’d die or the war would end. It was a matter of weeks, of days, of hours. I was in strategically unimportant Kladsko, which the armies aiming for Berlin and into the Protectorate at first skirted, and only the second wave arrived there. The Germans ran away before them, the evening of 8th May it was empty, and on 9th May the Russians and Polish appeared. The end of the war.

With the last of my strength I crawled outside, I slept in some stable among horses, and in the morning I was crawling along a road, when some Russian saw me. I remember that he was this typical Ivan, he had a beard, and when he saw that I was picking through garbage, he took me by the hand and led me to a nearby German farm.

The entire family had to line up, he told them to give me some eggs, and ordered them to take care of me. That family stared at me like at someone from Mars. They had never seen the likes of it: I was deathly ill. They stripped me, put me in a tub. I told them to burn my clothes, that they were full of lice... and then they brought other Germans, their friends, to come have a look at me.

They probably didn’t know at all that somewhere a half kilometer away there was a concentration camp, where people were dying. They put me in a clean room, and then they could think of nothing better than to make me some sort of strong soup, beef or chicken, which for me, emaciated as I was, was of course a catastrophe, subsequently I got diarrhea.

At that time I had spotted fever, tuberculosis and I don’t know what else... and so, when they saw that they themselves couldn’t help me in any way, that I’m not improving, they took me to some hospital, some Polish field hospital. I laid there for several weeks, I got over the spotted fever and then they released me.

I set out on the road to Prague, partly on foot, partly on some trucks or freight trains, until I got to the Czech border, to the border station Mezilesi-Lichkov. I sat at the train station and waited for a train to Prague. Then I got on it and said to myself, well, so what, I’m going to Prague.

• Post-war

I staggered around Prague, I hadn’t forgotten where I lived, so I went there. I only hoped that the building wouldn’t be destroyed, because I had heard that there had been fighting in Prague. Luckily the building was still standing, our neighbor, Mrs. Bondy, took me in to her apartment, because Mrs. Kopska wasn’t at home.

Then Mrs. Kopska arrived as well, I went over there and was telling her my whole tale, and mainly I ate. That saved my life. The doctor told me that he hadn’t hoped at all that I would survive, that’s how serious my condition was, but I had such a strong will to live, that I overcame my physical condition.

I gained weight, I easily ate a whole marble cake in one sitting; food was my only joy. And then to be in a clean bed and have some sort of comfort. I spent the first few months in various hospitals and sanatoriums, for practically two years I was out of circulation. My condition was not that easy to overcome. That’s what the post-war period was like for me.

As far as my family went, I was the only one to survive the war, my mother and brother both died. From my other relatives, my uncle Jindrich Brod and aunt Berta from Pardubice died in Auschwitz, Uncle Jiri Petrovsky with his wife Anna and son Ivos most likely died in Lodz, Uncle Jiri’s daughter, Vera, who he had from his first marriage with that Italian woman, she wasn’t deported, and died after the war of leukemia.

Further, my mother’s sister Stefa Pickova died in Auschwitz in 1944, her brother Jindrich was also in Auschwitz, but he didn’t die until after its liberation in March of 1945. It’s a miracle that his wife, Aunt Ruzena, and their two children also survived the war. My mother’s brother Karel wasn’t deported anywhere.

After the war I lived with Mrs. Kopska in the apartment on Masna Street, from which we had left for the transports. For a long time I couldn’t go to school or work, it wasn’t until the beginning of 1948 that I began working as some sort of clerk in a company that in those days was named ‘Gramofonove zavody’ [Gramophone Works], where I worked for about two years.

In the meantime I got an offer, that people that wanted to study and actively participate in society, can apply, and if they didn’t have their high school diploma, that they had to finish it. For a few months after that I attended some sort of course, at its end I had an exam that substituted for a high school finals, and after that I could register at university.

In the 1950-51 semester I entered the School of Political and Economic Sciences, which was really more of a school that was supposed to educate functionaries for an economic and political life. In time it was closed, and its students were transferred to the Philosophico-historical Faculty of the Charles University, where they could choose various fields for further study, such as philosophy, history or some politico-diplomatic path.

I chose history and finished in 1955. After graduation each student got a placement certificate, some sort of document, the right to work either in an institute or in some company. I applied for a position in the Military Historical Institute, where I and about five other fellow students started working in 1955.

We were very poor. Right after the war there was a currency reform, when all money was transferred to so-called fixed deposits, thereby all savings accumulated during the Protectorate became invalid. My mother had left behind some jewelry, which Mrs. Kopska had saved, and for example for one gold chain I bought myself a suit in Darex. Darex was a predecessor to Tuzex [a special store with foreign goods that weren’t normally available in Communist countries], where with gold you could buy things that otherwise weren’t available in stores.

As I said, the fate of other Jews had missed my uncle Karel, who stayed in Prague. After the war he was really my only relative that could help me. They had a beautiful building in Vinohrady, and I used to go begging to him, like when I needed some money for school. While he did usually give me something, it was usually in a way so that his wife wouldn’t see it. I was so humiliating! That’s why I was basically glad when his family moved to Brazil after 1948. We didn’t keep in touch after that; my uncle has since died.

The time following the year 1948, when the Communist regime took power, was a time of the harshest persecutions and of that whole strained atmosphere, when really anyone could be a potential enemy and everyone could be arrested.But I was apart from all that; I didn’t participate in any political activity. I was a student that was interested in studies, so I didn’t involve myself in practically any public functions or politics; it was outside my sphere of interest.

I didn’t have the kind of preparation for studies that other boys had, who went through all seven grades of high school; for me studies were tough to handle. So my main worry was managing my studies: to pass exams and continue on to the next years of school. So that’s why I have to admit that political events were outside of my focus of attention, outside of my main focus.

Even before February [1948] I joined the Communist Party, because I had this idea, that they’re against the one extreme, which was represented by Hitler’s regime, that it’s only possible to fight with another extreme, that democracy as a political system had failed, hadn’t managed to defend itself. And that the only truly strong opponent, and guarantor that Hitler’s rule and Hitler’s regime won’t happen again, is a Communist regime.

These, idealistic reasons, led me to joining the Party in January of 1948. Even though it’s not possible to understand it unilaterally. By my nature I wasn’t a Communist, I had been raised in a democratic spirit, I came from a bourgeois family. In those days everyone’s origins were carefully investigated and a bourgeois origin was dangerous, it represented a huge impediment and a big minus for your profile.

But I was an orphan, and had lived through hard times during the war, so in my case it didn’t maybe play such a big role, but of course it was nothing positive. I tried to accept Communism as a thought, as an ideology, but perhaps precisely because I had a different nature, I suppressed my doubts and my notions that despite everything, that democracy is something we should respect, even if it did fail, it does have some good points.

This all was something unconscious, because what did I, a seventeen year old kid, know about democracy? The fact remains, that in this sense I wasn’t one of those enthusiastic, unthinking and herd-mentality types, who at meetings clapped and shouted ‘three cheers for Stalin!’ and ‘long live the Soviet Union!’

Or could have been beside himself with joy when he marched in a 1st May parade, or saw some Communist leader at a meeting; I really wasn’t like that. I had to fight within myself with what in those days were called the residuals of bourgeois thinking.

All expressions of these so-called relics were very closely watched by the other Communists, who were leading functionaries at the school, and very carefully recorded everything that didn’t agree with their ideas of what a young Communist nation-builder should look like.

When February came, I would say it something like this: with my intellect I accepted it as some sort of solution, but my heart was certainly not a hundred percent on that side. Certainly not that. I knew that something good was ending.

That now was beginning something that I intellectually understood, I had to study the writings of Marx, Stalin and similar, and orient myself in Communist ideology, but in my heart I was sorry that it was the end of an era, where discussion, opposition, expression of opinions other than Communist ones were possible. So I didn’t blend in with the crowd, the crowd always provoked me to questions that were non-conformist.

But of course I had to be careful to not express myself out loud. If a person wanted to be at school and wanted to finish his studies, he had to be careful in what he expressed. He couldn’t show that he didn’t belong to the collective, that he wasn’t one with it. The school had a big political police presence.

There were people there, who very closely watched our behavior; everything was recorded in cadre critiques. Every few months they conducted so-called vetting. I never hurt anyone, but naturally I didn’t want to hurt myself either, by saying that this is nonsense, empty talk, an incorrect opinion.

Of course, the time of the Slansky trials 22 was while I was at the school, but again it didn’t really affect me. I felt that there was something bad here, that there’s something here that’s not right, what is dangerous and what is a symptom of unfortunate developments, but I thought it better to turn away from it. I said to myself, that after all I, as a Jewish boy, can’t sympathize with those sentenced Jews, with those Zionists, because then that stigma would fall on me as well.

So I withdrew and said to myself, that the Party has a reason to say this, so I rather won’t think too much. It was however a mistake, it was my shame, that I didn’t see through it even back then, but in that atmosphere that existed, it wasn’t possible, and it wouldn’t have been good, because if I would have seen through it, I would have had to have been expelled or would have had to drop out of school.

In 1953, Gottwald 23 died. That was time of deep sorrow in the nation. Of course at school there were official speeches and tears, mainly girls sobbed emotionally at the loss, the horrible wound, moreover it wasn’t just Gottwald, shortly before that, Stalin had also died.

Everyone tried to outdo each other in expressions of grief, I don’t know anymore if black armbands were worn, but in any case laughter was a crime. It really was a time when a person had to very obviously show what a loss had afflicted this nation and the Party and all progressive people in the world. Of course, it was a farce.

A farce in a time of horror, when one knew that everywhere there was someone waiting and watching him. Who is making notes of his statements and who is watching his behavior, speech, opinions. We lived in a police state and went to police school.

Expulsion of people was common. For example, one colleague dug up Trotsky 24 somewhere and began to read him. But Trotsky’s book, that was a crime. That was enough to get burned at the stake. It was discovered in his personal possessions, and so he was immediately expelled. Really a horrible time.

On the other hand, we were young; I was twenty, twenty-one, really, I was making up for my lost youth. I had spent the best years of my youth in prison or in hospitals, so I was also beginning to want to live a real life, have loves and so on, and while I was still handicapped by my condition, in spite of that a person wanted to have some interests, tried to go out and have fun: there were various clubs, dancing, singing... Fun was limited in various ways, but still, it was a certain escape from a regimented political life.

During my studies, in 1952, I also met my future wife. She was named Libuse Kvasnickova, was three years younger than me and came from Moravia. We met at the school residence in Opletalova Street, where I used to go see my friends, to hold various parties or rehearsed all sorts of amusing theatre performances. We began to go out together, and after two years, while we were still in school, in 1954, we were married.

Libuse was fairly politically conscious, more of proletarian origin, even though her father was a policeman, so not really a proletarian. After the war their entire family devoted themselves to politics and joined the Communist party. My wife was a committed member of the Czechoslovak Socialist Youth Movement.

I think that she looked at me with some sort of detachment, because she could see that I wasn’t as much a believer as she was, that in fact in private I was willing to tell so-called reactionary jokes, which was a huge insult, it wasn’t allowed.

But under my influence she became more civilized and very soon she turned into a normal girl. We had a student wedding at the Old Town city hall; I had practically no money to pay for it. It was really student-style, it was on 30th April 1954 and right the next day we went to the [May Day] parade.

In those days we’d go parade through Prague, the entire school took part. It was a farce, we were supposed to celebrate 1st May, and our party and government, our leaders. After the wedding we lived, together with Mrs. Kopska, in the apartment on Masna Street. In the fall, our daughter Sarka was born.

After finishing school, I started to work at the Military Historical Institute. Up until 1955, the main enemy of all faithful Communists was Tito 25. He was a traitor and all accusations in the Slansky trials rested in the fact that it was a Titoist, Zionist group.

Lev Haas, who also experienced Terezin, later completely discredited himself by the fact that in every edition of Rude Pravo [newspaper with a leftist-oriented editorial policy] there was his picture of the bloody dog Tito, together with other Imperialist criminals, such as Eisenhower, MacArthur. But Tito always commanded them, and blood dripped from his hands. In them he held an axe, with which he wanted to commit murders. You could also be expelled from the Party for associating with Yugoslavs, simply put: Yugoslavia with Tito at its head was our enemy.

But then, in 1955, Khrushchev 26 visited Belgrade, got off the plane, and Tito was waiting for him at the airport. And Khrushchev addressed him ‘my dear comrade Tito.’ Well, that was a shock for me. I said to myself, I must be dreaming. Such a bloodstained cur, this agent of imperialism, this embodiment of all horrible, evil and disgusting, is suddenly our dear comrade? That’s a fraud, I said to myself.

Now I know that you’ve fooled me. Now I know, that what I was concealing in my heart and what I was afraid to show, is the truth, you’re criminals. Of course it wasn’t possible to immediately switch from Communist thoughts to anti-Communism. In this behavior and thinking I wasn’t alone.

We tried to reorganize Communism in some fashion, to reform it. We tried to in some fashion pick holes in the ideology of one clairvoyant and omniscient thought, Communist truth, we wanted to point out the crimes that were happening. That, however, wasn’t an easy thing.

In Czechoslovakia, practically the entire intellectual front in the humanities, philosophers, historians, journalists, writers, who had up to now been Communists, tried to reform Communism; we tried to subvert that infallible Party. That intellectual front was so huge, that no one knew what to do with it. Functionaries and leading Party ideologues were saying that we were paid from the West by revisionists and American imperialists. That it’s all some sort of intrigue, some sort of fraud, some sort of conspiracy.

Of course, no one was getting anything; it was an attempt at purification by people that realized that they had believed in something that turned out to be a fraud, something so horrible. That’s why they now tried to in some way improve it, regenerate it. Naturally, we were idealists; that regime couldn’t be rehabilitated, that regime needed to be destroyed. For a long time though, we couldn’t bring up the courage to do that, because the idea of socialism as a just system that could benefit society was still sympathetic to us.

We believed, that if you set out in the right direction, and if the right people take charge, it can be fixed somehow. I myself was always looking for some model that would combine socialism with democracy. That would combine an Eastern system with a Western one, I was looking for a third way, which of course was also nonsense, but I simply didn’t want to give up the idea of reforming socialism somehow. A person wasn’t reborn all at once.

A person only realized that Communism is a crime. That Stalinism is a crime. That the Soviet Union is an imperialistic, criminal state. But this, after all, doesn’t mean putting socialism on the scrap heap! There can still be an idea and practice that could be realized, and would bring the world some good. In this was the schizophrenia and problem of the generation that I represented.

At the Military Historical Institute I got to the question of Czechoslovak resistance in the West during World War II, which of course was a huge taboo. For one, Benes 27 was a gangster, and all those that fought in the West were criminals, most or all of them were accomplices of imperialism, so after February they were in prisons.

I and another colleague, Eduard Cejka, tried to describe this history more objectively. Not objectively, that wasn’t possible, but at least to show that they weren’t all reactionaries, that on the contrary, they were people that fought against Hitlerism, for the Republic, that they were people that should be given credit.

But that was a shock for the political workers in the army. They almost lynched us for that. We wrote a book, that when a person reads it today, he would say is horrible, but unfortunately it wasn’t possible to write it in any other way.

The important thing isn’t that it contains rubbish, the important thing is the theme, that it’s written about soldiers in the West, who weren’t imperialists, who fought for freedom. That book met with an amazing response. It even won some prize in a Freedom Fighters Union contest, but for a long time the censors didn’t allow its publication, that didn’t happen until the 1960s.

We put on many lectures across the entire country, they were full, former soldiers from the West would come to them, those that had already been released from jail at the beginning of the 1960s. Of course, it was a sensational thing for them that someone had finally begun to talk about them as people that had helped free the country. I recall that at one lecture one former soldier came forward and said to me, ‘You know, I fought for our country. But now, if we again had the situation where someone would be threatening our country, and my son joined the army, I’d rather break his legs than let him go fight for it.’ That really engraved itself deeply into my memory.

Khrushchev’s secret speech, which he gave in 1956 – at that time I still worked in that military institute – of course in some fashion became publicly known. We knew it after a fashion, and in Party organizations people started discussing what Stalinism had really been and what crimes it carried with it.

At one meeting I imprudently compared the methods of Party politics and police to the methods of the Gestapo. Which the ‘politruks’ [or political officer, representative of the Czechoslovak Communist Party responsible for politically educational matters] made a note of. It was immediately investigated, the secret police came to see me; they even tried to draft me as a collaborator... They wanted to expel me from the Party. It was a very dangerous situation.

In the end they took away my ability to do research, they gave me a second-rate position at the institute, so the period on the cusp of the 1950s and 1960s was a very difficult one for me. In fact, I was ostracized, even my former colleagues, friends, who had started at the institute with me, didn’t want to have anything to do with me... in the end it’s always like that. When someone falls out of favor, it’s better to distance yourself.

At the beginning of the 1960s the time of horrors passed, it was again somewhat freer, and I got an offer from the Czechoslovak Academy of Sciences, to concern myself with international and Czechoslovak politics under their auspices. I accepted, in 1963 I transferred to an institute that concerned itself with the history of Eastern Europe.

During my studies of Czechoslovak-Soviet relations, however, I came across things that were very dangerous and even more explosive than the issue of Czechoslovak soldiers in the West. That’s why I more or less only gathered material; when I began to write a book, they threw me out. I did then publish the book as a ‘samizdat’ 28, but it wasn’t until after 1989 that I could really concern myself with it seeing the light of day. I consider it to be my life’s work.

The time of the 1960s was mainly political, I gave loads of lectures, about Benes, about soldiers in the West, about February, about the resistance, about the situation during the Protectorate. Here in those days it was claimed that the Communists had been the biggest fighters against Hitlerism, we were refuting that falsehood, because on the contrary, up until 1941 the Communists didn’t fight against Hitler at all.

Opposition to Hitler was mainly composed of the citizenry; the Communists were concentrating on usurping power after the war, not fighting Hitler. Of course this was all news. Everyone stood in amazement when we, the historians, who had access to secret materials, were telling them this. And can you imagine what sort of a shock it was for Communist functionaries, when they heard about it? How we, also Communists, are disrupting the Party and social monolith...

My wife also worked at the Academy of Sciences, though before that she had worked at the Central State Archive, but because she fairly often came into contact with foreigners, the secret police were interested in her, and one day they told her that she can’t work in the secret document archive. They didn’t jail or fire her, but they gave her another position, for a few years after that she participated in the creation of an encyclopedic dictionary at the Encyclopedic Institute of the Academy of Sciences.

Our daughter was cared for by Mrs. Kopska; she was like a grandmother to her, Granny. Actually, she shifted all of her love to her. It was another generation that Mrs. Kopska took care of. My wife was working, as opposed to my mother during my childhood, so it really was Anci who devoted herself to Sarka the most during her childhood. Back then it was the custom to put children in school; Sarka also attended for some time, but Granny would always pick her up and go to the park or the playground with her.

She cooked porridge for her, when she was crying I said, ‘for Pete’s sake, let her cry.’ But Anci said no, that she can’t let her cry. She was probably right: a small child constantly needs some sort of company. So she’d go to her, console her, read her fairy tales, lull her to sleep...She definitely was more afraid for Sarka than we were.

When she was sick, it frightened her. We didn’t concern ourselves very much with it, so what, small children tend to have fevers. As my granddaughter told me, my daughter still thinks about her a lot, and talks about her a lot; after all, Sarka did experience the most beautiful years of her childhood with her.

Anci died in the winter of 1963. She was already ill for several years before her death; she had cancer. She died in the Hospital ‘na Frantisku,’ it wasn’t a very good hospital. We did go and visit her, but we couldn’t secure her quality medical care. I certainly took her death as the death of another member of my family. Of course the entire family attended the funeral, even my father-in-law came. The ceremony was in Strasnice and Anci is buried in the cemetery in Sarka. She’s got an urn there. Her son is also buried in the same grave.

Of course, today I regret it...I regret everything. Back then I wasn’t yet interested in those questions that I would ask her today. Back then, I was beginning to be interested in a different lifestyle, I didn’t ask what and how things had been. I wasn’t interested in it until now. Perhaps everyone or at least the majority of them has certain regrets regarding their parents, those who raised them. The people that were responsible for their childhood. It’s like that one poet says: you want to pay the debt, but there’s no one left to pay.

Her loss was especially hard for Sarka, she cried a lot over her. But in the end she was already big, so she began to go to school by herself, she was already taking care of herself. After elementary school she went to a high school of the arts in the Vinohrady neighborhood. She had and has a considerable talent for art.

We would go on vacation for three or four weeks, mainly in Bohemia, because it was the easiest, or we would send our daughter to some friends out in the country, so she wouldn’t have to be in Prague during the summer, and then we would travel to see her. In the 1960s we managed about two or three times to go to Bulgaria or Yugoslavia, to the sea.

As is well known, the 1960s meant a certain freeing up of conditions for life in Czechoslovakia. It wasn’t for example all that difficult to go to the West for various scientific conferences. I was a founding member of the Committee for the History of the National Struggle for Liberation, so also thanks to that I was invited to foreign conferences.

I went to Vienna, Berlin; I saw a world that was for us absolutely unthinkable. Goods everywhere, fruit and especially electronics, clothes – at that time jeans were starting to be popular, finding them was a problem, and when someone had them, that was fantastic.

You could naturally find similar goods in Tuzex [a special store with foreign goods that weren’t normally available in Communist countries], but still, to see those full display windows, those riches in Vienna and Berlin, neon lights and night life... simply a different world. Yeah, today it’s boring, today the West doesn’t entice me at all, I have neon here too, I have the same goods here too, so what would I do there? The only reason I go there is for the historical sights. But in those days the main goal was to go to a department store.

We could buy things for about a thousand, two thousand crowns. Of course, all sorts of things were smuggled in, or our German friends, when they came for a visit, brought us gifts and various things, it wasn’t again all that impermeable.

Women mainly bought shoes, handbags and similar things: that was a miracle here. Once my wife was returning with her sister from East Germany; they had bought some shoes that hadn’t made it here yet, and then they trembled with fear, hoping that they wouldn’t be confiscated at the border. Because it also happened that he customs officials, when you bought something that exceeded the allowed value, confiscated it. There were various controls at the border, like for example they delayed me for hours and hours when I was going to Germany or Austria, those were odious scenes.

In August of 1968 I received an invitation to a conference that was held each year in the Austrian Alps. I accepted it, my wife and daughter accompanied me to Vienna, then they returned home, and the occupation [see Prague Spring] 29 surprised them here. I experienced the occupation in Alpbach.

I remember how I saw on TV when our notorious delegation arrived in Moscow. I very well recall their cowardice. The occupation, that was confusion, chaos, no one was checking anything at the borders, no one knew what was going to be. The Soviets were here, but they hadn’t yet forbidden travel, and so a great number of people left after 1968, they loaded up their cars and left.

My wife and daughter returned to me to Austria. We had a fall vacation paid for in Yugoslavia, so we left for there. The top leaders of our country, President Svoboda 30, the First Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia, Dubcek 31, and the then premier of the National Assembly, Smrkovsky 32 were home again, that was also a representation par excellence, but they said that the situation had somewhat calmed down, that we should return. We returned, and saw what was going on here.

At the beginning of 1969 I still got a one-year stipendium to go to Germany. At that time I was considering emigrating. The family came to see me, it had still been a short time, when normalization wasn’t yet so firmly entrenched and you could still travel.

In Germany they were offering me a position at a university, so I had the possibility of staying. If I had had the support of my family, I’d perhaps have done it. But my family didn’t want to emigrate, and I didn’t want to live in Germany alone, so when my stipendium ended, I returned home. Then they threw me out of the Party, because apparently I wasn’t worthy of being a member, they threw me out of the Academy [Czechoslovak Academy of Sciences], well, so I went and pumped water.

They also threw my wife out of the Party and out of the Academy [Czechoslovak Academy of Sciences], she then went to work as a cleaning woman. A long fourteen-year career as a cleaning woman awaited her, which she did until retirement.

Our daughter also had various problems, I think that at the end of the 1960s she was still a member of the Pioneers, but they weren’t accepting her anywhere any more, it was unthinkable that the daughter of an expelled person would be involved in anything. She didn’t even want to be. I think that she quickly realized what was what.

Other things also went on, above all they also harassed her, if she had a driver’s license, then she had to take the exams again, they summoned my wife for retesting, my driver’s license they confiscated, when our daughter wanted to go on an art class trip to France; they didn’t let her... Mainly though she didn’t get to go further in school. [She wasn’t allowed to go on to university due to her parent’s political opinions.]

Not every company would employ people like me. There were special companies that could employ these apostates, these traitors, dissidents: for example we could clean windows, work in boiler rooms... And then there was also this company called Water Resources, whose employees drove around the Czech countryside in trailers and drilled wells, pumped water out of them and measured the flow.

So for a year I did that. For about a year I drove around in a trailer, together with my historian colleague Jan Kren and Petr Pithart [journalist, dissident, now a politician], and there were many more of us in this group. To constantly be driving around in a trailer, even in the winter, was no fun, so I left. For some time I had a work agreement with this one company that provided taxi services to various companies.

They would for example call, saying that so and so wants to be driven someplace, so I drove him there. I made money by counting kilometers traveled and time spent on the trip. But it was of course very dangerous, because it wasn’t a real job. There was the potential danger that they’d jail me as a parasite, I didn’t have insurance... Then, through some connection, I got into a hospital, where there were decent doctors, and they advised me to go see a psychiatrist, that I could have a complex from the concentration camps, and be deemed an invalid.

That worked, and in 1975 I got a disability pension. Thanks to that I could stay at home and work in peace. While it was a meager existence, it was a free one. It was, after all, some sort of financial certainty. There was little money, but prices were also low, so a person could get by on it.

Sometime around Christmas 1976, I think it was Milos Hajek, my historian colleague, also a member of the Committee for the History of the National Struggle for Liberation, came by and told me that a project was being prepared, which wasn’t illegal, on the contrary, that its goal was for the government to observe its own laws and regulations. And I agreed without hesitation, signed it and so I became one of the first of about 150 signatories of Charter 77 33.

It immediately generated a great hue and cry, even though almost no one read the text of the Charter, because it wasn’t allowed to be published; only Radio Free Europe 34 and the Voice of America broadcast about it, or it made the rounds in samizdat form. People didn’t care though, they immediately took a stand against the traitors and subversives, signed the anti-Charter. This happened even in the National Theater, to this day it’s the shame of Czech culture.

They then searched my apartment, they turned my books upside down, they were looking for some sort of counterrevolutionary writing. They managed to find the manuscript of my book. They immediately put it to one side; it seemed suspicious to them. They were however these quite primitive types, and so when I saw them looking the other way, I took it again and hid it somewhere else. If they would have confiscated it, that would have been the end of my book, because I hadn’t yet made a copy.

They confiscated lots of trivial things, for example a children’s rubber stamp set, which children use to put together rubber letters of the alphabet. Those idiots thought that it was a corpus delicti and that I’m using it for illegal magazine activities. They then wanted to search the cellar. I went there with them, and said to myself, ‘boys, now I’m going to punish you.’

The cellar was covered in a layer of dust, and it was clear even to them that no counter-revolution had been taking place here in the recent past, so they wanted to leave again. But I said, ‘no, no, you’re being paid to perform a proper job here, I pay my taxes, so you have to search here too...’ I wasn’t really even some big fish for them, other Charter signatories, for example those who were its spokesmen, were worse off.

We Charterists basically continued to meet as friends. This circle of acquaintances, those who had been in the Committee for the History of the National Struggle for Liberation, they all signed the Charter. So we continued to meet as Charterists, but also as friends, colleagues, historians. And as well, other friends used to come over to wash our windows.

It wasn’t expensive, so we said to ourselves, why should we do it ourselves, when we can call a company, and the company always sent over some friend of ours that worked there. So that’s how Dienstbier [Czech journalist, politician, diplomat] came to visit us, Cardinal Vlk [Czech dissident, Catholic priest, now Cardinal of Prague], Dobrovsky [Czech dissident, diplomat], Jaroslav Sedivy and also Rudolf Battek.

Rudolf Battek is this enfant terrible of social democracy. He was arrested several times, and once, on 28th October, they came for him right when he was washing our windows. The day before he was supposed to have reported to the police, but he didn’t do it, and the next day he was scheduled to be at our place.

Battek was washing windows and suddenly someone rang. At first two came, but when he refused to leave with them, saying that he’d go but that first he had to finish his work, they called a third as reinforcement. Well, it was a horrible situation, him in the window, yelling, that if they took one more step he’d smash the window and jump. In the end he even broke the window.

My wife, who’s very resourceful, was also already quite agitated, but it occurred to her to pretend to have a hysterical fit. She threw herself on the ground, waved her arms about and shouted that he’d jump out of the window, that they should leave. So they got scared – one in the window, another writhing around on the ground – and they left. Police coming over to our place, that was customary.

We were also wiretapped. One Saturday, when my wife was at home alone, she was lying on the bed and heard some sort of commotion behind the wall, scratching, drilling and something being pulled... It was very obvious, because we lived next door to a school, where no one had any business being on a Saturday afternoon.

Everything was quiet, the neighbors had left Prague, there was hardly anyone out on the streets. It lasted about half an hour, and when it ended, she looked out the window and saw four men with briefcases leaving the school. It was clear that they had installed a listening device. We didn’t really care: we spoke politically openly, so they could listen to it for all we cared.

After 1989 [see Velvet Revolution] 35 a plan of our apartment that they had used during the installation of the bug came into my hands. One of our good friends, who we used to see quite often, had drawn it.

My wife worked for fifteen years at the Academy and another fifteen years with a bucket as a cleaning woman, and that at three different places. She had problems even finding any sort of work: she was refused at about forty-nine places before she even found something, thanks to some connection.

As a cleaning woman she wasn’t very well paid, she got about a third of her former salary, but it did have the advantage that she could basically do the work anytime and I could also help her out at work or take her place occasionally. The place where she worked the longest, and the time from which she has the fondest memories, was when she cleaned at the Theatrical Institute on Celetna [Street]: it had been reconstructed, a nice environment, they treated her decently...

There was a hall there, where today’s Kaspar Theater is, and in the morning the Smetana Quartet always rehearsed in that hall. So she grew to quite like it. She more or less had free time, during that time she began to do yoga; my wife is also a vegetarian. In 1987 she retired.

Each evening at home we listened to Free Europe, however Free Europe couldn’t be heard in Prague, so I learned Polish and listened to it in Polish. That wasn’t jammed. Then we also listened to the Voice of America and a bit of the BBC. My daughter used to say, ‘hey, dad, I need you to tell me for school, about this or that situation, but please, don’t tell it like Free Europe tells it, tell it like I’m supposed to tell it in school.’ My daughter very well knew what was what, what you could and couldn’t, she really did see through the regime quite early on.

My daughter wasn’t allowed to go to university, even though she had the best marks, the best recommendations, wrote the best entrance exams, but Brodova was simply on the index, so they automatically put her aside and she didn’t interest them any more. She then worked for a few years as a window dresser in various shops.

In the 1980s this one American came to Prague, my future son-in-law, Richard Hyland. Before that he had studied for some time in Germany, and had gotten a recommendation from one of my friends, that when he’d be in Prague, he should stop by and see the Brods. So he stopped by and he and Sarka fell for each other.

Richard is a Jew and it was actually through him that Sarka got to Judaism and began to be more interested in it; we didn’t raise her in it. It wasn’t until that time that I told her what had happened to me and my family during the war. Otherwise we didn’t talk about it at home.

When she asked me what that number on my arm was, I said it was a phone number. I didn’t much want to talk about it; all in all I actually don’t like talking about myself. By now I’ve hopefully managed to partially overcome that, but for a long time before I didn’t want to talk about it.

Maybe I was ashamed of it. I was ashamed that it was this time of wretchedness. Humiliation and wretchedness. I came away from the war with complexes: that I’m not an adequate and complete person, that I always have to stylize myself into the role of a full citizen. My remembrances and everything somehow mixed it up and ruined it. At that time Sarka didn’t press me very much. She only began to press me when she was grown up.

I don’t know if my wife or Mrs. Kopska said something to Sarka; the children weren’t very interested in it. I think that back then no one was all that interested in our wartime fates, interest in the Holocaust is a phenomenon of the last ten, fifteen years. During the time of socialism talking about it wasn’t very desirable. Jews were basically Zionists, and that was an extension of American imperialism. Israel, Jews, all that was very suspicious.

Not long ago I got together with my former colleagues from the Military Historical Institute, and they said that they had no idea that I had experienced something like that. And they had worked with me for several years. People knew I was a Jew, but it either didn’t interest them, or they were too embarrassed to ask about it. The embarrassment was mutual. I was embarrassed that I had been such a wretch, and they were embarrassed that they had spent the war in calm and safety. Probably, maybe, I don’t know.

So when Sarka met her Jewish man, she began to be interested in my life. She asked me to write down my reminiscences, so I did it. I don’t know what sort of an effect it had on her. In this respect Sarka is an introvert and doesn’t show her feelings. Whether afterwards she took a larger, deeper interest in the Holocaust, I can’t say. I also don’t know who else she discussed it with. None of my relatives returned, and I didn’t associate with anyone who had a similar fate.

I practically didn’t even have any Jewish friends that I could talk to about it. They lived abroad and I could renew contact with them only after the revolution. At that time I also began to associate with fellow Auschwitz prisoners living here.

Before, I basically didn’t at all know that there were some other Auschwitz prisoners living in Prague. I myself didn’t look for them, for it’s true that I only began to concern myself more deeply with these issues fifteen years ago. Back then, there really wasn’t any literature on this subject. And if there was, it was only propaganda. But several times I did take some friends to Terezin.

During Communist times, a visit to Terezin was a farce. They didn’t talk about Jews at all, all visits went to the Little Fortress, and there they would take pictures of the sign ‘Arbeit Macht Frei,’ and thought that this was the ghetto. In the Jugendheim, where we had lived, there was a police museum.

Once I went to Terezin with one American that concerned himself with the Holocaust. He wanted to know where in Terezin the jail was. We found out that it had been in some police station, so we went there to look in the cellar, where there was some policeman that was showing us everything. He however didn’t know that my companion was an American.

When he found this out, he got into a panic and forbade us to take pictures. But despite this we managed to take a few pictures. Also, once an old lady relative of mine came from Germany and wanted to see the barracks in Terezin where she had lived. I took her there, the officer that came out of the gate was at first quite accommodating, but when we were to give him our identification, and she presented her German ID, that was the end. No visit took place; they didn’t let us in at all.

My future son-in-law’s parents moved to America at the beginning of the 20th century, so the events of World War II practically passed them by. Rick didn’t really come into contact with the Holocaust until his studies in Europe. Sarka and Richard were married in 1982.

They had a Jewish wedding, my daughter converted to Judaism, as she wasn’t a halakhah Jewess. The mikveh was in the Vltava River, where Sarka ritually cleansed herself, then she had to go have a shower, to wash off the dirt that floats in the Vltava.

The wedding took place at the Old New Synagogue and at the Jewish City Hall. It was a big event, dozens of guests came, as well as her father-in-law from America, who paid for it all. Of course, the police also took an interest, but the 1980s were after all already a more relaxed time.

For Sarka, marrying Richard was a liberation. From the 1980s the rule was that when a girl married a foreigner, she could automatically leave with him. So first they moved to Germany, where they lived for a time, and after about two years they moved to America, where they live to this day.

At first they lived in Washington, where Sarka studied and graduated in design from Yale, then they lived for some time in Miami, where her husband lectured at university. Richard is a lawyer and lectures a lot, now they’re again living on the East Coast, in Philadelphia. Sarka works as a graphic designer: she designs book jackets, exhibitions, and also lectures at university. She’s very lucky in that what she’s doing is really her hobby, she does what she enjoys.

During the 1980s it was already easier to go out of the country, the regime took into account if you had some close relatives outside of the country, so about once a year we were allowed to visit her. Then they didn’t even check how often we met our daughter outside of the country, we simply got an exit visa and we could leave.

The last time we were out like this was in the summer of 1989, in West Berlin. When we were then crossing the border on the way back, they again tried to make it as unpleasant as possible, they did a through search and confiscated books that we had with us.

During the time of the Communist regime, the environment in Czechoslovakia suffered extensive damage. We lived on Masna Street, so just a little ways away from Republic Square, which apparently had the worst air in all of Prague. In the Old Town, where we lived, it was apparently unbreathable.

So my wife suffered from various breathing difficulties, but it never happened to me. They tell me that I have no feeling left, no smell and taste buds, so I’m immune to dirty air. Really, to me it never seemed that bad. Living on Masna Street also had its advantages, there’s this little square, and basically back then it was a village.

No cars drove through, people sat outside, in the evening they would gather to debate things...It was really this oasis of calm. Today it’s all bars, lots of tourists, normal shops have disappeared. Today it’s not such an idyll, cars drive through there too.

The summer of 1989 was this exciting time. Changes in Poland [see Events of 1989] 36, in Hungary had already partially taken place, then in the fall there was the exodus of Germans, that was still before the wall had fallen in Germany. Germans tried to get to the West, first through Hungary and then through us.

I remember this: I was going to the German embassy in the Lesser Quarter, and there were throngs of Germans there, their cars were parked all over Petrin and the Lesser Quarter. They were leaving them there; they were trying with all their might to get on the grounds of the German embassy.

And then our November was nearing. When the year 1989 was just beginning, there were demonstrations in Prague, called Palach’s Week. [Palach, Jan (1948-1969): a Czech student, who on 16th January 1969 immolated himself in Prague’s Wenceslaus Square in protest to the occupation of Czechoslovakia by the armies of the Warsaw Pact. Palach’s Week – a number of protest demonstrations to mark the 20th anniversary of Jan Palach’s immolation in January of 1989.

The week of protests culminated with a procession to Palach’s grave in Vsetaty. The police intervened harshly, and thousands of people never reached the goal.] The police intervened during them, so I experienced how they used water cannons against us, arrested people and beat them with truncheons.

I myself avoided any direct conflict with the police, when they started to use the water cannons, I simply always hid behind some corner, so that they wouldn’t mow me down. It certainly wasn’t anything pleasant to get hit by a stream of cold water in January. So I was some sort of participant, but didn’t suffer any harm. Then of course there were demonstrations on 28th October, that was already all approaching 17th November.

On 17th November, students announced a demonstration at Albertov, I and some friends went there as well. It was already this unusual atmosphere, but I don’t think you could characterize it as expressly revolutionary. Some slogans about truth were bandied about for example, but I don’t think it was explicitly anti-Communist yet.

We proceeded up to Vysehrad, I think that they wanted to put some flowers on Macha’s 37 grave, then, spontaneously, the procession headed back down, grew in strength and at the bottom of Vysehrad split in two. One part headed along the riverfront, it finally arrived at Narodni Avenue, and the second part, where I was, went via Vysehradska Street, where on that little square by the Botanical Gardens a cordon of policemen stopped us. There was no violence, the procession stopped and waited.

I didn’t know that the procession had another offshoot, so I said to myself, what’s the point of sitting here and looking at these cops, we skirted it via some side street, got to Charles Square and ‘see you,’ went home. I had no idea at all that something was going to happen. My wife was at that time somewhere out of Prague.

In the evening I turned on Free Europe and now they were announcing that there’s a massacre on Narodni Avenue. I realized that it’s no joke any more, that it’s something serious now. The following day the actors of the Realistic Theater announced a strike, then students joined them and the whole thing began to gain momentum, it began to be clear that it was a revolution.

A revolution doesn’t always have to be bloody, revolution means a fundamental social change. The end of one social system and the beginning of a different one. Without a doubt, in this aspect it was a revolution. The communist government fell, there were demonstrations on Wenceslaus Square...

At the beginning, the TV stations boycotted the events, but after a couple of days it was already clear to everyone that there’s something happening that can’t be suppressed, can’t be silenced. I had friends at Melantrich; its building stands to this day on Wenceslaus Square, even though Melantrich itself no longer functions.

Here on the balcony was the Civic Forum center, speeches were made here. I wasn’t on the balcony, but it was made possible for me to watch everything from its window, so I was in the thick of it. It was amazing, there were banners saying ‘End of one-party rule’ everywhere, simply a superb atmosphere.

So after waiting for so long we finally had a change. On Letna [plain] there were gatherings... We did have some fears, that it could still all come to nothing, but basically the situation had changed so much, that the Soviet Union wouldn’t have risked taking responsibility for there being some sort of bloodbath, and our leaders, well, they were also cowards, so the People’s Militias withdrew and the army stayed in its barracks.

Each day brought something new, suddenly the government wasn’t composed of just Communists. Then it came out that there were to be more Communists in it, so people protested yet again, there was simply always something going on... There was a lot of talk about how yet again we were the last. That it’s another disgrace. Poland had already fallen, Hungary had fallen, in Germany the Wall had fallen, only Czechoslovakia again looked like it was going to be the last to free itself.

Of course we told ourselves that the all-pervasive euphoria wouldn’t last long. That in the beginning people will be thrilled, but after a time, when it’s apparent that no revolution can fulfill all expectations that they put into it, and that power will be assumed not by idealists, who have plenty of ideals but no organization, but by the boys with the sharp elbows, then it became clear to me that in a few years people were going to reminisce about Communism.

Because it was cheap here, people didn’t need freedom, of what use was freedom of speech to them, when they could sit in pubs and drink cheap beer? A person who wasn’t stigmatized got out of the country on an exit visa once in a while, so people lacked practically nothing.

What they stole, they had. Stealing was permitted, because the government said: we’re pretending that we’re paying you, you’re pretending that you’re working. And so people stole, it was absolutely common, whoever didn’t steal was a fool, and so people didn’t lack much.

Communism wasn’t as bloody as it had been in the 1950s. Husak 38 was by then senile, then that idiot Jakes 39 assumed the presidency, people made fun of him... so of course, the police were still tough, they always had truncheons in their hands, but if you didn’t go to a demonstration, nothing happened to you. Thus dissatisfaction was really only among the intellectuals and people who were somehow stigmatized. It was huge luck that the CKD workers also joined the demonstrators.

The problem, however, was that there was no one to hand the government over to. I think that dissidents like Havel 40, Vondra [Sasha (Alexandr) Vondra, born 1961, geographer, signatory of Charter 77. In February 1989 sentenced to two months’ jail; from 2nd January 1989 to 6th January 1990 the spokesman of Charter 77.

After the start of his jail term, Vaclav Havel filled in his function as spokesman for 52 days], Maly [Czech dissident, Catholic priest, bishop] were really more spiritual people, who weren’t particularly interested in power. So gradually power here was assumed by people who hadn’t been any sort of fighters against Communism, but who knew how to go about things and managed to push their way in.

Now I could have returned to the Institute for Eastern European History. There was different management there now, but I was no longer used to any sort of discipline. I wanted to say and do what I wanted; I wasn’t willing to listen to orders and observe some regulations, so I said my goodbyes after a year and a half and went back into retirement. Because there was no money, that institute ceased to exist anyways; it became part of the Historical Institute of the Academy of Sciences.

My wife and I were secured materially, our daughter was abroad, so she was able to help us. I also got some compensation for my stay in the concentration camp from the Czech government and from the Germans, which in the end helped us out, when we were buying this apartment.

The building where we were living on Masna Street was undergoing reconstruction, so that’s why we had to move in the mid-1990s. We found a place to live in Bubenec. We had a lot of work with it when we were buying it, the apartment was in desolate condition, but we made it cozy and we enjoy living here. Then I could also publish what had earlier made the rounds only in samizdats, I could lecture, publish articles, I was paid for that, so it looked like we’d be financially secure; after all, we only had to look after the two of us.

When Israel was created, I didn’t really reflect on it much. For one, in 1948 I was still ill, my inability to join society still lingered, so I really only began to be aware of Israel during the time of the Slansky trials and then mainly during the Six-Day-War 41.

Back then all intellectuals, including the Communist ones, were for Israel. Every hour I listened to the news on Free Europe or the BBC, so that I’d know what the situation at the front looked like. It was a terrible situation, if Israel hadn’t attacked back then, they wouldn’t exist now. That’s precisely the question of a preventive war.

A preventive war is sometimes so necessary, a matter of life or death, that you can’t argue about it. What pacifism? War is simply sometimes necessary, morally justifiable, while pacifism is sometimes morally absolutely rotten. Pacifism was in France before the war, why should they fight, when Verdun destroyed their entire male population? While in Germany there was no pacifism, and how did it end up?

That’s an absolutely clear thing, with my whole being, my whole reason I’m on the side of Israel. I know that it’s a very complex situation, after all, even within the scope of Israel there are constructive and destructive forces. But the main thing is for Israel to be able to find a partner with whom it’s possible to negotiate, who is trustworthy.

I don’t agree with Israel trading territory for peace, I also told them that there, when I visited Israel. Because you’ll make peace with one representative, they’ll then murder him, and so much for peace. And there won’t be territory, or peace. It’s good that we’re for peace, but the others must also honestly be for peace, and they have to be stable, have influence, so they can enforce it.

So we’ll yet see, what this Mahmud Abbas [former Palestinian premier and Yasser Arafat’s successor] is going to be like. It seems that he sincerely means it, but whether he’ll also have enough influence to manage to enforce it, I don’t know. So I’m not going to give anyone any advice. They themselves have to know if they can declare peace with someone, if they can withdraw from Gaza, if they can withdraw from the West Bank, all this they have to know themselves. But it’s a risk, that’s for certain.

I was in Israel once in 1996, at that time the Jewish Community had organized a trip for people that hadn’t been to Israel yet. A relatively inexpensive trip, I paid only about ten thousand [Czech crowns] for some expenses, and spent a week there. We lived in Natania in a hotel, and traveled all over the country. I’ll tell you this: I had mixed impressions of Israel.

On the one hand I admired the huge amount of work they’d done there, the irrigation and care for the countryside, on the other hand I was disappointed by the filth that exists there. So of course, the Golan Heights made a great impression on me. Here I realized how strategically important they are. I visited Jerusalem, I saw Yad Vashem 42, the Old City, we bathed in the Dead Sea, and it really is a sea that you can’t drown in.

It was an amazing experience, that I have to admit, but was I enthused by it? For one, when it comes to nature, for me it’s still this parched land. Of course they don’t have enough water to irrigate the entire country, so there, where they can, it’s amazing, but there’s still a huge amount of desert there.

And like I said, filth, there’s litter lying along the side of the road... well, so it’s not a country where I’d want to live, nope. For one it’s hot there, and I like northern lands more than southern ones. I visited Israel in October and it was still around 30 degrees. It’s true that it’s not as intolerable as Florida. For me Florida is absolutely intolerable, but I can’t even imagine what it’s like there for example in June.

My aunt Ruzena, the wife of Jindrich Petrovsky, lived in Israel at one time, as well as her son Mario with his wife. They moved there after the invasion of Czechoslovakia in 1968, they had said to themselves that for sure it was going to be bad for Jews here, so they’re moving.

Aunt Ruzena’s daughter, my cousin Eva, was married to some doctor, so she didn’t go with them. In Israel they lived in Natania. Mario was educated as a chef, in fact he became a head chef in some hotel and they weren’t badly off. We maintained more or less only formal contact, for one what was I really supposed to write them, it wasn’t always desirable to maintain relations with Israel. Should I have written about how I’m living? That was impossible, there was censorship here, so we only wrote some formalities in the manner of where we had been on vacation, really, it was quite formal communication.

When the Communist regime in Czechoslovakia fell, they returned and managed to get back a large amount of property that had belonged to the Petrovskys. My aunt isn’t alive anymore, she died at a very advanced age, she was over ninety.

I used to go visit her often when she was here in Prague in the hospital. My cousin isn’t alive any more either, and Mario commutes with his family between Prague and Israel, because they’re still supposed to be there. We see each other, but not that often, we have different interests; we lead different lives.

Currently I’m for example keeping myself busy by lecturing at various lectures. Not that I have some sort of regular commitment or force my lectures on someone, but simply when someone wants, I do a lecture for them. For example, I’ve lectured for teachers, who were augmenting their education, I also lecture at various schools, both in Prague and outside of Prague. My one and only condition is for the people, like the students for example, to come voluntarily and have an interest in it. And it really doesn’t happen that they’d behave impolitely, not pay attention or leave early. I always try to for example connect my telling about the Jewish genocide with perhaps some stories that are dramatic, so in that way it probably engages them.

We’re practically the youngest generation that can still talk about the war from their reminiscences. Maybe there are some others, who were born during the war, perhaps in a concentration camp or ghetto, but those aren’t capable of talking about it. While I remember the past, I remember the experiences, and what’s more, I can enrich them with certain historical knowledge, compare personal experiences with general knowledge, so I think that on the whole it’s interesting.

Of course, as soon as we disappear, then only the experts will be able to talk about it. I also do lectures here at the Jewish Education Center in Prague, and I go to Terezin with students, where I tell them about it... Once one of them asked me, if lecturing about the Holocaust is still a painful thing for me. So I said, that I’m a professional, that after all, I can’t be moved by my fate during every lecture, by that I’d devalue the lecture in a major way.

You can’t do that: have a hysterical fit during a lecture. A certain professionalism prevents you from expressing your emotions. You can say it with a certain amount of passion, with a certain subjectivity, but you can’t succumb to fits, wring your hands, that can’t be done.

As I’ve already said, a book I consider to be my life’s work recently came out: it deals with relations between Czechoslovakia and the Soviet Union.

We have a granddaughter, she’s named R. and was born ten years ago. She tells me that I’m this dinosaur, that is, a person from the last, twentieth century... Although she lives in America, she speaks perfect Czech, she even writes very well, for which I admire her.

I think that many Czech children wouldn’t manage it as well. She comes to visit us several times a year. She always stays for some time, in the summer she’s here for the entire holidays. She has friends here, we go to the theater, go on trips... Now she’s going to be attending a different school, so she’s looking forward to wearing a school uniform.

R. is being brought up as a Jewess. At home they for example celebrate Sabbath, earlier they used to eat in restaurants a lot, now they’re at home a lot. When they came to visit once and Chanukkah was supposed to be celebrated, we celebrated Chanukkah. R. was veiled as it’s supposed to be.

R. says that she likes Christians, because they have Christmas, we also celebrate Christmas. I think that in my daughter’s household, Jewish customs used to be observed a lot at least earlier on, earlier on they were very Orthodox, now I don’t know, how much they still are. For sure they eat kosher, they don’t eat pork.

Once, when we were over visiting them during the time of Passover, we weren’t allowed to bring any bread or rolls into the house. We’ve been over in America to visit them two or three times, now I don’t want to go there any more, the East Coast isn’t interesting for me.

Their lifestyle is such that they’re always working and we sit there and stare at the wall. I’d for example like to go have a look at the West Coast, to California, the Grand Canyon, Yellowstone Park, but that doesn’t come into consideration. I know Philadelphia, I know New York, I know Chicago, I know Washington, so there’s nothing there that I need to see or get to know. So I prefer it when they come here, here we have time for them.

R. knows what happened during the war and is very interested in it, of course. I try to help her in this, for example I took her to the Military Historical Museum for an exhibition about Heydrich, I tell her lots of stories...She wants to know various details, she’s still got these childlike questions. She for example also claims that she’s going to have three children and that one of them is going to be named Hanus, after my brother. Not Toman, that she’s got my genes, and that that’s enough for her.

I of course agree that the Czech Republic should be part of organizations like the European Union, NATO... It’s the only road that’s possible and is also necessary and good. If the European Union lasts, everything will be fine. The problem is that the European Union isn’t a country like America, which integrated all immigrants and made them into Americans.

A European will likely never be a European: he’ll be a Frenchman, a German, an Englishman… Maybe in a few generations it’ll change, in any case it’s going to be a long road. It’s very complex, full of pitfalls and misunderstandings, but it’s necessary to set out on it. So when we were voting on entry into the European Union, we voted in favor, and if we’re going to be voting on the European Constitution, I’ll vote for it as well.

As a child of the First Republic I was raised to be a patriot. I don’t feel myself to be one any more. For me, patriotism is a relic of the 19th or the middle of the 20th century. I feel myself to be a citizen of this country; I think that a citizen is a person who should be conscious of his rights and responsibilities toward this state.

I’m glad that I live in this country, but I always get angry, when someone tells me that he’s proud of being a Czech. I think that he should be ashamed of being a Czech. It’s enough to remember all of what Czechs caused, what sort of a tradition they have, that they’re not only those fabulous Hussites, who besides were quite the bastards, and so on and on.

So I’m not proud of being Czech, but I like this country, I like this language, I like this culture. On the other hand I also know the pitfalls associated with this country and with this people. I don’t feel any patriotism, I feel responsibility. So I try to behave like a person who somehow contributes to our good name.

• Glossary

1 Terezin/Theresienstadt: A ghetto in the Czech Republic, run by the SS. Jews were transferred from there to various extermination camps. It was used to camouflage the extermination of European Jews by the Nazis, who presented Theresienstadt as a ‘model Jewish settlement’.

Czech gendarmes served as ghetto guards, and with their help the Jews were able to maintain contact with the outside world. Although education was prohibited, regular classes were held, clandestinely. Thanks to the large number of artists, writers, and scholars in the ghetto, there was an intensive program of cultural activities.

At the end of 1943, when word spread of what was happening in the Nazi camps, the Germans decided to allow an International Red Cross investigation committee to visit Theresienstadt.

In preparation, more prisoners were deported to Auschwitz, in order to reduce congestion in the ghetto. Dummy stores, a cafe, a bank, kindergartens, a school and flower gardens were put up to deceive the committee.

2 February 1948: Communist take-over in Czechoslovakia. The ‘people’s democracy’ became one of the Soviet satellites in Eastern Europe. The state apparatus was centralized under the leadership of the Czechoslovak Communist Party (KSC). In the economy private ownership was banned and submitted to central planning. The state took control of the educational system, too. Political opposition and dissident elements were persecuted.

3 First Czechoslovak Republic (1918-1938): The First Czechoslovak Republic was created after the collapse of the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy following World War I. The union of the Czech lands and Slovakia was officially proclaimed in Prague in 1918, and formally recognized by the Treaty of St. Germain in 1919.

Ruthenia was added by the Treaty of Trianon in 1920. Czechoslovakia inherited the greater part of the industries of the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy and the new government carried out an extensive land reform, as a result of which the living conditions of the peasantry increasingly improved.

However, the constitution of 1920 set up a highly centralized state and failed to take into account the issue of national minorities, and thus internal political life was dominated by the struggle of national minorities (especially the Hungarians and the Germans) against Czech rule. In foreign policy Czechoslovakia kept close contacts with France and initiated the foundation of the Little Entente in 1921.

4 Anti-Jewish laws in the Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia: In March 1939, there lived in the Protectorate 92,199 inhabitants classified according to the so-called Nuremberg Laws as Jews. On 21st June 1939, Konstantin von Neurath, the Reichs protector, passed the so-called Edict Regarding Jewish Property, which put restrictions on Jewish property.

On 24th April 1940, a government edict was passed which eliminated Jews from economic activity. Similarly like previous legal changes it was based on the Nuremburg Law definitions and limited the legal standing of Jews. According to the law, Jews couldn’t perform any functions (honorary or paid) in the courts or public service and couldn’t participate at all in politics, be members of Jewish organizations and other organizations of social, cultural and economic nature.

They were completely barred from performing any independent occupation, couldn’t work as lawyers, doctors, veterinarians, notaries, defence attorneys and so on. Jewish residents could participate in public life only in the realm of religious Jewish organizations. Jews were forbidden to enter certain streets, squares, parks and other public places.

From September 1939 they were forbidden from being outside their home after 8pm. Beginning in November 1939 they couldn’t leave, even temporarily, their place of residence without special permission. Residents of Jewish extraction were barred from visiting theatres and cinemas, restaurants and cafés, swimming pools, libraries and other entertainment and sports centres.

On public transport they were limited to standing room in the last car, in trains they weren’t allowed to use dining or sleeping cars and could ride only in the lowest class, again only in the last car. They weren’t allowed entry into waiting rooms and other station facilities. The Nazis limited shopping hours for Jews to twice two hours and later only two hours per day.

They confiscated radio equipment and limited their choice of groceries. Jews weren’t allowed to keep animals at home. Jewish children were prevented from visiting German, and, from August 1940, also Czech public and private schools.

In March 1941 even so-called re-education courses organized by the Jewish Religious Community were forbidden, and from June 1942 also education in Jewish schools. To eliminate Jews from society it was important that they be easily identifiable. Beginning in March 1940, citizenship cards of Jews were marked by the letter ‘J’ (for Jude – Jew).

From 1st September 1941 Jews older than six could only go out in public if they wore a yellow six-pointed star with ‘Jude’ written on it on their clothing.

5 Hilsner Trial: In 1899 the Jew Leopold Hilsner was accused of ritual murder.

During the first trial proceedings the media provoked an anti-Jewish hysteria among the general public and in legislative bodies, as a result of which Hilsner was sentenced to death, despite the lack of any direct evidence. Both his ex officio counsel and President T. G. Masaryk tried to demythologize superstitions about the blood libel.

In 1901 Emperor Franz Josef I changed the sentence to life imprisonment but he did not allow a retrial probably out of fear of pogroms. In 1918 Hilsner was granted pardon by Emperor Charles.

6 Munich Pact: Signed by Germany, Italy, the United Kingdom and France in 1938, it allowed Germany to immediately occupy the Sudetenland (the border region of Czechoslovakia inhabited by a German minority).

The representatives of the Czechoslovak government were not invited to the Munich conference. Hungary and Poland were also allowed to seize territories:

Hungary occupied southern and eastern Slovakia and a large part of Subcarpathia, which had been under Hungarian rule before World War I, and Poland occupied Teschen (Tesin or Cieszyn), a part of Silesia, which had been an object of dispute between Poland and Czechoslovakia, each of which claimed it on ethnic grounds. Under the Munich Pact, the Czechoslovak Republic lost extensive economic and strategically important territories in the border regions (about one third of its total area).

7 Nemcova, Bozena (1820–1862): born Barbora Panklova in Vienna into the family of Johann Pankl, a nobleman’s coachman. She was significantly influenced by her upbringing at the hands of her grandmother Magdalena Novotna during the years 1825-29. In 1837 she was married to financial official Josef Nemec.

She contributed to a number of magazines. She was inspired by traditional folk stories to write seven collections of folk tales and legends and ten collections of Slovak fairy-tales and legends, which are generally a gripping fictional adaptation of fairy-tale themes.

Through her works Nemcova has to her credit the bringing together of the Czech and Slovak nations and their cultures. She is the author of travelogues and ethnographic sketches, realistic stories of the countryside (Crazy Bara, Mountain Village, Karla, The Teacher, At The Chateau and The Village Below) and the supreme novel Granny. Thanks to her rich folkloristic work and particularly her work Granny, Bozena Nemcova has taken her place among Czech national icons.

8 Spanish Civil War (1936-39): A civil war in Spain, which lasted from July 1936 to April 1939, between rebels known as Nacionales and the Spanish Republican government and its supporters. The leftist government of the Spanish Republic was besieged by nationalist forces headed by General Franco, who was backed by Nazi Germany and fascist Italy.

Though it had Spanish nationalist ideals as the central cause, the war was closely watched around the world mainly as the first major military contest between left-wing forces and the increasingly powerful and heavily armed fascists. The number of people killed in the war has been long disputed ranging between 500,000 and a million.

9 Sparta: The Sparta Praha club was founded on 16th November 1893. A memorial of the first very famous era of the club’s history are first and foremost two victories in the Central European Cup, which in the 1920s and 1930s had the same significance as today’s Champions League. Sparta, usually with Slavia, always formed the foundation of the national team and therefore its players were present during the greatest successes of the Czechoslovak and Czech teams.

10 Slavia: on 21st January 1896 at a general meeting of the Slavia Praha club a soccer union was formed. Slavia already played its first international match on 8th January 1899 against Berlin with a 0:0 result. Up to the start of WWI Slavia won the Charity Cup in the years 1906, 1920, 1911 and 1912. This very strong team won the Czechoslovak League in the years 1930, 1933, 1934 and the Central Bohemia District Cup in the years 1922, 1926, 1927, 1928, 1930 and 1932. Subsequently Slavia were league champions in 1935 and 1937 and won the Cup in the year 1935.

11 Masaryk, Tomas Garrigue (1850-1937): Czechoslovak political leader and philosopher and chief founder of the First Czechoslovak Republic. He founded the Czech People’s Party in 1900, which strove for Czech independence within the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy, for the protection of minorities and the unity of Czechs and Slovaks.

After the collapse of the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy in 1918, Masaryk became the first president of Czechoslovakia. He was reelected in 1920, 1927, and 1934. Among the first acts of his government was an extensive land reform. He steered a moderate course on such sensitive issues as the status of minorities, especially the Slovaks and Germans, and the relations between the church and the state. Masaryk resigned in 1935 and Edvard Benes, his former foreign minister, succeeded him.

12 Sudetenland: Highly industrialized north-west frontier region that was transferred from the Austro-Hungarian Empire to the new state of Czechoslovakia in 1919. Together with the land a German-speaking minority of 3 million people was annexed, which became a constant source of tension both between the states of Germany, Austria and Czechoslovakia, and within Czechoslovakia.

In 1935 a nazi-type party, the Sudeten German Party financed by the German government, was set up. Following the Munich Agreement in 1938 German troops occupied the Sudetenland.

In 1945 Czechoslovakia regained the territory and pogroms started against the German and Hungarian minority. The Potsdam Agreement authorized Czechoslovakia to expel the entire German and Hungarian minority from the country.

13 Exclusion of Jews from schools in the Protectorate: The Ministry of Education of the Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia sent round a ministerial decree in 1940, which stated that from school year 1940/41 Jewish pupils were not allowed to visit Czech public and private schools and those who were already in school should be excluded. After 1942 Jews were not allowed to visit Jewish schools or courses organized by the Jewish communities either.

14 Terezin Initiative: In the year 1991 the former prisoners of various concentration camps met and decided to found the Terezin Initiative (TI), whose goal is to commemorate the fate of Protectorate (Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia) Jews, to commemorate the dead and document the history of the Terezin ghetto. Within the framework of this mission TI performs informative, documentary, educational and editorial activities. It also financially supports field trips to the Terezin Ghetto Museum for Czech schools.

15 Yellow star – Jewish star in Protectorate: On 1st September 1941 an edict was issued according to which all Jews having reached the age of six were forbidden to appear in public without the Jewish star. The Jewish star is represented by a hand-sized, six-pointed yellow star outlined in black, with the word Jude in black letters. It had to be worn in a visible place on the left side of the article of clothing.

This edict came into force on 19th September 1941. It was another step aimed at eliminating Jews from society. The idea’s author was Reinhard Heydrich himself.

16 Heydrichiade: Period of harsh reprisals against the Czech resistance movement and against the Czech nation under the German occupation (1939–45). It started in September 1941 with the appointment of R. Heydrich as Reichsprotektor of the Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia, who declared martial law and executed the representatives of the local resistance.

The Heydrichiade came to its peak after Heydrich’s assassination in May 1942. After his death, martial law was introduced until early July 1942, in the framework of which Czech patriots were executed and deported to concentration camps, and the towns of Lidice and Lezaky were annihilated. Sometimes the term Heydrichiade is used to refer to the period of martial law after Heydrich’s assassination.

17 Martial law: The Nazis reacted to Heydrich’s assassination with an immediate increase in terror, on 27th May 1942 martial law was immediately proclaimed for the entire territory of the Protectorate. Anyone who provided support for the perpetrators or only agreed with the assassination or wasn’t registered as a permanent resident with the police was shot.

All exits out of Prague were immediately closed, and posts controlling all movement out of the city were set up. Immediately after the assassination a huge wave of arrests began, and executions were performed on a massive scale.

As a warning, the names of the executed were posted every day in the newspapers and on street corners. In the night of the 27th to the 28th of May, all of Prague was subjected to a mass search whose purpose was to find the perpetrators.

18 Lodz Ghetto: It was set up in February 1940 city 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.

19 Vedem: The magazine Vedem was put out by boys from the 1st boys’ home inTerezin (located in a former school designated L 417), which for practically all of its existence was led by the educator and teacher Valtr Eisinger, alias Prcek [Squirt]. He established the principle of self-government in the home, and named it after a Russian school for orphans, which was named ‘Respublika Skid’.

Vedem began to be published as a cultural and news magazine. In the beginning it was available to all, thanks to it being conceived as a bulletin-board magazine. Subsequently for security reasons this approach was abandoned. After each publication the magazine was passed around, and its entire contents were discussed at the home’s plenary meetings held every Friday.

Everyone who was interested could attend these meetings. Vedem was published weekly from December of 1942, and always as one single copy. The magazine’s pages are numbered consecutively and together the entire magazine has 787 pages.

The authors of the absolute majority of the contributions were the boys themselves, who ranged from 13 to 15 years old. We can, however, also find in the magazine contributions by educators and teachers. Published in Vedem were stories, critical articles, articles inspired by specific events, educational articles, poems and drawings.

Mostly the boys describe in their works the situation in the camp, state their perceptions relating to life in Terezin, but also concern themselves with the problem of the Jewish question, Jewish history, and so on. Often-used literary devices are irony (especially in commenting the overall situation in the camp), satire (mainly in poems), metaphors, the use of contrasts.

Most articles are written anonymously, or under various nicknames. Some boys, supported by the efforts for collective education that ruled in Terezin, formed an authors’ group and all used the pseudonym Akademie [Academy] for their articles. Part of the magazine Vedem was published in book form by M.R. Krizkova in collaboration with Zdenek Ornest and Jiri Kotouc under the name ‘Are The Ghetto Walls My Homeland (Je moji vlasti hradba ghett).

20 Hirsch, Fredy (1916–1944): member of the Maccabi Association, a sports club founded in the middle of the 1920s as a branch of the Maccabi Sports Club, the first Jewish sports association on the territory of Bohemia and Moravia.

Hirsch organized the teaching of sports to youth at Prague’s Hagibor, after his deportation to Terezin he continued in this activity there as well. After the reinstatements of transports to Auschwitz in 1943 and after the creation of the “family camp” there, Hirsch and other teachers organized a children’s home there as well.

They continued to teach until the Nazis murdered virtually all the members of the “family camp”, including children and teachers, in the gas chambers.

21 Gross-Rosen camp: The Gross-Rosen camp was set up in August 1940, as a branch of Sachsenhausen; the inmates were forced to work in the local granite quarry. The first transport arrived at Gross-Rosen on 2nd August 1940.

The initial labor camp acquired the status of an independent concentration camp on 1 May 1941. Gross-Rosen was significantly developed in 1944, the character of the camp also changed; numerous branches (approx. 100) were created alongside the Gross-Rosen headquarters, mostly in the area of Lower Silesia, the Sudeten Mountains and Ziemia Lubuska.

A total of approximately 125,000 inmates passed through Gross-Rosen (through the headquarters and the branches) including unregistered prisoners; some prisoners were brought to the camp only to be executed (e.g. 2,500 Soviet prisoners of war). Jews (citizens of different European countries), Poles and citizens of the former Soviet Union were among the most numerous ethnic groups in the camp. The death toll of Gross-Rosen is estimated at approximately 40,000.

22 Slansky trial: In the years 1948-1949 the Czechoslovak government together with the Soviet Union strongly supported the idea of the founding of a new state, Israel. Despite all efforts, Stalin’s politics never found fertile ground in Israel; therefore the Arab states became objects of his interest. In the first place the Communists had to allay suspicions that they had supplied the Jewish state with arms.

The Soviet leadership announced that arms shipments to Israel had been arranged by Zionists in Czechoslovakia. The times required that every Jew in Czechoslovakia be automatically considered a Zionist and cosmopolitan. In 1951 on the basis of a show trial, 14 defendants (eleven of them were Jews) with Rudolf Slansky, First Secretary of the Communist Party at the head were convicted.

Eleven of the accused got the death penalty; three were sentenced to life imprisonment. The executions were carried out on 3rd December 1952. The Communist Party later finally admitted its mistakes in carrying out the trial and all those sentenced were socially and legally rehabilitated in 1963.

23 Klement Gottwald (1896 – 1953): the first Communist president of Czechoslovakia is born on the 23rd of October, 1896 in Dedice. In the 1920’s, up until the year 1926, Klement Gottwald is a functionary of the Communist Party.

In February of 1929, during negotiations the V. Meeting of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia (KSC), Klement Gottwald, along with Guttmann, Sverma, Slansky, Kopecky and Reiman get into the party leadership. In September and October of 1938 Klement Gottwald belongs to the main representatives of the opposition to the acceptance of the Munich Agreement.

After the KSC is banned Klement Gottwald emigrates in November of 1939, that is, after Czechoslovakia’s occupation by Germany, to the Soviet Union. In December 1943 Klement Gottwald and E. Benes, the representative of the London emigrés come to an agreement on the unification of the internal and foreign anti-Nazi resistance movements.

When the Communists win the democratic elections in 1946, Klement Gottwald becomes the premier on July 2nd. On 14th June 1948, after the abdication of E. Benes, Klement Gottwald is elected to the post of Czechoslovak president.

During Gottwald’s rule, many show trials take place  at the beginning of the 1950’s, political terror is unleashed – based on the law regarding the protection of the People’s Democratic Republic No. 231/1948 Sb., over 230 death sentences are handed down, and over one hundred thousand citizens are sentenced to life or long years’ imprisonment.

For five years, people are deported to forced labor camps with no trial. Tens of thousands of “anti-state elements” pass through correctional army PTP (Technical Assistance Battalion) units. Finally Gottwald even sent eleven of his closest highly-ranked Communist functionaries, led by R. Slansky, to the gallows. Klement Gottwald dies in 1953.

24 Trotsky, Lev Davidovich (born Bronshtein) (1879-1940): Russian revolutionary, one of the leaders of the October Revolution of 1917, an outstanding figure of the communist movement and a theorist of Marxism.

Trotsky participated in the social-democratic movement from 1894 and supported the idea of the unification of Bolsheviks and Mensheviks from 1906. In 1905 he developed the idea of the ‘permanent revolution’. He was one of the leaders of the October Revolution and a founder of the Red Army. He widely applied repressive measures to support the discipline and ‘bring everything into revolutionary order’ at the front and the home front.

The intense struggle with Stalin for the leadership ended with Trotsky's defeat. In 1924 his views were declared petty-bourgeois deviation. In 1927 he was expelled from the Communist Party, and exiled to Kazakhstan, and in 1929 abroad. He lived in Turkey, Norway and then Mexico. He excoriated Stalin's regime as a bureaucratic degeneration of the proletarian power. He was murdered in Mexico by an agent of Soviet special services on Stalin’s order.

25 Tito, Josip Broz (1892-1980): President of communist Yugoslavia from 1953 until his death. He organized the Yugoslav Communist Party in 1937 and became the leader of the Yugoslav partisan movement after 1941. He liberated most of Yugoslavia with his partisans, including Belgrade, made territorial gains (Fiume and the previously Italian Istria).

In March 1945 he became the head of the new federal Yugoslav government. He nationalized industry but did not enforce the Soviet-style collective farming system. On the political plane, he oppressed and executed his political opposition.

Although Yugoslavia was closely associated with the USSR, Tito often pursued independent policies. He accepted western loans to stabilize national economy, and gradually relaxed many of the regime’s strict controls. As a result, Yugoslavia became the most liberal communist country in Europe. After Tito’s death in 1980 ethnic tensions resurfaced, bringing about the brutal breakup of the federal state in the 1990s. 

26 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.

27 Benes, Edvard (1884-1948): Czechoslovak politician and president from 1935-38 and 1946-48. He was a follower of T. G. Masaryk, the first president of Czechoslovakia, and the idea of Czechoslovakism, and later Masaryk’s right-hand man. After World War I he represented Czechoslovakia at the Paris Peace Conference.

He was Foreign Minister (1918-1935) and Prime Minister (1921-1922) of the new Czechoslovak state and became president after Masaryk retired in 1935. The Czechoslovak alliance with France and the creation of the Little Entente (Czechoslovak, Romanian and Yugoslav alliance against Hungarian revisionism and the restoration of the Habsburgs) were essentially his work.

After the dismemberment of Czechoslovakia by the Munich Pact (1938) he resigned and went into exile. Returning to Prague in 1945, he was confirmed in office and was reelected president in 1946. After the communist coup in February 1948 he resigned in June on the grounds of illness, refusing to sign the new constitution.

28 Samizdat literature in Czechoslovakia: Samizdat literature: The secret publication and distribution of government-banned literature in the former Soviet block. Typically, it was typewritten on thin paper (to facilitate the production of as many carbon copies as possible) and circulated by hand, initially to a group of trusted friends, who then made further typewritten copies and distributed them clandestinely.

Material circulated in this way included fiction, poetry, memoirs, historical works, political treatises, petitions, religious tracts, and journals. The penalty for those accused of being involved in samizdat activities varied according to the political climate, from harassment to detention or severe terms of imprisonment.

In Czechoslovakia, there was a boom in Samizdat literature after 1948 and, in particular, after 1968, with the establishment of a number of Samizdat editions supervised by writers, literary critics and publicists: Petlice (editor L. Vaculik), Expedice (editor J. Lopatka), as well as, among others, Ceska expedice (Czech Expedition), Popelnice (Garbage Can) and Prazska imaginace (Prague Imagination).

29 Prague Spring: A period of democratic reforms in Czechoslovakia, from January to August 1968. Reformatory politicians were secretly elected to leading functions of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia (KSC). Josef Smrkovsky became president of the National Assembly, and Oldrich Cernik became the Prime Minister.

Connected with the reformist efforts was also an important figure on the Czechoslovak political scene, Alexander Dubcek, General Secretary of the KSC Central Committee (UV KSC). In April 1968 the UV KSC adopted the party’s Action Program, which was meant to show the new path to socialism. It promised fundamental economic and political reforms.

On 21st March 1968, at a meeting of representatives of the USSR, Hungary, Poland, Bulgaria, East Germany and Czechoslovakia in Dresden, Germany, the Czechoslovaks were notified that the course of events in their country was not to the liking of the remaining conference participants, and that they should implement appropriate measures.

In July 1968 a meeting in Warsaw took place, where the reformist efforts in Czechoslovakia were designated as “counter-revolutionary.” The invasion of the USSR and Warsaw Pact armed forces on the night of 20th August 1968, and the signing of the so-called Moscow Protocol ended the process of democratization, and the Normalization period began.

30 Svoboda, Ludvik (1895-1979): During World War II General Ludvik Svoboda commanded Czechoslovak troops under Soviet military leadership, which took part in liberating Eastern Slovakia.

After the war Svoboda became minister of defence (1945-1950) and then President of Czechoslovakia (1968-1975).

31 Dubcek, Alexander (1921-1992): Slovak and Czechoslovak politician and statesman, protagonist of the reform movement in the CSSR. In 1963 he became the General Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Slovakia. With his succession to this function began the period of the relaxation of the Communist regime.

In 1968 he assumed the function of General Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia and opened the way for the influence of reformist elements in the Communist party and in society, which had struggled for the implementation of a democratically pluralist system, for the resolution of economic, social and societal problems by methods suitable for the times and the needs of society. Intimately connected with his name are the events that in the world received the name Prague Spring.

After the occupation of the republic by the armies of the USSR and the Warsaw Pact on 21st August 1968, he was arrested and dragged to the USSR. On the request of Czechoslovak representatives and under pressure from Czechoslovak and world public opinion, they invited him to the negotiations between Soviet and Czechoslovak representatives in Moscow. After long hesitation he also signed the so-called Moscow Protocol, which set the conditions and methods of the resolution of the situation, which basically however meant the beginning of the end of the Prague Spring.

32 Josef Smrkovsky (1911-1974): member of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia since 1933. During the German occupation, worked in the Communist resistance. In 1945 he was the deputy chairman of the Czech National Council and a leading political figure of the May Uprising in 1945. Criticized for his methods during the uprising by the Soviets as well as the leadership of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia. After the liberation is shortly the chairman of the Provincial National Committee in Bohemia (deposed on Soviet intervention).

1949-51 deputy of the Minister of Agriculture and General Director of State Farms. 1946-51 member of the National Assembly. Imprisoned 1951-55. In 1963 legally, socially and politically rehabilitated. One of the main representatives of the reformist forces in the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia during the second half of the 1960’s.

On 21st August 1968 he stood up against the Soviet military intervention in Czechoslovakia, and together with other leading reformist politicians was dragged away to the USSR, on 23rd-26th August 1968 participated in negotiations in Moscow with the leadership of the Communist Party of the Soviet Unions, and co-signed the so-called Moscow Protocol.

