Travel

Mirrah Kogan
Odessa
Ukraine
Interviewer: Natalia Fomina
Date of interview: February 2003

Mirrah Lvovna Kogan is a little woman with short hair and shining blue eyes. She is full of optimism and displays a kind attitude toward people. Mirrah lives with her older daughter and her family in her parents’ apartment. Mirrah’s daughter is an invalid and the main part of the household is hers. Because her younger daughter lives in Israel, Mirrah cares for international politics very much. During our conversation her ten-year-old great-grandson Mark came into the room listening to the story of his great-grandmother and looking at old pictures.

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

My family history

My grandfather on my father’s side, Gersh Kogan, was born in the town of Zinkovtsy, Podolsk province [Vinnitsa region at present], in the 1850s. My grandfather’s family was religious. They observed all Jewish traditions and my father was raised religiously. In the pictures I have of my grandfather, he wears traditional Jewish clothes, a beard and payot and a yarmulka or a hat. I don’t know what my grandfather did for a living. He died in the 1890s.

My grandmother was born in the 1850s. I don’t know her first name or her maiden name. She was a housewife. My grandmother died in the early 1880s, when my father was a small boy. Besides my father my grandparents had two sons and a daughter from what I know.

I have no information about one of the sons, but my father’s older brother Zalman Kogan lived in Chernovtsy. Zalman had a son and a daughter: Moisey and Musia. Moisey moved to Odessa before the Revolution of 1917 1. Musia and her family stayed in Chernovtsy. Later they moved to Izmail. When Izmail became part of the USSR in 1940 [cf. Annexation of Bessarabia to the Soviet Union] 2 I saw Musia for the first time – she came to Odessa to take her husband to the clinic of a well-known doctor Buchshtab. Musia told us about anti-Semitism existing during the Romanian regime [cf. Annexation of Bessarabia to Romania] 3. Musia’s husband was sick and died in hospital before the war. Musia survived the Great Patriotic War 4, and after the war she was the manager of a pharmacy in Izmail for many years.

My father’s sister Rachel emigrated to America in 1915. Rachel was married, but I don’t remember her husband’s name. Her daughters moved to Argentina later on. She corresponded with my father before the Great Patriotic War. After the war we didn’t receive any letters.

My grandmother on my mother’s side, Miriam Kogan, was born in the town of Rotmistrovka, Kiev province, in the 1840s. I don’t remember my grandmother’s maiden name. She was a housewife. My grandmother died in 1891 when my mother was eight.

My grandfather on my mother’s side, Nuhim-Leib Kogan, was born in Rotmistrovka in the 1840s. I don’t know what he did for a living. Like all other Jews in the town he was religious. He attended the synagogue and observed all the traditions. After my grandmother died my grandfather got married again. His second wife’s name was Perl. My grandfather died after a surgery he had in Kiev in the 1890s. He was buried in the Jewish cemetery there. I was at his grave with my parents when I was six, in 1925.

My grandfather had three children with his first wife: two daughters, Doba and Polia and a son, Semyon. He had three more children with Perl: Natan, Naum and Fenia. All the children were born in Rotmistrovka.

I guess my mother’s older sister Doba was born in the 1860s. She was much older than my mother since she already had children of her own when my mother was born. After getting married Doba left Rotmistrovka for a neighboring village – I don’t know its name. She had eleven or twelve children. I guess Doba and her husband were religious Jews. In the 1920s Doba’s family moved to Odessa with the younger children. During the war, in 1941 Doba, her husband and four of their children perished in the ghetto in Odessa.

My mother’s brother Semyon Kogan was born in 1885. He was a clerk at a fabric store in Odessa. He was married. His wife’s name was Clara. They had a daughter, Mura. During the Soviet period Semyon was a supply agent. He traveled to Germany before Hitler came to power 5. When we talked about the persecution of Jews in Germany in the 1930s uncle Semyon said he didn’t understand what was happening to the Germans. He said he couldn’t believe what was said. He said, ‘This may just be propaganda.’ During the Great Patriotic War uncle Semyon stayed in Odessa. He was killed during a raid after the Romanian headquarters’ was blasted in 1941. Clara and Murah perished in the ghetto.

My mother’s younger sister Polia was born in 1887. Long before I was born she moved to Odessa where she married Grigory Shwalboim, the owner of a small fabric store. They had two children: Musia and Lyonia. In 1925 Grigory moved to Palestine following his brothers. Uncle Grigory was going to take his family there after he had settled down, but shortly after he had gone the borders were closed and we didn’t receive any letters from him. [In the late 1920s Soviet citizens had severe restrictions in their departures.] Aunt Polia and her children stayed in the Soviet Union.

Aunt Polia was a seamstress. Her neighbor reported on her to the Soviet authorities stating that she had gold and Polia was arrested in 1933. My mother and Uncle Semyon went to consult lawyers to help her out of prison. She was released in a month. At the beginning of World War II, Polia and her children evacuated to Margilan [3000 km from Odessa, in Uzbekistan]. After the war they returned to Odessa. We heard about Uncle Grigory in the late 1960s. His son Lyonia visited him in Israel. Aunt Polia died in 1975. Musia left for Israel in 1975 to join her father, who died shortly afterward. Lyonia got married in Odessa, and his family moved to Israel in 1992.

My mother’s half-brother Natan lived in Odessa. He was married to his niece Dora, the daughter of his older half-sister Doba. She was a beautiful girl and he fell in love with her. They had two children. The son perished in 1945 in Poland. Dora died in the 1970s and Natan died in the 1980s. Their daughter lives in the US. She emigrated after her parents died.

My mother’s other half-brother Naum was in the people’s volunteer corps 6. He either perished during the defense of Odessa, or later in the ghetto. His wife Lusia and their daughter Jeanne were in evacuation somewhere. After the war they lived in Moscow. They visited us several times when they came to Odessa.

My mother’s half-sister Fenia was born in 1899. She came from Rotmistrovka, Kiev province, to Odessa when she was 13. Like my mother she was religious. She lived with my parents at the beginning. She was my mother’s assistant at work. In 1928 she became a seamstress at a garment shop. During the war she was in evacuation. She was married but had no children. Her husband died in 1951 and she died in the early 1960s.

My mother Edis Kogan was born in Rotmistrovka, Kiev province, in 1883. The wealthy family of Grutskiye took my mother to their house. She helped them with the housework. They treated my mother very well. She learned to read and write in Russian from their son Shulim and she also learned to sew from his mother. When my mother was 15 or 16, Hanna Itzkovich, the wife of her cousin Semyon, invited her to move to Odessa. Hanna was a seamstress. Seamstresses at that time made shirts and decorated women’s underwear with lace. My mother learned all this from Aunt Hanna.

My mother became a very professional seamstress and made high quality shirts. She got a job offer from a well-known garment factory in Odessa owned by Ptashnikov. My mother’s shirts were sent to an international exhibition in Paris in the 1900s where she was awarded a diploma. Next year the owner of the factory was planning to send my mother and her products to another exhibition in Paris. Ptashnikov’s son was supposed to go with her to represent the company. My mother already knew my father at the time – since she was so pretty, her fiancé didn’t allow her to take the trip to Paris and my mother didn’t go.

My father, Leib Kogan, was born in the town of Zinkovtsy, Podolsk province, in 1873. My father studied at cheder for three years. After my grandmother died he went to work as a servant for a wealthy Jew in the town. In the late 1880s, when he was 15, he moved to some relatives in Odessa. He became an apprentice of a typesetter at the printing house of the publisher Kozman. This publishing house was famous for publishing German and French textbooks and dictionaries for self-education. We had one such German textbook before the war – my father showed it to me. My father was eager to study somewhere, but he was too poor. However, by self-education he learned Russian, German and some French besides Yiddish and Hebrew. In a few years he managed to get a job as a typesetter at the same printing house. He met my mother in the early 1900s.

My parents got married around 1905. I am sure that they had a traditional Jewish wedding since both of them came from religious families and were raised religiously. After their wedding my parents rented an apartment in the building where Hanna lived – we always had very warm relationships with her. When my father got married his relatives helped him to get a job of a clerk in a fabric store, since working in the printing house was hazardous because of the lead dust. My mother continued to work at the Ptashnikov factory.

In 1906 my parents moved to Ekaterininskaya Street, to a four-room apartment where they lived their further life, and I live here as well. In 1907 my mother gave birth to a boy. He was a very weak boy and had rachitis. I know that my mother tried all she could to cure him, but he died in 1912. My mother had a nervous breakdown and my father sent her to a recreation center in Puscha-Voditsa near Kiev to improve her nervous system. My mother gave birth to my older brother Haim at home with a midwife attending to her. He was born in 1914, and we all called him Munia.

Growing up

I was born in 1919. I had been registered as Miriam in honor of my mother’s mother, but all my life they called me Mirrah at work and at home. On that day my mother’s friend’s daughter had a wedding party in our apartment. This idea occurred to my mother since her friend was not very wealthy. She started childbirth while she was helping in the kitchen. I was born at the moment when the bride and bridegroom were standing under the chuppah.

I’ve lived my life in this apartment. One room here was my mother’s shop, Munia and I had a children’s room, another room was my parents’ bedroom and we also had a dining room. There were two beds with metal balls in my parents’ bedroom. Munia and I liked to play with them since we learned to unscrew them. There were also two mahogany wardrobes and a chest of drawers. There was a beautiful tiled stove in the dining room with a border of brown tiles and stucco of a girl’s figure in the middle. There was a big table too, a floor mirror, a marble board and a beautiful clock. There was a low table in the corner – we called it a samovar-table since there was a samovar on it. A big portrait of Leo Tolstoy 7 hung above it. There were two rubber plants and a piano, on which I was taught to play.

My mother worked at home. Her younger, married sister Fenia worked with her. My mother had a hemstitch machine and a sewing machine. At first my mother worked as a small entrepreneur and in 1936 she began to work for a central department store, only she did her work at home. She had many orders since she was a very skilled seamstress. She had so many orders that she even had to refuse sometimes.

My father was a worker at a plant after the October Revolution and later he tried to make shoe polish. I was a little child then and don’t remember the details. Later my father began to work with my mother. He fixed her equipment and made bed sheets.

Munia was supposed to go to school in the early 1920s. That was shortly after the Civil War 8 a hard period of famine and an epidemic of the Spanish flu that caused the death of many people. Going to school was out of the question. In 1922 my brother began to have private classes at home with Anna Yakovlevna Naskhovich, who was called Mairo at home for some reason. She was a very nice, short young woman. She had finished grammar school and was a very good teacher. She gave classes to my brother and to a few other children too. They had classes sitting at the dinner table in the dining room. I often sat under the table during classes and listened to them. Sometimes when the teacher asked questions and none of her pupils knew the answer, I answered the question from beneath the table. I was five and I learned to read at that time.

At the age of twelve my brother got bronchitis and needed to breathe air in the steppe and eat good food. My mother rented a room at the Dachnaya Resort, about 20 kilometers from Odessa. Munia, Mairo, and I went there for the whole summer. I remember that Mairo took us to a village where we had cow milk. There were fruit trees growing near our house. We picked and ate sweet yellow cherries, apricots, apples and pears. We got suntanned and strong. Munia was cured. When I was a small girl I adored Munia and kept on his tail and he often complained to Mother, ‘How long am I going to walk with this little tail?’

Since my mother and father worked hard, our family was wealthy. We had lunch in the dining room at the table covered with a tablecloth. My seat was beside my father’s. Our father said a blessing before we had a meal: ‘Barukh, atah, adonai…’ [Blessed are you, Lord… – first words of Judaic blessing]. When the first fruit or berries got ripe our father said a blessing for that too. My parents observed all Jewish traditions and rituals.

I was very happy when Friday came since I knew that our mother wasn’t going to do her work on that day. On Friday she wore a dark shawl and lit candles. Sabbath was a holy day, when our parents went to the synagogue. My mother made rolls with poppy-seeds and prepared a delicious dinner. My parents didn’t work on this day; my mother didn’t do any work at home. We, children were not required to observe Saturday since we were not raised religiously. 

We only had kosher food. I used to take chickens to the shochet, who lived across the street. If we bought fresh meat we sprinkled it with salt. Salt absorbed blood and we washed the meat several times before it could be cooked. My mother made chicken broth and soups, chicken neck stuffed with eggs, flour, fat and onions, and she also made delicious gefilte fish. She made pies with jam and poppy seeds and honey cakes and white latkes – sponge cake. My mother also made marinated eggplants.

My parents spoke Yiddish to one another and Russian to us. I could understand Yiddish well. Until 1941 our parents observed all Jewish holidays: Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Purim, Simchat Torah, Chanukkah, Pesach. I have memories of such a thing as Chanukkah gelt that my brother and I received at Chanukkah. At Pesach we used to have a festive dinner with matzah. Our father told us about the exodus of Jews from Egypt, but we didn’t have Seder conducted.

However, I would say our parents were moderately religious, since they didn’t force me or my brother to pray or go to the synagogue. We were growing up like all other Soviet children in that time. We grew up as atheists. My brother Munia and I were Komsomol 9 members and had up-to-date outlooks. The morale that we were inspired with at school was in no conflict with the moral principles that we learned at home. Our teachers and parents taught us to respect other people and ourselves, be honest and hardworking and help people. Our parents respected our ideas and my brother and I treated our parents with respect and supported our family traditions.

I went to school in 1927. This school was named after Illich [V. I. Lenin] and it was on the corner of Troitskaya and Preobrazhenskaya Street, in the center of Odessa, not far from where we resided. Before 1934 it was a Russian school, after 1934 it became a Ukrainian school. This was one the best schools in the town and to be admitted there children had to take entrance exams. I passed my exam brilliantly.

My first teacher, Elizaveta Pavlovna Studenetskaya, had been a teacher at a grammar school before the revolution. She was not Jewish. She was a great teacher and a great person. Elizaveta Pavlovna taught us many things besides teaching us to write. She staged children’s fairy tales with us, and our parents were delighted to watch them. I also remember Antonina Fyodorovna, our Ukrainian teacher. She was a charming and nice lady. She was so good at teaching that thanks to her I became fond of the Ukrainian language and never forgot it.

When I was 11, I was very happy to become a pioneer 10. There were certain requirements to become a pioneer: one should be a good person and an industrious pupil. There was an admission ceremony and it was very exciting. We had a school pioneer leader, Zoya, and we became tutors in junior classes. When I was in the sixth grade I became a pioneer tutor of the fourth grade. We helped pupils with their studies, arranged parties and concerts as well as sport contests. We also had a joiner shop at school where we enjoyed working. In addition we got hot lunch or breakfast at the school canteen.

During the famine of 1933 11 we received buns at school. It was a hard period for our family. My mother took any job she could find. Repainting of shoes was in fashion and my mother learned to paint shoes. When pleated skirts came in fashion my mother learned to make them. Munia and I were helping her with ironing. We earned our living in this way and didn’t starve. There were Torgsin stores 12 opened at that time. One could buy food products in exchange for gold in those stores. My mother took all her golden jewelry there: earrings, chain and rings. She baked bread from the flour that she got. She also added some sunflower seed wastes.

All our relatives were trying to stick together in those hard years and my mother was supporting them. She was very responsive and kind. I remember an old Jewish man who joined us for lunch once a week after 1933. It was customary for Jewish families that once a week old Jews who couldn’t provide food for themselves came to have lunch with a family they had an arrangement with.

My brother Munia studied at home until it was time for him to go to the sixth grade. After he finished school he went to study at the Rabfak 13 and then he entered the Odessa Industrial Institute. In 1939 he finished the Faculty of Water Piping and Sewerage. After he graduated, he got a job assignment 14 for the construction of water cleaning facilities in Lublino near Moscow. Some of his fellow students went there too. My brother and I got along well and were the best friends when we were students.

After finishing the eighth grade some of my schoolmates and I also went to the Rabfak. In 1936 I entered the Sanitary and Hygiene Faculty of the Medical Institute. I had to study a lot there; it was a very challenging institute. I became a Komsomol member at the institute. I took an active part in public life and had many friends among the students. We enjoyed attending parties at the institute. We didn’t have any problems associated with the issues of nationality.

My close friend Tsylia Rendel – we were at the same school once – lived in my neighborhood. Tsylia’s father was the director of a state-owned tobacco factory. He was an old revolutionary and an outstanding person. His portrait was on the board of respectable people in town at the Opera Theater. In 1935 he was awarded with a car – this was one of the very few cars in Odessa. Tsylia was dating a young engineer, Buma. He was a handsome man and could play the piano well. We got together at her place and had wonderful gatherings.

In 1937 Tsylia’s father was arrested [during the so-called Great Terror] 15 and shot. [During the period of Stalin’s repression the authorities never informed the relatives about the cause of arrest.] Tsylia and her sister Dusia lost both parents since their mother had died some time before. When this happened my mother took Tsylia and Dusia to our home. Later they went back to their apartment and their aunt took care of them.

When this happened many friends stopped visiting them, but not Buma. Tsylia wasn’t a pretty girl and her friends gossiped that Buma was seeing her for her father’s position. However, Buma married her. Tsylia went to work and her younger sister studied at school. During World War II they evacuated to Tashkent. After the war Tsylia stayed in Tashkent. Her father was rehabilitated 16 after Stalin died.

In 1937 the parents of my schoolmate Mila Medvedeva were arrested too. Then we understood that there was something wrong about what was happening around us. Later, in 1940 the leadership called this period the period of Yezhov 17.

Shulim Grutskiy and his wife Katia were good friends of our family. Shulim was the son of those people my mother had lived with in Rotmistrovka. Shulim’s family was wealthier than ours. Shulim and Katia visited us every Saturday. The adults were discussing political subjects. Shulim criticized the Soviet power, but my mother said, ‘I couldn’t study and Leib couldn’t either. We’ve lived a hard life. So when my daughter and son study at the institute and I don’t hear the word ‘zhyd’ [abusive word for a Jew] I would agree to eat waste and pray for the Soviet power.’ Shulim could raise no objection to this statement. I’ve always remembered what my mother said.

We didn’t face any anti-Semitism then. Only our parents knew what it was like. [Editor’s note: In tsarist Russia Jews suffered from national discrimination: they were allowed to live and do business only within the Pale of Settlement 18, there was a limit of 5% of Jews 19 to be admitted to secondary and higher educational institutions, Jews were not allowed to hold any official positions, and there were also other restrictions.] We didn’t care about the issues of nationality in our time.

In May 1941 we had our graduation exams at the institute. We were photographed for our graduation albums and had an arrangement at a restaurant for our prom when the war began, on 22nd June. My parents were in despair: in 1941 Munia went to Belostok with a construction team to build fortifications. Belostok was in Western Belarus. The radio said there were Germans there already. I ran to the post office to send a cable to my brother. Fortunately my brother and some others escaped from there. He returned to Moscow.

During the war

The institute rescheduled our last exams in surgery for 25th June and we were to be examined for ‘field surgery.’ We passed our last exam and immediately 120 of our boys were sent to the front. I was assigned to a railroad clinic as a physician. But we were raised in such a spirit of Soviet patriotism that the only thought I had was to join the rows of defenders of the Motherland. I ran to the military registry office. An officer there put down all information required and told me to go home and wait until they contacted me.

In a few days I received a subpoena from them. I was to come to a gathering place with all necessary belongings. My mother didn’t cry – she just helped me to get packed. My parents were concerned about my life, of course, but they did understand what motives I was driven by. In the morning of 17th July I put on my new crêpe de Chine dress made by my mother, took my suitcase, and my father and I went to the port. My mother had a high fever and stayed at home. I boarded a boat to Kherson. I stood on the stern and my father was on the pier. The boat was full of recruits. We were singing a popular song: ‘Farewell, our dear town – tomorrow we are sailing off into the sea.’ I met Zhenia Lerner on the ship, who also graduated from our institute. We became friends.

From Kherson we were taken to Melitopol [360 km to the East from Odessa] where a division was formed. Zhenia Lerner and I were sent to rifle battalion 973 in the village of Konstantinovka near Melitopol. In my company there were two doctors – my friend and I – two assistant doctors, two sanitary instructors and 24 sanitary carts and drivers. We also had boxes of bandage materials.

I was the head of three sanitary platoons of the battalion. The commanders of the platoons were graduates from a military medical school. They had excellent knowledge of the contents of bandage packages. They trained Zhenia and me, the assistant doctors and the attendants, who were civilians and didn’t have any knowledge of military procedures. We received uniforms three weeks later, before that I wore my crêpe de Chine dress and high-heeled shoes. My subordinates reported to me every morning.

At the beginning of August 1941 Germans were near Kherson and Odessa was holding its defense. The commander of the battalion and I were sent to inspect the site for our deployment. Our truck drove into a village where a battle was on. This was the first time I saw Germans. We turned around and left the village. I knew how serious the situation was at the front and sent cables home every day telling my family to leave immediately.

My parents obtained tickets from the military registry office. They had this right since I was at the front. In August they boarded a boat and on the way my mother convinced my father to go to see me in Melitopol. They believed it was so far away from the frontline. They got off the boat in Kerch and came to Melitopol. From there they were sent to Konstantinovka where I was. They saw me wearing my uniform and a gun holster. By that time they already knew that our army was retreating and that the situation was very serious. My parents stayed with me overnight and in the morning the commander of our regiment issued a certificate confirming that they were parents of a military heading for Kuibyshev. He ordered to take them to Melitopol. I shall never forget how my mother was crying when they were put on a cart and I heard her crying until I lost sight of the cart.

We were soon moved to the vicinity of Zaporozhiye where we were actively involved in combat action. Our troops incurred big losses retreating; 1941 and 1942 were very hard years. In January our rifle regiment began to push the Germans. In April 1942 we took hold of the railroad station of Lozovaya. This was quite a victory and even major newspapers wrote about this event.

At the beginning of May 1942 we were involved in a big attack on Kharkov. I remember how we took hold of the town of Sakhnovschina and then lost it and then entered it again. In a few hours the Germans, who held the town, burned it down and shot almost all the population. I cannot forget a girl – the Germans tied her by her legs to two birch trees bending them to the ground. When the trees unbent they tore the girl in half.

We were moving towards Kharkov. Near Barvenkovo our troops were encircled. This encirclement is known as Izyum-Barvenkovo. It’s hard to find words to express what it was like. Dozens of thousands of people were in the encirclement. The Germans continuously bombed us. During one of these bombardments a splinter hit my leg. The leg got swollen and we had to cut the boot to pull it off. Zhenia and I were in a ravine with bunches of people around. German soldiers were descending in rows firing in the area. I got wounded by a bullet in my buttocks.

The Germans chased us out of the ravine and separated those that could move from those that were not able to walk. Zhenia took me aside and sat beside me. In order to stay with me she injured her leg with a medical scissors. Zhenia and I took off our military shirts – we had blouses underneath and were going to pretend that we were civilians involved in the excavation of trenches. The Germans brought trucks and Zhenia pulled me to a truck where two tall Germans were watching the boarding process. One of them asked the other, pointing at me, ‘Jude?’ and the other replied, ‘Nicht Jude.’ This saved my life.

We were driven to Barvinkovo and accommodated in the building of a school fenced with barbed wire. There was a hospital for prisoners-of-war deployed at school. When I was taken for bandaging, I saw Henry Khatskilevich, the chief surgeon of our army. He had been our lecturer at the institute and I knew him well. He was a Jew, but pretended he was a Karaim. He managed to escape. He returned to Odessa after the war and worked at the clinic of the famous professor Nalivkin [which was not a private clinic]. We met in 1946 again.

Zhenia got very scared when I used to lose consciousness because in my delirium I was giving orders and that might have disclosed our identity. Zhenia covered me with her body. My wound was healing very slowly. It was impossible to remove the splinter from my leg and I could only wait until it got out by itself or the wound would heal with the splinter inside. Whenever I came to have a dressing applied on my wound Henry gave me extra bandage and iodine.

Once I mentioned to him that Zhenia and I would try to escape. Three weeks later we were told to come outside to go to the railway station. Zhenia and I tried to hide in a classroom, but the Germans found us and pushed us outside. Other prisoners were walking to the railway station. There were people on both sides of the street looking at the prisoners. The Germans ordered us to follow the others. There was a big truck at the entrance of the school building. We went behind the truck and plunged into the crowd. The crowd closed around us and began to move backwards.

A woman took us to her house. When the mistress of the house went to the kitchen to fetch us some milk I grabbed her pass from a chest of drawers. It was issued to Kovalenko Maria and allowed her go to the village. Of course, it wasn’t decent from my part, but all I could think about was how to escape.

At night we left Barvenkovo and started moving to the direction of the frontline. I knew the area very well – this was where our battalion was located. We also walked during the day since we pretended we were civilians. This was at the beginning of July – it was very hot and the sand was overheated. My leg was still swollen and I had to go barefoot.

In a few days we reached a village which the Soviet troops had left a few hours before we came. There were Germans in the village, but our troops were in a forest across the nearby river. We came to a road leading to a bridge across the river. There were women walking on the road. We went to the bridge and when we came close to the women, they turned out to be German soldiers patrolling this section of the road. Zhenia and I were captured and taken to the commandant’s office. We told them our story and I showed the pass that I had stolen from that kind woman.

The Germans ordered us to polish a few pairs of boots and buttons on their uniforms. At noon three men and we were taken to a field by the Germans. We were given spades and ordered to dig a pit. Then we were ordered to stand with our back to the pits. The Germans fired their guns. The men fell into the pit and Zhenia and I were told, ‘Weg!’ [German for ‘Go!’] and we ran away at breakneck speed.

In the evening we reached a distant farm and ran into the house. An old woman came out saying, ‘What do you want? I don’t have anything.’ We were telling her our story, when we heard screaming from the village. So she let us go to the attic. The old woman removed the ladder to the attic and we hid in the straw. It turned out that a Romanian division came to replace the German troops. Romanians began to rape women of every age. After they left in the morning, the village woman let us out.

So we moved on from the occupied territory from one village to another. We met another group of our disguised military. We didn’t tell each other our names for reasons of safety. However, we all agreed to move in the direction of the frontline. We kept walking at night. I continued to apply bandages on my leg. During the day Zhenia and I went to villages to do any work we could find: in kitchens, gardens and farms. We also told fortunes by cards. People wanted to hear that their loved ones that were at the front were alive. We received bread or potatoes for our work. We shared food with our fellow travelers.

I remember, in one village we came into a nice big house, where we saw a sewing machine. I offered the mistress of the house to make a dress for her daughter. She gave me a piece of cloth and I made a dress in a few hours. I was still sewing when a neighbor ran into the house and said, ‘They are looking for outsiders there. They took away some men. Hide your girls since they will get them, too.’ The mistress of the house hid us in a closet. Our fellow travelers were captured and Zhenia and I were alone once again.

Around the end of September we came as far as the Rossosh River in Voronezh region. My legs were swollen and I got furuncles on my shins. We had to swim to the opposite bank since we were told there were fewer Germans there. The bank we were on was rusty and before I came to the water I cut all the boils on my legs. We tied our clothes to our neck to swim across the river.

I remember another episode, when we came to a village near Voronezh. We came into a house and were given some food. A humpbacked young man came into the house and said, ‘There are girls in your house. They may stay here overnight and I will come for them in the morning.’ In the morning he took us to the head of the village council. He interrogated us and we told them our tall story. Some people began to threaten to give us in to the Germans. We were so exhausted. Then at last those people told the humpbacked young man to take us out of the village. They said, ‘If we see you again, it won’t be good for you.’ The humpbacked man took us to the field and on the way he tried to provoke us to tell him the truth. He said that he was the son of the head of the village and that his father was helping partisans, but we kept repeating our tall story and he let us go.

We were trying to avoid the Germans on our way. Winter began. We didn’t have any warm clothes. We wrapped our legs with old rags that we got in a village. We wore boots, some old jackets and sack cloth on our heads. At the end of 1942 a village woman gave us shelter. We were helping her about the house.

At the end of January 1943 the Soviet troops got hold of Stalingrad 20 and were advancing to the west. The frontline moved to the village where we were staying. At night we heard the roar of the front. Zhenia and I ran out of the house and hid in the snow. We saw Germans running followed by our troops. It was a tank unit. We shouted, ‘Guys! Guys!’ I cannot tell you what we felt. The soldiers took us to the house and gave us hot tea to get warm. At that moment the door opened and Zhora Kogan-Volman stepped inside. He was an acquaintance of mine from the Odessa Polytechnic Institute. I wrote a letter to my parents in Kuibyshev and Zhora sent it via his field mail. My parents hadn’t heard from me for eight months. We were given some food and winter jackets.

Zhenia and I had to go through an investigation. It was a war and we had been in the rear of the enemy for eight months. We were in a few holding centers and got stuck in Yelets due to typhoid. In April 1943 we came to a big holding camp in Podolsk near Moscow. We stayed in a barrack. We were interrogated by an investigation officer. We told him about our adventures. They were checking every part of our story thoroughly. After some time I received a certificate confirming that I went through the investigation successfully.

After this investigation was over Zhenia and I got a short leave. We went to my parents in Kuibyshev where they were in evacuation since August 1941. I didn’t recognize my father and mother at the railway station in Kuibyshev so old they had grown. They spent eight months without having any information about me.

In October 1943 Zhenia and I got an assignment to the NKVD 21 authorities. I was sent to Kizil, in Perm region, to a camp for German, Romanian, Italian, Czech and Hungarian prisoners-of-war. I was appointed as chief of the sanitary unit. Zhenia was with me. We were responsible for their health condition, meals. It was so very hard to communicate with former enemies after all we saw at the front and in encirclement. We submitted reports that we were in encirclement and captivity and just couldn’t work with prisoners-of-war. It lasted half a year.

At the beginning of April 1944 we were sent to the Crimea: our sanitary unit and the entire management of the camp. We were to arrange camps for prisoners-of-war. Zhenia and I kept submitting our requests to be transferred to the frontline forces. In August 1944 we received an order from Moscow dismissing us from the NKVD. We were sent to the evacuation hospital in Odessa.

I called my parents when Zhenia and I received an assignment in the Crimea. We went from Simferopol to Odessa together with my parents. On the way my mother got typhoid all of a sudden. She was in a very poor condition when we arrived in Odessa. She was taken to the hospital and my father and I settled at our acquaintances, since our apartment was occupied by someone else. This happened at Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. I was staying with Mother every moment. My father kept praying.

My mother died in the night of 3rd October, on the third day of Sukkot. We buried Mother in a common cemetery since there were no burials allowed in the Jewish cemetery in 1944. My father, I, Zhenia and Munia’s friend were at the funeral. For seven days after my mother died my father sat shivah on the floor. He was desolate and never overcame this despair. He passed away in June 1945. My parents had lived together for over forty years. They had a difficult life. They were devoted to one another and loved my brother and me dearly.

After the war

The government issued a decree according to which those that were demobilized from the army had a right to get accommodation in the apartments from where they had gone to the front. The tenants of our apartment were a colonel, the Head of Stuff of the Navy, and his wife. The town administration found another apartment for them. Of course, it took me some time to obtain all necessary approvals but finally I moved into our apartment.

I worked at the evacuation hospital in the former Lermontov Recreation Center. There were Soviet officers and the American, French and English military. They got treatment in the hospital before they were sent back on ships to their countries. There were American, French and English missions to support these military. They brought them chocolate and cigarettes. Madam Churchill, the wife of the British Prime Minister, visited our hospital to talk with her compatriots. She was accompanied by a number of officials and representatives of the Soviet commandment. [Editor’s note: Clementine Churchill (1885-1977), the wife of Sir Winston Churchill, was Chairman of the Red Cross Aid to Russia Fund in 1941-1946. In 1945 she visited the Soviet Union.]

I met my future husband, David Teplitskiy, in the hospital. We got married in December 1945, and had our marriage registered at a civilian registry office. David was born in Kharkov in 1913. He was Jewish. His parents, Esiah and Revekka, were communists. His mother took part in the revolution of 1917. He finished Rabfak and entered the Industrial Institute at the Kharkov Tractor Plant. After finishing his fourth year at the Institute he fell ill; there was something wrong with his lungs. His parents sent him to Moscow where he had an aunt who was a party official. He was cured and stayed with his aunt.

David was a member of the Communist Party and in 1933 he was appointed to be the chairman of the collective farm 22 in Kolomna near Moscow. He was 20 years old then. Sometime afterward he returned to Kharkov to continue his studies and work at the Tractor Plant. Upon graduation from the institute he was sent to work as electrician at a construction site in the Crimea.

In 1936 he was recruited to the army. He finished a school of communications operators in the army and served in a communications unit. He went to the front from Batumi. He served at a rifle regiment and was the deputy political chief of the regiment. He was shell-shocked in Bulgaria in 1945. During this time David’s father died in evacuation in 1944 and his mother died in February 1946. David demobilized from the army in the rank of major in 1946. He was awarded orders and medals.

David became the chief power engineer at a wine trust in Odessa. He was the heart of any company and a very nice and smart man. All our friends and acquaintances loved him.

My friend Zhenia married a Jewish man from Riga in the 1950s. They lived in Latvia. Zhenia gave birth to a daughter. In the 1970s their family moved to Israel. Regretfully, our correspondence faded out gradually.

My brother Munia was at the front throughout the war. He was an artillery man. He was in Bulgaria when the war was over. He demobilized in the rank of captain in 1946 and returned to Odessa. He also settled down in this apartment. My brother became a plumbing engineer at a construction agency. He got married in 1954. His wife Raissa was a lung doctor. In 1958 his son Leonid was born. In 1965 he received an apartment and he and his family moved to Cheryomushki, a new neighborhood in the town. His son graduated from the Polytechnic Institute and he is an engineer.

In 1974 when Leonid was receiving his passport my brother changed his name from Haim to Michael for his son to have a more common patronymic. [Editor’s note: In the USSR state and everyday anti-Semitism re-emerged in 1953. The patronymic of Haimovich was a typical Jewish one and was associated with ‘Haim’ that was a central character of anti-Semitic anecdotes.] My brother died in 1993 and his wife died in 2000.

In 1946 the hospital where I worked was closed and I went to work in the orthopedic and traumatology department of the Lermontov Recreation Center as a surgeon. I studied therapy at a short-term course at the Institute of Resort Science. I became a physician in 1950 and went to work at the cardiologic recreation center that was later named Russia. I worked at the Russia Health Center from 1950 until the end of 1992, that is, 42 years, except for a few months during the period of the Doctors’ Plot 23 in 1952.

There were few very skilled Jewish doctors in Odessa’s department of health. The authorities decided to remove them from their high official positions and appointed them to work at our health center. Since there were no vacancies, our chief doctor, a Jew, decided to transfer me to the tuberculosis clinic. The reason was that I came to work later than any other employees.

According to the law they were supposed to offer me a job that was my specialization. However, I never worked in the field of tuberculosis and so I went to court. But I had to go to work before the court made a decision. I took up my new job, but in a few months I returned to my previous work.

The Doctors’ Plot stopped after Stalin died in 1953. I was grieving after Stalin. It was a tragedy for our family. Our country won the victory over Nazi Germany in World War II under the rule of Stalin. We didn’t know what the future was going to bring. Everyone we knew was in grief.

My daughter Reeda was born on 14th February 1947. My second daughter Lora was born on 6th November 1954. The girls were much loved. I did my best to make our home cozy and warm, like it was when my mother was alive. We celebrated all birthdays and holidays. We mainly celebrated the Soviet holidays. Our most cherished holiday was 9th May, Victory Day 24. On this occasion, for several years I went to Lozovaya station [Kharkov region] were veterans of our division, who liberated Lozovaya station in April 1942, got together. Pioneers of the local school found us and the authorities invited us to visit them.

At Pesach we always had matzah; we bought it at the synagogue in Peresyp [an industrial neighborhood on the outskirts of Odessa]. Our children knew they were Jewish. We were teaching them to be honest, kind and hardworking. Our daughters studied in a Soviet school and had Jewish and Russian friends. There was no anti-Semitism in our surroundings and my daughters didn’t face any at school: Odessa has always been an international city.

Our family was well-to-do by Soviet standards: we had a four-room apartment in the center of the town, a TV set, a fridge and other electrical appliances. My girls and I were always beautifully dressed. In summer we had a rest at the Russia recreation center.

My older daughter Reeda entered a machine tool college after finishing the eighth grade at school in 1962. Upon graduation she worked at the design office of a radial unit plant. In a few years she entered an evening department of the Faculty of Mechanics and Mathematics of Odessa University. There were already restrictions for Jews to enter higher educational institutions. [Editor’s note: Unlike in tsarist Russia there was no limited percentage of admission of Jews to higher educational institutions in the USSR, but in reality, beginning from the early 1950s, admission of Jews was significantly restricted and this limitation was authorized by the highest authorities].

At the university Reeda met her future husband, Leo Malin, a Jew. They both were still students when they got married. They registered their marriage at a civilian registration office. Reeda was 22. In October 1970 her son Alexandr or Sasha was born. In a month Alexandr was to have a surgery and my husband also fell ill. Reeda left the university in 1971. In 1978 she got rheumatic arthritis and had a few surgeries. Regretfully she became an invalid of grade I in 1985. My son-in-law, Leo Malin, graduated from the university in 1974 and worked as programmer.

My grandson Alexandr studied at the university and worked at the youth department of Sochnut. In 1992 Sochnut sent him to Israel for one month for excursion. Since graduation from university he works as a lawyer for a private company. He married a Jewish girl in 1993, now they are divorced. My great-grandson Mark Malin studies at the Jewish school in Odessa.

In 1970 my husband had a severe stroke: he was paralyzed. He lost his speaking ability and memory. He didn’t speak and couldn’t remember one word. But God saved him. I did all I could to return him to life. I taught him to speak and walk. Gradually he came back to normal life. He lived eleven years after that. In 1981 he needed to be operated on prostate adenoma. He passed away on the third day after the surgery. This happened on 14th February 1981. We buried David in the common cemetery near my parents.

My younger daughter Lora finished school in 1972. She was very successful at school and had all the highest grades, but she didn’t receive a medal due to her Jewish identity. Lora was very fond of biology at school. She read a lot and dreamed of studying at the Faculty of Biology of Odessa University. At her entrance exam in biology she was plucked openly although she had excellent knowledge of biology. Lora got a job as an attendant at the health center where I worked. In a year she entered the Polytechnic Institute in Kirovograd where it was easier for a Jew to be admitted. Later she got transferred to the Refrigeration Institute in Odessa and graduated in 1978.

Lora married Igor Derrish, a Jew. They had their marriage registered at a civilian registration office in 1978. Igor was an engineer at the refrigeration machines plant. They have a daughter, Valia, who was born in 1979. In 1985 her son Vadim was born. Lora worked as an engineer at the machine department of the technical sales department.

In 1990 Lora and her family moved to Israel. They live in Netanya. Lora works at the import department of the Delta film company. My granddaughter Valia served in the army and studies at the university in Tel Aviv. She will be a linguist. My grandson Vadim studies in the twelfth grade.

I visited them three times. Israel is a fabulous country – so beautiful, but I don’t want to live there. I hope for the best for this country. We follow all events in Israel. I am so scared of terrorist attacks. I am in fear for the life of my close ones. Lora sends me e-mails every day that they are doing all right there.

The Jewish organizations Sochnut and Joint 26 started restoration of the Jewish life in Odessa. I receive Jewish newspapers like Or Sameakh and Shomrei Shabos. The Jewish Charity Center Gmilus Hesed 27, established in 1992, has supported our family a lot – they care about people and always offer assistance. They provided a wheel chair and a special mattress to my daughter Reeda. Employees of Gmilus Hesed treat me with great respect and invite me to their events. I received a hearing device from them. I am an invalid of grade II of the Great Patriotic War; I have orders and medals: a medal for combat accomplishments, for encirclement and being wounded and an Order of the Great Patriotic War 28 of the second class.

After my parents died, I went to the synagogue at Yom Kippur, when they recite Izkor. [Izkor is the prayer of commemoration at Yom Kippur.] After the war, between 1945 and 1946, I went to the synagogue in Pushkinskaya Street. Later, when it was closed, I went to one in Peresyp. I go there every year and make a list of my deceased relatives – 15 of them were lost to the war. Now, once a year I go to the synagogue in Evreyskaya Street. I’ve never believed in God, but I’ve always lived according to Jewish traditions. I have wonderful daughters, sons-in-law and three beloved grandchildren. They remember that they are Jews and they know the history and traditions of their people.

Glossary

Frida Muchnik
Bershad
Ukraine
Date of interview: May 2004
Interviewer:  Zhanna Litinskaya

Frida Muchnik didn’t give her consent for this interview at once: she is known to be a withdrawn and willful lady in Bershad she never has guests and hardly ever visits people. She didn’t invite me to her home either. She agreed to give this interview, but later she mentioned that she did it, because she liked my voice and my gentle manners, besides, she didn’t mind recalling and telling about her family. Frida visited me in the hotel: she is a handsome aged lady with her hair neatly done and her lips slightly touched with lipstick. She had trousers, a blouse and a wide-brimmed hat on: she got used to keep her head and face off the sun in Israel. She looked defiant in this small poor town and its impoverished townsfolk. Frida is a very interesting person with a clever mind and a sense of humor. She gives accurate judgments about people, harsh at times, but probably fair in Frida’s opinion.  

My family background

Growing up

Before the war

During the war

After the war

Glossary

My family background

I didn’t know my grandparents. I know that my father’s parents came from Bershad. Bershad is my hometown, too. I was born and lived my life here, and my parents were buried here. Bershad is a rather big Jewish town, in the 19th Century about 90% of its population was Jewish. In the early 1920s there were over 6 thousand Jews living there. Jews resided in small houses closely adjusting to one another in the central part of the town. The streets were paved with cobbles. In the old times Jews dealt in crafts: they were tailors, shoemakers, potters, glasscutters earning their living with what they were best at doing. They bought food products from Ukrainian farmers from the neighboring villages. They had good neighborly relationships. All residents of our town spoke Yiddish, but we all knew Ukrainian well, as well as Ukrainian residents could speak good Yiddish.  

My paternal relatives lived long lives. My grandfather lived as long as almost 90 years, but I don’t remember him. I was about 6 years old, when he died. His name was Yankel Muchnik. He was born in Bershad in the 1840s.  My father said he was the son of his father Yankel’s second marriage.  His first wife died, but I don’t know whether they had children. Yankel’s second wife, my grandmother Frima Muchnik (I don’t know her maiden name) was also born in Bershad 20 years later than my grandfather, in the 1860s. I don’t know what kind of education my grandfather Yankel had. I think he must have finished a vocational school. He worked as executive manager for a wealthy Jewish merchant. All I know about this merchant is that he lived near where my grandparents lived. Grandfather Yankel earned well, and the family was rather well-off. Grandmother Frima was a housewife, which was customary for a Jewish woman. According to what my father told me, grandfather Yankel was a kind and nice man, and grandmother Frima was a strong-willed woman. Papa said she did not only manage the household, but also inquired about grandfather’s business issues and gave him efficient advice. Besides his work, grandfather spent most of his time reading the Torah and the Talmud. He prayed every morning. He prayed at home with his tallit and tefillin on at home, and on Sabbath and on Jewish holidays He and grandmother went to the synagogue. They piously observed all Jewish traditions at home and raised their children Jewish.

Grandfather Yankel and grandmother had four children: three sons and a daughter. My father was two-three years younger than his brothers: Motl, the oldest, was born in 1882, and Folyk - in 1884. I don’t know what they did for a living. I know, though, that they were married and had children.  When WWI began, they crossed the border to Romania to avoid service in the army. At this point of time Jews gathered into groups, gave bribes to frontier guards, who pretended they didn’t see how they crossed the border. From Romania they could move further on. My father brother Motl’s first daughter was born then – ‘prima’ as we said, the first baby. She was still a baby and cried, when she could be heard. Older Jews in the group planning to cross the border, decided that uncle Motl and his family had to go back home since the baby could be an obstacle for their crossing the border. Motl could not agree to this, they began to argue and older Jews said they would kill the baby, if he didn’t make it keep silent. The girl slept quietly that n8ght, as if she understood what was going on. The group reached Romania successfully. Few months later my father received a letter from them that was sent from Canada. We terminated correspondence with them in the middle 1930s, when it was not recommended or even dangerous to have relatives abroad,1 so this is all information I have about them.

My father Moisey Muchnik was born in Bershad in 1886. He took after his father: he was quiet, gentle and kind. Though my grandfather could well afford to pay for his education, my father finished cheder and decided that he had to go to work to support his aging parents. He became a craftsman making fur jackets and embroidering them, this was a popular craft in Bershad.  He must have had an artistic talent since he was doing quite well.  His jackets embroidered with red yarn were in great demand with Ukrainian farmers from nearby villages. When WWI began and his brothers decided to escape abroad my father didn’t dare to take up this risky venture due to his gentle character, probably. He didn’t want to go to serve in the czarist army either. Besides, religious orthodox Jews – and grandfather Yankel and his family belonged to them, could not kill people, even for the sake of their motherland. Some Jews turned to mutilation to avoid service in the czarist army. There were even such individuals, probably, the ones having primary medical education, who did such injuries that did not threaten those people’s life, but released them from their military duty. They injured eyes, and then the person actually grew blind due to the wall rye. My father was very handsome and girls liked him. He didn’t want to make himself ugly and he had one ear injured – they broke his ear drum and he had a hearing problem. My father avoided recruitment to the army, but he had a hearing problem fro the rest of his life and it particularly bothered him at his old age, when he actually became an invalid. My father had a nickname of Shmatok [‘a lump’ in Ukrainian]. My father’s cousin brother on grandfather Yankel’s side Moisey, whose surname was also Muchnik, was a big strong guy, while my father was short and frail, - a piece, to be short. However, he was a handsome young man and girls kept looking at him. He was also ready to get married. The problem was, my father had an older sister. Her name was Rosia, she was born in 1885. Rosia was not married and was not popular with young men. She was ugly and very withdrawn. According to Jewish rules, a young man could not get married before his older sister did. My father had to wait for almost ten years before Rosia finally got married. Her husband Itzyk Farberman, a wealthy Jew, didn’t stay long with Rosia. He divorced Rosia leaving their daughter Hana with Rosia. Since then Rosia always lived where my father lived. When my father decided to get married, he was about 30, and he could not find a nice girl he thought he deserved in Bershad: he had known all of them for a while and was not interested. So his parents invited Leya, a matchmaker, and she told them about a pretty girl from Chechelnik, a town near Bershad, and that my father could not have possibly found any fault with her.

My mother came from the Ukrainian village of Kravetskoye [This village does not exist today. It might have merged with a bigger town or may have disappeared for some other reason.], near the Jewish town of Chechelnik. My mother’s family was the only Jewish family in  Kravetskoye. My grandfather’s name was Iosif Roiter, but I don’t know my grandmother’s maiden name. They were born in the middle 19th century. My grandfather owned a store selling an assortment of everyday consumer goods. Besides, my grandfather’s family rented a part of the river adjusting to the house and a mill. Every Friday my grandmother and her daughters sold the fish from the river in Chechelnik where Jewish housewives bought it for Sabbath. My grandfather’s family worked from dawn till late in the evening and was well respected by Ukrainians, particularly that my grandfather was a very honest man.

The Roiter family also respected their neighbors. Mama told me they never worked on Sunday to be seen by Ukrainian villagers or on Christian holidays respecting the other people’s religion. When the Roiters had candles lit in their house on Friday, their Ukrainian neighbors knew that Iosif could not take the money in his hands to sell his goods. They could come into the store, put the money where they knew and took whatever they needed. Not once did anybody cheated on my grandfather. On Saturday a Ukrainian woman came to my grandfather’s home to do whatever chores were needed.  When she went to the cowshed to milk the cow, the cow mewed angrily and did not want to recognize a stranger. My grandmother usually stood beside them talking to the cow: ‘Manechka, dear, give us the milk’. During the period of the Beilis case2, when Jews were accused of adding the blood of Christian babies into their matzah, the villagers in Kravetskoye, however ignorant they were, knew that nothing of the kind could happen, because they knew that the Roiter family did not even eat eggs with a drop of an embryo’s blood since they were non-kosher. So, decided the villagers, Beilis cannot be guilty either. They did not change their attitude to the Roiters. Grandfather Iosif was rather religious. He prayed at home, and on holidays he went to the synagogue in Chechelnik with his wife and children.

Mama’s oldest sister Sura’s marriage was also prearranged. She lived with her family in the small town of Obodovka near Bershad. She was born in the 1870s. She was much older than mama, and her children were almost the same age as mama. Sura was a housewife and had two daughters. I don’t remember their names. During the Great Patriotic War3 Sura’s family wads in the ghetto in Obodovka. Sura’s husband died. After the war Sura lived with one of her daughters. She grew blind at her old age and died a tragic death. She burned in her bed that from a stove sparkle that fell on her bed, when nobody was home. When her daughter came home, her mother was dead, and the house had burnt down. This happened in 1968.

My mother’s two sisters and two brothers moved to Argentina during WWI. Mama corresponded with them at the beginning, but in the middle 1930s she terminated their correspondence and lost their track. My mother’s youngest brother Ehil Roiter, born in 1897, served in the czarist army during WWI. He got into an Austrian captivity. Later he told his family about a good attitude toward the captives. When he returned, Ehil married a girl from a wealthy Jewish family Chechelnik. They owned horses, and this was the measurement of wealth at the time. During the Civil War4 in 1918 Ehil and his wife rode their own wagon to go a wedding in the neighboring village, when they were caught by a gang5, one of many in Ukraine at the time. They killed Ehil, bullied his wife and let her go. Ehil was buried in the Jewish cemetery according to the ritual. My grandfather recited the Kaddish over his grave. My grandmother mourned after him for a long time. She never recovered from the loss of her son. She died shortly afterward in 1918. Ehil had no children. The family had no contacts with his wife.

Grandfather Iosif remarried soon. My mother Elka, born in 1895, had no education. She worked hard helping her parents about the house. Her stepmother was not good to her and mama knew she needed to take care of herself. At this moment Leya, a matchmaker from Bershad, came onto the scene. She showed mama a photo of my father with his brothers where they were photographed wearing posh fur hats. Mama agreed to marry him. Since her mother had died recently, there was actually no wedding. In early 1918 the bride and the bridegroom were married under a chuppah at the synagogue in Bershad. There was a small wedding dinner at home for the closest relatives.  Mama told me that people from Bershad came to take a look at Moisey Muchnik’s beautiful wife.  I cannot say, in what way grandfather Iosif would have hurt my mother, perhaps, she could not forgive him for having forgotten his wife so soon. At least, mama never saw him again after the wedding. All I know is that he died in the early 1920s, and my parents always ordered a memorial prayer at the synagogue for him. I never saw grandfather Iosif.

The newly weds came to live in my father’s house. Hey were given one room that was actually a family living room where the family had dinners and tea from a samovar in the evening.  Mama got pregnant soon. She could not go to bed earlier, though, since there were people coming into the room until late: grandfather and grandmother, papa’s sister Rosia and some distant relative living in one room at the back of the house. In late 1918 my mother gave birth to a boy. He was named Velvl after my father’s grandfather. Mama told me that during pogroms6, their family and their neighbors took shelter in the basement of the house. When little Velvl was crying, mama went with him to hide in haystacks in the field. In 1922 my mother had another son, whom she named Ehil after her deceased brother. Mama was always very serious about considering having children, which was different from other Jewish matrons. She always said a family should have as many children as they could afford to support and raise. She thought two children were enough, but she always wanted to have a daughter.

Growing up

I was born in 1926. I was a long-awaited and beloved baby. I was born during Rosh Hashanah and mother said this was a sign that I should be happy. They registered my birth in December 1926. I was named after my grandmother: in the synagogue they wrote my name as Frima, and in my birth certificate my name is Frida.  After I was born my mama decided our family needed a room of our own. She sold all her golden jewelry, including her wedding ring and hired workers to build another room in our house. This was a low house like many other huts in Bershad. Mama only had sufficient money for a hatched roof. At that time there were four apartments in the house: one of our family, another one – for aunt Rosia and her daughter, the third apartment was occupied by the accountant of the mill and the 4th apartment belonged to some distant relatives, who  were deported to the Kherson steppe in the late 1920s during the liquidation of the NEP7 for being accused as ‘unreliable’. This is all I know about them. Their surname was Muchnik, but I don’t remember their names.

Our family had two rooms and a kitchen with a Russian stove8 where mama baked bread and delicious challot for Sabbath. She kept Saturday dinners that she cooked in advance on Friday, in the stove as well. Mother and father did no work on Saturday in conformity with Jewish traditions. However, neither mama nor papa was as religious as their parents. My father was raised religious, but watching indecent conduct of Jews at the synagogue where they argued and cursed, he grew indifferent to religion. He said that if a Jew prayed from morning till night, wears a kippah, etc., this still does not prove his Jewish identity since a real Jew is the one who follows the covenants and lives an honest life. My father wore a kippah to go to the synagogue. Mama and papa went to the synagogue on holidays. In the course of time Sabbath turned into an ordinary day off in our house, and mama gave up lighting candles. She or father did not cover their heads. Celebration of holidays was just delicious dinners. I don’t remember celebrating Chanukkah or Purim in my childhood, but I started fasting on Yom Kippur at the age of 13 and I follow this fasting up to date.

Our family had a modest living. My father was a skilled jacket maker and worked hard. Since there were many jacket makers in Bershad they divided the adjusting areas to avoid any disagreements about their customers. My father made jackets for few neighboring villages. He often stayed in one village for weeks to cover the demand of villagers for jackets. Villagers also stayed in our house, when they traveled to the town. They left some food products to pay for the warm welcome and a place to stay overnight. Mama was different than my gentle and quiet father. She was business-oriented and took up any work she could lay her hands on. In due time she developed her own business that was a great support to our family. Villagers brought their meat for sale to our house. Mama weighed and sold it and gave the money to villagers. They gave her some meat and other food products, so we never felt short of food in our houses. Mama’s business was based on trust, and she never demanded any receipts or other security from villagers. This finally let her down. One farmer, having received money from my mother, went to a tavern where he drank all night through.  Of course, he wasted his money. When he sobered in the morning, he decided that mama hadn’t given him his money and came to our house with a scandal. Mama could not convince him how wrong he was. This was a hard time so for our family. This man, who had wasted his own money, kept coming to our house with scandals, threatening us and throwing stones into our windows.  We were afraid of going out. Then my mother and father went to the synagogue to talk to the rabbi. Whatever he had to tell them was to become a rule for a Jew. The rebe said that if mama was saying the truth, then the villager was guilty. My parents were to wait for a year upon which period there will be a prayer said at the synagogue, and the villager would disappear. If mama was afraid of living in fear for a whole year, than the family should move to another place, but if mama was lying to the rebe, and this Ukrainian man was telling the truth, the prayer a year from then would not help and then it would be clear that mama was to blame. Mama decided to move away. My father had doubts about leaving home. He was an irresolute man, but mama said she could live and work at any place as long as there was no threat to her family.   

We locked our home, took the most necessary things with us and moved to the Jewish kolkhoz9, in Dnepropetrovsk region, 600 km from Bershad, where we received an apartment in the house with another Jewish family. Mama went to work in the kolkhoz and soon she became leader of a crew of wine growers. She was used to hard work. My father also worked in the kolkhoz. I cannot remember any details of our life there, but I remember the feeling of warmth, lots of fruit and the bright southern sun. I spent a lot of time playing with the neighbors’ children outside, and in the evening the family had dinner together. In summer 1932 mama received a letter from Bershad. It said that this villager, who had abused her, died. The rebe’s prophecy came true and we could go back home.

Before the war

In autumn 1932 we returned home. The joy of coming home was saddened: this was a period of famine10 in Ukraine. Only many years later we got to know that this famine was provoked by Stalin and his government, but at that time people felt perplexed: how could people starve to death in Ukraine that had never lacked bread? I remember dead people in Bershad, early in the morning wagon pulled by a weak horse rode along the streets full of dead bodies. The situation was hard in our house as well, but thanks to mama’s energy and hard work our family survived. Mama went to work to a recently established Jewish kolkhoz. She was a crew leader. She received some miserable ration of food in the kolkhoz. My father went to work in a craftsmen association in Bershad. It consisted of those craftsmen, who managed to survive after the NEP was liquidated. After work my father made and altered clothes for the villagers he knew and they paid him with food products. They managed to grow some vegetables in their gardens. Villagers came to the town to sell whatever little food they had and mama was an intermediary for them and received some small reward for her work. Any people took their valuables to the Torgsin,11 but mama had spent all her jewelry to build the house, and we had nothing left. However hard the situation was for the family, they never let me feel it – mama adored me beyond limits, and my father and brothers loved me dearly. I always knew I would never be refused of anything.

When it was time for me to go to school, my parents had no doubts about what school to choose for me. My brothers went to the Jewish school and this was where I went. This school was built as a Jewish gymnasium for girls by a wealthy Jewish woman before the revolution of 1917.12 The construction was completed after the revolution and became a Jewish school. In 1934, when I went to school, my brother had finished the 7th form and went to continue his studies in Donetsk since there was nowhere else to study in Bershad.  He entered a factory vocational school.  I went to the ‘zero’ preparatory class, but since I was doing very well there, they took me to the first form.  Our family spoke mostly Yiddish and this was the language of my childhood. Our family also spoke fluent Ukrainian and so did I. I studied well and even finished the 5th and the 6th forms with honors. In the 7th form, however, I lost some interest in further studies. I wanted to become a pharmacist. There was a school in town, but mama told me she was not going to let me leave home. I knew there was no place to study after school in our town and this had an impact on my study at school.  I received ‘3’s [out of 5] at school and mama looked at me with reproach, when she returned from parents’ meetings at school, but she never told me off. I do not remember any of our household raising their voices at me. At one time I was thinking of becoming a teacher, but this did not last long: I didn’t like it that schoolchildren teased teachers and gave them funny nicknames.  Also, like all other girls, I dreamed of becoming an actress. There was a big new club in Bershad where theatrical groups came on tours. My father brought tickets from his work. Mama and I dressed up and went to their performances. These were amateur and professional Jewish theaters for the most part.

I had many friends, they were mostly Jewish girls – my schoolmates. I became a pioneer13, and I liked wearing a red neck tie. I liked Soviet holidays: 1 May, October revolution Day14, when there were parades in our town. I went to parades with my school, and asked my mother to make me a new outfit for every parade. I wore a Ukrainian folk outfit one time, an embroidered blouse and a coral necklace, or a kossack costume15 another time. There were concerts in the club in the evenings. At one time I recited poems in these amateur concerts. Our favorite pastime was going to the cinema. I remember children’s movies, movies about the Civil War and comedies.  The boys were fond of the legendary hero of the Civil War – Chapayev [Chapayev, Vassiliy Ivanovich (1887 - 1919), Soviet commander, hero of the civil War. Played a significant role in the defeat of counterrevolutionary forces.] and there was a movie about him entitled ‘Chapayev’. My brother Ehil watched it 15 times. I liked comedies ‘Volga-Volga’, ‘Circus’ and others. In the late 1930s we got a radio at home and I listened to brave and optimistic Soviet songs.

We didn’t celebrate Soviet holidays at home. If it was a day off, mama cooked a festive dinner. Our family traditionally got together on Jewish holidays. Mama prepared for Pesach according to the customs. She cleaned the house. We also had special crockery that we kept in a special box. There was also a special dish to place the food required on this holiday. Besides mandatory dishes mama cooked gefilte fish, stew, little pies filled with mince, potatoes and cabbage, beetroot borscht. Mother and father went to the synagogue, but we didn’t have seder at home. A holiday was another occasion for the family to get together. This became particularly important after my brothers left home. After finishing his vocational school my older brother returned to Bershad. He worked at the cap factory and later he went to work at a plant in Odessa16. From there he went to the army. Velvl served in the military regiment of Leningrad and studied in the artillery school in Leningrad. We were concerned about the Finnish war17, hoping that Velvl would not be sent there, fortunately, their military unit was not involved in combat action. In early 1941 Velvl was demobilized. He stayed at home two weeks. Before his departure to Odessa my brother asked me what kid of present I would like him to bring me from there. I had a sweet tooth an asked him to bring me all kinds of sweets from Odessa that we did not have in Bershad. Soon we received a parcel. My brother kept his word and spent a bigger part of his salary to buy presents for me. My younger brother Ehil studied in the machine building school in Odessa. He studied well and stayed in the school hostel. There, in Odessa, were my brothers, when WWII began.

During the war

Or family got to know that the Great Patriotic War began from the Molotov18 speech that the whole country listened to on 22 June 1941 at noon. On that same day the recruitment began. Mama was sobbing. She knew that her sons would be taken to the army and she would not see them. This was true – we never saw my brothers again. We know that Velvl perished during the defense of Odessa, but we know even less about Ehil – he disappeared during the retreat in 1941. We got this information after the war.  The first month after the war began was quiet in Bershad. One might thought that nothing extraordinary happened if it hadn’t been for young men going to the army and lack of food supplies. Our family did not even consider evacuation. There were rumors that fascists had no mercy toward Jews, but mama said Germans were a cultured nation and that we had nothing to be afraid of. On 22 July 1941 Germans dropped the first bombs on our little town. A bomb hit a house near the military registry office killing an old woman living in this house.  Next day we moved to my uncle in Chechelnik hoping to evacuate with him, but the roads were already jammed, we had no means of transportation to undertake and few days later we returned to Bershad. In the course of their retreat Soviet troops blasted bridges across the Dochna River hoping to stop the avalanche of the German armada, but Germans reinstalled the bridges within few hours and then motorcycles broke into the town with a horrifying and deafening roar. This happened in late July 1941.

This was the beginning of the most crucial time in my life that I’ve tried to forget in all years after the war. It’s hard for me to recall the occupation, reopening the old wounds in my heart, therefore, I would just tell briefly about this part of my life. When fascists came into the town, they gathered all Jews in the ghetto that occupied the central part of the town. Our house was beyond the boundaries of the ghetto and we had to leave it. We moved into the house of a Jewish family that had evacuated from the town. The ghetto was fenced with a barbed wire and there were policemen guards at the gate. The inmates were not allowed to leave the ghetto. Bershad belonged to the so-called Transnistria19 zone that was annexed to Romania. The Romanian occupants replaced the German troops. Many people think that the life was easier under the Romanian rule. It is true that the Romanians did not conduct actions aimed at the extermination of Jews, but we lived under the constant threat of death from hunger, infectious diseases, and hits of drunken Romanian policemen with their batons. Our lives were within a hair’s breadth from death. The girls of my age were abused in a beastly manner, and my mother decided I should stay in hiding from the very beginning.  It’s hard to imagine that I stayed in shelters for two and a half years: in the basement, in the attic or in the shed, when fascists or policemen searched the houses. My parents managed to hide me so that I didn’t go to work one day through this period. Girls were taken to wash floors in the commandant office and hospital, wash blood-stained bandages, they were beaten and abused. Mama rescued me from this. She gave money to representatives of the Jewish counsel Judenrat,20 established in the ghetto and responsible for supplying workforce to the occupants, when they came to the house searching for me, or she just kept me in a shelter. Mama was also our breadwinner. She bribed policemen to get out of the ghetto where she could always find some Ukrainian friends willing to help us. Mama gave them money or things, or worked for them and they gave her potatoes, bread, beans that mama brought to the ghetto. At least, I did not starve, and mama and papa pretended they had enough food: for them the most important thing as to provide sufficient food for me. Many Jewish families gave shelter to Jews from Bessarabia21 that had been deported here. They were in a terrible condition. They were not so used or adjusted to hardships. They were exhausted after their long walk here. Many of them had died. When they arrived at Bershad, they brought typhus and tuberculosis to the ghetto. Many inmates were dying. Their dead bodies were removed by a wagon and buried in a common grave in the vicinity of the ghetto. Mama refused to have Bessarabian Jews where we were staying. She was afraid of diseases, but she tried to support them sharing whatever little food we had with them.

I hardly ever left the house or met with my friends, whose parents also kept them in hiding. Mama fussed over me and was very worried about my brothers. Her motherly heart must have told her they were not among the living any longer. I often saw my parents praying. My father took his old book of prayers in his hands and mama whispered the words of prayers. They were begging the God to give them their sons back. Of course, there was no way to observe Jewish traditions in the ghetto. All we were concerned about was how to survive. However, all three of us fasted on the Judgment Day [Yom Kippur].

There was an underground movement in the ghetto headed by Yasha Thales, a Komsomol activist22. In order to get out of the ghetto he imitated his death and was hauled to the woods on the wagon. He escaped and created a partisan unit. I don’t know anything about whatever acts of this partisan unit, but I do know that  innocent people died because of them. In late 1943 activists were collecting contributions for this unit. We had no money to give them. At somebody’s hardly smart initiative they made the lists of all contributors and indicated the amounts they gave, they probably hoped to receive compensation from Soviet authorities later. They placed the list into a bottle, sealed and buried it, but there was a traitor, who reported on this bottle and fascists found the list. They made the rounds of the houses and shot all those, who supported the partisans. If those, whose names they found on the list, happened to be away from their home at the moment, they grabbed and killed their neighbors or just passers-by. Yasha Thales has turned 90. He has a good life in the USA.  In the middle of March 1944 the Soviet army liberated us. The Partisan unit with Yasha at the head of it was the first to come into the ghetto and the Soviet tanks followed them. They installed their field kitchen and made delicious cooked cereal for inmates of the ghetto. I got out of the basement: I could not believe that the horrific years of occupation were over.  

After the war

Our house was gone: people took it apart for wood. We stayed in that house where we were during the occupation until its owners returned and we had to move out. We rented a small room in a basement. Mama was looking for her sons. Only in 1946 we received a notification of death of her older son, and a notification about Ehil. This was a terrible disaster, and mama never recovered from it. She never stopped crying and developed a cataract in both eyes. Mama grew almost blind. Mama was given a pension for her older son – 26 rubles per month, the cost of 3 loaves of bread at the time. Papa continued making jackets traveling to villages.

I went back to school and finished the 8th and the 9th forms. Then I had to go to work to help my parents. The thing is, in the postwar years education in senior school was not free: they charged 150 rubles per year. I still studied in the 10th form, when I became an apprentice in the bank where my cousin sister worked as a cashier. Director of the school did not know I was working. After finishing school I entered an extramural Bank Technical school in Vinnitsa. I worked diligently and was a smart employee, when in 1947 the bank received a direction to have no related employees in the bank. Though a nephew of the manager of the bank worked in this bank, and chief accountant had her niece working in this same bank, they fired me since I was the poorest and had no rights. So I lost my job in this hard and hungry year of 1947. Life was very hard, and again my father’s Ukrainian friends helped us. Shortly afterward I went to work as a cashier to the ‘New life’ cooperative of invalids. I worked there a little over one year. The members of this cooperative happened to distort their documents, speculated, produced many products without registering them in production lists, and in 1949 an assize court took place in Bershad. All employees, but me, went to trial. They were sentenced to imprisonment. I went to work in the ‘Trud’ [labor] cooperative. I worked there for many years. There were many Jews in Bershad in the early 1950s – almost all those who survived the Great Patriotic War returned home. Probably for this reason there was no such adamant anti-Semitism here in the late 1940s-early 1950s, the period of ‘rootless cosmopolitans’23 and the ‘doctors’ plot’24 went past us. We didn’t read newspapers and had no interest in politics. The main thing then was to survive and the rest seemed insufficient.  I didn’t hear about these campaigns till the 1990s. I remember a meeting in the central square, when Stalin died: all people were crying and so was I.  

My parents lived in a sort of drowsiness after the war – they were struck by distress. We observed Jewish traditions as much as we could and we celebrated Pesach, but my father did not go to the synagogue any longer – he said he did not believe in the God, who allowed this violence over Jews.  I can say that I sacrificed my life to my parents. I realized I would never be able to leave them. If my brothers had survived, my life might have been different: I would have got education and arrange my personal life. I had friends, but I did not meet with young men. We lived in a small room and I knew I would have no place for my own family, if I wanted one. In 1952 I went to see my cousin sister in Donetsk. I met a young Jewish man there. His name was David. We saw each other for few days and then registered our marriage in a district registry office. There was the first night and there few days of closeness, but this was all there was. He did not want to go to Bershad, and I could not leave my parents. I returned to my parents, but I did not say a word to my parents. Some time later my acquaintance working in the passport office helped me to obtain another passport with no trace of my short and unhappy marriage. I don’t even remember David’s surname. I’ve never seen him again. Later I met a very good man, but my parents did not give their consent to our marriage, because he was Ukrainian. This was the end of my personal life. I have no children. My parents were not feeling well and I could not even afford to spend my vacations elsewhere. I only took 10 days off every year to go to Odessa to take treatment for my back: I had osteochondrosis due to the lack of movement, I had to sit at my desk at work. We didn’t have an apartment of our own for many years. I kept writing letters to the district executive committee requesting an apartment, but each time they gave apartments to somebody else, who could afford to bribe them. In 1971 we finally received an apartment  a little two bedroom Khrushchevka apartment25 on the first floor. Papa died five months after we moved into it. He died on 2 July 1971. My mother passed away one year later. They were buried in the Jewish cemetery with no ritual followed.

After my parents died I felt free and lonely. I could travel a lot all over the country or to recreation homes. I had no problem buying tours: I was a member of the local trade union committee and was responsible for distribution of tours. I had many friends. We celebrated Soviet holidays and went to meetings and parades. In the 1970s, when Jewish mass emigration began, many of my friends and acquaintances moved to Israel. There were fewer and fewer Jews left in Bershad. I sympathized with those, who moved away, and felt jealous about them. I didn’t consider moving to live in Israel: I was alone, and if here I had a job and still had friends and acquaintances, I knew that if I went to live in another country without knowing the language, I would just go crazy from loneliness and melancholy. However, in 1988 I received a letter from an acquaintance of mine, who was in Israel. I met him at the recreation house in Odessa. He invited me to Israel and proposed to marry me. He offered financial support. I did not love him and wrote back refusing him. My friend wrote again until I finally made up my mind to go to Israel. However, I told him honestly that I would travel to Israel, but I didn’t want to stay with him. He submitted the information about me to obtain an invitation letter for me to go to Israel. At that same time I received a parcel. Organizations from Israel specifically sent these parcels to support the future repatriates, but they wrote in the accompanying documentation that these parcels were sent by relatives to enable people here to receive them. I sold the clothes from this parcel and obtained the necessary documentation for departure. In 1990, having overcome all obstacles, bureaucracy and bribery of Soviet organizations I moved to Israel.

Israel is a wonderful country where I felt at home at once. I received a nice apartment and had a very good life, but… I felt very lonely and missed my homeland. I wanted to visit the graves of my dear ones. Every year I’ve come to Bershad. I go to my parents’ graves. Few years ago I returned to Ukraine for good. I am a Ukrainian  citizen and have a permanent residence in Bershad. I’ve bought a nice apartment and I receive a significant pension from Germany, being a former prisoner. I am doing very well. I like it that there are great opportunities for the Jewish community life after perestroika and after Ukraine gained independence. I am an active member of the community and a client of Hesed26, it gives me material and moral support. Here in Hesed I’ve found new friends. We celebrated Sabbath and Jewish holidays together, study the religion and history of Israel.  I have no regrets about having been to Israel or coming back to Ukraine.    

GLOSSARY:

Ignac Neubauer
Uzhgorod
Ukraine
Date of interview: October 2003
Interviewer: Ella Levitskaya

Ignac Neubauer is a lean agile short man with thick gray hair. He speaks Russian with a noted Hungarian accent and often uses Hungarian words. Though Ignac is a severely ill man, who has had two infarctions and few surgeries, he is very sociable and willingly agreed to give this interview and tell the story of his family. Ignac lives with his younger daughter’s family in a three-bedroom apartment in a modern house in a new district of Uzhgorod. After his wife died he feels it very important to be needed in his family. Ignac buys food products and likes cooking. He spends much time with his grandson Robert and they share love and affection to each other.  

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

My family background

My paternal grandfather Israel Buchbinder was born in the 1860s. I don’t know my grandfather or grandmother’s birthplace. I think my grandmother (nee Neubauer) was the same age with my grandfather. I don’t know my grandmother’s first name. I didn’t know anybody of my grandparents’ families. My father’s family lived in the Ruthenian village of Dubovoye [It is 135 km from Uzhgorod, 580 km from Kiev] Tyachev district in Subcarpathia 1. I don’t remember Dubovoye village. My father and I visited it twice during my school vacations, but I have no memories of these short visits left.  I don’t know what my grandfather did for a living. My grandmother was a housewife that was customary for Jewish families.  

Before 1918 Subcarpathia belonged to Austro-Hungarian Monarchy. The state language was Hungarian. There was no anti-Semitism in Subcarpathia. Jews could have their businesses, study and serve in the army. Everyday anti-Semitism was rare. There were generations of multinational population in Subcarpathia and people respected each other’s religion and traditions. In 1918 Subcarpathia was annexed to Czechoslovakia [First Czechoslovak Republic] 2. That was the heyday of Subcarpathia. Czechs were very friendly toward Jews. Jews had the right to hold official posts. Czechs patronized Jews believing them to be initiative and hardworking people.   

There were four sons and two daughters in my fathers family. I remember being surprised at the thing that some brothers and sisters’ surname was Buchbinder and some – Neubauer. My father explained that at that time Jewish didn’t register marriages in the town hall, but only had religious weddings with a chuppah and a rabbi issued a ketubbah, a marriage contracts, to them. [Civil marriage was introduced in Hungary as late as 1895.] Therefore, it happened that the children had their father or mother’s last name given to them. The first baby was given his father’s surname, the second one – his mother’s, etc. My father oldest brother’s name was Moric Buchbinder, Moishe-Gersch in Jewish. Then there was a sister, whose first name I don’t remember. Her surname was Neubauer. My father brother Haskl’s surname was Buchbinder. My father, born in 1899, had the surname of Neubauer. His name was Adolf and his Jewish name was Avrum.  Then there was my father’s brother Menyhert, his Jewish name was Mendl and his surname was Buchbinder, and there was a younger sister. I don’t remember her first name, but her surname was Neubauer.

My father’s family spoke Yiddish at home. Of course, they also spoke fluent Hungarian and Ruthenian [The language of the Subcarpathian Ruthenians, it is also spoken in some parts of Slovakia and Romania. Some consider it a dialect of the Ukrainian other as a separate Slavic language.]. My father said his parents were very religious, but I don’t know any details, unfortunately. My father and his brothers got religious education in cheder. The children went to cheder at the age of 3. I don’t know whether any of them had any secular education. It wasn’t mandatory at that time.  A Jew was supposed to know Hebrew to read a prayer and get a profession to support a family. My father’s parents sent my father to learn the farrier’s craft. Farriers were in demand in villages where farmers kept livestock. My father loved and understood animals and worked with them his whole life. Though he didn’t have a veterinary diploma he selected and trained horses for the army.  

I hardly know anything about my father’s sisters. They lived somewhere in Central Hungary after they got married. I’ve never seen them. All I know is that they had children and were housewives.  My father’s older brother Moric Buchbinder lived in Kosice (in Slovakia now). He was a tailor.  Moric was married and had three children. I don’t remember his wife or children’s names. After WWII Moric returned home from a camp, but his wife and children perished. After the war Moric lived in Kosice, Czechoslovakia. After the soviet regime came to Subcarpathia in 1945 our contacts terminated. My father’s brothers Haskl and Mendl lived in Dubovoye. They were married and had children. I don’t remember their names. I don’t remember what Haskl was doing for a living.  Mendl owned timber storages. He was the wealthiest of all brothers. He had four sons from his first marriage. During WWII both brothers were drafted in work battalions and taken to the front in the Ukraine. Haskl perished in 1943 and Mendl returned home after the war. His wife and sons perished in a concentration camp.

My mother’s family lived in the Subcarpathia village Malaya Dobron, Kisdobrony during the Hungarian rule. This village exists no longer. There was a bigger village of Velikaya Dobron [30 km from Uzhgorod, 680 km from Kiev], nearby and these two villages merged after the war. Now it is one settlement of Velikaya Dobron.  My mother’s father Moishe Preis was born in the Ruthenian village of Rakhov (it is a town now) in the 1870s.  My grandmother Etel Preis was born in 1875. I don’t know my grandmother’s place of birth or maiden name.  

Malaya Dobron was a small village. There were about 150 families living in the village and 30 of them were Jewish. Jewish families were big. There was a big synagogue in the village. On Sabbath and Jewish holidays men and women went to the synagogue. There was a big yard in the synagogue and there was a shochet shop in the yard and farther in the backyard there was a mikveh. There was a cheder in the same street as the synagogue. There were over 200 Jewish families in the neighboring village of Velikaya Dobron. It was a big village. There was a Jewish cemetery in the village and in Malaya Dobron there was a Jewish sector in the village cemetery.

Grandfather Moishe was a shoemaker. My grandmother was a midwife. My grandfather served in the Hungarian army in his youth. Even when I knew my grandfather he had a military bearing. He was average height, slim and straight. He didn’t have payes or a beard. He had a big curled up moustache. My grandfather wore high boots of soft shining leather and a jacket cut in military fashion.  He always had a military type cap on his head. He wore a kippah to the synagogue. His fellow villagers called my grandfather Moishe the Soldier. My grandmother was a short fat woman. She had quick moves and looked young.  She had no wrinkles on her face and always smiled. She was a very kind and smart woman. She wore long skirts and long-sleeved blouses with high collars like other women in the village. My grandmother wore a wig to go out and at home she covered her head with a kerchief.  

My grandparents lived in a small house made from air bricks, a mixture of clay and cut straw.  Many houses in Subcarpathia were built of air bricks that were inexpensive, rather strong and warm. It is used in construction even nowadays.  There were three rooms, a kitchen and a small annex building where my grandfather had his shop. My grandfather worked alone and when his sons were growing old enough they began to help their father in his shop. There were no other employees in the shop working for my grandfather. He mainly fixed shoes, and this work didn’t cost much. I don’t think my grandfather’s family was wealthy. Perhaps, this was why my grandmother had to work, which was not customary with married Jewish women.

My grandparents had eight children. I only know my mother’s year of birth, but I will name the others according to their seniority. My mother’s sisters and brothers were called by their Jewish names in the family, and I don’t know their Hungarian names. My mother’s sister Elka was the oldest. The next one was their brother Pinchas. My mother was born on 4 August 1900. Her Hungarian name was Fanni, and her Jewish name was Faige. After my mother her brother Lajos was born. His Jewish name was Laib. Then came brother Lipe, sister Rivka and brother Bernat.  

They spoke Yiddish in my mother’s family and Hungarian to their non-Jewish neighbors. My mother’s parents were religious. They celebrated Sabbath and Jewish holidays at home. On Saturday and on Jewish holidays my grandmother and grandfather went to the synagogue. My grandfather took his sons to the synagogue when they reached the age of 3.  All children got Jewish education. The sons went to cheder in Malaya Dobron. Girls went to the cheder in Velikaya Dobron in about 2 km from Malaya Dobron twice a week. The children also finished a 4-year Hungarian elementary school. After bar mitzvah grandfather began training his sons in his business. They all became shoemakers. 

My mother’s older sister Elka married Gersch Scher, a local Jewish man. He was a timber dealer. Elka and her husband had 3 children. Pinchas was married. His wife’s name was Baila. They also had eight children. Lajos’ wife Blanka was a housewife. They didn’t have children. Lipe was married. His wife’s name was Lea. They had four sons. Rivka’s husband Wolf Steinberg was a cabinetmaker. Rivka was a housewife. They had 6 children. Bernat had two children. He was a shoemaker and his wife was a housewife. My mother’s sisters and brothers were religious. They observed Jewish traditions, went to the synagogue on Sabbath and Jewish holidays and celebrated Sabbath and Jewish holidays at home. They all lived in Malaya Dobron.

I don’t know how my parents met. I think their marriage was prearranged by matchmakers, which was a customary thing at the time, when parents asked a shadkhan to find a match for their son or daughter. Usually parents of a couple made all necessary wedding arrangements and the couple only met before a chuppah.  In towns, though, young people could meet by themselves, but in villages traditions were stronger. My parents got married in 1922. They never told me about their wedding, but I’m sure it was a traditional Jewish wedding.

Growing up

After the wedding the newly weds moved to Velke Kapusany village [30 km from Uzhgorod] in present-day Slovakia. They rented a house. My father was employed to prepare horses for the army. He was to determine whether a horse was fit for the army. Many Jews kept horses selling them to the army for good money. My mother was a housewife. I was born in Velke Kapusany on 2 March 1924. My Hungarian name was Ignac, and my Jewish name was Nuns-Laib. In 1926 my father’s job was over and my parents decided to move to Malaya Dobron to be close to my mother’s parents. The rest of my parents’ children were born in Malaya Dobron. There were six of us. In 1925 my brother David was born. In his birth certificate he had his Hungarian name of Dezso, if my memory doesn’t fail me.  Mordechai, Marton by his birth certificate, was born in 1927. Then came Haim-Shmil, Sandor, born in 1929. In 1930 the first daughter Hermina, Haya-Tsire in Jewish, was born. Helena, the youngest, Haya in Jewish way, was born in 1934.

We lived in the house that my parents rented few years. It was a small house made from air bricks. There were two rooms, a kitchen and a storeroom. There were few fruit trees near the house and a shed and a small chicken house in the small yard. There was a big Russian stove 3 in the kitchen where my mother cooked. This stove heated the kitchen and a room and there was another stove to heat another room. My father worked as a veterinary on calls in Malay and Velikaya Dobron. My mother was a housewife. We were not wealthy. My parents were saving some of my father’s earnings to build a house. Their dream came true in 1936, when they started construction, and we moved into our new house in 1937. This house was also made from air bricks. There was one bigger room in it, two smaller rooms and a kitchen. The house was built not far from where  my mother’s parents lived.

My parents were religious and observed Jewish traditions. My mother wore a wig to go out after she got married. All married Jewish women wore wigs. At home my mother wore a kerchief. My father had a big beard, but no payes. He wore a kippah at home and a dark hat to go out.  We, boys, wore caps to go out and kippahs at home and in cheder. We celebrated Sabbath and Jewish holidays at home and my mother followed kashrut. She kept special crockery for dairy and meat products and she taught us to follow the rules as well. I was the oldest, and my mother always sent me to take a chicken or a goose to the shochet to slaughter. The shochet also determined whether the poultry was kosher. If he said that it was not kosher it had to be given to non-Jews.  On weekdays my father prayed at home. He had a tallit, a tefillin and a prayer book. When my father was praying he was not to be distracted. He explained that when he was talking to God he didn’t care about anything else. All Jews in Malaya Dobron prayed at home. When a Jewish man, for example, was not at home, when it was time for a prayer, he had his tefillin and tallit with him to stop and pray. Nobody was surprised, when a Jew put on his tefillin or tallit to pray in a train or at a railway station. They were so used to it that nobody paid any attention.

On Friday morning my mother started preparations for Sabbath. She made dough for to bake bread. On Friday my mother made bread for a week and challah bread for Sabbath.  There was a Jewish bakery nearby. My mother formed bread and challot, put them in a big basket and I took the basket to the bakery. Later in the afternoon I went back there to pick the order. Meanwhile my mother made chicken broth, made noodles for the broth and for puddings and made gefilte fish. When it was ready, she put a pot of cholnt into the oven for the next day and went to the mikveh.  There was one mikveh in Malaya Dobron. Women went there in the afternoon, when men were still at work, and men went to the mikveh in the evening. When my mother returned from the mikveh she set the table. My father came back from the mikveh, put on his fancy suit and went to the synagogue with his sons over 3 years of age. Boys went to cheder at this age and were big enough to go to the synagogue. When we returned from the synagogue, my mother lit candles. She had her fancy dress on. She covered her face with her hands to not see the candle light and prayed over the candles. Then we all sat down to festive dinner. Once a funny incident happened: my father and the children returned from the synagogue, and only at the table we discovered that my younger brother Sandor was not there. He happened to fall asleep during the prayer at the synagogue. The synagogue was already closed, and my brother slept there all night. Early in the morning my father went to the synagogue and brought Sandor home. After the candles were lit no work was allowed to be done. Our Ukrainian [Ruthenian] neighbor came to our home to light the lamps and start the oven. She also took out the cholnt from the oven. [shabesgoy] Next day we all went to the synagogue, but my sisters. My mother was upstairs, and my father and the boys were downstairs with other men. Then we returned home and had dinner, and after dinner my father read a Saturday section of the Torah to us and told us stories of Jewish history. The children visited our grandmother and grandfather on Saturdays. All of my mother’s brothers and sisters lived in Malaya Dobron. On Saturday about 40 grandchildren got together at my grandmother’s house and she had a chocolate or a kind word for each of us. In the evening my father conducted the Havdalah ritual, separation of Saturday from weekdays.  The family got together at the table. My father lit candles and said a blessing. Each of us had wine. The children had a little wine, just enough to wet their lip. Everybody sipped some wine, then my father poured some wine into a saucer and put down the candle in it. This was the end of Sabbath and another week began.

Preparation to Pesach began long before the holiday. There was a general clean up of the house, everything was cleaned and washed. The rabbi inspected the Jewish bakery for chametz. After such inspection the rabbi gave his permission to bake matzah. Each family ordered as much matzah as they needed. Matzah was delivered to homes. My mother took boxes with matzah to the attic where she kept our Pesach crockery. It was not allowed to keep matzah in the kitchen till there was any chametz or even bread crumbs left. On the eve of Pesach all bread was removed from the house. The house was searched even for the smallest pieces of bread and bread crumbs that were burnt then. Then my father continued a symbolic search for chametz. We washed our everyday crockery, packed it in boxes and stored in the storeroom, and then it was time to take down matzah and fancy crockery from the attic. My mother started cooking for Pesach. We always looked forward to holidays. We were poor, and the children never had too much food, except on Sabbath and holidays, when we had sufficient delicious food. My mother cooked traditional food: chicken broth with dumplings, stuffed chicken neck, gefilte fish, potato puddings, baked strudels from matzah flour with jam, raisins and nuts. My mother cooked everything on goose fat. This fat was also prepared separately, when there was to be no bread in the kitchen. My mother began to prepare it long before the holiday and stored it in a can in the attic where the  Pesach crockery was kept. She had to cook food for two days before Pesach. Then Hol Amoed started. No work was allowed to do on the last two days of Pesach. In the morning all went to the synagogue.  On the first day of Pesach my father conducted seder. Besides everything else, there were greeneries, horseradish, ground apples with honey and cinnamon, hard-boiled eggs and a saucer with salty water. And there was also matzah. We bought red wine at the synagogue for Pesach. On the first seder all, including the children, were to drink four glasses of wine. There was a big and fanciest wineglass for Prophet Elijah in the center of the table. The front door was kept open for Elijah to come into the house. My father wearing white clothing was sitting at the head of the table. This outfit is called kipr. Men wear it on Pesach and Yom Kippur. My father reclined on cushions supporting his back and the sides. We ate greeneries dipping then in salty water. Then my father broke matzah into three pieces and hid the middle side under the cushions. This piece of matzah was called afikoman. One of the children was to find it and then my father offered redemption for it. I asked my father traditional questions. When my brothers began to attend the cheder, they also asked my father questions. We posed questions in Hebrew and my father answered in Hebrew. Then my father started telling us about Exodus of Jews from Egypt. This story he told in Hebrew [haggadah], and then repeated each phrase in Yiddish. When he was telling about the retributions that God sent on Egypt, we were to drop wine on the saucer after he mentioned retributions. Then my father gave each of us a piece of afikoman. We all sang Pesach songs. Younger children fell asleep at the table before the seder was over. I was older and next morning, when they woke up I teased them a little saying that while they were asleep Elijah came in and I saw him.  On Pesach we visited my mother’s relatives and invited them to visit us.

A month before Rosh Hashanah, New Year, they blew the shofar at the synagogue.  The shofar is very loud and strident and it was heard across the village. We went to the synagogue and when we returned home, we ate apples and challah dipping them in honey.

Yom Kippur started with the Kapores ritual on the eve of Yom Kippur. There were white rosters bought for the father and the sons and white hens for the mother and sisters.  The rosters were to be turned around the head saying in Hebrew: ‘May you be my atonement”. Then the chickens were slaughtered and my mother cooked them in the morning. Before Yom Kippur we only ate chicken broth and chicken meat a whole day. It was the rule to have 3 meals cooked from these Kapores chickens. The dinner was over before the first star appeared in the sky. From this moment and until the next evening the family fasted. Children fasted half a day after they turned 8 and after bar mitzvah – a whole day like adults. In the morning all went to the synagogue. Men wore white kitel outfits and women wore their fancy dresses. Everybody brought a candle. People stayed at the synagogue a whole day. When the first star appeared in the sky, all went to their homes to have dinner.