On 27th August 1968 he returned home and during subsequent months attempted to resist the ascension of pro-Soviet “normalization” forces. In the fall of 1969 stripped of all functions and in 1970 expelled from the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia.

33 Charter 77: A manifesto published under the title Charter 77 in January 1977 demanded the Czechoslovak government to live up to its own laws in regard to human, political, civic and cultural rights in Czechoslovakia. The document first appeared as a manifesto in a West German newspaper and was signed by more than 200 Czechoslovak citizens representing various occupations, political viewpoints, and religions.

By the mid-1980s it had been signed by 1,200 people. Within Czechoslovakia it was circulated in samizdat form. The government’s retaliation against the signers included dismissal from work, denial of educational opportunities for their children, forced exile, loss of citizenship, detention, and imprisonment. The repression of the Charter 77 continued in the 1980s, but the dissidents refused to capitulate and continued to issue reports on the government's violations of human rights.

34 Radio Free Europe: Radio station launched in 1949 at the instigation of the US government with headquarters in West Germany. The radio broadcast uncensored news and features, produced by Central and Eastern European émigrés, from Munich to countries of the Soviet block. The radio station was jammed behind the Iron Curtain, team members were constantly harassed and several people were killed in terrorist attacks by the KGB.

Radio Free Europe played a role in supporting dissident groups, inner resistance and will of freedom in the Eastern and Central European communist countries and thus it contributed to the downfall of the totalitarian regimes of the Soviet block. The headquarters of the radio have been in Prague since 1994.

35 Velvet Revolution: Also known as November Events, this term is used for the period between 17th November and 29th December 1989, which resulted in the downfall of the Czechoslovak communist regime. A non-violent political revolution in Czechoslovakia that meant the transition from Communist dictatorship to democracy.

The Velvet Revolution began with a police attack against Prague students on 17th November 1989. That same month the citizen’s democratic movement Civic Forum (OF) in Czech and Public Against Violence (VPN) in Slovakia were formed. On 10th December a government of National Reconciliation was established, which started to realize democratic reforms.

On 29th December Vaclav Havel was elected president. In June 1990 the first democratic elections since 1948 took place.

36 Events of 1989: In 1989 the communist regime in Poland finally collapsed and the process of forming a multiparty, pluralistic, democratic political system and introducing a capitalist economy began. Communist policy and the deepening economic crisis since the early 1980s had caused increasing social discontent and weariness and the radicalization of moods among Solidarity activists (Solidarity: a trade union that developed into a political party and played a key role in overthrowing communism).

On 13th December 1981 the PZPR had introduced martial law (lifted on 22nd June 1983). Growing economic difficulties, social moods and the strength of the opposition persuaded the national authorities to begin gradually liberalizing the political system. Changes in the USSR also influenced the policy of the PZPR. A series of strikes in April-May and August 1988, and demonstrations in many towns and cities forced the authorities to seek a compromise with the opposition.

After a few months of meetings and consultations the Round Table negotiations took place (6th Feb.-5th April 1989) with the participation of Solidarity activists (Lech Walesa) and the democratic opposition (Bronislaw Geremek, Jacek Kuron, Tadeusz Mazowiecki). The resolutions it passed signaled the end of the PZPR’s monopoly on power and cleared the way for the overthrow of the system.

In parliamentary elections (4th June 1989) the PZPR and its subordinate political groups suffered defeat. In fall 1989 a program of fundamental economic, social and ownership transformations was drawn up and in January 1990 the PZPR dissolved.

37 Macha, Karel Hynek (1810–1836): representative of High Romanticism, whose poetry, prose and drama express important questions of human existence. Reflections on Judaism (and human emancipation as a whole) play an important role in his work. Macha belonged to the intellectual avant-garde of the Czech national society. He studied law.

Macha died suddenly of weakening of the organism and of cholera on 6th November 1836. Macha’s works (Krivoklad, 1834) refer to a certain contemporary and social vagueness in Jewish material – Jews are seen romantically and sentimentally as beings exceptional, tragically ostracized, and internally beautiful. They are subjects of admiration as well as condolence.

38 Husak, Gustav (1913–1991): entered into politics already in the 1930s as a member of the Communist Party. Drew attention to himself in 1944, during preparations for and course of the Slovak National Uprising. After the war he filled numerous party positions, but of special importance was his chairmanship of the Executive Committee during the years 1946 to 1950. His activities in this area were aimed against the Democratic Party, the most influential force in Slovakia.

In 1951 he was arrested, convicted of bourgeois nationalism and in April 1954 sentenced to life imprisonment. Long years of imprisonment, during which he acted courageously and which didn’t end until 1960, neither broke Husak’s belief in Communism, nor his desire to excel. He used the relaxing of conditions at the beginning of 1968 for a vigorous return to political life. Because he had gained great confidence and support in Slovakia, on the wishes of Moscow he replaced Alexander Dubcek in the function of First Secretary of the Czechoslovak Communist Party.

More and more he gave way to Soviet pressure and approved mass purges in the Communist Party. When he was elected president on 29th May 1975, the situation in the country was seemingly calm. The Communist Party leaders were under the impression that given material sufficiency, people will reconcile themselves with a lack of political and intellectual freedom and a worsening environment.

In the second half of the 1980s social crises deepened, multiplied by developments in the Soviet Union. Husak had likely imagined the end of his political career differently. In December 1987 he resigned from his position as General Secretary of the Communist Party, and on 10th December 1989 as a result of the revolutionary events also abdicated from the presidency.

Symbolically, this happened on Human Rights Day, and immediately after he was forced to appoint a government of ‘national reconciliation.’ The foundering of his political career quickened his physical end. Right before his death he reconciled himself with the Catholic Church. He died on 18th February 1991 in Bratislava.

39 Milos Jakes (born 1922): Czech Communist politician, in the 1970’s one of the leading representatives of the so-called normalization in Czechoslovakia and in during the years 1987-89 the General Secretary of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia (KSC).

In 1977 Jakes becomes a member of the KSC Central Committee, from 1981 he is then a member of the presidium – in is function he is responsible for overseeing Party work in agriculture, from June of 1981 then assumes responsibility for the entire sphere of economics in Czechoslovakia.

From the second half of the 1980’s Jakes acts as an ally of the reforms of M. Gorbachev in the Soviet Union, attempts to implement (partially and unsystematically) similar reforms in Czechoslovakia. In 1987 Jakes replaces G. Husak in the function of General Secretary of the Central Committee of the KSC, his attempts at half-baked reforms while preserving the KSC’s political monopoly however end in 1989 with an absolute fiasco – after the November events in 1989 the leading role of the KSC in Czechoslovakia ends, Jakes himself is forced to leave the head of the party (November 24th) and in December of that same year (December 5th) he expelled from the party at a special congress of the KSC.

Still in December of 1989 Jakes gives up his mandate as a member of the National Assembly (having been an assemblyman since 1971) and leaves politics. In the 1990’s he is charged several times for his role during the August events of 1968, however he is never sentenced. Today Milos Jakes lives in seclusion.

40 Havel, Vaclav (1936- ): Czech dramatist, poet and politician. Havel was an active figure in the liberalization movement leading to the Prague Spring, and after the Soviet-led intervention in 1968 he became a spokesman of the civil right movement called Charter 77.

He was arrested for political reasons in 1977 and 1979. He became President of the Czech and Slovak Republic in 1989 and was President of the Czech Republic after the secession of Slovakia until January 2003.

41 Six-Day-War: (Hebrew: Milhemet Sheshet Hayamim), also known as the 1967 Arab-Israeli War, Six Days‘ War, or June War, was fought between Israel and its Arab neighbors Egypt, Jordan, and Syria.

It began when Israel launched a preemptive war on its Arab neighbors; by its end Israel controlled the Gaza Strip, the Sinai Peninsula, the West Bank, and the Golan Heights. The results of the war affect the geopolitics of the region to this day.

42 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’.

Toman Brod 
Praha 
Česká republika 
Rozhovor pořídila: Lenka Kopřivová 
Období vzniku rozhovoru: únor – říjen 2005  

Pan Toman Brod žije se svou paní v útulném a velmi vkusně zařízeném bytě nedaleko centra Prahy. Ve své pracovně, kde rozhovory vznikaly, má mnoho knih, většinou se jedná o literaturu historickou, pan Brod je totiž historik.

Při svém bádání věnoval pozornost zejména problematice československo-sovětských vztahů, československému odboji na Západě v období druhé světové války, holocaustu a druhé světové válce celkově.

Před nedávnem mu vyšla kniha, kterou on sám pokládá za své životní dílo: Osudný omyl Edvarda Beneše 1939-1948: československá cesta do sovětského područí. Pan Brod dokáže velmi zajímavě a poutavě vyprávět o svém životě.

Dělat s ním tento rozhovor bylo pro mne velkým potěšením.

• Rodina
• Dětství
• Za války
• Po válce
• Po roce 1989
• Glosář

• Rodina

Své prarodiče z otcovy strany jsem nikdy nepoznal. Zemřeli dříve, než jsem se narodil, a tak všechno, co o nich vím, vím jenom z vyprávění. Můj dědeček se jmenoval Alois Brod a narodil se pravděpodobně v první polovině devatenáctého století. Žil ve vesnici, která se nachází kousek od Čáslavi, jmenuje se Vrdy-Bučice, a měl tu obchod se smíšeným zbožím. Byl to určitě velmi velký obchod, snad největší v okolí. Dostalo se tu všechno. Látky, boty, nářadí, cukrovinky, potraviny. Za obchodem byly i stáje a patřilo k němu i mnoho polí, dědeček měl hodně zaměstnanců. Vlastně všechno, co o něm vím, vím od jedné z nich, od paní Anny Kopské, která později dělala kuchařku i u mých rodičů a po válce ještě žila u mě a starala se o mou dceru. Dědeček asi nebyl moc nábožensky založený, prý si nechával nosit šunku do koupelny, aby to babička neviděla, ta totiž byla ortodoxnější. Dědeček měl sourozence, bezpečně vím, že měl bratra Josefa, jehož potomci dodnes ještě žijí, někteří tady, někteří v Americe. Paní Kopská mi taky vyprávěla, že děda sedával před domem a v neděli, když chodily děti z kostela, tak jim rozdával cukrovinky. A říkával, podívejte se, jaké to je umouněné dítě, kdyby se umylo, jak by bylo krásné.

Babička se jmenovala Marie, rozená Friedländerová. Pocházela pravděpodobně taky z Bučic nebo odněkud z Čáslavska. Byla v domácnosti a její víra byla nejspíš pevnější než ta dědečkova, vařila košer, nejedla vepřové, ale jestli chodila do synagogy, to teda nevím. Pravděpodobně taky měla nějaké sourozence, ale o těch nic nevím.

Mateřský jazyk obou dvou byla němčina, ovšem oba mluvili se svými zaměstnanci velmi dobře česky. Měli asi čtyři nebo pět dětí, byla to později velmi rozvětvená rodina, na všechny si ale nepamatuji, protože s celou řadou z nich se potom otec už nestýkal. Synové se jmenovali Arnošt, to byl můj otec, Jindřich, ten žil později v Pardubicích a měl tam továrnu na plnicí pera, často nás navštěvoval, pak Alfréd, který byl duševně nemocný a zemřel v Bohnicích. Otec měl ještě sestru, ale s tou se nestýkal, já sám jsem ji poznal až v Terezíně. Jemnovala se Hermina.

Moji prarodiče z otcovy strany zemřeli někdy ve dvacátých letech ještě před tím, než jsem se narodil. Otec potom převzal jejich obchod, nějakou dobu v něm společně s mojí matkou hospodařili, pak ho ale prodal a přestěhovali se do Prahy. Já jsem se byl ve Vrdech-Bučicích podívat po válce, a to tam ten obchod ještě byl, dokonce tam byl ještě vidět nápis Alois Brod, teď už je to samozřejmě předělané.

Můj otec se jmenoval Arnošt Brod a narodil se 28.listopadu 1878 ve Vrdech-Bučicích. Myslím, že jeho mateřským jazykem byla ještě němčina, ale mluvil bez problému česky. Až do konce svého života psal kurentem, tím ostrým německým písmem, takže i když psal český dopis, měl ostré hrany, nedělal obloučky. Z toho soudím, že chodil do německých škol, koneckonců to tehdy bylo obvyklé. Určitě měl jenom střední školu, titul neměl. S jeho náboženským založením to asi moc slavné nebylo. Kdyby ano, vedl by nás k tomu, což se ale nedělo. V armádě nikdy nebyl, nemusel narukovat  ani za první světové války a nejspíš to bylo proto, že byl válečně důležitý, protože pracoval v zásobování. Když se otec odstěhoval do Prahy, bylo to někdy v druhé polovině dvacátých let, stal se  velkoobchodníkem s obilím. Prodával a kupoval od sedláků obilí a v Praze na burze je prodával. Čas od času, asi jednou týdně, jezdil s takovou velkou nákupní taškou služebně do Čáslavi. Sedláci mu vozili vajíčka, máslo, různou zeleninu...
 
O prarodičích z matčiny strany toho také moc nevím. Dědečka [Eduard Pick] jsem ani nepoznal, zemřel dřív, než jsem se narodil, taky to bylo někdy ve dvacátých letech, babičku [Anna Picková, rod. Kern] si z dětství matně pamatuji, zemřela, když mi byly tři roky. Ve svém dětství jsem se o ně moc nezajímal, a když jsem se zajímat začal, nebyl tu už nikdo, kdo by mi o nich mohl něco říct. Vím, že otec mé matky se jmenoval Eduard Pick. Oženil se s Annou Pickovou, rozenou Kernovou, a bydleli v Ledči nad Sázavou, kde měli pilu, takže to byli takoví průmyslníci, řekněme. Pravděpodobně také mluvili německy. Měli několik děti, syny Jindřicha, Karla, Jiřího, dcery Olgu, to byla moje matka, Štefu a Annu. Synové po smrti otce pilu převzali a dále společně pokračovali v podnikání ve dřevě, podnikali v Praze a okolí a jejich pila byla, myslím, v Satalicích. Aby se snadněji integrovali do české společnosti, změnili si jméno, stali se z nich Petrovští. To bylo někdy po první světové válce.

Nejstarší bratr se jmenoval Karel. Vzal si za ženu křesťanku, to byla taková modedama. Za války zůstal v Praze, protože nějak docílil, že byl prohlášený za nemanželské dítě, nějakým podvodem dostal jiný rodný list, takže nebyl považován za žida, a po Únoru 1948 se odstěhoval do Brazílie.

Jiří Petrovský se narodil roku 1897, byl tedy o sedm let mladší než moje matka. Dvakrát byl ženatý. Se svou první ženou se nejspíš seznamil v Italii, kde byl za první světove války na frontě, byla to Italka, ale bohužel zemřela. Jeho druhá žena se jmenovala Anna a narodila se roku 1907. Z prvního manželství měl dceru Věru, která byla za války tady, nebyla brána jako židovka, takže válku přežila a zemřela po ní na leukémii. Se svou druhou manželkou, která už byla židovka, měl strýc malého synáčka Ivoška, který se narodil roku 1935. Tihle všichni byli transportováni do Lodže, kde jejich stopy na podzim 1941 končí.

Jindřich Petrovský se narodil roku 1891. Jeho manželka se jmenovala Růžena a měli spolu dvě děti, Evu a Mária. Byla to také bohatší rodina, vlastnili v Praze nějaké domy, později jsme dokonce u nich bydleli. Jindřich Petrovský válku nepřežil, ostatní z jeho rodiny ano.

Anna Ungerová-Picková se vdala a žila ve Vídni. Měla syna Ottu, který se poté, když ona ve dvacátých letech zemřela, vrátil zpět do Prahy, Na toho si velmi dobře pamatuji, stýkali jsme se často, například za námi jezdil na letní byt. Později byl také v Terezíně a Osvětimi, přežil a po válce se oženil se svou křesťanskou přítelkyní. Otto byl takový milý člověk, měl povahu velmi podobnou povaze mé matce. Zemřel v roce 1984.

Štefa Picková, matčina poslední sestra, se narodila roku 1886 a byla duševně postižená. Zemřela roku 1944 v Rize.

Má matka se jmenovala Olga Brodová, za svobodna Picková. Narodila se 29. ledna 1890 v Ledči nad Sázavou. Jejím mateřským jazykem byla myslím také němčina, ale mluvila perfektně česky, písmo měla taky zřetelné. Když mluvila, stejně jako když psala dopisy, přecházela plynule z jednoho jazyka do druhého. Obě řeči byly tenkrát naprosto běžné. Bohužel, o mládí rodičů toho moc nevím, narodil jsem se velmi pozdě a když jsem byl dítě, o takové věci jsem se nezajímal.

Nevím, kdy a kde se moji rodiče potkali, ale svatbu měli v červenci roku 1912, brali se v Bučicích, oddával je rabín. Má matka pak také pomáhala v obchodě. Ve dvacátých letech se přestěhovali do Prahy. Nebyli jsme žádní boháči, ale bydleli jsme v pěkném domě na nábřeží, řekl bych, že jsme byli taková dobře situovaná střední třída. Rodiče na děti dlouho čekali. Byli spolu už patnáct let, když se narodil v roce 1927 můj bratr Hanuš. Tehdy už vůbec nedoufali, že by mohli mít rodinu. Otec taky už chtěl jít do penze, ale když se narodily děti, musel znovu obnovit své podnikání, aby bylo z čeho domácnost živit. Myslím, že matce se podařilo otěhotnět, když byli na dovolené v Itálii v Benátkách, že tam nějak příznivě na ni působilo místní klima. Můj bratr Hanuš se tedy narodil roku 1927 a já dva roky po něm, 18. ledna 1929.

Můj otec byl člověk takového konzervativního ražení, který byl samozřejmě šťasten, že má syny, protože ve svém věku už nedoufal, že bude vůbec nějaké potomky mít. Takže byl velmi hrdý, staral se o nás, dával nám přesné příkazy, co smíme a co nesmíme dělat. Kontroloval, kdy chodíme spát, kontroloval, jak se koupeme. Pokud měl čas, velmi se o svou rodinu staral. Bohužel času měl velmi málo, v podstatě to už byl starý člověk. Když v šedesáti letech zemřel, všichni říkali, že už to byl starý pán, že už se jeho věk naplnil. To je dneska nesmysl, šedesátiletí lidé jsou v podstatě velmi činorodí, ale jak říkám, už když mu bylo padesát, chtěl jít do penze a nešel jenom proto, že jsme se mu narodili my. Já ho mám v paměti jako člověka, který se samozřejmě sice snažil si s námi nějak hrát, ale myslím, že už ve svém věku dětem moc nerozuměl.

Má matka byla povahově naprosto klidná žena, kterou nerozházelo vůbec nic. Děti mohly dovádět a křičet a ona seděla po obědě u stolu a loupala oříšky. A děti mohly zbořit dům, respektive halu, nábytek, a jí se to nedotklo. Ovšem, samozřejmě, otec byl poněkud nervózní, prudší. Když se rodiče hádali, tak hlavně německy, abychom jim nerozuměli. Ale my jsme jim potom už stejně rozuměli. Matku mám v paměti jako mírnou, laskavou ženu. Jako pubertální kluk jsem se k ní vždycky nechoval hezky, to samozřejmě je taky pravda, ale ona se pak ukázala, to už je další historie, být velmi statečnou ženou. I když nikdy nepracovala, tak v těch hrozných podmínkách Terezína, které musela zažít, se ukázala jako žena velmi adaptabilní, pracovala jako ošetřovatelka mentálně a fyzicky postižených dětí.

Má matka byla vášnivá hráčka karet. Měla spousty kamarádek, které, stejně jako ona, hrály bridž. Byla to taková společnost, která chodila k ní, nebo zase ona chodila s nimi do kaváren, protože se hrálo většinou v kavárnách. Tato společnost žen se u nás scházela  na různé čajové dýchánky, odpoledne, hovořilo se o nejrůznějších ženských záležitostech. Některá z těchto dam mluvila česky, některá německy, a plynule se přecházelo z jednoho jazyka do druhého. S některými těmito jejími přítelkyněmi, které měly děti, jsme jezdili společně na letní byt, jak se tehdy říkalo prázdninám. Je zajímavé, že to všechno byly asimilované židovské rodiny. Opravdu, naši rodinní přátelé byli zase jen židé.

Moc jsme se nestýkali se sourozenci naší matky a jejich rodinami. Věděli jsme o sobě, to ano, ale oni spíš byli taková honorace, pohybovali se v jiných společenských kruzích. Vlastnili domy, byli členy autoklubu, jezdili na koních… Naproti tomu bratr mého otce Jindřich nás navštěvoval často. Jeho manželka Berta byla také židovka, adoptovali spolu dceru. Strýc měl továrnu v Pardubicích na plnicí pera, která ovšem moc neprosperovala, a tak si vždycky chodil půjčovat peníze od mého otce. Byl to člověk velmi laskavý, kterého jsme si vždycky vážili a milovali, byl mladší než otec, tak se k nám i jinak choval. Když otec zemřel, bydleli jsme blízko sebe na Starém Městě, pravidelně jsme s ním chodili v neděli na procházky, ukazoval nám pražské pamětihodnosti. Strýc Jindřich zahynul i s tetou Bertou v Osvětimi, jejich dcera snad ale ani v koncentračním táboře nebyla a později emigrovala do Austrálie.

• Dětství

Můj bratr Hanuš byl o dva roky starší než já, narodil se roku 1927. Povahu měl určitě lepší, poněvadž já byl vzteklé, protivné dítě, neuměl jsem prohrávat, ještě dnes, když prohraji v šachách, tak mě to mrzí, ale když jsem v té době třeba prohrál v nějakých dětských sportovních kláních, to jsem byl opravdu velmi nepříjemné dítě. Kdežto on byl rozvážný, všemožně mě uklidňoval, že je to jenom hra, a tak mě po čase zlost zase přešla. Hanuš byl, myslím si, ten přemýšlivý, vědecký typ. Tady mám jeden jeho sešit se slohovými cvičeními, které psal, když mu bylo patnáct let. Jsou to takové filosofické, esejistické úvahy. Už tehdy bylo vidět, že je člověk přemýšlivý, že se zajímá o budoucnost. Například tu píše: „O svém životě bych rád jen napsal, že jsem se narodil… ostatní data jsou mi bohužel neznáma, že nevím, kdy a kde zemru, jaké zajímavé příhody ještě zažiji. (Hanuš už moc zajímavých příhod nezažil.) Navrhoval bych, aby mi byl uložen za určitý počet let znovu tento úkol, tehdy toho budu moci napsati více, maje za sebou větší část života a tím i větší počet zajímavých zážitků.“ Už jako chlapec se zajímal o politiku a politicko-historické věci, myslím si, že v tomto ohledu byl na svůj věk dost vážný, a také v tomto ohledu dost převyšoval ostatní chlapce svými zájmy a svými vědomostmi. Potom, za války, když mu bylo šestnáct, sedmnáct let, byl snad v Terezíně zapojen do nějaké komunistické buňky.

Jinak jsme byli, myslím, s bratrem taková normální dvojice. Někdy jsme se prali jako koně, ostatně jako každí sourozenci se někdy perou nebo si dělají naschvály. Ale taky jsme samozřejmě spolu hráli ping-pong, fotbal, chodili v létě plavat, bruslili jsme, opravdu myslím, že jsme byli normální dvojice. Ani jsme se moc nemilovali, ani jsme se nenáviděli. Samozřejmě, v dětství je to jiný vztah než v dospělosti, tak možná by se ten vztah změnil. Já jsem tenkrát na Hanuše žárlil, on byl starší, silnější, a tak jsem se mu snažil vyrovnat. Měli jsme společné kamarády a tak dále.

Nedílným členem naší rodiny byla dozajista i Anna Kopská, naše kuchařka. Ančí se narodila roku 1892 ve Vrdech-Bučicích, a když jí bylo šestnáct let, nastoupila do služby k mému dědečkovi. Potom pracovala i u mých rodičů, po válce se starala o mě a o mou rodinu. Za první republiky to tak fungovalo, že každá středně situovaná rodina, jako byla i ta naše, měla vychovatelku a kuchařku. My jsme měli na naší Ančí obzvlášť štěstí. Nejenom kvůli tomu, jaká to byla vynikající kuchařka, ale i pro její nesmírnou obětavost a dobrosrdečnost, která nám velmi pomohla v době války. Paní Kopská byla vdova. Její manželství je takovou záhadou, zřejmě byla vdaná jen velmi krátce, její muž byl nějaký kočí a zemřel na tuberkulózu. Ančí o tom nikdy nemluvila. Měla ale syna Pepka, který se jí narodil asi v osmnácti, určitě ještě za Rakouska [Rakúsko-Uhorská Monarchia]. Když v polovině šedesátých let zemřel, měl něco přes padesát. Kde byl vychováván, to nevím, poprvé jsem ho viděl už jako dospělého muže po návratu z vojny. Jednou ráno k nám přišel cizí člověk, já byl zrovna doma, a najednou slyším paní Kopskou, jak se s ním vítá. Pepek se poté oženil, měl dítě a žil se svou rodinou ve Žlebech u Čáslavi, kde si postavily domek. Paní Kopská mu s tím asi finančně hodně pomohla, proto se jí moc nelíbilo, že se Pepek po několika letech rozvedl, dům nechal ženě a odešel do Prahy. Ale na dům ve Žlebech si dodnes velmi dobře pamatuji, jezdili jsme tam na prázdniny, zde jsme se dozvěděli, že zemřel otec. Před několika lety jsem se byl ve Žlebech podívat a dokonce jsem se ještě setkal s Pepkovou bývalou ženou. Tenkrát to byla mladá, krásná žena, teď vyšla stará, shrbená paní. Zajímavé bylo naše setkání po letech. Pepek v Praze pracoval v nějaké továrně a když jsem odjeli do Terezína, staral se se svou matkou o náš byt.

Z toho, co nám Ančí vařila, například nikdy nezapomenu na její borůvkové knedlíky. Ty už dnes nikdo neudělá. Byly to velké knedlíky z nejspíš tvarohového těsta, které měly velice tenkou slupku, bylo umění je udělat tak, aby se slupka neprotrhla. Další pochoutkou pro mě byla její svíčková, také naprosto jedinečná. A její vánočky, to snad dnes už ani neexistuje. Možná, že to nebyl jenom její recept, ale obecně vánočkám, jaké se vyráběly před válkou, se dnes už nic nevyrovná. Měly nepopsatelnou chuť a nepopsatelnou vůni. Když se rozlomily, těsto dělalo takové jehličky. A byly v nich rozinky a mandle a samé dobroty. Tak to byla báječná věc. Rajská omáčka! U nás se dělala rajská omáčka s rýží, ale Kája Mařík, hrdina mého dětství, jedl rajskou omáčku s knedlíkem, tak jsem požadoval, aby mi ji dělala také s kendlíkem. Její houskové knedlíky byly naprosto vynikající. Co jsem naopak moc nejedl, byla krupicová kaše. Ta mi začala chutnat až v Terezíně, pochopitelně, ale po válce už mi zase nechutnala. A tak mě má vnučka, která ji má naopak velmi ráda, při snídaní zlobí ,abych si s ní dal kaši. Také jsem nejedl ryby, neměl jsem rád ty kosti v nich, třeba o Vánocích jsem si dával místo nich  vždycky řízek. Paní Kopská dělala vynikající řízky. Samozřejmě, ne každý den jsme jedli maso, vařila se také obyčejná jídla, jako například špenát s bramborem a vajíčkem, semlbába. Bramborový salát! Ten taky teď už nikdo nedokáže, ona ho dělala s vlastnoručně vyrobenou olejovou majonézou, přidával se do něj i salám nebo šunka. A další věci, jenom dobroty. Já jsem rád okouněl v kuchyni, když Ančí něco vařila, a vždycky jsem tam něco ulízl. Třeba takové to sladké těsto, co se dalo nahmátnout prstem a jíst i syrové… Výborné mramorové bábovky dělala Ančí!

Já byl nervózní dítě, takže jsem ráno, než jsem šel do školy, moc nejedl, snad jen nějakou bílou kávu nebo čaj jsem vypil. Svačinu jsem dostal do školy a snědl jsem ji až tak někdy kolem desáté hodiny, až můj žaludek začal pracovat. Takže celá rodina jsme určitě spolu nesnídali, vždyť matka taky ještě většinou spala, když jsme odcházeli do školy. Obědvali jsme ale společně, otec, pokud byl tedy doma, matka vždycky. A to už byl určitý obřad. Jedli jsme v jídelně, která byla slavnostně prostřená, paní Kopská přinesla na stůl… Paní Kopská ale, a myslím, že ani vychovatelka, s námi nejedly, jedly v kuchyni. Byl to takový určitý odstup, který byl dodržován, dále se projevoval napříkald tím, že matka i otec paní Kopskou oslovovali Anna, ona je milostpaní a pane. Vykali si. My jsme Ančí tykali a byla to pro nás Ančí.

Otec prakticky doma nebyl, takže hlavou domácnosti byla matka. Matka nikdy nevařila, to se pro dobře situovanou ženu nehodilo, ale chodila třeba nakupovat.  Nákupy obstarávala sama, taky to nebyl žádný problém, nenosila žádné rance, třeba jen v obchodě vybrala zboží, zaplatila a oni to pak donesli do bytu. Nakonec, přímo v domě jsme měli lahůdkáře, kde se dalo nakoupit. Matka také pečovala o finance, vedla účetnictví. 

Naše rodina byla do velké míry asimilovaná. Prakticky jsme vůbec nic o nějakém židovství nevěděli. Byl jsem sice obřezaný od dětství, ale to je tak všechno. Synagogu jsem za celou první republiku 1 nenavštívil, o židovství jsem se dozvěděl teprve v osmatřicátém roce, když začala různá protižidovská opatření 2 a kdy už byl rozdíl mezi křesťany a židy. Rodiče snad proto, že měli své zkušenosti z hilsneriády 3, nám říkali: radši se hlas spíš k národu českému, to budeš v určité ochraně, ale žid vždycky bude mít potíže. Asi proto. Já nevím, já jsem s nimi o tom nikdy nemluvil, neměl jsem na to čas, protože všichni zahynuli dřív, než jsem nabral rozum.

Praha mého dětství, to bylo idylické město. Tehdy sice už v Praze jezdila auta, ale co to bylo, přejelo několik aut. Za mě jezdili ještě koně! Pamatuji si pivovarské koně, uhlířské koně, poštovní koně, Praha vlastně byla taková vesnice, kde se dalo normálně chodit po ulici a nebyl žádný problém ji přejít, i když už tehdy se říkalo, že Praha je zahlcená, ale to kdyby viděli, jak vypadá dneska... My jsme bydleli na Palackého nábřeží, to je mezi Palackého a Jiráskovým mostem, dnes je na tom nábřeží Tančící dům. Měli jsme krásný pětipokojový byt ve druhém patře takového měšťanského domu z konce devatenáctého století, který tam ještě dneska stojí.V našem bytě byl dětský pokoj, pak po pravé straně byla kuchyně, po levé straně ložnice rodičů, dále jídelna, takzvaný panský pokoj, kde se přijímali hosti, a poslední pokoj byla kancelář, kde měl své sídlo můj otec, vyřizoval zde své obchodní záležitosti. Náš byt měl krásný balkón s výhledem na Vltavu a na Hradčany. Prostě byl to byt krásný, přívětivý, vlídný, na tehdejší dobu i velmi dobře zařízený. Sice ne nijak přepychově, ale přeci jen velmi dobře, pohodlně.

Já a bratr jsme měli pokoj společně. Zde měl každý svou postel, naše vychovatelka spala v pokoji vedle nás. Zde jsme si hráli, měli své hračky, četli jsme si… Jinak jsme po bytě moc nechodili. Do jídelny, do koupelny to ano, samozřejmě, do panského pokoje jenom, když tam byla nějaká návštěva, ale jinak jsme pobývali v našem pokoji, kde bylo teplo a kde byl náš svět.

Když jsem měl čas, a času jsem užíval dost hojně, stál jsem u okna a pozoroval život na Vltavě. Pluly tam ještě vory, ale také už i parníky. Na dohled jsem měl dva přístavy, jeden byl hned pod našimi okny, druhý u Jiráskova mostu. A taková moje dětská zábava byla parníky pozorovat, vždycky jsem doufal, že parník, který tam přijede, zakotví u toho mého přístavu. V zimě Vltava zamrzala, bylo na ní kluziště a my jsme tam chodili bruslit, taky jsme po ní chodili na procházky, jezdili jsme třeba na sáňkách až k Vyšehradu. No a pak samozřejmě byl sníh, v zimě bylo v Praze plno sněhu, Praha byla každou zimu zasněžená a byl to opravdu sníh, ne bláto, jako to je dneska. Takže to byla taky určitá romance, určitá idylka. Jinak Praha, poutě, no to byla obrovská záležitost tehdy, tenkrát byly ještě takové ty české poutě. Bylo jich v Praze víc, ale pro mě byly hlavní dvě. Konaly se na Karlově náměstí dvakrát do roka, jednou vánoční pouť, jednou josefská pouť. Byly tu všelijaké atrakce, kolotoče a kouzelníci a polomuž a položena, zvířata, nějaké opičky, střelnice no a samozřejmě všelijaké dobroty, zejména to, co jsme měli z domu přísně zakázáno. Nesměli jsme například jíst špekáčky, kdyby otec viděl, jak je jíme, tak by ho ranila mrtvice, ale to byla naše největší pochoutka, koupit si tam za padesát halířů toho buřta. Nějaké kapesné jsme dostávali, vždycky, když přišel někdo známý, hlavně strýček Jindřich půjčit si od otce peníze, tak když je dostal, nějakou tu korunu nám dal. Koruna představovala tenkrát obrovské bohatství, tehdy třeba pět halířů stál takový gumový had, který se dal žvýkat, a deset halířů nějaký bonbón, a padesát halířů stál ten buřtík, to jsme ani nevěděli, co s takovou korunou dělat, za co ji vydat. Nebo taková tu lepená vata, hnusná, to všechno byly naše pochoutky. Kolem parku, co je na Karlově náměstí, stály boudy s atrakcemi a nálada byla ohromná, všude hrála hudba, byly tam svíčky a voněly františky… Taky mi moc chutnaly pečené kaštany, venku vždycky stály báby, které měly takové lokomobily, kulaté pece s komínem, ze kterých se kouřilo, uvnitř na otočném roštu se pekly kaštany a báby je prodávaly za korunu do sáčku. Kaštany si teď koupím snad jen když jedu do Vídně, tam asi mají ještě ty staré receptury, jinak ne.

A taky mi chutnala šlehačka a zmrzlina, to jsem mohl jíst třeba k snídani, k obědu i k večeři. Nesměli jsme ale chodit jen tak k nějakému stánku, to otec prvně schválil nějakého cukráře a pak jsme u něj mohli nakupovat. Zmrzlina byla za padesát halířů do kornoutku. Milovali jsme ovoce, melouny, mandarinky, pomeranče, banány, to všechno bylo tenkrát samozřejmě k dostání. Nebyli jsme ale nějaká rozmařilá rodina. Sice jsme byli dobře situovaní, to ano, peněz určitě nechybělo, ale že by se rozhazovaly, to teda ne. Když jsme dostali padesát halířů na pouť, byli jsme šťastni. Naše vychovatelka určitě musela vyúčtovat každou korunu, kterou za nás zaplatila. Peníze tedy byly vzácné, taky jsme k nim měli úctu, vždyť jsme je prakticky do ruky nedostali. Všecko, co jsem potřebovali, nám někdo koupil, tak snad jedině když přijel strýček, dostali jsme nějakou korunu, ale jinak ne.

Byl jsem vášnivý sběratel vojáčků, tehdy byly v módě takoví ti sádroví vojáčci, měl jsem jich celou armádu. Jeden byl v hračkářství za dvě, za tři koruny, tak když jsem si šetřil, vydělal nějakou tu korunu, mohl jsem si za to v hračkářství koupit vojáčka. Vojáčci taky byli ten nejlepší dárek, jaký jsem mohl dostat.

Jak bylo ostatně tehdy zvykem, i v naší rodině jsme měli vychovatelku. Tehdy to bylo tak zařízené, že se děti daly na starost vychovatelce a ta pečovala o jejich dobré chování, vodila je do školy a vodila je ze školy, chodila s nimi na hřiště a na vycházky. Vychovatelek jsme měli několik, ne každá u nás vydržela, a taky ne s každou jsme vydrželi my. Všechny byly křesťanky, říkali jsme jim slečno, tak už ani nevím, jak se všechny jmenovaly. Ta první se vdala a proto odešla. Dál jsme měli takovou zdatnou paní, jmenovala se Krajcová, byla hodně sportovně založená. Také odešla, rodiče s ní nebyli spokojeni. A pak jsme měli jednu, to už jsme byli větší chlapci, takoví devítiletí, desítiletí, a ta byla Němka. Snažila se nás naučit německy, což jsme my ovšem odmítali, protože němčina byla řečí našeho nepřítele, styděli jsme se za to, když na nás německy mluvila, zakazovali jsme jí, aby nás před kamarády, německy oslovovala. Myslím, že tahle vychovatelka odešla, když byl Mnichov 4. S vychovatelkami jsme chodili na procházky, do divadel, hráli jsme různé hry… No rozuměli jsme si celkem, hlavně když na nás nemluvily před chlapci německy. Měli jsme asi pět vychovatelek, ale tyto služby skončily v devětatřicátém roce poté, co zemřel otec. Už na to nebyly peníze, matka udržovala menší domácnost, také jsme se rozloučili s tím krásným bytem.

Velmi pěkně se o nás starala i Ančí Kopská. Nejen, že uvařila, upekla, co jsme chtěli, ale třeba jsem k ní mohl přijít, zaklepat a říct: Heleď, já bych chtěl, kdybys byla tak hodná, abys mi přečetla kousek z Boženy Němcové. Tak Ančí šla, když měla čas, a přečetla mi ho. Jestli ona sama nějak více četla, když měla volno, to nevím. Vlastně si skoro vůbec nepamatuji, co dělala, když měla volno. Já jsem do kuchyně chodil tak za jídlem, jinak jsem byl v dětském pokoji. Štrikovala, to ano, hodně, možná šla někdy do kina, ale jinak nevím.

Naše škola byla v Pštrossově ulici, v budově, kde byla v roce 1890 založena Minerva Elišky Krásnohorské, první české gymnázium, kde mohly studovat dívky. Za nás zde už ovšem byla chlapecká škola. Děti se tenkrát totiž vychovávaly odděleně, školy nebyly koedukační, jako je tomu teď. A i v jiném ohledu byla tehdejší škola naprosto odlišná od té současné. Zaprvé tam vládla naprosto přirozená a dodržovaná autorita a kázeň, byl tam takový pořádek, že si to dnešní děti ani nedovedou představit. Mám dojem, že dnešní učitelé jsou spíše krotitelé, než aby byli vychovatelé. Tehdy co řekl učitel, to platilo. Pan učitel to řekl, tak já to musím takhle udělat. Samozřejmě, že tehdy už byly i ženy učitelky. Myslím ale, že to všechno byly ženy svobodné, že nesměly být vdané. Prostě neměly mít jiné povinnosti, aby jim jejich vlastní děti nezaneprázdňovaly výuku.

Ve škole mě bavilo třeba kreslení nebo nějaké slohové cvičení. Myslím, že mě škola bavila jako taková. Byla to povinnost, kterou jsem tak nějak chápal. Samozřejmě, že jsem byl rád, když někdy odpadla, jako každé dítě je rádo, ale že by pro mě byl nějaký šok chodit do školy, to rozhodně ne. Naopak jsme se po prázdninách vždycky těšili, že se zase do ní vrátíme, že tam zas budou kluci, se kterými jsme se bavili minulý rok, že třeba přijdou nějací noví… Učitelé nás oslovovali příjmením. Jakmile jsem přišel v první třídě do školy, tak jsem byl Brod a když někoho pojmenoval pan učitel křestním jménem, bylo to vyznamenání. To byl miláček, tomu mohl potom říct Jarouši nebo Karlíčku, ale jinak to neexistovalo… A my jsme dotyčnému samozřejmě záviděli. Školu jsme měli sice rádi, ale taky jsme rádi byli nemocní. Jednak právě proto, že jsme do školy nemuseli, ale také proto, že matka, vychovatelka a Ančí nám poskytovaly velmi vzácnou péči.

Vzpomínám si, že byl jakýsi rozdíl mezi lépe a hůře situovanými chlapci, to ano, ovšem nebylo to v tom, že bychom se spolu nekamarádili, že bychom spolu nehráli fotbal, když se však slavily narozeniny, vždycky jsme se scházeli spíše s ostatními z takové té střední vrstvy. Takže určitý třídní aspekt tu byl. Na druhou stranu učitel nám říkal: heleďte se, tady máme nějaké chudé děti, tak přineste třeba, kdo můžete, na Vánoce šaty nebo boty, které nepotřebujete, hračky, které nepotřebujete, a rozdáme to těm chudším dětem. Nebo taky vím, že když odešel otec nějakého chlapce do Španělska bojovat za španělskou republiku 5, tak učitel řekl: tady tenhleten chlapec teď nemá otce, tak když jste z takzvaných lepších rodin, tak si ho vždycky jednou týdně vezměte domů na oběd. Tak vím, že k nám chodil jeden chlapec někdy na oběd. Jak říkám, když uměl hrát fotbal, tak byl prostě náš kamarád, a na to, jestli byl chudý nebo bohatý, se nebral žádný ohled.

A samozřejmě, že jsme byli také velcí sportovci, ohromně jsme se zajímali o fotbal, teda aspoň já a můj bratr. Aktivně fotbal jsme taky hráli, ale spíš nadšeně než dobře, fandili jsme Spartě [16. listopadu 1893 byl založen klub Sparta Praha. Památkou na první velmi slavné období klubové historie jsou předveším dvě výhry ve Středoevropském poháru, který měl ve dvacátých a třicátých let obdobný význam, jako dnes Liga mistrů. Sparta povětšinou spolu se Slavií vždy tvořila základ národního týmu a její hráči proto nechyběli u největších úspěchů československé i české reprezentace – pozn. red.] a Slávii [dne 21. ledna 1896 na Valné hromadě klubu Slavie Praha se ustavuje odbor footbalový. První mezinárodní zápas hraje Slavia již na Letné dne 8. ledna 1899 proti Berlínu s výsledkem 0:0. Do vypuknutí I. světové války je nutné zaznamenat, že Slavia vyhrála Pohár dobročinnosti - Charity Cup v letech 1906, 1910, 1911 a 1912. Toto velmi silné mužstvo vyhrává československou ligu v letech 1930, 1933, 1934 a Pohár středočeské župy v letech 1922, 1926, 1927, 1928, 1930 a 1932. V následném období vyhrává Slavia ligu v letech 1935 a 1937 a Pohár v roce 1935 – pozn. red.], sledovali jsme jejich výsledky, a to byla událost, když na mistrovství světa v třicátém čtvrtém roce (1934) v Itálii se naši fotbalisté dostali až do finále [rok 1934 přináší československému fotbalu veliký úspěch na mistrovství světa v Itálii, kde ČSR ve finále prohrává s domácími 2:1 – pozn. red.], kde prohráli, ovšem to nebylo moc regulérní, pak byli v Praze vítáni jako hrdinové, přijeli v otevřeném autokaru a všichni je zasypávali květinami, taky jsem byl u toho. Fotbalisté té doby nebyli gladiátoři, milionoví otroci, kteří se nechávají prodávat za miliony tam a zase zpátky, byli to lidé, kteří hráli skutečně pro prestiž a s nadšením, pro lásku k věci. S vlastenectvím. Pro ně byla opravdu hrdost reprezentovat Československo na mezinárodním poli. Vlastenectví tehdy nebyla fráze, byl to skutečně hluboký cit.

Já jsem byl Sparťan, Hanuš fandil Slávii. Dokonce otec, ještě než zemřel, koupil bratrovi slavistický a mě sparťanský dres. Znal jsem celou sestavu Sparty, měl jsem ji navěšenou nad postýlkou a vždycky v pondělí ke mně přišel pan učitel Pokorný, to byl takový starší pán s brejličkama, a řekl: Brode, jak jste dopadli v neděli? Tak jsem hlásil: pane učiteli, prosím, vyhráli jsme. My, my jako. Tak vy jste vyhráli? Tak to je ohromná zpráva. No a já mu referoval, jak jsme teda vyhráli.

Také jsme hodně četli. S bratrem jsme se prali o knížky. Četli jsme samozřejmě mayovky [Karl May], Robinsona, Tarzana, Káju Maříka, všechny foglarovky… já hltal knížky. A prali jsme se, kdo tu knížku dřív přečte. Knihy jsme dostávali na narozeniny a na Vánoce, to není jako dneska, že pokud dítě něco chce, tak to hned dostane.

Tehdy se kupovaly dárky jenom na Vánoce a na narozeniny. Později jsem si je mohl koupit i z vydělaných peněz. Má matka také četla hodně. Otec, jak říkám, se moc doma nezdržoval, a když přišel domů, já jsem třeba už spal. Děti nechodily spát tak pozdě jako dneska v jedenáct hodin. V osm hodin byl konec a šlo se do postele. Matka nám taky třeba dávala číst noviny.

V létě jsme jezdili na letní byt. Pokud si pamatuji, tak nejdříve to bylo jenom kolem Prahy, když jsem byl malé dítě, jezdili jsme třeba do Řevnic. První taková větší prázdninová akce byly Doksy, Máchovo jezero, pak to byla několik let Libverda, to je u Liberce, kam jsme jezdili asi tři roky, ale protože to bylo v pohraničí, kde nebylo až tak příjemné ve třicátých letech pobývat, tak poslední prázdniny jsme strávili v třicátém osmém roce v  Malé Skále u Turnova.

Vždycky jsme tam jezdili tak na dva měsíce, my dva, matka, kuchařka, vychovatelka. Otec míval práci, takže tam nebyl stabilně, přijel, když měl čas, a pak zase odjel do Prahy. Mimo nás tam byly i rodiny další, tak tři, čtyři se vždycky našly. Byli to židé. Někteří z nich byli příbuzní, někteří byli vzdálenější příbuzní, se kterými se matka víc kamarádila než se svými vlastními. Byly to ženy, které s ní hrály bridž a které zase měly děti, tak s těmi jsme trávili prázdniny, znali jsme se od dětství. Trávili jsme pospolu krásné, klidné, bezpečné chvíle.

Myslím, že třikrát ročně, na Vánoce, na pololetní prázdniny a na Velikonoce, jsme jezdili na hory. Otec říkal: jste bledí, vy jste takové prostě ty městské děti, musíte mít alespoň jednu za čas horský vzduch, musíte na lyže. Tak jsme jezdili na hory.

Do Špindlerova Mlýna a do Harrachova, vždycky do stejného hotelu, ještě dneska tam stojí. No, sice jsem žádný slavný lyžař nebyl, ale bylo to fajn. Jezdili jsme z kopce, do kopce se chodilo pěšky, tenkrát ještě nebyly vleky, a ty kopce také spíš byly loučky, ne sjezdovky, na ty bych se neodvážil.

Člověk jel, zastavil se o nějaký plot a zase šel nahoru. Jinak jsme prakticky po republice moc necestovali, do zahraničí taky ne. Se školou jsme chodili na takové jednodenní výlety…

Víte, my jsme byli vychováváni jako českoslovenští vlastenci. Byla to doba takového toho čerstvého republikánského vlastenectví, republika byla nová a my jsme byli nesmírně hrdí na to, že máme svého prezidenta Masaryka 6, že to je člověk světově vážený a oblíbený a zpívali jsme o něm písničku:

Tatíčku starý náš,
šedivou hlavu máš,
dokáď bude tvoje hlava,
bude dobrá naše správa.

Je to nějaká lidová píseň, ale my jsme ji vztahovali samozřejmě na prezidenta. Náš ředitel byl bývalý legionář. Vždycky nás vodil dolů do tělocvičny a tam nám promítal obrázky, záběry z legií, život legionářů ve vagónech, na Sibiři a medvídky, které přiváželi panu prezidentovi. Každý osmadvacátý říjen jsme chodili slavit, ve škole byla veliká slavnost, potom jsme šli k Emauzím, kde byl a teď zase je obnoven Mařatkův pomník padlým pražským legionářům. Nevím, jestli byl i nějaký proslov, ale každopádně celá škola se tam sešla a slavila svátek. Velkým svátkem byl také sedmý březen, kdy měl narozeniny prezident Masaryk. Celá Praha byla ozdobená, byly vyvěšovány vlajky, každý obchod měl obraz prezidenta, vše bylo naprosto přirozené a naprosto spontánní, všichni Masaryka obdivovali a všichni byli rádi, že to tak je. Nic nebylo předepisováno. Samozřejmě, že z  republiky byli nadšeni hlavně Češi, že pro ostatní národnosti to nebylo až tak slavné, ale my, Češi, jsme byli hrdí na to, že máme republiku a že máme svého prezidenta.

V roce třicet sedm zemřel prezident Masaryk. Viděl jsem jeho pohřeb, otec nám tehdy zajistil místa v oknech paláce Dunaj, to je na Národní třídě, a tam jsme sledovali průvod, který šel pražskými ulicemi, podrobnosti si už nepamatuji, ale na ten dojem ano.

Tak to byla doba první republiky. Mysleli jsme, že je to naprosto zabezpečená, spolehlivá existence, samozřejmě, že v třicátých letech už pronikaly zprávy o tom, že je válka v Habeši, válka ve Španělsku. Na nás děti to doléhalo, už tehdy jsme četly noviny a zajímaly jsme se o tyto události, takže jsme cítily, že tady nějaké ohrožení je, ale jinak tím naše dětství dotčeno nebylo. Dál jsme hráli fotbal, dál jsme hráli na zloděje a na četníky, jen už to bylo s vědomím, že se tu schylují nějaké mraky. Pro mě to bylo ještě horší v tom smyslu, že mraky se schylovaly i nad naší rodinou, otec zemřel shodou okolností 28. září 1938, 30. září byla podepsána mnichovská dohoda 4. Takže pro mě byla katastrofa státní a rodinná vlastně totožná. Tím skončilo moje bezstarostné dětství.

Začali jsme vnímat, že situace houstne. V polovině září třicet osm (1938) jsme dva židovští chlapci, Jiří Pick a Toman Brod, už ne ve škole v Pštrossově ulici, která byla zrušena, ale ve Štěpánské, kam jsme přešli, tak tedy my dva jsme uspořádali mezi kluky sbírku na obranu státu a vybrali jsme přes dvě stě korun, což byla na tu dobu obrovská částka. Dali jsme je učiteli a učitel byl velmi dojat z naší iniciativy, která byla samozřejmě zbytečná, ale byl to projev vlastenectví, opravdu jsme cítili, že žijeme s touto republikou a že její konec bude znamenat neštěstí

Na podzim třicátého osmého roku (1938) byl otec asi měsíc v nemocnici. Už předtím byl nemocný, jezdíval do lázní se léčit. Jeho stav se ale zhoršil a musel být operován, asi to bylo kvůli prostatě nebo něčemu takovému. Ovšem nespolupracoval moc s lékaři, a myslím, že zemřel právě kvůli tomu. Bál se života, bál se Hitlera. Byl pochován na židovském hřbitově 30. září. Pohřbu jsem se já ani bratr nezúčastnil, byli jsme tenkrát mimo Prahu, ve Žlebech. Krátce po otci zemřel i jeho bratr Alois, také to bylo na podzim osmatřicátého roku.

Po jeho smrti jsme se museli přestěhovat z bytu na nábřeží, ne, že by nás vyhodili, ale prostě už nebyly peníze na to udržovat tak velký byt. Nastěhovali jsme se do bytu, který byl ve Veletržní ulici. Uprázdnil se, protože jeho původní majitelé, němečtí židé, spáchali po Mnichovu 4 sebevraždu, skočili z okna. Naše kuchařka šla s námi, ale vychovatelku už jsme potom neměli. Začal jsem chodit do školy do Holešovic, byla to česká škola. Zase jsme si chodili hrát na Letnou, Letná tenkrát byla ještě takový divoký západ, nebyla to ještě ta krásná plocha jako dnes, park ani  Stalinův pomník tam ještě nebyl, prostě divočina, kde jsme si hráli na kovboje a fotbal.

Před válkou jsem se prakticky nikdy s antisemitismem nesetkal. Za celou dobu, co jsem chodil do školy, jsem neslyšel slovo žid, nějakou antisemitskou poznámku. My jsme byli čeští chlapci a hráli jsme společně fotbal a prali jsme se společně a nevím, co všechno. Chodili jsme na výlety společně a jestli někdo byl žid, to se tehdy nerozeznávalo. Samozřejmě, někdo jiný má jiné zkušenosti, jiné zážitky, ale já se opravdu až do války s žádným antisemitismem nesetkal. Jednou vlastně ano, ale to byla hloupost, u nás v domě, ještě na tom Palackého nábřeží, bydlel jakýsi národně demokratický poslanec, jmenoval se Branžovský, advokát, který inklinoval k té nejkrajnější pravici. Jednou napsal na naše dveře židé ven, nebo něco takového. Já jsem to nechápal, bral jsem to, že nějaký kluk načmáral nějaké blbosti, ale otec z toho byl velmi rozčílený. Samozřejmě se neví, jestli to napsal opravdu on, ale podezírali ho. Branžovský se potom ještě nějak angažoval v Národním sjednocení [Politická strana Národní sjednocení (NS) byla založená v roce 1934 a řídí se krédem: „Cizí nechceme, svoje nedáme.“ – pozn. red.]. Tehdy, koncem třicátých let, to byl asi první antisemitský projev, který se ovšem netýkal mne, nýbrž mého otce, celé naší rodiny. Za války to už byla situace jiná, i po  Mnichově už to bylo jiné, už jsme viděli, že se k něčemu schyluje, že zábor Sudet 7 není legrace, i když jako děti jsme to chápaly jen povrchně, o nějakém antisemitismu ale můžu mluvit jen z projevů oficiálních, mezi dětmi absolutně nic takového nebylo.

• Za války

Byt ve Veletržní třídě jsme měli ještě pod vlastním jménem, ale dlouho jsme tam nebyli, strýc Jindřich Petrovský nás přemluvil, abychom se nastěhovali do „jeho“ domu v dnešní ulici Obránců míru. Jenomže odtud nás za několik měsíců Němci vyhodili.

Němci totiž tehdy chodili a vyhlíželi si židovské byty, no a byt, který se jim líbil, zabrali. Tak si vzpomínám, že jednoho dne k nám přišla nějaká Němka v kožichu, začala si ho prohlížet a říkala ja, schön, schön, schön, to bylo znamení, že se jí líbí, a tak jsme jej museli opustit a přestěhovat se na Staré Město, kam byli soustřeďováni židé z Prahy, kteří postupně museli opouštět své vlastní byty.

Bydleli jsme ve společném bytě s dalšími dvěma rodinami. Ale protože naše kuchařka byla křesťanka, tak si na své jméno pronajala dvoupokojový byt v Masné ulici, a my vlastně s ní žili tam. Do Kozí ulice na Staré město jsme chodili jen přespat. Celý dům v Masné věděl, že je tam židovská rodina, ale nikdo nás neudal. Asi to byla zvláštnost, nebo ne zrovna zvláštnost, určitě to nebylo běžné, ale bylo to tak.

Protože protižidovská opatření 2 přibývala a my, děti, jsme si třeba už nemohly chodit hrát na normální hřiště, stal se naším hřištěm starý židovský hřbitov. Byl otevřený, byly tu lavičky, staří lidé tam seděli a děti se honily mezi náhrobky.

Hrály jsme nejrůznější hry, navazovaly jsme první kontakty s druhým pohlavím, tehdy nám bylo třináct let. Já jsem se vlastně začal zajímat o děvčata už dřív, ale bylo to takové čisté a naprosto nevinné, byla to určitá koedukace, určité nové poznání. Navazovaly se i první takzvané lásky, které netrvaly dlouho, maximálně několik měsíců, do jara až léta čtyřicet dva (1942).

Dokud jsme ještě mohli, snažili jsme se někam jezdit. V létě čtyřicátého roku jsme se dozvěděli, že někde v Jablonném nad Orlicí přijímal jeden pán židovské děti a mládež, ale i  křesťanské děti a mládež, na letní byt. Byl to majitel jedné staré továrny, kterou k tomuto účelu poskytl. Samozřejmě, že to bylo tajné, protože tehdy už židé nesměli chodit na žádné společné tábory, ale on si to ještě dovolil a díky němu jsme strávili hezké dva měsíce v  družné společnosti ostatních mladých lidí.

Chodili jsme na procházky, hráli jsme nějaké hry, myslím, že jsme pořád ještě o válce nic moc nevěděli.Válka byla daleko, bombardování nebylo, jídlo se dostávalo sice na lístky, ale hlad jsme neměli. Zpočátku se mi stýskalo, bylo to poprvé, co jsem byl na tak dlouho od matky pryč, ale za dva, za tři dny jsem si zvyknul a pak se mi tam moc líbilo. No tak to bylo to Jablonné, moje poslední prázdniny.

Opatření proti židům se víc a víc stupňovala. Nejdřív jsme nesměli chodit do restaurací, do divadla, do biografu, byla omezena doba nákupu, nemohli jsme vlastnit rádia, telefony, zabavovaly se šperky, nesmělo se po osmé hodině chodit ven, nesmělo se chodit na náměstí, do parku, k Vltavě, nesmělo se kupovat různé zboží… To už jsem samozřejmě cítil…

V létě čtyřicátého roku mě vyloučili ze školy 8, potom už jsem se pohyboval jenom mezi židovskými chlapci a děvčaty. Vzniklo takové ghetto, které nám nedovolilo proniknout ven, nikdo se s námi už moc nechtěl a ani nesměl stýkat. Když k nám chodili nějací křesťané na návštěvu, tak to bylo tajné. Oni nechtěli riskovat a my je zase nechtěli ohrožovat.

Když jsme nemohli navštěvovat veřejné školy s nežidovskými dětmi, začala se organizovat výuka po domácnostech, teda pokud ještě židé nějakou domácnost vůbec měli. Židovští učitelé nás učili soukromě určité předměty. Ve skupině nás bylo asi osm, deset dětí, chlapců a děvčat dohromady.

Nepamatuji se, že bychom se předtím znali, prostě jsme se seznámili a byli jsme kamarádi. Asi půl, tři čtvrtě roku jsme chodili do takových kroužků, pak začaly ve dvaačtyřicátém roce odcházet transporty a tak se uvolnila židovská škola v Jáchymově ulici, to je tam, co dnes sídlí Terezínská iniciativa 9. Asi dva měsíce na jaře čtyřicet dva jsem pak chodil do této židovské školy. Učilo se normálně to, co jsme se měli v tom věku učit. Až tady jsem začal chodit na židovské náboženství.

Dokud byla možnost, jezdili jsme na kole, měli jsme takovou skupinu asi deseti mladých židovských lidí a jezdili jsme třeba na výlet do Roztok nebo na Zbraslav, do Štěchovic. Mládež se snažila nějak využívat volného času a trávit ho společně. Ale bylo to  jenom dokud se nenosily hvězdy 10, pak už bylo zle.

Když se musela začít nosit hvězda, byl to pro mě opravdu šok. Protože to všechno, ta všechna jiná opatření se mě tak striktně nedotýkala. Já jsem chodil do biografu stejně. Sice tam byl nápis Juden nicht zugänglich [Židům nepřístupný – pozn. red.], ale mě to nevadilo, mne si nikdo nevšiml, tak jsem chodil na představení dál.

Do divadla jsem nechodil, to je pravda. Po osmi večer, když bylo třeba léto a bylo hezky, tak jsem toho taky moc nedbal, pořád ještě jsem chodil s klukama ven. Ale když se začala nosit hvězda 10, tak to jsem si poprvé uvědomil, že jsem něco, co nepatří do společnosti, a to jsem oplakal. Ač to byla hloupost v podstatě, přece jen se mě toto opatření dotklo ze všech nejvíc.

Matka mě tehdy zavedla k zubaři, potřeboval jsem spravit zuby, a řekla mu, jak jsem reagoval na tuhletu událost, to bylo v září čtyřicet jedna. Byl to takový mladý doktor a řekl mi: chlapče, víš, já si myslím, že budeme mít ještě mnohem víc horších a vážnějších důvodů k tomu, abychom plakali, než je tohle to.

Tak jsem se snažil svou hvězdu nějak zakrýt, dát si přes ni třeba tašku nebo tak něco, bylo to pro mě opravdu hrozné s ní chodit. Samozřejmě, že tohle zakrývání bylo trestné, byli udavači, kteří na to dávali pozor. Vycházelo mnoho antisemitských časopisů, které vydávali Češi, jeden z nich se jmenoval Arijský boj.

Psalo se v něm třeba, že žid Winternitz si schovává hvězdu nebo že byla viděna židovka Rudi Roubíčková po osmé hodině venku, jak se baví s bílým židem, bílý žid bylo označení pro filosemity, křesťany, kteří se bavili s židy. Árijský boj byl takový denunciační plátek, který byl velmi nebezpečný, mohl člověku přinést udání, trest, kriminál, dokonce koncentrační tábor.

Hodně si ho chodili kupovat i židé, samozřejmě dokud ještě nenosili hvězdu, i já jsem si ho kupoval, no, měli jsme v tom takovou masochistickou zábavu. My děti jsme si pak podle něj kreslily židovské karikatury, Roosvellta, Roosvellt byl Rosenfeld a to byl žid a Churchill byl taky žid a Stalin byl taky žid, všichni byli židi. Masaryk byl žid samozřejmě. Spíš jsme z toho měli takovou legraci.

Situace se ale víc a víc přiostřovala. Už nebyla ani možnost chodit mimo Prahu, žid nesměl opustit své bydliště. Nesmělo se jezdit vlakem, nesmělo se jezdit v tramvajích nebo třeba jenom v zadních vagónech, později už vůbec ne. Omezení byla pořád horší a horší, ale pořád ještě to byl život, kdy si člověk mohl lehnou do své vlastní postele, najíst se třeba ve slušném prostředí a mít ještě slušné jídlo.

V Terezíně 11 to zase bylo něco úplně jiného. I když ani ten Terezín nebyl to nejhorší. Hrůza má své dimenze. Když mám někde přednášku, tak říkám, že když někdo žil za války v Londýně nebo v New Yorku a představoval si, že je v okupované Praze, zděsil se, jak je možné žít pod takovouhle hitlerovskou diktaturou.

A když někdo žil v Praze, tak zase byl šťastný, že může žít v Praze a dělal všechno možné, aby nemusel do Terezína. A Terezín byla zase další etapa, další dimenze hrůzy. A pochopitelně Terezín, když jsme se dostali do Osvětimi, viděli jsme, že to zase žádná hrůza nebyla, že tam ve vyhlazovacím táboře teprve byla ta hrůza, a pak ještě dál a dál. Hrůza je relativní pojem, může sestupovat do velkých hloubek, do velkých nížin, než dosáhne svého dna, pak už se stupňovat nedá.

Někteří naši známí ještě, když byl čas, emigrovali, ale z rodiny republiku neopustil nikdo. Všichni ti bratři Petrovští tady zůstali, poněvadž zde měli majetek, nemohli si vzít na záda své baráky a své továrny a své statky, řekli si, my to přežijeme. Přece neopustíme svůj nemovitý majetek, který tu máme, svou pilu, sice už nám nepatří, ale musíme nad ní pořád ještě nějak bdít. Karel, který měl tu křesťanskou manželku, nějakým způsobem kolaboroval s Němci nebo možná ona kolaborovala, takže ti byli jaksi chráněni, a proto tady zůstali. Zůstali i ostatní a to až do hořkého konce, kdy už nebylo úniku.

To je taková židovská vlastnost, nikdo si nepředstavoval, že bude nejhůř. My to nějak přežijeme. Nesmíme chodit do kaváren, tak budeme hrát karty doma. Nesmíme chodit do divadla, to přežijeme. Po osmé hodině nesmíme chodit ven, tak nikam nepůjdeme. Pořád to ještě nebylo nebezpečné. Byla to taková salámová taktika to, co dělali Němci. Oni to neřekli najednou, tak si na to lidé zvykali.

To byla taková mentalita, jsme sice utlačovaní, druhořadí, ale pořád ještě to je k životu. Jestliže nám nedovolí nakupovat v obchodech, máme ještě pořád nějaké peníze, tak budeme nakupovat na černém trhu. Jídlo se pořád ještě dalo sehnat, byli tu křesťané, kteří nám pomáhali, pochopitelně, naše kuchařka, ta zase měla své známé, pak tu byli známí ještě z toho domu na nábřeží…

Chodila k nám jedna křesťanka, slečna Jánská. Vždycky jsme se na ni těšili, nejen kvůli zprávám, které nám nosila, ale i kvůli tomu, že na počest její návštěvy paní Kopská pokaždé připravila chlebíčky a vynikající bramborový salát. Bylo to tedy vždy takové příjemné posezení. Slečna Jánská poslouchala rozhlas, měla styky s odbojem, nosila nám tajné časopisy, zejména Boj.

Pokaždé jsme se na ni vrhli a chtěli vědět, co hlásí Londýn, pořád jsme čekali, že bude konec války. V čtyřicátém roce jsme čekali, že to nemůže dlouho vydržet. Velmi jsme věřili takovým těm „zaručeným zprávám jedna paní povídala“, v Terezíně se to nazývalo Latrinengeschichte.

A tak to bylo až do konce války, pořád jsme čekali, že to už dlouho nemůže vydržet. Je to jak říká spisovatel Milan Kundera ve svém románu Žert: optimismus je opium pro lid. Ale to fungovalo naprosto přesně, představte si, že by židům řekli, že to bude trvat šest let a že půjdou kamsi na východ do vyhlazovacích táborů. To by mnozí spáchali sebevraždu. Sebevražd i tak bylo v té době hodně.

V květnu čtyřicet dva byl spáchán atentát na Heydricha 12. Bylo vyhlášeno stanné právo 13, ale my jsme to pořád ještě brali na lehkou váhu. Matka tenkrát odešla spát do Kozí ulice, kde ale bylo těsno, bylo to tam zahmyzené, byla tam špína, tolik lidí nemohlo dodržovat žádnou hygienu, a proto jsme my dva hoši zůstali i tuto noc, po vyhlášení stanného práva, v bytě v Masné ulici.

Hitlerovci ovšem dělali prohlídky po všech domech, jestli tam není někdo neohlášený, pročesávali Prahu, hledali atentátníky. Dovedete si představit, co by se stalo, kdyby tam přišli? Všichni bychom byli mrtví, kompletně by nás jako ilegální a nedovolené obyvatele zastřelili.

Matka tenkrát s námi nebyla, a samozřejmě se od známých dozvěděla, co se v noci děje, že chodí esesácké a policejní hlídky, tak nemohla dospat. Nemohla ani jít v noci ven, protože bylo stanné právo 13. Tak až v šest hodin ráno celá vyděšená přiběhla, jestli jsme v pořádku. My jsme o ničem nevěděli a naštěstí jsme v pořádku byli, sem německé kontroly nepřišly. To jsou takové náhody… náhoda byla, že jsme se zachránili. A náhody hrály v mém dalším životě velikou roli.

Z našeho příbuzenstva byli nejprve deportováni strýcové Jindřich a Jiří Petrovští s rodinou, se všemi dětmi šli ještě v jedenačtyřicátém roce do Lodže 14. Má rodina, matka, bratr a já, šla do Terezína sedmadvacátého července čtyřicet dva. Sbalili jsme si kufry a s nimi jsme byli shromažďováni na takzvaném novém výstavišti, kde se jinak o veletrzích předváděly traktory nebo něco takového. Teď se tu shromažďovali židé před transportem. Zůstali jsme tu asi tři dny, bylo to dost tristní, spali jsme jenom na nějakých rohožkách a pak, ráno, nás odvedli na nádraží do Buben, odkud jsme odjeli ještě normálními osobními vagóny pod dozorem četníků ne do Terezína, ale do Bohušovic, protože tehdy ještě nebyla vlečka do ghetta. Náš transport se jmenoval AAu a jelo v něm asi tisíc lidí, zachránilo se necelých osm procent. Z Bohušovic jsme museli jít asi tři kilometry pěšky i se zavazadly, které nám ovšem záhy sebrali a my se s nimi už nesetkali. Ocitl jsem se v Terezíně.

Všechny svazky se zde vytvářely znovu.  Lidé bydleli v různých kasárnách, v jiných domech, v jiných ubytovnách, bylo nutno utvořit nové kontakty. Strýc Jindřich Brod z Pardubic, který se tam dostal přibližně ve stejné době jako my, tam dělal kuchaře.

Dokonce nám, když měl možnost, vždycky dal jakýsi přídavek k jídlu. Matka bydlela v Hamburských kasárnách, já jsem bydlel ve škole L417 a bratr bydlel v jiném domově pro chlapce. Matka i přesto, že v životě nikdy nebyla zaměstnaná, tak se na místní prostředí velmi dobře adaptovala, byla to velmi statečná žena, která netrpěla nějakým zoufalstvím, naopak nám dodávala jakousi jistotu. Dělala v Terezíně ošetřovatelku pro mentálně a fyzicky postižené děti a chovala se dobře. Téměř každé poledne jsme za ní chodili.

Dopoledne jsme mívali vyučování. A o čem se vykládalo? Většinou se vykládalo o jídle, je to zajímavé, že v koncentračních táborech se vykládá vždycky o jídle. Tam se ve fantaziích vaří, vyměňují se recepty, mluví se o tom, až nás osvobodí, co si prvně uděláme k obědu.

Samozřejmě, že jsme se učili matematiku, učili jsme se dějepis, náboženství, pochopitelně. V poledne bylo volno, šli jsme tedy za matkou, odpoledne možná byla nějaká ta menší pracovní povinnost, starali jsme se o zahrádku, nebo jsme hráli fotbal, četlo se a podobně.

Taky jsme někdy šli na nějaké to představení, na Brundibára nebo na něco jiného. I my jsme pod taktovkou vychovatelů nacvičovali různý vlastní program, přidala se k nám děvčata a společně jsme dávali dohromady nějaké recitační pořady, divadla, koncerty, hráli různé hry…

Život v Terezíně nebyl pro děti taková katastrofa. Samozřejmě jsme věděli, že jsme ohraničení hradbami, že to je určitá nesvoboda, ale jako bezprostřední hrůzu jsme to nevnímali. Ty menší děti třeba ano, no, každý to zažil jinak, každý ma jiné zážitky. Jak říkám, pro mě Terezín taková hrůza nebyl.

Taky to snad bylo dáno i tím, že nám bylo třináct, čtrnáct let a že jsme začínali žít jako mladí lidé, začínali jsme poznávat lásky, tvořili jsme si představy o tom, jaké to bude, až budeme moci zase žít jako normální lidé, bylo to jaro našeho života. Pokud jsme nebyli naprosto zničení jako v Osvětimi nebo v dalších táborech, pokud jsme byli zdraví a silní, jakžtakž najezení, opravdu jakžtakž, mysleli jsme i na věci příjemné.

Hlavní vychovatel v našem chlapeckém domově se jmenoval Otta Klein. Byl to takový mladý chlapec, kterému bylo něco přes dvacet. Vlastně všichni vychovatelé byli mladí lidé ve věku asi osmnáct až pětadvacet let. A pochopitelně každý z nich měl vlastní představy, jak své oddělení v domově vést.

Například na jedničce Eisinger, ten byl starší, komunista, vedl tuto třídu levicově. Vydávali časopis Vedem, který byl levicový. Naopak Franta Mayer na sedmičce byl sionista, a tak děti byly vedeny sionisticky. Náš vychovatel, Arno Ehrlich, byl český žid, který nás vedl v takovém pseudoskautském duchu, měli jsme různé zásady, lovili jsme po vzoru Foglara bobříky, učili jsme se morseovku a tak dále.

Náš časopis se myslím jmenoval Bobřík, ale bohužel se nedochoval. Nevím proč, nakonec celá řada chlapců zůstala v Terezíně a mohli ho zachránit, každopádně se tak nestalo. Pamatuji si, že jsem pro něj kreslil nějaké obálky, každý časopis byl pod nějakým heslem. Jedno heslo například bylo pomáhej bližnímu, skaut pomáhá bližnímu.

A tak jsem jako symbol nakreslil, jak si dva lidé podávají ruce. Obálka byla symbolická, měla uvozovat smysl celého čísla. Arno Ehrlich byl díky své bezprostřednosti a svým způsobům chování mezi chlapci velmi vážený a oblíbený. Také šel do Osvětimi, ale zachránil se. Nyní se jmenuje Arna Erban a žije v Americe.

Pátek večer byl erev šabat. Každý domov musel nastoupit a Otta Klein chodil a kontroloval, jestli je všude čisto, jestli jsou čisté boty, jestli nejsou v esšálku nějaké zbytky jídla… Tohle všechno se bodovalo, a když někdo měl nepořádek, tak byly všem strženy body. Dotyčný se následně stal předmětem opovržení, protože zkazil hodnocení celému domovu.

Ony totiž domovy mezi sebou soutěžily o to, kdo bude mít za měsíc nejlepší známky. Víte, vychovatelé se pořád snažili nějakým způsobem nás oddělit od toho všedního života ghetta, od všední hrůzy toho vězení, snažili se nám dát v mezích možností jakési normální podmínky života.

Soutěžili jsme ve fotbale, každý domov měl své vlastní fotbalové družstvo. Hrálo se  na jakémsi hřišti, zbudovaném na „šancích“ na hradbách. Samozřejmě, že i dospělí hráli fotbal na dvoře kasáren a byla to vždycky veliká událost. Kolem se shromáždilo několik set, snad tisíc lidí a fandili jednotlivým družstvům.

I jiné věci nám pomáhaly odpoutat se od vězeňské reality. Uvedení Prodané nevěsty byl obrovský zážitek, sice to bylo koncertní představení, bez krojů, ale účinkovali ohromní pěvci, němečtí pěvci se naučili svůj part česky a zpívali to takovým ohromným stylem, že se pak říkalo, že toto představení by obstálo i na prknech Národního divadla.

Hrálo se v tělocvičně školy a ten dojem z toho, když se zpívalo dobrá věc se podařila, věrná láska zvítězila… to všichni plakali dojetím. Byla to obrovská duchovní pomoc.

Dostávali jsme balíčky, které nám posílala někdejší naše kuchařka paní Kopská, a to zase byla ohromná pomoc fyzická. Nebyla to tak jednoduchá věc, pošty balíčky čím dál tím míň přijímaly a třeba pokud za přepážkou seděl nějaký antisemitský úředník, tak se díval skrz prsty ve stylu co vy, křesťané, máte co židům posílat balíčky? Další věc byla taky potraviny sehnat, což vůbec nebylo jednoduché, protože se potraviny přidělovaly na lístky. Bylo to drahé. Kde na to Ančí vzala peníze, to nevím, snad jí tady matka nechala nějakou hotovost.

Dokonce se jí podařilo poslat nám balíčky i do Auschwitzu, když zde asi dvakrát ta možnost byla. Byly adresovány do Arbeitslager bei Neuberun, nikdo nevěděl, kde to je. Tak asi jeden nebo dva balíčky od ní jsme dosatali dokonce i v Osvětimi. Pak to přestalo. Balíky bývaly asi pětikilové, tří až pětikilové. Posílal se samozřejmě chleba, nějaká mouku, krupice… prostě základní potraviny.

Možná taky nějaký tvrdý salám, byla to obrovská pomoc. V Terezíně ještě nebyl tak strašný hlad, jako byl později v Osvětimi, alespoň ne pro nás, pro děti, protože my jsme například dostávaly balíčky, které chodily ostatním vězňům, ale byly už nedoručitelné, protože dotyční buď zemřeli nebo odjeli na Východ. Židovská samospráva pak dávala tyto balíčky k dispozici hlavně dětem.

Zcela jiná byla situace starých lidí, kteří v Terezíně umírali hrozivým způsobem. Přes třicet tisíc lidí zde zemřelo, většinou šlo o staré lidi a to hlavně z Německa. Mladí němečtí židé byli ze svých domovů posláni na Východ hned, staří lidé byli posláni do „lázní“.

Bylo jim totiž řečeno, že si můžou koupit pobyt v lázních Terezín, zaplatí-li si ho, dají hitlerovcům svůj byt, všechen svůj majetek prodají a výměnou za to se odstěhují do terezínských lázní, kde budou mít ubytování s výhledem na jezero, na park. Oni potom do Terezína přijeli a viděli, v jakých podmínkách tu mají žít.