After Yom Kippur children began to make decorations for the sukkah. They made them from color paper and everybody tried to make the best decoration. The sukkah was placed in the yard. There was a frame made from pre-manufactured lath planks, then branches were entwined in it and the roof was also covered with branches. The sukkah was decorated with flowers and paper decorations and ribbons. There was a table taken into the sukkah and we had meals and prayed in the sukkah through all days of the holiday. It was customary to eat fruit on Sukkot. Children had the ‘rozhok’ –fruit that grow in Israel [etrog]. They were flat, brown and very sweet. The children bit on them and then played with stones that these fruit had inside.   

For Purim children rehearsed songs, dances and little performances. Children, and sometimes adults, went from one house to other showing their performances and for this they were given small change. The more houses you visited the more coins you got. I remember a joke of this time. A rich Jew wanted his daughter to get married. He talked to shadkhan who said that there was a bridegroom, who could earn 10 pengos [Hungarian currency in the interwar period] per day. 10 pengos was a lot of money at that time. The rich man was very happy, and the wedding took place. A month passed. The rich man came to the shadkhan and said that this guy hadn’t worked a day and hadn’t earned a single coin. The shadkhan convinced him to wait another month. Nothing changed a month later. Another month passed, and the rich man came to the shadkhan again. The shadkhan said: “Be patient, there is not long to wait until Purim, and then your daughter’s husband will earn this 10 pengos”. There was also shelakhmones taken to houses at Purim. It was taken to relatives, friends and neighbors. Children ran from one house to another with trays with sweets on them. Returning the tray, the mistress of the house put coins on it for the children. After Purim children bought toys, sweets or something else.   

We, children, also liked Chanukkah. On this holiday every guest gave children money. This money was supposed to be spent on gambling, but we preferred to spend it on what we believed was right.  On Chanukkah children traditionally played with whipping tops that we made ourselves. There were wooden forms with carved letters where we poured melted lead and waited till it solidified. The top was divided into four sectors with a letter in each sector. Winning depended on the letter that the top fell on. On Chanukkah my mother lit a candle each day. Actually, there were no candles since they were very expensive. My mother cut off the bottom of a potato and cut out its inside, poured in oil and put a wick inside. These candles lasted a while. My mother added another potato on each day of Chanukkah.  

I went to cheder at the age of 3. My younger brothers also went to cheder at this age.   In the 1st and 2nd forms there was a rebe and he had an assistant, who was like a nanny for the kids, but in the 3rd form we were quite handy to manage ourselves. Our classes started at 7 o’clock in the morning. In winter and autumn we got up, when it was still dark outside.  My mother woke me up and I cried and wanted to stay home. We had classes till lunch. Then the rebe let us go home for lunch and then we came back to cheder.  Our classes ended at 7. We had to do homework at home. I went to school at the age of 8 and had no free time left, whatsoever. There were 2 general schools in Malaya Dobron: a Czech and Hungarian one. My parents sent me to the Hungarian school for some reason, though the state language was Czech at the time.  My brothers and sisters went to the Czech school. There were more Jewish children in the Hungarian school than in the Czech one. This was a school for boys and girls. I went to cheder in the morning. We prayed and had classes. Then I ran home for breakfast and ran to the Hungarian school. After classes I went home for lunch and then went back to cheder where we studied till 8-9 o’clock in the evening. When we returned home, we had to do the homework for school and for cheder. Some parents only cared about their children’s successes at the cheder, but my father believed that I had to be good at both.  This was a difficult task and I often studied till late at night. 

In 1935 my grandmother Etel, my mother’s mother, fell severely ill. She was taken to the Jewish hospital in Uzhgorod where she died. This happened before Rosh Hashanah. I still remember how my mother cried and lamented for her. My grandmother was only 60 years old, while at that time it was quite common that people lived to be 80-90 years old. She was buried in the Jewish cemetery in Uzhgorod in accordance with Jewish traditions. My mother’s brother Pinchas recited the Kaddish after my grandmother. My mother and her sisters sat shivah after my grandmother since my mother’s brothers had to go back to work to support their families. My mother’s younger sister Riva and her family moved in with my grandfather.

Boys studied at cheder till the age of 13. The rebe prepared them for bar mitzvah. In 1937 I became of age according to Jewish traditions. I turned 13 years old. On Saturday the rabbi called me to the torah to read a section from it. I had a tallit on for the first time in my life. My parents brought honey cakes and vodka to the synagogue. After the bar mitzvah all attendants of the synagogue had treatments. In the evening my mother made a dinner for the family and relatives. They greeted me and it was quite a holiday for me. After finishing cheder those parents who could afford it sent their children to yeshivah, but I couldn’t even dream about it. We were poor and since I was the oldest son I had to support the family. My father began to have health problems – he happened to have a serious heart disease. It was hard for him to work and he needed money to buy medications. From time to time he had to stay in hospital in Uzhgorod where he had medical treatment and received some medications to take home with him, but when he ran out of them, he had to buy them. I finished school in 1938. My brothers were still at school and I became the only breadwinner in the family. I didn’t have a profession, but I couldn’t go to study since there was nobody to support the family through this time. I began to sell food products to Jewish families in Uzhgorod and soon I had my clients there. My mother kept poultry: chickens, ducks and geese. I bought eggs, chickens and veal from other villagers to sell them in Uzhgorod and later I also took my mother’s poultry to sell there. The shochet slaughtered them and on Monday I took 20-25 chickens to Uzhgorod. My clients ordered about 50-60 chickens for Sabbath. Later Jewish café owners began to order chicken from me. My father had a horse that he used to ride to his calls when he was working. I harnessed the horse to ride to Uzhgorod. So I earned our living. Of course, this was hard work, but we were not starving and managed to buy everything necessary for the family.  Many other villagers earned their living in this way. There were also wealthy Jews in our village. One Jew whose last name was Weinberger had 300 hectares of land, many cows and horses. He also had equipment and tractors. Those who had land could feed their families by farming.

During the war

In 1938 Subcarpathia became Hungarian again. [Hungarian troops occupied Subcarpathia in March 1939. The western part where Malaya Dobron/Kisdobrony is was attached to Hungary as early as the 2nd November 1938, together with Southern Slovakia as a result of the First Vienna Decesion.] Though we had a good life during the Czech rule, many were happy that the Hungarians were back, especially older people. All children spoke fluent Czech, but older people didn’t know it. My mother, despite living 20 years under the Czech rule, never learned this language. She spoke Yiddish and Hungarian. At the beginning everything went well, but in 1938 persecution of Jews began, though we didn’t suffer from it since it was directed on wealthier people. In 1939 anti-Jewish laws 4 were issued. Under these laws wealthier Jews were to give away their shops, farms or stores to non-Jews or the state expropriated their property, if they didn’t. One way or another, Jewish owners didn’t get any compensation, but when they left their property with non-Jewish owners, they could at least keep the job, though their new masters paid them little.  When the state expropriated the property, their former owners lost everything and were thrown into the street. Jews were not allowed to study in higher educational institutions [Numerus Clausus in Hungary] 5 or serve in the army.  This was open state-level anti-Semitism and they didn’t even make an effort to camouflage it. When Germany started a war in 1939, life became even more difficult. Hungary was Germany’s ally in this war. There were food cards introduced. People in towns were starving. We didn’t suffer so much in villages. There were bread and sugar cards and what we got per cards was sufficient. However strange it may seem, my life became easier when Subcarpathia became Hungarian.  I could do my business in Uzhgorod and in Hungarian towns. I took my products to the Hungarian town of Kisvarda, 30 km from Malaya Dobron. I brought back salt, sugar and spirit that people drank with water. When drought happened in Velikiy Bereznyy [35 km from Uzhgorod, 650 km from Kiev] in summer farmers failed to make hay stocks and my acquaintance offered me to buy cows from them. We went there and bought cows for 40 pengos. We sold these cows in Kisvarda 100-120 pengos each. We had 3 cows left that we had to take them back. On our way back I got very hungry. My parents taught us that we couldn’t eat anything from non-Jews. I remembered this well and when I went into a farmer’s house and asked him to sell me some food I didn’t even want to buy bread from him. I bought 3 apples and this was all I had till we reached Chop where my mother’s sister Elka and her family lived. They moved to Chop in 1939, when Elka husband’s trade business was expropriated. So only at my aunt’s house I finally had a meal. We made few more trips to Velikiy Bereznyy to buy cows to sell them in Kisvarda. This was a long trip. From Velikiy Bereznyy we went to Perechin, 25 km from Velikiy Bereznyy. There we took a rest and then walked 20 km to Uzhgorod.  From there we walked 30 km to Chop and from there - 25 km to Kisvarda. This trip took us about a week. We also had to let the cows pasture so they didn’t have exhausted looks, when we reached Kisvarda or we wouldn’t have sold them. From Kisvarda we brought home 2-3 bags of flour, kosher goose fat and cereals.

Jews served in Hungarian work battalions.  In March 1942 I was to turn 18, but already in January 1942 I was called to the draft board examining recruits for work battalions. However, they released guys of 1923 - 1924 from service. They began to recruit my year of birth, when we were taken to ghettos, but I was not allowed to leave the ghetto.  

Before Pesach in 1944 I was in Uzhgorod, but I came home for the holiday. I always celebrated all Jewish holidays at home and couldn’t imagine otherwise. I was planning to go back to Uzhgorod after the holiday. On the last day of Pesach they placed a poster on the building of the village council announcing that all Jews were to come to the village council on Sunday. We were to have food and clothing not to exceed 10 kg of weight with us. All Jews of Malaya Dobron came there. Our family, my mother’s sisters with their families and grandfather Moishe, my mother’s father, went there, too. We were taken to Uzhgorod on horse-driven wagons. The ghetto in Uzhgorod was at the former brick factory owned by Jew Moshkovich formerly.  There were 16 thousand Jews from Uzhgorod district in the ghetto. There were also people taken from villages and few days later they began to take people from Uzhgorod to the ghetto. Since there was no space left, they were taken to another ghetto in a big timber storage facility owned by Jew Blick before the Hungarian rule.  We lived in the open air, though it was still rather cold at night. Some families tried to stay in brick sections with furnaces for brick baking, but there was no ventilation and it was stuffy. So they couldn’t stay there whatsoever and had to stay in the open air with their small children. When we ran out of food that we took from home we began to starve. Then younger Jews were ordered to work. We sorted out furniture, household goods, clothing and shoes in the Jewish houses whose owners were taken to the ghetto. All Jewish houses were sealed. There were many valuable things left in the houses: pictures, china, and jewelry. Gendarmes broke the seals and we came into the houses to sort out everything there was there. The gendarmes searched the walls for money in hiding place. We loaded the things on trucks that drove the loads to the Hasidic 6 synagogue on the embankment of the Uzh River. This synagogue houses a Philharmonic now. I don’t know what happened to these loads. When we found food in the houses, the gendarmes allowed us to take it with us, but when we came to the ghetto they took it away and sent it to the kitchen that made food for inmates of the ghetto. There was also a Jewish kitchen on the embankment near the Hasidic synagogue where they also made food for inmates of the ghetto, but was it possible to feed 16 thousand people?! Those who had money could buy food. There was the family of Weinberger, a rich Jew from Malaya Dobron in the ghetto. I knew the town well and went to work every day. Weinberger gave me money to buy cookies and sausage for them. I remember bringing him sausage once and he invited me to eat with his family. I thanked him and said I wasn’t hungry, but the reason was that I didn’t want to eat non-kosher sausage, just couldn’t force myself to take a bite. This was how we were raised at home.

There were no Germans in the ghetto. Once some Germans came to the ghetto to do some inspection. There were Hungarian gendarmes in the ghetto and they were very rude with the inmates, but not all of them. I witnessed one incident that happened to my uncle, my mother’s brother Bernat. Once we were at work sorting out things, when my uncle found vodka. He gave us a little and drank the rest of it. He got drunk. The Hungarian soldier who convoyed us to this house saw my uncle. He silently picked some things and took my uncle to a tavern in the end of the street.  The soldier gave the owner of this tavern those things he took from the house and asked him to put my uncle to sleep. When it was time for us to go to the ghetto in the evening, he went to the tavern to pick my uncle who had sobered by then. So they happened to be human to Jews, but rarely, of course.

On 24 May 1944 we were ordered to gather near the gate to the ghetto. There was a railroad spur to the brick factory. There was a train with open platforms for brick transportation taken to the spur and gendarmes ordered us to board those platforms. They were narrow platforms. There were 100-120 people on each of them. Many were standing close to one another. When we reached a station we changed a train, but this was not a passenger train, but one with freight railcars, there were only small barred windows near the ceilings, but after those platforms these railcars seemed heaven to us. It was warm already and the steel railcars were overheated. The windows were closed and there was no air to breathe. We didn’t have water. There were no toilets. There were holes in the floors. At first people endured it as long as they could, but then we stopped caring. At first there were talks that they were going to keep us in those railcars till we died from the heat and thirst, but others said that we were moving to work camps. Then these talks faded out, we were all in a half-fainted state. The heat and stinking was the hardest on older people and children. The train stopped at a station and we were given one bucket of water for all of us. Everybody ran to the bucket trying to drink without thinking about the others. Thinking about it now I don’t believe this was happening to us. People just couldn’t turn into animals so fast, but this happened indeed. We arrived at Auschwitz. The train stopped at the platform where there were German soldiers and people in white robes, doctors, as we got to know later. They sorted us out sending old people and children to one side and those who were stronger – to another. Mothers were told to give their children to grandmothers and grandfathers and step to another side. Many women didn’t want to leave their children and went with them to the gas chamber, as we learned later. My brothers Dezso, Marton and Sandor were sent to the right where other young men and women gathered. My father, grandfather and younger sister Helena were sent to the left. I left the train after my father and wanted to follow him, but the officer pulled me by my sleeve and told me to step to the side where young people gathered. My mother held Hermina by her shoulders and they were sent to the women’s group. When we were separated, my mother shouted to me: ‘Don’t forget, you are the oldest and you are responsible for your brothers!’. Later I got to know that my father and grandfather were exterminated right away. I stood beside my brothers. Dezso and Marton were standing beside and I was holding Sandor, the youngest, by his hand. A soldier told me to let go of my brother’s hand. I didn’t and he hit me on my head with his gun butt so hard that I fell and fainted. When I recovered my senses, a man of average age, whose face was familiar to me from the ghetto in Uzhgorod approached me and said: ‘Sonny, you are not at home, you have to obey here’. We marched to the bathroom.  When we finished washing and came outside, our clothes were gone and there were striped robes waiting for us. We got dressed and then a barber shaved our heads. My brothers and I tried to stay together. We lined up and marched to the Auschwitz work camp in 5-6 km from the central camp. There were big barracks with two-tier plank beds in them. We were given thin striped blankets from the same fabric as our robes. We were also given pieces of cloth with numbers imprinted on them. We were to saw them on our clothes on the chest and on the back. My camp number was 66, Dezso’s – 67, Marton – 68. We were ordered to line up in front of the barrack and they gave each of us a piece of bread and sausage. My brother Dezso was the biggest of us. He went in for sports, track-and-field events. In 1942 he won the first place in a district contest. Dezso was always hungry and pounced on the food. I only ate bread and couldn’t even look at the sausage. It was disgusting: there were pieces of pork fat in it. The same man, who talked to me in the central camp, approached us again and said that we had to eat what we were given here. God will forgive me this sin and I will need all my strength in the camp. I still couldn’t force myself at that moment an gave my piece of sausage to my brother, but some time later I really began to eat anything eatable without thinking whether the food was kosher or not.  

There were Jews from Hungary, Poland, France, Italy, Greece and Yugoslavia in our barrack.  Almost all of them spoke Yiddish so we could understand each other well. There were also few German criminals in the barrack. We were taken to the camp just for being Jews, but they were taken to court and sentenced to different terms of imprisonment. The senior man of our barrack was a German man sentenced to 25 years of imprisonment for killing a whole family. He was a murderer, but he was a senior man and he did whatever he wanted and there was nobody to complain to. He hit one Jewish man so hard that he died. We met my mother’s brother Pinchas in the camp. His situation was a little better than of the rest of us. He didn’t have to go to work. The Germans got to know that he was a shoemaker and gave him a place to work in the camp. He fixed and made boots for Germans. The Germans liked what he did and began to bring him leather to make shoes and boots for their wives and daughters in Germany. Sometimes Pinchas shared some food with us, when Germans gave him food for his work.  

Then we began to go to work. We were to arrange road beds for construction of new roads: we did wood cutting and grubbing, grading with spades and placing gravel. Our morning started with breakfast. We got a piece of bread and a mug of surrogate black without sugar. Then we lined up, they counted us and convoyed to work. In the afternoon we had lunch break. Thermos bottles with soup and bread were delivered from the camp. Of course, it’s hard to call this turbid liquid with half-rotten potato pieces in it soup. Sometimes we could puck a piece of carrot or a cabbage leaf there. We got 300 grams bread for lunch. After lunch we went back to work and in the evening we were convoyed back to the camp. When Germans saw that somebody was too exhausted to work they killed him right there.  In the evening the ‘funeral crew’, as we called them, they were also Jews, came to bury the dead in the wood. When back in the camp, we got our dinner: same soup as in the afternoon, but no bread. After dinner we went to sleep. We got so tired during the day that we fell asleep and had no dreams. We worked every day. We were not allowed to leave the barrack after retreat. There were armed guards of the camp and at night there were strong patrol dogs let loose in the camp. They were trained to attack people in striped robes.  

My brother Dezso was gone in the camp. He was always hungry. We were no allowed to come to the kitchen. Once Dezso said that he couldn’t believe there was no food in the camp and left the barrack. My brothers and I tried to tell him to stay and that it could end up in something bad, but he left anyway.  He never came back and we never found out what happened to him.

In January 1945 American troops began to attack. Krakow was liberated and the front was on the right from Krakow. [Krakow was liberated by the Soviet Army. He probably refers to the American bombardment of Krakow.] There was a road sign near our camp and there was an inscription in German: ’90 km - Krakow’. In late January evacuation of the camp began. There were 100 thousand of those who could walk. They shot all those who were weak and ill. My brothers, uncle Pinchas and I were among those, who could walk. The frost was severe. We were ordered to board the open platforms of a train. My brother Marton happened to be in another railcar. Only my younger brother Sandor was with me in the railcar. We could only stand close to one another in the railcar, so overcrowded it was. People were dying, but there wasn’t even space to fall and they remained standing supported by the others. We were starved and suffered from thirst. If somebody peed the others put their mugs to him to have at least something to drink. My brother Sandor died in this railcar. I didn’t notice when it happened, but one morning he was not there any longer. Probably somebody pushed him off the railcar, when the train stopped. 9 days later we finally arrived at the Gleiwitz camp. When we got off the train, many of us began to pounce on the snow – so dehydrated we were. I saw my brother Marton there. He was swollen and dark blue – it was horrifying to look at him. I, probably, looked no better. We were sorted out on the platform. The weaker and older inmates were exterminated. My uncle Pinchas perished there. My brother and I went to a barrack. The next morning we were taken to a hospital barrack.  Three days later my brother died in this barrack. I was recovering. Our senior man in this barrack was good. He told me to be in no hurry to leave this barrack. I was afraid of staying in this barrack. Many patients were dying every day. We had sufficient bread and food, but people were still dying. The patients were saying that doctors were using people for their medical experiments.  I didn’t know whether this was true, but I was scared. When I felt better, I asked them to discharge me. The senior man told me to take food and bread with me. I thought there was food in the camp. When I came out of the hospital barrack I bumped into starved inmates begging for food. Before I reached my barrack, my food that I had with me was all gone and there were only two slices of bread left. I put them under my mattress, but in the morning they were gone.

We didn’t have to go to work any longer. We were allowed toile on our plank beds all day long. Each of us got 2 potatoes boiled in their jackets and 100 grams tea with no sugar. Every day inmates were dying and the others managed to receive their ration of food. Later Germans discovered what was happening and before giving food to us they ordered us to go outside and gave us food letting us inside one after another. We knew that if we were not sent to work this meant that this was a death camp. We were waiting for the end of it. My birthday was on 2 March. Early in the morning a German officer came into our barrack and asked who wanted to go to work. He selected 40 stronger men. We lined up on the square yard and they told us that we would go to a very good camp where work was not too hard and we would get more food. We were given 200 grams bread and 20 g margarine and told us that we would not get any food on the way and we had to keep this piece of bread till we got to the place, but what was this 200 grams of bread? An hour later nobody had even a bread crumb left. We walked to this camp. It was a small camp. There were few barracks for 400 people. Later we got to know that this was just one sector of the camp and there were two other sectors for 400 inmates each. One was a central sector and another one was about 15 km from our camp. There was a kitchen there and a tractor delivered food to us in our sector. We were given half loaf of bread and a jar of soup each. They told us to find vacant beds and take them. We got up at 5 in the morning. There was no breakfast. We went to work. We had to walk for about 8 km and we walked to work every day. We worked at the construction of the railroad connecting the central camp with two others. People were exhausted. We had one meal after we returned to the camp in the evening. We were given one liter of soup per day and twice a week we got a little piece of bread to have with soup. We understood that Germans calculated everything. They knew that we wouldn’t have to work long and there was no need for us to keep strong. We worked very hard and had to cover 16 km each day. Since about 5 April English and American planes began to fly over our work site. On the next day we didn’t go to work. We were taken to the central camp. There was also another column marching there – 400 inmates from another camp. The central camp had barracks for 400 inmates, when there were already 1200 of us. We had to find a place to sleep at night. We were not allowed to come into the yard due to air raids and bombings. 2-3 inmates slept on one bed, the others slept on the floor ad in the aisles. A bomb hit one barrack. Many inmates perished. 2 days passed. On the 3rd day they ordered us to line up in the yard. The Germans sorted out stronger inmates from weaker ones. There were trucks near the gate. We were ordered to go through the gate one after another. Each was given 2 cigarettes. This was like a miracle for us.  When I came to the gate they ran out of cigarettes. I said that since there were no cigarettes left, I wasn’t going. I decided: be what might, and returned to the camp where weaker inmates stayed. There were about 200 of us. I understood they were going to be shot, but I also knew it was going to happen to me sooner or later.  So why wait?… We waited standing. The trucks left. We talked among ourselves that now there was more space in the barracks, but deep in our hearts we didn’t believe that there was hope for us to survive left. However, we were ordered to go back to the camp. There were few German military left in the camp. We were ordered to take food from the storeroom and cook by ourselves. We stayed in the camp few days and then we were taken to the railway station where we were ordered to board a train. The railcars were stuffed with people. Our trip lasted about 2 days. Then the train stopped, but the doors were kept closed. Through small windows near the ceiling we could see barracks and people walking. 4 or 5 we were kept in those closed railcars. Only when those, who were taken from our camp in trucks, arrived, the doors were opened. We ran to barrels with water to drink. Then we were ordered to line up again and board railcars again. There were more railcars now and there was more space inside. There was an armed German guard in every railcar. The door of our railcar was kept open. The guard sat by the door. He put his gun on his side and said that we would be all right soon, but that Germans would not be doing so well since American and Soviet troops were close. We didn’t talk back to him, but we liked what we heard. We arrived at a station. A German officer ordered everybody to get off the train since Americans were to start bombing soon.  We were ordered to go to the wood near the station, as if to hide from bombing there. Soldiers with automatic guns convoyed us, but we were so used to armed convoys that we paid no attention to them. We were ordered to line up in the woods. German soldiers walked along the line shooting at people. I don’t know how I happened to survive. I don’t remember soldiers approaching me or how I fell into the pit from a bomb. I probably fainted from fear. When I recovered my consciousness I was in the pit wet from the rain and somebody else’s blood.  There were corpses on top of me and underneath. I got out of the pit and ran away. I didn’t know where I was running. Then I heard somebody calling me in Yiddish. A guy in a camp robe came out of the bushes. I recognized him. He was a Polish Jew; we were in the same railcar. His name was Janec, but I don’t know his surname. He said he was waiting for a survivor for about half hour. He didn’t see where the Germans went.  We didn’t have anywhere to go so we went though the wood till we came to the edge. We saw a village in about 2-3 km from there and there was a battle going on there. There were explosions and firing and we were scared.  We went back to the wood. It was rather warm and there was grass growing. We walked in the wood and ate grass and roots. Few days later we bumped into four Germans running from the edge of the wood. Janec told me to keep my mouth shut and remember the only thing that we were not Jews. He was Polish and I was Hungarian. He spoke German and English. The Germans asked us what we were doing in the wood. Janec replied that we worked for Germans and then they let us go and that we had nowhere to go and kept wondering in the woods. The Germans began to discuss what to do with us. One said that we had to be shot. Another replied that we were still children and why should they kill us. We were short and thin and looked young for our years. The Germans went away, but the one who suggested to shoot us kept looking back.  We were so scared that we couldn’t walk.  We stayed in the wood a whole day and at night it began to rain. We decided to get to the village for any Price. We ran across the field. There was a road behind the fields and we saw military trucks driving there. We hid away not seeing whose trucks they were. When they passed we ran to the village. We came into the first house. There were no villagers left. I saw some military through the window and told Janec that Russians were coming. He replied that there could be no Russians there and that this was an American front. I came out of the house and the soldiers saw me. I didn’t know who they were. One of them asked me in German how many of us were there.  I said there was another man in the house and they told me to come inside with them. I went first and they followed me. I spoke louder when we came nearer to the house for Janec to hear me and run away, but he heard them speaking English, came out of the house and spoke English to them. They were American soldiers. They gave us tinned meat and bread. When we finished eating they took us to the commander’s office in a village house on their truck. There were German prisoners in the house. The Americans took us to the cow shed. There was an attic with straw in the shed and they left us there. They gave us cigarettes, cookies and cocoa. We were both exhausted. I weighed 32 kg. Americans kept us there few days. We washed ourselves and they gave us clean American uniforms and took us to a hospital. They cordially bid ‘good bye’ to us and gave us cookies and chocolate. I was unconscious for few days. When I recovered my consciousness I discovered that I had no clothes or food left. Everything was gone. I stayed in hospital for about a month. The doctors said I had severe dystrophy and I had to be patient. When the doctor came to examine me, he asked me in German where I came from. I said I was from Subcarpathia and he began to smile and spoke Hungarian to me. I was shocked: an American speaking Hungarian! He explained that he was born in the USA, but his Jewish parents moved there from Subcarpathia and they spoke Hungarian at home. This doctor treated me as one of his family. He brought me food and medications. Most patients were Ukrainian, all from one camp. There were wooden barrels with technical spirit left in the camp and its inmates drank it when Germans left the camp. They were severely poisoned. Every day 50-60 patients died in the hospital.  I stayed there for a month and then was taken to a recreation center near Berlin.

When I recovered, I was sent to a camp in about 100 km from Berlin. I don’t remember the name of the town. There were about 2000 young girls and 15 guys in the camp. I met my cousin Moishe there, my mother sister Elka’s son. We were given good food: meat, butter and chocolate every day. We were allowed to go to the town. When we went to the town, we got 30 marks each. It was a lot of money in Germany. A jar of jam cost 5-10 marks and a loaf of bread cost 2 marks. Americans were making the lists of those who wanted to move to USA, Palestine, or any other country of the world. They promised assistance to those who wanted to move to USA: with studies, employment and material assistance for the beginning. They also offered contracts for military service to those who wanted to go to the army. I didn’t want to go back home. I understood that my family must have perished and that I was alone. I thought there was nobody to help me at home and that if I went to USA I would have assistance at least at the beginning. They explained that we would stay in a camp for about half a year to learn the language. If we had relatives in USA they would help to find them. And they also promised vocational training and support to become rightful citizens. Then an American officer came to tell us that we had to be ready to depart the following day. He explained when the truck would be there to pick us up. On the morning of departure my cousin offered me to go to the town to buy some food for the road. We had fresh memories about the concentration camp and knew it was better to have some food with us that hope for somebody else to provide food. We bought some bread and sausage and when we returned to the camp it turned out that the transport with those moving to USA had left already. So the two of us stayed in the camp. We registered as Czech citizens. We really believed we were Czech citizens and thought the Hungarians were the occupants. We were sure that Subcarpathia was to become Czechoslovakian after the war.  Few days later we were transferred to Russians and they took us to a Russian camp. The food we got there was no different from what we got in the concentration camp. We were kept there for 2 weeks. One night they woke us up and ordered to board trucks. We were taken to a war prisoners’ camp. The majority of prisoners were German SS officers. From their talks I understood that all inmates of this camp were to be taken to Siberia.  I told Moishe about it in Yiddish saying that this was the end and that we should have better perished in the concentration camp. I didn’t notice that chief of the camp was listening to us. He asked us in Yiddish who we were and where we came from. We replied that we were Jews from Subcarpathia and that we came from Subcarpathia. The next morning our senior man brought us an assignment to work in the sugar factory in another end of the town. It was written there that we were Czechoslovakian citizens. We were accommodated in the hostel of this sugar factory and some time later we were sent to Prague in Czechoslovakia. We were accommodated in the former military barracks. There was a Red Cross canteen at the railway station where former prisoners of concentration camps had meals. There were many from Subcarpathia, particularly from Uzhgorod there and I soon got new friends.  Once I was going back to the barrack from the canteen, when I saw few Czech military. One of them looked at me closely and asked me whether I was Faige Preis’s son. I said that I was, but I didn’t know him. He said he was Mayer, my mother’s cousin.  I heard about him that he married a beauty of a Gypsy woman and the family refused from him.  Mayer lived in Chop before the war where he owned few cabs. He drove one cab and hired drivers for the rest. In 1937 Mayer moved to Bohemia and went to the Czech army. He had the rank of major.  Mayer said that he was in Uzhgorod and heard that my mother and my sister Hermina returned home from Auschwitz. He didn’t see them, but he heard this from reliable people. We said “good byes’ and I returned to the camp. Few days later we were told that we could go wherever we wished. I decided to go to Budapest, before making a final decision. I didn’t know that Subcarpathia became Soviet. We were given tickets, food and money to go. There were few of us from Subcarpathia. When we came to Budapest I met my cousin Dezso, my mother younger brother Pinchas’ son, at the railway station. He began to talk me into going home, but I didn’t agree. I didn’t quite believe that my mother and sister were back home: Mayer didn’t see them and people might have been misunderstood something.  In Budapest we were accommodated in the Jewish girls’ school building, near the railway station. I registered for departure to Palestine. Of course, I wanted the USA more, but Palestine was all right too. Anywhere, but home. There were lists of those who returned from concentration camps updated every day and I went there to check the lists hoping to find my family or acquaintances. I met a girl from Malay Dobron. I didn’t recognize her at once, but she ran to hug me.  She asked me at once why I was still in Budapest, when my mother was home. I asked her how she knew it and she said she was in the concentration camp with my mother and sister.  I went back to the hostel and told my cousin that I was going back with him. We got tickets to Subcarpathia. There were 6 of us. We got to Chop by train. I got off the train and saw a man and a woman standing nearby. The woman looked like mother from distance, but when I came closer, I understood this was not my Mama, but the man hugged me all of a sudden. I asked him to leave me alone, but he didn’t let go of me. He turned out to be my father’s younger brother Mendl. Of course, I didn’t recognize him. He had no beard, wore a short haircut and no head covering. Mendl said he was taking me to my mother right away. We came to a small house and Mendl shouted: ‘Faige, your son is back!’ My mother ran out of the house, pressed me to her chest weeping bitter tears. I shall never forget this meeting. Somebody had told my mother that I was back to Budapest and that I didn’t want to come home. She was afraid we would never see each other again. My younger sister Hermina returned with my mother. They temporarily stayed in Chop. When I returned we moved to Uzhgorod. Mendl told me that his wife and four sons perished in the concentration camp. My grandfather and grandmother, my father and Mendl’s parents, perished in the ghetto in Dubovoye in 1944. Mendl didn’t know anything about his sisters living in Hungary before the war. Haskl perished in a work battalion and his family perished in a concentration camp. Mendl heard that older brother Moric returned to Kosice, but there was no connection with him. We were Mendl’s closest relatives and he got very attached to us and took care of us.

After the war

The Soviet rule was already established in Subcarpathia. Our hopes that Subcarpathia would be returned to Czechoslovakia failed.  We knew very little about the USSR. What we heard was that there were no goods in stores and there were lines in shops to buy anything, but we never gave it a thought before we saw it with our own eyes. Anyway, we couldn’t even imagine anything like that before, but soon we learned what the soviet power was about. Mendl was a wealthy man. When in 1939 suppression of Jews began he spent all his money to buy gold that he buried in the garden near his house in Dubovoye. When he returned home, there was a Hutsul [Ruthenians living in the Carpathian Mountains, traditionally dealing with livestock breeding.] He refused to let Mendl into the house and said he would kill him if Mendl tried to go in. Mendl left and stayed with his acquaintances. At night he went to dig up his valuables in the garden, but the Hutsul saw him and reported to authorities. Mendl was arrested and kept in prison in Uzhgorod for a month without any charges against him. Then he was released and when he came home, he said to my mother that we had to escape since this country was not for us. Mendl was saying that we would not be able to live with the Soviet regime, but my mother was saying that we would get adjusted somehow and that she had no strength to start anew somewhere else. Mendl said that my mother could stay, if she thought so, but that she should give the children, i.e., my sister and me, in his care. My mother began to cry saying that uncle Mendl wanted to take away her children from her, whom the God saved in the concentration camp and that she couldn’t part with us. Mendl felt hurt and left. He never contacted us again. From our common acquaintances we heard that he secretly crossed to Romania and from there left for Israel.  For a long time all we knew about Mendl was what his friend from Dubovoye, with whom he corresponded told us. It was not safe for Soviet citizens to correspond with relatives abroad 7. All correspondence was censored and everybody knew this. KGB 8 was watching the whole process, but this wouldn’t have stopped my mother if Mendl had written us, but there were no contacts with him. Only after my mother moved to Israel in the 1970s, our contacts revived. Mendl was doing well in Israel. He got married and had two daughters.

We got information about my mother’s brothers and sisters. My mother’s older sister Elka and her husband Gersch Scher perished in Auschwitz during sorting out. Of their 8 children four perished in Auschwitz, 2 moved to USA after the camp was liberated by Americans. [Auschwitz was liberated by the Soviet Army.] There is no information about the other two children. Uncle Pinchas was with us in Auschwitz and Gleiwitz. His wife Baila and four younger children were exterminated in the Auschwitz concentration camp. Of four other children only their daughter Zsuzsa [Diminutive of the Hungarian name Zsuzsanna.] returned to Subcarpathia. She lived in Uzhgorod and died in the 1980s.  After Americans liberated the camp, one daughter moved to USA and 2 sons moved to Palestine. My mother’s brother Lajos and his wife Blanka and Lipe with his wife Lea were exterminated in Auschwitz. Lipe’s two younger sons perished with their parents. His two older sons perished in a work battalion in Ukraine. My mother younger sister Riva’s husband Wolf Steinberg perished in a work battalion in 1942. Riva and her four younger children were in concentration camps. Riva perished in Auschwitz in 1944 and the younger children perished, too.  Of her two older sons, who were in a work battalion one perished and one returned to Subcarpathia after the war. In the 1970s he and his family moved to Israel. My mother’s youngest brother Bernat survived in the camps and returned to Subcarpathia. His wife and two children perished in the concentration camp. Bernat married a Jewish woman and they had two daughters. When Jews were allowed to emigrate from the USSR, Bernat and his family moved to Israel. Bernat died in Israel in the 1980s. His wife also passed away. His daughters and their families live in Israel.  

We settled down in Uzhgorod. When we came there, we were told to find a dwelling from where Jews had been taken to a concentration camp and move in there. We found a one-bedroom apartment: one big room, a kitchen and a toilet. The three of us moved in there. I became an apprentice of a tailor in a garment store. I had to support my mother and sister, being the only man in the family. It stimulated me to study well and two years later I became a good tailor. Many people ordered their clothes at garment shops since it was hard to buy anything in shops. I could make any clothes, but I was good at making men’s suits. The town and region’s top men were my clients. Besides my salary I got good tips from my clients, and they also brought me food products that were hard to buy.  

Though the soviet power struggled against religion 9 my mother and we observed Jewish traditions after we returned to Subcarpathia. I didn’t go to the synagogue, though, in fear of having problems at work, but my mother went to the synagogue on Sabbath and Jewish holidays. On Sabbath evening my mother lit candles and made a festive dinner. I worked on Saturday, but my mother tried to do no work on Saturday. We celebrated holidays according to the rules.  We always had matzah on Pesach. My mother baked it at first, but later matzah was brought from Budapest and we could buy it. On all holidays we had chicken broth with dumplings from matzah flour, gefilte fish, puddings and strudels from matzah flour. Of course, kosher food was out of question, there was nowhere to get it, but my mother followed kashrut. She didn’t mix dairy and meat products, didn’t eat pork or sausage and didn’t allow us to have any.    

My mother was relatively young. She dedicated her love and care to my sister and me. We understood that it would have been better for our mother to meet a decent man and get married.  My mother’s close friend introduced my mother to her distant relative Gedale Fixler, a Jew from Subcarpathia.  He was born in 1900 and was the same age with my mother. During WWII he was in a work battalion. He returned to Subcarpathia after the war hoping that at least some of his family had survived, but they all perished in Auschwitz. Gedale finished the Trade Academy in Mukachevo. He worked in trade. He liked my mother and my mother was not indifferent to him. My sister and I kept telling our mother that we were going to have our families soon and it would be good for her to have a caring husband. They got married in 1947. My stepfather had an apartment and my mother moved in with him. Gedale worked and my mother was a housewife. Gedale was religious. He was a very good man, kind and honest. We liked him and he treated us as his own children. My sister and I visited them on Sabbath and all holidays, but also often just dropped by to see them. My mother and he were very happy to see us. My sister and I spent all Jewish holidays with them. We didn’t celebrate Soviet holidays, but there were banquets at work and I attended them since it would have been defiant on my part if I missed them. Of all Soviet holidays the only one that I believed was truly mine was Victory Day 10, 9 May.

Anti-Semitism emerged in Subcarpathia with the soviet rule.  Of course, it was there since 1938, when Hungarians came to power, but at least the situation was clear: Hungary was a fascist country allied to Hitler’s Germany, but the Soviet Union struggling against fascism seemed to be the country where anti-Semitism was impossible. We realized soon that we were wrong about it. When newcomers from the USSR arrived, we could often hear the word ‘zhyd’  [kike] in public transport and in the streets. Nobody had ever been surprised before hearing Jews speaking Yiddish, but it made the newcomers so indignant that they demanded that we spoke Russian, but the biggest surprise for me was that the majority of Jews from the USSR looked at local Jews as if we were enemies and this demand to speak Russian often came from them. (I didn’t study the Russian language, I just listened to others speaking it and gradually began to speak and then read and write in it.) This was terrible and hard to understand. I was surprised since even in the concentration camp we spoke Yiddish to Jews from other countries and German guards didn’t mind it. Jews were always friendly and supported each other, but these Jews from the USSR kind of wanted to separate from us and demonstrate that we had nothing in common. Campaign against cosmopolites 11 that began in the USSR in 1948 were almost unnoticed in our area. The newcomers discussed them, but we had nothing to do with them. We also thought that the ‘doctors’ plot’ 12 that began in January 1953 was a lie. The majority of doctors in Subcarpathia were Jews and we trusted them, but those newcomers could say in a polyclinic: ‘I shall not have a Jewish doctor’. My wife’s sister, a children’s doctor, also said that the newcomers didn’t want her to treat their children. . In some cases, when she came to a house on call, the child’s parents closed the door before her saying: ‘Let them not send a Jewish woman again’. Anti-Semites raised their heads again. There were always meetings at work where employees had to speak against Jewish poisoners, the doctors.  It was compulsory for members of the Party and desirable for others.  

In March 1953 Stalin died. I remember well how grown-up men cried in the streets and were not ashamed of their tears. I didn’t have tears or grief for him, though I didn’t know the truth about Stalin’s crimes that Nikita Khrushchev 13 spoke about at the 20th Congress of the Party 14, but I already knew that those Jews who risked their lives to escape from the fascist Hungary to the USSR were sent to the GULAG 15 without trial or investigation. Some of them returned to Subcarpathia after Stalin died, but not all of them. I knew that those Jews who were liberated from concentration camps by Soviet troops were sent to camps for prisoners-of-war or GULAG. Besides, I couldn’t understand why newcomers were saying that the world was going to collapse after Stalin’s death and life was impossible without him. We lived in Subcarpathia without Stalin for many years and without the USSR and it was a good life. Leaders of the state come and go, but life goes on. Actually, I didn’t bother about the life in the USSR. However, 2 events stirred up my senses. This was invasion of Soviet troops to Hungary in 1956 16 and Czechoslovakia in 1968 [Prague Spring] 17. These were my countries and I was very concerned about the invasion. I understood that it was the policy of the USSR to suppress freedom and exterminate those who wanted changes in the existing regime in the USSR and socialist countries. Subcarpathian troops also took part in those events and people coming back from there told us that it was different from what newspapers wrote about them. The official version was that the government and people of these countries requested the USSR for military assistance, but if it had been true would the people meet their liberators with the slogans ‘Ivan, go back home’, and likewise? Of course, I didn’t speak my mind: I didn’t want to be sent to GULAG after I was in a concentration camp. I knew many people sentenced to 10 to 25 yeas of imprisonment for expressing their unhappiness or telling an anecdote, therefore. I tried to keep my tongue behind my teeth.   

My sister married Ernest Spiegel from Subcarpathia in 1950. During the war her husband was in a concentration camp. After the war he returned to Subcarpathia and settled down in Uzhgorod. His family had perished. We arranged a real Jewish wedding for my sister. Of course, we had to do it in secret. We had a chuppah in the room at home. After the war the soviet power closed most of synagogues in Uzhgorod, but there was one working. My mother asked the rabbi to conduct the wedding ceremony for my sister. We invited few friends and closed ones to the chuppah and my mother cooked a wedding dinner.  My sister and her husband lived in the room and I had a bed in the kitchen. My mother’s husband built an annex to the apartment, a small room and I moved in there in due time. In 1951 Yudita, my sister’s first daughter, was born and in 1958  – her second daughter Erika. My sister and her husband spoke Russian at home. The girls spoke Hungarian and Russian at home, in the street and at school.  

We spent time with other Jewish young people from Subcarpathia. Some of my friends were Hungarians, Ruthenians, Slovaks, all born in Subcarpathia. I had no friends among the newcomers from the USSR. Our views on life were too different. There were many girls in our garment store. They often invited me for a walk or to the cinema. I refused referring to the lack of time. My mother tried to introduce me to Jewish girls, but I didn’t think about marriage. Once a young woman, one of the newcomers, came to our garment shop. We could distinguish them by their pure language. Subcarpathians spoke Russian with an accent.  She asked the tailor to fix something in her dress. He replied with a joke and everybody laughed. I looked at her and she asked me in Yiddish: ‘Why are you laughing, brunette?’ Later we often met in the street and said ‘hello’ to each other. She arrived in Uzhgorod from Savran town in Odessa region [615 km from Uzhgorod, 270 km from Kiev], on her job assignment 18 after finishing the Pharmaceutical Faculty of Odessa Medical College. There were special permits to travel to Subcarpathia at that time since it was near the borders. People living in the USSR thought there were gangs and anti-Semites all around in Subcarpathia. Her father even wanted to bribe some officials to prevent them from sending his daughter to this terrible place. When Anna came to Uzhgorod she saw it was different and she liked it. Even during the Soviet regime the life in Subcarpathia was easier than everywhere else. In 1946-47 – famine in the USSR, she sent her family parcels from here. Then her middle sister Donia finished the Pediatrics Faculty of Odessa Medical College. She got a job assignment to the children’s home for orphan children who had lost their parents during the war in Brest in Belarus. She completed her 3-year assignment and her older sister convinced her to settle down in Uzhgorod. Donia worked as a children’s doctor in the polyclinic. Then her younger sister Lubov Kerzhner finished a Pedagogical College and got a job assignment to a Ukrainian village. Finishing her 3-year assignment Lubov arrived in Uzhgorod. She worked as elementary school teacher not far from my shop. We met every morning on our way to work. At first we just said ‘hello’ to one another, then we stopped to talk once and then began to see each other. The sisters were very close and always listen to one another. The older sister spoke well of me. Lubov was 8 years younger than me. She was born in Savran in 1932. Her Jewish name was Liebe.  Her father Moisey Kerzhner and her mother Meita Kerzhner were religious. They observed Jewish traditions. Their daughters of course, were no longer religious, but they remained Jewish. They knew Jewish traditions, Jewish culture and spoke Yiddish to one another and to their parents.   

My wife’s older sister Anna married a military man who had also arrived from the USSR. In 1948 their daughter was born. In 1955 he died. She never remarried. She worked and raised her daughter. Their sister Donia was beautiful, but she couldn’t find a husband. She couldn’t choose for a long time and lived her life single.    

We got married in 1957. We had a civil ceremony in a registry office on 18 June and when vacations began at school and teachers went on vacation we had a Jewish wedding. We had to keep it a secret. My wife was a teacher, and authorities watched teachers’ ideology very strictly. If her management knew that we had a Jewish wedding she might have been fired with the comment that she ‘was not fit to raise the young generation in the spirit of communism’. It happened so at the time. With this entry in her employment records book she wouldn’t have found another job as a teacher, or even as a cleaning woman. Therefore, we secretly had a chuppah at home. My relatives and Lubov’s sister were with us. Her parents also arrived at the wedding. My mother was very happy that I finally got married and that I had a Jewish wife. They got along well. My mother made challah bread and honey cakes for Sabbath for our family as well. Lubov and I always celebrated Sabbath and Jewish holidays visiting with my mother and stepfather. My mother also often visited us. There was a market, the only one in town, near our house. My mother came by every time she went to the market. In 1959 our first baby was born. We named our son Avrum after my father. We had a brit milah ritual for him. Of course, this was also done secretly, but one of my wife’s colleagues heard about it and my wife had problems. Her director and the town educational department called her and asked her one question: ‘How could you do this?’ Fortunately, it ended just with a reprimand. In 1968 our daughter Marina was born. We gave her the Jewish name of Meita after my wife’s mother, who had died one year before our daughter was born. 

My wife and I spoke Yiddish for the most part. She never learned Hungarian. She thought she didn’t need it. Russian was a state language during the soviet regime. I spoke poor Russian. I still have an accent. Our children knew Yiddish and Russian. My mother helped us to raise our son, but when our daughter was born she was severely ill and our son and my wife’s sisters were helping us with the baby.  Our children studied at school and were pioneers and Komsomol 19 members. I didn’t mid this. They were growing up in this country and it was better for them to be no different from others. Still my wife and I told our children about Jewish traditions and Jewish history, but we also told them to not discuss this with anybody else. We celebrated Jewish holidays at home. I didn’t go to the synagogue, but I prayed at home. I had a tallit, a tefillin and a prayer book.  

The longer I lived in the soviet regime, the more I hated it. There was no freedom in the USSR and we got used to freedoms in Subcarpathia, particularly during the Czech rule. We could speak our minds without suspecting KGB informers in everybody else. Besides, we lived near the border and to travel to another town we had to obtain a permit from militia and have our passports stamped. We couldn’t buy train tickets if we didn’t have a stamp; and there was another stamp to be obtained for each trip. We could only walk in the town with our passport. Before I got married my friends and I often accompanied girls home in the evening. There were frontier guard patrols walking the town. They checked our documents and if the girl lived nearby they let her go home, but we couldn’t walk with her. Even to go to the woods we needed passports. In 1951 I went to get some wood for stoves in the forest and left my passport at home. In the woods a patrol stopped me. I had no documents, so they put me in their vehicle and took me to the militia office. They reported of having captured a spy. I was lucky that their commander was my client who had picked his new suit just the day before. We said ‘hello’ and laughed. He released the soldier. But how was I to go home without documents? I asked him to issue a card stating that they detained me, checked and released me.  He said he didn’t have the right to issue such paper, but he promised to call all posts to tell them to let me go. There were other incidents; it’s hard to name them all. Could one live in this country? It was also hard from the material point of view. There were lines in stores and one had to stand for hours before buying a thing. What is this country like where people are not free and also, are miserably poor! For me to love this country, the country had to love me, but we lived like it was a prison. Sometimes it seemed to me that we had more freedom in the concentration camp.   

When in the 1970s Jews began to move to Israel, I thought about it like it was a miraculous escape from everything I hated that the God sent me. My relatives also decided to emigrate. My mother and stepfather were the first to go. They were pensioners at that time. My mother was severely ill and her doctors were talking her out of emigration telling her that she was not fit for traveling and that the climate in Israel was not good for her, but my mother decided to move there, nevertheless. She lived 7 years in Israel: good medications and qualified doctors… They lived in Bnei Brak. When my father’s brother Mendl got to know that she was in Israel he visited her right away. Mendl supported and visited my mother. My mother died in 1977.  Mendl died in the middle 1980s. My mother’s husband Gedale never remarried. He lived in Bnei Brak and died in 1988. He was buried near my mother. In 1972 my sister Hermina and her family moved to Qiriat Ono. I was eager to go to Israel, but my wife was against emigration. Her sisters supported her. They lived their lives in the USSR and were patriots of their country. They blindly believed the propaganda on the radio and in publications. They never gave it a deeper thought; they just believed what they heard. Their middle sister Donia, the children’s doctor, was particularly stubborn about it. She was telling me that Israel is a capitalist country and capitalists were exploiters and working people had a very hard life there. I was trying to tell her that she had never practiced capitalism while I lived during capitalism and those were the best years of my life, that if a person had a good job, he could make his living and support his family well while with socialism it didn’t matter whether one worked or he didn’t, didn’t matter – he will be miserably poor anyways. Besides, one feels a fool, when working hard he earns the same wages as lazy bones doing nothing.  However, these were mere words for my wife and her sisters that they didn’t make an effort to think about. So it happened that we stayed in the USSR. I didn’t have much choice: emigration or the family and I chose the family.

After finishing school my son entered the Faculty of Biology of Uzhgorod University.  He was fond of biology at school, took part in the Olympiads [There were school Olympiads where children competed in their knowledge of school subjects. The first round was at school, then in the district, region and the final was in the Republican level] and won prizes. Of course, this helped him during admission. Only 1-2 Jews were admitted at one faculty at the University. My son was admitted at his first try. We were happy about it since if he hadn’t succeeded he would have been taken to the army and being a Jew he wouldn’t have had an easy life there. My son didn’t face any anti-Semitism at the university. His lecturers were good to him: my son was a good student. When he was the last year student, my son got married. His wife Maria, a Jew, had finished the Medical Faculty of the university by that time and was working, which helped my son to obtain a free assignment diploma instead of a fixed job assignment upon graduation. However, he couldn’t get a job by his specialty and went to work as a lab assistant. His wife was appointed chief of department in her hospital, but she received a low salary and my son didn’t earn much. Avrum went to work as a taxi driver. He lives with his wife, but we often see each other. On weekend they always come to see me. Unfortunately, they have no children.  

After finishing school my daughter entered the Faculty of Russian Philology of Uzhgorod University. Upon graduation she failed to find a job by her specialty. This didn’t have anything to do with her being a Jew. This was during the period of perestroika 20, when anti-Semitism receded. It was just that there were not so many schools in Uzhgorod and there were no job vacancies. During her studies Marina got married. Her husband Leonid Shyfris, a Jewish man, also works as a cabdriver like my son. Leonid was born in Uzhgorod in 1953, his parents moved to Subcarpathia from the USSR after the war. The only language they knew was Russian. Marina and Leonid speak Russian at home. He graduated from the Lvov Polytechnic University, but an engineer’s salary was too low to support the family. In 1988 my grandson Robert, Marina’s son, was born. Marina and her family live with me. When in 1999 Hesed was established in Uzhgorod, Marina went to work there. She was chief of literature studio there. Now Marina is expecting the second baby. She doesn’t work.

I saw my sister again in 1983, before perestroika began. I could never imagine having an opportunity to visit her in Israel at that time and my sister couldn’t obtain an entry visa to the USSR. We met in Budapest. It was easier for Subcarpathians to travel to Hungary than for other citizens of the USSR. We spent two weeks in Budapest and talked a lot. I was surprised that Hermina became such a patriot of Israel. I asked her whether it was possible to take to loving the country for such short period of time and my sister replied that it was natural for Jews moving to Israel. After we met in Budapest we began to correspond regularly. Before this meeting we wrote each other occasionally. Unfortunately, I never saw my sister again. She died in 1986. In 1987 we had a family reunion with her older daughter Yudita, my niece. She also traveled to Budapest and my wife, my son and daughter and I went there to meet with her. We rented an apartment for two weeks. We took walks in Budapest and I showed them the places I remembered.  When it was time for us to go home, I told my niece to send me an invitation to visit them. Of course, I had little belief that it might happen. In 1987 she sent me an invitation, but I managed to use it only a year later.

My initial attitude to perestroika that started in the late 1980s was the same as to everything else in the USSR – indifferent, but a short time later I realized that I was wrong. Gorbachev 21 truly wanted a democratic society with freedom of speech and press. Gorbachev allowed private businesses, though there were those who didn’t like it. Many of those who had come here from the USSR were saying that we were going to capitalism. For them this word was a curse word, but for me it meant a society where an individual could work to support his family and make a good living.  Religion was allowed. People could go to synagogues and celebrate religious holidays openly. But unfortunately, the Soviet regime broke people of the habit to religion so much that at the beginning we couldn’t even gather 10 men for a minyan. For me it was very important that during perestroika people at last got an opportunity to correspond with their relatives or friends abroad, visit them and invite them to visit them back. In 1988 I submitted my documents for a trip to Israel. At first they refused to accept my documents and I only managed in early 1989. They accepted my documents, but said that they didn’t guarantee that I would have a permission to visit Israel. However, few months later they issued a permit and I spent four months in Israel. I visited the graves of my mother, my sister and uncle Mendl and recited the Kaddish. I have many relatives, friends and acquaintances in Israel and I was happy to see them. Of course, Israel is a wonderful country.  I admired patriotism of its people. They love their country and are proud of it. Service in the army of Israel is not a burdensome necessity that they try to avoid, but an honorary right of an individual. I spoke to young people and they are proud of the possibility to serve in the army and defend their country. Hermina’s older daughter Yudita has two children: son Elan, born in 1977, and daughter Mikhalka, born in 1980. My younger niece Erika has three sons: Galiz, born in 1977, Afir, born in 1982, and Cham, born in 1985. I traveled across the country and they wanted to show me the most interesting places. I was sorry to leave Israel, but I understood that at my age it was too late to move to Israel to start a new life. I keep in touch with my relatives in Israel. My niece has been here several times and my children traveled to Israel.

When after the breakup of the USSR [1991] Ukraine gained independence I was hoping for a better life. Ukraine is a rich country: it has fruitful lands and natural deposits. There are good reserves requiring effective management, but I don’t see it happening. Life is more difficult than it was during the Soviet rule. My heart squeezes when I see comely old women digging in garbage pans looking for food leftovers. Fortunately, Hesed provides assistance to us, Jews. Old people can have free meals in the Hesed canteen and Hesed delivers meals to those who cannot leave their homes. We also receive food packages and clothes. I’ve been invited to this canteen many times, but I prefer my own cooking. It’s not bragging on my part, but many housewives ask me for my recipes of traditional Jewish cuisine. My daughter’s family likes my cooking as well. I’ve had two infarctions and several serious surgeries. Hesed helps me with medications and I can consult a doctor from Hesed. When my wife was ill, Hesed also helped us. A visiting nurse from Hesed came to look after her and we received all necessary medications. Lubov died in 2003. Hesed helped us with funeral arrangements. My wife was buried in the Jewish sector of the town cemetery in Uzhgorod. There was a Jewish funeral.  The rabbi of the Uzhgorod synagogue conducted the ceremony. Hesed takes great efforts to revive the Jewry of Subcarpathia. There clubs where Jews of all ages study Hebrew and Jewish religion and traditions. My grandson also studies there. Besides, he is a member of the club for Jewish youngsters in Hesed. There are clubs of foreign languages, la literature studio, a choir and dance studio. There is a club for older people in Hesed where they can talk, listen to music or watch a film having a cup of tea. This is so wonderful since older people suffer more from solitude than diseases. Besides, there is a Jewish community and I have been chairman at the synagogue for 8 years. I know Yiddishkeit and can help those who are just coming to the religion of his ancestors. We go to the synagogue 4 times a week and people got used to this. Now we finally have a rabbi and this is a big relief for us. Young people begin to attend the synagogue and we are very happy about it.  However, there is still anti-Semitism in Ukraine. Actually, it exists on everyday life level, but it is still there. It is possible to fight open anti-Semitism through court or state authorities, but when a young guy in the street yelled ‘Heil Hitler!’ seeing me, this means that fascism is alive and it can come back in Ukraine. Only if everybody stands against it there can be hope that all those horrors it brought to our country once would never recur.    

Glossary:

Pavel Werner
Prague
Czech Republic
Interviewer: Dagmar Greslova
Date of interview: November 2005

Pavel Werner, whose full name is Pavel Mendel Manes ben Chaim Werner, is by profession an economist specializing in foreign trade. His life story is an eventful one, having been fundamentally marked by the loss of his parents and younger sister during the Holocaust. The war years forced him to grow up prematurely, at the age of fifteen circumstances forced him to learn to rely only on himself. Pavel Werner is now in retirement, he however still actively participates in programs of the Terezin Initiative 1, gives lectures about his life experiences and the horrors of the Holocaust to young people in schools in the Czech Republic and also abroad, so as to pass on his testimony to the next generation. He tries to convey to young people the unconceivable, to impart to young people a sense of the wartime period, the suffering of the Jews in the ghettos, concentration camps, and on death marches, for he believes that only in this way can we have the hope that nothing similar will ever be repeated in the future. For this reason he also agreed to this interview, even though thanks to his eventful life he has developed a certain wariness and mistrust, reserves the right to his privacy and does not wish to publicize any details from his personal life after the war. Although some chapters of his life were left out according to his wishes, the interview with Pavel Werner was nevertheless extremely interesting, full of humorous as well as solemn anecdotes, pieces of a mosaic, as it were, that piece together the extraordinary life of a Czech Jew, lived during the extraordinary time that the 20th century inarguably was.

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

My family history

I know practically nothing about my father’s ancestors; neither do I have any materials or photographs. The only thing I know is that my father’s family came from Poland. When I was little, we never discussed my father’s parents or any of his other ancestors. I only knew some of my father’s cousins that lived in a village named Hroubovice in the Pardubice region, not far from Chrudim.

Fritzi Wernerova, who was apparently a distant cousin of my father’s – by now I can’t remember how exactly they were related – had a large factory in Hroubovice, I think a textile mill or laundry. Fritzi was very rich; she had married some Jew and belonged to the elite. They moved to Prague and in Hroubovice had only the factory. I recall that as a sign of respect to their family we would regularly send them from Pardubice whole bags of the renowned Pardubice gingerbread, which was in those days something, nowhere else did they make such amazing gingerbread. Fritzi, along with her daughter Gerta, passed through Auschwitz-Birkenau, returned. However, after February 1948 2 she secretly emigrated, I didn’t know about it at all. In emigration Fritzi married a journalist that worked for [Radio] Free Europe 3.

Hroubovice was also home to my father’s cousin Beno Werner, who was this tall man that owned an embroidery company, back then that was a common business in villages. I also recall my father’s cousin Zigi Werner. How he made a living, I have no idea. Zigi’s son, Erich Werner, survived World War II thanks to the fact that his parents sent him to the West, so he didn’t spend any time at all in the camps. He joined the Western army, was in Africa, Palestine, Tobruk 4. After the war he also emigrated to the West. For long years I knew nothing of my relatives that had emigrated, because it was dangerous to maintain relations and correspond with people abroad.

During the First [Czechoslovak] Republic 5 we were registered in Hroubovice as it being our home municipality. The institution of the home municipality was very well thought out – every citizen had to have a home municipality, which was responsible for him. In the event that a person wandered, or committed something, or became a vagabond, he was expelled back to this home municipality, which had to take care of him.

My father, Karel Chaim Werner, was born on 9th February 1890 in Poland, in Kopyczynce. His cousins lived in Czechoslovakia, they invited him in the middle of the twenties [1920s], to come join them. He found work here, later in the 1930s when he met my mother, he settled here. I can’t say that we were badly off, we for example had a maid, but we didn’t have a car and on the whole our family wasn’t in the same class with the rest of the members of the family, the rest of the Werners were a somewhat higher class. My father spoke Czech and sometimes German, we never heard even a word of Polish from him.

My father was a sales agent for the Kudrnac company, which manufactured various rubber products, and had its head office in Nachod [the company exists to this day under the name Rubena]. My father traveled by train around Slovakia, where he had his circuit and his clients, he visited individual shoemakers or small shops and sold them rubber heels and soles. He’d be away the whole week, he actually only returned on Sunday or Saturday and then left again. My father had the ‘traveling salesman’s disease’: he was a gambler. Most traveling salesmen played cards, because when they arrived in a strange town, where they had no family, the only thing that was left to do was to get together and play cards. I remember that as soon as my father came home from his travels, the whole gang would get together in a pub or café, and play the card game Marias. He had this notebook, in which he would record how much he had won and how much he had lost. I think that in this respect my mother had a lot of problems with him. He was likely quite well-known as a card player in Pardubice, because people used to call my sister and me ‘the soroklings’ – from the Russian word sorok, which means forty – which is a term used in Marias.

My grandfather on my mother’s side, Adolf Weissenstein, was a tailor. I never knew my grandpa, as he died before I was born. I only remember my grandmother Pavla Weissensteinova [nee Pollakova]. My grandma was born on 17th November 1868 in Nachod, where she also lived her entire life. I remember that my grandmother was ill, she suffered from heart disease, I recall that she had spots on her arms from leeches that were applied to the body, to lower the patient’s blood pressure. She died on 5th January 1938; she was buried at the Jewish cemetery in Nachod, but that cemetery is no longer there, today there’s a park that was built in its place. I remember by grandma very foggily, the only thing that’s remained is the impression that she was ill and that her arms were purple from the application of leeches. From photographs I know that we used to visit her, but I really otherwise don’t remember, I was very little.

My mother, Ella Wernerova [nee Weissensteinova], was born on 2nd May 1906 in Nachod. My mother was this refined figure, she was very cultivated. I don’t remember getting a spanking from her, and if I did, it was only a couple of times.

My mother had an older brother, Otto Weissenstein, who was born on 1st March 1894 in Nachod. I remember him well, although I hadn’t been to Nachod very many times. Uncle Otto had this magical box, which when it was opened in some fashion, always contained a candy. I’ve always loved sweets, which is something that has stayed with me, so I remember this impression very well. Every time he saw me, which wasn’t that often, he always had that candy box with him. Otto died on 8th January 1936 of heart disease. He was buried at the Jewish cemetery in Nachod, but his gravestone is no longer standing, as the entire cemetery was liquidated, today in its place there is a park.

I remember my uncle’s fiancée, Zdenka Camrova, who wasn’t Jewish, but had a close relationship with my uncle. Zdenka was a nursery school teacher, back then it was a very valued profession. Nursery schools were quite rare and were intended for children from the upper classes. Few and far between could afford to put their children into one; poor people didn’t have the money for it. Zdenka even drew this fold-out booklet about me, which had pictures and rhymes. After the war I met her once, and I don’t think that she was happy; by the looks of it she hadn’t married according to her expectations.

One more relative from my mother’s side lived in Nachod, I don’t know the exact relation, I however called her auntie. This aunt married a bank clerk of non-Jewish origins; she therefore lived in a mixed marriage and avoided the fate of the camps. If she was in Terezin 6 at all, then it was for only a short time. I remember that she used to send us parcels to Terezin. After the war I visited her in Nachod two or three times, when I passed by on a trip. She was an extremely kind woman, unfortunately she died relatively young.

I don’t know anything about how my parents met; in this case I can only imagine how things happened. I think that they likely met at some spa at the end of the 1920s. I’ve seen photographs of my father in various spa towns from that period, so it’s possible that he and my mother met someplace while on vacation. During my childhood I never discussed it with my parents, after the war I no longer had the possibility of asking anyone. That’s why I don’t even know when and where they had their wedding. It likely must have been in the year 1930.

Growing up

My Jewish name is Pavel Mendel Manes ben Chaim Werner. I don’t use the entire name, for me it’s rather exotic. I was born in 1932 in Prague, but our family lived in Pardubice. My childhood in Pardubice was at least in the beginning joyful and I enjoy recalling it. At home we spoke Czech; German was spoken only when my parents didn’t want my sister and me to understand them. But because I took private German lessons from some Mrs. Hochova, I knew German practically from childhood and I even learned that old-fashioned lettering, ‘Kurrent’ [Kurrentschrift, also known as black-letter script]. I took German lessons, along with a friend of mine, with Mrs. Hochova, who was this old, wicked Jewess. I was afraid of her – she had this big, mean dog, a Doberman.

As a child I was an avid reader, for my age I read even, I would say, more difficult works. Besides this, I must have read completely all the pocket-novels, back then they were published as a series. Someone scrounged them up for me, and there wasn’t a single pocket-novel that I hadn’t read. I loved to read. We used to go skating; we also used to go to the park by the Pardubice Chateau to the so-called dahlias, for in the fall gorgeous dahlias would bloom in the park.

We lived in a quite nice building near the Pardubice railway station. My childhood was beautiful. My mother didn’t work; she was a housewife and took care of me and my sister. My sister, Lenka Wernerova, was three years younger than I; she was born in the year 1935. We had a nice apartment on the first floor, with a large dining room, a kitchen and one more room. We also employed a maid. When the Germans came, we were allowed to stay there a while longer, however then we had to move to the outskirts of Pardubice [see Anti-Jewish laws in the Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia] 7. Our new dwelling was this little one-story house that belonged to this small businessman, the file-maker Mr. Lochmann, who along with an employee manufactured files there. Mr. Lochmann was a very decent, older person. When I used to play in the garden, I would occasionally run into the workshop after him and watch him grinding and making files.

In Mr. Lochmann’s house our family lived in two rooms – one room and a kitchen – we were quite crammed in that apartment, we had no conveniences. They were of course different living conditions than what we had been used to before, but I very much liked it in the new apartment, because there was a garden there, into which we could at least sometimes go when the owner permitted it. So my sister and I could occasionally go outside and play with the rabbits that we used to keep there, although Jews weren’t allowed to keep any animals. I don’t recall that anyone shunned us because we were a Jewish family, for example a little girl from the neighborhood, non-Jewish, used to normally come and play with us in the garden.

Life in Pardubice was nice, up until the Germans arrived. Of course even as a child a person felt that atmosphere, I personally was afraid and was quite scared of the boys from the Hitlerjugend 8. When they used to march around, they evoked terror; they wore these dark corduroy pants and brown shirts. At that time I wasn’t even wearing a star yet [see Yellow star – Jewish star in Protectorate] 9, but already I was afraid of them, and when they marched, I would quickly hide somewhere. In our new neighborhood on the outskirts of Pardubice we were isolated from the center, where we were no longer allowed. We were only allowed to move about along certain selected roads. At that time my father lost his job, they fired him from the Kudrnac company, that I remember well. They sent him to work with other Jewish men: in Pardubice they cleaned the brook, sewers; they walked about with shovels and did various manual labor.

I remember that a little ways off from us along the road into town, when you walked through the park, there was this little shop in town, in whose display window the ‘Vlajkari,’ members of Vlajka 10, an organization of Czech Fascists, had an information center. Back then I was attending second grade, I already knew how to read, so I could read what was written there. There were texts aimed against Jews. Jews were drawn there with these big noses, they looked like disgusting creatures. I remember it very well, that I was standing there, read it, looked at the pictures and thought about it. Back then we were already in the Protectorate [of Bohemia and Moravia] 11, some political parties were outlawed, one big party named Narodni Sourucenstvi [National Alliance] 12 was created, which brought together various political groups. From the second grade of elementary school, when I read it, I to this day remember one slogan: ‘Is the National Alliance for the nation, or for nothing? We Vlajkari at you are winking.’

In Pardubice I started attending school, I managed to only finish two grades, then they banned us from attending a normal school. Officially I couldn’t go to the third grade and I began attending these secret classes for Jewish children. We would meet by the Pardubice synagogue and the classes were held in the rabbi’s apartment. The Pardubice rabbi was named Feder, if I remember correctly. Children of all ages together in one class – we were this one-room school – this one young student used to teach us, her name was Krasova. I, along with two or three little girls, was the youngest ones, the rest were older. We formed one class, and were taught all at once, which went on for a year, up until 1942, when we had to embark on the transport.

I remember that I had to go to this school via a long detour, because as a Jew I was already wearing a star and wasn’t allowed to be on certain streets. From our place on the outskirts it was a relatively long route to the school in the synagogue, which was actually in the center of Pardubice. The way was long and complicated, as I had to go via a long detour; It took me a terribly long time. I had to take various little side-streets, so that I wouldn’t set foot on some main street. But I don’t remember anyone attacking me or abusing me along the way, I didn’t meet up with anti-Semitic attitudes. I was aware of relatively few anti-Jewish measures, I was afraid of the Hitlerjugend, I was aware of the anti-Jewish program of Vlajka, I knew that I wasn’t allowed to go along main streets, that I had to wear a star. However, I didn’t really ask my parents about these things, it didn’t seem downright dangerous to me. I was relatively small and I didn’t realize many things, and so they didn’t trouble me. I concerned myself with my own worries, for in the third grade I fell in love.

I was in love with my classmate Eliska Weissova, who was two years older than I. She looked more womanlike, that’s probably why I liked her so much. But she took absolutely no notice of me, because for her I was much too little. Eliska’s family had escaped before the Germans from the border region, from the Sudetenland 13, at that time her father had bought a farm in Nemosice, not far from Pardubice. I met this Eliska again after the war, in a Jewish orphanage at 25 Belgicka Street in Prague, where she lived for some time. Then we didn’t see each other again for around 45 or 50 years, and a year ago I met up with her at the congress of the Terezin Initiative. I suddenly saw her and she was very surprised that I had recognized her. So I revealed to her my love for her at the time, I said that I had loved her, and she – nothing. So as a child I was in love with Eliska, and they were trying to foist my classmate Ilona Klaubaufova on me, who I didn’t like at all. They put on this children’s wedding for us, the way children play. Ilona didn’t return from the concentration camp.

Out of all the children in Pardubice that attended the secretly improvised classes, only I, Eliska Weissova and our classmate Fiala, formerly Fienberg, returned. His family changed their name still before the war. After the war he immigrated to Israel. And one of the Schwarz brothers, who also immigrated to Israel. The Schwarz boys were from a mixed marriage, Mrs. Schwarz wasn’t Jewish. It was an interesting family. They belonged to the poorer class in Pardubice; Mr. Schwarz made a living by collecting rags and hides, you could say that he was this collector. The brother that returned immigrated to Israel and there worked as a maintenance worker or electrician at a hospital, where he met a nurse, an Arab girl, whom he married. That’s quite unusual, that a Jew in Israel marries an Arab woman.

I also had a classmate, Karel Fuernberg, whose family escaped before the Germans from the Sudetenland, from southern Moravia. Karel’s father was seriously handicapped, when we left on the transport to Terezin, he didn’t have even one leg. In Terezin the whole family survived thanks to the fact that they didn’t send Mr. Fuernberg to the East, into the gas as they say, to Auschwitz. They didn’t transport cripples to Auschwitz, they left them in Terezin. Thanks to this Mrs. Fuernberg and Karel also stayed there, because they were taking care of the old man. After the war, Karel returned to Pardubice. I also lived in Pardubice for a year, so we attended Scouts [see Czech Scout Movement] 14 together, however only up to the time that Karel immigrated to Israel. How he fared there, I have no idea, because after that I didn’t keep in touch with him at all. For it was terribly dangerous to correspond with a foreign country, let alone Israel.

I also had a classmate named Ludek Klacer in Pardubice, who was two years older than I; he was even in Birkenau with me. Ludek also returned from the concentration camp, but then emigrated. Of the children that I used to attend the secret classes with and who survived, I was the only one that remained in Czech, everyone else emigrated.

I can’t precisely estimate the size of the Jewish community in Pardubice during my childhood. Our family associated with about six Jewish families – the Klacers, Klaubaufs, Seiners, but I don’t remember the other names. My parents weren’t particularly religious, my father, nevertheless, was a little closer to faith, as he was from Poland. But at home they didn’t pray, neither did they go to the synagogue on Saturday, only during the high holidays, when he took me there a couple of times.

During the war

In the fall, 3rd November 1942, we got on the CG transport to Terezin. The whole Pardubice region one day got a summons; we got a summons to gather in the Pardubice Commerce Academy, which was conveniently located, as it was right beside the train station. Beside the freight train station, not the one from which passenger trains left. We knew that we could take with us only as many things as we could carry. Our place in Pardubice, where we lived after we moved out of our original apartment, was on the outskirts and quite far from the commerce academy. The man we lived with at the time, Mr. Lochmann, lent us this little wagon with four wheels, so we’d have something to load our things onto. This old man went with us the entire way to the commerce academy; far enough behind so that no one would see that he’s walking with us. On the platform we unloaded our things and left the wagon standing there, and he then picked it up. I didn’t see that, but he told me about it after the war.

The trip from Pardubice to Terezin was on the whole good – at that time they were still normal passenger wagons; they weren’t some sort of cattle wagons. However at that time there wasn’t yet a direct track to Terezin, that they built only later. So we had to get off at Bohusovice, which was still about three or four kilometers from Terezin. That doesn’t seem like much, but I was wearing a lot of clothing, I had a winter coat on, so I was sweating a lot, I was dragging a bag – I can’t exactly remember what I had in it. It was too much for me; I was sweating and crying that I can’t go any further. At that time my father started in on me, told me to look at Lenka, how brave she is, that she’s not crying and is walking on, and at the same time she was younger than me. So I have a vivid memory of this experience, that I was this weakling boy. In the end we somehow crawled our way to Terezin.

In Terezin I lived with my sister and mother, my father lived separately in the ‘Hannover’ barracks. We lived on Nadrazni Avenue in one of the buildings that had been adapted for the arrivals. There were ten women and three children living there in one room. When I later considered it, life in Terezin wasn’t again that cruel for me. Though my sister died there, but at the time, as a child, I didn’t feel it as much, as opposed to my parents, for whom it must have been a horribly cruel blow, to have a young child die. Lenka was eight years old when she died of tuberculous meningitis. Of course, in Terezin mainly older people and small children died – sick people who didn’t have medicines. Otherwise I think that you could more or less survive there, a person didn’t go nuts there, it was possible to do something.

Then for some time I lived at the L417 residence, in the home we had some sort of classes, but I don’t remember it any more. Terezin also had a cultural life. There were performances of the children’s opera Brundibar. [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.] I didn’t play in Brundibar, but I also had a performance. Back then my father had taught me the Russian song ‘Volha, Volha,’ so I recited it there, although I think that I can’t sing at all. We used to attend various concerts, there was activity, interests were enlarged upon. I, for example, collected razor blade wrappers. I walked around those huge army washrooms, where the men would shave, and collected razor blade wrappers. I had a whole large collection, and I and the others that also collected them would trade amongst ourselves. That also remained in Terezin when we left.

One day in March 1944 we received a definitive summons for the trip to Auschwitz. We had been summoned to the transport once already, but at the time I had a middle ear infection, so we were exempted from the transport, because acutely ill people weren’t transported to the East. Of course, the second time we didn’t manage to again avoid the transport. I remember the trip very well; this time it was quite cruel, they transported us in these cattle wagons. The wagons were overfilled, there was a horrible lot of us, and there was only one pail for bodily functions for everyone together. I don’t remember all the details any more, but this I remember very well: what a terrible problem it was with one single pail, all the more when there were so many people crowded around.

We arrived in Auschwitz at night, and that was some experience, I can still see it before my eyes. For one, there were lights everywhere, because everything had to be horribly lit up, then there were electrical wire fences everywhere that separated the individual camps. I remember the horrible light and bellowing on the ramp. The prisoners from the commando that was disembarking us were bellowing, the Germans were bellowing, a person felt like he had landed in a different world.

We got into the family camp. I lived with my father, my mother lived somewhere else. For some reason unknown to me I wasn’t placed in the ‘Kinderblock’ [German for children’s block] with the other children. Maybe I looked older, I had always looked older. So this way I also avoided the secret classes that were held in the Kinderblock – of course classes were held only while the family camp existed. So I practiced by myself. I found a piece of pencil and a cigarette package – at the time Polish ‘papirosy’ had a package made from hard paper – and I wrote on the blank side, counted, multiplied, divided. I was afraid that I’d forget these basic mathematical functions.

Auschwitz was cruel, there a person experienced something. I remember the shouting, our ‘Lagerkapo,’ the former Terezin executioner Fischer, who was always on a rampage. [Editor’s note: A ‘Kapo’ was a concentration camp inmate appointed by the SS to be in charge of a work gang, a ‘Lagerkapo’ for a whole camp.] Once he even hit my father with a cane, I don’t even remember why any more. Fischer was the only executioner in Terezin, he performed the one or two executions that took place in Terezin. Before the war he’d been a butcher and then worked in an autopsy room. Fischer was a deformed person, both physically and mentally. He was hunchbacked, he walked around hunched over, his face also looked horrible – he was this monster. Perhaps in reality he was actually this wretch that was compensating for his complexes. However, he was a human monster. In Terezin he worked as an executioner, in Auschwitz he became the Lagerkapo. He was constantly walking about with a stick and beating someone, bellowing and flying furiously about the camp. He inspired fear, and I was constantly afraid of him, especially after he hit my father. Fischer the Executioner had a lot of power in the camp, he was actually the second in command after the camp commander. He nearly had greater power over the prisoners than some SS officer, because he was in constant touch with them, he could whenever and with no reason kill any prisoner, and didn’t have to justify it to anyone.

In Auschwitz my mother carried barrels of soup. Now when I picture it, it seems unbelievable to me, because our mother had a somewhat weaker constitution – she had scoliosis of the spine – but in the concentration camp did such heavy physical labor. She, who had never before worked physically; before the war she had been a housewife and took care of the children. Two women always dragged along a huge wooden barrel of soup. They had specially made handles on the barrels, they carried this harness, one in the front and one in the back, and dragged that unimaginably heavy barrel about, so that they could then scrape out the dregs of the soup. My father and I would always go there, and we’d get a little more of the soup scraped from the bottom of the barrel for our canteens. My father was physically quite badly off, he was completely down and out.

You could see planes flying above the camp, whole squadrons of bombers at a great height; we saw how they were shooting at them. Only later did it occur to me that the Allies knew exactly how things were in Auschwitz, and didn’t do anything, didn’t hit anything. Of course, bombing the camp wouldn’t have solved anything, that would have been absurd, but they could have much earlier on bombed the train tracks, so that the transports couldn’t reach it. Thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands of people wouldn’t have reached there, who this way went straight into the gas. If they would have bombed the tracks, although by this time not a lot of Czech Jews, but a lot of Hungarian ones would have been saved, many of which died towards the end of the war. They knew very well what was going on there, the Americans knew, the nunciature in Rome knew it, but everyone acted as if nothing was happening, as if they weren’t exterminating people there.

We saw the flames from the crematoriums and the smoke, we smelled the stench of burned corpses, but in the beginning I didn’t perceive it as mortal danger, I was eleven, twelve years old, so I didn’t grasp that in the end I could also one day end up there. But for my parents, for the older ones in general, that must have been something terrible, the knowledge that next time it could be our turn – because it was known that the March transport, which had been in the family camp before us, went complete into the gas. My parents already knew it; they were only waiting to see what would happen. And then the selection came.

The selection was in July 1944, when they were liquidating the family camp. I went to the selection with my father, because for some reason I was with my father the entire time, I wasn’t like most of the other boys in the children’s block. I didn’t know anything about my mother; naturally the women’s selection took place separately. We all stood naked in a horribly long queue in front of Dr. Mengele, who organized it all. While we were still standing in the queue, my father, who probably sensed that we won’t be together, told me what I should do in case I should by chance return home earlier than he. By the way he said it, I know that he hoped that he’ll return too, he didn’t want to believe that he wouldn’t return. He said to me, ‘Listen, whoever returns home first, if you get there first, you know where in the shed our tomcat Mourek used to sleep, dig in that corner there, you’ll find some things there, OK.’ So that I naturally remembered.

I went first, stepped in front of Mengele. He was this nice-looking young man, he looked at me, didn’t say anything, the prisoner that was sitting beside him just wrote down my tattooed number with a pencil on a piece of paper. And Mengele just pointed that I should go to one side. [Editor’s note: What the interviewee means is that Mengele selected them himself. This is a frequent statement, although they did not know anything about Mengele at the time, and it is not even sure that it was him.] They didn’t write down my father and showed him that he should go to the other side. We were practically just a little ways away from each other. In this way, gradually both sides were slowly filled up. The side that I was on, there were very few of us, we were all young boys. The other side was already quite full.

Suddenly I noticed that my father had separated himself from that group that was already through the selection, and somehow managed to again get to the back of the queue. They couldn’t find out that he had already been there once, because the queue was terribly long, those people were going one after another. I didn’t even see him in the back, but I was watching when he again got in front of Mengele. It was a short distance away from me, so I saw and heard everything well. My father told them in German that he’d like to go to that side, because his son was there. And Mengele told him, ‘you won’t be together anyways,’ and again sent him to the other side. Nothing, not like he beat him or something like that, not that, but he simply said ‘you won’t be together anyways.’ After some time both groups parted ways.

My group, where there were a few of us boys, joined up with another group, so all together there were about 90 young boys and we relocated to Camp D, the so-called men’s camp. The next day we found out that across Camp C, across the wires, you could see into Camp B. We saw wires and the silhouettes of those that still remained in Camp B – about 90% of the people from the selection remained there. Us 90 boys they sent to Camp D, and only a small percentage of those that Mengele chose for work, went to Camp A. All of us boys immediately pressed as close as possible to those electrically charged wires. It was possible to get within about a half meter, because everywhere there were signs in German and Polish ‘danger of death’, everywhere there were signs with a skull and crossbones. When someone approached the wires, they shot at them.

So we saw those silhouettes of people in Camp B. Even though it was hard to see, you couldn’t see faces, because it was quite far. And suddenly I saw my parents. I recognized them by their silhouettes, that it was them, especially when they were standing beside each other. They recognized me as well. Both my mother and father were there, we began waving at each other. For a while we stood there like that and then we had to leave again. The next day we again came to the wire and again we saw each other, recognized each other and waved at each other. And the third day there was no one there. We didn’t know exactly what had happened, someone said that they sent them into the gas, but no one wanted to believe that. We didn’t believe it, we weren’t in a situation where we could say to ourselves, well, and now they’re gone. Up until the end of the war I wasn’t convinced that they had died there, a person still hoped. None of us believed it, everyone hoped even when they returned home, that perhaps their parents would still return.

In Auschwitz I at first worked in a so-called clothing warehouse, in the ‘Kleiderkammer,’ which was an amazing score. It was excellent, because for one I was working indoors, where I sorted all sorts of things and clothing, and for another I could pick out for myself some clothes that fit, winter clothes, a winter coat. Of course, the most important thing was that I could pick out shoes – excellent shoes that lasted me the whole death march, I walked all the way home in them. Thanks to that, I didn’t have to walk around barefoot or in wooden shoes. Naturally I couldn’t take anything extra, that I’d for example have some extra underwear to change into, a spare shirt, socks. Nothing, that didn’t exist, a person could have only what he had on him. We didn’t even have a place to put it, because we slept in berths, it wasn’t even certain where exactly a person would sleep, he didn’t have an exact spot. The biggest problem were shoes, because you weren’t allowed to take your shoes up with you. I slept in the bunks up on the second tier, there were loads of us there, and when someone had nice shoes and left them below, in the morning they were gone, someone would undoubtedly steal them. We weren’t allowed to take things up with us, but we did it, otherwise we would have lost everything. Luckily no one found out that I was hiding them under my straw mattress, so I didn’t have anything confiscated, otherwise I would have gotten a beating. Because this was checked on by this one Ukrainian, Marian, but there were six hundred of us sleeping in the building, so he couldn’t check everything.

So working in the Kleiderkammer commando was excellent, occasionally I managed to steal something, but it wasn’t called ‘steal,’ but ‘organize.’ So here and there I organized for example some ladies’ stockings, back then there weren’t nylons, but silk stockings, luxury goods. I then passed the goods over to one friend, Ludvik Klacer, who I knew from childhood from Pardubice, a very clever kid, who was three years older than I. Ludek then in some fashion offered it to some fat cats and in exchange got from them perhaps a piece of bread, a bit of margarine, or other things. Ludek and I had a so-called commune, which meant that I found him something, he organized it further along, and the end result we split fairly amongst ourselves. Ludek always cleverly organized something, whereas I wasn’t as capable, so he always gave me hell, that I hadn’t stolen anything. However, once in the Kleiderkammer something bigger disappeared, this one Greek stole it. It must have been something big because they found out about it. It wasn’t some stockings like I sometimes carried out. At that time I had been working there for a relatively short time, and that Greek blamed it on me. So first they gave me a sound beating and then they threw me out of that swell job.

They put me into another work commando, into the so-called ‘Rollwagenkommando,’ where there were thirteen of us boys hitched to these village wagons, which had earlier been pulled by horses or cows. The wagons had wooden wheels clad with iron, no rubber tires. Some had the harness, others, I was among them, pushed in the back, and the strongest stood in the front by the carriage beam and steered. We transported all sorts of materials; we even drove out, outside the camp. Always some Kapo would come with us, some highly placed prisoner, who knew what was supposed to be done, where something was to be taken. In this fashion we also got into the crematoria.

Towards the end of 1944 the Germans had already blown up the crematoria, because the gassing had stopped, the transports had stopped. Before I had only had the opportunity to see the crematoria from afar, we saw from the camp, as it was only a ways away, the wagons approaching on the tracks, we saw people getting out and going in single file in the direction of the crematoria. A little while later the chimneys began to smoke, you could see flames. However with the Rollwagenkommando I had the opportunity to get inside. The crematoria may have been destroyed, demolished, but the rubble hadn’t been cleared away, it had all just been blown up. We crawled down, dragged out various things that had remained there, clothes, wood, various remnants. We carried it all onto our wagons and carted it away. Now we knew very well what it looked like there – before that we of course didn’t have a look there, because whoever had a look, never returned. So we had the opportunity to nicely look it all over.

After the selection I lived with about ninety boys in our block. Today we call ourselves the ‘Birkenau Boys.’ It’s a group of those that survived; today 34 of us are alive, of those six in the Czech Republic. One of us, a very clever guy by the name of Johny Freund, who lives in Toronto, took it upon himself to find and contact everyone that survived. A whole book was published, in two editions already, where each of us has a photo and a short article. The book is named ‘After Those Fifty Years’, because after fifty years, in the year 1995, we met here in Prague at the Community. Not everyone showed up, but a lot of the boys came with their wives. For the most part we didn’t recognize each other after those fifty years. When I think about it, I think it was due to the fact that the experiences from the camps were so intense that they drowned out everything else.

I remembered two boys, one of them, Goldberger, who’s not alive any more, him I remembered vividly, that we were sitting together in the camp at Melk and were peeling potatoes. And he for example didn’t remember me at all. It seemed to me that he still looked exactly the same, he had been this very nice-looking boy, he looked a little like a girl. And indeed the higher-up men in the camp were after him. Overall I can say that homosexuality very much flourished in the camps, a person didn’t even have to be homosexual by nature, but there were simply no women. When we came to Camp D after the selection, we were the center of attention of the block leaders, the elite. Those Kapos simply looked us over and at that time they picked out several boys that they moved in with them as helpers. Of course, they were helpers in bed. Back then I was frightfully disappointed that no one had picked me out, I was inexperienced and naive, I had no clue what it entailed. But I have to admit, that those boys had it great: they got food from the block leaders.

The block leaders in Birkenau weren’t Jews, mostly this work was done by Poles, political prisoners, they had red triangles, who had joined up with the Germans, they used to call them Volksdeutsche 15. The block leaders used to steal from us, because they got food for the entire block and were supposed to distribute it among us. They distributed food in such a fashion that an absolute minimum of food reached us – the daily ration was half a slice of dark bread and half a slice of bloody salami. The block leaders divided up the rest amongst themselves. There were always a few loaves of bread and some salami left over for them, and in the camps that was a huge fortune, because bread could be traded for cigarettes, for example. The same thing was done with all food, with margarine, salami.

So thanks to this the block leaders also looked the way they did – our block leader was the Pole, Bednarek, he had this shaved jailbird mug, he was horribly bloated, and walked around in a striped prison uniform. We walked around in normal civilian clothing, just that we had a red stripe painted on our backs with paint that couldn’t be washed off, similarly our pants had a red stripe running their whole length on the side. This was in case someone managed to escape, so that they’d be recognizable at first sight. In the beginning, when I was still working in the Kleiderkammer, some clothing was being set aside exactly for this purpose. Earlier, normal clothing had had an opening cut into the back, into which striped prison material was sewn, but as that was too time-consuming, it was abandoned and they simply painted red stripes onto civilian clothing.

In January 1945 the liquidation of Auschwitz came. We could already hear the booming of cannons, that the Russians were coming. And those German idiots dragged the whole camp, all of Auschwitz-Birkenau, westward. They simply didn’t want the Russians to take over the camp. So in January 1945 they chased us out on a death march, it was just in time for my thirteenth birthday. And I’ve got to say, it was cruel, it was punishing. We walked for three days and two nights, we walked non-stop in the cold and snow. We were aiming for some station in Silesia.

I remember that when Auschwitz was being liquidated, our Rapportführer [German for report leader] said that we shouldn’t go on the death march, that we were really still children, that we should stay in the camp, because the trip would be extremely hard. But we shouted, ‘we’re strong, we’ll go,’ because we were afraid to stay in the camp with the old, weak and sick – we already knew that it smelled of something unpleasant. We were afraid that they’d kill us on the spot, though the gas chambers weren’t working any more, but that they would shoot us or get rid of us in some other fashion. So it was decided that we’d go. Which was, when I look back at it, a big mistake, because we wouldn’t have had to undertake that difficult death march, and for another thing, within about ten days the Russians arrived at the camp.

It’s actually a major miracle that in the end all of us boys endured it and survived. I’ve got to say, completely openly, that the end, which means from January up to May 1945, those were the hardest times of the entire stay in the camps. First the march from Auschwitz in January to the train, that was the first death march, then we plodded on foot to Mauthausen, to Melk, then again to Mauthausen, to Gunskirchen. All in all, it was the hardest time. When the ‘Birkenau Boys’ met years later, and we thought back on it all, we agreed that if it had lasted fourteen days longer, we wouldn’t have endured it any longer, and would have gone insane. Because death doesn’t happen in that a person suddenly falls down and is gone. No, I saw death approaching. First you lose that appetite, you no longer have the desire to eat, you’re not even hungry, you’re basically not a person any longer, you’re only moving about in some way. A person’s eyes sink in, his face gets this black color, he doesn’t speak, doesn’t do anything any more, he simply somehow winds down, in two, in three days he simply drops, without even knowing about it, and it’s over for him.

Already in April we had no food or water whatsoever, we drank from puddles. In Gunskirchen we couldn’t even lie down when we wanted to sleep, because the building was completely packed full – we had to sit in rows behind each other with our legs spread, so that we could fit. We couldn’t go lie down outside, because it was in the forest and in April it was still very cold, the nights were cold, it was raining, wet. Well, just horrible. So if it would have lasted about fourteen days longer, maybe not even, we’d have started to go nuts, be out of it, it was only a question of days, and we wouldn’t have survived.

The Terezin executioner Fischer also went with us on the death march from Auschwitz, he suddenly appeared and tried to be very friendly. But I was still afraid of him, because I remembered what sort of person he was, how he was capable of becoming enraged, brutish and give you a thrashing. I couldn’t forget how he had behaved towards my father, how he had beaten him for no reason. So he marched along with us, we walked for three days, and suddenly we noticed that he had disappeared, suddenly he was gone. Apparently he hadn’t been able to stick it out, began to lag further and further behind, and the SS shot him. For it had already been apparent that he wasn’t in shape, that he won’t manage the march, so likely this is how he died. So that was the end of the feared Terezin executioner Fischer.

On 4th May 1945 the Americans liberated us in Gunskirchen. Roughly fifty years later, a reunion of former prisoners and American soldiers, liberators, took place in that village. All of those soldiers were already old men; they came with their wives and had these baseball caps with the number of their brigade. There were far more of those soldiers that of us former prisoners. From the Czech Republic only two of us came, it was more Hungarians and Poles. From the camp the Americans transferred us to the airport in Wels, which a short ways away from Gunskirchen, where we spent roughly a month. Then we went back to Melk, to these huge barracks, where the Americans handed us over to the Russians. The Russians transported us to Vienna’s New Town [Wiener Neustadt], where they let us be, there no one paid any further attention to us.

So the guys and I decided that we’d go home on foot. We calculated it to be about ninety kilometers. Three of us picked up and set out on foot for Bratislava. How we found the way, that I don’t know. It was quite a dramatic trip. It was June 1945, horribly hot, we were extremely weak, so we agreed amongst each other that we couldn’t manage the trip during the day, that we’d walk at night. We didn’t have any gear, food, nothing. One night we happened upon some drunk Russians. They thought that we were some young members of the Hitlerjugend and wanted to shoot us. This was because we were wearing German uniforms, just without the insignia. The Americans had dressed us up in them at the airport in Wels, when they took off our prison rags, because the warehouse in the barracks was full of German uniforms and they didn’t have any other clothing for us.

These drunk Russians thought we were Germans, they wanted to kill us. It was night, dark, we had to try very hard to convince them that we’re not Germans, for them to not shoot us. We were crying, showing our tattooed numbers and were saying ‘Czech, Czech, Czech,’ because we didn’t speak Russian. The problem is that it’s impossible to lead a conversation with a drunk, much less a soldier, and what’s more when you’re walking about at night in a German uniform. It was already looking quite grim, they had their pistols out and at any moment could have started shooting. Finally we managed to convince them.

After the war

We arrived in Bratislava on 26th June 1945, where they deloused us and gathered us together in a place where there were loads of other people, not only we. Then suddenly someone came and said, ‘you’re going to Prague,’ so I went. Everyone was transported to Prague, but suddenly I realized that we’d be passing through Pardubice, which is on the railway line. I didn’t know what I’d do in Prague, I didn’t know anyone there, so I got off in Pardubice. I was still hoping that I’d maybe meet up with my parents there.

After I returned home, I remembered my father’s words, what he had told me before the selection, about the things hidden in the shed. So I dug in the spot that my father had described to me, I thought that I’d find some valuables there. I found a five-liter pickle jar. In the jar were only documents and papers, birth certificates and residence certificates. But I also found a list of things, where it was written what my parents had hidden and with whom. My guardian, a professor from the Pardubice Commerce Academy, got a hold of that list, and reclaimed those things from people. I know that he was very upset, that some didn’t want to return them. They however weren’t valuables; they were things like for example two easy chairs, underwear that people couldn’t return anyways, it was already worn out. I got back books – Goethe, Schiller, Dumas, Capek.

Hidden with my mother’s brother’s fiancée there was a diamond engagement ring, my father’s gold watch and some silver, which on the whole, however, didn’t have any value, more a symbolic one, as a remembrance; they were family things. I lost these valuables anyways, when my Prague apartment was broken into. However, to this day I have and still wear my father’s bathrobe, by now it’s all translucent, but I still like to wear it. I also got back some shirts, glass and porcelain sets.

I came by our family photos more or less by chance, because they weren’t on the list. But after the war I visited Mr. Lochmann in Pardubice, with whom we had lived after they had moved us out of our apartment. He told me that there was some sort of suitcase up in the attic, that he didn’t know what it contained. Either he really never opened it, or he already knew what was in it, I really didn’t care. We climbed up into the attic and in that suitcase I found all of our family albums, all of our family photographs.

After the war I found out that my father had a brother, whom up to then I had never heard about. All of a sudden I got a letter from Palestine from some Moses Werner, who wrote me that he was my uncle. He had apparently found out about me through an information service, a database of survivors, where it stood that some Werner from Pardubice had survived, and my uncle realized that I’ve got to be his nephew. He sent me photos of his family; he had sons a lot older than I was at the time. Moses Werner was already a very old man. He wrote me that unfortunately they can’t take me in with them in Palestine, probably because they weren’t very well off financially. For some time, about a year or two after the war, he used to send me parcels. I’d always get some food and an accompanying letter in terribly quaint Czech, because my uncle knew only Polish. I broke off contact with my uncle after a few years, because it was dangerous to correspond with foreign countries, let alone Israel.

After I arrived in Pardubice, I lived for some time at a residence for repatriates, across from the train station. From there they sent me for recreation to Albrechtice, by Tyniste nad Orlici. In Albrechtice I lived in this little hotel together with other people from the camps, where they had gathered us for recuperation. I had ulcers and various other problems, I got injections to clean my blood, they also found something in my lungs. In the sanatorium we got better food, so that we would recover more quickly. I was the only child there. Because it was the end of June, and school was still on, they sent me to school for a couple of days, there in Albrechtice. There was only an elementary school up to the fifth grade there, so they sent me to the fifth grade of public school, although according to my age, I belonged to the fourth grade of council school. [Editor’s note: This means that they put him in the 5th grade, despite the fact that age-wise, he belonged in the 9th grade of elementary school.] It was a gas, basically it was so that I would see what school looks like. I spent the entire summer holidays recovering in that little hotel in Albrechtice.

When I returned from the sanatorium back to Pardubice, I went to live with the Cervinka family for a year. The Cervinkas were a young couple, a young married pair, who had known our family before the war. However, I didn’t remember them any more. So I lived with the Cervinkas in this little cubbyhole of a room; room and board however was paid by my guardian. Some Mr. Alfred Eisner took charge of me, a Jew from Pardubice, whom I hadn’t known before the war, neither did he know me, and he told me that he was going to be my guardian.

Alfred Eisner was a professor at the commerce academy in Pardubice, during the war he had been in Terezin, however he arrived there only near the war’s end, and only for a short time, as he had been from a mixed marriage, and these people didn’t go on the transport until later. He acted as my guardian up until I was of age, he was a very meticulous and solicitous person, who took very good care of me, supervised my education and really tried to lead me well. I wasn’t a family member, our relationship wasn’t an intimate one – I used to address him as ‘Mr. Professor’ and his wife as ‘Mrs. Professor’ – however they treated me very well. Mr. Eisner was an excellent person, he treated me very well, he took care of me with respect to finances, as well as concerning himself as to how I was doing in school, how I was behaving, what will one day become of me. I started going to school in Pardubice, the fourth grade of public school. I had to study hard to catch up to everything. I did practically nothing but study, I sat up with my schoolbooks until late at night.

After a year I transferred to Prague, to a Jewish orphanage on 25 Belgicka Street, where after the war they had set up a home for Jewish orphans. So I lived for a year in a Jewish residence. I worked as a librarian there, I was in charge of the library, and attended a so-called one-year course, which was extended schooling. None of the people that lived there at the time live in Czech any more, they emigrated and live on all possible continents. Some of them weren’t even from Czech, they were from various countries, from Slovakia, Hungary, Ruthenia [see Subcarpathia] 16. I left the Jewish faith, because I said to myself that if all of those wartime events could have happened, the Holocaust, that God can’t exist, so that I’m an atheist.

After absolving the one-year course, my guardian Eisner asked me what I’d like to do next. I told him that I’d like to work as a gardener or forest warden, some occupation that is close to nature. At first he didn’t say anything, but when after a time I repeated it to him, he told me to forget about it, that I’d have no place to live, as in those days those jobs didn’t come with any accommodations, no residence and support. And so my guardian said that he knew someone in Zlin, some Mr. Devaty, that I’d go apprentice as a shoemaker in Zlin, that I’ll learn to be a shoemaker and during my studies will also have accommodations at a dormitory. It wasn’t however just like that, that a person decided to be a shoemaker and that they immediately accepted him – I had to go to Zlin to take some exams, which took two days; I had to do psycho-technical tests. I didn’t want to be a shoemaker for my entire life, stand at an assembly line and do the same thing over and over again. However, I went to that school mainly because that there was the possibility after finishing to decide for one of two specializations – as part of the Bata 17 plants there was a so-called export school, which educated sales people, which I was interested in.

In Zlin I was active in the Youth Union, where there were various ensembles, I led the recital ensemble. Everything of course had a strong Communist foundation; there I entered the Communist Party at the age of sixteen. I was a bit apprehensive, as our teacher was a National Socialist, but he was a very kind person and in the end joined the Social Democrats. In the beginning the National Socialists tried to entice me, but I had a special relationship to the Communist Party, which stemmed from the fact that in our barracks at Auschwitz we lived with Russian prisoners, who at the time made a hugely strong impression on me – they were awfully highly principled. Although I had nothing in common with them, the way they behaved amongst each other moved me, how they sang each evening. I had a peculiar, positive affinity to them, and as soon as I heard that the Communist Party had something in common with Russia, I said to myself that that was the right choice. I saw it solely through my experiences in the camp, how they affected me, I didn’t think of it in any political sense, I really didn’t know much about that. In Zlin they sensed that I was very leftist-oriented, so they accepted me into the Youth Union, I traveled around doing lectures, various schooling, I was active in this respect.

When I was studying in Zlin, my guardian got reports regarding my behavior, in each letter I had to account for the money I had spent, what I had bought with it. When I made a mistake in the letter or wrote something carelessly, I had to write it again in the next letter, and correctly. As I was sometimes not sure in spelling, I sometimes mixed up the letters ‘s’ and ‘z’, I used to cheat on those letters, so that they would look in such a way that you couldn’t tell which letter I had written. He found out that I was doing it so that it wouldn’t be apparent that I didn’t know the exact spelling, and so in the next letter I had to write ‘z’ about twenty times as a penalty. But he meant well, he was a very kind person.

My guardian was an excellent economist, so I didn’t have it so bad in my studies. My classmates’ parents used to send them packages from home, I may have not gotten packages, but Alfred Eisner used to send me food coupons for bread. Back then you couldn’t buy bread without coupons. As apprentices we were fed at school, but otherwise we couldn’t buy any food unless we had coupons. I also went to visit Mr. Professor at Christmas, as I didn’t really have any other place to go.

After finishing shoemaking it then had to be decided what I would do next. I had two possibilities: the factory had two schools – a master shoemaker’s school, which was actually a lower vocational school, and a school of commerce, which had classrooms in the normal business academy. This was a specialization that existed nowhere else except for Zlin, that both schools belonged to the state-owned company Svit [the Bata Works were nationalized and renamed to Bata – National Enterprise, later the state-owned company Svit, from which the state-owned Precision Machine-Tooling Company was carved off on 3rd July 1950], which was a tradition dating back to the time when the factory belonged to Tomas Bata. Even before nationalization, Bata’s system was in place here – everyone had to take a basic shoemaking course, and those that were capable could then go to the school of export. These students were called ‘Tomasovci’ [after Tomas Bata], they dressed well, when they came to the factory, they had to change and work just like everyone else. Bata then nurtured senior executives from among these people; he would send them abroad to gain experience and had them learn languages.

However, during the time when I was making my decision as to what I would do next, the Bata company was nationalized, and that possibility no longer existed, so I decided for commerce school, where I at least studied two languages. Studies were arranged so that one week we would work from 6am to 12pm, and then we had school from 2pm to 6pm. The next week it switched around, we would attend classes in the morning and from 2pm to 10pm we would work. We had a huge load, it was tough to manage all your studies and on top of that regularly work in the factory.

When I was in my second year, they announced at school that the foreign trade commerce academy in Prague was accepting students into third year – specially selected cadres, as it was called. I and a friend both applied, saying that we were interested in the offer, and were accepted. So I transferred to the third year of commerce academy, specializing in foreign trade, on Resslova Street, in Prague. We were two years older than our classmates, as before that we had worked in the factory in Zlin. At the commerce academy I was also the chairman of the company Youth Union Committee, studies went well for me, I didn’t have any problems. I lived in a dormitory, which we had from the Ministry of Foreign Trade on Jugoslavska Street. In the third year I also met my future wife.

After finishing commerce academy I applied to the University of Economics, to a department specializing in foreign relations. At the time I was applying, those were critical times, the trial with Rudolf Slansky was taking place [see Slansky trial] 18. During those times I opened my eyes and realized what the Communist ideology was really all about. Of course I followed the developments in Israel, it interested me, and I remember it all very well, I simply didn’t believe that those accused were some Zionist agents. That was an utter stupidity. When they found them guilty and I heard those speeches, for example Slansky’s 19 speech, I knew very well that it’s all for show, that it’s a dirty trick. However I had a dilemma, what to do, how to act – I had already applied to university, so I of course didn’t publicly proclaim my opinions, I wasn’t stupid, because I knew that if I say something somewhere, I’ll be included in all that, and they won’t accept me to university. But they accepted me. In my papers it was written that I was a Jew, but I was also a worker cadre, I was a member of the Party, so in the end they couldn’t reject me.

So in the end I got into the University of Economics, I had to work hard, because I had in the meantime gotten married, after a four-year courtship, and my wife and I were expecting a child. We didn’t have any money. I had nothing at all and my wife wasn’t from any sort of wealthy family either. I had an ordinary rubber briefcase and one pair of worn pants that I had to constantly repair, because I couldn’t afford new ones. I of course lived in a dormitory. I had money only from allowances that I collected as an orphan and a needy person. I had no money, what I had left over I had to spend on the dormitory and food vouchers. After the wedding it was quite harsh, because we had no place to live.

One time I had a summer job on a construction site, where the University of Economics was building new dorms – afterwards they allocated me a room there, which my wife and I moved into. Then I got a better dorm in Podoli, where we lived with the baby. We had one miniature bachelor apartment, the washroom, toilet and gas cooker were in one room – so there you would cook, a person if need be showered there and then went to the toilet. It was hard, anyways these were the conditions in which I finished my studies. I had to work part-time and at the same time study.

I had problems mainly with math, because I didn’t have mathematical reasoning, I wasn’t capable of doing higher math. Rather, I had a talent for languages. I was lucky that in the fourth year they picked me and one of my classmates to do translations abroad. We left with some military groups for Egypt. That helped me get some experience, and I also made a bit of money. We had a large baggage allowance coming back from Egypt, so I brought back some wool and textiles, clothing, a leather briefcase. My wife and daughter were able to dress nicely. So in this fashion I actually finished university.

After university I was in the army from 1959 to 1960, I went through basic training, where in the north, in Bor u Tachova, I crawled through mud with younger guys, which was tough, but then they transferred me to the position of translator, so I had a relatively tranquil army service. During socialist times a person couldn’t choose where he wanted to work, I simply got a placement in Motokov, I accepted the job, and that’s how my professional life began.

I’ve worked my whole life in foreign trade. I was actually a traveling salesman, like my father, with the difference that he traveled and offered goods in Slovakia, and I offered goods in various countries of the world, from Asia to America. Today I’m already retired, however I’m involved with the Terezin Initiative, I participate in forums with students, I talk about the Holocaust, so that the young generation has at least some idea of what the war was, so that similar horrors can never be repeated.

Glossary:

Irena Wojdyslawska
Lodz
Poland
Interviewer: Marek Czekalski
Date of interview: November – December 2004

Irena Wojdyslawska is 83 years old. She is a doctor of psychiatry. She was born in Lodz, in an artisan family of assimilated Jews. She has lived in Lodz for most of her life.

She survived the Lodz ghetto and camps: Auschwitz and Birmbaumel. She saved herself by running away from a Death March. Most of her relatives did not survive the war.

Her father died in the ghetto in Lodz, her mother was gassed in Auschwitz. Ms. Wojdyslawska came back to Lodz and graduated from medical school.

For 30 years, until her retirement, Ms. Wojdyslawska worked in a psychiatric hospital; for many years she was department head of the women’s ward of the psychiatric clinic.

We met 3 times in her apartment in Lodz. Together we reconstructed her history and her family’s life story. 

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

• My family history

I don’t know anything about my grandmother and grandfather from my father’s side. Grandfather was not alive ever since I remember. My father’s name was Mendel. He was born in Strykow near Lodz. Before we went to school, he changed his last name to Mother’s maiden name and since that time his name was Wojdyslawski.

He changed it, because his last name was funny. The mailman would laugh at him when he brought the mail, strangers used to laugh too. Father had 2 sisters and 2 brothers. They were also born in Strykow. His older sister lived in Strykow with her family. We were never close with the brothers.

I only know that they didn’t survive the war. I don’t remember if they died in the ghetto or were gassed in the camp. We were, however, close with Father’s second sister, the youngest of the siblings, Aunt Bela. Before she got married, she lived with us. She later opened a ladies dress shop, where I worked for some time.

Aunt Bela was gassed in the camp in Majdanek. [glossary] Father was 65 years old when he died in the ghetto, in 1944. I don’t remember his funeral. I only know that it was very cold, Mother fainted and I took care of her.

Father stayed in Strykow until he was 15. He graduated from elementary school there. He later went to Berlin, where he studied in some vocational school, a tailoring one, I think. He studied to be a cutter. He came back from Berlin to Lodz and got a job in a company on Wolnosci Square.

I don’t know what company it was, but it must have had something to do with tailoring, because he worked there as a cutter. He fought in World War I, but he was dismissed from the army, because he fell ill with the ‘Spanish flu’. [The name of this largest flu epidemic comes from the country where it originated.

Between 1918 and 1920 the flu claimed approx. 20,000 lives.] Later, this I remember myself, there was a ladies’ coats workshop at home. 3 or 4 apprentices would sit down and sew. You could say that Father was running a kind of cottage industry then. I don’t think he was very successful, because there weren’t too many customers.

In the 1930s, but I think closer to the year 1930, he started his own business. He had 2 partners. The company was first located on Piotrkowska 56, with an entrance from the backyard. After 3, maybe 4 years he moved  it to Zawadzka Street. 

Mother’s parents, as I remember, lived on Wieckowskiego Street in Lodz. They were very religious. Grandmother was at home and she raised the children. Grandfather didn’t work, he was supported by wealthy Jews. All his life he studied the Talmud and the Torah. As I remember him, he was a man who lay in bed, with a waist-length beard. He died when I was 14, 15 years old. His language was Yiddish. Grandmother used only Yiddish too. She could only say the basic phrases in Polish, for example ‘good morning’, ‘how are you.’

Mother’s name was Chawa. I don’t know where she was born; I do know that her parents came from Zychlin. But whether she was born in Lodz or Zychlin, this I do not know. My mother never went to school. She had a teacher. She studied, what did she study?

Well, anyway she could spell correctly. She could also count, because she helped father in his business. She knew Yiddish, because although Polish was spoken at home, parents sometimes spoke Jewish to each other. Until she got married, she worked in her father’s brother’s factory, that is my grandfather’s brother’s.

I think his name was Salomon and the factory was some kind of a textile workshop. Later Mother only kept house. Just like her siblings, she was not a religious person. Mother was gassed in 1944 in Auschwitz. She was 56 years old then.

Mother had numerous siblings – 5 sisters and 4 brothers. The oldest sister’s name was Lonia, but she was called Laja, I think Grandmother called her that. At first she lived with us.

Then she moved out to Gdansk and lived there with her husband and 2 sons: Bolek and Lolek. In 1938 or 1937, when they chased Jews out of Gdansk, she came back to Lodz with her younger son Bolek. [After the pogrom in 1937 half of the Jews living in the city left Gdansk, most emigrated.]

Her older son Lolek left for England at that time and that’s why he survived the war. He later moved from England to Australia. He started a family, but I don’t know if he is still alive. Lonia’s husband died in Gdansk, before the Jews ran away. The younger son’s name was Bolek. He died of pneumonia in the ghetto and Lonia was gassed in Auschwitz.  

The second sister was Estera. Her husband was Josek Flambaum. He was Father’s business partner. Estera died in childbirth, giving birth to her daughter Bluma. In accordance with Jewish tradition, Mother’s third sister – Dora became Bluma’s mother and the wife of Josek Flambaum, Estera’s husband.

14 or 15 years later Dora gave birth to her own daughter – Gutka. Mother’s youngest sister, Rozka, dealt with dressmaking, she sewed. She was set up by a matchmaker. She got married, but they broke up even before the war. I don’t know what the reason for the divorce was – I heard something about some financial fraud her husband was involved in. And there was one more sister that I know nothing about. It was said she died, but I don’t know if she died as an infant, or a small child – I don’t know.

There were also 4 brothers and I remember 2 of them best: Szyjka, he was called Szyjo, and Icek, whom we called Icio. They worked for father’s company, they came for bridge, every Saturday. They also came to the countryside for Saturdays and Sundays, when Mother was renting summer cottages for the children.

Usually these were summer houses in places like: Wisniowa Gora, Kolumna, Glowno. I also remember that once or twice my parents took me to resorts like Iwonicz and Krynica. The third brother, Mojsze, was an old bachelor and lived with his father. He never visited us, because they didn’t have any common interests with him.

Mother’s 4th brother was a stepbrother, from Grandfather’s other marriage. I don’t remember him at all, I don’t even know what his name was. He was in Gora Kalwaria, at that famous tzaddik’s [glossary]. He worked there, but I think he mostly studied the Talmud and the Torah. He was so religious that when he once came to visit us in Lodz, and there was no mezuzah above the door, so he didn’t want to enter the house. He only talked to Mother on the stairs. 

Mother’s other siblings were not religious. Szyjek and Icio were not religious, but I have to say that there was this tradition that on Yom Kippur, or Judgment Day or Rosh Hashanah, even non religious Jews went to the synagogue. With the sisters – I didn’t notice and signs of piety. Ah, this Mojsze, who lived with Grandmother, of course he was involved in a religious house. 

• Growing up

I was born on May 9th 1921, in a house on 1 Maja Street 9, where I lived until we moved out to the ghetto. That was my aunt’s house. We had 3 rooms and a kitchen, arranged one behind the other. And when Father was starting out with his business, the tailoring workshop was located in the 3rd room.

Later it was my sister’s and my room. There were mostly middle class Jews living in that tenement house. They were assimilated people.

The tenement house was located opposite Izrael Poznanski’s Palace, on Gdanska Street. [Izrael Poznanski, one of the wealthiest factory owners in Poznan (1833-1900), the founder of the Jewish cemetery, long time chairman of the Jewish Community.] 

It wasn’t a Jewish district where we lived. I visited the Jewish district with Father . [An area set up in 1827, outside of which Jews – with a few exceptions – could not settle. With time it came to consist of the district of Baluty, where mostly poor people lived, wealthier citizens gradually moved downtown.] He had some relatives there.

My grandfather’s brother, from Father’s side, lived on Podrzeczna Street, which was part of the Jewish district. I remember that there were often people in front of stores, trying to sell different things, advertising merchandise, offering large discounts. Sometimes you could buy something for half price. (But I never would buy anything). And everyone was pious, they went to the synagogue.

For me this district was associated with poverty. Two women who lived in the Jewish district worked for my aunt. I remember a story about one of them. She said that when she bought some chocolate for her child, the child showed the chocolate bar to others, so they’d see what chocolate looked like. I’m sure not everybody who lived there was that poor.

This family I visited with Father was not poor. After all, they had a house which they built before the war. And this house is still there today. I even remember the address – Podrzeczna Street 14. 

Our parents were very tolerant when they were raising us. Father never hit me. He was very interested in what I was reading. He browsed and sometimes even bought books for me. Father was very warm, considerate.

He took me to tailors, so I’d know what poor people lived like. He showed me children who worked, helped their parents. Some ironed, others sewed on buttons. When I later had some leftist brochures, Father saw what I was reading, but he didn’t mind, he didn’t forbid it, he accepted it.

He wasn’t a religious man, he had leftist views. I don’t know if he was in the PPS [glossary] or only sympathized with that party. He was also connected to Bund. [glossary]

Father was a very open, intelligent, talented man. He could speak several languages. He spoke Yiddish and Polish, but he also knew German and Russian. He read a lot. He also traveled a lot, mostly on business. He used to go to Berlin and Vienna to get coat patterns.

He was so talented, that when we were walking on Piotrkowska Street and Father noticed some interesting coat pattern, he’d enter the doorway and draw a kind of… sketch. He was also a man who helped others very much.

Without Mother’s knowledge he sometimes went to visit the tailors who took materials from him and sewed at home. If he saw they were very poor, he gave them money. He helped the Jewish Theater ‘Ararat.’ [A revue-satirical theater created in 1927 by M. Broderson, an artist from Lodz.]

This theater was located on 1 Maja Street, I think number 1 or 3. Dzigan [Szymon Dzigan 1905-1980] and Szumacher played [Izrael Szumacher 1909-1960] there. He also helped some Jewish writers. I don’t know which writers and I don’t know how significant this help was. I do know that he used to meet with these people in the ‘Astoria’ café, which was on Piotrkowska Street. Those were his interests. Parents would also often go to the theater, to the movies. 

I began my education in Maria Hochsteinowa’s gymnasium. There were 10 years of school – 6 grades of elementary school and 4 grades of gymnasium, and then the final exams. All the grades were located in one building – that’s why the entire school was called Maria Hochsteinowa’s gymnasium.

It was a Jewish gymnasium, financed from private funds. Maria Hochsteinowa lived in Paris and the school was managed by a headmaster. Parents sent me to this gymnasium, because it was close to our house – on the corner of Wolczanska and Zielona Streets. Additionally, the school had a good opinion.

Hebrew and Jewish History were taught in the first grades of elementary school. All the subjects were taught in Polish. I was an average student. I was good at Math, good at Polish. There were some subjects where I wasn’t as good. I was weaker in history and the History of Jews didn’t interest me very much. I passed my final exams in 1937. 

I have fond memories of the gymnasium. I met some nice girls, became very good friends with some of them. A lot was going on at school. Field trips were organized. I remember a trip to Cracow. We visited Wawel [a hill and castle in Cracow, until 1609 the seat of Polish kings, today a museum] among other attractions, but we had to cut our stay short due to Pilsudski’s death [glossary], because of the funeral ceremony. Music concerts also took place at our school.

We also went to the swimming pool, but not to ‘Imka’ [YMCA – Young Men’s Christian Association, an international organization created in 1844 in England for raising religious awareness among young people], because that was a Christian swimming pool, but to Zgierz, because that was a public pool. We organized joint events, dances with the boys’ Jewish gymnasium, which was on Anstadta Street. They took place several times a year; they were supervised by teachers, of course.

And finally, what interested me the most, we went together to all plays put on by Teatr Miejski, currently Teatr Nowy. The school cooperated with the theater, they arranged reduced price tickets for the students. From those times I remember ‘Intrigue and Love’ – a play by L. Schiller. [Leon Jerzy Schiller, correctly L. de Schildenfeld (1887-1954), producer, director, critic, theater historian, composer, translator and singer.]

I saw ‘Twelfth Night’ [play by W. Shakespeare (1564-1616), English poet and playwright], a play where an exceptional Polish actor – Wegierko was cast in one of the main roles. I saw ‘Pygmalion’ [play by G.B. Shaw (1856-1959), English playwright, critic and writer.]

I didn’t go to the Jewish theater (I didn’t speak Jewish), but with my parents I went to a play with Michal Znicz [correctly. M. Feiertag, an outstanding film and theater actor, born in 1892, died in the Warsaw ghetto in 1943.] I used to go to the cinema every week. I remember seeing the movie ‘One woman, three men’ when I was little. And later I remember seeing films with Clark Gable, Greta Garbo, Merlena Dietrich [movie stars from the 1930s.]

At school there was a chapter of the Union of Communist School Youth, a kind of division of KZMP [Union of Communist Youth of Poland, an illegal youth organization, operating between 1922-1938, led by the Communist Party of Poland], but with no formal, organizational structures.

I had leftist views, so I took part in the activity of this chapter. Girls from other schools were also members. A speaker – also a student from some school – would come to each of the meetings. There were all kinds of propaganda materials, brochures, we’d collect money for political prisoners.

I know that there could have been repressions, but I wasn’t scared. The brochures were hidden in a place which we thought was safe. I had a friend, she was not at school with me, who spent 2 years in jail. She was a bit older and belonged to KZMP.  

My sister was born in 1916. The name on her birth certificate was Frajda, but later on, perhaps this started at school or in college, she was only called Franka. My sister attended a Jewish gymnasium, which was located on Piramowicza Street. Because classes were taught in 2 languages at that school: in Hebrew and in Polish, she transferred to Hochsteinowa’s before the final exams.

She passed her finals at Hochsteinowa’s – where I did. She later left for Nancy in France, for university. She studied dentistry there. At that time Jews could not enter university in Poland [glossary]. They weren’t accepted for medicine, or dentistry, or for many other faculties.

So everyone, my sister’s age and my age, studied abroad. I only know one doctor Winer, who was accepted at university in Warsaw or Poznan. Going abroad was not a problem for my sister, because she knew foreign languages well. She knew Hebrew, Polish, German and French. Later she also learned English and Russian.

I also wanted to continue studying. I thought about a two-year lyceum first, to get the secondary school certificate. Later, I wanted to study pedagogy. But due to the bankruptcy of Father’s company and lack of money, I had no choice.

I went to work at Aunt Bela’s, Father’s younger sister, in the ladies’ dresses workshop. I sewed, I ironed: well, I did these basic things. I worked there for 2 years. I was later able to make myself a dress or a muff. Some of these skills stayed with me. I was later able to use them in the ghetto. 

In this situation [Father’s bankruptcy], Franka also had to stop her studies, she came back to Lodz. She didn’t come to live at home, but rented a room on Gdanska Street. I don’t know how she got money for that. Perhaps someone from the family helped. She started working for a milliner. She made hats, in 1939 she ran away to the east, to Bialystok.

So Father’s financial problems changed my sister’s plans, and mine too. Everything started when one of the merchants cooperating with Father, received merchandise worth a large sum of money and went bankrupt. He didn’t pay Father back. I don’t remember which one it was, there were two merchants who had stores, one in Torun and one in Sosnowiec. They both cooperated with Father. After this incident, it turned out Father didn’t have money to run the company.

Soon after, maybe 2 weeks or a month later, he suffered heart failure. This was in 1936. He had to be constantly watched for the next year, because he was depressed. We were afraid he’d commit suicide. He carried some string with him, and some razors.

Someone always accompanied him everywhere, Mother checked his pockets. Later, in his own house, he sewed some muffs, some accessories. He earned some money. Finally, he got back on his feet, so there was enough money for everyday expenses and paying the bills.

I was also earning some money by then, and so was my sister. We were able to survive, but it was a completely different standard at home. You’d count money, what to buy for dinner, what to buy for breakfast. A different standard of life.  

From the mid 1930s we lived in an atmosphere of constant anxiety and increasing fear, fear of what would happen next. I knew about the misfortunes of some friends, those who went to gymnasium with me. Once, when there were 2 Jewesses in a class, someone wrote the words ‘Jewess’ on their desk.

All kinds of unpleasant things. They were really hurt. I was truly moved by Aunt Lonia’s arrival, with her son, from Gdansk – they were chased away from there. You’d talk about it a lot and think about it as well. I was afraid that something similar could happen at home. After all, I was aware of fascist ideology.

And during May 3rd parades [on May 3rd 1791 the Four-Year Parliament adopted a statute which initiated many reforms. The day of adopting the constitution is a national holiday in Poland] you’d often hear shouts: ‘Down with Jews!’ etc. You’d listen to the radio.

We had a radio at home, we bought a local daily ‘Glos poranny’ [a newspaper published in Polish (1929-1939), moderately leftist, published by a group of Jewish journalists; editor-in-chief – J. Urbach] every morning. We’d talk, discuss Zbaszyn [glossary]. These were very worrying events.  

But we did not consider leaving Poland. There was no wish to emigrate at our house. Only 3 of Father’s cousins left. But they were living in Germany. They left Germany for Palestine, after Hitler came to power [glossary]. They all left their businesses behind and ran away. 

• During the war

When the war broke out, there was huge fear, terror of what would happen. At first I, because I was leftist minded, thought of running away to the east. Meanwhile, my sister came home and said she was leaving, running away. In that case I decided to stay with my family. 

My sister first went to Bialystok. She got married there to an engineer named Torunczyk. He came from a family of assimilated Jews from Lodz. He was a graduate of the Lvov University of Technology. Franka went with him first to Lvov and then, when the Germans were capturing the city, they ran away to Kielce.

In Kielce the Germans were looking for her, because she was helping her family in the ghetto, so she moved to Warsaw. Then she had to leave Warsaw as well. It was very difficult for her there, she didn’t have anyone close there. She went to some country estate, where she stayed until the end of the war.

For some time we knew what was going on with her, because she sent us letters. Actually, those were letters from Bialystok, so that’s how we knew she had gotten married. Later we were not in touch with her. I learned about what happened to Franka from what she told us after the war.

In the spring of 1940 we found ourselves in the ghetto. [glossary] There was some ordinance of the Germans, that you could only take the most necessary items, which would fit in one cart. So we packed our bags on that cart, the rest of our things remained at our house on 1 Maja Street.

We settled on Wawelska Street 16. The house isn’t there anymore. Why there? I don’t know, Father arranged it somehow. It was a bungalow. There were 2 rooms, a hallway and a kitchen, without any windows. We called it a kitchen, but it was a small, separate room.

I slept in one room with Mother, Father, Mother’s sisters Rozka, Lonia and Lonia’s son, Bolek. The second room, an even smaller one, was taken up by Dora with her 2 children – Bluma and Gutka, her husband and her husband’s father.

Grandma slept in the kitchen, because there was no other place where you could fit a bed. The conditions were very difficult. We used a koza [a kind of small iron stove] for cooking. It was also the only source of heat. 

We all worked in the ghetto. Mother and Rozka worked in Schnaiderresort [a tailoring workshop on Dworska Street 10, currently Organizacji ‘WiN’ Street], a tailoring resort [workshops producing mostly for the needs of the army were called resorts].

Father also worked in a tailoring resort – as a cutter. At first he didn’t want to. But he learned that he had to, because that’s where they distributed soup. No one would have survived without this soup.

Bluma was employed in the kitchen. Families would help one another. Provisions were distributed on the Baluty Market [the Department of Provisions, created in May 1940, was located there]. A quarter of coal would be distributed, or a quarter of potatoes, I don’t remember for how many months, I don’t remember today. And I had to carry it – for my family and Mother’s sisters. But I was strong and I took it all well.

I worked in three resorts myself, one after another. In Strohschuch, making shoes for the army, straw shoes, for standing. You couldn’t have any fire in there, because these shoes were made of straw. So even in the winter we worked in unheated halls. It was very cold.

I later worked in Sattlerwarenresort [a leather products and saddlery workshop on Lagiewnicka Street 70]. I sheathed backpacks with leather, using a machine. And then, the last 2 or 3 years [1942, 1943], I worked in the resort of ‘weak power’.

We used to receive broken telephones from Germany and we had to do the electrical assembly. We had diagrams of these electrical connections and we had to assemble the phones according to this diagram. I also worked in a varnishing shop and in the mechanical assembly department.

I remember the day when children were taken out of the ghetto [glossary]. Gutka, Dora’s youngest daughter, was taken from us. This was during the szpera [round-the-clock curfew] in 1942. The Jewish police came to our house first, at night [glossary].

They searched the house, but we managed to hide Gutka then. We hated the Jewish police. We thought that in exchange for better conditions they behaved in a shameful way. Aunt Dora said if they took the child, it would be over her dead body.

They didn’t take her. But several days later, I don’t remember exactly, there was an assembly, roll call. Everyone had to be there, everyone, because they were searching the apartments. I don’t know if it was the Jewish police, or if the Germans were there on that square as well. Gutka was taken from that assembly and her mother, Dora, Mother’s sister, went with her.

She somehow made it to the other side, to the group of people who were supposed to be deported. Children, sick and old people were taken then. Bluma, Dora’s older daughter, was not there at the assembly, because she was working in the kitchen. But she must have found out somehow, because she ran to the station in Radogoszcz. [People from the Lodz ghetto were taken from the station in Radogoszcz to death camps in Chelmno and Auschwitz.]

I ran after her. I tried speaking to her, but she wouldn’t listen. Bluma survived the war, she survived Auschwitz and Bergen-Belsen. [located in northern Germany, a concentration camp was located there since 1940] She went to Paris, she was a physician there. She died a year ago.

From this szpera I remember our neighbor’s horrible tragedy. She had 2 children. When they took the younger one, she followed him. Her older daughter was left standing on that square. She was maybe 12 years old.

This older daughter shouted: ‘How can you leave me, how can you, mother, after all I am your daughter as well!’ It was a horrible experience. This child’s scream. Mother’s sister, Dora, also left her older daughter Bluma, when she went to die with Gutka. But Bluma was an adult, she was 20 years old. I didn’t hear Bluma scream, she simply followed Dora to the station. And I followed her. 

Did I know they were going to die? I wasn’t sure, but everyone felt that yes, they’d die. After all, there had already been a deportation to Chelmno, where people were gassed [glossary]. My friend whom I met in the ghetto was deported to Chelmno.

His name was Arnold Szmant. And he sent me a letter from Chelmno. I don’t know how this letter made it from Chelmno. Some people gave it to me. Anyway, he managed to write it before he died.  We knew about all the deportations, that people never came back. They disappeared without a trace.

Grandmother never complained of anything in the ghetto She was always very pious. Before the war, every Friday, she gave away some of her things to the poor. And because she had many children, someone would always buy her something to wear on Mondays. We didn’t keep kosher in the ghetto.

She didn’t eat anything that wasn’t kosher, so she didn’t eat much. She used to drink some tea, make herself some bread with something, I don’t remember with what, because she did her own cooking. This malnourishment really exhausted her. One day, in the hallway, we found her dead. This was, I think, in 1942, in the winter, her frozen hand was on the doorknob. 

I never saw Rumkowski [glossary] and if I did, it must have been in the beginning of the ghetto. But he was talked about. He was accused of different things. I personally don’t know what was true and what was a lie. Usually people would say negative things about him, because he was the one who was responsible for making the deportation lists.

My friend, Gienek Boczkowski, whom I knew from before the war, was summoned by Rumkowski to write these lists. Two days later I found out that he had been deported. That is, he wrote his own name on the list. 

Karol Weksler, whom I knew from before the war, helped me in the ghetto. He helped me after the war and before the war. He survived, he was in Israel. I don’t know if he’s alive today. I had news from the radio from him. Having a radio in the ghetto could end with a tragedy. He risked it, but he had a radio. When Father was summoned to Kripo [glossary] and kept there, we were very afraid. I brought him some food. Karol Weksler helped me, because I was afraid to go there. Father came back after several days. He told us that they didn’t beat him, just interrogated him. He was asked about some contacts, but I don’t remember today exactly what it was. 

I remember the Arian side, because you had to walk very carefully and far away from the wires [the ghetto in Lodz was enclosed with barriers and barb wire]. They used to shoot there and from time to time they killed someone next to the wires. You had to stay away from the wires.

There was a time when I picked strawberries in a garden we had in Lagiewniki [a village and a forest complex on the outskirts of the city]. This garden was located near the border of the ghetto. I don’t know how we got it. Several of our acquaintances also had these gardens.

We grew strawberries there. We picked them for marmalade and jam. We later sold the jam to make some money. One day, when we were coming back from the garden, we went to the presbytery. It was fenced off from the ghetto and not operating. It was on the corner of Jagiellonska Street.

I think there were 5 of us, I don’t remember exactly. The Germans barged into the presbytery and made us stand in a row. The hit us with the barrels of their guns, they threatened us with death. This lasted for several hours, but they didn’t kill anyone.

They allowed us to go back into the ghetto. We also used to go to this garden for walks, to get away from the nightmare we were living. We later lost the garden, I don’t remember the circumstances. But anyway, I used to go to this garden for at least the first 2 years of the ghetto.  

Before the war a girl friend of mine had a friend who was a German [before 1939 60,000 Germans lived in Lodz, constituting 9% of the city’s population]. He stayed on the Arian side. He used to walk up to the wires and beg her to talk to him. But she never agreed to do it.

She couldn’t talk to him after everything that had happened. So, some individual people, made some contacts, some distance from the wires. But this did not happen often, because the risk of death was very high. 

For the last 2 years in the ghetto I had a friend. He wasn’t a lover, just a friend. He worked with me in the resort, that’s how we met. He took care of me. He made sure I had something to drink, or gave me some of his food, although I didn’t want to agree to that, because there was such hunger.

His name was Abram Habanski. He was younger than me. His parents were also in the ghetto. We used to meet after work. We would go for walks, talk. We enjoyed reading, so we exchanged impressions, we told each other about what was on the radio. I didn’t go to concerts.

There was a group which played, there were concerts, well… people would sometimes go to concerts. Abram went to Auschwitz in the same cattle wagon I did. I even felt bad that he wouldn’t make any contact with me then. I think he really broke down. No wonder, it was true hell.   

I don’t remember anything concerning the departure for Auschwitz, just that I found myself in a cattle wagon [It was mid August 1944, the action took 20 days. The last transport of Jews left for Auschwitz on August 29th.] I’m sure I wasn’t working that day.

I must have been walking from home, because I was with Mother. Rozka, Mother’s sister, was also in that transport. I remember that we entered a wagon packed with people. There were no windows, just two air grates at the top. People relieved themselves in this wagon.

We knew where we were going, because the railway workers told us. But when I saw the sign Katowice and that we were going in the direction of Auschwitz, I was 100 percent sure of what was waiting for me. I didn’t have much hope of surviving.

I do remember how the train was unloaded. These dogs which jumped on us and these Germans, shouting, hurrying us. I remember I entered a bathhouse, this common washroom. I was sure they’d release gas. I didn’t want to bathe myself, turn the faucet on. But I remember there was some shouting, I was made to do it.

I was in the same ward as Mother, bed to bed. I never met any other relatives who were brought there. I was in Auschwitz for 3 or 4 months [since late August 1944 until November 1944].  

I did, however, meet Abram Habanski, my friend from the ghetto. He was in a group which worked in the women’s ward. They cleaned, or something similar. We greeted each other warmly, but what else could we say?!

After all, the situation was hopeless. I stood naked during roll call every day. Every day they chose more people from the wards to be gassed, so what was there to be planned. I think he died, but I don’t know that for sure. I know if he hadn’t died, he would have searched for me. 

One night or evening, anyway it was dark, our entire ward was summoned for roll call. And that’s when Mother was taken to be gassed. I stayed on the other side, among women who were not designated to be gassed that day. I was stunned, confused. I can say this honestly – I didn’t have enough courage to walk over to her side and be gassed with Mother. I was only conscious of the fact that I didn’t want to live at all anymore.

I had a high fever, I don’t remember until this day, how the other women and I were transported to the reloading station. I know that I was lying in the corner somewhere in that station. Only the next day did the Germans take me from that corner and load me into a car.

Those were Pullman cars, because they were passing through Germany. They were completely different from those [cattle wagons] in which people were transported to Auschwitz. They had windows and normal seats.

We were taken to a new camp in Birmbaumel. [A branch of the Gross Rosen camp near Swidnica, currently: Rogoznica.] It was a women’s camp. I remember my arrival at that camp. There was a forest there, fields, no village. Only a few wooden buildings.

There were about 10 beds in each of them. They gave us sacks and hay to fill them up, and some blankets. The conditions were completely different than in Auschwitz. Less horrific. The camp was less horrible as well. But we had to work. We were forced to dig ditches.

Only, how much could we dig when the ground there was frozen? Just like in Auschwitz, I had no hope of surviving. I spent 2, maybe 3 months in Birmbaumel [from November 1944 until January 1945].

One day, as always, we showed up for roll call. And then we were told to walk. We didn’t know where they were taking us, although we had the worst feelings about it. [Death March] [glossary].

At some point this German who was guarding us came up to me and told me in German to run away. He said that when we got to the Odra [River], we would all die. He wanted to help, because he was aware that I would repeat his words to the other women who were marching. 

I don’t know how long we marched. We marched through empty fields and through populated areas. And you could only try to escape in a populated area. I remember there was some turn there. I started running away, but I must have been visible, because this German led me back to the column.

He looked like he was shoving me, beating me, but he told me to keep running. I made it when I tried for the second time. There was a village there. I don’t remember where I hid at first. I was in hiding until it got dark. I don’t remember if I managed to wait until it got dark, because I was very hungry; they didn’t give us any food on the way. 

I got out of that hiding place and crept towards some cottage, still in that striped uniform from Auschwitz, and told them I was hungry. They carried out a pan of apples. I took those apples with me to the barn, where I hid for several days. There were 4 sisters in that barn with me; they ran away as well.

At night the girls would leave the barn and go to the fields, bring back raw potatoes, which we ate. We had horrible diarrhea from those raw potatoes. Later, when I was walking to Poland on foot, I met a few more people from that march. I met Wanda Wajn. I know she survived. She’s a physician in Israel. Several people survived. I only remember Wanda today, but I know there were more. 

One day the Russians came [early February 1945]. They swore in Russian. This curse that everyone in our country knows, ‘job wasza niemiecka mac’ etc. [fuck your German mother]. They spoke Russian, so I peeped out from that barn.

Earlier I heard a shot fired near the barn. I was upstairs, and I went down in that striped uniform. The Russians then led us to the house of the farmer, where I had been before. But the house was empty.

I don’t know if they chased those villagers out, anyway no one was there. But they left some food and the oldest one of those sisters made sure we wouldn’t eat everything at once. After all, we had bad diarrhea, so at first she gave us only rice and porridge. 

We quickly came to understand that we had to be careful. There were rapes of older women, everyone knows how it is when the first line of the front passes. We hid at night, we walked on roads in the daytime.

The army was marching in one direction and we walked on the side. We knew no one would leave the column to harass some girls. Those Germans who did not run away, were raped. I was afraid, because there was this one time when we were hiding and some Russian officer came there.

He put one of those sisters on the ground and he wanted to rape her. He was already lying on her, when she shouted: ‘ja jewrejka’ [ I’m Jewish]. He let her go then. He said that ‘jewreje’ killed his parents during the revolution [October Revolution 1917], or something similar, and he didn’t do anything to her. Life can sometimes be so tragicomical. 

I walked back to Lodz on foot. I spent the first night in Ostrowiec Swietokrzyski, at the Red Cross. [International Organization, founded in the XIX century, which deals with helping soldiers wounded in battle.] I kept walking, I think through Kalisz, because I remembered there was a drawbridge there, which was broken.

I arrived here [in Lodz] at 6 in the morning, in February 1945. I searched for acquaintances until late at night. I went to a friend of Aunt Bela’s [Father’s sister] on 1 Maja Street. I checked all the houses – no one was alive. I sat down in the doorway of Gdanska Street 42 and I started crying. Some strangers took me in that night.

I had a nightmare at first where I kept entering that building where they gassed people and Mother was still there. This nightmare kept repeating itself. And then I stopped thinking about it.

The following day I went to 1 Maja Street, where I used to live before the war. The door was opened by complete strangers. They didn’t want to let me in. I only saw a part of the hallway of our old apartment. I only asked if my sister was alive, if she had showed up. And they said no. Later, when I met my sister, I found out from her that she had gone there. They lied.  

• After the war

I soon found my sister Franka. This happened in quite unexpected circumstances. I went downtown with a physician friend of mine. At some point she recognized some passerby as a friend of hers from the university in Lvov.

He introduced himself as Torunczyk. I knew this name. I knew from my sister’s letter that she had married engineer Torunczyk. He told me his wife’s name was Franciszka. I asked him about further details. I found out that got married in Bialystok and so on.

This confirmed my suspicion that he was my sister’s husband. He told me what her current workplace was – Office for Information and Propaganda, on Traugutta Street. I went there the next day, in the morning. I sat in front of her door, with the other customers.

At some point my sister opened the door. She saw me and she fainted next to that door. She regained consciousness shortly and she took me to her house.

Sister helped me. I could stay with her, I had food to eat. But soon it got very crowded in their apartment – two rooms. Torunczyk’s family came: his sister with her husband and son. My cousin Bluma was also staying there. Bluma was Estera’s [Mother’s sister’s] daughter; my mother’s other sister, Dora, was taking care of her after Estera’s death. Dora was gassed in Auschwitz. 

Bluma was in Auschwitz and then, I think, in Bergen-Belsen. Mother’s other sister, Rozka, was also in that camp. Bluma and Rozka came back to Lodz together. Bluma soon married the chief cook, for whom she had worked in the ghetto. In 1945 she started studying medicine in Poland.

Her husband, who was a very religious person, wanted to leave the country. And in 1947 they went to France. Bluma got her medical degree from the Sorbonne. She became a doctor. She gave birth to a son. They kept kosher all those years. She died 2 years ago, but she was over 80 then, so quite an advanced age.  

I don’t remember how I met Aunt Rozka after the war. But we used to see each other quite often for 3 years. She later got married and went to Australia.

Sometime in 1949 she left with her husband, she was invited by some distant relative of my mother. This relative promised to help them after they arrived. Aunt lived there until her death. She died in 1980 or 1990.

And then, right after the war, when it got crowded in my sister’s apartment, I moved in with those 4 sisters who ran away with me from the Death March. They were also from Lodz. They had some room on Gdanska Street.

I don’t know exactly when it was, but they left for Israel shortly. I don’t know what their later fate was, I don’t know if they’re still alive. Today, I also don’t remember what their names were. 

One day I decided to visit the area of the former ghetto. There were no wires then and, I think, there was no bridge [three wooden pedestrian bridges were built over Nowomiejska, Zgierska and B.Limanowskiego in the summer of 1940].

Everything was a mess. I entered the house on Wawelska Street 16, where we lived in the ghetto. Nobody was living there yet. I went into the basement. I found our family photographs. I also found some photos of our friends, I gave them to their surviving relatives, for example Zosia Radzinowicz. She was my sister’s friend.  

I only went to see the grave of my father, who died in the ghetto [winter 1944] once. My husband found the number in the file of the Jewish community. But I saw this field [over 40,000 people who died in the ghetto were buried along Bracka Street; this place was called ‘the Ghetto Field’], so this place didn’t tell me anything.

I didn’t visit the ghetto later. I went there for some ceremony which took place on the 50th anniversary of the liquidation of the ghetto. I was there so many times during the war, I buried so many people I loved there, I didn’t want to go back and remember it all

I knew about murders of Jews after the war. I heard about the pogrom in Kielce [glossary]. When I came back to Poland and I was walking with my friend I overheard these words: ‘So many of them were murdered and so many are still left.’ Some Pole said this. Many Jews lived in fear and anxiety. Some left the country or were thinking about leaving. I wasn’t thinking about this, I didn’t consider it [my feelings] as fear.

I had to think about the future. I studied in a Public Teacher’s Training School on Lipowa. I wanted to get my secondary school certificate. This school also had a dorm. That’s why I decided to go there. I lived in this dorm and then in a dorm for Jewish students on Franciszkanska Street. I graduated and I applied to be admitted to the faculty of medicine.

I wanted to be a doctor. I passed the exam, I think I did quite well. But I can’t rule out the possibility that I had some additional support. I was a member of a youth organization, which was a division of the governing party [PPR] [glossary]. It’s possible that members of the organization were given priority among those who were taking the exam. 

I joined the party [PPR] in 1946 or 1947. It was an independent decision. It is true that when I was still in the Teachers’ Training School, Witek Woroszylski [Wiktor Woroszylski (1927-1996) fiction writer, poet, translator of Russian literature] told us about the party and encouraged us to join. But he must have known I had leftist views. I was friends at that time with his girlfriend Janka. [Janka Witczak, later Wiktor Woroszylski’s wife]

Just before I entered university I met Karol Weksler, a friend from before the war and from the ghetto. Karol allowed me to use a room, which he was renting in a Jewish family’s apartment on Zeromskiego Street 18. So I moved in there.

I lived off my scholarship. It was a very modest life. How should I put it – I wore the same coat in the summer, in the winter and in the spring. I usually borrowed handbooks. Sometimes I’d buy lecture notes. There usually were no handbooks, anyway, we used lecture notes.

When I was still at university, in 1949, my sister informed me that an apartment was free in the building where she was living, on Narutowicza Street. So I moved. My sister was on the 3rd floor and I, at first, was on the 2nd. There were 2 other families living in that house.

When my sister moved out from her apartment, I moved in there. And this is where I live until today. I think in 1953 my brother-in-law got a job with RWPG [Council for Mutual Economic Assistance, an economic organization of socialist states, founded in 1949] and he moved to Warsaw. My sister and her daughter followed him after a few weeks. I visited them often in Warsaw.

In 1951 I gave birth to a daughter, Janka. I was very happy, because I wanted to have a daughter. She was an illegitimate child. I don’t admit who the father is, because his children have no idea that he has a child with me.

I was at fault very much, because I got involved with Ryszard. [Ryszard Krasilewicz – psychiatrist] I even arranged his admission to the clinic. We saw each other every day at work and after work. Ryszard was Janka’s Godfather.

My housekeeper influenced me to baptize the child. The housekeeper, who cared for Janka ever since she was born, took her final exams at the Nazareth Nuns’ school [a Polish order of nuns, founded in the XIVth  century, deals with the education of girls, work in hospitals and orphanages].

She was a deeply religious and practicing person. She raised Janka religiously, she often took her to church. Janka was a strong believer and wanted to be baptized. She was several years old by then – 7, maybe 8. Ryszard also persuaded me to this baptism. The ceremony took place in a church, in Aleksandrow, because the Godmother was from Aleksandrow. All the formalities connected with baptism were taken care of by the Godparents.    

My daughter’s name was Wojdyslawska-Wald, because I got married in 1954. Ryszard didn’t propose to me, I quarreled with him. I got married because of my daughter. I thought that there would be all kinds of social problems once she went to school.

At that time people looked a bit differently at illegitimate children. My husband’s name was Mieczyslaw Wald. He was a Jew. At the Marriage Office he said that Janka was his daughter. Our marriage didn’t last long.

He moved to the theater to Bielsko. He was an actor. We didn’t meet often. We got divorced in 1956. Mieczyslaw went to France and later to Israel. We exchanged letters until last year. Then I learned that he died in Hebron in 2003. 

In 1951 I completed my coursework, in 1952 I received my diploma. Ever since I started my studies I knew I would choose psychiatry as my specialization. I worked on my 1st specialization for 3 years, then another 3 years for the 2nd specialization.

In 1961 I submitted my doctoral dissertation. I defended it in 1962. The title of the dissertation was ‘Criminal Issues in Schizophrenia.’ I started working immediately completed coursework, in 1951, in the J. Babicki Psychiatric Hospital.

For 2 or 3 years the conditions were very bad, because the women’s ward of the clinic was located in the hospital. I remember huge rooms, very crowded, poor sanitary conditions. But after 2 or 3 years we moved into a new building, which housed only the women’s ward. The work conditions and the conditions of treatment improved significantly. 

I don’t remember patients whose psychiatric illnesses were the result of wartime experiences. Psychiatric illness is not the result of a traumatic experience, it has different roots. The results of these horrific experiences were acute neuroses. But I did hear that in the 1950s and 1960s there were cases of placing politically inconvenient persons in psychiatric hospitals. But I never encountered a case like that. We had a very nice, very decent team.

In the 1970s I became the director of the clinic. I could consider myself a good physician, although, of course, you always ask yourself for more. I was well liked and respected. I retired in 1981. I worked for 17 more years, but only in a psychiatric outpatient clinic on Bardowskiego Street. It was part-time work. 

My daughter attended the gymnasium on Narutowicza Street. She later graduated from the Technical University of Lodz, Faculty of Chemistry. She’s a chemist, an engineer. She’s currently working as an insurance agent. She and her husband lived in Poddebice near Lodz. My daughter is catholic, but she doesn’t go to church.   

Marek Edelman [glossary] is one of the important people in my life. I knew him from university, but it wasn’t a close relationship then. He was a year higher than I was, with Hela Bergson and Witek Woroszylski.

In 1959 I broke out with a terrible fever, almost 40 degrees [Centigrade]. I called doctor Feningsen for help. Unfortunately, he was sick as well. He said he’d send his friend. That’s when Marek Edelman came to me. He told me to go to the hospital immediately and have surgery – it turned out I had cholelithiasis.

Of course, I knew who Marek was. I knew he had been in the ghetto in Warsaw and had fought in the uprising [glossary]. Our closer friendship began then. Later I also became good friends with his wife, Alina Margolis. [Pediatrician, lives in Paris and Warsaw, an activist of many social organizations.] I was admitted to Marek’s hospital 3 or 4 times more. I trusted him with my health, and these were mostly issues requiring surgery, I always went to him. I had surgery in 1982, 1986. And later also in 1992 I was in his hospital with liver abscess.

The first time I went abroad was in 1960, to Paris. I was invited by my sister Franka. When she was still in Warsaw she became involved with Filip Ben. Filip was a Jew, he worked for the French journal ‘Le Monde.’

Before she left Poland, my sister worked in the radio, then for ‘Czytelnik’ [a publishing house]. Filip’s professional issues were the reason for them leaving the country. My sister’s daughter, Ewa, went with her.

My sister’s husband, engineer Torunczyk, didn’t object to Ewa’s departure. At that time he was very sick, after his 5th heart attack. He thought it would be better for Ewa to go with her mother. But my sister never took the name Ben.

During the war Filip found himself in Palestine with Anders’s army [glossary]. He was exhausted, dying. An older woman took care of him there. And he, out of gratitude for her care, married her. He never divorced her. I even suspect that he helped her all that time. When me sister was in Paris she cooperated with ‘Kultura’ [glossary]. She wrote reviews, I think she used the name Torunczyk. 

I can say that during this stay in Paris I got to know the ‘Kultura’ circle. There was an exhibition of Jan Lebenstein’s works there at that time. At the opening of the exhibition I met Jerzy Giedroyc and Kot Jelenski. [émigré writers and activists supporting the democratic opposition during PRL].

I even met with Jelenski in a café, to discuss some private issue of Witek Woroszylski. He seemed to be an elegant, intelligent, handsome man. When I came back to Poland, they summoned me to the UB [glossary] for an interrogation, but there were no consequences. 

In the 1970s my sister went to the USA, because Filip took a job there as the ‘Le Monde’ correspondent at the UN. They lived in New York. They traveled a lot all over the world. They went to Israel, their daughter Ewa studied there for some time.

Filip was also a correspondent in Eastern Europe, so they visited Russia, Romania and other countries of the region many times. And each time they were coming back from Moscow, they would stop in Poland for 2 or 3 days, in a hotel. I visited them in the States, once.

But I never went to Israel. I was supposed to go there for a distant cousin’s wedding, but I poured some boiling water on my leg and couldn’t go. My sister Franka died in the USA, in 1996. 

My sister’s daughter, Ewa, lives in Princeton. She is an architect. She visited me recently, actually she visited my daughter, 2 years ago. She used to live in Sweden. She got married there, but after the divorce she moved to the States. She graduated from university in the States and that’s where she works as an architect. 

1968 was for me like the beginning of occupation once again [glossary]. I was really stunned with everything, confused. Some unpleasant things happened to me as well. I had started working on my habilitation, but I stopped that in 1968, influenced by everything that was happening in the country.

It was such a difficult experience that I sent my daughter to France. I didn’t want to her go through all this. Janka was 17 years old then. An aunt from Australia offered to finance her university studies there. But Janka didn’t want to stay there. She missed Poland and so these plans collapsed. 

I knew that someone who was jealous of me could try to trip me. I didn’t want to have anything to do with that. I didn’t want to have to fight it. I was also more interested in medical practice than in research. Most of my research papers were about pharmacotherapy in psychiatry.

One of the assistants wrote to the dean and the party secretary. He said that a Jewess was working at the clinic and that they should get rid of her. But the [hospital] team opposed him and I didn’t suffer any consequences.

But I did tell myself that if I was thrown out of the clinic, I would leave the country. My job at the clinic was very important for me. Nevertheless, it was still difficult to run away, to free yourself psychologically from all these articles in the press. And from this atmosphere of a witch-hunt.

I always considered myself to be Jewish, but closely connected to Polish culture. It was in my birth certificate, I never changed that. Mendel and Chawa [parents’ names]. Everywhere, where I introduced myself or where I had to show my identity card, my ethnicity was clear. I never hid it. 

It was said that Moczar [glossary] was responsible for this entire anti-semitic hunt for Jews. My attitude towards him was extremely negative then. I never trusted the UB. I knew Moczar’s wife, we studied together in the Teachers’ Training School.

She later worked in Warsaw. My close friends: Krystyna Lesniewska and Janka Woroszylska were friends of hers. Irena [Moczar] visited me at that time. Her attitude towards what was happening in the country was very negative. She divorced Moczar then.

The departure of many close friends was a painful consequence of March 1968. Krystyna and Adam Lesniewski left. He was Jewish, but Krystyna wasn’t. And she went to Sweden, together with her husband, son and mother.

She was the second of my closest friends. I later visited her in Sweden. I think I was there at least 6 times. And now she comes to Poland, usually twice a year. We meet again in Poland.

Everything that was happening in Marek Edelman’s family was very hard on me. Marek stayed, but his wife and children went to France. My daughter was friends with his son Olek. She really suffered, because she had to be away from him. Doctor Kolczycka, whom I knew very well too, left as well. Those were horrible experiences.

I wasn’t thinking about leaving. If they had fired me from my job, then I would have probably left. And I wasn’t that young then, either. I would have had to know the language, especially the vocabulary necessary for a psychiatrist, to be able to work in my profession.

Anyway, I felt good in Poland. I was leading a very active life, I often went abroad. I went to Italy, many times to Sweden, France, the United States. I went to Denmark, Germany, Yugoslavia. At first I was usually invited by friends, but when it became possible I would also go on my own. 

I would have probably also missed the theater. I have always been interested in theater. I was friends with many people of the theater. I went to all the opening nights in Teatr Nowy. And apart from that, after the performances, I used to go with the actors to the actors’ association restaurant.

I went to inside events which only people very closely connected with the team were invited to. I led my social life mostly with artists. I didn’t have close contacts with physicians, with the exception of Ryszard [Krasilewicz].

For many years I had someone who was very close to me – an actor. This friendship lasts until this day. We met very often for 11 years, as long as he worked in Lodz. He later moved to Warsaw, so our relationship naturally wasn’t as close. 

I returned my party membership card even before 1980, while I was still working at the clinic, but I don’t remember the exact date. But I had stopped going to meetings even earlier. I didn’t want to be a member of the party any longer.

But I was also very anxious about the collapse of that system [the collapse of communism in Poland]. I wondered what would happen next. For me Walesa [glossary] was not fit to be president.

A man without an education, who couldn’t speak Polish correctly, I had no hope for a sensible government. Secondly, I’ve been following this privatization and this free market, I am really opposed to so many people losing their jobs. 

The culture of Jews in Eastern-Central Europe after the Holocaust was completely destroyed. I don’t have any special ties to Jewish culture, although of course, it does interest me very much. I have read books by Asz [glossary], Perec [glossary]. I have read Singer [glossary]. But other cultures are important for me as well, for example Russian literature: Turgenev, Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy [ I.Turgenev (1818-1883), Russian writer, leading representative of critical realism, L. Tolstoy (1828-1910), Russian writer and thinker, F. Dostoyevsky (1821-1881), Russian novelist, the most important person in XIXth  century literature.] This is still a fascinating thing for me. I also really love French literature.

Jewish issues are still present in Poland. Although I knew about old pogroms, the case of Jedwabne [glossary] made a huge impression on me. On the other hand, I had 5 friends whose parents hid Jews during the war and they never even told me about it.

I think that, like most others, they were afraid to talk about it. Only assistant professor Pogorzelski told me that he hid a Jewess in Vilnius. Actually, he informed me about it when a tree was planted in Israel [glossary], and he was asked to come. In 1968 he told me he was ashamed of being Polish. 

Nevertheless, when I wonder about whether Jewish culture can develop in Poland today, I have to say, I think, no. Only an assimilated Jew can feel good in Poland. One who wanted to follow Jewish traditions, rather not. [In recent years there are increasingly more people who are returning to their Jewish roots.]

How do I view my life today? I didn’t have influence over many things, so I couldn’t have changed them. But, all in all, I think I had great luck that I was able to go to university, because I wouldn’t have been able to do that before the war.

I had an interesting, satisfying job, I had an interesting circle of friends, acquaintances. And now… The end of life is near. I only wish for this end not to be painful. I wish I never become an invalid who needs to be taken care of by her daughter. I want it to come suddenly and, until it comes, I want to do whatever needs to be done and to be independent.

Jozef Seweryn
Warsaw
Poland
Interviewer: Zuzanna Solakiewicz
Date of interview: May – October 2004

All my conversations with Mr. Jozef Seweryn began with looking over his identity cards: a former prisoner of Auschwitz, a member of the Association of Jewish Veterans, Union of War Invalids of the Republic of Poland and other similar ones; he always carries them in the pocket of his flannel shirt. Jozef Seweryn, before the war Jozef Kraus, always recalls the year 1938 when he begins talking about the past – the year when he was drafted into the army. He probably does so because this event divided his life into two parts. In 1939, when the war broke out 1, he was stationed in a regiment in southern Poland. The pre-war times – those of Jozef Kraus – have few connections with the post-war times, those of Jozef Seweryn. Before the war Jozef Kraus was a member of a Jewish bourgeois family, a boy with dreams and an imagination. Like many Jews from Cracow, he called himself a Pole of the Jewish faith. After the war Jozef Seweryn became a war veteran, he served many times as a witness in trials of war criminals. And all of this happened because, as he explains, he knew how to repair fountain pens, shave and cut hair. Today he lives with his wife in Warsaw, near the Vistula River. We met many times and tried to recreate the times of Jozef Kraus from the Podgorze district of Cracow and what happened later.

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

My family history

My grandfather on my mother’s side, Jakob Kraus, from Wieliczka [town near Cracow], came from a large and wealthy family. He was born in 1869. My grandfather’s parents ran a restaurant in Rajsko near Cracow. After their death, my grandfather sold the establishment and lost a lot of money that way. That was immediately after the war [World War I], before marks were replaced by zloty. The marks, which my grandfather received as payment, lost all of its value overnight.

In the 1880s my grandfather opened a hairdressing salon in Cracow, in the Podgorze district [A district of Cracow, set up as a district for merchants and craftsmen; the Austrians exempted the residents from paying taxes, so people from all over the empire settled there. It was a workers’ district. There were some small and larger factories there: Piszinger, Optima – chocolate factories, wine factories, Wassanbergs’ mills, a wire fence factory – those were all Jewish enterprises.]. Several apprentices worked in the salon as well as my grandfather. They learned the trade at his salon and later left to start their own businesses. The apprentices would change every three years. It was a unisex salon. My grandfather had many customers. A cut cost one zloty.

My grandfather was also a feldsher. [The name Feldsher was derived from the German term Feldscher, which was coined in the 15th century. Feldscher means Field barber, and was the name of medieval barber-surgeons. They worked as primitive field surgeons for the German and Swiss Landsknecht until real military medical services were established by Prussia in the early 18th century. The term was then exported with Prussian officers and nobility to Russia. Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Feldsher] He applied leeches, pulled teeth and applied cupping glasses. The leeches would always be in a jar standing in the window of the hairdressing salon. My grandfather would get them from Budapest, Hungary. They would arrive once a week, through the mail. They were special leeches – medicinal; regular leeches could harm a human, bite in too deeply, but these would only break the skin and suck the blood. You put them behind the ear, on the mouth, on the gums.

My grandmother’s name was Felicja; her maiden name was Herzog. She was born in 1870. She was one year younger than my grandfather. Her family came from Czechia; she also had some relatives in Vienna [today Austria]. My grandmother was a real estate broker; she sold apartments and even houses. She used to make quite a lot of money; she had a talent for that job. She was a very cheerful and energetic person. She knew how to do business not only with Jews, but also with Poles. She even had her own lawyer – a young and talented Jew.

My grandparents got married in 1890. They had six children: Staszek, Dora, Heniek, Jozek, Hela and one more, whose name I don’t remember and who died shortly after birth. The oldest one was Uncle Staszek. He was born in 1891. He was the co-owner of the Royal Hotel in Cracow. It was a beautiful hotel, opposite Wawel [Editor’s note: The old seat of the Polish kings in Cracow]. He later opened a colonial store on Wielicka Street, where people from the neighborhood did their shopping.

Then there were Uncle Heniek, born in 1895, and Uncle Jozek, who was three years younger than Heniek. Heniek learned barbering; he ran a barbershop near Podgorze. He married a girl who came from a family of Jewish railroad workers. I can’t remember my aunt’s name, but I remember their daughter’s name – she was called Czesia. Uncle Jozek, who was born in 1898, learnt driving on his own; he was a car person – a car mechanic, he had a workshop near the Vistula River, he bought and sold cars.

Aunt Hela was born in 1900, she was the youngest. She married a Polish lieutenant. His name was Dzikowski. She converted to Catholicism then. They had a daughter – Lidzia. That marriage quickly fell apart. Later, she married a Polish officer, but she divorced him also. That second husband ran the Soldier’s House in Cracow and he didn’t have any toes on his feet – he lost them in a battle in 1918. My aunt also had a third husband, but I don’t remember that. She died some ten years ago. Her daughter is 86 years old and she lives in Warsaw; she’s a Catholic.

My mother, Dora, was born in 1892 or 1893 and was the second child in my grandparents’ family. She graduated from high school during the war [World War I] – first she went to an Austrian school, then a Polish one, where she passed her final exams. Everything changed during that war. Poverty was bad, there was nothing to eat, there was some aid from America and that was when my mother met my father. His name was Adolf Lehr. My mother got pregnant and he left for the war. He was badly wounded during the war, he became a cripple and wasn’t of any use after that. He didn’t return to Cracow, what happened to him later I don’t know. My mother stayed with her parents. I was born on 24th June 1917. My mother had no milk, so I had a wet-nurse – it was our neighbor, Mrs. Rokoszowa. I was friends with her son Tadek, who was my milk brother, throughout childhood.

When I was a few years old my mother left us. She met some Pole – Wladyslaw Seweryn –and married him. When she left I walked her with my grandparents to the tram stop. I stayed behind as she didn’t take me with her. She later changed her name to Elzbieta. Her husband worked on construction sites, she had a stall on the Maly Rynek market square. He didn’t want to keep in touch with our family. They had children, but I never met them.

Growing up

I grew up with my grandparents, Jakob and Felicja Kraus. My grandparents didn’t have much time – they had their problems and their own affairs. I helped my grandfather in the shop. I remember he used to say, ‘Do this, do that, wash the floor, clean up.’ But my grandmother she had a gentler, caring approach, ‘Come and have some dinner, have some lunch and breakfast.’ My mother used to visit us sometimes.

We lived on 11 Limanowskiego Street, in a tenement house belonging to Mr. Brajer, who was of German origin. There were both Poles and Jews living in that house. It was a large building; there were two wings on both sides. Our apartment was in the back, on the first floor, and the hairdressing salon was on the ground floor, with an entrance from the street. My grandmother didn’t have a separate office. Customers would call her, my grandmother had a telephone and she took care of her business in the city.

There were three rooms in our apartment. My grandmother and grandfather slept in one of them; I slept in the second one and the housekeeper in the third. The housekeeper was Polish. When I was small, I also had a nanny. I don’t remember her name. The housekeeper cooked for the three of us and for my grandfather’s employees. Every morning my grandmother would tell her what to buy at the market. The market wasn’t far, some 100 meters from the salon. That’s where the tram stop was.

My grandparents were religious like all Jews. They went to pray on Saturday in the nearby prayer house on Rekawka [Street]. We celebrated Friday and holidays, like all Jews. Like it should have been. My grandfather didn’t have side locks or a beard, but he had a moustache. He wore suits – like a barber should. My grandmother didn’t wear a wig. The prayer house we went to looked modest. A house where you went to pray and that was all. People from the neighborhood would go there. The prayer books were in Hebrew. Women prayed on the balcony and men prayed downstairs. The rabbi from the prayer house lived opposite my grandfather’s hairdressing salon, but I don’t remember him well.

There were also Hasidim 2 living in Cracow, some even lived on our street. They lived in one tenement house and had their prayer house in that house. That prayer house was completely different than the one we attended. The Jews who came to our prayer house dressed Polish style, not Hasidic style. Hasidim dressed Jewish style; wore fur hats, side locks, chalats. There were few Jews of that kind – Hasidim. There were some, but not many. There were more of them in the east of Poland, in smaller cities, but not in Cracow or Lvov [today Ukraine].

At home, the holidays were observed according to tradition. We celebrated Passover like everyone else. Well, perhaps there was one difference; at home only seder dinner was festive and on the following days you’d normally go to work. And New Year was celebrated twice. First the religious New Year, Rosh Hashanah, and then the calendar New Year in the winter.

I liked Rosh Hashanah the best, because it was a very joyful holiday. A bit later the Festival of Shelters [Sukkot] was celebrated. In our house one booth would be built in the backyard for all the residents. That’s the way it was done then. We would go there with my grandfather when I was a boy. Inside the booth you would eat. It wasn’t very loud and pompous. It was like that in Kazimierz 3. But in Podgorze the holidays were more modest, quite poor. You’d just observe them for the sake of observance, and that was it.

My grandparents’ house was kosher. People cared about that at that time. There were those who respected the rules, but there were also those who didn’t. In my family my grandmother and grandfather respected them. They only bought things which you were allowed to buy and which you should, but their sons and daughters didn’t. My grandparents kept up what they were brought up in, but the young generation didn’t have time to live like they did. But when they visited my grandparents for the holidays, they behaved properly – according to tradition.

My grandparents somehow tolerated all this. When their daughter, Aunt Helena, got married to a Catholic officer and baptized her daughter a Catholic, they didn’t throw them out of the house. Helena and her husband would still visit us. Like all their other children.

When my uncles visited, they played cards with my grandfather – ‘66’ was the game. After supper they’d sit down at the table and play for money, for grosze [Polish currency]. We’d also go to the theater, but not often. My grandparents spent the summer in the mountains, in Szczawnica. Sometimes they’d also go to Vienna. I went to Szczawnica with my grandmother once, but usually my uncle and his wife would take me to a summer-house near Cracow.

There were about 70,000 Jews in all of Cracow between the wars. And about 100,000 Poles; there were also Hungarians, Czechs, Russians, Ukrainians, Belarusians and even Swedes and some Bulgarians. It wasn’t bad for the Jews in Cracow. It was comfortable. Jews could behave freely there, like others. It was a city where different people lived, different nationalities. Everyone grew up there: Hungarians, Ukrainians, Russians, Czechs, Slovaks, Poles, and natives of Cracow, Jews. Jewish life was wonderful in Cracow, and it wasn’t just Jewish life. It was completely different in Cracow than it was in Warsaw, Gdansk or Poznan. Because Cracow and Lvov were two cities which used to belong to Austria before the war 4. If there were any problems, they were small, very small. There were some anti-Jewish incidents 5, but there were also anti-Ukrainian, anti-Hungarian, anti-Czech, because they were all equal citizens in Cracow.

Only Polish was spoken at our home. You have to understand this well: We were Poles of the Jewish faith: religion Jewish, nationality Polish. It was like this not only in our family, but also in other Jewish families of this kind, like the Herzes or the Krauses, in our tenement house in general – only Polish was spoken. [Editor’s note: Most Jews in Cracow described themselves in this way in the years between the wars, with the exception of the Hasidim.] With my great-grandparents – I don’t know. That was under Austrian rule, so perhaps it was different, but I don’t remember this because when I was born, it was already Poland 6 [Editor’s note: the interviewee was one year old at the time]. Among Jews like us, everyone was educated. They’d graduate from university or at least from high school. Jews were professionals. We were also more open to others, it would be said: a Pole of the Jewish faith, a Pole of the Roman Catholic faith. That was very important to all of us.

Pilsudski’s 7 funeral took place in Cracow in 1935. It was a huge event. I went to that funeral. First I stood on the market square. Then I followed the procession to Wawel and I saw how they carried Pilsudski into the cathedral. They buried him there, but I didn’t go inside. After a few days, I did go to see what it looked like. The marshal was lying in a metal sarcophagus, but his face was visible, as it was covered with a glass pane. You have to understand that everyone, Jews and Poles, liked Pilsudski. He was a hero.

I didn’t go to cheder. There were no religious education classes in the elementary school I attended on Jozefinska Street. Like most children from Podgorze, I took religious education classes at the elementary school on Kosciuszki Street; there were special Jewish religious education classes there. We used to meet in one of the rooms on the first floor and one Jew met with us and taught us Judaism. A private tutor prepared me for my bar mitzvah. He came and informed me, taught me religion. By the time I was 13, I had been taught everything that a Jew has to be taught. I had my bar mitzvah and then I forgot everything. I didn’t have time for it, I went to school and I was also earning some money working at a store, which sold dentistry supplies; and I had to help my grandfather on top of that. When was I supposed to have time for religion?

When I was a boy I really liked reading Karl May’s books, and also other books, about the war. [May, Karl (1842-1912): real name Carl Friedrich May, German author, best known for his wild west books set in the American West and similar stories set in the Orient and Middle East.] I practiced boxing. I was interested in photography. This really started by chance. When I was little, I would often have my picture taken and I liked it so much that I started to take pictures myself. I went to the theater on school outings. They would stage various instructive plays. And I always went to the cinema, whenever I wanted. I liked going to the cinema.

I was a member of the Polish Socialist Party 8. I joined it when I was 15 years old. I signed up because others were signing up. All of us – the boys from Podgorze – belonged to the PPS. There was nothing else in Podgorze but the PPS. I mean there were other groups – Zionists 9, Bundists 10, but they were very weak. We organized 1st May celebrations. Speakers would be invited to come; they explained what the PPS was, that it was an organization acting for the benefit of the working class. My grandmother and grandfather didn’t have anything against my joining this party. Many of my grandfather’s customers and all of his employees were in the PPS.

After I graduated from elementary school, I attended a three-year economic school. It was a good school. It cost 25 zloty a month. Part of this amount was covered by my grandfather and I paid some of it myself, from the money I earned at the dentistry supplies store. There were more or less ten Jews out of the 40 students in my class. All were assimilated, dressed in Polish clothing, behaved like Poles, so there were no problems with anti-Semitism. I passed my final exam in 1936. I worked for two years after graduating from school and then I was drafted into the army.

I was called up to the station in Cieszyn [town 80km south-west of Cracow] – the 4th Podhale Riflemen’s Regiment of the 21st Podhale Division was stationed there. Because I had graduated from high school, I was sent to the officer cadet school. But after three weeks I was moved to Biala [town 150km north-west of Cracow] to the 3rd Podhale Riflemen’s Regiment. This was because I was a Jew and they didn’t want Jews in the officer cadet school in Cieszyn. There were many Jews in the regiment in Biala – of my friends I remember Baruch Kostenbaum, Idzio Wittenberg from Kazimierz, Romek Kinstling from Podgorze. After that we all served on the front.

They moved me in September and we took the oath in October 1938, because we were considered to be honest, reliable and useful soldiers. We were later stationed in Zaolzie [territory on the Polish-Czechoslovakian border], which was occupied by Poland at that time. And we stayed there for a while and then returned to Biala. In March I got promoted to corporal and on 3rd May I became lance sergeant in the 3rd Podhale Riflemen’s Regiment. Our commander was married to a Jewess, the daughter of the owner of a wool factory.

During the war

I was supposed to leave the army on 30th September 1939, but the war broke out on 1st September, so I went off to fight the Germans. We soon got the order to retreat. In Wadowice I became the deputy reconnaissance commander. We had bicycles; the army was retreating and so we rode in front of everyone and then returned to the commander of the regiment with information. We were moving in the direction of Cracow, but we didn’t enter the city. We were ordered to march towards Wieliczka, where we joined other companies. Next, we retreated east.

The Russians took half of Poland and the Germans took the other half, and that was the end of Poland, and I was taken prisoner in the area of Lublin [town 140km south-east of Warsaw]. I was wounded during a skirmish and taken to a hospital, which, incidentally, was organized in a church. The Germans took me from there and we were ordered to move in the direction of Przemysl [south from Lublin]. During one of the stops I was sent with a friend of mine to get some water in a mess tin. They thought we wouldn’t be able to escape, because I was wounded, but of course we did run away. Over the mountains, through the forests, on side roads; we asked the farmers in the villages for food and something to drink. And we walked like this for quite some time, because I wasn’t walking very well, and this friend led me. Finally, we somehow reached Cracow.

It was late September 1939. I got back home and started working at my grandfather’s shop, as a barber. I had to, there was a war on. The owner of the house, Mr. Brajer, who was of German origin, didn’t want to be with the Germans; for them he was Polish, but that didn’t help us much. It was very cold inside the apartment, and we didn’t have any food. The ghetto was created in 1941 11. It was very crowded at home. Six families moved into our three-room apartment. It was extremely crowded; we finally moved to an apartment that was left after some relatives of ours had been killed. It was on Jozefinska Street, near Limanowskiego Street. It was a one-room apartment, so we could be there alone. The Germans came to our apartment in spring 1942 and murdered my grandmother and grandfather. They shot them, in their own beds, because they weren’t strong enough to go to work. I was there; they took me to work.

Regarding the rest of my family, my mother was living with her husband and children outside the ghetto. She pretended that she wasn’t Jewish. She had to, in order to survive. Someone finally denounced her and she was taken to Auschwitz. Uncle Jozek died in Auschwitz in July 1942, his number was 39 212. In 1941 Uncle Staszek and his wife and children went to Nowy Sacz. He was a member of the Judenrat 12 there. He and his entire family died in Nowy Sacz. Uncle Heniek was deported from Cracow and murdered with his wife in Belzec 13. Their daughter – Czesia – survived, she’s now living in Israel; she has two daughters and one son. Or perhaps she’s dead by now… And my milk brother – Tadek Rokosz, our neighbor’s son, managed to make it to England and he became a pilot in the RAF [Royal Air Force]. He survived the war. He died several years ago.

My childhood flair for photography was still there. I had my own photo camera – a Leica with a claw and a fixed focus lens. I’d always carry the camera around with me. I’d take pictures from the tram. One day I managed to take several pictures of a street round up of Jews in Podgorze. I took them from inside a coffin – through a knothole. This coffin was set up in the window of a funeral parlor, which was owned by my friend Staszek Gawlik, a Pole.

One night, in October 1942, I ran away from the ghetto. On my own I discovered an underground passage, running through houses which were connected to the ghetto. Nobody knew about this passage but me. Before the war I had had a girlfriend, a Pole; her name was Jadwiga Lepka and she worked in a bookstore. I ran away to her. I had to get Aryan papers. A priest agreed to give me a fake certificate of baptism, issued for Jozef Seweryn. Seweryn was the last name of my mother’s husband – the Catholic, the Pole. All his children were Seweryns and I became a Seweryn as well. I looked right, and I was taken for an Aryan. By the end of 1942 I married Jadwiga. I started working in the same bookstore where she worked. I had a section there – I repaired fountain pens, I had to make a living somehow. Our son Jacek was born at that time, but by then I was in the camp in Auschwitz.

I went back to the ghetto several times, I was active in the PPS, and we tried to help Jews. In November 1942 I was arrested, on the street, and not in a street round up. I met two Jews on Krakowska Street, in the Arkady cafe. When I left the cafe, I was caught by the Gestapo. First they sentenced me to death, and then they sent me to Auschwitz as Jozef Seweryn. Well, and I was Polish, an Aryan and so it stayed in the papers. Even in a book, published recently, listing the transports to Auschwitz, my nationality is listed as Polish. It was only several years ago that I went to Auschwitz and told them that I was a Jew.

I reached the camp in Auschwitz on 16th December 1942. I was there for more than two years. I was issued a number: 83782. Some experiments were conducted on me. They [the experiments] were carried out by a German physician, an SS soldier – Horst Schumann 14. These experiments were connected with fertility.

At the very beginning I met a friend from the 3rd Podhale Riflemen’s Regiment; we had served in the army together. When the war broke out in 1939, he would guide people through the mountains to Slovakia. He was a Pole, a mountaineer from Zakopane [town at the feet of the Tatra Mountains]. He arrived in Auschwitz in 1940, in the second transport. He recognized me immediately, as soon as I arrived; he was an old stager there, so he knew what to do and how to behave in the camp. He helped me a lot, he taught me everything. Others helped as well.