V domech, které byly napěchovány od sklepa až po půdu, za naprosto zoufalé hygieny. Pokud záchody vůbec byly, tak byly suché, voda tekla vždycky jen chvilku, hmyz tam byl, špína, nemoci… A tak ti, kteří přijeli z ještě jakéhosi civilizovaného prostředí do takovýchto otřesných podmínek, velmi často umírali. Ti se zde měli nejhůř.

My děti jsme je samozřejmě potkávaly. Ne že bychom chodily za nimi do jejich domů, to bylo něco tak odporného, že jsme se štítily, a také to bylo nebezpečné, byly tu štěnice, blechy, no hrozné to bylo, hrozné podmínky. Tito lidé nedostávali žádný přídavek, balíčky z Německa jim už neměl kdo posílat, a tak stáli u výdejen jídla a žebrali o polévku.

My děti jsme polévku nejedly, poněvadž to nebyla polévka, to byla nějaká teplá voda vyvařená z nějakých brambor nebo z čeho, tak jsme jim ji dávaly, zas až takový hlad jsme neměly. Taky si vzpomínám, že vybírali shnilé brambory… žili prostě v zoufalství, ale to byl paradox Terezína. Paradox Terezína byl, že na jedné straně umírali lidé hladem, zoufalstvím, špínou,  nemocemi, beznadějí, ale na druhé straně se hrál fotbal, byly koncerty, zpívaly se opery, Brundibár, Prodaná nevěsta a tak dále.

V Terezíně se zpívalo, v Terezíně se umíralo. A to je třeba dát dohromady. Například přednášky. Byly tu desítky a desítky přednášek. To víte, že ti esesáci na to nedbali, esesáci si řekli: hlavně že nepřipravujete nějaké povstání, že dodržujete pořádek, který jsme vám přikázali. Židovská samospráva na to měla dbát, no a pokud se nebude dít nějaká nepravost, tak si dělejte, co chcete. Možná, že ne. Spíše to bylo trpěné, než aby to někdo povoloval. Ale pořádaly se ohromné přednášky. Historické přednášky, filosofické přednášky, právnické přednášky, hudební věda, židovské dějiny… Já říkám, Terezín byl v tomto ohledu nejsvobodnější město v celém protektorátu nebo v celé říši. Protože nemohlo být pomyšlení, že by to, co se zde pořádalo, ať už to byly přednášky, jinotajné skeče, divadelní představení, že by to někdy bylo uvedeno v protektorátu. Takže v tomto duchovním ohledu to bylo nejsvobodnější místo. Další paradox.

Nezapomeňte, že židé, kteří se tu sešli, byli vlastně elita z celé Evropy, ať už šlo o německé, rakouské nebo české židy, o malíře, spisovatele, hudebníky, lékaře, vědce… prostě to byla intelektuální elita která, když měla možnost, tak se tu projevovala. A zase je třeba tohle dát do správných dimenzí. Samozřejmě, že Terezín byl jednak místo, kde se umíralo, to byl jeden z jeho cílů, ale také to bylo místo, kde se čekalo na další transport. Pro mladé lidi nebyl život v Terezíně to nejhroznější. Oni se během doby dokázali adaptovat na zdejší poměry, dokázali si trošku získat styky v kuchyni nebo s četníky, chodili na práci do zahrad mimo ghetto, takže si přinášeli nějakou zeleninu, dostávali balíčky…

Čím déle vězeň žije v nějakých podmínkách, a to se netýká jenom Terezína, to je v každé věznici, tím lépe si dovede opatřit styky, dovede se zorientovat, kde je možno získat jaké výhody, který dozorce je sympatičtější, s kterým se dá mluvit, který pomůže nebo jak se dá něco propašovat. Lidé to dokázali, a ti, kterým se podařilo udržet se v Terezíně až do podzimu čtyřiačtyřicet, kdy byly zastaveny transporty na Východ, si zachránili život. Zatímco lidé, kteří se transportům nevyhnuli, z devadesáti devíti procent zemřeli.

V Osvětimi, v Treblince, v Majdankách, v Minsku, nebo kam všude byli posíláni. Největší hrůza Terezína pro mladé lidi bylo očekávání dalších transportů na Východ. V Terezíně se každý snažil transportům vyhnout a bylo to opravdu životní štěstí, když se to někomu podařilo. Kolik lidí přežilo z těch východních transportů? A zejména nepřežily děti. Pokud děti zůstaly v Terezíně, měly šanci přežít. Ale děti, které byly poslány na Východ, prakticky žádnou šanci neměly.

Z Terezína jsme odjížděli prosincovým transportem 1943 do Osvětimi. Dostali jsme předvolání na takových ústřižcích papíru, a tak jsme se dostavili ráno se zbytky našich zavazadel, přijely dobytčí vagóny, naházeli nám do nich nějaká ta zavazadla, asi šedesát, sedmdesát lidí nás nacpali do jednoho vagónu, dovnitř strčili ještě veliký kýbl s čajem a druhý  veliký kýbl jako WC a vagón neprodyšně uzavřeli. To jsem si říkal, to snad ani není možné, jak tady můžeme dýchat, jak tady vůbec můžeme tu cestu přežít? Byl to jeden z těch vůbec nejhorších zážitků. Ten šok, kdy nás z toho přece jen civilizovaného prostředí Terezína vezli najednou jako dobytek… Čaj byl brzo vylitý nebo vypitý a záchod přetékal, protože prostě pro šedesát lidí je jeden kýbl málo. Špína, smrad, samozřejmě už tam bylo několik mrtvol, nedalo se dýchat, hrozná žízeň… Dva dny jsme jeli, dvě noci a den nebo tak nějak, byl to zážitek naprosto nepředstavitelný. Žízeň byla strašná. Za ty dva dny a dvě noci jsme už byli na pokraji šílenství z žízně, a co teprve když sem někteří jeli z Řecka nebo z Kréty sedm nebo dvanáct dní bez vody, to už samozřejmě většina z nich byla mrtvá a ostatní by za trošku čaje dali všechno.

Byli jsme ten prosincový transport, co šel do rodinného tábora a nebyl hned zlikvidován. Druhý podobný šel v květnu čtyřicet čtyři, ten taky nebyl hned zlikvidován. Zatímco první transport, který šel v září a šel taky do rodinného tábora, byl kompletně zničen osmého března 1944. Ještě před svou smrtí museli vězňové napsat pohlednice s antidatováním pětadvacátého března 1944. Na základě nich pak v Terezíně nevěřili, že jsou všichni mrtví. Já si myslím, že tomu nechtěli uvěřit, že to byla taková snaha radši o tom nemluvit, radši nešířit paniku. Podle mého názoru to bylo obrovské morální selhání, v létě čtyřicet čtyři šly do Terezína zprávy ještě z jiných pramenů, takže už tam věděli, že jsou v Osvětimi plynové komory. A oni, vedoucí samosprávy, ty terezínské lidi nechali, dokonce je přemlouvali, aby nastoupili do transportů. Proč neřekli ne, my už transporty organizovat nebudeme? Teď ať si to třeba Němci dělají sami. My dáváme ruce pryč. Židovská rada starších se toho neodvážila. Jaké bylo organizování těch deportačních transportů? Němci třeba o někom řekli, že tento pojede transportem, protože kouřil nebo něco ukradl, ale ostatní měli být vybráni. Dovedete si představit, co se potom dělo? Když byl někdo do transportu zařazen, snažil se takzvaně se vyreklamovat. To znamená, že šel za představiteli do rady straších a řekl: já jsem nepostradatelný, já nechci jít, mě z toho vyřaďte. No ale na jeho místo musel přijít někdo jiný. Chápete to hamletovské dilema? To byl boj o život. Jeden se zachránil, ale druhý byl poslán na smrt. Ve třiačtyřicátém roce mohli říct, že neví, co se tam děje, že si myslí, že jde o pracovní transporty a tak je vypravovali. Ještě o Osvětimi, o Treblince nic nevěděli,  sice si mysleli, že tam není nic dobrého, ale nevěděli ani o ničem vyloženě strašlivém. Jistota nebyla, bylo jenom tušení. Ale v době, kdy už židovská rada věděla, co se tam děje, a přesto dál transporty vypravovala, to už pokládám za selhání. Aspoň měli říct tak my už ne. S námi už nepočítejte. My už to organizovat nebudeme. A to šlo o dny. Osmadvacátého října 1944 byl vypraven poslední transport a za několik dní byl konec, hitlerovci vyhodili plynové komory do povětří. Kdo se do toho transportu nedostal, ten si zachránil život. Já nemám právo soudit, samozřejmě, protože vím, že ty podmínky… ale víte, když někdo vezme nějakou funkci, tak to není jenom výsada. Když příjme někdo nějakou funkci, tak musí vědět, že v okamžiku, když nastane nějaká krize, nějaké strašné dilema, tak musí být připraven nasadit svůj život. A to se netýká jenom tohoto případu. No tak co by se stalo? Možná, že by se něco stalo, já nevím, třeba by zavedli nějaký jiný režim, ale byla by to aspoň akce nějakého odporu.

V Auschwitzu nás vyložili, ještě nebyla vlečka do Birkenau. Byla tam strašná zima, byl mrazivý prosincový den, kolem psi a štěkot a esesáci a vězňové v těch pruhovaných šatech, předtím jsme neviděli vězně v pruhovaných šatech, v Terezíně jsme chodili normálně v civilních oděvu, žádné vězeňské šaty tam nebyly. I vlasy jsme měli normálně, jenom hvězdu jsme nosili. Všichni byli v Terezíně slušně oblečení. Teď jsme viděli ty pruhované postavy. Naložili nás na nákladní vozy a vezli nás, z Osvětimi to je asi tři kilometry. Ještě v Terezíně nám staří vězňové říkali: když uvidíte ostnaté dráty nabité elektřinou a u nich budou tabulky s výstražnými nápisy, že je tam vysoké napětí, tak jste v koncentračním táboře. A tohle přesně jsme z  vozu viděli. Tak jsem si řekl, koncentrační tábor, to byl prostě pojem. Nikdo samozřejmě přesně nevěděl, co to znamená, ale ty pověsti a chýry, co se zde děje, už jenom toto vzbuzovalo hrůzu. O vyhlazovacích táborech jsme nevěděli, ale nám stačil jenom ten koncentrační tábor. Teď jsem říkal, tak teď jsem z toho relativně civilizovaného prostředí Terezína najednou v koncentračním táboře. Hodili nás na nějaké pryčny, naštěstí neudělali selekci, odvedli nás do sprchy, kde nás svlékli, oholili, vytetovali čísla a dali nám nějaké vězeňské hadry, už byly vydezinfikované a byly hrozné, ještě dřeváky a vypadali jsme jak strašidla. Postupem doby se nám podařilo vyměnit tyto hadry za nějaké lepší. Ten první dojem byl tak strašlivý, ta hrůza těch baráků, asi to byly dřív stáje snad pro koně, a v nich teď bylo nacpáno šest set nebo sedm set lidí. K tomu samozřejmě surovost funkcionářů, esesáků… Prostě celý šok z  příjezdu do Osvětimi byl hrozný. Víte, to jsou ty různé dimenze hrůzy.  Teď jsme se opět dostali do nižšího stupně, do vyšší kategorie hrůzy.

Naštěstí jsem se dostal do dětského bloku, který vedl Fredy Hirsch 15, tak to zase byla jistá úleva. Přes den jsme v dětském bloku mohli být a tak se nějakým způsobem oddělit od toho hrozného života venku, nemuseli jsme se pořád dívat na esesáky a na celou hrůzu toho ostnatého tábora. Byla to ohromná vymoženost, kterou si Fredy Hirsch vymohl. On byl neobyčejně charismatický člověk, který dokonce i Němcům imponoval. Měl takové vojenské chování, takže ho tak nějak respektovali a díky tomu dětský blok vznikl. Byly zde děti do čtrnácti nebo do patnácti let, myslím, že jsem si tehdy nějaký ten rok ubral, abych se sem dostal. Měli jsme tu vychovatele, který se nás snažil nějak zabavit, malé děti si hrály nebo zpívaly, ty starší zase měly jakési vyučování, pomáhalo nám to alespoň na chvíli zapomenout na mučivý hlad. Chodili za námi zajímaví lidé, například jednou přišel mezi nás jeden bývalý novinář, který se zúčastnil olympiády v Berlíně ve třicátém šestém roce, a ten nám vyprávěl o tom, jaká tam byla atmosféra, jak Hitler měl pocit, že musí zvítězit árijská rasa, ale když zvítězil černoch Jesse Owens, porazil Němce a získal čtyři zlaté medaile, Hitler byl vztekem bez sebe. A my jsme se radovali, že ten černoch zvítězil nad Hitlerem, a tak jsme byli zase naplněni vírou, že i my jednou nad Hitlerem zvítězíme. A všem se to nepodařilo, ale přece aspoň některým.

Když se v táboře prováděly apely, to znamená, že jednou nebo dvakrát denně museli vězni nastoupit do pětistupů a esesáci chodili a sčítali je, dělo se to venku, za každého počasí. My děti jsme zase měly tu výhodu, že jsme mohly sčítání provádět na našem bloku, v poměrném teple. No tak nebylo tam žádné horko, ale nebyl tam mráz, protože se dokonce jakýmsi způsobem topilo. Fredy Hirsch také například zařídil, že malé děti dostanou lepší stravu, že dostanou třeba hustší polévku. Ale jaký to mělo smysl, proč ty děti krmili šest měsíců a pak je poslali všechny do plynu, to nevím.

Chodil tam hitlerovský šéflékař Dr. Josef Mengele, byl to takový pán, který byl vždycky v perfektní uniformě, vždycky měl bílé rukavičky, opravdu vypadal důstojně a k dětem se choval velmi vlídně, jako strýček. Prostě nikdo by nevěřil, že to je vrah. Tohle všechno byl samozřejmě velký podvod, přetvářka.

Vězni z rodinného tábora měli v ústřední kartotéce poznámku Sonderbehandlung nach 6 Monaten. Zvláštní zacházení po šesti měsících, což byla kryptomluva, zvláštní zacházení znamenalo smrt v plynových komorách po šesti měsících. My jsme to tam měli také. Nadešel osudový červen 1944. Jenomže situace se změnila, byla invaze, fronta se blížila, Německo potřebovalo pracovní síly, tak si hitlerovci zřejmě uvědomili, že by to bylo plýtvání lidskými silami, kdyby dál likvidovali zdravé lidi. A proto vybrali několik tisíc zdravých mužů a žen a poslali je do pracovních táborů. Z těchto lidí někteří přežili. Vybrali také mého bratra, ten ovšem nepřežil, zahynul patrně na jaře čtyřicet pět, buďto kvůli nemoci nebo při pochodech smrti. Moje matka byla už v Terezíně operována na rakovinu, měla odebráno jedno ňadro, a tedy nemohla projít selekcí, takže si ji tam nechali. Já jsem zůstal také, protože jsem byl práce neschopný čtrnáctiletý kluk.

Jednoho horkého letního dne, někteří chlapci říkají, že to bylo ve čtvrtek šestého července 1944, já si datum nepamatuji, je to možné, přišel Mengele do tábora a jeden chlapec se odvážil k němu přiblížit a řekl mu, že jsme tady ještě jedna skupina chlapců, kteří jsou schopni pracovat. Nejsou ještě vysláblí a nemocní, sice jim není ještě šestnáct, ale jsou ochotni pracovat. Pan Mengele byl zjevně v dobré náladě a byl tak slušný, že toho chlapce na místě nezastřelil, a že opravdu v dětském bloku, který už byl prázdný, uspořádal selekci. Pamatuji si, že stál napravo a my jsme před ním nazí, šaty a boty v rukou, defilovali. On pak ukazoval, jestli můžeme přežít, nebo nemůžeme. Asi devadesáti chlapcům ukázal na správnou stranu, písař si pak zapsal jejich čísla, já měl to štěstí, že jsem byl mezi nimi. Poslal nás do vedlejšího tábora, to byla naše záchrana. Záchrana sice ne všech, ale z těchto devadesáti chlapců přežila skoro polovina. To byl takový zázrak, náhoda. Desátého července se opakovala hromadná vražda, která byla snad ještě větší než ta březnová, asi sedm tisíc lidí z terezínského rodinného tábora bylo ve dvou nocích zavražděno. Ženy s dětmi, staří, nemocní lidé, prostě všichni zahynuli v plynových komorách. To byl konec rodinného tábora. Byla to i smrt mojí matky.

Potom jsme přišli do mužského tábora. Protože nikde jinde nebylo místo, byli jsme přiděleni do bloku, který byl určen pro trestní komando, pro vězně, kteří se něčím provinili a tak byli zařazeni do zvláště těžkého pracovního oddílu. My jsme ovšem povinnosti Strafkommanda nepodléhali. Náš blok byl uzavřený, měl vlastní dvůr, který byl ohraničen zdí, a na druhé straně toho dvora sídlilo Sonderkommando, vězni, kteří pracovali v krematoriích a v plynových komorách. Od těchto lidí jsme se dozvěděli, co se s rodinným táborem stalo. Samozřejmě jsme to tušili, ale až oni nám to potvrdili. Řekli nám, jak konkrétně se to provedlo, jeden vězeň nám ukazoval krabici plnou zlatých zubů. Asi je propašoval a pak se je snažil vyměnit za jídlo nebo za cigarety nebo za něco takového.

Každou chvilku hučely sirény, to znamenalo, že utekl nějaký vězeň. Spousta lidí se pokoušela utéct. Hned jak se to zjistilo, dráty se nabily elektřinou, ony totiž dráty nebyly nabity pořád, ale jen v případě nějaké krize, třeba když šly transporty do plynu. Teď ale byla vyhlášena pohotovost, do drátů bylo zavedeno vysoké napětí a většinou byli ti, co se snažili utéct, chyceni. Strašným způsobem je vedli zpět, k tomu jim hrála muzika něco posměšného, nějaký marš, potom jim dali do rukou nápis, jak jsou strašně rádi, že jsou zase zpět, přivedli je do našeho bloku na dvůr, strašlivým způsobem je zmlátili a za několik dní, když se jakžtakž uzdravili a nezemřeli hned při tom bití, je pověsili. Šibenice stála uprostřed tábora a celý tábor se musel jít na tu popravu podívat. No a samozřejmě jsme byli také svědky toho, jak byli lidé mučeni na dvoře našeho bloku.

Po čase jsme se zase tak nějak rozkoukali. Poprvé jsme dostali možnost jezdit mimo oblast přísně střeženého tábora. Měli jsme takový žebřiňák, vozík, asi osm chlapců nás ho táhlo a jezdili jsme třeba pro dřevo do krematoria. Bylo tam naskládáno na dvoře a nám funkcionáři řekli, ať ho dovezeme, že je třeba topit, vařit… Cestou jsme míjeli vlečku, kolem níž byly naházeny věci, které tam zůstaly po nějakém transportu. Třeba když přijeli maďarští židé, ležela tam spousta věcí, protože je ještě nestačili uklidit. Našli jsme tam třeba bochníky chleba, kusy salámu, košile, boty, marmeládu… to všechno byl obrovský majetek. Tak jsme to naložili pod to dřevo a propašovali do tábora, tím jsme si pomohli a nějak vylepšili svůj život. Taky třeba když někdo pracoval v kuchyni při loupání brambor, mohl si zavázat nohavici, do toho nasypat brambory, propašovat to ven a tímto způsobem si nějak pomoci, byla to dobrá možnost. Časem jsme se dokázali v táboře nějak orientovat, viděli jsme, kde je možno nějaké takové věci získat, takže cesta z  tábora vždycky přinesla nějaký užitek.

Zde jsem prožil tři měsíce, pak ale jednou na začátku října jsem byl v kuchyni, loupal jsem brambory a najednou někdo zavolal, že se vybírají chlapci pro další transport někam jinam, mimo Osvětim. Zjistil jsem, že to jsou moji kamarádi, tak jsem vyběhl, vpletl jsem se mezi ně a zase nějaký esesák nám ukazoval doprava, doleva. Mně ukázal na jinou stranu než většině chlapců, ale já najednou, v jakémsi momentálním nápadu, jsem za jeho zády přeběhl, aniž by on to zpozoroval, do té větší skupiny. Tak možná, že to bylo lepší, možná, že to nebylo lepší, ale každopádně jsem naživu, tak jsem si asi zachránil život. Naši skupinu dvaceti nebo třiceti chlapců odvezli do tábora Gross Rosen ve Slezsku, a tam už to byla naprostá katastrofa. Zase další dimenze hrůzy. Už byl podzim, zima, my měli jen letní šaty. Nikde nebyla žádná možnost získat něco navíc, chodit si pro nějaké balíčky, pro nějaké zbytky potravin, zůstala už jen práce. Otrocká práce v lese na pile, v mrazu, o hladu, zaplavily nás tisíce vší. V Osvětimi byly vši ještě jaksi pod kontrolou. Udržovala se jakási čistota, když se nějaká veš našla, šlo se do desinfekce. Němci se totiž strašně báli flektyfu, který vši přenášejí. Ale tady… to bylo něco katastrofálního. To si nedovedete představit, co to je, být neustále zavšivený, vši se rodí geometrickou řadou, nedají se vyhubit, prostě zabijete jednu a za chvilku se jich na tom místě zase objeví deset. Spíte pod pokrývkou, která se hýbá. A když třeba staří lidé se nedovedou bránit… no tak prostě to byla jedna velká katastrofa.

Zima na přelomu let čtyřicet čtyři, čtyřicet pět byla navíc velmi tuhá, my jsme byli v horách, buď v Orlických nebo Adršpašských, bylo to někde blízko Broumova na druhé straně hor. Káceli jsme stromy, což byla těžká práce, ale nejhorší ze všeho byla ta ukrutná zima, ten neustálý mráz a ten neustálý hlad, celá ta beznaděj. Jídlo bylo nuzné, člověk si nemohl už ani nijak přilepšit. Na polích nic nebylo, hledali jsme zmrzlé žaludy, ale nic se nedalo najít, byla zima. Jak jsme v Terezíně opovrhovali těmi německými židy, tak i já jsem tu vybíral shnilé brambory, pokud jsem se k nim dostal. To už jsme se opravdu stávali muselmany. Lidmi, co už mají jenom kosti potažené kůží. Já jsem pak onemocněl, dostal jsem se na revír, to byla pro mě jistá záchrana. Jídlo sice dál nebylo nijaké, ale bylo tam jakžtakž teplo, byl jsem v posteli a nemusel jsem do toho hrozného mrazu a do té hrozné práce. Bylo to jisté vysvobození. Po několika dnech na konci ledna čtyřicet pět mě odvezli ještě zase do jiného tábora, takže jsem kontakt s ostatními chlapci ztratil. Z těch třiceti chlapců jsme bohužel přežili jenom dva. Z těch, co zůstali v  Osvětimi, jich přežilo asi čtyřicet. Taky se dostali do jiných táborů, ale měli celkem slušnější podmínky, možná, kdybych nepřeběhl, přežil bych lepším způsobem… no nevím. Z těch devadesáti přežilo čtyřicet a tady z těch dvaceti nebo třiceti jsme přežili jenom dva. Já a ještě jeden holandský chlapec. O nikom jiném nevím. Ten Holanďan už zemřel, jmenoval se Durlacher, takže z této skupiny už žiji jenom já.

Pak jsem se dostal do jedné továrny, spíš odkladiště nemocných, kteří už prakticky na žádnou práci nechodili a čekali jen na smrt. Byli tu staří lidé, nemocní, dovedete si představit, jaké hygienické poměry zde panovaly, co tam bylo vší a samozřejmě hlad. Těch pár měsíců do konce války, to už byl boj o život. Už jsem opravdu počítal, jestli dřív umřu já nebo jestli dřív skončí válka. Šlo o týdny, o dny, o hodiny. Nacházel jsem se v strategicky nevýznamném Kladsku, které armády směřující na Berlín a do protektorátu nejdříve obešly, a sem přišel až druhý sled. Němci před nimi utekli, osmého května večer bylo prázdno a devátého května se objevili Rusové a Poláci. Konec války.

• Po válce

Z posledních sil jsem vylezl ven, přespal jsem někde ve stáji mezi koňmi a ráno jsem se plazil po silnici, než mě uviděl nějaký Rus. Pamatuji si, že to byl takový ten typický Ivan, měl vousy a když viděl, že sbírám odpadky, vzal mě za ruku a dovedl do blízkého německého statku. Celá rodina musela nastoupit, on jim řekl, ať mu dají nějaká vajíčka a poručil, že o mě mají pečovat. Ta rodina na mě koukala jako na bytost z Marsu. Nikdy nic takového neviděli, byl jsem na smrt nemocný, svlékli mě, dali mě do vany, já jim řekl, ať moje šaty spálí, jsou plné vší… a pak vodili ostatní Němce, své známé, aby se na mě podívali. Asi vůbec nevěděli, že tam někde o půl kilometru dál je koncentrační tábor, kde umírají lidé. Dali mě do čistého pokoje a pak je nenapadlo nic chytřejšího, než mi uvařit jakousi silnou polévku, hovězí nebo slepičí, což pro mě, vysláblého, byla samozřejmě katastrofa, následně jsem dostal průjem. Tehdy jsem měl flektyfus, tuberkulózu a nevím, co ještě… a tak, když viděli, že mě sami nijak nepomůžou, že se můj stav nelepší, odvezli mě do nějaké nemocnice, jakéhosi polského lazaretu. Ležel jsem v něm několik týdnů, překonal jsem flektyfus a pak mě propustili. Vydal jsem se na cestu do Prahy, částečně pěšky, částečně na nějakých náklaďácích nebo nákladních vlacích, až jsem se dostal na české hranice do pohraniční stanice Mezilesí Lichkov. Seděl jsem na zastávce a čekal, až přijede vlak na Prahu. Pak jsem do něj nastoupil a řekl jsem si, no tak co, jedu do Prahy.

Prahou jsem se potácel, nezapomněl jsem, kde bydlím, tak jsem šel tam. Jen jsem doufal, že dům nebude zničený, protože jsem se doslechl, že se v Praze bojovalo. Naštěstí dům stál, naše sousedka, paní Bondyová, mě vzala k sobě do bytu, protože paní Kopská nebyla doma. Pak přišla i paní Kopská, šel jsem k ní a vyprávěl jí celý svůj příběh, a hlavně jsem jedl. To mi zachránilo život. Doktor mi řekl, že vůbec nedoufal, že přežiji, natolik vážný byl můj stav, ale já měl tak silnou touhu žít, že jsem svůj fyzický stav překonal. Přibíral jsem na váze, na posezení jsem klidně snědl celou bábovku, jídlo bylo mou jedinou radostí. A pak být v čisté posteli a mít jakési pohodlí. Následující měsíce jsem strávil v různých nemocnicích a sanatoriích, prakticky po dva roky jsem byl vyřazen ze života. Můj stav se nedal tak snadno překonat. Tak taková byla pro mne poválečná doba.

Co se týče mé rodiny, byl jsem tedy jediný, kdo válku přežil, matka i bratr zahynuli. Z příbuzných dále zahynuli strýc Jindřich Brod a teta Berta z Pardubic v Osvětimi, strýc Jiří Petrovský s manželkou Annou a synem Ivoškem nejspíše v Lodži, dcera strýce Jiřího Věra, kterou měl z prvního manželství s tou Italkou, nebyla deportována, zemřela po válce na leukémii. Dále v Osvětimi zemřela ve čtyřiačtyřicátém roce matčina sestra Štefa Picková, jejich bratr Jindřich byl také v Osvětimi, ale zemřel až po jejím osvobození v březnu čtyřicátého pátého roku. Je zázrak, že i jeho manželka, teta Růženka, i jejich dvě děti válku přežili. Matčin bratr Karel nebyl nikam deportován.

Po válce jsem s paní Kopskou bydlel v bytě v Masné ulici, ze kterého jsme odcházeli do transportu. Ještě dlouho jsem nemohl chodit do školy a ani nemohl být zaměstnán, až začátkem osmačtyřicátého roku jsem nastoupil místo jakéhosi úředníka v podniku, který se tehdy jmenoval Gramofonové závody, kde jsem pracoval asi dva roky. Mezitím se ke mně dostala nabídka, že lidé, kteří by chtěli studovat a zúčastnit se aktivně života společnosti, se mohou přihlásit, a pokud nemají maturitu, tak že si ji musí dodělat. Několik měsíců jsem pak chodil do jakéhosi kurzu, po jehož konci jsem udělal zkoušku, nahrazující maturitu, následně jsem se mohl přihlásit na vysokou školu. V semestru padesát, padesát jedna jsem nastoupil do Školy politických a hospodářských věd, což byla spíš taková škola, která měla pro hospodářský a politický život vychovávat funkcionáře. Po čase byla ale zrušena a její studenti byli převedeni na Filosoficko-historickou fakultu Univerzity Karlovy, kde si mohli vybrat pro další studium různé obory, filosofii, historii nebo nějakou politicko-diplomatickou dráhu. Já jsem si vybral historii a dokončil jsem ji v pětapadesátém roce. Po absolvování dostal každý student umístěnku, jakousi listinu, nárok na zaměstnání buď v ústavu, nebo v nějakém podniku. Já jsem se ucházel o místo ve Vojenském historickém ústavu, kam jsem v pětapadesátém roce s dalšími asi pěti spolužáky nastoupil.

Byli jsme velmi chudí. Hned po válce byla měnová reforma, kdy se všechny peníze převedly na takzvané vázané vklady, tudíž všechny protektorátní úspory přestaly platit. Matka tu nechala nějaké šperky, které paní Kopská zachránila, a já si třeba za jeden zlatý řetízek koupil v Darexu oblek. Darex byl předchůdce Tuzexu [vybraný obchod se zahraničním zbožím, které se v komunistických zemích nedalo běžně koupit – pozn. red.], kde se daly za zlato koupit věci, které se jinak v obchodě nedostaly.

Jak jsem říkal, strýci Karlovi se osud ostatních židů vyhnul, zůstal v Praze. Po válce to byl vlastně jediný můj příbuzný, který mi mohl pomoct. Měli krásný dům na Vinohradech a já jsem k němu vlastně chodil žebrat, třeba když jsem potřeboval nějaké peníze na školu. Sice mi nějakou tu korunu dal, ale spíš tak, aby to jeho manželka neviděla. Bylo to tak ponižující! Proto jsem byl v podstatě rád, když jeho rodina po osmačtyřicátém roce emigrovala do Brazílie. Kontakt jsme spolu dále neudržovali, strýc už zemřel.

Doba po čtyřicátém osmém roce, kdy se ujal vlády komunistický režim, byla dobou nejtvrdších perzekucí a celé té politicky vypjaté atmosféry, kdy vlastně každý mohl být potenciální nepřítel a všichni mohli být zatčeni. Já jsem ale byl stranou toho všeho, žádné politické činnosti jsem se nezúčastnil. Byl jsem student, kterého zajímalo studium, takže jsem se prakticky do žádných veřejných funkcí a do žádné politiky nemíchal, šlo to mimo mne. Neměl jsem takovou studijní průpravu, jako měli třeba ostatní chlapci, kteří prošli všech sedm tříd gymnázia, proto pro mne bylo náročné studium zvládat. Takže mou hlavní starostí bylo zvládnout učení. Zvládnout zkoušky a postoupit do dalších ročníků. Proto se musím přiznat, že politické události šly mimo mou pozornost. Mimo mou hlavní pozornost.

Ještě před Únorem 16 jsem vstoupil do komunistické strany, protože jsem měl takovou představu, že proti jednomu extrému, který představoval hitlerovský režim, je možno bojovat pouze druhým extrémem, a že demokracie jako politický systém zklamala, nedokázala se bránit. A tedy jediný skutečně silný protivník a garant toho, že se nebude opakovat hitlerovská vláda a hitlerovský režim, je režim komunistický. Toto, idealistické důvody, mě vedly k tomu, že jsem v lednu čtyřicet osm do strany vstoupil. I když není možno to chápat jednostranně. Svou podstatou jsem nebyl komunista, byl jsem vychován v demokratickém duchu, pocházel jsem z buržoazní rodiny. Tehdy byl původ každého velmi pečlivě zkoumán a buržoazní původ byl nebezpečný, představoval obrovskou zátěž a velké mínus pro váš profil. Já jsem ale byl sirotek a za války jsem prožil těžkou dobu, proto to v mém případě nehrálo snad až tak velkou roli, nic kladného to ovšem nebylo. Snažil jsem se přijímat komunismus jakožto myšlenku, jakožto ideologii, ale snad právě proto, že jsem byl jiného ražení, potlačoval jsem své pochybnosti a své představy o tom, že přece jenom je ta demokracie něco, čeho bychom si měli vážit. I když sice selhala, má nějaká pozitiva. Tohle všechno bylo dost neuvědomělé, protože co já, sedmnáctiletý kluk, jsem věděl o demokracii? Faktem zůstává, že jsem v tomto smyslu nebyl takový ten nadšený, nemyslící a stádní typ, který na schůzích tleskal a provolával slávu Stalinovi a ať žije Sovětský svaz. Nebo se mohl zbláznit nadšením, když šel na první máj v průvodu, případně viděl na schůzi nějakého komunistického představitele, takový jsem opravdu nebyl. Musel jsem v sobě bojovat s tím, čemu se tehdy říkalo rezidua měšťáckého myšlení. Všechny tyto projevy takzvaných přežitků byly velmi ostře sledovány ostatním kolektivem komunistů, kteří byli na škole vedoucími funkcionáři, a velmi pečlivě si zaznamenávali vše, co se neshodovalo s jejich míněním o tom, jak by měl vypadat mladý komunistický budovatel republiky. Když přišel Únor 16, asi tak bych řekl, rozumem jsem ho přijal jako nějaké řešení, ale srdcem určitě jsem nebyl stoprocentně na této straně. To určitě ne. Věděl jsem, že tady končí něco, čeho je škoda. Tady začíná něco neznámého, což jsem rozumem sice chápal, musel jsem totiž studovat spisy Marxe, Stalina a podobných a orientovat se v komunistické ideologii, ale v srdci jsem litoval, že končí éra, kdy byla možnost diskuse, možnost opozice, možnost vyjádřit své názory i jiného druhu než komunistické. Takže jsem nesplynul s davem, vždycky mě dav spíš provokoval k otázkám, které byly nekonformní.

Ovšem samozřejmě jsem si musel dávat pozor, abych se nahlas neprojevoval. Jestliže člověk chtěl být na škole a chtěl dokončit studium, musel být ve svých projevech opatrný. Nesměl dát najevo, že nepatří do kolektivu, že s ním není zajedno. Na škole fungovala velká politická policie. Byli tam lidi, kteří velmi ostře sledovali vaše chování, vše se zapisovalo do kádrových posudků. Každých několik měsíců se konaly takzvané prověrky. Já jsem nikomu neublížil, ale taky jsem sám sobě přirozeně nechtěl ublížit tím, že bych řekl tak tohle to je nesmyl, fráze, nesprávný názor. Samozřejmě, že mě potkala na škole doba Slánského procesu 17, zase to ale šlo mimo mě. Cítil jsem, že je tady něco zlého, že je tu něco, co se nesluší, co je nebezpečné a co je jakýsi symptom neblahého vývoje, ale radši jsem se od toho odvracel. Říkal jsem si, že přece já jako židovský chlapec nemůžu sympatizovat s těmi odsouzenými židy, s těmi sionisty, protože tím pádem by to odium padlo i na mě. Takže jsem se radši stáhl a říkal si, že strana má nějaký důvod to takhle říkat, proto radši o tom nebudu moc přemýšlet. Byla to ovšem chyba, byla to moje hanba, že jsem už tehdy neprohlédl, ale ono to v tom ovzduší, které bylo, nešlo, a nebylo by to dobře, protože kdybych byl prohlédl, tak bych musel být vyloučen nebo musel bych ze školy vystoupit.

V padesátém třetím zemřel Gottwald 18. To byl velký smutek v národě. Samozřejmě na škole byly oficielní projevy a pláč, hlavně děvčata emocionálně štkala nad ztrátou, hroznou ránou, navíc nešlo jenom o Gottwalda, krátce předtím zemřel i Stalin. Všichni se předstihovali v projevech zármutku, nevím už, jestli se nosily i černé pásky, ale smát se byl každopádně zločin. Byla to opravdu doba, kdy člověk musel velmi zřetelně dávat najevo ztrátu, která tento národ a stranu a všechny pokrokové lidi na celém světě postihla. Zajisté, že to byla komedie. Komedie v době hrůzy, kdy člověk věděl, že všude číhá někdo, kdo ho sleduje. Kdo si zapisuje jeho výroky a kdo sleduje jeho chování, řeči, názory. Žili jsme v policejním státu a chodili na policejní školu. Vylučování lidí bylo běžné. Například jeden kolega kdesi vyhrabal Trockého 19 a začal ho číst. Jenže Trockého kniha, to byl zločin. To bylo na upálení. Byla objevena v jeho osobních věcech, a tak byl okamžitě vyloučen. Opravdu hrozná doba. Na druhou stranu jsme byli mladí, bylo mi dvacet, jednadvacet let, doháněl jsem vlastně své mládí. Nejkrásnější léta svého života jsem prožil v lágru  nebo po nemocnicích, takže jsem taky začínal chtít žít pořádný život, mít lásky a tak dále, sice jsem pořád byl hendikepován svým stavem, přesto však člověk chtěl mít nějaké zájmy, snažil se chodit na zábavu, pořádaly se různé kroužky, tancovalo se, zpívalo… Zábava byla různým způsobem omezená, ale přeci jen to jistý únik ze sešněrovaného politického života byl.

Během studia, v dvaapadesátém roce, jsem také potkal svou budoucí ženu. Jmenovala se Libuše Kvasničková, byla o tři roky mladší a pocházela z Moravy. Poznali jsme se na koleji v Opletalově ulici, kam jsem chodil za svými kamarády, abychom pořádali různé takové párty nebo nacvičovali všelijaké veselé divadelní výstupy. Začali jsme spolu chodit a po dvou letech, ještě před dokončením školy, jsme se v čtyřiapadesátém roce vzali.

Libuše byla taková uvědomělá, spíš proletářského původu, i když její otec byl četník, tak jakýpak proletář. Celá rodina se po válce věnovala politice a vstoupila do komunistické strany. Moje žena byla přesvědčená svazačka. Myslím si, že na mě shlížela s jakýmsi odstupem, protože poznala, že já zas tak přesvědčený svazák nejsem, že jsem dokonce ochoten v soukromí vyprávět takzvané reakční vtipy, což byla strašná urážka, nesmělo se to. Pod mým vlivem se však zcivilizovala a velmi brzy se z ní stala normální dívka. Měli jsme studentskou svatbu na Staroměstské radnici, prakticky jsem ani neměl na její zaplacení. Byla opravdu taková studentská, konala se třicátého dubna padesátého čtvrtého roku a druhý den jsme hned šli do průvodu. Tehdy se chodilo do průvodu Prahou, celá škola se podílela. Byla to komedie, měli jsme oslavovat první máj a naši stranu a vládu, naše představitele. Po svatbě jsme bydleli, spolu s paní Kopskou, dál v bytě v Masné ulici. Na podzim se nám narodila dcera Šárka.

Po skončení školy jsem nastoupil ve Vojenském historickém ústavu. Až do padesátého pátého roku byl hlavním nepřítelem věrných komunistů Tito 20. To byl zrádce a všechna obvinění v Slánského procesu 17 spočívala v tom, že jde o titoistickou sionistickou skupinu. Lev Haas, který taky zažil Terezín, se pak naprosto znemožnil tím, že v každém Rudém právu [noviny s levicově orientovanou redakcí – pozn. red.] byl jeho obraz krvavého psa Tita, spolu s dalšími imperialistickými zločinci, jako byli Eisenhower, Churchill, MacArthur. Ovšem Tito jim vždy vévodil a z rukou mu kapala krev. Měl v nich sekeru, kterou chtěl vraždit. Taky za styk s Jugoslávci se vylučovalo ze strany, prostě Jugoslávie a Tito v jejím čele byla náš nepřítel. Pak ale, v padesátém pátém roce, přijel Chruščov 21 do Bělehradu, vystoupil z letadla a na letišti ho čekal Tito. A Chruščov ho oslovil drahý soudruhu Tito. Tak to byl pro mě šok. To jsem si řekl, tohle se mi snad jen zdá. Tak tento krvavý pes, tento agent imperialismu, tento výlupek všeho strašného, zlého a odporného, je najednou drahý soudruh? To jsem si řekl, to je podvod. Teď vím, že jste mě oklamali. Teď vím, že to, co jsem skrýval v srdci a co jsem se bál dát najevo, je pravda, jste zločinci. Ovšem nebylo možné okamžitě přejít od komunistických myšlenek na antikomunismus. V tomto chování a myšlení jsem nebyl sám. Snažili jsme se komunismus nějakým způsobem reorganizovat, reformovat ho. Snažili jsme se nějakým způsobem nabourat ideologii jediné jasnovidné a všeznalé myšlenky, komunistické pravdy, chtěli jsme poukazovat na zločiny, které se děly. To taky nebyla tak jednoduchá věc. V Československu prakticky celá intelektuální fronta humanitního směru, filosofové, historikové, žurnalisté, spisovatelé, kteří byli až dosud komunisté, se snažili komunismus reformovat, snažili jsme se tu nikdy se nemýlící stranu podkopávat. Tato intelektuální fronta byla tak obrovská, že si s ní nikdo nevěděl rady. Funkcionáři a čelní ideologové strany říkali, že jsme placení ze Západu od revanšistů a amerických imperialistů. Že to všechno je nějaká intrika, nějaký podvrh, nějaké spiknutí. Samozřejmě, nikdo nic nedostával, byl to pokus o očistu lidí, kteří si uvědomili, že uvěřili něčemu, co se ukázalo jako podvod, jako něco hrůzného. Proto se to teď snažili nějakým způsobem zlepšit, regenerovat. Přirozeně, byli jsme idealisté, tento režim nešel napravit, tento režim bylo nutno zničit. K tomu jsme se ale dlouho nemohli odhodlat, protože pořád nám byla sympatická myšlenka socialismu jako spravedlivého řádu, který by mohl společnosti prospět. Věřili jsme, že když se vydá správným směrem, chopí se ho správní lidé, dá se nějak napravit. Konkrétně já jsem pořád hledal nějaký model, který by sloučil socialismus s demokracií. Sloučil východní systém se systémem západním, hledal jsem třetí cestu, která samozřejmě byla taky nesmysl, ale prostě jsem se nechtěl vzdát myšlenky socialismus nějak reformovat. Člověk se nepřerodil naráz. Člověk si jenom uvědomil, že komunismus je zločin. Že stalinismus je zločin. Že Sovětský svaz je imperialistický, zločinný stát. Tím přece ale ještě není odepsán socialismus! Pořád to ještě může být myšlenka a praxe, která by se dala uskutečnit a světu by přinesla něco dobrého. V tom byla schizofrenie a problém generace, kterou jsem reprezentoval.

Ve Vojenském historickém ústavu jsem se dostal k problematice československého odboje za druhé světové války na Západě, což ovšem bylo obrovské tabu. Jednak Beneš 22 byl gangster a všichni, kdo bojovali na Západě byli zločinci, většina nebo všichni byli pomahači imperialismu, takže byli po Únoru 16 v kriminálech. Já a ještě jeden kolega, Eduard Čejka, jsme se snažili tuto historii popsat objektivněji. Ne objektivně, to nešlo, ale přece jenom ukázat, že to všichni nebyli reakcionáři, že to naopak byli lidé, kteří bojovali proti hitlerismu, za republiku, že to byli lidé, kteří měli zásluhy. Byl to ale šok pro politické pracovníky v armádě. Málem nás za to upálili. Vydali jsme knížku, když ji dneska člověk čte, řekne, že je hrozná, jinak bohužel napsat nešla. Nejde o to, že tam jsou kraviny, jde o to téma, o to, že je napsána o vojácích na Západě, kteří nebyli imperialisti, kteří bojovali za svobodu. Tato kniha vzbudila ohromný ohlas. Dokonce vyhrála i nějakou cenu v souteži Svazu bojovníků za svobodu, dlouho však cenzura nepovolila její vydání, to se podařilo až v šedesátých letech. Pořádali jsme spoustu přednášek po celé republice, byly plné, chodili na ně bývalí vojáci ze Západu, pokud už byli počátkem šedesátých let propuštěni z kriminálu. Samozřejmě, že to pro ně byla senzace, že se o nich konečně taky začalo mluvit jako o lidech, kteří se zasloužili o osvobozování republiky. Pamatuji si, že na jedné přednášce vystoupil jeden bývalý voják a řekl mi: „Víte, já jsem bojoval za republiku. Ale kdyby teď zase nastala taková situace, že by republiku někdo ohrožoval a můj syn se přihlásil do armády, radši bych mu zlámal nohy, než abych ho nechal jít za ni bojovat.“ To se mi opravdu hluboce vrylo do paměti.

Chruščovova 21 tajná řeč, kterou pronesl v padesátém šestém roce, v té době jsem ještě pořád pracoval v tom vojenském ústavu, se samozřejmě dostala nějakým způsobem na veřejnost. Tak nějak jsme ji znali a ve stranických organizacích se začalo diskutovat o tom, co to stalinismus vlastně byl a jaké zločiny s sebou nesl. Na jedné schůzi jsem neprozřetelně přirovnal metody stranické politiky a policie k metodám gestapa. Což si politrukové [pulitruk, představitel KSČ zodpovědný za věci politickovýchovné – pozn. red.] zapsali. Hned se to pak vyšetřovalo, přišla za mnou tajná policie, snažila se mě dokonce získat, abych s nimi spolupracoval… Chtěli mě vyloučit ze strany, byla to velmi nebezpečná situace. Nakonec mě zbavili možnosti vědecké práce, v ústavu mě dali na podřadné místo, takže tahle doba na přelomu padesátých a šedesátých let byla pro mě velmi těžká. Vlastně jsem byl ostrakizován, dokonce i moji bývalí kolegové, kamarádi, kteří se mnou do ústavu společně nastoupili, se mnou nechtěli mít nic společného… koneckonců to je tak vždycky. Když někdo upadne v nemilost, tak od něj radši dál.

Počátkem šedesátých let doba hrůzy přešla, bylo zase o něco volněji a já dostal nabídku z Československé akademie věd, abych se pod její záštitou zabýval mezinárodní a československou politikou. Přijal jsem, v třiašedesátém roce jsem přešel do ústavu, který se zabýval dějinami východní Evropy. Při studiu československo-sovětských vztahů jsem ale našel věci, které byly velmi nebezpečné a ještě mnohem výbušnější než problematika československých vojáků na Západě. Proto jsem víceméně jenom sbíral materiál, když jsem začal psát knihu, tak mě vyhodili. Knihu jsem pak sice vydal jako samizdat 23, ale vlastně až po osmdesátém devátém roce jsem se opravdu mohl starat o to, aby se dostala na světlo světa. Považuji ji za své životní dílo.

Doba šedesátých let byla hlavně politická, dělal jsem spoustu přednášek, o Benešovi, o vojácích na Západě, o Únoru, o odboji, o situaci za protektorátu, tenkrát se tady tvrdilo, že komunisté byli největšími bojovníky proti hitlerismu, my jsem tuhle tu fámu vyvraceli, protože naopak až do jedenačtyřicátého roku komunisté proti Hitlerovi vůbec nebojovali.  Opozice proti Hitlerovi v této době byla hlavně složena z občanských sil, komunisté se soustředili na poválečné převzetí moci, ne na boj s Hitlerem. To všechno byly samozřejmě novinky. Všichni stáli v úžasu nad tím, když jsme jim to my, historikové, kteří měli přístup do tajných materiálů, říkali. A dovedete si představit, jaký to zase byl šok pro komunistické funkcionáře, když se o tom doslechli? Jak vlastně my, také komunisté, rozvracíme stranický a společenský monolit…

Moje paní také pracovala v Akademii věd, předtím sice byla zaměstnána ve Státním ústředním archivu, ale protože celkem často přicházela do kontaktu s cizinci, zajímala se o ni tajná policie, a jednoho dne jí řekli, že v archivu s tajnými dokumenty pracovat nemůže. Sice ji nezavřeli nebo nevyhodili, ale dali ji na jiné místo, v Encyklopedickém ústavu Akademie věd se potom několik let podílela na tvorbě jednoho naučného slovníku.

O naši dceru se starala paní Kopská, byla pro ni jakoby babička, bába. Vlastně na ni přenesla všechnu svou lásku. Byla to další generace, o kterou se paní Kopská starala. Moje žena byla zaměstnaná, na rozdíl od mojí matky za mého dětství, proto to byla opravdu Ančí, kdo se Šárce v jejím dětství nejvíce věnoval. Tenkrát bylo zvykem děti dávat do školy, Šárka sice nějakou dobu chodila také, ale bába ji vždycky vyzvedla a šla s ní do parku nebo na hřiště.  Vařila jí kašičky, když třeba plakala, já jsem říkal: prosím tě, nech ji brečet. Ale Ančí že ne, že jí nemůže  nechat brečet. Asi měla pravdu, malé dítě vyžaduje pořád nějakou společnost. Tak šla za ní, tišila jí, četla pohádky, uspávala… Určitě měla o Šárku větší strach, než jsme měli my. Když byla nemocná, byla z toho celá vyděšená. My jsme nad nad tím mávli rukou, no tak co, malé děti mívají teploty.  Jak mi říkala vnučka, ještě teď na ni dcera hodně vzpomíná a hodně o ni mluví, vždyť Šárka taky prožila ta nejkrásnější dětská léta právě s ní.

Ančí zemřela v zimě roku 1963. Už několik let před svou smrtí byla nemocná, měla rakovinu. Zemřela v nemocnici na Františků, nebyla to moc dobrá nemocnice. Sice jsme za ní chodili, ale kvalitní lékařskou péči jsme zajistit nemohli. Její smrt jsem určitě  bral jako smrt dalšího člena mé rodiny. Celá rodina jsme se samozřejmě účastnili pohřbu, přijel i tchán. Obřad byl ve Strašnicích a Ančí je pohřbena na hřbitově v Šárce. Má tam urnu. Ve stejném hrobě je pohřben i její syn.

Samozřejmě, že si dnes vyčítám… všechno si vyčítám. Tenkrát mě ještě nezajímaly ty otázky, které bych jí kladl dneska. Copak já tenkrát, to mě začínal zajímat život jiným způsobem, neptal jsem se, co a jak bylo. To mě zajímá až teď. Snad každý člověk nebo alespoň většina z nich má určité výčitky vůči svým rodičům, vychovatelům. Lidem, kteří se zasloužili o jeho dětství. Je to, jak říká ten básník, chce se splácet dluh, ale není  věřitele.

Zejména pro Šárku byla její ztráta velmi těžká, hodně ji oplakala. Nakonec už ale byla velká, tak začala do školy chodit sama, už se starala sama o sebe. Po základní škole  navštěvovala střední uměleckou školu na Vinohradech. Byla a je výrazně výtvarně nadaná.Na dovolenou jsme jezdili tak na tři nebo na čtyři týdny hlavně po Čechách, protože to bylo nejsnadnější, nebo dceru jsme poslali ke známým na venkov, aby nemusela být přes léto v Praze, a pak jsme jezdili za ní. V šedesátých letech se nám podařilo jet asi dvakrát nebo třikrát do Bulharska a Jugoslávie k moři. Jak je známo, šedesátá léta znamenala pro život v Československu určité uvolnění, nebylo třeba až tak obtížné jezdit na Západ na různé vědecké konference, já byl zakládajícím členem Výboru pro dějiny národně osvobozeneckého boje, takže i díky tomu jsem byl do zahraničí na konference zván. Jezdil jsem do Vídně, Berlína, poznal jsem svět, který pro nás byl v té době naprosto nemyslitelný. Zboží všude, ovoce a hlavně elektronika, oděvy, tehdy začínaly džíny, byl problém je sehnat, a když je někdo měl, byla to senzace. Podobné zboží se samozřejmě dalo sehnat v Tuzexu [vybraný obchod se zahraničním zbožím, které se v komunistických zemích nedalo běžně koupit – pozn. red.], ale přeci jenom vidět ty plné výkladní skříně, to bohatství Vídně a Berlína, neony a večerní život… prostě úplně jiný svět. No, dneska je to otrava, dneska mě vůbec Západ neláká, neony mám tady taky, zboží tady mám taky takové, tak co bych tam dělal? Jedině tam jedu za památkami. Ale tehdy bylo hlavním cílem jít do obchodního domu. Mohli jsme nakoupit zboží asi za tisíc, za dva tisíce korun. Samozřejmě, že se ledacos pašovalo, nebo zase naši známí Němci, když přijeli na návštěvu, tak nám také přivezli dary a všelijaké věci, nebylo to až tak neproniknutelné. Ženy si kupovaly hlavně boty, taštičky a podobné věci, to byl u nás zázrak. Jednou se moje žena vracela se svou setrou z Východního Německa, koupily si nějaké boty, které se tady ještě nedostaly, a pak se třásly, aby jim to na hranicích nesebrali. Protože to se taky stávalo, že celníci, když jste si koupili něco, co přesahovalo hodnotu povolené částky, tak vám to zabavili. Na hranicích se dělaly všelijaké kontroly, třeba mě hodiny a hodiny zdržovali, když jsem jel do Německa nebo do Rakouska, byly to nechutné scény.

V srpnu šedesátého osmého roku jsem dostal pozvání na konferenci, která se konala každý rok v rakouských Alpách. Přijal jsem ho, má paní a dcera mě doprovázely do Vídně, pak se vrátily domů a okupace 24 je překvapila tady. Já jsem okupaci zažil v Alpbachu. Pamatuji si, jak jsem viděl v televizi, kterak naše slavná delegace přijela do Moskvy. Moc dobře se mi vybavuje jejich zbabělost. Okupace, to byl zmatek, chaos, na hranicích se nic nekontrolovalo, nikdo nevěděl, co bude. Sice tady byli sověti, ale ještě nezakázali cestování, a tak celá řada lidí po osmašedesátém roce volně odjela pryč, naložili auta a odjeli. Manželka s dcerou se vrátily za mnou do Rakouska, měli jsme na podzim zaplacenou dovolenou v Jugoslávii, tak jsme tam odjeli. Čelní představitelé našeho státu, prezident Svoboda 25, první tajemník ÚV KSČ Dubček 26, a tehdejší předseda Národního shromáždění Smrkovský 27 byli opět doma, to byla taky reprezentace par excellence, no ale říkali, že se situace zase nějak uklidnila, že se máme vrátit. Vrátili jsme se a viděli jsme, co se tady děje.

Začátkem devětašedesátého roku jsem ještě dostal stipendium na rok do Německa. Tenkrát jsem uvažoval o tom, že emigruji. Rodina přijela za mnou, to byla ještě taková krátká doba, kdy normalizace nebyla až tak pevná v kramflecích a mohlo se jakžtakž cestovat. V Německu mi nabízeli místo na univerzitě, takže jsem měl možnost zůstat. Kdybych měl podporu rodiny, tak to snad i udělám. Má rodina ale emigrovat nechtěla, já zase nechtěl žít v Německu sám, proto jsem se, když mi vypršelo stipendium, vrátil do republiky. Potom mě vyloučili ze strany, že prý nejsem hoden, abych byl jejím členem, vyhodili mě i z Akademie [Československá akademie věd], no tak jsem šel čerpat vodu.

Mou paní také vyloučili ze strany a vyhodili z Akademie [Československá akademie věd],  tak šla dělat uklizečku. Čekala ji dlouhá čtrnáctiletá kariéra uklizečky, kterou dělala až do důchodu. I dcera měla různé problémy, myslím, že koncem šedesátých let ještě byla v Pionýru, pak ale už ji nikam nepřijímali, pro dceru vyloučeného člověka nepřipadalo v úvahu, že by se nějak angažovala. Ona ani nechtěla. Myslím, že brzo vzala rozum. I jiné věci se jí děly, především ji taky pronásledovali, jestli měla řidičský průkaz, tak musela dělat přezkušování, moji ženu volali na přezkušování, mě zabavili řidičský průkaz, když chtěla dcera jet na zájezd s nějakou uměleckou třídou do Francie, tak jí to nedovolili… Hlavně se ale nedostala dál na školu.

Každý podnik lidi jako já nezaměstnal. Existovaly specielní podniky, které mohly tyhle ty odpadlíky, tyhle ty zrádce, disidenty zaměstnávat, například jsme mohli čistit okna, pracovat v kotelnách... A pak byl také podnik jmenující se Vodní zdroje, jehož zaměstnanci jezdili v maringotkách po krajích českých a vrtali prameny, čerpali z nich vodu a hodnotili její průtok. Tak to jsem dělal rok. Asi rok jsem jezdil v maringotce, spolu se mnou i kolega historik Jan Křen, Petr Pithart [redaktor, disident, nyní politik – pozn. red.]a mnoho dalších nás bylo v téhle té partě. Jezdit v maringotce pořád, i v zimě, nebyla legrace, proto jsem odešel. Nějakou dobu jsem měl dohodu o práci s jednou firmou, která zprostředkovávala taxislužbu různým podnikům. Třeba si zavolali, že ten a ten chce někam odvézt, tak jsem ho odvezl, vydělával jsem si tím, že jsem počítal najeté kilometry a dobu, kterou jsem s ním jel. Ale bylo to samozřejmě velmi nebezpečné, protože vlastně ani nešlo o zaměstnání. Existovalo potenciální nebezpečí, že mě zavřou jako příživníka, neměl jsem pojištění... Pak jsem se, z jakési známosti, dostal do nemocnice, kde byli slušní lékaři a ti mně poradili, abych si zašel na psychiatrii, že bych mohl mít komplex z koncentračních táborů a být uznán jako invalida. To se podařilo a já v sedmdesátém pátém roce dostal invalidní důchod. Díky tomu jsem mohl zůstat doma a v klidu pracovat. Byla to sice nuzná existence, ale svobodná. Přece jenom to byla určitá ekonomická jistota. Peněz bylo málo, ale taky se málo platilo, takže s tím člověk mohl nějak vyžít.

Někdy na Vánoce sedmdesátého šestého roku za mnou přišel myslím Miloš Hájek, můj kolega historik, také byl členem Výboru pro dějiny národního osvobození, a řekl mi, že se připravuje akce, která není protizákonná, naopak jejím cílem je, aby vláda dodržovala vlastní zákony a nařízení. A s tím jsem bez váhání souhlasil, podepsal jsem a tak jsem se stal jedním z asi sto padesáti prvních signatářů Charty 77 28. Okamžitě se kolem toho strhl pokřik, ačkoliv text Charty skoro nikdo nečetl, protože se nesměla publikovat, vysílala o ní jen Svobodná Evropa 29 a Hlas Ameriky nebo kolovala v samizdatu 23. Lidem to ale nevadilo, hned se stavěli proti zrádcům a rozvratníkům, podepisovali Antichartu. Tak se dělo i v Národním divadle, dodnes je to ostuda české kultury. U mě v bytě se pak konala domovní prohlídka, obraceli mi knihy vzhůru nohama, hledali nějaký kontrarevoluční spis. Podařilo se jim najít rukopis mé knihy. Hned ho dali stranou, zdál se jim podezřelý. Ovšem byli to takoví dosti primitivové, takže já, když jsem viděl, že se obrátili, jsem ho zase vzal a schoval jinam. Kdyby mi ho byli zabavili, byl by s knihou konec, poněvadž jsem ještě neměl kopii. Zabavili nám spoustu hloupostí, například nějakou dětskou tiskárničku, kterou si děti skládají z gumových písmenek. Ti idioti si mysleli, že to je corpus delicti a že s tím vyvíjím ilegální časopiseckou činnost. Pak chtěli ještě prohledat sklep, šel jsem tam s nimi, a řekl jsem si, tak teď vás teda hoši vytrestám. Ve sklepě byla všude vrstva prachu a i jim bylo jasné, že se tu asi žádná kontrarevoluce v dohledné minulosti nekonala, takže chtěli zase odejít. Ale já jsem řekl, to teda ne, vy jste placení za to, že tady provedete dobrou práci, já platím daně, takže to tady prohledat prostě musíte… Vlastně jsem pro ně ani nebyl tak velká ryba, jiní chartisti, třeba ti, co byli mluvčími, na tom byli hůř.

S ostatními chartisty jsme se v podstatě dál scházeli jako přátelé. Takový okruh našich známých, ti, kteří byli ve Výboru pro dějiny národního osvobození, všichni Chartu podepsali. Takže my jsme se dál scházeli ne jako chartisti, ale jako přátelé, kolegové, historikové. A pak taky, další kamarádi k nám chodili mýt okna. Nebylo to drahé, tak jsme si řekli, co bychom to dělali my, když si na to můžeme zavolat firmu, a firma nám vždycky poslala nějakého kamaráda, který u ní pracoval. Tak k nám takto chodili Dientsbier [český novinář, politik, diplomat – pozn. red], kardinál Vlk [český disident, katolický kněz, nyní pražský kardinál – pozn. red.], Dobrovský [český disident, diplomat – pozn. red.], Jaroslav Šedivý a taky Rudolf Battěk.  

Rudolf Battěk je takové enfant terrible sociální demokracie, byl několikrát zatčený a jednou, osmadvacátého října, si pro něj přišli zrovna, když u nás umýval okna. Den předtím se měl nahlásit na policii, to ale neudělal a druhý den byl objednaný u nás. Battěk umýval okna a najednou někdo zazvonil. Prvně přišli dva, když ale odmítl s nimi odejít, prý půjde, až dokončí svou práci, tak si přivedli ještě třetího jako posilu. No byla to situace hrozná, on v okně, křičel, že jestli udělají ještě krok, okno rozbije a skočí. Okno dokonce i rozbil. Moje žena, která je velmi duchapřítomná, taky už byla dosti rozrušená, ale napadlo ji předstírat hysterický záchvat. Praštila sebou na zem, šermovala rukama a řvala, že on skáče z okna, ať odejdou. Tak se lekli, jeden v okně, jedna sebou smýká na zemi, a odešli pryč. To, že k nám chodili policajti do bytu, to byla jejich zvyklost.

Taky jsme byli odposloucháváni. Jednou v sobotu, když byla má žena sama doma, ležela na posteli a slyšela přes zeď jakýsi šramot, škrabání, vrtání a protahování něčeho… Bylo to velmi nápadné, protože jsme sousedili se školou, kde nikdo neměl v sobotu odpoledne co dělat, všude byl klid, sousedé odjeli z Prahy, na ulicích nikdo nebyl. Trvalo to asi půl hodiny a když to skončilo, vykoukla oknem a viděla, že z té školy odchází čtyři muži s aktovkami. Bylo jasné, že nám zabudovali odposlech. Vlastně nám to bylo jedno, politicky jsme mluvili otevřeně, takže si to klidně mohli poslechnout. Po osmdesátém devátém 30 se mi dostal do rukou plánek našeho bytu, který při instalaci odposlechu použili. Nakreslil ho jeden náš dobrý známý, s nímž jsme se často stýkali.

Moje žena pracovala patnáct let v Akademii [Československá akademie věd] a dalších patnáct let u kýblu jako uklizečka, a to na třech různých místech. Taky měla problémy, aby vůbec nějakou práci sehnala, byla odmítnuta asi na devětačtyřiceti místech, než vůbec něco díky nějaké protekci našla. Místo uklizečky nebylo nějak dobře honorované, dostávala asi třetinu svého předchozího platu, ale mělo to tu výhodu, že si práci mohla udělat v podstatě kdykoli a i já jsem jí mohl v práci pomoct nebo za ni zaskočit. Nejdéle pracovala a nejraději vzpomíná na dobu, kdy uklízela v Divadelním ústavu v Celetné, bylo to tam po rekonstrukci, pěkné prostředí, pěkně se tam k ní chovali… Byl tam sál, kde je dnes divadlo Kašpar, a v tom sále vždycky dopoledne zkoušelo Smetanovo kvarteto. Tak s tím se velice spřátelila. Měla celkem čas, v té době začala cvičit jógu, má žena je také vegetariánka. V roce osmdesát sedm šla do důchodu.

Doma jsme každý večer poslouchali Svobodnou Evropu 29, ovšem Svobodná Evropa tady v Praze chytit nešla, takže jsem se naučil polsky a poslouchal ji v polštině. Ta byla nerušená. Pak jsme také poslouchali Hlas Ameriky a trochu BBC. Dcera mi říkala, hele, tati, já potřebuju teď ve škole, abys mi řekl to a to o té situaci, ale prosím tě neříkej mi, jak to říká Svobodná Evropa, řekni to tak, jak to mám říct ve škole já. Dcera dobře věděla co a co, co se může a co se nemůže, ta opravdu prokoukla režim velmi brzy.

Mé dceři nebylo umožněno dostat se na vysokou školu, ačkoliv měla nejlepší známky, nejlepší doporučení, udělala nejlepší přijímací zkoušky, ale Brodová prostě byla na indexu, tak ji automaticky odložili stranou a už je nezajímala. Dělala pak několik let v různých obchodech aranžérku. V osmdesátých letech přijel do Prahy jeden Američan, můj budoucí zeť, Richard Hyland. Předtím pobýval nějaký čas na studiích  v Německu a dostal od jednoho mého známého doporučení, že až bude v Praze, má se stavit u Brodových. Tak se stavil a padli si se Šárkou do oka.

Richard je žid a vlastně až přes něj se Šárka k židovství dostala a začala se o to víc zajímat, my jsme ji k tomu nevychovávali. Až v této době jsem jí řekl o tom, co se se mnou a s mnou rodinou dělo za války. Jinak se o tom doma nemluvilo. Když se mě ptala, co to mám na ruce za číslo, řekl jsem, že to je telefon. Nechtěl jsem o tom nějak mluvit, vlastně celkově ne moc rád mluvím o sobě. Teď jsem se toho snad už částečně zbavil, ale dřív jsem hodně dlouho o tom mluvit nechtěl. Snad jsem se za to styděl. Styděl jsem se, že to byla taková doba ubohosti. Ponížení a ubohosti. Odnesl jsem si z války komplexy, že nejsem plnohodnotný, plnoprávný člověk, že se pořád musím nějak stylizovat do toho, že jsem rovnoprávný občan. Moje vzpomínky a všecko se to nějak tak zapletlo a zkazilo. Šárka tedy moc nenaléhala. Začala naléhat teprve, když byla dospělá.

Nevím, jestli Šárce říkala něco moje paní nebo paní Kopská, děti se o to moc nezajímaly. Myslím, že naše osudy za války tenkrát nikoho nějak moc nazajímaly, zájem o holocaust a o židy je záležitostí  posledních desíti, patnácti let. Za socialismu nebylo moc žádoucí o tom mluvit, židé byli v podstatě sionisty a to byla prodloužená ruka amerického imperialismu, Izrael, židé, to všechno bylo velmi podezřelé. Nedávno jsem se sešel se svými bývalými kolegy z Vojenského historického ústavu a ti říkali, že vůbec nevěděli, že jsem něco takového zažil. A to se mnou pracovali několik let. Bylo známo, že jsem žid, ale buď je to nezajímalo nebo se styděli na něco se zeptat. Stud byl oboustranný. Já jsme se styděl za to, že jsem byl takový chudák, oni se styděli za to, že prožili válku v klidu a v bezpečí. Asi, snad, nevím.

Když tedy Šárka potkala svého židovského muže, začala se o můj osud zajímat. Požádala mě, abych sepsal vzpomínky, tak jsem udělal. Nevím, jak to na ni zapůsobilo, Šárka je v tomto ohledu intorvert a nedává své city najevo. Jestli se potom o holocaust zajímala víc, hlouběji, to nemůžu říct. Taky nevím, s kým jiným by se o tom bavila. Z příbuzných se nikdo nevrátil a já jsem též neudržoval styky s nikým, kdo by měl podobný osud.

Prakticky jsem ani židovské kamarády, se kterými bych se o tom mohl bavit, neměl. Byli v cizině a já s nimi mohl znovu navázat kontakt až po revoluci. Tehdy také jsem se začal  stýkat s osvětimskými spoluvězni žijícími u nás. V podstatě jsem předtím vůbec nevěděl, že v Praze ještě nějací další osvětimští zajatci žijí. Sám jsem je nevyhledával, je totiž fakt, že jsem se o tuto problematiku začal hlouběji zabývat až před těmi patnácti lety. Tenkrát vlastně ani žádná literatura k tomuto tématu nebyla. A pokud ano, šlo jen o propagandu. Ale několikrát jsem vedl své známé do Terezína. Návštěva Terezína za komunistů byla fraška. Vůbec se tu o židech nemluvilo, všechny návštěvy jezdily na Malou pevnost a tam si fotografovaly nápis Arbeit macht frei a mysleli, že toto bylo ghetto. V Jugendheimu, kde jsme bydleli, bylo muzeum policie. Jel jsem do Terezína jednou s jedním Američanem, který se holocaustem zabýval. Chtěl vědět, kde bylo v Terezíně vězení. Zjistili jsme, že se nacházelo v nějaké policejní stanici, šli jsme se tam tedy podívat do sklepa, kde byl nějaký policista a vše nám ukazoval. Nevěděl ovšem, že můj společník je Američan. Když to zjistil, zděsil se a zakázal nám fotografovat. Nějaké snímky se nám ale přesto podařilo pořídit. Jednou také přijela má stará příbuzná z Německa a chtěla vidět v Terezíně kasárna, v nichž byla ubytovaná. Vzal jsem jí tam, důstojník, který vyšel z brány, byl nejdřív docela vstřícný, jenže když jsme mu měli dát své průkazy a ona předložila svůj německý, byl konec. Žádná návštěva nebyla, dovnitř nás vůbec nevpustili.

Rodina mého budoucího zeťě se přestěhovala do Ameriky už začátkem dvacátého století, prakticky se jich tedy události druhé světové války nedotkly. Rick se vlastně s holocaustem setkal až na studiích v Evropě. Šárka a Richard se v osmdesátém druhém roce vzali. Měli židovskou svatbu, dcera konvertovala k židovství, nebyla totiž halachická židovka. Mikve [rituální koupel – pozn. red.] byla ve Vltavě, kde se Šárka rituálně očistila, pak ještě musela jít pod sprchu, aby se očistila od té špíny, co jinak ve Vltavě plave. Svatba se konala ve Staronové synagoze a na židovské radnici. Byla to veliká událost, přijely desítky hostů, taky tchán z Ameriky, který to celé financoval. Samozřejmě, že se o to zajímala i policie, ale v osmdesátých letech už byla přeci jenom ta doba mírnější.

Pro Šárku bylo vysvobození, že si Richarda vzala. Od osmdesátých let platilo, že když si dívka vezme cizince, automaticky s ním může vyjet. Nejprve se tedy odstěhovali do Německa, tam nějakou dobu žili a asi po dvou letech se odstěhovali do Ameriky, kde žijí dodnes. Nejprve bydleli ve Washingtonu, Šárka zde vystudovala na Yale design, pak bydleli nějakou dobu v Miami, kde její muž přednášel na univerzitě, Richard je právník a přednáší hodně, teď opět žijí na východním pobřeží ve Filadelfii. Šárka pracuje jako grafik-designer, navrhuje obálky na knihy, výstavy, taky přednáší na univerzitě. Má velké štěstí, že se vlastně věnuje svému koníčku, dělá to, co jí baví.

V osmdesátých letech bylo už snadnější vyjíždět do ciziny, režim už bral ohledy na to, když měl člověk nějaké blízké příbuzné v cizině, tak asi jednou za rok jsme ji měli dovoleno navštívit. Pak už ani nekontrolovali, jak moc se s dcerou v zahraničí potkáváme, prostě jsme získali výjezdní doložku a mohli jsme vyjet. Naposledy takhle jsme byli ještě v létě osmdesátého devátého roku v Západním Berlíně, když jsme potom přejížděli přes hranice, zase se nám to snažili co nejvíc znepříjemnit, udělali nám důkladnou prohlídku a zabavili knihy, které jsme vezli.

Za vlády komunistů se v Československu velmi poničilo životní prostředí. My jsme bydleli v Masné ulici, tedy kousek od Náměstí Republiky, kde prý byl nejhorší vzduch v celé Praze. Na Starém Městě, kde jsme bydleli, prý bylo nedýchatelno. Také moje žena trpěla různými dechovými potížemi, ale mě to nikdy nepřipadlo. Říkají mi, že už nemám žádný cit, žádné dechové a chuťové buňky, tudíž jsem vůči špatnému ovzduší imunní. Opravdu, mně  to nikdy tak zlé nepřipadalo. Bydlení v Masné ulici mělo i výhody, je tu takové náměstíčko a v podstatě to tenkát byla vesnice. Žádné auto tam nepřejelo, lidé seděli venku, večer chodili na debaty… Byla  to opravdu taková oáza klidu. Dneska už tam jsou samé hospody, spousta turistů, normální obchody vymizely. Dnes už to taková idylka není, auta tam také jezdí.
 

Léto osmdesátého devátého roku byla taková vzrušující doba 30. Změny v Polsku 31, v Maďarsku už částečně proběhly, pak na podzim byla ta anabáze Němců, to bylo ještě před tím, než v Německu padla zeď, Němci se snažili prvně přes Maďarsko a pak i přes nás dostat na Západ. To si pamatuji, že jsem šel k  německému velvyslanectví na Malou Stranu a tam byly zástupy Němců, jejich auta stála všude po celém Petříně a po celé Malé Straně. Nechávali je tam, snažili se ze všech sil dostat se na půdu německého velvyslanectví. A pak se už blížil náš Listopad 30. Ještě na počátku roku osmdesát devět se konaly v Praze demonstrace, které se nazývají Palachův týden [Jan Palach (1948-1969): český student, který se 16. ledna roku 1969 na protest proti okupaci Československa vojsky Varšavské smlouvy upálil na pražském Václavském náměstí. Palachův týden - řada protestních demonstrací k 20. výročí upálení Jana Palacha v lednu 1989. Týden protestů vyvrcholil poutí k Palachovu hrobu ve Všetatech. Policisté tvrdě zasahovali proti demonstrantům, tisíce lidí se k cíli ani nedostaly – pozn. red.]. Zasahovala při nich policie, tak jsem zažil, jak na nás vzali vodní děla, zatýkali lidi a mlátili je obušky. Já jsem se nějakým přímým střetům s policií vyhnul, prostě když začali stříkat, tak jsem se vždycky schoval za nějaký roh, aby mě to nesmetlo. Určitě to nebylo moc příjemné dostat v lednu zásah proudem studené vody, takže já jsem byl takovým jakýmsi souputníkem, ale neutrpěl jsem žádnou úhonu. Pak samozřejmě byly ještě demonstrace osmadvacátého října, to už vše spělo k sedmnáctému listopadu.
 

Po roce 1989

Na sedmnáctý listopad svolali studenti nějakou demonstraci na Albertov, šel jsem tam ještě s nějakými přáteli taky. Už to byla taková zvláštní atmosféra, ale nemyslím si, že by se dala charakterizovat jako vysloveně revoluční. Provolávala se třeba nějaká hesla o pravdě, ovšem vysloveně protikomunistické to asi ještě nebylo. Šlo se nahoru na Vyšehrad, myslím, že tam chtěli dát nějaké květiny k Máchovi 32, pak, spontánně, šel průvod zase zpátky dolů, nabyl na síle a dole pod Vyšehradem se rozdvojil. Jedna jeho část šla po nábřeží, ta dorazila potom na Národní třídu, no a druhá část, ve které jsem byl i já, šla Vyšehradskou ulicí, kde nás u Botanické zahrady na tom náměstíčku zastavil kordón policistů. Nebylo žádné násilí, průvod se zastavil a čekal. Nevěděl jsme, že ten průvod má ještě jednu odnož, tak jsem si řekl, co tady budu koukat na ty policajty, nějakou postranní uličkou jsme to obešli, dostali jsme se na Karlovo náměstí a ahoj, jeli jsme domů. Vůbec jsem netušil, že se něco bude dít. Moje žena byla tehdy zrovna někde venku, mimo Prahu, večer jsem si pustil Svobodnou Evropu a teď hlásili, že je masakr na Národní třídě. Uvědomil jsem si, to už není žádná legrace, už jde o vážnou věc. Další den vyhlásili herci Realistického divadla stávku, pak se přidali studenti a celé to nabíralo na síle, začínalo být jasné, že jde o revoluci. Revoluce nemusí být vždycky krvavá, revoluce znamená zásadní společenský převrat. Konec jednoho společenského systému a začátek jiného. Bezesporu v tomto ohledu to revoluce byla. Padla komunistická vláda, konaly se demonstrace na Václavském náměstí... Zpočátku televize události bojkotovala, ale po několika dnech už všem bylo jasné, že je v proudu něco, co nejde potlačit, nedá se zamlčet. Měl jsem známé v Melantrichu, jeho budova dodnes stojí na Václavském náměstí, i když Melantrich samotný už nefunguje. Zde na balkóně bylo středisko Občanského fóra 33, konaly se tu projevy. Já sice nebyl na balkóně, ale bylo mi umožněno dívat se na všechno z jeho okna, takže jsem byl bezprostředně u toho. Bylo to ohromné, všude visely plakáty „Konec vlády jedné strany“, prostě skvělá atmosféra.

Tak jsme se po dlouhé době konečně dočkali změny. Na Letné se konala shromáždění… Sice nějaké obavy jsme měli, že by se to ještě mohlo zvrtnout, ale v podstatě situace se už tak změnila, že Sovětský svaz by si nevzal na triko, aby tady byla nějaká krvavá lázeň, no a naši představitelé byli taky zbabělí, takže lidové milice se vrátily zpět a armáda zůstala v kasárnách. Každý den přinášel něco nového, najednou měla vláda být složena už nejenom z komunistů, pak se ukázalo, že komunistů tam má být víc, tak lidé zase protestovali, prostě pořád se něco dělo… Hodně se mluvilo o tom, že jsme zase poslední. Že to je zase hanba. Už padlo Polsko, padlo Maďarsko, v Německu se zhroutila zeď, jenom Československo zase vypadalo, že bude poslední, kdo se osvobodí.

Samozřejmě jsme si říkali, že ta všeobecná euforie nevydrží dlouho. Že zpočátku budou lidé nadšení, ale po čase, když se ukáže, že žádná revoluce nemůže nikdy splnit všechna očekávání, které do ní vkládají, a že k moci se dostanou nikoliv idealisté, kteří mají plno ideálů, ale žádnou organizaci, nýbrž hoši s ostrými lokty, tak mi bylo jasné, že za pár let budou lidi vzpomínat na komunismus. Poněvadž to tady bylo laciné, lidi nepotřebovali svobodu, na co by jim byla svoboda slova, když mohli sedět v hospodách a pít laciné pivo? Do ciziny se taky člověk, který nebyl poznamenán, jednou za čas na nějakou tu výjezdní doložku dostal, takže lidem prakticky nic nechybělo. Co si nakradli, to měli. Krást se mohlo, poněvadž vláda říkala: my předstíráme, že vás platíme, vy předstíráte, že pracujete. A tak lidi kradli, bylo to naprosto obvyklé, kdo nekradl byl hlupák, a prakticky jim moc nechybělo. Komunismus už nebyl takový krvavý, jako byl v padesátých letech. Husák [president Československé socialistické republiky  pozn. red.] už byl senilní, pak nastoupil ten idiot Jakeš 34, z něho si lidi dělali legraci… tak samozřejmě, policajti byli tvrdí pořád, obušky měli pořád v rukou, ale kdo nešel na demonstraci, tomu se nic nestalo. Tudíž nespokojenost byla skutečně jenom mezi intelektuály a lidmi, kteří byli nějak stigmatizováni. Bylo velké štěstí, že se k demonstrujícím přidali i dělníci z ČKD. Problém tady ovšem byl, že nebylo vládu komu předat. Myslím, že disidenti typu Havel 35,  Vondra [Saša (Alexandr) Vondra, nar. 1961. Geograf, signatář Charty 77. V únoru 1989 odsouzen na dva měsíce ztráty svobody. V době od 2.1.1989 do 6.1.1990 mluvčí Charty 77. Po nástupu o výkonu trestu jej ve funkci mluvčího 52 dnů zastupoval Václav Havel – pozn. red.], Malý [český disident, katolický kněz, biskup – pozn. red.] byli spíše duchovní lidé, kteří o moc nějak zvlášť nestáli. Tak se u nás postupně dostali k moci lidé, kteří sice nějací bojovníci proti komunismu nebyli, ale kteří se vyznali a dokázali se protlačit.

Já jsem se pak mohl vrátit zpět od Ústavu pro dějiny východní Evropy. Sice tam bylo jiné vedení, ale já už nebyl zvyklý na nějakou disciplínu. Chtěl jsem si říkat a dělat to, co chci, nebyl jsem ochotný poslouchat nějaká nařízení a dodržovat nějaké řády, takže jsem se s nimi radši po půl druhém roce rozloučil a šel zpátky do důchodu. Protože nebyly peníze, tak ten ústav stejně zanikl, stal se součástí Historického ústavu Akademie věd. Materiálně jsme s manželkou zajištěni byli, dceru jsme měli venku, takže nám mohla pomoct, taky jsem dostal nějaké odškodnění za pobyt v koncentračním táboře od české vlády a od Němců, což nám koneckonců pomohlo, když jsme si pořizovali tento byt. Dům, ve kterém jsme bydleli v Masné ulici, se předělával, proto jsme se v polovině devadesátých let museli přestěhovat, našli jsme si bydlení v Bubenči. Měli jsme na něm dost práce, když jsme ho kupovali, byt byl ve velmi dezolátním stavu, no ale zútulnili jsme ho a žije se nám tady dobře. Pak jsem také mohl publikovat to, co dříve kolovalo jen v samizdatu, mohl jsem přednášet, publikovat články, za to byly nějaké honoráře, takže to vypadalo, že budeme materiálně zajištěni, nakonec jsme se starali už jen o nás dva.

Když vznikl Izrael, vlastně jsem to ani nijak nereflektoval. Jednak jsem byl v osmačtyřicátém roce pořád ještě nemocný, dožívala má neschopnost zařadit se do společnosti, takže jsem Izrael prakticky začal vnímat teprve v době Slánského procesu 17 a pak hlavně při sedmidenní válce. Tenkrát všichni intelektuálové, včetně komunistických, byli pro Izrael. Každou hodinu jsem poslouchal zprávy Svobodné Evropy nebo BBC, abych věděl, jak vypadá situace na frontě. Byla to hrozná situace, kdyby byl Izrael tehdy nezaútočil, už by neexistoval. To je právě ta otázka preventivní války. Preventivní válka je někdy tak životně nutná, zejména pro Izrael, že se o tom nedá diskutovat. Jakýpak pacifismus? Prostě válka je někdy nutná, morálně ospravedlnitelná, kdežto pacifismus je někdy morálně naprosto shnilý. Pacifismus byl před válkou ve Francii, co by bojovali, když Verdun jim zničil celou mužskou populaci? Kdežto v Německu žádný pacifismus nebyl a jak to dopadlo? To je naprosto jednoznačná věc, celou svou bytostí, celým svým rozumem jsem na straně Izraele. Vím, že to je velmi složitá situace, koneckonců i v rámci Izraele jsou konstruktivní i destruktivní síly. Hlavní ale je, aby Izrael našel partnera, s kterým je možno jednat, který je důvěryhodný. Nesouhlasím s tím, aby Izrael vyměňoval území za mír, to jsem jim tam taky říkal, když jsem Izrael navštívil. Protože uzavřete mír s jedním představitelem, oni ho pak zavraždí, a bude po míru. A nebude ani území, ani mír. To je dobře, že my jsme pro mír, ale i ti ostatní musí být upřímně pro mír, a musí být stabilní, mít vliv, aby ho taky dokázali prosadit. Tak ještě uvidíme, jaký bude tento Mahmúd Abbás [bývalý palestinský premiér a nástupce Jásira Arafata – pozn. red.] . Zdá se, že to myslí upřímně, ale jestli bude mít i tolik vlivu, aby to dokázal prosadit, to nevím. Takže já nikomu radit nebudu nic. To oni musí sami vědět, jestli mohou mír s někým uzavřít, jestli mohou vyklidit Gazu, jestli mohou vyklidit Západní břeh, to všechno musí vědět oni. Ale je to riziko, určitě.

Já jsem byl v Izraeli jednou v devadesátém šestém roce, židovská obec tenkrát pořádala takový zájezd pro lidi, kteří v Izraeli ještě nebyli. Celkem laciný zájezd, zaplatil jsem asi jenom deset tisíc za nějaké ty režijní poplatky, a strávil jsem tam týden. Bydleli jsme v Natánii v hotelu, cestovali jsme po celé zemi. Řeknu vám, Izrael na mě zapůsobil smíšeně. Na jedné straně jsem obdivoval tu obrovskou práci, kterou tam udělali, to zavodňování a péči o krajinu, na druhou stranu jsem byl zklamán špínou, která tam je. Tak samozřejmě, Golanské výšiny na mě udělaly obrovský dojem. Tady jsem si uvědomil, jak jsou strategicky důležité. Jeruzalém jsme navštívili, Jad Vašem jsem viděl, Staré Město, koupali jsme se v Mrtvém moři a skutečně to je moře, kde se nemůžete utopit. Byl to velký zážitek, to musím uznat, ale že bych byl nadšen? Jednak co se týče přírody, pořád je to pro mě taková vyprahlá země. Samozřejmě, nemají tolik vody, aby mohli zavlažit celou zemi, tak tam, kde můžou, tam je to ohromné, ale pořád je tam ještě obrovské množství pouště. A jak říkám, špína, podél dálnice se válejí odpadky… no tak není to země, kde bych chtěl žít, to teda ne. Jednak je tam horko a já mám radši severské kraje než jižní. Izrael jsme navštívili v říjnu a pořád tam bylo kolem třiceti stupňů, je pravda, že to není tak nesnesitelné, jako je Florida, Florida je pro mě absolutně nesnesitelná, ale nedokážu si ani představit, jaké to tam musí být třeba v červnu.

V Izraeli bydlela jeden čas má teta Růženka, manželka Jindřicha Petrovského, a její syn Mario se ženou. Odstěhovali se tam po invazi do Československa v šedesátém osmém 24, to si řekli, že to tady určitě bude zase pro židy zlé, tak se odstěhují. Dcera tety Růženky, má sestřenice Eva, byla vdaná za nějakého doktora, tak ta s nimi nešla. V Izraeli bydleli v Natánii, Mário byl vyučený kuchař, tak se tam dokonce stal šéfkuchařem v nějakém hotelu a nežilo se jim špatně. Kontakt jsme spolu udržovali víceméně formální, jednak co jsem jim vlastně měl psát, nebylo vždycky žádoucí udržovat styky s Izraelem. Měl jsem psát o tom, jak žiji? To nebylo možné, tady byla cenzura, tak jsme psali jen takové nějaké formální věci stylu kde jsme byli na dovolené, opravdu, korespondence byla dosti formální. Když padl v Československu komunistický režim, vrátili se a podařilo se jim restituovat rozsáhlý majetek, který patřil Petrovským. Teta už nežije, zemřela ve velmi vysokém věku, měla přes devadesát let, často jsem ji chodil navštěvovat, když byla tady v Praze v nemocnici. Nežije už ani má sestřenice, no a Mario pendluje se svou rodinou mezi Prahou a Izraelem, protože tam ještě mají byt. Stýkáme se, ale ne nijak často, máme odlišné zájmy, každý žijeme odlišný život.

V současné době se třeba zaměstnávám tím, že přednáším na různých přednáškách. Ne, že bych měl nějaký stabilní úvazek nebo někde své přednášky nutil, ale když prostě někdo chce, tak pro něj tu přednášku udělám. Přednášel jsem takto například pro učitele, kteří se doškolovali, přednáším i na různých školách v Praze i mimo Prahu. Jedinou mou podmínkou je, aby na to lidé, třeba ti žáci, přišli dobrovolně a měli o to zájem. A opravdu se mi nestává, že by se chovali nějak neslušně, nedávali pozor nebo odcházeli dřív. Snažím se vždycky třeba propojit povídání o židovské genocidě s nějakými příběhy, které jsou třeba dramatické, tak asi je to zaujme. Prakticky jsem ta nejmladší generace, která ještě může o válce vykládat ze svých vzpomínek. Možná jsou ještě nějací, kteří se narodili za války, třeba v koncentračním táboře nebo v ghettu, ale ti nejsou schopni o tom vyprávět. Kdežto já si pamatuji na minulost, pamatuji si ty zkušenosti, navíc je mohu obohatit jistými historickými znalostmi, srovnávat osobní zážitky s obecnými poznatky, tak myslím, že je to celkem zajímavé. Ovšem, jakmile my odpadneme, tak pak už budou muset zase to vykládat jenom odborníci. Mívám také přednášky tady na Židovském vzdělávacím centru v Praze, jezdím se studenty do Terezína, kde jim o tom povídám… Jednou se mě někdo z nich zeptal, jestli je to pro mě pořád bolestná záležitost přednášet o holocaustu. Tak jsem řekl, že jsem profesionál, že se přece nemůžu dojímat nad svým osudem při každé přednášce, to bych tu přednášku strašně znehodnotil. To nejde mít při přednášce nějaký hysterický záchvat. Určitá profesionalita vám brání v tom, abyste projevoval své city. Můžete to říkat s určitým zanícením, s určitým prožitkem, ale nemůžete podléhat záchvatům, lomit rukama, to nejde.

Jak jsem už řekl, nedávno mi vyšla kniha, kterou považuji za své celoživotní dílo, týká se vztahu Československa a Sovětského svazu.

Máme vnučku, jmenuje se Rivka, Rebeka, a narodila se před deseti lety. Říká mi, že jsem jakýsi dinosaurus, tedy vlastně člověk z minulého, dvacátého století... Ačkoliv žije v Americe, umí perfektně česky, dokonce i píše velice dobře, za což ji obdivuji, myslím, že mnohé české dítě by to tak nezvládlo. Několikrát do roka jezdí za námi, to se pak vždycky zdrží nějakou dobu, v létě tady bývá na celé prázdniny. Má tu kamarádky, chodíme do divadla, jezdíme na výlety… Teď bude přecházet na jinou školu, tak se těší, že začne nosit školní uniformu.

Rivka je vychovávána v tom, že je židovka. Doma třeba slavívají erev šabat, dřív chodili na jídlo do restaurace, teď už hodně bývají doma. Když k nám jednou přijeli a měla se slavit chanuka, slavili jsme chanuku. Rivka byla zahalená, tak, jak to má být. Rivka říká, že má ráda křesťany, protože mají Vánoce, slavíme i Vánoce. Myslím, že v dceřině domácnosti se židovské zvyky hodně dodržovaly přinejmenším dřív, byli hodně ortodoxní, teď nevím, jak moc ještě. Určitě jí košer, nejí vepřové. Když jsme u nich jednou byli na návštěvě v době, kdy je Pesach, nesměli jsme si žádné pečivo přinést do bytu. Asi dvakrát nebo třikrát jsme je byli navštívit v Americe, teď už tam nechci, východní pobřeží už pro mě není zajímavé, jejich styl života je takový, že jsou pořád zaměstnaní a my tam sedíme a koukáme. Já bych třeba se chtěl podívat na západní pobřeží, do Kalifornie, Grand Kaňonu, Yellowstonského parku, jenomže to nepřichází v úvahu. Philadelphii znám, New York znám, Chicago znám, Washington znám, tak už tam pro mě není nic, co bych potřeboval vědět nebo znát. Takže jsem radši, když oni přijedou sem, tady na ně máme čas.

Rivka ví, co bylo za války a velmi se o to zajímá, samozřejmě. Já se snažím být jí v tom nápomocen, například jsem ji zavedl do Vojenského historického muzea na výstavu o Hendrichovi, hodně jí vyprávím… Chce vědět různé podrobnosti, má ještě takové dětské otázky. Taky třeba už ví to, že bude mít tři děti a jedno z nich se bude jmenovat Hanuš, po mém bratrovi. Toman ne, má prý po mě geny, to jí stačí.

Samozřejmě souhlasím s tím, že Česká republika má být součástí organizací jako je Evropská unie, NATO… Je to jediná cesta, která je možná a taky nutná a dobrá. Jestli se Evropská unie udrží, vše bude v pořádku. Problém je, že Evropská unie není takovou zemí, jako je Amerika, která integrovala všechny přistěhovalce a udělala z nich Američany. Evropan pravděpodobně nebude nikdy Evropanem, kdežto bude Francouzem, Němcem, Angličanem, možná, že za několik generací se to změní, každopádně to je cesta, která bude velmi dlouho trvat. Je velmi složitá, plná úskalí a nedorozumění, ale je třeba ji nastoupit. Takže když se hlasovalo o vstupu do Evropské unie, hlasovali jsme pro, pokud se bude hlasovat o evropské ústavě, budu hlasovat i pro ni.

Jako dítě první republiky jsem byl vychováván k tomu být vlastencem. Teď už se jím necítím. Vlastenectví je pro mě přežitek devatenáctého nebo poloviny dvacátého století. Já se cítím být občanem této země, myslím, že občan je člověk, který si má být vědom svých práv a povinností vůči tomuto státu. Jsem rád, že žiji v této zemi, ale vždycky se zlobím, když mi někdo řekne, že je hrdý na to, že je Čech. To si myslím, že by se měl taky stydět za to, že je Čech. Stačí vzpomenout, co Češi všechno způsobili, jakou mají tradici, že to nejsou jenom ti bájní husité, kteří mimochodem taky byli pěkní gauneři, a tak dále a tak dále. Takže já na to, že jsem Čech, hrdý nejsem, ale mám rád tuhle zemi, mám rád tento jazyk, mám rád tuto kulturu, na druhou stranu znám taky úskalí, které se s touto zemí a s tímto lidem pojí. Vlastenectví nepociťuji žádné, pociťuji zodpovědnost.Takže se snažím chovat jako člověk, který nějak přispívá naší dobré pověsti.

• Glosář:

Ivan Barbul
Kishinev
Moldova
Interviewer: Nathalia Fomina
Date of interview: June 2004

Ivan Barbul is a taller than average, broad-shouldered man who looks young for his age. He has thick gray hair, gentle features and expressive eyes. He has a low voice like that of a professional lecturer. The most dramatic part of our discussion is his story about how his parents, sisters and little brother perished during the Holocaust: he couldn't hold back the tears in his eyes, and his voice was trembling. However hard it was for him, he insisted that he told the story to the end. His wife, Liana Degtiar, stayed beside him during our discussion. She was ready to offer him help at any given moment as Ivan has heart problems. Ivan, his wife and their grown-up son, Boris Barbul, live in a spacious three-bedroom apartment in Ryshkanovka, a green and well-organized district built in the 1960s in Kishinev. The apartment is furnished with plain, but comfortable furniture. They have a big collection of Russian books: fiction, scientific works and volumes on physics and mathematics. All members of the family are involved in science. One can tell that they love each other: they treat each other very gently and have a good sense of humor.

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

My family background

My maternal great-grandfather's name was Abram Shafershuper. My uncle Yoil, my mother's brother, told me that our great-grandfather served in the tsarist army for 25 years, some time in the late 18th or early 19th century. I don't know whether my grandfather served as a cantonist 1, or if he was recruited for active service, when he became of age. When he was demobilized, the tsar granted him a plot of land in Bessarabia 2, in the village of Tsarevka near Rezina. Our family on my mother's side originated from Tsarevka. Uncle Yoil told me that my great-grandfather was an extremely strong man. There were regular contests between the strongest men in the village, and my great-grandfather was unbeatable. These contests must have been very violent, as my great-grandfather was killed during one of them. My grandfather, Moisey Shafershuper, moved to Rezina [Bessarabian province, Orgeyev district. According to the census of 1897 there were 3,652 residents in Rezina, 3,182 of them were Jews]. He owned a plot of land where he grew grapes. My grandfather died before I was born. I think it happened in the 1910s. My brother, born in 1918, was named Moisey after my grandfather.

I knew my grandmother, Etl Shafershuper, well. She was born in Balta [Odessa region, Ukraine], to the family of Alper Neerman. My grandmother was short and sweet like all grandmothers. She always wore a kerchief. I remember that she grew grapes. We, kids, used to go to the vineyard to pick the ripest grapes. Grapes were used to make wine, which my grandmother sold. She also had a cow. She milked it and we would drink fresh milk right from the bucket. My grandmother had a nice big two-storied house on the bank of the Dnestr River. There was always the delicious smell of food and fresh milk in the house. There was a wine cellar in the basement. My grandmother's daughters and their families lived on the first floor, and my grandmother lived on the second floor. My grandmother strictly observed Jewish traditions and so did her daughters. Nobody worked on Sabbath. They lit candles. My grandmother died during the Great Patriotic War 3, in evacuation where she went with one of her children. Grandmother Etl had seven children. I know little about them.

My grandmother's next daughter after my mother was Zlota. She was married and lived with her family in my granny's house. I think she had a son. I remember that he was ill and had some kind of hysteria. He had attacks. I remember visiting them one day, when I wasn't allowed to go into his room: there was an old woman working against an evil eye put on him. I had to wait till she finished her recitals. Aunt Zlota died in evacuation during the Great Patriotic War. I have no details of how it happened.

My mother's brother Yankel died in 1937 and this is all I know about him. I have no information about my mother's sister Anna, either.

My mother's brother Shmil was born in 1903. He was a wealthy man. He owned a bakery. His wife's name was Haya. Their son Semyon was about five years older than me.

All I know about my mother's sister Mariasa is that she was born in 1906 and lived in my grandmother's house before the war.

My mother's younger brother Yoil was born in 1907. He was a flour wholesale trader before Bessarabia was annexed to the Soviet Union [see Annexation of Bessarabia to the Soviet Union] 4. His wife Riva was also born in Rezina, her parents lived in a big stone house in our neighborhood. After the war I found my uncle Yoil in Chernovtsy and he was the one to tell me a lot about the history of my family. During the war, Uncle Yoil shortened his family name from Shafershuper to Shuper. Later Yoil's family moved to New York, USA. My uncle died in 2001. Riva and her son Mikhail live in New York. Riva is 92. She writes us letters in Russian.

My mother, Feiga Rybakova, was the oldest in the family. She was born in Rezina in 1899. She was tall, slender and quiet. I don't know how far my mother went with her education. She could read and speak Yiddish and Russian and she knew Hebrew. I don't know how my parents met. My father came from Rybnitsa, a town on the opposite bank of the Dnestr [left side of the river, the Transnistrian side]. I think they had known each other for a while before they got married.

I know little about my father's parents. His father, Samuel Rybakov, lived in Rybnitsa. In the early 20th century he moved to the USA. My grandfather married twice. He remarried after his first wife died. My grandfather had more children in the USA, but I failed to locate them. I know nothing about his first wife: my father's mother. My father's older brother, Peisach Rybakov, lived in Odessa [today Ukraine] and so did my father's sister Sheiva. Her husband's name was Grisha [affectionate for Grigoriy] Kolker. Their daughter's name was Polina. We didn't have any contact with them before 1940, when Bessarabia belonged to Romania.

My father, Gersh Rybakov, was born in 1894. He finished school in tsarist Russia. He could read and write in Russian, he was an educated person and we had a big collection of books in Russian at home. My father must have finished a yeshivah since he was a teacher at the cheder in Rezina and he knew Hebrew. My uncle Yoil told me that in 1914, when World War I began, my father had moved to Grandfather Samuel's in the USA to avoid service in the Russian army. My mother was his fiancee already. One year later he returned and they got married. They had a traditional wedding under the chuppah. It couldn't have been otherwise at that time. After the wedding my parents settled down in Rezina. I don't know how they lived through the revolution [see Russian Revolution of 1917] 5, but in 1918, when Bessarabia was annexed to Romania [see Annexation of Bessarabia to Romania] 6, they already had three children: Abram, the oldest, was born in 1915, my sister Anyuta was born a year later, and my brother Moisey was born in 1918. My sister Nehoma was born in 1922, Riva in 1924, then came Betia in 1926, and Shmil in 1936. On 12th December 1929 I was born in Rezina; my parents named me Isaac.

Growing up

Rezina was a Jewish town. The majority of its population was Jewish. There were Moldovan villages surrounding the town: Stoknaya, which was less than one kilometer away, Chernoye on the other side of the town, and the Chernaya River. Jews in Rezina were mainly traders and craftsmen: tinsmiths and tailors. There were Jewish doctors. Doctor Grossman lived near where Uncle Yoil lived, in the center, and there was Doctor Rapoport, who moved to Soroki after the Great Patriotic War. There were stores owned by Jews in the center of the town. Jews didn't work on Saturday and Sunday. There was a strong Jewish community in Rezina. Jews strictly observed all traditions. There was a market which was particular crowded on market days. My sisters helped my mother to do the shopping. There was a boulevard in the center, and a small monument either to Carol, the Romanian king [see King Carol I] 7, or to Stephan the Great [Stefan cel Mare, ruler of the Moldova principality (1457-1504)]. There was a big garden owned by landlord Pavlovskiy in the suburb of Rezina on the bank of the Dnestr. He must have been Russian. He only stayed in his mansion here in the summer. Mostovaya Street, where we lived, ran along the Dnestr, and there was Podgornaya Street up the town. In spring, the Dnestr flooded many streets. If you travel to Rezina now you'll see that the town has spread onto the hill.

We lived on the first floor in a two-storied house. We bought this first floor from the owner of the house who lived on the second floor. However, she didn't recognize our ownership. I remember this was some disputable issue for her and there was some tension between us. Aunt Riva's parents lived in a beautiful big two-storied stone house next to ours. We had no garden or even a yard. There was a shed adjoining the house where my parents kept a goat. When the times became hard, the family sold the goat. There were three or four rooms, but only one room had a wooden floor, the rest had cemented floors. The rooms were damp. There was a bigger dining room with a table in the middle of the room, big enough for the family of ten to sit there. Kerosene lamps were used to light the rooms. I also remember a kitchen with a huge Russian stove 8.

We weren't wealthy considering that ours was a big family. My father worked in a cheder and our relatives from the USA supported us. My father gave private lessons at home. The pupils were of different ages, but they studied together. My father made me attend their classes and I remember that all of them were older than me. The community and the boys' parents must have paid my father for his work. I still meet people, who tell me that my father was their teacher in the cheder. He was strict, but I don't remember him beating his pupils. My father was short, and I don't think he had a beard or moustache, though this doesn't match with the image of a religious Jewish man. Neither my sisters nor I have pictures of my father. My father had religious and fiction books in Russian at home.

My mother was a housewife. She was quiet and hardworking, which she had to be, considering that she had so many kids. I remember that she read a lot and even filled in for my father at the cheder, when necessary. I think she knew Hebrew.

Every Friday my mother baked bread a week in advance. She also made cookies and I remember the smell of baking in the house. There were many of us and she had to cook a lot. When we sat at the table, we had to be quick to take our share as it didn't stay long on the table. My mother cooked delicious food: chicken and beef broth with beans, and stuffed fish which she made like cutlets. She also often made chicken broth with homemade noodles. Clear soup with noodles is my favorite dish. My older sisters gave my mother a hand with the cooking. The family got together at the table for breakfast, lunch and dinner. My mother covered the table with a tablecloth and each of us had a place at the table.

When my father came in we sat at the table as if after getting a command, though there were no commands, surely. My father recited the broche: I don't remember whether he did it every day, but surely he did it on Saturday and on holidays. There was always meat on the table on Sabbath. On Friday morning it was my chore to go to the shochet to have him slaughter a chicken. I remember how the shochet took the chicken, slaughtered it and hung it by its tied legs to have the blood drip down. He also had beef for sale: there must have been a kosher slaughterhouse in Rezina. We spoke Yiddish at home. My father prayed in the morning and in the evening. My mother had a seat at the synagogue. On holidays I went to the synagogue with my father. I know only one synagogue in Rezina where we went. My mother sat on the second floor with the other women.

On Rosh Hashanah we went out to listen to the horn [shofar]. I also went to the synagogue with my father on Yom Kippur, when Jews had to fast for a whole day, but I was just a boy and my mother used to give me some food.

On Sukkot we had meals in the attic where the roof could open and we decorated it with tree branches to make a sukkah.

I remember Chanukkah particularly well. It was a merry holiday. We didn't have a chanukkiyah. We cut a potato in half, took out the inside, poured some oil and inserted a wick in it. My mother placed these candles on the window sill so that everybody could see that we celebrated Chanukkah. I remember receiving Chanukkah gelt from my father and my uncles. My uncles didn't have so many children as my parents and they could afford to give us some money. I saved what I got to buy sweets.

On Purim my mother made hamantashen. People dressed up and performed on the streets. Children ran around with rattles. My father took me to the synagogue to listen to Megillat Ester. The boys used to rattle and yell when Haman's name was mentioned.

Pesach was the main holiday, of course. My mother did a general clean up. What a clean up it was! We had many utensils which my mother scorched. Before Pesach my father swept the chametz from the window sills. We had special crockery for Pesach. On seder my father reclined on cushions telling us the history of the exodus of Jews from Egypt. He also hid a piece of matzah under a cushion and one of the children was to find it as a gift. I also remember how we ate potatoes dipping them in salted water. One of my older brothers, Abram or Moisey, asked my father the four traditional questions. We all had a little wine. I had a little wineglass of my own. I used to dip matzah in this wine and eat it. It tasted a little bitter. The older children used to laugh at me.

I was a naughty boy, they told me. I used to hide away to eat non-kosher sausage. Our Moldovan neighbor Fedia had a pig farm and a store where he use to sell pork, cracklings and sausages. I bought a sausage from his store secretly saving the money that I got from the adults. I wasn't the only one to buy a sausage. We kept it a secret from my father, but my mother shut her eyes to it knowing that the sausages and cracklings were good for children. However, we never had pork at the table: God forbid.

I remember well my first visit to Doctor Rapoport. I climbed the hill over our town and decided to check how fast I could run down the hill. At the very bottom my legs were running on their own on the narrow path, I fell and injured my head. I was taken to Doctor Rapoport's house. He had a kerosene lamp with beautifully shaped glass on his desk. It had a special device to fix the width of the wick to regulate the brightness of light. I took so much interest in this lamp that I even forgot the pain. The doctor made me lie down on the couch to stitch the injury, but I twitched from pain, hit the table, the lamp turned over and the glass broke. The doctor had another lamp brought in to finish his job. I still have the scar on my forehead.

My older sister Anyuta moved to Palestine in 1935, or in 1936. She attended training sessions arranged by an organization [see Hakhsharah camps] 9 near Beltsy, where she studied farming. Before moving there she had a marriage of convenience since young girls or boys weren't allowed to move there on their own. Her husband's name was Grisha. In Israel they got divorced. Anyuta went to work and got remarried. Her husband's family name was Rabinovich.

My older brother Abram finished a gymnasium in Rezina. In Bucharest [today Romania] he passed his exams for a Bachelor's degree and became a teacher in a village. Abram was in love with Lusia, a girl from our town. Her father was a wealthy Jewish tobacco dealer. Abram and Lusia wanted to get married, but my father was against their marriage. He said that they belonged to different layers of society. Abram and Lusia couldn't get married without their parents' consent: this was a rule with Jewish families. But when Abram came to Rezina he spent all his time at Lusia's home. My brother Moisey finished a vocational school in Rezina and worked as a mechanic in Bucharest. My sisters Riva, Nehoma and Betia studied at school. In 1936 my younger brother Shmil was born. He was loved very much and was affectionately called Shmilik.

At the age of seven I went to an elementary school. My father wanted me to get a good education, of course. There were Jewish and Moldovan children at school. I had a Moldovan friend. His last name was Borsch. We started the day with 'Our Father...', 'Tatal Nostru...' in Romanian [Lord's Prayer]. All children, including Jews, had to pray. I remember once I misbehaved during the prayer: somebody tugged at me or I pushed someone. I must have been a rather vivid boy. Our teacher of nature, Domnul [Sir in Romanian] Markov, whipped me in front of the class. This was quite a whip, let me tell you. This was a traditional school punishment in those years: they also made us kneel in a corner, on grains, hit us on the hands with a ruler, slapped us on the face or pulled our ears.

During the War

When the Cuzists 10 came to power in Romania, anti-Semitism developed at our school just like everywhere else. A Jew could even be beaten for being a Jew. We heard about pogroms in Iasi, but there were none in Rezina. There were only posters reading 'Only Romanian is spoken here' all around: in official and public places, in stores and in the streets. This was more likely the discrimination against both Jews and Russians since Russian was the main language of communication in the current Bessarabia. [Russian was dominant mainly in the cities: most of the Moldovan countryside was Romanian (Moldovan) speaking.] When the Cuzists came to power, we lived in fear.

In 1940, when Bessarabia was annexed to the Soviet Union, we welcomed the Soviet army as our liberators. I had finished the third grade and I remember the time well. I ran with the other boys to the Dnestr where we watched the Soviet troops crossing the river over the pontoon crossing from the side of Rybnitsa. Later, they restored the bridge on the river which had connected Rybnitsa and Rezina before 1918. Our school switched to the Russian language teaching curriculum. At my age I had no problem switching to Russian, particularly because my parents spoke and read Russian: we had Russian books at home. My brother returned to Rezina and went to work at Gorky vehicle plant in Russia. My sister Nehoma also went to work in Russia. She worked at the weaving mill in Ivanovo [today Russia]. Riva went for the tractor operator courses after finishing her school. After finishing the training course she worked as a tractor operator in the village of Tsarevka, I think.

My mother's brother Shmil and his family and other wealthy families were deported to Siberia. Uncle Shmil died while in exile. His son Semyon got married while in exile and returned to Moldova with his wife and mother. The exile saved them from the fascists. Aunt Haya lived in Kishinev and Semyon and his wife lived in Strasheni. He died of a disease in the 1980s, and Aunt Haya moved to Israel. She has also passed away.

When the Great Patriotic War began in 1941, Abram evacuated to Uzbekistan with Lusia's family. My parents, Riva, Betia, Shmil and I also rushed to evacuate. The bridge across the Dnestr had been destroyed by bombs, and we crossed the river on a boat to get to the railway station in Rybnitsa where we took a train to Razdelnaya station which was 60 kilometers from Odessa. From Razdelnaya [today Ukraine] we moved to Odessa where Uncle Peisach Rybakov, and Aunt Sheiva Kolker lived. When we went to Odessa, there was only Peisach and his family there. Aunt Sheiva, her husband Grisha and daughter Polina had evacuated by then. Sheiva and her family returned home after the war. Sheiva died in Odessa in the 1960s. Her daughter Polina and her family live in Jerusalem.

Uncle Peisach worked as a loader in the dock. When the siege of Odessa began, he went to the fighting battalion 11 with other dockers. His son was engaged in digging trenches. His wife Lidia and his daughter, whose name I don't remember, stayed in the town. Uncle Peisach was wounded and evacuated from Odessa by sea. When he recovered, he went to the front. After the war he returned to Odessa where he remarried. I didn't know his second wife. Uncle Peisach died in the 1950s.

In Odessa we stayed at Uncle Peisach's home and later we moved to Aunt Sheiva's apartment which was vacant. Odessa was surrounded at the time and the only way to evacuate from there was by sea. We were waiting for our turn to obtain a permit to board a boat, but our turn never came: the armed forces had first priority. We stayed in Odessa. After the Soviet troops left, the Romanian troops who had incurred great losses didn't come into the town until after a day's hesitation. I remember this day well. I was eleven. I ran around with other boys. I saw people near a basement of an apartment building and looked inside. There was a church nearby. People were carrying bags with dried bread from the storage facility in the basement and I got one bag. It wasn't heavy and I carried it home. It came in very handy since we didn't have any food stocks after leaving Uncle Peisach's house where his wife shared their food with us. On 16th October the Romanian troops entered Odessa [see Romanian occupation of Odessa] 12. They hung the first orders of the occupational authorities on the walls. The Romanians took my father and other Jewish men to the gendarmerie and he never returned. On 19th October the Romanians issued the order for all Jews to pack their clothes and food, leave their keys with their janitors and walk in the direction of Dalnik [a village 15 km from Odessa] where there were work camps to be formed.

We packed and went outside. There were five of us: my mother, Riva, Betia, Shmilik and I. There were many people on the streets already. We met Lidia and her daughter on the way. The Romanians and policemen were directing people from the streets and when we left the town, it looked like a river of human beings carrying their luggage and children and pushing the elders on carts ahead of them. There was a hollow rumble in the air that muted the yells of guards. When we reached Dalnik, they gathered us at some abandoned spot surrounded with wooden fences and towers with machine guns on them. The area had been lit with floodlights. Our father, who had been taken there from the gendarmerie, met us there. Everybody thought this was the end. People began to say farewell to their dear ones crying and screaming. At dawn the guards lined up all stronger men telling them they were to work at the construction site, but this must not have been very far away as we heard shooting soon after: they were all killed.

We were told to move on. Where were we going? There were masses of people walking, some were dying on the way from diseases or from the shock of those latest days. There were wagons riding aside the column of people: all those who felt like climbing on them were allowed to do so. I also wanted to ride on a wagon and so did Shmilik, but my father told us not to. Those who climbed those wagons never returned. The Romanians probably didn't dare to kill people immediately before everybody's eyes. I remember that once we stayed overnight in an empty cow-farm. It was fall and it was raining and cold. People were stuffed in the building and the smell of manure mixed with the smell of sweat and people's bodies was evident. In the morning we moved on. The colder it got the faster we were forced to march. They probably did it to have more people die a natural death. Many were falling and never got on their feet again. Everybody dropped the luggage they had.

We finally reached Bogdanovka [In Bogdanovka all Jews in the ghetto were shot, by the Romanian gendarmerie, the Ukrainian police, and Sonderkommando R, made up of Volksdeutsche (local ethnic Germans)]. A huge area was fenced with barbed wire and there were pigsties all around. Our family got into one which had sows. There were cells for sows. Aunt Lidia, her daughter and I got into one such cell. We were told we could get some straw from the outside. We brought some straw to put on the floor. We didn't know how long they were going to keep us there. It turned out that we were going to be there for a long time. We didn't get any food. There was a well outside where we were allowed to get water. I made a passage underneath the barbed wire and used to run to a nearby cabbage field where I could dig cabbage stumps out of the frozen ground. I ate them. The others had nothing to eat.

All films about the Holocaust, however horrible the pictures are, reflect the reality only approximately. The reality was much more horrific. This was no ghetto in Bogdanovka. It was beyond comparison. This was an area with no rights or rules, where people were exterminated for no particular reason. Every day wagons hauled out hundreds of dead bodies. The inmates placed their dying relatives in passages between cells so as not to have them die in the cells where they lived. Often these dying people had no clothes on, since their relatives would pull off their clothes to trade them for food products. Villagers from Bogdanovka used to bring food to the barbed fence for the exchange. My mother and some other women found a hole in the fence and used to go to the village to get some food. My mother was ashamed to beg for food and she asked for work to do for food. Occasionally, people asked her to do washing for them and she washed their clothes in the ice-cold Bug River for bread or potatoes. She brought us whatever she could get. My father grew very weak and couldn't get onto his feet again.

There was a senior Jewish man in our pigsty. He had a 'burzhuika' stove [makeshift steel stove] with a stack for the smoke to exhaust through the window. He allowed the inmates to warm up by the stove. One day our pigsty caught fire. I don't think it started from the stove, but whatever the reason might have been, it was burning. The guards told us: 'You may move to another pigsty.' My father didn't want to move, though my older sister Riva and I could help him. I saw him move a hand to my mother gesturing her to take care of the children. When leaving, I saw another old man moving closer to my father. He opened a religious book with a black cover. It must have been a prayer book. My mother took us to another pigsty. When the fire was over and there were only charring stones left, Riva took me to the site: 'You remember this brick? This is where our cell was.'

There were five of us left: my mother, Riva, Betia, Shmilik and I. Aunt Lida and her daughter had passed away. One day a woman told Riva to go to Bogdanovka to bury her mother. My mother went to the village the day before, and while she was doing the washing on the bank of the Bug, a policeman killed her with his rifle butt. Riva was eighteen by now. Somebody told her that the situation was better in Odessa and she decided we had to escape to Odessa. It was winter and there was a lot of snow. Betia could hardly stand on her feet, and Shmilik couldn't move at all. I was more or less all right. We decided that Riva and I should go. When my brother heard that we were leaving, he didn't want to let us go. I lifted him: he was as light as a dove. He couldn't walk and Riva decided that we should go.

I don't know how far away from Bogdanovka we walked, but Riva realized that I couldn't walk any further. We stayed overnight at a farm. I remember the owner: Saveliy Ischenko. Riva asked him to keep me for a few days till she came back for me. If the situation with the Jews was better in Odessa, she would come for me and we would also take Shmilik and Betia with us. She left. A week later Saveliy told me that his neighbors had learned about me and he couldn't keep me in his house any longer. I had to leave. It was January 1942: it was cold and there was snow. Saveliy rode me to Odessa in his sleigh covering me with straw. I knew that Riva was to be in Peisach's apartment and went there. Our neighbor, who was an ethnic German, gave me shelter. It took her quite a while to convince me to go inside: I had lice. My fur collar on my coat was swarming with bugs. She put some straw into a carton box for me to sleep in. I'm grateful she didn't report me to the authorities. She told me that Riva had come to Odessa. It was true that there were about ten days, when Jews weren't persecuted, but it was only a trick that the Romanians played to set a trap for the Jews who had been in hiding. When the Jews came out of their hiding places, the trap closed. I knew these Jews had been taken to Beryozovka and killed.

I had nothing to do in Odessa and started on my way back. I was still hoping to find Riva, who was to go back to Saveliy's house for me. I was hoping we would be able to help Betia and Shmilik. When I reached Saveliy's place, he showed me a grave near his hut: 'Riva ran in to ask about you, when their column was passing by. They killed her in the morning and I buried her here.' I said, 'I have nowhere to go. I will go to where Betia and Shmilik are.' He asked, 'Back to Bogdanovka? There is nobody left there. They were all killed.' I had just turned twelve, and I was alone in the world. So, I returned to Odessa, where I was captured and taken to the ghetto in Slobodka [neighborhood on the outskirts of Odessa].

The ghetto was in the building of a former Navy school. The yard was fenced with barbed wire and there were Romanian guards at the gate. There was a Romanian commandment and a Jewish head man in the ghetto. The tramps like me were taken to the room called the hoarder. I was kept there for seven to ten days, when the Romanians announced they were going to take us to a Jewish colony. The march headed to Beryozovka. I was very well aware what this meant. I escaped from the column. Where was I to go? If they captured me alone they would kill me. It was easier to go back to the ghetto, which I did by climbing over the fence. I was taken back to the hoarder.

Some time later they gathered the inmates to take them to the Jewish colony. Again I was in this group: I escaped again. This happened several times. On the way I talked to the Romanians. Some of them even gave me bread, but I wouldn't say that they were better than the Germans. They were committed to their duty: they never failed to exterminate Jews. Who, but scumbags, would kill people for no reason? When the winter was over and it got a little warmer, I thought that I might live in a field. Can you imagine: alone, in a field, but I wasn't afraid of predators or darkness. People scared me.

The last time I was taken to the hoarder, a boy found me there. He was Yefim Nilva. He said, 'Let's stay together. Let's be friends.' Somebody had told him about me. Yefim wasn't as exhausted as I was. He had been taken to the ghetto from jail. [In October 1941, the Jews of Odessa were imprisoned in Odessa central jail and stayed there till December.] His mother was killed in jail. Yefim boasted he had a German document stating that he was Russian or Ukrainian, I don't remember for sure. He also demonstrated that he wasn't circumcised while I evidently was. I thought he would be the wall that I could hide behind. And I could help him to escape since I was well experienced at this. The next time, we escaped together, but where were we to go? We knew there was a Jewish ghetto in Balta [180 km from Odessa] and we headed there.

We walked at night to avoid any confrontation. During the day we stayed in haylofts. Occasionally, we went to villages to ask for food. Yefim talked with the villagers since I burred and had to keep silent for safety. To identify a Jew, policemen use to order a person to say 'kukuruza' [corn]. Burring was a sign of Jewish origin. We tried to get some work in villages. We made up a story that we were from a children's home: I was Ivan Ischenko and he was Fyodor Nilvin, and since there were no children's home any longer, we needed work to get some food. People probably guessed the truth telling us there was no work. We finally reached Balta, found the ghetto, but when we came to the fence, the inmates told us to get away as fast as we could since the guards were killing the newcomers.

We started on our way back asking for work in villages until finally we found work in the village office of Gandrabury [today Ukraine]. Yefim did the talking. He told them our names: Ivan Ischenko and Fyodor Nilvin. It was a big village with twelve kolkhozes [see Kolkhoz] 13 before the war. I was to go to work in the Voroshilov 14 kolkhoz and Yefim was assigned to the 'Krasny partisan' kolkhoz. They were called communities during the Romanian rule and had numbers: community one, two, three, etc., while people called them 'a former kolkhoz.' I was to be a shepherd and stay in an air brick and clay hut twined with osier at five to six kilometers from the village.

It was an old, but rather stable hut. The clay had fallen off, but the osier still kept the hut from falling apart. There was a sheep shed with 60 to 65 sheep near the hut. I was the shepherd and there were two janitors who took turns to stay in this hut. Once a week villagers brought me food: bread and potatoes which I cooked. Villagers also brought their sheep for me to shepherd and also brought me some food. This was the payment I got for my work. Yefim worked for a farmer and stayed in his house. Yefim's master took less risk considering that Yefim had a certificate stating that he was Russian. During this period, between spring 1942 and fall 1943, Yefim and I only met twice.

In fall 1943 the retreating Germans and Romanians took the sheep with them. I was alone in this hut. Some villagers came by. They must have suspected who I was, but they didn't report me. They also mentioned that there were childless families in the village, who might adopt me. I didn't dare to go to the village, but one day I decided to go to Ivan Illich Barbul, who was a nice person. He lived with his wife Agafia and his or her old mother. They had no children. He registered me by his family name and named me Ivan. His wife Agafia told me to call her mother and her husband, father. It was hard for me, and then Ivan Illich said, 'Just address her as Mistress, and me, Mister.' I didn't get along with the old woman, as she kept grumbling about me. She died at the time when the Germans and Romanians were retreating and the Soviet forces were approaching. In spring 1944 the Soviet troops liberated Gandrabury. I stayed with my adoptive parents. My friend, Yefim Nilva, returned to Odessa where he had relatives. He found his sister, completed school and served in the army. He got married. His wife Bella is Jewish. Their son's name is Alexandr. Yefim and I became lifelong friends. He is closer than a brother to me. We meet on Victory Day 15 every year.

Post-war

After the liberation I went to the sixth grade at school. Ivan Illich was mobilized to the Soviet army. He perished in Iasi [today Romania] in fall 1944. Agafia was an epileptic and I had to stay with her taking care of her. She had attacks of epilepsy every two to three weeks and stayed besides her waiting for her to recover. I worked hard about the house and in the field with Agafia. Living in a village means working hard. I joined the Komsomol 16 at school. I was eager to study and liked reading. I borrowed books from the village library. I read all I could get. When I was in the tenth grade, I read about the establishment of Israel from newspapers and heard about it on the radio. The USSR supported this event and was one of the first states to recognize Israel. As I came to understand later, this support was based on the expectation that Israel would develop into a socialist state. When Israel took a different direction, the two states drifted apart. I think that the establishment of Israel is the only compensation to the Jewish people for millions of its deceased.

After finishing school I went to Rezina for the first time hoping that one of my older brothers had survived. I had hopes, but I also feared that there were no survivors. In Rezina I was told that my brother Moisey lived in Kishinev. I found him right away. Moisey told me about all of our relatives. Moisey had been mobilized to the Soviet army at the very beginning of the war. He was at the front until 1945. He had been severely wounded in Poland and taken to hospital. After recovery he went to Uzbekistan to look for Abram. He found Lusia. Lusia and Abram lived together without getting married. Lusia told Moisey that Abram had volunteered to the front and had perished in Konigsberg [today Russia] in 1945. Moisey returned to Rezina in 1945. He had no information about me and thought that we had all perished. Moisey married Nina, a girl from Rezina. He graduated from a law school, but he never worked by his specialty. I don't know the reason; perhaps, it was the Item 5 17. He worked at a shoe store in Kishinev. He had a daughter called Faina, and a son called Grigoriy. Faina married Grigoriy Rosh after finishing school. Grigoriy finished secondary school and got married. His wife's name is Yelena. Moisey had a surgery in the 1980s to have splinters, which had been inside since the war, removed as they were troubling him.

My sister Nehoma was in Ivanovo during the war where she got married. Her husband, Semyon Abramovich, is a Jew. They had no children. They moved to Chernovtsy after the war.

After finishing school I entered the Faculty of Mathematics of Kishinev University, but then I fell ill and had to quit my studies for the time being. Later, I switched to the Pedagogical College since I could stay in the hostel there. Then I got a transfer to the extramural department getting a job as a teacher of mathematics in Raspopeny in the late 1940s and early 1950s. This was the period of the struggle against cosmopolitans [see Campaign against 'cosmopolitans'] 18, I remember the murder of Mikhoels 19, and the Doctors' Plot 20. However, I have my own point of view on it. I don't refer to this as anti-Semitism. I don't think Stalin was an anti-Semite. Stalin was a politician and he was removing his opponents. He killed more Russians and Georgians than Jews.

I think that the Doctors' Plot had its political base. Perhaps, it had to do with the establishment of Israel and with the fact how popular Golda Meir 21, the Prime Minister of Israel, was with Soviet Jews. I don't think anybody would be able to tell you the actual reason: one has to dig into the archives for it. I think these talks about the state-level anti- Semitism are a bit exaggerated. The ratio of Jews was low in the total population, but if you look at statistics, you'll see that there are many more Jewish doctors, teachers and engineers than those of any other nationality. [Editors' note: The interviewee probably means that the proportion of higher ranking professionals and intellectuals was higher among the Jews than any other nationalities in the Soviet Union.] For example, I am a Jew, and I've never concealed that fact, and I studied and faced no prejudiced attitudes towards me.

I remember the day of Stalin's death, how people cried. I was calm about it: I wasn't going to exhaust myself for this reason. The Twentieth Party Congress 22 in 1956, and the publication of the Khrushchev's 23 report, made me learn many new things. Like many others, I had no idea about the extermination of the leaders of the party, I didn't know about the number of camps [see Gulag] 24, and the number of prisoners or how many people perished there. It was a shock for me. It was a shock to learn that the people moving from Moldova [Romania] across the Dnestr to the USSR, who were communists, were taken to Stalin's camps. The situation in the country changed after the Congress, and I joined the Party in 1956.

After finishing my college I began to work as director of the school in Raspopeny. I often went to see my brother in Kishinev and met my future wife, when visiting my distant relatives. She rented a room from them. Her name was Liana Degtiar. I liked Liana at once and I met with her each time I went to Kishinev. In summer 1961 we went to the Crimea by boat. We sailed to Yalta [today Ukraine] and then traveled across the Crimea. We stayed in Gurzuf, climbed mountains for two days, walked to Alushta and went to Yevpatoria. We got married in spring. Liana is three years younger than me. She was born in Bucharest in 1933. Her father, Elih Degtiar, was born in Soroki in 1903. He graduated from the Cannes University in France and worked as chief engineer in a company in Bucharest. Her mother, Sophia Degtiar, was born in Beltsy in 1908 and finished a gymnasium there. After getting married she worked as a typist at the railroad in Bucharest.

When Bessarabia was annexed to the USSR in 1940, Liana's family returned to Soroki. During the war they were in evacuation in Kurgan, Tuba region, Tajikistan. In 1944, the family returned to Soroki after it had been liberated by the Soviet forces. Liana's father was a lecturer in an agricultural school, and her mother was a housewife, when we met. Liana graduated from the Faculty of Physics of Kishinev University and worked as a scientific employee at the laboratory of the Scientific Research Institute of Electric Instruments. We had a quiet wedding. Our friends and my wife's colleagues came to the registry office. Then we had a small party in Liana's room. Then we went to Liana's parents' house in Soroki and celebrated with the family and their acquaintances. After the wedding I moved in with Liana.

My sister Anyuta's visit from Israel in 1962 was a great pleasure for me. She took a plane to Odessa and from there she traveled to Kishinev. This was shortly after our wedding. This was our first meeting after she had moved away. I told her the story of our family. Anyuta brought me Shmilik's photograph. Anyuta had a husband and three sons: Noah, Judah and Zvi. They lived in Rishon Le Zion [today Israel]. Anyuta's husband grew and sold oranges and their sons helped him. You can imagine how concerned I was about my relatives during the wars in Israel: the Six-Day-War 25, and the War of Judgment Day [see Yom Kippur War] 26. I listened to BBC and The Voice of America. In the early 1970s my sister Nehoma and her husband Semyon Abramovich moved to Israel. They lived in Rishon Le Zion. Now I'm worried about each event, every terrorist act in Israel more than they are. I admire Israelis: they live and work despite terrorist attacks. They have fear, but they don't panic.

When I was director of the school, I was offered a job at the District Party Committee, but Liana believed that I should stick to science. She insisted that I entered a postgraduate course. I enrolled in the postgraduate course of the Academy of Pedagogical Sciences in Moscow [today Russia] and lived in a hostel in Pluschikha [a district in the historical part of Moscow] in the early 1960s. There were postgraduate students from all over the USSR and we had a full international student body: from Tajikistan, Kazakhstan, Ukraine, and I was a Jew from Moldova. Our scientific tutors and employees of the Institute of Mathematics teaching techniques were highly qualified specialists. They got along well both with postgraduate students and lecturers. I went to study in the State Library of the USSR named after Lenin [presently called National Library of Russia]. Highly skilled bibliographers helped me to find the books I needed or ordered them from other places, if necessary. If the book was a rarity, they sent a copy of it. I also studied at the library of the Ushinskiy Academy of Pedagogical Sciences. There were also scientific consultants working in the library to provide assistance to postgraduate students on various subjects. I consulted a specialist in mathematics teaching techniques in Polish schools. I'm still very grateful to many of the specialists for their great support.

Our son Alexandr was born in 1963. Liana was working and I received a stipend of a postgraduate student. Liana's parents supported us a lot. Liana often traveled to Moscow on business trips, and her parents took care of Alexandr during this time. We were always happy to see each other. We went to art exhibitions, theaters or just walked around Moscow. Liana spent the money I saved to last for a month in those few days.

After finishing the postgraduate course I returned to Kishinev where I went to work as a senior scientific employee at the Scientific Research Institute of Pedagogy. I dealt in mathematics teaching methodology. I was involved in the scientific research work. I published a book: 'Elements of geometry in primary school'. In 1968, I defended a candidate's dissertation [see Soviet/Russian doctorate degree] 27 in Moscow. Our scientific research institute belonged to the Ministry of Education of the USSR that initiated the introduction of new mathematics curricula in schools based on the experience of French schools under the guidance of Academician Kholmogorov [Kholmogorov, Andrey Nikolaevich (1903-1987): Soviet mathematician, founder of the scientific school in the probability theory and theory of functions].

The old syllabus and textbooks in mathematics underwent radical changes, starting from the first grade. Elements of higher mathematics were introduced in the senior school: set theory, integral, derivative, etc. The changes of this kind required training of teachers. I got involved in teachers' training: prepared lectures, instructional letters, read lectures, I mean, I got directly involved in the teachers' training and the development of new school textbooks. There was a lot of work to do, but unfortunately, there was opposition to this reform in the Academy of Sciences of the USSR. It was only effective for ten years: 1967 to 1976, when the schools switched back to the previous curriculum. At present, a new curricula and textbooks have been introduced, and again this reform is based on the influence of French schools.

Besides working at the Academy, I read lectures in the In-Service Teachers' Training Institute, and in Tiraspol Pedagogical College. I used to travel to Tiraspol for a day to deliver lectures to students. It took me one hour by train. The ticket cost three rubles. I returned to Kishinev in the evening. I liked teaching and got along well with my colleagues and students. I meet some of them now. After work I always spent time with Alexandr, teaching him things. My pedagogical experience happened to be very handy. Alexandr finished the first and second grades in one year, but my wife thought I was overloading the boy. However, I know that if the child manages, it's all right. It's not good, when things are too easy or too hard. When I noticed that Alexandr coped with his load in the first grade and was starting to lose interest in classes, I transferred him to the second grade. It took him some time to catch up with his classmates but he managed very well. His teachers praised him.

I taught Alexandr to follow a strict timetable: at ten o'clock he had to go to bed. At one time in the fifth grade he was having problems: played in the yard and failed to do his homework. 'I can't go to bed, I have to do my homework' he said. I told him that it didn't matter. He had to go to bed then. I also told him that he should have done his homework earlier. This taught him to do his homework on time. Teachers are very important at school, and the attitude of school children to them is important. In our family we always tried to support the authority of teachers. Alexandr was good at mathematics and we transferred him to a mathematics class in another school. He was a sociable boy and had many friends.

Liana was the supervisor of her laboratory in the institute and was working on her candidate's dissertation. In January 1969 she achieved a degree in technical sciences. In December this same year, our second son Boris was born. Boris was an individualist in contrast to Alexandr. He didn't want to go to the kindergarten and whatever efforts of even my colleagues to convince him to agree to attend a kindergarten failed. However, he went to school without any problem, but he fell ill, when he was in the third grade. He had mumps, quite a common disease with children, but had complications and fell into a coma for a long time. Thank God, the doctors managed to save him. After the disease he studied no worse than his older brother and even went to a mathematics class.

Our family spent the summer holidays together. Our favorite place was Odessa and the suburbs of Odessa: Chernomorka, Sergeyevka, and Karolino- Bugaz. Sometimes Liana's parents went there with us. We also traveled to Sochi, Sukhumi and Yalta renting a room like everybody else at the time. We sometimes went to Odessa on weekends: my colleagues and their families got together, rented a bus and went to the seashore for a weekend. Transportation, food and travel were inexpensive. We read a lot during vacations. Reading was very popular: we read newspapers, magazines and fiction. We gathered a big collection of books in Russian. Liana and I had many scientific manuals and guides in our collection. Now that we are considering moving to Israel, Liana and Boris argue a lot about what we should take there with us. Liana sends Boris to a paper utilization office to take the books she thinks aren't necessary, but he brings them back home and calls his mother an inquisitor of the 21st century, jokingly.

In 1978, Liana's parents exchanged their apartment in Soroki for an apartment in Kishinev and moved here. Her mother, Sophia Degtiar, died in late March 1988, we buried her in the Doina [cemetery in Kishinev], in the Jewish section. Liana's father died in February 1992. He was also buried in the Doina cemetery.

Alexandr finished school in 1979 and we wanted him to continue his studies. He was good at natural sciences and mathematics. He entered the Faculty of Biology of Moscow State University.

When he was a fourth-year student, he married his co-student Tatiana Yailenko in January 1983. She is from Donetsk [today Ukraine]. Her mother is Ukrainian and her father is Greek. They had a small wedding party: their fellow students, Tatiana's parents, Liana, Boris and I got together at the wedding party. We arranged the party at the canteen of the hostel. They received a room at the House of postgraduate students [one of the comfortable hostels of Moscow University]. I laughed as I looked up at the rear of this hostel [twelve-storied building]: one can see diaper's and children's clothing hanging on lines - not so bad for students! In December 1983 my grandson Leonid was born. Tatiana was a fifth-year student and took an academic leave to take care of the baby. Her mother arrived from Donetsk to help her. Alexandr was very attached to his son and even argued with his mother-in-law about training his son at times. Sasha [affectionate for Alexandr] finished a postgraduate course in Moscow, and in 1988 he and Tatiana moved to Kishinev. By this time we had paid for a three-bedroom apartment and gave our previous two-bedroom apartment and the furniture to the children. Sasha went to work at the Academy of Sciences of Moldova. In the late 1980s Liana and I were of the retirement age [pension age for men in the USSR - 60 years, for women - 55 years], but we continued working.

After finishing school Boris entered the Faculty of Physics of Kishinev University. Upon graduation he went to work at the Scientific Research Institute of Electric Instruments where Liana worked. He still works there and is very fond of his job. Boris isn't married.

In 1992 my sister invited me and my wife to Israel. Anyuta bought us tickets. We took a plane to go there. My sister and her family met us at the airport of Tel Aviv [today Israel]. You can imagine this meeting! It was the reunion of our big family: my nephews Noah, Judah and Zvi, their wives, their wives' parents, many children and grandchildren. I couldn't even count them all. Anyuta is a great grandmother. The parents gave each son pardes i.e. a plot of land with an orange garden. Once we got together at Noah's 56th birthday. We had another reunion at Judah's place. He has a big yard and a sorting machine for oranges and tangerines. He had tables installed for this whole big family to fit in his yard. There I had a feeling, it's hard to describe what it was like, hard to find words. I remembered our big family, when we sat at the table, I knew I was no longer alone: I have so many dear people, who love and remember me. However, I was a little embarrassed that there was a language barrier between me and my numerous relatives. They speak English and Ivrit, but I don't know these languages. Anyuta and I spoke Romanian and Yiddish a little. I promised my nephews that when I visit them next time, I would know English or Hebrew.

Liana and I stayed in Israel for two months. We traveled all over the country. Sometimes Noah drove us in his car. He showed us his office at the dock: he deals in the export of oranges. We traveled to Jerusalem and went to Yad Vashem 28, and to the Wailing Wall. The only place we didn't go to was a kibbutz, though I was eager to visit one since my sister worked at one, when she moved to Palestine. My acquaintances working in a kibbutz told me the kibbutzim are going through hard times now, but they are still the agricultural base of Israel. In 1992 my older brother Moisey, his wife Nina, their children Faina and Grigoriy and their families moved to Israel. They settled down in Nathania. Nina died in 2003. I visited Israel again in 1995, and in 1998. I stayed with Moisey in Nathania. I haven't learned English or Ivrit. It's hard to study languages at my age. However, Moisey's children and grandchildren remember Russian and they were always at hand to help me.

In 1993 our son Alexandr moved to Leningrad and went to work at the biophysical laboratory at the Academic Institute. He divorced Tatiana and left the apartment to her and their son. We keep in touch with Tatiana. She is a nice person. Our grandson Leonid often visits us. He is a student of the Faculty of Mathematics of Kishinev University. Alexandr remarried in Leningrad. His second wife Olga Ivanova is Russian. Their salaries were hardly enough to make ends meet. One day representatives of Israel arrived at a scientific conference in Leningrad. They offered Alexandr a job at the University of Tel Aviv. Olga followed Alexandr to Israel. In 1997 their son Ilia was born. Liana went to Israel to take care of the baby. She stayed there for three months and met with her relatives: her father's sisters and her nieces and nephews live in Israel.

After perestroika 29 the Communist Party was forbidden [Editors' note: In fact the Communist Party of the USSR ceased to exist in 1991, after the breakup of the USSR.] in Moldova and the authorities started altering the history on the wave of anti-communism. There was an issue of annexing Moldova to Romania. Mass media praised Antonescu 30 and were even going to build a monument for him in Kishinev. There were discussions and they even collected money. They called the Romanians, who came here in 1941 with German troops, liberators. Imagine how I felt: these Romanian 'liberators' exterminated my parents, three sisters and my six-year old brother plus thousands of Jews. I think that Gorbachev 31 and Yeltzin placed their own well-being at a higher priority than the well-being of the state. Of course, there were many reasons for the breakup of the USSR, but how could they do it when 76 percent of the population voted for the USSR at the referendum? [The turn out on the referendum whether to preserve the USSR as a single and indivisible state on 17th March 1991 was 174 million (80 percent of the total population). Out of that 112 million or 76.4 percent voted for preserving the USSR].

The Jewish life began to revive in Kishinev after perestroika in the 1990s. During the period of the USSR, an association of former Jewish and non- Jewish prisoners of ghettos and camps was established. Later, it fell apart and now I'm a member of the Jewish association. Later, Jewish organizations were established in Kishinev: the Jewish cultural center and the community center. Jews began to celebrate Jewish holidays together. The Jewish life particularly revived, when communists obtained the parliamentary majority in Moldova. [The interviewee probably means that communists being internationalists ex officio pay better attention to the co-existence of the different nationalities.] I think the Jewish situation has improved. It wasn't that good before, when in many areas activities were separated from the rest of the population of Moldova.

When the communists came to power, the Moldovans also started thinking about the victims of fascism. Our local Jewish newspaper, 'Yevreiskoe mestechko' [The Jewish Town], wrote about the local amateur museum of Holocaust in Yedintsy. It is amazing that this museum was established by a Moldovan director of a local school. I think it's important since Jews have always been active citizens in Moldova: doctors, teachers and craftsmen. Now research work has been undertaken in other Moldovan towns where Jews were exterminated. They find the righteous men [see the Righteous Among the Nations] 32, who rescued Jews and establish museums like this one.

The Hesed 33 Jehudah, a Jewish charity organization, is very efficient. At times I hear or read in newspapers about people grumbling about the food that they don't find to be so good. I think they have no grounds to complain. Hesed does a great job. Its numerous volunteers work hard and help thousands of Jews. My wife and I receive food packages each month. We refused this for a long time believing that there were Jews who were in a worse situation than us. I also receive a pension from the Claims Conference [Conference on Jewish Material Claims against Germany. It was founded in the 1950s to provide assistance to victims of the Holocaust.], as a former underage prisoner of a ghetto. All our relatives live in Israel. We are also considering moving to Israel.

Glossary

Erzsebet Barsony
Budapest
Hungary
Interviewers: Klara Lazok and Viktoria Kutasi
Date of interview: November 2004 - May 2005

Unfortunately, Erzsebet Barsony passed away before finalizing the interview; therefore the last specifications were made with the help of her niece, Erzsebet Sandor.

In the text her additions appear in italics in round brackets. The introduction about Erzsebet Barsony and her surroundings is also her work. Hereby we would like to thank her for her kind help.

The only room of the apartment in Ferencvaros is full of former middle- class furniture and carpets. Noticeably they were brought here from a larger apartment.

They are the pieces of a suite made between the two world wars: a chest of drawers combined with a desk, a glass cabinet, a round table with four velvet covered chairs around it.

The carpets, like the objects in the glass cabinet, are not as precious as showy. They represent a former middle-class milieu, which Aunt Bizsu has never really been part of in her entire life.

Aunt Bizsu is a very old, wizened - because of her countless illnesses - woman, with short, snow-white hair and a searching goblin look.

She has poor eyesight and besides one of her eyes is smaller than the other, so her forced looking creates the impression in the person sitting across her that Aunt Bizsu is going to reveal her, and draw even the most hidden secret out of her.

Her lively, sparkling look reflects the lively, sparkling mind, which is a rare gift at the age of 95. Moving is difficult for her: she uses a walking stick, but she doesn't use it at home.

She is self-supporting, as far as she can; she doesn't ask anyone's help. She spends most of the day in the rocking chair near the table: Mici, the cat in her lap, the remote control of the television in her hand.

She watches the Spektrum, National Geographic and Romantic channels. She listens to the television with headphones, so she doesn't disturb the neighbors.

Hanging above her head, in a big black frame is the picture of her 15-year-old son, lost in Auschwitz.

• Family background
• Growing up
• During World War I
• Married life
• During World War II
• Post-war
• Glossary

• Family background

I don't know exactly where any of my ancestors came from, but surely they were all from Hungary. I know this, because for some years at the beginning of World War II, Hungarian citizenship had to be proved, because there were people who were not Hungarian citizens when Hitlerism began [see anti- Jewish laws in Hungary] 1.

That's why I know that my father was born here in Hungary. Of my great-grandmother, my maternal grandmother's mother I only remember that she couldn't speak Hungarian. Well in Hungary only German was spoken in former times.

[This is an exaggeration of course; it is only true about part of the Jewry in Hungary]. I met her at my grandmother's; she always went there to visit. I couldn't converse with her, she talked to me in German, and I talked to her in Hungarian. She wore a small hat with a ribbon on her head.

This is how I remember her. I only knew her of my great-grandmothers, and her sister. I didn't know any other great-grandparents. I don't know where my grandparents were born, and if they had ever lived elsewhere outside of Budapest, I only know that my father was born in Halabor [today Ukraine].

My grandfather was called Samuel Bauer, my grandmother Leni Weiss. He probably didn't go to school at all. I remember that he used to go to the cinema with my mother, and she read the subtitles for him.

My paternal grandmother and my later stepmother's mother were sisters. It's interesting, that one of the sisters magyarized her name, she was called Eugenia Feher, but the other one, my paternal grandmother Leni Weiss didn't. They had a brother, Uncle Jentli [Jozsef Feher].

My paternal grandparents lived in the same house with us. My grandmother lived on the first floor, we lived on the second. My grandmother kept a maid, too. My grandmother was 63 years old when she died, but I only remember, that the maid used to lace up her shoes, help her to get dressed, and I found her very old.

Now, at age 96, I don't feel as powerless as that 63-year-old woman was. I still put on my shoes alone and don't let myself be dressed. My grandparents were religious, managed a kosher household, had a kosher kitchen and observed the holidays.

My mother's parents, the Kellermanns lived on Hernad Street until the end of their lives. After my mother died, nobody really looked after them. Although my mother had several sisters and brothers, aunts, uncles, and some of them were wealthy. Unfortunately I can't tell you more about them.

I don't know anything about my Kellermann grandparents' occupation; I was a little girl when they died. They were very religious. Whenever my grandmother saw me, she always cried, because she remembered her daughter. But nobody helped. I have no idea about my grandparents' political views, since we were children, and they didn't share serious matters with us.

As far as I know they didn't have problems because of their Jewish origin, they spoke Hungarian at home, and were on good terms with everybody. [The relationship with this branch of the family was very loose because of the mother's early death].

We lived on Haller Street; I lived there when I got married. We had one large room provided with recess; the recess was separated with an entire dining room set in it. When someone entered, he went into the dining room first, and then followed the bedroom. We had tap water, but no electricity; we used a kerosene lamp for lighting.

Later an oil lamp was introduced. [She is probably talking about gas lighting, for which the gas was obtained from oil. Gas lighting started to give place to electric lighting - especially in apartments - at the beginning of the 20th century]. When my younger sister was born, they employed a maid, because they needed someone to take care of the baby.

She was almost blind and broke almost everything, but they couldn't afford a more expensive one. At that time maid-and-place- finding agencies existed. When someone went to them, he could get a cheaper or a more expensive maid, depending on what kind of maid was needed.

There was a synagogue on Remete Street, which we used to go to, and there was the Pava Street synagogue, but only my sister went there; at that time they were directed there, to Pava Street from school. When I was a schoolgirl, we only went to the synagogue on Remete Street. I also went to the talmud torah, which was also on Remete Street.

At home in the family we always spoke Hungarian, I don't even know if my father spoke any other languages. My parents also observed religion, we had a kosher kitchen and observed Sabbath; I mean they went to the synagogue every Saturday. The women didn't go to the synagogue every Saturday, only on holidays.

However the men, my father and grandfather went on Fridays and Saturdays, too. We observed Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur and everything else, Pesach, too. Before the holidays we were always dressed in new clothes from head to toe. (Niece: 'My grandfather of course didn't have payes, he wasn't Orthodox, or at least he didn't look one, because he didn't wear a caftan and tefillin.')

In my childhood on the street where we lived there were Jews and Christians too, but there were no quarrels between Jews and Christians. We all played together; there were many children in the building. As far as neighbors and friends were concerned, it didn't matter whether they were Christian or Jewish. Our neighbor was also a Christian and he was on very good terms with my father. My stepmother made friends with all of our neighbors.

In our neighborhood there was a Jewish coffee shop and a grocery shop too. There was a liqueur store as well, also owned by a Jew. The liqueur store was on the right side of the gate, and on the left there was a big wine shop. And even in the house, in the courtyard opposite ours there was a pub. I think that what we had the most of were pubs.

There were many Jewish shops, because in the past Jews couldn't be landowners. I only found out as an adult the reason why lawyers, doctors and scholars were all Jews, and why there were no Jewish peasants.

[Until the 1850s the Jews in Hungary could not own land, plots and real estates, and could not occupy positions at state offices, so they were engaged in article production and sale, and money transactions.

When the modernization of Hungary began the Jews oriented themselves towards industrial and trade enterprises, and clerk positions at banks, companies and in the private sector, as well as free intellectual professions.] This was beyond me. Then I started reading, and I found out, that as a matter of fact Jews were not allowed to own lands. So their children had to study in order to be able to make a living.

My father [Izidor Bauer] was born in Halabor. When I was born he was 30 years old, so he was probably born in 1879. We had a shoe shop in the same house where we lived, but I don't remember whether my father was a shoemaker or a merchant. I don't really remember what he was doing before World War I broke out.

I'm sure that my mother was born in Budapest, around 1888. Her maiden name was Ilona Kellermann. I have no idea what schooling she had. My father was 27 years old when he married my mother. I've never seen a wedding picture, maybe there wasn't any. My mother married at a very young age, at age 18.

My father's situation wasn't easy, because my mother had been taken ill with tuberculosis before I was born, and the doctors predicted her three months. Sparing no money and time, my father left no stone unturned to prolong her life, and he succeeded for four years.

She died in 1912. Then he was left there with two children and the remainder of his fortune. The official procedure began, when the court of guardians demanded my mother's marriage portion to be left in safe custody to the benefit of the orphans. (To say nothing of the fact, that by the time we became majors, our money wasn't worth a dime, so we didn't even take it over). But with this arrangement they destroyed my father. This is how we became poor.

• Growing up

Generally speaking I have very few memories of my mother. She wasn't even 24 when she died of pulmonary tuberculosis. I was so young that it didn't affect me as strongly as it affected my brother. My brother almost became ill because of it. He was two years older, and it made a big difference. I only put together the pieces of the mosaic later.

My brother, Arpad Bauer, was born on 8th September 1907 in Budapest. We spent a lot of time together in my childhood, because he was only allowed to go to play if he took me along. But I was really a nuisance to him.

He would pick me up and run with me, because he wanted to catch up with his mates. He also only completed the four classes of elementary and four classes of middle school, and didn't learn any kind of trade afterwards, because he helped my father on the market. He got married, because he wanted to be independent.

He was deported together with his wife and their six-year-old son, Gyurika [affectionate for Gyorgy]. The entire family perished in Auschwitz.

My father's parents didn't leave him alone: they wanted him to get married, because they had no patience to look after us; we were a burden to them, so my father got married quite early. I think that this second marriage was arranged.

My stepmother [Janka Bauer, nee Schwartz] wasn't even 18 yet when she married our father.

She probably wasn't in love with my father, but valued him, because he was a diligent and good-looking man, with a furnished apartment, though with two children, but my stepmother took it upon herself, because she wanted to escape misery.

About this second wedding I do have memories; it was in 1914. There is no picture of this wedding either, but I remember what my stepmother looked like as a bride, because at that time I was already five years old and my brother was seven.

We ran away to my step-grandmother's - we lived close to her place - because the wedding was there and we wanted to see the bride. When they noticed that we were there, they took us from there of course, because we shouldn't have been there. It was a normal wedding - the bride wore a veil - in the synagogue.

• During World War I

Then the bitter period started. After my father had been drafted in World War I, there was no wage-earner left to provide for us, so my mother had to work. Since we didn't have any reserves, we were left there without any income.

My mother was a trained linen seamstress. She managed to get a job at a very distinguished downtown shop. She did a very good job as a homeworker, she sewed beautiful things on the model of something, they were very satisfied with her, but she earned so little, that she could only maintain herself, and pay the rent.

It wasn't enough for us, so we ate at the grandparents'. There was no picking and choosing; whether we liked the food or not, we simply couldn't get anything else. I was a picky eater; I never found anything I liked, so I rather didn't eat. There was nothing to be found, and we had to stand in line for everything: from frozen potatoes, out of which the juice was running, to everything else. Slowly my brother and I became the ones who stood in line.

There was no electricity in our house, and we had to stand in line for kerosene and for firewood too. The room was never heated, the only heat came from the kitchen stove, and that only as long as the cooking lasted. It is probable that a black market existed at that time too, and one could get everything for money, but we didn't even have a red cent.

My grandparents had money, but they rather invested it in war-loan, and they lost it all. Back then as a child I didn't understand much of these things, I only thought that 'nobody loves us, we are just dragging on in the world. We are children, and we miss parental hugs and love.'

Years went by, and nothing changed. We didn't see our father; we knew that he was alive, but we had no idea about when we would see him again. We only knew that our mother was waiting for him, because she took care of all his belongings. She sometimes took them out and left them in the fresh air, so that they wouldn't become moth-eaten. She preserved jam and all kinds of bottled fruit, and we weren't allowed to touch these, because they were preserved for 'Daddy'; we didn't get much of these. My brother would sometimes pinch from them a little, and he was punished for it. Our childhood went by with us getting used to being poor.