I survived, because the SS men needed me – I fixed their fountain pens. After several months of my stay in Auschwitz, the Germans wanted to find someone who could repair fountain pens and typewriters. I volunteered and was accepted. I worked for SS Unterscharführer Artur Breitwieser [1910-1978], he came from Lvov; before he became an SS man he had served in the 3rd Podhale Riflemen’s Regiment in Biala, at the same time as I did. Perhaps that’s why he chose me. I became his ‘Füllfederhaltermechaniker,’ that is his fountain-pen-fixer. The Germans had a lot of good fountain pens, Pelikans, Watermanns, Parkers, which they had got by looting the possessions of the Jews, but the ink they used was poor. Their pens needed to be rinsed and fixed every two months. And I knew how to repair pens, because I’d had that section in my wife’s bookstore. I worked for Breitwieser and for the other SS men, commandants, German physicians. They thought I was useful, so they even gave me a watch, so I wouldn’t be late when I came to see them. Besides, I didn’t just fix their pens; I would also shave them and give them haircuts. They addressed me ‘Sie’ [formal] and the others they called ‘Du verfluchter Hund’ – ‘You damned dog.’ And they killed them. I got the tools I needed for cutting hair and shaving – they used to be Jewish. I had more luck than sense.

I used to write letters to my wife; writing to your wife was permitted. She’d answer them. But my letters and her answers were so official. You couldn’t do it otherwise, and you had to write in German. And you couldn’t say anything more than, ‘I’m here – I am waiting – good bye.’ I couldn’t even write that I was hungry because they controlled all the letters.

One time at the camp, some time in 1943, an SS man came to see me, he had a higher rank than Breitwieser, and he told me, ‘Make me a barber’s wig and a beard – red.’ I said I would and that it would be ready in several days. When he came to pick it up he told me to get on his motorcycle and he took me to the commando, so I’d put the wig and the beard on him there. And then he told me to drive him to the theater, which was nearby, but it was on the other side of the fence. We got there and he said, ‘Now go to the camp.’ I answered, ‘I can’t go, there’s no one to guard me, if anyone sees me on this side of the fence, I’ll get shot.’ But he made me go, so I did. I was in prison clothes; wearing those stripes. I had a huge row at the fence; the guard took out his gun and shouted. I was so scared I almost shat in my pants, but he finally let me go. There were such stories.

In 1944 I was moved to Sachsenhausen 15, from there to Oranienburg [today Germany] and Ravensbruck 16, and finally to a camp in Barth [today Germany]. There was an aircraft factory there, where we all worked. We produced two-engine bombers. Most of the inmates were moved out of that camp on 30th April 1945. We were being led towards some town, when the Russians cut us off. The Germans surrounded us when they saw them approaching and started shooting at us. I survived.

The Russians put us on barges and we sailed somewhere in a northeastern direction, more or less. We sailed into some canal or bay, I don’t remember exactly. Anyway, a German ship attacked us and the barge was blown up. People were drowning, I held onto some log, I wanted to climb onto it, but I couldn’t because the Germans were still shooting. So I swam underneath it. I finally reached the shore. That night was 1st May 1945, going to the 2nd. I found some barn, I undressed, buried myself in the straw and waited until morning like this. I was very sick. I reached the city in the morning. It was Rostock [today Germany]. I met some of my friends there – those who had also managed to save themselves. We went on our way together, first to Szczecin, then to Poznan, Katowice. We’d sleep two, three nights in doss-houses set up by the Red Cross at train stations.

I finally arrived in Cracow. Straight away, I went to the bookstore, the one where my wife worked and where I had a section in 1942. I found her there and she took me home. Not to the place where we had been living before, but to a new one – in Kazimierz. She had got it when the Jews were being evacuated. Three rooms, one family in each room. She took me there and she started nursing me there.

After the war

When I came back I was thirty years old already and I had nothing any more. In 1945 I was assigned a job in Jelenia Gora [town 270 km north-west of Cracow by the German and Czech border]. Because after I came back, I reported to the PPS, someone from the PPS was going to Jelenia Gora and took me with him. They employed me in an office, which assigned apartments – I liquidated post-German property. First I went alone, my wife joined me later, as did her parents and her entire family. I found them all places to live and jobs in Jelenia Gora. For my mother-in-law and father-in-law – tailors in a dressmaking store that had belonged to some Germans. Everything was left there – sewing machines and other dressmaking tools. I gave my wife’s sister and her husband a beautiful apartment, in a tenement house that had belonged to some Germans. I also had my friends move to Jelenia Gora [Editor’s note: Mr. Seweryn didn’t want to say anything more about this, but he was probably a party official]. At that time many people came to that area – Polish and Jewish. Mostly those who had survived the war in Russia. Most of them came in 1945 and 1946.

After the war it was a lot worse with anti-Semitism, as if the Poles had learned it from the Germans and the Russians. Jews would be attacked, murdered, persecuted. There’s still some anti-Semitism, but right after the war it was a lot worse. People were leaving for Israel. At that time they would get people from all over Europe, from all over the world, to go to Israel. And in Poland they also suggested for the Jews to move there. So I went to Warsaw, to the embassy and I applied as well. I left in 1956 with my wife and children: 13-year-old Jacek and ten-year-old Krystyna.

We first arrived in Vienna. At first I wanted to stay there, but everyone said, ‘Go to Israel, see what it’s like there.’ I wish I hadn’t gone. I should have stayed in Vienna and asked for reparations from the Germans. But we went.

Israel looked nice in 1956. The state of Israel was created; a good thing that was; the Jews deserved it. I found a job in the aircraft industry as I had worked for the Germans in that field. I had experience from the camp, so when I came they employed me immediately, as a professional. I worked in the aircraft factory in Tel Aviv. There’s an airport there – Ben Gurion. I went with my wife and children. It was my wife who later decided that we had to go back. And that was it, no discussions. Our son was sick, respiratory tract problems – he couldn’t live in that climate. We left in 1959; I never went back there afterwards.

We first went to Italy, then to Vienna. I tried to convince my wife to stay there or move to Germany, but she would tell me – only Poland. So when she told me that it could only be Poland, I couldn’t say anything. We went back to Warsaw. I should have come back to Cracow. But we had relatives and friends in Warsaw, we could stay with them for some time; and Cyrankiewicz 17 was there. I knew Cyrankiewicz from Cracow, from before the war, we were in the PPS in Podgorze together, and later in the camp in Auschwitz. After three months he got us an apartment, he also helped me find work in a machine factory in the Praga district. I moved there in 1962 or 1963 from a Jewish metal plant which produced machines. It was a Jewish company, operated by the Jewish community. It was first located on 11 Listopada Street and later on 6 Twarda Street, but I didn’t work there after its move to Twarda Street.

I first went to a trial of war criminals as a witness in 1962. I also went in 1963, 1964 and later as well. I attended over a dozen trials. Four times in Berlin, and also in Hanover, Hamburg, Wuppertal and Frankfurt [all today Germany], several times. I was a good witness, because I had had personal contacts with many SS men. I had cut their hair, I had shaved them, so I remembered their faces well and I was able to recognize them. Among other trials, I attended the trial of Artur Breitwieser, the one who came from Lvov and who I served with in the army before the war, and whom I later met in Auschwitz – he was an SS man and I an inmate.

My wife died in 1972. A year later, I wrote a book. The title is ‘Mayn Yiddishe Mame’ because my mother and all of my folk died in Auschwitz. I was left alone. As the only one left of all the Herzogs and Krauses. This book comprises my memories about what happened during the war. From the time when I was drafted into the army in 1938 until the 3rd Podhale Riflemen’s Regiment and about what happened later. I wanted to have it published, but I didn’t succeed. At first they accepted it at the publisher’s, but then the management changed its decision and the publication was put off. I wanted to get the manuscript back and take it someplace else, but they made it difficult for me somehow. Nothing came together with that publishing business, so I finally gave up.

Krystyna went to the United States, to New York, after she graduated from college, in 1973. She’s still living there today. I visited her several times, but I was never very fond of the States. Jacek is 62 years old now; he’s retired. He worked in a factory for many years, I don’t recollect now what kind of a factory it was, but he was the director of some department. My children are Catholic. Of course, the children have always known that I’m Jewish. After all, we went to Israel together, but my wife, Jadwiga, was Catholic and she raised them as Catholics.

Today, the way I see it, Jewry isn’t as Jewish as before the war. It’s enough to go to a cemetery and compare the old section with the new one. The old tombstones – matzevas, and today? The same tombstones as in a Catholic cemetery. Besides, nowadays Jews are buried in coffins, and before the war it was a shroud and a bag of sand under the head; it was different, because they were buried the Jewish way back then.

And I’m old and sick now. My second wife, Henia [Henryka], whom I married in 1981, is also a Catholic. There was no Jewish world in Poland, there were no Jews. We live together in Warsaw. In 2001 I was appointed an officer by the president of the Republic of Poland, as a war veteran. I’m a veteran, a group one war invalid and a former prisoner of Auschwitz. I have identity cards and documents to prove that. I received some reparations from the Germans, but it wasn’t much. Renovating my apartment cost me more than what I got from them.

I’ve gone through so much in my life – so many things have happened. I was in Auschwitz. I was a witness in war trials – even after so many years they still invite me to Germany for various ceremonies. When I was in the army, I also achieved something. And how did I manage to achieve all of this? How is it that I am talking about it today? That I remember it at all?

Glossary:

Jakub Bromberg
Lodz
Poland
Interviewer: Judyta Hajduk
Date of interview: November 2004 – February 2005

I met with Mr. Bromberg several times in his house on Prochnika Street in Lodz, where we spent many hours talking. With time Mr. Bromberg changed from a serious and dignified man, to a witty and enthusiastic interlocutor. As he admitted himself, he couldn’t wait for our next meeting. Mr. Bromberg currently lives alone. He is an elderly, sick man. Yet, despite all his illnesses, he has a very positive attitude to people and to the world. In addition, he is also a very well-read man, who likes to know everything. His apartment is practically layered with magazines and books. Reading is Mr. Bromberg’s greatest passion and, unfortunately, the only entertainment he has. Mr. Bromberg often digresses in his story: he gladly elaborates side plots and he keeps multiplying chains of anecdotes.

My family came from Bodzentyn [139 km from Lodz], in the Swietokrzyskie Mountains. Bodzentyn was a very small town. There were several hundred Jews living there [approx. 1,000 Jews, about two percent of the total population]. Artisans, merchants – the entire downtown was Jewish. Jews and Poles lived together in the city and the relationships between them were very good. There were more Poles. The Jews were progressive, but mostly practiced religion – the older ones at least; the younger were starting to assimilate a bit. When you walked on the street without wearing a cap, you stood out at once. There was an elementary school in Bodzentyn – a Polish one, I attended it as well – a teachers’ training college, a prayer house and a mikveh. The owner of the mikveh was called Binsztok. The mikveh was on Kielecka Street. The prayer house was next to the Catholic church, on Boznicza Street. And there was also a cemetery, on a hill. When I went to Bodzentyn right after the war, this Jewish cemetery was still there, but all the mazevot had been destroyed. [Editor’s note: according to the International Association of Jewish Genealogical Societies – Cemetery Project report, the Jewish cemetery still exists in Bodzentyn. Before World War II the cemetery was approx. two hectares, but now is only about one hectare. 20 to 100 tombstones are visible in the original locations with 50 to 75 percent toppled or broken.] And there was only one grave which was left, also falling apart a bit. This was my grandfather’s friend’s grave. He was a Jew, an old man, a highly respected person in town; he had a Requests and Applications Office. His name was Lajder Chmielnicki. I don’t remember when and how he died.

I don’t remember my grandparents at all. I only know, because my parents told me, that Father’s father was Moszek Majer [Bromberg]. Mother’s parents were Jankiel Wajntraub and Estera Wajntraub [nee Baumel]. I only knew one grandmother. I think she was Father’s mother. She came from Bodzentyn near Kielce. Her maiden name was Golebiewska; she had a purely Polish last name. I only remember that she was an old woman, she used to sit in a wheelchair or a regular chair and she’d always be sewing, making something. She’d often call me to thread the needle for her. I could have been three then. I don’t remember when she died.

My daddy was Josek Chaim Bromberg, but in some documents it’s only Josek Bromberg. He was born in Bodzentyn in 1882, on 18th November. He was an educated man. He wrote Russian well [in that historical period the biggest part of Poland belonged to the Russian Empire], he could write Polish, Jewish and pray in Hebrew. He graduated from a tsarist public elementary school. He was an artisan; he worked as a leather-stitcher. He worked at home. There were three beds in the apartment, four people a bed and there was a workshop as well, leather products – we had five machines. They gave Father the nickname Josek Smotek. [Editor’s note: the nickname Smotek (‘raggy’) is derived from the Polish word ‘szmata’, meaning ‘rag’.] Everyone had a nickname there. Smotek, because Father’s father, or grandfather, traded, that is bought old clothing, old rags. There used to be those [the old-clothesmen] who walked around and shouted ‘Szmot, szmot, galgany, szmates skupuje!’ [Polish for: ‘Rags, rags, old rags, I buy rags!’], and people took out whatever they had. They’d pay for them with plates or with other things.

Daddy was slim, he was just right. He didn’t wear side locks, but he had this short beard. He practiced religion, kept kosher, but he wasn’t backwards. He attended prayers and the older he got, the more religious he became. With us, children, it was the other way round. We would try to skirt round fasting, we didn’t want to fast. We sometimes sneaked out from prayer. Dad was not a strict father. I would constantly go to the village with him: to buy food, milk in the summer, later to guard orchards. He did beat me once, but I’m very grateful for that. This was on a fast day, but I don’t remember which one. Father was in the prayer house all day long. He came back in the evening and asked me to do something at home. I talked backed to him a bit and he chased me around town with a leather strap, it was called a pociegiel [old Polish word for belt]. I hid in the schoolyard, behind the gate, that’s where he caught me and gave me a beating, so that I never talked back to him again.

Father was very well-read, and he was also active in the community. His drawer, next to the table where he worked, was full of stamps and seals. When I was a boy, in elementary school, I took these stamps and stamped things with them, so I saw [what was on them]: ‘President of the Fire Brigade’, ‘President of the Tenants’ Association.’ He was everywhere. He liked social work. And he also worked at his job, but he didn’t put as much effort into it. Sometimes customers would come and he wouldn’t be there, because he was busy. That’s when Mother called him an idler, because she herself had to toil and look for wages, so she’d be able to buy a loaf of bread.

Father, because he did social work, received different books, magazines, notebooks from Kielce. I don’t know who sent them. There were lots of these books at home. We all read them. Whenever someone felt like reading, they’d just pick up a book and read. These were mostly books in Yiddish, but about different issues. For example, my favorite one was King Solomon’s Wisdom. But there were also books by Jewish writers: Sholem Asch 1, Sholem Aleichem 2, religious books. As to newspapers, we’d mostly read Hajnt [Yiddish ‘today’, a popular Jewish Zionistic journal, published from 1908 until 1939] and Der Moment 3. Thanks to these books, Father knew all kinds of laws exceptionally well. When someone was having problems with institutions, with the police, the court, with the government, he’d always advise everyone, help write applications to the court. He had lots of friends because of that, Poles and Jews. If they were Jews, they were enlightened. I mean not superstitious. Daddy wouldn’t take any kind of fee for those services.

There was a time, still during tsarist times, I wasn’t even born yet, when he had put away quite a lot of money, I don’t remember how much it was, counting in millions, he told me, but I’ve forgotten. He was supposed to buy a house, but, in the end, he had a quarrel with the seller of the house about a few zloty. Practically a week or two weeks later, money was exchanged and there was no money and no house. [Editor’s note: In January 1924 German marks ceased being valid currency in Poland and were replaced by the Polish zloty.] I later played with these millions, which were put away in a chest. We were left with no savings whatsoever.

There were seven of us, children, at home and we never even tasted candy, Father never even brought one piece of candy home. The only thing I could have was this lemon [etrog] which was brought over from Israel [then Palestine] for Sukkot. Father would get this lemon from the prayer house and I carried it around, from house to house. Women would usually pray next to this lemon and gave me something for bringing it over – a zloty or two, sometimes three, and that was a lot. [A kilogram of sugar cost about 1 zloty at that time]. And only when I had earned my first money, was I able to find out what candy was.

Father was even supposed to leave for Brazil. This was in 1925 or 1926. There were such possibilities then. Jews could go abroad, to work, because there was extreme poverty in the area of Kielce. The land wasn’t fertile, there was no industry. Jews left if they only could, sometimes to Canada, sometimes to Brazil or other countries. And Father, he already had the necessary papers for leaving for Brazil.

My father was of a rather socialist persuasion. He didn’t belong to any political organization. They chose him for everything: he was president here and president there. They chose him, because he was enlightened. He could advise anyone, he just couldn’t manage himself, so that his children would have a piece of bread, so they wouldn’t go hungry. He was very sociable, people liked listening to him; he was constantly leading discussions on different topics.

Father had serious surgery, the first successful operation of its kind before the war, for gastrointestinal cancer. He was operated through the rectum. This operation took place in Poznanski Hospital [named after its founder Yisrael Poznanski, Jewish industrialist and philanthropist] in Lodz. It was performed by three surgeons – Jews. Then, after the operation, Father was treated at the Evangelical Hospital, also in Lodz, they treated him with radium. And this was all for free. I remember Germans used to come to our house to make sure everything was all right. This was the first operation of its kind. My father died in 1942, after his deportation to Treblinka 4.

Father had a brother, Jankiel, a sister named Zelda and, I think, one more sister, but I can’t recall that now. Jankiel lived in Bodzentyn. He was a tradesman, he supplied animals to the butcher shop ran by Josek, Mother’s brother. He had a wife, but I didn’t know her, because she had died earlier. He was raising his children alone. I went to the same grade with these cousins. I think he died shortly before the war. Aunt Zelda, after she married her name was Szafir, had five daughters. Two of them settled in Toronto [Canada] – Bela Gewelc, that was the name of one of them, the second one was Gitla Pollak. And two settled in Rio de Janeiro [Brazil] – Dwojra Mekler and Dora Kerszberg. The fifth daughter, Sura Fajga, stayed in Poland, her husband was a shoemaker. She had five daughters and one son, Chil. Aunt Zelda died in Bodzentyn, while I was still living there.

My mother, Nacha Bromberg [nee Wajntraub], was thirteen years younger than my father. She spent her entire life with him, at home. She was a housewife. My parents told me about how they met, but I had other things on my mind then; I had to study. This was a small town: everyone knew each other and knew everything about others. I only remember how Mother talked about how she got a kajt [Yiddish: chain, irons, here: necklace, neck chain], she got a golden necklace and earrings. I never saw them, because we were poor, there were several fires in the town and Mother had to borrow money from someone, and she pawned her earrings and the necklace and she never bought them back, because she didn’t have any money. [Editor’s note: the monography of the town mentions only one fire, in 1917, when the synagogue was destroyed.]

My mother was a beautiful, black-haired woman. Almost like an Armenian. She had a pretty face and curly hair, which used to be long, but she wore a wig. I even took this wig every two weeks to be groomed. I used to ask Mother how she could cut such beautiful hair and wear such a chomato [Polish, horse-collar or something heavy and uncomfortable], like a horse. And the reason for this was so that the woman wouldn’t be attractive for other men after she got married. Such was the tradition. Mother wore woolen scarf with tassels. Such was the custom then, that women in the countryside – both Jewish and Polish women – didn’t wear coats but these scarves [heavy kerchiefs, throws].

Mother was a wise woman, but, unfortunately, a slave. We weren’t aware of it then. She used to say: ‘Can you imagine that nine people are making a mess here and I am the only one cleaning up.’ And there were no detergents like today, no powder or anything. She helped Father in everything she could. She had to bring hides from Radom [approx. 50 km from Bodzentyn] and from Szydlowiec [approx. 30 km from Bodzentyn]. She’d have to take a cart to get there. There was a Jewish cart driver: he had a cart and a horse and he took people to town, because there were no buses then. The horse pulled the cart for many kilometers. My mother later fell ill, because there were such huge snowstorms and her blood got cold.

So Mother helped Father with everything, she minded the children; she did the laundry, cleaned the house and earned money for bread. She never hit us. I sometimes protested and shouted when Mother was dividing up pieces of meat that ‘this one had more’. So Mother would cut up this piece of meat into little pieces and then it was all right. She later talked about this and laughed that, after all, it was the same. My mother had no political views, she wasn’t politically active. She knew how to pray and how to read and write in Yiddish, because we spoke Yiddish at home.

My mother had a hernia and in 1938 she went to the hospital, Poznanski Hospital in Lodz, to have it removed. It was a Jewish hospital, free. And that’s where she died, during the operation, because they gave her too much anesthesia. I managed to see her once before the surgery. I brought her some oranges, or mandarins. And Mother wrote me this letter on the napkins which I had used for the fruit. A letter, almost like a will: ‘Pray to God that I survive, take care of the apple of my eye – that is your sister – and pray that you’re not left like these sheep without your shepherd.’ That’s what she called our sister, because she was our treasure, the only girl in the family: the apple of our eyes; she was everything for us. I kept this letter and ran away to Russia with it, but when they robbed me in Lublin, everything was lost then.

Mother had two brothers, Josek and Hersz and a sister, Bela, who got married in Szydlowiec; her married name was Rewinska. Her husband’s name was Chaim Szymon [Rewinski]. He used both names. She had two daughters with him and a son, Symcha. Josek was a butcher. His wife’s name was Matylda, Mate Wajntraub. He had two sons – Rachmil and Symcha and three daughters – Hendla, Fajga and Estera Malka. Hersz, Mother’s second brother, had a wife named Lea and many children: Natan, Chil, Chaim, Fajga, Nacha, Saba-Szewa and Estera-Malka. He died in 1936 or 1937 in Lodz.

We lived on Pasieka [Street], next to Dolny Rynek [Lower Market]. This was the first street down, as you walked to Gorny Rynek [Upper Market]. It was called Pasieka [Polish for beehive], because there were bees there, flowers and the bees collected honey from those flowers; there were lots of bees. And when you walked down to the mill, there were fish ponds there and water mills. Our house was right next to the street. There was a hallway next to the entrance and two apartments with entrances from the hall. Our apartment was maybe a bit bigger than this room of mine [approx. 20 sqm] and so many people – nine of us – living there. Us, that is parents and seven children, we lived in the room downstairs.

There was a stove for cooking and for heating. And you’d use wood for heating, not coal. On Mondays peasants used to bring wood from the forest and sell it. Only rich Jews could afford it, the poor ones would have to buy branches. We were those poor ones. We later had saws, so we had to saw this wood ourselves. I remember, because I helped Father and my brothers. There was no electricity and you’d have to bring water from the well. The well was on Dolny Rynek. I had a so-called ‘kuromyslo’ [archaic Polish word], a kind of wooden harness with wire hooks and I had to carry the water in that. And when you did the laundry, you’d carry it to the river for rinsing. There were machines that Father worked on, a table where you had to get everything ready. There wasn’t much furniture – a cupboard, a table, three beds – because we didn’t have room for anything more. Three, four people slept in one bed and I always slept with Father. And there was a cradle; I had to rock my dear sister.

There was a shop upstairs. A kosher butcher, shochet, lived above us. A tzaddik from Ostrowiec used to visit him. When I was a boy, I found a dog. There were lots of them. I found the dog, took him, raised him from the time he was little, made him a doghouse in the hallway and played with him each morning. I remember, one day this tzaddik was looking out the window, because there were beautiful sunrises in the summer and I was chasing the dog and he says: ‘Du sheygetz! Bald in der fri yugst du sikh mit a keylef?!’ [‘You sheygetz (‘non-Jew’, male)! You’ve been chasing the dog since early in the morning!’ in Yiddish]

Our house didn’t have a yard. In fact, there was moisture from the back. On market days women would come from Gorny Rynek to our house and relieve themselves next to the wall. And somehow no one came up with the idea of fencing in this property, so others wouldn’t be able to enter. The wall was moist all the time and this house was made of stones, not bricks, and stones also create moisture. So this is why you’d get ill with arthritis.

We didn’t have our own garden, but I remember how peasants, who owed Father money and weren’t able to pay it back, convinced him to take an orchard from them in the spring. At first Father knew nothing about orchards, but after some time, when he got the hang of it, he’d wait for the trees to bloom and he would know at once how many puds [Russian, pud: a unit of weight equaling approx. 17 kg] of pears, or apples or cherries there would be. And we’d make money out of this later.

We had fruit, and my mother would usually give the rotten fruit to children and good fruit would be kept where our neighbor used to live, but moved out, on the opposite side of the hall, on hay. After we had picked the fruit, we would go to Suchedniow, 16 kilometers from Bodzentyn, with Mother, we’d stand on the market with a scale and sell the fruit. Later, we took these orchards each year. And it was finally enough money to get by.

There were all kinds of ceremonies organized in our town, mostly on holidays. There was this Liber Wajngold, who had a red beard and he would always get drunk. Because after such holidays like New Year’s [Rosh Hashanah], Judgment Day [Yom Kippur], Sukkot, that is kuczki [Polish for Sukkot], Jews were allowed to drink and dance. [Editor’s note: on Yom Kippur a 25-hour-long fast is strictly prescribed, but the afternoon before Yom Kippur, it is a special mitzvah to eat a festive meal, and also after Yom Kippur it is possible, but dancing has no link to Yom Kippur, that happens at Sukkot.]. And he liked to get drunk. He’d drink himself unconscious, he’d go crazy in the street, on the market, Poles would clap for him. The reception of the Torah on Mount Sinai was also celebrated in our town. That was called Simchat Torah, that is the Joy of Torah [Editor’s note: Shavuot celebrates the receiving of the Torah by an all night long learning, Simchat Torah (‘Rejoicing in the Torah’) celebrates it by dancing and singing. Drinking is also common during this time.]

One day the Jews in the town decided to renovate the Torah. I don’t remember why, perhaps it was damaged, after all the Torah gets damaged like all other books, the paper becomes yellow. When the Torah got damaged, it had stains or tears, you’d have to organize a funeral for the Torah, bury it in the ground, like for a person. [When a Torah is no longer usable, it should be placed in a waterproof container and buried.] The Torah was written with a goose quill, on parchment. There was a specialist to do this. [The Torah Scrolls are written in holiness by a religious man who is also a qualified scribe, always hand-written on parchment scrolls in attractive Hebrew calligraphy known as ‘STAM’ (Sifrei Torah, Tefillin and Mezuzot).] He used to live in Kielce and he took money for copying the Torah. You’d have to pay for each letter. When the community decided to buy a new Torah, they announced it in town and waited for donations. When on Saturdays [Sabbath] and holidays Jews were called upon to read fragments of the Torah, they had to say how many letters for the writing of the Torah they wanted to buy, that is how much they wanted to donate. One bought himself five letters, another ten, another 50. It depended on how much they could afford.

My father also bought, donated a few letters, but not too many, because he didn’t have enough for food. So the Torah would be written and money collected. The Jews would make these donations orally, because you couldn’t have money with you on a Saturday. If the city was not surrounded by telephone wires, then you couldn’t carry anything in your pockets on Saturdays and walk too far on foot. [Editor’s note: surrounding the city with wires was connected with separating Sabbath space. This space was treated as one’s own apartment, where you could move around freely, without breaking religious rules.] Only after electricity had been installed in the city, were you able to carry money with you in the area where there were wires. When there was no eruw [expanding the Sabbath borders], then people didn’t carry any objects with them, especially on Saturdays. Later, even when we had the wires, you still couldn’t carry any money. Buying, handling money, giving it to someone, that was all strictly prohibited. You could only carry a handkerchief in your pocket. I know about these wires from the Torah, it’s written somewhere there, in the writings. [Editor’s note: The referred regulation takes part of the Talmud, the Mishnah, Tract Eruvin, Chapter 5: Regulations concerning the boundaries of a town and the measurements of the legal limits.]

Then, after the writing of the Torah was done, you’d have to put all these pages together, this cover would be made, and one more with golden edges, and these handles [Yad] would be made, silver crowns and lions, because the Jewish symbols are usually two lions holding the Torah. [The lion of Judah is one of the most popular symbols of the Jewish people.] You can see them everywhere, like next to prayer houses. And then, when everything was ready, a date would be set when all the tzaddiks, religious Jews, got together and there was a huge ceremony when these so-called scrolls, that is the Torah, were carried into the prayer house. It was later kept in this special cupboard [aron kodesh], it’s a holy place.

Poles, usually those who had houses or stores on the market square, used to stand in their windows during such ceremonies and watch. They didn’t bother us. In my childhood, the relationships between Poles and Jews were very good. I still remember this with nostalgia, until this very day. So, until 1936 the relations between Jews and peasants were wonderful. Jews slept in villages, they prayed, rocked back and forth, and nobody bothered them. At night, when they were in this shack guarding the orchard and there was a storm with lightning, they’d go into the house, with the farmer. There were floors without boards, just made of clay and they’d sleep on straw.

There was one incident. I was maybe five years old then, I don’t remember exactly. A Polish woman, Malareska was her name, lived several houses from the prayer house. She didn’t have a husband, but she had two sons. This happened during Simchat Torah. [Editor’s note: the festival described below is partly Rosh Hashanah, the Feast of Trumpets, partly Simchat Torah: the interviewee probably confused the rituals.] The rebbe, the tzaddik and other Jewish guests came to receive the Torah into the prayer house. I was there as well, as a little boy. Jews dressed up as riders on horses, they put on skits symbolizing the arrival of the Messiah, trumpets were played, and the horn [shofar]. We walked to the prayer house on wet snow – I was with this rabbi, a whole crowd of us. I was very pious then, religious, I was studying, so I wanted to be close to the rabbi, but there were some other Jews from Bodzentyn walking next to me and Father was in that crowd. So when we were passing this Malareska’s house, she was standing in the hall, she made a snowball, she threw one, then another and the rabbi cursed her. I heard it, because I was next to the rabbi. She had cows and I think she had goats as well. She stored hay for them up in the attic. One day she got on a ladder to get that hay, the ladder slipped, she fell. The first time she was just a bit bruised. But then one or two weeks later, not much time passed, she had a second accident like that, she fell and she killed herself.

There were six of us, brothers, at home. There was a one and a half year difference between each of us; a new one would be born every 18 months. After the last one, the youngest brother, after five years, Father’s precious daughter was born. Our treasure. The oldest brother was Moszek Majer, named after Grandfather. He was born in 1913. He was a tailor. He studied tailoring for three years, with one younger brother, for free. He died in the army, in Warsaw, defending the citadel [September 1939]. The next brother was Chil, Chil Szmul. This brother and the younger Wolf were registered as twins, but they weren’t twins. This was a mistake, one was overlooked first and then they were both registered together. He was a tailor too. Wolf Symcha was younger; he was a barber, self-trained. He fixed electricity, renovated radios, played in the theater in Bodzentyn. He had amazing connections, and he was the one who brought us to Lodz. The next one was Abram, thanks to Mother or Father he was an apprentice in a Jewish factory in Lodz. He was apprenticing at some spinning mill.

Chil, Wolf and Abram died in 1942 or 1943. Someone told me about it, someone who was there at the camp and survived. The three brothers worked in Starachowice. They always stuck together. When the Germans called one of them to work, they went together. One day they called Abram. The Germans would shoot the sick inmates from the camp and needed people to bury them. They called Abram, but all the brothers went. But, in the end, the Germans didn’t want to have witnesses, so they murdered all three of them. They shot them or buried them alive, I don’t know this exactly.

The sixth brother was called Hersz. I don’t remember his middle name, but we only used our first names, although officially each one had two names, except me, I only had one. Hersz didn’t have a profession. Because he hadn’t managed to learn one yet, he was still young, he went to a public school in Lodz, on 116 Zgierska Street. He died in Treblinka with our father, sister-in-law, her child and our sister. In early 1942 they were deported to Suchedniow [126 km from Lodz]. First they were there for two days without any food or water, before the cattle wagons got there. My sister was the seventh child. She was five years younger than the youngest brother. Her name was Estera Chaja Zelda. She went to school in Lodz, on 25 Limanowskiego Street. She was ten years old when I saw her for the last time.

We were not very close as siblings. We loved one another, but mostly we’d spend time separately; each one had his own friends. Sometimes we played together, went skidding on the pond in winter-time. We went to the castle in Bodzentyn. We gathered there during the school break, that’s where the report cards were handed out at the end of each school year. We used to sing the national anthem and Rota [‘The Oath’, Polish patriotic song]. And we spent the holidays together, at home.

We used to go to the prayer house together, or we would meet before the entrance, because it was close by. Mother didn’t always go to the prayer house, only on holidays and Saturdays. Mostly men used to go there, even several times a day, because there is a morning prayer, then the evening prayer, and there are three prayers on Saturdays.

My [Jewish] name is Jankiel and I was named after Mother’s father. I was born in 1919, on 21st April, the day after Hitler’s birthday. This was at home, in Bodzentyn. We were all born there, in the same beds we slept in. A midwife helped Mother during labor, a Pole, Kazubinski’s wife. I was the fourth child. I split the younger and the older siblings. And I am the only one left. When I was three I went to cheder and these first years I spent at home. I remember when I was little, I used to run away from Mother, because I didn’t like having my bath in a tub. I couldn’t even walk yet, so I’d run away on all fours. I will never forget that. I remember even what shirt I used to wear – a flannel shirt with a pink flower pattern. I usually recall myself as being the one in the bad way. I wasn’t allowed to go out and play. I had to stay at home and mind the younger brothers and sister. I had to sit next to the cradle and rock it.

There were many children at home, so one would raise the other. When I was small, I remember playing these games with my siblings: we played palant [traditional game similar to baseball, played everywhere in Europe under different names and slight differences in rules], went skidding on ice. Because there was no money for a sled, we’d make one from these folding chairs. There were all kinds of games. I remember playing doctor with the girls. I was small; I could have been maybe three years old. We all met – boys and girls, up in the attic and that’s when I felt these girls up. I also played with my friends a lot, only sometimes with my brothers, each one of us had friends of our own age.

I went to cheder from the age of three, to different melamedim. A melamed was a teacher. I had three of them. There were religious subjects at cheder, translating prayers from Hebrew to Yiddish, the Five Books of Moses. Because at cheder we first learned prayers in Hebrew, then there was the study of books: Bava Metziah, Bava Kama, then law and then Shulchan Arukh [Heb. ‘Set Table’, compendium of those areas of the halakhah that are applicable today. It was composed by Rabbi Yosef Karo of Safed in the 1560s, and became generally accepted as authoritative after Rabbi Moshe Isserls of Cracow supplemented it in the 1570s with notes (known as the Mappah – ‘Tablecloth’) giving the rulings followed by Ashkenazim.]. We learned about the principles of kosher life, sleep, everything about Jewish holiday customs. There’s everything in Shulchan Aruch, how I am supposed to sleep, which side to lie on, how to get up, which sleeve to put on first, which second, everything. Such details. And this Bava Metziah, that’s studying, first law. It starts out in Hebrew, of course. I am walking with my friend on the street and I find a tallit, a prayer garment. I bend over and pick it up, ‘I found it, therefore I should have it’, but he also says ‘I should have it’ and we’re ready to quarrel. And the problem needs to be solved, and everything starts out with details.

Then there are comments. It’s called Rashi 5 commentary. It’s written in Aramean. All the disputes are solved, just like they are in court, a final conclusion is reached. All difficult things, even family issues, concerning sex, but I didn’t understand that. I shouldn’t be saying this, but, as I said, there were three beds at home and I slept in one bed with Father and I never knew why he would get out of bed at night, I didn’t know where he went! Such was the culture, everything was normal. There was a time for everything, you’d find out about everything in due time. Later, when I was already studying everything in cheder, I began to study the kaballah. Many things in there didn’t seem to fit. I started asking the rabbi. How, I said, did Adam’s offspring come about if he only had three sons? And other problems of this kind. And he answered: ‘When you grow up, you will know everything, you will understand everything.’ I also remember that each Saturday at cheder we used to be assigned to these religious Jews, we met with them after the Saturday feast and they examined us in the Torah, asked us questions about everything we had studied in the last week.

Corporal punishment was used in cheder, when someone went skidding on Saturday and someone told on him, or when he was guilty of something else, stole something, was accused of something or caught red-handed. I remember some melamed had a so-called kanczuk [short leather whip] – a stick with leather straps, quite a few of these straps; they used it to beat students on their fingers or behinds. There was a teacher with a short leg – Symcha – and he’d sometimes kick students with this leg when they misbehaved. The student had to go under a table, he’d hold on to the table top, kick him with this short leg and yell: ‘You foundling, you mamzer [‘bastard’, Yiddish]!’

There was also another teacher who, when someone misbehaved, ordered the student to get undressed to his underwear and stand on this special chest, with a round lid, in the corner of the room. The teacher would bring a broom made of twigs, he’d take out one twig, a rod, give it to a second student and the rest of the broom to the one who was standing on the chest. He had to hold this broom up in the air, above his head. He’d have to stand in this position for 30 minutes or an hour. The student who got that rod had to make sure that the student with the broom wouldn’t put it down and if that happened, he was obliged to beat him with this rod on his buttocks. And then came an even more severe form of punishment. After half an hour, when the student got off that chest, the melamed asked the students to stand in two lines, two rows of students and he led that student through the middle. Each student from each row received one rod and when the culprit was walking next to him, he had to beat him with that rod on his behind. None of these punishments were ever used on me. I was very well behaved.

I later started attending a public elementary school. I remember this school with nostalgia. The principal’s name was Pastula; his wife taught me Polish. I remember this one incident connected with school: we were not wealthy, so Father cut our hair with scissors at home and, of course, he didn’t cut very evenly. One day, when Father was cutting my hair he cut off one of my side locks, I quickly covered the other one with my hand and didn’t let him cut that one off. Of course, these weren’t long and curly side locks that Hasidim [see Hasidism] 6 have, but short ones. Religion says that when the time for harvest comes, you shouldn’t cut everything, but leave something on the field. And, supposedly, this is where these side locks come from. [Editor’s note: according to the Encyclopedia Judaica, Leviticus 19:27 and 21:5 refer to the hair between the head and the cheeks (the side locks) as ‘corners of your land’, forbidden to be destroyed, whereas, there are many different explanations in the Torah, Talmud, Shulchan Arukh or other sources about the origin of this ban.] I went to school. I was in second grade then. In class Mrs. Pastula noticed my hair and asked: ‘And what is this supposed to be? Here it’s cut and here it isn’t.’ So I told her that my father cut my hair like this and that I didn’t let him cut it on the other side. So she told me that if I didn’t make my hair even on both sides, she wouldn’t let me graduate. I was very pious then, I went to cheder. And there was no other way, I had to repeat the second grade. But later I knew everything and I was the best student. 

Jewish and Polish children attended this elementary school together. Jews weren’t taught religion there. We would leave during the first lesson, because that was usually Catholic religion [catechism]. So then we moved out of the way, went to the school ballground and roughhoused there. We studied Polish, mathematics, geography and calligraphy, and there was singing, drawing and gymnastics. In the sixth grade I dropped out of school at the end of the school year, because our entire family left for Lodz in 1933.

My favorite teacher was Miss Kaminska, her name was later Mrs. Zolcinska. She was so loving, like a mother. There was also a teacher, a man called Nawrot, who taught us mathematics – algebra and singing. He was the best mathematics teacher in the entire district. There were two teachers who were sisters, their last name was Lukasiewicz. I remember one of them was short and the other one tall and this tall one had a fiance, who was a pilot. The pilot of an airplane, a Kukuruznik [‘corn stalk cutter’, a biplane originally used for spraying fertilizer and pesticides on fields, but also used later in the war]. He would fly in from Kielce, circle the market and the school. Everyone knew he was looking for his fiancee. Sometimes he would throw a letter or a parcel for her from the plane. Mr. Lukomski, I don’t remember his first name, taught me crafts.

We were not harassed at school, but there was this one teacher, a scoutmaster, his name was Pyzik and he was an anti-Semite. I think he was the gymnastics teacher. He taught this song: ‘Oj dydy, dydy, pozdychaly wszystkie Zydy. A od czego? A od borscu kwasnego’ [‘Oh diddy diddy, all the Jews have died. And what have they died of? Of sour beet soup.’] And once we beat him up for that. It was a Saturday. My friends and I used to go to the forest in the summertime to pick blueberries, because it was hot. And this teacher used to ride on his bike, in uniform, wearing a hat. When he was passing by the cemetery on this bike, we gathered some stones, hid in the ditches covered with bushes and when we threw this hailstorm of stones, he didn’t feel like singing these songs anymore.

I was a good student. Once I even had to go to school on a Saturday. This was during an inspector’s visit. The inspector would sometimes come to check how the students were doing. Miss Kaminska pleaded with Mother and Father, so they’d allow me to come to school on a Saturday, but without a pencil and a notebook, because they wouldn’t have allowed it otherwise [one wasn’t allowed to carry anything on Saturdays, because that was considered labor]. She wanted to show off how much her students knew. So they asked me questions and I answered perfectly. I even remember one question, about a writer named Jachowicz [Jachowicz, Stanislaw (1796-1857): Polish pedagogue and writer of fairy tales] and I told them everything. I had several favorite subjects at school: I liked Polish very much and geography; mathematics wasn’t very easy for me. It was professor Nawrot who taught me. He was a very good teacher, but for himself. He knew a lot, but he couldn’t pass on this knowledge of how to understand algebra to his students. Unfortunately, there were no students who could do their homework on their own.

I never received any kind of punishment. I remember in public school I once got the so-called hand from my favorite teacher, with a pencil case or ruler, I don’t remember exactly. Such was the story: the teacher wasn’t in the classroom, the boys broke a window, nobody wanted to admit it, nobody wanted to tell on anyone. She knew I was too delicate for that [breaking the window]. So I was punished then, because everyone was, with this so-called hand.

They thought highly of me at school. Later even when they wanted to fire some teacher, because she hit someone unjustly, this Kazubinski came to us, on behalf of his daughter Zosia, and asked me to approach all my classmates with him to collect signatures that we have such respect for this teacher that we don’t want to see her punished. Kazubinski had a barber shop in Bodzentyn, he was a feldsher [barber]. There was this custom in small towns that each barber was also a feldsher. He was a well known person. I went to school with his daughter Zosia. She used to lisp; she was a very slim girl.

Between 1929 and 1930 I also took Jewish religion classes in Polish. They were organized in the public school, but in the evenings. They took place twice a week. They brought two teachers from Kielce for this purpose. One of them was Szwarzberg and I don’t remember the other one’s name. I took these lessons, although there was no mandatory schooling then. I remember from my childhood that there were children who didn’t go to school at all. And later, well, later I was in Lodz. And there children looked at everything differently. All the rules of keeping kosher were not followed, like they used to be. At first, you’d wear a cap, but after some time young people didn’t want to wear it. You’d go for prayers more because of tradition or so that Father wouldn’t feel hurt. On Saturday, when Father was praying and I was cleaning my shoes, he would reproach me: ‘How can you? One can see through the window that you’re cleaning your shoes!’ We’d try to swing the lead.

We started going to different organizations, some to Bund 7, others to Poalei Zion 8. I didn’t want to study anymore. Some would later sit in the prayer house and study on their own. All day and all night, they’d sit there nodding their heads. They studied commentaries and deeper laws of Judaism. Not me. The family thought they’d have two rabbis, I was supposed to be a rabbi at home and Chaim Wajntraub at my uncle’s. Nothing came out of this in the end. Both my parents and his parents were disappointed, because neither he nor I became rabbis.

We were poor. I couldn’t have all the books I needed for school. When there was one book in the house, it would be used for ten years. Some pages would be glued together, some were torn out. Although there was no habit then, like my son had, of doodling in books, a book would become damaged anyway. Every year, the book would be passed on to your siblings. The rich ones used to go to a store and buy new books. The poor ones would buy math books, Polish, geography and others from those who moved on to higher grades. When I needed other schoolbooks, I went to see my friends – girls and boys. Our neighbors were mostly Jewish.

I had one close friend, Jankiel, the youngest of the richest family in town, the Szechters. They had a steam mill and hardware stores. With this mill they supplied electricity for the entire town. When there was no electricity in town, the residents arranged it with him, set up the posts and power would go from this mill. The mill would grind grain and supply electricity. They were the richest. They were the only ones in town who had a telephone. The phone was in the hall, next to the door. It wasn’t like these modern ones, it had a crank. When you wanted to make a phone call, you had to crank this crank hard and long, and the headphone was separate. Poles – the gentry – had farms and the Szechters purchased all their grain, they’d grind it and sell it.

When I was in second grade, this friend of mine got sick and had to have his appendix taken out. Once, in the summer, we went with our school to Lysa Gora [113 km from Bodzentyn], where Dab Bartek [Bartek Oak Tree, oldest living tree in Poland] grows. I remember this friend said that he had two zloty in his pocket. Later, he must have dropped it in the grass and he accused me that I had taken it and didn’t give it back. I remember this really hurt me, I later held a grudge against him. And that’s how our friendship ended. Later, when I was sick and needed to find out what was going on at school, I went to visit my Polish classmates, girls, who lived outside of town. There was Kwietniewska there and the Czerniakiewicz sisters. And I did my homework there, or borrowed a book, or copied what was taught at school and what the homework was.

When it comes to friends from school, I mostly hung out with the boys. As boys we had common games, we played hopscotch and palant. The ball was made of rags, we had a bat and you had to run and then bail yourself out. In later years we used to go on school field trips: I was in Bieliny in the Swietokrzyskie Mountains [110 km from Bodzentyn]. We used to stay overnight at schools. These field trips were usually organized in the summer. There were also field trips during the school year, for example to Wachock [15 km from Bodzentyn], but I didn’t go on that one. Wachock is a small town famous for bad jokes [similar to American southern or redneck jokes]. But I did go to Slupinowa, to Lysa Gora and then Swiety Krzyz [a mountain peak in the eastern part of the Lysogory Mountains, a 12th century monastery and a Benedictine church are located there]. When you entered there was this black board next to the door. People said that if you slap your hand on that board and there’s moisture, then you’ll come back there once again. I slapped my hand, but there was no moisture.

There on Swiety Krzyz, there was the largest prison, where all the inmates were sentenced for life. Even the one who killed Narutowicz, our president, this Niewiadomski, that was his name, he was also there. [Niewiadomski, Eligiusz (1869-1923): painter, art historian. On 16th December 1922 he assassinated President Gabriel Narutowicz] In that prison there was also the famous Jewish ‘supposed thief’. There’s even a book about him, a very beautiful book. It’s called Urke Nachalnik’s diary [original title: ‘Zyciorys wlasny przestepcy’ (A Criminal’s Own Life Story); also see Nachalnik, Urke] 9. Urke Nachalnik was a pseudonym. He loved his mother very much and didn’t want her to find out what her son was doing for a living. He came from a very interesting family – pious, religious. I remember one anecdote, according to which they sent him to a rebbe from Kielce and he seduced the rabbi’s wife. He had his faults. He was a scoundrel, he’d have guilt-feelings all the time, but he would promise himself there would be no more of it. His real name, it escaped my memory.

I didn’t go on holiday with my parents. I used to go around the villages with Mother or Father, collecting milk. When I was small I watched cows being milked; I was there during the milking. And then we had these orchards I mentioned before, from peasants in different villages. We picked fruit and later went around different markets with these goods. When I came home from school, I took the scale and several baskets of apples or cherries and went out to sell them. Sometimes, when we had a lot of fruit, Mother would rent a cart and I’d go with her to Suchedniow to sell it all. Or when there were church fetes in Catholic churches, on Saint Catherine’s [24th November] or Saint Thomas’ [21st December] feast-day, Mother would make some gingerbread cookies, chocolates, candy, pretzels and other merchandise and we’d carry it all on our backs, sometimes 11-12 kilometers, sometimes only 3-7 kilometers. We used to carry this baggage on foot and then set up a stall in front of the church and sell it. These faithful Catholics would first go to pray, the noon mass or vespers, and when they finished they would leave the church and start buying. There’s no point in talking about this now. Sometimes it happened that they’d attack us, topple the merchandise over, mostly peasants, but when you compare this to today? Now it wouldn’t be possible for any Jew to go to a Catholic fete with goods to sell.

There was no anti-Semitism at my school. All that was there, was that when they let us, boys, out for the break, into the schoolyard, we’d knock each other down, fight and call each other names. So sometimes one peasant child, when some Jew made him mad, would shout: ‘You beilis!’ And Beilis 10 was, under tsarist rule, a Jew who lived in a small town, somewhere in the east, close to Romania, I don’t remember exactly, who was accused of a ritual murder. At that time it was believed that Jews catch children for blood, to make matzah. This case took a very long time, but he was finally acquitted. At the same time in Poland, at Jasna Gora [a monastery] in Czestochowa, there was this Pole, his name was Macoch, who took care of the monastery. And different things got lost there, offerings and gold. Nobody knew who was stealing. And this Macoch was caught. It was at the same time: this case with Beilis for the ritual murder and Macoch being caught stealing. So when the boys were fighting with each other, then all you could hear was: ‘You beilis!” and ‘You macoch!’ And that was all the quarreling.

The first time I saw a car was in Bodzentyn. I could have been seven or eight years old then, I don’t remember exactly. In addition to those who brought merchandise from town, there was also this Jew called Sztarkman. I was in one class with his daughter Chana. His family lived on Kielecka Street and had two passenger cars. They used to take people to Kielce. I only saw a tram in Lodz, I was about 14 years old then. I think this was in Tuszyn, a Tuszyn-Lodz tram.

After school I worked as a courier in a merchants’ bank. My father was an activist there, or so I think. I earned some money there. When there were summons for paying taxes, or credit payments, I had to take them to the correct address and leave them there. I made 2 zloty a week. Later, as time passed, trucks started coming to Bodzentyn from Cracow, supplying merchandise to grocery stores. The driver had a list, but he didn’t know what was where, so they directed him to me. I got in the truck with him and directed him. We stopped by one store, dropped off whatever we were supposed to and continued on our way. I remember that one time, when we were parking outside a store, the driver went into the store, I stayed in the cabin, caught the steering wheel and pushed the pedal. There was a small hill there, so I moved the truck maybe five or ten meters. I got scared and took my foot of the pedal. That was my first time at the wheel.

We used to spend Saturdays first in the prayer house, then at the table, eating. And then we’d go our own ways. It depended on whether it was summer or winter. If it was winter, we stayed in the room. No one knew about double windows then and it could get really cold. The winter of 1929 was the coldest. When you wanted to see who was walking down the street, you’d breathe on the window. You had to breathe on it, because there were these leaves on the glass [hoarfrost on the windows]. Once, I remember, one squire was moving from one estate to a different one. He moved his things in these long horse-drawn carts, chickens as well. I remember how we all watched them on the market square. They all died, because it was so cold.

At my family home there were different traditional meals for every holiday. Holidays were celebrated as they should have been. My parents weren’t Orthodox, but everything was kept kosher, according to the principles of Jewish religion. We even went to a kosher butcher, who slaughtered geese or hens. That’s how it is with Jews, because ducks lived where there was sand, or water, some of them had sand in their intestines, so it had to be checked. When Mother was preparing dishes, and she did everything on her own, she took each egg, it didn’t matter if she was baking a cake or doing something else, she cracked it open and checked if it hadn’t been fertilized. If it had, she gave it to the janitor, so he had everything for free. When there was meat for a holiday meal – poultry, chicken, turkey or other, or beef – then you’d first take it to the rabbi before it was prepared. The rabbi made the final decision, he studied, he would examine the meat and say: ‘You can eat it, it’s kosher’ and when he said ‘You cannot’ then we’d give it away to the janitor. You’d give it away for free. In Bodzentyn you’d take it to your neighbors, favorite ones, for free, of course.

My favorite holiday was Easter [Pesach]. I still remember my favorite meals connected with these holidays: red borscht with potatoes, broth with kneydlakh made from matzah flour and meat. Then you’d fry these bubelech, eggs with matzah flour, in a frying pan. ‘Vorspeise’, that’s German and means appetizer, in Yiddish this was tsimes [traditional holiday dish, made from cooked carrots, apples, dried fruit, with sugar and cinnamon]. It had to be sweet, with raisins. Or kneydlakh on Easter, that was my favorite, still is to this day, made from matzah flour. At that time matzah was different, not like today, from a factory, from Israel, square, made by machines, flat.

At home in Bodzentyn our neighbors used to make matzah. Usually they would do it at my parents’, because there was a stove in the apartment. Everyone would pitch in. First, the apartment was cleaned, all the furniture, the walls were painted, the stove koshered – you’d put stones inside and then spray it with water. Then water was prepared. The water had to be clean; we would carry it from the spring. Then matzah would be made. Women from the villages would come, they’d be told how to do it. They were peasants, because it was hard work, kneading the dough by hand. They’d come if they wanted to and earn some money. Jews and Jewesses made matzah as well, but when there were more neighbors, more matzah was needed. The more people worked, the faster it all went. For example, you couldn’t turn the matzah over. It had to be kneaded very thinly. There are recipes for this, kosher ones. I also kneaded. I even had two bumps [corns on hands] from this kneading, but I got 2 or 3 zloty a day for this work. Then you’d make lots of little holes, so the dough wouldn’t rise too much when it was being baked. And when everything was done, the neighbors came round to take their portions home.

We moved to Lodz in the spring of 1933. We moved away from poverty. There was no work in Bodzentyn. Wolf was the first one to leave, because he was the most efficient and he brought us down to Lodz. From that time on I didn’t go to any school. I worked, mostly among Jews [Editor’s note: Until WWII Lodz was Poland’s second largest city, after Warsaw, and the city’s Jews came to constitute the second largest Jewish community in Poland, after Warsaw. In 1938 it had a population of 665,000, of which 34 percent (223,000) were Jews. Many of the industrial enterprises were founded by Jews, and more than 50 percent of the Jewish population gained their livelihood from industry.]. Wherever you wanted to work, you worked for Jews. The first two weeks, I sold bagels, the kind with poppy seeds. I waited in the bakery, on Lagiewnicka Street, for all this to boil in a tub. Because these bagels were first boiled in a tub, they were boiling there, scalding. Next, they’d be taken out of the tub, poppy seeds were sprinkled on them and then they’d be put in the oven. They were so white and smelled so nicely, I remember that. Other boys used to wait with me, they had baskets. When the bagels were ready, each one would load as many bagels in the basket as he liked and go sell them in the city. Once you had sold everything, you’d come back for more.

Then I went to work in a store on 3 Nowomiejska Street. There was a tailor there, who made clothing for religious Jews. He made chalats [kippot], jackets, pants. I was there as an errand-boy. There were several tailors in the town, so I had to carry materials, sometimes the lining, sometimes accessories, from one tailor to the other. And so on, without a break. In the beginning I did this without using the tram. I walked at least 25 kilometers a day. I don’t remember how much I got paid a week, but he took advantage of me without mercy. After all, there was a lot of unemployment, lots of people who wanted to work, so I didn’t want him to take someone in my place. I don’t know if I stayed there until 1934, I don’t remember now.

Then one of my older brothers found me a place and I went to learn to sew on the overlock, as a knitter. I cut these thick knitwear materials that were later used to make women’s underwear. I learned from the so-called marshal, who used to sing at Jewish weddings. His name was Ici Bucik. Bucik [Polish for ‘little shoe’] was of course a pseudonym. His real last name was Nojfeld. He had this fat belly and a red beard. He took me in as an apprentice. I was supposed to learn for three years and I stayed for less than three months. I don’t know why, but when Saturday came I took the keys to the workshop and I began taking the machines apart. I wanted to familiarize myself with this, because I got the knack for mechanics. I learned everything very quickly and I didn’t have to study to be a knitter. I only got 50 grosze a week. I was friends with his son, Jakub.

In my free time I went to the cinema, or to dancing lessons. Right next to here [corner of Zachodnia and Zawadzka Streets] was Dembinski’s dance hall. That’s where everyone went to party. I went there as well, from time to time, with my friends. One Jew played his favorite songs there, sometimes quite funny, like that [Mr. Bromberg sang parts of the song]: ‘Szloches gajt szojn ahaim…’. Szloches means slovens in Polish, because it was mostly servants who came there. ‘Dos Gefes sztajt doch noch fon Szabes, zejn azejger macht men szojn cyj di tojeren…, [‘Slovens, go home now. The dishes have been in the sink since Sabbath. The gates close at 10pm’]. When he played his trumpet and sang this, we knew this melody, we knew it was time to get dressed and walk the girls home. Because those were different times. You wouldn’t hold a woman by the neck, but you’d be elegant, super. And you’d always walk her from the dance floor to the place where she was sitting; there were dances where you switched partners. Such youthful life.

Starting in 1933, because there were strikes often, I became involved in the trade union of textile workers and knitters. As a young boy I was very eager. I would go out looking for strike-breakers. I would sit down on the street with others and keep guard. If, during a strike, someone was transporting goods in a cart, then we had some ink in our pockets, or gasoline, and we’d throw this stuff on the strike-breaker’s cart. I quickly found myself a new job, this time work by the piece. I got 25 grosze for a dozen of boys’ underwear made on the overlock. It wasn’t bad, but you had to make a lot of underwear! There were also these sets, brassieres and panties together, with buttons. Later I made underwear, knickers for women, then ladies’ slips, because they were popular at the time. Every woman used to wear a slip.

Later I changed jobs. I changed every few months, because there were strikes. New strikes every few months. Because it often happened that the owners of a plant signed a contract with the workers, saying that they would pay 32 grosze a dozen. So they signed it, but when we came to work, they would say: ‘Listen, I won’t pay you 32 grosze a dozen, I’ll pay you 25, if you want to work, you will, if not – then you have to look for work somewhere else.’ They didn’t push me as much like that, because I taught myself how to fix machines, as a mechanic.

People usually worked in the cottage industry. This was mostly on Nowowiejska Street. So when someone’s machine broke down, he had to call a mechanic. The mechanic took the fee and sometimes pretended to work for several hours to earn it. I knew mechanics, so wherever I worked, they didn’t have to hire any mechanics. I was a huge geroy [Russian, ‘hero’], very important. When the employers found out I could fix machines, it paid off for them to employ me, even for a double wage. I mostly fixed sewing machines. When something broke down, I’d be there in a minute, do what was needed and then keep on sewing. There were many breaks, because there was more striking than working. There was the winter season and the summer season and then the war was drawing closer.

In the first years after we moved to Lodz, when I was already earning money, I began to sympathize with Poalei Zion Left. I was an activist, like my father. There were many [trade] unions at the time; the tailors had their union, the shoemakers had theirs; each profession had their union. When there were strikes, we went around the workshops looking for strike-breakers. Then there were political issues. There were communist Jews; bundists who were Jewish socialists belonged to the PPS [Polish Socialist Party] 11. They said that Jews should feel at home all over the world, in every country. Wherever they live, they have to fight for their rights. This Zionistic trend was created by a Zionist from Austria. Herzl 12 was his name. He was a philosopher, published books and said that each nation should have its own country. It’s like this: when a dog has an owner, a doghouse, then when a stranger comes, the dog will raise its tail, bark, it won’t be afraid. But when the dog doesn’t have an owner, then it’s enough to stomp your foot at it and it will run away at once.

Poalei was a workers’ party. It was collecting money for buying land in Palestine. This was the so-called Keren Kayemet Leisrael 13. I didn’t use to collect this money myself, but at home, although we were poor, there were several cans [for donations] next to the door. There was the Chachmej Lublin Yeshivah, a rabbinical college. So you’d throw 1 or 2 grosze into these cans every Friday. After two or three months someone would come, break the seals, collect the money, put the cans back and so on.

In the same organization, Poalei, there was also a more right-wing branch, and then there was the leftist branch and I was in Poalei Zion Lewica [‘left’, Polish]. One time they even arrested me; I had such an incident. Before the war, they summoned me to the police station, on Kilinskiego Street, it was the political police. I was still a boy, I didn’t know why and what for. I was afraid, because if someone was summoned there, nobody knew if he’d come back. The date was set two weeks later. So I went. Three of them were sitting at a table. They started interrogating me, fired lots of questions at me. Where I go, if I belong to the Party, where I work. Each one of them asked me questions, different ones, also political ones. And it was like this: this trade union of ours was on 57 Piotrkowska Street, on the third floor at the end of the hall. Because there were more leftists among us, we once organized an event on Lenin, Liebknecht [Liebknecht, Karl (1871-1919): German socialist leader and ideologue of the international workers’ movement] and Luxemburg 14. It was a kind of political discussion. We prepared such events often, but usually they were official and registered. Everything had to be legal. I didn’t even go to this event. It turned out it hadn’t been legalized.

At the police station they showed me an invitation, written out in my name. ‘Can you speak Yiddish?’ ‘Yes, I can.’ They showed me a piece of paper, with other smaller pieces of paper stuck to it. They must have had some Jew in that police who could read. They showed it to me and asked me what it was. I had no reason to lie. I didn’t even know what I was reading. So I finally told them that it was an invitation in my name, for such and such a meeting, but that I never received it. And that was the truth. It hadn’t been delivered to me. When the police came in, then the person who had it in his pocket, must have torn it up, so they took all the little pieces and put them together and there must have been one who could decipher this writing. He pieced it all together and he got it. They had to let me go. I got away, I was pleased.

After we came to Lodz, we gradually stopped following traditions, especially after Mother died [1938]. She always felt hurt that her sons were moving away from religion, that they were not so superstitious [religious] anymore. She used to say: ‘You won’t even recite the Kaddish for me when I die.’ When Mother died, we had the tombstone made, I was in mourning for 30 days, and I went to recite the Kaddish every day, in the synagogue on Baluty Market. I prayed and recited the Kaddish. Now, still, in spite of myself, although I don’t really practice religion, when I go to Mother’s grave I pray. I do it for her. To honor her memory. Although there should be ten people to pray, but I don’t care about that. She wanted me to do it, so I do it. When she died, I said to myself that I would never in my life go to the theater. No theater, no parties, I promised myself and that was it. But when I was in Russia, in Siberia, I forgot and went once, and, well, then I started going again. I don’t remember when exactly I stopped practicing religion, if there was a specific moment.

I just came to understand that God punishes sinners, but my mommy was a saint. If she was a Catholic today, then the pope would declare her a saint, like Mother Teresa. She had no sins whatsoever. I knew Mother, I know that. And the same was true for our entire family. No one ever stole anything from anyone else, not even a few grosze. My son, mean as he is, but if he knew that I owed 5 grosze at the store, he’d always remind me: ‘Father, you were supposed to pay 5 grosze more yesterday.’ During the war even children who had not sinned yet died. An adult could have sinned, committed adultery, stolen something, who knows what else, but children? An infant never sinned. Not like this prelate. [Editor’s note: In 2004 the public prosecutor’s office received notification of a crime having been committed by prelate Henryk Jankowski, former kapelan of Solidarity 15, parish priest in Gdansk, who was accused of pedophilia, molesting minors.]. I don’t like it, because he lives off of Jews, if it weren’t for Jesus he’d starve, he’d be shoveling manure from some barn, and because of him he’s made it. Such a bull. He seduced little girls, or boys.

The way it is with Jews, and I don’t want to praise them because I’m a Jew and when they have some fault I talk about that as well, but with Jews there aren’t any demi-gods, no paintings, none of that clothing. Just the tallit. It’s like a fiancee. When a girl got engaged, she would sew a tallit for her husband. It’s also called a shroud. [Although only married men have to wear the tallit, it is customary for men over the age of 13 to wear them. The tallit may be laid over the marriage canopy or be used as a burial shroud.] Because you keep it with you all your life and then you’re buried in it. And the priests, they dress up, these colors, bishops, archbishops, parish priests. And what’s the purpose?! After all they take it from the Jews! People believe in resurrection, that Jesus was resurrected. When you catch a fly and stick a pin through it, the blood goes out, then that’s the end. You can’t reverse it. That’s how it is with people too. But a dogma is a dogma.

I envy those who believe, because they have a purpose, they don’t worry about there being an end. They believe that that’s just the beginning, that they will go to heaven. But where’s heaven? It turns out I can’t see heaven. Because if there is a galaxy, there are many satellites and planets, then where’s heaven? What do they live from and what do they do in heaven? After all, if you go deeper into this, a wise man will be wary and an idiot will support what is written in the holy books, Christian texts. Each one [evangelist] wrote differently, however he understood it. I believed my sister never sinned, my mother never sinned, my brother never sinned. And where are they now?

Before a Jew became a rabbi, he had to fast, he didn’t eat at all. He spent 24 hours a day, not just nights, but days and nights and studied that kaballah and other books, the Torah. Then, after he finished his studies he had the right qualifications, but he couldn’t be a rabbi if he wasn’t married. Everything has a purpose. If he has a wife, then he won’t be unfaithful? He’s a man, he’s got needs as well. But in the Catholic faith you’re not allowed to, you have to remain celibate. I knew some priests, I won’t say who they were, who visited me. I set them up with women and they sinned. I even went on holidays together with priests dressed in lay clothing. That’s hypocrisy. I don’t believe in resurrection, of course I don’t. I don’t believe in heaven either. Where could all this fit? Six billion people. How would they make a living? Here brothers hate each other, a husband and wife can hate each other and in heaven they won’t? I just think about this, I don’t impose my ideas on anyone. Let them believe whatever they want to believe.

I once asked the rebbe: ‘How was it when there was no earth, no heaven, no water, but there was God. So where was he? What was he created from? And it’s written: let the earth separate from the water and from the heavens. Who was God speaking to and where was he? Even Adam wasn’t there yet, Eve wasn’t there. Who heard him? What language?’ The rebbe used to somehow get rid of me. Same when I asked about Adam: ‘He has three sons and they had no wife, so how could they have children?’ Someone told me they had intercourse with monkeys, with damn monkeys. And the more I learned, the more I noticed that the pieces just didn’t fit in. That’s why there were kaballah books that you couldn’t read unless you were a fundamentalist. Because you could stop believing. Damn, when I listen to the radio at night [Mr. Bromberg is referring to programs broadcast by Radio Maryja, a Catholic radio station operating since 1991. This radio station is known for anti-Semitic views.], I just get pissed off: ‘Praised be Jesus Christ and Mary forever virgin.’ So how many more years will she be a virgin? She had children, a brother and they keep repeating idiotically: ‘And Mary forever virgin.’ You have to use your brain and not make a fool of yourself like that.

In 1933 [see Anti-Semitism in Poland in the 1930s] 16 the situation started getting worse. Anti-Semitism began in 1935, and got stronger in 1936. It happened that Jews were caught and their beards shaved off with blunt knives. And it hurt with a knife. And when ‘Bij Zyda’ [‘Get the Jew’] began, Polish peasants wouldn’t be allowed to enter Jewish stores. And Poles liked doing their shopping in Jewish stores. They bought on credit. Jewish stores were the cheapest. A Jew, when he was selling a pair of pants, wanted to make 50 grosze a pair. And this wasn’t bad money. A quarter [250 ml] of vodka cost 50 grosze, five rolls – 10 grosze, six bagels – 10 grosze. He sold 100 pairs of pants and made a profit of 5 zloty. When a Pole got round to selling pants, he looked for some madman who’d pay him 5 zloty a pair. But it was worst when they formed this nationalist organization [see Endeks] 17. Then anti-Semitism spread faster. I know that one apprentice who was learning the trade at my father’s, belonged to these nationalists. His name was Rubinkiewicz. They even killed one Jew, but that’s a different story.

I remember the time when everybody was getting ready for war. I listened to this bandit Hitler speaking on the radio, shouting like some pig. There were many Germans in Lodz [approx. 65,000 Germans, amounting to 10 percent of the total population], Volksdeutsche 18. They usually worked as hosiers; they were in the textile industry. They later walked around in these Nazi uniforms, with the Hakenkreuz [swastika] on the left shoulder. They had their church on Limanowskiego Street. When it was Hitler’s name-day, each German put his portrait in the store window. You could see it on Limanowskiego Street. Germans used to get along very well with Jews. Germans were artisans, manufacturers mostly, but they had good relations with others. When Hitler came to power, it all changed.

Just like in small towns, anti-Semitism was on the rise, peasants weren’t allowed to enter Jewish stores and there was persecution in larger cities as well. There was a store called Chrzescijanski Dom [‘Christian House’, Polish] on 27 Zgierska [Street], on the Baluty market, next to the synagogue. And there was a sign on this store that said ‘Don’t buy from Jews’ and all the merchandise they had was bought from Jews whom I knew. There were many stupid Polish peasants who thought that they would be patriots if they didn’t buy from Jews, so they didn’t. But when a peasant went to a Pole, he’d take him for a ride. As I said, a Pole couldn’t do business, but he was jealous of others. That’s when these animosities started, antagonisms.

So preparations for the war started. The Germans were getting ready to attack Poland. Some Volksdeutsche, they were mostly spying, were quietly informing them through some organizations what was happening in our country. And at that time, two years before the war, there were these affairs in the Sejm [Polish Parliament]. There was a woman representative named Prystor [see Prystor Decree] 19 and a priest named Trzeciak. So they started this affair on purpose, to distract everyone’s attention from what was happening in the country. So in 1938 or 1937 this Prystor introduced a proposal to ban ritual slaughter. Ritual slaughter means that, before you eat fowl, if it’s healthy, you take it to the shochet. He had a special knife and he killed these animals. With one stroke he’d cut the throat. [The method of slaughter is a quick, deep stroke across the throat with a perfectly sharp blade with no nicks or unevenness. This method is painless, causes unconsciousness within two seconds, and is widely recognized as the most humane method of slaughter possible.] Then he’d wait for the blood to drain and good bye. And these representatives in the Sejm decided that you have to shoot an animal, because that’s more humane. But it wasn’t such an easy thing, because there were also Jewish representatives in the Sejm, so these discussions went on forever, about what is humane and what isn’t. Jews would claim that if an animal was strong, for example a bull or a calf, then after the first shot it would go crazy and you had to shoot twice, three, several times before you killed the animal, so it suffered more. Jews claimed that if you cut the throat it all goes quicker. The blood is drained and that’s it.

They’d keep on discussing these issues and meanwhile, the Germans were spying. They knew how many airplanes we had, how many soldiers, weapons. Hitler was sure he’d win. Shortly before the war, my oldest brother came back from the army; he was serving in the 51st Romanian King Charles’ Regiment, in Poznan. He spent some months at home, but when the war broke out, he was mobilized again. But before that, before he was mobilized, different things were happening in Lodz; we didn’t know what would happen next. Jews, Hasidim, bearded or not, they all volunteered for field work. I volunteered too. We dug ditches, on the old market square, ditches for protection against aircraft fire. Hitler was supposed to attack any day. There was this League of Anti-Aircraft Defense. I was a member of it. We’d go looking on rooftops with flashlights, supposedly looking for spies.

The war broke out on Friday, 1st September [see Invasion of Poland] 20. I was on 29 Mlynarska Street at that time. An alarm was announced ‘Zora 32 is coming [code name], unhitch horses, get people inside, into shelters.’ Not everyone was sure whether this alarm was the correct one, because there had been drills before; they were announced on the radio all the time. Lodz was attacked on Friday [8th September], I think a bomb was dropped on Krawiecka Street, I don’t remember exactly. When it was dark, you couldn’t leave your house, windows had to be covered. And that’s when the Germans would attack. But it [29 Mlynarska Street] was my shift of the Defense League, so I was sleeping at my cousin’s. I left the house looking for bread. You had to stand in line all night to buy some bread. If that wasn’t enough, they’d also kick Jews out of the line. I was kicked out once or twice as well. But that night [the night of 6th September] I went out, I looked around and saw many of these horse-drawn carts on wheels. They were driving. I looked again and I saw it was our police. I was in precinct three [Editor’s note: by precinct Mr. Bromberg means the district police station. He was not there himself; he refers to the police station which served his area]. So I see the police are driving, but at 12 at night? Where? They were going to Brzeziny [10 km from Lodz].

I went home early in the morning and I said to Father that the police were running away from Lodz, that I saw them leave. All the Jews started packing, because they had to run away, because the Germans were coming and they would kill all Jews. Very many Jews ran away then, mostly to Brzeziny. They only took their most valuable things. I didn’t know if I should run away or not run away. Father had had gastrointestinal surgery; the family was large and poor. So we decided that we wouldn’t run away. That’s what we decided. Whatever would be, would be, but we were staying in Lodz. The Germans entered the city on Friday, the police ran away on Tuesday night and the Germans flew low above the ground and fired at everyone who was on the road to Brzeziny. Many Jews died at that time. Some had suitcases and gold, others had nothing. That was when we still said, ‘Good for us that no one from our family ran away.’

Then there was anarchy in Lodz. The police had left. My third precinct, where I worked, left as well. Everything was nobody’s. There were store robberies, muggings on the street, there was no government. It was terrible. I was afraid I’d get into trouble. On Friday morning you could hear the gunfire. When they started shooting, I hid in the doorways. I would stand there until they stopped shooting. When I was walking home to 76 Zgierska, from Lutomierska Street, there on that corner – the third precinct was on Koscielny Square – I noticed that there was a huge hole on the first floor; the bomb must have smashed right into the middle of the precinct. All the windows were broken. People were yelling to hang a white flag on the church of the Blessed Virgin Mary, to show that we surrender. But in the end they didn’t hang a flag. On Friday evening the German army entered the city. The Wehrmacht came in on motorcycles and tankettes [small tanks].

At first the Germans talked to us. In German, because it was similar to Yiddish. They talked and they didn’t pay any attention – Jew or not Jew. Only with time did they start harassing and persecuting Jews. They would barge into an apartment, shout ‘hands up!’ and loot everything. No one was allowed out on the street, there was a curfew set for 5 o’clock. They started shaving the beards of Jews. I remember when they once caught one Jew in tallit, near Koscielny Square. They laughed at him and led him through the gutter like some animal.

Soon after they entered the city, the Germans started rounding up Jews for labor. They took them to Kruszyn [95 km from Lodz], to bury dead horses. The stink was unbearable there. Germans would beat up Jews there. Many Jews came back home maimed: without noses or ears. They caught me too. They took me to Lutomierska Street: there was an automobile station and these ditches where cars were fixed. I worked there, I had to clean these ditches, I took out the garbage and I managed somehow. I didn’t get anything for this work. I later worked in some other places. When you went out on the street, you never knew if you’d come back. No one could be sure. That’s why the Jews from the community promised they would provide 40,000 Jews, every day, for labor, if only the Germans stopped these round-ups. And so this supposed contract was signed [see Judenrat] 21. We gathered for work [forced labor] on Wschodnia, near Poludniowa Street. My brother’s turn and mine came as well. Each one had a different assignment. The merchants came, these bandits [Germans] and chose those who were well suited for work. They knew, young or old, and they chose. They took me too. I was afraid at first, but later I arranged it with Jews who didn’t want to go and I would go instead of them for 5 or 6 zloty. I worked under their name.

They once took me to Swietego Jerzego Street, the 10th Heavy Artillery Regiment was there. They took my neighbors with me. They took me to a shed, where there were lots of horseshoes. There was a railroad sidetrack nearby and they made horseshoes there, for horses. They took us all out into the yard, had us stand in a row. There was one German, maybe two. They approached each one of us. One took these scissors for cutting thick wires and went up to my neighbor, who used to sell bagels at the Fabryczny Train Station, he put his nose between the blades and waited. We were all pale, like millers. We all thought he’d cut our noses. But he only winked and nodded his head. Finally, he didn’t do anything, only scared us. Then we had to go into a train which was full of horseshoes. Each one of us received these special hooks and we had to carry these horseshoes to the warehouse, 40 horseshoes at once. And this was quite a long way, to this train. I was sent behind the shed. There were crates with nails for horseshoes there. Those crates must have weighed some hundred kilograms each. There was no other way, at least two people were needed to lift one crate and I was alone. I couldn’t say anything.

A German came, in work clothes, I remember he was wearing a leather apron. I was moaning and pretending to try to lift that crate. I was pushing this crate with the nails. He stood there, kept his hands under the apron and looked. I groaned even more, I was pretending, because I wouldn’t have been able to lift it by myself anyway. He looked around, I was scared what would happen, but he took out a piece of bread and put it in my pocket, and went away. A second one came, brought two or three more people to help and we took this crate together and moved it where it was supposed to be moved.

Then there was lunch. They cooked in these mobile army kitchens. We didn’t get anything. We were sent off; we had to walk around Jerzego Street until they’d stuffed themselves. They didn’t give us anything; they didn’t even let us in. After they had stuffed themselves, they called us, loaded us on the truck and took us to Wierzbowa Street. There were Polish army warehouses there, because it was the 10th Heavy Artillery Regiment. So we’d carry horse harnesses down, from the third floor to the trucks. One [Jew] even wanted to take something, but I told him not to do it, because if we got caught, we’d end up dead. When we had finished, they took us to Piotrkowska Street. The Germans called this street Adolf Hitler Strasse, because it was the longest street in Lodz. Jews weren’t allowed to be there. I thought then – so we’re not supposed to be here, but we are anyway. I went to work several times more. Even for money. I managed to do that. The Germans were doing street round-ups anyway, despite those 40,000 workers provided by the community. Then the years came when Jews had to wear armbands 22. Jews were still fooling themselves: ‘The Germans have a pact with the Russians. Lodz will belong to the Russians’ [see Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact] 23. Some started running away to Russia.

It was 1939. On 11th November the Germans burned down five synagogues in Lodz. They set fire to them. It was a Friday [Editors note: Saturday]. I was living close to Baluty market. Independence Day [holiday celebrating the regaining of independence by Poland after World War I, in 1918] had been cancelled. You could hear gunfire at night. It was said that the Russians were coming and we would surely be liberated the following day. In the morning a friend from the neighborhood runs in and says: ‘Jakub, have you heard, the Germans hanged Jews on Baluty market’. ‘Where?’ ‘Right here, get dressed.’ One, two, three and off we went.

There were five or six of them hanging on gallows on the market. The synagogues were burning, no one was allowed to put out the fire. You know, when you hang a man, his tongue usually sticks out, they had their hands tied behind their backs, mouths closed and they were rocking slowly on those ropes. The Germans did this on a market day to scare away the Poles: ‘be careful, if you try something, that’s what’s going to happen…’

My brother had a friend who lived nearby. He heard it when they brought these Jews. And saw it through the window. He said they were already dead. They were hanged dead. I stood there looking. Two Germans with guns were walking there. Suddenly some kid walked up to one German and said ‘Jude, Jude, Jude’ [German for ‘Jew’] pointing at me. ‘Komm her, Jude’ [German for ‘Come here, Jew’]. He took me and two others. He led us through Zgierska, Nowomiejska, to Wolnosci Square. There were lots of people there. I was standing next to a sign that said ‘Magistrate’, where the Archeological Museum is currently located [present Wolnosci Square]. After the war you could still see that sign, but today you can’t make it out. They put me there and gave a rope to each group. They took two Jews and asked them to climb a ladder, high enough to put the ropes around Kosciuszko’s neck [the statue of Tadeusz Kosciuszko 24]. This gunfire that we had heard at night: we thought it was the Russians bombing, but it was the Germans shooting at the base of the monument. Because it was very heavy, they put dynamite there, but it still didn’t fall. Then they caught some Jews, I don’t know how many, 70, maybe 80 and ordered: ‘Abschmeissen den Hund’ [German for ‘Get that dog down!’]. They started to shout and we pulled him down.

I later read in German newspapers, and I liked reading, in Der Stuermer [German propaganda paper, published in Lodz during the war] or in Volkischer Beobachter [German paper, published in Lodz] that the Jews had pulled down and smashed the statue of Polish hero Tadeusz Kosciuszko. [The monument was pulled down by the Nazis in November 1939 and later rebuilt in 1960 by the same sculptor who had designed the original monument.] Some of the base was still there, but of course, during the war this square was empty. In 1945, on 19th January, when the Soviet forces were capturing the city of Lodz, 28 or 29 Soviet soldiers were buried there. Where the statue used to be. Not everybody knows that. 29 soldaty [Russian for ‘soldiers’] like me, because I was in the Russian army as well. The first statue of Kosciuszko was made by Professor Mieczyslaw Lubelski. He was an architect; he lived in London. After the war they brought him back to Lodz, he had all the plans and he made another statue, identical with the first one. Residents of Lodz don’t know, they don’t remember, everyone thinks this was the first one.

Later many Jews ran away across the border. [Editor’s note: in October, November 1939 many Jews ran away across the eastern border of Poland, to Russia. By March 1940, 70,000 Jews had left the city]. Some would come back to get their families. I had a friend on 44 Zgierska; he was a year or two older than me. His name was Wajnsztok. He ran away to Russia. He came back to get his sister and, finally, the entire family crossed the [river] Bug.

There was an argument at our house. Mother was dead by then, Father was sick, my brothers wanted to have nice clothes. Because they didn’t want to wear these old rags, but creased pants. Hats, gaiters, gloves. Women had muffs, these nets over their eyes – veils, elegant, beautiful, not like today. No earrings, nose rings or navel rings. My brothers wanted to dress nicely and I wasn’t working and so it began, one would say to the other, ‘You, you should give some money for the house’ and I didn’t have any myself. Mother used to smooth things over. But then Mother was dead, Father was sick and so there was a lot of quarrelling at home. At that time, when my brothers were bugging me – I now regret this so much – I said these words, unintentionally: ‘You’re bugging me, but I will outlive you in the end…’

It hurt me that Mother was dead and that there were arguments at home. Finally, I had had enough. I heard that my friends were getting ready to run away. They also advised me to run away. I met with one of them and he said: ‘Listen, we’ll go to Malkinia.’ [204 km east of Lodz] I was still a boy; I didn’t know what it meant to go abroad. I thought this border was different. He explained to me all these train stations: ‘Then you have to get off at the station, there will be railroad tracks there, follow the tracks uphill, there will be a white house there, and so on…’ He explained, more or less, what it would be like. I got together with my friends, we started discussing. I told them we had to run away and that’s it. It was 1939, or early 1940. The weather was beautiful, there was no snow yet. And we decided to run away. We met on 9 Solna Street, near Polnocna Street, at a friend’s house. There were six of us and two or three girls.

I didn’t say goodbye to my family, I didn’t say goodbye at all. My family didn’t know anything, only my sister and cousins. My sister cried, she asked me not to forget her. She was nine years old when I saw her for the last time. I only stole a suit from my older brother – Wolf. A green one, thin. Used. I thought it would be necessary to bribe the customs officers. They all stayed in Lodz. Later, in 1940, they all moved back to Bodzentyn: Father with my brothers and my sister-in-law with her baby.

Why did I want to go? One of my friends had five brothers, they were all very strong, they lived on 42 Zgierska Street, they had a stall with soap. Their name was Waserman. One of them, when he came back from captivity – he was in the army and came back from the Germans – he said he saw a grave with my brother’s name in Warsaw, on Grzybowska Street. My sister-in-law had a baby. She was alone with the baby. My brother didn’t come back from the war. Some Jews, when they were coming back from camps in Germany, said they had also seen my brother’s grave, a military grave with a helmet, in Grzybowski Garden. I didn’t know Warsaw. I only knew I had a cousin there. Uncle’s son lived there, on Hoza Street. I had known him ever since I was a child. He visited us, brought us chocolate. I decided to go there, without announcing myself first.

We decided to meet in the morning. I remember how one day I walked out on the street in the morning, maybe at 5am, I ripped off this armband, I stood on the sidewalk, looked around, to the east, west, north, south and I said in Yiddish: ‘God, will I live, to walk on this sidewalk ever again?’ I then went to Solna Street. From Solna we all went to Kaliski Train Station. It was raining, we were all wearing galoshes. Cargo trains were waiting at the station, packed, full, people like herrings, standing up. And lots of galoshes next to the cars. [It was very crowded inside, there were no steps, so people pulled one another up and the galoshes fell off their feet]. We finally managed to smuggle ourselves out of Lodz. Without tickets, illegally, because you weren’t allowed to go anywhere. It took a long time. They locked us up in these cars. We couldn’t turn around. It was too crowded. Normally the trip by train would have taken three hours. We had no breakfast, no lunch, nothing. Locked up in the car, at night, we finally reached the Central Train Station [in Warsaw] at five in the afternoon. The station had been burned down. I think there had been a fire. 

When we went into the station, it was full of people. A kid was standing next to the entrance, like on Baluty market, and a German. This German was segregating people: Jew, Turk, Gypsy. When we entered, this kid started shouting ‘Jude, Jude, Jude…’ at us. The German, when he heard it, said ‘Komm her’ and had me come closer. Those [friends] had somehow disappeared. He went down with me, where the trains from Germany were arriving. He ordered me to unload them and then to load them with merchandise from Poland. I was dressed like this: six shirts, two suits, my brother’s and mine, a jacket that my brother had once made, a short one made from an old coat and a nice coat, with thick lining – you can’t find coats like these today, monogrammed and everything.

So I started unloading these cars. The German stood there, this tall brute with a gun and watched me. I was completely wet, sweating like a pig. I thought to myself, ‘what’s happening to my friends?’ They stayed upstairs. And I was underground, so I told this German I was very hot and asked him if I could go upstairs, quickly change clothes and come back. ‘You have five to ten minutes, but be back here immediately.’ ‘Of course I will.’ So I jumped out, caught two boys [friends] and told them [what had happened]. Suddenly I saw this German on the stairs. He was a tall brute. He noticed I wasn’t coming back, so he went to get me. There were lots of people, because it was a train station. He looked around. I saw him from a distance, but he didn’t see me. When he was walking in my direction, I moved somewhere else and then again, so we played hide and seek. I finally lost him. Then the girls came to the train station. They ran away to the city when the German took me and they were raped, captured by the Germans and raped. They came back crying and told us about it. I got up in the morning and went to my cousin’s.

This visit was my first task. I sneaked out of the train station. It was raining. It was my first time in Warsaw, but I knew the address: 24 Hoza, corner of Krucza. A dark blue Polish policeman [‘dark blue policemen’ were Polish police officers working for the Germans] met me along the way. ‘Hey mister, what are you doing?’ He must have been a decent man, because he could have taken me to the Germans and that would have been it. ‘Mister, it’s after curfew, where are you going?’ I was completely wet, all my shirts were soaked through. I reached Grzybowski Garden, but it was dark and I couldn’t see anything. But I somehow found my way to my cousin’s. I didn’t know my cousin’s wife at all. I don’t think they had children. I told them what I was there for, that I was running away, that my sister-in-law had a baby, that she was waiting, that different people had come and said they had seen my brother in Germany, in Hanover, someone else said in Berlin. All this waiting and nothing came out of it. I didn’t tell my sister-in-law before I ran away where I was going and why.

And then it was said that my brother had died as a soldier, that he had died in action. I told all this to my cousin and he said that yes, my brother had been there [at his house] recently, in army uniform, that he had dropped in when the Polish army was running away, wanted to borrow some civilian clothing. But this cousin didn’t give it to him, ‘I can’t give it to you, because we’re downtown, someone could notice that a soldier came in and a civilian walked out.’ He simply got scared and my brother left with nothing. There was still some fighting in Warsaw and I found out that that was where my brother died, defending the citadel. But I asked my cousin, ‘so where’s the grave?’ He said that he saw the helmet and it said Moszek Majer Bromberg on the grave. But it was said that some woman had come, dug the grave up [the grave was probably moved], so to this day I don’t know what happened. So what did I think? I thought: I’ll go to the community; perhaps they know something specific there.

The Jewish community in Warsaw was located on 26 Grzybowska Street, if I’m not mistaken. When I was walking there some Jewish muggers chased me, they wanted to snatch away my coat. And before the war there was this custom that before muggers took anything, they’d spit. This was on the street, close to Grzybowska: ‘Hey you, who spit on you like that?’ But I knew about this, because when I worked at the Hasidim clothing store [in Lodz], I saved my boss more than 100 meters of material. It was like this. My boss sent his brother to dekatyza [a place where fabrics where ironed with a hot iron, so the fabric would not shrink after being washed]. The brother was coming back to the workshop and someone spit on him. He put the fabric down on the road and wanted to wipe himself and this thief – caught the fabric and off he went.