It rarely occurred that my mother organized a festive afternoon, this happened very rarely. She sent us to the candy store for two-three petits fours, and opened a jar of bottled fruit. At these occasions she locked the door, so that Grandma wouldn't find out, because she would have considered it thoughtlessness.

This is how our life passed. I missed caresses the most, because I saw that another mother would give a beating to her child, if he was naughty, but soon after she would hug and kiss him.

Then the prisoners started to drift home slowly, because the revolution had broken out in Russia [see Russian Revolution of 1917] 2 and as they could, people set out for home; our father also arrived. I can't even tell you how happy we were. My father was surprised that he could change his clothes: we had kept all his clothes; not even a handkerchief was missing. He became an 'elegant man' in seconds, and only then did I start to recognize him.

Although not many changes took place in our life, because in the meantime the revolution broke out here too [see Hungarian Soviet Republic] 3, which was very interesting for us, as children, but it was a terrible thing for the adults. Just as before, there was nothing to be had, but perhaps we had a little bit more.

Perhaps my grandmother had opened her purse, out of joy on the return of her only son, or my father had money, I don't know, but our life turned for the better. But not for a long time, because our father was in poor health, and couldn't earn enough money; poverty brought along anxiety, nervousness, and quarreling.

There was chaos in the country. We could have been satisfied easily, because we liked beans very much in every form and pasta too: this was the poor man's food, because it was cheap, but our mother didn't like it, and generally didn't really like to cook.

My younger sister, Margit was born when my father came home from the war, in 1919. She was ten and a half years younger than I was, but she is already dead. I loved her enormously. There had always been this very strong bond between us. My sister was still busy going to school - she was eight years old - when I got married.

Then she became an apprentice in my shop and learned the milliner trade. She married a Christian man, Laszlo Toth, and it was due to this that she wasn't deported. (The statement of the niece, Margit's daughter, about her mother's fate: 'Her parents had a cousin called Margit, who emigrated with her jeweler husband to Brazil at the beginning of the 1930s, and he was successful as a jeweler. /Margit Bauer's parents, Izidor Bauer and Janka Schwartz were cousins, this is how they had a common cousin/.

This Margit, on the occasion of her visit to Budapest in 1937, took the small Margit Bauer with her and so to say adopted her, and practically they made her emigrate. My mother was still a young girl, she wasn't even 20, but because of her unquenchable love for Laszlo Toth she came home in 1939. She begged them to let her go home, so that she wouldn't have to look at the sea in Brazil. So she came home after two years, and she was homesick for Brazil all her life.')

In the house where we were raised, there were many children and we played together very much, and we were always loud, because we had no real toys so we ran around from the attic to the cellar, and yelled 'ipi-apacs.'[A variation of the hide-and-seek game combined with a race.

The finder counts turning towards the ipi-apacs wall, while the players hide away, then he sets off to find them. The players who are found run a race with the finder to the wall. If the last player reaches the wall first, the finder remains finder for another turn, if the finder wins the race to the wall, the last player takes the finder's place.

If the finder beats more than half of the players in the race, then the player who was first found takes the finder's place. Hajdu Gyula: Magyar népi játékok gy?jteménye (Bp., 1971).] Or we played 'give us a soldier, king!' [A game played by two teams. The teams line up facing one another and the team members grab each other's hand.

The stronger players run into the other team by turns and if they manage to break the line get a player from the team in question. The team with the more members wins.] I think children these days don't know this game, but for this we didn't need any money, only good feet and throat, and that was for free.

There lived a family next to us, the Fenyes', they also belonged to my childhood, and played an important role later in my life. [As can be seen in the family tree, they weren't only neighbors, but relatives as well: Roza Fenyes was the father's sister, so she was an aunt.]

At their house we were allowed to do everything, we played theater, put on all kinds of clothes and jumped up and down on the sofa. In a word, we messed up the house many times, but we tidied up the room in some measure, so that by the time Aunt Roza, the mother came home, she wouldn't find too big a chaos.

It was a joyful family, although they were even poorer than we were. They moved here from Szatmar [today Romania] when the war broke out. Their apartment was the same size as ours, but there were nine children, the oldest one was 13 years old, the two youngest a couple months old - they were twins. They had two children who didn't live with them anymore, a boy, who was born deaf and dumb, and was raised at the institute for the deaf and dumb, and their next daughter wasn't with them either, she lived somewhere abroad. Miklos [Mor] was 13 years old, then followed Pali [affectionate for Pal], Cilike [affectionate for Cecilia], Szeren, Etus [affectionate for Etelka], who was of my age, then the twins, Berta and Laci [affectionate for Laszlo].

Aunt Roza was a poor peddler, she even traveled on top of the train, when she went to the country and took there whatever people there needed, and brought things she could sell back here. The two older boys also helped her: they sold candy to the soldiers at the Jozsef Ferenc army post.

Meanwhile they should have been looking after the smaller kids, but I think that they grew up on their own, nobody bossed them about. Perhaps this is why they were cheerful. When Aunt Roza arrived - sometimes only at 10 in the evening - she was very quick: she quickly fixed some dinner, woke the children up, and then they ate.

She always cooked things the children liked. She made up fabulous things, for example she cooked corn in a big pot, which people usually feed to chicken, potato pasta, which I liked very much, and beans in all forms, in any way she could think of. She had ideas, she diluted browned semolina with water, and then she boiled it down, and there was always some topping: yellow sugar or fried onion.

I went to school a very long time ago, during World War I. I didn't always go to the same school, because sometimes there were soldiers in the school that was close to our place. I started school at the age of six, which was around 1915. I had a terrible anti-Semitic geography teacher, in the third or fourth grade, as far as I remember, who hated Jews very much. When a Jewish child confused something, she would say, 'Go to Palestine!' I also remember the handicraft teacher.

Then there was the class mistress; there were no problems with her, and she never said anything nasty about Jews. She was a beautiful woman. There were no problems with any of my classmates. Anyhow, I was a very withdrawn child, things at home weren't really sound, and it could be felt that our mother had died.

I couldn't really relax and fit in, I was always lonely. I wasn't an excellent student, but I always learned the lessons we were given and even that only because my mother required it. I hated the subjects for which I had to cram up, because I never understood what I learned this way. I have another interesting experience from school.

We marched with the school when the revolution [the Chrysanthenum Revolution] broke out. Then they took us to the Orczy-garden, and we ran up and down in the trenches, on the enclosed section where they trained the soldiers.

I didn't finish middle school [see Civil school] 4, because I had to go to the hospital: I had a major operation, which determined my entire life. I was ill for six years. I dropped out from the second class of middle school, and I was ill until age 17. I had tuberculosis.

My mother died of pulmonary tuberculosis, and it seems that the illness affected my bones [skeletal tuberculosis]. The illness broke out as a result of a hit. My grandmother's maid was swinging a heavy iron pot and I ran into it and it hit my thigh. 

After a couple of months it turned out that I had a limp. They said it was a bad habit. By the time they discovered what my problem was, I had such a big hole in my thighbone that it collapsed at every step. I was in the hospital for one year uninterruptedly.

A famous professor operated me for free, but only because I was an extraordinary case. Otherwise he only operated people if they paid a lot of money. The professor learnt his trade on me, and due to his malpractice I didn't recover for six years, and the illness lasted until age 17. My childhood was taken by the war, my maidenhood by my illness.

After I recovered I wanted to learn a trade at all costs, but my mother didn't want me to, since she could use me as a maid for free at home. My mother sewed, but she could never live on that. She's never let me go anywhere on Sundays, or to meet my girlfriends, colleagues.

She would only allow me to go and learn a trade if I did everything after I got home. So I became a milliner apprentice. The milliner's where I was working, wasn't making enough money, and my boss told me that he was going to discontinue but not terminate my contract, so that I wouldn't lose a year, and that if I found a new job, he would transfer my contract. I tried to find an employment, and I managed quite quickly.

I liked my trade very much, and I learned it very quickly too: after half a year I worked independently. The mamzel made the model hat, and then I made the other hats afterwards. Of course, there wasn't only me, but there were other apprentices and independent workers as well, and I was one of these, only my salary was an apprentice salary, even though I did a better job than any of them. I could have even substituted the mamzel, and I told her, that if she didn't pay me more, I wouldn't stay there any longer.

She didn't take it seriously, but the day I told her, I went to find a job somewhere else. I had much self- confidence, and I knew that I could find an employment, and I did find another job.

Meanwhile I had a personal life too: in the evenings I washed the dishes at home, and at weekends I did the housecleaning, but sometimes I did have some free time, and got together with the Fenyes children. True enough that they weren't children anymore.

Miki [Mor Fenyes] was the oldest, and he also went to fairs, and he sometimes came to our place to play chess with my father, and sometimes we had long conversations. He had problems, wanted to marry, and he thought that if he married a wealthy girl he would open a shop.

Whenever he had the time he went looking for a wife. Many times he discussed it with me, and he even introduced me to some of them.

I had a girlfriend and sometimes my mother let me go out on Sundays, but I had to be home by 8 o'clock. I had a very good time there, because we got together, boys and girls. Aunt Balazs - that was their first name - was very hospitable, she always baked milk loaf, and there was coffee or chocolate milk, too. Meanwhile, months went by, and I felt really bad about going to the Balazs' all the time, and I thought that we should have invited them, too.

My mother didn't want to because she said that we couldn't afford it. I had served my apprenticeship when she finally agreed that I invited the Balazs kids with their partners, Etus Fenyes, who was my age, and a girlfriend of mine called Szidi.

• Married life

At that time Miki was coming to play chess with my father quite often. My mother was annoying me by saying that he wasn't coming because of the chess, but because of me. I told her that it couldn't be true, because he kept discussing with me where he had been looking for a wife.

Moreover we were good buddies, and I couldn't imagine him as my boyfriend. But that week, when he came up to our place I told him that we were going to have guests on Sunday, and that he should come too, if he felt like it. Sunday arrived, the guests came, and to my biggest surprise, Miklos arrived, too.

Because at that time there was no radio or television, we usually played cards or games, or we sang. My girlfriends asked me to sing, and because I had a fine voice and I liked to sing too, they didn't really have to talk me into it.

Once, I noticed that Miki didn't take his eyes off me. I didn't know what to think about it, because I wasn't in love with him, we were just good buddies. I had reconciled myself long ago to the thought that I would never get married, because neither poor nor rich would have wanted someone as poor as I was.

Then in November 1927 on Erzsebet day Miki came up and brought me a gold bracelet. [In Hungary it is a custom that everyone has a name day on a certain day of the year, and that is usually celebrated just like birthdays.

At some places the name day is considered even more important than someone's birthday.] That's how it became clear that he had serious intentions with me. We talked very much, and he had always said, that if he married, he would want his wife to love him. I had remorse because of this, because I thought that I wasn't in love with him.

I liked him very much as a man, but I had never thought about getting married to him. I felt obliged to tell him that, and he answered that I would fall in love with him later. In any case, in my situation I had to be happy that someone wanted to marry me and I could get away from home. This wasn't a small matter to me.

So, in August 1928 we got married: I was 19 years old, my husband eight years older. Our wedding was in the synagogue on Rumbach Street. We moved out of our parents' immediately. It was very difficult to get an apartment. We had to pay some money to the previous tenant, and we got a one-bedroom apartment with a kitchen, which had no toilet and water, everything was outside. We rented the apartment in Kispest, because my husband had got a job there.

Before we got married, Miki used to go and sell things at fairs. After we got married, he didn't want to do that anymore. We went to Kispest, because his younger brother lived there and held market, and said that one could live of it.

My husband had a textile shop, too, but that was only open when there was no market. This worked well for him, but as a matter of fact we started doing better when I also opened a shop, although I didn't have the slightest intention of doing so originally. Where we lived, besides the owner, another family lived there too.

The wife was a teacher, and she opened a stationery shop, because she had quit teaching. She convinced me to open a milliner's since I was a milliner. Hats were very much in vogue at that time. I was afraid that I would go bankrupt, and that I would lose the money.

My husband knew these things better and told me: 'I set aside a certain amount of money for this, and if it is lost, I accept it. Fortune favors the brave.' So we opened a tiny little shop, which we furnished ourselves. We bought a mirror, we made the boxes ourselves, and we furnished it in a very simple way, but it worked from the first moment.

I opened on 30th May 1930. Business prospered, even though it was the end of the season when I opened it.

Meanwhile my son, Ervin Fenyes, was born on 25th July 1929. Of course it wasn't the best time for it, but children come the quickest, and if I hadn't so ignorant... My child was nine months old when I opened the shop. My stepmother didn't help; she never came, not even once, to look after my son.

I had to keep an employee to have someone take care of my child if I wasn't at home. I employed a young one, who I thought would take care of my child and do the housework. Later, when I was already doing better, I employed a German woman, too. I gave up on having a kosher kitchen at this time, when I wasn't running the household anymore, because I wasn't at home.

Sometimes, when I went home accidentally, because that happened too, I noticed that they confused the milk pots with the ones for meat. 'I am spending a lot of money, because kosher costs double, and meanwhile I eat treyf. Then what for?' From then onwards I wasn't kosher.

So my business prospered, and I employed apprentices, too. I worked alone, even my husband helped me out. [The interviewee means that she didn't have associates in the business, but was the only person in charge.] We could make a very nice living. We could even save up some money.

Then we moved and got a bathroom, and pantry, and had running water in the apartment. As our situation changed for the better, of course our expectations grew as well. By then I wanted a comfortable apartment, because I had the possibility for that.

But I advertised in vain, because I couldn't find one close to the shop, from where my husband could go to the market easily, and on a street where carriages could enter. Back then there were dirt roads, and there were streets where horse carriages couldn't go in.

Then I found a house, which wasn't in a very good shape, but it was in a very good place. Of course we needed a little loan for that, too. We could pay it back soon, but I couldn't fix the house that year, because I didn't have that much money.

Then one year later, in 1931 I spoke with a master builder, and they repaired and insulated the whole house, and we enlarged it, because one of the rooms was very tiny. So we ended up with two front rooms of the same size, and we had two other rooms overlooking the courtyard and the kitchen. We built two and a half meters on to the kitchen, and so we got a corner- room, which became my son's room.

This renovation was very difficult, because when we started building, I was ill in bed for two months. [Probably the childhood skeletal tuberculosis flared up again]. The two apprentices ran the shop, because there was nobody else to do it.

Then, when I could finally get up somehow - but I couldn't walk - a taxi took me to the shop and there I lay all day long in a deck-chair and directed the things from there, and I also worked, but I still couldn't walk. It wasn't that easy.

Then this period passed, too. In the meantime my younger sister had also finished school, and because my parents were very poor, they couldn't help at all, she couldn't continue her studies, and became an apprentice in my shop. She learned the trade and she also became a milliner. So when I was ill, she and an apprentice were running the shop.

Two years later, in 1932 I opened a bigger shop, because we had outgrown the small shop. The small shop was in a good spot, but the other one was in the center of Kispest, in the best place. It was beautifully furnished.

There wasn't any other shop in Kispest as modern as mine was, with neon lamp, coconut carpet, fitted furniture, mirrors and drawers with a glass top. There were shop-windows, where the hats were displayed. I opened a beautiful shop, and there was a separate workshop, too. It was a very elegant shop.

Fortunately this one was also prosperous, and even though I had spent a fortune on it, it was worth it. In the meantime I had my son enrolled in school at age six.

• During World War II

I couldn't complain at all, until 1939 started. We had no financial problems, until 1939 [because of the anti-Jewish laws in Hungary] we had no problems at all.

Even though we had heard enough about Austria [the Anschluss] 5 and Hitlerism, it didn't affect us that closely, but when my husband was drafted into forced labor in 1939, we started feeling it on our own skin. He had to go to forced labor for a couple months in 1940 and in 1941, too. After he left in 1942, he never came back. Our last meeting with my husband is a story in itself:

My husband was in forced labor in a small place called Iklad near Aszod. One day someone came shouting into my shop, saying that the forced laborers from Iklad were being taken out of the country. I left everything there, rushed home and told my mother to pack me up everything that was at hand, because I was hurrying, going to Iklad.

I packed up the warm clothes he had brought home, because he thought he wouldn't need them and I took them to him. With many difficulties I got to Aszod by taxi and streetcar. On the way I saw a train which was going toward Pest, and I was going towards Aszod. I saw that there were many laborers on it; I was desperate that I was late. Aszod was completely empty.

Then I met a soldier, and tried to bribe him to talk. Finally he told me that they were at the railroad station in Jozsefvaros, and that I could find them there.

I was out of my mind and wanted to go back, but there was no train. Finally I found a car, which took me to Godollo, near Aszod. He couldn't take me further, because his car wasn't good. Then I got another car that took me to the railroad station in Jozsefvaros. But there was such a silence there, that I knew that there must have been a mistake, because there was nothing.

I looked for the boss at the station, the boss of the railroad station, and asked him to help me out and explain to me where they were. He told me that he couldn't say anything, because that wasn't his duty, he couldn't say anything.

I kept begging him until he told me that the train was in Rakospalota-Ujpest. He didn't even accept anything in return. He was very kind to me. Then there I was, sitting on the streetcar, because the taxi wouldn't take me anywhere, because it wasn't allowed to go further.

When I arrived I knew immediately that I was at the right place, because there were very many people at the railroad station and a lot of shouting. From the shouting I found out that the train was about two kilometers away on open track.

High above there was a passage, and I went up there, crossed to the other side and set out for the place where the train was. I kept walking and walking, and I thought that I would find a broken spot in the fence where I could creep in. I did find a great big hole, where I could have slipped in, but two soldiers were standing there. I told them, 'God bless you, don't look, turn away, I must go in here.' They let me in and I started looking for my husband.

I stopped at every car and shouted, 'Miklos Fenyes, Miklos Fenyes!' There were people who knew where he was and they showed me the car my husband was in. They told him, 'Come, your wife is here.' But he wasn't willing to come out, and told them not to pull his leg. Finally I shouted to him, 'I'm here!' He was beside himself.

He asked how I had got there, how come I was there. I don't even know myself how I got there. My journey started in the morning and I found my husband at 9 in the evening. This was our last encounter. I never saw him again. He died, even though he had promised to come home. He told me that he would be okay, that I should take care of myself and then everything would be alright.

Of my first husband's eight brothers and sisters, the girls [Szeren, Etus] died in the deportation, but there were twins among them as well [Berta and Laci], and they survived. The boy died of leukemia ten years ago.

The girl went to Israel [then still Palestine under British rule] in 1939 with her two little children and her husband. I loved her daughter very much. She was called Angyal [meaning Angel in Hungarian]. It's interesting that Angyal and her brother visited me two years ago. The boy was five years old when they left.

I was so happy to see him, as I would have been to see my husband. But he died too, suddenly, not long ago.

In the meantime we had to close the two shops, because Jews weren't allowed to have that either. This happened long before we had to wear a yellow star, as I recall. I know that one evening we closed the shop, and in the morning we couldn't open it anymore, so everything was left there, was wasted.

[Among the different orders striking the Jews, they ordered wearing the yellow star on 31st March 1944, and they closed the Jewish shops on 21st April].

Then our house became a yellow-star house 6. I didn't want to move out of my house, so I rather took other families into my house. Everyone got a room; there was a family for example, which had lived together before, so they lived in one room.

My parents (Niece: 'She immediately took them into her house when it became a yellow-star house'), my child and I moved into one room, and handed over all the other rooms. At the beginning my younger sister stayed with us too, but then they had to move, because her husband was a Christian. She was very keen on staying with us, but I convinced her to go, because she could have maybe helped us. So she swapped places with a Jewish family that lived in the house across.

I made an effort so that everyone would have her own kitchen to avoid chaos. One got the laundry room as a kitchen, for the other one I split my kitchen in two, and there was a storage room which became the third family's kitchen. As a matter of fact, we could have gotten along very well, but it didn't happen like that.

I always knew what was going to happen, but there was always a little hope that I was wrong. [In Kispest they packed in around 4000 local Jews in 548 rooms in designated houses, which were in 53 streets of the town. The transfer took place between 15th and 30th May. (Randolph L. Braham: A magyar Holocaust, Budapest, Gondolat/Wilmington, Blackburn International Inc., é. n. /1988/).]

Then everything happened the way I had expected. The deportations started the way I had imagined. When the gendarmes came to Kispest, I knew that we were in trouble. I can't even say that I couldn't have escaped, because the relatives from Pest kept asking me to go with my child and stay with them.

I told them that I couldn't go, that I couldn't leave my parents there, and that I would stay with them. My father loved the garden, he kept planting things, did woodwork and kept rabbits. I was very glad to see my father happy. Then the gendarmes occupied every Jewish house, the courtyard, and the street too.

We couldn't even step out of the house. Then 30th June 1944 arrived when the gendarmes came into our house. They told us that we were going to set off, but first everyone should undress in their room. 'Take off all your clothes,' they shouted, so that we wouldn't hide anything. I didn't have anything on, I only had my wedding ring by then, I thought that perhaps they wouldn't take it. But the gendarme took that off, too.

We packed up everything, so that we would have some clothes and some food. But the gendarmes overturned the backpack, and we could keep only what they allowed. In the entrance door a gendarme took a liking for my child's boots, and made him take them off at once. And my son was left there barefoot. And so they took us to the railroad station in groups, on foot.

There were some people, who had compassion for us, and there were others, who didn't. I think there were more who didn't, because somehow it was very easy to turn people against us. But even those who would have wanted to help couldn't do it, because they didn't let anyone close to us.

So we went to the railroad station, we were put on the train and set off for the brick factory in Monor. There were countless people there already, a couple thousand. [Monor was a so-called entraining center; they concentrated here the Jewish inhabitants from the towns to the south and east of the administrative borders of Budapest.

From the Monor brick factory they deported around 7500 people to Auschwitz between the 6th and 8th July 1944]. Pregnant women, the ill and women with children were put under the roof where the bricks were kept. We were sitting on bare ground in the mud, and were happy that there was enough room for all of us to sit on the ground.

We even slept there and waited for a miracle to happen. There were serious bombings while we were at the brick factory, and I wished so much that a bomb would hit and that we would all die. So we hadn't even left Hungary and the horrors had already begun.

There was no water supply on the territory of the brick factory, so a horse carriage went for water to a farmhouse in Monor every day. My sister went to this farmhouse every day and brought food and what she could, and after I found out that she was there every day, I went somehow with the carriage every day and we met there.

We were at the brick factory for eight days altogether, and on the sixth day one of my girlfriends, who was also there with her nine-year-old daughter and her parents told me that we should escape together when the horse carriage set off.

We would have hidden in the toilet before, and when everything calmed down we would have come out and walked away. I answered that I wouldn't leave my parents, because nobody would take care of them.

At that time I thought that I might have a possibility to look after them. The strange thing was that her parents were very wealthy and raised her as a princess. Still, for her what was important was to escape with someone. I think she is comfortably off up to this day.

On the seventh day my parents were released because their daughter was the wife of a Christian man. And I stayed there with my son, whereas I could have escaped if I had gone with my girlfriend on the previous day, but my conscience didn't allow me to do it.

My poor father begged them, he almost cried, so that they would release me too, but they told him not to talk much because otherwise they would keep him there, too. I implored him not to say anything, just go, because then I would have less trouble.

They released them, and as I found out later, they were taken again two weeks later. They were taken to the internment camp in Sarvar, and they were sent to Auschwitz from there; both of them died there. [The largest internment camp of the country was in Sarvar, from where they deported 1500 Jews to Auschwitz.]

So I stayed there with my child, and we were taken in a transport the next day. My sister accompanied us to the railroad station, because we went on foot. The ones who couldn't walk were put on a carriage, and I gave my pack with the food and clothes my sister had brought to an acquaintance who was put on the carriage, so that I wouldn't have to carry it.

Of course we were taken to an entirely different place than those. I never met them again, so I didn't have food, clothes, anything on earth. It was very hot, because this happened in July. They deported us in cattle cars, and there was an incredible crowd. We traveled for three days, day and night, in awful conditions. We could hardly sit.

My child was about 192 centimeters tall, and the poor thing had to be folded as a folding ruler. He always wanted to look out the lattice window. I told him, 'My son, sit down, because that way you take up less room.' We didn't have any water or food, we didn't have anything.

There were some, who had everything, but practically they didn't eat either, or if they did, I didn't see it. They had big pack and thought that it would last them. Nobody knew what was going to happen next. It was awfully hot, and someone had pity on me and gave me a sleeping gown, and I was in that sleeping gown throughout. My legs were bad, and I wore elastic stockings, bandage.

After three days, on 12th July we arrived in Birkenau. We were set down; everyone took his belongings, and tried to protect themselves against the heat. The first thing they did was separate me from my child, they told everyone in which group to stand. There was such confusion in my head I couldn't even comprehend it.

I was standing there with my emotions numbed. Then my son turned up, hugged and kissed me and told me in tears, 'Mom, you'll see, we'll meet again, you'll see, we'll meet again!' He could think more clearly than I could. I was just trembling, I feared that they would catch him and strike him dead in front of me, because he had left his row. I just kept telling him, 'Go back my son, go back. So that nothing will happen.' And poor him tried to comfort me. This was a horror. I never saw my 15-year-old son again.

My son, who had been playing the violin for nine years, and was going to the conservatory, and whose teachers had great hopes for him! He wanted to be an artist, a violinist. Nothing has become of him. (Niece: 'According to the family legends the young Ervin was so talented, that a master who had serious Nazi bonds took on his teaching, and allegedly there was a picture of Hitler on the wall of the practice room. But there are just as many family memories saying that Ervin hated practicing, and that he was really interested in machines, in technical matters.')

So they set us down, lined us up and then set us off. The Lager [German for camp] was situated on a huge area, in fact it was a huge settlement made up of many Lagers. There was a separate Lager for men, for women and for families. Along the road on the right there were wire fences, and huge fires were burning in several spots. I didn't know what it could be. In fact nobody knew anything. Later it turned out that the huge fires were there because they had burned down the Czech family Lager the night before we arrived.

The crematorium was already filled up, and they burned bodies wherever they could. [In the summer of 1944 the crematoriums in Auschwitz couldn't bear the loading and SS regimental sergeant major Otto Moll made them dig big burning pits: nine huge (40-50 meters long, 8 meters wide and 2 meters deep) trenches altogether, where they lay three rows of bodies on top of each other, poured kerosene on them and set them on fire.]

We arrived and they directed us into a huge room, it was bigger than a riding arena. The commanders were standing there and we had to take our clothes off immediately. At one place we had a close crop, then they sprayed us with all kinds of powders from the front, from the rear, under our armpits, everywhere. Then they took us to the baths where there were showers. After they drove us out from there, they threw some clothes to everyone, not caring about sizes at all.

This doesn't mean pants, bras, underwear, stockings, and shoes. Just an article of clothing. In the meantime they didn't say a word; they treated us worse than animals. And this was only the beginning. I put on the rag; fortunately it went round me twice.

There were some unfortunates, who couldn't even put it on. Since they kept an eye on us all the time, people couldn't even exchange these rags among one another. Those who didn't fit into the clothes they had been given waited there naked. Then we set off again somewhere.

The Lager was surrounded by a great number of wires. I had no idea what the wires were. Somehow I came across the women I had traveled with. Some who could speak with the Germans were well informed and were made leaders. Unfortunately I couldn't speak German. The men went into the Czech family Lager where we had seen the fires burning.

In the Lager there were barracks, which were probably transformed from stables. We could see the rings where the animals had been tied. We were the last but one transport, and they had no place to quarter us. The Lager was so full that we stood about for a night, so we slowly learned to sleep on foot leaning against each other.

About two days later, when they gave us food, I couldn't eat, even though I was hungry. There was everything in the food, from pieces of wood onwards. I noticed that those who had been there for a longer time were able to bear things much better, because they had got used to them.

In the meantime they took away transports all the time, so places were cleared. That is how I got a plank bed, but this was a plank bed with rough boards and with gaps in between, then another board, then a gap. My shoe was my pillow, so that my head would rest a little higher. It was terrible, because we couldn't leave the plank bed either during the day or at night: we had to eat there, and there were three times more people there than it could hold. Half of the day we were standing on Zellappell [German for roll- call].

That meant that at dawn they brought us out of the barracks to the Lagerplatz [German for assembly point] and lined us up in rows of five, leaving a path between us. We had to stand there, until they changed their minds and drove us back into the barracks.

We were allowed to go to the toilet and to wash up in a group. If something happened in the meantime, they punished the person in question, because she dared to relieve herself at a different time than they allowed it.

Our life was always a close shave. I had a very interesting experience. We were standing on Zellappell, and a woman came up to me, I didn't know her, and told me to give her my hand. 'What do you want to do with it?' I asked. 'You will have a very long life,' she said to me. It was so ridiculous to hear such a thing there, because life was worth nothing there, and I told her, 'You fool, how can you say such a stupid thing? Tell me something wiser!' Then she said, 'I can't tell you anything else, but what I see.' And I was raging at the thought that someone could be that stupid.

This was all an awful situation for me. I knew full well that I had to work, do something, anything, because I couldn't stand loafing. I would have rather walked than stood about. There were transports every day, and I had to step forward all the time. Once I managed to get into the group in which they controlled everyone.

To my bad luck Dr. Mengele was the one making the selection. I went there in front of him, naked of course. I couldn't understand what he was saying. I found out only later, that they were debating whether they should send me to the gas or leave me alive for a while, because I had a physical defect, since they could see the traces of my childhood surgery.

So I was standing about there until our leader, a Polish woman pulled me away - these were all leaders, the Polish, the Slovak, because they had arrived at the Lager earlier. So then I managed to escape. I was back in the Lager again, and there was some other transport, and I stepped forward again. I had to take my clothes off again, but this time I put my clothes on my arm, so they covered my leg, and the traces of the operation couldn't be seen. So I was taken in the transport.

First they took us to the baths. We took a shower there, they gave us normal clothes, panties, but they were rather like the old fashioned flannel knickers, which had a string that had to be tied on the waist. Then we stood there and waited.

Then it turned out that there were no more transports that day, and they turned us away, but they didn't take us back anymore, but took us to a different Lager. In that Lager the conditions were entirely different, because there were no barracks, but rooms with jointed floor. There were no plank beds, we could lie only on the floor. There were no blankets, pillows, and there wasn't anything either underneath or on top of us. There wasn't as awful a strictness as in the other Lager.

We were there, I don't know for how many days. Then they grouped us again and set us off. We went to the baths again. When we got there we had to take our clothes off again and they gave us other clothes, and we could only enter the Lager after taking a shower and after we got clean clothes again. They lined us up, and they gave us real food: margarine, bread and cold cuts. I pulled the string of my panties together and I put my food in there.

So I didn't put the panties on, but used them as a string bag. They put us on trains; we were quite comfortable there. We could lie and sit. They put a bucket of coffee in the car, but it was gone within moments. They set us off on 20th August [1944], and we traveled for three days, day and night, until we arrived at a labor camp in Lubberstedt near Brema. [Lubberstedt was one of the subcamps of the Neuengamme concentration camp.]

In this Lager there were wood cabins, and on the plank beds there were blankets, or rather horse blankets. These were bunk beds. Everyone had a plank bed for herself. I had some kind of thin mattress under me, which was filled with straw.

We had to get up at dawn, they whistled, and we had to rush to be all there on time and get lined up. We never knew where we would work. We couldn't know it, because they always started setting off the groups from a different point.

Sometimes they took us to work in the bomb factory, where they produced small bombs. Sometimes they took us into the woods to pick mushrooms, and sometimes we picked stinging-nettle. That wasn't so bad: at the worst my hand became all blistery.

Sometimes they took us to plant potatoes. That was the better scenario, because we planted the potatoes in one row, and took some out of the other. Then we could eat raw potatoes at least. Sometimes they took us to transport things in mine cars.

That was very difficult, because the weather had turned very cold by then, and the rails were frozen to the ground. We had to take them up and take them to the place they ordered. Then there was the turnip cleaner, the potato cleaner and the kitchen workers. It was a good thing for someone to get to work there.

Then a change occurred: another Lagerfuhrer [German for camp director] came. This Lagerfuhrer dismissed two workers from the kitchen and I don't know for what reason, he put me in the kitchen. I didn't like it there, because the kitchen workers were from Maramaros [today Sighetul Marmatei, Romania], and they were all acquainted, friends or relatives. I didn't belong there. I became the last maid, and I had to do the hardest and dirtiest work.

First of all, they couldn't forgive the fact that I was put there and their buddies were dismissed. I don't know what the Lagerfuhrer saw in me, but in the evenings, when he went across the kitchen towards their dining room, he always asked me how I was doing. I was wondering how a man like him could become an SS. He seemed such a good man. They told me later that he was a merchant from Hamburg. You can imagine the kitchen.

There were 700-liter boilers, which I had to clean inside and out. Besides, I had to take the slag out into the slop-pails, clean the furnace chamber completely and fill it with coal every morning. I had to push up 600 kilograms of coal to the kitchen. It was winter and it was slippery, so I went more backwards than I went forward. And in the evening I had to clean that huge kitchen. Surely, I wasn't happy in the kitchen at all.

At that time I became friends with Piri [Piroska Roth]. She came in my friend, Stefi's place. Stefi was taken a couple of days before, as she was said to be pregnant. Every pregnant woman was requested to present herself because she would get double portion.

She wasn't pregnant, because we were on good terms and she was honest with me. She wasn't pregnant, but she still couldn't resist the offer because she was hungry and the double portion came in handy. I implored her in vain not to accept it because I figured she would pay a high price for it.

The pleasure lasted for about two weeks. Then they came and gathered these and took them to the gas chambers. She gave me a pocketknife and told me, 'If I don't come back, it's yours, if I come back, I'll get it back from you'. She didn't come back. I never saw her again.

Piri came in her place. I was on as good terms with Piri as with Stefi. Piri was on the 'Revier' [German for sickroom]. She was let out of the Revier, but her block had been closed, and because Stefi's place was free, she was assigned there.

I was in the barrack when she came in and told me that she had been assigned there. It was very interesting, because she came in, reached under her coat, took a potato out and wanted to give it to me. I told her not to give it to me, because I could not give her anything in return. But she insisted on it, until I accepted the potato from her.

This way I was quite obliged to her. She was quite unfortunate, because her husband had left for America, they had first got married, but she couldn't go after him, because by the time her husband had arranged all the papers, so that his wife could go after him, it wasn't possible to go at all.

So she ended up in Auschwitz with her parents. To cut a long story short, I became very good friends with this companion of mine. One needed someone to talk to, because it was very awful there. By then it was very cold, and sometimes we even slept together on my plank bed, because we could warm up each other that way. She had a blanket and I did too, and that way we had two blankets on top of us, we even covered our heads. There were countless mice; they ran up and down the blanket and everywhere. It was horrible.

When I worked in the kitchen I stole everything I could - sugar and jam, milk powder - and I gave them to Piri. She always came to the rear of the kitchen and I gave her everything I got hold of that day. I pushed a barrow of coal into the barrack because Piri was there, so that she wouldn't be cold.

We had to hide that too, because if they had found it that would have been horror. I was in the kitchen for about a month, because then the Lagerfuhrer left.

I knew full well that if he left, I would be dismissed from there at once, because this was something unnatural. And this was exactly what happened. Then the hide-and-seek started again: which group would I be assigned to? Then everything started again: going to work, the daily Zellappell, seeing where I would go, what kind of work I would get, how much I had to walk and with whom, because it meant a great deal which woman was assigned to the group, which group I got into.

Among these German overseers there were some who repelled everyone. They gave them all a nickname, so this woman's name was Cramp. The woman who hated me so much in the kitchen also took groups to work. Her name was Greti, Grete. To my bad luck after being dismissed from the kitchen I was assigned to her group. So I tried very hard not to give her a reason to pick on me, but she was always trying to do me harm.

By this time we had been there for at least a year. [Though this period might have seemed immensely long to the interviewee, in fact only a few months had passed since their deportation]. They took us to a place where there was a big mountain, rails and a freight car.

So we had to shovel earth from one place to the other until it reached the car, and the last one threw the earth into the car. I didn't pick and choose for a long time, I just stood next to the car and I was the one who shoveled the earth into the car.

It wasn't an easy job, because it was easier to shovel the earth from one place to the other, and when I had to throw it up, and I don't know how many times an hour I had to do it, I got exhausted many times. I tried to stop when Cramp saw me, so that she wouldn't think that I wasn't doing anything when she wasn't looking.

Then I don't know how many times we went day after day. I didn't even try going somewhere else, because as a matter of fact I didn't have anything against her. I did my job properly and she left me alone.

However, walking was quite difficult, because after doing it for I don't know how many days I got very exhausted. I told the liaison to tell the woman to let me rest for half an hour, because I wouldn't be able to walk back. The woman told me that she wouldn't tell her, because she didn't want to watch Cramp beat me to death.

I told her, 'Don't bother about what she is going to do, that's my problem, it's all the same to me if she beats me to death now or on the way.' And I told her, 'If you don't tell her, I ask someone who speaks German and she will tell her.' So she was forced to tell her.

Cramp said that I could lie down. I only asked for half an hour, and when I thought that the half an hour had passed, I sat up and wanted to stand up, but she came and made me a sign that I could stay, and that I would only have to get up when she whistled. And she let me lie under the tree until we set off for the Lager.

This woman told the liaison that she couldn't imagine what Grete's problem was with me, because she handed me over to her telling her to watch out for me, because I was lazy. While this woman said that I was the best worker in the whole team.

Winter came and I started making turbans, because we were cold. We marched to the workplace bare headed in the terrible cold, and it was so cold, that icicles were hanging from our heads. We had no coat or stockings on our feet. My leg was shiny like a mirror, and red like a roast, and swollen.

Food was like drinking water to me. It was substantial only at the beginning, and then it fell off very quickly. The food became worse and worse. At the end I could say that we ate lukewarm water. There wasn't even a gram of salt in it, there wasn't anything at all in it. Turnips were floating in it, three-four pieces, and that was it.

There wasn't any fat or salt in it. It wasn't substantial at all. Our life was terribly uncertain. We had no topics to talk about, we only talked about cooking and eating, and that's how we indulged ourselves. We had no coats all winter, and then in April they gave us coats, and told us that everyone should undo one sleeve and give it to someone else. The coats indicated that we were prisoners. Every coat had to be of a different color.

Then on 10th April [1945] they didn't take us to work, but they grouped us and set us off. We went on foot, then they put us on trains. There was a German soldier in every car guarding us. They didn't give us anything to eat. We traveled in the car, and in the end we stopped in Lubeck.

Everyone was very hungry, we became quite weak, and those who wanted could get off, and some scratched about the garbage heap for some food. We were in Lubeck for a couple days at the railroad station, and then suddenly they started the car. It turned out -because there was always someone who heard what the Germans were talking about - that they set off because their enemy, not ours, was getting closer. If they had left us there, we would have been set free that day, but unfortunately they took us on to flee with them.

The train was on its way, and then the tragedy started, when American dive- bombers in groups of three appeared in the sky and fired at the car. Needless to say, the train stopped on open track and everyone started jumping off the car.

Those who jumped off remained there in a pile, one on top of another, because in the meantime they were shooting with machine guns. I went out all the way to the plateau of the car, where one stands before getting off. I slipped out all the way, so that they couldn't push me off, and I looked around to see how I could jump off, because we were terribly high up. The car was on a high embankment, and under it there was a deep ditch.

There was nothing to be done; I measured slowly and leisurely until I finally jumped down. Some kind of a miracle happened, because I didn't hurt myself at all. I felt maybe for the first and last time in my life as if my mother had taken me in her arms and put me down carefully.

Everyone ran where they could. The Germans of course were shouting that nobody should leave, and that if we stayed there we would be liberated. We let ourselves be led like cattle, and that had always been the problem: that we always gave in. We sat about for a couple of hours, and the Germans rushed and ran to drive us together, so that not even one of us would leave.

They attacked the train in which we were in two waves, but nobody got hurt. When we set off we left the injured there, and they cried 'Don't leave us here! Take us along! Don't let us die here!' But nobody cared about them.

Then we traveled for a while, and sometime at night or in the evening we arrived at a railroad station. They got us off the train and set off with us on foot, and we settled in a forest. We spent the night there. The next morning they took us to the railroad station and put us on trains. When we were all in the car, someone shouted 'don't give in, because they want to blow up the car, it is cease-fire and they are not allowed to shoot!' We jumped all off the cars like automates.

They weren't allowed to shoot, so they started hosing us to drive us back in the car, but we didn't give in. We swam in the water, but didn't go in the car. Suffice it to say this lasted quite a long while until we became settled. The boss of the Lager didn't force us anymore, and led us back to the forest where we had spent the previous night. In the morning, at daybreak we looked around and it turned out that there weren't any Germans around us. The German soldiers and German women who had been watching us had all disappeared.

They didn't care for us at all. After that nobody cared for us. English soldiers came, but they weren't invaders, only passers-through, so they didn't care for us either. I was very desperate; I was walking on the road and didn't see any soldiers, only civilians, because everyone threw away everything that could remind them of the fact that they were once soldiers.

There was an Italian Lager, and we set off to find something. At the garbage heap we found all kinds of rotten potatoes and cabbage leaves and we gathered things like that. One brought this, the other one brought that, one got hold of some instant soup, the other one of frozen fish. It was eight of us who assembled and I told them that I could cook, because I hadn't been able to get hold of anything. So I cooked food in a slop-pail, which had everything in it, from frozen fish to cabbage leaf onwards, and what we could gather at the garbage heap.

We didn't get sick, probably because the food didn't have any fat in it, only vegetables. Then they gathered us again, and took us to a Lager, which looked like a hospital; there were white iron beds with mattresses and duvets. There was even a table in the middle of the room.

Everyone had their own bed, and we could live in normal circumstances. I only know that I still didn't have anything to eat, I couldn't get hold of anything, so someone gave me some mustard, and someone else gave me some frozen fish, but I had nothing else to eat. I put the mustard on the frozen fish and I ate a soup-plate full of frozen fish. I fell very sick.

And later, when they distributed food, I couldn't eat, because I had an upset stomach. The most beautiful was, that it didn't make me sad, and I kept saying that it was good that I had an upset stomach, because that way I could save the food and that I would have enough later.

They distributed canned food in boxes, these were meant as provision for the soldiers for 24 hours: stock cube, chocolate, biscuit, milk powder, sugar and such things. By the time I was feeling better, I wasn't so hungry anymore: I couldn't eat all the food at once, because one usually wants more than she is able to take.

Then they transported us from here too. The English army liberated us, because the English occupied these territories. They transported us with trucks to the shore of the Eastern Sea; I don't recall the name of the place anymore.

They occupied a private territory where there were cottages, weekend houses. They put us up in these weekend houses. These houses were all furnished in a different way; there was a kitchen in all of them, some of them with a hot plate, some with a stove. Some got together and cooked together.

By then my friend Piri wasn't with me anymore. As soon as we were liberated she made contact with the English leaders, because her husband was an American soldier. So after we were set free she went straight to America.

She was very nice, because before leaving she told me to write a letter to whomever I wanted, and that she would send it along. Besides that she brought me shoes and everything she could get hold of, because she had more possibilities, more freedom of movement. We corresponded until her death.

So after Piri left, another companion of mine and I decided that we would get on well. I didn't want communal accommodation, because I'd had enough of the crowd. We occupied the attic of a summer cottage. We could climb up there on a chicken ladder.

One could straighten out only in one spot, at its pointed spot. It had a window, too. This tiny room was very skillfully furnished, because there was everything one needed. The sea was in front of us. If we looked out the window, there were two ships slanting aside, sunk.

One was 'Deutschland,' a German ship, the other one was a Dutch ship, 'Kapakona.' We were told that the two ships had been blown up. People started to escape from the ship, because it wasn't far from the shore. But those who tried to swim were shot. I didn't see this; I only saw the bodies, because they were washed ashore.

All the bloated bodies lay there, they were snow-white, as the salt ate into them. They were five times bigger, than normal, they were so bloated. I didn't even go to the shore, I said, 'I'm getting sick at the sight of this.'

They brought us raw food every day. They distributed meat or fish or vegetables, and everyone could do with it what they liked. We weren't starving anymore, but our bodies were very starved. For example once I was so hungry that I couldn't sleep, so I got up in the middle of the night and cooked a pot of oatmeal. I woke my companion and we sat next to it and ate all of it. Then we went to bed and could sleep, because we had got enough.

I made up all kinds of things out of this raw food. I made stuffed cabbage for example, with stock cube and oatmeal. I made up things like this every day, so I always cooked something different. My friend was from Romania, from Nagyvarad, and she was a skillful woman, an English tailor. We sewed all the time, of course by hand, because I had no machine.

We were wearing rags; while we were in the Lager we had worn the same rag. You can imagine in what a condition that was by the time we were liberated. There were some, who couldn't sew, so they got hold of some material, and in exchange for food we sewed for them. We even got cigarettes.

The woman who was our interpreter in the labor camp was our leader here, too; we worked for her the most. She moved into the nicest summer cottage, and there were a lot of things there. We worked very much; we even made suitcases out of fabric. Everyone tried to get herself something, to get dressed by the time we would set off.

However there were no transports, it didn't even occur to them that they should take us home. We were set free in May, but in July we were still there. They organized a transport for the Czechs, but nobody organized a transport for the Hungarians. The Hungarians were not taken home by anybody; they only organized a Hungarian transport in 1946.

I didn't know that the Czechs were taken to Bohemia [Czechoslovakia] via Budapest. If I had known I would have got home a couple of months earlier. Soon they gathered us, too because they evacuated the area. They put us again on trucks and took us to Neustadt.

It wasn't very good there, because we got very small rooms and there were more of us in a room. But there we had freedom of movement; everyone could go wherever she wanted. With this companion of mine I decided to go to other Lagers to see if we could find anyone we knew or some relatives.

I had no idea if I had anyone from my family left. I believed that my parents had stayed at home. I didn't know what had happened to my child, I didn't know what had happened to my husband. Then an ambulance came to Neustadt, and it turned out that it was going to Bergen-Belsen, and it took us along.

There were many 'Haftlinge' [German for prisoners] gathered at an army post. They also went there from here and there, and almost all of those who had been at the Bergen-Belsen camp initially died. It turned out that the women from Kispest who had gone to Bergen-Belsen all died. [Thousands died even in the last weeks, after the liberation around 30 thousand prisoners died of hunger and illnesses].

Those, who didn't go down with typhoid, were put among the sick ones to die, because at that time there weren't any crematoriums anymore, they didn't burn the bodies, so they killed people any way they could.

As it turned out, all of my acquaintances died there, in Bergen-Belsen. It was thanks to a slap in the face that I didn't leave with that transport. At that time I wanted to stay together with the women from Kispest, but I got a huge slap in the face, because I didn't turn around when the German said, 'Face about!' It was thanks to this slap that I survived, because this way I was taken elsewhere.

Here, in Bergen-Belsen they didn't really take care of us, it was kind of a temporary accommodation. I met two or three people from Kispest who survived, and we discussed that we should set off for home somehow.

Then we met a group, which was Romanian. Their leader was a very smart man, and he agreed that we should join them. We were lucky, because nobody really liked Hungarians. Wherever we went he always told us to keep quiet, so they wouldn't know that we were Hungarians.

• Post-war

We left in August, I don't know what day, but it took a long time to get home. First we went to Hanover. When we arrived somewhere we always looked for the offices where the Jewish Haftlinge got money. But the money was useless; we didn't get anything for it. Wherever we went there were burnt- out houses everywhere.

We traveled in cattle cars, on top of a train filled with coal; sometimes we even traveled on a bumper. We could wash ourselves at the railroad stations. Sometimes they pushed us off the train. I was lucky not to hurt myself, because my backpack was on my back and I fell on it. Before the train set off again, I climbed back on again.

There were times when I traveled all night on a platform and I could only put one foot on the ground, because there wasn't any more room. We arranged for food before we left. There were five or six of us, women, from Pest.

As long as I had food, I always offered some to everyone else, but when I ran out of mine, nobody thought of giving me some. They ate secretly, so they wouldn't have to share with anyone else. Only my companion and I ate and took care of each other equally.

So, with great difficulties we arrived in Pozsony. It was evening there and we saw Russian soldiers already. As a matter of fact I had already seen the Russian soldiers in the cars. What they did all night! They went through all the cars and took people's baggage.

My backpack was put in the passageway. They trampled on it all night, but nobody thought of picking it up. So my backpack and everything inside it was spared. By daybreak this looting ceased. Then we arrived at Keleti station. There they received us, and gave us each a slice of bread with jam.

They took us on horse carriages - at that time, they used those - to the school on Dozsa Gyorgy Street, which they had equipped for the Haftlinge, and they told me, 'here is a plank bed, it's yours.' I thought that if I had to spend the night there because I didn't have anyone to go to, I would kill myself. 'It can't be true that I must go on like this.' I endured all this in the hope to meet my family.

Two of my mother's sisters lived the closest to Dozsa Gyorgy Street, and I set off to look for them. I found two of my aunts and my uncle and his children. They had been in the ghetto [the Budapest ghetto], 7 but had been liberated in January or February already, and went home. I told them that I wanted to go to my sister's to Kispest, to find her, because I hoped that she was alive and my parents, too.

My aunts didn't know anything about my sister, or about anyone for that matter. My two aunts came with me, and we went to look for my sister. My sister wasn't at home at that time. My aunt told me to go back to Pest with them and sleep at their place. I was about to get on the streetcar to go back with my aunts, when people I knew got off; people with whom I went to Auschwitz together, but they were taken elsewhere.

They were very happy to see me, and told me to sleep at their place. I told my two aunts, that I would rather sleep at my acquaintances', even if I didn't find my sister that day, because the next morning I had to report myself officially here, in Kispest, where I had been taken from.

Then we went together to see if my sister had arrived home in the meantime. Thank God, she had suffered no harm; thanks to her Christian husband, she was not harmed. You can imagine her joy! The truth is that I was very indifferent, I couldn't be happy about anything. I stayed at my sister's and didn't go with the acquaintances anymore.

On the first day there weren't any problems, because my sister told me that she had heard news about my son, and he was alive. It turned out that my parents had been deported, which I didn't know about. In the meantime it turned out that my husband hadn't come back either, so I didn't have him either anymore. But when I found out that my son was alive, I thought, 'Thank God, at least my child is alive, and I can bear the blow.'

Then, in a couple days, husbands of women who had been taken to Bergen-Belsen came to me, and they told me, that they had been with my child. I found out from them that my child was no longer alive. It turned out that he had left with a transport for the ill, but he wasn't ill, he was just very attached to a man from Kispest, whom he knew from home. This was a very wealthy man, he was a merchant here in Kispest and he had a shop.

This man was a deputy, a very cultured, intelligent man, and my child liked to be around him. Everyone needed someone to talk to. Everyone needed someone to belong to. Those who didn't have a child, sister, brother, mother or father or I don't know whom, made friends with acquaintances.

I was the only one from my [immediate] family who came home, nobody else. My brother was killed with his family. They killed his six-year-old son, his wife and him. The fact that my sister survived is a miracle, because many of those who remained at home perished too, because there was bombing and the siege and things like that.

My sister didn't feel the danger she was in. She was just waiting for us to come home. She always hoped that my child would come home. Starting with the jam, which was my child's favorite, she made everything. She was planning with her husband to send him to school.

I got home with nothing but the clothes on me. Strangers lived in my house, and they received me with such hostility, as if I were I don't know what. My sin was that the house was mine. Five families lived in my house, and the occupants of the house were bossing everyone about like the communists. I wasn't even able to put in a word. I couldn't go to stay there.

My sister told me to stay with them, of course. But as a matter of fact I was in an awful state then. I lost my confidence. It is very difficult to remember this, because this is an awful period of my life, I couldn't get over all that had happened; it wasn't possible in a short time.

My only desire was to die, because I thought that I couldn't survive this. My sister could hardly raise my spirit. I was only sorry for my sister, because she was so happy that I had arrived, and she had a lot of plans.

She had opened the shop before I arrived, because she had got a notice that relatives could open the shops which had been closed before, but if nobody opened them from the family they would have been given to someone else.

To make sure that my shop wouldn't be lost, she opened it, but it had been completely robbed. Nobody wanted hats; they started making Russian soldier caps. They went with a truck in front of the shop for the caps. Those who were smart could get hold of many things in this period, but my sister was afraid of everything. Once a Russian soldier brought her a bag of flour, but she didn't accept it.

I just looked at things totally helplessly. I didn't hope for anything. My life became empty. When I entered the shop it was as if it hadn't been mine, as if I were a stranger. I was a stranger in my sister's house; I was a stranger in my shop.

My trade wasn't worth anything anymore, nobody wore hats, they were happy if they had food, and didn't think of wearing a hat. Everyone wore shawls. Rich, poor, everyone wore shawls. At first I tried to fit into my sister's life. I went to the shop, kept my sister's household, went shopping, cooked, cleaned. They were busy all day long. They had their office in Pest, her husband was an architect, and worked all over the place and my sister managed the office.

They had very much work, because of the reconstruction, because the whole country was in ruins. The construction engineers had a lot of work. They had their income too; they didn't feel the need of anything.

I can't complain either, because they were respecting all my desires. I didn't want to give up the shop, because I was hoping to get on somehow. One shop had been given up anyway, the one which had been my husband's. If I had opened that one, I would have been luckier with it, because textile shops were still going well, but the hat shop wasn't.

So I kept the shop until around 1947, I paid the rent. I had no income, and 90 percent of my wealth got lost, because all the things I gave to this and that got lost; I didn't get anything back. The Russians took everything. And even if it wasn't the Russian who took it, people still said it was the Russians [while in reality they had taken it themselves]. My poor father gave many things from the shop to different people, so that he would have something after the war. But we didn't get anything back from those either. All my jewelry got lost, too.

My sister bought a partly ruined condominium. Their plan was to repair it, sell it and buy another one. When they finished repairing a room and the kitchen of their condominium they moved in, and gave me their house in Kispest.

This was a very nice two-bedroom-house, with all modern conveniences, a single house in a garden full of fruit trees. In the meantime I sold my house too, because it was pointless to do anything with it. I couldn't have satisfied the occupiers, I couldn't have given a house to them to win my house back.

So I gave it away for almost free. I sold the shop too, but I was luckier with it, because the shop wasn't mine, I only rented it. I sold the rented property for almost as much as my house, my five-bedroom-house with a 151 square meter plot.

As a matter of fact I took over my sister's house before I got married to my second husband. My second husband, Jozsef Barsony, was a single young man. At this time there were many men and women who wanted to marry, because in the deportation many of them had lost their wife or husband. But I didn't want to marry someone who had had a wife and child.

I didn't want to hear all the time about what his wife or children had been like, or to raise his child as poorly as I was raised, because my mother didn't raise me. I had several suitors, but I chose whom I chose because he had never had a wife or a child, and had no desire for a child.

I wasn't in love at all with my second husband either. He loved me in his own way, married me, but he still lived his own life, which didn't bother me at all. My husband liked to entertain. I was rather inclined to recall my memories, and it was very good that he was able to raise my spirit.

I always went along with him, because he didn't go anywhere without me. He was known everywhere. At the Moulin Rouge the crowd was standing outside, they couldn't get in, but if he saw us, the doorman waved at us. I had to watch every show, whether I liked it or not.

My second husband was also Jewish, but he had converted, because he thought that it would help him avoid deportation. But he was deported just as if he hadn't converted. He lost his mother, because they were taken to the ghetto. His mother survived the ghetto, but when they went back to their own house, there were no windows, she got a cold, and then she got pneumonia and died.

By the time her son came home she had already died. He had an older brother, born in 1901. When we got married he told me to convert. I told him, 'I went through with the whole deportation, I lost all my family and came home alone.

Do you seriously think that I will convert now? I haven't the slightest intention of doing so.' We only had a civil marriage, and not a church ceremony. They asked us if we wanted a 'reversale' [Reversale -the marrying parties agree on which parent's religion their children to be born would follow.] We didn't. I didn't have the slightest intention of giving birth to a child, even though I was still young, but I just didn't want to. And besides I couldn't imagine my husband raising a child.

My husband didn't want to live in Kispest, so we only lived there for a year. It was very difficult to advertise and exchange the house somehow. The one who swapped with me was luckier with the swap, because I got for my house only a one and a half-bedroom-apartment in the 7th district, and we had to spend a lot of money to make it habitable.

I didn't want to move because so many things tied me to that neighborhood... Then I thought that maybe it would be better for me, because I could get rid of my memories, if I didn't stay in Kispest. But I know now that one can't get rid of herself, but carries her memories along. I only know that there isn't any moment of the day when I don't remember my family members, all those whom I had and who left me, especially my child, who would be 70 years old now, if he were alive, but his short life only lasted for 15 years.

When I met my husband he had been a taxi owner. At that time the taxi license could be inherited from the parents, and his father had three children and three licenses. Every child got a license. My husband rented his older brother's license and his older sister's license, so he had three cars running.

I had no reason to complain because I wasn't lacking anything materially. But soon after, he became a class enemy because of his taxis, because he didn't hand in his cars to the co-operative, and they took his license earlier, and he could hardly find a job as a taxi driver.

In 1956 8 we didn't take part in anything, but his boss dismissed my husband, he would have dismissed him even earlier, because my husband always criticized the boss. The boss took a couple of men, who had really done something, and said, 'If you speak against Barsony, if you say this and write that, than you can keep your job'. So after the revolution they took his license. At first he couldn't get a proper job, only one as a car washer.

This was very difficult, because there were all kinds of gas, petrol vapor, exhaust gas. He came home and told me, that he wouldn't go there anymore. I told him, 'If you don't go to work anymore, then your benefactors will say that you don't want to work for this regime. You must work, whether you like it or not. But it isn't your duty to work where you feel the worse. Work where you can get fresh air and that's it.' So he went to work somehow, and suffered no harm.

Then a more permissive period came, and one could get his license back, and he became a truck driver, a trucker. He liked to work, he was only sorry about not going to work as a truck driver earlier. He would have made a lot more money. The point is that he was a skillful man. He quickly found his feet everywhere. I really wouldn't have needed to work, because he earned as much as we needed.

1956 was rather exciting for me because my Icuka [Icuka is the daughter of Erzsebet Barsony's sister, Margit Toth.] was born then. I really wanted her, because I didn't want a child. My sister divorced her husband, and had a boyfriend who didn't want the child; he already had a child, and wasn't a good father to him either.

They could have had three children before, but she had aborted all three. I convinced her to give birth to this one. And besides my sister was so much in love with that man. The relationship lasted for five years, but I knew it wouldn't last. And 1956 came, which nobody had counted on and the man emigrated.

He broke up with her and emigrated the day the baby was born. I wanted the child, because my sister would have been capable of killing herself because of this man, and I couldn't be around her all the time.

After that she didn't want anyone anymore. This was such a big love for her that nobody could replace him. She was 37 when her daughter was born, and lived her life without ever having a man again. Her former husband wanted to marry her again, and he would have taken her with her daughter. She didn't go back to him. Then she raised the girl with my help. It felt just like the girl was mine.

I was at home until 1953. My husband didn't want me to work, but I told him that I wanted to have my own pension later. It didn't matter to me at all what I was doing, or how much I was paid. I went to a co-operative, which was very close to our house. I worked there for ten years. We made toys, plastic toys and carpets, and we cut painter rollers as well. I went to work even after I retired [in 1963], because I had a possibility then to run a knitwear works, the Reitter knitwear works.

The owners were Jewish too, but the kind that had stopped observing religion. They told me that I didn't have to do anything but sell the existing clothes. The shop was a co- tenancy, there was a tailor, a man who made ladies' wear, blouses, and in the meantime he sold their knitwear.

They shared the shop-window, and they shared the shop. The twist sweaters came in fashion at that time. [Twist sweater: a slipover, long sleeved, V-neck, woolen sweater, which was considered almost a uniform among the youth (Kozák Gyula: Lábjegyzetek a hatvanas évek Magyarországa monográfiához /manuscript/)].

I was a businesswoman, and I knew that something had to be done, that one had to grasp whatever came about. I thought that I shouldn't sit there idly and wait for the customers, when nobody wanted what we had. I bought the thread, had it knitted, assembled and then I sold it, and this went on unceasingly.

Meanwhile they bought other things, too. The shop prospered. I was there until the age of 60. I could have been there longer, but I couldn't stand that couple. They kept making a fool of the employees and they never paid them on time. Then I noticed that they were mistrustful, and I wouldn't put up with that. They begged me in vain to go back, but I didn't.

After the war, even though my husband was converted, we observed Jewish traditions. We paid the Jewish community tax, went to the synagogue, and we had our seat in the synagogue. We didn't keep this in secret during 1956 either. When my husband died, we buried him according to the Jewish tradition in the Jewish cemetery in Rakoskeresztur.

I have never been a party member. When I came home from the deportation my sister told me that all who had come home from the deportation joined the Socialist Party [that is, the Hungarian Communist Party]. I told her, that they could join it, but I wouldn't join anything.

My husband was thinking about emigrating to Israel, but I didn't want to. I told him that I had built a home already. I told him to go, and if he succeeded I would go after him. But he knew full well, that I wouldn't go.

So we never went to Israel, even though we had relatives there, my first husband's youngest sister, who had emigrated already in 1939 with her two children and her husband. We kept in touch of course. We also talked about emigrating to South America, though I didn't really want to. It was already after the war. We had everything set, but the papers our relative sent us from Brazil were embezzled.

My only journey abroad was in 1967 when I went to visit my friend Piri [in the USA]. She was waiting for me at the airport, we met and all the staff flocked around us, the personnel of the airplane, a lot of people, and they hugged and kissed us.

What happened was that while Piri was waiting at the airport, she told a couple of employees the way we had met, and they found the story so touching, that when I arrived they welcomed us, standing around us.

At that time Piri's entire family was alive, and they were all in Pennsylvania. We were invited elsewhere every day... I visited her once more before her death, in 1995, she was very happy, and I was too. This was our last encounter.

After 1989 nothing changed. They still idolize money, and there are still poor and rich people. However, there is no middle class anymore. I don't complain, because I live on my pension, I get a pension from Germany, and I also get life-annuity from the Hungarian State. I am a saver; I don't even spend my pension.

I came to live here because of my sister's daughter, because I lived in the 7th district and I had a much bigger apartment. But this suits me; I don't need a bigger one. What would I want it for being by myself?

• Glossary:

1 Anti-Jewish laws in Hungary: Following similar legislation in Nazi Germany, Hungary enacted three Jewish laws in 1938, 1939 and 1941. The first law restricted the number of Jews in industrial and commercial enterprises, banks and in certain occupations, such as legal, medical and engineering professions, and journalism to 20% of the total number.

This law defined Jews on the basis of their religion, so those who converted before the short-lived Hungarian Soviet Republic in 1919, as well as those who fought in World War I, and their widows and orphans were exempted from the law.

The second Jewish law introduced further restrictions, limiting the number of Jews in the above fields to 6 percent, prohibiting the employment of Jews completely in certain professions such as high school and university teaching, civil and municipal services, etc.

It also forbade Jews to buy or sell land and so forth. This law already defined Jews on more racial grounds in that it regarded baptized children that had at least one non-converted Jewish parent as Jewish. The third Jewish law prohibited intermarriage between Jews and non-Jews, and defined anyone who had at least one Jewish grandparent as Jewish.

2 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.

3 Hungarian Soviet Republic: The first, short-lived, proletarian dictatorship in Hungary. On 21st March 1919 the Workers' Council of Budapest took over power from the bourgeois democratic government and declared the Hungarian Soviet Republic.

The temporary constitution declared that the Republic was the state of the workers and peasants and it aimed at putting an end to their exploitation and establishing a socialist economic and social system.

The communist government nationalized industrial and commercial enterprises, and socialized housing, transport, banking, medicine, cultural institutions, and large landholdings. In an effort to secure its rule the government used arbitrary violence.

Revolutionary tribunals ordered almost 600 executions and the government also resorted to violence to expropriate grain from peasants. This violence and the regime's moves against the clergy also shocked many Hungarians. The Republic was defeated by the entry of Romanian troops, who broke through Hungarian lines on 30th July, occupied and looted Budapest, and ousted Kun's Soviet Republic on 1st August 1919.

4 Civil school: This type of school was created in 1868. Originally it was intended to be a secondary school but in its finally established format, it did not provide a secondary level education with graduation (maturity examination).

Pupils attended it for four years after finishing elementary school. As opposed to classical secondary school, the emphasis in the civil school was on modern and practical subjects (e.g. modern languages, accounting, economics).

While the secondary school prepared children to enter university, the civil school provided its graduates with the type of knowledge which helped them find a job in offices, banks, as clerks, accountants, secretaries, or to manage their own business or shop.

5 Anschluss: The annexation of Austria to Germany. The 1919 peace treaty of St. Germain prohibited the Anschluss, to prevent a resurgence of a strong Germany. On 12th March 1938 Hitler occupied Austria, and with popular approval, annexed it as the province of Ostmark.

In April 1945 Austria regained independence, which was legalized in the Austrian State Treaty in 1955

6 Yellow star houses: The system of exclusively Jewish houses, which acted as a form of hostage taking was introduced by the Hungarian authorities in June 1944 in Budapest.

The authorities believed that if they concentrated all the Jews of Budapest in the ghetto, the Allies would not attack it, but if they placed such houses all over Budapest, especially near important public buildings it was a kind of guarantee. Jews were only allowed to leave such houses for two hours a day to buy supplies and such.

7 Budapest Ghetto: An order issued on 29th November 1944 required all Jews living in Budapest to move into the ghetto by 5th December 1944.

The last ghetto in Europe, it consisted of 162 buildings in the central district of Pest (East side of the Danube). Some 75,000 people were crowded into the area with an average of 14 people per room. The quarter was fenced in with wooden planks and had four entrances, although those living inside were forbidden to come out, while others were forbidden to go in.

There was also a curfew from 4pm. Its head administrator was Miksa Domonkos, a reservist captain, and leader of the Jewish Council (Judenrat).

Dressed in uniform, he was able to prevail against the Nazis and the police many times through his commanding presence. By the time the ghetto was liberated on 18th January 1945, approx. 5,000 people had died there due to cold weather, starvation, bombing and the intrusion of Arrow Cross commandos.

8 1956- It designates the Revolution, which started on 23rd October 1956 against Soviet rule and the communists in Hungary.

It was started by student and worker demonstrations in Budapest and began with the destruction of Stalin's gigantic statue. Moderate communist leader Imre Nagy was appointed as prime minister and he promised reform and democratization.

The Soviet Union withdrew its troops, which had been stationed in Hungary since the end of World War II, but they returned after Nagy's declaration that Hungary would pull out of the Warsaw Pact to pursue a policy of neutrality. The Soviet army put an end to the uprising on 4th November and mass repression and arrests began.

About 200,000 Hungarians fled from the country. Nagy and a number of his supporters were executed. Until 1989 and the fall of the communist regime, the Revolution of 1956 was officially considered a counter-revolution.

Nina Polubelova
Riga
Latvia
Interviewer: Ella Levitskaya
Date of interview: July 2005

I interviewed Nina Polubelova in the premises of the social center Rahamim, which is under the auspice of the Latvian Society of Jewish Culture 1. Nina is a member of Rahamim's choir. I came to the choir premises and had to wait for the rehearsal to end. While I waited, I listened to the choir. It was amazing. Elderly people, even those who could hardly stand, were singing in beautiful, clear, inspired voices. I think that their singing would touch anybody. When the rehearsal was over, Nina with her eyes scintillating came up to me. Later on, after hearing her life story, I understood how important the choir was for her reviving background, being cut away by Soviet life, coming back to friends and like-minded people. Nina is a buxom, bright woman. She looks young for her age. She has nice neatly done fair hair and bright young-looking eyes. She is sociable, affable, and willing to reminisce over the past.

My father's family lived in Riga. There was a Jewish pale of settlement 2 in tsarist Russia, and Jews with the exception of doctors, lawyers and merchants weren't permitted to settle in big Latvian cities. My paternal grandfather, Zalman Levin, dealt with timbering. He evidently got a permit to reside in Riga. Grandmother Hanna was a housewife, which was customary back in that time. Married Jewish women didn't work as they were looked after by their husbands. I don't know where my grandparents were born. All I know is that they were both from Belarus. My father never told me how his parents came to move Latvia. Maybe he didn't know either. My father and his siblings were born in Riga.

My father was the eldest. He was born in 1904 and named Meyer. Samuel was born after my father. The third child was a daughter, who was given the Russian name 3 Rosa, and her Jewish name was Reizl. Then came Vulf. I don't know when my father's siblings were born. The gap between them wasn't big; it was between one and two years.

My grandfather was in charge of timber stock. He purchased logs in wholesale. They were processed at his enterprise and then that timber was sold further. The family did well. I don't know if they had their own house.

My father's family was religious, observing all Jewish traditions. I remember that my grandfather always wore a kippah at home. My grandmother wore high-necked dark dresses: woolen in wintertime and silk in summer. She had dark-colored dresses even in summer. My grandmother didn't wear a wig. Her hair was done in a roll, backcombed over the forehead. Jewish traditions were observed in my father's family; Sabbath and Jewish holidays were marked. On holidays the whole family went to the synagogue. My father and his siblings got Jewish education. Each of them had a bar mitzvah at the age of 13.

My grandfather understood the importance of a good education and assisted his children in that. Of course, everybody in the family knew Yiddish, but Russian was mostly spoken. At that time Latvia belonged to the Russian empire and the national language was Russian. All children were fluent in German. My father went to a Russian lyceum in Riga. Probably the rest of the children also studied there, I can't say for sure. Having graduated from the lyceum my father entered Riga University. I don't know which department. At that time there was an admittance quota for Jews in institutions of higher education, i.e. 5 percent 4 out of the overall number of students. Upon graduation from the university, my father spent some time in Paris, France. I don't know anything about that period of his life.

None of my father's brothers followed in the footsteps of my grandfather. Samuel and Vulf had a joint venture, but they had nothing to do with timbering. I don't know what they did for a living by 1940. Both of them were married. Of course, they married Jews; it couldn't have been otherwise in a traditional Jewish family. I vaguely remember Samuel's first wife. Samuel's son Valentin was born in 1930 in his first marriage. He had a daughter: Noemi, my coeval, in the second marriage. Vulf married a Jewish girl from Riga. I think her Jewish name was Rohl. She was tenderly called Raya in the family. Their only daughter Sarah was born in 1938. Of course, both brothers had traditional Jewish weddings. My father's sister Rosa immigrated to Paris in the late 1920s. I knew that she worked there, but I don't know where exactly. In Paris Rosa married a French Jew. I don't remember his first name, but his last name was Zilberman. Rosa's husband was a boxer and our kin didn't approve of that marriage. Their only son Lucien was born in Paris in 1936.

My mother's family lived in the small Latvian town Krustpils, not far from Riga. My grandparents were born in Latvia. I think my maternal grandfather was born in Krustpils. I don't know anything about my grandmother. My grandfather's name was Leib Levites, I don't know Grandmother's name. She died long before I was born. We didn't even have her picture. My grandfather owned an apothecary in Krustpils. My grandmother took care of the household. They had two daughters: my mother Rosa, born in 1905, was the elder one, and her sister Irina was born in 1910. Of course, my mother and her sister had Jewish names, but I don't know them.

Krustpils was a Jewish town like most small Latvian towns. Most of them were included in the pale of settlement, so sometimes there were more Jews in those towns than Letts, Russians, and Germans. Most of Krustpils Jewish population were craftsmen. All town tailors were Jews. Most tinsmiths, joiners, hairdressers and locksmiths were Jews as well. There were small shops in the houses of the hosts, where one or two people worked. There were large workshops with hired people. The trade was mostly under Jewish control. There were big and small shops, where poor people could buy necessary goods even on credit. There was local Jewish intelligentsia: doctors, pharmacists, teachers, and lawyers. There was a synagogue and a shochet in Krustpils. Apart from cheder there was also a compulsory Jewish school. Jewish families from Krustpils had a traditional Jewish mode of life. Probably in small towns like that, where almost all the people knew each other, nobody would take a risk in being a freethinker. Jewish people married only Jews. Traditional Jewish weddings were mandatory. I know that from my mother. I was in Krustpils only in my childhood. Now the town has changed.

My mother's parents observed Jewish traditions. Sabbath was always observed, and Jewish holidays were marked. On holidays the whole family went to the synagogue. Nobody worked on Saturdays and my grandfather's apothecary was closed. My grandmother observed the kashrut. I don't know where my mother and her sister got Jewish education, but both of them knew how to read in Ivrit and knew the prayers. My mother and her sister went to a Russian lyceum. After the Russian Revolution of 1917 5, Jews in Russia got a permit to live in any cities they chose, and they moved to Riga. My grandmother died in Krustpils and was buried in the Jewish cemetery. My grandfather settled in Riga with his daughters.

My grandfather closed down his business in Riga. My mother began working as a pharmacist in a private apothecary. She was educated, but I don't know the details. My mother had worked for a year in the apothecary and in that time she met my father. Her sister Irina also studied somewhere besides the lyceum. Irina worked as a librarian. She took vocal lessons. Irina left her job after getting married. Her husband was a Jew from Riga: Ieruhim Gurvich. They didn't have children.

I don't know how my parents met. I know for sure that it wasn't a pre- arranged marriage. They must have had a traditional Jewish wedding, as both my paternal and maternal grandparents were religious and wouldn't have agreed to a secular wedding. At that time my grandparents' opinion was of importance.

After the wedding my parents rented an apartment. It was a big four-room apartment in downtown. My mother kept working after getting married. I was born in 1933. I was named Nina. When I was born, my mother didn't want to quit her job and become a housewife. My parents hired a baby-sitter for me. My mother did all the work about the house. The baby-sitter was Lett from a village. She lived with our family. Her bed was in the children's room. When I got older, I had a governess instead of a baby-sitter. She spoke Lettish and German with me, and it was she who taught me those languages. I knew German best of all. I spent my childhood with those two loving women. My parents worked and came back home in the evening, but they always found time to play with me, to read me a book and tuck me in.

Russian was spoken at home. When my parents wanted to conceal something from me, they spoke French. I understood Yiddish since childhood as my paternal grandparents spoke it. My father spoke Yiddish with his brothers in the presence of my grandparents. If they weren't around, Russian was spoken. Apart from Yiddish, my grandparents knew Russian and German.

On Sabbath and Jewish holidays we went to see my grandparents. My father's brothers came there with their families. I was close with my cousins and always was happy to see them. On Sabbath my grandmother lit candles and prayed over them. Then everybody sat at a festive table. I remember my grandfather blessing the bread before starting a meal. On Jewish holidays my father, his brothers and my grandfather went to the synagogue, and my grandmother went there with her daughters-in-law and grandchildren. After the synagogue everybody came to their parents' place. My grandmother was a great cook. I remember how tasty her dishes were. The holidays were marked with all rules being observed. All men wore kippot. My grandfather put his kippah on every day, but my father and his brothers only on Sabbath and holidays.

On Pesach my grandfather led the seder. It was the only night in a year, when children weren't made to go to bed, but stay with the adults at the table. We felt grown-up on that day. My grandfather, clad in white attire, would recline on the pillows. His seat was at the head of the table, which was covered with a white cloth. There were festive dishes and goblets with wine on the table. The largest goblet with wine for Prophet Eliagu was in the center of the table. My elder cousin Valentin asked my grandfather the traditional paschal questions. Grandfather hid the afikoman, read the Haggadah. Everybody sang mirthful paschal songs. In general, things were done the way they were supposed to. On Yom Kippur my parents fasted for 24 hours. I was a kid, so I could get away for not fasting. Other Jewish holidays were marked, but I don't remember them.

There was a large Jewish community in Riga until 1940. Before 1917 Riga Jews mostly lived in Moscowskiy forstadt 6, the district of the poor Jews on the outskirt of the city. Jews made the most population of that part of the city. Jewish houses were in the Old City. Well-off Jews could settle in the downtown area. There were no Jewish streets and houses in downtown. People lived in the parts they could afford. I remember one time, when my mother took me to a Jewish wedding. Her friend who lived in the Jewish house in the Old City was getting married. All the neighbors came to her wedding, and that astounded me. It was the first time in my life when I saw a true Jewish wedding, with a chuppah, rabbi, Jewish dances and musicians playing Jewish music. Maybe my love for Jewish songs stems from that. My parents noticed my musical talent and in 1940 they found a singing tutor for me. He always gave me kisses and I hid under the grand piano from him. My music classes lasted less than a year, since the war was about to be unleashed.