I knew some thieves, because I was a busybody. How did I know them? Well, every Saturday, Sunday, a Pole with a mustache, a blonde man, with an umbrella, used to stand on the street next to Park Sledzia and sell caramel candy. For 5 grosze each. Every 100th or 500th piece of candy got a special prize, a box of chocolates. And these thieves, pickpockets, came there and stole from the players. I saw them sometimes. And once, I was walking home with my boss’s brother, it was dark, there were no streetlamps like today. On the corner of Zgierska and Podrzeczna Streets, where Dyszkin [a famous Jewish store with kosher sausage] was, we saw a man standing in a lit window. He looked like the mugger who had stolen the fabric. So I asked: ‘You! Isn’t he the one who mugged you?’ He said: ‘Oh yes!’ and ran to get a policeman. At the end they even got the fabric back. So when they wanted to spit on me in Warsaw, I knew what they were up to and didn’t let them.

So I kept walking, and I was about to enter the building, when I saw a round-up. The Germans are on the street and they’re catching Jews. So I thought to myself, and that now they’d get me. But there were no Germans in the direction I was walking from, so I turned around on that street and scurried off. And that’s why I never solved my brother’s case, until today.

We [the group which ran away from Lodz] were all supposed to meet in Praga [district of Warsaw], on 39 Zamenhofa Street. That was the plan. I found this street. I found the apartment; I think it was on the fourth floor, very high up. They were already waiting for me. My sister-in-law’s sister was running away from Lodz with me. Her last name was Goldsztajn, maiden name Szajewicz. She was supposed to marry my older brother. I gave her 70 zloty to hide. I had saved it earlier. Women used to wear belts with these steel or metal baleens. I put the money in these baleens. And I met with her at her brother-in-law’s on 9 Mlynarska Street. From there we went to Dworzec Wschodni [Eastern Train Station]. We had arranged we would leave from there.

Some from our group ran away with others because the commotion was unbelievable. There was poverty. People were smuggling different things. You couldn’t get into any car. They ran away, but they said we would meet at the train station in Malkinia. Malkinia, I knew where to get off. I stayed with my sister-in-law’s sister, but she also got lost after a while, as women do. It was very crowded, I managed to get inside the car and she stayed behind. I was angry, why did I take a woman with me anyway? As a boy I was different than I am today, I could manage very well. Well, I managed to get on, so I stayed on. I didn’t even notice when we crossed the Bug. Alone. [Editor’s note: Mr. Bromberg suddenly remembers that, in fact, he was not alone, as it will be evident from the story below.] They weren’t with me, she wasn’t with me. We reached some place at night, people were shouting that there’s a stop and getting off. ‘What is this, is it Malkinia?’, ‘No.’ That place was called Sadowne, it was on the other side of the Bug. I wanted to get off as well, but I really believe in destiny. I have struggled all my life, but somehow I manage to make it through every disaster. So I thought, where would I go if this wasn’t Malkinia, ‘Where’s the train going next?’, ‘Next stop is Malkinia.’ So I said I’d go to Malkinia. And I went to Malkinia.

I thought there’d be a large train station there, but it was dark, some shack made of planks, a house. So I shouted, I thought I’d find these friends. But there was no one there. Oh, I also took with me two of my friend Igiel’s cousins. Their last name was Mehl. The younger one’s first name was Mosze Baruch, he was a bit retarded. I don’t remember the name of the older one. I was with them. When we got off the train it was dark. We entered some dark shack. People were talking to one another. They couldn’t see each other. Boys from the countryside were sitting there with baskets of eggs, they were smuggling them to Warsaw and back. So I listened and they were talking about Jews in Polish, that Jews are hiding, that Jews in Bialystok [large city, 180 km from Warsaw, 293 km from Lodz] nail the tongues of Poles to tables. I couldn’t speak Yiddish [there], so I moved closer to my friends and whispered in their ears that we’d better run.

I didn’t speak Polish that badly, well, you could recognize the accent, that it was different, but not bad, but they had a bad accent. I didn’t want them to speak up. Because I knew the way from my friend from Lodz, I knew that when you leave the station you have to go uphill, then there would be a white house, etc., so I whispered to them to be quiet and said we’d run away from this station. And those people kept talking about Jews. We were afraid that we’d be caught once daylight came. We thought this wouldn’t end well. I took one of them by the hand, he took his brother and we sneaked out, in the dark.

I could only feel where I was going, because we couldn’t see one another. I jumped out of this station with them. I started thinking, ‘railroad track’. I looked. There it was. Uphill. So we walked along this track uphill. I looked for this white house. It was starting to get light. We met a man, a railroad worker, a Pole, along the way. ‘People, what are you doing here? Death penalty, bullet in your head, martial law, war and you’re walking on the railroad tracks?’ He was a good man, he showed us where there was a path. We kept walking, walking. They had luggage, I had luggage. There was some Pole in front of us. He’s huffing and puffing, carrying bags, heavy bags. I said: ‘You know, this must be a smuggler, let’s get closer to him and help him carry it, you take one bag, I’ll take the other.’ And that’s what we did. Faster, faster [we caught up with him], because he was walking slowly, his things were heavy. ‘Mister, we’ll help you, where are you from?’, ‘Oh, I’m so tired.’ He had earlier smuggled some Jews, a rich Jew from Malkinia. ‘And we want to get to the Soviet border. We lost a girl, we lost our friends. We’re supposed to meet there. Where is this Soviet border?’ He gave us these bags and we kept walking uphill. It was already daylight.

We reached some barn. He put it all down next to the barn and told us to wait for him. He went to get the Jews. I looked inside the bags. Beautiful shoes. They produced such shoes just before the war, they were called Dulboksy. High shoes, you could even wear them in the water; they were waterproof. I didn’t have shoes. I had these old shoes for the summer, with holes. I only had these, because my good shoes had been stolen. If I had known then this Jew had such a mess in these bags I would have taken them. He himself didn’t know what he was carrying in the bags. So we waited and waited with these bags. It could have been half an hour. He came back with another Pole. They told us to take everything and put it in that barn. I thought that for this help he’d tell us which way the border is, how to cross it illegally. I told him we wanted this information, but we didn’t have any money, because we really didn’t. I had 70 zloty in that belt of this sister-in-law, but I’d lost her. And this Pole refused. If we give him 20 zloty per person, he’ll tell us. I said: ‘Mister, at least tell me whether we should go east, or north, or south. Where?’ The bastard wouldn’t tell us. ‘Mister, we helped you. We have no money, search us if you want to, we don’t have anything.’ He wouldn’t, damn it, he just wouldn’t. So I said – too bad. I didn’t know how I knew what to do. We’d do it on our own.

We had already passed this white house. We walked and walked, on fields, footpaths, roads. We saw two women carrying something heavy. Who were they? A mother and a daughter. We were still thinking we were walking towards the border, that there would be Russians there, some gate, and they wouldn’t want to let us through it, so we took these two women with us. We reached a forest, we entered the forest and there was a commotion there, lots of people, shouting. I thought, damn it, that’s got to be the border there, there must be Germans there and the Jews are begging to be let through. That’s how I imagined it. We looked and there were 20, maybe 30 Jews and two Poles making a deal, how much it would be per person. We separated from the women then. I thought there was no point in waiting for them [the smugglers]. I didn’t have any money, it wouldn’t have worked anyway.

I walked with those two brothers and we reached the end of the forest. There was a huge clearing and a large hill behind it. A wooded hill. I saw people running there normally. What happened? It turned out that was the neutral zone; we had left the Polish border behind us. And we hadn’t met any Germans! That’s what destiny is. The neutral zone, it was so-called no man’s land, a demarcation line. There were people lying there – women, children. They would lie there for many weeks, dying of hunger, cold, they couldn’t get across the Soviet border. Whoever had money, bribed the forest rangers, the border patrol. There were two places where they let you through. Where we were, they [the Russians] were saying that they were all peddlers, bumpkins, so they didn’t want them in. We sang the International [former USSR anthem; written in French by Eugene Pottier, a woodworker from Lille, after the fall of the Paris Commune of 1871, and set to music by P. Degeyter. It has been used across the world as a song of resistance to oppression.].That’s how we asked them to let us in. But we were hungry. I thought I’d sneak to a nearby village. I didn’t manage to, the Russians caught us and sent us back to the neutral zone.

But hunger is hunger. I thought I’d try to sneak away again, this time alone. And I managed to reach the village: it was either Kanki or Pieczki. I met a Silesian in the forest, a German. So I thought that would be the end. But he was so good, he told me which peasant I should go to. I went there and it was the first time I had treyf borscht with pork fat. Until that time I never touched pork fat. That was my first food: greasy borscht with pork fat and potatoes. I bought four or five loaves of bread from the peasant. He baked them himself, large loaves, two and a half kilos each. And I went back to the forest. People, Jewesses and Jews kissed me. However much money I wanted [for the bread] they would have given it to me. I said I didn’t want anything, just to keep one loaf for myself. I had something to eat with those brothers and everyone was satisfied. I managed to go to that peasant two or three more times.

Once I was walking in the woods again, going to the village and I saw some people running away between the trees. Damn it, I said, if they’re afraid they have to be like me. So I went up closer, hid behind a tree and watched what was happening. There were three of them. They were curious who I was and I was curious who they were. It turned out they were smugglers, textile smugglers. They were smuggling underclothes from Warsaw to Bialystok. I spoke to them, told them I was in this zone and asked them to lead us to Bialystok. They agreed. They told me to go to a place at the edge of the forest once it started getting dark.

I went back, I didn’t go to this village and said: ‘Guys, pack everything and don’t tell anything to anyone, we’re leaving.’ I don’t know how it happened that I had such sense? I was like a commander, but why? I said: ‘Tell them we’re going to spend the night with the peasant I bring bread from, in that German village, that he has accommodation for us.’ So the Jews were afraid: how could we go back to the Germans to the village? We went to that [meeting] place, the textile people were already there, it was still daylight. Dusk fell and one of them said ‘Single file, boys, single file.’ We finally managed to cross the border. We were lucky.

We reached a forest, another forest. It was dark, empty, you couldn’t see anything. We didn’t have any matches. ‘OK boys, money’ – the textile people said. ‘Mister, but I told you the entire story. We don’t have anything, not even something to eat. When we go to this address [in Bialystok] I will pay you’ – I told them. They wouldn’t listen to me. ‘Kikes, give me money.’ It was dark, they couldn’t see me, I couldn’t see them. Everything was dark. They started swearing, getting angry, walking around [between the trees]. I thought, it was bad, so I whispered to my friends in Yiddish: ‘Don’t say a word.’ I grabbed one’s hand, he grabbed the other’s and we ran. And at night, in the forest, you couldn’t see anything. ‘Where are the kikes, where are the Jews?’ They kept looking, feeling for us with their hands, walking, but they were getting farther away from us, instead of closer, while we were quietly sitting under a tree.

When we couldn’t hear them anymore, we walked away from those trees and entered the forest. We didn’t have a compass, so we just kept walking, more or less forward. We heard a horse-drawn wagon in the morning: the wheels were creaking, they probably hadn’t been oiled. I thought to myself that there had to be a road there. And it was a town called Koscielne Zareby [80 km from Bialystok], on the way to Bialystok. I recalled that there on the border zone they [Jews] were saying that the Russians catch Jews in Koscielne Zareby and return them to the Germans. So I said this was bad and we had to bypass this city, walk around it. We walked all night. I was cold, freezing, my pants were wet, but we walked around the city. We left Koscielne Zareby behind us. We reached Czyzew [63 km from Bialystok]. And there was a train there, lots of Jews, a megaphone was playing, you could hear singing in Russian. I bought the first loaf of bread there. It was hot, warm, a large loaf of bread. I scarfed it down, pardon my language, without butter, just tore it apart. You couldn’t get on the train later, because it was so packed. People were sitting on the steps, on the roof. And it was wintertime, the wind was blowing, it was cold. I finally somehow made it to Bialystok.

We found out there was a prayer house in Bialystok, opposite the Orthodox church, on Sosnowa Street and that’s where Jews were staying. It was such a destitute place. They served free food there, soup three times a day. We entered, rested, and had our first soup. We slept on the floor. Sometimes it was raining, sometimes snowing, but we fought for the place on the floor. Women and men slept together. Bugs started showing up. I later learned there was a second synagogue on 32 Sienkiewicza and that the conditions there were better. I went there. The Russians were riding on horseback on the streets, playing the harmonica ‘Shiroka strana moya rodnaya’ and so on. A different life. I could feel this freedom, that I had finally made it to paradise.

I went to the synagogue and that’s where I found my sister-in-law’s sister, Lola. She told me she had been on the same train from Warsaw as I, but in a different car. She got off in Sadowno. The Germans were catching Jews there. There was a massacre. The Germans cut off Jews’ noses and ears. She somehow survived; it was a miracle. And she went to the toilet and gave me the money back. We were in that synagogue together for some time. It was crowded as well: men, women sleeping on the floors, on benches, such a mess. But what was I supposed to do? Wander around? It was winter.

Someone advised me then that it’s good to live in Hrodna [80 km from Bialystok, in today’s Belarus]. Because Jews were very bad in Bialystok. They wouldn’t let any Jews, runaways into their houses. They called us ‘biezeniec’ [from the Russian word ‘bezhenetz’, refugee] – runaway. Sometimes, when they couldn’t pronounce this word properly they’d say ‘abeznik’ or ‘berznik’. They said that we were all thieves, that decent people wouldn’t run away, only prostitutes and thieves. The Germans surely can’t be that bad, they can’t be doing what we’re saying they’re doing. And they sold us grain coffee for 20 grosze a cup. They sold us the coffee on the street; they wouldn’t let us into their houses. They made a bad name for themselves, those Jews from Bialystok, very bad. When someone had a daughter and she was supposed to get married and her father or mother wanted to punish her, they’d shout: ‘Even a berznik won’t take you for a wife’. Even a berznik. It meant that we were the worst. Those weren’t humans there in Bialystok; they felt no sympathy for us. We cursed them: ‘if only you live to go through what we have been through.’ They didn’t want to believe us. [Editor’s note: this attitude of disbelief was typical of Poles and Jews living in territories occupied by the Soviets.]

I went to Hrodna by train. It was really different there. We lived in synagogues in Hrodna. There were beautiful benches there, polished and shiny, and each one had their own place. Frost, snow, it was really cold. The synagogue was on 7 Najdusa Street, next to a restaurant. They started giving us lunches there, for vouchers. I forged these vouchers, I mean I changed the dates, and that way I had two or three lunches a day. One day the director caught me and said: ‘Because you forge the vouchers so well, you should get another lunch.’ We were working then: we went to clean the railroad tracks from the snow. We did this for money. My feet were always wet, because of these holes in my shoes, because when there was a snowstorm everything would get wet easily. There was also a baker next to the synagogue and he used to bring us bread and hot tea. I met a friend there, the one who guided his sister and parents [across the border] and gave me tips. I met him in Hrodna. But he must be dead by now, because he was two or three years older than me.

The Russians came later and, supposedly, took us to Siberia for one year. They bought us, like human traffickers. They told us they were taking us to Siberia, to some town there, that it would be light work, that the machines would do all the work, that the pay would be good. And they took us there in cargo trains. 400 people went there. It took us, I think, 32 days to get there. The first days there we would go to the bathhouse, because we all had lice. Then they taught us safety and work hygiene for several days. They gave us advances for buying food. Some took them and ran away. Mostly those were Jews from Warsaw, Lodz and communists. They stole some blankets, took their advances and ran away. I think 300 people ran away and 100 of us, dumb as we were, stayed. They gave us a place to sleep in buildings called ‘obshcheye zhizn’– common, shared life.

Then work began. Some stayed on the surface, they didn’t make much money, but I was in the 10th ‘oddzielenie’ [department], where the gases were. There were the most accidents there, but you could earn good money. Because this was a gas mine, 1,437 meters, in the district Novosibirskaya Oblast, city of Andzero-Suldzenks, Kirov mine 5-7. [Editor’s note: no city under this name exists, but it is impossible to find out, where Mr. Bromberg had been]. Those were two twin cities. I worked in Suldzenks and some worked in Andzersk, that’s why Andzero-Suldzensk. Then they moved me to a coal mine. I worked there from 9th February 1940 until 12th April 1941. First I was the head miner’s helper, the foreman’s. I shoveled coal. Then they issued me a certificate and I became the miner’s helper. I worked in this position for a long time, but at the end, they moved me to supplying shores, so there’d be no risk of everything collapsing. I worked, but not full time – it was supposed to be six hours, but you had to work for twelve. Later we went on strike, because they didn’t want to dismiss us.

They promised us we would work for about eleven months and then each one could start working in his profession. They told us that they had greeted us with music and that they’d also part with us with music [colloquial for a warm welcome]. And when the time came, they told us ‘not yet.’ They still didn’t have miners. They scared us that there’d be a war, that we should stay and work one month longer. So we agreed to stay for a month. But when the situation repeated itself, we didn’t go out to work. Persecutions began. After these strikes they sent some off to see polar bears [idiomatic expression for deporting someone to Siberia], they locked some up in jail, they had cases in court, some were arrested at once, without a hearing, others were sent home. Several others and I were conscripted into the army.

I served in the Soviet Army, in the 720th Riflemen’s Regiment. I was in Slovyansk [750 km from Moscow]. I served there from 1941 until 1944. In the meantime I was transferred to the Engineer-Sapper Battalions. I served there from 1942 until the end of 1944. We built railroad tracks, anti-tanks devices, that is ditches, tracks, bridges. We were mostly near Stalingrad. Then the war broke out [see Great Patriotic War] 25. We were on maneuvers, in Lubny [700 km from Moscow]. It was a miracle that I survived the war. I was wounded. I was dismissed around 1944. I wanted to go home. I knew my family had no idea where I was. After all, I hadn’t said goodbye to anyone.

I first went to Lwow [today Ukraine], then from Lublin to Warsaw and Lodz. That worked out well. I came back to the same place, with a gun in my hand. My dream was to show up like Joseph in Egypt, who came back although everyone thought he had died. I didn’t want to go straight to Lodz. I could have made it to Lodz on 19th January [1945] with the Red Army, because I was in uniform. But I didn’t want to; I instinctively felt that no one was alive. I spent some months in Lublin and I came here. I thought I’d meet someone. I was disappointed. No brothers, no friends, no father, no mother, no sister, no cousins. No one was left. They all died. I searched, but I wasn’t successful. I even visited the ghetto [Lodz Ghetto] 26. There on Lagiewnicka Street [in Nacha and Monka Wajntraubs’ apartment], I found some letters, photos, documents and that was all. I only managed to find a few of my acquaintances.

In 1957 I went to Bodzentyn. I was hiding first, after I arrived. I didn’t want to say that I was a Jew. After the war there was this incident with one Jew, who had a store next to the seminary. He had been in Auschwitz, and survived. Noach Binsztok was his name. When he was liberated he went to see his house and store and the Poles killed him. [Editor’s note: it is impossible to locate any sources confirming this story. However, there were many such incidents, which went undocumented, but people know and talk about them.] So I was afraid to say this, I was simply afraid. I went to Bodzentyn, because I had a house there. I was thinking of getting it back, but I didn’t. There was this old woman living there. She’s probably been dead for a long time now. And she was there, because of prescription. [Editor’s note: after World War II the state assigned vacant apartments and houses to citizens in need of housing, without regard to the property’s legal ownership status, this practice was called prescription.] I didn’t want to move her, so I decided to leave the house alone. I came back to get the birth certificates, all the documents that everyone’s dead, death certificates and all that, I had to arrange it.

I didn’t say anything to anyone. I slept near the cemetery. There was this old woman there, a widow, Jacwiong was her name. She let me sleep on straw for 15 zloty. I spent the night, got out in the morning. I didn’t want to say anything then. I started to gradually recognize the neighbors, Poles, because there were no Jews left by then. No one recognized me. I was wearing a normal hat. I don’t have a hooked nose. Finally I revealed who I was. After half an hour the entire town knew that Josek’s son had come back. And Josek was god for them. So when I came to Bodzentyn I saw that everyone was very glad to see me and I started remembering where everything was. I sniffed around there, where my family had lived before the occupation.

I met my future wife’s brother in Lublin. His name was Mietek Kalisz. I spent some time in Lublin before I came to Lodz. I lent him some money, because I had money. He was a shirker [he didn’t want to work], a happy-go-lucky fellow. He couldn’t write. When someone confided in him, he would give him everything he had. He was never rolling in dough. He later went to Lodz. I met him at the Jewish Committee in Lodz [which served as a kind of Jewish community, Jews returning to Lodz reported there]. He said: ‘Why did you spend so much time in Lublin?’ He asked where I lived. And when I came back I first lived at the Red Cross, on Sienkiewicza Street, and then I moved in with one Jew. He lived alone, on 72 Wschodnia. Borower or Badower was his name, I don’t remember exactly. Mietek finally invited me to his place: ‘Come, I live on Prochnika Street.’ I went and that’s how I met my future wife.

Her name was Frymeta Kalisz, Frania. She was born in 1922. She came from Brzeziny near Lodz [21 km from Lodz]. She wasn’t educated; she had just finished two grades of public school. According to the Jewish custom we were married on Tuesday, 14th August 1945. [Editor’s note: for much of Jewish history, the third day of the week (Tuesday) was considered an especially auspicious day for a wedding, because, concerning the account of the third day of creation, the phrase ‘... and God saw that it was good’ (Genesis 1:10,12) appears twice.] We married in Lodz. I didn’t want to get married, but she blew me away. We had only known each other for a few months, but I loved her. And I was no carefree fellow. We lived in that apartment on 21 Prochnika Street. My son was born one year after we got married. But she didn’t want to have a baby. She had come back from the camp and she said she didn’t want to have children. That’s why she tried to poison him until the 7th month of pregnancy: with infusions and all these other devils, contraception. But he was fully grown by then. I loved my son and I said I wanted him.

If I had known how it would all work out, I would have left her immediately. She didn’t want to listen to me, she kept repeating that she’d survived the ghetto, camps and that she didn’t want children. She was crazy about this. Constant arguments. And there was a doctor living downstairs in our building. A Jew. His name was, just like my grandmother’s – Golebiewski. He was a gynecologist. He saw patients in his apartment and that’s where he performed abortions. I sometimes saw it from the bedroom window, how women went to see him. I went there too. I met him and I paid him, I don’t remember if that was weekly or monthly, so that my wife wouldn’t miscarry, to keep the pregnancy. She didn’t know about this, I didn’t tell her.

That’s how it was with my wife. She didn’t want to know what the next day would bring. And I said that we should think about the future, that I didn’t know if I’d have a job, if I’d be healthy. No, she only lived for today, because tomorrow the world might collapse. And there were conflicts already. When I wanted to buy her some present, she didn’t need it. ‘So hang yourself today if you don’t need anything. Take some rope and hang yourself.’ I wanted her to have two pairs of shoes, winter shoes and summer shoes, but she didn’t want those either. Nothing. But later, when she started needing things, I’d get headaches from that. She had different advisors. I could fend for myself very well, I made money, I worked in Zalcberg’s textile workshop on 13 Zeromskiego Street. When people went on holiday, I worked. On Sundays, when they went to the park, I was sitting and working. And that was the story. I had different problems with her, I avoid talking about it, because it still hurts. Anyway, I got divorced in 1952. I didn’t care where she went. She later had two more daughters. She lived near the Czech border, and later she left for Israel. The court gave me full custody of our son and I raised him myself. I didn’t even take child support from her.

Although my son’s mother didn’t want him, his weight at birth was three and a half kilograms. What a boy. Only girls were being born in that clinic and, after two weeks of only girls, he was the first boy. He was born in a private clinic. The clinic was on 32 Glowna Street; the building isn’t there anymore. I was insured, but I preferred for my wife to be comfortable. [Editor’s note: Polish public health care system, free of charge for those who had insurance was not of a high standard.]

My son wasn’t raised in a traditional way, like I was. He went to a public Jewish school in Lodz. It was the Peretz school. It was located on 13 Wieckowskiego. It was a Jewish school, but they taught in Polish. They only taught Yiddish twice a week. So my son could write, but he didn’t understand Yiddish. Anyway, I spoke Polish with him at home. There was no cheder then. There were communists here, no one taught religion. Anyway, I never taught him that, as a Jew, he should be better than his friends. I didn’t teach him hatred, but tolerance: there’s a good Jew and a bad Jew, a good Pole and a good German. My son didn’t belong to any organizations, only to the Youth Cultural Center. [Editor’s note: After World War II the authorities instituted a system of Cultural Centers located throughout the country. These centers, especially prominent in small villages, promoted art and culture among local residents by organizing all kinds of events and free-time activities.] After he graduated from elementary school, he kept studying at an electronics school in Lodz. I got him into that school, I mean I arranged his admission, without exams.

One time I was coming home, I noticed lots of neighbors in front of the house. ‘Mister, where were you?’ ‘What happened?’ It turned out that he was shouting that they’re beating daddy. He had opened the window and shouted: ‘They’re beating daddy, beating daddy, they’ll kill him, they’re beating him!’ When I came in, he said that it was only a dream. He opened the window and shouted into the backyard. But, other than the fact that he was growing up too fast, I am still looking for what I did wrong raising him. And I think, perhaps it was because she poisoned him? He didn’t take all of my genes. He’d never apologize for anything. But I loved him so much. We slept in the same room. I was the one who bathed him, I washed his clothes, took him to all these theaters. When he was leaving for summer camp, I’d see him off. I took him to school on my bicycle. I picked him up from school. We used to ride on the motorcycle everywhere. I thought I had a genius at home. A talented, beautiful boy.

There was this situation: when my son had friends they were usually Polish, they picked on him and called him a Jew, so he went to Wolnosci Square, to the church: to complain to the priest that they’re calling him that. He just forgot himself.

In 1962 they kidnapped him from the house. There was this communist organization. They hit my soft spot, because I was criticizing them for doing repulsive things. They dragged him out of school, they hid him in an old folks’ home [in Lodz]. He was out of the house for three and a half years, from 1962 to 1965. Finally, they arranged for him to go to see his mother, to Israel. She knew she had a son, he was a good-looking boy, handsome. He left for Israel, joined the army, as a recruit. He fought in two wars. He survived. He was supposed to fight in a third one, but he somehow managed not to. He later ran away to America [USA].

He married and had two children. With Jews it can’t be that the same name is used twice in one house. The father can’t have the same name as the son. So while we are alive we dream of progeny for our name. [Editor’s note: one of the most common practices of the Jewish religion is to name a child to honor a relative. Sephardim name their children freely after both living and deceased relatives. However, Ashkenazim rarely name children after living relatives.] She’s from those dark Jews, Sephardim, and they don’t name children after their ancestors. We, Ashkenazim name children only after relatives who have died. Everyone dreams of having a successor, of being replaced by someone.

He can write beautiful letters. He’s got style. I don’t. He begged me for forgiveness. I was moved, because I knew what he had been through there and with me.

When the first Israeli war broke out, when Jews won it within six days and conquered all those Arab countries, he fought in this war. He even sent me a Hebrew newspaper, I remember only the Polish version of the title, which was ‘Szanuj jedyna pamiatke’ – ‘Respect Your Only Keepsake’. There were pictures of him at the front. I am still surprised that this newspaper ever made it to me. The relations between Poland and Israel were very bad at that time. Poles were friends with Arabs. I showed this newspaper at work. I showed it, because it was said that Jews shoot onions from a crooked barrel. That’s what Poles thought: that Jews are cowards. ‘Jojne karabin’ [crooked barrel], that’s how the saying used to go. I showed them: ‘See, this is my son, these are the generals, General Dayan, here are the Arabs, you could see everyone there, and tanks too. [Dayan, Moshe (1915-1981): Israeli general and politician; Israeli defense minister 1967-1974; directed Israeli forces in the Six-Day-War in 1967 and the Yom Kippur War in 1973; Israeli foreign minister 1977-1979.]

So they, my best friends from work, they reported on me, saying that my son was beating up the poor Arabs in Israel, that I was a Zionist, that they didn’t want a Jew – a Zionist to be working with them. I later found out who wrote this. And they didn’t have the right to fire me. I never served time [in jail], I had an excellent opinion, I was a veteran. In order for them to lay me off, the Minister for Veterans’ Affairs would have needed to issue permission. And it would have needed to be some major offence for him [the minister] to do so. And yet, they fired me. And they didn’t explain this decision. They fired me without notice. I wrote to Warsaw that I wanted to know what the reason was. They didn’t write back to me to tell me what the reason was. So I wrote them that the reason was that I was Jewish. The chairman of my housing cooperative asked me why I wasn’t going to Israel. I said I’d go when I wanted to go. They chased me away: ‘No, go now, because you won’t be eating Polish bread here anymore.’ And I answered: ‘Not bread, but rolls, chocolate. I’ll drink vodka and champagne!’ I had some ambition. I showed them I’d leave when I wanted to, not when someone wanted me to. There were also some decent fellows there, at work. They told me about everything. They laughed: ‘You’ve fired the best employee and now he’s not working, but getting a pension’, because I immediately received a disability pension. I had health issues related to the war and the mine.

I didn’t remarry, because I didn’t want my son to have a stepmother: because she could have hit him, there could have been problems. My goal was to raise him until he was 18, then look for some nice gal and start my life over. I dreamed of having seven children. For us seven is the lucky number. But I was disappointed, my life was broken; his [the son’s] is broken as well. My son’s children are someplace else, they don’t write.

Also, my son is in one place and the children in another [the children live with their mother in Israel]. Their Jewish parents were too soft on them. They didn’t ask to be called father, mother, but only used their first names. I wanted to be called Grandpa, Grandpa Jakub and not Jaakov. How can a young person be an old one’s buddy? A 90-year-old lady and some kid are on a tram and he says ‘you’ to her, he doesn’t get up, he laughs. When this happens to me, I approach this guy, take out my veterans’ identity card and ask to check his ticket; they are afraid of that.

After the war I was still a leftist. I didn’t belong to any organization, only to the war veterans. I didn’t want to have any position. When they wanted me, they promoted me. When I came to Lublin, when Lodz hadn’t been liberated yet, that’s when they started. They were looking for people from the army, who were in the Red Army. They were getting them ready for diplomatic school. I admit, they were mostly looking for Jews. They didn’t trust Poles, because there were these partisans: NSZ [National Armed Forces] 29 and AK [Home Army] 30. And you know what I did? I was born in 1919, so I changed the 9 in my papers into a 3, so that I was supposedly born in 1913. And then I was too old for this. I didn’t want to have any governmental position, although there were cases when a private would be immediately promoted to lieutenant, major, whatever. But I’m not the kind of person who would want to benefit from someone’s misfortune. So I never belonged to any party, I didn’t join anything, not even the Jewish community.

I’m not suited to capitalism. I don’t like this banditry, this gluttony. During the PRL [Polish People’s Republic, 1945-1989] I had a job. I sometimes worked at home, and I worked in the factory. When the controllers came I showed them that I worked, that I had a wife and a child and that I was earning money. Grosze.

I remember well the fall of communism in 1989 [see Poland 1989] 31. I listen today how they praise Walesa 32 in that Ukraine. And who was he? He jumped a fence. He’s rolling in dough now and he’s set his buddies up as well. There are things which no one likes. If things stay the way they are, there’ll be a revolution. This capitalism is banditry. The rich ones control everything: ironworks, whatever, brother to brother, friend to friend, selling everything; they’re selling out the entire country. The Jew doesn’t have a good life. Especially after 1989 it changed for the worse for me. I used to be able to make some extra money, as a mechanic, or somehow from the cooperative. Now they’ve taken everything away from me. Balcerowicz [Minister of Finances in the government of Tadeusz Mazowiecki] said [in 1990] that two years later he’d even it out for everyone. That it would be paradise later. That we’d only have to struggle to make ends meet for the first two years. And it turned out to be bullshit. Money stops being money.

We used to have discounts, now they’ve taken everything away. And it keeps getting worse. Rents are going up, now they’re going to raise them again in January. I don’t have a bathroom, I don’t have central heating. Is this a system? This is banditry. Even under communism, when I was working I said that I was a religious Jew and wouldn’t work on Saturdays. And now? It’s banditry, not capitalism. I listen to how it is with Ukraine [see Orange Revolution, 2004] 33, that they’re all great Poles now, going crazy in Poznan, Cracow for this Ukraine. And when the Ukrainians were murdering us? I know something about this, because I was living together with them. They stick their noses into Israeli issues, they used to do it with Arabs, now they’re doing it with Ukraine. They want to have this whorehouse, pardon my language, in Ukraine.

And now, what kind of a country is this Poland? One affair after another. I go to the doctor, because I am entitled to this, I have a referral to the hospital, even two referrals and they tell me: ‘Go back to the out-patient clinic.’ Under communism women whose husbands worked were at home. They also worked, after they came back home: in the cottage industry, making handkerchiefs for someone. Everyone would do that. You’d always make some money for light or electricity. I fixed machines: sometimes for free, sometimes for grosze, but I didn’t take any money from friends. And now it has all lost its value. We can throw away the machines. Lodz was a city, which exported textiles, textile products to all of Russia and all over the world. There used to be so many factories and where are they now? Where are the chimneys? Now all there is left is broken windows. They’re looting, destroying. There is no cottage industry, there’s nothing. It’s all over. [Editor’s note: indeed, many factories closed down after 1989. Lodz is one of the cities with the highest rate of unemployment.]

My life was my schooling. I toughened in the army and in the mines. I wear the star of David on the lapel, on purpose. Everybody knows me. At the Grand [Grand Hotel in Lodz, on Piotrkowska Street] and at other hotels. They have respect for me. When they want to find out where some street used to be, they call me. Nobody offends me and if there is such a person, I give him a lesson, so he won’t think I’m a ‘jojne karabin’ that shoots onions from a crooked barrel. I like to joke, I’m not backwards. Some Jews are like that: that when someone tells a joke, a Jewish joke, they feel offended. I see that the joke is a joke. I’m tolerant.

Anti-Semitism? I hear about this prelate scoundrel [priest Henryk Jankowski] 34 that Jews are everywhere, that all of Poland is full of Jews: Jews in the government, in courts, and Jews are [blamed for] all bad things. There are no Jews in Poland. [The total population in Poland is about 39 million. The actual number of Jews is estimated between 5 and 10,000.] Poles are now turning themselves into Jews. Jews are in fashion. I have lots of magazines, anti-Semitic ones and others. I collect them, keep them. Opinions about Jedwabne 35. And I even know Jedwabne better. I don’t want to reveal this, but there was one more murder in Bodzentyn.

When a person is open, then I explain everything, I’m friendly, but when I see that nothing will help, then there is this saying: ‘You can’t make a fox hat for a pig’s tail.’ You can’t. This is translated from Yiddish. When someone’s a boor, you can explain all you want, but you can’t convince him, he won’t change his mind. When I see someone is a fanatic, a Jew-eater, that nothing I say, no explanations can reach him, I stop speaking to him. I walk on the other side of the street and I pretend I’m looking at the building, some façade. I pretend that I don’t see him, so I don’t even have to say ‘Good morning’ to him and so that he doesn’t greet me. Today it’s the same with Jews. When I don’t get on well with someone, I prefer to be alone. If I can only have false friends, I prefer not to have friends at all. I have known many of these. I can tell a friend from an enemy. I talk to Germans. They visit me, they call, send me books. Why am I supposed to take revenge on these young Germans who hadn’t even been born or were children, because the grandfather or father was a bandit? If he’s showing remorse and suffering for this, then I can’t take revenge on him. Perhaps I should be able to, after all, I lost everyone: no one’s left from Mother’s or from Father’s side. But I can’t.

There was a time when I wanted to emigrate, like others. That was when they they were harassing me, when they fired me from work [1968]. They were distributing Jewish apartments then. Giving them to repatriates from Russia. ‘Zabużanie’ [inhabitants of the eastern bank of the River Bug, Polish], they sent in those from the other side of the Bug. One of them came to me as well. He was allotted my apartment, so I was supposed to move out. I was outraged, because I had painted the floors, the walls, everything was elegant. I didn’t know I’d have to leave. So they sent for me from Warsaw, took away my passport, gave me two months to run away and a travel card. I thought to myself: ‘I’m a Polish citizen, I won’t sign anything, I won’t give up what’s mine. Perhaps I’ll leave some day, but when I want to do so.’ So I told this blockhead who came here to take over my apartment that the toilet is downstairs and that he could live there. And I stayed. That’s fate. Now I don’t move anywhere. At my age I’m barely alive. I don’t know if I’ll come back from hospital. Not to mention traveling. Anyway, I deeply believe in destiny. It must have been my destiny. ‘Where you head is to lie, there your legs want to go.’

My life is very bad now. I’m alone. Drugs are expensive, everything is expensive. They won’t admit you to hospital. The doctor doesn’t care about the patient. You have to bribe him, and where am I to get the money? I live off my pension. I sometimes show tourists around: when someone comes, I show them around. Some want to see the ghetto, because it has changed, some the statue of Moses [on Wolborska Street]. And I also have the pleasure of looking for members of different families. I reunite families. I search to find out if someone is still alive somewhere. People pass on such knowledge. I do too. I look for someone through someone else, because perhaps someone knows something. I have reunited several families. I once met a professor, who said that his mother had come here. He didn’t know anything about his sister, only that she had got lost. ‘Your sister is alive, she’s a professor in New Zealand.’ ‘What does she look like?’ I said: ‘Stocky built, of medium height.’ ‘How old?’ ‘Approximately 60.’ He started crying on the street. ‘That’s my sister’, ‘I thought she died in Auschwitz’, ‘No, she’s alive.’ And I gave him her address.

My friends have died. They used to visit me, the director, the manager and the workers [from the many textile workshops Mr. Bromberg was employed in]. We used to meet up. I would invite them and they would invite me. Now I lie here and think: Frank is gone, Staszek is gone, Wojtek is gone, and this one is gone... It’s the same with Jews. There are only [a few] individuals left. Those who were in the ghetto were a bit mixed up. I’m not surprised. Perhaps if I had survived what they had been through, I would have gone crazy as well, or wouldn’t be alive at all. So I’m not surprised. We don’t have a common language with those from the ghetto.

I’m still alive thanks to the country of Israel. Everyone can live wherever he wants to, that’s a fact. But when Jews regained their country – although it’s still not certain what will happen in the future – then I felt better. Because other countries already have respect for that nation. I know that although I’m here in Poland, if something bad happens, someone in Israel will stand up for me. They would provide accommodation and money for living. Poland used to be partitioned as well, before it became independent. Even if the country is poor, it’s good that it exists. I remember the great joy after the Six-Day-War. The country that was threatening to push us into the sea, got whipped.

Something unfortunate happened to me in the summer. When they were putting up these statues [statue of three factory owners from Lodz: Schaibler, Grohman and Poznanski] I went there. I fell. I lost consciousness. I lost my teeth, my jaw was broken. I was taken to hospital. For seven or eight minutes I was there, at Saint Peter’s. I didn’t know I have acute anemia. I still haven’t completely recovered. Getting worse, getting worse. Sometimes my leg hurts, sometimes my hearing fails, especially after this accident. I have problems with my teeth too. They’ve fallen out, and they’re supposed to pull out more. My teeth hurt, perhaps that’s where all these illnesses come from.

I listen to the radio, because I don’t have a TV at home. I would go crazy without my radio. I even used to listen to Israeli radio stations, now I mostly listen to RMF FM [a commercial radio station created in 1990. The station plays popular pop and rock music, mostly current hits. It is well known for professional and up-to-date news services.] I’m asleep and the radio is playing next to me. When I know someone will visit, I turn it off, because when the door is locked in the winter, then I can’t hear the doorbell.

I read a lot. I have these different magazines: Wprost [a popular Polish social-political weekly, published since 1982, with right-wing conservative sympathies], Newsweek [American social-political weekly magazine. Published in Poland as Newsweek Polska], Angora [a weekly digest publishing a selection of articles from Polish and foreign monthlies], Forum [a weekly magazine, review of articles from foreign press (e.g. The Guardian, Die Zeit, La Republica, Le Figaro) translated into Polish], Polityka [the leading weekly magazine in Poland, published since 1957. Politically, the magazine has a centrist orientation] and other Lodz journals. I also read Jewish [magazines], Midrasz [a Jewish social-cultural monthly magazine, published in Polish, dealing with the life of Jews in Poland and abroad and with other ethnic minorities in Poland. Midrasz publishes essays, religious commentaries, literary texts, reportages. The first issue of Midrasz came out in 1997], Slowo Zydowskie [Dos Yidishe Wort] 36.

I have lots of problems. I don’t go to the community. Only for soup. My neighbor finances this. He also told me I should go, not be ashamed, but take it. So I take it, because I won’t cook now. These lunches have really gotten worse recently. Really bad.

Now everyone has some entertainment: televisions and all these different games. At my house, it’s like a cemetery. I only keep listening to the radio. I stay at home all day long, like in some prison. I’ve been through so much in the army and in the mines. I managed to survive each misfortune, pull through. My entire life was tough. My plans were never realized. That’s why I don’t plan anything; I arrange things at the last minute. I don’t want to break my word, and for me a promise is worth more than money. Siberia, mines, army, poverty, lack of food. And so my story keeps going.

Glossary:

Suzana Petrovic
Novi Sad
Serbia
Name of interviewer: Ida Labudovic
Date of interview: January 2002
 

My name is Suzana Petrovic, nee Hacker. My earliest memory is of my grandfather, Karolj Karl Hacker, and his wife, that is my grandmother Berta Hacker, nee Goldgruber. They lived in Pancevo, but their origins are from Kovacica (an ethnic Slovak village in Vojvodina) where great-grandfather and great-grandmother lived. I do not know anything about them except their names, which appear on the family tree.

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

My family background

Grandfather Karl sold large agricultural machines and grandmother was a housewife. They had three sons and four daughters. The eldest son was my father, Ernest, the second Bela , the third Samjuel or Sam. The sisters were Marija  (married name Varga), Irma , Jolan  and the fourth I do not know exactly what her name was. She died very young, at 16, so I do not remember her nor do I know anything about her from stories.

All the children were born in Kovacica. Concerning my paternal aunts and uncles, relatives from my father's side of the family, I know something about Bela Hacker who lived in Novi Sad. He was married to Melita, both were taken to Auschwitz. Unfortunately he did not return; she returned and went to Israel, she married again, had a poultry farm and died there. They did not have children.

My other uncle Samjuel or Sam, was the youngest of my grandfather and grandmother's children. He was killed in Pancevo by the Germans at the Jewish cemetery while trying to escape and flee to Belgrade.

Of my aunts I remember the eldest, Marija Hacker (married name Varga). She had three children: Djordje who was killed during the war, Lilika the youngest was in a camp, survived the war and went to Israel, and then there was Steva who lived the longest of all of them. For some time he was the director of the post office in Belgrade and died of a heart problem.

Joli or Joland also lived in Novi Sad. She was married to a man named Lang and they had a son, Ervin, who lives in Israel. He worked until his retirement at the airport as a telegraphist. Aunt Irma, who the youngest of the children except for the one that I said I have no information about who died, she was first married in Bacska Topola to a doctor. From that marriage she has a son Djordje who was a dental technician and who died a few years ago in Loznica.

Aunt Irma divorced and married in again in Budapest to a rich factory owner who had a factory that made parts for motor bikes. She lived the longest. She survived the war in Budapest while the rest were all killed in the camps. She lived to be eighty some years old and is buried in the Jewish cemetery in Budapest.

As far as I know, grandfather Karl, grandmother Berta and Marija from Belgrade were taken to Sajmiste and killed there, while aunt Jolan and Bela were killed in Auschwitz, Samjuel was killed in the cemetery while fleeing. Naturally, my father was also killed which I will speak about a little more.

My mother Ilona Hacker (nee Frid) was born in Szentes, in south-eastern Hungary. Her parents were Karl Frid and Jolan Klajn and they  lived in Szentes. Grandfather was a clerk, a bookkeeper in a big company and grandmother was a housewife as were all women at the time. My mother was the eldest daughter and she had a younger sister, Elizabet, who was also married here in Yugoslavia to a man named Slezinger. They lived in Zenta. He was a wheat merchant, and she was a housewife. I have two cousins from that marriage, they both survived the war in Yugoslavia and afterwards went to Israel. One died three or four years ago. He was a rather successful painter and the other is still alive. He was a surveyor who lived in many places around the world but mainly in Ghana, Africa, but now lives with his family in Israel. That would be my closest family.

Concerning grandfather and grandmother, my memory of them is a little fresher because when there was the infamous raid in Novi Sad in January 1942 my parents sent my brother and I to live with her parents in Szentes thinking that we would be safer there, so that I spent two years there until we went to the camps, which I will talk about later. This would be everything about my mother's family.

My paternal grandfather and grandmother came from a rather religious family, one distant relative was even a rabbi. They cherished the Jewish holidays including Shabbat. My father was very religious and the last letter that he wrote from the Russian front, he constantly mentioned God and in fact was looking for help from God. They observed all the Jewish customs to a great extent. Concerning clothing, they wore urban dress.

Pancevo was a relatively small place, but since it was close to Belgrade one could feel that influence. Looking at photos they had something modern in their manner of dress. Except for the fact that they observed the Jewish holidays, I do not remember other things because I was too young. I cannot even remember what the house looked like inside. I only know that it had a big garden, a big storage area where grandfather kept the machines he was selling and that the house was big because they had a big family, which got together during the holidays. With respect to language grandfather and grandmother spoke German, maybe Yiddish, while all the children in addition to German spoke Hungarian and Slovak because they were born in Kovacica which was still a Slovakian village. But primarily German and Yiddish were spoken in the family.

Mother's parents lived in Szentes, a small town, not a big city nor a village. They lived in the center of that small town in an  L-shaped home. The house had entrances on two streets, built half in village style half in small town style, with a large terrace and 4 or 5 rooms. Most of life was spent in one room, the rest served more or less as decoration. They were a middle class family--  neither rich nor poor. The daughters were educated in the sense that my mother's sister finished secondary school for girls, as it was once called, and my mother finished the gymnasium. She wanted to study at the university, but that summer she married and nothing came of her studies. Grandfather was a bookkeeper in a big textile department store and grandmother was at home and took care of the house. There was a wonderful, big garden filled with fruits, flowers, a chicken coop. My parents sent my brother, who was ten years older than me, and I here every summer because it was on the River Tisza and it was a pleasant place for relaxing. Grandmother had a big pantry and always fed us well. In contrast to my father's family they were less religious. Naturally they went to synagogue for all the big holidays and they observed all the holidays, but they were not religious to the extent that my father's family was.

My mother was born and lived all her life in Szentes, Hungary until she married. My father is from Pancevo (Pancsova in Hungarian) and born in Kovacica (Antalfalva in Hungarian). Their rapprochement and how they got to know each other is a rather interesting story. Namely, my father liked to dress well, to enjoy himself, to live well, he spent most of his part of the inheritance supporting that life style. He was supposed to go to Arad, Romania, to marry a rich Jewish woman. They sent him there and he went, however as the story goes, the young woman in question had money but not looks and my father who was, as I said, a fop, liked all things beautiful including women, and this woman did not suit him.

In the meantime, my mother graduated from gymnasium in Szentes and wanted to study pharmacy. She went to a pharmacy to get some experience before the university. There love developed between her and the pharmacist’s son. However, the pharmacist was a Hungarian (not Jewish) and this sparked problems between the sides. In those times, mixed marriages were rare and the pharmacist did not want his son to marry a Jew nor did my grandfather and grandmother want my mother to marry a Hungarian. To somehow break them up they sent my mother to Arad, Romania for the summer to her aunt’s, that is grandmother's sister who lived there.

Naturally the young people went out at night. My mother was very beautiful with long wavy black hair, big black eyes, and beautiful in the way a twenty year old woman should be. My father noticed her on the first night, he secretly followed her home and already the next morning a bouquet of flowers arrived which was so big it barely made it through my aunt's door. Love was born on both sides, since my father was also very handsome and funny—a genuine character. They fell in love with one another and were engaged immediately. Neither set of parents had any idea what was going on. My father returned home, and naturally instead of a rich bride he came to tell them that he was going to marry a young beautiful girl who had a very small dowry but whom he loved.

His parents were worried, but in the end they had to accept this and after a few months, a wedding reception was held in my mother's house in Szentes. It was a big and lovely wedding, which took place in the synagogue. Afterwards they went to Pancevo, to father's family, where the next year my brother was born. They spent two or three years in Pancevo in my father's parent's house. After that, my father, who finished a two year mechanical engineering college either in Prague or in Budapest, received a job in Skoplje, Macedonia, to represent a company that sells big electric turbines, agricultural machines. He was the director there and they lived there for sometime. In 1934 they moved to Novi Sad, where they were remained until the raid in 1942.

Growing up

I was born in 1935 in Novi Sad. We always lived in the center of town. We changed apartments from smaller to bigger or from bigger to smaller, based on how my father's work advanced or declined. We belonged to a middle class intellectual urban family. My parents were part of Jewish life in Novi Sad. My father and mother had permanent seats with a plaque marking them in the synagogue. Father, since he came from a religious family, continued to observe Shabbat, go to synagogue, celebrate the holidays, fasts and the like. That was up until he was taken into forced labor.

Our apartments always had three to five rooms. My brother went to elementary school and then gymnasium. He studied painting and violin.

I was a little girl and I went to an English kindergarten. I had a governess because immediately before the war father's work was going well and it allowed us all these things: I went to the English kindergarten, had a governess and a girl who took me on walks. Before the war we were a family of considerable means from every perspective. I do not remember details because I was young but looking at photos which were saved I see that they socialized mainly with Jewish families and there are photos that show that my brother participated in the Purim parties that were organized by the Jewish community. As a youth he was involved in Jewish events around the synagogue and Jewish youth.

During the war

Until the war they lived without any special problems. When the war broke out, during the time of the raid, when the oppression of the Jews began, then complications arose and my parents moved us to Szentes, thinking that it would be safer there.

While my brother was in gymnasium (high school), he joined a secret communist youth group. They were engaged in causing as much trouble as they could to the Hungarian occupation forces, and they threw nails under their trucks. It turned out to be a rather large group of Jewish youth, and they were all arrested and two were given the death sentence, the rest were given between three and seven years in the Csilag prison in the center of Szeged. This is how they survived the war and the deportations.

On strange fact is that the Hungarians running the prison allowed the boys to celebrate the Jewish holidays. After all, they were only children of 16-17 years old, and they allowed mothers to come and bring them food for the holidays. I went with my mother and the mother of Vlada Rodbart (they had a daughter the same age as me who was killed in Auschwitz) and we went to Szeged and brought food the big holidays.

This is an interesting detail: my brother had a rich stamp collection, postal, numismatics, which my mother took to Hungary thinking that it would be more secure there. She also took the family jewels, fur coat and that violin which was not a Stradivarius, but of very fine quality.  She took everything to grandmother, considering that they lived in a house. Grandfather, not wanting to dig up his prize garden, did not bury them. Instead he put them in the attic behind a beam. While they were in the camps, drunk Romanian soldiers broke into the home which had been bombed, as were all Jewish houses, and all was burnt inside. When grandmother returned from the camp she found only the remains of the fire. For instance, the diamonds burned slowly and turned to dust when they were touched, because it is coal by its chemical structure, and the fur was like hair. The fire slowly smoldered because no one extinguished a fire in a Jewish house, it was not allowed or they did not want to. All the jewelry was destroyed.  Maybe if it had remained here it would have survived. In any case, it was all destroyed.

My father was taken, in 1942 to a work battalion, Munkasi, they were called then in Hungarian, to the Russian front from where he wrote the last time in January 1943.  He wrote from near Kiev. Mother from time to time managed to send him packages and letters, however from January 1943 no letters nor information arrived and after the war she heard from one of the rare survivors that he died but it is unknown how. Winters were severe there, did he die from cold? Some told us that one group went to clean mine fields in front of the German soldiers so that the Germans would not step on the mines instead the Jews would. Which means maybe he died of cold, maybe he stepped on a mine or simply wandered off somewhere.

When they took my father away my mother tried as much as she could to continue his work, but then in April 1944 all the Jews of Novi Sad were deported.

Luckily she was not deported to Auschwitz, rather to Austria where she was put in forced labor digging irrigation canals. Then she was taken to Theresienstadt where we were reunited.

For my early childhood, again I return to Szentes where, as I said before, we were taken when the January 1942 raid occurred. My brother was captured, I remained there and I finished the first, second and third grade of elementary school. The fact that we spoke Hungarian and Serbian parallel in our house helped ease the situation. My father knew German since it, or Yiddish, was his mother tongue. However in Novi Sad we no longer spoke German at home. Since mother was born in Hungary it was normal Hungarian and Serbian were spoken at home. From that side I did not have problems when I went to school in Szentes.

Since these were already the war years, as a child I went to Jewish school, because we were divided. That Jewish school did not have special grades, since it was a small place with not very many students. Throughout the villages all four grades were together. The teacher, who was also a Jew, had to know who to teach what to and what material to ask which students about. We were all practically in one space, but that was four grades. I learned to write Hungarian and grammar and I only continued with Serbian in school after the war, when I came back from Theresienstadt. In Szentes we learned to write and read Hebrew, all connected to Jewish history and customs and naturally general history and subjects. I was there until March 1944, when all the Jews, not only in Szentes but also in other places, where taken to the ghetto.

The ghetto in Szentes was isolated from the rest of the town. We took the minimal amount of things, clothing and I even brought my dog with me. So to me, this was simply like moving to a new place, but we could not move around. We were there a month, until the end of April or the middle of May, when there was a decree that all the Jews from that area of Hungary were to be deported.

First we were deported to Szeged, since Szentes was nearby. We were deported to a brick factory where we were held temporarily, and from there the transport to the camps began. For those who lived in Hungary, at least in that area that I know, deportation did not go in the direction of the infamous camps, rather the deportation went to Austria even though we were taken in cattle wagons, closed and sealed.

As I was born on July 1, I celebrated my 8th birthday in the transport. I received a cookie from a woman on the train for my birthday. That is the one birthday present that I remember, all the other more expensive and more valuable presents given to me over the years I have forgotten. We were without water, without the possibility getting out to take care of our physiological needs, there I received that cookie. There were eighty of us in that small wagon; around me people died.  There was not enough room for us all to lay down so we laid down and stood in shifts. There were many different and old people who died there; they took ill and we did not know where we were going. The trip lasted a fairly long time and finally when we arrived at the destination we were happy because we saw that we did not arrive at one of the big camps, rather we arrived at a small place in Austria called Wiener Neustadt, 60 to 80 km from Vienna.

It was a small picturesque place where there was a factory. A large group of us were put up in that carpet factory. I was there with my grandmother and grandfather. Grandfather worked carrying carpets even though he was almost 70 years old. Grandmother mended socks probably for soldiers on the front, and she knitted with all the other women. Our whole group was from Szentes and we got to know one another. We were put up in something like an attic, with sloped roofs and windows that looked into the sky. We were on straw mattresses which were infested with fleas, bed bugs and other pests but again we were happy that we were here and secure and that we would live to see the next day. We children went to some other factory or big building, this faded from my memory and there we brought lunch in big containers to all the Jews who stayed in that factory. That was our children's duty. The rest of the time we spent playing, we did not take that time seriously.

Naturally every night airplanes flew by and since the end of the war was growing nearer, the bombing came quite close. We waited in that manner until sometime in May, practically a year from the time we left for the camps, when they took us again, put us in wagons and took us to Theresienstadt, or Terezin,  in the Czech Republic.

We were put up in those big military barracks that were all over Theresienstadt.  It was an old Austrian army fort. Even after the Soviet Army liberated us, we were kept in these horrible barracks for a while. Our immune systems were weak, there was a big mass of people and bad food.  Diseases and infections were spreading and we remained in quarantine.

The thing that is most touching is that my mother, who had been in a work camp in Austria, had also been brought to Theresienstadt, and she was working as a volunteer nurse (even though she did not know anything about medicine).

She wore a band which allowed her to move between the quarantined buildings. One day, a few days after we were liberated, she came across a woman.  She old my mother that she remembered her when she was still a child, and she said her that her daughter and parents were there. My mother was shocked.

She found us and she immediately took me and somehow smuggled me into her barracks because they were a bit better equipped, there were medicines and better food. I contracted pneumonia and immediately I received American penicillin. Problems concerning the transport home arose, because the majority of people in Austria were from Hungary or Vojvodina. We received a specific time period when we had to start home, but grandmother and grandfather had to go to Szentes and mother and I to Novi Sad. Since all the tracks were bombed we traveled five or six hours and then we transferred to another track. In general the whole trip, which today would take 18 hours at the very most, took us three weeks. On the journey we contracted lice and scabs and toward the end we traveled by horse drawn wagons, but this time, we were no longer sealed off, we received water to drink and food to eat, and we could go to the WC, to get out when the train stopped.

We were allotted a small place to stay in the car, as was everyone, and our place was near the door. Since my pneumonia still had not passed, my grandfather laid against the door to protect me since I was fragile. When I woke up I wanted to wake my grandfather but I saw that he was dead. This is something that very seriously influenced me.

There, in Galanta where the Jewish community was already formed, they took grandfather off the train and buried him according to the Jewish customs. Afterwards grandmother went to visit his grave.

We continued the trip. When we came again to the border between Yugoslavia and Hungary my grandmother got off at Szentes thinking that she would find her house and all the things that we hid in it, but as I said before she found it burned, so that she was alone, homeless and broke in Hungary. We went to Budapest with that transport before we went to Novi Sad. In Budapest aunt Irma Hacker, from my father's side of the family, lived and she still had her apartment and all her things, because she was not deported. She fed us, dressed us, we were literally infested with lice and scabs, she brought us back to order.

After the war

When we returned at the end of June 1945, we learned that my brother had survived the Csilag prison, that in 1944 he and his friends escaped. They joined the partisans and they fought on the Sremski front, which was on the Serbian-Croatian border. After waiting a year we understood and we heard that my father was no longer alive. That left four of us, which for a Jewish family, was quite a large number.

When we returned, we did not find anything left in our apartment. Someone else was living there and our things had been taken off in all directions. For a while, we lived with a Hungarian family who had saved all my mother’s papers.  Soon we received housing in the Jewish community building, right next to the synagogue, where my mother and I remained until I finished my university.  We shared a flat for a while with another Jewish family, and my mother got a job working in the community kitchen.

Even when she had the opportunity, she never wanted to move back to her apartment and she died in her flat in the Jewish community center in 1973.

As for Ivan, my brother, he completed school, then went off to the university in Belgrade. He enrolled in geology at the Belgrade university and he stayed in the Jewish dormitory at 19 Kosmajska Street, where students who were in the war stayed or those that lost their parents or those that did not have where to be. There he spent three to four years.  Unfortunately, mother was unable to help him, on the contrary he helped us by sending us cans of food and other food products which the JOINT and other Jewish organizations distributed. At some point he interrupted his studies and he came to Novi Sad where he enrolled in a teacher's college in the mathematics department and he finished it. Afterwards he married and had two children, a son and a daughter who live here in Novi Sad. Ivan died quite young, at 59 years old.  He had never gone very far at work, and we knew why.  Not long after he finished university, Ivan was so disappointed with the communist party that he turned his party book back in and resigned.  This was noticed.  His job advancement stopped, even though all his Jewish friends in the party went on to much higher positions.

My aunt, that is, my mother's sister and her family, also returned from Austria. Before WW II Aunt Elisabeth was a housewife and my uncle Lajos Slezinger a grain trader. They had  lived in Szentes. Their son Djordje was born in 1930 and Pali in 1932. They went to school in Szentes. When there was the first Jewish emigration to Israel my aunt, uncle and two sons signed up to go and then my grandmother who at the time was in Hungary and did not want to come to us, also signed up to go.

Grandmother lived to the age of 86, which means that she had a nice old age despite all of the terrible things she survived. She died in Israel. My aunt and uncle lived in Herzeliya and died there. Concerning their children, one was a painter with a big family, which he left behind. The other son also had a big family and he is still alive there.

I finished gymnasium in Novi Sad. I wanted to study medicine but the only faculties in Novi Sad were law and philology so I decided to go to Belgrade. I did not manage to enroll in medical school, however, rather the faculty of natural sciences in the chemistry department, which I finished.

My material means did not permit me to live in private housing but the Jewish dormitory still worked and I lived there. I socialized only with the Jewish youth in the dormitory. Since we lived above the synagogue, we became aquatinted with the Jewish customs, generally about Judaism and history. Since I loved to sing, I sang in the choir of The Jewish Community named »Braca Baruh«, until the end of my studies.

Before the end of my studies, I met my future husband. After finishing my studies I came with my husband to Novi Sad, we married and he worked at the chemical engineering faculty as an assistant. Since I was a year younger, I graduated later and then began work at the same faculty in 1961 as an assistant in biochemistry. Until I married and afterwards I continued to live together with my mother in the part of the apartment in the Jewish community building, until I received an apartment from the university.

In 1967, I had a son Dejan, my only child. My career followed its course. In 1970 I received my master's degree from the same faculty where I remained until I retired. In 1976 I received my doctorate. I was chosen to be a docent, then an associate professor and finally a full professor, that is a normal university career which is an integral part of that profession, until I retired in 2000. During my career I conducted more than a 100 scientific works and publications, I wrote several seminars for students. I had a large number undergraduate, master's and doctoral students. I conducted research on enzymes and a new branch today of popular biotechnology until I retired. After retiring I wrote a book “The Story of Kombua” about a traditional drink. The book, which is not available here but which created a great interest and a wide audience. I wrote the book because for ten years I researched this traditional drink, which comes from the Far East and helps prevent a large number of diseases. That problem is spreading today around the world, a book exists how to use the drink in developed and western and eastern countries and that book is my contribution in the sense that people can use this as a prevention and live happy and long lives.

I spent a good deal of my life in the building of the Jewish community where after the war I finished my schooling and married. I was going to that building, where my mother lived, until her death in 1973. At that time only Jews lived there, but later, non-Jews began to live there as well. Today the office and club of the Jewish community is there as it was before. Since I was in Novi Sad I have always been a member of the Jewish community. I go there today. I even eat there and since there is a rather active social group in Novi Sad I am a member of the women's section. We organize lectures, that is how I fill my time, and all the time I remained connected to this Jewish association.

There were never many Jews in Yugoslavia after the war, and of those, many did not involve themselves or their children in the Jewish community.  That was not the case in our family.  I can say that Dejan grew up inside our community.  He attended children’s programs, went to the community camp on the Adriatic at least seven years, became a youth leader, and eventually, in Belgrade, went to work for the Jewish community.  I am most proud to say that my son had the first Jewish wedding, conducted by a rabbi in Belgrade, since longer than anyone could remember.

At the end, when I look back on my life, I can say that I am rather satisfied. I had a relatively nice, settled private life. I achieved the maximum in my field of work. I never had any unpleasant experiences because I was a Jew. I never denied it and I never was ashamed of it. I fit into the society in which I lived, everywhere people received me nicely regardless of religious or national affiliation. Except for the Holocaust, which I survived, I never had an unpleasant situation. Taking into account that which I survived psychologically and physically in my childhood I feel good and I think that I can be satisfied with my life up to now. 

Eva Vari
Budapest
Hungary
Interviewer: Dora Sardi
Date of interview: December 2002

My family history
Growing up
During the war
After the war

My family history

I only got to know my paternal grandfather very late – my grandmother was already dead, I don’t remember her name -, as my parents divorced when I was one, and all relations were broken off. I must have been about twelve when my father appeared in Miskolc and told my mother he would like to take me to Pest [Budapest] in order to meet my grandfather and my still living uncles. My mother vacillated but I said yes. So I met my grandfather and uncles. They lived in Nagymezo street, in a walkway block. I would say that their apartment was rather an haute bourgeois apartment. I was slightly amazed when we first went in because the first room was dedicated to my grandmother. There was a glass case with the last things that she had touched: her glasses, the book she was reading, everything that was part of her last days, and the entire wall was covered with pictures of her. My grandfather was a very charming, old man, he seemed very old to me then. Lipot Hochberger was his name.  As far as I can remember he was a piano tuner and a religious man. I know so, because I as a young girl wanted to help and take out and wash up a few dishes, and there was a kind of housekeeper who said the next day that we would not say anything to grandfather, but I had done it wrong and washed up the meat and milk dishes together – as I had no idea how to do it – and so I realized it was probably a kosher house. The boys – as far as I knew – were not religious. My father certainly was not, and did not look so either.

There were six boys at my father’s. One committed suicide, he was called Jozsi, if I remember right. Then there was Naci, he had two sons Rudi and Erno. I had a much better relationship with Rudi. Naci went with his family to Israel in 1945. Then there was Erno, Dezso, and Uncle Tibi, with whom I kept up. Dezso was my nicest uncle, he was also a leather merchant. Practically all that part of the family were leather merchants. He didn’t have a family. He died in Mauthausen. He was with Erno, and all Erno could say about him was that not long before the liberation he got typhus, was taken to hospital, and they never saw each other again.

The Ernos lived in Pest. His wife was Jewish. All told they lived well. He courted his wife to-be and when her mother was dying she asked him, on her deathbed, not to abandon her, and marry her. And as he was a good man he married her. They had two children, very fine children. And both died: the boy was taken to forced labor camp while the young girl hid from the Germans here in Pest, along with her fiancé. From where they were hiding they heard shouts that the Russians were coming at the end of the street. And they were very happy to be liberated. Hand in hand they ran towards the Russians. But at the end of the street were Germans, retreating, the soldiers turned round and shot them so they died on liberation day. Erno was deported and came home to find neither of his children. And in 1956 there was the uprising [the 1956 revolution] – he was in the Manne Leather Factory – head of the uncured skin department. He was very popular in the factory and somebody kindly warned him to disappear for a while. But that was the straw that broke the camel’s back and he said he didn’t want to live in a country like this, and decided to emigrate to Israel where my uncle, Naci, was already living with his family. And he really tried to persuade us to go. My stepfather showed willing, but I didn’t want to go at all. By then I was separated from my children’s father. And I said that I would not take on three children, and go to a strange land, with a bad marriage behind me. But they really wanted to go and I eventually said okay, thinking that we would not get emigration papers. But God, we got them. Then I said no very decidedly because I was already homesick before I had even left. I said I wouldn’t go without my parents. As we could go, but they could not. So my uncle’s family left hurt because they took it hard that we didn’t want to go. If I remember right the place they lived was called Petach Tikva. My uncle got work in the leather factory, but died fairly early and then there was no further contact with my aunt.

My father, if I am right, was the third son. He was originally a pianist. The whole family was musical, due to my grandfather’s link to the piano. They wanted to make a merchant of him but music won. I also think that is why my parents’ marriage broke up. They were married for a year, and divorced when I was born. My mother was 18 when she married. And she didn’t like this type of Bohemian life, working here and there. Later I believe he became a merchant too, but I won’t swear to it. I have very few memories of my father. I met him perhaps once or twice but I can’t swear to it. He moved to the Felvidek, to Eperjes where he married a Rabbi’s daughter. As far as I know they had two sons. I knew one of them, as he brought him to Pest so I could get to know him. He was a very sweet boy and really clung to me. Then, as far as I know, the entire family was deported and killed in 1944.

My grandfather’s name was Ferenc Also. According to the family the entire maternal side was Transylvanian, and apparently my grandfather was adopted by a Transylvanian noble family. His name, Also, was not a Magyarized one but the one he was originally given. He was for forty years a company prison warden, of the highest rank, in a military prison. I don’t know when they came to Debrecen -- as they came from Transylvania to Debrecen –, and I believe he did the same in Debrecen.  He was very popular and never used a weapon. As far as I know there were Italian prisoners after World War I, and all sorts of nationalities there, and when there was an uprising he went down among them unarmed, and could always make peace. My grandfather had a medal from Franz Joseph, of which he was very proud. He was a religious Jew. For me that meant that he never breakfasted without praying first in tallit and with tefillin. My grandfather observed the holidays. He was I suppose brought up that way, and I heard from my mother that he had always done so, even during military service. So he did not eat breakfast without praying first. We also observed the holidays to the extent that on Yom Kippur we did not sit down to dinner until grandfather came home. He was gassed in 1944, he was deported. Although we had beseeched him, as he had papers [false papers, that is] and because of the way he looked - he didn’t look Jewish at all - they could have come up to Pest, and perhaps there would have been a way of hiding them. He was not willing to, he always asked what his life would be worth if he couldn’t follow what happened to us.

My grandmother’s maiden name was Zseni Grunstein. She was only religious in as far as she attended synagogue on high holidays. I didn’t know any of the grandparents, my mother’s parents. I heard that grandmother had some sort of cousin in Marosvasarhely [today Tirgu Mures, Romania]. The maternal family was from there and my mother was from there too. I have no idea when they moved. I know that my mother married when she was 18 – my father was from Pest. So they must have been in Hungary in 1923. They lived in Debrecen. She had three children. My mother, Margit, was born in 1905 and she was the youngest. My uncle was a little older and was called Gyula. While the eldest was my aunt Terez. I believe she was born around 1900.

The family had a good relationship with this branch. My uncle, as far as I can remember, lived in Vienna. He didn’t find what he wanted at home so he went to Vienna. He was a window dresser. The first one in Vienna. He imagined that I would live with them for a while, as I wanted to do something that was only possible in Vienna. I wanted to go to a movement school. But history intervened. My uncle married an Austrian woman. Even before the Anschluss he thought that it would be better to leave. He wanted to emigrate. If I am right he went to Chile on the last boat. He wanted his wife to go too, but she didn’t wish to leave. Later on it turned out that she was a fascist. When the war ended, if I am right, she found my uncle and wanted to go out to him, but he said thank you, but that part of his life was over, and he was living with someone over there. We haven’t seen him since he left. Terez lived in Pest for a long time, she had a daughter. When the war ended my stepfather also emerged – they had hidden here and there, and somehow found each other. My father, that is, my stepfather, opened an opticians in Miskolc, and Terez and her family thought it best to move down there. So that when we came back from being deported with my mother they were already living down in Miskolc with my father. Then they moved back to Pest, and then in their last years moved down to Kecskemet and died there. My mother had no profession. But she could do everything, as she was very clever with her hands. We were very poor, so she always made my clothes and everyone was amazed at how elegant I was. Because my mother sewed very well, whatever she touched turned to silk in her hands.

Growing up

So I was born in Pest in 1924. Then my mother divorced in order to move back to Debrecen, I wasn’t even a year old I believe, and we lived together with my maternal grandparents. And as far as I know she met my stepfather there in Debrecen.. To me he was like a father. He was called Laszlo Lowinger and then became Ladanyi. He was born in 1905, was the same age as my mother. I have no idea what he was trained in. My stepfather’s father was a watchmaker but whether he learned this trade I cannot say. He tried his hand at anything in order to live.

We had a very good relationship with his parents. They lived in Miskolc. We moved from Debrecen to Miskolc, but I have no idea why. We lived in a very mixed area of Miskolc. On a small plot there were four small bungalows, there was a concierge woman and three residents. The one we lived in, my parents, grandparents and I, was a two-roomed apartment with a kitchen and a WC in the yard. The grandparents and I in one room, and my parents in the other. There were books at home. There was no library, that would have been impossible, but there were good books which I read too. I read a lot. They did employ someone to do a big wash, but otherwise there were no servants.

I started school in Miskolc, at the Jewish primary school. From there I went to the Jewish middle school, which I thinks was one of the most definitive times of my life. Because the teachers there would be far above today’s university lecturers. In that school we only learned the best at a high level. A lot of Christian girls also attended the school, as within the school there was a teacher training college which many people attended from all over the country, including Christian girls. So it was not a bigoted school. I was a good student. In those days – at least in my family – everybody spoke German. We studied German outside the school. As far as possible I attended extra lessons. At that time I couldn’t read Hebrew at school. I really loved the religious studies teacher, he was called Buchler, if I remember right. He was a lovely old gentleman, everybody thought he was mad. But then I learned to read Hebrew. I did not study music but attended the choir in the school.  Gym was my favorite lesson. I went to special gym lessons. There was a young female gym teacher at school who had a private movement school and I went there. This had artistic leanings rather than sporty ones.  I loved doing it and so did she, sometimes I went to someone else who coached me for a performance or some such, and everybody said that I had great potential. And I loved it and thought it would be a good career and I should pursue it. But no, the Germans intervened.

I was never one to make friends. Of course I had friends who were important in my life, but very few. In my youth when my aunt’s family were still in Pest I was often there during the holidays. I remember that my parents did go skiing but there were no big summer vacations. I went to a ball once in my life, when I was about 17-18. I don’t know what it was for but it was a big event. My mother accompanied me and I was very much in love which was both lovely and memorable.

I visited the synagogue on high holidays as then my grandmother went. And it was such a meeting place. I didn’t like it because it didn’t seem to be about what it should be. Religion in itself, neither Judaism nor any other, really appeals to me. Because I feel it is bigoted. But then this is up to the individual, to do as they think right. I remember two synagogues in Miskolc. There was one on Paloc Street, not far from us, my grandfather went there, and there was the Kazinczy synagogue which was the biggest one. Fashionable, elegant clothes were made for high holidays and everybody dressed up and showed off. If I went up to the women’s section of the synagogue, then prayer was not the chief activity but conversation and gossip. I didn’t really like that.

I heard about Zionism when I was already a big girl. After middle school. As I had a few friends from Kassa, mates, good friends, boys and one of them was a big Zionist. They did foresting and helped a lot of Jews through Hungary while making aliya, so they could get out. I was friends with him but didn’t really bother with Zionism.

As my family were not well off, when I finished middle school and wanted to go on to high school there was not enough money, so they enrolled me in a women’s trade school where, apart from high quality art history lessons, they also taught everything else, including sewing and tailoring. I believe I was the only Jew in the school. But for a long time I didn’t notice it really. It was striking that the Catholics and the Protestants were much greater enemies – I, probably as the only one, fell out of the lists. But I do recall that I always had to work hard for good marks. So I had to prove somehow that I deserved those good marks.  Then later on there were signs of anti-Semitism. One of my best girlfriends was a very nice Christian girl, she was the daughter of a judge, we were very close. She was the only one with whom I could go to the theatre and concerts – at a time when very extreme voices were raised -, and she was the only one who came with me willingly.

It lasted three years and we didn’t get a school diploma but a school certificate. And I got a trade certificate too, for women’s and girls’ tailoring. And if you did six months further training you could sit a master’s certificate, so I did that too. You had to sit an exam, and the best tailors in the city set the test and saw whether I would pass it or not. I remember I was given a very complicated piece. They let me go home at lunchtime and I was very upset, and told my mother that I couldn’t possibly do it. She said of course you can and explained how to. And the tailor who examined me had enough poise to say that it was a great success, although, he said to me, my intention was to fail you. But then after school there was not much else for it because it was around 1942-42. I could not find a situation.

During the war

When the Germans invaded I recall that I was going home and two really young, handsome German soldiers stopped me on the street – I naturally had a yellow star on – and we talked. And by the end I invited them back home. My mother’s eyes dilated somewhat when I appeared at home with two SS. Then the family sat down and we talked. They were two intelligent, very sympathetic, young guys. They told of all the horrors of war and said everything that we should beware of, and that we should believe that they could not help it, that this was the situation. They had been brought in, it was all far removed from them but they had to do it.

I believe it was – I can’t remember exactly – around April when the gendarmes came to take us to the ghetto. It was in Arany Janos Street. We could only take what we could carry. My father was not at home, by then he was in forced labor. You could still get newspapers then. And they packed up there and then. They took the concierge lady too, who was also Jewish, but not the other two inhabitants. And the neighbors came over and everybody looked round to see what they could salvage for us, and they took armfuls out of the apartment. We moved into the ghetto. They took me every morning from there to work – those who wanted could do so, and I wanted to --, and I went to work in a nursery garden where soldiers guarded us but they were all right. We had to plant, and other things. They took us under armed guard in the morning and brought us back in the evening. Then, not long afterwards at the end of May, in June 1944 they collected up those in the ghetto and took us to the brick factory. There we were in terrible conditions, all on top of each other. There were gendarmes there and there they packed us into wagons and took us to Auschwitz. They took us in cattle trucks packed together. I was with my grandparents and mother. If I recall we took poppy-seed rolls with us and we had to eke out the food. Well when we got to Birkenau, they took us out and we had to leave everything we had saved, food, everything. And Mengele was there, he selected us and waved us left and right. They sent my grandfather right first. My last image of him is as he turned back and said ‘look after your mother’. And then I was there with my mother and grandmother. Then my grandmother was sent to the right and that was the last time I saw her. Then they herded us into a big space – it was June already, the sun shone beautifully, I remember -- and they shaved everyone’s head, and shaved us everywhere. And I remember my mother and I exchanged glances, and we started to laugh. In our terror because we looked awful. Then we had to strip naked and they took us to the baths. We didn’t know then that it could be the baths or the gas. There were special baths then. And there was no towel, no nothing. We went in single file, there was a big pile of rags called clothes, and you took what came. We entered the Auschwitz camp, the extermination camp, people didn’t really go to work from there. That’s why I have no tattoo. I was with my mother till the end, everywhere. If she hadn’t been there I wouldn’t have returned home. I was very impractical. As I said it was an extermination camp, there were no bunks. There were barracks and about 1000-1200 people were in a barrack, and nothing else, only the bare earth, no blanket, nothing. You could only lie down if the feet of the person in the opposite line were next to your shoulders, and my feet were next to theirs. And if someone wanted to turn over then the whole line had to, as there was not even enough space for that. I spent three and a half months in this great place, from the end of June until about mid-October. Sometimes they came to look at us, because news was that they took the prettier women to brothels. When they came and one saw there would be a selection, then one had to hide, not be seen. And sometimes they took people for work. And I always stood in line with my mother standing at least four or five behind me, so that if they did not choose me, she would sneak out and if they did and not her then she would swap with me. This was my last selection, there were not many in the camp by then. I remember it was the first day of Rosh Hashanah. And they chose us. And my mother said, it’s awful here but we’ve got used to it. Shouldn’t we stay here? And I said Mum, they haven’t chosen us yet, now they have, so let’s go. Not one of those who remained behind came home. And they took us to Bergen-Belsen which was a holiday compared to Auschwitz, because there were tents, straw or something strewn on the floor, and everyone got two blankets. It was very cold by then. Four of five us laid down a blanket and huddled together and put the remaining blankets over ourselves. In Auschwitz the food was not food, it was like cut field grass cooked up with nothing else. So Bergen-Belsen was more normal. And there was a line up there too, and they took us to Wienerneustadt where there was a huge arms factory. The conditions were more humane there: there were bunk beds and everyone had their own sleeping place. They took us into a huge room – lots of people worked there – and sat everyone down. I was in a completely different part of the room to my mother, where they were making hand grenade heads. And there was a very nice forewoman. And she got to know that my mother spoke German well, and said she wasn’t allowed to talk to us but she did. And she said that in the line in front, they are very slow to learn what they have to do. And my mother took the chance and said that her daughter was working here, and she was very good with her hands, why didn’t she try her. So they took me on.

At first there was lots of work and then increasingly little. And the management decided to take us out for outdoor work, to weed. And at that this the German supervisor, the very nice SS woman said that she needed three prisoners, because she has a lot of goods which she needed to pack up. An old classmate of mine worked beside me. And she said that she needed my mother, me and that girl. So for a long time that’s what we did: there were the grenade heads which had to be packed by 12 into a bakelite box, and then so many of these boxes had to be packed into a wooden crate. And she kept back, I don’t know how many crates, and so that was our work, every morning we opened a crate, poured out all the grenade heads and packed them up until the evening. But we were warm and didn’t have to freeze outside.

Then the day came when they said the English are coming, the Americans are coming and the Russians, and the prisoners must be taken away. So they put us in wagons and we traveled in them for three weeks. This was about March-April 1945. We arrived somewhere, they had barely billeted us, when we had to move on. One day the daily ration was corn ears, poured into our palms and we had to chew on them. And finally we arrived in Teresien, but we did not know where we were, as Teresienstadt was one of the show camps where families stayed together, could receive parcels and write letters.  It was a military camp like a city in itself, with bastioned houses and people lived there. They took us up there and they came up from the town below looking for relations, acquaintances and family. And a young boy came, we spoke and he said that they were forced laborers and that there was a hospital and they work there. I asked him if a Hofberger was not with them by any chance?  I still remember that as I asked I felt how stupid to ask such a question in such a place. But he said yes, there is, Rudi, my best friend. I told him I was his cousin, and to let him know. And he went away and an hour later my cousin appeared, and I got the best present of all from him: two toothbrushes. We hadn’t seen one for a year. And he brought food up. And one day we got up, there was also a woman from Miskolc, if I recall, with whom I had been very friendly in Auschwitz, and a potter woman from Hajduszoboszlo. Mother, the Miskolc woman, the potter and I woke up in the tent and there was no one. And we went out and the whole camp was empty. What was this? And then we knew the Russians had come in the night.

The Russians took over in Teresien and said that as Teresien belonged to Czechoslovakia naturally they would take the Czechs home first, and those boys who worked in the hospital, and every one could take home two relations too. My cousin came and said that he and another friend, who had nobody, would take both of us and the Miskolc and Hajduszoboszlo women, so we could go home, without waiting, on the special Russian train.

After the war

Sometime at the end of June, at the beginning of July, we got home. And we arrived in Pest and everyone raced home to see who was left in the family. We went to my uncle’s where there were only my two aunts, because my uncle had not turned up yet.  Then there was some sort of Jewish charity, which gave papers or money, I can’t remember which. But I do remember that I went down the street and met an old Miskolc acquaintance who said he would give me money. I said don’t give me money, what for. He knew what I found when I came home. And said that I should take the money because my father had a business in Miskolc so I could pay it back. I said thank you and we went down to Miskolc. Apparently everyday they wrote down who had survived on the synagogue walls, and they knew that we were alive. My father had a rented apartment in those days, and my aunt was there and my cousin, and my father had the business. My father had joined up with another, who had a jewelry shop on the main street. So it became an opticians and jewelers, and it was a big business. His partner had a son who was a trained optician, and he had a little shop and workshop behind it. My parents then decided that they would be in the big shop, me running the small one, and the boy working in the workshop. So I had no problem making a living.

A few days after our return we had to go and buy some clothes. I met my husband when we went shopping. They had a textile shop right in the center of town in the Weinich Court, a big shop with double portals. And a gentleman was standing there. They were still called Weitzenfeld then. The girls were born with that name, if I recall we got the papers in Pest with our Magyarized names. We became Vari.

In my husband’s family there were three boys and three girls, and everyone Magyarized differently. He was born in Miskolc in 1906. He became a merchant. His was a well-to-do family. They married off the boys and girls. Pali was very well trained, he helped his parents in the shop, so that when they were no more he would inherit it. His wife and 12 year-old son were deported. They did not return. His parents didn’t either, so he was alone.

One of his siblings, who before Pali came home, was a cloth merchant in Pest. He had two children, they moved down to Miskolc, moved into his parents’ apartment and were very surprised when Pali turned up. And they said that if Pali was already there, then they should run the business together. Then the third brother, Gyuszi, who was also in cloth in Pest, decided he would come in on it too. And he entered the business, so that when I went into the shop I was like some sort of noble stranger.

When we got married I was twenty and he was forty. But he was very handsome, a fine figure of a man, and very gentle. My parents wanted nothing to do with it. They always said that he was too old. I had as many suitors as stars in the sky. The Jewish boys, who survived, came home with nothing, no families left. I was a striking girl. I could have had another, but I wanted this one, I wanted a calm, balanced life after the deportations. If I remember we got married that December. We had a Jewish wedding, because as his wife’s body had not been found we couldn’t have a civil one. And then the civil ceremony took place a year later. I would have liked children from the start but for a year I did not get pregnant. When I was pregnant with Zsuzsika I didn’t work. The twins were born in 1950. We didn’t know there would be twins. They were born at home and when the first came out I would have stood up, but the doctor said ‘lie still, another’s coming’. My mother helped a lot in bringing them up. I could take on a lot of work as I knew she would be with them.

The girls were not brought up religious, not only because I was not religious but because it was always a principle of mine not to bring children up in two ways. And when they started to go to school then religion was not at issue – which I believe is quite right. Their first encounter with Jewishness was in Miskolc. There was an inner yard where we lived and one of the neighbor’s siblings had a little girl who was the same age as mine, they played together. One day Zsuzsika rushed in crying that what’s-her-name she said I’m Jewish. Is that why you’re crying, I asked. Well, she thought it was a terrible insult. And then I explained that ‘you are a Jew, so is your mother and your father, being Jewish is a religion, but this does not concern us, one man is very like another so don’t cry, it’s not an insult. If they say you are a Jew, then be proud say yes, I am a Jew’. And then I went to see the neighbor and told them to drop the subject, because perhaps they didn’t know it, but this type of prejudice against the community entails punishment. And that the child did not make it up herself but heard it at home.

We always had Christmas. There was always a tree up to the ceiling. In my childhood we didn’t have one at home. I don’t think we could have afforded it. But for Zsuzsika and all the children there was a Christmas tree. Zsuzsika had some things which Gyuri her husband tolerated with difficulty.

After 12 years of marriage we split up on 5 September 1957. After much discussion we agreed that he would give me 1,000 forints a month for the three children. I definitely wanted to move from Miskolc. I didn’t like it. It is a typical small town. Here was an estate agent in town and I said if they found an apartment exchange in Pest to let me know. Our apartment was nice and in a good place. And they telephoned and said there is someone who would like to swap apartments urgently for a Miskolc one. A young woman came, she loved the apartment and we signed the papers. I said I would like to see what I’m getting. My father came with me. And we came up and I really didn’t like it. The Miskolc one had big French windows and double doors, everything there was small. And my father said: “Now listen, this isn’t a bad apartment. You will never have another chance to swap for free. No matter that your apartment is lovely, the provinces are the provinces and Pest is Pest". I let myself be convinced.

My father died in 1957, very suddenly, in the same year we moved to Pest. My mother stayed with us, she had a widow’s pension. And I worked a lot, day and night. When we split up I was working in a plastics cooperative, I was only a group manager at that time. I was also a founding member of the cooperative, I knew it all, we worked a lot for export. The manager of the plant was the wife of a bigwig, she had no idea what she was doing. She had to go to a lot of negotiations with export companies, I always went with her. So I got to know people and was able to find another job. I went to Pilismarot as there was a cooperative there, and I had to organize people, to set up a plant. I went there every afternoon after work. Mother was with the children then. In the end she brought them up. She died in 1977.

Then we were allowed to take on outside workers, and there was a big flood around then and huge plastic sheets were made for the dikes. I took my mother on as an outsider, and on the weekend I made these sheets until dawn. Then there were things that had survived, jewelry, rings, pictures which we sold whenever we could, and so we survived. I started as a group leader and retired as a manager. If I had joined the Party then I might have been the president. But despite everything I managed it and became the president of the cooperative’s committee. I was paid well. But I worked a lot, as there was no fixed work time. I was a manager, more than 100 people worked under me. I ran three businesses on a single country site and two in Pest. They well knew that I would fight for everything possible, without extra payment for it.

I was never in the Party. Once in the cooperative, the then party secretary said to me,  “Evike, you should ask to join the Party”. I said ‘that’s a great honor but no thanks’. He was very surprised ‘Why not?’. I told him that as long as I had to defend my workers against them, I had no need of a little red book. And they realized that I was a Jew and was not willing to enter the Party.

Estera Sava
Bucharest
Romania
Interviewer: Adriana Gheorghe
Date of the interview: December 2004

Estera Sava is a lady who takes care of her appearance. She is not very tall, has gray, short hair, and looks younger than her age (83). She lives on her own in a small but well maintained two-room flat located in an apartment building in the center of Bucharest. She is an active and communicative person who likes to keep up on everything that happens around her. She reads the newspapers – when this interview was conducted, she was following the ongoing electoral campaign with a critical eye. She keeps in touch with the Jewish Community, reads books, and preserves strong ties with her old acquaintances and the members of her family, who are spread across Israel and Germany. She is an optimistic person who, despite her life experience, would rather look at the full half of the glass, while still keeping in mind, with understanding but with no illusions, the empty half.