In 1940 Latvia became a part of the Soviet Union [see Annexation of Latvia to the USSR] 7. I remember tanks moving in the downtown Riga. We went out to welcome the Soviet army 8. I remember that everybody was with flowers. The faces of the people were blithe. Tank hatches were open and Soviet soldiers got out of them. People hugged them and gave them flowers. There was no shooting, no resistance. There was normal life. It seemed to me there were barely any changes for our family. Of course, the adults perceived it in a different way. From the scraps of conversation of my parents I remember that the newcomers' behaviors and manners surprised them. At that time that didn't affect me. Before 1940 Russian was spoken at home, so it was easier for us than for those who didn't know Russian.

In 1940 before Latvia was annexed to the USSR, my father's sister Rosa Zilberman, her husband and son Lucien came to see us. Paris had been occupied by the Germans and they fled from Paris miraculously. They moved in with my grandparents, who lived in a large apartment by themselves. I made friends with Lucien.

In May 1941 Grandmother Hanna died. She was buried in the Jewish cemetery in Riga. She had a traditional Jewish funeral. One month after my grandmother's death, the war was unleashed 9. On Sunday 22nd June 1941 my parents were going to take me for a stroll in the park. We had breakfast. While my mother was doing things about the house, my father listened to the news on the radio. Then I found out that the German army had attacked the Soviet Union and battles were held in Belarus.

Soon after the German aviation started bombing Riga. When the signals of the air raid alarm were heard, we were supposed to go down to the air-raid shelter. Most often they bombed at night for some reason. Probably from Aunt Rosa, my parents knew that the Germans didn't spare Jews. They decided to evacuate. Not everybody in the family was willing to leave. Grandfather Zalman flatly refused to leave his house. He said he was too old to drop everything and run away, besides he said that during World War One he had seen Germans and their good attitude towards Jews. My mother's father also didn't want to evacuate. Of course, we could understand the old people, but my father's younger brother, Uncle Vulf, also decided to stay in Riga with his family. The rest of the people weren't against departure.

The four families went into evacuation: us, my father's brother Samuel and his family, Aunt Rosa, her husband and son, Aunt Irina and her husband. Vulf helped us a lot. He made arrangements for the truck driver to get us to the train station. We packed hastily. We decided not to take many things. The only thing I could talk my mother into was to take my new coat. In spring I had a coat made with rabbit fur collar and fur muff. I loved that coat and couldn't leave it. Then I had been wearing it in the postwar years and it was the only piece of warm garment I had. That coat and muff took most of the room in a small suitcase, carried by my father. My mother was pregnant at that time and couldn't carry heavy things. On the way to the train station Letts were firing at us from the buildings. Those people were definitely Letts, as Germans hadn't come into the city yet.

All of us were able to take one train. It was very hard as there were no tickets, people were squeezing in the cars pushing away the feebler ones, but still we got onto a train and took seats. We didn't know where the train was heading. The only thing we knew was that we were going to Russia. There were frequent air raids on our way. When the Germans started bombing, everybody jumped out of the cars trying to hide. Such bombings were at the Doroshino station. We darted into the forest, where huge mosquitoes were about to eat us alive. We reached Pskov [today Russia, about 300km from Riga]. There we were told to leave the train as it was needed for militaries.

Passengers were supposed to get on locomotives. We were guarded by fate. As soon as all the passengers had left the train, it was blown up. There was a locomotive for us to take. We were on the road for a long time and then were told to get off the locomotive at some station and take the barge. Again we were moving in an unknown direction. Finally we happened to be in Almaty [today Kazakhstan, 3500km from Moscow]. All four families got there safely. We and some other evacuees were housed in barracks. I don't remember the details. After a month my mother gave birth to a girl. She was named Anna after Grandmother Hanna. Anna lived only for a month. I don't remember her funeral, as I didn't attend it. I only remember that my father carried a tiny casket under his armpit. It was a little bigger than a shoebox.

My father was drafted into the army in Almaty. His eyesight was poor and the medical board by the military enlistment office disqualified him from military service. My father was drafted into the labor army 10 in Kazakhstan. There he worked as a truck driver by the end of the war. My mother and I remained on our own. We didn't have a place to live and it was problematic for my mother to find a job. There were crowds of evacuees in Almaty: separate families and entire organizations. My mother thought that it would be easier for us to survive in a small town or a hamlet. We stayed in Almaty for a while and headed for the small town Issyk [today Kazakhstan]. Aunt Rosa, her husband and Lucien went with us. Uncle Samuel and his family stayed in Almaty.

Unfortunately, my mother's expectations were unmet. She couldn't find a job as a pharmacist or as a nurse, so she started working in a kolkhoz 11: in the field. Rosa also worked with my mother. They were given 450 grams of bread for work from dawn till sunset. My mother found lodging for us in a basement. Aunt Rosa lived with her family separately. Apart from us there was another Jewish family in the basement. They were evacuated from Kiev [today Ukraine]. We had a hard life. Rosa's husband died a couple of months after our arrival in Issyk. He was a big agile man and it seemed to me he suffered from malnutrition most of all. Of course, Rosa tried to feed their son in the first place. Her husband was getting feebler. I think he died of hunger. It's miraculous that we survived as all of us could have starved to death. The only thing we had to eat was 450 grams of bread and boiled water. One Kazakh lady had pity on us and gave us some dried corn seeds. Local people fed poultry, chicken and geese, with that. Those seeds were hard like stones and we had to boil them all day long.

It was time for me to go to school, but I couldn't go to the first grade, as I didn't have clothes. My mother and I left with one outfit each, which was on us: each of us had one summer dress and one pair of sandals. The only warm clothes we had were my coat with rabbit fur and my mother's woolen jacket. She put it in the suitcase thinking that there might be cool summer nights. The Soviet mass media stated, even before war reiterated, if somebody dared to attack the Soviet Union, the enemy would be defeated on his territory. My mother must have taken those words seriously. At any rate our clothes and shoes were unsuitable. My mother bought us both wooden shoes from the market, and I was wearing those clogs all winter long.

All of us were emaciated. I hardly left the house being shattered by feebleness. The hardest was to stand winter frosts. My mother had to work in order to feed us. Our neighbors, whose living conditions were much better than ours, gave us potato peelings. My mother washed them and made soup, but it was impossible to get by with that. Our neighbors were constantly doing some commerce. They went to the villages and brought potatoes and salt from there. Once they convinced my mother that I should sell their salt at the market. They promised to give us potatoes for that. I had been standing at the market all day long, but I wasn't able to sell anything. The salt wasn't fine, and besides it was dirty. People came over, took a look and left. I didn't know how to praise my goods like other salespeople did, or talk people into buying. Thus, I came home with nothing. That was the sales experience in my life. My mother was worried that I would get sick. Garlic was the only thing she could buy at the market. Every evening she gave me a clove of garlic. Maybe it really helped me, as I didn't get sick during evacuation. Then there appeared an organization in Issyk, which helped the evacuated. They were supposed to give some food, but instead they gave some beet kvass. I remember my mother brought large bottles of that kvass and we drank it. It tasted good.

The local population sympathized with the evacuees. There was no animosity. Issyk was mostly inhabited by Kazakhs, but there were some Russian people as well. They had never seen Jews, but still soon they started using the word 'kike.' I remember when I went out, local boys were running around and crying, 'Kike, running on the rope.' I don't know if they knew what that word meant, but they teased me constantly.

I don't remember why we had to move out from the basement where we had been living since our arrival in Issyk. It was hard to find lodging. My mother and I roamed from one house to another. There were times when we had to stay in forsaken stables.

My mother was lucky to find a job as a nurse in a local children's hospital in Issyk. There was a barrack by the hospital, where its employees were living. My mother was given a place there, even shabby linen. I was emaciated and the chief doctor suggested that I should be hospitalized to be nourished better. I remember the time spent in the hospital. It was scary. Children were weary, looking dystrophic, like cadavers. I followed my mother in the wards, where she gave injections. She always told me to go away as there were some people with contagious diseases. I was scared to stay without my mother.

We didn't hear from my father. My mother knew where he was and was worried whether he was alive. My mother corresponded with her sister Irina, who lived in Almaty. We found out from her letters that she had a baby, who died shortly after parturition. Uncle Samuel also passed away. His family lived in Almaty.

In 1944 Rosa and Lucien went to Almaty from Issyk. My mother wasn't willing to go with her, but she didn't want to stay in Issyk either. We covered a distance of over 1500 kilometers and went to Novosibirsk [3000km from Moscow]. We were housed in long barracks, where evacuees lived. It was easier to live in Novosibirsk as compared to Issyk. There were coal mines not far from Novosibirsk and evacuees were given coal for heating. My mother and I were given warm clothes. My coat was too small for me. We weren't suffering from cold neither outside nor inside. My mother found a job at a bakery plant. Apart from food cards 12, plant employees were able to buy bread at the plant. There was a canteen where the employees and their children were given food once a day. It was easier with products in a big city, not like in Issyk. My mother got food cards for both of us: one worker's card and one dependent's card. We didn't receive only bread for the cards, but also cereal, fat and a little bit of sugar. I put on weight for some time and didn't look like a skeleton anymore.

Finally, I went to school in Novosibirsk. I was ten and was supposed to go to the third grade for my age, but I didn't know letters, I didn't know how to read and write. In spite of that the teacher talked my mother into letting me go to the third grade in order to give me a try. I remember my first teacher with gratitude. She paid a lot of attention to me and taught me after classes. At first, I merely listened to the teacher in the classes and memorized things, listened in the class, as I didn't know how to read. I remember, once she called me to go to the blackboard and I got 1 [Editor's note: '1' means 'very poor']. I came home feeling really proud and told my mother about my 'success.' Gradually things were getting better. Either the teacher was very good, or I was capable, in about half a year I caught up with the majority of the class. I went to my mother's plant after classes. She fed me at her canteen. If there was time during lunch break, I sang for the employees of the plant. I had been singing since childhood and enjoyed when people liked my singing and applauded me.

We had lived by spring 1945 in Novosibirsk. Aunt Irina persistently invited us to Almaty and in the end my mother decided to move there. I don't remember now how long it took us to get to Almaty. We had to change trains, and sometimes wait for our train for hours. We moved to Almaty in early May and rented a room in the house of a local family. We knew that Latvia had been liberated from the fascists by Soviet troops. On 9th May 1945 we found out about the end of the war and the unconditional surrender of Germany. Of course, all of us understood that the war was about to end, but still we took the news as unexpected joy. Unacquainted people hugged each other in the streets, congratulating each other. In the evening everybody was out singing, dancing, watching festive fireworks. Everybody rejoiced in regained peace.

Irina started packing for home straight after 9th May. We had stayed in Almaty for about a year. Finally, my mother decided to move. Irina found out that the apartment we used to live in before the war, was occupied by other people. She went to Ispolkom 13 to apply for lodging in another house. We moved to the apartment, where I'm currently living. My mother went to our previous apartment hoping that some of our things were still there, but she came back empty-handed. In evacuation we learned how to get by with minimal things. Upon our return we hoped for a better life. When we returned to Riga, my father came. He had been demobilized from the army. He started working as a driver. My mother worked in a pharmacy. I went to the third grade of a Russian school. It used to be a Lettish school before the war and the teachers spoke poor Russian. Half of the children in my class were from Latvia, and half the newcomers from the USSR. It was of no importance for us. Maybe it would be harder for adults to get along, but the children were more flexible. All of us were pioneers 14, and then Komsomol 15 members. In other words, we were Soviet children. Though, people let me feel that I was a Jew. Teachers treated me well, anti- Semitism was displayed among children, but I never felt it coming from Lettish children. Offensive words were spoken by children who came to Latvia from the USSR.

When we came home, we found out about the fate of our relatives, who hadn't left Riga. All of them perished: both my grandfathers, Uncle Vulf, his wife and three-year old daughter Sarah. We don't know the circumstances of their death, whether they died in the Riga ghetto 16 or during the execution of ghetto prisoners in Rumbula Forest 17. We didn't find out about all the fascist atrocities right away. Only in 1947 the Nazi and politsei were tried. None of them remained alive.

After school Aunt Irina gave me music classes. She had taken lessons with a singing tutor and she taught me everything she knew. I always sang during school holidays. When I studied at school, I found out that there was a people's conservatoire in Riga, where gifted young people were admitted. Unlike in ordinary conservatoire here no diplomas were given, but the classes were taught by the professors from real conservatoires. I found out about the entrance exams. When I saw the members of the board, renowned singers and professors from the conservatoire, I lost my voice from fear. I was asked to sing, but I couldn't produce a sound. I turned back and left. Then Irina scolded me, and I didn't make any more attempts.

The events taking place in the USSR in the late 1940s, early 1950s, didn't affect our family. During the Doctors' Plot 18 my mother was working in the pharmacy, but she wasn't fired, not even nagged. In general, it was almost unnoticeable for us. I remembered the day of Stalin's death: 5th March 1953. I was in the tenth grade. Everybody was crying, when there was an announcement on Stalin's death. I don't know why but I also burst into tears. Maybe I was influenced by the fact that everybody was crying around me: teachers and students. The situation was solemn: there were wreaths everywhere; the school orchestra played a funeral march, there was mourning. I remember that I had to answer a question on the blackboard in my chemistry class before the mourning meeting. The teacher gave me an excellent mark saying that even on such a hard day for the country I did well. I was flattered by her praise. I cried and mourned after lessons.

Everybody was at a loss. We got used to the fact that everything in the Soviet Union was done in Stalin's name. He was a decision-maker and we couldn't picture our lives without him. Life went on. In a while people started coming back from the Gulag 19, those who were deported in 1940 20. Then one of our distant relatives was released from the camp. He came to Riga. I knew nothing about him; I didn't even know that he existed. My parents had a long conversation with him, but I didn't take part in it. I remember that I was curious to see the man who had spent many years in Northern camps. After the Twentieth Party Congress 21 and Khrushchev's 22 speech I learnt a lot, but I wasn't interested in politics that much.

I was fond of chemistry in school. I liked that subject from the first class, and it became more interesting when we started organic chemistry. I got excellent marks in chemistry and before finishing school I firmly knew that I would like to become an organic chemist, but my mother wanted me to become a doctor and insisted that I should enter a medical institute. Maybe during my entrance exams for the first time in my life I felt that I was different from anybody else. I can't say that the examiners tried to lower my grade, but I felt that the attention was focused on me and that I was tested by other criteria, not only knowledge. I entered the dentistry department of the Medical Institute in Riga and found out soon that my mother, who had worked in medicine for a long time and knew a lot of doctors, pleaded with her acquaintance doctors for me in the board. Probably my mother could understand things were unperceivable for me at that time, and that there would be no chance for me to enter. I finished two terms at the Medical Institute and understood that it wasn't my cup of tea. I wasn't willing to work as a doctor all my life. I was lucky to transfer to the second course of the Chemistry Department of Riga Polytechnic Institute. I did well. I had excellent marks during the entire period of studies. I didn't feel anti-Semitism. Both teachers and students treated me fairly. I sang at the first course.

I got married during my studies at the institute. I'll tell you a funny story of how I met my husband. During my studies me and some of my group mates left for training in Leningrad [today Russia]. Of course, after work we took a walk along the city, went to the theaters, museums. We went dancing almost every night. I loved dancing as much as singing. I couldn't live without that. One guy from Riga was my dancing partner. He wasn't from our institute. He left earlier than me and asked me out to the dancing club in Riga. I was shortsighted since childhood and was shy to wear glasses. I went on the date and thought that I saw my guy, white dance was announced, and so I asked that guy for a dance. It turned out that it wasn't the guy who had asked me out for a date. We got acquainted and danced all evening long. Then he saw me off. That guy was my future husband Vladimir Polubelov.

Vladimir was born in Leningrad in 1937. He spent his childhood there. During the war he and his mother were in evacuation and his father was in the lines. After the war they settled in Riga. Vladimir was an only child. He also studied at the Polytechnic Institute, the radio department. Neither my parents nor I cared that Vladimir was Russian. I was practically raised during the Soviet regime and went to a Soviet school with internationalist spirit. After the war my parents took it calmly as well. It was important for them that my husband and I got along. They were right. Vladimir wasn't only a good husband, but he became an excellent father to our daughter and loving son-in-law. After getting married, we lived with our parents. Upon graduation I started working in the laboratory of the chemistry plant in Riga. Vladimir worked as a radio engineer in the military unit. Our daughter Elena was born in 1964.

Upon return to Riga from evacuation my parents didn't stick to Jewish traditions and didn't mark Jewish holidays. Soviet holidays were celebrated such as 1st May, 7th November 23, Victory Day 24, Soviet Army Day 25, New Year. Of course, we marked birthdays of all members of the family. At that time Jewish holidays, Jewish religion, seemed obsolete to me and I thought it would be ridiculous for educated people to follow it.

In 1964 my father died shortly after Elena was born. He was buried in the Jewish cemetery in Riga. There was my grandmother's grave, so my father was buried next to his mother. My father's name was embossed on my grandmother's tombstone. His funeral was secular, not in accordance with the Jewish rites. My mother died twelve years later, i.e. in 1976. There was no space by my grandmother's and father's graves; therefore, my mother was buried in another alley, but in that cemetery. Aunt Irina died in 1957. She was also buried in that cemetery.

In the 1970s, the Soviet regime permitted Jews to immigrate to Israel. I didn't even consider that opportunity. My husband was Russian and it was unlikely for him to immigrate to Israel. There was no sense in leaving. I liked my job. My colleagues treated me loyally. I didn't think our lives to be too bad, so I didn't even consider immigration. I sympathized with those who were immigrating, I even pitied them as they were doomed to live far away from their friends and kin and have a different mode of life. I understood that they would have to get acclimatized and take trouble in finding a place to live and a job. At that time many of my friends left as well as my relatives: my cousin Valentin, Uncle Samuel's son, cousin Lucien. Uncle Samuel's daughter Noemi immigrated to America. I was worried about them. I was happy that they were able to blend in with new life. We keep in touch. They send me nice letters. The most important thing is that they are confident in the future of their children and grandchildren.

My daughter did well at school. I must have plied her with love to chemistry as having finished school Elena decided to enter the chemistry department of the Polytechnic Institute. Though she was more attracted to inorganic chemistry, and it was okay. Upon graduation my daughter found a job in her specialty. Elena got married after graduation. Here she also followed into my footsteps. She didn't marry a Jew, but a Lett. Her husband's name is Morov. They live separately. Their first daughter Yana was born in 1990. When her daughter was born Elena was on maternal leave for a year, and when it was time for her to go to work, it turned out that the firm she worked for, didn't exist any more. It was a hard period when Latvia regained its independence 26. Many enterprises closed down at that time, as they couldn't survive under new conditions. There was huge unemployment that we didn't come across with in Soviet times. Elena couldn't find a job for a long time. When she found a job finally, the company was liquidated after a while and again she remained unemployed. My neighbor was a director of a kindergarten. Once I asked if there was a vacancy for Elena. She hired my daughter. Elena didn't expect to like working with children. Now she is deputy director of the kindergarten. She is happy with her work. Elena's second daughter Dana was born in 2001. Yana goes to a Lettish school. My younger granddaughter goes to a kindergarten.

I retired in 1988 during perestroika 27. Many people admired the early stage of perestroika and were agog to see the changes in life. I took it as another action of the Soviet regime and was skeptical towards it. Even now I can't say what perestroika gave me. I wasn't at the age to rejoice in liberty of words, press, traveling. Of course USSR citizens got an opportunity to go abroad and invite their relatives after perestroika, but I was elderly and sick, so there was no use in going anywhere. Perestroika resulted in runaway unemployment, lower living wage, and empty shelves in the store. Soon there was the breakup of the Soviet Union [1991]. I took it hard. All of us got used to the Soviet Union, and the entire system was ours, our reality. We lost something when it broke up. It was many years ago. Nowadays life is as if the Soviet Union had never existed. Latvia and other former Soviet republics became independent and all of us had to learn how to live with a new reality. I can't say that it was easy for everybody or that the life now is easier.

The current mode of life is for young people who are able to adapt to new life conditions. Even many young people can't find a job, as one of the mandatory requirements is to know Lettish. Many people don't know this language, as it was enough to be fluent in Russian during the Soviet regime. It takes time to learn the language, but it's hard to go by in the period of studies without having any income. In general, common people have a hard living fearing that there would be no certainty in the future. During the Soviets we were guaranteed that we would live comfortably when reaching old age; medicine was free of charge, and now having skimpy pension and wages we have to pay outrageous amounts of money for medicine, and most people don't have it. It's the hardest for the pensioners, as they can't afford even necessary things.

Probably the only thing that perestroika gave me is revival of Jewish life in Latvia. The Latvian Society of Jewish Culture, LSJC, was founded during perestroika. It's an unreligious Jewish community. There is a religious community, which finally became legal during perestroika. The Soviet regime always struggled against religion 28, not only against the Jewish one. Approximately at that time I started coming back to Jewry. We kept friends with one Jewish family, which lived in our house. They invited me for the celebration of the Jewish holidays. At that time my reminiscences from childhood came back. I remembered how Jewish holidays were marked in the house of my paternal grandparents, and the way my grandfather carried out the paschal seder. I wanted it to be in my family as well. I learnt from my neighbor how to cook Jewish dishes. I didn't know what they were called.

I baked hamantashen, strudels, made forshmak, gefilte fish. I don't know why I wanted to learn how to cook those dishes. The first holiday marked in our house was Pesach 1995. That year our neighbors immigrated to Israel, and my husband and I decided to organize a feast at home. My husband approved of my kindled interest in Jewish traditions and history. Of course, there was no one who would be able to make a true seder in our family, but still I made traditional paschal dinner: there was matzah, mandatory dishes like bitter herbs, horseradish, salted water, a goblet for Eliagu, etc. My daughter also celebrated Pesach with us. It was the time when she started taking an interest in our history and traditions. Of course, she knew that I was a Jew, but she didn't pay much attention to that. I explained to her that the Jewish nationality was identified by my mother, thus my daughter is a Jew. Probably it wasn't important for her, but I wanted her to know.

In about that period of time I came to the LSJC. I wanted to learn Yiddish, find out more about Jewry. I also went to the synagogue for the first time. I knew nothing. I didn't understand anything. At that time I felt myself hurt and deprived and I wanted to fill the gap. There's a pretty good library at the LSJC. I tried to find Yiddish and Ivrit textbooks there, but failed. The circle of Yiddish language studies by the LSJC dealt with colloquial language only. I was enrolled there. My spoken Yiddish is pretty good: both listening comprehension and oral speech, but I didn't learn how to read in Yiddish. I don't think my parents knew how to read in Yiddish either. So, I can't read Yiddish, but my pals who know how to read Yiddish retell me the most interesting articles. I often go to the library, read books by Jewish authors in Russian and German. I read a lot about Jewish traditions and history. It's very important and interesting to me. I made many friends in the LSJC and my husband is happy for me.

When the Jewish choir was founded by the LSJC, I joined it. At first, I didn't attend rehearsals regularly, but within the last five years I try not to skip any single rehearsal. Besides, I feel happy when I'm singing. Besides, I have the opportunity to communicate with people. When people retire, they are cooped up most of the time, and it makes them despondent. When I attend rehearsals I feel fully-fledged, which is important for me. I know that people need our choir. We often take tours to different Latvian towns. We have a full house at our concerts, which aren't attended only by Jews, but also by people of other nationalities. We are often thanked after concerts, given flowers and I see tears in the eyes of the audience. It's very important for me to know that even now I can do good to people. Our choir is like a family. We get together to mark birthdays of our members, and celebrate Jewish holidays. The community, the social center Rahamim became our second home where we come with joy or with trouble, where we would be helped in everyday issues and given succor.

Glossary:

Mark Derbaremdiker
Kiev
Ukraine
Interviewer: Ella Orlikova
Date of interview: May 2002

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

My family background

I was born into a family that was in direct succession to Leivi-Itshak, the Berdichev tzaddik. The tzaddik's grave is still in Berdichev and is a place of pilgrimage for pilgrims from all over the world.

According to some data Leivi-Itshak was born in 1740. At first he was a rabbi in various Jewish communities. He lived in Berdichev as of the 1780s and was one of the famous Hasidism 1 priests. He treated common Jews with love and that has been vividly remembered in the Jewish communities up until now. Leivi-Itshak spoke Yiddish and said his prayers and addressed God in this language [God is addressed in Hebrew]. However, common Jews understood prayers in Yiddish better. His prayer Toyre tsu got in which he prayed to God to help his Jews is famous. There are also songs written by Leivi-Itshak, such as Meyerke, mayn zun [Meirerke my son - a lullaby in Yiddish].

The origin of my family name also dates back to him. In 1804, during the reign of Alexander I, the officials issued a decree to give last names to the Jews. When a clerk came to the house of Leivi-Itshak, the latter was saying his prayer shmoy yisrey [shma yisrael-] - Listen, Israel - and couldn't stop praying. But the clerk kept asking, 'Tell me the last name you want for yourself". When the prayer was over the tzaddik said in Yiddish, 'merakhemdiker got, vos vil fun mir?', which means, 'Merciful Lord, what does he want of me?' And the clerk said, 'What? Derbaremdiker?' and put it down in his roster. Leivi-Itshak had three sons and two daughters. Successors of his older son, Meyer, stayed in Berdichev and the rest of his family moved to other towns. I have no information about them. The tzaddik died in 1809. There have been no rabbis in our family since then.

Berdichev was a special town even within the restricted area of residence [see Jewish Pale of Settlement] 2. This town is mentioned in almost all jokes about Jews, and for obvious reasons. There was a very strong Jewish community in Berdichev. In 1897 the Jewish population was 57,000, which was about 90% of the population. Our people didn't only use the Yiddish language and culture, we lived in a Jewish cultural environment. The town's life was based on Yiddish. This language could be heard everywhere: at home, in the streets, and all street signs were in Yiddish, too. The rest of the population - Russian, Ukrainians and Poles - were bound to adjust to this way of life. They all spoke fluent Yiddish and could sing Jewish songs. All stores and shops were closed on Friday. On Saturday Ukrainian boys and girls came to the Jewish families to light kerosene lamps and serve at the table. On the eighth day after his birth a boy was to be circumcised. When a boy reached the age of four he was taken to cheder in his father's tallit and given into the care of a teacher - melamed - to study the alphabet, learn prayers and interpret the Torah.

On Saturday all men went to the synagogue. The most famous synagogue was Der berditsever ruvkloyz. Kloyz means synagogue. There was a very fancy old synagogue, Di alte filts. The town consisted of two parts - the old town and the new town. These two parts were very different. In the new town the buildings were high - two or three-storied. The local 'aristocrats' and people in administration lived there. The leaders of the community had their meetings in this part of town, too. The community was so strong that even during the Civil War 3 there were no pogroms 4 in town. Self- defense was well organized and strong: butchers with knives and blacksmiths with sledge-hammers came out and presented a real threat to the bandits. Presently there are very few Jews left in Berdichev. Most of them were exterminated during the Holocaust and the survivors moved to Israel, the USA or Germany.

I remember well my great-grandfather, my father's father, born in 1830. His name was Yoil Derbaremdiker and he lived in the old town. He was a small, thin old man with a thin red beard. He wore a black jacket and a big black hat. He always smiled exposing his toothless mouth while patting me and treated me to apples from his big garden. They said my great-grandfather was a merchant and a successful businessman. He was a very religious man. He strictly observed all Jewish traditions and rules. At the time I remember him he couldn't go to the synagogue any more, but he was constantly praying at home. He died at the age of 103 in 1933 when I was 13 years old.

My grandfather, my father's father, was born in 1859. He was a merchant as well, but not as successful as his father. He died of Spanish flu in 1919 before I was born. Thousands of people died during this epidemic. My grandfather's name was Mordko Derbaremdiker and I was named after him.

My father's mother - I don't remember her name - was born in 1869. She had seven children: Lazar, the oldest, was 11 and Zakhar, the youngest, was still a baby when their mother died of cholera in 1896 at the age of 27. My grandfather didn't remarry and some relatives helped him to raise his children. All children received Jewish education, studied at cheder and got professional education. My grandfather probably couldn't afford to give them any further education.

My grandparents' family was religious. They strictly observed all Jewish traditions. On Friday my grandmother lit candles and the family got together at the table, which was covered with a white table cloth. On Friday afternoon my grandmother made chicken broth in ceramic pots and cholent. Cholent was a dish made from beans, potatoes and meat. The pots were left in the oven and that way the food was kept warm until Saturday, when no work was allowed. The family strictly observed the kashrut. My grandmother had different dishes for dairy and meat products and the children were learning this tradition at an early age.

My grandparents went to the synagogue every week. My grandfather wore a kippah at home and a hat outside. My grandmother wore a shawl and long black gowns in all seasons. At Chanukkah they lit one candle a day in the chanukkiyah. My father also liked Chanukkah because children received some money - Chanukkah gelt. My father had the greatest memories of Pesach. The house was to be all clean and all children took part in the cleaning process. They swept and burned all garbage, even breadcrumbs and took the Pesach dishes down from the attic. There was a bakery that was managed by the synagogue and my grandparents brought matzah from there. The family was big and they usually bought several bags of it. Then my grandmother and her daughters began to cook stuffed fish, chicken broth with dumplings from matzah and stuffed chicken necks. My granny tried to make this holiday a remarkable event to remember.

Zlata, my father's older sister, born in 1883, lived in Berdichev and was a housewife. During the war she evacuated to Stalinabad [Dushanbe at present] with her children. She died in Berdichev in 1970. In the late 1970s her family emigrated to Israel. She had four children: two sons and two daughters. Abram, her younger son, is still alive. The rest of her children died in Israel.

Lazar, my father's older brother, was born in 1885. He was a shornik [leather cutter]. In the 1920s he moved to Leningrad with his family. All his children received higher education: Asia, born in 1912, an engineer, has already died. Abram, born in 1915, an economist, lives in Rostov-on- Don. Frieda, born in 1920, is an economist, and Haya, born in 1928, is a dentist. The two of them live in New York now. Lazar died in 1943 during the blockade of Leningrad 5.

My father's sister Hasia, born in 1890, died of some illness in Berdichev in 1911. His other sister Milka, born in 1892, died during the famine 6 in 1932 in an effort to save her four children from starving to death, and giving them every last piece of bread. Her two girls, Klara and Honia, were sent to an orphanage - her husband, who was a tinsmith couldn't provide for them, and her boy, Lyova, also disappeared at that time. Elka, the youngest girl, and her father perished in 1941 when the Germans occupied Berdichev.

Feiga, the youngest of my father's sisters, born in 1893, moved to Birobidzhan 7 with her family in 1932. Life was hard and miserable there. In 1942, when Zlata was in evacuation in Stalinabad, Feiga's family moved in with her. Her older son Grisha perished at the front and her second son Matvey, born in 1928, and her two daughters, Asia and Shyfra, left for Israel in 1989. Shyfra died there. Feiga died in Dushanbe in 1969. I correspond with all my relatives in Israel.

My father Levi-Itshak was named after his famous great-grandfather. He was born in 1887. Before the Russian Revolution [of 1917] 8 he worked as a clerk in a store. During World War I he served in the tsarist army as a private in Kiev. He learned to speak and write in Russian. After his retirement from the army he became a craftsman. After the Revolution my father changed many professions to provide for his family. I remember he was a soap-boiler at some stage. He worked in our kitchen where he had a big boiler to make soap. He bought beef fat and all necessary ingredients, mixed them together and boiled them for a long time stirring the mixture with sticks. Then he poured it into special forms. The whole family was involved in this process. Of course, it smelled awful but we got used to it.

In 1928 the NEP 9 came to an end and my father went to work at a shop. At one time he even was the manager of a shop, as he was more intelligent than the others. The Soviet power struggled against religion 10 and declared Saturday a working day. My father didn't like to argue. He went to work on Saturday but didn't do anything on this day. For the rest of his life my father was involved in soap and soda powder production. He was a kind, wise and considerate man. In the evening he used to read books and newspapers in Yiddish to the family. I still have newspaper cuttings from 1897-1898. They certainly have historical value. When the Jewish center opens in Kiev I will take them there. My mother was always my father's most passionate listener.

My mother came from the family of Kventsel - a very respected family in Berdichev. Her father Oizer Kventsel was born in 1860. He owned a kerosene store. Unfortunately, I never met my grandfather. He and his wife Entel died of Spanish flu in 1919. But I remember well my grandfather's brother Meyer. He was my first teacher of Yiddish. Meyer taught Yiddish to many boys in Berdichev. He died in the late 1930s. His daughter Eti lived in Moscow and also died a long time ago.

My mother's name was Perl. She was born in 1890 and received a good education at home like many other girls in Berdichev. She was taught to read and write in Yiddish, do the housekeeping and meet Saturday in accordance with all the rules: clean up the apartment, bake challah on Friday, light Saturday candles, be a faithful wife and cook Jewish food.

I don't know whether my mother had any brothers or sisters. My father and mother were introduced to one another in 1911. On some Jewish holiday their mothers met in the synagogue, discussed the issue with other relatives and arranged that they should meet each other. The young people liked each other and got married in 1912. They had a Jewish wedding with a chuppah, a bunch of relatives as guests, and there were merry songs and dances, freilakh.

My older brother Abram was born in 1913. He studied in cheder and then, after the Revolution, in a Ukrainian school for a few years. He studied for eight years and entered a Jewish technical school. He studied very well. Before the war he finished the physics and mathematics department of Berdichev Pedagogical Institute. Then he was recruited to the army and was on the front during the war. After the war Abram decided to change his profession and entered the Academy of Agriculture. He became a specialist in the field of electrification of the agricultural sector. He worked in Lvov for many years. In 1947 he married his co-student Fania, who is also a Jew, of course. In a year their son Eduard was born. They are a wonderful family. They emigrated to the USA and lived in New York now. Fania died in 1987. My brother is a pensioner and Eduard is a programmer.

My younger brother Yontoh, or Yan, followed them to New York in the 1990s. Yontoh was born in 1923. He finished school before the war and was recruited to the army. He served as a private at the front during the war. Thank God he survived and came back. He studied at the Kiev Institute of Light Industry and became a good footwear specialist. He lives in New York with his family now. His son Peter, born in 1956, became a businessman and his grandson Igor works in a bank. Both my brothers are active members of the Jewish community in New York; they live a Jewish life. They promote the Jewish culture and Yiddish. We write to each other and they often call me on the phone. We have been very close throughout our life.

Growing up

I was born in Berdichev on 9th July 1920. My Jewish name is Mordke-Oizer Leivi-Isaakovich. The leadership of the Jewish community issued my birth certificate in two languages: Yiddish and Hebrew. My date of birth is also given according to both the Jewish and the modern calendar. I was born a few days after the Red Army entered Berdichev and declared the Soviet power. The Civil War was over for Berdichev. My father told me that the Bolsheviks began shooting the ten richest Jews in town, not because they were Jews, but because they were rich.

The house where I was born was located in Kachanovka between the old and the new town on the hilly bank of the Gnilopiat River. However, I didn't live there long. It was damaged during the Civil War - when the town was occupied by the reds 11 and by the greens 12 many times in a row - and our family had to move to another house on the corner of Zolotoy Lane and Kachanovskaya Street. We lived in the apartment that previously belonged to Moiher Sforim Mendele 13, the famous Jewish writer. Later Zolotoy Lane was renamed Moiher Sforim Mendele Street.

The house was located at the bottom of the hill; therefore it had two floors, one from the street and one floor from the side of the yard. We lived on the second floor. We had two big rooms and a big kitchen, which also served as my father's shop. We had antique furniture in the rooms like carved wardrobes, etc. My parents had a big nickel-plated bed, which was their wedding gift. Mama baked bread every Monday and challot for Saturday on Thursday. This was a difficult time and Mama couldn't always afford to cook a festive Saturday dinner. Sometimes we just had potatoes and herring, but the kashrut was strictly followed anyway. Dishes for dairy products were on a separate shelf. Before Pesach Mama took special dishes out of a box and cleaned the apartment thoroughly. Mama only spoke Yiddish. When peasant women brought food products from the nearest villages Mama could hardly communicate with them in Ukrainian.

At the age of four I went to cheder like many other boys in Berdichev. I studied there until I reached the age of seven. There were about 20 of us in cheder. We were sitting at a long table and took turns to come to the teacher [rebbe] to read prayers. The rebbe was allowed to spank naughty boys or those that didn't read well. I can't remember being punished, so I suppose I behaved and studied well. The rebbe's name was Itsyk Galitskiy and he was an old man. His daughter was a nurse. During the intervals we played games in the hallway and in summer we played outside. My younger brother Yontoh also went to cheder.

In 1922 the authorities began an active campaign against religion - any religion was called obscurantism. It reached Berdichev several years after I had finished cheder. Our cheder was closed before my brother could finish it. At the age of seven I went to the Jewish secondary school. In 1922 the authorities decided to open schools for national minorities. Jews also were considered to belong to the national minority. There were five or six Jewish schools in Berdichev. My school was named Grinike Boymelakh - a green sapling. The teaching there was in Yiddish, but there were no special subjects related to Jewish history or traditions.

I remember my first teacher Fania Abramovna Rabinovich. She was a Jew. She taught us arithmetics and poems about Lenin in Yiddish. We all became pioneers, but I wasn't an activist. My father believed that one shouldn't live in conflict with the authorities, but at home we could have our own way of life, observing our rules and traditions. At school there were small groups of children that visited other children's homes to see how they celebrated Pesach or ate matzah and then condemned them at the meetings. But these 'inspectors' and those that were 'inspected' enjoyed eating all Jewish food! We had classes on Saturday, but we tried to leave pens and textbooks at home and therefore we didn't really do anything in class. We were like marans [Editor's note: Jews in medieval Spain that were forced into Christianity, but practiced Judaism in secret]. We were like this: we were pioneers at school, and at home we followed the rules of Judaism.

In 1933 I reached the age of 13 which means for a Jewish boy to come of age - the bar mitzvah. My parents hired a rebbe for me to review the Torah and the Talmud. I answered all questions, learned by heart articles from the Torah, passed my test in front of the rebbe and my relatives and became an adult. This was all kept secret. If somebody had found out my parents would have had a problem. They had a difficult life anyways. My father was looking for a job to provide for us. He traveled to small towns and took me along once in the summer of 1927. We went to Pogrebysche. My father was boiling soap there, too. We went there by train and then on a cart on the bridge across the Ros River. I woke up when we were halfway across the river and got very scared. This was my first trip ever. Later my father got a job at a shop. Mama also found a job at a shop, but she often took home work, as she had a sewing machine.

I remember well the early 1930s, the period of collectivization 14 and famine. We saw dead corpses in the streets. Many Jews in Berdichev were starving to death. We had charity lunches at school and it was a big joy to see a piece of cabbage in the soup that we got. The teachers were as hungry as their students. Many people moved to bigger towns that had better supplies. They sent parcels with bread or crusts from there. When the parcels were delivered the bread inside was already covered with mold but we ate it with pleasure. My father and older brother were working and we managed somehow. They received bread cards.

My parents still went to the synagogue. My father went there each Saturday and my mother went on holidays. At Yom Kippur everybody fasted. We, children, were allowed to have some food after 3pm. There was one synagogue in Kachanovka. There was one servant there, a humpback. I heard later that when Germans came they ruthlessly killed him at the threshold of the synagogue. All synagogues were closed [there were over 100 synagogues in Berdichev before 1920].

The former Choir Synagogue housed a Jewish club of polygraphic employees. It was called 'Epikoyres', which means 'heretic' - there could be no other name for this club. There was a library in this club. I remember the 'Cleaning up the Party' meeting in this library. [Editor's note: In 1930 the Communist Party decided to get rid of any doubtful members and there were many meetings held to condemn unfaithful members.] I remember one Jew had to report in front of his comrades. They asked him, 'Who is Stalin?', and he said, 'He is the chief of the Soviet power'. This was tragic and comic at the same time.

We subscribed to Jewish newspapers and magazines as long as it was possible. We also attended the literature club at the town library, led by Moshe Gelmont, a poet. There were teachers and editorial staff there and just amateurs of all ages. Vevik, Sholem Aleichem's 15 brother, also attended this club. He was a glove maker. He wrote and published a book called My brother Sholem Aleichem with the assistance of Gelmont. The Jewish regional newspaper published works by members of the club. A poem of mine in Yiddish was also published there. It was later translated into Ukrainian and published in the local newspaper.

Back then we all wrote, but this was in adolescence only, afterwards I didn't concern myself with this task. My friend Shmuel Aizenwarg was the most talented among us. He perished on a submarine in 1943. In 1985 his poems were published in 'Leaderkrantz', dedicated to the deceased Jewish poets. This book was published by the Moscow publishing house Soviet Writer. There were many books in Yiddish in our library, including translations of world classics: Shakespeare, Cervantes, Goethe, etc. I read Crime and Punishment by Dostoevsky 16 and Les Miserables by Victor Hugo in Yiddish. I was very fond of literature but my parents understood that literature at that severe time was similar to politics and they tried to stay away from any politics.

My father recommended me to study to become an engineer. My Russian and Ukrainian was poor and I started learning these languages at 15. We had Pushkin 17 in Russian and Shevchenko 18 in Ukrainian. I learned their poems by heart and wrote them down. This helped a lot. I did well in mathematics, physics and chemistry. I studied a lot and finished the 9th and 10th grades in one year. I had to rush with my studies to start helping my father. In 1936 I arrived in Kiev and entered the chemistry department of the Institute of Leather Industry. I liked chemistry. My father was a soap-boiler, almost a chemist you could say. He could make other chemical materials like shoe polish, soda powder, etc. Almost all my co-students were Jews. There were probably three students that weren't Jewish. The director and dean were also Jews, and so were many lecturers. It was the same in many other educational institutions. It was because previously Jews hadn't been allowed to study [see five percent quota] 19.

In the 1920s we were the first to go to schools and then continue our studies. I was an excellent student; we all were trying to do our best. I became a Komsomol 20 member when I was a 2nd or 3rd-year student. However, during the war I lost my Komsomol membership card and never restored it. I also tried to avoid becoming a party member, not because of my political views but because I wasn't interested. I lived in a hostel on 32, Gorvits Street [Bolshaya Zhytomirskaya at present]. The building of our institute was under construction in Pechersk. We used to go to the construction site. We stated our studies there when we were in our second year. Chemical laboratories were on the first and second floors in the new building and our hostel was on the third and fourth. I lived there until 1939. Then we had to move to another hostel on Vladimirskaya hill, as our floors were to house some official institutions.

There were six of us in the room. They were all different people. One was Geifman, a Jew; his uncle worked for a Jewish newspaper. Two or three other tenants were Ukrainians. We were on friendly terms. We received scholarships but they didn't last long and we either starved or borrowed a glass of tea and some vegetable salad to survive until the next pay-day. My parents couldn't support me. When I visited them my mother gave me some food to take with me. She melted some butter and honey and mixed them together. I couldn't keep Jewish traditions. My mother cooked kosher food, but what we ate in our canteen wasn't kosher food. We had no choice. We never ate pork in my childhood, and, although I didn't follow the kashrut, I didn't eat pork. I remember the authorities were planning to close two synagogues in Podol 21, Kiev, before the war. They were collecting signatures among the students. They didn't get my signature. In Kiev I still read books in Yiddish and bought newspapers. There was a Jewish theater in Kiev before the war. I saw all the performances. I remember when the Moscow theater Goset [Jewish state theater] under the leadership of Mikhoels 22 was on tour. I am still under the impression of his acting - never again have I seen such a great King Lear!

During the war

I finished my studies at the institute in 1941. On 20th June I defended my thesis. I was about to receive my job assignment to the leather factory in Berdichev, but on 22nd June the Great Patriotic War 23 began. We heard explosions at night and we didn't understand what was happening. We went to Vladimirskaya hill and then down to Kreschatik [main street in Kiev] and we still didn't know anything until we heard the 12 o'clock announcement on the radio. I was aware that the situation had been alarming for some time. But we thought we were friends with Germany following the Molotov- Ribbentrop Pact 24 signed in 1939.

The situation in the city changed beyond recognition. Within a few days we were summoned to build defensive structures. Quite a few were recruited to the army right from the construction site. I wasn't taken to the army due to my poor sight. We worked at digging anti-tank ditches. We met young people escaping from Poland that told us about the Germans' attitude towards Jews. Nobody knew how the situation was going to develop. I don't think Germans realized what kind of public opinion their actions would result in. Therefore, Babi Yar 25 and the tragedy in Berdichev were the beginning of the tragedy they were heading to. Perhaps, the world might not have seen Auschwitz or the gas chambers if there had been a decisive reaction of the world community to the beginning of the war.

At the Institute I received a [mandatory] job assignment 26 to Kursk. This gave me the right to leave Kiev. My parents had left Berdichev on 6th July - one day before the German army arrived there. The families that were leaving put their luggage on a horse-drawn cart and walked to Mironovka station. They were trying to get on the train there, but it was so overcrowded that they only managed to push Mama in the train. My father and my younger brother stayed in Mironovka. I was still involved in the digging of those anti-tank ditches. Once we were woken up at night and somebody said, 'Run away from here, the Germans are approaching. Go to Kiev'. We went to Kiev on foot. I arrived at the hostel in the morning.

My father's younger brother and his family lived nearby, on Kostyolnaya Street. I decided to visit them and met with Mama. Her Russian was poor and she could hardly find their building. We lived with them for several weeks. Later my uncle and aunt evacuated to Dnepropetrovsk with the Opera Theater. I stayed with Mama. My father and brother joined us in a few days. We all went to the Botanical Garden [railroad ticket offices were located there] and saw people from all parts of Ukraine sitting around on benches and everywhere. We waited for a while when a truck arrived and somebody told us to board it if we wanted to get away. We got on the truck - my mother was still weak, as she had been ill for some time - and got a ride to the railway station where we got on a train, on an open platform, and the train left.

We were bombed many times and got off the train when it stopped. We reached Kupiansk and were trying to get to Kursk. But people weren't allowed to go to Kursk because there were already too many evacuated people there, so we got on a train again to move on. We got off at some place in Stalingrad region. It was a Kazak village. We were helping the locals with the harvest. They treated us all right. Nationality didn't matter. We were all in common trouble and facing a common danger. We were accommodated in a house. We slept on the floor. It was summer and hot, so sometimes we also slept outside. We didn't stay long in Stalingrad region.

My brother went to Stalingrad. He wanted to finish his second year at the institute. He was mobilized to the front from there. We knew we had to move farther to the East. Orsk nickel factory in Chkalov [today Orenburg] region employed people and we went there. Here is what happened at the railway station in Chkalov: An old man asked me, 'Who is a Jew here? Tell me, dear, who is a Jew here?' I replied, 'I am'. He said, 'It can't be. They say Jews have horns'. People in these areas had never seen Jews before the war, and there were all kinds of incredible rumors that made them be anti-Semitic.

We went to Kuibyshev [Samara at present] on a boat. We saw the Germans bombing the boats. One boat ahead of us sank, but we reached Kuibyshev and from there we traveled on to Orsk. I found out that there was a leather factory under construction there and I went to work there. We produced thick leather for special boots for the metallurgical industry and later we began with the production of sheepskin coats for army commanders.

We got a small room for the shop and plastered it. My father made a stove to heat this room. Orsk has continental climate - very cold in winter and hot in summer. The factory where I worked was about two kilometers from the city. I had to walk there when either the heat was oppressive or when it was exceedingly cold. There weren't many Jews in Orsk. Some of them were residents and some had been evacuated from other regions.

Within some time my father went to work at the soap-making factory. We were paid in cards for which we could receive bread. After a while our factory fused with the meat factory. They boiled bones in big bowls and we could have this broth. We planted potatoes around the factory to have some additional food to survive on.

When it was time for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur my parents got to know that there were Jews in Orsk and that one of them had a prayer house at his home. My mother and father went there, but I didn't. Somehow I didn't quite feel like going there. There were many Jewish refugees from Poland. I remember an artist from Lodz and a clock specialist with his daughters.

I heard about what was happening in Kiev and Berdichev in 1943. I read the article by Erenburg 27. By the way, I was a regular attendant of the town library where I read Eimikait - in Yiddish - the newspaper published in Moscow by the Jewish Anti-Fascist Committee 28. All members of this committee were shot by the Soviet authorities in 1940 for their true description of the genocide of fascists on the Jews and the indifference of the authorities. Although I worked 12-14 hours, I always found time to take an interest in the Jewish life. At 3am on 9th May 1945 [Victory Day] 29 we were at work at the factory when we heard that Germany signed the document about its unconditional surrender. Everybody was outside shouting, 'Victory!' My mother was crying. My older brother wrote to us saying that he had been in Berdichev. Some people lived in our house. I was told later that there were only few Jews left in Berdichev.

Post-war

I returned to Kiev in 1945 after I received a request to work and an invitation to continue my post-graduate studies. Professor Kotov, our former head of department, became the director of the Research Institute of the Leather Industry. He liked me a lot and sent me a request to accept a job offer at the institute that gave me an opportunity to return to Kiev.

My parents returned with me. I got a room in a hostel. My parents lived at my uncle's for a few days and then left for Berdichev. They didn't receive a warm welcome there and they didn't get their apartment back. The attitude towards Jews changed dramatically in Berdichev. They decided to leave it at that and moved to Kiev. We received some kind of a dwelling in the basement of a building. It was dark and damp there and my father and I did some renovations to make it a livable place. My parents lived there for many years. My mother died in 1952. She was ill for the last three months of her life - there was something wrong with her stomach or something. My mother and father went to the synagogue in Podol until their last days and tried to observe Jewish traditions, however hard it was in these conditions. In 1961 my father received an apartment in a new neighborhood in Kiev, Otradny, but he didn't stay there long. He wasn't feeling well and we took him to our place. He died in 1972.

My father always said to me, 'You live in this new difficult world. You were raised as a Jew and you went to cheder. Whatever happens in your life don't change your nationality'. And I never did. I followed what he told me. [Editor's note: At that time quite a few Jews were assimilating into communities by having a different nationality written in their passport or marrying someone of a different nationality, etc.] We heard that wives were giving away their Jewish husbands to the fascists. Once an officer - he was a Jew - returned from the front to find out that all his family members had been killed by the Germans. When he heard the word 'zhyd' [kike] in the street he shot somebody and he was sued and shot.

During my post-graduate course at Kiev Light Industry University, in 1947, I met my future wife. She was a student at the institute. Her name was Fira, Esphir Salimanovna Rabinovich. She was born into a respected Jewish family in 1923.

Her father Saliman Rabinovich came from a big assimilated Jewish family. He came to Kiev from Riga. He was a big china specialist and worked in famous china factories. He met his wife, Rosalia Ratmanskaya in 1911. He died of spotted fever in 1933. My wife didn't know Yiddish. Her father took her to the synagogue several times when she was a child. Fira worked at a hospital at the front. She was awarded the Order of the Great Patriotic War. Her grandmother and grandfather were killed in Babi Yar. Her grandmother's name was Lubov and her grandfather's Wolf Ratmanskiye.

After Fira and her mother returned to Kiev in 1944 they lived in the hospital for some time and then they received a room on Saksaganskogo Street - and that replaced their nice apartment in Pushkin Street that they had before the war.

Married life

We got married in 1948. We didn't have a wedding party, only a civil registration ceremony. Fira was a very nice, talented, intelligent and reserved Jewish woman, exactly the woman that my parents would have wanted me to marry.

Our daughter Sulamyth was born in 1950. She got her name from my wife's sister Sulamyth, who died of spotted fever when she was young. Our daughter finished school and worked as a masseur specialist for some time. But she hasn't worked for a long time, she is very ill and I don't want to talk about her disease. [The interviewee's daughter is mentally ill.]

It seemed at first that Jewish life was improving in Kiev. There was a Jewish theater in the beginning but it didn't stay here because the building in which it was housed was destroyed. The theater moved to Chernovtsy. The Jewish culture department at the Academy of Sciences was restored. Spivak, an outstanding scientist, was its director. I went to all open meetings arranged by this department. Once I went there on business. We had a relative in Berdichev, Frenkel. He was a cantor in synagogues and sang Jewish songs. This department of culture had a music section, headed by Beregovskiy. I took Frenkel to Beregovskiy. I don't know what their discussion resulted in as I had to go somewhere else. In 1948 I received the last issues of Der Shtern magazine. Its editor was Grigoriy Polianker, a Jewish writer. I even wanted to go to the post office to find out why they had stopped delivering it to me. But somebody told me to not even mention that I had ever received this magazine. I heard at that time that the authorities were arresting all Jewish writers. They arrested Polianker, too. The Department of Culture employees were also arrested. Spivak died in jail.

In 1953 Stalin died. I was naïve enough to think that Stalin hadn't known about what was going on in the country. I grieved a lot after him.

After I finished my post-graduate studies I waited for my job assignment. I found a job at the Institute of Communal Hygiene and they sent a request to have me there. But my institute refused to let me go and offered me a job. In less than two months I was fired due to staff reduction. They fired almost all Jews at once. In that other institute they also told me that the vacancy had been filled. I wrote to Moscow but in vain. I realized this was part of the anti-Semitism, which was at its height in the late 1940s.

My wife was finishing her course at the Institute. She was an excellent student but of course there were no good vacancies in store for her due to her typical Jewish surname - Rabinovich. She was sent to the rubber factory. I had no job. I wrote to different institutes, but I had no success. Then I found a job at the leather factory. They had a research institute there and I asked them to send me to work there, but they told me it was out of the question. I worked at the plant and became a rationalization engineer, chemical engineer and then I was promoted to head of a shop. Later I became head of the central laboratory and worked there until 1965. From then on and until 1996 I was a senior researcher and director of the laboratory.

In 1962 I received a small three-bedroom apartment on the outskirts of Kiev. It took my wife about two hours to get to work. Then she got a job at the institute of extra-solid materials, located in our neighborhood. She was successful at her new workplace and created many new materials and tools. She defended her thesis. We lived a good life. We had interesting jobs and many friends. We never celebrated Soviet holidays, but we got together at weekends and had parties. We celebrated birthdays and always tried to celebrate Jewish holidays, although my wife didn't know anything about traditions. But she learned to cook Jewish food and we fasted at Yom Kippur. However, we didn't go to the synagogue.

I've always been interested in Jewish literature. Between 1948 and 1961 nothing was published in Yiddish and I read the books that I had bought before 1948. Books about the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising 30 or about the Minsk ghetto were published before 1948. Yiddish authors were also published before 1948. In 1961 they began to issue the magazine Sovyetishe heymland in Yiddish. Of course, this magazine published the works that were praising the Communist Party. They allowed no stories about anti-Semitism.

I've never concealed my nationality or my interest in the Jewish culture. I've always treated people nicely and they were nice to me, too. Neither I nor members of my family faced any anti-Semitism in our day-to-day life. I always behaved in a manner that people respected my nationality. If I ever heard any statements related to this subject I talked back in such a way that people tried to avoid arguing with me.

Life has changed a lot in the recent 12-13 years. There is a young enthusiastic rabbi in Kiev - Rebbe Yankel. He brought the people interested in the Jewish culture together. A Jewish school was opened and Igor, the son of my brother Yankel, went there. We all began to go to the synagogue. I went on Saturdays and heard there about a group of people called 'Yidish gayst oyf Yidish' - 'Jewish spirit in Yiddish'. They got together for discussions. Rebbe Yankel held speeches several times. After I retired from work I started to go to the synagogue twice a day - in the morning and in the evening. I recalled everything that my parents had taught me. I am following the kashrut now. We also celebrate Jewish holidays. When Solomon University [Jewish University in Kiev, established in 1995] was opened I created a course in Yiddish for them. It doesn't exist any more now. I took part in all conferences of experts in Yiddish. Regretfully, there are fewer and fewer people that understand the language of Eastern European Jews, the language of Sholem Aleichem. The culture that gave the world great artists, musicians and scientists is about to disappear.

My brothers live in America. I was supposed to move there, too, but it happened so that we couldn't leave due to my wife's illness. She died in 1995. She had trombophlebitis and lymphostasis, but she was infected with an injection. It doesn't make sense to try and prove anything - she is gone. It's difficult to talk about it.

It's not possible to leave this country with my daughter because she is ill. There is a totally different culture in Israel and any efforts of Eastern European Jews to restore the Yiddish culture fail. I work and write articles in Yiddish and about the history of Jews from Berdichev.

I'm very interested in the life in Israel. Regretfully, I haven't had a chance to visit this country. The situation there gives me much concern. Why don't they leave the Jewish state alone? This terrorism is just awful. I think it's even worse than a war. At least one realizes during a war that one is in a war. I wish that everybody could live in peace, have no fear and be happy.

Glossary

Michael Kotliar
Chernovtsy
Ukraine
Interviewer: Ella Levitskaya
Date of interview: November 2002

Michael Kotliar is a man of medium height. He is very vivid and energetic, despite his age and poor sight. He is a volunteer at Hesed. He has eight elderly people to tend to. He visits them at home and provides all necessary assistance to them. In addition he does work at the Museum of Jewish History in Chernovtsy. He gave us an interview at the museum and was very proud to show us the things on display. He was one of the people who founded this museum. His other hobby is tourism and he knows every house in Chernovtsy.

Family background
Growing up
During the War
After the War
Glossary 

Family background

I know very little about my father's parents. My grandfather, Haim Kotliar, was born in Beltsy in the 1860s. My grandfather and my grandmother Riva died as a result of some epidemic in the 1910s. My father, David Kotliar, never told me anything about his childhood and his parents. Only once, when I insisted, did he say that he had a very hard childhood and didn't want to recall it. In general, he was a taciturn man. There were four children in the family. My father was born in 1901. I knew his older brother, Motl, born in 1895, and his sister, Sarah, born in 1898. There was a younger brother in the family, whose name I don't remember.

Beltsy was a Russian town. In 1918 it became part of Romania. Beltsy was a bigger town populated by Moldavians and Jews. There were also Romanians and Gypsies in town. Jews lived in the center and Moldavians on the outskirts. They were farmers and wine makers. Jews were craftsmen and merchants. There were several doctors and lawyers among the Jewish population. There were a few synagogues, cheders and a Jewish school. Besides, there were a few Romanian secondary schools, a lyceum and a grammar school. People of all nationalities got along well. There was no everyday or state anti-Semitism before World War II.

My father strictly observed all Jewish traditions even during the Soviet times. I believe he was born to a religious family. He and his brothers studied at cheder. They spoke Yiddish at home, but they also knew Russian and Moldavian. I don't know how my father and his brothers managed to live without their parents. When they grew old enough they learnt a trade . My father and Motl became tailors. Sarah was a seamstress. She was single. After World War II she worked at the garment factory in Chernovtsy. She died in 1982.

Motl had 15 children from several wives. His first wife died of some disease in the 1920s, something happened to his second wife in the 1940s, and he married again. He worked very hard to provide for his family. All his children moved to Israel in the late 1940s. Motl died in the 1970s.

My father's younger brother moved to Chernovtsy in the 1930s after he got married. He perished at the front in the 1940s. His family was in evacuation and survived. I remember his wife Nehama. She lived in Chernovtsy with her children after the evacuation. She was a baker. She raised and educated four children. She was a beautiful woman, but she didn't remarry. She was faithful to the memory of her deceased husband. In the 1970s Nehama, her three sons and one daughter moved to Israel. Nehama died there recently at the age of 95.

My mother's family lived in Orgeyev. It was a small Moldavian town located in the mountainous area of the Kodry River between Kishinev and Beltsy. Jews constituted the majority of the population. There were also Moldavians, Russians and Ukrainians. Jews lived in the central part of the town. There were rich and poor families among them. Jews were mainly craftsmen and merchants. Some of them owned stores and sold everyday goods. Orgeyev was a district town, it belonged to Russia before 1918 and then became part of Romania. It was a beautiful town embedded in gardens and vineries. The Moldavians were mainly wine-growers. They also grew vegetables and fruit. Monday was market day, and farmers from the surrounding villages brought their food products to sell them in Orgeyev. On other days of the week farmers from the outskirts of town brought their products to the market. They also kept cows and milkmen delivered dairy products to people's homes. There were several synagogues, a cheder and a Jewish school in Orgeyev. There were no conflicts between the different nationalities. There were no pogroms 1 in Orgeyev either.

My grandfather on my mother's side, Shoil Moshkoutzan, was a blacksmith. My grandmother's first name was Dvoira. They came from families with many children. Both of them were born in Orgeyev in the 1860s. I didn't know anybody from my grandfather's or my grandmother's family. My grandparents had 14 children: 13 daughters and a son. They were very poor. My grandfather worked hard, but he still didn't earn enough to feed his big family. He owned a forge and had an assistant. He had a lot of work to do for farmers. Whenever the landlord living nearby asked him to do work for him it was a festive event for the family. My grandfather fixed the landlord's carts or horseshoed the horses. The landlord paid him with money and food. This was the only time when the family had enough food, but it happened very rarely. They lived in a small shabby house. There were two rooms and a small kitchen. There were two or three fruit trees near the house.

The daughters got no education because my grandparents couldn't afford to hire a teacher to have them educated at home. Their only son studied at cheder. My mother was a very intelligent woman. I once asked her why she didn't study, and she said that her parents didn't even have enough money to buy notebooks. The girls had to work at the tobacco factory since the age of 10. It was hazardous work - they inhaled tobacco dust that was all around. They all developed consumption. Doctors recommended them to have better food, but it wasn't possible. There were days when the family only had mamaliga, a corn flour meal. Only 5 of the 14 children survived. The rest of them died before they turned 15. The survivors were Haika, born in 1892, Makhlia, born in 1900, my mother Eta, born in 1907, Entsa, born in 1909, and the only son, Haim, born in 1902.

My mother's parents were religious. They went to the synagogue on Saturdays and on Jewish holidays. The synagogue was near their house. Whatever miserable and little food they could afford on weekdays, my grandmother managed to save some money to make challah and gefilte fish on Sabbath to celebrate the holiday according to Jewish traditions. When my grandfather managed to make some extra money before holidays my grandmother also bought new clothes for the girls. They spoke Yiddish at home and Moldavian with their neighbors and farmers.

Makhlia was the most beautiful one of the sisters. She had two sons: Haim and Yasha. They were all shot by the fascists in Orgeyev on the first days of the Great Patriotic War 2.

Haika got married and lived in Beltsy with her family. She had two daughters. Her husband perished at the front in the 1940s. Haika and her daughters were in evacuation in the Ural. After the Great Patriotic War Haika returned to Beltsy. She was a seamstress like my mother. She also altered or fixed clothes. Haika died in the 1970s. She was a very nice and kind person. Her daughters live in Israel.

My mother's younger sister, Entsa, married a klezmer. He played trombone in an orchestra. The family didn't quite approve of this marriage. Jews believed that being a musician wasn't a reliable profession. But Entsa's husband was a born musician and very talented. He played at weddings and for rich people. He had occasional jobs. They had two very pretty daughters. Before the war Entsa and her family moved to Ivano-Frankovsk. During the Great Patriotic War they were in evacuation, and after the war they returned home. Entsa died in the late 1950s. Entsa's daughters emigrated in the early 1970s. One lives in the US and the other one in Israel.

My mother's brother Haim got married and moved to Beltsy. He was a shoemaker. His wife's name was Surah. They had a daughter called Polia. Haim perished at the front. Surah didn't remarry. Her daughter Polia lives in Israel now.

My mother's sisters and brother were religious and respected their ancestors' traditions. Haika and my mother liked making clothes. Perhaps, this saved their lives because they went to study sewing instead of working at the tobacco factory. My mother became an apprentice to a seamstress. The shop where she studied made bed sheets, shirts and underwear. My mother told me that the owner of the shop was very strict and made sure that her employees didn't get distracted from their work. My mother was a very beautiful girl and the owner treated her with more kindness that the others. She had a beautiful voice and the owner liked it when she sang during work. She knew many Jewish songs and liked to sing them.

My mother moved to Beltsy in 1924 because it was a bigger town and easier to find a job there. She got a job at a seamstress' shop and rented a room that she shared with other girls. My father was a skilled tailor by that time. His shop was near the place where my mother worked. My mother told me that she became Miss Romania twice at beauty contests. My father noticed and began to court her. They went to Orgeyev, my grandparents liked my father and they gave their consent to the wedding. They got married in 1927. They had a traditional Jewish wedding with a chuppah and klezmer musicians in Beltsy. My father earned well, and they could afford to have a big wedding party and invite all relatives to celebrate. After they got married he bought a big house in the main street in Beltsy. He quit his job and opened his own tailor's shop. The workshop in the biggest and lightest room in his house. There was an orchard and a flower garden near the house.

Growing up

My sister, Riva, was born in 1929, and my brother, Haim, followed in 1932. He was named after my grandfather on my father's side. I was born in 1934. In 1936 my mother's father Shoil died. My parents named their next son Shoil, born in 1938, after our deceased grandfather. All boys were circumcised according to Jewish tradition.

My grandmother Dvoira was grieving over her husband. She wore mourning clothes until the end of her life. It was hard for her to stay in the house, where everything reminded her of her husband, so she moved in with us. She was a short fat woman. She always wore a long black gown and a black shawl. She was very kind and caring. She stayed with us for almost four years until she moved to her younger daughter, Makhlia, in Orgeyev in 1940.

My parents were also religious. They observed all Jewish traditions and followed the kashrut. We spoke Yiddish at home. My father worked from morning to night. He wanted to provide well for his family and have a decent Sabbath and other Jewish holidays. I remember Sabbath in our family. My mother went to the market on early Friday morning. She bought fish and a chicken. I took the chicken to the shochet near our house. Then I took it back home, and my mother plucked it and prepared it for cooking. She followed all the rules. Then she made chicken broth. She also made gefilte fish and dough for challah. Challah was sold in Jewish bakeries, but my mother preferred to make her own. She put the pots with food into the oven to keep them warm for Saturday. On Saturdays it wasn't allowed to start a fire to heat the food.

My mother also made cholent in ceramic pots. In the evening the house smelled of freshly baked challah. My mother covered the table with a clean white tablecloth and put challah and wine on it. She covered her head with a white silk shawl, lit candles and said a prayer. Then my father said a prayer saying blessings to Holy Saturday, the food and the children. My mother sang Jewish songs and we joined in. On Sabbath my parents and children over 12 went to the synagogue. They had their own seats in the synagogue. Younger children stayed at home and a non-Jewish woman looked after them. When the family returned we all sat down for dinner.

Before Pesach my mother took special fancy dishes from the attic. All everyday dishes and utensils were taken to the attic. We cleaned the house, removed all breadcrumbs and burnt them in the stove. My mother and my older sister Riva started cooking in advance. My father used to buy a few flax bags of matzah before Pesach. There were quite a few dishes made from matzah: pancakes, pastries and puddings. My mother made chicken, gefilte fish and chicken necks stuffed with liver, onions and brown flour. She made potato, corn and matzah flour and egg puddings. She also made honey cakes, star of David shaped cookies that melted in the mouth and strudels with nuts, jam and raisins.

On the first day of Pesach [at the seder] there were bitter greeneries and salt water on the table. Greeneries were supposed to be dipped into the salt water to remember the bitterness of slavery and Jewish tears shed in Egypt. In the evening my father conducted the seder. We [children] also got a bit of special red wine made from slightly dried grapes that gave it a sweet and strong flavor. There was always an extra glass on the table for Elijah the Prophet. My mother said prayers in Hebrew. My younger brother and I asked my father traditional questions [the so-called four questions]. We learned them by heart in Hebrew and he explained their meaning to us. We hid a piece of matzah [afikoman] and my father had a gift for the one that found it after the meal.

My family fasted on Yom Kippur and before Rosh Hashanah. Children began to fast after they turned 5. My mother thought fasting would do a child no harm. We were only allowed to drink water. Before Yom Kippur we made the rounds of our neighbors' and acquaintance's houses to ask their forgiveness for whatever harm we had or hadn't done to them. We also asked forgiveness from our parents for being disobedient and from out playmates for fighting or arguing with them. On the next evening my parents went to the synagogue. They returned home placid and inspired. The family sat down for a festive dinner.

My father was rather strict with us, but my mother never raised her voice or treated us angrily, and we tried not to upset her. My older brother went to cheder when he turned 6 and began to work at the age of 9. He was a shoemaker apprentice. My sister had a teacher teaching her at home. Riva studied Yiddish and Hebrew. In 1940 Moldavia became a part of the USSR and neither my brother nor I studied at cheder. The Soviet authorities persecuted religion 3 and all religious institutions were closed.

I remember how people welcomed the Soviet tanks that came to the country at the end of June 1940. People believed that life was going to change for the better and that this power would give people freedom and equal rights. The illusions didn't last long. Soon arrests began. Wealthier people were sent to prison or into exile. My father managed to escape from being arrested, as he had no employees in his shop. My mother helped him in the shop whenever she had free time. The authorities confiscated my father's tailor's shop and he got a job at this shop. My mother was a housewife.

During the War

I was to begin my 1st grade at school in September 1941, but on 22nd June 1941 the Great Patriotic War began. The war came as a surprise. We knew that Europe was in war, but we were assured by the propaganda that Hitler wouldn't dare to attack the Soviet Union. German and Romanian armies occupied our town at night on 22nd June. On Sunday the sky darkened from bomber aircrafts flying over the town dropping bombs on the houses, streets and people. The planes were flying low and the bombers shot at people with automatic guns. My father grabbed our younger brother and shouted to us to run into the garden immediately. When we ran into the garden we saw a bomb hitting our house. We lost everything we had. We were hiding in the bushes until the bombers left. My father said that we had to go to the Dnestr River and try to cross it. We ran along the ruined streets. There were people lying or sitting in blood puddles. I can still remember the sickening smell of blood. There were crowds of people on the bank of the Dnestr River. We crossed the river on a boat and my father took us to the railway station.

My parents, my two brothers, my sister an me got on a train. They were only freight railcars for the transportation of cattle but it didn't matter at that time. We were running away from the Germans. The train was bombed several times on the way. It stopped and we got off to hide. We had no food, clothing or documents with us. Whenever the train stopped at a station and there was another train with soldiers going to the front we got some of their food - soup or cereals - that they shared with us. We came to a village in Stalingrad region [500 km from Beltsy]. Evacuated people got accommodation in the houses of the villagers. We were all involved in harvesting. Younger children were picking spikelets falling from a combine harvester. Then the Germans were approaching Stalingrad, and we got on our way again. We arrived at Fergana lowlands in Uzbekistan after covering a distance of 2,000 kilometers from Stalingrad. We were sent to a kishlak [Uzbek for a village] in the mountains in Middle Asia. It was a small village with very few houses. We were accommodated in a mud house with two rooms and a small kitchen with a stove. The Uzbeks treated us kindly. They sympathized with us and tried to help.

My father was recruited to the labor army. Due to his age he wasn't subject to recruitment to the army. He worked at the construction of channels in Uzbekistan throughout the four years of the war. They lived in barracks 10 kilometers outside the village with no comforts whatsoever, but they had sufficient food and clothing. My mother and I stayed in a mud hut. My father came to see us for a few hours once a week. My mother worked at the collective farm. She got flour for her work. We all worked except for my younger brother. I was 7 years old at that time. I was to shepherd sheep. I got a donkey and a stick sharpened at one end. I rode my donkey watching that the sheep stayed together. We were given some food for our work.

In autumn we were to go to school, but we had no documents. In order to obtain them we had to go to the district town. My mother wasn't allowed to leave work for even a single day. The chairman of the collective farm took the four of us onto a road and showed us in what direction we had to move to get to the district town. My older sister was 12 and my younger brother was 3 at the time. We got to the town in the evening and stayed in a local house overnight. In the morning we went to the registry office. There was an Uzbek man there who didn't understand a word of Russian. My sister knew a few words in Uzbek. She explained to him what we needed. She didn't remember the dates of our birth, though. He took it easy and issued four birth certificates. He wrote them in Russian and in Uzbek. He put our birthday as 20th September, the day when we came to see him, and we got on our way back.

My sister and brother went to school while I fell ill with typhoid. I stayed in hospital for almost half a year. When I recovered I had to work to help my mother. I worked for three years shepherding sheep, helped them with the harvesting and did manual work. In April 1944 we heard that Beltsy had been liberated by the Soviet army and returned home. I was 10 years old, but I went to the 1st grade of the Russian secondary school for boys. However, more than half of my classmates had also missed school during the war.

After the War

We didn't have a place to live. More than half of the houses in the town were ruined. We were accommodated in a small room in a barrack near a military unit. My father couldn't get a job in 1945 and decided that we need to move to Chernovtsy. People said there were many vacant apartments there, and the town was almost intact. We rented a horse-driven cab and reached Chernovtsy within a few hours. We liked the town. It was big and beautiful and Yiddish could be heard all around. There was a synagogue and the majority of the population was Jewish. At the beginning we rented a room in the basement of a house in an old Jewish neighborhood. This was the area of the former Jewish ghetto and the owner of the house lived there during the war. This old lady spoke Yiddish and Romanian. It was a cold and damp room with no running water, heating or toilet. My mother cooked on a primus stove. She stayed at home. My father found a job in a garment shop. The money he earned was just enough to live on bread and water. We were always hungry, but we had known worse times during the war and didn't pay much attention to the hardships of postwar life.

My sister attended a typing and stenography course and got a job as a typist. My older brother went to work at a shoemaker's shop. My younger brother and I went to school. We got a room in a common apartment. There were six of us living in it until my sister got married. Her husband, Naum Shnaider, moved in with us and they had two children. Nine of us lived in this room for over 20 years. Riva's husband worked as a mechanic at the textile association Voskhod. My sister studied by correspondence at the Faculty of Mathematics of the Pedagogical University. Upon graduation she worked as a teacher.

I became a Young Octobrist 4 and then a pioneer. I was very proud of wearing a red necktie and took an active part in public activities. The majority of my classmates were Jews. There were also quite a few Jewish teachers, so we didn't face any anti-Semitism at school. The period of the campaign against cosmopolitans 5 in 1948 didn't affect me.

I liked literature, history and geography at school. As for mathematics and physics - I wasn't really fond of these subjects and never got the highest grades. My sight became worse due to the hard life during and after the war.

I finished the 6th grade in 1950 when I turned 16 and could no longer stay at school. My older brother was a shoemaker and my father was a tailor, but they couldn't provide well for the family. Life was pretty expensive after the war. A loaf of bread cost almost half of my brother's monthly salary. I went to the 7th grade of an evening school and worked as a shoemaker during the day. Most of the shoemakers in Chernovtsy were Jews. I didn't really like this work. It was hard work, and I didn't feel like fixing other people's worn shoes for the rest of my life. I joined a crew of electricians at the Selenergo association. I was an apprentice there. We were responsible for power supply to the surrounding villages. Our crew leader was an older Jewish man. He treated me kindly and taught me everything he knew. Later he went to work at the motor plant and I was appointed crew leader.

At that time, in the 1950s, I became a Komsomol member 6. I was eager to join the Komsomol league to be among the architects of communism. I became a skilled electrician. But this work was associated with business trips and thus interfered with my studies. I quit the job. A Jew, whose last name was Kantor, offered me a job at the textile factory. He worked as an electrician there. He needed a co-employee to work in shifts. I worked night shifts, but I stayed at work during the day, too, in order to learn from Kantor. The factory was receiving German equipment with automatic control, and I had to learn from Kantor how to repair it. In the evening I went to school. I had a good teacher of mathematics, a Jew, and became fond of mathematics. My sight was getting poorer and poorer, and I could hardly see the blackboard in the classroom. I asked the teacher of mathematics to dictate what he was writing on the blackboard and I knew the solutions before he even finished writing.

I was told that I could have a cornea replacement surgery in Moscow. I went to the ophthalmology institute in Moscow. I had a surgery, but my sight didn't improve. The professor who operated on me said that if I had addressed them earlier they would have been able to help me, but that at that time it was already too late. I returned to Chernovtsy and got a job at the knitwear factory. The majority of employees at the knitwear factory were Jews. I didn't face any anti-Semitism there. I was a good employee. I also went to the school of tourist instructors. Bukovina is a very picturesque area, and I enjoyed guiding tours to blooming valleys and snow- covered mountains.

One day I was invited by the secretary of the party unit. He offered me to become a member of the party. It was my dream so I agreed. I believed in the ideas of communism. Lenin and Stalin were my idols. I entered the Evening University of Marxism-Leninism. I graduated from three faculties: philosophy, Marxism-Leninism and esthetics. I was very fond of reading classic works of Marxism-Leninism and believed in the bright and happy future of mankind. Religion was a vestige of the past for me. Upon graduation from the University of Marxism-Leninism I first became deputy secretary of the party unit of the factory and then secretary. I was involved in public activities arranging socialist competition between crews at the plant, performed our obligatory scope of work and surpassed our plans. On Soviet holidays we marched at parades carrying red flags and banners with communist slogans. I was well respected at work and there was no anti-Semitism.

I remember Stalin's death in March 1953. I was working at the factory when I heard the announcement on the radio about Stalin. People were crying and feeling lost. All of a sudden we heard the sound of sirens on the building of the factory. I was in grief and so were many other people. Nobody was hiding his tears. We felt like our life was over and we didn't know what was going to happen to us.

When Khrushchev 7 spoke at the Twentieth Party Congress 8 and denounced Stalin's crimes many of my friends, Jews, refused to believe it. Even an acquaintance of mine who had spent 20 years in the Gulag 9 thought that it was a lie. However, I believed what Khrushchev said and thought it was necessary to tell people about Stalin's crimes. I still believed in the ideals of communism and was an active member of the Communist Party: I attended meetings and spoke at the meetings, but I began to understand that there were different people among communists, some of whom were far from decent.

My parents continued observing all Jewish traditions after the war. It was a rule of life for them. They always celebrated Pesach. I respected their way of life. Although I was a Komsomol and a party member I joined them for the celebration of Pesach and other Jewish holidays. I didn't see any contradiction between my new outlooks and my respectful attitude towards family traditions. I didn't join them for prayers as I was a convinced communist, but I enjoyed the festive dinner on Sabbath. On Saturdays and Jewish holidays my parents went to the synagogue. They had their own seats in the synagogue. My father always made a contribution to the synagogue. He was a respectable member of the community.

My mother had special fancy dishes for Pesach that she kept in a box during the year. She also bought a live chicken that she took to the shochet who worked from home. All religious Jews knew his address. He was an old man and not afraid of any discontent from the Soviet authorities in case they found out that he did this job. My mother made chicken broth, gefilte fish, honey cakes and strudels for Pesach. My parents always had matzah on Pesach. Their four children and their families came to visit them on Pesach, and they were happy to have a family reunion. At Chanukkah my father gave all children Chanukkah gelt. When I think of my parents I understand how Jewish traditions and rituals have been preserved throughout centuries. I'm often reproached for not knowing prayers when my parents were so deeply religious. I reply that at that time my faith was Marxism- Leninism. I had different values back then. I feel so sorry now that I didn't learn more about Jewish traditions and rituals from my father, but I was a communist and believed in the ideals of communism. That's my only excuse.

I was eager to continue my studies. In 1966 I decided to try and enter the Faculty of Geography at Chernovtsy University. I was a tourist instructor, a party member and an udarnik [advanced employee] of communist labor - these were my advantages to help me enter a higher educational institution. I couldn't prepare for the entrance exams at my parents' home with nine tenants around. My mother's acquaintance, who lived alone, offered me to stay with her. I recapitulated all school textbooks, beginning from the 5th grade, and passed my entrance exams successfully. I was the only Jew that entered this faculty. I didn't have any influential friends. I guess my knowledge, work experience and party membership played a part for being admitted. In total two Jews were admitted to the university that year.

I was successful with my studies and received the highest grades in all subjects. I was a senior student in my group for five years. I didn't face any anti-Semitism until it came to defending my diploma thesis. Representatives of the Ministry of Education in Kiev came to attend the event. They liked my thesis, which was about the development of natural deposits in Western Ukraine, but still I only received a 'good' mark for it. Later my tutor told me confidentially that the commission wanted to give me an 'excellent', but representative of the Ministry said that it wouldn't be politically correct. I was hurt but decided to ignore it. I was happy about getting an education and didn't feel like wasting time by trying to argue with the commission.

I got married in 1969 when I was a student. My wife, Polina Trachtenberg, was born in Mogilyov-Podoskiy, Vinnitsa region, in 1931. Her parents were assimilated Soviet Jews. Polina doesn't know Yiddish or any Jewish traditions. Her mother was a housewife, and her father was a wine-merchant. After the war the family moved to Chernovtsy. Polina is a poor housewife because her mother didn't teach her how to do things around the house. Her mother wanted Polina to get a higher education. Polina graduated from the Faculty of History of Chernovtsy University and worked as a history teacher at a Russian secondary school. Polina's father died in 1960 and her mother in 1972.

We didn't have a traditional Jewish wedding. I was a communist and didn't want to have a chuppah. I didn't want to hide things from my comrades. My wife didn't want a religious wedding either. We had a civil ceremony and a wedding dinner with members of the family. My father was angry that we didn't have a chuppah and didn't attend the wedding. My mother came to the wedding, but my father didn't even congratulate me. He never came to visit us. When my wife and I went to visit my parents my father didn't say a word of reproach, but he never came to see us in our house. My son, Jacob, was born in 1970. He wasn't circumcised and doesn't know a word of Yiddish.

I was offered a job assignment in the Novosibirsk Observatory upon my graduation in 1962. It was an interesting offer, but I had to refuse. I was already married. My son was one year old, and my wife was ill; she had a heart problem. I found a job as a methodologist at a tourist station. I worked there for more than ten years. I was awarded diplomas of honor, and my tourist teams were among the best ones in Ukraine and the USSR. I was very fond of this work.

Later I was asked to accept the job of a tutor in a club for teenagers. When I came to the building on the outskirts of town I found it damaged, dirty and abandoned. There were different children in this club: children from well-off families and teenagers with problems. There were even teenagers who were registered in the militia for their conduct. We repaired and fixed the building, and the children got involved in various activities. We had different sections: a chess club, a tourist section and even a motor club. The children changed for the better and developed many interests. We got broken cars that we fixed and taught the children to drive. Many of the teenagers became good drivers when they grew up. We had wrestling and boxing sections and a dance club. I found enthusiasts that agreed to work with the children at no cost. The children, their parents and my management respected me. I retired after 22 years of work.

Polina hasn't changed. She is a typical Soviet person. She took no interest in Jewish traditions or anything around her. All she cared about was herself and her health condition. Our son takes after her. He didn't want to continue his education after finishing school. Jacob works as a locksmith at a plant and watches football matches on TV - that's all he likes. He was married for a short time and has a son. His wife divorced him. He doesn't even feel an urge to communicate with his son. He believes that giving his son some money is sufficient. Jacob has no future. I felt very sorry for him until I realized that I wouldn't be able to change his life.

When Jews began to move to Israel in the 1970s I sincerely believed them to be traitors. I couldn't understand what they were driven by, but when I attended meetings where those people were condemned and humiliated I changed my attitude. People shouted 'Traitors' at them at such meetings, especially when party members were leaving. They were fired if it became known that they were planning to move to Israel. The district party committee suggested that I made a speech to condemn the ones that were leaving, but I refused. Many of those people were my friends, and I couldn't throw mud at them. Later I was responsible for visiting those people that had submitted their documents to obtain a permit to move. I was supposed to convince them to change their mind. I talked with them and understood that every person has the right to choose his own country of living and way of life, and that there's only one place where people can be forced to stay, and that is a prison. My family didn't plan to move. My parents wished they could go, but they couldn't move themselves because they were old and ill. I was going to stay. I would like to visit Israel and I hope that one day I will go there.

My sister Riva's son graduated from a physics and mathematics school. Due to his Jewish nationality he couldn't enter Chernovtsy University. He went to Kazan, the capital of the Tatar Autonomous Republic, where he entered university. Upon graduation he became a post-graduate student and defended a candidate, and later, his doctor of science thesis. He went to the US to read lectures twice and then got a job offer in America. He moved there with his family. Riva, her husband and her daughter moved to the US in the 1980s. She wanted her daughter to have a good life. Her husband needed a heart surgery. He was operated in the US and they have a good life there. They are pensioners, and their daughter got married and has a job.

Shulamit, the daughter of my younger brother Shoil, and her husband moved to the US, too, at the end of the 1980s. Shoil and his son, Boris, followed them some time later. He was chief engineer at a design institute here, but he didn't find a job in the US because he was already over 50 years old when he moved there. He lives an isolated life.

My older brother Haim lives in Chernovtsy. He's a weird man and very rough with his family and relatives. His two sons had to go to work when they were young children. They moved to Israel with their mother at the end of the 1980s. Later one of them moved to Canada. He's a driver. The other one was a boxer and a champion of the region. In Israel he became heavyweight champion of the country and later opened a sport school. Haim stayed in Chernovtsy. He didn't want to go with his family. He's a highly skilled professional. He's a pensioner now but often asked to do some work as an electrician.

My father died in 1984. He was a very hardworking man and worked until the end of his life. My mother buried him in the Jewish cemetery. My mother died in 1994 after the collapse of the USSR. I buried her according to Jewish traditions. Her grave is near my father's grave. I come to the cemetery to recite the Kaddish, the mourning prayer, on the anniversary of their death. Then I go to the synagogue. I terminated my membership in the party when I turned to the Jewish way of life in the 1980s.

When Ukraine gained independence in 1991 Jewish life revived. There are Jewish organizations, and Jewish culture has returned to our life. I began to take an interest in our roots in the 1980s after my parents died. I recalled prayers, holidays and traditions. At that period I wasn't interested in any party activities any longer. In the 1980s there were many TV programs and publications about various aspects of life in the country. We also got an opportunity to read about life in developed Western countries. We realized how much misery there was in our country. I knew that in a country, where the life of a human being belonged to the state and where industries and land didn't have owners to take care of them, there could be no order or improvements. I got disappointed in communist ideals.

I recalled many things from my life before the war and decided to help people to restore Jewish traditions and culture. I became a volunteer with Hesed and am grateful that I can be of use to other people. However, there are things that I don't like. I think, Jews have been spoiled. Before the Soviet power there was a Jewish community in Chernovtsy that took care of poor and ill Jews, but people still worked hard and tried to support the community rather than waiting for help from the outside. Now, I believe, Jews are turning into parasites waiting for Jews in foreign countries to provide for them. Many of those that proudly call themselves Jews have very distant Jewish roots and would have never revealed the fact that their grandmother was a Jew before.

Beginning from school years Jewish children are raised to become spongers: they get free tours, clothing and meals. Jews have survived throughout their history learning to be smarter and more intelligent than others. This helped our nation to develop. As for now there are only few people that want to work for their future. The rest of them are idle and wait to be given what they need. I don't think that such hothouse conditions will do us any good. I think the nation is degrading which is worse than persecutions. One cannot always take without giving.

From the beginning of perestroika I was dreaming about a museum of Jewish history. I saw how people were throwing away their photographs, books and documents before leaving for Israel and other countries. I collected all I could find, sorted things out and kept them. As soon as the Association of Jewish Culture was founded I offered to establish a museum about the Jewish history of Chernovtsy.

I studied museum business and transferred my whole collection to the museum. We also asked people to give their historical belongings to the museum. Within half a year we finished and displayed our collection. There was an opening ceremony where I was referred to as the author of the idea and founder of the museum. We tell people about Jewish life in Chernovtsy before 1940, how many synagogues were in town, Jewish everyday life, their traditions and religion and about the peaceful coexistence with people of other nationalities. We have ancient Torah scrolls , prayer books , tallits, chanukkiyahs, other Jewish ritual accessories and old family pictures that were miraculously saved during the Great Patriotic War. What's most important to me is that there is a museum and that I can continue my work.

I am also fond of tourism. I work as a part-time guide at a tourist agency. I do guided tours for foreigners. Chernovtsy is a very beautiful town. The Jewish neighborhood in the center of the town has preserved its original looks. I know every house in Chernovtsy, its history, architect and all its former owners. The museum and tourism are the two things I'll have for the rest of my life.

Glossary

Bernard Knezo Schönbrun
Bratislava
Slovakia
Interviewer: Martin Korcok
Date of interview: November 2005 – March 2006

Mr. Bernard Knezo Schönbrun was born into an Orthodox Jewish family 1 in Eastern Slovakia. He grew up in very modest living conditions. Modest conditions and sports activities, in which he excelled among his contemporaries, induced him to join the leftist-oriented Jewish youth in Michalovce. The war years and the tragedy that befell Jewry only served to entrench him in his leftist views. Unfortunately, he became inconvenient for the totalitarian system that came to power in the post-war period. Despite his education, he was stripped of his position and was assigned to manufacturing. Of course, Mr. Knezo’s family, which he loves above all else, helped him overcome all trials and tribulations that life brought him. During his life he always steered himself by the philosophy with which he also guided his family: ‘You always have to help people, because sooner or later it will return!’ I can’t but take this opportunity to mention that it was an honor for me to meet such modest people, with such big hearts, as are Mr. Bernard Knezo Schönbrun and his wife, Anna.

Family background
Growing up
At school
During the War
After the War
Glossary:

Family background

My father was named Moric [Moritz] Schönbrun, Jewish name Mojshe. He came from Subcarpathian Ruthenia 2. He was born in 1876, but I don’t remember the exact place. In 1929 he got pneumonia and was in a hospital in Kosice, where he also died. They buried him in one of the local Jewish cemeteries. My mother was named Mina, nee Fuchs. She was born in Eastern Slovakia, in the town of Pozdisovce, in 1883. She died during transport to Auschwitz, if you can say that she died. On the way there they trampled her to death in the wagon.

I don’t know my family from my father’s side at all, and neither did I ever find out anything about them. Neither do we know the names of my grandparents on my mother’s side. All I know is that they were very poor people. They had ten daughters and they all lived together in one room in Pozdisovce. I of course don’t remember the names of all ten girls. I remember only one of my mother’s sisters, we called her Ilonka neni [Auntie Ilonka]. From the time I was ten, I lived in Auntie Ilonka’s family in Michalovce.

As I’ve mentioned, my father was from Ruthenia. How did he get to the territory of today’s Slovakia? After World War I, the population started moving around. People went where they’d be better off. The living conditions in Ruthenia were worse than in Eastern Slovakia, and so my father moved here. After World War I there were 18 Jewish families living in the village of Inacovce, in the Michalovce region, where he settled. Mainly poor people of course, like tailors, shoemakers and also cleaners. But the number of Jewish families in Inacovce slowly decreased. Right before World War II, there were already only three Jewish families living in the village 3. It was apparently because poverty drove people towards a better life, westward.

In my mother’s native village, Pozdisovce, there were more Jewish families, that I know for sure. In the regional town itself, in Michalovce, there were in those days about 12,000 inhabitants, of those about 4,000 Jews. On Friday evening, when the stores closed, the whole town emptied and was empty on Saturday too. The Jewish population was at the synagogue. There was one beautiful synagogue in the town. People congregated either there, or in other smaller prayer halls.

I don’t know how my parents met. All I know is that my father was married twice. His first wife died. My father brought a son into the second marriage, he was named Lajb. After World War I Lajb moved to the USA and there he changed his name to Louis. Well, and with my mother my father had another three girls and me. My parents spoke Yiddish to each other. Our mother tongue was also Yiddish, and of course we also learned the Zemplin dialect. This dialect was used in our surroundings. At home we also spoke Hungarian, but we spoke Hungarian only very rarely. In those days Hungarian was the language of ‘better’ people, that’s how one could put it.

Together with my half-brother there were five of us children in the family. The oldest was my sister, who was named Malkele, or Malvin, Malvinka. Another sister was named Lincu, or Lina, Linka or Karolina. Her Jewish name was Lea. The last of my sisters was named Surele, or Sarika, Sarolta. My half-brother was Lajb. He left for the USA after World War I. He settled in the city of Detroit. Occasionally he wrote us something. Always, when a letter from him arrived, we had something to laugh about. In each letter he wrote the same thing: ‘Di geshefte geyn zeyer shlekht. Mer kanayes ken ikh oykh nisht shrayben un ferblayb ayer bruder Luis.’ In Yiddish this means: Business is very bad. Otherwise there’s nothing new to write, yours truly, your brother Louis. That was how he ended his letters. We relished laughing at this so much that it’s stayed in my mind until now.

I never met Louis. During the First Republic 4 I was still small, and during the time of the Slovak State 5 it wasn’t possible. After the war he did a very nice thing. He sent my wife and me a so-called affidavit and ten dollars, that we should come join him. We didn’t leave and I returned the money, saying that when we do once come to America, he can give us the money. That it would help us more there than here, as it was 70 Czechoslovak crowns. Apparently my brother was offended, as we didn’t use the affidavit and returned the dollars. I guess he really was doing ‘schlecht’ [badly]...

Jews differed from the other village inhabitants in the clothes they wore. This was also the case with my parents. My father always wore dark clothing and wore a hat on his head. My mother’s hair was cut very short and she wore a kerchief on her head. My parents were strictly Orthodox Jews. Now I’ll mention one touchy subject. There’s a rule that after menstruation women have to wash in running water. My mother took this rule so seriously that in the winter, together with one of her daughters, she’d chop a hole in the ice on a nearby stream and bathe, because that’s what the rule said. The result was that towards the end of her life it caused her to have serious rheumatism. During her last years she just laid in bed. The Bergmans from Senne, who brought her food, also helped her. Her strict observance of religious rules indirectly resulted in her becoming an invalid, and during the deportations they just threw her, crippled, into a wagon. People didn’t pay her any heed and trampled her.

At that time I was already with Auntie Ilonka in Michalovce. The way it was, was that my father died in 1929 and I was supposed to recite the Kaddish for him. As there weren’t enough men [for a minyan, a minimum of ten men above the age of 13 needed for prayer] in Inacovce, I had to go to Michalovce. I wasn’t even 10 yet, and I recited the Kaddish for my father. At that time my mother was already suffering from serious rheumatism. I remember that she wasn’t even able to wipe the sweat from her forehead. Always when she raised her arm, she said, ‘My boy, it hurts.’ I was still little, so I didn’t understand it, and answered, ‘Mommy, how could it hurt?’

Our father also closely followed religious rules. For example it would be Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. We didn’t have a minyan. So Jews from three to five villages got together and would go to one village favorably located for this purpose. Jastrabie was the central village where we used to gather at the home of one Jewish family. My mother, the poor thing, would go with us in the evening on those sore legs of hers, so that she could be at the Kol Nidre. Those two kilometers were no small feat for a sick person. The men went there every Friday evening for Sabbath and during holidays, women only for the High Holidays.

Normally, usually once a week, not only during the High Holidays, but also on other days, my father used to go with other men to bathe in the mikveh. Imagine that, in that hole, in Inacovce, there was a mikveh. When I was still a young boy I used to bathe in the mikveh, on Friday. I went there with my father. Later I also went to a mikveh in Michalovce. The religiosity of Jews in Inacovce also showed in the fact that the three, four Jewish families there had a melamed – teacher, for their children.

Unfortunately my father died very early on. I couldn’t directly participate in the funeral, because my father, and thus also I, were kohanim – priests, from a tribe of priests, favored among all the Jewish tribes. For example during the High Holidays I blessed the entire kehila [kehila: the Jewish community in any given town], where they’d wash my hands beforehand so that they’d be clean during the blessing. I stood on a wall and recited the Kaddish. They buried my father right by that wall. Kohanim weren’t allowed in the cemetery, so that they wouldn’t come near unclean corpses. It was this privilege of theirs. I’d say that kohanim were considered to be a special tribe.

Growing up

I was born in the town of Inacovce, as my parents’ fourth child, in the year 1919. My parents named me Dov ben Mojshe. Dov means bear, and as I was still small, in Yiddish little bear is Berele. So that’s why at home they called me Berele. In official documents I was registered with the name Bernat. Our family house was made from unfired bricks. The whole house was shaped like the letter L. In the front there was a store, about 4 x 2.75 meters. From the store you entered a room. The room had small windows, two by three panes. There were two beds and a couch in the room. Also there was a wardrobe, cupboards, a sewing machine, table and chairs. Our whole family slept there and in the neighboring kitchen. In the beginning we had only that one large room. After my father’s death the house was ‘redone.’ After the room there was a kitchen and a door out into the courtyard. From the kitchen you could walk through a closet into the stalls, where there was a cow and horse. We all took care of the livestock. The horse was used mainly when we’d go to town to do the shopping. We bought things from merchants in Michalovce. They were named Bley and Izo, both were Jews, the upper crust from Michalovce.

In Inacovce, people called us by the nickname ‘malovany’ [fancy], as during Purim my deceased father had dressed up as a youth and sang: ‘I’m a fancy lad, I’ve got a laced coat...’ That stuck with him for good, from that time on no one in the village called us by any other name. Maybe it was also because for people that spoke only the Zemplin dialect, it was hard to pronounce the surname Schönbrun. At best they pronounced it ‘Scheybrun.’ Some people even mangled our nickname and called us silken or snazzy.

In the courtyard we had a well and troughs into which water for the animals was pumped. By the well we had a wooden sukkah with a roof that could be opened. The non-Jewish residents in our region called Sukkot ‘shack.’ They’d say, ‘The Jews are going into the shack.’ I liked Sukkot very much, it was a pleasant holiday. Everything was decorated with greenery and flowers. I also liked Passover. Beside the sukkah was a small garden where we grew vegetables. Mainly carrots, parsley, kohlrabi and a few potatoes. At the back of the courtyard we had another garden where we grew other vegetables. Since we had a cow and horse, there was a manure pile in the back, in the other part of the courtyard. We milked the cow twice a day and because we were very poor, we even drank milk milked during Sabbath. Poverty forced us to.

We also had a dog, and I remember there being an outbreak of rabies in the village. Which is why they decreed that all dogs in the town should be shot. My sisters put pillows over their ears so that they wouldn’t hear the shooting. At that time I didn’t understand it very much yet. We couldn’t afford to get another dog, as we had no money for a new one.

My father used to go to Michalovce to shop. He’d harness up the horse and go. I already knew approximately when he’d return, and would be on the lookout for him in front of the village. He always returned by the same road. He’d take me on the wagon and sit me on his knees. He’d give me the reins and I’d steer the horses.

Before Sabbath my mother baked bread for the whole week. When I was staying with Auntie Ilonka in Michalovce, my mother used to return the favor for me staying with them by also baking sweet cakes and would always send them over with someone. Of course, on Friday we also baked barkhes. For Sabbath a chicken would be slaughtered, because we also kept chickens in the courtyard. During Sabbath we weren’t allowed to turn on any lights and weren’t even allowed to light or stoke a fire in the stove, back then we heated with wood. Even on weekdays my parents prayed twice a day, and of course we said blessings over everything, broche. For example we said blessings while washing our hands, while eating bread, basically we blessed everything ‘Ha-motzi lechem min ha-aretz.’ ‘Blessed is the bread of the earth.’

When we bought new dishes or cutlery for the household, which happened rarely, we immediately koshered it all. We’d stick the cutlery into the ground and left it like that for a certain amount of time. I don’t remember the exact procedures any more. But buying something new was rare in our household. Dishes that could be, were seared, but I don’t remember this procedure either.

When I was young Inacovce had between 300 and 400 people. There were about a hundred houses. We didn’t have a market in the village, people used to go to Michalovce. Markets took place every Tuesday and Friday. The big market was on Friday. Farmers would come on horse-drawn wagons. Michalovce was such a dirty, muddy hole that there you had to know how to cross the street. The main street was paved with stone, but the other streets were only packed dirt. The farmers stood at the sides of the road and sold their goods.

I have good memories of all my siblings. My oldest sister, Malvinka, was a brave person. In time she married, unfortunately her marriage wasn’t a happy one. They had one child, who died as a baby. Her husband came into our family from the village of Mokca. Mokca is located on the border of Slovakia and Hungary. An interesting thing is that we were the Schönbruns, and all my sisters married Schöns. The husbands of my younger two sisters were brothers, while the husband of the oldest one hadn’t been related to them before that, they just happened to have the same surname. I don’t remember Malvinka’s wedding, I was still very small at the time.

Malvinka’s husband used to take money from the store and go to Uzhorod [today Ukraine]. There he’d lose all the money playing cards and would then return home. He’d take some more money and leave again. In this way our whole little store went to the dogs. Even the little that there was came to naught. Malvinka later divorced him. Her fate was very sad, she ended up in Auschwitz, where she died. Her little boy was buried in the local Jewish cemetery in Inacovce. The cemetery still exists, even though it’s in a sorry state. From some sort of fear of the ‘Jewish God,’ the residents ‘leave it be.’

My second sister was named Karolina. She was exactly the same type of person as my wife, assertive and self-confident. A very pretty girl she was. She married another Schön, Eugen, in Stretava. Eugen had a store in Stretava, and they did fairly well. Stretava was the second to next village from Inacovce, one went there through either Senne or Palin. All the women in the family, beginning with my mother, rest her soul, worshipped me, as I was the only boy. They spoiled me. Karolinka was doing well, and so during my visits she would ‘fatten me up.’ Once she made me an omelet out of 12 eggs. I ate it all, and then felt horribly ill. My mother told her that she’d never let me go see her again. They had a better house, and larger as well, also from unfired bricks. They had two children. The daughter was named Gyöngyi, or Pearl, the son Vladko [Vladimir]. The whole family was dragged off to a concentration camp, where they died. To this day I’ve got the postcard that they sent me from the Miedzyrzec 6 camp.

My youngest sister, Sarika, was a delicate creature. She married Eugen’s brother, Maximilian Schön. We called Maximilian Mishi. I still remember their wedding. The dance for the young people that came to the wedding took place in a pub in Inacovce. Pubs in these small villages served as social gathering places, cultural centers of sorts. The day of their wedding, there was a lot of mud in the village, and so that the wedding guests wouldn’t get dirty, they hired some gypsies. Their task was to carry the young people on their backs to the pub, for which they got paid. This was because at Jewish weddings, young Jewish people that knew the bride and groom also participated.

My brother-in-law Mishi, a healthy, strong fellow, a vulcanizer by trade, got into the ‘Sonderkommando’ in Auschwitz, which means that he carried the dead from the gas chambers to the crematoria and put them onto the grates. One day he got my oldest sister, his sister-in-law, Malvinka, to cart over. Then he had to cart over his dead brother, Eugen. One day he got his own wife, Sarika, to take over. That finished him off, as two people told me independently of each other. The ‘Sonderkommando’ were preparing to bring in explosives and blow up the crematorium sky-high. But one fellow prisoner, a Pole, betrayed them. The Germans burned that Pole alive. They said that anyone who betrays his own will betray them as well. On the basis of the Pole’s testimony they then hung my brother-in-law and the others.

After our father’s death my oldest sister Malvinka took care of everything. At that time Mother was already seriously ill. Malvinka was a very slender woman. When she looked good, she weighed 51 kilos, otherwise she weighed 49 kilos. This woman took care of the family. It was misery. All of us lived in two rooms, as the closet was converted into another room. As my sisters grew, more room was needed. As far as books go, those went to my sisters, albeit rarely, as they were older. I didn’t get books until I was in high school. I left our family home right after my father’s death. Then my sister Linka also moved away.

The young people in the village began to gradually live more progressively. For example, the generation before us entertained themselves as follows: about 20 young single men and newlywed men would gather, and walk, singing, in the direction of the neighboring village. Young men from the neighboring village would on the other hand walk towards ours. When they were about 15, 20 meters from each other, they yelled: ‘Wanna fight?’ And tore into each other. Once they stabbed someone from our village, another time someone from the neighboring one. I’m not exaggerating. I saw it once as I was sitting on the couch underneath the window, when one youth caught up to another one, and stuck a knife into his back. He had to pull on it twice to get it out. That was their fun. I want to stress that Jewish boys never did this. When we came, my generation, we brought a new culture to the village. We put on plays. On Sunday, we’d play soccer. We were the first generation of Jewish children that began to make friends with non-Jews.

Those of us who attended school in larger towns, there were five, six of us, brought culture to the village. We sang city songs, put on plays, played volleyball and of course soccer. As there weren’t enough of us, we began to initiate the local village boys into the secrets of soccer. In the beginning they would kick once into the ground, once into the ball, but gradually they got better, until we could form a village team and play against the neighboring village. Our fellow village dwellers were already coming to watch us; ‘How our troopers are kicking that ball.’ Village fights were gradually replaced by sports events. The village elders, when they saw what we’re doing, that we’re bringing culture to life in the village, gave us property for a soccer field. The property was called ‘Olosinka.’ I’ve even heard that someone wrote about how we changed life in the village. Instead of fights, it was: ‘We’re going to have a look at our troopers, how they’re kicking that ball.’ Once it happened to me that after one such game, where there were already people from the village, one woman said to me, ‘Mr. Bernat, listen, they do so much running around after that ball, and when they’ve got it, instead of taking it and going home with it, they kick it away.’ That was her understanding of soccer.

As I’ve already mentioned, after my father’s death I moved to Michalovce, so that I could recite the Kaddish. Because that’s how religious we were. I was around nine, ten years old. My mother sent me to Michalovce, to her sister Ilonka. Ilonka was a very brave person, when she added me to her already eight children. They had only two rooms to live in. Their children were named Boriska, Anuska, Sarika, Rozika, Zolika, Sanika, and unfortunately I don’t remember the names of the last two. Aunt Ilonka’s husband was named Blau, and had a quasi-café. Quasi because you can’t compare it with a café in today’s sense of the word. Auntie Ilonka baked tarts, supplied them to her husband, and he sold them in the café. Old Jewish men used to come there to play cards. During cards they’d order coffee and a tart to go with it.

Still during the time of the First Republic, Ilonka and her husband sent their oldest daughter Boriska to America, to live with some family. Thanks to this she stayed alive. After the war my wife and I invited her to come for a visit. We drove her around Eastern Slovakia. She was overjoyed, and wept profusely when she stood in the places where she had grown up. I wasn’t all the same to me either. Well, and we also were in America to visit her.

In those days there were about 4,000 Jews in Michalovce. So necessarily there were also more prayer halls there. The largest, a beautiful synagogue, stood downtown across from City Hall. During the time of the Communist regime they tore it down and built a parking lot in its place. Apparently they tore it down so that there wouldn’t be a Jewish church across from City Hall. In the east non-Jews called synagogues ‘buzna.’ This main synagogue had a secondary room where devout old people used to go, who used to from the early hours of the morning pray there, and studied the Gemara. I also used to go pray there, each morning before going to school, to recite the Kaddish for my father. Of course there were more such places, where they met and prayed the mincha [afternoon service] and ma’ariv [evening service], for example on Hodvabna Street.

I began attending school in Inacovce. There I attended up to Grade 3. At that point I transferred to school in Michalovce. The religion teacher there was ‘Uncle’ Hellinger. He always walked around in a Sabbath overcoat. He didn’t know how to express himself properly in any other language, which is why he spoke Yiddish and Zemplin. He convinced my mother to put me into high school, that he would prepare me for German exams. I guess he prepared me well, as I passed the exam and transferred from council school, where I absolved only one grade, to high school. I liked gym a lot, as I was excellent in it. I was a good athlete, running, high jump, shot put, that went well for me. I also used to play soccer. I took sports seriously. I liked it a lot, it seems that our second-born daughter has taken after me in this.

At the same time, I also very much liked to draw. I excelled at it. When we went outside as a class to draw, my teacher told me, ‘All right, you’ll sit down here and you’ll draw this scene.’ This flattered me. What young person wouldn’t be flattered by this? People saw that I was drawing something different from the others. This teacher, who was named Müller, he was a Czech, also gave me advice regarding my future profession and my future in general. I went to him for advice. I was considering going to an academy, where we’d be taking drawing. He told me, ‘No, I wouldn’t recommend it, as there’ll be times when you’ll have lots to eat, and times when you won’t have anything to eat.’ I was also good at natural history. Otherwise, it can’t be said that I lagged in something, I was this better average. I didn’t lag in anything, but neither did I excel. To this day I’ve got all my report cards filed away.

Up to the age of 13, I also attended cheder. I had various teachers. One was named Katz, that was in Grade 6. The classes were graded. Then there was also 7th and 8th grade. There our teacher was, by coincidence, a certain Blau, but of a different type. He once told me this: ‘Berele, du bist eyn groyser sheygetz.’ You’re one big sheygetz. That means Christian, rascal or something like that. I excelled in Yiddish grammar. I had very nice handwriting. I even wrote out report cards for our home room teacher. To this day I know the entire Yiddish alphabet. So I attended cheder up to the age of 13, and also normal elementary school. Then I attended council school for one year, and then transferred to high school.

Besides Auntie Ilonka, two families from Michalovce have been permanently engraved in my memory, the Reichs and the Polaks, at whose places I used to eat ‘teg’ during the school year. [Editor’s note: ‘Teg’ is the plural form of the Yiddish word ‘tog,’ meaning day.] This means that they used to feed me one day a week. They liked me and treated me in the best possible way. They never made me feel like I was dependent on them. Their attitude towards me molded my character. Mrs. Reich has remained in my memories my whole life as Auntie Zelma, and her older son, my friend Erisko. Mrs. Polakova was Auntie Sidi and her son Arnold our ‘son,’ whom my wife and I took in after the war.

Each year on 28th October, a big celebration took place in Michalovce, to celebrate the anniversary of the founding of the First Republic. On that day town delegates and non-Jewish officers of the Czechoslovak Army would visit the synagogue, which was a great honor for us. The cantor would sing a song about the founder of the republic, Tomas Garrigue Masaryk 7. I remember it as if it had taken place today. The cantor was a very congenial person, he sang beautifully, and we young guys liked his daughter.

Back then there were also several upper-class Jewish families in Michalovce. Among them were the Gutmanns who moved to Michalovce from our village. They had a car and mainly drove people to the train station with it. The Michalovce train station was quite far away from the center of town. The car would be parked in front of the Zlaty Byk [Golden Bull] Hotel, when someone needed it, he came and they drove him there. Similarly if someone for example needed to quickly get to Kosice, he had himself driven there. The Gutmanns sometimes allowed me to sit in the car.

At the age of 15, 16, I began with questions like, ‘Mummy, what sort of bride should I bring to meet you?’ ‘Son of mine, if you’ll like her, I’ll like her as well’, was her answer. But at that time soccer was already being played in Michalovce. I liked this sport, because besides simple shoes you didn’t need anything else to play it. But my cap used to bother me while heading the ball, so I turned it around backwards. It also bothered me on backwards, so I asked my mother, ‘Mummy, why can’t I play soccer without a cap, when my friends are playing without caps?’ ‘Zun mayner, dos torstu mikh nisht fregn, dos iz an aveyre.’ ‘Son of mine, you’re not allowed to ask about that, it’s a sin to ask.’ [Jewish laws decree that from the age of 3 all boys cover their heads during the entire day]. That was my mother’s outlook on the world and on life.

In Michalovce I lived with Auntie Ilonka, and as they were also very poor and had many children, I used to go for lunch to other Jewish families. One day a week I used to for example go to the Polaks’. Their son Arnold was a very spoiled child. For example, when he didn’t like the soup, he’d put a hair in it and proclaim, ‘I don’t want soup that has a hair in it.’ They gave him a different soup, he took a fly from the flypaper and threw it in it, so that he’d have a reason to rebel.

One evening his parents sent for me. Arnold had enraged his father so much that he would have given him a severe beating. As he was afraid of being beaten, he ran away from home. Of course, eventually night came, and the boy wasn’t home. He liked me, so his parents sent for me, for me to bring him back home. They knew in which direction he’d gone. I went in that direction and found him. He was already returning slowly, step by step. We arrived in front of their house, and he didn’t want to go another step further, he was afraid. I told him, ‘Well, let’s not sit here all night, you know, I’ve got to go to school in the morning.’ He didn’t want to go home. I told him, ‘All right, I’ll make you a bed in the stable.’ I fixed him a bed from a blanket that was used to cover horses. That was too smelly for him. Finally I got him into his room. I put his pajamas on him, and in the meantime his father had calmed down.

His parents were very good to me. By coincidence, that’s how life wanted it, Arnold’s parents died during the war. He remained alone, and so my wife and I took him in as our own son. A beautiful relationship, which had already been growing from youth, developed between us. After the war he studied at a mechanical tech school in Kosice. Then he wanted at all costs to go see the world. In the end, though, he listened and after tech school also finished university in Prague. Then he moved to the USA, where he worked his way up to being a university professor. He currently lives in Cincinnati. My wife and I have been there to visit him.

At school

Young Jewish people used to speak Yiddish and Zemplin among themselves. Those of us that attended school spoke Slovak. We had excellent teachers and professors. For example, we liked ‘Uncle’ Hellinger very much. He taught us religion. But non-Jews also used to come to his classes, because we were all very amused by him. As I’ve already mentioned, he properly spoke only Yiddish, and when he wanted to say something in Slovak, he always mangled it. For example he asked, ‘How many of Moses’ books do we have?’ Right away he showed five fingers and answered his own question; ‘Hive.’

We also very much liked a professor by the name of Vymazal. He was a Czech and had a Jewish wife. He used an excellent method on us students. He always said, ‘Next week I’ll begin testing. Learn what I’ve dictated to you, I’ll call up to the blackboard the first two or three.’ We had one boy in our class whose father was the regional chief. Huncut didn’t study. He didn’t have to. His father was a non-Jew and he basically got everything, as his father was a chief. Who would have dared go against the chief’s son? We told that student, ‘If you don’t learn it, we’ll break your arms and legs.’ Under threat he learned.

We also worshipped our Slovak teacher, Dr. Alexander Matuska. He was our homeroom teacher in our last two years of high school. In class we would compete as to who would have read more books. In two and a half years I read 136 books, but I was only in 7th or 8th place. There were those that had read a whole lot more books. We read everything that was worth reading. I can’t forget how annoyed Matuska was when one student, later the chairman of the Central Union of Jewish Religious Communities in Prague, Dune [Dezider] Goldfinger, had read Romain Rolland [Rolland, Romain (1866 – 1944): French writer, musical scholar and pacifist], and he, a major literary critic, hadn’t. When he’s young, a person has time for everything.

When I was older, we used to have class or school dances. We also had dances for the Jewish holiday of Purim. Unfortunately, I had to rent a suit for these dances. At the age of 16, I already measured 180 cm and weighed 80 kilograms. I’m saying this because I was physically more mature than others of my age, and thus the rented suits were necessarily shorter. The sleeves were short, so I pulled my arms in so it wouldn’t show. Basically my height and weight made itself felt in sports. As a poor boy I tried to excel in something. I even became a Maccabi 8 leader for Jewish boys of my age. Some of us high school students used to go to the parties along with boys that were apprenticing as tradesmen. Despite my being a high school student, socially I was closer to those apprentices. The fact that we used to organize Purim dances also brought us together. We’d rent the Golden Bull Hotel and that’s where we’d dance. To this day I remember some of the songs that we used to sing there.

As a boy I of course had my idol. He was named Ali Dudlak. Dudlak was my idol because he worked for the Sfinx company, which sold books. Ali and his friend Fredy Saltzmann made a lot of money as buyers. Fredy was from Nizny Hrabovec, a village by Vranov nad Toplou. Two dandies, they made a lot of money, but also squandered it. So, I don’t know if I’m allowed to use an ugly expression, but all women, here you could also use a different expression, from Cheb to Jasin, stood in a row when they arrived. When I was 16 or 17 I set out with some friends on a rented bicycle for Uzhorod to see a soccer game. SK Rusj Uzhorod and Slavia Praha were playing. The world-famous soccer player Planicka was in goal for Slavia, for Rusj it was Boksaj. SK Rusj Uzhorod was composed of eleven teachers from all over Ruthenia, who had put together a team. These two teams were playing against each other, as Rusj had gotten into the Czechoslovak league. In the evening we all went to the Berecsényi Café, and when Ali Dudlak and Fredy Saltzmann arrived, the musicians stopped playing their usual repertoire, and began playing their songs. They were loaded and I was very flattered that I could be in their company. I was a pauper compared to them. They dressed like dandies, and I’ll repeat it again, everything queued up precisely for these reasons.

I also played soccer. In the 1937/38 season I even battled my way onto the Michalovce ‘A’ team. Despite the fact that it was only for a tryout, as a juvenile, we played against UKMSC Uzhorod teams and against one team from Kosice. Those were large cities, where there were more teams. I even scored a goal against Uzhorod, and assisted in another for an excellent soccer player by the name of Blazejovsky. After the game with UKMSC I became a ‘professional.’ I got supper, a large beer and ten crowns. Suddenly the world was my oyster. Everything was coming up roses. When I arrived home in the evening to Auntie Ilonka’s, I boasted that ‘győztünk’ [Hungarian for ‘we won’], to which she said, ‘Én is?’ [Hungarian for ‘me too?’]. The poor thing, she was funny in that poverty of hers... In those years I also participated in the All-Sokol Slet [Rally] 9 in Prague, which was something like later the Spartakiada.

My political evolution took the following course. When I came to Michalovce, I began to be friends with Emil Fürst. Gradually it began taking ‘the left side of the road’. The entire Fürst family was oriented towards the left. Emil and I went through Hashomer Hatzair 10 together. We also took courses. I remember that during the year 1937–38 I was on one such course in Levoca. Jozko Weiser, the ‘wisest Jew in Slovakia’ at the time, according to my opinion, lectured for us.

As far as sports are concerned, I learned and improved in them in school, for one. We had an excellent gym teacher, Professor Stranaja, the founder of the Faculty of Physical Education and Sports and Comenius University in Bratislava. Then in the FAK soccer club in Michalovce, and then finally in Maccabi, where we left-oriented students met up with ‘class-related’ apprentices. Together with them we rented a room, a workshop, where during the day they repaired cars. In the evening we’d come there, sweep the auto repair shop, and then exercised. We for example bought some old parallel bars from the school, our first equipment. As I excelled at sports, they elected me as their leader. It was this sports leadership position. There were about 10, 15 of us boys.

Some boys from so-called better families used to go exercise at Betar 11. These boys underestimated us a bit, which followed from our social standing. Betar was right-wing. We called them the Fascists. They exercised with clubs and were basically preparing to fight in Palestine. No, we said. In Israel, where we were preparing to go, it’s going to be necessary to convince the Arab laborers that we’re class comrades. So that the Arab laborers wouldn’t work for lower wages, but would ask for the same as Jewish ones. As a poorer student, I overall belonged to leftist-oriented youth.

Of course, in the town there were also boys that were very religious, and they weren’t in these two organizations, they had Mizrachi 12. Our outlook on their philosophy was that they were wrong. Slowly we were ceasing to believe in the religious way of Jewishness that our parents believed in. I saw the poverty, but not only saw; I experienced it firsthand. When I lived with Auntie Ilonka, their house was near the Laborec River, and when the water rose, the rats would get all the way up into the house we lived in. At night I wore a cap, in the naive hope that the rats wouldn’t bite my ears. As a child I had ‘as many as’ two outfits. One for everyday wearing, and one for holidays. Most of the time I ran around only in shorts, a t-shirt and tennis shoes, that was all I had to wear. This poverty had a great influence on me. At the age of 15, 16, a person begins to think differently. He tries to understand some things and I wanted to understand them.

In 1940 I finished high school. We were the last Jewish graduates 13. I played sports in high school as well, I was even one of the two best Jewish athletes. Thanks to sports I got to the Eastern Slovakia high school championships in Presov. I was the only Jew from our school who was eligible for a place in this event from a standpoint of performance. It was sometime during the years 1936–1937. As a Grade 10 student, I even got onto the relay team, as its fourth member. I battled for the position with a boy who was two years older, by the name of Stasko. All the non-Jews were rooting for him, and I defeated him in a race, and back then I was very proud of myself.

The first time I noticed strong anti-Semitism was in high school. Back then, the film Golem was showing in Prague. In school and in our class we talked a lot about the Golem [in Jewish folklore, the Golem is an artificial living being created out of inert material]. I remember that Professor Dostalova, who was a Czech, literally provoked a debate on this theme. As I’ve already mentioned, I was attending a Jewish-Czech class. Back then we argued: ‘Your Christ rose from the dead, that was possible? And to make the Golem come alive, that wasn’t possible?’ That was the argument. It almost ended with a fight.

During the War

We were already allocating who was going to fight with whom, if the worst was to come. At that time the Hungarians had attacked Southern Slovakia 14. Part of the territory fell to them. As the surrounding towns were in the border territory, some ended up as part of Hungary and others remained in Slovakia. In this way I lost part of my classmates, who had ended up part of Hungary. That’s why in our high school they combined two classes. One was mixed, Jews and Czechs, and the second was made up of Slovak Christians. And that’s when it started. Some of my classmates prepared for their graduation exams by coming dressed as Hlinka Youth. [The Hlinka Guard 15 founded youth groups and helped organize their activities. These groups were named the Hlinka Youth.] One of them was named Snincak and the other Hudak. Some of the teachers also promoted the Hlinka Party 16 and supported the Slovak State.

After graduation I was at home until March 1941. I was no longer allowed to work. I made money by giving private lessons. In time I had to stop with this as well. I also managed to make money by drawing. I also gave lessons in descriptive geometry to one high school student and her sister, a university student. In March 1941 they summoned me to the Sixth Labor Battalion 17. I served in it for 28 months.

The Sixth Battalion was a group of Jewish guys. They were all young people. Many of them were university graduates. Among them were doctors, lawyers, engineers, surveyors... men who where already independent. They were also summoned to the Sixth Battalion. The philosophy was likely that when they’ll have young Jewish men concentrated in one place, they’ll be easier to control. At first they gathered us in Cemerne, in the Vranov nad Toplou region. To there, and later, in the fall, to Sabinov, came about 1200 to 1800 young, healthy, sympathetic Jewish boys from the whole of Slovakia. In the beginning we were ordered about by simple, even primitive wardens, who were from Eastern Slovakia and Subcarpathian Ruthenia. Can you imagine it? A doctor was being commanded by a warden who perhaps didn’t even have two grades of elementary school.

In the beginning we only trained. We got old Austro-Hungarian army uniforms and sailor’s caps. We of course didn’t get weapons. In the beginning the uniforms were green, then blue, so we’d be easily distinguishable, and so that it would be immediately obvious who we are. Then they divided us up among various locations. Construction companies close to the army needed workers, so they asked the army for people, and thus work groups were created. In the beginning I worked in Presov. In time they transferred me to the Borkut region, near Presov. In Borkut we first built ourselves barracks, in which we then lived. Then we were building roads into the forest, where there were army supply dumps. After a month I got home on leave, which I of course had to pay for. At that time my middle sister’s husband asked me, ‘So, you’re not in the office anymore?’ [In those days and in that simple village environment, when someone had attended high school, it was naturally assumed that in the army he’d be working in an office, or would have an administrative function.] And I answered him that there were 600 such people there. If all 600 were in the office, they wouldn’t have anyone to train. A naive idea and opinion, which I had at the time.

When the Sixth Battalion was to be disbanded, after more than two years, some boys tried to leave the country. So for example, two had themselves shut up in a wagon full of charcoal in Eastern Slovakia. They managed to get all the way to Switzerland in that wagon. This happened in 1943. Not everyone was lucky, though. There were cases when the train stopped at one of the stations and they began to bang on the wagon’s walls, believing that they were already in Switzerland. Unfortunately, it was only Austria, and those were thrown in jail right away, and ended up according to whose hands they had found themselves in.

In Presov we were helping build a hospital and paving roads, which means we paved them with stones. First large stones are laid down, then small ones, then the whole thing is covered in gravel and is filled and asphalted. We had to quarry the stone ourselves in a quarry. About fifty of us were working there. As I could draw well, I made some extra money by drawing my friends. They used to give me some spare change for it. Back then, a person counted every crown. Once I drew a tableau for the commander of our unit. His name was Ocvirk. To each boy’s face, which was a photo, I drew a body according to his particular characteristics. I got three crowns from each one of them for it. But what was even better, I made some brownie points with Ocvirk. He even hung the tableau on the wall in his office.

Once another non-com, Grohol, stopped by our commander’s office, and saw the panel. Ocvirk was of course flattered by it, as he was pictured in the function of commander in it. Grohol asked him: ‘What’s this you’ve got here?’ ‘I’ve got very clever Jew-boys, and this one is good at drawing.’ ‘Would you lend me this Jew-boy?’ So I ended up in Grohol’s office. Our job there was to record army things being sent to the Eastern Front.

But I had an enemy in the commander of our group. My antagonist was the officer Psenicka. He arranged for me to return to where they had transferred me from. He literally bullied me. He used to come see how I was working, and he didn’t like the way I was digging. When I was in the latrine, he harangued me that I’m there all day. Once on Saturday, I came to ask him for leave to go home, where my ill mother was lying in bed. I reported, ‘Lieutenant, Sir, Laborer Jew Schönbrun, reporting my arrival in the office.’ That’s how we officially announced ourselves, ‘Laborer Jew.’ It should be mentioned that in the beginning we reported as ‘Worker Jew.’ The command decided that this was too dignified for us, which is why they changed the title to ‘Laborer’ for Jews and Gypsies, while Slovaks who weren’t fit for battle and were in the Sixth Battalion, were called ‘Worker.’

Psenicka didn’t pay any attention to my reporting. I’d been standing there, at attention, for about 15 minutes, when he turned to me with the words: ‘What do you want here?!’ ‘Lieutenant, Sir, I’d like leave. I want to visit my mother.’ ‘Why do you want to visit your mother?’ ‘Because she wants to see me.’ ‘So send her a photo!’ That was the answer of one officer of the Slovak Army. A person full of contradictions.

As punishment, he told me that on Monday I’ll be working on our section for 150 minutes longer. On Monday he didn’t forget to come to our section to have a look if I’m working, if I’m plugging away. He didn’t do this to anyone but me. The next Saturday, I came to see him after work. He threw me out, saying that I hadn’t shaved. The third Saturday I went home, on the sly, without leave. But I no longer found my mother there. They had deported her in the meantime. On Monday Psenicka came to see me and asked, ‘How come you didn’t come see me?’ At that point I didn’t care about anything any more, and so I shot back, ‘I was already home...’ and started weeping. Apparently it moved him, because he left me alone. So much for him. After the war he became a member of the Communist Party Central Committee. He was the chairman of the Regional Party Committee in Presov. The chairman of the Central Committee distributed financial aid for Eastern Slovakia, big-time millions.

In the post-war period I became the general secretary of SPROV [The Federation of Anti-Fascist Prisoners and Illegal Workers], and as such I tried to have Psenicka removed from his position. First they wanted to jail me instead, that I was sullying the Party. Some time later, I was going for an audience with Siroky 18, and Psenicka was just leaving his office. I asked Siroky: ‘Comrade Siroky, what did that person want with you?’ ‘And you know who he is?’ ‘Of course I know! The commander of the army Jewish labor division.’ At that time I already had some authority in SPROV, and wanted that person to be punished. Later it happened. There was a confrontation, and I testified against him. I’m not claiming that they jailed him only due to me, but I definitely contributed, as by this fact his cup of sins had run over. I found out that he had plotted against me and told two boys to falsely testify against me. It took five years until things were put right. After some time he was once again rehabilitated, and I was afraid to go to the East, in case he’d bought some gypsies ‘for a bottle,’ who’d stab me... Even these sorts of things could have happened back then.

I also have this memory of Presov. We had one warden who was small in stature. His name was Fajcik. This little Napoleon, who bellowed at us from morning till evening. We were working with the bricklayers at the army hospital construction site, where two weeks before there had been typhoid corpses. We were carting away soil on railway handcars from the hospital courtyard outside, where we were leveling it. As it was already late fall, the soil had frozen overnight, and in the morning we dug under it, so there was this kind of roof, on top of which this warden was standing, in all his haughtiness. As we were gradually undermining the soil, it collapsed and the warden fell off it, but immediately got up and began running. The frozen soil knocked him down. Luckily for him, he’d fallen into the angle formed between the soil and the tracks that the handcars were driving on. So the dirt hadn’t completely crushed him. The eight of us that were nearby immediately ran over and with a great effort lifted that huge chunk of frozen earth, and one of us pulled the guard out. His reaction was: ‘kleban’ – ‘a priest.’ We carried him to the army hospital building that stood in that courtyard. I don’t know if it was five, or twenty seconds, but the way we had reacted to the situation saved his life. He stayed in the hospital for six weeks, and when he returned, he never yelled at us again. He probably realized what we’d done for him.

At the end of 1942 and beginning of 1943, I arrived at Kuchyne pri Malackach. There were about 30 or 40 of us Jews there. There were also kosherites among us. [Editor’s note: kosherite, from the word kosher (ritually clean). In this case a person keeping ritual rules to do with food.] They didn’t have an easy life. In conditions like that, and to keep kosher on top of it. From there I went to Liptov. It was basically due to my friend, Bandy Sulc. Bandy was one of the surveyors, who were working on the building of a track from Liptovsky Hradek to Jamnik. Near the town of Jamnik there was a military airport. General Catlos 19 was from nearby Liptovsky Petr. As part of the construction of the tracks, the ground there was being meliorated. We had it really quite good in Liptov. The unit commander, but also the locals, Protestants, were very decent people.

On 31st May 1943, the Sixth Labor Battalion was officially disbanded. The guys from the battalion were assigned to the Sered and Novaky camps. A number of them stayed to work on the regulation of the Sur River. Many of them later joined the SNR 20 and many of them also fell in it. They kept 48 of us in the army as necessary ones. Among us were doctors, lawyers, builders, surveyors, tradesmen and guys with qualifications that were useful for the Slovak Army. Strangely enough, even here there were two people to be found that didn’t wish us well, the Protestant priest Rolko and the notary Reiskop, who railed against us. Luckily we already had our kindhearted protectors who were in our favor and helped us.

Until the rebellion broke out, I worked with the surveyors as a draftsman. After some time I got to Bratislava. I worked in one warehouse for a certain non-com by the name of Valko. On payday, he’d send all the guys under him home on leave, and took their pay. But the soldiers were glad that they could go home. He also did other things, like for example selling military materials – blankets. At that time I was doing the recordkeeping, which was dangerous both for him and for me. He knew that I knew what was happening. He needed to get rid of me, so he made me available [for transfer].

This section was under Major Franz, who had a Jewish wife. He asked why they wanted to get rid of me in the warehouse: ‘Don’t worry, you can tell me.’ ‘Major, Sir, if you want to know the situation, there’s black-marketeering going on there. The commander knows that I know about it. He needs to get rid of me.’ The major asked me, ‘What do you know how to do?’ ‘Everything.’ I wanted to save myself from the fate that would have awaited me, so I had to know how to do everything. ‘Do you know how to type?’ ‘No, but if a sixteen-year-old girl can do it, I’ll learn it too.’ I became a typist.

At that time they were bombing Bratislava. Major Franz had an apartment in the center of the city, and during one raid was hit. We went to help them pull out their things from underneath the rubble. He and his wife became fond of me. I’ll say once again, his wife was Jewish and he was a German. See what coincidences happen in life? After the war he left for Czechia, where he had big problems due to his being a German. At that time I was in SPROV. I wrote him an assessment as to how he had behaved towards me during the war. You can imagine what an assessment from SPROV meant in those days. Thus I saved him from being expelled to Germany.

During those times I met my future wife. I met her by the Danube, where the Propeler [a former river steamboat that was converted to a restaurant] is these days. It was after lunch on Saturday. A friend of mine and I were sitting on a bench, and we saw a pretty girl walking around there. As I later found out, they were making a hat for her nearby, and she was waiting for it to be finished. On Sunday after lunch I set out to visit one mixed family in Lamac. They had a very pretty girl, Irenka. They were named the Picks. When I got there the mother and daughter were having a picnic. It insulted me, as they had taken the father, a Jew, to a concentration camp, and they were having a picnic. I said to myself, they aren’t the right partners for me. I turned around and left.

On the way back I laid down on a meadow and fell asleep. Later some soldier walked by with a girl. They unintentionally woke me up. I looked over, and walking behind them was the girl I’d seen the day before on the riverbank. I started talking to her, as there was no other way of getting to know her. During the time of the Slovak State, I never used to hide my origins. I always did this, regardless of who I was talking to, except for the police. Well, and in the beginning she didn’t understand what I meant by it. She was from the town of Pukanec, from central Slovakia. She was surprised by my opinions. She even asked me, ‘The strange way you’re speaking, are you Spanish, or Italian?’ I answered, ‘No, I’m a Jew.’ That’s how we met. She was a seamstress. Of course, I walked her to the building where she lived. She went up to her apartment and brought me down some bread with lard and cracklings. It tasted very good to me, as I was hungry. That was the beginning. Then we used to meet. My wife, back then still my girlfriend, helped me very much later.

When the uprising broke out and the Russians were slowly approaching, I thought about how I’d save myself. I had a good friend from Inacovce. His name was Jozko [Jozef] Knezo, and he was a priest in the Eastern Slovak town of Vysoka nad Uhrom. He was a very good friend of mine. With his agreement I falsified my name as Knezo. He also sent me some documents and he and my future wife both helped me very much. When the uprising broke out, I acquired and made myself some false papers. I also made papers for people I knew. The seals of the Slovak State were easily forged. You just used special ink to draw a double cross and three peaks and that was it. [Slovak state symbol: First became the symbol of Slovakia during the revolutionary years of 1848-1849. The triple peak symbolizes the three Carpathian mountain ranges, Tatras, Fatra and Matra (currently on Hungarian territory). The double cross symbolizes Christianity and at the same time the traditions of St. Cyril and Methodius 21, who brought Christianity to the region during the time of Greater Moravia (9th Century)] I can’t imagine the problems it would have caused to have to forge the Czech lion. [The so-called small state insignia of the Czech Republic shows a white two-tailed lion, as the symbol of the entire Czech Republic, with a gold crown and gold claws].

With the arrival of the Germans in Bratislava, in 1944, my girlfriend, now my wife, and I decided to go to her home town, Pukanec. But there it wasn’t possible to hide properly. We soon returned to Bratislava. It was before Christmas, I had to hide. The owner of the apartment I was hiding in was named Turza. He lived there together with his brother-in-law. He was named Kocvara. They didn’t know I was a Jew. One night there was a large roundup held all over Bratislava. During the night an SS soldier woke me up. He was shining a flashlight right in my face. We had to get dressed immediately. When the SS soldier went to check the other room, I surreptitiously stuck my real documents under a suitcase on the wardrobe and left my false ones in my pocket.

There was a big commotion in the city due to the raids. Mr. Kocvara and I lived on Spitalska Street, along which they led us in the direction of the Manderlak [Manderlak: considered to be the first so-called skyscraper in Bratislava as well as in Slovakia. It has 11 floors and for a long time was the tallest residential building in Bratislava]. Through my head ran the thought that if they aim us to the left, it’s bad, because this was the way to the bridge to Petrzalka, where they shot people without mercy. In front of the Manderlak we turned right, up to the square. At that moment it meant a certain relief and the postponement of death. On the way I with difficulty tore up and ate one of my false documents. It didn’t seem to me to be the best forgery and I was afraid that they’d discover it.

We came to a place, Edlova Street, where they were gathering people. My roommate, Kocvara, found out from one girl that here they were concentrating Jews that had been in hiding. He was flabbergasted. He said that there’d been some mistake, that he’s not a Jew. As I’ve already mentioned, he didn’t know anything about my origins. We agreed that he’d let me do the talking. They were putting the people they’d caught into various rooms of the building. In the meantime I’d gotten my bearings and found out that the Slovaks and Germans who’d been picked up by mistake were meeting with the commander in one room. Kocvara and I joined them and I managed to convince the commander, a member of the SS, that we didn’t belong to the rest of the people that had been rounded up. I think that the main reason for our release wasn’t false documents, which also helped, but the fact that that SS officer was probably a lenient person. I saw how he also released other Slovaks.

After my release I didn’t spend the next night on Spitalska Street. My future wife and I soon returned to Pukanca and kept on hiding. We could no longer return to Bratislava. In the meantime, the front had stopped at Pukanec for three months. One time there were Russians there, another time Germans. It changed several times. I was so confused by it all, that when the Russians came, I started speaking German to them. At last the front moved westward, and after the liberation of Bratislava we also left for there, in April. After World War II, I wanted to change the world. Back then I thought that socialism was the right choice. To this day I say, ‘Every reasonable person can’t be other than progressive, but of course not in the sense of socialistically progressive.’

After liberation I went to have a look at my home village. I was hoping that at least my youngest sister’s husband would have survived. Because he was, as I’ve already mentioned, physically a very strong man and those types were more likely to survive. Unfortunately, I’ve already told you about his fate. For the villagers I was Bernat. I belonged among them, as I’d already been friends with them before the war. I also remembered how one of them Jozko Knezo, had helped me. Other good friends of mine were Misko Hajducko, Durco Zvonik, Mikulas Fedorik, ... This happened, for example. After the war I went to see a neighbor in the village. She was blind, and when I entered she was lying in bed. I greeted her politely, ‘Good day Auntie Kutasova.’ ‘Good day, good day.’ ‘Do you want guests?’ And she answered, ‘Yes, yes, just let them tell me who they are...’ When they wanted to show respect, they referred to people as ‘they.’ ‘...as I, a blind woman, can’t see.’ ‘So guess.’ ‘Let them say something more.’ She guessed who I was. ‘And they came to see a blind woman?’ So she was glad that I’d come to see her. I was also glad, as she was a good neighbor. But there were also other types.

 After the War

Right after the end of the war I began, among other things, to look for a place from where I could avenge the deaths of my nearest and dearest, my mother, sisters and their husbands and children and all the others. All told about 80–90 relatives. For this was the resolution I had made that Saturday night when I had gone home on the sly from the labor camp, from Presov, due to Psenicka not wanting to give me leave. I had found that my mother was no longer at home, she had gone to ‘work,’ helpless... They trampled her, poor thing, in the wagon on the way to Auschwitz.

The police were located on Ceskoslovenskej armady Street [Czechoslovak Army Street, in the building called U Dvou Levoch, or The Two Lions], and the chief was a certain Major Colak. He was a reputable, mature person that one could talk to reasonably. After a detailed conversation about where I was from, what I had experienced, what brought me to consider working for the police, it came out that he was also from Michalovce. His brother had been my professor at the Michalovce high school, whom I had gotten along well with. I had even worked for him in his office. When we got to the evaluation, he told me exactly this: ‘My dear countrymen, they should forget about the police. That’s not for them, for their temperament. They won’t be able to stand it, to root around in muck, in the dirt, believe me...’ Those were his expressions, which I’ve remembered my whole life. After considering all the pros and cons, I listened to him and didn’t join the police. I admitted that I didn’t suit them and they didn’t suit me. In the end the times confirmed this. All Jewish guys that joined the police ended up worse than catastrophically. They threw them all in jail. I didn’t end up all that great either, but not as badly as those that were with the police.

After the war, several institutions were formed in Slovakia, such as for example the Federation of Slovak Partisans, the Federation of Anti-Fascist Prisoners and Illegal Workers [SPROV], the Federation of Foreign Soldiers, the Federation of Soldiers-Rebels [SVOJPOV] and the Federation of The Racially Persecuted. You could say that every political party needed to have someone ‘behind them.’ That someone were these federations. The Federation of Anti-Fascist Prisoners and Illegal Workers, SPROV, was leftist-oriented, the same as the Federation of Slovak Partisans. The Federation of Foreign Soldiers, those were leftists as well as rightists, depending on if they had been at the Eastern or Western front, and what sort of upbringing they’d had. The Federation of Soldiers-Rebels was created by the Democratic Party, as a counterweight to leftist-oriented federations. This is how it gradually evolved. I joined SPROV, as its ideals corresponded with my thoughts and ideas about progressiveness. Back then I thought that only socialism can be progressive, and I wasn’t alone, even more mature and grown-up people thought this way.

The most influential federation was the Federation of Slovak Partisans. Unfortunately, this federation was partially anti-Semitic. In 1946 they demonstrated against Jews. They wanted to break windows in Jewish homes and shouted slogans: ‘Jews out!’, ‘Jews to Palestine!’ Many Jews had been in the partisan ranks during the war. That’s why members of this federation didn’t condemn everyone. Their principle was: ‘My Jew friend is a good Jew, but not the others!’ Partisans approached all things in a military fashion, in the style of: ‘Damn it, I’ll get my machine gun...’

Of course, there were also people of high principles among them. Not long ago Mrs. Hana Malatkova-Potocna died, that was a real partisan! Among other things, she expressed pro-Jewish sentiments. Another influential federation was SPROV. Its top official was first Andrej Bagar and then Viliam Siroky, later the premier. We had a lot of economic and political power. For example, the national administration was portioned out. That means that our people were installed into companies belonging to Fascists and collaborators. Very many important politicians also came from these circles.

In those days I was the general secretary of SPROV. There were many Jews among our membership. We published the newspaper Hlas Oslobodenych [Voice of the Liberated], which our people liked a lot, as we promoted their demands. Jews were secretaries in many regional towns. For example in Kosice it was Braun, in Michalovce Dr. Goldstein, in Dunajska Streda, Steckler. Mr. Steckler was a very honest person. Without a recommendation from the resistance elements, nothing happened. SPROV was politically a very strong organization. The largest federation in terms of numbers was SVOJPOV. They accepted almost anyone into their ranks, even former Guardists. SVOJPOV was connected to the Democratic Party, who needed to show boost their numbers.

The Federation of The Racially Persecuted didn’t have the same powers and influence as the other four. Its leader was an exceptionally capable person, Dr. Kucera. Basically every Jew had been racially persecuted, but after the war it was difficult to claim. At that time the state of Israel was also being created, which from the beginning had been leftist oriented. As I had been a member of Hashomer Hatzair before the war, I took it as a very positive thing. In 1948, as well as the state of Israel being created, the merging of the federations took place. Four federations, the Federation of Slovak Partisans, SPROV, SVOJPOV and the Federation of Foreign Soldiers merged into one. The Federation of The Racially Persecuted depended on the support of Jews that were in the other federations. The merger was ordered by the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Slovakia.

As ‘there can’t be too many roosters in the henhouse,’ the leaders of the Federation of Slovak Partisans, Faltan, Salgovic and Drocar, sidetracked their future competitors in advance. Gradually they had them put in jail. First in line was SVOJPOV. Erich Uberal and Imre Rudas, who was half Jewish, were jailed.  Next up was the Federation of Foreign Soldiers. They arrested Messrs. Sindler and Mestan. Mestan was the cousin of the current director of the Museum of Jewish Culture in Bratislava. Him I managed to get out of the slammer, as they’d jailed him on the basis of falsified records, which I found out and notified the attorney general. The day after he’d been released, he came to my apartment to thank me.

Finally, after SPROV I was to be next as well. During the preparations for the merger of the federations, the division of individual positions gradually crystallized. As I had almost finished economics university, I was to be given an economical management function. To prevent this from happening, they prepared a dirty trick for me. We were on a large farm in the town of Kravany that belonged to the Federation of Partisans. My task was to take over the farm and approve everything that had happened on it prior to that with my signature. But I didn’t have the authority to take it over, I was only allowed to run it, direct it. I realized that they were preparing something. To prevent this, I quit my job at SPROV, giving as a reason that I wanted to finish school. With this I simplified the situation for the aforementioned ‘officials,’ as the federations were battling for power among themselves and they had gotten one competitor out of the way without a fight. They threw the guy that took the farm over in jail for 18 years by pinning on him dirty tricks that had been perpetrated there before him.

In 1945 I at first applied for construction engineering. After some time I found out that I’d be studying for five years, that for five years my wife would be working to support me, and we’d go hungry. That was the reason why I left it. Because there it was mandatory to go to lectures, you had to do drafting and so on, which took up a lot of time. Attending this school as well as working on top of it would have been possible only with great difficulty. That’s why I transferred to economics, where I didn’t have to attend all the lectures. An advantage was also that the studies lasted only four years. Back then economics was taught at the Business University Na Palisadoch in Bratislava. I successfully graduated from school. In 1946, during my studies, my wife’s father, who’d been a blacksmith, died. His neighbor had given him some iron to make a spit. He put it in the fire to heat it up. Apparently there had been a jammed cartridge in it, which exploded due to the heat. It exploded so unluckily that it literally ripped out my wife’s father’s guts.

I looked upon the year 1948 22 as a victory. The victory of the leftist oriented. Back then I thought that it was the best path for us. Unfortunately, I only gradually realized that the talk went one way and socialism another. I saw that major, serious mistakes and injustices were happening. For example, a few years after the war, I got into the commission for the resolution of the Hungarian 23 and German 24 question, for the expulsion of people out of the country. At the first session we got a list. I asked, ‘What did this person do? Did he kill someone? Did he rat on someone?’ The answer was, ‘No, but he’s a Hungarian.’ ‘Is he supposed to be expelled for the fact that he was begotten by a Hungarian, despite the fact that he’s not guilty of anything?’

The result was that I immediately quit the commission. The head of the commission was named Benko. He and higher party and state organs very much resented this, and I began to have problems that lasted for years, for the fact that I hadn’t grasped the party line. Gradually I was thrown out of everywhere. It began with them throwing me out of work, and finally also out of my own apartment. That was in the year 1951. It was a very tragic time. My wife had to return to her family home in Pukanec, as we didn’t have anywhere to live.

At that time there was also a country-wide initiative taking place, when many people, all together 77,000 25 were taken from administrative positions and put into manufacturing. I was among them. Up till then I’d been working at the Industry and Business Commission. Later it was split and I was at the Business Commission. Within the scope of this I was supposed to lecture at the Business University. When I found this out, I went to Luhacovice to have my throat treated. I still had problems with it from the war. One day a letter from Dr. Stahlova came to the spa for me. She was a friend of mine, the wife of one Czech intellectual, a very reputable man. She wrote me: ‘Don’t be surprised, you’re on the list as a factory worker,’ although only two weeks earlier I’d been named as a university lecturer. From the position of secretary of a Party organization at the Business Commission I got onto the factory worker list, without being told anything, why, or for what.

I became a class enemy. At first I couldn’t find any work. They followed me every day. Finally, through a friend of mine, I got an interview at Slovnaft. A friend of mine was working there as the director of one construction company. They allocated me work there. The first day I came to work, and one of the workers there asked me, ‘What do you want here?’ ‘They allocated me here.’ ‘You’re supposed to work here?’ Then he told me to watch carefully. He stuck his finger into boiling lead, stirred it, and said, ‘When will you manage to do this with your fingers?’ I still get chills up and down my spine when I remember it. I was there in manufacturing for three days, and had myself declared ill.

I was ill for three months and finally a person I knew helped me. He found me another job. For two years I had to work as a radio repairman, though I didn’t understand that work at all. I ‘repaired’ old radios. The only thing that I was capable of doing perfectly was that I cleaned those old radios out. Those radios, that was physical and mental suffering. To be doing something that I didn’t understand, what didn’t interest me, just torture. But I learned to wind transformers, this kept me going. The StB 26 followed me. Every day one copper came to have a look if I’m really at work. The way it was, was that each snoop had a few companies allocated, which he had to watch. At that time they watched pretty well everyone. One day they threw me out of manufacturing as well. The reasons were prosaic, ‘I had studied during the First Republic’ and I had ‘helped’ Fascists. So the fact that after the war we’d been rounding up Fascists to put them on trial had turned against me.

After two years in manufacturing I met up with an acquaintance of mine, a doctor. We’d met each other before. We began talking and so she learned that I was actually ‘on the street.’ She told me she’d help me. I was to drink some really strong coffee, and she’d send me for an EKG. So I did this, and after the coffee my heart began pounding, which showed up on the EKG. She wrote down that my health wasn’t in order and that I need different work. Thanks to this lady doctor, in 1954 I got into geodetics as a draftsman. A draftsman still qualified as a worker in manufacturing.

After some time they asked me whether I’d like to do different work. I answered that yes, but that I can’t. I’ve got to work in manufacturing. The director was a decent person, a Russian immigrant from the First Republic, Mr. Borovsky. He arranged permission for me, I think that it was a decree from the Ministry of Labor and Social Affairs, that I was also allowed to work in a different area. Borovsky was supposed to gradually start up a new company, though as a surveyor he didn’t understand economics. I of course helped him, like he had me. Finally the Regional Geodetic and Cartographic Institute was created. I was then employed in this resort for 31 years. I worked my way up through various positions to head economist. We built one seven-story building, 21 multi-story buildings and nine cottages. In those days I of course already knew that socialism won’t save the human race, that a different era had to come.

I married my wife on 8th April 1946. We’ve been together 60 years now. Her maiden name was Anna Krajcova. She was born in 1923 in Pukanec. Only one Jew lived in Pukanec before the war, Neumann, a doctor, who was helped very much by the residents during the war. We agreed on our wedding as follows. On Saturday, 6th April, I called her. In those days people still worked on Saturdays. ‘On Monday we’re getting married!’ She says, ‘Who?’ ‘Well, you and I.’ ‘What’s gotten into you?’ ‘You don’t want to?’ ‘I do, and what should I do?’ ‘Dress decently and on Monday at 9 we’re going to city hall.’ On Monday we went to city hall and got married. From city hall each one of us went to his own work and after lunch we had a get-together for our friends. About 25 people came. Back then I had a bachelor apartment. In the evening we went dancing and my wife got an armful of flowers.

At the end of the war, my wife had been working as a seamstress at the Hanka Salon. Of course, all the unpleasantness that I experienced from the year 1944, when we met, affected her as well. We lived through it together. In the end we overcame it all. We had two daughters, the first one in 1948 and the second in 1953. During my persecution we were thrown out of our apartment. My wife moved with our older daughter to Pukanec, where our second daughter was born. We were separated. During the week I worked, and on Saturday after lunch I traveled to Pukanec to see my family. On Sunday evening I again left for Bratislava. The girls cried each time I left. When we then returned back to Bratislava, we had to fight with great effort to get an apartment. Here you have to ‘fight’ for everything.

Before our departure for Pukanec, we lived on Kupelna Street. In the neighborhood there lived an old lady whose son had been murdered by the Russians. After the war the boy had been driving from Bratislava to Piestany to see his girlfriend. On the way there, he was stopped by Russian soldiers. Most likely they wanted his car. He didn’t give it to them, and so they shot him. Our neighbor, his mother, took such a liking to me that she saw her son in me. Once she called me, she was lying helpless on the ground. She’d had a heart attack. My wife then took care of her until she died.

Our older daughter, Minka [Mina], in Old German Liebe, was born in Bratislava. We named her after my mother, rest her soul. Our younger daughter is named Evicka [Eva], and was born in Pukanec. Both of our daughters got a Jewish upbringing. They got it because I say that I never had to be ashamed of my father nor my mother! They lived courageously. There was never a single person in the world that could say something bad about them.

I was a member of the Jewish Religious Community in Bratislava from 1945. My wife also became a member, as a non-Jew. My wife is Protestant by origin. In the beginning we observed holidays in the sense that we went to synagogue. We met up with many friends from the Sixth Battalion. I didn’t visit the synagogue because of religious convictions, but because of friends. My wife went with me.

When the children were small, we observed all Jewish and non-Jewish holidays. When our daughters Minka and Evicka went to Pukanec to their grandmother’s place for summer holidays, they prayed together with their grandma. Granny, being a Protestant, taught them this prayer: ‘My guardian angel, take care of my soul, so that I’ll be clean for Moses Christ. Amen.’ She used to say to them, ‘Children of mine, you can’t upset either of the Gods.’ With us, religion was never a problem. We were atheists! Where was God when they were trampling my brave mother?

Both of our daughters attended elementary school in Bratislava. They were very good students. The older one had a certain talent that was already apparent at a very young age. Always, when we put on a record on which a certain Katz sang, she cried. Katz apparently sang over the graves of Jews when they were killing them in the concentration camp. He sang so heartrendingly, that one of the SS soldiers didn’t shoot him with the others. Once we put this record on when our friend, the lawyer Dr. Sabinsky was visiting us. Minka, who was still in diapers, again started crying loudly. No one knew why. We thought that she had a stomachache. The record finished, and the crying stopped. Sabinsky said, ‘Put that record on again.’ Minka again started to cry. That voice, that sad voice, so touched her that she started crying. Sabinsky proclaimed that this child was going to be a musician. Later his words were confirmed. We still have that record, though by now it’s very worn.

After elementary school we were considering what next, what school should we send the girls to? We tried to guide them from childhood. For example, for Minka I carved a thermometer and stethoscope out of wood, so that she’d have something to play with. Maybe it would lead her to medicine. So we got to the subject of what she’d like to be. She answered, ‘Well, you don’t have money, so I’ll take music.’ ‘What, music?’ ‘You can’t afford a piano, so I’ll take the accordion.’ We bought her an accordion. First a 32-bass one, then a 60-bass, and finally a 120-bass Weltmeister. So all told, it cost us as much as one piano. At the conservatory she had an excellent teacher, a person worth her weight in gold. She was named Szokeova. She taught her the accordion. Minka considered her to be her second mother. To this day, she’s building on what that teacher gave her. Minka finished conservatory and in 1968 27 she traveled to Israel, as a reward for promoting culture among young people in the Jewish community. She’d sit down at a piano, or pick up the accordion, and play. Young people danced and had fun. Finally she also managed to finish Music University in Dortmund, Germany.