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

My family history

My paternal grandfather’s name was Meier Leib Rosenberg. I think he came from the Bacau County. He was born in 1861. I don’t know if my grandfather had any siblings; if he did, I never heard of them. His native tongue was Yiddish, and he also spoke Romanian. I think these were the only languages he could speak; I never heard him use another. I can’t recall what school he went to anymore. As far as I know, children used to attend the elementary grades and learn Hebrew, that is, the Hebrew alphabet. It was a school which belonged to the Jewish community and this is what children learnt. I don’t know if he did any military service. For a while, he lived in the countryside – he was well-off –, and then he moved to Bacau. Down there, he owned a restaurant located in the same building where he lived with his family. As I remember it, the place wasn’t a Jewish neighborhood, it was a very nice street inhabited by Romanian boyars My grandparents lived in the center of the town. Theirs was an ordinary house, simple, like most houses used to be back then. It had three rooms. They didn’t have a bathroom inside, the toilet was outside – I mean, they lacked the modern utilities. There was no electricity in those days – one hundred years ago… They used wood for heating. They got along very well with their neighbors. My paternal father was more of an austere man, but people thought highly of him and treated him with respect. As far as his clothes are concerned, he dressed in an ordinary way. I never saw caftans or sideburns at either of my grandfathers. My paternal grandfather did wear a goatee, but that was all. However, he was very religious. He chaired the community for many years, in a time when the president was the one who gave to the community! He was very, very devout, very religious! Not observing [the holidays, the tradition] was out of the question, was inconceivable! We saw little of this paternal grandfather. He didn’t visit us [too often]. When he did, he wouldn’t even accept a glass of water from my father, because it wasn’t kosher. And my mother would argue ‘But, father…’ ‘No way,’ he would reply, ‘because you never know…’ – ‘Father, but I don’t…’ – ‘No, no and no! Let it be, I know better!’ It was the same thing with preserves: he wouldn’t touch any of them, because they are among the foods that Jews consider not kosher. For instance, sweets, like preserves or cakes, shouldn’t be eaten, no matter whether they were boiled or baked in the oven. So he didn’t have preserves. ‘No, no, no’, he said, ‘no, no, no.’ [Ed. note: Baking a cake in the oven did not make it kosher if the ingredients weren’t kosher to begin with.] I don’t think he was into politics. I never heard of him being the member of some party. My grandfathers and my father went to vote, like any other citizen of this country, but they never joined any party. I don’t know if they had any particular preferences either. They didn’t express their political views; or, if they did, I wouldn’t know, because – let’s face it – I was only a child. There were no social or cultural organizations – Jews didn’t have any such things.

My paternal grandmother was named Rifca Rosenberg I don’t know her maiden name. I don’t know where she was born – I think it was in Valea Rea, but I couldn’t tell you for sure. I don’t know the year of her birth either. I know nothing of her siblings. I never met them, only some of their grandchildren. I don’t know what education she had but, in any case, my paternal grandmother came from a well-off and very modern family – they were all emancipated, they spoke French, they smoked, even the girls smoked! Think about what this meant one hundred years ago! The girls were very elegant, very stylish, they weren’t cut from the same mold as my grandfather, who was honest and fair but, you know… [simpler and more conservative] My paternal grandmother was a housewife. Women didn’t go to work back then. They spoke Yiddish at home. My grandmother wore ordinary clothes too. She didn’t wear a kerchief, not to mention a wig. I think she was as religious as my grandfather, but [I can’t be sure], because she died at such an early age… I know her life was shortened by some burglars who broke in at night, while my grandfather was away. Back then, they lived in the countryside, in Gropile, Bacau County. It was a burglary, not an anti-Semitic attack. She and the woman who helped her around the house [who wasn’t Jewish] were beaten. The burglars broke in and beat her so bad that the next day, when my grandfather returned, he found her wandering through the village in her blood-stained nightgown, not aware of herself. Although he had her treated, my grandmother died only a few years later, in 1924 or 1925. I was 3 or 4 when that happened. My grandfather died the day the war was declared, in 1941, that very Sunday! He was 80. He hanged himself because of the war. He had many grandchildren and he knew what misfortunes were waiting for us. There, in Bacau, we had had troubles with the Legionaries 1 even before the war; now that the war had started, things were going to get worse.

My father had one brother and one sister. His sister was the eldest, he was the middle child, and his brother was the youngest. His sister’s name was Toni. She was born in the countryside, in Bacau County. Tanti [Romanian for aunt] was a housewife and was very religious. Her children didn’t carry on her religiousness, but she was very religious! Her husband’s last name was Bril, and I think his first name was Iancu. He was a Jew too, and came from a very wealthy family who owned oil fields. However, he didn’t succeed in his life, for he was a drunkard and a barfly. They had 11 children and they all lived to be adults. Three of them are still alive. I mean, I think they’re still alive, because they live in America, in Los Angeles. This is all I know about them. My aunt was ill for a long time; she spent eight months in hospital here, in Bucharest. I would go to her very often; two of her sons lived here, but they didn’t go see her because of their wives. This is where she died and was buried. Tanti died about one year and nine months after my father died [around 1954].

My father’s brother was named Max Rosenberg and he was born in 1890 in the countryside, in Bacau County. He lived in Bacau and this is where he died too – actually, I have a photo of his tomb. His education consisted of some high school and he worked all his life as an accountant for a large wholesale store owned by a man named Hursenbaun. My father’s brother was highly esteemed in our town and he was the best accountant in the entire Moldavia! He once entered a contest where all the others were graduates of the Commerce Academy, today’s ASE [Academia de Studii Economice – The Economical Studies Academy], while he had only done three years of high school. But he succeeded! He wasn’t very religious, very devout. His wife was Jewish too and she was also from Bacau. I don’t know how old she was. She may have been two yeas older or younger than he was, but I’m not sure which. I know her maiden name was Stormann and her first name was Rosa. My father’s brother didn’t have any children. He died in 1932, at the age of 42.

My father’s name was Oisie Rosenberg He was born in 1887, in the countryside, in Bacau County. I think his place of birth was the commune of Gropile, but I couldn’t tell that for sure. His native tongue was Yiddish, but he spoke Romanian with us. He finished high school and went to France. He lived in Paris for about 4 years, before World War I, because my grandfather had a sister there, and he sent him to study. Study is what he didn’t do, however. He was into other things; he was a very handsome man and girls just wouldn’t leave him alone. He came back right before the war started.

My mother’s father was named Iosif Seidenberg. He was born in Sascut or in Adjud – in any case, that’s the region where he came from. He was born in 1855. He became an orphan at a very early age. My maternal grandfather didn’t have any sisters; I know he had a brother, but I have no idea what his first name was, because he died before we were old enough to remember these things. Apart from that, he had some cousins, a lot of them He had relatives in Adjud. His brother was also born in Adjud or in Sascut, just like him. I don’t know when his brother died. I only remember seeing him once. He died shortly afterwards. I was still a child. I don’t know what he did for a living. I suppose he was married, but I’m not sure. I don’t know if he had any children either, but I never heard my grandfather speak about his brother’s children. I think he didn’t have any. So maybe he was married, but he didn’t have children.

My maternal grandfather got married in Bacau County. He first lived in Helegiu for a few years, and then he moved to Valea Rea [Ed. note: Both localities are in Bacau County.], which is called Livezile today. We saw him quite seldom. He had six children. He ran a kosher butcher’s shop located in the same courtyard where his house was. He was a butcher by trade; this is what he did his entire life. He went to the army because they caught him and drafted him against his will – he was a sturdy fellow, and so were all the members of our family. My maternal grandfather wore ordinary clothes and he was a very handsome man! Of course, he was religious too, he observed the tradition. He wasn’t into politics either, and I don’t know what his preferences were, because I was only a child back then. His native tongue was Yiddish, and he also spoke Romanian. I don’t know what school he went to, but he could read and write. He was an evolved person, he read the newspaper all the time and he understood the political arena. My other grandfather, the paternal one, wasn’t quite like that. He read too, but he was caught into Jewish books most of the time.

In Valea Rea, Jews lived on one side of the Tazlau River, and the [Christian] Orthodox – on the other one. There was also a landowner there, who had his mansion on the Christians’ street. The Jews in Valea Rea were from the middle class and there were no great differences between them. My grandparents got along well with their neighbors. My grandfather was very sociable; he would tell an occasional joke and would have a laugh once in a while – he was different [from the paternal grandfather, who was very austere]. The house of my maternal grandparents had two rooms and a large kitchen; they spent most of their day in the kitchen, where they also ate, and they slept in one of the rooms. They didn’t have electricity or tap water. They used wood for heating. They lived in the countryside, but they didn’t cultivate anything. However, since my grandfather was a butcher, he always had a cow around the house. They had a cart with two horses, and chickens – was there any household without chickens? My grandfather used the cart when he went to buy cattle. In the courtyard, he had arranged a place where he slaughtered cattle. My maternal grandparents didn’t employ anyone to help them around the house.

My maternal grandmother’s name was Tily Her maiden name was Sloser. I believe she was born in Valea Rea, because all her family was there. I don’t know when she was born [around 1865]. I don’t know if the families of my grandparents came from Russia, but I doubt it, because they didn’t have Russian names. In any case, they had been here for centuries – they weren’t newcomers or something. I don’t know anything about my great-grandparents. My maternal grandmother had six or seven brothers, but I couldn’t tell you much about them. I once met one of them – he died in Bacau forty-something years ago. All the brothers were named Sloser. Some of them had children. One of my grandmother’s brothers was named Iancu Sloser, lived in Tetcani, in Bacau County too, in the vicinity of Moinesti, and had six children. The one who died later, Marcu, lived in Valea Rea and had three children: Sofica, Jeni and Ionas. Idel, who lived in Bacau, didn’t have any children. There was also a sister who died at an early age and whom I never met. My grandmother’s sister died in childbirth Then there was another brother, Moise, I think, who lived in Galati. I don’t know whether he lived in the town or in some village near the town. We were very close to Iancu, who lived in Tetcani, and I can remember things about his family. His children were named Roza, Malvina, Bernat, Mauriciu, Beti and Izu – there were six of them. My family was friends with them, but they were much older than I was. This is how we were as a family: we stuck together, and even if a relative was poorer, we didn’t renounce him or her. None of them is alive today. I couldn’t say how religious they were, because we didn’t live under the same roof. They were in Tetcani and we were in Bacau. And, when they got married, one of them moved to Barlad, another one to Onesti. Then the war [World War II] came, and keeping in touch with one’s relatives was no longer a priority.

My maternal grandmother had been to school. Wherever there were Jews, there was a small school where children could learn their ABC’s. She was a housewife. Her native tongue was Yiddish, but she could speak Romanian too. She wore ordinary clothes. She was very, very religious – nothing from the outside would make it inside my grandmother’s house, not even bread! She wouldn’t buy bread from the baker’s. The whole town did it, but she baked bread at home! Not to mention the baker was a Jew! So everything she ate had to be cooked in the house! She didn’t even buy oil – she made it herself. She grew geese and, well, since my grandfather was a butcher, she had all the meat she needed for soups and that sort of thing. My grandmother didn’t let anyone milk the cow except for herself. She was a very clean woman. When she didn’t feel well – and that happened rather often, because she had problems with her health – my grandfather would say ‘Let me milk the cow, don’t go yourself…’ – ‘No way, because you don’t wash your hands properly.’ – ‘But we boil the milk.’ – ‘Oh, give me a break with the milk, will you?’

My grandmother lived and died in Valea Rea. She died at an early age, around the year of 1925. I know that because, in 1925 or 1926, my aunt gave birth to a girl whom she named after my grandmother. So my grandmother died in 1925, at the age of 59 or 60. I remember my mother say ‘Poor Mother, she died too soon, she hadn’t even turned 60.’ She was ill, she had a cancer. First she had a problem with an eye, and then the illness moved to her liver. She lied in bed for a long time. Her suffering lasted many years. My grandfather died in 1949, in Valea Rea, at the age of 94.

My mother had five siblings. There was a constant difference of two years between consecutive siblings; the only exception was a difference of four years between a sister and a brother, because there had been a seventh child who died. My mother was the second child. The eldest was Isaac Seidenberg, born around 1891. He had a misfortune: he married Paulina, a Jewish girl who was poor, but of a rare beauty, lived with her for seven years, and the girl got a breast cancer. She tormented herself for a year, and then she died. My mother was followed by Fani, born in 1895. She married a Jew named Saul Ancilovici. Then came that four-year difference between Fani and Moritz, who was born in 1899. He married Nora, a Jewish woman. Two years after Moritz was born, the fifth child saw the light of day: Marcu, in 1901 or so. He never married and died at an early age, 42. He had a heart attack and died in the street, in Bacau. The youngest of the siblings was Rebeca, born in 1903. She was also the last to die. Her husband’s name was Haim Haimovici. All my mother’s siblings, except for the one who died at an early age, left for Israel. This is where they all passed away, but I don’t know the exact dates. I remember Moritz died at some point in 1977. It was the year of the earthquake [in Romania]. Isaac had died a good number of years before him, but I couldn’t tell you when.

My mother’s name was Toni, nee Seidenberg. She was born somewhere in Bacau County ­ I believe it was in the commune of Helegiu. She was a few years younger than my father. She was born in 1893 or so. Her native tongue was Yiddish, but she spoke Romanian too. She learnt everything children could learn at that time; she went to a Romanian elementary school, a public school, not a special one. Then she became a housewife. My mother was a woman who took care of her appearance and she had extraordinary outfits made for her! She would never wear the same dress at two weddings! She had seamstresses working for her. But no seamstress would work for her twice, because my mother was very nagging; she had them come over to her place and followed their every move.

My parents’ marriage was a true love match. This is how they met. My father lived in Bacau and was as good as married. The legal marriage had already been performed and the wedding was to come in three weeks. He happened to pass by the small town of Valea Rea. He was friends with my mother’s cousin. And my mother was there, in front of the butcher’s shop. So he sees her and tells his friend: ‘Sofico, who’s this sweet girl?’ – ‘That’s my cousin!’ – ‘I’d like to meet her!’ And my mother’s cousin says to him: ‘Why on Earth would you want to meet her? You’re getting married in three weeks! I’m having a dress made for your wedding…’ You see, my mother’s cousin had been invited to the wedding. ‘It doesn’t matter, I want to meet her’ – ‘Get out of here, mind your own business. If he [her father] hears about it, he’ll chase you around with an axe in his hand!’ Her father was a butcher, and these are rough people! But he says ‘I’m not leaving this place until I get to meet her!’ And so he did. He got divorced, and he never had his wedding, although he had nothing personal with the other woman. And, four years later, he married my mother. This is another story, because my maternal grandfather was always against this They went to a wedding, and it was winter, and my mother, who wore a low-necked dress, caught a bronchopneumonia. You see, 90 years ago, this was a serious lung disease! It was no joke. They called the doctor, because that small town had its own hospital. And the doctor said: ‘She’s got a bronchopneumonia, it’s quite complicated’ and things like that. ‘Well’, my grandmother said, ‘that’s it, he got my daughter suffering from a lung disease, let her marry him, because he’s the one she loves!’ And she wired my father, who came to Valea Rea. No sooner did he get there, than my mother’s fever began to vanish and she felt much better before the day was over. So they let her get engaged with my father and marry him. They had a civil ceremony and a religious one, before the rabbi, under the chuppah. The wedding was held in Valea Rea and it was a very beautiful one, as you can easily imagine if you take into account the fact that my grandmother was a butcher. All my father’s relatives on his mother’s side lived in Bucharest. And they came all the way to Valea Rea. Can you imagine? From Bucharest to Valea Rea! [Ed. note: approximately 300 kilometers] They were very elegant, very stylish, and they were impressed with the food that was served to them.

Then my father went to war in 1916 [Ed. note: the year when Romania joined World War I] and he caught the typhus. Poor him, he suffered so much! I hadn’t been born yet, but my mother told me where he got the disease – it was somewhere around Targu Ocna or Onesti, there’s another place there, but I forgot its name. This man in his company was from Valea Rea, my mother’s place, and he came home one night, as there were only some 20 kilometers to go, he dropped by my mother’s and told her: ‘Your man has the typhus and he’s lying in a ditch. And there’s a lieutenant there, a pig from Oltenia, who was kicking him with his boot and asking him «Hey, jidane [Romanian slang for Jew], you’re playing tricks with me? Pretending you’re sick?» So you must hurry, because, if you don’t, you’ll lose him.’ At that time, in 1916, the place was filled with Russians, who had got as far as… I don’t know; here, in Wallachia, there were the Germans! My mother took one of her brothers, went to my father’s company, and found him there. He was sick indeed. My mother was beautiful, extremely beautiful! When they took my father to the infirmary, they removed his personal effects; a picture of my mother was among them, in his pocket. When my mother came in through the gate of that place, the lieutenant was sitting at a table; he immediately pulled the drawer. She got closer and she said ‘I am the wife of Oisie Rosenberg’. The man took out the picture and asked ‘Is this you?’ – ‘Yes, this is me.’ He got a little nervous because he realized someone had told her what was happening and made her come. He told her something and he quickly called for a sentry to escort her to where my father was. She wasn’t supposed to get anywhere near that room. So she spoke with the medical orderly and with the doctor, she arranged for a woman to bring my father milk and to take care of him, because the place was 20 kilometers away from Valea Rea [she couldn’t go there all the time]. When she came for the second time, she had to sleep over. The lieutenant asked her ‘Where are you going to sleep tonight?’ – ‘I don’t know where I’ll sleep, I’ll look around, ask these people.’ He said ‘I’ll let you use my room’ – ‘Why would you let me have your room? I’ll go sleep somewhere else.’ – ‘It’s all right, I’ll go sleep in a comrade’s quarters.’ However, during the night, he came to her! But he was a gentleman. My mother saw the door open and jumped off the bed. Back then, doors didn’t have lockers. And the lieutenant told her ‘Relax, I’m only here to check if you’re satisfied with the accommodation.’ My mother kept coming there. At some point, they allowed my father to come to the window. The first time he saw her from there, he didn’t recognize her! But my mother didn’t recognize him either, because he had a beard and he was sick! So when he came to the window, not knowing who the woman was, he reached out for her, but my mother stepped back. She then spoke with the doctor again and they shaved my father and got him cleaned up. Anyway, it was because of the typhus that my father returned home weakened and with many missing teeth. When he started to feel better, my mother would go and chat with him. But, in any case, my father didn’t have an easy time during the war.

[After World War I] my father worked for a lumber enterprise in Tisita, Vrancea County. At the time of my birth [in 1921], he owned a store in Nadesti, then in Nadisa. It was a small store and it was run by my father alone, without any other employees. He sold everything. He later worked as a clerk for the Singer sales office in Bacau – you know, the Singer sewing machines. I don’t think he was into politics. He went to vote, but I don’t know if he had any particular preferences – I was only a child back then and I don’t remember. He wasn’t a member of any social or cultural association.

My father and my mother were not two of a kind. My mother was more self-possessed, more uptight, and thriftier, what can I say? As for religion, she wasn’t a bigot. Sure, she observed the Jewish rules, kept a kosher kitchen – that was out of the question –, but she wasn’t a bigot. My father wasn’t too religious either, why not admit it? He was an earnest and decent man, who observed certain precepts; for instance, he helped sick people or destitute girls who were getting married. He did a lot of good, he helped anyone he could, but he wasn’t devout. He went to the temple, that’s true, but he wasn’t a bigot, like my [paternal] grandfather. My father mastered the rules of etiquette and had lived in a religious house, where he only learnt good things. So he taught us many things! He used to tell me: ‘Always leave room for hello even if that person did you wrong; pretend you didn’t notice! Let them regret they upset you instead of cursing you.’ And he always said ‘Be kind, give to others…’ Oh, my God, what beautiful theories he had! He would tell us: ‘Do not do wrong, for the wrong that you do will turn against you! There is no such thing as doing good and not getting good in return. There is no such thing as doing wrong and not getting wrong in return!’

My father was an open, generous man. If you asked him for a loan and he didn’t have the money, he would rather go and borrow from others himself than turn you down. We weren’t rich. My [paternal] grandfather helped as long as he lived, because he had the means. But there wasn’t one man my father didn’t help when help was needed, there wasn’t one man or one woman he didn’t attend at the wedding when he was asked to – we, the Jews, consider it an act of great generosity to attend someone at his or her wedding. ‘Mr. Rosenberg, my daughter’s getting married and I need a second nas [each of the persons who attend the groom and the bride at the religious ceremony and are asked to perform the tasks required by the Christian ritual]…’ We always have two nasi at a Jewish wedding. [Ed. note: Usually, there aren’t any nasi at a Jewish wedding. In this particular case, it is probably a Christian influence.] ‘So wouldn’t you like to…’ – ‘All right.’ And my father would come home and tell my mother: ‘We’re going to be nasi again.’ – ‘Again? Get out of here!’ – ‘Well, what was I supposed to do, I couldn’t say no. The man came to me and I couldn’t turn him down. You can’t just make someone feel bad like that.’ Also, when a boy was born, the fathers would come to my mother to ask for permission to name their sons after my maternal grandfather, who lived to be 94 [died in 1949]. And they would go: ‘Mrs. Rosenberg, if it’s a boy, will it be all right if I name him after your father?’ It was said to bring good luck, because the man was so old. And, of course, my father would be present at the baptism with a nice present, and things like that.

My parents had two girls and a boy. My brother was the youngest child. My sister’s name was Anuta Rosenberg; after she got married in France, her last name changed to Martinet. She was born in 1916, a few weeks before the war began, in Tisita, Vrancea County, in the vicinity of the town of Marasesti. My sister was the perfect child. She studied very hard and always got the highest grades, whether it was in elementary school, in high school or in college. In 1937, when she graduated from high school, she left for Iasi, to pass the admission exam at the Medical School. Like I said, she was a very smart kid­ – after all, she had been one of the first in her graduating year! In Iasi, those anti-Semitic movements had already begun. So she was inside that large hall, waiting to be registered for the Medical School. Two young students showed up and started asking questions: ‘What’s your name?’ – ‘Popescu.’ ­– ‘What’s your name?’ ­– ‘Rosenberg’ ­– ‘Step to the other side. Popescu, go over there; you, Jews, move to the other side.’ Among them was a certain Maria Moise. When they heard the name Moise, they moved her with the Jews. But she actually came from a village near Iasi. When the selection was over, the Romanians were taken to be registered for the exam, while the Jews were told: ‘You, jidanii, go home. We have no need for Jewish doctors!’ The Moise girl started yelling: ‘But I’m not a jidanca, I’m a Romanian! I come from the commune of…’ whatever it was called. My sister immediately left the hall, went straight to the station, and took the first train home, to Bacau. She came back crying over the eight years she had spent studying in high school. ‘What should I do?’ My mother said: ‘Well, you’ll get married and that will be the end of it.’ ­– ‘But I didn’t go to high school to return to the kitchen. You knew very well that I wanted to go to the Medical School from the very beginning!’

And she left for Padua, Italy in January, three months later than she was supposed to. Because there were many students there, and there were also five or six Jews from Bacau who worked there. A former high school classmate of hers was going too, so my sister said: ‘See, Anne Sarf is leaving, so I’ll go to Italy with her.’ My father said: ‘Now, why would you go to Italy? It costs a lot of money, how are we supposed to manage?’ The persecutions [because of the numerus clausus] 2 had already begun and the situation of the Jews was deteriorating. But my sister said: ‘I’m leaving, no matter what; I’m going over there, I’ll do anything, I’ll scrub the floors in restaurants or I’ll wash dishes if I have to. But I need to go to the Medical School!’ And she left on 1st January 1938. She couldn’t leave earlier because she had to get the necessary papers and all; and my father needed some time to raise the money, to find someone here whom he could pay and whose relatives in Italy would give my sister the same amount there, because money could not be transferred directly. And so she went to college. Six months later, in June, when the 1st year was over, the exams came. She got the highest grades! The chairman of the examination committee congratulated her and asked her: ‘Where are you from, Miss?’ – ‘Romania.’ – ‘How many languages do you speak?’ – ‘Romanian, French’ – she mastered French and she knew a little German – ‘and now’, she said, ‘I also speak Italian.’ – ‘And, may I say, your mastery of the Italian is better than a native Italian’s, since you were able to express yourself the way you did in class and at the exam! For you, studying in Padua is a piece of cake.’ She had figured that out herself. After all, there she was, only six months after her arrival, and she had got the highest grades and all her student-fellows wanted to touch her and carried her on their shoulders to bring them luck – you know how it is in college!

That summer, she came home and told our father: ‘Father, I’m not going back to Italy. The classes there aren’t bright at all. It’s not what I had imagined I’d study. I’m going to France!’ We had a relative there, Milu Stormann, the brother-in-law of one of my parents, who had also gone to the Medical School there, had married a French woman, and worked as a physician in some smaller town. Our father himself had spent four years in France in his youth. So he said: ‘Well now, it’s easier if you go to France, because we’ve got Milu there, we give the money to his parents here, and he will give you the same amount from his own money over there…’ Because he really wanted to send some money to his parents in Bacau, but couldn’t find a way, so this arrangement would suit him too. So she left for France, to Montpellier. When she got there, she wanted to enroll in the 2nd year! They checked, and told her: ‘You can’t, because you’re coming from Italy and the classes there are considerably inferior. If you had studied for one year in Romania, we would have taken it into consideration.’ You see, we used to have great universities: Iasi, Bucharest and Cluj! ‘So it’s impossible.’ So she went to the dean’s office; she pleaded, showed them her grades, and asked that she be allowed to attend the lectures of the 2nd year, explaining she was planning to pass the equivalence exams during the next session. They let her. And so she did. She succeeded at the equivalence exams and was able to continue. When she finished the 2nd year, she sent us a letter – actually, she sent us letters all the time – asking for some papers to be mailed to her. My mother asked her: ‘But why do you need these papers? You took all the necessary papers with you when you left.’ My mother immediately suspected she was planning to get married over there and wrote to her: ‘Don’t you dare get married in France, I won’t agree to your marrying in France, because, if you do, I’ll never see you again! There’s a war coming, these are hard times, and I don’t want to… You’d better… you’d better come home!’ My sister wrote a moving letter to my mother, who had married our father for love, telling her: ‘Mother, you of all people, you, who married Father because you loved him so much, how can you do this to me?’ Eventually, my sister got married in France.

Her husband’s last name was Martinet. He wasn’t a Jew. He had a very good financial situation. He met her in class, in the dissection room. He used to go there to watch. He was from Paris, worked as an engineer, was specialized in photographic and medical equipment, and was an intern at the Medical School. So he met her, fell in love with her – she was very beautiful, and very clever if you think of how she had come from Italy and had proved herself worthy in Paris! Did I mention that she was pretty? So she got married. This meant that, beginning with the 3rd year, my father didn’t have to send her that load of money anymore. Unfortunately, my sister’s studying was in vain. She never got to practice as a physician. Before she could pass the last two exams, the Germans seized her and took her away… Her husband was fighting in the French army and, when they withdrew to the mountains, he told her: ‘Anja, come with me, don’t stay here all by yourself.’ To which she replied: ‘Well, what can I do? There’s the hospital,’ – she was working in a hospital – ‘and I have two more exams to pass. What am I supposed to do? Postpone them, after I studied for six years? I worked too hard to do that… So let God’s will be done.’ Two days later, the Germans took her and moved her from camp to camp, because she was a doctor. Finally, she got to Auschwitz. Someone who had escaped from there told her husband about her, and her husband wrote to us. The former inmate remembered that they used my sister as a physician at first, and later they sacrificed her.

We had a hard time, because, after the war [World War II], all the sons and daughters who had gone to college abroad came back, except for my sister and another boy! A year went by, then two, and we couldn’t understand. My mother would say: ‘By God, even if she were at the end of the Earth, a smart girl like her would still give us some sort of sign!’ All the postmen in Bacau had learnt their lesson well: when sorting the mail in the morning, they had to pay particular attention to any letter addressed to my father! Then my mother went to a sister-in-law of hers, because it was her brother to whom we sent money. And she told her: ‘I’d like to find out what happened. Please write to Milu and ask him to investigate!’ Milu sent a letter to the Medical School. They answered, and so detailed, how she was taken, and everything! The school forwarded to my sister’s husband the letter in which we were inquiring about her fate. He gave us all the details. He told us his wife and a fellow-student from Iasi had been seized in front of the hospital two days after he had left. After the war ended, he looked for her everywhere! But he couldn’t find her. He accidentally came across someone who had been there – the Germans had also sent French people to the labor camps – and he was told the Nazis had used his wife as a physician, and then disposed of her. He spent seven years searching through cemeteries, hoping her name would come up somewhere. But this couldn’t have happened, because she had… she had been killed there [in Auschwitz].

My brother’s name was Aurel Rosenberg He was one year and eight months younger than me. He was born in the commune of Nadisa, Bacau County, in 1922. He went to elementary school, and then to a vocational school where he studied mechanics. He observed all the holidays that are commonly observed. I don’t know how often he went to the synagogue, because we didn’t live in the same town. Let me tell you that my brother had an awfully hard time after the war too! Right after 23rd August 1944 3, he and a friend of his started an oil press. The business worked for a couple of years, then the trouble started, because it became forbidden to own an oil press. There were all sorts of inspections and all sorts of setups! You see, setups weren’t something that happened only during the Persecutions; they also occurred afterwards! People were accused of having bought or sold what they weren’t supposed to, for not having what they should have had or plainly for stealing… Those were dirty setups! My brother was convicted and had to do forced labor; he was imprisoned in a labor camp in Spantov, near Oltenita [in Calarasi County]; it was a rice field. He spent about two years and eight months there. All this happened because he was a Jew. The town was full of Legionaries, and they were the first to become Communists! They sought to satisfy their sadistic urges. After he got out, my brother worked in the vulcanization field. He lived in Bacau until 1978, when he left with his family for Israel.

My brother married a Jewish woman, Anuta, whose maiden name was Kertel. They had a son, Romeo Rosenberg. Romeo is married now, has two children, and is very devout. He lives in Israel, even though they don’t really observe the religious tradition there. He never eats what he’s not supposed to and he’s a very earnest man! When his father died, he was only 17, because his parents had made him rather late. He had got admitted to college, but, in Israel, you’re supposed to do the military service before you go to college. Knowing how things were in the army back then, his father worried a lot about his son and, being already very ill – he was ill before he left Romania – he had a heart attack and he died. He died in 1986 in Israel, in Ashdot; this is where he was buried. So the boy lost his father at 17 years old. It’s the most dangerous age! He was the only one in his circle of friends who got admitted to college. These were all youngsters who came from Romania and knew one another from kindergarten. He went to the army, served for 3 years – this is how long it takes over there – and then he went to college. While a student, he and two fellow-students of his got employed to guard a factory. They were taking shifts. So he went to college and earned a salary at the same time. Besides, Israeli students get paid to go to college. He had to work, because he only had one parent to support him, his mother, who was a widow with a pension. A very good kid. He called me last night: ‘Tanti, I kiss you! How are you, tanti?’ His mother – my sister-in-law – keeps telling him: ‘Call Estera, let’s see how she’s doing!’ A very, very good kid! He has two children of his own now: an elder daughter and a son.

Growing up

I, Estera Rosenberg, was born on 2nd February 1921, in the commune of Prajesti, Bacau County. At home, we spoke Romanian more than we spoke Yiddish. My parents only used Yiddish between themselves, when they didn’t want us to understand what they were talking about, and this is how we learnt a bit of it. I don’t speak any other language, except for very little German. The village where I was born, Prajesti, was a Catholic village. I don’t know if there were other Jews there. But we got along well with the neighbors. My mother included! She told me the story of my birth. I told you I was born on 2nd February, so you can imagine the blizzard outside. When my father went to get the midwife, the couple living next door, who weren’t Jews, but Catholics, stayed with my mother until the midwife arrived. They made her tea and looked after her, and they didn’t have any problem with that! One year later we moved to another village, Nadisa. We didn’t stay there for too long either. When time came for us to go to school, we moved to the town of Bacau, because my sister’s elementary school teacher told my mother: ‘Mrs. Rosenberg, you’ll bury this little girl’s future if you stay in the countryside! Move to the town, for it would be a pity to waste such a perfect child!’ And so we moved.

Bacau was a nice town. There was tap water and electricity, but not everywhere! There were still neighborhoods where people used water pumps and latrines. However, the streets in the center had plumbing and power. Some of the streets were paved, some of them weren’t. There were horse-powered and ox-powered carts, and there were also motor cars. Buses connected the town to the localities situated 5-10 kilometers away. There were no trams in Bacau, and there aren’t any today either. But the town remains a very nice place, tidy and all. There was a large marketplace, and a much smaller one, located only a few hundred meters away from the former. In our family, it was our father who went to the marketplace. I don’t know where he shopped, whether he had his favorite places or not. There was also a fair. It took place every Thursday, outside the town, on a wasteland. People brought cattle, cereals, and things like that to trade. Once a year, on St. Peter’s, there was a funfair too. They had all sorts of amusements and we were always keen to go – there was no way our parents could have avoided taking us there!

I couldn’t say exactly how many Jews lived in Bacau when we moved there, but I think the town’s entire population must have amounted to some 35,000 people. There were many synagogues. Two of them were really large and beautiful! Then we had a shoemakers’ synagogue, a tailors’ synagogue, and so on; there were at least six smaller ones. All of them were functional. I don’t remember if they were Sephardic or Ashkenazic, but I doubt there were any Sephardim in our town. Each synagogue had its own cantor, who was in charge with the prayer service, and its own gabbai. The town only had one rabbi. However, for a number of years, when I was a child, there wasn’t even one rabbi in Bacau. There was one in Buhusi, and people used to go there. Then Rabbi Safran came. But I’m telling you that, in my childhood, there was no rabbi in Bacau. After Safran left, I don’t know if there was another one to replace him right away. Later, a rabbi from Iasi arrived, only he was actually from Dorohoi. His name was Marinis. Eventually he moved to Bucharest, where he lived for 20 years before passing away.

The Jews in Bacau had all sorts of occupations! There were tradesmen, craftsmen, physicians, engineers, lawyers and all that! There weren’t many Jewish butchers – most of the butchers were Romanian. But, since there were Jews living in town, there had to be some Jewish butchers too. They ran kosher shops. The hakham came, slaughtered the animals, and checked the meat; if it wasn’t right, it had to be thrown away! I couldn’t say there were more tradesmen than craftsmen or more tailors than shoemakers. I simply don’t know what the ratios were.

We didn’t really have Jewish neighbors when we stayed in Bacau. The town had, like any other town, its Jewish neighborhood, but, to be honest, we didn’t live in it. So the people with whom I grew up were Romanians. Our neighbors were very open though. Besides, our family consisted of hard-working people. We have a saying: ‘Don’t mind them, they’re hard-working people!’ Which means they’re okay.

This is how our house looked like. There was my brother’s room, my parents’ bedroom, the porch, and the girls’ room. From this room, we entered an improvised bathroom, which didn’t have tap water. We heated water in a boiler [using fire wood] and all. We had a garden and we bred animals. My mother always had servants. There was a permanent maid who helped her around the house. There were five of us and it was difficult for her to manage on her own. This girl wasn’t Jewish. She was a destitute orphan whom we had taken under our protection, as she had no place to stay – my father had found her in the street, crying. She was very upset, because she had no parents and the people with whom she had lived had kicked her out. It was autumn. She stayed with us until she got married! As for a nanny, we never had one.

We had an extraordinary library, with all kinds of books. We even had a palmistry book! I don’t know what we didn’t have! We had literary works too, but they were only in Romanian. Many years after I got married, I came home and I noticed there were very few books left in the bookshelf. So I asked my father, may God rest his soul: ‘Where are the books, Father?’ And he went: ‘I borrowed them and they were never returned And, to be honest, I was ashamed to go to people and tell them «Listen, you didn’t give me back that or that book!» If they didn’t have the decency of returning those books, that’s that!’ Those were valuable books, written by famous authors. In my family, books were always picked depending on their author! We weren’t rich, but we lived like human beings, I mean, we led a comfortable and civilized life. My father and my sister read a lot. I read too, from the age of 12 or 13. I read Rebreanu [Ed. note: Liviu Rebreanu (1885-1944), Romanian prose writer and playwright, author of the novels ‘Padurea spanzuratilor’ (‘The Forest of the Hanged’), ‘Ion’, ‘Rascoala’ (‘The Uprising’), ‘Ciuleandra’], Teodoreanu [Ed. note: Ionel Teodoreanu (1897-1954), Romanian prose writer, author of the novels ‘La Medeleni’ (‘In Medeleni’), ‘Lorelei’, and of the autobiographical work ‘In casa bunicilor’ (‘In the Grandparents’ House’)], Petrescu [Ed. note: Camil Petrescu (1894-1957), Romanian prose writer and playwright, author of the novels ‘Ultima noapte de dragoste, intaia noapte de razboi’, (‘The Last Night of Love, the First Night of War’), ‘Patul lui Procust’ (‘Procust’s Bed’), and of the play ‘Jocul ielelor’ (‘The Fairies’ Dance’)], all the major ones. My sister was five years older than me. I still remember her like it was yesterday, may God forgive her: ‘Here, take this book, you should read it too!’. She read them first, and, if she thought I should read them too, she gave them to me. My father did the same. And then we’d discuss the book, we’d review it. Although we weren’t rich, we kept ourselves up-to-date. My parents read the newspapers. I remember the newspaper boys like it was yesterday. They came by our house, threw the paper in the courtyard, and collected the money once a week or something like that. My parents read ‘Dimineata’ [Ed. note: ‘The Morning’, Romanian information daily newspaper, published in Bucharest between 1904 and 1938, with interruptions], ‘Curentul’ [Ed. note: ‘The Trend’, Romanian information daily newspaper, published in Bucharest between 1928 and 1941], and my sister read ‘Adevarul Literar si Artistic’ [Ed. note: ‘The Literary and Artistic Truth’, weekly supplement of the ‘Adevarul’ (‘The Truth’) daily newspaper, published in Bucharest between 1920 and 1929]. It feels like yesterday. My mother read too. As for my father, he never went to bed before reading a book or a newspaper. That was unheard of.

Our parents went to the theater or to the cinema from time to time; so did we, the children. There wasn’t a special theater for children, so we had to wait to grow a little older to go to the regular theater. Much later, a puppet theater was opened in Bacau, but we had already become adults – this happened during the Communist regime. My parents had friends, acquaintances, neighbors, and they called on one another quite often. But it wasn’t like it is today. Back then, life was much harder than it is now! Our family dined at the restaurant once in a while, and, two or three times every summer, we went to the park to eat mici [meat rolls usually made of minced beef that are spiced and grilled]. There weren’t too many motor cars in those days. We had a horse carriage – that was the typical means of transportation Today, everyone’s got a car. Back then, cars were very rare. We only had one horse, which we kept in the stable near our house. My father was the one who took care of that horse. Every morning, he would currycomb it, give it water, and feed it. A horse wasn’t that expensive to keep. All you needed was food for it. Of course, not everyone could afford a horse carriage. But my father found it natural, because he had got used to it in his youth, while still living with his parents. And I loved that carriage; I even drove it! We didn’t use it too often though. My father took it once in a while, when he went out of town, to carry away or bring back all sorts of things.

We observed all the holidays. For instance, when the high holidays came, I remember we went to the temple, and then we came back, because, in the morning, one has to leave to the temple on an empty stomach. At about 10 a.m. there was a break, and people returned home and had some liqueur and a cookie. Then they went back to the temple. At 2 p.m., when the service was over, people had lunch. They gathered together – members of the family, brothers and sisters who were visiting – and they congratulated one another. Of course we loved the holidays, there’s no question about it. I observed the Yom Kippur. As a matter of fact, I have been observing it since the age of 14. My mother told me: ‘Sweetie, you’re still a kid, you’ll have enough time for fasting when you grow up.’ But I insisted on observing the holiday from the age of 14. Moreover, nowadays, if it’s an ordinary day and the time for a meal comes, I have to eat, otherwise I get a stomach ache; on the contrary, on a fasting day – we have four great fasting periods per year – I am not hungry at all. It’s in my blood. I can fast from 4 p.m. till the next afternoon and I don’t feel a thing.

My favorite holiday was Purim, because it’s the only happy holiday that we have. All the others are sad holidays. But on Purim, my mother would make a lot of cakes. We would share, we would celebrate, we would wear masks, we would call on people. My sister, who was older than me, would go to the balls that were organized. There was a ball of the Jewish Community, but it wasn’t held every year! I remember there was once a wedding on a Purim night, and my sister went there wearing a mask and a very elegant outfit, and she had a very good time. Yes, this was a holiday we looked forward to. Then there was Chanukkah, when children were given money – the Chanukkah gelt, as they call it.

We also rejoiced when the Pesach approached, because we ate special dishes then! The meals prepared for Pesach are different from all the meals that are served during the year! Before Pesach, we removed the ordinary tableware, carried it to the attic, and brought back the special one, which wasn’t chametz. During those eight Pesach days, the ordinary tableware wasn’t even in the house, it stayed in the attic! And the special tableware replaced it. The house was cleaned, matzah was bought, we ate according to the ritual and we observed the tradition.

We, the children, used to go to the temple on the high holidays. But only our parents went there on Sabbath. Actually, we went as long as we were pretty young. When we grew older, we stayed at home and played. Well, my mother wasn’t a bigot, like others, but we did observe all the holidays; that was the rule and there was no exception. We only ate poultry that had been slaughtered by the hakham. As for pork, my mother wouldn’t have it inside our house. While my father ate downtown once in a while – although his own father was really devout –, my mother didn’t.

I never went to the kindergarten, as there was no such thing back then. I learnt a few things from my sister, who was five years older than I was. In those days, one wasn’t expected to learn to write before going to elementary school; even if you could write, you would still begin by drawing little lines and things like that. I went to elementary school in Bacau. It was an ordinary, public school. We began the day by reciting the [Christian] prayer [Our Father]. I loved history and geography, but I have no idea why! I didn’t get along well with math. As for Romanian, I loved to read; I have always loved to read! I don’t have talent for writing, my handwriting is bad, and I never liked the drawing classes. However, I drew beautiful maps for the geography classes. I never wondered what I was going to be when I’d grow up. My sister made up her mind while still a child: ‘I want to be a doctor!’ I have always been a motherly person. I like to cook, to make cakes, to knit. I never had problems with my teachers. Our elementary school teacher was a very special lady. She was strict, but I loved her very much. I remember I once met her in some doctor’s waiting room – I was already married by then. She looked at me and asked me: ‘Is that you?’ – ‘Yes, it’s me, Mrs. Vasiliu!’ – ‘Why, look at you! I was wondering if I’d see you again before I’m gone!’ You see, I had got married and I had left our town… She was a very nice lady. I couldn’t think of any teacher whom I disliked. No way! Trust me: back in those days, elementary school teachers were real teachers, they were special persons. If a pupil was an idiot, it made no difference whether that pupil was a Jew or a Christian! I wasn’t an idiot at all, but my parents made me quit school. The Persecutions were drawing near, and times were hard for us, because my sister was studying abroad, and my brother needed financial support too. So my parents made me quit after I had gone to high school for two years or so. The teacher of Romanian came to our place and told my father: ‘Sir, you’re committing a crime if you stop this girl from continuing her education!’ And my father replied: ‘Mister …,’ – I forgot the teacher’s name – ‘I have no choice; my financial situation won’t let me do otherwise. She has to stay home!’ So I never got to graduate from high school, and I got married at a very early age, 16.

I had some Jewish friends, but most of my friends were Romanians. Those girls were classmates and neighbors of mine. Do you know how social life was organized back then? According to neighborhoods! For instance, the adults from the same neighborhood hardly knew one another and greeted one another with ‘Good afternoon, how are you?’ and things like that. But their children were closer to one another, they were friends. We went to name anniversaries and other parties; in a way, the neighborhood life was similar to that in today’s apartment houses. My friends came over to my place; we would chat, laugh, tell jokes, play the gramophone and dance. My maternal grandfather, may God forgive him, loved to see us dance! Whenever he came by, he’d go: ‘Come on, call Banci, Stefi and this, and that, and let’s see you dance a little; do it for Grandpa!’ He enjoyed watching us dance. When we, the girls, got together, we would go to the confectioner’s or we would take a walk. At 4 kilometers away from Bacau, there’s a village called Gheresti. It had a beautiful forest with a park. In the summer, the town hall organized field parties there. My friends and I used to go alone, without our parents. We also went to the ceremonies dedicated to the national holiday. I can’t remember the details, but I know we attended them. We danced and had a good time. The town hall also organized balls; you needed an invitation to attend them. I only got to go to one ball or two, because I got married at such an early age. I was accompanied by my mother and I got a lot of invitations to dance. I was always a good dancer, and, when you’re a good dancer, you get invited a lot. On 10th May 4, I went to the parade wearing a traditional costume. What a beautiful parade that was! There was this colonel, the head of the Garrison, and he had a white horse which he rode during the parade. It was very nice and I looked forward to that parade every year. We also went to the cemetery. There were Jewish heroes and Romanian heroes – many Jews had fallen in all those wars [Ed. note: Mrs. Sava refers to the Independence War (1877-1878), the Second Balkan War (1913), and World War I (1916-1918).]. We didn’t have trips or summer camps back then. We didn’t go anywhere in our vacations! Or, if we did, we only went to our maternal grandparents. I liked it over there and I was eager to go. Although my grandmother was dead, my aunt still lived there.

I can’t remember how old I was when I first traveled by train, but it was before I got married. I think I was 13 or 14. I went to Buhusi, where I had been invited by the parents of a friend of mine [a Romanian girl]. She had come to Bacau, visiting some acquaintances of hers who lived in our neighborhood. She met me and she felt very close to me, so she insisted that I come to Buhusi the day there was a fair there – this was a major distraction. ‘You must come’, she said. So I went. This is when I first took the train [Ed. note: The distance from Bacau to Buhusi is 24 kilometers.]. I had traveled by bus before, when going to my grandfather’s.

I used to do a lot of knitting, which I enjoyed. I have a picture of my sister sleighing, and she is wearing a sweater and a cap that were made by me. I wasn’t a member of any club or association. In those days, there weren’t any.

I never concealed the fact that I was Jewish. Everyone knew about it. Before the Persecutions, I never experienced any anti-Semitism. I couldn’t say that, before the war, I felt there was a difference between the Romanians and the Jews. We, the children of the neighborhood, got together and played without paying attention to such things. Things were very nice before the Persecutions. Life was peaceful and beautiful. Jews and Romanians got along very well and partied together on New Year’s Eve [1st January], on Christmas, on Purim. They came to our places and we went to theirs and we did everything together! We didn’t have a Christmas tree with presents; we only gave presents on Chanukkah. All I remember from the pre-war period is my father coming home from town and saying: ‘Armand Calinescu was killed.’ [Ed. note: Armand Calinescu (1893-1939), Romanian liberal politician, member of the Parliament (1926-1937), minister, then prime-minister (March-September 1939), advocate of the traditional alliance with France and Great Britain, adversary of the Iron Guard, assassinated by a Legionary commando in Bucharest, in September 1939] Then he came one day and told us Duca had been killed too [Ed. note: I. G. Duca (1879-1933), Romanian liberal politician, member of the Parliament from 1907, minister during World War I, president of the National Liberal Party, prime-minister (November-December 1933), adversary of the Iron Guard, assassinated by the Legionaries in Sinaia, in December 1933]. There were also the Zionists, who strived to get to Israel, to free the land of Israel. I was already married at the time when I remember them.

My marriage

I got married at the age of 16 [in 1938]. My husband had been assigned to work in Bacau. After he met me, he said he wouldn’t leave that place without me. He wasn’t a Jew, he was a Christian-Orthodox. When I married him, my maternal grandfather went like this: ‘Bring her back to us or else!’ But the paternal grandfather, who was a former community president, said: ‘Why should he bring her back? He loves her and she loves him; there’s no point in separating them. It would be a crime to do that, a crime.’ Well, my paternal grandfather was a very intelligent man.

My husband’s name was Gheorghe Sava. His native tongue was Romanian. He was born in 1909. He had four siblings: two boys and two girls. There had been more of them, but some died in their childhood. Only one of his sisters is still alive today. She suffers from Alzheimer’s disease. My husband was much older than I was. He was born in the commune of Domnita, Braila County. He went to elementary school there, and then he left to Rusetul, somewhere near Braila [Ed. note: actually in Buzau County], and he attended the arts and crafts high school there. He was a very good student and he graduated with the highest average. He went to the army, after which he had various jobs. When I met him, he was working for the Telephone Company. In the end, he worked there for 26 years. He had important tasks, he was honest and competent. His folks had nothing against my being a Jew. On the contrary, my mother-in-law loved me very much, and so did my father-in-law and all their neighbors. Whenever I went to their village, they acted as if the sun had risen – it was a true celebration! I remember this time when my husband went to visit them all by himself. Both of us were supposed to go to the countryside – we lived in Ploiesti –, but, in the evening before the departure, a cousin of mine from Bacau dropped by. We couldn’t take her with us – I didn’t want to disturb my mother-in-law –, so my husband had to take our daughter and leave me at home. When he got there, the first thing his mother asked was: ‘But where’s your wife?’ – ‘She had to stay at home; a cousin of hers came by.’ – ‘And that stopped you from bringing her with you? Never come here without her again. It’s her I want to see!’ Yes, she loved me very much, although she had two other daughters-in-law. And I would ask her: ‘Mother, why do you love me more than Stancuta and Leontina? [the other two daughters-in-law] – ‘Oh, but how can you possibly compare yourself to them?’ – ‘Come on, Mother…’ What can I say? As far as the Jewish matter was concerned, my husband behaved like an angel!

When I got married, in 1938, they were just beginning to automatize the Telephone Company. My husband worked for this company and I went to all the places where they assigned him to go. A few weeks after I got married, we left for Oradea. From there, we moved to Timisoara, where we stayed for 4 months or so. Then we went to Cernauti, where we spent a few months. I know that, in 1938, we stayed in these three cities. When my husband was fired from Cernauti, because his wife was Jewish, I came back to Bacau, where I stayed for a few weeks. They sacked him when I was with child, with two months left before giving birth! You can realize what a blow that was! I was young, I hadn’t even turned 18… I was still a child, what was I supposed to think? It was a real blow. So I hurried back home, to mother’s, and this is where my baby was born. It was the fall of 1938. So I stayed for about three weeks. And my father took my husband to Bucharest, to the headquarters of the Telephone Company, which was privately owned! My father spoke French. He went to my husband’s manager – there were several people in the office – and addressed him in French: ‘Parlez-vous francais?’ [Do you speak French?] And the man said ‘Oui.’ [Yes] Then my father told him: ‘Look, Mister, what is the reason for firing my son-in-law like that?’ – ‘Who fired him?’ – ‘The Legionary group in the Telephone Company!’ On hearing that, the manager asked him: ‘Do you suspect anyone?’ – ‘I don’t, because I don’t know them. But I suppose my son-in-law does.’ My husband was called, and the same question was asked to him: ‘Do you suspect anyone?’ – ‘I don’t know, I couldn’t tell.’ – ‘All right then, I’ll find out myself!’ Two or three years later, the head of the Legionary group in the Telephone Company committed suicide. He had pulled too many scams and I suppose the time had come for him to pay!

After this incident, my husband was appointed in Sibiu. I stayed with my parents, because I had to give birth. Two or three months after our daughter was born, I went after him. We stayed in Sibiu until August [1939]. He was called up and had to report for duty in Focsani. He stayed there for a few weeks. So I came back to Bacau again. I remained there until the spring came [1940], when he took me with him to Dorohoi. I stayed there until the Russians came, when Bessarabia 5 was taken away from us, in 1940. I returned home, to Bacau, while he and his subunit advanced past Dorohoi, but I can’t remember where they quartered. It was in Moldavia, anyway.

When the Persecutions began, I was in Bacau. My husband had been called up, and I had come to stay with my parents. The things started all of a sudden. Can you imagine? The same neighbor who embraced my mother and kissed her three days ago wants to kill us now! Mark my words: we suffered a great deal during the Persecutions! I don’t know exactly the month when it all began, but I think it was in the fall of 1939. This is when the Legionaries showed up. Before that, things had been undecided. I know what happened under their reign, when the Legionary police had its way. My father knew the president of the courthouse. They met in the street one day, and he told him: ‘Listen, Rosenberg,’ – the other man was Romanian – ‘we’re doomed! Look what’s happening, look who’s leading us!’ The police was occupied by the Legionaries! The law enforcement officers did whatever the Legionaries told them to do, not what they wanted. Antonescu 6 unleashed the Legionaries only to annihilate them later. But Antonescu had a nervous condition; he was far from being normal!

My father wouldn’t say anything in our presence. My sister was away, but my brother endured serious persecutions. He was sent to forced labor and my father did everything he could to have him spared. But it was impossible, because seizures were made by Romanian soldiers together with German soldiers, and there was nowhere to hide from them. You couldn’t ask for shelter either, because you would have also got the one who was protecting you in trouble! Hiding Jews was a serious crime! The Yellow Star 7 was introduced, and, good God, we weren’t allowed to go the marketplace before 11 a.m. Of course, we couldn’t find anything to buy at that time! There was a war! A curfew was declared after 6 p.m.! If the police caught you not wearing the Yellow Star, they would take you to their headquarters! One day I went out to buy bread or something like that. A neighbor of ours, Badica, who was a subcommissioner, spotted me: ‘Hey, where’s your Star?’ And he started to curse me. On seeing that, I went: ‘Oh my, I forgot!’ – ‘Sure, you forgot!’ I went back inside and we no longer felt like eating bread or doing anything else! He was the same neighbor who, before all that, would kiss me and call me ‘Hey, beautiful!’

We went through many hardships indeed! Our closest neighbor kicked us out of our home! This neighbor, named Blaga, a very good friend of ours, had served as a warrant officer or something in the army, but he now worked in a factory. He came to us and told my father: ‘You are to evacuate the house until tomorrow night!’ My father got frightened, as you can imagine. ‘I am to do what?’ It was the fall of 1939, and the winter was close. We paid rent and our landlord – in those days, houses were privately owned, not State-owned – didn’t have the courage to stand up for us. My father went out and came across an acquaintance of his who worked for CFR [Caile Ferate Romane, the national railroad company]. He wasn’t a clerk; he worked on rolling stock, but he wasn’t a train conductor either – I don’t know what he did exactly. So this man saw my father and asked him: ‘Mr. Rosenberg, what is wrong with you, why do you look so sad?’ – ‘Well, if you only knew what’s on my mind! I feel like throwing myself in the Bistrita River! I don’t know what to do!’ – ‘But what happened?’ And my father told him everything. ‘Relax,’ said the man, ‘stop tormenting yourself. I’ll tell you what. I’m going to let you stay at my place.’ He didn’t have children. ‘My wife and I will move to my mother-in-law’s! That’s it; I’ll come by your place tomorrow morning to give you a hand.’ My father only knew that man, they weren’t close friends. But he was a real human being! Of course, we could only pack the things that our neighbor let us pack, not what we wanted! And so we moved on Postei St., paying rent to that railroad employee. We stayed there during the war. When it ended, we didn’t come back to the old place. Instead, we moved on a street at the outskirts – a very nice place. Then the Communists kicked us out from that one too and sent us to the end of the Earth. Not everyone gave us a hart time. However, of all our neighbors – people we had always been nice to –­, there was only one, a young girl, a friend of mine, who stood up for us in the street. So this child of 16-18 years stood up, not her parents. She told them: ‘Aren’t you ashamed of yourselves? Yesterday, you were kissing their asses,’ – this is exactly how she put it – ‘and today you’re out to kill the jidani!’ It was very hard! The Persecutions gave us a very hard time; they were a terrible blow for us! To think that one week ago everything was fine, and today the whole world’s turned upside down! Sure, there were some non-Jewish people who saved Jews, but there were so very few of them, because everyone was afraid. Those who got caught were sent to the front or were shot to death on the spot.

You see, they also wanted to shoot my father! A truck pulled by our house. It carried four Legionaries and one German soldier. All but the driver came inside and robbed us. They loaded everything they wanted into the truck! We had a number of jewels, like normal people do, right? They also seized my brother, a 16-year-old kid; they were going to take him to the Green House [Ed. note: this is how the headquarters of the Legionary movement were called], to beat him all night long! This sort of things happened all the time. After they left, I got dressed immediately. Lucica, my little girl, was only a few moths old, or maybe 1 year – I can’t remember. I took a carriage and I went after them, to prevent them from beating my brother! I got to the Green House ahead of them. I went to the guys who were there: ‘Look, Sir…’ – ‘What are you doing here, Madam?’ – ‘I came to inform you that they took away my jewelry. Why did they do that? My husband bought those jewels!’ That was true, by the way. Times were hard for my family, and my parents had been forced to sell many things so that we can survive! I continued: ‘Now they’re bringing my brother over, a 16-year-old! What did he do to them?’ – ‘But what’s your name?’ – ‘Sava’ – ‘Sava?’ – ‘Yes, my husband is not Jewish, he’s Romanian, and he’s been called up for active duty.’ – ‘Well now, I wouldn’t mind having such a jidovcuta myself!’ Meanwhile, the others had arrived. They did return my jewels – that’s all they gave me back. There weren’t so many of them anyway: a ring, some earrings, and trifles like that. And they also let me take my brother back.

This is how things were. You had to live with the fear that they would come to get you. Not to mention the forced labor. They took them out of town to work, with no food. Do you think my brother was spared? No way, although he hadn’t even turned 18! My father had to carry him food at the railroad site where they worked. At least he came home every night. It was awful. We counted the hours and the days, hoping it would all be over some day. The feeling of panic was unbearable! We went to bed in the evening not knowing what the next day would bring. Jews were being deported randomly. We just didn’t know [who would be the next to go].

One evening, in Bacau, they gathered all the single girls aged from 16 to I don’t know what, including two former schoolmates of my sister’s from high school, and they took them to Transnistria 8. None of them returned! They were 30, 40, maybe more! Those two girls were sisters. Their mother watched them being taken to the police station and waited for 4 hours. When she saw they were escorting them to the railroad station, she decided to join them. You can imagine why, they were her only children, a physician’s daughters. Their father had died a couple of years before. So the three of them went to Transnistria together But only the mother returned! One night, in Transnistria, they came and removed her girls from the camp, claiming they were taking them to work for the Germans. The inmates kept hearing gun shots all night, but they thought they came from the fighting. The girls never returned! After coming back, their mother looked for them everywhere! Eventually, she realized they couldn’t be found anymore. She died after two years. She died from pain and sorrow, you see. It was excruciating, what can I say?

I was very young, so I can’t remember every detail, but I know Jews weren’t allowed to own anything, to run stores or to hold jobs; they were banned from everywhere! [Ed. note: A law was passed that was called the Statute of the Romanian Jews] 9 Jews had to survive from what they sold from their homes! We had such cases in our own family too. They didn’t just quit their job, they were forced to. My mother’s brothers, my father, and my brother became unemployed. My parents and my brother weren’t deported though; they were lucky enough not to. They remained in Bacau. My sister wasn’t the only one in our family who was taken to Auschwitz, where she found her end; there was also a cousin with her husband and her three children, two boys and a girl. They were from Bacau, but they lived in Transylvania 10, which was occupied by the Hungarians at the time [Ed. note: Northwestern Transylvania was attached to Hungary as a result of the Vienna Treaty.] 11 So they were deported to Auschwitz. The only ones who returned were this cousin and her daughter; her husband and the boys never came back. The mother and the daughter spent 6 months in a hospital – in Germany, I think –, because, when the Americans liberated them, they only weighed 30 kilograms! Then they came home, were sick for a while, and eventually left for Israel.

During the war

A few days before the war began [Ed. note: Romania entered World War II on 22nd June 1941, when the Romanian Army attacked the Soviet Union alongside Germany and its allies.], the army let my husband go, because the Telephone Company kept filing requests – they wanted him back because he was an expert and experts were needed. The colonel who was the head of the subunit was missing; a new petition was received from the Telephone Company, so the major who was in charge told my father: ‘Quickly, go to the clerk, arrange to get the papers, and tonight you’ll be out of here!’ Imagine my surprise when he showed up at our door. Everybody knew we were on the threshold of a war. When I saw him, I asked him: ‘What are you doing here? Are you a deserter?’ – ‘Yes, I’m a deserter’, he said, but he was laughing. And he told me how they had let him go. Only a few days later, the war began. His former subunit went to Russia and to the Don River; almost all of them died. If the beginning of the war had caught him there, I would have become an 18-year-old widow.

Then my husband was sent to work in Ploiesti. Lucica and I went with him. During the war, there wasn’t one single Jew aged 16-55 in Ploiesti; it was an oil region and, you see, Jews were considered Communists and spies… The house we lived in also sheltered six Jewish families and six non-Jewish ones. We got along well with everyone, except for one single family – those were real pests, but there was nothing to do about it. We had female neighbors whose husbands or sons had been sent to labor camps. Some were in Buzau, some in Focsani, in the Vrancea region, and some were further away, in Transnistria. They weren’t all in the same place, so there could be no communication between them. Some returned, some didn’t. Of those who returned, some died in just a few months… I had three neighbors whose husbands were away and one neighbor whose sons had been sent to forced labor, because her husband was over 55. They didn’t earn anything; they were in a pitiful situation. My husband would bring food and would fill bags with some of it, and he would tell me: ‘Go to their places and give them these things and this food. Don’t call them over here, don’t insult them, don’t put them in an embarrassing position! You go to them!’ And I’d go and deliver those packages. My husband helped a lot of people, there’s no arguing about that!

After the bombing started [Ed. note: The Prahova Valley was first bombed sporadically in the summer of 1941. The heavy bombing intended to destroy the refineries in the area only began in the spring of 1944.], I wasn’t admitted inside the Telephone Company at all! My husband was the secretary of the section. At that time, the secretary of the section was a sort of deputy manager! So he held quite a position. But I couldn’t enter the building, because I was a Jew and I was simply forbidden to! You see, the Telephone Company was the heart of the war [Ed. note: because it provided the means of communication that was essential to coordinate the operations], so how were they to let any Jew inside? One day, when the bombing began, my husband hurried home to pick me up – we were heading out of town. We got on a truck. On seeing me, a man who was already inside got off the truck, saying he wouldn’t ride in the same vehicle with a jidan. The driver had no idea about this. My husband was sitting next to him. I went to the driver and told him what had happened. ‘Well, there’s something you can do’, the man said. The following day they bombed us again and my husband came to pick me up again. The driver said: ‘Mrs. Sava, you’ll sit here, next to me!’ He was a skinny guy, the truck was big, so there was enough room for me to sir next to him, at the steering wheel.

A guy was sent from Bucharest once – Captain Capatana was his name. He threatened to send my husband to the front if he didn’t get rid of me. My husband said: ‘I won’t let go of my wife! She’s an innocent child, have you seen her? And I have a kid! I have a kid with her! Why does this bother you?’ – ‘A man with your employment cannot be involved with a jidan!’ My husband told him: ‘Do what you will, Sir.’ – ‘I’ll send you to the front!’ – ‘Then send me to the front! I can’t help it.’ His boss, the manager, supported him, because my husband was in charge with the entire section, which encompassed 5 counties!

They fired him three times because he was married to a Jewish woman, but he [the manager] kept getting him back! My daughter was considered Jewish too. All offspring from interethnic marriages was considered like that. So, if you were a Jew, all those close to you would have a hard time too, even if they weren’t Jewish. Or the simple fact that your grandfather had been a Jew was enough to get you in trouble. These were Hitler’s laws, which had been immediately adopted by our authorities! Evil is always contagious; good, however, isn’t!

An old woman came one day to beg. There were some Jewish beggars who used to come to the Jews who lived in our building. I had moved there recently. So she came and knocked on my door, asking for charity. I gave her something. I don’t remember how much I gave her – there was a war and times weren’t easy for anyone! She looked at the money, and then she gave me a strange look. I said: ‘Oh, I hope I didn’t give you too little!’ To which she replied, a bit frightened: ‘Actually, what you gave me is the total of what I get from all the others in this house!’ I took her inside and I started to ask her all sorts of questions. She was a short old lady. She didn’t have a pension, that’s why she begged. She told me she lived on her own and survived by soliciting. And I told her: ‘Look, Mammy, when you come back next week, on Thursday,’ – she came every Thursday – ‘bring a basket with you! And I’ll give you food, alongside the money!’ – ‘All right, girl.’ Half an hour after she was gone, another one showed up! She was also short, old, with worn out clothes. The story repeated itself – I gave her the money, she looked at me frightened, then I told her what I had told the other one. Then, every Thursday, they would come, and I would give them sugar, rice, pastas, oil, potatoes, and onions. They didn’t accept any meat, because they were devout! They had told me: ‘Girl, give me anything but meat!’ When fall came, I canned fruits and vegetables, and I saved some just for them! The winter was close, and these women lacked warm clothes. I was like a child, so I gathered all the 12 families who lived in our house and told them: ‘Look, you all know those two old women who come to beg.’ – ‘Yes,’ one of my neighbors said, ‘they praise you a lot when they come to us.’ – ‘Well, the winter is coming and we have to get them clothes and raise money for fire wood, otherwise they’ll freeze to death. They’ve got no one!’ All my neighbors listened to me. We raised the money for fire wood and we made them two thick sweaters. One neighbor gave them thick pants, shoes, clothes, caps – we really prepared them to face the winter! Bottom line: those women lived for 6 more years! For 6 years, they were taken care of by me, and, of course, by the others in our house; but I was the only one who gave them food! No one else gave them food! Food was a problem because there was a war. But I had a better situation, since my husband was employed; he toured the counties on business and brought back all sorts of things, which we’d share! This is how we were able to take care of these old women. I observed a biblical rule, didn’t I? Without being a bigot! That’s me! I don’t do things to get my picture in the company newsletter. I do things because I feel I have to do them. I do what I can, and I do it right!

During the Persecutions, I didn’t go to the temple too often, because I couldn’t take that chance. Besides, with people desperately trying to find a safe place for themselves, there was hardly any religious activity at all. I used to attend the high holidays when I lived in Ploiesti. But I don’t remember the name of the temple or the name of the street.

Our house in Ploiesti was located on the street where the prison was, Rudului St. One day, in 1942, I received a letter, a postcard, from home. My mother had written to me: ‘I’m letting you know that Uncle Aron, the husband of my cousin, Sofica, has arrived to that place near you. See if you can help him in anyway.’ That letter puzzled me, as I couldn’t understand what was going on. We didn’t have TV’s or radio sets, so we couldn’t have learnt about my uncle’s arrest. This is what happened. The Jews who fought in World War I were decorated. The Romanians received 1st class decorations, and the Jews got 2nd class decorations. All those Jews were somewhat protected by certain laws and they enjoyed a number of rights. After Antonescu came to power, those decorations were withdrawn. They claimed they had forged them. But I didn’t know all this, so I wondered: ‘What is the meaning of this letter?’ I asked my husband: ‘Tell me, can you figure out what my mother is saying here, because I can’t.’ My husband either had no idea, or knew, but didn’t want to upset me. However, I doubt that he knew anything. Two days later, I took my little girl by the hand, and went to buy my ration of bread. And I saw a group of about 40 people marching in line. Among them, I spotted this cousin of my mother’s, the husband of her cousin, together with other two acquaintances from Bacau. I immediately figured out what my mother meant [by that postcard]. I took my daughter back home and left her and my ration card with a neighbor: ‘Madam, if you don’t mind, take care of my girl until I come back, and, in case you haven’t bought your bread yet, buy my ration too when you go over there.’ She said: ‘I haven’t bought it yet, I’ll go now.’ I said: ‘You see, I have something to do…’ I didn’t even tell her what it was all about. I wanted to follow the line. But I had to get dressed, get my purse and all that. The baker’s was very close [so I wasn’t ready for a long trip]. While I was getting prepared, the line passed. When I got to the street, they were out of sight. So I got on a carriage and asked to be taken to the Court-Martial. I immediately realized what was going on, because I had learnt from various people that Jews were being arrested. I didn’t know about the veterans though, but I found out that day. The authorities would make up the worst stories just to destroy the Jews.

When I got there, they were already in the courtyard. I tried to get near them. The sentry stopped me and said: ‘Madam, you are not allowed to go near [the prisoners].’ – ‘Let me go, an uncle of mine is there.’ – ‘Do you want to get me court-martialed, Madam?! Leave me alone, Miss!’ I told him a few things, but he was very confused and scared, and didn’t understand what I was saying. (Later, after he was discharged, he told me: ‘You kept talking, and I didn’t even realize you were talking to me!’) Meanwhile, lawyers were walking to and fro before the Court-Martial, hoping to get a case. There were two sentries: a soldier and a prison guard. The latter didn’t seem to mind if I approached the prisoners. So I walked forward, and a lawyer stopped me: ‘What’s the matter, lady?’ – ‘You see, two of my relatives are here; I want to get in touch with them, to hire a lawyer, to know what is going on.’ He took me with him and told the sentries: ‘Hey, she’s my niece, don’t bully her, let her speak!’ Then I got even closer and told the lawyer: ‘You know, I got news from home and…’ In a few days, he wrote down everything I had to say, he got their names and everything. After a week or two, Counsel Cristian came from Bacau. He and my family had lived on the same street and I had grown up with his boys. He had become a rather important man. He took over the entire group of 48 people from our county to prove they were innocent. Meanwhile, I had made friends with two guards, so I could send them books, letters from home, food and things like that. Those guards who were helping me were grown-ups, not kids. They did something for me, I did something for them. I didn’t give them money. But whenever I packed a parcel for the prisoners, I would pack one for the guards too. I made sure no one saw me giving them the parcels. We met in certain places – in stores, somewhere near my house –, at a certain hour. I would show up, give them the parcel, and tell them who it was for.

The trial went on for three or four months – it wasn’t that long. Counsel Cristian would come every other week to attend the trial. He came to me and put a heap of money on my table… He left me money and I kept a list of all my expenses. I had to take the carriage all the time, because I lived very far from the Court-Martial, so I couldn’t walk. Besides, it was summer and it was hot. So I had to pay for the ride, and then I had to buy them food and everything. I got receipts and kept track of it all. He used to tell me: ‘My dear, keep something for your trouble; you can’t go through all this trouble for nothing.’ – ‘I won’t do that, because this money comes from misery.’ People would sell things from their homes to pay for the trial. And don’t go thinking there weren’t people who got double-crossed and lost their money. There were crooks in those days too! So-called lawyers who came and assured you ‘Leave it all to me, I’ll help you, I’ll…’, and then nothing happened. I didn’t take one penny! I had acquired quite a reputation! They knew me both at the military prison and at the civilians’ one. I helped a lot of people, and that almost got me arrested, because I once helped some escapees. I was accused of facilitating their escape, but they didn’t have enough evidence. They [my uncle’s group] got away. It was proven that they hadn’t lied and so they were sent back home. But they weren’t young people, they were old men, veterans, grown-ups! One day this uncle came to me – I called him uncle, because my mother was his wife’s cousin. I lent him money to get home, because he didn’t have any and had to pay for the train ticket. They got away, but this cost them a lot, because they had spent three or four months in prison, and times weren’t easy at all!

After the war

After the war, we tried to go back to a normal life as much as we could. But the former Legionaries were the first to become Communists! Let me give you an example. An aunt of mine in Bacau lived next to a family of Bessarabians named Berezinski. They were all alcoholics, youngsters and elderly alike! They had a boy, Toni, who was my age. He was a Legionary! However, to be honest, he didn’t pick on the Jews who lived next to him. My aunt lived there with her three daughters, and he spared them. Well, guess who became the secretary of the [Communist] Party County Committee after 23rd August [1944] 3! None other than Mister Berezisnki. I didn’t have any idea about this. A number of years passed and, in 1956, my husband was sent [on business] to Bacau; he was the head of the minister’s inspection service and he had to be there because all the management had to be changed – the manager, the chief engineer and the head of personnel. So the minister told my husband: ‘Go over there, Sava, and stick around for three or four months till you get the things on the right track. There’s some fishy stuff going on there!’ My husband went to Bacau, but he didn’t stay for three months: he stayed for three years and three months! I had to keep going from Bacau to Bucharest, because our daughter was going to school here [in Bucharest]. After six months or so, I noticed my husband exchanged greetings with Toni Berezinski! I was shocked! I said to him: ‘Where did you meet this guy?’ – ‘What kind of question is this? The man’s the secretary of the Party County Committee!’ – ‘This guy is actually the secretary?!’ – ‘Yes, he is. Why do you ask?’ – ‘But he was a Legionary!’ – ‘So what if he was? Now he’s the secretary of the County Committee!’ He wouldn’t tell me more. That same year, the Party got rid of him. But, for a good number of years, he had been the secretary of the Party County Committee! He pulled all sorts of scams, and he secured the future of his entire family! No comment…

All those who had done us wrong before 23rd August [1944] – this is when the Persecutions ended – suddenly changed anew. The man who had wanted to kill my father would embrace my mother, and kiss her and say ‘Greetings, Madam’! My mother didn’t say anything. We didn’t talk back, because we couldn’t. Guess who told me ‘Greetings, Mrs. Sava!’ after 23rd August! Jaca, the one who hadn’t wanted to ride in the same truck with me when Ploiesti was being bombed because I was a Jew! So I asked my husband, who kept his leadership position after the war: ‘Why do you still keep this guy?’ That’s the only question I asked him after the war. He said: ‘The hell with him, he’ll purge himself! He’ll leave on his own initiative, because I’m not the only one who has a problem with him – there’s also the manager, and many others. He behaved like an ass with everyone, not only with you.’ My husband was right! In no more than six months, the man applied for a transfer to Sibiu.

We lived in Ploiesti until 1947, when we moved to Constanta. My husband went there first, and then I had to go myself, to take a look at the place they were providing for us. I traveled from Ploiesti to Bucharest and, there, I got on a train heading for Constanta. It was composed of many cars; some of them had civilians, other had Russians. I picked a car that seemed less crowded by the looks of the door and found myself surrounded by Russians! As you can imagine, they wanted to jump me! But I was lucky the conductor showed up! So I told him: ‘Sir, save me from these guys, because they want to force me inside [the compartment].’ They were standing in the corridor and I immediately realized they were Russians. I wanted to get off, but I couldn’t, because they blocked my way out, saying: ‘Hey, stay with us, why would you go?’ What’s more, they didn’t speak Romanian. The conductor escorted me, opened the door between the cars and got me out of there. The Russians vividly protested. They came after me, to drag me back! Fortunately, the conductor went ‘Save her!’, and the other passengers came to my rescue. The Russians terrorized us for many years [after World War II]! After all, they were the ones claiming we were under [their] occupation. I once asked ‘What do you mean, «under occupation»?’ I was talking to some of them who could speak a little Romanian, and they said: ‘Not now, not tomorrow, not 10, not 30 years, you, under occupation!’ They meant that they will eventually occupy us, even if that was to happen more than 30 years later! That was their theory. [Ed. note: In the aftermath of World War II, the Soviet Union imposed puppet-regimes in the Eastern-European countries. In the very first years after the war, it was not yet certain what would happen to these countries in the long run – whether they would remain satellite states or they would be directly annexed by the Soviet Union. The case of Romania was even more ambiguous, since a part of its territory had already been annexed by the Soviet Union during the war: Bessarabia and Northern Bukovina, a territory that is divided today between the Republic of Moldova and Ukraine.]

Apart from that, I didn’t have a hard time [in the early years of the Communist regime]. In 1947, right after a Communist Party branch was founded here, a man came to visit me. He wanted to determine me to join the party. They kept coming for a few months, but I refused. I told them: ‘I can’t, I have a child, and I’m also quite ill.’ – ‘Don’t say that, Comrade, come join us, we need young people!’ And all that. For a few months, I was active in UFDR [Uniunea Femeilor Democrate din Romania – Romanian Democratic Women’s Union]. But only for a few months, because there were many low-quality women there and I wasn’t used to that. I just can’t be mean, and I won’t stand foul play! So I gave up pretty soon. My husband got appointed Party member in a snap, because he was married to a Jew, and Russians trusted us. Being a Jew meant something to them! Besides, my husband was also a fair and competent man! You couldn’t pick on him for any reason. They needed such people, so his manager nominated him for membership at once, and they made him a Party member. However, this was quite a burden because of the things that were going on! There was no difference between the Nazi method and the Communist method! And many people died… [Ed. note: In Romania, the first two postwar decades were marked by a brutal repression against opponents to Communism and against the old intellectual and social elites who were decimated in prisons through physical violence and starvation. Another effective means of repression was the deportation to forced labor colonies; the most famous of which was the construction site of the Danube-Black Sea Canal, where inappropriate living and working condition led to countless deaths by exhaustion and work-related accidents.] And think of the books and the libraries that were destroyed! They real were treasures! [Ed. note: Concurrently, efforts were made to erase and reinvent the history and the individual and collective identity, with censorship playing a major part in this process. Censorship had a dual nature: a preventive one, forbidding the publication of undesirable books, and a destructive one, seeking to eliminate both from public and private libraries books that had already been published.] Some of these books were written by Romanians, I mean, by some of ours.

I wasn’t affected directly. I wasn’t into politics. For me, politics meant my home, my family, my daughter. My husband minded his own job. Of course, there came that situation, when one had to queue to get this or that. [Ed. note: In the late 1970’s, the shortage of consumer goods began. People had to wait in lines in order to buy them, because the supply was always inferior to the demand. The situation deteriorated dramatically in the final years of the Communism regime.] But I was used to waiting in line. I had done it during the war, so, from this point of view, I didn’t feel the difference. I didn’t discuss with anyone how I felt about the situation in the country. It’s true, my husband used to listen to Free Europe 12. He would turn the radio on at 6 p.m. and listen. He wasn’t too afraid, because he had retired, in 1970, after 42 years of employment.

People knew about what happened in 1956 13 in Hungary. No one agreed! What a bloodshed that was! We knew about the Prague Spring 14, in 1968. We were delighted at what Ceausescu did. [Ed. note: Nicolae Ceausescu refused to take part in the invasion of Czechoslovakia alongside the troops of the other members of the Warsaw Pact, which boosted his image both internally and internationally.] Everyone supported him.

My daughter went to school after the war ended. She didn’t go to the kindergarten, because there weren’t any at that time. She started in Ploiesti, and then she attended an Israelite school for 2 years. When we left Ploiesti, in 1947, we discovered that the school in Constanta was very far away of our new place. So I wondered: ‘What will I do? How are we supposed to move?’ My mother said: ‘Send the child to me, in Bacau. She’ll stay with me for a while and that will solve your problem.’ And she signed her up for the Israelite school. I don’t know why they sent her there; they hadn’t sent me to the Israelite school [when I was her age], although the school existed. But that was good for her, because she learnt some good things. Even today, she understands Yiddish, but she can’t speak it. She was a very good student; it took her 3 weeks to acquire what the other children had learnt in one year and a half! The headmistress was also her teacher, and she loved Lucica very much. Whenever there was an inspection, she always had Luci answer first! She studied there in the second half of the 2nd year and in the 3rd year. And then she came to Constanta.In the 4th year of elementary school, she became a pioneer. She was in one of the very first pioneer detachments that were founded in Romania!

There was a ceremony, God, how could I forget it? I was so nervous! She was a good kid and she studied well, and my husband was a respected citizen, so they called me to her school and told me: ‘You know, Madam, your little girl will soon be a pioneer. There are some rules that come with this…’ They meant discipline and things like that. I had to make her a uniform – navy-blue skirt, white blouse; they supplied the scarves… The secretary of the Party County Committee was present. The ceremony took place in the schoolyard. The parents of the pioneers-to-be were there, alongside the parents of all the others. Only four or five pupils in a grade would get to be pioneers! And only starting with 4th year! Much later, the rule was changed: pupils would become pioneers in the 2nd year. Speeches were held. The principal, who was also my daughter’s teacher, talked about the children, explaining that screenings had revealed that their parents were good, honest people, that their families were united and so on and so forth. You see, they had screened as if they wanted to make them Party members! The Party secretary spoke too, and then someone from the Youth Organization said a few words. Finally, those red scarves were brought in on a cushion and they were given to the pioneers. ‘Make sure you don’t lose it’, they told her. I can’t remember if the anthem was played. It probably was, but I don’t know anymore, it’s more than 50 years from then.

Lucica finished high school, attended the 1st year of the Faculty of History, and then she got married. My husband wouldn’t even hear about it, there was no talking with him on this! For a long time, he couldn’t stand our son-in-law because he had made our daughter quit school. She was such a good student that she had been selected to go study in Russia! But what could he do? He had to accept it eventually, but he was so mad in the beginning! So my daughter quit everything and got married. But she lived a good life with her husband – he was a very good husband, a loyal and competent man with a strong character. He graduated from the Military Academy cum laude and worked in very good positions. He became a general at 39! He was very cultivated, and he had finished two faculties! And he was honest, too honest – this is what got him killed! So was honest, but, under the Communist regime, being honest and straightforward wasn’t the good thing to do. Although he was an educated man, the Communists had also promoted uneducated people. Such people envied him, because, wherever he went, things got done well. He was esteemed for two reasons: he was educated and he was honest. I kept telling him: ‘Dorule, stop picking on them, let them be…’ – ‘They can’t touch me, Mother. They can’t touch me, because I’m an honest man and nothing can be held against me. It’s them the dirty ones! They’ve got their hands dirty!’ So this is how it happened. His colleagues [set him up an accident]…

When he got married, Lucica’s husband was an officer. At 22, he was appointed chief engineer in Kogalniceanu. While living there, Lucica went to a school for nurses. She was a nurse for a few years, and then she got transferred to a data center. She has a daughter, Roxana, born in 1960. Roxana in turn has two children: Matei and Diana. They now live in Germany, in Koln. Diana was born there. My daughter married a non-Jewish man and didn’t observe the tradition in her family anymore. However, my granddaughter, Roxana, knows these things, because it was me who raised her! My daughter brought her to me from the maternity. She put her in my arms and the girl was with me all the time [until she grew up]. So the young ones know things about the Jewish tradition. Last fall, Diana told Roxana: ‘Granny’s holidays are coming, Mom. We should greet her!’ And they greeted me, of course! They visited me last year, on Pesach, and I cooked them traditional food. And she told her mother: ‘This is so good! Mom, tell Granny to make some more, so that it would last us on our way back!’

I lived in Constanta from 1947 till 1949, when we moved to Bucharest. I still live in Bucharest today. Our first place was a house with a garden, in which we lived for 12 years. I took care of that garden and made it the most beautiful in the entire neighborhood! We lived on Precupeti St., and the house was rented. We moved because we didn’t have gas, and the place was very chilly. Because of that, I was ill during all those 12 years that we spent there! I had problems with my loins and I lied in bed for 6 months. We moved to this place. I have lived here since 1961 to the present day. It’s a very solid apartment house. There were no problems at the 1977 earthquake or at the last one [in the winter of 2004].

After I left home, I kept in touch with my parents all the time. We wrote letters to one another and we visited one another. My father died in 1952, at the age of 65. I felt so much pain when he passed away! It was in December. Ironically, two days before he died, I had got a letter from him: ‘Please come to Bacau to spend a few days with us. Then I want you to take me to Bucharest with you, to spend the holidays at your place. It’s more cheerful with you. Down here, we’re getting old, you know!’ I prepared myself to go to Bacau. The letter had arrived on Thursday. On Saturday, I told my husband: ‘I want to go home and bring my father here.’ He said: ‘All right, you will leave on Monday, because that’s also my payday.’ And I had an afternoon train. ‘You’ll wait for me to come home, and then you’ll go. And you bring Father here.’ That Saturday morning, at 10, the phone rang and I learnt my father was dead. My God, I was speechless! Half of the town attended the funeral! My father’s death came out of the blue. He was walking in the street yesterday, and today, at 10 a.m., he just died! He had a heart condition and had his fifth heart attack. I told my mother: ‘Mother, only the prefect of Bacau had so many people at his funeral!’ People regretted him! Both my parents and my grandparents were very good people! My father had a Jewish funeral.

After my father died, in 1952, my mother remarried, in 1956. Her second husband’s name was Iancu Cozin. He was also a Jew. He had been born in Moinesti, and then he moved to Bacau. He was much older than my mother and he was a widower, just like her. He had his own family – two married daughters. One of them was named Toni, the other – I forgot. They weren’t quite my mother’s age, but a mere 10-15 years younger. They’re dead now. My mother’s second husband loved me – he called me ‘my daughter’! When I would visit them, in Moinesti, he would go ‘Come on, let me walk you around the town a little!’ He would take me see everybody: ‘I have visitors, my daughter’s here, my daughter’s here!’ He would tell everybody I was his daughter. I don’t know anything about his education. He had owned oil fields, but the Communists had nationalized 15 them. So he had opened a shoe store or something like that. He and my mother lived together for 7 years, before his death in 1963. My mother then left for Israel with my brother. They were the last in my family who left, in 1978.

In 1949, when the State of Israel was created, I was in Constanta. I had no idea about it! I had heard something, but, basically, we hardly knew anything. It all became clear to me when they started leaving, in 1949, 1950, 1951 16, but I wasn’t too enthusiastic about it. We weren’t so keen to leave, you know, because it wasn’t so easy! You know how people are – they’re like sheep! If one goes, all the others follow. The first one of my relatives who went was a brother of my mother’s, in 1950. In few years, they were all gone. My mother and brother were the last to leave, in 1978. I stayed. My husband had the job that he had, he was in an important position, and, had he applied, they would have rejected his application and sacked him. For my daughter, it would have been even more complicated! Her husband was an officer working for the Internal Affairs Ministry. There was no way they could leave! After my relatives went to Israel, I began to find out what was going on there. You can imagine it wasn’t pleasant. Our phone was probably tapped, but I didn’t have anything to hide, so it didn’t really bother me; as for me, they might as well keep it under surveillance for as long as they liked. In 1983 I went to visit my relatives there. In 1986 my mother died in Israel, in Ashdod, at the age of 91. I didn’t attend the funeral because I couldn’t. It was during the regime of Ceausescu 17 and people were forbidden to go, weren’t they?

I didn’t get a job after the war either. My husband was always against it; he used to say: ‘The woman must stay at home and mind her own business.’ When times got harder, I figured a small pension [when I’d get old] wouldn’t hurt, so I got hired. I only worked for a short time, in the 1960’s and 1970’s. I was employed by an auto repair company, in a workshop that made various fittings and was subordinated to the Ministry of Transportation and Telecommunications. Then I worked in a Lottery agency for a few years, on I. C. Bratianu Blvd. I retired in 1969 or 1970, because I got very sick. I had two major operations only a few months apart and I just couldn’t go on.

I had many friends. I kept in touch with this one, Mandi, whom I grew up with. She’s the one who stood up for us when they kicked us out of our house. But she didn’t live in Bucharest, she lived in Gaesti. She used to come to visit me! I was also friends with the wives of my husband’s coworkers.

In our spare time we would go to the theater or the cinema. We would go to any theater that had something on! We didn’t have a favorite one, because all theaters featured the same topics; they were all the same! However, there were very good plays and film. I read, of course. The communists had a very good method: while necessities lacked, books were abundant! My husband brought books at home all the time. As for dining out, we did it constantly, once or twice a month. We would go eat a grilled stake. My husband would say: ‘Why don’t we go have a stake, two or three mici and a beer?’

We used to go on vacation to the seaside [by the Black Sea] or to the mountains. They wouldn’t let us go abroad. My husband held an important position, my son-in-law was with the military, so we didn’t even bother to ask for permission! My son-in-law did travel a lot, but only on his own [in work-related trips]; his wife wasn’t allowed to join him. We once went to Bulgaria – I don’t remember the exact year, I think it was in the late 1960’s. It was a trip or something. A cousin of mine phoned me and suggested we’d go for one day to Bulgaria, to Ruse and to Golden Sands [Ed. note:  Zlatni Pyassatsi National Park]. I told my husband about it, and he said: ‘Sure, if you want to go, let’s go.’ It wasn’t cheap, and it wasn’t worth it, but we did go. The authorities knew their arithmetic back then! They paid you a salary that was enough for you to eat, dress, and indulge yourself once in a while.

My husband died in 1984 and he was buried here, at the Izvorul Nou Cemetery. My son-in-law died that same year. Actually, my son-in-law died before my husband. I moved to his retirement pension, because it was higher than mine with 400 lei. 20 years ago – I’ve been a retiree for 20 years now – an extra 400 lei every month meant a lot. So I moved to his pension.

I didn’t encounter anti-Semitic manifestations after the war. Maybe, deep down inside, some still held the grudge. There were others who didn’t know I was Jewish and spoke in negative terms about the Jews, but that’s something else. I, for one, was never insulted on a personal level. Sure, there were some who told jokes about the Jews, or who tried to defame them: ‘A-ha! They brought the Communists then left for Israel!’ This isn’t true though. Jews were actually given a hard time by the Communists, who took everything away from them! It was only after the Communists came that the Jews went bankrupt, because of the nationalization.