Both our daughters were raised in the spirit of ‘don’t start anything, but if someone was insulting them, to hold their own.’ We instilled this in them since they were little. Once in school some boy was calling Evicka names, that she was a Jewess. She knocked him to the ground, kneeled down on him and gave him a proper thrashing. When she came home, she of course told us everything. Our children confided in us with everything. The next day, comrade principal Pijakova summoned me to the school, back then people still used to say comrade principal. When I arrived, I said, ‘Comrade principal, I know why you’ve called me, and I’m telling you right now that I’m not going to punish my daughter, as there’s no reason to!’ ‘But, that boy has a weak heart.’ ‘We brought up our daughter this way, and she’s not someone that gives up without a fight. The boy was insulting her, and she won’t stand for that. So much for the worse that his father is a party official.’ But in the end the principal and I parted amiably.

Perhaps it won’t do any harm if here we get ahead of ourselves and touch upon a theme that ‘sapienti sat’ [Latin: ‘a word to the wise is sufficient’] will indicate something. When she was eleven, our granddaughter Esterka [Ester, the daughter of Mina Neustadt, nee Knezova-Schönbrunova] told us that someone had attacked her classmate, who is from Asia, whose side she took with these words: ‘Why don’t you leave her alone, she’s just a person like we are, her skin’s just a little differently colored...’

Our younger daughter liked sports from the time she was little. This she’s obviously inherited from me. From the time she was little she used to go play soccer with boys. Once after school they came for her, to come play with them. But we raised our daughters that work came first, obligations and then fun. So she told them that until the house is clean, she’s not going anywhere. In the meantime, my wife returned home, and saw that there were ten boys cleaning our place. Evicka said to her, ‘I’ve got a brigade. They want me to go play soccer with them.’ After the cleaning was done my wife told her that everything was fine and that she could go. Our daughter took sports so seriously that she wanted to study physical education. We tried to convince her that she should first of all have – as they say, ‘bread in her hands,’ and after that everything else. First she graduated from civil engineering tech school, and after that the Faculty of Physical Education at university. Finally she also did Hotel Academy.

When the children were small, we used to take them on walks out into the country. Every Saturday, every Sunday, we spent outside. My wife cooked and baked things in advance, and off we went. We also used to go to many sports events, be it soccer, hockey but also other sports. I very much liked sports as such, as I myself liked to play sports. I used to go to international matches, whether Prague or Budapest. I those days, train tickets were good for three days. So on Friday I’d go on a business trip, on Saturday or Sunday there’d be an international soccer match, and on Sunday after the game, I went back home, no problem.

I always rooted for good sportsmanship. I couldn’t stand injustice and brutality. I liked Puskas [Ferenc] and Sarosi [Gyorgy], Sindelar, Piola, Svoboda and others. I also remember a historical soccer match between Czechoslovakia and Hungary in Budapest. Czechoslovakia lost 8:3. Doctor Sarosi, who was a high school teacher by profession, scored on Planicka seven times. That was something, to score on Planicka. He scored seven of them in one game! [During this soccer game, which took place on 19th September 1935 in Budapest, the Czechoslovak team suffered their worst loss in the history of Czechoslovak soccer.]

To this day, still remember the team rosters from the World Cup in 1934 in Italy, when we lost to Italy. Playing for Italy were: Combi, Monzeglio, Allemandi, Ferraris, L. Monti, Bertolini, Guaita, Maezza, Schiavio, Giovanni, Ferrari, Orsi. For Czechoslovakia: Planicka, Ctyroky, Zenisek, Kostalek, Cambal, Krcil, Junek, Svoboda, Sobotka, Nejedly and Puc. [The final game of the World Cup in soccer, Italy – Czechoslovakia, took place on 10th June 1934 in Rome. The home team won 2:1, when Schiavo scored during overtime.] It’s interesting, that this I remember, but not some things from yesterday. That’s apparently a law. You can’t do anything about it.

While still in Bratislava, Minka met this one decent local Jewish boy. They went out for three years, until as a university student he went to Dortmund for summer work experience. Finally he decided to stay there and study, with the agreement of the appropriate officials here. A very clever and good student, he continued his studies in natural sciences at the university there. In 1968 Minka went to Israel. She was also there with the agreement of our pertinent officials for a half year, and she liked it there very much. She worked in kibbutzim and people grew very fond of her. She played various musical instruments like the accordion, piano, organ and flute. She was able to make sure that people had fun and in a good mood. Finally she and her boyfriend agreed that she’d travel to Germany to be with him and that they’d study there together. Of course, I wanted her to come home, to return. Well, her destiny was apparently there. She moved to Germany, where they got married.

Her husband is named Tominko [Tomas] Neustadt. He’s two years older than Minka. I was very, very unhappy when Minka emigrated despite being summoned by our officials to return. I took it very hard. I was more than just sad. My wife was also so unhappy because of it that she fell ill, but I have to honestly admit, that though she wasn’t any less unhappy than I, she weighed it realistically. I saw that my love, my firstborn, is leaving me. Is this possible? And it was possible, but that’s life. Luckily they were both well-liked and one of Tomas’s professors at university helped them immensely. Minka’s principal, who called her ‘Sonnenschein’ [Sunshine], also helped them. They gave them various options and advice, so that they could make something of themselves.

In time they had two children, Daniel and Ester. Daniel is 33 and is a music and English teacher. Ester is 28. She recently finished university; she studied music and history. Their mother tongue is German. But they also speak Slovak, with mistakes of course. All the more lovely. The times we’ve laughed at the muddles they’ve made in their ‘Slovak.’ I even wrote those muddles down. Daniel has already started his own family. His wife is named Katrin and they have two children. The boy is named Jakob and the little girl is Ella. So now I’ve become ‘Opa Bercinko’ [Grandpa Bercinko].

In 1969 a friend of my older daughter’s was getting married in Vienna. At that time Minka and her husband already couldn’t come to Bratislava. So we went to Devin, they were on one side of the Danube and we the parents on the other, and so we were waving at each other. Suddenly some soldier with a dog walked up and said, ‘Who were you waving at? Are you signaling someone?’ We answered, ‘We were just waving, people were waving, so we waved back.’ ‘They’re not some sort of signals?’ ‘No, no.’ Soon an already alarmed officer with five soldiers arrived. They had bayonets on their rifles. At that time we were afraid, as the times weren’t good. We didn’t know what was going to come of it. In the end he was decent enough to just ask us to leave. My wife was crying on the Slovak side. Minka was crying on the other side of the Danube. But there were also other people there, who were waving to each other like this and weeping.

Our younger daughter left for Israel in 1969 through the Jewish community. Visas were issued in Vienna. They weren’t hard to get at all. The bigger problem was with Czechoslovak officials, where it was necessary to be issued an exit permit. Finally she did get to Israel, but returned still that same year. During her university studies she used to go to the Tatras for ski lessons. There she met one older, divorced man from Brezno. He drank a lot and Evicka wanted to break his habit, but she didn’t succeed. He reported her, that she wanted to escape abroad. Finally they broke up.

Then she wanted to go join her sister in the West, but that was no longer possible. In order to get an exit permit she decided to enter into a false marriage with a Yugoslav citizen. She managed to get a permit to travel to Yugoslavia. For from there it was easier to travel to the West. At the beginning of the 1970s she finally got to Germany. In the beginning she lived with her sister in Dortmund. Finally she married this one friend by the name of Désiré Blitz. He’s from Holland. Désiré is a French name and means desired. This was because at a ripe old age his father had managed, besides daughters, to have a son. Désiré is a mixed Jew. He works as a manager, apparently he’s successful. Evicka is a housewife. He and Evicka were married in 1995 in Bratislava. They were married by the current mayor of Bratislava, Mr. Durkovsky. I have to touch wood; she’s got a very good husband. We’re very happy that her life has turned out well.

After my wife and I met, we set a goal that we’d travel a lot, see the world. That resolution of ours has also been kept. We’ve traveled through many countries. Our first trip, after the war, was to Switzerland. We actually planned this trip, in 1946, as our honeymoon. It was like a fairy tale. In 1947 we visited Paris. We were lined up there for movie tickets to the world premiere of ‘Rebecca,’ and standing in front of us in the queue was a couple of around the same age. They were slobbering over each other in public. My wife and I didn’t know where we should look, it was strange for us. People didn’t do things like that at the time here, though now they do.

There were years when we weren’t allowed to go abroad. So we crisscrossed all of Slovakia and Czechia. During hard times my wife and I helped our friends who had emigrated after 1968. We obtained various documents for them and sent them to them. Later, to return the favor, they even invited us to the USA a few times. When I was in the Jewish neighborhood in New York, I had the feeling that if I just walked down the street, I’d meet people I know from Michalovce... We were in Israel and in various other countries. One of them is for example Mongolia. Once we were notified at work that there was one free place to go there. No one applied, so I took it. An interesting experience, a Communist country with many Buddhist monks. Unfortunately Mongolia is a very backward country.

I worked for the Geodetic Institute after I retired as well. The last director, who recognized my talent for drawing, asked me if I wouldn’t put together a company chronicle. In the beginning I didn’t think much of this, but I took it as fun. Finally I immersed myself in it to the degree that I began to truly devote myself to it fully. To this day at the Geodetic Institute they’re proud of that chronicle, which is located in the institute’s boardroom. While I was working on that chronicle I got into it to the degree that I decided to put together a family chronicle, which I’m very proud of. Finally I also made chronicles for our daughters.

As I’ve already mentioned, during the time of the Slovak State, we were members of the Sixth Battalion. After the war many of us moved away. The emigrants kept in touch with each other. In Tel Aviv they met every Friday, and they even had two worldwide gatherings. We who stayed here were isolated and didn’t dare to meet publicly. Among us there were even those that denied being in the Sixth Battalion. After the Velvet Revolution 28, emigrants began to visit our spas and so we established contact with them.

In 1992 we finally managed to get a few boys from the Sixth Battalion together. It was due to the impetus and money of one of us, a friend from the USA, by the name of Pivko, originally Pick. Besides the fact that he was rich, he had an excellent Jewish heart. With his money, we were able to support boys that were badly off, and widows of Sixth Battalion members that were in financial need. We also organized a reunion in Czechoslovakia, with many international participants, with his money. The reunion took place in 1992 in Piestany. Other conferences and reunions were in Bratislava. Within the scope of Sixth Battalion activities, in twelve years we did a lot of work in the interests of Sixth Battalion members and their widows. With the participation of many prominent Slovak historians and resistance members, we filled in many blank spots in the history of the creation, existence and dissolution of the Sixth Jewish Labor Battalion. In this way we also helped to bring to light part of Slovakia’s history. We also documented the participation of Jewish boys in the resistance, as well as how many of them fell. We gained valuable materials from military archives.

I was chairman of the Sixth Battalion for the entire twelve years. This was only possible because my wife helped me the entire time as well. Unfortunately our ranks are shrinking and now basically only my friend Bachnar, the widow Mrs. Borska and I devote ourselves to the Sixth Battalion. With the remnants of the money that we have, we’d like to have one more memorial plaque made, which we’d then have placed on Kozia Street in the building of the Central Federation of Jewish Religious Communities or in the building of the Museum of Jewish Culture in Bratislava. The first memorial plaque is in the Museum of the Slovak National Uprising in Banska Bystrica.

We wanted to succeed in having our being put in the Sixth Battalion recognized by the state as a stay in a labor camp. Government representatives were very much against it. For a long time they refused to accept this idea from the Central Federation of Jewish Religious Communities, until we with great vehemence joined the effort, then things began moving. At a meeting with the Minister of Justice, Lipsic 29, we presented this request. Lipsic [Lipschitz] is originally from a Jewish family, but doesn’t admit to it. Finally, making use of documents from military archives, we managed to have ourselves put into a category that despite not having been in a concentration camp also got satisfaction in the form of compensation. Of assistance in this was a clause in the law which states that ‘also those, who were prepared for transport, and who were known to be going there,’ were also eligible for compensation, so we were also classified as such. The widows of our friends that hadn’t lived to receive it were also classified in this category.

Basically, we can thank the then minister of defense, General Catlos, that the entire Sixth Battalion didn’t end up in a concentration camp in 1942. He announced at the request of the Minister of the Interior of the Slovak State that the Sixth Battalion should be prepared for deportation, that the Sixth Battalion will go as the last transport of Jews from Slovakia. But that didn’t happen, they didn’t get to it! Luckily for us!

Glossary:

Tomas Stern
Bratislava
Slovakia

My great-grandfather Adolf Stern was born on 28th February 1871 in Humenne,
the son of Moric Stern [1840-1922] and Helena or Leni Stern, nee Gutman
[1843-?]. He had five sisters and four brothers. Some of them died very
young.

Family background">Family background

Humenne is a small city in Eastern Slovakia. At the end of the 19th century
the Jews made up almost half of the city population. In 1930 there were
still some 1,800 Jews. The Stern family moved to Humenne at the end of the
18th century [according to Humenne district records in 1778] from Vilnius
[today Lithuania]. His name was Abraham Stern. He was a small merchant and
the grandfather of Moric Stern. About Moric Stern - his Jewish name was
Moses - I only know that he was the roshekol [head] of the local Jewish
community for many years. Later his son Adolf Stern [1871-1934] moved to
Opava. Opava is a city at the Czech-Polish border. They moved there either
because of some work opportunity or because they had some family there.
Then he lived for some time in Budapest and Vienna. In Budapest he studied
at the Academy of Commerce and later he worked as the director of the
Hungarian Trade and Lot Bank in Bratislava.

Moric Stern was the head of the Jewish Community in Humenne. The family
strictly observed Jewish traditions. In spite of this, his son Adolf Stern
studied in Vienna and became a progressive liberal. Along with Count
Richard Coudehove-Kalergi, he participated in the founding of Paneurope and
he was a member of its committee. Paneurope was the predecessor of the
later EU. Its idea is and always has been a united Europe. Adolf was a
member of the town commission for foreigners, a member of the Trade and
Industry Chamber and the member of the Paneurope Committee, about which he
held several lectures in Bratislava and in the country.

Adolf Stern got married in 1902, to Elizabeth Sternova, nee Willheim, who
was born in 1873 and died in 1959 in Great Britain. She left Slovakia after
the war. Her daughter Adriana Brodyova, nee Sternova, had left for Britain
with her husband earlier, in 1939. Her grandmother Antonia Bobretzky von
Arvenau [1781-1862] came from a Jewish-Polish noble family. Antonia's
sister Therese [1798-1886] married into the famous Jewish noble family of
Guttman. She was the grandmother of Elisabeth Guttman [1875-1947], whose
second husband was Prince Francis I of Liechtenstein [1853-1938]. It is
well known that she lived openly as a Jew in Liechtenstein, as the widow of
the late Prince even during World War II! One of her sisters, Rosalia,
married Markis Robert Fitzjames a direct descendent of the English King
Jacob II. Therese was a cousin of Elisabeth Willheim.

My great-grandparent's first-born son bled to death during his
circumcision. Then a daughter, Adriana, whom I mentioned before, was born
and the next son was Helmut Stern, my grandfather, born in 1906. My
grandfather escaped circumcision due to his father's decision and fear. His
father's decision saved his life during the Holocaust. He was captured with
his family in Hlohovec by Slovak guards 1 in order to be deported. As
soon as my grandfather proved that he wasn't circumcised and thus not
Jewish, he was free.

In 1896 Adolf Stern wrote a book entitled Tozsde keletkezese es annak
jelentosege [The creation of the stock market and its significance]. This
was a book about the stock market and apart from that he was the author of
many articles published in Hungarian, Slovak and German journals. He was
interested in sociology, he was a specialist in water transport, and in
1933 he wrote a very interesting book entitled Loesung des
Arbeitslosenproblems [Solution of the unemployment problem], which received
a sympathetic response in the journals of Central Europe. He also had many
lectures about his book broadcast on Bratislava Radio.

I would like to add that he regularly corresponded with several important
personalities of the period, namely with Sigrid Undset 2, Nobel Prize
winner in literature, and Gustav Streseman, Chancellor of the Weimar
Republic. Adolf died in Bratislava on 9th November 1934.

My grandfather, Helmut Stern, was born in Opava, when my great-grandfather
was working there. My grandfather attended the Czechoslovak State Trade
Academy in Bratislava from 1922-23. At least two thirds of the students
were of Jewish origin. The only person still alive from his class is Mr.
Marcel Kucera, who is about 90 now. After the war my grandfather worked as
an accountant. Later, due to his illness, he had to retire. He died in
1995.

He married Johanna Brodyova, born in 1903. She was called Janka in the
family. I have a very nice picture of them taken on a holiday in the Alps.
My grandfather, who was deeply devoted to Janka, cut out a miniature
portrait of her and stuck it to a portrait of my grandmother, just where
her heart is. My grandmother comes from Hlohovec, Western Slovakia, and my
grandfather Helmut Stern was born in Opava, Moravia, but the whole family
lived in Humenne, Eastern Slovakia.

My grandmother's family was one of the oldest families of Hlohovec.
Hlohovec is a small town some 50 kilometers from Bratislava. Its Jewish
community dates back to medieval times. Before the war some 1,000 Jews
lived in Hlohovec. My great-grandmother, Sofia Brodyova, nee Quitt, was
born in 1863 and died in 1923. Her husband was Jakob Brody [1861-1932],
who, as far as I know, owned a pub in Hlohovec. Their children were Jeno,
Katy, Bela, Viliam, Melania, Henrich, Ignac, Marcus and my grandmother
Janka.

An interesting fact was that two Brody siblings, Janka Brodyova and Viliam
Brody married two siblings of the Stern family in a mutual wedding. Viliam
married Adriana and Janka married my grandfather Helmut.

From 1917-1918, Viliam Brody attended Pozsonyi felso kereskedelmi iskola
[Academy of Commerce] in Bratislava. Most of the students were again of
Jewish origin.

Adriana spoke eleven languages fluently. In 1939 she left with her husband
for Great Britain (after my granduncle protected an old Jew beaten by
members of the Hlinka guards - he was a handsome tall man), where she was a
lecturer at university. Here she was a teacher at the secondary school on
Grosslingova Street in Bratislava. Adriana's life dream was to go on a
voyage on the river Rhine, and she did, and during this voyage she had a
heart attack and died. Viliam Brody established a small firm for typing
machines which later became a part of IBM. He died in Oxford in 1995. They
didn't have children.

Ignac Brody worked as a lawyer and left for Great Britain. He was famous
for his musical talent; he played the violin very well. He worked in the
emergency health service as simple medical assistant.

Marcus or Marci Brody, my grandmother's brother, graduated in 1907 in
Budapest and became a well-known lawyer in Bratislava. He is the only one
in our family to be buried in a Catholic cemetery because he married a
Catholic woman. He never converted and they had no children. He was the
only one in our family to be buried in a Catholic cemetery, called St.
Martin's cemetery in Bratislava, next to the Manderla grave.

The family traveled quite a bit. In 1921, they were on a holiday on the
northern coast of Germany, and in August 1923, my grandfather and his
friends were photographed in Karlsbad 3.

My father Juraj Stern was born during the war, in 1940, in Bratislava. Two
years later his brother Andrej, or Bandy, was born in Humenne, where the
family was hiding. He died on 16th August 1945 of an infection. During the
greater part of the war the family was hidden in Hlohovec by a Christian
family.

In 1941 my grandfather, his wife and his mother left for Michalovce, where
his family came from. My grandfather was living with false documents and a
false birth certificate that were provided by a Greek catholic priest. His
identity was disclosed soon, but he managed to escape and hide. He was
hiding in a flat in which only a thin wall separated him from one of the
high Nazi officers living next door. He had to live without moving around
too much and during that time he was able to learn to play chess, solve
various puzzles, and gain skills in high mathematics. After the war he was
able to surprise a number of his colleagues by the depth of his knowledge
that he gained during the six weeks of hiding.

There is another experience connected with Michalovce. My grandfather was
captured by Hlinka guards, but he realized that if he wanted to survive he
had to escape. He sent a message to my grandmother telling her how to get
him out by pretending to be a Red Cross employee carrying food baskets. She
was able to get in with a Red Cross crew and smuggle him out. Then they
were hiding in Hlohovec, where my grandmother was born. She told me one
story: when the family stayed in Hlohovec, she tried to go out to get some
food. She met a classmate of hers, who looked at her with surprise and
asked, 'How come you are still here?' This memory was very painful for my
grandmother even after the war. My family spent the last weeks of the war
in forests hiding in a potato pit.

In spite of the fact that my father was only four at that time, he vividly
remembers a few dramatic situations from that time and until now he cannot
suppress emotions connected with those moments. He also appreciated some
Slovak farmers who were courageous enough to hide Jewish families. The one
who provided shelter to them came back from the U.S. where he had worked in
mines. There he developed a rather positive attitude towards Jewish people.
He hid them in a small room and supplied them with food. During the raids
of Hlinka guards and Nazi soldiers, he hid them in a deep potato pit and
covered them with potatoes and wood. On one occasion, my father was
separated from his parents and hidden in a stable crib for a week. He
couldn't cry or shout but had to be absolutely quiet. He got something to
eat and drink several times a day. This resulted in his nervous stutter,
which he overcame only many years after the war.

Post-war">Post-war

It happened so that none of my family was deported to a concentration camp.
They either emigrated, or were hidden, or were able to escape under
circumstances close to a miracle. When my grandparents came back to their
house they were welcomed by the people, who had taken over their house,
with the disappointed question, 'You have returned?!'

My grandfather worked as an accountant with Pravda newspaper, but in the
1950s he was kicked out, accused of being a Zionist. My grandmother worked
at home.

My father wasn't able to study at university because of his 'bourgeois
family history'. He wanted to study archeology, but wasn't accepted during
the 1950s. Then he finished a vocational typographic school and became a
newspaper typesetter. Later, in the 1960s, the situation changed and he was
allowed to study at the Faculty of Economics.

Almost thirty years later he became head of the Faculty of Economics, which
has meanwhile become an independent university; the third biggest in
Slovakia. He still teaches there and is still involved both in the economic
and political life of the country.

My father married my mother Zuzana Sternova, nee Zimkova, born in 1947. She
comes from an Orthodox Jewish family from Nitra, which was a big Jewish
center before the war. Almost 10,000 Jews lived in the city and
surroundings.

Glossary">Glossary

Maya Dembo
St. Petersburg
Russia
Interviewer: Lyudmila Lyuban
Date of interview: October 2002

Maya Gerasimovna Dembo, a woman of 71, looks younger than her age;
she is very energetic, in spite of her heart disease.

She has a short haircut, grayish hair and is elegantly dressed.

She is an intellectual, there are newly published books on her table.

She lives alone in a two-bedroom cooperative apartment without any expensive furniture.

It is very neat and ideally clean with a lot of paintings on the walls, including those, painted by her relatives.

She is hospitable, her relatives and friends visit her often. She is a wonderful cook, and a nice and intelligent woman. It is a pleasure to talk with her.

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

• My family background

My name is Maya Gerasimovna Dembo. I was born in Paris in 1931. I would like to express my gratitude to my cousin, Semyon Sivashinsky, the son of mother's brother Vulf, for the assistance he provided me with for this biography. He told me for this interview about his family and other Sivashinsky relatives.

My paternal grandfather, Isaac Dembo, was born in Riga [Latvia] in the 1870s. He had some kind of technical education, but I have no detailed information. He worked in the timber processing and paper industry. He died at an early age, in 1914, when my father was only 14 years old. Grandfather Isaac was sick with diabetes and tuberculosis. During his last years he lived in the Crimea, in Yalta, where the climate is drier and warmer than in the Baltic region and suits a consumptive person better. He died in Yalta. He was buried in the Jewish cemetery, but we weren't able to find his grave after the war. I have no information about his family or his siblings.

My paternal grandmother, Sara Lazarevna Dembo, nee Bugg, also had a Jewish name, Sorel. She was also born in Riga in 1865. The Bugg family was wealthy; they owned a fur factory in Riga named Electra. This factory was one of the first in Europe, which learnt to make mouton out of sheepskin, a shining fur with a soft flexible base. They really succeeded in it. They also had a dairy farm near Riga, in Saulkraste, so they were a fairly well- to-do family.

Grandmother Sara had several siblings, though I know little about their life. I only heard from my father that her brother Max Bugg, who owned the factory in Riga, anticipating the movement of the Reds 1 to the West, to the Baltic region, took his family and moved to Stockholm in Sweden in 1936 or 1937.

He lived with his wife there. Some of his children lived with him and one of his sons, Natan Bugg, obtained education either in Cambridge or in Oxford and found himself in Riga. Right before the war he married Yudit; she was an art expert. Their fate brought them to the Middle Asia during the war.

After the war they returned to Riga. Natan was a talented engineer and worked at the famous Riga carriage construction plant, which produced cars for electrical trains. They are still used by our St. Petersburg subway. Another one of Grandmother Sara's brothers - his name is unknown - found himself in Riga occupied by the Germans, and perished tragically. The fascists threw him into the burning synagogue. Other relatives had managed to escape from Riga before the Germans arrived. Some fled to the East, some the West.

Grandmother Sara didn't get any education, she was a housewife. She got married in the 1890s, they lived in Riga and had three children: Aron, my father Gerasim - his Jewish name is Gerson - and Cecilia. Regardless of the fact that grandfather died early and grandmother was left alone, she tried to provide the children with education. I believe, her well-to-do brothers supported her financially. All her children finished a classical gymnasia and obtained education abroad, in Europe.

The German - not Yiddish - language was the mother tongue of Grandmother Sara's family, because the German influence was very strong on the Latvian culture at that time, especially so in Riga, the capital of Latvia. All members of the family spoke Latvian and German; grandmother Sara and Aunt Cecilia, who lived most of their lives in Latvia, spoke it perfectly; my father and Uncle Aron spoke it less well.

They all spoke Russian well, Cecilia spoke without any accent and her brothers had a slight accent. Grandmother Sara wasn't religious, as far as I remember, she was a secular woman. She died in Riga in 1959.

My father's elder brother Aron Isaacovich Dembo - they called him Ronya at home - was born in Riga in 1898. He finished a classical gymnasia in Riga and later graduated from Berlin University. He was a chemist by occupation and worked all his life in the field of oil-processing. In 1937-1938 he married Olga Lvovna Tsymbal and their son Lev was born.

They lived in Leningrad. They were aware of their Jewish origin, but were secular people having little in common with Jewish traditions. Olga Lvovna was a doctor- roentgenologist and worked at Leningrad Pediatric Institute. Aron was in the chemical forces at the frontline during the war. Right after the war he worked at some plant in Leningrad. There was an explosion at that plant, Aron was considered guilty and was put into prison. I remember how some ex- prisoner came to our place and gave father a note from his brother. My father hired various attorneys and finally my uncle was released.

Later Aron was working at the oilfields in Bashkiria with a center in the town of Ishimbay. He spent most of his time in that town. He bought a Volga car in 1958 before he retired. [Editor's note: a Soviet car mark, very expensive and prestigious at that time.] He was returning to Leningrad via Moscow in this car along with his colleague. The car was hit by a dump truck and they were both killed. Uncle Aron was buried in Leningrad in the Jewish Preobrazhensky cemetery.

My father's younger sister Cecilia Isaacovna Dembo was born in Riga in 1904. When she was nine years old, she was run over by a street railway car and lost her leg; she had a prosthesis afterwards. This circumstance left a certain imprint on her further personal life. She had a good education, she finished a classical gymnasia in Riga, graduated from the medical faculty of Tartu University and later improved her education in Prague with Voyachek, who was very famous in the world of medicine. She traveled a lot, went to Italy and France. Cecilia was a very good otolaryngologist. She was a secular Jew, far from religion. She lived with her mother, my grandmother Sara, in Riga.

During the war, while in evacuation in the Urals, Cecilia worked in a polyclinic. After she returned to liberated Riga, she continued with her medical activity. She treated the opera singers' vocal chord illness; she was on friendly terms with the famous tenor Alexandrovich, and knew the academician Tarle very well. [Editor's note: E. V. Tarle (1875-1955): a famous Soviet historian of Jewish origin, one of the most prominent specialists in the history of Russia, France and international relations at the end of the 19th, beginning of the 20th century.]

Cecilia was an extraordinary person, though she didn't have any personal life; she was never married. She adopted and raised Alexander Genkin, her cousin's son, and gave him her last name. Alexander was born in Paris, his French mother left him in his early childhood and then his father died. Alexander Dembo became an artist, worked as a teacher at the Riga Academy of Arts, faculty of industrial aesthetics. I have his paintings at home. Cecilia died in Riga in 1981.

My father, Gerasim Isaacovich Dembo, was born in Riga in 1900. In 1918 he moved to Petrograd with his mother and sister Cecilia because of Cecilia's illness. He finished a classical gymnasia located on Vosstania Street and met my mother there. My father's family lived in the center of Petrograd, on Grechesky Lane. My mother's family lived nearby. After finishing the gymnasia my father started to work at the Oktyabrskaya Railroad as a stoker to earn a living. My grandmother and her daughter returned to Riga and Gerasim stayed in Petrograd.

I remember not only my maternal grandparents, but also my maternal great- grandparents, the Neimotins. My great-grandfather's name was Ovsha, he was a very handsome old man and resembled Moses by Michelangelo, with a gray beard, which seemed silver to me. I loved to sit in his lap and pull at his beard. My great-grandmother's name was Pesya, she wore a very long skirt, which surprised me, because everybody already wore short skirts at that time. She always put her hand under her skirt - she must have had a pocket there - and gave me candies.

They lived in 44 4th Sovetskaya, the whole apartment formerly belonged to the Neimotins; later they were 'packed' and when I knew them they lived in a small long room, which was all crammed with bookcases full of books in Yiddish and Hebrew. All books were age-old, with golden stamping in leather binding. My great-grandfather always read books, no matter when I came to visit. He read some big books with signs unknown to me, and he turned the pages in the direction opposite to the standard. My great-grandparents were quiet, calm, nice and smiling people, and very religious. According to some information my great-grandfather was a rabbi before the [Russian] Revolution [of 1917] 2. He prayed a lot. They didn't attend the synagogue at the time I remember them, because they were sick people and it was difficult for them to climb to the six floor, where their apartment was located, so they prayed at home. They died during the blockade of Leningrad 3 in 1942.

Their daughter, my maternal grandmother Khana-Feiga - common name Anna - Yevseyevna Sivashinskaya, nee Nemoitina, was born in St. Petersburg in 1881. Grandmother Khana had two brothers, Samuil and Avron; and two sisters, Musya and Leya, but I know little about them. Musya died early. Leya and her family left for the USA via Middle Asia at the beginning of World War II by some very difficult means.

Avron had a very good voice and absolute pitch. Two of his daughters live in St. Petersburg, they are old women by now and very sick. They sang very well when they were young; it was their hobby. Khana didn't get any education; she got married at the age of 19 and was a housewife.

My maternal grandfather Moisey - Jewish name Moishe-Isik - Vulfovich Sivashinsky was born in 1877. According to the birth certificate of his son Vulf, Moisey Sivashinsky was considered Polotsk petty bourgeois. I don't know when his family moved to St. Petersburg, but according to my mother, all children in the family were born in St. Petersburg. Maybe they were only registered in Polotsk. Everyone called grandfather Mshaisik.

Grandfather Moisey had two sisters, Rakhil and Fruma, and one brother, Sinay. His elder sister Rakhil - common name Rosa - Vulfovna Vilenskaya was born in 1880 in St. Petersburg. Regardless of the order accepted in the religious Sivashinsky family, she graduated from the medical faculty of Bestuzhev, became a doctor and married the revolutionary Vilensky. He was an associate of Lenin - he worked with Lenin during his stay in Switzerland and was later buried as an honored figure in the Kremlin Wall

[Editor's note: The Kremlin Wall behind Lenin Mausoleum was the most honored burial place in the USSR. There are urns with the ashes of the most prominent figures of the Communist Party and the USSR.]

After the wedding Rakhil and her husband left for Switzerland in connection with his revolutionary activity. However, they got divorced after some time in Switzerland and she moved to France, Paris, where she lived all her life.

Aunt Rakhil was a very good pediatrician and worked in Rothschild hospital. She invited her niece and her husband - my parents - to visit her in 1924 and they stayed at her place for ten years while my father studied at the Sorbonne. I was also born in France. My aunt didn't have children of her own and she liked to play with me a lot. I called her Aunt Rashel in the French manner. When my father got his diploma, Hitler had already come to power in Germany and Aunt Rakhil started to persuade my parents to leave France and return home, which they did.

She remained in Paris occupied by the Germans. My mother found out later that Aunt Rakhil got into a raid, after which she was sent to Auschwitz where she perished in 1942. There are documents confirming everything: an official notification #85926, issued by the International Red Cross, certified by the German Consulate in Leningrad. The name of Rakhil Vilenskaya is indicated on the memorial plate installed at present on the Rothschild hospital wall, where she had worked. The names of employees, who perished in the battle against fascism, are listed on this plate. When I was in Paris, I saw that memorial plate and the building on 8 Rue de Prague, where I lived the first years of my life.

My grandfather Moisey's younger sister, Fruma, was born in 1883. She did not get any education and was a housewife. She lived in Leningrad. Her husband, Isaac Yuzvinsky, was an engineer and was very fond of sport, especially football. They both perished in besieged Leningrad in 1942 and were buried in the Jewish cemetery. Their three sons perished at the frontline. The elder son perished at Karelian Isthmus, north of Leningrad, in the war with Finland [Soviet-Finnish War] 4. Two younger sons perished during the Great Patriotic War 5. Only their daughter survived. She graduated from Leningrad Polytechnic Institute as an engineer-metal expert. She lives with her family in the USA now.

Grandfather Moisey's younger brother, Sinay Sivashinsky, born in 1887, was an important economist and worked in a bank in Leningrad. He was arrested in 1937-1938 [during the so-called Great Terror] 6 and served time in the camps of Solikamsk. He spent 10 years there and was rehabilitated after Stalin had died [Rehabilitation in the Soviet Union] 7. His elder son perished at the frontline. His younger son, a doctor, was also in the war, but survived. He lives in Moscow now, has a daughter from his first marriage and a son from his second marriage. Sinay also moved to Moscow during his last years, where he died in the 1970s.

Grandfather Moisey, as well as grandmother Khana, came from a religious Jewish family. The Sivashinsky family came from the kohens. Kohens have the highest level of sanctity, since their assignment is to serve at the temple and to perform sacred work. Any service at the synagogue compulsorily includes a kohen: for instance, if ten Jews gathered, they had the right to start the prayer, but there should be a kohen among them. Yiddish was the mother tongue of grandparents Khana and Moisey; they also spoke Russian rather well and correctly, but preserved Jewish 'singing' intonations in their speech. They kept kosher and observed all fasts; celebrated Sabbath and all Jewish holidays; prayed a lot and attended the synagogue often.

Grandfather Moisey was a rather important figure in the Jewish community of Leningrad. He was a shochet and a mohel. As a shochet he was acknowledged by the synagogue and had the right to ritually slaughter the cattle. As a mohel, he obtained the right from the Jewish religious community to perform the ceremony of circumcision for boys on the eight day after their birth. Grandfather did it very professionally in sterile sanitary conditions. His daughter-in-law, the wife of his son Vulf, was a pharmacist; she brought him bandages and other necessary sterile accessories.

The performance of this ceremony was of ritual character and required certain courage on Grandfather Moisey's side, as the Soviet Power didn't only unwelcome, but also persecuted the ministers of religious cults [during the struggle against religion] 8. He was ranked among such people, that is why he was 'deprived', he was disfranchised and deprived of other rights. I remember old Jews often came to visit Grandfather Moisey.

They spoke quietly about something, discussed something and prayed together. His opinion was highly evaluated. Visiting my friends once when I was already an adult, I mentioned by incident my mother's maiden name. Guests of venerable age exclaimed, 'Oh! So you are Mshaisik Sivashinsky's granddaughter?' It pleased me very much to see that grandfather was well- known and remembered.

Grandmother Khana and Grandfather Moisey lived in one apartment with my grandmother's parents, the Neimotins. My grandmother liked that the apartment was located on the sixth floor, she said that she liked high stories, because there was a lot of light up there, closer to the sky and farther from the earth. I remember a big beautiful escritoire of Karelian birch with a lot of various drawers. I loved when the cover of the escritoire was opened and I could open and close those drawers.

There were bookcases with ancient books in the long corridor; unfortunately, they were all burned in the siege. The entrance to the apartment was from the backstairs. There was a big refrigerated cabinet in the kitchen, built into the wall below the window. Such a fridge was traditional for that time. The stove was a wood-burning one and Primus stoves were placed on it.

There was also a small cast iron basin. Near it stood a huge oak sideboard, one half of which was used the whole year round and the other contained everything that was used for the celebration of Pesach. Grandmother prohibited everyone to touch those dishes for the rest of the year. All Jewish traditions were piously observed. They celebrated all the holidays when the whole family would gather, they kept kosher and prayed even at home twice a day.

Grandfather Moisey and grandmother Khana got married in 1900. They had the traditional Jewish wedding ceremony, with a chuppah. They had six children: Frida, my mother, Vulf, Sima, Maria, Iosif and Polina.

My mother's elder brother, Vulf Sivashinsky - they called him Vladymir at home - was born in St. Petersburg in 1904. His birth certificate is well preserved. After his bar mitzvah at the age of 13 he became a rabbi's disciple, it was an official status. He was taught by his grandfather Ovsey Neimotin and would have become a rabbi, if it hadn't been for the Revolution of 1917 in Russia. Vulf Moiseyevich had always been a man of ideas. At first, it was the idea of serving the Jewish religion.

After the Revolution he suffered a moral crisis and turned away from religion into the opposite direction: atheism of extreme kind. He wasn't able to obtain systematic education, not even elementary education, because of the Civil War 9. He worked as a watchman, as a worker at the clothes factory and Murmansk railroad, as a sailor on Ladoga Lake and as a scraper in 'Utilsoyuz'.

In 1922 Vulf entered the adult workers' school and in 1935 without interruption of work graduated from the chemical faculty of S. M. Kirov 10 Light Industry Academy with almost all excellent marks. He was a very talented person.
Being a chemical engineer, he engaged himself with such a boring subject as processing secondary scrap. He worked as the head of 'Soyuzutil' in Leningrad from 1937 and up to the beginning of the war.

He got married at an early age, when he was 19, to Esphir Berkovna Starobina, a friend of his sister Sima; they studied together at the pharmaceutical technical school. After finishing school Esphir worked in a drugstore. Their first son Mikhail was born in 1924 and in 1940 they had another son, Semyon.

They lived with Esphir's parents in a huge communal apartment 11, which belonged to the Starobins before the Revolution. When the Great Patriotic war broke out, Esphir and Semyon got evacuated to Omsk, Siberia.

Vulf and his elder 17-year-old son Mikhail volunteered to the front. In September 1941 Mikhail perished in the battle near Gatchina in Leningrad region. Almost everyone born in 1924 like he was murdered in this war: they were just 17, nothing but schoolboys, with no experience of a soldier, so they would perish in the very first battle. Mikhail was everybody's favorite in the family. His father participated in the war, was in Zapolarye, Poland, Hungary, Austria and Germany. He served in chemical forces, was an army officer, a major, with battle awards. He was wounded and partially lost his hearing in the war. After the war he returned to his former job and held high managing positions up to 1958 in the raw material processing industry. Regardless of his bad hearing, his employees loved him very much and simply spoke louder in his presence.

My uncle Vladymir had a sense of humor and liked good literature, the Great Russian poet Pushkin 12, especially his novel in poetry, Eugene Onegin. Uncle Vladymir told his wife, 'Take your ear-trumpet. Oh, what a big flaw deafness is.' [Editor's note: quoting poet A. S. Griboyedov (1795-1829): Russian playwright, poet and diplomat, contemporary of Pushkin.] He considered Yiddish and Russian his mother tongues. He often spoke Yiddish at home with his wife and his Russian was absolutely correct without the slightest intonational Jewish peculiarity.

He remembered Hebrew, the language of the Torah until the end of his life. When during his last year he lay sick in bed, his wife's nephew Yuly came to him to study Hebrew. Yuly is now the biggest expert on Jewish customs and culture in the family. He is very much interested in the subject.

Vladymir was a man of high culture, but uncontrollable and hot-tempered. It was good that his hot temper was restrained by the culture. He was a brilliant lector; he gave lectures on chemical methods of scrap processing for specialists. At the end of his life, along with his colleague Slivker, he was occupied with the invention of a machine for technical rags degreasing, they called it cavitator because it's function was based on the hydrodynamic cavitation.

They produced a pilot machine, tested it for a long time, but it was never put into mass production. In 1958 Uncle Vladymir obtained incapacity for work and retired. He died in 1963, both he and his wife were buried in the Jewish cemetery in Leningrad.

Uncle Vladymir's son Semyon graduated after World War II from the mathematical-mechanical faculty of Leningrad State University, though it wasn't easy for a Jew to enter it. A brilliant mathematician, he started to work as a student at the Leningrad department of Steklov Mathematical Institute [Editor's note: It is now the leading economical-mathematical institute of the Russian Academy of Sciences.] He still works there. He married a Jewish girl early, at the age of 19, just like his father.

He has a daughter and a son. His daughter graduated from Leningrad Polytechnic Institute and lives with her family in the USA now. His son graduated from two institutes: the Bonch-Bruyevich Leningrad Institute of Communication and later, having understood, that his mission was medicine, he graduated from Leningrad Pediatric Institute. He worked on probation for three years in the USA, defended a Ph.D. thesis on chemotherapy and is now a brilliant oncologist at Leningrad Oncological Center at Pesochnaya station. Grandfather could have been proud of such grandchildren.

One of my mother's sisters Serafima, or Sima Gutman was born in St. Petersburg in 1907. She finished the pharmaceutical technical school in 1924 and worked at the Blood Transfusion Institute as a laboratory assistant. She was a very intelligent biochemist. Her husband Israel Gutman was a construction engineer; he was often sick. They lived in a tiny room of nine square meters with their small sons. After World War II they moved into a small apartment with great difficulties. They raised three sons, who graduated from Leningrad Fine Mechanics and Optics Institute, got married and have grownup children and grandchildren. Two of them live with their families in the USA and one lives in Israel.

Aunt Sima was an angel by temper. She never spoke loudly, she was always very tender, smiling, cordial and sympathetic. She helped me during the hard period in my life, when my husband fell sick with sarcoma. His blood formula had to be restored after radiological procedures. My aunt's advice helped us a lot. She left for the USA with her husband and younger son in 1992. She fell sick along with her husband and they died on the same day. He had a stroke and she had an infarct. It happened in 1998.

Another sister of my mother, Maria or Musya Starobina was born in St. Petersburg in 1911. She was a quiet, charming woman with blue eyes and delicate features. She worked as an accountant at Lenin Munition Plant. She married the brother of Uncle Vulf's wife, Samuil Starobin, and they had a daughter. They lived in a small room along with Samuil's parents. Musya's husband worked at the aircraft plant and was a highly qualified worker with, as they say, 'magical hands'. He could do absolutely unique things.

My father until his dying days shaved with a razor that Samuil made for him, and liked it very much. Aunt Musya died early, in 1955 at the age of 44 of rheumatic heart disease. The whole family was shocked by her death. She was buried in the Jewish cemetery.

The Sivashinsky family was exceptionally friendly. The whole family jointly raised Musya's 12-year-old daughter. Certainly, Uncle Vulf and his wife took the biggest part in it, as they lived in one apartment. Musya's daughter graduated from Leningrad Construction Engineering Institute and became a construction engineer. In 1972 she emigrated to Paris with her husband and son. She works as a translator from French and English in various technical fields.

Her son works with her. They have a small translating company of their own. She got divorced, but she preserved good relations with her husband and they work together. She visited us twice. I also visited her in Paris. She told me that she still remembered how Aunt Frida, my mother, carrying loaded bags, had visited her mother at the hospital.

My mother's younger brother, Iosif Sivashinsky, was born in 1914. He was a very wise man and his wisdom harmonized with his secularity and merriness. He was a very good electronic engineer. When he was young, he suffered from his father's being a minister of religious cult. Iosif worked at a plant, which produced projecting and cinematographic equipment and decided to enter a technical school attached to the plant.

However, he had great difficulties to enter this school as he was a member of the family of a 'lishentsy' [Editor's note: 'lishentsy', or deprived citizens of the USSR, members of the so-called 'former classes' who were disfranchised; in particular, when entering higher and secondary educational institutions.

According to the Constitution of 1918, this category included people who before the Revolution of 1917 had used hired labor, received interest on investments, been involved in trade and commerce, clergy, agents of the pre- revolution police, mentally handicapped persons and convicts. They were deprived not only politically, but often also of civil rights.]

They managed to solve the problem with great difficulty. Iosif finished this school and later on worked with navigation devices as an engineer. He lived with his wife and daughter in one apartment, along with Grandfather Moisey and Grandmother Khana. I remember very well his wife Tasya, who died at a young age of cancer. She was German, her father was subject to repression and she was scared of everything. Tasya, not being a Jewess, was very much loved in such a religious family as my grandparents Sivashinskys'. She was quiet and nice; a real dove.

During the war Iosif worked in besieged Leningrad. At the end of 1944 he was sent to the Far East on the threshold of the war with Japan 13. After the war Iosif and his daughter worked in a secret organization and were 'rejected' for a long time; they weren't allowed to go abroad. Later they moved to the USA. Iosif knew Jewish traditions very well. Since he was a kohen, he was often invited to the Boston synagogue to commence the service.

He did go, though he thought that Judaism possesses superfluity of small details of ritual specifics, but he had a humorous attitude to it. Iosif knew the history of the Sivashinsky family very well. My cousin Semyon told me that when he visited Iosif, in two days he found out more about his family, than he was able to find out during his whole life. Iosif died in 2000.

My mother's younger sister Polina Berlina was born in 1917. She worked since her youth at Krasnaya Zarya factory, which produced telephone sets. She loved theater very much and attended the theatrical studio attached to the Leningrad Children's Theater. She recited poems very well. She married Zalman Berlin, who graduated from Leningrad Bonch-Bruevich Institute of Communication and, being a telecommunications worker, also worked at the Krasnaya Zarya. He was in the war, always carrying a box and a cable spool, repairing the communication system; he was wounded. Zalman died a long time ago. Polina has two children, a daughter and a son. They all live in the USA now.

My maternal grandparents, Moisey and Khana, lived in besieged Leningrad during the war and in 1942 they were among the last ones to get evacuated across Ladoga Lake [via the so-called Road of Life] 14. They traveled in a troop train long and grievously. My grandfather had a sense of humor, he was a merry and easily amused person with sly eyes. He didn't lose his sense of humor even in such hard times. He told us the following story later: When they left Leningrad, they collected some belongings and took a kettle among all other things.

They asked one of the young men, who jumped out of the train car, to bring some boiled water in the kettle. Everyone drank water from the kettle and everyone was surprised at the taste of the water. When they drank all the water, they found a felt hat in it. They traveled for a long time in that train and finally arrived at Omsk, where their relatives had been evacuated to before.

They returned to Leningrad in 1944, when the siege had been lifted. They kept the Jewish traditions till the end of their life. My grandfather died in 1953 and grandmother died a year later, in 1954. They were buried in the Preobrazhensky Jewish cemetery in Leningrad.

The children weren't religious but they respected their parents' belief, that is why they tried to bury them observing the Jewish ceremony. I remember especially when Grandfather Moisey was buried. All mirrors were covered. [Editor's note: according to Jewish tradition all the mirrors in the house with a deceased are covered to facilitate the wandering of his soul in the next world.] It was very quiet in the apartment, everybody sat squatted down or on very low benches. It wasn't allowed to cry. My grandmother kept her composure.

Relatives didn't have the right to carry the coffin. [Editor's note: a dead body is considered unclean, and it is not allowed to touch it so as to avoid desecration.] Everybody slightly tore their clothes as a sign of sorrow. Coffins were painted red at that time, but according to the Jewish ceremony, if a coffin was used, it had to be made of plain boards, non-painted. This red paint had to be cleaned off, which was very difficult to do, as it was deep-seated in the wood.

Grandfather's body was wrapped in a shroud. The shroud was sewed, as it should be, out of brand new unwashed fabric. The candles were burning. At first the coffin was placed at the synagogue. I remember very well, how Uncle Vladymir stood on the perch of the synagogue at his father's funeral and didn't enter it because he was a communist.

There were men and women beside the coffin. It all happened at the synagogue near the Jewish cemetery; it was already dilapidated at that time. The cantor sang. The kaddish was recited at the cemetery. My grandmother was also buried according to the Jewish ceremony, but I don't remember her funeral so clearly for some reason.

My mother, Frida Moiseyevna Dembo, was born in St. Petersburg in 1901 and was the eldest child in the family. She finished a gymnasia and entered the Live Word Institute, such was the name of today's Drama Institute at that time. She was taught by the famous actor Davydov and in spite of her young age, promising in the typical theatrical role of old women in Ostrovsky's plays. [Editor's note: A. N. Ostrovsky (1823-1886): Russian playwright, whose plays, both tragedies and comedies, laid the foundation for realistic Russian drama.] She had a very well-pronounced artistic talent and she studied well; she liked it all very much. When she married my father, she was only 19 years old. My parents got married in 1920.

My father continued working at the Oktyabrskaya railroad. First he worked as a stoker, then he moved further up to the position of train driver assistant. At the same time he entered Polytechnic Institute and combined work and studies. It was rather complicated as it fairly exhausted him, which worried his mother a lot. She lived with her daughter in Riga at that time. Relatives decided that his parents should go to Paris, where my father should continue his studies at the Sorbonne. The Government of the USSR allowed it at that time. The sister of my mother's father, Rakhil, lived in Paris at that time and agreed to accept my parents. In 1924 my parents left Petrograd and my mother had to quit her wonderful institute. They lived for several months in Riga, where my mother was introduced to all my father's relatives, and after that they left for Paris.

• Growing up

They lived in Paris for ten years with mother's aunt, first at one place and later they moved to Rue de Prague, 8 - it was the Rothschild foundation building. Aunt Rosa assisted them financially; besides, they earned money. My father studied at the faculty of applied mechanics of the Sorbonne affiliate in the town of Nancy and worked at the Worthington machine- building plant. He attended some course at university, did an exam, went back to work, attended another course, passed the exam, went back to work and so on. That is why he studied at university for such a long time, for ten years. My mother worked as a seller in a store and did some other jobs. I was born in 1931 and was the only child in the family. When my father obtained a Sorbonne diploma in 1934, they had to decide what to do next. My mother loved her parents and siblings very much, she missed her family a lot when living in Paris. Besides, Hitler came to power in Germany in 1933 and his speeches worried the neighboring countries. So in 1934 we all moved to the Soviet Union, to Leningrad, which had already been renamed after Lenin's death in 1924.

Upon our return from France my father started to work at the Leningrad Metal Plant [LMP], which was the first domestic turbine producer. He worked at the special design bureau, which designed pumps. My father was a man of great erudition, possessed vast knowledge and spoke several languages. He knew German, French and Russian perfectly, and he translated from English, but I never heard him speak English. He knew Greek and Latin a little bit. He never learnt Russian but he was absolutely literate and edited all documents for the pumps. He was very hard-working. Besides his main job, he did translations in order to earn some extra money. I remember that very often, when I went to bed, he still sat at the desk, leafed through the magazines and translated articles.

My father was a man of intellectual labor, but he could do anything with his hands, he could even repair shoes. He repaired his car himself and applied to a mechanic only in case of very serious problems. He was a hot- tempered man, but suppressed all 'explosions' inside himself. He smoked a lot, but, being a strong-willed man, gave up smoking, when he was required to do so. He was rather quiet and non-talkative with those whom he didn't know well, but with his friends he was a sunny and smiling person, very charming, sometimes naive as a child and his circle of friends loved him very much. My father was very stylish and knew how to dress. Once he sewed himself a working overall with a lot of pockets out of some rag, and preserved elegance even in that overall. Black-marketers very often bothered him about his clothes. He was an extraordinary person, a bright man.

My mother worked in the graphics department of the Hermitage and translated inscription on etchings from French into Russian. [Editor's note: the Hermitage is one of the greatest art museums of the world, established on the base of private art collections of the Russian emperors.] My mother was very elegant, fine-molded. She was a sociable person, very communicative and artistic. She sang well - low soprano - had a fine pitch, unlike my father and imitated Vertinsky wonderfully, including his gestures. She had an imperious temper, as all Sivashinskys, sometimes she was a despot; she liked to have everything done her own way. However, at the same time she was rather delicate and didn't worm herself into anybody's soul. My parents were educated and modern people; they weren't religious.

When we returned to Leningrad in 1934, I was three years old. Since my mother began to work at the Hermitage, I attended the kindergarten for Hermitage employees' children.

I visited my grandparents often, because my parents expected to be arrested every day. Many people in this country lived in fear of arrest and repressions during those years before the war. That's why I was sent out of the house with the story that mother had tonsillitis and I could catch an infection. I went with grandmother to Nekrasov market-place, where she bought live hens which lived for some time in the big fireplace. Later grandfather Moisey slaughtered the hens according to the rules. I liked chicken cooked by grandmother; she was a wonderful cook. She handed over her cooking talent to her daughters.

• During the war

In the summer of 1941 we planned to visit Grandmother Sara in Riga, but then the war broke out. I was already a schoolgirl before the war, but I was evacuated with the kindergarten to Yaroslav region. I remember clearly how I walked along Nevsky prospect [the main street of Leningrad] with a rucksack. We were sent to the Volga river and my parents stayed in Leningrad. Our troop train with children was in-between those trains that headed to the frontline and the Germans bombed us all the time. There was no unbroken window glass left in the train car.

We sat under the benches covering our faces with our hands. Finally we reached our place of destination. It was the village of Iskra in Yaroslav region. We were distributed among the nicest, charming Volga citizens; they were the kindest people! We were washed and fed. I remember also the cold touch of tweezers on my face, which were used to take out small pieces of glass. We lived there, went to school and did agricultural work. I was taught to crop and collect vegetables.

My parents stayed in besieged Leningrad. My mother continued working at the Hermitage. When Kalinin's 15 instruction arrived about the evacuation of the LMP to the Urals, my father was recalled from the home guard. They got loaded onto the troop train and left, but my mother got off the train earlier, near the town of Buguruslan, and found me.

When she came to pick me up, we were all sick, there weren't enough adult workers, and all children were sick with dysentery. She helped to treat us, using homemade means, certainly, because no medical assistance or medicine was available. Later, having said goodbye to the hospitable villagers, I left with my mother to the Urals, where my father was.

In 1940 Latvia was annexed to Russia. When the Great Patriotic War broke out in 1941, Riga already had some information about the Germans persecuting Jews in Poland. Thus when the Germans approached Riga, my grandmother and her daughter Cecilia escaped with the retreating Red Army, taking only a bundle with belongings and a small suitcase with Cecilia's tools with them.

They left with the last trucks and found themselves in Pskov region. Later my grandmother somehow found out where her younger son Gerasim got evacuated with his family and they reached us at the beginning of 1942 in the Urals.

They came absolutely lice-ridden, exhausted and more dead than alive. Since their mother tongue was German they spoke German at home; in spite of the war and bad attitude of the population towards the Germans. But the landlords lived separately and nobody heard it. In 1943 my grandmother, her daughter and her son's family moved to the town of Podolsk in Moscow region and in 1944 they both returned to liberated Riga. A bomb hit their house and nothing remained of it, not even the foundation, so they had to start from scratch.

LMP was evacuated to the village of Verkhnaya Salda, not far from Nizhny Tagil [a town in Ural region, about 2,000 km from Leningrad]. Those were places, where convicts used to live, which had been exiled there by the Russian tsar Peter the Great 16. First metallurgical plant were also constructed there by Demidov [a famous Russian entrepreneur of the 18th century]. The LMP engineers, clever and educated people, recalled from the home guard - just like my father - to produce turbines, were starving to death. There was no medical assistance, no medicine.

My parents also suffered from dysentery because of hunger. They lay and periodically lost their conscience. When my mother came to her senses, she told me what to do, 'Wash your hands, dissolve some manganese crystals, go to the store, buy cognac or vodka, ask the owner for some curds...' Then she fainted again. I did everything as she told me and my parents survived. This was in 1942. As soon as they were up on their feet again, and my father could go to the LMP affiliate and my mother to the policlinic, where she worked at the registry office, my father's mother and sister arrived. They were also more dead than alive. We all lived in a log cabin - a house made of timber. Our landlords had two houses; they gave one to us.

My father worked at a dairy in his childhood and he knew how to deal with horses. He asked our landlords for a horse and we went with him to the forest to get some wood. We chopped trees and sawed the dead wood. I stood in snow up to my chest in -50 degrees Celsius. However, the air is very dry in that area and such frost can be endured more easily than in Leningrad, where the air humidity is too high and where I often fell sick with tonsillitis. In the Urals my tonsillitis was cured forever. We stoked the Russian stove 17 with the wood and warmed the big house.

In the Urals, in the village of Verkhnaya Salda, where the plant, where my father worked, was evacuated, I went to school again, but we didn't really study there; we fought with the local children instead. They beat us seriously, because we were weak, constantly hungry and stole food from their school bags.

They always ate very delicious and nourishing food, brought milk and shanezhki to school. [Editor's note: shanezhki are potato pastries, covered with sour cream and baked in the Russian stove.] Certainly, they didn't share anything with us. I faced anti-Semitism there for the first time in my life. We were called 'plucked-out jews'. I came home and asked who 'plucket-out jews' were. They explained it to me. But the strangest thing was that they called all evacuated people, even Russians, 'plucked-out jews'. Obviously, the local inhabitants thought that only Jews were evacuated. I didn't make friends with anyone there; we struggled for existence.

In 1943, according to Kalinin's instruction, those employees of LMP, who survived, were again loaded onto troop trains and brought to the town of Podolsk. There was a big boiler plant there. The plant produced boilers for electrical stations, and LMP made turbines. My father was occupied with the production of pumps in Podolsk. After the siege, the LMP employees returned to Leningrad and their families came back later.

My mother and me returned to Leningrad in June 1945. Father came back with his plant earlier. I remember Nevsky prospect very well, which we drove along in a truck. I looked at the empty, as if extinct, city and at the houses with dark and nailed up windows, pasted with straps of paper. We entered Palace Square: empty, not a soul, depressing silence. The gray Neva river with waves. The sight was terrifying.

• Post-war

Our house #27 on Dobrolyubova Street, where we had lived before the war, hadn't remained intact; a bomb hit it. My father got a room in a communal apartment in building #23 on the same street. The room was on the second floor, it was a pillbox during the war, our soldiers shot from it. My father had to break off the bricks from the window openings with a crow-bar and to make new windows. The room was crammed with furniture, gathered from the whole building and everything had to be taken out. The communal apartment was rather big, designed for six families.

There was a kitchen with a wood-stove and a wash-basin, where huge fat rats sat, well-fed on the corpses during the siege. Those rats were afraid of no one. There was also a tiny toilet, which didn't work properly. Torn electric wires and pieces of wallpaper hung from everywhere. Nevertheless, little by little, neighbors appeared and life returned to normal.

My father continued to work in his former position at the LMP. Later on their special design bureau was transferred to the Economizer Plant, which produced pumps, so he began to work there.

My mother didn't have special medical education, but learnt a lot working at policlinics during the evacuation in Verkhnaya Salda and in Podolsk. Thus, having returned to Leningrad, she found a job at a tularemia infection station, which was located not far from our house on Tatarsky Lane. They dealt with extremely dangerous infections there: plague, encephalitis, tularemia.

Tularemia is a glands' illness, like plague. My mother wore a mask, rubber gloves and a tightly closed overall at work. They developed a serum against infections, studied insects and other infection carriers' behavior, for which purpose they caught musk-rats.

The employees went to the country where an infective epidemic was registered; for instance, my mother went to the Karelian Isthmus, when an encephalitis epidemic was registered there. [Editor's note: Karelian Isthmus: land bridge, connecting Russia and Finland, situated between the Gulf of Finland in the west and Lake Ladoga in the east. St. Petersburg and Vyborg Saint are its chief cities.] She took me with her on that trip. We were vaccinated beforehand. We lived in a wooden house. My mother took part in the research and she took me with her because I had severe avitaminosis and furunculosis, and I needed fresh air and forest berries.

There were really a lot of berries, but it was dangerous to walk in the forest. Everything was completely neglected, a lot of barbed wire, shells, missiles everywhere. This was 1946-1947. Resettled people from the Volga river, from Yaroslav region, lived there. I ran around the forest with boys, we collected some weapons, shells and hit them. Once when we were doing it, some demobilized soldier shouted terribly at us because we could have easily blown ourselves up. Fortunately, everything turned out to be successful. My mother was a very intelligent person, she managed to cope with everything she did.

In the postwar time my parents loved to go to the theater and concerts; they especially liked [Arkadii] Raikin and [Klavdiya] Shulzhenko [both popular Soviet variety artists]. My parents had a lot of friends, whom they welcomed at home with pleasure and whom they visited, too.

Their friends were of various nationalities, not only Jews; my parents were people of cosmopolitan nature, they would live well in any part of the world. I think they developed such a trait when they were young and lived in Paris for ten years. They didn't like chauvinism, either Russian or Jewish.

We didn't go to the summerhouses in summer because my mother didn't like all these buckets, pans, oil-stoves. My parents bought a Moskvich car: private cars weren't common yet at that time, but already affordable for well-to-do families. We drove to the Crimea and the Caucasus, in our own car. But most of all we liked to go to the Baltics: to Lithuania, Estonia, Latvia and the Lettish farm at the border with Estonia, where our close friends, Latvians lived - though I don't remember anything special about the time we spent there.

As of 1955-1956 my mother didn't work anymore, she just kept the household; but she didn't manage to collect documents required for obtaining a pension. My father worked until he was 82, though not at the Economizer Plant, but at various other places, since my mother didn't get a pension, and they had to live on something. My father died in 1988 and my mother died a year later, in 1989. They were buried in the regular cemetery, not in the Jewish one.

• School years

I went to school after the war. It was a girls' school and I didn't like it. The teachers constantly dragged me to the toilet and made me wet and comb my curls. They didn't believe that I had such hair by birth. The hair became even curlier when wet. I had real fun, but my mother was summoned to school. I cannot say that I was oppressed because of my nationality, but playing in the yard, I heard sometimes 'Jewish mug!', and I thought: what can I do? I faced real anti-Semitism when I entered the institute.

I finished school in 1951, since I lost about one and a half years because of all these evacuation trips. I wanted to enter the philological faculty of Leningrad University, but my parents advised me to not even try to submit my documents there, in order to save time, strength and nerves, as Jews weren't accepted to university openly at that time. I got the same advice from Natasha, my friend and neighbor in our communal apartment. She was two years older than me, Russian and studied at the faculty of law.

I submitted my documents to Leningrad Library Institute. I passed the entrance exams fine, got one 'good' mark and the rest were 'excellent'. However, the entrance examination commission asked me to bring an excerpt from my parents' biography, explaining why I was born in Paris.

Were my parents white emigrants or not? Why did they live there? A Jewess and moreover, born in Paris! My father wrote an explanation, I entered the institute with difficulty, but studied well and with pleasure. We had a very strong literature sub-faculty, consisting of famous Russian and foreign literature specialists, who were driven away from the university, for being Jews or so-called 'cosmopolitans' 18, who weren't exiled to far away camps so far.

After graduation I was assigned to work at the Kola Peninsula in the town of Kirovsk [mandatory job assignment] 19. The following order existed at that time: nonresidents were left in Leningrad and Leningrad residents were sent to remote locations, so that they 'would not stir up trouble'. I worked in a library in Kirovsk. Being a 3rd-year student, I did my practice in Murmansk. I'm very grateful to my lucky stars that I got to know this wonderful land. I've been to Murmansk, in villages at the very border with Norway.

I had to check various libraries and drove from one to another in a sleigh harnessed with dogs. Since Kirovsk was a town, where apatites were mined and where convicts' camps were located, I was assigned to give them some lectures. There were various convicts, including political ones, there were really a lot of them. They worked at the mines and the concentrating factory, where the apatite ore was concentrated. I lived in a barrack, the wind created huge snowdrifts in winter. I was constantly sick, I was awfully allergic to the apatites - it is considered a hazardous production - and the lack of oxygen in the air.

There exists such an anomaly, though there are no mountains anywhere around. By the way, the same anomaly has been registered in Kostomuksha, Karelia. I began to write applications asking for permission to go back to Leningrad. Of course, I left for home for all the holidays. My colleagues at the library treated me very well, they understood that I was a 'mother's girl' and took care of me as much as they could.

Once I got into real trouble. Terrible snow-storms occur in that area. At that time I didn't live in Kirovsk, but 25 kilometers from the town, close to the mines, where the ore was extracted and later on delivered along a narrow-gauge railroad to this factory in Kirovsk. I lived with the mother of my friend Natasha, who by that time had already passed away. Our parents were friends, when we lived in one communal apartment and Natasha's mother, Alexandra Nesterovna, loved me very much. I went to work by bus. When the snow-storm started, no one was at home and Alexandra Nesterovna, a doctor, was at her work-place at the preventorium.

Being a law-abiding person, I set out to work. Something terrible happened outside, nothing could be seen, not even the lampposts, there was snow up to the chest, the wind was howling and it was possible to walk only sidelong. I tied my kerchief around my head, like a mask and walked, as there was no transport. I was walking by touch, from post to post. I left the house at 9 in the morning and came to work late at night, it was always dark there at that time, because the Polar night starts in that area in November.

So I appeared in front of my colleagues in the form of a huge snow-ball. What happened to them when they saw me! They scolded me, kissed me, unpacked me, massaged me, warmed me and gave me vodka to drink. I spent the night in the apartment of our manager, Tatiana Alexandrovna. There were actually a lot of Leningraders in Kirovsk; very intelligent people, who found themselves in that area against their will in the course of Stalin's repressions. They managed to stay decent and kind in those harsh conditions; they were always ready to help. The atmosphere was special there, I never ever felt the same in my life. So I waited throughout the snow-storm with them. A lot of people perished on that day, I was lucky to survive.

I worked in Kirovsk for two years, between 1955 and 1957, returned to Leningrad and started to look for a new job. I visited different organizations. They greeted me rather warmly, asked me to fill in a form, but having considered my application, informed me that they weren't able to take me. It wasn't easy to tell by my appearance, if I was a Jewess or not, but after I filled in the form, everything became clear. So I 'wandered about' for some time and later through some friends of mine found a job as a librarian at the Children's Literature Publishing House.

It was very interesting to work in that library, as there was this wonderful manager, who during the most fearful times of persecution preserved a selection of pre-revolutionary works by children's writer Lidiya Charskaya, a file of the children's magazine Chizh & Yozh (Siskin and Hedgehog), which was banned. [Editor's note: Lidiya Alekseyevna Charskaya (born Churilova) (1875- 1937): a Russian writer and actress of Aleksandrovskiy theater in St.Petersburg, wrote over 80 books, which made her very popular among young readers in the 1900s.

However, in 1912 her literary career was thwarted by a harsh critical article by poet Kornei Chukovskiy, who accused Charskaya of vulgarity and hypocrisy. Later she was also charged with monarchism and religiousity, and after that she was not published at all. She died in 1937 a natural death, completely forgotten.]

The manager was a person, who knew children's literature very well and loved her job devotedly. I learnt a lot, working there. Little by little, I made new friends. The Writers' House was situated near the Children's Publishing House, on 18 Voinova Street. I came to work there after some time.

I worked at the so-called 'mass department' at the Writers' House, I was engaged with the writers' 'education', arranged various meetings for them with famous figures of science and engineering, artists, producers, theater and cinema actors. I was very business-like and vigorous. Writers are very capricious and sometimes even quarrelsome people; often I caught it from them, besides, there was a lot of gossip. I called that organization the 'viper-house' but I passed through the hard school of life there. I left the place in 1982 after 15 years of work there.

• Marriage life

I met my husband, Lev Samuilovich Freidman, in 1957 at my friends' place in Kirovsk. Lev was a Jewish man. He was born in Leningrad in 1926. His father didn't have any higher education but he was a very good practical economist and was a member of a lot of expert commissions. Lev had twin sisters, both were doctors-pediatricians, they are still alive; and a brother, who died in 1999. Lev studied at the Leningrad Institute of Law, but he didn't manage to obtain a diploma, as he was arrested and exiled to Kirovsk.

Serving his time there, he got acquainted with the prosecutor of Kirovsk, his name was Finkelstein, and he had studied at the same institute in Leningrad, but they didn't know each other. I met Lev in the Finkelstein family, who I also got to know when in Kirovsk. I married Lev at the end of 1957.

After his sentence in Kirovsk Lev finished a construction equipment installation technical school, and all his life after that he was occupied with industrial construction at Krasny Vyborzhets plant, at Srevdlov machine-tool plant, at Izhorsky plant and others. He was well-known among constructors, respected and loved.

Regardless of the fact that he was a constructor, we weren't able to get an apartment, we were in line for a long time and finally we built a cooperative apartment. In 1968 we moved into a two-bedroom cooperative apartment on Varshavskaya Street, where I still live now.

In 1981 Lev was assigned by his ministry to the construction of Kostomuksha ore mining and processing combine in Karelia. The construction was executed jointly with the Finns. There were a lot of KGB 20 representatives. They were people dressed in civilian clothes in the guise of interpreters, but they only disrupted the work, as they didn't know the specifics of construction work and technical terms. Lev was very soon bored with that and began to work directly with the Finns; they all understood the drawings perfectly and understood each other very well.

When Lev came back to Leningrad, he always said, 'The KGB is close at my heels, it doesn't allow me to breathe, besides, here you are being born in Paris...'

I visited him twice in Kostomuksha. It's a nice town, constructed by the Finns, very charming, clean and neat. The nature is wonderful there with beautiful lakes and marvelous places. But there is this iron anomaly and lack of oxygen in the air, the same as in Kirovsk, that's why I felt bad there, besides, this area was also contra-indicated to Lev because of his health. However, he worked throughout the term of his contract, returned to Leningrad at the end of 1982 and began to look for a new job, as his former position had already been occupied.

I started to work at the Monuments' Protection Society, located on Shpalernaya Street in 1982 and worked there until I retired in 1987. We arranged a City Experts' Club in that Society, where very interesting and intelligent people gathered; people of various occupations, who knew and loved their city.

They found some materials about the besieged crematorium, which had been located in Victory Park. They told me about it in a whisper because during Brezhnev's 21 era it wasn't allowed to mention it aloud.

There was a brick factory before World War II and during the siege of Leningrad the brick baking ovens were used as crematorium ovens, where dead bodies of citizens, who died in the siege, were burnt. What else could have been done? The city had to be saved, those who were alive had to be protected from infections. The information was kept secret, so that not only the enemies, but also our own people wouldn't know about it. By the way, when I didn't yet know anything about it, Ionce went with my husband to that park for a walk. We sat on a bench and I suddenly felt unwell, very uncomfortable and uneasy. Such a mystical thing!

Lev started working again in December 1982 and on 28th February 1983 an emergency occurred. I was at my parents' place in the evening, when the phone rang. Lev was speaking in a strange voice; I immediately understood that something terrible had happened. He was accused of receiving a bribe and arrested. He was very seriously struggling against hard drinking at work. The equipment was installed at a great height and Lev didn't want to face any accidents with human victims. He fired one of the drunkards and the latter wrote a complaint about him.

In order to use services of a crane- operator, who already got transferred to some other place, Lev wrote a receipt for a different person and was to give the money to that crane- operator. Many people did that, when people worked at different places, and such job combining was prohibited by legislation.

Lev was accused of accepting a bribe and was placed in the famous Leningrad Kresty prison. The amount of money in question was very small, and no one could understand such preventive punishment, but the investigator refused to alter it and release Lev 'under a written undertaking not to leave the place'.

My husband's muskrat hat was brought to me; it was all cut into pieces, the investigators were looking for something in it, as they explained to me. They searched my apartment on 8th March; they knocked on the walls, looking for hiding-places. They composed a statement, but there was nothing to make an inventory of.

Eight or nine investigators took turns on Lev's case, they had nothing to get hold of, but he remained in Kresty. I went to the prison along with his sisters; once every two months it was allowed to deliver a package. One had to, as Anna Akhmatova 22 wrote in her poems, stand in a very long line, face a 'hole' at the end of the line, where one could stick through his hand with a package, someone 'barked' something out of that hole and that was it.

Lev stayed in Kresty for half a year. We got him out of the prison with great difficulties. All witnesses in court were for the defense, the prosecution had none. Lev's colleagues found the anonymous man, who had written the letter, and beat him severely. These Russian guys actually helped me a lot.

But the court didn't withdraw the accusation and Lev was sentenced to work in 'chemistry', as it was called at that time. It was a hazardous production, he worked not far from Volosovo in Leningrad region at a wood-processing factory for one and a half years.

'Kresty' ruined his health. When he was released from prison, he had a green face and violet lips. His leg muscles were atrophied, he had to learn to walk again. The prison ward meant for four people contained 18 people, there was no air to breathe, no oxygen.

There were criminals and drug addicts among the prisoners. Lev didn't tell me about those details in order not to upset me. In Volosovo he had to register every day at the militia. He wasn't allowed to go to Leningrad on holidays, he was considered a social outcast, who should be in the city.

He was totally depressed and he couldn't get rid of it. Once we lost him on Victory Day 23 and found him later in a small village hospital with terrible pneumonia. Later, when he was in Kostyushko hospital in Leningrad, the doctors were very surprised at the absolute lack of resistibility, but when they found out about the prison, they didn't ask any more questions.

He returned at the end of 1984 and in August 1993 he died, having suffered three infarcts during that period of time. He was buried in the Preobrazhensky Jewish cemetery, not according to Jewish customs, but in a secular manner, without ceremonies. I visit the cemetery often, but I never go there on Saturday. I observe this Jewish custom.

I get packages and medicine in Hesed at lower prices. I have a lot of relatives who live both in Russia and abroad, in the USA, Israel, France and Germany. We keep in touch and call each other. Certainly, I'm very worried because of the acts of terrorism, which became more frequent recently.

When on 11th September the Trade Center Towers crashed down, we were very worried about all the Americans, but most of all we were alarmed about the fate of the grandchildren of Polina, my mother's sister, who study in prestigious schools, located not far from these Towers.

It wasn't possible to reach them via phone, and only through my cousin in Paris we found out that they were fine. And now this act of terrorism in Moscow. We didn't move away from our TV sets for days. Let alone Israel, where our relatives and friends live.

I had a positive attitude to their departure, I also wanted to leave together with my husband, but, as the only daughter, I couldn't leave my parents, especially when they were in their declining years and sick. Now that I'm a sick and elderly person myself I don't have any religious life, since it would be too difficult for me in terms of health. I lead a secular and a very modest life.

• Glossary:

1 Reds: Red (Soviet) Army supporting the Soviet authorities.

2 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.

3 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.

4 Soviet-Finnish War (1939-40): The Soviet Union attacked Finland on 30 November 1939 to seize the Karelian Isthmus. The Red Army was halted at the so-called Mannengeim line. The League of Nations expelled the USSR from its ranks. In February-March 1940 the Red Army broke through the Mannengeim line and reached Vyborg. In March 1940 a peace treaty was signed in Moscow, by which the Karelian Isthmus, and some other areas, became part of the Soviet Union.

5 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.

6 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.

7 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.

8 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.

9 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.

10 Kirov, Sergey (born Kostrikov) (1886-1934): Soviet communist. He joined the Russian Social Democratic Party in 1904. During the Revolution of 1905 he was arrested; after his release he joined the Bolsheviks and was arrested several more times for revolutionary activity. He occupied high positions in the hierarchy of the Communist Party. He was a member of the Central Committee of the Communist Party, as well as of the Political Bureau of the Central Committee. He was a loyal supporter of Stalin. In 1934 Kirov's popularity had increased and Stalin showed signs of mistrust. In December of that year Kirov was assassinated by a younger party member. It is believed that Stalin ordered the murder, but it has never been proven.

11 Communal apartment: 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 communal or shared apartments continued to exist for decades. Despite state programs for the construction of more houses and the liquidation of communal apartments, which began in the 1960s, shared apartments still exist today.

12 Pushkin, Alexandr (1799-1837): Russian poet and prose writer, among the foremost figures in Russian literature. Pushkin established the modern poetic language of Russia, using Russian history for the basis of many of his works. His masterpiece is Eugene Onegin, a novel in verse about mutually rejected love. The work also contains witty and perceptive descriptions of Russian society of the period. Pushkin died in a duel.