Because I had a mixed marriage, I observed both religions. I would go to the temple on Saturday and on holidays. My husband took me there and picked me up. My granddaughter would visit me at the time of the high holidays and things like that. My daughter and my granddaughter had a mixed education and they are familiar with the both types of holidays. We never made any difference between being [Christian] Orthodox and Jewish. I am a believer, but I’m not a bigot – I couldn’t say that I am. I’m someone who has observed the religious rules.

When the Revolution 18 came, I felt neither happy, nor sad! I knew what was going on. All my neighbors were drunk-happy, but I told them: ‘Don’t be too happy! Wait for five or six months, and you’ll see!’ Six months later, a neighbor of mine, a Hungarian lady who moved to Targu Mures, came to me and told me: ‘You were so right!’

I wanted to go again [to Israel], I applied for this [1989], but they didn’t approve my request. It was only after the Revolution that I got my okay. I went to them and inquired: ‘Sir, I applied for going to Israel. Is my application still valid, or do I have to write another?’ – ‘Write a petition mentioning your name.’ Two or three days later, I was informed my application had been approved six weeks ago! Because of the new regime and all! I went there [and wanted to emigrate], but they all told me: ‘Why come here? Get real! You’ll have a better life in Romania now!’ My daughter told me: ‘Mother, you go, and we’ll file the necessary papers, and we’ll all go!’ A guy said the air was better in Romania. Others said it wasn’t a good idea to move to Israel and things like that. Someone said: ‘I don’t know… You should first send your kids here, to see what it’s all about. You don’t want them to blame you for making them come here, do you?’ Imagine that! He wanted to send them there. But this was right after the Revolution, and who could afford such a trip? My nephew was the only one who said: ‘Tanti, come over here, and you’ll see: it will be good for all of you here!’ My daughter-in-law: ‘Don’t listen to him, he’s just a kid and doesn’t know what he’s talking about!’ He was 22 at the time, and he was a student. He made some plans for me, and I should have gone with those plans! But I didn’t. I listened to the others and stayed. Otherwise, we’d all be there now! I would go there right now. But what can an 83-year-old like me do there?

The change in 1989 affected my financial situation. If it weren’t for the help of the Federation, that is, the Joint 19, I would die of starvation! I’m also lucky because I was persecuted politically, so the provisions of Law no. 118 apply to me! Otherwise, I’d have a really hard time. After my husband died, I lived as a widow under the Communist regime for 6 years. But I managed to survive with my pension: I had everything I needed and I could also save 50-100 lei every month. So, at the end of every year, I would have an extra reserve of 500-600 lei. I can’t do this now! It’s been a long time since I went to a spa. I’ll tell you straight: the management stinks! There’s confusion and there’s chaos! Now you’re allowed to travel abroad, but… who has the money? You can no longer afford to go to a restaurant! This is what restaurants are for, right? They’re for people to go to them! A neighbor of mine moved from here. He came back one day to collect his pension and told me: ‘Let me tell you about my latest blunder. I went for a walk and I suddenly felt like eating a stake and two mici. So I got into a restaurant and I had two mici, a stake and a beer.’ – ‘And how much did you pay?’ – ‘Almost four hundred thousand!’ Who can go to the theater now, when a ticket costs 150,000 lei? Why, that’s my food for an entire week! I only go to the theater when my daughter takes me – she sometimes gets free tickets from someone. Otherwise, I couldn’t afford it…. What about the cinema? Do you think I can go there? Take ‘Orient Express’, which is supposed to be very good. At 80,000 a ticket, do you think I can afford to go see it? I’m a retiree! And it’s not just the food that costs money: there’s the electricity, the phone, the other utilities! Every time I collect my pension, that’s the first thing on my mind! All I have to do is talk a little more on the phone, and that’s it! Since my phone subscription is free of charge, the bill will rise instantly! So I got to the stage where I can’t even make a phone call!m also lucky because i ! jkl nt ation, that is, the JOing Revolution, and who could afford such a trip? ixed education and they

I remember my husband and I used to visit some cousins of mine, and we stayed at their place till 2 a.m.! Well, on our way back, we’d come across patrolmen with police dogs on the street, at 2 a.m. Now I don’t have the guts to walk on a more secluded street in the middle of the day. Because they told us on TV: ‘Stay away from secluded streets, do not walk near fences, do not wear earrings, bracelets, rings…’ Then why did I buy the earrings and the bracelet? I can’t believe what’s going on now, with all these gangs attacking you and robbing you! My nephew who lives in Bucharest got his apartment broken into 10 years ago. He lives in Doamna Ghica [one of the large neighborhoods of Bucharest]. His wife’s a teacher and her school was opposite the apartment house. She went out at 12 and returned at 3 p.m., because she had only had two classes that day. Well, meanwhile, they had broken into their place! In 10 years, they never called him to the police station to have him identify an item: ‘Does this belong to you, Sir?’ Not even once. They don’t care. When he called the police, they asked him: ‘Whom do you suspect?’ – ‘What do you mean? I don’t suspect anyone!’

Our democracy cannot be compared to the German, French, English or American democracy. We’re far from the management that takes place in other democracies! There’s democracy in Israel too. Over there, people are free to do whatever they want too, but the situation looks totally different from ours. People can live a decent life and the elderly have everything they need. Down here, we have old people who are simply dying of starvation! So this democracy didn’t do anything for the old and the needy! No way! We thought things would turn out differently. I thought measures would be taken so that everybody may live well! But look at all these beggars that we have – they’re so many! And the homeless children! How is this possible? For me, it’s all the same. I’m the outskirts of my life, on the final run. What I have now will last me for what’s left of my life. But I think of all this youth that’s coming from behind! What can life offer them?...

I still keep in touch with the synagogue. I’m actually the most loyal temple-goer – no one comes to the temple as often as I do, at all the ceremonies! The Sabbath begins like this: the candles must be lit on Friday evening. I have a calendar and I light the candles according to that calendar – to make sure I don’t do it too late or too early. The following day, I prepare my food and, of course, I light the candles again. In the morning I go to the temple. But, like I told you, I’m not a bigot. I do it because it’s the natural thing to do. If you’re not religious, you’re not human! I also go to this Circle of ours. We read newspaper articles, jokes, recipes, we knit, and we sometimes go places together: parks, and, once a year, the cemetery. We go visit our graves, at the Giurgiului Cemetery. When the Week of Charity came, I made a commitment. There’s this lady that I go to; I buy her things and I stay with her. I also asked my boss to find me an old man who’s sick and can’t move – who can’t come out of his home. I would go to his place and cook him a warm meal. Well, when I could, because I’m 83 years old myself. Then there’s the president’s wife, who has an assistance service of her own. For instance, she has the Braille service for the visually challenged. Once a week, she has a circle that we attend too. But it’s not actually held every week.

I’m very sensitive to weather. When it’s like this, I’m finished. Then look at my place. I had to wash laundry and dry it, cook, dust and sweep. I’m not a lazy person and I couldn’t live in a pigsty. But I’m not a child anymore, I’m sick, I’ve got a heart condition, angina pectoris, gastritis and colitis. Only God knows what I eat, how much I eat, and if I eat! I don’t have friends anymore. Everyone’s dead, all of my friends. They all loved me. My neighbors respect me. I am very much esteemed in this apartment house. I have been living here for 44 years.

There is an anti-Semitic trend [in today’s Romanian society]. There is indeed. It’s apparent! There are people who can’t control themselves, primitive people. But you have to take them as they are, there’s no other way! Anti-Semitism is very strong. You can sense it. This is how it was, how it is, and how it will always be! Anti-Semitism will never disappear! There are so few Jews left in Romania – pure Jews; they hardly amount to 4,000! Yet everyone’s fighting against the Jews! You can see it everywhere you go. Okay, I’m a Jew, so I may sound biased. But some friends of mine and of my daughter’s, pure [Christian] Orthodox Romanians, told me: ‘Romania is an anti-Semitic country. We think all evil is done by the Jews.’ Europe isn’t doing any better. I examined the situation, and I may have a better judgment, because I’m older. And I’m telling you that the situation is very serious, because Europe is now marked by anti-Semitism just the way it was before Hitler came to power: everyone had something against the Jews, but they couldn’t say much because the authorities didn’t allow it. It’s the same [now]: things are being kept smoldered. But what can we do? May God help us! God takes care of everyone! If He takes care of the Jews, that’s fine with me; if He doesn’t, that’s fine with me too.

Glossary:

Emilia Leibel
Cracow
Poland
Interviewer: Jolanta Jaworska
Date of interview: October 2005

Mrs. Misia [Emilia] Leibel is 95 and lives alone in a two-room apartment not far from the center of Cracow.

She is sick, and has been housebound for 8 years. She has 2 private carers, who are with her in shifts around the clock.

Mrs. Leibel is almost blind. When we come to selecting the photographs to go with her story, I first have to tell her what is on each one.

She has spent her whole life among children, and now they, though scattered all over the world, take care of her, visit her, and write her letters.

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

• My family background

My great-grandfather on my father’s side I remember, because I was about 3 or 4 at his funeral in Lagiewniki [a district in the south of Cracow]. Great-Grandfather was called Jekutiel Grossbart. His son was Ozjasz, that was my father’s father. My father’s name was Bencyjon, ‘Son of Cyjon.’ And I was his daughter. We all lived together in Great-Grandfather’s house, which was opposite the railroad station [Borek Falecki; a district of Cracow in the southern part of Podgorze, an area originally a separate town to the south of Cracow] in Lagiewniki. 

No, I didn’t go to Great-Grandfather’s funeral. I just remember the coffin being brought out. It was there, in that house in Lagiewniki, that my great-grandfather died. I can see it in my mind’s eye, and I remember it, because it was the first funeral in my life. Back then you went on foot to the cemetery, in Podgorze, I think it is. I know that Great-Grandfather’s family came from Lacko [approx. 150 km from Cracow, near the town of Nowy Sacz, known to Jews as Zants].

There was this big article in the Dziennik Polski [the Polish Daily, a popular daily newspaper in the south-eastern Polish provinces of Malopolska and Podkarpacie] about this great-grandfather of mine, Grossbard, who was the first to produce that slivovitz [Ed. note: one Samuel Grossbard began production of slivovitz, a strong plum brandy, at the turn of the 19th and 20th centuries; Mrs. Leibel’s maiden name was written ‘Grossbart’, not ‘Grossbard’, hence this is likely a coincidental similarity of names]. I don’t know when or why they moved away from Lacko, but I remember my great-grandfather in Lagiewniki, though he was probably born in Lacko. My great-grandmother, his wife, I don’t remember at all.

My grandmother on my father’s side was called Sara. I don’t remember her maiden name. And I don’t remember where she came from, either. She had heart trouble, she was always going to this place called Wiesbaden [a spa town in Germany known for its hot springs], to spa towns. She had heart trouble, but she outlived her husband by a few years. She wasn’t too slim. She wasn’t fat, either. Nicely rounded, you might say. She was handsome, and kept herself looking nice.

No, she wasn’t a housewife – oh no, they did very well for themselves. There was a Jewish cook, and Leoska, the maid, and Grandma sat in her armchair. I think she must have been very selfish – that’s how I see it today. Well, as a child, what could I think? – Grandma was Grandma. I used to sit with Grandma, I would always do up her buttons on her dress so she didn’t have to bend down. She had sweets in a drawer. I was the daughter of her beloved son, her only son, so she was free with her sweets.

Grandfather Grossbart was a very handsome Jew. He wore a gray beard, short peyot and a hat. I thought he was very nice. Not strict, though once I did get a hiding. I was into everything, you see. And there were some people [laborers] doing something in the fields – Grandfather had a farm – and I asked this one man to sit me up on the hay wagon. And I fell off. I went running home crying, and it was then I got a hiding: ‘What do you think you were doing there? That’s not girl’s work! That’s no place for a girl!’

Grandfather was well liked, his grandchildren would come – everybody would come – ‘to Grandma’s,’ we used to say, but it was more Grandfather who spent time with you than Grandma, because Grandma was… well, evidently she really did have heart trouble.

The whole family traded in leather, skins: they bought up raw hides. Great-Grandfather, Grandfather, even my father was in the business. They were cattle hides. Used to make shoes. I remember how my father used to go places and bring back cattle hides, or somebody would bring them to him. We had a big farmyard in Lagiewniki and I remember there was this brick drying house, coal- and wood-fuelled. When the hides came in – still fresh, or part dried, they would hang there on the poles to finish drying out. Father and Grandfather, they would hang them out themselves.

All I remember is the dry skins being taken down and taken to railroad wagons somewhere. They would be sold to a tannery somewhere. I couldn’t tell you – maybe there was somebody who came in to help with drying the hides. But I don’t think so – I don’t remember any other men.

My grandfather was a farmer as well, really. He had a vast estate – a working farm. Lots of fields. All the fields right down to the Wilga river, to Zaborze [formerly a hamlet on the outskirts of the village of Lagiewniki, now a residential suburb of Cracow] – all that was his property. In the summer, for the harvest, haymaking and potato digging, he would hire people. I remember how Aunt Ela [Mrs. Leibel’s father’s sister] used to carry a sieve with these hunks of bread in it, and coffee in a jug, out to the people in the fields.

I don’t know whether my great-grandfather built that house in Lagiewniki or bought it. What I do know is I was born there, but I was 5 years old when we moved away from there. But maybe he did build it, because that house was wisely designed, and the outbuildings were in a square. The house fronted onto the street – like so. A very decent house, stone.

When you went in off the street, first there was this porch – we didn’t call it a hallway, we didn’t call it a hall. Straight in front of you was a shop. Not an inn, so much, but an off-license, you couldn’t drink in the shop. It sold beer and wine, that I remember – I remember these barrels and kegs standing there, probably for a wedding somewhere or something. Maybe they sold vodka there too. I think some man worked there. Perhaps an assistant hired by Grandfather. Next to the entrance to the shop was a pantry where there was a big cupboard.

From the porch, off to the right you went into a huge dining room. The dining room window looked out onto the street. Right beyond that was Grandfather’s room, there he had his cashbox, his desk – today we’d call it an office. It was a nice room, furnished – masculine; Grandfather slept there. Then there was the parlor. That was a beautiful, very big room, several windows onto both sides – the front and the yard. And in that room, in the parlor, Grandma slept, she had her own door out into the yard.

From the parlor there was a passage to my parents’ room, and then there was another, smaller room, Aunt Ela’s. I lived [slept] in with Aunt Ela, and my brother Jehuda with my parents. And there was also this glassed-in verandah, that was where we played when my cousins came. The Wieners, for instance, from Cracow. The verandah gave out onto the yard. Yes, we played there in the winter, and if the weather was bad in the summer, we didn’t play outside, but on the verandah.

In front of the house, from the street side, was a large summerhouse. Yes. And parallel to the house was a stable. We called it a stable, but there weren’t any horses there, just a trap, because my father’s sisters used to ride to town, to Podgorze to school. Next to that was the drying house where the hides were dried. And at right angles was this outhouse. Further on was the wash house, and in it a bath and everything needed for the washing. A barrel stood underneath the guttering to collect rainwater for the washing. The washerwoman came once a week. There was a cellar too, where there was an ice-house – part of the cellars were clad in ice. In the winter ice would be brought from the Wilga so they could keep it cool in the summer. The Jews eat kosher meat, and so when they killed a calf they had to have ice to keep the meat fresh.

As Grandfather was a wealthy man he had a brick booth [sukkah]. It was incorporated into the building of the house. It had a hinged roof that they could raise and lay branches on top. And only Father and Grandfather ate their dinner there at the holidays. Yes. Just the men.

The farmyard was square shaped. There was a garden there, and in the center a very pleasant little summerhouse with a swing that Grandfather had made for his grandchildren. My father was his only son, so his children were the apple of his eye, of course. In the garden there were flowers and fruit trees. There were peaches growing up against the wall of the house, a south-facing one. No-one was allowed to touch, only Grandfather himself picked them. He would gather them into this sieve, and then I remember that my mother pricked them, I don’t know what for – so that the juice would come out or what – and made jam with them. There were sour cherries and apples in the garden, there were blackcurrants that my brother and I picked – that was allowed, but not the peaches.

In my grandparents’ family boys didn’t thrive, somehow. The sons died as children, and when my father was born, Grandfather, to assure him a future – at least that was what he believed –  took my father to some tzaddik, I don’t know which one, some miracle-worker. He blessed him and gave him another name: Dziadek [Pol.: Grandfather]. So that he would live to see his own grandchildren, so that he could be a grandfather. My mother called her husband Grandfather. The children, my cousins – my father’s sisters had children – they called him ‘Uncle Grandfather.’

Father had 5 sisters. Their marriages were arranged – I don’t know that for certain, but I suspect so, that was the method then. The eldest was Taube. Taube in Yiddish means ‘dove.’ Yes, and her name by her husband, who was from I think Debica [approx. 120 km east of Cracow], was Gewuertz. They had a shop in Borek Falecki that she ran. And I think he was something to do with the ‘Royal’ or the ‘Cracovia’ cafe. All day he used to sit there. I don’t know, perhaps he was a co-proprietor? Those cafes were next to each other, opposite Wawel [the royal castle in Cracow, built in the 11th c.]. They had a daughter, Balka, and a son Mojzesz, or Moniek. That Moniek, when he was about 6, found my father his wife!

Marysia, who was known as Mancia, had a husband called Rajch. I don’t know who he was. Some merchant, too. They lived on Krakusa Street in Podgorze. They had 3 little girls: the eldest Pepa [Paulina], Mala [Amalia] and Mila [Emilia]. Mila, the youngest, emigrated to Palestine for personal reasons long before the war [1939]. And she painted, drew and took photographs. We were both called Emilia after the same grandmother [Ed. Note: Mrs. Leibel must have been called Emilia after a great-grandmother, because her grandmothers were called Sara and Jenta]. The Rajchs had a lawyer son too, Mendel.

Then there was Helena, who married a Wiener. What was his name, Uncle Wiener? Izydor, or... Izaak. I don’t know what he did... He didn’t have a shop, but I know he traveled to Vienna a lot. Maybe he was a sales rep... They lived on Augustianska Street [in Kazimierz, the Jewish district of Cracow]. Both their sons were lawyers – that Maurycy Wiener was a well-known lawyer in Cracow after the war, and his brother emigrated to Palestine. I was friends with Maurycy from being a child.

The next sister was Estera, Auntie Escia, we used to say. Her husband was an only child, son of these rich Jews from Limanowa [approx. 70 km south-east of Cracow]. Goldzwinger, he was. And then they had a shop on the A-B line [a local name for one side of the Main Square in Cracow], and they lived on Grodzka. What kind of a shop they had I don’t remember now. They had a daughter Fela, and then two boys.

The youngest was Aunt Ela, who was unmarried and lived with us in Lagiewniki. Opposite the house in Lagiewniki was a convent [the Congregation of the Sisters of Our Lady of Mercy], but at that time [during World War I; 1914-1918], there was a hospital in that convent run by the nuns. As the festival of Pesach was drawing near in 1915, and Grandfather was a devout Jew, and wealthy, he invited the invalid Austrian Jewish soldiers from the convent to spend the holidays with him.

Dinner was served outside, in the summerhouse. There’s even a photograph of that dinner, but because they couldn’t take the photograph in the summerhouse, because it was too dark, they took the table outside – even the tablecloths weren’t laid straight, in a hurry, while it was still light. Yes. Behind the table, on the wooden wall of the summerhouse, hung a portrait of the Austrian emperor, Franz Joseph 1. Well, it was Austria, and Grandfather was a loyal subject. The Jews prospered under Austria. In the center sat my grandfather, this gray-bearded Jew, and all around him soldiers. My grandmother, mother, and father were there too, and my brother in his sailor’s cap. My Mama was in a white apron, because she’d been helping to serve dinner. Afterwards she was most outraged that they hadn’t told her to take her apron off for the photograph. My 2 cousins Mala and Pepa, were there too, and Aunt Ela. I remember that one of the soldiers taught me to dance, and that they were very grateful for being made so welcome. And the soldier whose knee I sat on to pose for the photograph – well, he fell in love with my Aunt Ela, and she would have married him, Aunt Ela. Those wounded soldiers were a long time in that hospital, you see. A few weeks at least. But then he recovered and left as her fiance, and was killed in Bukovina, because it was war. I remember so much because those were really big emotions.

My parents met in a romantic way. My mother came from Debica, and my father went to Debica from Cracow because he’d been found a match, some girl called Fryda. But in Debica was my father’s nephew Moniek, who was brought up by his grandparents. He was maybe a 6-year-old child at the time, with his nose into everything and ears like pitchers. And that nephew said to him: ‘Why do you want to go and marry that Fryda! That Fryda’s got a beau!’ He told him which boy she used to go down to the river with. ‘You’d be better marrying Dasia, she’s so pretty.’ My mother was called Dasia Leibel, in her papers she had Ernestyna, but she was Ester, Hadasa, in Hebrew. And Father, when he saw my mother, fell in love with her on the spot, because Mama was a beautiful woman.

It was supposed to be an arranged marriage, but nothing came of it. And how I know about this at all I don’t remember, but my mother never told me. I don’t know when my parents were born, but the age difference between them wasn’t very big, my father was maybe 2 years older. After their wedding my parents moved into Lagiewniki.

And later on my parents were the closest of friends with that Fryda and her husband, the one she used to go down to the river with. Rakower, he was called, that husband of hers. They were very friendly with us and came round a lot. Their two sons went to gymnasium with me.

My Mama didn’t have an education. That was typical for a marriageable girl in Debica. But she did embroider beautifully, crochet and knit all sorts of things, exquisite things. Not to mention that she could cook and bake – all in all a true housewife.

My father didn’t go to school, but Grandfather, with him the only one [ed. note: the only son], laid out on him so he could get an education. Father used to go to Vienna and take examinations there. But he didn’t do a high-school final exam, because back then they had some other examinations. I remember that as a grown-up girl I saw Father’s certificates from Vienna around the house: in German, math, correspondence – I remember that, there was such a subject. Yes, they were some kind of commercial subjects. So Father was an educated man, he spoke German well, and wrote it, too. He knew Hebrew. I don’t know, can’t say what political views my father had. I know he wasn’t a member of any party. Definitely not.

Father was a very handsome Jew, he was similar to his father. He always wore this little beard. He was graying, went gray very young. Graying was a family trait altogether, I think, because Father’s sisters were gray-haired too. He was very tall and slim. He only put on more weight shortly before I got married. He developed heart trouble and the doctors forbade him to smoke cigarettes. Before that he’d smoked a lot. By then my grandfather was no longer alive, and Grandma used to say: ‘What a shame he didn’t live to see this, because he was always worrying that his son was so thin.’

My parents were a very loving couple, so much so that we children saw it. When Mother was ill or something it showed especially. Father was a very good man, very kind, to the extent that I remember one time, after my brother’s death it was, this conversation I overheard. The thing was that Father would sign bills of exchange for anyone who asked him. And then he’d have to pay the bills, because people didn’t pay. And I remember how Mother used to reproach him, that he had a grown-up daughter and they had to watch their money. Not give it away to people, because they had none too much of it themselves.

• Growing up

I was born on 30th July 1911 in Cracow, in Grandfather’s house in Lagiewniki. It is our custom, the Jewish custom, to name girls after their grandmothers, and there were two of us Emilias. The other one was Mila, because she was older, and I was Milusia [two diminutive forms, the latter used for younger children]. And later on, at school, ‘Milusia’ became ‘Misia.’ My brother’s name was Jehuda. He was two years older than me. I was born in 1911, so he was born in 1909. Apparently he was born dead – I only know this from being told – and the midwife threw him up in the air or something – suffice it to say that he was lame after that. That one leg didn’t develop properly.

Father worked, Grandfather worked, Mother looked after her little boy, and I spent most of my time with Grandma and Aunt Ela, because I wasn’t at school yet. Mother spent more time looking after him than me – obviously, the only son. I was healthy, I ran around, charged around, and played. I was into everything. I was a very lively child.

Polish was spoken in Grandfather’s house. They knew Yiddish, Grandfather even Hebrew, but for every day Polish was spoken. Only when Jews came, merchants, did I on occasion hear them speaking Yiddish. I knew it from listening rather than from learning. I understood it, but it wasn’t as though anyone ever taught me Yiddish. My grandparents spoke German, of course, because this was Galicia 2.

In my grandparents’ kitchen everything was kosher. There were separate dishes for meat and dairy. The cook was Jewish. We kept hens, chicks and turkeys. A butcher would come, a carver, we used to say, and he would cut the throat, and only then would we cook it. We didn’t have cows, but as far as I remember Grandfather used to buy meat somewhere, I mean he bought a live animal, and the butcher killed it at our house.

There was a maid, too, Leoska, because water was carried in pails. The well was by the street, a municipal well. Leoska was lame, but she carried the water, cleaned, scrubbed the floors, did things like that. Well, it was a big farm.

All the festivals were celebrated at my grandparents’. Oh, very, very much. Their daughters would come with the grandchildren for some of the festivals. Families lived close to each other then, we met up a lot. For Shabbas, the big table in the dining room was laid: white tablecloths, silver candlesticks, candleholders. There were 6 candlesticks, I think. 4 certainly, and maybe 6. And the candles were lit. We ate off a special service. It was laid more fully, more festively, you could say.

My grandparents used to go to the synagogue to Podgorze on foot [approx. 3-4 km], because you weren’t allowed to use transportation on Saturday. On foot to the synagogue and on foot to funerals, because the Jewish cemetery was even further. The synagogue was Rabbi Skawinski’s, at Celna Street.

My parents went to that synagogue too, but later Mama was thrown out of it, because she didn’t wear a wig. Those were personal things, all I know is that she stopped going to pray there, and that there was talk of it being because she didn’t wear a wig. And anyway, she only went to the synagogue at the festivals, but not on Saturdays. Father went on Friday evening and Saturday.

We didn’t go to Lagiewniki by rail, though there were trains, but by horse. There were hackney cabs. Jewish cab drivers, they stood on Podgorze market square, just in front of the church. Arrangements were always made with the cab drivers in advance, and a cab would come to our house in Lagiewniki. I don’t remember his name, but there was this one driver who would always come on the day arranged and take Aunt Ela if she wanted to buy herself a hat or go on an errand in Cracow.

There were no other Jews in Lagiewniki. Not far from our house, on the other side of the road, was a brickworks – those were Poles living there. I don’t know what that couple were called, but I used to play with their children. There was a girl and a boy. On our side of the road, across the Wilga, was Liban’s factory [Bernard Liban, well-known entrepreneur, owner of factories including the Portland Cement Factory opened in 1888]. He had a daughter, Dola Liban, who was a friend of Aunt Ela’s. She, I know, was Jewish.

Across the river there was also a big shop and a big tenement house – that was in Borek Falecki – and there were some Jews living there too. We used to swim in the Wilga. My Mama used to swim there. There weren’t any swimming costumes, just these shirts. And somewhere nearby there was a bridge, because that was the way you went to Borek Falecki.

Grandfather on Mama’s side was called Leibel, like me – I married a distant relative of the same name, you see. My grandparents came from Debica, and my husband from Wadowice [approx. 50 km south-west of Cracow]. I know that Grandmother was called Jenta, Grandfather... I don’t know that he wasn’t Chaim. He might have been, though I can’t vouch for it. What did that grandfather do? Probably had a shop or something... aha, I know, I remember: Mother always said that it wasn’t an inn but a tavern. When I first went to Debica I think my grandparents were long dead. There was just Aunt Ida, Mother’s eldest sister. I went there maybe twice. I don’t remember much – after all, I was a small child at the time.

My mother had a large family, 4 sisters and 3 brothers. One was Mojzesz. I think he had some inn, or something like that, in Tarnow [approx. 70 km east of Cracow]. Another was Dawid, he was a teacher in a Hebrew gymnasium in Tarnow. The third, Mendel, was a town councilor in Glogow near Rzeszow [approx. 160 km east of Cracow]. Those were the brothers.

The sisters, well, there was Aunt Ida. Yes, the eldest. She was the one who stayed in Debica. Then there was Aunt Mania from Trzebinia [approx. 40 km west of Cracow]. There was also the aunt in Jaslo [approx. 180 km east of Cracow]. Aunt Dora. And there was Aunt Sabina in Podgorze. My mother was the youngest but one.

Aunt Ida was widowed and left alone with 6 daughters. I hardly remember her husband. After his death her sisters wanted to help her, so one of her daughters, Gusta, who went to university in Cracow, lived with us in Podgorze. They all were appealing and found husbands.

The eldest, Syna, Synonia, married a Polish Jew but who lived in Berlin. Then Gusta married a relative of that brother-in-law and went to live in Berlin too. Anka worked in the Jewish hospital in Cracow [8 Skawinska Street, now part of the University Hospital]. Stefa worked in a well-known shop on Florianska [a shopping street in downtown Cracow], ‘Tyrkel.’ Silk, that kind of materials they sold there. Klara went to live with friends in Belgium or Holland and got married there.

And Fela came to Cracow as a companion to an elderly lady, Mrs. Natelowa. That was a well-known Cracow family, wealthy. Her daughter was a doctor, unmarried. They had a house on Orzeszkowej Street. Fela had very good conditions there – she used to drive with Natelowa by cab to take walks on the Planty [a strip of park ringing Cracow’s Old Town, established in 1822] – she did well for herself. After that, a friend of hers got married and went to Czechoslovakia [ed. note: Bohemia at that time, before 1918] –

I don’t know whether she didn’t go to Prague, or somewhere else – and she made her a match with a friend of her husband’s. So Fela went too. I even met her husband-to-be, because she came to Debica with him, to her mother’s. I went to visit them, with my husband by that time, and give them my wishes. Later, she perished, of course, like so many Jews in Czechoslovakia [Bohemia].

Aunt Mania married a guy Lieblich from Trzebinia. They had 2 sons and a daughter Zosia. I remember that the eldest was Jozek – he perished. The younger one was called Stefan, I met him after the war. And Aunt Dora married Goldstein of Jaslo. They were wealthy people. I don’t know, he must have been some big merchant, because their son studied medicine in Prague. One of the daughters did a university degree too. So they must have been earning. They were wealthy, so the daughters came to Cracow for their gowns. The youngest of Mother’s sisters was Sabina. Written ‘Sabina,’ but we used to call her Auntie Bila. She lived in Podgorze. Her married name was Wolf. Janek, their first son, left the country. He went to a Hebrew gymnasium and when the anti-Semitic excesses began, he packed up, said he was off to Israel, Palestine then. And he went, and after a couple of years had his sister Ewa go out there, so after the war I already had 2 relatives there.

I remember that I was 5 when we left Lagiewniki, because my brother and I were to start school in Cracow. We moved with our parents to a two-story house in Podgorze, at 19 Krakusa Street. Podgorze was altogether different from Kazimierz [the neighboring Jewish district] 3, because Kazimierz was typically Jewish, but Podgorze wasn’t. Podgorze was kind of... mixed.

We had a rented room with a kitchen and we all slept in that one room. The WC was in the yard. It was a very modest little apartment. I remember that there were some Jews living on the second floor, and next to us there was an actor who worked in the theater on Rajska. He was called Lason. And we played with Stefek and Irena, Lason’s children. Yes. Poles, Catholics. It was thanks to him that I went to the theater for the first time, he took us to see Cinderella. I met up with that Irena Lason again after the war.

In Podgorze there was a park [the W. Bednarski Memorial Park, partly on the site of a former quarry]. I used to go there with the maid, because Mother spent more time looking after my brother. That maid was with us for years. I don’t remember what she was called. She slept in the kitchen. I remember that Mama did the shopping herself, I would go with her sometimes, when I was bigger. No, I didn’t help Mama in the house – I went to school. Only when my aunt came up from Jaslo with her daughters for clothes, they went shopping and I saw to the kitchen. I was a young lady by then.

When we lived in Podgorze, Mother and Father went to Zuckier’s synagogue [at 5 Wegierska Street, the synagogue of the Bet Ha-Midrasz Chasidim Association of Prayer and Support; now restored, it functions as a contemporary art gallery]. I remember it was on a street corner, but I don’t remember which street. Nobody taught me religious matters. I didn’t go to the synagogue, although... maybe Mama did once take me to ‘the trumpets’ [Rosh Hashanah], but other than that I didn’t go. Oh no! Young girls didn’t go to the synagogue.

I was 6, perhaps not quite, and Father was in the Austrian army. In 1917 I was in first grade, and I remember going with my brother and Mama to the railroad station in Grzegorzki [a district of Cracow] to say goodbye to Father, because he was going to the front. I remember him in uniform and in his cap.

And I remember that he was sent to Olomunc [a Czech town in northern Moravia]. Yes. Then, after some time, he came back, he had varicose veins and couldn’t take the marches. So then he was in the army but in a commissariat in Cracow, in Zablocie [a district of Podgorze], I remember perfectly. He came home often, sometimes slept at home. Did he talk about the war? No. At least not to me – after all, I was a child. He came back home after the war ended. I just remember that when the war ended, they announced at school that we wouldn’t be learning German from 3rd grade. Yes, because before that they learnt it from 3rd grade, but I didn’t start learning it until 5th grade.

After we moved out, my grandparents and Aunt Ela stayed in Lagiewniki. I remember that I still used to go there on vacation. Aunt Ela lost her fiance in the war, but a few years later she did get married. That gentleman was called Laufer. They moved to Warsaw. He was some entrepreneur, a wealthy man. No, they didn’t have children. And the year the war broke out, in 1939, he contracted the flu and died.

After Aunt Ela’s wedding my grandparents sold the house and the farm and they were going to buy a house in Cracow. Their last daughter had gotten married and they were elderly, didn’t want to stay in Lagiewniki on their own. But that was that moment – the end of the war – and there was such a huge devaluation that Grandfather, for the money that he sold such a huge property for, could barely afford to rent a room with a kitchen [Ed. note: the house likely was not sold until 1922 or 1923, during the worst inflation of the interwar years; this is also suggested by the sequence of events in Mrs. Leibel’s family]. So after that the children helped them out. I don’t know exactly how it was. First, for a short time, they were with us, of course. With their son. Then they lived at 10 Jasna Street, on the corner with Sebastiana [Ed. note: this intersection does not exist; probably Mrs. Leibel means the corner of Sebastiana and Ciemna, in Kazimierz (‘Jasna’ means ‘light’ in Polish and ‘Ciemna’ dark, hence the confusion)].

On Jasna [Ciemna] they had a first-floor mezzanine room with a kitchen. There was a maid, because after all the stove had to be lit, water brought. But there was no Jewish cook, because there were just the two of them. I can’t imagine Grandmother stood at the stove. No. She didn’t do any work in the kitchen or the house. We used to go there, to Jasna [Ciemna], to visit Grandmother. That was compulsory. I know that Saturday afternoons, her daughters and grandchildren gathered there. I went too. I was already dating a boy, but before that I went to Grandmother’s, and only afterwards on my date. In her room we all sat around and talked. Nothing else.

When my grandparents sold Lagiewniki and moved to Cracow, Grandfather was constantly saying that Cracow stank, and 2 years later, he died. He never could get his breath. And yet before that he’d been a lively, healthy man. He woke up in the night, said that he couldn’t breathe, and died. I think he was 63. He was buried in Podgorze, in the Jewish cemetery. I think I was in gymnasium when Grandmother died. She survived Grandfather by maybe 2 or 3 years. She was perhaps 64 when she died. And that house of theirs in Lagiewniki remained standing long after the war. I used to see it as I went past that way. Even  recently I could still remember the name of the guy that bought that house. He was an Austrian, he’d come in from somewhere and set up a factory there.

I went to a Polish elementary school in Podgorze, it wasn’t called an elementary school but the Queen Kinga Common School, on Jozefinska Street. I went to a public school, but my brother Jehuda went to a Protestant school, because there were small classes there – 15 people. That was a private school, whereas in a state school Father was always worried that someone might knock him over – he was an invalid. He was a cripple. Yes, Jews were taken in that school, there was no problem. That school was on Grodzka Street [founded 1826; closed down in November 1939]; to this day there is still a Protestant congregation there.

I remember 3 teachers from elementary school. Mrs. Tarnowska was our class teacher. Mrs. Jarosz taught math – in the first years of school I was very good at mathematics. Miss Swierzowna probably taught Polish, or history. Polish was my favorite subject. I liked history too, but Polish most of all. I read a lot altogether. Devoured books. Because there weren’t enough Jewish girls, all the Jewish girls in Podgorze had religious instruction together. I don’t remember which school in Podgorze it was in, but not ours. Our teacher was called Jonas. To me back then, he seemed like an elderly man, but he certainly wasn’t old. I worked just hard enough in religious instruction to get by.

My best friend was Renia Seelerfreund. She only joined us in 2nd grade, because they’d moved from somewhere, I don’t know where. And they came to live in Podgorze, opposite us, on Krakusa Street. And Renia went to the same school and the same class as me. Mrs. Tarnowska put us together and somehow we just got along. She was a steady type, while I was a wild thing. I sat with Renia from 2nd grade right up to my high school finals.

There were lots of Jewish girls in my class. There were 3 rows of double desks. One row were all Jewish girls. I sat in the middle row, at the back desk, because I was tall. The teachers always said that the Jewish girls only sat separately because we didn’t go to school on Saturdays. A strange kind of explanation? Well, not really, it was a very decent explanation, that it wasn’t about segregation, but just because, so that there weren’t empty places on Saturday, so that one row wasn’t used. It was clear who’s at school today and who isn’t.

Because we didn’t go to school on Saturdays, of course, though school was open. So I had this friend in Podgorze – her surname was Harnikowna – and I would go round to her house on Sunday mornings to find out what the homework was, so I could be prepared at school on Monday. And all the girls who hadn’t been at school on Saturday had to be prepared for Monday. There was no anti-Semitism at elementary school – I hardly even knew the word. On the part of the teachers decency, on the part of my classmates – absolutely none at all. We got along very well.

Renia and her elder brother used to go to gymnastics to the ZTG, the Jewish Gymnastics Society [founded 1917; president: Dr. Ludwik Goldwasser], and I started to go with them. The three of us walked there from Krakusa Street, well, there wasn’t the traffic on the roads. Before you got to Jozefinska there was the old bridge [a wooden one, known as Podgorze bridge; in 1933 the construction of the steel J. Pilsudski Memorial Bridge was completed], and just after the bridge, in the kehile [Jewish community buildings, at 2 Skawinska Street; the seat of the community headquarters to this day] was gymnastics. The gymnastics rooms were in the basement of the kehile building. You went about twice a week or something. I went to those gymnastics classes for a long time. In fact, on the whole my brother was healthy... but he had the one leg shorter and so he couldn’t do gymnastics like me. But he was talented and drew beautifully. Our drawing teacher at gymnasium favored him specially, because he was so gifted.

I think I was in 5th grade, I was 11, when my parents took the apartment at 6 Czarneckiego Street [near Krakusa Street]. It was a whole floor that had been added onto an old two-story tenement house. That was a larger apartment, 3 rooms. So I had a room with my brother, there was a bedroom, a dining room, a bathroom and a WC – something else altogether. A modern apartment. It didn’t have gas. The water was heated in a boiler in the bathroom. The maid lived in the kitchen, yes. In some apartments there was this kind of recess for the maid’s bed, but not in that one. It was a warm house, an open house. Friends would come by, and cousins. They would drop by, because my parents were hospitable and liked young people, and they themselves were liked.

Because my brother and I sat for a private Hebrew gymnasium in Cracow, 2 years beforehand we started learning Hebrew. Although he was older than me, we were to go at the same time, because the thing was, my brother, as a cripple, was always given special protection. And my father wanted us to go together because we had to go by tram. The Hebrew lessons were private – a teacher came to our house and taught my brother and me to read Hebrew. He was called Bencyjon Katz, and he was later a lecturer at the Jagiellonian University (and an older friend of mine, Klara Goldsztof, married him). Did I like those lessons? I don’t know... I worked at them. I was a good student. A few years ago I heard that Katz was a lecturer in Israel somewhere, at some university in Jerusalem.

At gymnasium it turned out that we didn’t know anything, because we’d been taught Hebrew like Latin is taught. We had an excellent knowledge of the grammar, and spelling, but we couldn’t speak a word. At the entrance exam the teacher is talking to me and I don’t know the first thing that he’s saying. I could write, I could read, though I didn’t really understand, and I got to school and it turned out that you had to be able to speak Hebrew fluently, like Polish. But because there was a very big influx of children like that, who couldn’t speak it, there was an ‘A’ and a ‘B’ class, if you like. Jehuda and I were in the same class.

I don’t remember what we were called, but we were in the class that couldn’t speak. The two classes had all the lessons together, and then we stayed behind for a 7th lesson, of Hebrew. To catch up, to be able to speak, because history of the Jews was taught in Hebrew, and we couldn’t say anything, not a word. It was a co-educational gymnasium, and was at 5 Brzozowa Street [Ed. note: that was the address of the Jewish elementary school; the Chaim Hilfstein Gymnasium was in the same building, but the entrance was at 8/10 Podbrzezie Street]. That school exists to this day, but not as a gymnasium, it’s some technical high school [Vocational Schools Complex].

I remember we had a wonderful Polish teacher. He was called Juliusz Felzhorn, he had a doctorate [Ed. note: Dr. Julius Feldhorn]. A very well-educated, marvelous man. He was murdered by the Germans. In 6th grade at gymnasium the math teacher didn’t like me and I got a ‘2’ [equivalent to a ‘D’ grade in the Polish school system]. I think it was simply because he didn’t like me, because when he taught physics in 8th grade, I had a ‘2’ in physics. He was the headmaster. But it wasn’t so bad that I had to repeat the year.

We were in 5th grade at gymnasium, and I remember, it was appendicitis, Jehuda had an operation, and after that operation he died. In those days an operation on your appendix was a serious illness. My father had a complete breakdown. Before that he’d had some tannery, I don’t remember that, I just know from having heard, that it was in Plaszow. I never went there, I just knew that he had it with some partner.

When my brother died, Father lost his head, and that partner swindled him. And after that we had nothing, because Father lost everything. My father had been so jovial, so smiling, but after my brother’s death all the life went out of him. For a long time. Always, really. And Mama said that she had several years of mourning all together. Because first her father-in-law died, then her son, and Grandmother Sara survived my brother by maybe a year.

My father had no head for business, so hard times fell on our house. When I was at the private gymnasium I had a reduction, because there’d been 2 of us, with my brother. And although I went to classes by myself after that, the reduction remained. But to pay for my school, I gave lessons. For the money I earned, I paid for part of my gymnasium. I couldn’t cover the whole cost, because school was expensive – 35 zloty, I think. A month. But I could always contribute something, buy myself a notebook or a textbook [a school textbook might cost around 6-8 zloty]. Later, I had to have help for my Hebrew finals, so I paid for my own lessons.

I was maybe 15 then, and I had this one little girl, whose parents had moved there from Czechoslovakia or somewhere, who was due to go to school the next year, and she couldn’t speak Polish. And I taught her to speak Polish. In the afternoons, after school, I used to go there, perhaps not everyday, I can’t remember. All I remember is that on Fridays I was always given tea with milk and fresh cake. On Friday afternoons, because they baked it for Saturday. They were Jews. I even remembered what they were called until not long ago… it was a well-known, wealthy Jewish family. They lived on the corner of Dietla and Augustianska Streets. They were all killed during the war.

There were 2 sets of high school finals. I was the class of 1928-1929. First, sometime in February, was the Hebrew examination. In the exam we had history of the Jews and Hebrew literature, that was in Hebrew – the whole exam. And our normal finals, the state finals, were in May, I think. There were exams in 4 subjects. Polish definitely, history definitely, Latin definitely, and mathematics. I took my exams the first day.

Because our gymnasium didn’t have full state accreditation, I remember that the chairman of the examining panel was from the board of education. That caused absolute terror, because it was a kind of extra level of scrutiny. And the same day as me, one of the top students, Sara Bester, was sitting too – ‘B,’ at the beginning of the alphabet. She only had to sit one subject, because she was exempt from the rest.

And that chairman decided he wanted to examine a student who was exempt from all the subjects. She was suddenly called in and, being taken by surprise, must have given very poor answers. And she didn’t pass her finals. She took it terribly. And she died that same vacation. They said afterwards that it was because of that experience. She was an excellent student, maybe not so very intelligent, but incredibly hardworking.

Before the war my cousin emigrated to Palestine. Mila had a beau in Cracow, a medical student, and medicine was hard to get into. His surname was Lezer, but I don’t remember his first name. He came from Rozwadow [approx. 22 km north of Cracow] and lived in a student dorm. And when his mother found out that he was dating a girl who didn’t have a dowry, she came down and started threatening to withdraw him from medical school. And at that my cousin packed her things on the spot and went to Palestine. There she married a boy from Cracow, called Tisch – which means ‘table’ in German. But in Israel [Ed. note: Palestine] he changed his name to Tischbi. And she was called Mila Tischbi.

Lezer stayed in Cracow, graduated, and he and Mila only met up again after the war [in Palestine]. He was deported to Russia – I don’t know that he didn’t go into Anders’ Army there 4, because after all a lot of people went into the Polish army. It was those Jews who made it to Palestine later. It’s possible that he did too, I don’t remember. And then later he and Mila were the closest of friends.

When my brother died I had the room to myself for some time, and then my mother’s niece, Gusta, passed her high school finals in Debica and came to Cracow to go to the Jagiellonian University 5. There were 3 rooms in the apartment on Czarneckiego and she moved in with me in my room. She was older than me, maybe 3 years. She was a beautiful girl, blond. We liked each other a lot, and were like best friends. At that time the system was that if you studied, say, history, as she did, then your minor was German.

To practice her German, in the summer vacation she went to stay with her elder sister Syna, the one who’d married a Polish Jew living in Berlin. And there some relative of Syna’s husband fell in love with her and married her, so she didn’t finish her studies, only went back to Berlin. Her married name was Ulman. And she had maybe a 2-year-old boy when the Polish Jews were kicked out of Germany 6. They walked. Gusta’s husband arrived without any shoes, on foot. He turned up in Cracow, and first off Anka, Gusta’s sister, took care of him. She was a nurse in the Jewish hospital. She bought him some shoes and he went on to Debica, because I think he came from there too. But she was such a beautiful blonde that the Germans took a fancy to her, and so she managed to wangle her furniture and apartment back. She brought the child and the furniture back to Poland, to Debica, where her mother was. And then the Germans murdered them all.

After my finals I tried to earn a living, because we had no money. First I spent 6 months doing a commercial course on Florianska Street, because it looked as though I was going to have to go out to work instead of to university. I only went to university a year later. I don’t even know that I took an exam… I don’t think there was an exam, just your school-leaving certificate.

I went for Polish, out of curiosity, out of interest, because I liked Mr. Felzhorn [Feldhorn], who’d taught us Polish at gymnasium. I have pleasant memories of my time at university, though I didn’t really take too much interest in my studies. We had Greek in the first year. Just the first year. And because you had to have a minor, and I’d learnt German at gymnasium, I enrolled for German. I already had the basics.

I only came into contact with anti-Semitism acutely at the university. There were these riots, Jewish pogroms – this one Jewish guy was even killed in Cracow, that was in 1932. They even closed the University down. That happened in the spring sometime, because it was a bit warmer. This funeral, terrible. I went – all of Cracow went, not just the Jewish youth. 2,000 people, apparently.

All the socialist youth, communist – you didn’t say ‘communist’ out loud at that stage. I don’t remember his name. What he studied? I don’t remember, law probably, because the Jews mostly did law – Jews weren’t accepted onto medicine. I didn’t complete the third year, because just before the end was when all that trouble erupted, and in the end I got married in 1933, in March, I think. In March, because it was just before Easter.

• My marriage

Julek Leibel was friendly with my father. They had common business interests. He was his ‘gesheft freund.’ ‘Geschaeft’ [Yid.: gesheft] means ‘business’ in German. And he used to come to our apartment, to see Father. He was a lot older than me, born in 1896, and I was in love with him, I gazed at him like a dog at the moon. All I used to do was serve tea or something, as you do for guests. It didn’t occur to me that he took any interest in me at all. I was a modest girl. What was I? A young girl without a penny, without a dowry, and he was rich, had a car. What that meant back then!

Julek was an independent leather exporter, and my father was a modest Jew, bought the hides himself and then dispatched them. And I was completely surprised and amazed when one day my mother called me into the dining room, where my distant uncle was sitting, the father of my future husband, and Mother said that he’d come to ask whether I would marry Julek. And I was speechless. I said that of course I would. He liked me, and that was it. He even bought me a trousseau. He didn’t buy it, he gave Father money, so that nobody would know, and Mother got me some linens together, what I had to have, so that I’d have a trousseau.

After he proposed to me, Julek was back and forth from Kalwaria Zebrzydowska [approx. 25 km from Cracow], where he lived with his parents, to me in Cracow all the time. It was winter. Along the Kalwaria-Cracow road there were woods nearly all the way, and attacks on travelers happened all the time.

My mother-in-law was afraid that something would happen to him and refused to let him go to Cracow. She demanded a quick wedding: ‘It’s not like you met each other yesterday, you can get married, let her come to you here and that’s the end of it.’ My mother-in-law was called Anna, and my father-in-law Markus.

The wedding was 3 months after the marriage proposal. Actually, it wasn’t a big wedding, just a quiet ceremony in my parents’ apartment. The rabbi came, married us, and that was it. No reception, because there was no money. There were just a few people: my Aunt Ela, the one who’d really brought me up, came down from Warsaw, and the 2 cousins of mine that were in Cracow.

After my wedding my parents didn’t need 3 rooms. They moved to Rekawka Street, because Father had heart trouble, and that was nearer Podgorski Park – the air seemed to be better there and he found it easier to breathe.

Before we moved to Kalwaria we went to Italy – that was a beautiful honeymoon. We traveled on trains, just the 2 of us. First we went to Vienna, because my husband had an uncle there. From Vienna we went to Venice, then to Rome, as everyone does, to Naples and to Capri. Karol, my husband’s brother, traveled a lot, because he was a confirmed bachelor, and he drew us up an itinerary, where we had to go, what we had to see, and we followed his lead.

We were going to go to Yugoslavia as well, but it was 1934 [Ed. note: Mrs. Leibel got married in 1933] and Hitler had started operating in Germany 7 – he’d woken up, so we came back to Poland. The expulsion of the Jews and all those troubles had started... And then I went to Kalwaria… and as soon as I arrived, I broke my leg. There were these twisted stairs there, and I was running down the stairs fast...

Julek was the youngest of his family. He had 2 brothers and a sister. Karol was the eldest and was a doctor. The second, Heniek, was a lawyer in Bielsko. He was married and had a child. Their sister was called Giza, and the brother-in-law was Jozef Krygier, he was an engineer and came from Jaroslaw [approx. 200 km east of Cracow]. They had a daughter, Irena. Our daughter, Halinka, was born on 14 June 1934.

There were a lot of Jews in Kalwaria. There was a synagogue there, but we didn’t go. My parents-in-law went, my father-in-law. We rented an apartment straight away, and at my behest the apartment was altered. There were 2 large rooms and a huge kitchen, but no WC and no bathroom. Only at my request was the kitchen divided, and a hall, bathroom and WC made. That engineer, the brother-in-law, designed how it would be. That apartment was in a good spot, on the town square near the church, in a farmer’s house. I don’t remember what his name was.

Julek’s grandparents and my in-laws lived in a house across the square, at right angles. My in-laws came from Kalwaria, but they’d later moved to Wadowice [approx. 40 km from Cracow]. My husband was born in Wadowice and had even been at high school back in Wadowice – the same high school that the Pope 8 went to. I don’t know why they moved back to Kalwaria. I got on very well with my mother-in-law, and my father-in-law was very fond of me. He was no longer working, but they were all still taken up with the leather business. Wouldn’t I have preferred to stay in Cracow? If he had business there, I went there to be with him. I’d have gone to hell to be with him, not just to Kalwaria. I was madly in love. What my husband’s firm was called? It wasn’t called anything – there was just a wagon full of goods, off it went, and that was it. Abroad. I don’t know exactly where those wagons went.

When I got married, our maid from Czarnieckiego Street went with me to Kalwaria, but she lasted it a few months and then left. Said she was bored. There were 3 or so people from the village working for my husband, so the daughter of one of them came – and shortly afterwards got married. And after that I had local maids – they were very easy to hire. The working conditions were good at our house: there were 2 rooms, one child, good pay, board, the washerwoman came to take the linen – the maid wasn’t overworked. She used to go with me and Halinka for walks – a little further up the hill there was a place where you could go for walks, because further on, to the [Bernadine] monastery, you couldn’t go, because Jews were not allowed in. So we had to turn back before the monastery. On the whole we cooked kosher food, which wasn’t to say that we didn’t buy ham, but we had kosher crockery so that my father could eat with us when he came to visit.

My husband had a Tatra, a Czech car, he’d had it since 1926 or 1928, I think. He only bought a Mercedes right before the war, in 1939. First he taught me to drive himself, and then later, when there was this automobile course in Kalwaria, he invited 2 examiners round, and told them I wanted to take the exam, that I hadn’t been on a course, but he’d taught me everything himself. There were 2 examiners, my husband sat in on it as well, and I drove the car. There wasn’t any traffic as such in Kalwaria, but this beggar, this invalid, an old man, happened to be crossing the road, and I swore, something vulgar, like: ‘Darn, goddammit! He had to go and get in my way!’ And the examiner found that very funny: ‘Well, now you’re a real driver!’ No, my husband wasn’t afraid to give me the car… My husband would have given me anything. He was a wonderful man, a very good son, husband and father. His mother worshipped him. And my parents, no question – obviously.

In the winter we would go skiing in Zakopane. My husband skied better than me, because I only learned to ski with him. Before my wedding I hadn’t been able to afford skis. Skis and boots cost money. I had my own gear, but bought by my husband. I used to go skiing with Zosia Tygner too – they had this big hide store in Cracow on Grodzka Street. We were kind of friendly through my friend Renia Seelerfreund, because Zosia was her aunt.

• During the war

One day, in August 1939, my sister-in-law’s husband Jozek, who was a reserve officer in the Polish Army, said that Giza and her daughter and their parents were to leave Kalwaria at once and go to Cracow, because Kalwaria was a small town and who knew what might happen there. And unexpectedly I went with them from Kalwaria to Cracow – I really was going only for a day to visit my parents, but they, on my brother-in-law’s instruction, were to take the train from Cracow to Jaroslaw, to Jozek’s parents’, because even if war did break out, the Germans wouldn’t get that far. So we went to my parents’ house on Rekawka Street.

Well, when my parents heard that, they insisted that I go with Giza. Father literally wouldn’t let me get out of the car. He wouldn’t even let me change – he packed me off in what I was wearing. That was the Monday, and war broke out on the Friday. I didn’t want to leave Cracow.

With the child, the nurse, and my little case, which I have to this day, and in that one dress, Father put me in the carriage and sent me off to Jaroslaw with Giza. My husband didn’t know about any of this. He thought I was on a shopping trip in Cracow, and that day he was at work as normal.

I only managed to take my trunk with my furs and some silver, which had been at my parents’. My parents stayed. My father was as patriotic as anything! He said he wouldn’t leave Cracow, wouldn’t shift. The train was incredibly packed, because it had come from Silesia, where people were fleeing en masse. We all had cases. At the station in Jaroslaw it turned out that my things, which had been sent on, had disappeared. It had all gone, and I was left with what I was standing up in.

We went to Giza’s parents’-in-law – well, Halinka and I to a hotel, and Giza and her parents to their in-laws. Then in the morning it transpired that I had nothing to pay for the hotel with, because after all that they’d forgotten to give me any money. I’d gone from Kalwaria to Cracow thinking I was going for a half-day shopping – I usually had 100 or 150 zloty with me. And here I was in a strange town, alone, with my child and the nurse, and I had 9 zloty. And I dashed off to my mother-in-law in tears – mother-in-law didn’t have any money either, but I remember that she said sharply to Giza, who didn’t really want to lend me any money: ‘Do you know what a scene there’d be if Julek saw Misia crying?’ Giza reached into the till and gave me some money, and I paid the hotel bill.

And soon my husband arrived in Jaroslaw in the car. He’d come just as he was, too, in plus fours, because he wore short trousers for work, and a jacket. Without a coat, even – and he had a leather coat hanging in the garage. All he told me was that on the way to Jaroslaw he’d jettisoned his pistol in some orchard. He had this small pocket revolver that he always carried. But he was afraid that if they’d caught him and searched him and found he had a gun, they’d have shot him. Because that was the first day of the war.

On the Sunday we drove further east in the car. Heniek and his family and their parents went separately, so this time we only had Giza and Irena with us. And Giza’s things – and my, she sure did have some things. She had 6 cases, because she had Karol’s clothes, his linen, his money… because Karol had gone into the army convinced that he was going for 2 weeks. As a doctor, a major. Jozek had been called up as well; I think he was a colonel. Both of them had served in the Austrian army, you see.

We had all sorts of escapades. First we headed for Romania – where the government had gone 9. Przemyslany [then a Polish-Romanian border crossing], that was the place, and there they told us straight off that they wouldn’t let us through Romania in a car. And then, as it later turned out, Karol’s regiment passed right under our noses, as they say. And Giza’s husband went past too. No, they weren’t serving in the same regiment, but they met up later in Romania. At that time everything was going through Przemyslany, but who was looking? There were crowds of troops marching past, but it never occurred to us that our relatives were among them.

In the end we landed up in Lwow, and there we were advised to destroy our passports. So of course we did, both I and my husband. In Lwow we stayed in a rented apartment. Giza had Karol’s money. We had the car for the time being. My husband earned a living with the car, he used it as a taxi, though he didn’t have the sign.

Once, he picked up a passenger, from somewhere in town, I don’t know, and they got talking and found they were both from Cracow, and my husband told him that he was driving without a license. He was an actor from the Slowacki Theater in Cracow [founded 1893, building designed by Jan Zawiejski]. I don’t remember what that actor’s name was, all I remember is that his wife’s surname was Potocka. And he employed him, on the basis that it was his car and my husband was just his driver. And in that way there was no danger that his car would be taken. Nobody suspected that the Russians would get dug in so comfortably in Lwow.

I don’t know when exactly it was that they deported us 10 from Lwow, but it was no longer winter. It was March, April 1940. They [the Russians] came in the night and said: ‘Sobierayties’ [Russ.: pack your things – form used to more than one person]. That was it. So when they said that, I knew they weren’t taking my husband, but that we were all going. I was happier, because usually they only took the men. All together – well then, we’ll go. I don’t know how it happened, but that night they passed my in-laws’ apartment by. Among those Russians there was one Pole. He came up to me and said: ‘Take everything.’ So I took everything – bedding, Halinka had this folding camp bed, and I took that too. The only thing I didn’t take was food. With us they took my husband’s brother Heniek, who was there by chance visiting his parents – we lived in the same building as my in-laws. His wife and son were killed after that.

We were taken straight to the station – it was getting light. Later that same day, in the evening, my mother-in-law, with father-in-law, Giza and Irena in tow, all joined us at the station. When mother-in-law had found out in the morning that we were being deported, she had set up a great lament, apparently – my husband was her favorite son, the youngest. And she would never have forgiven herself that she’d let him be taken away and not gone after him herself. She was an incredibly loving mother.

Remarkable. She wanted to go with her son, so what was Giza (who lived with her) to do? And so in that way we all ended up in the goods wagon. And not just us – two other families besides. I remember there was a couple called the Zubrewiczes – I don’t know where they were from, but that lady cried all the time, because she’d already been deported once and so she knew what awaited her.

We were traveling for a terribly long time. About 3 weeks. They would stop for a moment, sometimes in the day, sometimes at night, so that people could jump out to relieve themselves. During the journey we were treated very well, I must say, only we weren’t allowed to get out for long. I got out once to relieve myself under the wagon, and it was ‘Davay nazad!’ [Russ.: Get back in!] with a machine gun pointed at me. It was a good job I had a child, because we had a potty, so at least we could do a pee and pour it out of the window.

They’d give us some soup once in a while. As it happened, in Lwow at the station it had turned out that they were putting these neighbors of ours from back in Kalwaria on the same train. They were young people, and they realized what was going on, so they jumped off and bought bread. So on the way we ate that bread, as long as it lasted.

We were taken to this port on the Volga, this small town. I don’t remember the name. From there we sailed all night by ship to Koz’modem’yansk [approx. 150 km. from Kazan]; that was a very nice port on the Volga, and there was a railroad station there. That was in the Mariy El Autonomous Soviet Republic [in December 1941 there was a Polish population of 4,000 there]. Apparently 500 people arrived with us on that train. Later that same day we were taken 35 km into the forest.

Mr. Zubrewicz already had a certain amount of experience, so as soon as we stopped, as soon as we were allowed to get out, he and my husband ran off to find us somewhere to live. They managed to hook this cottage. I remember we arrived there in the early morning, and the previous night they had expelled some Russians from there for being against the government or something… I don’t know exactly what for. So we all piled into that cottage: the Zubrewicz family – he had 2 daughters, a son and his daughter-in-law, and his wife – some other couple, and then there were quite a few of us too. So we had one room, the Zubrewiczes had the other room, and in the kitchen – I’ve forgotten what they were called, that couple, quiet people. Jews.

The kitchen was huge, with a Russian ‘piechka’ [Russ.:stove]. Well, when that stove was lit it heated both the rooms. Zubrewicz helped us get organized somehow, kit the house out. It was livable-with. Yes, it was wooden, but it was a proper house, not a hut. I remember that when we arrived everything was in bloom. We drew water from this stagnant, dead backwater of the river. We didn’t know that there was a well perhaps…I don’t know… maybe 300 m away. It was only one of the Russians, one of the ones who were guarding us, who told us that that water was unhealthy, to drink water from the well… after all, some of them were human. Oh, a great time was had by all.

Men and women worked in the forest. My husband worked, my husband’s brother, and Irena. She had just passed her school-leaving exams. Yes. I mean, women didn’t fell trees, they just sawed branches or felled trees into smaller blocks, and then stacked the blocks. I had a small child, and there were the in-laws, elderly people, so I didn’t have to work in the forest. Neither did Giza, because she was… I don’t know how old. Over 50. Later on, by coincidence, my cousin Maurycy Wiener was also deported to Koz’modem’yansk, and worked in the same gang as my husband.

My husband was chopping wood for a factory. And one time he mentioned to his director that I wanted a job. What we wanted was for me to have the right to exist there, to have a bread ration. And that director, a woman, hired me first of all as a gardener. I had no idea about gardening! They showed me the shears and told me to cut the tomatoes as they started to ripen. So I spent maybe 2 weeks on the tomatoes. Then my director said that I wasn’t going to be in the garden, but in the mill. I spent half a day there theoretically getting experience. They taught me which grain was for what – before that I knew next to nothing. What it was called, what my title was at that mill? I can’t remember. I was paid well, every week I would get a small bag of flour, every Saturday. That was a fortune. There was a free canteen.

I had very pleasant conditions at work, ideal. It was a company with 5 different things: there was a mill, there was a buffet, there was a fishery, I can’t remember the rest. My superior, the director of that company, was from Moscow, she’d been resettled there from territory occupied by the Germans. That was how the Russians protected people, because her husband was a Jew and was at the front, and she, her mother and her child were in Koz’modem’yansk. She was a party member. Treated me very decently. She was a teacher by profession, a very cultured woman.

One evening, it was a terrible winter, this Russian came by, this local intellectual, and said that some people had arrived for resettling from Poland, and that they’d been traveling 100 km through some forest, and there were 2 young men with them, but that he was only interested in workers, and he didn’t have anywhere to put them up. He asked us to let him put them in the spare room (the Zubrewiczes had already moved out, into town). Of course we agreed at once. This tall woman came in, this decent fur coat hanging off her. Behind her a short guy, eaten away but also in a decent, well-heeled fur, and 2 young boys, tall as oak trees. And a whole pile of cases and things. And they took their things into the empty room, but we were just eating dinner, hot potatoes, what we had.

Them just in from the road, we sat round the table talking, and at one point my husband says to me ‘Misia, have you got any more potatoes?’ or something like that. And the woman says: ‘You’re called Misia?’ I say: ‘Yes, why?’ ‘Well, my daughter-in-law had a friend called Misia.’ ‘Who’s your daughter-in-law?’ It turned out that she was my classmate, who had married this woman’s son, who had been at school with us. We got friendly. They were called the Kurtzes. They were wealthy, had money. Later they got a decent apartment and went to town before we did, and their boys went into the army, to the front.

A few ‘odkritki’ [Russ.: postcards] came to me in Koz’modem’yansk from Cracow, from my parents. Before the war my father had worked – I mean traded – with a Jew from Hamburg. And that Jew – don’t remember his name – had this employee, a German, and they used to come over to see us. Sometimes that man, and sometimes that employee of his. And later, when the Germans entered Cracow, that German guy helped my father a lot, so that for some time Father worked legally. He was employed in a slaughterhouse as an expert on hides. An expert, yes.

A letter came from Jozek, Giza’s husband, too, that he was in an oflag 11. Just brief: ‘I’m alive and well,’ just ‘Oflag’… some town, I don’t remember where. Karol had ended up in an oflag too. They’d met up by chance, and so of course from then on stuck together, and because Karol was a doctor he was treated slightly differently there. And because of that letter from Jozek, Irena was arrested. They reckoned that if he was a Jew, an officer, and still alive, then he must be collaborating for sure with Hitler.

Irena was taken to prison in Koz’modem’yansk with this guy she worked with (don’t know what he was arrested for). He was called Genek Waks. Maybe they were in love – I don’t know. In any case, 2 young Poles, however you look at it – I mean, he was a Jew too. Shortly after the arrest, the Polish Army 12 came into being, and that Genek signed up for the army from prison, and went to the front. Irena was released after a while too. No, Giza wasn’t arrested, and her grandparents were already dead. Granddad had been standing in line, caught a cold and got influenza. And Grandma had had heart trouble for years.

My husband contracted heart problems too. He worked very hard. Before that he’d been a physically healthy, handsome man, but chopping wood in a forest in sub-zero temperatures... and what kind of nourishment did we have? I called a doctor whose grandfather had been a Polish exile, he was 3rd-generation, still understood some Polish. A very decent man. What was his name? I can’t remember. Because he saw the conditions we were living in, he took my husband into the hospital.

There were no patients on the men’s ward at all, just one patient and my husband the second, because there was a war on and all the men were at war. He was in hospital for a long time, and in the end, the doctor said to me: ‘Take him home, because he won’t live.’ He died in March 1944. He was buried in a Russian cemetery. No, it wasn’t a Jewish cemetery. It was this neglected cemetery, a few people died, so they were buried there. The cemetery wasn’t looked after very well there.

The Union of Polish Patriots 13 organized a Polish school in Koz’modem’yansk. I’d only done 3 years of my degree course [out of 5], but I had my teaching qualifications, and there were an awful lot of Polish children. Polish… I mean Jewish, mostly Jewish. And I taught the children in Koz’modem’yansk along with this Mrs. Hajdukiewicz, a teacher from Lwow. Me up to 4th grade and her up to 7th grade. We were just allocated days and classrooms in a Russian school, and we went there and taught. My Halinka went to that school too. I had something like 15 children in each class.

Irena and a friend worked in the forest, and as young girls, there with those Russian soldiers guarding them – there weren’t a lot of them, maybe 4 – well, one of them fell in love with Irena and used to come round. He didn’t come round for long, though, because they sent him to the front and he was killed. After all, contacts with Polish prisoners were not allowed, so his mates must have split on him [Polish citizens resettled in April 1940 had ‘administrativno vyslannyie’ – ‘expelled pursuant to administrative decision’ status; this meant they were prohibited from changing their place of residence, and were under the supervision of field divisions of the NKVD].

And one day the girls came running home and Irena shouts: ‘The war’s going to end! We’ll be leaving here soon. I heard on the radio that peace has been signed.’ We looked at her: what’s she talking about – we knew nothing. What was a newspaper, a radio? Well, and it was true. Very shortly, a few weeks later, Genek, Irena’s fiance, came back. They had the right to leave the front and take their families back to Poland, you see. And they all – Genek and his brother, their parents, Irena, Giza and Heniek – went to Moscow, and from Moscow smart as anything went back to Poland. Yes, later on Irena married Genek.

Halinka and I stayed. We moved from the cottage into a little room in a Russian woman’s apartment. I surrendered my driving license, as the only document proving that I was a Polish citizen, so that I could return to Poland. In spring 1946 we traveled in goods wagons to Poland. We could only leave when they put on an ‘eshelon’ [a military transport unit, in this case a train]. They gave us 24 hours to get to the railroad station, too. People went in horses and carts. Not everybody had to, but everybody left.

• After the war

We traveled to Cracow in the same wagon as the Kurtzes; their 2 sons were still in the army. There was another Jewish family traveling with us, but not from Cracow. They were with their son, who had been in the army but had been thrown out, because he wasn’t suitable for some reason. Mrs. Hajdukiewicz, who was traveling with us as well, tried to get out in Lwow. She got off, but very soon came back to the wagon, because it was impossible – when she went into her apartment, when she saw what was going on there – and it was the Russian army… She didn’t go to Cracow with us, but went somewhere where another eshelon was going.

Back in Koz’modem’yansk I’d gotten a letter from a very close friend of mine, a schoolfriend, Karola Wetstein, whose son was the same age as my daughter. She wrote me that she had survived the camps, and that she was starting over from nothing in Cracow. She had her own house on Starowislna Street, and when she came out of the camp and retrieved her son, and found her brother (he had been in the camps somewhere, too), they moved back into their apartment on Starowislna. In her house.

She wrote me also that my parents were dead, that they’d perished in the last-but-one deportation from Podgorze – the ghetto had been in Podgorze 14. The ghetto was liquidated in September [1943], and they’d died in March, taken to Belzec 15. I have no family. After the war I was just me and my daughter. My parents had perished. Karola wrote also that when I came back to Poland, to Cracow, that I should head for her place, simply because I would find shelter with her.

My first steps on arriving in Cracow were to the Jewish Committee on Dluga Street [the Provincial Jewish Committee was set up in 1945 at 42 Dluga Street]. At the Committee I met Wiener, my cousin, and together we looked through the photo albums, and it was he who recognized them, I didn’t recognize: ‘Well look, this is your father and your mama.’ I hadn’t known my father without a beard. He hadn’t known him either, but somehow he’d remembered better. The Germans had taken those photographs in the ghetto.

It was a record of the people who had died – I don’t know, Jews in general. They let me make copies. Before the war my parents had had nothing. Their rented apartment in Podgorze had been in the ghetto, and there was no question of my going in when I got back even just to take a keepsake from home. I tried. I wasn’t let into the apartment and that was it. No, nobody opened up.

I went to Karola’s, and there it turned out that there was some other woman living in her apartment. She told me Karola had taken the child and gone somewhere to help him recover. Karola’s child had been hidden in some shed and couldn’t speak. He was also retarded. And after the war our children were 10 years old [Ed. note: in 1946 Halinka was 12].

And then that Mr. and Mrs. Kurtz took me to the house of some relatives or friends of theirs. In the evening a few people came round – a few young men who had survived the war. One of them kind of looks at me, looks, and says: ‘Aren’t you Juliusz Leibel’s wife?’ ‘I was Juliusz Leibel’s wife, but Juliusz died a few years back now.’

And what it turns out, he was this guy from Kalwaria, before the war he’d been 15 or 16 and he attended his father’s gasoline station. And he remembered me, and remembered my husband, that he’d sold us gasoline. And Halinka and I slept that night at those people’s house, the 2 of us in a cot, and in the morning he took care of me. He told me that he would take me to this woman who would help me find a job and an apartment.

He took me to 6 Slowackiego Avenue. He told me some name, there was a card on the door. I looked at her and I thought, ‘I know this woman from somewhere.’ And she turned out to be this Mala Rubinstein, who opened the first kindergarten for Jewish children in Cracow. The first. You see other than that, kindergartens were run by convents, by nuns, so Jewish children didn’t go to them. Before the war she’d been in Germany somewhere, in some school for kindergarten teachers, and then later, together with some wealthy Jewess (Mala wasn’t rich) she opened that kindergarten.

I spent one more night with those strangers, and then it turned out that Mala helped me to get my daughter into a children’s home – because I didn’t have anywhere to go – and found me a job in the same children’s home. On Dluga Street. At the Jewish Committee there was this group of women that traveled round Poland specially looking for children like that [Jewish] – because there were people who’d taken children in simply out of pity.

There was this one, Salus, came from Mazovia, but during the war he’d been in Ukraine with his father, his mother had perished somewhere, then the Russians had taken the father into the army, and the boy had gone along with the regiment because he’d had nowhere to go. And Mrs. Marianska, the chair of the Jewish Committee, had taken him in off the streets in Cracow.

There were these two sisters, too, Paulina and Dora, who’d originally had a father, the father had lived somewhere outside Cracow, because he’d had a job with some horses. Then he died and they’d been left alone. Salus and those two sisters were the first 3 children in the children’s home. Unfortunately there were only a few rooms there on Dluga Street.

And there, on Dluga Street, by chance, I met a cousin of mine, my father’s niece, Fela Goldzwinger. I met her on the corridor as I was taking my daughter to the children’s home. About the time I got married, she was still in gymnasium. I didn’t recognize her, because I remembered a schoolgirl, and here was a woman in a long coat and hat. A typical Jew, through and through, with a crooked nose.

Handsome, she was. And she’d been in the Podgorze ghetto, and when the elderly people had been taken to the camps in Plaszow, [the first transports left the ghetto for the Plaszow labor camp in February 1943; this was the start of the liquidation of the Cracow ghetto] 16, she’d been sent to work in Czechoslovakia somewhere. She’d been about 18 then. She lived through various camps, and came back from the camp naked, barefoot, and penniless – and generally with nowhere to go. Her parents and brothers and sisters had perished.

And she met a friend who she’d worked with back before the war, and she took her in, on Lubicz Street. And she found her a husband, took care of her very nicely. When I met her she was already married. She lived for a little while on Wolnica Place. She already had a little boy when she went to Israel. After that she worked there, in some children’s home somewhere, and I think he was a carpenter or something. Terribly poor, they were, but they got by. I saw her when I was in Israel.

This distant relative of mine in Cracow, who was the Jewish community’s assignee, came to see me one day and says: ‘Listen, there’s this young guy getting married, all alone, his whole family killed, and for him to get married they need two witnesses. Come with me.’ He didn’t even know the guy’s name. So we turned up – the wedding was at the rabbi’s place – I look… and it’s my cousin Lieblich, Stefan Lieblich [the second son of Mrs. Leibel’s maternal aunt Mania]. He didn’t know I was alive, and I didn’t know he was alive. He was the only one out of all that family deported way out into deepest Russia that survived. And he was getting married to this painter, Lea Weingruen. Her mother died shortly afterwards and they emigrated. Yes, to Palestine. I went to see them in Israel. There’s a picture hanging over there [on the wall] that she painted and gave me.

We got a whole 4-story building, where the Jewish Children’s Home was opened. Cracow, 1 Augustianska Boczna Street [now 6 Chmielowskiego Street; the building houses Care and Educational Complex No. 2]. That was the address. The house had been built before the war [1936-1938, commissioned by the Jewish community organization in Kazimierz] as an old  people’s home, but there were no old people left, because they’d been murdered by the Germans. Then it had been a barracks, and apparently a brothel for the German officers.

The back of that house butted up more or less against the Jewish hospital on Skawinska Street through the courtyards. And that’s almost right on the Vistula [River]. It was a beautiful building, very decently fitted out, just damaged. It was equipped for our needs – there were washrooms, and a washbasin in every room. Bathrooms in the corridors. Luckily, in spite of the damage we were able to move the children in straight away. Because it had been a barracks, there were these army beds there. The painters went in; there was broken glass everywhere, window panes had to be put in..., as you’d expect after a war.

The children helped to clear up, because 80 or more than 80 children arrived from the Soviet Union. A very large group, a whole carriageful came. There were boys and girls. More girls, of course. Jewish children. All Jewish. What 80 children meant?! All different ages! Some of them were so wild.

There was even a time when there were 130 children in the children’s home – that’s the maximum number I’m giving, because after that there were more or less 70-80, or 80-something. It varied. Of them, there were about 20-30 of the little ones, the under 3’s in the nursery. They lived up on the 4th floor, they had their own nurses up there. There was a veranda up there, and the little ones played up there on that veranda. They never came down from the 4th floor. And downstairs we had a kindergarten, from 4 to 6 years old. And other than that we had children even up to school-leaving age. I didn’t live in the same room as my daughter, she was with the other children.

No, I never got involved in looking out the children; they were brought to me. I was in the house, as a mom – I had a lot of children, each one different. I was there as the carer for the eldest group officially, but in practice I was the director. The real director was a very party man – he spent more time in the party 17, and in effect I ran the home. He’s been dead for years. He was called Dawid Erdestein, a German graduate. I worked in that children’s home 5 years. Some of the staff were Polish women. The carers were Jews.

There was this one Polish woman, an older woman, who rescued Jewish children, everyone called her ‘Nanny’. I can’t remember what she was called, but in return for what she had done the Jewish community office gave her an apartment for life and work in our home. The children called me ‘Pani Misia.’ And it’s stuck to this day.

The Jewish Children’s Home was kept up by American Jews, and we would get parcels of clothing. The children were dressed very nicely, except I always tried to make sure that my daughter was dressed more modestly than the others. And a deputation of American Jews came to visit us, and the Cracow and province authorities were there. After a while a wagon came from America with decent beds, mattresses, clothes and bedding in it – everything we needed. Yes,  and they didn’t want to let that wagon through, because it was addressed in the name of the director, and they thought it was him trying to do some private deal, and he was nearly arrested. That guy Wiener, that cousin of mine, saved him. He went to the militia and explained it.

You weren’t allowed to adopt Jewish children after the war. The communist authorities wouldn’t allow it; that was the official position. By way of exception we managed to get just 2 children adopted. One little girl, who writes to me from Israel now – oh, I must write back to her. She even comes to visit me. And Teresa, who was adopted by a friend of mine, a teacher in High School No. 5 in Cracow.

Jonasz Stern 18 was a friend of the director of the children’s home. They’d grown up together, in the same town, Kalusz (that’s outside Poland now [now Kalush, Ukraine, approx. 100 km south-west of Lwow]). And Stern used to come to our Children’s Home. We got friendly. His is a long story. He was rescued from a death camp; some people took him in somewhere, and when he came back from Hungary or wherever it was he’d been, after the war, he literally painted for bread. And other than that he would come to the Children’s Home, to see the children. He liked children very much.

He taught the children drawing, played with them, organized shows. And he made the costumes for all kinds of shows. He was a wonderful friend. A friend of the home. Once he painted this picture that he gave me as a present. And just after that he became rector of the Academy of Fine Arts in Cracow and after that he didn’t come round so much, because he didn’t have the time any more.

I was fired on the pretext of smuggling children to Israel [Mrs. Leibel isn’t sure what organization smuggled children to Israel, but it was probably Aliyyat No’ar (Youth Aliyah)] 19. Somehow they found out that I corresponded with relatives in Israel, which means somebody must have informed on me.

They knew I was a Zionist, and that I had never been a communist. I worked there for 5 years, so it must have been 1951 or 1952 when they fired me. No, it wasn’t Erdestein who fired me, because he’d been moved before that. Some higher level teacher training course had been set up in Cracow – he was a teacher by profession and was made manager there. I moved to the Friends of Children Society 20. In my place they put some ex-head of a children’s home in Lodz or somewhere. I don’t remember his name any more.

And when the children invited me to some get-together later, they said something about going away, but he said that his children weren’t going anywhere. I said to them then: ‘I’m going to Israel, so when I come back I’ll tell you what it’s like.’ But when I came back they weren’t there any more. They’d gone to Israel. The children who were still in the children’s home invited me to some special occasion, and only then did I find out that there’d been some big campaign – organized from Israel – and they’d been taken. And the new director, who’d been so against them leaving, had been the first to go. Yes, with the children. And he died there shortly afterwards, apparently, because when I went to Israel he had already died.

There was this foursome in the children’s home, 3 girls and a boy, siblings. They’d come from Russia in the biggest group of children. And 2 of the girls went to Israel that time. I remember that one of them, Regina, married there – a Jew, but from Sweden. Jews used to go to Israel to work, to help, and he’d gone too, and fallen in love with Regina, and he married her. And her sister Sara stayed in Cracow, got married here, to a carer from the children’s home – he was an orphan too. She graduated from the Jagiellonian University and worked there. What was her married name? I just found out, yesterday or a few days ago, that she died suddenly, in Cracow.

There was another couple in Israel, a girl and a boy from the children’s home, got married. I think he’s dead, and she’s stopped writing to me. They came to visit me lots of times too. Her father was an officer, a Jewish officer, but he was killed during the war. As a Jew, I mean, not as an officer. A friend of her father’s took her in and pretended she was his daughter. And everyone thought she was a bachelor’s daughter. Then he fell in love with some woman and got married, and that woman put the girl in our children’s home. And the girl used to come back to Poland because she was looking for her father’s papers. She got all his papers back, some orders, and so on.

My parents-in-law had left a house in Kalwaria, and in 1949 I sold that house. My husband had brothers and sisters, but somehow they all ceded at least part of it to me, so I had a little money and I was able to go on a trip to Israel. For a month, that was how much leave I had. That trip cost a lot.

Actually, I’d wanted Halinka to go to Israel instead of me – after the war she was grown up. But she didn’t want to, and we wouldn’t both have got permission to leave the country. They didn’t let people go to Israel, because they were afraid to let their precious Jews go. I had a lots of problems, I was refused permission to go several times, but in the end I succeeded and I went. That was in maybe 1952 or 1953. I thought that in time I’d persuade Halinka; I was brought up in a very Jewish home, but she wasn’t.

As far as I remember, I flew from Warsaw. I got on a plane that landed in Haifa. Janek, my cousin, came to the airport for me. He and his sister Ewa left Poland before the war. And we went back from Haifa by car to… where was it they lived? That famous lake… [the Sea of Galilee]. His wife worked in the municipal offices as a translator, because she was a Jew from England. She was 3 when she arrived there, so she knew English, and Hebrew of course. Ewa had a family there too, but she lived somewhere else.

The first time, I just stayed with Janek. No, for the first few days I couldn’t understand the Hebrew, but within a few days it all came back to me. They tried to persuade me to stay, but I said: ‘I can’t, because I’ve got my daughter in Cracow.’ I didn’t want to part with my daughter, and she desperately didn’t want to emigrate – she was a Pole. Did I bring my daughter up in the Jewish faith? I didn’t bring her up to be a Jew at all. She just has ‘Jew’ written in her papers. I’m not religious either, but I am a Jew by nationality. She doesn’t feel Jewish at all.

I had plans to move to Warsaw, I had the chance of a good job, but Halinka didn’t want to go; I had all sorts of problems. I took her to Warsaw, and she came back. So then I said: either you go to work, or you go to school. She was 18. She went out to work in her final year at school, took her school-leaving exams while she was working.

Well, what did I have to live on? She worked 3-4 years in Huta [the Lenin Steelworks, built 1954, the largest industrial plant in the Cracow region, now the T. Sendzimir Steelworks]. Then she worked in Cracow as a Russian translator – after all, she’d been at school in Russia for several years. Then she did a part-time university degree, in Russian.

After we had to leave the children’s home, Halinka lived with me at first. I found a tiny room at 48 Karmelicka Street. Then, while she was doing her degree she got married and I lived with her and her son [Ryszard Bronislaw, b. 1959], and her husband, a medical student, lived with his parents. Oh, it was all kinds of fun. The owner of the apartment was a very pleasant Mrs. Jenerowa, an Italian woman who’d married a Pole who worked in Cracow in the days when it was Galicia [i.e. before World War I]. So to the time we knew her, she didn’t speak Polish perfectly.

A very genteel, immensely pleasant, good person. It was a 3-room apartment. She lived in one room with her maid, in the second room was a Mrs. Tatarowa, who’d been married to a Jew, but her husband had perished in the occupation, and in the third room us, together with my grandson.

When a room came free in my friend’s apartment on Slowackiego Avenue, I moved in with her, and at least they could live together. Shortly afterwards Halinka divorced him. He moved out. His parents wouldn’t let him back in their apartment. In the meantime, Ryszard was with me more than he was at home with Halinka, because Halinka was working. I worked too, but we managed somehow. He was sick a lot, had high fevers, so he didn’t go to school, but stayed with me. I was constantly taking him on vacation or on trips. When Halinka was in Russia, he lived with me. She was there for 7 or 9 years, working as a translator. In Smolensk somewhere, then in the Crimea – various, in different places.

After I was fired from the children’s home I worked a few years in the Friends of Children Society [FCS] 20, where I was responsible for childcare in children’s homes. It was my job to go round and inspect those children’s homes. I also had to oversee the programs of the summer camps that schools organized. I only went on inspections. There were a lot of summer camps like that in Murzasichle [a popular vacation resort in the Tatra Mountains in southern Poland]. The whole village was basically just 11 FCS summer camp centers.

After the FCS I worked in Vocational Training [the Vocational Training Institute, est. 1915] on Dietla Street. For a while I worked there as course director. Then I moved to the Polish Economic Society. From there I was fired by the director, who I’d previously hired myself as a lecturer on courses, because I didn’t have the qualifications and I couldn’t lecture. He was called Nedzowski, an economics graduate. They wanted to fire him too, but in the end he joined the party and stayed, but I wasn’t a party member, and I was fired. What year was it when they fired all the Jews? [1968] 21. Ah, well that was when they fired me. Why? The usual: Jewish.

So then I went back to Training on Dietla Street, but not as course director any more, but in the library, part time, because I got a doctor’s certificate that I was sick. Then the library was closed down and I worked afternoons enrolling students on courses. When Solidarity 22 started up, they came to get me to enroll in Solidarity.

They started trying to persuade me, but I never joined either Solidarity or any other party. And the employee who came to me was a guy I knew was a drunk – in fact he was drunk when he came to me that time. I thought to myself: if he’s going to be in it, then that’s no place for me, because I’ve never had anything to do with drunks. And I refused, and then I was fired. Ahead of Martial Law 23. Under Solidarity they fired the director too.

The new director had been working there maybe 6 months, maybe not even that, when they came to me and asked me to go back. I wanted to go back, but my daughter wouldn’t let me: ‘What’s that supposed to mean? If they’ve asked you to leave once, don’t go.’ I was already retired before that, it had just been a part-time job. Oh, I worked for a long time, because when I retired, I was nearly 70. At 55 I was entitled to retire, but I worked to 60 normally, and then went part time. I remember the end of communism in Poland 24, but it wasn’t any big deal for me. I knew it was finished and I was pleased, and that was it. Good riddance.

I was a member of the Polish Teaching Union for years and years. I never went on any vacations or anything. And then, when they started demanding money for subscriptions and I was sick, every 50 zloty counted, I stopped being a member. It’s 6 years I haven’t been out of the house now. I have my pension, but I have 2 carers – a day nurse and a night nurse. Private. My pension wouldn’t cover that – my friends pay.

Yes, I must say I keep in touch with the children from the children’s home. Paulina, who lives in Brussels, is always calling me – she phoned me a few days ago. I even have a photograph of her grandson. I went to stay with her a few times. The other one, her sister Dora, lives in Paris, and I went to stay with her too. Just now I got a card from one of the girls in the children’s home for Jewish New Year. And best wishes. It’s very nice that the children remember me and come to visit me.

I have these friends, not Jews, they’re called Wasilewski. Wojtek is a young man, younger than me, younger even than my daughter. He’s a sculptor and his wife’s a painter. Artists. And a few times they organized get-togethers at Jewish festivals. And they asked me to light the candles, the Friday ones, at their house. They live on the way to Nowa Huta. We’re very close. We’ve known each other for about 20 years now. No, there aren’t many older Jews in Cracow. And if there are, I’m not in touch with them. After the war I went to the synagogue a few times, for anniversaries, but not many times. I’m always a member of the community organization, just because. Of course. I get my matzah every year.

• Glossary:

1. Franz Joseph I Hapsburg (1830-1916): emperor of Austria from 1848, king of Hungary from 1867. In 1948 he suppressed a revolution in Austria (the ‘Springtime of the Peoples’), whereupon he abolished the constitution and political concessions. His foreign policy defeats – the loss of Italy in 1859, loss of influences in the German lands, separatism in Hungary, defeat in war against the Prussians in 1866 – and the dire condition of the state finances  convinced him that reforms were vital.

In 1867 the country was reformed as a federation of two states: the Austrian empire and the Hungarian kingdom, united by a personal union in the person of Franz Joseph. A constitutional parliamentary system was also adopted, which guaranteed the various countries within the state (including Galicia, an area now largely in southern Poland) a considerable measure of internal autonomy. In the area of foreign policy, Franz Joseph united Austria-Hungary with Germany by a treaty signed in 1892, which became the basis for the Triple Alliance.

The conflict in Bosnia Hertsegovina was the spark that ignited World War I. Subsequent generations remembered the latter part of Franz Joseph’s rule as a period of stabilization and prosperity.

2. Galicia: Informal name for the lands of the former Polish Republic under Hapsburg rule (1772–1918), derived from the official name bestowed on these lands by Austria: the Kingdom of Galicia and Lodomeria. From 1815 the lands west of the river San (including Cracow) began by common consent to be called Western Galicia, and the remaining part (including Lemberg [Lwow]), with its dominant Ukrainian population, Eastern Galicia. Galicia was agricultural territory, an economically backward region.

Its villages were poor and overcrowded (hence the term ‘Galician misery’), which, given the low level of industrial development (on the whole processing of agricultural and crude-oil based products) prompted mass economic emigration from the 1890s; mainly to the Americas. After 1918 the name Eastern Malopolska for Eastern Galicia was popularized in Poland, but Ukrainians called it Western Ukraine.

3. Kazimierz: Now a district of Cracow lying south of the Main Market Square, it was initially a town in its own right, which received its charter in 1335. Kazimierz was named in honor of its founder, King Casimir the Great. In 1495 King Jan Olbracht issued the decision to transfer the Jews of Cracow to Kazimierz. From that time on a major part of Kazimierz became a center of Jewish life. Before 1939 more than 64,000 Jews lived in Cracow, which was some 25% of the city’s total population. Only the culturally assimilated Jewish intelligentsia lived outside Kazimierz.

Until the outbreak of World War II this quarter remained primarily a Jewish district, and was the base for the majority of the Jewish institutions, organizations and parties. The religious life of Cracow’s Jews was also concentrated here; they prayed in large synagogues and a multitude of small private prayer houses.

In 1941 the Jews of Cracow were removed from Kazimierz to the ghetto, created in the district of Podgorze, where some died and the remainder were transferred to the camps in Plaszow and Auschwitz. The majority of the pre-war monuments, synagogues and Jewish cemeteries in Kazimierz have been preserved to the present day, and a few Jewish institutions continue to operate.

4. Anders’ Army: The Polish Armed Forces in the USSR, subsequently the Polish Army in the East, known as Anders’ Army: an operations unit of the Polish Armed Forces formed pursuant to the Polish-Soviet Pact of 30 July 1941 and the military agreement of 14 July 1941. It comprised Polish citizens who had been deported into the heart of the USSR: soldiers imprisoned in 1939-41 and civilians amnestied in 1941 (some 1.25-1.6m people, including a recruitment base of 100,000-150,000).

The commander-in-chief of the Polish Armed Forces in the USSR was General Wladyslaw Anders. The army never reached its full quota (in February 1942 it numbered 48,000, and in March 1942 around 66,000). In terms of operations it was answerable to the Supreme Command of the Red Army, and in terms of organization and personnel to the Supreme Commander, General Wladyslaw Sikorski, and the Polish government in exile. In March-April 1942 part of the Army (with Stalin’s consent) was sent to Iran (33,000 soldiers and approx. 10,000 civilians).

The final evacuation took place in August-September 1942 pursuant to Soviet-British agreements concluded in July 1942 (it was the aim of General Anders and the British powers to withdraw Polish forces from the USSR); some 114,000 people, including 25,000 civilians (over 13,000 children) left the Soviet Union. The units that had been evacuated were merged with the Polish Army in the Middle East to form the Polish Army in the East, commanded by Anders.

5. Jagiellonian University: (Pol.: Uniwersytet Jagiellonski), Cracow’s premier university, founded in 1364 by King Casimir III of Poland, it has maintained a high standard of learning ever since. In the 19th century the university was designated “Jagiellonian” to commemorate the dynasty of Polish kings of the same name.

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

7. Hitler’s rise to power: in the German parliamentary elections in January 1933, the National Socialist German Workers’ Party (NSDAP) won one-third of the votes. On 30 January 1933 the German president swore in Adolf Hitler, the party’s leader, as chancellor. On 27 February 1933 the building of the Reichstag (the parliament) in Berlin was burned down. The government laid the blame with the Bulgarian communists, and a show trial was staged. This served as the pretext for ushering in a state of emergency and holding a re-election.

It was won by the NSDAP, which gained 44% of the votes, and following the cancellation of the communists’ votes it commanded over half of the mandates. The new Reichstag passed an extraordinary resolution granting the government special legislative powers and waiving the constitution for 4 years. This enabled the implementation of a series of moves that laid the foundations of the totalitarian state: all parties other than the NSDAP were dissolved, key state offices were filled by party luminaries, and the political police and the apparatus of terror swiftly developed.

8. John Paul II (Karol Wojtyla, 1920-2005): Polish Catholic cleric, archbishop of Cracow, cardinal and from 1978 pope. Ordained in 1946. Lecturer at the Jagiellonian University in Cracow and subsequently at the Catholic University of Lublin. In 1963 became archbishop of Cracow. Elevated to the rank of cardinal in 1967. On 16 October 1978 elected pope. During his pontificate he made more than 100 pilgrimages to countries all over the world. His first pilgrimage to Poland in 1979 is of especial significance, as it was intended to fortify the spirit of resistance to the communist regime. Pope John Paul II devoted much energy to ecumenical dialogue both within the Christian church and with other religions, including Judaism. He was the first pope to visit Rome’s synagogue, he established diplomatic relations with the state of Israel, and in the year 2000 he made a historic confession of the Church’s sins, including the sin of centuries of anti-Semitism.

9. Flight of the Polish government in 1939: On 17 September 1939, when fighting was still going on against the Germans, Soviet forces invaded Polish territory, which spelled the ultimate failure of the defensive war. The Polish government, president, and commander-in-chief of the army took the decision to evacuate the Polish authorities to Romania, with the intention of subsequently getting to France. The Romanian ambassador assured the government right of transit.

On 18 September the supreme Polish authorities crossed the border in Zaleszczyki to Czerniowice. From there, President Ignacy Moscicki delivered an address to the Polish nation in which he announced that the state authorities had been transferred to an allied country. The dispatch of the address constituted a violation of the Hague Convention and provided the Romanian authorities with a pretext to intern the Polish authorities, which the Germans were pressing them to do. On the same day the members of the Polish authorities were placed in isolation in several different locations throughout Romania.

The Polish constitution of 1935 gave the president the right to nominate his successor in a situation of war. Ignacy Moscicki nominated as president Wladyslaw Raczkiewicz, who succeeded in getting to France. The new president appointed Gen. Wladyslaw Sikorski prime minister of the emigre Polish government in Paris.

10. Deportations of Poles from the Eastern Territories during WWII: from the beginning of Soviet occupation of eastern Poland on 17th September 1939, until the Soviet-German war which broke out on 21st June 1941, the Soviet authorities deported people associated with the former Polish authorities, culture, church and army. Around 400 000 people were exiled from the Lwow, Tarnopol and Stanislawow districts, mostly to northern Russia, Siberia and Kazakhstan. Between 12 and 15 April as many as 25 000 were deported from Lwow alone.

11. Polish Jews in Oflags: among the 420 000 soldiers of the Polish Army taken prisoner in September 1939 there were ca. 60 000 Jews, while among the 17 000 Polish officers there were 600-700 Jews (defined according to the Nuremberg laws). They were put in more than a dozen POW camps along with their Polish comrades. In the spring of 1940 the Germans registered all the Jewish officers in Oflags and transferred them to Stalag II B – Hammerstein, planning to send them home, that is, to ghettos in the General Government.

After a few weeks the Germans changed their minds: the Jews were sent back to the Oflags. Officers were protected under the 1929 Geneva Convention, which guaranteed decent living conditions, and the right to send and receive letters and parcels and to participate in educational and cultural activities in the camp. Prisoners of war were under the power of the Wehrmacht. The Convention was breached by the Germans, as they created ghettos (separate barracks) in four Oflags: Woldenburg, Murnau, Neubrandenburg, and Dossel, despite protests from the Polish officers and the Red Cross delegations.

Living conditions in the ‘ghettos’ were worse than those in the Polish barracks, and Jews were also temporarily deprived of the right to receive Red Cross parcels. It is known that Himmler was trying to deprive Jews of prisoner-of-war status, but was blocked by Oberkommando Wehrmacht. The Jewish commissioned officers generally survived the war in the Oflags. Jewish soldiers and non-commissioned officers were treated completely differently: most of them perished in the Holocaust.

12. The 1st Kosciuszko Infantry Division: tactical grouping formed in the USSR from May 1943. The victory at Stalingrad and the gradual assumption of the strategic initiative by the Red Army strengthened Stalin’s position in the anti-fascist coalition and enabled him to exert increasing influence on the issue of Poland. In April 1943, following the public announcement by the Germans of their discovery of mass graves at Katyn, Stalin broke off diplomatic relations with the Polish government in exile and, using the Poles in the USSR, began openly to build up a political base (the Union of Polish Patriots) and an army: the 1st Kosciuszko Infantry Division numbered some 11,000 soldiers and was commanded first by General Zygmunt Berling (1943-44), and subsequently by the Soviet General Bewziuk (1944-45). In August 1943 the division was incorporated into the 1st Corps of the Polish Armed Forces in the USSR, and from March 1944 was part of the Polish Army in the USSR. The 1st Division fought at Lenino on 12-13 October 1943, and in the Wasaw district of Praga in September 1944. In January 1945 it marched into Warsaw, and in April-May 1945 it took part in the capture of Berlin. After the war it became part of the Polish Army.

13. Union of Polish Patriots (ZPP): Political organization founded in March 1943 by Polish communists in the USSR. It served Stalin’s policy with regard to the Polish question. The ZPP drew up the terms on which the communists took power in post-war Poland. It developed its range of activities more fully after the Soviet authorities broke off diplomatic contact with the government of the Republic of Poland in exile (Apr. 1943). The upper ranks of the ZPP were dominated by communists (from Jan. 1944 concentrated in the Central Bureau of Polish Communists), who did not reveal the organization’s long-term aims. The ZPP propagated slogans such as armed combat against the Germans, alliance with the USSR, parliamentary democracy and moderate social and economic reforms in post-war Poland, and redefinition of Poland’s eastern border. It considered the ruling bodies of the Republic of Poland in exile to be illegal. It conducted propaganda campaigns (its press organ was called ‘Wolna Polska’ - Free Poland), and organized community care and education and cultural activities. From May 1943 it co-operated in the organization of the First Kosciuszko Infantry Division, and later the Polish Army in the USSR (1944). In July 1944, the ZPP was formally subordinated to the National Council and participated in the formation of the Polish Committee for National Liberation. From 1944-46, the ZPP resettled Poles and Jews from the USSR to Poland. It was dissolved in August 1946.

14. Podgorze Ghetto: There were approximately 60,000 Jews living in Cracow in 1939; after the city was seized by the Germans, mass persecutions began. The Jews were ordered to leave the city in April; approx. 15,000 received permission to stay in the city. A ghetto was created in the Podgorze district on 21st March 1941. Approx. 8,000 people from suburban regions were resettled there in the fall. There were three hospitals, orphanages, old people’s homes, several synagogues and one pharmacy run by a Pole operating in the ghetto. Illegal Jewish organizations began operating in 1940. An attack on German officers in the Cyganeria club took place on 22nd December 1942. Mass extermination began in 1942 – 14,000 inhabitants were deported to Belzec, many were murdered on the spot. The ghetto, diminished in size, was divided into two parts: A, for those who worked, and B, for those who did not work. The ghetto was liquidated in March 1943. The inhabitants of part A were deported to the camp in Plaszow and those of part B to Auschwitz. Approximately 3,000 Jews returned to Cracow after the war.

15. Belzec: Village in the Lublin region of Poland (Tomaszow district). In 1940 the Germans created a forced labor camp there for 2,500 Jews and Roma. In November 1941 it was transformed into an extermination camp (SS Sonderkommando Belzec or Dienststelle Belzec der Waffen SS) under the ‘Reinhard-Aktion’, in which the Germans murdered around 600,000 people (chiefly in gas chambers), including approximately 550,000 Polish Jews (approx. 300,000 from the province of Galicia) and Jews from the USSR, Austria, Belgium, Czechoslovakia, Denmark, Holland, Germany, Norway and Hungary; many Poles from surrounding towns and villages and from Lwow also died here, mostly for helping Jews. In November 1942 the Nazis began liquidating the camp. In the spring of 1943 the camp was demolished and the corpses of the gassed victims exhumed from their mass graves and burned. The last 600 Jews employed in this work were then sent to the Sobibor camp, where they died in the gas chambers.

16. Plaszow Camp: Located near Cracow, it was originally a forced labor camp and subsequently became a concentration camp. The construction of the camp began in summer 1940. In 1941 the camp was extended and the first Jews were deported there. The site chosen comprised two Jewish cemeteries. There were about 2,000 prisoners there before the liquidation of the Podgorze (Cracow) ghetto on 13th and 14th March 1943 and the transportation of the remaining Jews to Plaszow camp. Afterwards, the camp population rose to 8,000. By the second half of 1943 its population had risen to 12,000, and by May-June 1944 the number of permanent prisoners had increased to 24,000 (with an unknown number of temporary prisoners), including 6,000-8,000 Jews from Hungary. Until the middle of 1943 all the prisoners in the Plaszow forced labor camp were Jews. In July 1943, a separate section was fenced off for Polish prisoners who were sent to the camp for breaking the laws of the German occupational government. The conditions of life in the camp were made unbearable by the SS commander Amon Goeth, who became the commandant of Plaszow in February 1943. He held the position until September 1944 when he was arrested by the SS for stealing from the camp warehouses. As the Russian forces advanced further and further westward, the Germans began the systematic evacuation of the slave labor camps in their path. From the camp in Plaszow, many hundreds were sent to Auschwitz, others westward to Mauthausen and Flossenburg. On 18th January 1945 the camp was evacuated in the form of death marches, during which thousands of prisoners died from starvation or disease, or were shot if they were too weak to walk. The last prisoners were transferred to Germany on 16th January 1945. More than 150,000 civilians were held prisoner in Plaszow.

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

18. Jonasz Stern (1904-1988): painter and printmaker. Studied at the Cracow Academy of Fine Arts. Co-operated as a set designer with the “Cricot” Theater. Co-founder of the artistic “Krakow Group.” Active in the Communist Party of Poland, for which in 1938 he was interned in the camp in Bereza Kartuska. During the war he was in the Lwow ghetto and subsequently in the Janowska Street camp. He escaped and managed to reach Hungary, where he was liberated. After the war he settled in Cracow. From 1959 he was vice-rector of the Academy of Fine Arts; removed in 1968 during the anti-Semitic purges. Few of his prewar works have survived: landscapes, genre scenes and grotesque compositions. In his postwar work he began to employ innovative techniques, incorporating into the structure of the picture fragments of other materials: fish bones, small bones, skins, photographs and fabric. Many of his works from this period address the theme of the Holocaust and death.

19. Aliyyat Noar (Youth Aliyah): organization founded in 1933 in Berlin by Recha Freier, whose original aim was to help Jewish children and youth to emigrate from Nazi Germany to Palestine. The immigrants were settled in the Ben Shemen kibbutz, where over a period of 2 years they were taught to work on the land and Hebrew. In the period 1934-1945 the organization was run by Henrietta Szold, the founder of the USA women’s Zionist organization Hadassa. From that time, Aliyyat Noar was incorporated into the Jewish Agency. After World War II it took 20,000 orphans who had survived the Holocaust in Europe to Israel. Nowadays Aliyyat Noar is an educational organization that runs 7 schools and cares for child immigrants from all over the world as well as young Israelis from families in distress. It has cared for a total of more than 300,000 children.

20. Friends of Children Society (Towarzystwo Przyjaciol Dzieci, TPD): a childcare and educational society founded in Cracow in 1911 by, among others, B. Bobrowska, who was its chairwoman for many years. It established and ran children’s homes, clinics, youth groups and schools. Before World War II the society operated in the Cracow region only; it was only in 1949, after it merged with the Workers’ TPD and the Peasants’ TPD, that it became a national organization. At present the TPD has a very broad range of activities: it organizes educational institutions, psychology advisory centers, rehabilitation centers, youth centers, adoption centers, health care, assistance for the disabled, and pedagogical research.

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

22. Solidarity (NSZZ Solidarnosc): a social and political movement in Poland that opposed the authority of the PZPR. In its institutional form – the Independent Self-Governing Trade Union Solidarity (NSZZ Solidarnosc) – it emerged in August and September 1980 as a product of the turbulent national strikes. In that period trade union organizations were being formed in all national enterprises and institutions; in all some 9–10 million people joined NSZZ Solidarnosc. Solidarity postulated fundamental changes to the system in Poland, and sought the fulfillment of its postulates by exerting various forms of pressure on the authorities: pickets in industrial enterprises and public buildings, street demonstrations, negotiations and propaganda. It was outlawed in 1982 following the introduction of Martial Law (on 13 December 1981), and until 1989 remained an underground organization, adopting the strategy of gradually building an alternative society and over time creating social institutions that would be independent of the PZPR (the ‘long march’). Solidarity was the most important opposition group that influenced the changes in the Polish political system in 1989.

23. Martial law in Poland in 1981: extraordinary legal measures introduced by a State Council decree on 13th December 1981 in an attempt to protect the communist system and destroy the democratic opposition. The Martial Law decree suspended the activity of associations and trades unions, including Solidarity, introduced a curfew, imposed travel restrictions, and gave the authorities the powers to arrest opposition activists, search private premises, and conduct body searches, banned public gatherings. A special, non-constitutional state authority body was established, the Military Board of National Salvation (WRON), which oversaw the implementation of the Martial Law regulations, headed by General Wojciech Jaruzelski, the supreme commander of the armed forces. Over 5,900 people were arrested during Martial Law, chiefly Solidarity activists. Branches of Solidarity organized protest strikes. The Wujek coal mine, occupied by striking miners, was stormed by police assault squads, leading to the death of nine miners. The Martial Law regulations were eased gradually; by December 1982, for instance, all interned opposition activists were released. On 31st December 1982 Martial Law was suspended, and on 22nd July 1983 it was repealed.

24. Poland 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 (Polish United Worker’s Party) had introduced Martial Law (lifted on 22nd July 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 Round Table negotiations took place (6th February-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 was dissolved.

Mira Tudor
Bucharest
Romania
Interviewer: Monica Bercovici
Date of the interview: January 2005

Mira Tudor hides with modesty behind her memories, which, unfortunately, seem painful to her today. Hers is a sadness imposed upon her by loneliness. This loneliness is yet a false one, for Mira Tudor lives surrounded by friends who look towards the future and among things filled with countless stories which make up a real personal history. Her interior obstinately strives to preserve an interwar atmosphere. It’s because of the furniture ordered from Vienna by an unfortunate member of the Bratasanu family – a stern mahogany dining room set. The pictures on the walls tell countless stories too, such as the one of the refuge from Bessarabia of an unknown Jewish family told by a Gobelin tapestry picturing the bar mitzvah. When evoking the happy times of her childhood, Mira Tudor’s face becomes bright, but perhaps no brighter than the face of geologist Mira Tudor when speaking about the practical stages organized for the students in summer. These faces are only darkened by the family-related suffering.

My family story
Growing up
During the war
After the war
Glossary:

My family story

I was born in Ramnicu Valcea, in a family of five: my father, my mother, myself, my sister, and my maternal grandmother, the only grandparent that I met. I never met my grandfathers or my father’s mother. My maternal grandmother, Miriam Sasson (nee Nahmias) was a Sephardi. The double s in her last name made Grandma so proud! My maternal grandfather’s name was Moscu Sasson. The two of them were from Bucharest. All their children were born in Bucharest [in the 1870’s and 1880’s]. Naturally, my grandmother didn’t have a job – this was the custom in those days. My grandfather was a sort of peddler. He caught tuberculosis and died at a relatively young age, in 1899. Grandma was left with six children, three boys and three girls. My mother, the youngest child, was six when her father died. I know very little about my maternal grandfather, because he was away all the time and my mother had few memories about him – I don’t think she ever told me anything about him. My grandmother did luxury embroidery and had to sweat in order to raise the six children. She earned her living with her needle, as they say. My grandfather was buried in Bucharest, in 1899. My grandmother died in 1952 and was buried next to her husband, in the Sephardic section of the Bellu cemetery.

At the time when my grandfather died, my grandmother worked for a noble family in Ramnicu Valcea – the Otetelesanus, a famous aristocratic family. In those days, the seamstress or the embroiderer went to the client’s house and stayed there for a few months to get the job done. Their son went to the same high school as my grandmother’s eldest son, Lazar Sasson, who was 18 when his father died. Mr. Otetelesanu knew my grandmother was hard-working and honest – she had made countless items of dowry and piles of embroidery for them. So he offered to send Lazar to Paris with his son to study medicine and become dentists. He said he would pay all his expenses if he agreed to act as a sort of undercover servant of the young Otetelesanu. He was supposed to look after him and make sure he didn’t do anything stupid – at that time, many of the young men who went abroad got carried away with the flow, started drinking and frequented women with a bad reputation. My uncle performed this job in an exemplary way. However, the ending was [sad] for my grandmother: my uncle fell in love with the laundress who washed his clothes; young Otetelesanu came back and became a doctor here, while my uncle stayed in Paris to work as a dentist. Thus Grandma lost the son on whom she relied the most.

The other children had rather ordinary lives. My grandmother’s eldest daughter, Emilia, who was twenty years older than my mother, married an upholsterer and left to Ramnicu Valcea with him. He was a talented man and he made my grandmother and her other two daughters move to Ramnicu Valcea. The girls got married there and stayed there for a while. Eventually, my mother’s sisters moved back to Bucharest with their husbands and children. My mother was the only one who remained in Ramnicu Valcea, where she got married in 1913. Grandma lived with her and her husband.

My maternal grandmother was born in 1850 and she saw King Carol I 1 entering Bucharest from a window. I don’t know where that house was or the way the procession went, but she was 16 at the time and she remembered everything very well. It was unforgettable. There were very few Jews in Ramnicu Valcea – about 10-15 families. But Grandma was very patriotic: ‘What do we need a German king for?! Why didn’t they pick one from our noblemen?’ Dear old her, after having worked in so many aristocratic houses, she could instantly give you three of four men who were suitable to be kings. This is her description of King Carol I: ‘A penniless bastard! He had leather patches at the ells and knees!’ As you can imagine, it was a cavalry outfit, it wasn’t actually patched. We, the granddaughters, tried to explain this to her when we grew up: ‘Grandma, this is how the outfit was supposed to look like!’ – ‘Shut up! Who else had patches at the ells?! And he became king and he did this and that…’ When the king had the Peles Castle erected [Ed. note: The Peles Castle, located in Sinaia, was the summer residence of the Romanian kings. It is the combined result of the taste of King Carol I (1866-1914) and of the skills of architects Johannes Schultz and Karel Liman, as well as of the decorators J. D. Heymann from Hamburg, August Bembe from Mainz and Berhard Ludwig from Vienna. The construction works began in 1873.], Grandma was furious: ‘That’s our money, our work! That bloody German!’ I remember my grandmother as a very protective and loving person. My father had had a harsh childhood, with no one to comfort him and say a nice word to him, and he figured out this is how he should raise us too, in a very Spartan way. I have very few memories of my father giving me a kiss. He didn’t caress us. Grandma, however, did caress us and pamper us.

At home, we spoke a dialect of Spanish called Ladino, a dead dialect. Since we’re at it, I’d like to tell you that, today, Spanish linguists try to track those who still speak Ladino, because they’re interested in recreating this dead dialect. In 1492 [in Spain] 2, King Ferdinand and Queen Isabelle thought, like so many others did over the centuries: ‘What do we need the Jews for? Let’s take everything they’ve got and kick them out of the country!’ The Jews were very rich – they were the bankers of the kings, they were physicians, wealthy tradesmen; they were doing very well. They were given this alternative: either renounce their religion, or leave. And it was on very short notice. Of course, the wretched ones who refused baptism left with nothing more than a bag. But those who accepted it had to suffer too. So my sister, my mother, my grandmother and I spoke Ladino. My father came from a family of Ashkenazim. When the temple was destroyed and the Jews were banished, the Ashkenazic group took another way – through Asia and Russia. Grandma was very upset because she couldn’t provide enough dowry for Anicuta so that she could marry a Sephardim. Unfortunately, the Spanish Jews demanded that the bride have a huge dowry. And marrying an Ashkenazi was regarded as a step backwards. Grandma was a very proud woman, but she came to terms with this, because my father was hard-working and wealthy, and he supported her and helped my mother’s sisters. My father was a good man. Even though she was supported by her son-in-law, Grandma remained proud. In those days, a girl needed a dowry in order to marry well – like marrying a doctor, for instance. Love matches were very rare back then. My father demanded a dowry too. So my mother’s brother, the doctor from Paris, sent money for this. Grandma asked him to. She told him she had found a tradesman with good prospects, a serious, good man, but that he demanded a dowry. A girl without a dowry would marry a craftsman, like a carpenter. The tinsmiths of Ramnicu Valcea were Jewish. They were the Fritz family, uncles and cousins. They were the ones who did the roofs of the houses.

Many years after, when my grandmother was 90, in 1940, I fell in love with a Romanian and I told them I wanted to marry him. My father was against it. My mother was neutral. The one who supported me was my grandmother. So I got married to the man I loved so much. Grandma was very clever. She had a rich life experience. No matter what I told her – as a child, I had my own little problems, and I mean fighting with the other children, not something related to my being Jewish – she always knew what to say: ‘Do this, say this, pretend you don’t notice’, or ‘Go tell the class master. Don’t fight with her; your parents are friends with her family, and they’re customers of our store too, so it would be a pity to ruin this relationship because of your silly things.’ Our household was run by Grandma; her and my father.

My father’s education consisted of two years in elementary school. But he was very clever and had an extraordinary business sense. He was born in Pitesti. His mother died when he was 9. Since the step-mother had no affection for him, his father, a tinsmith, sent him to Ramnicu Valcea, to work in the store of a Jewish tradesman, called Marcu Adler. What kind of work can a 9-year-old do in a store? He became a sort of servant in the house. But he stayed with this tradesman until he grew up. After he got married, he fought in the Balkan War [on the Romanian side], in 1913. He came back, and then he left to fight for the reunification 3. [In World War I] he served as a paramedic. He would go to the battlefield during the fights and pick up the wounded. One of his first missions – of which he was particularly proud – was on the Teleajen Valley [in Prahova County]. He was in a team that had to burry the bell of the Suzana Monastery [10 kilometers away from the Cheia resort, on the Teleajen Valley], to hide it from the Germans, who melted these things and turned them into weapons. The mission was not a big deal, but my father was so proud of it. Then he went to the Moldavian front 3. He was a soldier at first, and he finished as a corporal. He was decorated too. He caught the typhoid fever and nearly died. He kept his decoration on a piece of cardboard in a frame. In 1940, a group of Legionaries 4 came to our place; they were wearing green shirts with baldrics. I was 14 at the time. The group was led by a Legionary district attorney named Stoenescu. They rang the bell and entered. They started to search the house. They were infuriated by the sight of my father’s decoration. They threw it on the floor and broke it in half. As soon as they left, my father picked it up and hid it. It survived to this day – I have it –, although it went through so many things. It was his pride.

He went back to Ramnicu Valcea after the war. The tradesman for whom he had worked, who hadn’t paid him a dime, but had lodged and fed him, gave him a certain sum – I couldn’t tell how much – which he used to open his own store. He became one of the richest tradesmen in Ramnicu Valcea, between 1920 and 1940. He had an interesting sign, ‘The Country Hora’. [Ed. note: Hora is a Romanian folk dance with a slow rhythm in which the dancers hold hands to form a closed circle.] It was what we call today a general store: clothes, footwear, linen, notions. People would come from the countryside – people in Valcea County were very hard-working and very wealthy –, buy everything they needed from my father’s, and fill their carts. They only paid later, in fall. They never paid for the merchandise on the spot. My father would put them on the credit list. After they had harvested their crops or sold their animals, they came back to pay their debt. This is how things went year after year. What I mean is that my father was a great businessman. It’s true, he had to take some chances, and he might have had some disappointments too, but I never heard him complain about unpaid debts. Even the townspeople used this system. The clerks bought on credit and paid when they got their salary. Clerks and teachers have always been poorly paid – even before the war [World War II]. We never owned any land in the countryside. All we had was our house. My father wasn’t into farming. He didn’t want to buy another house and rent it either. He was only into trade.

My mother was a housewife. Grandma began to take less and less work, because my father had got rich and she didn’t need to earn money anymore, plus she had got old. So the period between my birth and 1940 was the happiest time of my entire life! The peace and quiet, the abundant home, the great relationships with the neighbors – I never found all these things all at once again.

My father was rather stingy. This was a natural thing, given the fact that he had been so poor and had worked so hard to become rich. He sometimes argued with my mother because of that. My mother went shopping. Linen was not sold by the meter, but by the bundle. How meters were there? 10, 20, 30 meters. My mother picked whatever she wanted and had everything delivered at home: holland, holland lawn – a very delicate fabric –, damask, linen. At the end of the year, when tradesmen closed their books, my poor father would find out that his wife had emptied the store. He would come home yelling: ‘What need did you have for all those things?’ My mother always told him: ‘Relax, Maere, we have two daughters and they both need good dowry.’ – ‘Are they going to leave in a cart? Because all these things will only fit in a cart, you know.’ But my mother kept buying and Grandma kept sewing.

Growing up

My parents were very austere. No kissing, no saying ‘I love you’, no hugging. I’m not sure I ever saw them kissing. They didn’t kiss us too often either. Grandma sometimes called me Caralinda, which means ‘my dear’ in Ladino or something like that. I was Caralinda.

We never had a nurse. We were raised by our mother and Grandma, who didn’t have jobs. They also looked after the house. My grandmother cooked for ten people: the five of us (our grandmother, our parents and us, the girls), three shop boys who shared a room in our house, and two maids – one for the kitchen and a cleaning woman. Come to think of it, we used to buy industrial amounts of food. But it was easy back then. Peasants we knew came to our house with vegetables. Do you think my mother went to the marketplace to buy carrots? No way, everything was delivered at home! Grandma cooked Romanian dishes. We weren’t a devout family. The hakham came from time to time to slaughter poultry. But my mother did it herself too, secretly. My father went to the store on Saturday. We had to go to school, and no one had a problem with that. Such things only happen in Israel, where they have special devices to turn on the lights [on Sabbath], because you’re not allowed to do it yourself, or to light the fire, or to drive a car, and many other things. But we weren’t like that at all.

There was a small synagogue called shul, with a very large garden, and we had a rabbi. He was a man that even the Romanian community in Ramnicu Valcea respected. He had a family – three daughters – and he lived from the salary paid to him by the Jewish tradesmen. So the Jewish life was rather poor compared to the one in Moldavia, where they had yeshivot where children studied from a young age. My father regularly went to the shul on Friday evening, as he had learnt from his former master, who used to take my father with him. He had even learnt to read those Hebrew letters in the prayer books. On major holidays – New Year’s Eve (Rosh Hashanah), Yom Kippur, Pesach, Sukkot (when the tents with fruit are built) –, our entire family would go to the shul. The children would play in the courtyard. This was about all the religious life we had. I became familiar with some of the Jewish rituals. We had a rabbi who tried hard to preserve the Jewish way of life; otherwise, we would have dissolved among all those Romanians. For instance, I remember when they gave us wine and the prayer we had to say. ‘Melech’ means ‘king’, ‘Adonai’ means ‘God’, so it’s God, the king of the universe. I can’t say it by heart though. We all went to the synagogue for the large holidays. On Sukkot we built a tent. Ramnicu Valcea is an area rich in fruit. Grapes were wreathed in the walls of the huts. I can’t remember what we ate in those huts. I think Sukkot lasted for 8 days.

My sister is 6 years older than me. The two of us were the only Jewish girls in our high school. After my sister left, I was the only one. She got the school’s first prize for eight years in a row. I only got the second or third prize in my class, never the first. I got the highest average at the admission exam, 9.66, and I graduated in the spring of 1940, with the highest average again, 8.80 – only a classmate of mine, Olguta Popescu, and I had it. [Ed. note: In the Romanian grades system, the maximum grade is 10, while the minimum grade for succeeding at an exam is 5.] The other children didn’t study well, they weren’t good at it. They all went through elementary school, but stumbled over high school. There’s one exception though, Rozeta Saraga, who finished high school and went to college – the Faculty of Geography, I think. She now lives in Israel. There aren’t any Jews left in Ramnicu Valcea today, of course. There was a vocational school for boys. But the girls who were older than 15-16 stayed at home. I remember this family… God, what was their name? Not Adler, but Taubman! Lazar Taubman. My father worked as a shop boy for his father-in-law, Marcu Adler. Then they both became tradesmen. Taubman had two daughters. The elder didn’t even go to high school; she stayed at home with her mother and helped her around the house. They got her married at 17-18. The same thing with the younger. She went to a ‘housekeeping school’; this is how it was called – not apprentices’ school, not vocational school. It was a ‘housekeeping school’ where they taught girls to sew and cook. Because we got all those prizes in school, my sister and I had earned some esteem that had nothing to do with who our father was. For instance, I was in the same class with the daughter of the National Bank’s governor, Iliescu. In a town of 10.000 people, this man was like a king. He lived upstairs from the bank. Once a year I was invited to Irina Iliescu’s birthday party. This made my poor father very proud, because he had never set foot in the house of a dignitary. ‘My girl is going to the governor of the National Bank to visit his daughter! Imagine that!’ I would greet Mr. Iliescu with ‘Saru-mana’ [Ed. note: Old, contracted greeting meaning ‘I kiss your hand’. Its use today may vary with the age, the education, the geographical area and even the gender of the interlocutors, but it is mainly reserved for informal interactions between a man and an older, less educated woman, in which only the man uses it.] At that time, ‘Saru-mana’ was used when addressing men too. What I’m trying to say is that my sister and I became rather famous in Ramnicu Valcea by ourselves.

We took piano lessons from a Russian refugee, Madame Verbinskaia. Her husband had been a colonel. She fled when the Russians came and she ended up in Ramnicu Valcea with her son, while her husband died. She never left our town again. I wasn’t talented and I wasn’t diligent either. Our father also hired a French teacher and a German one – ‘pope’ Mangesius, the protestant minister of Ramnicu Valcea. My sister speaks German beautifully. As for me, they had to catch me first before making me take those lessons. So my German is rather poor. But I speak French well. Then I learnt Russian, because I went to Leningrad. I also learnt English by myself and I can read it – it almost has no grammar and the phrase structure is easy, unlike German, with the subject at the top of the page and the predicate on the following page.

On vacations we didn’t go to the seaside like, for instance, Dr. Zeana, our neighbor. Zeana was arrested by the Legionaries and died in prison. My father would rent a carriage and take us to Calimanesti, or Olanesti, or Ocnele Mari. We left in the morning and came back in the evening. He took the carriage from a cabman’s post, drove it home and took us wherever we wanted. We took the train to Calimanesti, because it was farther away, at about 18 kilometers. There was no station in Calimanesti. We crossed the river on a small ferry. It was very beautiful! My father also sent Grandma, who had rheumatism, to Ocnele Mari for 2-3 weeks every summer. A carriage came and took her there, then brought her back. She took baths there. It was primitive – some wooden cabins with wooden tubs. Grandma took me with her a couple of times.

I read a lot. Our father gave us money to buy books to read, and I read a lot. I acquired this taste for reading in my childhood and I still like to read. My eyes now get tired very fast, but I did read a lot. My father had only attended two years of elementary school, so what could he have possibly read? He could barely write. After finishing the elementary school, my mother went to a private school for four years, and she spoke some French. Her brother from France helped her with her studies as much as he could. But she stopped after they moved to Ramnicu Valcea. At that time, studying was practically impossible for a girl. Come to think of it, I realize they didn’t leave the house for weeks. One of our neighbors was a Turkish landowner, Romulu. There’s a hill in Ramnicu Valcea, Capela, which stretches down to the very center of the town. It’s covered with fir trees and it’s magnificent! Romulu owned a part of this forest, so our house felt like a park. Our courtyard was beautiful – with flowers and trees. From time to time, my mother went to visit other ladies – but she did it quite seldom. She also had them come over. They were both Romanian and Jewish.

I wasn’t allowed to go to the cinema. I shed bitter tears and begged my father to take me, but he was always tired after having spent the entire day at the store. He only came home to eat. He worked hard and he liked to keep the place clean. If the boys didn’t sweep the floors well, he did it himself, so that the customers would be pleased. On Sunday, he was dead beat and felt like sleeping. And I cried: ‘Let’s go to the cinema, father!’ I remember this film called ‘In Old Chicago’ [1937], starring Alice Faye. I bought the ‘Cinema’ magazine and had read about it. Ramnicu Valcea had one of the first cinemas in the country. It was build by an Italian, in 1920 or maybe even earlier. As far as I’m concerned, it had been there for as long as I could remember. It had a hall, a row of ground-floor boxes, and a row of boxes at the upper floor. My father would take me by the hand and we would enter a box. He would hide in a corner and doze. And he even snored sometimes. ‘Father, you are embarrassing me! Stop snoring!’ – ‘I’ll never come here with you again if I’m not even allowed to snore!’ So I let him snore, hoping we would come again.

Then there were the theater tours. A great actor of the National Theater [in Bucharest] Ion Iancovescu was from Ramnicu Valcea. [Ed. note: Ion Iancovescu (1889-1966), actor who became famous in the interwar period, a time when a new conception on art was formed, and when tradition and modernism were combined.]. He came from a noble family who had renounced him because he had become an actor. Much later, when he came on tour with the theater in Ramnicu Valcea, they invited him to dinner, because they had partially forgiven him. Fintesteanu came too [Ed. note: Ion Fintesteanu (1899-1984), actor who became famous in the interwar period.]. We weren’t allowed to go to the theater – this would have got us expelled. If we had been caught at the cinema, we would have got expelled too or banned for a week. But if my father took me, it was okay. We weren’t allowed to go there by ourselves. There was the officers’ ball, and all the youth was there. But we didn’t go, because we weren’t old enough at the time.

Our house had belonged to a nobleman named Bratasanu. He was a widower and agreed to sell us the house if we agreed to look after him. The place had about seven rooms. Three of them or so measured about 36 [square] meters each, and the others measured about 24 [square] meters each. We had a bathroom, which was quite an extraordinary thing at that time. The toilets were inside the house, not at the back of the courtyard. We had plumbing, electricity, and terracotta stoves. Peasants would come and pile firewood in our large courtyard. Then some woodchoppers would spend about two months with us. They would saw the wood and stack it in the basement. We also had a shed, and some of the wood was kept in the courtyard. We burnt enormous amounts of wood and I can’t remember to have ever suffered from cold. Opposite from us lived the daughter of a captain, Ciofaca. The man had three daughters. Two of them were not good at school, but the third became a doctor. She was very clever and determined, and her name was Victoria. We called her Vintu, Vintu Ciofaca. And the captain built this house, which was very beautiful, but didn’t have a bathroom; and the toilet was outside. I don’t know what he was thinking. But the house itself was beautiful. And all the furniture had been made by local carpenters.

During the war

We all came to Bucharest because of the Legionaries, just like King Ferdinand in 1492, were after our fortune. They had no business with us: ‘Go to hell!’ They took over the store with all the merchandise and a safe as large as a bookshelf, only thicker and deeper, where my father kept the money and the papers. So they took everything. Fortunately, my father had saved some money somewhere else, and this is what kept us going during the war. My father had connections with rich tradesmen in Bucharest. They were Jewish, of course. He came here and told them what had happened to him, how he had lost everything. And they told him ‘Come to Bucharest and we’ll find some work for you’. He came back to Ramnicu Valcea and packed everything. Would you believe that we even took our cats with us? We were afraid they would poison them. We filled two or three freight cars with our things. We took everything there was to take, or most of it, anyway. The station master in Ramnicu Valcea was a man named Nitescu. His daughter was my classmate. [The Legionaries came to the station.] ‘These cars don’t belong to Maer Simovici anymore’, Nitescu told them. ‘They are the property of the CFR [The National Railroad Transport Company]. If one single chair is missing, I’ll have to pay for it.’ The poor man spent a day and a night sitting on a chair in front of the cars, guarding us against the rage of the Legionaries. Then, as soon as he could, he routed them to Bucharest. They waited for us there, until my father found the house on Labirint St., and we moved in.

So we moved to Bucharest in 1940. We had our own house, but it was relatively small and had a big shortcoming: the rooms were in a row. The good part is that it had a garden of 1.000 square meters. When my father bought it, he saw that courtyard with fruit trees, the garden, and the roses, and he lost his head. He always remained a country boy. He came to us and told us: ‘I bought a house on Labirint St., and it’s got roses, and apple trees, and quince trees, and…’ But my mother asked: ‘What about the house, Maere? We’re not going to live in the quince trees, you know!’ – ‘Oh, the house is beautiful.’ – ‘How is it?’ The women were disappointed. In order to get to the kitchen, they had to cross the entire place. The ground floor had three rooms, a hallway, and a vestibule, and there were three more rooms in the attic. This was it. When I got married, I lived in one of the rooms upstairs. Apart from that, the house had a bathroom, and terracotta stoves, and all the comfort. Someone in Ramnicu Valcea must have been very kind, because my father even received a compensation for the lost store – I don’t know who did that. I heard this is not the way things happened everywhere.

During the war, my father did forced labor in an economat [Ed. note: (outdated) store within an enterprise or institution whose purpose was to secure basic commodities for the employees and their families], in a ministry. A neighbor of ours got him that position, knowing he had been a tradesman. Back then, all the ministries had economate, small internal stores which supplied the clerks. I don’t know where they got the merchandise from, who delivered it and how they paid for it. My father didn’t get paid for this job – it was forced labor. All the Jews went through this. But at least we didn’t wear the star 5. My sister did forced labor at the Statistics Institute. Did you know that those who were able to submit papers proving they did forced labor – the boys, for instance, had forced labor written in their soldier’s record instead of military service – got a compensation for it? There aren’t many of them still alive, but I personally know two people who got this money. My father worked during the entire war. The Jews from Ramnicu Valcea left [the country]. They all left between 1950 and 1960 6. It’s true, there weren’t many of them. Ten families at the most – maybe twelve, but I wouldn’t bet on it.

Between 1940 and 1944, the Jews were deprived not only of their stores, factories etc., but also of their houses – the beautiful ones, of course. Ours was seized by a colonel, Paraschivescu by his name. He kicked us out of it in a few hours, with all our things. My father went to find another place and came across an apartment on Panduri Dr. It was twice as small. This is how most of our things got scattered. It was only in 1945 that a law was passed while Lucretiu Patrascanu 7 was still a minister in the government. According to this law, Jews could move back to their houses if they offered those who had seized them an apartment to their liking. Luckily for us, col. Paraschivescu had died on the front, and his wife lived alone in our house on Labirint St., which had many rooms and an enormous garden. So she had to accept to move on Panduri Dr., where we had lived after we had been kicked out.

Under the communist regime, my father didn’t have any pension. My sister and I supported him. He lived with my sister. She paid for the utilities – firewood, electricity, gas, all these things –, and I paid for the food. There was no assistance system back then – or it was only at its beginnings. But he died in 1972, before things had got organized. Today, he would have lived like a baron. I would have put him in a home, but he was over 100. This is my father’s story. This is what he did for a living. And this is how we supported him after the war. A cousin of ours – his niece – left to America and sent him parcels from time to time. He got them by mail and sold what was inside. The neighbors knew he got parcels. He would spread the word and they would come to buy things. This is how he survived. Both my parents were buried next to each other at the Sephardic cemetery. My father died in November 1972, and my mother died in December that same year. She passed away weeping for him. A year later, they would have celebrated 60 years of marriage. After he died, my mother said ‘I don’t want to live anymore.’ She wept, and wept, and, one night, she died.

My sister and I started to give lessons during the war. I taught French and German from the age of 16, starting from 1942. My sister gave piano lessons and thus we provided for ourselves. Yes, we stopped asking money from our father. Of course, we still lived at home, and ate what our father brought, but you know very well how many other things a girl needs. I once asked him for money to go to the opera, and that made him mad: ‘If I could live to be 50 without going to the opera, why would you need to go?’ During the war, all our friends were Jews. After the war, we also had Romanian friends. The houses had courtyards and 10-12 of us would gather there to chat and laugh – we were kids. After the war, the Jewish children didn’t keep in touch, because we all went to different colleges and met new people. We didn’t visit one another anymore. During the war, we saw one another very often. We weren’t allowed to go to the pool. Tineretului Park had a big sign: ‘Jidanii [offensive word for Jews] and dogs not allowed to the pool’. We couldn’t even go to the pool during the war. We didn’t go anywhere, and I think we wouldn’t have been allowed to anyway. We spent most of our time at home. Sometimes we went to the Herastrau Lake and took a boat. No one there asked us if we were Jews. But there was no way they would have let us to the pool. Then, after the war, a whole different life began. But we had fun before the war too. We danced and all. We had big houses and we all came from families that had had a good situation before.

We had two pianos. Here, in Bucharest, my father bought the second one using money from our dowry. It was a Bluthner, an extraordinary piano, a renowned brand. Our house was visited by Sergiu Comissiona [Sergiu Comissiona (1928-2005): Jewish conductor active in Romania, founder and conductor of the chamber orchestra of Ramat Gan (Israel). He settled in the US. After conducting numerous orchestras in America and Europe, he returned to Romania after 1989, where he conducted the ‘George Enescu’ Philharmonic Orchestra and the Symphonic Orchestra of the Radio Broadcasting Company in Bucharest.], who was a 13-year-old boy studying at the ‘[Alberto] della Pergola’ Jewish Conservatoire, and by many others who also went to the Conservatoire, like Julien Musafia. Watching them, I acquired my musical education. This is what they did. When concerts were held at the Baraseum theater [the building of the Jewish State Theater] 8, the soloist had his piano, while the part of the orchestra was played by a second pianist, using the other piano. This thing is done. Sergiu Comissiona, who is now a world class conductor, was the boy of a very rich banker. Although we were in a war, he wore lacquer shoes. Dan Mizrahy [Dan Mizrahy (n. 1926): concert pianist with a refined perception of the musical styles (Bach, Gershwin etc.). He was also interviewed by Centropa.] came too. He is now very old, but he was a great concert pianist specialized in Gershwin. He is the best Gershwin performer of all times in Romania. Mizrahi is a Spanish Jew too. Julien Musafia is a Spanish Jew too. Then there was Mandru Katz [Ed. note: Mandru Katz (1928-1978): He became well known after the war. He is the representative of a Romanian piano school led by Florica Musicescu. He continued his career in Israel, after he emigrated.]. I think Katz died. He was a Moldavian boy as poor as a church mouse and a great teacher from the Romanian Conservatoire heard him play. Her name was Musicescu; she bought him a piano. He placed a piano in the middle of their cottage. It was unbelievable! He had a great career, but he died at a relatively young age. I don’t know what happened to him. His name was Mandru Katz. He later got himself another name, but this is the only one I can remember.

My sister, Julieta, was a pianist. She went to the Conservatoire, but she didn’t do concerts. She was the pianist of the gymnastics team – this is what she did for a living. She was with them at the Munich Olympics, when the terrorists killed the Israeli delegation [Ed. note: On 5th September 1972, in the Olympic Village in Munich, 5 Arabian terrorists killed 11 Israeli athletes and a German policeman.] Panic spread to our delegation and they told her not to go out anymore. But they couldn’t have known that the pianist of the Romanian gymnastics team was Jewish, so she came back home safe and sound. She went to the Rome Olympics, to a competition in [North] Korea, to Poland many times, to Bulgaria – in all the socialist countries. She followed the team everywhere. She was also a corepetitor [Ed. note: Person who accompanies at the piano, at rehearsals or during concerts, recitals and performances, an instrumentalist, a dancer etc.]. In 1944 she married a doctor, Iosif Rosman. They had a wedding at the temple, a beautiful wedding. Then there was a party at the ‘Cismigiu’ restaurant, on the avenue. I don’t know if that restaurant is still there – it was near ‘Gambrinus’. My sister remained in the house on Labirint St. Our parents died, and, of course, so did our grandmother. My sister lived with her husband. He died in 1976, one year before the earthquake. Her daughter got married and gave birth to a boy in 1977. So my sister now lived with her daughter, her son-in-law, and her grandson. They submitted papers to leave for Israel and, after a while, they got the approval. Things moved slowly. Meanwhile, their house was demolished. But they were given a new place, although they had already applied for emigration. They didn’t leave them in the middle of the street. They demolished them, and gave them an apartment in the Dristor area. They were assigned a three-room apartment near the Izvorul Nou cemetery. Their street, Complexului St., bordered the cemetery’s wall. It was a nice place, at the third floor. They lived there for two more years, until they got their papers. They sold half of what there was to sell, and gave the other half to the neighbors. In January 1989, my sister, her daughter, her son-in-law, and her grandson left for Israel. At the end of that same year, the revolution 9 came. 16 years have passed since she left. She adapted herself to the new place; she lives in the capital of the Neghev desert. The temperature there can reach 39 degrees Centigrade in the blink of an eye during the day; but the nights are much cooler than in Bucharest. I asked her to stay here. She couldn’t part with her grandson and her daughter – naturally, this love beats the love for a sister. We write to each other twice a week. It takes about a week for a letter to get from here to there or vice-versa. If I don’t write for more than three of four days, she calls me to make sure I’m not dead.

My life continued in a beautiful manner. I went to the Jewish school in Bucharest, where I studied for four years, from the age of 15 to the age of 18. I got a prize – it’s on a nice piece of parchment and I still have it. So I first studied for four years in Ramnicu Valcea, I graduated there, then I went to secondary school at the Jewish High School in Bucharest [called ‘Cultura’] 10, between 1940 and 1944. Our graduation certificate was worthless, as the State didn’t recognize it. But the high school was approved by the State, and you can imagine the kind of money contributed by the [Jewish] Community to the Legionary State for all those children. Romania had almost one million Jews. There are only a few thousand left today. A very sad thing goes on here at the Club too: from September until now, five people died. We are dying. We’re old, sick, and worn out. My chance came in 1944, when I finished high school and I passed the graduation exam. It was during the bombings. [Ed. note: As a result of the events of 23rd August 1944 – when Romania left the war against the Allies and joined them against Hitler – the Germans unleashed a general attack against Bucharest, on Hitler’s order. Between 24th and 28th August 1944, Bucharest, Prahova Valley and many other places in the country saw fierce fighting. By 28th August, the German resistance in Bucharest had been defeated.] I was always a good student. My father said that a bombing would catch me on my way from home to school. ‘To hell with the graduation exam, it’s no use to you anyway!’ – ‘Oh, come on, let me pass it!’ My results weren’t too bright – my average was 7.76 or so. To be honest, I hadn’t studied too hard, because I knew that certificate didn’t mean much. But I thought I’d pass the exam anyway. Shortly after, the truce of 23rd August 11 came, and Jews were once again admitted to public schools.

Another misfortune which occurred at the beginning of the war was the fact that Jews were confiscated their radio sets. We shed bitter tears for ours. They only returned them to us after the war. I joined the Party because, in the fall of 1944, I had become a citizen with equal rights again. I was admitted to college. After I had been kicked out of my home and of the Romanian public schools, my education and my certificate were finally recognized. I passed the graduation exam in the summer of 1944. It started at 6 p.m., because the city was bombed during the day. There were many tests. But I was determined, and I got my certificate. When I took it to the University, at the Science Faculty, the clerk examined it and signed me up. It was then that I said to myself that a new regime had begun; a regime where all the citizens were equal. I didn’t want to be above the others, I just wanted things to be the way they were before the war, when we were seen as human beings. This is why I joined the Party, because I thought we owed them this. I did it out of conviction. I didn’t know they would send me to the USSR with a scholarship, and I had no idea there would be certain advantages for members.

After the war

Right after the war, we joined a progressive organization and went to a camp in Cristian, near Sibiu. This is where I met Vasile. We spent a month there. We met and we stayed together for good. We waited for two years, because I was still underage, and I needed my parents’ approval to get married. So we waited. Since I married a Romanian, there was no religious ceremony. Most of the Jewish youths joined the Party while it was still underground. We persuaded one another. A classmate would disappear and come back after two weeks! I had been married for a year when my father finally realized Vasile was a good boy and that we loved each other. His greatest fear was that I would quit college and nothing good would come out of me. And he felt sorry for all my years spent in school, with brilliant results. So he bought me an apartment on Colentina Dr., very close to the Club [Ed. note: the Jewish Club in the Colentina neighborhood, on Ripiceni St., where members meet in order to spend their spare time together.], where I have been living since 1948 and where I hope I’ll die.

I entered college. I went to the Natural Sciences Faculty. There was no Geology Faculty in the beginning. When I got to the 3rd year, the Geology department was opened by a number of Natural Sciences graduates who had specialized in geology at oil companies abroad. We had an extraordinary corps of geologists; our oil geologists were even world class experts, like Gheorghe Paliuc, chief-geologist at Astra Romana. The Russians took oil from us by the tank – no arguing about that! The German war machine ran on Romanian oil. When we broke the alliance with the Germans, on 23rd August, we left them without oil, because none of their other allies had any. And it is absolutely true that this shortened the war with 6 months. And poor Paliuc launched the theory that the oil deposits were exhausted. He drew up a report to make the Russians stop stealing – stealing is what they were doing, because they demanded almost the entire oil production of the country! Someone denounced him and he was sentenced to hard years in prison because he had been a patriot and had tried to protect the country’s oil. This is how things went back then.

Then there was the Geology Institute. I was in the first graduating class that also had girls. There were three of us. We studied well, of course. One of our professors was Ion Athanasiu. He looked at us as if we were little more than bugs! He was interested in the boys. When I entered college, exams were not on fixed dates. We could go to classes for years without passing one single exam; or we could pass as many as we felt like, whenever we felt like. When I got to the 3rd year, an order came to block the exams. If you hadn’t succeeded at 75% of the exams, you had to repeat the 1st or 2nd year. Thus, out of the 300 students admitted in the 1st year, only 9 reached the 4th year. So I finished college. What were they to do with us now? The boys were immediately assigned based on the professor’s recommendation. There was no committee in charge with this. Those who had studied well and had earned the professor’s trust were sent to the Geology Institute. As for us, the girls, he told every one of us: ‘What am I supposed to do with you, Miss? How will you go on the field?’ And we looked like three frightened chickens.

He sent one of the girls, Bebe Carnaru – may God rest her soul – to the Micropaleontology Department. There was only laboratory work to do, not field trips. As I was more energetic, he told me: ‘Go to Professor Macovei.’ He was the dean of the Romanian geologists and a member of the Academy. He could go to Gheorghiu-Dej 12 unannounced, and Gheorghiu-Dej stood up when he entered his office. This is the kind of prestige this man enjoyed! He wrote the first treatise on the geology of the oil deposits, published in France: ‘Les gisements de petrole (geologie, statisticque, economie)’ [‘The oil deposits (geology, statistics, economics)’]. He was a great professor of an extreme severeness – all the students dreaded him! ‘Go to Mr. Macovei and tell him I sent you.’ So I went. The others were amazed: ‘Who do you think you are to go to Macovei?’ I was already married. But I called Professor Macovei and told him Mrs. Mira Tudor would come to ask him whether he could find her some position, wherever he wanted, doing whatever he wanted; I told him I had been a good student and all. I knocked on his door; they didn’t have secretaries back then, so he answered himself: ‘Enter.’ He was short, but had a very strong torso. When he sat, he looked like a colossus. I stopped between the door jambs and didn’t make another step into the room. ‘Good afternoon, Professor.’ He looked at me. ‘What do you want?’ – ‘I am Mira Tudor. Professor Athanasiu told me to come to you.’ – ‘What? You’re Mrs. Mira Tudor? What, you’re married?’ – ‘Yes, Professor.’ – ‘And how old are you?’ – ‘Well, I’m 22; I finished college. I studied for four years.’ Then I thought he found me unappealing – I wasn’t too noticeable, I wasn’t pretty, and I hadn’t dressed up or anything. ‘What am I to do with you? I feel sorry for Jenica, who recommended you. What to do?’ He took the phone and talked to a professor, Pauca; he taught paleontology at the Institute of Geology and Mining Technology, and he also had a part-time job as the chief-geologist of the ‘Grigore Antipa’ Museum – this was possible back then. ‘Listen, Pauca, I’m sending you Mrs. Mira Tudor – but his voice showed that he was making fun of me – to work with you.’ The man asked him where. Macovei said ‘Put her at the collection, at Antipa.’

Mr. Pauca put a duster in my hand, and this is how I became a tutor, starting my career in higher education. I wiped the dust off those rocks for a long time. The geology section is in the basement; it’s very nice and very neatly organized. Eventually, Mr. Macovei remembered me: ‘How’s that girl?’ Pauca said: ‘Dusting the collection.’ – ‘Take her with you at the practical classes. Have her carry the trays,’ – the practical classes used samples of rocks – ‘maybe she got to know the rocks during all this time. Tell her to make you a collection for the Triassic, to see how she handles it.’ I was horrified the first time I entered the auditorium carrying the tray behind the professor. But he began to see that I was serious, that I worked well, I was interested and I liked it, so the next fall, after several geologists had refused to go to the Soviet Union for further specialization, I was the one who said yes. The offer had been turned down by two people before it reached me. I wasn’t sent to the USSR because I was a Party member. Those who had refused, Dragos Vasile and Ionel Motas, weren’t Party members. My husband and I were the only Party members [in my family].

I studied for 3 years in the Soviet Union. The University of Leningrad is called Twelve United Colleges. A very long corridor with auditoriums, labs, collections. It was very nice. I lived in a hostel, in a room of five. They put me amidst Russian girls. I couldn’t speak Russian at all. There were other Romanian girls there too, but in other colleges. One of them was Eva Ban, a student in History. Lili – I forgot her last name – was in History too, I think. We would have liked to live together and speak Romanian among us. But they didn’t let us. The Russian girls kept talking in Russian until they got the language in my head. I happen to have a certain degree of talent when it comes to foreign languages. And, out of despair, I had to learn it. I wrote a thesis in Russian. The Romanian State paid us – we had a good scholarship, we lived well, and the food at the canteen was all right. I got along well with the teaching staff. They appreciated the basic training I had acquired in college. I didn’t just go there like a total idiot. They helped me a lot. The professor who coordinated my thesis was very demanding. When I introduced myself I asked him if he spoke French. ‘Njet!’, he said. ‘German?’ – ‘Njet!’ I couldn’t speak any other language. I came back to my room and chatted with the Romanian girls: ‘Who has ever heard of such a nitwit? He’s a university professor, but he doesn’t speak any foreign language.’ This could not be said about our former professors in Romania, who did speak foreign languages. I later found out he spoke German better than I did. Russian is a language with a rather difficult grammar and tremendously rich. Its nuances can confuse you; add a prefix and the meaning of the word changes completely.

My first winter there happened to be a very harsh one. The cold was so intense that it made me cry, and the tears formed a small icicle. When I first tried to remove it, I pulled it together with my eyelashes and the pain was excruciating. There was a Siberian man, a lad as big as a bear, who said: ‘Now that’s a real Russian winter!’ I swore in my mind. This is where I had to put on some real clothes. I wore valenki, felt boots, with overshoes. It was after the war. We hadn’t taken many clothes with us. I bought an overcoat with money from my scholarship. I could afford it. I also wore two shawls sewn together.

But those were nice years. Some of my fellow-students became great personalities after they came back. Many of them were ministers: Bujor Almasan (Ministry of Mines), Marinescu (Healthcare), Popescu (Forests or something like that). Some of them were rectors. They got very good positions when they returned.

[In Russia] we weren’t allowed to leave the city. It was under Stalin’s regime. I finished before he died. Stalin died on 5th March 1953, and I came home in January 1953. All we were allowed to do was take the bus and go to a resort situated to the north of the city, similar to Baneasa [Ed. note: The Baneasa forest, located 10 kilometers away from Bucharest, is a recreation area in the vicinity of the capital. A special attraction is the zoo, with several hundreds species of animals.] We would ride the Finnish sleigh there. There was a chair on which one would sit. It had a back. The soles of the sleigh were long enough to make room for a second person to stand behind the chair. This person would push the sleigh, and then jump on it. I fell so many times! Back in Ramnicu Valcea, we used to call the sleigh ‘tarlie’. We rode it on the Capela hill.

It was nice in Russia, and going there was a good thing to do. After they invaded Romania [Ed. note: On 30th August 1944 the first Soviet units entered Bucharest. German resistance was eliminated on Prahova Valley, in Brasov, and in Dobrogea. Measures were taken to protect the western frontiers and to prevent possible Nazi advancements in Banat and southern Transylvania.], Romanians developed a fierce hatred for them, because of how they behaved… From my point of view, Russians brought us freedom of education, so I had nothing against them. A lot of Jews left the country at that time. But we belonged to the second echelon [as candidates for a scholarship to the USSR]. The people in Leningrad asked for two new names, because they still had two places to fill, according to the agreement [the other geologists had refused to go]. They had reserved two places for Geology, and they expected two people. This is how this girl, who was Jewish too, and I got to Leningrad. We lived in the same hostel with Paul Popescu Neveanu, a psychologist. The teacher of Russian made us study grammar a little bit, so that we could utter intelligible phrases. We understood each other very well, but the Russians had no idea what we said. She made us study with a teacher who was a nitwit. We read phrases from the abridged history of the Russian Communist Party. Popescu was a lady’s man, he was nice and full of energy: ‘How am I supposed to pick up a lady using words from the Party’s history?!’ He was so nice! He did a very good job after he returned to Romania. Milan Popovic was there too. He became the manager of CEC [The National Savings Bank] and changed his name to Mircea Popovici. He was a Serbian and I don’t know why he made that change. I remember many others. Saragea was the first manager of the Jewish home for the elderly. If she were still alive, I would have moved there. She would have given me my own room, that’s for sure. ‘Don’t worry,’ she told me, ‘your old days are secured.’ But Saragea died.

I came back with a post-graduate degree in Sciences. I studied very well there and got 10 at all the exams. They made me a lecturer right away. It was a terrible mistake, just terrible! I had no teaching experience whatsoever. Imagine showing up in front of an auditorium full of nasty students to lecture them… In fact, this is not that hard, because you do all the talking; but, during the practical classes, they ask you all sorts of questions and try to catch you off-guard. But I did like my father did: I didn’t pretend to know more than I knew. If I didn’t know the answer to a question, I told them honestly: ‘Look, I don’t know, but I’ll look it up, I’ll do some research, and I’ll tell you next time.’ They appreciated that. And I really told them things like ‘Dear, I never heard about this in my entire life.’ Frankly. They got to love me because we went on field trips. We spent a whole month on hills, valleys, under the rain, in the mud, under the sun. I was a communicative, optimistic, and cheerful nature, and I admit they became very fond of me. This spring I was invited to the 50th anniversary of a graduation class – I had just returned from the USSR when they were still in school. My point is that, after all these years, they could pretend they don’t know me when crossing me in the street. But they stop me and they are happy to see me. And this brings me an enormous satisfaction. Enormous!

I could tell you many stories about my student days. God, so many things happened in Russia! My life was filled with events. Mr. Macovei ended up loving me. After I came back, he started calling me ‘Russian girl!’ Not Mira, not Tudor, not anything else. Even if we were in the corridor and there were students watching, he still called me ‘Russian girl’. I adored him too. He set the direction, to say so. When I came back from the USSR, I possessed three great disadvantages: I was a Party member, I was Jewish, and I had studied in Russia. I had to overcome these three handicaps. It took me more than one year or two. After four or five years, my colleagues finally realized what kind of person I was; and I started to enjoy some appreciation from the students too. Then my life continued in a nice way.

I spent 35 years in the same department, between 1948 and 1983. I think this says a lot. I didn’t have to change my workplace, I didn’t have any conflicts. I was the only Jew in the entire faculty. I didn’t try to hide it. It would have been foolish to pretend I was Romanian just because my husband was. They knew I was Jewish, but didn’t mind. Mr. Macovei was followed by another Academy member, Murgeanu, who loved me too. Then came the third head of the department, Theodor Joja; he also loved me. They were all fond of me, they protected me, and they prevented any tendency of anti-Semitic manifestations towards me. I couldn’t say they all loved Jews, because I would be lying. But if some of them were anti-Semites, I never felt it. I only had a problem once. The Romanian Geology lecture was free, and Mr. Joja said ‘Let’s give it to Mira Tudor’. It was a very difficult and rather boring lecture. In general, geology is not a fun subject. A lecturer – God forgive him, for I did – rose against this suggestion: ‘Why would she of all people hold the lecture on Romanian Geology?’ He meant that a Jew didn’t fit the profile. Poor Dragos had it coming – they all were against him. Ionel Motas, who was my assistant, told me about it: ‘Dragos had better swallowed his tongue than speak his mind.’ I held the lecture in honorable conditions.

But the time when things got really nice was during the practical stages. It wasn’t just because of me; it was the entire staff who took part in this. We would take the students on a field trip for an entire month and I can tell you stories for hours and hours. In July we went to Maneciu Ungureni, on Teleajen Valley. We first took larger groups, of 15 students, and examined the area; then we took smaller groups, of 6-7 students, and drew the geological map of the region. So we started for zero and ended up sketching the geology of that area. When the month was over, the students had learnt what geology was all about. This technique had been conceived by professors Macovei and Murgeanu – we only learnt from them and passed it on to the students. I have no merit in this – I only did well what they taught me to do. 19 years after I retired, I was awarded an honorary diploma for my contribution to the development of geology and geological education in Romania. It was very nice of them to remember me. At that time, I wasn’t doing very well financially, so I said: ‘What do I need a diploma for? They could have given me some money instead.’ But I admit that I was delighted to get it.

Let’s get back to my family life. We adopted a little boy, because I couldn’t bear children. We had a nice marriage – we loved each other and we lived well – so we adopted this little boy from ‘Sfanta Ecaterina’ orphanage on Kiseleff Dr., near the Triumphal Arch [Ed. note: Bucharest’s Triumphal Arch was initially made of wood in 1922. In 1935-1936 it was rebuilt from concrete and granite on the same spot. The 27-meter-high monument is dedicated to the victory of the Romanian armies in World War I.]. We picked a dark-haired boy, because Vasile was also dark-haired, and we wanted the boy to resemble us a little. We raised him and gave him all our love, as you can imagine. But the child was an alcoholic’s offspring. His mother had died in childbirth, and his father hadn’t shown any interest in him. It was only much later that I found out his natural father was a drunkard. We were stupid communists: education is everything, heredity is crap. That’s a communist theory! We raised him as well as we could, but he started drinking at 14. He was 9 when we got divorced. Vasile continued to care about the boy, then about the grandson, until he died. So, at about the age of 14, he went ‘Mother, give me five lei to have a brandy.’ He went to the Caragiale High School. ‘We’ll just have a brandy.’ I thought that was odd, and I told my husband that Marcel had started to drink. ‘Well, all the boys drink at his age.’ So neither of us paid any attention to this. He died as an alcoholic with a lung disease, before he turned 51.

Vasile’s parents had joined the Party in its underground days. They believed in communism. His father was a worker. There were nine children in their house – six girls and three boys. They adopted me with love. They were simple people who lived in a house whose floor was the ground itself. They didn’t have any problem with the fact that I was a Jew, no way. We adopted Marcel. The Party gave them an apartment. They took them out of that poor house on Gherase Dr. – here, in Colentina –, and gave them a place in Dorobanti, in a house that wasn’t even nationalized, but simply seized. The owner was kicked out and Vasile’s parents got to move in. Marcel was very cute. Being adopted and not having a natural mother, they all treated him with extra sympathy and love. In photos, my mother-in-law is surrounded by a pack of grandchildren, but it’s my boy that she holds on her knees. He was everyone’s favorite when he was little. My mother-in-law, who was illiterate, had a sparkle of genius. They came from a village on Ialomita Valley. She told me: ‘Look, you’ll send him to school this year, and I can tell he won’t study well, and you’ll beat him because he’ll upset you, and all the neighbors will tell him «She’s beating you because you were adopted».’ – ‘So what am I supposed to do?’ – ‘We’ll give you our house in Dorobanti,’ – which had gas – ‘and you’ll give us your place in Colentina’ – which my father had bought me with the money from the compensation, and which had stoves. They made this sacrifice for us and for that child. After living for 10 years in Colentina, I moved on Naum Ramniceanu St., where I stayed from 1958 until 1974, when the initial owner rightfully claimed his house back. I didn’t argue with him. Vasile’s parents were dead, so it was no problem for me to move back.

Vasile was born in the commune of Mihai Viteazu, on Ialomita Valley. His family moved to Bucharest when he was a child. There were nine children. They all got married and they were all Party activists. Their father had been with the Party since its underground period. He had been involved in a lot of trials; he had been arrested and released. The older children had also been involved in communist underground activities. After 23rd August, they were not among those who were given important positions, mainly because they were uneducated – they had only been to elementary school. One of the girls was luckier though. In the underground period, she was the Party secretary for the entire Dobrogea region. She later worked for the Central Committee [of the Romanian Communist Party] – I don’t know what she did there. The other girls got small clerk jobs: one worked for the Presidency, one was a hairdresser. One of them spent most of her time at home because her husband had a nice career and became a general. The youngest boy went to the military school. There were three boys in my husband’s family. Vasile was the oldest boy. Before him, four girls had been born. Then came two more girls, and then the second boy, Nicu. He died on 8th November, fighting in Palace Sq. In 1945, on the King’s name day [King Michael] 13, many people had gathered to support him. The communist workers came in trucks, there was fighting, and Nicu was badly beat. He could barely crawl back home, where he died. [Ed. note: On King Michael’s name day on 8th November 1945, a large pro-monarchist and anticommunist rally took place. On the order of the procommunist government, soldiers opened fire and many arrests were conducted.] He was buried in a heroes’ plot, at the Ghencea cemetery, the military section. The youngest boy, Ion, is now 70-71. He went tot the military school, then they sent him to Leningrad, at about the same time when I was there. He attended a Communications Academy, as he was an officer. He married a Russian woman and brought her to Romania. He got promoted all the way to colonel. He was already a colonel when his son was born. An order then came: all the officers who were married to Russian women had to divorce them and send them back home. I believe it was still during the regime of Gheorghiu-Dej 12, but I can’t remember the year. He went to the general and said: ‘I will not divorce her. I have a child with this woman, and we love each other. I’ll give up the army and find a civilian job, because I’m an engineer.’ Many of them were cowardly enough to yield: they divorced and sent their women back to the USSR. That was a horrible thing to ask, but they did it because they were afraid. Iancu wasn’t afraid – we called him Iancu. It’s true, he relied on the fact that he came from a powerful family of communists and that they couldn’t touch him with anything else. He told them: ‘I am not getting a divorce, because I have a closely united family and no one in our family has ever got divorced. Why should I do it?’ Well, this was Vasile’s family. The only ones still living are a sister who is 89 years old or so, and this Iancu. All the others are dead. Their children got married and have children of their own. Many of these grandchildren are abroad – mostly Canada. Some of them are in America, and one got to Mexico. They spread in many places – they were a very large family. They all went to college and became engineers and doctors.

Vasile’s brothers distributed communist leaflets. This was no big deal, but they organized youth balls which attracted other people to the movement. They were workers’ balls, neighborhood balls, nothing fancy. But, in any case, they were under surveillance. Their house was watched. They kept going in and out of prison. My mother-in-law was a very reliable and courageous woman. Sure, she wasn’t happy about her husband being a communist and about the fact that they often had nothing to eat, but she didn’t say a word. She didn’t oppose the idea that her sons get involved in politics either. Four Jews became members of their family: myself, the husbands of two of Vasile’s sisters, and the husband of one of Vasile’s nieces. But no one treated us any differently from the rest. I don’t have recent news about them. Vasile used to come here and tell me about them. I would ask him how this or that member of the family was. People didn’t go to the theater or the cinema back then. We went to his mother’s, to Dorina’s, to Aurica’s, and the whole pack met there to spend an entire Sunday. Or they came here. This extendable table for 24 people was hardly enough. I had to add a bench on this side. These reunions were very pleasant. My father-in-law – God rest his soul – used to bring one or two demijohns of good wine, and we would party. A very united family. Today, when the fourth generation awakes, cousins barely know one another.

Our marriage didn’t last for too long – only 15 years. But those 15 years were very happy years for me. He fell in love with someone else, I couldn’t put up with him having relationships here and there, and I filed for divorce. Maybe that was a mistake. Today, at the age of 80, I’m not sure anymore. However, the last person he called one hour before he died was me. We stayed friends and he took care of me all his life and this says a lot. He was a quality man. The fact that he fell in love with someone else is something that just happened; you can’t control that – you either love or you don’t.

In 1974 I moved back to this place. Vasile used his Party connections to get me gas. This happened in 1974. The house has all the comfort you need, but it’s too much for my retirement pension. Marcel evolved thanks to Vasile’s determination and attention. He came here almost every day; he made him finish high school, get his certificate, and sent him to the Physical Culture Institute, because he had a talent for sports. He lived with me until he finished college. He went to the army, then he was assigned to a sports school on Avrig St. He was a hockey and swimming coach. In 1976, because of the heavy drinking, he had degraded himself, so I told Vasile: ‘I can’t take it anymore. I’ll quit my job, I’ll become a maid and I’ll leave for Israel. I can no longer live with Marcel.’ Vasile used his connections again to find him an apartment on Ilie Pintilie St., today Iancu de Hunedoara, near the Presidency of the Council. He got married. We made him a beautiful wedding. The girl came from Ploiesti, from a family of nice, hard-working people. She only stayed with him from June till September. She went back to her parents’ without a bag, without a sack, without anything. She told me: ‘I’m not going back to him.’ He used to come home drunk. After a few years he married again. This time, it wasn’t a quality woman: her father was a drunkard too. Since they were planning to get married, I told her: ‘Mariana, beware: Marcel is a drunkard.’ She moved in with him. ‘Don’t marry him, because it will do you no good. He’s a drunkard and he gets violent when he drinks.’ – ‘But he doesn’t come home drunk every night.’ She saw Vasile and I had good material situations, so she thought ‘So what if he drinks?’, and she made him a baby. She left him after 10 years, when the boy was 6. Marcel told me: ‘Mother, will you take Valentin? Mariana left and I don’t know what to do with him.’ So I took him. I have a very nice grandson and the two of us make a funny couple: an 80-year-old and a 20-year-old just don’t fit together. But, of course, there are feelings between us. His mother wasn’t a very good mother from the beginning, so he spent most of his time at my place. He loved this house and he still does.

After I retired, I worked for ONT [The National Travel Office], between 1983 and 1991, for Russian-speaking groups exclusively. For 8 years I ate at restaurants and I went to every corner of this country. I don’t mean to brag, but I was better than the other guides because I had been throughout the country as a geologist and I knew things that the others couldn’t have known. I was also requested for French groups, because they saw I was a good guide. But I preferred the Russians. They were more disciplined. They sorted them very well before letting them leave the country.

In 1969 a wind of freedom started to blow in Romania. Ceausescu 14 began to let us go abroad. Well, it was easier for those with a clean past. I had a clean past, because I wasn’t a former landowner and no member of my family was a political prisoner. I applied for a passport and, with some help from my former husband, who was a Party activist, I got it. Thus I could see the entire Europe. I left in 1969, in 1971, and in 1973. We were only allowed to leave every other year. In 1969 I went to Hungary, Austria, West Germany, Switzerland, and Italy. In 1971 I saw Hungary, Austria, France, Belgium, and Holland. The third time I went to Bulgaria, Greece, and Turkey. We were lucky. You needed money in order to go abroad, hard currency that is, and we didn’t have any. We didn’t have relatives abroad to send us money, or to lodge us. But we took the tent and we camped. In 1969, one camping night cost $1 and $2 in the most expensive place. I filed a request, after having received the approval of the University Party Committee. Vasile sped up the process of getting the visa. There was this family, the Ionescus, and Vasile told them: ‘I’ll help you too, but you’ll have to take Mira with you.’ So I went with them by car. We stopped wherever we wanted and visited whatever we wanted. At that time, you couldn’t get more than $50 per person from ONT for a trip abroad; so the three of us had a total of $150. But this money meant something. We had enough to pay for gas. I had a certificate proving I was a member of the teaching body. This allowed me to enter all the public museums in Italy for free. I had to pay the fee at the Vatican though. I also paid the funicular ticket to climb the Vesuvius, and I paid in some other places too. But I got admitted for free in most of the museums. These were my trips with this family abroad.

In the last trip – Bulgaria, Greece, Turkey – I went with the Soare family. They were both professors at our institute. He got involved in Party work and became our London ambassador between 1976 and 1979. She died this Christmas. First of all, let me tell you that places that looked to me like resorts were mere villages. But do you know what villas and gardens they had? Where were our fences made of planks? In Austria and Germany they don’t have fences between properties and dogs barking at you at the gate. I didn’t see one single cow in all Switzerland. I mean, their roads make detours, these are tourist countries. The Carpathians are not less beautiful than the Alps, only less tall – but the roads in the Alps are a dream! We went to Austria, to Tyrol, and took the funicular at Innsbruck, at over 3,000 meters. I thought I would die because it was moving so fast along a steep wall, and I said: ‘Titi, where is our funicular in Poiana Brasov? I think I won’t make it to the top in this one!’ It was very beautiful. The villas, the restaurants, everything was embellished. We mostly have wild nature here in Romania. You walk for hours in the Retezat Mt. without seeing one single villa with flowers, or a restaurant, or a bar – not to get drunk, but to have something refreshing. I don’t know how things look today, because I haven’t climbed the mountains for 25-30 years. I went to Crucea, to Caraiman, to Pietrele Doamnei, in Rarau. I didn’t go there with my students because we studied sedimentary rocks. And, at those altitudes, one can only find eruptive or metamorphic rocks. We worked in the hills and we were interested in oil and coal. These are not to be found in the mountains, but in the hills.

We couldn’t have missed the 1st May and the 23rd August events. Those who say they didn’t go lie. Do you know how nice it was? There were kiosks selling sausages and fruit that were hard to find the rest of the year. We took our sacks with us. We were summoned at 6 a.m. only to get in front of the platform at 11 a.m. But it was fun. I played with the students and it was enjoyable. I went because I wanted to. It was hard for me to wake up, but then I came home, boiled the sausages, and laid the table – two sausages per person on that occasion.

I went to patriotic labor. I went with my students to husk corn at Baia, in Dobrogea, and we stayed for a whole month – the month of October, which was a month of school. The cold had begun. It was a collective farm and they offered us rooms with mice, bugs and everything. We had to adapt. We, the geologists, were used to field conditions: we often stayed in country houses, with the toilet at the back of the courtyard, so I didn’t mind. The students had fun, played games, threw corn at one another, made dolls out of corn; they were in a very good mood.

The creation of the State of Israel made me glad. There was a reunion in the hall of the ‘Savoi’ Variety Theater, on Victoriei Ave. Vasile got us an invitation for two and we went. Speeches were held and the Israeli anthem, ‘Hatikvah’ 15, was played. It was exciting. I was very happy. But I never considered emigrating. I didn’t have any relatives there [during the communist regime]; my entire family was here, including my parents.

Romania never broke the diplomatic relations with Israel. When all the socialist countries did it, Ceausescu didn’t. There was no conflict. Ceausescu wanted to act as a mediator between the Arabs and Israel. Of course, he wasn’t too successful, because both sides were too stubborn. He only did it to attract attention. But he didn’t break the relations. Under his regime, armies of Romanian artists went to Israel: Stela Popescu, Arsinel, Piersic, orchestras. They were very well received, halls were crowded, and the Romanians wept at their shows. [Ed. note: Stela Popescu (b. 1938 in Bessarabia), actress; Alexandru Arsinel (b. 1939 in Dolhasca, Suceava County), actor; Florin Piersic (b. 1939 in Cluj-Napoca), actor. The three of them went on tours abroad with comic plays, sketches and variety shows for the Romanian diaspora.] They took them shopping, they dressed them, they gave them presents. We had very good relations with Israel.

I only went to Israel once, in 1993. It’s nice. I met some of the people from Ramnicu Valcea. Those were very exciting encounters, for we hadn’t seen one another since 1940, the year when we left Ramnic. They sometimes send me $20 or $50. I am very deeply rooted here. I have my lifelong friends whom I have known for 60 or for 40 years. What can I do at this age? Whom can I make friends with in Israel? And I don’t speak the language either. I never considered moving there. But I enjoyed going there and I liked the place. Israel is something built on sand and sandstone, with no rivers. Jerusalem has a very nice hilly landscape – you go up and down, up and down. I think it’s located at 700 meters of altitude, with a climate resembling that of Breaza [town on Prahova Valley]. The temperature inside didn’t exceed 25 degrees Centigrade, and we didn’t have air conditioning. I had to cover myself at night. Here I would take my skin off me at night.

In the beginning, the 1989 revolution made me very happy. For us, the intellectuals, the lack of communication with the Western world had been a major issue. We didn’t get specialized books of magazines. We did have some tacit agreements with magazines coming from America, but we didn’t get enough. And the Ceausescu family was against the translations from the universal literature. I started to get books in English from abroad and this is how I learnt English. It was because of them. I now have a very nice library of English books. So I was happy. I thought we would be able to buy books travel abroad without fearing they wouldn’t let us. But the result was that we’re so poor that we can’t even get to Ploiesti [There are 59 kilometers between Bucharest and Ploiesti.] At the present time, I personally live far worse than during Ceausescu’s regime – I’m stating this openly. My pension of 3,685 lei was enough to pay all the utilities, to eat, dress, and go to Eforie [resort at the Black Sea] in summer. I stayed at ‘Europa’ Hotel, which was the fanciest at the time, with my friend the doctor. We were both retirees and the pensions could buy us all that.

Nowadays, I have many ways to entertain myself! My best friends are two Romanian doctors. We help one another. If one of us sneezes, the other two are on the run: we cook for her, shop for her, and watch upon her. The three of us broke our arms in a row. One of them broke it like this. Then it was my turn. I broke my shoulder – well, it wasn’t really a fracture, but the bone seemed to have taken off somehow. I had to wear a plaster dressing. My friends came, washed my hair, and cooked for me. My birthday came in that period, and they got themselves organized: ‘You bring the pound cake, you bring the steak, you bring the meat balls, you bring the olives.’ There was a great meal on my birthday. The third of us fell and had the same kind of fracture like I had. So my other friend and I had to carry her food. My friend also gave her medical assistance, like checking the blood pressure and other things. These are my best friends; it doesn’t get any better than this. There’s also a former fellow-student, Doina Negulescu, a Romanian too, but I see her more seldom. I have more things in common with the other two. Doina and I have known each other for 61 years, since 1944, when I entered college. We kept on seeing each other. There was a time when I helped her a lot, because Vasile and I had a good financial situation.

These pictures aroused many memories. I am now alone, almost everyone who used to be around me is dead. I became very fond of the women who come to the Club and there’s hardly anyone else in my life. When I went through the pictures and I saw how many of us there used to be and how surrounded by friends I was, I felt bad. I remembered a former Auschwitz inmate who came home. Her grandchildren kept bugging her: ‘Tell us how it was!’ She said: ‘I don’t want to, because it will do me harm.’ Still, one day, she decided to talk about it. She talked for a couple of hours, had a heart attack and died – this is how much the memories affected her. Of course, I wouldn’t die from looking at these pictures, but it didn’t make me feel good. I saw my parents again, I saw all the hopes that we put in the boy we adopted, who turned out to be a great disappointment for both of us.

I don’t have any clear political views anymore... But I still feel attracted to the left, because look at what the International Monetary Fund or the World Bank or hell knows who else are doing to me: they make us pay 20% more for gas, 20% more for electricity, in order to align ourselves to the costs in the West, where pensions and salaries are ten times higher than here. This will turn into a masked genocide. People won’t have money for food or for utilities anymore. From a pension of 5 million, I pay more than 3 million for the gas. The rest? The phone, the electricity, the water, the food, the pet food [Mrs. Tudor has a cat and a dog.]. Would my pension be enough if the Community didn’t help me? Under the Ceausescu regime, we all lived in an equalizing poverty.

Much to my shame, I did almost everything in my life, except going to the Community. I didn’t have any connection with it. After I finished the Jewish school, I entered a Romanian environment again; and I was already used to the Romanian environment from Ramnicu Valcea. I felt good and I didn’t go to the Community. Let me tell you how I eventually got there. Three years ago, in 2001, I was at the marketplace, after I had collected my pension. I kept bumping into a former colleague from Drilling, Cornel Popescu, who was still an active professor. I was carrying my shopping bags. ‘Mira, why don’t you register with the Community? They’ll send you food.’ – ‘Send me food, Cornele? I get 2,5 million.’ This was already a good pension. ‘I’m ashamed.’ We met again. Cornel had a Jewish neighbor and he knew what he was getting from the Community. One day, he stopped with his legs apart and an arm on his hip, and told me: ‘Miro, what are they going to do to you? Slap you? Throw you down the stairs? They’ll say «Madam, you don’t meet the requirements». What are you, a princess? So what if they turn you down?’ – ‘I’m not afraid they’ll turn me down; I’m ashamed to ask.’ But, to humor Cornel, I gathered a few papers and I went. After two days they informed me that the Community had accepted to assist me. Ever since then, I have been living much better. The pension is just enough to pay for the utilities. This wretched weather caught me with heaters in 7 rooms. I have four rooms, a bathroom, a kitchen and a hall. And only the gas costs me millions. If it hadn’t been for the food from the Community… They also give me some money. I should sell the house and go to the home. It’s a very good home – I have all the respect for it. But, since I’m still able to move by myself, I hesitate...

When I said I wanted to go to the [Jewish] Club, they told me: ‘Don’t go to the Club, there are only old, sick people there, and all they talk about is death and illness.’ Hell no! They’re in a good mood and have plans for the future. Many of them have children abroad and go to visit them. They make comments on the political and artistic events, they watch shows on TV, many of them – the ones who live downtown – still go to the theater. It’s a very pleasant atmosphere. I go to two clubs: here, on Ripiceni St., on Mondays, and at the Choral Temple on Thursdays. The latter has a more intellectual atmosphere: we comment events, we read magazine articles. Last time I was there we talked about Auschwitz. At 11 they give us food, lest we should pass away: sandwiches, tea, coffee, and sometimes there’s also cream with the coffee. When one of us has her birthday she gives us a treat, while we gather money and buy her a present. It’s very nice. Lat Monday they ran a film with Rome and Paris. I was in both places and you can imagine how delighted I was. And I said something which I thought everyone knew: in Napoleon’s tomb there are 7 caskets one inside another. I just looked it up – I have a Paris guidebook and I want to show it to them. One of the caskets is made of lead, one is made of zinc, one is made of wood, the one at the top is red granite, and the other three I forgot. But I know what I’m saying, because I was there. I enjoyed it very much. They play rummy, chess, canasta. We chat, they exchange recipes, while I gaze at them in amazement, because I’m not much of a cook. They can prepare elaborate things. One of them in particular seems to be a mistress of cooking. But I can never remember more than half of what she says. It is with pleasure that I go to the club. It feels like family, and everyone knows everything about everyone else. ‘How’s your daughter?’ I have never seen her in my entire life, but I know everything about her. ‘How’s your grandson?’ They all know how he’s doing. So we chat. I don’t go to the synagogue. I sometimes go to the Club on Popa Soare St., where they hold conferences or performances on Sundays at 11 a.m. But I only go if the weather is nice. I feel more like going to the Club and I dress warmly if I have to. I don’t go to the synagogue because all the services are in the evening. I can’t be out at night. I might step in a bump on the sidewalk, fall and break into pieces. Do you think it would make any difference to God that I was coming from the synagogue?

Glossary: